The Privileged Among Us

Her face. Showed not a flinch. Her eyes not a flash. When I smiled. And warmly chirped, "You must be special, to have those parking privileges." In the fire lane. At the public library. Right in front. In her half ton. Big ass. Pickup truck. Surely. She believes. So thus. Now and into the future. Let us not. Let this specialness. Pass. Unnoticed.

The Farmhouse

Before I fell asleep last night. I visited my grandparents’ farmhouse. In that hazy underwater state. That comes just before sleep. I remembered. The lace curtains. The very steep stairs that I was forbidden to climb. The pump organ. That was sometimes attached. To a vacuum. In reverse. Which made it impossible. To hear the clear tones. Coming from one’s fingers. The kitchen where I was served packaged cookies and Koolaid. And the match holder on the wall, which always fascinated me. And I wondered. If this creaky farmhouse in Indiana. Still stands. And how many. Of these lovely old friends. Ancient, worn and wonderful. Still exist.