Yard Sale

                             I have been instructed to play,

                             for my own good—accountably and
                             without reservation.  “What does it mean,
                             to play?” I ask, and reach for my instincts.
                             I cannot know where the dog will chase
                             his own obsessions.  I do not know
                             how to lollygag with cats whose
                             expertise, it seems, lies always in
                             knowing what to do.  My children come
                             and go, like groceries, and the scent of them
                             lingers after meals.  I see them still
                             in the cupboards, in the yard where they
                             used to play, in the neighborhood now
                             older and more serene.  College had its
                             invitations, the shenanigans, the periodic
                             flicker of candles.  I have books and books
                             of music now, black starlings pecking in the
                             yard, and warning lights blinking about my car. 
                             I have rows and rows of hats and many
                             plates to wash, and knees folded like a
                             mountain under the blankets, scaled down
                             to the size of pleasant dreams.  I can feel
                             the oceans tug from across the world and
                             wonder if I’m part of the tides, if I’m
                             supposed to be somewhere else, or if the clouds
                             are just another row of patients waiting for the
                             next appointment.  Perhaps if I still had
                             a favorite toy, a mason hammer, a collection of
                             screens, I could use them to pan for gold.
                             I could crouch all day against the river current,
                             I could sing if I could sing.  At least I still have
                             fingers to scoop the earth, to examine stones,
                             to scoop frosting from the jar for a cake not made
                             to celebrate someone who is no longer here. 
                             To play, I must return to the shore where
                             I was made.  I must bathe in the water there,
                             huddled and naked and curled in the warmth
                             where I first learned to unfold.  There, new
                             rain will laugh on me and wash off all concerns.