At breakfast my wife remarks, No one 
will ever call me "larger than life." Yes,
me either. Let us be exactly the same size
as life. Or maybe a tiny bit smaller. Like
the pair of socks you put on and forget 
all about. That’s a pleasure the young 
don’t sufficiently appreciate, just as they
hate getting socks for their birthdays. 
They want firecrackers and balloons,
things whose sole purpose is to burn out
or pop. Roller coasters that rise and plunge
and you’re right back where you began.
There is no end to again. Get used to it.
Routine gets a bad rap—the comfortable
pause, same hike every week, favorite 
meal on Sundays, a song you’ve played 
more times than you can remember. 
Let us binge watch the next season,
flip through the yearbook together, 
return to the scene of sorrow or joy to
keep the small fires alive till needed.
Yes, I’d love another helping, refill on
my drink, once more from the top, chorus
and out. By swaggering could I never thrive
I say, and you reply, The rain it raineth
every day. And so again we become what 
we are, as dust and junk slowly wash away.
                        

January 2009

A big deal, yes, this new President. But I'm old.
I remember Jack Kennedy. Now that was a handsome man.
This new one? Well, we'll see. I haven't been following
closely, I admit. Things get fuzzy sometimes, too.
But I hear all the talk, I have more than a rough idea.
The other day Becky, the newest nurse here, asked
if I was excited to see this day. "Honey, I'm thrilled
to see any new day," I told her, and she pretended
to find it funny. That's what we pay her for, I guess.
I know. I'm not stupid, just old, just confused a little
and lame a lot. I'm so battered by mishmash memories
that new things can't find an easy way in.
Ice cream with fudge sauce excites me. Honestly,
a good bowel movement sets me up for the day
better than any headline in the papers. 
Which I don't read much anymore, actually.
The newsprint can be hard to make out, the type small,
which is what I say when my earnest son Kyle
tries to make small talk--election this, big game that,
some Hollywood face I wouldn't know, dying young.
Now why would he tell me that? Am I supposed
to be happy I didn't kick off beautiful, sixty years ago?
Am I? Happy, I mean. Well, it's complicated.
Just look at me. Diapers on a grown woman, 
and this has been going on so long I'm not even
embarrassed anymore. Until you've outlived all
your pride and vanity, not to mention your close friends,
don't tell me how lucky I am. Oh, my boy means well.
Wouldn't hurt a sick fly. I know I'm lucky to have him.
But when everyone expects me to be so chipper
and feisty and I don't know what all—well, 
I get tired. Tired like you wouldn't know,
worse even than those young-mother nights
I was up with my sick baby, falling back asleep
before he finished nursing. Am I excited 
by this auspicious day? New inspiring President
waving from the top of a tall set of steps
even older than I am? I guess so, but it's rather
like the way your eye is caught by a bird
flashing across the window, or a bunch
of birthday balloons bobbling in the air
as someone walks toward you down the hall.
                        

—after Eric Nelson’s “Dropping”
 
I read of Neruda’s “beginner’s mind,”
that over brimming curiosity even as he aged, 
rapt before seashells, numbers, needle factories, 
and the dictionary like an enchanted child, like
some brilliant boy meeting his first artichoke 
or sonata. I’m more like the boy commanded 
by his mother to write a thank-you note to 
Grandmother: “Thanks for the socks. I’m sure 
they will keep me warm even though they itch 
and look like something a girl would wear.” 
Meanwhile Neruda’s socks,“ knitted with threads 
of twilight and goatskin,” are woven of fire 
and honor his feet as they reach toward heaven..
 
But at least I’ve got beginner’s body down.
In my senior citizenhood I’m still dropping stuff
like a baby in his high chair. Unslippery jars crash 
to the floor regularly. I stumble over nonexistent
ripples in the rug, and fumble my key ring 
every time at the front door, trying every other
one in the lock before finding the house key.
I’ve been known to wobble and pitch into
people standing next to me in line, just as if
someone had shoved me, when it’s merely my 
beginner’s body still learning balance, as when 
I first stood up in my crib, holding the side rails 
tightly as it pitched like a small boat in heavy seas.