A MATTER OF TIME

It was only
a matter of time,
and the time has come
when the Chinese
would abandon
the time honored
“please to be
placing the Tab A
withinside the slot
on Part E,”
and instead
merely show
undecipherable
pictures of parts,
so that with
but a single
set of instructions
they can frustrate
buyers in all nations.

ON THE MANTLE

Perhaps it is just that I
do not have a mantle on which
to place the cherished artifacts
of my life, my parents
and grandparents photos,
a family Tanach, the tallis
my first adoptive father wore
to his Bar Mitzvah.

I have nothing, which this day
seems sadly appropriate,
for their history really is
not mine, never was, I
simply borrowed it for a time
but all loans must end
for that is their nature.

I have a photo of her
gravestone the worman
who bore me, of her
in her college yearbook,
of him in a group shot
of his unit, in uniform
but I still have no mantle
and so little to place there
if i ever did have one.

TECHNICAL SERVICE

At some point in each call
to a customer service representative,
or worse still technical assistance
which is a painful oxymoron
in and of itself, I pause and wonder
how the conversation might go
if I could reach through
the ether of the phone
and grab the script.
Would the voice on the other end
suddenly become attached
to a person, ripped
from its computer home?
Would that person engage
in pleasantries for a bit
before telling me that I should
go to the website where
I will inevitably learn that
there is nothing they can
or will do for me? And why
is a call to my local doctor
garbled, but my computer
voice in India is crisp, clear
if never fully intelligible?

I HAVE NEVER BEEN

six foot four with a full head
of longish brown hair neatly cut

five foot ten as the Air Force
claimed although I never
conformed to their assumption

sitting on the deck of a yacht
trying to decide if it was
sufficiently large enough
to meet my desires

sitting on a beach in Hawaii
my oceanside villa
mere steps away,
the housekeeper beckoning
with a freshly made drink

lying in Arlington Cemetery
my life marked by a simple
white stone marker, name,
religion, and branch of service

But I am here, writing this,
and have no real complaints.

OF THE SEASONS

In the heart of winter, then,
which seemed unending
I would stare out at the maples
barren branches piled
in ever tottering snow
and dream of palm trees
and a warm ocean breeze.

In heart of winter now,
such as it is, all I see
are endless palms and
many Southern Live Oaks,
their branches piled
under a heavy burden
of sagging Spanish Moss
and I dream of the simple
beauty of the maple leaf
shifting from its deep green
to its endless shades
of autumn beauty.

KEEPING TO THE SCHEDULE

The cat has had a busy day,
supervising all manner
of domestic affairs, all
the while offering
a running commentary
on our successes
and failures in the use
and maintenance
of her home.

She did take time
for several pettings
and brushings, necessary
she says, to keep our
joints lubricated as we
get down to the floor
or flex our wrists.

She reminded us
it was time
to feed her, then
walked away, noting
it was time
to feed her, not
necessarily time
for her to eat.

REALITY, OF A SORT

The single greatest problem
with dreams is that they
are utterly real when you
are dreaming, the absurd
is not only permitted
but expected, and in that
moment it is hardly absurd.

The dead and living come
and go with impunity,
and you welcome them
as real people because
for that period of time
they are as real as you are.

But awakening, you realize
it was all a dream, and
your life is remarkably
absurd, and it all seems
so utterly frustrating
and wholly unreal.

FATHER AND SON

We sat in the small boat,
the motor still, drifting downstream,
our lines in the water, the bobbers
dancing in the morning breeze.

He smiled, proud that we were
doing this together, he who knew
less about fishing than I, his son,
and I knowing next to nothing.

I kept casting into the weeds,
hoping they would tangle my
line, free the worm from the hook,
so I couild deplete our supply,

and we could return home
proud to have tried, successful
in not harming the fish, but
able to say we were fishermen.

IN HIDING

It slipped away. He had no idea where it had gone, but he knew he had to find it. It could have been accidental, an errant passer opening the gateway and off it went. But he was so reliant on it that he knew he could not do much of anything without it. And he couldn’t get help finding it without endless waiting, a waste of time that put him even farther behind. But it was stealthy, and could easily hide in plain site. He hadn’t wanted to adopt it, but he had, and it had consumed him. It was that simple, life without broadband was unimaginable.

MISSING SONGS

The problem, or one of them, is
the lack of music today. We have
all manner of what people call music,
but not the music of the sort
we need, needed once and found,
as we stormed the bastions
and bastards who mired us in war,
who shunned darker brothers
and sisters, who made alienable
basic rights to half of us without
rhyme or reason, save greed
and fear of loss of status, power.

Where are the songs now,
calling us, you, to regain
the victories, no matter how small
that we won with our sweat
and often our blood, eroded
or taken over time by those
who live in the shadows, who
crawl out in the dark, who
dread the light we would
so willingly shine on them again.