She sang beyond the genius of the sea.- Wallace Stevens

Seashells, Captiva Island 

Some things can't be helped.  I suppose that need to do laundry in the middle of the night, to write lists, to clean closets, to pack and unpack, to settle, and not settle, to wander, to stay still, and to dream.

To pick up a glass and wipe it, wash it twice, find a spot on the counter and rub it clean, or not, pick at a nail, slit an envelope just a particular way, cross your ankles at tea, pick up the cup just so, or not, chew the ice, slurp the drink, sip it gently, neatly dab your mouth at the corners with the linen napkin, dab your nose with the linen handkerchief, say "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me" with nary a thought.

These things can't be helped.

Turn the dial to that Muzak or hip-hop, pet the dog, scold the cat, chase the squirrel with rocks, or nuts, find a watering hole, or a TV station, buy the latest fad.

Or not. 

I suppose they can't be helped.  If you cry, scream, laugh, giggle, snort a little with an uncontrollable chortle, self-efface, step over cracks, save fortune cookie fortunes, drive a stick, stick around, stick to your guns, stick 'em up, stick to it.  Step it up, step to it, step out.  Kick it up a notch.  Notch your belt.

Love 'em, leave 'em, skip the pleasantries altogether, or stay.  Be there in the morning, every day since.

Or not.

Sit in a waiting room, wait patiently, storm out in a snit, swear in traffic, button your suit, adjust your collar.  Button it twice.  Button down.  Batten down the hatches.   Twirl a baton.

Be teacher's pet.  Teach.  Be teachable.  Be able.  

Work out, run, walk, talk, talk a lot, talk a little bit, bend that knee, bend that ear.

Get out, get up, get on top, get going.

Can't be helped.