GOOD SAMARITAN PIE
The meal prepared from my cognition, the bread and jam of humility, salad of expectation, roast of determination and Good Samaritan pie, wait on the table to be devoured. The courses pass and come dessert my kindly intentions are cut to wedges and pushed from setting to setting. I can, with dollop after dollop, cover the requisite desires of this tart in an attempt to deny my addiction to fixing or I can serve up the plain truth. I help and help and wander down roads looking for lost puppies to return to their homes. I must admit my longing to lend support is sometimes half-baked, and if kept to home and hearth it might serve me better and make a sweeter dish. Assistance is best in proportion to the meal. I must live my life and save my pie till last.
Hold each other’s hands but explore.
Touch Your Toes
Funny how we deal with feet.
I have seen a woman cradle hers
and treat it like the dearest babe.
I know some folks who shun their feet;
can barely stand to think of them,
let alone to touch them.
There are the Mani-Pedi people
who leave it in the hands of others.
I met a guy who soaks them soft
and tucks little bits of cotton
under the corners of his nails.
I know too,
the woman with the snarling crusty dogs
that serve to others as a warning.
My grandma warns me
not complain about my shoes
lest I meet the man who has no feet,
but I doubt I would fit in his.