Show & Tell
A poet should tell the truth, or become a novelist.
I prefer true stories. Most fiction doesn’t interest me.
You can know only what I show and tell you (the beauty
of the internet). My lengthy narrative about my Medicare
debacle, my rude exasperated introduction to the system
(I abhor bureaucracy) left out the part where I came un-
glued and threw the phone across the room and it bounced
off our brand new cabinet and left a mark. No one enjoys
reporting moral failures. It’s embarrassing, so we pretend.
Pure and innocent, snow sparkling white, we shove the
dark crust in the corner of a closet.
I was immediately sorry, but I’d felt the slow welling; deep
buckets of patience drawn until the rope snapped, and
the drawing up was over.
The cabinets were innocent. The cabinets aren’t real but
I was witness to the work, the old out the new in, a most
fascinating renovation, a marvel of beauty and I wrecked
their perfection in a moment I can’t take back (better the
cabinet than the “Why do you expect I care?” representa-
tive (they really should change their name: Medi-I-Don’t-
Get-Paid-Enough-To-Care).
The Queen of Quirk springs into action, trying to cover up
the white marks on the silky, shiny grey and everything
rubs off, until she stumbles upon the seldom used grey
eye shadow in the medicine cabinet (no one knows why
its been in there 30 years. Waiting to be discovered?) Turns
out it worked well. No one would know but me, (and Sean,
who put the cabinets in).
I still feel bad I lost control. If the phone had to be thrown
(clearly it did), just a few feet more, hurl it on the sofa but
who stays rational in anger?
Anger is a beast. A devourer of integrity but it can be
harnessed and it can motivate; get you on your feet
so you can finish what you started. Love can forgive
these temporary lapses. Can you?
LBM 1/26/2023
