Leftovers

What if 2% of all poems vanished? How would remaining ones feel? Abandonment? Fearfully beg to be locked in drawers? Expect memorization in case they too disapear?
Would they ruminate about individual versus collective worth? Would there be friction at open mikes, traces of those gone poisoning the air? Would poems go rogue, fragment, toss away their punctuation?
Would poets lose their identity? Demand an international day of mourning? Would essays and monologues feel pressure to pick up the slack?
What about all those obscure words poets use? What is their fate? Would new work be stifled by the knowledge that perhaps 2% of them will vanish?
Let us hope that those missing poems would be in a better place. San Francisco, maybe.

Decisions

If I walk fast at my usual pace, I'll startle her.
If I slow up and drop back, she'll think I'm tailing her.
If I move ahead of her, she might take it as a challenge and speed up, which will force me to match her pace.
If I sit on a bench and let her go far ahead, she'll assume I'm planning something.
If I start to jog, she'll humiliate me because I'm a terrible jogger.
If I just had a dog everything would be so much easier.

If Shoes Could Speak

Wear socks!
Great. You slide me off under the table, then rub her calf & I'm irrelevent.
We're going in circles. Ask for directions.
Stay away from that dog park.
Explain this dangerous attraction to sandals.
These inserts will not get you a date with Kate Upton.
Unstrap me immediately. You are a 300 pound lineman, not a petite woman. Work on your issues.
That's the fourth time you've stepped on her foot doing a simple two step.
I am not your size. Stop forcing the issue.
Could you shine me just once?
Please don't let that be a bunion.
Wearing lumberjack boots does not increase your testosterone.
Do all of us ballet slippers feel this vulnerable?
Are we going to kick another stupid ball for no logical reason?
You're an upgrade over my last owner--an old lady with a brood of nasty kids.
Hate to inform you, but your new boyfriend has been sniffing me when you're out of the room.

Let the Grand Kids Sort it Out

I could just give everything to Goodwill. That would be the easy way out. But I want to leave all to my grand kids. My kids don't talk to me anymore, so screw them.
Some of what I've collected might be termed quirky or inappropriate. You decide.

A collection of Taiwanese hand puppets to ward off evil.
A hand made balsa wood Japanese nose flute.
A book of smutty haiku poems.
Spoons from drought ridden countries.
Clay sculptures of almost extinct flying South American insects.
A documentary tracing how Staten island garbage collectors changed the industry.
Dozens of crumpled napkins with my story ideas.
Women's used bowling shoes, all sizes.
A Maid Marion inflatable doll.
A hand held mirror once owned by Rosie Perez.
A tape of the Flying Wallendas rehearsing.
All my old bed pans.
My porcelain doll collection depicting the Kardashians.

Let the grand kids figure out who gets what. I'd divide up my brain, but most of the frontal lobe was destroyed by the electroshock treatments. 

Things That Should Be Caffeinated

Bulldogs
Budget Reports
Political filibusters
Any Daniel Craig interview
Modern architecture
Ikea furniture
Saturday Night Live skits
Bead & breakfast establishments
Montana
Sulky cab and bus drivers
Customer Service reps
Whining folk singers
String quartets
Clog dancing
The Amazing Kreskin
Senseless napping people
Newspapers
Pop up ads
Morgan Freeman
Baked beans
Snoopy
Upstate NY

Shaking Off the Cobwebs

My name is Mycroft Billings and I am a professional tickler. I dropped out of college--anthropology wasn't for me. I wandered around for months seeking something to define who I was.
For awhile, about ten years ago, I was a free lance cuddler when cuddle parties were big. I discovered I could creatively cuddle for hours, serial cuddle without batting an eye. But then, around 2009 the cuddling industry collapsed and cuddle parties disappeared.
One day I was invited to a secret party downtown. It turned out to be a tickle party. We spent the evening enjoying light refreshments, drinking wine and blatantly tickling each other. Needless to say, much wine was spilled in the process. From people's compliments afterwards, I gathered I was more skilled than most, so I became a free lance tickler. I instinctively knew where to attack, how long to remain before moving on to another body part, and most important, how to avoid being tickled myself. I was in complete control.
But there was no security or good health coverage in this career, so around 2012 I became an insurance salesman. Boring.
I craved the old excitement and when former clients contacted me pleading for a session, I was weak and agreed. But the cobwebs were there. I soon found my timing and touch were off. I was grabbing the wrong body parts. My fingers had gotten lazy and stiff. No dexterity in a tickler is a career killer.
I was met with disdain and got no call backs. They had found younger, Euro-trash ticklers fresh off the boat. I was a has-been.
For too long I drifted from city to city with no purpose, no home, no family or friends.
One day a man started choking at an outdoor cafe. I rushed over and gave him the Heimlich Maneuver and out popped a cherry pit. It wound up on You Tube.
I was onto something. The only way to master this skill was to walk up behind strangers and employ the Heimlich, which is what I've been doing. I just may save someone's life, and in the process, give meaning to my own.

Wither Debonair?

Old movies equal debonair. George Sanders, Rex Harrison, Cary Grant. They knew how to hold a drink or cigarette, how to lean into a woman and speak in a sensual, mellifluous manner. Breeding, manners, charm, class. They could toss out a witticism so casually it seems easy. They could really fill a tux.
Can you imagine Mark Walberg opening a door for a woman, sliding her chair in, gracefully leading her across a dance floor? Channing Tatum coming up with a witty remark? Let's not mention Stephen Segal. The concept has dried up and we men have to take responsibility.
I resolve to stand the next time a woman enters a room, provide her with a clean hanky if her nose is running, and listen to every word she says, nodding at just the right moment.
Don't ask me to guide her across the dance floor. Debonair and coordination are two separate realms.