In Which I Am Doubly Powerless

South Africa's a strange place for to seek
Some comforting distraction from my cares,
But coasting toward the end of this crazed week,
That's where my thoughts have rested, and my stares
Have fixed upon. Today, Toronto boasts
A protest crowd of thousands, which contains
My Laroquod among the marching hosts.
He's safe, I know, but craziness there reigns.
So football's been my balm, despite our loss
To Ghana, whose Blackstars I like to cheer
When they're not playing us, at least. The gloss
Of this great tournament's not faded, clear?
But now I cannot help but spend the day
A-willing all the bad march stuff away.

Who Are They?

My sister has no children; nor have I.
So where did these twin blonde-haired boys come from
That in my dream did greet me with a cry
And hug my legs until those limbs went numb?
Concerned they were with some fam'ly disease
Of which I'd never heard, and can't name now.
"Oh Auntie Kate," they cried, "Oh, tell us please,
Is this thing going to kill us? When, and how?"
I held them close but simply couldn't tell
What had them so disturbed. The anguish stays.
I still can feel their skinny forms so well
And feel their tears on my face. In such ways
A tired mind pulls something from the soul
Into the waking world. I've no control.

In Which Sister Kris Gets A Shivery Send-Off

A dirty, chilly night howls on outside,

And into it we had to go to send

My sister on her way back home. The ride

Was merely blocks, but then we'd spend

Some time with her ere her flight was to leave

On board a puddle jumper flight. So far

So good but ice and show and wind this eve

Meant ev'rything was late and cold. A bar

At Cheyenne's airport was our roost

As we did watch and wonder if she'd go --

Deicing's never easy, and night loosed

E'en nastier conditions, blowing snow

And cold, bone-chilling. Shivering we watched

And worried. Thank Bog not a thing was botched.

In Which I Fret Just A Little

My parents are enroute now to Cheyenne
From Saratoga, while my sister, Kris,
Is coming from New Mexico; the plan
Is that they will converge, if naught's amiss,
At my house, like the Simpson family
At credits' end. Meanwhile they're all in cars,
And I try not to worry. It will be
Just fine, I tell myself. I'll thank my stars
Quite soon that they all made it, hug them, and
Dish up some Bambi chili for their meal.
It's weird how ev'ry year, whate'er we've planned
This is the situation and I feel
The psychic strain of keeping on the road
Carloads of far-off loved ones, then explode.

Is This Really Happening? To Me?

At what point may I start to say "it's mine,"
About this house I put my offer on?
It's been accepted, that part went just fine.
Does that mean the conclusion is foregone?
The underwriter still could turn me down;
The plumber or electrician could say
No way is this OK, not in this town.
But, for that matter, it could blow away
Should a freak cyclone rip on through that street.
The cyclone is more likely, my pros say
(My Realtor and mortgage lady sweet).
They told me to switch over my accounts
And have a moving crew ready to pounce.