Haiku at Dusk
Clouds transform to fluffy
mammals and romp wildly
like kids before bed.
Whether it’s a saying or not
I don’t know but if it isn’t,
well it should be. It sure sounds like one,
“Mad as a Mongaloid,” maybe I just
dreamed it up, maybe not maybe its the
alliteration that gives it such nice sound quality. Either way,
if you’ll indulge me…
Daryl is the guy next door.
He and I share a bathroom,
so we’re kind of roommates
but we’re kinda not because
all we share is a bathroom.
Then again, we don’t even share
the whole bathroom, all we share is a shower
because I have my own bathroom
with its own shitter. But besides,
I don’t even need a shitter –
I just do my business in the bed, in a bedpan.
Some mornings he will wake up early and start yelling.
The first few times he did this I yelled back,
“You ok,” or “Need help?” I wanted to be nice,
as helpful as possible without embarrassing the guy.
Whether he didn’t hear or simply ignored me, I’ll never know,
the point is I got nothing, which I thought was rude.
Later on I’d learn that Daryl is severely
stricken with Down syndrome. I’m only
guessing as to the severity of his diagnoses, but it’s bad enough
for him to be in here. There’s other instances
when I’ll hear little tidbits of info, Like when breakfast or lunch
is being served and Daryl will be yelling like mad,
my feeder will say something about why Daryl
is angry this morning or how mean he is over such and such.
They will continue on about the time they tried to help him but
he resisted or refused, and tried to scratch, bite, gouge,
tussle, or act out in some unruly way.
I think I’d be wise to stay clear of ole Daryl, not let my guard down.
This whole situation makes me mad as hell!
I ask my daughter where she’s
going as she heads past me
up the stairs, and she says she’s
going to her room to time travel.
I think that’s odd–she’s not really
a fantasy person–but I let it go
because I have a dinner with
friends that I’m already late for.
When I get home all the lights in
the house are off, so I stop by my
daughter’s room to make sure she’s
okay. I find her fast asleep in bed
with her dog slumbering at her
side and a history book open on
the covers next to her. Apparently,
the trip has wiped out both of them.
How weird was it, love
that we made a damn break up song
our song
in that precious year and a half
we spent in love?
Oh, if only we could feel what we remember,
how we played that song constantly
on every adventure we went on.
There was always something new to do,
but we also knew the snow was soon to come.
We wouldn’t talk about it
but the life of a setting sun was calling,
It couldn’t be stopped.
We just wrapped ourselves in ourselves
when the temp’rature began to drop,
drew it out best we could
with our cute and sweet games,
our ever strong passions.
No one had ever cared for me
quite like you did.
I learned true love when the clouds appeared
in the broken serenity of my studio apartment,
lying in the bed we laid in
discussing the insurmountable odds
growing up presented.
There was boot camp and A school,
eventual deployment to a base somewhere,
a life to be found in the barracks
you had to live full
far beyond my reach.
But if I had known
that the cruel dart thrown
at a map of the world
would hit us in the fingertips,
I never would have let you fly so easily.
That’s why I had to go see you.
Had to see if a flame survived
and could be rekindled.
Risks worth taking,
I would have followed you around the world.
I remember fondly that last night
spent doing nothing in your barracks
just so I could reminisce
on what it was like
before.
I’ve always wondered about that final walk we took
across the base late at night
if you finally figured me out
and didn’t know what to say
except goodbye.
You are now the same age I was
when I first fell in love with you.
I wonder how that would change our love,
not that the courage will be found
to ever find out.
I fear I will never know that kind of love again.
Nobody has cared for me quite like you
in all these sunless years since.
Thus the winter storms keep raging with this truth;
(you) only know you love her when you let her go.
Boats are burning on the water,
reflecting the firelight of cities.
This is not the way it was,
though I’ve pretended to forget:
One uncle fighting in Korea,
sole survivor in his unit.
The other serving near Saigon
in the days before it all fell down.
Not knowing if November would come
and find us in our daily lives,
or October would mark the end
of us and our pretended genius.
Hiding under school desks,
as if they’d shield from radiation
gifted us by the horrid Russians.
MAD, the perfect final acronym.
They were the enemy.
We were the good guys.
Truth was something we knew.
And now we risk dying in one boat.
I.
Coming up the basement stairs
Mom collapses on the landing.
Sticky orange two-liter soda
spews everywhere,
crushed by her oxygen tank.
Two sisters bolt to see
what the crash means.
I can’t move, scream
so loud it scares me.
A backward glance from one
sibling shuts me up.
Nothing broken this time,
but possibility, panic root
like contagion in my gut,
induces shivers I can’t stop.
II.
I don’t know when or why
my fear of falling began.
As a child I climbed trees,
swung on vines
over steep hillsides.
When did I begin, in snow or ice,
to shuffle stiff-legged,
body hot and tense?
III.
No skeletal breaks
until after I turn fifty,
slide in wet grass down my hill garden,
break ankle, fibula, tibia,
the jangly feel of bones
floating loose in my leg,
pain not yet arrived,
only adrenalin to scoot
on my bottom, up two flights of stairs,
over the threshold into my house.
A series of casts removed
with a small electric circular saw
the doctor buzzes down my leg,
wrenches the two halves apart
like cracking open a rib cage.
IV.
I receive the call
that Mom fell.
Centered in my belly,
a full-body quiver radiates.
I try not to think
about all the ways
we fracture.
Sometimes
it’s amusing,
the way you
try me on for size.
Tentatively,
your hands roam
from my
shoulder,
to leg,
to waist.
Your head falls
to my shoulder,
to lap,
to hip.
Searching for
a comfortable
resting spot
on the terrain
of my body.
Needing desperately to refresh,
my hand hovers over
that magic button.
I wait a few seconds
willing my system to respond.
Without too much pressure,
my fingers softly
graze
trace
caress
the key
responsible for my desired output.
My eyes close.
I inhale and hope
this final stroke
and pressured flick
generates the outcome
I desperately crave.
Click.
“This system is undergoing maintenance.
Our website will be back soon.”
I shove the computer aside —
gratification denied.
