Today's thoughts

Category: POEMS (Page 1 of 29)

Rhymes of all kinds

Retirement is not without Hassles: Heart Felt #2478

Here is this year’s Valentine tribute to my wife, who has been so very supportive and loving this past month following my open-heart surgery. She stayed with me at the hospital, sleeping several nights in a chair and has been at my side throughout this ordeal. As is the tradition, I bought her a Limoges Box that unfortunately arrived broken. It’s a London Phone Booth, where we spent our last vacation. I tried to repair it but ended up just adding a Band-Aid strip. I’ll eventually buy her another one to replace it, but I think it’s fittingly appropriate with my broken self still on the mend. 

Heart Felt

I’m on the mend,

The phone booth not.

My Valentine’s gift,

Is broken and shot.


It was a reminder,

Of better days.

Our London stop,

And Marriott stay.


No problems there,

Unlike your last.

As I continue,

To recover fast.


Fewer pills,

Goodbye Sky Walker.

My numerous scars,

Still quite the shocker.


I can’t drive,

Even Fifty-five.

In fact, I’m lucky,

To be alive.


The best I can do,

Is a longer walk.

Though breathing hard,

There’s time to talk.


For your loving care,

It can’t be ignored.

You should win,

A Daisy award. 


Unlike Humpty Dumpty,

I’m back together.

A leaky valve,

My storm to weather.


I’ve been patched,

A brand new start.

This Valentines Day,

A stronger heart.


Thanks for being,

My special Valentine,

Lucky for me,

That you are mine.


My love for you,

Will get me through.

Heart felt gratitude,

For all you do.


Broken things,

Can be replaced.

And mars and cracks,

Can be erased.


Just add a Band-Aid,

And all is well.

What once was broken,

Can hardly tell.

Copyright 2024



Retirement is not without Hassles: These Moments We Share #2458

It’s Christmas 2023, while fifteen years earlier (December 29, 2008) I was contemplating the start of a running streak that was originally planned for New Year’s Day. We flew into Indy from Austin, drove on icy roads to Elkhart to see my folks and had Christmas dinner at my wife’s sister’s home at Geist. We then traveled to Decatur to check on our unsold house and went to Bloomington to watch I.U. basketball lose in embarrassing fashion to unheralded Lipscomb. These were the days when Christmas was an absolute hassle, trying to spread our time between friends and family in three different states and four or five different cities. The bigger nightmare, however, was finding the Decatur home flooded from a broken pipe. I think I started my running streak a few days early to help deal with the stress of all this. I haven’t missed a Christmas morning jog since, still running away from my problems. 

This year’s Christmas was easy. Brunch at a neighbor’s and dinner with family at home. It rained during my morning run, but it was my son who was rushing with the kids from place to place instead of me. It’s, in fact, the very first time that my son, his wife, and the grandkids have been with me in our home on Christmas Day – a monumental occasion! I’ll get to see the look on my five-year-old granddaughter’s face when she beholds the Barbie Dreamhouse that I assembled in our garage. 

Earlier today, my wife opened her traditional Limoges box gift, a memory from our visit to King Tut’s tomb. I enclosed the following poem: 

These Moments We Share

We’ve seen the world,

And Buddha’s butt.

And visited the tomb,

Of pharaoh King Tut.


Our first might have been,

The Twin Towers on high.

The lights of Times Square,

And fireworks in the sky.


We’ve cruised the Nile,

Stayed in an overwater hut.

And at luxury resorts,

Shaded by the coconut.


We’ve heard prayers in mosques,

Synagogues and Churches.

And stood atop,

Some precarious perches.


Rocamadour comes to mind,

Or a rollercoaster ride.

I’m always much braver.

With you at my side.


Even at sunset,

It’s always proven true.

There is no better view,

Then looking at you.


We’ve been to the Pyramids,

Admired the Sphinx.

Stood in Monet’s Garden.

And by the statue that Thinks.


The Beatles and Big Ben,

Bourbon Street pubs.

Michelin Stars,

Vacation Clubs. 


Nantucket to Napa,

Hood to Coast.

Key West to Mackinaw,

All Bucket stops we boast.


Coronado Island,

Caribbean getaways.

Hall of Fame museums,

San Francisco Bay.


Traveled on cruise ships,

Flown in First Class.

Marveled at Glaciers.

And Chihuly glass.


Normandy’s white crosses,

Or atop the Eiffel Tower.

A slow Positano ferry ride,

To fast Hydroplane power.


Castles and Temples,

Too many to mention.

Or Palace Guards,

Standing at attention.


A Maui Luau,

Huatulco waves.

Mountains and Oceans,

Crypts and Caves.


From Route 66,

To the Champs-Elysées.

I sometimes take the wheel,

But you always point the way.


Amsterdam and Rome,

Santorini blue domes.

Overall, in five states,

We’ve owned homes. 


Petra and the Dead Sea,

Night Life on the Strip.

Our Bellagio Wedding,

It’s been quite a trip!


Planes, Trains, and Auto,

Ubers, Taxis, and bikes.

Despite my reluctance,

Even cliff-nics and hikes. 


Stonehenge seemed tiny,

After all that we’ve done.

And soon we’ll be basking,

In the Mallorca sun.


But the best place of all, 

Is in your arms.

Beholding your beauty,

Admiring your charms.


All would be meaningless,

If you weren’t there.

To hold me hand,

In these moments we share.


Christmas 2023

Copyright 2023


Sorry about all the formatting issues. 



Retirement is not without Hassles: Mikey’s Been There #2449

Years ago, I wrote a poem called “Bathroom Beast,” poking fun at my messy tendencies around the house. My tidy wife usually found a few things out of place whenever I left a room. (See Post #453). It was intended to be a children’s book, but I could not find an illustrator to do justice around the Pigwhalea character. Well, things haven’t changed, and I’ve since written a sequel called “Mikey’s Been There,” once again inspired by my wife, that I will introduce below, once I refresh your memory on the former silly classic:

Bathroom Beast 

Pigs are messy,
Smelly and crude.
Happy in slop,
Rooting for food.

Whales are slimy,
Giant and wet.
Splish, Splash,
Have you got a net?

Pigs live in sties,
Whales in the sea.
Where did they meet?
How could this be?

Somehow it happened,
That two became one.
This mythical creature,
Weighs more than a ton.

Is it a whale?
With a pig’s snout.
It lives in our bathroom,
And I want it out.

It’s there every morning,
Don’t know where it hides?
Perhaps in the drain,
It boldly resides.

Snout or Spout?
Pink or Blue?
I’ve never seen it.
Have you?

Moby Swine?
Works just fine.

Water on the floor,
A ring around the sink.
Towels everywhere,
Don’t know what to think.

Clogged drain,
Counter all wet.
Help me get rid,
Of this unwelcome pet.

Puddles all around,
Not a dry spot in sight.
Little rubber ducky,
Are you all right?

Cap off the toothpaste,
Bottles askew.
Pigwhalea was here,
There’s clue after clue.

I’m very neat,
Each thing has its place.
I look in the mirror,
And see your face.

Brush out of place,
Cosmetics askew.
You’ve done all this,
Pigwhalea is Y-O-U.

Copyright 2010


Mikey’s Been There 


You can always tell, 

That Mikey’s been there.

Enter any room, 

Only if you dare. 


A cookie crumb trail, 

Mess and clutter. 

And those around Mikey, 

Can only shudder. 


There’s a Warning sign, 

On the bedroom door.

Clothes scattered, 

All over the floor. 


Don’t trip over, 

The broken toys. 

It’s sadly true. 

Boys will be boys.


Cabinet not shut. 

Toothpaste in the sink, 

Something out of place. 

What do you think? 


In the Living Room, 

What’s that in the chair? 

If Mikey’s been there, 

It might be underwear. 


The refrigerator’s open, 

And a puddle down below. 

Then Mikey’s been there, 

You just know. 


Dirt on the carpet, 

Fingerprints everywhere. 

It’s very clear, 

Mikey doesn’t care. 


Mikey doesn’t listen, 

Mikey won’t learn. 

He won’t get an allowance, 

Respect he has to earn. 


Do you have a Mikey,

At your house, too?

Look in the mirror, 

It just might be you.


Copyright 2023




Retirement is not without Hassles: Oakland Recap #2448

I provide these details so you can understand the poem that follows, a tradition on my family travels. 

We arrived late Wednesday in Oakland after a minimal fog-related delay on our Delta flight. Following a good night’s sleep, we lunched at the Hog Island Oyster Company, took the ferry to Alcatraz, walked by Fisherman’s Wharf, rode the trolly up to Chinatown, and squeezed into a packed BART back Oakland, stopping by Arthur Mac’s on the way home for pizza to go.

Friday was equally busy, beginning with brunch and a wine tasting in Sonoma at Jacuzzi and then more wine sampling at Gundlach Bundschu. Dinner was at the house. Oh, and my body staged a gaseous revolt against the generic Whole Foods cola that they served me instead of my regular Diet Coke morning caffeine boost. 

On Saturday morning, I met some college buddies at The Oakland Athletic Club and watched IU get humiliated by Auburn. Butler beat Cal in overtime on another overhead monitor as the Hoosier game tipped off. We then did some shopping in downtown Oakland and at a local Holiday Mart, had dinner at Jo’s Modern Thai, and watched the Pacers lose to the Lakers in the NBA’s inaugural In-Season Championship, followed by the movie, “Last Christmas.”

Sunday morning we enjoyed a Dim Sum brunch looking out over the Bay from the Hong Kong East Ocean Seafood restaurant. My son-in-law, Ben Lumm, then stood in line for two hours but failed to get a limited-edition BART Holiday Sweater. His wife, my wife’s daughter, was between 3-day shifts as a cardio PA. She had urged me to come to her Stanford employer for my upcoming heart surgery. The evening concluded with a bottle of Jacuzzi Montepulciano wine and games of Euchre and Code Names.

The girls went to Sausalito on Monday morning while Ben worked and I finished the book Unnatural Exposure by Patricia Cornwell. With my alarm set for a 2a run, we ate in and played more Euchre. Our first flight to Salt Lake took off on time at 6a, finally arriving home at 1:00a.


Three flights there,

And three more back.

With barely enough time,

To do laundry and re-pack.


Time went by fast,

After gaining three hours.

Alcatraz Solitary,

Avoiding rain showers.


Pigged out at Hog Island,

Plus, Thai and Dim Sum.

Oakland hospitality,

From Ro and Ben Lumm.


Sonoma Wine Tasting,

And boy did it flow.

Met at AC with college buds,

But The Hoosiers didn’t show.


Rode the cable rails,

Up to Chinatown.

Stopped by Gumps,

And took BART down.


‘Last Christmas’ Movie,

Montepulciano and Port.

Binx was a hit,

But The Pacers fell short.


In line but no sweater,

After Holiday Mart.

Whole Foods Cola,

Makes me fart.


Maintained my streak,

Before morning light.

Working off more pizza,

From Thursday night.


Niners a winner,

Butler prevails.

Paint to dispose of,

The dishwasher fails.


Baking some brie,

New wreath on the door.

Mother and daughter,

Both I adore.


A poem about Mikey,

A night of games.

A family battle,

Of Euchre and Code Names.


Girls to Sausalito,

While I recap our stay.

Plane snacks and layovers,

As we fly home all day.


Our PA tried hard,

But not ‘leaving my heart.’

I’ll bring it back though,

For a fresh new start.

Copyright 2023 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Same Old Fart #2443

I had another Hallmark moment, as I begin to write my own get-well cards. I will have to file it in the “Of Questionable Bad Taste” in my notebook. This one just took a few minutes to write after sitting in a file for many years. It simply needed a little inspiration, as I begin to plan for surgery. 

Same Old Fart

“Get off my lawn,”

Just playing the part.

After passing seventy,

I’m now an old fart.


Don’t need a new hip,

Or even two knees.

But need a new heart,

Despite no disease.


I’ve skipped the small stuff,

Gone right to the top.

Jumped right into surgery,

Without even a hop.


They’ll make me bionic,

With some pig parts.

I’ll be like those heartless,

Grumpy Old Farts.


Then, they’ll work on my eyes,

To help me better see.

And tweak my prostrate,

So I can freely pee.


With all these changes,

I’ll still be me.

But a whole lot poorer,

After doctor fees. 


They will poke and prod,

Make me pee in a cup.

Cut and paste,

Then stitch me up.


I’ll have to stop running,

Lifting heavy things.

Maybe the painkillers,

Will give me wings?


Recovery will be brutal,

As I show off my scars.

But better than the alternative,

So thanking my lucky stars.


Will this make me,

An even older fart?

Or will it give me,

A fresh youthful start?


Copyright 2023

Retirement is not without Hassles: Free Bird #2442

I was asked to adapt this Lynyrd Skynyrd song in honor of our free Thanksgiving turkey. My apologies to the original artists!

Free Bird

When we leave here this evening, 

We will hunger no more. 

Because Sandy got us a free bird,

From BJ’s discount store. 


Holly found the coupon, 

And you drove for miles.

Loaded up the free bird,

After fighting grocery aisles.


And with no place to store it,

Holly saved Thanksgiving Day.

By getting you a second frig,

Too much sh*t was in the way. 


Now you’ve got the space,

For more free birds next year.

And Karen will have more room,

To store some extra beer. 


As we admire your new lamp,  

And artwork on the wall.

We’ll finish off the free bird,

That wasn’t really free at all. 


Then, we’ll have more pie, 

And maybe one more drink. 

And leave all your dishes,

Piled in the sink. 


But the bird you can now freeze,

After we devour the rest.

And we want to thank you, 

For making us your guest. 


It was free for all of us,

Without the restaurant check. 

A tryptophan nap will follow, 

At the cost of free bird’s neck. 


Without an Alka Seltzer,

This fullness I can’t tame.  

But, please, don’t take it badly,

‘Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.


But, if I stay here longer, girl,

I know I will drink more. 

‘Cause, I’ll be as free as that bird,

If I have one more pour. 


Lord help me, I can’t change,

Pass the green beans bowl.

Just another bite of free bird,

Then weight loss my next goal. 


And I will never change,

oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, me.

And with this bird there was no change, 

Because it was free. 

Lord, help me, I can’t cha-a-a-ange,

Lord, I can’t change.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Free bird, yeah!

Songwriters: Ronnie Van Zant, Allen Collins, and Mike Johnston 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Neighbor Rogers #2424

We have a neighbor couple, Rogers and Kim that are moving back to Texas in early November. They apparently move frequently, flipping homes and cars for a profit. There is a going away party for them this weekend, and I’ve been asked to write a poem. I don’t know Rogers well, just quick humorous exchanges as we see each other while walking our dogs (Sydney and Tally), having lunch with the Borrego Boyz, or at a neighborhood party. He’s good natured, from Missouri and both he and his wife are great Pickle Ball players, actively involved in the leagues here in our Islandwalk addition. My first course of action was to make fun of his name and tie him in with other famous Rogers (first or last name). My initial reference is to Rogers Hornsby, the Hall-of-Fame baseball player as is the only other person that I’m aware has the first name of Rogers. I then couldn’t resist the Mister (Fred) Rogers connection and included his quote at the end of the poem – like a good neighbor should. Also, when I thought of cowboys, Roy Rogers came to mind with his wife Dale Evans and dog, Bullet, who was always rescuing Timmy from the well. 

One of my first encounters with Rogers involved a common neighbor, who was illegally feeding the Sand Cranes and drawing alligators to our properties. He reported them to both our HOA and Fish & Wildlife, but Stu and Jan thought it was us. They eventually moved out, but the new people, who are also now gone, were dumping some of their trash in his cannisters that he didn’t take kindly to, among other things. 

Rogers has a two-piece band called the Paradise Pickers that practice in his garage and play at local events, including our “Meet the Neighbors” get togethers, where Kim once made delicious biscuits and gravy to share. The two of them once joked that afternoon retirement “naps” sometimes could involve more than just resting. I naturally included my favorite roast line, used at least three times in my poems, “Don’t come a knocking” to poke fun at their new, Explorer Van that often sits in their driveway. They were also victims of Hurricane Ian, stuck here with a need for propane, so they borrowed from some of the snowbirds that were out of town for the storm.

One of the favorite stories in the neighborhood was about a gator that decided to rest on a covered front porch. One of the braver neighbors chased it off with a leaf blower, and Rogers dressed as Crocodile Dundee to get a laugh at a later party. He was then a treasured target for the charitable dunk tank and recently underwent prostrate surgery, claiming that he now “pees like a teenager,” another hard to resist line that just had to be included in this roast. 

These are just a few of the explanations for some of the lines in this poem, for most of you that are not familiar with our Borrego Street antics. These stories will be a lifelong bond for all of us that live here. If you don’t think they’re funny, well, you had to be here! 

Rogers Roast 

A ballplayer named Hornsby,

Was the only Rogers I knew.

Until I moved to Islandwalk,

And met the two of you.


Rogers is a common surname,

But rarely used first.

People are confused,

Somehow you were cursed.


There are guys named Roger,

But few with an extra “s”

Why they named you Rogers,

I didn’t want to guess.


So I did some research,

Checked out all the specs.

It’s German for “famous spearman,”

But also slang for sex.


In our Borrego neighborhood.

It’s always a beautiful day

Call him Rogers, Mister,

Not Mister Rogers, okay


Paradise Pickers is his band,

But he can be very picky.

Adding your trash to his,

Can get a little sticky.


You raid our homes for propane,

Dress up like Crocodile Dundee.

Violate the HOA rules,

And now boast about your Pee.


Plus, there were a lot,

Of neighbors who thunk.

That you just needed,

A good old-fashioned dunk. 


We’ll miss your Ozark charm,

And your music talents, too.

There’s no birds in our backyard,

Thanks for tattling on Jan and Stu.


It was once suggested,

That we all pull up a chair.

And cheer out on your driveway,

While you practice inside there.


So many cars and homes,

Yet to be flipped and found.

You’re really very lucky,

That Kim’s still around.


She’s the quieter of you two,

Except with paddle in hand.

Please bring me more biscuits,

Your gravy’s really grand.


If they had named you Roy, Rogers,

Then Kim would now be Dale.

Syd to the rescue like Bullet,

Your theme song: Happy Trails.


You’ll ride off in the sunset,

In your silver Explorer van.

Packed with Pickle ball trophies,

Farewell to that Florida tan.


You both admit to nooner “naps,”

So please don’t go a Knockin’

Especially when you notice,

That their van’s a Rockin’


“Neighbors are people who are close to us and close to our hearts.” – Mister Rogers 

You’ll both forever be our neighbor!

Copyright 2023


Retirement is not without Hassles: Hell Week: #2411

My hands shake uncontrollably as I write this and a lack of coordination with my keystrokes means a frustrating effort to complete every thought without making constant corrections. Writing these was once fun but now really more of a challenging chore as the perfectionist in me tries to construct proper sentence accuracy. I’m also trying to write with just one eye, the other bandaged after yesterday’s trip to the cornea specialist, Dr. Kane. 

A Covid Booster, multiple blood tests, several IVs, prescription drugs, catheterizations, probes in all possible bodily cavities, electrodes, urine samples, eye tests, doctor consults, heart monitors, cornea polishing, and x-rays sum up my week of medical hell. Naturally, they found more than originally expected, including a badly calcified aortic valve that needs to be replaced. Nothing like getting a lifetime of surgical procedures in a few short weeks. 

I’ll be bionic, even trionic, and currently thoroughly saturated with numerous pain-numbing tonics. Any personal privacy that I may have once enjoyed has be exposed and violated. Body parts have been shaved, cameras inserted, measurements taken, vitals recorded, and insurance reports filed. I visited with at least seven different physicians this week, not to mention their support staff that measured weight, height, temperature, medication usage, blood pressure, iron levels, heart rate, drinking or smoking habits, allergies, toilet habits, frequency of sex, and family history, to mention just a few of the endless questions that they ask of us. Who knows what they did to me while I was out cold? 

I do get the weekend to recover, but my right eyelid is taped shut and an embryonic membrane covers my eye, leaving me with depth perception difficulties, light sensitivity, a watery discharge, and limited visibility. Xanax and eyedrops somewhat relieve the stinging and itching, but discomfort is the norm, like a severe cornea abrasion or a needle in my eye. At least, they only had to smooth the surface of one eye, not both as I originally anticipated. Getting my extremities to move to run this morning was daunting and maintaining a straight line forward on unstable legs took a great deal of focus. Nonetheless, I completed my minimum mile in just under a cautious 16-minutes and added a few more tenths for good measure. Tomorrow should be easier, but all the tests and early morning appointments that have limited my mileage will put me at only about 30 total miles halfway through October and 765 for the year. 

My wife was covering for me last night at a neighborhood meet-and-greet that we organized before we got wind of this unexpected ocular procedure. She also found another acquaintance to go with her for tomorrow night’s theatre fundraiser. I’ll take one more pain pill to knock myself out for the night before attempting to fulfill another groggy morning’s run obligation. Right now, I feel sluggish and a bit depressed, but certainly not due to missing the party or theater. Instead, I watched the Beckham documentary on Netflix out of my good eye. 

The Braves, Orioles, Dodgers, and Twins are already out of the playoffs. The hated Bryce Harper has led  the Phillies into the NLCS, while my favorite player, Kyle Schwarber, has yet to contribute to the historical Philadelphia home run barrage.

While I wait for the Phils to move on, baseball will keep me entertained this healing weekend, along with college/NFL football, and potential I.U. basketball recruit announcements.  However, as my right eye continues to burn, I find myself reflecting on a story and poem that I wrote many years ago.

My poor mom, worried about a note, written in an unreadable scribble from a visiting eye doctor and relayed to me from school nurse to take home. Mom could only make out the words, “Morso in the right eye,” thinking it sounded like some uncurable disease. She spent most of the weekend at the library worried and trying to research what this mysterious malady was before Monday finally came and she was able to get ahold of the nurse. We all had to laugh!


“Moreso” The Doctor’s report,
Made Mom cry.
Morso detected,
In her son’s right eye.

What went wrong,
With my son’s eye?
If he has Morso,
Can he die?

It must be bad,
If I read it right.
Will it affect,
His precious sight?

I’ve never heard,
Of this disease.
I beg of you,
Help him please.

In a panic,
Need explanation.
What is Morso?
Give Clarification.

There’s no such thing,
“I didn’t write Morso.”
Said the doctor,
Who should know.

It reads “more so,”
Didn’t mean to scare,
One eye’s weaker,
When you compare. 

My silly mistake,
I now concede.
Doctor’s handwriting,
Hard to read.

Just needs glasses,
To improve his sight.
Both eyes tested poorly,
But “more so” in right.

Copyright 2011 

I found it ironic that the cornea polishing that I just endured was performed solely on my right eye. Once again, its damage was “more so” than that in my left. Despite this chuckle, I’m still reminded of my torturous fraternity initiations during Hell Week. 















Retirement is not without Hassles: Tammy #2390

It’s always good to hear from a former co-worker, and Facebook has been a great way to preserve those friendships.  I sent Tammy a birthday greeting, about the only way we stay in touch anymore. We weren’t close friends but I wrote many going away poems for the staff at the radio station in Portland where we both worked. She apparently never got a poem, and jokingly asked for one in her response to my “Happy and Healthy Birthday” message.  I was both honored and surprised by her request, remembering my contributions to our friends, so I quickly complied:


You stayed at Alpha,

Far too long.

Making the “Great Eight,”

Before moving along.


Ayn, Al, Cathy, Jaylene,

Jeana, Jim, Nicole & you.

Remained in the nest,

When I finally flew.


Then Al said goodbye,

A poem his request.

I wrote Twenty-two,

All in jest.


What’s one more,

As I look back.

It’s your birthday,

I’ll take another whack.


Three years now,

At Brown & Brown.

Unlike me,

You stayed in town.


As Facebook friends,

I see your smile.

But face-to-face,

It’s been awhile.


Maybe at an airport,

We’ll cross paths again?

And when in Florida,

Please stop in!


Your name comes up,

Every day without fail.

After all, we live on,

The Tamiami Trail.

Copyright 2023



Retirement is not without Hassles: Road Trip Rations #2385

Over the past few posts, I’ve recounted our long drive back to Indiana for a wedding and funeral. In the meantime, we missed Hurricane Idelia, evacuating well. Most of the references in this recap poem were alluded to in these reports but the names may or may not have been changed to protect the innocent. 

Road Rations 

Truist Park.

Hot-lanta Braves,

Amanda’s house,

Artwork raves.


Lodge cast iron,

Big Bad Breakfast.

River House dinner,

Recalling Egypt’s past.


The curb had no mercy,

Tire Pressure light a pain.

Rocky Raccoon sighting,

When will we hit rain?


Baseball, Bourbon, & Bats,

Wedding & Funeral await.

Louisville Slugger Factory,

And Evan Williams date.


Freddy’s for lunch,

Bio Mom nearby.

Joanie in Nashville,

Bloomington drive-by.


Pumpkin bars & caramels,

Flushed with Diet Coke.

BLTs and Burgers,

Weight loss plans a joke.


Hoosier Tenderloins,

Indy friends to meet.

We’d already had,

Too much to eat.


Brunch at Ruth’s Café,

For a Beatle’s song.

“All you need is Love,”

We all sang along.


Bottleworks vows,

Cookies not cake.

I’d already had,

A spin on the lake.


The lyric-off winner,

Denise proved wise.

A shot of tequila,

Bobby 2’s demise.


Bobby 1 calmed,

His angry son.

As Claire and Shawn,

Got ‘er Done!


Miranda was the DJ,

But the music was faint.

So no dancing Dan,

And the Outlaw no saint.


We had as much fun,

As old age would allow.

The “life of the party,”

Mitch met his vow.


West Fork Whiskey,

My Birthday pour.

Along with some Nike’s,

And fire pit s’mores.


Oliphant Hospitality,

Sahm’s and Capri.

Many old acquaintances,

At the viewing to see.


Onward to Huntsville,

Buc-ee’s for brisket.

Just after digesting,

A Cracker Barrel biscuit.


Banisters at Connor’s,

Then stayed an extra night.

As Hurricane Idalia,

Showed her might.


Cheesecake Factory salad,

Tasteless movie “Strays.”

P.F. Chang’s encore,

Little to do but graze.


Detour to Dothan,

And the giant peanut.

Pepto Bismol tablets,

For the rumble in my gut.


Texas Roadhouse ribs,

With hot buttered rolls.

McMuffins and Shakes,

Glad we’re home – I’m full!


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