A grandmother wants control of her title.
Choosing what she is called seems vital.
Some will never be “Grams” or “Granny.”
They want to be called “MomPlus” or “Sammy.”
Grandfathers don’t really seem to care.
Since we get called random terms here and there.
I have been “Grandpa”, “Papa”, “Grampy”, so to speak.
All of those were just in the past week.
Next time, I’ll have another name.
I will probably have myself to blame.
I said my name was King Frank-Bob.
We’ll see if that’s accepted by the mob.
I answer to the term my grandkids choose,
Either good or bad, win or lose.
Call me a saint or call me a sinner.
Just don’t call Grandpa late for dinner.
I will see a mansion on a hill.
I wish my house remained there still.
Some unnamed Yuppie came to town.
He bought my house and tore it down.
I haven’t lived in it for years,
Which doesn’t seem to stop the tears.
It was the place where I grew up.
It sheltered me, my Mom and Dad and pup.
I knew someday it would be gone.
I just didn’t want to play along.
I wanted to be able to just drive by,
And see it standing beneath the sky.
Yesterday, it was an empty lot.
It’s now a place that time forgot.
I will miss my happy (former) home.
Now, I’m feeling even more alone.
I know that everything must die.
I just hoped to see my past survive.
I understand that times will change.
I just thought my past remained the same.
Another hour lost.
This is why you
Can’t go home again.
Still, sleepy beats
Coffee doesn’t fix
Floating out at sea,
Searching every deck,
Exploring every corner.
Seeking out the Poop Deck,
My name is Bob,
And I’m a can.
Just an aluminum tube,
That distributes stuff.
I’ve carried good beer
To Germany and Australia,
I’ve carried weak beer
All over the USA.
I took sweet tea to Raliegh,
I took wine to San Jose.
I took soda everywhere.
So, lots of good contents
Went to lots of places.
It’s basically the same job,
But adapted to changing needs.
But my new bosses hate recycling.
They’re allergic to all old cans.
They only want new aluminum,
And they like imported, not domestic.
So, I’ve been trashed.
Kicked to the curb.
I can still carry things,
But I’m not good enough anymore.
It was fun while it lasted.
I just don’t understand.
If your customers are in the USA,
Why are your cans in India?
Almost broke again.
I look a bit green.
The only thing paying off
Is the soda machine.
“Write a poem a day for a month.”
How hard can that be?
April’s only a thirty-day month.
I’m really stuck this time.
It happens every year.
Usually, once a day or so.
I need an idea.
I tried to order one,
From Amazon Prime,
But it won’t arrive until tomorrow.
It would be nice if you could
Order an idea from Amazon.
I know a few people
That could use a place
To get a clue.
Thinking of all the times in my life.
There’s on time.
Then, there’s the wife.
So, I guess my life is “bitchy.”
Topics can be hard to find,
So, every day, I abuse my mind.
Some days are better than others.
Plus, I’m not at sea this year,
With all those topics I hold dear,
So I have to look around my office.
What rhymes with “clutter”?
There is so much clutter,
I heard her mutter.
Her words went through me,
Like a knife through butter.
Maybe I can find a topic on Groupon.