The Plot

20 tourists, all ladies, sat at the next table.
None taller than five foot two,
None under sixty.
All with a bottle of Bud and a mug.

Could this be the brains
Of a clandestine army 
Intent on undermining the dominance
Of industrial America?

They raised their mugs
And offered a "bonzaii".
Were these seemingly innocuous foreigners
Part of the master plan?

A plan sponsored by the now foreign owned Budweiser?
A scheme aimed at altering
The contents of America's favorite brew,
Leading to mind control over all American males.

Fiendish, typical of the evil aliens.
No doubt they will change Buds secret formula,
Add ingredients that will suck American men dry
Of our otherwise full-blooded, full throated, masculinity.

Latter Day Religion

Millenniums have past since Peter complained,
“It’s not working,
All those speeches, prayers
And nothing has changed”

Jesus had been executed.
Temple fathers ruled the community.
Rome ruled Jerusalem
And peddlers hustled on the temple steps.

Two thousand years later,
After one year in office,
Our first black President
Has not performed any miracles.

The people are unhappy.
“Where are the jobs?
Why are the bankers getting richer?
Has the quality of our air changed?”

Repeating History

When I was ten
Life was cruel,
Thing usually didn’t work out
When I got a present it was always clothing.

At twenty life was conflicted.
My love didn’t love me,
Sleep and appetite fled,
And school wasn’t happening.

With children at thirty, in a foreign land,
My jobs gave me little satisfaction.
Divorced with few happy prospects.
There were days that seemed interminable.

In my forties I started over ...again.
More anxieties, not much stuff.
Another city, few friends,
I’m still bluffing my way through

Declaring myself a winner, I retired,
Promised myself leisure and travel,
Another new home.
At fifty I had friends and stopped running.

At sixty I hadn’t mellowed,
Could still curse a fool driver,
Express revulsion for the tax code
And people who didn’t recognize my wisdom.

I was born over seventy years before
My latest recitation of my life’s wish.
I want to be the heroic cowboy,
But I find hope in a warm, sunny day.

Penny

I’m panicked!
This shouldn’t be happening.
It’s almost morning
My heart is hammering.

Fear without object.
Knowing I must hide,
But not why or from what.
Dread has cornered my mind.

My sisters, awake now,
Ignore my frenzy,
Think I’m just crazy.
They have no idea how right they may be.

Sitting quietly in the garage,
Between the two parked cars,
Where no one would look for me,
I might be able to calm myself.

Dawn’s light moves across the concrete floor
And my breath begins to slow.
Darkness allows the enemy to close,
But light is winning this morning’s battle.

Street

Helen pushed the Costco shopping cart.
Larger than Von’s model,
It allowed for more debris,
The substance of her life.

All 4 wheels moved smoothly,
Far better then her last cart,
Allowing her to feel a little better,
With less chance of tipping, smoother turns.

Street lights had not taken effect,
As the cooling sun still
Illuminated the broken sidewalk,
And people had not taken their stations.

Her 2 sweaters and jacket
Impinged on her movements
But provided enough protection
To keep her warm.

Tied to the cart’s handle
Was a small wrinkled plastic bag
Holding a stolen banana, a day old roll
And a small bottle of Dago Red.

Her skirt, which covered
An older, more distressed one,
Had suffered from street use.
In contrast her sneakers looked clean.

She carried her 50 years
With determination, if not grace,
But grace would not do,
Genteel poverty lived indoors.