Chord

His body twisted,
Searching to escape the stomach  pain
That kept him from crawling to the john.

As I watch him,
I experienced the sadness
Of observing a failed experiment.

I was safe from his alcoholism.
While the smell pervaded the tiny room,
I was immune to his suffering.

A lightbulb, suspended on a long wire,
Set the stage for a melodramatic
Second act of a piece of theater.

How many times had Eric performed
This god-damn pathetic scenario,
To be followed by a false brief reprieve?

The Communist

On most days he believed.....sort of,
That the equality promised by Communism
Would subdue the worst of human nature.
A superior idea.

Austin, now retired,
And living off a modest pension,
Felt it was time for his four daughters to share.
And what greater gift to bestow than his person.

To educate his materialistic children,
And save his grandchildren from the disaster
Of excess consumption and uneven distribution,
It was necessary that he move into their homes and daily lives.

Surely a a six month stay-over
Would cause minimum inconvenience,
While allowing him to allow them
To practice sharing.

As a practical communist it seemed pointless
To maintain his apartment,
Keep a telephone, subscribe to newspapers, etc.,
When his girls already had those things.

He patiently explained
It was just short of a fatal blow to materialism
When coffee and the Times are shared,
On a daily basis.

Capitalism would be shown for the vicious,
Gluttonous fiend it is.
Separate homes, with underused silverware,
And individual mail, the waste!

There were few takers when he suggested
That the Berlin wall kept unbelievers out.
Nor did his progeny seem overjoyed by the prospect
Of Austin’s settling on their sole toilet’s seat for the morning.

After two weeks the eldest, Flora, insisted
That the next oldest sibling
Accept with grace the gift of Dad.
Mao would have been disappointed,

As was Austin.

Loss of a Friend

I’ll miss Clark...
But not interminably.
How easily I close a book.
There will be time enough to reopen.

He orders his life,
Loves his wife and boys,
Gives to charities,
Adds value to the community.

A New York liberal,
We share many values,
Excluding his love for the Yankees!
A forgivable sin.

One truth annihilated our friendship.
I quit to salvage the game,
An extant thought that we had shared
Without anticipating our changing roles.

Certainly, and not for the first time,
I angered a friend.
His indignation became my courage and excuse;
Pathetic, but comforting.

I do not believe in the unforgivable,
Though, sadly, I sometimes practice the vice.
A disingenuous suggestion may annoy me
But it’s hardly subhuman.

Yes, Clark may, on occasion, be unconvincing,
And his motives unclear.
I’m sure I have been guilty of worse,
And the last verse is unwritten.

Hindu

I can’t seem to reconcile
My joyful memories of Brooklyn
With my general belief
That I hated my life there.

I think both are true:
A combination
Of bright splashes
On a dark canvas.

“Hindu” meant “it should not be counted.”
That was the plea
When some adult interrupted a stoop-ball game.
Or when you screwed up a clean pass interception.

“Hindu” was often followed by outrage.
“Fagettaboutit” was the standard response.
“Dat lady dien’t block nuhtin for crissakes!
“Ya just fuckin drop da ball, next batta.”

After five minutes of venting
Someone, preferring to play,
Gave up screaming, and conceded,
Allowing the game to proceed.

Was there anyone among us
Who imagined someone powerful and wise
Wearing a turban and invoking a great spirit
Through the pronouncement of “Hindu”? No.

Older apartment players used the word.
We adopted their rules and words,
Along with their shouts of frustration.
I still prefer “Hindu” to “misspoke”.