Yet another weekend ev’n is past;/
The week soon starts again, too fast,/
Yet we sit, still, at our keyboard,/
and wonder why we are alone, tired, bored./
Or are we truly resolute and complete?/
Do we view/
our solitude/
as victory, not defeat?/
We may nurse our whine/
with wine;/
assuage our aged fear
with beer./
But if we, with our own company, are endeared,/
then why sit we, fingers dancing, quasi-romancing, here?

I met a brain surgeon./
We had a great time!/
She’d never seen, for certain,/
a frontal lobe like mine!/
In perfect condition!/
She was stunned and amused./
She thought: “Something’s missing!”/
‘Til she discovered: It was unused!

On your birthday memories
flood back to me.
I struggle to say
words that won’t mar your day.

The things my mind sees:
Birthday dirges, roses,
Flat Stanley;
Breakfast “MOM!” poses.

A card and bag of cookies
seem small gifts of appreciation
to the great gifts you gave me:
Two daughters, three sons.

As those thoughts flood my memory,
I can only add this: I’m sorry.