the egg hunt

the Easter egg hunt

reveals

much about a child

and how

he or she

may turn out.

the aggressive ones,

running wild,

swinging their arms

at bushes,

turning over

rocks

and boards, digging

behind

the shed,

climbing trees

as they yell.

there are those children,

and then

the other ones.

a quiet few,

carefully

bending over to find

a single egg,

hidden between

tall blades of grass,

dyed blue.

they'll be moving soon

they'll be moving soon.

slowly

they are decluttering and selecting

a white

paint to cover

the walls

and

the door frame where

pencil marks

have noted the height

of each child.

27 years

went by like that.

the tree they planted has

grown tall

and shades

the window now.

the kids

are gone.

the stones in the yard

mark the passing

of each dog.

they'll be moving soon.

the truck will pull

up

and they'll be gone.

fly me to the moon

i'm writing this from the space

capsule

heading to the moon.

i've managed

to sneak onboard

and hide under some packed

re-entry parachutes.

unfortunately, they found

me out

after i clogged up the toilet.

my advice is to never

eat Ethiopian food before

a long trip into space.

anyway.

the crew has accepted me on

board,

i mean, what choice did they have?

i've been instructed

to not touch any of the blinking

lights and switches.

they are also keeping me

away from the door

that says Escape Hatch,

as i float around,

arms akimbo, like a monkey.

thankfully i found an extra

spacesuit in the cupboard

next to the Tang and beef

jerky. apparently

one size fits all.

we're getting to know a lot

about each other,

deodorant and breath mints are

helpful,

reminding me of summer

camp when i was young.

they told me i could document

each day,

and report to my podcast followers

our exciting journey

as long as i don't keep pointing

out the window

and yelling, oh my God,

look at that.

WTF!

i have to admit it's a little

tight in here,

right now there's a giant

space boot

resting on the side of my neck

and someone's elbow

is in my ribcage.

i'm hoping to get a window

seat later when everyone

falls asleep. i slipped a little

Ambien into their Earl Grey

Tea.

ah, those fearful early years

as a teenager,

while 'dating',

your

main

dating concerns,

other than a few bucks

to go to the drive-in

movie theater,

revolved

around pregnancy

and disease

of which you wanted

nothing to do with.

you had no doctor

to speak of,

unless you count

the Free Clinic on M

Street

in Georgetown,

and little money

to raise

a child,

which would be difficult

to say

the least

living in your mother's

basement at

the time.

often it was a game

of Russian

Roulette,

which for the most

part you often

won.

you've changed, she says

you've

changed, she says.

you're not the same person you

were when we met.

kind and generous,

uncomplicated

and compromising.

yes, i am,

i tell her. i still am

that person,

but at the time

i was just hiding who i really

was,

the person you met

was just an act

to get you into bed.

i could say the same about

you, i tell her.

i understand, she says.

same for me.

so now what?

two hundred dollar jeans

it was

a cultural turning point

in the world

of fashion.

there was

no turning back

once

there became a thing

called

designer jeans.

insanity would reign 

supreme

from this point forward.

it used to be

dungarees

from Sears or Penny's,

Levis

and Wranglers,

then all hell broke loose

with Gloria

Vanderbilt,

Lucky Brand,

Gucci and Versace.

the world has never been

the same.

hundred-dollar t-shirts

from Theory.

really?

just shoot me.

letting in stray cats

i haven't seen

the old

cat

that used to prowl the neighborhood

in weeks.

green eyed

and black haired.

it used to come

up to the porch and rub

itself between

my legs.

she'd purr and say things

i tried to understand.

sometimes she'd lick

the saucer

of milk i'd set out and other

times

she'd come into

the house and wander about,

lying in a puddle

of sun for a few

minutes,

then leave.

cats, like girlfriends,

are like that, i believe.

there are other things to worry about

i used

to care about the price eggs,

milk and bread,

gas,

but those days

are over.

i've moved on to other

things

to worry about,

things

beyond credit cards

or cash,

or having work.

i'm wondering now 

if it will

be cold out,

will it rain

before i get my walk in?

will i be home

in time

to take my nap.

pull the plug and wait

if something is not

working

properly, if there's a glitch in

the system,

if trouble abounds,

pull the plug,

turn off

the power, reboot.

sleep

does the same thing.

put your head on 

the pillow,

close your eyes

and let go.

hopefully,

tomorrow will be better

for you.

the annual check up

as i sit

on the papered chair,

awaiting

the doctor,

i see my reflection in

the mirror

over the sink.

i'm older by at least

thirty or forty years

than the

young doctor who will

be coming in

soon, with a stethoscope

around his neck.

a chart in hand

of who i am.

he's gentle

and kind with me, thinking

wrongly that

i am old now.

their usual days

not every life

is a headline, 

or deserving of front page

news,

the face

or name

never shown or

said on television,

or on social

media venues.

with no

fortune or invention

to behold,

they have no claim

to any sort

of fame.

in fact most lives are

lived that way,

quietly in desperation,

in shadows

behind the scenes,

going about

their usual day.

waiting for a fire

as kids

we hung around the old

firehouse,

station 42 up

on the hill, not far from

where we lived.

the men

were old and young.

skinny

and fat,

funny for the most

part in their

suspenders and metal

hats.

sliding down the pole

when the bells

rang out.

but most days they sat

around

and ate chicken and white

bread, slathered

in butter

or gravy,

drank milk

and ate cake they brought

in from home.

they sat there with their

large

boots and laughed

at the television.

they loved to clean and polish

the long

red trucks.

sometimes, bored, one

or the other would go to the woods

and start a little fire.

but most of them,

asleep with full bellies,

they enjoyed the long wait.

her personal phone booth

i used to wonder

what she

was doing in the bathroom

for so long.

the water running,

the light on.

a hair dryer on full blow.

why was she whispering

into her phone.

i'd put my

ear to the door and try

to listen.

lying down on the floor

to see her bare

feet, her painted toenails,

as she sat on the toilet

commiserating with

someone i didn't know.

i both wanted

and didn't want to know

about

the secret life she

was leading.

it was exhausting living

with her,

before i made her go.

an easy decision

i stand in front of the 

pineapples

at the store.

the bin full of them.

whole,

just trucked in

from somewhere.

i stare at them, wondering,

is this the day,

the year

that i actually buy one.

that i take

one of these prickly fruits

home and cut

it open,

taking the head off and

then slicing into

a dozen juicy pieces.

or do i keep pushing

the cart forward

and buy a can

of pineapples where someone

has already done

the work for me?

could be a rumor

could be just

a rumor,

a bit of gossip coming

down

the grape vine,

but

there's always a little

bit of truth

in each

new lie.

don't worry,

we'll know for sure

in time.

the Sunday paper

sadly,

the Sundays, the long

Sundays

with the newspaper

are gone.

no more

lingering with coffee

in the morning

light

turning page after page,

the news

and sports,

book reviews.

the ink on my fingers,

the smell

of fresh print,

saving

sections for later that

night.

no longer do i chase

down

the baton

thrown into the shrubs

as i go

out in my robe.

i just scroll now

to read about the world.

i scroll

and scroll.

now with your feet up

you slave

away for a good part of your life.

you collect

money,

save it for

a rainy day, for your old age

and then

you sit back

and rest,

staring at the ducks

in the lake.

the work done,

at last with no office to go to,

no boss,

no clock to obey.

this is what you've been

aiming for all

along, isn't it,

now with your feet up,

haven't you won?

wild thing

she was a rough

girl.

she used to bite my lip

when we

kissed. she

angrily pulled on my ears

for no reason at all.

she used to slap me

on the bottom

as we made

love, i had to tell her

to slow down,

i'm not a racehorse.

i have scars from her,

bumps

and bruises,

thatches of my hair

pulled out and left bald.

she was a wild thing.

she worried me in public,

in private,

i still have nightmares

about her,

and miss her, 

although

she was never fit 

to meet mom.

somehow i got there

there's an Atlas

in the closet, a thick book

of maps,

grids,

lines and colorful pages

of counties

and states.

some places marked with

red dots,

places i've been to.

there are road maps as well,

folded up,

dozens of them,

obtained from drugstores

and gas stations,

coffee stained and

torn, the debris of food

embedded in the paper

as i stared at them 

under the dome light of the car,

waiting out

another storm.

the start of a new life

i take

the new shovel

into the yard,

the long handle,

the sharp

blade

and begin to dig

a hole.

by noon

i'm four feet in,

by sunset,

i'm down ten feet

and more.

by morning i expect

to be some where

i've never

been before.

it's the start of a new

life

without you.

10 W 30 four quarts

Saturday

was often reserved for

working

on the car.

changing the oil,

the filters,

adjusting

the points, maybe

replacing the plugs

or shock

absorbers.

and then a good wash

and wax

under the old

oak tree

at the end of the driveway.

by six o'clock
it was time to stand

back and admire

the shine.

then a shower and the slap

of Old Spice

against each cheek,

before picking up your

favorite girl,

just in time.

no more of who she was

when

i met her, she was getting

a new hip,

then

new knees,

new breasts,

a new face.

by the end of the year

i didn't recognize

her.

her hair was blonde

now,

she was noticeably

thinner,

her eyebrows higher

above

her eyes.

her frown was gone,

no more

laugh

lines, sad lines, no more

of who she was.

i miss her

sometimes.

the three second delay

ninety-nine point nine

percent

of the phone calls

i get on my

phone are scammers

speaking

in a heavy accent

trying to steal something

that i have

and they don't,

and yet

i answer anyway, 

i'm patient with the three

second delay,

i answer just

in case

it's someone i know

and wants

to go to lunch, or just

say hey.

try again tomorrow

even

in your sleep you

can't

escape

the day behind you.

the words said,

what you've seen

and now

what you know to be true.

it's a cold

night

of turning over

and over until

the window

brings

through the sheers

a thin light.

you'll try again tomorrow

to close your

eyes,

if the time is right.

now we know

it must

be hard being a celebrity,

being loved

and adored,

having money thrown

at you

and then suddenly you

speak your mind

and people find out who

you really are.

all they had to do was

keep their trap

shut and everything would

have been fine,

people would continue

to watch their

movies,

buy their music,

but no.

they had to make a speech,

get involved in

things beyond

their comprehension,

and now everyone sees what

dopes they are.

walk on by

you

know you're happy

and content

when you no longer feel

the need to buy

a book

about how to be

happy

and content. you don't wile

away

the hours looking

for clues,

reading on

how to be in a better

frame of mind.

you walk right past

the psychology

section and mental health

shelves

at the bookstore.

you've got this.

it's all about who you choose

to be in your life.

it's about

moving on.

this is how it ends

as my

thumb bleeds into

the bucket,

it surprises me that one

thumb

with a tiny slice

can expel

a gallon of blood.

i feel faint.

i may pass out,

i can't get to the phone

fast enough

to be saved.

i rip my shirt off

to make

a tourniquet,

a bandage to stop

the bleeding.

i lie down.

is this how it all ends?

making

stew,

cutting meat on 

the cutting board again.

the circus comes to town

perhaps

it's just a dream, a bad dream,

one

that makes

me shiver

in the middle of the night.

a cold

sweat

as they say

rolls down my spine.

i dream

i'm one of them,

delirious and dumb,

marching,

chanting nursery rhymes,

banging

spoons against pots

and pans,

i too have lost my mind.

but finally

morning comes

and i close the windows

put down

the blinds.

soon they'll go home

to their lives

done for the day with fun.

she'll be out soon

i've

spent hours waiting

for her

to get ready.

i've sat in the car

while

it rained and listened

to the entire catalogue

of Bob Dylan.

i know, i know,

she's a woman.

she has lipstick to put

on,

hair to brush,

changes of clothes

to be made.

shoes and a matching

purse will

tumble

from the walk-in closet

onto the bed

at some point.

i can almost see her

turning around

and around

in front of the mirror

before she comes out.

sometimes

the sun will go down,

sometimes

the seasons will change.

and still,

there i am, patient

as always,

waiting.

the fallen

after falling

down

a flight of stairs

onto the subway platform

i lie

there

and watch as people

pass by,

stepping over me,

going on with their

lives,

living out

their day.

i fold my hands

over my chest

and listen to the next train

arriving,

i hear

the clatter of the rails,

the doors

opening and closing,

the turnstiles

turning.

i look over and see others

too that

have fallen.

we nod hello to each other

as the cold

of night settles into

our eyes.

while dicing onions

as i drip

blood

around the house after

cutting

my thumb

on a knife

while carelessly dicing

an onion

i think of you,

where

you are and who      

you might be with.                                       

the moonlight on us

as we

lie naked in the moonlight

upon

the cool

bed,

the sheet

of milk

upon our skin,

the windows wide

with

wind,

we speak of things

in front

of us,

behind us,

we skip the part of time

that we are in.

grilled cheese sandwich

it's been

awhile since i've had a grilled

cheese

sandwich

at the counter

of the Rexall Drugstore

on Atlantic

Avenue.

with a cold

coke to wash it down.

so i go down there, but

it's gone.

there's a dry

cleaners there now,

a liquor store

and a shady shop selling

wigs and pipes,

drug

paraphernalia. 

so i go home

after picking up some

butter,

a loaf of white bread,

some American

cheese

and heat up the frying pan.

it's not the same,

but it'll have to do for now.

the no king dopes

i see

the no king dopes on 

the bridge

stretching over

the highway.

mostly mentally ill people

with

blue hair

and septum rings,

released from the senior

home,

eating

granola

and sipping on 6 dollar

cups

of soy

lattes.

they yell and scream,

chant

and wave factory

made signs.

there's a few theys and thems

there too

shouting

no kings, no kings,

as if we

live in England

or the 43 other countries,

that really do have a king,

none of which are the USA.

i let out a giant yawn

as i pass by.

life is hard,

but it's even harder when

you're stupid

and out in the cold,

yelling nonsense on

a bridge.

while eating yellow peeps

i'm not sure

how,

but at some point

the resurrection of Christ,
savior of the world,

rising three

days after his death

on the cross,

got mixed

up with chocolate

bunny rabbits,

jellybeans

and colored eggs,

all placed in a cellophane

covered basket

for Easter morning.

i'm eating my third

sugary

yellow peep now

as i ponder

the mystery.

porch paradise

your

porch is a perfect place

to sit

and watch

the sun go down. i love

the pale

blue ceiling as is often

done

in the deep south.

the swing

for two,

the glass of iced tea

in hand,

the pitcher

set out

early in the morning sun,

now ready

for sugar and lemon.

your porch

is perfect

to rest on, 

to swing gently

in the soft breeze,

hand in hand.

no vacancies at the moment

we wait

for the call, while my

father's ashes,

in an urn,

sit on

the mantle, near

the television. he loved

c-span.

so we turn the sound

up

so that he can hear

what's going on in the world

he's no longer

a part of.

we wait over a year,

to find out

when a space

has opened up to place

his box of ashes in.

the flag,

the twenty-one gun

salute

and all that jazz

in Arlington,

but for now,

he's resting quietly

on the mantle,

listening to his

favorite shows on

television.

three Hail Mary's and a ton of Our Fathers

i'd love

to sit in on confessions.

maybe a side

box

next to the confessional

box

with its screened

window

to whisper through.

what do priests

confess?

have they stolen from

the till, drank

too much wine, or

lusted

after some attractive

parishioner in a short

dress?

the stories

one could collect.

do they toss

and turn with our sins

in their ears

at night,

how do they sleep

after hearing

all that we

confess.

club soda

i've

done it.

in the past. like many

of us, being

foolish

and reckless.

i've had a few drinks

and driven

my car home,

buzzed.

slowly though

so as not

be pulled over

and arrested.

but i was lucky. blessed,

perhaps.

but never again.

no more.

it's club soda with a splash

of lime

from here on out.

i shake my head and wonder

what was i thinking

back then.

my life, and

someone else's life

should not

end

because of a third dry

martini,

or tall tonic

and gin.

i like the way things used to be

i like

indoor plumbing.

electricity.

i like

grocery stores

and 

cars.

i like this capitalistic

society.

the dog eat

dog

nature of it all.

the survival of the fittest.

i like

to work

and have money.

a house.

a yard,

a small dog with a long

white fence

to keep him from being

run over

by a car.

i like going out to dinner,

to the movies,

or taking

a walk in the park

without someone robbing me.

i'm guilty as

charged

i like the country the

way it is,

or rather

the way it used to be

before i was born.

the world traveler

when she

returns from a long stay

in England,

she has

a British accent.

a slight

one,

but one just the same.

it's teatime she says

at four,

setting out

cups and saucers,

crumpets.

small cookies.

at night she wants

to go to the pub

and drink

then use the loo.

she quotes Yeats now

and Dylan Thomas,

Larkin

and more.

next month she's traveling

to Italy,

things are about

to change again

when

she returns to our shores.

poetic lab rats

they

weigh us at birth,

at

death.

our life is a list 

of measurements.

height,

the length

of us.

our

days

and weeks, years

are

numbered, soon to be

engraved.

our blood

pressure

is recorded somewhere,

our blood type

in a tube

is spun

and analyzed.

we are lab rats from

start to

finish

and then we're gone.

the death of trees

the tree

half on the ground,

bent

from the heavy snow

is on

borrowed

time.

it was beautiful

for so long,

but

when spring arrives

i'll be out there

in my

sandals

with no shirt on

holding

a saw

against the trunk.

time

is short for all of us.

the original box of crayons 64

the golden

box,

the prize package

was the 64 Crayola

box

with 64 different

crayons,

all of a different color.

it was almost

too much

to bear.

too many choices to make.

where to begin.

where to end.

why so

many choices.

life has thrown us a fast

ball.

what possible thing

needs

to be colored

bittersweet

or burnt sienna.

mysterious creatures

we used

to go to the old bleachers

on Saturday nights,

by

the sandlot

field

overrun with weeds

and bramble,

we used

to go there with our

cherry wine,

our sloe

gin

and smoke, and laugh,

and try

to understand

girls,

those mysterious creatures

who

were like

fish,

slippery in our grasp

so quick to swim.

they were

our same age,

but so much older than

we would ever

be.

letting go of who you think you are

it becomes

who

you are, the hammer

in your hand,

the paint brush,

the desk

you sit at as you 

shuffle papers.

this is what you've

done with

your life,

and it's hard to let

it go.

the teacher

in front of the class,

the cook

with his knife

and cutting board.

the tight rope walker,

above the ground.

we are what we do for

so long,

we

can't bear to step away,

until

you sigh

and say with your heart,

it's time.

i'm gone.

i understand now that i

am more.

the Sunset Grill

we like

the Sunset Grill.

we find a booth that fits

the four of us.

it's clean,

the menu is laminated.

the waitress

is sweet

and efficient.

Ruth.

it says so on her tag.

we all agree

that she's been married at least

three times

and has six

kids.

the coffee is hot and fresh.

it's five o'clock

so we

get the specials.

Salisbury steak and mashed

potatoes with

green beans.

fried chicken

is the option with coleslaw.

Boston Cream pie

with a splash

of whipped

cream is the only dessert.

we talk as if we haven't seen

each other for ages,

even though

we all met

for coffee at 8 am this

morning.

soon, though, we'll have

to go home.

it's getting dark out,

almost six o'clock eastern

standard time.

Best Picture, really? that's all you got?

i try

to watch the Oscar winning film

on cable tv.

it's been out for

a week.

best picture.

i can hardly get through it

with so many

progressive

woke messages

going into my ears and eyes.

What happened?

drugs and car chases,

revolutionary thugs,

and what exactly is the plot?

has everyone forgotten how to write?

where has Hollywood gone wrong?

No Chinatown,

No Godfather,

No Gone With the Wind.

No Country for Old Men.

No Lawrence of Arabia.

No Midnight Cowboy.

No Casablanca.

just a mishmash of

unwatchable

tripe

dribbling across the screen.

at least

it was free, sort of.

the last piece of cake

i send

an urgent text message home,

i call

and leave a voicemail,

i write and send

an email.

i'm stuck in traffic,

it's been

a rough day.

please,

don't eat the last slice

of cake

i write.

double chocolate with nuts.

it's in the freezer.

i've been thinking

about it all day.

i need it badly.

i beg of you please

don't eat

the last piece of cake.

please tell me that i'm

not too late.

how to end a country

let me see if i have

this correct.

you want open borders

so that anyone can enter

the country

at will?

regardless of their criminal

history. you want

boys in girls sports,

welfare

checks

and free health care

for non-citizens, giving

them credit

cards and boarding them

in hotels at no

cost.

you support terrorists

groups,

terrorist

countries

and support dictators

and Ayatollahs

that treat women

like dogs.

you want drag queen

shows in

elementary schools,

surgeries for

children under 18 to turn

boys into girls.

girls into boys. (magic, i guess)

you want to legalize 

abortion

up until the 9th month

and make

drug zones where the

addicted won't be bothered.

giving them

needles and medicine

to resuscitate them when

they overdose.

you're against exposing fraud.

you want to end ICE,

defund the police and raise

taxes

in order to have free buses

and grocery stores.

you want no ID's

to vote.

wow.

where do i sign up?

actually it sounds exactly

like California now.

to the moon Alice

it used

to be just my wife,

my ex-wife that would nag me.

feet on the table,

don't talk with

your mouth full,

are you really going to wear

that shirt,

those pants,

those shoes?

how come you don't floss

every day,

like i do?

are you ever going to mow

the lawn,

or wait again

for the condo board

to fine us.

but now it's my car with

the orange

light on,

telling me i need gas,

my tires are low,

my oil is at 37 per cent.

my computer keeps telling me

i need the system

to be updated,

drivers,

programs need to be

downloaded.

i'm unprotected.

your MacAfee has expired.

you're in danger, danger,

danger.

you need to renew,

you need to restart, reboot.

things i don't want to do

i see

things that need cleaning,

dusting,

purging, 

bills to pay, etc.,

and make a mental note of 

them.

i put each on the list

of things to do when

i feel like

doings things

i need to do, but

don't necessarily want to

do them.

it's a long list.

her enormous bath tub

she had

a bookcase

built into her bathroom

next to her

enormous

walk in tub.

all the classics.

it was hard not to fill it

up

when i went over there.

to turn on the hot

water

pour in her Calgon

and soak

as she waited for me

to come out

so that we could go somewhere.

i had to lock the door

so she wouldn't

get in as i read

once more Mark Twain,

or William Faulkner,

Ibsen.

just browsing today

i don't need

any new

furniture, but i go into the large

furniture store

as if i might.

i'm killing time until

my 12 o'clock appointment

with my massage

therapist,

Nora.

immediately i'm surrounded

by sales vultures

with their pads

and pens out,

their gold coats on,

badges proclaiming their

floor names.

can we help you they chirp

in unison,

elbowing each other

out of the way

as i find a large leather

chair to plop

into.

it would look wonderful in

my living room if i threw

the sofa away.

the leather is buttery soft,

which reminds me

of Betty,

in particular her legs.

i'm surrounded by the sales team,

their relentless

chatter.

i close my eyes

and whisper to them all.

just browsing today.

how the argument ends

she likes

to argue, i like to sleep,

or to turn

my

focus on the window,

to the birds

flying by,

to the woods filling

up again

with leaves.

she likes

to wave her finger

at me,

to bang the door,

to slam

her fist against the table.

she may be

right about many

things,

but i like to stare out 

the window

and pretend not to listen,

hoping at some point

she'll stop

and go away.

i prefer to ignore.

lessons learned along the way

there

was a small period of time

when

i would fish,

taking my young son to the pond

with the tackle

box

and rods and reels,

a box

of blood worms

still alive

in a grass mix.

we were bonding then.

i showed

him

how to cast out into

the blue

water,

and then wait.

patience i think was

the lesson.

a lesson i learned well,

as i stare at the phone wondering

when it might

ring.

the surprise package

surprised

on this early morning,

i find a package

on the porch.

what have i ordered now?

i slowly

unwrap the package,

cutting

with scissors

carefully the edges.

it's a blouse,

a book on knitting,

and a pink hat,

none of which are my size,

and the book

is nothing i care to read.

i take a second

look at the writing on

the package.

my neighbor's name

is inscribed

again.

needing less, but happier

you have

found happiness, but not in the way

you thought it would

arrive.

it's less in

laughter

and exuberance, 

unbridled joy, but more

in simplicity

and contentment.

it takes so little these

days to put you there,

unlike the past

when you needed more

from others

and the world.

the loyalty of home

the chair

has been waiting for you

the whole

day.

it is as you left it,

the weight of

you imprinted into

the soft

cushions, the book

still on the same page,

left open, an empty

cup from

the last thing you drank

sits cold on

the table.

there is a loyalty to home

that you

find nowhere

else

and with no one.

their turn to be dumb

it's part

of growing up, learning,

so let

them have

their crazy socialist ideas,

their

inclinations

of empathetic endeavors,

erasing

borders,

saving lost causes,

imagining

that money falls off of trees.

it's their turn to be young

and dumb.

it won't last long.

at some

point

they'll have to get jobs,

they'll get married

and have

children,

there might even be a

lawn

to cut.

they'll be sitting in 

hospital waiting rooms.

it will take time, but

their turn

will come.

a judgement call

a group

of hooded men

comes towards you

as if one

cloud

of darkness,

so you cross the street

to walk

on the other side,

making a judgement call.

you were braver

once upon

a time,

but no more, your life

seems to have

more value now.

not long ago at all

twenty years ago

does not seem like a long time

anymore.

nor does forty,

the swift

broom of time has not brushed

a single memory

away.

people and friends, yes.

they've left

the world,

but so much remains the same,

despite

all efforts to change

things.

most of them have never worked

it's easy to dislike

politicians,

no matter

the type of office they

hold.

whether on the left or right.

they don't care

about evil, or crime

or fraud.

they dismiss it all

with a wave

of their hand,

a forked tongue,

telling you,

we're doing the best

we can.

they just want your vote.

your support

your campaign dollars.

so many

have never had jobs, never

had to worry

about the electric

bill, or putting gas

into their car.

and thirty years later,

here they are with the same

old rhetoric,

still in office.

still uncaring,

still without a real job.

get off the rope

we tried to stay

under

the water as long as we could,

searching for

the shine

of the thrown coin,

our young

lungs

pink with health

allowing

us another minute or two

before it was

found,

our feet springing us to

surface,

with a fresh gulp of air,

and shout,

the found nickel held high,

proudly

flashing it to those

empty handed.

easy surrender

we linger

over

dinner, the coffee arriving

in steamed

cups,

the twilight is just

that,

calm

and serene,

what you've always

expected it

to be.

the earth surrenders

so easily

to night fall,

as do you.

the shadow self

the shadow

that follows you around,

loyal

to a fault,

has slowed.

there's a limp to where

the leg

is,

a slight bent

of back

in the push forward.

but she's

still there,

still with you until the sun

does down.

always somewhere else

i have

a picture of my mother

in a flowered dress,

dancing

the twist

in the living room,

circa 1963,

while my

father sits on the couch

in a white t-shirt,

drinking

a beer and smoking

a cigarette.

she's having the time

of her life,

while

he's looking off into

the distance,

always

somewhere else.

in line with the rest of us

she knew

how to work it,

how to shimmy and shake

the curves

of her,

those eyes,

that hair,

the limbs of her

all in concert

to get what she wanted.

even the sweet

soft voice

was a thief in

disguise,

but things

change, we get old,

and now she's in line

like the rest

of us at the DMV.

i know what you're about to say

at times

you get the vague feeling that you've

been

there before,

that this has

happened to you

at some point in your life.

the words

you hear,

what you see, the feeling

of it all

is a repeat of sorts.

not a sequel, not something

new,

but the same

moment in time,

you've

traveled backwards.

truly,

Deja vu.

nearly everything you own

it's

new. see how it shines.

how clean it is.

enjoy

it now,

because it won't

last forever.

in fact,

it won't be

long

before

you throw it out.

Norman

there was

a boy in the back row of the class,

Norman,

who slept

with his head

on his crossed arms,

making his

ears perpetually red.

there was a wide gap between

his teeth,

and was

freckled madly,

never raising his hand

or even

called upon.

the bowl

shape of his hair

suggested that his father

was his barber.

we whispered that he might

be slow,

never playing

sports, or in a club,

never at a dance,

or smoking behind the school

when the bell rang.

he was just Norman.

i don't know how he

passed a test,

or got any

homework done.

he rarely spoke a word.

but i saw him the other day,

a poster on the wall,

running for congress.

vote for me it read.

vote for Norman

the next Senator of your state.

he had

us played.

the grocery store romance

when

young we developed

radar

for the opposite sex,

we could feel

it, see it,

smell it if you will,

the possibility

of a romantic

interlude.

whether in a smoky bar

or crowded

room,

a party of some sort,

or perhaps

in the grocery store.

eye contact was made,

and the game

began,

or so you hoped,

but no more, now we

push forward

our carts,

filling it with meat

and carrots,

potatoes

and bread, things on

our list,

our mission

is to leave,

and get out the door.

the crowded room

i used

to think that three

made a crowded

room,

but i'm now down

to two.

eventually it will

be just me

and the dog,

and he too is on 

borrowed

time

if he chews another shoe.

just a tad askew

because

he was so neat and clean,

annoyingly

so,

so perfect

in measuring every

inch

of the room, in placing

things

in just the right place,

i tilted each

picture on the wall

before i left,

a mere

quarter inch

off balance.

we loved each other like

that,

in a strange, but

brotherly

way.

they were good days

they

were good days.

roller coasters, boardwalks,

white water

rafting,

music

and skateboards.

transistor radios.

first kisses

and drive-ins.

the girl next door.

they were good days,

paper routes

and dogs,

neighbors

and friends. summers

and fireworks,

baseball

and movies.

dancing in the basement

to Elvis

and Chubby Checker.

the pool all day.

black and white

television.

we were happy.

we knew nothing.

we knew

everything.

they were good days.

no fear or shame

it used

to be that fear and shame

kept

chaos from

setting in, for sins

to be kept

at a minimum,

but no more.

you worried about

your parents

finding out,

your teachers, the police.

your priest.

your friends.

but something has changed.

people

have no moral compass

anymore,

there is no

fear or shame,

it's all there to see,

just open up your phone.

sticking a leg out the door

it is laziness,

or

simple

fatigue that keeps

you in,

on the couch with

a third

cup of coffee in your

pajamas.

pondering

which book to read,

which show

to watch.

have you had enough

of what

lies

beyond the door,

worked long

enough,

played enough. are you

done

with this world?

has malaise set in, perhaps

this is something

that a nap

would help

cure.

a white suit with black lapels

i find

the picture of me

in a white suit,

black lapels and black

stripes

down the legs.

i have

longish hair, a thin

wisp

of a mustache

on my

youthful face.

i'm

walking down the aisle

of a church,

with 

a tiny blonde girl

in arm.

all of her in white lace,

nineteen, perhaps

and me

a mere twenty-one.

the smile does little

to hide

the fear

of what's to come.

at some point i have carefully

removed

her from the photo

with scissors.

like now,

she's no

longer there.

how it all turns out

it is

and isn't far, this place

where

you once

were, stuck with

the nervousness of youth,

fitting in,

always

at the mirror

to see how you might

look to others,

wondering what's

to become of you,

and then,

as if overnight, 

you are no longer children,

but grown

men

and women,

able

to look around

at those that have

survived

and see

how it's all turned out.

the honey bee

the bee

is a funny thing.

a strange

little

insect

with wings and a striped

gold and

black

sweater.

an acrobat of sorts.

darting

in and out

with a loud buzz,

defying gravity.

it's all about

the honey, that

sweet nectar,

but

threatens with

a sting.

as with all things

of beauty

there comes a little

bit of pain.

live a little

live

a little, she says.

have

some fun,

spend some money.

go places,

travel,

see the world.

take a flight,

a cruise, come on

pack your

bags,

let's go.

i used to say these

same

things to my

mother

when she knelt

in her garden.

she'd laugh and say,

how about you go

and send me

a post card when you

arrive.

i understand now.

time share at the beach

it was a three day

free

weekend at the beach.

all we had

to do

was sit through a six

hour seminar

describing

the joys of owning

a time share

condo

along the shore

and everything was

paid for.

thankfully my son ate

some bad fish

the night before and needed

his diaper

changed

every twenty minutes,

which i was more than

happy to take care of

while the wife

sat through the seminar.

she never

forgave me, nor did 

the salesman.

a penny saved

my father

saved

rubber bands and string,

paper

bags, plastic

bags,

empty coffee tins.

in the back room

were

boxes stacked together,

old magazines.

People,

Life, National Geographic

and Playboy.

a child of the great

Depression,

he saw value

in everything.

whether tv's that had died,

or clothes

that no long fit

his size.

his key ring

had fifty keys on it,

despite

one lock on the door

and no car,

no longer being fit to drive.

but the back door,

never locked,

was always wide

open,

as he cut out coupons

on his mother's sofa,

hoping to save

one penny more.

horror stories around a campfire

as we

sat around the campfire,

roasting marshmallows

at the end

of long sticks we found

on the ground

and drinking

beer, we went

around the circle and told

scary stories,

horror stories that we

promised were real.

it was mostly laughter,

and yelling out,

no way,

impossible that can't be

true,

you're making

that up,

and then it was my turn

to tell the tale,

which i did in great detail

as a wolf

howled in the distance

under a full moon,

the story of my two ex-wives.

no one was able to sleep

that night.

thoroughly P whipped

my friend Jimmy

is scared

of his new wife

who teaches yoga

one hour at week

at the community center.

he can't

express

his opinions anymore

when she's around.

why not,

i ask, as he looks over

his shoulder,

his hand trembling.

he then whispers

into my ear, because

she'll cut

me off.

no more, you know, nothing,

i'll get the cold

shoulder

and cot in the cellar

for a week.

but isn't it your house,

aren't you the one who

works

two jobs,

who cuts the grass, paints

the shingles

and brings

home the bacon?

yeah, yeah, i know, i do

all the heavy lifting, but

if she finds out who i voted for,

and that i don't

like her septum ring

and blue hair,

i'll never

have sex again,

at least not with her.

key words, i tell him. 

at least not

with her. next round is on me,

buddy.

hard not to pick at it

the wound

would eventually heal,

but you

couldn't help yourself at ten

years old

to pick at it,

to pull

the scab away and give

the redness

a careless

itch.

and so it goes with

love gone

wrong,

despite the mounting

years,

it's hard not to pick at it.

can we wrap it up, i'm hungry

the food

would often go cold as

her son

would say a prayer

at dinner time.

he'd offer up

prayers for the sick

and needy,

the unfed

around the world,

which was nice, but

then he'd veer off into other

continents,

Asia and Africa,

the climate,

immigration, politics,

etc.

at some point i would

open one eye

and stare

at the pork chop on

my plate,

no longer hot,

and begin to sigh.

the hand that feeds you

it was

a turning point in a way,

when

you said

no more,

when you decided to stop

sending

money

to those in need, who

refused

to work and make

their own

way in life.

despite their age and education,

their hand

was always out

for more.

how quickly the calls

dropped

off when

you stopped giving.

no longer did you get

cards

in the mail.

no texts anymore, no visits

to see if

you were

doing well.

it felt almost as if they

didn't care.

wishful thinking

you tell

yourself that one piece,

one

solitary piece

of dark chocolate

will do the trick, will

satisfy your

sweet tooth.

just one small piece

of candy,

and then

you'll be free from

this craving.

one piece from the heavy

open bag

that's you'll hide

in the freezer,

and at last

you'll be satisfied

and able

to move on with your

life.

the crowded inheritance

her house

was full of inheritance.

oil

paintings and silver,

fur coats,

and hats

with feathers that couldn't

be thrown

away.

dressers full

of silk,

boxes of boots from

London

and Paris,

5th avenue.

crates of jewelry

that crowded the narrow

hall

and staircase.

a candelabra, a piano

that would never

be played.

how do you toss away

another loved

one's life

without guilt?

the yard was pretty

despite

their differences,

my mother

and my father both liked

to garden.

to spend

long days

with knees on the ground,

hands in the dirt

with trowel.

flowers

were my mother's

thing,

whereas

vegetables were my father's

jam.

was it enough to make

love

and marriage work.

hardly,

although the yard

was pretty,

and there was plenty

of peas

and yams.

Please tell us what to do Oprah

because

we're unsure about so many issues,

we wait to

hear what Oprah has

to say,

Jane Fonda,

Rosie O'Donnell

and Jimmy Kimmel.

Crockett and AOC,

and let us not forget

the word salad queen of them

all,

cackling Kamala.

the oracles of intelligence

and wisdom

that we kneel

before.

please give us directions

on how to think,

how to lead

our lives.

we thank our lucky stars

that we have you

to tell us 

what to do.

because i'm a married woman and a person of color i am too stupid to get an ID to vote

let's just

put it out there, loud

and clear,

congress is crazy,

nutty

as a fruitcake

on Christmas morning.

the same Democratic

senators

and congressmen

that wanted voter id

twenty years

ago,

don't want it now.

they claim

that married women and people

of color

will not be able to vote

because they

don't have the brain power

to acquire one.

these poor uneducated

people are too

dumb to figure it out.

they have no clue where

to go,

how to obtain an ID

despite the fact that 90 per

cent of all

adults already have some

form of ID,

to drive, to fly, to buy

things like alcohol,

or cars,

to travel,

to get welfare checks,

or to own a home.

it's insane that it's even a

discussion.

common sense has left the room.

we're doomed.

a serious sky

it's a serious

sky.

a bloom of black

and blue,

there's

something about to

arrive.

you can see and feel

it in the air,

in the low

hanging sky.

maybe it's now.

the end

does at times

seems

overdue.

she's an early riser

she

likes to make a smoothie

in the morning.

i can hear

the blender

in the kitchen

churning berries

and bananas,

whey protein

and a variety of nuts.

she's already

in her yoga pants

ready

for Pilates.

she yells

up,

do you want one.

can i make you a smoothie?

no,

i yell down.

pancakes will be fine,

and a donut.

why are you up so early?

it's only

ten o'clock.

green beer

we drank

the green beer, wore

our green

derby,

our green socks

and vests.

we drank all night

and sang

songs

we never learned.

we drank

and sang

until the cows came

home,

then at three a.m.

somehow we ate

eggs,

then fell asleep,

still

dressed.

waiting for pretty

it's

not pretty, the empty

trees,

grey boned

and bare,

the gloom

of slush

blackened with exhaust.

it's not a nice

a look, 

the harsh

wind full of paper

and debris.

but be 

patient.

we have to wait

a little

while longer for 

a yellow

and green dress,

for pretty.

a palm full of Old Spice

when

i removed the medicine

cabinet,

from the old bathroom

wall,

circa 1959,

when the house

was built,

i found a small mountain

of razors

rusting on

the ledge of the wooden

frame.

double edged

razors. thin and browned

now.

it's easy to imagine

who stood

in front of this old

mirror

with his face covered

in a lather

of cream and shaved,

putting tissue

on the cuts,

like Marciano.

week after week he must

have pushed

another dull razor

through the slot.

perhaps he turned

left then right,

cleaning up

with a towel, the ears

and nose,

then slapped

on some cologne

before heading out

to warm up the Chevy

before his date.

not much has really

changed.

not much.

trophy night

oh really,

the Oscars were on last night?

i didn't know

that.

who won

that little shiny trophy?

what, who?

i've never heard of that movie,

or that actor.

were the speeches

any good?

did they whine on

and on

about politics

and stolen land,

war and injustices?

i love when millionaires

behind their

golden

gated communities

get all riled

up about the littles

out there.

lost in a masquerade

after so many

years

i see that

you've give up on being

a better

person,

on turning over another

new leaf.

it's hopeless.

this is who you are

and will

always be,

why pretend, why

put on another

mask and continue

the charade?

stop the madness.

how about

we stop this

masquerade

and go our separate

way?

tornado watch

i ignore the tornado

warnings

and venture out

for coffee.

it's a mistake.

within minutes i'm

lifted off

the ground

in a vortex

of swirling wind.

i can hardly

keep my seven dollar

cup 

of vanilla latte from spilling.

i look down

at the landscape

below

as i spin around and

around.

i see you

down there hanging

onto your

rooftop,

and try to wave

and call out,

but you don't hear me,

so i dial you up

on the phone.

finally you see me.

we make

lunch plans.

perhaps a hundred miles

from here

i suggest,

if i ever land.

open the pod doors Hal

my phone

wants to connect

to my

tv,

my laptop wants

in on

it too.

my blue tooth stove,

my fridge

and

washer and dryer,

even the toaster is telling

me

it wants to join

the party,

get connected

with me.

they are all making

suggestions

on how

to live,

how to breathe.

it's out of control,

i'm scared

to think.

broken bones and skinned knees

it was

dangerous, the playground.

the iron

monkey bars

with hard dirt

below.

the chain linked

swings

with rubber seats.

a splinted

see saw,

the slide as hot as

a frying pan,

the round metal

table

that wobbled as it

spun

recklessly around.

how did we

not kill our selves

at recess

tumbling onto

the ground

of glass

and sand?

it'll come to me

i'll think

of it at some point.

your

name,

i'll remember you,

i'll

recall how we met

and where,

it will all come back

to me

in time.

just give me a hint,

prompt

me,

give me

anything, give me

a clue,

remind me

of you are, keep

talking

as i search the rolodex

in my mind.

everyday is Saturday now

you

put on your favorite pair

of jeans,

your best

walking around

boots,

you ball cap

and sunglasses,

you snuggle into

your warm old sweater.

you've put

on your Saturday

clothes

even though it's only

Monday.

at last

you've arrived to where

you've been

working to go.

suicidal empathy

they had

the nine time violent offender

in jail.

locked up,

but then

he said

he would behave, he found

God,

he was into arts

and crafts now.

going to therapy.

he was making wonderful

license plates

behind the bars.

he had turned

over another new leaf,

so they let him

out, they give

him another chance.

of course

he's in the paper the next

day,

with his bloody knife

in hand,

smiling from ear to ear.

ordering a pack of gum online

i order

a pack of 

spearmint gum online.

i'd like

some gum

to chew

as i decide what next

to do next with

the diminishing

years of my life.

i could

go down

to the local drug store

and buy

the gum,

get in the car

and go,

but i don't feel like

going out,

i don't want to be around

people anymore.

i've hit the wall

with them.

the crowds,

the unhappy faces,

the zombie

like appearance of so

many

in their sweatpants

and bad manners

milling about.

i just want gum, am i

wrong for that?

perhaps.

from an egg to this

how it

all begins, how an egg

becomes

what is.

the sinews

and veins, the bones,

the heart

the inexplicable brain.

the intricate highway

of nerves.

and there you are,

me

and you

sitting on the train

going

somewhere

again.

our luggage in

the overhead

bin.

pandora's box

it is often

said

that a writer in Ireland

is a failed

conversationalist.

i think

the world lacks

both

at this point. 

that pandora's box 

in our hand

has taken

imagination and creativity

out of many of us.

sentiment and sediment

like

sediment,

the past of you rises

in small

layers upon

the floor,

the fossils,

the thin bones of you,

the shoes,

and clothes,

the jewelry, small

things

fallen

from your hand,

relics,

the layers

of what you've left behind

is hard

beneath my feet.

i can hardly walk across

the room

without thinking

of you.

it's time

to vacuum.

the butter dish

some people

leave

the butter out all night.

i'm not

one of them.

i set it back in the fridge

to keep it

cold, and tight.

i can't live with someone

who doesn't

put it away.

this may result in

our first 

and final fight.

James Joyce vs. a red bikini

ten pages into the book,

Finnegan's Wake,

i stop reading and close it.

i put it back

on the shelf.

why am

i reading this book?

what's the point.

yes, it's a classic, a must

read for

anyone with half

a brain,

so they claim, but i can't

do it.

i'm taking nothing in.

the stream of consciousness,

the names,

the plot,

the whole story is 

baffling.

maybe if it wasn't so sunny

out, and the birds

weren't chirping,

and my neighbor wasn't

out there sunbathing

in her red bikini,

i'd try again.

you're slipping boy

if i didn't

run five miles a day,

four

days a week,

play basketball

three times

a week,

do a hundred sit ups per

day,

fifty push ups

and ride my bike on

the weekends,

i'd think i was getting soft.

not to mention

climbing ladders

onto rooftops

and painting and wallpapering

a countless number

of rooms,

if i stopped doing any

of this,

i'd feel i was slipping.

still do,

although not as much

as i use to.

higher and higher

i see

the small boy on the swing,

his father

behind him,

pushing

the child higher and higher.

there is glee

and laughter.

the wife

nearby

on the bench, taking photos.

you wish

them well.

all three of them,

for you too remember

when.

miles to go before i sleep

she says,

write something serious,

something

like

what Robert Frost might write,

how dark

and quiet the snow

is,

how deep,

how far away you are from

home,

with miles

to go before you sleep,

tell me

how a good fence

makes

a good neighbor, tell me

about the road

not taken, and

how it's made all the difference

in your life.

stop writing such silly things

like you do,

show me,

show me that you have

a lick of

talent.

go further and show me

what's really

in you.

t bone steak for lunch

the dog

greets you at the door

the way

you'd like a loved one

to greet you,

your girlfriend,

or wife,

or significant other.

the tail wagging, 

the lips

kissing,

the bark of them

glad that you're home,

home at last

hoping that in the bag

from lunch

is a juicy steak bone.

green Jello in a paper cup

the room,

white of course,

and smelling

pristine,

for after all it is a hospital

and the idea

is to make

it appear

safe and clean, able

to resurrect

your soul or whatever

might be ailing

you,

and yet,

the constant buzz

of machines,

the beeps and buttons

down

shiny halls

and the stone

faced

nurses bringing you

a paper 

cup of green Jello,

makes lies of it all.

how are you today, they

ask,

and you reply,

i wouldn't be if the answer

was i'm doing

well.

if a train is going sixty miles an hour how far would it have traveled in one hour

when you hear

young people on the street

being interviewed

and they

don't know

when the civil war was,

or what country

Utah is in,

or who was the first president,

or how

many stripes

and stars

are on the flag.

when they can't spell

or do

simple math,

it makes you sad,

but you don't laugh

or poke fun.

you wearily shake your head.

we're cooked.

we're done. truly

our education system has

failed us.

trying so hard to smooth their ruffled feathers

i've taken

the save the marriage

cruise,

the trip to Disneyland

to

make things right,

i've driven

to Winchester to shop

for antiques,

to Leesburg

to taste wine and pick

grapes.

i've bent over backwards

to smooth their ruffled feathers,

stood in long lines

at the opera,

or at flea markets as they

shopped

for a tea kettle

and interesting plates.

i've watched chick flicks until

my eyes bled.

how much kale

and salmon,

lemon

chicken can one man eat?

i've held

purses while they've tried

on dresses in the changing

room, bought flowers

and diamonds,

candles and perfume,

met the parents, the aunts

and uncles,

their disgruntled children,

and painted their

houses, wallpapered their rooms.

i've written so many

pleading words in a futile

attempt

to make them happy and to

beg for forgiveness.

whew.

glad that's over with.

wishing upon a star

there are

no

aliens, so get over it.

physics

won't allow it.

we are all

subject

to time and space,

the laws

of physics.

the speed of light

is all

we have,

our bodies would shred

into pieces

our DNA

would become trash.

there is no star close

enough

to reach

without generational

travel,

that's a lot of supplies

and gas.

movies have sold

us

an impossible bill of goods,

and when we get there,

a place

with air and water,

a habitable place,

then what?

start over?

the rolling stone

leaving

is easy.

staying put is harder.

it's easier

to wave

goodbye

than it is to remain

unhappy

and pretend to love.

no remorse,

no regrets, save yourself

it's the only life

you have.

you should have known me back in the day

at some point

i've come to realize

that everything is fiction.

everything is made

up

and twisted

by the mouth

that

gives us the story, the news,

their own

personal history.

we all do it.

we revise the past to make

us more palatable

to those

we know.

very little is truly true.

even the animals

at the zoo

say to one another, you

should have

see me

back in the day.

i was king of the jungle,

i could run like the wind.

no one had to cut

up my meat,

i could actually chew.

working over time

people used to retire

in their

late fifties,

or early sixties at worse.

they took

their gold watch and fat

pensions

with them

and disappeared into the sunsets

of Florida,

but no longer

is that the case.

the clerk

at the grocery store

is seventy,

his hands are

full of liver

spots.

the paper boy is eighty-two,

i see him

throw

the papers towards

the yard

as he drives by in the morning

in his Subaru.

the waitress

is using a walker

to bring us our

food,

she cups her ear

when

we ask what the specials are.

the congressman is asleep

at the meeting,

snoring,

drooling,

as another corrupt

politician is accused.

saving the children in Minnesota

the tax

lady calls to tell me the bad news.

you

owe the IRS

seven thousand dollars

this year

and the State two.

oh well, i tell her.

i guess it's not as bad as last

year.

plus we have to support

all the day care

facilities

in Minnesota,

the autism clinics

that have sprung up,

and there is a war going on.

one single bomb

costs

a billion dollars, or two.

so i'm glad

to do my part.

not reading the room well

i remember our

first date,

which actually was our last

date

and only date.

i had

a barbeque sauce

stain on my

shirt.

my zipper was down,

and there was

a long strand of toilet

paper

stuck to my shoe

that i dragged around.

i forgot my wallet,

so you had to pay,

and i knocked

over a glass of water

on the table,

being nervous to have

met you.

you seemed very angry

when you

sped away after i tried

to kiss you,

but i'm willing to give

you a second

chance if you would

kindly unblock me.

all things considered

i think we hit it off quite well.

what's your address,

maybe i could stop by some

afternoon?

shorter and shorter

have my

legs become shorter?

how did 

the inseam shrink,

or did the pant leg become

longer

in the middle

of the night?

what will happen in a year

or two,

a decade from

now.

will I be too short to look

out the window.

will I need a chair,

as i did as child to have

a view?

despite all, i slept well

the window

left open in the night

has

shuffled

the papers in the office,

turned

books

and things aside, 

the cold breeze has

caused chaos

to anything

without weight

to keep it earth bound.

the curtains are wrapped against

the chair,

the green

plant is still shivering

on the sill,

and yet

sleep went well.

a small brief moment in time

i transfer

the old vhs tapes into a flash

drive

and watch

the hours and hours

of when

we were young,

newly weds

in our first house,

when the boy was born,

when he was one

then five.

i look at the ex-wife,

the unhappiness

on her face,

her smile

so quickly gone sour.

there's

the house

we lived in, the orange

carpet,

the hand me down

lamps

and couch,

the wedding album

under the coffee table,

the dog running

about.

were they good times?

sometimes

yes.

sometimes no.

and then the camera goes

off.

the tape runs out.

a few squirts where needed

is it your

back,

she asks as i carry my

tools

and self

into her house, grabbing

the handrail.

no,

i tell her. it's mostly the knees.

fifty years or so

of playing

sports

has made them creaky

and sore,

depending on the weather.

it takes me

a little while to get

warmed up,

but if you have an oil can

nearby by,

please

hit me with a few

squirts

between

the bone on bone.

hitting the sweet spot

you spend

a large part of your life

simplifying,

making order

of your house,

you get the money thing

straightened

out.

everything is in its place.

you've eliminated nearly

all of the annoying

people out

of your life.

you've found love.

drama and chaos

is a thing

of the past.

you've hit the sweet spot

at last.

what have i ordered now?

i see

the big blue truck

pull up

into the cul de sac,

he's carrying

packages

to nearly every door,

large and small.

i get excited,

what

new thing have i ordered,

i wish i could

remember,

it was so long ago,

perhaps

three hours

have passed by since

i pressed

the button.

as cats are to dogs

they

remain mysterious.

as cats

are to dogs,

these

women, the fairer

sex,

the loud,

the quiet ones.

what makes them tick,

what makes

them so

different from

us?

whatever it is, we

need

more

to smooth out what

makes us

rough.

it's all my fault, please forgive me

i look

at my handwritten

apology, the same

one i've

been giving for decades.

it's laminated

and in the top drawer

of my desk.

i'm sorry for i said,

and did.

i apologize.

it's all my fault. i haven't

evolved quite

yet

and don't deserve someone

as sweet and kind

as you are.

i'm selfish

and forgetful.

i'm a caveman with no manners.

i promise to do better

if you

take me back.

cross my heart.

please, forgive me.

i swear

i'll change.

i'm begging you for

another chance.

just one more. please.

thank God no one did.

French roast

having lived

long enough, you imagine

yourself

a connoisseur

of coffee.

early morning coffee,

the first

hot cup that touches

your lips.

one sip and you either nod

and say, hmmm,

this is good,

or you turn

your head and spit.

at this point

in life,

you're too old for a bad

cup of joe.

frozen ground

i remember

the shovels breaking

as we drove them

into the frozen ground.

the long handles

snapping,

the metal cracking in two.

we had to wait

until

the sun rose higher to begin

digging

the long ditches,

nine feet deep, three

wide against

the building.

by ten or eleven it would be fine.

we waited

on the wall,

shoulder to shoulder,

boot against boot

and drank our

coffee.

we wondered

out loud

where we would be in

thirty or forty

years from now if we

kept this up.

and now we know.

i'm down with the sleep overs

she asks me why

i'm no

longer interested in marriage.

i laugh

and show her

the divorce settlements

that i've

framed and hung on the wall.

i tell her

i can't afford to give up half

of everything again,

not at this age.

and why have a business

contract for an emotion

that could change at any

moment, on any give day?

what about a prenup, she says.

protect yourself.

if you truly love someone

don't you want them to be a

part of your life

twenty-four seven,

with no room to breathe?

sounds lovely,

i tell her, but no.

although i am good with

the sleep overs

every couple of days.

nothing changes after running over a toad

some days,

out walking, you accidentally

step on

insects,

ants and bugs of all

sorts,

harmless caterpillars,

maybe a worm

or two,

you might run over

a snake

with your bike or car,

or hit an

animal

indecisive when

crossing the road,

perhaps

a sloth or squirrel,

or toad,

but somehow all of this

death

doesn't affect you.

you still sleep the same

way each night,

waking up

at three a.m.

in a cold sweat, wondering

what's to become

of you.

suspicious minds

i am

no Sherlock Holmes,

but when

i see the cat

with feathers in her

mouth

and the bird cage

open,

i suspect

something has been

done.

and the same

goes for you when

you get home

late

with your

dress on backwards,

and your hair

a mess,

lipstick akimbo.

they had to go and open their big mouths

i truly wish

they hadn't gone on these rants,

these rages,

giving speeches,

telling all the world how

they feel about

politics, etc.

the hatred that they

spew

was unimaginable.

i used to listen to their

music,

watch their movies,

i admired

their grit and talent, but

sadly no more.

into the waste can they

go.

crossing the Rubicon

i try not

to think differently about

her

as she spreads

ketchup

onto the hot dog,

the all-beef dog right

off the grill,

forgoing

the mustard

and relish, the onions.

i want to like her,

i really do,

but this might be crossing

a line

where there's no

going back.

it's the Rubicon for me

and you.

all of those Mondays

it's a month

of Sundays, of rising late

in the morning,

they are lazy

days,

nothing to do days,

but walk

and bike,

eat and drink, sleep

and make

love.

there's time to read,

to think

to write,

to be grateful for all

of the Mondays

you had to work to get here.

you need an ID to get in?

i try to get into

Costco for a new set of tires

and a gallon

of milk,

and a bag of potato chips,

family size,

but they won't let me in.

they want me to show an

I.D. three kinds.

what is this world coming

to?

so mean, so unkind.

but an election is coming up,

so i'm good there,

just sign any old name

right there on the dotted line.

bread crumbs behind you

like bread

crumbs you have left parts

of you

behind.

but what am i to do with

one shoe,

a dress,

an earring,

a hairbrush and all

the rest

you carefully

have tossed aside,

follow you home again?

i don't think so,

perhaps if i was still

infatuated

and out of my mind,

i might. but for now

i'll place them in a box

and leave them

outside.

brainwashed daily

we are

selectively informed depending

on the channel

you turn

to.

we are swayed in subtle

ways

to think one way

or the other.

it's brainwashing,

on a gentle

cycle,

as the news gets spun

to how the speaker

believes.

the same face all day

you

know you're getting old

when you

wake up

disheveled,

and you look like

that the whole day.

the shower

doesn't help,

the third cup of coffee

does no good,

nor does a scrambled egg.

there you are,

stuck all day

with the same face.

the nudist camp vacation

i regret our

decision on taking a vacation

at the nudist

camp

in Palm Springs. it was her

idea, not mine.

we spent two months

at the gym

getting ready,

running, lifting weights,

watching what we

ate and drank.

we quit smoking

and put cucumbers

on our eyes.

every morning we 

did push ups and sit ups,

sweated in the sauna

before taking the cold plunge.

we sunbathed naked

in our secluded backyard.

finally, after close

inspection in the long

bedroom mirror,

we both agreed that we

we were ready to walk

around with no clothes on.

but when we got there

no one else did what we had

done.

everyone was pasty white

and flabby,

fat and sagging in all

the wrong places,

with hairy under arms.

you could see where the sun

had stopped

and started on

their sockless legs

and shirtless arms.

they were smoking and over

eating, drinking.

anyone that lived in a double wide

and shopped daily
at Wal-Mart

was there.

it was horrifying,

i can't unsee what entered

into my eyes.

next year we're going to

Paris or London,

but with clothes on this time.

No Boots on the Ground

as the new

war goes on, the president

and his

cabinet promise that there

will be no

boots on the ground.

the war will

be mainly aerial, however

if troops are

needed and deployed

to protect our interests,

soldiers will not be wearing

standard combat boots,

but instead,

newly designed

Birkenstocks, made

specifically for the arid

Middle East climates

and terrain.

they will be sturdy and have

thick souls.

colors will be cammo green

and sand storm browns.

they will be of a unisex

style,

both breathable and comfortable

as soldiers

go about their war like

activities.

No Boots on the Ground.

promises made,

promises kept.

the veteran protester

my friend,

Lulabelle, is a veteran protester.

she's got the blue

hair going on,

the septum ring,

and is in transition to becoming

a furry

Cheetah.

she invited

me in for tea

and crumpets the other

day

to chat.

we're friends despite

her leaning

left and me

more right and down

the middle.

she has a stack of flags

neatly folded

on her table.

next to her megaphone,

her spray

paint

and whistles. i see 

a pride flag, a Palestinian

flag, an F Trump flag,

a Mexican flag,

a Venezuelan flag,

a Somalian flag, and now

an Iranian flag.

but no

American flag, to which i ask

her why.

she shrugs

and says, i don't know.

i guess i don't like

this country.

but then why don't you

leave,

i ask her. go live somewhere else.

oh, because other countries

won't let me

wave all these other flags,

so i guess i'm

stuck here in this dictatorship.

plus i have six cats

to take care of, and it would

be hard to relocate 

them.

can i get you more tea,

another crumpet?

peanut butter and jelly

i remember

peanut

butter and jelly on

saltine

crackers

and making a meal

out of it

with a tall glass

of cold

milk.

arranging them on

a plate

in front of the tv.

they were the best

of times.

satisfied

and wanting nothing

more,

nothing less.

cat like

i

see your

cat

like smile,

the twinkle of 

your green eyes,

hear

the purr of you,

notice

the wag

of your tail.

on soft

feet

you enter the room

to close

the windows.

no need for the neighbors

to hear me

scream because of your

pounce, because

of your long

red nails.

towing begins tomorrow

the condo

board

sends out a warning,

today is the last day to get a sticker

for your

car,

a new

sticker to attach to the one

you already have

hanging on your mirror.

towing will

begin tomorrow,

no excuses, no exceptions.

you are so 

warned.

so neighborly

and kind

they are.

no cookie for you

the nurse

is easy with the needle

going

into my vein

to draw

the life out of me.

she's done this

ten thousand

times,

i can tell.

i can't help

but look

after the pinch is made

to watch

the vial fill up

with a swirl of crimson

blood.

feeling a little faint,

i ask

her if there will

be cookies

and juice to follow

after

she dabs the wound

with alcohol.

she says no.

sorry.

but there's a water

fountain around the corner,

go slow,

try not to fall.

i'll get to that later, maybe

sometimes

you drop things on the floor,

but you

don't pick them up,

you say

to yourself, i'll get that later,

what's the rush?

pants,

shoes, coins out of the pocket,

a pen,

a fork from the plate

you were carrying

to the kitchen.

later, you say to yourself,

nothing is going

anywhere, perhaps later

i'll bend over

and pick these things up.

we're here to help you

i arrive at the grocery store

as the white

van with

bluebirds painted

on the side

drops off a group of senior

citizens

from 

the Sunrise home.

i file in behind

them,

as if part of the shuffling

troupe,

each with a list in hand,

in their long coats

and shawls,

scarves and hats,

woolen gloves. leaning

on the carts

which helps them to stand

and inch forward.

and then over the sound

system,

from up above, 

the music stops,

a symphonic take on

the Door's Light My Fire,

and a brief

lecture on depression begins.

feeling out

of sorts, a gentle voice says,

feeling sad

and alone. lonely, overwhelmed

with

a case of the blues,

feeling as if there is no

hope, no reason

to go on?

well, you're not alone,

we're here

with you.

if you need help or comfort

the pharmacy

can assist you. have your

red white and blue

card ready.

last aisle on the left.

there's no need to stay blue.