Losing Face
[Throwback Thursday]
I’ve fallen out of grace with my face.
It’s now defined by lines of time and place.
a roadmap etched with pathways to the past,
a drying parchment never meant to last.
Indoor Games
Guess I’ll count the forks again.
The prize this time: a nip of gin.
I know the spoon count now by heart.
And knives were there right from the start.
Yes, counting silverware is in my guide
on stupid things to do while stuck inside.
Another thing is taking matched-up socks,
and dump them all together in a box.
Then tie one to another one that isn’t its same color.
You thought counting cutlery was slow, but this is duller.
A zen-like exercise is match your breathing to your cats.
But then they go chase shadows. Slow it down, you dirty rats!
I gather all the cobwebs thinking I can make a scarf.
But sometimes all the dead bugs inside make me want to barf.
I scrub the tiles with tooth brushes and paint things on my teeth.
I pick up every seat cushion and collect what’s beneath.
I run in tiny circles. I call this the white tornado.
I use push pins and paper clips to make mister potato.
I look for Jesus faces in the cabinet doors and floor.
I’ve thrown some deep hail Mary’s but they’re not caught any more.
The last chapter of my guide
gives you the tells on if you’ve died.
If you’ve not eaten in a week or more.
If your body lies, unmoving, on the kitchen floor.
If a paper held beneath your nose does not show breath,
odds are you can read my epilogue, called come, meet death.
What’s With Doc?
Where has Doctor Fauci gone?
This week he was off the lawn.
Without him we have no voice,
inject bleach our only choice ?
Maybe he’s in forced lockdown,
caged and tied up by the clown.
I don’t think this thought too often,
but he’d fit in a small coffin.
Tied into a podium,
stuffed with lye and sodium,
he could be tossed out to sea.
Goodbye, Mariner Fauci.
Maybe he’s just lying low,
guarded by a goon named Joe.
Maybe on extended rounds?
Need we search the White House grounds?
If he’s not at Monday’s ‘presser,’
we’ll be seeking a confessor.
Bring our fine physician back,
or we’ll commence our attack.
Check for orange fingerprints,
nylon hair and other hints.
Pray that he is still alive.
Bring him back now, forty-five!
A Cleaner Smoothie
FOX says he wasn’t trying to be mean.
He’s just a real big fan of Mister Clean.
So, if you’ll open wide, he’ll pour some shit inside.
And then you will be dead like Orson Bean.
O, the good die young when Trump has fun.
Pandemic’s like a game that has no rules.
We wish his base was deaf, not dumb.
Yet no one else would follow him but fools.
Have you tried the Drano? It comes in cherry flavor.
If you listen to him, you’ll be doing us a favor.
In times of need his m.o.’s greed. He’ll clean you out inside.
And then he won’t care one damn wink when he hears that you’ve died.
Trump continues to insist he’s “like” a scientist.
He knows his pills; it gives one chills. It’s schooling that he missed.
He doesn’t like to read at all, as one can plainly see.
He considers words his invisible enemy.
He’s buying stock in Bab-O, Bon Ami and even Comet.
Just sprinkle it on chicken wings and then try not to vomit.
A little Tide or Ajax could quite help out with the healing.
Don’t worry, for a little while you’ll have that washed out feeling.
If chemicals don’t kill you, it’s a sign you’re getting well.
Go on FOX and tell those wimpy liberals go to hell.
Sure, your breathing’s labored and perhaps you might relapse.
Relax. get to the market. Buy some Lysol ‘fore you collapse.
Cashing In Your Checks
Go ahead and bet your stimulus check.
A grand just will not do it, so go crazy,
what the heck.
However, there’s no horses racing.
Blame the social distance spacing.
Baseball, even football, might be gone.
Pubs are closed, so there’s no darts.
Bookmakers have closed their charts.
Maybe bet on Jarts out on the lawn?
There must be a worldwide pool based on the over/under.
Things get sick, and really quick when everything’s asunder.
But these statistics won’t resolve until the plague has passed.
And, by that time, the best bet is your check’s not gonna last.
So, go and spend your money on some other stimuli.
Go down to the corner, see the guy who knows a guy.
Buy two dozen blackbirds, maybe, bake ’em in a pie.
Bet the wad with god on all the teardrops that you’ll cry.
The check is not a bolster or a perk.
It’s just another joke that doesn’t work.
Try licking off the signature to see if you’ll get high.
Worst thing that could happen, you’ll choke on his name and die.