Weekday Mornings

The clock says it’s time to get up.
I make sure I am awake before
my feet touch the stairs, there is no
room for error as evidenced by
an inopportune nighttime sledding
adventure in a flannel nightgown.
The fish are begging; I feed them
as there are no decisions to be made.
Steel cut oats, thick cut oatmeal,
homemade bread, fruit, coffee, tea,
jam, butter, granola, milk;  I wish
the table were set for me with the
tea pot I bought in Paris, warmed
milk inside, the newspaper opened
to my favorite section of the day,
pre-decided.  I manage somehow
to make these decisions being safely
in my kitchen with its black and
white tiles, which, if I’m lucky,
do not stick to my feet.

A Little Boy's Cries

a small boy cries from the curb
for his mother who has crossed
the street leaving him behind
for just a moment; she is paying too
much attention to his brother,
or is talking too much to her
friend about flowers and gardens,
topics of not much interest to a
little boy, who is crying for his mother,
his tears reminding her that he
is most important in her life,
even if she sometimes forgets.

Indecision at the Salon.

keep it long
or cut it short,
curls or straight,
colored or au naturelle.
I check each of the other women in their chairs;
her cut looks a little young for her;
that's an adorable cut, but my hair would
never do that without hours of labor
and lots of product, sigh.
I could have my daughter
do that cut and save money.
my hairdresser has curls kind
of like mine and her cut is cute.
it’s decided; I ask her to cut
it just like hers.

The Urban Frontierswoman

her goldfish pond is surrounded by electric fencing;
she reminds visiting raccoons that they are not
welcome by attaching aluminum foil strips
covered with peanut butter to the hot wires.
at night, she sometimes wakes up to hear them
protesting loudly to such treachery, and
skulking off to steal grapes and peaches from
someone else’s yard. 

Advice from grown children

you talk too loud,
I can’t believe you said that,
you aren’t wearing that to the party;
you clearly didn’t do it right,
that is so obvious,
what were you thinking and
other useful and supportive words
of wisdom.

Currently Unpublishable

pre-mortem would not be acceptable;
post-mortem is a long ways away.
let sleeping dogs lie, let secrets
stay hidden in dark spaces;  others
think they know us, surprised to learn
later of affairs, illegitimate children,
forged degrees, skeletons rattle
in all closets; let them rattle in
silence.

Home

she loved the yellow stucco house with its
pink and green trim, 50’s style dinette
and three built in book shelves lining
the living room walls.
the day she moved in she noticed the
dirty grey walls, the scratched black
and white linoleum floors and the
landscaping which contained but a single
bedraggled lilac bush in front.
undeterred, she moved in, planted flowers
and painted the walls;  she is still
mopping the scratched linoleum
floor which never looks particularly
clean.  Maybe one day, the floor will
be replaced, but not likely.