Monday, July 30, 2018

Loads of photos! Poem: Right Here in our Neighborhood, Better than the Circus - In honor of Stephen King I walk Around the Block

 Front windowsill.
 Click to enlarge photo of hummingbird on feeder.

Say goodbye to Helene's tea kettle. Bought a new one at Giant by Bradford.

This girl is very satisfied.

Will have a cuppa tea right now. Hold on while I fill it with water.

To the left is my new copper skillet. Shtuff don'd shtick to it.

 My top of the hostas which I brought to Second Home are still going strong. Today I brought more flowers. My friend Helene had a friend we called The Flower Lady.
 My tea is cooling. You don't wanna ruin your day by burning your tongue!

New lamp bought at Home Goods. Google it and surprise yourself by who owns Home Goods.

Told myself last year I'd never go there again.

Wisdom is saying it's okay to change your mind.

Scott asked me Why dyou call them poems? They're like little stories.


Slow down.
Park at Kremp's Florist.
Pack a picnic lunch
if you so desire.

Feast your eyes, with
or without binoculars
across the dust-filled

A crane is reaching for the clouds.
It has no wheels, but treads like
an armoured tank.
It can go as high as
a 20-story building.

Will it tip over?
Nay, the back is weighted
down. The job of the day
is putting in the parking
garage. Pre-fabricated
panels make it easier.

Chorus: Oh, the men in orange
hard hats and glowing orange
vests. Oh, their Igloo containers
filled with water and Orange Crush
and Italian hoagies from Wawa

Crows - count em! - fly high
and squawk over the scene,
thinking Humans are so complicated!
We just use twigs, cigarette stubs, and innards
of seat cushions for our comfy nests.

Max, get your daddy to drive you over.
A sight like this you will never forget
I can just see you jumping up and down
and catapulting over and into the
swiveling crane, to help while the driver rests.



He was on Fresh Air this morning
and I listened to every word.
He loved to be frightened
even as a young man

Like a story from Mr King, the famous writer
was walking along the road near
his home in Maine.

A man in a van was struggling
with his Rottweiler who'd
jumped in the front seat.

King's candle almost went out
but the fates of horror kept him
alive to write many more books.

Out of the house I went
longing for fresh air. I took
the long way, my arms swinging,
neck swiveling to catch what's
new in the neighborhood.

Fast-moving cars made me
feel vulnerable. Walking
is positively dangerous
around here.

Disgusting! People throw things
in the street like in the
days of Oliver Twist.

My eye lit on a smoked Tiparillo
And then, M. Proust, I remembered.

When I worked as a therapist
I'd come home and stop for
refreshment at the Wawa.

Outside in a wheelchair was
a little man in a little
wheelchair, smoking a

I always said Hello,
but could think of
nothing more to say.
Where are you now,
Little Man?

Image result for tiparillo

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