Photo I.D.

I once received two tickets
(My license was required)
Because the card I gave the cop
Had long ago expired.

Though stopped for turning from a lane
I shouldn’t have been in,
The license I produced
Was guarantee I wouldn’t win.

“But wait!” I pleaded with the cop
As she wrote up the ticket,
“I have my current license, too;”
She told me where to stick it.

So you may wonder why I had
A previous I.D.,
When underneath it, there it was –
The current, older me.

The simple truth is ten years’ time
Transformed my youthful face.
When opening my wallet,
All those years I could erase.

The judge dismissed the ticket
(Though I still paid for the turn).
I took away my younger self;
A lesson I did learn:

You simply can’t recapture
How, one time, you used to look.
A mirror should have taught me that;
A cop is what it took.

Germicide

My husband tried to kill the germs
That lurk within our space.
He bought a spray-top Lysol and
He spritzed around the place.

Now germs are rather clever things –
Invisible and sly;
You never know exactly where
Their tiny bodies lie.

They like to float up in the air
And cling to walls and sinks.
I have no faith a spray will work,
Despite what Lysol thinks.

The label shouts out loud and clear
That ninety-nine percent
Of virus and bacteria
Will leave – that’s the intent.

But what about the germs that hide,
Avoiding all that mist?
And yes, there is that one percent
That’s likely to resist.

There’s really not much you can do
When germs invade your nest –
Drink fluids, wash your hands and yes –
Get lots and lots of rest.

As far as Lysol, what the heck,
It doesn’t hurt to spray.
Perhaps it will convince some germs
It’s time they went away.

You Know You're Sick When...

You crave more sleep
Your cough is deep

Your throat is sore
To read’s a chore

Your hunger’s gone
Your face looks drawn

Your headache pounds
You’ve tissue mounds

You can’t go out
Disease-thoughts sprout

You don’t take calls
The day just crawls

At last it’s night
The bed feels right

You hope like hell
You’ll soon feel well

Scratching the Itch

Bees make honey; hens lay eggs.
Brewers mash and fill their kegs.
Chefs make meals and cows give milk.
Spiders spin their webs like silk.

Knitters turn out scarves and sweaters.
In Vermont, they fashion cheddars.
Artists sketch or draw or paint.
English teachers cross out “ain’t.”

Donkeys carry; doctors heal.
Actors act and robbers steal.
Farmers till and hoe and reap.
Mothers rock their babes to sleep.

Every creature has a niche
To satisfy that nagging itch.
As for me, I’ve learned that I’m
Itch-free when I resort to rhyme.

Land Lines

Many people do not have
A land line anymore.
With cell phones, they can’t understand
Just what that line is for.

My answer is it feels much better
Cradled by my ear;
And always, the connection’s
Static-free and crystal clear.

Extensions help when two of us
Must both be on the call.
A cell has speaker phone, but that
Is not the same at all.

A land line is a dying breed,
Like VCR’s and books;
Admitting that you have one
Might just earn some startled looks.

Tennis Undies

Gussie Moran, a tennis star,
Created quite a stir
When she wore lace-trimmed underwear,
Created just for her.

In 1949 this was,
On Wimbledon’s staid courts;
The British folk were scandalized,
According to reports.

Designed by Teddy Tingling,
A tennis pro and Brit,
The all-white skirt (above the knees!)
Had newsmen in a snit.

They said she brought “vulgarity”
And even, more so, “sin”
Into a sport that prior
Only let the proper in.

Along with her obit, there was
A photo of her wearing
These very clothes; to us, today,
They’re anything but daring.

But bravo to this fearless gal!
Her charms she did assert
When she gave fans at Wimbledon
A shock beneath her skirt.

Dear Abby

Dear Abby and her sister Ann
Both chose the same career,
A case of sibling rivalry, 
Or so it would appear.

When competition cuts too close,
It’s natural for some friction;
They didn’t speak for several years,
A seeming contradiction.

Eventually, they drifted back
And plainly reconciled.
Though they were twins, each might have wished
To be the only child.

It’s curious when siblings
Opt to follow the same track,
And rarer still when both succeed;
It takes a certain knack.

Now both are gone, with their advice.
They had their share of fame;
But each of them believed, I’m sure,
She had the most acclaim.