Homage to Robert Frost

Two hiking trails diverged in a summer wood,
both color-coded.

The one labeled green was one mile long of
gentle terrain

The one labeled red was three miles long of
rough terrain.

I took the green, more traveled trail

Because it allowed a continual view
of the parking lot

And that sense of security
made all the difference.

(Advice to Young Poets)

A title that tantalizes

The state of not getting the object of one’s affection.
The use of such active verbs as anticipating, longing, yearning, aching

Colors such as vermillion. Textures such as silk and velvet, but no synthetics.

The omission of such descriptive words as frumpy, forgetful, and fidgety.

Ennui, or world-weariness, is sexy, especially accompanied
by a black turtleneck sweater and coffee

But boredom is not.

The hint of a smile, the subtle suggestion, the direct gaze, the sidelong glance

Meter that corresponds to the beat of a distant drum

Food descriptions are sexy, especially those that include butter
and the word “slathered.”
As in, butter slathered on French bread or a baked potato, buttered popcorn,
and lobster tail with drawn butter.

Images of trimmings: pom-poms, tassels, frosting, fastenings, unfastenings

Pacing: slow and steady or fast and furious

An attitude of nonchalance

The inclusion of certain fruits: strawberries, grapes, cherries, but not raisins.

Juxtapositions are sexy, as in soft vs. rough; sweet vs. edgy.
Silk is lovely, but silk against tweed is sexy. Lace is charming, but lace against
leather is fetching.

The mention of chocolate, especially dark chocolate

Crescendos, multiple crescendos.

1
The Preparation

Mother’s Date Nut Torte was a fruitcake or bread,
rather than a torte.
That misnomer foreshadowed other duplicitous aspects
regarding the “dessert.”

Mom worked like a warrior to prepare the dish, a recipe
that predated food processors.
She peeled and pitted dozens of dates into a large bowl
resting on her lap.
Then she placed the waxy blobs on the table and with a
hammer pounded them into submission.
Next she sliced, diced, and chopped them.
Dry ingredients, eggs, spices, and nuts were added, but the
dates, like whittled bark, held center stage.

2
I loathed Mother’s Date Nut Torte.

I disliked the “torte’s” waxiness, its dark brown color,
and its strange aroma
And my distaste wasn’t due to being a picky eater.
Years of exposure and an occasional foray into consumption
only intensified my aversion.

I thoroughly appreciated, though, the effort that went into
Mom’s dish.
The whole family did.
“The Date Nut Torte is amazing, but it’s so much work!”
they hopelessly hinted.
Mother beamed.
Meanwhile, no one asked for seconds.

You would assume that a dollop of whipped cream would
have mitigated the so-called torte.
But the sweet cream cowered and withered in the shadow
of the offending mass.

3
Lingering Questions

Why didn’t anyone tell Mom the truth about her Date Nut Torte?
Why did we go along with the charade?
Why does the Date Nut Torte hold such enduring significance?

And finally,
Why do I miss it so much?

Most mornings, my husband and I
have breakfast together

Most mornings, we both have the breakfast cereal,
Shredded Wheat

Two to three months can go by eating Shredded Wheat
every morning.

Then, unexpectedly, we switch to Corn Flakes
or Rice Krispies.

But that doesn’t last, and invariably,
we return to Shredded Wheat.

We both prefer the large biscuit-size Shredded Wheat
over the mini variety.

The large biscuits provide a greater surface area
for absorbing milk.

And speaking of milk, we both loathe
skim milk–regular 2% for us.

We both agree that Shredded Wheat isn’t that attractive
a cereal–the biscuits resemble little packets of hay.

But we don’t care.

Some say a long marriage is built on trust and respect.

Ours—has at its core—Shredded Wheat.

Snatches of sunlight

A rock slide of memories

A boulder-sized anecdote

An itch, a twitch, a shiver, a pang

A crackdown

A crack-up

Footprints leading somewhere

Boiling cauldrons

A ransacked storage unit

Subterranean caverns and blue lagoons

a spark, a lark, a romp, a spree

Detritus-filled flood waters

The back of the refrigerator

Loose change

A glimmer, a glimpse, a glance, a sigh

Word gardens

Stillborn dreams

I share Lydia, my muse, with several other writers.
She’s a time-shared muse.

I don’t like the arrangement,
But, I accept that she’s in demand and
I have little choice in the matter.

Occasionally, she talks about her other clients–
how one of them is getting his first novel published and
how another was named poet laureate of her home town.

But do I care?

I don’t give one scrap of paper, one digital.com
about her other clients.
I want Lydia all to myself.

When Lydia does give me her full attention,
I’m so inspired, I put Honore de Balzac’s manic
work process to shame.

When she’s on leave,
my ideas and thought snippets vanish,
replaced by cliches and tired tropes.

If I bring that problem up to her, she says,
“We need to talk about that.”
But we never do.

When I mention co-dependency issues,
She laughs and jokes,
“Maybe all you need is for me to sprinkle fairy dust
on you, the kind that clings indefinitely.”

“Yes!” I say. “Yes! Yes! Please do that!”

“You’re my favorite client,” she says, putting her
arms around me.

While her filmy layers of chiffon envelop me,
I feel momentarily warm inside and protected.

But do I believe her?

Not for one muse minute.

(Based on an actual conversation)

“I’m just a typical Uber driver,”
said the man driving me downtown in a late model Infinity sedan.

“I retired, got bored, took up driving… but
there’s more … more to my story.

I was a Chicago police detective for twenty-five years.
I loved my job.
Loved putting a suit on every day and going to work.
Enjoyed solving crimes.

But then…

I got shot in the face and my wife said,
“Enough!
You have to retire.
We’ll have enough income—
with your pension and my job with the FBI.”

I recovered, but I couldn’t stand hanging around the house,
so that’s when I took up something else.

“Uber driving?” I asked.

“No, bounty hunting.
I guess law enforcement is in my blood.”

My close friend Linda died Sunday on Mother’s Day.

The funeral was yesterday, Tuesday.

My grief has taken the form of bewilderment and confusion.

Some fear, too.

Bewilderment because I want to talk about her funeral—with her.

And I can’t believe I can’t.

We’d have so much to catch up on—so many details—an epic recap.

For example: I knew she was smart, but I didn’t know

she was valedictorian of her high school class!

As for fear…

It was quite a distance from my parked car to the burial site.

The grass was high and the wind whipped my hair across my face.

It was difficult to avoid stepping on gravestones.

If that indiscretion means bad luck, I’m doomed.

I stepped on at least three gravestones—maybe five—probably eight.

If I told Linda, she’d say, “Don’t worry about that.”

That’s what I mean about details.

And then, I want to tell her how the high winds

shook the supports of our mourner’s tent.

And there was a flapping of canvas, and creaking and clanging

as the structure strained to stay erect.

And I want to tell her that Nature made a resounding racket in her honor.

And Linda would say, “I don’t need any fuss.”

And I would reply, “I know.

But the high winds thought otherwise.”

For my eighth birthday,
my mom gave me a Miss Curity Nurse Doll.

With her a starched white uniform and cap, and
her short hair, the eighteen-inch doll exuded
professionalism.

I estimated she was old,
around thirty or forty human years.

To my mother’s dismay, I wouldn’t take a break
from my books and crayons to play with the doll.

“Don’t you like her?” she asked while holding her
little nurse doll hands.

How could I tell her that I didn’t know what to
do with a nurse doll?

Undressing her seemed highly inappropriate.

Pretending she could heal me was pointless.

Unlike my mother, who was a devout hypochondriac,
I felt invulnerable.

I leaned Miss Curity against the wall where she
stood erect, propped up by an attached metal rod
down her backside.

And there, she gathered dust.

Along with Mom’s previous gifts: a toy ironing
board and iron, and an unused plastic dollhouse.

Glued to my live video cam stream,
I wait for April to give birth

Oliver, the expectant father, looks on nearby.

April paces

“Let me be!” she motions.

She stops

Stands absolutely still.

Contractions ripple across her belly

She crouches, and the neonate, as if on
a water slide, descends.

Thud! After a four-foot drop, the newly-born
lands on the floor

motionless.

Concern and alarm grip us all.

April prods and pokes, but her efforts to rouse
the still one do not help

April cries out in frustration

And then!

A first breath, a second, a slight movement…

The little one stirs with life.

April lifts her towering neck high and swings
it back and forth in glee.

Her baby giraffe is alive!

The wildlife people celebrate the newest addition
to the “Save the Giraffes Project.”

And the baby giraffe— a wobbly six footer–
is given the name Kate.