Sushi Bar

In bridal white 
plus gold slippers,
she struts, 
takes high steps,
joins her friends for 
brunch in the brook.

Each snowy egret 
does a leg wiggle
to stir the stream. 
Sophisticated,
sushi déclassé, 
they seek sashimi.

(Published in Echoes)

In Line

As teen-aged seniors
we cheer our Pirates
until skull and crossbones fly.

Fifty years flash by.
Now we are the grown-ups 
we once laughed at

and need old yearbooks
to know who's who 
and ask, What’s new?

We remember those who died:
Stevie wrote our Buccaneer song, 
Larry promised the girls his love,  
Joan teased the new kids, 
Sandy wore cashmere every day,
and Pete captained our Pirates team.
We queue up behind them now, 
walking the plank,

but
we 
don’t
know
our
place
in
line.

(Published in Orbis)

by Jeanie Greensfelder Psychologist, poet, Hospice of SLO volunteer . . .

First Love

My first boyfriend was my second choice:
Beth got Terry Bachman so I got Billy Cook
whose jaw hung, his tongue showing.

I looked down on Billy: girls were taller
in seventh grade. I wore his ID bracelet
and a motorcycle cap with his initials.

When we hugged, he smelled like Ivory soap,
his cheek smooth and soft— a Norman Rockwell boy.
Walking me home from school he carried my books,

and looked forward to a kiss at my door.
I knew he was trustworthy and true,
reliably mine, but Billy didn’t know me:

hungry to have what I didn’t have,
desperate to escape childhood,
fated for freedom and heartbreak.

I had met a tall guy who drove a Ford;
his cheeks were sandpaper rough
and he French kissed.

And on this day on my front porch,
when Billy handed me my books,
I handed him his ID bracelet

and watched his face redden, his eyes tear,
hurt bursting his seams. We both cried,
soap-opera style, and Billy ran home.

In my room, I draped myself over my bed,
like an actress far away from home,
pained, and in love with drama.

(Published in Porter Gulch Review)