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

17NOV25 | LOOK BACK (I’M THERE)

It’s a nice ritual we have,

looking out of the window

when someone leaves to go

on their way—to school or

to work or to meet a friend—

there’s a satisfying feeling

you get when you look back

up to the window and see

someone peering out at you,

waving (sometimes flailing

comedically!) as you walk

through the turnabout before

disappearing down the street;

so always remember to look

back, you may not see me, but

I’m there and will always be

18NOV25 | WHAT WILL WE TALK ABOUT?

What will we talk about when all

we have to talk about is the past?

how do people break the ice when

the ice has thawed and the memories

of yesterday have been reduced to

melting recollections and salt water

tears? maybe we should just get

married, now that would be a novel

first date; skip all the courting and

awkward fumbling around and get

straight to the heart of the matter;

like an arranged marriage between

first cousins in the shetl, they meet at

shul on Shabbos and are married by

Wednesday, they live a long and happy

life together and have what to talk about

19NOV25 | WHAT LOVE FELT LIKE

I have so few recollections about

what love felt like that I’m afraid

I might not recognize it if it ever

came along again; just a few vague

memories of those early days back

in Chicago, and similar ones when

we moved to Valencia; she was so

compassionate and caring, every

thing she did, every gesture and so

many little things that no one since

has ever thought to do or say; but

that was many years ago and the

feelings of what love felt like then

have been washed away, swept out

with the tide, torn like pages from

a book whose ending is but half-told

20NOV25 | I BLAME IT ALL ON ROGER

I blame it all on Roger,

after all, it was his phone

call on that gorgeous summer

morning while I was soaking

up the sun poolside, looking

out over the Mediterranean

as my wife and our baby son

floated past me; I told him I

could be in Valencia first thing

in the morning and before I knew

what had happened, I was back on

the train again heading for Alicante,

with a new job that would eventually

lead to my new life with her just a few

short years later; the hell I’ve had to

endure since is surely worthy of blame

21NOV25 | BODY AND MIND

The problem is that I have a

sixty-two-year-old body that

feels more like eighty and a

mind that’s convinced it’s

eighteen; and there’s not much

I can do, seemingly, to reconcile

both sides of the dilemma; while

I schlep around the house in sweats

and wooly black Crocs slippers, my

knees ache, my elbow hurts and my

hair is thinning to the point I feel I’m

starting to look more and more like

my mother (sorry mom); no matter how

hard I try to move them closer together,

it seems the chasm between my body and

mind only grows farther and wider apart

22NOV25 | STILL HERE (NOTE TO SELF)

I’m tired

and worn

carrying years of emotional strain

and rebuilding a life is heavy lifting;

but I’m still here

still planning

still creating

still trying;

I’m writing new chapters

in a book of life

that seems

never ending;

but I’m still here

still hoping

still breathing

still living

23NOV25 | THROUGH A RAINDROP

I was standing by the kitchen window,

warming myself, my legs pressed against

the radiator; I moved the blind slightly

and looked through a raindrop on the

window and the light shining inside of

a neighbor’s house appeared to shimmer;

then I moved my gaze to another raindrop

and to another window at the opposite side

of the courtyard; there was movement and

color and I locked onto an image of what I

thought was a person standing in front of a

window, pulling curtains closed; and then a

spatter of rain cleared all the raindrops from

the window leaving dots and drips too small

to see through; but for a short moment I was

able to see the world through a different lens

24NOV25 | SLEEPWALKING

So it seems I’ve been sleepwalking

through life, living in a half sleep,

half awake state where I’m present

but not really there—or anywhere;

I waited for Arnold on the stoop of

my grandparent’s apartment building,

but he never came, at least that’s how

my narrative arranges the memories;

I played little league baseball at the J,

on photographer Owen Scot Shirwo’s

team with Burt, Paul Katz and Bruce

Handler, but I don’t recall ever playing

in a single game all season; I attended

senior prom—drove myself and Sari in

my ‘72 Camaro (why rent a limo when

you have the coolest ride in school)—

but I can’t recall much of that evening

except for an awkward encounter with

Howard Bramson in the men’s room

and Scott Loeff barking through dinner

25NOV25 | IF I LEAVE THE PARTY EARLY

I don’t think that anyone would notice

if I left the party early; it’s not like I’m

the center of attention or a magnet luring

people to my space to engage in urbane

conversation; in fact, it’s almost as if

I’m not even here at all; who knows,

I might not even be and that wouldn’t

surprise me in the slightest; but if I did

leave the party and if someone actually

took notice, what then? would news of

my departure spark rumors or—in a low

purring chant—buzz through the room

as if some monumental occurrence had

taken place? or would my absence simply

go unnoticed, like a light left on in the

basement or a line an actor forgot to say

26NOV25 | FIRST DOWN AND TEN

There are still eighty-plus days

until pitchers and catchers report

to their spring training camps in

Arizona and Florida, a long winter

ahead before the first games of the

MLB 2026 season get underway;

until then I’ll have to find other ways

of keeping myself busy in the evenings

and middles of the night when I settle

into Chicago Cubs Baseball, when I’m

at my most content watching America’s

Pastime from the comfort of my home,

some four thousand miles away from the

friendly confines of Wrigley Field; for now,

I’ll occasionally buy the 99-cent pass and

watch NFL games to while away the time