Jesus with a crew cut

would we think

less

of Jesus if he had short hair,

a crew cut,

or was bald, or

if he was a weightlifter,

or skin and bones

dieting

on Keto.

or overweight from too

many Eskimo

pies and cake.

what if he wore a large

pair of spectacles

and a pork pie

hat?

would we judge him

differently, without 

the long robes

and hair down to his

shoulders.

what if had on plaid

shorts and flip flops,

striped shirts

like the Beach Boys, or

a wife beater t-shirt torn

like Marlon Brando,

would we still believe

the words He said,

would we run away and not

listen to the Sermon

on the Mount

if he had a skin condition,

would we judge him

harshly, or just close

our eyes with an open heart

and listen?

ten minutes into the first date

i can't make

any promises, but i can

say maybe,

maybe we'll do this or that,

go here or there,

maybe we'll fall in love

and live

happily ever after,

but saying

yes to all of that is hard.

will i disappoint you

in the end,

like i have all the others?

perhaps,

but maybe not.

let's wait and see

and live

with maybe.

finding rock bottom

we're most

vulnerable and philosophical

when

we're down on 

our luck,

when things don't go our

way.

a broken heart,

a broken

bone,

defeated,

something has gotten

the best of us.

it's then, when sitting on

a curb

dirty with the rain pouring

down,

unloved

and full of despair that,

we can figure out,

life the best.

we are a cruel lot

we are a cruel

lot,

the way we dismiss bugs

and things

crawling

on the ground.

mice

and rodents, squirrels

in the attic.

how quick we are

to stamp out the spider,

to swat the fly,

to call pest

control

to get the bats

or snakes out.

we have no feelings towards

them.

their family,

their daughters and sons,

what they've accomplished

with their lives.

we are a cruel

lot.

we want them gone.

how to escape from prison

the first thing

you think of when going to prison,

is how's the food here,

the second thing

is how can i escape.

is it possible to dig a hole,

or chisel out

a wall

with a plastic spork,

or hop the barbed wire

fence

before the guards

and dogs find you,

and the searchlight

swings around.

can i fake an illness and be

sent to the infirmary,

maybe steal a doctor's

scrubs

and go out the back door

pushing a gurney

full of potatoes

in the shape of an inmate.

so much to think of as

the cop car

with his party lights on behind

me,

pulls me over

for running a yellow light.

over the moon

it takes

time for leather to adjust

to the world

unattached

from the cow

it was made from.

whether coat

or shoe,

or the couch you sit

on.

it takes time for

it to be

acclimated to your

way of living,

to be stretched and made

soft

to your touch,

to be sat upon, or walked

in.

who doesn't love a cow,

not to mention

the bonus of milk

and steaks.

who needs the outside world

there's a scratch

at the window. it could be

anyone

or anything.

someone is at the door,

i hear

their knuckles

rapping

against the wood.

i don't get up to see what

or who

it could be.

i've lost interest in the outside

world.

i have no desire to take

a look through

the peep hole,

at least

for now.

i may have to go to the store

later though,

i'm low on milk.

coordinating our boardwalk and street takeover

i get an email

and a few text messages from

Howie and

a bunch of friends.

they want

to gather and swarm the boardwalk

with our walkers

and wheelchairs.

cause a raucous,

some chaos and mayhem,

just like the young 

whippersnappers do each

holiday.

pass the word,

the text says.

we can do a takeover of

the streets

and stores, have our selves

a 4th of July riot.

let's show them who owns

this town.

there's a nicely curved

handicap stairway

at 23rd st.

which would make a good

starting point.

but we can only round up about

five people.

two of which have 

colonoscopy appointments

that morning.

the summer of green hands

my father

decided to paint the long

chain link

fence green one summer.

here, he said,

handing me a brush as

big as my arm.

you start over there,

and i'll start here.

and we'll meet

in the middle.

it was obviously one of

those Tom Sawyer

deals.

i looked at him and

rolled my eyes.

come on, he said,

it'll be fun. i bet you'll be

good at this.

carry this bucket

down to your end

and let's get started.

he had a cigarette in his

mouth and a beer

in his hand.

we went at it for about

ten minutes

when Ernie's mother,

Francine,

who lived next door,

came out in her bathing

suit and sunglasses.

i think she was French.

he hopped

the fence and suddenly

disappeared.

as i did.

but i had to live with

the green paint on my

hands the whole summer.

the butter knife and duct tape

there's static

on

the line, maybe a storm,

maybe rain,

or a tower

is down,

a pole of some sort.

i don't know anything

about

how things work

anymore.

that goes for my car

too.

most of the buttons

i have no clue

as to what they do.

if the ac goes out,

i call the man,

the fridge,

i buy a new one.

no longer does smacking

the side of my

tv get it to work

again.

i use to be able to fix

everything with

a butter

knife to turn a screw.

and duct tape

to hold it all together.

the world is a world

of replaceable parts now,

everything and everyone

is replaceable, 

everyone that is,

except me and you.

if they ever got out

they look

at

us with big eyes,

they're eating bananas

and melons.

they swing

from vines strapped

across the enormous

cage.

they seem to know

things

that we don't know.

muscled and lean.

a few scream and holler

while others

stare deeply

into our souls, chewing

gently,

patiently what's in

their hand,

but it's hard not to think

that they'd

kill us if they

ever got out.

why it'll never work out

suddenly

she was pushing me,

slapping

my shoulder, trying

to wake me up.

what?

i said, rubbing my eyes,

what is it?

i was sleeping.

what's going on,

are you okay?

you have to get up,

get up

and come out to the balcony.

you have to see this.

what?

why?

oh just get up and come

with me.

it's the most

incredible sunrise.

oh my.

similar to yesterday, right?

she's no longer impressed

his carvings

are beautiful, ducks

and geese,

birds of all kinds,

even fish.

meticulous 

work, detailed

and smooth.

some are painted

some are left

to the wood they

were born in.

come in, he says.

come in.

let me show you

the new ones

that i've done.

okay, i tell him, while

his wife

sits in the chair

by a window,

knitting and

rolling her eyes.

a personal world war

i'm not

avoiding you.

i'm not running in the other

direction

when

i almost bump into

you at

the grocery store.

these eyes are

not averted

when 

we drive by one another

on the boulevard.

it's just that i have no

words

to say to you

anymore

they were all used up

during our own

personal world war.

Walt's beard

you

wonder how he kept

food

out of his long grey

beard,

how did he prevent

coffee,

or drinks from dripping

and spilling

into the bushy long

hair

that surrounded his face.

how did it

not catch fire when

he lit his pipe

or cigar?

how did he clear

the way

for a tender kiss?

mysteries abound.

no peace with crazy people

it's peace

until another punch is thrown,

another

bomb is dropped

from above,

another bullet is released

from a gun,

another knife

is tossed.

and then once more

all hell

breaks out.

some people and countries

just can't stand

to go about

their day

without more violence

going on.

the key lime pie apology

she never

said,

i'm sorry, for all

her lies

and betrayals,

instead

she'd bake cookies, or

a cake

in lieu of an apology,

sometimes

before

she even

whispered out

her latest lie,

she'd whip up

a preemptive apology

in the shape

of a key lime

pie.

which i ate and turned

to her

my twitching blind eye.

presenting from the great state of Maine your democratic nominee

just because

several women have come forward

and accused

him of sexual abuse

and domestic violence, and

the fact that he has

a Nazi tattoo on his chest,

once worn

by Auschwitz camp guards,

and that he denigrates

American soldiers who were wounded

in war,

and that he's on a questionable

underage dating

site known

for predators,

not to mention his anti-sematic

views,

all of that doesn't mean

he can't be our new Senator

from Maine, right?

we've all made

mistakes. some, more than

a few.

well, well, look at you

people are surprised

to see you

clean shaven,

showered,

the paint and debris

no longer on your face

or hands,

imbedded in your

nails.

you may have a suit on,

a pair

of gabardine pants,

with wing

tip shoes.

perhaps a splash of

Old Spice

cologne has been applied

to your cheeks.

well, well, look at you,

they say,

standing back in astonishment,

don't you clean up well.

what gets stolen

some people

steal

your wallet, your car,

the flamingo

pink and made of metal

planted

feet first in your yard.

they steal

the pumpkin you set out

full of candy

for the little ones.

they steal the rake

leaning against

the shed, the snow

shovel

on the porch.

some people steal anything

and everything

not nailed down.

even your heart.

three tier or four spice rack?

i spend

about two hours of the morning

sitting at my

desk

scrolling spice racks.

i need to unclutter

the cabinets.

so many random jars,

from garlic

to cinnamon, to peppers

and Himalayan

salt.

where did this thyme come

from,

the parsley

and sage.

rosemary.

i'm humming Simon

and Garfinkle now

as i continue on.

i'm on a mission.

do i want the racks that

attach to the wall,

or cabinet,

or do i want the lazy Susan

types for the counter.

will it be

metal, or wood, plastic?

how hard are they

to install?

i'll never get these hours

back,

will I?

to squish or let live, that's the question

it's a decision i need to make,

watching

the large

black spider crawl

between the sheers

and the glass,

whether to let him or her

live,

or to use a shoe,

or a toxic spray to end

it's simple life.

where there's one, perhaps

there's many.

maybe this book i'm

reading,

or a rolled-up magazine

will suffice.

somedays decisions

are easy to make

and other days

for some reason,

they're harder.

the silent majority

we are

not loud people.

flag waving patriots,

though we love

our country.

we are

not on the streets

protesting for or against

anything.

we go to church,

we pay our bills,

our taxes.

we vote.

we obey the laws.

we work hard and respect

others.

we quietly go

about our days, we raise

our families,

and believe

in common sense,

in prayer,

in courtesy and morals.

we're not in

the news, or on tv.

we don't have podcasts,

or write books.

we are real people,

the silent

majority.

the chair by the window

there

is the paring down of things,

the purging

stage

of life, downsizing,

moving

reluctantly into a smaller

home,

a senior place

where little needs tending to.

a time

where everything

accumulated must be given

a grade

of keeping or tossing out.

what was valuable

once,

is now set out on the curb,

or sold

for a dollar.

how much you loved that painting

with fading colors,

that cracked

vase on the mantle,

that chair you sat in for

half your life.

keep it to yourself

best not 

to tell others your troubles.

whatever

tragedy

large or small

that may have occurred to set

you in

this dark mood.

they will not forget it

and ask

you about it from

here on out

when meeting,

or on the phone.

perhaps it's out of love

or just curiosity

that makes them bring

it up again

and again.

but still they keep it

going on.

wanting more,

while you want less.

it's best to seal those lips.

send it up in prayer

and move on.

my brother's coonskin hat

i remember

the first time i did a load

of laundry

for myself.

i had studied how my

mother did it.

i was twelve years old

and needed

clean clothes for school

the next day.

i set up

the iron

for my dungarees

and button down short

sleeve

argyle shirt.

and waited on a chair

reading comic

books,

sipping on a Nehi

grape soda.

i waited

until the clothes were

washed then

dried, then

ironed and folded before

carrying them upstairs

to my one drawer.

in an act of kindness,

i let my little brother

throw in his Davey Crockett

coonskin hat,

that got mauled

and soggy with saliva

by our dog.

we almost saved the world

i'm

in the middle of a deep

conversation

with my

friend Jimmy

on the phone.

we are saving the world

with our

brilliant ideas,

our genius takes

on what should be done

about so

many important

issues facing

the world at large.

but then the phone dies.

Jimmy, Jimmy,

are you there? but no.

there's not

a single charge

on it, and i'm in

my car driving to Montana

without

a charger.

it's dead.

the world will have

to wait

until tomorrow to

be fixed and set right.

what in the ham sandwich is going on?

i put

an American flag decal

on the back of my

car

in a display

of patriotism.

the next day,

the windows are smashed

in,

the tires

are slashed and in spray

paint

they've written on

one side

fascism,

and on the other side,

racism.

she used to be such

a loving

and kind

and empathetic wife,

but not

since she moved

to Portland

and colored her hair

purple

and yellow,

with green stripes.

Liver and Onions, Thursday night

there used to be a dive

bar

in Little Creek

next to a motel 6,

that advertised Liver and Onions

on Thursday nights.

in bold red letters it was

lit up on their

parking lot sign.

dancing too. live music.

ladies night,

half price.

why?

i don't know.

we avoided it like 

the black

plague,

there was always a cop

car and

an ambulance 

outside.

although my father

couldn't get enough

of place,

which accounted

for his occasional broken

nose,

and black eyes.

hurray for spandex

either my

body

is changing, or these companies

that make

clothes

are fooling around with

the sizes.

large, extra-large,

small

and medium

are not what they used to be.

one man's size

thirty-two is another brands

thirty-six.

i appreciate though

the spandex

now in all the waistbands,

collars

and long sleeves.

the socialist love in

funny

how the young tikes, still

in their

college

diapers have fallen in love

with socialism

and communism.

they're tired

of sharing apartments

and living in

their parents basement.

they haven't quite figured

out the attributes

of hard work

and saving money.

they've taken the word

free

out of the word

freedom and claimed it as their own.

nothing is free,

they are yet

to realize.

they don't know that

Stalin killed more

Ukrainians

than Hitler ever killed

Jews.

they took from the rich

and gave

to the poor

as well as themselves.

they've never seen the bread

lines,

the gulags,

the sweat camps

and factories with child

labor in China.

apparently they've never

studied

a lick of history,

the cold war,

the revolutions,

they know nothing about

Cuba

or Venezuela,

how they went from being

rich

to being dirt

poor. maybe the fall of New York

City

will give them a clue.

my neck hurts from looking up

i injure

my neck staring up into

the 45 minute

firework display

down on the mall.

so many booms,

so many

explosions of red

and gold.

my eyes

are full of smoke

and ash,

my lungs are heavy

with hot air.

drinking a cold

beverage helps,

as does a massage 

therapist

located on the far

side of the grass.

time for another hot dog

and burger,

a slice of melon,

and a piece of apple

pie with a scoop

of French vanilla on the side.

i think i'll just lie

down for

awhile on this cold

wet grass and stare at 

the hazy sky.

the ten hour summer day

it was a long

walk

to the river. we had our fishing

poles,

our small box

of worms.

a jug of water

and all the time in the world

before the sun

went down.

we crossed the highway,

through

the parking lot

of Eastover shopping center

then into

the woods,

finding the path that led

to river beneath

the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.

there was no shade

and the water was too dirty

to swim in.

it was 1968,

and the Blue Plains Treatment

plant was

nearby.

the sewage killed most

of the fish.

but sometimes we'd land

a carp

or a catfish, or a long black

eel which we'd

cut off with out pocket

knives.

eventually, we'd have our

fill and head

home.

saying nothing to our parents

about where we

were, or

what we had done with

the summer day, now gone.

the birth of a nation

sad

and alone on the fourth

of July

in my flag

t-shirt and Uncle

Sam

hat, it's

just me

and my dog, George W. .

i put some

hot dogs on the grill

and a few

corn on the cobs.

i throw a burger on there

as well.

i've made a cake too,

with red, white and blue

icing.

it's getting dark

soon,

and it won't be long

before the fireworks

will begin.

i've filled up my little

blow up pool

with water from the hose.

after i eat,

i'll lie back in the pool,

with my

dog and together we'll

look up into the sky

and make noises like

oooh and awww.

the photo booth snapshot

we spent

the weekend in Coney Island

one summer.

we were in love

back then.

just kids.

holding hands, licking

the same

cone of ice-cream.

shooting

the water gun to win

a stuffed panda bear.

riding the roller coaster,

screaming

and laughing in the fun house,

kissing

as the car slowly

rolled through

the tunnel of love.

we'll always have Coney Island,

i think as i

stare at the photo booth

snapshot,

no matter

the years gone past

or where we are.

born in the USA

it's a tough

day

for the far-left wing liberals

and socialists on

July 4th.

they cringe when

they see

an American flag

being flown, 

unless it's of

another

country, or some cause

they represent.

they don't want anything

to do with

the celebration

of the countrys birth.

they laugh

and sneer

at the patriotism displayed

for the greatest

country on earth.

it's all negative

with them.

playing victim is a hard

way to live.

strange to hate a place

you reside

in and make no effort

to leave it.

the fat kids don't always win

i still have

the trophy from when i won

both the pie

eating contest

and the watermelon seed

spitting contest

on the 4th of July,

back in 1976.

i don't have the spitting

power

that i used to,

or the ability to consume

more than one pie

at a sitting,

so i no longer enter 

the contests.

but i enjoy them just the same,

and participate

as a judge.

it's not always the fat

kids who win,

by the way.

pass me the Neosporin

as kids

we had real fireworks.

firecrackers that

were bought

in North Carolina

by some

nefarious kids in

the city

who had connections

with a hillbilly Uncle

out of prison.

we had

strands of them

like bandoleros,

with fuses,

ready to blow things up.

we'd steal

matches from our

parents

and light them down

by the creek,

blowing up bottles

and cans,

parts of trees.

we'd scare the bejebies

out of the frogs

and squirrels.

we'd light them and throw

them into the air,

for the hell of it.

some of us today, still

have a few fingers left

and can see out

of at least one eyeball.

we kept the firemen

and paramedics busy that night.

better not say that

i've discovered over time,

that most

women

have a different sense of humor.

most can't

tell a joke, or take a joke,

they don't like

sarcasm,

or mean observations

about fat people,

or blue haired protesters,

men pretending

to be girls.

they cringe

at blue humor.

you have to be careful

around them

so as not to upset their

fragile nature.

you have to bite your tongue

if you want

to keep the peace

in the house.

i can only imagine the trouble

Red Foxx had with

his wife.

press one for an agent

hold

on, you are ninth in line.

please

enjoy

the music. feel

free to visit our online

website

where you can tell us why

you're bothering

us again

about your

billing or service,

or the occasional blackouts

during heat spells,

rain,

snow and ice,

thunderstorms and cold

fronts.

please have your account

with you,

and your latest

bill.

please hold or press one

if you'd like

to talk to a representative.

but that

line is much longer,

there are three hundred

and thirty-seven

other whiny babies

waiting before you.

i was wrong about you

we thought

it was

a friendly shark swimming

around our

blow up

raft.

he came so close to us,

close

enough to pet his

dorsal fin.

he opened up his mouth

full of bloody

fish,

bones and skin.

he seemed to be smiling

at us

with a curious grin.

sometimes

were wrong about fish,

about

friends.

the shortest war ever

the jets

do a flyover at the mall

in dc.

flexing

our military muscle,

like a weightlifter

on the beach.

silver and black.

they look like hawks

and strange

bat like

planes from another world.

it's amazing

as they twist and turn,

dip and disappear

into the clouds

with a plume of smoke.

if i was

a country i'd surrender

immediately.

it would be

the shortest war

ever.

lunch on the go

it's a bin

of hot

chicken wings at the grocery

store,

interesting.

sweet and spicy

wings

the sign says.

chili sauce

and tabasco.

i'm hungry, so i dip

my fingers

in and pluck one

out,

a sample.

i look around and put

the whole

wing

into my mouth,

then squeeze out the bones,

discarding them

in the nearby

can.

oh my God,

these may be the best

chicken wings

i've ever had.

i fill up a little cardboard

box with

a dozen

or so,

then eat them in the car.

i need napkins,

i need

water.

lunch on the go.

time share hell

the time

share salespeople

surrounded

us in their

bright yellow shirts

and brown

jackets,

they

put a pen in my hand.

pushed

the contract

before me, and said

go ahead

sign it.

you won't regret it.

we promise.

you play golf, right?

no.

you swim,

you like volleyball

and tennis, right?

no.

no, well,

that's okay. 

we have free bikes.

free skateboards

for the kids.

paddle boarding and

fishing is your thing

right?

no.

well, that's okay,

look at the view,

look at the ocean out the window.

it's all yours,

and well, you and

forty other couples who

you will coordinate with

for your one weekend

out of the year.

but listen to that beach noise,

the waves,

the raucous crowds

on the boardwalk,

the chatter of it all.

and if you don't want to hear that,

watch this,

as i slide closed this thick

glass door.

poof, the noise is gone.

the maintenance fees will

only go up ten

percent at the start of each

new year.

and the assessments will

never be more

than twenty thousand

dollars every five years.

smoking is allowed as are

pets of all kinds.

now go ahead and sign.

please, if you don't sign

we have others right out

the door waiting for this unit,

they're chomping

at the bit,

waiting in line.

here, let me pour you another

drink.

gin and tonic,

wine?

the first tattoo i ever saw

the first tattoo

i ever saw

was on Ernie's forearm,

the boy

with Tourette syndrome

who lived

behind our

house,

just a hop over

the waist high chain

link fence.

with a safety pin,

a match

to sterilize with,

and a bottle of green

ink

he inscribed on his

arm

his initials,

ET.

nothing else, just ET.

no heart,

no anchor, no words

in Chinese.

just ET.

mint chip in boxer shorts

there is

no other choice 

but to have

ice-cream

on a day like this.

an extra-large scoop

of mint chip.

the temperature rising

toward one hundred

degrees.

stretched

out on the basement couch

the fan

above your head.

no socks,

no shirt, just lounging

in the shadows

in your boxer shorts.

the fallen cities

you become nostalgic

for cities that thrived in the 40's

and fifties,

captured

in black and white

on film,

romance or adventure,

drama,

or noir.

the people look civilized

and well

dressed.

respectful of one another.

obeying

the laws.

everyone working hard.

the monuments untouched

by graffiti

or hammers,

no thousands on the streets

in violent protests.

the streets

not overrun by strangers

from afar.

whether Paris or Rome,

London

or New York,

it feels over in so many ways.

what was, has come

and gone.

let me get that door for you gramps

i don't know

what came

over me, but when the young punk

held the door open

for me,

and said,

after you gramps, i couldn't

help myself.

i caught the kid

with a left hook and then

followed

up with a right cross,

before finishing him off

with an upper

gut to the midsection.

he went down like a sack

of flour

before his mother

came over and broke it up.

i hovered over him

for a minute or two,

and told him to mind 

his manners.

i then went into the grocery

store to get

my prunes

and oatmeal and some

ointment for my knuckles

that were

bleeding and sore.

disco fever

it was in

the seventies when she caught

a bad

case of

disco fever.

she had to go out dancing

every night

of the week

in her wild

dresses

with her hair down

and a flower

behind her ear.

she was drinking cosmos

back then,

and driving a beat up

Chevy Vega

with blue smoke coming out

the tail pipes.

we met in a downtown

bar just as they called

out last

call for alcohol

and the lights went up.

she didn't know i was 27

at the time,

and i didn't know

she was 17, but soon to be

18 in March.,

or so she said.

it lasted for about twelve

years.

a few kids later, a few

dogs,

a few townhouses with

orange shag

carpet and then the lawyers

took over.

i think about her now and

then,

the glitter ball above her

as Donna Summer

belted out another song.

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.