In search of story


Connections: August 8.17

 My grandma’s tub had feet

and Olympic-pool-sized feeling

her toilet had a chain

that hung down from the ceiling.

More, the bathroom window

was tall and opened wide

so fresh air and scent of train

could cleanse the room inside.

Now I have this footless


someone mean invented

to taunt and bully me.

It can’t be cleaned without

risking tendinitis

when I fold to fit its contours

it gives me rigor mortis.

It’s called a garden tub

a pity and a shame

someone ought to sue

for slandering garden’s name.

The window can’t be opened

the toilet’s in a box

so I reach way back in memory

where my grandma’s bathroom rocks.








Connections: July 8.17

If you’re getting too complacent

and your life is too benign

just dig a little hole

and plant a For Sale sign.

No words speak of chaos

with greater eloquence

or open greater floodgates

of diverse bamboozlements

than these two simple syllables

 which open up our closets

to strangers’ cold inspections

and our own uncertain posits.








Connections: July 4.17

The Fourth wears boom and sparkle

like giant bright birthstone

and gardeners join right in

with fireworks of their own.




With my wishes for a valued Independence Day, dear reader.

And with more thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives

and to the gardeners herein who offer this beauty to us.