861
Magic Drizzle
It was early in the Bosnia war
When the traverse between Belgrade and Zagreb
Was long, tiring, and without joy.
Then a kind editor told me to
“miss” the connecting train
In Budapest,
check into a nice hotel,
Use the credit cards
And first thing
Take a long, long, long
Enjoyable shower, he said.
After that
Go to the hotel bar,
Have a cocktail,
Then go back and take another shower.
Make this one a classic hot, soapy, indulgent
Crawl into crisp, fresh hotel sheets
Be restored.
So I did
It worked
Thus started
my longest love affair,
That with a shower.
Many followed in many places.
There were the ones where I walked through
Frigid Kabul mornings to the shower room,
Where the water came and then pools of
It froze on the floor.
There were bucket showers in a variety
Of conflict areas.
Eye opening shock indeed, but
Restorative in their own way.
The fun showers with
A hose and my dogs.
The ones in my
Mornings, with a song and
A shave….and sometimes coffee.
In one way or another,
They all restored
And of course the outside shower
Preferably on the beach.
Where the water seems to splash more
The naturalness more true
The imagination more unbounded.
That is the closet to that inflection point shower
In Hungary.
I am sure there are a few more
Of those in my future.
Now, as tubes and drugs
Throw me off balance
I conjure up ways to position myself
just perfect
On that odd chair
In a sterile corner
And let that water find
Its paths to where I
remember.
How a one time
Simple thing
Became the special elixir
Thanks to a war
As I fight another one
To restore again.
They are all a far cry from
Budapest and Eva
(Snuck that one in on you)
Yet no matter where
Or in what manner
When that magic drizzle
Touches me,
The moment, the next moment can begin fully.
I guard it jealously
So my flow of my life
Once again becomes that crisp
Mountain stream
Warranty
Darkened hallways
Say many things
With various stages
Of life and death.
Behind each door
Quiet gasps,
Distinct prayers,
The loud silence of
Those pondering
Their next hour
The hallways hear
And share
But only to themselves
As they take me to
The solarium at night
Blue streak skies now
In the morning
A different tableau
From the
Usual palette.
I look but cannot
see my sky.
I wonder if my sky
Is looking back,
Straining to find me as well.
I fear it and my oasis think I just left.
Left without saying goodbye.
Seeing the empty, sad
Writing table
As confused as my dog was
Who, actually, pulled back to see
again
As she left me.
I guess it is a good sign that
I worry more about her
Than myself
Does the deck mourn?
The kitchen yearn for
The smells of creativity?
And my bed, the recipient
Of my secrets every night,
Who always makes me feel better
Just empty
All of
My stalwart companions
My lifeblood
Perhaps the skies,
Like the hallways,
Have their own communication
And they know and just
Wait for my return
The silent halls are powerful
And humbling.
The walls pulse with
Their own universe.
For they lead
To recovery,
To uncertainty,
And to the next place
I looked hard before
I left to come here
For my warranty
And could not find it
