Sunrise service

(Happy Easter to all)

You lipsticked cigarette ends
Circling smoke to heaven
Rampant weeds defying mulch
And axel-breaking potholes
Praise the Lord.

You blissed-out muzak
Kenny G-ing overhead
Slick-haired TV talking heads
And day-old business pages
Praise the Lord.

You pouting teenage girls
In long skirts and too much makeup
Freckled younger brothers
And disapproving grandmas
Praise the Lord.

You harried first-generation immigrants
Screwing up my order
Overflowing coffee pots
And abandoned egg mcmuffin
Praise the Lord.

You white clothed street crew
Worn out from your heavy lifting
You military veterans
Stealing glances at the
Women in the corner

By the empty table.

Buttons

There are many dangerous buttons
In this world. Some you wear to make
A point, whether humorous or profane
(I got into a fight once over a message
Pinned to the front of my jacket, for example).
Some buttons live on machines,
And are marked with big red letters
Saying things like “Detonate,” or “Launch.”
These buttons do significantly more damage
And are very, very noisy.
But the scariest and most dangerous button
You will ever find – both for you and
Everyone else – is quite modest, and bears
The simple legend: “Reply All.”

Unexpected roses

Unexpected roses always make my soul
Melt with love for you, my dear;
Not because I find your Casanova’s role
Unexpected - roses ALWAYS make my soul
This way for you. It’s just I know your goal
Is purely biological. Never fear –
Unexpected roses always make my soul
Melt with love for you, my dear.

Hula hoop

This hula hoop is perfect, Daddy, see!
She laughs, and sways her hips in filligree
Describing graceful circles all around
Her dancer’s torso, while the sighing sound
Of flouncing skirts, makes impish parody

Of what a princess might turn out to be
If she could slip past the security
Inside the royal palace, having found
This hula hoop

And slide down to some smoky dive, where she
Could join the revels, dancing wild and free,
Releasing all the duties she has bound
Herself to follow, lying on the ground
And laughing softly: Thanks for giving me
This hula hoop.

Oh my...

If you should ever
Catch your parents in the throes
Of passion – two whales
Locked in combat – you might
Wish you’d never been born.

Opening day

(a drunken sonnet)

The forty thousand starting to arrive
On Sheffield, Waveland, Clark and Addison
Seem hardly bothered that they have not won
A pennant here since nineteen forty-five
Or that there’s almost nobody alive
Who still remembers losing only one
Game in their last World Series winning run,
A triumph younger players can’t revive.
These faithful souls bedecked in Cubby blue
Have numbed themselves to losing every spring
Through regular consumption of a large
Amount of Old Style, such a friendly brew
It lets them drown the score by bellowing:
Holy Cow! Da-da-da-da-da-daaaaaaa. Charge!

Shoes

I don’t like old shoes,
The kind that make my feet hurt
Even before I
Put them on – crusty old souls
That have hung on for too long.

New shoes are bad, too.
Ones like the fancy Reeboks
I got last April
You could see them in the dark
It was just embarrassing.

I want a new pair
Of old shoes – anonymous
Yet comfortable.
They would only last a week.
And they would probably be brown.