April 15: Friday Night, Psalm 38, Guys' Night

Going the wrong way

I have felt at times today like I've been heading down the wrong street.  My day hasn't been horrible.  I haven't had any terrible mishaps.  I just feel a little off, that's all.  Everybody has days like this, I know.

Tonight, my wife is taking my daughter to see a high school production of Guys and Dolls.  Our niece has a part in it.  I'm staying home with my son.  We're going to have a guys' night.  Actually, I'm going to have a guys' night, since my son goes to bed at 7 p.m.  I just bought a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One.  I plan on having a wine cooler and a movie.  No school work.  No more writing.

Today's poem sort of reflects my feeling of heading in the wrong direction.  I will admit it's not very joyful.  In fact, I would say it's downright depressing.  But it's what I got today.  With my general mood today, I think I'm lucky to have any poem to post at all.

Saint Marty is going to try to find his way back to joy tonight.  Wish him luck.

Psalm 38:  Wrong Turn

When I visited her in the hospital, she sat in the lounge with me, brooded, stared out the fifth floor windows, her face empty, hollow as a church bell.  I made small talk:  "What did you have for dinner?" and "How'd you sleep last night?" and "How'd group therapy go?"  Her answers, one or two syllables.  A shrug.  A nod.  I knew my presence irritated her, reminded her of the flannel sheets on our bed, turkey loaf, our daughter's shitty diapers.  When I left, walked out the doors, heard them close, lock, I knew she hated me even more, wanted to scratch, claw my skin, make me ache the way she did.  She would go back to her room, her bed.  Lie down.  Stare out her window.  Try to draw a map of her mind.  Get lost.  Me, I drove home, through dusk, listened to the classical station.  Bach.  Mahler.  Mozart.  Didn't pay attention to streets, traffic lights, other cars.  I thought about her on our wedding night.  Warm against my nakedness.  Each curve, path of her body as familiar to me as my breath, my heart.  I wondered what wrong turn we had taken.  When I got home, our house was dark, silent under the starless sky.  Foreign.  Berlin.  Gdansk.  Sarajevo.  Nagasaki.  Baghdad.