Seeing Imperfection

“There is to everything a season.”
Surgically improved vision is no exception.
It seemed our house was clean and my hair OK
I am now hounded by the visually insane.

If subjected to a barracks inspection
By a nasty First Sergeant
Neither me nor my room would pass.
But nostril hairs?

I’m not especially hairy
So an in-depth examination
Of follicles that were undisturbed since prepuberty
Seemed invasive.

In truth, it seemed demented.
When finished I was advised
That there was near rioting
As mustache and nose hairs fought for supremacy.

Before cataract surgery my nostrils
Were a matter of universal indifference.
Hairs did what hairs do,
And no one found it especially offensive.

Walls that looked white
Ae nowa pronounced “faded”,
In need of restoration.
This could cost $$$.

I’ve called the ophthalmologist.
What would it hurt if my wife’s eyesight
Were just 25/25?
He is not sympathetic.

Pushing the Cart

Dad pushed the shopping cart up the incline,
Not quite to the level sidewalk,
Gave a small final thrust
And turned to join me in the car.

I watched as the cart rolled down.
Catching my gaze, Dad looked back,
And twisting his face into a frown,
Retraced his steps to the descending cart.

He gave one big push,
Sending the cart back up the ramp,
Where it hit another cart sideways,
And stopped partway beyond the incline.

My Dad would never have left the job to chance.
He would have walked the cart up,
Secured it to the other carts
And then checked his work.

But this anxious old man,
Wanting to be driven home,
Pursued by tasks untended and unclear,
Found safety in the passenger seat.

My Vacation is Ruined

Evan found floating down the river
In a spare tire a ridiculous affair-
Uncomfortable, boring, with no redeeming adventure.
He pronounced his vacation ruined.

Diana looked around the small studio room
Becoming increasingly unhappy.
A hugh couch block the closet--- no balcony.
Her vacation was ruined.

Both Evan and Diana recovered.
50 years of life separating
Their perspectives, but
Mattered not at all.

It is moments of grace
That allow for the insight.
Age, education and experience take you so far
Then comes life.

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”.