That Time

My wife and I have come to that time in life

where we fill each day with failure

to waste three hours behind the wheel,

to ignite a bloody little war over belief

in a little of this,

as opposed to a little of that,

to invest our dwindling heartbeats concocting

an elaborate enterprise designed

to pick a million pockets. Who has time

for such nonsense, when attention is due

the first line of a poem, which next must spill over

into Tuesday? I went for a run with the dog

and the dog went for a run with me.

My lover went down to the closed-off

streets where she could consort with drug

dealers, of cabbage and Romanesco and dill,

oysters and bread baked just over the hill,

peppers and ruddy red radicchio, endive

and frisee, a vegetal pouf to match

the vendor’s wind-wrestled hair. Nearby,

a stoic young man sat in a chair,

behind his white-board-markered sign

5 minute

sharing/venting

sesh

listening without comment as a stranger

shared what he had paid to share,

no less an exchange (except in tip-jar cost)

to what he might have had indoors

with an indifferent therapist and his mortgage.

My wife and I embraced for lunch

where she reminded me

of unpicked lemons spied driving by

congested on a stranger’s tree

and so we went to find and ask its owner

if she had intent at all for them, or if we could unburden

her of some, but before we could take that on,

we needed containers, and nasal wipes,

and tissue for the other end, if truth be told.

The lemon lady shared her name

and fruit and details of her life

enough in our brief time to birth a friend.

Later, we took the dog down to the beach

and watched him dance at our feet,

his way of imploring us

to throw the stick,

throw the stick,

throw the goddamned stick

into the surf, in pursuit of which he hurled

himself time after time, nothing in the world

more fun or pressing than that moment of him

giving us his best and wildly honest

and most abundant blessing.

As light faded, sleep sat nodding

with us over dinner,

his head heavier than mine

but as he often does, failed once again

(Can you believe the gall?)

to help us with one single dirty dish.

Stuart Watson has been honored for elevating journalism with poetry at newspapers in Anchorage, Seattle and Portland. He has poetry in the Columbus Day Storm, Horror Sleaze Trash, Abandoned Mine, Rattle, Al Dente Journal and more. Explore links at chiselchips.com. He lives in Hood River, Oregon, with his wife and their current "best" dog, hiking, windsurfing and cooking.