The last line could apply to us all. Another great poem. Thank you!
Hey Driver…
Life under the bus was strange at first
Leaking, dripping, corroded…
Confusion and hollowness
A bit of sadness, a touch of anger (?)
And then understanding (sort of)
And an expectation that it could’ve/should’ve been different
Where’s my stuff, driver?
Where are my memories?
Locked away… inaccessible – but still there, in case you might need it again.
Oh…that’s right…I almost forgot…it’s all about…
Hey driver…perhaps a goodbye was in order… maybe a quick peck on the cheek?
At the very least…a firm handshake and a pat on the back!
Not really surprised (really)
We’ve been through this before…remember?
Enough.
Ha! Thrown under the bus, and crept there on his own?
Keeping It Going
All the old widows making their way,
alone as they started out in life –
Widowers too, by the looks –
Skip showing his artwork on his porch
and no she in sight…
This morning the cul-de-sac
is full of such singletons.
Lily opens her door as I tread by –
heel-toe-heel-toe –
not on the same side of the street
so I don’t stop.
I hear she says hello neighbor
but I don’t think she knows
I don’t break my stride
to keep my heart-rate up.
A beating heart is a good thing
and a talk on the walk slows it all down.
Sorry, Lily, a wave-off says.
I don’t think she’s the lady
whose husband – now gone, and no teary eye –
was such an unpleasant fellow
fussing over neighborhood noise
and judging people.
I think he lived a few houses up.
Now, Lena, on her cane with two dogs,
is like me. She keeps it moving,
moving her feet and the dogs to the curb,
chatting all the while,
dispensing trails of information in her wake –
“My son’s place in Utah” –
but she hasn’t moved yet,
Only on this sidewalk, forging on,
keeping up a brisk pace,
and the heart, free to cut its ties,
bounds in time with the stride,
working hard at keeping the heart rate up
and going long.
Dressing Him Up
My young nephew blows through the men’s department
like Tyrannosaur through the ferns,
reaching and grabbing right and left.
But reptiles don’t use mirrors, and my nephew does.
The spree is my gift to him; he was born once, years ago,
my sister’s child, and we say, hey, hey,
but I haven’t mentioned a limit yet,
and he’s piling it on like we own the mall.
I wonder what he sees there, in the glass.
I see a tall skinny guy with eyebrows and bones
in a ball cap, bill tilted up, some graphic logo: four lines,
and a billowy silky shirt with vertical bars,
some canvas or denim pants, stiff and extra roomy,
I see a crazy quilt, a sampler kit, a work in progress.
What does he see in that mirror that I do not,
with a tilt of the chin and smoky shades?
Is it a rock star he sees?
A shot-caller?
A playa?
That’s not on my screen.
What picture is he painting with clothes in a mirror?
We Had A Good Run
We were always quite a pair.
In school, he wore his tweed jacket
with the sleeves receding
on his lengthening arms –
Big teeth, a sign of growth to come,
Goofy, buzzed hair.
My bangs were anchored with spit
and my loafers gleamed with polish.
We were so prepped
for those long, echoing halls.
Later, his chambray shirttails fluttered
and my love beads rattled
as he scooped me up in the parking lot
one outdoor concert day.
We have a picture of that
he loved to show and look at
when he had widened and grayed, and slowed.
We were a pair in a loose denim dress and tropical shirts
with palm trees and pineapples.
By that time we had school photos of the grandkids-
coy, hair-hanging girls and boys with jackolantern teeth
he paid too much for copies of
to send to people who barely knew them.
Before his last operation –
blue vinyl cap protecting his old head
from outside evil.
As they wheeled him into the cutting room,
he said
“We had a good run kid,”
in case he checked out
Yes, we did,
and I have that.
Made me tear up, Westerly. Thanks for this snapshot.
Westerly,
You have always been a fine writer - one who speaks softly/loudly of peaceful and simple things, often in extraordinary ways.
And of late, your skill has happily reached new heights, great depths and confirms an exciting realization of both.
I’ve opened the window (but not the gate) to the Ranch for others to see.
Cheers!
That really means a lot to me. Thank you.
(Do you suppose it's lonely for those at the window looking in?) What does one get to see at the window? And what secret words unlock the gate?
I agree with Bmichael, Westerly ... the descriptions of your life are eloquent, and the pictures you paint with words overflow with color and detail. "Masterly" should be your new name!
Cheers to you!
-M
At the window, one can see all that is here. To pass through the gate, one must be invited by any one of the members.
And the "secret" words? What else but - "oh baby, oh baby!".
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