Billboard

The billboard on the highway
Had no product there to sell
But asked a question: Will you go
To Heaven or to Hell?

Below, there was a number
You could call or you could text
So you could get an answer as to
Where you’re going next.

I wonder just how many
Will give in and make that call,
Though hopefully the truth would be
Nobody after all.

Yet I suspect there are some souls
Both gullible and rash
Who would, for that information,
Part with lots of hard-earned cash.

Holiday Leftovers

When hosting a holiday meal
There's always a certain appeal
To food that remains 
For you've taken such pains
To prepare it, it seemed an ordeal.

But after the guests have all split
If you're honest, you'll have to admit 
That your efforts have paid
Since the food that you've made 
Can be eaten for days, bit by bit.

Anxiety's Pull

When hosting on Thanksgiving Day,
I worry there won’t be enough
For it’s the American way,
On holidays, to overstuff.

If I were alone with my spouse,
We’d eat a few bites and be full
But when there are guests in our house,
I give in to anxiety’s pull.

Should I run to buy more at the store
Or stop fretting and try to relax?
It won’t be many hours before
All the company will have made tracks.

What’s the worst that can happen, I think –
There’ll be talk that we needed more food
But perhaps with a bit more to drink
We’ll all be in that holiday mood.

Anniversary Poem

Got married on Thanksgiving Day;
A backyard was the venue.
Extended family gathered;
There was turkey on the menu.

It inconvenienced everyone
Yet those who loved us made it.
The traffic was horrendous
And the stress did thus pervade it.

But now, 44 years later,
Here we are and still together.
Looking back, we couldn’t know
The many storms we’d have to weather.

Still, we did it as a team
And it’s kept us both from sinking
So we’ll head out for a meal
And a toast with what we’re drinking.

In the Time Zone Zone

For every hour difference
In a time zone where you’ve traveled
There’s another day of jet lag
Which can make you feel unraveled.

That’s the story I’ve been told
And it’s up for some debating
But I know it’s many years
Since I’ve heard it circulating.

I’m just back from overseas,
With 6 hours or time between us.
If you saw my spouse and me,
You might want to quarantine us.

For exhausted’s how we look
Though we’re back to navigating
All the bits of our routines;
Still, 5 tired days are waiting.

Cashless

We never used an ATM
In Stockholm, on our trip.
The guide on our free walking tour
Took dollars for a tip.

For every other purchase
We used charge cards like the Swedes,
Since coins and bills, it seems, are things
Today nobody needs.

A sign in a museum 
Made the point with quite a splash:
"We accept just who you are but we
Are not accepting cash."

How strange to visit someplace 
With no currency in hand.
Perhaps someday all cash will be
Considered contraband.

Licorice

In New York and so many places,
Chocolate shops abound,
Where milk and dark and white, with nuts
Or not, can all be found.

Yet here in Sweden, there's a store,
If you want something sweet,
Which carries only licorice,
A Nordic candy treat.

Varieties are plentiful,
Including those with salt, 
Which you may want to spit right out;
If so, it's not your fault.

For licorice, the jet black kind,
You either love or hate.
I love it but when made with salt,
I simply can't relate.

Yet other combinations,
Like with chocolate or fruit,
Taste delicious and they come in
Different styles and shapes, to boot.

Today, my last in Sweden,
I stocked up to take back home,
So I'm leaving with sweet mem'ries
And the topic for a poem!