To hear about sites
of recent trips is like a
sharp living postcard.

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No parades, no sun,
no parting words with new pals.
Get in the truck. Go.

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Team of runners take
on Christmas theme in April,
with Santa’s wheelchair.

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Even pooch needs place
to rest wagging tail, floppy
ears to dream of bones.

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Knight to queen’s seven.
Checkmate in 13 moves and
less than five minutes.

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Waitress scurries, cup
in hand, chicory at the
ready. Order’s up.

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The river stretches out
to a distant shore while we
wave to the barges.

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Zip zazz, a-hoodoo,
skeet ska wah-wuz-sebedoo.
I can’t scat at all.

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Bright bonnets bob from
perches atop mounds of hair
to peek from each pew.

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Tire tires of
inflated existence, goes
flat on principle.

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Loosen up. Slip off
worries of the office with
a glass of stomped grapes.

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It’s hot. It’s cold. It’s
hot. It’s cold. Spring, such a coy
mischievous season.

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If ever there were
a time for vacation, it
would have been today.

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A fool and his love
are soon parted. At least, that’s
what she said to me.

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That blur you see is
me trying to keep up with
schedule gone awry.

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