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-

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.