There’s an outbreak of a bad disease
Right in my
neighborhood,
My zip code
being one they’ve named
And that
just isn’t good.
It’s spread
when there’s bacteria
In cooling
towers, where
They infiltrate
and form a mist
That’s sent
into the air.
If places
are identified,
Which
testing can decide,
A disinfecting
protocol
Can peace of
mind provide.
As numbers
of the sick increase
(And
treatment seems to work),
I glance at
buildings, wondering
If that’s
where germs may lurk.
When you’re down in the dumps
And life’s
giving you lumps,
It’s so nice
to have lunch with a friend;
For occasional
slumps,
Like a log’s
many bumps,
Make it hard
with a smile to pretend
All is dandy
and fine.
Sometimes
problems combine
With the
natural ways that you cope
And your pal
throws a line,
Which you
take as a sign
That you’re
not at the end of your rope.
So you sit
and you eat,
Which itself
is a treat,
And compare
what’s been driving you nuts.
Though you
do not compete,
Each admits
to defeat
By not
climbing up out of your ruts.
Still, a
heaviness lifts,
One of
friendship’s best gifts,
(Which can
also take place on the phone).
Though the
stuff that resists
Cheering up
still exists,
You, at
least, feel a lot less alone.
The days drift by at summer’s pace,
Too insubstantial
to embrace.
Without a
goal that I can chase,
In neutral I
am stuck.
Though I am
home, most any place
Would seem
the same, with just a trace
Of novelty
to help me face
A way out of
the muck.
No matter
what, in any case,
The passing time
might grant some grace,
My lethargy
conceding space
To welcome
back some pluck.
At Wimbledon, on Centre Court,
The players,
dressed in white,
Run back and
forth across the grass,
To spectators’
delight.
Of course,
in the United States,
The court
called Arthur Ashe,
In honor of
a tennis great,
Is where
opponents clash.
If it did
not have Ashe’s name,
It might be
Center Court,
But note the
“e” and “r” reversed,
Which U.S. guides
support.
The U.S. Open
doesn’t mind
What color
players wear,
Unlike
Britain’s rules of “colour”
With a “u”
that’s stuck in there.
I realize
(yes, I use a “z,”
Not “s,” as
do the Brits)
That language
often changes after
Factions
call it quits.
It’s
fascinating, really,
How our
long-ago “divorce”
Somehow took
the centre of the land
And moved it
off its course.
Whenever I see someone
Sprawled on
a bench,
Exposed to
the elements,
Hands in a
clench,
I wonder if
long ago,
Curled in
his crib
Or perched
in his high chair,
With drips
on his bib,
A mom or a dad,
With the
tenderest gaze,
Saw their hopes
for their son
Mapped in
various ways.
They certainly
never
Imagined him
stuck
On a bench
in a city park,
Down on his
luck.
Few
passersby stop,
(And yes,
that includes me)
Rarely
thinking about
How such
things come to be.
On this date, in the U.S. of A.
People celebrate
in their own way.
There are
hot dogs on grills
And the
fireworks’ thrills
With the
stars and stripes out on display.
Yet for many
who feel as I do,
There’s no
point to this hullabaloo,
For instead
of delight
At the flag’s
red and white,
All I see
and I feel is the blue.
I didn’t get married at Madison Square
And only
immediate family was there.
We needed no
permits nor one single guard,
For our
wedding was held in my parents’ back yard.
There wasn’t
a limo to ferry each guest
And a cousin
took photographs at our request.
The food was
whatever my mother did choose
And no, it
did not make it into the news.
It’s been
fifty years, though, so, begging your pardon,
The wedding
you’ve heard of today, at the Garden,
May have all
the world and the paparazzi
Pay
attention, but what is important to me
Is that
keeping it simple worked fine way back when
And if I had
to do it all over again,
There’s just
one little change I’d be certain to make –
Not a
holiday weekend, a common mistake.
