Poem: Cutting Lettuce

Cutting Lettuce: June 27, 2012

Today is my wife’s and son’s birthday.
Twenty-three years ago, when my wife was thirty-three,
the doctor lifted him from her and proclaimed,
“What a little porker!” “Hey,” I objected,
“that’s my son you’re talkin’ about!”
“George!” the other doctor scolded.

My wife left for work at ten this morning.
My son at eleven to go surfing with a friend.
Me, a year removed from locking my office door
for the last time, wrote, practiced saxophone,
cut lettuce on the garden terrace
in our compact backyard.

Doves drank from the birdbath
and pecked seeds from the feeder.
Our gray yard cat, Otis, flowed
down the terrace levels like water.
All the while, a perfect blue sky
and warm sun lovingly bathed
my creaky bones and achy joints.

Later we will eat cake and celebrate.
What will the next year bring?
I don’t need or want to know.
I think I’ll be here for now.