Making Sure

The supermarket carries beer,

(I love my IPA’s)

But every time we buy some here,

We hear the same old phrase;

“You need to show us some ID,”

Which doesn’t make much sense

Since, speaking for my spouse and me,

There isn’t much suspense 

In guessing that we’re of an age

That’s legal multiplied

By 3 or almost 4, the stage 

Where we can’t be denied.

Yet still, our licenses come out,

As Pa. law demands,

Although there isn’t any doubt

Each cashier understands 

That our ID’s are far from fake;

It only takes one glance

To know it would be some mistake

To look at us askance.

All the Stuff

I look around at all the stuff 

I’ve purchased or created

To fill my home; it’s quite enough

That I’ve accumulated.

My husband lets my choices rule,

Especially my quilt work,

For he would have to be a fool

To share if some critiques lurk.

I never used to think about

Where all of it will go when

I’m gone, because, without a doubt,

There’s no way I will know then.

My children will not give a hoot

About my works of stitching.

My efforts they will not dispute,

Though that won’t stop them ditching

The pillows, hangings, tchotchkes, art,

Plus photo books and keepsakes;

All these tucked inside my heart

Will win the dumpster sweepstakes.

Since I will not observe it, there

Will be no tears or clashes,

But in my mind, it isn’t fair

To turn my stuff to ashes.

Us

My friends have very different lives

From mine in many ways,

From where they live to how they tend

To spend their holidays…

 

From what they eat and read and watch,

The exercise they do,

To how they dress and where vacations

Might just take them to…

 

From how they spend their money to

What culture they will track

And most of these relationships

Are ones that go ‘way back.

 

Yet still, despite our differences,

Our values are the same.

The feelings that connect us

Form the art within the frame.

 

And everything outside that core,

Though worthy to discuss,

Has nothing much to do with,

What, in friendship, equals us.

Contingency Plan

Quite possibly, where I reside

Might have a labor strike,

With building workers hoping

For a settlement they’d like.

An email let us know about

What we might soon expect,

Like no one taking packages,

No doormen to protect…

No maintenance in hallways

And no garbage down the chute.

Repairs will just be done

In situations most acute.

We’ve lived through this before

And it may not occur at all,

But the landlord has to let us know

In case the axe does fall.

Double-Take

There’s a woman I pass in the mornings

Who prefers not to nod a hello,

Not unusual for a New Yorker;

That’s the way that these things often go.

 

She seems close to my age, but walks slower

And her clothing is baggy and loose,

Unlike most of us out there with leggings,

Which she’d likely not wear, I deduce.

 

Yet this morning I passed her and noticed,

As I swiveled for a double-take,

That her t-shirt was very familiar

And quite certainly not a mistake.

 

For it once nestled, folded quite nicely,

In a drawer with the rest of my tees,

But I’d donated it to the thrift shop

Where I bring things that no longer please.

 

I was glad to see somebody wear it

Who’d appraised it with different eyes,

Yet I wondered why I hadn’t kept it

As an exercise shirt in my size.

Perfect

For something to be perfect 

Patience surely is required,

Especially for projects

You would like to be admired.

A recipe you’ve never tried,

A quilt that you are sewing,

Some pictures to be framed,

A garden that’s in need of mowing.

A painting you are working on, 

A home repair or cleaning -

You’re either patient or you’re not;

There is no in-betweening.

I am not a patient person;

Slap-dash is my stock in trade.

Behind each hanging on my walls,

Just count the holes I’ve made.

My quilting stitches don’t line up

Yet still, I do feel proud

When a project is completed;

Imperfection is allowed.

With my poems I’m much more patient

As I work on every line.

I would never call them perfect,

But most definitely mine.

Robes A'Flowing

Has your doctor ever treated you

When wearing robes a’flowing,

Gently laying hands while all around

There’s light that’s brightly glowing?

 

That depiction sounds more biblical

Than hospital-type care.

To post a picture of himself,

Like that, just one would dare.

 

Now I am not a Christian, but

That image does offend.

How can true believers ever

Such idolatry defend?

 

But chalk it up to just another

Way to lose more hope,

Right alongside the insulting,

Made in public, of the Pope.

 

The bar can’t drop much lower

As the world can only mock

Words and actions of one so deranged

We can’t absorb the shock.