Hindsight

Where we live and what we do
Are choices made without a clue
If we will thrive at home or work;
We cannot know what problems lurk.

Decisions made when we are young,
Some based on plans to which we’ve clung,
May work out just the way we’d hoped
Despite some pitfalls never scoped.

Yet other picks may not pan out
And leave us filled with dread or doubt.
Of those selections, most will curse them;
It takes courage to reverse them.

Age makes hindsight crystal clear
So regrets may thus appear,
But since magic we do lack,
There simply is no going back.

Mothers' Day Traffic

Add rain and roads and Mothers' Day
And multiply by stress.
Subtract the patience you have left
And marvel at the mess.

Then inch along and make a vow
That next year you will stay
At home and do a Face-Time call
To celebrate the day.

Pre-Replacements

I bought a new pillow
But you may behold,
In back of my closet,
Where I hid the old.

My chair pads were faded;
I purchased a set.
Did I ditch the first ones?
I haven't quite yet.

My glasses, old-fashioned,
Looked blah on my face.
My new ones sit next to
The old model's case.

Replacements look spiffy,
But part of the deal
Is chucking the old stuff
That's lost its appeal.

If I beat my spouse
To the Grim Reaper's door,
Tossing my pre-replacements
Will be his first chore.

Nut-Free

The signs are plain - No nuts allowed!
Though I am sure in every crowd 
Some nuts are hiding in disguise,
At times right there, before our eyes.

Of course, that's not the kind they mean,
For allergies have made the scene
So peanut butter won't be found
When any kids might be around.

A childhood staple has been banned
But what I do not understand
Is why, back then, we could not see
That peanuts were the enemy.

It seems today, there's so much fear
Of germs and gluten and it's clear
That as more items miss the cuts 
The state of things, to me, is nuts!

Hot Sauce

The restaurant was Vietnamese
And so, for its clients to please,
On each table there sat
Bottles filled with sauce that
Would make someone like me start to sneeze.

For some cultures like heat in their food
Thus for zestiness, they might include
Certain chilies or spice,
Sometimes sprinkled on twice,
So a torridness they will exude.

Though some patrons such heat will exalt
And use hot sauce, perhaps, by default,
I like flavor, not heat
Yet my meal’s not complete
‘Til it has a few shakes of the salt.

On the Streets of New York

More people trudge on every block
Than live in many towns,
Their faces blank or manifesting
Current ups or downs.

I check out what they’re wearing
And the way they stroll or strut.
Deciding which are tourists
Doesn’t take much thinking, but…

I wonder how it feels for someone
From a tiny place
Confronted with more humans than
They’ve ever had to face.

Are they excited by the crowds
They knew that they would find
Or aching for the peace and quiet
That they left behind?

My guess is that the frenzy
Of New York sets them aflame,
But they’re relieved when they return,
At last, from whence they came.

Sandbox

There used to be a sandbox
Where some plantings are in bloom.
The germaphobes today
Would never use it, I assume.

But years ago I plopped my son
With shovel, pail and truck
In that sand where he would dig
And I could read, with any luck.

The benches formed a semi-circle
So the moms would sit
And enjoy some peace and quiet,
Even if for just a bit.

Though the playground had a sandbox,
This one by the mayor’s manse
Had no slide or swing distractions –
Just the river’s smooth expanse.

I look fondly on those hours
When my child played in the sand,
Something mothers of today most likely
Wouldn’t understand.