Forty-Four Weeks of Enternity

Forty-four weeks ago you died

Relief from suffering you finally had

Forty-four weeks ago I cried

My Darling, I still can’t say, “Good bye”

Your husband is in glory they tell me

Or so they try

I want to believe their story

After our ups and downs, I’d like to meet you in glory.

For forty-four years ours was a love story

Life’s adventure, our great venture

Dosed daily with grind and grand

Life with you never bland

We hugged and kissed our way through it

Despite all your pain sweet kindness you gave

Lost in loneliness, I’m not brave

My purpose, why God left me behind

I don’t understand the design

You’re in glory and not pain, I’m glad

Learning to love and trust in the divine

I won’t be so sad

I love you, miss you and still wanna kiss you!

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.

City Park in New Orleans on Sunday

Gumbo, what a mix! She sits in City Park watching people just for kicks on Sunday afternoon, while a guy who looks like Carlos Santana plays guitar. Sweet Home City Chicago he croons into the microphone. Black leathery hands stroke the conga drums; the wiry musician smiles as his head rhythmically nods.

Morning Call paper hats, black pants and white jackets, uniformed waiters, wizened  locals, whose faces say, I've seen it all, efficiently deliver coffee and beignets. A blonde little girl sipping chocolate milk has brought her Beagle.  “Mom, she keeps pulling,” the girl says as she sticks out her hand. “Why did you bring her?” the woman asks as she takes the leash. Under the red umbrella mom, her two sisters and grandma pour powdered sugar on their doughnuts. Betsy, the Beagle shivers with excitement. The puppy terrier two tables away just had water poured in a bowl. I could have some of that water, if I could just get over there. She gives the mom a long look and another shiver. A few tugs later, one of our wise waiters arrives at their table with a pan of water, but mom barely seems to notice as she takes a puff off her cigarette. Grandma and auntie in green with a white powder chin puff and dunk beignets as Betsy, the Beagle gets restless.

Purple, grey and green the VIP City Tours Bus slips into a slot. Tourists pour out off the door wearing sandals, shorts and curious looks. Running children scream loudly as rain spurts for but a moment. A pod of young people carrying Frisbees march to door, while two old couples meander under the live oak trees. They've seen showers before, this one is no big deal.

Laid back locals locate choice corner spots, smiling and nodding to others who appear to be milling about, but really know where they want to be. Landed gentry ladies in linen with hubbies sporting shirts with polo players on the chest stride to the center, where they stand with expectation in their eyes. Waiters hustle with more than their usual bustle, makes me kind of wonder whose family name is on the door. Table for four front and center, answers the question how a skinny old man can have muscle.

She's here all alone, only her waiter can see her. The coffee is good, but the spinach and artichoke bread really hit the spot.