Issues on Nightstands

Should I wish to know your concerns?

Whether for a happy conclusion or something less sanguine,

I need only examine the notes and scribbles

That covers the surface of your nightstand.

I believe those barely legible imprints,

Some showing an emotional emphasis

Others lightly written, suggesting an unresolved internal conflict,

Tell of your dreams and nightmares.

Pills and medications speak to problems

That, apparently, has not lent them

To purely intellectual resolutions.

Still it speaks of a battle fully engaged.

There is a picture and phone on this stand.

The former likely speaks of love,

While the phone offers

An escape from solitary.

Ego

M stopped by, wanting to talk.

I was flattered.

A Priest must have an enviable job,

Filled with humility shattering requests.

Becoming a knight of the round table

Is likely to create a disastrous self-assurance,

Floating on bravado.

Did I help M? Was that really my intention?

If I listened to my sagacious comments

I would perhaps have better understood

Their real value, or lack thereof.

At least M looked better when she left.

If you’re lucky enough to have someone you know

Ask for help, let them explain.

If you pay attention they may find

A perfectly acceptable way forward.

A 5 Year Old President

Alessia was just 4

When she stepped back from her painting,

And from under her $3.99 Green Beret,

she exclaimed “awesome” .

I knew her time would come.

And it has!!

Consider Alessia’s qualifications:

She has a vocabulary beyond Trumps understanding

And is beloved by everyone who meets her.

Putin would smile upon her

Seniors would surely vote her in, and

Congressmen would never call her names.

There are just two problems:

She still naps and needs to finish kindergarten.

I Know Not

All trees are bent

Except for the straight ones

Which are merely twisted.

We need a new species

To lead us,

One that sleeps far from thought.

We will have no water

Consider the moon

Is it unhappy?

From where comes melody

Does the White Whale

Speak of love?

Boy On The Loose

Maybe 18 months old and chubby.

He has pulled free of his mom

And could stumble into the street.

I need only move 2 feet to block his path.

Mission accomplished, I smile at mom

And pull my ancient mutt down the street.

40 years ago, in mid-Manhattan,

I was confronted by a different small boy.

This one pushed the rotating hotel door open.

This guy was maybe 2 and heading for Lexington Avenue.

His mother, racing to stop his progress,

Glared at me for merely watching the race.

Unavailable

There is something wrong with a a phone call

That announces you can’t call me back.

Doesn’t that sound rather arrogant?

I will call you whenever I please.

4 AM Monday or Sunday at 11 PM

But you can never call me.

Further, I may not be immediately available

Even though I am the calling party.

You most understand that I have a lousy job.

My pay is buckish, no fringes

And a remarkable number of people like you

Who slam their receiver down when I say “Hi”.

Perhaps if the “unavailable” message were softened,

To “we can talk latter”?

The Policeman

That Friday afternoon                                            

Two white motorcycle cops,                                

Dressed to intimidate,                                              

Arrived at my front door.

Before discussing my complaint

The short, senior, cop ordered me to remove my dog.

(Rose had been quietly sitting by my side.)

I put her in the garage.

Short cop was not interested in my call  

For police assistance and remained hostile.

Both men refused to remove their dark glasses,

Or enter my house.

They left after advising me

That I could be put in jail

If they thought it appropriate,

And never did listen to my concern.

Dressed in black,

They never smiled,

Completing the stereotype

Assigned to them by some movie legend.

What aspect of civilization

Did they represent?

If guardians, who or what was beginning guarded

Beside their self-image?

Dad’s Education

Lou, my Dad, quit school before the 9^th grade.

His father tended to spend his money on cards.

Max, Lou’s older brother, did the same.

Dad put food on the table he shared with his mom.

In time Dad owned his own business

And earned enough to allow

Me to attend a city college, 

But he could never recover his lost school years.

A truly sharp and well-dressed hat maker,

He never saw the places he should have reached.

I don’t recall his bemoaning an 8^th grade education,

But he gave space to college grad fools.

My Dad's Hair

My earliest recollections of Dad

Includes a vision of thinning side burns,

With no offending foliage forward of his ears.

This was not going to be my problem!

I had a pompadour,

A large not well controlled wave,

That followed mom’s side of the tree.

Alas, today my wave is not simply smaller,

It has succumbed to the cruel plot

That expresses itself when my mirror

Reflects a balding dome that seats upon

An aging face

And smiles at what has vanished.

What’s in a Name

A conundrum:

We had a great business idea that needed a great name.

After hours we reduced the criteria to three elements:

Something reassuring, yet explosive and suggests the future.

For some reason there were no cheers.

Just Marvin and I voted to incorporate

Our next business adventure, under that epithet.

It’s 20 years, maybe 30, maybe 40.

We’ve long since forgotten our “awesome” business idea.

But that name, which bespoke

Strength, huge returns and “NOW”.

Has yet to attach itself to a big spender.

Still I can see 10,000 locations with banners declaring:

TIP TOP URANIUM for Home Protection

It wipes out bugs, unwanted neighbors, in-coming missiles

And leaves your home spotless.

Evan's Story

There is time to reflect.

It hasn’t always been easy.

Yes, there were moments of joy

But the schoolwork was hard.

He was lucky.

Between a growing acceptance of homework,

Good teachers, loving parents and a following sea

He finds himself with a High School diploma,

And some amazing possibilities.

Evan’s love for nature, and in particular our winged partners,

Will be part of his future, which begins now!

Rosie

It’s 15 years since we buried Homer

And adopted you, Rosie.

We’ve both moved on.

My aging is not all that subtle

But you, my baby, are very old.

Hearings gone, legs unstable

And your lost focus sobers me.

All your buddies have died,

There are no pregame attack postures

Or recognition barks.

You had the best double shift and run moves

And I recall six dogs in chase, utterly confused.

We taught you few commands

And curb crossings required no approval.

Today we will hold you for the last time

Then retain your ashes until ours are mixed

And waved into a welcoming sea.

Ron Calvert's Big Day

I pulled up to his store

He had opened a lighting shop.

It was potentially a very good or bad day.

His money had gone into heavy advertising

For this post Thanksgiving retail event.

I hadn’t considered it could be both great and a disaster.

Inside “Ron Lights Up Your Life” shop I saw joy

They sold almost all their inventory.

Ron in great humor had bought beer and wine

For his five employees and a dog bisque for Ted.

I smiled and offered a toast to his good fortune,

While feeling guilty because I had not

Reviewed his strategy and projected numbers.

He will be a month without new inventory.

His spectacular event will have cost more

Than the revenue it had produced.

Any benefit from knowing people liked his store

Would be decimated by having little to sell

Before Santa and his exuberant customers

Will have finished their shopping.

To Find A Title

Lamenting my impossibly iced over memory

Rose Mary offered a solution

She believed that “Moving It Down” (not really)

Would be a great title that we three would remember.

I was less sure of our recall.

The conversation drifted for two minutes,

Until I asked about the title we would remember.

Silence … followed by groans.

With even greater assurance we agreed on a second title,

But you know that after four such attempts

We looked at one another, counted are combined years,

And ordered dessert.

Thirty-Two Ties

My father was built from a different model.

Broader and shorter, he had excellent taste.

Not so his son or grandsons.

None of us have any interest in wardrobes,

We are the victims, not the beneficiaries, of dress codes

With one possible exception:

I inherited thirty-two ties.

Every color, length or design awaits me

When I open my closet door.

Living in Hawaii when ties became an option,

Even in a very staid Accounting Office.

It is 50 years since I wore a tie…

Except to Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs and Funerals

I should give away all but two; one black, one blue,

Which should cover just about all events.

If I were Irish I’d keep a green beauty,

Assuming there is still a Saint Paddy’s day parade in New York.

Those thirty ties might find a home.

They maybe summoned for Weddings and Funeral