Inconvenienced

Living near the mayor, 

I am inconvenienced when

A head of state comes through the gate, 

Which happens now and then.

The secret service and the cops

Block off surrounding streets

And if you try to get on by,

You’ll suffer some defeats.

But it’s much worse for those who live

Or work near the U.N.,

For they are barred, which makes it hard,

From getting home again.

Between the protests and the police,

They’re sadly out of luck.

Like all the crews who film the news,

They’re flat-out simply stuck.

We city people know the drill,

But still keep seeing red.

We disapprove, but would we move?

We’ll suffer here instead.

The Cement

There’s usually, in every group,

And often evident,

One person who is not in charge,

But rather the cement.

 

The one who makes things happen

And who brings all factions in,

Assuring that each person’s there

And ready to begin.

 

The one the others turn to

When a problem might arise.

Who knows when someone’s out of line

And cuts her down to size.

 

It isn’t necessarily

The one with all the brains,

But someone with the people skills

To soothe disparate strains.

 

Without this member, groups would fade

In throes of discontent,

For gatherings won’t hold together

If there’s no cement.

The Receipt

Saw a friend for lunch; we meet

To talk of health and aging.

A cozy booth; we schmooze and eat,

Our changes up for gauging.

 

The negatives of age contrast

With pics of a vacation

So beautiful that they surpassed

Our senior state fixation.

 

Until at last, we split the bill,

The credit cards extended.

We signed our names and knew the drill;

Our lovely meal had ended.

 

I folded my receipt in two

And in the bag I carry,

I stuffed it, like I always do,

So very ordinary.

 

We said goodbye and headed out,

Where home for us both beckoned.

About the check, I had a doubt;

I’ll look at home, I reckoned.

 

An hour later, no receipt

Appeared, despite my searching.

I sadly must admit defeat,

A getting old besmirching.

A Waiting Path

Many children, likely most,
Don’t have the slightest clue
Of how their grown-up selves will be
Or what they’d like to do.

The childhood years, in school and camp,
Will open many eyes
And steer some in directions
That might startle or surprise.

Yet there are those who, very young,
Can see a waiting path,
Who know exactly what they want
And figure out the math

To get them ready to embark,
With tools that they might need,
In hopes that they will have support
And that they will succeed.

It’s satisfying when I read
Or hear of someone who
Accomplished what, in childhood,
Was the future that he knew.

A Slow Fast

For reasons that I do not know,

A fast is never fast, but slow.

I check, but still have hours to go 

And hope that I’ll get through it.

I missed the bagel that I’d eat,

The cheese and fruit, sliced up and sweet,

Plus cake to make the meal complete,

With coffee, once I’d brew it.

A yogurt here, some popcorn there,

Perhaps some grapes or, if I’d dare,

Dark chocolate, maybe just a square;

It’s tempting to say, “Screw it!”

But no, I’ll keep on with my fast 

And soon, my waiting will have passed.

When sundown comes, I’ll say, at last,

“ I knew that I could do it!”

What We Believe

We celebrate holidays,

Or we do not,

For personal reasons.

(That’s all that we’ve got.)

 

To some, it’s religion

That drives them to pray,

While others like following

Customs that they

 

Have observed since their childhoods.

For me, that’s the case

And certain traditions

I like to embrace.

 

To honor connections

With those in the past,

I’ll light special candles;

Tomorrow, I’ll fast.

 

The only true lesson

To me, on this eve,

Is it’s nobody’s business

What we each believe.

At the Street Fair

Police cars block the side streets;

The avenue’s car-free

To make the strolling easy

For pedestrians like me.

 

The booths hold clothes and jewelry

And crafts of every type,

But front and center is the food,

Deserving of the hype.

 

Most every nationality

Is represented by

Whatever meals the chefs at hand

Can chop or stir or fry.

 

Aromas fill the neighborhood

As people buy and munch

A snack to tide them over

Or a more substantial lunch.

 

Distilleries display their wares

Near smoothies packed with fruit,

The locals and the visitors

In purchasing pursuit.

 

A lovely way to spend some time

On a fall-like afternoon,

Succumbing to the urge to buy,

To which I’m not immune.