The Thirtieth Poem

 Judy, left, my mother, and my sister Margie, Christmas 1943.

The Thirtieth Poem October 23, 2022

This is the day my younger brother 

and his wife come to visit. They live

far to the north and are coming South.

I have no idea what that will be like

for them. Or for me. Hopefully we’ll

be friendly, but who can tell? They

haven’t said much for many years.

Twenty maybe? More? I’m going

to make lasagna, a kind of celebration.

Here I live, surrounded by books.

Some I’ve written, many I’ve cherished.

Everywhere I look, I see pictures,

paintings and books. My Russian

painter friends gave me their art

and their affection. Now their war

holds them captive. The photos,

mostly of children, when younger,

I cherish. Every now and then I

find one I’d forgotten about and

give it a place of honor. It looks

happy there. I have many good

memories. Outside, as the sky

lightens, I hear the peacocks. My

son is still sleeping, but they’ve

come over for the chicken feed

he throws for the birds. The peacocks

come faithfully. They keep watch

from our roof. I hear them honking

to Tim: “Time to get up. We’re

hungry.”