The resort
1. I am to leave the resort today so why haven’t I packed? All this life stuff, closets of clothes, shelves of books and assorted knickknacks still arranged and displayed so carefully on well-dusted light brown shiny wood shelves that bulge with important keepsakes Where are the packing boxes? Where’s the bubble wrap and tape? Mom, you were to arrange all this Are you renting us a truck? I need more time to do all this but we must leave tonight Where are you? What am I supposed to do now? Then, relieved, I see old Dad, his long grey hair graceful from the back He’s saying goodbye to us Before he can go I stop him and thank him for this fine vacation He seems happily startled by my gratitude and just as he’s about to leave we hug joyfully but the thing is Dad died 57 years ago He died young at age 40, and never, as Yeats put it, got to “comb grey hair” As these feelings of anxiety and warmth dissolve into sleep I don’t know if I’ve actually touched eternity or if, instead, this is the touch of an unfathomed block of raw time 2. My brother’s gifts sometimes fail my test of generosity His gifts are often enough like a shop clerk’s resort gifts—designed to make debt like a cold beer or a necklace of beads so I’ll really buy—but then, what about the incessant compliments I so desperately extract from my friends? Fear and habits drive us “I walked a ways in that direction and damn, I had to walk all the ways back You know what I’m talking about, right?” Her glasswork’s pretty, even if it doesn’t speak to my essence I search for some signals in this noise like an unresolved sadness I have that dream of loss again— as I hang out at the resort The maid she puts my maryjane in a drawer and I’m not quite sure but maybe she took some for herself We have so much and they have so little so what the hell, its just old, cold burnt coffee What is it about my lover’s skin that’s so amenable to gold? Some women look better in silver Silver doesn’t quite flatter her Before he dropped into dementia we asked “What’s going on with Dr. P? He just doesn’t seem to give a shit He’s all frozen inside” 3. Maurice after his heart attack— As he recovers he has the custom tailor measure him in his very sickbed for several fine British-made custom suits Maurice’s work wasn’t finished yet and, a child of the Great Depression, he knew he’d never agree to die and let such fine suits go to waste I still feel a sadness when I hear of perfect love “Happy?” As Grandma said “What makes you think you’ve a right to be happy?” “Why does this happen to me, Grandma?” And she’d answer, “Why not you?” That lady, she’d never give way for nothing Do my hands smell bad tonight? You’re buoyant enough, so go wash them We’re present and absent at once That serious old man sees old patterns in new things and thinks quickly Rebecca doesn’t think straight and she knows it— her solace is the overwrought prowess of thought I remember in high school what a sweetheart she was (we were too naïve then to be lovers) She kept asking me “Why do you use such big words?” Now I walk around this sunny resort not needy or sure of whom I’m with or where I’ll go next
-March 25, 2017-