pumpkin time

i rarely

give a thought about pumpkins

until this time

of year.

you can't help but see them

everywhere,

the flavor

stirred into

our coffee, our cakes

and pies

you see them on the front porches

of houses,

even if there are no kids inside,

there's a candle

in the middle throwing light

out from the cut

teeth and triangle eyes.

my friend Betty is really into it.

she wears her

pumpkin sweaters

and pants

shoes. her work out tights.

She even dyes her

hair this time

of year a bright shade

of orange

and paints her lips 

with a pumpkin color

lipstick, same goes for

the blush and glitter around

her eyes.

sweet play dough

the play dough kept

us busy

for hours

at the big table,

some of us were even brave

enough to give

it a lick, taste it.

but it was

very salty

and not appetizing at all

despite the wonderful

colors.

you could almost tell

the direction

each us were going in our

lives

by what we made with

our own ball of dough.

for me,

i grabbed the yellow,

rolled it out,

and tried to create the perfect

statue of 

Marilyn Monroe.

this is all fiction

it's all fiction,

every word is made up.

every jab or laugh is

thrown in the mix and stirred

without thought.

none of these people are real,

not in memory,

or lying next to me as

we consume

our drinks,

our meals.

these lines are all fabricated

by me in my

spare time which has increased

lately.

so don't fret dear one.

sorry, if anything i write

bothers you

and keeps you

from sleep,

it's not my problem, but

yours, perhaps

don't read me anymore,

move on.

the long road as two, or one

some find

it easier with one. 

one bed,

one chair

to sit in,

one set of clothes.

one plate upon the table

with enough

drink and food

for one.

whereas

others, those in love,

or close to it,

fearing death,

or what others might 

think of you,

prefer

to travel the long road

as two.

childhood friends

i counted nine

spins

on the red leather stool

at the drugstore

counter,

lifting my Keds

while sipping on a cherry

coke,

and eating a slice

of apple pie,

but i was thin,

bone thin,

whereas as my friend

Willy,

who was heavier than me

managed

fifteen spins.

(although i was faster than him

in a foot race.)

i don't know why i remember

these things.

i wonder

if he does.

in a strange way, after

sixty years,

i kind of miss him.

how hard their lives must be

how hard

it must be to be famous.

to be a celebrity,

whether a singer or artist,

perhaps on stage or

on Broadway, or on

a big movie screen.

struggling

with all those lines to memorize,

not knowing where

to stand or exit, 

will it be stage left,

or stage right?

what difficult lives

they must lead

always being recognized

when out on the street.

the paparazzi

taking pictures, the fans

wanting autographs.

never being left alone,

never enjoying any privacy,

locked behind

the gates of their prosperity,

but i suspect it's not 

quite as hard as being a roofer

thirty feet up in the air

on a slate roof, 

in the blistering July heat,

or a plumber, as well,

on his knees

with a wrench in hand,

adjusting a porcelain seat.

your good side

i turn

the apple of you around

so that i don't

see the worm

almost in, almost out,

the soft bruise

of brown.

i turn it so that the sun

hits the red

the side,

the sheen of skin

still there

wanting me

to take a bite.

my algorithm

my algorithm

is all

over the place.

due to a variety of searches.

i keep

getting reels

about nutrition

and food,

Noah's Ark,

political scandals,

baking tips,

and oddly, women's

legs in

fishnet stockings and

stiletto shoes.

the old love letter

i find an old love

letter

tucked away in the desk drawer.

she wrote

it and left it on my

pillow some years

ago.

it's not working out,

she wrote.

i'm not who you thought

i was,

and you're not who

i believed you to be.

so it's best that we go

our separate ways.

we gave it a shot, but

it just didn't work out.

the paper seems dappled

with dried tears

which makes me

read between the lines

again.

i know what

she was really trying to say.

i love you more than

anything.

i can't wait to get home

and hold you in

my arms.

everyday i thank my lucky

stars to have

found you.

i fold the letter

and put it back

in the drawer.

i wonder sometimes

where

she is now.

filling the hours

it's a busy

day.

i need stamps.

i put it on the list

of things

to do.

the post office.

what else?

i shake the carton

of cream

in the fridge.

half full.

i put cream on the list

too.

i see that the birds

have

been ravenous over

the past

few days,

lined up

wing to wing on

the feeder.

okay,

another bag seed.

the afternoon

is full.

while visiting the left coast

how easy

it is to step over the person

lying

on the sidewalk,

one leg

draped over

the wet gutter.

we sidestep

the man,

his eyes closed,

but his

hands trembling

holding a syringe.

we sip on our hot coffee,

careful

not to spill it 

the new jacket we just

bought

and move on

to where

we need to go.

it feels like Seattle

but it's

Portland.

that's how i ended up here

it was winter.

Carter was in the Whitehouse.

there was

ice on the windows of my

small

apartment

behind the racetrack.

funds were running low,

so i spread the paper

across the kitchen

table

and turned to the classified

section.

i needed a job,

fast.

my girlfriend was worried,

my mother

was bringing me food.

i needed gas

for my car.

there was one can of beer

left to drink.

after making

a cup of Sanka 

i slowly read each job offering.

having no

job skills made it difficult.

i keyed on the words,

no experience

necessary. that was me in a nutshell.

i circled one possibility.

and that's how

i ended up here.

milkman and paper boy hours

as a child,

or teen it's easy to sleep

in

until eleven or noon.

but as we age

we train

ourselves to get up

when the alarm

goes off.

we have jobs, so many

things to do.

there's a bus

to catch,

kids to put off to school,

and yet strangely when

that part

of life has ended,

we get up even earlier.

we're up

at the crack dawn,

at five in the morning,

putting coffee on.

it's

milkman

and paperboy hours.

we're proud

of our early risings,

telling everyone that news.

devils and angels

there is

the devil on one shoulder

and an angel

on the other,

each at war.

it's a battle for my soul.

i surprise myself

with either

direction i choose to go.

i know me, and don't

know

me at the same time.

each day,

each night is a slippery

slope.

Harold is a good man

Harold is a good man.

he's never

hurt anyone. never committed

any crime,

never has he said a bad

word

about anyone.

he lives a clean life.

to work and back he goes.

no cigarettes,

or booze have touched

his lips.

he's neither lucky nor unlucky

in love,

because he's let go 

of that ambition too.

he lives next door to me.

we have

nothing in common

as far as i know.

he's been a good man

all is life,

whereas i haven't, as is

well known.

dying affection

i have

never not loved the ocean.

the blue glass and

the green of it,

the waves,

relentless,

the endless curve of it

against

the rising sun.

its beauty intoxicates me.

it's never taken me under,

i've never

drowned, or been pulled

to the bottom,

but the day

is young.

i had to open my big mouth

if you

bring up some small tragedy

or complication

going on

in your life,

you are stuck forever more

into explaining it to

those you told it to,

how everything is?

they ask.

you sigh and offer a weak

smile, wanting

to say nothing that would

add to it, but

the toothpaste is out of tube,

the genie is

out of the bottle,

the butter is out of the....

whatever.

but you wish

you had kept your big mouth

shut.

they take your hand,

with sad eyes

and pat you on the back

when you see them.

some even enter your personal

space and awkwardly

hug you

for a whole minute.

mostly women.

they whisper,

so how are you?

things any better?

i can't believe what you

must be going through, they

say.

whatever you do, don't give

up hope.

and try not to drink too much.

okay?

creating a more manly image

as i lie

on the bed, telling myself

that soon,

any minute now,

i'll get up

and start the day,

i pause and wonder,

staring at the walls,

while

pushing another pillow 

under my head,

how this room would look

painted green.

a soft

celery green, 

or the color of a tangerine,

a pale

orange and pink,

but then i think

that might

be too gay.

it's bad enough that i like

to bake cookies

and clean,

and iron my designer

blue jeans.

what's next writing poetry?

got out just in time

she went

a little woo woo at the end

of our relationship.

she got a minister's license

from the back

of a Cosmopolitan

Magazine.

she became a yoga guru.

she delved

in Reiki,

she bought crystals,

and played

around with a Ouija board

when

questioning

the universe.

she began to channel

the dead for

tips on how to live,

and started wearing black

all day, although 

i saw no broom

or boiling kettle of broth.

but who has a bat

for a pet?

before i escaped,

i heard her in the back yard

one night

when the moon was out,

chanting madly

with some new friends

she met on the dark web.

old spice and gin

i rub

the hard stubble on my

cheeks

and chin.

no different from my father's

when he came home

late at night,

smelling of old spice

and gin.

even at this late hour

he had to come

into the bedroom

and tuck us

in.

midnight made no difference

to us.

but it did to my mother,

who put

him on the couch,

the dinner gone cold

in the oven.

swords are drawn

at the dinner

party

after a drink or two

the conversation heats up,

and true

colors at last

are shown.

i breezily mention that i

don't care

for this new Nobel Prize

winner

for Literature.

i think what she writes is

incomprehensible

gibberish.

to which the woman across

the room,

wearing clunky jewelry, 

like they wear

in Cleveland Park,

says, well,

that's because you're a man.

swords are drawn.

it's going to be fun night

after all.

i care, i really do, honest to Betsy

it's not that i don't care

about the environment,

or climate

change, the seas rising,

or the icebergs melting.

i clutch my pearls

for the turtles

and whales.

i'm on their side, i really am.

it's just that i'm lazy and

don't want to separate

the glass from the tin,

the paper from the plastic.

i'm just too tired

to carry out

the Wednesday blue bin.

back yard bird watching

my bird

watching skills are minimal

at best.

i see a red bird

clenching

the long limb of a tree

and say,

oh look

there's a red one, or one

with a ruby throated

neck.

the blue one has

a pink worm

dangling from

it's beak.

is that a robin or an oriole,

a crow

or blackbird?

perhaps a raven, my

favorite because of Edgar

Allan Poe,

beats me,

what's your best

educated guess?

how did we get here?

how did we get here?

why is it suddenly

controversial

by saying that there are only

two genders,

girls and boys,

magically made

by God.

them,

they, girl boy, which

bathroom

is the right one

to use?

which pronoun

won't harm the tender

ears of those

perpetually confused?

what other senseless

and silly

problems can we add

to the world?

aren't there enough already

to go around?

today is election day

no one

is coming to save you.

you're on your own.

so get up.

stop

with the tears, stop

wearing

the victim cloak.

it's all on you, your

yesterdays and tomorrows.

success and failure

are in your hands.

every day

is a vote for you, deciding

which direction

you will go.

pull the lever

and go forward.

no one is coming to save you.

when the wind shifts

i offer

you my coat

when we're cold and shivering

as we cross

the street,

when the wind

blows

my hat off

and i pull up my collar.

the long talk has tired us.

i try to take your

hand,

but your love

has waned,

and you refuse my kindness.

everything it seems,

including the weather,

has changed.

dying with your music still in you

it's said,

somewhat famously by

a long

departed

self-help guru, to not

die with

your music still in you.

but what

if your music is ugly?

what if it's

violent and racist, full

of misogynist

ranting.

hateful.

what if your song

is one of despair

and prejudice?

what then?

perhaps

stay quiet, put

the microphone down.

London, Paris and New York

with her ever

expanding liberal empathy

she let

all the stray animals

on the street

into the house,

no questions asked.

the birds flew in,

bats too,

the bees

settled in corners, making

nests.

the mice found

their way into the walls,

raccoons gave

birth to more racoons

in the attic.

the house

was a chaotic mess

and soon, 

there was no room

for us.

the lives of others

if i wasn't so

distracted and more interested in

what the teacher

was saying, i would have learned

more.

but i sat there,

and stared at the face

before me,

whether pretty or plain,

i pondered

the clothes they wore,

their mannerisms.

i wondered about their lives.

what they bought

at the store.

did they drink and smoke

when away

from the eyes

of us children.

did they have love,

was there someone waiting

for them

when they arrived home

from school.

was there a cat or dog?

who were they, what were they

really like

beyond these desks

and chalkboards.

naked on Sunday morning

she had

no issues with walking around

the house

naked

once we made love

on a regular basis.

whereas

i needed the fig leaf,

the bath towel,

the pair of pants,

or the Sunday Times

to shield my body.

she had no shame, or

self-doubt.

we were different 

in that way, 

whereas i was

raised Catholic

and she wasn't.

let's go this way for a while

there is no plan

for most

of us.

we're adrift in the wide

sea

from birth

while some seem to know

the path

they're set upon.

how blessed they are.

our path

appears to find us,

with each

misstep and

failure pushing us further

upon it.

the white stone

i can't help

but pick up the smooth

white

stone

that catches my eye

as i'm walking

lost in thought, but

not so lost

that i don't see it

catching sunlight

on its kind and gentle face.

i'll carry it for the rest

of the day

for reasons

unknown to me.

school me my dear, be gentle

i need

more education, more brain

cells,

a higher IQ

to understand you, your

far reaching

lines of poetry,

full mythology, the Greeks,

Homer

and Aristotle.

Dante's Inferno.

i'm full to the brim

with Larkin

and Ignatow,

Bukowski and Strand.

i barely finished

college,

barely got an A

in plumbers' school,

or graduated from

The Computer Learning

Center

with honors.

i'm a fool.

and yet, i still want to understand

you.

i want to read

one line, and say, oh, i get it now.

it took a while,

but at last

i see what you're up to.

can we take another one?

before

cameras, we had to sit still

in a chair,

or on a horse, perhaps

stand

by a dog or child

and let the artist paint us.

we couldn't move

an inch,

as the painter carefully

captured

our smirk or smile,

our solemn

countenance.

sometimes the pollen

would make

us sneeze.

sadly, there was no delete

button and no button

to try again,

there was no, take one more,

please.

easy riders

it might have

taken us six hours to hitch hike

a ride

to Ocean City,

normally a three-hour drive.

our sleeping bags

rolled

up, tied

to our backs with

rope. we had

a few dollars in our

pockets.

our long hair down

to our shoulders,

held back

with red, white and blue bandanas.

we had a sign, which said

O.C, will pay for gas.

three days

later,

sunburned and tired,

hungry.

having no luck with the rich

college girls

on the beach from Salisbury State,

we packed up

and headed home.

we were

exhausted from asking

for spare change

on the boardwalk, our sandals

broken and worn.

our cutoff jeans still wet

from the ocean.

at last, after three or four rides,

with thumbs out,

exhausting our money,

we were thankful to be home.

back to our beds,

to our mothers who

put sandwiches and cold

milk before us.

a plate of cookies, still warm.

saying everything with silence

nothing said,

no response, just silence

contains

more words

than a hundred books.

no explanation is needed.

the empty space

holds everything

you need say,

all of it is known,

despite a single word

never spoken.

she's on a diet again

we order dinner,

well, at least i do.

she gets a salad, she's

on a diet.

her salad arrives and she

begins to pick

out the croutons,

setting them aside.

cranberries too.

the devil's work in fruit.

then my steak and potato

is set down

before me,

my bread,

my side order of broccolini.

the savory steam

rises into my face.

slowly her hand

creeps across the table

with a cold fork

and she

begins to eat what i have,

asking me

for one more slice of meat,

and wanting

more butter

for the bread.

finally finished, the plates

empty,

she asks me,

you're getting dessert too,

aren't you?

the very long way around

i see

where the newly awarded

Nobel Prize

recipient

has excepted her award

and is being

overwhelmed

with accolades.

apparently, she was cleaning

her kitchen,

scrubbing

the sink and

mopping the floor

when she got the news.

i've never heard of her.

so i look

her up

and begin to read some

of her work.

ten minutes later

i'm scratching my head

and saying what the hell,

thoroughly bored.

she does take the long way

around

to say things

that are true.

then i come here to write

about it.

i'll clean my kitchen later,

maybe tomorrow,

with or without an award.

not my first rodeo with brainwashing

i'm not worried about AI.

robots

taking over the world.

not a second

do i fear

my toaster or oven

telling

me what to do.

my computer or phone

brainwashing

me to think

they way they want me

to.

i've been married a few

times,

and i survived that.

this wouldn't be the first

time that someone

has messed

with my head twenty-four

seven and

bossed me around.

so i imagine i'll survive

and conquer

AI too.

a trip to the vet

i see that

there is a group of people,

mental patients,

mostly,

who want

to dress up and behave

like animals.

it doesn't faze me.

there's a lot of stress in the world.

we're living in

strange times. but

what better way

to escape it all

than to pretend to be a dog

or cat,

or rabbit

nibbling on a carrot or bone

in your

bunny suit.

it's fine. be crazy, but when

i take you to the vet

for shots, don't be angry

or bite my leg

or hand.

now hop in the car,

it's vet time.

is this the real me?

i surprise

myself with the tone of my voice,

how harsh

and loud

i speak into the phone

when

transferred

from one person to the next,

my questions

going unanswered

after

thirty long minutes.

i'm angry.

put the smartest person

in the bank

on the phone, i yell out

with frustration.

they put me on hold

while a symphony of

music plays.

i carry the phone into

the bathroom

and look in the mirror.

who is this person

i wonder?

is this the real me

coming out?

Saturday ride to the zoo

i move

a smidge over on

the D.C. transit,

sliding

on the green vinyl

seat of

the crowded bus,

packed

like sardines in a can.

i don't like

touching people when i'm

sitting side

by side

as we go across town

to the zoo.

not even a shoe

or sleeve.

maybe there's something

wrong with me,

i don't know.

perhaps 

i'm becoming aloof and distant

in my old age.

it just gives me

the willies,

making contact with

other human beings

i don't know,

especially when travelling

across town

to the zoo.

i do much better with animals,

it seems.

all those yellow canaries

my mother

cried with each new canary

that died.

some she hardly

had the time

to name them.

a day, a week,

a month or two,

then gone.

and yet soon another

one

arrived

and she was happy again,

it was how

she lived

her life.

street war

it's disturbing,

the news,

France on fire, London

streets

full of unruly mobs of

disgruntled

youth.

a barrage of gunshots

in Chicago
and LA,

Minnesota fallen.

the whole country seems

to be on edge.

what energy

they have,

these young folks

in their black costumes,

masked

and ready for street war.

you try to recall what

you were

doing at that age,

but

none of this comes to mind.

the food will arrive soon

we argue, it's

Friday

after all. we're both tired.

weary

from a week of

work.

it's about nothing really.

small stuff.

things we both

need to do

before the weekend

ends.

the berry picking days

seem to be over.

food will be arriving

soon,

the dog

will bark when the bell

rings

and we'll lay down our

swords

for awhile

in front of the tv.

she'll go up first, excusing

herself,

and you'll follow

once

the clock strikes twelve.

forward in the old grey truck

as i smooth

and pull, paste and cut

each 

sheet of wallpaper,

applying it to someone's

dining room

walls

with aged tools,

i wonder how much longer

can i do this,

up and down

the ladder,

the old truck pulling

me along

to the next job.

it's no longer about

money,

no longer about expanding

the business, 

or making plans for another

season.

filling the coffers with

a few dollars more.

it's something else.

an existential crisis

perhaps

that i can't put my finger on.

writing love poems

when younger, much

younger,

you wrote a lot of gooey,

mushy

poems, call them love

poems, if you

wish,

handwritten persuasively

in your Catholic

school script,

but they were not that

exactly,

trying hard

to compare her to nature

in all its lovely

forms.

but in reality

you were trying to make

your way

around the bases,

greasing the wheels

sort to speak,

an anxious thumb on the scale,

when stuck on first.

one large pepperoni pizza from Luigi's

she saved

me a slice of pizza

from over the weekend.

Luigi's.

i tell her thanks, but no thanks.

is it stale now?

no, she says. i put

it in the fridge,

but there's one slice

i don't want anyone eat.

i just want to show

it to you, show you how

the cheese

and pepperoni

is situated on the slice.

the way the crust is rising

up from the box.

i'll send you a picture.

now you tell me

if that doesn't look

like Mary Magdelene

holding Jesus in her arms.

don't the little bubbles of cheese

look like sheep?

the picture comes through.

i stare at it,

then hold the phone up

to the light.

umm, i don't know.

it looks like melted cheese to me,

i tell her, mozzarella,

and a round slice of pepperoni.

well, i think it might be a sign

of some sort.

a miracle in the making.

i think it's that new wood oven

they have now.

Jesus was a carpenter by the way.

i'm going to post it online

to see what people say.

okay, i tell her.

but what about the rest of

the pizza, any of it left?

i can stop by tonight.

the dream house

we build

a house along the shore,

and the ocean

takes it.

it seemed like a good

idea

at the time.

as did the house in the woods

made of lumber,

quickly gone

during fire

season.

we moved into the city,

but then

the riots

came.

the looting and murders,

the high

cost of everything

overwhelmed us.

and now

we're thinking concrete,

steel and stone,

space age

metals.

a bunker with gun turrets

where

nothing can

go wrong. maybe

on an island somewhere,

but something with a view

and service

for the phone.

old frayed clothing

like old

frayed clothing, so much

falls away

with age.

those nagging worries of

being

accepted, to be liked

and be one

of them, to be

admired.

what heavy

things they were

when young, how you

carried them

for so long,

for much of your life.

and now.

not so much.

how hard it's always been,

until now,

to set the false self

down.

soul mate number one

more nervous

than a cat in a room full

of rocking chairs,

i sat down

and asked her father,

Luigi Desimone,

if i could marry

his daughter, Sherry.

he lit a cigar and sat

back in his leather chair

to stroke

his mustache.

he set his Penthouse

Magazine down

then

took a sip of brandy.

hmmm, he said. 

so you want to marry

my youngest daughter,

do you?

i rubbed my sweaty

hands together,

my knees knocking against

each other.

yes. i said. yes sir.

i think i love her.

he blew a smoke ring

towards the ceiling,

rubbing a skull and crossbones

tattoo on his arm.

you think? he said.

i mean i do love her, i said,

correcting myself.

can you take care of her,

will you be good

to her, never lie or cheat

or hit her?

(i remember seeing a bruise

under the left eye

of his wife when i came into

the house,

and a purple split lip)

i gulped. i promise, i said,

dramatically crossing myself,

then pushing

the long hair

out of my eyes.

and what exactly do you do for

work son?

umm. well, i'm working on that.

i'm not sure yet what type

of business i'll be going into.

i'm only twenty-one,

but i am taking classes at

the community college.

geology and creative writing.

i like writing poems

and short stories.

i'm a big fan of Sylvia Plath,

i told him.

who, he said? who the hell is that?

forget it.

go on.

i cleared my throat.

i am working though, i'm a short

order cook

at Denny's on the weekend.

eggs, bacon, pancakes, that sort

of thing.

i'm working my way up to waffles.

at that point,

fortunately, his wife, Bernadette,

called us in for dinner.

come on boys, she said, dinner

is on the table.

the lasagna is waiting.

it's not going to eat itself.

to be continued, her father said,

grabbing my arm

with a meaty fist.

and you need a haircut too, buddy.

no hippy is going to marry

my little sweetheart, Sherry.

yes sir, i said.

absolutely.

six months after the wedding

i looked out the window

of our one-bedroom apartment

and saw his daughter

walking back home

with her pink suitcase and a new

blender from Sears and Roebucks.

the last piece of wedding

cake was still in the fridge,

frozen,

which i immediately

ate before she came back.

in the mood to bite people

i ask her

what she's wearing for Halloween

this year.

she says,

perhaps

i'll be a vampire this time around.

i'm in the mood

to bite people and fly about.

but a sexy one,

right? i tell her.

perhaps

you can be

a vampire wearing a low

cut sweater,

with a black cape

and stockings and heels.

can you put on some of those

fake long nails too?

it's always about you,

she says.

isn't it my dear?

the welfare state

i burrow

the pole deep into the soft ground.

steadying

it,

then setting upon

the metal frame a bird house

with

a metal roof,

and sides

for which the birds can sit

and eat,

peck away at the seed that

i dutifully provide.

two weeks

go bye.

how quickly they've

soiled the fence,

the patio and yard.

dressed in black and red, 

in brown and blue

feathers they

sit and wait their

turn on the fence, crowded,

side by side.

the word is out.

it isn't long before

i'm at the store again with

another ten

pound bag of seed

to carry home.

something she said

i should

be happy, all things considered.

money

and health, at least

for the moment,

in good standing, i should

be smiling,

skipping down

the boulevard

with a la dee da spring

in my step.

the sun is out,

and yet.

inside

it's raining.

maybe it was something

she said.

today will be the day

finally,

i deem today as the day that

i will

go through the house

and pick up

clothes from

the floor,

from the stairs,

the couch,

pants and shirts,

socks,

and after that it's time

to collect

empty coffee cups

and saucers,

forks and spoons.

i'll put

the opened books

back on the shelf.

and maybe if i have the time

i'll go around

and collect

my assortment of

tossed shoes,

put the butter back into

the ice box.

we'll get a new one

the children

are mystified by the goldfish

floating

on the surface

of the bowl.

worried.

what's to become of us?

they think,

when a new one

splashes into the water,

slipping

from a parents hold.

no more cats, please

not unlike

a stray cat wandering the street,

lost

and matted,

yet still with a sweet

meow,

i let

her in

for a simple bowl

of milk.

but she tried to burn

the house

down.

no more cats, please.

a life in one box

his desk

cluttered, leaves a will,

his wallet

with forty dollars in it,

a photo album

of his seven

children,

and books.

his Navy papers are

in a folder.

thirty years worth of

documents.

evidence of ships

on the seven seas.

there's a letter from

his Mother.

and another one from

his sister,

both contesting the will

when she

died.

there's his check book with

the last entry,

groceries from

the commissary

and a haircut.

all of this fits in one box,

which i carry

to the car.

the house is full of

furniture,

televisions,

dishes, glasses, China,

silver ware.

clothing. lamps and American

Flags on golden poles.

i leave the door wide

open when i leave.

i have what

i want.

see you in six months

after twelve

x-rays,

and working on my

teeth

and gums for 30 minutes

with miniature miners

tools,

buffers and sanders,

the hygienist disappears

to fetch

the dentist.

she's wearing

a pale blue jacket

and puts her hand on

my shoulder.

kindness

and pain so often go

together.

let's keep an eye

on that one

tooth.

it's fine

for now, but let's see

if there are

any changes down the road.

she smiles,

her teeth are perfect,

beautiful.

she glides out as if on

a cloud.

time for fluoride the hygienist

says,

so what will it be,

what flavor?

mint, chocolate, vanilla

or strawberry.

surprise me, i tell her.

the yearly budget

i take out

a white sheet of paper,

a good

writing pen,

and turn the desk light on.

it's time for

my yearly

budget to be made.

what arrives in,

what goes out.

gas, food, 

electric,

insurance, mortgage.

miscellaneous expenses,

etc.

it's simpler these days with

one.

no dog,

no wife,

no daughter or son.

no significant other,

not even a plant to tend to.

it's just me now.

so it's no surprise that

i'm in the black again.

early in the game

as i sit

in the tub of hot water,

shaving

in the dark.

dragging the razor across

my face,

i listen to the newlyweds

next door.

our mutual vents provide

such interesting

conversations.

i haven't heard a single

cross word yet.

but it's early in the game

and

they're still in love.

i hear her voice,

sweet but loud, honey,

do you need a towel.

can i scrub your back?

there's shampoo

and soap

on the rack.

i laid out a mat for you

when you get out.

i smile as i continue

shaving,

being careful not to nick

my chin,

my last tenant here

hated when

i let blood drip on anything.

i agree with them

you try

not to be one of them.

you think

of yourself

as better than that.

you try

not to join in

to the grumbling,

the complaining about

the long line,

the traffic,

the molasses

service of waiters.

you listen as they go

on and on about

the weather, the cost

of nearly everything.

you put your hand

over your mouth to keep

your words in.

don't, you tell yourself,

don't be like

them.

this last for about thirty

seconds

before you put your 

own two cents in.

one bad Oyster

it was a mistake,

you think

as you hug the porcelain

sink,

then toilet,

knees on the cold

tile floor.

you're sweating and in pain.

there's nothing in you

left to give.

you may sleep here tonight,

just you

behind

the closed door.

you'll fold your arms

beneath your

chin,

in a fetal position,

and ask God for forgiveness

for all of your sins

once more.

thinking about love, perhaps

the butcher,

his apron,

crimson in the blood of dead

animals,

is busy

in thought as the knife

he holds

cuts through

the skin and bones, the flesh,

of what soon

will be wrapped in white

paper

for you to

take home.

you wonder where he is right now?

deep in thought,

day dreaming.

thinking

about love,

perhaps?

most likely, not the cow.

they're holding doors for you now

they're holding

doors for you now

as you

approach the room,

they're

making way for you

as you climb

the stairs,

carrying your

bags

to the curb.

can i get you a cab, sir?

some will even take your

arm and

brush the lint off your sleeve.

how quickly it's

all been

turned around.

we have to go now, wake up

my foot falls

asleep

in the waiting room

as i read

a People magazine

with Liz Taylor

on the front,

and then the nurse calls

out my name.

we have to go now,

i tell my foot,

shaking it

and

slapping my knee to wake

it up.

come on. let's go.

enough.

we can sleep more when

we get home

later.

the regular visit

i want to believe

that the bird who shows up

regularly

at my window

each morning

is a sign of love.

the same bird, the same

tap

against the glass,

the same sweet

coo from

her ruby throat,

or am i fooling myself

again.

no better time to live in

we are more

than lucky, she tells her husband

as he

drags in the wild boar,

he's slain.

we're blessed, look at us

with this

fire,

this wheel you've made

that will

make

life easier. what a pleasure

it is to have

this cave,

the art on the walls,

we're protected and safe

from the outside world.

we have a dozen arrows

and three spears

to get us

through the winter.

there is snow to melt and drink.

we have beds

made out of bear skins.

no better time,

either in the past or future,

has there been

to live in.

we're lucky, she says.

we're blessed.

the same towns

travel

tires me out.

my eyes are red

as i drive on

the open road, hands on

the wheel.

every town looks like

the town

i just passed.

the same stores, the same

gas stations

and billboards.

franchises from end to end.

somehow i want more.

i want

what doesn't exist.

i want yesterday,

men in felt hats and grey

suits,

women in long

dresses.

children on swings

and playing jacks.

a steam engine rolling

by

blowing its whistle.

i want an ice cream

shop,

a hardware store.

wheat fields and apple orchards.

i want to see

dogs running free along the field.

i want green stamps

and a diner

with pancakes

and a waitress that calls

me hon.

i want a town that hasn't

changed

for once.

the party where no one comes

i push

the pole into the hard dirt,

then set

the bird feeder

on top of it.

i fill it with seed,

nuts

and a gourmet mix

of food

for whatever might fly

bye,

but no one comes.

not a single

bird

arrives.

away they go in flocks,

into the trees,

into the clouds.

it saddens me in how

hard

i try.

how quickly twenty years go

is this

where you want to be?

is this the room,

the bed,

the house where you'll

lie down in

forever.

is this the table you

were meant to eat at?

the roof to be under?

are these the windows

that you'll pull

open and close

with each new season?

is this

the end of the road,

or another

stop along the way?

sometimes it's better

not to know.

slapping mud on it

the bleeding

will stop, i tell myself,

stretching out my arm,

while

digging

into the wet dirt

for mud to 

ease the blood from

spilling out.

i've survived worse,

been through more.

this is nothing.

this is just

a mere flesh wound.

this is me getting up

and moving on.

it's late, too late for this

she

comes to me

in the night, knocking hard

at the door,

i see her

on porch from my window,

a kerchief around

her head,

she looks wounded

and scared.

it has

to be terrible news.

what other reason

would there be for this

intrusion.

it can't be good news,

it can't be joy,

or

happiness

that she brings at this

late hour.

she's holding a baby in

her arms.

which makes even worse.

never too early for the snow globe

it's too early

for Christmas, but i carry up

the small

tree from the cellar,

just the same,

and set it on the credenza.

i get the cob

webs off and kill the spiders

that run off

in all directions

with a spatula

from the kitchen.

it's a blue fir, 

with a string of white lights

that occasionally blink,

all fake

of course,

but it's been doused with

enough chemicals

to make it smell like a blue

fir all year round.

there's a star on top,

with tiny red and green ornaments

hung on the plastic

limbs.

it's a start, an early start,

and tomorrow

the snow globe that

plays music will be 

dug out of the box

and wound up again.

going into her fun house

it worried

me that she knew where

all the dark

alleys were,

the dead-end streets

shaded

by oak trees.

she was familiar

with the other side

of the tracks,

the run-down amusement

park

where the door

to the fun house swung

open.

she worried me

about all of this,

but i ignored it.

the shiny waxed floor

maybe 

it's not happiness

that we're after, but perhaps

we're chasing small

or large

accomplishments, 

finding satisfaction

in them,

whether

a poem

one's working

on, or a yard

after being mowed.

the made bed.

forget happiness.

find joy

in that shiny

waxed floor. 

it's enough to sleep on

and bring a smile

to your face

come morning.

carnation pink

she's a girl,

after all

so why not a pink dress,

pink sheets,

a pink mixer

on the counter.

a pink collar

for the dog.

why not

paint the bathroom

pink, 

ceiling and walls.

why not,

she's a girl after all.

she's a carnation

when i see her,

sashaying in pink heels,

clicking

down the hall.

the neighborhood horror movie

not far

away i hear someone using

a saw,

a chain saw

perhaps.

the rough

and loud buzz

of it

permeating the air.

i hear the cutting of wood,

maybe a tree fell,

maybe a deck is going up,

maybe

an addition is being

added

to the back room of someone's

house.

or maybe

someone is making a scary movie,

chasing scantily clad

women about,

then finding them

in the shed,

trembling in the dark.

pie in the sky

the evil

ones, the terrorists of the world,

seem

to never take a day off,

always planning

some nefarious deed

to scare the pee

out of us.

a bomb,

a plane to hijack.

random attacks on innocent

victims.

what strange lives

they must lead.

all that hatred 

boiling within them.

never realizing that

with each

act of terror

the world despises

them even more

than the day before.

and

all that for the promise

of 72 virgins

in the sky.

oh my.

apparently, we're different

women,

of course, are more

auditory,

more turned on by

the written word or

a voice whispering

in their ear,

whereas

men need just a slight

breeze

to lift the hem

of a summer skirt

to fill them

with desire.

that laminated look

i haven't seen

my friend Jimmy in a few months

and then

he calls and wants

to go out

and have a drink somewhere,

maybe lunch.

i hardly recognize him

when he shows up.

his eyebrows are higher,

his wrinkles pulled

back behind his ears.

his lips seem fuller,

rounder.

even his nose looks different

somehow,

straighter, narrower.

there are no

bags under his eyes.

what the hell i say to him,

when he arrives.

still limping

because of his bad knees.

i smile but don't mention

any of the plastic

surgeries he's had, i just

shake his hand

and say

long time no see, 

so how are you Frankenstein?

decisions on October first

the temperature

has dropped

into the 50's, so of course

i start looking

for apple fritter loaf

cake recipes.

but i need a loaf

pan

and most of the ingredients,

so i put the bike

ride off

for a while.

will it be with raisins

or nuts,

important decisions

have to be made.

some time off

you tie your white flag

to a stick

and hold it up

over the bloody

trench so that the enemy

can see

you've given up,

at least for now.

you need a day off.

maybe two.

you need

some time away from 

this war

that can't be won,

can't be lost.

you need some R and R

away from

it all.

maybe an island somewhere.

a cold drink

in hand,

the blue water touching

your feet,

your chair in the sand.

don't you remember me?

don't you remember

me,

she says,

you painted my house, you

hung wallpaper

in the kitchen.

you were here for a week.

late 80's, maybe 89.

remember?

you had to bring a ladder

in to do the stairway.

i look at her. i look deep

into her eyes,

and see

nothing.

i was married then, she says,

and

pregnant

with my third

child.

i look around her house,

but have no memory of 

what i did here.

it's all a blur

at this point.

i sigh and take out my

book, my pen,

and say, okay, well what

do you have in mind

this time?

suddenly

it scares me that her children

are in their late thirties

now.

the hairdresser

she stands

over

the next client, finding

some sort

of praise

to dish out.

perhaps the dress the woman

is wearing,

her shoes, the necklace

around her neck,

her weight,

the color of her eyes,

but soon

it's about the work,

the washing,

the cutting,

the curling, the coloring

and then 

the mirror, the pink leather

chair

swung

side to side.

there's music too, and coffee

or tea.

cold water.

snacks in the little box

beside the register.

everyone leaves more

pretty than when

they arrived.

it's a long day

but with

many

happy endings.

at last everyone is gone,

the broom comes

out, she sighs.

it's late, it's dark out.

the clock says nine.

painting apartments with Art

bird thin

and gloriously unhinged,

his nose entering

each

room first, before him.

without

a filter,

he spoke as many old folk

do,

without

care or conscience.

loudly.

tall and lean,

still 

with wheat colored hair, 

still with his

ancient,

yet toothless grin.

battle worn

by war, by women, by

liquor but

full of dark wisdom.

always with a bottle of

suds

in the pockets of his

baggy

painter pants. the tattoo

on his arm.

a ship in grey,

sinking,

surrounded by sharks,

the Missouri from world

war two.

a pack of Luckys stayed

rolled up in his paint

speckled 

t-shirt while his long

hand held a wet 

four-inch paint brush,

ready to begin.

no need to be alarmed

they are hopeful,

the caravan of immigrants heading

towards the southern

border.

thousands in a slow crawl

through Mexico,

carrying

their luggage and children,

babies,

goats and 

chickens.

cell phones

to their ears. hoping

that in November

the mid term

elections

will change everything

and the border will

be open once more.

the pearly gates will swing wide

and paradise

will welcome them with open

arms.

plane tickets, vouchers,

credit and voting cards.

free food and healthcare, 

all of their

hearts desires.

our tax dollars will be

thrown into the air

like confetti.

and of course,

there's

no need to be alarmed.

maybe a book club?

it's 3 a.m.

and i realize that i need another

blanket

to stay warm.

all of the windows

are open,

the weather has

shifted,

it's ten below.

i'm shivering,

my nose is cold.

those rattles i hear

are my teeth,

my bones.

it's snowing.

it must be a dream, 

but no.

i have no shovel, no

salt, no dog,

or wife, no friend,

or significant other to

cuddle up to

and keep me warm.

in a flash,

i have an epiphany,

it occurs to me that

starting tomorrow,

i need to socialize

a more.

the discovery of bologna

she chased

something that she thought was

love

and ended up

in Lebanon.

not the country but the city

in Pennsylvania.

famous for developing

bologna.

for some reason this piques

my interest.

a town

dedicated to the history

and discovery

of a cold cut.

i can't even count how many

sandwiches

i've eaten

with a slice of bologna

laid out on a two pieces

of Wonder Bread,

and mustard.

a cold glass of milk to wash

it all down.

chips if available.

my next google search leads

me to salami.

a short ten years

it's hard

to take the dog on his last

ride.

his nose gone

white, his eyes blue.

there's no

more barking out the window,

no more

sitting in my

lap with his paws

on the wheel, no more

drooling

madly when he sees a pizza

truck go by.

he has no more interest

in the squirrels

nearby.

he's done.

it's just a matter of time

until we get there,

uncollared

and unleashed at last,

so quickly

has his life gone by.

blow on it

we touch

the hot stove with a finger,

sip

too soon

on the boiled soup,

we reach out to

the wet

paint,

despite the sign.

we have learned

not to,

we know, but still we can't

help ourselves

or resist

what we've always

been told.

friends for life, no so fast

we're friends for life,

she tells me,

after a twenty

year span

of knowing one another.

forever and ever will our

relationship

go on.

she gives me a kiss

on the cheek,

and wraps her arms

around me

in a bear hug.

our hearts and minds are

one.

you're my favorite friend.

nothing and no one

will ever break

this bond between us,

but then

suddenly, it's over,

after i tell

her which side i voted

on.

the dying fire

the fire

is almost out, so i stir

the embers

with a stick,

i move the charred

wood about,

then throw

the stick in. i blow on

it trying

to make the flames

rise again.

but it's of no use.

it's out,

and i'm cold once more.

the ticket out

in a blue choke

of fumes

the bus rolls away,

leaving the terminal.

i'm

in my seat, 

wiping the fog from

the window

with the ball of fist.

i'm settled in

with my bag above

me, and offer

a limp wave.

i see you on the platform

an umbrella

spread open

deflecting the hard rain.

i won't be

back.

we both know that.

but strangely it's all okay.

i feel your pain

i feel your pain,

not really, 

but it's what

we say,

we're an empathetic lot,

but

if i really did,

really felt your pain,

i'd be bent

over, holding my heart.

needing sixty more watts

it's no surprise,

this

light going out, 

the bulb

finding it's end with

a flicker

and pop.

suddenly the corner,

once lit

by the vase lamp

has gone

dark.

who doesn't feel

that way

at times, 

finding no energy

to get up.

come on, it's the holidays, get drunk with us

people

look at you suspiciously

when

you say no

to a drink.

it's a holiday party after all.

they raise their eyebrows,

and open

their mouths

with a look of surprise.

wine?

maybe a martini?

no, i don't drink anymore,

haven't had

a drink

in ages.

what's wrong with you?

you're no fun

anymore.

come on,

you're falling behind, everyone

here is drinking

but you.

you can take an Uber home,

or spend the night

in the guest room.

here, how about some punch?

although i have to 

warn you,

Martha has a heavy pour

when it comes

to Tanqueray and Vermouth.

a handful of salty nuts

mindlessly,

sitting in my mother's house

wearing

the red, green, blue and yellow

Christmas

sweater she gifted me

just yesterday,

my hand reaches over

to the nut bowl without

looking.

mistakenly i put a Brazil

nut into my

mouth.

i'm afraid to bite down.

it's too hard,

too large,

it may break off a new

crown.

thankfully it's not a shelled

walnut. but

i take it out and offer it

to one of

the dogs

that are roving about

looking for crumbs.

it's taken.

i'm more careful with the next

handful,

sifting through

the salty nuts with my fingers.

first snow

the first

snow

is best. let's walk in it,

let's turn

our faces to the sky

and welcome it,

the small wet

kisses,

delicate and perfectly

cold.

let's lie

down

in the new blanket

unfolded

before us

and fall in love

once more.

bring a roll of quarters, okay?

it wasn't a Motel 6,

no,

the accommodations were not

that special,

maybe two steps

down.

but it had a vibrating

bed

and wi-fi.

there was a picture

of George Washington

on a horse,

tilted on the wall.

the airport was nearby

and out

the window was the gravel

parking lot

to a bar, and in neon,

the sign blinked red,

liver and onions

tonight.

my suitcase was on the floor,

locked tight

to keep the bugs out,

she hung her purse

on the doorknob.

i told her to bring a lot

of change,

quarters preferably,

but she forgot.

i turned off the light.

i think i can help with that

i look

at my Morgan Stanley

portfolio

and laugh.

how did it grow so large.

all starting

with

tips in cash

from that paper route

back in the hood

where i pulled

that red wagon

with my dog trailing

behind me.

the rainy-day money

is beyond

reason.

time to open the floodgates

and spend

before it's too

late.

Betty snuggles up

beside

me, smelling like fresh

paint

and says.

i think i can help you

with that.

hiring a new life coach

i hire a life coach,

which seems to be the thing

to do these

days

when adrift in a world

of change

and trouble.

someone to guide me,

help me

along the way with my

limited skill set.

i need a jolt

of positivity.

but when i tell her my

age,

she laughs and says.

why now?

and i say why not.

okay, she says, but i imagine

that this will

be a short term

contract.

we're not angry, we're disappointed

we're not angry

at you,

they told

me.

former bosses

and girlfriends,

a few wives,

parents

and friends, no we're

not mad

at you,

we're just disappointed.

but i think

they were lying,

i think

they were both.

smells like home

i like

how unmodern

the house is.

the mid-century style

set in place.

the atomic clock on

the wall.

the old

cabinets, 

wooden and white,

the tiled floor,

the pink

and green linoleum.

the ceramic

tiles still holding on

in the bathroom.

a casement window to crank

out.

the floor lamps

bringing light.

ashes in the fireplace,

cobwebs

in the cellar where clothes

are hung to dry.

the throw rugs, the big

chair

in the corner.

the desk to do bills on.

it smells like

home.

my grandmother's home,

now mine.

this is what's next

when

young you used to think

what's next?

you were optimistic.

where to,

who,

what job,

all of the usual

questions

that

filled up your still

developing heart

and brain.

what's next?

what place

to live.

what love,

or close to love person

will appear

in your life.

will it be true love,

or again, just sex.

what's next?

and now when you wake

up and lie

alone in your bed you think,

maybe this is it.

this is what's next.

rolling over in their graves

i visit the graveyard

where

many of our founding fathers

are buried.

Washington, Adams,

Madison

and Monroe,

Jefferson.

creators of the Declaration

of Independence,

the Constitution.

the Bill of Rights.

the dirt is all overturned

as if plowed,

not a blade of grass

has grown.

they've all been rolling

over a lot lately.

the long hot summer

it's been

a busy summer,

i see a bee

resting on the edge of my

coffee cup

in the back yard,

fanning himself

with his wing.

he's tired.

he's been flying about

all summer

and pollinating,

making honey,

since spring.

i reach over for my cup,

but he doesn't

even have

the energy for one

final sting.

he sits there and let's

out a sigh before

sliding over so that i

can take a sip

of my drink.

the nonexistent dive bar

she wanted to meet

at

dive bars.

a strange sort of virtue

signaling,

i suppose.

no chain restaurants for her.

no la dee da

French cuisine,

or Italian delicacies.

No five star joints,

no Michelin rated places

with white

tablecloths.

the further you

drove,

the better,

down 

hills and valleys

through crushing rain,

anyplace

up a mountain

where the accents changed

and there was less dental

hygiene.

anywhere off the map

was fine

with her.

whereas a tuna sandwich

in the car

was fine with me.

or at the kitchen table with

eggs and bacon.

our thin legacy

we are a world of historians,

to each

his own

documentary

of the life we lead

no matter how

great or mundane it is.

look here,

at this ocean, the flooded

streets,

me and you in

a rowboat

going down Main Street.

look at this hamburger

that i'm about to eat,

the size

of this apple, this peach,

and here we are, happy as larks,

at a birthday party,

sitting

in our high seats.

there's the setting sun.

the full moon.

a baby born,

a gravestone for

the newly deceased.

all of us are movies stars now,

not extras,

recording our thin legacies,

for posterity.

you know what you like and don't like

when i would walk

my father

through the commissary

at Little Creek,

he'd lean

on his cart

for balance as he

shuffled forward,

his blue eyes blurred,

his hearing

muted,

and point to where

the original pancake

mix was,

the original syrup,

or vanilla wafers,

the Debbie Cakes

and

the original cream of wheat.

he had no desire

to try

anything new, discovered

or invented in

this current century.

i do agree.

Fred Flintstone Vitamins

if i see

a commercial,

or an ad

usually on my phone,

pulled up

into my algorithm

because of searches

and likes,

i'll run out

and get a bottle of those

pills or

vitamins.

my cupboard is full of them.

Magnesium

Saw Palmetto,

D-2 or D-3,

Kimchi.

Zinc,

but I soon forget what

i bought them

for, was it hair loss,

weight gain,

sleepless nights or ED?

my Fred Flintstone multi-

vitamins

seem to be the only ones

i consistently take.

terms of confection

she calls

me pumpkin,  i call

her sugar plum,

or sweet

potato.

sometimes i might

say,

good morning buttercup,

and she'll

say hello

handsome.

but this was all before

the court

date

due to irreconcilable

differences.

we now use our formal

names, 

including

the middle one, like

they do

for historical assassins.

such as

John Wilkes,

or Lee Harvey for instance.

best served cold

i remember

when my sister, after catching

her criminal

husband with

another woman,

telling me with great joy

that she threw all of his clothes

out the window

and set them on fire.

i used to think

i could never do that, how

mean, how cruel.

but you don't know until

it happens

to you, what you'll do.

my revenge was much more

creative and fun

than that, when it came

to lies and betrayal.

served cold is best, 

i found out.

just ask her.

the new cold

the yard

is almost full of leaves, 

the rain

and wind

have seen to that.

the new

cold has entered

the trees.

the rake

awaits for its yearly

task.

but i'm not quite ready.

there's more months

to go,

more leaves

to fall

before the limbs are bare.

i'll know when it's time,

there is no one

to ask.

follow the money

i'm

unbothered by the latest new

scare,

the most

recent prediction of doom

and gloom.

the fear

that robots will

take over the world

and kill us all.

if it's not Covid,

or climate change,

or 1999, or

horses abandoned

over cars,

or data centers,

then it's something

else

to lose sleep over.

the world cries wolf

over and over

again.

but why?

there must be money in it.

someone must be

cashing in

on the hysteria,

the well groomed lie.

winter preparations

you can tell

what season we are in by

what aisles

of the grocery store

are most crowded,

almost

impossible to 

navigate through.

it's the bakery aisle at the moment.

i can hardly

push my

cart through as i pick up

flour and confectionary

sugar,

parchment paper,

and

bags of semi-sweet chocolates,

brown sugar too.

one way ticket to mars

as i sit

here on the subway

with

a hundred other passengers,

most heading

down to the U.N. building

to protest,

it occurs to me

why i could never

go to Mars

and be part of a new

human

community.

i look at their signs

and megaphones,

their blue hair

and septum rings

and wonder what has happened

to society?

when did the world

take such a crazy turn.

supporting 

terrorists

and communism,

assassins and men dressed

as women.

when did we lose our minds

and support

evil over good.

the devil has stolen their

minds.

the let's forgive and forget court system

no one

is guilty anymore

of anything.

no matter how horrific

the crime is,

rape, murder,

strangling babies.

it's society's fault.

it's 

lack of parental guidance,

our education

system has failed

us.

it's the patriarchy.

genetic

disposition.

they weren't hugged

enough.

it's hormones and estrogen

run amok.

it's testosterone

and medicine,

or maybe it's just good old

fashion

demonic

possession.

everyone needs one more

chance to be good,

or at least ten or twenty

more chances.

a cruise on the high seas

i ponder

Noah's Ark.

the bathroom situation

in particular.

flush or no flush.

two ply or four?

was there

a cafeteria?

a lounge.

were there complimentary

drinks

when the ark

hit rough seas?

was one able to get any

sleep

with all those

animals making animal

sounds?

anything to read?

there must be some dirt on them

it used

to be there was an election

that caught your

interest.

governor, senator,

president.

maybe you went down

and voted

if you weren't too busy

that day

getting a haircut or mowing

the lawn,

and then

you paid

no mind to politics

for the next two 

or four years.

you just wanted to be left

alone

and not listen

to another lame

speech full of promises

and platitudes.

but now

you find yourself

googling mayors

and sheriffs,

the dog catchers

and delegates

in your county and city

to see if there's

any dirt on them.

are they worthy of your vote?

thoughtful birthday gifts

she bought me

a sampler box of ED meds

for my

birthday,

and a negligee

for herself

from 

Victoria Secret,

stiletto heels

with a matching

small leather

whip.

i guess tonight would

be the night.

candles were lit

around the house,

a bottle of red wine

poured.

the dog

sent to the pound for

a few days

and nights.

Marvin Gaye swooned

gently

on the old stereo.

everyone looked different then

during

the pandemic years,

when everything was shut down.

it was harder

on women.

no nail salon

to go to,

no tanning booth,

no hairdresser,

no esthetician.

no yoga class, or Pilates.

no book

club or parties

to go to.

no Botox injections.

no girls night out

or in.

but for men it was business

as usual.

the little black book

maybe you knew

three

or four phone numbers by

heart

when growing up.

your own

and a few

close friends,

a girl friend or two.

but those days are gone.

now it's worse,

you have

to remember fifteen

different

passwords to get anywhere.

caps and symbols,

sequential numbers,

random letters, all

breadcrumbs on paper,

clues to your world.

the little black

book

is different now.

how old was he what killed him

i don't know at what

point,

but suddenly you take great interest

in the obituaries

in the back

pages of the metro section

of the paper,

or the notice

online,

of other's your own age,

or younger dying.

whether movie stars,

or singers,

or regular Joe's,

like you or I.

you want to know how and why,

what went wrong.

you want to educate yourself

on their failures

on how to continue on.

at last and honest word or two

one

wife told me, during settlement

negotiations

for the divorce,

that she had one regret

about getting married.

and what is that,

sweetheart?

i asked as we sat

outside the courthouse.

and she said,

with a straight and honest

face, for once,

that she wished she had married

a doctor or a lawyer,

instead of me.

the alimony would have been

much greater

than what you can afford

to give.

guessing one's direction

such an

easy thing to do. to use

the blinker

in your car

to warn others as to which

direction

you are going next.

such a polite

and civil task to take on,

and yet

few do.

they believe, like race

car drivers

on a track,

that it's unnecessary

at any speed

to click or left or right.

guessing one's 

direction

is up to you.

trying to escape

bored with

war news, with protest news,

with political

news,

you burn the newspaper,

shut

off the tv,

close the phone.

you take a walk and shake

off what you

know of the world.

you ignore

the graffiti

along the way,

harsh words painted

in black.

that too trying to tell you

what to think,

how to behave.

the splinter

it takes

a small thing to steal

your mind.

a small wound,

a splinter

in a thumb,

a white lie.

all day you ponder

the sore.

you stare at it

under the bedroom

light.

tomorrow will be

better.

it usually is,

sleep will make it right.

persnickety

i don't believe

in wrapping paper. i'm done with it.

Christmas, Birthdays, etc.

the folds,

the dull scissors,

the scotch tape,

the ribbons

and bows.

my hands are too big,

i'm not good at it.

it's a racket, this wrapping.

why not

just give the gift

and be done with it,

tell them to close their

eyes,

then hand it to them.

or wheel it in on a cart,

if it's that big.

why does every gift have to

be wrapped?

who started this nonsense?

a persnickety  woman

would be my guess.

a long night into morning

it's a breakfast

buffet

at the no tell motel

along

the interstate.

i'm with Susie who is still in

her black

dress and high heels,

the same outfit

she was wearing last night

when we sat next to each

other at the bar

in very dim light.

we get in line.

there are scrambled

eggs and bacon, potatoes,

and pancakes

that sort of thing.

still recognizable despite

the heat

and time.

eleven forty-five

by my watch.

we grab a cold plate,

a tin fork and spoon, a butter

knife.

we set it all on our plastic

tray,

and slide along.

already i regret

what i'm about to eat,

as i am

by who i'm with,

who i met last night.

ankle deep in the dunes

that the water

is rising

is of no surprise, the ocean

with its

roar after

a week of rain,

the northeastern storm,

a thick bruise

of blue,

and yet

we step closer to it,

face in the wind.

we enjoy this

the angry tantrum

pounding the shore.

we stand on

the edge of

annihilation, but thrilled

at the chaos

of nature, we fear it,

but want more.

under a half moon

there's no reason

to feel

cold,

but you do, lying here,

under 

a half-moon,

leaking

pale light

through the blinds,

the blankets pulled

to your chin,

the dog at your side.

what is this

bone chill

within you.

what's bothering

you tonight?

what gloom has returned

again?

mixed emotions

come in

out of the rain little one.

where

have you been?

we looked all over town

for you.

we're glad

you've returned,

scratching at the door.

we've worried

about you.

we're sorry to have

struck you so many times.

come in out of the rain,

little one.

shake off

the rain, 

here's your dish,

your water,

settle in.

let me tighten

your collar,

put the leash on again.

small distractions

i'm distracted

easily

these days, my concentration

not being

what it used

to be.

i can spend a whole morning

watching

the flight

of a fly

or bee, somehow in the house.

they seem

to have no rhyme

or reason

in their flight.

bouncing from shadow

to light.

we're so alike,

right now.

guilty as charged

i'm taken

in for

questioning at the police

station.

i'm a suspect for a crime

i didn't do.

they set me down

in a cold

chair

in a small cinder block

room.

there's a bright light

above,

as the fat detective

sits across

the table,

tapping his fountain

pen.

he pushes a coke towards me

and a sandwich,

which i open

up and begin to eat.

cold cuts on an Italian

roll.

chips? i ask him.

no, he says. sorry. no chips.

so where were you on the night

of Friday the sixteenth?

he asks.

i think for a moment,

taking a pickle out of the sandwich.

hmm.

where was i?

i don't know. i'm not sure, but i'm

guilty, i'm guilty i tell him,

wiping mayonnaise

off my cheek.

he scratches his

head.

but we didn't tell you what

the crime was.

it doesn't matter, i tell him.

i hate my job,

my home life

is miserable, my wife

is cheating on

me and my old dog

died last week.

my kids are covered in tattoos

and they love

Bernie Sanders and AOC.

put me in the jump, i tell him,

throw away

the key.

empty halls

your

lips leaning in

against

the cold arc of water

from the steel

fountain

in the school hall,

comes to mind

for no reason

at all.

the battery of closed

lockers,

the linoleum

floor

scuffed and dirty.

the smell of food

boiled

in the cafeteria.

the startle of a bell.

these days

never leave

you,

they continue on.

what's going on down there?

we used

to do the peppermint

twist in the basement

to Chubby Checker

records and

do the limbo.

we were

athletic and lean,

able

to bend under the bar

without

touching our chin.

Angel's mother was upstairs

with her husband

Roy

watching tv.

Gunsmoke, or Lawrence Welk.

sometimes we'd play

post office,

or spin the bottle,

sitting dangerously knee to knee.

but if it got too quiet,

Angel's mother

would be at the top of

the stairs again

asking what the hell is

going on

down there?

kissing the security deposit goodbye

the rental at Rose Hill

takes

a beating. 

three floors up,

two rooms and a bath

in the garden apartments

overlooking

a cemetery

and a pawn shop.

who cares

if the toilet

overflows, or what

the dog

does on the carpet in

the corner.

leave the pot roast on

the stove,

the browned iceberg

lettuce

in the bin.

that drip from the ceiling

is someone

else's problem now,

as is the cracked window,

and lock

on the sliding glass door.

we're only here for

a few months

more

and we'll be on the road again, 

to greener

pastures,

kissing the security

deposit goodbye

once more.

graham crackers and a thermos

my grammar

and punctuation is pathetic.

my spelling

is nothing to write

home about either.

i couldn't diagram

a sentence

with a gun to my head.

math is now

a mystery.

history a fog.

eighteen years of formal

schooling

has slipped away,

lost in the wind.

i have gone backwards

it seems.

regressed to the beginning,

to kindergarten

when i carried my lunch

to school

with a tuna sandwich

and graham crackers,

a thermos of warm milk,

tucked within.

green eyes and blue wings

tired of chasing

the fly

with a broom, i sit down

in the chair

and give up

on him.

he wins.

he comes over and sits

upon my

arm, staring at me sadly

with his green

eyes

and blue wings.

he wants me to chase

him more,

i guess.

his gentle nature

in the rain,

he goes out, shirtless

to tend

to his garden.

tomatoes and peppers,

leaf lettuce.

i see him

over the fence. we wave.

he's kind

to his garden,

gentle with the clippers,

the weeds,

brushing away

the many flies

and bees.

he's different outside

than he is

when he goes in.

his voice his loud then,

he throws things

at the missus.

things not to do today

things

i won't do today, 

that are on my list.

a hot air

balloon ride

over Orange County.

visiting the zoo,

lingering long near

the monkey cage.

i won't eat at Moe's diner

again

after the last time

and finding

bugs in my fisherman's

stew.

i won't go get that long

awaited

colonoscopy,

that's way overdue.

and last but not least,

i won't call you.

the Tupperware party

i remember

my mother's Tupperware parties.

the gathering

of neighborhood

women

in the living room

buying

the latest Tupperware

containers.

it was a way to pick up a few

bucks

to keep the younger

kids in diapers

and baby formula.

on the dining room table

a display of

plastic boxes and bowls

in all sizes

were laid out.

sometimes a hammer was used

to demonstrate how

durable and unbreakable they were.

i'd sit on the steps,

hidden,

and listen

to the chatter.

they were all smoking and

getting loaded

on beer and wine,

with their big loaf hair,

eating Ritz crackers

with chunks

of cheddar cheese on top.

but the selling part

of it all

quickly fell apart in time.

it became

a venting session

about children and husbands.

or a heated discussion about

which detergent

got the clothes most white.

sometimes a fight

would break out.

the floozy of the neighborhood,

in her low cut

pink sweater,

would be accused

of flirting

with a husband or two.

that's when the fun 

really started

and the fur would fly.

out of thin cloth

the archaeologist

finds

a small

bone

and builds an entire dinosaur

out of it.

a monster

from the past.

i do the same

with you,

finding one text

in your phone.

the better part of an hour

i spend the better

part

of an hour trying to open up

my Samsung

tv remote

to replace the batteries.

i've used every

tool in the junk kitchen

drawer.

my hands are bloody,

my knuckles gnarled.

i've mumble every curse

word in the book

and still the slippery black panel

won't slide.

i go on YouTube for 

a video tutorial,

i dial the hot line,

then finally i see a kid

rolling by

on his skateboard

and beg him to open it

for me.

i wave a twenty dollar

bill at him,

so he stops and opens

it up in five seconds.

thanks, i tell him, handing

him the cash.

no problem grandpa,

he says, and smiles.

her birthday month approaches

it's that time

of year

again. the birthday is looming

a few weeks

ahead.

i can see it

approaching like tsunami

in the distance.

i've already broken out

in the usual rash

around my

neck.

there is a twitch in

my left eye.

there is a slight tremble

in my hands,

so much depends upon

what i do

next.

what i buy, what

reservations i make,

what flowers

i find.

will the card say the right

things,

will i survive?

enough of this good life

i let my housekeeper go,

giving her

severance pay

and a handshake,

my butler too, my cook

and landscaper.

all loyal 

to me for years

are shown the way out.

my masseuse

and pool boy.

my driver who opens

the door so that i can get

into the car, him too.

i need to get back to

the real world.

put my feet in the grass,

touch mother earth again.

find out who really is

my friend.

i tell my entourage

that it's over, they need

to move on

and get their own lives.

the groupies have to put

on their clothes and move

out of the rec room.

the gravy train is over.

i tell the paparazzi to give

me a break.

i'm moving to Timbuktu.