The Next Smile

She pushed a stroller-for-two

That could have featured a sign boasting

“No vacancy”.

Twin girls, maybe a year old, contentedly suck their thumbs.

My smile and “good morning” were not received well.

Sadly, this young mother may have read too many headlines

And voided eye contact by looking down.

For here stood a stranger.

One of the saving graces of seniority is acceptance.

Surely a man who could no longer concern himself

With passing 75 can, with a warm smile, allay any fears

A young mother might have.

Solomon’s wisdom seems to have limitations.

I doubt that I will feel constrained

When the next mother and stroller-bound child

Cross my path… chances are I will have forgotten this incident.

Walking The Dogs

 It's not nearly as tough as herding cats.

But two older dogs can be a chore.

One is not interested in leaving her piece of carpet,

The other complains with the voice of a crow, loud and off key.

         

With protests duly noted we advance to the sidewalk.

After covering six feet, it’s time for an inspection.

Rose, my older mutt, wants to remain at this tree.

No doubt several dogs have watered this tree recently.

Doobie thinks it safe to proceed, but with caution.

Another three feet brings us to another inspection site.

In the course of ten minutes we cover twenty feet,

And Doobie calls it quits.  

He has done his toilette and wants to go home.

We negotiate, Rose is indifferent, busy with a scent,

But Doob’s wont move. Maybe a treat would work?

It’s never worked before, but maybe this time?

Five minutes later, little has changed,

That miserable dog hasn’t moved,

I’m sitting on the grass, and out of treats.

I know! Lets retrace those twenty feet.

The Cousin I Never Knew

Bobby Fried was a cousin on my mother’s side. We interacted irregularly until we were in our early thirties. We had adjacent camp bunks for one summer week in 1950. When our counselor tossed my mail short of my bunk I reached over Bobby’s bunk to get the stuff and Bobby punched me in the mouth, breaking a tooth. I never found out why.

We were eighteen when we went to Miami in June. Clever right? We meet two girls and Bobby immediately went for the prettier chick. Our combined score: 0.

I was married at 23. My mom invited her cousin, Bobby’s dad, and family, to the wedding. Bobby asked if he could take a bottle of wine. I told him it was my new father-in-law who bought the booze. Bobby said he did not know the guy and would I ask. I said no.

At thirty we exchanged visits. I saw him, and his British wife, in Santa Rosa, California.  He stayed with us for a week, when I lived in Honolulu. He was a working abstract artist, who did album covers for big named rock groups. I had a lighting store. We had a terrific time, aided by some fine Maui Wowi.

We were thirty-two when I called his wife to confirm Bobby had died of heart failure. Two weeks earlier he had his first big show. It was at the Brooklyn Art Museum. The critics were merciless.

Gratitude

This may have been our last cookie morning at the Del Coronado.

 (For the past week Andy has been unable to drink coffee.)

His new Hospice team starts today.

I hold a, probably mistaken, belief that good is possible.

I walk a dying man home, grateful for the privilege.

Today Andy was uncomfortable, a bit dizzy.

He wanted to head home and I wanted to walk him.

I’ve enjoyed his company for two years.

It’s not often that you or I chance to offer comfort,

And know it is simply appreciated.

Halfway to his condo we stop to sit on a sunny ledge

and listen to the ocean.

The sounds of small waves occasionally subsides

Before the next set of one foot wavelets reminds us

Of a thousand other moments where quiet has been part

Of the unexpected gift of the “now.”

Our shared recognition of the absurd holds us captive,

Until Andy zips his jacket and we walk to his home.

A brief conversation with Andy and Dee, his wife,

Pushes my ego to an unhealthy level,

Which persists, as I write this poem.

My gratitude is limitless.

For The Love Of Family

White and Tan, curious and tiny with no leash,

I’m guessing the puppy was two weeks old, and under two pounds.

It sat between three little girls;

The oldest appeared to be under three.

Her one sister might be two and the crawler under one.

The mom had just parked on the far side of Ocean Avenue.

Thrusting the compliant puppy into the smallest child’s arms,

Mom picked up the baby and started across the wide

And heavily trafficked avenue, with the other two kids

Holding hands and attempting to keep pace with mom.

I saw mom and baby, with clutched pup, reach the curb. 

Within seconds all four plus one were safely on the sidewalk.

I should have seized the youngest child, and

The diminutive puppy and headed for I- don’t-know-where.

It Will Not Matter

It will not matter, but then what will?

Neither my life nor my species are sacrosanct.

Our planet has a predicted expiration date.

Surely we humans will not experience that foreclosure.

Epicures, to which arguably all life forms

Inevitably pay tribute, do not offer more,

Or less, than the sanctified or disadvantaged.

All belong to time, which cares little for its passengers.

If we name a krill, Michael and a whale Moby,

Can we pass judgment on which to label "a cause,”

Except through the Epicureans looking glass?

Best to smile and have another pistachio.

Comparing Notes

40 years and we stand close,

Reaching for small pleasures

And hoping to stay in touch with

Values that might add sunshine.

I find his voice an octave higher

And like a road less traveled,

I best explore its contours

For the sounds are intriguing.

I had a settled image

Of my friend of 40 years,

But that vision is altered, as if in another dimension,

A more urgent voice commands my attention.

I stop at a restaurant table of strangers

And share the good news.

The zabaglione is remarkable,

To not taste such dessert is surely tragic.

My friend counsels restraint, but his concern is soft.

I abide, for the other dinners are now alert

And can make their own evaluations.

I smile as if something wonderful has happened.

Man on a Cell Phone

He was speaking loudly into his cell,

Or perhaps he was hallucinating.

My guess? It was a long distance call,

Sort of a “shout out” to the ether.

As we approached one another

I suggested he lower the volume,

Or hand me his phone so that I could truly participate

in the unfolding saga.

In response to my earnest suggestions

I received a strange, almost hostile glare.

He did not relinquish “our” phone,

Not withstanding my enforced involvement in his call.

I pleaded that the person out there in the ether

Would surely want my opinion.

Realizing that he might be dealing with someone quite ill,

My newfound buddy yelled into our phone and hurried off.

The Praetorian Guard

After spending untold hours working on the question of

Fairness in the net distribution of wealth,

What has, until now, been shockingly ignored is  

The cost of protection needed by the 1%,

Those great moralists who live in constant fear of the 99%.

This is no small matter and deserves some public sympathy.

It is not merely the bottom feeders, the losers who have never done

An honest days work in their miserable lives.

The enemy’s list also includes those middle-of-the-roaders,

Those spineless white collar slobs who envy the super rich,

Those office ner-do-wells also pointing fingers at our true saviors.

Danger surrounds these most esteemed of providers,

Without whom the number of private armies would be decimated,

Creating 10,000 unemployed, armed with anger and weapons.

      

Pickle-ball

It’s noon on Thursday

And for the next hour or two

I’ll be playing and/or watching pickle-ball.

It’s got lots of rules and fellow seniors to explain them.

There are usually two people on either side of a tennis net.

The ball is a hollowed out plastic, the size of a tennis ball.

It’s bounce is very unreliable. Sneakers are mandatory,

Unless you mistakenly wear slippers… twice.

If you do, chances you’ll be banished.

You play with a short stemmed wood paddle.

If your serve motion carries to your waist you lose the serve.

You don’t want to lose the serve. Points can be earned

Only if your team is serving.

If you are in the “kitchen” = within six feet of the net,

You cannot hit the ball on a fly.

I am fairly expert at wacking that sucker

While in the “kitchen” and hence, being bad.

I had a lady partner in one game. She was very upset.

She showed me how to serve, but her shot went out of bounds.

I advised her that I did not want to serve that way--- out of bounds.

Germany: The Peacekeeper

It should not come as a surprise.

Cautionary tales never expire,

But we may hope for forgiveness.

Germany pleaded guilty 70 years ago.

Alfred, a German child of 11 in 1945,

Was not likely to have committed atrocities

In furtherance of Hitler’s policies.

He does not require your or my absolution.

I have been to the camps,

Seen ovens and pictures.

A photograph taken at Dachau visits me on occasion.

A German captain smiles, and kills two Jews with one bullet.

If I had the chance I would kill that German today,

No matter that he would now be over ninety.

But as to his son, Alfred, what is my grievance?

His Germany and Angela Markel are now my best hope for peace.

Saturday Morning On Orange Avenue

Half euthanized, I think such a glorious day

Can only be reserved for those, like me,  

Who have reached an elevated position.

I make a point of “helloing” all I pass.

As I pass people, receive a smile,  

And an appropriate response that amplifies

My deep feeling of good fellowship,

That for the moment, seems impenetrable.

Of course it takes just one young couple

Who smile insipidly at one another, and pretend

I am not two feet from crashing into them.

I could bloody their stupid faces, they have destroyed the mood.

Yes, they have a miniature schnauzer,

Bent on complaining about his diminutive frame.

It assuredly compliments the lack of elegance

Portrayed by the little beast’s owners.

There is great value in such confrontations.

They serve to remind us of the fragility

Of all that is grand and glorious.

Such people belong in Russia!!

39th Street Rag Trade

There was no posted apology.

It was the last generation of garment shops.

Businesses devoted to making hats and dresses.

Their kids would be lawyers or accountants.

No one used last names, and everyone talked in scream.

(Sewing machines prevented modulated speech).

These guys, and some wives, knew the business,

And lived off the energy of “buyers.”

Christmas mattered little,

Group prayers were offered for Easter Sunday.

If the ladies, in large numbers, went to church in new finery

It presaged a good season after “slack”.

Slack was the fifth season.

Bad weather, or a new French design,

Augured no business, redesigns,

And returns from the big buyers.

Somehow in the maelstrom of employees not showing,

Materials arriving late, and car horns hollering to each other,

These guys maintained a sense of humor.

It centered around the word “nu”.

In his shop, Marvin might greet you with,

“Nu, today the heat is working,

And the rats are leaving.

They don’t like the smell of the new deli food.”

Theirs was a business for fatalists.

It required fortitude built upon a foundation

That stated two good years in a row

Meant the third year would be a disaster.

Christie's Sin

I suppose the weight of Christie’s sin

Will overcome his natural buoyancy,

and allow him a pass in the presidential derby.

Strange to follow another misadventure,

Not unlike Nixon’s “I am not a crook”,

or  Clinton’s assumption that a mere dalliance could not hurt. 

These smart pols do not understand, over/under betting.

 They accept the apparent odds,

While ignoring the possibility that this might be an “all in” 

moment. They see only the improbability of being caught,

and take the almost “sure thing” as a right.

“I am king of the hill” can be written on a nasty smile.

Ignoring the very little gain their action might secure,

they move on to their next potential bit of intrigue.

Nixon moved out, Christie will not move in,

and Clinton still pays.

What of the game?

Were their misdeeds really extraordinary?

Was Christie’s assertion of power unprecedented?

If so, “I have this bridge….”

Tom and Jerry

We come from different backgrounds,

Raised with distinctly opposing political realities.

He is tall, I am below average in stature.

He was led to believe in the code of the fortunate.

I was imbued with a belief in community survival.

He is more self-assured of his position.

I need proof of my existence.

There are few certainties in my world.

He understands limits and exceptions.

I know the end of the story- …

He no longer owes me a coffee and a gelato.