How could so much mass hang on one side of a human frame?
Can that poor man sit down? Stand up? Who does he have to blame
Unable to bend over and touch his or even see his feet?
He can’t be hungry. 100 pounds of flab at least; yet he continues to eat.
It’s disgusting, ugly, an affront to the miracle of humanity.
He avoids mirrors, hates portraits; embarasses his loving family.
Tsk-tsk, in denial he shovels it in with awkward abandon
Spilling stain spots on the few shirts that still button.
My long-sleeved Oxford cloth, pressed, cotton,
button-down collar, light blue dress shirt
Has a little yellow spot.
It’s spice stain from mussels in curry
with French bread dipped and sauce dripped.
I ate very carefully in the upscale restaurant
in Portland Maine’s converted textile factory
with an urbanized view of the Fore River once dammed
to drive the spinning and weaving machinery,
operated by lower class, underpaid young women,
new immigrants, long before Me Too.
All gone now, gone overseas to other farm girls
now living in New Delhi or Keqiao,
Oxford cloth made in places where coriander cumin
and turmeric are not exotics
and yellow drip spots don’t show on old fat men’s
brightly colored tunics.
She sat quietly for a decade, facing a particular window.
The assistants and nurses never noticed she faced west.
I sat on the hill above the care center with my old shepherd.
Life only allots us so many sunsets. I want to see every one.
My dog’s life only allotted him so many chances to sit beside me.
The summer evening prairie clouds rose into the glow above the horizon
When I buried him below diffuse orange-pink light. It was amazing .
Mom passed two days before the following Christmas
Under a blazing Arizona sky.
The whole sky blazing.
The strengthening sunlight surrounded
the mist-dampened patio furniture
squeezing steam into the morning atmosphere
hoping to see the dying fog revived.
One brave thrush danced the two-foot hop on the wet lawn
eyeing fat orange grubs willing to give up
a future as a beetle for one as orange pigment
on a beautiful bird flying high into the dawn.
The black water pot now red refracted
hot water for coffee from Canada, left-over
from a visiting friend, a memory extracted
by coarse ground conical pour-over.
Morning. It’s another day on planet Earth
Recycling the eternal atoms of Universal birth.