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Tired, tired, tired. This is possibly the latest I’ve ever started poeming, and I’ve got nothing to go on, but I’ll get there, and fast, I hope. What happened was, I got home late because of a weird gas pump stymie, that caused a ten minute stop to turn into twenty, and then HP and I had to rehash a collaborative meeting we had today with teachers and therapists, that was the best meeting we’ve had in a while. It’s always like that, usually it’s him worrying about how much he talked, and about what he said, and me a little enraged at the guy who didn’t listen to the second half of what I said and then said exactly the same thing. This meeting was the same, but also really good and, I thought, productive. You all have jobs, so you know exactly the meeting of which I speak.

I have no idea what to poem tonight, either, but I know if I don’t get to it, I will pay tomorrow.

Here:

Collaboration

Here now, remember the word: Collaboration. Here we will co-labor the point. Here in the circle meeting we will carry it and nurture it with our own bodies, we will belabor our own points until we are sweating and panting, just to feel like a child heard. This is how we birth the ideas, just like that, with the men, at least where I work, grunting and exclaiming their own into the circle, and us there, asking permission for our own brilliance. This is the collaboration, that for some requires surrender, and for some, assertion, but there are the fruits standing astage, and somehow we made that.  Those are the children up there, and we made that.

Here’s where it get’s tricky: The young have no need of us, in their labors, they need no co-conspirators in the soul’s narration, our assistance is not required nor wanted. I do it myself takes only two years living to learn, and thrice or eight to unlearn, or, when is it that we learn to rest our heads on close and safer shoulders, and don’t we all have so terribly far to go?

***********

Damn it, another poem that ends in question. Whatever Wednesday. “Astage” is not a word. I know that. But it should be. And I know that this is a very work-specific poem, but I can’t do anything about that now. Time for sleep. Weary Wednesday!

 

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