Hey Joe

Darkness

About once a month, hopefully less, I have a dark day. I never know when it's coming, or what brings it on; a sink full of dirty dishes, another job I've failed to obtain, a presupposition, real or otherwise; a sleepless night.

I discover that my jaw is clenched. My eyes feel heavy. I want to sleep; at my desk, the kitchen table, my car. A bed is not necessary. On dark days I sometimes imagine myself dead.

But twice this week I've looked into the eyes of a dying man, trying to understand where he is. "Are you afraid?" But I don't find the answers I'm looking for. This man who spends his days in bed, watching TV, playing video games, last week went casket shopping. I can't imagine.

I try to learn from him, but it's not like the movies, where the dying offers sage advice. He has no answers either. It just is, and will soon be over. What is the lesson? "Before you die, see a show at the Warfield."

A small thing to promise.

My Monday, I Give to You – a poem

January 4, 2010. Everyone returns to work and school.

My work is less defined. I make toast. I stamp envelopes.

I bring the boy to school and try to be encouraging about his having to return. Sometimes vacations are troublesome.

The return trip takes me by the drive-thru mailbox, which greedily swallows my bills;

more money going than coming. Hope it ends soon.

An unexpected trip to the girl's school saves me $25.00. But I spend that and then some at the hardware store. Waterproof tarps are expensive, but then
so are bikes.

Two hours were spent cleaning leaves and confetti, remnants of New Year's Eve, the confetti, not the leaves.

A pot pie, Spinal Tap and thou. Where were you?

I wrote some, but had to fold laundry, and then pick up the boy.

I wrote more, but they wanted a ride to the bakery. Donuts are two for one after four. Interruptions are the stuff art is made of, I guess. Though calling it art sounds presumptuous. Let's call it Paul instead.

Free artichokes. It's part of what's for dinner. The rest still needs my attention. Breaded turkey cutlets or Russian Fluff? Cutlets are more work, but at least the kids will eat.

Reading followed dinner. The boy likes company, so Ray and I joined him on the couch. I act like I'm doing him a favor, but in fact it's quite the opposite.

Clue ® saw the boy off to bed, relishing his third win in as many days. Poor Mr. Body, hoping to enjoy
a midnight snack in the kitchen,
perhaps a Plum,
had his lights snuffed by a candlestick.

Nine-nineteen. Seems so early, but I'm tired.

Lisa at the table still works.

I hunt down the cats, kiss the kids. Kiss Lisa. Tell her "come to bed."

"Soon," she says. I hope so

I walk the house alone. Checking doors, shutting lights.

Plunge a toilet. Go to bed.