by Walter Weglein
Above me, 180 planes an hour stutter,
approaching Newark.
On my right, just yards away, trains toot,
tracking to Hoboken.
On nearby roads, ceaseless traffic seeks the City.
To my left, in a little park, children shout, run and splash.
I lounge in my lush garden,
a giant pine shading my little red house.
High in the blue, white streaks etch the sky, blur and vanish—
Walter Weglein:
Word Power
A writer all his life,
he’s never thought to strive
to write a poem.
But 18 years in IRP
have given him the “chops” to see
he can show ’em!