Poem while sitting on Scott's Bench

POEM WHILE SITTING ON SCOTT'S BENCH


Something's wrong. Though stifling outside
you can't continue reading in air-conditioned
comfort while the world prattles about outside.

Wearing my blue hat that covered my messy
white hair, I sat myself on Scott's bench
on his covered front porch.

Covered? Yes with insects that sought to pierce
my lily-white skin, as I read GOLDA, pausing
to view the - yes- red-headed woodpecker at
one of his feeders - and on tother one a Red
Prince, clothed in bright red fevvers
the grandest man around.

I jerked, remembering a dream that woke me up
this morning. A tiny beloved cat, Xena, was
in the road ripe to get run over.

"Golda" was a call to arms, Israel here we come.
Filled with philosophy, Schopenhauer,
Hegel, pogroms, was Thomas Aquinas in there?

Once Simon the Christain explained his importance
over the phone, while I snuggled in Mom's Chinese
maroon drapes.

Other Christians followed a different road led by
Saint Augustine.

Simon and Mom and Millard, dead.

The earth, according to the greatest sages of our time -
Tolkien, C S Lewis, Albert Einstein and the organist
Schweitzer, too, bear theories - only theories  -

of what will happen to me on this bench, where I
slap another pest -

Get thee home, inject your insulin in the flab
around your belly, and delve into your bean soup
with DQ for dessert.

And then you MUST listen to Sound the Trumpet by Henry Purcell.

Click speakers here and you will feel you will never die.