Family

No one here is wanted by the police.
Everyone appears healthy,
And almost all can discuss
Movies and off-channel TV networks.

I walk the pier at Imperial Beach,
Where fishermen line both railings and
Occasionally land small sardines,
Only then can I imagine eternal sufferance.

Evan, my emaciated grandson,
Eats fries at the grill, protecting his paper plate
With an encircling arm.
At four ten, he best protect his food.

I’m the only current resident that thought
Harry Potter and “The Deathly Hallows”
Was a dreadful movie;
Two hours of water pistol fights.

All nine family visitors leave this week.
I shan’t make predictions for the next generation.
Look what a lousy job we’ve done.
Did I tell you, all had a very good time.

After forgiveness

It’s not quite a year,
But however angry I had been,
His letter no longer turns to righteousness
In my stomach.

We’d been friends and
Allowances should be made, or we’d be very lonely.
But, what of our friendship?
Can it be healed, or is there more to consider?

He inhabits a world that disturbs me,
I do not share his prejudices,
And while some may judge my shortcomings equally grievous,
I’m unable to do more than agree.

His virtues are real.
He has wasted little time on his hurts
And is an honest man.
Still, I will not cross the room to greet him.

We are no longer young
And neither of us can claim
That we have miles to go before
Our collective dust might mingle.

I find my life a little easier
Without this honest man.
My sleep is not troubled
And I wish him friends he may love.

Gliding to Earth

A soft landing,
Just missing the bench
At the foot of the bed,
Where I do stretches daily.

Not a high speed leap.
That often results in injuries or insults.
I merely sat down ever so close to the bench,
Descending to where my eye, not my butt, was aligned.

I sit here, unharmed, considering alternatives.
Perhaps the bench is unhappy with me
And repositioned itself
To express disapproval?

As I stood alongside the two foot wide,
Four foot long, two foot high bench,
I managed to miss the flat surface.
Guess I am no longer a circus high-wire candidate.

I’ve heard that if a fall does not kill you,
It makes you stronger.
Maybe, if I just sit here, on the floor,
My butt muscles will become “steel buns”.

If I had been drinking
My excuse would be simple and silly.
No, that doesn’t work.
Think I’ll sit here until I find a better story,
Or I’m called for supper.

3rd Person Slightly Removed

Arturo asked if we should
Take Ida to lunch.
No that’s not right. He really asked
If we should take “her” to lunch.

Ida was sitting a few feet away,
She had “pronounced signs of dementia”,
A resident of that other dimension,
Where a person becomes inanimate.

This is never the place to choose.
Better a handful of ashes,
Or an encased corpse,
That will be left sans lunch.

Do not tolerate the kindness
Or the smiles, plastered in place,
Claw your way to the surface
And growl your protest.

“I am here,
I will not stand as a sad relic
From a time that never was.”
Better a column of smoke that asks neither kindness nor
3rd Party Slightly Removed condolences.

Life/Death

Alan had passed beyond thin.
His bronchial cough left little doubt
That he would die before the next sunrise.
But he was conscious and articulate.

Gathered members of his family
Urged him to let go.
He told me he was not ready.
I whispered “fuck ‘em”.

Returning home in a depressed mood,
Under heavy clouds
That promised rain
I thought of recurring roof leaks.

Guy

If the letter was awkward
My emotions were not.
There was more curiosity
Than anxiety.

Thirty years have passed,
And I don’t remember how, or if,
I loved him,
This man-child.

His response, which I’d suspected
Would not be forthcoming,
Was the work of a mature mind,
And offered reason.

Will the person I parented
For most of his pre-college years
Care to extend my initial query
Into a long distance dialogue?

Our paths are not likely to cross unless
One of us really wants that to happen.
He writes that I was a hard task master.
Yes, I was responsible, but that should never be enough.

Both his letter and his picture
Speak of eons and metamorphosis.
I did not ask if he, even part-time ,
Continued his art.

Is he happy or resolved?
Has life shown more sun than shadow?
For my sake I hope his journey
Has put him in a place of warmth.

I Guess I Told Them

Yessir, I was righteous.
Asked me to help, make calls, motivate the voters.
Two hours, waiting for the system to call me, but my phone never rang.
What the hell is wrong with these people!?

My scalding emails right on target,
Told countless friends,
(Countless if you can’t count past three),
How slick the system was. Very embarrassing.

Called to tell those countless friends
That I had a mea culpa to offer,
But did not get a dial tone.
Those jerks had tied up my line and wouldn’t let go.

Unless, nah that can’t be the case...
No way man! Way? Shit!
Son-of -bitch! No one home but me.
Two hours with the phone off the hook, ouch!