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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
The auditorium was filled
With every
class in school.
On stage, a
small TV set sat –
For sure,
too miniscule.
The year was
’61 or 2,
A spaceship
set to go,
With either Alan
Shepard
Or John
Glenn; I do not know.
But we’d
been prepped and we were psyched;
We watched
in silent awe,
Though only
those in front were sure
Of what they
really saw.
I though of
that last night as I
Was fixed on
my TV
To watch the
capsule slowly drift
And plop
into the sea.
To many
younger folk, this wasn’t
Much of a
big deal.
They couldn’t
quite experience
What those
my age did feel
Remembering so
long ago
When space
was the frontier
We thought
we’d conquer, but that was
A different
atmosphere.
