November 2025 | R.M. Usatinsky

POEMOGRAPHY | 2025

Poems by R.M. Usatinsky

pōəˈmäɡrəfē, noun: form or process of writing and representing poetry

NOVEMBER

01NOV25 | EGGPLANT

I’m never quite sure how

to correctly pick fruits and

vegetables at the supermarket;

I tend to be one of those shoppers

who asks staff members for help;

but for some reason, I always seem

to be able to spot a good eggplant

and over the years have learned to

cook with them at some level of

mastery; and between you and me,

I don’t always salt them up and pat

them down, I think that’s something

Jacques Pépin or Ottolenghi came up

with; and my favorite way to enjoy it

is grilled, thinly sliced, and put on a

baguette with melted cheese and mayo

02NOV25 | THE CREAKY CHAIR

I use an old dining table arm chair

to sit on when I’m writing at my

desk; it’s one of two that remain

from my grandparent’s dining room

set, probably purchased in Chicago

in the late 1940s from John M. Smyth,

it was in these two chairs that sat my

grandfather and great-grandfather—

my mother’s father and grandfather

respectively—while my grandmother,

mother and I sat in the remaining side

chairs in the dining room on Maplewood;

nearing eighty years old, the chairs—that I

re-upholstered when I acquired them around

1988, though creaky, have held up nicely

from Chicago to Spain to the Netherlands

03NOV25 | THESE DAYS

I’ll be the first to admit that

I’m a sniveling sentimental

that cries on a dime at just

about anything; I can’t watch

a film without being deeply

moved to tears which, to my

children’s amusement, is a

fairly frequent occurrence;

and while music has been an

indispensable part of my life,

there’s one song almost certain

to unleash the waterworks every

time I hear it; while These Days

was written by Jackson Browne at

sixteen in the early 60s, it’s Glen

Campbell’s version that undoes me

04NOV25 | COUNTDOWN

I’ve had a peculiar relationship

with mortality my whole life;

I’ve always been keenly aware

that life would end one day—

for me, for my loved ones; but

now, as time is much nearer to

the end than to the beginning, I’ve

started putting the pieces together,

assembling all the possessions from

what has been a full life—not lived

to the fullest—but a life that was a

blessing in so many ways and a curse

in so many others; and the countdown

has begun and it makes me sad; not to

leave or leave those behind, but that I

didn’t meet you when I was younger

05NOV25 | BACK AND FORTH

I tend to go back and forth on things,

mainly on decisions I make in haste;

and I change my mind as often as I

seem to change it back again; but I

wouldn’t say I was fickle, at least

not as much as I am indecisive or

scatterbrained even, especially when

it comes to making more serious or

consequential decisions; like now, for

example, as life has thrown some very

interesting curveballs my way; nothing

I can’t handle, but some things that may

require a little more good judgement than

the typical curveball; standing at the plate,

however, sometimes the ball looks like it’s

coming in one way but veers off to the other

06NOV25 | LIVING UP TO EXPECTATION

I’ve always been a dreamer,

my imagination has foretold

the future, my mind’s eye has

seen the success and my soul

has lived a thousand fortunes;

but in reality, dreamers wake

up and their dreams vanish into

the dreamscape from which they

came; in the end, what remains

are untold failures and wanton

mediocrity, a life lived not to its

fullest, but to the feebleminded

misadventures and folly of never

giving enough, never fully investing

or believing in my own capabilities;

selling myself short time and time again

07NOV25 | OVERTHINKING

I suppose I should be spending

my time on more productive

things than overthinking the

things that are probably not

even under my control in the

first place; fears of airplanes

crashing into my house or

random objects falling out of

the sky like frogs in that film

by Paul Thomas Anderson; I

know those occurrences are

very unlikely to actually happen,

but the fear is real—paralyzing at

times—and keeping me from doing

the things I need to do and want to do

when I most need and want to do them

08NOV25 | LIBERATION

I’m dreaming of a day,

not too distant in the

future, where I’ll break

free and leave behind

the pain and frustration

of a decade of despair;

and in these visions, I am

barefoot, walking on real

wood floors in a sparsely

furnished apartment that

is mine, a home where I

feel safe and unafraid of

the monsters and beasts

that once confounded my

sense of self, begrudging

and belittling to no end

09NOV25 | LOOKING FORWARD

I’m looking forward

to better days and a

future filled with the

kindness of serenity;

I’m looking forward

to gentle smiles and

and the soft caress of

of her hand upon mine;

I’m looking forward

to her whispered voice

telling me how much I

am loved and desired;

I’m looking forward

to the wind on my face

and the heat of the sun

setting my heart on fire

10NOV25 | THE LAST FEW MILES

The last few miles are the hardest,

when the destination is clearly in

sight upon the horizon but there

are still those last few miles ahead;

I’ll be glad when the year is done,

when these lines won’t be waiting

for me to write them and all those

films will long be forgotten; I’ll

try to learn to breathe again, to walk

along the waterway as I once did,

gaze into the sky at the sun and clouds,

and feel a sense of belonging and being

at one with the elements; I wonder what

it would be like to never write another

poem or watch another film; but these

pursuits are the essence of my lifeforce

11NOV25 | LOST DREAMS

I’ve lost a few good dreams,

but last night’s loss is one I

really regret; it was a classic

of epic proportions, one that

woke me up feeling as I had

just broken through to another

dimension, one of those one in

a hundred dreams that shake

my very being to the core; but,

as often as it happens, this one

dream—last night’s dream—is

lost forever; like other lost dreams,

I woke up determined to record it

somehow, finger-tapped notes or a

voice-to-text message on my phone;

but I drifted off and lost a real gem

12NOV25 | IS THERE EVEN TIME?

I wonder if there’s even time

for this nonsense; busy lives,

other priorities and surely set

in our ways that a distraction

of this magnitude could hardly

be something either of us could

desire; but he we are, following

some whim or another, trying to

feel human once again, trying to

make that connection that might

just make us feel whole once again,

feel wanted (if only just a little); feel

needed, feel heard and seen and, if

the stars align, feel loved again; is

there even time for that or has time

drifted away leaving only longing

13NOV25 | THE DRUNK (FALLING OFF THE BUS)

The drunk who fell of the bus today

reminded me of Ignatius J. Reilly, the

protagonist in John Kennedy Toole’s

posthumous novel, A Confederacy of

Dunces; the man was large-bodied and

slovenly, wearing a tattered cap and

reeking of beer—presumably from the

bottle that nearly fell out of his backpack

while he tumbled towards the ground; he

must have been leaning against the door

as it opened seeing how he spilled out of

it like a bowling pin toppling slowly to

the lane; and he lay there on the ground

in the misty drizzle, moaning and flailing

and seeming to shake off any help offered

by the other passengers and bystanders

14NOV25 | ON THIS DAY (MANY YEARS AGO)

I remember that day as if it were yesterday,

arriving at the hospital at eight a.m. with all

the necessary things; we were greeted by our

young doctor, an attractive woman barely out

of medical school who was calm and ever so

easygoing; she knew how much I wanted to

be present at the birth of my first child, and

when it became evident that a natural childbirth

wouldn’t be possible, she told me that while

fathers were not allowed in the operating room,

exceptions were made for fathers who worked

in the medical profession…like me! so she

handed me a set of scrubs and booties and I

became Dr. Dad for the next few hours, standing

alongside the anesthesiologist, watching my son

being born and then cutting the umbilical cord

15NOV25 | SERFATY

I remember the first time I met him,

Serfaty, the president of Valencia’s

Jewish Community; a larger-than-

life figure, balding, with a tiny, well

groomed mustache and a gentleness

that made you feel comfortable in his

presence; he would always ask about

the kids, about my family back home;

he always made sure I had an Aliyah

during the Torah reading and that I

led the singing of Yigdal when Jaime

Sedaka wasn’t present; but my most

vivid memory of Serfaty was when he

was in the hospital just days before his

passing; he took my hand and promised

me he would help fix my failing marriage

16NOV25 | CARDIGAN

I’m going to buy a new cardigan,

that is, if I can manage to get my

listless carcass out of the house,

into a tram and to the city center;

I’ve seen the cardigan in question,

Levi Strauss calls it the Valencia

Cardigan, which is certainly a most

appropriate name seeing how I lived

in that Mediterranean city for more

than a decade (more than a decade

ago); and the color is called, oddly

enough, Obscidian Heather (black);

it’s a wool blend (3%) and overpriced;

but I’m going to see her in two weeks

and want to feel and present myself as

the self I want her to see and get to know