Mayor Mandani is at the door, oh my

there's a knock

at the door,

i look through the peep hole.

it's Mayor Mandani

of New York

with his henchmen.

he has that creepy smile on

his bearded face.

ah oh, i whisper.

there's 

one women standing there

with

pink hair holding a cat and

a clipboard, there's also

two transgenders

in flowered

dresses,

and three men

in turbans.

they've come to collect

my money,

take my house.

how dare you have four

bathrooms

and three bedrooms

the mayor says.

we can put ten people

in here.

and look at your bank

accounts,

you're never going to spend

all that money you've

earned and saved

in one life.

the stock market has been

too good for you.

it's time to share the wealth

you've earned

with your white

privilege.

now open up.

lazy people need money too.

we know you're in there.

how dare you

start a business,

work hard your whole life,

then smartly invest all of it

like that.

now open up, the party is over

you stingy capitalist,

we want it back.

Little Debbie's Cakes

to make

an establishment seem more

friendly

and more

approachable,

you see names like Mister Donut,

or Uncle Al's pizzeria.

Momma Luigi's

Pasta up on the fluorescent

signs.

there's 

Uncle Ben's rice

on the shelf with

Aunt Jemima's pancake

batter.

it's so easy to choose

Amy's frozen

dinners over a no name

brand, or

Famous Amos cookies,

or Little Debbie's Cakes

when out shopping.

you've known these people

for most of your life.

there's Colonel Sanders in

his white suit

holding a bucket of fried chicken,

Charlie the tuna

inside a cute little can.

they're friends of yours.

all familiar faces.

look how they smile

back at you

on the shiny package or sign.

they make you

happy.

and being happy is what it's

all about.

where no one knows your name

some people

leave

without a forwarding address.

they

post no notice

that they are moving.

they change

their phone numbers,

pack their

bags and just leave.

poof.

gone.

they reinvent themselves

on some southern

shore, with

all bridges burned behind

them.

they want to start over

after everything

in their life has gone wrong.

they want a place

where no one

knows their name.

where 

each new day is absent

of regret, remorse,

of shame.

bar hopping

when

crossing the street from

one bar

to another

late at night, searching

for another

drink,

or conversation

leading

to short

and empty love,

you'd often see a rat

or two

going

from curb to sewer,

the dark body

and long

tail slinking along,

chasing

the same, i think.

a long list of maybes

maybe

we over did it.

maybe we gave too much.

made

each birthday

the fourth of July

and Christmas,

New Years

all wrapped into one.

maybe we adored him

too hard,

granted him

every wish.

wiped every tear,

never letting him fail

to learn

a lesson.

maybe we were making

up for what

our parents didn't give,

or even thought about.

maybe

that's what the problem

is. maybe.

a long distant call

as we

walk the beach lined

with shells

and debris,

the cold ocean

washing up

against our feet,

i get a call from one

of the many

shells

that have

surfaced.

a corrugated white

one.

i hear it ringing,

so i pick up

the empty clam

and put it to my ear,

yes, i say.

hello.

but it's not for me 

wrong number, again.

it's for you, my dear.

the dangling thread before you

best

not pull that thread,

or else

all of it will fall apart,

the sweater

or coat

that kept you warm

at night

will be gone.

best to ignore

what she

just said,

and move on.

nostalgic about the hair cut

i walk

by the barber shop

and peer in.

it's the same line

of chairs

against the wall.

my old barber Joe,

waves

to me with his scissors,

i wave back.

we haven't talked

in ages.

but we're still friends.

he doesn't

hold it against

me that

i'm doing my own

hair now.

i can still smell the onions

on his hands,

the garlic and oils,

the cigar smoke

on his breath.

i can hear his stories

of the old

days in his gravelly

voice.

telling me which deli

to try

the next time i'm in New York.

friends and yet still a stranger

in casual conversation

my life long

friend,

a democrat and

failed dinner theater

actor

mentioned that he wouldn't

mind

being

the next John Wilkes Booth.

to live in infamy,

or heroic fame,

for what

he might do.

it's strange how you really

don't know

someone, the darkness

that lurks within,

despite the years

behind you.

small pleasures gone by

there was

a small pleasure in opening

the front door

as the sun

came up

and retrieving the paper

off the porch.

to place

it on the table as the coffee

boiled,

as the toaster

worked its magic on

two slices

of bread.

all the news of the world

there in print.

ah, the good old days.

now i lie in bed when i

awaken

and start scrolling my phone.

dining in alone

we eat

differently when alone,

when there's

no one there to judge us while

eating dinner

at the coffee

table in front of the tv.

there we are gnawing on a fried

chicken or steak

bone

ravenously, like

a wild animal, clearing

it of meat,

drinking milk from

the carton.

how easily

we lick our fingers,

and eat

with the wrong fork,

sometimes

even using a spoon for

the mashed potatoes,

then Jello.

toothpicks at the ready.

napkins are for the weak,

why bother when

you have two perfectly

good long sleeves.

women playing sports in scantily clothes

the latest

hub bub is over the camera

angles

that are used when

female

athletes are pole vaulting

in little red,

or black thongs,

the runners too,

and the swimmers, not

to mention the floss like

costumes

the volleyball players wear

when prancing

about in the sand, sending

the ball over

the net.

why the zoom

when they fall over

and stick their legs high

into the air,

or bend over to tie a shoe?

in slow motion too?

the uproar

is loud and furious,

the feminists and woke

are in a tizzy.

what's next?

will the grocery stores

be covering up

the bananas and melons

in the produce department

with blankets,

or better yet,

fishnets?

the ankle bracelet chef

the benefit

of her having an ankle bracelet

on her leg,

restricting her

movement, keeping her

at home

for a variety of legal

reasons,

due to excessive drinking

and driving,

and retail theft,

was that she became a

much better cook.

hot dogs and baked

beans were no longer on her

menu rotation.

with so much free

time on her hands

from home confinement

she studied the culinary

arts of famous chefs

from around the world.

she immersed herself in

the cookbooks and the watching

of their videos

on YouTube.

tonight it's Beef Wellington

with a mushroom

filing, paired with a delightful

side of potato gratin

with Gruyere cheese and creamed

asparagus.

for dessert it's

a small sliver of Satcher torte.

red wine of course.

Pinot Noir.

i'm setting up the cappuccino

machine as we speak.

church bells ringing nearby

go to church long

enough as

a child, rarely missing a mass,

confession

and communion,

will

make you feel guilty for

most of your

remaining life,

especially when

you hear the church bells

ringing from the comfort

of your warm bed.

the lunch break at the munitions factory

work was busy,

he was working overtime

most

nights.

the war was on with no

real end

in sight.

is there ever?

but he said little about

what he

did when he arrived

home,

how he carefully put

together

the parts for bombs

and munitions needed

to end the lives

others.

he brought his lunch in each

day

in a brown paper bag,

with a thermos

of coffee,

and with his

friends, they

ate and drank, discussing

other things.

at night,

his quiet wife would

set the table,

and heat

up what was left

of his cold dinner.

transcendental meditation

i've tried,

but i'm not good at transcendental

meditation.

i've stared a candle

as i sat

with legs and arms

folded,

saying ohm

repeatedly,

but it only made me sleepy.

for the life of me i was unable

to empty my

mind

of the world.

i never once levitated,

or saw the heavens

open up.

my brain wandered,

thinking about

that chicken leg

in the fridge. how i could

cut it up and make

a nice sandwich later

on a toasted bun.

did i still have pickles?

i had no

epiphanies,

i received no

calming

message steering me

towards a better life.

my leg would fall

asleep sometimes and i'd

have to shake it.

occasionally, if i sat there

long enough

i'd start to feel relaxed, but

frisky too,

and would

dial up

Betty while i still had

my yoga pants on.

code black

i've never

seen or heard of code purple.

i'm familiar

with orange, and red,

but purple is a new

one on me.

with Canada on fire,

and the hot

and humid weather

soaring

into the hundred's

we're basically meat

in the oven.

pretty soon, i guess if we

go outside

we're going to be dead.

and a 'new code will be

posted.

code black.

your guardian angel hard at work

it's your turn

to go, the light has been green

for three seconds

and then, out of nowhere a bullet

of a vehicle

is heading

towards you,

a beat-up car

going seventy coming right at

your door.

straight through the intersection,

ignoring the red light.

you slam on the brakes

and wince.

there's no time to

pray, to give your last

confession as you pause

at death's door.

but somehow he swerves

and misses you.

in sweat, with heart racing,

once more

you thank your guardian

angel as you hug the right

lane going home.

the corner artwork

two

mattresses, that lean

up against

the pole for pick up, tells

a story.

as does

the broken chair,

the plates and silver ware,

a child's doll

without clothes.

an ironing board.

all thrown to the curb

as if in a hurry

to change

directions, to get a new

life, to start over someplace

far from here.

it's artwork,

it's a poem, perhaps a novella

yet to be written.

it makes you pause,

it makes

you brake and wonder

about all

that you don't know.

Heidi from Sweden

we lived

in a diverse neighborhood.

a virtual Ellis Island

on the edge of South Capitol

street in DC.

Italians,

Irish,

Jews, Blacks and Whites,

Browns.

Peruvians

and Mexicans.

kids from West Virginia.

there was a huge family from Nepal

that lived across the street.

but somehow, we got along.

despite our

varying religions

and skin colors.

we never talked politics.

we were young and ignored

the problems

of the world, putting our fingers

into our ears

when our parents discussed

such matters.

we played

ball in the street, with

Mohammed

and Jose,

Bork from Norway.

Dirk from

Germany and Natasha

from the Ukraine.

they taught us how to play

soccer and we taught

them how to play

all of the other games

like baseball, football,

basketball, bowling

and bocci ball. meanwhile,

at the playground

when it got dark,

Heidi from Sweden taught

us a whole lot

of other things.

stuck in Paraguay

I'm in Paraguay

at the moment. in a thatched

hut,

beyond the village,

beyond the sea.

i'm stuck here in this jungle

of green, of snakes

and birds

of wild colors.

bright frogs with enormous

eyes

staring in from

the window.

my shirt is off, as i sit

here

in the heat,

wondering what's my next

move.

the act of bleeding onto the page

the blank

page used to frighten me,

what to write,

anxious about

the absence

of words,

the blizzard of nothing

in front of me,

all white. but

it just takes a sharp

knife

now,

to bring the blood

and pen to it,

and then write.

a tourniquet at times

is helpful.

still life with peaches and plums

i told her

i loved her artwork,

her still life sketches

and paintings

with peaches

and plums, her

portraits

of siblings and strangers,

though

in reality, i didn't think

much of it.

which she knew,

but accepted my praise

just the same.

i do the same with you,

when you tell

me, hey, you just cranked

out another great

one.

don't stop, please.

hands together

i remember

thinking how old my father's

hands looked.

bruised,

and bent, the crepe skin

growing

up the arm,

the knuckles

red from work,

browned

circles

spotted

on the backs of them.

the callouses

of years

in the garden,

the nails bitten down.

i just turn

now to my hands to remember

him.

it was time to get even

it was

stressful going to confession

in the early

days.

sweating behind

the iron

meshed window

in the dark

closet at St. Paul's.

your crimes

and sins were limited

to saying a bad

word,

or thinking bad

thoughts about someone,

or perhaps

taking a saw

and cutting off the head

of your sister's

Barbie doll

because she threw in the trash

your Harmon Killebrew

baseball glove

that she tripped on

in the hall.

girl crazy in the ninth grade

when we

were in school, my friend and I

would often

drop

a pencil or an eraser

or book

on the floor

and bend over in our

desks

to pick up the fallen objects,

but looking

back

at the same time to get

a peek up

the girl's dresses

behind us.

we'd talk later in the hall

and commiserate

our findings

about what Mary Beth,

Jill and Sally were

wearing

that morning.

yellow, white, blue or rose.

why not do nothing for a while

when

you no longer work nine

to five

six days

a week,

suddenly, you look at the clock

and it's noon.

you're drinking

coffee,

and still haven't bothered

to get dressed,

or find

your shoes.

you feel guilty in a way.

guilty that you

should be doing

more with your free time.

but then you

slap yourself

and remember that's exactly

what you've

been doing

since the age of nine.

paper routes, snow shoveling,

mowing lawns

and then

real jobs,

work, and more work.

why not

do nothing for a while?

hit the pedal and drive straight ahead

given

the right amount of time,

your heart

will heal,

your mind will calm

down.

you'll adjust to the new

world

you now live in.

pain and sorrow

will be

far away in the rear

view mirror,

drama will

disappear, you'll be free

from what was,

unless, of course,

you keep circling back

for more.

wasting your life away in misery

when you were young,

in your teens,

into your twenties, you

pretty much

spent your waking hours

wanting to have fun.

you wanted to go out

drinking and dancing

with your buds, you wanted

to meet girls,

to go to the beach

or lake to swim.

a day at the pool was golden.

you wanted to wash and wax

your car,

get it ready for Saturday

night.

you went to the movies,

you went to the local dive

bars, the drive-thru

for fast food.

you were free and in love

with life.

politics

and the world was a vague

notion, something

your parents

sometimes seemed more

aware of,

but now, when you look 

around, so many young

people are sad and depressed,

confused

about who they are,

angry at the world, 

spending their precious

hours on the street in costumes,

rioting, protesting,

throwing themselves in front

of police cars,

blocking roads,

getting gassed and pepper

sprayed.

they so badly want their issues

to be something

like the Vietnam War, but 

they aren't,
they aren't even close.

the no ac heatstroke

as i lie

in bed, 

under a squeaky fan,

i google the symptoms

of heat stroke

on my phone.

high temperature, sweating,

check,

altered state of mind,

big check, 

nausea, check,

flushed skin, check rapid

breathing,

check,

heart palpitations, check,

headache,

yes,

check that too.

quickly i grab the book

off the end

table

and begin reading, i have

to finish it

before i go.

i fell in to a burning ring of fire

wouldn't it be more

appropriate

to say, i rose in love,

instead of

i fell in love.

falling in love, gives

the impression

that maybe you might

have tripped and stumbled

into it,

clumsily,

not necessarily what you

intended to do.

rising though, seems like

the better word.

rising like a cloud or

a rainbow,

or the moon, or a sun

above the ocean.

maybe a bird of some sort

soaring above

the trees.

something mushy and hallmark

like that,

but i get the term i've

fallen

out of love

with you.

it still rings in my ear

from time to time.

it's a stubborn knot

it's a stubborn

knot

on this lace,

it's preventing me

from

going on with my day.

i try everything

from a fork

to a knife.

i take the shoe off

and bite into

the thick

knot, gnawing at

it.

i see the mailman at the door

and limp

over

to greet him

and get the mail,

knot?

he says.

hate that. here, he says.

try this pen.

i use it to get the knots

out of my boots all the time.

he comes in

and sits at the kitchen

table.

let me try, he says,

setting his mail bag down.

turn on the big light.

i fix him a cold drink,

and a sandwich, while

he works on the knot.

this is a tough one he says.

when my wife was around she

could dig the knots

out with her dagger like nails.

hey, he says.

this might take a while, do

you mind finishing

my route for me, just ten

more houses.

sure, i tell him.

i take his bag and wrap

the strap around my

back and neck.

he hands me his hat which

i press down

on my head, then off i go

to deliver the mail.

when i come back.

he's asleep on the couch with

the dog,

my shoe is on his chest.

the knot still in place.

it's a stubborn one

the yellow feather

i like your hat,

the one with the feather in it.

the long

yellow

feather from some

exotic bird.

it says more about you

than words

can ever say.

please set it on the table.

stay.

life beyond your own

at the edge

of the clear stream that rolls

between

the long trees,

laced

in blue

in green,

the stones,

the sand along the way.

you

stare into the water

and see that there

is life

beyond your own

reflection,

and this somehow

makes you

go on.

captured by the game

my son

at the age of five or so,

told me

once

as we sat on the porch

drinking Cokes after

a game of catch,

that he believed

that women

were trying to trick us

by wearing so much

make up

and perfume, getting

dressed up

in fancy clothes, with

lots of jewelry.

Dad, he said, i think

they do stuff like painting

their nails,

and dying their hair to

fool us into thinking

they're prettier than they

really are.

what do you think, he asked,

looking at me wide eyed

full of his sudden

epiphany.

yup i said, clinking my bottle

against his. yup.

good talk son, good talk

in a hurry

it's just a theory,

a working

theory, but i believe that you can

tell where a person

stands

with his spiritual well being

by how they drive

their car.

there's not a red light

they won't run,

not a speed limit

to hold them back.

always in a hurry, 

red faced

and angry with

white knuckles gripping

the wheel,

there's not a bumper they'll

refuse to tailgate.

they need to get in front

of you,

or die trying

as they step on the gas.

eggs sunny side up on the hood of Chevy

it's hot,

very hot, pancakes

are sizzling

on the hoods of cars.

bacon and eggs too.

so don't we deserve ice-cream.

don't we deserve

a cold beer in

a frosted mug.

when i step outside

it almost feels like

the sun

has inched closer to

the earth,

so cheers.

the only people without Photo ID's

as a full-grown adult

anywhere between 21 and a 100,

if you don't possess

some sort of ID by then,

it means you've never driven

a car, owned a credit card,

been on a bus or train,

been to a doctor or dentist,

you've never gone to school,

you've never left the country,

or had any kind of job.

you've never been married,

or divorced, you've never

even been inside a Costco.

you're pretty much a loser

contributing nothing to society,

and truly, if that's the case 

you shouldn't be voting anyway,

the sweat shop in Springfield

i hear

the clunk of the ac unit

out back

go on,

i hear the spin of the fan,

but inside

there's no cold air

coming

out of the vents.

i'm sweating as i click

the prompts

on the phone.

closed until Monday

the recorded voice

says.

i'm down

to my fruit of the looms

with the ceilings fans

turning wildly from the third

pull of the chain.

the table

fan is swinging back

and forth.

desperate for moving

air, i take out

a small paper fan i bought

on a trip the Philippines,

when selecting my next

bride to be.

it's purple

with little daffodils, similar to

the ones you see

floating in a Mai Tai, but

it's not doing the job.

all that's missing from

this sweat shop is a hundred

Chinese slave kids

making tennis shoes

for Nike.

one last leaf to turn over before you go

what's in

your closet that you don't need

anymore,

besides the shoes

and shirts,

the pants,

the overcoats, what about

all those skeletons

that hang there

on a wire hanger,

reminding you of

your other self,

the old self you ran

from when you turned

over that final leaf,

promising

to do better,

to be better,

to no longer make the same

mistakes

you've repeated so often.

aquariums in living color

as i stare

at the television in living

color,

another show,

another binge, my mind

wanders to

an aquarium

with colorful fish

swimming about,

the white sand

at the bottom,

the plastic castle

that they swim

through

and around,

the swing and sway

of green plastic

plants below.

is there a difference

between what

i'm watching and

an aquarium.

not much.

yelp says three stars

the yelp review gives

the restaurant

three and a half stars.

a few give it four,

most ratings are 

a solid three, but

the four stars

claim it's the best

clam chowder

and flounder they've

ever had.

shrimp to die for,

but then there's three

reviews

of people 

who all came in together

who are now in

the hospital.

don't eat the oysters

they all say.

one star for the food,

but the drinks were great.

especially the iced tea.

just enough for me

it's a simple

meal.

a ribeye steak,

a potato,

a spoon full of peas

and carrots,

a slice of bread

with butter,

a cold glass of milk,

and a slice

of chocolate

cake

for dessert,

and coffee. I'd

invite you over, but

there's only

enough for me.

tomorrow

though come over.

meatballs and

spaghetti.

all in a big bowl.

plenty.

a long day on the field, whoops, i mean pitch

i  fall asleep on the couch

while

watching the soccer game on tv.

it's two teams from

countries i've never heard of.

i think the game is

in its 57th minute, with another

three hour to go.

when i wake up,

it's still nil nil, which means,

according to soccer

aficionados, that no

one has scored.

it's hot out.

and many players are writhing

on the ground holding

their legs or head

with some mysterious, and yet

not too serious injury.

i've never seen a stretcher

come out, or a doctor,

just some dude

with a water bottle

and a towel.

i reach over to the coffee table

to grab a nacho chip covered

in cheese, but it's hard

and cold.

my margarita glass is empty,

licked dry by my dog,

who is asleep on the hardwood floor.

i adjust the pillow behind my

head and close

my eyes again

after

setting the alarm for one hour

on my phone.

the hydrant Holy Water

it's so hot

that the church next door opens

up a fire hydrant

for the kids

to run under.

Father Smith says that it's

Holy Water

fresh from the Vatican,

but he tends to fib

a little

at times. i often see him

crossing his finger

and winking when

he tells a lie.

but it does seem to be making

some of the little

demon kids,

screech and cry.

three days later

the police are on the way.

we can

here the sirens,

the dogs are barking.

neighbors are out on their

porches

with their phones.

it's the couple next door.

the newlyweds.

apparently the honeymoon

is over.

we can hear glass breaking,

and words

that make us close the ears

of children

with our hands.

there's cake and a wedding

dress on the lawn.

their car is soaped up,

and with a banner still strung

across the roof,

saying grand opening

tonight.

the young couple still have rice

in their hair,

and half the gifts have yet

to be opened.

now she's chasing him with 

a serving knife

down the street, the po po

better hurry

love is a mysterious thing.

just a shot or two to take the edge off

to steady

my nerves i used to have

a drink

or two

on the way over to visit

Betty.

i kept a flask in 

the glove compartment

with a small

shot glass.

i needed

just a little tequila

to take

the edge off.

i kept a lime

on the dashboard

and a shaker of salt

in the little

cubby hole

beside the gear shift.

by the time i arrived

at her house,

taking the back roads,

i was in a pretty good

mood,

and didn't mind how she

went on and on

about her

cats,

and the bump on her leg.

The Democratic Platform for 2028

so let me get this straight,

you want

men

in women's sports

and bathrooms,

locker rooms,

you want higher taxes.

less police, less

military,

more government

in the form of

socialism,

communism.

you want to abolish the Senate

and the Supreme Court.

you want open borders.

abortions for all

no matter the month

of the healthy

human

fetus growing

within.

you desire

transgender surgeries

for minors.

transgender surgeries

for convicts in prison paid with

taxpayer money.

free health care

for illegals,

free tuition for them as well.

a whole month of parades

for

how you

prefer to have sex.

no ID's to vote.

no waving of the American

flag,

no wanting fraud exposed.

really,

this is what

you want for your

country?

please, go on, tell me

more.

how do you even get one vote?

that's hot

we learn quickly

as children

when we put the butter

knife

into the toaster,

or a finger

into the wall socket.

we learn

when the hot stove

burns our

hand,

when we run with

scissors, or don't

watch where

our bike is going.

so many lessons along

the way.

some survive,

some don't

the parking lot at noon

thin

vapors, ghosts,

perhaps,

long

here on this place

called

earth, bent with grey,

and moving gently

to the far

end

of whatever it is,

whatever

it was that kept us

here with

hands on the wheel.

foot on

the gas.

long in nails,

long

in tooth. sand

running

fast through the hour

glass.

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?