He rises in the morning;
his wife says he was snoring;
coffee he’ll be pouring
	into the cup 
	so he may sup.
He looks upon the day
and wonders what may
befall him at play --
	hitting the putt
	into the cup?
Or he stands a chance
to catch a sideways glance
from those who prance --
	an egocentric nut
	who still can’t putt
so concludes his wife each day.

Into the bush on the
other side of the window
from where I sit,
a Cardinal couple flit
and fly —
he bright red and small,
she pale
red and brown
with a bright red crown
and big with eggs
and a sharp eye.
They have come to
build a nest in their
favorite meeting place.
But I must give them
privacy and space.
And so I will lower
the blinds and
angle them just so
in hopes they return so
I can keep watching the
glorious birthing and
parenting show.

Ah, it worked!
They’re back
so fast,
(There’s work to
do before Cardinal
chicks at last.)
and I peer through
the slat.
He, on a higher branch,
watches diligently,
while she, at the
fledgling nest,
places a twig
most carefully.

Gregory met her at a dance
and felt a stirring in his pants.
Guiltily, he recalled his Catholic past,
then, smiling, considered his Gregorian chance.

Voices clamor down and out,
stupid sounds shout
over the airwaves.
It’s what the media craves
for bucks upon bucks
CBS says, “Oh, shucks.
It may not be good for
America, but our
profits are up and up.”
Yes, while the country
goes down and out
and maybe even belly up.

The world is too much with us
late and soon;
stop the world I want to get off
before noon
and be far from the madding crowd
before a blue moon
in time.

Listening to the news and all
the silliness and scariness of this
year’s politics, all these pop into
his mind.

He encounters a couple he knew
long ago and they tell him a certain
hymn was sung on Sunday and
what came to mind

was his late wife’s memorial
service during which the hymn,
her favorite, was sung. Uneasy
with masculine language of time,

he still tears up when thinking of
the wise and comforting words for
every day and time while humming
each line:

1. This is my Father’s world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world:
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.

3. This is my Father’s world.
O let me ne’er forget
that though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world:
why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let the earth be glad!

I just read that
Bach drank thirty-

six cups of coffee
a day and then I

understood why Bach’s
music moves so fast.

I heard in college
English that Balzac

drank himself to
death on coffee

but I can’t hear
how fast he wrote

the words. I wonder
if Balzac committed

slow suicide by
coffee, making his

brain move faster
and faster and

faster till it
was the little

engine that could-
n’t? Maybe it helped

Bach father lots
and lots of kids

really fast. Maybe
he was composing

his feisty fugues
fueled by the

caffeine at
conception.

Considering both
alternatives,

I think I’ll
pass on the

next cup of
coffee.

The man sat docile, slumped
in the soft, leather
recliner, feet

on the ottoman staring at
a laptop computer
perched pre-

cariously on his ample lap.
Then, seemingly out
of nowhere, he

shot out of the chair, holding
the computer in one
hand, waving it

violently like an awkward axe
and spewed forth
a barrage

of profanity aimed at the
man’s host who sat dumb-
founded and

shocked at the outburst of
his friend. Moments
later nothing,

a return to docility, passivity —
nothing but everything
and then again, in

a much greater sense — nothing.
The host plays it over
and over trying

to get it straight, right,
something after
asking,

“What?” and again, “What?”
The friend gives
nothing. The

friend’s wife offers a salvo
to hopefully save some-
thing, “Oh, he gets

this way.” The passive/aggressive
way? The host never saw
the demon coming.

He’ll be watching.