So, this is where we end, it seems.
Like waking from the pleasant dreams
We share whene’er we sleep together,
Now we rise to face the weather.
Terre Haute feels safe–you’ve found
Some comfort here on higher ground–
But rivers overflowing banks
To chart new courses thrill me.
For wanting me, or even needing
What I have to give, but pleading
Cannot, will not change my mind
And though it hurts to leave behind
This blissful domesticity,
You don’t see what it is to me:
A strong, soft chain of woven wool
Restraining me against the pull
Of my potential, good or ill,
The Destiny I must fulfill
If I’m to learn to love myself.
I’ve left a space upon your shelf
In which to place the book I’ll write
Beginning eight days from tonight.
It’s dedicated to the friend
I made inside this book.
And I’m bummed our…whatever…is done,
But just shelving your books,
By comparison, looks
Like a drag, so kiss-kiss! Got to run.
Weather girls predict
Architects make detailed plans
Critics watch and scoff
Are deviled eggs a metaphor?
A few are great, but less so, more?
Is mustard love and mayo stress?
The yolk a thick, symbolic mess?
If so, you’ll have to blame my mom.
She got the recipe in Nam.
Tuesday’s child, so I’ve heard,
Is full of grace, so it’s absurd
To see you mope and hang your head
Like woeful Wednesday’s child instead.
You’re fair of face–a Monday trait–
But you were born a day too late
To earn that appellation. So
Is that how come you’re full of woe?
November 4th, when you were whelped,
Was Tuesday, so it can’t be helped:
The die is cast, so goodness gracious,
Reach down deep in your capacious
Pocket for a Brownie smile.
Let’s wipe out that frown awhile!
Sure, it’s Thursday, and I’m leaving
Friday next, but if you’re grieving
Starting now you’re going to get
Cheek wrinkles from eight days of wet.
Cheer up! You won’t regret you did:
You’re third from top of my stack, kid.
Some far-off day, when cigarettes
Are banned indoors (yeah, right!), regrets
That mumble now may grumble louder…
Face them down, or take a powder?
Powder’s sounding good to me.
‘Bye, Terre Haute! Hello, D.C.!
Yadda-yadda, something red
And blue that rhymes. Let’s go to bed.