Sixes and Sevens
I thought I bought more soap
though I didn’t need it yet.
But I don’t remember
putting it in the cupboard.
In the trash basket though
here’s the discarded wrapper:
I’m the one who does all the
discarding around here,
who consumes and keeps track,
storing, replenishing.
If it’s there I threw it
away there. And yes, there is
an extra bar on the shelf,
a thing where—standing right here
with new-bought soap in my hand—
I must have seen a space:
habitual intention
fills in for consciousness,
shorting out recollection.
Amid all this traffic,
the only thing amiss
is one single memory.
Of all the forty-two known
wits’ ends, this is the slimmest,
least, most slippery. I must
do this every day—who else?
If I ask, does it mean
I forgot, or never knew?
This is all between me
and the rich range of tasks
I meant to accomplish,
which I will get back to
tomorrow with a clean slate.
I am leaving myself
a note, in my spindly hand,
next to the shopping list.
Suspension
We borrowed my mother’s car
and drove to Lion Country Safari Irvine
and through it. Part way,
in a nice bit of California savanna,
the rhinoceros ambled over
with her little one to nuzzle us,
poking her horn into the left front
wheel well and nodding.
Every spring groaned
but the good Ford held.
Back at the house, my father beamed
at the insurance claim he would compose.
Fifty years on, the poem
supposes its cast are all dead or nearly.
Do you want a list? Maybe the calf
survives in Loxahatchee. Me, I look
down through time and my driver’s window
at the wide pebbled cheek,
the monumental nose, the dust
puffs where each foot
stirs lazy blossoms,
and her hooded eye, color
of brandy in hot chocolate,
trim fringe of lash.
