Adulthood

“Screw you, Buster,” she growled. I said, “Yes, please.”
A good relationship is difficult:
Not much time to take deep breaths and exult,
Too many harsh words from my enemies.
I spent a lot of time down on my knees,
And getting nothing much as a result.
It should be easy, being an adult,
But love has failed to put me at my ease.

Of course, it isn’t so much whom you love
As what you want love for. Myself, I want
The ghost of my desire, ready to haunt
Our rooms with odd sounds coming from above,
Which scare and soothe, both going hand in glove
With childhood. I have grown cold, sad, and gaunt.

Growing Merry

I’m growing merry, but it’s not the wine,
It's something else — it’s crampons in the mist,
It’s altitude, thin air but with a twist —
Sunlight, a breathlessness almost divine,
The mist a warning, weariness a sign,
One cheek the colour of an amethyst,
The other wrinkled like a prune. The schist
Skitters on past; I feel it on my spine.

I’ve done with mountains now. I will not climb
The stairs. I will no longer lift my knee.
I’m sitting down right here, determinedly
Unmoving, and until the end of time.
My happiness achieved, I am sublime,
Relieved at last of all necessity.

Going and Coming Back

My concentration came to be intense
As I examined what was written down:
“Watch for the oak leaves that are turning brown —
We say brown. Somewhere ages and ages hence
You’ll tell us they were yellow. For sixpence
We’d put on a bright yellow evening gown
To show off our tattoos and drive to town
On the road less traveled.” I was on the fence:

I could do something else, looking for grace
Along the better-travelled, tree-lined road.
Sometimes my concentration ebbed and flowed,
But now I focused. The whole human race
Was in my care. I chose my working face,
Thought of the seasons, and wrote this careful ode.

Truth, That Blunderer

I left too late to get there earlier,
As we had planned, and so I wasn’t able
To work out what was underneath the table.
She claimed it was a collie, but its fur
Was like a bear cub’s, so I offered her
A chance to change her story. “It’s a sable,”
She lied, so it was just another fable
Designed to stifle truth, that blunderer.

I left too late because I told the truth
When neighbours asked if I could spare a minute
To look over and repair a broken spinet.
One minute? Forty-five. Was it uncouth
To leave it after they’d broken my tooth?
I can’t fix anything with music in it.