making themselves at home

i get home early,

before the maids are done.

they don't

hear me

coming through the door.

one is in the bathroom

taking a bath,

she's singing a happy song.

Milagro is asleep

in my bed.

a book resting in her hands.

her apron still on.

Rosie is in the kitchen

heating up

enchiladas, sipping

on a margarita,

and Esmeralda

is on my computer

browsing and shopping

for things

she already has while

talking on the phone.

make some noise

sometimes

words aren't enough to get your

point across.

you need to stamp

your feet,

slam a door,

bang your fist against 

the table.

throw a glass across the room.

you need punctuation

beyond talk.

a shout, a scream

animals do it all the time.

we pay attention

to the roar.

hey mister

occasionally

someone will come up to me,

usually

a young girl,

a twenty-year-old

or more,

perhaps a college

student,

and she'll say to me,

excuse me, but

you look like my father

did before he

got old and died.

your hair,

the clothes you wear,

the way

you walk and smile,

the color of your blue eyes.

it seems like yesterday

that i'd be having

a different kind of conversation

with someone

so attractive and spry.

modern convenience

would i eat

less off a plate, drink

less

from glasses and cups,

use less

forks and knives

if i didn't have a dish washer?

the black

Bosch marvel

that sits between

the stove

and refrigerator door.

perhaps,

perhaps not.

but maybe i'd use my

fingers more,

holding turkey legs

and grouper

in hand, maybe i'd

drink from the jug

of milk, or water,

turn the box of cereal

to my mouth

and pour.

the back page war

as the war

drags on, the news puts

it on

the back page,

a small blurb with stats.

so many wounded,

so many dead.

there are fewer and fewer

pictures,

or editorials.

it's old news now.

the protests have died

down,

kids have returned to school,

the world is weary

and wants

things back

to normal.

if we look the other, maybe

that will be true.

37 percent chance of rain

i married

the weather girl on channel

seven.

she was pretty

and dressed well,

articulate and charming,

but the maps

and doppler

radar,

her always looking

out the window

testing the wind,

observing the clouds,

taking the temperature

drove me crazy.

she was better at long

range forecasts

than the daily ones,

telling me things like,

i think it might rain today,

i'm 37 percent sure, so

take your umbrella

just in case.

she had soft hands

she had

soft hands.

i remember that about her.

a tender

touch

one might say.

a way

of making you feel

good

as you lay upon

the bed,

her nails gently scratching

where it

itches.

rubbing your shoulders,

your neck.

that she was doing

this to others

though,

is what you want to forget.

someone to look up to

we want them

to be more than what they are.

heroic

in some way,

because they catch a ball,

or run fast,

we want heroes

to believe in,

to look up to and model

our lives

by their example.

and yet few are. if

lucky

a parent will fill that void,

not some

outfielder for

the Red Sox's or bleeding

hockey star.

don't fall asleep just yet

for no reason,

i used

to bound up the stairs.

two at a time.

leaping

upward to where i wanted

to go.

especially if she

was home

and waiting,

but now.

as i grip the rail, and go

slow,

measuring my steps,

protecting

my knees,

i yell up and tell her,

i'm almost there.

don't fall asleep, just yet.

wait for me.

living on the edge

i used

to sleep with one eye open,

leg half

off the bed,

living on the edge,

ready to run if necessary.

tense

and lost in bad

dreams,

i could never quite

get to sleep

with her beside me,

and then,

at last

she was gone, and now

i'm deep in slumber,

all over

the wide

open spaces,

spreading my legs

and arms.

the new flame

we remember

the burn,

the heat when the hand

touches

the flame.

we don't forget.

singed

and scarred,

it's in our brain.

and yet when it comes

to love,

and bad endings,

we forget,

and find a new flame.

we start all over

again.

Wally and Beaver

why does

nearly everyone under the age

of twenty-five

look like they

belong in a gang.

or in some

protest march, or something

rebellious.

anything to make them

feel alive.

the head

gear,

the shirts and signs,

the secret handshakes.

the menacing stares

as they look

into your eyes.

i miss Wally

and the Beaver,

Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver,

and even

Eddie Haskel too.

i miss those black 

and white

times.

trouble at the dentist's office

it's not a good idea,

but i can't help myself 

when sitting in the dentist chair

and being

probed

by the purpled hair hygienist

with tiny surgical pitchforks

and rakes,

grinders

and spears.

i can see the tattoos of dragons

and devils

on her hands and arms

as she works on me.

your gums are bleeding she says,

in a strangely cheerful

voice.

she puts a dixie cup

under my mouth

to spit into

and says, there you go. spit.

i spit, but miss the cup

and hit her white

smock. she doesn't seem

to mind.

yes. i tell her, i know i'm bleeding,

i can taste it.

it's running down

my throat.

maybe if you'd stop

piercing my skin

with those sharp metal

instruments, my gums wouldn't be bleeding.

come on.

go easy, who are you

the Marquis De Sade

in drag?

this makes her start crying

and run out the room.

i  can't work like this, she screams

leaving tubes

and drainage pipes

in my mouth.

a tiny air blower spinning around

in wild circles.

finally the dentist comes in,

and says,

what the hell is going on in here?

what did you say to Raven,

and why did you

refuse to get x-rays

this year.

oh, i don't know, beats me,

maybe

because you're billing me six

hundred dollars

for thirty-nine x-rays,

and i haven't had a cavity

since i was twelve.

i barely have 28 teeth in my mouth,

so what's with all

the x-rays?

what are doing?  buying a new

yacht? you're killing

me with these prices.

i'm still wearing the sunglasses

that they give you

and lying back

in a vulnerable position

on the pleather recliner,

feet up in front

of a 32 in tv screen

with images of my teeth.

out of the corner of my eye

i see her coming towards

me with a syringe,

she's aiming for my jugular vein,

but i'm able to kick it out of

her hand.

unfortunately it stabs her in

the eye.

quickly, i take my bib off,

grab my hat and keys,

my wallet off the counter,

the free floss and toothpaste,

and head out the door.

bill me, i yell out.

next appointment is in six months,

the girl

at the desk says.

hopefully this will all

blow over by then.

a strand of your hair

thankfully,

home

is as we left it.

the scent of coffee long

ago brewed.

there is the sofa 

with the imprint of me,

the imprint

of you.

the cups

and saucers

still waiting for the sink,

the newspapers

not viewed.

open books, and letters

on the made

bed.

pillows propped

just so.

the window is

open

to let in the spring air.

it's home.

it's not much to others

but to you,

it's gold, and over there,

there's a strand

of golden hair, yours

i suppose.

i can barely speak English

we're lame,

most of us. we know one

language.

and barely get that one

right half

the time.

grammar and spelling

seems to be

a lost art

on several generations.

most of the world

knows two or three

languages.

crossing borders is no

problem

for them.

my friend Rimute in

Switzerland

knew five,

French, German, Italian,

Russian and Dutch,

but sadly, not mine.

return to sender

the one thing

wife

number two taught me, that

i still do

till this day,

is that i keep the receipts

to everything

that i purchase.

clothing,

electronics, even shoes.

the box

and bag too.

sometimes i want to call

her and tell her

thanks,

but i don't.

it's best to don't look back,

when you're

really through.

i read the news today, oh boy

my neighbors.

Joe and Jill,

and their three children,

Biff, Mary and Skip,

are survivalists.

they've dug an enormous

shelter under ground

with a steel door,

and have stocked it with

ten years worth of non

perishable food.

they all wear camouflage

clothing, with canteens

strapped to their

belts, and bandoleros

of bullets

across their chests.

from my window

i can see that

each is very adept at handling

barbed wire

and archery.

they're very quiet, but

nice, waving to me each

morning as they raise

the American flag,

and say the pledge of allegiance

when the sun comes up.

i'm thinking about making

them a cake today,

and introducing myself,

becoming one of their friends.

bluebird on the sill

if i watch the news,

scroll

through my phone,

i truly believe that the world

is on fire.

that chaos reigns.

death and violence is

everywhere.

and yet,

when i look out the window

and see the bluebird

on the sill,

beautiful

and still.

it's almost like all is well,

and i have no cares.

sugary persuasion

as a child

i was persuaded by candy

or a soda.

a sugar cone

of ice-cream.

something sweet.

and now

at this age,

i'm still

a sucker for her

treats,

though they're

so different now.

forty feet up

as i push

the ladder up against the old

house,

then climb,

and rise

between the trees, up

to the roof,

up to where the tiles

are loose,

the bricks,

the wood rotted,

the chimney,

i realize

how different the view

is from

up here.

how the world is reduced,

beautiful,

made smaller.

but is it worth

the falling, this fear.

the lunar seas

somehow

the moon aligns

so that

the full view of it, a white

plate

of lunar

seas

is my eyes.

it falls between

the crease

of curtains and blinds

as i lie

in bed,

between

the blankets and sheets.

do i wish

that you were here?

yes.

sometimes.

there's no fixing you

you can't fix

people.

you can't turn a dog

into a cat

in a hundred sessions

of deep

talks.

the therapists know this.

they listen,

they

let you babble, but there's no

fixing here.

they give

you a hint or two,

a clue.

they make you turn

back

the pages

and find out

where you went wrong,

or if you even

did,

but in the end you learn

that it's

all on you.

you are who are for

the most part.

you either bark

or meow.

see you next Tuesday

at two.

dear diary

every girl

i ever knew kept a diary.

usually

it was stuffed under

the mattress

in the far corner

of the bed.

i read everyone that i

could find

wanting to find out

how a girl's

mind worked,

but they all held the same

story.

boys boys boys.

tears and fears.

friends

and school.

parents.

tame stuff for the most

part.

it was long before everyone

was undressing

their lives

online.

she's in a taxi

she goes

to new York without me.

to walk

the park,

to drink her coffee

and stand

in line

for an everything bagel.

she shops,

she goes to a show,

she's

in times square,

on Broadway,

5th Avenue.

she's buying perfume

and shoes.

she's in a taxi,

look at all the bags,

her arms

are full.

she's having fun without

me,

sitting home alone

with the cat,

feeling blue.

eggs before the nest

the instinct

is to build

when young when early

in life.

it's what

the animals do,

it's what we do,

taking a husband,

a wife.

we build the nest

before the eggs

arrive.

preparations

are needed.

doing it differently

will bring

trouble

and a long hard life.

Saturday night at the hardware store

i see the young couple

in the big

hardware store. it's Saturday night.

date night.

sweatpants and jerseys on.

half young and

newly married.

they have

a shopping cart.

a home project

perhaps.

but when did it change?

when did

it go from festivals,

and weekend trips

to the shore,

from dancing and wine,

candlelight

dinners?

will there

ever be more?

or is this it now?

spackle and caulk,

a knob,

a wrench for the leaky

toilet,

paint for the doors.

the breakfast decree

who

decided what breakfast

should be?

what high and mighty

leader

of the culinary world,

decreed,

that we must

eat eggs and bacon,

oatmeal

and cereals with bananas

sliced?

when did waffles

and pancakes

become

morning fare.

link sausages and scrapple.

who dictated that

we must drink

orange juice, coffee

and tea

in the early morning

hours?

and what rebel decided

to put

the sign up,

breakfast all day.

i want some answers here.

solving the carjacking pandemic

the city

has decided to do something

about all

the car jackings

that go on,

day and night

in Washington D. C.,

cars being stolen

by the threat of murderous

gangs with

guns pointed

by masked men

to the heads

of drivers.

they're giving away free

tracking stickers

and steering wheel locks

to help

the helpless keep and track

their cars.

problem solved.

fifty percent chance of anything

can

we depend on the weather

report

to be right.

that it won't rain,

that the

sun will shine.

can we bank on the promise

of snow

and wind,

will

the temperature be

low

or high?

thankfully

we have windows

and door

to stick our leg out

to determine

which

clothes to wear,

and get it right.

sugar and spice

no one

likes to be handcuffed

and taken

away

to a dark

cell.

but she did, which

surprised

me.

her with

her black hair,

her dark

eyes,

her cat like

presence.

i was under her spell.

but that got

old too.

too much spice as with

too much

sugar

will make you ill.

frayed friendships

the politics

have

kept us apart. sadly.

the news,

the wars

and protests.

crime and immigration.

we just

don't see eye

to eye

as we did

when we were

young

and ill informed.

it's better i suppose

to just

not talk

anymore,

although i miss the catch

of bat

and ball.

the jerseys

that we wore.

hopefully with a scar

as a kid

with a new cut, or scrape,

a bloody

wound, fresh,

but washed and covered 

by your mother

with a weak

Band-Aid,

how long could you

go before peeling

it back to take

a look.

ten minutes maybe,

as you sat on a can

in the alley

and gently

pulled at the edges

to take a peek.

the poet laureate delayed

the phone rings

and i lose

my train of thought.

i put the pen down.

there's

a knock at the door,

there's a bird on the sill,

the smoke

alarm

is going off.

i eat my lunch,

staring into

the screen.

i hear children in the street,

a baby crying.

the neighbors

are fighting again

before they

make love on their

noisy bed.

i'm distracted, delayed.

how will i ever

become the poet laureate

of this great

land

with all of this going on?

the clang of a cow bell

like the gong

of a large

metal cow bell, my body

longs

for an ice

cold glass of whole milk.

it comes out

of nowhere.

the thirst is that of

youth,

i imagine, when milk

was plentiful,

not worrisome.

not thinned,

or made of almonds.

with

every meal

there was a glass in

my small hand and

a pitcher on the table

sweating

from the ice box.

standing tall

beside a stack of white

bread and butter.

finding clues to a disappearance

i stare

at the silver ring she's left

behind.

it sits

rounded

in the puddle

of soft

sunlight.

but most everything

else is gone.

it's a message of sorts

i imagine,

a clue.

i look in the closet

her bag is gone,

her favorite

shoes,

her hat

and gloves,

all of them have

disappeared too.

beauty is fading

beauty

is fading in the light.

youth

being a blink

of the eye.

we are

all

gathering lines.

growing

smaller

with time. retreating

towards

the shadows,

the inevitable after-life.

getting it out of their system

mostly

children with unformed

brains

and intelligence

are lying

in the road

chanting,

protesting.

they have no clue,

they don't

yet know

what needs to be known.

but it's fun.

it makes them feel

alive

and worthy

to rant and rave

about

the world

they don't quite understand.

in time though, they'll

have jobs

and children,

bills to pay,

and less time to act 

crazy.

the little things

thankfully

we can't see the microscopic

bugs,

the germs

that are lurking

around us.

on our hands,

our bodies.

in the dirt stuck to our

shoes.

we can't see

them floating in the air

around us.

as we breathe,

taking them in

with gulps,

taking rides

on our forks full of food,

we swallow

them whole,

as they sit on the edge

of a cup

or glass

and hope for the best.

the side arm fling

she sends

me a poem.

then another. little postcard

images

of sea

and forest.

small animals.

birds

and bees.

sugary things.

everything rhymes.

everything

sings.

i'm getting good though

at tossing

them

towards the bin,

with a side armed

fling.

fatherly advice

there are those

in your

life who always give

you

sound advice when

going through

troubling times.

telling you to reflect,

to be kind,

take time and heal,

and then there are those,

who smile

and laugh and toss

it all aside,

make it right by telling

you that there

are more fish in the sea.

be brave,

drink up,

check out that blonde

over there,

you'll be alright.

i love them all equally

as i tip toed

down the stairs in my socks,

i heard

whispering

in the kitchen.

there was an argument

going on.

he loves me most of all

the oven said

to the group.

thanksgiving, Christmas,

i'm the one.

no way,

the toaster offered,

i make bread warm.

then the coffee grinder

in a growl, said

no, it's me.

he uses me

every morning,

without fail.

pffft.

it's me, the air fryer added.

no grease,

no oils,

and i make everything crispy

and clean.

i stepped into the kitchen,

and raised my

hands.

they all went quiet.

i love you all equally, i said.

pulling the plugs

on everyone,

but the coffee grinder.

take two of these and call me in the morning

my doctor

is honest. i'll give him that.

most of the time

he'll say

beats me,

when staring at a rash

on my chest,

or looking

into my mouth and exclaiming

what the hell

is that?

sometimes he'll

get out a book, or google

my ailments.

scrolling until

he finds

the right pill, or remedy

that he thinks

might work.

here, he'll say.

try two of these and

call me

in the morning.

if you start to shake and vomit,

lose your

vision,

911 might be your best bet.

the hourly gas price fluctuation

the way

gas prices move up or down

at the flick

of a wrist

or news blurb,

fluctuating by pennies

or dollars,

reminds me

of her,

a past unfortunate

love.

how fickle she was.

how she

ran hot or cold, depending

on her mood,

what pills

she forgot to take or

were on.

low one second,

high the next.

leaving me guessing

where to

buy gas.

where to get my oil

checked.

legs up in the easy chair

some

need to swim the channel

to make their

life

complete,

wrestle gators,

or swallow fire,

some need to

swim the shark infested

sea between

Cuba

and Miami.

while

others need to climb

Everest,

their lungs

sucking

the thin air,

and then there's some, 

like me,

who like

to relax with the remote

in hand,

legs up

in the easy chair.

hands on the wheel

is this the reward

for hard work?

for struggle

and pain at the wheel.

blisters on

my hands, dust in my hair,

an ache

in my back?

is this paltry sack

of coins

at the end of a week

worth all of that?

the feather bed,

the drink,

the crust of bread?

tell me the secret of life

and be quick

about it.

i'm late for work again.

she was ready for anything

my mother

carried everything in her purse.

from Kleenex

to combs

and brushes, make up.

bandages,

Chapstick

and lipstick.

nail clippers,

handkerchiefs,

pencils and pens.

sunglasses and tools.

recipes.

a notepad

full of phone numbers.

mints and gum,

peanut butter crackers.

keys

and jewelry.

an array of

pictures too

along

with a checkbook,

credit cards

and ID's.

she was prepared for

the apocalypse

long before

it became cool.

i know your favorite color

we don't

know each other. not really.

sure

we're familiar,

we know

how we talk and dress,

what we like

to eat or drink.

our favorite color.

we know the surface

of the earth,

the sea,

but what lies below,

what we think,

for the most part

will always be a

mystery.

get over yourself

when young

you spend

a lot of time looking into

the mirror.

who am I?

what do i look like?

am i too fat,

too skinny,

why is my mouth shaped

like that.

and my ears,

so strange,

why is my hair this color?

maybe i should have

a nose

job, maybe i can

change.

look better,

make it easier to be

accepted,

to find love.

to be more attractive.

eventually though, if

you're lucky.

you get over it.

what is a woman?

while

watching another endless

stream

of short videos with

people asking the question,

what is a woman

and 

people not being able

to answer 

the question,

afraid of being wrong

and canceled by

the blue

haired woke,

i'm amazed.

i think i know how

we can solve this

mind numbing problem.

lift up your dress,

pull down

your trousers.

count your chromosomes

go into the kitchen

and look

at your mother

at the sink

or stove,

or hanging clothes on the line

in the back yard.

or go to a maternity ward

and see who

gives birth.

there you go.

the first job

to have

a job, was everything.

a check

at the end of two weeks.

money

in your pocket.

a car,

a place to live,

clothing and food.

a clock to punch

and work.

everything came after

that.

love too.

what will end it all

weary

of the middle east.

the news.

the wars, the eternal

conflicts.

i'm exhausted

and i

don't even live there.

who's right,

who's wrong.

how far back can we

turn the pages

of history

to find out

who's at fault?

but why

the hate?

why so much hatred?

love isn't what makes

the world

go round,

it's this.

it's what will end

it all.

true art

when you observe

fine art,

not the paint cans splashed

onto the floor

of a canvas

in Jackson's garage,

or a tomato

can,

replicated tenfold,

but true

art,

the masterpiece of

hand

and brush,

the light and color, delicate

or bold,

life come to life

with precious

infinite strokes.

you see in the faces,

the eyes,

the muscled arms and veins.

joy and anguish.

stories

told.

after the Park Hyatt

once you stay

at the Park Hyatt, 

with a view of Central Park,

lush

in all its amenities,

it's all downhill

from there.

the Comfort Inn

is shabby,

Motel Six

is hell on earth

with their thread bare blankets,

and thin

curtains,

pictures of cowpokes

on the wall,

not to mention

their so called

continental breakfast

of stale

donuts

and mister coffee

in the lobby.

cream in warm

little

plastic buckets.

you shouldn't be able

to hear the people in

the room

beside you,

chewing their food,

and tossing chicken bones 

into the waste basket,

missing as they hit the wall.

what if life was a bowl of cherries?

what would there be to write

about 

if everything, every

day and moment

of your life was peachy keen?

hunky dory.

what if

there were no bad relationships,

no broken hearts,

no being fired

from jobs?

no one ever dying,

no pets being

hit by cars?

what if you never got sick,

or that your

parents loved you without

conditions.

never drinking or angry,

or causing a ruckus.

what if it never rained,

or that you never got a flat tire,

or cavity in

a tooth.

what if every day was a bowl

of cherries.

what in God's name would there

be to go on about

and write,

no much, i presume.

death to the lobsters

we, or should i say, she

set the table,

lit the candles,

poured the wine,

made the salad 

and baked the bread.

she made

the dessert too.

chocolate mousse.

she left the killing

of things to me.

giving me the task of

dropping two

lobsters into a boiling

cauldron of water.

thank you dear, she said,

putting her fingers into

her ears so as to not 

hear them scream.

zero marriages

she asks me,

vetting me for stability,

how many

times i've been married.

i tell her zero.

she says, ah ha, not so

fast buddy boy.

i think three.

no, i tell her. now sit

down and let me explain.

the first one,

was for six months and

annulled by the Pontif.

the second one took

place in a foreign country,

so obviously the paperwork

was forged and illegal,

and the third was for a year

to a psychopath,

an escaped lunatic

from the local asylum

who's real identity has

never been known.

so there you go, nosy,

zero.

nine innings of bad food

there

were a lot of things we would

never buy

or eat

at home

that were sold at the ballpark.

hot dogs,

chili dogs, sausages

on sticks.

tacos

strange greasy

wraps

of mysterious meats.

cotton candy

and nuts.

ice cream and beer.

but we were compelled

to fill our

bellies, bored

by nine innings of numbing

foul balls

and muted cheers.

the all Saints bracelet

we were in

the midst of a wild and frenzied

session

of making

love when her all Saints

bracelet broke

from her wrist and

all the little chicklets

of saints went flying.

Theresa

and Joseph, Bernadette

and Stephen,

they all flew into the air

and scattered

onto the floor.

would we be punished for

our desire for one

another, or forgiven

because we were making

love,

not war.

a cult of one

it's easy

to spot a cult.

the shaved heads, the long flowing

robes,

the dancing

and singing.

the frolicking.

the sex.

the glazed look in everyone's

eyes.

the emptying of their bank

accounts.

the vows and promises

made,

not kept.

i was in one once, her

name

was Betty

life lessons

she showed

me

how to bake bread,

how to

make Sangria,

and Paella.

how

to fold

a fitted sheet and make

the bed.

she showed

me how to dance,

how to

plant seeds for the garden,

and grow

flowers,

how

to iron

a shirt

and pair of pants.

she showed me a lot things

that i haven't forgotten.

how to break

hearts too.

25 dollar gin and tonic

somehow

a vodka and tonic

with a slice

of lime

doesn't do it anymore.

gin either.

the gaiety

and wisdom they provide

is not working.

the morning

headache,

the stomach,

the wooziness of it all

is no longer

worth it.

much of what you said

and did

under the influence

you want back.

forget about it.

especially at 25 bucks a

pop

in NYC.

the firetrucks arrive

finally,

after weeks of blocking

the roads

and causing

chaos,

the firetrucks arrive

and wash

the protesters

off the streets, the hard

blasts

of water

quickly washes them

away

into the gutters.

they throw the crazies

bars

of soap

and water wings

to hold onto

as they wash them out

to the river

all the way

to the sea.

you can almost hear

their

protests as they

gurgle

the salt water, drifting

past

the statue of liberty

two poached eggs

i ring the bell

for my

imaginary butler, Jimmy.

i tell him

on the speaker phone

to bring me up

two poached eggs,

toast

and coffee and the daily

news.

when Sheila comes out

of the shower,

wrapped in a towel,

she looks at me

and says,

who are you talking to?

are you okay?

no ticket needed

the amusement park,

once fun.

is less amusing

than it once was.

somehow the tilt a whirl,

and the scrambler,

the fun

house have all lost

their youthful appeal.

life is crazy enough

with its up and downs,

its spins and swirls,

its narrow halls of

bent mirrors

and false floors.

get up early enough

and you'll see the clowns

leaping out

from every corner.

no ticket needed.

orphans

Eleanore Roosevelt

Ray Charles

Marilyn Monroe

Malcom X

Jim Thorpe

John Keats

Edgar Allan Poe

Ingrid Bergman

J R R Tolkien

Babe Ruth

Johann Sebastian Bach

Ella Fitzgerald

all orphans,

just to name a few.

not aborted.

somehow, here we are

we didn't have

seat belts,

or life preservers,

we rubbed

mud onto bee stings,

and ran around

without shoes on.

we drank water from hoses.

played kickball

in the street.

our fathers cut our hair,

and we ate

meat and drank milk.

we climbed trees,

waded into creeks,

disappeared until

the sun went down.

even the dog had 

no leash.

but somehow, here

we are.

my apologies to celery

my eyes widened

when i saw

the picture and the article

in the food

section of the paper.

it read,

when celery takes the center

stage.

how is this possible?

what dish

could possibly be

centered around celery?

when was the last

time i ate celery, or thought

about celery, or

considered buying any.

maybe when my mother

was alive and she spread

cream cheese down the middle

for the holidays. 

arranging it in a serving

dish next to olives. but

my mind has always been

made up about this

green, translucent vegetable

despite it's nice

color and no calorie

attributes.

i don't care for it.

cry me a river

some people never cry.

others

shed tears

at a sappy soap commercial

on tv,

or the one

where they show

dogs

in cages with

enlarged eyes

and fleas.

it takes a lot for some

to cry.

death,

disease, financial

failure.

for others it could just

be allergy

season,

the tree pollen,

a heavy yellow dusting

on everything.

that would be me.

sunrise fishing

in the late

60's

before Lady Bird Johnson

began

to beautify

the city and clean up the Potomac

River.

we used

to catch fish.

sick fish. scabbed and slow,

with glazed eyes.

the light waves

would wash

the dead perch and herring at our

feet,

catfish

and carp.

but we wanted a live one

to reel in

and release.

it took all day

no matter how fat and juicy

the blood worms were.

Candy pays a visit

i go around

to the back door

and press my face

against the window.

i catch my father

in full embrace

with his newest

love. his latest flame,

who goes by the name

of Candy.

he's 96, she's a mere child

at 87.

if they were

at the drive-in,

security would be telling

them leave.

i rub my hand against

the fogged

window.

thankfully they don't

see me,

because they're old

and can't see, plus

they can't hear very well

anymore.

i tip toe back to around

to the front door

and ring the bell, but

i'm not sure if i'll ever

be able to unsee

what i have seen.

she's heard it all before, God's wife

it's wonderous

work,

meticulous

fine art,

his carvings of geese

and duck,

lions

and deer.

the room is full of them.

he shows

me around the room,

and picks

up each piece

telling me in detail 

the inspiration that helped

him create

from a block of wood,

this near

living thing.

step by step

he relives his creations.

i give him all the wows

he rightly

deserves, while

in the other room, his wife

shakes her head,

and says, oh my,

here we go again.

when we were less afraid

we all

need a hand, 

a human hand,

a touch,

a hug,

a kiss, a word

of encouragement.

we need a little love

to get through

the day.

we need affection,

just as we did

when we were

young

and less afraid.

baby talk

it's good to have

a hobby.

she says,

join something.

a club,

take up golf or swimming,

or badminton,

what about pickleball?

i sigh.

you need to make some new

friends.

what about

fishing?

do you like to fish?

gardening?

i sit up on the couch and ask

her

why are you talking to me

like a baby.

because you're

behaving like one, she says.

now man up,

and get out of here.

you're not dead yet, hell,

you're not even

old.

quit your whining and i'll

see you back in here,

in two weeks.

Tuesday, Five thirty.

take some candy from the dish

by the door,

and be happy.

can I get an Amen?

no matter

how bad their singing voices,

people

still like to sing loudly

in church.

they are letting the Lord

know

they're here.

bellowing at the rafters.

the woman next to me,

is wailing away

like Aretha Franklin,

shaking like

a pinata smacked

with a holy stick,

and the man in front of me

sounds like

Tennessee Ernie Ford

singing big bad John.

i try to keep the beat

with my hand

tapping on the hymnal,

just mouthing the words.

but i get a lot of smirks.

i think He knows i'm here,

but just barely.

everything must go

i see

the wedding ring

for sale

in the neighborhood

newsletter.

papers included.

the dress too,

and a brand new

toaster oven

and a mixer.

both a peacock blue.

still in the boxes,

never used.

everything must go.

it seems.

even me,

though dented

and scratched,

well used.

we need a reset on this planet

they don't

teach parallel parking anymore.

or spelling,

or math,

or manners,

or cursive writing.

being late is okay.

being dumb

is okay too.

why pick up a book

and read

when there's google?

being confused is normal,

am i a man,

or a woman?

or maybe both,

why choose?

the long night in Baltimore

i got lost going

to Baltimore,

for our third date.

she lived somewhere near

Fells Point,

but i missed the exit,

i took a wrong turn

and couldn't find 

the street she lived on.

i was late.

when  i finally found her house,

a row house

in the hood, where the front

looked like the back,

my dinner, a six dollar

orange slab of salmon 

was still on the table,

curled at the ends like

fish does when it goes bad.

the string beans were cold.

the bread stale

and she was at the end of

a bottle of Chardonay

and watching

the Jersey Housewives,

with the sound way up.

two old cats were in her lap.

she was mad.

she pointed at the table,

and said, go ahead and eat.

i slaved all day in the kitchen

for you, and you're late.

two hours late.

we're not having sex tonight

either, she said.

so don't even go there.

i made Jello too.

it's in the fridge, help yourself.

cool whip is in

the ice box, although you

don't deserve it.

when we meet again

i'll see you

round the bend. in the future.

someday,

somewhere,

we'll meet again.

rest assured, 

it's not over, not done,

not finished.

there's still more to

come.

more of us yet to be

played out.

we might be old by then.

but we will,

i promise you this.

we'll meet again.

promises we can't keep

as we stand

in line

at Duck Donuts,

freezing in the wind

and rain,

drooling.

she says to me, 

look into my eyes and

hear this, after these

three donuts i'm about

to crush into my mouth,

i'm seriously

going on a diet.

i swear to 
God on a stack of Bibles

and Oprah,

that this will be the last

time you'll ever

see me taking a bite out

of a maple covered

chocolate

glazed donut

filled with a buttery

cream cheese, hot out

of the oven.

i'm done after this.

how about you?

ummm. nah.

i can't make such

a ridiculous promise.

i used to be able to visit or call them

i miss the dead,

old friends, too many

to name

and number.

i really do.

there's an empty space

where they once

stood beside me.

i'm sincere about this.

they

are still on my mind.

they are in my phone,

they are listed on a notepad

in a drawer.

they are everywhere

and nowhere

all at once.

i used to know exactly

where they were

and how to reach them,

how to hear their voices

or visit them,

but those days are over.

they're gone.

the long reign of Ernie

in his

compression socks,

and black

beret,

his aviator sunglasses

tilted on

his scarred nose,

he sits,

still a king

in his lazy boy lounge

chair,

remote in hand.

crackers

and cheese on the tv

tray.

a bottle of Ensure

between

his knees.

children,

now old, at his

beck and call.

the king lives on.

the rust of you

the rust,

the orange bites in the metal,

invasive

and unrelenting

is in

your sleep, in

your hands.

the tremble

and blur of rot.

you want to do something

about it 

but can't.

no scraping, no sanding,

no blow torch

will remove

it from

the girders that hold you up.

you will

topple one day,

as all things do.

dumb and smart together

it's the slippage

of time.

the quick breeze of days

going by

and by,

turning into years,

that eases

the memory of bad times.

maybe they

weren't so bad

after all you mistakenly

think

and pick up

the phone

to pick up where you left

off.

funny how smart

and dumb we are at the same

time.

why things never really change

the reason,

i figured out, while lying

on my

back,

changing the oil

in my old car,

the reason nothing in life

ever changes,

that no lessons are

ever learned,

is because the wise men

and women

who have learned

so much,

grow old,

then die.

and then we have to start

all over again

with babies..

i want it now

you need

to be patient if you seek

to grow

anything.

from seed to stalk.

from calf

to cow.

it takes time.

some of us have it,

while others

like me,

want it now.

on the plate

ready to be cut with

fork and knife.

the ties that bind

the ropes

and chains are loose,

or tight.

the silk

ties,

the twine,

even threads,

but the bindings

of our

possessions,

our loves,

our likes

save us from

fright.

all of it keeps us here.

keeps us

from fleeing

these lives.

her love of ketchup

i watched her

making

a grid pattern on her scrambled

eggs

using a bottle

of ketchup, which ran

out, so she asked

the waiter

for another bottle.

she looked at me

and said, what?

nothing, i said. nothing

at all.

just watching you.

i like ketchup, she said.

i can see that,

i told her.

did this end our relationship,

no, not right away,

but in the end

it didn't help.

i leave her to it

the bird

on the sill, peering in.

a grey

brown dove

of some sort

with fluttering wings,

and dots

of black.

she prances along

pecking at the glass.

we stare 

at each other,

but don't speak.

what words would 

we say

to one another?

none that i can think of.

so i leave her to it.

work awaits.

mental illness is a pandemic

life is hard.

of course it is.

wake up and go to work.

but some

people make it even harder

by gluing or chaining themselves

to the highway

and blocking traffic,

clogging bridges and tunnels.

keeping us from our jobs,

our children,

our doctors, our important

meetings that keep life going.

what's wrong with these people?

mental illness is truly

a pandemic now.

whatever cause they

are protesting, for or against,

what they're doing is having

the opposite effect.

we hate these people and their

selfish, ignorant behavior.

throw them over the bridge

into the river.

let them sink or swim.

drag them to jail and glue

them all together in a big

pile of stupidity, like pigs

in a pen.

trouble at home

the electrician,

with his orange bag

of tools,

and booties

on his shoes

takes to the task at

hand

without hardly a

word.

i want to ask him

if there's trouble at

home, but i don't.

he has that look though,

that long distant

stare as he quickly

removes a switch plate

from the wall.

he presses on, wanting

me out of the way.

full service auto

just because

he calls himself a car mechanic

doesn't mean

he knows

transmissions,

and brakes,

diesel engines

and electric cars.

sometimes he learns on

the job

when you tow it in.

not unlike doctors

and lawyers,

they fake it until

they make it.

sit right down, the therapist

is in.

a little off the top

a little off

the top,

and the sides, i used

to say.

leave a little

to comb,

to brush back.

now i just say,

everything goes,

take it all

with a very sharp shave.

i give up, you win

i give

up on the pollen.

the fine silt of yellow dust

that

covers the earth

and invades

my nose

and throat

making

me itch and swallow.

i surrender and lie there

with a box of

kleenex.

just take me, i say out

loud

to the trees

and fields,

sneezing,

wheezing.

blowing my nose

like a fog horn

at sea.

i give up, you win.

elbow to elbow at the bar

sitting at the bar can

be hazardous.

you want to eat and drink

in relative

peace.

but then

the guy and his wife

sitting

next to you, asks how

the beef is?

he wants to shake your

hand and ask

you where you're from.

come here often?

he says.

his wife smiles

and tells you  that you

familiar.

he wants to buy you a drink

as the conversation

goes on.

he has a dog, three kids

and was in the Navy once.

where did you get that shirt,

she asks,

as the food comes.

you tell her.

J.C Pennys.

then hold up your steak knife,

and say please.

enough.

can we eat in silence until

we're done?

our mug shots

as

i flip  through the high

school

year

book. it seems that

we all looked so clean cut.

almost innocent.

boys with

hair parted

on the sides

the sheen of brylcreme

catching the light.

the girls with tall

loafs of hair

sprayed hard,

most appearing demur

and shy.

we looked

serious

and older than we were.

black and white.

just children,

but already

imitating our elders,

getting ready

for the roles we were

about to play

in life.

the rising tide of her

i find

her toothbrush on the sink.

her lipstick.

her shoes

are under the bed.

she's left a dress

on a hanger

on the door.

she's turned her book

over

on the chair

where last read.

the plants are watered,

the dog fed.

i see packets of green

tea

where coffee used

to be.

slowly i'm losing control

of this house.

staring into space

it's rare

to see a person just looking

out a window

these days.

doing nothing

but staring out,

deep in thought,

elbows on

the still,

eyes towards clouds, or

the street below.

it's hard to find

a face

calm

and relaxed just taking

in the view.

everyone is busy now,

with

themselves,

their lives, their phones.

not a moment

of peace.

Hopper would have

a hard time

finding

subjects these days

to put on canvas.

somewhere in there is you

the photo

albums

are no answer. 

they only add

more mystery

to what

life

went on.

what deception, or truth

lay

between

the pages of rarely

viewed

but yellow tinged

pictures.

how neatly though

they

are taped and glued

upon

the black

paper between hard

covers.

labeled with names and dates.

somewhere in there

is me.

somewhere

in there

is you.

there's a new war on, but we're at the beach

we catch

a glimpse of the new war

starting

while

in the pool,

kicking our legs gently

in the steamy

echo of blue

tiled walls.

we're the only ones

there,

a tv is on

in the corner.

the screen blurred.

it literally is the fog of war.

but we're on

vacation.

will it ruin our breakfast?

or dinner.

our walk

along the beach

gathering shells and letting

the cool wash of ocean

lap our feet?

no.

we'll rent bikes in the late

afternoon,

and travel miles and miles

across the hard sand

of winter, and worry

little about war.

the last slow dance

he seems to be aging

in reverse,

the mind sound,

the hearing

better.

his feet move

to the music, though

he's sitting down.

just his eyes are a problem.

but he feels

his way 

about the world. he laughs,

he jokes.

he eats

and sleeps, he even makes

love

when given

the chance.

what is there not to like

about 96?

call me Larry of Arabia

i have sand

in my eyes, my underwear,

my outerwear,

my shoes

and socks.

sand is between my toes,

crusted in

the cavern of my ear.

my eyes are full of it.

i can feel it

grind against my teeth,

as we walk along

the shore.

the wind

beating us with the sting

of sand

blown hard

without restraint.

i feel like Lawerence of Arabia,

but without the white sheets

and braided 

headband.

no camel either.

twenty percent before taxes?

who to tip

and how much. fifteen percent?

twenty?

was the service good?

the doorman,

the cab driver,

the waiter,

the maître di?

the man handing you a towel

at the spa,

the clerk

carrying your groceries

to your car.

what about the sky cap,

the Amtrak

fellow

with his red hat?

the elevator

operator,

who gets the money,

the gift

at Christmas, do we need

to know their

lives, their names,

do we need to

get involved, or do we just

throw money

into the air and let the world

scramble for it.

i don't know anymore.

filling the void within

as i push

the cart through America.

the gleaming

false notion that all is well.

i see the colorful

fruit,

the milks and ale.

the breads stacked high,

the candy

and artichokes.

the cakes

and pies.

i push and push, but 

there's nothing that i want

or desire.

i'm not satisfied with any

of this.

not this red meat, this fish,

this poultry.

this bag of salt or sugar.

too much. too much of a good

thing or a bad thing

always fails.

it's something deeper

within, something lacking

that's making us

eat like this.

making us more and more

unwell.

nine pregnancies

after nine

pregnancies, did my mother and father,

sit down

and say to each other.

can we stop now?

do we have enough children

yet?

probably not.

her being Catholic

with the penalty of hell

if she used birth control.

and him

being the wild animal that he

was.

johnny Appleseed,

sailing the high seas

of women.

clandestine coffee clutch

i see my therapist

talking to my lawyer, my

accountant,

and my doctor, plus two

ex-wives.

they are gathered around

a table at

the coffee shop,

whispering amongst themselves.

but when they see me,

they stop, and smile.

they wave, as i pass by.

i feel at times that there's

a lot going on in this world

that i have no clue about.

lost but rarely found

the world is full

of lost

gloves, just one, rarely

two.

umbrellas,

hats and scarves.

occasionally a book

left on

the train, or bus.

sunglasses

litter the land,

phones

and bags.

we live in an age of lost,

but rarely

found.

bourbon blues

whiskey

is in, i hear. the brown

bug juice

is hip now.

the dark

stuff.

it's no longer vodka

or gin.

the youngsters want

something

aged.

scotch or rye.

Canadian Club,

or Jack Daniels.

the strong batch,

the stuff

that put my father into

AA 

time and time again.

going haywire

there's a bad connection

somewhere

along

the way. from switch to light.

the circuitry

has

lost its way,

gone haywire, one might

say.

a flip of the switch

confirms

it as the light flickers

like a carnival

without the music or fun.

what do electricians charge

these days?

the mulligan

it would be

nice

to be someone else once

in a while.

to rip off

the old face, the old body

and be new

once more,

with a different name.

a different life.

a fresh start, a change.

everything would be

new again,

but without the mistakes

you've made.

you have a flat tire

do you say something.

or keep

it to yourself?

we're all walking on eggshells

these days,

afraid of what

a crazy person might do

if you point out to them

through your window

that their tire is nearly

out of air, and sitting

on the rim.

do they have a gun,

a knife, will they blame

this all on you, then get

out of their car

with clenched fists,

ready to fight?

best to drive on, and be

thankful it isn't you.

i remember your muffins

i was at the farmers market

the other day, and bought

a muffin.

a cinnamon muffin

with

brown sugar

sprinkled on top.

i looked around

but you weren't there, but

after one bite i knew that

it was your muffin.

the soft crumble of it all.

i'd know your muffins

anywhere,

in the dark, in the cold.

on a raft in the middle

of the ocean,

in a storm.

i'll always remember the first

bite of the first muffin

you baked for me.

the taste, the smell,

the goodness of it, being you.

i'll remember it for the rest

of my life.

the corn fields of Iowa

what about Montana,

or Iowa.

the Midwest, i suggest to her

as we pack

our bags

in a hurry, the house sold.

the money

pulled

from the bank.

let's lose ourselves in

a corn field,

or a cold dark

stream

where we can fly fish all

day,

and dream.

i tell her. grab the cat,

the dog,

and pull the door,

i'll start the car, let's go.

don't forget your wide

brimmed hat.

baking love

as i knead

this dough, hands in the batter,

i roll.

over and over

goes the flour,

the warm water,

the salt,

the yeast

and sugar. i think about you.

how soft

you were,

how kind and gentle,

how you

rose

in the oven of our

love.

baked and delicious,

a morning slice

with butter.

ocean front room?

i take

three minutes to pack up for the beach.

shorts, towel, socks and shirts.

money.

a three day

trip.

two nights,

four hundred miles.

is the ocean still there?

the sand,

the gulls.

the boardwalk?

what's changed since

last summer.

is there all you can eat

at Captain Bob's.

Pocahontas Pancakes,

Jimmy's Kebabs?

is there

ice cream?

of course to all that, but

will the room be ocean front,

or facing the rear,

and the distant bay

a line of

air conditioners

grinding out cool air

for our stay.

I want to see the light

i open the box.

what could be easier than

installing

an overhead

light in the hallway

that's been

flickering on and off for

weeks.

the instructions

say in bold black letters.

easy to follow

instructions.

all of the ant like print

is in four languages.

there's a globe,

a fixture,

screws and bolts, wires.

orange twisty things,

all of them tucked away

in a plastic bag.

i get out my flashlight,

my ladder,

my tools and magnifying

glass, then turn

off the power,

and cross myself.

four hours later i have

taken the lord's name

in vain

a  dozen times.

i know they say,

open your eyes and see the light,

but right now i'm in

a very doubtful stage.

making war harder

what if

big business stopped making

guns

and tanks, fighter jets,

bullets and bombs.

what if they decided to end

the madness and

shut down the factories

of death,

and got into farming instead.

we'd be back to sticks

and stones,

bows and arrows

to kill each other, but

then maybe wars wouldn't

last as long.

a roll of the dice

what is it

about Las Vegas that makes people

go there

to get married?

the glitz of it all,

the bottomless bottles

of gin.

the facades

of wealth, the sound of coins

falling from

the little trap

doors.

the sex, the lights,

the bare legs,

the lips

and hair, the spin of the roulette

wheel while watching

dying stars at the Stardust

Hotel.

the roll of the dice.

what is it with the little

chapel

that weakens our soul

to say i do,

that, yes, we just met last night,

but let's not worry

about tomorrow, that

will arrive

all too soon.

what parents used to teach

math is good,

English, biology, history.

but we need a common sense

class too

when in grade school.

how to look both

ways before crossing,

how to turn

off your phone when

there's a human being talking

to you.

we need to learn how

to scramble eggs,

and change a tire.

balance a check book.

turn the oven on,

and turn it off. we need

to learn how to do laundry.

to wash, and dry,

then fold.

we need to eat with our

mouths closed.

we need a year of charm

school,

on how to behave,

how to be honest and polite,

how to respect your elders

before you too grow old.

have a lollipop, it's free

the government,

because

it's election season, is giving

away free money.

they are wiping

away tuitions,

giving gift cards and hotel

rooms

to illegal immigrants.

nine robberies

and two

stabbings, no problem, here's

your get out of jail

free card.

be a good boy now and don't

do any more

car hijackings until

after November.

you need reparation money?

five million. sure,

no problem.

drugs are no longer

illegal. here's a nice park

for you to go shoot up in,

but remember,

all of you, don't forget who

did this for you,

and vote for me.

i'm your daddy.

here, have a lollipop.

it's free.

twisted empathy

so easy

to twist your ankle

on the wet

grass, stepping into a shallow

spot

unseen.

it turns and you go

down.

you let out a scream.

it swells.

you put ice on it.

you elevate it.

you have it x-rayed.

people call to see

if you're okay.

they bring you

sweets,

cakes and pies,

soups.

sandwiches that they made.

they want to stop

by during the day

to help you

with things.

to see if you need anything.

they show you love

and empathy.

which makes me think

why didn't

i twist my ankles sooner.

what's the rush

what i like

about birds is that they find

their own

lane

to fly in, and don't tail

gate each other.

there's no honking

of their beaks,

no yelling,

or berating each other,

no flipping of wing

if one is too slow,

or too fast,

or wobbles all over the place.

they're well behaved

these birds

i've observed.

they all seem happy to travel

at their own

sweet pace.

bitter fruits

we'd like to think

that we

are beyond such petty ways,

jealousy

and envy.

greed

and lust.

but we all succumb

at some point.

we're human.

we're frail,

and we will all

take a bite

of that

forbidden fruit,

though bitter,

from time to time.

rosebud

will we

each have a Rosebud

moment

when the time to close

your eyes

one last time

arrives?

will there be some

childhood

toy, some thing

that gave you joy

throughout

your life?

is there a possession

of some sort

that you've

saved

and hidden from the world

making it safe

that will make you smile

and cling

to its thought

as your breath slips

away

into night.

you'd eat anything if starving

if hungry enough,

starving,

in a prison, or lost in

the jungle

for weeks on end,

you'd eat anything.

just to survive

you'd be eating bugs

and raw fish,

snakes

and birds, pulling

the feathers off, making

a meal of squirrels

and mice.

you'd even eat your

mother's split pea

soup, if it came down

to it

and you were on

your last leg, about

to expire.

jars of dirt

i don't look at a map

and put

pins in it,

saying to someone,

that's where i'm going

next.

but Sally does.

she's been everywhere

and if you

have three spare hours

she'll tell you

all about it

and show you the pictures.

she keeps jars of labeled

dirt on her shelf,

sand and water,

pebbles, even,

of all the countries she's

been to.

Russia, Thailand,

Egypt

and France.

Timbuktu.

when i get home, i shake

my shoes,

slapping them

together,

from where i've been,

then vacuum.

the unfunny

some need

to see the prat fall,

the paint

spill,

the gouge in the eye,

or sinking into

a thinly ice pond.

they need to see

slapstick

humor

to get their jollies,

to laugh

and be happy.

not you though,

or me.

it's why we get along

and rarely

disagree.

just one stupid invention is all we need

as kids,

we used to sit around

on the porch stoop, 

exhausted from

playing ball

all day,

drinking sodas,

and pulling on our caps

while we pondered

our future.

if only we could invent

one thing,

we'd say.

one stupid thing, like

the pet rock,

or the chia pet,

or the slinky, or the

hoola hoop,

we'd be billionaires.

something along the lines of

play dough,

roller skates, or dice.

but we had nothing.

it felt like everything

under the sun

had been invented.

so we turned our attention

to Jenny and her

little sister,

Cat,

who were looking out

the window

across the street making

faces at us.

pigtails and freckles

were in then.

celebrity sighting

it's hard not to look

at a celebrity

when passing one on the street,

or seeing one

sitting at a table across

the room,

we stare, we squint

and say things like,

she's not all that, or he's

a lot shorter than

i imagined.

they've had a lot of work

done haven't they?

should we go over and

introduce ourselves,

get an autograph, maybe?

although i hate the movies

he makes.

the same old plot with every

one of them.

and isn't she a bit too old

for the likes of him?

i wouldn't let my daughter

run around in a dress

that short, showing

so much cleavage.

celebrities, pfffft? 

they get away with murder,

don't they?

come on, let's go say hi.

things we can handle

we like to reduce

things

down to a reasonable size.

turning

a small catastrophe

into something we can handle.

it was a minor

earthquake,

a dusting of snow.

a short downfall of rain.

the heartbreak

was small, he'll get over

by noon.

it's just a cold.

nothing to worry about here,

relax.

the big ones will

come soon.

pull the loose threads

she had a lot of loose threads.

but i ignored them.

for the most part,

or snipped them away

with a sharp

pair of scissors,

not wanting to pull

on them.

i didn't want to see who she

really was once

the whole cloak unraveled.

lesson learned.

pull early and often, i suggest.

get it over with.

what you see

is what you get.

there's no moral here

there isn't always

a moral

to every story, sometimes

stuff happens

for no reason at all.

there's no lesson learned,

no wisdom

gained.

it just happened.

this awful thing,

and now you have to get

the dent out of your

car, or life,

and start again.

where's the Mrs.?

for some reason,

some bird decided to pick my gutter

off the second

floor to be his

home.

all day he's flying

in twigs

and leaves, dried brush

building, working hard.

fluttering his wings and giving

off sighs of exasperation.

he's a noisy fellow.

getting the nest ready

for the wife and family.

and where's the Mrs.

out shopping probably.

the miracle of the sun

miraculously

the sun

came back out after

it left for the night.

it was pitch black outside

for hours.

but nobody

panicked,

no news team

was on the scene 

reporting about how

the temperature

dropped

and we had to turn

our lights on.

it was way more than

just four minutes,

which was the length

of time in darkness

for the solar eclipse,

but it seemed to be no

big whoop to anyone.

smaller thinking at the think tank

my neighbor belongs

to a non-profit think tank

in the city.

it seems like a great job,

he doesn't go to work

until ten a.m. and he gets

home by two.

he has a nice house, a nice

car, a lawn service

and i see that there are

four delivered newspaper

on his front porch.

i ask him if there are any

openings down at the think

tank. he looks at me,

and says. hmmm,

then takes the pipe out of his

mouth and brushes

his beard with his hand.

i tell him, look, i can think

just as good as the next

guy. give me a subject.

any subject and i can

think about it for hours.

if someone cuts me off on

the highway, i think about that

for days.

i'm a dog with a bone when

it comes to thinking

about stuff like that.

it's not like that, he says.

we're trying to solve

the worlds problems.

like what?

well, crime and war,

homelessness, the climate.

big issues. the rising ocean.

artificial intelligence

and the future of life on this planet.

but maybe that's the reason

nothing is getting done,

i tell him.

we need to think about the

little issues. i could be that guy.

i could think about pot holes

in the street and why

it takes so long to get them

fixed, or how come it costs

so much for coffee now.

and why don't they use the words

small, medium and large

when you order.

umm, okay, i'll think about it,

he says. and i'll let you know.

great, i tell him.

i'm going to the store now 

to see if i can find any

button down sweaters

with patches on the elbows.

everybody knows

i see him

coming up the street, so i quickly

cross over

and dip my head

down so that i'm unseen.

but he does.

he yells out my name

and comes over to greet me.

he wants to talk

politics,

race and religion,

immigration,

the homeless.

money and disease.

he wants me to believe

what he believes.

he puts his soap

box on the ground

and hops aboard.

i can't get away from him

fast enough.

he asks me who i'm voting

for, i smile and say

nothing.

just we'll see. we'll see.

what's another few billion

we've forgotten

that there's nothing up there,

but rocks.

even after having made

six or seven

trips to the surface

of the moon.

somehow

we've lost our minds,

and don't remember

all those trips

bringing back nothing

but stones.

so, let's go again.

no need to spend money

here, we're good shape,

just look around

at how everyone is happy

and everyone

has a home and a bowl

of soup,

a bone.

he's happy when i come home

i'm wearing

my scone sweater today.

the one 

that captures all the crumbs

of the hardened

maple pastry

that snows

upon me when i nibble

at the edges

and take a bite.

i'll shake it out later

when i'm done.

it's my dogs

favorite piece of

clothing. he's happy

when i come home.

thank you for your cheap labor

how is it

that nearly everything is made

in China

these days.

turn it over and there 

it is,

the stamp of a far away

country staring

at us in the face.

the dishes,

the computer,

the clothes, the trinkets

and gizmos

we use every day.

shoes,

lamps

and stoves.

all wonderful things, 

but

how much are they paying

these little

slave kids

to keep us

in ribbons and bows?

bring back the old west

in the old west,

if you tried to steal a man's

horse or cow,

or wife,

or robbed a bank,

you got a bullet in you

immediately,

or you were hung

quickly from

the nearest tree

after a quick but efficient

trial.

justice was served

on a silver platter,

making everyone a little

more civil and courteous

to each other.

we need a new sheriff

in town.

more trees.

conversation with a turtle

as ponder the old

green turtle

sunning himself on

a log

in the lake,

tossing him a piece

of bread

as i sit on the bench.

i try not

to look at the crepe skin

on my

arm,

or leg, but there it is.

grandpa

has arrived.

i look at the freckles,

the dots

and blemishes.

the strange

barnacles

that have attached themselves

to me

over time.

i stare at the turtle

and his

neck, his piercing eyes,

and whisper

i understand

the shell now. 

he smiles and nods

his little head.

i used to be a fun guy, really

i tell her,

holding her hand. you might

not believe this

but i used to be fun.

i used to like

to do things, go places,

enjoy life

in all its strange and wonderous

ways.

i'd be the first one on

the rollercoaster,

or to jump

out of a plane,

or to suggest Indian food

for dinner.

she looks at me,

and pulls her hand away.

really? she says.

so what happened?

where should i start, i tell

her.

Donna, Stacy,

or Dianne?

don't look at the eclipse Moe

i try to tell

my seeing eye dog, Moe,

not to look

at the solar eclipse,

but does he listen,

no.

he's incorrigible ,that dog,

so now we have

another

dog, two actually, one for

me and one

for him.

keeping one eye open

it's not a crime,

a mortal

sin,

her leaving the milk out

overnight on

the counter.

it's not worthy

of an argument,

or in filing for

an early divorce,

but maybe it's a portent

of things to come.

a callousness

of some sort

in knowing what's right

or what's wrong.

but it all adds up, so

i'll sleep with one eye

open

from now on.

the slippery floor

we are all trying

to get in

or get out of something.

we're pulling

on doors, opening windows.

crawling

running,

limping towards where

we want to be.

sometimes

we never know if we're

coming or going.

the floor is often

so slippery.

just one book

who knew?

who knew these things would come

to pass?

what Nostradamus

type

character

predicted this.

what soothe or sayer

saw it all

in his or her

crystal ball

from the outset.

the way we live, who we

are,

the shape that the world

is in

from start to finish,

how it all ends.

what book

holds the answers that we

seek?

just one.

i believe.

so far, i haven't heard back

i write a letter

to the IRS and address it to

whom it may

concern.

i hope you're happy now!

and that you're

enjoying

my ten thousand dollar

check again.

i'm thinking about migrating

out of this country,

and maybe

heading to

Spain or France, maybe

Costa Rica.

someplace

where they don't rob

me with a fountain pen.

you'll miss me then, won't

you?

so far i haven't heard back.

the confessional booth

my friend Jimmy,

feeling glum and

in a confessional mood,

tells me that

there was a bad

stretch of time in his history

when

he woke up with fast women,

most nameless,

and drank

too many martinis,

danced the night away

until the soles

of his shoes broke.

it was a rollercoaster

ride of hangovers

and fragile hearts and visits

to the free clinic

for a healing dose.

i'm not proud of those days,

he told me,

but in truth they were

a lot of fun.

each night a mystery,

the mystery solved, and then

doing it all over

again. i sort of miss looking 

for my pants 

in the early morning fog

of a strange house,

and clicking on my key fob

to find my car.

tap, spring, sparkling or hose?

having grown

up on

warm hose water from Mr. Green's

back yard,

the long

black hose wound tightly

and neat

against his brick home,

and line of

gorgeous roses, i'm taken aback

by the waiter's offer

of tap,

or spring, or sparkling.

asking me which one he

should bring.

such a luxury these days

to have choice

and not have

to run the hose for five minutes

to get the bugs

and snakes out,

and to cool it down.

PCH in Kingston Jamaica

of course,

it's a weekly thing, winning

the publishers clearing house

sweepstakes

award.

five point five million and a pearl

white Mercedes Benz.

Mr. David Sayers

calls me

everyday to convince me

delivery

is coming soon, all i need to do

is purchase him

a five hundred dollar

Vanilla Gift card

from Safeway

to register my claim.

i tell him that i love his

Jamaican accent, that he denies

he has.

he's a Christian, he tells me.

a pastor

with a large flock

of followers,

and that the Lord has blessed

me with this money

today.

after a few weeks or so of

wasting

his time and mine, we become

friends.

i look forward to his calls,

and hearing

the chickens

and roosters, the farm yard

where he lives,

on the other end.

marry into money

i read where

five million should be enough to retire

on.

that should

do it

so that you never have to worry

again

about food, shelter, the necessities

of life.

i think i need to live

a few hundred years

more to get there,

or find a wealthy wife.

the benefit of old age

he gets away

with murder, not literal murder,

but public

displays

of anger because he's

old

and crotchety.

there is no filter anymore.

he's paid his dues.

close the damn

door he shouts in the restaurant,

do you mind

moving over,

i have to sit down too,

he says on the bus.

he says what he wants,

not to himself,

but so everyone can hear.

he doesn't care, he's plum out

of niceties.

there is no fear.

the price of business

it's the price of doing

business

i tell myself, as i write a check

and then another,

whittling down

the account to bare bones.

the unexpected is bound

to happen at some point.

it's what the rainy funds

are for, and yet. 

it still stings as i write

another check before

closing the desk drawer.

the straight road

give me the straight road,

the boring

stretch of highway.

the smooth pavement

of black top

through the fields.

let it go on forever with no

curves, no turns, no detours

to navigate.

keep the mountains

in the distance.

give me the road of

no drama, just maybe a

stop along the way

to eat and drink.

that will suffice.

we were never friends, she tells me

i forget

that she's having a hip replaced

and a week goes by.

she texts me and tells

me to never

contact her again.

we're not friends, we never

were friends,

you obviously don't care about me.

no card, no flowers, no

best wishes

no emoji prayer hands.

nothing.

i stare at my calendar

on my desk.

i see a dentist appointment,

and a visit to the vet

for my cat.

i see no mention

of her hip replacement.

i have to figure out how to

use my phone at some

point to remind of things

like this.

Stand by Your Man

there was a dive

bar

around the corner, called Moe's.

breakfast all day.

the specialty was

creamed beef

on toast.

there was the same

fat woman

behind the bar, standing

at the gridle

for nearly thirty years.

who Moe was no one ever knew.

the juke box

played music. five plays

for a quarter.

mostly country. 

songs by men named Earl,

or Dwight,

or Buddy,

or women with names

like Loretta

or Tammy.

somehow there was no

observenance

of the smoking code.

the place was blue with it.

it was an older crowd 

at the end

when they shuttered the place.

tears were shed,

rats were let

out the back after being

fumigated.

the floor washed of

blood stains.

urine stains.

a few teeth too.

beer and whiskey spills.

the toilets

at last were fixed and flushed.

love was made

and lost in that old bar

on those slippery booths.

lives were spent.

marriages occurred,

divorces

celebrated,

and now,

there's nowhere to go, 

but home.

suddenly

it's a dry cleaners with a bright

white sign.

overnight for a shirt

and pair of pants, pressed

and steamed clean.

twelve dollars.

Lucky's it's called.

cracking a few eggs

to show

us what ants we really are

mother

nature

throws us an earthquake

or Sunami,

or a cyclone

once in a while.

she cracks open the ground

shakes up

the buildings,

swallows whole

some lives,

some cars. and then says,

ha.

there you go.

she can be a bitch when

she wants to,

she's not all sunshine

and lollipops

all the time.

the retirement community over 60

the lawns are perfect.

manicured,

trimmed, and emerald

green.

it's as beautiful as any

cemetery i've ever seen.

there are two fountains

in a circle

of stone

embracing water.

the clubhouse is grand,

it sits in the middle with

French doors

and gables.

did it somehow slide

down from Alps

and end up here

in Dumfries Virginia?

to the left is the Olympic pool,

to the right

are the courts for pickleball.

twelve in all.

reserve early. don't be late.

the golden

haired ladies, bejeweled

in white

shorts and dresses,

with their hair and nails

done are aglow in a light

sweat,

and silvered men

with richly tanned

bellies run gently from

the side to side with paddles.

it's not over, not yet.

so what's the deal with her always being late

is she purposely late?

again.

is this

some sort of message, some

weird

psychological

game

of cat and mouse?

is she being passive aggressive,

sending me

signals

between the lines?

is she narcissistic,

wasting

my time?

a sociopath? or am i reading

too many

personality

disorder books again,

and not realizing

that getting dressed

and putting on makeup

just takes

a lot of time?

chasing money

the awkward

call is

when someone forgets to pay

you,

and you have to text

or email, or

get them on the phone

after a few weeks

have gone by.

would

you go into a store

with a cart

full of groceries

and not pay,

would you sit in a restaurant

eat a meal,

have a drink or two,

and then say oops,

i don't have

my check book or money

with me?

and yet

when someone works in

your house

for two weeks, it's okay

to let it slide, to let

the worker chase 

his money.