You sit in your old age
Promiscuous of mind, making the sound of knocking
Or is it scratching leagues under the sea like a tourist
Looking for Titanic imploding.
Some include your relevant details for The New Yorker or The Atlantic.

I would if I could feed you bosoms, like me,
Piecing together intentions, driving nails, turning screws,
Talking more as intent, impulse to move or influence another,
Inform, communicate – you know what language is –
Like an extension of the body, color narrative for the mind,
A soothe in retrospect, justification, commentary of feeling and
Her drive, her motor and motivation in action
Even if it is contemplation compensating
Or truly stretching some bind of our rubber state.

So beautiful really, so supple she shades purpose,
High thoughts or purpose in the midst of my day,
Able to listen and think at the same time.
Able and different – tired, maybe using a wheelchair,
Maybe honing in on the argument of saving us from ourselves.

“What is the matter” we say in English so succinctly.
What takes place.
The Saints start talking about love and existence and philosophy.
Opened up from pelvis to hip and back through sciatica and
Down the leg to curling, much abused toes – “You know”
We say a lot to push our contemporaries along.
They must have bodies, at least one kidney
And the drone of eons out the window,
A striving to work the land to a more productive bloom.
Visit my mother again.
She likes to read or have me read to her,
The more abstracted from the pull of Venice or Europe or Princeton –
The better, but do follow along- track us right here to the present
With chickens and dog and grass.
Such a nice breeze you see
And wish it could be for our nation.

By Rolf Stavig
7/04/2023