garage sale

an alert notice bannered the local paper
attention – don’t miss it
the once-a- year whole town garage sale is a happening
and god almighty good glory the sun is shining today

folks in colorful, rumpled, weekend-casual
doin' a bit o'work leisure wear
have unloaded all manner of goods
that pack, end to end, the parking lot
where make-do tables and stacked boxes are set
row upon row
displaying once cherished items
now calling for your money, money, money
just a little of your money
cause these would-be venders don’t
want to store it any longer

more or less recently fresh coffee
and bakery goods are available at a trailer
all moderately priced for the good spirited group
now streaming like buffalo
amid sale items that are overall:
fifty per cent plastic, twenty percent broken,
the rest miscellaneous or generally non classifiable,
including the chipped and rusted
all discounted to rock bottom prices

no music blares, only excited hometown chatter is heard
in the flood of curious meanderers
in sun hats, suspenders, comfy shoes and canes,
elbow to elbow walking proud

including children on bicycles, in strollers, some towed
all in a great moving wave
along the sea of heads down, eyes alert,
hard core bargain hunters,
seeking and assessing under priced treasures,
most destined for little use
or to be packed away
until recycled again
some other day
at a future, as yet to be announced,
be ready when it comes, garage sale

if women

if women are so damn gentle
why does she get upset more than me?
I mean, i swept the porch,
she didn’t see,
only the lousy pile of debris
I left on the other side,
from sweeping the drive
sakes alive and Wah!
so it wasn’t put in a trash can, thirty lashes
we have four days before the trash guys arrive

she works hard and right
I commend her, she keeps all neat
runs her half of the ship tight
my list of good I do includes mud
not tracked in on my feet – how ‘bout that!
am I sweet, or what?

have to remind myself
she sees things her way, not mine,
cause astrologically speaking – we were born in
different places at different times,
must allow for different hearts,
different stops, different starts, different graces
we get things done at a different paces
boys versus girls in the human races
and so it goes

now, if I’m not hard enough
maybe it’s because I wake up early each day,
my skin gets too soft
from gentle morning sunshine
baby kissing my eyes,
she’d probably say the sun light in my eyes
goes in deep alright,
and has dried out my brain

reflection

as i reflect it seems
there are two extremes
beginning and end
with which to contend

my report begins in motion
a start somewhere in the middle
for the real beginning was so long ago
that i don’t hope to know

and beyond my lines
the end will come in view
but more will notice
when the end is past
certainly not me
and i doubt if you

the wall

the wall between us
is nearly transparent
as i can see
we can live within, i have found

and walk around half off the ground
through misty vapors
crowned with windows
to gothic cathedral height

invisible as sweet music
unfolding with the stars at night
treading softly on the grass
all seems so profound

as easily we pass
turning to the sound
with outstretched arms
we circle, around, around and around

enough of this that both
gladdens and saddens me
it is for you too
look around, go and see
i am yours, you are mine
we share the way
it’s ours this day
if we’re so close
why are you always
on the other side?

mourning doves

more than any other bird not on disassembly lines
an estimated 70 million are shot by hunters annually,
while other birds make happy songs
mourning doves emit a plaintive lament - coo coo coo
a favorite sound since mornings of my youth

look for them not in deep woods, but in open fields
and sitting on telephone wires
doves fly a swift 55 miles an hour in straight lines
eat only seeds
their poorly constructed nest tends to fall apart

unlike other birds, doves blink
sad like circus clown Emmet Kelly
who swept the spotlight with a broom,
they are cute,
yet, pitiful

Clockster Doctorettes

it’s three o’clock
my god – stop the clocks
you know which ones
take the weights off and the pendulums
load them in the car, gently
don’t forget the wind up keys
we’re on our way to the Clockster Docterettes
who claim knowledge to repair antique clocks
good luck to us – we’re on the way

speeding through tiny towns with hills wavy pretty
looking like that’s what snow is made for
send me a picture
then grant, sycamore, and state streets
where we dropped off the clocks for an estimate
oh, my – an estimate
hey , they run fine
give them a squirt of clock oil
not a frontal lobotomy


on the way back we passed camp Quilter –
she thought it said Quitter
at the local small town roadside drive though feed house
she got a large soft drink
the size of an Opel Cadet,
any larger it would need turn signals

i popped my ears trying to suck a small shake
the consistency of a goodyear tire
i sucked and sucked and then popped up a freezing slug
that hit the roof of my mouth and landed on my teeth
like two hundred pounds
of frozen dancing reindeer in tap shoes
i saw stars, screamed in pain
nearly passed out from the shock
but kept the car on the road
and sped us home

no call yet from the Clockster Doctorettes

beyond the pale

the one left in tall grass
behind the building out back
there is no hope
there just plain is

screw loose and fancy free
I have the time
and the inclination
don’t forget loveable

too bad I’m not magnetic
with an important message
like one you love and stuck on the refrigerator
but know so well by heart you ignore it