Pheobe

Marian Glaser © Oct.-Nov. 2000

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Glasses and plates on the floor, covering the table.

Mike said he’d help clean when he insisted on inviting

these friends but lasted ten minutes

before the break that left him snoring on the sofa and me emptying

liquid dregs before loading our rapidly filling dish-washer.

Mike’s early flagging gives me time to relive this evening’s

heated but friendly debate and think my own thoughts.

I am unable to compete in rapid fire discussions.

My thoughts condense into words more slowly

than a cow busy turning grass to milk.

I heard so many voices, some using their high

level of education as authority, some their many years of living. Each

wanted a world in which every human is respected and all potentialities

fostered. What made it lively was the different roads

each thought would lead us there. And each was certain.

I’m sixty and still looking, unsure of its existence,

taking tentative steps blindly, hopefully. Sometimes seeing

someone climbing higher, making me wish to start over.

I can only take unimportant steps but that is me.

If I can fill one hungry belly while others

work to eradicate hunger, I’ll fill that belly while hoping

the plan will work.

My insecurity makes me grab at statements showing others

believe in doing small acts of kindness. A celebrities’ donation

of a few watercolours for a charity auction

may feed four hundred children breakfast for one year,

allowing them to concentrate. I wish I had fame enough to do that.

I may not know if today’s sad face used my spare change

on booze, bed or food but I do know that not giving

would leave me sleeplessly imagining the homeless.

Our guests would kindly point out my mistakes

and I would continue handing out coins

while feeling even more uncertain.