what in God's name is she doing in there?

we have

separate bathrooms,

thankfully.

hers seems to be constantly

occupied.

there's always a cloud

of steam

behind the locked door,

rising from

the crack at the floor.

i don't know half

of what she's

doing in there.

sometimes i'll stand on the steps

before going down

and listen.

once in a while the toilet

will flush

and she'll jiggle the handle.

i'll hear the medicine

cabinet open

and close, again

then again.

water will be turned

on and off

with no rhyme or reason.

what's going on in that sink?

bags are opened,

things are shuffled around,

the hair dryer

goes on and off,

there's the clicking of

jars being opened,

there's 

the squeezing of tubes.

the snapping of rubber bands

around her ponytail.

the brushing of teeth

and hair.

i hear the shaking of pill

bottles

and the gulping of water,

then the shower curtain being

pulled forward

and straightened out.

quickly i go down the stairs.

growing a beard

what makes a man

grow a beard?

whether scraggily

or well-trimmed.

what's happened in his life

to make

him stop shaving

and let it grow

around his face?

has someone told him

that he'd look

good with a beard,

more sophisticated or woodsman

like,

was it

a loved one,

a girlfriend or wife?

was it to save time in

the morning, or

to look serious when

pondering a question,

stroking it slowly

while thinking of an

answer that might

be wise.

this will make you feel better

i remember going

to a therapist once

after a tough break up,

and sitting there in the chair

licking my wounds,

asking for advice

as to what's next for me.

i felt doomed, as if

i was always going to be

stuck in this dark

hole i had dug.

a never-ending loop

of failed relationships.

the therapist adjusted the glasses

on her nose and set down

her yellow legal pad,

and said,

what about volunteering,

have you ever thought

about doing something 

like that?

what do you mean, i asked

her.

like doing what?

helping people. it will get

your mind off your

own troubles when

you see how messed up

other people are.

how better off you are

compared to a lot of people

in the world.

nah, i told her. that's not

for me. that would depress

me even more. okay.

how much for this session?

but you still have twenty

more minutes to go.

nah, i think we're done.

how you ended up with your new dog, Moe

with most

of your lifelong best

friends

gone.

deceased or moved

to another

country,

incarcerated or

in mental institutions,

you decide to find a new one.

a best friend you

can call

or see at a moments

notice, someone you

can get along

with even though you

don't always agree.

but how exactly

do you go about such

a thing.

where does one

find new

friends these days?

you're getting sleepy, very sleepy

i dated

a hypnotist for a short while.

she was

always

telling me to relax,

to breathe in,

breathe out.

think calming thoughts,

she said,

keep an eye

on the swinging ball.

we eventually broke up

for reasons

unknown to me, but

i'm still

sending her a check

on the first of

the month

and i don't know why

or how

to stop.

the goblin at the Vatican

i love

Bob, his music, his

strangeness

and the

ever changing 

melodies of his

songs, 

i like

his indescribable

voice

and mysterious lyrics,

baffling

and heartbreaking

at times.

i've been listening

to what he's written

from the beginning

of time,

his and mine.

but i believe he just

needs

help in the morning

when getting

dressed.

he needs someone to

put a mirror

in front of him, and ask,

okay,

is this how you want

to leave the house?

oh no, the end is near

after every election

one side,

or the other screams and cries,

oh God, help

us,

the end is near.

they put on their black clothes

and mourn

the end of the world

as we know it.

then another four years

go by,

and oddly,

almost all of us

are still here.

inspire me and i'll swim

i'm not a good swimmer,

my legs

too short,

my body too wide

and heavy,

but i can get from one side

of the pool

to the other

without too much trouble

as long

as i'm wearing

fins

and holding onto the rope.

i'm much better when

diving for pennies

that have sunk to the bottom.

or when i see

you on the other side

in your French bikini.

i need inspiration

sometimes

to get anything done in life.

saving days in a bottle

i take

the day, sixty

and sunny without a cloud

in the sky and place it in a bottle.

saving

it

for winter, when

the snow

and ice

glazes over the road

and lawns,

the rooftops that i see

from my

window.

i place the bottle in the cellar,

my good day

cellar

where all the other bottles

are,

no longer holding wine.

i date

the label, sketching

a sunny smile beside it

and carefully

place it on the shelf, ready

to be opened

on the day the first flake

falls.

just a minute ago

you couldn't wait

to be

18,

then 21, good enough

to vote,

or die

for your country, or both.

legally

drinking in a bar

was no problem.

and then

30 came along,

still playing sports

and chasing

skirts,

and suddenly you were

one of them,

dad

and mom.

how quickly 30 became

40,

then 50, with grey

in your hair,

with kids and house,

grass to mow.

then

you woke up one morning

to creaking

bones

and knees,

when 60 arrived.

work almost done.

at last

the golden years came

at 70.

and along with-it strangely

a smile

and peace of mind.

i think i can make it before the train comes

my mother didn't drive

a car

until she reached the age of 50,

and the car

proved

her inexperience.

a new dent appeared every other

day.

but she didn't drive

because there was a long stretch

where we didn't

have a car.

after the divorce dad got the
Chevy Impala and took

it with him.

but she tried to drive

although none of us kids would

ever dare

to get into the front seat 

of the car with her.

we cowered in the back

in fetal positions.

it was before seat belts and

air bags,

cameras and automatic

braking

it was a tin can rolling on

tires basically,

with Dean Martin singing

That's Amore

on the radio.

she used to grip the steering

wheel with one hand,

and sit as forward

as she could

on a pillow she crocheted,

the other hand

resting on the horn,

ready to blow.

the magic carpet ride down Broadway

as the yellow

cab

flies down Broadway,

i hang

onto the strap.

the windshield is

covered in some sort

of greasy film,

inside and out.

i don't know how the man

in his turban can

even see

to drive this thing.

he's eating a kabob,

and talking

on his phone to someone

in Afghanistan.

there's a cigarette

burning in an ashtray

in his lap.

he's inches away from

hitting the curb,

the delivery boys on their

bikes,

other cars

and pedestrians.

i begin to pray silently

to myself

and close my eyes.

he looks in his rearview

mirror

and begins to laugh

spitting out

some lamb onto the dashboard.

don't worry, he says.

almost there.

i know what i'm doing,

this is my job.

the broken lamp replacement

when

the table tipped on it's

wobbly

one leg,

held level by a match

book cover,

the pot shaped lamp

came tumbling down,

shattering

into a dozen pieces.

oh no,

i yelled, i'm so sorry,

i didn't know the leg was broken,

but immediately i promised

to buy her

a new one.

she began to cry.

it was the lamp my mother

gave me

before she died,

she told me,

wiping her eyes.

oh, i'm so sorry, where

did she buy it?

i'll replace it with one

just like this

one. i promise, i'll make

things right.

she bought it online.

the woman says.

i believe it was target,

or Wal-Mart and it cost

twenty-nine,

ninety-five.

i write that down. got it, 

i tell her.

i'll go down today and get

you another one.

maybe we can keep the same shade.

but,

can't you glue it back together?

a new one won't

be the same.

it won't be the one she gave

me.

glue it back together? you mean

with Emer's glue?

it would be like putting together

a jig saw puzzle.

and it's a cheap old lamp anyway.

she leans over

sobbing, then drops to the floor,

shaking.

okay, okay, i tell her,

taking out my checkbook,

okay, give me a number,

tell me how much it's going

to cost me to make

this thing right?

is three hundred okay?

fine.

the people have spoken

red eyed

and weary from staying up to watch

the mid

term elections,

the blue wave slaughter

across all 50 states,

i pour me a bowl

of cooked

quaker oats

and stare into the face of

the man

on the box.

i add in my nuts and cranberries

and sprinkle

brown sugar on top.

well, i guess that's it, we're

a communist

country now.

get the gulags ready

for us

and get your check book out

for higher taxes,

let's chant

together

free Palestine and all that

other nonsense.

the flags will be all half

mast today

as the border walls come

tumbling down,

but at least we'll all get free

healthcare

and transgender surgeries

if we decide to go

the other way.

mark twain elementary

the elementary

school

where i go to vote smells

like an elementary

school. i envision

the old janitor

pushing a wide

broom across

the linoleum floor,

sprinkled with a reddish cleaning

dust.

i can almost see the lunches

on the radiators,

the milk

being warmed

in thermoses.

brown paper bags

with names on them.

i can see the crumbs of graham

crackers

and the torn crusts

thrown

under desks from peanut butter

sandwiches.

there's the smell of chalk

in the air.

there's cigarette smoke

coming from

the bathroom stalls, and there's

a fight

in the stairway

over a girl with pig tails

and overalls.

and then the bell rings

and everyone is

gone.

my letter of resignation

when

things go wrong on the job.

impossible paper

to hang,

an angry customer, or

through 

some clumsy fault of my own

i swear

to God that

i'm going to retire

tomorrow morning.

i'm going to make it

official.

at 9 am.

i write up my resignation

and set it

on my desk.

i'm sorry, i say, but it's time.

i appreciate

all the business you've provided

me throughout

the years, but

it's no longer

about money.

i just need to rest.

i need to lie in the sun

with a cup of coffee and a book.

it's been three days now.

i'm still waiting

on a response.

one missing ingredient

after a nice

stir,

i taste

the boiling soup.

i squint my eyes and take

another taste,

blowing on the hot spoon.

with the steam

of carrots and potatoes

rising in my face.

onions and celery too.

it needs something.

something.

more salt, no.

pepper, no.

what is it?

something. i just can't

put my finger on.

it reminds me of you.

an address and a phone number in her purse

i find

in her purse an address

with a phone

number attached.

i call the number.

suspicious

as always.

it's an apartment complex

not far

from her married

boyfriend,

the water-skiing Santa.

i ask if there are any

one bedrooms

available, no the woman

says, but

we had one, but it was

just taken today

by someone who's marriage

wasn't working

out.

we can call you if you'd

like when

things open up.

mark yes or no, for whatever it is you think we're asking

i go down

to vote at the local elementary school.

it's empty.

maybe everyone voted already.

or i'm early.

i mark my ballot,

then read

the few amendments

to the state constitution

that are to be

decided.

it's written in garbled

legalese.

i have no clue what any

of it means.

it's something about abortion

again,

about suing

nurses and doctors if

something goes

wrong

in a trans surgery operation

not authorized

by parents.

i think that's what it's about.

are they trying to confuse us

about already

confused people again.

if so,

it worked.

holy moly matrimony

one marriage,

the shortest,

just six months in the making,

was in

a church, not the church i belonged

to but,

a local

church down the road

with a cute chapel

and an old

cemetery beside it.

the reception was at the Knights

of Columbus

Hall with

cafeteria styled food,

we slid our

the tray along

for meatloaf and spinach

in little dixie cups.

i was surprised at how angry

i was when

i pushed the slice of wedding

cake into her mouth.

the second one was in

a foreign

country, where the minister

wore plaid shorts.

in fact everyone on that island

was wearing shorts.

all arrangements were handled

by the mother-in-law to be

over the phone.

a party followed

when we got home,

chicken wings and burgers

on the backyard

barbeque.

and the third and final

wedding was in a basement 

by a Jewish man named

Herman

who she found

online that morning.

she told him to take the word

obey out

of the vows we were to echo.

she wasn't fond of food, so

i ordered

a pizza

for one, from Dominos.

she was already in bed with

sliced cucumbers

on her eyes, by nine,

with the bedroom door closed.

onstage at your local town fair

when you

see them onstage, the old

boys,

now old men,

the old bands

from the 60's and 70's you wonder

how long

can they keep going on.

still with the long hair,

though grey now,

the beards

and mustaches,

adorned still with

the leather pants and feathers

sticking out

of top hats,

boots and vests

from an era long-ago.

some are helped out in

wheelchairs,

or on the arms of care

takers,

managers and 

ad men

from dead radio.

they play in smaller

venues,

no longer filling a stadium.

you hardly recognize

the songs

when they sing them now,

but at least

you have got the right to say

i saw them,

before they were gone.

is your mother home?

after my

mother and father divorced.

my mother, despite

having

seven kids,

two still in diapers,

she seemed

to have no

problem getting attention

from men.

married men

and non-married men.

old and young.

it didn't matter.

it could have been her

long dark hair,

her Rubenesque figure,

or her sense of humor, but

it was strange to have

men at the

door with a bouquet

of flowers,

the milkman, the grocer,

teachers

and pastors,

all asking,

hey kid,

is your mother home?

just tell me what i did

she was most

happy

when she was unhappy.

withholding

a reason why,

brooding

with arms

crossed, and a dark

cloud

upon her face,

sitting

silently at the window.

good times.

your needs are simple

your needs

are quite simple.

food

and drink of course.

sleep,

a good days work.

new and old books.

money

to keep you flush

with the bills.

and then

there's that long stick

you keep

on the dresser.

sometimes

there's an itch that

you just can't reach

when there's no one

around.

it's still coming down

the snow.

boot deep is still fresh,

it's still coming

down.

i lift my head

and open

my mouth, having

communion

of some sort,

i guess.

it's a linen

sheet over

the walkway.

the cars,

white altars along

the road.

i look back and see

where

i've stepped.

where i've sunk into cold

angelic

snow.

it makes me wish you

were here.

glove

in glove, going forward

before it all melts.

                                                                                                   

plenty of fish

it was

more like catch and release

for me

and for them,

reeled

in from some dating site

found online

with the click of an eager

finger.

dinner

and drinks,

it got expensive.

rarely did the woman split

the bill.

after all you

had known each other for

at least 30 minutes.

a date

being a date, chivalry and

all.

the feminist movement

died when

she strolled

through the door.

sometimes we were baited

with old photos,

the skinny ones,

on a cruise ship, a dozen

years ago.

and yet,

there was so much in common,

when talking on the phone.

how you laughed and laughed

and laughed.

and then,

it ended.

the check came and she

hurried off

to the bathroom,

her pursed upon her shoulder.

then the awkward walk

to the car.

i'm over here,

i'm over there, you'd say.

handshakes

and off you'd both go.

ships passing in the night,

the next day though,

you'd cast out for more.

there seemed to always be

more.

is Paris still burning?

are we still going to Paris

in the spring?

my wife, asks me.

if we are, i think we need

to rethink

what clothes we bring.

everything we have is

flammable,

mostly cotton, which

will catch fire easily if

a Molotov

cocktail is thrown our way.

and what about

helmets and goggles.

i've been looking on Amazon

for some fashionable

gas masks in livelier

colors. everyone over

there is wearing black.

fashionable, yes. but so

mundane.

maybe we should bring some

bigger umbrellas

too, non-flammable ones,

to fend off the rocks

being thrown as we

sit outside at those quaint

little Parisian cafes.

i hope the Louvre is still

there, i do want to see

the Mona Lisa

before it's gone,

have you

heard any news on that

today?

why are these 

young students so angry?

vote for dan Sullivan, no the other one

i run into my old friend

Dan Sullivan,

from Alaska.

he's driving a new car,

a black BMW.

dang, i say to him, as he

gets out

in his silk suit and snakeskin

cowboy boots.

what's up Dan, i ask him.

love the new outfit.

no more flannel shirts and 

fur lined jackets, eh?

how much does a retired teacher

make these days?

did you

hit the lottery?

go to Vegas and roll the dice?

nope, he says

with a big toothy grin.

i'm running for the Senate

in my home state.

they put me on the ballot,

my friends on

the dem committee.

i got a knock on the door

not too long ago and

the next you know

i'm running to be the Senator

from my great state.

no way. get out of town,

i say to him.

yup, he says.

wow, that's interesting.

i've never heard you say one

word about politics

in your entire life,

other than that you despise

the current president.

so are you campaigning

across the country.

what are you doing here in

Florida?

it's one of my stops, i'm

going to visit

all 50 states by Tuesday

putting my message out there.

which is what?

i ask him.

well...i'm still working on that

being new to this game.

i'm supposed to get an email

soon

where they'll tell me exactly

what to say.

But hey,

here, take a campaign

button to wear on your coat.

Don't forget to vote for me,

Dan,

this Dan, not the other Dan.

Okay?

when they write their victim story

when i wake

up

in a haze from the anesthesia,

i see my

children,

my estranged and angry

children

gathered around me

waving my will in their hands,

their names

not on it.

they seem to be

still holding grudges

about some

Christmas

gift they didn't receive

when they were ten.

or when i told them

to move out

and get a job at 36,

or advised them not to

drink and drive

anymore.

all of them look

saddened and disappointed

that their prayers

weren't answered.

vote early, and often

i make

a list of all the people i have

known and loved

throughout the years

that have passed on,

then go

down to the voting booth

to vote,

taking the list with me.

thankfully

no ID's are necessary anymore.

i black out the circle

of the candidates

that i think they

would vote for

then circle out the door

and get back in line, voting

again and again

until the list

is done.

strangely they all agree

with me

right down the line.

30 ounces, not 15

because

the fat can of pumpkin puree

says

30 ounces,

not 15, i have to make

two large

pumpkin pies, not one,

as was the plan.

i really should read the labels.

so there they sit

on the coffee table,

warm, right out of the oven,

beside the can

of whipped cream,

and me

with a fork and knife,

an empty glass,

and a gallon

of cold milk,

ready to get into it.

the shedding of leaves

i've turned over more

new leaves

than that oak

tree outside my window

shedding it's

summer foliage in multiple

shades of orange

and red.

but this time i mean it,

i really mean it,

i put my hand

on the Gideon's Bible

and swear that

this time, no lie,

i'm on the straight and narrow

path.

free wi-fi and a continental breakfast

you check into the roadside

motel,

after telling

your wife

that you have to leave

for the night.

you can't take it anymore.

you set your one

bag down.

then sit on the bed.

it's hard.

the pillows are hard

as well.

you can hear

the tv

on in the room beside you.

the laughter

of a game

show.

everything smells

like a cigarette.

there's a picture on the wall

above the dresser

of a blue stream

with a deer

looking out, staring in

your direction,

as if about to be shot.

tomorrow, you'll go home

again.

and at last,

one way or the other,

try to figure things out.

the second act

the actor,

or musician spends

so much

of his life

becoming famous

and rich,

his face is everywhere

you turn,

he's on tv,

in the movies,

there he is at a ballgame

throwing

the first pitch out.

and then he spends the rest

of his life

in hiding,

under guard and

pulling the shades down

behind the iron gates.

he tries

to disappear,

that is

until the money runs out.

duck with plum sauce

my grandmother,

on my father's side,

New England bred, was

poor, but

you wouldn't know it

by her long

manicured nails

and fur coat.

the necklace

and rhinestones she wore.

she loved Liberace

and his candelabras,

and once in the smallest

of New York diners,

as we sat wide eyed

beside her,

eating eggs

and cereal,

she ordered duck

with plum sauce,

and a Cabernet 

from the cellar.

there is no island to escape to

it's hard

to keep the world out

and

away

from you.

it bleeds in eventually.

the paper,

the tv,

your phone,

a nosy neighbor asking

if you've seen

the latest

tragedy on Fox or CNN.

politics

and gore.

sometimes

you look out the window

from the second floor

and see the smoke

rising,

the fire in the distance

and hear

the sirens.

sometimes it's just

the dog howling.

he seems

to know.

preparing for winter

there

are different preparations

for winter now

than

there were years ago.

when we salted

meat,

and canned

vegetables and fruit.

there was a root cellar

where

we stored

carrots and beets, 

turnips

and potatoes.

there was a need to patch

the roof

where the wind

came in,

the windows sealed

to keep

out the drafts.

the chimney needed

tending to.

parging the gaps,

and always there was

the chopping of wood,

hoping

that it would

last.

now,

it's turning off the outside

water

spigot and

we're through.

from a distance

you

see the lion in the tall

grass

waiting.

owning the patience

of centuries.

the sun is golden

on the field,

as the antelope

drinks

from the pond.

death

comes in many forms,

beauty

being one

of them.

let's not talk anymore, okay?

we agree

on almost nothing,

everything

we talk about

we disagree upon

and argue,

and yet

the sex is really good,

so there

you go,

let's continue on.

a squirrel in the road

it's the first

shiver of the new season.

perhaps

it's time

for the heat to go on.

my feet

are cold on the hard floor,

my skin

dimpled, i'm near frozen

down to my

toes.

i look back at the warm bed

and stand

there,

a squirrel in

the road,

trying to decide whether

to stay

and climb back in,

or go.

the small print book

they

send me the small print book.

but i have

no magnifying glass to read

it with.

the words are

smaller than ants,

or the print on an insurance

plan,

page ten.

i give it a sighful

glance then

onto to the shelf

it goes

to gather dust,

unread

with barely a glance.

needing each other

what good

is a hammer without a nail

to hit,

a saw

without wood

to cut,

a brush without paint.

a glass

with nothing to drink?

we need each

other more than we

realize,

for better or worse.

on permanent window-shopping mode

she feels

the necessity to spend money

when out

and about,

by car or foot.

each store she passes presents

a possible purchase

of more things she doesn't

really want or need, but

nonetheless,

the money burns a hole

in her purse,

so she must stop, pull over

and park, she needs

to browse,

to window shop,

she needs to walk the aisles

and say, oh my,

what's that?

there's so much in this

world,

that for no reason,

she wants to possess.

waiting for the rain to stop

we

slow down at the curve,

the turn.

signal on.

the wipers broken

but

still slapping at the rain

against

the glass.

we pull into

the driveway and wait

for the storm

to slow down.

it's cold and the windows

are fogged

with our breathing.

we say nothing.

the radio is on.

in a different era, at

a different

age I might have call them

diamonds.

or tears, but not today.

it's just

rain.

love helps

do not

look down on

the betrodden,

the poor,

for if they

have love,

there will be enough

light

to go forward,

to press on,

and perhaps, if prayerful,

if God allows

with

nose to the grindstone,

one day

life will change,

they'll have more.

without rising to look

you know

that sound as you lie

there,

the light dim,

the shades drawn.

the click of shoes across

the floor,

the stretch

of the cat or dog

beside

you.

an impatient yawn,

by those

you love who want to go.

you've heard the birds

on the sill

a thousand

times before, the clang

of the radiator

trying

once more to give

you heat

way up here on

the fourth floor.

the sound of milk being

poured,

the newspaper

cascading at 5 a.m.

against the front door.

the whistle of a tea pot,

the lighting

of a cigarette across

a darkened room.

you won't need your eyes

for any of this.

you know what it is

without rising

to even look.

it's all in the game, on November third

my friend Jimmy is

all excited about

election day.

he tells me with glee that

he has prepared

his documents to vote

on Tuesday.

he taps the black briefcase

he has with him.

got it all right here, he says.

i have seven ID's

bought on the dark web,

five social security numbers

from dead people.

six passports,

three driver's licenses'

nine photo

ID's

from Costco, the library

and 

the DMV.

it's going to be a busy

day

going from voting

booth

to booth

across the county, but

we have

to win.

all is fair in love and war,

right?

what are you now, i ask him,

a democrat?

the doctor's waiting room

out of a few

words

overheard at the doctor's office,

i construct

an entire novel

of suspense and mystery

from the whispering

small talk.

it all starts

with a red rash,

a rough patch of skin, 

a wound

that won't stop

bleeding

on the man's leg

beside me.

his pant leg is rolled up

as he jibber jabbers

with his bored wife,

who sits

there knitting.

i suspect poison ivy,

or oak,

or a bee sting,

but why stop there.

maybe he's a spy and he's

been

touched by poison, a Russian

toxic powder

of some sort.

the fate of the world

may depend

upon how this turns out.

this man

may be the key to

saving democracy as we know

it to be,

and then

the nurse calls my name,

it's my

turn

for the dermatologist

to examine my

scalp.

i remove my hat,

the tale will have to wait.

the cold lake fish

i see the old

man,

sitting on a can,

pulling a fish out of the cold

lake,

more blue

than the sky.

there's a feather

in his cap.

he's neither happy

or sad

with his catch.

i think he's done this

before.

i watch him as he unhooks

the silver fish

from his line

and throws

it back.

it's a satisfying splash

as he sits

back down,

and once more casts.

turning over a new leaf

i'm

tongue tied with

an apology.

rare

for me to be so honest.

i've

been bad

in the past,

excusing my behavior

with what

is owed

to me. but

you don't deserve

a lie,

no matter how white

or black.

i can't keep living like

that.

the broom closet

the broom

is not thought of until

it's needed.

until there's dirt on

the floor

that needs to be swept up.

you feel that way

at times

when it

comes to children.

the phone gone silent,

the mail

not coming.

and then

at last, they need you.

there's urgency

in their voice.

they need something.

but it's too late,

you're no longer home.

easier said than done, letting go

you hear

it all the time.

in fact i have a thick book

called

Letting Go

by David Hawkins.

wise words are inside.

let go

of bad relationships,

grown up

children

who don't respect or love

you anymore.

let go

of the old house

falling around you,

the beat up old

car spilling oil.

let go of guilt and shame,

remorse, regret.

let go of the person

you once pined

for, let go of the dying

pet.

it's their time.

let go of your

favorite old clothes

frayed and worn.

be free, someday it will

be your turn

to take that last breath,

and at last

be made willing

to let go of everything.

Baked Alaska

it's going to be a tough

Senatorial race

in Alaska this coming election,

the candidates

are neck in neck,

though

on opposite sides of policies.

so one side

decides

to go out and find as many

people as they

can with the same

name as the opposing candidate

and put one

of them

on the ballot.

putting their thumb on the scale

just to have a little fun,

cause a little confusion

when it comes to marking one's

vote.

and these are the people

we put in congress,

liars, cheaters, losers.

God help us all.

the scariest house of all this Halloween

my neighbor

is one of those. one of those

who over decorates

with Halloween

approaching.

skeletons hang from the trees,

giant

ballons

in the shapes of goblins

and witches

are tethered to the branches.

carved pumpkins

are lit up

with candles.

a rocking chair

creaks

on the porch, mechanically

rocking back and forth

emitting

moans of despair and grief.

enormous

monofilament

spider webs are strung

across the house.

they even dress up in scary

costumes

when kids come to the door.

this year

it's Kamala and Mamdani

handing candy out.

she was very snobby about lettuce

my ambivalence

about

lettuce bothers her.

i can tell

when i bring home 

from the grocery store

a head

of iceberg lettuce

for the salad.

why this lettuce, she asks,

standing at

the cutting board

about to make

a salad for our soon to

arrive guests.

it's so pedestrian.

there are so many other

lettuces to choose

from. 

Loose Leaf, Butterhead,

Romaine, why

this?

i like how it's round,

i tell her.

a nice tight bundle

wrapped neatly in plastic.

it's ideal

to carry home and rolls

nicely across the floor

if i drop it.

which i did.

what's the difference?

not a book was stolen

i was walking to

my favorite

coffee shop, bookstore

early

in the blue Parisian light,

but it wasn't

there anymore.

seems it was burned

to the ground,

rummaged

through,

damaged

beyond repair,

but not a book was taken,

which tells

you everything there

is to know

about who's involved

in these riots.

they want shoes, and jewelry,

Nike clothing,

all the bling

that will surely change

their life.

conversation with a young protestor

everything

you're saying to me, i feel

like

i've heard it before.

each word

that leaves

your mouth is old,

dusty,

taken out from the moth

balls

of history.

i get it.

but go on, you're young,

these thoughts

are all new

to you.

get it out of your system.

become

older, wiser.

in time.

you'll move on.

just one more dance

there is a longing for one

more.

one more kiss

before you go,

one more drink before

the bar

closes.

one last dance

before we leave.

one more cup of coffee

before the morning

starts,

one more press of the snooze

button

before the day

begins.

one more, just one more

bite

of cake

before you put it away.

it's the good

and simple things we

always want

one more of.

one more day like this,

please.

Slim Jim and Cross eyed Charlie

you hear rumors,

word

of mouth gossip about

the old

crew,

the basketball boys,

who shot

hoops together for thirty-five

years,

until Covid shut the door.

did you hear,

Mark says, I think Randy

may have passed.

kidneys,

or something like that.

remember his moon ball,

it went as high

as it traveled

long.

what about Jay, i ask.

which Jay, he says,

tall Jay,

or Asian Jay?

tall Jay, i heard about his

hip replacement.

and what about Slim Jim,

is he still married

to Cookie,

the woman from the Ukraine,

i heard they

were going through some stuff.

not sure about that,

but i did see

cross eyed Charlie last week

at the grocery store.

he looks good.

a little limp in the giddy up,

but good.

remember that hook shot?

unstoppable.

the last pew in the back of St. Bernadette's

i run into Father Smith

at the liquor store,

he's buying

a large bottle of Angelica, 

while i'm

picking up

some Tito's vodka for game

time.

he tugs on his white collar

when he sees me.

Father, i say to him.

Son, he says back.

any Halloween plans? i ask him.

no, he says.

it's kind of like the devil's holiday.

oh, right. right.

he pulls out a roll of bills

to pay

for his purchase,

which makes me suspicious

having seen

so much folding money in 

the morning mass

basket.

see you Sunday, he says.

of course, of course.

i'll be in my usual spot,

the last pew in the back,

by the double doors.

outnumbered

i pull

the car over to give the children

a what for.

a light tap

upon each of their heads

with a rolled up

road map.

we'll get there when we

get there.

so please be quiet,

i need to concentrate

on the highway.

but i have to pee,

the boy says.

me too, his brother echoes.

the sister rolls

her eyes, and says i have

to go too,

but i'm hungry

as well.

mom, make dad stop, please.

she looks at me

and smiles.

okay, okay. i'll stop for 

a pit stop and lunch soon,

but

for the next

twenty miles we're going to

play a game.

it's called the quiet game.

whoever breaks

their silence has to get out

and walk.

okay.

are we all in?

take this exit the wife says.

we're stopping now.

the magician's black hat

i often think of her

as a magician.

clever to a fault

and deft of hand.

how distracted i was

by her pair of legs

and sweet smile,

while she carved

my life in half,

then pulled my heart,

barely beating,

out of her

dark black hat.

even when there is none

at times,

it's almost as if you've

never seen

a full moon

before,

or a red

bird on your sill.

a tree

in bloom.

you are still

young at heart, you

tell yourself,

a romantic

soul.

seeing beauty even

when there

is none.

Yelp was wrong about this movie

i fall asleep 

while the movie is playing.

it's not as

good as the reviews said

it was going to be.

i'm in a deep ninety minute

cat nap

until i'm

startled by the clamor

around me.

i wake up with

a box of popcorn

in my lap,

a coke in the holder

with melted ice,

a pack of red licorice

in my hand.

the credits are rolling

on the screen,

people are

clapping, cheering

as they head for the exits.

i'm upset as i look around.

someone has

stolen my extra-large box

of Junior Mints.

a sailor at sea

tired,

i was of taking the temperature

in the room,

my feet

always

walking gently

upon

the eggshells, tired

of choosing

words

carefully so as not to

be misunderstood,

constantly keeping

the waters

calm and still.

tired of it all, i packed

my duffle bag

and set sail.

behind the barn in North Reading

this round

old scar on my knee.

my right knee,

from when i was

five,

always in a hurry,

and fell onto

a broken jar

behind my grandmother's

barn in North Reading

is still pink.

i stare at it again,

rubbing

the raised quarter moon

of skin

healed.

it reminds me once more,

and quite

often,

to never pick up

a slithering

brown moving stick.

all is well

if they

don't call. if they don't show

up, or text.

there's no card

or letter

in the mail.

if you don't hear back from

them,

don't worry.

another door

will open.

all is well.

a late night cup of coffee

i purposely drink

a cup

of coffee around 7 o'clock at night,

knowing that i won't

be able to get to sleep

no matter how tired i am.

but, i need to stay awake.

i have things to thing about,

decisions to make.

i need to ponder and ruminate

on an assortment of issues.

i need to have a good long

talk with myself and figure

out what to do with the rest of my life.

at three a.m.

still wide awake, i realize that

this may take more than

one cup of coffee,

and it may take a month of nights.

saving string and rubber bands, paper clips

not a day

goes by without junk mail

coming through

the door,

or on the phone,

spam

by the dozens.

i delete and throw them

all away.

my father cut out coupons,

my mother too.

i can still see them sitting

at the dining room

table with a pair

of shears

going at it.

both of them with the green

stamp books.

ten cents saved

on a jar of mayonnaise.

fifty cents

on a can of beans.

the grocery store hands

them out

like raffle tickets to your

next purchase

of a pint of strawberries,

or ham hocks.

i've never used a coupon

in my entire life.

it always seemed

like an admission

of poverty. a cry

out to the world, to the clerk,

that you didn't have two

cents to rub

together, which was often

true.

The No Kings Rally

my friend

Jimmy stops by to shoot the breeze.

he's carrying a megaphone

with him.

dude, i say to him,

what's up with the megaphone?

well, he says,

you know how they're always

having these no king protests

on the overpass,

waving their flags

and blowing their horns?

even though we've never had a king.

yes. but they do have the right

to protest,

you know that right?

sure, sure, first amendment and

all of that.

but i find it annoying

and distracting when i'm

driving about. it's a road hazard

with these

nuts banging their pots and pans

over the highway.

okay, go on i say, waiting

for him to get to the part

about the megaphone.

well, do you also see how most

of these people are boomers,

with white hair and are way overweight?

the last protest they were

in was for the Vietnam war, 

and to demonstrate

how much they hated Nixon.

the senior center drops them off

in the morning

and picks them up later for nap time.

yes, yes go on.

well, when i ride by, i started

thinking,

what do most overweight boomers

like.

coffee, right?

yes. of course. coffee.

coffee and what else?

donuts, scones, that sort of thing,

to eat with their coffee?

exactly.

so what i do is when i ride by

i roll my window down and while

using my megaphone

i yell out.

Safeway is having a sale on Entenman

Crumb Cake.

two for the price of one.

hurry, sale last for one more hour only.

within five minutes they've folded

up their chairs and signs,

and are gone.

genius, right?

the work day

there is tired,

mental exhaustion,

being emotionally drained,

battle

fatigue, but then there's

work

tired.

bone weary.

arms and legs, back.

knees.

the heavy lifting of a long

day

is upon you.

it's time for

a hot bath,

Tylenol,

ice packs for the knees.

Friday can't come

soon enough,

nor sleep.

give till it hurt

give

and give some more,

give

to the bum on the corner,

to the march of dimes,

to the jerry Lewis

telethon,

give

to st. Judes,

to ms,

diabetes,

to cancer research.

give till it hurts.

to the church, to the schools

to the firemen

on the corner

with their boots

in hand.

give to the politicians.

send a check to the United Way,

to the homeless,

to the Peace Corp,

to the weepy eyed dogs

on tv.

to the old Russian women

with their dirty pots and pans.

everyone has a go fund

me page,

a go fund me tuition,

a go fund

me wedding.

kill, maim,

get tossed in the slammer,

and the money

will pour in.

give and give some more,

things will change

soon, right?

three turns in the bed

the dog,

with his ancient instinct,

and still

intact wisdom,

turns three times in

the soft bed

before closing his eyes

to the day,

and falls asleep.

with your love

and devotion

you've made him worry

free.

he knows that

tomorrow also

will be a good day.

there's a lifelong longing

that i hold

as well,

that someone,

at some point,

will also do that for me.

perhaps then,

i'll sleep.

i wonder why that is

it's interesting,

that the only countries that aren't

in chaos,

with rioting

in the streets are the ones

with strong

borders.

those with strict policies

on immigration.

China, Russia,

Japan.
Poland. Liechtenstein,

you have to be a resident there

for 30 years

before they let you in.

South Korea, not a snippet

in the news

about them burning down

the house.

come to think of it,

not once have i seen a

Molotov cocktail

thrown

onto the streets of

Vatican City.

no need for water cannons

there.

time for my five mile bike ride

i treat myself

to a brand-new set of clothing

for riding

my bike.

i need the traditional

costume,

like the ones i see

on the Tour de France.

a jersey

with an advertisement on the back

of my skintight

multi-colored

top.

i need biker shorts with

padding

to protect my family

jewels,

and wrist bands, perhaps

a little mirror and a go-pro

for my new

orange helmet.

biker shoes too, that click

and slide

when i'm walking.

i need to strap in when i hop

onto

my twenty-year-old

Schwinn.

maybe i should take the basket

off first, then

the streamers on the spokes,

and the kickstand.

emotional eating or not eating

with food

there has to be a middle ground

when you're

upset

with something going on

in your life,

whether love or death,

work

or children.

you can't

eat too much,

or too little.

you have to find your own

personal

wheelhouse

when it comes to cake,

or pasta,

steak,

or lettuce.

you can't keep buying

three

separate suits of clothing

depending

upon what emotional

state you're in.

making holiday plans

i don't know about

visiting Europe for the holidays,

the wife

says,

as she brushes her hair,

counting each stroke.

eighty-five,

eighty-six, eighty-seven.

i'm still in bed

with our dog, Ralph.

his head

is on my chest.

i think he needs to go out.

why not, honey bun,

i ask her.

well, i saw on tv 

the rioters.

they've gone mad over there

with the

looting, fires, chaos.

ninety-two, ninety-three,

ninety-four.

i think we should go, i tell

her, before

it's gone for good.

is the Louve,

still there? the Eiffel Tower?

we can buy some helmets

and those

military vests.

some Doc Martin boots.

ninety-seven, ninety-eight,

ninety-nine,

one hundred.

she sets the brush down.

what about Miami, she says.

South Beach for

Christmas?

sure, why not, i think i still

have my red

speedo from the last time

we went.

how to win a poetry prize

be imprecise,

abstract, elusive with your

words.

leave them

wondering on what

the message is.

strive to be obtuse,

obscure, puzzling

with your words.

don't connect the dots.

let the reader

decide.

then lean hard left

with your emotions,

your seeping

feelings, show

the world

your dormant feminine side.

keep it a mystery

what you've

written on the once

blank page.

add a dash

of Salvadore Dali,

some Andy Warhol,

jump on the horse of e.e.

cummings

and ride.

don't tell them anything.

splash

things around,

punctuation is optional.

bring up mythology,

ancient Rome,

Atlantis.

the New Yorker will

love it.

you'll win the Nobel

Prize.

failure to launch

i'm

a first grader when

it comes

to technology.

i will never graduate

and get

my masters degree

in the fine art

of computers and phones.

(is there a difference

anymore?)

i am stuck

in first gear.

there's enough tech

in my

phone to fly to the moon,

so they say.

but i can only answer

and call

and take an occasional

picture

or two.

but that's about it.

don't ask me to copy and paste,

or to download

an app,

or to print

anything.

face time is a mystery.

where is the Play store,

by the way,

next to Sears

at the Mall?

i'm shocked when i see people

typing

using their fingers

and thumbs

like Buddy Rich playing

the drums.

(don't ask).

i think someone is trying

to call me. got to go.

i'm done.

Saturday bath time in Paris

i like

how the French police are now

using water
cannons

to blast the protestors down

the street.

nothing like getting hit

in the face

by a blast of river water

from

the Seine.

but why not

throw in some

soap too.

catapult some ivory bars

into the mob,

or dove bars

for those with sensitive skin, 

perhaps

some Tide detergent,

a large box

or two,

sprinkled down

from above.

maybe some scrub brushes

as well

to clean up

the mess they've made.

two sides to everything

i run into

my ex-wife's best friends

in the grocery

store.

a couple from the old

neighborhood.

our children

grew up together.

it's been 25 years since i've seen

them,

but we ignore

the awkwardness.

we stop our carts

and

get right into small talk,

children,

weather, 

associated other friends.

so how have you been?

everyone is good.

of course.

there's some wear and tear

on both of them,

as i'm sure they see on me.

strange,

as it is,

i never disliked them, despite

everything,

despite the act

of taking sides.

if only they knew the truth

of how and why,

but why bother now.

i'm free.

we give each other

a handshake and a hug

goodbye.

S:3 G:2494-B

at last

the headstone arrives

and is set

upon

my father's

final resting place

in Arlington.

his name,

his birth date and place,

and the day

he died are

all engraved.

they play taps for him.

which he would

have liked,

unsentimental

as he was.

but i imagine a tear might

fall from

one or two

of his ocean blue eyes,

along with

an embarrassed laugh,

and a hand

that would brush

aside

such ceremony.

waiting for what's next

the sky

is more blue, more

cold

and beautiful than it's ever

been.

i'm still running,

it's late

in the fall,

the ball is in the air,

i can see it

between

the clouds, 

a shadow in the sun,

spinning

towards me,

my legs and arms

are young, my heart

is racing.

the grass is a bright green

field of joy.

i'm still running

with

a bloom of breath before me.

i'm waiting 

with open arms for what

comes next,

for the ball to at last

come down.

we knew everyone's name

hard to believe

but

there used to be a milkman,

a paper boy,

the mailman

used to come twice a day.

grown men

would knock on our door

selling encyclopedias

or Hoover

Vacuums

and we'd invite them in

for coffee

and crumb cake.

people would actually,

tip their hats

and wave.

on Sunday we walked

to church

with a pocketful of change.

we sat on the front

porch and talked,

how hard we laughed,

we played

board games.

the kids ran free in the yard

until dark,

catching fireflies

in mason jars.

we played spin the bottle

in the basement,

we danced

to records, we played charades.

we knew

everyone's name.

nostalgia

it feels

good to be longing

for

a time that never really was,

a love

that never existed.

we look back through

the sepia

glass of time

and embrace a mirage.

we're wishful

thinkers.

craving

the past.

it's a

romantic nostalgic trip.

reality

is too hard to live with.

guests for the weekend

we are open

arms

for the guests that arrive,

their yearly

visit.

we're a bed and breakfast

for them

once a year.

my wife

puts flowers on the table.

clean sheets in the spare

bedroom,

their favorite

foods and drinks are on the shelf.

we break open

the good wine,

the good China.

we make home cooked meals.

they are old friends,

good friends,

but by the end of the three

day weekend,

we hate them

and want our house back.

one cherry cough drop will do

there has to be

at least one sweet treat

in the house,

one cookie,

one tiny bit of chocolate,

or candy

from last years Halloween.

there has to be

a crumb

of a donut, a thin

slice

of cake

between the sofa seats.

a morsel of something

frozen

in the freezer,

ice cream

maybe. please

don't make me eat

an apple,

please.

pulling the lever on November 3rd

i try to stay informed

on the basic policies of those

running for office

in the upcoming election.

i write down the platform

of the blue side.

the red side seems to want

the exact opposite.

but here's the blue side.

this is what they want,

not all of them, but many.

open borders.

higher taxes.

punish the rich.

get out jail free cards

for multiple offenders.

free Medicare for all.

defund the police,

defund the military,

transgender surgeries

for children

and inmates in prisons.

abolish the senate,

the congress.

the presidency.

abortion up into the ninth

month.

abolish the second amendment.

empty the prisons.

allow non-citizens to vote.

abandon Israel,

let Iran have the bomb.

free buses.

free syringes for drug addicts,

leave the homeless

on the streets to live out

their best life, open

government run grocery stores.

and finally, but not least,

flying the American flag

upside down

and outlawing red hats.

George Washington must be

rolling in his grave.

turn around, there's more to see

i go

to the beach

on the eastern shore,

i travel

to Europe, to South

America,

to Philly

then Miami, but the only

thing on my

mind is

going home.

i yawn at the Great Wall

of China,

i take at nap on the edge

of the Grand Canyon,

i feel lonely

in Times Square.

i only think about getting

home again,

to peace and quiet.

there is nothing

of interest left

for me to see.

which she tells me isn't true.

prove it,

i tell her. prove it to me.

my brother, my husband

when you see the news,

and it's full

of government

officials,

congressmen and women

getting arrested,

you can't help but

wonder what the hell 

is going on here.

mayors and senators,

governors and

attorney generals

all taking bribes and looking

the other way

when thievery runs rampant.

from dog catcher up.

you see their

mug shots plastered

on the screen.

calling the crimes a racist

attack,

or a minor clerical error

on their tax

returns.

caught with gold bars

in their closets,

money stacked in

the Cayman Islands.

immigration fraud

by marrying one's sibling.

lying about where they live,

where they were born.

forgery and fraud

run amok.

the wanton abuse of

Snap and EBT cards,

day care centers and

senior care facilities all

ATM machines for

the 

do gooders.

like rats they scurry

off with our tax dollars

for the homeless,

for the hungry.

they're

selling drugs, 

sleeping with Chinese

spies, tattooing Nazi

symbols on their chest.

start building the next boat,

Noah,

we're living in crazy

times.

putting it in medical terms

i agonize

about the call back for

wallpaper

installation.

it's always a loose seam,

a bubble

that hasn't subsided yet.

a slight miscut,

a mismatch in the corner

that needs

a little attention.

why is the paper still wet?

can you come and take

a look at it please?

tonight would be fine.

we'll be home

after 8 or even nine.

sure i tell them.

i'm on my way. i have no

life of my own.

{wallpaper is like brain

surgery,

i tell them,

while painting is no more

difficult than lancing

a boil.}

we're surprisingly different

women

go to the nail salon

for hands

and feet, 

nearly every two

weeks it's

the hair

for color and a cut,

then it's off to

the massage parlor,

they do Pilates,

and aerobic

exercises, yoga.

the gym is on their schedule

too.

they jump

up and down on a little

trampoline,

barbells

and kettle bells.

they have hot stones

laid upon

their backs,

they get mud on their faces.

they have

someone for electrolysis,

and of course

a gynecologist.

they get waxed

on a regular

basis.

they're always stretching

like cats.

whereas most men

get up,

and go.

a shower a shave,

then to work.

later we'll take a nap.

after all this time

somehow,

a nail protrudes from

the inner

wall of my

tire

on my truck.

it looks like a small metal

arrow

shot from a bow,

maybe

curb high.

but it's a slow leak,

and i can

make it to the gas

station without

a tow.

but how, but why?

can she still mad at me

after all this time?

more garlic please, the moon is full

as the nurse

sticks and slides a needle

into my

purplish

thickened vein,

i look the other way,

i blink,

as i often

do when

it involves pain,

or 

the taking

of any liquids from my

body

in an invasive way.

although i do have

a few

friends

of a vampire nature

that i have to watch out

for when

the moon is full.

my pizza garlic breath

helps to keep them

away.

the dearly departed reader

i don't like

what you write, or how

you think

about the world, 

i'm incensed by

how your politics lean.

so i have to leave,

i can no longer

be a follower

of your so-called work,

your lame

poetry. sometimes it

seems as if

you have no empathy.

so i'm moving on.

take care, good luck.

you're not someone i want

to know or even read

anymore.

signed,

mom.

Amsterdam Calling

i get a text

from Amsterdam.

a picture of a Belgian waffle

covered

in whipped

cream.

there's pastry, and sausages,

meat

hanging in the butcher

window,

the long

stretch of the canal

and brick

pathway,

draped by old trees. grey

stone statues

and bookstores,

three hundred

year old hotels still

welcoming

guests.

and them comes my request,

a picture from

the red-light district,

where in the window

sit alluring rentals,

all of them partially dressed.

the most favored child

was there

a favored child in the brood

of children?

the one

handed the icing

spoon

or spatula.

the one taken out for

ice-cream

as we stood on the street

with hands

on our hips

wondering what was

going on here.

was there a child more

kissed,

more looked after,

one who

had her hair brushed longer

than the others.

yes.

even at the age of ten,

it wasn't

hard to miss.

no forwarding address

i don't

know how to reach you.

which is

okay.

you know where i am

if you care

to talk things

over,

drop me a line,

dial me up,

let's catch up,

although,

nothing's changed.

i'm still happy

without you.

circumstances are

wonderfully the same.

another ugly debate

the gloves

come off in the congressional

debate.

you're a liar,

you stink,

you cheat on your wife.

there's rumors that you

kick your dog

on a regular basis

when you get home at night.

when was the last time

you took a shower

or brushed your teeth.

these are the people that

want to serve

the country and eat

off the taxpayers table.

not a single word

is heard about

what they're actually

going to do for their

state.

just a lot of babble, a

lot of hate.

the solution to end the riots

i've come

up with an easy solution

to end

the riots that seem to be

on every continent

of the world.

no need for rubber bullets

or batons,

or fire hoses.

no need for negotiations,

or reparations,

or whatever the hell they want.

no, the solution 

is called sleeping gas,

which would

be sprayed over the unruly

crowds

by small planes

that are usually

used for crop dusting.

once everyone is asleep

and the fires put out,

farm plows could come

through and scoop 

the rioters up, then

in dump trucks they could

all be taken to a stadium

somewhere until 

they cooled off.

an old itch that needs scratching

some thoughts

come

to you on crutches,

bandaged

and bruised,

the wound healing,

yet still red.

how you like to pick

at the scab

of old hurts,

wrongs

done to you.

every now and again,

you have

to pull back the Band-Aid

and scratch it,

you dig into the old wound,

until enough

is enough,

and you're through.

she was not like the others

the crooked little

finger

on my left hand

has been with me for

over 50 years,

broken

in a boys game

of tackle football.

i stare at it on occasion,

painless now,

as most

things are over time,

but i remember

it as if it was yesterday,

the second

it curled and snapped,

leaving it

deformed,

forever not like the others.

wiping the smile off of Mona Lisa's face

because

France is on fire,

and the streets

are full of angry

masked men rioting

and looting,

we cancel our long awaited

trip to that once

beautiful country.

it seems they have

no government in charge.

sadly,

i toss my new black beret

into the coat

closet,

put my red scarf on a hook.

i shelve

the Michelin rated

restaurant

guide and

set aside the English

to French

Dictionary.

why even keep

a conversion chart

turning dollars

into Euros?

maybe next year, if 

the country still exists

we'll try again,

but

will the Mona Lisa

survive?

will the Eiffel Tower

and the Arc De Triomphe

come tumbling down

at the hands

of crazies

before we arrive?

the Sears Catalogue

for hours,

we'd sit in the living room,

on the cold floor,

as snow fell,

and turn

page after page of

the Sears Catalogue,

making a mental note

of things

we'd like to have

for Christmas.

everything under the sun

was in it.

the book was at least

five hundred pages thick,

heavy as a cinder block.

we licked our fingers

and turned the thin pages,

which were

no different than my mother's

Catholic bible.

methodically we

worked our way 

through it,

sometimes using a magic marker

to circle whatever, it was that

caught our interest.

sometimes we'd pray.

the street hustle

the boys

from Front Royal

are out on the street,

while their Ford F 150,

idles loudly

at the end

of the cul de sac.

they're

selling cords of firewood,

self-chopped,

cut and bundled from

deep in the Virginia woods.

they hustle, red faced,

from door to door,

taking no notice of your

lack of chimney,

oblivious to whether

or not you even

have a fireplace, but

you admire their

capitalistic nature.

it's something you would

have done at that age,

hungry and willing to work.

you still have faith.

what else has gone wrong

when you

see the frayed and soiled

mattress tied down

by bungee cords

to the back of a pickup

truck, streaming down

the highway,

along side

a small desk and chairs,

a plaid sofa

in shades faded by

sunlight,

a child's swing set

in pieces, you can't help

but wonder,

what else has gone wrong.

the wobbly rear view mirror

it took

months before i had

enough money

saved up to fix the rear view

mirror

of my 67 maroon Camaro

that my girlfriend broke

with her foot

as we made out

in the bucket seats

while at the drive-in.

a gear shift was positioned

dangerously between us.

we were both quite flexible

back then.

almost gymnasts.

i have no memory of what

movie was playing,

a triple feature i'm sure, 

perhaps dusk to dawn

and

i imagine that

the windows were steamed.

at some point i'm sure

we pushed the static filled metal

speaker off the window,

onto the ground

and accidentally sat on

a greasy shrimp roll

from the concession stand.

perpetually late

those

that arrive late, are late

for a reason.

you're part of it,

but not

in a good way.

they're telling you something

without

saying it.

it's all in the game

they play.

the existential waffle iron

do i really

need

a waffle iron, i ask myself,

as i stare

at the closet

full of air fryers,

mixers

and blenders,

food processors,

coffee machines

and 

microwave

ovens,

toaster ovens.

all once

used but set aside finally

because i had

no room on

the counter to butter toast

from the one

appliance left standing.

i only want waffles

maybe

once a year.

usually when the first

frost

arrives

and i feel like i need to

fatten up

like a bear

about to hibernate.

maybe a small one,

i tell myself.

a two-waffle iron, 

not one or four

or eight.

the moonlit bay

the bay

was moonlit when we

set out

in the small white

boat.

one set of oars, with

me

pulling them, pulling

us towards

the other shore.

we weren't officially

in love yet.

but

this would do it.

it was the salt air, the breeze,

the moon

on the water

as it lapped

against the old boards.

it was

the kiss you gave me

as i stopped

in the middle

to say something

i'd never said before.

but i told you this an hour ago

she knew

what she was doing with those

legs.

how she crossed

them

in her black dress,

sometimes touching

her ankle

with a hand.

how she sat in the chair

with a glass

of wine

and used them to distract

me.

it worked so

many times.

i never remembered

half of what she

said.

i remember talking

i remember

talking.

those days, those long

nights

when drinking

tonic and gin,

conversing

with one or two, a crowd.

late

into the morning

at times.

discussing things, 

love and death,

the world

at large,

whatever was on our minds.

i remember

moving my lips,

opening my mouth and

letting the words

pour out. my

voice projecting my life.

i remember talking.

it was way before

i began

to write.

a minor clerical error

there's a knock at the door,

it's late,

i look out the window and see

someone dressed in black holding

a pole of some sort.

i go down.

maybe it's Amazon, or Ups,

i can't remember half of what

i order these days.

i open the door.

yes, can i help you?

it's time, he says. let's go.

time for what.

who are you.

can i come in, he says, it's

a little cold out here

and it's beginning to rain.

sure, sure, wipe your feet, okay?

what's with the pole, i ask him.

little early for Halloween

isn't it?

it's a scythe, not a pole.

but why? it looks spooky.

it represents the harvesting

of souls.

really?

oh, never knew that. anyway.

how can i help you.

car break down, need to use

the phone, bathroom?

i've come for you, he say.

it's time. 

i'm death.

i laugh, that's the name i gave

my third wife.

he opens up a little book

and shows me my name,

the date and time

of my demise.

me, what? no look, i have to get

up early in the morning.

i've got leftovers in the fridge. 

are you sure you have the right

guy. i don't see my middle initial

on that pad.

there are tons of people with my

same name.

he scratches gently his hooded

head with the scythe.

hmmm. what's your middle initial.

B i tell him, B for Benjamin.

i don't see a B, he says.

damn that Susie, he says.

i'm going to give her hell tomorrow

at the office.

give her hell?

just for a clerical mistake?

it's just an expression. okay. he says.

look you're off the hook for now.

go back to bed,

i'll show myself out.

do you have a bottle of water for

the road,

hot as hell in this shroud.

sure, sure.

in the fridge.

the red scarf

i fall asleep

on the train going across town.

i miss my stop.

at the end

the conductor wakes me up,

shaking my

shoulder.

you have to get off here, he says.

sorry, it's the last stop.

i wipe the sleep out

of my eyes

as he waits for me to get up.

he's tired too.

he has his lunch pail

in his hand,

a thermos.

his coat and hat are on.

there's a red scarf around

his neck.

maybe his wife

gave it to him one Christmas.

it's cold,

which makes me shiver.

let's go, he says. let's go.

he helps me up

by my arm.

it's been a long day underground

for the both of us.

if the world were to end tomorrow

in discussing

world

politics with soul

mate number two,

(a maddingly three minutes)

jokingly i said
to her,

that if the world were to end

tomorrow,

the Washington Post

and CNN

would put as

their headline,

asteroid to strike our planet.

World Ends Tomorrow.

women,

children and minorities

will suffer the most.

she shook her head sadly,

and said, that is so so true.

kind compliments that you don't forget

while getting out

the car

in downtown dc, 

not far from a local pub,

my brother and i,

both of us dressed neatly

with good

shoes and ironed clothes,

smelling fancy

with cologne, were sneered

at by

a couple of hard

nosed gangsters

packing heat,

they look at us,

up and down showing 

the gold

in their teeth.

it was a new

and improved

gentrified

part of the city where

row houses,

and crack dens

had been turned into

town houses

with pastel painted

brick and shutters with

small fenced in lots,

greens lawns,

and poodles

with rhinestone collars

prancing around.

these boys from hood

shook their heads at us

and said to one another,

what's up with all these

gay dudes moving into

our part of town.

discovering loneliness

we think

we know what loneliness is,

but we

don't.

we think it's being alone,

by oneself

for days,

or hours at a time, to go

years

without anyone to talk to.

we think of loneliness

as isolation,

but it's not.

you'll truly know

what loneliness is 

when you're

lying next to someone

in bed

when the love is gone

and the room

is dark.

when you live together,

untouched.

she knew your name

at the end

of the day, as a young boy,

you stood

at your bureau

and emptied your pockets.

out came

the pen knife, your

lucky rabbit's foot

with a key

attached,

spare change, a folded

one dollar bill

that you've had

since last summer.

there's a quartz rock

you picked

up along the way.

a pack of gum,

and a phone number

on a slip

of paper

from the girl you met at

the playground

who strangely knew

your name.

the ten act play off broadway

as if in an unpublished

Tennessee

Williams play,

she stands in the doorway,

and says dramatically,

i'm never coming

back,

so don't wait up.

this last straw has broken

the camel's back.

i lower the newspaper

to see what all

the racket is about.

she's holding her little poodle

in her arms.

two Louie Vuitton suitcases

are at her feet.

what?

i ask, what is it this time?

if you don't know,

i'm not going to tell you.

and remember,

tomorrow is trash day.

then she leaves

giving the door a declaration

of war

slam.

but she'll be back,

her car keys are on the table.

let them eat cake

as i ride by

the overpass, i slow down to watch

the protesters

wave their

upside down flags,

yelling and screaming

about kings.

it's a cold wet day.

they wave,

they're happy to be out there

in the wind

and rain.

some have brought muffins,

coffee

and chairs.

it's going to be a long day

in Golashes

and rain gear.

it takes

a village

to change the world.

almost all of them are beyond

sixty,

almost all

have white hair.

the blue senior home buses

idle on the side

of the road.

near dark they will all be

going home

and the roads once more

will be clear.

she didn't need no stinking gym

i don't remember

my mother ever saying something

like

i need to go on a diet,

i need to lose

weight, i need to join a gym

and get in

shape.

she had arms like meat hooks

from all

the diapers she changed,

all the meals

she made

all the clothes she washed

and hung on the line.

she could carry three children

up a flight of stairs

and a vacuum cleaner

with no problem.

but when Tab soft drink was

invented

in the sixties,

she bought that by the gallons,

pretending that

would help.

is Paris burning, yes

so what?

you think, as

you turn to the news.

Paris is burning.

not even two world wars

could destroy

this city,

and yet now,

it may happen.

the streets are in chaos,

stores

and businesses looted.

has the country

folded,

surrendered

once more to an

aggressive outside 

force?

will the Eiffel Tower

tumble,

will The Louvre

go down

in flames?

is this how it all ends?

the cereal box before you

how interested

you were

at a young age in reading

cereal boxes,

as you

slurped another spoonful

of milk

and honey oats

into your mouth.

a luxury with this meal

would

be toast,

which you didn't have.

but the box held your eyes,

the red

and orange colors,

all bright,

the bold print,

the tiny ingredient label,

as you read

each side.

it told you nothing about

life,

and yet like now,

as you stare into your phone

you press on,

hoping.

it's the little things

small

as they are we

want them gone.

this line of ants crawling

towards

a mountain, in their eyes,

spilled

sugar,

unswept crumbs.

it's the little things at times

that get

under our skin,

that we

want to put under

our thumbs.

genetics, fate, luck, destiny

two kinds

of us exist, the ones

who care

and the ones who don't.

the caring kind

watch what they eat,

they sleep well

and exercise. they avoid

hard drinks

and smoke.

rarely do they scale a mountain

or swim

with the sharks.

taking chances

is not their nature.

and then there are those

who don't care.

those who don't give a flip.

the ones who eat and drink

whatever they want,

they smoke,

and curse,

they avoid church, they speed

down the highway.

you see them

on the snowy slopes of

Kilimanjaro,

or on a rollercoaster

at the park, yelling look Ma,

no hands.

and yet, it's a flip of the coin

as to which

lives longer.

looking for Marge

the strange

man

who's been circling the block

all afternoon

in long black car

is suspect,

although no crime

has been

committed.

some feel that he's either

done something,

or is about to.

Laura,

the self-appointed

mayor

of the street

has already called the cops.

i see her at the corner

with a long handled

hoe in her hands,

a guardian

at the door.

at last

he slows down

in front of my house

and rolls his window down.

he asks me

if i've seen Marge, his ex-wife.

a lanky blonde woman,

black dress,

red lipstick.

i shake my head

no.

i don't tell him that she's

in my house,

sound asleep on the living room

couch.

her car parked four blocks

away, out of sight.

finding a tree to lie under

i fall

in love with the tree in the yard.

it made me

buy the house.

it's been

here before

my birth and will

still be here long

after i depart.

it doesn't judge me.

it seems ambivalent

about

everything

as my life passes

before it.

it's my kind of tree.

it lets me rest

under its shade.

lying down beneath

it on lazy

afternoons.

it let's me

watch the leaves turn

colors with

each new season.

from green to gold then

bare again

before my eyes.

it lets me listen to

the birds

astride on its welcoming

branches.

between us there is so

much unsaid love,

between us, there is

no animosity.