We live in the sand with a big old Chocolate Lab along

The shores of Lake Michigan and we’re glad because

When it rains a lot the house stays dry.

We visit the mountains of Colorado

And we’re glad because we visit family and

Jog trails along the Flat Irons.

We live part of the year near Piestewa Peak for family

And we’re glad cause we climb there in

The day and visit the ballet at night.

We visit Chicago because we have family there, too

And we’re glad to see them and eat in

Neighborhood, ethnic restaurants.

We like going home along the Blue Star/Red Arrow

And we’re glad to brush the Indiana Dunes, have a

Micro beer and think about the seaside towns.

Big lake, big city, big mountains, big desert

And we’re glad to live in two and visit the others

Before the earth changes too much

But we’re not glad to live one day in an institution,

Get calls for meals, calls for baths twice a week

And sit by a window  looking out

At what once was but will never be the same again

For a number of reasons having to do with what’s

Going on both inside and out.

Worn out, worn down

Beat up

Thrown out

Hunched over – with a

Who the hell are you?

Look in

Their eyes.

But stood up

And showed up –

At least

For the evening.

Some still bothered

To  put

On suits, sport

Coats, a few even

Wore ties. They

Moved around

Looking at photo

Name tags then up

To the real deal,

Back and forth

Back and forth,

Up and down,

Up and down and

Then moved on.

Vietnam vets,

Small animal vets

And those who

Made a lot of

Bets. They all

Laughed loudly.

Women had become

Their grandmothers

Hanging laundry

In their house

Dresses on

The back porch

Of their

South-side walk-ups –

Except the cheer-

leaders

Who all married

And divorced

Well and could

Afford stylish evening

Suits,

Plastic surgery

And lots and lots

Of makeup and

Jewelry —

South suburban

Kids, white flight

Babies back to

No hair

But not baby

Skin. Deep

Crevasses tears

Wore down and

Eroded to the

Soul. Did they tell

Their stories

around the

The dinner tables

Or did

They just settle

For passing out

Business cards

Still looking

To make

The big sale

While laughing

And staring —

As

Bowls

Of baked

Chicken, Mustacholi,

Mounds of Italian

Sausage

Next to

Bigger mounds

Of mashed potatoes

Were passed

Around along

With

Rolls, lots and lots

And lots of hard

Crusted rolls?

But not much

Booze –

Many had already

Floated battleships

In Popov and

TenHigh

And jumped

On the wagon.

Others just jumped

Ship, submerged in

The sauce and had

Their high school

Photos

On display

Among the dearly

Departed

Who got a moment’s

Silence while

Attendees stared

At their last

Spoonsful of Spumoni,

Fifteen minutes

Before the tables

Were shoved back

And the DJ blared

Into the mike,

“Good evening,

Ladies and

Gentlemen.”

Leaving the

reunion

a man was

approached

by a classmate

with whom

he reconnected

after about forty-

eight years. They

had shared over

a drink in the bar

away from the

other classmates.

The classmate

embraced the

man, held him

tightly and when

it seemed

appropriate

to the man to let

go, the classmate

whispered in his

ear, “Don’t let

go yet. Please.”

In that moment,

all the

stupid,

rude,

dumb-assed

noise

around

them faded in-

to the distance.

Two needy

guys held

each other

up like a

piling in

a storm

holding

the pier

in place.

There was a time-lapse,

Fifty years, actually.

All that had happened,

All that was experienced,

All the joy and sorrow,

All the trial and tribulation,

All the unnecessary frustration,

All the really, real, actual

Tragedy that so many

Have experienced by that age,

And then, for all that, denied

Or ignored, they sat and

Swallowed as they watched

Cheerleaders get up out of their

Seats, raise their sixty-eight

Year-old derrieres into the

Air along with their noses

And cheer. It was as if they

Had a rod up their butts to the top

Of their quaffed locks past their

Pinched pusses. Their dinner table

Had a “Do Not Dare to Touch”

In the averting, condescending

“You’ll never catch me even

Bothering to look at you” eyes

Of every single one. They only

Had laughing, smirking eyes for

Each other.  Which ones had

Had the obligatory facelift? Perhaps

All for all seemed equally pinched.

After all the years, unfortunately,

Almost tragically, if such banality

Can even come close to tragedy.

Actually, upon reflection, tragedy

Is way too lofty of a consideration

For this. Perhaps just unfortunat-

Ely. Unfortunately, it was still all

About looks, posturing and

Pom-poms. And that was the

Essence of the fiftieth reunion,

Almost like those fifty years

Hadn’t happened, all that

Significant stuff got lost for a little

While, and it was simply sad for

Those who swallowed and watched

And got sucked back into their pimply

Past and unnecessarily felt a bit

Diminished except for where a couple

Of really good, old, lost buddies

Reconnected at the bar over a long

Pour martini, one gin and the other

Vodka and maybe that made the

Whole damn weekend worth-

While, maybe, just maybe, but just

Maybe.

A man went to his  reunion celebrating

                  fifty years since graduating

from high school.  It was his first time

                  back.  Nobody recognized

him, even though he had stayed in shape,

                  in fact, had jogged twenty-five

thousand miles (the equivalent of around

                  the world at the equator) in

forty-two years and still had some hair,

                  albeit, white. The two buddies

he had stayed in touch with along with their

                  spouses knew him. An old

acquaintance said she never would have

                  recognized him. He wanted to ask

if that were good or bad, but fearing the answer,

                 he bit his tongue. He didn’t tell her

how she looked to him. He asked people

                   about  themselves. A few asked him.

The host told a joke about his prostate and

       bemoaned the fact that there

were no class officers at the reunion, even

            though the man was one and no

one at his table stopped the host and called

                   attention to that fact. He would have

if another class officer had been sitting at his table.

                     The cheerleaders hung by themselves

(seriously,

                    even after fifty years?), and wore their

old cheerleader capes. He wondered if they were

                  going to lead a cheer later when the

floor was cleared for dancing to songs like “Little

                  Darlin’” and “That’ll Be the Day.” He

thought to himself, perhaps he could encourage

             them with a cheer of his own, one

his buddies and he used to whisper to each

      other in the stands: Two bits,

four bits, six bits, a buck, come on cheerleaders

           we want a……cheer.  He laughed,

 again to himself.It was nice to see a couple of

    guys he had thought about on

occasion over the years. The food was pretty

   good but the drinks were just

        so, so.

                     At a Coffee Shop

At a coffee shop, a man and his wife met with

their financial advisor and the advisor, before crunch-

ing the numbers, kept making comments about out-of-

body, post-mortem experiences he had read about

recently in a book by a woman of science, of course

lending more credibility to the testimony, who had

been there, saw and heard Jesus calling to her but

had come back to life to write a book about it.

As the advisor spoke, the man remained in his

seat but his body rose above the coffee table, floated

near the ceiling, saw himself greatly expanded in the

reflections off bald heads like those mirrors at carn-

ivals, eyed many bald spots, black roots and white

roots beneath bushy, festive fall foliage.

It was three-fifteen and the students from a local

college checked their IPads, IPods, IPhones and Mac

Book Pros while the seniors checked each other’s turkey

throats. He thought about the late Nora Ephron’s cute

comments about how at a certain point in her life she

took to wearing turtlenecks full-time.

The man floated out of the shop, winced in the

bright, fall light, inhaled the fresh, crisp air and wondered

at the glorious colors of the maples, poplars, willows

swaying in the wind, sumac but not the dominating oaks.

Some were rich brown but most were dull and reminded

him of death.

The man thought he should get back to the

conversation so he floated in and down to his seat just

in time to hear the advisor say that he thought their

financial house was in order. The advisor smiled, the

wife smiled and the man smiled and was comforted in

knowing that when he died, his wife would be reasonably

well off.

The advisor went back to talking about the beyond

death experiences and the man hovered near the ceiling of

what had been their bedroom and watch his wife and

her third husband make love.  The man thought he

recognized the bald spot.  In his new celestial situation, the man

simply smiled beautifically, genuflected before skyrocketing

through the roof, got up from the table, looked at his

smiling wife and shook the outstretched hand of the

smiling financial advisor.

i brush my fingers-tips

over the white-whiskers

of

my sedated, pain-free

chocolate lab’s snout.

i

look at his ten-inch

healthy, pink incision

for

cancer surgery. i

pass my fingers over

it

close, not touching, rather

like reiki massage

and

my finger tips warm,

tingle, a tear of my

joy

drops on his ear

and he shakes his

head.

Someone was asked who are the

most important people in America.

Someone else didn’t hesitate.

The garbage collectors, the

janitors, the police, fire-

fighters, nurses, the nurses’

aides – the pooper-scoop-

ers and pee-keepers of

the hospital,  the gatherers

of bedpans galore.

Not the CEOs, CFO’s and COOing

doves of corporations.  Think about

those guys and a few gals, during a

strike, in their posh offices sitting

in their great, new, totally

ergonomic chairs with gar-

bage and fecal matter up to

their knees on their I-

phones and computers

begging for help.

No, of course not, please.

Pay those workers what they are worth so

they can purchase stuff from the corp-

orations run by those who sit in it up

to their touches while the pee and po-

op sluices and slushes around the floor

soaking their Johnston and Murphy’s

and Allen Edmonds so all that really

bad-smelling stuff can get flushed

down the drain and those execs.

can make it to

the executive toilets to grab the Char-

min and just sit there and squeeze

and squeeze and squeeze and cry

and cry and cry until someone,

probably a janitor or a garbage

collector or cop or fire-fighter

can shower them down, flush

out those shoes, blow dry

their hair and send them

to the hospital

where they will be cared for by

nurses, nurses’ aides and order-

lies who clean the pans, help

the helpless to the john till

they can put on their under-

ware, pants, bras, etc., go

home to their gated commun-

ities and get ready for the next

day’s capitalistic

challenges.

A guy living by himself needed serious surgery

on his eye.  His wife was working out-of-state

in a bad economy.

His son was a senior in college and could help

on weekends.  His daughter practiced the law

somewhere else.

He had a dog, a new dog, a really big puppy —

dogs as companions not being insignificant for

the healing process.  The

dog is a Newfoundland. The  guy with the bad eye

walked up the street and asked an acquaintance for

a ride to the physician to get the lowdown.

He did and it would mean two months on

his face at night and his head kept down

during the day – no reading,

and this guy, a teacher, loved to read, but

he could walk the dog everyday which

was a big plus.

On one of those days, the neighbor who took

and still takes the patient to physician’s appoint-

ments, stopped by and happened

to notice the decal of a kayaker on the rear window

of the guy’s truck.  The neighbor had a “Life is

Good” ball cap with the image

of a kayaker on it and this same guy, the acquaintance/

neighbor on his way to friendship had a rawhide

bone given as a gift for his

own dog but his dog didn’t want it, so he

washed the cap in the recommended way

on the top shelf of the

dish washer, quick dried it in the clothes

dryer, grabbed the rawhide, walked down

the street with his used, but

clean gifts, knocked on the door and said

here’s a bone for your big, boned puppy.

I saw the sticker in your

truck’s window and I thought maybe you

would like a cap with the image of a happy

kayaker on it.

I washed the ball cap in the new and improved

method.  They hugged.  The friend walked

down the driveway and

the patient, who had been a minister before

being a high school physics and chemistry

teacher, raised the cap in his hand

and said thanks for keeping me in your

prayers.  The Newfoundland shook his

head with the bone in his mouth.

The acquaintance/neighbor/friend looked

back, said, you bet, thanks and walked

a few doors back home.

I’m looking at her in the intensive care unit.

She had been assaulted nineteen years earlier

by a guy in a Ford F-150  driving on the one

way street on a Friday, presumably after his

shift and on his way to the bar and he rear

ended her and her brain felt pain and years later

exploded, blood flowing like the Black River

in spring, March actually, and rains seven to nine

inches in one day soaking and super saturating in

the spring ground and the river rages and I

do, too, about a totally unnecessary death if

only the guy on his way to the bar on a Friday

afternoon after work hadn’t, in that unbelievably

quick minute, looked down at his pager and not

at my wife’s car directly in front of  him.  And

the truth shall never be known, except what

difference would it make except perhaps in

some small measure to me and her children

for loving relational purposes to bring a

smidgen of closure to the insanity and perhaps

to a lot of lawyers, insurance companies and

physicians, monetarily speaking? And the only

grace in all this is that her lungs were donated

to a victim of  cystic fibrosis who was an

emergency room doctor who lived on to

heal, not to mention all the other organs and

to whom they went and what lives they saved

by my late wife’s grace. Amen and amen.