NIPPY

Southern landlady,
Nippy, spunky at 83,
With 55 lived on this North Carolina beach

Downstairs, she quietly holds vigil
Over the comings and goings of her tenants and the sea.

She rents two units,
Each a little bit of heaven,
With seaside decks and four blue rockers.

Widowed in the 1990s, Nippy has one living son,
Jim, "a lawyer," who has two sons.
Alex is a chief neurology resident at Boston University, and
Cliff is a Winston-Salem "lawyer."

With a gleam in her eye,
Nippy introduced Cliff's wife, GiGi,
A Wake Forest resident,
Internal medicine this one.
"She'll be chief resident next year," said Nippy.

Nippy had another son, Neil,
Who graduated college and
Died climbing rocks.

"At least he died doing something he loved," says Nippy.
"It's easier to accept that way,
Than if he had been killed by a drunk driver or an overdose."

Attending her last high school reunion,
Nippy said, "Everyone introduced themselves as lawyers, doctors, judges and such.
I wondered what on earth I was going to say when came my turn.
Then, it came to me," she laughed. "I said I was in resort rentals.

HUMANITY

Ensconced in mall recliner - Demo, Dane Designs - I watch.
High-heeled woman struts in red, seeking to be chic.
Well-dressed man, with grey goatee, descends on escalator,
His noble demeanor slips as he carries sacks of food.
Many older, waddling women bear similar, plain descriptions.
Young, perky mothers carry babies.
With solicitude and care, an elderly woman, in red-plaid slacks, seats her feeble husband in nearby chair and heads off on mission.
Punked-up adolescent looking "cool" and shouting, "Who am I?"
Refreshingly wholesome, teenage girl pens job application.
Men, women and children walk to and fro.
Some erect, with strong strides, seemingly confident in their worldly niche.
Others, lost in life's maze, slouch in body and soul.
Most are in between, with glimpses of peace and clarity,
But more often than not, they put one foot in front of the other,
Hoping it treads on solid ground.

Upon rising, I join the walk.
To and fro we go, marching humanity.

YOUTH

Runway model in red,
Girl child masquerading as woman,
Eyes brightly painted,
Face powdered and rouged

What can she sell me at 64?

Do I desire her youth?
No.
I have done my work.
She has yet to do hers.

Do I want her face?
It took me these many years to love my own.
Why change now.

Do I envy her figure?
God, no.
I rejoice being without bra or bikini.
She remains hostage to womanhood's illusions.
Having shed those many barnacles,
I am free to be.
And, hopefully, someday, so shall she.