Old-Age
He looks in the mirror.
His eyes have seen many years clearer than now.
Teeth are fake, hearing amplified, taste gone, heart is pounding.
The flag, his banner and beacon, hangs in the corner of his room. His brother died defending Flag sixty years past.
He reads his Bible, listens to the news.
He cares, he hopes.
Tomorrow is not here,
And he may yet see it.
The Widowed Mother
She cooks the turkey, dressing, gravy,
Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, butter, bread sit idly awaiting.
Her kitchen shows signs of her labor, that is, her love.
She changes her apron, fixes her hair, sets the table, adjusts the photo of her husband.
She pauses.
They will come. A mere minute passes, and her aged mouth forms the smile of
Hope fulfilled.
A car door slams, children giggle, her doorbell rings.
Retirement
He shakes hands with his friends.
Forty years have come and gone too quickly. Yet, he is not sixty.
Someone gives him a note.
He places it in the outside pocket of the blazer he rarely wears.
His boss whispers a few words to him.
A secretary gives him a hug.
His wife takes his hand as they leave the factory.
She feels secure. He has made her secure.
The First Lady
She waits up late into the night.
Down the hallway, her husband is working.
She reads her book, looks at the clock.
It is past midnight.
Her husband dwells in a room, in a house, in a capital, and ponders the mysteries of the nation.
She rests her head, closes her eyes, and seems to dream of easier days.
She is proud, confident, supportive.
He can sleep for she can sleep.
A Pastor
He wakes early. It is Sunday morning.
Coffee is made, the doughnut nibbled, he leaves early to go to work.
He gathers notes and greets the fellow workers.
They are happy to see each other.
All are present as he firmly stands.
He shares-
His thoughts, his hopes, his loves, his verse, his Book, his creed, his faith.
He leads his flock. His God leads him.
Empty Nest
She said goodbye to the child and now stands in the empty room.
The investment made, the energy given, the time not wasted,
She seems to breathe easier.
Yet, her face is not calm,
Her eyes are moist.
She looks at the pictures of the child glued on the finger-painted stars.
She sees the smile, the youth, the play.
Her investment renews in May.
Fallen Defender
He clings to his coat. It warms, it protects, it serves.
He has no fear but courage.
His friend has no fear of courage.
They suffer and listen. Whispers and whimpers are all the while.
Listening is more now than confessing.
He grieves, his friend fades. He is silent. His friend is too. Tears. Peace.
Backup comes.
His coat becomes a shroud. He fingers our badge, our debt.
Honesty
She locks the door and counts. 1, 2, 3.
There is more to life. She will have more later. 4, 5, 6.
Her role cannot be undermined. She is paid enough. 7, 8, 9.
She would like more. She dare not steal. 10, 11, 12.
Honesty is her virtue, her foundation. Her son needs shoes. 13, 14, 15.
No one sees – 2,000 temptations.
She cannot betray trust. 16, 17, 18.
Father and Christmas Day
He knows Christmas. He is a master.
The peeling house needs attention.
He knows his children. He is a father.
The bucket is dry.
He knows his wife. He is man.
The list is in his pocket. He knows his limits.
The bucket is still dry. He knows. He fetches another bucket.
The bucket empties with each stroke of the green-tipped brush.
He works. He plans. His treasure is his house of gold. He is loved as he loves.
Working Mother
She exhales all too long. She inhales shortly. Repeats.
Her eyes focus on the portrait of her son.
Maybe he is 7 and tall for his age, or he is 10 and short for his age.
She types her script to the morbid void.
A reminder flashes: call mom.
Friends say she’s the salt of the earth, the backbone of society.
Success comes.
She’s thankful for real blessings in a bloated world.
Generous and a CEO
He gains millions. He buys, sells, profits.
His company invests with 0s and 1s and receives 9s.
Respect, trust, admiration, these he has no lack.
They watch him, they study him, they idolize him.
He is giving, generous, gigantic.
Lunch, hand-shaking, parties, none are rare.
There is no other as him in their eyes.
Their token of gratitude giving to his gains – smiles.
Working Mom Working College
She writes vigorously.
Whether an order pad or a notebook, always vigorously.
She lives black. Coffee, ink, car, husband.
Her patrons tick-tock their way to gluttony.
Her callouses strain to stay ahead.
8 hours waitress, 8 hours knowledge, 2 hours family, 2 hours driving, 4 hours sleeping.
She’s three in a mob.
Her shoes are old. Her spirit is not.
A Foreign Student
He licks his pencil.
His gaze goes out of the room.
There is more than the guru, whiteboard, PC. Even they are of not of this country.
Surely, earth is larger than 40 by 40. Surely, joy is thriving on other continents.
Joy.
He tattoos this word to his hand. His gaze returns to the guru.
Joy comes after enduring this sentence?
It will expire! Hope and joy – choices.
Her Soldier
She lies awake in bed. The night is deep.
The news stunned her.
He is not returning. She is alone.
She knows his choice, his sacrifice, his valor.
She feels for the ring of gold, a promise.
Her parents weep below, his parents weep outside, she cannot.
She feels the ring of gold. She lets her eyes watch the light beside the shadows.
She graduates tomorrow. She will go.
Schoolboy Poverty
He recites the tables.
One may see his clean, faded shirt and his purple peering eyes.
The teacher instructs him to read the sentence.
Others see his brown old bag and worthless, shoddy shoes.
The bell rings and the teacher gives the slip for his lunch.
I will simply say that his father is so poor and
His mother is so wise.
See there he is, and still we dare to stare . . .
The Foster Girl
She sings, she laughs, she hides, she seeks.
Her mind is full of colors and ribbons and ponies and purses and …
She makes do.
Her world is full of next-days and next-weeks and nevers and no-words and …
She wiggles and wonders.
Her house is full of new-kids and nice-kids and teen-things and no-kids and …
She waits and waits and waits for whomever.
She’s 3.
An Infant of Immigrants
He lies, cries, whines, dines.
Pay, pay, pay.
Day after day, week after week.
Snap, snap, snap, and tap, tap, tap.
The interior is a shrine to him.
He will one day know your love of
Baba’s eyes, mama’s chin,
Daddy’s nose, mommy’s smile,
Brother’s smirk, his brown skin.
An infant of immigrants, to this soil now bonded.
Delight, voice, cradling – his bonds.
Giving Birth
She pants, strains, pleads, screams; rants, faints, reels, feels.
To lose the child to lose her breath. This is number 4.
No foresight needed, hindsight heeded.
Pleasure given, pleasure taken, a child is both.
Emotion, empowering emotion.
This is the zenith of all emotions.
She is blessed to have 3 and now 1 more. To them is pleasure given.
His name will be his, his alone.
Two Become One
He and she tie, deed, solder, weld
Their hearts, blood, spirits, minds.
Untainted they are, purified in fire, reinforced by heat, tempered steel.
Unbreakable. Unbreakable for a taste of time.
Together embracing, cleaving for the second time, the second day, the second hour.
We, who have been where they are, agree:
One plus one is One.
Love in its Entirety – he and she.
Jared Travis 