I’m not really hungry
But not really not
So I drift to the kitchen
To see what we’ve got
Even though I know well
Well before I begin
That there’s nothing I want
So I drift back again
To the dent on the couch
Where I pick up my book
And I read till I need
Once again to go look…
One Monday late in every May
Is special in the USA.
Of outdoor spaces we avail
Ourselves–a park, a beach, a trail
Or picnic spot–where we can play
And eat and drink the day away
Forgetting all our woes and care,
But there are those who won’t be there
Except in spirit, wherefore we
Should honor them in memory:
Let’s raise a glass, a cup, a can
For every fallen serviceman
And -woman by whose grace we’re here
And free to overeat each year.
Let’s set aside our anger, gripes
And discontent. The Stars and Stripes
Now snapping in the summer wind
Reminds us that elections end,
And should we let our fear divide us,
Villifying those beside us
Fighting for the land we’ve cherished
Equally, then those who perished
In defense of liberty
Will not be proud, nor should they be,
Of we for whom they fought and died.
Let’s take opposing sides with pride
And gratitude that that’s our right.
Remember them this Monday night.
The bunnies in the corner park
Are stiff as statues ’til it’s dark
When nobody is watching, so
Can they be truly bunnies?
This state, so they say, is in drought
But that claim I have reason to doubt:
Today for an hour
I stood by the shower
And watched, and it never ran out!
This morning’s breakfast food is round
And white inside, while also browned
On each flat surface. One by one
Is how I eat them, though it’s fun
To stack them each atop the other
First, and then chow down. My mother
Might object. Why? I suppose
She likes Hydrox, not Oreos.
I’m not going to work on this.
Don’t have the time.
There’s more on my schedule
Than crafting a rhyme
Or excreting in iambs
And stanzas all night.
What can I say?
I’ve just no time to write.
Write a poem.
That’ll show ’em!
I’m waiting for the turtles but they’re late
There must have been some traffic by the pond
I don’t know how much longer I can wait
I hope that when they’ve here’d I’ll not have gone’d
When turtles say they’re coming it’s a fact
As promise-keepers turtles are the tops
When turtles dump their docs they don’t redact
You have to wait, though, ’til the penny drops
Because a turtle has no sense of time
Perhaps it thinks life happens all at once?
Its conscientiousness may be sublime
But as for promptitude, it’s just a dunce
A turtle, though, won’t stiff you like a tortoise
Those guys would lose a race to rigor mortis
In seat 1B aboard this Frontier flight
Where every inch of legroom has a price
I read about the fabled Brothers Wright
Who blazed the trail I’m following tonight
And can’t but think their struggles toward the air,
Though mighty and essential, don’t compare
To those of one whose handheld e-device
Has boarded with a charge that won’t suffice
For finishing the book. Life isn’t fair.
In late spring Lake Michigan:
Off the bucket list