This is the anniversary of the death of John F. Kennedy. I’ll never forgot the day he was shot in Dallas. I was at work – in old Building 60, in my cubicle. My boss sent his assistant around to tell us he had been shot. We stood by his door as the news came in over the radio, and within minutes we heard Walter Cronkite tell us that our beloved President Kennedy was dead. No more work was done that day.
And this is Thanksgiving Day in Portland. Here's two more poems from our trip:
The Luxury of Leisure Time
I’m reveling in this day already
and it isn’t even half over.
Early morning cuddling
without worrying about where
I need to be next,
a trip to the gym and a walk along Portland’s
main business street,
breakfast of salmon hash
at the elegant Benson hotel
across the street.
And now relaxing on the chaise
watching The View,
women’s TV, for the first time.
What a luxury or
maybe decadent excess
that’s oh so easy to get used to.
I’m not in a hurry to get up
and I have no reason to be.
Breakfast at The Benson -- Again
Through the wood paneled lobby
and down the carpeted stairs
we enter the London Grill.
Its tables covered with crisp
Pachabel’s Canon playing in the background,
we are led to a table for four
near the back.
We’re hungry and order
unapologetically –Belgium waffles,
French toast, and a veggie frittata,
accompanied by toast and sausages.
But, alas, there’s too much for all of us.
We leave, full and warm,
climbing back up those stairs,
carrying those sausages in a little box
for Brendan’s dog, Hank.