Things I Don’t Know About Places I’ve Never Been

I know that if I call a spade a spade
Or Coke a soda rather than a pop
My neighbors here will cock their heads like dogs
And some will laugh if I say “cock” and “head”
In normal conversation. This I know.
But I don’t know if, in Ferguson, MO,
“Aloha” means both hello and goodbye
Or if it’s a suburban bedroom town
Or means French fries with cheese or pickup truck.
In Belfast, Ireland, does it’s da bomb
Mean something’s good? or dangerous? or dead?
I’ve never been to Rotorura, so
I don’t know if I’ve even spelled it right
Much less how waiters want to be informed
That it’s been 20 minutes since I asked
And I’m still waiting for malt vinegar.
I like pretending that I’m worldly
But legion are the things I’ll never know
About the many places I’ve not been.
Stereotypes equal knowledge then.


I have a list of daily tasks
That I review before I sleep.
They’re rarely done, but no one asks,
So I’ve no promises to keep.
My conscience pricks me ’cause they’re all
Unfinished, but that cricket’s crazy:
He thinks I’m a wooden doll
But I’m a real boy!
I’m just lazy.

Seeking The Light

Why are moths?
Does someone know?
What mocking god
Designed them so?
They don’t have mouths
(I think that’s true)
And yet they’re spelled the same,
Sans U.
It’s good they’re throatless,
Else they’d choke
To know they’re just
A spelling joke.
Their raison d’etre none recalls
And yet they prosper.
That takes balls.

The Point

Those motions won’t go through themselves
“It” can’t get in without your phone
There’s plans need shifting onto shelves
And nine more stitches needing sewn
That molehill isn’t yet a mount
Though milk’s been spilt there’s none yet crying
Unhatched chickens yet to count
And sleeping dogs to be let lying
Thirsty horses listless stand
Beside the troughs where they were led
Who can’t ignore a drink command
Too dumbly mumbled from abed
Though theirs the latitudes you’re trapped in
Drifting ships still need a captain

Dispatch From The Field

Day 3: Approaching normalcy.
The histamines are in retreat;
My sinuses are nearly free
Of mucus, like an empty seat
At rush hour on a crosstown bus.
The lawn is mocking, beckoning:
Don’t mind the weeds, come play with us!
It’s not their day of reckoning
Just yet. Though they’ve defeated me
In spring’s first skirmish, this is war.
Grow, broadleaf, massive as a tree!
That’s what my Fiskars Stand-up’s for.