Saturday, December 15, 2012

December 16, 2012


December 16, 2012
    
I’ll only be a week,
                Five days up north for work,
Astray from home this trip.
At this time of year-       
                Greeting Winter’s solstice-         
My expectations are mired
In uncertainty
                About the weather
                And its fickle swings
                Between cool and cold,
                Between damp and dry,
                Snow and wet slush.
Crisp azure,
Cumulus-speckled,
                Or sticky gloomy skies?
 
So I stuff my big bag,
                The one I have to check:
Five pinpoint oxfords,
Four pair of lined slacks-
                Plain front, breathable wool-
A pair of shined  black Cole Haans
For client meetings.
                Twenty underthings,
                Jeans, short-sleeved Polos,
                Hoodies, three belts, shorts,
                Thirty vintage tees,
                Pounds of black socks,
Nike Shox,
Toiletries for months,
                Two versatile blazers.
 
I’ve booked my return flight
                Out of Philly, Friday,
Not sure that I’ll make it.
Something could arise-
                Mayan Armageddon-
Weather holds, rescheduled trysts,
Lifelong delays.
                Best to over-plan,
                And cram the bag
                And carry-ons too
                For unexpected
                Contingencies.
Well-equipped,
                Prepared:  neat, tight-packed
                For the Apocalypse.       
               

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Leftovers

Leftovers


 Writhing recollection,
                Through my blind stomach’s lens
When all I knew was hunger—
Always just short of just enough—

Of crusts consumed, goulash,
                Cabbage soup, rationed meat.
With a still un-succored soul,
Stomach-panged:  in dreams, I feasted.

Anymore anything
                Would have ever sufficed.
Prayers were starving wishes.
Grace was mythic luxury.

                I loathed an empty plate.

I have since made habit
                Of throwing away food
At the end of every meal,
Consuming comfort from excess.

Not enough to wrap up
                (or feed  needy  others):
Dainty icons to surplus,
Perfectly portioned acts of waste:

An ounce of veal,
                A spot of boursin mash,
Two spears of asparagus,
Chunks of parmesan ciabatta.

I hand back my current castoffs,
                With b├ęchamel’d grace,
                With truffle’d arrogance,
                With umami’d reckoning,
My exuberant extras—
                My leftovers—
                On a loathing emptied plate,
Through re-collected dreams,
                Where hope yields to grace,
To a writhing, cakeless boy.