Fifteen

It was only 15
degrees
but she was singing
with her headphones
and fuschia lipstick
strolling and singing in the fresh morning light
and smiling. Did I mention smiling? She had the biggest smile.
Gripping the steering wheel in my heated car
I was a freezing well
bracing for the clash in my deepest coldest caverns
echoes of ringing medieval weaponry
as I did battle with my patience
in the December frost.
Upstairs that morning
insisting that my 2-year-old wear pants
-arguing with toddler logic
is never a good idea-
I stumbled on my being, struggling to breathe, in the tight fisted deathgrip
of disappointment
for the promotion on hold,
the aloneness of soul,
the spiritual question of my impact and purpose
suddenly pressing
(not succeeding as either an artist or a corporate agent)
and then as I dragged our daily gear and attitudes, late, again,
out to the car for yet a fifth day in the workweek (how can it possibly be?)
I remembered that what you believe is what manifests
and I visualized an intersection without traffic and a carride without crying and screaming
and then I turned the corner into sunlight
and there she was
walking down the sidewalk singing
almost sashaying down the sidewalk
who knows where she was going?
Broad smile stretched across her face
feeling joy
radiating joy
and I remembered who I really was for a minute
as I breezed through an intersection without traffic
in a carride without crying.
I held the vision.
I keep holding the vision.
Thinking of what has made me laugh lately
and where I see my true self, who flowers on joy-despite-circumstances.
Cold Jamaicans shivering as they change the oil in my car
"I can't complain.....'cause when I do complain no one listens," he jokes to my innocuous greeting
My daughter waking up at school to a slow, instrumental version of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" -it's just funny
Is it a xylophone?
Out on a solo date in Waltham, I get a white russian in a bar
and take myself to a vintage clothing store
and I really take some time to wonder
about people who put goggles on mannequins
Is it just me? Do I keep running into them? Or is it a real phenomenon?
Half an hour to write this poem
in a short and frantic day
but I can't take frantic
and there's joy in poems
at least in poems
with cold, funny Jamaicans
and U2 instrumental
and singing singing women
in 15 degree weather
where ever you are, woman,
thank you