Writing About Things
I never wrote about an aunt
who ran away with a salesman.
I never wrote about a nephew
who invented a bar of soap
that never got smaller till
you wondered what to do with it.
I never thought about where
the bum on the street slept.
I never thought what happened
to dogs once they got back
into those cramped apartments.
Wait! I did think about my uncle
Max, who was a prize fighter
in Hungary, who according to
my mother went around with
prostitutes, who my mother
disapproved of.
The Economy’s Been Bad
I watch and listen to it on TV.
Should I run out and buy stuff?
That would only make the billionaires richer.
Should I hold on to my money?
That would only cause them to tighten their belts.
and fire the kid who needed the part-time job
a week sooner so their dividend check
wouldn’t suffer one iota.
Should I close the TV and not listen
to their drivel at all?
That would make me a semi-recluse
and what good would that do?
The doorman’s been eyeing me,
a bit skeptically lately.
Maybe my Christmas present to him
was a bit stingy this year.
Should I just wish him a good day
and make his day a smidge nicer?
Yep, that would only cost me my breath.
Gene Goldfarb lives in New York City, where he ponders, love, hate, mortality and what’s up with the guy who hangs around the building. He loves movies, books, travel, and international cuisine. His poetry has appeared in the small press including: Black Fox, The Daily Drunk, The Gorko Gazette, Rat’s Ass Review, and Bullshit Lit.
