BOSOM BUDDY
My seven-year-old grandson
is his own best friend.
Has many school buddies
but plays for hours
with his creative self—
art work, Star Wars structures,
films movies on his IPad,
imitates Michael Jackson dances—
never afraid to be alone.
In my childhood, I rode imaginary horses.
Smoky, my invisible steed,
wherever he would gallop.
Then, my green and white Schwinn—
named Los Cappacaros from a Western
about some cool bandits—
took me into my teens.
Imagination
as a childhood playmate,
such a fine gift.
CONVALESCENCE
My dog leaps into
a mellowing life.
Her leg buckles to surgery.
Too young to put down,
she breaks my heart,
a helpless creature,
beautiful big black
eyes, a forlorn quiz.
In my old age, I come alive
to pet and whisper
into her perked ears
why she now lives in a cage
unable to chase
her squirrel foes,
attack the garbage truck
at the back fence,
protect me from the neighbour dog.
In her convalescence
that will never make sense to her
she fills my limited lifetime
as if it will go on forever.
PINOCCHIO
Pinocchio’s nose began to grow.
The cat and the fox whiskered him over.
“What’cha got boy?”
He doesn’t know his nose has grown.
He thinks they want the pennies in his pocket,
the hat Gepetto made him.
Fox says: “What a great nose. How’d you do that?”
He touches his nose and scares his hand.
“I don’t know,” he stammers.
Cat says: “Tell the truth!”
Vern Fein has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces in over 100 different sites. His second poetry boo, Reflection on Dots, was released late last year.
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