raking in the pink leaves

i've

never driven into the city

and parked

without

getting a ticket

on the street,

perhaps one yearly

since 1972.

no matter the signage,

the yellow

curb,

the white curb,

the meters

and other restrictions

noted on

the wide long

sign, listing

such things as street cleaning

every

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,

there it is, blowing like

a pink

leaf on

the windshield.

a ticket,

not a warning.

cha ching.

time is slowing down

i see

the clock has stalled,

not quit,

but is moving more

slowly in

its job

to tell time.

it's four o'clock

but it reads

three forty-five.

i think it might need

a new double A

battery

to be installed.

i find the bag of batteries

beneath

the sink

and look

for one more,

every type is there,

but the one i need.

once again.

to the store.

eating poetry

it's too late

to save

the book, now in the mouth

of the large dog.

ink

is dripping off

his tongue,

his eyes are full of words

now,

old

well written poems,

read often.

he will not be punished,

for i understand

him so.

licking clean the spoon

as i stand

in

the kitchen,

a cake

cooling

on the sill,

the spoon covered

in

chocolate

icing,

i understand the nature

of me

more clearly.

a swarm of deadly locusts

no need

for soldiers on the ground

anymore,

no grunts in trenches,

no marching,

no charging across

an open field,

crawling in mud

and blood, no.

this new war

is air bound.

the buzz

of deadly bees is what

it's all about,

the swarm of drones

flying north,

east and west,

flying south.

the sky is blackened

with their lethal stings.

maybe these are the locusts

that the Bible

prophesizes about.

sisters jumping rope

i see my

sisters out on the sidewalk

with their 

chatterbox friends,

lined

with chalked

boxes,

and jacks, tossed

dolls.

they're

jumping rope

and singing a song

that goes along with it.

they could

jump rope all day, into

the night

before they were called in.

what sweet summers

they were,

better days.

Jake's Christmas gifts

when

i went to see Jake

in the hospital,

two weeks before he died

of lung

cancer,

he told me he'd be out soon

and back to work.

pick me up at seven eleven,

same time

as usual, he said.

his head was

wrapped in

a wide white

bandage

where they had to cut

into his brain

to remove

some cells gone south.

he looked like a

Confederate

soldier

at Gettysburg who had

been through hell,

but he was in good spirits.

he asked

me to bring him a pack

of cigarettes

and a pint of Jack Daniels

the next time

i came, and a Playboy

magazine.

i said okay.

but it was too late.

the bed was empty when

i returned on

Christmas Day.

a long weekend away

it's a small

beach

house we settle into for

the long weekend.

it's not

quite spring, but winter

is lessening

its grip.

we have a window, a wide

picture

window where

we can see

the ocean,

sunlit,

and the struggle of sailboats

as they plow

across the curve of the blue

earth.

even seagulls

are tossed about in this

wind.

we came here to get away

from things,

our thoughts and problems,

our disagreements,

but we've brought them with

us, i realize

as i see her

out on weathered

deck,

talking softly into her phone, 

biting

her lower lip

and crying.

we know less and less

funny

how we knew so much

when

we were young,

confident

in our voice, in our

stance

about life

and the world at large.

but funny too

how as the years went by

we knew less

and less,

no longer certain of

anything

we were taught or told,

troubled

by the truth,

having grown weary

of the lies.

if there is no crime

you can't

help but feel sympathy for the aging

ex-president

as he sits

being deposed

before the world about

his connection

to an evil

friend, long gone.

how thin he is, red eyed

and weary,

white haired,

his hand

shaking as he raises a cup

to his lips.

you can't help but want

to yell out,

enough is enough.

yes, he loved women,

it was and still is

his Achilles heel,

but enough is enough.

if there is no crime here,

no victim,

no witness, no admission

of guilt,

just let him go

to live out his life.

we all have made mistakes.

time to move on,

time to forgive.

how to scramble an egg

there should

be a class that everyone has

to take

and pass

before graduating from high school.

it would be called

common sense 101.

the curriculum

would go as follows.

how to scramble an egg.

how to change a tire.

how to balance a check book.

how to save money.

how to listen when someone

is speaking.

how to be respectful to your elders.

how to do your laundry,

wash, dry, fold and put

all your clothes away.

how to check out a book

from the library.

how to write a letter

and put a stamp on an

envelope.

how to wash your hands before

eating.

and for extra credit remembering

this.

get a job and stop depending

on your parents

as if you are still three years old.

don't drink and drive.

don't text and drive.

look both ways before

crossing a road.

don't eat the yellow snow.

turn the stove off after

scrambling an egg.

the mud room

when

someone tells me to take my

shoes off

in their mud

room,

the small room

that leads

from the 4 car garage

and yard

where the big

kidney shaped pool is,

i roll my eyes and begin

to form a

negative opinion

of them.

i know i shouldn't,

but already

the wheels of disdain

are spinning

in my brain.

i sit there, in the 'mud room',

and untie the laces

of my shoes,

which are mud free

by the way,

and sigh.

call me when the war is over

whatever you do,

Lisa tells me,

my Morgan Stanley advisor,

is don't buy a boat. trust me,

don't buy

a boat when

you retire,

you'll regret it,

or an RV to travel the country

in. just get those

crazy notions out of your

head.

imagine sleeping and going

to the bathroom

all the time in your car.

wait six months, wait

a year,

before you start spending

your mandatory required distributions

like wildfire.

although a trip to Dubai

would be nice

if you take me, once the war

is over.

slowly losing it

you are less

inclined

to wait these days, you

want

it now.

you no longer have the patience

to wait

in line,

to wait for water to boil,

for the mail

to come,

for the screen to

warm

and turn on.

you have no

patience with those that

have no

facts

and yet argue

their crazy beliefs

until the sun goes down,

have you become the grumpy

old man

your father was?

perhaps.

what else is there to know?

in the abandoned house,

the door

off hinge,

the broken window

with

winter

light and wind

coming in,

the cold breath of time

gone by

and the rag

doll on the floor, left

sadly

behind.

what else is there to know

about life?

that persistent ticking noise you hear

there are

good wars, and bad wars,

unintended

wars,

and intentional ones.

some

we have no choice

but to intervene,

the world is

at stake.

one maniac

with the bomb will crack

the earth

in half. with

others we can sit on our hands

and wait for the slow

crawl

of time

to correct how they whip

and master

their people

with centuries old rules.

so when is it right?

now?

or never?

but i suspect

that ticking noise 

you hear is not a clock.

Mon Ami Pastry

it seems

an unlikely spot for a French

Pastry

establishment

to open up

in this suburban sprawl

of strip

malls

connected like dots

and dashes

on a relief map,

and yet there it is.

snug between

the party store and gentlemen's

club,

the cat clinic

and bank.

across the lot is

the dry cleaner

lit up with

fluorescent red lights.

but there are sweets

in the window of Mon Ami

Pastry,

crullers and cakes,

macarons,

cream filled delights,

everything as light as

a feather,

Marie Antoinette

would be proud

to be part of this small

town blight.

i can't remember not knowing you

there are those

that you

can't remember not ever

knowing them.

suddenly

they appeared and have

never left

your side,

or you theirs.

childhood friends

are some,

but others came later

in life.

suddenly you were

joined at the hip,

forever,

walking

side by side.

nickels and dimes for St. Thomas More

the bells,

the church bells

awaken

me

on Sunday morning.

they toll

not too far down

the road,

down the trail,

through woods,

fields,

across the bridge.

i can almost

feel

the tug of my mother's hand

on my foot,

telling me

it's time to go, 

get ready for mass.

setting the envelopes for

the four of us

on the counter,

always an assortment

of coins

from her night

of waiting on tables,

nickels and dimes,

never 

cash.

no who's your daddy tonight

as she puts on a smear

of green face

cream, then

climbs into her thick

cotton

pajamas

with a Peter Pan collar

and two pockets,

pulls up her thick socks,

embroidered

with cats and dogs,

you know

that you are both

going to sleep soon,

and that there

will be no

fooling around tonight.

no hanky panky,

no who's your daddy.

it's a kiss on the cheek,

and nighty night,

see you when

the sun comes up.

can you get the light?

a small fish bone stuck

as we

age, we worry more about things

we rarely

worried about

before,

those carefree days

when we were young.

stray bones

in a fish, for instance,

tiny translucent

pieces

that might get stuck

in our throats,

we worry about

falling down a flight of stairs,

or when

stepping off a curb,

getting

laces caught

in the steps

of an escalator, we worry

about fiber

and 

cotton clothing, is it a blend,

or one hundred per cent

combed cotton.

i don't want to itch.

will this noon cup of coffee

keep me

up all night,

are we too far

from an entrance with this

parking spot?

we ponder,

before going anywhere,

is there a bathroom

nearby?

how's my

blood pressure,

my blood

sugar,

should i get the shingles

shot too

when i go in

for the pneumonia shot

and flu?

her new hair doo

i fell in love

with her when she was a red head,

then

accepted the new

brunette

locks, and eventually

came to terms

with

blondie, then silver,

but this new phase

of zero

hair to comb,

she may have gone

too far.

we can't walk down a street

looking

so much alike.

that slow sack of mail

nearly

everything has speeded up.

the cars,

the lines,

the online offerings

and buys,

rockets to the moon

and back,

the world is spinning

faster,

the ice is melting quicker.

only the US

mail seems

to be moving a slower

than usual

pace.

another late fee

attests to that.

hold on, there's more

suddenly

what was a headline

yesterday, is on

the back page.

the important news

of twenty-four hours ago

is now

of no, or little 

interest. how quickly

the world

moves,

these days.

a roller coaster

of highs

and lows.

we're dizzy, holding

onto each

other, wondering

what lies

around the next hill,

the next

impossible dip.

head on a swivel

there are no

aliens

from another planet,

or galaxy. 

there is no big foot,

no loch ness

monster,

no goat man perusing

Tucker Road,

no 

Abominable Snowman

trudging

through

the drifts

to steal your child,

or snatch

your life,

but there are neighbors

who are

just as dangerous,

be on alert

for that devious smile.

we're not really going, are we?

we plan,

we make arrangements,

we

write down

our future itineraries

on

paper,

we check

the trains,

the flights out,

we look at the calendar,

our watches,

we check

the weather.

we're going somewhere

at some point,

we just don't know when,

do we?

i wish i knew less about you

the less

we know about each other,

whether close

to you,  or an unreachable

celebrity,

that you'll never meet,

whether

musician

or writer, or actor,

the better off we are.

no need to dig deeper

into their

likes and dislikes,

their politics,

how

their soul rolls in this

world we

live in.

just enjoy them superficially,

the surface

of them.

put the record on,

watch the movie,

enjoy the show.

this is where we should

begin,

where we should end.

no salesman will visit your home

reserved, select,

limited

time only,

hand carved,

the manager's special,

fresh fish

daily,

going fast,

going out of business.

last call,

last chance,

everything must go,

one size fits

all,

make us an offer

we can't refuse,

no salesmen will visit

your home,

we offer rebates,

we have

coupons, 

it's a fire sale, it's

a once in a lifetime

opportunity.

you too could live here,

drive one away

today.

low rates,

the best in town.

buy three and get

the fourth one

free.

you will not be disappointed

or your money

back,

put nothing down.

bad credit, no credit,

no problem.

sign here, initial there,

we'll tie it to the roof 

of your car,

now take it home.

the office meeting

quickly

bored and antsy

with this office meeting,

the third

one today,

i stare

out the window.

there must

be something i can gaze

at

and wake me

up, to keep me from

falling asleep

and begin snoring.

and there

far off in the field

is a cow

eating grass.

i focus on that for awhile.

we need each other

it's hard

to concentrate

with this bird pecking

at the window

wanting

bread

again.

every morning it's the same.

he pays

a visit and i set out

a few

crumbs of old

bread

onto the sill. what will

he do

when i'm gone?

and worse yet, what

will i do

if he decides

to fly

away for good?

there's nothing to see here

yes, i do admit

that is me

in the picture, me lying

back in the hot

tub

with an attractive young

female

in a bathing suit,

and yes

i may have

had a cocktail or

two that evening,

but pictures are deceiving,

and yes,

that's me getting a 

massage

by a pair of strong hands

belonging

to a cute blonde,

and the other one showing

me with my

arm around the waist

of a young nubile

cheerleader, but as i've

said and i'll say

again,

pictures are deceiving.

what you

don't see in those pictures

is my fishing gear

that i take

to the island, 

not to mention my tennis racket,

my golf clubs and my 

checkbook, where i write

checks for

the underprivileged

and for climate

change in the north pole.

do you even know how much

money

i've spent on buying cookies

from the Girl Scouts over the decades?

let me make this

perfectly clear,

i did not, let me repeat it,

i did not have any

sexual relations with any

of those young women.

and just because i was on

that evil man's

plane

more than two dozen times,

accepted enormous donations

from him for my foundations,

and that he visited the white house

seventeen times

while i was in office, 

and that his 

dastardly girlfriend attended

my daughter's wedding,

that's nothing but smoke,

and in this case, when there's

smoke there

is no fire.

so there. now leave me alone,

i'm heading to the spa.

honey, where's my red speedo?

i might be home

late tonight,

so don't wait up.

stopping the world

somewhere

along the line, sports have lost

their appeal,

i have dwindling interest

in celebrities too,

or the next blockbuster

movie.

television in general

has jumped

the track.

newspapers

and magazines are nearly useless.

everything and everyone

is in your face

or phone

nonstop, you can't

escape

the world anymore.

too much of anything

is not a good thing.

time to tune out.

see how long i can last,

maybe a few

hours, at most.

those good old days

i remember the old days,

back in 

the early 2000's

when you would go into

a store

to buy things.

clothes, and shoes,

mixers

and blenders, televisions

and audio

components.

books too.

how you would peruse

the shelves

with a cup of coffee,

doing a slow search

on a rainy afternoon,

finding what

interests you.

soon to be a hazmat area

i use my old leather

tool

belt when i cook.

i snap it around my waist

at the front,

and put in

a knife, a fork, a whisker,

a spatula,

another knife,

serrated,

a small hammer for

tenderizing meat,

a thermometer

to stick into

chicken.

salt and pepper shakers.

a large wooden

spoon,

a potato peeler,

a skewer or two, for

no reason,

a string of measuring

spoons,

and an oven mitten.

then i get to work.

French Toast coming up

in about ten

minutes.

school spirit

i open

up the old yearbook,

to peruse the names and photos.

everyone

is still young,

in black and white

the drama

club,

the football team,

there's Mr. Reber

at the black board with

chalk in hand.

Coach Lamb

on field

with fury in his eyes,

Penny,

captain of the cheer squad

jumping

high on

the track with pom poms

in her hand.

Rick, president of the class,

studious in

his new suit.

Angela,

leader of the pack.

Joe,

the funniest,

his eyes wide and laughing,

Tammy,

most likely to succeed

looking

smart and angelic in her

white skirt,

a mini.

no one has

changed.

not a single one.

even me,

despite the hair down

to my shoulders,

and bell bottom jeans,

skinny

as a rail.

with no accomplishments

under my name.

she might be a lemon

if there

is no funny bone,

no smirk,

or smile,

no belly laugh, or

chuckle,

not a hint of mischief,

or sarcasm

in her

soul,

then run

for the hills, you're

in for a long

hard life,

if you

make her yours.

doing one thing well

folding

clothes is not a task,

a chore,

or mundane thing.

it's serenity,

the hand to hand

handling

of shirt and sheet,

pants

and sweaters with

long sleeves.

folding

your clothing with purpose.

squared

and neat.

it's all the socks

being

separated and balled

for the high

drawer.

it's peace.

tell me what to do

good advice

is hard

to come by these days.

where are the wise

men

and women?

the smart

and educated souls

who

listen calmly to your

troubles

and woes

and says plainly what

you need

to do,

tells you what you need

to know.

they lean on

their own experiences

and dispense

kind

wisdom.

so few

of them are out there,

gold if you

can find them.

a careful man, for the most part

for the most

part

i've been a careful man,

never one

to jump

out a plane, or scale

an icy

mountain,

it would be silly for

me to swim

with sharks

or to put my head

in the mouth of a crocodile.

i've been careful

with most

of my time

here on earth, except when

it comes

to love

and marriage.

i'm a gambler when

it comes

to choosing the opposite

sex

to be a part of my life.

a wild

man with crazy eyes

and lots

of regrets.

holding her purse while she tries on dresses

as i hold

her purse outside

the changing room, she at last

comes out

and spins

around

in a yellow dress.

it's been an hour,

at least.

what do you think, she says.

it's you,

i tell her.

love it.

buy two or three,

all in different colors.

but we need

to go soon,

the game starts at one,

and i have to pee.

dusting off the old machines

i take

a rag and dust off the old

Yamaha stereo

system,

record player, receiver

and cd

changer.

it flickers and stalls.

not a peep

of sound comes out of it.

i try to remember

the last time i turned it on.

maybe 2004

or five,

somewhere in that long ago

period of time.

it was a party to celebrate

the life

of someone who

died.

a hundred people showed

up.

ate all the food, drank

all the beer

and wine,

the cocktails.

it was a fun time.

there was dancing too.

even the cops

showed up

to tell us to keep the noise down.

i hit the power button

and play with the dials on

the receiver.

no luck.

it's gone.

so much is gone, i think

as i

unplug the system and set

it out on

the street.

island hopping

we

all could use a break,

a vacation,

a few days away from the daily

grind.

the news,

the politics, the constant

bludgeoning

on our mind

and eyes.

some island therapy,

white sand,

blue water,

a cold drink in hand

with a slice

of pineapple

on the side.

maybe you can come with me,

do you still

have that string white

bikini?

that would be nice.

so what's up, we haven't talked for a while?

we used to talk

weekly

if not daily, long talks

on the phone

with John

and Dave,

Steve and Mike, Debbie

and Lynnie,

Gary

and Joan,

Lisa and Mary,

Neva.

my son of course and

my mother

and dad.

but all have passed on,

or no longer

pick up

unless they need money

or a ride

to the airport.

we talked in phone booths,

in hotel

rooms, noisy bars,

from the train,

land lines

and cell phones.

they were not superficial

conversations,

they were

talks that showed

who we really were,

troubled or happy,

in between love

or jobs,

or in the midst of joy

or turning over

a new leaf, hoping

that this time it would stick.

if the phone rings now,

it's none of them,

just some dude in India

selling

Medicare Insurance,

the A and B plan

with an added flex card

for food.

the well traveled woman

it's ideal

to travel with a well traveled

woman.

she knows

the drill.

she's laminated the itinerary,

she has the tickets

to the train,

the hotel

is reserved, a room with

a view,

with mints on

the pillows,

a bottle of champagne

on ice.

there's everything

in her purse

that one might need to survive.

gum

and breath mints.

maps.

tissues and chargers,

water

and crackers,

assorted in nuts in 

a sealed

plastic bag.

a flashlight, pepper spray,

and two bananas

that she's brought along

for the ride.

the death of a groundhog

perhaps

it means something,

or nothing,

as i run

over

a groundhog

who's ambled casually

across

across the road

after exiting his

winter home.

i tried to brake but

it was

too late.

we looked each other

in the eye,

as he disappeared

beneath my car.

no final squeak or fuzzy wave.

i'm not sure

what this means.

six more

weeks

of winter until

spring, or something

else?

something worse.

hopefully the last will and testament

as i adjust

the will

and last testament

for the tenth time,

as the turnstile keeps

tossing

people

out into the street,

i sign all

the dotted lines and cross

all the 

t's

with regards

to money saved,

and parcels of property.

at some point, in the hopefully

distant future,

someone will be

very happy

and throw an enormous

party for me.

open bar and all you

can eat.

cha ching.

quit complaining and just leave

if you

don't love anymore,

leave

your marriage,

if you hate your job,

get a new one.

if you

can't stand where you

live,

move.

if you don't like your

friends,

the world is full of people,

move on.

if the food

you're eating doesn't suit

your taste buds,

order something

different.

if you hate your country

and everything

it stands for,

take the bus,

the train,

a plane,

and go.

don't let the door hit you

where the good Lord

split you.

Adios.

in love with a horse

every girl

wants a horse for some

strange reason.

i don't know why

exactly,

maybe it's from watching

too many

Disney movies,

but i've never met a girl

who didn't

love to have a horse

to ride.

it's not practical for the most

part.

the feeding and 

caring,

a barn,

hay, the flies.

and then they get old

or lame,

and die.

perhaps a carousel would

suffice.

God's office hours

is it possible

that God is overwhelmed

with prayer

requests,

does he sometime take a break,

take a vacation

and put

someone else in charge,

Peter or Paul, perhaps,

or one of the lesser

Saints?

does the mail stack up

on His desk,

piles and piles

of prayers that are desperate

for answers

for divine intervention

of some sort?

a thumbs up or down,

at some point,

would be nice.

i'm still waiting.

Pest Control

i admire

a man, or woman in uniform,

take the pest

control

worker, Sally, for instance,

arriving in her

truck, lemon

yellow with a frightened

bug on the side,

skull and cross bones

in its eyes.

but Sally's uniform is crisp

and clean,

the hat

stiff with a sun blocking

brim.

the white name tag

with her name

inscribed.

i respect the way

she strides into the house

like a soldier

at war,

carrying her tube of

insecticide,

spraying selectively

corners of the floor.

i'd trust her with my life.

the adults are in charge now

this session

of congress

during the Presidential

State of the Union

address, reminds me a lot of the house

i grew up in.

no one

was happy with

what was for dinner, there was

a lot of screaming and yelling,

arguing,

walking out

and the slamming of doors.

unhappy

children

who weren't getting their

way, with

tears in their eyes

they were sent to bed with

no dessert

or tv,

the adults were now in charge.

no longer Cali dreaming

i thought

about moving to California

once

when i was young, eighteen

or nineteen.

naive and dumb.

i loved the ocean,

the beach,

the sun

and of course

the mythology of it all,

the lifestyle,

the weather,

beautiful girls

and cars, fun.

but i'm glad i didn't

when

i see now

what it has become.

by your ink pen, write

just

one handwritten letter

would

be nice.
a card, a post card,

a note

tacked to the door.

just one

communication

by hand,

by ink, on paper,

would be

wonderful.

an invite, an apology,

even

an angry

break up explanation

would suffice.

God Bless You

is it a cold,

or just a stuffy nose.

allergies?

the flu?

polyps

perhaps, a deviated

septum?

are you sick

or just

badly constructed.

are you

being punished by

the hand

of God, or just a victim

of the environment,

the life

you've chosen.

Kleenex,

i need another box.

let's curl up by the fire

i want what

i don't have and don't need.

a fireplace

for instance.

i have central heating, but

a fireplace

would be nice,

make the room

warm and cozy, but then

i'd have

to buy a bearskin rug,

then light some candles

while i uncork a bottle

of red wine.

finally, i'd

need a girlfriend

to curl up to

not to mention

chopping down a tree

for firewood.

i have a lot of work to do.

the wide and easy middle years

the middle

years

are the best.

you're

no longer worried

about

the next pimple on your

face,

or concerned

about what your

friends think.

are you hip enough,

cool

enough,

are you wearing the right

shirt,

the right shoes.

and then the elder years

kick in

and it's

where's my cane,

my pills,

why does my knee

ache,

i can't sleep.

does this milk smell

bad to you?

who are you, what's your

name, again, dear?

yes, the middle years

are the best.

30 bucks an hour shoveling snow in NYC

i wanted to help

shovel

out the city from the snowstorm

and make

a few extra bucks

to help

pay for the rising

property taxes,

but the communist mayor

said that i needed five id's.

a social security

card

and a driver's license,

a passport

and a birth certificate.

two of which

would be photo

id's,

i only have two, so i'm

out of luck.

but come November

i don't need any identification

to vote,

i just have to

show up

and pull the lever,

or write in my selection

through the oh so reliable

US Mail.

socialism

at its worse.

the bank clerk

i take

it home with me,

the clasping

of her hands,

both

hands against my one.

warm

across her desk.

finished with the work

i've asked her

to do.

she's gentle

and kind,

which sadly surprises me.

i wish i didn't

expect

otherwise.

the iron bones

these ruins

are

not sad, nor bittersweet

reminders

of the past,

these bricks

and lumber

lying

in heaps,

bones of scrap

iron teetering

in the grey wind

are examples

of what is and what

was,

no tears are shed

in the crumbling

of civilization.

all in good time.

all in good time,

nature

says.

ex patriots

it's strange in a way,

weird,

in fact,

how so

many people born here

and have

successful lives

hate

this country and want

to leave,

while the rest the world

wants to abandon

their countries

and come here

to live.

people who will

do anything

to get here, to live

in the land

of the brave,

home of the free.

crazy indeed.

bagels in the city

the line

moves

quickly as we wait

in the snow

for a bagel

at Liberty Bagel

near the park.

so many to choose from.

our stomachs

growl.

we haven't eaten since

midnight

when we had

pizza

at Ray's Original

and before that

steaks

at Sparks.

but we're hungry

just the same

having walked

ten blocks

to get here.

we talk about what kind.

perhaps

cream cheese

today,

or butter on a plain,

or a 

French toast

bagel,

all sugary with

cinnamon.

finally our turn comes

and we find

a dry bench to sit upon

and eat.

then we talk about lunch.

the older dopes

just because

you have

grey in your hair,

and a wrinkled

face.

just because your hands

are old,

and that you

walk

very slow, it doesn't mean

that you've become 

wise,

a guru 

of some sort.

you can still be

a dope,

just an older one.

daily rejections

you send

a story away, a poem,

you ask

a girl

to dance,

you propose, asking

someone to marry you.

all answers

are no's.

not a yes, or maybe

in the lot

of them. but

eventually

rejection

makes you strong.

or so i'm

told.

beautifying the city

the blanket

of snow

beautifies the city. keeps

everyone

at home.

the vagrants

and bums,

the criminals.

how clean it looks now.

the streets

and boulevards with

a new

coat of

paint,

an ice castle from afar.

how lovely

the world is

when nature makes it hide.

plowing the north forty

i prefer

the cuts and bruises.

the callouses,

the nicks

and scratches,

the dripping of blood,

the strains and pulled

muscles

over office work.

give me

blue collar over the cubicle

and chair,

the screens

and meetings.

don't tell me which tie

to wear.

give me

the hammer, the saw,

the paint

brush.

show me where the ladder

is,

the plow,

the rake, the hoe.

tell me

what you want done,

point me

in that direction in

the morning

when the sun comes up,

then fetch me in thirty years

when i'm done.

a slight misunderstanding

maybe i misread

her

suggestion that we have a picnic

together

when spring

arrived.

in my mind i immediately

thought

that she wanted

to have sex.

so when i snuggled close

to her

on our checkered

sheet

and knocked

ants off of her skirt,

resting my hand

on her knee,

it surprised me

that she would slap me

like that

with a cucumber sandwich

still in my grip.

the protesters

as i

stroll through the hills

and shallow

valleys

of Central Park, i see

the gangs

of dogs,

each to his own leash

tethered together

by one arm,

one voice,

the dog walker.

do the dogs care

about being so close?

do they wish to run into

the wide

open fields still covered

in snow.

following their

own nose.

are they concerned

that they

have no choice, in this life,

but to go

where they all go,

regardless.

you too are of their kind

over time

so many of us disappear, some

by choice

some

by intelligent

design,

but you miss them all the same,

the boy

who bragged

about himself,

seeking attention,

desiring fame.

the girl,

too pretty for her own good,

her face

perpetually in a mirror

as she

crossed her legs.

the others

who knew it all and let

you know

where you were mistaken,

perhaps misled.

the white

lies of another,

the stingy ones, the rude,

the unkind.

those so full of pride.

but you miss them all,

because so often

you too were of their kind.

a morning bowl of cereal

morning joy

was cereal in a deep bowl.

something

sweet

and frosted, floating

in whole milk,

none of this skim

or 2 per cent

stuff

that's floating around.

not almond

milk either.

no one was lactose

intolerant then,

no one was allergic to

anything.

that glorious bowl 

of cereal.

the careful 

process of peeling

a large banana and dropping

slice after

coin cut slice

into the bowl.

then with a dribbling

spoon you ate

with morning hunger,

spinning

the box around,

reading every side

as if

great literature.

downsizing

it wasn't

the smell of cabbage

and goat

in the hallway

that made me

change my

mind about apartment

living,

nor was it the noise above,

the music

below,

or the clanging

of the elevator

as it rose,

and fell from floor

to floor.

no.

it wasn't that at all.

it was the feeling that

there was

nowhere

to go from here,

but down,

stretched on a gurney 

for all to see when 

the time

comes.

a more humane death inquiry

the post,

from Emily

in B-1,

on the neighborhood page

asks

if anyone

knows of a humane

way

to catch mice.

the traps seem so unkind.

snapping down

on their

grey behinds,

tricked by the wedge

of sharp

cheese.

i can't sleep at night,

knowing

that

they're trapped

and dying

in the other room,

never again to see 

the morning light.

westward ho

with

her red beret tilted

so,

she packs

her bag

and heads left,

to the west

coast.

it suits my liberal

leaning

soul,

she says,

waving from the train,

her smile

skewed by

the smudged

window.

living free and easy in NYC

if we're going

to give away free food

the mayor exclaims

from his

soap box,

if we're going to have free

buses

and shelters

and health care

and schooling

and day care

for our children,

we need to empty 

the pockets of the working

class.

the rich and not

so rich.

the ones piecing a life

together from

paycheck to paycheck

are going to have to step

up and pay more.

we need to tax the blood

out of stones.

it's time to share and

give to the lazy

and weak, the homeless,

the mentally ill,

the criminals and

downtrodden of our fine

city.

the unfortunate ones

stuck

in generational welfare,

perpetually on EBT.

and after you give

and give until it hurts,

then

we can start giving free

stuff away

as promised.

make a wish

can a child be any

more happy

than when

his mother hands

him the spoon

full of icing

after the cake has

been smoothed

and the candles

set for wishes?

waiting on summer

your

winter words

do not bother me, nor

the cold

shoulder

and the stiff breeze

that comes

when you

enter the door.

the frost of your nature

will melt.

none of this means anything

to me.

by summer

you'll be gone.

who does she think she is anyway?

it's a love

hate relationship, as it is

with

most machinery.

at the moment

i'm not on speaking terms

with my

printer.

nor is she talking to me.

it's mutual disgust

with one

another.

the rattle of her mouth,

the hunger for more ink,

the empty paper tray.

the disconnect

is beyond disappointing.

i'm done with trouble shooting

this lady

in distress.

this HP.

she doesn't know how easily

she can

be replaced,

all smug and pale as princess

on her high

pedestal.

just who does she think 

she is?

tomorrow,

she shall see.

not an heirloom, i guess

as i reach

across the bed, across

the table

to turn the light off

i see

you.

what's left of you.

something small on the floor,

the glitter

of what

once was around your

wrist,

a thin band

of silver

mixed with the tumbled

cotton

of dust.

not an heirloom,

i guess.

tomorrow i'll vacuum.

it's been

way too long.

ash Wednesday

the priest

smudges the black ashes

on our brow

at St. Patrick's

while

the stone arches,

the carved

saints and angels rise

around

and above us.

it's nice

to know that people

still believe in God,

have faith.

the lines are long

as we  wait, 

holding our

5th Avenue and Madison

Avenue

purchases.

our wrists and necks

dangling

with Canal Street

replicates.

adaptation

one glove

escapes you, just one.

the left

one.

maybe you left

it in a taxi,

or on the train,

dropped it

in the street,

but you have pockets,

so that's

a good thing.

your hand will be warm.

so goes

the lesson

of life again,

adaptation

is key

to survival.

don't go near the water

it's a news

flash.

don't go near the river.

don't drink

the water.

don't take a shower,

or bathe.

a pipe has broken.

a main line

sewage

pipe,

as wide as a road

has snapped

and a new river

is in the old

river.

no swimming, no

fishing,

no

ice skating or

kayaking.

put your boat on land

if you can.

wear a mask,

a scuba

suit,

a helmet, and an

oxygen tank.

bathe yourself

in rubbing alcohol,

use wipes.

not to worry says

the mayor,

the governor,

the senator and congressman.

in nine months,

all will be wonderful

again.

tells us what you want

here,

it's here we stop

and step

in out of the rain.

the sign says

waffles,

eggs,

and bacon.

coffee, toast, hash

browns.

why not

here?

the red seats that

spin

at the counter

whisper

come in, come here.

sit down.

yes, we're greasy,

yes, we're

old,

yes to all of your

out of town

questions.

but come in,

we'll take care of you.

tell us

what you want.

so many pigeons in the way

we can

only walk so far before

we flag

down

a yellow cab speeding

towards us

in the rain.

in the cold.

bags under our arms,

under our eyes,

our shoulders sag

as we drag along

on wheels

our possessions.

somewhere in the luggage

is an umbrella,

and pepper spray

and a worn

map of the city, stained

with coffee.

we're thirsty,

hungry, tired and nearly

broke from

the five day

stay.

we want to go home,

we're done.

but so many

people are lying on

the sidewalk,

asleep like laundry,

so many pigeons

are in

the way.

red light therapy

i buy into the latest trend

of using

red light therapy

for aches and pains,

for aging skin,

for whatever ails you.

packages keep arriving

from Amazon,

as i get out the extension

cords and power strip.

i sit back and plug in.

one for each knee,

one for my face,

one for my head, 

another to stick up my nose.

i'm now aglow like a 

Christmas tree.

if not for pickpockets

i remember

Rodney Dangerfield, saying

that if not

for pickpockets,

i wouldn't have

a sex life,

and now that i'm older

food has

replaced sex.

it's to the point, he says,

that i've put a mirror

over my kitchen

table in the morning 

as i eat my Cheerios

and toast.

we miss Rodney

among other things.

maybe they shouldn't be voting

if someone

is unable to get an official

government

ID,

incapable of showing

up

with proof of birth,

and they're

living in this country

for their entire

lives,

having never

gone anywhere,

or worked, never

once bought

liquor or cigarettes,

or driven

a car,

or checked out a book

with a library card,

are these the people we want

voting?

too dumb

or lazy

to sign on a dotted line.

do they have the wherewithal

to make

decisions,

to check a ballot

to elect someone?

gin rummy

my mother

and father would play cards

long into the night.

gin rummy.

they'd keep score.

it was the only time

they weren't fighting,

throwing dishes,

slamming doors.

i used to buy them packs

of playing cards

every Christmas, hoping

against hope,

that this was the glue

to keep them going on.

mid century modern

you

hold onto what brings you

comfort.

the pen and paper,

so many books,

stamps

and envelopes,

the old milkman with

his glass

gallons

left on the porch.

the window shade

that rolls

up then down.

the big chair by the fireplace.

the blanket

that keeps

you warm.

the round Formica

table

with salt and pepper

shakers side

by side

and a butter dish.

the phone on the kitchen

wall

with the long black

cord that

swirls around.

how dare you forget my birthday

 sorry about your birthday.

i plum

forgot.

it snuck up on me this year.

no flowers, no card,

no gifts 

no dinner out.

i apologize.

the date slipped by me

despite you posting it on

all of your

social accounts.

i know you'll be mad

for awhile, 

so i won't bother

you until you come

back around.

up up and away

i fear flying, although

i'm sure

it's much safer

than driving, but just the same

it's unnatural

to be so high

in the air in such a heavy

strange machine.

i grip the seat

or the person next to me

as it rises into the sky

or is about to land.

i've damaged many arms

in flying, crushed many

fingers on many hands.

i've recited many prayers,

so many that people

often mistake me for being

Billy Graham.

a bigger steak bone

our

pets, our dogs and cats

and other

various animals

are playing us

like fiddles.

giving us

enough attention so that

we feed them,

walk them,

cuddle with them

in our beds

and protect them.

but as soon as another

person

comes down

the street with a steak

bone,

they're so easily gone.

i've known

so many women in my

life like them.

we can solve this crime

we bang

our heads together like

coconuts,

brainstorming

to solve

the latest crime on tv.

we make a list

of the evidence

after putting on our

shabby raincoats

and hats.

we draw a map.

we write down the names,

the ages,

the possible

circumstances that may

have occurred.

was it all planned,

or an

accident.

where is the nearest 7-11,

or gas stations.

criminals always need drinks

and gas.

snacks like peanut

butter crackers.

we pour ourselves

some whiskey,

which is actually iced tea,

because that's what

detectives do, then

light up cigarettes

and begin

to cough.

we smash them out 

on yesterdays dinner

plates.

someone suggests that

we open a window.

we make a timeline

under the dining room light.

then order a pizza

or two.

it's going to be a long night.

finding a new place to lie down in

it's good to get away

for a while.

a few

days in any

direction.

north south,

east

west.

cold or heat makes

no never mind.

just pack

a small

bag,

throw some bucks

into your pocket

and stick

out your thumb,

or board

the bus, or train.

i suggest a window seat,

positioned so

that you see

the setting sun

across

the unknown land.

mystery in the desert

the clues are weak

concerning

the kidnapping.

grainy

footage,

a shadowy figure

stumbling about

in rubber gloves

and a mask.

the trail has gone cold,

despite

the desert

and a few drops

of blood

along the path.

perhaps it's simply a burglary

gone wrong.

there's

no footsteps to behold,

no tire

tracks,

no witnesses,

no proof of life,

no drop

off point for a ransom.

there's nothing

to go on,

nothing but endless

reporting

on what they don't know,

and may

never know.

there's so much that the desert

will refuse

to show.

the little red transistor

the radio

meant so much to me

when

growing up.

the car radio, the little red

transistor

that i first

heard the Beatles on.

the bent

antenna,

the batteries into

the little slot.

the dial to turn

with a safe crackers

touch

to land

on the station that i

wanted.

learning the words to

every song.

from Chuck Berry

to Bob Dylan.

songs that i've

never forgot.

drinking and driving

before i swore off

drinking, 

and made

club sodas my beverage

of choice, i felt

lucky

to make it home after

three

martinis.

blessed by the hand of God

to have

not killed anyone

with my

car, or myself.

often waking up in the beds

of women

whose names

i seldom knew.

i shiver

at the thought of how

irresponsible

i was.

feeling immortal

by the elixir

of youth.

i feel grateful every

day

to have made it home.

and made

it home alone, 

at last

to someone

like you.

the signed yearbook

of course

most, if not all,

are all gone now.

all those teachers, some

wonderful,

some 

as dumb as we were.

but they're never gone from

your mind.

those cold

classrooms with

Secrist and Moak,

psychology and

French class.

Beck

and Reber,

history and math,

English

with Riley.

her long lashes

and legs. so dramatic

and alive.

she was the best.

you can see them

at the chalk

boards,

hear their voices,

each class lasting forever,

although

barely an hour

of our precious time.

the exotic honeymoon

it was an exotic honeymoon,

at least it was

to me.

the first one always is.

we drove

down route 50

to a motel with a view

of the beach, two nights,

with a continental

breakfast in the morning.

on the way

we stopped at Dairy Queen

in Berlin,

then a tomato stand

along the road.

she wanted tomatoes

for her mother

and squash.

green peppers.

a small basket of corn.

she found a phone to call

her,

and asked her

if she was missed,

told her

it won't be long before

we're back home.

we ate that night at Phillip's

Seafood

Emporium.

i had a cheeseburger,

she had fish.

we waited in the long line

for hours,

as we twisted

our new

gold rings.

in six short months they were

off.

two hundred years later

having never

entered the enormous store,

a box

like hangar where

airplanes

could be stored,

i showed the man my 

newly minted card,

and he let me

in.

i had been

frozen for two hundred

years

in the crevice

of an iceberg of Newfoundland.

i remember

hunting and fishing

for sustenance,

skinning animals

for their covers,

to stitch my clothes.

everyday was about

survival.

eating and not being eaten.

but now this, this enormous

store

that possesses everything

one could ever

need.

so many using their government

cards.

surely we're near

the end of times.

there's no purpose in life

anymore.

you can be anything you want to be

you

can be whatever you want

to be

your mother tells you,

smiling brightly,

as she buttons

your shirt

and taps down your cowlick.

anything?

you ask.

but you soon

learn

what you're good at,

and what

you aren't.

and the decision is 

suddenly narrowed

as to which

road you're on.

the new bread lines

i look out the window

of my

Queens apartment and see a bread

line

wrapped around

the block.

people are shivering

in their worn

overcoats.

huddled

for warmth.

there's a hammer

and sickle

flag flying in the rising

sun.

so it's begun.

we're in Russia now

circa 1961.

the crazies

have won.

where did you get all that money?

there's a lot of yelling,

screaming,

back and forth disagreements

during

the congressional hearings.

so much guilt and fraud,

so much deception,

stealing,

gaslighting and denials

going on.

billions of dollars stolen,

flown out of the country

in suitcases,

and yet,

do we ever see anyone

handcuffed and being

led out the door?

a few, perhaps.

but not enough. it should

start from the top down.

what's real these days

is it real

or is it AI. am i really watching

monkeys

fly a plane,

squirrels wearing glasses

and reading books,

dogs

and cats intertwined?

and you,

are you real

as well?

flesh and blood,

with legs

and hips,

wet painted lips?

come here tonight and prove

it to me,

one way or the other,

for

at the moment, 

i can't tell.

the beat goes on

your

heart has not grown

bigger

or gone

smaller over the years.

it's the same

size it always was,

but stronger,

not weaker.

it may be made out of rubber

for all you know.

it rebounds

quickly.

the beat goes on.

this won't work either

if i could

just move, i would forget

my troubles,

get out of this house,

this town,

this state.

maybe move to London

or Paris,

or Timbuktu.

if i could just look out

a window

and have a different point

of view.

maybe then, i wouldn't

be so crazy

and such

a fool, full of remorse

and regret

for all of my mistakes.

finding no safe to crack

with

a sharp machete

i swing

it through the musty

rooms

and clear

out what's left behind.

i bring many bags and boxes

in which

to throw

things away, 

i savagely empty my father's

lair,

his home

of thirty odd years.

there's little there

of sentimental value.

photos perhaps,

a painting on the wall,

some letters

and yet, so much means

so little.

what would i do with thirty

nine coffee mugs,

or twelve

pairs of shoes,

various coats and hats?

there's nothing hidden,

no money tucked

away

in the pages of books,

no safe to crack,

no jewels.

it's somehow different now

it's not the same,

it never

is,

returning home to the same

town,

the same street

and house

you lived in.

it's different. the color.

the size,

the memory

shrunken down,

the world you once knew

is almost

childlike.

is this really the place

that formed

you,

stayed within your mind

for so many

years, whether

awake,

or dreaming?

the conversation

there comes a point in

the conversation

when you make a mental note

of the one

you're conversing with,

judging them

as either dumb as rocks,

or rather smart, perhaps

way smarter than you

believe you are.

each is mildly upsetting.

you say nothing, of course.

that would be rude

and impolite, but you take

it home with you

and remember the talk.

somehow different

women

are more apt to stay

in touch

with childhood friends,

school

year chums,

with phone calls

and yearly

gatherings

to reminisce.

whereas men

seem not to care, letting

bye gones

be by

gones.

letting each pal slip

away

into the night.

staying in touch

seems oddly

strange.

seems weird.

my people are too stupid to get an id, he says

some people are just too

damn

dumb to know how to get a

photo id

in order to identify themselves

when they have

to go vote,

says the good Senator from

the state of 

Perpetual Idiocy.

my constituents are pretty

much idiots,

numbskulls, incapable

of the arduous task of going

anywhere

to sign up to get a proper id.

these people don't drive,

or go to stores,

or to the post office,

or travel anywhere.

none of them have ever

been to school.

they pretty much are immobile

and stupid

staring at the tv.

i need to protect my people,

he says,

banging his fist against the table.

regardless of their race, color, creed

or ethnicity,

it's a hardship on them to obtain

a proper id.

having said that, i need to vote

no on this bill saying

yes to getting voter id.

if it's not your dream

if it's not your dream,

it's boring

to the point

of not listening, of yawning

and waiting

for the words

to stop coming out

of the mouth of your

enthusiastic

dream telling friend.

so you're flying,

he might say,

and the house is on fire,

and my ex-wife

is in the window

screaming for help

but i don't stop,

i keep going

until i reach the ocean

where i get

swallowed

by a whale.

you don't even ask,

and then what happened?

because none of it

matters.

not just to you, but to anyone

except maybe your

psychiatrist.

there's no way around it

streets of

crusted black snow,

under the amber

blink,

greyed

and pocked

with the fumes of traffic,

dirty

like the wet rags

of a

a dishwasher in Times

Square

circa

1964.

the heaves of it.

the blockade of it.

unplowed,

the weakly shoveled.

the lines of 

civility blurred.

it's every man

woman and child

to their

own ways

of crossing, until spring.

starting on page one

resting

on the wide shelf, is the book

you've

been looking for,

for days

on end.

the old book,

a bible of sorts of poetic

pieces

by a faved

poet

of yours.

Mr. Larkin,

coffee stained and worn,

the binding

broke,

the pages

earmarked and torn.

onto to page one

again.

there's so much there

to mine

and adore.

as she brushes her long blonde hair

as i watch her

brush

her long blonde hair in the mirror,

counting strokes,

i think back

and reminisce

about hair.

my own hair.

i remember it well.

i have many

photos of it.

when young, when playing

sports,

graduations

and parties,

when getting

married.

there i am at the beach,

coming out of the ocean

pushing back

my long

brown locks,

sun streaked.

oh, the barbers i have

known.

the combs

and brushes,

the blow dryers, the shampoos

and conditioners.

the part on the side,

the Elvis twirl in front,

the Brylcreme

and cowlick.

i remember hair well

as i watch

her brush her long blonde

hair in the mirror.

a den of snakes

it's a den

of snakes, these wires beneath

the desk,

that i bump

with a careful

bare foot.

curled into

hard circles with

a sort

of permeance,

each connected

and hot

with the sting

electricity.

which wire goes where

and

into which slot

i've forgotten, 

each

plug has become a

mystery.

piecing life together

he finds

joy

and interest in the shard

of a 

blue

plate unearthed

in the freshly plowed

yard

of dirt

where a home once stood

during

the civil war.

there are more shards

to come.

ones that he will piece

together

with delicate hand

and brush,

and form a story of sorts

of how

they ended here

in this backyard plot

of land.

all past is fiction when

you begin

to dig.

i feel a sin coming on

the funny thing about

sin

is that i know

when i'm

about to commit one.

and yet

do i stop myself,

do i listen

to the angel

on my shoulder?

sometimes yes,

and other times no.

i'll deal with the guilt

later,

after she goes home.

the morning weather report

the knee

feels like rain.

the rub

of pain

in the joint.

the shoulder too.

i sense

wind

is on the way,

maybe a cold front moving

in.

it may snow,

my sinuses 

tell me

as they get

inflamed.

in my later years,

i've become a human

weathervane.

short term friends

i see him

with his long compression socks

on,

holding tight

those strings of blue

veins.

his black beret

tilted on

his head.

sunglasses, always on.

his long arms

stretched out.

he's dead now.

but i understood the wink

he often

gave.

fatigue is a blessing

it's good to have

a project

to keep us busy, 

to shovel snow,

or to paint a room,

to clean the attic

or a garage

out.

we need

the mundane,

the hard tasks,

the blue

collar work to settle

us down.

sweat is good.

being tired

is a good thing.

aches and pains

are a blessing.

there's a reason we

have muscles

in our arms and legs,

to hunt and kill

and gather wood.

we're not made to just run

our fingers across a keyboard

and stare into a screen.

the pop in visit

there was always

someone

popping in for a visit

at our house growing up.

friends,

neighbors.

my mother would sit for

hours,

smoking

cigarettes

at the dining room

table and drinking

coffee when

her friends would stop by

unannounced.

we all had

friends

knocking at the door,

or just coming in

and yelling

out hello.

but these days,

it's frightening

to hear a knock at the bolted

door, at any time

of the night or day.

to see

someone testing

the knob,

twisting it slowly,

gives you chills.

infecting art with politics

nope,

can't watch his movies

anymore,

can't listen to his

music,

or hers

ever again.

nope,

can't watch the Grammy's

or the Oscars,

or the Golden Globes

anymore either.

cancel

the Post, the Atlantic,

the New Yorker,

etc.

why do they

do this,

infect their art

and entertainment with

politics.

whoops,

i guess i do that too.

oh well,

change the channel or

don't read.

to each his own

choice.

coffee at home

as i wait

for the water to boil before

pouring it over

a sleeve

of ground beans,

i remember the Starbuck

days,

standing in line

waiting to order, then

waiting again

for the cup

to be made.

my name misspelled

and mispronounced

on the side

of the stiff cup

as the barista

yelled

out each name.

those were the days.

i wonder how many thousands

of dollars

i've saved.

the yellow taxi ride

it was

a different kind of car,

the yellow taxi.

so unlike your father's car,

this one

had leather seats,

and a clean smell.

it seemed sturdy,

strong

enough to endure the ride

of many

passengers

throughout the years.

the glass

window

between you and

the driver

was interesting,

his little screen adding

up the cost

of each new mile.

polite to the point

of making

small talk, even to a child.

opening the door

and popping the trunk

to hand

you your overnight

bag

with a tip of his hat

and smile.

money for nothing, chicks for free

it will

not make you happy.

of course not.

the accumulation of money.

the nest egg,

the retirement stash,

money to burn

and money to tell others

to get on with

their bad selves,

but most

of us would rather

be unhappy

with money

than without.

there's no joy in it anymore

i'd rather

not fight about it,

i'd rather not

argue,

or discuss

things we don't agree upon.

i used to

enjoy such squabbles,

trying to prove

i was right

and you were wrong.

but i don't care

anymore.

i see no point in always

disproving

the side that you're

on.

there's no joy

in it anymore. so let's

move on.

the note on the red door

there's a note

on my door when i get home.

it's been

too long

of a day.

too cold of a day.

there are too many other things

on my mind

than to read a note

taped

to front of my door.

i leave it

and go in.

i'll let tomorrow handle

whatever

trouble

the note my give.

the dying of the NFL

i used to love football.

tackle

football with the guys,

from the age

of five.

for decades we played

on an empty field,

then rushed home

to watch the games.

we knew all the players

by name,

the colors of their uniforms,

their cities 

and states.

we knew statistics,

standings,

the schedule for each week.

we wore

the jerseys our heroes wore.

but then something

changed.

and we hardly cared anymore.

maybe it was the money

they made,

the bling and cars,

the narcissism

of it all,

the crimes they committed,

the wokeness

they embraced.

the tattoos and gold teeth.

the changing of all the rules.

they made

it softer, kinder, more feminine.

we often wondered

why they didn't

put the quarterback in a pink

dress, a tutu,

perhaps,

wearing a sign that reads

don't touch.

the field is not even

real grass.

paper tigers

the condo board

face

book page is alive with action.

the power

being

out has caused a stir.

twelve hours

and counting,

no heat, no lights, no

nothing.

just cold darkness.

the beehive

has been hit

with a stick and now

the bees

are flying about

angry

and ready to sting

the board members

who have gone into hiding.

it's not our

fault.

we don't control the electric

company

they write back.

when trees fall and the wind

whips up,

and the snow

covers the parking lots,

it's in God's hands. not ours.

we only collect

your HOA fees, tow

your cars,

and write you up if

you put in a new screen

door, or

paint your shutters a

different color.

we rule over you, but

can't help

you with your electric

problems

or give you any updates.

that's totally up to you.

by the way.

some of you, your monthly

fees are a day

overdue.

let's walk to Sarasota

let's walk,

i suggest, as the flight is delayed again.

let's get

our luggage

and walk

to Sarasota.

but, she says, it's so far,

it's such

a long ways.

i know. i know. but it

would be

nice to stretch our

legs and get

some exercise.

let's go before it begins

to snow

again and freeze over.

okay,

she says.

but what about a rental

car.

good idea.

i'm already exhausted just

getting

out of this airport.

i need a sky

cap

and one of those electric

little cars.

what's to come

it occurs to me,

as if a small

light being lit in my head,

that most

people

aren't happy.

that most are sad and unloved,

not jumping

for joy

at each new day

when crawling out of bed,

but down

and nearly out on their

feet.

weary

with what's behind them,

what's to come.

cold and annoyed

as i sit

in the Chinese restaurant

sipping

won ton soup,

empty

except for me

and the waitress

and the cook

behind

the glass,

i stare at my phone

trying

to get an update on

when the power

might go back on at home.

i guess

i could sleep in my

car tonight,

or get a room

at the Holiday Inn

down the road.

maybe Betty has room,

if she'll

take my call,

but i miss home.

i miss

heat and lights,

the internet.

the burners on the stove.

i miss the sound of 

the furnace cranking away

with warm air.

twelve hours

so far.

maybe tomorrow

civilization will return.

the bugs bunny half time show

as we slide another chip

into the crab

dip,

and take a gulp of beer,

my wife

says,

who is this bugs bunny character

singing

during the half

time show?

beats me, i tell her.

never heard

of him,

i think he's part of that

LMNOP plus 2 alphabet soup

bunch and a Satanist.

and what language is that?

i told you we

needed to sign up for that

audio 

Rosetta Stone.

why aren't people wearing

any clothes,

and gyrating

like they're at an orgy

in Sodom and Gomorrah?

i miss Lola Falana

and Frank

Sinatra, don't you?

i sure do, honey.

Andy Williams too

and Dean Martin.

you used to have the biggest

crush

on Joey Heatherton. remember?

yup.

oh well,

so it goes. are you

ready for chicken wings,

she says,

getting up from the couch.

sure.

you know what?

what dear?

i'm so glad we're old.

time for less not more

i feel

the need to downsize,

to live

in a lesser way,

not larger

as i age,

as the limbs ache

from the cold.

do i need four bathrooms,

six bedrooms

a three-car garage

and pool out back

that i haven't been in

for decades?

so much dust

to behold.

so much lawn

to mow.

maybe it's time for the condo

with a veranda,

with a nice man

at the door

to help me with my

packages.

the girl at the desk

saying good morning

as i go

to the elevator 

to the seventeenth

floor.

perhaps it's time

for less,

not more.

is it too late to adopt a new kid?

people tell

you

that you have to leave something

for the children

after you expire

from this life,

leave

a lump sum

of money, a house, cars,

the whole

shebang

written into the will

for the dearly beloved

offspring.

everything you ever worked

for,

leave it to them.

but what if you don't like

any of your

selfish

brat children, entitled

and lazy,

mean

whining babies still,

deep into

their thirties?

what if they don't like you

either

and never call, or visit,

or send you a greeting card

for a holiday

or birthday?

never asking how you are,

or saying thank you?

what then?

her futon in the basement

i remember

sleeping in her basement

on a futon

she saved

from her college days

in Idaho.

she couldn't sleep

because of my

snoring,

so she sent me to the basement.

after knocking

an old saddle out

of the way,

i pulled

the horse

blanket up to my neck

and listened to

the wind

outside,

as i shivered in the heatless

room.

she used to ask me

if she was

the prettiest girl in the room,

but i never had

the heart to tell her

no.

i knew from the moment

we met

that we were

doomed

and yet. here i was on the futon,

in the basement

under a horse

blanket,

in a few more hours,

the sun would rise.

her Liberace glasses

the image

of one grandmother

is of a woman

wearing Liberace

glasses,

with well-manicured nails,

a bubble of

blonde hair

with lipstick on her teeth,

her heavy perfume

fumigating

the air.

standing

in the doorway

with her

suitcase, ready for a two

week visit

with the seven of us.

she was

not prepared.

try this Ethiopian dish

we know

what we like and what

we don't like

at an early age,

and yet time and time

again,

someone says,

try this, or try that,

get out

of your box of likes

and dislikes

and live a little.

so you do,

and wish you hadn't.

i'm now one of the protesters

i decide

to become a protester,

but not

about ICE, or Gaza,

or the Epstein Files,

or what

Trump tweeted,

or about rounding up illegal

immigrants,

and 

dictators,

or the fraud

with the Somalis.

no.

i decide to protest the weather.

i make a sign

and go downtown

to the local

weather station

and march

on the sidewalk,

shouting into my microphone.

change

the weather.

raise the temperature,

stop

snowing.

unfreeze the streets.

end winter now, end winter now,

or else!

however,

i imagine this will have the same

effect as

all the other protests

going on.

which is none.

jiminy crickets, it's cold out.

the indelible past

your past

is not mine, nor mine yours.

much to

our surprise

it's all written in indelible

ink.

inerasable

no matter how hard

we scrub

and scrape, trying to remove

what was.

whether

or joy

or past mistakes.

it's all there 

even when we look

away.

did you lose weight?

when i hear

the salesperson, or friend,

or sibling

in need,

say

things like, have you lost

weight,

you look well,

strong,

healthy.

younger, in fact,

indeed.

i look at my watch,

and put

my hand on my wallet

for protection.

the pretense of life

you can only

sit at the desk and write

for so many

hours, which leaves you

the rest

of the day to do things

with.

to go about

the pretense of life.

filling in those restless

hours,

with responsibilities

and 

chores.

conjuring thing to say,

to appear normal,

while your mind collects

as much

as it can

tolerate.

thinking always of returning

back

to write more,

perturbed at so many

delays.

home the same day

of course

there are many places

i'd

like to visit,

but only if i could be

back home

the same day.

the Great Wall of China,

for instance,

to take it all in,

to stroll along the ancient

bricks.

to observe

the enormity of it all.

how nice that would be

and then

to be

home promptly,

at the sofa,

as the clock strikes

three,

for afternoon cakes 

and tea.

who exactly are you?

you're a hard

book

to read,

she tells me, flipping

through

the pages,

turning to the back

cover,

the front,

the index and table

of contents.

scribbling

notes in the margins.

earmarking

and underlining,

points of interest

or dismay.

she thumbs through

the photos,

asking a million

questions,

that i don't answer.

i  don't know where you

begin,

or where you end.

who are you, exactly

she says,

staring deeply into 

my eyes.

shaking my limbs.

who are you?

the call of the olive loaf siren

like the call

of a sexy

siren,

i can't resist.

i turn into the parking lot,

roll down

the window

and inhale

the sweet aroma

of baked

dough.

bread and pastries

just out

of oven,

baked by the fat

Italian man

in a tall white hat.

how can i not go in?

i'm so close.

i have money. i'm hungry.

i'm the boss

of myself.

there's no one around

me saying no.

so i go

with

regret to follow.

my tattered bathrobe

it's a burst

of subdued anger,

a grumbling

of sorts

whispered under my

breath

as i hang

up the phone.

an internal protest.

maybe it's the snow

outside,

the slush

and frozen roads,

the wind chill

factor. or

maybe it's old age creeping

in as i

prowl the rooms

in my tattered

bathrobe.

captain and tennille

it's a piano

of sorts,

a lettered keyboard,

numbers

and what not

dashes

and dots,

ampersands

and dollar signs.

how sweet the music

is when

the keys

are on fire with

the fingers rapidly

moving

across the board.

but there

are some sour notes

as well,

it's not all Beethoven

or Mozart

or even

Captain and Tennille.

sometimes it's just the same

old song again,

the same one,

like you've

heard before.

suicidal empathy NYC

they

collect the frozen bodies

in the morning.

a truck

comes by

and takes them off the street.

it was too

unkind

to do it before

they died.

the mayor has

chosen to give

the mentally ill their

dignity,

to choose on which

curb to reside

when the Arctic frost

blows in.

no flowers

will attend,

no words said.

no final goodbyes.

try to forget about it

i can't

find the knob

to twist

and turn,

to tighten

and cut off this stream

of consciousness.

whether

guilt or remorse,

it runs

amok

in my brain, taking me

to places

i've already

traversed,

trampled

through the tall 

dark grass

and bramble.

i've

flattened out that

land

so many times before.

but here i am again.

the unlucky few

some

people never break a bone,

or sprain

a finger,

twist

an ankle,

never have they had

a broken

heart,

or been fired from a job.

they've never

been a victim

of anything.

how empty they are

of grief

and healing,

of complaint,

never having to have

played

that part.

something to die for

i see two

men

wrestling outside in 

the parking lot

on the snowy ground.

one has a black eye,

the other a bloody

nose.

they're

fighting

over a dug-out spot,

cleaned down

to the bare bones

of pavement.

they used

to be friends.

i'd see them at block

parties,

cooking together

on the grill,

playing catch with the ball.

laughing

in the July sun.

but

this war.

one man's dug out spot

from

the snowstorm, 

is something

to fight and die for.

hunched over the desk

i take  down the box

from the top

shelf of the closet.

already

it's tax time. how is that possible?

how did

so many months go by

in the blink

of a weary eye.

do i really have to lug

out the old

calculator,

plug it into the wall

and insert a roll

of paper

where the paper

clicks and goes.

i can't believe that it still

works,

after all these years,

circa 1984,

although some of the numbers

are worn off

or stick if i don't press

hard enough.

i need a ledger too,

bank statements,

receipts

and W-2 s.

not to mention a handful

of fine point number two

pencils.

with a sharpener and an

eraser nearby.

a strong pot

of coffee

would be nice as well

and something

to nibble on

while i grind the numbers

down.

where's my green visor?

oh, there it is.

i think i see it,

it's in the dog's mouth

being chewed again.