Sandy Works at Denny's Because She Has No Other Choice

How do you reach into marrow through the bone?
After too many acts all the same in succession,
the smile begins to fade. I stop caring about your history,
your scars, your mysteries and rewards,
whether justice can touch you, or not.

I forget my own history--all I am is two feet and whirring fingers,
a hinge on a door opened too many times today
as the sunlight fades.
Eight hours become ten and I surrender to the inevitable
lack.
The drain has been open for too long
and I begin to doubt that I will refill by tomorrow.

In the morning, the smile cannot be so sharp,
the, "hi, how are you?" may become rushed.
This will be the daily grind, down, down
to the grit and marrow.
It will happen slowly.

My singing turned to
humming turned to
inner song turned to
inner thought turned to
quiet loathing. And the marrow will begin to show.

After a few months or years you will be accustomed to
seeing me raw.
I will be the woman of whom you say,
"if only she took better care of herself," and,
"she is like that to everyone."

Two Things to Say

1. I believe that allergies of a severe sort have come to visit. I am sneezing my way through life.

2. Here is a poem I found called "Fog," by Carl Sandburg



The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Melange

I just finished Their Eyes Were Watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston. I find that it all blends together. There is no separation between my own thoughts, the book, the music I am listening to (David Crowder, Intoxicating); the people I saw this morning (Joella, Jodi, Becky); the conversations I had, my aspirations, and disappointments. They all blend together.

Imagine, a rabid dog sitting on the back of a swimming cow, discussing death and God's purpose for life, to the sound of a twanging guitar; in the sky, a ribbon of possibilities written on a banner, waving behind a light airplane.

I don't know if it's mentally sound that characters in books should become so real to me. I don't know if it's a mark of soundness that conversations should be repeated verbatim (I really think so...) in my mind. Maybe I've been getting too much sleep. Or not enough.

Thoughts on Justice

“Justice is what love looks like in public.”
Dr. Cornel West

Sometimes, living in the United States of America means that very little debris appears in the streets to be wracked about by cars and gusts of wind. Living in the United States of America means that people generally feel some obligation to follow traffic laws. Living in the United States of America means that if you are pulled over by the police, you will probably receive a ticket for the violation you have committed.

Of course, some judges may be bribed. And the Whitehouse itself is full of lobbyists with pockets full of cash. Some cities are run by gangs. Some towns are run by one family.

Justice is not everywhere.

But where we see it, we must applaud. We must applaud justice loudest when we are its recipient: a speeding ticket, an honest witness, a fair judge; a refusal to hire even though we have an uncle there.

Where I'm From

(This was an assignment based on the poem by George Ella Lyon: http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html )

I am from Waynesboro,
Pennsylvania,
the United States
of America,
the Central Mountains,
specifically the valleys.
I am rural
but not boots
raised on a farm.
Instead, sneakers
worn down from sidewalks.

I am from Nancy and Ralph,
Helen and David.
Babysitters who were family,
and family who were strangers.
From teachers and nurses

people trying to be faithful.
From church seats to pews to folding chairs--
One Jesus.

I am from early mornings and toaster breakfasts,
mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade chicken soup,
leftovers, and no recipes. Mismatched dishes, a
cluttered kitchen table, a TV on in another room.

I am from the cinema in winter, park in summer--
sunburns and freckles, chapped lips and runny noses--
snowfights and long walks to school with a delay.

I am from the sunset, quiet evening, iced tea,
prowling cat in the bushes of a fading day.
From the back porch overlooking a slanted field;
the field filled up,
now it's Crown Circle.

I am from tears and hope,
shouting and laughter,
trial and defense,
discord and peace.