shut up

there's not a funny
thing in you today.
not a joke, or smirk,
or sling
of sarcasm.
you no longer pop
out with a random
word or observation
about the insanity
of it all,
finding easy prey.
quiet is okay for now.
silence.
let everything lie
where it is.
begin again tomorrow,
or the next day.

saying nothing

i can't always write
what i want to write.
i censor myself.
i feel the eyes upon
the page,
taking in each word
measuring what's been
said.
i write, then prune,
then add and subrtact
once more, then erase.
it's better that way.
saying nothing when
there's nothing nice
to say.

making it across

sometimes the ice
is thin.
but still I go out.
I listen for
the subtle cracks
that will break and take
me in.
I know
it's deep if I go
through.
that I may die, that
I may freeze in
this thick cold water,
but I go out.
I want sometimes what
I can't have,
or won't be given,
but I go out
just the same.
I gently step onto
the ice,
the blue frozen pond
holding the sky
and I hope this time
i'll make it across.

nutty buddy

the ice cream
truck awakens me as I recover
with a patch
on one eye.
the grit of something
beneath the lid
making me blink.
but the truck with its
repeating
tune of elongated notes
brings me
to the window
where the children
in the court run wild,
having not had ice cream
since yesterday.
I can see them clearly
now.
the white of their teeth,
the color of their eyes,
the brown of their
long hair or short.
they scream
and run in all directions
to get the money
needed for a snow
cone, a creamsicle,
or nutty buddy.
my favorite.

a different face

it's the imperfect
world
that interests you.
the out of tune piano,
tom waits,
the torn sleeve,
the broken
tooth, or bone.
the dog with one leg.
the prom
without a date.
the fruit with a soft
spot.
the double yolk
egg.
the awkward phase
of youth,
or old age,
the unpolished
shoe,
a button gone loose,
the moons ragged edge,
a different face.

and now you know

as I sit
at the end of the bed
pulling socks on,
stepping into pants,
sliding a shirt
over my head,
my shoulders, sticking
arms into the openings.
I sigh and breathe.
I find my shoes,
put them on,
make a bow.
there was a time when
someone did these
things for you,
when you were young
and small.
this is how we do it,
she said.
and now you know.

wipe your feet

I remember how concerned he
was about
sand.
about tracking sand into
the beach house.
he kept a vacuum on each
floor.
a tub of water
on the porch, fresh
and cold to dip your sandy
feet in,
then a towel,
a mat.
and a sign that said
wipe your feet before
entering.
it was just a week at
the beach. a long week.
my feet have never been
so clean
and free of sand.

missing

I see my face
on a poster tacked to a pole
down
the street.
missing it says.
it's me from several
years ago.
tanned, hat on, carefree
and smiling.
missing it says.
no reward, but if you
see him,
tell him we said
hello.

the rented room

the rented room
above the store is fine.
the bed hard,
the sheets pulled tight,
two pillows
on the spread, side
by side.
the window is propped open
by a wooden spoon.
the light curtain
of a shadowed green
hang to the sill, blows in.
a tv sits
on the dresser,
there's a bible
in the drawer.
a pen, a pad of paper.
it's fine. this room.
the black phone
on the night stand.
the long black cord.
it's just one night, or
two.
perhaps more.

revisiting lakes

you see the broken
hearted
at the lake.
of all ages.
they sit alone and stare
endlessly
out across the placid
water.
wondering what if.
you give them room.
you allow
them this grief,
this strange grey sorrow
of love lost.
there are no words to say.
there is no magic,
no
easy way through
to be healed
and whole again.
for now it's just this,
this lake.

the new book

the book surprises you.
how complex it really is
despite what you thought.
it goes in a direction
you didn't see coming.
it scares
you on some level, but
you don't want to put it down
either.
characters
appear reappear never
quite out of the picture.
there is the hint of danger,
the risk of love,
the risk of once again losing
everything you care for.
you keep reading.
you like the book,
you are falling in love
with the book, you
don't want to put it down,
but it scares you.

the work

the butcher
is covered in blood.
he likes it like that.
his smock
stained with the days work.
his cheeks bristle red
from the cold.
his muscles ache,
his fingers have stiffened
into claws.
the tiles are white
behind him, the knives
shine silver, sharp
and pointed.
he knows his beef, his
sides, his
pigs, how to break a
chicken down. he thinks
nothing of what has died.
he just works.
bring him a fish and
it will be boneless
in no time.
then he goes home
to the kids, the wife.
he speaks little of his
day. these are separate
lives.

out in the woods

the bed
which wasn't really a bed
but a hard
futon
was located in the basement
between
pillars of home and garden
magazines
dating back
to the Reagan era.
they wobbled if touched,
each standing three
foot in height.
clothes were hung
on wire hangers, each door
full, unable
to be closed.
the bed was where the dog
slept
during the day,
a horse blanket was folded
at the end,
fresh from the barn.
there was no light
but the overhead light
which was bare
and burned a hundred watts.
the windows
didn't open from fear
of snakes, locked
tight on both sides.
it was a hard relationship.
sleeping over,
with no tv, or radio or
cell phone reception.
once in a while there was
the rare doling out of affection
with
an occasional touch
on the shoulder,
when bringing you a sandwich
of tuna
with the crusts cut off, or a
bowl of soup
with a chicken bone rattling
about in a chipped bowl
found at a yard sale.

first day of school

these poor children
standing on the corner.
back packs loading them
down like mini
astronauts awaiting lift
off.
the fear in their eyes,
stiff in their new clothes,
the timid waves to
parents crying,
as the ship arrives,
yellow and long
with black lettering,
the same as they've always
been. a stout woman, or
old man at the wheel,
flipping the doors
open, yelling sit down
and be quiet.
off they go, first day
at school. the dream
is over.

off key

art is not
my thing, nor is
playing music.
not a key board
or a drum stick,
or string,
feels right
in my hand.
I look at a block
of stone
and see
a block of stone,
the white canvas
is just that.
a snow storm
with no one in it.
if I sing the dogs
howl,
the neighbors bang
shoes against the wall.
I have to find other
ways to say what I want,
or spare the world,
and say
nothing at all.

the new job

this clerk, this woman
at the grocery
store, small and round,
I remember her the day
she started over
twenty years ago.
I over heard her talking
to customers.
today is my first day
she said happily.
her hair was dark, she was
young.
I remember her polishing
apples, stacking pears,
moving
lettuce into bins.
I look at her as I pass by,
pushing my cart
full of groceries,
she's quiet as her hands
work without thought,
staring down.
I wonder what day she's on now.

i've seen worse

it hasn't rained
in ages.
the earth is dry.
livestock lie where
they've died
with bloated bellies,
the bones bleached white.
the crops have fallen
flat and brown
to furrows in the earth.
not a cloud
floats
in the sky.
every flower is bent,
wilted
with thirst.
how long can we
survive this drought.
sit on
our porches
fanning ourselves
and talking
about when will it
rain again. only the aged
seem unworried.
they peer out
the screen door and say
don't worry
about it. I've seen worse.

small things

it only takes
a pebble in your shoe,
a splinter
in a thumb,
a tooth to ache
to darken
your day.
a broken lace,
or spill
upon your shirt.
a word said in anger
towards you,
a car that veers
in front.
the small things
add up
sometimes and you
can't wait
to get home
and be done.

don't worry

I wake up
from the anesthesia
in a white room.
i'm lying on an altar
wearing
a suit.
it's white with black
lapels. a ruffled shirt.
I see the shine of my
black patent leather
shoes.
I smell the carnation
pinned to my coat.
masked men and women
wearing blue
are around me.
some holding scalpels,
others
eating fruit.
apples and peaches.
they lift their masks
and take
fat juicy bites.
a priest approaches me,
sprinkles holy
water on my forehead
and says, don't worry.
everything is going fine,
you're just in love,
you'll be
alright.

the longest running show

it's not Shakespearean by any
stretch.
the family drama,
although tragedy and mirth
runs rampant.
it's more
like a sit com
that should have been
cancelled
after one season.
the canned laughter,
the crocodile
tears,
the plot lines
that go nowhere.
there's
the matron who refuses to die,
the father
who disappeared.
a band of children trying
badly at times,
to survive.
the stage is full of
characters too cliché
and stereotyped
to be believed.
it's the longest running
show in your life.

did you hear

it used
to happen at
the back fence,
after the laundry was hung
to dry,
after the kids
were put
to school. when there
was a calm,
a moment when holding
a cup of
coffee, that the news
was made
clear.
the neighbor
next door would lean
forward, arms
resting on the rail,
and whisper, hey,
did you hear.

ship wrecks

you know the ship wrecks
when you meet
them.
that distant stare.
those thread bare clothes.
those words of woe
after a lifetime
of sailing and crashing
on the rocks,
stranded on deserted shores.
there's never
a sunny day,
never are seas calm,
a coast clear.
you know them when
you meet them,
these ship wrecked souls,
they need help
to get back out to sea,
they want you to come
along,
to get on board,
go down they say,
go down with me.

we can help you

the industry
of scamming is endless.
they are tireless in their
efforts, working
on the dumb,
the old,
the confused masses
that pick up the phone
say hello.
we are the irs,
we are the bank,
we are the physician,
the mortician,
the insurance salesman.
we can fix
your computer, your
windows,
your roof, your
heater.
we can bring God into
your life. You like God,
don't you?
we can get you out of
debt,
pay off your student loan.
we can heal your
liver, put a spring in
your step.
just give us
your name, your number
your date of birth,
a bank account
and we will make you
whole.

the appraiser

she could hold
a piece of silver in her hand,
measure the weight
by touch,
see
if the paint on
the portrait was old
or older
than the date inscribed.
she knew
periods of
time, when wood was
carved
and made into something,
rich and
unique, sublime.
that vase? that clock,
that necklace,
bring it here and put
it under the light.
she could look into
your heart and know what
was true,
or a lie.
she had not just one,
but two
good eyes.

two states

it shouldn't matter, but
somehow it does.
states being divided
by mere lines on a map,
a stripe of blue,
the river.
it shouldn't mean a thing,
the differences
between us and them,
how they behave,
we act.
the way they drive,
or talk,
or think, so different
across that line.
isn't it the same
air that we breathe,
the same
sun or moon above us.
strangely there seems to
be more to it,
than that.

the slow go

she burns
slow. small embers
crackling
in her stove.
she takes her time in
coming around.
nibbles at
the edges of me.
speaks softly
and kind.
there is no rush in
her.
no hurry
in getting where she
wants to go.
she has the patience
that
I've lacked,
but always wanted
to learn, to know.

i almost died

the year, that frightful year,
that my ex went on a diet
I nearly died.
no sugar
or salt, no butter or
cream,
no chips
or candy anywhere.
no cookies to be found,
or cake,
or red meat.
not a single granule
of sugar, refined
or otherwise.
I grew gills from eating
so much fish.
I fluttered my
wings and clucked from
eating
chicken after chicken,
boiled
with the skin
off. divorce saved my
life.
the second the ink dried,
I wasn't worried
so much
about my next true
love,
my next cell mate, no
I ran out and bought
a rack of ribs
with all the trimmings
and a cherry pie.

the slice of pie

on Christmas eve
my mother
would set out a slice of pie,
mince meat,
and a glass of milk
for Santa.
peering around
the corner, unable
to sleep
I saw my father eating
the pie,
drinking the milk.
I ran out in my pajamas
and yelled, hey.
what are you doing?
that's not for you,
which made him laugh
and carry me to bed
with his rough
beard against my face,
his whiskey breath
upon me.
we'll put out more,
he said.

the middle of the storm

the calm is eerie.
are we in the middle of the storm
or has it passed.
no phone calls, no emails,
no threats of slander,
no one at the door
with a restraining order
to keep you
off the premises.
maybe they're tired of being
angry.
the balloon of their
angst has burst,
or maybe they're resting
for the final
act, gathering winds
to blow you and those
they dislike completely
off the map.

red ink

the over due
bill comes to you in red
ink.
a penalty attached.
red gets your attention,
studies have
shown.
take the bull for example
in the ring.
he doesn't like
red either.
a woman in a red dress,
beware,
she's up to no
good.
the stop sign, the red light.
but this red ink,
I know I paid this bill.
at least I
think I did
when I paid the other ones,
licked a stamp
and dropped them
in the mail.
wait a minute.
there it is
stuck to the back
of magazine I ordered.

play on

the sound your knee
makes
is not unlike a stick
cracking
that you step upon
in the woods.
the shoulder too has
it's own
voice, crickets
chirping between the bones.
the neck
the knuckles, you
are a symphony of
sound,
long out of tune.
but you still play on.

play on

the sound your knee
makes
is not unlike a stick
cracking
that you step upon
in the woods.
the shoulder too has
it's own
voice, crickets
chirping between the bones.
the neck
the knuckles, you
are a symphony of
sound,
long out of tune.
but you still play on.

night reading

in bed before
eleven with book in hand,
the tv
off, the phone muted,
I lie
there against
a wall of pillows and
read.
one lamp on,
a bright curve of light
upon me.
I turn a page or two.
look at the back page
to see how long
the book is,
I reread the first page
to see what
I remember, then go back
to from where I
started, page ten,
ear marked with a corner
turned. i'm sleepy
now. I'll try again
tomorrow.

not your day

not everyday is a home
run.
not even a single,
or double,
sometimes
you never get to any
base,
you swing and miss, foul
off ball after ball,
then strike out.
sometimes the ball
hits you
between the numbers
and even then
they send in a pinch
runner. it's just not
your day.

the dream

the dream
is no different
than the now. awake
in the moment.
can you draw a line
around it,
make sense of what
any of it
means.
you guess at
the stars in the sky.
the life
you lead,
or don't lead.
so hard to tell one
from the other,
awake,
or the dream.

smarty pants

she's not only
book smart, but street smart.
kitchen smart
too,
and some other rooms
in the house.
so that makes her house
smart, I guess.
there's hardly a room
that she's
not smarter than me in.
she's even smart
when out and about
walking, not even needing
the google
on her phone
to look stuff up
that I ask her
and don't know.

christmas all year

it's Christmas
and your birthday
all year long
with the amazing
delivery service
these days.
how nice to have a big
brown box, or a small
package
on the porch
when you get home from
work, or
open the door in
the morning.
oh my, you say
gleefully,
bending over to pick
it up, shaking the box,
pressing the package,
what have I bought for
myself this time.

off to college

she takes
her daughter to college.
a u haul van
hooked up to the back of the car.
but they need
to stop one more
time at target.
a few things have been
forgotten
after nineteen trips
there
for sheets and blankets,
lamps and dishes,
forks, spoons,
pillows, towels,
pens and paper,
printers, chargers,
art work for the walls,
underwear, an alarm clock,
a radio, snacks, gum,
dishtowels, plates,
Tupperware,
and a microwave,
a small fridge. make up
and other assort girl
necessities. but something
has been forgotten.
they aren't sure
what it is
but they'll walk the aisles
until it appears.
there's still a tiny bit
of room in
the trunk left to fill.

starting over

the statues
are suddenly offensive.
they've been there over
a hundred years.
the names on the building.
the carvings,
the pictures,
the books they read,
the homes they lived in.
we are guilty.
we are shamed.
let's burn the world
down and start over,
rewrite history.
pretend that nothing bad
ever happened.
that no one
has the right to be praised
unless he died
on a cross
and rose
from a grave.

the pizza joint

you can get eggs there,
all day, scrapple, hash browns,
lasagna too. a waitress
in a wig
will serve you at your booth.
but it's mostly pizza
that goes out the door.
calzones,
sub sandwiches.
fifty years or grease
and mozzarella,
pepperoni
with sal behind the counter
with his wife,
gina.
the kids too, the big
kid,
the sassy one at the grill,
the daughter, too gorgeous
for this place
giving you a wink as she
puts your greek salad
in a bag, your napoleon
in a box.
now it's over.
the sign's up saying,
thanks, but we're done.
we'll miss you.
the doors are closed,
it's dark in there
while workers break down
the ovens,
carry chairs and tables
out the back. throw menus
in the trash.
a sign is still taped
to the front door.
single slice and a coke,
three bucks. a nail salon
is coming next.

feeling glum

my bartender pete
says, what's wrong. you seem glum.
he pushes
a gin and tonic
in front of me, drops in
a wedge of lime.
girl trouble, he says,
putting his hands
on the bar,
tossing a towel over his
shoulders.
love will break your heart
sometimes, he says.
stick with it, she'll come
around.
I stir the drink with
the clear swizzle stick,
stabbing the lime.
what's up buddy?
work? I've never seen
you so down. look at you
all gloomy and quiet.
what is it?
family issues? your crazy
sisters again? I know
your mom isn't well.
your son? is he okay?
nah, I tell him, taking
a long sip
of the gin and tonic.
it's not that, it's not
any of that, that's all good.
i'm just worried about the up
coming season.
we lost so many good
players, and we have yet
to sign
our quarterback. we don't even
know who's going to start
at running back. have you
taken a look at
our schedule this year?
it's brutal. pete nods
and shakes his head.
menu? he says.
no, that's okay, i'm not
really hungry.

bring snacks

the news is
so bad that you try to crawl
under
your bed,
but others have already
gone there.
move over you whisper,
give me
some room.
let's hide together and
wait out this
storm
that never seems
to end.

which tree

so many trees
have fallen.
mostly in the night it seems
when
a wind swept
through.
it's hard to know who's
turn it is.
so many friends have passed,
they too
caught
in their sleep,
leaving us behind
to grieve, to wonder,
who's next,
which tree.

which tree

so many trees
have fallen.
mostly in the night it seems
when
a wind swept
through.
it's hard to know who's
turn it is.
so many friends have passed,
they too
caught
in their sleep,
leaving us behind
to grieve, to wonder,
who's next,
which tree.

the slow elevators

the slow elevators
are not a lesson in patience.
i stare at
the three blue doors, all
needing a new
coat of paint
and gaze at the blinking
numbers above them,
a crowd gathers as they
wait too.
there are groans as one
elevator nears
the first floor, but
then goes up
again to ten, then twelve.
there's one in the basement,
the middle one,
but it isn't moving,
the light stuck on B.
another fluctuates
between six and seven,
occasionally dropping
to five.
some people take the stairs,
cursing as they bang
up the steps,
others
lean against the wall
or one another.
a prayer begins as children
cry,
someone throws down
a rug and lies down
facing mecca.
there's a war dance,
a rosary appears.
a man holding a snake
throws it in the air,
his bug eyes rolling in his head.
a woman wearing
culottes places her
hands on door number three
and begins speaking
in tongues.

put the knife down

i recognize some of the people
on Dr. Phil as i turn on the tv
with a big bowl of popcorn
in front of me and a pitcher
of white Russians.
i know these people. in fact
i'm related to them by blood.
i turn the volume up
and put my feet on the coffee table.
you people need to stop hurting
one another, the good doctor says
in his country twang,
glasses perched on his nose.
he points a finger and wags
it in their faces.
the lights in the studio
shine off his enormous bald head.
now listen,
when she stabs you with a carving
knife, don't you pick up the knife
and stab her back. no, refrain
from stabbing one another.
you two are siblings for crying
out loud. you have the same momma,
and i presume, daddy too.
put the knife down sister,
and put it back
into the kitchen drawer where
you found it.
then help her apply
a tourniquet to her
arm or leg, or god forbid
her neck. good golly miss molly,
stop hurting one another people.
we solve nothing with violence,
isn't that right audience?
(loud clapping ensues. someone yells out,
put the knife down, a chant develops,
put the knife down, put the knife down!)
okay, okay.
when we come back from commercial
break, we'll discuss
what precipitated this stabbing,
and why this one
put a restraining order on her
sister for sleeping with her
husband, and fathering a set
of twins. the twins will be brought
out too, so that you can decide
who looks like who. we'll be
right back.

rolling dice with the universe

not a single number
on my tickets come up on
my five lottery tickets.
I feel shorted by seven hundred
million clams. ducketts.
dead presidents on paper.
it's almost like luck in
reverse.
can it be true,
unlucky at cards, lucky
in love.
what if neither is true?
what if it's not luck,
but fate, or destiny,
that makes you a winner,
sends you the girl, or maybe
God is rolling the dice
with the universe, going
against what Einstein said.

rolling dice with the universe

not a single number
on my tickets come up on
my five lottery tickets.
I feel shorted by seven hundred
million clams. ducketts.
dead presidents on paper.
it's almost like luck in
reverse.
can it be true,
unlucky at cards, lucky
in love.
what if neither is true?
what if it's not luck,
but fate, or destiny,
that makes you a winner,
sends you the girl, or maybe
God is rolling the dice
with the universe, going
against what Einstein said.

done with time

i open the junk drawer in
the kitchen
where dead phones abound.
flintstones and smarts,
screws and nails,
rubber bands
and paper clips. white out
and Elmer's glue.
there are watches too.
all still ticking
keeping time, some off
an hour or three,
some slow by minutes,
others just right waiting
for a hand to find
them, and take them
for a ride, but i'm done
with keeping time.
choosing to ignore it,
letting the sun
and moon, the lunar pull
decide.

mums

I find the freshest
and largest pot of mums
to bring
to my mother, to set on her
small
wobbling night
stand in
the senior home hospice.
blossomed blue.
a picture too.
she won't notice,
but somehow it brightens
the room,
brightens me to do
such a little thing
for her,
at the end of this
strange and winding road.

the eclipse

almost finished with
my eclipse cardboard box.
the hole cut in.
the white backing, the edges
taped, but i'm too late.
it's over.
I wanted so badly to see
it without going blind.
I go back inside
and try to use a lightbulb
as the sun
and a hard boiled egg
as the moon.
it sort of works,
but it's not the same.
I crack the egg open,
salt it down
and eat it.

the street artist

the police artist
was sketching another chalk
outline
of a body
in the old hood.
she'd done a few hundred
this year alone,
but she was doing it
in a way
that reminded you of
matisse,
the thick wavy lines,
or Picasso, with a head
or toro were the other
should be,
one, drapped over
the curb,
was more salvadore
dali. she put a clock
in too, dripping with time.
she'd stand back when
done, then go kneel down
for touch ups,
to crook a leg left
of right. or put
a hand raised in the air,
or chalk in the surprise
of a faceless face.

line in the sand

there's line
in the sand that you've
drawn
for many things.
unable to take it anymore.
to listen
or enable
those who behave
in bad ways,
and have their entire lives.
you finally break
and give it to them.
tell them exactly how you
feel.
this shocks them,
makes them defensive
and angry, but
never once do
they say,
maybe he's right, maybe
I should look in
the mirror and try
for once
not to be this way.

saving the letter

I toss the letter
into the fire, but quickly
change my
mind and pull it from
the fireplace.
I blow the flame
out, tap at the singed
edges of
black and red
embers.
the smoke rises into
my eyes and burn.
I can still read everything
that's written.
I fold it up
and put it with the others
for safe keeping.
it's good to remember
things
just to keep you from
making the same mistake
again.

the recipe

the recipe
is old. the paper it's on is
old.
yellowed,
wet and dry
with flour and oils.
oregano, thyme.
words are
smudged in her own
hand, but
you can make them out.
how many times
did she use
this over the years,
the decades,
remembering by heart
each measurement,
each ingredient,
but never once
giving thought
to throwing it out.
now it's yours.

it's bigger

there's the picture,
the day, the moment
the hour.
but there's a bigger
picture too.
beyond me,
beyond you.
it's hard see it when
you're up that close.
unseeing the forest
for the trees.

a half a cup

my neighbor,
the piano teacher,
came over one night
to borrow some olive
oil.
she knocked at my door
with a small bowl
to hold it in.
normally when she knocked
she was carrying a glass
of wine and a nearly
empty bottle of chardonnay.
she was almost always crying.
not this time.
i'm cooking for my fiancé,
she said.
and I just need a little oil
to finish
the recipe. half a cup will do.
my fiancé is waiting,
for me.
he's a teacher at my school.
he's younger than you
taller too.
perhaps you'll meet some day.
I gave her the bottle
and said keep it. my gift
to you
and your fiancé.

the change in us

I see the change
in you, the change in me.
I notice
the distance
that we keep, no longer
hand
on shoulder, or knee.
the gap has grown
as we lie asleep,
the talks
have slowed, the kisses
aren't as sweet
as they used to be.
I see the change in you,
the change in me.
tomorrow might be
different, but I doubt
it.

getting out

the dog wants in
the dog wants
out.
the bird rattles in
her cage,
the wings trimmed,
the swinging door
locked.
the marriage on
the rocks,
the hospital bed,
the coffin
where we lie.
we were not made
to be within,
stuck
where we don't want
to be.
we itch to be
on the road, in
the air, to be free.

saving

we salvage
what we can. metals,
tin,
fools gold, and silver.
we save string, making
a large ball.
pennies clink
into the can.
coupons cut are stacked.
there's even one for spam.
we go easy on the water,
the lights
kept down to one, and that
one low.
these shoes have
another year in them,
same with these thread
bare clothes.
we salvage love,
doling out just enough
to keep loved
ones close.
we do just enough
to keep
the home fires burning,
a log
a day, letting a small
flame glow.

judges

the judges in black
are human too.
not all cases get handled
the same way,
with fairness to all.
maybe
they got up on the wrong side
of the bed,
they have a cold,
or headache,
they might be hungover
from too many manhattans
at the local bar,
or the wife or mistress
said no
last night.
they slap down the gavel
and give
the verdict
read by the jury,
it's just another day.
another crime,
another string of mishaps
by miscreants who can't
get out of the their
own misguided way.

gone fishing

early in the morning,
he'd put on his
waders, his boots,
grab his tackle box,
his rods
and reels, his worms.
his dough balls
and cigarettes
and head down the river
via
panorama drive.
he'd park his white
chevy Malibu on the gravel
path,
then make his way down
to the shore
of the Potomac
river.
the sun almost
up.
the fish splashing
fat and large on the calm
water.
this was his
island, his retreat,
his sane place to be,
alone
waiting for the line to
move, to tighten,
for a fish to take the bait,
and strike.

the new horse

you buy a horse,
you've always dreamed of
having a horse, and put him
in the back yard
to roam
the pasture.
but it's only a twelve
by twelve space
with a shed
and ac unit, some ladders
and a weber
grill
tucked inside.
there might be poison
ivy along the fence,
and snakes,
but you aren't sure.
sometimes you knock on
the window
to say hey to the horse
whom you haven't named yet.
he nods his head and makes
that neighing sound
that horses do.
you should get a saddle
for him
and ride him around.
take lessons.
for now though you wait
for amazon
to deliver oats.

closing words

they come by plane
or car,
train.
some don't come at all
but prefer
to mourn
from a distance.
some take the front row
to be seen,
or the back row
to not be.
one will wait in his car
for everyone else
to leave,
then go in.
some are happy with the
reunion
dressed in bright colors,
not in black.
others,
are bent over in tears,
remembering
when. thinking we martyred
so long
for her, now what?
a few bring baked goods,
it's what they
know best.
flowers too.
words are hard to come by
except for the perpetually
long winded,
and someone will say
in closing,
it is what it is.

happy with my fix

i'm at the visiting
dog phase of life. I don't want
another, what
with the chewing
and barking, the picking up
after them,
the vet visits,
the bills, and dealing
with fur and fleas.
now, I lean down
and pet. say hey buddy.
what's up.
I might rub the belly
of a passing
grey hound,
or shepherd or fat little
dachshund who looks
like he should
be on a bun. I get a lick
or two in, then I move
on, happy with my fix.

say cheese

don't smile
the dmv worker says as I
stand
and stare into
the camera
for my new license.
they don't want happy
drivers.
they want the same glum
look you'll
have if pulled over
by the po po.
let's try again, she says,
I saw a smirk
on your face.
think of something that
makes you really really
sad.
I don't have to go far
for that, I remember
a week ago or so.
so I do.
perfect she says hitting
the button.
that's the one. very sad.
very good.
what happened?

the grudges

the grudge is long
and hard. old.
two years, three, they forget
why they're even
mad at each other.
but it's important to not
talk,
to not take a call,
to visit,
or make eye contact
when in the same room.
it's a strange sickness,
this grudge thing.
not a bone of forgiveness
or understanding
found
in their closed minds.
they drink the poison
every day to keep the grudge
fresh
and current.

piece of work

my grandmother loved
cigarettes, chained smoked them
like nobody's business.
she loved lamb chops
with mint jelly.
her tea and cinnamon toast.
and liberace
in the morning
with his lace suits
and candelabra.
she liked
billy graham and asked
us to kneel and put
our hands on the black
and white screen
when the callings were
made. she
hated those kennedys,
those rich
bastards on Hyannis port.
she like to buy the paint
by numbers
kits for all of us children,
the ones with the geese
flying over
new England waters,
then critiqued our work,
shaking her head,
saying stay between the lines.
your magenta is running
into your indigo.
she often said excuse
my French
when saying the word
damn or hell which she said
a lot.
when she died of lung
cancer at eighty, my mother
swore that she heard
her laughing, her spirit
present as we sat
around the dinner table
three days
after the funeral.
I didn't hear anything.

cleaning house

you sweep and sweep
all day,
all morning to get the dirt
out,
the dust.
the cobwebs.
you mop the floors,
scrub
the bathrooms, the kitchen
too.
you clean the closets of
what
and who
you no longer need
or want in
your life, or they needing
you.
you set everything out
on the curb
for pick up in the morning.
not a tear
is shed.
it's been a long time
coming and a welcome
relief.

the meltdowns

they
are three mile island.
human meltdowns.
the red flag
warns you, the siren too,
the tingle
down your spine
tells you,
to stay back.
keep your distance
or you will
be consumed by the toxic
fumes,
the radioactive
fallout that clicks
crazy on
the counter.
put your helmet on,
your shiny
space suit with the long
silver gloves.
close the door
behind you. keep them
where they need to be,

moving on

strange how
we disappear from other's lives
where once
we were
entwined by calls
and visits.
dinners or holidays.
then it's gone. we remember,
but it's a heavy
fog that moves in
over time.
they are there,
we sense them, but can't
see or touch
who they were.

one shoe

one shoe
is missing. it's nowhere
to be found.
it's run off without me.
down the street it went.
on its own
volition.
no sock, no foot to guide
it.
children are
that way.

a new season

it' a religion,
this thing, the leather ball.
these men
in gladiator garb.
the fire works,
the scantily clad
women
on the sidelines,
prompting blood cries.
the songs and celebration.
the worship
as the whistle blows.
the angst
and joy as young men
give
their bodies, their
tender souls. is it rome
at the end,
or just the beginning
of what's in store.

getting ready

I see the neighbor who plays
santa claus
around the holidays
at the grocery store.
he looks good,
slender from all his nightly
runs.
he has five pies in his basket
and a few gallons
of ice cream.
I nod and say hello
then look down at his
cart. he looks up at me
and smiles.
i'm getting ready, he says.
I know it's only august,
but it's good to be
prepared and look
the part. I stop running
in September. it's always
here before you know it.

the courthouse fashion

at the courthouse
you see the cats in their
new
unfitted shirts
and loose jeans,
baggy suits with
hard shoes,
barely broken in,
dress coats and pants
borrowed
for the day.
a wrong colored tie
askew to one side.
somehow the judge will
see this effort,
they believe,
and ease the pain,
lessen
the penalty for drinking
and driving,
malicious wounding,
or being a dead
beat dad, or a mom
with sticky fingers.

smooth al

al green
comes on your station.
let's stay together.
some music
you can't live without.
a song like
this
sends you.
keeps you where you
want to be.
makes you want more
of the good
things, the good times.
let's stay
together.

road trip

you talk to your father
to tell him about the chaos
going on at home.
he laughs and laughs
and says
that it doesn't surprise him.
I can almost see him shaking his
head, rolling his eyes.
so when are you coming
down again,
he says.
we'll fire up the grill,
do the pool.
watch the game.
it might be nice to get away.
he says,
then he tells me
a joke, one I've heard before,
the one about the blonde
locked in her car,
without the key.
but hey, it's still
funny.

the same

the stained glass
let's the light pour in
with long
strands of indigo
and red as you kneel
on the cushioned pew.
there's an organ playing
as the altar boys in white
work
in doing what they need
to do.
candles burn.
Christ on the cross
hangs before you.
the confessional is full.
nothing
has changed much
since
you were five, or ten not
even you.

bilingual

we often
think that we only speak
one language.
but you don't have to travel
far
to know that that's not
true.
crossing the bridge
just a few miles away proves
that time
and time again.
at first you think that
our education system has failed us,
but if you listen closely,
read between the lines,
and observe
body language,
you get the gist
of what they're trying to
say.
they do the same, making
gestures like koko
the monkey,
for sleep, thirst and
hunger.

crab time

the crab
feast is outside on ten
large picnic tables.
there's little cups of vinegar
and butter spread about,
hammers and pliers,
napkins stacked on the spread
newspapers,
and beer. tubs of beer.
the crabs are covered
in a sand seasoning, steaming
in piles
on each table. gritty and red.
it's a frenzy of eating.
fingers bleeding, picking out
the white morsels
of the dead crustaceans.
six hours later,
exhausted, everyone gets
up to rinse their hands
and arms
with bottled water, bandage
up the cuts,
then they
to go out to eat.

still at it

the band is tight.
they've been playing for years,
decades.
the old album cover shows them all
with long
hair
and thin faces.
guitars in hand. you know
every song by heart.
their voices though
have lost
the range. which is understandable
at seventy.
some are grey and bald,
but holding on to a long
pony tail
that dangles
down the back of their sequined
shirts.
still it's a good show.
one that brings back
memories of your
own youth,
playing drums on the dashboard
of your friend's
mother's car
on a Saturday night.

the whiskey days

your father loved his
Canadian club whiskey. did
your mother drive
him to drink, perhaps.
but it was a short drive.
we're they bad for each other.
without a doubt.
she could throw a plate
with the best of them
if there was lipstick on his
cheek.
what was love
to a telephone operator
in Philadelphia
barely out of school
and a sailor on shore
leave trying to call home
to Boston.
it was short lived.
seven kids
in twelve years, two
that didn't make it which
would have made nine.
was it love, true love,
forever and ever love,
probably not.
I never saw the tattoo
with her name in the inked heart,
they both tried and failed,
thus the whiskey, the
Canadian club.

the missing glasses

she can't see
without her glasses.
in fact I've never seen her without
a pair on.
even when she was a child,
there they were, perched on
her nose.
who took them? a memento perhaps,
slipped
into a purse or pocket,
or lost
in the shuffle of hands
that care for her.
the glasses have changed
through the years.
the black frames,
once tapped together with
white bandage tape,
the wide
ones,
the fancy
and sublime ones.
keeping hip with the day,
the glass thick as bottles.
I remember putting them on
as a kid
and feeling blind
and dizzy, holding my hands
in the air
trying to touch
the wall or chair
without falling,
but now, she has none.
her brown eyes are frameless.
she lies there
staring as if she's underwater,
never knowing who goes,
who comes.

sign here

what isn't insured?
hard
to find anything
that isn't.
car, home,
boat. health
insurance
for down the road.
the old age road.
insurance
for the trip to spain,
the new tv
just out of the box.
the ac,
the roof
in case a storm blows
down a tree.
it's a racket, no
doubt,
and the odds are not great
that any of it
gets used,
but so it goes, sign here
and worry no more.

love like that

I can see
that they are caught in the rain
with no umbrella.
but they don't care
as they stand
in the open, embracing,
soaked against
one another.
love
ignores the weather.
I want love
like that.

the book club

i meet with the book club
to discuss
the latest offering.
run rabbit run by updike.
it's been two weeks since
the last meeting.
vacations have delayed
the date.
there's cake and coffee
on the table,
before the wine is poured.
we sit in a circle,
holding our books in our laps.
some never opened, some
wet and crinkled,
some the wrong book.
one person says, i'm sorry,
I just love joe updike, but
I didn't have time,
but I did see the movie..
I rented it on Netflix,
but the doorbell rang
so I missed the whole ending.
another says that her
son had whooping cough,
which makes another suggest
lemon water for the kid
to gargle with.
what about this eclipse
on Monday, someone says.
I want to look but I don't
want to go blind. three people
say out loud,
you have to get the glasses.
who made this cheesecake?
it's delightful.
another bottle of wine
gets opened.
the books go under the
chair. two women begin
knitting. a man takes out
his phone and shows us
a picture of his grandkid
in a tub with bubbles
all around him. next week.
war and peace.

the bouncing age

all day
the kids next door jump on
their trampoline.
they are trying to reach the sky,
the sun,
they are birds
without wings.
sometimes there's three
kids, or
more.
all bouncing crazily
into the air.
their hair flying,
their mouths and eyes wide
open.
they scream with joy,
bouncing and bouncing
until
they cant bounce anymore.

no secrets anymore

all the secrets
are out there. whispered.
with just
a few clues. but no one
knows for sure
what really happened.
who did what to who.
everyone thinks they know
from what they gather
in the news,
or will know soon.
but in the end
we all find out somehow
the unvarnished truth,
there are no secrets
anymore.

pandora's box

as I lie on the floor
with a flashlight
trying to read
off the numbers on my router
and the password
I think back dreamily
of buying 45 records
and placing them on the turntable.
dropping the needle
and hearing the tin
scratch of music
coming out of the hinged
speaker.
but it's come to this now.
hooking up
to the cloud, or sky, or
someplace I have no clue
as to where it might be.
it's a place where everything
exists.
I just need to download
one more app,
connect the speaker,
turn on the phone,
plug in the computer,
pray and then it's frank
and elvis, dean
and nat.

enough is enough

after a while
you stop throwing
cream pies
into the faces
of clowns.
it's no fun anymore.
the thrill is gone.
it's too easy.
your arm hurts after
awhile.
what good is it if they
can't duck,
or throw back,
and that they actually
enjoy cream pies.
they just take pie
after pie, wiping
the cream filling
off their faces,
out of their eyes.
licking their lips.
it's no fun
anymore for you,
or them, but they keep
opening wide.

the crayon box

his art work
should have been framed,
the way
he used
the colors, all
54 crayons
in the box,
deftly handling the slender
stick wrapped in paper
with the name
on each side.
the subtle
blues, called robins egg,
or rain,
the velvet violets,
a variety of
greens,
canary yellow.
he outlined each
face,
each figure with the narrow
point of black.
giving blue eyes or brown,
then signed the bottom
before turning
to another page.
he was da vinci
with his coloring books.

three words

the gathering of black birds
at her grave
with heads bent in sorrow
does nothing for you.
nor do the flowers,
the words said in tears.
none of that matters.
it's what came before
that counts.
the meals, the homework,
the clothes she washed,
the gentle way she held
you when you were sick.
how she laughed
and shook her head at
so much you said,
ending each call with
three words.

what comes next

a few keys stick
on the old typewriter.
with the indigo
ribbon in place,
the white out
ready,
the jumble of letters
smudged
together, making
almost illegible words.
it's an abstract painting
on the white sheet.
but what better sound
then the clink and pull
of metal keys
striking down, the bell
rung, and the pull
of the bar back to the left.
you smile with
your fingers ready,
set for what comes
next.

the next season

the season is long.
the summer
warm
and sticky beyond belief.
there is
little to do but
sit and swing on the porch
sipping tea
and talking about
how the stars
appear and go away,
as does this harvest moon.
we speak of
yesterdays, of loved ones
gone.
we remember when the kids
were young and would
sit with us,
sing songs. the stories
we would tell on
each other.
the summer is long and sweet,
but as the light
lessens, we're ready
for fall.

speeding tickets

my lawyer, my friend,
calls to tell me to slow down.
you're driving too fast,
too reckless on the highway.
your tickets are piling up.
I tell him where I've
just been and who I've been
with and he laughs.
you need a faster car,
he says,
next time borrow mine.

speeding tickets

my lawyer, my friend,
calls to tell me to slow down.
you're driving too fast,
too reckless on the highway.
your tickets are piling up.
I tell him where I've
just been and who I've been
with and he laughs.
you need a faster car,
he says,
next time borrow mine.

celebrate

the family squabbles
have made the views skyrocket.
the profits increase.
the readers
have come out of the woodwork
like
ants seeking crumbs.
it's a champagne
celebration,
let's eat cake.
let's sing, let's
turn the music up
and dance all night.

half open

the moon,
in half,
the smooth opal
orb
above
us, then below,
it's out there with
its one
good eye that
never blinks, stoic
in its thoughts,
its views
on what we do, what
we think and say,
the truths,
the lies.

half open

the moon,
in half,
the smooth opal
orb
above
us, then below,
it's out there with
its one
good eye that
never blinks, stoic
in its thoughts,
its views
on what we do, what
we think and say,
the truths,
the lies.

the gossip column

they love to read
what you write.
they look at it
every day, obsessed,
and say,
oh no, what next,
what will he say today
that will make us sad
and weep.
the phone rings, and they
hear the secret messenger
saying, he's done it
again, hurry up
and run to read todays
paper, then hide.
oh me o my.
where's my bottle,
my binky, my blanket.
these words, these words
will make us
go tinkle and cry.

the islands

there are islands
in your world.
places that you can go,
that you can easily
swim to,
or row by boat.
there are palm trees,
there is white sand.
there is the surround
of a blue
lagoon.
it's these people
you adore and who
welcome you ashore
with open arms
and kind words
of love.

the future is now

can you imagine
having to buy water,
to drink,
or air for your tires,
or paying for tv,
you say twenty years ago,
laughing
with your father
as he adjusts the rabbit
ears, then gets us
a drink from the faucet,
what a strange world
that would be.

the water's fine

a foot into the ocean
gives you chills, you wonder
how anyone can
be out there swimming.
the other foot goes in,
then you're up to your knees,
your waist.
a wave crashes against
your chest,
finally, you give it up,
and dive in.
in time, when the cold
subsides, you wave to shore
and yell for her
to come on in, the water's
fine. but she's says no.

the family gathering

you order up a few straight
jackets for the next
family meeting.
one large, one extra large.
duct tape too,
and pepper spray.
you buy two masks,
similar to the one
used on Hannibal
Lechter,
leather with a small barred
grate to breathe
through. one size fits all.
you purchase
a bottle of valium, here,
take two!
you are determined
to make this next
family gathering
peaceful and fun, perhaps
with drinks
and finger foods.

the dark world

some people you never
want to see again.
which is fine. which is good.
some people
you can never talk
with or
agree upon anything
that might be said.
some people
don't listen, but want
to scream and curse
instead.
it's good to be out of
the room,
out of the county, the
state, the dark world
where they will
always live.

the pattern

the river
is full of tears
and apologies.
such is the pattern.
to sin
and seek forgiveness.
tonight we sleep,
tomorrow
it starts again.

the salesman

the salesman
calls.
he wants to make a deal
on your house.
you tell him no, please.
go away. I don't want to sell.
the next day he shows up
at your door,
he's dripping
in his own oil, slick
as a seal
off the coast of Alaska.
he has a pen
in hand.
a contract.
he's already pounded a sign
into your front
yard.
you try to close
the door, but he sticks
his alligator shoe
inside.
sign here, he says, smiling,
holding out a contract.
he hands you a business card
with his photo.
it looks nothing like him.
he tells you
that you look marvelous,
asking if
you've lost weight, or
if you've been working out.
how much can you lift into
the air he says,
over your head. I bet
it's a lot.
he stares at your arms.
finally you let him in.
you make
him coffee, he tells you again
how wonderful
you look as you read over
the small print of the contract
with a magnifying glass.

Saint Charles

your brother is a good man
who always
tries to do the right thing,
no,
not that one.
but the other one,
the one
with the Bible
in hand.
you can hardly blame him
for leaving this
little taste of what
hell must be like
in Saint Charles
County,
for running
away from it all
and staying home
with the phone off
the hook.
safe with loved ones.

the quiet

the woods are still.
calm.
no wind.
hardly a snake moves
upon
the ground.
there is no chatter,
no
noise
that you can hear,
there's not a bird
in the sky.
the worst is about to
happen,
or it already has.

living the good life

when they were young,
the small children would visit
their father
in prison, place their
hands upon
the glass as he would
his on the other side.
murder, drugs, embezzlement
and fraud
put him finally behind
bars.
wanted in three states, but
soon out
after finding Jesus
for the umpteenth time.
he used to hide behind
his wife's couch
when the cops
knocked on the door
with another warrant.
at the thanksgiving table,
he'd sit there with his
bullet wounds,
his neck held straight
by a metal halo,
and pass you the salt
if you asked.
she turned her head and whistled
while the crimes went
on, while the cash stacked up,
and was hidden.
he'd tie bricks to the bodies
of those he
killed letting them sink
slowly
in the muck of the Maryland
shores.
but the money was good.
all cash.
flights to the Bahamas.
friends and family,
a party for all with a
a wall around the house
and the kidney shaped pool.
it was a good life while
it lasted.

over the bridge

going home
is sweet. over the bridge.
away
from what brings
you pain.
how nice to drive
under blue skies,
rolling on the open
road, the windows
down, the music up.
free
from all that they are
and always
will be.

mints on the pillow

the woman at the inn
is old
now.
she stares out the window
bitter and alone.
the game is over.
the rooms are empty
the sign swings
off one hook on the post.
everyone is gone.
there is nothing
in the oven,
no cakes,
no buns.
the flowers are all
dead dried
and brown in the yard.
there are no more mints
on the pillows.
for no wants to be there,
no one comes.

the long end

it's a low b rick house.
in the bowels
of southern Maryland.
a broken
van on the grass,
a storm door
off it's hinges
leaning
on its rusted screws
against
the frame. a gutter
swings loose with moss.
a cracked window lets
you see in
to where the patients
sit,
shadowed in half light,
in various stages of
sleep,
chins on their chests.
unaware of where they are,
or who they are.
you ring the bell,
but there is no bell.
you knock,
someone looks out, then
lets you in.
they point with a smile
to the room
where your mother lies
alone
between the thin walls,
in silence,
living out her long long
end.

let's get the money

money.
it's about the money.
about what's left.
inheritance.
stuff.
junk.
worn out everything.
a shack of a house.
but the money
is green.
the money will buy
shiny things.
the money will soften
the life
ahead, they do,
they do, they do believe.
now let's be friends
with the king
despite how evil
he was and always will
be. let's sidle up
to him, pretend we are
his friends,
for the queen
is almost dead,
we want the money.

the russian tea cups

before she's cold.
before her
last breath has been taken,
things
go missing
in the light of day.
rings and watches,
rosary beads,
photo albums. a radio,
a pair of shoes.
how quickly the living
want what
the dead or ill
can no longer use.
a bathroom robe,
her slippers too.
Russian tea cups
and saucers
that were never used.
like vultures they
wait and prey
with wretched claws
to take
what's left behind,
where is that stash of
money, please, one whispers,
tell us.
where is it buried,
give us a clue, please

mom.

the public pool

the public pool
with its public bath
and public view.
the wide
l shape
of blue.
the spring of the board,
the whistle
blown.
the splash, the radio
playing,
the smell of lotion,
as I lie in bliss next
to the golden
stretch of you.

the final curtain

the curtain closes,
we applaud.
we stand and clap until
our hands hurt
tears in our eyes,
the lights go up.
it was a good life,
a long play.
then the curtains open
and there she is once
more.
still here,
still alive. still a wonder
and a joy
to behold. it's not
over yet.

is there a doctor in the house

is dr. freud in the house
we need him
badly.
we have two new patients
waiting
in the hall.
twisting their fingers.
crying,
as they like to do over
spilled milk,
or a poem.
blaming everyone but
themselves for the world
they live in.
they remember the past.
fifty years or more
ago through broken lenses.
who said what.
woe is me, woe is me.
is dr. freud
in the house, we need him
badly.

family

you call your
doctor to see if you can have
a dna test
to see if you're truly
related
to some of your own family.
it can't be true,
you hope and pray
that your mother
had numerous affairs,
perhaps
with the milkman,
the postman, or someone
who looks exactly
like you.

bee hive brains

their minds
are like bee hives full
of bustling bees
struck by a stick.
the words
fly out
in all directions,
they swarm
trying so hard to sting
whoever
might be in their
path,
it's hard to imagine
that they ever
get a good nights
sleep. do their wings
ever stop,
do their dark hearts
ever rest
and trust a higher
being.

thelma and louise part two

they are the only ones
that truly
love your mother. the only
ones that care,
the only ones
who have a heart and memories.
they alone must bear the burden
of her impending death.
everyone else are posers,
pretenders. Thelma
and Louise, driving
off the cliff of sanity.
with their big hair and sun tans,
their
twisted logic.
they cry and they moan,
they curse like sailors,
drunk and howl at a moon
they don't quite
understand. look at us,
they say as they drag
their crosses down the road,
pounding nails
into their hands.
they want so bad to be praised.
they whip
their own backs mercilessly
and say,
look at me, look at us,
we are the true saints in
this family. the rest of you
go home.
see, see how much we suffer
and worry.
we suffer, because we truly
love, where oh where
dear brothers are your marks,
your scars,
your blood, your misery,
show it and be miserable with
us. if you truly loved
your mother, you would do
what we tell you to do, here,
be a victim with us,
take my whip
and start beating yourself.

baby talk

there was a traffic jam
of strollers on the sidewalk
the other day.
a woman, my wife,
was taking out her
brand new baby for a walk.
five women
were bent over pinching
his cheeks,
touching his hands,
talking baby talk to the pink
bubble
of a child.
but not a single man
was around, just me wondering
what all the fuss
was about, wanting to say,
hey, you're welcome.

after

there are many afters
in front of us,
after
labor day,
after the summer ends,
after the holidays.
after I get
over this cold,
this limp, this chaos
i'm going through.
let's get together then.
after the first
of the year,
or when spring arrives.
let's try then.

after

there are many afters
in front of us,
after
labor day,
after the summer ends,
after the holidays.
after I get
over this cold,
this limp, this chaos
i'm going through.
let's get together then.
after the first
of the year,
or when spring arrives.
let's try then.

a new well

some days
the well is dry.
you drop the bucket
and it echoes when it
hits the bottom.
you've drained it dry,
taken all
that it has to give.
time for new a well,
a new place,
a new change of scenery.
time to start
digging
all again to quench
your thirst
for words.

a new well

some days
the well is dry.
you drop the bucket
and it echoes when it
hits the bottom.
you've drained it dry,
taken all
that it has to give.
time for new a well,
a new place,
a new change of scenery.
time to start
digging
all again to quench
your thirst
for words.

hanging clothes

I see my mother in the backyard
at the clothes line, wooden
clothes pins in her mouth,
stuffed
in the deep pocket of her apron.
I see her hanging wet
clothes on the line.
sheets and dresses, pants
and shirts. the white basket
beside her is full
and heavy.
the grass is wet and cold
against her feet.
a wind blows. it might be late
march, or april. wild flowers
fill the yard.
she sees me in the window
and waves. I wave back
as she smiles and blows me
a kiss.

hanging clothes

I see my mother in the backyard
at the clothes line, wooden
clothes pins in her mouth,
stuffed
in the deep pocket of her apron.
I see her hanging wet
clothes on the line.
sheets and dresses, pants
and shirts. the white basket
beside her is full
and heavy.
the grass is wet and cold
against her feet.
a wind blows. it might be late
march, or april. wild flowers
fill the yard.
she sees me in the window
and waves. I wave back
as she smiles and blows me
a kiss.

full circle

although her brown eyes
flicker with awareness,
she can't speak,
she can barely swallow.
her teeth are out.
she can't move her arms or legs.
her hands
are wrapped in socks
so that she doesn't scratch
herself.
there is baby food on her
chin,
a cup of water with a straw
in it on the sideboard
that she sips on from time
to time
when the nurse comes in.
there's nothing on the wall.
no pictures,
no tv. no music.
no flowers. this could
be anyone's room,
anyone's bed and will
be for someone else
once she passes.
this is where it ends,
not unlike how it began.
an infant
in a crib depending on
others for everything.

the good and the bad

the good sister
is practical and smart.
rational,
logical.
she got out of dodge
a long time
ago, packed her bags and
headed south
to the orange groves.
the two crazy sisters,
Thelma and Louise
are small tornados of gossip
and mayhem.
they are black cats
crossing your path,
they are the ladders
you don't want to walk
under.
they are the cracks in
the sidewalk
that you don't step on.
look up into the sky,
and you'll see
them on their brooms
writing threats
as they cackle doom
and gloom.
hard to believe we
all came from the same
set of parents.

love potion

she knows every word
to love
potion number nine, tapping
her feet
on the floor of
the car, her hands
drumming the dashboard.
she throws her
hair around and sings loudly,
you're going to need
a lotion,
a calamine lotion.
we're nineteen again
in my dad's buick,
cruising the hamburger
stand,
a can of beer in our
laps,
the windows
rolled down, the night
in front of us
as a half moon appears
out of nowhere.

taking lunch

the mailman looks sad,
but he always does just a little
in his soggy grey
uniform,
no hat, the heavy satchel
bending his shoulders,
curving his back.
I see him eating a bowl
of rice and chicken in his squared
truck
parked sideways
in a handicap spot.
he waves, and nods.
wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
he holds up his white
bowl, then looks
into it as you walk away.
your row of houses is next.
but first lunch.

taking lunch

the mailman looks sad,
but he always does just a little
in his soggy grey
uniform,
no hat, the heavy satchel
bending his shoulders,
curving his back.
I see him eating a bowl
of rice and chicken in his squared
truck
parked sideways
in a handicap spot.
he waves, and nods.
wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
he holds up his white
bowl, then looks
into it as you walk away.
your row of houses is next.
but first lunch.

not monday yet

it's the stuck door,
the key
that won't turn,
the car that won't start.
it's the lace that
breaks,
the button
fallen off, it's
the sour milk
poured, the soft
spot on an apple,
a stranger at the door.
it's not Monday yet,
but it feels like it.

not monday yet

it's the stuck door,
the key
that won't turn,
the car that won't start.
it's the lace that
breaks,
the button
fallen off, it's
the sour milk
poured, the soft
spot on an apple,
a stranger at the door.
it's not Monday yet,
but it feels like it.

when you know

at some point
the phone will ring,
a message
will appear,
or maybe there will
be a knock
at the door.
doubtful.
most likely the hours
will pass
in darkness,
but you will know.
you will feel the exit
of a loved one
without a word
being said.

when you know

at some point
the phone will ring,
a message
will appear,
or maybe there will
be a knock
at the door.
doubtful.
most likely the hours
will pass
in darkness,
but you will know.
you will feel the exit
of a loved one
without a word
being said.

letting go

it's hard
to let go of this world.
our nails
dig into
the side of the cliff
we hang
from.
we fear the unknown
despite
our faith,
we fear what lies
beyond.
we worry about those
left behind.
it's hard
to let go of this world,
to push away from all
that we love, all
that we know.

letting go

it's hard
to let go of this world.
our nails
dig into
the side of the cliff
we hang
from.
we fear the unknown
despite
our faith,
we fear what lies
beyond.
we worry about those
left behind.
it's hard
to let go of this world,
to push away from all
that we love, all
that we know.

the melting

how she loved to
eat.
to drink.
to cook and set the plates
out.
to watch
everyone else sit
down
and eat.
she waited until all
was fed
before sitting down
herself.
sweat on her brow,
out of breath.
how happy she was to
feed
her children,
friends who knocked upon
her door.
I remember this as I
stand by
her bed and watch as she
melts
like the ice
chips being spooned
into her
open mouth.

luck or fate

the right place
at the right time, a lucky
turn left,
or right.
a call on your phone
making you stop has
kept you out of harms way.
a second sooner
when crossing the street meant
doom.
missing the plane
that goes down.
going out the wrong door
at the right time
to meet the love of your life,
sleeping in,
or leaving early, each
has its question,
asking is it luck, or is
it fate.

steak dinner

it was a tough piece of meat,
this flank
steak brought
from the kitchen
still sizzling with grease.
after twenty or thirty
thorough chews, you
couldn't take it anymore
and disposed of it in a
napkin.
but the potatoes were
good. so was the corn.
in fact you made a point
of it to the cook
and said, love this corn.
to which he nodded
and tipped his tall white
chef's hat.
they don't make meat like
they used to,
I guess. should have had
the cod.

a nice place to visit

it's a nice
place to visit.
the past, that is.
look how you've romanticized
the time,
the age,
the loves that you had.
it's a rosy
colored lens you peer
through,
and make believe that life
was so wonderful
back then,
but it's a nice
place to visit
once in awhile
on a grey
cloudy day, the rain
falling
gently on your mind.

the good dog

she was a good dog.
she sat
when told to sit.
begged
when asked.
rolled over and played
dead
with the right
words said.
she had no fleas,
never chewed a shoe,
never barked too
long
or howled foolishly
at the moon.
she was a good girl.
so happy
to see me when the day
was through,
so happy to see me
when the night
ended too.

the turnstile

sometimes it's best
not to unpack.
the visit is short.
keep the cab
running outside.
keep the door open,
keep your shoes
on, your hat too.
sometimes things don't
last as long
as you thought they
would, no matter how
good they are in
the moment. accept
and move on,
the turnstile keeps
turning.

cooking together

we cook together
a great
pot of soup. I say
more salt, more pepper,
she nods okay
and pours in more
broth. she stirs awhile.
I stir. we both
lean over the pot,
to the steam
rising and say,
I think it's ready.
later, we'll make
love and agree
on that too.

the table cloth

her hands
keep moving, smoothing out
the table
cloth.
is she
planning a meal,
pondering
what gifts to buy
for her children,
what flowers to grow
in her garden.
Christmas is just three
months away.
back and forth, her fingers
stretch the linen,
her palms circling
smoothing the cloth
of her past life.

day at the zoo

we go to the zoo
to see the animals in their
cages.
to smell
and hear the life
they have come to know
and have surrendered to.
they look at us,
we look at them.
we go on about our day
as if
we are different.

inside the box

inside
the room, inside the box,
beneath
the bed
are photos, tickets torn,
mementos
of a love
once had. cards
received.
they smell of her,
the scarf,
the glove,
the ring taken from
her hand,
the brush still holding hair,
a book unfinished,
the page
earmarked, left
opened
near a light,
her glasses
on the stand.

the wedding cake

the wedding cake
was three or four tiers,
vanilla
with a soft white creamy filling
in between
each moist layer.
it was a large wedding, so
the cake was
enormous and she saved
a piece or
two or three, wrapped
in paper for the freezer.
when the marriage
was over three months
later,
she took the frozen slices
of cake and the new blender,
a new toaster
and went home to her
mother.
I cared only about
the cake.
even now,
all these years later,
if I close my eyes,
I can still taste it
on my tongue,
on my lips,
feel the softness
of it against my face.

cataract class

one of them,
I sit in the room as the
clinician
shows a film
of what will happen,
or not happen
when they lay you
down
to operate,
to surgically remove
a lens from
your eye and put a new
one in.
she speaks from the side
of the chairs
where we sit in
shadowed light.
we are partially underwater
it seems.
it's clear
she's done this before,
many times.
please hold your questions
until the end
she says, though
no one raises their hand
except to ask
where the restroom
is..

the unsaid

the silence
if full of words.
full of what really is.
what really
will be down the road.
it's more clear
than any shout
or soft whisper into
my ear.
I hear it
clearly without
a sound being made.

enough

being kind,
not weak, turning
the other cheek,
letting
one get their way
time after time,
is fine,
to a point, but then
a stand
must be made.
a line drawn in
the sand.

it looked good

some gold
is fool's gold.
the shine comes off
quickly.
it melts easily
when
the sun gets too hot.
it bends,
it breaks.
it turns green.
it's not
what you thought it was.
but for a moment
it looked good on your hand.

mornings come too early

mornings come so early.
I rub
my face, feeling the bristles
of my beard. I let out a yawn,
a groan.
two drinks too many, perhaps,
last night.
there's a note on the pillow
beside me.
it's over, it says. don't
ever contact me again. I found
a blonde hair in the sink.
oh well, I say out loud
and crumble the note into
a ball and send
it towards the basket
in the corner.
I stretch, then lean
towards
the window.
I peer out the blinds at
the neighbor on his lawn.
why is he so cheerful,
so early in the day?
he's whistling for God's
sake
as he walks his dog.
now he's kissing his wife
goodbye as she hands him
his briefcase
and lunch. she winks at him
as he waves.
he beeps his horn farewell
as he pulls away.
I have to get out of
this happy neighborhood.

mirages

on our camels
in the desert at night,
we rely
on the stars.
the moon,
the shifting wind.
we block the sand with
our arms,
our robes.
we push forward over
the dunes
towards a light
in the distance.
without mirages we
have no hope
to ride on.

days like this

I've lost my appetite\
for food,
for drink.
nothing has
any taste to it. no
sugar,
no salt or pepper,
no spice
can
bring it to life, this
meal in
front of me
is dry and flat,
the drink is
without fizz.
the clouds move slowly
on days
like this.

what could have been

there was time
once.
there was a place,
a moment
where things could have
been different.
a word
said.
a gesture made,
something,
something if only
you had
done things differently.
but no,
it's too late for that,
and with that said,
you move on.
you don't look back,
at least not
too often
at what could have been.

grey bats

dusk brings
out the bats,
dropping down from
wherever they
spent their day,
hanging on their sticky
claws,
upside down, their thin
leathered
wings
bending with each
wide jagged
flap. chasing what?
they never travel
in a straight line,
it's almost
as if they can't see,
that they might
be blind, but they're
not.

a full tank of gas

she likes
my new Italian car.
white, with the top down.
her hair
in the breeze,
her sunglasses on.
she turns
up the radio
and smiles. let's go
nowhere, she says,
and you agree.
what a day it is to ride.
to be in love
with a full tank
of gas,
to be on the wide open
road
under a jewel of
a blue august sky.

mid century man

his blue pants,
his yellow sweater over
a white shirt,
freshly ironed,
loafers, two toned over
his stretched
white socks,
with diamonds up the side.
a crew cut
from the barber once
a week.
he kept his glasses
perched on his nose, as
if about to
give wisdom of some sort
to anyone who
might pass by, to stop
say hello and
listen.
he was of a different time,
one of frank
and dean, kennedy
and ike,
a mid century man
who knew how to whistle,
how to drink,
who would snap his fingers
to the beat
and dance on
a dime.

all that

where is the man
with the shaved ice,
the thick red syrups,
pushing his cart along
the narrow streets.
where is the milk man
with his cold,
bottles, his eggs
and cream.
where is the news boy,
with his wagon,
his dog, throwing
the batons he made
to your porch.
where is the tip of
the hat,
the kind hello.
the thank you cards in
the mail, or letter
by hand.
what's happened to all
that?

said and done

not far down the hill
from the estates of homes
made of brick,
surrounded by thick trees,
gardens
led to by slate
stones, is the high rise
on the water.
when all is said and done,
and night approaches,
when things
are sold and the children
get what they want,
they move
into the building,
two rooms, a veranda,
a front desk to call.
they hold hands and wait,
or fold them together,
if only one.

the sunday call

side by side
you wouldn't know
each photo
is of
the same person.
the wind of time has
blown
hard
across her body.
it's hard to know
if she knows
who you are, if she has
something to say,
her voice
now closed for good.
how plentiful her words
once were,
especially on the phone,
on sunday.
miles away.
in the kitchen
leaning over a pot boiling
on the stove.

maple syrup from the north

I don't think much
about
Canada anymore, if ever,
hardly a thought crosses
my mind
about that country to the north.
I have nothing against it,
it's just so far away,
and cold
and rarely in the news.
someone did bring me
a bottle
of maple syrup
from there once.
she said it was the best
in the world.
it's somewhere in my cupboard,
still unopened,
the cap too tight to turn.
her name
escapes me, I think
she was from Ottawa,
or Nova Scotia.
she wore a pair of fur
lined boots
when it snowed,
and had a maple leaf
tattooed on her shoulder.
I should make some pancakes
one day
and try to get that bottle
open.

sweet tooth

I don't mind
her uneven cake, two layers,
a soft
cream lathered between.
I don't mind the tilt
of one
on top of the other,
the swath of icing
dripping down.
I complain not at all
about the sweets she bakes.
the cookies not so
round, or soft.
my sweet tooth
goes beyond
what she brings in dish,
or pan, or cold,
in a ribboned box.

the best in town

they know, they being them,
that we
have little else to do but
look at the bill boards planted
near stream
and woods, a row of flat
roof houses, along
the highways, set inside
fields of bored cows,
the billboards stand
as large
as movie screens, they yell
to us, the best in town,
proclaiming, or suggesting
what we should do
or eat, or
smoke. where to go is
mentioned as well
as we speed by, but not
so quickly that
the message isn't made
clear and caught
and saved to some degree
in our supple minds.

chicken and wine

the fat gypsy
with black eyes was not
always
this size. she used to be
skinny
and long,
a lean dark glass of murky
water
sitting on her velvet
throne,
the crystal ball on her
felt table.
but it's been a good year,
she thinks,
pushing a plate of chicken
to the side, pouring
another glass from
a bottle of red wine.
it's been
a year full of worried
customers at her door,
cash in hand,
sick about love
and life,
asking how things will
begin,
how things will end.

taken away

swimmers
go too far sometimes
and get taken
away
by the rip tide.
they're too tired to make
it back in.
their arms and legs
churn hopelessly
against
the blue sea
gone green.
what do they think as
they stare up
at the jeweled sky,
summer in full
bloom, their last words
towards a guardless shore
unheard
amongst the seagull's
cry.

baby blue

the nursery
is blue. the baby a boy.
the crib, the curtains,
the border
around the walls.
all shades of blue.
but maybe
he won't like blue,
maybe he'll
be a child
that prefers pink,
or chartreuse.
a soft shade of yellow.
who's to know anymore,
to which direction
we lean,
when we're old enough
to do so.

in the dead of night

the thief
waits until everyone is asleep.
he sits at the top
of the hill
in an old car. lights off.
he has his tools,
his flashlight,
his bag to hold his take.
he's only looking for small
things of value,
rings, watches, cash.
he saves
your car for last, having
been there before.
this time you leave
him a card,
a small batch of cookies
and a glass
of cold milk.
please don't break anything,
you write
in a hand written note.

return to sender

the e mail
skips back, undeliverable.
I send it again,
and again.
no luck.
it's always worked before.
what gives.
I call the number,
it's busy.
it's dead.
no one is there.
I send a letter,
a post card.
return to sender is stamped
on the front.
my mother is getting harder
and harder
to reach these days.

i'll have the grouper

i'll have that
I tell the waiter pointing
at an item
on the menu.
yes. that's what I want.
my favorite, he says.
of everything on
this menu that's what
I would have chosen.
wait.
wait a second, you know
what.
I think i'll have that
instead, pointing
down
to the bottom of the list.
great choice again.
if not
for the first one you
picked that would have
been my choice
too.
let me bring you your
drink and some bread
and i'll be right back.
wait, wait one second.
I've changed my mind
again.
what's the catch of the day?
grouper.
that's what I want.
bring me the grouper.
is that your next favorite?
the waiter, smiles and said,
actually it's what I would
have ordered all
along. nothing quite like
fresh grouper.

the vegetable garden

I see the animals
in the woods peering into my
yard.
talking with one another.
mumbling,
whispering, asking each other
when is he ever
going to grow a garden.
He's got plenty of room.
it would be nice if he
had some tomatoes growing,
some corn, some green beans.
Or carrots
two rabbits said.
nice big fat carrots.
maybe some hot peppers too,
a squirrel chimed in
twitching his
tail,
which made all of them laugh
and shake their
heads.

the late night prowl

when we were young,
long haired
and lineless, free to do
whatever we wished to do,
such as ride around in a car
with other friends
until late at night,
the radio loud, looking
for girls.
the cops would pull
us over.
search for beer or weed.
finding only wrappers
of hamburgers
and empty drinks.
annoyed and disappointed
they'd lecture us with
their billy clubs,
pushing them into our
hard bellies,
our backs.
they'd tell us to get home.
get a hair cut,
and don't let
us catch you out
here again, this late at
night,
having fun.

soap

we see the soap
on tv
and see how clean it makes
others.
the bubbles,
the joy of it,
the smiles as wide
as miles,
and so we want that.
we want to be that happy
and trouble free.
we find it
in the store on a shelf
in a bright
aisle.
we take it home
and scrub and scrub
but to no avail.

once more

she seeks
perfection with her flashlight,
her
knees bent
and kneeling to the floor.
pointing
with a wand.
make it right, make it more
even,
make it just
so, or else I won't
be able to sleep
at night.
so do it all once more,
and then you
can pack up,
go.

summer children

shoeless
the bug like children,
mouths open,
eyes wide are jumbled
like bees
set free from a hive.
their screams
echo off the trees,
bikes
on the hill, a ball
in the air.
how they love the light
of summer
and dread the call
from mothers, standing
on their porches
watching, wishing
that none could grow
further from
where they are.

new and unused

the things
you never use have their own
place
in the cellar.
they gather dust
among the spiders, the webs,
boxes holding things
you've long
forgotten. stacked in a dark
corner,
there is the coffee maker,
the food
processor.
the dehumidifier,
the weed whacker,
a turn table awaiting
a disc
to spin
and bring back even
more stored memories.

the olive branch

you put the olive branch
out,
but it does no good.
some things can't be mended,
some things
must end
with no looking back.
sad but true,
how the world works,
how
friendships begin
then end
so quickly.