I'm Asking You

He approached arms bent, palms at shoulder height,

And asked that I consider his concern.

My dog had just peed in the park,

As had probably 100 dogs before her this day.

He asked that in the future

I’d walk Rose beyond the perimeter

Of the small circular park,

As required by a posted sign.

It seemed his young kids hit balls in the park

And they might walk into a spot

My dog had wetted.

I came up with the wrong answer.

“Dogs traverse this park every day.”

I told him, feigning a bit of incredulity.

“Why should my dog not do the same?”

 His soft answer was: “Because I’m asking you.”

Alienation of Affection

I am listening. A potential jurist

Having my sanity tested.

It sounded like English,

But the words clashed and produced spaghetti.

Her lawyer said her client had suffered.

She would never see her wedding dress again.

It was the post wedding cleaner’s fault,

And he should pay.

True, he had offered to cover the cost of replacement.

Still, the emotional attachment was strong,

And who could tell if the marriage would survive the loss?

Surely the gods cried for further compensation.

Who to strangle?

Choices included the attorney

Her client, who was also an attorney,

And the judge who permitted this farce.

How to make the client whole?

The cleaner’s had been robbed.

Recovering the gown was impossible.

Brilliant memories of the lovely wedding would be tarnished.

Perhaps a large award would cover the cost of a psychiatrist,

To limit the emotional damage?

I thought a lifetime supply of Prosaic and MJ

Might see her through the dark days.

Days when she would look in her closet,

Tearfully imagining what should have been,

Knowing that the object of her affection,

Was not safely stored in a bank vault.

If an anguished parent did not get justice this day,

Or a petitioning homeowner could not get a default delay,

Because the cause of justice was busy hearing 

From a woman inconsolable for under 5k.

--

jerry greenspan

jerrypoems@gmail.com

--

jerry greenspan

jerrypoems@gmail.com

Steady

It's been three years since I saw Bob,    

Time has added no lines,

Despite a plethora of events

Not certain to facilitate his spirits ease.

He is more comfortable within

And manifests less a search

For serenity than an acceptance

Of mortal limitations.

So here's to Bob, my buddy,

Who has often baffled me with

His broken-field running,

And our years of unbroken friendship.

There Are More Of Them

There are more of them.

Does that sound like an outtake from “The Birds”?

Maybe Hitchcock had the discontent in mind 

When he made that movie.

I see them downtown, people,

People with no place to go,

Or maybe they can’t stand themselves

And wish to get out.

They look kind of hard,

Not well dressed, and not happy.

Some of them are in this Starbucks.

Three are nursing coffees.

No women in this bunch.

Just eight guys crowded around one table.

They’re not doing anything,

But their presence makes me nervous.

Probably not a God-fearing one among them.

What if they demand attention or cookies?

Is this how class warfare starts?

There is work for these men. Right!??

You Know Better

There were five of us.

Just enough to congeal

Into a one digit I.Q.

And do something without redeeming social value.

This was a long time before social values.

When I was ten, my Mom 

Would’ve supplied the term “constructive”

As the antonym for our behavior.

We five neighboring apartment dwellers,

Not highly-motivated bums- in-training,

Would play stick ball, using parked cars

As launching pads for heroic, leaping catches.

The adult who owned a new red De-Soto, 

Caught us practicing elaborate snares

Off the trunk of his car.

He was unhappy.

Looking at his “not badly -damaged” car,

He expressed his “disappointment” with our behavior,

Then turned a nasty face on me and spat out,

“You, you know better!!”

It was a very weird moment.

I was handed a sort of compliment

While simultaneously carrying the weight

For my buddies, who apparently did not know better.

65 years later and I’ve reached no conclusion.

Just because I was the runt of the litter

And possessed the best leaping ability,

Is no reason to think I really knew any better.

Connections

Standing in front of my toaster,

I considered how things really work.

How did the mind decide on toast?

Did it store “now start toasting”?

How would a far advanced extraterrestrial ,

Armed with knowledge beyond human understanding,

Respond when confronted by a toaster?

What does it do, how does it work?

This morning I carried my Kindle

Into the kitchen, to read as I made toast.

I pulled a piece of bread

Along with jam and low cal cream cheese.

Opening the toaster,

I set the timer for twenty minutes,

And started to insert the bread,

Before realizing something was amiss.

My black, nine by six, kindle

Was half way into the toaster.

Unacceptable!

Even with very tasty jam.

I thought about the books,

All those words, melting,

Running down the screen.

Would something explode?

My friends, I trust you share

The idea that, like an uninformed alien,

Choosing between the bread and the Kindle

Might reduce itself to the question: How would the jam spread?

Man in a Plaid Shirt

At ten he enters the Gelato store.

As always he asks for a taste.

Today he samples the Disaronno and the Scraetella,

But once again smiles at the Hazelnut.

Thea waits for the head-nod before scooping.

There remains a possibility he will switch.

There is also a chance of snow in July.

Not very likely!

His shirt, heavy wool and long,

Suggests time spent in the Berkshires,

Where it may have offered the comfort

Of past winters before a cosy fireplace.

Sitting on his regular stool facing the window

Where he seems to gain reassurance

From the street scene,

Which remains unchanged from yesterday’s.

Eating his cup of Hazelnut gelato very slowly,

Gaining confidence from his choice of flavor.

There is the suggestion of a smile playing about his mouth.

All’s well, and the day may proceed.