I keep one of my own poems
in my pocket for proof
that I’m a real poet.

“May I see your driver’s license?”
“Of course. Let me get it out of my
wallet.”
“May I see your poem?”
“Sure. It’s right here in my pocket.”

My poem, like a triple-platinum credit card,
is good everywhere.
I can poetize on earth and beyond.
If they need a poet on Mars, I can be the
Poet Laureate of Mars.
Because I have a poem in my pocket.

With my poem, I can write about
a myriad of subjects:
birds, beer, or a stick of butter melting.
I can give new meaning to the time-worn:
apple pie, spring, and true love.
Because I have a poem in my pocket.

My poem lets me play with language.
I can make words do cartwheels and handstands,
jump through hoops, and jumpstart your memories.
I can even make silence sing.

I can do all that and more because I have a
poem in my pocket.

This poem is not about Death.

This poem is not about pontificating
about Death or glorifying Death.
This poem is not about Death lurking about
like a hungry predator or unshakable shadow.

I am fed up with reading poems about Death.

What is the soup of the day?
Tomato bisque.
What is the poem of the day?
Death.
No, thanks!

Death is not romantic.
It’s the opposite of romantic.
It’s boring.

Death is not mysterious
It is inevitable and part of life and emphatically
universal.

And Death is not exotic. Not one bit.

L’Chaim! To Life!

King Charles ll got his love for dogs from his father.
The former king, a despot, was accompanied
to his execution by his dog, Rogue, a toy spaniel.

Charles ll wasn’t tyrannical. He was hedonistic.
He was known as The Merry Monarch.

He had seven mistresses and at least twelve
illegitimate children, for whom he provided
generously upon his death,
which annoyed the public whose taxes supported
his merrymaking.

Charles ll was also passionate about breeding the
ideal toy spaniel.
He whelped the pups in his bed chamber,
turning that place into a multi-purpose room.

Then he bestowed the best-of-breed pups upon his
ladyloves as lap warmers and snuggly pets.
Those soft, caressable spaniels kept many
a kept-woman warm in the drafty castle or a
chilly coach.

The Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, the breed
developed by the king, became his legacy.

And three hundred fifty years later, I own one of
that breed,
A direct descendant of the Bed Chamber Litter.

So I like to think.

Let’s be friends.

We’ll be silly.
I’ll make you laugh.
You’ll make me laugh.

We’ll talk about people we know
or what’s in the news.
We’ll have fun.

You’ll tell me about things that
are going on with you,
All kinds of things,
lousy things and terrific things.
I’ll do the same.

I’ll worry about you.
I’ll marvel at you.
I’ll tease you.
I hope you’ll tease me.

Let’s be friends.

Why not Wednesday Poems? Or Monday Poems?
What is special about Tuesday?

Tuesday has the right look, sound, and tone.
The shape of the word is beguiling
The sound of it begins with a kiss.
Wednesday sounds flat. So does Thursday.
Saturday has a lovely capital S and three syllables,
but that middle ur sound detracts.

Monday suggests a drag-yourself-to-work day.
Friday launches the weekend.
Weekend Poems has a nice look and ring but
suggests household chores, and leisure.
Sunday Poems? More appropriate for religious or
spiritually-themed poems.

Tuesday is still the beginning of the week.
It’s hopeful, energetic, full of promise.
Tuesday is a good day to write a poem.
Tuesday is a good day to send a poem out to the world.