Author Archives: inkspun

My Life Is in Teeters

Putting our bed in farmland terms...
She enforces the borders, as it were,
Of her sprawling ranch
Against my adjacent pea patch...
Our king size,
Divided into her vast acreage
And my slight littoral of shoreline
On which I balance sleep
And the terrors of rolling into the sea.

Purveyors Are for the Upper Crust

There is a seller named
Purveyors to the Extra Fine,
The Quality Folks,
The Posh, the A-List,
The Creme de la Creme...
Those defined by yacht size
And 50-car garages
At their getaways in the Hamptons...
You know who you are...
You who shop by appointment
In shops that are locked
To the rest of us.

Southeast from Northwest

Saturday night,
Driving from the Upper West Side
To the Lower East Side...
One of the longer rides in New York City...
An unending grid of lefts and rights,
Over and down,
Like descending a miles-long staircase,
One street at a time,
One red light at a time,
And having to endure the wither and frown
Of my traveling companion,
Telling me we'd have been there by now,
If she were driving.
She said without mercy
That the route I took was the longest
In the history of crosstown driving...
A trek begun with the first notes 
Of Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet,
Playing on the car radio,
And ending an hour later 
In its crescendo of final notes,
Near, but not at,
The borscht and blintzes we were going for
At a restaurant whose how-to is unequalled.
Ours had become an expedition...
The Donner Party,
Lewis and Clark,
The Trail of Tears...
Rolled into one.
They'll write about us...
Our stubborn grit and determination,
Chasing our 
Ashkenazic foodie dreams.
After the hour of Tchaikovsky,
We were in the general vicinity
Of our culinary goal,
But still needed a parking space,
Which, luckily, we came upon
After a mere half hour of circling blocks.
I pulled into it front first...
A far more lengthy maneuver...
Fearing another car would pull up
And block me from backing in,
Even with my blinking backup lights.
The wifely recriminations stopped,
    Good move,
She said, graciously.
We walked a scant four blocks to the restaurant
With the self-congratulations 
Of Columbus landing in the Americas,
Cortez in Veracruz,
The Cubs winning the World Series.
But then, satisfaction forestalled,
We had to wait an hour for a table.


A newly-divorced woman on a dating site,
Decided to write her bio
With unaccustomed honesty and modesty,
Exposing her habits, good and bad, 
Her cutesy flaws,
Her foibles and vanities,
As she never had before,
And was certain her confessional
Wouldn't turn away would-be beaux.
It's a subtle seduction,
She thought,  
Being disarmingly honest.
And while it did have the desired effect,
It rendered her so unrecognizable,
That her first reply came
From her former spouse.  

Food Hot, Plate Not…Not So Sure

Magnus Scarfinger,
Trying to get a reduced sentence
At his parole board hearing,
Volunteered to touch
A plate from a just-invented
Microwave oven
To see if was as cool to the touch,
As physicists said it would be...
Even though the cheese on it
Had melted.
That put him two years closer to freedom,
So he volunteered to drive a car
Fifty miles an hour into a wall
To test air bags,
Hoping that would make him a free man.
But the board thought a car
Would be too much temptation.
So he volunteered to be a vaccine tester
And a food taster.
He's recovering now from mushrooms,
He was told were safe.

Thoughts Between Four and Five This Morning

New friends,
Talking from verbal scratch,
Lurch from subject to subject
With pauses between each,
Since they lack
The conversational connective tissue
Of common experience,
Which will build up over time.
Each if them will have to fight
To get a word in, edgewise.

As I Lay Sleeping

In bed, 
Seeking more comfort,
She launched a surprise attack 
Along my reclining nighttime defense line,
Probing for weakness...
My weary rump forces too weak to repel her.
And, never abiding by the laws imposed
To protect anatomical tenderness,
She struck with all she had,
Forcing me to the cliffs of Serta,
To the edges of bedding.
And, I, in the fog of war, moaned,
    "What are you doing?",
Hoping to appeal to her better angels
And stem the assault.
But mercy to her was foreign coin...
And with a final push
I landed on the floor,
Buffered by only a Bokhara,
A pair of wool socks
And my slippers.

Phone Encounter

    I'm going to put you on hold,
Said the Internet voice,
    For a minute or two...or maybe more.
    I'll wait, 
I said.
She said,
    Be back in a sec.

Suburbia These Days

A buck 
With a twelve-prong rack,
Stood stock-still
Before a five-foot fence
And, effortless, sprang over it
Into a neighbor's backyard.
I didn't see him again,
So assumed he got out,
Since the neighbors didn't have
A winter of venison.

I, the Grim Weeper, Dealt with Verizon

Verizon owns time...
Their time, your time, my time.
They must, because they waste it 
With the impunity of ownership,
Cavalierly keeping me on hold forever...
While they endlessly search
For the right department, 
The right agent
To help me with billing.
And they let me languish
With no interim message
To show they're still there,
Nor music to soothe me.
And I wearily wait,  
As my newest guide, Zia,
Does what no other was able to do,
Magically, lead me 
To where I, long ago, wanted to be...
The billing department...
Wonderful Zia, 
Maybe, I'll marry her.