Tired at last of myself,
the way I’ve been for seventy years—
tight and worried, wanting my perfect way—
in a swoop—and was it fell?—I laughed.
Laughed at the coiled clay vase that wanted
to be a fish, laughed at the poems
that wouldn’t be printed in little magazines
and at my past earnestness
about the importance of that, laughed
at my belief that those pants would
make me leggy like the model in the catalogue,
that this diet or pill or “spiritual practice”
would fix my — everything.
And last night I split a bottle of Switchback
with Jean and we laughed at our husbands’ old jokes
during what would once have been
a nervous attempt at “dinner party”
and we made spontaneous
ice cream sandwiches for dessert
from crispy brownies and ice cream
straight from the carton, and I’m still laughing.