Doesn't Matter

This doesn't really have much
to do with the poem, but when I
googled "purview" I found this
and like it very much. And
maybe it has everything to do
with the poem. Sometimes
I feel like I'm the one standing
up there, trying to keep my
balance, unable to see through
the fog. And then they turn to clouds
and a beautiful pink sky.
http://madsketcher.deviantart.com/
art/Purview-301928211

The words should be tattooed
upon my forehead: It
doesn'treallymatter,
doesn'tmatter, doesn'tmatter,
doesn'tmatter to the others;
why- in name of all that's holy-
should it matter so to me?
Who died or quit (smart move, I'd say)
and left me here in charge
of quality control for this small
planet whose snarky citizens resent
reminders to find jobs, be clean,
appreciate an education, treat all
others and themselves with more
respect. Except I'm not in charge at all.
Not my station, not my job, I've raised
my kids, no need or call to raise the roof
when people I don't even know speak
foolishly or cut me off in traffic
or talk back. Even knowing this,
that menopause is making me perceive
the daily drama as more dismal than it
really is, or that from one perspective
it's hilarious how screwed up things
have gotten in the country, in my house,
and in my family, and how much worse it may
get yet, I keep forgetting to let go, release
the scoundrels that surround me to inevitable
consequence. Just let them screw up,
seams all fall apart (accompanied by the
sound of Nana's breaking heart). On second
thought, the talking back thing...won't let that
pass, should not ignore. Just one or two things
still in my purview. Some days, it seems,
there's more. I need a checklist telling me exactly
what to do and say. Or better yet, I'll go away
and think and pray and cry and sleep,
breathing deeply of the undramatic air
and smile until my heart's again at peace,
returning when I don't need
a tattoo to tell me what is truth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014