The Justices are back to nine
According to the planned design.
It should have happened months before
But those in power slammed that door.

So now we’ll have to wait and see
For there is just no guarantee
When hearing from the nine Supremes
That what is real is what it seems.

Things may turn out as we believed
Or maybe we will be relieved.
In any case, the deal is done;
A brand-new era has begun.

A movie’s like a novel
With a vista to explore
Which, assuming it’s a good one,
Leaves you wanting even more.

Yet I’ve recently discovered
Something else that quite transports –
It’s a genre that at film fests
Is referred to as “the shorts.”

Several films are shown together
For an hour and a half,
An assemblage that’s so varied
You may cry or scream or laugh.

Every subject matter’s different;
All the settings are, as well
And each film’s uniqueness feels
Like the director’s cast a spell.

Yet just like a full-length feature,
Each short gem seems quite complete
And, when viewed as a collection,
It’s a cinematic treat.

We teach our children not to stare
But human nature bests us
For seeing someone not the norm,
Despite our efforts, tests us.

The wheelchair-bound, the little folk,
The scarred and the tattooed;
To all who differ from the rest,
Our eyes get drawn and glued.

Of course, we quickly turn away
(Except the rude, who don’t)
But even just that little glance
Reminds us that we won’t

Be able, from our fragile perch
Upon the status quo,
To understand how life must feel
When people view you so.

What I enjoy might very well be
Something you despise.
The things that light me up may be
Unpleasant to your eyes.

But that’s what makes the world go round;
Variety’s the spice.
What you find unappealing
Could, to me, be paradise.

There are no rights or wrongs when you
Account for someone’s taste.
Endeavors at persuasion,
In most cases, are a waste.

It’s best for all to nod our heads,
Accepting as a fact
That what one finds repellent
May another thus attract.

It’s brilliantly sunny but blustery cold.
The branches are heartily swaying;
And though I grow older, I’m younger than old
(Though I still try to cover the graying).

There’s plenty to time left to savor the days
No matter the sky or the weather,
Though I cannot be sure if a crystal ball gaze
Might reveal myself snapped from my tether.

The future’s a question mark, there’s no debate
So I guess I should live in the now
And delight in the dance that the branches create
For as long as my time will allow.

My grandson traces in a book
To build up pencil skills.
From one car to another
Every wavy line instills

A feeling of accomplishment,
Preparing him to write.
He's like a nested fledgling
Not quite ready to take flight.

I watch him growing; with each step
That baby he replaces
And soon enough, his childhood
Will exist in merely traces.

Not everyone does it, but how I adore
A generous person who works in a store;
Specifically, one who's behind in the deli,
Who slices the meats and the cheese for the belly.

Today, for example, I ordered some cheese
And turkey, my grandson down next to my knees,
His hungry impatience apparent to all;
But just as it seemed he'd resort to a bawl

The counterman offered some turkey, a taste.
Disaster averted and hunger erased.
The guy was a stranger who sized up the scene
Or maybe, to him this was strictly routine.

It doesn't take much to connect with a smile
Yet to many, such actions are not in their style.
The deli employee, for such a small price,
Can improve someone's day just by cutting a slice.