a ghost-eyed dog
trots across a field
lately crew-cut of its corn
brown stubble
and rich clay exposed

plump gray clouds
hoist their heavy sails
there's a southwest wind,
the fishing might be good
barometer's right

an empty wicker rocker
moves in time with the breeze
on the new cedar porch
finches crowd the feeders
in the maple trees

naked cottonwoods host
a pair of red-tailed hawks
it's not yet thanksgiving
we've had a little frost on the pumpkin
we are deep down in the fall
we hunker down with
strong, hot coffee
look out over our steaming cups,
anticipate the winter to come
and hope for the best

November

too close to call

i nearly wept when ohio was called
for obama

and now, an hour later
i fear going to bed

a glass of wine,
low-fat triscuits
and cheddar cheese
at my side

switching channels
the comedy channel, of course
the channel of choice

every four years
we do this

every four years
we 'redefine'
america

every four years
we spend time and money
and lose friends and
lose ourselves in the
hustle and flow

and yet
America endures
we endure
and somehow prosper
and grow

and find a way
to live with
ourselves.

A Goddess Needs A Waistline

I am built more for comfort

Than for speed,

At sixty-five I have become

Zaftig

Which is not to say fat.

I miss my waist.

It has expanded to unrecognizable

Girth.

It is out of control, and growing

More unmanageable every year.

My girlish figure has

Taken a powder, rude tramp.

I wish I didn’t mind,

But I do.

I do.