Roommates

When you have roommates
Life is compromise
If A likes what B hates
They’re sad girls (or guys)
Misstep in this dance
And be prepared for shocks
Like tacos in your underpants
And cheese fries in your socks

When you have roommates
And you get along
A likes who B dates
And life is like a song
B cares for C’s plants
And casual cooking rocks:
Make tacos in your underpants
And cheese fries in your socks

Also, All My Hands Are Spatulas

I should not have awakened yet.
I’m not in bed. Why? I forget.
I could have sworn I was asleep
But I don’t swear. I’m not a creep.
Hey, hold on: That just isn’t true!
I’m not a creep, but swear? I do!
I used to be a Navy man;
If anyone can swear, I can!
Ergo (a Latin epithet),
I must not have awakened yet!
I swear–I really do–that’s good!
Awakened yet I not have should.

Breaking? Away!

A solitary rider, I.
Just wave as I go rolling by;
For heaven’s sake, don’t flag me down
And ask to ride with me to town!
The cloud with which I ride is freaky.
Bobby Brady’s evil Tiki
Never scaled the woe-betiding
Heights you will, beside me riding.
All you have to do is say,
“Hey, join us on our ride today!”
And all the peloton is cursed.
As domestiques go, I’m the worst.
This afternoon, e.g., a friend
Invited me to mark the end
Of this week’s heat wave with a nice
Cool evening ride (with hills for spice).
So, twenty minutes down the lane
I shifted gears and popped my chain.
Good news! I’d brought a chain tool. Woo!
Then, someone broke it. (You know who.)
A thirty-minute jury-rigging
Session finally fixed the frigging
Chain, and we set off…and that
Is when I got my daily flat.
Ten minutes on the gravel shoulder
Dropped the temps from cool to colder.
“Look! The sun is setting! Gee,
What’s taking us so long?” (Well, me.)
We turned around headed back
Before the night obscured the track
And just before our paths divided
Near our homes, my less-excited-
Than-before host said to me,
“Let’s try tomorrow. Are you free?”
I’d love to go, but I confess
I couldn’t bear to tell him, “Yes.”
I mean, he’s seen my riding jinx.
My chain has just so many links
And now my tool is busted, too!
I don’t think I should go. Do you?

T.M.I.

My misery’s spelled out in Braille
Upon my skin from chin to tail;
I’ve precious little derma left
That’s blessedly heat-bump bereft.
I know that’s likely T.M.I.
But when the mercury’s this high
My social filters warp and peel;
I can’t help sharing how I feel.
My dog, encased in furry pants,
Fears baths too much to take a chance
On edging near the wading pool–
We filled it up for you! It’s cool!
We hide inside before our fans
And wetly plot our winter plans:
When first the icicles take shape
Our neighbors will look on, agape,
As I and my canine ami
Play naked in the snowscape. Whee!
Across the yard, from edge to edge, we
Roll until an ice-cold wedgie
From some cheeky snowfolk freezes
Off the scars of August’s breezes
And at last these bumps recede
From all my limbs…that’s all I need!
Although I long for winter’s thong
To cool me in a way that’s wrong,
Is sweet relief in sight? It’s not.
It’s August, and it’s too darned hot.

Life, The Universe, And Everything

How many roads must a man walk down?
Elvis Presley, erstwhile King
Of Rock and Roll, laid down his crown
Beside the throne and ceased to sing
The day Aiea’s DMV
Examiner agreed I’d aced
My driving test, which meant, for me,
That fewer roads must hence be paced.
Dylan’s windblown question flew
Across the universe to find
A fitting answer, 42,
In Douglas Adams’ twisted mind.
How many roads? As many years
As Elvis lived. (Excuse my tears.)

The French Chef

100 years ago today*
Pasadena’s Chef Anglais
Was born, and John and Caro smiled
At their first McWilliams child.
Julia, the baby, grew
(And grew) until, at six-foot-two,
She proved too tall for WAVES or WACs
So she repelled the foe’s attacks
By working for the OSS
(The proto-CIA shop? Yes!)
Where she did lots of secret things
And, as it happened, traded rings
With OSS man-Child Paul
With whom she moved to modern Gaul–
That’s Paris–where she learned to cook
At Cordon Bleu, then wrote the book
That brought cuisine française to life
For Suzy (M. Homemaker’s wife)
And on which her career was piled.
Happy Birthday, Julia Child!

*15 August, to be clear.
Google’s Doodle’s early here!

Rain Check

The light’s too bright
The night’s too hot
Another Sunday’s
Nearly shot
I meant to write
But I forgot
Have I a good excuse?
I’ve not

So, here’s a verse
That’s short and bland
And worse–much worse–
Than I had planned.
My write-brain staff
Is undermanned
Tonight
I hope you understand

If Monday’s Muse
Is on the ball
I won’t refuse
To take her call
I’ll ride the new rhyme
À cheval
And this déchets
We shan’t recall

Tomorrow, then,
We’ll start anew
And try again
With less P.U.
Tonight, for having
Suffered through
This dreck,
My heartfelt thanks to you