I Still Want to Kiss You

by Wayne Scheer

You know how in the movies
lovers wake up after a night
we can only imagine,
not a hair out of place,
entangled in each other's arms,
and the first thing they do
is smile at one anther and kiss?

Well, how come his arm isn't sore
from her laying on it all night,
and forget the morning breath kiss
and the perfect hair,
don't they have to pee so bad
they feel they're about to burst open
like a pinata?

No snore escapes her lips,
no drool from his.
I squint to see you in the morning light,
hair disheveled,
mouth scrunched on your pillow,
looking like a cabbage patch doll.

And despite it all,
I want to kiss you.

Of course I don't
because you wouldn't wake with a smile
and my bladder
takes precedence over passion,
my teeth need brushing
and I want coffee so bad
I swear the Keurig is calling my name.

But I still want to kiss you.

Time to Go

by Wayne Scheer

Like a performer
whose act runs long,
Mr. Winter needs to be given
the old-fashioned hook.

There was a time,
back when Ms. Summer
sizzled, when too much of a good thing
seemed too much,
and I looked forward
to a cooler performance.

But Mr. Winter has gone
from cool to cold. We've seen
enough of his act;
it's time to give the child Spring
her chance to shine.

So if anyone is really in charge here,
I pray of you:
cue the music, drop the curtain;
it's time for a scenery change.

Oak Leaves

by Wayne Scheer

I try to decide
if the leaves
on my front lawn
look like a quilt
carefully arranged
by Mother Nature
or colors dappled
haphazardly
by a drunken
Jackson Pollock.

Either way
it's beautiful,
and I vow
not to disturb
it with my rake.

One More Journey

by Wayne Scheer

In the weeks before his death,
having refused another round of chemotherapy,
he'd wake early, dress and pack his bags.

When his wife asked where her was going,
he'd stare, confused.
Once he answered, “Albuquerque.”

At My Age, Mickey Mantle Was Dead

by Wayne Scheer

A 68 year-old
isn't meant to keep up
with a 12 year-old.
I know that
and usually I'm smart enough
not to try.
But yesterday,
after my grandson
listened attentively
to a Shakespeare presentation
and came away with an understanding,
if not an appreciation,
I took him to a park
to work off his excess energy.

We sneaked onto an empty baseball field
used by a local college
and I encouraged him to run the bases,
not having a ball, bat or glove handy.

I timed him, and then he said,
“Your turn, Grandpa.”

I should have known better,
made an excuse,
“Bad heart, you know,”
but the adolescent in me wanted to do it.

So I took off from home,
not like the proverbial bat out of hell
and certainly not like I had a jet pack attached to my ass,
more like an old man jogging across the street,
a challenge to make it to the other side.
The first thing I realized was
although the old legs moved,
one in front of the other,
there was no spring to the step.
By the time I rounded first,
I was huffing;
the puffing came when I reached second.
From then on, it was a battle not to give up
as my grandson counted time.

I rounded third
and thought about a final burst of speed;
I thought about it,
but thought was all I could muster
as I puttered home,
my grandson laughing so hard
he lost count. Thankfully.

At least I didn't fall on my face
and as out of breath as I was,
the old ticker returned to normal soon enough.

“Now let's see how many chin-ups
you can do, Grandpa.”
I managed three,
and got a high five from
a muscular teen
who had just completed his second set
of twenty five.

I'd Caress Your Soul

by Wayne Scheer

I'd caress your soul if I could,
massage your brain,
kiss your heart,

but I have to settle for surfaces
and your breasts, thighs,
belly and ass

do just fine.

Civilizing Billy

by Wayne Scheer

As a small child, Billy was a terror.

Even before he could walk, if his parents tried keeping him in a playpen, he’d rage against his confinement as if some primordial urge demanded his freedom.

But Billy wasn’t a bad child. As long as he wasn’t restrained, he seemed happy and well adjusted.

That is, until he started school.

Billy’s kindergarten teacher believed her order was more important than his.

Billy’s parents counseled him to the ways of the world.

“The more you do as you’re told,” they taught their son. “The more freedom you’re given.”

Billy learned well.

He obeyed his teachers and they allowed him certain latitude. He did what his employers expected and they left him alone.

Billy grew to be William H. Lowery and earned a great deal of money, thus affording him his freedom.

Approaching retirement, William wondered what to do with his freedom.

Every Wednesday

by Wayne Scheer

Wednesday is garbage day
in my neighborhood,
a magical day
when the detritus of the week
disappears into yawning,
growling trucks
operated by sleight-of-hand masters
capable of banishing kitchen trash
with a flick of a switch.

We take these urban heroes for granted,
yet every Wednesday,
no matter the weather,
they clear away the loose ends of our lives
in ways clinical psychologists
can only envy.

Their methods may seem harsh,
perhaps a bit gross,
but they sweep through my street
heavy with waste,
burdened by the weeks memories
and allow us to start anew.

You can have your Houdinis, your Copperfields and such,
take your Freuds, your Jungs, rabbis and priests;
give me the men and women of garbage pick-up
who do the work we despise
every Wednesday
making clean our lives.

Skipping Stones

by Wayne Scheer

I showed my grandson
how to skip stones today,
three, four, five
hops along the pond.

I explained how he needs
to sidearm a smooth stone,
holding his arm parallel
to the water's surface.

Just two or three skips,
and he shouted, "Yes!"
Four or more and he cheered,
like I was Superman.

He's ten, and easily impressed.
I remember when his father
stood amazed at my prowess,
and I at my father's.

It won't last much longer,
this adulation.
He's already mastered
the two-skip,

Once he skips four
I'll lose my super cape
And he'll nod politely
At my limited skills.

A Once-in-a-Lifetime Deal

by Wayne Scheer

So this magic fairy
Says to me
Because I've been good--
My cholesterol is 136
I don't cheat on my wife
And I recycle--
He's been authorized
To make me
A once-in-a-lifetime
Deal.
You're sixty-five,
He reminds me.
According to 
The Natural order of things
You're going to get older,
Infirm and die.
That's your future.
But if he
Sprinkles me with his
Genuine, state-of-the-art
Fairy dust,
He promises
I'll get younger
And healthier
Until I end up
A teenager again.

I remember myself
At sixteen
Arms dangling
Voice changing
Hormones raging
And in less time
Than it would take me
To choose between
A NY pizza
And a poke in the eye
I tell him
I prefer  
The natural order of things.

The Complexity of Love

by Wayne Scheer

I had been in a deep sleep when I opened my eyes and saw Emily standing over me, smiling.

"Surprise," she said, dropping her clothes to the floor and scrambling under the covers.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, trying not to sound ungrateful.

"I couldn't sleep. Then I remembered I still had your key."

"I'm glad you're here." I kissed her and felt her mouth open to meet mine.

She pushed me away. "That smell. You've been with--"

I didn't deny it.

She sat up. The sheet slid down, exposing two perfect breasts. "I shouldn't have come here, Todd. I thought you were over her."

"I am. It's just that--" I wasn't sure how to finish the sentence or if I wanted to. She finished it for me.

"It's just that you needed to see her one more time. Just like the time before. And the time before that." She tried sounding strong, but her voice cracked.

"You left me. Remember? You said it was over between us." I tried taking her in my arms but she pulled away, covering herself with the sheet.

"Do you still love her?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" She shouted and cried at the same time.

"Abby and I have so much history together. I mean we were married."

"And you were divorced."

"Yes."

"When was she here?"

"She left a few hours ago."

"And did you have sex?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause.

"I feel like such a fool."

"Listen to me," I said. "You're the one I care about now, but I can't ignore what Abby and I had. She called me around eight and asked if she could come over. She had a bad day at work and needed to talk. She was lonely." I took Emily's hand. "I was lonely, too."

She pulled her hand away. "Don't you think I miss you? But I don't share."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"When will you be over her? When will she be over you?"

"I don't know."

We both lay very still.

"I love you," I finally said.

"I love you, too." She rolled out of bed. I watched her put on her clothes as quickly as she had taken them off.

Haunted By Jack Kerouac's Ghost

by Wayne Scheer

Harlan hungered for the night, starved for the flashing of evening stars popping like paparazzi bulbs spotlighting the path to holy Vegas where glamour and greed blaze a trail to the American Dream.

Harlan hankered for the night, after the streetlights zapped on and the safe suburban homes dim to only the ashen flicker of TVs and the sad gray gloom of computer screens, where guilt-ridden souls hide in work stations by day and play stations by night dreaming of dancing like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire on the tables and walls of America.

Harlan howled into the night, searching for a pretty girl who'd sing sweet songs of love to a stranger, dance to the hip hop of her heart and Velcro green florescent strips to her bare ass and roller blade nude down the Great American Road into the starry evening sky.