Ode to those

Folks who lick fingers
Before turning pages.
Strangers who long to converse or confess
In supermarket isles,
Or on silent streets.
Those unafraid to sit
By a beautiful girl.
Men who know whiskey
Is better after swirling drops
Of water in the glass.
Those who hark to better days
In golden rays
Of sunlit parks,
And we who send them
Smoke ring kisses by night.
Families who stand
Through two hour sermons
Hungover and half asleep:
The hell-bent on heaven.
The ones who say,
As I pardon my way
Through crowds,
And the quiet children
Learning courtesy.

Bennie Goodman foot-tappers,
End of movie-credit clappers.
Letter writers.
Grammar Nazis.
Streetwise city slickers
Pounding coffin nails,
Turning church keys.
Women who wear hats.
Men who can compliment.
Nouveaux riche with the sense
To unbutton suits while seated,
And stand when ladies leave.
Lighterless lads
For whom I’ve lit a match,
And gals who get their man
A drink for free.
The brainiacs

I know it’s strange,
But so it’s true.
Heaven watches what we do.
Laughs at what it never knew.


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