My True Friends: a spoken-word poem in writing

Aw, crap. So, I had President’s Day off and I forgot I didn’t already have a post scheduled in the hopper and now it’s Tuesday evening and I need to have something brilliant for Wednesday (yes, I know what day of the week it is but pretend you’re feeling my panic on Tuesday evening, ok?) Sadly, there’s no brilliance to be had because everything I’m working on still needs a ton of editing.

My solution: laziness. I’m just going to stick something here, something I wrote a year or two ago after talking to a friend who does powerful spoken-word stuff. She made me realize I do not have that kind of passion or pain and that I’m rather shallow and maybe even boring. Then I started thinking about what I would do if I had to do a reading.

If I were a spoken word poet, this would be my poem:

My friends and I agree
that the process of moving from youth to aged
is strange
our bodies again mysterious, delving into the unknown,
reminding us of the gifts given and taken by puberty
We are new at this because yesterday we were fresh from college
and today, our children are fresh in college
These new things must be explored because they are yet to be
understood.

My true friends, my close friends
the friends of my soul and of long nights with stars and of whispered childhood secrets
Those friends and I agree
That our changing bodies-
these globulin masses that contain the USness of us-
give us moments of fright
but also moments of wonder
and we find new magic in an old world

By and large, the favorite change
among the True Friends
is the one that turns us once again
or maybe for the first time
into coo-ing new parents
peering into an infant’s freshmade
dirty diaper
to see what small bodies evacuate, leave behind
to see the magical residue that quickly becomes a chore but is so shining and momentous at first

Only with us, with these friends, we stare not into a
tiny cloth or synthetic holding apparatus.
We stare into a porcelain tank
typically called The Toilet.
We stare in wonder at what we have made because
once again, it is a magical thing to be able to make
poop

Remember when we didn’t think about it? Remember when it was just something that needed to be done and just we did it?
No more!
Now it is Triumph! Now there is alchemy involved
concoctions of remembering to get it just right-
correct fiber placement and
plenty of hydration
and a little oil to get things moving slickly

My own poopery
not as prevalent as it once was
has become a source of curiosity
and sometimes pain
and often of a hard little belly bump like a perfectly round stone tucked away in a large pocket weighing down the garment of my guts
but it is also a wonder and a gift
because when I can stare into the watery depths
of the toilet bowl to see my creation
and I can think to myself
Another job well done, four days in a row
I know that I have succeeded in that age-old joke of
Staying Regular
and I know
that I am getting old.

And my true friends – they agree.

Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week.