the first of everything

it's our first car,

a junk heap,

with blue smoke

pouring out of the exhaust,

but it runs, our first

apartment

on the ground floor,

with the trash

room next door,

and the bongo

drums heard

through the thin walls.

it's our first job,

punching the clock,

the boss you hate,

the work

numbing you,

day after day.

our first wardrobe

filling the closet

of things we'll never

wear again

in a year or so.

a leather vest? really?

and then there's the

first marriage.

what we're we thinking?

i don't know.

what about carrots, mom?

i call up

my mother up to ask her

how

long can i keep carrots

in the

crisper drawer

at the bottom

of the fridge.

the plastic bag seems

to be bubbling

for some reason.

why don't you just

eat them,

she says,

are they brown?

no, they're still orange,

i tell her.

but i don't know why

i bought them

last November.

boil

them in a pot, she says,

then

when they're nice and soft,

drench them in

honey,

or maple syrup,

or a ton

of butter with salt

and pepper.

they're more edible

that way.

to kill the after taste

wash them down with milk,

or spiked eggnog.

okay, but what about

lettuce?

you have two days max,

she says,

then toss it.

maybe throw it in the woods

for the animals.

blood on their hands

is it mental illness,

this confusion about who you

are,

man or woman, or

somewhere

in between?

it's suddenly

a fad

to not know

a thing about biology.

why go to therapy,

or seek psychiatric help

when there's

a surgeon

willing to cut loose

the body parts

you were born with.

they are making

a killing,

as well

as the drugstore

filling

these half beings

with pharmaceuticals

to keep

them alive

post-surgery.

it seems

just a tad insane.

i prefer not to faint

i eat meat.

red meat.

steaks of all kinds,

chuck roasts,

T-bone,

angus and prime.

etc.

but i eat

pork and poultry

as well,

some fish too,

on rare

occasions i might

have a salad

when i'm in the mood

for a food

that offers little

but in the way

of protein.

same goes for vegetables,

leaving me hungry

immediately

after i'm through.

Morning Joe

the news

pundits are despondent.

the purveyors

of gloom

and doom

and wild claims

are sad.

now what?

they say.

how can we go on

without this

election

process and

the daily bashing

for a decade

of the other candidate?

we need a new slant

on things

now that's he won

by a landslide.

perhaps

we should ask for

forgiveness,

fly to Florida

with our tail between

our legs 

and kiss his ring.

the adjustment period

you can

always tell the newly

divorced men

in the neighborhood.

they look

sad and bewildered

as they carry

in their leftover

furniture.

it's college all over

again,

but they have a nice

car.

they're not quite

ready to wave

and make new friends.

no Christmas

decorations will go up,

no wreathe on the door.

you'll see their

recycling bin full of

bottles though.

filing away your permanent record

there's a point,

after years of knowing

someone, or shorter,

where you come to a conclusion

about them.

you file

away your opinion

of who they really are

into your internal

file cabinet.

from that point on, you

have them figured out.

it's their permanent

record,

and then,

they behave in an entirely

different way,

throwing a monkey wrench

into your whole

belief system.

surprised you shake

your head,

and say, ah oh,

now I have to find

that report

to make corrections.

what's in a name

her name

was Dorothy, but her friends

called

her Doro,

or Dorito,

or D for short.

they were always telling

her

to click her heels together,

we want to go home.

but it got old

after a while.

i asked her to change her

name,

which she refused to do.

this is who

i am, she told me.

how would you like it

if i called

you Sam, or Joe,

or Frankie?

i'd be okay with it, i told her.

a pill for everything but common sense

after a while

you suspect that the medical

world

wants to keep

you sick.

rarely do they point out

the bad

food you are eating, the lack

of exercise,

the cigarettes or

drinking.

they don't want to offend

you, be sued

for character defamation.

but they will

give you pills

by bucket full.

why change your lifestyle

when we can

give you this.

and in the end, they'll know

there

is very little privacy

these days.

everyone

knows

almost everything about you.

type

in the name.

and away you go.

where you live,

your income, your children,

your marriages,

the work you do,

how much you owe.

at some point

even your death will

be recorded,

listing how

you died

for those who need to know.

everything going south

i have

no choice

but to eat the half gallon

of ice cream.

the power is

out and everything is

melting,

everything is going

bad,

going sour.

i have a chicken

in the oven,

i'm scrambling eggs,

drinking

milk.

i'm on the floor, with

a wet

towel

soaking

up the ice pond

growing,

with the big spoon digging

into the soft

cool mountain

of rocky road.

click here, on this link

it used

to be that one had to worry

about pickpockets

when in the city,

or town,

or in a crowded

movie.

they were clever

thieves,

dipping into your pockets

so swiftly

for wallets

and keys.

you rarely noticed 

the stealth hand

sifting

through your jacket

or pants.

but things are different now.

click here,

click on this 

highlighted link,

is all they need to take

most everything.

paying out hush money

enamored

by her pig tails

and blue

framed

glasses, her freckles

and long

white

arms

and legs.

the fastest girl in

our 5th grade class.

i kissed her in the hallway,

which made

her scream

and scratch me across

the face,

but she promised

not to

report me to the principal

or parents

if i gave her

my lunch money

for the next

two years.

looks can be deceiving.

Moe the Hoover

when i had a dog,

it was okay

to be clumsy with food,

to eat cookies,

or toast in bed.

to bring a sandwich

to the couch

and let the crust fall

to the floor,

with

a piece of Swiss cheese,

or ham

slipping out

of my hand.

Moe

took care of that.

he was a living Hoover,

on the job

24-7, 

but wise to the hot peppers

and coffee

grounds.

the lovers path

i go off the trail,

deep

into the woods, 

out to where hikers

rarely go,

to where the signs

and markers end,

to where

the path is overgrown,

and the bones

are everywhere.

i see where the sun is in

the sky,

and measure

the time i have and the distance

i'll need

to travel to get

to the other side.

i follow the moss

on the north

trunk of the trees.

at last, not a can or bottle,

or piece of

trash

is on the ground.

and then i see two people

on the ground

before me,

making love in the weeds.

i tell them, excuse me,

please, don't get up,

i'm just passing through.

practice run

i buy the practice

pie,

the whipped cream.

shaking the can

madly

in the car. i put

the turkey

fillets

in the pan, cook,

the dressing and potatoes.

i stuff

the black olives

with cream cheese

like my mother

used to do.

i even run through a short

dinner

time prayer.

folding my

hands together, and thanking

God

for all things.

and putting in a request

for good

weather

and a sensible gravy

recipe.

in another week, i'll have

it all down.

a little mystery

a little mystery

is good.

keeps

things interesting.

but too

much mystery

will drive

you crazy.

a short drive

to begin with

i must add.

painting your nails black

it took

months of digging,

scratching

at the concrete

wall

with a spoon,

but eventually i made

a large

enough hole

to crawl out of.

i tunneled my way

to the fence

and wall,

digging deeper

into the ground until i

was past the guards

and guard dogs,

and then i

ran, not looking back.

with you

up in the tower,

oblivious to my leaving,

painting your

nails black.

splendid isolation

in typical

Bukowski fashion,

he says,

it's not that i hate people,

it's just

that i feel better

when i'm not around

them.

you've felt that way

for years

now.

living in splendid

isolation.

my left hand

i don't understand

why

my left hand

is no good for so many

things.

i can't write with it,

throw a ball

effectively with it,

play a guitar,

or turn a screw with

it.

i'm disappointed in

my left hand

and arm.

i've had them forever

and yet they still

haven't learned a thing,

or caught on.

dead batteries

i have a box

full

of batteries,

somewhere.

all kinds, all sizes,

triple A,

double A, single

A.

the little rectangular shaped

ones,

the round

ones,

the fat and skinny

ones.

i wish i could find

where i put

that bag,

but the house is dark

and the flashlight

is dead.

waiting for Clooney to tell us what to do

it used

to be that celebrities

could sell

cars

and wine, clothes,

and candy

bars.

presidents, too.

just a word from them,

sent us

out to the stores

to buy

the things they chose,

we even

pulled the lever

on who to vote for

because

of their

shiny cinematic

glow.

they must be right

about everything

we told

ourselves,

but things have changed,

no one cares

anymore what

they do.

it's the opposite now.

the aftermath

i guess we're

not friends anymore.

i haven't heard from

them since,

November 5th.

Laurie

and Joann,

Kimberly

and Julie.

Josh and John,

my mother and

aunt Betty.

not a peep out of any

of them.

i can't imagine what's

gone wrong.

that sneaking suspicion

she had

her own P.O.

box.

all of her mail went

there,

despite

the fact that we were

married

and living in the same

house.

was i wrong

to be suspicious?

and when

i saw

the new jewelry

she was wearing around

her wrist,

and the bite

marks on her neck,

i said to myself,

something's going on

here,

and why was she going out

jogging

in her high heels,

wearing red lipstick

and perfume?

finding things to do after retirement

i see my neighbor

with a loaf

of bread

walking down the street,

he used

to be a doctor of some

sort,

or an Admiral in the Navy.

maybe both.

i stop

and say hello,

i ask him how retirement

is treating him.

he has

bags under his eyes.

his shoulders

sag,

it looks like he hasn't

shaved or washed

his hair in weeks.

his shoes

are mismatched

and his zipper is down.

how are you, i ask again.

good, he says,

good. but i have

to go now.

i'm going down to the lake,

to feed the ducks.

the addiction

i admit

my addiction

to

the phone. i can

hardly

go ten minutes without

looking at it.

and i'm

not alone.

i'm one

of the millions

of zombies

walking about,

lost in

that world,

staring into the screen,

clicking

buttons,

buffering, scrolling.

i can't wake up

from it,

i can't go to the bathroom

without it,

it's like a bad dream.

they own

me too

it seems.

taking the Whoopi stance on bakeries

i call

the bakery up

for a dozen

donuts,

but they say the ovens

are broken

and i won't be able

to get my usual

box of donuts

today.

immediately

i think they're discriminating

against me

because

i'm a white male,

with short hair

and who

voted 

conservatively this time.

how dare they

deny me

my donuts.

especially the chocolate

glazed

and the cream filled.

wait until

yelp gets ahold of this

aberrant

behavior.

they'll pay for this.

them denying me my

daily

assortment of donuts will

be end of them.

reasons to stay home

i can

think of three reasons.

no,

maybe four

reasons

for

not going out into

the cold.

why

venture out into this

wind

and rain.

when i have food

and drink,

books,

the arms

of you.

the part we agree on

we're different.

we are.

what we like and don't

like.

we hardly

agree on

anything,

the food we eat,

what to read

or watch,

our musical tastes

don't match.

we even disagree on

where

to walk, or hike.

we're

different in so many ways,

but 

you're a girl,

and i'm a boy.

and that part i really

like.

don't talk to strangers

my mother

would often lecture

us children

about the dangers of

the outside world,

telling us

not to talk to strangers,

so i stopped

talking

to my father

for years.

he seemed to be a visitor

at times,

spending a lot

of time

in the other room

with his

things that we weren't

allowed to touch.

sometimes

he'd tussle our

hair,

when passing by,

or tell us to get our

bikes out

of the driveway.

but other than that

we rarely spoke,

until one day i asked

him if i could borrow the car,

to which he say,

no.

your hair tells me a lot about you

the way

we wear our hair has always

been

a way to tell people

how we feel

about things,

one way or the other.

short or long,

we make a statement.

braids, or blonde,

or strands

of a different color.

maybe blue.

no hair too 

seems to rile

up those

that don't agree with you.

the spot we're on

we linger

at our jobs, 

at the door, at the window.

at love.

we are slow

to move

these days

on just about everything

under the sun.

we're in no hurry,

no rush.

we believe with all our

hearts that

we have all the time

in the world.

maybe another hour

will be enough

time

to move

us off the spot

we're on.

close calls

our lives are full

of close

calls.

the knife that misses

your foot

when it falls

to the floor,

the swerve of the car

at the red

light.

the tree falling seconds

before you

stroll by.

taking a different

flight,

not the one that goes down.

putting out the fire

before

it starts,

before

the curtains ignite.

and me saying, no,

not now,

let's wait. it just

doesn't feel

right.

for no reason at all

there's no reason

for these

dark

woods, this cold

sun

going down

to make

you sad, despondent

and worried.

there is nothing about

this grey

winter world,

that you're walking

through,

of fallen

leaves and brittle

streams

that will harm you,

and yet.

it's all on you

if you

listen and lean

towards

the sound of a voice

telling you

what you know

isn't true,

and will never be true,

and you

don't walk away

or run.

what happens next

is all on

you.

an egg McMuffin at Tiffany's

i stop into Tiffany's

next to

the bagel shop

and McDonald's

on route 7,

and begin

to browse around.

i'm eating an egg McMuffin,

and a fried

potato thing,

licking the grease off

my fingers.

the clerk

sees me and laughs,

not you again

he says,

pulling out a case

full of diamond engagement

rings

and a velvet cloth.

i shake my head

and laugh with him.

no, no, put that away.

what are you nuts?

i just need to use the rest

room.

to the left if i remember

correctly, right?

and

do you mind if i use

that cloth,

my fingers are greasy?

the red Christmas sweater

it's too

early to wear the Christmas

sweater

my mother

bought me in 1985

but i put it

on anyway.

it's red

with reindeers

and snowflakes,

a Christmas

tree, etc.

the whole scenario.

it still fits,

maybe a little snug

in the waist,

but not too bad.

maybe i can get used

to the itching

this time

around.

the holes

from the moths,

have made it a little more

breathable,

which is good

when sitting around a

roaring fire,

roasting chestnuts.

he needs to look up my address and then he's on the way

he's been

calling me for weeks now.

Andrew Rogers.

he works

for the publishing clearinghouse

prize patrol.

or so he says in his strong

Jamaican accent.

i've apparently

won 2.5 million dollars,

a pearl

white Mercedes

and 

a new kitchen with 
Whirlpool appliances.

i like this new scammer.

he's inventive.

i only need to buy him

two

five-hundred-dollar

green dot money

pak scratch

gift cards from

the dollar general,

and then my prize package

will arrive.

he calls me morning noon

and night.

sometimes

he's been drinking, i hear

dogs

and children

in the background,

sometimes the crowing

of roosters.

the baying of goats.

he says he's not far away,

a few miles

and can be at my house by four

o'clock

if i have the gift cards in hand.

i ask him

if he has my address, he goes

quiet for a few minutes,

then hangs up.

a side order of toast

which way

will it go this time,

the flood

has been tried, will it

be fire

or ice

this time around,

or a combination

of both.

will nature run

it's course

or will we do our best

to push

the button

and turn us all

into toast.

more of the same old drivel

i told her once

in an olive branch

attempt

at 

getting back together

that her

art had improved,

her painting

and sketches,

were light

years ahead of her

early work,

done mostly

in her youth.

she said, i wish i could

the say

the same

about you. but

your writing hasn't budged

an inch,

it's the same

old drivel.

nothing is new.

the new caravan of limos

celebrities,

many

that you didn't know where

still alive

or active

in the business

are threatening to leave

town,

to leave the state,

the country.

they've had

enough of things not

going their way,

they're taking

their ball and going home

but they're taking

their hairdressers

and make up

artists

and chefs with them.

it's another

caravan,

but this one is crossing

the border

in a line

of limos.

my reward points

i jump

through all the telephone

prompt

hoops,

spilling out

the last four digits of

my social security number,

and the sixteen

digits on my card

and redeem my chase credit

card

reward points.

i have thirty thousand

seven hundred

and thirty-six points

accumulated, which amounts

to 29 dollars

towards my

current bill.

i can't help but think of

the peso.

someone's luck has run out

i see

a broken full length

mirror

out

near the trash bins,

leaning against

the hydrant.

it's cracked

in a hundred

places.

it's a broken

map

full of distorted

images.

there the world is

in multiples.

i see your face

stuck

inside.

someone's luck

has run out.

is it Jack, or is it Jill?

i think

the woman next door

may

be a man.

i like the sundresses

she wears,

but the beard and the Adam's

apple

both seem

to be clues

and her singing voice

in the shower,

which is fine.

live and let live

i always say,

but i'd like to borrow

some of 

the power tools

i see her

using in the yard.

the tree saw,

the hedge trimmer

and the post

hole digger.

but we haven't met yet,

and i don't know how

to introduce myself.

or what to bring

when i welcome her

to the neighborhood,

a Philly steak sub sandwich

and a beer,

maybe some pork

rinds,

or shall it be some cheese

and crackers,

white wine?

the government study on lesbian squirrels

i don't believe

the story, so i google it,

of course,

and there it is.

several articles about 

government waste.

and this was one of them.

600 K

for a study on lesbian

squirrels

in the woods.

it's true.

the government is out

of control without

our tax dollars.

it's nutty, to recoin

a phrase.

her mother's recipe for squirrel stew

it was our first,

our last date.

in fact it was the last time

we talked,

ever.

maybe it was the yellow

corvette

she pulled up in,

or the stack

of bleached hair,

or the gun

in her purse, or the fact

that she

married

a second cousin once.

maybe,

or maybe it was the recipe

she gave

me for squirrel stew

that i still have taped

to the refrigerator

door.

the red flags were flying

it was a long

smokey bar called Moe's,

that served breakfast

all day,

beer

and burgers at night.

fried chicken

and Salisbury

steaks with mashed potatoes

after 5 pm.

Frank was

on the grill.

Marge was waiting tables

and working

the register.

there's pictures on

the wall

pinned up

next to the no smoking

sign.

photos of them

when they were younger.

thinner

and had all their natural

teeth,

both them

lookers.

holiday stars

in black and white.

the edges

are yellowed though.

there was a donut case

out front,

filled daily

by a guy named Roy,

and a bottle of ketchup

on every

table. a juke box too

that took nickels.

it closed last week,

Marge died with lung

cancer, and Frank

threw in the towel for

a trailer in Florida,

near Jacksonville.

i took a fiancé there once

for scrambled eggs

and bacon,

hashbrowns

and coffee.

she had green tea and a tuna

sandwich,

without the bread.

the red flags were flying.

Christmas shopping

it's

a necklace,

a pendant of some sort.

with GPS,

it's waterproof

and 

unbreakable.

you can take a shower

with it.

if you fall,

you can press the button

and Jimmy

or Jane

will come to rescue

and pick you up.

it's only thirty-nine

dollars a month.

it's 24 7.

it comes in black or white.

there's one

for your wrist too.

i order six of them for

Christmas,

one for me,

one for you.

i hand them out to my

neighbors.

who said that i was a

scrooge?

the Xmas card list

i think

the election

eliminated about five

old

friends from

the Christmas

card list.

the party invitations

will be fewer

this year.

no gifts will arrive,

no celebratory

drinks at the bar.

no calls

or texts.

no cards.

that's a shame.

mad money

we

can go to the moon.

that's no

big deal anymore.

but why,

what for?

we have rocks here.

we can waste

money

on a million things

that don't

seem to matter, but

aren't there

better things

to do

with a billion dollars?

what about

the sick,

the poor,

the world seems

backwards

sometimes.

who's spending our

tax dollars,

who's keeping

score?

be the smart dog

dogs

are smart.

most, but not all.

they know how much they're

loved.

they run

with you

and fetch,

they play ball, they sleep

in the big

bed,

or have a space

all their own.

they can't wait for you

to get home,

sitting by

the window,

wagging their tail

at the door.

they get free room

and board

and health

care.  they are adored.

only the dumb

dogs

run

when the door is left

open.

never to be seen again.

the smart ones

stay put.

like i do with you.

one bedroom twenty floors up

the realtor

takes us to the balcony

twenty floors

up

and points down

to the apartment pool.

you have

a great view of the pool

he says,

smiling

in his seer sucker suit.

and over

there is a tree where

you can

have a picnic.

parking

by the way

is only seven hundred

dollars

for one space.

but it's all about the pool,

isn't it?

all about the view.

and if you lean

over the rail

you can see

the fire escape.

be careful though when

you look up.

recently after the election,

occasionally people

jump.

come on, let me show

show you

the kitchen, the dorm

sized fridge,

the cupboard

and the hot plate.

but who cooks anymore,

right?

which also keeps the mice

count down.

and don't mind those bongo

drums

coming from the condo above.

the tenants here

are great.

the party of joy

the love

and compassion

of the democratic

party is wonderful.

understanding and kindness

is in the air.

you can

taste it,

feel it.

the olive branch

is out.

the warm embrace

of men and women

on the left

is wonderful as friendships

are mended.

they are like

angels,

not a single sore loser

in the bunch.

no gnashing of teeth.

how lovely they are,

no ranting and raving,

no tears,

no sorrow,

no cutting of wrists,

no tantrums or shaving

of heads.

hardly a word about

revenge

or death.

how joyous

they all are.

middle aged middle weights

i had a way 

of getting under her skin.

with

words,

perhaps rolling my eyes,

or being dismissive

with a wave.

she could feel

my passive

aggressive sighs.

it made

her ball her fists up

and advance

towards me,

teeth clenched,

fire in her eyes.

ready to take a swing

and pummel me.

but i was ready

to duck,

to defend,

to weave and bob

left or right,

maybe do the Ali shuffle,

to escape

her clenches, or do

the rope a dope to tire her

out.

it was never good

for the children

to witness

as they rang the bell

late into the night.

the sticky notes

i leave myself

a note

to turn off the outside

water

before the pipes freeze.

i leave

that sticky note

next to the one about

turning off

the iron, and

closing the flue

before the fire,

paying

the electric bill,

and taking zinc.

there's one in the bathroom

to leave

the seat down

when she's around,

making sure

the fridge is stocked

with cheese,

and the last one on

the fridge

about unfreezing

the turkey

at the end of next week.

the box of sixty-four

i was always amazed

by the number

of colors

of the crayons in a box

of sixty-four.

this was the ultimate

gift for fellow

children with a new

coloring book, sitting

on the floor.

why not color the sky

mint green,

or bittersweet,

the trees a shade of tangerine,

the moon,

raspberry

or mac and cheese?

a purple cat,

why not?

no need to stay between

the lines either.

we were tripping out

on Crayolas

until our graham crackers

and milk

and then our naps.

the first night in her absence

i remember laughing

before closing

my eyes to sleep,

stretching out on the bed

owning both sides

at last,

embracing

the joy and relief

of her not being there.

how sweet life was again.

tears of happiness

ran down my cheeks.

for a good time call

no one

likes to use the public

bathrooms.

the ones in bus stops,

Trailway

depots, gas stations

and malls.

no one

wants to venture into

that slippery

world

of strange smells

and odd people who

never seem to

leave the stalls.

how careful you are to not

touch anything,

moving about with hands

held up

like a surgeon about

to operate,

and

who writes these things

on the walls.

who brings a sharpie pen

into the bathroom

and takes the time

to write a political essay,

or a poem,

or to draw large

body parts, with names

and numbers

beside them. underlining

the words,

for a good time call.

they're all good now

we assume

the elderly are good people.

look at them

on their porches,

on their swings, drinking

lemonade.

see how they wave

and nod,

saying howdy,

tipping their hats as we

go by.

wrongly

we believe they are kind

and compassionate

people, that they are nothing

like us.

i'm not there yet

one

foot into the cold water

then

the other.

inching forward i'm

up to my knees,

my hips,

my chest,

then neck, only my

head

is above

the slosh of sea.

like many things in life,

i go

part of the way,

and yet I'm unable

to completely get my

head into it.

complaining from another country

tired of her own

country,

she has

escaped into the forests

of Costa Rica,

to the white

sands,

to the narrow

roads

and inclines,

where the trees are thick

and green

where

the wild monkeys

swing

and climb.

she's an expatriate

far from home,

her heart has

burned the flag,

but she has Facebook

and Instagram,

to inform

her followers daily,

of what's gone wrong.

so it's like

she never left.

it's why they lost

she doesn't care

what the young

have to say,

the working class,

the old too, the middle

aged.

the beaten

and reformed.

don't send me their podcasts

and takes,

she says

while sipping white

wine from

her ivory tower.

like a stale perfume

you can

smell her arrogance

from across the room.

only the elite

matter. the writers at

the New York

times,

or pundits on CNN,

the Post and CBS.

they are the only ones

worth listening

to. the only ones who

can give it to you straight.

give me the Ivy League

thinkers, she says.

the degreed,

those safe behind their

community gates.

why bother

with

the rest.

why open your ears

to a difference

of opinion?

and this is why the horse

they ran 

has lost the race.

taking the trash out in my boxer shorts

there's

so much good in growing old.

the fact

that i can pretty much

say whatever

is on my mind, and not

worry about hurting

someone's feelings

is one.

and i'm not bothered

by why they say

in return.

i can hang up the phone,

block, delete

and move on, like Clint

in an old time

western movie.

ride off into the sunset

to greener and happier land.

i shrug at the marching masses,

leave me

out of your crazy woke

madness, please.

and even as i take

the trash out

for tomorrows pick up,

i don't give a damn that

i'm in my boxer shorts

and black socks.

if it bothers you so much,

turn your head, 

and stop looking out

your window,

with your two cats in hand.

is there a cobbler in town?

it's the heel of one

black

boot that's come loose

from it's

sole.

a favored pair.

the threads torn,

the glue

unfrozen.

i wonder if there's

a cobbler

in town

to save the day.

maybe,

maybe not. so much

good

seems to lie

in another century.

it had to end at some point

the world,

being the bar of soap that it is,

will

end at some point.

there's only

so much tread

on this spinning tire.

the sun

will die

out and so will we

if we haven't done

so already

by our own hands.

destroyed by

our endless

prejudices and disagreements.

it's been

heading that way

for ages,

not just in our lifetime

but in everyone's lifetime

throughout history,

starting in the garden,

with the apple

and Adam

and Eve.

Father Smith and the pre-Xmas party

I run into

Father Smith at the grocery

store.

his cart

is full of red wine

and crackers,

blocks of cheese

and fruit spreads

from

the gourmet counter.

i say hello,

he shakes his head

and rolls his eyes at me.

party?

i ask.

yes, he says. and you're

not invited.

so don't even think about it.

but, but.

don't give me your buts

he says.

i haven't seen you in church

since 

you got divorced.

are you going to a different

church now?

are you filling their baskets

with money?

i tell him no.

okay, okay. i confess, i've

been praying

at home a lot lately.

i'm recovering from

a twisted knee.

how about i come this Sunday,

to high mass,

the really really long one

with two collections.

the incense, the bells, etc.

along with a few extra numbers

from the choir.

i'll be there,

cross my heart.

i'll even kneel when i'm supposed

to instead of just

sitting there.

then can i come to your

party?

i'll bring a Honey Baked ham

and my mother's recipe

for sweet potatoes

with seared marshmallows on top.

okay.

okay, he mumbles.

you're forgiven, sort of.

oh, by the way, i ask him.

she's not going to be

there, is she?

who?

Cruella.

no.

good. see you at 7ish.

reducing brain cell damage

martinis

used to be my number one

killer

of brain cells,

other than watching

television,

especially MSNBC.

vodka or gin

did the deed.

apple

martinis in particular

with a slice

of green

granny apple on

the rim,

coated with brown

sugar.

one vigorously shaken

ice-cold martini

would make me wise

and philosophical.

full of Dylan Thomas

poetry.

two would

make me flirtatious,

ala Bill Clinton,

perusing young interns,

pretty and naive,

and three

would

put me to sleep like

a choke

hold from a cage

wrestler

putting on the squeeze.

i'm drinking milk these

days. 

A-2 whole

from the local farmer

creamery,

so the world is safer now

without martinis

inside of me.

what's wrong with you now?

i talk

to my printer.

i ask it why, why are you

rattling

on like that

with your plastic

machinery

shaking nervously

on the stand?

have i pushed a button

to awaken you

this morning?

have i disturbed you

in some way?

i see you shaking

over there,

lit up,

and trying hard to tell

me something.

what is it?

are you thirsty again?

out of ink

once more,

or is it paper this time

that's making

you whine

and be a bore?

why no work is getting done

she sends

me a long article from

the new York times

diving into

why the left is right

and the world

will soon end.

i counter

by sending her a video

of a podcast

stating why

the article is wrong.

she sends

me a clip

of lies and exaggerations,

how children

and women won't be around

very long.

i send her the funny

videos of left wing nuts,

and the celebrities

crying as they meltdown.

so many are promising,

like the last time,

to leave town.

she tells me i'm stupid,

i tell her

your momma is.

this goes

on all day.

and no work gets done.

unholy matrimony

despite

our differences 

and constant arguing,

we make

love,

somehow

we put aside

our political opinions

and do 

the wild thing,

which solves nothing,

but at least

it takes the edge

off for a little while

so that

we can get through

another day

together.

postcard from Venice

somehow

the air is different here.

the blues

are

thin between

the white of clouds,

the yellows in the sky,

pale ribbons,

as a different

sun goes down.

the reds. the tints

of paint

on doors and window

frames,

with saffron

stucco walls.

and as the gondolas

slide

by in brown

rivers.

you stand on the bridge,

as if in

a postcard

while someone takes

your picture.

when every day was gold

how

quickly the year

goes by.

the months slipping

through

your hand

like falling leaves.

waiting

to be swept up

in photographs,

messages,

so many things

you scrolled through

and didn't read.

each breath

measured

and taken,

discarded as the heart

beats on. but

it's different now,

not like

your childhood home,

your boyhood

world

where everything

made sense,

where each day was

gold.

run don't walk

i find that my legs

are built

more for the city

than

the woods or hills.

hiking

is not my thing.

the dirt trail,

the rocks

and streams to cross.

badgers

and wolves wanting

a bite out

of me.

give me 5th Avenue

any day of the week.

dodging taxis,

and now

that jaywalking

is no longer a crime.

i'm free.

the new salad dressing company

the bad thing

about losing an election

is that

you have to start looking for

a new job.

you're tired though

of talking

of giving interviews,

of telling everyone how

wonderful you are.

making hundreds of speeches

honing down

your word salads

into some sort of vague

arugula and lettuce leaves.

but you can't go back to what

you did before

so now what?

the money will run out

at some point.

someone suggests that you

start a salad dressing

company, with a picture

of you on the jar

smiling in that way you

do. bright eyes and bushy tailed.

a whole chain of dressings,

like Paul Newman did.

but this wouldn't be philanthropy,

no, this money would

go to you.

i can see it now.

Oil and Vinegar,

Parmesan and Ranch.

Blue Cheese.

each with the seal of the VP

on the label.

they've tagged you with

the moniker of word salad,

so there you go.

have at it.

go make some money.

the late night prowler

the ring

camera captures

the man

trying the doors

of cars

in the lot.

he gives

them a turn then tug

wishing

his luck was better.

he looks like a nice

man

in his Nike hat

and shorts,

his

running shoes

and hoodie.

he's very stylish as

he goes about

the lot

searching for that one

door

that opens

gently.

he's like a cat at 3 am,

prowling around

on soft

cat like feet. i strangely

admire how he

has no concern

for the cameras,

or the law.

Santa in the sky

no one says

they're religious anymore,

instead

they say

i'm spiritual, whatever that means.

when you need

something do you pray?

when you're in

trouble,

or when someone you once

loved has

passed away.

maybe it's money you need,

or a healed

bone

in your body.

it's God-lite.

a benign Santa in the sky.

not the blood

of the cross

that keeps you off your

knees.

vegetable therapy

the bag

of frozen peas

will have

to do until the ice

hardens

in the trays.

the sweet corn

too.

and the old bag

of kale,

left over from someone

i used to know.

i'll have the swellling

down in no

time

and be back on my

feet by morning to come

and visit you.

it's easy, just look it up on YouTube

it's

easy.

you look it up on YouTube.

you find

out how to do

it,

to replace

a garbage disposal

beneath your kitchen

sink.

you're on

the floor for

maybe

six hours.

the water is turned

off and your

back hurts.

your knuckles are bleeding

and the dog

is licking your face.

the flashlight is low

on power

as you stare in the abyss

of pipes,

screws and flanges.

finally, you give up,

pushing all of 

your new plumbing

tools aside.

you call Mike.

willing to pay him

double time.

the septum infections

the doctors

are busy, more busy

than usual

after an election.

the line goes around

the block.

men and women,

and the in-betweens

are holding

their cats,

their blue hair

leaking dye in the rain.

the septum infections

from nose

rings rusting because

of all the crying

are at an all-time high.

the how did you meet story

everyone

has a how did you meet

story.

the high school

sweetheart

tale

of love at first sight.

shyly

sitting next to

one another

in geometry.

then the years apart

before finally seeing

the light

and reuniting.

and then it's your turn.

senior match dot com.

you murmur.

i was having a beer

and eating tacos while

sitting in front

of my computer late

one night

and clicked

on her profile.

she didn't live too far

away and

i thought she looked nice.

to be of that kind

it's good

to be plain, to be average,

to be almost

smart

nearly

handsome or short

of lovely.

it's okay

to be third or fourth

in line.

life

is much easier that

way,

to achieve beyond

what's expected

when you

are of this kind.

a nice hard rain

a hard rain

would be nice.

not an acid rain, or

Bob Dylan's hard rain,

but a nice steady

downpour

to saturate the ground

and trees.

we need a cold rainy

day to stay home

in, to sip tea

and read.

the secret stash of candy

she had

a secret stash of candy,

squirreled away

for hard times,

he had his pint

of brandy

beneath the sink,

taking a swig

now and then when

things didn't go

his way.

they both knew about

each other's secret,

but said nothing.

this seemed to work.

and they're still married

today.

no ambivalence

there is a weird

vibe in the air,

one of

joy

one of gloom

combined.

there is no ambivalence.

you can see in

the faces,

in the sparkle

of their

eyes or the sadness

as they come

into the room.

people

are dancing in

the streets

or weeping as

they burrow deeply

into their homes.

small crackers with caviar

it's

the yearly invitation

to

the holiday

party.

you can't say Christmas

party

any more

because it

contains the word Christ,

savior of the world.

we're only vaguely

allowed to

celebrate

the day He was born.

we have

to water it down

to tinsel

and gifts,

snow globes and

Santa Claus.

mistletoe

hanging over the door.

but there will be drinking

and dancing,

and small crackers

with

water chestnuts,

some with

caviar or shrimp aboard.

blood on the boots

through

intermediators

the two

sides, or three or four.

send cryptic

messages

to one another

about

the conditions of ending

the war,

so it goes on

and on

and on

as the blood

rises

high onto the boots.

the great white hunters

people

used to kill animals

then hang

them

on their walls,

in the den where

the gun

racks are.

the heads

of the great beasts.

cut off

and stuffed.

rhinos and lions,

elephants

with tusks.

all day long they stare

back at you.

reminding you of

how brave you

were

with your gun,

hiding in

the brush.

sipping on the quiet

wisdom

comes

in quiet retreat.

with the slowed

tongue,

the lips,

the mouth.

say nothing, but

go on

with your life

as you

see fit.

peace comes

that way,

an elixir to sip

and sip

and sip.

in one hour, soup

it's forty

degrees so my mind wanders

towards

soup.

the big pot

on the stove

boiling

with potatoes,

celery

and onions,

carrots.

i can smell it now

as i come

through

the door, peeking

into the kitchen

at my

mother at the stove.

she smiles

and says

one hour,

now go wash up,

change your clothes.

the shaving lesson

as a young

boy

you can't wait to shave

like your

father does.

watching as he

lathers his

face in the mirror

with shaving cream.

you mimic

his every move,

dragging

the razor slowly

across

your smooth face,

hoping that one

day

you'll be just like him,

grizzled and old,

which sadly,

comes too soon.

the celebration

it's the blue

air

of November, 

the fresh

oxygen

of autumn filling

your lungs.

it's a joyous day

of celebration

when your

side has won.

common sense at

last

prevails,

though some

are in shock

therapy

and have become

quite glum.

water off a duck

i'm disappointed

in you,

she tells me

on the phone. i thought

you were smarter

than that.

but apparently i was wrong.

i say nothing,

listening,

as i do curls with a bar bell

on the floor.

i set the phone down,

and do some

sit ups.

putting her on speaker

phone.

i can't believe you

sometimes, she says.

you're not the person,

i thought you were.

i knock off a dozen

pushups, then go back

to the phone.

what's wrong with you,

she asks.

you used to be so rational.

you sound like you're

out of breath,

are you okay?

yeah, yeah, fine.

just working out, i tell her.

just exercising.

so are we going out later,

or what?

i begin to do twenty 

jumping jacks

as i wait for her answer.

slicing the bagel in two

i know

the dangers of using this sharp

knife

in cutting

open a bagel,

slicing it in

two for the toaster.

pressing

the blade awkwardly 

into the rounded

thick bread,

but i do it anyway.

the cuts

are usually minor though,

and the blood

stops

flowing after some

cold water,

and the application

of a tissue.

a crisp warm bill in the dryer

it's nice

to find a crisp and warm

twenty

dollar bill in the dryer.

hard

earned money,

lost, but now

found,

it feels like a gift from

above.

a lucky find

that went around

and around.

the demise of saturday night

remember when

this show

was funny we say to each

other,

while cringing

at the bad sketches and lame

jokes.

remember how

on a Saturday night

we all gathered

together on the couch

and watched it.

then walked around

the whole week

quoting what we heard,

or taking on the characters

impersonating

them with delight.

what happened?

it's sad what's become

of Saturday Night.

serenity now for five bucks

there's a new

business in town.

it's where the record

shop used

to be.

it's called the 
Quiet Place.

it's a little room

where you go in

to sit or lie down on

the wooden floor.

the walls are painted

white.

there's no music,

no talking, no sounds

at all being

made.

they offer no coffee,

or bagels,

no affirmations or

advice.

for five dollars a pop

you can go in and lie

on the floor for fifteen

minutes

and get away from

life.

i can't help but think

of the pet rock

when i go inside.

the value of nothing.

a brilliant marketing

device.

why stop with one?

like

cats or dogs,

or children,

it's hard to get just one.

and so it

goes with tattoos

and piercings,

once you

go down that road,

you've become

a pin cushion.

you're covered

in them

from head to toe.

they're on your arms

your legs,

your neck.

there's a bone through

your nose. look,

there's another one

on your bum.

sure, i'll probably be there

i'm good

at postponing.

at procrastinating

with the rsvp,

at saying, yes, but meaning

no,

delaying

the inevitable apology

for as long

as i can,

saying sorry,

but i can't

make it this time.

rain check?

though it only works

for so long.

burning leaves

i understand

knitting

now,

or gardening. how

my mother

could sit

there for hours lost

in thought,

knitting

with the balls of yarn

at her feet.

or in the garden

on her knees,

a trowel in hand,

tossing dirt.

i understand now,

as i rake the yard

then burn these leaves.

i took a wrong turn in Baltimore

i was late

driving to Baltimore

for the third date.

i took

a wrong turn,

and ended up in a neighborhood

where 

Omar

from the Wire used

to live.

it was before

cell phones.

so i couldn't call and tell

her i was lost.

i pulled over

and took out the Atlas Map

and turned

on the dome light

while a group of young

men in hoodies

were trying to pry open

my trunk with a

screwdriver.

quickly i sped away.

an hour later,

i was there, at last.

she wasn't happy though.

i saw

the dried-out piece of farm

raised salmon

on my plate,

a bowl of limp arugula,

and the bottle of wine

now empty.

it was a one and done

final date.

we love this country

i used to ask

my migrant workers

if they wanted to become citizens

at some point.

take the oath

and salute the flag.

which would make

them laugh

and shake their heads.

citizens?

what are you talking about,

are you loco?

if we become citizens

then

we'd have to pay taxes,

and register our

cars. we'd have to buy

auto and health

insurance.

they'd give us social security

numbers

and they would know

everything about us.

why would we do that when

everything

is free now?

we love this country,

that is why we walked a

thousand

miles to get here.

it is the land of the free.

there's no room at the inn

with purpose

i disposed of the bed in the guest

room

years ago.

there's nothing

for someone

to lie

on and spend the night

except for the floor.

the couch

is too narrow and hard

and slippery

because of

the Corinthian leather,

the one in the basement

is too.

i have no extra

sheets or pillows,

there's no extra towels,

or toothbrushes lying

around.

i've made it as uncomfortable

as possible

for someone

to be an overnight guest.

i keep the thermostat on cold

and there's not

a pretzel bag to be

found.

there is no room

at the inn

anymore.

i can suggest a nice hotel up

the street though.

i'll send you

directions

from my phone.

losing the will to clerk

the translucent

clerk

at the Whole Foods store,

is numb.

the blue

hair

drapes down over

her eyes,

red from crying.

her nose ring

is rusting.

she makes no eye contact

as she rings

up my milk,

and eggs, my salad

and 

bread i take home to bake.

she doesn't even

ask me

if i want paper or plastic

this time.

no chit chat about the weather.

because of the election

she's lost

the will to live,

or at least the will

to be a grocery store clerk.

let's not talk about that right now

in the end

we will warm ourselves

with each

other,

if we're still alive.

the electricity will be gone.

the food

will

be things that you have

to kill

or dig up

from the ground.

the sky will

be red.

there will be fear

and

loathing of an unseen

kind.

everything you once

believed

will be a lie.

there will be gnashing

of teeth.

moaning.

uncontrollable grief.

it will

be the end of times.

but

let's not think about that

right now.

how about we dance,

have more cheese,

more wine.

how to save a marriage

it's a long

conversation into the night.

he tells

me that his wife

hates him.

he hates her.

politics

seems to be the final

dagger

into their once

love bearing

hearts,

but he wants to make it work.

she's told

him to pack his bags

and get out,

he's told

her to settle down, honey

bun,

let's calm down.

how about tonight i sleep

in the other

room, on the couch?

tomorrow, he tells me,

he's going out to buy

flowers

and chocolates for her.

good idea, i tell him.

that always works.

the new sixth stage of grieving

there have always been

five

stages of grief,

denial,

anger, bargaining,

depression

and finally

acceptance, but apparently

a new stage

has been discovered

which is

going on to TikTok

to rant and rave

and scream,

followed by 

an embarrassing meltdown

in tears.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross

never saw

this one coming.

flower girl

a girl

likes flowers.

she is a flower.

pick one,

any one.

she's that one.

a bouquet

in a dress.

take

her in your arms.

but don't

squeeze

too hard,

the stems will

break.

the bees would come in

i miss

my old windows.

the wooden

sashes.

the way they

wobbled

and wouldn't stay up,

or wouldn't

open.

the leaks and broken

glass

letting in the bees and flies.

a few were stuck

for decades.

old windows.

one had a bullet hole in it.

more

than four were cracked,

one pane

was missing,

that i put a piece of cardboard

in with tape.

the hardware

was a mixed bunch

of metal pieces

found in drawers, tool

boxes

from the woman

who died in her sleep

here,

so many years ago.

they were great windows.

they let go

of the cold,

they let go of the heat.

they were

wonderful and cranky,

especially in the morning,

like me.

eyes wide open

it bothered

me

when i opened my eyes

and saw

that she was kissing

me with her

eyes open.

hey,

i said.

your eyes are open.

aren't you

into this early morning

make out session?

i am, yes, but so what.

your eyes are open

too.

so what's the difference?

very weird, i tell her.

very weird.

i was just

thinking about things,

she said.

like what?

well, like what kind of bagel

i'm going

to eat this morning

when we go out

after this is done.

the religion of climate change

i used

to separate the glass

from the tin,

the paper

from the plastic,

placing it all

into

the blue bin.

it meant that you were

a good person

to do such a thing.

but the weather

never changed.

it was still 80 degrees

in December,

50 in July.

there were still

tornadoes

and hurricanes and

wildfires.

snow and ice

to deal with.

it was just the way

it was when i

was a child.

despite the dire warnings

and preaching,

nothing seems to have

changed.

pandering to the circus clowns

politicians

don't listen until they lose.

and then

the light goes on.

they knock their

coconut heads

together and say,

we should

have wrote down

their concerns, we should

have listened

and been

more aware

of the issues

of the working man

and not the circus

clowns.

a billion dollars later,

they've learned

why they've lost

so spectacularly.

it looks different from up here

as a child

you climbed trees and were

amazed

at the view from above.

everything was

clear from that high limb,

the land

and town laid out

the way it was.

a symmetry to it all,

a reason,

with cause.

each year a new tree

needs to be

climbed

to see that what you

thought was large,

was really small.

a woman scorned

i see her in line

at the liquor store,

she's

furious over

the election, she blurts out

that all

men

should be aborted in the womb.

she's shaved

her head in protest

and talks about moving.

Maybe Italy,

or Timbuktu.

i say nothing.

being a man,

i'm well aware

of what a scorned woman

can do.

i gently ask her what if

it's fraternal

twins.

is there a way

to separate and kill one

too.

reciting Shakespeare while raking leaves

i see the actor,

bewildered,

pushing the mower along

the hill.

the rake

leans against the split

level house.

the water hose rests nearby.

he's reciting

Shakespeare

to himself

out in the suburbs.

the dogs are barking.

he waves to window

holding his wife.

he's lost

his way

and settled for domestic

life.

a simple card game

it's a simple

card

game that goes long

into the night.

husband and wife.

she keeps

score,

he pours the drinks,

as they

ponder

life. turning each

card over

with regret,

with spite.

shuffling.

all things get shuffled

in time.

the night swim

it was both

dangerous and sexy

to swim

in the dark ocean at night,

the curled

lips of waves

gone silver

washing over

our legs,

then waist,

then under we'd go,

before rising

with salt

in our eyes 

to see the silhouettes

of ships

at sea.

we were 

cold and shivering,

but felt

rebellious joy

as we bounced

on our cautious feet.

the cornfield in North Reading

my grandmother

would send

us across the road to the cornfield,

to steal

a dozen or so ears of corn

for dinner.

the leafy stalks were over

our heads

as we reached up

to find the fattest

ones.

she had no qualms about it.

the corn

had been growing there

forever.

she had once made

love to the farmer

when they were young,

but it ended

badly.

so off we went with our

burlap sack,

crossing the road,

her staring out the window,

as the water

boiled furiously

on her stove.

and then we held hands

we'd lie

on the picnic table.

staring

at the stars, pointing out

comets

that flashed

by.

our hands were yet to

touch

each other.

and then it happened.

whether

it was the silky

blackness above us,

with the

the twinkling of diamonds

embedded in, or

the warm

summer air, 

or our youth.

maybe all of it.

but nothing like that

has ever

happened again

quite like that night.

the angry neighbors the day after

i see my neighbors

on the front porch who i've known

for years.

they're

going through a stack

of travel

guides and maps.

books stating where the best

places are

on earth to relocate.

i give them a friendly

wave and say,

howdy neighbors,

top of the morning to you.

they give me the middle finger

and say go away

and don't ever talk to us again.

huh? i say.

hands on my hips. stunned by

this act of aggression

and anger.

does this mean we aren't going

Christmas caroling

together this year?

i guess i can't borrow

your weed Wacker either, right?

the healing has begun

democracy

is slipping through our hands,

she tells me,

weeping

while holding two of her

cats in her lap.

how can i go on?

i'm afraid to go outside.

i don't know

what will happen to me.

they've taken

away my

rights.

we've gone backwards.

if not for my three cats, i might

jump off a bridge.

now, now, i tell her.

how about i order

us a pizza

and we watch some Netflix?

what do you say?

okay, okay, she murmurs.

with extra cheese,

and no anchovies?

learning a second language

it would

be nice to learn a second language.

most of the world

knows two

or three. but we here

don't roll like that.

we cowboy

Americans with our

big belt buckles and

ten-gallon hats.

but then

this woman from France

moves in

next door, i think she said

her name

was Fifi,

a flight attendant from

Paris

who likes to tan herself

in the back yard.

and like a bunny

i'm on Amazon

buying the Rosetta Stone.

the dark eatery

i can't read

the menu because it's so

dark

in this restaurant.

small pictures of the food

they serve

would help a lot.

i hold

the table candle to the thin

paper

menu,

which catches it on

fire.

i douse it quickly with

the glass

of water

that the waiter keeps

refilling after i take

one sip.

i look around at what

other people

are eating.

most of them have figured

out how to turn

the flashlight on

in their phone.

i go online

and bring the menu up.

tiny words

again, but

maybe there's a coupon

i can use.

it's the end of the world oh my

it's the end

of the world, of course,

the media

says so,

with tears and moans.

i tuck myself into bed

thinking that

tomorrow

the world

will be one fire,

the dead

will litter the land.

buildings will have fallen,

the oceans

will have

swept up and taken

the masses

to their grave.

nothing will be the same

again.

it's the end of

everything we've dreamed

life could be.

common

decency and love

will have evaporated

into ash and smoke.

and then i

wake up

and it's sunny and bright.

quite lovely

out.

maybe a walk today, or

a ride

on the bike.

maybe a long sail

on the boat.

the house with blue shutters

it's all about

the blue

shutters, the blue door

on the brick

house

at the end of the road,

that makes

you want

to live there, maybe it's the fence

too,

white pickets

going around.

maybe it's

the chimney

with a slender braid

of smoke

coming out, or

the unkempt yard,

growing however it wants

to. or maybe

it's the woman

in the kitchen standing

near the stove.

switching over to martinis

i can eat

chicken

or steak, or pork, with absolutely

no sense

of guilt

or shame.

i'm oblivious to what

the poor

animal had to go through

to arrive

on my plate.

i eat, i summon

the waiter

for butter and bread,

and another

round

of pepper

from the big shaker.

no more beer,

i tell him,

i think i'll have a martini

instead.

the morning meltdown

the newscasters

are crying.

they are upset at the results

of the election.

it's seven in the morning,

they look

beat and weary,

hungover.

we tried

so hard to villainize

the other side,

they say as one.

we bent the news,

we exaggerated

and lied.

all for nought.

we thought we could

turn the tide,

brainwash

their minds. but sadly, no.

they weren't as stupid

as we thought they were.

each broadcaster has a box

of Kleenex

to dry their eyes.

the make-up is running

down their faces.

four racoons sitting in

the studio light.

men and women.

the sobbing is pathetic.

professionals,

so called.

unbiased, professionals,

hardly.

the director breaks

for a commercial,

shaking his head

and sighs.

the one term blues

it's tough

moving out of the white house

after

only one

term.

you've had the rooms painted,

the pictures

hung,

your own portrait

is not quite ready.

the artist

is having trouble with the eyes

because

of squinting.

was that chair mine, or

Abe Lincoln's, i don't remember.

and that cushion,

did Mary Washington sew

that and put

it on the sofa,

saying home sweet home,

with an eagle on the back,

or was that the work

of Jill at Rehoboth Beach

when she took

that cross stitching class?

will

i have to get a new Advantage

plan

to supplement

my Medicare,

what about,

my masseuse, my pool, my

cooks

and maids. my doctor.

you mean i can't take them

with me?

can i at least keep the plane?

they keep popping out

you would

think

that people would stop having babies

what with

all the fear

mongering

the news does.

who would want to bring

a child

into this turmoil,

this dying planet?

but they keep

popping out.

my neighbor has three

so far,

and they all look very

happy.

unfazed.

they're playing hopscotch

and throwing

a ball about.

one day at a time

i hear people

say

that they're living one day

at a time.

i believe

them.

there is no other way

than that

to live.

one foot in front of the other

too.

left

then right.

a hill or narrow path,

an alley,

a street.

a mountain.

then down the other side.

one day

at a time.

so far so good

i open

my window to listen

and to see

if the city

is on fire.

not a waft of tires burning,

no cracking

of glass

on store front windows.

no statues

turned over.

no burning, looting,

or murders.

is it possible

there isn't

a riot

on this cool November

morning

after the election?

is it true 

that people have peacefully

accepted

the turning

of the page, at last?

joy cometh in the morning

it's taking

so long for them to count

the votes,

licking their finger, saying

the next number

than the next,

then being interrupted and having

to start all over again.

pencil

and paper.

frayed notepads.

i can hardly keep my eyes

open

as the count goes on.

do i care.

yes, i do, but my eyes are

half mast

and i'll have to wait until

morning to see

which direction

the free world is going.

red or blue.

the long show into the night

they show

a picture of the great

communist dictators

of China

and North Korea,

Russia,

and California,

each sitting back on their couches

watching

the election

results.

making bets while they eat

potato chips

and cookies,

and other assorted munchies.

candy

and Fritos with salsa,

pork sliders and dumplings.

it's a long night.

thank God for Pepto Bismol,

no matter who wins.

left or right.

bring out the Rockettes

with no

news to report

before the polls close,

they keep talking

anyway

about what if,

what was,

what may be in the coming

hours.

they bring up Garfield

and Taft,

how they won Ohio,

or they talk

about how Reagan

made red the map.

but they have

seven more

hours to fill.

and fill it they do with

newspeak

babble.

charts and maps.

how about a song dance

team, to fill the void?

some jugglers,

or magicians, or acrobats,

a few comedians

doing their act.

hell, why not bring out

the Rocketts?

who wouldn't watch

that?

home sour home

the sheets

could be whiter.

bleach?

i don't know. maybe new

ones.

there are days

when i wish

everything was cleaner,

brighter,

fresh and new

again

with that lavender

smell.

every inch of wood

and carpet needs a deep

clean,

and yet when i've

been away from home

for a week,

or more,

i do miss

and like the scent of must

and mold.

home

sour home, when i

come through

the door.

there are no mistakes

sometimes

you know what you're doing

is wrong.

but you

do it anyway.

you can't stop yourself

from making

the mistake.

there's a power that's come

over you,

as if there's a lesson

to be learned

if you do what you're

wrongly about to do.

so you bend to the will

of a higher

power, bite your tongue,

and say, i do.

washing his hands raw

we worked

together for years

and then

i noticed that he washed his hands

a lot,

as if he couldn't get them

clean.

he used soap

and a brush,

a rag,

digging at the nails.

he rubbed them raw

under hot water

from the sink.

i couldn't understand

what it was

all about

until i met his wife and kids,

and visited

the house where

he lived.

a ticket out

live

long enough and you acquire

the skill

of moving on

without too much

drama.

without tears

or cursing,

nothing thrown or broken.

no longer writing

the heartfelt

note.

it's just a matter

of packing clothes

and buying

a ticket to somewhere

different.

somewhere

warm or cold,

somewhere reachable

by plane

or boat.

or walking.

lost in southern maryland

there are box houses

along

the road,

clapboard affairs

painted pink

or blue,

squared onto dirt fields

where

corn used to grow.

wire fences

contain

the livestock.

chickens and goats.

a sickly horse

roams the far edge of a hill.

there's smoke

coming out of one chimney

and there's

a child

staring out the upper window.

a woman

is hanging wet

clothes on a line,

there's an old man

on a tire swing smoking

a pipe.

they turn their heads

as you roll

slowly by.

you feel that

they want you to stop,

or maybe

that they want

you to keep going

and to not look back.

just passing through

as i listen

to the conversations

i'm not a part of,

i take notes.

i'm curious about what's

being said,

and why.

i am a voyeur,

a peeping

tom looking into

their mouths,

their eyes. i watch

their gestures,

how they stand,

how they move about.

i feel as if i'm new to 

this world

at times.

just passing through

observing

lives so different than

mine.

which is it?

you sit

in the cold room

without heat.

you wonder where everyone

has gone.

the furniture is missing

except for the chair

you sit on.

the curtains are off the window.

outside

you see that the trees

are empty

of leaves.

there is snow falling.

it feels like the end

of something,

or maybe the beginning.

but you're not worried.

you've been here

before.

at the start

and at the end.

clarity

you

need silence

to achieve

some semblance

of clarity.

you need to sit somewhere

without

noise.

without a voice

in your ear.

somewhere

in the woods, or by water.

no sound

other than the sound

the earth makes

as it goes

around.

Oprah knows everything

i hear

Oprah on tv telling the crowd

that

if we don't vote

the way

she wants us to

it will be the end

of the world.

democracy will die,

and a fascist regime

will reign for

a thousand years.

every woman will be

chained up

and incarcerated,

their heads will be shaved.

children

will be tossed into the sea,

old folks

will have their plugs

pulled

as they wait to die

anyone with blue hair

will be rounded up

and disinfected

and will no longer be allowed

to read

or watch tv.

she begs the audience, to please

please

vote for the one i've chosen.

if not it's the end of 

the world

as we know it,

just watch and see.

the long and winding road

sometimes

i put

the phone down,

hit the speaker button

then

do the dishes.

fold laundry,

run the vacuum, or take

the dog

out for a walk.

about every ten minutes

or so,

i make a noise

into the phone or say

something like

really? you're kidding, right?

i've gone to the store

at times

to shop and come back,

to have her still talking,

telling me

a story about the time

she had a pet chicken

that laid eggs.

i tell her that i love eggs,

then crack when

in a pan.

she continues, making

a segue into bacon.

i eat and read the paper,

watch tv.

the new rules for 2025

the new

rules for the neighborhood

arrive

in the mail

special D.

it's a forty-page packet

of instructions,

restrictions, laws

and regulations

that we must obey or

be penalized with fines

and liens.

everything

from dogs to birds, to leaves,

to the color

of your door

where you park your

car,

or your Christmas wreathe

is covered.

there's a list of who's on

the board,

the same gaggle of

karens

who have been there

since the new Millenium.

here they come,

with pitchforks

and torches

marching down the street.

it's almost over

i know

i've been watching too much

news on

both fox and cnn

when

i have a dream

about Mark Rubio

and Donald

Trump,

and Pelosi on

her broom.

i may need serious therapy

when this

election ends.

hopefully soon though,

real soon.

catch and release

it's not

fair,

the fish thinks, hook in his

rubbery jaw,

yanked

mercilessly to shore

for the umpteenth time,

then held

up

for a photo.

maybe weighed

and measured

before being tossed

back into the water.

why?

just eat me next time.

i can't keep

going through this.

i'm a nervous

wreck,

look at me,

all bug eyed from

the air

seeping into my gills,

i'm losing my mind.

waiting for the sun to rise

it's over

the candidates say

to themselves,

sleepless

in their hotel beds

eating ice-cream

from the box

and drinking wine.

one eye on the clock,

the other on

the window

waiting

for the sun to rise.

the clamor is over

as they lie

there twitching,

wondering if anyone really

believed any of the

b. s. that they've said,

did they tell

enough lies.

with tears in his eyes he says, we're still here

cautiously,

we

lean into each other

and whisper,

can you believe it?

we're still here.

no,

he says,

finishing his glass

as the lights

go up.

a friend for sixty

years.

i don't believe it either

when i think

of grade school

and beyond,

all that we've been through,

the work,

the women,

life,

but say it quietly,

let's not

jinx our luck.

there's more to do,

more days

to share, more rebellion,

more

fun, more love.

here's to you brother,

cheers.

what does this even mean?

there's no need

to puzzle

over this poem, no need

to dissect

it

or look up words,

or read

books on mythology,

or peruse

the Bible

to figure out what i'm

saying here.

there are no

five syllable words

or complex

metaphors.

no cryptic message between

the lines.

no.

it's pretty much simple

and clear.

easy

to understand.

and thankfully,

the new yorker won't

come near

it.

it's cold in here

everyone

should be poor for a day

or week,

or year.

just to see what it's like

to go hungry,

to not

have shoes,

or gloves.

to at some point

steal

a loaf of bread

and a can of tuna,

then run.

everyone should

see what it's like

checking into

a motel

six

or driving a Pinto

from back

in the day.

using a beer tab

for a ring

to give to your wife.

to stare out a cracked

window

from a bed without sheets.

everyone should feel

the cold

without heat, or feel

the sweat

without ac.

everyone should

be poor just for a short

while.

you won't forget it.

the chameleon candidate

she's a pastor

in a black church one day

making a speech,

throwing

around words

like thee and thou

and cometh

in the morning,

then

speaking

with a Mexican

accent at the border,

while

eating enchiladas

with hot sauce.

the next day.

there's the Jamaican

accent

at the market

when buying a coconut

for her pina coladas.

tomorrow

she's heading to Chinatown

for a rally,

this should be interesting.

she's making her weekend list

she was

a list

maker. i was a list ignorer.

i'd see

her at the table on a 

Saturday morning,

pen in hand,

the white sheet of paper

numbered

down the side

and her pondering

what to write.

good morning, i'd say,

heading

towards the kitchen

for coffee.

making a new list?

yes, she'd say.

but i'm stumped, can

you help me?

all i have right now is

rake leaves.

can you think of anything

else?

no, i tell her

then disappear into

the other room.

maybe they'll tire of throwing rocks

will they

run

out of bombs and bullets

at some

point?

who's making

all these weapons

and ammunition.

maybe

that's part of the problem

too.

not race

and religion.

stop giving both

sides

the means to go on.

let them fight with

rocks

and sticks,

calling each other names

on the other

side of the fence

or wall.

see how long that lasts

before

they go home

and to back to work.