It’s Six-Fifteen P.M. on a Sleepy Sunday

It’s six-fifteen p.m. on a somewhat sleepy,

overcast, warm, early summer Sunday.

I’m sitting on my well-worn leather chair

with my feet crossed on the ottoman. The

ceiling fan lazily turns the air down my

way. It encircles my head reminding me

of a gentle breeze that cools a hot night

when slept on the back-porch of our

Chicago home when I was seven. It sinks

in that my reserved retirement, quiet even

as much as quiet is a word describing me

and my preacher life, which isn’t often, but,

then again, it is a somewhat sleepy Sunday,

is now open not only to God but the National

Security Administration, and I don’t think

I even know a single soul there.  I blog

poetry and I e-mail and I surf the web but

I don’t do Facebook for a number of reasons

including privacy concerns.  My son chuckled

at that: “They know it all, Dad.”  Turns out

he was right. I’m not sure who he was

referencing as “they,” but now I know; it’s

Big Brother, and that’s not a joke. Holy writ

indicates that the state is not there to harm

the innocent but why, I ask, must the

details of contents of  my under-ware be

stored for perpetuity somewhere in huge

computers in some obscure place in middle-

America to be examined sometime in the distant

future, perhaps, for a terrorist threat at six-fifteen

p.m. right now?  They could ask my personal

physician for my fecal sample. I would be happy

to offer them my stool to sit on.

She Walked Through the Rest of Retirement

Shoulders stooped, head

down, she walked through

the rest of retirement mostly

resentful and angry even

though she gave the impression

she was depressed and people

should feel sorry for her, really

sorry, not like the pity she had

always benevolently bestowed.

Life hadn’t turned out the way

she had controlled everything

until the cloud descended and

the pedestal moved away and

and she found herself losing

herself as she walked slowly

along the street, and then she

stopped, pulled back her shoulders,

lifted her head, saluted, advanced,

shouted aliez, parried, did a parry-

thrust, and whip-over all before

noon. He stood still and she said,

“I know you better than you know

yourself.” He had no idea what

that meant. Parry-thrust, passé,

and a bunch of others as she pride-

fully called out her moves. He simply

said, “Touche.” She smiled, spun and

marched away several inches taller.

She felt much better for a while

after the attack even though she

never scored a hit. She thought

she had. It gave her something

to live for in an otherwise hugely

disappointing retirement. He

shook his head in bewilderment

and reached into the trunk of

the car for the groceries.