When he arrives
with red
roses
[so common
and impersonal]
not orchids
or daisies,
I seek comfort.
Or when she comes with me,
only
because I begged,
["His
friend is great,"
I told
her.]
and has
more fun
with her
date,
dancing and
laughing,
than I do
with the
double left-footed man
sharing my
side of the booth
at the pub
on the corner,
I seek comfort.
Or when everything is wrong
even when
all is right,
and the
tears come
for no
obvious reason-
Mittelschmerz-
as the old German
woman,
with all
the cats,
[my sweet
mother]
calls it,
I seek comfort.
I find it-
In the room I've known since childhood
lying back
in the bed
that has
felt my weight
so many
times in the past.
In an array of lines above me,
light
pouring out between the panels
of my old
reading lamp,
creating a
colorless Picasso
for me
alone
to
experience.
The scribbles
[long crooked fingers]
draw me up
to where
roses fade into daisies
[such
simple white and yellow petals]
and a podiatrist,
a small
creature with glasses
that
magnify his curious eyes
[tiny
little frog man]
stands at
the entrance of the pub
covering
the words
[please
wait to be seated]
on the
welcome sign,
offering
free foot transplants.
The corners of my mouth rise
into a satisfied grin
as I find
my abstract comfort.
