I’ve begun rearranging my life.
Big chair by the bed, near the window.
A brave little plant on the table.
I tossed those flowery pillows, just not my style.
There’s a new coat of varnish on that old dresser,
and that hideous print has come down.
Feels a little more like me now.
Mornings, I write a line or two,
raise up a couple of thoughts for insurance,
while the sun comes up.
I’ve left the crystal spinning in the window.
Still like to watch the little angels dance the walls.
I believe in anything now.
It’s starting to feel a lot like me.
Hour or two, you’ll find me on the bank.
Sitting with the ducks. Always in pairs.
I’m told they mate for life.
Sleepy fog on the lake, should burn off soon.
Men in their boats. Still. Patient.
Trout strike, and a mirror becomes water
as ripples roll lazily for shore.
Hank Chinaski reads to me from the grave.
Starting to enjoy my time alone.
I’m listening to breakfast.
Eggs pop in the skillet,
bacon frantically sizzles in a pan.
Yellow butter scrapes just brown toast.
Red and blue berries bathe and splash
in water gushing from the spigot.
And my old green tea kettle
The morning paper lies quietly,
waiting to share yesterday with me.
These moments are precious.
Errands and chores,
a little honest work.
It seems to me time runs fastest
between noon and dusk.
I look up, too late, see its shadow,
the only proof it’s passed at all.
Still, it does feel a lot like me.
Wind’s come up and the day is failing.
Light moving on
to a different part of the world.
Outside, mercury lamps flicker to life.
Inside, the only evidence of life,
that old antique lamp shining on a page.
Now it’s Ray Carver reading to me from the grave.
I want to be just like him.
Wonder who I’ll read to?
This big chair was a good idea.
there are many nights I sleep here.
The bed is just to big. For one.
No hand to anchor me
as I descend into darkness.
Yeah, it’s sure starting to feel a lot like me.
Who am I kidding?
It still feels like you.