Steel waves murky
Crashing mercilessly
Rudderless journey
Storm clouds swirl
Thrashing incessantly
Compass needle spins
Homeless; no direction
Captain overboard
Lost at sea
Distress signal
Not received
Terror and frenzy
Prostrate on deck
Knuckles white
Gripping hope
Survival until
Calm and a spot
To toss anchor
There are other tasks
I would rather do than
Clean this fridge of its
Sticky old juices and
Slimy stuck on messes
Lids lifted to odors
Disconcerting my nose
The crevices, drawers
Shelves of outdated
Condiments, jellies and
Sauces hardly used
Except for that one
Recipe from Gourmet
I thought would prove
My fabulous culinary
Skills but which only
Took too long, cost
Too much and was
Left on plates pushed
Away by little boys
Whose sensibility lies
In a crispy grilled cheese
Or bread slathered in
Peanut-butter and Nutella
The process of tossing
Scrubbing, rearranging
Gives life to a fresh start
Outlook on everything else
Of endless possibilities
If knuckles to the
Grindstone, committed in
Thought and effort
I wipe the slate clean
And start all over again
Curious at first this house with the pilings
Instead of the white picket fence and the
Weathered, slightly hunched man emerging
The snappy light blue fishing hat,
Every morning picking up the 6, today 7
White bowls that once held probably
Cool-Whip, now milk and the brown pellets
Nourishment that he scoops from
A very large economy size bag in his
Tidy well used garage, organized efficiency
One can see it as he bends under the boughs
Of the pines that stand at the foot of his drive
As shelter for the cats who gather in society
Dining by moonlight, he, now busboy to last night’s
Prowling cats, those bowls in the same
Haphazard semicircle every morning
Greeting me in a Boston accent,
Surprising this landlocked midwesterner
The breeze of the sea in the ease
Of his Good Morning, the raised hand,
As he shakes out the midnight snack
Remnants of those mysterious felines
Who must expect its delivery as much as
He enjoys the regularity of the gift giving
Perfectly indispensable in a world
Of throw away everything,
Already by mid life having
Been shattered twice, putting
Herself back together, better
Than the original, not simply
New or only improved, instead
Her qualities deepened into a
Finer patina of experience
Far more relevant than
To be placed behind glass
Safety’s sake, protection
From the touch of true love’s
Appreciation, her colors,
The depth of her hue and light
Requires care, the touch of
Joy gently, quietly lifting from
This resting place, proudly
Stepping over a new threshold
Her brilliance shining into
New rooms of hope, adventure; life
Reflecting on the imperfections
I never dreamed, when ripe with
Pregnancy now mine to bare
Slights and inconsistencies
Attentions more to this or that
Instead of on you, for you
Fantasy of being the one
Who remains conscious and
Never left nor right of the true
Forgive me, and know
Duties held the struggle of
Standards I could not meet
Others assigning desires
Which lacked love’s intentions
A confused responsibility
Yet steadfast and firm always
In quality and duration
The love I feel for three
Breakfast with Buse 