Hobson’s Choice
Three quarters of a century old am I, wide awake at 3 a.m.
counting falling stars streaming past my skylight window
wondering how the world will be without me?
WINS news will still drone on, Hieronymous Bosch
tales of woe that ought to make announcers weep:
another deadly fire in
jack-knifed tractor trailer in
serial rapist still on the loose, markets moving
up, down or sideways, fat oil tycoon from
waddled off with billions, a little guy from
who grinds his teeth at night, lost his shirt chasing
hot tips when the bubble burst, cartel czar from
finally extradited, poor starving kids still starving
in
names have rubbed out one another.
The only laugh I ever hear is when they blame
the weatherman for a rainy weekend forecast.
Remote events are vivid as recent memories stumble.
Can’t forget Sunday drives to
in a perky model-A filled with quirky aunts:
Jenny, Goldie, Lizzy, all prematurely senile
who lived on cherry candy and a little bit of schnaps.
Picking crab apples in the Fall, we simmered a syrupy
sweet sludge that we ate on pumpernickel with a glass
of svetouchnee tea brewed in a shiny copper samovar.
They played with me with polliwogs stuck to the tips
of their noses as we jumped about like Pinochios.
I plan to stick around a while and write a few more poems.
My wife will surely miss me when I’m gone, my warm
body and steely fingers that nightly melt her knots away.
Kids and grand-kids will be pained till grieving runs its course,
nature’s way of letting go when letting go is Hobson’s choice.