Redwork
/What should I say at the final accounting?
I only wish I had learned quadratic equations
as well as Einstein or the calculus of baseball
as well as Ruth or Rose or Donald Hall
Wish I’d stuck with bookkeeping or shorthand
or some other employable skill or taken to any
subject as well as the know-it-alls.
How do I defend attending daily
divided by distractions and mastering no thing?
I could say too many confusing battles ensued
before a purpose with its pin pulled
rolled into my quarter. I could say
there was the divorce, the children, the Red Cross,
or that, as with any enterprise bound by rules
my brain simply has no system for storing such files.
Granted, I should have mastered fabrication
or painting or some fine art, should have practiced
guitar and typing and piano and hand quilting
Dutch hearts onto white muslin with even red stitches
before the arthritis set in. These are excuses,
not accepting responsibility. I admit: I waste hours
watching the raspberries ripen, golden heads of dill
nod in a hot breeze. or remarking how well
the tomatoes and sage grow this year. I confess
to days wasted rocking on the deck
sipping imported red varietals
while counting crimson cardinals
flitting from cedar to oak and oak to cedar; freely
admit to evenings frittered following the flaming
maples as they blaze up the yard at sunset.
Yes, I cop to wasting time shopping
for the red rhinestone-studded collar
now worn by the black cat rescued
from the roadside in the rain
at barely four weeks old. Yes, I held her
for six weeks solid rather than reading poetry
or astrology or anything of substance. Sat still,
silent, and reminisced on decades spent dreaming
of someday when all of it should come easier.
By Shelly Norris
From: United States
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