Poetry: Between My Toes

I'm on my way out the door, so I'm going to post this poem # 11 for the poetry pledge drive quickly. I hate to keep apologizing for each of my poetry posts, but I am genuinely not happy with this one. If I weren't in such a hurry, I'd spend a little more time with it before posting. Thankfully, I'm getting a little more used to letting go with these though, which I suppose is part of the purpose of making yourself participate in one of these sorts of things - you're forced to give the perfectionism a rest and just get writing.

Between My Toes

We were told not to
Let the sprinkler sit
In the same spot to long,
Or the grass would get
Too slippery. But we were
Kids, and kids don't

Listen when the sun is out.
My bathing suit was on, and
The thought of the first cold touch
Of water held me

Suspended.

I focused on the water
Undulating in the air, my eyes
Half-closed anticipating the jolt
Of freezing streams
On my little limbs, not the grass

Wet between my toes. When I landed
On the sprinkler, the plastic snapped
In half. Opened end to end, my foot
Had caught one
Of the sharp edges.

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Thankful

In the L.A. area today, a freight train collided with a commuter train - the commuter train my husband often takes to and from work. Last night, he talked about taking it today. When it came time to go to work this morning, though, he decided to drive instead because he wanted to run an errand at lunch.

It's difficult to feel happy when I know other spouses and loved ones won't get the same relieving news today (at the time of this post, there are an estimated 70 injured and 10-15 dead). Instead of a reassuring call from their spouse, they may be be getting a phone call or a knock on the door from the authorities with bad news.

But I am happy. Deliriously happy. And I'd rather live with the guilt of being happy while others are grieving than live with the alternative outcome.

He just returned home a little while ago, greeted by a longer, tighter hug and more fervent kisses from me than usual. He's home and safe, and our take-out from the Thai restaurant down the street is on its way, just like any other normal, boring Friday night. And, later, when his snoring wakes me up in the middle of the night, as it does every night, instead of grumbling to myself and shaking him a little to get him to stop, I'm going to scoot closer and spoon him and nestle my head in his back, between his shoulders, and remember how lucky I am.