September 7: Irritation, New Poem, Still Being Punished

I'm still sitting in a corner, still feeling like I'm being punished.  I'm irritated by my current physical placement, by the people in my former space in the office.  It's a personal thing.  I don't like change being thrust upon me without being able to say, "This sucks."  Plus, I'm still tired from coming back to work.  Therefore, I'm cranky and not very receptive to anyone trying to make me view the situation as anything less than a personal affront.

The high point of the afternoon was leaving my first job to go teach my Good Books class.  The escape was welcome and did a lot to revitalize my flagging morale.  Standing in front of a lecture hall filled with students, I have people who are actually listening to me.  They may think I'm full of cow patties, but at least they pretend to value my knowledge.  I'll take that today.

My wife just called to tell me a real esate agent's advice about how to sell our house.  It can pretty much be summed up with one word:  "declutter."  I think my reaction when my wife told me was, "Well, no shit."

I have a new poem today.  It was inspired by my visit with my pastor friend last Saturday.  I'm not sure if the poem's good.  I'm not even sure it's done.

However, true to his word, Saint Marty is giving you some poetry tonight.

Visit at McDonald's

We eat eggs and sausage,
     orange juice.  Talk about souls
in the fists of our bodies, held tight
     as a final breath before diving
down to find a lost wedding
     band in the silt of lake water.
We speak of things precious.  Oxygen,
     blood, laughter at funerals.
Hover like mosquitoes over pink skin
     full of corpuscle, leukocyte,
enough to nourish larvae
     to health and growth and swarm,
to gather in this swamp of love
     with gator and egret, the spin
of hurricane, flood of salt.
     In this morning light, we know
Our time together is short, an afterthought
     in the lexicon of divine or sacred or holy.
Yet we hold on to this:  us,
     at a table, in this place.
Saturday.  Labor Day weekend.
     A biscuit, fried potato.
Cup of coffee, half-full, cold.
     These things, these words.
Paid for with stuff found in a coat pocket.
     Pennies.  Dimes.  A quarter bright as creation.