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

The Crows Sad Tale

What word captures a crow’s sound?

Somewhere between angry and melancholy

Tells us of the Crows disposition …supposedly.

What of the research that claims

This clever bird is armed with an alarm system?

“Don’t go near that …,” it snaps at his off-springs.

There is yet another possibility;

This creature that can resolve a 9-step puzzle

In order to reach nourishment,

May know all life is descending

Into a black whirlpool   

From which no sound or sight will emerge.

Like Cassandra, Crows keep warning and complaining

To an audience that would rather they be quiet.

Something Of Value

He goes, he stays or something else.

She is unwell and unwilling.

The daughter and his friend

Have worked to make it fit.

Their attempts, well intended,

Have afforded them positive self-appraisals

But no progress to date.

And there’s the rub.

Two industrious idiots consistently

Reworking their plans, not really knowing

What is best, or how to make it happen.

He has never been particularly impressed

With their plans.

Yesterday he said  “That place has too much winter,

So thanks, but no.”

Our would-be heroe will now recalculate,

And find something of value in their dedication.