‘Just South of Sanity,’ ‘A Card-Carrying Member of the Passive Aggressive Club,’ ‘The Luckiest Girl Triolet,’ ‘A Single Crow’ and ‘The Face of a Thousand Words’

JUST SOUTH OF SANITY

Gwen’s off her meds,

my mom would say,

and quirk her mouth up

in a half grin;

her sister was a little nuts,

if we were all being politically incorrect,

but not in the hide-your-knives-when-she-comes-over

kind of way,

just in that quirky-batty way,

the way she’d scrape icing off a slice of cake,

cut the cake into little pieces

then dip each piece in the scraped off icing,

the way she’d tell us all to hold hands

at the dinner table then sing the chorus

of Shall We Gather at the River as the blessing,

the way she’d rub a raggedy old rabbit’s foot

that dangled from the end of a keychain for good luck;

honestly though, Aunt Gwen was (to us kids anyway)

jalapeno peppers on ice cream.

She was glitter and fingerpaints on the walls (sorry Mom);

she was stomping in mud puddles until you were soaked through;

she was carrying a Chihuahua in her purse to Sunday service;

we just giggled behind our hands and secretly hoped

she’d never pop another pill as long as she lived.

A CARD-CARRYING MEMBER OF THE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE CLUB

I love it when you say

Fine, whatever!

Love it when your barbed remarks

stay just below the belt line,

and that little twitchy thing

you do with your mouth—

that slight raise of one eyebrow—

is classic artistry.

I live for the cloak and dagger

disapproval,

little digs that speak volumes

beneath your muted breath.

I truly cannot thank you enough

for your sabotage and subterfuge.

Hang onto your card, honey;

it’s going platinum!

THE LUCKIEST GIRL TRIOLET

Friday the thirteenth is her lucky day;

she pets every black cat;

she sees a ladder and saunters that way;

Friday the thirteenth is her lucky day.

She never throws spilled salt away,

especially not over her back.

Friday the thirteenth is her lucky day;

she pets every black cat.

A SINGLE CROW

Just my luck

(or not)

to see a single crow

perched on the roof

of the high-rise apartment complex.

I probably wouldn’t have noticed

except for his persistent

cawwww…cawwww,

his raising of such a ruckus

that my head jerked up

as though it were on a string.

And (as I am one to avoid

spilling salt and walking under ladders)

I shuddered a bit

to see that solitary oil-colored

fiend and felt a full-chill flashback—

(a certain high school English raven)!

Had there been two crows,

I would have been safe,

but, in the spirit of bad omens,

I narrowly escaped

the deadly trajectory of a potted fern

flung from balcony #405.

THE FACE OF A THOUSAND WORDS

I keep words inside my throat

that are not polite to say;

although this man is arrogant,

he cannot ruin my day.

I listen to his endless chatter,

the focus all on him;

any chance I might escape

is looking pretty slim.

He’s been around the world it seems

and owns a hundred cars;

a tiger once attacked him,

and—oh, look, there’s the scar!

He’s showing me his biceps now,

and, oops—there goes my grace;

every word I’d left unsaid

is now written on my face!