Web hosting Custom Email SiteBuilder

SOME POEMS

STARLING OMELET

     The greasy starlings squabble below

     Over the suet

		    Somebody threw out

     In the soggy, early April snow.



	It's too late in the year

					For this kind of weather;

	It's too late in my career

			 To be staring out this grimy window

	At those raucous feathered rats.


     I scramble them some eggs

			    And grin

     As they celebrate

		  over the steaming remains

				       Of their fetal kin.

NO (SIR)!

	A young man called me "sir" the other day.

	He didn't say it out loud, but it was

	There, on his tongue, and in his manner.


	He was just out of the service

	And calling on my girlfriend's girl.

	I asked him did he like the army.


	As if I were some stern old patriarch--

	Jeremiah, Brigham Young, Ward Cleaver,

	Raven eyed and visage dark--he answered


	"No. . ." and in that pregnant pause damned me

	To cataracts, false teeth, varicose veins,

	Hemorrhoids, gout and impotence.


	No more telling cunnilingus jokes, I'm through

	With gambling, drinking and fishing all night,

	And liberating steaks from the IGA.


	It's a rocker by the fire for me,

	Telling stale stories from the Seventies

	And mopping the drool from my chin. Thanks, (son).