When you live in a pandemic
that gets worse when you so need
it to get better, to go away, in fact,
ordinary problems get magnified,
distorted, all out of proportion.
A sick dog will keep you awake
or even some especially good
news like finding a publisher
asking for the writings of a woman
who is “courageous, innovative,
definition-defying.” You wonder:
how did he know what you were
like? You queried him immediately
in the pre-dawn quiet house, but
no response came yet to this
magic call for poems, and you
lay awake wondering how long
it would take him. Of course,
your expectation was unreasonable.
But you’re eighty-three and
already your options in this life–
your only life–are fewer each year.
You walk to improve your ability
to walk. You proof old manuscripts
which you want to enter the world
of published books. You search
for publishers and publish some
books yourself. You’ve always been
yourself and no other. It was easy
to ignore you since you weren’t
seeking fame, but only readers.
You reached them not as mobs but
as thoughtful individuals. Fame can
wait. I don’t need to be alive when
it comes, but the books have to be
out there somewhere readers can
pick them up and enter my created
world of peace, love, and sanity.