For M. Z.
It’s strange. Human peculiarities
Often direct self-deserved invective
Outward, a hundred and eighty degrees,
Wounding gracious friends with sharp verbal shivs.
I blame it on advanced technology.
(The bane of all decrepit older folks)
New advances deepen pathology,
And hidden cyber waves cause mental pokes.
But still, ungratefulness is an abuse.
To shout at him, to denigrate his taste—
That foolishness was simply an excuse
To hide my worn out wit, my mind abased.
I went for comic—uttered duds and crud—
Sincere apologies, perhaps, staunch blood!
Truth told? I love these quiet, wholesome hooks:
Reclining chair, dish of nuts, toothsome books.
(6/15/12)