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

Not a Small-Town Person

I am not a small-town person,

Though I realize its appeal

Must attract a lot of people

Who see life there as ideal.

 

All the neighbors are acquainted

And they frequent the cafes

And the shops and other venues

To fill up the passing days.

 

People mosey on the sidewalks

And they chat out in the yards.

Things seem safe so no one worries

About letting down their guards.

 

In the city, things are bustling;

We don’t know each other’s names.

Learning everybody’s business

Wouldn’t be one of our claims.

 

On the streets, most like to scurry,

Passing tourists who don’t know

That to wait for lights at corners

Isn’t how things ought to go.

 

There are crowds and noise and hustle,

But there’s so much one can do

That however long you live here,

You will still find something new.

 

Now I know there are exceptions.

But in general, it’s so.

Neither lifestyle is for everyone;

Deep down, though, we all know

 

Which will work to make us happy.

Small-town visits bring delight

But it takes the city’s clamor

To make all my cells ignite.

Edith Wharton’s House

At Edith Wharton’s house, we learned,

She wrote each day in bed.

It would have made more sense, to me,

To choose a chair instead.

Her bedroom had a lovely view 

Of mountains filled with trees,

So a comfy chair with desk, I’d think,

Would more than likely please.

Of course, I’m not a novelist,

But when I am at home,

I have a favorite chair to sit in

When I write a poem.

My view is of the buildings 

On York Avenue and yes,

The traffic’s very noisy,

Though I notice it much less

Than a writer with a mansion 

Would allow to fill her head.

Still, at least when I start writing,

I get up and out of bed.

In the Berkshires

We’re in the Berkshire Mountains

And it’s glorious for fall - 

The foliage and sunny skies

Have heeded Nature’s call.

We’re doing all the tourist stuff -

Museums, gardens, trails,

And strolling through some towns and stores,

Which every trip entails.

Our photos capture some of it -

The beauty and the art,

But the timing is, to me,

What really sets this one apart.

For coming down from what were 

Quite emotional events,

We needed such a getaway,

Since what this represents

Is a celebration of the fact

That everything we’d planned

Worked out beautifully despite the stress

I barely could withstand.

It’s wonderful to have the chance

To sigh with great relief

And reward ourselves with travel,

Even though the visit’s brief.