the stone man

I haven't forgotten
the man,
old as stone, grey in his
folds.
his blue eyes
still lit with life
under his
black tight cap.
we waved
to him
in his chair upon
the ridge,
but he never waved back.
go on, his
gaze said. go back
to your cruise
ship, your lives,
your world. let me sit
here in the morning sun
of Greece
and not be a part of
you.

the stone man

I haven't forgotten
the man,
old as stone, grey in his
folds.
his blue eyes
still lit with life
under his
black tight cap.
we waved
to him
in his chair upon
the ridge,
but he never waved back.
go on, his
gaze said. go back
to your cruise
ship, your lives,
your world. let me sit
here in the morning sun
of Greece
and not be a part of
you.

the short story

she told me once
that I would be like the guy
in the cheever
story, swimming across the county,
going from pool to pool
as the seasons changed
from spring to summer
into the chill of fall.
she said that i'd be standing
at the window
as the leaves fell,
shivering, peering in
at an empty house, wondering
what happened, where everyone
had gone.
how strange it must be to
be always wrong.

second thoughts

frantic,
he paces back and forth
waiting
for the blood test
results
to come in.
it's Russian roulette
out there,
he mutters,
feeling the finger
where his wedding
ring used to be.
i'm exhausted by this
single life.
I thought it was going
to be fun meeting
new women.
but it's not that way
at all.
so many crazies out there,
bankrupt
and mean, just
looking for a free meal,
a handout,
a wad of cash to pay
some bills.
I drop eighty bucks a night
on drinks
and calamari and rarely
even get a kiss,
just a handshake or pat
on the back and the parting
words, good
luck with your search.
I miss my house, my
home, he says
I even miss my ex.
her bad cooking and luke warm
love making.
maybe I should call her,
call her tonight. just
as soon as I
get the results of the bloodwork,
take her back if she'll
have me.

smokes

he touches his
throat
to talk. an alien voice
comes out.
how are you?
he says.
he nods
and motions
with his hand,
pointing to his
pack of
cigarettes
on his wheelchair,
his wife
takes one out,
lights it
and sets it between
his lips.
want one, he says.
have a seat.
sit for awhile.
he blows a cloud
of smoke
into the air,
a calm smile
upon his face.
the ashes
fall to the floor.

her fire

my friend
goes to Europe alone
with her
back pack
and credit card.
some cash, a water
bottle
and a map.
she's fearless,
tireless,
curious about the world,
still.
I admire
the restlessness
in her.
a fire
that won't be doused.

the shed door

in 1930
they built the empire
state building
in four hundred
and ten days with hammers
and screw drivers,
muscle and fearless
climbing above
the city below.
I can't get a hinge
on my shed door
after ten years
of it leaning against
the frame.

on the shore

just a half block
off 5th
avenue, west,
the long box has a man
inside.
a ragged coat
around him
a red pillow
to comfort his furry
head.
washed up to
his own kingdom on
the shores
of wealth.
he's under the black
stone,
the granite,
the building that rises
a hundred floors
or more
above him.
he sleeps, he wonders.
he looks out
at his change filled
hat, caring little
if there's less,
or more.

going back

the keys
become a problem, where
they are,
to the house,
the car.
whether in pocket, or
set upon
a table,
which room?
or left to dangle
in the door, ajar.
is the iron off?
the door locked,
better
turn
around to make
sure.
the stove, what if
the burner
is on. it would be a shame
to burn it all down,
being so close.
we're only ten miles
away,
turn here.

the lobby wedding

the camera not ready.
nor the lights,
nor those
who've come to see
and witness
the groom, the bride.
they sit
and wait in the hotel
lobby.
tired already.
adjusting shoes,
and veil, tie.
strangers stopping to look.
the year have rushed
so quickly
upon them.
tomorrow is in the stall,
at the starting gate.
bit in mouth.
it's just the cake that waits,
the dance,
the celebration,
the camera man
pushing a bright light
up high, finally ready,
to put a shine
on all.

pig roast

hardly
a word is spoken about
the head,
severed
pink, upon the table.
resting openly
on the white
clothed table.
once alive,
this pig, now roasted
and split,
carved with a butcher's
knife.
turned over a blazing
fire for hours
on the slow turn
of a long sharp
spit.
his ears have crusted
over just so.
his eyes gone, his
mouth agape.
we turn instead to talk
of us,
of them, of why
we're here. the blue sky,
the rain
that may appear.
not it, not this.
that life has met
it's end.

swim

all you fish,
swim, swim.
swim towards the great towers,
to the empire,
to the flat iron,
swim towards
towards the Lincoln
tunnel,
the Holland,
across the bridges
into queens,
the Bronx.
swim in bright colors
to harlem,
sing your blues and swim
to Washington
square with your grand
arch,
downtown, to sheeps
meadow,
to battery,
through the zoo
and park, swim you fish
in the glitter
of times square,
bend your fins,
the gold of you,
the green, the spangles
of you.
swim as you've always
done,
without sleep, the pulse
unrelenting.
swim swim swim
old city.

so it goes

what two share
after making love
in bed,
late into the evening,
the sweat undried
upon them,
speaks softly of other
things, things
besides this fire
they just
put out.
they speak of common
chores, what fills each hour,
day to day,
what needs to be done
tomorrow, or into
the new week.
so it goes.

a list of grievances

when drinking,
he was happy. Canadian club
whiskey
on his breath,
his unshaven face
hard sand
against my young cheeks.
how easy it was
for him to lift\
me up,
head near the ceiling,
high above
the tiled kitchen
floor,
with my mother at the table,
waiting,
with a list
of grievances.

at sea

his hands
are still curled from
the cold,
from dragging in
the heavy nets
of fish
and crab,
the wet cold slabs
alive,
some staying
for food, for sale,
some too small,
going back over
the side.
his face is red,
his blue eyes
squint even without
the sun.
he wets his lips,
turns the ship towards
home.
his hands
curled around the wheel.
what else is there
to do,
or know.

let's stay in

let's stay in
tonight,
build a fire.
make dinner.
do nothing,
but lie upon the sofa
in candle light.
let's spin
whatever music
there is
that makes us happy.
let's listen to the rain
outside
upon the trees,
the roof,
the ground.
let's see
what lips can do against
each other.

beauty

a bag of oranges,
half bad,
soured
and rotting in the mesh
net.
when were they picked,
trucked
to this store.
what happened along
the way?
they look so bright,
so sweet
and juicy in
their stacks,
in the store lights.
not so you discover
in the first
peel
and bite.

it comes back

it's easier
now to take the nearest
exit.
to stop
listening to things
you don't want
to hear. to get out
of the long line,
to go easy
in the right lane.
to be
slow to anger,
quick
to praise.
be kind.
it all comes
back,
though, not always.

hot dog

all day
people look and stare
at you.
they see how you fist
your chest
and burp.
they know what you've
eaten.
the bright yellow
stain
screams mustard
along your once white
shirt.
the relish you brushed
off,
but the mustard
stayed. forever.
they are jealous
people.
them with their garden
salads
and unsalted
nuts. their cod
and flounder, carrots,
cut,
still hungry.

pardon me

people are
happy to point out
that your
tire needs air, or that
you have shaving
cream in one
ear.
or spinach between
your teeth.
they point and smile,
and say
gently so as not
to embarrass,
there's something
stuck to the bottom
of your shoe,
that your zipper
is not quite
pulled where it needs
to be.

one for me one for you

there is a museum for everything
and everyone
these days
when it used to be
just art
and sculpture,
natural history, that
sort of thing.
now sex has it's own
building
with an entry
and a man taking tickets.
come see what's new,
what's old,
what's borrowed, what's
blue.
your race or creed
will get you one as well,
as does the news.
atrocities
are popular too,
who killed who
and with what,
stand in line for that one,
no pictures,
please. keep it
moving. don't touch.

nellie

I can hear the crackle

of my grandmother's
voice as if she
were still in the other room,
eating toast
and drinking tea, cursing the entire
state of politics,
especially
those damn kennedys.

her swollen feet in a tub

of epsom salts.

she'd be watching us

while my mother was

in the hospital

having her seventh child.

I can smell her cigarettes,
see her polishing
her nails,
putting on matching lipstick,
flamingo pink.
she liked to paint by numbers.
geese over a pond.
a moon rising in the purple
layers of oil paint. 

tall blades of grass.
her watching  tv,
telling us
to kneel and touch the screen
when billy graham came
on and asked for sinners

to come forward.

we're all sinners, she'd

preach,  wagging her finger

at everyone in the room,

and then remarkably say,

even me.

three sisters

three sisters.
all brown eyed and wide
hipped.
black hair,
like their mother's.
the distance between each
no more than two years
or so,
but time
has pushed them apart,
hardly a word,
outside of
Christmas or birthdays
gets said.
once they lay
side by side
in twin
beds.
each brushing the other's
hair,
wearing each other's
clothes,
talking boys, talking
life, wondering together
what tomorrow
might bring. tomorrow
has come and gone.

move it along

the cop with his flare
sparking orange,
standing flat footed
in the rain,
in the middle of the grey
road,
with his blue parka
on, his plastic tilted
hat. he waves us on
with his mechanical
like arm.
he's seen a lot of wrecks
in his time.
move it along he says
with his whistle, his
look of boredom, a wide
yawn,
move it along

the three minute ride

the rodeo is us.
the short wild ride,
the lasso,
the round up,
and corral.
the eventual throw down
to the ground.
slapping my hat
onto my leg
getting up
and trying again.

your good side

it's come down to this,
you have one good eye

 

for reading,
one good ear

for listening,

the better knee

for kneeling,
your best side for 

a photo,
you've been reduced

by half,
by living so long

and going hard at it.
which is fine,

one half is better
than none.

full circle

with enough money
piled
high
in your vault, you decide
to stop
working. to stop
what you do
day in, day out,
and rest.
you decide
to go rome, go to paris.
you buy and Italian
sports car,
a new suit,
new shoes.
pick up susie on
the way
to the airport.
you buy a white scarf
and throw it
around your neck.
you position your dark
sunglasses
on your nose.
the world is black
and white now.
it's 1953. you've come
full circle.

coming towards us

the sky, darkened,
crocheted in blue
and grey,
yarn of white.
a pillowy rough
of
cumulus clouds
with rain and wind
in sight.
let's sit
on the porch,
swing and drink,
say nothing,
watch it move
towards us,
watch as we hold hands,
the lighting
strike.

the other side

there's another side
to this
story.
one you haven't heard.
but you don't
listen, you don't lend
an ear,
you don't sit
and stop talking for
one second.
it's only the story
you want to be
true, is
the one you hear.
so I can't help you.

more to come

are there less
chills,
less thrills
as
age unravels us,
taking
us to the unknown?
do we know all
that needs
to be known, have
we seen enough,
done enough?
hardly. there is
always more
to come.

stay tuned

the newsman,
in his suit and tie,
powdered
and bright beneath
the lights,
goes on and on with
a story.
a murder, a mystery,
a gun,
a life.
we don't know what
happened here,
or who,
or why, but we'll
update you on what we
don't know
as the hour goes by.
stay tuned, is ice
tea bad for you?

cry baby

the baby in the crib,
in the other room
is crying.
this is where it begins.
where we
learn
to get what we need
or want,
or both.
turn red, hold your
breath,
let out a primal scream
and cry.
someone will come
eventually
to see what's wrong.
I see it every day,
and do it myself
sometimes.

severance pay

the cleaning woman
knows she is going home,
so she steals
as much jewelry as she can
carry,
cash, credit cards.
underwear
and shoes.
she takes a suitcase
too.
I see her leaving
the house
in a hurry wearing my
wife's fur
coat.
she looks at me and sighs.
I throw
her the car keys
and tell her to hurry.
your flight leaves soon.

the hidden gifts

we would shake
the wrapped gifts, throw
the wrapped
football
to one another in the cold
basement.
things were not hidden
very well.
the new bike
with a ribbon on it,
behind
the steps.
a pair of skates in a box.
the doll that cried
when turned
upside down.
the bat wrapped tight
in a candy cane print,
the ball and glove
too.
we had so little, but
amazingly,
somehow
we had Christmas.

the L word

let's call it
something else.
let's not
use that word.
the L word.
let's tuck that word away
for later, if
there is a later.
let's just
keep going the way
it's going.
why ruin a perfectly
good thing
by trying to make
it last
forever.

the house and senate

by law
the elected men and women
of the house
and senate, on both
sides of the aisle,
are now
required to wear
clown suits.
clown wigs
and make up.
a plastic flower on
their lapel
that squirts lemon juice
into our eyes.
the president
too.
a big red shiny nose,
a derby full
of small birds, suspenders,
with floppy shoes.
this is who they are.
who they have become.
let's have
transparency from this
day forward.
God help us all,
is there no one left
to lead,
to choose.

the high step

the step
is taller than the other steps,
so you
unintentionally
misstep and tumble
forward, two
drinks in hand
fresh from the bar.
face first you
go,
hitting chin
against the waxed tiled
floor.
you lie there for a moment.
the drinks still
upright, hardly
a splash spilled.
both olives in place.
the day is not lost,
you think.
your date
decides to stay and see
what's next
in your finely tuned
repertoire.

midnight snack

I forgot I
had chicken wings in the oven
at 350.
what was that smell, I thought
from the comfort of my
bed.
four hours later,
they were small wings,
but really crispy.
even the bones
were edible at this point.
a perfect
midnight snack
with hot sauce and blue
cheese
for dipping.
perfect for watching
man on a train,
at midnight.

the ringing bell

he hit the snooze alarm
for
nearly thirty years.
he couldn't get up,
get out of bed.
there was just enough
milk
and bread,
the phone worked,
the t.v. too.
there was enough gas to
get the car around
to places
that had no urgency.
sleeping in was a wonderful
thing.
then, finally,
he woke up to a ringing
bell that wouldn't stop,
as most of us eventually
do.

the best

she liked
to tell you what was the best.
this is the best
orange I've ever eaten.
the best meal I've
ever had.
you're the best friend ever.
I know the best
place to go on a vacation.
we had the best
time ever, you should have
been there.
if you need a hotel
to stay in let me know.
it's the best.
this is the best
day ever. the best shoes I've
ever walked in.
etc.
she slowed down with
the superlatives
though
once the pills wore off
and it began to rain,
although she did have
an enormous umbrella,
it was the best
I've ever seen.

side by side

two trains
can't be on the same
track
going in opposite directions.
it doesn't
work that way.
side by side,
or one ahead of the other,
or behind
is the only way
things can stay
on the rails
and keep from crashing.

a flip of the coin

it's a flip
of the coin kind of day,
kind of
life, now that I
think of it.
live here, live there.
drive this
drive that. what's
for dinner?
what to wear?
which direction should
I go now
and with who?
it's in the air,
the silver
catching light
as it twirls in
the early sun.

the wedding

the traffic stops
for a while.
we sit in our cars and wait,
as the church ahead
lets out a crowd.
finally
you can see the bride
and groom
at the top of the stairs,
their faces
unlined by life,
her in a brilliant white
dress,
him in black, with buttons
and white shirt.
they smile broadly,
waving
to family and friends,
each dressed
in their sunday best.
the sky is blue
as far as the eye can see,
and the birds sing
sweetly,
for now

a world without books

soon, there will be no
books.
no yellowed pages
that smell
of sweet mustiness.
no brittle
covers with bent spines.
there will
be no more dog eared
corners,
no markers to see where
we left off
and will start again.
there will be no card
in the back, stamped,
saying when to return
it to the public
library.
no one will know what
the dewy decimal systems
ever was.
the books
will be gone, stuffed
inside
our phones, our lap tops
behind the lights
of nothingness,
hardly to be touched
or seen again.

cold soup

having never had
cold soup
before, it surprised me,
this red bowl
of beet broth,
chilled. I brought
it to my lips
and raised my eyebrows.
saying nothing.
I was young.
hardly a hair on my
chin
that needed to be shaved.
no fat on my bones,
barely a brain
ticking
within my skull.
she wanted to kiss after
we ate,
me sipping at the strange
soup
with a hard spoon
as we sat
in her studio apartment.
there was an ironing
board near the window.
a potted plant,
and a picture of home,
wherever that may have been.
so we kissed
and almost made love.
which wasn't love at all,
but something else.

once free

you see them
in the parks. at the benches.
perhaps
sitting on the stone
ledge
of a fountain.
throwing bread towards
the ducks.
men and women
gone grey.
it may be early day,
or late
into the afternoon, no
matter.
the other life
has ended. the clock no
longer
a factor in where they
need to go
or be. it's this now.
unleashed to do whatever
it is one finds
to do, once free.

the accent

her irish accent
throws you off considerably.
you catch every other
word,
do you laugh, do you nod,
do you say
something incredibly
stupid and out of context
in response.
she sees you struggling
so slows down,
talks to you like a child
or koko
the monkey, which
helps a little. you order
more drinks
thnking about the irish poets,
how hard they are too,
but worth it once
you've solved the puzzle.

the last card over

impossible
to know what anyone is
thinking,
especially her,
so you guess,
you put your finger
into the air
to see which way the wind
is blowing.
you sniff
and stare, ponder
whatever words
slip out
from her lips.
legs folded, arms
tight against her chest.
she doesn't show her
cards very often,
but when she does
turn the last card over,
you know
it's going to be a
long long night.

vacation

a luxury ship
sinks off the coast of Greece.
the passengers hardly
have a chance at
a second cup of espresso
or tea.
the news shows
the tourists bobbing
like corks
in their orange vests,
waving madly
in the blue
Aegean Sea.
it will be a memorable
trip, they think,
as they swim
towards shore
off the rocky coast
of Santorini.

it's coming

the wind
slams shut a door.
the curtains pull.
the chimes
sing madly
on the front porch.
you look out at the darkened
land,
the blue fists
of clouds
approaching.
thunder.
whips of lightning,
but no rain,
not yet.
it's coming, you know
this storm,
you've been here
many times before.

the green ill

it's a sickness.
the green
ill
of jealousy. the want
and need,
a maniacal desire
to have what
can't be haved
anymore.
who hasn't been there,
in that feverish
state
of longing,
and now look back
red faced
at how sick
and strange a love
can be.

a closer look

from above, high in the sky.
a bird's eye view
perhaps, or from a plane,
the plots
of land are small, squared
off by
fences.
postage stamps of green
and brown.
they seem like nothing
but patches of earth.
hardly worth
owning,
but taking a closer look
you see people
on their knees
bending over, digging,
planting, nurturing
bushes and flowers,
vegetables, planting seed.

it's noon already

you fall in love.
you fall out.
you miss her, you start
over.
you hold the phone
in your hand
and put your finger
against her
number.
but you don't call.
you close the phone
and set it on the nightstand.
you get out of bed.
look at the clock.
it's noon already.

one more cup of coffee

I remember the grown
man who hired me
leaving the office in tears
after he was fired.
white shirt, blue tie,
suspenders.
he carried his cardboard
box full of his
personal belongings,
pictures of his wife
and children, a trophy
for volleyball,
cups and ties with spills
on them.
tears rolled down
his cheeks into his mustache
as he walked down
the commercial carpet
of the airless hallway,
past the other offices
and staring faces.
he sobbed and wiped
at his tears,
but managed to stop
at the coffee machine
for one more cup
of coffee and a slice
of crumb cake
brought in for someone's
birthday.

not your fault

the hammer that strikes
your thumb
is ambivalent
about it all.
your scream, the blood
and bruise
means nothing to the hammer.
it will wait
patiently
to be used again, as
you dance about
the room saying horrible
things
about it.

not your fault

the hammer that strikes
your thumb
is ambivalent
about it all.
your scream, the blood
and bruise
means nothing to the hammer.
it will wait
patiently
to be used again, as
you dance about
the room saying horrible
things
about it.

play on

the dice are loaded,
the cards
marked.
the game is rigged,
no one
gets out alive.
but play anyway, put
your chips in,
your cards
on the table, spin
the wheel
and pull the arm.
there's nothing really
to lose anyway,
seeing that you can't
take anything
with you.

play on

the dice are loaded,
the cards
marked.
the game is rigged,
no one
gets out alive.
but play anyway, put
your chips in,
your cards
on the table, spin
the wheel
and pull the arm.
there's nothing really
to lose anyway,
seeing that you can't
take anything
with you.

office visit

the doctor will see
you shortly,
the nurse says, pointing
towards the door.
take off your shirt,
and pants,
shoes and socks.
put this silk robe on
and lie down on that table,
the one with
the hotel sheets tucked in.
I hope you like feather pillows.
if you'd like
I can make you a martini.
sure, I tell her,
dry, three olives.
music?
yes, I tell her.
perhaps a little marvin
gaye, or al
green.
good choices, she says,
dimming the lights
and pushing a button
to bring the sweet sounds
of al green
singing, i'm tired of
being alone
into my ears.
i'll tell the doctor
you're ready. she's almost
done with her other patient.
oh, by the way, why
are you here?
i'm not sure, I tell her,
I just like
coming here. it's a swell
office.

sun up sun down

he was proud of his
tools,
his hammers,
saws and drivers.
a screw for each purpose.
a nail
for every board
set against another.
measure twice,
cut once.
he liked the smell
of sawdust,
the taste of coffee
as he set the level
against the edge
of bricks.
sun up, sun down.
his truck clean and polished,
his overalls
and boots
dusty and wet from labor.
a lunch pail
on the ground.
there was nothing
he couldn't
fix, or make, or tear
down and build
up again.
the world will miss him,
as he will
the world.

listen to me

my mother always
had something to say
to her brood
of children.
they were more like
announcements
that she issued
from the kitchen or the
screen door
with the wave of her
hands.
wash up.
come in for dinner,
put that stick down,
who's is it?
don't chew with your
mouth open,
read, do your
homework.
quit teasing your
sister,
or i'm telling your
father
if and when he ever
comes home.
brush your teeth,
comb your hair.
put the seat down.
take out the trash,
walk the dog.
there was a lot of
pressure being
ten years old.

see me in my office

your son
is not applying himself,
the counselor says
behind
her closed office door.
it almost seems like
he doesn't care, or
that he's too good for
this school.
he's having lots of fun,
and he's quite a clever,
funny fellow,
but that's not
why we're here, is it?
you want him to get into
a good school,
don't you?
get a job, work forty
years on the day shift,
the night shift,
doing something, anything.
maybe he's good with his hands.
he has to get with
the program and buckle
down or I see trouble in
his future.
you weren't like that,
were you?
well....sort of.

the rental

what if I just want
this one
wall painted, half way
up.
how much would that be?
or can I touch
it up myself
with the same paint?
just dab it.
the can is rusted,
about ten years old and
I can't get it
open, but maybe
you have a trick of
the trade to do it.
it's just a rental,
and we don't really care
about these people,
but we want top dollar.
should we
dim the lights
and open the windows
to get the smell out?
I think they had a goat.
oh, and do you have anything
on your
truck to get out
that blood stain
in the rug?
it drips up the stairs.
we've heard the baking
cookies
in the oven
will give the house
a pleasant smell.
maybe set out a bouquet
of flowers?

every box

every box is saved.
every empty can
stacked.
why throw out a perfectly
good empty bottle?
each bag holds another
crumpled bag
within.
three cats roam
and scratch at shallow
pans
of sand.
saucers of wet food
are on the sink.
the narrow paths
of debris
would make a fireman
cringe.
the furniture
has been passed down
from
one death to another,
the dust too.
not a window
can be opened.
it's hard
to breathe.

beauty

the rose,
the petals soft
and red,
cups of silk,
are alive in
color.
done being
what they're
meant to be.
only the thorn
gives
warning to what
lies beyond,
what's part of
what you see.

potato salad

she kept her wedding
dress
in a see through bag
in a cedar closet.
sometimes she'd take it
out and unzip
the long zipper and try
it on again.
she'd stare at herself
in the long mirror,
turning to the right,
then left.
pacing, as if down a long
church aisle.
sometimes her husband
would come into
the room and see her
walking around in the dress.
are you nuts, he'd say.
come one we're late
for the picnic, I thought
you were making
potato salad.

the war wound

the uncle,
uncle rudy,
who served in korea,
with one
eye and a patch
on the other
had a few card tricks.
we'd seen
them at weddings
and birthday
gatherings.
always with a deck of cards,
a slight of hand.
he'd
gather the children
around his
table
and do his act.
pick a card, any card,
he'd say,
then stick it in the deck
and shuffle.
how did he know?
and what was up with that
one eye.
we all wanted
to see that.

wireless

we are
wireless creatures,
needing
no stings,
no plugs or switches.
no cords.
we just
keep going
until there is no
more juice
within.
each to his own
power source.

moon glow

it's a designer moon,
a silver
orb carved
and set on a velvet
blanket
of stars.
we see it together,
and point,
we think of love,
and poetry,
of sweetness, of all
that passes
before us,
disappearing
too soon.

free our chickens

some people in the city
are up in arms.
they can no longer openly
raise chickens
in their yards.
how will we get fresh
eggs? they say.
these chickens are
family to us.
save our chickens.
they make signs
and get a permit to march
and protest.
they bring their
chickens with them
in wooden crates,
rolling them down
Pennsylvania avenue.
free our chickens
the signs read.
the protesters shout,
and scream,
all three of them,
all day.

unanswered prayer

her prayer
goes unanswered.
it comes back in the mail.
return to sender.
it's unopened,
crumpled and wet.
who needs to read
what it says.
you can just look
at the envelope,
hold it up into
the light.
and know.

with you

another train
arrives
and leaves.
the platform is empty,
then full.
the sky changes
from grey
to blue.
this world keeps
turning.
it's fast, even
faster
when i'm with you.

designer jeans

how much were those jeans,
I ask
betty
as she picks them up off
the floor, there is
an enormous hole in them
from where
my dog has chewed and nibbled
the entire night.
I look at the dog
who has denim in his teeth.
he's gnawing on
a silver button.
they were two hundred
and thirty five
dollars, she says.
what?
you're kidding, they're
just jeans.
designer jeans from Italy,
she says, putting them on.
her silky black underwear
sticks out the back.
you'd better go straight
home, I tell her.
that hole is pretty big.
is a check okay?

opening the bag

I can't open the sealed,
air tight
package of cheese
doodles no matter how
hard I tear
at the bag with my teeth,
or pull on it.
I run it under hot water,
then cold water.
I throw it onto the kitchen
floor
and kick it across
the room.
I can't find the scissors.
I pick it up
and read the label.
tear here, it says,
but my fingers are too
slippery.
I think about burning a
hole into the side, but
I have no matches.
the hammer does nothing,
but crush what's inside.
finally I get out a knife
and stab the side
of the bag letting out
a whoosh of cheese
doodle air and a spray
of orange dusty crumbs.

the suspects

behind the one way glass
the perps
can't see you.
they line up the suspects
and have you
take a look.
turn left, they say,
turn right.
they are all nicely
dressed,
attractive women.
each one could be the last
one who broke your
heart.
have the one in the middle,
with the shopping
bag, make a motion
like she's swiping
a credit card.
thet tell her to do so.
okay,
now have the one on the end
hold her head
like she has a headache.
they do that too.
hmmm. tell the second one
from the left to hold
a phone up to her ear
and pretend she's
asking her mother to come
stay for the summer.
geez.
I don't know, I tell the
detective.
it could be none of them,
or it could be
all of them.

i could use a drink

i could use a drink, i tell
my pal
jimmy.
it's been along week.
my wife left me for the landscaper,
carlos,
my dog ran away
and my son
is questioning his gender.
my four oh one k,
is now a two oh one k.
he takes a flask out
of his seer sucker suit
coat
and says, here,
have a swallow of this.
southern comfort.
no, i tell him,
i mean lets go to a joint,
a dark bar
with a black and white
tv in the corner,
pretzels on the bar,
like the old days
and have a drink.
oh, he says, sipping on
his flask, sure,
let's go. i take the flask
and turn it up
to my lips.
good start.

baby talk

I make no
effort to hide my feelings,
my thoughts
about this Lamaze class.
my eyes are rolling
as I shake my head.
breathe in,
breathe out.
huff and puff,
etc.
they pass around a rubberized
version
of a baby and instruct
each husband
on how to hold the baby.
purposely
I hold the child
upside down and get
firmly rebuked.
they show us how to burp
said baby.
how to feed,
how to change a diaper.
I think about my little sister
when I was ten
and she was an infant,
I got this, I say out loud.
the only difference now
is Velcro
instead of safety pins.

relax

I treat myself to a massage
at the local
parlor. why not,
I've worked so hard
this month.
back, neck, legs, feet,
fingers, arms.
that's it.
she's a thick woman
with broad shoulders
and the thin shadow
of a mustache
trimmed about her lip.
she knows what she's doing.
she finds
every ache
in every joint and muscle.
you be very tense,
she says. I think eastern
bloc.
relax, imagine pleasant
thoughts.
for a second I think about
the beach,
and then a shark biting my leg.
I try to relax, but the pain
is relentless.
I grimace and let out a
whimper. raising my hand
in the international sign
for stop.
quit being a girly man,
she says, as she hops
onto the table and puts
a knee into
the middle of my back.
I feel her elbows dig sharply
into my shoulders.
I have tears
in my eyes, and I mention
my mother
in a whisper.

excuse my french

I remember when
I was seven and my grandmother
with a pall mall
hanging off her lip,
a manhattan in her hand,
said that the cab driver
who picked her up
at penn station
was driving like
a bat out of hell, which
she followed with,
excuse my French.
for years I wondered which
word was French,
I analyzed the sentence,
breaking it down
word for word, but
had no luck.

excuse my french

I remember when
I was seven and my grandmother
with a pall mall
hanging off her lip,
a manhattan in her hand,
said that the cab driver
who picked her up
at penn station
was driving like
a bat out of hell, which
she followed with,
excuse my French.
for years I wondered which
word was French,
I analyzed the sentence,
breaking it down
word for word, but
had no luck.

siblings

you completely cut
ties
with most of your family
on social media.
you've grown tired of
the whining,
the cookies being baked,
the vacation photos,
ala ralph lauren.
white on white.
the multitude of grandchildren
photos
and updates
on health and religion.
prayer requests
come daily.
God is extra busy it seems
on facebook.
it's not that you no
longer love
these siblings, but they
have your number,
and you have theirs.
anyone can call and talk
when the mood strikes.

the gold fish

she talks to her fish.
calls them by name.
both
fat with orange,
feathery white fins.
she talks to them
as if they
were babies.
saying hello sweet
things,
then sprinkling
food onto the water.
there is so much love
within us,
just aching to
get out.

the gold fish

she talks to her fish.
calls them by name.
both
fat with orange,
feathery white fins.
she talks to them
as if they
were babies.
saying hello sweet
things,
then sprinkling
food onto the water.
there is so much love
within us,
just aching to
get out.

at eighteen

we lift anchor
at some point, jump
out of the nest,
set sail.
we might have small
clues tucked
away in our pockets,
but we really
don't know how,
or where,
or what to do. we
just know that it's
time to cut
the strings
and move on to whatever
lies ahead,
but always coming home
for a warm
hug, a hot meal.

at eighteen

we lift anchor
at some point, jump
out of the nest,
set sail.
we might have small
clues tucked
away in our pockets,
but we really
don't know how,
or where,
or what to do. we
just know that it's
time to cut
the strings
and move on to whatever
lies ahead,
but always coming home
for a warm
hug, a hot meal.

photos

pictures come in the mail
with a small note.
remember these?
enjoy. they are
yellowed
and crimped.
smudged.
a darkened restaurant
with bottles of
beer on the oak
tables.
a plastic basket of bread.
there's me at twenty two,
a girl
beside me, someone
I was with for an
hour or two.
friends across the table,
one dead,
the other a podiatrist
living
in Baltimore.
the other photos are more
vague.
strangers, people
I've never met before.
why are these pictures
sent?
none are suitable for
framing.
they do nothing
but sadden me.

the axe will fall

the wood is soft
with
water, termites,
bugs
of all sorts
feasting on who knows
what.
they gnaw
like no tomorrow
at the old shed, musty
without light,
teetering,
the door loose
on its hinges,
the roof opened to
the rain.
eat now, I tell them.
go ahead
have your fun, your
day.
tomorrow the axe
will fall.

the axe will fall

the wood is soft
with
water, termites,
bugs
of all sorts
feasting on who knows
what.
they gnaw
like no tomorrow
at the old shed, musty
without light,
teetering,
the door loose
on its hinges,
the roof opened to
the rain.
eat now, I tell them.
go ahead
have your fun, your
day.
tomorrow the axe
will fall.

blood and money

the vultures gather
as the news
comes down
the vine of illness,
of bones about to rattle.
you can hear
their wings
flap,
their claws scratch
against
the wall safe,
nudging the heirlooms
gathering dust
inside the attic.
they come with solemn
jowls, in black,
but with sharp beaks
awaiting blood
and money.

blood and money

the vultures gather
as the news
comes down
the vine of illness,
of bones about to rattle.
you can hear
their wings
flap,
their claws scratch
against
the wall safe,
nudging the heirlooms
gathering dust
inside the attic.
they come with solemn
jowls, in black,
but with sharp beaks
awaiting blood
and money.

landfill

who doesn't have
a land fill, a place where
things
have been plowed over,
things no longer needed.
who hasn't
pushed the past aside,
shoveled over
words said, or deeds
done, missteps along
the way
in work or love.
some mounds are higher
than others,
while others are just
getting started.

landfill

who doesn't have
a land fill, a place where
things
have been plowed over,
things no longer needed.
who hasn't
pushed the past aside,
shoveled over
words said, or deeds
done, missteps along
the way
in work or love.
some mounds are higher
than others,
while others are just
getting started.

seeds planted

there goes one,
he says, pointing at the rabbit
running
away with a carrot
in his mouth.
they dig and make
a hole
in my garden,
they don't ask, just
take.
but he doesn't seem
to mind.
nothing is going to waste.
the seeds
planted
have come to good.

the steps

the concrete steps
go straight up along
the grass slope.
a rail beside them.
on the other side
is water.
geese.
people fishing.
rowing
along the shallow
lake.
a grill is on fire,
I can see a plume
of smoke
across the blue sky.
but these steps are
hard.
each year
they get harder to
run up
without stopping.
without
bending over to rest
and catch my breath.
each year
there seems to be more
of them.
steeper too.

adolf and eva

the photo posted,
these two old people,
the warden
and his prisoner.
one being your mother,
the other
the man
she married forty
years ago to feed
her children,
to keep from drowning.
in their late eighties they
are both ill, both weary,
wind beaten
and out of breath.
there was never any love
between them,
but they made it work
somehow with
silent obedience,
sleeping in separate
rooms, money and food
parceled out.
never a vacation, never
a movie
or a meal
spent outside the home.
nary a kind word spoken.
the water was never hot,
the lights never
bright,
the rooms all cold
and full of small grey
mice.

slippery fish

time is a slippery
fish.
as are people you don't
have time
to meet.
the line wiggles,
the bobber
goes up and down.
the rod bends,
but the sun sets,
and the week
evaporates before
anything gets off
the hook and onto
dry ground.

the candy shoppe

it's a small candy shop,
nestled between
a hardware store
and dress boutique.
there's a bright
red sign out front.
fancy sweets.
inside, behind cooled glass
sit chocolates,
bite sized, both round
and squared,
ready to be boxed
or bagged.
high end stuff.
deep rich darks
and milks,
some filled with
caramel
or raspberry, others
dipped
and striped with white
swirls.
it will be out of business
in a week
or two.
but there's coffee
as well, so it may drag on
a bit longer.

some farming to do

it's a warm day.
the sun is up, I can see
the chickens
in the back yard.
the cow
eating grass in the field.
the pigs are rolling
in the trough.
I see the red
tractor waiting for me.
someone's ringing the bell
for breakfast.
I pull on my overalls,
step into my
boots
and strap on my straw
hat. I got some farming
to do.

let's dance

let's dance, she says
spinning around
to the wedding band
playing proud mary.
come on, stand up and shake
a leg.
I get up brush some crumbs
off my old suit.
I shake my leg.
I shake the other leg.
I tap my foot on the floor.
see, you can do this.
now wiggle your hips.
shimmy your shoulders.
bop you head
back and forth.
feel the beat and let's
go. she takes my hand.
wait, I tell her,
sitting back down.
I feel sick.
I think I ate
too much cake.

out there somewhere

don't try to find me,
he says.
the house now sold,
nearly as dark
as when he lived there
under the soft
weak glow of twenty
five watts.
he's on the road
somewhere, huddled
in a box with no
forwarding address, no
phone to hold.
there's no way to visit,
or say hey,
or talk about remember
when.
he likes it this way,
and so do most people
who know him.

fixing things

we can fix this.
this
door that leans
with
a loose hinge,
getting stuck at the top.
the stairs
that squeak
when we go up or down,
the furnace that rattles,
the windows
that seep and wheeze
when the wind
blows. we can fix
the leaky sink,
the water that runs,
the light
that flickers,
the vent where the squirrels
get in. we
can fix a lot of things,
but what about
us.

save the rest for morning

she's sleepy.
i'm sleepy,
the cat can hardly hold
her eyes open.
it's dark out.
it's raining.
the bed awaits.
we both agree to
one small kiss and save
the rest
for morning.

shoe shine

as a kid
i'd take the shoe shine
kit
and give
my only pair of shoes,
brown,
a good polish.
using the brush the cloth,
the paste.
how the tops and sides
did shine.
and then
a small cut circle
of cardboard
was slipped
into the sole,
to cover the hole,
to the keep
my foot warm
and dry.

this again

the world yawns.
hasn't it seen it all before.
what
hasn't come down
the pike
a dozen times or more.
the news
repeats itself. yes,
there is love,
and hate,
peace and war.
the tree grow thick
and strong,
then fall.
it's not what's next
anymore, or
what's now. it's oh,
this again.