Darned Socks

The blue beribboned box was stashed in her sewing nook,
a place Clive never ventured.

Marriages are like socks, Emily mused,
as she mended yet another pair of his:
some fall apart right away
some seem flimsy but last and last
some are mismatched
sometimes the mate gets lost.

When they’re good, you never think about them.

Only when they fall apart, the holes appear, your feet hurt—
only then do you ponder
if you should have spent more time shopping
only then do you wonder if it’s time to
pitch them
find a better pair
one that supports
one that flatters
one that fits
one that lasts.

Her doorbell rang
at not quite five;
too early for Clive.
Could it be her neighbor, the painter
who brought her the box?
The blue box not yet opened.
She wondered what he’d brought.
A clock?
A book?
New socks?

Jubilee

Champagne bottle half empty
she nudges the fire, now only embers,
gets a tendril of smoke.

She misses the warmth and crackle, wishes for
the light that painted every corner.

She sits on the hearth,
sees his face, feels his touch,
only in the misty moors of her mind.

Raising Expectations

She wanted to dance and capture flight, like Twyla.
But Mama said, You’re too clumsy, you will always be clumsy.
So she didn’t.

She wanted to fly and touch clouds, like Amelia.
But Mama said, You’re too timid, you will always be timid.
So she didn’t.

She wanted to act and fuel dreams, like Marilyn.
But Mama said, You’re too plain, you will always be plain.
So she didn’t.

She wanted to write and create lives, like Emily.
But Mama said, You’re too dull, you will always be dull.
So she didn’t.

She wanted to find love.
But Mama said, who would want you?

So she ran away, and love found her.

Love told her what she now tells her daughter,
you will always find love, and love will find you.

Now, they stand hand in hand,
parachutes on backs, white clouds below.

In the Land of the Novel,
the Writer is Almighty

I love to create them, my characters.
Were they there all the time,
in some waiting room,
tapping their toes,
hoping to be called to life?
Like some Twilight Zone episode?

I bring them life.
Give them names, families, lovers, dogs, and cats.
Give them nosy neighbors and edgy colleagues and scary teachers.
Give them heartaches and temptation.
Feed them. Will I let them eat cake or perhaps crow or maybe
a bowl of cherries?
Give them love, and then take it away, and then maybe give it back?
Give them problems—
put them on the Titanic
or the Chunnel shuttle as the lights go out
or in Central Park with a stalker watching
or the slopes of Aspen as the avalanche starts.

I love to make them work,
make it worse for them,
then, like a benevolent dictator,
offer salvation or perhaps the last word.

I love to give them hard choices,
choices that would make me flinch.
What if we are just characters
in a happy, sad, poignant, joyful, goofy, silly, touching novel?
How will the author end this chapter?
Will she bring the novel to that ending
where after the last word
of the last paragraph
of the last page,
the reader closes her eyes,
sighs,
pats the cover,
and says,
great ending.