A broken skateboard on the ground
was days-old trash until I found
some greased ball bearings deep within.
Thought I’d take ‘em for a spin.
I grabbed a vice grip and a pliers
and pulled apart the useless tires.
When I got the needed part
was when my project I could start.
My sister drinks a lot of juice-
her bottle caps I put to use.
In three red caps I placed a dime
and filled with clay to save some time.
The fourth red cap- I had to cut
away the top and leave a rut
around the middle without tearing
the place I’d put the greased ball bearing.
But still my project wasn’t done
I went to get my grandma’s gun
(a gun for glue, so don’t you worry).
I pegged the pieces without hurry.
So now the part I really hate
the glue sets slow so I must wait.
My patience pays off in the end.
Participating in the trend
I rush to show it to a friend.
He laughs and asks what did I spend?
“Designed and built with nothing new!”
He pauses, asks, “Can I …
… build one too?”
I pencil my schedule long-range
Knowing planners, the times, they’ll exchange
So I mix a new fix
Til’ the change gets the nix
Is the un-change of change still a change?
Arguing with the television,
turning it down, loudly,
eating fresh rosquitas and offering them
Wanting to share in the wine
But too methodical to do so.
Keeping life’s rhythms and rhymes.
Patterns that matched his shirt.
Setting his watch by casino,
Punching the clock at the café as if going to work,
Paying without comment.
Community wherever he was.
Welcoming you, as you are,
Who you are,
Supporting your dreams,
Take a nap if you want to, fix the world if you want to…
But how about a sandwich at 8:40,
And could the doctor’s appointment be after breakfast and before the café?
The house I moved into in Lima, Peru
Is not rather old nor is hardly that new.
The floors are of concrete, the walls made of brick,
New wall-to-wall windows that close with a click.
Yet still I hear sounds like an old wooden floor
When I rise from my bed and I head toward the door
of the bathroom to assure me that nothing is leaking.
I realize then ’tis my knees that are creaking.
Playing tag with me
Between the West Side houses
Springtime rising up
Playing hide and seek
As I drive through shutter slats
Found, hidden, found, hid…
Olly oxen free
Winter’s snow gives way to life
No-sleeve freedom play
The ratty kitchen cupboard door
stood open every morning.
And everyday I told my kid,
“This is your final warning!
“You have to, must and always will
keep spices from the light
within the safety of the doors,
the cupboard closed up tight!”
“Sorry pop, it wasn’t me,”
the youngest one would say.
“I’d never harm the cinnamon.”
One day he moved away.
That open kitchen cupboard door
kept pestering my life.
Mistake! for it was not my child:
Was my forgetful wife.
“Oh honey, dear, please help me out
and do me a big favor:
Please close the cupboard door at night
so spices we can savor.”
“Don’t ‘honey me’ with open doors;
forgetful I am not.
I, too, protect the tarragon
and rind of apricot.”
After many years of open doors
she passed while sound asleep.
I cried for days, din’t eat a bite,
spent nights a‘counting sheep.
Then hunger knocked one afternoon,
I craved a spicy stew.
Aghast! the cupboard doors thrown wide!
I din’t know what to do!
The cupboard doors I had removed,
And now I clearly see:
T’was not my son nor lovely wife,
The guilty one was me