Impressions
How often are impressions deemed profound,
Accepted fully, carried all around,
And stated with assertive satisfaction,
From merely a few moments’ interaction?
The Hand of God
I have felt the hand of God
Securely on my shoulder,
With comfort of His staff and rod
More clearly as I’m older.
Unintended Uproar
I got invited to a large and formal teenage party,
It took place in a huge hall at a fancy restaurant.
Arriving guests searched for their names upon a seating card tree,
You could not simply sit at any table you might want.
The grown-ups on the cards were listed as “Mrs.” and “Mr.,”
With only last names used—no one thought that could court disaster.
For each young, single lady, “Miss” was how they chose to list her,
While, from my own experience—uniquely—boys were “Master.”
The hosts must have viewed “Master Winick” as prime elegance,
Without a premonition of that most bizarre of fates,
Which folks still talk about some more than fifty-five years hence—
The uproar from the card of one young guest named Melvin Bates.
Russel Winick started writing poetry after ending a long legal career. He resides in Naperville, Illinois.
