new year's resolutions

find joy and
prosperity,
inner peace,
and contentment.
self knowledge
and direction.
live with
compassion
and forgiveness.
be thankful
and give.
have an open
heart, an open
hand, an
open mind
towards others.
be kind and
show
forgiveness.
love, and
pray without
ceasing.

you look marvelous

i saw you bent
over a garbage
can in your cute
black dress the
other night, new
year's eve. you
were sick with
drinking too much,
and stuffing too
many shrimp and
rubbery wads of
calamari into
your laughing
mouth. chewing
might be a good
idea next time.
but you had on very
nice heels, quite
sexy and a pearl
necklace that
dangled seductively
down the front.
i see you even had
your hair done.
very nice. you
looked great, except
for the wretching
and groaning part
over the mouth of
that giant trashcan
in the alley.
and being pale
and sort of green.
happy new year.

ecology 101

recycle this
you tell her
in a not so
pleasant way,
as she holds
the empty blue bin
out and reprimands
you for not
separating the
tin from the plastic
the paper from
the garbage, etc.
etc.. i remember
my father pouring
motor oil down
the sewer drain,
i tell her,
i'd never do that.
i never litter
either, i don't
even open a gum
wrapper without
disposing of it
properly, not once
have i thrown out
the car window an
empty box of junior
mints, so don't
get all self
righteous on me
with your ecology
religion and your
recycling crusade.
i was at the first
freaking earth day,
for god's sake.
geez marie. she
starts to laugh
and puts the blue
bin down and throws
in an empty grey
goose bottle. what
is wrong with you
anyway, she says.

they hate you

you have no
money. your pockets
are empty, so
you make a sign
and go out to
the road, where
the others are.
they begrudgingly
give you room,
they disdain you
though, in your
brown loafers
and black over
coat. your white
silk scarf blows
dramatically in
the breeze from
cars rushing by.
you are wearing
a nice watch too
and carrying a
cup of coffee
from starbucks.
a grande extra
hot no foam
soy latte. you are
not one of them,
but you have a
sign, you have a
family at home,
or so you lie and
tell them. you
leave out the part
about your skills,
your education,
your ability to
sing and dance.
but they see
through you just
the same. they know
that you are a
fool, unlike them.
so unlike them.
they shake their
heads as you pass,
taking turns for
the first car at
each red light.
they hate you
and yet they wish
that they had
coffee too.

the worried wife

this cat, this
cat again.
married too
long, settled
not in his
ways, but
into the yarn,
batting at
the bird cage,
who is no
friend. he is
restless, and
full of wonder.
in full hot
purr to get
out, to get in,
to play roulette
with what's out
there. you
remind me so
much of him.

vulture

her teeth are
in me, my blood
runs from her painted
lips. i am limp
and white, she
circles me like a
vulture from high
above, swooping
down with black
wings, with sharp
talons. her teeth
are in me. i have
no fight left to
give. my wounds are
beyond healing. my
faith is fading
in what is wrong
and what is right.

go slow

unwind this clock
slow it down to a
tick, to small almost
whispering tocks.
turn the hourglass
back over, let the
sand start again
to fall, don't grow
old, don't fade,
don't disappear
into memory, that
isn't much to ask,
to let time and
yesterday, go by
with a slow,
slow crawl.

grocery list

you have no
food in the house,
but you keep
returning to
the icebox to
check anyway.
it's cold breath
exhales on you
with a sigh
of no. still
nothing.
so you make a
list of things
you want, and
need, before you
go. you put
love at the top
of the list.
in fact it heads
the list in bold
black letters,
it's the title
of your list. love.
and then milk
and bread,
eggs and oranges.
potato chips. you
put down shampoo,
but quickly cross
that off, then
write oatmeal,
those little dark
chocolate espresso
beans, lettuce.
and a few other
things, that
don't beat, or
bleed.

the pink bottle

i know what
i like, and
it's not indian
food, mongolian,
or thai,
okay, i'll give
thai a try if
it's spicy and
fried, but no
ethiopian, or
indonesian, or
croation grub
for me. nah.
it's not that
i'm not adventurous
in a culinary
sense, it's just
that i know what
i like, and when
i'm hungry and
starving, i don't
want to take a
pepto bismol
chance.

don't compromise

she says,
with her legs
crossed and
a pleasant smile
radiating with
sunsine on
her face, she
sees good
at the end
of every road,
she says. steve.
trust me on this
you need to
upgrade. it's
time. choose
more wisely.
be gentle, be
compassionate,
be kind, but
guard your heart
until you are
sure and ready
and repeat after
me, don't
compromise.
don't compromise.
don't compromise.

party girl

with your pointed
party hat on,
askew, and your
smile littered
with booze, so
soon, so long before
the clock ticks
twelve, checking
your phone, your
your shoes, your
new blouse torn
seeing who
in the mirror,
almost you, almost
blue. holding
the whistle horn
in your hand, with
friends around,
moving side to
side as if on
a wobbly ship,
waiting, waiting
for ball to drop,
for the band to
play, for someone,
anyone, to kiss you
and tell you that
next year will
be just fine, that
everything will
be okay.

trust me

make a left
at the light.
ignore the one
way sign. the no
turn arrow, just
run the red,
if you have
to. the green
takes so long.
trust me. avoid
the cars honking
at you, coming
towards you
with their
headlights on,
flashing their
highbeams.
you are fine.
trust me.
keep driving.
slowly though.
make a right
into the alley.
yes. the dark
alley, where
it's tight and
narrow, where
there are strangers
lurking in
the shadows, once
again trust me.
i know what
i'm saying sounds
crazy. but
you'll be
fine, you'll be
just fine. i'd
never steer you
wrong. now
park, and get
out and come up
the fire escape.
don't use the front
door, no one comes
in that way
anymore. trust
me. this is just
the beginning.
you won't be
disappointed.
trust me.

lie still for a moment

it's a surgical
cut at this point.
clean and deep,
and exact. it's
benign, relax.
it's removed.
no one dies
after all. let
me hold it up
to the astringent
neon light. see.
all better now.
now go home and
pull up a chair
to the moon, to
the stars, drink
your fill, and
start again
tomorrow on
that next chapter.

white balloon

this moon,
this bright
sliver
of stone,
like a cold
white heart
removed,
chipped and
bruised,
rises and
falls and
sits like
a child,
blank faced,
and holding
a fragile,
tethered
balloon
on the cold
front stoop.

Vitamin V

you are getting
older. yes.
all parts of
you are getting
older, but i
digress. if
in fact you
choose to try
and enhance your
love making skills
by taking a
little blue pill,
and four hours
pass without
it subsiding,
i thought why
panic or bother
with calling
in a doctor,
why not just
call in the
rockettes.

time

the train is
moving fast. you
put your hand out
the window and feel
the wind of time.
you feel the sun
against your face,
you are still
young, but this too
will change. the
train is moving fast.
your son is beyond
your reach, he is
a man now, and has
his own life to tend
to. he loves you,
but things have
changed. things have
changed for the
good with so many
others too. the
train is moving fast.
you see your parents
lie down where they
will be when it's
time. they acknowledge
you without words
in the shadow
of the gleaming track.
you see those that you
love out the window.
they are on the
platform, with their
hands in their coats,
they are smiling,
they are happy to
have known you and you
wave, and wave until
your arms are heavy.
you want to yell out
to everyone that things
will be fine, don't
worry. but the
train is moving fast.

dark heart

from the dark
heart of somewhere,
maybe in a dream,
the gales have taken
down trees in
a violent stretch
of night, while
the rain fell, and
you reached across
the bed for someone
who wasn't there.
and dogs howled
in the distance.
and an ambulance
gave chase down a
blackened street.
and the sun tried
to pull away the clouds,
the bruised blue
land of sky that
refused to yield,
what has come is not
over, more trees need
to rise from their
entrenched selves,
to thunder down, to
be uprooted from
deep within their
longing to live,
and fall, and fall
and be done,
and lie across
the ragged sleeve
of stream, until more
time and the push
of high water
takes even that away.

the letter

the black clawed
scrawl of your
letter, in old
ink, smeared wet,
under tears, perhaps,
or a drink spilled.
and i smell the
ashes of your
cigarette caught
up in the folds
before you sent
it out with the
morning mail. and
how you wait
and wait for a
reply while i stand
in the window,
in sunlight, pleased
to be done
with you, and to
be holding this
letter as further
proof of our love's
demise. write more
often. i need to
know the pain
that you are under.

in the rain

two a.m.
is not a time
to be walking
around town
in the rain,
in these worn
shoes, and
battered hat.
there are alot
of dark and
dangerous
shadows moving
about. my overcoat
is soaked down
to my skin.
my watch has
stopped at
midnight, and
the trains
aren't running.
i can walk
a ways. find
a diner open
all night. i
can make small
talk with the
waitress in her
pink dress, as
skinny and lonely
as the lamp post
that lights my
way. i can
read yesterday's
newspaper,
i can befriend
that dog in the
alley shivering
with his head
in a can,
gnawing on bone
that will choke
him dead before
dawn. or i can
just keep
walking, walking.
in the rain.

grand canyon

your family
calls you out of
the blue, they
ask you if you'd
like to go to
the grand canyon
with them this
summer. a family
outing. a reunion
of sorts. bonding,
that sort of thing.
you hesitate. you
shift your feet
while standing
in the kitchen
with the refrigerator
door wide open. it's
deep and wide, you
can almost hear
your voice echo
when you say, oh my.
you feel the cold
wrap around your
bare legs. you
see a ketchup bottle,
and mustard.
pizza poorly wrapped
in foil. vodka.
a thin bottle
of green olives
afloat on the side
door. there's
an orange
with a blue green
bruise on it's
now flat side.
you tell your sister
no, perhaps next year.

your hands

your hands
have provided
for you. you admire
their selflessness.
they have not failed
you in anyway
throughout your
life. you take
them for granted
that they will
always be there.
always ready to
help you throughout
the day, or night.
you are amazed at
how they heal
after being abused
by you, by being
cut or blistered,
or sore from
the lifting and
work that makes
your day. they
withstand the heat
and frigid air that
you expose them to.
your hands ask
for nothing in
return. you wish
that you could be
more like they are.

the gold necklace

you tell her
that you'll never
leave her. you say
this while folding
your shirts and
placing them into
a suitcase that
lies on the bed.
you tell her that
you'll never betray
her, that your
loyalty is without
measure. you slip
a gold necklace
deep within
the pocket of
your folded pants
before you close
the suitcase. you
tell her that you
love her and that
your love is the
love of poets, of
kings, of men who
go to war, holding
the hope of coming
home alive and
unwounded. these
words are dry as bones,
as the ashes of bones
in your mouth, you
can taste how bitter
they are. and you
wonder how did you
create such a world
as this, but you can't
stop your self. you
tell her that she looks
beautiful and kiss
her on the lips
before you go out
to a waiting cab.
you tell her
that you'll call
the moment you
get there, you tell
her that she is
the only one.

I'm so so sorry

before we begin
this relationship,
let me apologize
in advance for
all the stupid things
i'm about to do, or
say, or will forget
to do, or won't have
the knowledge or skills
to do in order
to make you happy.
i'm just going to
write it down on a
sheet of paper.
i'm sorry, followed
by fill in the blanks,
and when i don't live
up to your high or
even low standards,
just fill in the
appropriate grievance,
and i'll initial it
and date it. and there
you go. you'll have
my apoogies right
there in front of you.
i think this will
keep the peace and
keep us together
for at least a few
weeks or so. maybe
even a month, how
sweet would that be.

i'll call, really, i promise

i've got your
number. it's right
here on a napkin.
i was eating
chow mein when i
took it down, so
there's one number
that's a little
greasy and smeared
with fried rice.
those egg rolls
were dripping with
oil. it could
be a three, or it
could be an eight.
in fact there are
a couple of fuzzy
numbers.hmmm.
i'll try both, but
later, i promise,
when i get some
time. i've
got these socks
that need ironing,
and the dog needs
a bath, and someone's
at the door. but
i'll call, i promise,
i'm really really
interested. don't
let this slight
delay fool you. i'm
on top of things.
i think we'd make
a sharp couple.
you and me. this
could really work.
talk later. okay?

lemonade

there are no
mistakes,
or miscues,
or wrong turns.
nothing you
have done has
not had reason.
not one person
you have met has
not had a good
consequence
upon your life.
you'll never
take the wrong
road, or marry
the wrong
person, or
take the wrong
job, despite
how bad things
may seem. all
is towards good,
if you surrender,
trust and believe.

the third and final marriage

my third and final
marriage will be the one
to watch. the one to
set the standard of being
in love happily ever
after. you'll see.
i haven't gone out on
four thousand and sixty
seven dates for nothing.
i've learned alot
in these last ten years,
such as, never ever
date married women,
or pregnant women, or
women with their wedding
pictures still up on
the wall. or no job.
watch out for 'the lady
in red', or the one
who wants to come to
your house carrying a
six pack of bud in
a rose embroidered dress,
be careful with the tattooed
ones, or the ones with
piercings who look like
their faces fell into
a tackle box of hooks,
lines and sinkers,
be leary of those with
no money, no time, no
energy or who have never
read a book, and a rash
that comes and goes,
or women with the jimmy
leg, or women with one
arm shorter than the
other. don't go out
with blind women in
ohio, or women with
a bad case of psoriasis,
or women whose husbands
are sleeping on the couch
in the basement. don't
date women with money
problems, or who need
constant mental health
care, or women with more
than two cats, or two
dogs. stay away from
the women who are sex
phone operators with
seven kids from three
different husbands,
or who have a blackberry
glued to their hand and
have to pee every ten
minutes, or the ones
who who wear baby blue
jump suits with zipppers
down the back. don't date
women who are prison
guards and carry a gun
in their purse. or women
without a car, or who
can't or won't drive at
night, or women who
knit things to hang
on the wall. steer
clear of the women
with names like brandy,
or bambi, or candy,
or mandy who say they
love you on the very first
date. or who send
you pictures of themselves
jumping naked on a bed.
i'm just saying.
be careful out there.
it's a jungle. it's a
madhouse, but when my
ship comes in, i'm done.
i'll live forever in
marital bliss. can i
get an Amen on that?

how are you?

you tell everyone
that everything
is fine. that your life
is in order. these
are the words you
need to say, to
go on with your day,
with your life. to
keep the conversation
pleasant and short.
no one wants to know
about illness, or death,
or a child in trouble,
or a broken pipe, or the
lack of money to make
ends meet this month,
or a looming divorce.
it's easier to just
say, that everything
is fine, and smile
and say merry
christmas and give a
kiss to the cheek,
then go on.
everything is fine.
just fine. and how
are you?

it's my party

you plan a party and
invite all of your
friends. three of
them can't make it,
but the fourth says
she'll try. but
she's the only
one that counts.
and you sweeten
the deal by telling
her that you love
her, but that only
makes her cringe,
and pull the phone
away from her ear.
she doesn't feel that
way about you, but
you don't care.
you want her to come,
there is awkward
silence on the other
end, so you lie to her.
you tell her that
she means nothing to
you, there has never
been any feelings
towards her, but
it's too late. she
has already changed
the maybe to a no in
her mind. you decide
that you need to find
more friends, better
friends and ones that
like you in return and
have more time. you
write this on a sheet
of paper of things
to do in the new year,
and tape it to the
refrigerator. but you
have the party anyway.
you have your dog,
you have chips,
and dip, you have wine
and shrimp neatly
arranged in a circle
in a large white bowl,
you put on a hat,
turn the lights down
and the music up,
you dance and dance,
while your dog watches
from the couch with
his hat on, chewing on
a plastic cup.

next on my list

let's take
down the tree
now, she says.
let's strip it
bare, remove
the bulbs, unravel
those lights
and pack it all
away. let's get
the tinsel up,
and the needles
vacuumed
that litter
the rug. let's be
done with it, okay?
and i stare at
her from across the
room in my new
bedroom slippers
and black socks,
holding my new
book on ten places
you'll never get
to before you die,
and say why, but
why now. it's only
the day after
christmas. and she
says, with her
hands on her hips,
when it's over
it's over.
and after the first
of the year, your
next on my list.

cat in the window

the cat
in the window,
curled warm
like a fire,
unstirred
by the white
snow that falls
like prayers
outside,
sleeps and
sleeps within
it's cat like
dream. she
is content,
like me,
with being in
a world where
nothing is
ever close to
what it seems.

the business section

a woman in
the coffee shop
approaches and asks
if she can read
my newspaper. she
is weeping to herself
or maybe it's the
cold air within her
eyes, she is alone,
and old, and is wearing
many layers of worn
clothes. her hands
are calloused
and dirty. i ask her
which section would
she like, and she
says, the business
section please, and
i'll give it back,
don't worry. i'll
return it before
you leave. but she
doesn't.

in good time

when the lights
go out, i am fine.
i can live
in the dark, i've
done so for many
years. i have
a candle or two handy
for such occasions.
and when the water
stops flowing i
am okay with that
too. i put a bucket
out the window when
it rains and it's
more than enough.
and when the heat
dies, i throw another
log onto the fire,
i place another
blanket on the bed,
i wear gloves and
socks and layer upon
layers of clothes
to keep me warm.
but when you
disappeared
without a note,
and the room went
silent, i had no
answer for that.
my survival skills
did not include
such a thing as
living my life
alone. but that
too shall be
taken care of in
good time.
i'm working on it,
as i always do.

pendulum

the pendulum of
you is such that
i've rarely seen
it stop and sit
still in the middle,
it's swing is
violent between
the ups and downs.
between the dark
and light of your
mind and mood.
you have no center,
no place to call
your own, no home,
or point of view
in which to stop
and breathe and
just be you. who
are you today,
dear girl.

the dance hall

there is no music
coming from the hall.
although there once
was. and people would
dance, and fall in
love. but that was
a long time ago.
now the doors are
closed, the windows
boarded up, the people
who once came are old,
or gone. but in the
wood there are names,
etched with pen knives
on the rail,
of molly and sam,
of joan and joe, of
others who danced
the night away, and
the dates are inscribed
too. lightly in the
stained wood, so many
dancers that have come
and gone. and then
there's me and you.

turkey reprieve

i bought a live
turkey for christmas
and kept him in
the yard, feeding
him for weeks,
corn meal, and
other assorted grains
suggested by the local
turkey rancher, jimmy,
i think his name was.
but i fell in love
with the turkey.
the cooing and gobbling
became music to my
ears and i couldn't
kill him. i couldn't
bring the axe down
upon his long stringy
neck. it just wouldn't
be right. so i had
pizza instead and he
joined me at the table.

closed for the holidays

you turn
the sign over.
closed for
the holidays.
it's stapled
to your chest,
over where your
heart used to be.
and people stare,
but they don't
ask. they see
a look in your
eye that you
are not to be
fooled with.
they press their
faces to the
window, wanting
a part of you, but
you are truly
closed. you have
had enough of
love, the commerce
of affection.
no sales will
be transacted
during this
period of time
and you wave them
away with your
hand. you fold
your arms
and point to
the sign on
your chest and
shake your head,
no. i'm sorry,
you whisper
through the window,
but we're closed.

working like a dog

you tell others
that you have to
work on christmas
day. that you have
no choice, your job
and schedule demands
it. your employers
have no feelings
for you and your
plight. they will
give you money in
place of the time
that you forefit
in order to survive
in this world. you
know no other way.
you tell others
that you are working
like a dog, but
then change that.
your dog was an
emperor who never
lifted a paw in
order to please
or help you with
your day. your dog
owned you in ways
that embarass you
when pressed for
details about his
his life, his
command over yours.
you envy your dog,
the way he could
sleep through every
problem, his lack
of interest in the
world, the news,
whether good or bad,
he never lost weight
or a minute of
sleep over a dog
he fell in love with.
little ever fazed
him, or kept him
from eating. his love
for you was measured
by the food you
provided, by the lifting
of him onto the bed.
of you scratching
his belly until
he fell asleep. i
have never worked
like a dog, at least
not like the one
i had.

the wallet

you find a wallet,
it's full of money.
soft bills, large
in denominations.
there are credit
cards and papers
with phone numbers
on them. there is
a license. a man's
face, about your
age. there are photos
of his family. of
his children. his
wife. they look
happy. they look
like what you had
once, a long time
ago. you say the man's
name to yourself.
you could be him,
you think, perhaps
a mistake has been
made. perhaps it's
your wallet. you
put the wallet into
your coat pocket.
and you go to his
house to begin
your new life. you
are confident that
they will accept
you. you are full
of optimism that
his wife will greet
you at the door,
and kiss you, and
feed you, and make
love to you that
night. the children
will welcome you
home. even the dog
will jump into your
lap. your optimism
is amazing, but you
know that you are
mistaken and that
this will not turn
out good, but you
go anyway, you feel
you have no choice.

you awaken

in a bed that
is not your own.
the light is
different. you
were married
once, but she is
not with you,
there is someone
else beside you
now, sleeping. her
back is turned.
the color of
her shoulders
is golden, like
apples. she
smells like lilacs.
she is not
the one, but you
are here, with
her. you watch
as the new sun
rises and
empties the room
of shadow. you
have nothing new
to say. no words
can describe how
lost you are. but
you will say
something when
she awakens,
something that will
allow you to
come back again,
and again.

my new pony

thank you santa
for the new pony
that you left for me
this christmas
morning.
i don't know how
you got him into
the house last night,
but it woke me up
with his naying and
walking around in
those metal horseshoes.
he already had his
head inside the
cupboard eating sugar
cubes and oatmeal.
i hope those scuff
marks come out of
the floor, and those
stains from the rug.
it would have been
nice if you had tied
him up though. the
house is a mess. but
i'm grateful, really,
he's wonderful. i
think i'll call him
seabiscuit or rudolph,
it's a toss up right
now. thankfully i have
a snow shovel and a
bag of carrots.
he's already had a
couple of 'accidents'.
i've always wanted
a pony i could call
my own for as long as
i can remember, but
i didn't expect him
this year, after all
those years of asking
and being really good.
maybe i'll ride him
to work on monday
after i get some
chaps, a hat and boots.
this is the best
christmas ever, well
sort of. my list
has changed over the
years if you hadn't
noticed and at the top
of the new list
were the the two twins
from sweden, the runway
models, gretchen
and nicole, but hey,
maybe next year we
can do better, right?
thanks again santa.

communion

she texts me from
mass, as she stands in
line for communion
her hands folded
in front of her,
typing with her
thumbs, her tongue
is about to go out to
get the blood and body
of Christ. it's
Christmas eve and
she's lonely, and
across the country,
and sad and trying
to make sense of it
all, trying so hard
to find peace.
find peace. find peace.
when all along it
rests within her.

i'll meet you there

you're not wearing
that out, are you.
she says to me as
i put on my favorite
long black coat
and ripped jeans.
you look like a
homeless man, she
says. go ahead, look
in the mirror. and
why didn't you shave,
you can't go to a
party looking like
that. look at me,
i'm in a dress, a
red dress, she spins
around to make
a point, we can't
go as a couple with
this disparity in
style. hmm, i say.
okay, maybe we
should drive
separately, you go
on ahead i'll meet
you there.

the science of you

the science of you
evades me. the math
of how you think.
pascal would be proud.
the equations that
make up who you are,
baffle me and keep
me wide awake beneath
galileo's stars.
no theorem can explain
what makes you come
and go, or stay, or
what keeps that center
of you so goddamn
cold. you are an
eternal mystery that
i'll never solve
no matter how many
books i read, or
martinis that i shake
and drink. you are a
star collapsing upon
itself, and i'm pulled
and pulled within.

the empty seat

can i have this
seat, if it's not
taken, if you
don't mind. i'd
like to sit next
to you. it's the
only i seat where
i can sit, where
i can finally take
off my coat and stop
circling the room.
it's time
to stop. and you
are kind to offer
me this place
beside you. i know
that it's only
for a short while,
that you'll have
to leave, but i'm
so glad that we've
met, and sad to
see you go. i'll
try to save yours
while your gone,
but some promises
i can't keep.

your dark hair

your brush full
of hair, long and
brown, dark as
the woods before
the sun goes down.
it's a tangle of
you. and i can see
you in the mirror,
standing there,
stroke after stroke,
easily, calmly,
and knowing that
i'm there, you have
all the time in
the world to brush
your long dark hair.

milk

you lift
the carton
off the shelf
from the bright
cool light of
the refrigerator
and even before
you open the lid
to smell, you
know already that
it's gone bad,
that's it's sour,
that it's
shelf life has
expired. the
occasional smile
and touch
of that
bright light
didn't save
it, nor did the
cool dark air
in which it sat
for so long,
unstirred,
untouched and
perhaps
in some strange
way, unloved.

new year's eve

it was several
years ago, walking
through old town
on new year's eve,
going to dinner,
to where we had
gone before, many
times, and she was
wearing black, as
always, with her
flashing brown eyes,
and silver bracelets,
and she dropped an
earring on the street.
we both heard it
hit and roll away.
but we couldn't find
it in the dark,
although we tried,
in the cold, with
snow coming down,
but we were late.
so we went on. it
was our last new
year's eve together.
but when i walk by
that spot in any
season, years
later, on the
sidewalk where
we were that night.
i'm still looking
down, looking for
that earring, for
her, for what i've
lost and what i
haven't yet found.

the kissing lesson

it's easy
she says.
do like this.
put your
lips together,
that's right,
watch me.
pucker,
press them
tight, now
move closer,
move an inch
away from me.
closing your
eyes is optional,
but i'd suggest
closed for this
first time.
no, no, don't
open your mouth
we aren't
gold fish.
now come in
and press gently
your lips
onto mine. hold
it for a second,
okay, okay.
that was nice.
see, do you see
how this is
done. now, okay.
very good.
let's try
it again. and
later we'll
try something
a little more
complicated on
the couch.

to bed early

you are weary
from the day,
the week,
so you go to
bed early. you
turn everything
off, the phone
the lights,
the tv, the
computer blinking
down the hall.
you block all of
the clocks in
your room with
shirts and socks.
and you lie
there at nine
thirty and wish
there was someone
there to read
to you, to scratch
your back gently
and massage
the kinks out
of your muscles
as you drift
slowly into that
sweet nether
world of dreams.

my new family

i was out
drinking the
other night
and i lost
my credit card,
somewhere between
il fornaios
and a parking
garage. it was
very windy,
so it could
be anywhere.
today i got my
statement and
apparently i've
bought a new
car, and have
adopted a family
of five
from thailand
and they all
should be arriving
within the week
depending upon
visa, passports,
and criminal
investigations.
i have no place to
put them and i'm
low on coconut
milk and basil
chicken. but hey,
i'm kind of excited.
i've got a new
instant family.
shame they won't
be here for the
holidays to enjoy
my tree that i
just decorated and
set on the counter.
with lights
and everything.
i'm in the market
for bunk beds, so
if you have any,
cheap, give a
shout out.