02/23/2021 0 By BuddyCushman

(Last week’s weather.)

A Poem

The wife sometimes frets, suffers, fleeing from joy. I take coleman-stove coffee, surely of the wife’s skill, none of mine, to the reading recliner, ancient appearance, bought well-used upon entry to these Northwests (now lit here only by day) –

I feel wild with joy, oh, dear sweet coffee and – think of it – not a racist in sight, giddy with awareness of blessings, all the while filled with magical thinking, here it comes, here comes the electricity. But not to be.

I’ll fill my non-electric life with charcoal drawings, daylight stories, and coffees the wife’s willing ways work (where the do do sends the don’t don’t on its shruggy out-a-here).

Hangout with my streaming-scuttled kid, is there juice in the laptop for Disney?, a stroll then through these slushed streets, will they sound a city horn, I wonder, announce an electric return?

Will I take less for granted tomorrow, even later today, my Tuesday, in this wilderness of darker, colder, now…….though the wife and me do note among each other this norm of the homeless, why we make donations in hopes they help. Some.

For me, the rare carbohydrate left in this past-70 body shoo’d off by celebrating bloodstream coleman caffeine, oh, thank you blessed wife – though there’s something wrong with my left foot (months now) even before the lights went out,

I’ll give my books, stack after stack, another hug, it’s my way, and we’ll own these daylight hours blessed.

Sure to compliment the coffee chef – keeping hope alive.