What is the thing
What bothers me the most?
Relentless streams of visitors
Or the ever-present ghost,
He rattles in the closet
And hides behind the curtain,
At times, I prefer the ghost
Over visitors, that's for certain.

I can talk to the ghost
He doesn't talk back,
He tries to throw ectoplasm
But his aim is out of whack,
Although he manages to frighten
The ones who see him not,
I guess I'm some kind of emissary
The only friend he's got.

Everywhere I've worked
There has always been a ghost,
I think he's a greeter for death
Like your friendly Walmart host,
Essentially, non-threatening
Offering his invisible, twisted smile,
A member of the welcome wagon
With his own peculiar style.

There have been she-ghosts
But they bear a different role,
As experts of duplicity
They come to recognize the soul,
Do an assessment of lifetime value
The good and bad and the duration,
Flip a coin and do the numbers
For the ultimate destination.

All in all, I count my blessings
For the role I chose to play,
There are wonderful people I work with
Each and every day,
And when unending streams of visitors
Fray my nerves like overcooked toast,
I can stick my head in the housekeeping closet
And talk to my friend the ghost.

She’s got a leash on her boy
And she’s carrying her dog,
She has her face in her phone
And her brain is in a fog.

That’s what we call consciousness
In the world today,
Social media drives everything
Around work and play,
Well, my standard statement is
I just can't figure out this phone,
It’s so much smarter than me
I’d rather leave it alone.

Don’t hand me any device
With a name that begins with an I,
For twenty years now
I’ve given them a try,
But none of those i-devices
Make any sense to me,
I have an Android brain
That’s how it was meant to be.

Sure, money is a factor
I don’t like to spend it very much,
But I’m instantly frustrated
With any iPhone or iTouch,
Even if I win the lottery
I won’t be buying Apple devices,
Heck, I’m a millionaire now
And I still fixate on prices.

I only use about five applications
And I rarely take pictures,
All those pixels and adjustments
Just give me strictures,
I don’t use Facebook
Twitter, Instagram or TikTok,
I bought a smartphone
To process credit cards
Down on the auction block.

Her boy is off the leash now
And he’s chasing a ball,
While Momma and her Pomeranian
Are on a Whatsapp conference call.

Loss and recovery
A process lined with pain,
It may be quite depressing
As emotions wax and wane.

If you don't resolve the issues
You'll suffer endless grief,
If allowed to pass the course
The results produce relief.

Flavors and odors of themselves
Can prompt a recall of events long passed,
I'm tasting a Port wine tonight
And a memory of you came up fast,
Was it the excitement of the moment
Or the smooth taste of the wine?
Or was it the memory of much more
Sending tingles down my spine.

A little bit of both working together
A technicolor recollection, I can say,
The combination of good times
Were enough to cause the memory to stay,
Lodged in my brain fibers
Inspired by a simple twist of the cap,
Remembrance of the sweet kiss of Port
And you were sitting on my lap.

Yes, memories can tell stories
That might never have been,
In the hands of a writer of fiction
At the behest of my imaginary twin.

You try it sometime
Cream Sherry or sweet Port,
A best friend at your side
Keep your secrets and never report,
What transpired that day
Those few months in that year,
And when you're three decades older
You will hold those memories dear.

Most people declare
Some New Year's resolution,
But after just about five weeks
They experience New Year's dissolution,
Their resolve fizzles out
Their intentions migrate to another nation,
Let's rewind the narrative
I propose a New Year's recommendation.

Taking into account
The party excitement of January one,
You will promise yourself almost anything
To have a couple more hours of fun,
But with the hangover that comes next day
You may feel a sense of degradation,
So far your resolutions are in the trash can
What you need is a New Year's recommendation.

Recommendations allow for some wiggle room
Instead of being ****** for what you do or what you don't,
When choosing the lesser of two evils
You can opt for the lesser instead of the one that you won't,
In the world of N-Y resolutions
You may feel cursed when you blow it the first time,
Whereas with New Year's recommendations
You realize you haven't committed a crime,

I hope to start a new trend
Where we stop beating ourselves up,
When we make a couple of egregious mistakes
But that is just the half-filled cup,
Leaving room for the better intentions
That are bound to return sometime next week,
When your New Year’s Recommendations
Are discovered at that hot new boutique.

This beautiful daughter
Now five and 30,
She hates to sweat
And doesn't like *****,
Her collection of clothing
Fills closets in our house,
And she will definitely scold me
If there is a rat or a mouse.

I have always allowed
Distractions to rule,
I'll blame it on teachers
In finishing school,
Apparently, they didn't bother
To finish me right,
So I'm easily distracted
Every day and all night.

My mind jumps around
Like a hare on the savanna,
Imagine monkey's in the jungle
Chasing a banana,
No better description
Comes to mind (because it's hopping),
If I was my daughter
I would solve this by shopping.

Maybe that's why
She has a closet full of clothes,
Her bank account is empty
After paying through her nose,
For her overpriced trinkets
And fashionable frillies,
Because her mind skips around
Like a lab-rat eating chillies.

Once again proving
How distractions are my actions,
My mind is an amusement park
With a zillion new attractions,
Like a traveling circus
With its rodeo clowns,
Entertaining all the rubes
In the sleepy border towns.

“Portland Police Draw Weapons”
It must be an artistic police station,
They need something to do with their hands
So they don’t suffer stagnation,
Maybe they draw weapons
When confronted with unarmed men,
To de-escalate the situation
They grab charcoal, paper and pen.

A stash of ten thousand rounds
Was found in a square house,
Luckily the rounds had no bullets
They couldn’t harm a mouse,
Armed perpetrators
Brandished pistols and guns,
But their rounds were effectively neutered
Like ten thousand nuns.

When I was single at forty
I was only eighteen,
If you knew what I implied
You would know what I mean.

I have always held the theory
Our age is frozen when we meet,
The one that we love
That one we hold so sweet;

And we move forward from that day
But chronologically, we don't change,
So really, I'm just forty-six now
Come now, this isn't so strange;

Because when I was forty-six
That sweet lady, she was ten years younger,
And just one look at her
Well, I was filled with a hunger

I didn't know that I was quite so famished
I guess my best friend, could have told me,
But at the time I was distracted
It didn't matter what she sold me.
Reality wasn't working for me
Too much makeup and perfume,
Enough scent in their detergent
To clear cockroaches from the room.

I was searching for a love
And the candidates were few,
I took so long to declare my interest
All they could say was, "who are you?",
So, why should I blame them
I needed something spontaneous,
Just seek an imaginary woman
And call it extemporaneous.

So now and forever
I'm only forty-six,
And the woman that I'm with?
She's prettier than pixy-sticks.