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.

Meeting for an Early Lunch

In our younger days we met for dinner;

Now it’s mainly lunch.

We needn’t rush; since we’re retired,

Time slots we don’t crunch.

 

We pack up meals we’ve ordered,

For we’ve barely eaten half

And when waiters ask, “Dessert or wine?”

We shake our heads and laugh.

 

We stop a stranger, asking if

He’ll snap our photo please.

He sees four senior citizens

So he, of course, agrees.

 

But what he cannot understand

(No reason that he should)

Is that, though we look old to him,

There is the likelihood

 

That we’ve lived through so many things

He’s only read about

And though he’ll have his own adventures,

There is little doubt

 

That we add up to so much more

Than what his pix reveal –

Four smiling alte kakers*

Clutching what’s left of our meal.

 

*a Yiddish expression meaning old farts

A Smattering of Seeds

A bagel worth its salt should have

A smattering of seeds,

‘Cause sesame or poppy

Is what every bagel needs.

 

A pumpernickel, though, requires

Caraways mixed in

And those that we call “everything”

Most always score a win.

 

To anyone who orders “plain,”

I have one thing to say:

(And do not get me started

On blueberries in the way)

 

I understand some seed-o-phobics

Think that they deserve

A bagel in its purest state,

But what you might observe

 

Is most New Yorkers find that seeds,

And more than just a smattering,

Are what, with New York water,

Make our bagels really mattering.