Alice Azure

Just Reasonably Content

So, the garden harbors voles, ants and voracious slugs?

Red velvet trumpets still pop on vines

over the arbor. Creamsicle lilies last all summer.

So, your stamina no longer matches rampant grass?

I find someone else to mow the lawn

and you tune in to an afternoon’s game.

So, I haven’t seen the swirling purple and greens

of those dancing northern lights?

Their memories live in my jingle dress.

How places like Ferguson slashes sails

of good intentions! Still, I do my best,

helping friends and family find safe harbor.

I’ve yet to write that consummate poem

matching the vision in my head—

and wince at my Muse’s demand for a novel.

So I wait for the No of night to yield to morning’s light

when coffee tastes good,

and the daily newspaper arrives at the door.

League

Falls Church, Virginia

Friday! Finally five o’clock!

I grab my coat, purse and duffel bag,

quickly change from corporate to jeans,

run down the stairs to my car

and head west to Bowl America

where friends, seated at tables along ten lanes

reserved for our American Indian League,

are eating, drinking, laughing,

waiting for the gates to open.

I find my team, sit down and exhale.

A quarter century later

intent on clearing the basement,

I lug my bowling bag

out of a musty cellar corner,

carry it upstairs, begin to dust

abandoned spider eggs, speckled mold and rust.

Lifting the red ball from its cradle,

out of habit I begin to wipe old oil away.

Memories, voices, images of old friends

float out, filling the empty spaces of my house:

Obensteins and Butlers, Gonyea and the Hill brothers;

all the ironworkers in town for the weekend,

eye-balling the crowd for possible dates;

Mary and Karen planning Kristine’s baby shower;

Mitchell and I so deep in discussion

(and pitchers of beer)

that I follow him into the men’s room

until he turns me back;

that time I had to hide from Linda, the tough Ute woman

who thought I was hitting on her man;

Pete and Elizabeth, newly married, smooching at every strike;

late suppers at Hooter’s—Richard’s favorite.

So many stories, happy hours.

How can I ever let go of this crystal ball?