Saturday, April 2, 2011

The one where I write about life and mention poetry at the end

It's 10:36 a.m. My Girl is at Winter Percussion, which is exactly what it sounds like it would be: a "club" filled with kids who love to play, want to play, can't help but play various percussion instruments. "Rhythm is my life!" (nod to Love, Actually) Our band booster president mentors the group, though he started the group last year before he was president. He's a gifted drummer himself, loves the kids who love him. He's also quietly hilarious.

This morning, the parking lot behind the high school kind of reminded me of a crowded amusement park, lots of enormous rides, too many people for too small a space. I drive a Honda Civic, and in this little city filled with SUVs, I sometimes feel the way I used to feel when I was young and went kicker dancing with my friends (not that I actually danced). All those tall cowboys in their size 12 boots made me feel rather small and crushable. I don't know what's going on today at the school. Baseball maybe? People looked angry, though that could be the weather. I'm telling myself that this gray crush of rain is all part of spring in southeast Ohio. Thirty-eight degrees is not cold (right? RIGHT?).

"Crush" seems to be my word of the day.

Kitty crushed my legs while I slept last night.

Allergies crushed lungs (wheeze).

Worried thoughts crushed dreams.

Patio light crushed sleep.

Sleep slipped under the bed.

My daughter's friend stayed the night. She wasn't going to. "My mom would kill me if I stayed over again," she said. Somehow I knew that wasn't true (her mama likes and trust me, I think). She and my Girl watched movies too late and then talked and talked, soft murmurs I couldn't really hear any more than I hear my daughter's iPod playing every other night she is here.

I love this friend as if she were at least a niece, if not more. She and I have a friendship that started because of my Girl but is building into something separate. I'll miss her when Boot Camp swallows her up this summer (::sob::).

I think I will lose my Girl to another friend this evening, though they may come here, instead.

Spontaneity.

Flexibility.

Stretch.

Shrink.

Pare.

Parse.

Spare.

*

I got into a silly conversation on Twitter (no, if you know me in real life, you can't have my Twitter name) with some lovely women yesterday that led me to the thought that I wanted to write a poem about banana nut bread. Because I'm slightly obsessive, I decided I needed to research bananas.

I didn't get far. I posted on my damned Facebook status that I seemed to be researching bananas and watched a conversation devolve into a really bad (but kind of hilarious) stand up comedy routine involving dream imagery, slippery slopes, even Adam and Eve. Or maybe it was more like improv.

I sort of lost the urge to write that poem in the massive mess of humor.

Maybe another day.

Today's poem? I don't know yet. I don't know if there will be one. Maybe today is the poem. Maybe my cat sleeping on my feet is the poem. Maybe my daughter's pink dyed hair is the poem. Maybe the poem is rain. Maybe my offering a different friend a ride a few hundred yards from parking lot to band room door is the poem.

Maybe my graying eyebrows are seven poems.

Maybe the poem is in my wonky left eye, my left hip that cracks, my muffin top. Maybe it's in my neighbor's voice on the porch, her love of Foreigner at 3 a.m., the ruined carpet wadded up in front of her garage.

That's enough now.

1 comment:

  1. "Maybe my graying eyebrows are seven poems."

    THAT is poetry.

    ReplyDelete