I like a peanut with a shell,
A cherry with a stem;
A church clock with a tolling bell,
A crown that's all a'gem.

I like my coffee steaming hot,
My bottled beer ice-cold;
A sharpened pencil set to jot,
An anecdote well-told.

I like a bed that's neatly made,
A day when breezes blow.
A tree with leaves providing shade,
A place where flowers grow.

I like to see a flock of sheep,
To hear a tinkling chime;
And most of all, I like to keep
My thoughts lined up in rhyme.

I'm sitting on the terrace
Of the condo of my aunt
And trying to enjoy the breeze
But sadly, I just can't.

For next door there's a neighbor
I can't see, behind the wall,
Yet his smoking habit somehow seems
To permeate us all.

He obviously steps outside
So all his inside air
Stays relatively clean; at least
The smoke won't hover there.

But what he doesn't think of
Is about the smoke he blows,
Or when it wafts exactly
Where it is that vapor goes.

If he would ask, I'd answer
'Cause no matter what he thinks,
It's invasive and intrusive
And to top it off, it stinks!

Some poems don’t get written
For the consequence might be
Rejection or dismissal
Of my thoughts or else of me.

I do not have the courage
To express the way I feel
When there may be questions raised
Of what my writing might reveal.

I can dance around the subject
With a vague and subtle clue
And I must admit I’ve done so
In a couple or a few.

But for certain topics there is just
No way to even start
So I keep the hurt inside me,
Tucked in tight inside my heart.

The corner store across the street
Was known for all its cuts of meat
But also it sold milk and bread
And other things you’d need instead.

On Friday mornings folks would flock
To sit on chairs among the stock
To hear the music on guitar
Of Uncle Junior (TV star).

The owner’s lived at my address
For more than forty years, I’d guess.
As neighbors we would nod and chat
Of Yankee games and this and that.

Today, in shock, while walking by,
An empty storefront met my eye.
I’d heard the rent went through the roof
And there before me was the proof.

Though times must change, it makes me sad
When touchstones that we’ve always had
Just disappear and are no more;
Farewell, my friendly corner store!

You need some gas? We'll, step right up
And pump it 'til you've had your fill
Unless you're in New Jersey, where
You best make sure you know the drill.

For it's the last remaining state
Where pumping gas is not allowed
Except for paid attendants and
Of this New Jerseyans are proud.

So even if you're in a rush,
You must sit in your car and wait
Until a service station guy
Can bother to accommodate.

And if you try to speed him up,
You'd better learn to zip your lip,
For then he'll wash your windshield,
Slowly, hoping to procure a tip.

When questioned why this law exists,
Which out-of-towners do detest,
A local politician said,
And I can just assume in jest:

Perhaps our Jersey diet
Full of greasy food's to blame;
Therefore, if we pump the gas ourselves,
We'll burst right into flame!

A topic that’s still on the table
That we should discuss, since we’re able
Is whether or not
The prez that we’ve got
Is really a genius that’s stable.

A stable is also, of course,
A place that’s a home for a horse
And perhaps there, indeed,
Is a very smart steed
That’s a genius who grazes on gorse.

But that’s not what our leader, alas,
Meant when he let those famous words pass.
He was doing his part
Proving he is, like, smart
Like a horse (or that animal’s ***!)

We get there with the kids asleep,
Too early for the sun.
We have some coffee quietly,
To not wake anyone.

When Hadley wakes, my husband goes
To scoop her if she cries.
I hear her giggle with delight
From tickles he supplies.

But Henry, ever since the time
He moved into a bed,
Gets up and lifts the shades to greet
The day that lies ahead.

He flips the light switch, turns the ****
And opens up his door,
Then sits himself right by the stairs
Upon the hallway floor.

He knows on Fridays I’ll be there
But doesn’t make a sound,
Just sits and waits most patiently
Until I come around.

Of course, I listen carefully
To hear a telltale clue,
So he’s not waiting long before
We both come into view.

His face lights up and so does mine;
I scamper up the stairs.
We share a great big hug-a-mug;
Nothing else compares.

The time will come, as Henry grows,
And much to my regret,
That he will tire of this routine
Though I will not forget.