On top are etched
Old thoughts,
Emphasized through paper.
Over years and decades
Many hands
Pressed their point a bit too hard
And marked the wood.
Now a mist
Of unreadable cursive
Rises through brown pine.
I can hear the deep,
Burbling echoes
Of serious people in suits
Writing what they never said,
Or said later and more calmly
…beautiful, big, rather expensive umbrella. Sturdy, excellent at keeping the rain off. The first night I used it, I was running through downtown late at night in a downpour. Rounded a corner, saw a homeless woman huddled up against a wall, weeping, holding her hands over her head. Without a word I handed her the umbrella and ran the rest of the way home.
…opinionated woman.
I’m the first in my line to forego it.
That means he woke up on the sofa. (He refused to budge last night when I tried to convince him the bed would be more comfortable.) When he did get up this morning I followed him around with a thermometer until he put it under his tongue. Almost normal temp. He’s now at his desk drinking tea with honey and lemon and waving off my attempts to administer aspirin. Our delighted cat, usually warming herself by the radiator at this hour, is half buried in the deep nest of blankets and pillows left behind on the couch.
…either braided or worn loose, falling halfway down her back.
Size five black soft-soled shoes. Jeans, a tee, and a plaid cotton shirt. Narrow brimmed straw hat. A brown serape on brisk days.
Buried under all that is me.
…would I want to bring back dinosaurs?
I enjoyed them as toys when I was five and still unclear on the concept of extinction. The Noah’s Ark at my kindergarten, a wooden boat stocked with little plastic animals, included two brontosauri and three triceratops (one of them a baby), survivors from a plastic bag of dinos the boys had slowly looted. Sometimes those interlopers joined the paired line I’d carefully arrange going into the ark at playtime.
I never daydreamed about having them as pets, however, or interacting with them beyond running away if I saw one.
Just seen its airport during a layover. Would love to see the city itself.
…was over twenty-five years ago, when I was working at a large corporation. My job involved going over sales contracts and making sure everything was correct and there were no white-outs, no written-in amendments, no omitted signatures, etc. If the contract I was revewing was incorrect, I’d mark where changes needed to be made and return it to the sender initialed “PFT” — which I suppose read as though I were making a derisive sound with my lips.
Some people at the company began referring to me as “Paft.”
I watch what I eat. I exercise. I have regular checkups, get vaccinated, drink moderately, avoid excessive naval-gazing. The usual.
None of that rises to a “strategy,” as if I were consulting maps, calcluating potential assaults, or deploying troops. “Strategy” has become one of those online words (like “curate”) used to invest everyday chores, personal or professional, with unwarranted dignity and heroism.
Brushing my teeth and drinking plenty of water is not a “strategy” that deserves a rousing soundtrack.
Pam Troy 