After a difficult few hours of rouge, ranging, generalized imprisonment in a grief-struck realm, the floating dread verging on panic that can so readily descend upon the psyche in 2017 found some relief by grace of small talk with elders.  A frequent occurrence.  So I wrote a poem:

 

Store

Late in the morning yesterday,

a heaviness lodged its way

into a rib cage gone suddenly brittle.

The entirety of my natural affections

forced for the sake

of the small smiling face

upturned and trusting

in my sourced affection.

 

So we made our way

to a 99cent sale at

Salvation Army.

And though I could be read as capitulating

to the dubious therapeutics of consumption,

and though I do admit to satisfaction

in vintage gowns and handbeadings,

I was not improved

by that garbage bag full of revived treasures.

 

Rather,

the aching nostalgia

of joyful naïveté

playing the holidays

for all wandering

provided some relief.

A source pinpointed

for my heart’s aching,

mourning

the reminisced tableaux

in simultaneous surrender to enjoyed familiarity.

 

More,

several old women

eagerly engaged

in recognition of quality

apparent in the appeal

of long lasting  seams

fastened by hands, carefully placing past works

in scenes traced

for some small face,

ever a herald of home.

Truly

those strangers gave

entrance to the day.

For the uplift of smiles upon my son,

I share his antics as small recompense,

indebted to this reassurance

of kindness lived and sensed.