Thursday, April 3, 2025

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.

Wednesday, April 2, 2025

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.

Tuesday, April 1, 2025

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.

Monday, March 31, 2025

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.

Sunday, March 30, 2025

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.

Saturday, March 29, 2025

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?

Friday, March 28, 2025

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.

Thursday, March 27, 2025

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.

Wednesday, March 26, 2025

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.

Tuesday, March 25, 2025

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.

Monday, March 24, 2025

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.

Sunday, March 23, 2025

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.

Saturday, March 22, 2025

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.

Friday, March 21, 2025

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.

Thursday, March 20, 2025

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?

Wednesday, March 19, 2025

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.

Tuesday, March 18, 2025

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.

Monday, March 17, 2025

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.

Sunday, March 16, 2025

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.

the eight o'clock date

you are conscious
of the warm
water in the bucket, the suds,
the sponge
and rag
floating.
slowly, as if in a trance
you work your
way around the car,
wet with the hose,
scrubbing off the winter
dirt,
the salt, the mud.
tire to tire,
around
you go.
and then the arc of
water,
spraying with thumb
pressed against the copper
hole.
it's May at last and
you're sixteen again
in the sun with your shirt
off,
drying off the fender
with your mother's best
towels,
the hood,
the trunk and roof.
the windows,
thinking about the girl
you're going to
pick up at eight o'clock
for the Saturday
show.

i need you again

i have
no one to blame things on.
that pad
of butter
on the floor, the unlocked
door,
the window open
letting flies
in.
i have no one to yell at,
to give
them a piece of my
mind,
about the money spent,
the unmade
bed,
the weeds in the yard,
come over,
i think i need you again.

the fourth trip down the hall

at night,
when heading to the bathroom
for the fourth
visit,
to eek out
what i can, drip drip, drip,
i stub
my toe on the nightstand,
the one you
bought
with wide metal
claws
for feet.
i mutter out
a curse,
and think of you.

what if i ate all of this

what if i stopped
shopping,
stopped going to the grocery
to fill up
the cart and take
it all home.
to fill the shelves
and racks,
the refrigerator
once more.
what if i ate what i already
have.
the last inch of peanut
butter
in a jar.
the three slices of bread
at the end of a bag,
a can of olives.
those grapes
going soft,
that box of pasta,
with ten strands left,
the butt of a ham covered
in foil,
pushed behind
a box of Chinese food
from Hunan West.


our short comings


there's a
hole in the sleeve of my sweater,
but maybe
no one will notice.
they won't
see the unraveling
of wool.
i'll try
to keep it out of sight
the whole day.
keep it covered.
no need for anyone
to think less of me,
in any way.

Saturday, March 15, 2025

remember us? we're leaving now

the fading
movie
stars,
and long in the tooth
actors
are fleeing the country.
disturbed
by the new
regime.
how can we live in such
a place,
in our mansions,
driven
by chauffeurs
in our limousines?
maybe Ireland,
maybe France.
someplace where we
can drink
and sign autographs,
be appreciated for who
we used to be,
and dance.