Boredom

When I was young, as best I can recall,

One day I said that I was bored, words sprung

From youthful haste and foolishness outpoured,

And said to she whose laboring love and work

Kept food upon our table, laundry clean

Within our drawers; kept grimy, moldy stains

From laying claim to all our tubs and toilets.

I’m sure I spoke my artless, silly thoughts

Just as my mother was unloading dishes

From dishwasher, or laundry from the dryer.

She looked at me with fed-up eyes and said,

“If you are bored, it means that you are boring.”

From that day on I’ve considered these words

When boredom or ennui has made me yawn

And slowly shut my eyes, with sleep made dewy,

Or when I’ve made lamenting, mournful cries

About how there is nothing here to do.

My mother’s scolding voice sounds in my head,

Reminding me that toil is never past,

Always there’s work to do, both in the home,

Where bathtubs need a scrubbing, laundry folding,

And in the world, where children are abused,

And homelessness and poverty abound.

And yet I have not adequately learned

The lesson she once strove for me to learn.

No, I have never, ever erred again,

By telling someone working that I’m bored,

But I have often simply given in

And let the boredom win, and laid my head

Upon my hands, or on some paper scrap

Discarded on my desk, and had a nap.

I guess that she was right, those years ago,

When I am bored indeed I am just boring.

But I am happy so to be, my boredom

Consumed by snoring and by somnolence.

And then in restful, sleeping, vivid dreams,

I do the things my boring self won’t do,

Or rather, maybe, will not think to do 

When my body’s boringly awake.

Fierce

Fierce, in May, at about 10 weeks old.

We have a gigantic puppy named Fierce,

Who is the source of all distress and dismay.

A tiny, white fuzz when we rescued him

From oblivion by the side of the road,

Now he’s a humongous, sharp-toothed terror,

Not all that bright, but full of joy and energy.

His name I say too many times a day,

Because he is the cause of so much frustration:

There’s toilet paper chewed and strung all over,

Because Fierce.

The trashcan in the kitchen overturned,

Because Fierce.

The cat has run away,

Because Fierce.

My phone no longer has a case,

Because Fierce.

I am all wet,

Because Fierce.

There’s pee and poop all over the house,

Because Fierce.

The dishes in the kitchen are not safe,

Because Fierce.

I have not a single pair of pristine shoes,

Because Fierce.

The cord to the space heater split in two,

Because Fierce.

There’s trash in the backyard,

Because Fierce.

There’s not a moment of peace,

Because Fierce.

I dread going home,

Because Fierce.

And yet, when my wife comes home from work,
Her eyes light up and pains of work dissolve,

She’s happy again, and she will know joy,

Not because of me, her loving husband,

Or anything thing that I have done,

But because Fierce.

Fierce now.

Luigi

A phantom lives across the street from me,

Inhabiting the dappled corner house,

The one where they are building up the porch.

And yet at times he moves across the way

And then resides in my unfinished basement,

Or in our ashen guest bedroom downstairs.

His frequent travels through the neighborhood,

And just as frequent sojourns in our home,

Are governed by the mind and mental power

Of my curly-haired girl.  Our phantom friend,

Luigi is his name, sprang from her mind –

Perhaps aided by goading from my dad –

Already fully grown and with his own

Distinctive backstory.  He bought the house

On the sun-speckled block, but then concluded

That it lacked the space he needed.  So then,

He set to work expanding the front deck,

And when it’s done he’ll have parties on it.

Luigi never takes a bath or shower,

So you can always tell just where he is.

He poops his pants almost each day or so,

So, you can see, his scent is always vile;

His odor once ran off a skunk, they say.

Once when whirling round the block on her bike,

Our girl alluded, gestured down the street

To the ancient German Lutheran church.

“That’s where Luigi goes to church,” she said.

Protesting slightly, I boldly exclaimed:

“I always thought Luigi would be Catholic!”

My mother set me straight, and smiling said:

“Of course Luigi is a Lutheran,

His mother’s name was Hildegard.”

                                                             Defeated,

I could no longer challenge anything

She had to say about our friend.  A smelly,

Soiled Saxon, savvy, clever, and skilled

In matters of home repair and expansion,

A second-generation citizen

Of this great nation, born of immigrants

From Europe’s principal political

And economic power – a Lutheran

With an Italian name. 

                                    She knows him best,

So I’ll defer to her, and be content

To hear the silly stories she creates

And wants to share with me. 

The Wandering Cat

Two things there are that God cannot control,

In all his awesome majesty and power:

The master of the universe himself

Cannot force love for him from human hearts,

Nor can he mandate or compel justice

Or peace throughout his world. 

        But one more thing

There is God cannot do, and this small thing

Is that which I regret perhaps the most

Of all.  The infinite, divine, supreme,

Creating power has no command over

The mind or frantic actions of a cat.

I’ve heard it said that cats all show

The signs of Asperger Syndrome, while dogs

All live with ADHD.  A cat knows not

How to behave in social interaction,

Nor how to properly return the love

We give to them, in feeding, petting care.

This little cat of mine, she wastes no time

And runs away whene’er she sees a door

Even slightly opened to give the dogs

The opportunity to go and pee.

With all her inborn feline stealth and speed

She sneaks past me and prances, scampers through

The slightly opened door.

                                               I know the course

This jaunt of hers will take.  She will remain

Outside for just a day or two.  We will

See her just once or twice in all that time,
Perhaps chasing a bird, a mouse, a squirrel,

But never catching it, because she is

Too slow and lazy to keep up with things

That spend their lives, however brief, outside

Avoiding claws and teeth of predators.

I may see her again, another day,

Perched atop the gated fence that borders

Our backyard, or lying beneath my car.

I’ll call to her, and walk to her, but she

Will run away, because when she’s outside,

She wants nothing at all to do with me

I will give her a few days more, and then

She will no doubt return to me.  One night

She’ll come back in, just as she left, but now

A little thinner, hungry, thirsty too.

She’ll drink her water up as if she thinks

There’s no tomorrow, then she’ll sit beside

Her bowl of food, and wrap her furry tail

Around her furry feet, and she will eat.

And when she’s had her fill, she will settle

In my lap, and purring, fall fast asleep.

Our prodigal returning home to us,

Our stray returning to domestic life.

This cat of mine has a way of showing

The value of a wandering life, the truth

That adventure nourishes the spirit,

But also that it’s good to come back home,

Where you know you have a food bowl waiting,

And a soft, warm bed and lap to sleep on.

She knows that no matter the length of time

She’s been away, we will welcome her back,

And give her rest, and say she is at home.

Intercom

I heard an Intercom buzz – when I died –

Or rather, it is what killed me –

The constant crackling, sawing, sizzling sound,

The sassy, sparking strain

Of electrical fuses on the fritz. 

The noisome, noxious noise,

The putrid, persistant popping

Buries all other waves of sound

In the room – particularly sinful

In a music classroom.

I am overtired

Of the Intercom I myself desired.

I begged the office every day

For an intercom that worked,

And also a phone, and perhaps a bell

So that I did not have to call around

And figure out when to dismiss my students.

The day we had intruder lockdown,

And I was unaware what went on,

Because my room had no intercom,

No bell, no phone, no connection

With the outside world.

It took them weeks to get it done,

And when they did, it worked quite well

For about an hour.  And then

It stopped, and I am left alone

With this ceaseless, sputtering sizzle.

I know now how it is that I will die,

This sound will pierce my brain.

I will be teaching, the bell will ring,

And I will keel over.  Perhaps I will

Stagger a little bit first,

Or perhaps I will just fall,

Not knowing what it was that hit me.

But I will collapse as life-bearing blood

Ebbs and pools around my head.

My students will know what happened,

They will see the small holes in my head

Where the sound stabbed in

And slashed my brain

To the size of squishy spaghetti.

Yes, I know how my end will be,

And now I can sing the refrain:

This is how the world ends,

Not with a bang, but a crackle.

My apologies to Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and T. S. Eliot.

Tadpoles

Three tadpoles inhabit my front stoop,

Tenants of a flower vase from my mother’s house;

She scooped them up and put them there

One day while keeping my daughter.

It was a project they started together:

“We’ll watch and see how they grow,” they said.

Grandmother and girl caught the creatures,

Gave them their glassy home,

And then forgot about them.

And so they are mine to keep,

And mine to feed –

A little dried cabbage every few days or so.

The water is mine to aerate,

And the vase is mine to clean,

And switch out for a shallower pan someday,

So that the tadpoles can jump out when they have legs.

Flicking tails the tiny amphibians swim,

Ever curious about the giant that gives them cabbage

And stirs their water every day or two,

Breaking up the shadows where they hide and play.

They swim and grow, almost twice as big now

As they were the day they brought them home.

Soon their legs will emerge and tails disappear,

And I watch and wonder,

If someday they may be eating size.

Is it that kind of frog?  I cannot say,

But when I see them now, I envision

Those young, new legs fried on a plate.

Perhaps I am more like a frog

Than I would care to admit:

I can marvel at the mysteries of new life,

But in the end my appetite wins.

I do hunger and thirst for righteousness,

Also for knowledge and wisdom,

But most days these are easily conquered

By hunger for comfort, good food, good drink.

I like to think that I am good in my career,

That I make some difference in the lives

Of the students I teach; that I am

Something positive in my community.

But most days, I am like a frog:

Swimming to and fro,

Aimless and darting,

Trying not to be eaten.

I know, from them, the crucial truth,
That however big or great you may become,
There's always something, or even someone,
Who will eat you:

For each Achilles there is a heel,
A harpoon for each great whale.
Every Caesar has a Cassius,
And every Lincoln a Booth.

So when I go home this afternoon,

I plan to salute my little friends –

My fellow pilgrims through this world.

And give them some extra cabbage.

This I plan, that is,

Unless the cat has gotten in,

And in her scheming mischief,

Has eaten them before I arrive.

Sacrament

Each day we complete a banal and sacred ritual,

A domestic compline in our homely chapel:

A bath, not baptism, but holy cleansing,

A Eucharistic meal of fruit and water,

Sacred readings not of Gospel or Quran,

But of Dr. Seuss and Chicken Little,

And a divine touch more solemn

Than that by which the hemorrhaging woman

Brushed the garment of Christ

And became whole.

A small hand, innocent of worldly ugliness,

Pure and unblemished by wrinkles,

Yet gnarled and chafed

From over-zealous nail biting:

I take it in mine, and I am complete,

I know love, and I comprehend grace.

Sitting by my child’s bed at night,

Reading her a story,

Listening outside her door as she finishes her bath,

Holding her hand as she falls asleep,

We enact a holy rite.

Chafed hands and bitten nails

Are a strange sort of sacrament,

Not unlike baptism in uncomfortably cold water,

A wedding where the cake never arrives,

Or the Body of Christ present in stale bread:

Divine mysteries manifest in fallible, human constructs.

But I like things that are human;

I’m happy with the marred and incomplete.

The sacred liturgies, even the Holy Gospel itself,

Set forth the way I learned it as a child,

With its flawless, Elizabethan cadence

And its majestic prose,

Is not quite so awesome

As my child’s small voice, reading to me about Rover.

Light-filled corridors infused with incense and statuary,

Are not quite as sacred

As my child’s rickety bedside.

When Thomas touched the hands and side of his Lord,

He could not have been more inspired

Than I am, when I hold my child’s slight hands in mine.

I cannot know if God or heaven are real,

But Paradise is in the gentle touch

She and I share each night.

There is no need for transcendent glory

When we perceive the immanent splendor

Of sacred touch
And mundane rites of human life.