I'm waiting for Scott - yoo hoo, Scott! - to acknowledge receipt of the prose piece I wrote for his b'day.
I mailed it to him and it arrived today in the mail along with a $10 Giant gift card that, I wrote, can only be used for Egg Rolls at the Chinese concession stand.
He loves the egg rolls but never buys em.
Martha looked lovely in her festive outfit and we read her newly titled FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE.
She got the idea to write this poem while seeing an elderly couple holding hands in the Giant parking lot.
The Giant! So much revolves around the Giant supermarket.
Rem and myself - Linda hadn't arrived yet - she was working at - mon dieu- the Roslyn GIANT - loved the poignant details of her marriage to David - 44 years - they used to 'neck' in a far corner of the park - never imagining they would grow old together - and still neck - they were babysitting for Brianna, who opened the door of their bedroom and found them kissing on their bed - I think she said Yuck and backed out of the room.
It's important to know people are still in love after 44 years.
Martha and David have 'date night' every Thursday. They even went out when Marf was having heart problems connected to her kidney problems.
That was sure a tough time but they got through it together, thank goodness.
Our hearts also go out to our absent members Beatriz, Kym and Donna.
Okay, Remington, where are you? The postal service is awfully busy this time of the year. He's never seen so many cartons come through. The post office has the contract for Amazon. That's why you see mail trucks on Sundays.
Think back. What's the last item you bought from Amazon.
Hold on, Mailman Ken! I'm running outside as fast as I can. I have some money to mail to my bank. I told this to Rem, who works for the post office, and he told me it's a bad idea.
I know, I said.
Oh cut it out, Ruthie. This is my new Nikon camera, a close up. My last camera was a Canon. This is far superior.
SCHOOL DAZE, 1984, was the poem Rem presented. He wrote it about a month ago. Like most of his autobiographical poems, he wrote it in the third person.
He must have been out of his mind / teaching composition four days a week / banging out paper abstracts
In the poem he mentioned literary names such as Thomas Love Peacock, who wrote The Four Ages of Poetry. Shall we have a peak?
It's rather difficult to read due to the long line, but the theory is interesting and was debated by none other than Percy Bysshe Shelley.
The poem talks about sharing a joint every Friday afternoon with his buddy John in the eleventh floor office building which he shared with the tall thin ponytailed schizophrenic chain smoker, a woman named Diane.
Why do they always smoke, I asked.
They either smoke or drink coffee. His late wife, he said, drank coffee.
Also mentioned was writer Donald Barthelme's The Dead Father, a 1975 novel, that's exceedingly strange.
He had a beige Chevy Nova - wow! - what lovely tail feathers!
I could go on and on, its staticky AM radio. But I've gotta hurry as I wanna continue watching Netflix and find out who's the murderer.
Biblical references were many. I didn't take notes but Daniel was an important prophet. The Magi were descended from him.
I was up last night until 4 am. Wrote Chapter 16 of my novel. I couldn't think of a short story, though today when I was reading a library book I came up with an idea.
Then I remembered around 3 am that I write poetry! (I can't call myself a poet. That's too important of a word.
So I wrote two poems, which you can read below. It's funny how when you write a poem you move into a different area of your brain.
HIS PHOTO IS ON MY
WALL
Would
his wife mind if she knew?
I
was surprised the photo came
out
so large, all in black and white.
Certainly
a handsome man, politically
savvy,
whose letters to the editor
were
featured weekly in the
Inquirer.
He’d blind copy them
to
me. We had a certain understanding.
He
liked a blog post I wrote about God.
Can’t
remember it today or say for sure
I’m
a believer, but think I’m not, though
I
pray a lot. Mostly for myself. My Catholic
neighbor
says he prays “Just in case there’s
a
God.”
Mostly
I write letters on the all-white
stationery
that comes spitting out
from
the printer. Dreads I when it
warns
me Ink running low. But there
was
plenty of ink in his photo, his
white
hair thinning, and lying soft
as
a satin cushion on either side of
his
wise Buddha ears, his round
eyeglasses
reflecting the summer
sunshine
of his townhouse where
he
and Arleen lived.
A
goatee completes the picture of
a
man I can truly say: I love. Did
he
love me? I’m sure. Was the
cancer
growing as he smiles in
the
photo? Once you’ve got it
it
may come back. I was late
for
his funeral. Simply couldn’t
find
the damn place. We all went
back
to the house. On the
carpet
I found his little white
curly
hairs. Guess you can’t
stem-cell
them back into
who
the man was. Too much
room
for error. Arleen had put
out
nuts on the table they bought
in
Sedona. I brought some
chocolates
and ate them
voraciously,
as if I were
chomping
on the cancer
cells
that killed him. Shall I
frame
the photo or
simply
leave it taped to the wall
as it yellows with age
and finally drops to the
floor.
***
MEALS ON WHEELS
Until
my body gives out
I
must remain useful
not
bashful
Into
my old black Buick
with
the portholes on the side
I
load four paper bags of
hot
food, each bag quickly
bleeding
and getting my
seat
wet, like the old
people
who wet themselves.
Their
homes smell none
too good. Jeannie is
my
newest client. A
diabetic,
she’s as fat as
a
baby pool, and likes
her
pies. She pays me
special
to run to the
deli
to buy her pint-sized
lemon
meringues, peach
pie
and huckleberry,
sold
only at Trader Joe’s.
When
I return to Meals at
the
end of the day
they
let me have
one
left-over bag.
I
place it on my
back
seat on a fraying
blue
towel and
head
toward home.
Eating
at home’s
no
fun. I drive to
the
park, to look
around,
to listen to
the
crows, to watch
the
clouds skitter
by,
and make shapes
out
of them.
Shapes like
A
turkey sandwich
a
jar of Hellmann’s
and
my daddy’s favorite
banana
cream pie.
I
lift each one of my
plump
legs and tuck
it under the picnic
bench.
On soft white
bread,
I eat a chicken
salad
sandwich, spitting
out
a small bone onto
the
grass. The pickle
is
tasty. And the sweaty
can
of Coca-Cola, with
its
pop-top lid, is on
a
par with the Rothschild
champagne
I will never
taste.
I wish Jeannie
were
here to enjoy
it
with me. I hold out
my
can of Coke and
toast
her in the chilly air.
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