Bob Fletcher Dies at 101; Helped Japanese-Americans (NYT Obit)

How can I not assume that you lived a great life if you die when your numbers need to be counted in three digits and the word "helped" is used to describe you.

Love and gratitude, Mr. Fletcher.


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Disentanglement

Pompeii, Bombay

It doesn’t matter.

Words once chosen

are places --

I have to go

I can hear all the days coming

and kindnesses to make me cry:

certainties, pinpricks

leprous as promises,

as remembering why

Life is short, redundant, an antidote

From every place: unfold borders,

escape. I know. I know that

loss slows, quickens,

and goes

_

Fanfare

The mouth’s empty cave

Platonic, muscled with truth

Where worry about tickets,

arguments, agreements, tokens

the children are singing anyway

the birds are singing anyway

worlds and words twist just so

the pollen drops careless as scabs

the calm hugs from everyone

their pity spectacular and partial as

discontent dished up at supermarkets

common as sunshine now--and weeping

_

Tales

I've been gone.
Sorry.
These days turn
churn and hurry.

Mornings burn
through fog
stumbling out to pee
(Scout, not me)

Breakfast is just
Cheerios, eggs, vitamin pills
and still takes two kids a total of 80+ minutes to eat
the puppy hoovers everything that's dropped
but eats nothing from his untouched bowl
I give him treats so he can keep growing

I know I'm an irresponsible "dog caregiver."
(It doesn't help anything that I've taken to referring to myself as "mama.")

I steal glimpses of the city as I drop the kids off
I wear my work clothes as a harness
so I'll get to work
(and leave the puppy in his little gated room for at least a few hours)

all alone :/.
And it's not really a room,
just the entryway,
but it's bright and airy,
and nicer than a crate.

And every time I get home he's quiet and fast asleep
but skooched as close
as he can to the gate
and the latch where my hand lingered last* (pictorial footnote below)

He doesn't like his leash and is constantly trying to bite through it
so he mostly runs around without one
so when we're outside I'm doing a lot of puppy carrying
--away from the mellow (bigger) dogs across the street
(who are the enemy--at least according to our young whippersnapper)
and also, he likes to run into the river.
We need a fence to keep him safe
and more cash to make that happen.

I thought Scout was going to sleep by himself at night
so I could get some time when I wasn't being constantly adored me time
yet he ends up in our bedroom every night
because he just sleeps better that way
(otherwise, he feels abandoned?
or may be he's afraid of the dark?)

TL; DR: The puppy's kind of taking over my life

_


* pictorial footnote

I took this picture through the front door

--and perhaps that explains the beautifully surreal reflection on the closet door.

On the third day of puppy...

There was a lot of this

and this

and this

and then antibiotics for bronchitis from the Pet E.R.

(Where embarrassingly for both of us, a student who hadn't turned in her draft of the term paper yet works on the weekends--it felt like weird professor stalkery--Where *is* your paper? *When* will you turn in in?)
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For Amma

Mother, my diameter
I am yours, your radius.

Gambling into leaf too early
the crocuses are betrayed
frayed on drifts of winter,
sleet, and no daisies
at our feet

All weekend long,

Toronto's lonely songs

their Omni and just me

the same Hindi movies

this time I see alone

Bound to you. Only you.
But found by everyone.

_

Resurrection

With the weather steadying in the 50s, kids seemed to materialize right out of the ground. 

Like zombies except less menacing and so much nicer!

_