According to my phone, the rain
Would start
at 9 or 10.
My walk
began at not quite 7;
Lots of time
‘til then.
Of course,
at 7:45,
It started pouring
hard.
Without my
small umbrella,
It was tough
to disregard.
The last
half mile, I got soaked;
At least it
wasn’t cold
And being
close to home, I was
A little bit
consoled.
I never
learn my lesson,
Which is not
to trust my phone
And, judging
by my fellow drenchees,
I am not
alone.
For my 9th grade graduation,
I received
my first real ring.
My parents
thought that it would be
The best
gift they could bring.
It wasn’t
very often that
Our presents
were in gold.
We weren’t
rolling in the bucks
And I had
not cajoled.
A friend of
mine had gotten one,
An opal,
center-set,
With diamond
chips surrounding it,
A style I
can’t forget.
So when I
saw my ring, which in
Its middle
held a pearl
With a
little sparkly flower,
I was not a
happy girl.
To me, a
pearl seemed older,
Meant for
someone middle-aged.
I don’t
remember if
My
disappointment was assuaged.
I’m sure
they knew my feelings
But it
couldn’t be exchanged,
So I wore
that ring, but how I felt
About it
never changed.
It resides
now in a box with
Other
jewelry from my past
And as for
rings I haven’t loved,
That pearl
one was the last.
For every lowlife scammer,
Preying on
those unaware,
There should
be a waiting slammer
With just
other lowlifes there.
Stealing
savings from the lonely
Or the
elderly or sick
Is a crime
that can be only
Done by
those so cruel and slick
That they
don’t deserve a pardon
From a life
within a cell,
Since all
sympathy will harden
When their victims
start to tell.
In this techno
world we live in,
Scams are
easy to perform,
Yet no
scammer gets forgiven,
Or at least
that is the norm.
When I read
or hear a story
Of a person
who’s been scammed,
Well, to me,
it’s mandatory
That their
slammer door be slammed.
I am back on my bench
With the river in view.
People walk by in t-shirts;
The sky’s bright and blue.
There’s one small mound of snow
Which is coated in black.
It’s refusing to melt,
Fending off spring’s attack.
Flowers haven’t appeared
But the stage has been set.
By tomorrow, that snow
Will be gone, I would bet.
Sitting in a diner booth
Is cozy and
inviting.
To me, such
places are, in truth,
The tables
most delighting.
When offered
booth or table,
There’s no
contest; I will choose
A booth which
will enable
Me to chill
out and enthuse.
At dinner, I
like atmosphere
And
candlelight and chairs,
A place to
sip an ice-cold beer
And wait
while food prepares.
Yet for breakfast
or a lunchtime meal,
My
preference tends to be
A diner with
the main appeal
Of booths
for friends and me.
My husband
likes a table most
But will not
raise his voice
When we end up
in, you might have guessed,
A booth. (He
has no choice!)
The band’s composed of middle-schoolers
From within the state.
Most have never met before,
Yet right from out the gate,
Their music sounds incredible,
Professional and full
And any passerby would feel
Its strong inviting pull.
Of course, I try to listen for
One close-to-me trombone,
But in a band the point is that
No sound exists alone.
We’ll attend the concert later
Yet I’m glad we happened by,
Catching part of the rehearsal;
Kvelling* privileges apply.
*bubbling over with immense joy (Yiddish)
Two hundred miles of driving
For tomorrow’s concert date,
Where we’ll watch our grandson play trombone
And get to celebrate.
It’s quite a feather in his cap
To make the state-wide band
And anyone with grandkids
I am sure will understand.
We never know how many
Chances in the years ahead
We might have to make these efforts;
I will leave “until” unsaid.
So we’re rolling on the highway
With our trusty brand-new tires,
Glad to be a part of this event
Before our time expires.
