Having decided against the hearty chicken-noodle soup,
I consumed instead half an apple pie for breakfast
as being in character with the bent times,
the weather, and the recalcitrance of
of which I have an inordinate supply.
You may for example smell my neighbor’s sweet detergent
and inhale her lint in my dryer, while my washing machine
in wall-eyed revenge overflows into her ceiling
of its own free will, and I pray will not
infect her electrical system.
Outside, the garage-door, adamantly closed against the season,
refuses to open by its electric gizmo
unless I stand at the top of three flights of stairs
and aim the thing at my next-door neighbor’s window.
My camera ate its last film, along with precious photos
of my visiting grandchildren, and had to be relieved of both
by brute force. The clerk blamed the camera, but
I stood my ground, insisted on a brand-name film,
and the camera meekly submitted to its demands.
Being right was not credited to my account.
In my embarrassment I came home and poured
buttermilk in my coffee, which looked funny but tasted vaguely
of Tibet and other climes.
I cut one of my cat’s toenails too close and she bled;
luckily, a vet’s smart secretary knew this wasn’t fatal:
dip the paw in powdered cinnamon, she said,
and I done so. Now
I have cinnamon paw-prints on pants,
rug, and bed, but I am happy to see them
and will end this letter here before
my computer tries to bury it
in a sea of lost correspondence, wasted
emotions, hapless waving of hands.
The heart, like buttermilk, clots, too — did you know?