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In the iotas

He sings
behind dark glasses.
Not Pavarotti, or even McCartney,
but the voice can carry the tune with a little nuance.
There once were happy smiles and meant applause.
Now, it’s a smattering.
The discerning see, and look another way.
A voice graph would show,
in its interesting iotas,
the tremulousness.
Confidence ebbing.
Now, a tip of the hat, a graceful exit,
would be in order,
he thinks.

Idle hands

Not getting any younger.
The government pays me now.
Pays me back.
It’s kind of sweet.
When I can, I snooze ’til eleven,
have my morning coffee for lunch.
Too sedentary, though.
Geez, how did I go from 195 to 210
without noticing?
Anyway, joined a gym last week.
Against doctor’s orders.
Found one that looked the other way
when I put checkmarks in the health conditions column.
But, I pace myself, yes I do.
Some of them get a kick
out of this balding old guy with a belly.
But, I go every day. Sometimes twice.
Yeah, I’m tryin’.
I’m tryin’.

More cat trouble

just outside my bedroom door
that little beggar waits
it’s finished all the bowls of food
and licked the empty plates

it’s pigeon-toed and cross-eyed
a ghastly sight to see
belly drags upon the floor
and a gaze that’s fixed on me

I think it has a pocket watch
(it always knows the time)
and sidles to my bedroom door
upon the stroke of nine

anticipation’s in its eye
(the left one, so I think)
the right one sends the signals out
and neither one will blink

and so I rise, attempting to
ignore its nagging yip
I walk on past, it catches up
and tries to make me trip

every day I lose the fight
the wife, she thinks it’s funny
I think I’ll help it pack its bags
and give it bus fare money

she says we can’t have company
no more, ’cause it’s no use
if someone sees it, we’ll be charged
with animal abuse.

 

 

 

Crippled

A day, smartingly bright.
Smallish trees bend under windyness-
fishing rods tugged in unison.
Weeds party in the garish garden.
The fence, once painted traffic white,
leans into dishevelment.
Through its pickets, in time lapse,
the rarity of a skipping child.
A scooter-bound granny with a head full of stories,
and, later, the pilot of a souped-up wheelchair,
doing her death wish pirouettes in the roadway
while passers-by stop and honk.
All of these, like paintings seen through a clinging veil.
Seen by the crippled inside.
One more coffee, maybe,
to feed the prurience,
the insomnia.

These hands

These hands, today,

Are not mine, surely.

They make the motions,

So demurely.

Minding their own purpose, purely.

Bent on insurrection.

Brush my teeth with shaving cream.

Comb my hair with Vaseline.

Perhaps it all is just a dream,

But in the wrong direction.

Coffee mug all prepped and ready.

Loopy legs are still unsteady.

Grind the beans, they smell so heady.

The nose detects perfection.

Pouring water, I’m betrayed.

The rebel digits, they have played

Another trick, and I’m afraid

Of mutinous defection.

The coffee beans, they’ve put into

My oatmeal dish, to make a stew.

There is no other point of view!

This surely needs correction.

In a fix, in a pickle, in a stew

Captain Miller and his boys
Heard the lookout cry ahoy!
As they ran aground upon the bar of sand

And their hardy ship was broken
And their gunpowder was soakin’
And the situation soon got out of hand
When the storm had cast the crew upon this land

”Twas just a little island
But he warned them all Be silent
He was wary for the safety of his crew

So they brought what they could carry
And he told them not to tarry
And bring those guns and ammunition too
Or we’ll wind up in a pickle and a stew

Now, the natives, they were tribal
And they’d never seen the Bible
And they cared not but a fig for being kind

And they smelled the blood of others
Who were surely not their brothers
And they crept upon the crewmen from behind
With culinary motives on their mind

So they had them all surrounded
And upon their prey they bounded
They were silent, and they blended with the night

And the sailors were defeated,
Of their guns and ammo cheated,
And they couldn’t even offer up a fight
They were dragged away, before the morning light

Now, the tribal men were hungry
All they had was fruit and sundry
And the puny fish they caught within their net

And the coals, they were a-raking
Getting ready for the baking
Of the biggest catch they’d captured, as of yet
And the sailors, they were humbled with regret

Now the Chief, he started dreaming
Of the roasting and the steaming
And the savory delights they would enjoy

And the slaughter would be gruesome
And the barbeque so toothsome
A rotisserie of spits they would employ
And the sailors’ sorry ship they would destroy

Now, the Captain, he was cunning
And his mind had started running
To a way they might this tragedy undo

How to rescue all his crewmen
From these natives so inhuman
And find their guns and ammunition too
And free them from this Pickle, and this Stew.