Addlepated
My friends are acting addled,
very much to my dismay.
I suppose, to be truly honest,
I, too, behave that way,
at least once every day.
This morning a caller asked,
“Let’s see, is it Tuesday?”
I blessed my watch which tells
me it’s the 29th, Wednesday
at whatever o’clock it may say.
A female friend, giving me advice
to make deposit records better,
laughs as a stack of papers falls
and she finds unmailed letters
with an unpaid bill for sweaters.
“Oh, there’s my Firstbank bill,
I wondered where it went.”
Lucky she’s not like me—money
to pay it would have been spent.
I might have to delay the rent.
Yes, my friends are becoming addled
but I really love them for it.
I know I’m not in that state alone,
and I’m certain we all abhor it.
Surely no one expects to adore it
After the Horse Died
After the horse died, the old man drooped.
He’d given that horse what he’d never felt
for his family. Years before, when he helped
the colt into the farm-fresh air, he knew
she was the last he would raise and break.
All their years together, the mare and the man
worked as a unit. Alone, the old man withered.
Age
Age doesn’t settle comfortably
on an American woman’s face.
most give it at least a token fight;
very few accept it with grace.
Alexander’s Legacy
Alexander Graham Bell
thought the telephone was swell,
but he didn’t stick around to see
it corrupted by posterity.
Any Day at the Club Pool
Neither a race nor a water ballet,
heads bob up and down all over the pool.
Bald heads, capped heads, young heads, wrinkled
heads, some attached to skinny bodies, pregnant
bodies, over-the-hill/out-of-shape ones
slide through water or bounce in place, each face
expressing its own mood. A bubbly
brunette heavy with her fourth child is happy
to be away briefly from her brood, weight
supported by the waves cooling her skin.
Old men seeking heart health swim laps,
before or after attacks. Post-trauma patients
paddle for strength, muscle and joint repair.
A lucky few wiggle through the water
just for the joy of it, giggling and glad.
Auto Graveyard
On a little side road with not much traffic
near the junction of a state highway and an
interstate is a place I often drive by.
Old cars go there to die like old cats who crawl
away for privacy when their time has come.
Mostly the old cars die alone, but once in a while
a pair of them will stand together in their final hours.
This week one little blue car has been expiring slowly,
one indignity after another heaped upon it. Wind
whistles through broken windows, a tire is flat.
It stares dejectedly through its one remaining headlight,
mooning passers-by with its gaping trunk lid open.
The old car’s days are numbered - no friendly face has
greeted it for days. Its only visitors are vandals.
Soon it will be gone, leaving space for another ancient auto.
August Rain
Rain’s cool fingers stroke
August’s brow. Crackling
forests embrace her soaking
salve. Pain soothed, rebuilding
begins. Green spreads,
swallows charred remains.
Autumnal Trees
The willow undulates teasingly
In the November storm.
Its leaves swirling slowly
To the ground.
Alders bend to the wind,
Pelted by rain.
Pine and fir lighten
Their cone-laden limbs.
A tulip tree spreads
Its few remaining leaves
To warm its naked branches.
Confined to my apartment,
I gaze longingly outside,
Feasting my eyes on all
The gently swaying trees,
Avoiding the dusty blacktop
With its rows of cars,
Scanning the cloudy skies
That hide the mountain view.