My pencil isn’t really mine
Because
it says, instead,
That
it’s the “Property of
NYC
Bd of Ed.”
I
taught in New York City schools
And,
once I had retired,
There
were some school supplies that I
Had
suddenly acquired:
Like
pens and pencil, post-it-notes,
Some
staples, chalk and paper.
It
wasn’t quite enough to be
A
teacher school-theft caper.
I’ve
been retired fifteen years
And
no one has come looking.
I
suspect my current pencil
Won’t
land me in Central Booking.
When my knitting queen aunt
Feels that needlework pull,
She starts knitting some squares
Using leftover wool.
They’re rectangles, really,
With colorful stripes,
Their patterns and stitches
Of similar types.
Then when there are enough,
Using needle and thread,
She will sew them together
To cover a bed.
If no blanket’s requested
By someone she knows,
To a charity’s stockpile
That handiwork goes.
Though some unattached pieces
My aunt did produce
Found their way to my granddaughter
For a new use.
Now her dolls all have blankets,
Two interests in sync,
Crossing ages and miles
In such a sweet link.
Going through a closet,
I
was quite surprised to find
Several
shopping bags of t-shirts
That
my son had left behind.
While
looking at them, one by one,
I
realized they portrayed
His
entire growing up, through college,
Starting
in first grade.
The
school shirts featured P.S. 6,
Then
Wagner Junior High,
With
a special few from Stuyvesant,
Where
high school years flew by.
Another
group had characters
From
movies or TV –
Pee
Wee Herman, Austin Powers
And
the Simpsons’ family tree.
There
was Beavis, there was Butthead
And
the South Park kids, as well
As
World Series shirts and Yankees;
(We’re
New Yorkers, you can tell).
Favor
shirts from his Bar Mitzvah
Nestled
near the travel trove –
Shirts
from Scotland and from Israel,
Plus
some places where we drove.
Then
the final category,
From
his favorite billiards hall,
Where
the hours spent resulted
In
those plaques upon his wall.
As
a grown-up and a parent,
His
collection’s surely grown,
But
I love these sweet reminders
Of
his younger self I’ve known.
Just ‘round the corner,
A
carpet of gold,
From
the branches of ginkgos,
Was
there to behold.
The
lovely-shaped leaves
Also
covered some cars,
So
you couldn’t tell Hondas
From
sleek Jag-u-ars.
I
waded through piles,
Their
yellow so bright
That
all who walked by
Got
a dose of delight.
In
a matter of days,
Nature’s
vacuum will sweep
All
that carpet away,
Likely
while we’re asleep.
I went to a holiday fair.
Many
craftsmen and shoppers were there.
All
the goods on display
Were
well-worth what you’d pay
If
you had extra money to spare.
Yet
not one little thing did I buy
And
in case you were wondering why,
It’s
that all of my stuff
Seems
to be quite enough
So
I look and walk on, with a sigh.
I
would purchase a lot in my youth,
Checking
out every kiosk or booth,
But
that hunger is gone;
I
will pass the baton
To
each tourist or craft-seeing sleuth.
It’s time to remember,
When
we hit December,
How
quickly the time seems to fly.
We
drift through life’s stages
As
calendar pages
Proclaim
that the year’s slipping by.
We
mark off the seasons
For
no other reasons
Than
habit and need to keep track,
Yet
the forward momentum
Makes
days – how we spent ‘em –
Worth
little, for we can’t go back.
So
each month we’re still living,
There’s
time for forgiving
And
blocking out things that annoy.
Every
day of the week
We
should wake up and seek
Something
out there to bring us some joy.
When I was a kid, pistachios
Had
shells they dyed bright red
And
sure enough, that color
To
your fingers quickly spread.
It
didn’t wash off easily,
But
left a tell-tale clue
About
what you’d been snacking on,
That
bright red proof on view.
Today,
I cracked pistachios
And
wondered, as I ate,
Why
someone once decided
To
disguise their natural state.
No
matter why, that dye is gone –
Red
fingers not the answer.
For
all we know, pistachios
With
dye might have caused cancer.
