dry robin

 

felt weather was coming, finally;   

saw it on radar.  we needed it

and it took all day to get here,

then quickly most of it passed

until late afternoon the old dry robin

came out in the sprinkles

on the promise water’d get more.

waiting he was as we were.

set up position,  it did.

to see if a worm’d  come  out

an before there was much to talk about

light rain that came in went on its way.

bird in the path

morning sun up and golden

summer daybreak  warm and still.

inside, from the open window

my first glance caught it there

a lone baby bird sleeping

standing up,  hunched over.

no doubt comfortable as all get out.

ruffled feathers, head under wing,

leafy plants all around, it was right in the middle of a path.

not hidden somewhere  off to the side.

didn't pay attention when mama said keep cautious,

stay out of sight while your dreaming.

t-shirts

seeing you i’d be cautious
as a duck crossing the street
i’d tip my hat, let you chat
and tell me how your doing

their  t-shirts got my attention. i read,
then  asked them where they were from,
“margaretta”  they replied.  
that’s a small nearby village

high school girls, of course. 
i don’t know if they just graduated
or this fall will be the new seniors.
they wore identical  blue t-shirts

it must be this years class slogan.
printed on them were the words,  
“the world may be ending
but we’re still here – 2012”

m. worked the yard

m. worked the yard early this june morning.

i ran drag on cord as she edged the pond,  

along a  stone block wall surrounding flowers beds,

low on the wooden back porch in sugar maple  shade;

the electric edger whirred,  getting all neatly clean.

she paused, changed cord.   i saw her wipe her brow,

slowly, casually check all around.  a survey of the situation.

 still frogs alert were quiet,  ready to jump if necessary.

might have mentioned 

her great granddad was first sheriff of Abilene.

it’s in her blood to get the job done.

my advice is keep out of the way.  don’t mess around.

dappled

taking a shower thinking i am dappled.

oh, i know feeling groovy thanks to paul simon,

the only time in my life i was dappled, possibly,

not sure; also then, feeling groovy definitely

was not happening in our neighborhood.

maybe, given time, it would have happened naturally,  

if we would have slowed down and thought about it, 

but in our parts that would have been asking a lot.

slow down?  thinking?  feeling? hah! 

paul, before you said it, only horses were dappled.

over time

on my desk i have ten beach pebbles
no function to explain
yet reason enough
to remain and remind me
what cannot be put into words
only feeling

and to pick them up
is to hold the smooth
of time ages and the sea.
rolling, turning
worn in time, over time,
over and over again

doesn't even have a name

doesn’t even have a name
no shoes, no clothes, no house
sleeps where he can, where he wants i suppose,
never seen him eat

always alone when i'm around,
just a big green frog, another one.
the leader. Herb was the first one;
that was some years ago.

he’d call HERRRRB; we would too.
that’s how he got his name.
we learned our frog ways with him.
don’t know exactly what he picked up from us.

every year there’s always a king pin,
the boss of the pond - stays for two years or so.
then a new big one comes in and the old one is gone.
New takes up in a favorite spot, to his liking.

a few we gave the sobriquet to honor the orginal Herb.
now they're nameless.
call him the big frog.
we know who we mean.

it’s a full house this year
five frogs in the pond
and sure we can tell ‘em apart
we’re not frog stupid

different sizes, different colors
the thing on the ear, where they sit,
a lot of indicators as to who’s aboard.
and yes, they do keep an order.

today i had the camera ready to film him
first pushed the motorless mower around
to get him warmed up for talking
works every time. i don’t know why.

He spoke up and i egged him on with my frog word or two.
then got right down in front of him,
two feet away, camera rolling
and he swelled up like a balloon.

was the star of the neighborhood, no doubt.
major frog noise coming out of him.
i was proud of the frog;
that’s our number one.

transferred the pics to computer
all stills and only one video.
it was the short vid before he got going,
nothing of the great talking scene was captured. nothing.

but i was there and he was to. and we had a time of it.
now these words will remember;
how happy he and i were;
why - he done us proud, his day in the sun.

advance

progress from walking
with a stick
to riding a horse -
an advance beyond the past.

then over fields through clouds to some long faraway,
that is where we are right now
look around while you
take off your shoes for inspection.

then, walking through an arch
and instantly be in another place,
oh, wow it is as yet, somewhere else,
and someday soon.

on the back porch

on the back porch
heard tires rolling on the by pass
near a mile away;
wind from the west is coming our way.

talked to a friend with a mountain place.
recalled our two years on another mount
when in quiet the only sound, the only sound
was of the earth itself.

how was that sound? indescribable.
beyond reach of words or imagination.
something other it was.
private. complete.

and now the grandmother clock
swung low and steady
was it the tick from two rooms away
or the house expanding that i heard?

it’s not the frogs
they sit silent in the pond
waiting passing hours
as slow rising sun rays approach

erasing sharp shadows with gleams,
bringing the warmth to our day.
what do you know,
what do you say?

59 f

59 f now, 15 c
feels warmer, light wind
good morning sun
it’ll be 20 degrees they say.

cool this week
last week it was 28c, 82f when i left Roma
also here when i arrived in Ohio.
now it is normal cool springtime.

5 frogs in the pond.
it is a full spring count.
the large one is there and remembers;
he calls when i go around with the push mower.

squirrels - three bushy tails in the tree.
i won’t speak to them this year,
must be careful to keep them away
so they won’t scare people who come to buy our house.

last year Squirrel #1 was aggressive,
would climb up our leg
looking for peanuts.
must ignore them. won’ talk to them.

our (1838) house quickly sold the first week,
then the husband and wife argued and said no.
now we wait other buyers.
this is not a good market to sell.

our new/old house (1866) in Norwhere
is nearly ready for us.
a good old man paints a ceiling this week
then we will start to move into Norwhere.

now i came inside to write
it is cool in the shade on the porch.
M. made bacon and eggs for breakfast.
now it is eight-thirty and quiet.

if i were on the Mediterranean aboard Isadora
i would be aware of cruise ships, visit every port,
read some, write some,
and keep looking ahead.

interconnectedness

morning shower, i know where the soap is
talking inside shower, not the weather
clothes to wear, have an idea of my choices
another Monday, nothing particular

frog at the pond has my number
knows where i stand or sit with coffee.
the smell of cigarette smoke is familiar to him or her;
may be my frog friend, but we haven’t talked sex,

some things are less important within friendship.
the robin has seen me
busy hopping
has work to do.

if the clouds above had thought
we’d be acquaintances.
roll on sun behind the rain
know you’re there, hope to soon see you again.

goes like waves

goes like waves
after another, another
not rapid though
smooth, continuous
its dream, i’m on a train,
scenes passing. sheep and cows.
there is the movement of the waves
then a coffee in an unfamiliar bar
somewhat dark,dim and comfortably cool.
the bar old, oiled beautiful polished wood.
i turn at a desk at home, the sun on my back
warm. i feel it.
looking out the window it's apparent
how pleasant sleep can be

The Ocean Trip

the ocean trip can get unruly rough
then you can’t pull off the road
to wait for conditions better
slowly you keep going knowing

weather changes, all will calm
for surely the sun
will come out bright again
some soon other day

life is a moving train

life is a moving train
sometime fast, sometime on the upgrade.
was talking to the conductor afore i dozed off;
he’s been on the job a hundre . . . a long time.

glanced at my ticket and nodded.
was going to ask him when to get off,
right then he was looking at the view out the window,
seemed content. wasn't necessarey to bother him.

a lot of people riding.
saw a cat and a dog and a bird in a cage.
big train. kept moving.
i was happy to be onboard

taking it easy, writing at little, reading a little.
i’d check the time but don’t have a watch.
decided wasn’t important the hour. been a few.
just doing the best i can.

like new-new shoes

for six agonizing months
my new shoes often came untied
no matter how i tied them
finally took laces from old shoes i wear

changed longer new laces for the old with care
all fit in their new shoe lace places
my new shows are now staying tied
the faithful old shoes, however, i haven’t tried

life is a car

how shiny cute in the showroom.
take it home and keep it clean.
friends comment when they see it.
keep it tuned, fluids up, taunt, looking good.

protected from bad weather, inspected,
for years return several times for checkups.
always be aware to avoid accidents.
though over time scratches and dings happen.

then when at last it is worn, aged, paint becomes dull,
more difficult or impossible to repair; it’s seen its day.
taken to a new home, or left unused, nearly forgotten.
that’s car life; leaving you with photos and memories.

so the marathon

so the marathon
number 18 in Rome. not my number.
didn’t run but walked instead
to see the start

under blue skies and helicopters.
we were on the small hill near piazza Venezia
they ran right by us, twenty thousand of ‘em
no, i didn’t count, someone else said.

one runner was shocked to hear
voices in the crowd shout “die” as
he ran by the coliseum.
he thought they didn’t like Americans,

but these were Italians
they yelled not die, but dai,
equivalent to “go for it”
or “give it all you’ve got.”

sleeping or so then

sleeping or so then
sometime before three
caught myself dream weaving in and out
turnip trucks turn up as i meander

fast lanes, grocery lines, three apples
talking someone pleasant, bagger boy.
rolling in the sheet, passing hour,
then two more, still night

re-fluff the pillow ’nother time, now it’s right.
around four, passing minutes in fifteens
as i look now and then at the clock,
no stopping, it’s spinning on

then at five alive to morning
a lot of words and thought rush thinking,
am putting exactly this together
without note, nor music or computer

this stuff written down
on the backroad of my mind
takes jog maneuver, a bob and weave.
time for oat meal hot enough

brain sipping what i was dreaming of
recalling best i can, what’s fit to recall
writing , mostly awake now
yawning good day y’all to all, finally.

head's not empty

head’s not empty when
i lay there coated in dream dust
no sir, not a bit, you see
begins sometime after three

but im asleep so that’s a guess,
filled with visions more or less
bubbling walking, topped off
great adventure motion coastin’

the best, all rolling long, along
spinning, bubbling on and on, apply the brake;
smelling color, cooked well, dandy and polite enough,
good-time fancy dreaming 'til dawn occurs and i awake.

in this classroom called life
every day is another lesson.
do your best, stay true;
all moves on.

Roma's sun

Roma’s sun
is light you can dream on
you've heard of it. and so it is.
here so fine, this new day

softens colors
no winds to speak of
with river bridges
to look out over

up at pigeons
down on floating seagulls
i'm pleased to say this mellowing sight
is the the result of early morning pastel light of Roma

peeped out

peeped out this corner
of the muffin i was sleeping in
unfolded to a world of sunshine
over long green warm waving
howdy you and the day

blue sky, clouds rolling by
cookie cutter decorations dancing wow,
a happy dog skipping hills yonder
by fragrant flowers and a spinning water wheel.

kitty sunk down watching
from low in long waving green
wiggles forward
keeping a quiet low profile;
content as he ought to be;
perhaps a tad more alert than we
to the general overall goings on.

reflections mid march

wardrobes reflect mid march
call it spring or thereabouts,
warmer, light jackets, more people talking,
now taking life at a slower pace,

ease and joy is growing,
morning chill has lessoned.
while i off one way, M. to the store
wait. read. making notes as i go.

called to happy birthday
professor Roberto in Torino
with two more years than me
it’s fine he leads the way

zippin’ afoot on streets i am.
practiced maneuvers take me through;
it’s repeating my self to mention, but then
that comes with my lease, i’m old.

M. rode the tram. no Billie Store today,
got a new one, kinder gentler.
M. said the tram driver drove with anger
as if he’d just broken up with his mother.

couldn’t do it anyway,
can’t write these everyday
there’s got to be a secret cache,
i double checked - i’m not Ogden Nash.

airport security

M. when at airport security
the man asks her
“How many chicken legs do you have?”
she looks up worried,

“Chicken legs?”
he shakes his head.
took a breath, then he said,
“No, ma'am, check in bags!”

Rome is always like this

walked down for wine
like a Johnny cash song
went down the line
and the morning’s fine

for venders and buyers.
on getting food for the table
that’s the general idea of it.
warm in the sun, cool in the shade.
Roma e sempre cosi
that's how it's made, i guess.

at the market i salute my friends.
making ends meet they are, listen -
resolute in packs and calls
over pole and canvas market stalls

a crowd of tourists browse not buying,
instead take photos of vegetables
after a night a carousing streets and alleys
that link and form ancient Rome in new times

in the initial hint of spring this year of 2012
not going to delve meteorologically, just got up, i’m sleepy
so i’ll just go out and buy wine, out there where i said,
so i can get on my way back home again and see what happens

notes on to do

let's not call it poetry today
in my land of a stuff i write
this rich field is opened,
soil turned, dug up a bit

in the work area are partially realized
objects on the bench
moved around and dusted just enough
i can find most things when i need them

pieces for up future construction
some i know by partial-temporary names
and look for a glance to say "not yet"
others are forgotten and then rediscovered

mail arrives later,
one less thing to do for now
email anytime i care to look
it's a mystery - perhaps or perhaps not

too bad they don’t use horses
my granddad used to
wash them in the military
he wasn't a colonel

don’t know if grandfather had a brother
while some families
can track before 1600
only to uncover that the defect persists.

what did the Lord do the one day he rested?
did he have hobbies, wear shoes, have regular chores?
did God write poetry, or,
was fabricating the entire universe
enough creative expression to keep him occupied?

make a note: are we better than
bunnies, ducks and rabbits?
it’s good they invented eyeglasses
say, and when we’re done
are we really done?

center in the heart

the ghetto piazza
border to yesterday
with benches to sit
where there is sun

between not so high old buildings,
piazzas large enough to linger.
this fine spot to pause
during the rush of pre mid day

softly cosmopolitan this part,
forgiving in manner,
proud and stable,
a center in the heart of Rome.

song of the waters

song of the waters
quiet nearly, not quite,
there is a calming murmur,
thoughtless;
the sea in prayer
remembers with swirling soft motion.
how it moves
in seagulls and sun;
shining glimmers,
fish jumping.
the liquid heart of the earth;
the ever so. bloodline.

all rights reserved

M. today suggested
after observing yet another
very large ass jiggle by and by
and jiggling, on and on

there, she pointed,
these could earn cash;
perhaps with a sign
on the backside.

advertising everywhere
a billboard butt - all rights reserved.
money earned could be donated;
either that, or buy a lot of Snickers.

street tapping dancers

in sun and springtime here they come
the two dancing girls are heads up, reeling
sunday in the piazza, prancing in style
see ‘em strut to the old tunes.

made note of 'em last time so i know
was four days shy of four years ago.
they’re still in uniform, taps and hopping.
get back, they’re doing to what was once called swing.

their vintage music in a box - hear it ring.
got the action crowd pausing at the thing.
a small girl picked up their mic, then
they gently coaxed it back again.

the songs from the forties were jumping.
a drunk got up in line, danced along for a bit,
his few practiced moves were brief,
just a minute in the sun, in his groove, to our relief.

canes, bold black and white costumes, top hats,
click-click, tap-taping, roll on sunshine, click, click,
coins drop in the hat, amid appreciative smiles.
rat-a-tat-tat, oh, they left the crowd clapping.

no books

no books in piles around me anymore.
it’s electronic read things
manufacturing each other
while singing “robots are good cha cha cha”

i hear their chant in unison,
like the mechanical mice they practically are;
tapping feet to the beat.
enjoy their music? click, click, click.

people had to rest and eat,
even wanted money – hah!
the new system is up and running
serving the rich and whoever’s in.

so with technology improving
tell me when will i see
a little spilling over,
helping write my poetry?

first poetry written for a dolphin

hi, dolphin
sky is blue
water is too
how are you?

we call ourselves people
at least now we do,
that could change

please understand and forgive us
we are not as stable as you
and have a difficult time leaving
things as they are

and the world pristine
as it was in the beginning

the morning

with the commotion at night, the way
the moon and stars rock around
you’d think we would hear stretching sounds
or at least an echo

rising is the nature of the business
on the quick side of the clock
in first light, birds and critters, me and you
after a good sleep night, got ‘a go

the morning has its strength on then
straight up and at it, when, no horsing around
you can watch it go, my heavens.
time rolling into another new day rhythm

i love the sidewalks then
dashed with a streak
bright as butter yellow when
sneaking through the trees

Retro Rita Hayworth

on the jolly little bus again
for sure arrived via time machine
how else would heels like that get here
to pirouette uneven cobblestones?

as newbees eating ice cream in the rain,
hop aboard in place, in packs, presently isolated
hats on backwards face to face on the little traveler,
this gondola through the maze.

italian, german, inter european, extro mundo
from far north, far east and the americas.
hear them in groups like squirrels chattering,
flashing dreams and fears, some brave outspoken.

retro Rita has stockings
with a long line up the back of her leg.
phone out and twirling it, undecided
what is next to conquer in the ancient city today.

we finished dinner

the olives can go in the refrigerator
is what she said to me
can they now? that got my attention,
i looked at her

didn’t believe her, not then.
that was absolutely not true.
those olives can’t go anywhere,
watch them; even if they tried.

i know for a fact, no doubt about it.
take a load off, olives,
you can put the load right on me.
your going days are over.

Rome winter dark

heavy jackets abound, zip 'em
this grey day soaking mystery
hats on, umbrellas out and up
collars furry snug an' high

walkin' wrapped an' head down,
dampened sound, scarves tight around
through slush against wind chill we are
wading, by shops closed, traffic’s light

an’s only past noon by the clock
look ahead, more’s on the way
just you wait wait until tonight an' dark,
o'course we fear tomorrow’d be a similar day.


continued:
it snowed last night, a bit and cold.
many out walking taking photos
no snow falling now, enough we have
Rome is freezing, closed for the day.

in the key of life

i heard the marching band go down the street
the school’s a block over
i’m reading, thinking while upstairs a worker
finishes, hopefully, tile in the bathroom

some pictures, i see where i could hang a few
overall the old house is coming along
this the second year sharing life with contractors
give us a break, wrap it up, how much can we take?

not writing enough everyday has me off pace
though the year rolls warm and friendly
i note 67 creeping my back stairs
you can find out how old is some day

nights i dream of things to write
instead of getting up to make notes
i sleep thru and tell myself i’ll remember
you know, those distant trains hardly wake me anymore

parking at all costs

walked our streets today
searching space where i may
move, not me, my vehicle, see,
so the car not far is going to be.

in this old town it’s tight, you know,
parking is a premium, so
if available, although it's free,
you need a card on your dash like me,

printed with the correct information
then authorities from the traffic station
can read i walked the walk, got papers and paid the price
to park near, all because i live here where it's rather nice.

January squeeze

‘bout squeezed all the January
we’re goin’a get out of this one;
can’t cut off some of the rind;
no scent left to save for later.

so did you use
this month as expected,
‘bout how you wanted it to unfold,
or did you even think ahead at all?

planning goes right fine along,
neigh on to a point, and then,
there’s an amount of stuff,
call it stuff, that just happens.

here's when best wishes come in,
so figure what you goin'a do;
cha-cha right into another month.
Mr. Fate is following you.

gold country

was long ago,
did i really live there,
San Francisco?
like wine don’t you?

other fog may be thick,
in San Fran it’s romantic.
morning sun on the golden gate
where red/orange is the color.

how about all those boats on the bay!
lived on one ten years with our cat,
and the U.S. navy flying over in jets
putting on a show. mind if they roar?

hi Karl Malden window shopping Maiden Lane.
a store with a little outdoor food festival
in front of the radio station where i worked
my young son asked if it was a fish fry?

M. thought the car parking too expensive
pulling into the lot she saw the sign:
seven dollars min.
waved me off saying not there, go, go.

no way
would we pay
seven dollars
a minute.

famous attorney Melvin Belli
sat in his devilishly wonderful old office
conspicuously on display downtown
with a large window for all to look in
don’t bother to wave at him
he’s working

so much more,
Tony Bennet on his birthday
at a table in the next room.
George Lucas at our agency party

and Something-to-do Bob
in the lot, crawling good morning
out from under his overturned skiff
chin up sincerely asking, “day do you have?”

friends and sea breeze
fresh out of the west.
all in gold country,
one i loved best
we loved it the best

phone message

this is harsh.
get ready to boo.
now this volley
could be aimed at you.

you are annoying
if you have a phone message
with everything on it
except your name.

why hide your name, i have your number?
and don’t repeat the number i dialed.
i know that part already. what i need to know
is if the person i called is there.

how can i leave word with an unknown?
i won’t leave a message
so someone can call back to say
i left word at the wrong number.

if I call you i want the message
to tell me it is you, right away,
or - no message for you.
now have a nice day.

an if i ever have a job
where i have to call and tell you
you won an enormous amount of money
and you don’t have your name on the message

i’ll hang up,
leave my station,
quit the job , pocket your cash
and take a long vacation.

a lifetime forever

to live a lifetime forever
on a mountain under eternal noon sun
with sweet wine touching lips that touch mine

where the omnipresent fragrance of soft flowers
and gentle green
caress thoughts
and cradle in your mind mellow notions

the only sound being
two hearts playing
the softest lullaby in creation



first published August 06, 2008

when i woke

when i woke i had you on mind
must have sung song your song ten thousand times
and every time i start
it’s like cannons in my heart
going off half-cocked
while i’m half blind
i fear i better stop
afore i lose my mind
how in hell did i get myself in such a bind

Porta Portese

often we have wandered
the Sunday market at Porta Portese
do pay attention when you go
into the psycho mad circus crowded zoo

when weaving around
winding through the buzz
keep a hand on your wallet
before anyone else does

legions sell anything and everything
to would-be buyers in the slew
questions asked will be responded to
with answers custom fit for you

for a price
if you like
and it's right
pay up and take it, do

laughing to the extreme

was in the hospital,
had my appendix removed
three of us in a room
one guy told jokes.

he was hysterically funny.
made one poor guy laugh so hard
he broke his appendix stitches
had to be wheeled back and sewn again

day two more jokes from funny guy
same guy broke his stitches laughing again
day three it happened a third time
they wheeled funny guy to a private room

the color of reflection

from the porch of a mountain lake cabin
i painted the scene
a new sedan parked in the shade
under tall pines was the prominent theme

surroundings were rendered to my satisfaction
but the reflection in the car windshield,
a smoky, somber still blue sky perfection
came forth in just the right grayed hue

the mixture of color, and pure good fortune
made it happened, for although i’m experienced,
art in free pure spirit form, that works well at a glance,
often comes down to a matter of chance.

kid threw

kid threw a ball across the street
meri saw and crossed over to get it
before she was back
the kid threw two more across

these are little kids
ages three and two
big throws the ball
little stands and watches

learning ways of the world
from their own front yard
the mother talks, their eyes glisten
but they don’t appear to hear or listen

crowd talking

people are crowd talking
jammed on their phones
in cars, on city streets
hear the chatter?

doesn’t matter,
keep moving.
though i’m surprised more aren’t
running into each other.

in the future you’ll hear
talk crossing the borders of time
“Mr. Lincoln on line three.”
“Again? . . . tell him i’m in a meeting.”

when phones are imbedded
we can walk around talking
to everyone who isn’t there. RING!
“i’ll get it . . . since i’m the only one here. hello?”

“ i’m callin’ Michael uh Jackson , tell him it’s Elvis’s.”
“Oh, i recognize your voice, Elvis.”
“Well, will ya put Michael on.”
“i’m sorry, Elvis, you have the wrong number.” click!

Rome seen as a park

Saturday we walked a bit
a block beyond the Coliseum,
off the end of the Circus Maximus
by Roman ruins, under an old church,

out into a park with parrots and benches,
sunshine and shade, trees and peace;
it was as if we were some hundred miles away,
this sanctuary in the center of the ancient city.

now today got up and showered
selected attire appropriate
so then decked out right for our day
walked the bowed crest of the old bridge.

first stopping in sunshine, in the middle
to see the calm, wide moving river below
and walkers on one sidewalk side down there,
the Vatican dome straight off a half mile away.

that’s how we got to Trestevere
where we had coffee amid locals
saw only a dog or two out today
looking, listening, in good humor, having fun

seems everyone was taking Sunday easy
and that, you know ’s proven the best way.
so overall uneventful yet pleasant this Sunday
you don’t even need a weather report about it.

let me say right now
that this slow, dull, average day
and this entire weekend was all around okay
to the point of being worth mentioning.

two extremes

walking this narrow centuries old lane
under shade rendered by old stone buildings
on our narrow cobblestone way
a young mother ahead is pushing
an empty stroller with her right hand
stooped forward holding the hand
of her tiny toddler with her left
as he advances in hesitant wobbly steps
i amble alongside them
in tentative pace indicative of age

on the graph of human existence
heading along the path of life
aside the mother are two extremes
one is nearly there
the other fresh out of the gate

in box

you have your in box
and you have your out box
that seems clear enough
now let’s take a look at them

do you want to chat and blend a conversation
invite a third party or more
how about you do it in an elevator
or on a train, in your pocket in the rain,

make it tiny with a phone, put plugs in your ear,
include photos, movies
distort the voice. what? no 3D?
baby has one with a rattle on it.

give me the old ways
like bows and arrows
three bears and Goldilocks
an in box and an out box

busy

ok, so, i'm busy, you're busy,
that's fine, now to continue:
i do read poetry i don't get.
it is either beyond me or crap, or mostly crap.

then there is the good stuff,
really fine, you’ve seen it.
literally beyond me.
i understand that situation.

it’s like fencing,
mask, vest and foil
against a professional opponent
could cut you to ribbons,

or at least prong you well, for sure.
but anyone claiming to be
a professional fencer
is either lying or a 300 year old pirate.

now, thinking of people who read blog poetry,
weep and read it three times,
and weep themselves to sleep. hey, read a book
or clean the house, it’s better for everyone.

to read for enjoyment.
with dictionary on my knee.
is not, i say, not my cup
of soup, of wine or tea.

i’m old fashioned, spoiled.
and prefer to understand what i read.
so don’t try to impress,
just entertain me.

poetry is a gift
for the people.
make it easy
to unwrap.

i had some of my paintings
sent back from Rome, and then
with knives and scissors and rolling on the floor,
it took a half hour sweat to open the package.

were they afraid of attack
by the mad mailed-picture pirates,
or are they paid by
how much tape and string they use?

that’s it; and now, to both of us
good luck, good day, soups on.
be on your way. let’s be on our way.
you’re busy, i’m busy

Cincia's roots

late this sunlit afternoon i passed Cincia,
a lovely good heart with long hair,
half owner of the vintage clothing shop
across the way on this old narrow lane.

“The metal discs of the street cleaner
yesterday nearly tore into the vine.”
checking we saw the stem unscathed.
“In spring it blooms full and beautiful,” she said.

one cobblestone removed, so it grows by the wall,
swings high, arching over the entire doorway.
she planted roots when they opened there.
“was that three years ago?”

looking up at the vine contently,
“It has now been six years,” she said,
i said softly, “Time does pass.”
nodding with a soft smile she said, “It runs.”

Gene Hackman

“Gene Hackman was hit by a bicycle in Florida.”
how brutal.
“no, a vehicle hit him on his bicycle”
either way is bad.

“He wasn’t wearing a helmet”
it is nine a.m. in Rome, Italy
and i wake to this?
he’s not my uncle.

“I thought he lived in New Mexico.”
never met the man.
are we still going to the big market?
“He’s 82 years old”

i hear you’re going to start your blog again, M.
“I’ll knock you out of the sandbox, turkey, under the fence.”
over the fence
“Either way. Grrrr.”

pardon me?
“ I’ll be ready in a minute for my close up, Darling., ”
what do we need to take to the market?
“Hell or high water.”

Abdul of Senegal

Abdul of Senegal,
six years a Roman
opens the laundry at nine
or thereabouts.

i know this of the good hearted fellow:
he is sleek, tall, gentle,
speaks bits of English,
blurry Italian, his French is fine.

brought me a coffee today and a croissant,
why ? i offered to buy,
he insisted and got us one each.
i stayed, did my wash and recalled

two years ago Abdul said Paris ..
there he was ready to live.
today New York, says he.
yes, give him Gotham to gnaw.

he is thirty and is ready
to roll faster, deeper now
over into the turmoil of the world.
we do live our dreams, so it seems.

back now and on a computer,
he is searching, looking
i interrupted to ask if there were elephants
and are there lions in Senegal.

without hesitation at my banal query
“in parks there are”, he said. i nodded.
oh, the deviated realm in which we live.
as our world gets larger, the world gets smaller.

city magnum

in the little rolling box
bumpy high-speed turns
after the holidays
tourists have evaporated

long hair, long stockings
gets on the tiny bus
sits, crosses her legs
very long stockings

guy sits opposite
we’re only three
facing each other
she talks, says a bad word

says a major multi bad phrase
the guy listens
watching her legs
she says more bad

words in obvious anger
he asks “husband?”
she says, “brother.”
here’s my stop

she leaves also
began as strangers
ciao-ciao, ciao-ciao, ciao
part like family

shake it off
just another trip
into city magnum
happens like often

3:54 a.m.

blacker than midnight
no light
spare the red glow
of the clock

went to the bathroom
briefly turned on a small flashlight
to check in the toilet
twenty years ago a rural friend told me

he always checks the bowl
now i always look
he is old now, i owe him
i need to renew his agony

when i see him next time
i’ll remind him by asking
if a snake bit him
on the balls yet.

stopped at a tintaria

stopped at a tintaria, door was open.
the name implies they dye material.
more often these days it’s dry clean they do,

a kind man i found there, always a good start;
re hooked the slider on my coat zipper in a minute
so it works like new again. he did. i’m grateful.

i said the fine service was worth fifty euro
he said one hundred and twenty. we laughed.
he charged me nothing. that’s fine too.

this is the city. we both were aware
that i may never stop again there.
he did the job; in these lines i remember him.

no state to deny

a pop up on my computer reads,
“your pc is in a perfect state.”
it is trying to convince me, however unlikely,
for my computer’s never been a lot of places.

though i reason, as for state, i'm in italy
where the consensus is: nothing is perfect.
as perhaps Italy is a state, meaning -
a condition: like insomnia.

although equated with a state of grace
there is no rational for some beliefs;
they are unexamined, tossed around
enough to be overrated yet acceptable.

with the favorite reason being:
that is how it has always been done.
don’t ask questions, don’t whine.
heads down, stay in line.

any fine day

put two hundred strangers,
some jetlagged,
whirling in a crowd
out of order,

around tents, hand carts
small dogs and corners;
meander an electric bus
through the middle,

plus bicycles and motrorinos
on all sides.
now pigeons on the ground
in the center of it all

hopping, running,
bobbing their heads, pecking
stretching their wings,
turning their heads.

half cover lightly
with rolling low clouds,
add brisk winds
and you're in the campo packed laughing,

wondering why those
quick dashing pigeons
never get bumped, run over
or stepped on.

to market

I.

M. has arrived,
with no space for jet lag.
step aside please,
we’re heading to market.

first buy bus passes,
for she must be orderly, precise, never nonplussed.
those tickets checkers will get you if you’re without.
a fifty euro fine now, sixty-five if you pay later.

II.

seated facing everyone from the very back of the bus.
along our way a young man shouted
into his cell phone for all to hear.
perhaps as a youngster he spent his hours

yelling into a tin can tied on a string.
maybe someone was on the other end
with similarly rigged equipment,
maybe not.

IV.

i went along and did not sing
or read or sleep, just hung on,
for a bus over cobblestones
does much up and down bumping.

now we're both here, winter’s near.
to market and back,
as we settle in.
seems like old times.

the uniform

i saw the uniform in the open door of the closet,
hung pressed like new, was civil war blue
with a narrow yellow side stripe and metal buttons.
with boots, gloves, hat and sword in scabbard.

her husband’s or her father’s, i don’t recall.
she has since gone the long away.
i could call to ask my old friend George,
though we haven't talked since we were children.

and where has that fragment been,
that which i carry in my head?
when now so many years have gone by,
there remains only a thread.

not even my story, someone else’s life
hanging blue in the closet that isn’t there.
even that building exists only
in old worn photos and scant memories.

Swiss Chocolate

i like chocolate
and have a bit now and then
say, evenings, say often.
in my Christmas stocking Santa put me some.

now, i’d heard the Swiss
made chocolate well;
let me tell to you this,
better than swell, Swiss chocolate is.

it was worth the trip.
how can i say it? well . . .
between you and me,
it is the best you think chocolate can be.

i’m sorry it ends so soon, this poem;
it’s like looking down when you're taking out the trash
and seeing the candy wrapper there and remembering
how wonderful tasty chocolate is.

My Conception of Immaculate Zurich

cross the street where you should
new stylish shiny cars must stop for you.
all is fresh like new, exactly neat.
no bird makes a mess, or too loud tweet.

air there is clean without question
through the day, through the night.
lake fishes swimming
keep to the right.

sidewalks pristine, in good repair.
there is no graffiti - anywhere.
quiet trams, smooth buses run on time.
poems of course are going to rhyme.

midnight train to zurich

the conductor waved the lantern one time long and slow
looking back the engineer nodded and we pulled out of the station
exactly seven a.m. by the black metal ornate clock we passed.
although, and i shivered, it was half past midnight in my heart.

it was evident the guy had stolen the porters jacket
as witnessed by what he had,
a giant bloodstain bullet hole leaking out
where his brains out'a be.

so i sipped my coffee quietly
and noticed it tasted like an amateur made it.
looking into the face of the cat woman,
a conspiratorial smile wet her lips.

remembered my chic long black wool frock
left at home hanging alone in the dark closet;
instead wore my nylon Cleveland Indians jacket
with Chief Wahoo on it.

he ripped a hole in the knee of his pants
escaping the clutches of his ticket-checking girlfriend,
i saw his eyes steel-over as he punched my ticket,
Robert Ludlum would have left this character bound in baggage.

a clang i felt more than heard when the porter dropped his revolver,
then went to pick it up and seven passports
slipped like snowflakes from his pocket and fell to the floor.
he looked up, i saw written in his expression the words
forget it ever happened.

to enjoy

as M. continues her way of life diet,
went solo, i did, to Pasquali’s.
half rigatoni with asparagus sauce and bacon,
oh, Serena you can cook; top of the world, ma.

back on the planet and the little bus to Angelo’s for coffee
when a common laborer comes in for his sips of mocha,
tells Simone that exactly one year from today
the Mayan Calendar ends and the world with it.

i say i read that fifty years ago when i was eleven.
it is amazing how time keeps passing.
and worker-man said it is good that it does,
for all the experience of life time gives us to enjoy.

ibid

At the end of a 1930’s gangster movie, Jimmy Cagney was on the roof of a burning building shooting his machine gun, put his head back and yelled out, “Top of the world, Ma.” My use of the line in this poem was a reference to that.

in the balance

bus riding humming was i,
passing city sights in turns
and fits and starts of traffic.
some jammed thick and slow.

aware then to a noise,
a near persistent, endless drone.
once alert of it, looking around
i found it was a monotone girl

working hard it seemed,
talking non-stop to a boy.
giggling in the light of his attention,
swooning she was.

he standing,
politely nodding,
listening to her winding it out persistently
with minimal pause in her plan.

not a bad looking girl, not that,
though, talkative she was, for sure.
if she could neaten up, lighten up,
take a few breaths and relax,

perhaps he’d seek her out
to stand by her sometime,
with half an idea or something to say
maybe he would chat her up a bit someday.

the beatles era

they sprang up on the radio,
came from long away.
there was a lot of talk
about their haircuts

and they knocked us out
with Hard Days Night and so many other songs.
John, Paul, George and Ringo;
we even knew their names.

acres of words have been written
about them and their wonderful music.
oh, they were big, so very big
we sang their songs and loved them.

from my window

seen from my window
a blackbird with nerve, now swooping,
chasing a young, small squirrel.
relentless in pursuit .

in my life i have been content,
consistently. others have noticed,
commented on my optimism;
somehow always on the sunny side.

that was once upon a time,
though now i am sad, without purpose,
finding this cloak of darkness
difficult to wear.

though i would not be a burden.
there are no friends to care. in dread
i’m lacking in the experience of,
I find this heavy sadness hard to bare,

squirrels come and go with seasons
the blackbirds never are their friends
yet they nearly get along at times,
you’d think their story never ends.

time has passed since i wrote the lines above
rain and snow’ve both come and gone.
as sleep and food and time
have moved us right along,

and i’ve rolled in the waves of mirth.
rode out storms, i’m back from the dread.
now there is sun, by gosh, i feel it
once more; i’m ready to take wing and fly along.

m.

she’s good.
real damn good
cooking, cleaning, sewing,
her gardens, flowers, vegetables.

can work harder, longer
sweat more
do it right and better
than i can.

so why do i
have to walk around the house
turning off all the lights she leaves on
in the morning?

now there’s heat in the kitchen
m. making corn chowder
this after she turned bushels of tomatoes
into chili sauce.

i‘ve spun the globe seeking a site
to erect a monument for her.
when i asked she said she wanted a tree
in front of the library .

that seems reasonable;
in front of the widow
lined with cookbooks
and stories of survival.

i guess she could not think
of a solitary place from which
she could keep an eye on me.
then again, she may change her mind anyway.

though, hooking up with the library,
i know how her mind works,
always staying on the good side,
she thinks it’ll help erase any fines she may accrue.

middle of the night

went to the bathroom, middle of the night,
something was different in my mouth
turned on the light
my missing tooth was back in place

it looked fine and new.
behind me in the mirror
was George E. Russel played by buddy Ebesen
he was with Fess Parker in the Davy Crocket movies.

put his long rife against the wall and looked at my teeth,
shook his head and smiled in disbelief,
said no worry, my teeth were fine.
but Buddy Ebsen’s not a dentist, never even played one on TV.

seemed i needed a second opinion.
went back to bed, forgot it all
when i woke the tooth was gone,
the hole was back, right where i left it

dreams may take us many places
through blocks, into new spaces
in hollow earth and under glass
don’t cha know, this too'll pass.

winter

the bleak, dull ugliness
of the frigid season
is well noted.

on the bright side,
consider it God’s good planning;

winter days were made deliberately shorter
so you don’t have to look at them as long.

what it will be

what will it be,
which one do we take?
got on the 87
a guy was itchin’ his head

and we road out
and well beyond
to the Southside overlook of Rome
way out of town

many got off and on the bus
while the sun went down
and we rode along
to the very end

and the guy never stopped
it was dark as we rode
to the end,  he was no kiddin'
non stop itchin’ his head

glass wings

reminders of flying
and objects of art?
i could think about it later
though it perhaps does not matter.

when so keenly graced,
need objects function?
won’t beauty alone suffice,
being an elegant subject matter?

for not only me,
for the many as well,
home you can tell
is where the art is.

the poets, did you notice

reading the great
and the unknown,
i notice, above all, variety.
a myriad of blizzard snowflakes.

while standing by the pond’s edge
watching frogs, thinking, i am
– what the hell,
there’s life going on in the pond

not even human, will never write a book,
march on parade,
make a movie seen in Bedouin tents,
or circle the globe, be reported in the press;

and i’ve seen poor families, or a word less than poor
living in filthy ruined cardboard boxes
on the hill, the inland side
of Acapulco, the side never seen, not talked about.

their love, hope, dreams and pain,
swirl together in heat, cold and rain,
and they won’t write anything for posterity.
some can’t write their name.

good words somewhere, for you and i,though,
good songs of life, there are.
that’s how it goes, variety,
in these days we have,

tumbling together,
some better than others.
as it goes rolling on and on,
and on and us with it, and on.

core thought

core thought
at home thinking a spark
where day starts,
all begins in the dark.

five this morning
playing piano in my head
figuring it out, doing the left hand,
making it better, keeping it tight, lying in bed.

and i said, time moves on, six-thirty; oh,
the sun is on the mask now, the stone medallion
over the door on the building opposite our window.
i’m up this instant and want to take a photo of it.

the mask is already
a few hundred years old
and i want to preserve it
forever, on celluloid? am i joking?

and i take one, it is blurry.
i take five, all are blurry.
for one minute some days,
some times i think of

these swans in stone, this family seal.
the sun kisses it brief moments, mornings
when it is sunny. if i am looking
at the right time, in the right month, i see it.

though, can’t think of it now, planning this day, i am.
have to make breakfast and shower,
then catch a train to pick up the car.
we’ll find a place to park it when we get here

back to where we start, some other hour
at the beginning, home again
at the beginning of the day
then, when the sun is rising

geese - the significant

when driving in a dream there is
no need to signal, yet i cordially wave and smile.
traffic heavy melts together on the road,
shut my eyes and nod off into a cat nap.

in a splash, came to wakeful senses
i did in a crowd. horns honking.
waved back, had the change,
paid the toll. told myself i could finish

this dream, in an hour, if i rush.
hit the gas, checked the time
and then realized an hour had already passed.
time flies, you know, some say, they’re right, some time.

took another bite of sandwich,
chewed slowly while i wondered
where i got it and how to hold it
with two hands while driving?

seemed mayonnaise enough to me ,
i smiled at the hearty bread, tasty as reality,
with long green salty seeds in it,
and the tomato slipping out.

aware that all the red was taillights
all the honking were wild geese
making restful music as i
closed my eyes to finish dreaming.

thinking the one last conscious thought,
that i like geese, i really do.
never met one though to get to know,
i’d surly like to.

Rome Christmas cone lasts one day

a man seated at an outside restaurant table,
in sport and open collar shirt,
was sipping a cappuccino.
noticing him reminded me the pre-Chrismas weather's fine.

as we circled the center of Rome,
where only yesterday a forty foot tall
red and mostly white paper mache
inverted cone was prominent on display,

we had debated briefly about what it was,
and why it was there
where the holiday tree usually sits,
and wondered who came up with that idea?

has it gone now to where decorations go,
though always after the holiday,
not three weeks before,
not the day after it was put there?

someone else had noticed the strange cone,
someone with an influential voice in the city,
and must have concurred with us, it didn't work,
it looked absolutely stupid.

a voice spoke, “take it down.”
and probably advised,
“don’t ever try anything
stupid like that again.”

and is sipping a capuccino at this time
at an outdoor cafe,
wearing a sport coat and open-collar shirt
while fuming much less and enjoying the holiday season more.

joy

joy in discovery of a photo forgotten,
from a church dedication, now bygone,
far back erased from our town.

featured is the crowd of spectators.
revelers clad in celebratory finery. captured
in black and white and grays; note the hats and horses.

you can feel their thoughts. they are in their eyes,
neat and clean. there must be light talk and music.
subtle, wonderful celebration is captured on their faces;

all stand firm in time, in their places
on a now forever bright fall day ago.
they are forever to remain satisfied.

burmashave

this cross marks
where he met his due
now on this bend
I’ll use one hand to
Burmashave.

vegan wagon

night dark on a curve
fell off the vegan wagon,
toppled it, let it skid down the hill
over the falls, disappeared in the rapids.

last seen breaking up,
heading downstream,
sails up while under
a full head of steam.

wasn’t my fault.
collided with a
sweet scent
at the fair.

wouldn’t buffalo you,
nothing was fare.
like love, babe,
you just had to be there.

Master of Hah!

jack of all trades
all of my life
i am writer, actor,
musician and artist

friends have said,“you can do everything”
to these i say Hah!
don’t ask me to do your dental work
or adjust your brakes.

so goes life,
you get what you see.
though, i have been a doctor -
played one on TV.

flaps down

one night in Arizona heading home
after dinner at Tony’s
the commander driving us
through the mountains . . .

he floored it to pass
we went heads back in our seats,
I asked then, “Tom, you miss
flying those PBY’s, do ya?

and we all laughed well,
ah, yes we did.
now we pause to remember
our time with the Commander.

miracle banana

on the internet a picture of a face
on a banana. some speak of miracles
others question the face
of john the Baptist.

why no beard?
others explain he
was only about twelve or thirteen
when this banana was taken.

words unspoken

mystic words unspoken
scribbled out in haste
placed in a box
the lid down tight

all were not thought about
until today when, as the plane took me
over the patch work quilt leading to Philadelphia,
suddenly recalled those fragments

not entire to be called poem
so no one under the wind will recognize
precisely what those pieces are
until i weave patches together

the still life

walked by one of mine
stopped to straightened it
in pause i saw
captured in arranged space

the shelf and wall
with objects irregularly lined,
positioned with care
as painted there
in restful scene forever.

working the morning hour
every day for less than a week
to collect the relative same natural light
before the sun moves and light changes.

in reflection of colors,
a recreation of the space,
this representative reproduction
as I see, as I do
within time available
a man makes art
then hangs it on the wall

why you need poetry, or poe what?

twisting slosh clobber
ten thousand splashing waves crashing,
screaming into the face of the wind .
looking over i see the noise is emitted by
a kid at the next table eating breakfast cereal

daily bread
do not donut
why not
pilgrims cry
George M. Cohan sang
sailing, talking, running
for the long song
and that’s the short of it,
it’s all about the wind.

why do you need poetry
connected and rhythmic?
are you going to dance to it, or
lie down and cry over it?
what you have is your money’s worth

see what happens.
see what shows.
its now or over,
depending how
your day goes.
and the price of gas

a collection of words
to get into, gain light, float away,
or use it to better roll along the bottom.
endless are the possibilities.

while you're young

while you’re young
hike the peaks.
take some leaps.
come fall, rake leaves.

make tracks in the hills,
wander the hollow,
‘neath clouds high see ‘em go by
as the grand geese honk over.

evening, toast your pals
roast marsh mellows,
laugh now, gals and fellows tell your stories,
wrap it up over apple cider, then count the stars.

days pass, waxed on glass, you know.
then remember again, as you will,
the great times that passed
when we were young together.

long distance evolution

on narrow cobble stoned streets
at noon in the throng of the old city
i passed a woman speaking in normal voice.
something odd about this caused me to stop.

hearing her calm voice i turned to watch.
in no way did she sound or look crazy.
her calm manner of dissertation seemed quite normal,
but there was no one to whom was she speaking.

she stood chin up, as if speaking to the wind.
i had to walk back and then begged to interrupt,
“mi scusi.” I asked to whom was she speaking?
she pointed up toward the building she was facing.

eighty feet away high up on the third floor her friend
looked down from an open window, smiled and nodded.
here at last is proof of the evolution of man
adaptation in the strength of neighborliness.

gleaming, rolling

from the bridge Garibaldi,
toward the island Tiberina,
the split Tevere river water runs swiftly.
a three foot falls is on the South side.

caught in the back water of the falls
are eight soccer balls rapidly turning ,
25 bright, shiny one- liter plastic bottles in motion,
sparkling iridescent light blue, green, orange and white.

bathing in exploding foam that surrounds all.
gleaming refracting sun jumps colors to life.
when you come to Rome be sure to look;
I’m sure it will till be there.

swift flows the river
but those rolling objects
aren’t leaving;
they like it there.

poetry music, art

poetry, music, art
how i spend the hours;
need to squeeze in flowers
for the rhyme.

words, piano, drawing,
would say color
but doesn’t rhyme,
just makes music for the eyes.

here again some

where new and old is Rome altogether.
observing what is
and making note;
thus comes poetry out of this city.

took a cab across town to the district Parioli,
Fiat called me for a recording session.
later on a bus ride home a baby cries.
after a few minutes i move to the rear.

and cries relentless, poor child
it is twenty minutes to the termini
and cries.
voluntarily out early i transfer buses.

there is an alert.
a white medical van goes by
as siren calls i’m here, make way.
the van labeled as carrying blood and organs.

on then off another bus again
at Largo Argentina.
a place i know well,
though hardly time to look around

a third bus takes me for a few blocks,
and then walking now near home
i stop, because it was necessary.
had to to look into the hole.

men were working on the long deep ditch.
speaking with a co-looker i mention
the building right there
was a workshop of Michelangelo

see the faint painting on the side that his students did
the workers were seated, resting for lunch, listening
i said to my co-hole- looker that only men
stop to look in the holes.

one of the hole workers heard
and added, not only men,
also children always stop
to gaze in the hole.

so it is that good work,
as with poetry,
begins with the question:
what is down there?

and this time i do think
for sure, rightfully so, there may be
something most interesting hidden for ages from mankind
down there in that hole.

spoke with five

spoke with five people in a church,
actually more a museum these days.
we and the they were in repose,
a respite from touring Roma.

bright, able and intelligent,
a refreshing splash revitalizing the reality of
this start of the second decade
of the twenty-first Century.

calm, quiet, sharp, all spoke observantly,
we would have taken them home right now;
course they’ve gone now, we lost ‘em.
what remains is spirit of rekindled hope for the future.

on a stairway

on a stairway all the way
up the side of the house
is it redwood? i think so.
definitely spongy in places near the top

then i climbed on the outside of the rail
found a box with odd electrical parts
and a scrap of rumpled paper
with a handwritten note

that said, “.83 per kilowatt hour,
123 dollars for a month.“ could this be?
or is it solely an invention of dream
and possibly of poetry?

bus drama

from the prime first seat i see
an old woman outside the door as it closes, she doesn't see me,
looking up she is mouthing pleading words to the driver
while he sits comfortably aloof looking straight ahead

she is manically asking help from God,
desperately imploring the baby Jesus
hands on the wheel the driver is warm in his glass booth
the elderly woman outside the door shakes her fist

i’m in the middle nearly between them
what should i shout - Hey, Whoa, Wait?
unable to quickly form helpful words
it all unfolds a breath before the bus departs

i write
i read
don’t request them
then look for comments anyway
do the necessities
keep things in order as best i can
my sister had a stroke recently.
also, and this also is an integral part of the whole;
i wrote my wife today and she agreed,
it is all passing so quickly.

this is the sixteenth day

how problem was found
and how it resolved
began with desire
to take a bus

the tobacchio man said sold out
no more November bus passes.
i settled for a one week pass,
paid sixteen euro.

which week of the two remaining will i ride?
the week begins when i punch the ticket.
should i ride the week in the middle
leave a few days on both sides?

sixteen euro is what i pay
for a leisurely full month fare.
i was fifty feet away
when i thought about it

then i went back
and exchanged the week pass
for sixteen individual tickets.
that will serve me well