Stop and Look

We rush around,
looking for peace.
The faster we go,

the greater the distance
between us and stillness.
Our MP4 earphones

take a break from our cellphone
and our cellphone
takes a break for an old friend

coming down the platform.
The train comes, but from the other direction.
We sit down to wait.

Our batteries die from overuse.
We notice the clouds
gently nudging one another.

How Much are Kids Worth?

I'm reading a book
that says it is stupid
that plumbers get paid more

than childcare workers
because kids are worth
more than pipes.

My wife thinks
it is good that plumbers
are well-paid

because they have lots of kids.
If childcare workers had
as many kids as plumbers

they'd have to stay at home
and wouldn't be able
to work. This would,

of course, decrease
the supply of the childcare
workers, so the facilities

would have to pay
them more, which probably
means that people wouldn't

use paid childcare,
or wouldn't have children,
or wouldn't buy big screen TVs.

The big question,
as I see it,
is not what is unfair,

but rather what measures
should be taken
to correct

all the world's injustices,
and what the costs are
of these measures?

Next time you pay a
child care worker,
please add a substantial tip,

and next time you pay
a plumber, ask her if
she'll take less.

Just tell the plumber
it is all
in the name of fairness,

and watch the steam
erupt
from her pipe!

The 5 am Alarm Clock

When you visit
loved ones, there
is always the last

day of a visit,
when you make sure
you've said what

you have to say,
and you try to remember
to pack all the little things

you had brought
with the intention
of not leaving behind.

Being there
becomes so habitual
you believe

you'll be wakened
each morning of your life
with the pidder patter

of a toddler's feet above you,
and then
"it's time to leave"

and you hop on
some mode of transportation
and arrive home

and wake up
the next morning
to realize what had become

a 5 am alarm clock
has been turned off
until the next visit.

Play at Work, Work at Play

Sometimes we
mistakenly believe
that kids play and adults work,

but one just needs
to watch a toddler
and see how

dedicated they are
to the task at hand
to realize

they are learning
about their universe
in record time

and will not
be led astray
by any distractions.

Adults, on the other hand,
with their great understanding
of the world,

seem to have lots of time
for play, sports, movies,
and candlelight dinners.

QUESTION: AT WHAT AGE DO HUMANS PLAY? WHY?

Shaving

How did it happen
that we obsessively
want to shave

certain parts
of our body?
We wake up

in the morning and
feel the sandpaper
on our face,

rushing
to the bathroom
to smooth it out.

We go to the barber
frequently to make
ourselves clean cut.

Woman eradicate the
hair under their arms
and on their legs.

Smooth
becomes the norm,
and rough

the sign
that we've been negligent
in our care.

COMMENT: IS OUR OBSESSION WITH BEING CLEAN-SHAVEN AKIN TO OUR OBSESSION WITH THE "NEW?"

The Plane

A cow's hide found
her way to be a
seat on an airplane

comforting the bodies
of humans flying
to and fro

for pleasure, profit
or grief.
From cows' heaven

moo moo watches
the big sky machine
carrying its karma

to exotic places
where grass has
been eaten by

little lawn machines
or turned to concrete
for cars and

even cattle
trucks going to
the slaughter house.

COMMENT: DO YOU BELIEVE IN COW HEAVEN? IS THE GRASS GREENER?

The Hypochondriac Goes to the Doctor

I go
to the doctor today
to inquire

about a obscure condition
that I've probably always had,
but have just noticed.

I suspect he'll tell me
about the 38 million
who have the same problem,

and that one just has
to live with it.
Unless, of course,

I want to try
some medicines
and surgical procedures

and trade one symptom
for another.
So he gets a pretty penny

for a few minutes with me,
and I get the satisfaction
of discovering that I'm mortal

and I can choose to
live with my body
the way it is,

or go to extreme measures
to turn it in for
another body

whose owner
will surely
have equally minute complaints.

PLEASE COMMENT: WHOSE BODY IS YOURS?