THE SECRET ADMIRER

by Roy Dorman

Another relationship has ended.
Though he had seen it ending
long before she had,
he had done nothing to try to save it.

Now he was at the florist,
his florist,
choosing some flowers to have sent.

Would the card have the usual message?
Yes, of course,
the usual message:
From Your Secret Admirer.

He’s at home when the flowers arrive.
They are beautiful.
And the card;
the card is so…,
so full of possibilities for the future.

NEVER MAKES ME CRAZY

by Roy Dorman

Death is the nap
from which I’ll never wake up.

I love naps;
it’s the never part scares me.

To learn about something
that occurred before my birth,
I can go to the library or go online.

But to think that I’ll never know
what happens after my death is scary.

All that time; not knowing.
If I think about how long
forever is as it relates to death,
It makes me all crazy.

I hate never.
Maybe forever too.

GETTING OLD IS NOT FOR SISSIES

by Roy Dorman

He had fallen into the bushes
while reaching down
to turn off the outside faucet for the hose.
He now lay there on his back for a bit,
crushing some of his treasured,
just-watered perennials,
not knowing if he should laugh or cry.
He almost certainly would crush
a few more of the ferns and jack-in-the-pulpits
in the process of rolling over to get back up.
The longer he thought about it,
the more he was leaning toward laughter

FOR ASSISTANCE WITH ECOLOGY CONCERNS, PRESS 3

by Roy Dorman

Driving a narrow country road on an overcast winter day,
I pass a large woods
And can see more than half way into it.

Bare trees and equally bare underbrush,
The floor a foot or more of snow;
Nothing much going on in there.

Passing that woods in summer,
I wouldn’t be able to see
More than ten feet from the road into the woods.

I know during the summer
There’s a lot going on in there;
All sorts of flora and fauna activity.

These and similar concerns
I’ve registered complaints about over the years
Continue to go unanswered.

DOWN THE ROAD APIECE

by Roy Dorman

Walking on the side of a dusty road;
Carrying a backpack full of yesterdays.

Hitchhiking:  Thumbing a ride into tomorrow.
Life passes me by.  I smile and wave.

Tomorrow I can put today in the backpack;
It’ll be a yesterday.

There’s a whole mess of ‘em in there
That are all pretty much like today.

Every once in awhile
There’s a different kind of today
That doesn't fit well with the yesterdays
That are already packed away in there.

I can feel the rustling
Of the commotion they cause.