a continental breakfast and free Wi-Fi

tired

with driving all night

in the rain,

i suggest that the next motel

we see,

we stop

and spend the night.

what about

this one

she says, free Wi-Fi,

a continental

breakfast

in the morning, 

the vacancy light is green.

the pillows

are soft,

and the mattress comfy

and clean.

it's very private and quiet

with parking

in the rear.

slamming on the brakes,

i look at her and ask

how she

would know this.

her strawberry patch

she told

me

she was going to grow

strawberries

in her

back yard,

and sell them on the corner.

i'm not joking

she said.

you'll see.

you'll see.

but next spring she was gone,

a tiny

bump found.

and now

when i walk by

her house,

i see the strawberries

are out

there

along fence, growing

wildly,

going strong.

the new house cleaner

my new

housekeeper has at

last arrived.

she says

she's from Paris, France,

but i suspect

it's Paris, Texas.

the lipstick

and perfume

is refreshing though

after the likes

of Wanda

and her minions.

but she doesn't have a lick

of an accent.

and the black stockings

and heels

don't fool me

one bit

with her little duster

in hand.

she says, what's that?

when i show

her the washing

machine.

i tell her where

the linen closet is and

the cleaning supplies

under the kitchen

sink, then ask her 

who that enormous

man is waiting out in the van

she came in.

he's my friend, not to worry.

but can you

pay me before i begin?

the magical world

is it real

money, or imaginary dollars.

stacked

up

in the magical world

of high

and low

finance.

will it be gone soon,

slip sliding

away,

like a fat fish in my

hands,

as the boat rocks.

will i

be eating tomato

soup

in a tent beneath 

the over ramp,

wringing out my wet

pants

and socks.

how it usually goes

they're back.

i hear

the morning rustle of their wings

and

birds

barking.

feathering the nest

again,

in the small

corner of the soffit,

into a crease

of wood.

eggs will

be laid soon

i suppose.

it seems that's how it

usually goes.

boy or girl, easy to find out

no need

for genetic testing,

or

pulling down one's drawers

or lifting

up a dress

to determine, boy or girl

when trying

out for school

sports teams.

no.

just ask them

to tell you what happened

yesterday

in school.

the boy will talk for five

minutes

summing it all up

with clarity

and in an efficient manner,

while the girl will go on

and on

for an hour, or longer,

adding in a bevy of useless

and unrelated

information, drifting off

into a mind numbing

word salad.

she may never

get to an end and finally

ask,

so what was the question?

that is not my baby

there's a knock

at the door.

i look through the peephole

to see

who it is.

Mormons?

girl scouts selling cookies?

my neighbor

wanting to borrow

a cup

of cold pressed olive

oil?

someone serving

me a subpoena again?

what is it this time?

it looks like a young woman

out there

she's holding a small child

in her arms,

this can't be good.

quickly i drop to the floor

and crawl

around turning off

the tv

and all the lights, but

she keeps knocking.

i know you're in there,

she says.

just open the door, it's

not your baby.

don't worry.

i wipe the sweat off my

brow

and open the door.

what?

how can i help you?

i'm new in the neighborhood

and we're starting

a morning playgroup

with all the other mothers,

and we were wondering if

any children live

here.

we'd love to have them join us.

i open

the door to show her my

living room.

beer cans everywhere,

pizza boxes,

fishing equipment

and hunting rifles.

there's a poster of Farah

Faucet in a red

bathing suit

on the far wall.

what do you think? i ask her.

oh my,

she says. sorry to bother you.

no more TikTok

i ask

my ninety-five year old father

if he's concerned

about the country

losing Tik-Tok.

what?

he says, staring at his wrist

watch.

my watch is fine.

he puts it up to my ear.

do you hear

that, tick tock, tick tock.

look over

there on the wall,

in five minutes the rooster

will come out

and go cock a doodle doo.

what do i care

about tick tock, time goes

on and on and on.

you can't stop it.

no, i tell him. not that tick tock.

TikTok.

it's in your phone.

what will people do when

they're in the waiting

room at the doctor's office,

or on a bus

or train, sitting there

for an hour.

how will people enjoy their

morning coffee without

scrolling

their phone and viewing

TikTok videos?

monkeys playing the piano,

grown

men and women

dressed up

like cats.

people falling down flights

of stairs,

or car crashes.

how will they live without

viewing all that?

i don't know, he says.

maybe they can read a book,

or a magazine,

or talk to each other.

maybe they can shut their

eyes and pray

or meditate.

pfffft, TikTok, who needs it.

my watch is fine,

thank you.

it's a Timex, you never have

to wind it up.

my musical talent

i have

no musical talent whatsoever,

no inkling

of chord

changes,

of piano keys, or pedals.

guitar strings.

bass or lead

means nothing to me.

the banjo is impossible,

as is the harmonica.

although for a certain

period of time

while driving around in

my friends 68

Chevrolet,

with a beer can between

my knees,

i could pound out

on the dashboard

the drum solo on

In-a-gadda-da-vida

by Iron Butterfly.

the art of taking selfies

it's getting

harder

and harder to take a good selfie

to post

online,

to show the world

how young

and handsome i still am,

despite

the weight gain

and bald head.

it's tough

finding the right light,

the right turn

of the head,

do i smile, do i look

straight ahead,

do i toss my head back

in a laugh?

will sunglasses and a hat

help?

how do i show the world

how wonderful

i still am?

maybe if i have the ocean

behind me,

or a plate

of food in front of me,

or a dog

in my lap,

it will distract them.

waving down the hot dog man at the ballgame

there's always

someone

pointing out to you what's

in a hot dog,

as you stuff

one into your

mouth,

dripping with relish

and mustard.

do you know what's

in there,

they ask?

they basically sweep

the butcher shop floors

of meat scraps

and form

them into shiny tubes

of pig skins.

i heard once that if you

feed them

to children that they will

get leukemia.

true story.

i keep eating, then wave

down

the hot dog man

for another.

do you want one?

my treat.

ok, but just one please.

in a heated bun.

going off the deep end with Jimmy

and what

exactly are your sources

i ask,

my friend

Jimmy,

the conspiracy theorist.

who exactly told

you that

the world

would end in five years

give or take

a few months,

if we don't stop carbon

emissions

and find a place

to put all the lithium

batteries.

some dude, i don't know,

he says.

he has a podcast.

he makes

artisan bread too.

farm raised children

they

were farmed raised

children,

penned into

small

lots at the daycare

center,

fed together,

bound

by ropes as they

walked

the street

by their teacher

masters.

unlike

fish or meat,

it was food coloring

and chemicals

of a different

sort

added to their

malleable brains.

at five pm,

into the arms

of tired parents,

they'd be released,

somehow

not the same.

the brand-new cherry red Tesla S

i see my neighbor Jim

pulling up in his brand new

cherry red

Tesla S.

it's beautiful. 

he parks along the curb

away from

a crew of

workers putting a new

addition

onto his house,

and building him a steel clad

fireproof garage

with gun turrets.

hey, i say to him, waving.

what did you do, hit the lottery?

rich uncle die?

love the addition.

and the garage.

he laughs as he gets out of the car.

no, nobody died,

it's just that business has been

great lately

ever since the election.

you know i'm in pharmaceutical

sales, right?

yeah, you told me last year

at the cookout.

well, business is booming

ever since the election.

my wife's business too, she's

a psychiatrist.

she's working sixty hours a week now,

people are lining up out

her door.

that's great, wow, i tell him,

as i stare into his car.

can i touch it?

sure, sure go ahead.

i started setting up a booth

down at all these protests. a little

pharmaceutical kiosk.

maybe you've seen the crowds on tv.

yeah, yeah, a giant cup of crazy.

i have been selling Prozac, Ozempic

and Xanax like hot cakes,

Ambien too,

as well as the generic brands.

i can't keep them in stock.

this may be the most profitable

year ever in my business.

i hope he alters the 22nd amendment

and runs for office again.

wouldn't that be wild?

i might finally be able to afford

that beach house in Dewey.

by the way,

if you're ever in the mood for

a part time job,

let me know, i can use all 

the help i can get.

but maybe don't wear your red hat,

okay, or your

Space X hat.

Mexican jumping beans

on

the back of comic

books,

there were ads

for things we could buy.

gum that would make

your tongue turn

black,

buzzers to shock

a hand

when shook,

b b guns,

cap guns,

ant farms, Mexican jumping

beans,

and magnifying glasses.

all easily

purchased with a coupon

and allowance

money

if you cut the grass,

through the U.S. mail.

weapons

of minor destruction.

we waited

daily,

impatiently, with elbows

on the window

sill.

what point would there be in that

like most

families in the sixties,

we had

a fishbowl.

a clear simple glass

bowl

with blue gravel

on the bottom,

and some

plastic shrubbery

for the

goldfish

to swim around

or through,

maybe a lighthouse

made of plastic,

too.

each day we'd come

home from

school

and drop pebbles of food

onto the water,

after scooping

out the dead fish,

never named of course,

what point would

there be in that,

a routine

we grew used to.

pleasantly unsurprised

there was

a redheaded boy,

muscular chap in the old

neighborhood,

who

was willing to beat

up anyone

half his size.

he'd carry his boxing

gloves

with him wherever

he went.

challenging

the smaller

fries,

and now

when i see him online,

fat

and old, alone,

dumb still as the ox

he was in

school,

I'm pleasantly

unsurprised.

much later in the night

it's later,

much later, while lying in bed,

and staring

at the shadowed

ceiling,

pondering

the argument

and what was said,

or left

unsaid.

is when the words

come to you,

brilliant

and clear.

damn it all, you mutter,

the win was so close,

so near.

whatever

there's

a point in your life,

a blissful,

Ghandi like point,

where

you don't care anymore,

not about

everything,

but little things,

minor

inconveniences,

small bumps in the road.

you shrug your

shoulders

and say oh well,

then move on.

the bigger things are

harder

though.

the ballot box

when

young, i don't remember

my mother

or father

wringing their hands

over

voting.

they went down 

to the local school and did it,

then came

home,

never to speak of it again.

they didn't huddle around

the tv

agonizing over Walter Cronkite

giving the count.

they had

work to do,

children to raise.

i never saw them heading

out the door

on a weekday

with a sign

and spray paint, 

megaphones

and cow bells, heading

downtown

to make a ruckus.

no.

i'd see my father with the lawn

mower

out front,

head down,

my mother out back,

hanging clothes on the line,

clothespins

in her mouth.

will Macy's understand?

the mail

is slow, very slow.

have they

gone back

to the pony express method

of delivery?

horses

and saddle bags,

riding fast

from east to west.

i see the mailman

trudging

up the street,

mumbling

incoherently.

it almost seems like

he doesn't

care, which

house, which number

which name

where he puts the mail.

will

Macy's understand though

why the bill

is late,

the gas company,

the ex-waiting

on her

alimony check?

will my credit score

be lowered?

will i end up in jail?

bitter fruit

i've chewed

on the bitter fruit

of jealously

before,

swallowed it,

bent over in the street

and let

it go.

it was mostly bottled

up anger,

fear

of being left behind,

of being

alone.

betrayed by someone

close.

and then years go by.

more time.

more water under that

broken

bridge,

but still a tinge of it

holds on.

broken windows

it's almost

a ghost town, the abandoned

buildings,

houses,

stores,

cars left to rust,

but there was life here

once.

i've seen it

in a book,

in a black and white

movie.

babies were born,

lives

lived.

love and hate, all of it

existed here

at one

time.

but now it's gone.

how quickly we move on.

i know someone who can help you with that

in a different

age

or time,

an era of horses

and farms,

hard work, you'd often

hear someone

give out the name of their

cobbler,

or carpenter.

there's a man, one might

say,

in town,

who can fix that for you.

but now,

it's, here's my therapist's

number,

or my psychiatrist's.

one leaning

on Freud,

the other Carl Jung.

i trust too much

i don't

know why or how it works,

but

i scan

the little lines

on the package

of food

and a ding

let's me know that

all is scanned

and

ready

for bagging.

i punch in one bag

and place

my carrots in.

five cents.

i trust so many things

in this

life that i don't

understand.

persistent acts of repetition

what is

life

but not

persistent

acts

of repetition.

the sun and moon,

in orbit,

even

the beat of a heart

says so,

the lungs,

taking

in

God given air

and then

the exhale,

but it's the daily task

that keeps

us anchored,

keeps us

from setting adrift

to uncertain

shores.

i'll have coffee please

and

a read

of the morning news

before

shoes go on,

and i'm out the door.

cherry blossoms in bloom

it's been a while

since

we've heard news about

the war.

about the death

count.

we haven't seen a photo

of buildings

bombed,

or children

on the street with little

or no clothes on,

starving. all quiet on

the eastern front.

but spring is here

and we have

cherry blossoms

to go see

downtown, maybe lunch

at Old Ebbitt's 

grill.

we refuse to be bored.

but is it mine?

for several years,

a girlfriend,

a pretty

but wild thing,

would take this day,

April first,

to call and tell me that

she was pregnant.

it worked

a few times, startling

me

into saying,

but is it mine?

while still young

it's a lovely

sight, this bowl of fruit

on the table.

the colors,

fresh

and bright.

the reds and yellows,

the green grapes,

apples

and bananas.

peaches too.

i hope someone stops

by soon,

to see and enjoy

this bowl

while everything is still

ripe.

accidental litter

i feel a tinge of guilt

as the wrapper

flies from

my hand, before i can

put it into the

waste basket.

i have no chance in

retrieving it

in this wind.

i watch it blow and tumble

down the street,

finally out of sight.

chasing it, 

as it is with anything

one chases,

would only bring defeat.

sleeping on the bus

i ask

the man kindly,

sleeping

against

my shoulder on the bus,

to please

move

to his own side.

he's crowding me,

entering

my social space,

but he doesn't

wake

up.

he takes my hand,

and mumbles

something

about his mother, his

father.

i stare out the window,

waiting for my

stop.

truly, it is what it's all

about.

avoiding being brainwashed

i cancel

the paper, three

subscriptions

to magazines,

i turn

off the tv,

the radio, i stop

scrolling my phone.

i put my fingers in

my ears

and stop

listening.

i'm becoming the 

Manchurian Candidate,

hypnotized.

i tell the neighbor

with flags

and signs in their yard,

to shut up,

then put a blindfold

around my eyes and buy

a white cane.

the silence truly

is blissful

in this golden age.

just around the bend

you believe

from early on, that money

will

fix things.

love too,

houses and cars,

jobs,

degrees

of some sort.

friends.

maybe a dog,

a child or two.

it's just around the bend

this thing

called happiness.

just out

of reach,

that carrot making

you pull

the cart further down

the road.

believing

that it's all true.

unexpected quicksand

after

too much wine

and moonlight, music

and

kissing,

she tells me about her many

lovers.

the trail

of broken

hearts she's left behind.

how they

still love her,

and call,

and text, and write apologetic

letters

wanting to regain

her heart.

i feel my legs sinking

into a quicksand

i didn't know

was there.

i'm grasping for vines

to pull

myself out.

is it too late again?

necessary pains

you need

a stitch in your side,

a bruise,

or stubbed

toe,

a minor cut or bump,

a small

pain,

a health scare

of no

importance

to make you realize

that you're alive

and well,

unlike so many others

and all is not

as bad

as you think it is.

most likely to succeed

it's hard

to be king or queen

and then

not be one.

it starts in high school,

the most

likely to

succeed. 

the prom

queen, the valedictorian,

the football star,

the pressure

is on

to be smart

and funny, to be pretty,

to be strong,

to be perpetually

on.

the fall is hard

and sadly,

it doesn't take long.

changing the world one scream at a time

i see my

neighbor come home after a long

day

of protesting

and screaming

at Tesla

drivers.

she's exhausted, her voice

is hoarse.

so how did it go?

i ask her.

she sits down on her stoop

with her

signs,

and cowbell, her drum

and air horn.

it went well, she says.

i think

we changed the world

for good this time.

we annoyed a lot of people.

but we need to step it up a little.

we're going to do it again

next weekend,

you should come.

by the way do you have

any

gasoline

or empty bottles,

some rags

you don't want?

the left and right hand

my left

hand though strong, and 

similar

to my right hand,

is not very

handy

at most things.

it can't write,

or play a guitar,

or text

very well,

but it gets by as best

it can,

with opening

jars

and scrambling eggs

in a pan,

though i'd never trust

it to hammer

a nail,

held by my other hand,

the good one.

her purse, a survivor's treasure chest

i'm in

the mood for something sweet,

but not

too sweet,

not gooey either, or

anything

that sticks

to my teeth. just a little

bite of something,

what's in your

purse,

dear?

perhaps a bit of chocolate,

maybe a stick of

gum?

she opens it up and pours

it onto

the table, there's

everything

under the sun.

from batteries,

to forks 

and knives, maps,

a bottle of

amoxicillin,

matches,

make up and a magnifying

glass.

being deserted on an island

with her

would be no problem.

a few

pebbles of old M and M's

finally roll out,

i grab one

and say, thank you hon.

the crowded bin

i'm writing

another letter to you.

one

i'll never send.

it says

everything i've ever

meant to say

to you and more.

but

i realize that you already

know all that,

so i ball it up and toss

across the room

towards

the crowded bin.

cucumber sandwiches and the minister's wife

i had a guy

working for me one summer,

a dude i picked

up outside

a liquor store, he claimed

to be

a painter

and carpenter.

i told him it was a one

day

try out,

to see how he did.

it was hot, so he took

his shirt off

as the woman of the house

brought us

out a pitcher of ice

tea

and tuna and cucumber

sandwiches

cut diagonally with

the crust cut off

and a handful of cookies.

unfortunately, my new

worker had a full

length tattoo of Satan

on his chest,

down to his belt buckle,

in bright red.

the devil was holding a pitchfork,

and flames

were coming

out of his mouth.

the woman dropped the tray

and ran

back into the house.

it was a one

day job.

she yelled out the window

to leave,

and dropped a check

in the mail.

the end of democracy, oh my

i have a talk

with my neighbor

over the fence.

'they' has bright blue hair

now, like

a robin's egg,

and a giant

cow ring in her nose,

the kind

they attach to livestock

when they

lead them

out of the barn

to be slaughtered.

she says,

you better store up on food,

Doritos and Skittles,

water,

household necessities,

matches

and batteries.

get ready, she says.

it's coming.

but why i ask her, why?

what's going on?

what's coming?

i look up into the sky expecting

to see an asteroid

streaking towards earth.

don't you watch CNN,

she says,

or MSNBC?

any minute now democracy

is going to end.

oh, dang.

and i just planned a cruise

to the Bermuda.

that's a shame, i tell

her, then slap a fat

rib eye steak on the grill

and pour myself

a tonic and gin.

that ice cream belly

it's time

to shed

that ice cream belly, those

wobbling

thighs

and

double chins.

it's been a long cold

winter.

time to get out there

and take a walk.

stroll

the park,

bike ride, take a spin.

but it looks like

rain,

doesn't it?

let's stay in.

Donald's shopping list the first 100 days

while giving a speech,

the president

drops

a piece of paper from his coat

pocket.

it's a shopping list.

it reads,

three new red ties,

another

blue suit,

three white shirts

and one pair of white 

golf shoes.

below that there's milk

and bread,

eggs,

yellow hair dye,

a new comb

and Coppertone spray

on tan

in a can.

a box of Sharpies,

ice cream and diet cokes

are next.

ten rubbers stamps

with refillable ink

that say your Visa and Green card

have been revoked

Get Out,

are on the list too.

all of that followed by

Greenland,

Cuba,

the Panama Canal,

parts of the Ukraine,

and Canada.

fortunately, his wife sees

the dropped list

and picks it up

before the starving jackals

at CNN and CSNBC

get a hold of it.

whew.

close one.

why is this fish orange?

nearly

everything has paint in it,

a food

coloring

or dye.

not to mention sugar

and seed oils.

the chips you eat,

reaching

deep into the bag,

look at the stains on your

fingers,

your mouth.

cookies

and cake,

candy.

cereals, each more addictive

than heroin.

the fish

pulled out of the ocean,

the meat

and poultry.

they're sticking needles

into our

food,

jab after jab filling

their veins

with chemicals

so that everything is fatter

and looks

better

for your snacking

pleasure

or candlelight dinners,

all of it gumming

up your heart.

she's a gourmet chef now

she was a strange

little

girl

from Sperryville.

even at ten

she wore

black

and had make up on

like Morticia.

when her gerbil died,

all the kids gathered

around

and placed

little Sam

into a shoe box,

then took

him out

to the back of the yard

for a burial

service.

but the girl,

said,

why are we doing this,

why don't

we eat him.

that way he'll be a part

of us

instead of rotting

in the ground.

my mother has a great

recipe

for roadkill.

we ignored her

and continued on.

state champion five years in a row

she asks

me if i'm a good kisser.

i laugh,

and pull the phone away

from my ear.

good kisser?

are you kidding me, i was

the state fair champion

for five years

in a row until the accident.

accident?

she says.

yes, i got hit by a foul

ball at a baseball

game,

which made my two lips

uneven,

and broke a few teeth.

so i'm a little sloppy now.

the drool

makes me lose points,

i suggest wearing a bib

if we head

in that direction.

but my kissing booth days

are over.

i've learned nothing today

i've learned

nothing today, not a single

thing,

nor have i improved

my character,

or strengthened my

body with exercise.

i haven't read a book or

even prayed,

i haven't done a single

thing

of value.

i just sit here

and drink my coffee,

staring into my phone.

even the bird feeder,

swinging empty

in the yard will have to wait.

keeping the shirt on

damn

these cranberries.

this

blood red juice.

i just purchased this white

shirt.

barely buttoned

it up

to the color

before church

and now

it's done.

stained and ruined,

but for spite

in making me go to

high mass,

i'll  leave it on.

lipstick on a glass

you leave

behind

lipstick on your glass.

i set it

in the sink, and wonder

what else,

what other things

have you

left behind

for me to dispose of.

shoes

and clothes.

love notes

left

between the pages

of books.

lipstick again

upon them

in the shape of a kiss.

it's your

signature

when parting,

a dark gift.

when flowers bloom

the air

is thick this morning,

the trees

beginning

what trees do in spring.

i sneeze,

i cough,

i take a deep breath

and exhale.

i find one

of many inhalers i have lying

around,

shake it

and squeeze

the chemicals down my

throat and into

my lungs.

this is how it ends

perhaps,

when flowers bloom.

anger is fine

anger is fine,

even hate

given reason, can be

okay,

at times.

but destruction

of property,

of injuring others,

murder

and mayhem.

arson.

that's

mental illness of a

different kind.

her voice a song

i should

write a poem about her.

Neva.

who recently

passed

away at the golden age

of ninety-seven.

i presume

her final destination

wasn't hell,

but heaven.

i can count the fingers

on both

hands

the poets she revealed

to me

over the years,

standing in front

of the class

for over

an hour with her coat

still on,

her large purse 

with a strap around her

shoulder.

lost

in teaching.

her voice a song.

fig leaf fashion

it started a long

time ago,

after the first forbidden

fruit

was bitten into

by Adam,

that single

apple

plucked from a tree

in the garden

of Eden,

by Eve.

after that every man had

to answer the question

from his wife

or girlfriend,

do i look fat

in this fig leaf?

i'd rather not know

i'd rather

not know your secrets,

or for you to know

mine.

please,

refrain

from confessions.

save me

from knowing too much

about you.

let's keep it this

way,

keep me in the dark

as i will you.

it could last forever if

we stick

to this plan.

i invite Elon over

i invite

Elon over and his team

of brainiacs

to go through

my finances.

my wife, or rather ex-wife

was spending money

like a drunken

sailor

on liberty,

before the account hit

zero.

the team gathers around

the table

with my bank statements,

my tax

returns for the last

five years,

and a box of receipts,

a box that once held

a pair of Jimmy Choo heels.

painfully,

line by line

they show me where

the waste

has been,

massages

by someone named Carlos,

Norstrom Shoes,

clothes, make up,

creams and lotions, 

hair and nail appointments,

sauna treatments,

yoga,

daily trips to Starbucks

and 

Whole Foods.

Tiffany's.

dent repairs in the car,

flat tires,

broken headlights,

parking and speeding tickets,

and finally,

a monthly subscription

for ten gallons of home delivered

box wine from

California.

living his best life

he tells

me about his hip replacement,

his knees,

his teeth

implants, he has

32 brand

new shiny white

ones in

his mouth.

he has a new heart,

a new

kidney

hair plugs,

and

and he's chock full of

ED

medications making

the senior

home

full of grateful women rock.

bingo

is on Saturday at 6

he tells me.

at 8

that's when the music

starts.

the community pool regulations

the pool passes

arrive

early this year from

the management

office.

three little bright yellow

cards

with my

address on them,

and in small print the legal

waivers,

about drowning,

falling,

injuring yourself on

the premises.

there's a side note

attached,

telling you no drinking,

no smoking,

no diving off

the side

or hanging onto the rope

when in the deep end.

no food allowed.

no open wounds,

or communicable diseases,

or infections

will be permitted

in the pool, or patio area.

please have your children

use the bathroom

before entering the water.

diapers must be made

of plastic,

and relatively clean.

we do not

provide towels.

have fun!

the cup gone cold

caught

in a thought, at the sink,

stirring

what once

was a hot

cup of coffee, i think

of you.

i think long

and hard

about what took place,

so long ago,

before

this cup

and everything else

in the world

went cold.

who has time to read and study

i watch

from afar the ivy league

protests.

the heads and faces

wrapped in scarves,

screaming,

yelling,

supporting the likes

of Hammas.

how much i wanted to go

to a school

like Columbia,

to be taught how to write,

what to read,

the literature

of the world taught

by scholars.

what gratitude and pride

i would have

had,

with little time

to vandalize and set

the world

on fire.

the paint store clerk

his face

of cherubic nature,

lineless,

the floppy hair

of youth

impossible to comb

and keep

in one place,

a shy laugh

added to his young

voice.

just starting out,

just beginning a life,

now gone.

another fentanyl

death.

a night with pals and music,

in a darkened

loft.

i see they've put his

picture up

already on the store wall,

cut out of his high

school

yearbook,

from not long ago.

the first date prenup

before we get serious,

i tell Amanda,

when we meet for the first time

at the coffee shop,

i want you to sign this prenup

agreement

i had drawn up

by my lawyer.

it's just six pages of fine

print stating

the boundaries of our

relationship, and what

will happen if we dissolve it.

but i can sum it up for you

fairly quickly.

basically it says,

no matter what happens

between us, should we break up,

you get nothing.

zip, zero, nada, you get

not a single penny from me,

including property, cars,

investments, retirement funds, etc.

no alimony, lump sum

severance pay,

nothing.  and if God forbid,

we have to go to court,

you are fully responsible

for all courts costs and lawyer fees.

i push the paperwork

in front of her and hand her

a pen.

i show where to sign, and

initial, turning page after page.

take your time, i tell her.

look it over while

i go get you your coffee.

cream and sugar?

maybe a breakfast bun?

waiting for coffee to percolate

while doing

sit ups and push ups,

stretching on

the kitchen rug,

waiting for the coffee

to percolate,

i notice

how dirty the floor is.

crumbs

and spills, small

tumbleweeds

of things dropped,

i realize that from

now on

i need to exercise

in the other room

with as little light as

possible on.

expiration dates

i remember

when

there were no expiration dates

on cans

and boxes,

bags of food,

things wrapped

in foil or

plastic.

milk

or jams,

all you had to do was

look

at them,

crack it open and smell,

sometimes

it was toss up

before you took a taste,

but that's what little

sisters were for.

through a glass darkly

when

it's our turn

with it,

we seek

answers in places

we don't often

visit.

we look for comfort

in therapists,

we turn

to books for reason,

to priests

in long black gowns.

words we held back

on are stuck

in our mouths.

kisses undelivered

have gone

sour.

the roses limp

in the vase,

too late in arriving,

have gone brown.

without them it's just us

it's

wishful thinking

that they

possess,

but we

welcome them

with open arms,

the optimist

in

the crowd. we need

them.

we need

their soothing

words,

their smile,

their Un furrowed

brow,

we need

their

uplifting thoughts,

because without them,

it's just

us.

is it December or July?

she loved

Christmas. the tree, the wreathe,

the cooking

and lights.

the mistletoe.

she loved

her long list of who

to send

cards to,

the gifts,

the wrapping paper,

the ribbons

and bows.

the snow

globe,

the train set 

chugging smoke around

the mirror,

as if ice.

she loved Christmas,

but in the end,

at the senior home,

she didn't know

if it was

December or July.

you're fine

you almost

wanted to be sick,

to have

a fever

when your mother

came in

shaking the glass

thermometer

before sticking it in

under your tongue

and saying

close.

you wanted

to justify your day

home from

school.

tucked in tight,

a cold cloth on your

forehead,

hot cocoa and treats

brought to you,

books to read,

television to watch.

let the world

outside go on without

you.

you're fine.

blended in

ruin

yourself, go ahead

and be

one

of them.

join

the party,

submit to what

they do,

what came before

you.

be not yourself,

but them.

erased

and forgotten,

blended in.

i'll get to it

i know

what needs to be done,

but i can easily

push it aside and tell myself.

tomorrow.

i'll get to it

tomorrow.

that call i promised to make

to you today.

i'm sorry,

but it'll have to wait.

it's tomorrow

for that too.

looking down

from

the slant of a warm

roof.

high beyond

the trees,

i sit and look out over

the town.

everything looks

smaller

now

and far.

work

can wait a few minutes

more.

i want to see

what birds

see.

i wonder if it means

less to them,

or more.

bring something dark and cold

come to

me

without confessing

your sins.

be of good

cheer for once.

of course i'll listen,

but i can't

forgive you,

that's beyond my

empathetic skills.

i have no penance

to dole

out.

i'm dealing with my

own

at the moment.

but if you're

coming,

and bringing beer,

bring something

dark and cold,

preferably not stout.

don't worry, you'll find it

i used to worry

when losing things.

small or

large.

somehow left behind

or dropped.

but now

i wait, and know that

inevitably 

they will turn up.

hardly

anything is ever lost

completely,

except for love.

but then there's more

of where that came from too.

sweetened purple

even now

i can

feel my arm in the cold

ice water

of the metal

cooler

in the corner store,

pulling out

a long

glass bottle of Ne-hi

grape soda

then cracking

open the tight cap

and tasting

the first gorgeous

sip

of sweetened purple,

the bottle turned

upwards

to a sunlit sky.

the dog walker

despite being careful,

coming to full

stops

at each light and sign,

looking left then right,

a man

and his dog

come out of nowhere,

from behind

a row of thick hedges,

and i almost

flatten them to the ground.

he yells,

and screams,

the dog barks, pulled

back hard

by the angered man.

how did i not see

them?

why didn't they see me?

no apology will appease

him,

i can do nothing but

drive on.

i'll sleep uneasily tonight,

though

uncertain of the wrong.

the get well bouquet

the flowers

that you sent,

a get-well bouquet,

on the table are too bright,

from here,

this length of sofa i lie upon.

i'm unsure of what

the proper

flower is for ill health,

but red roses

feels wrong.

perhaps they'll fade

and die

in limp arms before

i return home.

the history of my life

is in the hands

of others now,

as i wait

for them to arrive and

wheel me

out, down the three steps

of concrete

i used to sit upon

and sun myself. once

so young.

have i ever told you

that i miss you 

coming around?

heading home together

let's be careful

where we step, there's

ice,

there's

slippery stones,

and grass

along

this path.

there's no rail

to hold onto

as we go down these steps.

here, take my hand.

embrace my arm.

together we can get

there

if we're brave,

never mind that we've

grown old.

gone off her trolley

feeling

nostalgic, i go up

into

the attic

to sort through the old

boxes

holding

photos and letters.

trinkets,

and memorabilia

from

years ago.

gooey Hallmark cards,

memories of past loves,

for better or worse,

and then

i see the straight jacket

i used to have

to put you in

when you went off the rails,

and i quickly climb

down

the ladder.

i pull

the rope

to shut the trap door.

oh well.

the one night stand

she tells

me

about her alien abduction.

the silver

craft

hovering and the beam

of light

that lifted her

up

out of her bed

and into

the open bottom of

the spaceship.

they made

love to me

she said. it was fabulous,

leaving my hair

in a mess,

my pajamas in a

disarray.

then they

lowered me

back down,

but left no phone number,

no address.

they just flew away.

it was just

like the old days

back in the eighties

when i used to go dancing

downtown.

your lightning strike

carefree

we are until lightning

strikes,

easy

going and bright,

quick

to laugh,

quick

to tease,

quick to be light

on our feet.

but by days end

no one gets out

unscathed

by life.

it's what's you do

next,

that reveals you.

the endless chase

what are we chasing?

is it sweets,

a thirst

or hunger, a possession?

what do we

need to acquire

to achieve

lasting contentment

and satisfaction?

is it the pretty girl

or boy.

the house on the hill

with an ocean view?

is it luxury?

muscles or thinness?

what thing do we need

to accomplish,

to say, i'm done, i'm

finished,

to feel at last that

there's no need to chase 

anything or anyone,

anymore.

the winter fields we ran a 8 a.m.

you remember most

the hard

teachers,

the rule setters,

the inflexible ones,

going by

the book.

they taught you the most

of what would

stick with

you when school ended,

but

there were the easy ones

too,

the lazy teachers,

hung over,

the ones just punching

the clock

and coming in

half pretty

after a night of cigarettes

and booze,

not really caring, letting

you rest your young

head on your

arms to sleep out the entire

lecture.

there were

the rough gym teachers as well,

treating you

like soldiers,

training you for life's battles,

sending you with spindly bare legs,

around and around

the winter fields.

the road to Carolina and Jodi

i haven't

had a good piece of home made

cornbread

since

Jodi moved

back to North Carolina.

same goes

for sweet tea,

and barbeque.

she never stole my heart,

but she certainly

planted a flag

in my belly.

i'd salivate just talking

to her on the phone

sometimes

and begin to sweat

with hunger.

i can see her in the kitchen now,

with her big

apron on,

double tied and covered

in flour.

it might be

time for a road trip

back down old 95.

do i really care?

do i care

for the world at large,

the rabble rousers,

the activists,

etc.

do i give a damn really

about

the ice bergs,

or pollution,

or even politics.

sometimes

i think i do,

and other times i know

i'm faking it

just blathering words

to make

conversation.

i know that were all

human

with our own faults

and foibles,

but i see the words

help me

painted on most

of their foreheads.

days would go by

days

would go by without

him

saying a word.

no one

stopped by,

the phone never rang,

the doorbell

never sounded.

what friends there were,

were gone

to places unknown.

sometimes

he'd go to the window

to look

out on the world

he used to know.

he thought that things

might change

at some point,

but no.

it starts with pink

i painted

the young girl's room,

a bubble gum 

pink when she was four,

and then

middle school

came along

and she wanted

green and blue and yellow,

so a rainbow it was,

painted

from ceiling down to the floor.

and then

at last

high school

came around

and everything went black,

with little

pinpoint stars

stuck

on the ceiling with tacks.

she called me the other day.

she's married now,

and wants me to stop by

with a fresh

gallon of pink

to paint a room

before her daughter is born.

my lovely good neighbors

i want

to buy an electric car,

to be done

with gas

and oil, etc.

i like how fast they are,

how sleek

and

smart.

so technologically

advanced.

but i don't want my neighbor,

an extremist

left wing

democratic elementary

school teacher who marches

every weekend

for climate

control

setting fire to it

or throwing a rock

through

the windows,

or inscribing on its hood

a fascist sign.

when i see them,

i'll ask them

at church tomorrow

if they could

give me a break and calm down.

the girl with long arms

she had

long arms, extremely long

arms.

but not too skinny

or too fat.

they weren't alien arms

alabaster white and

bent like

you see in sketches by hillbillies

who have been

abducted

into UFOs.

no.

they were normal, human

arms, but

very long, i can't say

that enough, she had

very long arms.

they were able to reach 

the ceiling

to clean out the cobwebs

in the air vents, or

to search the top shelf

of the cupboard

to find

that last box of pasta,

or to change

a lightbulb in the hall,

while holding the shade

in her hand.

i miss those arms sometimes.

more than we could chew

it's raining,

cold,

that whole early spring thing

in the city.

remnants of ice

and snow

gone grey litter

the scenery.

we stare

at the map

and agree that we can make it

if we cross

Central Park,

cutting the walk in half.

it isn't long

though

before we're flagging

a cab down

and climbing into the warm

dirty car

with red faces,

and that's that.

did you see the big game last night?

did you see the big

game

last night,

he asks me on the phone.

yes.

i tell him.

i saw game.

did you see the play

where

the guy stole

the ball

and then dunked it?

did you see

that play?

yes, i tell him. i saw

the entire

game and all the replays,

which they

played over and over again

until the commercial

break.

well, let me tell

you what happened

in detail

from the opening jump

until the final buzzer.

okay,

go on, i tell him, setting

the phone down

to go make breakfast

and coffee.

poker night

he liked

to shuffle the cards

when it was

his turn

to deal.

we'd sit around the table

smoking

our cigars

and drinking

our beers with our

coins in front

of us, waiting.

but he took time,

shuffle after shuffle,

with a flourish

of fast moving

cards,

fanning and snapping

them into

place,

showing off

his skills while we

rolled our

eyes,

and told him, okay,

okay enough dude.

now let someone cut.

part four

there

was part one,

a walk in the park,

then

followed

by part two and three,

chaos

and fun,

and now

at last

you're deep into

part four,

serenity and laughs,

but oh my,

how the pages turned

so easily

so fast.

a theater degree

you have

no lines, no words

to say,

your name does not appear

on the script,

except to say,

a passerby

tips his hat and nods hello.

a mere ten seconds

on the screen.

you nail the part

in the first take.

they want you back

to play a dead

person in the next movie,

lying still,

full of bullet holes,

but you hold

out for more

money.

a contract with royalties.

they laugh,

and offer you lunch instead.

it's a go.

the arrival

i find a chair

in the empty room

and sit down.

the room

is white, the floor

is cold.

every window

is open.

it's the start of something.

the beginning

of an end.

at last i know 

what i've

always known.

i ignore the knock at the door.

i've arrived,

and no else will be let in.

waiting for a stranger

i was good

at waiting, arriving early,

back to a wall,

the chair

and table facing the entrance.

it's what cowboys

would do

when expecting trouble.

hands

on their six shooters,

and ready

for what's to come next

on the horses

they rode in on.

in a certain light

in a certain

light

such as porch light,

or

the dim lighting of

a tiki lamp

in the sand,

she reminded me of

Elizabeth Tayor,

she was

that beautiful

with violet eyes and

pale skin,

soft luxurious black

hair

down to her shoulders,

but then

she began to speak

incoherently,

and pour more gin,

which ruined

everything.

the church poetry reading of B. C.

we attend

the poetry reading in a large

church

in the city.

he's a tall thin man,

balding and twice

divorced,

so we're told,

with many

books

under his belt.

best sellers, which is

impressive

seeing that we live in a world

that no longer

reads poetry, that

notion

quashed easily

by high school teachers

with dusty

tomes

full of language no longer

used.

the ancient mariner and what

not.

but this fellow,

this poet is of the masses.

speaking

and writing in simple

terms of

everyday occurrences.

there is nothing puzzling about

his poems.

he's a clear

clean cold glass of water,

which we warmly welcome

with polite

applause.

he reads

easily a dozen or so,

then meets the crowd across

the street for drinks.

then we all go home.

the shimmering green lake

when

you're in a hole.

a ditch,

a cell of sorts,

a dark place.

is there enough ice

cream

to lick

to get you out.

enough

cake

or pie, enough drink,

or sex.

can you be rescued

from yourself?

is there a drug

you need to take?

can you

climb out on your own

and not

be sick?

can you retrieve yourself

with a simple

nap, or maybe just

a stroll around

the shimmering

green lake.

perhaps prayer, how

often

do i forget about that.

where are the good scissors

where are

the good scissors,

the good knife,

the good

pan,

the good

potato peeler?

why can't i find

them

amongst

the broken ones,

the dull

and bent.

why do i hold onto

things

so long?

shapes and form unrecognizable

you're not a victim,

unique,

or different. it's just

your turn.

when parents disappear,

when friends pass

on.

when the world you once

knew has changed

to some shape

and form

unrecognizable.

it's a strange

stage to stand upon,

with the curtain not

quite drawn.

for despite all 

the play goes on.

they will never know what i know

i pull the shade

down

when i go out.

i tape

a smile on,

and recite a few

lines

from memory.

keeping

things civilized.

i ignore the rain,

the wind,

the yellow taxis

that

barely miss me

when i cross over.

i've lost my way,

i've lost days

and hours.

i see a bird making a nest

in a tree,

it's spring.

so what.

don't they know

what i know by now?

two knees for the price of one

the old chef,

with his titled white hat,

comes by the table to say

hello.

he shows

me

the scar where they cut

open his leg

and put in

a new ball bearing

of a knee.

it's a thin

red

ripple of a line

running from shin bone

to the thigh.

he demonstrates

how he

can bend it,

forward and backwards,

almost the same

as when he was a young man.

what are you waiting for,

he says,

there's a sale on, two

knees for the price

of one.

do it now.

while you

still have time.

then he limps back to

the kitchen

to stir the clam chowder,

and to put out a fire.

lacking flexibility

i still have

a land line,

an AOL account.

i still have a black

and tv

in the basement

with rabbit ears,

next to a butter

churn.

i have a radio,

and a turn table.

a check book

and fountain pen.

a rolodex

on my desk.

a little black book

holding all

my special friends.

i even have

a turtleneck sweater

in my closet

next to Cuban boots.

i'm not very flexible

when it comes

to change.

love is exactly like this, coach told me when i was ten

love

is exactly like a baseball

glove

my coach Ernie

said to me when i was ten.

when it's new

it's a little

stiff and hard,

not pliable,

sure it has that

new out of the box leather

scent to it.

but it takes time

to get it just right and fit

your hand.

you have to rub

oil into it,

and slap

it hard, punch the pocket just

right to get it round,

so that you can

snag everything that comes

your way

from centerfield

to first base,

in the air or on the ground,

but once it's worn

in, you take care of it.

you worship it.

at some point he'd spit out

a brown stream

of tobacco

from his caramel colored

teeth then continue on.

you sleep with it in

your bed at night.

you don't

toss it aside, or leave

it in the yard for the dog

to gnaw on. you put it

where you can

find it for the next time,

when you're ready again

to play ball.

you don't let your stupid

sister or brother touch it.

i think Ernie may be still

be in prison,

from what i've heard

around town.

what's left behind

you left

a few things behind.

a shoe,

a ring,

a coat,

a book, a brush

full of hair,

a dress hanging

in the closet,

perfume

on the counter,

a dozen self-help books,

your get

happy pills,

tofu

in the refrigerator,

it''s almost

as if you're still here.

there's more fish in the sea

he was brilliant

in his own way, but

there were never

really

any deep conversations with

him.

we discussed

sports and weather,

children,

surface things.

his garden, the rabbits

trying to get in.

there was little talk

of theology, or politics,

or economics,

the climate change,

but he would offer up

words of

advice on occasion,

and say things like,

whatever you do

don't start drinking,

and don't worry about her,

there's more

fish in the sea.

cabbage and old shoes

when it comes to dating,

smell 

is very important.

you want to be around people

who use

soap,

and bathe regularly.

maybe a little

perfume

or powder, but not too

much.

a little dab will do you.

the house too

can't smell of cats

or cabbage,

old shoes. clogged

sink traps.

your nose is very 

particular

about whom you choose.

how far away is love?

when searching

for love

in the old days, it was more

about geographical

issues,

than it was about attraction,

being it

love, or like, or lust.

how many miles did i have

to drive

to see her?

where was Aberdeen exactly?

where there tolls to pay,

did i need

EZ pass, where 

there ever bridges

washed out

in storms, where there

hills to climb.

what about in bad weather,

would i arrive

alive, navigating

the snow and ice.

and when i got there

would she show me the futon

in the far room,

where i could spend

the night?

a woman on a horse

there's everything

at first,

when someone dies.

the big stuff.

the bed and chairs,

the sofa.

the pictures on the walls,

the drapes,

the books,

the rugs rolled up,

the televisions and dressers.

and then it's

clothes

on hangers.

emptying drawers

of small things.

nail clippers,

combs, 

ointments.

small change and keys

to locks

unknown.

the dishes, washed

and unwashed,

cutlery

pots, pans, corkscrews

and knives,

a handful of recipes,

a photo of a woman on 

a horse,

and a ball of

rubber bands, a strand

of twine.

the indestructible bone

other than

my arm, or leg my

dog

had a favorite

bone.

an indestructible

rubber

bone

that he slept with in

his round

pillow like

bed.

sometimes he'd

take it

outside with him

and bury it in

the yard,

in a pile of wet dirt.

eventually

i'd fetch it for him

and wash it off,

which made him

smirk.

the party of joy and empathy, compassion and hope

it's a global

pandemic, this instability

of thought

and mind.

mental illness, setting

things

on fire,

destroying

other people's lives.

in the streets

chanting death

to those of a different

kind.

right or left,

this disease

has no qualms

about who it

infects.

we're in strange times.

where civility

and morality

has been

laid to rest.

it wasn't me, honest

i try to write

you a note of apology,

an email, but

the computer

keeps correcting

what i type.

using words that

i don't want

to use.

but it's too much work

to go back

and correct

what's been corrected.

so forgive me 

if  i've said

anything

that upsets you.

it wasn't me.

honest.

her children

her shelves

were full of small porcelain

hippos

and pigs,

elephants

and frogs.

shiny glass creatures.

a collection

from years of travel.

they were

lined up on the sills

and any

flat surfaces

she could find.

i suspect she gave them

all names,

but i never asked

her.

i remember though

the joy

in her eyes,

when the sun came

up and gave

them all

a pleasing shine.

too many good reviews

the local

new bakery is getting rave

reviews.

the accolades

are all

over the next-door app.

i see people

walking

down the street with icing

on their faces,

a bag full

of cinnamon buns

in their hand.

their bellies

bulging with donuts

and bread,

eclairs

and cakes.

but when i get there

at ten a.m.,

they're all gone.

the shelves

are empty, and Max

the baker,

is sitting on a bucket

smoking a cigarette,

his eyes half-mast.

only two more hours

before he starts baking again.

sixteen more minutes, please hold

i'm on

hold with the government.

i need

a form

a voice,

a person,

a website, something

to complete

this task.

but there's an empty

void

with bad

music looping

on and on.

i have time, but i'm

tired

of listening to the robotic

voice.

life is waiting beyond

this call.

sixteen minutes left

to go.

please hold.

the cabaret singer

this house

is too angular, there's

nothing

here

that's round,

hardly a soft curve

to be found.

white

and long.

it's empty,

rectangular and blonde.

it reminds me of a girl

i once knew

in the late

sixties, tall and lean,

an aloof

cabaret singer

from Berlin, or was

it Bonn?

embellishing the story

i feel bad sometimes,

guilty in a way,

relating to how you

betrayed me

and broke my heart,

causing me to never

have anything good

to say about you.

but it doesn't stop me

when the next

set of ears

comes my way.

once more i'm off

to the races,

embellishing the story

with dark glee,

as i always do.

so where you headed to?

you're welcome,

sort of,

being out of town with

out of state

plates.

the locals

eyeballing you

as you stretch,

getting out

of the car.

luggage on the roof.

it's in your voice

too

as you order ham

and eggs,

staring at the paper menu.

where you folks from?

the waitress

asks,

oh my, she says.

is that right?

you're a long

ways from home,

aren't you?

so where you headed to?

waiting on the next big thing

it's a reoccurring thought.

how

did i get here,

and what now?

what's next

in this crazy unplanned

life?

a knock at the door

could change

everything,

a phone call,

a letter in the mail.

i wait patiently for the next

big thing

to occur.

mister, can you help me?

i find a puddle

of light

on the long walk,

a mile down the path,

a stream

of goodness and warmth

shining

between

the trees.

i close my eyes

and rest on the long

wooden bench,

until a woman

comes along with a kid

who's crying

and screaming.

she asks

me if it's possible

for me to carry his bike

back to her car,

while she carries the child

with tears down

his face.

she's tired

and pregnant,

with another one

just a few months away.

i say sure, why not

and off we go.

me and this temporary

new family

with a bike under my arm,

making small

talk all the way.

the comfort zone

we have

our routines.

our set ways.

our feet

and hands

in concrete.

we're at last not

all over

the pace.

we know what we like

and dislike

and that's just

the way it is.

i worry about those

that don't

feel this way.

the enormous iron skillet

the cast

iron

skillet is beyond heavy.

it bends

my wrist

without

anything in it.

it's impossible to clean,

to scour

the rust out of it,

to store

in the cupboard,

but it was

passed

down

by my grandmother

on my mother's

side

of her family.

the Orsinis, so it's

an heirloom of sorts,

i guess.

i remember her

scrambling

eggs in it,

frying bacon and scrapple,

making a red sauce

for linguini,

with mushrooms

and sausage.

i'll find a place

for it

somewhere

eventually. i'll

hammer

a large nail into

the basement

cinder block walls,

and let it hang there,

finally

free of tallow

and grease.

the political coffee clutch

it's a political

discussion at the coffee shop.

it started off

with the weather

and sports,

what sale was on at

the local

stores.

children and grandchildren.

vacations.

and then it turned

to Trump

and all hell broke loose.

so you want

criminals not to be deported,

but put into nice hotels

in New York.

you want the wars to go on.

you want to rewrite the English

language

with a new

set of pronouns.

you want boys

in girls' sports,

children to have

their body parts cut off.

you support terrorists

still holding

hostages?

you want an open border

and red dye number

four in all your food?

you don't mind all the waste,

abuse and fraud?

you don't want workers to

go back to work?

and now you hate electric

cars?

what about the climate change

and the melting

icebergs?

punches where thrown,

wigs fell off,

dentures

were loosened and

wheelchairs tipped

over

until a barista from Mozambique

came out

with a hose

to break it all up.

no place like home

when he got out

of prison,

he was a new man.

he found God,

he got his law degree.

he was tanned

and in shape.

his skin had cleared up.

he was polite

and well mannered.

strong.

he was wearing glasses

and carrying books

when he left

the prison yard,

released early

on good behavior.

so it surprised me when

i saw him on the news

handcuffed after

robbing a liquor store.

but he looked happy

to be heading back home.

i'm afraid to ask, but what surgery are you having?

she tells me

she'll be out of commission

for a while.

she's going

in for surgery.

she doesn't tell me what

kind of surgery it is,

but she wants

me to know

that it's surgery.

my mind runs through

the possibilities.

another face

lift, a tummy tuck.

enlargements perhaps,

or a bone in her foot.

so many possibilities,

skin, cataracts,

implants, some sort of

female issue,

perhaps a complete

transition,

taking thing off,

putting things on, as

she joins the other side.

it's normal now

cursing

is normal now.

presidents do it,

politicians,

actors of course,

cab

drivers and clerks,

children

well versed

by parents.

waitresses

and cooks.

just yesterday i

heard the priest

drop

the f bomb when

his Easter gown

got caught

on a hook.

the glass paperweight

i bought

a glass paper weight

in Italy.

a white clear

stone

of some

sort, carved into

the shape of a

pyramid.

across an ocean,

stuffed into

a suitcase

it traveled

with me.

it holds memories

of love

at a different

age.

someday someone

will take it

off my desk,

and ask, what is this?

a rainy day with Judge Judy

i binge

on Judge Judy episodes

for a few

hours.

it's raining out

and i have nowhere to go.

pizza has

been delivered.

i'm cozy on the couch

with the big

dog.

she listens to me

as i go on and on

about the cases

Judy has to reign over.

mostly small

potato stuff,

dog fights, cat fights.

scratches

on cars.

spills on rug by renters.

food poisoning

at weddings,

a hairdresser drunk

and run

amok

with her clippers.

the dog waits for me

to fall

asleep

then finishes off the pizza.

fitting into the senior home

after moving into

the senior home,

it's a ten to one ratio

of women

to men,

i look

at pillows online.

decorative pillows.

a set

of three or four to give

the couch

and house

a look of

happy domestication.

round

pillows, square,

large

and small.

of all colors.

some have cats embroidered

on them,

dogs

stitched into

the fabric.

birds with wings

spread

wide.

they arrive a few days

later,

just on time

for my tea

party

on Sunday, after

church,

at five.

i show the girls around

and then

we have some tea,

and pie.

the cold room sleep

the room

is cold, awful cold.

the window

left open

overnight.

i shiver in my bare

feet

and lack

of clothes.

my teeth chatter

as i go

to pull it shut.

but i slept well.

so there's that.

spring breakers

it's an annual

thing,

spring break,

drinking is

involved,

maybe drugs

and sex.

but someone is missing.

a girl,

a boy.

lost on some far

away

island.

washed away at sea.

unfound and

forever far away

from Iowa, or

Wisconsin.

the low white sun

i see him sitting

in his driveway

next to his twenty-year-old

car.

his phone in hand,

a mixed

drink.

he's nursing his thoughts.

taking in

the low sun,

wondering

how he got here.

so far away from home,

nearly

alone,

except for a wife 

who doesn't love him

anymore,

and a dog

who rarely barks.

rearranging still life

i move

one picture into the hall.

the other

i take

down

to the basement.

i hammer

in more nails. i spend

hours

rearranging

the art,

both new and old,

then take a seat to see

if everything

feels right

in their new place.

it doesn't.

i get the paint out

and the spackling

from a jar.

Moe's Diner

it's human

nature to want to get out.

to get

out of the house,

get away

from the job,

go somewhere else,

anywhere.

just point at a map

and go.

at a planet, a star.

sometimes

i'm so desperate to get

out of the house

i'll walk

three miles in the snow

to go

get a grilled cheese

sandwich

and a bowl of soup

at Moe's.

find yourself a pie maker

you need

to find a good woman,

my neighbor

from Appalachia

tells me

as she hangs her clothes

on the back line.

a woman who bakes pies.

you can't go

wrong with

a woman like that.

cherry, apple,

peach.

pumpkin, or mincemeat.

a woman who bakes pies

is down

to earth,

someone in touch

with her

feminine side.

she has a good heart

and isn't afraid to get

her hands

dirty

with flour, or get next

to a hot stove.

she'll stand by your side

and never leave.

find a woman

like that dear boy

and you'll never be alone.

i'll let you know when i heal

she tells me

that she can't text anymore,

at least not

for a while,

she's had surgery on

her hand,

her right hand, her

texting hand.

i'll be in contact when

it heals,

she says.

forgetting that we could

just talk,

like in the old days,

on the phone.

everything will be alright

if i told

my mother that i'd broken

an arm

or leg,

or lost my job,

or was

getting a divorce,

explaining sadly

what had

occurred, she'd begin

to cry

and turn it all around

to be about her,

before long

i was there, having lunch

with her

trying to calm

her down.

telling her that everything

was going to

be alright, not to worry.

maybe you were wrong about them

once you

make your declaration

of hatred

or strong dislike 

towards

a friend or sibling,

husband or wife,

a politician, it's hard

to reverse course

and be caught seen with

them, raising

the eyebrows

of those who know your

position.

they are chagrin

at seeing you peacefully

having tea

in the morning sun

as if friends,

as if everything is alright.

admitting that

maybe you

were wrong from the jump

about them.

finding the right moment to read

rare

to dive into a book these days.

it's more

of a dipping

of toes.

finding just the right

moment

to sit

in just the right amount

of natural

or unnatural light

to read.

it's an effort of sorts

to close off the outer

world

to go under

the spell of a good

story,

well told.

what we must do for love to continue on

some men

like to dance, others don't,

but are forced

onto the dance

floor

by wives

and girlfriends,

at weddings,

and parties,

darkened night clubs.

they are

forced to move about

in embarrassing

ways, 

stirring up gyrations,

almost forgotten,

unused for decades.

they slide their shoes

across

the floor

tossing arms about,

twisting

their bodies this way

and that,

counting the seconds

when the song

will end,

when the band will stop.

what we do for love,

or lust

is immeasurable at times.

hanging clothes in March

i stretch

a taut line from fence to fence

in the back yard

and go

out with a cold wet

basket

of washed clothes

to hang them.

i have clothes pins

in my mouth,

a few in my pockets.

the wind blows

hard.

it's March.

the neighbors don't know

what to make

of me

and neither do i.

i tried hard to fit in

i wanted

to be a good worker,

but i hated

the work.

the coat and tie,

the cubicle,

the windows that

never opened,

the nine

to five.

i wanted to fit in.

i tried.

but only lunch

interested

me,

happy hour

and the coffee brewed

in the galley

kitchen or

the new secretary

at her

desk, in her

pencil dress,

with blue eyes.

if you love him, you'll buy him whatever he wants, she said

what

became of all those toys

the boy

gained

on Christmas,

for birthdays,

or for no other reason

than to please

him, and to stave

off his tears

and screams.

what attic are they in,

what box,

or bag

do they lie in?

have they traveled

with him

across the country?

small plastic reminders

of love

without boundaries,

regardless

of cost,

bought for wrong

reasons.

one that gets away

a line

is with me all day.

i repeat it to myself, over

and over.

i have no pen

or paper to jot it down.

but it's

a good line, a clever

string of

words

that will lead down

some poetic road

when i get home,

but of

course it slips out

of my mind,

falls back into

the sea

like a beautiful fish

too strong

to hold for very long,

snapping

the slender line.

do you want to hold my baby?

on the corner were

a gaggle

of women,

fussing over a baby,

a pink

bald

thing wrapped

in what i guess one

would call

swaddling.

i approached cautiously

to look into

the enormous

stroller.

do you want to hold

her?

the owner asked.

why, i said,

which made them all look

at me

as if i'd lost my mind.

raking acorns in her snake boots

they were

rubberized boots, high

laced

and white,

with cows on them,

she called

them her snake boots

when she went

out into the yard,

to rake

acorns.

copperheads

and black

snakes

were everywhere.

she was afraid

and unafraid at the same

time.

i watched her from

the window,

and wondered how long

this relationship

would last.

shadow and light undone

a stone

thrown into the placid

pond

sets

a series of ripples outward.

part sun, part clouds,

a swell of shadow

and light

undone.

it keeps

you busy

with thought for 

a short while,

until you walk on.

the unemployment line

in the dead of winter,

we went

down

to the red brick building

in Bladensburg

to sign

up for unemployment

benefits.

seventy-nine

dollars

a week.

we stood in line,

John and I,

hands in our pockets,

stamping our

feet.

we never talked about

what's next.

there was

always another job

in the paper

that we circled

after a weeks rest.

somehow

we managed to land

on our feet.

find something to pay

the bills.

we'd go our separate ways,

get married, have kids.

make the most of it.

he's buried not far

from the old building

where we used

to stand in line.

i can hear him laughing,

as we moved

along, the snow falling down,

flakes of white

in his beard,

still carefree

and young.

when they built Landover mall

there

was always someone

stepping

on a nail,

or falling through a ceiling,

or off

a ladder

on the construction site.

it was nothing

to slam a hammer

into your hand,

or cut

yourself on a power saw.

there were

men with bandages

on them,

missing eyes,

and fingers,

limping.

their whiskey breath

making you

wince

when they told you to

carry a load

of bricks to the other side

of the house.

the smell of diesel filled

the air.

it was a summer job,

good pay

for hard labor.

but you retired from it

after only three days

in the boiling sun,

and dried mud.

turn around and go back

i stop

for the directions on the back

country road.

there's an

old man

and woman selling

produce

in a shack, sitting

in folding chairs

and using

cardboard

to cool themselves

and to keep the flies away.

they're in the shade

and don't move

a lick when we pull

up.

do you know where

the water tower

is? the woman says.

no, i say.

i don't.

what about the Jones Farm,

where all the cows

are?

nope.

i'm lost.

yes you are mister, my

advice is to turn

around,

or use your phone.

the grumpy astronaut

the astronauts

are smart,

and clever, educated to the nth

degree

in engineering

and science.

brainiacs

of the highest order.

but do they

get along in their little

tin home,

cramped in the tight berth,

floating high above

the earth.

is there a grumpy one

in the mix,

a sour puss

gumming

up the comradery

and work?

whining about the food.

will someone at some

point pinch the hose

that provides

him air?

one every year

was it

because she was Catholic,

was that the reason

to have nine

children,

was it a sin to stop,

to block,

to take a pill or resist?

would

the Bishop be mad,

passing word

along to the Cardinal

and Pope.

would there be a conclave

of men

gathered to decide her fate?

we were poor, becoming

poorer,

but as we gathered

around the dinner

table, she believed that

none of us

were a mistake, and then 

she said grace.

brotherly love

my brother

calls me, he want to make peace.

to be

friends again,

to be close

and brotherly.

it's been ten years

of silence but

he's tired of the anger

and 

misunderstandings,

the grudges

held.

he wants to smoke the peace

pipe,

bury the hatchet.

let bye gones be bye gones

but it's a one way

call collect

from the county

jail,

and he needs

thirty-five hundred

dollars

to make bail.

dear brother, can you help?

he is the child now

as he lies

in bed,

i read to him as he once

read to me.

Mark Twain

and Poe,

David Copperfield.

Jules Verne's

Twenty Thousand Leagues

under the Sea.

there's a pillow

behind his

head

as he sits up and listens,

drinking

his Earl Grey tea.

the window is open,

blowing

ghost like the sheers.

his good

ear

leans towards me.

he is the child now.

not me.