Unsettling

Ten little Indians all in a line,

One got  cancer

And then there were nine.

A March afternoon.

Two bridge tables. 

At each are women,over 50,

Playing Mah Jong.

It’s a comfortable day,

No winners yet.  

Sheila’s face contorts

As she complains about a sudden stomach pain.

Comments and suggestions abound.

“Perhaps its food poisoning,”

“Appendix could be the problem,”

“Lie down, it may pass.”

The pain did not subside

And Sheila went home.

Four days later a diagnosis 

Changed everything.

Nine women will, on a day in June,

Pause, amidst the bric-a-brac of living,

To consider how lucky they are

And how terrible is Sheila’s fate.

None of the bridge chairs showed any markings

That told who would return for another game.

Would a different seating arrangement

Have produced a reshuffling of life’s tiles?

Visiting hours at the hospice are flexible,

But it hardly matters.

Family comes, cries and ... waits.

Uncle Phil

I have chosen an unflattering view.

Having housed, employed and fed me,

My memories of Phil should not rush past

In search of rightful disdain.

He had pictures on the office wall,

And narratives of his virginal conquests 

That might embarrass a 17 year-old.

Phil drank to claim his manhood.

A very smart man

With a hurt child’s sense of worth.

Drink could unmoor his heavy lifeline,

Leaving a 7 year old who could not ride a bike.

“Look at me! Look at me”! He pleads.

“I am who am, and I have money.

See me as a winner,

And I will offer you a ride on my yacht”

Mom loved her brother, as he loved her.

And she forgave him his excess. 

Dad saw Phil take Mom’s money.

Phil bought Dad a new car. 

Phil wanted so-o to be noble,

To give without being asked,

To be recognized as a wizard

With the touch of “everyman”.

Dead now 15 years,

There are moments I recall his generosity,

But always, inevitably, I see him

Trying to ride the damn bike.

To Be

I turned the corner quickly,

But I don’t think I fooled the target.

I can’t be sure. I might not be shadowing anyone,

Although the feeling persists.

He may be short, tall, black, white,

Fat, thin, bald, or long haired. 

I believe he might be carrying a violin case,

With a machine gun inside.

Of course he might be a she, in a brilliant disguise.

I can not forget that the woman I am following

Might just be an alien, from Mexico or Mars,

Looking to modify all three handed homo-sapiens.

I stumbled upon the villain when shopping.

He, she, it spent much time with a sales person,

Claiming to be interested in buying boots,

The kind that only certain people wear.

I feel certain that the plot involves Israelis.

They could be helping my cause, whatever that is,

Or in cahoots with the opposition.

Clever devils.

Ah, here’s my bus.

I’ll make careful notes 

And pick up his, her, its trail tomorrow,

Unless I remain uncertain that I am following anyone.

Tino

5’4” is not an ideal height for a basketball player.

235 pounds on a 5’4” frame does not describe LeBron James.

Slow, with a vertical leap of  9.5”,

Tino was not an offensive juggernaut.

His understanding of  English was limited

And he needed suspenders to keep his shorts up.

Still, he had a singular defensive ability

That almost offset his limitations.

Tino could bite.

Sometimes amid the giants

Fighting for control of a rebound

You might hear “aihee” screamed in high C.

Such a scream confirmed Tino was in the game

And an opposing player,

With hands crossed below the waist,

Was going to spend time on the bench.

Alas, Tino’s career  was cut short,

When he arrived under the basket

Too late to exercise his defensive genius,

But just in time to receive Lebron’s 265 pounds on his head.

If there need be a moral to Tino’s story.

It might be that little fat guys,

Who need to employ suspenders,

Might want to consider poker as their game.

They Went That-A-Way

All three dogs combine,

In a synergistic display of kinetic energy

That explodes

As we open the front door.

Rushing over , on and around,

They are primarily involved in their forward motion,

Delighting in their own sheer exuberance.

And only secondarily elated to have us return.

No sooner have they displayed wondrous affection,

As a small undisciplined mob,

That they recall the game was “on” upstairs.

Time to race back into the house and up the stairs.

Reaching the second floor landing,

They scramble to gain purchase on the hard wood floor

Then reverse course and charge back down

To repeat the pandemonium one more time.

It’s not hard to imagine the man who,

Viewing this scene,

Might unsmilingly conclude, 

“Those dogs are out of control”.

Unfortunately people past the age of five

Suffer from a severe case of genetic code

And are unable to show such unmitigated happiness.

It’s a shame dogs can’t give classes.