Party of Eight

We all shared the good fortune
Of being White in America,
Sentient, able to enjoy
Each other’s company.

Old enough to not be embarrassed
By a seating arrangement
That featured women occupying
One half of a round table, men opposite.

Two small, white, fuzzy dogs
Offered friendship to all.
Conversation flowed easily.
Pat spoke of travel to Vietnam.

An insatiable journeyer,
Pat thought Vietnam her most inspiring trip,
Yet her list of experiences seemed to fall short,
Of magic.

But her recollections did speak
Of adventure and change,
As though she had found something transcendent,
A place of real sounds, real color and real people.

Men speak of sports,
Safe subjects, testing yesterday’s recall.
When did Gibson pitch?
Will Tiger make it back?

I’m older then the others,
An observation without weight.
At least I wish to think
That I could play shortstop with anyone here.

Closing Time

Do you want to wait for Maddy?
She shook head.
What about Jerry?
She shook her head.

Will you wait for Veronica?
A barely perceptible nod.
Where is Veronica?
Veronica is here.

A tenuous smile plays on Ruth's lips.
She is caressed, a small child,
Being held securely, lovingly,
In the arms of her mother.

An understanding is silently reached.
It is time.
The ninety-nine year old baby
Closes her eyes.

I Forgot

Entering the gas station office
I asked for $20.00 worth,
Paid; returned to my car
And drove away.

Most folks would have pumped
$20.00 worth of gas before driving off.
But then most people who
Paid for take-out food would not leave without same.

This week I decided Wednesday was Thursday.
It followed that Friday and Saturday came one day early.
This morning’s newspaper was thin,
Providing categorical proof that today is really Saturday.

At ninety three Mom concluded the restaurant waiters
Where in fact policemen
In policemen’s uniforms.
Neither the taking of orders, or aprons dissuaded her.

I’m not ninety three,
But four days to convince
Some portion of my brain
That Saturday was Saturday?

Ruth and Herb

Seated opposite Ruth and next to Herb
At the half empty restaurant,
We spoke to the very attentive waiter,
With light humor featured as starters.

Friends for twenty five years
Herb, my senior by almost two decades,
Allowed me to parrot his beer order.
“Not now, but with the meal”.

Ours is something of a father-son relationship
That’s become more apparent the last few years.
Herb and I exchange hugs and smiles,
And frequently touch one another.

Ruth, many years Herb’s junior, has become family too.
A confidante of Diana’s, and a friend to me.
The four of us share many sympathies,
And, often, honest conversation.

Sign of the Time

I am a lost patient,
Left in the wrong corridor
With two white blankets
To warm my back, cover my legs.

I am slightly bent,
Look at least my age,
Young enough to be a resident physician,
Old enough to be resident furniture.

One of four wheel-chaired men,
Quietly lining the wall
Opposite an x-ray room,
Awaiting their turn, or.....Godot.

I supposed that eventually someone
Would come looking,
Remove me to the Eco lab.
Meanwhile I smiled at fate.

I’m well enough to get up and leave,
But that would be “contra-indicated”.
Hospitals are not really upbeat.
Maybe it’s the music?

Whose Eyes Are Those?

Herb sent the pictures.
He was Herbie then.
Japan had not surrendered,
And TV was unheard of.

A skinny kid at a costume party.
His eyes bright.
Enjoying himself.
Looks to be about seven.

Can he imagine the journey?
All the anxiety,
People moving, changing.
When was it ever easy?

Fast answers covered his tracks.
In a world of sectarian Jews
A square mile was the universe,
On a planet with movies and trolleys.

Couldn’t figure what mattered.
Sixty five years later
He knows more words that say
Can’t figure what matters.

Could I sit with that seven year old
And agree on the absurdity
Of our costume parties?
Surely we would laugh.

Morris At Closing Time

“Long time, thirty years”, Morris thought,
Looking at his appointment calendar.
“A lot of fingers in a lot of dams.
Progress, yeah but ...

Chapter numbers are very good.
Members, connections, collections.
Lucky, that his job
Was his cause.

Not the easiest job.
Wearing a bullet proof vest,
Even once in awhile,
Was proof enough.

Of course it was very upsetting
When that hate group posted
His home address and family names
On their website,

Just a few more months
And he’ll be doing other stuff.
Many good volunteer programs
Could use some help.

Morris is imperfect. Not everyone loves him.
Being short, round and in-your-face
Is not always a winning combination.
But he takes pride in his enemies.

If we are judged by the company we keep,
Then the hate of bigots, racists,
Anti-Semites, and other lowlifes
Bears testimony from angels.

“If not me, who? If not now, when”
Is surely a cornerstone of Morris’s beliefs.
No man I know personifies that expression
More fully.