Having just read a poem by William Butler Yeats
I decided to write about the gods and myths
of my ancient people and I would join poetic greats
of meter and rhyme and it would be poetic bliss.
So, I brushed up on Odin, the lovely Freyja and Thor
to name just three of the Scandinavian panoply
and as I was about to read much, much more
I found myself reading an interview of other poetry.
The poet said, “I thought I had to prove how brilliant
I was by mentioning…gods and mythology,
so I imitated…British…poets…and deeds done valiantly.”
Then, feeling guilty, I turned to free verse
and tossed the Vikings’ mythology
to that place where it belonged —
Valhalla,
which is a little, unincorporated
village
between Custer and Branch
on Rt. 10, which cuts
east and west in Michigan.
There are maybe a few
old, cantankerous Swedes
still living there
who would make Thor and
Odin shake their heads. And I
really doubt there is
any female even remotely
resembling fabulous Freyja.
The thing really Scandinavian
is that they are almost,
always depressed (even in
Scandinavian
heaven?)
unless they have
a good day
fishing on the Pere
Marquette River which
parallels 10
and runs to Ludington, where
there are several more
Scandinavians, finally emptying
into Lake Michigan and is
probably why the Swedes
landed there in the first place,
although now, they probably don’t
have many good days on
the Pere, because the
fishing just isn’t what
it used to be, but
it was either there or
Minocqua, Wisconsin
or someplace north of
Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Writing in polysyllabics
the two scholars emeriti
rose higher and higher
as far up in the sky
as they might aspire
to impress each other
with all of their acumen
pertaining to the history
of the middle east
and behavior
inhuman.
And then one couldn’t
help it. He just had to share
all those e-mails back and
forth with all the rest
thinking they surely would
be much impressed,
but his action was an error;
there still is no solution as
the middle east sinks further
into terror.

I walk into the kitchen
and he is sitting at the
table with a cup of
coffee. The sleeves of
his white shirt are
turned up twice and
I see his Bulova watch.
He is reading the paper.
He looks at his watch,
closes the paper, un-
folds his sleeves and
adjusts his tie. “Well,
I better get back to the
office,” which is just
down a few steps from
the kitchen. “Should
we toss the ball when
you get home from
school?” he asks.
“Sure.” With that,
he walks down the
stairs and out of
my life.

He sits quietly, nursing a bad knee
and listening to the sounds of work
on the roof and in the condo below.

He looks out his sliding door at the
workers atop the next building
removing with surgical precision

the worn tiles and deteriorating
cement. He respects their dexterity,
all the more since his new ailment,

and worries about their safety as
they bend over and step over loose
tiles and debris. He then looks at

their faces and the color of their
skin and realizes they are not so
very young, not so much younger than

he. They do what they do, hard, back-
breaking, joint aching, dangerous
work because that is what they have

to do. They go home to Spanish rice,
hot tamales, menudo soup, cold beer
and their children who leave each

morning as they do but for places
like Arizona State and Phoenix
College and the various technical

schools throughout the city while
their dads climb back up to the hot
roofs in the desert. It’s what

they do and he thinks about his
immigrant grandfather steelworker
and he celebrates their spirit.

Thus spake Curmudgeon: Well, I suppose
we are out of the cold for the winter,
finally. It’s sunny, low humidity;
the grass is kinda green instead of the
usual burnt brown here in the desert and
it’s finally warming up after the lower
edge of a Polar Vortex blasted us un-
mercifully for a week, but it’s really
loud around here and it’s driving me
bananas! We live in an uninsulated second
floor condo and not only have we been
freezing our patooties, but to add to it
guys are stomping around putting on a
new roof and we can hear everything.
My wife and I aren’t the only ones in
our cramped, little place who are sub-
jected to listening to this. The Choco-
late Lab flinches at the incessant pound-
ing and runs to us for comfort. He must
think it’s thunder reminding him of
his days as a hobo after his owner
tossed him unceremoniously from
the car. Guys are tearing apart the
downstairs condo for a do-over while
the owner is living it up on a vacation
in Argentina, where, if I’m not mistak-
en, it is now glorious summer. I guess
some people have all the luck. The
landscape guys are buzzing the com-
plex with their leaf blowers and
the classical music station is playing
the 1812 Overture and it’s about mid-
way through the cannon blasts and
bombing. We envisioned the peace and
tranquility of the desert as we drove
the seemingly endless two thousand
miles just to get here. So, why am
I telling you all this? It’s because
our supposed friends back home don’t
want to hear any of it. Some friends!
Sure, it’s only nine degrees (wind
chill minus 10) and snowing and they
still have a full three more months
of frigid weather, but, hey, I always
admonish people to look on the sunny
side of life and count their many
blessings; what are those lyrics
from the Life of Brian? “Always look
on the bright side of life.” Exactly.
I always do. So, what if it’s 75
degrees here? The sauna is too
hot and the swimming pool is too
cold. And can you believe they
don’t want to hear about this?
What is the big deal, here? Hey,
in contrast, they are snuggled
up all cozy around a nice warm
fire in the fireplaces of their
quiet homes and I just had to get
this off my chest to somebody. And
one last thing, couldn’t Tchaikovsky
have omitted at least one fricking
cannon blast, for Pete’s sake?
Remember, always look on the bright
side of life; I do.

He read a storyteller
of the very, very short
story, long, long on
meaning offered as poetry.

He read poems of
inscrutability, obscurity,
incredibility and
incredulity —
considered among the best
by poetry’s
establishment
nobility.

He decided on the
teller of the short, short
story
whose writings are clear,
concise, pure and pungent
giving an insightful
poetic delivery.

In Arizona, where I’m spending the winter
I don’t think about snow much and metaphors
often escape me, but after reading a 
poem by a mega-metaphor poet, I thought 
about 
	one, single, solitary snowflake, 
much like I would see back in Michigan 
on a low humidity, sunny day 
		floating/dancing gracefully, slowly, rhythmically 
from the blue 
-- a clear glass, leaded window of perfect 
geometrical design 
	transformed into a Chagall
	as the rays reflect and prism through. 
As I watch,
	the flake lands 
on a single, hot grain 
		of dune sand 
and melts as my heart melts in you.

We stop at a Phoenix
Goodwill store; my wife
heads one way and I head
for the shoes. My son-in-
law wonders if I have a
shoe fetish. Perhaps, but
mostly, I control myself.
Looking over the beat-up
oxfords, dilapidated, white,
leather shoes tied with
Velcro straps, several pair
of worn heeled, slim soled,
cracked, imitation leather
cowboy boots and what
looks like hundreds of pairs
of flattened flip flops, I
hear one particularly flimsy
flip flop say,“Wa sup, Dude?”
Later we stop at a Scottsdale
nearly and mostly new, top
of the line boutique and again
I head for the shoes only to
meet alligator and lizard
cowboy boots, a few pair
of incredibly long, slim
brushed leather shoes with
hardly worn crepe soles,
French names and lots of
tennis shoes with now retired
tennis legends names and I
hear, “Bonjour, Monsieur‎.
Comment allez-vous?” “Bon-
jour, mercy,” I mumble absent-
mindedly, wondering why I
am talking to French shoes.
I find my wife and say,
“Buenas tardes, mi esposa.
Margaritas para tu? Esta es
ahora la hora contenta,” which
translates roughly as “It’s happy
hour. Want a Margarita, dude?”
Actually, “dude” isn’t there.
With that, we head for the
car and I’m wearing running
shoes that are all the rage
in Spain; they say, “Despacho,
por favor, Senor. Usted es no
pollo joven, pero quizá un
pollo loco,” — again roughly,
“Slow down; you aren’t a spring
chicken, but perhaps a crazy
chicken, dude.” “Oy vey!” I say,
which I learned from two Jewish
widow neighbors who were talking
about their children at the time.
Getting in the car, my wife
asks, “Well, Imelda, no shoes?”
My son-in-law would be proud.
Later, he would tell me so in a
Texas variation of the English
language and a non-verbal
raising of the eyebrows.

He thought about
the body parts of stars
he put on and had
taken off over the years
or, which
just disappeared
and vanished,
and he feared
he would never, ever
know
himself whole,
but that didn’t
happen. Actually,
he just grew up,
kinda.

A classmate from years long gone
sent him some old, old grade school
photos and he looked at his fifth
grade class photo and saw himself
sitting way, way back at a desk all
by itself because the teacher, Mrs.
Allen said he was the not very funny
class clown so he should sit in the
dunce’s seat and it had to be his
through parent/teacher conferences
so his parents would know what he
desperately had been keeping from
them. Fifth grade was a really
tough year.

Then he looked at the sixth grade
photo and there he sat right behind
the girl who accused him of reaching
around and squeezing her prematurely
developed boobies when all he did was
snap her bra strap a few times until
she screamed. The principal hung him
on a clothes-hook for that. The girl
eventually recanted and the princi-
pal let him down. Sixth grade was a
really tough year.

He looked for himself in the seventh
grade photo but he couldn’t find
himself and then he remembered he
thought he was Pat Boone singing
“April Love” and “Oh, Oh, Oh,
Bernadine” with his legs up on the
desk of the big breasted girl until
she screamed and the teacher
sent him to the principal’s office
and, well, you can take it from
there. Seventh grade was a really
tough year, too.

He couldn’t find himself in the eighth
grade photo either. He kept looking
for Ricky Nelson. He was sure he was
Ricky Nelson. That was the year he
bought a guitar and wished his lips
were more pouty, like Rick’s, which
is the short form of his name which
he eventually preferred because it
sounds more mature. On the few
occasions he realized who he really
was, he told everybody to stop call-
ing him Bobby and just call him Bob,
so much more mature.

In high school he thought he was Paul
Newman and in college he just knew for
sure he was Robert Redford.

By the time he was sixty-seven, he
recognized himself in the mirror. And
then he went to his fiftieth high school
reunion thinking he looked pretty damn
good, like he knew he would, but, nobody
recognized him. He guessed all those
tough years in school being somebody
else had, in fact, finally taken their
toll. He wasn’t a celebrity after all,
which he knew for sure when they even
forgot he had been the senior class
treasurer, a kid who couldn’t even
balance the books.