red white and blue

i hang an American flag

on the pole outside my house

for the 4th

of July.

suddenly

eggs are flying

in my direction.

the neighborhood Karens

and Darrens

are out in full

force

with their blue hair

and placards.

they're hissing

and blowing

whistles.

he's one of them they scream

into their megaphones,

he's one of them.

they're carrying

torches 

and pitchforks.

he's a believer in God

and country,

in common sense.

how dare he.

he needs to go.

this way of thinking

in our neighborhood

must end.

returning the chain saw

as i stand

in line at the grocery store,

returning

a chain saw

i bought on Amazon,

my mind wanders.

i think about Betsy,

the girl i grew

up with, who lived next

door.

i don't know why

she's on my

mind,

but she is,

her red hair and freckles

her skin

like alabaster.

her knobby knees

and the space

between her teeth.

i linger there, until

it's my

turn to return

my item back to where

it came from.

delaying the execution

while

leaving the house in a hurry

in my new

black suit

and glossy shoes,

i stop

and notice

that the bronze mail

slot

in the door is loose,

so i grab

a screwdriver to tighten

up the screws,

but then see

that the metal has been

darkened by

sun

and rain,

age.

so i find some steel

wool

and soap to scrub it up

and bring

it back to life.

to put a shine upon

it's busy spring

door.

i take my jacket off

and roll up my sleeves.

the phone rings and rings.

but i don't answer it.

perhaps there are other

days

to get married.

the cat's eye marble

you never

put your favorite marble

in the middle

of the dirt

drawn

circle,

as you and the rough

boys

gathered

on dungaree knees

to shoot

them from your thumb

and fist.

the blue cat's eyes

with silver

flecks

embedded in the glass

never

was put up to be won

by

other kids.

it sits now in a bowl

upon

your desk.

still beautiful,

still safe.

V. W.

with the beauty of her

words

and tales

behind her,

she filled

the pockets of her long

black dress

with stones

and walked out

into the river,

further and further

until the water

crested over her

head,

and down she went

with

her fine pointed

boots no

longer touching

sand.

her hat floated on

the surface

where she once

was.

and then out

came a raised hand,

perhaps,

in a final

gesture

of farewell.

the imbedded splinter

how quickly

my attention is drawn

to the splinter

in my thumb. nearly

everything else that was

on my mind

is gone.

set aside for another

time.

funny how

pain

can you back to earth,

put your feet

back on the ground.

small wonders

the trees

are full of birds,

full of

grey squirrels jumping

from limb

to limb

as if

in some sort of game,

a chase.

they look happy

slipping

in and out of the shade

and sun,

the green,

so free

from worry

or anxiety.

and the birds,

what beauty, what miracles

they are on

wing.

the luxury item fan

we use

to have a large clunky

fan

set on the floor

of our

unairconditioned house

in the bedroom.

it sang

us to sleep,

the whir of the blades,

the

clanging of

metal against metal

with each new

swing.

we set a bucket

of ice

in front of it, which

melted by morning.

but the fan was

a luxury item

in the little flat roofed

duplex

near the border of D.C. .

we lay upon the sheets,

with the windows

wide open,

without a breeze.

we felt lucky.

we dreamed.

we need more money, it's not for me, it's for God

there is one

consistent and similar thing

about

all religions,

no matter

what the belief is.

no matter the country,

the state,

the island,

the continent it exists on,

no matter

the race

of the people that

believe in a particular

religion, no matter the language

they use

to pray with,

the one exact same thing

about each one of them

is that they

all need money

and continually ask for it

with every

sermon,

or church door that opens,

with every televangelist

broadcast,

with every envelope

sent in the mail, or basket

passed from

pew to pew,

there never seems to be enough

money

for the religions

of the world

who preach that God alone

will sustain you.

under new management

the sign

says under new management.

it's a bold

blue banner

draping

the diner.

i go in.

but it's still Mabel

the waitress

in her pink uniform,

Joe the fry cook is behind

the counter

wiping his hands

on his apron.

the spoons

and forks

are still bent, the dishes

are still cracked

and the vinyl seats

are ripped.

so what's new, i ask Mabel.

oh nothing,

she says.

we're still the same

old place,

runny eggs

and greasy sausage,

Salisbury steak with gravy,

we just bought a sign

to hang up out front

to get more people to

come in.

while working on commission

the salesman

goes on and on, telling me

his life

story.

tells me about his parents,

his siblings,

what schools

he went to,

how well he performed

in sports.

he shows me pictures

of his wife

and three children, his

recently departed dog, Rex,

who was hit by a car.

we're standing inside

the crowded store

on a Sunday.

finally exhausted,

i stop him

and ask politely,

so what's the warranty

on this

here

washer and dryer.

do you deliver and install?

mother in law

i always

had the sneaking suspicion

that

the mothers-in-law

were never

on my side.

sure they played the game,

gave kisses

on the cheek,

and 

made sweet small talk

as they

cut the coffee cake

and poured

out the tea.

but deep inside i felt

the resentment

coming from

their smiles.

i wasn't good enough

for the princess

of the house.

how dare i marry off

their daughter,

steal her away

from their motherly

claws.

dressed for the occasion

we dress

for the occasion.

we take

a bath

with soap. brush

our teeth

and gargle.

we comb our hair

and brush

the lint off 

our suits.

we attend to the eyebrows

and hair

along the ears.

we're playing

at weddings,

at funerals.

we have

the invitation in our

pocket,

the address,

the name

of the deceased.

we'll be on the grooms

side this time.

we're dressed for

the occasion

as we carry in our 

gift wrapped

toaster oven from Sears.

it's got a foot in my door

this memory

is on

crutches, it's old,

fading,

without much color.

i no longer

have the facts straight

anymore,

this nagging thought

is limping on its own

towards

anxiety,

bothering

me once more.

i'm sort of done

with it.

i'm trying so hard

to shut

and lock that door.

home sweet home

the neighbors

behind

us are arguing again.

she's throwing dishes.

he's a little

drunk

and loud,

he's in his torn

t-shirt.

she's in a pink slip

with her

hair down.

it's a snapshot of home

sweet home.

stealthily tip toeing to the curb

once

i take my pants off,

at home,

of course, they usually

don't go back on

until the next day.

i throw them

onto a chair,

or toss them up the stairs

discarding them for tomorrows

wardrobe

selection but

keeping them

in the rotation.

but this means that on

a Sunday night

i'll be taking the trash out

to the curb

in the dead of night,

stealthily tiptoeing

in my socks

and underwear.

a different kind of prayer

my father

wasn't a church going man.

wasn't a fan

of the pope,

or Billy Graham,

i never saw him

pray,

or heard him talk

about the great beyond,

what may or may

not,

lie beyond the grave.

he saved

his kneeling for his garden.

for tomatoes

and peppers,

string beans.

he welcomed sunlight,

he welcomed rain.

so he did believe

in something.

resisting the future

i resist the future.

i hold

off on the latest gizmo.

the newest

and greatest thing that will

make our

lives easier,

the new invention that

will assist us in day to day

living.

i refuse to give up

the check book,

the stamps

and envelopes,

i laugh in the face of

online

banking,

of Venmo

and Zelle.

my phone hangs on

the kitchen

wall with a long black

cord.

the butter churn is still

in the corner.

saving words for later

all day

long i carry a clever

string of words

in my

mind,  not writing them down,

but holding

them like a baby

in my arms.

i won't forget them,

i won't drop

them to the ground.

like a mantra,

i repeat them to myself,

like candy

i roll them around

in my mouth,

wanting to

hurry home to tap them

out on a keyboard,

a new unsilly,

but

ambitious poem.

and then.

suddenly.

they're gone.

braille buttons

it's not

old age we fear,

it's the shelving of us in tall

or low

buildings

with off and on ramps,

clearly

marked signs

and braille elevator buttons.

we fear,

the memory loss,

and spoons

of oatmeal aimed at our

open mouths.

we fear

the steps, the long

walks

to the far end of the building

where

the pickle ball

court is,

where the lap pool

sits blue

and empty, where the two

pound weight

machines rest and await

our arrival.

we fear the wheelchair,

the crutch,

the seeing eye dog,

the young people visiting

with forced

smiles on their

anguished faces.

relax, here, have a stick of gum

there's something about

chewing gum

that takes

you to another level

of indifference, ambivalence.

it's hard to be angry,

or upset when you have

gum in your mouth.

you chew and snap,

wiggle the wad around,

maybe you blow a bubble or two

then pull it back.

maybe you take out a pack

of Spearmint 

or Double bubble

from your jacket

and offer

a piece to whomever

you're speaking to.

you have this je ne sais quoi

nonchalant attitude

about you.

you're telling the world

with your chewing gum

hey, it's all good.

relax.

Captain George's all you can eat Buffet

the bird

feeder

planted on a pole

in the middle of the yard

brings in

the birds.

but the squirrels too,

the mice

on the ground

collecting the fallen

seed.

it's a wild scene.

all color

of wings,

different sizes,

fat and small with

strange odd beaks.

how quickly they gorge

on so many pounds

of seed.

it reminds me of Captain

George's

on Laskin Road,

at the beach.

the long buffet of food,

all you can eat.

not my cup of tea

no thank you,

not

my cup of tea.

it's a continual

mantra

that you echo

throughout

the day as you

stroll down

each and every street.

peruse

nearly everything

broadcast

on tv.

no thank you,

not my cup of tea.

nearing the end of the world

as i sit

in the DMV awaiting

my turn

for new tags,

waiting for the voice

to call my

number, to have

it show up

on the screen, i notice

that the man

next to me

is holding a small box

with a turtle

in it.

i can't help myself,

i have to ask.

turtle? i say to him.

yes, the man says.

he's my emotional support

animal.

it's allowed.

it's okay.

i fly with him too.

wishing and hoping

i buy

the easiest book i can

find

about gardening

and begin

to read,

trying to figure out

again

what to do with my

small back yard.

what will

it be this year,

vegetables, flowers,

shrubbery

a nice tree?

what tools

do i need?

a shovel, a trowel,

clippers,

rakes?

dirt?

it isn't too long before

i'm drowsy

and close

my eyes,

halfway through

page three.

the little black sports car

i've extended

my middle age with a black

sports car.

convertible,

six speed on the floor.

i buy a blonde

wig for my wife

to sit beside me

as i swing the car

towards the Eastern shore.

the music is up,

the wind

whips as we dash down

the road.

it's not over yet,

although

we're getting closer

and closer as i push

the pedal to the floor.

what is your dry-cleaning bill like, Francis?

i misdial

a number on my phone

and end

up talking to the Pope

in Italy.

hello, he says.

who's this?

it's me, Jimmy,

i tell him. is Betty there?

who's Betty?

he asks.

my friend.

she's sort of my girlfriend,

we're not

married,

but well, we have

an arrangement.

who am i talking to?

i ask,

is this Betty's father,

Joe.

Uncle Al?

no, this is Francis.

but you can call me Fran.

i'm the pope

right now.

what?

the pope? no way. 

yup.

they picked me.

the white smoke went up

the old chimney

and here i am.

i can't believe it either

sometimes.

wow. i'm talking to the pope.

tell me something

Fran,

what's the bill on dry cleaning

at the Vatican?

do you ever chill and just wear

jeans

and a shirt,

or shorts and flip flops?

sometimes, he says.

when we have a cocktail

or two up

on the roof.

we take our hats off and let

our hair down

sort to speak.

cool. cool.

one other question, i think Betty

is trying

to call me.

yes, my son, he says.

what's the deal on sitting, kneeling,

standing,

and all that rigamarole

during mass.

i feel like a puppet

on a string sometimes.

my knees aren't what they used

to be

and the up and down is killing them.

would it be okay

if i sat down for the whole service?

sure, he says. sure.

we just do that to keep people awake,

we don't want

them falling asleep

like they do in other churches.

great, i tell him.

do you mind if i save your number

and call

you once in a while.

sure, he says.

but not too often.

ahhh, the single life

there are many

perks

to living alone. no

longer

do you have to worry

about

putting your feet on the coffee

table

with your shoes

on.

the seat in the loo

can be left

up

for days,

the wet towel can

lie on

the floor until it dries.

you can use up all 

the hot

water without someone

yelling

at you,

telling you to get a maid.

you don't even have to put

the dishes

away,

or set the rotisserie chicken

bones

in the trash

until you're good and ready.

there's no tubs of yogurt,

or almond milk taking

up all the space

in the fridge.

clothes can go unfolded

for weeks at

a time.

no one is there to yell

at your

snoring every night.

the Christmas tree can

stay

up until Valentine.

there are many

perks

to living alone.

goldfish in a bag

never

take a child into a pet store.

there

will be crying,

sadness,

deep sorrow. 

each kitten in a cage

will be

adored

each

puppy barking

and wagging

it's tail will be loved,

as is will

the parakeet 

fluttering

her pretty green wings.

at the very least 

you'll be carrying a 

goldfish

in a bag

out the door.

what about Chelsea?

let me run

that up the old flagpole,

my wife

used to tell me

when i

came up

with an idea

for naming our soon

to be born

daughter.

what flagpole, i'd ask

her.

my mom, my grandmother

and my sister.

those are my

flagpoles,

and my best friend MaryJane

that i grew

up with in

high school.

then we had a boy,

the gypsy was wrong again.

so Jimmy, i suggested.

but they all

said no.

keeping my distance

when

we went to the barn

once a week,

down

in southern Maryland,

near

Solomon's Island,

i was always

afraid

that her old horse was

going to kick

me when

i stood not far behind.

so i kept

my distance as she washed

the old nag

with a sway back

down.

a scrub brush, a bucket

of suds,

the long hose with cold

water,

and a carrot

in her apron.

the flies,

as big as sparrows

were everywhere,

as were cats

to keep the mouse

population down.

eventually her horse died,

he walked

out into

the far edge of the field,

and laid down.

the next

day they brought

the backhoe out and

then the plow.

she loved that horse,

but i was

on the fence with it.

ambivalent,

yet glad it never kicked me.

my first acting role in community theater

the theater

nearby

needs actors. it's a play

about

zombies

and they need a few

more characters

to fill the many roles

of the living dead.

no acting

experience is necessary.

they need expired people

lying on

the ground and then

coming back

to life.

getting up slowly

from the stage

and stumbling

forward, hungry to put

something in

their mouth.

i think i can do that.

nail it even,

i do it every

morning when i rise.

broken eggs

you can't

always fix what's broken,

the vase

on the floor in a thousand

small pieces,

the dust rising.

the lamp

with a frayed

cord,

on fire.

the carton of eggs

fallen

off the counter, each

cracked

and split

with a leaking

shell.

us.

Happy Nails

she spends

a lot of time dealing with

her

fingernails

and

toenails,

going

to a salon

called Happy Nails

along

Rockville Pike.

the bell rings

when she

comes through the door.

they wave

and say

her name.

they are busy

with

clipping, polishing,

painting.

there's a lava rock,

a scrub stick,

lotions

and balms, a strange

dish of

liquids that she sets

her feet in.

she talks to me on the phone

as they work

on her feet,

then sends me a picture,

they look

great in sandals.

she makes

an appointment for me.

fifty-two steps up

it was fifty-two

steps up,

i counted, 

to the top

floor

of the four story

walk up.

sometimes i'd skip

two at a time.

i was young.

carrying

groceries. i couldn't

wait to see her,

to kiss her

on the lips

as i came in. she'd

wrap

her arms around me

and whisper

in my ear,

tonight, she'd say.

i'm all yours.

we'd sit out on the fire escape

when summer

came,

we'd linger

in the rain.

we had nothing,

we had everything.

it would last forever.

still

she's in my mind.

writing the will by candlelight

scared

of being poor,

like when you were a child,

of the lights

going off,

of the clothes

being ragged and the fridge

being empty,

you work

hard.

very hard to save, to accumulate.

you invest.

you're careful

with your money.

you have

won the long hard

battle,

even the coin

jar is full,

but then in the end,

you have

a dilemma,

who will get it?

father's and sons

it's difficult

to explain the distance

between

father and son.

a once

loving and close

relationship.

the wide gap of thought

and what

love is

strange.

the distance

by miles.

one leaves, one stays.

the phone

line

is silent.

the mail never comes.

why?

hard to know what goes

through

his head.

truth or lies?

Robert and Bruce

i hate this country

the old

washed

up rocker says,

before the concert,

in front

of his geriatric followers,

singing with his hoarse

voice

some ancient song

that you no longer

recognize.

the actor

too. dumb as a rock,

reading

from cue cards

what he has to say,

screaming and ranting

with veins

popping out of his neck.

both of them

hyperventilating

before being driven 

off into the sunset in their

limousines.

you used to love them

until they

opened their mouths

and heard what they had to say.

and now.

why don't they go away?

take their hate and disappear.

why don't

they leave

the country that

made them millionaires

a hundred times

over?

why, why do they stay?

time to build another Noah's Ark

socialism

and communism is the new

thing

that all

the kids are into.

they're raving about it.

free this free that.

burn the flag.

defund

the police, no borders.

free rent,

free food.

free tuition.

tax the rich.

no ownership of anything.

despite the fact that none

of this

foolishness

has ever worked anywhere

in the world.

Red China,

Russia,

Cuba, Venezuela, etc.

all of them under the thumb

of a dictator.

let's take down western

civilization,

they scream, no more church,

no more God.

no more rules

or regulations. no more

bills to pay,

or work to go to. no more

old folks

in our way.

it's Lord of the Flies

until the great flood

rises again.

his mother's son

my son

yelled at me when i held

him

in my arms,

crying and screaming

for me to buy

him something

at the store

that he already had, but

in a different color.

he wouldn't settle down.

he was nearly four.

i love you,

he told me as we left

the store with

tears running down

his face.

banging his

little fists

against my chest.

i love you, but i'm very

very mad

at you.

you have the money

and this isn't

fair.

his mother taught him well.

vertical leaps

there was a day

when i

could touch the rim

on a hoop

ten feet

up,

and then it was the net

that

i could grab

and swing from,

scrape

my fingers along

the bottom

of a backboard,

and now

my vertical leap

is that

of a snail,

crawling on the ground.

but it's okay.

i had my

day,

my leaps into the air.

i can live with it,

it's their turn now.

another red flag ignored

i didn't hear

from

her for weeks.

and then

the phone rang and it

was her.

where'd you go,

i asked.

well, she said,

clearing her

throat.

i was on my married

boyfriend's boat

and my phone

fell overboard

with a splash.

his friends dove in

to retrieve it, but no

such luck.

it wasn't too late

to get out

of this, i should have

hung up,

but i was so much

older

than,

i'm younger than

that now.

after a large pepperoni pizza with jalapeno peppers

what

dream isn't strange,

detached

from

reality.

a mixture of mirth

and fear,

of flying

and being chased.

a rainbow of colors,

or a black

and white charcoal

sketch.

some of these people

you know,

others

are vague strangers.

it's violent,

it's sensual, it's everything

but the kitchen

sink.

maybe it'll all

sort itself

out tomorrow when you

awaken in

a cold sweat.

the grey same day

i long

to be astonished, to be

amazed

to be

bewildered.

to stand there wide

eyed

with my hands

on my hips

and say wow, that's

unbelievable.

how can this be?

tell me i'm seeing things.

this miracle

before me.

take the grey same

day

away from me.

they come and go

i see a woman's face

pressed

against the kitchen

window.

she looks familiar

squished up against the pane.

she doesn't see me

sitting

at the table

drinking coffee and reading

the paper.

she's wide eyed

with her mouth open

as if she wants to tell me

something,

maybe to offer an apology

of some sort.

behind her

is a long line of women,

all with the same look

of regret and remorse.

i ignore them and turn

to the sports page.

Esther, his Achille's heel

my father

liked whiskey, Canadian

Club,

for one,

beer too,

and cigarettes,

Lucky Strikes.

he enjoyed a pipe

on occasion and a big

fat cigar

from Cuba.

he loved mincemeat

pie with

a scoop of vanilla

ice-cream

before he went to bed.

he worshiped the sun,

lying on his

chair for nine hours

without

a shirt on or

sunscreen. but

at 96 it was women

that

were his Achille's heel.

and got

him in the end

at 97.

another world

there's a universe

of floaters

in my eyes

i tell the doctor on

the phone,

alien

molecules flying about

especially

in soft light.

there they go flittering

around

the lens

of my eyes.

things only seen

under a microscope,

cells

and blood clots,

crazy little zig zags,

electrical flashes,

all

in a world

all their own.

the doctor shrugs and

says,

don't worry about.

press on.

the evil curse of algae

my bird

bath is full of algae.

i blame

the wife.

it's her fault

for

the new stone dish

now

in the yard replacing

the old

one.

how dare she

try to beautify the yard

making the once

clear water

a sickly shade 

of green.

what else will she do

to make

my life so hard?

the reading of his poems

the poet

came to the class and read

a few

of his poems.

unfamous,

a professor at the city

college

he arrived in his tweed

coat

smoking a pipe.

he stroked

his full beard

as he spoke.

round glasses sat on his nose.

he looked all the part

of an aging

poet. straight out of

central casting.

he sold his book to the class

after questions,

then went

out to dinner with

us at a diner in Woodbridge.

i have his

book on my shelf,

that he signed and wished me

the best

of luck

in my own writing.

i cut his obituary out from

the paper

a few years later

and placed it on the page

of my favorite

poem of his called Bang.

town down by the river

this little town

needs

an overhaul. so many

stores are closed,

the sidewalks are cracked,

the river is green

and overflows.

the population is down

to a few

hundred

old souls.

something happened here

a long time

ago,

the sign says, but it's faded

and hard to read.

something about

the civil war

and slavery.

John Wilkes Boothe

had a beer

here once.

Clara Barton once took

a nap

on that bench.

trains and boats once

came here

for coal and wood.

now the only game in town

is the ice-cream

shop.

even there, the line is short.

the shelf life of news

they

release the JFK files,

the Epstein files,

the Lindbergh

baby

documents,

the UFO files,

the Fauci and Hillary

Emails.

the Nixon

and Biden tapes

and still

nothing changes.

voting and

social services fraud

are all

laid on the table.

there's no big whoop

about

anything

anymore.

the news, whether

big or small

has a shelf life of about

one hour

these days.

the carton of eggs

we open

the carton of eggs to see if all

twelve

are uncracked,

not a single one

is open,

letting out

the unborn chicken.

we are

protective

of the egg, unless of course

it's human.

the dog is on her wish list

i'm getting a dog soon,

she tells me.

i miss not

having a dog.

i tell her that the dog would

be five

years old now

if she had found one

the first

time she told me that.

but she's bought the leash,

the bowls,

the little soft bed.

a few stuffed toys

and a ball to throw

around.

she's signed it up for training

at the dog school

and has picked out a name,

either

Molly or Maple.

she's getting

close.

happy father's day, she says

my daughter,

who i call kitten,

calls from Seattle

to wish me a happy

father's

day.

yes, i got the card, i tell her

and the bottle

of Old Spice cologne,

and the subscription

to the New Yorker

Magazine.

not to mention the latest

biography

on Bob Dylan.

thank you, i tell her.

so when are coming

back east to visit?

when are you getting married,

when are you going

to have kids

and make me a grandfather?

please tell

me that you are still tattoo

free

and no longer vote

democrat

or support your communist

mayor.

no nose rings, right?

no arrests?

gotta go now dad,

she says.

someone's at the door,

and i have

a kale wrapped

salmon in the oven,

the smoke

alarm is going off.

kisses.

love you.

so many hours saved

the hours

i've

saved not tending to my

hair

is innumerable.

no more combing

is necessary,

there's no style

to keep up with,

no long minutes in the shower

with shampoo

and conditioners.

blow dryers are rusting

beneath

the sink.

combs are left in the drawer.

no more telling

the barber,

a little off the top,

the sides.

squared in the back.

part it on

the side, please.

no visits to the hair salon

to shape it

like Bobby Sherman

anymore.

the brief stage

we are

in their hands.

subject to whatever life

it is that

they desire for us.

when food

comes towards us we

open our mouths.

we blink

our eyes and take what's

given.

our thirst is quenched,

they bathe

and dress us,

our bed is

made.

it seems that we have

no will of our own.

they set us gently down

to sleep,

and then kiss us goodnight.

we are

safe within their arms,

albeit

brief.

it's true, i heard it on the news

we read

one blurb of news

in the paper

and suddenly we're experts,

one

segment of 60 minutes,

or a podcast

on YouTube

and we

are now spouting off

the truth

as we perceive it.

and then a week later

we find out

none of it was true,

all of it was made up.

apologies are

made, retractions are forthcoming.

so we quickly move on

to the next thing

that hardly

matters. 

another topic of which

we have no clue.

Stone Henge in Chicago

it's a strange building.

brutalism

at its worse.

a straight up grey rock

out of Stonehenge

with no

windows.

a large, ugly stone

in the middle

of a desolate

field

surrounded by

low income

housing

and ravaging crime.

it's called a library,

although

there are no books there

to check out.

why?

two nil

did you

watch the game my friend

Andre

asks when we run into each

other on the street.

he's wearing a bright

yellow jersey

with red stripes

and stars with half moons.

we won,

two nil.

huh? i say. two nil.

what does that mean?

we won two to nothing,

we scored two

goals and they scored none.

zero,

although they had

a penalty kick,

but missed

and Pablo hurt his ankle

in the ninety-two minute

mark.

okay, but nil, what is nil?

it means

zero.

we'll why didn't you just

say that?

so they played for three

hours and only

two points

were scored?

no touchdowns at all?

goals, they're called goals,

not points,

not touchdowns.

whatever, i say.

so that's it the season is over?

we're the champs,

king of the world?

no, no.

there's still three more

months of games to go.

no more schleps to the office

everyone

i know is packing it in.

letting

their hair grow silver,

bailing

on work, on the job, 

retiring

and taking the buyout,

receiving at last

their

social security check,

cashing in

on their savings. pushing

it all into

the middle of the table,

and exclaiming,

i'm done,

i'm out.

they are looking forward

to sleeping in,

to no more

schleps to the office,

regardless of snow

or rain,

no more

calls to answer to,

no more

sitting on the beach with

a laptop,

no more running against

the wind.

waiting on a white headstone

we're waiting

for his headstone to go up,

so that we

can visit his grave.

so that we can stand there

and say something,

like, there it is.

there he is.

what a great view he

has from this

hilly site.

i don't see tears in this

scenario, or

sadness, no wringing of

hands will take place

on this sunny

or rainy day where Presidents

have been laid,

and maybe, just

maybe the inscription

will have his correct age.

vinyl records

the large

carboard box in the basement

holds

all the vinyl records

i've accumulated

throughout

the years, before tapes

came about,

then cd's, then Spotify

and the rest

of it.

the records are old.

over a hundred at least.

warped

now

from neglect

and age, a ceiling leak.

and yet.

i can't bare to haul them

to the curb.

i know where every scratch is,

where the needle

skips,

i know which song comes next,

despite not playing

them for decades.

i know the words

on the cover praising a new

band

of the British Invasion.

Motown too.

the faces, forever young.

there's so little

in life that one can

be sure of, perhaps that's why i

can't let go of them.

rich man poor man

i never

saw money in his hand.

never

a dollar

or coin, despite the Mercedes

car,

the homes

he bought along

the eastern shore.

not once did he open up

his wallet

or shake free from his

pocket

a credit card.

he was rich,

the Rolex watch

said so.

we were poor, but it didn't

seem that way.

he offered

to treat quite often,

a holiday,

or birthday,

and then when the bill

arrived,

he was fast

out the door in his

alligator shoes,

his sharkskin suit and his

greasy

pompadour.

Burlington Factory

your

level of income, such

as it

was in the early days,

caused you to buy

the cheaper brands,

to wander

the big stores

where clothing lay

around

in bulk,

with long racks

of pants and shirts,

thinly hemmed,

beige raincoats as seen

on TV's

late at night.

you were

always turning the tag

around

to see the price,

the current

mark down, then counting

out

the cash,

and perhaps if it fit,

you'd wear it out.

best to count the wins

it's an uneven line

from

birth to death,

no straight plan is realized,

although

we can pretend

there is.

that gold watch at the end

of the rainbow

doesn't exist.

the Norman Rockwell

existence

is a myth.

love is elusive,

but we press on just the same.

best not

to think too hard about it,

to reflect

too much on failures.

best

to count the wins.

the lemonade pool

i sit

on the edge of the pool,

the small

community

pool near the playground

surrounded by a string of

barb wire.

my foot

dangles in the cold

June

water.

the ripples circle out

to the other

side.

the chairs are set

in a row

where the sun lands

in a long

rectangular band.

the lifeguard

is in his chair, his nose

covered

white.

no one is here, but me.

i almost slide into clean

blue

pond, but then stop

as a gaggle

of children arrive

in splashes, with

moms in tow.

soon,

the water is a pale

shade

of yellow as the children

paddle

around

with their floats

resembling zoo animals.

they are quiet in concentration

as they

go.

maybe tomorrow.

father's day hallucination

on father's day

all the kids will come over

with their

cards and gifts.

they'll hug me, and tell

me how much

they admire me,

love me

for my wisdom and kindness.

one will buy me

a pipe, another

a pair

of slippers, maybe a robe

will appear,

a few books,

a nice pair of binoculars

to watch the birds

out the back window.

for one day none of them

will ask

me for money, or

if they can borrow the car.

we'll toss the ball around

in the yard,

and fly a kite.

they'll take me out

to dinner at some point

and we'll play

remember when,

we'll reminisce about

when they were young.

it will be a lovely time.

strange though,

as i wake up and blink

my eyes,

i think these sinus pills

i've been taking

are causing hallucinations.

something for them to cheer about

the reflection pool

is clean

for a while,

refurbished

and painted flag blue,

but in a week

or so,

it's green,

full of algae and what not.

14 million dollars

and it looks

like a swamp in the Everglades.

at last

they have something

to cheer about.

the bucket list of what not to do

people have bucket lists

of things they want to do before

they die,

places

they need to go to before

they meet

their maker in the sky.

but i have a different list.

a list of things

i never want to do again,

or places

i no longer want to go to.

the dentist for one,

twice a year is killing me.

the DMV

for another.

a greasy garage to get my

car inspected,

Jiffy Lube.

i never want to lie

on a table again for a colonoscopy.

or want to eat Ethiopian

food, or eat

raw seafood.

i will never again slurp a raw

clam into my mouth

covered in tabasco sauce.

i have no desire to

sit at a picnic table for nine

hours cracking

crabs open with a wooden

mallet and a pair of pliers.

i will no longer attend a rock

concert

and rush the stage at the conclusion

like i did when i

was 18

and Grand Funk Railroad

was playing

I'm Getting Closer to My Home

for an hour.

no more operas and symphonies

are on the list,

as well as,

a blue grass festival

in the Blue Ridge Mountains,

while sipping

a mountain dew.

never again will i stand on a river

bank and wait

for a slimy

fish to bite my hook.

i will not attend any event where

a speech is made.

or travel south of the border

to Cancun.

i promise myself to no longer climb

a 40 foot ladder

to paint a thin piece of wood

on a roof.

and number one on the list is

to never

get married again,

or have someone move in.

have you met my friend President Lincoln?

the maître 'd

at the fancy Chinese restaurant

tells me

that there are no

tables

available.

you should have called

ahead

and made reservations.

but it's just

me,

i tell him.

can't you slide me in.

i see five

open tables in the back.

no,

he says.

call ahead next time.

i take out a five dollar

bill and show

it to him.

may i introduce you to my

friend,

President Lincoln,

i tell him,

flashing it before his eyes.

he scoffs.

no Lincoln here.

i want to meet President

Grant

and then maybe i can put you

at a booth

near the kitchen.

really, a Fifty?

yes, inflation and Covid.

Grant now.

they be smoking the wacky weed

suddenly,

socialism is the new fad,

the new

latest thing

to be a part of.

the plan is to give free

health care

to all,

freeze

the rents, provide

housing for the homeless,

who are drug

addled,

and living on the street.

more syringes,

please.

less police.

let's raise taxes and

share the wealth, why

work

and get off our lazy buns, 

when

we can take what they have,

take what they've earned

through brains

and grit

and by working long hours.

of course socialism has never

worked

in any country

in the entire history

of the world.

but you'd have to be

educated

to know that, and have

read a book or two.

pretending to be an orange

it looks like

an orange, a sweet plump

orb of fruit

picked

off a tree in some orange

grove

in Florida.

but when i crack it open,

peel it

back and take

a bite, it's not an orange

at all,

it's a grapefruit,

pretending to be an orange.

it's bitter,

not sweet.

false love

can be like that at times.

business as usual

i go onto

the condo board monthly

meeting

zoom

call, to see what's up.

dogs are

pooping in neighbor's yards,

the trash truck

comes too early.

stickers are not clearly

visible on cars,

thus being towed.

people are jumping into

the pool

before taking a shower.

someone lost

a watch 

at the Tiverton
Court

compost pile.

Christmas decorations are

being kept

up way too long.

there are several complaints

about the condo

fee being too high.

business as usual.

breathing exercise for the hopeless

take a deep breath

in, now exhale,

the yoga

instructor says, sitting

in her pink

leotards

with flowers in her hair.

her arms are outstretched

above her head

with bangles dangling

from her

anorexic wrists.

i've been

hearing this baloney

since 1967.

inhale the hope,

exhale

the hate.

it's usually the same

people you

see

sitting down in road

blocking

traffic

for some far-left protest

and getting arrested

for attacking

police.

what are summers for?

what are summers

for

if not for ice-cream, for

watermelons

and the neighborhood

pool.

what is summer

for if not

the beach,

the wide blue ocean,

the boardwalk, 

the smell of French

fries in the air,

a long afternoon

snooze.

the open hydrant on

the corner,

the happy screams

of children,

stick ball

on the field.

fireflies and first kisses.

the strange

and sudden infatuation

of the girl next door.

after the handshake

after shaking hands,

we exchange looks

before we talk.

two aging men nearly

the same

age.

we measure each other,

not with words

but with a glance.

we get the feel,

the vibe.

the energy,

the presence.

then we talk. we know

enough

now

to hold a conversation,

though light

and easy.

the crow of a rooster

it's an enormous shed,

almost

a barn

set out in the far west

side of

the long yard.

circa 1929, but it's still

up.

the wood still strong

and painted red.

new boards nailed in

where

the rotted ones fell.

a weathervane still sits on the arched

roof,

a silver arrow

turning with

hard winds.

the cows are gone, of course,

no chickens,

no horse.

it's where the bikes go now,

the jet ski,

the old tires,

old things too good to be

thrown away.

chairs for the pool,

sandbags

and salt for winter.

shovels and mowers.

how nice though it would be

to hear the crow

of one

old rooster when the double

doors are opened.

Iron Butterfly

i love

music, but have zero musical

talent.

the best

i can do is sing a song

in the shower,

or tap

my hands on the dashboard

like i use to do when

i was young

and riding shotgun in someone's

smoke filled,

beat up old car.

usually a green dodge dart.

i used to have In-a-gadda-da-vida down

pat, by

Iron Butterfly.

especially the drum solo.

sometimes i can't get that beat

out of my head.

which is distracting

and a concern to my therapist

as i tap

my fingers and feet

while she asks me another question

about my mother.

the train is coming

sometimes

you get the feeling

that something

is about to happen.

it's a weird feeling.

you don't know if it's

life changing or not,

or if it's a bad, 

or a good thing.

but you feel it in

the air.

all of your senses are

on high alert.

you wait for it.

like a train coming down

the track,

soon it will be here.

time to burn and loot, we won

in celebration

for

their sports team winning

the championship

they

burn and loot

the city. they

set fire to cars and buses.

break windows

and turn over

dumpsters.

fights and brawls break out.

they're happy.

very happy.

the millionaire players

are too,

as they go home to their

mansions

in hired cars.

drinking champagne

with their

posses, beautiful girlfriends

and wives.

in the rear-view mirror

they see

the flames and smoke

behind them,

the city left

to burn.

they laugh and laugh,

we won.

that ticking clock

it's always

later

than you think. we all believe

there is more

time.

sick in bed,

tired of it all,

we trust that we will be

back on our feet again.

there's more

time,

there always is time

to start over.

there's another day

ahead of us.

we never hear the clock

ticking.

the bells that toll.

he knew it was me all along

with

great stealth i went

around his

rooms

as the party roared

on, to his hallways and foyer

and tilted each

mirror,

each picture hanging on

the wall.

a sconce or two,

a family

photo.

i made each one lean

just an eighth

of an inch to either side.

he called

me the next day and said,

i knew it was

you.

it had to be you.

i wish he was still around

to laugh

about it,

once more.

Jurassic park beneath the bed

she's not

unlike a paleolithic scientist

who

finds a single small bone

of a dinosaur,

a toe,

or the skeletal remains

of a knuckle,

or droplet of blood

locked in amber

and then builds an entire

beast out of it.

almost out of thin air

she creates a long

ago dead monster roaming

the earth with

bad intentions.

she does the same with a small

lipstick cannister

found under my bed

and one

red stiletto heel.

one random phone call

my mother

was

a telephone operator

back in the early

1950's.

my father, an infamous flirt,

was in the Navy,

stationed in

Philadelphia.

one day,

holding a fist full of change,

he made a long

distance call

from a phone booth

along the pier

to his mother in Boston.

my mother,

being the operator 

on the other end of the line,

connected the call,

pushing a black wire

into a slot

on the board.

they met

that night for pizza and beer.

within a year

they married.

then

after sailing the seven seas

and making

seven children

and dozens of grandchildren,

and great children

they both

were both laid to rest.

old and grey.

but it was a quite a phone

call i suppose.

coincidence,

doubtful. divine intervention.

perhaps.

what's wrong with these people?

they have

a nice yard, the new

elderly neighbors.

i'm jealous.

the iron table, black

and shiny,

the red

umbrella.

the long strings of Edison

lights across

the yard.

the bricked in patio

and bird house made

of wood.

the stone bird bath

full of water,

and blue birds splashing

about.

their garden is lush

with flowers

that i can smell across

my fence.

they play soft music

at night.

sometimes i see them

slow dancing

out there

and kissing one another.

whispering sweet words

of adoration.

they are enjoying their life.

who are these

people?

what's wrong with them?

the hot dog catasrophe

starving,

though not really starving,

although my

stomach has a tendency to lie

on occasion.

i pull a hot dog

out from a plastic wrapper

pushed to the rear

of the shelf

in the refrigerator.

i roll it around on a plate

and examine it closely

after searching

the cupboard for another option

like peanut butter

or tuna fish, but

nope. nothing there.

but the hot dog looks okay.

i don't see any green

spots,

or grey darkening the pinkish sides.

so i send it to the microwave

to cook.

three minutes later

after it settles down a little,

and stops wiggling,

i give it a nice swath

of brown mustard

and a spoon full of sweet

relish.

all on a soft bun,

also not moldy.

three hours later i'm in the ICU

with a glucose

line

attached to my vein

and wearing an extra-large pair

of Depends.

Amazon Returns

after struggling

with the new sheets to get them

over the mattress,

i'm sweating,

and cursing.

i've tugged left

and right,

flipped then around.

finally i give up and look

at the tag.

they've sent the wrong size,

standard

instead of queen.

oh my.

how late is Whole Foods open

today?

the road up to Ephesus

as we

climb the hills, the dirt

roads

to Ephesus,

the rug and garment

salesmen

and women,

crowd us,

and reach

for our arms. they

yell loudly at us

in broken English.

we are mere tourists off the boat,

off the long air conditioned

bus

that has taken us here.

do i need

another rug,

another shawl, or

blanket

or shirt that will shrink

three sizes

in the first wash?

another pair of sandals?

we are not rich,

despite what they believe

and shout.

we worked hard

and saved to get here.

we press on as if guilty,

bent to their voices

as if

carrying our own cross.

the last lunch together

for sake

of the funeral, all of us siblings

set aside

our grievances

and put our

guns and knives on the table

and nibble

on our salads

and bread.

at last not

an unkind word

is said,

not a snide remark,

not a single complaint

about one another

is heard.

we're all saving it up

for the ride

home

in separate cars going

in different directions.

what wasn't said, is at

last said.

the chase is at last over

you

get tired of shaving.

exhausted 

with the razor and the

shaving

cream,

the new blade

keeping it all neat

and clean

for the ladies.

you're done with it.

you been

shaving since

the peach fuzz got stiff

and hard at

the age of eighteen.

that's why you see so

many old men

gone grey

with beards,

with mustaches and

goatees.

all of them looking like

Walt Whitman

come back from the grave.

they're exhausted

after a few wives

and a dozen

girlfriends, at last

they've given up on

those kind

of things.

they let it grow instead.

they work hard for their tips

i bought an ice-cream

cone

for me and my

then love

interest Lisa, in Georgetown,

one summer night.

gourmet ice-cream, expensive.

made with milk from local

free range cows.

nothing but

the best for Lisa.

she got

a single scoop of butter pecan

in a cup,

and i went

with Rocky Road,

two scoops

on a sugar cone.

the cold steam of the case

rose into

the boy's face

as his skinny arm struggled

to dig out

the scoops.

i paid and then we left to walk

down M Street,

licking our

creamy delights.

suddenly the boy was

behind us

grabbing my shoulder.

his paper hat was

tilted sideways on his head

from his frenetic

chase.

you didn't leave

a tip,

he said. there's a change

jar on the counter

and when i gave you

your change you didn't

put it into the cup. not a single

penny or nickel.

what kind of a person are you?

i make my

living on tips.

he looked about sixteen years old.

i imagined his room

in his mother's basement

with posters of Farah Fawcett on

the walls,

a playboy magazine under

his mattress.

i told him i was

sorry and pulled out a dollar

bill,

here, i said. take it.

it's yours. but he refused,

and stormed away.

it was a long time ago, but

it still crosses my mind

whenever i'm in Baskin and Robbins.

i always leave

a tip now.

even if it's a penny.

the leftist coffee shop

the him/her, they them

coffee shop

is full of signs.

flags

flying everywhere.

pride flags,

pink flags, rainbow flags.

Palestinian flags,

a red one

with a hammer and sickle.

the flag of

Cuba

and Somalia,

Red China.

a sign for black lives matter.

a sign for Peta,

for save the whale.

No Oil.

the bathroom door has a picture

of a bearded man

in a dress.

Coexist

says another, but not

with Israel.

another sign says, no

shoes,

no shirts,

no service, just kidding

come on in.

there's only soy, no milk.

save the cows

i guess.

the thin blue line

i don't know

why

but it's satisfying to watch

the cop

videos of them chasing

bad guys,

thieves and drunks,

druggies,

dragging them out

of cars

and cuffing them

when they refuse to 

surrender,

or show ID.

it's a wide-open window

showing

how many

crazy people are out

there amongst us,

out there on the street.

the flickering light

like

the power lines,

i flicker

and sway.

my light goes on and off.

i'm in-between

naps,

wanting another.

i'm drained,

i'm part

of this storm,

the wind,

the rain, another forty

winks

and i'll be back

online

again.

another end of the world

the big

scare is AI.

they say

it will take all the jobs

away.

the world will

end

not with a bang but

with a whimper

as

artificial intelligence

takes

over our minds,

our daily

lives.

so maybe, just maybe,

learn a trade,

be a carpenter,

a painter,

an electrician,

be a plumber, a chef,

a maid.

quit whining and find

another way.

drum roll, please

it's a good

storm

after a hot day.

a good wash of wind

and rain.

the trees

are dancing.

the paparazzi are out

in full

force

lighting up

the sky.

drum roll, please.

the twin sisters at 80

the twin

girls, now 80, stand

shoulder to shoulder,

hip to hip

in the same

dress.

like saltshakers

against one another.

the older

one,

by minutes still bosses

the younger

one around.

tells her to smile, tells

her not to eat

too much cake.

the salt of work

i stand

under the cold stream

of the shower

and shiver.

goosebumps

run all over me.

i tilt my head down

to the drain

and watch

my life slip away,

the salt of work,

melting

melting.

it's been that kind 

of day.

love frozen in time

the wet

cement just poured

by

the old men

in green

and orange jump suits

brings

the children

around with their

long sticks.

it's time for art, for

signing

names, for

digging into the grey

wet concrete

drawing

maybe a heart or

two

with initials inscribed,

love frozen

in time.

of course she knows

without much

effort

i can close my eyes and see

my mother

at the ironing board

with the black

and white tv on.

methodically she irons

each small

pair of pants and school shirts,

small dresses

with flowers

on them and

long white sheets and pillow

cases.

i'm in the bottom bunk

of the bunk

bed with a cold

wash cloth on my forehead,

staring up

at springs.

i'm pretending to be

sick so that i

don't have to go to school

this morning.

my mother brings

me a bowl of hot

chicken

soup and crackers.

and then milk and cookies.

all on a tray.

she sticks a thermometer

in my mouth

at some point

then shakes it.

you're getting better,

she says,

touching my forehead.

lie back

with a pillow behind your head,

she says,

and let me read to you

for a while.

shall it be Peter Pan,

again?

my oh my how time flies

i spend

the morning sharpening

a box

of yellow

number two pencils.

slowly

i turn

each one around and around

in the tiny

hand

held sharpener.

a plastic blue thing

i find

at the bottom of a drawer

with marbles

and rings,

rubber bands

and old keys.

it's a box of twelve

so it takes

awhile.

i touch each new

sharpened point

with my thumb

then put them back into

the box,

closing the drawer.

i finish around twelve.

which makes

it lunch time.

time is flying these days.

who's next

everything

must go, she told me

as

she tossed

his clothes into the yard

and set

them on

fire.

his shoes and socks,

his suits

and ties,

his books,

and watches.

the purge is on.

betrayal is a hard

thing

to swallow for a woman

scorned.

whereas for most men,

it's a shrug

of the shoulder

and a question,

okay,

that's done,

who's next.

can we just be friends?

i wish i had

a pen

pal or two, or three.

someone

in China, or Istanbul,

or Montana

even.

i don't want to meet them.

i just want

to have an occasional

correspondence

with them.

we could text, or email.

we could talk about the weather,

our favorite

foods,

what we like to wear,

or what music we prefer.

we could talk about movies,

or each other's

pets,

discuss our loves and fears.

just someone to chit chat

with

with no strings attached.

we'd never have to talk

on the phone, or ever meet

in person.

in that way

the friendship would never

end

until we did.

perfectly imperfect

it's no

surprise to people

that i can be

critical of others, judgmental.

i can see

the fault in a Saint

given an hour

with one.

i have a wise guy

side

to me,

a sarcastic bent. i can't

seem to shake

it,

the comedic side of me.

it's not hateful or

mean

or malicious,

just observations

of the human condition.

it's been that way since

childhood.

i can see right through the sham

of people.

no matter how hard

i try

i can't stop questioning

the faults

of others.

especially my own.

who needs people anymore?

there are

days when you are blissfully

alone,

serene

in your pleasant house,

wrapped

in a blanket

on your favorite

couch,

the dog beside you,

a plate of stew

on the table,

crusty bread with butter

melting

in the warm slice,

and a cold

beer

in a frosted mug.

who needs friends.

who needs lovers.

who needs siblings

anymore.

but then there's a spot

in the middle

of your back

that you can't reach.

the itch is almost unbearable.

so you reach

for the phone again

to see who is available.

who is she today

she changes

her dress,

her hair, one day

straight

another day curly.

her nail color

is a rainbow assortment

chosen daily.

her shoes,

are one day flat,

the next day heels,

tomorrow,

who knows.

barefoot perhaps.

she has a tan now

and a nice

set of white of teeth,

now veneer.

she curses

like a sailor

all week

but on Sunday she's

Mother Theresa

in the front row at

Saint Lucia's.

she wants to be called

by a different

name as well.

not the one

her mother gave her,

but a nickname

that suits her personality.

i can hardly up with

who she is,

or wants to be.

better than me

i feel

that people are judging

me because

of this red

sauce

stain and splatter on my

white shirt.

they look me in the eyes

then down

at the shirt,

and i know what they're

thinking.

they think they are better

than me.

they wouldn't

walk around with a spaghetti

stained

shirt, but

they don't know the half

of it.

don't bite your nails

you tell yourself

that this

too shall pass,

and yes,

it does.

the trouble soon goes

away

with another setting of

the sun,

another rising

of a moon.

trouble goes away.

it always does

and yet you bite

your nails and worry,

what if

it doesn't this time.

still don't get it

as you did as a child,

you

go out into the back yard

and lie

down

in the soft grass

to stare

up at a starlit sky.

the smallness of you

is still

in your mind.

the strangeness

of this life

has never left

and never will.

someday, perhaps,

you will know

what it's all about,

or continue to know

nothing.

he could jump and kick like a kangaroo

when

i caught one ex cheating on me

with my

son's karate

teacher, Carlos,

i felt sad, i felt disappointed.

i felt less of a man.

i couldn't

even beat this guy up

if i wanted to.

he had quadruple black

belts

and could jump

and kick

like a freaking kangaroo.

he could break

two by fours with his

head

and drive nails with his

fists of fury.

i'd have

to sneak up behind him

with a monkey

wrench to even have a chance

in defeating him.

so, what i did instead 

was call immigration

enforcement

on him.

a month later

he was back in Guatemala

making tacos

on the street.

the wife?  pfffft.

ancient history. i'm over it.

you're going to need a new cabin filter too

the last

time i was in here, six thousand,

seven hundred

and twenty-nine

miles ago,

there was a dead mouse

in the corner

of the local

not so jiffy lube store.

it's still

there,

still grey, but thinner

now.

deflated.

although the smell

is gone

i choose a seat far away

from it

and pick up

a People Magazine

from the table

in the middle of the room.

there's a photograph

of Liz Taylor on the cover,

with the caption

inquiring if

Liz can keep the weight

off this year.

i think that's the least of

her problems

as i glance

over at the mouse in

the corner.

the four line obituary

we struggle

to write his obituary.

date of birth

date of death,

his service to his country,

and then what.

children

near and far.

loved and estranged.

do we mention

how he loved

to cook

and read and lie in the sun.

how he was both

selfish

and kind,

loving and mean

depending on

the mood.

do we mention how frugal

he was

always cutting coupons,

saving string

and jars, never throwing

a single

thing away.

what about his garden

full of beans and tomatoes,

the fence

he built to keep

the rabbits away. shall we talk

about

how secretive

and distant, unreachable

he was at times.

do we bring up his romantic

partners,

innumerable dalliances

with the fairer

sex

as he sailed the seven

seas.

what about his cat, Thomas.

a black and white

stray

that wandered into

his life.

does he get a line in all of this?

not quite over the divorce

after

the divorce she took up arts

and crafts

down at the local

community center

where they

have the bake sales

on Saturday morning.

she started

gluing sticks and leaves

to white canvas

boards.

small pebbles and smudges

of dirt,

feathers.

broken shells of bird

eggs.

shards of glass,

discarded sections of snake

skins.

she was always in the woods

digging

things up to make her art

with.

she called each new piece,

Bert, followed

by a number.

the age of bliss

it's an age we reach

when

we no

longer are looking for new

clothes,

new furniture,

a new love.

the car we drive will be

the last

car

we drive.

we've settled on the house,

the yard.

we're on the last

dog.

never again will be out

shopping

for new Christmas

ornaments,

or strings of lights.

everything in the cupboards

from

dishes to cups

to knives and forks are the last

ones

we will use.

while sitting on

the old couch

we look at one another

and

say blissfully,

enough.

no room at the inn

he asks

me if he can come to my

house

to sleep on

the couch

for a few weeks,

the wife wants me gone,

he tells me.

but why, i ask.

i thought you two were

madly in love.

soul mates since high school.

i don't know. maybe it's

my drinking,

or that i don't

have a job,

and 

all i do all day is watch

tv

and complain

about politics

and the neighbor's barking

dog.

she says that i smell too.

and you want to stay at my

house?

i ask him.

world war eleven

when

you hear the congresswoman

in her native

Somalia garb

reading

from her scripted

speech

and saying

the words World War eleven,

mistaking

the Roman

number II for the number

eleven,

you know that

the end is

near.

the country

is going down the drain

in a very

fast spiral.

what will it be like

in twenty years?

the chicken in me

ever since

i fell

off a ladder and onto

a roof

then onto the ground

from a height

of about

twenty-five feet

i've been

leery of heights, so when

she suggested

that we go

sky diving

in Orange County i began

to sweat

and tremble.

i asked her why?

why do you want to jump

out of a plane?

because it's, fun she said.

we need to

do more fun things.

we're only alive once,

so let's

live it to the fullest.

come on,

don't be a chicken, be

a man for once.

out shopping, be back soon

i'm out

shopping. 

for what, i have no

clue.

i guess when

i come upon it,

i'll know what it is

that i need,

and what i'm looking

for.

love is like

that.

be back soon.

the travel bug

when

young you yearn for other places.

to visit

faraway lands,

to see the Pyramids,

Venice,

the Coliseum in Rome.

the Grande Canyon

beckons you,

the Rio Grande. you have

an urge

to travel to Cancun,

or to Canada

for some unknow reason.

you have Santorini

in your sights,

Iceland

and Nova Scotia.

you are pulled to go

see the Northern lights.

you have the travel bug.

an itch that

must be scratched.

but no longer.

you've done all that.

and now

you want to get home,

get home

to your big chair by

the window,

to your dog,

to your cat.

something fishy going on here

California

counted ten more votes today.

after all

it is the weekend,

but ten people

working overtime got 

it done.

They'll be back on Monday,

taking Sunday

off.

another month or so

and all the votes

will be counted,

even the ones from dead

people

and from other countries,

as the ballots continue

to come.

the summer carnival in town

as kids,

during the summer,

we'd see the trucks roll into

town to set up

the carnival

in the wide-open parking

lot of the shopping

center.

up went the Ferris Wheel,

the Scrambler,

the Tilt a Whirl.

in no time, the fun house

was constructed,

the bearded lady

appeared,

the midget, the fire

eating man

with his long swords.

a monkey on a leash

playing an accordion,

and the hunger artist

in a tent next to

the freak behind the curtain.

one dollar per peek.

we watched as these strange

carnie workers

put it all together.

talking in a language

we never heard.

smoking

and cursing,

some with teeth, some

without.

each covered in a colorful

of array of tattoos.

the air soon filled with

cigar smoke

and cotton candy being spun,

candy apples

lined up on sticky trays,

and popcorn.

sawdust.

two weeks later they were gone

as if they never

came.

it's a mad mad mad woke world

my woke

friend

is all about DEI, preferring

the color

of one's skin

over

competency and character.

he loves

men

in women's dresses,

wanting

them to compete

in girl's sports,

sharing locker rooms

with them,

he wants drag queens

reading

to children,

allowing

surgeries on underage

girls and boys

to assuage their adolescent

confusion.

he wants Pride month

to last

the whole year.

celebrating the entire

alphabet soup

of hysteria.

he wants open borders,

free healthcare, schooling,

and housing

for non-tax paying

illegal immigrants,

and no

ID's to vote in any election,

and yet despite our vast

differences, we're still

friends,

or at least i am.

for some reason he doesn't

take my 

calls anymore. hmmm.

the dizzying ride

as much

fun

as it can be at times, 

you

reach a point

in your life where you have

to get

off the roller coaster.

you've done

enough screaming,

enough

worrying about what

lies ahead

over the next hill or valley.

it's time

to get off the ride.

she was fun

for a while,

but it's time.

the girl who loved horses

i never

saw her without a cast

on her arm

or leg,

never without a bruise,

or bandage

around her head.

she kept a pair of crutches

in her car.

a helmet and a first

aid kit.

she loved

her horse though

in spite of how

he would

throw her like a rag

doll when

she got on its back.

sometimes

she made it out of the barn,

sometimes

she didn't.

some people are never happy

people

love the new reflection pool.

the flag

blue bottom.

they love how clean

and bright it

is,

how it captures the reflections

of the Lincoln Memorial

and Washington

obelisk.

they love the look of it,

how beautiful it

has become,

but hate

who did it.

my eyes be bugging out yo

i put

too much hot sauce

on

the burrito.

Texas Pete extra

spicy.

my head

is sweating, great

beads

of sweat

roll down my face.

my eyes

are bugging out.

my tongue is on fire,

but i keep

eating.

some pain is good

despite all

logic

and reason.

the blue bin virtue signal

i've never

been a fan of recycling.

filling the blue

bin

with plastic and glass,

tin

and paper.

call me

lazy,

or non-caring about the environment,

climate change

and the melting

ice bergs, etc.

but it's just

something i decided

a long time

ago to not participate in.

it's like

having annoying

homework

to do before you go

to bed at night.

do i worry

about the polar bears

and penguins, the baby seals,

having no ice

to slide around on?

not really.

i think

they'll survive without my blue

bin set

out on the curb

each Wednesday.

the apology bouquet of flowers

as i stand in Trader

Joe's

staring at the buckets

of beautiful

flowers lined up against

the wall near

the meat section,

and assorted nuts,

i think

about all the money i've

spent throughout

the years

on flowers,

roses,

white, red,

pink,

carnations and small potted

plants.

assorted bouquets.

random combinations

of petunias and daffodils,

wrapped in

plastic

with a packet of flower

food under

the rubber band.

it was all in

the attempt to apologize

to some girlfriend,

or wife

for some harm

i've caused.

either i've forgotten

an anniversary, or a birthday,

or neglected to tell

her that she

looks nice

going from brunette

to blonde, or

it was something that i said,

which seemed to be

the leading cause.

don't even get me started on

Hallmark Cards.

the glacier like vote tally in California

nine days

after the election, California,

continues

to slowly

count the mail in ballots.

the no ID votes.

there's one

woman

at a desk in LA

over a taco

restaurant

flipping through the hand

written notes,

marking down

the votes.

she wets her finger and thumb,

and flips

to the next page

as she eats

a burrito

and drinks a Hard Mike's

Lemonade.

she makes

a mark on column

A or column B.

how much longer,

they ask her,

yelling up the stairway.

soon she says,

soon.

maybe another week.

friends with benefits

after

the big break up,

i ask her if it's okay that we

be friends,

friends with

benefits, maybe.

i still have

the scar

on my forehead where

she hit

me with a hot skillet

full of pancakes.

after i wake

up on the kitchen floor,

she says she's

sorry,

really really sorry,

and agrees to my suggestion,

saying how about

Tuesdays.

running for Senator in Maine

it's hard

to run for public office these days,

whether mayor

of a small town,

or to become a Senator

in Washington.

apparently

it's frowned upon to have

a Nazi tattoo on

your chest,

or to have many allegations

of domestic

violence in your past.

you no longer can cheat

on your wife,

or send nude photos

of yourself

to people on dating sites

while still

married.

you can't even threaten to kill

people anymore

if they break

into your house

and do unnatural things to them.

and to top that,

you can't be antisemitic

either.

they've set the bar so high

these days.

the lost dog

i find

a lost dog

without a collar

wandering the streets.

so i pick him up

and bring him home.

i feed him,

bathe him,

give him water,

allow him access

to the yard,

and let him sleep

in my bed

at night.

and then one day

he bites me for no reason,

drawing blood,

leaving a scar.

so i let him go.

i shoo him

out the door.

maybe he wasn't lost

after all.

Heavenly Blue

the clerk

at the paint store tells me that

he no longer

believes in God,

despite the chained

cross around

his neck,

he's done with organized,

or disorganized

religion.

he's from

Guatemala and was raised

Catholic,

but that ship

has sailed.

i look at the world, he says,

and see nothing

but hate

and greed,

fraud and deceit.

anger and wars.

death and disease.

i don't know what to tell him,

so i hand him

my order

for one gallon of

Heavenly Blue, eggshell

finish.

Benjamin Moore.

morning affirmations

i talk

to myself in the morning.

i have long

or brief

conversations

with parts

of my body

when i start

the day.

i rub the salt out of my

eyes then look down

at my feet.

the dogs are barking

even after

8 hours of sleep.

i give them a what for

look.

i ask

the knees that are

squeaking

to hush up.

i do some sort of windmill

action with

my arms

to loosen up

the shoulders.

listening to the sound

of crickets

as each

joint snaps.

i sit on the edge of the bed

and give

them all

a pep talk before getting

up.

okay, you guys,

let's pull ourselves

together

and go.

we've got this.

the aging snow bird

he's a snow

bird,

flying south to Florida before

the snow

falls,

before the ice

sheets

the road.

it's a little house

on the water,

he fishes,

he swims, he takes his

small boat

out

when the water

is calm.

he'll be back though in March.

the heat

is too much.

the lizards and gators.

i'll pick him

up at the airport soon

with his

Panama hat

and cane,

tired of the sun.

running red lights

stop signs

and red lights, yield

and merge

signs,

slow,

for the blind

and deaf,

wrong way,

seem to be suggestions

these days.

not rules

or laws to be obeyed.

double yellow

lines

mean nothing,

school buses are passed

in a blur.

i think it's official now

anarchy

has arrived

and is here to stay.

six inches of snow by morning

my knees

take

turns on which one

hurts most

on any given day.

rain

seems to play into it.

snow

and cold air,

too.

i can easily predict the weather

with each knee.

i've applied

at the news station

for a job

to be 

the weatherman,

but they just laughed

at me.

the small print of food

i'm

one of those now,

standing

in the aisle at the grocery store

reading the small

print on

the back of packages,

labels of food

and drinks.

i'm too aware of what

goes in

my body.

i'm counting sugar

and carbs,

just to name a few

things.

i've asked the manager

of the store to please

put out

some chairs or a nice

long couch.

a floor lamp would

be nice as well.