Day of Labor

Somewhere, many wheres, several 1--- places, a woman is giving birth.

Labor.

I shall lie on the lawn and see what crawls over me, and

at dawn the breath of soil smells inhaled will remind me that it is spring.

September brings sorrow renewed by personal anniversary; however,

we are choosing this year to take a belated honeymoon toward another wedding.

Theirs is on a ship; both request costumes, and my hope is that then

I will have but one paying job and no non-paying ones.

Hers is on Beltane (belated one day),

and the technical Saturday anniversary of ours (belated two, but both on Derby Day).

You can change anything as easily as the weather in Missouri

and probably as effectively — you are powerless, but time is not.

Time gives rise to creative togs, panels, embracings of life —

otherwise, we are just surviving and have no costumes.

For amphibians, amoebas, fish, crustaceans of the land and sea,

survival is blessedly enough (esp. since we think they think of nothing all day).

Our worries build up higher than Babelicious towers, and we want so badly

to have something, be something, do something more

Than convert

Time to

Labor,

Work to dollars,

Dollars to things that allow one to

Arrive back at work somewhat rested, usually bathed,

Often fed, adequately clothed, and "willing" to keep on feeding

The self, the debts, the unavoidable expenses of being around

In this country.

Deterioration and entropy happen.

Poems don't always make it to the end.

Everyone needs an editor

is her adage:

This piece — like the little piggies whom (no one talks about it)

apparently died from the flu — had none.

Happy birthday, Mom.

I think you must be 49.

So, I won't be any more than merely and wholly present … I am supposed to

be doing something else even now, but these are my choices.

The ear thing of the year has begun. Mark-ye the ache as starting 48 hours ago;

wait for the fun reports of über pains and submissions to Take Care Health Clinic.

Souter, you are going?

These next few days mean we are halfway between the last equinox and the coming solstice.

That was fast.