Not until well past
eleven was I to say
something out loud
worth writing down
to have read back
if more convenient
and less distracted.
Not about bad rain,
about which I was already
writing down a poem,
nothing much expected,
but it was worth the shot
but that’s not what I said
out loud to have it heard.
Love depends as much on forgetting
as on memory. If you have to think
to know how true that is, chances are
it hasn’t been love enough to make it
past the first sight stage out of its bed.
How difficult can it be? How complicated
must it be to have it get so quickly tangled
as computer cords left alone for too long
until it would take more time to explain
how to do it than for me to do it myself?
I find I’ve been losing interest.
I thought at first that was only
my imagination tempting me
off with the usual distractions,
but the symptoms are classic
and the outcome too inevitable.
I started a how-to guide about
regaining interest for such times.
Some of my readers come to every word I take time to write
down looking for their own image in the mirror I hold up to
my own face. I like what Maggie recently had to say on that:
if you see something written down untrue about you, it wasn’t
written down about you. Sometimes I can be the same as you.
I wish I were more unique, but don’t count on that saving either
of us from the inevitable bad rain. Meanwhile, you’d do better
assuming yourself better than my best, so this ain’t about you.
Bad rain. I was working
hard on a poem about some bad
rain. This wasn’t that any more
than it is about you. I happened
to get distracted by the first
word worth saying out loud
so as to remember to write it
down, to have it for reading back.
I have been sewing a special baby quilt
for Iggy’s first, incorporating a pattern
borrowed from one of his mother’s favorite
quenine variants, dimmest jewel in her legacy,
and I’ve been at it so intensely that it’s been
showing up in my dreams already complete.
and I will be plagued
with lies from those I trust most
until I find it impossible
to even believe my own
lies told to myself.
We can’t expect clean rain from
skies we’ve so badly polluted.
Bad, bad rain.
We’ve launched our spring cleaning campaign
and may not finish until next year’s spring.
Did this farm’s former owners own a mop
or a rag or a wire brush or any sense of order?
Doesn’t matter. It’s ours now and it’s spring.
I’m ready to do my part. Watch out, Goodwill.
Denise was reading through the early drafts
of the poem I was writing about bad rain,
as she always does, and she shrugged it off
as an interesting piece of fiction, her opinion
being that no rain can be bad, that it is only
the one rained upon who judges it to be so
and the unwillingness to accept all rain’s good
and the bad uses to which good rain is put,
and I told her to write her own poem about it,
and I was nice about it because she was kind
unlike most who disagree, but really, Denise,
this rain is used dishwater poured down the sink
and this rain is nasty water smudged by an oil spill
and this rain is spit and piss and poisoned nails.
Any good it might have once had is long gone.
One may as well pretend there are no bad words.
And when I finish my poem on it, she’ll be the first
to run inside from it and pray for some good sun.
But then I stopped and said something
altogether different. Something worth its
writing down. Then I didn’t write it down.
Rain rain rain rain rain. Bad.