The Psychologist's Weird Day at Work

The first he saw that day was Pat,

who said, "I think that I'm too fat."

Next came a girl named Lucy Lynn,

saying, "I'm afraid that I'm too thin."

The third in line called himself Mort,

and thought he was a foot too short.

After lunch, came Emily Hall,

to deal with fear she was too tall.

Next, he dealt with little Mary,

who complained she was too hairy.

The final patient of the day was Fred,

so, the doctor checked his pulse.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Vision Problems

I'm waiting for help at the optical shop;

getting on up there and can’t see so well.

A boy now runs in with a skip and a hop

and his grandma, who tries but just cannot quite quell

his boundless panache and his youthful delight.

He cries out, “Look here! It’s all so beautiful!”

Hundreds of eyeglasses, sparkling bright,

he spies as he twirls and inspects every wall.

All the opticians within this decor

Fail to notice his rapt admiration.

Now so inured to the sights in their store,

they're no longer seeing their own decoration.

Sometimes the young can be better at seeing

than us with our glasses and wiser perspective.

Is that because they are better at being

amazed and surprised and a bit more receptive?

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Life, From Behind the Counter

I’ve just finished the mobile order for French-Vanilla-Latte Jerry,

as he walks in and takes it to go, saying nothing.

Half-Caf-Soy-Latte-With-An-Extra-Shot

is sipping in the far corner, staring at nothing in particular,

forgetting to blink.

She’s dressed for office work,

sensible shoes, military crease in the pants.

Looking right through Grande-Americano,

who’s in faded jeans and work boots, reading a newspaper.

Salted-Caramel-Frappuccino, dressed for high school,

opens and closes her chemistry book, seeing nobody.

The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby is playing,

“all the lonely people”.

The irony is so thick, you could drown in it.

I don’t spend any time in bars, but I wonder:

Do bartenders see more life than baristas?

Homeless-Guy comes in,

chatting like he’s on top of the world,

orders a small, plain coffee.

We talk while I pour. He offers his name, Freddy.

I give him a cookie, on me.

Salted-Caramel gets up and goes, leaving her cup and napkin.

Freddy casually busses her table on his way back to the street.

Blueberry-Hot-Tea is trying to feed her baby,

while her three-year-old colors a picture, next to a half-eaten doughnut.

The little artist toddles over and offers her masterpiece to Half-Caf.

The latter, startled,

laughs with as much glee as the kid.

Grande-Americano notices,

makes eye contact with both,

smiles, and winks.

This might turn out to be a good day.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

I took this photo at Café Marrese, near our home. The drink is their signature latte, the Marrese. The photo is used by gracious permission of Allen Green, the proprietor.