• concern for karen •

Karen (my ‘dental hygienist’),
is set to clean my teeth
tomorrow, poor dear.
We have an appointment,
first thing in the a.m.,
and so, I must be there.
It’s not so much that I’m worried about a bit of plaque, per usual,
that she might discover,
but barnacles,
eels, octopi, lurking sharp-toothed morays,
monsters of the deep, down there.
I do worry for my dear,
intrepid, Karen:
they offer so little real protection,
you’ll ‘most certainly agree,
those little gloves they wear.
~ Tim Burchfield



• authority •

I do not hate all authority.
That is simply not true.
I just tend to least like,
the ones,
that try to tell me what to do.
~ Tim Burchfield


• pugly point of view •

Humans are clumsy beasts.
They say they won’t step on you.
They’ll even make a big fuss about it,
when you get up (just in case),
to move out of their way, with,
“Hey, I wasn’t gonna step on ya,
little fella, wha’d ya think,
I was gonna step on ya?
I wouldn’t do that, not to you.”
They say they won’t step on you,
and, more often than not,
they don’t even mean to,
but then,
every once in a blue moon,
out of the blue, they do.
~ Trevor the Dog (aka: ‘Tim Burchfield’)


• the joy of imperfection •

Don’t get too organized on me,
if you please, love;
I like a little disorder with my chaos:
the muzzy, uneven in-distinction,
of the lawn that looks as if
it’s never known an edger,
or, at least not since
the heady days of Johnson’s Wax,
that came in yellow cans, with the impossible lids that required
a nickel coin, to open,
when of a Sunday,
the family unit, entire,
would turn out,
with plastic buckets, and busted sponges, and grins,
and used-up burp cloths and kitchen towels,
and a water hose,
to wash the Ford Galaxy Five Hundred, to perfection,
then, to smear, in circular motions, nice and thick,
and creamy yellow,
the Johnson’s on,
then to rub away,
with the burp cloths,
and kitchen towels, (and, of course,
the requisite ‘elbow grease’,)
to shine, shine, shine,
that baby, mommadaddy,
and baby Jesus, hallelujah,
Praise The Lord!
(’till you could see yourself,
in the pristine finish!)
the white crusty residue.
And me,
I always liked to leave a bit
un-rubbed, someplace onboard, that you couldn’t see, ’till you stood way back to admire your handiwork, which we always did,
just to hear, once again,
of a Sunday, the clamorous Unitarian unity of the family unit,
as we came together,
as one voice, unto the Lord,
of a Sunday,
to the smell of fried chicken,
and of mashed potatoes,
and black-eyed gravy
wafting from within
Momma’s kitchen,
with they shouted,
which they invariably did,
“Brother, you missed a spot!”
That’s the joy of imperfection.
~ Tim Burchfield


• fish tale •

Dropped by the Credit Union to pick up some cash for the girl before the weekend, and Heather, the staff ‘Super’, in front of God, the entire staff, and everybody waiting in line, thanked me for the little fish poem I left for her, in an envelope, the last time I dropped by to make a deposit, and all the ‘girls’, oh, okay, women, well they ooooohed and agreed with Heather (their ‘Boss-lady), that it almost made ’em cry, and was sweet, and funny, and just the sweetest thing! Heather, et all., had had this goldfish, you see, in a bowl, there, on the counter, a gold one, for as long as I could remember: it turns out that goldfish had been with Heather, et al, ‘since the beginning’, or something, something like, well I can’t recall, exactly, but for years and years, and years: decades, maybe, which had died, and they had got a replacement fish, a black one, with buggy eyes, but it hadn’t lasted long, and when I asked about it, and the other one, all the ladies behind the counter had got real quiet-like, and Heather had told me the tale of her little fish, and how she had loved it so, and, yes, they had got a replacement fish, right away, from the gold one, which must have been, like a hundred-ten (in fish years), but that it had been “too soon,” and she was done with fish, for a while, she guessed, because it just hurt too much, to see that empty bowl, on the counter, like that (which she had subsequently removed).
And Heather, I surmise, had been really touched by my little fish poem, which I had left her, and it went very much something like this:
• can’t love a fish •

What’s ‘a matter, love,
Can’t love a fish?
That you can’t love a fish,
Is obvious.

I worry for my dear Silver Dollar,
Mister Silver Dollar, to you, Jim.
I worry, that if anything should,
‘Happen’, to me, (God forbid),
That it’d be,
‘The Big Flush’, for him.

Don’t you dare!
Anyway, I’m not worried:
You haven’t got the nerve,
To flush my Beta, too,
That’s Mister Beta Fish, Jim,
To you.

Anywhoo, that was my day, yesterday.
The power of words! I love ’em, and give more love, and get more love back from these, than from ‘most anything.
Carry on friends. Have a nice swim, on me.
~ Tim Burchfield