Ruth and Veronica

Her last good friend was not Jewish.

I’ve a picture of them playing Rummy,

Or at least attempting to play Rummy.

Mom is focused on winning.

Her last best friend is not white.

But the lady understood

That Mom had carried 

A relatively benign racism into their relationship.

Mom had moved beyond those 

Acculturated fears

Long before she died.

Veronica had become her friend.

In the minutes before she died,

Asked to wait for her children

Ruth gave a small head shake.

For Veronica she nodded.

Mom settled in Veronica’s arms

And, as a child comforted 

By her mother’s embrace, 

Left us.

After

Gun-metal gray, with a two foot chop,

And a lifting fog set Coronado’s shore line.

Remnants of last night’s beach dinner

Sit on the sand, awaiting tonight’s resurrection.

A tall bar table for two,

With a white tablecloth  hanging unevenly, 

Awaits the morning crew,

Who will remove the evidence.

A dozen folding chairs,

Resembling the aftermath of a New Year celebration,

(Leaning, lying askew, or erect, awaiting someone’s butt)

Looking to have failed a group support session.

Three pigeons move slowly across the surrounding sand,

Pecking at a potential source of delight.

Six others stand to one side 

Possibly discussing tonight’s menu.

Within an hour this camera-ready photo

Will be replaced by children with sand pails,

Joggers of all shape and sizes,

And a break in the morning fog.

For this moment the picture is pensive,

Undecided on its degree of sobriety.

Phantoms of the drinkers and talkers

Fade as I move into this eternal day.

Shul

I think the Shul held fifty, tops.

In another eight months it would be my turn.

All I had established in four months of Bar-Mitzvah preparation

Was that I could run and write faster than the other guys.

Our Rabbi was a strange guy.

He spoke to us about conversing with the Torah.

Asking questions, discussing possible answers

With the great book. 

Classes were both boring and difficult.

Most of us had Brooklyn accents. 

When we answered the Rabbi’s quizzes

Our responses required translation into English.

Mom and Dad decided I was to be Bar-Mitzvahed

In the far grander Synagogue three blocks away.

I argued it was not fair to our Rabbi... he had done all the work.

I lost the argument.

Mine was a big family and most cousins lived nearby.

250 seats, all filled, as I started my welcoming comments.

“ I am very glad all youz people could come today.

For today I am a fountain pen”.

My Hebrew portion was not very long.

Combining my running and writing speeds

I reached guinness book escape velocity.

Too fast for my language challenged family to catch my 200 errors.

I recall standing on two large phone books

That enabled me to raise my head

Above the lectern 

And assure my audience that I was not a disembodied voice.

After the Bar-Mitzvah came the handshakes and envelopes.

We grossed $2,050, but netted nothing.

From all this I learned that

Coming of age wasn’t much of a prize.

Here’s Looking At You, Kid

OK Ace, here’s what you must remember:

You come from a long line of crazy people.

If you are insane it is not your fault.

It is easier to feel the light than the dark.

Pick battles you may win, even if it means losing.

Surround yourself with people brighter than yourself,

With luck it will make learning easier.

As I write this you are still in contention 

For the Presidency of the 3rd grade 

And the United States of America.

Equality For Some

Leon was shy and gay.

His Dad had not accepted 

His confession.

Not much of a surprise.

Why me, why me,

He beseeched the silent sky.

Getting over “it” had not happened.

Leon hated the swishy guys.

Gay parades jacked him up,

Being loud inside a protective envelope

Was great but ephemeral,

Always landing him back in depression.

He called his Mom on Thursdays.

Dad visited with Leon’s brother and family,

That one day each week.

It was a tacit, almost acceptable, arrangement.

For Leon gay rights weren’t visceral;

He wished they were.

Losing himself in something 

Outside his pathetic narcissism.

Tonight, might be different, he hoped, 

He met Cal a week ago.

They agreed to a movie.

Best part; it was not a gay flick.

Zen

A big dog,

With Pitbull eyes,

Rescued off the streets.

I thought he might be a problem.

We met nine years ago.

It was his first visit. 

He stood in the entrance 

As our smaller dog Rose examined him.

Zen towered over her 

But before concern could set in

He lay down on the floor

And rolled over onto his back.

With no interest in fighting,

He was always ready to play,

Using his substantial rear

To propel Rose across the room.

An intuitive fellow,

Zen did not have to be taught limits.

Where the grass in a small park ended,

So did his freedom to run.

I wish I had known him better.

No doubt he had his flaws,

But as I told his partner,

“If you’re leaving, send Zen to me.”

God May Exist

Whatssamatta with Dark Matter?

Everything!!

Do you have any idea how much

A two dollar bet would win on Dark Matter?

Try to grasp five hundred zeros,

After a decimal point, followed by a one.

That’s the posted odds

On this winning filly.

I can’t tell you how much money

You would have won

Because there is no word

For that number.

As a non-believer 

I have considered all things 

With a probability of one in 800 trillion

A non starter; this included God.

Yesterday marked a pause.

It seems we have a multi-universe,

And Dark Matter fills most of the space

In our tiny piece of the cosmos.

Compared to the amount of Dark Matter

Filling all that space,

God looks like a shoe-in.

And we haven’t gotten to the number of universes yet.

Looking Back

I was six when I died.

Herbie threw a stone 

Into my resident ditch, and opened my skull. 

Bad business.

That was 68 years ago.

For years Herbie had nightmares.

Other than dying 

I suffered no lasting ill effects.

I know about Herbie because we’ve talked.

Six months ago we started an ongoing conversation.

I remembered the feeling of “sweat”

Running down my face.

I don’t remember my mother

Stopping a car on our street

And insisting the driver take us to the hospital.

She was really scared. 

Certainly the event was traumatic.

When I came home it was as a different person.

My hair was cut really short. I was taller,

But continued to go by my first birth name.

There is no certificate

Attesting to my death and resurrection,

Nor am I nobler for having transitioned,

Just older with unresolved issues.

An Old War Wound

I an holding a paper bag,

In the check out line 

At a small grocery store

In Tahiti.

Six people ahead of me.

I am becoming aware of moisture

Forming on the bottom of the bag,

Wherein sits a bottle of red wine.

I suspect that I had 

Placed the wine down too heavily

When adding it to my coffee and cereal.

Or maybe it’s the climate?

What store would offer such grocery bags?

Perhaps the coffee container was damp?

Yes, that would account for it...

Except the bottom of the bag is becoming wet.

There are still three customers before me,

And no garbage can in sight

As the wet becomes a drip,

And starts moving down my leg.

Tahiti is humid and hot,

And I am sweating.

It could be the weather...

But I know it is the wine.

What to do with the wine

Starting to drip steadily,

Suggesting it will, momentarily,

Pour from knee, to toe, to floor.

Only one customer between me and the cashier.

Will the cashier speak only French?

Surely she sees me 

And smells the problem.

James Bond would never be in this situation.

Before the bag disintegrates I can put it down

And run for the door,

Screaming  “I’m Shot!”

My pathetic attempt at “cool” is failing.

People are looking at me

As my shorts turn red 

And the wine puddles at my feet.

Face to face with the cashier.

She smiles, and bursts out laughing,

Grabs the remnants of the  bag

And throws it into the garbage can by her feet.

I pay for my destroyed groceries,

While wishing the ten amused people in the store

A slow and painful death.

   

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 foot 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.