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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Final Frontier the Down in the Dirt May-August 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Looking In On A Life

John Grey

Chilly March rain tap-dances on the rooftop.
Night’s crawling in but outside looks as if it’s always been here.
Stiff-jointed Marge, in her stiff-jointed kitchen chair,
turns the pages of the newspaper,
laughs at the funnies, talks to the obituaries.

The kettle boils. Making coffee interrupts a scandal,
a dismal weather-forecast, but she soon rejoins
what’s happening in the world, beyond the grayness
of the windows, the insipid street-lamp shine.
“Dagwood sure is a hoot. Mabel, you sure did look pale,
that last time I saw you in the supermarket.”

She sips, watches the last of the steam limp listlessly
out from the spout and dissipate. Like the stove and the
refrigerator, her life is just there, occupying a space,
tidying, cleaning, feeding itself just enough.
But the first lady is no match for Mamie Eisenhower.
Peanuts reminds her of her childhood. And Archie
Brown, was a high school friend. “I warned you
about smoking, Archie.”

The thermostat is turned low so, despite the shawl over her
shoulders, she feels the cold. But, she figures, it’s a cold
world so why shouldn’t she feel it. Besides, freezing from
time to time helps to lower the gas bill. Social security demands
some sacrifice if she’s to live on it. She doesn’t like the
new comic strips so much, especially those with young women
whose problems make no connection. Blondie is different.
She’s a memory of her mother. She’s her dream self.
Annie Springs had gold ringlets of hair, just like Blondie.
“Breast cancer. Too bad. You always had such a lovely figure.”

The rain doesn’t let up, but nor does it gather strength.
It’s like a veil drawn over her house, her eyes.
She must have her newspaper if she’s to see through it.
Finally, she’s done with her coffee, has found comfort of a kind
in the day’s Family Circus, and finishes the obits with a young man
killed on his motorcycle and a ninety-five-year-old taken by pneumonia.
“Sorry, but I don’t know either of you.”

By nine o’clock, she’s fast asleep on the couch, while some
television channel rolls on toward midnight.
There’s no interaction, merely an acknowledgement
that weariness and a slate of predictable network shows
need each other, just like the roof and the rain.
She snores. Some guy is found guilty.
He doesn’t hear her sawing wood. She never learns who did it.
Not every connection is an active one.

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