Poemy Sunday Bonus


Ending my slicing adventure with some spine poetry of sorts. 31 slices. 31 titles. A collection of poems.

Those Slices

Slice a lot,
the backstory,
spring loading.

One day,
at home,
may the stories carry us.

Construction messy,
pluggity, plug, plug, plug,
the laundry scores,
bad neighbors,
frustration erased.

meowy dreams,
enter pug?!?!
NO time.

Ring of bravery,
nope nope nope,
the absent ring,
polishing her edges.

Magical sentiments,
anti Potter,
silver sisters.

Stealing my own child,
discarded memories,
light in the hard rock.

That day,
that house,
that silence,
that hurt,
just don’t think about it.



Bad Neighbors


I positively can attest that we are not in fact crabby old people who don’t like people.

We are not bad neighbors.

Despite the padlocked gate at the back of our yard.

Despite recently installing a Ring doorbell.

Despite that camera we are currently installing above our garage door.

Despite the gate that is being placed across our driveway as I type.

What we have taken issue with is the incessant thumping of basketballs. That fits in the crabby column for sure.

What we have taken issue with is the nonstop and deafening vulgarity that should not exit a middle schooler’s mouth in the presence of adults or young children.

What we have taken issue with is the total destruction to a flower bed, a bent mailbox, trampled grass, and scratched cars.

What we have taken issue with is the mistrust that permeates the block in spite of attempts to be friendly, outgoing, and respectful while in return all we receive is the bird.

So I can positively attest that we are now in fact crabby young people who don’t like people.

Frustration Erased


She was standing in front of me when we raced to the back of the store to get those drops and get out.  I admit I took in the picture of her standing there and I was frustrated. This is going to take forever, I thought to myself.

She was barely taller than the counter and the exchange was a beautiful symphony of not English. Three plastic shoe boxes appeared  and a stack of slips placed in each one. Oh man, I thought to myself. We’re never going to make it.

Three littles crowded around her, not a one higher than her waist. Their sniffles and coughs reverbrated through their little bodies. The littlest one kept reaching out just one finger to touch the toys hanging as temptations to all the pharmacy visiting kiddos.

The exchanges continued, as pleasantries, I could tell. This mom was straight up worn out. You could see it in the weight she carried in her own shoulders, yet her face shone and her voice just lilted through the air, as if she had not a care in the world.

The pharmacy tech pulled out plastic bag after plastic bag and collected what seemed enough bottles and boxes to medicate a small country or least build a respectable toy castle.

By this point, the hanging temptations got the best of the littles and they were sitting around her feet now rolling toy cars on the threadbare carpet. I began to wonder how many others stood in that spot wearing down that carpet. I watched her gather up her brood and bags and start the trek toward wherever they were going.

Drops in hand, we raced to get some coffee before racing to meet the ferry. My phone rang and I heard a panicked pharmacy tech explain I might have received someone else’s benefit card. I quickly check and recognize the name that rode across the space from the pharmacy tech’s mouth back in that store.

So back to the pharmacy and the mom coming from the other direction, walking quickly despite the weight of the boxes and bags and littles. A thank you from the tech and a relieved Gracias later, we were on our way.

My frustration had long since dissipated. Somewhere around that finger reaching out to spin the wheels on a toy car.

No Time


I roll over in bed and as soon as I open my eyes, I feel that familiar feeling.

No! It’s 7:30 am and we have a full day planned! No time for that feeling.

I carefully let my lids fall down around the sand and move them to the right. More sand. Move them left. More sand. Up. More sand. Down. More sand. We aren’t evening heading to any beaches today.

I sneak past the snorer sleeping off his Devils’ win after a stein too many and get to the bathroom mirror. I lean against the sink with my head hanging in resignation. I feel the heaviness in my shoulders that I am about to make this day much more hectic and difficult.  I know what I will find when I look up. The sandy tell gave it away.

I’m just mentally running through my options. Of which there is only one.

So we race to the closest urgent care for confirmation, race to the pharmacy for drops to banish the pink, race to the Dunkin for life, race back to the pharmacy to return a misplaced card, race to the hotel to get ready, and race on to our day.

We collapse on the ferry, out of breath and missing a hat. We’ve got double pink eye on one end of the bench and a stein too many hangover on the other.

Yet with copious hand washing and a handful of Excedrin migraine, we are ready to take on the day.



One Day

Millions of steps before you tread up and sometimes down those stairs. We had the luxury of admiring the architecture. Did she even get a chance to do so? We saw some of what she went through. We missed her name on the banister outside.

Billions of people have looked up from the ground appearing as tiny specks to those above. We marveled at the size and trekked our way up to the pedestal and marveled at the skyline so changed.

There’s no count to the people who have thought of that day. There’s no way I can describe the feeling of standing in those spots remembering all those images in my mind and looking around knowing that people around me experienced those.

It’s beautifully heartbreaking seeing the pieces that survived, although beaten and broken, alongside all those that were lost to this world on that day.

It’s overwhelming and somber. It shouldn’t be there. It is. It has to be.

People need to see it. Even if they don’t have the words to describe. It’s the internal conversation. The hand that reaches out to grab yours as you take it all in. The overwhelming sense of loss that encompasses you.

It’s seeing New York as a great granddaughter of an immigrant to Ellis Island, as a tourist to The Statue of Liberty, and as a human being at the 9/11 Memorial and Museum.

At Home

When you’re home, you know it. For years and years he’s had the same colors and could pass on quick inspection. Yet the moment we are standing and cheering and are surrounded by sad and sitting fans, we’re outed. Devils’ fans in a Blackhawks’ world.

These last two days he is among his people. Every bar, restaurant, hotel room, and corner pharmacy has a logo within. He can walk proudly, toting every Devil scrap he owns.

We recognize the tribute to arguably the best goalie in history and get choked up taking it in.

We get lost in the fan store getting to touch every possible combo of Devil’s memorabilia you could imagine that we’ve only ever seen online.

We admire the sweeping images gracing The Rock. We marvel at the huge logo in the cement in the square, offset from the towering player statue seemingly carved out of rock.

We meander through an arena filled with new family and friends, even if just for a night.

We sit in our seats and take in the familiar sights and sounds and even colors. But those horns stand out and that camaraderie with fellow fans just can’t be beat.

Devil’s fans in a Devil’s world.

Poemy Monday the Fourth


That Silence

The sound of silence,
in the quietness
of a winter morn.

It wraps you up,
envelopes you in its solace.

The sound of silence,
in the calmness
after everyone is slumbering.

It holds you close,
comforts your heart in safety.

The sound of silence,
in the stillness
of an empty classroom.

It offers decompression,
allows your heart to breathe.

The sound of silence,
in the peace of prayer
wherever you may be.

It offers a settleness,
to the chaos in your heart.

The sounds of silence,
allow your heart
to wash the heavy away.