A Small Country

 You know those days when you feel so fabulous

you can muliti-task like a Jim Carrey or other god

or billion-bit PC so efficiently your spouse says

you could run a small country with pizazz?

When the energy is so fierce and abundant you feel

a bursting of Spring in your loins and limbs,

and the ferocity of winter in your blood and bones

as though you were aflood again with the hormones

of unstoppable youth and could tackle a world

of gargantuan wrestlers, innumerable natural disasters

and hordes of serial murderers with two legs and a head tied behind your back?

And your prowess could handle dawn to dawn

two sets of sextuplets, several special-needs children,

a thousand disgruntled friends, a million cranky bosses,

and a globe of institutions of wasting pets and people?

When you could minister in all ways to hundreds of husbands

forgive all your enemies without the slightest emotional or otherwise

drain, pen the Great American Novel, impassion the planet's

most amazing verse, compose the most stunning symphony ever

and Michelangelo the universe's tangible and celestial ceilings

while preparing and hosting a twenty-course heartsmart meal for minions?

When you could call your insolent mother, talk for six hours,

assume all barbs and cracks both explicit and implied

like a parched and perky sponge as though she were the Dali Lama

and you a fervent follower, or she were Judas Iscariot

and your forgiveness felt bracing, scintillating, and strong as icebergs?

When you could teach sixteen piano lessons, mop two thousand

square feet of floor upon your knees with a rag,

do seventeen loads of laundry, and rearrange eight rooms of

egregiously heavy furniture with all the ease of a genie's blink?

This is not one of them.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 10/08