Okay, It Is Sunday

I greeted Sunday in the usual way, staying up past midnight watching a movie, two, three, four, or repeating certain movie or movies. Alright, Kyla wasn't here, but I had Will all night while his parents were at a wedding reception. Will had his choices of movies that I knew he would keep him calm and not want to run out the door to chase mom and dad. He chose . . . Mama Mia! And we watched it twice, then onto Happy Feet, twice. Will and I danced half the night between me searching the web for jobs, revising my poetry, looking at apartments, and preparing a general letter of application that I change minor detail to as the possible job found requires. I'm not complaining, I just wish there were more hours in the day so I could get those eight hours of sleep in.

Will and I had the living room, on the most part--plus a dog now and then, to ourselves. He kept going like the Energizer Bunny. I know he didn't want to go to sleep till his dad walked through the door. Just as I thought he was winding down, Ginet came home from Kim's--somewhere between 2:00 and 2:15 this morning. I finally had Will laying down by 3:15, approximately. His dad and mom walked through the door, I would say, about 4:00. Well, Will and I have been up since 9:00 / 9:30. I have fixed breakfast, took a dog out, read Will a book, and now sit here typing (with some interruption to tend to Will). Thinking it is time to get his parents up. Kung Fu Panda isn't keeping him happy. Mum (as he calls me) is tired, very tired.

I was surprised that Kyla didn't come over Saturday to spend the night, her weekly ritual. I am happy that she didn't, there wouldn't have been enough room for the three of us on the couch while we slept. Sleep overs are always on the couch. I guess I'll post the poem I revised last night here for my faithful followers. The poem, "Two Stones," is a huge revision, taking an old poem "At Another Stone," which was about the funeral of my two uncles, turned into a poem about the two types of "resting." I don't want to say much more about the revised poem because I want your input.

Two Stones

1.a
Evening fails to end the day.
Starlight and moonlight stand over me.
In the church, an urn stares at forty people.
The last bee flutters over a flower.
In the cemetery, a casket blindly looks at the tent ceiling.
I can only mix these two days into a moment

when the urn resides within the casket.  At each moment

the preacher says, “. . . bow our heads,”

2.a
and only the motion happens.
I’m looking at the flowers and wandering with my feet
the intention of this day when he says,
“I do,” and I follow. The preacher gives his blessing,
collects his twenty dollars, and two signatures
record the record of the gathering, a gathering
which could come

1.b

from the sorrowfulness.  It is only fitting to bury
ashes with the embalmed.
I can’t help remembering words: “his huge body

splayed over a Lazy Boy; an Arby’s bag below

his left hand on the floor; the television

sounding “Bad Boys” as the coroner
pronounced him dead.”  The last time I saw him

2.b

he limped with a moderate gut and a cane. His disability
locking his mind up into believing
his body couldn’t do, wouldn’t do: too much pain
to deal with; pills lined in the clear
plastic case labeled with days of the week wasted
on swallowing

1.c
pounds of meat for the five years I didn’t see him.
He could have been anything.  A voice troubles me
as I hear the speech like a poem:
“He gave whatever he had to a hand out:
a pauper himself and a spender when he saw a want.”
I never knew this man.  Maybe it was there,

2.c
not in my little girl eyes of 31 years ago when
he took me to be his bride, 32 years ago when I allowed
him to take me, to take me

3.d
40 years ago for coffee to Sambo’s, where some big-busted

waitress would laugh and giggle, and he would point out,
“She’s my niece.”  I was bait.  The seal slides down
as I stand at a distance with my toes facing another stone.