Outliers

for Emily Dickinson

we owe a lot to the outliers
I said to myself in a somewhat dingy hour
while scouring the pots

and thinking of other things.
like why dont they ring me up
as they say in the UK

why dont they come for a visit
even if not to stay
when I am amenable. cheerful too.

setting the table for just myself

and God, I thought.
it's not so odd
living this way.

the sun comes in through the shade.
the bugs with their welcoming committees
sit on my counter and look pretty.

the books still gleam
revealing subtextual dreams and there is music,
even, sometimes, with illustrations.

and there are trees.
the sea beyond me, somewhere
memoires; ateliers...

and I still care (living on rations)
about what I do for the nation;
I'm an outlier too.

with nothing to do with you.
or you
since that's what you choose;

perhaps, whoever you may be,
you're all set up to flee
those who live out of hand.

there seems to be some decree about it.

but I'm still alive.
like a bee in a hive
making my own honey-

for love- and not, for money.

mary angela douglas 21 july 2019