Waiting for Izzy to wake,
my baby grand,
my Izzy Bizzy Bell.
I should head to Chicago,
move on to next things.
There’s stuff to do,
and I, my reputation
as dithering guy who never,
never gets to the end,
notwithstanding,
am still the only guy to get it done.
But I’m waiting for Isabel to wake—
me, Isabel’s Jeff,
here,
waiting for Isabel,
who, just before she slept,
spent a long, full, bunch
of uncountable minutes
in loud, overwrought,
and well-acted screaming;
in epic distress,
mommy-mommying her way
between long, sobbing, hiccups,
until she decided that mommy-mommying
wasn’t working,
and switched to daddy-daddying,
which also did not work,
falling finally asleep, exhausted,
when Mommy did show herself.
That’s the person,
Isabell Lozen,
my grand baby,
for whose next waking moment
I wait.
Because love,
I guess.
And knowing that
what I might otherwise
do is no longer the point.
