Bio stuff, yes, but how a poem
from resumed factoids and
thirty-minuted impressions?
Farm stuff, she says, dairy cows:
Where goes the milk, I wonder?
Where is Thorp, anyway?
Somewhere in Wisconsin, she say,
A Packer I fear, but now in Tonka sea
maybe a Viking she’d be.
Bio stuff. The answer for college is clear-water,
clearly caught by teaching,
elementary, it is, even kids no less.
But consulting takes over and business too,
training and teaching the old ones too.
Bio-stuff: but how do we find the one in the facts?
How do we connect in a run so short?
Well, warm it up with the family, the kids, their acts;
and volunteer the biking, the skiing sport.
Good.
We’re getting somewhere, beyond the bio,
when she mentions the community choir,
and excitedly we go back and forth
about Gabriel’s Pacem and Paradise,
and agree on Randall’s Alleluia:
Two favorites and now we are friends.
And when we get to the garden,
and the shared backyard chickens,
and the chance for fresh eggs,
we are fast friends.
Enough so that we can frankly talk
of complex kids, raised and taught,
who face Frost’s the road less traveled.
But is she, are we, really ready
to face our faces in a frame?
So soon, such a shame.
