| I cannot remark upon my life these days
Without condemning it—
I know that; it can't be done.
I have, for instance, an empty bird feeder on a pole nearby
That I can see from this side of the storm door
And black oil sunflower seeds stored carefully in the garage,
But I only sometimes remember to see to it—
I think I just get tired
Of always feeding the bandit squirrels
Along with the birds.
Then, too, the big roll-up door is the only entry and
It's so much heavier for me than it used to be.
I make plans at times,
Whether about the feeder or
About sending mail or rearranging an overcrowded closet,
But nothing usually happens except to change the plans.
Is the insurance in force or not, I wonder?
I do let it go sometimes, along with other things.
Will the air-conditioner fail one day for real
And force us out of the house
And into other dreaded rooms?
Possibly I've been reading too much Robert Frost.
Everyone needs something, including
A certain amount of air to breathe and so forth.
I am used to living in effect alone,
Whether it is good for me or not.
Most people need more air-conditioning
And more air than I do these days,
Though I still need space.
I spent all last winter with frozen hands—
The doorknobs were like ice!—
It was horrific,
But I still must live in the world,
Come what may, until the plans change. |
