the night is young, and yet

i yawn

which makes her yawn,

everyone

is yawning now

as they take

another sip of their drink,

then tap

their mouths.

the dog

is too, curled in his bed

with his rubber ball.

i see the cat on the sill

stretching

and having herself

a long

cat like yawn.

i look at my watch, it's only

nine o'clock.

the night is still young, but

we just don't party

like we used to do.

dusting for old fingerprints

traces

of you are still here.

i've dusted the top shelves,

the edge of the bookcase

pulled out,

the doorknobs

to the closet,

the dial to the safe.

i've lifted your prints off tables,

beneath the bed,

and the inside my desk drawer

your fingerprints.

they're everywhere.

evidence that demands

a verdict.

i want to know what it was

that you were looking for.

i hope you find it 

wherever you are, but not here.

his swinging pork and beans

the man

next door mows his lawn

in the nude,

except for a wide brim

straw hat

and flip flops.

he's one of those,

i guess,

unabashedly

cutting his grass,

sans clothes,

as his

protruding pink

belly,

and pork and beans

swing

in the breeze,

exposed to the world.

this goes on the whole

summer

until i find an enormous

funneled bees nest

and hang it on

our shared fence.

i then hit it with

a bat, causing the show

to mercifully end.

national stupid day

there's a national

hot dog

day,

a candy bar day.

an ice cream

and wine day.

there's 

one for grandmothers

and fathers,

dogs

and cats each have

their own day.

one for sisters

and peanut butter.

in laws

and teachers.

there's one for milk,

one for eggs.

there's one for love

called 

Valentine's Day.

but no happily divorced day.

there's one for popcorn

and for

spaghetti.

every month and every

day in that month

has some stupid

thing we're supposed

to recognize

and do something about.

Hallmark is having

a field day

with this insanity.

they're

no longer satisfied with

the basic four

or five,

they've become very greedy,

haven't they?

when criminals are the victims

the victims

are quickly done away with.

pushed to the back

of the room

of conversation,

wheeled out to the waiting

white van.

it's no longer

about the lives lost

or ruined,

the blood spilled.

their innocence shattered.

no,

the tears and pearl clutching

is now are for those

who did the crime.

the criminals.

maybe they weren't hugged

enough.

maybe no one read them

bed side stories

when they were young.

it's genetic,

postpartum,

testosterone or estrogen

run amok.

it's bi-polar, schizophrenia,

too many pills, not

enough.

perhaps because they had

no mother, no father to guide them.

it's the failure of society,

the patriarchy,

it's bad luck.

they don't deserve to be

punished though,

and put behind the bars.

just get the mop out

and clean up.

the green scented Christmas tree on the rearview mirror

look into a man's

or woman's car and you will

quickly see

who they are and how

they live.

there's clothes and shoes,

wire hangers

that opened the doors

when the keys

were locked within.

there's that hamburger wrapper

perpetually floating

in the back seat,

the empty beer

cans,

the half-eaten donuts

crushed on the floor.

the smell of fish

of some sort coming

from the trunk or glove

compartment.

an open can of Vienna

sausages, perhaps,

or tuna in tin foil.

but what saves the day,

is the little scented

Christmas tree swinging

from the rear-view mirror.

the enormous room

it's a large room,

let's call it a party room, a reception

room,

a room for weddings,

or birthdays

or reunions of some sort,

retirements.

it's full of tables. big round

black tables with

white folding chairs.

the dance floor is in alternating

squares of blue and white

linoleum.

the drapes are heavy as is

the brocaded

wallpaper,

paper Martha Washington would

be proud to have in

her humble abode

up on the hill of Fairfax County.

sconces are on the walls

three quarters of the way

up to the 20 foot ceilings.

evenly measured,

just so apart for ambient lighting

when the sky grows dark.

it's an elderly

care facility

stretching out over acres

of land.

a senior home for the wealthy,

with deep pockets

and estranged children

who are no longer close to heart.

there are pools and exercise

rooms.

saunas and on the far lot

a putting green,

that no one seems to use.

but it's a fine place to rest your head,

for one last

go.one last cheer as another

new year

ticks off the clock

in the big grande room.

why don't you write a poem about me?

she says, why don't you write

a poem

about me?

a love poem.

don't you find me interesting?

alluring?

but i don't even

know you, i tell her.

i just met you yesterday

for a drink

and some fried calamari

at Joes Crab Shack.

there's not enough

information

about you to warrant a poem

just yet.

well, what

do you want to know

about me?

okay, well, spill.

hmm, let's see, she says,

jabbing her chin

with a long dagger-like fingernail.

i've been married four times,

i have three

kids out of wedlock

and i used to be addicted

to meth,

i'm on probation

for arson

and blue is my favorite color.

plus i like to sleep in.

let me get my notebook and pen,

i tell her,

it's in the car.

hold that thought.

trying to withdraw cash from the bank

the bank

manager comes over to the window

to ask

me why i'm 

withdrawing

three thousand four hundred

and fifty

dollars from the bank.

from my personal checking account.

i've been banking

there forever,

which to me is thirty-two years.

what's with the withdrawal?

he asks.

i tell him, it's personal.

i'd rather not say.

just tell me, he says,

stepping into my personal space.

he smells like soap and baby powder.

i see a security guard 

go over to the entrance

doors to lock them.

i see his hand unsnap

his holster.

are you going to tell me why

you want

to withdraw so much money

from this bank or not?

no. never, i tell him. like i said,

it's personal.

it's my money. i put this money

into the bank and now i want

to take some out.

the manager shakes his head,

you're one of those, are you?

he says,

and asks me to step into a side

office where he

pulls down the shades.

a woman comes

in, the assistant manager,

she's wearing a yellow pantsuit,

because it's close to Easter, and

there's a flower behind one ear.

i see a large pail of water

swinging from her meaty hand,

and a burlap

bag that she quickly pulls over

my head.

i'm forced to sit in a chair

and put my head back.

suddenly she's pouring water

onto my face through the burlap mesh.

tell us,

they both say menacingly.

tell us.

why are you taking your money

out of our bank.

why?

again, the manager says,

motioning for another pour.

so she pours more water on me.

i'm choking, gagging.

okay, okay. i give up i mumble,

gagging,

tapping out on the chair.

i'll tell you. i'll tell you.

i have to bail someone out of jail.

and cash is the only way

they'll accept payment.

okay, okay. calm down.

we believe you.

the burlap bag

is pulled off my head and

they hand me a towel to dry off with.

now go ahead and get back in line

to withdraw your money.

here's your withdrawal slip.

try to stop whimpering.

by the way, our cd rates are at 3.4 percent

for five months, starting

today, the assistant says,

while handing me a cherry lollipop.

changing batteries in the remote

even

a genius must get up

and brush

his teeth,

sit on the toilet,

pay his bills and

let the dog out.

even the brilliant

must wash

his clothes, comb

his hair, and take an

umbrella when

venturing out

into the rain.

he waits, as we all do

for the water

to boil.

he's no different than

you or me,

just smarter, perhaps,

but still

shackled to all that's

mundane.

the heavy yellow coat

not everyone, but many,

who live

long enough

will wear it.

that coat.

the heavy coat,

whether

grey or black, or

faded and frayed

a dirty yellow.

you'll see them on the benches

at the park,

or pushing

a cart through the grocery

store.

widowed

or perpetually single,

the children

far off.

their eyes, seconds away

from weeping,

their bodies,

hours away from giving

up.

friends are mere memories,

young still

in the photo box.

we want to live to be

an old man

or an old woman, 

but then enough

is enough.

things brought home from the beach

i've taken home

a pound of sand

from the beach.

it's not Miami sand,

white and bleached,

but North Atlantic sand,

dirty and brown

off the cold rough coast.

it pours from my pockets

and shoes,

my ears.

it's in between my toes.

i'm chewing on the same

piece of salt water

taffy that i put in my mouth

three hours ago.

there's seaweed 

in my bathing suit.

small bits of shells and fish

bones. there are

remnants of

pizza and French fries

stuck to my

clothes.

but i have a magnet

to put

on the fridge.

so all is not lost.

a shiny square,

that i bought half price

at seasons end.

one of Sidney Sweeny

in a seaside pose.

a bad bag of charcoal

i build

a small pyramid of charcoal

briquettes

in the small Weber Grill,

a wide metal pot

sitting on the iron

mesh table,

out back.

no lighter fluid necessary

the bag says.

so i light a match

and toss it in.

nothing happens.

another match, then another

match.

my steak awaits,

sitting on the white plate

beside the fork

and knife.

it's seasoned and salted.

there is no flame, nothing,

nada.

i grab some leaves and twigs

and toss them

into the grill.

i tear out some pages of a

book i'll never

read and throw

that in.

the fire builds, the wind blows

the ashes and smoke

around.

my eyes weep as i begin to cough.

then the fire

goes out.

the charcoal is still as cold

as stones

in a creek.

i break off part of my fence,

the trim

around the door and set that

on fire.

again the flames rise,

and the wood catches fire,

but then goes out.

i take of my shirt and pants

and set them in.

another match, more fire,

but then that too goes out.

i'm down to my underwear and socks.

the coals again are still black,

still cold.

i look at my phone

and call door dash.

the mob mentality

you feel

sympathy for the lone juror

who

won't be bullied,

and stands

his ground.

you too have been ignoring

the mob

mentality for most

of your life.

not giving in to the brow

beating,

to following

the crowd over the cliff

of unreason.

know your limitations

you learn

early in life what you're not going to be.

a singer,

a dancer, a scientist,

a lawyer

or a doctor.

you know your limitations.

you won't be 

a professor of fine

arts,

or a deep-sea diver,

or fisherman

for that matter.

a minister is out of the question.

you've narrowed down

your possibilities

according to your skills,

or lack thereof.

it's either a short order cook,

or a circus clown.

the salsa stain interview

i remember the last

job

interview

i went to. 

somewhere around thirty

years old, 

sitting there

in my

somewhat new clothes.

hiding the salsa

stain on

my white shirt with a wide

tie.

and the interviewer

of this tech

firm telling me to close

my eyes

and lean back.

relax. now

tell me where you want to

be in five years

with our firm, he said.

i did so, but my only

thought was,

to be anywhere but here.

eggs are off the list

it's not funny,

but it is somehow, seeing

chickens in

the back yard

of a city row house.

three or four, fat and white

chickens,

hopping about.

pecking madly

at the ground.

the dog staring at them,

thinking,

what is this all about.

eggs are now off the shopping

list, i guess, and yet.

it's strange what you

might see

when peering out.

the screen is slow

the screen is slow

in coming up,

as i am,

this early in the morning,

before

the first cup.

but it will get there,

as i will.

given time,

given prayer,

given faith in the machine,

and mind.

selective memory

in time

the memory becomes selective,

the hearing too.

you choose

wisely the time and moment

when you

want to speak, to add

into the conversation,

but just a word

or two.

you learn when to leave.

when not to go.

your favorite word is no longer

yes, but a quiet no,

or maybe.

getting old

is not so bad after all.

except for the knees.

blue, black or white

i have

never woken up 

and said to myself.

today is the day

i wear that orange

shirt,

or the yellow one,

or the light green one with

hummingbirds,

the one my mother gave me

for Christmas

back in the day,

when she thought that i might

be gay,

because of the poetry thing.

it's either blue, or black,

or white.

with blue jeans,

a sturdy pair of boots

or shoes.

a white t-shirt and Levis

is the way

they can carry me out

when the good Lord calls

me home.

but the love isn't true

yesterday

i received 57 phone calls

from telemarketers.

mostly from people overseas,

speaking

a foreign language.

today i got only 53.

the last call came in at

10 30 pm.

life insurance,

end of life insurance,

car insurance,

home repair contractors,

Medicare,

time share hotels,

relators and medical

pills and equipment.

sometimes i say hello,

while other times i don't

answer, or quickly hang up.

it doesn't matter what

i do.

it's endless, these calls,

but the love isn't true.

don't be a white male man

i find a shopping list

in the parking

lot beside a Subaru.

it's a long list

in child like block letter

writing.

i look around to see

if anyone might be nearby,

just now walking to the store,

looking in their pockets

for the grocery

list they wrote out.

i read it to myself.

granola,

soy milk, plant based

burgers,

salmon patties

and vegan

spaghetti.

magic markers,

and large placards to

be used as signs i imagine.

hummus and cottage

cheese,

free range organic eggs,

the New Yorker

and the Atlantic Magazine.

and then i see

who it might be going

through the front door

of the A & P.

she's pushing a stroller

with a girlfriend.

a little Asian kid is waving

from his seat.

it has to be her, middle aged

and white.

a streak of blue hair,

and a tattoo on her shoulder

of Hillary Clinton

and Joan of Arc.

i rush over and give her the list,

but then have to dodge

a punch,

and jump out of the way

to not be kicked.

both guilty and crazy

after watching

the horrific trial, you see your

wife,

the woman who

watches your children

while you're at work

on tv.

she's dressed in pink and holding

up a placard

saying Clancy is innocent.

she's screaming

at the lawyers,

the jurors,

at anyone who contradicts

her beliefs.

she's bug eyed and wild.

out of control.

you look over

at your children on the couch,

snuggled up

and warm,

reading, eating cookies.

almost ready for bed.

you think to yourself that

maybe it's time

for you to stay home more.

slow day at the office

the new stapler arrives

in the mail.

Italian,

white and glossy like

my toaster

in the kitchen.

i've filled it up with

staples

and now the wait begins.

the clock is ticking

on when it

might be used.

we'll see.

eventually though,

i'm hoping that two sheets

of paper will need

to be attached,

or more than two.

someone trying to get out

on the outside

she

was plain jane, 

with glasses

and flat

brown hair,

with no ribbons or

adornments.

she was

pale and reticent

and spoke slowly

with

words you could hardly

hear.

but there was more

inside

than she revealed.

i noticed that when

she pulled up

one pant leg

and showed me her

bright orange socks,

just barely

concealed.

don't look back

what if

nothing turns out the way

you thought

it would.

what if you've taken the wrong

path,

gone left

when you should

have gone

right?

what if you could start

over

from scratch?

would it matter?

would your life be better,

or somehow

worse?

best to forget all that

and continue

on

without looking back.

the commies next door

they're a sweet couple

next door,

the communist slash socialist

people

who recently moved in,

they wear

red berets

and are always bringing

me over

cold soup

and the stale bread they

make.

i see them in their grey

trousers

and big shouldered suits

planting potatoes

all day,

milking their goat,

and feeding seed to

their one chicken.

they want me to join the club.

to become

one of them.

they tell me about the next

march,

or protest they plan

on going to.

they have a poster of Bernie

framed

on their living room

wall, next to Stalin

and Chairman Mao. AOC,

and Elsayed.

i saw them the other day

reading popular

mechanic

magazines in their back yard.

they talk longingly about

the old Soviet Union,

the Berlin Wall.

how cozy and poor the people were,

but not unhappy,

per se.

they spend a lot of time

in their cellar, doing something,

i don't know what,

but i can hear the banging

of metal,

the stripping of wires,

and smell the whiff

of gunpowder if the windows

are open.

they're

playing around with strange

packages,

i suppose.

they often tell me with

wide toothy smiles, 

both needing dental

care,  that one day the world

as we know it

will no longer be here.

should we stop?

as we drive home,

halfway

there, with two

hours to go,

we stare up at the sky

and take turns

telling each other what a cloud

looks like.

that looks like

a biscuit, she says to me,

pointing

through the windshield,

or a scone.

what about that one?

i ask her.

oh my,

perhaps a strip of bacon,

or a half-eaten

waffle,

and that

one over there?

it looks like pitcher

of some sort,

maybe a syrup

pitcher

about to pour, or melted

butter

on a slice of toast,

with eggs

and sausage links.

should we stop? i ask her.

yes.

please, she says.

isn't it obvious what the universe

is telling us?

the morning routine

people

walk by on the short

boardwalk.

with arms

swinging,

exercise outfits on,

headbands

and hats,

smart visors to block

the sun.

all sizes,

all colors, some walk,

some run.

each to their own

idea

of losing a pound

or two,

lessening

the bulge that strains

behind

their lululemon tights

or nike

shoes

they hit the end and then

turn around.

they come back again.

breakfast long over,

lunch

begins.

fire at the wax museum

it was

too late for the firemen

to put

out the fire

at the wax museum.

everyone

was a puddle of wax,

or less

in the end.

no matter their

status in

life,

all we're

scraped from the charred

floor

and swept

into a bin.

all those annoying poets

as i sit

with the other unemployed

poets

at the park,

we talk about love

and death,

life

in general.

we are annoying people,

always

searching

for a metaphor to mix,

waiting for

something we see to

make a spark,

a reason

to take out a pen

and write.

we observe

without pause,

we're aloof and distant,

almost unreachable

as we mull

over words

said, or unsaid.

what others can't see

the sculptor

sees

beauty in the block

of stone.

the uncut marble

or granite.

he's past

it.

he's onto the next

thing

it will be.

he takes his hammer,

his chisel

and 

with time he reveals

what others

can't see.

thinking about Alice in 418

she seems

lonely, Alice does.

home

with her cats on a Friday night.

me below

with my small dog.

i can

hear her above me in

her apartment,

the tv on,

the scent of soup on the stove

eeking through

the vent.

i hear her

walking around

at times,

or dancing, the music up,

but with whom?

we see each other on the elevator

in the morning,

going to work,

or when coming home with

a bag of

groceries.

i see no ring on her finger

and she sees

no ring on mine.

there's the first sign of grey

in her

hair, but less

than what i have.

we nod and say it's cold out.

or talk about

the rain.

have a nice evening,

we say kindly

to one another,

then go our separate ways,

me to the third

floor,

her to 418.

frolicking seaside

you tell

yourself, you're too old for

this.

to be staring at the young

women

going by.

pretending not to notice

as they frolic

in the ocean, wearing

orange

string bikinis,

with nothing left to hide.

their smiles sparkle in

the wet sun.

will it ever end,

this

boy like desire?

this innate lust that keeps

the world

going round?

she says to me,

leaning on

my shoulder, i hope not.

wherever that is

you

have no schedule, 

no appointments

for the day,

so it's fine

being lost on this long road

going nowhere.

there is the sun of course,

rising in a blush

of pink,

and the pale

wafer

of the moon,

an ornament fragile

in the sky.

you hear a rooster across

the field

near the red barn.

you see a man leaning

against

his broom,

standing on his porch.

the oval face

of his wive, against

the window inside.

what's ahead?

where are we?

will we run out of gas to where

we're going?

wherever that is?

born into it

as you drive

down 404 with corn and soy

fields on either

side of the single

lane road, stretching out for

hundreds of acres,

you see

the white, or pale blue,

clap board houses.

set out

beyond the long gravel

driveways.

there's a swirl of smoke, 

a grey flag

waving

out of chimneys.

you see

a tractor idled

near a barn while

a small circle of gravestones

is revealed at the next

curve of the dotted

white lines.

you wonder what goes on

here.

how did these people

get here?

what life is this?

between the rows of corn.

post nothing of interest

you've learned your

lesson

about posting things on the internet,

your

relationship

status, your work,

your location

and political leanings.

so often, like a white board,

you are taking

the eraser to it

and wiping the slate clean

again.

starting over.

waiting on the sun

i try

to talk my way out of a bad

mood.

but

to no avail, i'm grumpy

and will

just have

to wait this dark cloud

out

with coffee and a book

on the long

couch.

maybe in an hour or two

the sun

will appear.

or you.

positive thinking

there is a mind

game

we all dabble in.

if we believe something

bad is about

to happen, strangely

it often does,

and the same goes for

good things,

fill your mind with hope

and promise,

positive thinking,

and oddly

sweet things will arrive.

a line of wet clothes

when

i see clothes hanging

heavy

and wet on the line

strung

from pole to pole,

i see my

mother in her bare feet

in the wet

grass of April,

yet cold.

she has an apron pocket full

of clothespins

and two

in her mouth.

she's at peace for a few

brief moments,

the kids are

silenced behind the windows.

across the yard,

in the house.

the daily bake in the kiln

it's tiring

trying to improve yourself

on a daily

basis,

becoming exactly who you were

meant to be,

the best version

of yourself,

but maybe

you're already done,

spun when still soft

on the wheel,

then

cooked and baked,

hardened

in the kiln.

perhaps

this is the finished product

no matter how hard

you try to put

another shine on.

painting windows on 9-11

i was about twenty feet

in the air

on a ladder painting a window

in Old Town Alexandria,

when i heard

the crash and boom

of the terrorist plane

that hit the pentagon.

i had my little red transistor

radio sitting on sill

as i listened to Howard Stern

bringing the convoluted news.

(though hate him now).

the owners of the house came

out in a panic,

their luggage packed in a hurry

then tossed into

the back of their Volvo.

we're leaving for the country

they yelled up to me.

lock up before you leave.

i finished that window,

then climbed down the ladder

and went to the next

window, carrying up my

bucket of paint, the brush

and my radio.

there was five more windows

to go, then lunch.

finding a way to the loo

it takes

a few nights to figure out the lay

out of the hotel

room.

after a few bumps

and bruises and

one trip and fall into

the pull out bed,

putting a lump on my head

and a cut

on my leg

that needs a tourniquet,

i begin to wear

a miner's helmet

with the light attached,

and a blind man's

sitck

to find my way to the loo.

we have entered the twilight zone

I fall asleep

on the couch in front of the tv

while

watching

old Episodes of The Twilight Zone.

i remember all

the bizarre twists at the end,

the dark turns,

nothing is what

it seems.

i've seen them all,

but enjoy

seeing them again

despite how boring they've

become.

the world today is crazier

and more twisted

than old Rod Serling

ever could have imagined.

beach food galore

as we

sit on the bench at Rehobeth Beach,

relaxing on the short

boardwalk,

licking

our third ice cream cone of the week,

we look out

at the people passing by,

with their shadows getting

progressively larger

by the minute,

we realize that vacation

is about eating and getting

a sunburn

and buying

t-shirts

with memes

on the front and back.

there goes a corn dog walking by.

cotton candy,

a pink bright cloud

of it in a child's hand.

the Bobbsey twins are both

eating a large slice

of pizza as they waddle forward

in their

moo moos and flip flops.

and oh my, is that a funnel

cake?

a chicken leg?

do i pray tell see a glazed

donut

and a moon pie?

there's the sweet smell of

chocolate covered

fried waffles

in the sea air

while diabetic seagulls hover

nearby.

i see a clothing store on the corner.

selling stretch pants,

hopefully they have a pair

in my new size.

prayer sent up.

i suggest that maybe

on the way home we can

break into

that box of saltwater taffy

that you bought for your mother,

she'll never know.

leaving for the beach

i look out

the window, awaiting the Uber

that will take

me to the train,

which will take me to the Eastern

shore for a few days.

my one bag

is packed.

four t-shirts, two pairs

of shorts,

underwear

and sandals.

a swimsuit and a hat.

i look around the room

thinking that

i've forgotten

something.

oh yes,

a charger for the phone

and water wings.

one small plastic bucket

and one

shovel, the address book

for postcards.

the purple pool table

when he was young,

i'd take

the kid to a pool hall to play

a few

games.

once or twice a week.

it was back when everyone smoked

inside.

so the place was blue

with smoke.

it wreaked with the smell of beer

and ne'er-do-wells.

a lot of beards and scars

we're going on,

leather vests with Harleys

parked out front.

we'd shoot nine ball

or high low

most of the time.

he could barely reach over

the table with his

stick to strike a ball, but

we managed.

in time i bought a pool

table for the basement.

we had to use short sticks because

the walls were too

close.

then the kid grew up and left

for college,

packed his bags and then

from there he

left for the left coast

never to return.

i'd fold laundry from then on

and use the table for

the stacked clothes

and towels.

on occasion it became

an ironing board.

sometimes i'd roll a ball across

the slate

for the hell of it, trying

to land one in a far end

corner pocket.

eventually i sold the purple

pool table

with cues and balls, the heavy

slate and wood

on Craig's list.

rarely used i posted.

in a week it was gone.

the painting and wallcovering exam

it's a two hour

test

in the basement of a government

building.

dark and dank,

with

nuclear fallout shelter

signs still on

the walls.

it's the painting

and wallcovering exam

that you must take

to be

licensed

in the state of Virginia.

your renewal time is up.

despite forty years

of being a contractor

they insist

you take it or never again

pick up a brush,

or sheet of wallpaper to hang.

you put your belongings

into a locker.

no phones,

no pens or paper, no books,

no hats worn,

no cheat sheets allowed

written on your arms.

you have no contact with the outside

world.

you have to wash your hands

for twenty minutes

in the bathroom down the hall

before entering the locked

test room door.

mandatory.

the kid in charge hits a button

and the door opens.

you find your numbered cubicle

and sit down

on the hard plastic chair.

there's a calculator

on the desk

a scratch pad, and

an old computer from the dark

ages,

right after the discovery

of the abacus.

forty minutes later, you're done.

but you have two hours to work on it.

so you go over

the answers two or three more times.

finally, ten minutes

later, you leave.

the kid at the front gives you your

report card.

luckily you've passed.

you open the locker, gather up

your belongings,

put on your paint splattered hat

and off you go again,

with ladders clanging

on top of your truck.

suspicious minds

i hold

her purse as she gets into the hot air

balloon

and sails off

into the blue skies above.

she's such a dare devil.

she waves,

i wave.

we blow kisses

at one another.

soon, she's out of sight,

just above 

the power lines.

at last i have time

to search through her purse

and phone

to see what she's really

up to.

your own way of living

the seal

jumps from the water

and gets

a fish

tossed into his mouth from

the handler,

poolside.

the dog

rolls over, plays dead,

begs,

and is rewarded with

a biscuit

for his efforts,

but cats will have none

of that.

they look the other

way

disdainfully

when you speak.

some of us are trained

like the dog,

and others

like the cat

don't really care or

give a damn

about a treat.

resetting all the clocks in the house

at some point, in the middle

of the night,

the power went

off.
a storm blew through.

but sleep has a way of keeping

you from

the rest of the world.

unburdened

by what's going on

beyond your soft pillow.

who cares

what time it is when

you're sound asleep?

i barely

care when 'm awake,

although i do need the

power on, come morning,

to make coffee.

S & H Green Stamps

i see my

mother at the table with her book

of  S & H Green Stamps.

each one

licked and placed

inside a square.

she's collected them over the years

from the Piggly Wiggly store

and the Esso station

when dad filled

up the tank.

in four years or so

she'll be gifted

that new toaster

she's had her eye on

in the catalogue.

you can never be too thin or too young

somewhere,

someone, a long time ago

i imagine

a movie star,

or model, perhaps

a man

in a silk suit

with a fist full of dollars,

someone

said you can never be too thin

or too young.

easy words to say,

but they cause

such

sadness,

such sorrow.

the swing of the wrecking ball

how quickly

buildings rise and fall.

the stories within 

dying with them.

the families

raised.

the lives they

led.

the balconies they sat

upon,

the pool beside

the lot,

long summers there,

the barbeque.

the elevators never

prompt,

fire alarms going off.

so many babies carried in,

the dead

rolled out.

all

forgotten in clouds of dust,

by the swing

of a wrecking ball,

replaced

by what's new,

what's next to rise up.

we agree on one single thing in this life

my friend,

Louie, doesn't believe in borders,

we're living

on stolen land,

he tells me.

there's no such

thing as an illegal

immigrant.

no, i tell him, it's conquered

land

and if you let

everyone in without documentation,

you have no

country.

it's why you lock the doors

to your house.

intruders are not

welcome, despite all of the

inclusive

flags planted in your yard.

we've had this discussion

before,

which leads to men dressed

as women,

in sports and bathrooms.

which of course leads to free healthcare

for all,

free food, free buses,

free tuition,

higher taxes and defunding

the police

and the military.

it's exhausting and exasperating,

but we do agree on one thing,

as we remain friends.

we both agree

that it's going to be a tough

year for the Redskins, our favorite

football team.

5 and 12, i suggest.

no, he shouts out,

it's the Commanders.

the Commanders. quit

calling them the Redskins

and being such a racist and a bigot.

but 5 and 12 sounds about right.

Yelp gives the trip four stars

at last,

someone yells out,

land ho,

or some such thing.

we're rolling around on the wet

boards below

deck,

seasick and green from

three months

on the open sea.

i've broken three teeth

by trying

to eat the hardtack stored

on board.

if i never see a flounder

again, i'll be happy.

and as God is my witness,

sushi will never again

enter my digestive tract.

we have no idea

what lies ahead.

there's not a store in sight

when we land.

no markets, no churches.

no one to greet us.

there's just a bunch of wild

animals staring

at us with a what the hell

look in their eyes.

and now we have to chase them

and kill them, knit their

furs together

to stay warm.

it takes twenty-one squirrels

to make one jacket.

near starvation, we

gather sticks together

to build a fire.

we're boiling water

to drink,

and making soup out

of bark and local

weeds. suddenly,

out of nowhere, arrows

are being

shot at us.

we are constantly yelling

to each other,

to get down, duck

as angry natives 

maliciously shoot arrows

at us from behind

the trees.

if only we had known all

of this before

we got on the Mayflower.

but the brochure

told us none of this.

our travel agent left out

a few things.

the new fancy dan hotel

we're not in Kansas

anymore,

i tell my girlfriend,

Josephine,

as i swipe the card

against

the pad near the door.

then again,

and three more times before

the light turns

green and we go in.

i look for the remote control

to turn

the lights on,

the one to turn on the tv,

the one to raise

the shade on the big window

facing out

towards the city.

the doors are made of castle

like wood,

and glass,

with steel trimming.

a burger on the room service

menu is

50 dollars. fries are extra.

we're tired

and hungry. we want

to take a shower,

but we can't figure

out how to turn the water on,

which spigot

is warm

which is cold.

why is it not coming out

of the top gizmo,

and just the metal hose.

from somewhere, my legs,

below my knees

are being showered

by a secret opening

in the tiled wall.

i lie down on the floor to finally

get wet.

wrapped in an enormous towel

i look out

the window

and see a motel 6 in distance,

the bright red number

flickering in the darkening sky.

what do you think?

i ask her,

should we go?

un bourbon ed by what has been

Kamala, the last VP

of

the entire country, 

slips up and says without

prompting,

that the other

side

wants us to prove

who we are in order

to vote,

it's just not fair.

now we'll have to show

an ID

to elect our President

and others

to serve

this country.

and yes, every other country

in the entire

world has to show

and ID to vote, but

why should we?

apparently,

she's not un-bourbon-ed by

what has been.

heavenly ice cream

it's hard

to be angry when eating

ice cream,

to be unkind

while

licking a double scoop

of vanilla fudge

on a sugar cone.

it's hard

to be hard, to be mean

and nasty,

no mater how hard

you try.

and with a banana split

in front of you,

you're almost saintly

for a short while.

here's an idea, collect stamps, she says

i'm in line

at the therapist office,

awaiting my turn in the waiting

room

with other old patients.

some stroking their

grey beards,

others scrolling their phones,

or staring

at AARP magazines.

all of us

have the same question.

what now

brown cow?

retired and

in a constant state

of boredom.

the day full of empty hours.

and the therapist, calmly,

to each one of us

says the same

thing.

maybe get a part-time job,

take up

arts and crafts,

or try whittling,

whittling can be quite

satisfying.

or perhaps

indulge yourself in hobbies,

collect stamps.

take a cooking class at

the community center.

what about Tai Chi?

maybe travel a little more,

volunteer.

she smiles and pats us on the back

as we go out the door,

more depressed

than we were 50 minutes

before.

how it all ends

at last,

you've stopped buying new things,

replacing

the old

with new.

you've exhausted every room

with your

purchases.

each wall,

each drawer, each

closet full.

this puts you into a state of worry.

is it over?

is this the end?

there has to be something

that needs

to be replaced

and made new.

he kind of let things go a little

as if on cue,

an actor arriving on stage

just in time,

the small grey mouse

appears

takes a look at his 

frightened audience

then runs

and hides.

it's time for me to leave,

you tell your friend

in his robe

and long beard,

drinking his morning wine.

it's curtain time.

earmarking the page

isn't that

what we all do?

we start the next day at

the point

where we left off

the day before.

like those books

earmarked,

ready for the next page

to be read.

the movie half watched.

the job

only partly done

awaiting the next

hammer,

the next screw.

tomorrow we'll make

that call,

send the letter,

finish our thoughts,

and

address

the waiting issues.

dream interruption

strange

to wake up at 3 a.m.,

to lie

there completely awake,

staring at the ceiling

twiddling

your thumbs.

watching the dark shadows

of the fan

spin slowly above you.

it's raining out,

there's thunder.

a dog is barking in the distance.

all of this

will be included in your

next dream,

once you fall asleep

again,

and get there.

snug behind the cubicle

i think the only

job

i was never laid off from,

or fired

from, or flat out quit.

was this one.

self-employed.

having my own business.

unlike now,

when employed by others

i'd use

up all of my allotted

sick days,

my vacation time.

i came in late,

left early, dilly dallied

at the water cooler

and coffee machine.

sometimes

when snug behind my partitioned

cubicle

i would close my eyes

and nod off

for a good twenty

minutes until i heard

the clicking of shoes coming

up the hallway.

i had no interest

in the esoteric

world of computer programming,

the mind numbing

details

in the small print of files

stacked upon my desk.

i was shoveling coal out of 

a towering mountain.

often i would stare out the window,

at tradesmen,

landscapers,

painters and mechanics.

all free from

this dark abyss.

it's OJ all over again

the jury

can't decide if the crazy woman

who killed

her kids

is guilty.

yes, she's nuts,

that's not the question.

is she guilty though of murder?

they deliberate for days on end.

the woman

admits she did it.

the defense

lawyers, says she did it.

the prosecution says she did it.

her husband says

she did it.

all the evidence points

to the fact

that she did it,

that she chased her children

around the house,

pushed their little

faces into the floor,

and strangled them

with an exercise band.

everything well timed

and planned

in order

to get the job done.

but the jury

seemingly can't figure it out.

it's OJ all over again.

don't be a loser

as a kid

you never heard of a peanut

allergy,

or gluten,

or the Jimmy leg.

no one

ever worried about

carbs,

or smoking,

or the dangers of eating

candy,

or chips, or drinking

cokes all day.

there was no bottled water,

just the spigot

attached to the hose outside,

or the one

in your kitchen sink

that you stood at and puddled

the water into

your mouth

because all the glasses

were dirty.

no one was protesting

meat,

or leather, or lying

on the road

blocking traffic

because it was hot out.

people had blonde, brown,

black,

or reddish hair, or were bald,

no one had blue and pink hair.

and only

farm animals had rings in their noses.

boys had penisis

and girls had

whoo hoos.

there was zero confusion about that.

your dog was never on

a diet,

or had diabetes.

heartworm pills were for

sissy dogs,

dogs on leashes wearing

sweaters and bows.

in the summer

you went home when the sun

went down,

and not before,

if you did, you were a loser.

when intrusive thoughts take over

as i lie upon the therapist

couch, i tell my

shrink, doc,

i don't know

what's wrong with me, i've

been having

intrusive thoughts

lately.

no,

not that kind, the kind

that tries to persuaded you

to kill

or maim, or injure someone.

no, it's the other

kind of intrusive thoughts.

the good kind.

the kind no one ever talks

about.

for instance.

i was walking down the street

the other day

and out of the clear blue sky,

i thought maybe it would

be a good idea to pick

up that piece of trash that's at

my feet and deposit it into

a garbage can.

so i did.

or when no one was letting some

guy with his signal on,

merge into the right lane,

it occurred

to me, that i should do it.

i'll let the poor guy in.

sometimes that voice in my head

convinces me to help some old

lady across the street,

or to toss some of my sandwich

bread to the pigeons

that are flying about.

out of the clear blue sky,

while at church,

a voice will tell me

to drop a few bucks into

the basket, not the usual

change in my pocket.

these voices have taken complete

control of me.

i might be going nuts.

what should i do doc?

One Less Egg to Fry

i get a little

suspicious

when i hear my girlfriend

playing

an old vinyl record

by the 5th dimension.

moving the needle

back and forth

again and again to the same song,

One Less Bell To Answer.

quickly i go to her

kitchen

and open up the fridge.

i lift up the lid

of the egg carton and there's

only one egg in there.

just like i thought.

one egg.

not two,

indeed.

there is one less

egg to fry.

she's not even answering

the doorbell

these days,

or picking up my clothes

when i drop them on the floor.

there's boxes of Kleenex

everywhere,

in every room.

i'm not Sherlock Holmes.

but i know exactly

what's going on here.

the road not taken

maybe spending a few

hundred

thousand dollars

on getting a degree in

Philosophy

after high school was a bad idea.

i'm pondering

this decision

as i sit on the balcony

of my one-bedroom apartment

overlooking 

a Dunkin Donut

and a Shell

station.

i know everything there is to know

about Aristotle

and Plato,

Confucius and Kant.

i can quote Voltaire or Dante

at the drop

of a hat,

but so what.

at the moment

i'm eating a bowl

of Captain Crunch cereal

with a sliced

banana as my old dog

lies in the corner,

breathing heavily because

of asthma.

i can hear the call of the harness

races

through the woods

and smell

the cigar smoke and manure

in the warm wind.

i should have followed

the advice

of my father and become

an electrician, or a plumber,

a car mechanic or

a house painter.

i'd be living it up

on the hill

in a big house if i had

taken that course.

i'd be floating around 

a kidney shaped pool like

a movie star,

drinking pina coladas

while my fiancé Loretta,

in her red bikini,

does a swan dive

off the board.

you must have a calling

to become

a teacher it has to be

a calling,

you have a strong

innate desire

to teach others.

a doctor too,

you want to help people.

to cure their

ailments, heal them.

same goes

for a minister, you want

to spread the word

of the Gospel,

bring spiritual light to

the world,

but to become a lawyer

is another

thing all together.

cha ching.

random thoughts while in line at Chic Filet

we are a callous

people.

i never once hear anyone

weeping

over all the chickens

we slaughter

day after day.

the cows

and fish. how we farm

them

and then put them

on the chopping block.

we never seem to care

about

their lives

as we slather on the tartar

sauce,

or cut into them with

a steak knife

after grilling them over

a bed of charcoal briquets.

we're cruel and oblivious

to the deeds we do.

and yet, they're so nice

here, so pleasant

as you pull up to the window

of a Chic Filet drive thru.

going too slow in the right lane

why

am i so nervous and worried

when

i see a cop

car behind

me with his party lights on,

motioning

me to pull over.

i'm not on my phone

watching

YouTube vids,

i have no dope in the car,

no bundle

of drugs,

or packets of meth.

i haven't been

drinking, there are no

open containers of

anything except

a warm bottle of Yoo Hoo

in between my legs

and yet,

i begin to sweat as i fumble

for my

license and registration,

my proof of insurance.

there's no weapon

in the glove

box.

no expired tag,

or taillight out.

there's

no one in the trunk

tied up and gagged today.

what am i even worried

about?

the world is against us

the world

is seemingly against us.

this whole

gravity

thing, the accumulation

of dust

and dirt.

the aging

process

sagging our skin,

making

us more tired by the day.

the floods

and fires

trying to wash,

or burn us away.

what's the deal

here?

hopefully in heaven

this mess

will get straightened out.

something with a little rust in it, please

the restaurant,

is very high end,

with white tablecloths and candles.

there's a statue of Venus D Milo

near the entrance.

uniformed

waiters bow, and approach us

in starched white

shirts and red vests.

we find our way to

cushy leather seats

that are pulled out so that

we can slide in.

we bask in the warm lighting

from overhead.

who is that crooning in

the low music? 

is that Frank, or Dean, perhaps

Tony?

maybe Liberace tinkling

on the keyboard.

they ask us what kind

of water

we want,

placing the water menu

on the table

to help us decide.

there's

tap water, both domestic and foreign,

spring water with or without

carbonation.

there's water

from around the world,

from places like Finland

and Poland, the south

of France, the Alps.

there's water that has

trickled down

off the Himalayas.

there's water that Jesus

walked upon,

that will be a good companion

to your wine,

but my favorite is not

on there.

nothing from a warm

garden hose

screwed onto a spigot

against the brick wall

of my childhood home.

you have thirty minutes to complete this test

i was never

a good test taker.

i'd sweat,

shake,

get the heebie jeebies

as i stared

at the forty multiple

choice questions

on my desk.

i was

nervous as a cat

in a room full

of rocking chairs.

the teacher would always

shake their heads

when they handed back

my test with an F,

still crinkled with my sweat.

each one of them

would say

with a sigh,

we thought you were

smarter than that.

the army

felt the same way when

they too

gave me a 4 F.

do you know a good HVAC guy, i ask her

she's my

go to when i need a plumber,

or HVAC person.

she pulls

out her phone

and gives me the name of a guy

in Maryland.

he has

two trucks, she says,

and his workers

are all very clean.

if i need

a caterer for a party,

she's got the girl

in Twinbrook

who can cook and bake cakes,

DJ too. she gives her

a raving

four-star review.

landscaper, no problem.

call this guy,

she says, rattling off the number.

he's from Venezuela

and a very

good crew.

got an itch?

go to my

doctor, he found a spot

on my back that no one

else had

ever seen, he's very thorough

and his waiting room

has all the latest

magazines.

the pearl clutching protesters

there's

the usual gaggle of old women

and beta men

on the bridge,

the overpass

to the highway

protesting with their

homemade signs.

it's the local

knitting club,

the book club, the community

gardening group

specializing in mulch

and soybeans.

they're upset

about the President, the war,

the arrests

of illegal immigrants

committing

murder and rape

and other crimes.

they're out there now

supporting

the mom

who strangled her children

with an exercise band,

chasing one

one of them around the house

until he was caught.

but it's not her fault

they chant and yell.

it's the patriarchy.

she needs to be freed, she

needs our help.

tomorrow they'll all move on

to the next

thing in the news

that gets their undies in a bunch.

waddling home

while clutching their pearls.

two aspirins in hand

i feel

a headache coming on.

maybe it's the hot

air,

the phone that won't stop

ringing.

maybe it's 

time of day, the traffic.

the people

that won't stop talking in my ear.

it feels like i've

made a wrong

turn

somewhere along the way

and i need

to turn around.

i'll need water to put

these

down.

putting the story on moth balls

i stop

telling the story because

now

when i tell it, i sound crazy,

i sound like

one of those nuts

you see

on tv

talking about alien

abductions.

little green men

and flying saucers.

so i put the story away

for safe

keeping,

deep into the chest

of memories.

but really did happen,

it happened

exactly the way i told it.

a dark bundle on the branch

so many

bees

surprise you

as you

push the branch back.

it sounds as if the air

is being

fried,

the buzz is loud

in your

ears

as you try to brush them

away.

you haven't

been bitten in such a long

time,

but you remember

each

time it happened.

one lands on your arm,

takes

a bite,

and just like in the past,

you feel the sting,

and he dies.

i can't come over, i have to do wife stuff today

i call up my friend Jimmy to see

what time he's coming over

to watch the big

game in my man cave in the basement.

i just installed a new

65-inch state of the art Samsung

on the wall

between the pinball machine

and jukebox.

I can't go, he says sadly, letting

out a big sigh.

I forgot Sarah's birthday again

and now i owe her.

third year in a row.

she wants to spend the whole day

doing wife stuff.

she says today could be a deal breaker

if i don't go.

what? what in the ham sandwich

are you talking about?

deal breaker?

it's the championship game.

i have burgers and dogs, pizza

and chicken wings.

beer. all the guys are coming over.

all i have to do is fire up the grill

in the back yard.

sorry dude, he says.

she wants me to go antiquing with

her today,

and then to a shop

in Middleburg

to find some new fabric to upholster

the ottoman in the guest room.

you have a guest room?

yeah, i think so, it might be upstairs,

but i've never been in there.

we'll you can get all of this done by

one, right? put

the pedal to the metal.

nope. after picking blueberries

in Sperryville, we have to go to a wine

festival in Winchester.

she told me that if i don't agree to

any of this, it means i don't love her.

she'll put a lock on that ice box

if you catch my drift.

it may take months for her to defrost.

dang, i say loudly.

well, keep your phone with you

and i'll update you as the game

goes on,

no dice.

she told me i have to turn my

phone off and put it in her purse

the whole day.

geez Marie.

i know, i know.

did any of your wives do stuff like this?

pffft, yeah, all the time.

they always had

some devious plan up their sleeve

if I forgot a birthday,

or an anniversary

of some kind.

hey, what's that loud noise?

oh, that's her, she's in the car

with her hand on the horn.

she's waiting for me.

look i have to go.

sorry man. so sorry.

talk to you tomorrow, okay?

enjoy the game.

a few similarities

he liked

gold buttons on his coats,

the coats

of his soldiers,

he liked

ornamental decor,

expensive

chariots and carriages

to ride around in,

he loved

to buy land

and build,

to expand his wealth,

to make his house bigger

than it was before.

self-portraits,

of himself on a horse

hung 

on his walls.

he surrounded himself

with the best

minds of his time.

he did everything he could

to not

go to war,

to negotiate a settlement,

but then had no

choice.

he refused a salary for

his duties

as commander and chief.

yes,

that was George.

i want all of those diamond rings back, please

i never

understood why divorced women

don't return

the diamond

engagement rings

you gave them.

even when they are the ones

that ended

the marriage

by sleeping with other men.

it should be mandatory,

a law of some kind,

an act

of common-sense decency.

it's not like they're

going to wear them again,

so where are they?

stuffed in some drawer,

stored away in a blue velvet box,

or lined up

on a shelf,

like notches on a bed post?

i want all three

of mine back.

i could cash them in and take

a long solo cruise around

the world

with that money.

does this rash look infected?

feeling

low, my self-esteem having

taken

a beaten

by the last romantic

relationship

break up,

i buy a white doctor's smock

and a stethoscope

on E bay.

i have the white jacket

embroidered

with my name on it,

and the little physician

symbol above the cursive

letters.

when it arrives

i put it on, and wrap

the stethoscope

around my neck and take a walk

outside,

i go shopping,

bike riding,

people nod

and smile.

i wear it to Jiffy Lube

to get my oil changed.

people are suddenly interested

in me.

they ask me things

about their health and well-being.

they roll

up their sleeves and ask me

to take 

a look at some rash

on their arm,

or a nodule growing on their head.

hey Doc, look at this

stab wound

or bullet hole, should i put

some Neosporin on it or have

it stitched up?

everyone is friendly

again.

i feel needed and loved.

i'm back in the game.

i go back onto E bay and order

a doctor's bag

full of medical equipment.

your next great investment

i see my

financial advisor, Frank, up ahead

on the corner

with a sign

and a bucket to receive

donations.

i pull up next to him and say,

Frank?

like what the hell?

what happened?

hey, he says, waving to traffic

going in the opposite

direction,

don't worry, your investments

are safe.

you were right about the whole

bit coin

and crypto currency thing.

i should have listened to you.

anyway,

your portfolio is doing great,

I see you're taking

your RMD's now.

well, the light just turned

green,

i guess i should get going.

okay, he says,

i'll send you an e-mail letter

about

this new AI

start up i think you should invest

in.

i know we missed the boat

on the Pfizer vaccine, but

i think we have a winner here.

okay?

AI, pffft

i remember

when the car was invented, and i said,

to Martha,

this will never

last.

cars, pfft, oil, engine,

tires,

gas.

what if it breaks down,

then what,

we're stuck out in the middle

of Ohio

in some cornfield.

horses are the way to go.

horses will

last.

put some metal shoes on them,

give them

a sack of oats

and away we go.

i felt the same way about

computers

when they arrived,

pffft,

why do i need a computer

when i have

encyclopedias

and an abacas?

pencil and paper and an eraser.

fingers to count on.

i have the farmer's almanac.

i felt that way about

phones too,

smoke signals

have always been a good way

to communicate,

the written letter,

the pony express,

the mailman always rings twice,

rain, snow, sleet, hail,

not to mention the telegraph

and

two cans connected by a string.

AI, pffft.

her son's tuba recital

i pretend

to be busy, because it seems

like

that's what

everyone else does.

running around with their

chicken

heads cut off.

i tell them

no,

i can't make it to that

appointment,

no, i'm sorry, i don't have

time for that,

your child's tuba recital,

your son's

soccer game thirty miles

from here,

in the cold.

i apologize and say

sorry,

i can't make, 

your annual birthday party,

or the wedding

i was invited to. third one's

the charm,

or so i'm told.

of course, i'm lying,

i have all

the time in the world,

i just

don't want to do any

of these things,

it's not that i'm busy,

i just don't want to go.

the cardboard cutout of you

you stop

telling people that you're a writer.

that you

write short

fiction and poetry

and publish it daily

on a so called

blog.

once you tell them

about your obsessive writing,

they want to read it

and judge you.

suddenly,

you're not the person they

thought you were.

you're different

than how you appear in

person,

or over the phone.

suddenly the cardboard cutout 

of you,

that they've formed

in their heads,

is gone.

a phone call from Francisco in Guatemala

i get a call

from

Francisco, my old worker,

from

Guatemala.

i can hear a rooster crowing

in the background

when i put the phone to my ear.

we haven't talked since

the last presidential election

and he got caught up

in an ICE raid

at Home Depot

when he was buying a can of paint.

but he sounds good, 

healthy and strong

being back home.

he has a family now,

a wife, a few kids.

a vegetable garden,

but he misses the USA,

making money,

working hard, being

paid in cash

at the end of every day.

he especially misses McDonalds

and Chinese

food, he tells me,

which turned his muscles

into fat.

i used to pick him up,

if his car had broken down,

at the 7-11

just as the sun came up.

he'd have his backpack on,

holding all of

his worldly possessions,

including a red

transistor radio.

i'd ask him,

why don't you become

a citizen at some point?

legalize your status?

i'll vouch for you.

come on, man. i'll take you down

to the immigration office

and help you

fill out the paperwork.

he'd laugh

and tell me, no way.

what are you loco?

then i'd have to pay taxes,

i'd have to get a real

driver's license and buy

insurance.

nothing would be free anymore

and the government

will know who i am.

no more food stamps or free

clinic.

i'll be back, he tells me on

the phone,

so get a lot of work, okay?

maybe advertise more.

if Kamala or AOC wins

we are all ready

to cross the border again.

we are, how you say, all chomping

at the bit

to come back.

so maybe, see you soon, okay?

in two years

i'll be back, i hope,

so please vote for me.

entering the pearly gates

the line

moves along pretty

quickly at the pearly gates,

i see

Saint Peter up there,

taking

names, checking his list,

welcoming

the newcomers

who have recently passed away.

he's handing

out white robes

and wings,

if you want them, halos

in a variety of colors.

he asks you what

age you'd like to be,

to live

eternity in,

and then i see that he's taking

everyone's cell phones

and scrolling

through them

before he pushes the button

to open the gate.

oh no.

your favorite hat

the wind

catches your hat and sends it

flying.

you're not as quick

as you used to be,

but still

you chase after it.

it's your favorite hat,

worn

and frayed,

the bill

discolored.

your team logo 

faded, but still intact.

it's a windy day,

the clouds

are full of rain about to fall.

the lake,

blue as slate,

is down the hill

where the hat is determined

to go.

it's beautiful out

with the trees around

the cove

turning colors.

it's a perfect day for a stroll.

a time to chase.

the more you ask

it's strange,

almost supernatural,

how that more you pray,

and pray

specifically, for whatever

ails you,

whatever

problems you have,

that

suddenly an answer appears.

coincidences

by the handful

seem to show up

when you hit your knees

and ask

for guidance.

perhaps there is something

to the words,

the more you ask,

the more you'll receive.

how's the weather in Pakistan

the man

on the phone wants my

social

security number,

my address

and bank account numbers

my birth date,

the names of my children,

i hesitate,

and wonder why he needs

all of this

personal information.

he's selling

funeral insurance, 

final expense whole life

insurance

for burial or cremation,

i tell him

cremation

would be nice

he agrees and says, it's cheaper.

i ask him

how the weather is in Pakistan?

thing go downhill

from there.

the early years

i used to be in a hurry,

i'd go

through the drive-thru

for fast food,

i wanted instant mashed potatoes,

minute rice,

i couldn't wait

for the third date,

for the ice to melt,

for class to end,

for summer to arrive.

water took forever

to boil.

i had the pedal to the floor

in the fast lane,

impatient

with the red light.

days rolled so quickly

into night.

and if elected, i promise to do stuff that you want me to do

seeing that another Democratic

congressman

is going to prison for fraud

and perjury,

i decide to run

for

congress and fill that seat,

so i ask my friends

and family

for some

good talking points, some

cliches

that i can use

during my campaign.

i don't really have any understanding

of how

government works,

or any idea

about how to solve problems,

but i'm willing

to try

after watching youtube videos

all day.

i begin to write my first speech

with my peeps

around me,

starting off with

let me make this perfectly clear,

if elected

i promise to do some of the stuff you want

me to do,

but i get stuck

and can't think of anything

else to say.

someone whispers in my ear,

i am for

law and order, but

not prisons. no matter how long

the lines are and how

lame the care is, i want free

healthcare for all.

i will spend the next four years

figuring out

exactly what a woman is.

i will tirelessly

gather the best and brightest

biologists

and professors

in the nation

to study this issue and at last

get a clear definition

of what a woman is.

my staff giggles and slap

me on the back as i continue

to write.

we need change.

mistakes have been made,

i am here

to talk about bread and butter

issues

and affordability.

America is at a crossroads,

we must

focus on

getting rid of the rich.

we must eliminate the idea

that people

can make as much money as they want.

no longer will anyone be allowed

to own more

than one house.

it's the economy, stupid.

make love, not war.

my mother cringes and says no,

so i cross that out.

we need to turn the page.

we need to be unburdened by

what has been.

they all look at me funny and ask

if i've been drinking.

we're no longer going to kick

that can

down the road,

we're going to deposit it into

the first

trash receptacle that we find.

we will tear down those

border walls

and put down welcome mats,

with cold beverages

and snacks for everyone who enters.

now let's roll

up our sleeves

and get to work.

if the homeless need a house,

we will

build them one,

for free,

drug addicts need needles

and crack pipes,

rolling papers and alcohol wipes,

lazy people who

don't work, need money

to live off of.

we did not just fall out of a 

coconut tree, did we?

now all together,

chant after me,

yes, we can. yes, we can.

we will raise taxes and make

everything you

can think of or need,

free.

anything else? i ask my enthusiastic

staff.

how about,

God bless our troops and our

men and women in blue?

my secretary, Amy, says, nah,

leave that out.

try not to mention God, or Jesus, okay?

we need the Muslim and atheist

vote too.

stuck like glue

you have

a bunch of kids, raise them,

take care

of them,

read to them,

buy them cars

and phones,

toys and clothes. feed them,

pay their tuition,

and then,

poof,

off they go.

just like that, they're gone,

out of the nest.

except for Louie

who wants

to be called Amber now.

he's in the basement

still playing

videos games

at 37.

reporting for duty, sort of

i say hello

to Gene, my new neighbor, 

he raises

his hand and gives

me a military style salute.

i awkwardly salute back,

having never

served

my country.

i think he's already forgotten

my name.

but that's okay.

my mother confuses me with

my brother

Jimmy,

all the time.

urgent call for salt and sugar

my body

is sending me a message,

an urgent signal

to my brain

in genetic morse code.

all systems

are low.

we may not survive 

the next

24 hours.

we need

salt.

we need sugar.

proceed to the nearest store

and buy

potato chips

and ice-cream.

please hurry.

so i do as i'm told.

walking gingerly about

there's

a bright yellow strip on the stairs,

in bold

print, slippery

when wet.

there's a light

near the door

blinking red,

showing you the exit.

there are warnings 

nearly

everywhere, the traffic

signal

turned yellow,

the alarm

to pull in case of fire,

there's

the small print

on a bottle of aspirin.

expiration dates

on food. their

are triangular

signs warning

of electrical

shock, or

of floods that may occur

when it rains.

you can hardly

leave your house

anymore

without being scared.

we got to get you a woman

it seems

that women have more knowledge

about

so many

things that men

lack in.

take soap for example.

they know

soap.

they know what bar

to buy,

what isn't good

for your skin,

what might cause a rash.

they know milk and butter,

they know

soy

and almond,

they know

the spin dry,

or the fragile cycle

on the washing machine.

they know how to put

dishes into

the dishwasher,

knives down for example,

and how not to wash

dark clothes

with white.

they don't believe in bleach

like you do.

women seem to know where

everything is,

even if it isn't theirs,

coats and hats,

gloves

and phones,

your favorite shirt.

they know how to copy and paste

and how

to make a spread sheet

on your typing machine.

sometimes after a few

drinks

with my feet up on the coffee

table,

i wonder

if i should get back into

the game,

find me one again.

can i crash with you for a few months?

i get a call

from my friend Billy Bob.

he sounds

depressed,

sad.

beaten.

Yo.

what's up? i ask.

he lets out a long

sigh.

she's kicking me out of the house,

he says.

i have until sundown

tomorrow

and then she's

calling the police.

she's already thrown

all of my clothes out of 

upstairs window.

they're scattered all over

the lawn.

dang.

i tell him. that's a shame.

and i thought you

two were madly

in love.

we were, he says, but i've

been sleeping in the basement

for almost a year

now.

but she's your high school sweetheart.

you have a tattoo of her name

on your arm. Lulu.

you guys have

the same politics.

you both love Hammas, Mamdani,

and Kamala,

not to mention AOC

and Tim Walz.

you like the same music

and movies.

Deniro and Springsteen.

you like to cook, she likes to eat.

yeah, yeah.

i know.

well, what do you think it was

that broke

you guys up?

your drinking, your violent fits

of anger,

not having a job?

no money.

could it be your bi-polar episodes?

not sure, he whispers,

but hey, i'm just wondering, do

you still have that guest

room?

the one upstairs

with the twin bed? do

you mind if i crash

there for a few months until i

get back on my feet?

ummm.

well, you won't believe this but

a pipe just broke

in there the other night and the whole

room is flooded out.

the bed is soaked

and there's mold on everything.

i just chased

out some frogs

this morning.

there's a hole in the ceiling

and the drip

just won't seem to stop.

what about the Red Roof Inn?

put the car in park, turn it off, and step out

a couple of new books

arrive

in the mail

from Amazon.

i carry the package over

to the big

chair

by the window.

the chair with a good reading

light.

i open

up the package

and flip through the books.

i happily anticipate

many hours of reading,

but then i hear a ding

and open up my phone.

i spend

the next two hours

watching YouTube videos.

i'm specifically glued

to a site called

'Put the Car in Park

and Step Out'.

it's not unlike a bottomless

bag of potato chips,

just one more, one more.

it's interesting how so

many people

drink and drive, or smoke dope

when behind

the wheel.

most don't carry a license,

registration,

or have insurance,

or tags that are up to date.

they are usually doing

90 in a 55

with a bottle

of booze under the seat, or

a syringe and plastic

bag

on the dashboard,

rarely are they using their seatbelt.

it always ends the same.

the Sargent comes, the supervisor

arrives,

they surround

the car, asking repeatedly

for identification.

finally, the po po are exasperated, 

a window

gets broken and the driver

is thrown

to the ground, tazed a few times,

then cuffed

and taken

off to the pokey.

it's all

a lot of fun to view, but

at some point i have to get back

to the books.

one more video though,

just one more,

and i'm through.

castration versus circumcision

the democratic

socialist candidate for the Senate

in the state

of Michigan,

says on tv, that

chemically or surgically

castrating young boys, minors,

who feel

confused about

their sexuality, at the age of ten,

is no

different than

getting a circumcision

as an infant,

and that

the government should pay

for it.

he's a doctor, no less.

God help us all.

the local handyman

if something broke,

back

in the day, and by the day,

i mean

forty years ago,

when men

would come to your house

with a bag

of tools

and fix whatever the problem

was.

washer, dryer,

the fuse box,

the television.

maybe the screen door

was off 

its hinges,

or a windowpane was cracked.

in an hour the house would

be back up

and running.

you'd give them water,

or coffee,

and maybe a slice

of crumb cake.

you got their number from

a friend who

got it from

a friend, etc..

they came highly

recommended through

the grape vine.

you left them alone

to work,

and when they were done,

you paid them in cash,

then stood

at the door to wave

as they drove away in

their beat up

white van after pulling

up their baggy

pants.

let me step back a little more

it's getting

harder

and harder to take a decent

selfie

of yourself.

you need one of those extension

sticks

to hold your

phone on,

and click.

the lighting has to be just

right.

the distance,

the background,

maybe a lake or ocean,

a blue sky

behind you, 

would be nice.

let's try again tomorrow

when you don't

look so old and tired.

Dolly

some are

full of light.

they enter the room

and 

shine,

what's in them comes

out

in words,

or song,

her presence alone

tells you,

she's an extraordinary

person.

maybe you're not

a fan

of her music,

or have little knowledge

of her life,

but

you can see the love

in her,

the humanity

and kindness.

everything about 

her seems genuine

and right.

the world is less without

her.

it's a fun game to watch

it's high

drama, the WNBA,

a lot of cat fights,

name calling,

hair pulling and

scratching going on.

it's women's

basketball season.

a few of them

look like men,

muscular

and tall with big

shoulders, but you can't

be sure.

although there's not

a single

feminine curve to be found.

rainbow flags fly free

throughout

the stadium.

the wigs

and nails are amazing.

the shoes

are colorful,

the tattoos are branded on

every inch of skin

like bikers

or sailors or convicts

might do.

it's a wild ride

watching a game.

sometimes the ball actually

goes in.

waiting for the bells to ring

so many

times

she threatened

to leave. she'd set

her luggage

by the door, her coats

and shoes,

as a tease,

she gathered up the things

on her desk

and pretended that tonight

was the night

she was going

back to one of her ex-husbands,

or married

boyfriends.

i'd laugh of

course.

although praying to hear

the bell ring

as she went out the door.

the final community concert

it's the last community

concert

up on the hill,

where the big tent is

in the county

park.

everyone

has carried up their coolers

and lawn

chairs.

blankets are set

out with Tupperware

full of eggs

and sandwiches.

cold chicken.

dogs are on leashes, and children

are chasing fireflies.

soon the banjos

will start playing, a harmonica

will sound off,

and the garbled

microphone

will spill out words in a song.

the soft

ramble of a tambourine is heard too.

the sun has already

set, the bugs

have settled down,

summer is nearly gone.