Poems: When you can't sleep - Something as simple as a walk around the block

WHEN YOU CAN'T SLEEP

What was the last good thing
you watched on Neflix? I came
downstairs, trailing my favorite
blanket, settled on my red couch,
and began a night of film.

I'd see them all.
Jaws, Goodfellas,
Godfather. Chris Rock's new comedy special sucked.

I did like when Chris said, "What if some white
bitch were shot by a black cop and they'd all
be moaning in the middle of the suburban street."

"A Serious Man" came first, overly
long, redolent of Isaac Bashevis Singer
but not half so good, followed by a
British spy drama called Fear, what a
mistake I thought as the beach ran
red with blood.

The kid's name is Nikolas Kruz, filled with
pride for what he did. Loved his killing tools.
Took an Uber to school, pulled the fire alarm
which screwed up the "school-shooter
protocol."

What if, right here, right now,
on our quiet street, a 19-yr-old with a shotgun played cowboy
and Indians, and shot 17 of us down dead.
Blood in the snow.

Took a break between kills. Walked over to
McDonalds, got some salty fries and maybe a
burger or two. No pickles please.
A cop recognized him.

Half hour later he was behind bars.
Nikolas. Cruz. His last name could've
been Tesla. But it wasn't.

***

Spoke to Phyllis Katz, formerly of Goddard College,
this morning. She's married and loves living in
her home in Puerto Rico, where they're still
recovering from the hurricane.

Quelle tragedy!

I have eaten everything in my cupboards in preparation for writing a poem about a former slave - hear that, O Muse! -

 Ate the last of my vegetarian bean soup in my favorite bowl - Goodbye Elinor Schuler goodbye!

Scott's tea roses are doing well.

SOMETHING AS SIMPLE AS
A WALK AROUND THE BLOCK

All over America - oh, say
can you see! - thousands, if
not millions of Americans, say
I'll be right back. Just going
for a walk around the block.
They may pick up a carton of
cigarettes, a gallon of milk,
the newspaper they can roll
under their arm and bring home.

I said nothing to nobody and
struck out, winged sneakers
on my feet like a Valkyrie,
walked down the street, avoiding
the puddles, the disgusting
garbage on the side of the street,
rounded the bend to Sleighride
and with a huff and a puff
marched up this high slope,
oh don't you worry, not one
of them Olympic slopes in
Korea.

And pride mounting
as I neared the summit
then trotted downward
and burst into my house.

The slo-cooker was making
chili for me. Vegetarian.
With everything in it,
especially those Udon
noodles I can't get
enough of. Which lovely
dish shall I serve it in?
Helene's. The blue thatch
pattern I snatched from
her house before she
left for the old ladies home.