Bad things are going to happen.
— Ellen Bass, “Relax”
Perennials return without a thought
and so do volunteers from maples
and japonica. Nature recruits
another nursery at no extra cost.
Lab tests uncover few deficiencies.
Extra pounds aggravate,
but knees hold up and pressure
sits almost where it ought to be.
The computer has worked with ease
for months and my clamshell –
one hinge broke – still performs
like a phone without accessories.
There’s no husband to complain
about or children to invest life in.
A fresh pot of coffee brews
and rain clouds hide the sun.
I’ll pop five thousand mgs
of vitamins and prescribe
myself to stay indoors to iron
of Samaritans, Fridays, grief,
times, advice, reviews,
movies, books, friends, food –
anything good antecedes.
Carolyn Martin is blissfully retired in Clackamas, Oregon, where she gardens, writes, and plays. Her poems and book reviews have appeared in journals throughout the US and UK, and her second collection, The Way a Woman Knows, was released in 2015 (www.thewayawomanknows). Since the only poem she wrote in high school was red-penciled “extremely maudlin,” she is amazed she has continued to write.