the ducks don’t ‘in a row’ here

on the dirt road to Cabeção

I slowed to a stop and whistled 

the sole sheep on the road

heading toward then past

stopping to see what and who

then turning to go about her day

carefree in a hop-skip way

lumberjacking

I

the things celebrated here

are not the things celebrated there

how can she miss those things

when she rarely attended

doesn’t attend these things now?

II

an introverted extrovert is not

an extroverted introvert

one surrounds themselves with others

with forays at home here and there

while the other nests at home with

rare lunches and cancelled plans

knowing alone isn’t lonely 

an hour of sleep in ten minutes

I was sleeping sound when

She startled me awake with 

her wet nose booping mine 

in the wee hours of light dark,

when the street light goes off

and the world is quiet and still

the best hours to cocoon 

muscle-mem’ry reaching out

touching soft ears, I cooed

still half-slept, “ it’s okay…”

always to her I coo since her baby years

are unknown to me, 

settling, roaming, settling, roaming

right-side left-side, back I stirred

She stirred, both of us stirring 

arms legs here there, I accommodated 

always I accommodate her changing places 

while trying to sleep myself 

checking the clock

turning the fan off then on

kicking covers off then on

an hour of sleep in ten minutes

then fifteen then thirty

then finally 6 am came ‘round

timing when it’s okay to rise

to eat to sleep all my life

setting times to do

breakfast eaten, NOW She sleeps 

soundly curled into the nook 

of my left ankle and rear-end 

legs forming a tent for her always

and my own eyes won’t stay closed 

the horn of Styx signals the all aboard

I

and suddenly we are all fans

of the the dead and dying 

II

I’ve over-outwardedly reached

and been singed buy a failure

to believe the best from others 

as they take-take-tell assume 

and others the best of me

when at my lowest kicked

while low and down

III

she takes her love away

and my lap gets cold

love-dust left

on my clothes clinging 

kids’ insults were creative in the ‘70s

when the words flew…

your mother wears combat boots 

I always replied with “I wish.”

Mother left with everything that wasn’t nailed down

I

you are you, you know 

your things not mine;

trust I know my things 

are mine for the knowing

your way is your way

your way not mine

trust I know my way

is mine for the doing 

II

took a long time to earn

all my skits-n-skats internal;

the collection of pinned things

and legs struggling not to, still

hindsight never woke

in wee hours to worky-work

the one to five jobs

and smith the words of learning 

No, I did that. I. Did. That.

III

Mother never got mad

Mother never advised

Mother read her romance 

Mother lit the gas

full grown and feeling

too much at four, at little fifteen 

I figured the sums and deficits

for Father puzzling through 

this and that floundering 

for decades into overmorrow 

of owning my knowing 

and figuring what to do

“Took a world of trouble took a world of tears…” ~ Square One, Tom Petty