The Contract

 

I had recently moved to Denver from

Albuquerque where I had worked with

the homeless addicted. I was qualified

because I myself was recovering. I met

the requirement of having been sober

for at least 2-years.

It was a government funded non-profit

and it didn’t pay much, but what the hell,

I needed the work and at least I’d be as-

sociated with people with whom I could

relate.

Because of my previous advertising ex-

perience, I managed to make a little extra

income doing some freelance writing for

a local advertising agency.

When I left my main work with the home-

less to move to Colorado, I figured my copy

writing gig would be over as well. But just

in case, I gave my forwarding number to

the ad company director should she have

further need of my services in the future.

You can find drunks and druggies in every

corner of America, but good freelance

writers were a bit harder to come by.

Anyway, long story short, the ad lady called

me one day needing some newspaper copy

for a client, Bueno Foods (In my opinion,

the best damn commercial chili products

in the Southwest).

The agency offered to fly me back to

Albuquerque for the day to meet with

their client and go over the particulars.

Imagine me, a recovering alchy, a nobody

freelance writer getting flown in and paid

to meet with corporate higher-ups to

help put together an ad campaign. I had

come of age. At least for the moment in

time, I had it made.

I’m sure Albuquerque had plenty of

capably fine writers who could have

done the job, but instead I, the es-

teemed, big shot adman from Denver,

Colorado was contracted to fly down

to little old, backwater Albuquerque

and handle the assignment.

Looking back on it, I am now amazed

that my narcissistic ego didn’t explode

in mid air, wiping out both pilots and

the other five passengers on board

that puddle-jumper flight I had taken

that day.

I mean, it turned out to be an insig-

nificant little newspaper ad I’m talking

about here, a standard two-column by

five-inch, black and white ad about chili.

No prestigious Pulitzer Prize or Clio Ad-

vertising Award here...No sir, no ma’am,

just a few pithy, BS, hype words strung

together by a recovering alcoholic.

Hellfire, most any local, run-of-the-mill

drunk worth his or her salt was capable

of that.

                 -30-

Chris Hanch 10-15-2020

An Understated Day

 

Today is one of those understated days.

Sometimes a day turns out that way.

You can feel it when you wake in the

morning even before the day has even

had a chance—boring, routine, nothing

out of the ordinary, understated.

Why, even the designated name, Tuesday,

seems so bland and ordinary. Not at the

week’s beginning or the end, but an un-

derstated, milk-toast muddled mass, not

even fairly middlin’ for Christ’s sake.

Today, your old age aches and pains aren’t

enough to fuss about. Nothing new on the

news to bitch about or praise. Same old,

same old broadcast on the radio. Coffee

black as usual, dog poops the same.

You’ve read these poems dozens of times

before. You may as well have copied last

weeks grocery list, item for item, bologna,

V8 and prune juice, everything’s the same.

Just yesterday you complained about

change and wished everything would

just remain the same. You’ve claimed

to rely upon your daily routine, and now

here it is…today, an understated day.

It’s amazing you can describe under-

stated in so many different ways.

And then the phone rings. Who in hell

could that possibly be at this hour in

the morning? You refuse to answer and

accept the possibility that the under-

stated day will somehow change.

Screw it! You decide to watch Pawn

Stars reruns on TV. No matter how

many times you see it, you still don’t

understand how they could pay good

money for an old, used G.I. Joe?

It’s like wearing the same olive drab

fatigues every day.

For all it’s worth, can anything as

mundane as that ever be understated?

I contend, not unless it remains

unsaid.

               -30-

Chris Hanch 10-13-2020

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

 

Lost and alone.

I know many of you have been

in that place before.

When you move around

as much as I have in my time,

it somehow happens that way.

Where am I? What city is this,

Albuquerque, Denver, St. Louis,

Kansas City, Frankfurt, Sydney?

Halfway around the world

it seems, no one to visit, no one

to call.

No job, no place to go, no regiment

or routine to follow, only gravity

to ground you ever so tenuously.

Lost and alone. A hell of a fix, I’m in.

But you know, that was some time ago,

and eventually I’d turn the corner

and somehow find a way.

Just keep on pushing on, I’d tell myself,

nothing else to do. Only know, can’t

stagnate and disintegrate here held

captive in space.

There was also another way which

inevitable came to the rescue:

I would always awaken once more

at the break of dawn in a place where

I was meant to be, and knowing

where I was. Another sunrise for me,

another day, and so far as I live,

another new beginning ahead.

Move along, nothing to see here.

                -30-

Chris Hanch 10-12-2020

From Where I Stand

 

On Facebook the other day I posted

a poem about my arthritic pain and

limited mobility.

Well, a few friends shared their

experiences and offered advice.

One eventually gave in to his pain

and had a hip replacement.

Another, a lady friend, had cortisone

injections in her knees. Claims for

months on end to be pain free. And

I who have resisted both procedures

was left speechless to respond.

I realize that it’s up to me to be or

not to be. That has always been the

question confronting me.

What can I say? I’ve got my old age.

I’ve got my faithful dog and my ever

painful hip.

I have this small dusty apartment on

the basement floor. I have cello music

by Yo-Yo Ma playing non-stop on my

Amazon Echo. And what needs doing

will just have to stay undone.

I have been sheltered in place for more

than a year. Call me crazy, call me stub-

born, but I am unwilling to leave the pain,

my pup and all the rest behind.

I relish the time I have left to ponder

where I’ve been, to accept the inevitable,

trekking along the trail set out for me

until the Big Picture unfolds, and my

mystery of a lifetime is complete.

You’ll have to excuse me now, but I have

a frozen pizza in the oven.

                    -30-

Chris Hanch 10-9-2020

R.I.P.

A few days ago I read where Bob Gibson died

He was one of my boyhood heroes, one of the

best baseball greats of all times.

Gibby was 84. I am now 73 and can hardly

believe this is where I am. When people you

know have died, reflexively you take account

of your own age, and the span of time between

then and now it has taken you to get where you

are today.

Why, those boyhood days at Busch Stadium in

St. Louis watching the Cardinals and Bob Gibson

play seem to have taken place weeks, months,

a year or so ago at most.

And now not only Bob Gibson, but Lou Brock,

Stan the Man, Kenny Boyer, Curt Flood and all

the rest are gone!

And here I am, thinking back, all the good

and the bad. My God, how time has passed.

Where has my lifetime gone. and see this,

who I have grown to be?

Goodness sake, I can’t even recall what I

had for lunch a day ago.

How much has come and gone, all the

forgotten, the remembering and me?

Yesterday, R.I.P., that’s where it all began.

                    -30-

Chris Hanch 10-10-2020 

Once is Never Enough

 

With awakening in the morning,

once is never enough.

With bright sunny skies at sunrise,

once is never enough.

With gentle and rainy spring days,

once is never enough.

With conversations with good friends,

once is never enough.

Visiting a museum and contemplating

Picasso and Monet,

once is never enough.

Listening to a Beethoven symphony

or attending a live concert by Queen,

once is never enough.

Celebrating holidays and birthdays,

once is never enough.

Feeding your face with chocolate cake,

once is never enough.

A hearty laugh and a somber cry in good times

and bad,

once is never enough.

Sitting by the ocean, a trek into the mountains,

once is never enough.

A stiff shot of whiskey when needed for relief,

once is never enough.

A good story at bedtime, clean sheets to sleep on,

once is never enough.

A lover’s kiss, a steamy embrace and a frolicking escapade

beneath the covers,

once is never enough.

Celebrating a 50^th wedding anniversary or a 75^th

birthday come but once in a lifetime to a lucky few.

For all the rest of you, I seem to have neglected

mentioning vanilla ice cream with that chocolate

cake. Go ahead knock yourself out with another

serving, once is definitely never enough.

Breathing in and out,

even the last gasp is never enough.

                    -30-

Chris Hanch 10-9-2020

One Step Away

 

I step carefully into my day, one wobbly leg forward.

I position the cane in front of me, and then painfully

shuffle the other. Carefully, cautiously repeat, repeat.

These days I have come to accept this. Things for me

moving forward are guaranteed to worsen over time.

There is no cure for a stubborn old man who resists

change at every turn.

I’ll be damned if I’ll let them cut into me. What then?

There will always be something else to follow, the

other hip, then the knees, cancer or a stroke perhaps.

Today, as is with every other day, I’ll find the nesting

place of least pain to while away the hours. Today I’ll

allow Yo-Yo Ma and his mellow cello to serenade and

stimulate me with fond memories of better days gone by.

I’ll likely find a place in time which invites me to write

and escape the doldrums and discomfort of today. I find

I can step back and forward in my mind, even run the

marathon race exercising the words and images I pick

and choose along the way.

My cane rests securely in place beside me in the event

I need to interrupt my pace and get up to pee. At age 73,

for me at least, I find there is pain, pleasure and relief in

familiarity.

And my companion pup, Carmen, who rests steadfast

between my legs, I believe she feels the same.

Forward march is part of the military man which still

exists in me.

                            -30-

Chris Hanch 10-8-2020