Hello, Sarah, will you be my kidney? / Poem: Lines

Sarah came to town to be tested as my own sweet kidney donor. She underwent about 3 hours of testing and talking. She was interviewed by a social worker and a donor advocate who told her that when a person dies of kidney failure their kidney secretes a painkiller so they basically feel no pain. But, hey, I'd like to experience euphoria as I ascend to be with the angels.



Read Sarah's hilarious blog post about her adventures in Kidneyland.

Scott and I picked her up at the Klein Building at Einstein Hospital. On the way home we stopped for a luscious lunch at Timber, the new restaurant across from Abington Hospital, run by former chef of White Dog Cafe (where Ada held a brunch for her new grandson Alec Reid) and also Misholu at Penns Landing, where Ada took me after one of my Comcast interviews. (When I looked in the meer recently and saw my great haircut, I said to myself, Hey, let's do another one. I'm waiting for a date to be set before my untimely death.)

When Sarah was a little girl her dad came to town and presented her with Pierre Ze Duck. We don't know if he came w/that name or if Sarah, francophile that she is, gave him his name.

I asked Sarah if I might put Pierre to rest after his 30-some years of life among the humans. His green eyes still burn brightly but the poor fellow's beak is torn and his brilliant yellow is dingy, alas. Oh, what to do, these things are so difficult.

After a whirlwind tour seeing my sister Donna and then over to Baby Grace, I dropped Sarah off at the train station for her trip back to NY. I always miss her so, but then -ping! - I've always got something else to do, like attend my first Acrylic Art Class of the season.

I must tell you about it. Here's my teacher, Chris Hall, a young man who loves to teach. He's originally from Cincinnati and then Georgia.

Chris Hall, artist/teacher, Tyler School of Art grad

So I race into Abington Adult Evening School at 6:59 pm for the 7 o'clock class. I'd been trying to remember the names of the other folks from the last class but could only remember tall n handsome Bill Babb, whom I sat next to.

And then, as I pushed thru the double doors, I saw him in the middle of the hall: "Chris!" I said, waving. "It's Ruth!"

My first concern was that the class may've been canceled like my poetry class. But, no, there he was. "I've gotta pay," says I. He directed me to the table where a former neighbor Lynn Alexander took my check for $50. Not bad!

I painted the worst picture I've ever done. It's really bad. Oh, well, there'll be other chances.

This morning I had to adjust my pills and thought I'd show you what I take. A whole shitload, mostly prescribed by my nephrologist. "SB" stands for both Simon Baniewicz, my former boyfriend, eternally memorialized in my unpublished novel...



and Sodium Bicarbonate, which is to make my blood a certain alkalinity or acidity. Arcane shit!

pills

pills

LINES

Mirrors at this age
avoided
though the legs
still look fine
the face
sad to say
has more to say
than ever before

long life
survival
dad’s death
mom’s 88 years
my hair
ghostly white
covered with
red fake

can’t fake your face
don’t want to
scared to look
a nun in a convent
goes in pink-cheeked
high breasted
can’t see what other
people do
not young anymore

by chance I saw myself
in the sideview mirror
of the car I drive
a field of lines across
my cheeks
my hand went up
to embrace them
so this is you,
I whispered,
this is you,
still alive
at sixty four
still alive

I liked what I saw
the field of wrinkles
and want to see more
they crisscrossed each other
like pick-up sticks
like waves in the ocean
like branches on a
fallen tree

In love with my
wrinkles:
beautiful as the
moon's afterglow.