Abstract Comfort

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-
            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.