Writing, first thing, a list of items to be done.
Chosen to remember, chosen to execute.
Illuminating this day’s chores.

I see a black snake sliding down
a path he made ten minutes before.
Perhaps I am wrong.

Perhaps that path is older, maybe
ten years or even ten thousand, and he only does
what he was asked to do by ancestors.

At any rate it has been seen. He has
been seen. Or she has been seen.
It makes no difference to me, after all.

It makes no difference, either,
that I see a hummingbird hovering.
Sucks at a four o’clock bloom. Flits off quickly.

On to the next, and then the next.
The snake raises its head as the bird slips by.
I do not think they know each other.

I worry about the bills,
the nameless faces in offices
I will call upon to help fix the mess I’m in.

I will worry about the war in which I’m suddenly involved.
Fret about peace, about the clueless President
and his lackeys, about how my neighbors have gotten mean.

But the black snake moves on, paying it no mind.
The ruby-throated hummingbird moves on,
paying it no mind.

I put my head down and close my weary,
already exhausted eyes. Try to pay it no mind.
Let it go by: already they are memories of seeing everything

in a brief moment, a second of time, a slice of
something — our words can’t explain it, not at all.
Shrug it off, then. Go back to writing down bones of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Saturday morning
and it’s too early or late
for fireflies, too cold for anything
really, snow everywhere came in
overnight, and more, much more,
slated for tomorrow. What it is
is Saturday and I’m sitting still
with a computer on my lap, Miesha
in my customary chair bathing herself,
now and then looking up to assure
that I’m not rising up to shake her off
her seat. What it is: Saturday
and I’m afraid of another long, long day
before me — just a trip planned to get
prescriptions, get all my drugs
for a week ahead; it’s so boring here
without a care except
for all these worries and concerns
about how this will possibly end,
what I could possibly do,
what legend or map key I could
possibly use to find a way out
to some place with fireflies, some place
without a cat wary of removal
from comfort, some place
free of drugs and worries and concerns
about how long I’ve got, about this going on
until an end comes up suddenly
or gradually; what it is, is a yawning slog
through hours, days, weeks
until there is no Saturday ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Here is a travelogue: if you look left
you will see Providence; look to your right
and you will see Worcester; somewhere
in between the two lies Uxbridge,
barely recalled now, barely there at all
in the fog around it.

A travelogue: the route was clear and the people there
less so. The way seemed clear at the time,
full of fire and occasional peace; now it seems
that it was unsure, and indefinite, and nowhere
close to the glorious march it seemed.

A travelogue: I didn’t know where it was headed and honestly
didn’t care, or rather was so sure of it going
its misleading way that I did not stop to question
any sign that it was false, or vague, or wrong.

A travelogue: now, now near the close of it,
I do not question it as I once did, do not think
to ask if I should have had another aim
to my life. It was what it was;
there was beauty amid ugly,
pleasure enveloped by pain;
there were those I loved
who did not love me back, and the reverse
was also true; all along the trees
kept faith, the dogs were faithful,
the ocean rose and fell as was described
from the first;

and I, I was
devoted to the play of things,
leaving only a small trace of myself
behind in my travels.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T