He thought he was all alone
sitting here sipping soup of stone,
the bitter, thin gruel
of children so cruel.
They have forgotten their old dad
he said,
and he sits there so sad,
but then he overheard parents bewail
children who don’t use snail mail
or telephones or e-mails or texting
leaving their parents perplexing
over the lack of communication
of things like grandchildren’s
vaccinations and vacations and education
“Oh, it is simple reality,” so says his wife,
“so get off your duff and discover life.
The children will promptly call on the phone,
the day they choose the nursing home.”
He remembers his mother saying many times a million,
“Just remember when you have children.”

Because of the competency and care
of our veterinarians, the chocolate lab
sleeps by my side,
very much alive.
He has had a rough ride.
Apparently, neglected in his former life
he now has one good leg out of four.
Once, he might have been a Lamborghini Aventador,
but that was long before he entered our door.
And when his plumbing stopped
we had to hop
on the road and get him back 225 miles
to town nearly non-stop.
The vets unplugged his plumbing much to his relief
and after a few days the tests
alleviated our anticipatory grief —
his second scare with cancer — but cancer free.
And so he sleeps by my side
and, perhaps, dreams of running miles
and miles in the dunes and the countryside,
and I get to appreciate what we have
and take a break from the crazy political ride.

He’s off the rails.
He tells tall tales.
Is there no one to Stump
The Trump?
The journalists cower
like NBC’s Matt Lauer
and The Donald
just shouts idiocies louder
and louder.
Now he praises Russia’s Putin
and says small Iranian boats
he’d be shootin’.
Is there no one to Stump
The Trump?
Well, there’s one woman stormin’.
It’s Elizabeth Warren
and unlike the Donald
she does “tell it like it is,”
and let’s all hope the big,
bloated, orange buffoon
will spring a leak like a big balloon,
and his campaign will fizz
and will be seen for what it is —
a cancelled reality show
and that’s what we call Show Biz.

I stare at the door as I sit on the throne;
I see the scariest creatures
woven and swirling in the woodwork —
more than the door previously had shown.
I’m so scared I start to jerk
and my plumbing now doesn’t work.
They look like they will jump off the door
and I can’t escape
because I’m stuck on the throne.
I’m home alone
except for the dog,
so I call, “Here doggy, doggy, doggy,”
and he butts his big head against the door
and much to my pleasure and not horror
the handle isn’t latched;
the door flies open
and the Chocolate Lab runs to my aid.
He will have my undying devotion.
I pull my pants up fast
and flee, no longer afraid,
but I forget to flush
so back I do rush
only to realize the plumbing was stuck
and I didn’t need to flush.
I grab a quick look at the door;
with the Lab by my side,
those creatures don’t look so scary anymore.

They left their hotel and jogged
on down and all around
Millennium Park past the svelte
Chicago bodies
on their way to work.
They ran through the wet wall of
humidity
and couldn’t find a person who
looked like possessing humility.
It’s “in your face”
upper Midwest grace,
at least, that’s how the natives see it.
People watching at the sidewalk café
to catch their breath and re-hydrate
before a quick shower
and hike to the Art Institute, they
arrive back at the hotel before
the rains descend and the
crowds disperse
leaving the rain to wash away
the city smells
created by those so svelte
until morning rolls around
and the intrepid travelers
on the city streets
come back once again to repeat
the walk along those streets
while staring at their phones
and sending tweet after tweet
after tweet.

He sits looking out the window
of the hotel and finds himself
moving through the window into
the Frank Lloyd Wright green

windows across the street on
the ground floor. He’s Tinker
Bell swirling around the large,
pale green circle and up and

down the side rectangles bumping
his head on the small, stained
glass decorative symbols hang-
ing from the top of each leaded

glass pane. He sits for a while
on the edge of one pane using it
as a ledge to watch the people
walking along the floor and out

the door. They don’t notice
the windows. He calls to them
but his voice is silent as he
says, “Hey, look up here. It’s

a Frank Lloyd Wright.” The man
flies back to his hotel room and
looks up at the façade and sees
lights going on as the night wears

on. And then a cleaning lady
scrubbing the lobby floor stops,
looks up and admires the beautiful
leaded, green and beige stained

glass art directly above her.
The man in the hotel room smiles
and says, “Yes, a true connoisseur
of fine art.”

The stories build over the years
to Sainthood.
Did he really talk to birds and
address them as brother and sister?
Did he really befriend the killer
wolf who attacked livestock
and humans alike?
Did he really experience the
stigmata? Did he feel the pain
but not suffer the shame?
It all makes for great paintings
to appreciate in great galleries.
The best is that he shed his
shoes and walked barefoot
among the poor
following the Savior
to heaven’s open door.

St. Francis endured pain upon pain
but found no one to blame
because he chose not to suffer
but saw everyone as sister and brother.
He embraced the earth’s pain upon pain
and blessed even the birds as the same
lovely creatures of God and
brothers and sisters choosing not to blame
but to embrace them in their essence
and grant them the gift of Christ’s presence.
And so, if we let go of possessing and hoarding
and endure what pain will surely come,
not as false martyrs with pride-filled cavorting,
but with the humility of God’s son,
we will bless the earth and heaven as one —
and so we ever and always pray, Lord Jesus,
Thy, Kingdom Come.

The man watches Cary Grant on
Turner Classic Movies channel

and is taken with the actor’s
looks and sophistication. After

reading about Grant’s off screen
anger and sudden out-bursts and

his verbal if not physical abuse
of female lovers, the man now

knows what it takes to be an actor.
Suave, debonair former Archibald

Alexander Leach, cockney, un-
educated kid, learned his craft

early on and lived it well, appar-
ently, except off-screen where

he was just his own insecure young-
ster abandoned early on by his mother

and an angry, dapper actor who hid
it well on camera. The man knows

what persona means — the mask the
Greeks wore when acting. Grant wore

a great persona even if it wasn’t
personal. Don’t we all to one degree

or another? We all wear a mask.
So, what’s your persona, Archibald?

He grew up in a family that
knew how to shame. There
wasn’t any hitting, just
shaming; it’s all in the

tone, like shaming a dog
and the dog knows instantly
— “Bad dog, Bo Bo, bad dog,”
and Bo Bo tucks his tail and

lowers his ears and slinks
off to a dark corner of the
bedroom. The difference is
that after a while, feeling

sorry for hurting Bo Bo’s
feelings, someone would say,
“It’s okay, Bo Bo, it’s okay.
You’re a good dog, Bo Bo,”

in a loving tone and Bo Bo
would perk up, lift his ears,
wag his tail and come runn-
ing for a pat on the back

and a scratch behind his ears.
That didn’t happen often in
his house. Then he moved to a
town of shamers. People

walked around with smiles on
their faces but their ears were
lowered and their tails were
tucked and he, too, knew how to

shame, how to use the tone. He
was inducted into the Hall of
Shame. One day out of insecurity
and defensiveness, he tried to

shame an acquaintance. As soon
as he sent off the messages
(yes, he could write so that
the tone came through), he

heard a voice say, “If you
don’t send it, you won’t have
to apologize for it.” He had
sent the messages and he had

apologized, but still he sat
all day with a smile on his
face but ears lowered and
tail tucked and there was

no one to say, “Good boy,
Bo Bo,” in a loving tone
and he didn’t know how
to say it to himself.