the early bird

I get up at four
he tells me. sometimes I might
sleep in late
to four thirty, but
no later.
I beat the traffic that way
and get to work
early.
I get more done with no one
else around.
I go to bed at ten, he says,
pulling on his red
suspenders
and sticking his chin out.
and you, he asks.
when do you rise
and shine, hit the hay?
I shrug. maybe eight.
maybe eight fifteen.
but then I stop for coffee
and read the paper.
if the bagels are soft,
I might have one toasted
with irish butter.
at night I can barely stay
up past midnight though.
a nap at four helps.

the soft landing

we are all looking for
the soft landing,
the gentle drop of
the parachute, slowly
delivering us
to the ground, to
safe harbor.
to a place where
all is well.
where love is in
abundance,
where we no longer
have to scratch
the earth for a meal.
who doesn't want
that?

the red car

I used to find
a shady tree and pull
the just washed car up.
a red car at the time,
white interior.
baby moons, a radio.
i'd take a chamois loth,
a can of wax and polish
it until it shined
like glass.
the music would pour
out of the open
windows. the beach boys.
Motown.
it was summer.
there was a girl who would
tell me how
nice my car looked
and would say yes. let's
go for a ride.
so ride you would.

not over yet

we're old, he says
repeatedly,
whenever he shows.
this game has slowed down.
my back hurts.
my arms
and knees.
we should have lunch
instead of this.
talk about the old days.
it's hard
to listen to this kind
of talk,
and agree. it's not over
yet.
but is for him.

the same girl

the radiation took
my hair, she says,
sending a picture along
with the words,
a smiley face,
a wink.

her long black hair

is gone.
she's a plucked chicken
now,
bone thin, but smiling
like the moon at night.
her eyes large and brown,
it makes
no difference.
she's still the same girl
she always was.

into the light

the middle is where
we need to be.
on the same page, in
the same
book, on the same shelf.
in the same
time zone
and hemisphere.
but me in space,
and you on earth is a good
start,
the light that you
are will guide me in.

my fault

all day i
walk around with a strand
of lint
a black thread on
my white shirt. no one
says a thing.
no one reaches over to
pull it off,
no one
points and says hey,
you have
something there,
let me get it for you.
maybe they don't know
me well enough
to help, or get close.
which could be my
fault.

the secret

the box arrives
on the sunlit porch.
taped
and marked with date
and my name. there is
no name
as to who sent it.
I take it inside.
hold it in
the air.
shake it.
it's light and soundless.
it could be anything.
it could be
nothing.
there's no way to tell
where it's
from, but it's here
with my name
on it.
I stare at the box
all day wondering what
it is, who
sent it. but
I can wait to know.
what's the rush.

good and bad

there's good
and bad in all of us.
one surprises the other
at times
with words said,
things done.
they discuss
what to do next,
leaving you out of
the discussion.
we are split in two.
but who owns
and who rents,
who holds the deed,
the papers on
you.

good and bad

there's good
and bad in all of us.
one surprises the other
at times
with words said,
things done.
they discuss
what to do next,
leaving you out of
the discussion.
we are split in two.
but who owns
and who rents,
who holds the deed,
the papers on
you.

dog days

the cling
of summer rain,
of wet skies,
the heat
and drip
of it all making
us heavy.
making us sigh,
making us long for
the cold drink
the cool
tide to rise
and blanket our
feet. summer
is fine,
as is the last of
its warm rays,
its wine,
but fall
is delirious and
delightful
in its wake.

dog days

the cling
of summer rain,
of wet skies,
the heat
and drip
of it all making
us heavy.
making us sigh,
making us long for
the cold drink
the cool
tide to rise
and blanket our
feet. summer
is fine,
as is the last of
its warm rays,
its wine,
but fall
is delirious and
delightful
in its wake.

blinking lights

it takes awhile to reset
all the clocks
after the power goes out
in the middle of the night.
the stove,
the microwave,
the alarm clock.
each with its own
complex way of staying true.
one by one,
I stop the blinking,
some red, some white,
one blue. I push the buttons
getting close
to what time it really is.
all a little off
by a minute or two.
it's hard living in
this digital world
of blinking lights,
give me a wind up
any old day.

blinking lights

it takes awhile to reset
all the clocks
after the power goes out
in the middle of the night.
the stove,
the microwave,
the alarm clock.
each with its own
complex way of staying true.
one by one,
I stop the blinking,
some red, some white,
one blue. I push the buttons
getting close
to what time it really is.
all a little off
by a minute or two.
it's hard living in
this digital world
of blinking lights,
give me a wind up
any old day.

trip to the market

the sky had a religious fervor
to it
as I drove
my Cadillac
convertible to the market,
going past
the corn fields,
the wide fenced stretches
where cows chewed sullenly
the earth,
where they hardly
looked up
as I waved.
but the sky, wide and blue,
puffed
with long robes
of white, spun cotton,
glimmering
in light stunned me.
it made me want to pray
for forgiveness,
it made me thankful and filled
me with a feeling
of wonder, so much so
that I forgot what
I was going to the market
for.

on the move

it's the turn
of a phrase, the turn
of a head,
the squeak of a knob
going round,
the movement
of clocks, the hands
swinging
down.
it's the spin of the earth,
the orbit
of the moon,
all in all it's things
like this that keep us
going,
two hearts
on the move.

on the move

it's the turn
of a phrase, the turn
of a head,
the squeak of a knob
going round,
the movement
of clocks, the hands
swinging
down.
it's the spin of the earth,
the orbit
of the moon,
all in all it's things
like this that keep us
going,
two hearts
on the move.

the short list

it's a short
list of things to do.
work,
the bank,
coffee,
a store or two.
a visit
to a woman who no
longer resembles
anyone I knew.
saying what?
maybe just to lean
against
her skin
turned porcelain,
and whisper into
her ear,
I love you.

the best part

the best part
of the story is the end
of course.
but who wants to get
there that fast.
it's good to hear
or read
what's leading up to
the next page,
the next
chapter. savoring
the words,
enjoying
the rise and tension
of the tale.
falling in
love is like that too.

the best part

the best part
of the story is the end
of course.
but who wants to get
there that fast.
it's good to hear
or read
what's leading up to
the next page,
the next
chapter. savoring
the words,
enjoying
the rise and tension
of the tale.
falling in
love is like that too.

you're getting sleepy, very sleepy

the woman I used
to see
was a hypnotist
and was always putting
me under
making me do strange things.
she'd say you're
getting very sleepy,
very very sleepy,
while swinging a ticking watch
in front of me.
I did whatever she asked
me to do.
I started to open
doors for
her, buy her flowers
and rings. take her on
trips to exotic places.
I didn't pester her
for
affection when it was
obvious she wasn't
in the mood.
sometimes though for fun,
she'd make
me cluck like
chicken or bark like
a dog.
that was the mean side
of her coming out.
when we finally broke up,
she clapped her hands
together and told
me I was free to go,
but not before she made
me give her my car.

almost there

the line is long
for pills.
brown bottled
pills of all sorts.
all sizes and colors.
pills for what
ails you,
what might come,
what has
and still remains.
you can hear the bottles
being shaken
as they
pay the man,
slip the card into the box,
a rattle in each
hand.
the line is long.
it wraps around the block
and back again.
i'm almost to the
counter.

almost there

the line is long
for pills.
brown bottled
pills of all sorts.
all sizes and colors.
pills for what
ails you,
what might come,
what has
and still remains.
you can hear the bottles
being shaken
as they
pay the man,
slip the card into the box,
a rattle in each
hand.
the line is long.
it wraps around the block
and back again.
i'm almost to the
counter.

her candle burning

I imagine her
in the window, the light
on.
she's at her desk.
working.
glasses perched on her
nose.
pen in her mouth.
hands on a keyboard.
working.
taking small bites
of strawberries
she slic4e
early this morning.
she's not thinking of me.
is it the weekend yet.
has vacation
arrived.
will there be anything
left of
her candle
when it's my time
to light it
and make a fire.

her candle burning

I imagine her
in the window, the light
on.
she's at her desk.
working.
glasses perched on her
nose.
pen in her mouth.
hands on a keyboard.
working.
taking small bites
of strawberries
she slic4e
early this morning.
she's not thinking of me.
is it the weekend yet.
has vacation
arrived.
will there be anything
left of
her candle
when it's my time
to light it
and make a fire.

the duct tape solution

she loved
a roll of duct tape.
silver and wide.
she fixed
the bird
cage with it.
sealed a window
where the wind blew
through,
wrapped it around
our shoes
when the bottoms
came loose.
where's the duct tape
she'd yell,
when the rain
came through
the ceiling, when
a tile fell off
the roof.
I wish I had it now
to wrap
my two sisters in.

in time

in time,
the ashes of what
we were
will rise into the clouds
and be gone.
what's left
behind
is held in the hands
and minds
of those
that loved, or
knew
who we were.
no need for words,
or gestures,
just a simple nod
of acceptance,
is enough
love shown.

in time

in time,
the ashes of what
we were
will rise into the clouds
and be gone.
what's left
behind
is held in the hands
and minds
of those
that loved, or
knew
who we were.
no need for words,
or gestures,
just a simple nod
of acceptance,
is enough
love shown.

she's ready

so why exactly did you call
911
the paramedic asks me
on the phone
while arriving
at the senior home
to pick up my mother
to take her to a hospital.
well.
I tell him. her skin
is cold.
her heart is barely
beating.
her eyes are closed,
and she's not
responding to touch,
or talking.
not to mention that the day
care worker
is spooning pureed food
into her mouth
and it's not going down.
it's on her chin, her
neck, her cheeks.
I see, he says.
well, why didn't you stay
on the scene until
we arrived.
because, I tell the young
man
on the phone, his
radio crackling with
importance.
because I went home
and called her doctor.
I live forty miles away.
he told me to call you.
okay.
he says.
do you want her doctor's name?
his number,
the number to her husband
who has all her insurance
information?
no.
no thanks, he says.
but we see that the do not
resuscitate form has been
filled out incorrectly.
all the boxes have been
checked, so we are unsure
what to do.
check the one that lets her
go, I tell him.
she's ready and so are we.

the gathering

some weight has
been gained, a house built
or swept away.
divorce
and grandkids along
the way.
the lines have deepened
on our faces.
we sit around the fire,
old friends,
laughing or crying.
we are the same.
wine helps make the words
come out,
as the blue sky
blackens
and the sun slips
under a bed
of waves.

the gathering

some weight has
been gained, a house built
or swept away.
divorce
and grandkids along
the way.
the lines have deepened
on our faces.
we sit around the fire,
old friends,
laughing or crying.
we are the same.
wine helps make the words
come out,
as the blue sky
blackens
and the sun slips
under a bed
of waves.

the game

it's a card game
where everyone's cheating,
slipping
an ace or a duce
our of their sleeve
or hat.
the money isn't real.
the stakes
are low. the game
long over,
but everyone wants to
win, take
home the pot, just
to say so.

the game

it's a card game
where everyone's cheating,
slipping
an ace or a duce
our of their sleeve
or hat.
the money isn't real.
the stakes
are low. the game
long over,
but everyone wants to
win, take
home the pot, just
to say so.

wake me when it's over

wake me when it's over.
when
the last breath has been
delivered,
when the body stills,
the heart
recedes
and takes a final
beat.
wake me when
the dust has settled.
the last words
said,
the cross planted
at her head,
then i'll grieve.

wake me when it's over

wake me when it's over.
when
the last breath has been
delivered,
when the body stills,
the heart
recedes
and takes a final
beat.
wake me when
the dust has settled.
the last words
said,
the cross planted
at her head,
then i'll grieve.

snack time

the shark has no feelings.
no remorse
in biting us
as we swim in our bright
green trunks
or rose petal suits,
frolicking
about in the deep
cold ocean
waving to loved ones
on the shore
taking pictures, waving
back.
he's just doing what he
does. what he's done
for a million years,
eating, swimming,
a leg here, an arm.
no seasoning necessary.
no vegetables,
just us.
snacks before moving
on.

snack time

the shark has no feelings.
no remorse
in biting us
as we swim in our bright
green trunks
or rose petal suits,
frolicking
about in the deep
cold ocean
waving to loved ones
on the shore
taking pictures, waving
back.
he's just doing what he
does. what he's done
for a million years,
eating, swimming,
a leg here, an arm.
no seasoning necessary.
no vegetables,
just us.
snacks before moving
on.

together

together so long, they
answer
before the question
is asked,
speak as one, on
many things,
remembering the day
they met, the year,
the place,
how young they were,
how small
the space of the first
house.
she leans, he leans.
both
stir the tea together.
shake
your hand in the same
soft way.
they are one,
from the first day,
until the last.

together

together so long, they
answer
before the question
is asked,
speak as one, on
many things,
remembering the day
they met, the year,
the place,
how young they were,
how small
the space of the first
house.
she leans, he leans.
both
stir the tea together.
shake
your hand in the same
soft way.
they are one,
from the first day,
until the last.

keeping time

none of the clocks
in my
grandmother's house worked.
no watch,
no cuckoo clock,
no chimes,
no ticking
of any kind.
the hands all still
at when they stopped.
she used the sun
to plan
her day, to end
her day. watching
the length of shadows
in her yard.
that seemed to be
enough.

keeping time

none of the clocks
in my
grandmother's house worked.
no watch,
no cuckoo clock,
no chimes,
no ticking
of any kind.
the hands all still
at when they stopped.
she used the sun
to plan
her day, to end
her day. watching
the length of shadows
in her yard.
that seemed to be
enough.

becoming us

the small choices
add up.
like rain finding a shallow
stream
that flows
into the river, to a bay,
then ocean.
it all becomes one
somehow.
becoming us,
each
small drop that
falls from
the sky.
each choice made.

becoming us

the small choices
add up.
like rain finding a shallow
stream
that flows
into the river, to a bay,
then ocean.
it all becomes one
somehow.
becoming us,
each
small drop that
falls from
the sky.
each choice made.

seven strangers

despite
having the same parents,
raised under
the same room,
having meals at the same
table for years,
we are
all completely different
as if adopted
from strangers.
three brothers,
three sisters. me.
no one agrees
on anything.
no one thinks alike.
seven opposites
with the same blood
coursing through
our veins.
the love is there
somewhere,
but so is the passive
and aggressive
fight.

she's doing great

we have to wake her
up
to feed her the woman
on
the phone says in broken
English.
she sleeps all day,
never gets up.
we change her, bathe
her where she
lies. we put her pills
in her food,
moving her mouth up and down
as best we can.
sometimes, on rare
occasions,
she may open her eyes
and try
to say something,
but we don't understand.
we love her, and want
her stay here
with us
as long as she can.
her room is clean,
her bill paid, although
next month,
due to increases in
expenses it will be
raised.

she's doing great

we have to wake her
up
to feed her the woman
on
the phone says in broken
English.
she sleeps all day,
never gets up.
we change her, bathe
her where she
lies. we put her pills
in her food,
moving her mouth up and down
as best we can.
sometimes, on rare
occasions,
she may open her eyes
and try
to say something,
but we don't understand.
we love her, and want
her stay here
with us
as long as she can.
her room is clean,
her bill paid, although
next month,
due to increases in
expenses it will be
raised.

july

I was out
frying bacon and eggs
on the sidewalk,
when I saw
a squirrel
beneath a tree
sleeping,
a robin, stretched out
on a leaf
floating
in the bird bath.
there is a wilt
to the crowd
departing from the bus,
some with a glazed
look in their eyes,
others
soggy from the ride.
the white
sun
of july, is taking
the starch out
of most of us
with no relief in
sight.

july

I was out
frying bacon and eggs
on the sidewalk,
when I saw
a squirrel
beneath a tree
sleeping,
a robin, stretched out
on a leaf
floating
in the bird bath.
there is a wilt
to the crowd
departing from the bus,
some with a glazed
look in their eyes,
others
soggy from the ride.
the white
sun
of july, is taking
the starch out
of most of us
with no relief in
sight.

sword fight

I challenge you to a duel
the man
says.
you've taken my love
from me
and now it must be
decided
who's to live or
die
and have her.
he tries to hand me
a sword,
but I refuse,
he throws it at
my feet
while whipping his sword
in the air
making slashing noises.
pick it up, he says,
and lets
be done with this.
I look at my watch,
can't we talk this over.
I mean what
century are we in
here.
I can give you my
therapist's number.
she could see you today.
stabbing one another
solves nothing.

sword fight

I challenge you to a duel
the man
says.
you've taken my love
from me
and now it must be
decided
who's to live or
die
and have her.
he tries to hand me
a sword,
but I refuse,
he throws it at
my feet
while whipping his sword
in the air
making slashing noises.
pick it up, he says,
and lets
be done with this.
I look at my watch,
can't we talk this over.
I mean what
century are we in
here.
I can give you my
therapist's number.
she could see you today.
stabbing one another
solves nothing.

rewriting

moving words around,
commas.
lines
chopped off,
or added to.
a period here,
or there.
rearranging the sequence
of thoughts.
making it rhyme,
making it
not rhyme,
the title could
be better.
it's exhausting
trying to fix what
never was broken,
much.
making it no longer
what it was meant
to be makes
a long day,
tough.
time to move on
to the next.

carrying sugar

a long line
of ants, black soldiers,
carrying
what looks like sugar
spilled
out of my kitchen,
off the floor
is not bothered
by the vibration of my
feet, nor
me bending over
to take
a closer look. they have
work to do.
they are unafraid, of
the broom or spray.
death has no meaning
for them.
it's about this.
about living life
to the fullest.
carrying sugar until
it ends.

the world has changed

it's rare that one sees
a chicken
truck anymore
in transit on the open
road,
a flat bed thing with
crated
birds stacked high,
feathers flying,
a cacophony of
clucking,
sitting
beside you at a red
light.
chickens don't travel
like that anymore.
the world has
changed.

hallmark card

I like that she prays.
that she's
kind,
compassionate.
I like how she bakes,
and brings
me some.
I like the way,
she laughs, the way,
she sighs
and rolls her eyes
at what I say.
I like
the way she kisses me
hello,
or goodbye,
sending me on my way.
I like nearly everything
about her,
everything, but
showing up so
late in life.

rotate those tires

the lube job
on my car was not so jiffy,
there were
filters that had
to be discussed,
my wipers were frayed,
did I know that
my tires hadn't been rotated
in like forever,
not to mention
my transmission fluid,
and brakes,
and other things that
should be topped off.
I listened
to the manager
as he scrolled down
the computer screen
listing in green
all the things
other than an
oil change that he
highly recommended
that I get done.
I stared at his fingers,
his blackened nails
and wondered how he
ever got any of it off.
ok, I told him,
go ahead, then settled
back into a chair,
and skimmed the five year
old mopar magazines,
and home and gardens.

no where to go

the cool
clean sheets stretch
blue, like a pool
of water on the soft bed.
the fan quietly
spins above.
the blinds are pulled,
the sun sets
behind the rain
somewhere,
how nice to have nowhere
to go,
no work
to be done, no calls
to be made.
just me, awaiting you,
at the end
of a summers day.

closing time

one drink past two
is one
too many
at happy hour,
the bartender pours
them
strong.
then pushes towards
you a menu
with bad
food.
it's an easy slide
down
the slope
of drinking and eating,
finding a home
on the leather stool,
then suddenly,
the moon is out
and it's
closing time.

staying alive

the bird
is fond of bugs, worms
lying
on the ground, crawling
through
the earth.
snakes
like to get into the trees,
to where
the eggs sit in a high
next.
each
to his own meal,
his own
needs.
his own way of going
up
or down the food chain.

the gift

it's hard
to buy a gift for a woman
you adore.
earrings,
a ring, a bracelet.
something that resembles
what you've seen her wear,
but then why another
if she already has that?
a dress or a pair
of shoes
would be impossible.
a blender or a vacuum,
something sexy
from the lingerie store?
perhaps a cook book,
no,
that mistake has been
done before.

waiting

i'm waiting
at the station,
pacing anxiously,
staring at my watch.
waiting
for her to arrive.
or maybe
she's already
here
and I haven't figured
that out yet.

best not to think about it

the blur of years.
the wind
of time, how quickly
leaves
fall,
then begin
again.
there is more behind us
than in front,
best not
to think about it
and press on.

the cat nap

everyone, at 5 pm
should
stop what they're doing
and lie down.
take a nap.
a twenty minute cat
nap. close their eyes,
fold their hands
onto their chest,
and slip into dreamland.
I think it may solve
much of the worlds problems,
unless they're driving
a car,
or bus, or flying
a plane.
or a doctor doing
surgery.

the lunch prayer

as I stared at the rack
of hot dogs
spinning ever so slowly
in the primordial grease
at the 7 11,
I asked myself, what
are you doing?
don't even think about
it.
there was sausage too.
and a burger thing
shaped like
a hot dog, but brown
with texture.
a sticky bulb put an alien
glow on all of
it. slightly
green and yellow,
a tinge of blue.
the smell was almost
meat like.
I prayed about it,
as I stood in line,
nervously jingling coins
in my pocket
like rosary beads, my
hunger growing,
then the answer came.
just water, I said,
pushing a dollar onto
the counter.
nothing else. just water.
and these hostess cupcakes.

what's the rush

we almost broke it off
because she wanted to get married
and I didn't
want her to.
who is this guy,
what do you really know about
him,
I asked her,
as we walked hand
in hand along the beach
in front of our hotel.
you should go through
a year
of seasons first,
that's my advice. meet
his kids, know where
he works, who his
friends are.
she kissed
me on the cheek
and put her arm around
me.
we stopped and looked
at the sun sinking into
the sea.
she drew a heart
in the sand with our
initials in it.
you're right, she said.
i'll tell him, let's
wait for awhile.
what's the rush.

a long work week

the desert
is a wide dry ocean
of sand.
annoying
cactus
mockingly dot
the land,
prickly and green,
horrible
things. rattle snakes
shake their tails
in the shadow of rocks.
the dunes roll on
forever.
no water, no oasis.
nothing
but the sun beating
down
like an inferno
as I crawl
across on my knees
and hands.
if I ever get to the other
side,
i'll give you
a call.
let's do something fun
come Friday.

side of the road

nothing
sadder than a flat
tire
on the side
of the road
in this summer heat.
stuck
in traffic, waiting
for a tow.
cheer me up.
bring me something
cold
to drink.
a sandwich or two.
let's kill some time
together,
bring a deck of cards,
your lips,
your charms.
i'll never get to
the places
I need to go.

the empty nest

this tattered nest,
once held the perfect
shell
of a blue egg.
the strings and twigs
bent into a home
are frayed now,
the base uncertain,
as I flap my greying
wings on its edge.
where has he
flown to?
I see him in the air
at times
floating towards
a different tree,
to a nest all his
own, someone else
is flying with him,
not me.

the old and the restless

this is it, my sister tells
my brother in a breathless call,
who tells me that my
mother is nearing death.
she's on her last leg, about
to take her last breath.
arrangements are made.
the dirt pushed back from
the earth to make room
for her. flowers are priced.
a family gathering is
organized, someone mentions
Chinese food. mom loved
Chinese food, lets do that.
but when i call the nurse
at the hospital, before i
visit her one last time,
i'm told that she's been
discharged and sent back
home. she's eating, and
doing fine, she's wearing
her favorite yellow dress,
but upset that she
missed her show,
the young and the restless
five days in a row.

i'm still here

as they drag the lake
for the old woman, reported
missing, seen wading
on the shore, she stands
there smoking, trying
to explain that she's
still here.
she's not drowned, but alive.
they don't believe her
though, and row out to
the middle of the black
pond with their
lights, their long poles,
their oars.
i'm alive she says out
loud. i'm still here.
she waves her hands in the
air, she says her name,
only to be ignored.

text me

why have lines
on the road anymore. what with
drinking
and texting,
phones and all the distractions
that technology provides,
everyone is swaying
from side to side,
crashing into one another,
light poles,
mail boxes,
just to send a smiley face,
a photo of a cake
they baked, or just
to say hi.

her muscles

i remember feeling my mom's muscles
when i was a little kid.
she'd flex her bicep and we'd
all try to squeeze this muscle
made from
washing, cleaning, cooking,
beating rugs, and hanging
clothes on the line. it scared
me to think what she could do
if she was fast enough to catch
me, after i mercilessly teased
one or more of my sisters.

at ninety five

I can't believe it all
went by so fast,
she says, laughing,
at ninety five
living in Miami without
a cat
or dog, a friend,
or husband.
everyone is gone, but
i'm still here.
i'm getting my hair
done
today, bingo tonight.
what are you up to?
you should visit sometime.

a few things

the things she'll leave
behind,
are few.
trinkets mostly, a tea
cup,
used, a plate, a ring,
her rosary beads.
dresses still on hangers,
shoes
not worn for years.
she's on the train,
on a trip
without luggage,
without
anything she owned,
these things
were few.

one more dance

it's a dance,
this tug and pull,
the tapping
of feet
when it comes
to dying, dying old,
dying slow,
with nurses, doctors,
taking
a pulse, folding
against her
body,
the long white sheet.
listening for an end.
she's still there though,
slipping, but
hearing the music
of her life,
still dancing, one
more time
around the floor.

his front lawn

we used to talk about
the girls
we were seeing, dating,
when we gathered
together
for sports, or a night
our,
that's ended.
we now
talk about what hurts.
how's your leg,
that sciatica still giving
you trouble.
when's your cataract
surgery?
I've had this rash for months.
we go to lunch,
if it's not raining, or
too hot, or too cold.
we get soup and a
grilled cheese sandwich.
we show each
other pictures on our
phones.
no longer bikini shots
of a flight attendant
someone met
from L.A.,
now it's a dog,
a cat,
a grand child.
a front lawn newly
cut and seeded
with
Bermuda grass,
a fire pit that keeps
the bugs away.

non stick

the pans
on late night tv,
at 2 am,
with the energetic salesman
on crack,
frying candy,
setting them on
fire,
sautéing live chickens,
is what I want.
I want my eggs to slide
off into my
plate, the bacon to sizzle
and be crisp,
I want these pans,
these crazy pans
from outer space,
with a life
time guarantee,
non stick.

love poems

she scolds me for love
poems
written in haste.
hallmark she screams in bold
italics.
stop, just stop
doing these she pleads,
they make me cringe,
too gooey, too not you.
I want some dirt,
some edge,
some bitter end.

sweet tooth

we have the same
sweet tooth, so
it's a race to get
to the last
slice of cake.
sometimes we'll meet
in the middle,
lips colliding,
icing on
our face.

they're not done

they don't fade
this band, this group of men,
grey haired
and worn,
standing
in the spotlight
singing songs
from when they were young.
when we were young.
they can't hit
the high notes, or the low
notes
anymore, but their fingers
find the keys,
the chords to bring
back the memory
of what once was.
they make joy.

let things happen

caught in the rain,
we give up
trying not to get wet,
and get wet.
drenched, we laugh.
we find puddles
to step in.
we throw our hands
into the sky, and let
the rain hit our
faces.
we open our mouths
and drink.
we need this laughter,
we need to stop
worrying,
we need
to give up sometimes
and let things
happen.

an american dream

he fell in
love with opium and an
Asian
woman
from Cambodia.
he was a soldier
and she was his homecoming
queen. he
married her and brought
her home.
together they dealt
drugs on the boardwalk,
made children,
made a life for themselves
near the ocean.
I often wonder what happened
to them,
as the years
went by.
living their version
of an American dream,
nothing being true, nothing
being a lie.

persuasion

some of us,
from hunger and thirst,
our knees sore
from kneeling,
would pass out and hit
our heads
on the pews.
the mass was in latin,
high mass took at
least an hour.
confession and penance.
beating on
our hearts and crossing
ourselves.
there was incense too,
the stained glass letting in
strange clouds
of colored hues.
the cross
above the altar.
Christ in death.
what wasn't there to
scare you
into being good, or at
least trying.

the russians are coming

the headline
with a photo of the president's
son
is all over
the paper.
he's putting Russian dressing
on his salad.
next to him
is the daughter
of the commander in chief
drinking a white
Russian, the foam
has given her a mustache.
she's eating caviar
too,
sturgeon from the red sea.
the kid and the wife
are playing catch with
potatoes
in their colorful
Ukranian costumes.
for dinner, after
standing in a long line,
they'll have stale bread
and cold soup.

something on her mind

she pushes her food around
on her plate,
carrots
and peas, broiled fish
of some kind. she
fiddles
with a piece of bread,
taps her
knife, her fork,
against the edge
of her plate.
she looks away
with something on her
mind.
I keep eating,
i'm hungry
and fear where this
might be going.
I squeeze
into my vodka tonic,
the dark green
wedge of lime.

the walkers

the walkers
are out early
this morning, trying
to beat the heat,
exercise before
the sun
is high.
with arms held up,
elbows swaying,
like birds
they head for the path
down to the lake.
they adjust
their head bands,
their socks
and shirts.
phones attached,
water bottles
in place.
off they go, a mile
or two, some stretching,
then back.

into the drawer

I wake up with her
earring stuck
to my back.
it's a small diamond
no bigger
than a pea,
it could be fake,
or real,
who's to know
these things.
I hold it up to the light,
spin it around.
then set it in
the drawer with
her bracelet,
her glasses, her rings
and something
complicated that
she wore.

one last time

we're going
west.
the truck has everything
we own
packed in the back.
the dog is in my lap.
the kids
are all grown.
we're going west,
out
beyond the Mississippi,
beyond the mountains
the desert,
to the ocean,
we're moving west.
there's no reason to stay
here anymore,
everyone we've
known has died, or
getting old.
work is over, so is play.
we're going
west to start again,
one last time.

his shoes

my father would put
his shoes on the steps.
starting from the bottom,
going up.
five pairs, at most.
casual and dress.
a pair of boots too,
for when snow fell.
sandals, and slippers.
i put mine beside his,
he always left
enough room.

our own lives

ships sink
all the time. there are
bleached bones
picked
clean along the bottom.
treasures too.
chests of gold.
diamonds.
jewels.
we swim above this.
merry with
in our day, splashing
away, uncaring
and busy with our
own lives,
trying to stay afloat.

finding the strike zone

all day
you could throw
the rubber ball against
the wall.
the chalked in
square,
a strike zone
for no one
there.
wind up and throw
in the hot
sun
behind the rexall
drug store.
check first,
check second. a little
spit,
a hat adjustment.
shake off the catcher,
then nod and throw.
who needs players,
or bats,
just a glove and a ball
on a long
summer day
was enough
to bring joy.

pajamas?

hearing the truck pull up,
the fire and rescue
truck of west
springfield
adorned in lights, flashing.
no siren, I peek
out the window to see
what's up.
young men wearing blue
plastic gloves
and dark t-shirts
are milling about.
it takes a while,
but then I see my neighbor's
date from
last night
being wheeled with
an oxygen mask on,
strapped onto
the white sheeted
stretcher.
he's wearing pajamas
and a pair of green slippers.
who wears pajamas
anymore on an overnight
date?
the slippers don't even
match.

water front view

we ignore water.
we build on the shore,
where it will
rise and flood,
take everything away.
we rebuild.
we think we can drive
through
the stream
that swarms the road.
we think
water is on our side.
the ocean too.
the enormity
and power of it.
the rip tide. let's
see how far, how
deep we can go.

life insurance

when the life insurance
man
stuck a needle into my
arm
to draw blood, to see if
I was healthy enough
to be taken
on as a customer,
I passed out and fell
off the chair onto
the floor.
when I awoke, the wife
was standing over
me with a pen,
placing it in my hand,
quick, she said, sign
here.

back to your old self

my crazy meds
aren't working, lately,
she tells, me
drinking coffee
and smoking a s cigarette
sitting there in her
underwear
and sunglasses.
i'm sorry for all those
awful things I said
about you and your mother
last night.
I think I need an adjustment
on the dose.
oh, really, I haven't
noticed, I tell her,
packing my suitcase.
you seem
quite fine to me.
in fact I think you're
back to your old self.

going forward

there is no need
to explain
to the horses what they
are to do.
they stand still and wait
for the harness,
the straps,
the weight of the wagon
behind them.
with blinders on they
are steady
in the middle of the road,
accustomed to the pull,
we too,
go forward without
a thought, or clue.

her love story

will you read my book,
she asked.
taking out a box
of yellowed typed paper.
she brushed off the cobwebs,
with her blue veined hand,
and shooed her cat away.
we were having tea and toast
in her sun room.
we were forty years apart
in age.
sit for awhile, take a break
from your work, she said.
cream and sugar? jam?
I lifted the manuscript from the box.
it was a romantic story.
the second world war,
two lovers with a sad ending.
there were lines crossed out
with blue ink,
notes in the columns. arrows
and circles going
in all directions.
i'll read it tonight, I told
her, looking at the last page.
reading the last line.
i already knew what i would say.
it's wonderful. it's perfect.
it's lovely. send it out.

Morty's Steak House

you don't question why
one scoop of potatoes costs
seventeen dollars,
because you want some, and
don't want to seem cheap
in front of everyone. so you
get them.
the steak alone
was seventy, so what's another
twenty for a few broccoli
sprouts.
mushrooms, of course they're
pricey. people
are bending over to pick
them by hand,
and who can eat mashed potatoes
and a steak without mushrooms,
so yes.
bring me those too.
salt and pepper, no charge,
oh my,
you people are way too generous.
onions, gravy. fifteen,
bread, with butter? ten.
how much for a glass of water?
hold on, let
me call my bank to see
if my card is still good.
how about a half a glass,
and no lemon?

the crash

i'm behind the five
cars
that crash accordion style
into one another from
behind.
nearly everyone
is on their phone,
talking,
texting, checking e mails.
in quick succession
the air bags go off.
wind shields crack.
a cloud of smoke
puffs out the creases of
windows.
doors fly open, trunks
and hoods pop up,
crimped and shorn.
slowly I go around
the debris on the road,
staring at the shaken
drivers, standing near
their wrecked cars,
shaking their
heads, still looking
at their phones
while a siren wails nearby.

if you get thirsty

don't forget to drink water,
the weather man
says
as he points at the map,
colored in red,
to indicate heat
without relief.
if you go outside dress
light, hydrate,
stay inside.
we are three year olds now.
unable
to know
what to do when the sun
shines. what should I do
if I get sleepy?
if I get hungry?

if you get thirsty

don't forget to drink water,
the weather man
says
as he points at the map,
colored in red,
to indicate heat
without relief.
if you go outside dress
light, hydrate,
stay inside.
we are three year olds now.
unable
to know
what to do when the sun
shines. what should I do
if I get sleepy?
if I get hungry?

a small thing

who doesn't have a leak.
a wet
spot
rusted brown
on the ceiling or wall.
there's a drip somewhere,
a pipe
sweating,
a hole where the rain
gets in.
but it's okay.
it's not the end of the world
as we know it.
it's
just a small thing
that tells
you something
about everything.

being selfish

being selfish
and carefree
seems to come natural
these days,
what with
the kid gone,
marital status at one,
with only me
to fend for
to decide being lazy,
or going out for fun.
there is no plant to water
no pet that seeks
to play.
let the phone ring,
let
the clothes sit,
the dust gather.
we'll get to it later,
maybe tomorrow,
maybe another day.

being selfish

being selfish
and carefree
seems to come natural
these days,
what with
the kid gone,
marital status at one,
with only me
to fend for
to decide being lazy,
or going out for fun.
there is no plant to water
no pet that seeks
to play.
let the phone ring,
let
the clothes sit,
the dust gather.
we'll get to it later,
maybe tomorrow,
maybe another day.

the chase is over

you can tell
the men who are done.
finished,
maybe widowers, divorced,
but finished
with the love
part of life.
that chase is over.
perhaps they do love, or
are loved,
who's to know, but
they're shabby now in dress.
unkempt, not caring
about stripes,
or checks.
matching anything.
the eyebrows have gone
wild.
hair nearly everywhere,
nothing combed.
you see them in the market,
pushing a cart. mumbling.
staring a crumbled list.
one can of that,
one can of this.

the chase is over

you can tell
the men who are done.
finished,
maybe widowers, divorced,
but finished
with the love
part of life.
that chase is over.
perhaps they do love, or
are loved,
who's to know, but
they're shabby now in dress.
unkempt, not caring
about stripes,
or checks.
matching anything.
the eyebrows have gone
wild.
hair nearly everywhere,
nothing combed.
you see them in the market,
pushing a cart. mumbling.
staring a crumbled list.
one can of that,
one can of this.

all things

the boy
who went to nam
was different now,
standing on the porch.
hair cut short. clean shaven.
once upon a time he looked
like George Harrison
on the cover of All Things Must Pass.
then his number came up.
there were medals
on his
green uniform.
his boots were polished,
a lacquered black.
the drugs were out of him.
there was
something else
in his veins now.
the wistful
boy who once sat
on the same porch,
playing guitar
and singing all night
long was gone.

run boys run

when we stole
the watermelons off the vine
in the dry
plowed earth of St. Elizabeth's
farm,
we had no idea
that there were prisoners
in orange,
picking too.
there were guards holding shotguns
pointed to the ground.
we were thirsty
and hungry, going fishing
on the Potomac river.
what did we know?
we held those heavy green
melons like gold bars in our
skinny arms
and ran back through
the woods, waiting to hear
the gunshots that never came.
I can still hear the shouts
of the pickers,
telling us to run boys,
run.

handle with care

you are careful
with what you say around her.
careful
not to step too far
inside her circle.
you are a moth
circling the light.
she has you on edge.
on thin ice.
gently
you lean towards her
to kiss her, but it's never
good morning.
always goodnight.

the happy hour

the happy hour
became a four hour event
on Fridays.
we were young
in our
cheap suits,
bad ties
and shoes.
we unwound after a few
drinks,
talking about how
much we hated the boss,
the work,
the office
in general.
it's like taking coal
out of a mountain,
someone said. we rowed
this boat all night long.
by eleven we were
exhausted
from drinking, singing,
flirting,
saying things we wished
we hadn't said.
sometimes we'd stagger
home alone,
other times,
we had company.
Monday came too early.

monday trash

in the morning,
lying there, alone.
the sun slipping in.
the trash truck already
backing up
in the court, beeping,
grinding away,
its big door slamming
as bags are tossed in,
you lie there thinking,
summing up your life.
where it's going,
what's been done.
what's next, but then
you think about the three bags
of trash in your
kitchen. it's too late
to run outside.
now you have to wait
until Monday.

how to books

I buy another how to book
and skim it
like I did the others.
how to hang a door.
how to cook a duck.
how to put a new engine
in your car. how to appear
younger by wearing
hipster clothes.
how to write a poem.
the books are endless.
falling in love for
dummies is nearly worn
out, underlined
on nearly every page,
the cover wrinkled
from being wet after
reading it in the tub.
i'm waiting for the next
edition to come out.
the reviews have been good.
I have it ordered
on amazon.

how to make a sandwich

when showing my son
the art
of making a sandwich,
he seemed perturbed at first,
but then sat there and listened
intently as I went to work
talking him through the complicated
process he was
about to observe.
bread, I told him.
bread is very important.
I can't over stress how important
brad is to a sandwich.
sometimes you might want to use
a baguette or a roll, but
we don't have those, so
we'll use two slices from
the package, white not
your mother's wheat. now,
this is when you have to
decide if you want the slices
toasted or use them as is.
three's no going back on this.
as is he says. okay. I set each
piece down, flat
on the counter.
mustard or mayo? ummm, mayo,
he points to the jar.
choose your cold cuts now.
I tell him. we have salami,
roast beef, and ham.
may I suggest honey ham
as the first layer and then
top it off with roast beef
in the middle and salami next.
whatever, he says. yawning.
your cheese comes next.
we have muenster, provolone...
he points to the yellow
cheese. okay, okay, good choice.
i gently lay a square
of yellow cheese on top
of the meat.
lettuce? I asked him,
he nods yes. we need to
shred it in small pieces.
I show him my shredding
technique, using a serrated
knife, then show him my fingers
to show that i'm not bleeding.
tomatoes?
hmm hmm. he says. I slice
those and place them
on the sandwich.
onions, hot peppers?
no, he says, are we almost done?
patience my boy, patience.
we're almost done.
okay. now we put the other
piece of bread on top,
securing it down with the palm
of your hand. pressing,
but not too hard. we want
to keep it firm and have
balance
so that the sandwich doesn't
tip over.
sometimes you can stick a decorative
toothpick in the middle
to hold it all together, but
we don't have any, so i'll
just cut it in half.
diagonal? sure, he says. sure.
okay, almost done.
hand me the bag of chips.
I place a handful of chips
on the side, and wring out a
sweet gherkin pickle
from a jar to lay
beside the sandwich.
voila, I tell him, holding
the plate up. there we go.
now go get the camera so
that we can take a picture.
oh brother, he says.
what's wrong with you dad?
I'm starving.

no tell motel

it was a clean room.
it smelled purposely clean,
the odor
of pinesol
stuck in the air.
beds where beds should be,
with no spring,
split
between a picture
of flowers, wildlife,
a stream.
a place not meant for
sleeping.
the phone, a tv
chained to the wall.
two lamps
on matching nightstands.
a dresser with tight
drawers that squeaked
when pulled.
hot and cold water,
three
clean towels, a map
of the city. a new bar
of soap.
a bible
in the drawer where
it can't be seen.
two glasses, short,
and covered in paper.
the heavy shades
were pulled tight,
but creased open enough
to show
the beams of white,
of cars pulling
up or leaving after

short stays, throughout
the long
cold night.

dress light

the sun
waits for you.
its warm white whip of
heat
already
wilting the trees,
making the squirrels
less hurried for now,
staying on one side
of the street.
what's the difference?
dress light,
drink water.
stay in the shade.
all good advice
you'll try to obey.

you sounded younger on the phone

you sounded younger
on the phone, the woman says to you,
as you
measure her walls
for paper.
estimate what it would cost
for labor,
for paint.
you stare at her and think
of a response
to what she's said.
you sounded thinner
on the phone,
or nicer, smarter perhaps.
you sounded like someone who
might be able
to afford
to clean up this dark
cocoon of a house,
but I had you all wrong.
but you say nothing.
you hand her your card,
and shake
her small wet hand, go your way
with words stuck
in your mouth.

good and bad

why the bird
flies into the window is hard to know.
his beak
cracks a small
hole
in the pane.
he falls to the ground,
to the soft grass
where he lies unmoving
until awake again.
in the shadows,
other things
with hunger make their
move.
there is good and bad
in everything.

would you like to dance?

the first time you ask a girl
to dance
is scary beyond belief.
beads of sweat
gather on your forehead
as you reach out a trembling
hand.
your heart begins
to beat like a rabbit's.
you have no idea
what you're getting into.
you've never danced before,
except when practicing
alone to the radio
in your room.
you've studied the moves
on bandstand,
and soul train,
or others that have
the nerve to be on the floor,
but you really have
no clue
what will your legs,
your arms,
your head will possibly do.
can you find the beat
and shake
in an appropriate way
that you don't look
too much like a fool?
who knows,
but here we go. maybe,
just maybe, if you're lucky,
she'll say no.

ear plugs

I don't handle anger well.
pushy people.
loud and brash egos
that need the floor.
I can't listen
to an argument on
tv.
I shake my head at
barking dogs,
and crying babies.
I don't even like to read
a note
that disagrees,
that contradicts how I
feel
about things.
I pretty much have to avoid
most people, most days,
especially relatives,
and pick my hours
when going to the dmv.

nearing the end

you make a list.
gas, electric, food
and
insurance.
all the monthly bills
in a column,
added up
to see what you could
survive on
if you quit working
and walked
to the lake everyday
to throw bread at the ducks.
you stare at your 401 k,
miscellaneous
savings
and investments.
how much
would social security bring
in?
medicare.
there's lots of loose
change in the blue bowl
on top of the refrigerator.
senior discounts on
pills
and movie tickets.
you could cut back
on coffee.
what about shoes, do you
have enough shoes
to get you through
the final
years. yes, you say
to yourself,
turning each pair over
to look at the soles.
got shoes.

randomly matched

they want paper
where paper shouldn't be.
squares in the coffer
ceiling. pink
grass cloth
in the loo.
two men
with a nursery.
giraffes, chimps perhaps,
peach or
pale blue,
or something over the top
from milan, or berlin,
paris with a view.
black and white stripes.
the Eiffel tower with
polka dot balloons.
the laundry room
too.
a French paper
randomly matched,
embossed
and metric measured.
let's railroad
some,
from side to side,
make it different by design.
flock in the kitchen
of course,
a place to eat, fit
for a king,
or a queen or two.

unbitten

the roped coil
of a copper head,
diamond
crossed, unblinking
devil
blacked
eyes, sits
in the corner of
the musty shed,
I touch
him before I know
what it is,
before he stiffens
and rises. he's
just high enough
to be safe.
why I reach out
and touch,
I don't know,
perhaps the shine,
but i'm happy that
he doesn't strike,
and take
my life, such as it
is.

imagination

with a stick
and a box, a rock or two.
a tree,
the wide open
yard
the kid plays all day.
you see him
out there talking to
himself,
his imaginary friends.
maybe when he gets older
he'll be in a
straight jacket, or maybe
not.
maybe he'll be just
like me.

mice on the road

how fast
these cars go.
bumper on bumper
through the maze.
speeding through red lights.
trying to
get to the next
one before me.
trying desperately
to get to the place
they need to be.
how fast
their hearts must
beat,
their minds
unraveled by the smell
of just a small chunk
of cheese.

let's swing

it's too hot
to work. too hot to do
anything
but sit in the shade
on the porch seat,
and swing,
wave
to people going by.
bring ice tea, a fan
to make
a breeze.
set the radio nearby
and listen to the game,
makes
no difference who's
playing,
strike one,
or three.
it's too hot to do much,
but lie back,
and swing, come join me.

is she with you?

the calm of her,

almost a smile on her 

pretty face.
her hair

upon her shoulders

where

small jewels
of sweat have come to rest.

out of breath,

you watch her

as she turns to the window
where the light
slips in.

she gets dressed.
is she with you,
or is someone else
inside her head?

we decide

the scrape
on the knee early on
in life,
an elbow bruised,
a chin cut,
falling to the pavement
after
running,
or wheeling along on
a board.
the bike tilted over
to the side,
a tree branch
that won't hold your weight.
this tells you
early on
that much of life
is risk,
and most is from what
you decide, alone,
to undertake.

we decide

the scrape
on the knee early on
in life,
an elbow bruised,
a chin cut,
falling to the pavement
after
running,
or wheeling along on
a board.
the bike tilted over
to the side,
a tree branch
that won't hold your weight.
this tells you
early on
that much of life
is risk,
and most is from what
you decide, alone,
to undertake.

side by side

my mother could throw
a dish
or glass, or serving
spoon
with either hand.
she was ambidextrous
when it
came to anger
towards my father.
but he had skills too,
able to dodge and duck
a plate of
baked beans, a roasted
chicken,
mulligan stew.
the place was a mess
when we awoke,
but they had somehow
made up,
as you could see, peeking
into their bedroom,
side by side,
in each other's arms,
asleep.

side by side

my mother could throw
a dish
or glass, or serving
spoon
with either hand.
she was ambidextrous
when it
came to anger
towards my father.
but he had skills too,
able to dodge and duck
a plate of
baked beans, a roasted
chicken,
mulligan stew.
the place was a mess
when we awoke,
but they had somehow
made up,
as you could see, peeking
into their bedroom,
side by side,
in each other's arms,
asleep.

her one big secret

her one
big secret is impossible
to know.
you can't get it out of her,
no matter
how much chardonnay
you ply her with,
how much tenderness
you
kneed into her soft
supple skin.
you look as far as you
can go into
those deep doe
brown yes, but get
nothing.
she should have been a spy
for the country,
all secrets
would have been safe
with her.

her one big secret

her one
big secret is impossible
to know.
you can't get it out of her,
no matter
how much chardonnay
you ply her with,
how much tenderness
you
kneed into her soft
supple skin.
you look as far as you
can go into
those deep doe
brown yes, but get
nothing.
she should have been a spy
for the country,
all secrets
would have been safe
with her.

who are you

the longer we live
the less
we know.
the person in bed beside
you
becomes a stranger
given enough years
together.
enough meals shared,
enough
love making.
kids raised, hair turned
grey.
she says, I don't really
know you,
do I,
and you answer, who
are you.
you look familiar,
but I can't place the name
or face.

who are you

the longer we live
the less
we know.
the person in bed beside
you
becomes a stranger
given enough years
together.
enough meals shared,
enough
love making.
kids raised, hair turned
grey.
she says, I don't really
know you,
do I,
and you answer, who
are you.
you look familiar,
but I can't place the name
or face.

any day

some days, they don't have to
be rainy days,
they can be bright blue
full of sun,
but you need that day to stay
in, to stay home
and open boxes,
to sift through the growing
debris that has washed ashore
in your life.
closets need to be emptied
and clean,
the refrigerator too.
the list of numbers in your
phone need to be pared
down.
the number of towels
and sheets, that go unused
thrown out. shoes,
never worn,
sock never slid onto your
feet.
it's hard to throw away
what doesn't belong anymore,
but any day will do,
when ready.

three out of four doctors

three out of four doctors
agree,
but i'd rather hear
from the one
that doesn't. what does
he know,
what's his problem
with these pills, this
line of action
to cut or not cut
on your ailing anatomy.
I want to know what
the fourth has to say.
do the other three hate
him because he disagrees.
do they shun him
at lunch, passing him
in the hall without a
so much a nod
in their surgical garb.
do they
ignore him as he stands
with his golf club,
alone
on the 15th green.

being free

the lion
in his cage paces,
staring out
as we stare in.
there is distance
between us.
the gully paved,
a brook of water,
man made,
the chain link,
barbed with wire,
the bars.
both are equally safe,
but wanting
out. only happiness
coming from
being free, not in.

being free

the lion
in his cage paces,
staring out
as we stare in.
there is distance
between us.
the gully paved,
a brook of water,
man made,
the chain link,
barbed with wire,
the bars.
both are equally safe,
but wanting
out. only happiness
coming from
being free, not in.

other things too

we agree on sweets.
chocolate
for one.
anything with cream inside,
a puff of pastry
for another.
scoops of ice
cream
stacked in two on a sugar
cone
is something what we both
want.
but there are other
things too.

other things too

we agree on sweets.
chocolate
for one.
anything with cream inside,
a puff of pastry
for another.
scoops of ice
cream
stacked in two on a sugar
cone
is something what we both
want.
but there are other
things too.

the car alarm

that horn, the car alarm.
the siren
of theft
that never is begins.
a jiggle
to the car sets it off.
a cat
leaping onto the hood.
hail,
a strong wind.
blow it a kiss and the lights
blink,
the blare starts.
finally the neighbor
appears
in his shorts, without
shoes or a shirt
and waves
his fob, his wand of
silence towards it.

the car alarm

that horn, the car alarm.
the siren
of theft
that never is begins.
a jiggle
to the car sets it off.
a cat
leaping onto the hood.
hail,
a strong wind.
blow it a kiss and the lights
blink,
the blare starts.
finally the neighbor
appears
in his shorts, without
shoes or a shirt
and waves
his fob, his wand of
silence towards it.

years later

a sock, a glove,
a bottle of her perfume.
pictures
too.
a ring, a list of groceries.
tickets,
unused.
all
tight within
a box, pushed back
on the shelf.
grief once
hard, now graciously
has left
the room.

years later

a sock, a glove,
a bottle of her perfume.
pictures
too.
a ring, a list of groceries.
tickets,
unused.
all
tight within
a box, pushed back
on the shelf.
grief once
hard, now graciously
has left
the room.

already decided

can a prayer
be heard for the turtle
seen
crossing
the early road, his shell
thatched
in green and brown,
soft stripes
of yellow.
can you pray him
to be faster, to move
those
clawed legs
hurriedly to the other
side?
can these prayers be
heard, or
are these things beyond
us,
already decided.

and then

on any given day,
in any year, it may occur.
this affection,
this
promise of tomorrows,
this life
you've imagined
with her, a stranger
yet,
may appear.
and then.

making a salad

will you
chop these for me, she says.
while talking
on the phone,
pushing
a bowl
of carrots towards you.
radishes,
a red onion too.
lettuce,
sure, you tell her,
taking the knife,
moving the board into place.
easing the blade
down
again and again.
you do what you are told.
for now.

like this, perhaps we go

I beg
your pardon, the man
says,
leaving
the store, rubbing shoulder
against
your shoulder.
excuse me, he says,
tipping his hat
nodding
as he goes by.
he takes your hand,
your soul
with a gentle pull
into the darkness,
or is it light?
so strange it is to
know so little
as to how
or when you die.
like this, perhaps,
we go.

each summer

was it twenty years,
or more
perhaps,
that it was
family in tow, child
waist high,
wife,
as young as she would
ever be
with you,
at the shore, the sparkle
of light
when sunlight
meets the ocean.
the air full of salt
and sea.
the gulls striped
white.
our hearts safe
with each other.
those years, long past,
no longer
belong to her, or me,
to the child, now
grown,
despite
what it seems
in the photographs.
they are memories, sure,
but turned
inside out
to the way each wants
them to always be.

traveling as two

traveling
alone is not as interesting
as traveling
with another,
whether love, or relation,
pointing
at the tower
means more.
that bridge across
the river.
our feet on the cobblestone
is easier
to remember as two.
the taste of food,
the spill of drink
down our
parched throats.
in time, together, it
will bind us,
this road we took,
how the birds filled
the church yard,
how the grey stones
of the dead
were old already
in the ancient graveyard.

let's pretend

you can't tell
these little ones.
you can't break their hearts,
steal
their souls,
twist them in the wind
of truth, just yet.
leave
them rosy cheeked
and laughing.
leave them to their
summers,
to their imaginations,
thinking that all
things are
possible.
that there is only good,
let's pretend for now
and leave it
at that.

the fog of past

we remember
through fog. we light
up
and dwell
on what seemed so
true.
the color red
becomes
a softer shade of yellow,
a romantic
blue.
we hear
the words at this later
date
in a different order,
with a different tone,
meaning less,
or more,
depending on so
much as to where we
stand now, where we
have gone,
where we must
go.

the boy

the boy who killed himself
has been gone
for ages.
at eight, how did he know
what to do.
the rope, the chair,
the pipes
above the sink
in the laundry room.
what becomes of the living
after that?
how can you go on?
how can anything taste right
again.
what good is the sun,
or love.
the full moon
making leaves silver.

what are these things?

she complains.
are they poems,

or entries
into your diary?
what are these things
you write?
both, I tell her.
tell me what isn't either.
what art,
what song,
what sculpture carved
from rock
isn't
chipped free from one's
heart?

these friends

these faces
are balloons, air filled,
with
strings
for bodies, how easily
they float in,
float away.
disappear into the clouds.
they were so close
once.
so near, so well disguised
as friends.

is it love yet?

let's not call it love
just yet
I tell my therapist
as he taps his pen 

against his bearded chin.
I mean we haven't
even had a fight yet.
we haven't crossed
swords
or spoke a single mean
word
to one another.
it can still be love,
he says.
not all relationships
need to be 

argumentative and chaotic.
I watch him write something
down
and underline it a few times.
did I ever tell you about
the time my
mother threw a plate
of spaghetti at my
father
because he was late
for dinner again,
and then he cut the phone
cord, so that she couldn't

call the police

after twisting her arm

and breaking it?

and even after all of that

she never left him.
yes, he says. you've

told me that story
a few dozen times.

now that was love,

i tell him. that's what you

call real love.

the home run

I remember
striking the ball so hard
that
the woman pitching gently
underhand
made a face.
her eyes widened
and she grimaced. the fat ball
hit the sweet
spot of my level swing
sending it over the left
fielder's head
into the gravel
parking lot.
it was forty years
ago
in a coed pick up
softball game,
but I can still remember
rounding
the bases as if it
was yesterday. mickey
mantle for a moment
in yankee stadium.

the bunny trail

the tooth fairy
never
came with a dollar
for our
lost teeth,
nor did the easter
bunny
with a basket of eggs
hop on down our
bunny trail.
or santa
down the chimney
with a bag
of toys.
we left him pie, what gives?
no wish came true
from
the coins
dropped into the well.
the rabbit's foot,
rubbed bare got
nothing.
no shooting star
delivered
a heartfelt plea.
it was all a bunch
of junk
we realized
early on, but wished
it wasn't so.

italian model

her purse
had cobwebs in it
from never being open.
she depended on the kindness
of men.
all curves
and hair, lips,
sleek and Italian.
a red
sports car
of a dame.
the bumpers gleamed.
but open the door
and you got
ice.
not the sweet kind either.
but dry ice, so cold
it burned
to the touch.

non support

the swing
of the light, the forty watt
and a string
to pull
to turn it on
or off.
the flush of pipes.
the bare mattress,
striped.
the cinder block wall
with my
etchings,
my calendar marked
in gouged bites.
the slide of the tray
between
the bars.
a square of blue
light, the sky
on the high wall.
eggs,
potatoes, dry toast.
doing time
is not hard,
it's one day, one
stint
before i'm out
and back again.
you'll wait, won't
you?

the close call

the policeman
on the phone, or is he,
says, you are not in any trouble,
we just
want a donation.
a contribution to our
fund.
any amount will do,
I let out a sigh,
and look out the window,
pulling the shade back
just so.
I turn the computer off
and slip
my new book, fifty shades
of purple
under the mattress
next to a pair of handcuffs
and a can of whipped cream.
then i sit down,
and wipe
the sweat from my brow.
is ten dollars, okay?
I ask.
do I get a sticker for
my car too?

the gold door

it's raining,
I can't work I tell the man
who
owns the candy store
and wants his
door painted gold
with black trim.
Belgian chocolates,
gelato,
small chocolate covered
cherries
and nuts
all lined up in
the refrigerated rows
behind the glass
box.
I give the store
six months
before it melts in
the sun.

southern belle

the war is still
on for her.
the north against the south.
we will rise
again, she says,
fluttering her lashes
and turning her head
up to a grey
sky.
as god is my witness,
the south shall
rise again.
she dabs at her eyes
as if there might be tears.
oh brother, I say to her.
more tea, she asks.
fanning herself
with a large feather.
you're nuts, aren't you,
I tell her,
shaking my head.
maybe we can go look for
more civil war buttons
or spent shells
on the old battlefield.
those poor boys, she
says sighing, as if they
were till out there
lying in the mud
and blood. oh, those
poor soldiers. giving their
young lives for Dixie.
okay, that's it, i'm
out of here.
I don't think this relationship
is going to work,
but thanks for the tea.
oh, please stay, have I
offended thee? stay and let's
sing. let's sing
a song together.
do you know swanee river?

i know you're in there

I peep
through the peep hole
after a knock at the door.
a woman
is standing there with a clipboard.
she's dressed
nicely.
her hair done.
almost a smile on her face.
she rings the bell
again.
then knocks with her hand,
pulls the knob,
letting it fall
gently down, again,
again.
I sigh.
I don't want to take a survey.
I don't want to vote
for anyone,
I don't need to know
what she wants.
plus i'm in my underwear
and can't open the door.
I know you're in their she says.
I can see you.

the new colors

they're renaming the crayons
in the yellow box.
periwinkle
is not enough anymore,
we need different names now
to keep up
with the times,
there's
under the weather yellow,
embarrassing red,
bipolar blue,
and envy green.
not to mention hangover
white,
and cookie spill brown.

thankful

thank god
the dinosaurs are extinct.
traffic
is bad enough
as it is on 95 heading
south or north.
I can't imagine what
it would be like
with a t rex
preying on the vehicles
driving by,
or a pterodactyl
snatching drivers
from their little cars,
munching on people
in their trucks, and vans,
buses.

the boom

her kiss,
though soft and tender,
is the lit fuse of
what's
to come next.
the explosion,
the rattle of the room,
the shock
wave
of her body
against yours.
the bright light
flashing,
the boom.

flashes in the sky

we would lie on the picnic
table
late a night.
side by side.
the girl next door,
and me.
it was summer, school out.
nothing much to do
but be young,
chase fire flies,
wonder what was to become of
us and watch the sky
for meteors flashing by,
which was what we
were at the time,
not knowing it then,
but do now.

my best side

my good ear
is the best one
to speak into,
a friend to my good eye,
less blurred
and clear, easier
to read
the flurry of road signs.
if you take a photo,
let me turn
my head before you shoot.
my strongest
hand is the right one,
that being my
best side.
i'm down to one
on many things,
including you.

i miss

I miss the milk man.
cold milk,
eggs, bacon, juice,
all delivered
from his white truck
idling
in the street.
I miss the mail coming
twice a day.
dogs off their leash.
the morning paper
on the porch.
I miss black and white
tv.
manners
and courtesy. morning mass.
the tipped hat,
a written note. the drop
in visit,
the sunday call.
I miss my mother's fried
chicken,
and hearing her voice
calling us in
for dinner.
homework at the table.
everyone
being home, in bed,
ready for sleep.

enjoy your life

enjoy your life,
the old man yells,
waving his cane
as I speed by on my bike
in the opposite
direction.
he's wearing a hat
and an overcoat
in july,
a small bird like woman
in blue walks
beside him, holding his arm.
I wave back at him,
and say
to myself, okay.
I will.

parting ways

the cops
were chasing us one night.
we had
a taillight out
and were driving down a one
way street
with open bottles
of liquor in the car.
betty was at the wheel,
smoking,
the radio up.
joan jett blasting,
I hate myself for loving you.
she was wearing her torn fish net
stockings and a t shirt
that read disco sucks.
we turned down
an alley
and cut the engine,
waited out the cops
until dawn.
we had a long talk, betty
and me.
she was starting culinary
school
in the fall
and I was heading west.
she told me that her
tattoos were
temporary and that she really
loved to knit.
she wanted to have three
babies.
she pulled out a stick pin
from her eye brown
and handed it to me.
this is to remember me
by, she said,
then we went to mcdonalds
for breakfast.

can i have provolone instead

there was
the time when the deli clerk
threw
my son's sandwich
against the wall
when he decided after it was
ready and wrapped,
that he wanted provolone
cheese on it, not
American.
she turned to the wall
and with all
her strength threw
it against the checkered tile.
it exploded in a frenzy
of meat and cheese,
lettuce
and tomatoes,
the mayo flying far
and wide.
she collected herself
and made another.
this time
with provolone, the way
he wanted it.
we saw her later when we
left the store,
she was leaning against
a wall outside,
smoking a cigarette,
still shaking,
her face red
from the pressure of making
a sandwich.

the closet

it's a small closet.
a broom closet.
a pair of boots in
the corner,
a ball.
a bat.
a glove, a bag of salt
for ice
when the snow
falls.
a coffee machine, unused.
four coats, two
of which aren't yours.
it's hard to close
the door at times.
you have to tuck in
the umbrella,
the mop,
the can of paint,
gloves, loose and unmatched
scattered
on the floor.

waiting for dark

a small
fisted bat has found it's
way
between the wood
and rail,
the downspout, his black
hinged
claws
clings tight
to keep his charred
body
off the ground,
out of
sight.
not a sound he makes,
not a flutter
of wing,
or growl.
no twitch is shown
in his veined thin
shell
of life.
he's waiting for dark
to fly,
as we all are.

one pm

there's three dogs
running free, under the table,
between legs
of chairs.
barking.
fighting over a bone.
in and out of the screen door
come bees and bugs.
the grille is
on.
sausage and dogs,
burgers. the smoke in the air
blows blue
into the porch.
the chef has a high hat
and an apron
that reads chef.
the lawn chairs are out in a circle,
a beer in each hand.
music plays, a tv is on.
children are
in the driveway kicking
a ball.
someone throws a fire cracker
in the air, then another.
in the distance
a fire truck wails.

the resume

my brother is an addict,
he tells me,
sipping on a cold
Budweiser,
the foam
sticking to his blonde
beard.
he likes the needle,
the powder,
the pills.
he shakes his head,
lights a cigarette
and blows the smoke out
towards the blue
sky.
he won't go to meetings,
or seek help.
he crashed his car
the other day, again.
he's out on bail.
but he's a good worker.
so if you need some help,
he's available
to start on Monday.

punch line

I prefer a short story.
a poem.
one word or two.
don't drag it out, start
at the end
and let
me know if I want
to hear
the rest.
give me the punch line
first.
turn to the last page,
not it was the best of times,
the worst.

the cataract class

we want you to attend
a cataract class, the doc
tells me
via e mail.
you need to take this class
before we
schedule you for surgery.
a class?
is there homework?
why a class.
send me the video.
cut eye, make the blur
go away.
what's with the class?
is there lunch,
do we bring a lunch,
or is there a cafeteria?
can we chew gum?
what about recess, is there
a playground
where we can play kickball.
i'm not banging
erasers against the wall,
just saying.

dixie land

my father strung
his colored party lights
along
his small
balcony.
party of one your table
is ready.
a bottle of Canadian club,
on the table,
a bucket of ice,
and a black and white
tv
in the corner.
cigarettes too, and a few
magazines,
with centerfolds
stacked in the bathroom.
it was the life
he chose after thirty years
at sea,
ice cream and cold cuts.
close to
the px, the commissary.
a car with a horn
that played
I wish I was in Dixie,
although
he was from Boston.
Dixie being a waitress
he met
in june.

wildlife

we forget
that the bear can eat us.
the shark
can take a leg,
an arm,
we kiss the lion,
rub cheeks
with dolphins.
we have no idea
what's in
their mind.
like people,
they never show their
true colors
until
angered or hungry,
had enough of us,
and tired.

her color is blue

she tells me about her new Cadillac.
white of course.
she gets her hair done
every two weeks,
nails too.
she's ninety going on
twenty two.
her favorite color is blue.
see the rug,
the drapes, the sofa,
the chair set
in the corner.
she talks about Carolina.
a boy she knew
back when.
she talks about taking the train
to go see him.
she talks
about barbeque
and ice tea and the second
world war
as if it just began.
her circle of life is close
to an end.
but she has to get her hair
done first.
new shoes.
a dress.
a purse
and a necklace
that will blend.

july zoo

the zoo stinks
on this hot summer day.
the gorillas are fat
and dark,
heavy in
the far corners of
a man carved cave.
smaller ones are in
the water,
asleep in the shade.
there is nowhere to go
in this heat,
no play
left in them.
flies buzz. birds sit still
on branches
high above.
what is there to do?
they look out, we look
in.
hard to know the difference
sometimes.

pull the plug

let's not punish
each other.
stop calling one another names.
remembering
past hurts.
faults we both share.
let's pull
the plug on this
love
that's fast going
down
a drain.
let's pack and leave.
let it end
now.
or start it clean,
and new,
is that possible?
once again,
though we both know,
that can't be true.

lucky penny

there are no lucky
pennies.
if they were,
would they be lying there
in the street,
stepped on,
rolled over by hot tires,
ignored
and dirty,
crusted in the sun?
no one wants
them.
if that's luck, I want
no part of it.
give me the coin
in my pocket.
the one
on the shelf.
the nickel, the dime,
the quarter,
the kennedy half dollar.

throw me a kiss

throw me
a kiss and i'll write you
a poem.
a short
story based
on what we don't quite
know.
hold me in your arms
and the story
will get longer.
the plot will thicken.
the characters fleshed out.
make love to me
and the shelves will fill
with books
of where we are now,
how far we've
come.

you can't get home in time

some days you can't
get home.
the line at the bank is long.
the grocery
store is full of coupon
holders,
with long lists, and children
crying.
you hold your quart
of milk
and pound of fish
and sigh.
you hit every light.
a dog crosses
the road.
a fender bender makes
everyone merge
right.
some days you can't home
in time.

what storms are for

the lights flicker
as the wind picks up.
the rain pounds
the windows.
it's a welcome storm.
it keeps us
inside, together.
safe
and warm.
we have nowhere to go
except towards
each other.
that's what storms
are far,
I suppose.

come here, sit close

come here,
she says, sit by me.
pull the chair up close.
she smells of
warm milk and toast.
she touches me
with an old hand.
roped in blue veins.
the nails are a quiet
shade of blue.
tell me, she says,
with a smile,
her grey eyes wet.
tell me something you
haven't told me
before. a story, a tale
of your life.
it doesn't matter
if it's true.

june beach

the sand is cold
on this june beach.
the water colder.
you see a crab in a sweater,
a gull
with a scarf.
the water taffy is stone.
it's too early
for this
vacation.
too soon to swim
or lie out
and turn gold.
it feels
like we might be in
for a storm,
a wintery mix
of snow.

jewels

her rings,
all in a row.
set side by side in her
jewelry box.
emeralds and gold.
love gifts. affection.
birthdays,
or Christmas.
special occasions with a new
beau.
a bracelet,
a necklace.
ear rings.
they glimmer in the low
light of her
vanity.
each
gem a story to be told,
or lost
and forgotten, but
these days, at this age,
and time,
the new ones
are coming slow.

scratched

the world is scratched,
caught,
repeating the same line
over and over
again, stuck in
the same song
on the ancient turn
table.
it's the only song we know,
each new
soul, puts his hand on
the needle
and drops it down
to start again.

oh louie louie

I could never bowl.
neither ten pins, or ducks.
could never get my feet right,
the rhythm down.
I didn't like the taste of beer
or French fries.
back then
everyone smoked.
threw a ball with a camel
hanging out of their
mouth.
those silky shirts,
joe's pizza stitched fancily
on the back.
star cleaners.
lube brothers and pop's
ice cream.
those shoes with the number
on the back.
a flimsy felt.
worn a million times,
smelling of
Lysol.
but I liked the juke box
playing
dusty springfield
and james brown,
the four tops and louie
louie, trying hard
to figure out the words.

the drug

some drink,
some fight, some eat,
some
find their fix in a drug,
or sex,
or a mountain
that has
to be climbed.
sports,
or dice.
to each his own burden
of making
this life
livable
and right.

it's the game

the old men
on the court in the hot sun.
old dogs
barking,
running,
limping towards
the hoop.
knees wrapped,
hats on
to keep the blaze
of heat
off their wrinkled
brows.
still at it after all
these years.
the shoes tied tight,
the jerseys
pulled over
the bellies. in between
games
the stories are told,
remember when.
it's an oasis of life.
nothing else
matters when you're here.
it's the game.

it's the game

the old men
on the court in the hot sun.
old dogs
barking,
running,
limping towards
the hoop.
knees wrapped,
hats on
to keep the blaze
of heat
off their wrinkled
brows.
still at it after all
these years.
the shoes tied tight,
the jerseys
pulled over
the bellies. in between
games
the stories are told,
remember when.
it's an oasis of life.
nothing else
matters when you're here.
it's the game.

morning pancakes

I wake up in a house
full of people.
I don't know who they are.
I must have
left the door open last night.
a woman
is in the kitchen making
breakfast.
I hear the beater
on, as she makes pancake
batter
in a bowl.
I scratch my head
and look at the man lying
next to me
in my bed.
what the hell, I say
to him.
it's early, he says. go
back to sleep.
I get up and step over
a boy scout troop on the floor.
there's a cat
in the big chair,
a dog
in the bathtub licking
the faucet.
I must be dreaming, I
realize,
but I could use a pancake
or two.
if I can stall the dream
and wait for that,
that would be nice.

how to grille fish

I think about rereading
my self help
books
that litter the house.
I haven't read
them in a while
and i'm feeling a little
our of sorts.
I pick one up
and turn to the page
that I dog eared
a long time ago.
I see where I've underlined
on particular
sentence, and highlighted
it in yellow.
This too shall pass, it says.
there's a date beside it.
ten years ago.
I feel better already
and slide the book back
onto the shelf,
snug against how to grille
fish.

diving for pennies

we used to dive
for pennies in the deep end.
our ears would
pop,
and our lungs nearly
burst
as we grabbed the grate
at the bottom,
feeling
with our small hands
for that little brown
dot, blurry
in the chlorine water.
what else was there to do?
we were too young
to think
about sunbathing
and staring at girls
on the rubber strapped
lawn chairs,
lathered in coconut oil.
that would come next
summer.
but for now diving for
pennies
was enough.