Scientologists

It looked like a scene from a sci-fi film
When the aliens roam through town,
In their matching clothes with their faces set
Showing neither a smile nor frown.

With determined strides, lone or in a group,
They went scurrying to and fro
And their stark white shirts and their dark black vests
Told me all that I need to know.

Past their tax-free lairs and their fenced-in rooms
We drove, wondering mostly why
Folks would get sucked in to this seeming cult
As reality passes them by.

Anyone can choose how to live his life
And so, too, Scientology peeps,
But observing them, all that I can say
Is it gave me a case of the creeps.

The Rainy Season

The thunder booms; the rain pours down.
The sky is steely gray;
But in the rainy season, well,
There's nothing more to say.

The beaches are deserted so
My bathing suit's unworn.
The souvenir shop vendors all
Look bored and quite forlorn.

I'm here to visit relatives
So I don't really care
But to tourists on vacation
All this rain does not seem fair.

Still, in nature everything, of course,
Has got to have a reason.
Thus, to balance out the sunshine
There must be a rainy season.

Before Takeoff

The planes were lined up in a queue,
A reminder of something I knew.
     They awaited permission
      Like at intermission 
In theaters outside of the loo.

One by one each one skyward immersed
As the rest inched up closer to first
     But like women in line
     Still not given the sign
There were tempers (and bladders!) to burst.

To Dine

A civilized meal lets you dine
With a tablecloth, napkins and wine.
            The lighting is low;
            The room has a glow
And your mood is relaxed by design.

Compare that to dinner tonight
On the phone in between every bite.
            As I guzzled my drink
            Standing over the sink
I knew agita* this would invite.

For there’s certainly lots to be said
When you calmly sit down to break bread.
            As you nibble and sip
            Stress releases its grip
So your brain and your belly get fed.

*indigestion, agitation, anxiety

Next Friday

It’s Monday or Tuesday; I’m making a date
By email, by phone or by text
And Friday’s the day that I want to relate
So my spouse says, “Which one?” I say NEXT.

But next Friday, to him, is a few days away
And that isn’t the one that I meant,
For that one is THIS Friday and, to his dismay,
My annoyance is quite evident.

See, in Brooklyn, our THISSES and NEXTS we all knew
With no reason to thus clarify.
If I said, “Meet next Friday,” I understood you
Would just nod or say yes in reply.

Since it seems that not everyone has this in hand
I will spell it the best I know how.
THIS implies that the date coming up, understand,
Is the one in the same week as now.

But when you’re talking NEXT, check your calendar page.
I assure you the date you will find
Is the one after THIS one has been center stage
And the week has left mem'ries behind.

I don’t get the confusion; it’s simple as pie
Though my husband thinks I’m off my gourd.
Still, at least in New York, I can kind of see why
THIS and NEXT is a double-edged sword.

To Swap

In "Words with Friends" you have to know
Exactly when to swap,
For sometimes with the tiles you have
You can't come out on top.

The same is true in life, I guess;
At times we have to trade
Our car, our job or maybe spouse
Before our chances fade.

I mostly hold my letters, though,
And rarely make a switch,
Since upgrades are among those things
For which I have no itch.

I play with three opponents
And of course I lose a lot,
Perhaps because I mostly tend
To stick with what I've got.

Peach Lace Skirt

She strutted in a peach lace skirt,
Engaged in conversation.
Her legs were bare for temps were warm –
From tights, a liberation!

It brought me back to younger years –
That breeziness and hope,
When sunny days held promises
Which left no time to mope.

Her office beckoned, I was sure
But there’d be time to flirt,
For how could anyone resist
That brand-new peach lace skirt?