Unused domestic items, relegated to the garage
clutter shelves, collecting dust
and spider webs, purpose misplaced.
Sticky wok. Pinwheel remains. A feral
Barbie with ratty hair. Bits of sidewalk
chalk, now just powdery remnants of our
lives as foster parents.
Old flowerpots and tattered cloth grocery bags.
Awards from a growing career.
Metal footlocker sheltering a Korean War era
Marine uniform and medals.
Bits and pieces of our lives. Our family
history. Us.
Focus is the locus
but mainly on the plain.
The plane in the sky
flies by with nary a glance
at the wide expanse below.
The pilot is focused on
instruments and altitude while
flight attendants are focused on
passengers with attitudes
and snacks, scarce as smiles.
I used to look forward to a flight
my belly tight with nerves at ascent
the pleasant drowsiness of the climbs.
But now, the chimes of seat belts on
creates a rock at my center.
An hour or more in the air and
careless folks cough into no mask;
the task of preventing illness
a willingness no one shares.
I feel a sniffle coming on.
The focus of the locus
is mainly on the plain
and that’s where I wish to be.
