At the clinic near the hospital, waiting – waiting is an occupation without a procedure manual; no one questions that, but what will we do while we wait?
Parked on the top floor of the garage, Level G, round and round up we go, concrete and metal bugs. An ascent. Climb down the concrete stairs, metal railings, the descent. Sounds beckon like a bird’s bark.
Outside on a bench in the mid-morning sun, crow caw, something stuck in its craw, like crowbar pulling nails, “must be something wrong,” but here there are too many songs.
Lady on a sidewalk bench at the curb, vaping. No sooner she leaves, replaced by a guy with a real cigarette. The smoke drifts into the patio, as if the car exhaust wasn’t enough.
Kid screaming. Car horn. Ambulance, siren flaring. No connection, random. Street workers wearing dayglow orange and green togs. Traffic crawling. Automobiles seem so hyperbolic.
Glimpse of an unintended selfie in window across patio.
Inside, corner table, view of patio. Street workers swagger in, followed by a woman holding a vase of flowers in one hand and a veniti in the other, stops. I get up and open the door for her, and she comes in singing happy something to one of the street workers. They all ignore me, the door opener. The listener. Lunch hour.
More street workers. They’re scoring pizza and sandwiches from the clinic automatic deli. Back in the street, they eat at the open tailgate of a pickup truck. Traffic now passing happily.
Lady wearing a bright red sweatshirt stitched, “Be Kind.”
Without clarity, noise. Turn hearing aids to zero. Still hear elevator bells. Distant voices, echoes, machine whir.
The street outside the clinic rich with stately trees, dappled shade silver. Going for a walkabout.
Back to G, retrieve car, a bit of retail for coffee, bananas, bungee cords for patio sunshade. Retrieve emptied pickup day buckets from street. Hang new sunshade tarp. Lunch on banana, peanuts, can of Perrier water. Blue shadow under grape pergola to catch apples falling from above.
Side roads south to audiologist. Ears so full of wax could cover a swarm of surfboards. Ear canals viewed on screen. Fantastic Voyage.
Heat is on. Dodger game from Baltimore. Tuna salad dinner, mango sorbet. Another can of water. Mariners game from Seattle.
Sit out with guitar. Warm. Late early. Occasional breeze.
Patrizia Cavalli in mail: “My Poems Won’t Change the World.” Neither will these field notes, but something to help hold it together.
The Coming of the Toads 