Three Poems, by Gerry Sarnat

Good Winter Solstice Work If You Can Get It

After zilch visits to Mom since three Halloweens
ago when a judge sent me away through this Xmas
while she’s told I’m earning about double overtime
doing back to back to back gigs on the big drilling rig,
purposely not beginning with the usual, “Mom, this
is Gerry,” but rather hesitantly just asking, “D’ya
know who I am?”; from her wheelchair she deadpans
blankly, “No…” then following a Bob Hope-ish
standup comedy moment’s pause growls, “Gotcha,
Sonny — believe such crap you’re sure a sap now
who I won’t invite to my Hanukkah block party!”


This Friday
turns out to be
a quadruple-header

what with our usual
Shabbat, since COVID
celebrate outside distanced

compounded by daughter’s
birthday, add to that Hanukkah
and now first time we can all be

inside and touching since various
quarantines and Corona tests done —
just in nick for winter’s initial freezing.

Lowlifes’ Hi-Ho, Or Lonesome Highway?

Mister plus Missus Whimsy,
who used to get bits of help
cleaning the old homestead

now since COVID have gone
it totally alone — which time
is plumb up finito tomorrow

when our housekeeper/ children’s
nanny/ quasi-family member
for well over four decades

after quarantined then test-negative,
voila returns to reprise her close,
rarely dependent relationship

before grand/ kids (ditto precautions)
descend on winter solstice holidays:
in anticipation of first non-wife

persons inside here since March,
today a less than nifty geriatric
duo makes up an advance team

to give everything a spic ‘n span
onceover — includes quick scrub
sinks, stove, toilets; vacuuming

employing long yellow bulb-changer
pole oy to take down cobwebs —
so neither Lulu nor any of many

subsequent kin-visitors can present
one credible iota of an argument
that dwarfs my proactive dusting

to shuttle this ass into some dumb nursing facility.