A GOOD DAY

Today started off with prayer with friends.  Then breakfast with my wife, at a new place.  Pulling weeds in the garden, transplanting a poblano pepper, and the last starts of parsley, cilantro and two plants unknown. It felt good to sweat in the hot sun.  It felt better to take a shower and then a nap, with ice on my back.  Stretching, reading. Wishing friends “Feliz Cumpleaños” on Face Book.

Then we went to the Riverview Theater—the best in Minneapolis.  Best popcorn and cheapest.  Art Deco style.  We didn’t go to see a movie, but the World Cup match between the US and France.  I was one of the few Viva la France fans there, amidst legions of Los Americanos.  It was a good game, too loud at times.  But the US fans did smile when I stood up and cheered the French goal.

On the way out, I stopped in a long line for the bathroom.  Two boys struck up a conversation with me. The first asked me “Were you for France?”!  Did it show somehow?  He said that he was for France too.  His friend liked both sides (can’t lose then).  We talked about the U11 league they played in, what kind of strategy worked best in the game, how far they had to travel.

Then home.  Cleaned my room. Read a couple things in The New Yorker.  Took my afternoon nap.  I wanted to sit on a folding chair under our little gingko tree to work on some poems, but the neighbor’s mowing his lawn, and my allergies are screaming.  So here I am, on the porch, smelling the grass and trying not to sneeze.

I often write—when I write!—about challenging and poignant themes.  But today, I just want to thank God for this day—maybe not the greatest day (Quel dommage les Bleus ont perdu!) but a good day. A blessed day.

Here’s a poem from my book that I read at the No Mic Open Mic last night, about a good day a ways back:

KASHAPIWI

On a split rock lies a split fish,

coaxed out of the deep by the dancing

of Stephen’s finger.  He scrapes her scales

with his teeth as he prays to her spirit.

The sun splits a whisper of birch,

speaks the season to their hearts.

They bleed a wordless yes.  The wind

pulls a thin dance of breath along the silent lake.

Thomas folds the tent like he’s making

a paper airplane, floats it into the canoe.

I stir the coffee in its aluminum prison,

wait with the hot butter for the fish.

The fog of our breath is all we speak.

It is morning, September,

and there is nothing left unopened.

We have slept deep, deep in the earth,

and now we rise to eat and to journey on.

As the fish grows into our flesh,

we glide onto water in our sea-going soul,

and head for home, for parts unknown.

Be beauty.  Be justice.  Have a good day (seriously!)

Patrick