I asked the receptionist if she grew up
in the area. “No, Saint Louis. I left
because of the traffic.” I asked the
woman who guided me back to the

physician’s office if she grew up
in the area. “No, Detroit, actually Novi.
I left because of the traffic.” And my
wife and I? We’re thinking about leaving

Phoenix, our winter home, in part because
of the traffic, and the traffic is even
getting bad around here. What about the
traffic? Too much, too fast, too rude,

too dangerous? The desire for a slower
paced life in a smaller city? The in-
vulnerability and anonymity a seat sur-
rounded by aluminum, plastic and steel

gives so one can get aggressive and let
out all one’s frustrations, anger and
anxiety on the guy next to you, or the
woman ahead of you with the simple press-

ing of a pedal to give one the feeling
of power in a land of powerlessness?
Road rage? All of the above? All of the
above.

Gloss over substance, because you
don’t know the substantive, by
sounding professorial, knowledge-

able, assured — intellectual.
Unfortunately for you, Mister
Strangelove, there are plenty of

people around who know their
history and are setting the record
straight. Oh, you of artificial,

stentorian voice when trying to
make something silly sound plaus-
ible, beware plainspoken President

Lincoln, “You can’t fool all the
people all of the time,” so be happy
with the 38% approval rating your

equally silly former boss gets
and you probably get, because
eventually the interviews will

stop and your crackpot ideas will
fade like your TV makeup fades
revealing all those obscene

blotches of a dissipated life,
and, as always, a little boy
beneath the cake makeup cries,

“Please love me.”

My grandmother’s jowls are now
mine. She was a good woman.
She bore my grandfather six
children, my mother being one
of them. She was a Van Ess from
Zuid Holland, a tall, handsome
people with big, fair-headed,
manes of white hair as I remember
as vs. my grandfather’s Groningen,
short, dark-haired, bald-headed
people. He was a boisterous person;
she was a quiet person. I got more
of my grandfather’s traits except
those little jowls I now see in
the mirror, which remind me
of a sweet, quiet woman who
came from tall, dignified Dutch
people. I wish I’d gotten the
big, fair-headed mane instead
of the jowls.

After a wonderful, leisurely,
ten-mile bike ride, they stopped
at a local micro-brew, chit-
chatted for awhile and drove

home with bikes on the back.
They stood on the balcony look-
ing at the pond and waterfall
and soaking in the sun as it

began to set over the Big Lake.
They sat and watched a travel
show on Brazil and then switch-
ed channels to see what was

happening in Florida as Irma
stormed through. So far, not
as bad as was predicted but
the storm surge is yet to be.

They thought about Arizona,
which is drying up and Florida,
which is drowning and global
warming, which, in time, will

dry up the West and submerge
the coasts, all while they wait
for the Sunday evening Master-
piece Theater productions, and

they give thanks for the middle,
Aristotle’s Golden Mean, even
if their toes get cold and numb
in the winter.

Buddy, why did you have to leave
so soon? I thought we had a pre-
nuptial where you promised to stick
around for three more years until I
was old enough not to get another
dog but now it’s three years too
soon and I have no idea what to
do. Give me a clue. We like the
freedom of not having to get up
so early in the morning to take
you out to do your business and
then feed you, but we miss you so
— the looks of utter, uncondition-
al love, your silken, brown eyes
making us sigh, your wagging tail
telling us how much we could never
fail you, you, you, our beautiful,
loving chocolate lab. If we make
a mistake and stop by the local
humane society as we have three
times before, promise me you won’t
be there to stare into our eyes
with your loving, longing, un-
conditional, beautiful, brown eyes.
Promise, Buddy Baloo? Promise,
beautiful boy? Promise?

Don’t mean to be cynical, but being
cynical, crotch shots to females? high
profile, big bucks job lost, son dying
of overdose in close proximity to above.
What goes on behind closed doors?
Condolence tweets (How easy is that?)
up the wazoo by Fox faux and real TV
journalists, divorce on the horizon?
Arrogance, arrogance, arrogance, pride/
fall/sins of fathers, etc., etc., etc.,
ETC. Oh, God, I, too, have sinned and
my shadow goes before, behind and all
around me.

In my naiveté I think that poets are
perfect. They have to be to write so
perfectly about life, don’t they? And
then I read two wonderful poems about
family life by a woman and two wonder-
ful poems about family life by a man.
Then I read that they divorced back
in 2010 and after I got over being dis-
appointed in the perfect muses and
their perfect poems about family life,
I just appreciated the poems for them-
selves, which I suppose is the way it
should go. And, as I think about it,
there was just a hint perfectly, prophet-
ically placed in that one poem, wasn’t
there?

One’s deeply bronzed African skin,
Deep brown, beautiful eyes,
One’s white Scandinavian skin
Tanned in the late
Summer light
Blue eyes bright
And between them
Seeing them and
They now truly seeing each other,
The olive skin
And hazel eyes
Of the one —
The son
Of Nazareth.

The sun shone brightly bouncing off 
	the white wall on the west as it 
rose in the east and spread across 
	the dune grass which danced as 
the east wind blew the blades 
	westward, nodding, bowing 
as in reverence up and over the dune 
	to the inland sea and beyond.

It’s September and the decorative grasses
have grown plumes of silken fingers. The
ladies rise through the leaves and leave
nothing to chance as they hold everyone
accountable by shaking their fingers at
everyone as the wind blows. And then the
wind stops and the women stop wagging
their fingers just to let the profundity
of their assertions sink in as they then
begin again.