On a City Bus

I guess it’s not politically

Correct for me to say,

But riding on a city bus

Was different in my day.

 

I had to fold my stroller;

Hold my toddler in my arms.

Now even double carriages

Won’t set off the alarms.

 

Two women on my bus got on

With giant shopping carts.

The eyes of other passengers,

Including me, threw darts.

 

The driver had to stop to help

A wheelchair guy inside,

Yet there exist disabled vans

They call Access-a-ride.

 

I still can get from place to place,

But traffic’s at a crawl.

It really is a miracle

We get someplace at all.

 

When all is said and done, though,

And I’m close to my arriving,

I guess I must admit the bus

Is easier than driving.

Stuck in a Rut

When I’m stuck in a rut

I see anything but

A way out, for each road I might take

Means one pathway gets shut

And I know, in my gut,

That my chosen one is a mistake.

 

It’s neurotic, I know,

But it’s always been so,

Which is why any change brings such stress.

Then my spirits sink low

For a while, although,

Why I’m like this is anyone’s guess.

 

I can climb my way out

On occasion, no doubt,

When decisions require being made,

But by going this route,

Which this poem is about,

I’m not satisfied, I am afraid.

 

Oh, I envy those souls

Who achieve all their goals

In a calm and content kind of way,

But I have no controls

Over how my mind rolls,

So the ruts I am stuck in hold sway.

A'Buzz

The neighborhood was all a’buzz

On Sunday, for, of course, it was

The New York City Marathon;

Today, alas, that buzz is gone.

 

Yet, what a joy to stand and cheer

For all the runners gathered here

To pound the pavement, varied styles

Of gaits and clothes, for miles and miles.

 

By 5, we headed out for dinner.

Hours had passed since every winner

Got a medal or a crown

And the race was winding down.

 

Still, some stragglers soldiered past,

Mostly walking, no one fast.

Bars and restaurants were packed

And buoyant spirits no one lacked.

 

All in all, a day of glory,

But, like every other story,

It came to its rightful fizzle;

Not all days are meant to sizzle.

Proving I'm Alive

 I get the letter every year

To prove I am alive,

With forms to fill or else

My pension payments won’t arrive.

 

A copy of my license

Or a passport must be sent,

Plus a photo of The Times

On which the date is evident.

 

I have to hold the paper

As the proof that I’m not dead.

At least there’s not a quiz

About the articles I’ve read.

 

Although there might be fraudsters,

I’m insulted at the thought

That I’m being challenged as if I

Am someone they have sought.

 

I am glad that in retirement,

A pension I’m collecting

And I’m thrilled to show I’m breathing,

Not the outcome they’re expecting

Denim

Since high school, many years ago,

I’ve worn, in varied styles,

Some clothing made of denim

And the thought of it brings smiles.

 

My low-slung self-embroidered jeans,

Which we called dungarees,

Bell-bottomed out and with a belt

Of fringe were sure to please.

 

My overalls, in faded blue,

Were favorites, worse for wear,

The shredded hems and gaping knees

Too proud to need repair.

 

The baggy pairs or skin-tight ones

We lay down just to zipper,

Were part of years of looks designed

To make us that much hipper.

 

Of course, there were some skirts, as well

As jackets, shirts and vests.

The denim in my closet now

To its long life attests.

 

Today I wear a brand-new dress,

In denim, from the Gap,

To join my sturdy treasure trove,

All feathers in my cap.

Modern Trick-or-Treating

My grandkids’ trick-or-treating,

In the suburbs, with their friends,

Will be in or near their houses,

Where the average neighbor tends

To be well-equipped with candy -

Only treats, no need for tricks,

And their haul will yield a varied

Gummy - chocolate type mix.

In the city, many buildings,

Just like ours, produced a list

We would sign so trick-or-treaters

Would not let our door be missed.

When the children rang the doorbell,

We could greet them if we’d wish

Or just leave the candy in the hall,

Which filled a bowl or dish.

Things are different now; no strangers,

Even kids, can come upstairs.

People donate to a giant box

A lobby table bears.

The spirit’s somehow missing 

When the doorman acts as host,

Stopping both a would-be robber 

Or a kindergarten ghost.

The Art of Voting

Today I voted early

In my early polling place

Which, because of where I live,

Is in a very special space.

 

Through a side door in the Met,

A prime museum in the city,

Is a room set up for voting

By a government committee.

 

In the days before elections,

There is rarely any crowd,

So I quickly fill my ballot,

Then get ready to be wowed.

 

Since as long as I’ve walked over,

I will stay to see some art.

Once my membership is checked, then I

Decide where I should start.

 

This morning, with my spouse,

We saw the Krasner/Pollock show,

In addition to some galleries

With paintings we both know.

 

Also, we took in the drawings

Of Si Lewen; his “Parade”

Has amazing sketches of the War,*

Among the finest made.

 

I’m lucky when I vote, I have

This opportunity

To do my civic duty in the spot

Where treasures wait for me.

 

*World War II