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.

m s n b c 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.

each of them 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.

one foot without a shoe

seeing one

shoe

in the road makes me wonder

how and why

it got there.

who loses one shoe

and makes

it home?

so goes the red heel

beneath

my bed.

i have no clue.

it wasn't a friendship afterall

you

remember the next day

what

you should have

said

during the conversation you

had

with someone who

used to be your

friend, but who isn't anymore

because

of politics.

but you resist the call.

you swallow

the words

and move on.

what's the point?

maybe it wasn't a friendship

after all.

don't tell me who to vote for Hollywood

as the celebrity

stands

there

in the spotlight, 

all shiny and rich,

smiling

with good teeth

and posture,

telling me

and the very poor

and struggling who

to vote for

i want to say two words

to him

or her.

but

i don't say it out loud,

or even whisper

it. but

you can probably figure

it out.

letting go

it's a book

about letting go.

surrendering 

yourself from all the things

that hold you down.

the rocks

you've tied to your heart

and mind.

it's about

cutting the chains

of this world, the attachments.

freeing yourself

from anxiety

and fear.

a good read.

but

when you're not in the mood

for this sort

of thinking,

it all sounds and reads

like mumbo

jumbo.

maybe later i'll dive in

and take another look.

but for

now, i'm letting it go.

pumpkin pie

i see

my first pumpkin pie

of the season

on the store shelf

and now

i can't get it out of my mind.

the brown orange

pastry

with the crumbly crust.

i want it.

i need it.

i want it on a fork

heading

towards my mouth.

please don't wear that

black dress

when you walk by.

throwing stones

before

we can change the world

for the better

we need to clean

up our own

act.

tidy up

our heart

and room.

take the speck from our

own

eyes, stop

throwing

stones.

but it's hard to do,

when

there's so much

wrong in front of you.

get over yourself

you need

a hobby, my therapist tells me,

as i lie

on her couch

staring at my cuticles.

i've told

her that i'm bored

and floundering.

collect something,

she says,

buy a boat,

or play pickleball.

maybe

join a book club,

or a meet up group that

hikes,

or enjoys movies.

take an art class,

or yoga.

get your mind off of yourself.

be a volunteer

down at the soup

kitchen,

or at a hospital.

give back to the community.

i sigh

and crack my knuckles.

i don't know,

i tell her.

do you have something

else?

civil disobedience

the board,

the condo board association,

the omnipresent

gaggle

of brown shirted women

and beta

men

have

posted

notes on all the doors

in bold

black letters,

in caps.

do not

rake your leaves

and toss them into the woods,

back towards

the trees

where they have fallen

from.

we're watching you.

punishment will be swift

and hard

upon you and yours.

bag them

and place them at the curb

for pick up

in the morning.

how can i not

but disobey them.

so quickly

there's a hole

in the elbow,

one below the arm,

the threads

are frayed around the collar,

how is this

possible?

so quickly

it's done.

i just bought it yesterday

ten years

ago.

my favorite sweater.

where

does the time

go?

after the surgery

she's different

now

somehow.

different in how she moves.

how she talks

and listens.

her eyes are in your

eyes.

she's patient

and more kind than i ever

remember her

to be.

seeing God's light

at deaths

door

will do that to you.

the empty nester

it's an old

bird's nest high in the tree.

i can

see it from my window.

but the birds

are gone,

the blue eggs

hatched.

how i watched

the fluttering of wings.

what was

new birth

is gone now. it's winter,

no longer

spring.

uneasily

i understand though,

and grieve.

early voting discourse

people are 

restless in the hot sun,

waiting for the long line

to move

so that they can vote early,

five days

before the election.

you can

hear people going back and forth

arguing.

there's tension in the air.

well,

he wants to put us all in 

concentration camps.

he's a fascist, a dictator.

no he's not.

she's a stupid idiot,

word salad,

word salad,

the crowd begins to chant.

well,

he wants to kill women

and

electrocute

old people. take away

their food stamps.

yeah, well, she's drunk all the time

and fell out

of a coconut tree.

well, he slept with a porn

star,

big deal,

her husband got his nanny

pregnant

and she slept with a married man

to slither her way

to the top.

he looks like an orange person

and eats

at McDonald's every day.

and what's with the spray tan?

so what,

she cackles

like a hyena over nothing.

and lets in the illegals

who are eating

the dogs and cats.

finally the line moves

and we vote.

i think everyone's mind

is made up.

popcorn and melted junior mints

is it better

to wait,

better to let a week go by

before

seeing the movie?

should we

wait for

it to appear

on the small screen.

or should

we go the theater

and sit

with the murmuring

crowd,

risking

air borne diseases,

or fire?

don't we have

stale popcorn

and melted junior mints

at home?

we've made some changes

my phone

is doing things in the middle

of the night.

updating,

whatever.

i see the lights

flash,

the sound

go on and off.

disconcerting dings

are in my

ears.

it's doing something,

installing,

deleting,

rebooting.

rearranging.

it's up to something.

i know that in the morning

i'll have

to learn

all the new things that

have been

done

without me lifting

a finger.

why do we stay too long?

who hasn't

been the frog

in a pot of cold

water

before

the heat

goes on.

who hasn't stayed too long

in places where

we shouldn't have

gone?

why didn't we hop

out

before the boil?

before it all went

wrong?

we are bookends

we are bookends

holding

the middle together,

keeping

days

aligned,

months into years.

holding

love in place.

we need each other,

it seems

to keep life right.

a suitable photo

i see her

mother's face in the obituary

column

on the last

page

of the metro section

of the Sunday paper.

she's young

in the photo.

she's wearing a white

dress

and holding flowers.

smiling

for whoever took

the shot.

there's not a trace of

bitterness on her face,

no hint

of the heart break

that is yet

to come.

new and improved parts of town

grow

old enough and you'll

see

the new

buildings go up,

new houses,

strip malls,

trees

planted,

sidewalks and roads

paved, the erection

of lights,

billboards

and signs,

but given enough

time,

it will all fade.

be emptied by wear

and time.

impoverished.

what was new is old

now, fallen and

abandoned.

no worries though,

new money

is coming

to revitalize the town.

a single black fly

i don't want

to kill the fly buzzing

around

the light,

then my

head,

my cup of coffee,

my maple

scone.

he's gone to great lengths

in getting

into the house,

arriving from the far

unknown,

finding

the smallest of cracks

in the window

screen.

i admire

his or her ambition.

but it's time.

grocery store flirtations

as i reach for a hot

house

tomato

at the store, a slender hand

reaches

below mine

and snatches it.

i look at her,

and say hey,

that what was mine.

apparently not,

it's in my cart

now.

you snooze, you lose,

buddy.

quickly

i go over to the bananas

on a vine.

she's too slow

this time.

a severe case of the vapors

she's sad.

she's angry.

she's upset about the election.

she's red

in the face.

she's blue.

she's trembling with

fear

about the outcome,

what will

we all do, she sighs,

if he wins,

and she loses?

how can we go on,

where we should

we move?

the world will end.

the sky is falling.

what will we do?

the rap of little knuckles on the door

i completely

forget

that it's Halloween

until i hear

the rap of little knuckles

against the front

door.

i've left the light on.

there's a small

glass pumpkin

on my windowsill.

they think

i'm a part of it.

but i have no candy,

no treats.

but i do have a stack

of one-dollar bills,

that will have to do.

before i know it kids

are coming

out of the woodwork.

it's Lord of the Flies

as they mob

the porch,

screaming,

he's got money. hurry up.

before it's too late.

there must be something i need

there must

be something i need to buy.

a book,

a candle,

a new set of sheets,

maybe food.

but i can't think of anything

at the moment.

does my

car need gas?

what about a new hat

or pair

of shoes.

nope.

nothing to comes to mind.

but the day

is young

and i haven't logged

into Amazon

yet, online.

just a little room

i need

room when i sleep.

at least

a foot or two.

after we've

finished with our monkey love,

after the afterglow.

i need to roll

over and cool

off

and think about things,

but she doesn't understand

that.

she's stuck

to me like glue.

legs entwined,

arms

akimbo,

breathing heavily

into my neck where

her hair

is stuck

to my skin.

it's not that i don't love her,

i just need

a little room.

and then she whispers,

are you ready

to do it again?

why he votes democrat

my father,

at ninety-six,

is a true-blue democrat.

and it's all

because of JFK

being

a war hero

in the navy.

he can relate to that.

the new frontier,

the vigor,

the promise of it all.

he doesn't

see the difference

now,

how times have changed.

his eyes have blurred,

his ears

deafened.

he's hanging on to what

was

when he was young.

hoping

that the party is the same.

selective charity

it's selective

charity,

do i give the large

man

on the corner

a dollar

bill,

he looks fine, he looks

healthy

sitting in his

folding chair

with his

God Bless sign.

or do i wait until

i see a more

bedraggled person,

maybe a woman

or a child

in rags

with no shoes on?

this Catholic guilt is

killing

me,

one corner at a time.

not yet

not yet

we say silently to ourselves,

holding on

to the rails.

not yet.

there is more

to do,

more to say,

to write, more love

to make.

not yet.

maybe sometime

in the far

future, maybe

years from now

when we're

old and grey,

but not yet,

not soon.

tomorrow things will change

tomorrow

i'll do what i have to do.

i promise

myself i'll get things done.

tomorrow.

just wait until

tomorrow.

it's a word full of hope,

of change,

of possibilities.

tomorrow.

everything will be good

again.

everything

will be wonderful,

unless of course it rains.

the slow evaporation of grief

when she died

i put

her hairbrush in a box.

her perfume,

her rings, a necklace,

a watch.

i stored pictures of her

and me

together

as we rowed across

a lake.

i stuffed in

the red scarf

she used to wear

that reminded her of 
Boston.

a wool hat

and sunglasses.

for months i thought i'd

never

get over her,

the loss.

but now, twenty years

forward,

i wonder where i put

the box.

the lines will be long outside the therapist's door on the 6th

i see a group of therapists

up at the coffee

shop,

about seven of them gathered

around a table

outside sipping drinks

in the shade.

no one seems interested in the DSM-5

on the table.

they are giddy, laughing,

passing around

brochures of vacation cruises

and cars

they might buy.

Rolex watches,

and Gucci wear.

they talk about trips to Paris

and Rome

and Amsterdam.

they can't wait for the election

to be over,

when business will boom

no matter

who wins.

it doesn't matter to them,

where the money comes from

they just don't care.

one last request

any last

requests, the captain says

to the guilty men

lined up

and strapped to a pole

before

the firing squad

fires

their rifles.

cigarette, anyone?

he asks.

how about you let us

go,

says a man at the end

of the line.

i promise i'll be good

from now on.

which makes

everyone laugh,

even the condemned,

knowing it's a lie.

the dopamine fix

it's stress,

trauma whether slight or large,

or ancient

from 

our childhood days

that sends us

to the bottle,

to the drug,

to the cigarette, and yes,

to sex,

and possibly

an early grave.

we need a fix to bandage

our wounds,

an elixir to fool ourselves

that for a few brief

moments

all is well again,

to dance once more

beneath the silvery moon.

what was on the menu

we pretty

much

knew what we weren't having

for dinner.

lobster thermidor,

T-bone steaks,

some fancy French dish,

with wild ducks

and small

potatoes, petite peas.

Julia Childs

never came to our house.

no.

peanut butter

was on the menu.

bologna sandwiches

on wonder bread with a swipe

of yellow mustard.

spaghetti

and hamburger

helper.

tuna casserole

and pea soup with a ham

bone

floating inside.

maybe Cheerios

with a sliced banana

if milk

was around.

a roses neck

one lie

can sink a ship.

end

love

like that.

in the blink of an eye,

like in the moment

you snap

a roses neck.

just like that

a lie

will take it all away

there's no

going back.

the red rooster behind him

i pull over

to stare at the burned

out house next

to a chicken farm

in southern

Maryland,

i feel as if there's a story there.

something to write

about.

i take a few pictures

when i get out of the car

and walk around.

on the ground, behind

the chain link fence,

is a plastic doll,

face down

in the mud,

still clothed, the wired

hair sticking up and out.

perhaps dropped

from a child's hand

when running.

i can smell

the smoke, and wet embers

in the rubble

i can taste it on my tongue,

then

the farmer next door

comes out

with a shotgun in hand

he tells me to move on.

which i do

as a red rooster crows.

behind him.

the empty circles

it's a quick

five

minutes in the voting booth.

closing

in each empty circle

with black ink.

i vote

without falter

for common sense

while

the line moves outside

in the odd

hot sun

on this late October

day.

and then we're done

we go home

to pray.

what will we line our birdcages with now?

sadly

the newspapers are dying.

the thud

of them landing

on the porch

is waning.

they've

leaned

too far to the left.

becoming puppets on a string

no longer

unbiased

but bought and sold

down the river

by the woke

and elite.

i'll miss them, but not

as much

as i thought i would.

the brand-new Chevrolet on the block

the men,

home from work

and now

in their

t-shirts

and madras shorts

would lean their heads out

the doors

and windows

when

a new car arrived

on the block.

brand new off the showroom

floor.

some shiny blue

Chevrolet,

or Ford.

maybe red. 

how dare

they buy a red car

and live here.

the years are getting longer

she leaves notes,

yellow sticky notes all over

the place

on the fridge,

the table,

the bed post.

reminders

of things for me

to do before

the day is over.

i'm so busy now that i'm

retired.

i think she's trying

to get me

out of the house.

she's not used to me being

around.

i get it though,

i don't like being home

with her

either.

the years seem to be getting

longer.

oh those high school memories

we

had things in shop class

that could

maim

or kill

in a heartbeat.

drills and saws,

soldering

irons

and hammers.

and in

biology

we had Bunson burners

with gas

lit

beakers,

scalpels to carve

out the heart

of a frog.

we toyed with mercury

in chemistry,

spilling it out onto the counters,

we shook

the muriatic acid

in the air.

in gym class we

played

a game called murder

ball,

where you slammed

a rubber

ball

into another kid's head.

we climbed

a rope to the top of the

gymnasium ceiling,

40 feet up, with no one

below

to catch us if we fell.

we

jumped over dangerous

obstructions

like the pommel horse,

endangering

our virginial precious jewels.

we ran outside in our

little blue shorts

in the rain

and snow

until we turned blue.

high school

was mayhem.

and then you had to take

a shower

with all your strange

and naked friends.

and after that there were only

four more classes to go.

More of Moore

i fall

in love with her words.

her

voice,

how she puts her thoughts

onto paper.

i'll never

meet her, never hold

her hand,

or kiss her on the lips

as we passionately

embrace

our love

of literature,

but as long as she

keeps writing, i'll

find her

books, her essays,

her poetry.

i'll keep turning each

clever page,

i'll keep dining

on her turn

of every phrase.

there's no hesitation with her vote

she has a difficult

time

making decisions.

what shoes

to wear,

what dress, what purse

to carry,

how to wear her hair.

and then

when you arrive,

she can't decide on what

to order

off the menu, what to

drink,

where to sit,

does she want bread first

or a salad

and then

which dressing.

she's a squirrel in the middle

of the road

on nearly everything,

except when it comes

to her vote.

she's red all the way.

ten seconds and she's

out of the booth.

a hint of mint

i'm not good

at names,

or faces, but i am good

at smells.

like a hound dog

i remember

people better that way.

the perfume,

the cologne,

the garlic,

the damp clothes

taken

out of the dryer too soon.

the mint gum,

the hair

dye

or spray starch,

the red wine,

or booze.

the cigarette breath.

cigar smoker, oh yeah,

i remember you.

my new talking scale

i'm about

to step onto my new

digital talking scale,

to check my weight,

when it

asks me in a robotic voice

to stop, are you sure you

want to do this?

how many

cookies

did you eat last night

while watching

Netflix?

yesterday,

you ate at McDonald's

and then

topped it off with a slice

of pie.

i see potato chip crumbs

on your double large

t-shirt.

do you really want me to

tell you how

fat you're becoming?

i see you're wearing stretch

pants today too.

they used to call them

pajamas.

now go drink

a glass of water, run around

the block,

and eat some grapefruit.

come back in a week or so

and we'll talk again.

i'm telling you this

for your own good.

now go.

i was raised a middle-class girl and my mother had a yellow Formica table

i drop

to my knees and pray.

i pray

that the next week will go by

quickly

so that i don't have to listen

to another

speech

at another rally,

another interview

or another ad on television

or on my phone.

enough already.

this has to stop.

how many word

salads

and exaggerated lies

can we let into

our ears?

we're exhausted by

the hogwash.

let's count the votes

and be done with this madness.

the bouncing loaf of olive bread

i told the clerk

behind

the counter that i wanted

a loaf

of olive bread with rosemary.

one loaf

please.

he grabbed it off the shelf

but as he

was about to put it

in the bag

he dropped it to the floor

and kicked it

beneath

the counter.

he got on his hands and knees

and with a broom

retrieved

the crusty loaf of bread

wedged

in the murky shadows.

as he bagged it,

i asked him if he was

still giving it to me,

to which he said,

why not? you don't want it?

he shrugged and put it back

on the shelf

and bagged a different loaf.

the last place celebration

they lost

every game, they were

a lazy team

of boys

with a bad coach

who drank.

but at the end of the year

after losing

every game

they each received a

golden

trophy,

engraved with their names.

they went

out of pizza later

and received

a standing ovation

from their happy parents,

high praise.

a light went on in each

of their little heads,

losing isn't so bad,

in fact

it's great.

a second chance in the afterlife

in my dream,

he's tall and lanky,

but healthy, he's shaved

off his beard.

his hair is cut

and parted on the side.

he no longer

looks like the gangster

he was

when he roamed

the streets

causing mayhem

and destroying lives.

he's wearing turquoise

pants and a white

shirt.

reflective blue sunglasses.

i avoided him

all my life when he was

alive,

but now in the dream,

we're friends

and i tell him he looks good,

he looks fine

i shake his hand.

then i ask him if his

glasses are polarized.

a toy in every box

they used

to put toys into boxes

of cereal

and candy,

caramel corn

and nuts.

a prize in every box

or bag.

something for the kiddies

to find.

encouraging them

to finish it up

and get another.

i remember swallowing

a miniature

magnifying glass

once.

i try to stay away

from the sun.

we've lost our way

we've hiked too far

into the woods,

gone too deep into this valley.

and now

we have

no phone reception.

what kind

of world is this?

we've lost our way.

no one will ever find us.

we should have

bought the map too when

we bought

drinks and ChapStick.

someone i won't forget

only two

hundred more pages to go,

and then

the end.

but i don't want

it to end.

i want the slow go.

the careful

page turned,

taking it all in .

i want the book to last

and last.

i want it to become

my friend.

someone that i'll never

forget,

someone i can

visit again.

what we want to hear

we hear

what we want to hear

and dispose

of the rest

as noise

garbage,

noise lint, brushing

it away,

kicking that

can

down the road.

taking

it to the curb,

the nonsense,

forever unabsorbed.

when the bath water goes cold

as i sit

in the hot bath, soaking

after a long

hard day at work,

getting the soreness

out of my

bones and muscles,

i reminisce about

Betty's legs when she

wears high heels.

i lie back,

my head on a sponge,

in the suds and bubbles,

until the water

goes cold,

and then i start to think

about how

nice it would be to have

handles

sticking

out of the tile that i can

pull onto

when getting out.

something i said?

i'm always

suspicious when i

hear women say that they have

to go to the bathroom

to powder,

their nose,

then scurrying off

with their

purse and phone,

coat in tow.

sometimes, 

they don't come back.

leaving

me with the check

after a large meal

and three glasses of wine.

there's

nothing left on their plate

but a few measly

shards of kale and

garlic

croutons.

once more i've been

taken 

and left alone.

we are nothing but ants

i'm driving,

and driving and driving,

and driving.

there is so much traffic,

so much

construction,

so many accidents

and detours.

orange

barriers and cones,

men in green

jackets

waving us along.

from high above

we are mere ants

crawling our way to work

then back home.

education doesn't matter,

the color of our

skin,

our faith,

our DNA, who we know

or where

we've been.

none of it matters,

we're nothing but ants

dying slowly

until it all ends.

Crispy beef and you

i wake

up thinking about Chinese food.

i haven't had

it in ages.

crispy beef,

fried

rice and dumplings.

eggs rolls,

the works.

with duck sauce

and soy,

a big mai tai to wash it

all down.

but my body won't tolerate

the grease

anymore,

or the MSG they pile on.

then i think about

you.

maybe a quick

rendezvous, but

it's a similar feeling.

the aftereffects would kill me

if we do.

those blue suede shoes

i go through

my drawers, my closet,

my laundry

basket.

i search under the bed,

on

the floor

behind dressers,

i find things hanging

on hooks,

on hangers.

one by one i gather

all these clothes

that i rarely wear

anymore,

some still with tags

on them

and bag them for the garbage

man.

what was i thinking

with that green

shirt,

that orange vest,

those blue suede shoes,

that

feathered hat?

late for my own wedding again

after a quick

hour

has passed scrolling through

my phone

i realize

that i'm late

for my wedding.

she's going to kill me.

i'm still in

my underwear,

still haven't

showered

or shaved or put my

tuxedo on.

but just one more,

one final

scroll.

and then i'm out the door.

but i still 

haven't decided on

who to vote for.

my new best friend

the neighbor puts

up a political

sign on his door, now no one

talks to him.

he's not invited

to parties

or picnics anymore.

he's shunned

and ostracized.

they've voted him

off the board. he's a paraiah,

an outcast,

he's been voted

off the island

of the cul de sac.

he's my best friend

now.

welcome aboard.

people on boats waving

people

on boats like to wave

to people.

whether they are on a boat

too,

or on land.

it's a thing.

waving

as you go sailing by.

it's in the handbook

of sailing.

wave

to everyone,

look happy,

ahoy matey, look at us,

living our

best lives

in the bright sunshine.

the big game is on today

i see my

neighbor with his bright red

jersey on.

there's a number

on the front

and back and the name

of a football

player from

back in the day.

he's painted his face

with yellow

and red paint.

he nods to me as

he's carries in a case

of beer

and a bucket

of chicken.

he asks me if i'm watching

the game

today.

i want to say what game,

but instead,

i give him the thumbs

up, and tell

him of course, i wouldn't

miss it for

the life of me.

i can hardly wait.

he let's out a war cry,

then goes inside.

i feel deeply depressed

suddenly and

there's a big part of me

that wants

to get on a plane and fly

far far away.

indecisive napping

it's too early

for a nap, but i try one just

the same.

i get the pillow

for the couch,

the blanket.

i turn the phone off

and lie down.

but i got nothing. 

i just lie there and toss

about.

left then right,

i stare at the ceiling

for a while.

i flip through the pages

of a book,

still not sleepy, so then

i reminisce about my

life which takes me down

a road i don't want

to think about.

i give up

and go for a walk.

maybe later

if you're around.

what's the name of that movie he was in?

i read

the child star's autobiography,

about how he

struggled in the early

years between

three and ten,

always

type cast as the cute

kid

with a funny laugh

and grin

and how

his tyrannical

parents

and manager

controlled his money,

gave him

a paltry allowance.

it's a cautionary

tale for

young thespians.

the therapy that he's gone

through,

from

the roles he's been in.

he promises

that now,

at the ripe old age

of eleven

to turn over a new leaf

and be

bolder with his choice

of movies,

tv shows, and commercials.

no one will force me

to do anything,

ever again, he says,

as someone helps him

with the seat belt in the back seat

of the limo,

strapping him in.

American Thespians

why is that

the foreign actors,

British, French or Indian,

or Asian,

don't seem

to be acting.

they are the part,

engrossed and lost

in the role

they are playing,

while American actors

are atrociously bad.

you can

see right through their

thin thespian skins.

there's no one there,

just a guy or a gal

reading lines

they've not quite memorized.

acting is just a job before

the adulation

and talk shows

begin.

they almost seem human at times

people

like to brag about how smart

their dogs

are.

how they know so many words,

they can

sing

and speak

in a dog like language.

they have

expressions

on their furry faces,

almost human

in fact.

they are

exactly like teenagers,

but lacking in social

skills, English

and math.

the enormous tree has fallen

it was a good

tree. now fallen.

the big oak in the middle

of the cul-de-sac.

swings

were attached,

ropes

and hammocks.

children

climbed its trunk

to the highest

branch.

lovers met beneath

its summer

shade.

hearts were carved

into the side.

promises

were made.

it was a lovely tree

in all seasons.

we'll miss it, and with it

the children

that have come and gone.

we'll remember it though

from our window,

its beauty,

as we approach our

own

last age.

Cruella plays the long game

the maid

tells me about her ex-husband,

the one

she's living with now

to get

the house

and money.

the will has been

rewritten

a half dozen times

as she comes and goes

in and out of his life.

tired of revision, he

writes the last one in pencil.

betrayal, forgiveness,

rinse and repeat

again and again.

the maid

whispers to me,

he has the big C, it not

good.

she his nurse now.

i nod.

it's a shame, it really is.

but i admire her

her patience and tenacity.
it's to be admired

with a big payday

up ahead.

the lone bottle of hot sauce

i stare at the lone

bottle

of Texas Pete hot sauce

on the fridge door

and try to remember

when i bought it.

how long

have i had that half

empty bottle?

how many wives ago

did i buy that?

how many decades ago

did i make

that purchase.

how many tacos ago?

i try to read the label

but it's worn off.

i can see a few numbers,

but nothing

conclusively.

the cap is stuck too,

so i run

it under hot water

and tap it against the

counter.

there we go.

back in business.

back to the shelf it goes.

more hot sauce to come.

the most respectful divorce ever

he told

me it was going to be the most

civil

and respectful divorce in

the history

of mankind.

wishful thinking,

after

the lawyers got involved,

and she

drained

the bank account

of cash,

the war was on.

i saw him yestereday

putting a flat

screen tv into his car,

and a Dyson vacuum

cleaner,

her favortie,

saying with fury,

she's not getting that.

where should we move after retirement?

planning where

to move

after retirement is not easy.

now you

have to figure out

which state

has the lowest tax rate,

the best

health care system,

the most affordable homes,

where there are

no floods

and hurricanes,

with no tornadoes,

or wildfires.

which state

has no earthquakes

or Tsunamis?

what city makes the best

hot pastrami

sandwiches,

apple martinis, or milk shakes.

and are they located 

in walking distance,

or by electric scooter

with accessible

ramps.

the slow crawl home

i knew

my mother was losing it

when

she began

the next part

of the conversation with

what she just

finished saying.

at first

it was annoying, and i'd

tell her

that she just

told me that.

but as the days and weeks

went by,

i got it.

i let her ramble and ramble

happy just

to hear her voice,

asking

if Sunay at five was good

for dinner.

and me saying

yes, of course it is

for the second or third time.

round table discussion in hell

the dead

tyrants, all burning in hell

for crimes

against humanity

are depressed

and

upset over all the attention one

maniacal

psychopath

with a little mustache

is getting.

what about us,

they scream and yell

at the round

table

discussion

in the pit of fire.

what about me, says Mussolini,

or me

chimes in Pol Pot,

or me,

says Idi Amin.

what are we chopped liver?

can't they throw our name

into the mix

with one of their campaign speeches?

why does that guy get all press?

hey,

yells Charles Manson,

shut up

before

i get angry, and could someone

please open

a window in here,

my hair is a mess.

there are no windows

says

Chairman Mao, now zip up

your dumpling mouth

before i stab

you with my spork.

done working for the man

i ask the thirty-five year old

kid

on the street,

with his hat on backwards

protesting

a variety of things,

from war

to gas and oil,

to the middle east

and trans rights,

not to mention capitalism.

i ask him what he's going

to be when

he grows up.

he laughs and shakes his

head as

he dodges a tear gas

cannister.

i'm thinking of doing my own

podcast,

he says.

i really don't want to waste

my English Lit degree

from Columbia.

and i think this might be

a good way

for me to educate

people.

show them who i really am.

do you know that some podcasters

make

a couple of hundred

thousands per year?

i'm done working for the man.

the drive-thru Liquor Store

as a kid

standing at the bus stop

for school,

dreading the day,

i'd watch

the cars line up

at the drive-thru liquor store.

teachers

and parents, construction

workers

and lawyers.

hookers and priests.

Mead's Liquor the bright

yellow sign

read

in bold fluorescent lights.

it was seven a.m.

and 

people were drinking on

the way

to work.

i tried to ignore what

all of this meant.

after the election is over

after the election

is finally

over,

i see the losing candidate

on late night tv

selling salad

dressings and croutons.

lettuce

and kale,

cucumbers and

cheese.

black olives,

and green.

she's found her way,

at last.

stirring up a big bowl

of salad,

with blue cheese and

thousand islands dressing,

pepper corn, and

oily vinaigrette,

mixing it all up 

with a big fork and spoon,

all with a cackling laugh.

low hanging fruit

i've done

my share of picking

the low

hanging fruit.

sometimes

i've even picked it up off

the ground.

so easier

than climbing,

than getting the ladder

out,

taking chances,

and risking

falling down.

the calming effect of you screaming

your anger

makes

me calm and reasonable

for some

strange reason,

the more you shout

and carry on

hysterically,

the more i lean back

in my chair

and relax.

my heart slows down,

my breathing

is easy.

i completely understand

now,

what do to next,

which is leaving.

the starter home

it's a starter home,

to go

with the starter

job,

the starter wife.

it's the practice round

before

real life

begins.

a year at most before

we move on

to bigger

and better things.

the Verizon man

the Verizon

man

is straight out of a Shakespearean

play.

a Falstaff

fellow with

a red

beard.

he's huge, and lumbering,

red faced

and full

of mirth.

there's a tool belt wrapped

around his

ample waist,

a bag of tools

in his enormous fist,

a box

of what's about to be

replaced

beneath his arm.

which are arms

not unlike legs.

i feel the necessity to feed him,

but i have

no turkey, no venison,

no beef on a femur bone,

no mince meat pies.

i have no ale,

this bottle of spring water

and bowl of nuts will

have to do.

i know better, but i do it anyway

i know better,

of course i do, but i

i do it anyway,

i eat

the last cold slice

of pizza

from the box

before bed.

i drink a cup of coffee.

have

dessert,

the remnants of a wedding

cake.

i make my way

up the stairs

then crawl between the sheets.

it's a long

night.

i hear

everything going on

outside

the window,

from the fox screaming

making violent

love,

the dogs

howling,

the tow truck taking away

cars

improperly parked. it's a long

night.

but the pizza

was divine,

as was the cake.

the two syllable rule of eating

if the label

has words on it that you've

never heard

of, or that you

can't pronounce,

it's probably a good

idea to not

eat it and

put it into your body.

which eliminates

nearly everything

in the grocery store

except meat and fruit,

milk, fish,

eggs and vegetables.

one or two syllables

seems

to be the way to go.

the suggestion box

the local

paint store has a wooden

box

on the counter

with a sign saying suggestions.

there's a pad

of paper

and pencil

with a string attached

to the box.

i write my suggestion.

donuts,

then

on another piece

of paper,

dancing girls

and happy hour.

a week goes by,

but they haven't listened.

fighting the law

tomorrow

i'll take the rake out

and 

sweep

the leaves

to the gate, then in armfuls

toss them

over the fence

into the woods.

it's against

the condo covenant

rules

to do such

a thing.

but i enjoy it

and hope they say

something.

turning heads

a pretty young

woman in a yellow dress

prances by

in the park.

every man,

young or very old,

looks, and turns their

head

to watch her

legs

and hips sway by.

no,

it's not over yet.

a train passing through

the train

blows a whistle

as it crosses

the trestle deep into the woods

over the dam.

it's a poignant 

sound,

a sweet reminder

that it might be time

to get out

of this town.

a cacophony of sound

it's an oil

change,

then a filter, then the tires,

then

the exhaust,

then

the wipers, then the engine

light that

won't go off.

it's a long day

at the dealership

waiting

in the lounge with two

tv's on,

and music raining down.

i miss

my horse.

banjo music down the street

when i hear

banjo

music

coming from down

the street,

i stop what i'm

doing,

squint my eyes

and look off into the distance

where the music

is coming from,

i say out loud

to no one,

is that banjo

music?

i don't start tapping

my foot,

or drumming

the counter.

i go to the window

and look

out.

i have a look of bewilderment

in my eyes,

like a dog does,

when

you tell them it's Tuesday

again.

we need to sit down and talk

we have

to talk are words that send

shivers

down my spine.

the boss,

the wife,

the girlfriend, the doctor.

the principal

at my son's school.

the woman

who does my taxes.

it's never

good news.

it's never you won

the lottery,

or we think

you're a fine person.

all is well.

it always goes 

the other way.

spare change to get around

a phone

call cost a dime

in

the booth.

ten too

for a coke in the machine.

a burger and a bag

of fries,

thirty-five.

a ticket to a matinee

a mere

half dollar.

gas cost 29 per gallon,

milk

and bread,

diapers.

i have no clue,

that was up to my

mother.

do you like pets?

i can hardly

understand the telemarketer

on the phone

selling windows,

she has a heavy Indian accent,

but i listen

just the same.

it's her job, so i give her

some time

to practice

her skills.

she asks me if i like pets,

which i hear as 

do i like sex.

i tell her yes. of course i do.

oh, that's nice,

she says, what kind?

i tell her, you know, just

the regular

kind, nothing crazy with

ropes and chains,

or whips. i'm pretty vanilla.

oh, you

chain your pussycat up to a tree

and hit her with

a whip?

what?

oh no, no, never.

although i had this,

girlfriend once,

a crazy flight attendant

from LA,

who probably would have liked

that.

so, she says, clearing her throat,

so how many windows and doors

do you have?

maybe you need a new roof, right?

ummm.

what?

what does this have to do 

with sex?

with her hand on a large carving knife

she keeps

telling me that she wants to carve

the turkey

this year

for the holiday.

huh?

i say. why? what are you even

talking about?

no.

i tell her. it's a man's job.

and plus

i don't trust you with

a knife.

how about you taking

charge of

the gravy?

maybe a pie?

let's pretend everything is okay

don't tell me about you.

let me

stop you before you get started.

say less.

let me

make it all

up in my mind.

let me pretend that you are

free from

trouble,

from drama.

that you've had

a good life.

don't tell me about the pain

and sorrow

you've suffered.

and i'll do the same.

mums the word.

let's pretend that we both

fell to earth,

once

angels, just

dropping by from heaven

the tipsy candidate

she seems to be

drunk

on stage, what is it, which

wine

is making her

scream and yell,

her eyes bulging

out with each new accent

she displays.

tossing up another word

salad.

pinot grigio,

or cabernet?

someone please help

her off stage,

and call quickly

double A.

another morning

days

seem to fly the older

you get.

it's

a book in a hard wind

turning

pages

faster than you can read

them.

before you know it,

it's

another morning

again.

lost in translation once more

it's a misunderstanding,

as texts

often are.

the smile, the smirk, the sarcasm

is lost

in translation.

ahhh, but

what could have been

if we had

actually talked

in person, face to face,

like they used

to do before

technology began.

home waiting for you

away for a few

days

is nice, but nicer still is to

return home

to the house waiting

for you.

everything left as it was

when you

closed the door

and the took the train

north.

there is the couch

with the pillows just so,

the vase

on the mantle.

the book on

the nightstand, earmarked

where you left off.

the window cracked to let

the fall air in.

the bed

made

and waiting, your

slippers 

resting near the door.

and now i don't care

it used to be the Cadillac

that made

a statement

about who

you were in life,

or the Mercedes,

they were statement cars.

you've arrived

they said,

gleaming in the sun

with a brilliant shine.

the Porsche

or the Lamborghini,

the Corvette Stingray.

one day, i used to say,

driving by in my rusting

Cheverolet,

choking blue smoke

out of the exhaust,

one day,

i'll make it mine.

but now, strangely,

this Honda is fine.

the other side

after some convincing,

we take

our shoes off to cross the shallow

stream

to get

to the other side

where

the path

runs

deeper into the woods.

the water

is colder

than expected.

she takes my hand as we

slip

and catch

each other, falling

onto the rocks and mud.

it's freezing

as the water rushes

over us.

we're soaked.

i'm laughing,

but she isn't.

it seemed like such a good

plan.

just push the mail through the slot

i politely

ask the new mail person

delivering

the mail,

Queen Latifa,

to kindly push the mail all the way

through

the slot, to not leave

it all hanging

in the door

where anyone can walk by

and steal it.

i know your job is hard,

and i appreciate

the work you do, but 

there are

checks, and credit card

statements,

tax documents,

letters from afar,

and important information

from social

security, etc.

all sticking out of the door.

she looks at me, turning her

radio

down and says, what's your

problem.

i show her with my hands

and arms

how to push

the mail through

the slot.

like this i tell her, play acting.

it's really not that hard,

you seem like a healthy strong

woman.

you can do this. it might

take you one extra second

to push it through.

she drops her bag

of letters to the ground

and balls up her fists.

you don't want to mess with

me mister.

now go on back into the house

before i

give you something worse

to whine about.

and don't you dare call

the post office and complain

about me.

i know where you live, she says,

pointing at my door.

you're lucky i don't just throw

your mail

in the yard.

Swanson's three piece tv dinner

was it chicken,

corn

and peas?

a blob of mashed

potatoes?

was it applesauce

and a biscuit?

it all looked real

and smelled edible

as we

pulled back

the tin covering

after 45 minutes in the oven,

at 350.

it was food for the bomb

shelter.

Armageddon food.

i can't count how many

times

i burned my tongue

and the roof of my mouth

on a Swanson

tv dinner,

when my mother was asleep

on the couch,

or out and about

playing bingo somewhere.

a plethora of dump trucks

my life

passes before my eyes

as the speeding dump

truck swerves into my lane

coming straight

for me.

he's texting,

or drinking, or eating his

lunch.

i don't know.

but i'm able to swerve

off into

the woods,

onto the gravel and dirt,

the bushes

and bramble.

miraculously still alive.

such is every day when driving

in Maryland

to Brandywine.

a day in the life of a candidate

what's next

on the list, the candidate

says to her

chief of staff.

well,

we have three churches to

go to,

Catholic, Baptist

and Presbyterian,

two malls

for some kabobs,

and a farmer's market

to please

the vegetarians,

then after

that,

you have to go work

at a pizza parlor

for an hour,

for the Italian vote,

then up to Harlem

to eat

ribs.

then over to Pennsylvania

to buy

an apple pie or two from

the Amish.

when we're done with that,

we're off

to Chinatown

for some crispy beef

and dumplings,

then down to NYC for a bagel

and a schmeer

of cream cheese,

can't forget the Jews.

here, drink some Pepto Bismol,

and put this

bib on,

you'll need that too.

what about the moon?

i go to the travel agency

to have a talk,

to ask them where i should go

on vacation

this year.

they ask me,

if i like beaches and warm

weather.

i nod, but tell them,

not as much as i used to.

well, what about Alaska,

maybe take a cruise,

see the polar bears and

icebergs.

ummm, not wild about cold

weather either,

maybe the Midwest, then?

ever been to Yellowstone?

or to the Grand Canyon?

nah, i've seen all of that on

tv.

Las Vegas, why don't you

go there, have some

fun, spend some money. 

go wild.

go wild?

i'm not like that anymore.

okay, then. what about overseas.

Rome, or France,

Germany?

ever been to Portugal?

do they speak English over there?

do they have Starbucks?

when they no longer need you

i'd see

him on the highway

at 8 in the morning,

stuck

in traffic like everyone else,

but he was

retired,

done with work

after 35 years

of service.

he no longer had to

be anywhere

on time,

and yet, he couldn't help

himself,

he had to keep

going,

pretending to have

a place

to go,

pretending to still be on

the ball,

not dying and old,

but needed.

he'd circle the beltway,

drive through

the city,

and then

return to his little home.

what about Viking?

it's always

the hardest part of the divorce,

after the bloodletting

of the money,

the house,

the custody

of children,

the furniture and friends.

once all that

is at last done, there's the dog

to deal with.

mine, or yours?

perhaps we can

agree to share him,

maybe every other weekend?

the drugs of youth

when you

no longer drink, or smoke

weed,

or

sniff glue,

or watch porn,

or eat

too much

of anything

you come to your senses.

you unplug

the video games,

the phone.

you're back

to how you were born.

new again.

enlightened,

no longer in the fog

of youth,

you pick up a book,

willing at last to grow wise,

to grow old.

who can possibly be undecided at this point?

i practice

on a large white sheet of paper.

i've made

two boxes

using a ruler

and a sharpie, black ink,

of course.

one for him,

one for her.

then i look

off into the distance,

and with a hand

on my chin,

i ponder as if i might be

one of the hopelessly lost

and confused,

the undecided,

then finally, 

after stretching out my arm,

i cast my vote.

putting an x in the middle

of the square

i've chosen.

i'm ready.

but i do it a few more times,

just to be sure.

did you hear what i heard?

it's a rumor,

at the moment,

a piece

of juicy gossip.

something we can

gnaw on

and whisper to one

another,

until the truth is known.

let's hope

it is.

that's always fun.

turn it towards the light

we need to water it,

feed it,

turn it towards the sunlight.

it needs

love

and attention.

keep it clean, keep it

holy.

hold on to its fading

beauty.

it's your body,

your life.

no one is coming

to save you.

away it goes

i'm in the middle

of writing,

but i stop.

the phone is ringing.

there's someone

at the door.

i hear the ding of the dryer.

a poem will

have to wait

to be written, half done,

but most

likely gone.

away it goes, like so much

in the stuffed

drawer.

the right death

it's obvious

that someone with money

has died

and left it all

to the nearest

of kin.

a new

addition

is being added on

to the already enormous

house.

there's a new car in the driveway

and a new

kitchen with granite

counters,

and a new couch.

tickets are bought for Rome.

the whole

family is going.

the right death can pay

off so many

loans.

indecision

it's a squirrel like

indecision,

do i chase the dropped

penny rolling

away

across the store floor,

or let it go,

i take a step towards

it,

then back.

i have made my decision.

i have more

pennies

at home

a barrel full, in fact.

the subway violinist

most of us

are subway violinists.

not

quite good enough

with our creative endeavors

for

Carnegie Hall,

but fine

for the subway

system,

the hollow tunnels

that run

beneath the city.

our hat is out

as we sit perched

on the crate.

we play with passion

as another train empties

and

the coins fall

and the bills float down.

we all fall a little bit short

of stardom,

but we play on.

running on empty

the joy

seems to be gone

from the candidate's

speeches.

like

air from a child's balloon

it has seeped

out.

the thin blush

of the pink

bubble floats

away, stuck in the first

tree it finds.

it's anger

and bitterness

from now on.

what is that that i hear?

crying?

if only i watched where i was walking

the piece

of gum i stepped on this morning

in the hot

sun

has been with

me all day.

an enormous melted

pink wad

fallen out of a kid's mouth.

like a suction cup my one

foot keeps

sticking,

lagging behind as i walk

around the park.

there's not a cloud in the sky.

if only

i'd watched where i was

walking,

life would be perfect again.

where are you?

i can't find

you

anymore. your number

is disconnected,

you've moved,

your e-mail is dead.

where are you?

i drive by the old house

and see the windows

boarded up,

the rosebushes dead.

no lights are on.

i get the feeling that you're

trying to tell me

something.

am i mistaken to think

that something's

wrong?

where have all the turkeys been?

the turkeys

have suddenly appeared in

the grocery

stores,

enormous frozen balls of flesh

colored meat.

vacuumed wrapped

and weighed.

filling the cold

bins

where chickens used to be.

who eats turkey

in July?

so where have they been all year?

perhaps

happy and content,

running in the fields,

the farms,

the prairies, oblivious

to the month

we're in. making plans

they'll never keep.

ignorance is truly bliss.

but a whole one

is crazy.

who needs twenty-three pounds

of turkey?

maybe just a wing and a drumstick

this holiday

and gravy, of course.

i wish his wife was home

her husband

is telling me something with his

handshake.

hard and firm,

and holding

on a little too long.

she's not

home.

but he'll show me around

and tell me

what work

needs to be done.

he's gruff.

tells me to wipe my feet,

no wait,

take your shoes off,

he says.

he's in control now.

he has a beard

which he continually pulls

at as he tries

to inhale

his stomach and puff out

his chest.

he yells at the dogs

as they bark

behind a closed door.

i wish his wife was home.

early shopping spree

i start my Christmas shopping

early.

but like

most years,

the first three or four nights

out at the mall,

or searching online,

i buy things for me.

it's a process.

i'm doing research,

getting ideas,

but why not a new laptop

for the other room.

maybe a new tv.

there's still time

for other people.

i have the wrapping paper

already,

somewhere

in a basement closet,

next to the snow globe,

the tinsel and the metal pan

for the tree.

as the band plays on

i love

Bob Dylan.

i have nearly everything

he's ever

sung,

expect maybe his Christmas

album.

a train wreck of sorts.

but i can't go

see him in concert

anymore,

where he croaks out

all the old songs,

now unrecognizable,

the beat

and rhythm changed,

the words

slurred

to the point where

you can't even sing along.

he's wearing

his top hat,

rebellious as ever, holding

a cane

and wearing

striped pants. a minstrel

man.

i love Bob Dylan,

but it all feels strange

and terribly wrong.

and then again, what else

is he to do,

stop and go home?

no.

he's determined to go on

and on and on.

the court jester

we expect

too much out of our leaders.

our kings

and queens,

our prime ministers

and presidents.

in reality they are as

dumb and clueless

as you and me.

heavy is the crown

they wear,

and who

they surround themselves

with,

whispering into

their ears.

listen instead to

the court jester, he and

he alone

is wise in

all things.

the anatomy of girls

we'd pick

sticks to see who would

go

and throw

a rock through the window

of the abandoned

house across the street.

the short stick,

would go.

camping in the yard

at night

turned us

into

something we didn't know

we were.

reckless kids

taking

risks in the dark.

one with a beer

stolen from home,

another with a cigarette

and a silver lighter that he

snapped all night long,

and the older one,

the boy with curly red hair,

telling us

in great detail

about the anatomy of girls.

the morning fire

from the hill,

looking out over the small 

factory town,

you can

see the lights, one by one,

going on.

like fireflies.

you can see the smoke

in the chimneys

for the morning fire.

perhaps coffee is made,

breakfast of some

sort served

at a small table as men

and women ready themselves 

for work,

the kids are up,

the dog is in the yard.

the rising sun begins to

light up the world.

it seems that no one

is different,

though each life is rare.

her husband's room

the widow

shows

me her husband's man cave

in the basement.

the pool table,

the tiki bar in the corner,

bottles and glasses

at the ready.

there's the piano over there,

a guitar

and microphone.

on the wall is a photo of

him,

he looks like Marvin Gaye,

he's that handsome,

that tall.

that graceful.

she begins to cry.

i tell her not to change a thing.

don't touch

a wall.

leave it this way for a while.

it's too early

alone at 67

i see and know

so many

older men, in their sixties

and beyond,

living alone.

widowers,

or divorced, by choice

or fate,

many just

never found a bride.

there is the profound

absence of children

or grandchildren far or

nearby.

are they happy?

are they content with this

life

they've carved out?

tv alone

with the dinner tray,

maybe a dog beside

them

on the couch.

each thing in it's place.

no compromises

to make.

no pillow talk after the lights

have gone out.

playing funeral

in the far corner

of the wide

suburban yard, at the edge

of the fence

beside

the shed,

the young boy carries

the box

to the hole

already dug.

the soft dirt lying on

the side.

it's a funeral,

one of many

more to come,

just a small

pet

this time.

but larger grief,

given time will

arrive.

i don't want to go home

the bar

is full, each stool has a soul

in place.

the room

is blue with smoke,

it's back

in those days.

there's a black and white tv

in the corner.

fat and low

with antennas sticking

out.

music is coming from somewhere.

south side johnny

and the Asbury dukes,

i don't want to go home

being sung in a raspy voice.

there's a bowl

of nuts every three feet

on the old

wood bar.

people are actually talking

to each other.

flirting,

making wild claims

of things

they've done,

or are about to do.

the best and the worst

in us arrives

with the third drink.

a fight breaks out,

hair gets pulled.

there's blood and commotion

but it passes.

numbers are written on

the backs of napkins

as the lights go up,

some stagger off into the night

driving home

alone

to lives

they were trying to avoid

for just a few

more hours.

we used to be friends, but now this

we've known each other

for forty years, but

we rarely talk

anymore

because of politics.

he's angry

and bitter and so far left 

he's almost

in China.

i lean

more right, but to the middle

of moderation.

it's not about the candidate

but the policies

i agree with.

why,

he says.

what happened to you,

i look at him

and say the same thing. maybe

after the election

we can

restore our friendship,

but it's doubtful.

that new car smell

the new car

smell

lingers. i should take the car

out once

in a while.

spin the tires around.

maybe take it

to the shore

and let the salt air in.

maybe eat

a burger

and a bag of fries

on the inside.

but no.

i like it this way.

still new.

still fresh and inviting.

like you.

popping the cork on the bubbly

i've had that expensive

bottle

of champagne

on top of the refrigerator for

seven years now.

sometimes i take

it down

and wipe

the grease off the green

glass and hold

it up to the light.

i'm waiting

for the right moment

to celebrate.

waiting for someone

wonderful

to come into my life,

not the person i originally

bought it for.

the twoway mirror line up

i stand

behind the two-way mirror

and look

at the line up

of women on the stage.

women that

have ruined my life.

the cop

tells them to turn left,

now turn right,

now face forward and scream

the words

i hate you.

is she one of them?

he asks me.

hmmm. i'm not sure.

can you ask them to make

a throwing motion

like she's tossing

a bottle or a knife?

sure, he says. sure.

they all do that, but still

i'm confused.

maybe have them text on

their phones

and dim the lights.

too busy for this

i'm busy

i tell the tree, the shrubs,

the weeds.

too busy

to rake

today, to mend the fence,

to tighten

the screws

on the clapboards

that rattle.

i'm too busy,

i say to the wind,

the clouds.

i have things to do,

many things to think about.

imagining tomorrows

admittedly i knew

nothing, still a shy child,

and yet

inside, i knew

more than what i spoke.

and as i drew my finger

along the cold

glass pane

of the window drawing

out a face,

a name.

standing tall on the yellow

kitchen chair.

i could see the future,

i knew

in that moment

that there's more to all of this

than what has passed.