Himself: Swam, job hunted, he’s communicating so lovingly about my latest disasters, walking.
Herself: Swam, packed lunch, picked up Ganna, read and took Ganna home early. She’s not sleeping. Looked for greenish khaki slacks everywhere to replace my much too small chocolate chip cookie favorites. Walked a bit in the mall. Aaron got his orders for Afganistan.
Reading: “The Only Way to Cross.”
Gratitude: G, the ladies of the Poetry Group, and Macy’s who had the only greenish Khakis in town.
They have taken me under their wings and cajoled my slow brain into working in a new way. Today I brought two weaker works to read, and they cheered me on while hacking and slashing letters, words, and even hyphens into some semblance of meaning. I’ve gained so much by knowing these ladies….a whole new world.
The hot winds of fall blow
Schiaparelli like in their passion
scarring the land pink with their heat
piling the warmth of the day
into Hartnell like towers of profusion
our heated confusions
resemble Gibb’s romantic
and we melt.
into our Rudy Gernreich topless
swimsuits over our own
our own muffin tops,
only to find ourselves naked,
bare, as summer ends, and we are
molded into facades of
militaristic Guy Laroche shapes
wrapped in Leger elastics
caught by Lloyd’s shimmering floats
or Betty Jackson’s joyous layers
finally finding ourselves reflected in
Paco Rabanne’s sharp plastics.
When winter arrives
we ask ourselves,
does anybody make a plain cloth coat?