Caught

With my sandal in the summer,
and my Mary Jane in the fall.

As a mother mama writer with sun drenched skin who makes time.

Who makes sand castles and cupcakes.



Who makes loons out of pigeons.

Who makes observations around the edges.

Who makes changes when it isn't working.

Who makes space for him to tell me when he just can't handle it.

Caught with a list of to-do's to do today for tomorrow
when it all begins again
And a summer to laze around in-in my head instead.

Caught myself last night resenting what he just couldn't handle
as I looked around the room of eight women gathered
for our End of Summer Salon
my poets, my writers, my playwrights, musicians, my artists, my friends-
my son there too, next to the other poems in my lap.
My little muse, my constant rough draft,
witnessing why the Moon is Always Female*
in a four and a half year old way.

Caught a holy mackerel on Monhegan, he told his teacher this morning.
Sam caught a big fish in the water his little brother added.

*The Moon is Always Female by Marge Piercy read at the Salon/Book Launch last night