Thanks and Good Bye

Now seemed like a good time to leave

When friendship with you I could still conceive

As much as you can be fun

From you I must run

Being the butt of your joke

Comes with a costly yoke

I don’t dare wear

Asked you not to play this game

I liked you but you didn't see my shocked  stare

Or hurt feelings; didn't care

With my husband dead,

Life seemed over and then I had a little fun

Enjoyed some of the words you said

That’s when you opened fire

Dude, the state of my emotional health is dire

Better to leave when I can still say

Thanks for a place to crash

City Park in the Dark

Tourists in white sneakers 

Take a seat

Park train toot-toots

Reggie the waiter on flute

Rocks a jazz beat

 Full moon glows

Spanish Moss floats in  Live Oak Trees

Latin rhythms sweeten the breeze

Lovers whisper

Some come  to sober up

Oye, como va 

Still Lagoons reflect soft light

Beignets  powdered with sugar just right

Café au lait best of all

Come to the Morning Call

City Park,a magical place in the dark

Mystery made nightly

New Orleans style

                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Down the Road

Remembering when it used to be

You talking to me in the car

Years traveled so far

Almost forever

Rolling along in my automobile

My life is no longer real

Only memories are

Morning Calls

We enjoyed a café au lait at the Morning Call in City Park while watching a lady Muscovy Duck stroll between the tables with her head held high. Slowly she meandered by; would she be offered some bread, she didn’t seem concerned. In the doorway she stopped, waited for a musician to plug in his guitar before sashaying past.

Flap, flap, flap big orange male Muscovy feet beat a trail behind her. She ducked out of sight between the columns and potted palms.

The red on his Muscovy head gleamed brightly. He paused by each table. Am I not a spectacular specimen? Will you offer a morsel? His effort was not wasted; I tossed him a crumb. Without looking in my direction he shoveled the food in his mouth and moved on. En route a couple other patrons offered bits of beignets.

The guitar player absentmindedly strummed. In black pants, white jackets and paper hats, waiters produced bread for feathered guests. From out of nowhere the lady Muscovy emerged; her tail wagging furiously as the waiters laid a trail of bread crumbs to the lagoon in case the Muscovies had forgotten the way. Patrons smiled and nodded at each other. A good deed has been done.

Powdered sugar is poured again. The guitar thinks about a few more notes. Two little boys play rock, paper, scissors, as mama sips her coffee. A strand of Spanish Moss floats on the breeze. Waiters hustle to please. This is the life of ease.  What’s wrong with this picture?

   

What Are We Having?

Leftovers in the box

How old are the lox?

Maybe that succulent lamb

What do you want for breakfast, my Honey?

No, I don’t have Spam.

But I’ll give you half of my chocolate Easter bunny.

Or how about toast and jam?

Don’t you want something sweet?

Can’t I be your treat?

No, you’re gone and

I’m the leftover.