Maggie's getting married,
All is much too harried;
But the dress is on,
The veil undrawn
Untill all words are spoken:
A vow, a pledge a promise made
To love and cherish all her days,
To love and cherish all his days,
From these chiming bells
To eternity's knells
Before friends and families.
But most importantly,
After the debris is clear,
To one another they will be
Loyal and true in fidelity,
And, by their own decree,
One in matrimony.

John and Tuesday slipped away,
I remember well the day.
Working in the garden,
Just a few corners away,
That Tuesday.
I was planting, turning spades,
Adding compost to gaunt soil.
John wasn't in my thoughts Tuesday.
Not like today.

The garden thrives.
The splash of water
Transports memory's eye.
We sit outside The Trout,
He reads to Paul and I,
Below an Oxford sky,
Under cap and pint:
*Think where man's glory
Most begins and ends,
And say my glory was
I had such friends.

A blade of grass is inconsequential,
Unless it's above you,
Or found on Mars.

One mosquito is unnoticeable
Until sounding in your ear at night,
Or infecting a nation.

A broken heart isn't uncommon
When it's someone else's.

You're appearance was a distraction,
From lonliness to satisfation.
That didn't work out so well.
Me alone.
Nor did that.
Would you be coming back, Penny?
In clear weather.
Move your hands to clear the cobweb haze?
Pose for new pics.
Talk about old times. Good times?
What would we do?

Camelots and forget-me-nots,
Oysters and chilled wine,
Myths.
I don't know you.
You're not the same.
I know your name.
So, so long.
Way too long.
I speak to you,
Make small talk to greet you.
But it's wrong.
So very, very wrong.
You're the same.
You know my name.
The man who worried and laughed too,
Has gone. Dead.
Then rose up.
You're new.
Our paths are overgrown
With landmarks pointing
Where once was home.

School commencements looming;
Bands and grads are tuning,
Moving from room to room
On this last day in June.

From womb to pre-school
Kids migrate,
To elementary/high school dissipate;
Trade schools, colleges,
And universities await,
Punch the clock at the workplace gate.
Summer vacation helps make the break.
But make no mistake,
The last day of school is just for show,
I hope they're schooled enough to know.
The last day of school is just a term
Rightly debunked during life's sojourn:
Ahead there's still life-long learning.

We had *** yesterday.
Reminded me of the cover
Of a Harlequin Romance.
You, the school librarian in the foreground,
Hair up, glasses on a chain, reading.
Me, the Principal in the background,
Just entering your workroom door.
But, back to reality.
The breeze flipped the curtain corner
Along your bronzed leg, and you looked up and smiled.
Was it something you read, the thought in my head,
Or the breath of joy passing by?
Out through the screen, now open in Spring,
To bring the irises to move and radiate.
A breeze that ruffled and teased.
You directed your eyes, bent to your book,
Pleasured and pleased as me
The lace tail fell back to the sill.
Your leg never moved.

Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
....................................................
­
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.

Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.

Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******,
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.


Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.