Impulse Control

I baked a cake.
Walking by some hours later,
An interesting indentation
Had shown up, shaped
Remarkably like a finger
Of a six-year-old
Without impulse control.

This has never happened,
In dozens of cakes baked.
And it made me happy,
In a complicated way,
That a son cast aside caution
And had a moment when
He tasted what he wanted.

Do younger children grow up spoiled
Because their parents grow weary?
Or do the parents, as they age,
Start to see such a failing not as
Moral decay that must be eradicated,
But as a charming memory
Worthy of encomium?

Should I think of this as
Adam and Eve temptation, or
Carpe diem?

Impoverished

To celebrate some friends,
We had a dinner party,
A gathering that may soon be
A lost art, as the practice of years
Goes into any such meal:
Recipes tested and skills honed,
Kitchen equipment acquired,
Time to prepare and clean.
Who has these luxuries these days?

I read a book that claimed a third of people
In the United States struggle to get by.

For these people, convenience food
Is truly convenient,
As perhaps they have no oven,
No pots and pans,
No time to sleep,
Just a ceaseless toil
With some temporary hook-ups.

How glamorous, then,
My simple dinner party,
With bread, salad, applesauce, lasagna, cake.
How wealthy we are.

And to consider the lack, not just of food,
But of friends:

How many truly impoverished.

Ice Cube

The baby goes to Abraham
All day long,
And pats his arm
And communicates
Through nonsensical syllable.

Abraham, knowing,
Drops everything,
Runs to the freezer,
Gets an ice cube,
And runs back
So the baby can be
Satisfied.

Before

I stand at my sink,
Calmly washing dishes
In the hours before a party
And I wonder who will come, when,
And if the Spirit will come in power,
If the energy and hope expended will be
Poured out as a drink offering, sacrificial.

A Real Person

Caleb doesn’t yet know precisely how to use
Utensils.
Sometimes he scoops stew with the spoon
Into his hand and from his hand into his mouth.
He ends messy, but satisfied,
And climbs down to find me,
And leads me to the counter, the sink,
And reaches up so I know to lift him
And wash one soft, chubby hand
And then the other, and wipe his face.

Then he climbs up and gets his spoon,
Climbs down to the dishwasher so I open it
And he can put in his spoon.

He climbs up to get his bowl—not always empty—
And brings it to the dishwasher, too.
Then he opens the cupboard and gets
The box of soap,
And if we don’t run the dishwasher,
He grows
Distraught.

We will teach him about
Conservation
Tomorrow.

Sometimes III

Sometimes I listen
To yet another political conversation,
Which seems to me the height of
Pointlessness
(Because what changes can you really make)
And I wonder
Who is this person I married?
And I get a little
Annoyed.

Then I read a description of
Five things abusive men do
Or six ways to see if you are with a manipulator,

Or I remember my friend whose spouse
Sold their house
Without telling her,

My friend whose husband forged her signature
On a massive loan
Without telling her,

The one I know who married a
Psychopath, or just the basic
Narcissist,

And I realize that a little talk about
Politics is not much,
And I give my husband a hug
For no real reason,
For every reason.

Sometimes II

Sometimes I look at my unmarried friends
And think,

When you are sick, you are just sick,
And no one makes demands on you.

And when you go to bed, you can just sleep,
And no one comes in the middle of the night
To steal your covers and kick your face.

And when you make food, you make enough for one,
And that is enough,
And it will last as long as it will,

And you have only one stomach
Demanding more,
Not seven.

Not that I would trade
(Most of the time).