where the writers are
Slices of life

Sunday

The line extends down the block.
They read or stare; earphones play rock.
They wait, in flipflops and tee shirts.
Few have energy to chat; none flirts.

They wait patiently if not with grace,
Unkempt, unbrushed, with sleepy face.
The clock strikes noon. Time for lunch!
But still they wait and wait – for brunch??

Signaling Is For Sissies

A cripple, the modern motorist,
His extremities frozen tight
He cannot even say, "Hist!"
When turning left or right.

His indicator's as broken
As (apparently) his limb;
Of direction gives no token
His intentions are always dim

His mind, it seems, must be read
At any roadway junction
Which can leave those quite dead
Who lack the telepathic function.

Shoddily shod

Every outdoor flip-flopped foot
Must inevitably collect soot.
And since when have filthy feet
Been thought a delightful treat?

Gardening clogs in garish plastic
Induce in wearers a shuffle spastic
Perambulation strangely restricted
That is entirely self-inflicted.

Walking in either may be achievable,
Though running is quite unfeasible.
That's why those who tend to sport 'em
Are thick of trunk and broad of bottom.