July 21: Flurry of Packing, Sandra Beasley, "Love Poem for Wednesday"

Tonight, when I get home, my wife will be in a flurry of packing.  Washing clothes.  Making lists.  Every once in a while asking me a question that she already has the answer to, like "Do you think I should pack two or three cans of Pringles?"  (If you're interested, my answer is always, "Please don't over pack for this trip like you do for every trip we take.")  My wife likes to prepare for every contingency, including a world-wide Pringles shortage and the extermination of humankind by a killer meteor.

I will attempt to help, but, ultimately, I will fail.  My wife is very serious about packing and preparing.  I am a little less strict.  As long as I have my insulin, a book, my journals, a fountain pen, and clean underwear, I'm pretty much all set.

It's Thursday night.  I don't have to work tomorrow.  It's the start of my long weekend.  Long drive ahead of me.  Five or six hours.  I don't really like long car trips, but I like being some place different.  I loved Waikiki and Big Sur and the Wisconsin Dells.  Some day, I want to visit Italy, Rome in particular.  Maybe it will happen.

I have a poem tonight from Sandra Beasley about Wednesdays.  It's a good poem.  A poem I wish I'd written.  I will be packing my laptop for this trip.  Doing some remote posts.  Maybe I'll write a love poem for Friday or Saturday.

Who knows?  Marty may end up as a Saint of the Week on some writer's blog.

Love Poem for Wednesday

by:  Sandra Beasley

You’re the day after Tuesday, before eternity.
You’re the day we ran out of tomatoes
and used tiny packets of ketchup instead.

You are salt, no salt, too much salt, a hangover.
You hold the breath of an abandoned cave.
Sometimes you surprise me with your

aurora borealis and I’ll pull over to watch you;
I’ll wait in the dark shivering fields of you.
But mostly, not. My students don’t care for you

or your lessons from the life of a minor god.
Can you hit the high C in our anthem?
Can you bench press a national disaster?

I fear for you, Wednesday. Your papers
are never in order. Your boots track in mud.
You’re the day I realized I didn’t even like him,

and the day I still said yes, yes, yes.
Sometimes I think you and I should elope,
and leave this house of cards to shuffle itself.

You are love, no love, too much love, a cuckold.
You are the loneliest of the three bears, hoping
to come home and find someone in your bed.