This Is What It Looks Like When Doves Die
I've seen a lot in my days, but not these.
Best, I see my crosswords propped on a thigh,
My thigh, don't get me wrong. My femur twig,
A mighty easel for a figurer
Of the grandiose. Worst, I see the girls
In tights sampling toothpick teriyaki.
Don't get me wrong, they are in between
The middle-distance menu
And me. I leer at middle distances
Apparently and ogle stir-fried rice.
These days--through a squint diffuser,
Through otiose spectacles equipped
With dark glass for UV susceptible
Eyes like these blue beauties of mine,
My onion mourners, lascivious
And blind. Don't get me wrong; I am not blind.
I see clues as well as anyone,
I detect yens to simply be seen.
My vision. Sometimes contributive, sometimes deleterious. Though probably not needing an un- rhymed quasi-sonnet for a journal introduction, it is getting more pitiful. When contributive, it is actually integral. Otherwise even my lurching days would be over. Gone, those halcyon days of only almost falling every time I put my worst foot forward. As for making it to the Olive Garden restroom all by my big boy lonesome, arrivederci.
My cane keeps me upright. My hands keep me steady. My vision, though undeniably pitiful, keeps me in the bipedaling game. Whether by scootch or sidle, as long as I can see the cobblestone below by the gas lamp above, I'll see you in the middle distance.
When deleterious, my vision fibs. It says, "The handrail is hip-high. Use it. Reach. Relax."
A dove alights on a wire in the far distance.
Nearer, The Dollar Tree beckons, "Come feast your eyes on my wares. Walk in wanting, walk around
needing, walk out set for life."
A second dove alights on the wire in the far distance.
I stumble and catch myself by my funny-bone, exclusively. My vision snickers [King Size, $1, come feast, Regular Size, $1, come do alright by yourself], "I said hip, didn't I? Would you believe I meant to say thigh-high?"
The first dove dies, plummets from the wire in the far distance; the second dove dies, plummets. Two falling lovers veering for each other. Birds of a feather fluttering together. Wings merge. A pair of full breasts in mythic tandem. They rise, fly toward me from a now reasonable distance. I arise, my funny bone still quite the comedian. They are one, majestic plurality of Being, now in the middle distance becoming . . . oh, nope, just one, that first one, I guess . . . yep, yep, a little iffy around the edges . . . but yes no, a fat, singular scat machine gearing up over my head.
My vision comes clean [42oz Prell, $1, Salmonella-B-Gone, $1, Sackful of snackable Snickers, $ 1], "I'm sorry, but that was good, you should have seen yourself."
4/ 6/ 14
Sometimes in thin, translucent bungees. Sometimes in meandering rillets.
I'll move on but suffice it to say: Ponce may have missed the fountain of youth, but I've stumbled into the one of decrepitude.
[Don’t picture this as incessant, it's mostly just when laying down and only from corner; I’ll let you when a cascade simile becomes more accurate.]
A Golden Opportunity for Velcro
4/ 28/ 14
I lost my wallet on Friday. Because I left the house. On Saturday, I was none the wiser. Because I rarely leave the house on consecutive days. I left the house on Sunday so became wise to the missing wallet. Because to leave the house is to conceivably need my credit or debit cards, but I'm nearly always with someone in possession of identical ones to those. I'm much less likely to need my insurance card and less likely still to need my driving license because I've ridden on an ambulance a time or two more than I've driven a car in the last couple of years.
Sunday, Monday--some the wiser, none the richer. A sprawling, educated search availed not. A delimited (cards would have to be cancelled soon) yet more focused search prospered not.
But, around here, hope springs temporal. Because last week I lost an upright bottle of balsamic vinaigrette under my chin. Directly. As in, if anyone had asked me after I asked them if I had just asked them if anyone had seen where I put the balsamic vinaigrette I might have nodded and knocked the bottle flat with my chin at which point it would have been under my nose. Directly. As in . . .
So, around here, maybe hope springs ephemeral; but we don't often lose it, and I'm holding it out for my wallet.
Well and good. The cards had to be cancelled which brings me seamlessly to my key topic. My speech's recognizability as human on the telephone. I have spoken on the phone as many times in the last 36.5 hours as I have in the last 365 days. As my pinch (and lovely, of course) phone-talker, my wife tried to cancel the cards and have new ones issued; but she could only lay the groundwork I would have to supply the permit. Name, date of birth, home address, last four of social, affirmative to yes or no question, "you're welcome and thank you, too."
Recognizably human and in almost as discernibly English as the middle-Asian gentleman being of service to me at Capitol One, if I dare say so myself. And I did and I am none the wiser, richer, or fluenter; however, I will soon be one stiff new wallet the prouder, and one glistening new photo-ID the hilariouser.