they haven't forgotten me

i get

a birthday card

from

the local gas station

where

i go to get my oil changed,

another one

from my dentist

where

i'm overdue

for a cleaning,

one more from my health

insurance

company,

and a fourth card

from

DSW where i buy my

shoes.

i line them all up

on the windowsill,

for anyone to view.

i feel love

and remembered,

but somehow still a little

blue.

have the geese returned?

a man

runs by me on the street

followed

by three policemen

in full

pursuit.

their radios crackle

with

anxiety.

i lick my ice-cream

cone

and step aside,

then keep

walking. I wonder 

how the park

is this

time of day,

the broad blue lake.

have the geese flown

back from

their winter sojourn?

the world's best cheesecake

the sign

read world's best cheesecake.

a bold

statement,

not to be out done

by

the pizza parlor

next door

proclaiming

best pizza in town

since 1969.

do i believe them

despite the old rusted

sign,

with a yellowed photo

taken

in another time.

when was the contest

held,

when did the judges

decide?

should we go in

and order a slice,

or keep walking

and give the next block

a try?

wants that pretend

i need

a good sleep,

a good meal, a good

roll

in the hay.

a good book,

a long walk,

a new shirt,

a new pair of shoes.

a new pen,

a new chair to sit in.

but

maybe they aren't needs

at all,

just wants

that pretend.

the boy scout blues

i hated

the boy scouts, the uniform,

the fancy

red scarf,

the pins

and badges.

learning how to start a fire.

what twelve

year old

didn't have matches

or a lighter

back then?

forget rubbing two

sticks

together in the woods

with a little too

friendly

scoutmaster.

i had no interest

in making the sound of

yellow belly sapsucker

in a tree,

or in eating baked beans

from a tin can,

but i did learn to master

the slip

knot.

which pleases Betty,

to no end.

a bag of cookies on the porch

i see

a satchel of cookies

on the porch

wrapped

in gift paper,

in a gourmet fancy

bag

with a bow

attached

and get a chill

down my

spine.

it's a long story,

one

not worth repeating

again.

puddle or ice

unsure

of the street, unable

to discern

between

what's ice

and what's water,

i gently step forward,

then

with luck,

i find

an arm to lean on,

a shoulder

soft and warm.

a year later,

we're married

with a child

on the way.

sometimes it just

goes like that.

will you do the same for me?

i pour

your tea, 

from the whistling

kettle

and squeeze

the lemon,

i drop

in a cube or two

of sugar

and stir.

i hope that later

you

will do

the same for me.

a typical day on the way to the market

no day

is a day on the road,

to work

or to the market

without

a few moments of road

rage.

the anger,

the red faces, the cursing,

is part of the drive.

bumper

to bumper,

the racing to get to 

the next light.

i try to hug the right

lane and

be prompt at the green

light.

i'm no longer interested

in getting

out of the car

in this weather, at this age,

to confront the man

or women,

who has their fists

balled and are waving

a metal pipe.

pigeons in the cupboard

can

they be hungry?

can they actually be that hungry,

these

fat grey

pigeons ringed

and layered

in thick

oiled feathers.

skilled

at pecking the smallest

of thrown

bagel

to the ground.

they remind me of

my childhood,

all bones

and sinew,

standing on the kitchen

counter

searching the cupboard

for a stale

cookie, with nothing

found.

my father's final girlfriend

my father's

final

girlfriend, still calls

after

his death.

she wants to talk about

the past

as if there is

no future

to worry about.

she hears his voice

in mine.

i suppose.

but i understand grieving,

it's so hard

to let go,

if not careful,

it will last.

my favorite new word

my favorite

new

word

is no.

i use it a lot these days,

but sometimes

i don't even

have to say it.

i just don't pick

up the phone

or answer

the door.

it's easier that way.

nothing to shout about

he's in

his winter clothes now.

things

apparently

didn't work out.

he scans

the paper for work,

like he used to do

in 1980.

nothing

to shout about.

there's three feet of snow

on the ground

and

the wind

cuts like a knife

through his heart.

the car

won't turn over.

he misses her,

he misses living south.

reboot the day

it's a morning

of rebooting.

nothing seems to be connected

as i move

my fingers across

the keyboard.

i pull the plugs out,

i hit switches.

i push buttons

dousing lights,

then hit them again,

and yet i'm still

offline.

i climb back into bed.

i'll give

the world

a little more time.

i get it now

when we were

fighting,

near the end of a long

journey

together,

she suddenly

became

shy, or was it

selfish?

she'd change her clothes

in the bathroom,

no longer

allowing me to see

her in the flesh.

it was then that i understood

at last,

that it was over.

flattery will get you nowhere

in the crowded

bar,

with a dance floor,

a small

band

playing, someone

singing,

a woman kept staring

at me

from across the room.

a woman

much younger than me.

pretty with long legs

and bright

green eyes.

slender and wearing

a tight red dress.

i stared back and smiled.

she smiled

and then weaved her

way over

to where i sat.

she looked me and said.

i'm so sorry for staring

at you,

but you remind me

of someone,

you look just like

my father

who recently passed.

he was 85.

clean out of saves

she reminded me

of Judy Garland,

in a certain

dim light,

no, not

the somewhere over

the rainbow

Judy,

with her little dog,

no, not that one.

but the older one who

lost her way.

the one holding a gin

and tonic

on stage,

smoking incessantly while

belting out

songs

from her golden age.

a swizzle stick of a woman

with a string

of bad nights

and long days

behind her.

as much as i wanted to,

i was clean out of saves.

i carried her up the stairs

late in

the night as we lay

in bed

after making love,

she told

me that she had a bad

heart.

i wondered

if she was kidding

and talking

about all the broken

hearts she

had, but no.

she said something instead

about the chambers,

the arteries,

the weak

and leaking ventricles.

she said

it was a strain to walk

at times,

to go up and down

stairs.

she told me that

she only had a few months

at most left to live.

i'm not sure if she was

lying

about this,

but for months afterwards

i carried up

every fight of stairs

and down

at times.

the next spring 

after we had borken up

i saw

her running

in a marathon

and i had to laugh.

no need to bleed with you around

i look for the reliable

knife

in the knife drawer,

i need to cut

something again,

everyday

it's something new

that needs to be cut

in half,

or sliced

or diced. there's

so many

dull ones

in the mix

that i never use or

sharpen.

ancient knives from

lives past

that i never choose.

it's what i like about

you.

you bring

the sharpness with

you, no need

to sort through

the drawer

and bleed

with you around.

Farrah taped to the bedroom door

saying

goodbye is hard

sometimes

very hard.

in leaving the old house,

the old

car.

tired things, you've

kept

but will never use

again.

the attic

is full of them.

the cellar too.

the child's sled,

the broken

guitar. stereos of

a golden

age,

your favorite pair

of jeans

that don't fit anymore.

the poster

of Farrah

still taped to the bedroom

door.

milestones

in your life, though

you haven't

traveled far.

her birthday cards

up until she died,

my mother would send me

a five

dollar bill

in a small card with birds

on it,

for my birthday.

don't spend it all 

in one place

she'd write.

the desk drawer is

full of them,

the money still tucked

inside.

occasionally i'll open it,

like today,

and smile.

too old to snatch purses anymore

i used to

run

until the knees gave out,

bones

grinding against bone.

at last,

the body said,

no more please.

i understand now

why

there are so few

purse

snatchers in the city

that are old.

we'd never

get away, we'd

never make it across

the street.

we're very nosy people

her hair,

a crimson orange,

perhaps a wig,

glows in the low dim

light of the restaurant.

her leopard print

pants

are tight.

he works in sales,

perhaps.

two different birds on

a perch.

are they friends,

lovers,

is she his mother or

his wife?

we're very nosy people

when we go

out at night.

still not funny (SNL)

it used

to be funny. not always,

but on

occasion

they'd hit their mark

and find

your funny bone.

the show was rich in

sarcasm and humor

with both

sides of the aisle

fair game.

maybe two out of ten

sketches

would

make you erupt with

a laugh

a grin.

but that was a long time

ago.

the whole circus

now,

is long in the tooth,

weak and tired,

achingly thin.

the joy of the orange chair

i feast

my eyes on the orange

chair,

mid-century modern,

set out

in the rain,

on the curb

for pick up on Monday

morning.

it's as bright as

any

piece of fruit i've seen

on a Florida tree.

i wonder

about the joy felt

when

it was boldly carried

up the stairs

sixty years ago,

or so,

into the brownstone,

and positioned against

the corner

of Berber carpet,

beige and worn,

loosely rolled and set

out as well

to wait

for Monday morning.

preserved in amber

the young

men

and women piling into the black

limousine

are not

movie stars, or

celebrities, quite

yet,

or maybe never.

and though they

glisten

with good hair and good

looks,

fine clothes,

this

will come as close as it

may get

for most on this rainy

night

on 5th avenue

with cameras clicking

to preserve

the amber

moment.

the party is long over

the bright balloon,

as blue as any eye

of a small

child

is hung up in the black

trees.

stuck within

the leafless

limbs

that fill the rain

soaked park.

the party

is long

over, I suspect.

still keeping time

i walk

by the dump

and hear the ticking of clocks

tossed

into the soured

heap,

alarms going off,

still keeping time,

even for

the deceased.

oh well, it's New York

i stare

at the bill, my face whitened

with surprise.

what, she says.

i show her

the bill.

40 dollars for a Cesar salad,

twenty-two dollars

for a glass of Chianti,

and 75 dollars

for cannelloni,

not to mention

coffee and

the twenty-dollar dessert

cake.

oh well, she says.

what are you going to do.

it's New York.

i'll get the cab fare

back to the hotel, can

you break a hundred?

the long short drop off a cliff

we think

of leaving as if a fall

from a cliff.

a long

drop

into oblivion,

whether

it's a job, or where

we live,

a love or

friendships gone sour,

our fingers dig

into the side of the mountain,

we don't want

to fall.

we want to hang in

there

and hope things get better.

we hold on for as long as

we can,

then drop, but surprised

that it was only

three feet

to the floor.

more gibberish

there are madmen

and mad

women too.

you see in their eyes.

you don't have to go far

to find

someone

talking to themselves

on the street corner,

or rattling

the cages at the zoo.

coffee shops,

and churches have their

share as well.

they're digging through

garbage cans

and mumbling

to themselves, stuck

in a vague hell.

sometimes i

turn on the tv and there

they are

in the halls of congress,

rambling on

and on

in their own strange

language,

more gibberish, as well.

why is that dog barking?

there's a dog barking

outside,

but i'm too tired, too lazy

and cold

to get up

and go take a look.

i wish i had a shoulder

to tap on,

someone to wake up

and ask them to please

take a look and tell me

what they see.

it's in times like these

that i wish i was

in a relationship,

or were married, or

even had a friend with

benefits lying next

to me.

the price of eggs

we decide

in bed after making love

and brainstorming

on how to make more money,

we decide

to raise chickens.

i do the math,

and she figures out

what we

can buy with all

the new cash.

ten chickens, that's

ten eggs a day

times 300 days,

being fair to the chickens,

at ten

bucks a carton,

that's an easy 30 grand

a year,

she screams, bouncing

on the bed,

telling me that tomorrow

we need to build

a shed.

you mean a chicken coop,

i tell her.

whatever, she says.

waving from a taxi

i couldn't tell

if it was

the rain,

the soft diamonds

on the windows,

or real

tears

that fell, as she

waved

from the taxi,

whispering farewell.

help is on the way

i couldn't turn

off my

father's medical alert system

after he

died.

there was no obvious

power button,

no battery

door.

despite all efforts,

pulling

the plugs from the wall,

it kept on.

i wanted to return

it to the company he rented

it from.

the pendant

around his

neck too, pried off

at the funeral home.

they wanted that as well,

though it never had

a chance of being used.

i wrapped the box

in the only paper i could

find. valentine's paper,

with hearts and fat

cupids floating in pink air

with arrows poised.

I sent it out, via

UPS.

i laughed as my father would

have as i left

the package

on the counter. it continued

to plaintively

announce

without stopping, help

is on the way,

help is on the way. help

is on the way.

our flotilla of ships

we'd

form sails from

thick

typing paper

and toothpicks

and set

loose our

flotilla of corks

into

the ocean

of Central Park,

the great

pond

below the rocks,

and timber

of skyscrapers

half lost

in fog.

west 56th

as the sleet slashes

against

our faces

we splash through

ankle

deep puddles,

slick ice

and peddlers

selling

umbrellas

and roasted chestnuts.

dinner

reservations are at

w 56th

if we survive.

she says turn left,

i say,

turn right.

a long hot bath for two

i take a long

bath

to settle my nerves,

to soothe

my aching bones.

it's a hot

bath.

no bubbles or Calgon

though,

please i'm a man

for God's sake,

what would

people

think.

i leave my self-help books

in the other room.

i do light a candle though,

and turn the light

off,

i put on some soothing

music.

and lie back on my

rubber

inflatable pillow.

i sip on a glass

of chardonnay.

then the dog comes in.

he wants

to join me.

so i lift him up

and carefully lower

him in.

page one of the new novel

i start a new novel.

i've outlined

the plot,

listed the characters,

given them

an identity

before i begin to write.

i research

the country,

the town

where it all takes place,

i learn about 

the manner of dress

and speaking.

i imagine flashbacks,

and twists

and turns as secrets

are revealed.

i even see the ending

before i know

the beginning.

i sit at the typewriter

with a clean

sheet of paper,

hands on the keyboard,

ready to start,

but already i'm exhausted

and need to rest.

i set it all aside 

for a tomorrow

that may never come.

poetry is so much

easier.

i can no longer be friends with you

the defining

question

of who you should date,

or be

friends with is now,

who did you

vote for.

politics has become

the deal

breaker

in relationships.

which is nice.

now i no longer have

to worry about

hygiene

or clothing.

i just head out the door

and take

both my red hat

and blue hat.

no worries, no more.

slow, very slow to anger

i'm slow

to anger, maybe too slow.

i'm a turtle

when it comes to anger.

i used to look over at the 

now ex-wife,

tipsy again

from going to happy

hour

with her friends

and cringe.

i'd stare at her

bags from Norstrom

on the floor.

i wanted 

to say something to her,

to let

her have it,

and tell her something

like, why don't you get

a job.

but i didn't.

i need something bigger.

at some point

while she slept like a baby,

i needed to look

into her phone.

in need of a sherpa

i over pack,

as usual.

i have enough clothes in this

expandable

suitcase

for seven days

not three.

socks

and underwear,

shirts and pants,

what if it's cold,

what if there's a sudden

heat wave,

or if it rains,

what about snow.

i can barely

lift the bag out the door.

i need a sherpa

or a sky cap,

pronto.

the long way home

i take

the long way home

this afternoon.

there is no where to be,

no work,

no loved one

standing at the door,

no children

looking out the window

for my car

to appear.

no dog waiting to be

walked.

i drive slowly

around the lake

and ponder the setting sun.

yes, i've made some

mistakes.

she was always out of something

my neighbor,

the flight attendant,

liked to borrow things.

the door

bell would ring

and she'd be standing there

in her nightgown,

with an empty

cup.

sometimes it was olive

oil

that she needed,

or sugar,

or salt,

or a dry pork rub.

i think she was flirting

with me.

but the light never went

on in my head.

she was giving me

the green light,

and i was giving her

condiments,

hoping that it was enough.

oh no, it's the end of democracy again

when one political

party

rants and raves

like

childish lunatics,

and screams that it's the end

of the world,

the end of democracy

as we know it,

and then the end

never happens, day after

day.

you stop listening

and roll your eyes.

you laugh and shake your head.

you shut the window,

close door

and turn off the tv.

you burn the newspaper

in the fireplace,

or use it for the hamster

cage floor.

blue valentine

i'm lost

in the thicket of cards at the hallmark

store while

i hold

a nine

dollar bundle of fresh

cut flowers

in the crook of my arm.

i'm

wondering

it that's enough.

should i go for roses this year?

do i need to go to Kay

Jewelers too?

or Victoria Secret's for

something sheer

and black, or red,

but see through?

and what about

chocolate, do i go for the giant

heart shaped

box, or a bar this year

with nuts in it?

dear Lord,

it's valentine's day again,

what am i to do.

do i buy a card

that rhymes,

a funny card,

a sexual innuendo card?

no one teaches

you these things when

growing up. no tells you

about this in school.

i see old men

with shoulders bent

in the aisle,

young men too.

all of them despondent

and shaking

their heads.

all of them Valentine Blue

that's something i can do

the plumber on his knees

in water,

with a broken

pipe.

the car

mechanic

full of oil

and grease,

the carpenter with

a swollen

thumb,

and sunburned face.

the weary roofer,

standing

to one side all day

on the hot slate.

the painter splashed

in paint.

the brick layers

with broken

fingers, and

the baker covered in

icing from

making cakes.

at last,

now there's something

i can do.

the office apocalypse now (the director's cut)

i used to have a boss,

Su Bao.

a wiry little fellow

shot up in the war,

almost a character from

Dr. Strangelove

and how i learned

to love the bomb.

he was a major

of some sort

from South Viet Nam.

a survivor.

he had scars all over him.

bullet holes

and knife

wounds

from when he escaped

on his raft

away from

the Viet Cong.

there was hot

shrapnel still in his

head.

which he'd tap

on occasion to mock me

and my

Billy Idol inspired hairdo.

he was about five foot

four,

perhaps the most courageous

man

i've ever met.

but a horrible boss.

i can still hear him

screaming

at me in the morning

when i

came through the door.

late of course

and hung over.

you know nothing,

he'd scream.

you lazy American, you quit

our war.

which i didn't because

i never made it out of the cub scouts.

sometimes i'd put my

ear to his office wall

and listen to him

muttering

in Vietnamese and French,

clicking madly

on his keyboard

while smoking a hundred

cigarettes and sharpening

his bayonet.

stuck here in Kalamazoo

i wish

i knew another language

or two.

French

or German.

but only because i have

a thing

for women

over there.

maybe Italian too.

perhaps i should

take some classes

at night and master

another tongue,

then pick

myself

up and move.

but i'm stuck

here

in the cold, 

stuck with Betty Loo who

works at the diner,

i'm stuck here

in three feet of snow,

i'm stuck

in Kalamazoo.

a feather in the winter sun

in time,

with age, you sigh

and give

up the fight,

you forgive and forget

as best you

can.

you've lost your youthful

steam

over many people

and things,

surrendering

the indignities

of life.

suddenly you're a hundred

pounds

lighter.

a mere

feather in the winter

sun

floating

about.

plastering down the cowlicks

my mother

thought it scandalous

to send

us off to school

without a handkerchief

in our pocket,

a stack of change for milk

and a tray

lunch.

our hair was combed,

our teeth

brushed,

our laces tied

and our

zippers up.

a cowlick or two

plastered

down

by her licked fingers.

i see the pictures now

from the box,

in black and white,

and wonder how she did

it.

gods and goddesses

our own

lives

are full of mythology.

Greek

gods

and goddesses

are

remembered

from our early life.

the teacher,

the sage,

the roman guardian,

the cop next door.

the queen

in the fifth grade.

Linda

with pigtails,

and Billy who would

rule

the playground

like Maximus,

a chained

slave,

holding back the hordes.

and over

there,

Aristotle and Plato,

playing

checkers

at lunch, such squares.

the alarm clock goes off

somehow

the alarm goes off.

i haven't set it,

or touched it since

1985

when i worked in an office,

but it goes

off just the same.

seven fifteen.

i get up and find an old

suit in

the closet.

a white shirt,

a blue tie

with happy hour

guacamole dip on it

from Chi Chi's.

i dust off my Tom Mcann

brown shoes

and slip

into them.

i find my old briefcase

in the attic

and climb

back down.

i check my watch

and make a cup of Folgers

Instant Coffee,

then rush

off to the bus stop.

i can't be late again.

scotch infused hyperbole

we pick up

where we left off.

my dear friend and I.

we have

the same old

argument, making the same

old points.

talking long into the night

with

scotch infused

hyperbole.

we go back

and forth,

volleying like on a tennis

court.

maybe one

day we'll put down

our swords,

and

talk less about things

that won't

be solved

and more about the joy

in each other's life.

yes, let there be no question about it, evil exists

the terrorists release

the hostages in drabs

and dribbles.

human

life

bartered on

the open market,

dangled

like fish

in the window.

chained

in horror

cells, tunnels.

beaten

and tortured.

barely hanging

on to life.

years

away from loved

ones.

maybe tomorrow, one

more will

be let out.

how kind of them,

so generous,

how nice.

stand by your man

i can't find

the bag, or the receipt

to these

pants i bought yesterday.

they don't fit

like i thought they would.

i look

everywhere,

but no luck.

so i stuff them into

a plain white garbage bag

and head

out to the store.

credit card in hand.

i pray to the retail Gods

that they will

understand,

for after all, as Tammy

Wynette sang,

i'm just a man.

kitchen rebellion while making cornbread

i disobey

the 

laws

of the recipe.

the printed page

in the old

book

my mother saved.

what is a tablespoon

after all,

a teaspoon?

i deal

in smidgens and spills,

a little extra

or a little less

in the measuring cup.

a sprinkle here,

a dollop

there.

the oven set at

a temperature

i want it to.

don't tell me

what to do

Betty Crocker.

i'm done with you.

congressmen and women, oh my

the aged protesters

are sleepy, 

they're out of steam.

their voices

croaked with

unintelligible chants

and screams.

it's cold,

it's snowing.

they can hardly

stand up

in the wind,

as they wave their canes.

they pass around a bottle

of Ensure

to stick it out, while

their wigs

and toupees

slide off their heads

like fried eggs

in a pan.

God help us,

these are our leaders, our

elected

congressmen and women,

thankfully,

most are of a dying

woke breed.

tax dollars well spent

we send ten million dollars

to Chad

to teach them parcheesi

and other

board games

by Matel.

2 million

to Uruguay

for massage therapy

for their cows,

creating better milk.

500 thousand dollars,

to Mongolia

to study wooden straws.

another million

or three to Siberia

to study

sex slaves

who break big rocks

into little rocks

all day.

we're America God

dang it.

and we're

plum crazy.

we're sponsoring

chickens

in Bombay, 

what taste better, white

or brown eggs.

our scientists are

in Jamaica studying why

the tree frogs

make the chirping noise

all night and all day.

and who doesn't like a

trans cast

of Sesame street Muppets

putting

on a play.

Elmo is in drag,

with Kermit

and Ernie now

married.

tax dollars well spent,

i must say.

let's stop here boy and rest

let's stop

here

boy and rest.

let's sit on these warm stones

stacked

by the farmer

next door.

i want

to go on

but i'm

old.

you'll see one day,

my child,

you'll see, but

you

continue on,

get to the lake

then circle back,

i'll be here waiting,

and then

we'll go home

shaking off the snow

like a big

dog

i shake the snow off of my

coat,

my arms and legs,

my head,

then run

around

the house

at full speed

with my tongue out.

i knock into

the chair,

i spill drinks,

i run up the steps

and go

back down.

finally you grab me

by the collar

and settle me down.

good boy.

you tell me.

good boy. now 

take your shoes off,

and go relax

on the couch.

dinner will be ready

in an hour.

in the half dark i add up

in the half

dark of this empty

restaurant,

ready to close, i squint

at the bill

trying to figure out

what tip

to leave.

what percent is right

for this fine

meal and service.

the waitress is

at the end

of the aisle,

tapping her nails

against the bar.

she wants to leave.

there's a world beyond this

place that's waiting

for her.

i round up

and leave her a fat tip.

i remember

how that life used to be.

becoming a fan of women's sports

i realize,

that the only reason

i ever watch

beach volleyball is because

of the skimpy

outfits the girls are wearing.

i'd admit this but

feel no shame,

or guilt.

who doesn't

admire the beauty

of women?

and i know that if bowlers,

or golfers,

or soccer,

or pickle ball players

wore the same outfits,

that i'd be a fan

of those sports

too.

grape jam and a trillion dollars

they throw

words

into the air, like billions,

or trillions,

as if they

were mere dollar bills

floating

around in the air.

tax money

collected and spent

like drunken

sailors on liberty,

mostly 

on whores and drink.

and as i sit here rubbing

my cold

feet and hands

against the radiator,

i remember

that i have

two eggs left in the ice box,

and a cup of milk

in the jug,

a slice of bread for the toaster,

a dollop of grape

jam,

and

this makes

me happy.

up at the crack of dawn

yes,

i see two feet of snow

outside,

burying my car,

covering the walkway,

the steps.

but it can wait

for a while.

i have what i need.

coffee and food.

no rush

in going out with

shovel in hand,

scrapper

and salt, a broom.

but i see that Becky's

car is already

cleaned.

it shines in the winter

glaze

like new.

i see that she's tunneled

her way

down the sidewalk

as well.

i hate Becky.

when no one is at the wheel

it's a rare

commodity these days.

being

frugal,

being reasonable,

seeing both

sides of

the story

and making rational

decisions.

common sense

seems

almost extinct at times.

foolishness

prevails,

the country has gone

off the rails.

seventh grade P. E.

when

you enter junior high school,

skinny and shy,

it's then

that you

begin to learn how strange

and unusual

the world really is.

you're outside of your home,

away from your parent's

arms and eyes.

the PE teacher,

like a drill Sargent tells

you run,

to jump, to get in line,

someone throws

a ball at your head,

you climb a rope to the top

of the roof,

and then

they make you take

a shower

after gym

class with twenty

strangers. naked like

plucked chickens.

it's then that

you realize

that we're all just animals

doing our

best to survive,

and when you see the chalk

outlines

on the school

walls out back, of 

men and women's genitals.

your heart is broken

for what lies ahead.

three hours in limbo

as you sit

in the waiting room

of the car

dealership, the television

on

to the muted Family Feud,

and the music

overhead

playing songs you don't

know,

you ponder your

life.

you cross your legs

and close your eyes.

you unbutton your coat,

because it's ninety-degrees

inside.

you keep looking towards

the door, for

Becky, your tire technician,

to come out and get you,

telling you

that your tire is fixed,

you can go home now.

one boot in front of the other

when it's nine degrees

and the wind

is blowing at thirty miles

and hour,

cutting through you

like a knife,

clothes don't

matter.

nothing matters, but

getting through

two feet of hard snow

to get home.

all you care about is

surviving.

moving forward, one

boot in front of the other.

treat every day like that,

sunny and warm,

it makes no difference,

and you'll get there.

a light tap on the wrist

we live in a country

of second

and third chances,

and even

with three strikes we're

not out of the game,

we're never out.

forgiveness

and forgetfulness is

in full supply

after the light tap on the wrist.

just let a little time go by.

crimes and scandal are

quickly

dismissed.

one quick apology

and we turn

the page,

we move on.

i need new material

it's Monday

at the busy office building,

the elevator

is nearly full, but i manage

to slip

in, giving the appropriate

amount

of apologies.

sorry,

sorry, whoops, didn't

mean to bump

you or

step on your foot,

or your little

dog.

sorry.

what floor someone says?

any floor,

i tell the grumpy

man, looking

at his watch.

just hit all the buttons,

i tell him.

thank you.

i'm just retired

and i'm observing how you

people live.

i need new material.

the city zoo

do i regret

moving this close to the zoo?

sometimes.

but then

there are times

when i lie

back and enjoy the chatter

of monkeys,

the roar

of the lions,

the thunder of elephants.

seals flapping

fins

together for fish.

i like to hear

the exotic birds flutter

beneath

the net that holds

them captive.

it's just the wind

in the summer carrying

the pungent

smell of it all

across the road

that brings

me to tears.

do you want pickles with that order

the old

man behind the counter,

behind the slant of

the deli

glass,

behind

the bins

holding cold cuts

and cheeses

is dressed in white.

it seems that he's never

been younger

than he is

right now.

his paper hat tilted

to the side.

unshaven,

and tired.

but he smiles and says,

you're next,

number six hundred

and seventy-six.

do you want

pickles?

when i was young, when i was poor

why

haven't i thought of this

before?

sleeping

in

like this.

ignoring the phone,

the knock

at the door.

why haven't i given more

thought

to doing less,

not more.

of stretching out

in the summer sun

like i used

to do

when i was poor,

when i was young.

fresh old words

i lick

my thumb and finger

as i often

do,

to turn the page

of an

old book.

the parchment

dry,

but the words

still 

the same.

i'll etch it once

more

into my eyes, let it soak

again into my

brain.

the child who has his own

i bite

not only the hand

that feeds

me,

but the leg too.

the arm,

the neck.

i take a chunk out

of a shoulder

and work

my way

down.

i have no fear of losing

the likes

of you.

God bless the child

who has

his own.

the late bloomer

the other kids

called her tin grin

on account of her silver

braces,

or freckle

face,

or strawberry shortcake,

they made

fun of her frizzy

hair, 

and skinny limbs,

scarecrow

was another name

they called

her on the playground.

but i stuck with it

and in

the end, years later,

they were jealous

of the gem i found.

hide the kids

half time of the big game

used to have

Al Hirt

and his trumpet.

maybe

someone like Ray Charles,

or Burt

Bacharach doing a medley

of hits.

The Tiajuana Brass,

or Brazil 66.

but now

we have nursery rhymes

sung by

Dr. Suess on crack.

even with the closed

captions on,

it's a mystery what any

of it means.

and the hundred dancers in red,

as if in some

Satanic ritual,

add nothing

but more confusion.

maybe we should hide

the kids.

however, it does allow time

to walk the dog, and

take a long bathroom break.

feeding the wildlife out back

i wake up,

the day after the big game

and stare

into the refrigerator

and wonder

what i'm going to do with

thirty-two

leftover meatballs,

eleven chicken wings

and a plate of

untouched cut cheese.

i look out the window

at the woods,

and decide to wait until

dusk to feed the wildlife.

will they eat guacamole

if i spread it onto crackers?

the lone wolf syndrome

women

are better at keeping friends.

men,

care,

but don't make the effort.

when younger,

we used

to play cards together,

go out

drinking,

chasing skirts,

play ball together, or go

to games,

girl free, just the guys.

but now,

we're lone wolves

content

to stay at home

and kiss the wife or girlfriend

goodbye

as she goes off

for the night, with all

her lifelong friends

from high school, from

college,

from work. while

we're perfectly content

to sit

in the big chair, with

a book,

or watch tv.

one more thing to worry about

it's the plastic

that will

kill us all,

the tiny almost invisible shreds

of it

that we consume

unknowingly.

it goes

down so easily.

gets absorbed in our blood,

stored

in our brains.

it's in the bottles

we drink from,

the wrapped food,

it's in the air,

it's on the ground,

Nemo the whale

and Charley Tuna

are daily washing up

on the shore.

it's one more thing to worry

about.

but don't.

do you have enough beer?

you know

we're old, when men,

ask

each other, what everyone

is wearing

when we meet

up

to watch the big game.

should i bring something,

Bill says,

maybe a casserole,

or some

wings?

what about parking?

i had a knee

replaced two months ago,

i'm still a little gimpy.

you know

i'm allergic to gluten

don't you?

says Jimbo.

and what about the wives,

divorced

Dave asks,

are you guys bringing

anyone.

will i be uncomfortable coming

alone?

do you have enough beer?

is your sister coming

Joe?

the changing room

i knock on the changing room

door

at the department

store.

i'm holding pants

and shirts,

more clothing i really don't

need,

there's no answer, so i turn

the knob and go in.

there's a beautiful woman

in there,

in her underwear,

a silk dress in

her hands.

sorry, i tell her. i didn't know

you were in here.

it's okay, she says.

i have brothers. please,

we can share.

i remove my clothes

and shoes and sit

by the mirror.

she says,

maybe you should lock

the door.

i look at my watch,

and say okay, why not.

three hours later we both

come out,

exhausted, but with still

more shopping

to do, but for what

isn't clear.

a hard nut to crack

she used to tell me,

i never know

if you're being serious or joking.

you have a perpetual

smirk on your face

when you

utter another cryptic

line.

i can't read you.

it's hard to tell

what's on your mind.

you're a hard nut to crack,

she says.

thank you, i tell her,

more wine?

be soon, be long

don't worry,

i'll wait for you.

i'm the king of waiting.

i have

the patience

of a stone.

unaltered by the wind

and rain.

i'll sit here

and drink my coffee,

stare into

my phone.

and i have this to book

to read,

this anthology

of poems.

i'll wait for you,

so take your time,

be soon,

be long.

waiting for a warmer day

the wind

convinces me to stay home.

to delay

the walk for

a warmer day.

i can see

the trees dancing

outside

the window.

the bend of the old oaks,

are almost

ready to fall,

fat with

rain and cold,

some boney and grey,

as we all

eventually are.

nails to scratch with

she has

wonderful nails.

some days they are pink

as roses

other days,

they are black like coal.

but i don't care

much for

what color they are,

i just want them sharp,

and pointed,

strong enough

to find the spot,

when i tell her

where to go.

the ambiguous stalker

do i care

what's become of past

lovers

and friends,

siblings

gone sour,

those now in the wind?

yes

and no would be my

answer.

yes, there's still

enough interest

to type

in their name,

but never enough to 

take the time,

to drive

by their house

again.

my internal clock

my internal

clock

has been ticking madly

these days.

am i out of time,

already,

it seems like just

yesterday

that i was putting

on my sneakers,

and grabbing

my glove

to go out and play.

love and longing

i find

a stack of old postcards

at

the flea market.

a dozen or more

banded together.

beautiful

postcards

with

original art on the front.

landscapes,

buildings.

Amsterdam, Berlin.

Rome

and Paris.

and on the back sparse

lines

of love,

and longing.

soldiers at war about

to die.

into the air they went,

over seas

and land,

and now

strangely,

here they are,

resting in my hands.

talk slower please

she's too smart,

i can't keep up

when she talks to me.

this book

is way over my head.

this job,

this science.

i can't follow these

instructions.

i'm way dumber than

i look.

it's a hard thing to hide.

they seem

to figure me out

in short time.

filling buckets with rainwater

i put

a bucket down to catch

the rain.

there's a leak in the roof.

it's an event

of sorts.

the cat comes in,

the dog,

they look up 

at the ceiling, then at me.

they seem

worried,

more worried than i am.

i've dealt with

leaks before.

nearly everything broken

can be fixed.

but they don't

know that.

the cold wind

he's not

a good texter. he's a delayed

texter.

his responses are

weak

and vapid.

emojis.

three or four days

might go by

before he answers

anything.

he doesn't pick

up the phone

when i call.

he's telling me something.

he may be gone.

at 96

we

disappear. we

turn

over

and over and fall.

we're diminished

with time.

bones

and ash.

our history

is reduced to

photographs,

white lies.

savor

the days you

can

stand and hear,

and see

with

your own eyes.

without bad luck i'd have no luck at all

is there

such a thing as luck?

good or bad?

being in the right place

at the right time,

turning left

instead of right to avoid

the crash.

picking the winning

numbers,

pulling

the weary arm

of a slot machine

and having the dollars

pour out like rain.

and bad luck, what is that?

not stepping

on the crack,

avoiding

the ladder,

or the black cat

never throwing your hat

onto a bed,

or breaking a mirror

both of which will cause

certain doom.

but perhaps you can avoid

all of that by

rubbing on a rabbit's foot,

now unluckily

for the rabbit,

unattached.

the black and white matinee

it was a black

and white movie. like how

they used

to make

before they started to jiggle

the camera

from every angle,

making you seasick,

never focusing

on one person or place

for more than

three seconds.

the dialogue

was clear back then,

people annunciated their

words,

except for actors like Marlon

Brando.

you didn't need

closed captions,

the music was

not trying to force emotions

upon you

with violins and drums,

a full cacophony of

orchestrated of noise.

people kept their clothes on

for the most part,

a kiss being sexier

than bare

skin.

the story

depended upon

good writing, a solid

script

and plot

and what they used to call

acting.

the last page first

i read

the last page first.

i want

to know what

i don't know

before i even start.

no tricks,

no hidden agenda,

no gaslit

lines

and words.

no false vows

from the heart.

don't make me read

the whole book

of you,

and be disappointed

the banging shutter

as i listen

to the shutter bang against

the house

in the wind.

i lie there in bed

and wonder about

so many things.

where i might

me going,

where i've been,

the next tomorrow,

and how it all

might end.

the cha ching relationships

i've bought

a lot of flowers in my day,

mostly

apology flowers for

something i did or

didn't do,

something i

said or didn't say.

i've purchased so many

things out of

guilt or in an attempt

to win 

someone back, to make

it all hunky dory again.

a lot of jewelry,

watches and gold

bands,

cashmere

and sable wraps.

a lot of expensive gifts,

but where are they now?

oh, there they go,

walking down the street

with some other

dude.

finding what you've lost

i have

a knack for finding lost

things.

keys,

and books, wallets.

rings

and things

long hidden from

view.

tell me what you've lost,

and for no

charge i'll find it

for you.

for instance, your sunglasses.

they're on

your head.

when DOGE comes to your house

i tell my wife

that from this point forward we're

going to have

a team

from DOGE

come into the house and audit

our books.

we have to find

a way

to cut costs and trim

unnecessary spending.

we need

a strict budget.

i mean, do you really need

two Grande lattes everyday

from Starbucks,

a new pair of shoes

every month,

a massage and a manicure

every week?

you buy something everyday

that we don't

need on Amazon.

the garage is full of unopened

boxes.

she stares at me

and gasps.

if you do this, i'm leaving,

she says.

i'm out of here and i'm taking

my cat with me.

fine, i tell her,

problem solved.

Big Jim's Tattoo Parlor

i get Tammy's name

lasered off 

my shoulder.

it's where Bettys name

used to be,

and before that,

Sally. i've been

keeping

this tattoo parlor

in business for years.

who now, big Jim asks me,

holding

the ink pen in the air, while

tugging at

his beard.

write Next, i tell him.

i'm no longer that optimistic.

Italian mice

there

were mice in cupboard,

squeaking

in a foreign tongue,

though

i never saw them.

the evidence

was clear

though.

the box of fennel pasta

was eaten

through,

not a strand

was left.

i wondered how they

even made

it through

the small hole in the vent

when they

finished their meal

and went to bed.

the dashboard orange light for tires

my rear

left tire, barely

a year old, is losing air.

and i'm

losing patience with it.

immediately

i want a new

car,

not just a new tire.

i want this orange light

to go off

on the dashboard.

i want four new tires

and a car

off the showroom floor.

i want that new car

smell.

i'm done with

this tire,

filling it back up every

other day.

leaning over with a hose

at the gas

station.

i can't find a nail or

screw, not a rip or tear.

and you,

with the burning toast

in the morning, 

it happens almost

every day,

beware.

when magic acts go wrong

the magician

and his assistant, his wife,

a shapely lass,

in sparkling attire,

did the trick

where he sawed her

in half.

she was always worried

though that things

wouldn't go right.

so she made sure before

the day of the act

that she made wild love to him

the previous night.

it all went well until

she met the lion tamer,

who kissed her

and held her under

the big top,

but not far enough

out of sight.

what do women want?

what do women want?

the sage

asks, while

contemplating

humanity.

they want shoes,

they want

clothes,

they want

a man, tall dark and handsome,

or short

fat and rich.

sometimes they want a woman

too.

they want

conversation,

lots of it.

they want to tell you their

feelings,

they want you to listen.

sometimes they want you

to hold their

purse

while they're in the changing

room

trying on a new dress.

what do men want?

a nice car

and sex.

my own little island

i need room

when i sleep, some cuddling is okay,

for awhile,

but then

i need to be on my own

little island.

just a few inches

away.

so please,

don't misunderstand me,

we can wrestle in

the morning,

okay?

i've lost my train of thought

i'm easily

distracted and will

watch

a bug

crawl across the floor

for an hour.

i'll stare in wonder

all morning at

birds

in flight.

in gazing at the ceiling

my train of thought

is lost over

a mere fly

buzzing around

the light.

and when you walk

across the room

in those thigh high

boots,

i'm lost again.

sometimes i wonder

how i get anything

done.

don't you dare watch that game

she once told me,

at the end

of our tumultuous

one year

marriage

that if i watched the big

game this year,

the super bowl, that she

would be packing

her bags and going back

to her elderly felonious

husband, or her married

boyfriend.

but why, i asked her.

i've been watching football

since i was a little tyke.

she stood there with her hands

on her hips,

fire in her eyes,

because the cheerleaders

are wearing skimpy

outfits, and the commercials

are full of sexual innuendos.

and i know you like

looking at young sexy women

bouncing around doing

jumping jacks and cartwheels.

so, i'm warning you.

if that tv goes on at 630

on Sunday, i'm out of here.

okay, i told her, say hi to gramps,

or captain kangaroo,

the married guy,

then i put the beer in the fridge, 

getting it nice and cold

for kick off in two days.

the trans opera in Columbia

the books

on a low flame have been cooked

for years,

for decades, for

longer than we've been

alive.

there is skimming off

the top

off the bottom.

and it's all behind locked 

doors

in the kitchen full

of greedy

cooks

and crooks, congressmen

and women.

we seldom get to see

or know

where all our tax

dollars go,

until now.

the Superbowl party appetizers

i search the internet

for

Super Bowl snacks and appetizers.

after an hour or so

i settle

on grape

jelly meatballs.

it's listed as number

fifty-nine

out of one hundred

and three

recipes.

i write the recipe down

and all

the ingredients i'll need.

i figure 48 meatballs

should do it

and a barrel of toothpicks.

after all,

it will just be you,

and me.

perhaps a block of cheese

for you,

and a box

of crackers, but

if you can think of anything

else,

can you bring that too?

were they friends, really?

were they friends

really?

i mean

could i live without them,

and they

without

me.

apparently so.

but

what was all the joy

about,

the gatherings,

the dinners

and drinks, the long

phone calls.

the laughs.

we enjoyed each other's

company,

respected

each other's

beliefs.

was it really all a lie,

could friendships be

so easily

dismissed

by voting left or right?

mono vision

i used

to wear glasses, specs

of all

sorts.

serious frames,

wired

rimmed, shades

for the sun,

for sport.

reading glasses.

stylish,

at times hipster

and fay.

i needed a prescription

to get focus,

to read what was

on a sign,

or on a page,

but then

things changed

and i could read

with one eye

and see long distance

with the other.

somehow the brain

shrugged

and said okay, let's

see how this

works out.

and it did,

for both night and for day.

when the ship comes in

finally,

my father's 5 million dollar

life insurance

policy

is cashed in.

i stare

at the money in the bank

account.

looking at all

those numbers.

and then the phone rings.

it's Judy,

it's Betty, Donna

and Louise.

word gets out quickly

around these

parts. then

there's a knock on the door.

it's flight attendant

Debbie

clothed in only

high heels and

a grin.

sex and money

the thing

about sex and money,

is that

they are most important

when you don't

have either

one of them.

and when you do

have them,

they only occasionally

cross your mind.

the ten pound marshmallow

after going to bed

hungry,

i dreamed

i ate

a ten-pound marshmallow.

it was a long

dream

with lots of chewing

and gagging.

in the morning

i had feathers

in my mouth

and the pillow

was gone.

thank you for the inspiration,
Steven Wright.

The Rule of Law

there used

to be a thing called

the rule

of law.

commit a crime

and you

were fined

or jailed,

punished accordingly.

steal,

assault,

or sell drugs,

cook the government

books,

or cross

the border 

illegally used to be

crimes

punished by the law.

nobody thought such

a common sense approach

would return

again,

but here it is.

sanity once more.

trying to break into Fort Knox

i didn't know

what i was doing the first

time i kissed

a girl

at the drive in.

we lowered the speaker

and settled into

the back seat

and went at it.

for some reason

i sucked on her neck

and left

red welts,

while i tried to unsnap

some of her

clothing but with

with no luck.

getting into Fort Knox

would have been

easier.

she sucked on my neck too

as the windows

steamed up.

we were

rookies

at the game of love,

or like,

or lust.

we were cats in heat.

but it went nowhere

as the movie played

on the enormous screen.

we had to wear

turtleneck

sweaters

for a week.

one last dance?

i realize

that i may never have 

to refill

this black stapler

with staples.

when was the last time

i held

two sheets of paper

together

and punched

the stapler down?

i can't remember.

nor will i ever have

to buy another

bottle

of hot sauce.

i think it was years

ago

when i shook the red

bottle and

let out a few drops

of sauce

onto an oyster.

and these boxes of

vinyl records

from the sixties

and seventies, i believe

they'll never again

spin around and around,

and make

me happy

with those lovely

old sounds.

the old lions reading newspapers

we see

each other on the street,

in the stores

pushing

our carts.

we're in the coffee shops

reading

newspapers,

we're getting

the oil changed

in our cars

and trucks.

we're wondering book

stores.

we're men of a certain

age,

wearing the uniform

of retirement.

khaki

shorts and long sleeved

shirts,

ball caps

and tennis shoes.

we look at each other,

and neither nod

or say hello.

but we see each other

just the same.

this old army of men,

lions of the world,

now defanged,

now slow.

it's not the end after all

i hear

a baby crying down

the street.

it's a familiar scream.

it reminds

me of my little

sister when she was

born.

it surprises me.

after the election

the world

was supposed to end,

the bombs

would explode,

but people are still having

babies.

i guess it's not the end

after all.

not a single drop of blood

she sends

me

her poetry

on pink paper,

written in her

own hand,

a beautiful cursive

scroll

of pretty words

that roll on

and on,

but not

a drop of blood can

be found.

this will never

work out.

so what exactly is it that you do?

around these parts,

Washington D.C.,

when you

ask

someone what they do

do for a living, they

start talking

in circles,

using acronyms

and letters, numbers

and names

of agencies you've

never heard of

buried

in the deep state.

twenty

minutes later, you shake

your head,

still not

knowing

what they do.

then they say, please don't

tell anyone

what i just told

you. it's classified.

and then they ask you,

what do you do?

so you show them

your spattered

calloused hands

and say,

i paint.

no more working at home

my neighbor,

a civil servant,

is sitting on his porch at six

a.m.

i've never

seen him up this early.

he's smoking

a cigarette

and drinking coffee.

he looks sad.

he has a tie

on, a suit jacket.

his old

briefcase

is between his legs.

he hasn't had to go to work

in years.

he's done it all from

home, on the computer

and phone.

i point out to him that he's

still wearing his bedroom

slippers.

i don't care, he says,

don't talk to me,

then heads off to the bus

stop with

a long strip of toilet

paper, stuck

to his foot.

another one just like it

change

is hard. it's painful.

i resist

change.

i'd rather keep things

the same.

day in day out.

i like

things the way they are.

i'll wear this

old grey

coat until i find another

one just like it.

take me now, Lord

in the open field,

i remove

my shirt, my shoes.

my pants.

i throw

my hands up to the sky

and say

that i am ready.

take me

now, Lord.

the cold wraps

itself

around my bare body.

i shiver.

the wind

ribbons between

my arms

and legs.

i close my eyes and wait.

but nothing

happens.

someone calls the police.

and they take

me away.

there are others just

like me,

naked,

sitting in the cramped

wagon.

taxpayers money

the auditors

come

into the government office

and say

we'd like to see your

books,

we'd like to see

where all the taxpayers

money is going

everyday.

no way.

they say,

trying to hide

the books

under their skirts

and clown

costumes.

how dare you cut off our

funding

on why cats

meow

and dogs bark.

you're not taking away

our 50 million dollar

project

about

bisexual sharks,

and operas starring mice

and hawks.

we need softer beds

for prisoners

on death row, better food

and clothing

for them

and an electric chair

with satin pillows.

nothing had changed as far as we could tell

the sign read

on

the store window,

sorry, we're closed.

there's been a death

in the family.

we peered in

to the darkened

store,

hands against the glass,

then wandered off,

with our coffee,

but returned the next day.

there were cakes

in the window, as usual,

pastries and donuts

were lined up on shelves,

the racks were full

of warm loaves

of bread.

dinner rolls.

nothing had changed

as far as we could

tell.

an arms length away

it's a soft

web,

a trap of sorts, at this

age

with everything in place,

happiness

just an arms

length away.

all that you needed

to do

is done

for the most part.

now it's sun up,

sun down,

and a casual

walk for coffee

into town, passing

the cemetery

on the way,

filled neatly with so many

moss covered

graves.

the kitchen window

i needed

a kitchen window

with yellow

curtains, tied back

so that i could see.

i needed

to stand at the sink and look

out at the street.

i needed to wash

dishes while i stood

there,

with a plant on the sill.

i needed to see the seasons

pass,

i needed to see

the children grow,

and leave.

i wanted to watch

the moon rise and

the sun set,

pink and lovely

in the trees.

i needed what my

mother had

before me.

i needed a kitchen window.

now i have one,

come see.

psychedelic jalapenos

it's a patch

work

night of 

colorful

dreams held together by

the jalapenos

i ate last night,

the hot sauce

and cheese, followed

by ice cream.

i'm flying across

the Rio Grande,

my arms stretched

out like wings.

i imagine

what it must be like

to be on

LSD

watching Hendrix

burn his guitar,

but these 

food inspired dreams

are enough

psychedelics

for me.

the next logical step

we decide

to hold hands. it's that

point

in the relationship,

where it

seems appropriate

to do so.

we've gone

to movies,

we've cooked together.

we've made

love

and spent the night.

holding hands seems

to be the next

logical step

when we're walking down

the street.

no baggies in my hand

the memory

of my

dog does not persuade me

to get another

one.

in fact,

it does the opposite

when i see

the snow and ice

outside

my window.

i smile 

when a truck goes

by or

another dog,

or cat,

or bird in flight.

there is no barking

at the window,

there is

no need to get dressed and

find a bush

for him

to pee on

after an hour of passing

so many trees

by.

there are no

baggies

in my hand to remove

what

he crouches

and leaves behind.

yes, i loved him, but

he drove

me out of my mind.

the Chinese restaurant

as a child,

hand

and hand in mother's hand,

we

entered a strange chaotic

land of

new smells,

new sounds,

into a world of red

tassels

hung

on paper chandeliers,

our eyes level

with tables

white with linen,

browned

ducks, headless, on

trays carried by hurried

men

in black pants

and red blazers.

the drapes

flowing like golden

gowns.

never had we eaten

food like this,

so much

on the round

table

that spun,

both sour, both sweet.

and our fortunes told

to us

on small strips of paper,

hidden in

brittle crackers.

what fun.

to each his own

i used

to fight and argue, debate,

express

my point of view

until blue

in the face,

trying

to shine my dim light

into the darkness

of the conversation.

but no more.

what's the point.

people hear what they

want to hear

with blinders

on. including me.

to each, his or her

own cup of tea

whether bitter or cold,

hot or sweet.

the week

we can't be sharp

everyday.

some days,

we're not all there,

we're

walking about,

numb and woozy,

in a daze.

we hang on

to the rails, we try to

steady

our feet.

some call it Monday,

I call it

the week.

i remember you though

the wet

cobblestone street

lamp

lit

and cold

as i walk home from

the bar

empty

handed,

at three in the morning.

the dark

rows

of houses,

asleep as i will be

in another

two

blocks or so.

out of this cold

and home.

i remember you

though.

today is sock day, sorry

i'd like

to sit here all day and hear

more about your

seemingly endless set of

problems,

but today is sock

day.

it's the day i wash

all my socks

and separate them,

then fold then

into cushy balls and toss

them into

the sock drawer

from across the room.

later perhaps,

okay?

strangers on a train

who

isn't a stranger?

do i really know my father,

my mother,

any of my

ex-wives,

or friends. 

my children?

do i really

know what

goes on inside

their brains.

is everyone performing,

is everyone

on a stage,

saying

the right or wrong things

when the curtain

rises.

we'll never know each

other truly,

not even

at the end.

when they finally let me go

when i worked

in an office,

coming in a little

late,

and leaving

a little early,

extending

my lunches

with chit chat,

i had a drawer full of snacks.

right below

the rarely touched

client files.

i had candy,

cookies,

crackers and chips.

maybe cake and pie

from home.

the rest of

the workers knew where

to go,

where to find

my stash

when they needed a fix.

i kept everyone on a sugar high.

i became an important

part

of the office,

i kept morale up.

i was cheerful and talkative

at the coffee

counter,

reliving the weekend,

talking sports,

and chicks,

so it

was a big surprise

for me

when they finally let

me go.

taking my entry key

and hall pass.

the loud sneeze

your

nose runs. it drips.

you sneeze.

you reach

for the Kleenex box.

someone

says

God Bless you,

but you

don't know what that

means.

you say

thank you

just the same,

and try to sneeze

again.

blessings are a good

thing.

eventually it comes

we all

grieve differently.

some

sob

and cry, are bent over

in pain,

at the grave site,

while

others let it simmer

over time,

burying

the sorrow

of dying

deeply.

with not a tear shed.

the agony

will

arrive at some point,

maybe

months later,

or even years,

when

standing 

mindlessly with

strangers

in a long

line.

we want more, not less

despite

the boredom, the grey

monotony

of so many

days,

the repetition of food

and sleep,

of waking

up at three in the morning.

facing the mirror

and seeing

the arrival of old age.

despite

the sameness of each

season,

each holiday

and birthday.

despite it all

we want more, not less.

will they miss me

as i half

swim, half paddle,

meander

out further

into the sea, my

feet no

longer touching the rough

sand,

my legs

now cold

and getting colder,

i wonder

if anyone will miss me

when i'm gone,

or when

i'm older.

the terrible bright light

the last

thing anyone needs is

fame.

don't ask for it,

don't seek it.

run

from those bright lights,

cover your

ears when

you hear the first sound

of applause.

don't read

what they write.

run from fame.

run and hide from

this terrible light.

it will ruin

your life.

why do they keep bringing me jello?

i can't shake

this cough, my friend says over

the phone

from his hospital

bed.

it's my lungs, too many

cigarettes, they tell me.

i hear

him gag

and cough some more.

hold on he says,

muffling the phone

with his hand.

i hear the nurse come into

the room

bringing him

a tray of food, taking

away

his bed pan.

i'm back now,

he says.

my gown was stuck

behind me.

i wish i had a cigarette,

just one more

before i die.

what were you saying?

go on,

go on, you were talking

about your

summer plans.

why do they keep bringing

me Jello,

he says.

i hate Jello. but tell me

more.

tell me all

about the beach you're

going to with Ginger,

the blue water, the white

sand.

the other side

the window

seat

will provide you with the truth

you need

to see the world

clearly,

unmuddied

by words,

unblurred by opinions

or by

speeches filled

with hope.

it's the simple

truth

beyond the tempered glass

as the train

moves

on bended rail.

there lies

each dark village,

each

collapsed roof,

each wired

fence, each

burned out car

along

the route

heading

north or south

with dogs chained

to a leafless

tree.

there are few dreams

found there.

here catch this

my left

hand and arm, are not

as strong

as the other side.

but they aren't

worthless either.

they do many

things for me when

i can't use the right.

they're

just not as efficient

or precise

when catching or

throwing a ball.

i'd like to blame

my parents,

or society, or the strange

prejudice

against lefties,

or perhaps

it was just

Adam catching

the apple thrown by Eve

with

his right.

the dining room table staging area

the dining room table

has become

the staging

area for

so many things.

the black wood

unmarred by

drink or food,

dishes

and silverware.

it collects my

life now.

laundry coming up from

basement,

laundry going down.

detergent,

and groceries not

yet put away.

bills,

a checkbook, stamps,

an assortment of mail,

pens,

cash and coins

rolling around.

i can't remember the last

dinner i had

there.

when was that?

thanksgiving?

i've lost count of the years.

understanding everything

i am occasionally

on the verge

of understanding everything,

when

it slips through my

hands

like a fish

reluctant to come out

of the darkened

sea,

into the sunlit air,

to stay there.

no one is coming to save you

sorry,

but help is not on the way.

no one

is coming

to save you.

put your boots on,

your helmet,

and go forth and face

the day

with all of its trials

and tribulations.

get out of bed

and get to work.

stop staring into your

phone,

and get going

make something out of

your whiney self.

no one is going to save you.

not the government,

not your school,

not the color

of your skin, or

country of origin,

not your mommy and daddy

either.

no one is coming

to save you.

it's all on

you.

buckle up, it's going

to be a bumpy ride,

buckaroo.

the refrigerator magnet

we arrived at the seaside town

after a long

drive.

so we had

to buy

something to remind

us that we were here.

a glass paperweight

perhaps,

a magnet for the refrigerator.

maybe a t-shirt,

or hat with the name

of town

embroidered on it.

maybe a beach towel.

after long discussion, we settled

on the magnet.

and despite everything,

i still have it.

the heart shaped cloud

as we drive south,

she points up

at the sky.

that cloud

over there,

looks like a heart,

she says. look at

it,

it's a perfect

heart.

i point at one

that i claim to be mine,

that one

looks

like it might rain.

i tell her.

we should hurry,

the edges are bruised

and dark.

the conversation

it's a bad connection.

she's in

and out.

her voice fades,

it sounds like she's underwater

or in a cave

with the swirl

of bats

around her.

she could be on the moon.

the line

crackles.

i'm sorry, i tell her,

what did you

just say?

she's been talking for an

hour

without taking

a breath.

i believe she could swim

the English

Channel underwater

if she put

her mind to it.

never mind, she says.

okay,

i tell her.

bye for now.

who left the milk out?

living alone,

i talk to myself

sometimes.

i ask

myself who left the window open

all night

with this cold

breeze blowing

in.

i get angry and walk

over to close it.

the nerve of some people.

and now

downstairs,

to wonder

who left the milk out

on the counter

overnight.

look at me

there is no

shame anymore.

there is 

little or no dignity,

no guilt

or remorse, regret,

or second thoughts.

every sin is welcome

and forgiven.

three minutes

on tik tok

will solidify that.

the apple trees beyond

on the gallows,

hands tied behind his back,

the noose tightened

around his neck,

before the black

mask

is slipped

over his head

and the trap

door opens.

he sees in the distance

the blossoming

of apple trees,

he smells

lilacs in the field,

the perfume of a woman

at his feet,

and for a second he

believes

he could have lived life

differently.

the silent treatment

there is no

quiet in the world.

no stone

silence.

no place where you

can

hear a pin drop,

or the splash

of a single of rain.

but the last

false love

proved me wrong

about that.

clean hands

he couldn't

keep

his hands clean enough,

they were

always

underwater

with a bar of soap,

rubbing,

twisting the fingers

together.

getting under

the nails,

between

the joints, up to

the wrists,

the suds

bubbling under

the hot water.

he washed them all the

time,

as if a surgeon

going in to operate.

i never asked him

what was wrong,

he never told me.

the Wednesday lover

she was a Wednesday lover.

same time,

same place,

unless there was inclement

weather,

or her kids

or husband got in the way.

she felt no

guilt, no regret.

she just wanted to be loved.

to be held.

to be listened to.

the promise of what life

could be,

had left.

the other century

i live

in the other century

with my black cord phone

on the kitchen

wall,

my stamps and envelopes,

my bills

laid out on the desk

with

checks waiting

to be filled out.

i crack ice for my drinks,

i buy milk.

i read.

i write with a pen

and paper.

i put under the backdoor

mat,

my key.

i haven't forgotten you, and yet

i haven't forgotten you,

my old friend.

you

still cross

my mind every now and then.

i remember

you.

i know your number

and where

you live,

i could easily drop

by if i felt like it,

but i just can't bring myself

around

to seeing you again,

i wish i had a reason why,

but i don't.

maybe too many years,

have passed by.

staying home

they've let

the old theater go to hell.

nobody comes

anymore.

the popcorn and candy

counter

is closed.

the once

proud

jewel on main

street

is falling down.

the last show

is over.

the curtains

drawn.

the elderly are weeping.

they remember

Saturday

nights

and the golden age

of Hollywood,

the stars

who've passed on.

why go out anymore

when everything

can be watched at home

while staring

into your phone.

each to his own version

what's real,

what isn't real. who isn't

gaslighting

you.

what words

can you trust coming

out of so

many mouths.

the truth meter

keeps dinging

false.

there's no such thing as

a lie anymore.

each to his own

version

of truth.

the night gladiators

what armor

these bugs have, these

insects,

though small,

vulnerable,

when looking at them

closely

they appear to be gladiators

with helmets

and shields, ready

for war,

which is everyday

on the lighted

kitchen floor.

Brinkley Road

the one

bedroom apartment

backed up

to the woods, and beyond

the woods

was the racetrack.

the bloom of lights

in the trees.

i could hear

the races called at night

when i opened

the windows.

i could smell

the dung of the horses,

the hay,

hear the bellow

of the crowd, winners,

losers.

i'd lie in bed

with my love, her skin

as white

as stars,

her eyes as blue

as sapphires.

we'd make love until

there was no

more love to give.

eventually i moved,

i took

most of it with me,

though sadly, not her.

the lost right slipper

as i take

out the last box of clothes

and shoes.

i find one

last slipper in back

of the closet.

it must have fallen

behind

the dresser.

it's old, covered in

dust,

but thick and fluffy,

curled to that last foot

it held.

how he must have searched

for that slipper

when the nights

grew cold.

living years with just

the left

slipper to warm

his toes.

the S O S

the crash

and burn of planes

and ships,

things

in the sky falling,

or on the sea

going down,

have a message

for you.

get your house

and heart in order,

hit your knees,

your time too,

may be coming

soon.

this is what you should do

at a certain

age,

people finally stop giving you

advice,

because they see

that f off look

in your eyes.

don't tell me what to think

or do,

what to eat,

or read, or watch,

what clothes to wear.

don't tell me what

i should or shouldn't do.

it's refreshing

to have them at last

see the light and

ignore you.