tomorrows ink

the well
is hardly dry.
but I can hear the splash
of my bucket
in the shallow
cold below.
I pull up enough black ink
for the day.
for a week of words
to scribble, saying what
I mean,
what I don't mean,
what I really meant
to say,
but didn't.

gold rush

when panning for
gold,
much of your life, kneeling
at the altar
of sand and stream,
dipping
hands into the ice cold
water,
year after year.
how your back aches,
your heart darkens,
how your eyes grow
weary, until she comes,
and the wait
is over.

they're watching

the trash goes
out on Monday, then Thursdays.
after dark,
or in the morning.
please pick up,
after your dog, keep
that cat on a leash.
don't change the color
of your door,
or lock,
don't grow anything
that hasn't been deemed
ok
by the HOA.
they're watching,
they're on the job with
clipboards
and cameras,
perennially elected souls
with nothing to do
but this.
their eyes
are upon you,
around the clock.

what does that mean?

the often unreadable,
puzzling
poetry that graces
the bi monthly issue
of the new Yorker
worries me. saddens me.
they seem to be killing
poetry,
not honoring or giving
it to the masses.
they keep the door closed
on what poetry
can be.
doling out obscurities
that only
the academic world
appears to get.
or do they?
i'm not the most literate
person in world,
nor do I claim
to write better, but
for once, other than
an occasional billy Collins
poem, i'd like to read
something that resembles
my life
or the simple lives
of others
that I know.

the ice cream

blue in the face
and crying,
it's a sweet
cone
that the child wants.
to lick
the melting ice
cream.
that's enough to make
the child happy,
at least for
the moment.
there will be more
crying though
down the road
for other things,
knowing now how
life works.

you don't mess around

you don't mess
around
with love.
you don't grab it
by the ears
and bring it closer.
you don't squeeze
it too hard, or
shower it too much
with sweet talk
and gifts.
you don't make it what
it isn't.
you have to go easy
with a thing
called love.
let it roll across
you like a warm
blue ocean,
floating on top
with the sun in
your face,
you have to let it
carry you away
to another shore
and not worry where
you land.

fall back

the fatigue
of work, the dust of
day.
the sweat
of clothes.
the heavy shoes
that swing
as I walk.
it's dark early now
as I sit
and think
of what's ahead,
what's behind,
believing that things
will get
better,
still.

the spell

under her spell
I sleep
during the day
in a dream state.
what's next.
where to. i'm
in between
her point a, her
point b,
waiting for the bell
to ring,
watching the clock
until i'm free.

this is the end

a line is outside
my door.
women mostly holding old letters
in one hand,
clubs in the other.
some are holding torches
over their heads.
they look tired
and mean.
some shout at the window
when I peek out.
we know you're in
there, they say.
we're coming in.
I duck down and crawl
towards the back
door, but they're out
there too. I hear them
on the roof,
chiseling at the tiles.
it wasn't supposed
to end this way.

dark bird

i'm glad that the bird
who flies
into my
living room window
is okay.
i hear the thud
against the glass,
see the shadow of
him fall.
he's outside
on the patio,
lying there still
for a moment before
getting up
and dizzily flying
away again.
is it
his own reflection
that draws him into
himself,
is there something
inside
that he wants?
or is he just tired
of being a bird
and trying to get to
the next life?

retro girl

after work
at the State Department,
home late as usual
because of traffic
and putting a pot roast into
the oven,
she wants to know
where we could score a dime
bag of weed, to which I say,
huh.
she's showered and changed
into her new peasant
dress,
a lava lamp
is lit. she's dancing around
the living room
in her sandals,
her hair braided behind her head,
a peace sign painted
on her forehead.
a black light is on
beneath a poster of jimi
and Janis
at Woodstock.
a dime bag? I say out
loud, scratching my head.
i'm not sure,
I haven't seen my friend
junebug in over forty years,
he used to
have the good stuff back
in the neighborhood.
I think he's a stock broker
now, i saw him on facebbook
the other day.
i'll send him a message,
see if he can hook us up.

at a certain age

at a certain age
people stop giving you advice.

they look at you 

and see the white hair,

the lines on your face,

the slowness of your gait

and realize that you must
know more than they do 

at this stage of life.

you must be wise by now.

which isn't true at all, 

please, tell me something 

I don't already know,
if possible, i'm all ears, 

although I'm having
issues with them as well.

hospice

her skin,
lineless despite so
many years of worry,
not a furrow,
not a grimace or squint
on her face
framed by white
hair,
the hard work of life
done.
she's at peace in some
strange way.
alive inside,
unmoved by legs.
wordless.
this is how she'll die.
alone
in a stranger's bed,
in an unknown home,
away
from all those she
loved, and loved her
in return.

falling birds

the birds scatter
at gunshot, take off on
rapid wings
into the low
grey sky.
it's killing season,
the hunters
nestled unseen
in their bunkers.
so easy to kill,
so quick to pull a
trigger to bring life
down without a thought
or care,
or need. just
sport.
we're different.

a new skin

we shed our skin,
discard
that translucent case
we thought
so important,
let the old fall away
dry
and thin,
it slides off
us so
easily when
it's time, when
we're ready
to be whole,
and new again.

alternative means

I never
understood the phrase,
that there
is more than one way
to skin a cat.
why would anyone do such
a thing in the first
place, skin a cat?
what would these
ways be?

let's jump out of a plane

let's go jump
out of a plane, she says to me,
as I lie in bed
reading the paper.
we need to do something
fun,
something different,
we need to shake things up
a little.
I look over the top
of the paper,
and watch her dance
on the floor in her pajamas.
she stretches her
arms out and spins in a
circle,
as if flying.
I thought we
were going to weed
the yard today, I tell her.

i was really looking

forward to it.

nothing lost

she fed us
and we grew. watered
us,
dressed us and sent
us on our way,
to church,
to school.
how quickly we needed
new shirts
and pants, dresses,
shoes.
the old ones tight,
worn,
and thread bare,
quickly grown out of.
she fed us,
kept us out of trouble
as best
she could.
there was nothing lost,
she couldn't find,
nothing
for her children she
wouldn't
try to do.

back pedal

who doesn't back pedal,
do a moon
walk
in the other direction
after saying
something you wish you
hadn't.
who isn't covering
their tracks,
zig zagging down
the road to keep
someone off your back.
we did it once,
and we'll do it again,
say something dumb,
but hopefully
not the same thing.

these days are numbered

gas is cheaper
here at the shore, he says.
so is the polident,
aisle six,
next to the fiber
mix,
I follow as he pushes
the cart
dropping in a box of
this or that,
what's on sale.
Halloween candy.
boneless chops.
do you need anything, he
asks.
and i nod no.
I have everything I need
and more.
this is good enough.
this walk, this shopping,
together through
the enormous well lighted
store.
these days are
numbered.

trivial news

the friends
unfriend you. a brother
or sister too,
a distant cousin,
old loves.
do you care?
yes, but
typing words and never
seeing someone
is hardly
friendship, or
is receiving trivial
news.

blue wind

nothing you can do with
wind
at the shore.
hands in pockets, the waves
slapping madly
into one another.
the rake of gusts out
across the sick green
of sea.
not a gull in sight.
not a soul
lying, or sitting warmly
against wet sand,
the sky and mood less
light than dark. there
are better things to do
than plow forward
against such might.

a piece of chocolate

I take a small
piece of candy, cut in half.
mint,
chocolate, a sweet
tiny
morsel of something
she loved
and place it on her
lips.
her eyes open, she
mimics a smile, opens
her stiff mouth
and let's it
fall against her
tongue.
she grips my hand.
she closes her eyes
and swallows.
no words need to be said
about the sweetness
of life.

the tepid sea

the safe middle is not
where you want to be.
to paddle,
or tread water, neither
here
or there,
with no island in sight,
no direction
planned. without love.
just you, bobbing
like a dry cork
for years, going nowhere
in the tepid sea.

a new church

the church
rises in red brick along
the parkway.
the stained
glass arched,
pulling in shards
of colored lights.
Christ is hung
over the altar, below
the swoop of a sky
blue ceiling.
the sound is perfect,
the choir,
the priest as he sings.
the two altar
boys
in white beside him,
heads bowed. there are
angels and Mary,
candles blue,
and red lit on each
side.
the stations of the cross
along the pews.
it's a new
church. a new life
that rises
in red brick along
the parkway.
I go in to try again.

the game

the ball bounces
in a direction you don't see
coming. it flies
off the rim,
out of bounds.
it keeps rolling, we
chase it.
we follow it to where
it's going.
we run all day, into
night.
down the streets
and alleys.
we were young when we
started,
but now our legs are
tired, our hair
brushed with grey.
our lungs breathe heavy.
we keep after it.

it won't be the same

the tree falls
in the middle of the night
heavy
with rain.
it tumbles with
hardly a note,
or sound.
it's been silent
nearly
all its life except
for the sweep
of leaves in wind,
the rustle of
them
dying, floating
softly
to the ground, but
now this. this quick
end.
the cool shade,
its glory of color,
this absence
is sudden and sad.
more trees will come,
but it won't
be the same.

the unknown

you forget to breathe
at times,
taking small short breaths
like how
a rabbit might.
your whiskers twitch,
your tail
shakes, your eyes
peer nervously to
the left and right.
it's not easy being
on the trail,
in the dark woods
with so many unknown
things
before you.

the cold soup

sometimes the soup
gets cold
upon the spoon,
the bread stale
against the plate,
things fall apart at
the seams.
what once was new
is old again,
what's faded
grey was once a
vibrant blue.

the third martini

it's the third martini
that gives you wisdom, 

makes you articulate
and bold,
makes you stand up
and say the things
you think others want to

hear, all the things

you believe

they want to know,

it's that third drink
that makes you
likable and giving,
ready to grab a hand
and dance across the floor.
the third drink brings out
the best in you,
all of which will

disappear when you decide

to have that fourth.

the fever

love is a chill,
a fever,
an ache
when apart, love is
gold,
it's the sun,
the moon, the stars.
love is everything,
it's something
you don't see coming.
you know
from the start.

ah oh

we were on our honeymoon,
in back of the long
black limo
when she told
me
about another man
she loved
more than me.
but we had the tickets,
the hotel
was booked.
I still had cake my
mouth,
on my sleeve.
she was still in her
wedding dress,
and crying,
twisting at her
diamond ring
as new brides often
do.

they don't know

the babies
don't know what's coming.
what's
ahead for them
down the road,
once off
the milk, beyond
the cradle
and crib.
they just keep coming,
keep
arriving,
in pink and blue
swaddling clothes.
blue eyed and brown,
new hope
for an old world,
battered and
confused.

a busy God

although I've tried
to pray without ceasing,
it's nearly
impossible. there is too
much to do
without God's help.
i'll save him for larger
needs,
like money, or love.
sickness, that sort
of thing. a hurricane,
besides
i'm sure he's very busy
right now
with football season
underway.

conversation

it's the same
people gathered in front
of the coffee shop,
sitting in the iron chairs,
they've been coming
here for years.
I can hear them
as I sit on the edge,
reading my
paper.
they've put their phones
down,
they are engaged and
talking, sharing, not
a single laptop
on the table. they speak
of their lives,
the news.
they could sit there
all day and do this,
some do.

holding a sign

his sign is detailed
with
mishaps.
the IRS, a bad marriage,
health.
it takes a while
to read it as you sit
waiting for the light
to change.
he's well dressed
with a mustache black
and curled above his lip.
he's an unwritten
novel, this man
on the corner in
a buttoned down dress
shirt, pin striped,
and gabardine pants.

room 1201 north

it's just a room
for one night,
a queen sized bed,
a studio.
the bare
necessities.
a tv,
a fridge,
a balcony.
room service if need
be.
how large the world
is
up this high,
seeing the curve of
the earth,
the ocean
disappearing as it
does
towards another
set of eyes.

the white shells

it's a clean
white shell
I find
lingering in the sand
as the sea
washes green
upon my feet.
the inside gleams
like that of a pearl.
I place the shell
to my ear
and wait to be told
what I want
to hear.
disbelieving,
I find another,
then another.
they all say yes.

only monday

I throw a handful
of coins
into the well,
drop to my knees
and send up
a plethora of prayers.
I make
a wish on a falling
star then
make promises
I can't keep if any
are answered.
it's only Monday.

put your hands up

I hand my wallet
over to the mugger, me
being the muggee.
he's holding what looks
like a rubber gun.
is that gun real, I ask
him, it looks like it's
made of rubber.
I can see the tag on it.
in fact. I turn my head
sideways and read toys r us
on the tag.
shut up, he says, or i'll
plug you.
can I put my arms down,
I ask him.
it's been a long day job
hunting, plus
I had to take my cat
in to the vet. some sort
of rash.
he looks at me and shakes
his head.
okay, you can put one arm
down.
what's up with this wallet,
you have no cash,
one stinking credit card,
a library card.
you don't even have any
photos.
no wife, no kids?
I switch arms, raising
up the other one.
i'm sorry, I tell him,
it's been a rough couple
of years. my wife left
me for another woman.
my kid hates me, calls
me only for money. I found out
the other day, he might
not even be my kid.
that's a shame, he says.
no phone? nope, dropped
it in the sink the other
day, it's fried.
oh brother, he says, handing
me back my wallet.
he puts his rubber gun
back into his coat
then hands me a five dollar bill.
here, get yourself a burger.
you can put your arm down, he
says. but stay out of the alley,
okay.
you're a complete waste
of my time. now scram.

where are we now

going downtown
confuses me. mid town,
up town,
the edge of town.
soho
noho,
battery park.
Chinatown. is that
the empire state building,
or the Chrysler?
the west side,
or the Hudson. where
are we
now?
i'm hungry.
we shrug and keep
walking,
looking
at our maps, our
phones,
stopping every now
and then
to eat slice of ray's
original
before getting on
the subway.

in between

there is mystery
to twilight, to a dusk
falling, or
dawn about to rise,
the absence of pure
light,
or darkness.
that in between world
of neither
day or
night.
it's a poetic
break to be,
whether things are wrong
whether
things are right.

the red wagon

whether the wagon
was red
or not, is not important.
that's not
really part of the story.
the dog
dying is.
the policeman
using one bullet to take
his life
as he lay in
the street
after being struck
by a car.
go get your mother
he said,
as a small crowd
gathered
in the morning sun,
my route
finished,
the last paper thrown
onto the last
porch.
we covered him,
and pulled
him home.

seeing the light

they cut open
your eye
to put a new lens in,
vacuum out the web
that's grown.
your head is strapped
down
so that you don't move
an inch.
you are surrounded
by masked men
and women in green.
music is playing.
you haven't eaten or drank
anything for what
seems like days,
twelve hours.
a needle is in your hand.
you're drowsy
weak as a kitten.
it's a psychedelic
trip as the lights flash
bright in colors.
in no time though,
you can see
the leaves on the tree
once again, find dimes
lying in the street.
brush lint
of her shoulder.

i have to go now

she knows my order by heart,
or at least sees
what I ordered the last
five times
on the screen
in front of her.
what, no summer rolls
tonight, she says.
no kung pao chicken?
no I tell her, i'm just
calling to say hello,
we haven't talked in quite
awhile.
how about this weather?
i'm very busy she says.
I can hear the clink
of plates and glasses
behind her.
her fingers clicking
on the keyboard.
can I take your order?
spare rib appetizer?
we have a special on combination
fried rice.
no, thank you,
nothing tonight, I tell
her.
maybe tomorrow, can
we talk then?
sure, she says.
but I have to go now.
I have another call.
when you call, you have
to order, okay?
sure, I tell her.
anything for you.

the large hand

the world
spills onto itself.
cracks
and takes under what's
in its path.
the skies move,
winds
swirl and sweep
the corks
of ships away.
tumble
what's made into
rubble.
it's a large hand,
a strange thing,
how we trust and fear
what we
and pray to
and don't understand.

jumping beans

she makes
your feet move,
your heart
flutter,
your mouth water,
she
turns your chakras
into Mexican
jumping beans.
time goes so fast
when you're with her,
so slow when
you're apart.

be good

mark twain
suggested that be good
and be alone,
so what's up with that?
I've tried
so hard to follow
that rusted
rule, and here I am,
still waiting.

a summers day

a summers day
needs
an ice cream
cone,
a double scoop.
to sit on
a park bench
and watch the world
go by.
let the clouds
become
what clouds want
to be.
to stare
off into the sea,
where dreams
can come true.

the last page

some movies
you know the ending
before
the opening scene.
before
the first word is
spoken,
before the plot
thickens.
so you skim, and
fast forward,
turn to the last
page, the last reel,
and hope you're
wrong.

slow boat to china

the slow boat
to china is nearly full,
but they make room for me.
they pull me on board
and give
me a seat.
who asked you to leave,
they say.
who told you to hit the road
jack
and don't you come back?
oh, it's a long list
I tell them.
where should I begin?
never mind they say,
here's an oar, start
paddling.

to forget

to forget
you go to work.
you work.
you skip lunch, you skip
coffee.
you watch the sun
rise
and set.
you get lost in the weariness
of work,
letting yourself
get spent.
but it doesn't go away,
not yet.

the apple

the apple
once a red shine
in your hand, has a brown
spot,
a soft dent,
the meat has darkened,
the worm
has turned.
nothing lasts forever
despite
wanting it to.

when it's over

in passing,
she points
to your wrinkled brow,
your hands,
the limp
you carry, the white
in your
lessened hair,
she
asks you about
your health, your
age
approaching
medicare,
what beach or island
do you plan
to lie down upon
when it's over,
she says.
she isn't being cruel,
or unkind,
it's a matter of fact
small slap
against the lips of
someone who
loved her.

early xmas

the gin
and tonic
tastes like Christmas
on ice.
the lime
cut on the edge,
the bright smell
and taste
upon my lips,
cold going down.
come here and have
a sip of me.
let's celebrate
early,
who needs a wreathe
who needs a string
of lights, a tree?

enough

the sharpest knife
in the drawer
is not you, but what you
have seems
good enough to get by.
to live the life
you live, to
the keep the shelves
full,
clothes on your back,
gas in the car,
there's enough to keep
the home fires burning,
enough to buy roses,
and dark chocolate,
a card that reads
thanks for being you.

the song

the song
keeps rattling inside
the cage
of your
tired brain.
your fingers snap,
feet
tap.
there's a beat
to it all.
there's a dance
going on
inside of you,
but you can only
sit there and gaze
out the window,
home at last.

short love

the man in the white
cowboy hat
is making love to the woman
on the dance
floor.
his hands
slide up and down her
stout
body. she doesn't mind
a bit, spinning
around so that their
bodies fit.
she throws her arms
into the air
as if she might be on
fire.
she shakes
and tosses her hair from
side to side.
he whispers in her ear,
nibbles at her neck.
the band keeps
playing.
they don't even pay
attention.
they've seen short love
before.

three meals and a bed

they are old birds
in a circle, without
wings, nodding off
to
the Jeffersons
on tv.
the big couch and chairs
holding them
like soft hands.
the dinner bell has
not rung,
lunch just over
though they don't remember
what was eaten.
there is no talking.
no movement.
the eyes
flutter towards
the screen or to the door
when the doorbell
rings.
there is little difference
between night
and day.
Christmas could be tomorrow,
or it could have
been yesterday.

the girl next door

the girl next
door has grown up.
i remember kissing her
in the shadows
of summer
under the big tree
where we couldn't be
seen.
we had no idea what
it all meant,
but our hearts
were in it as we
made promises we could
never keep.
I can still feel her
hand in mine.
smell the perfume
in her hair.
taste her lips.
I think about her
often, wondering
if she's found another
lover, another
tree, but knowing deep
inside that i'll
always be hers, and
she'll always be mine.

the three day weekend

inspired by
all the continual protests
going on in front of the white house,
you feel a little left
out.
you need a cause, something
that you
are passionate enough about
to chain your self to the white
house fence.
then it comes to you.
the three day weekend.
with three of your close
friends of like minded
intentions
you go downtown on a Friday
morning
and lightly
tie
one leg to the fence.
the others do the same.
you wave your signs
and begin to chant. we want
a three day weekend over
and over.
the other protesters laugh
and laugh, they can
hardly contain themselves,
as do the police as they
pepper spray us and haul
us away. they keep us
until Monday, so we did
accomplish what we wanted,
sort of.

it's the little things

it's an amazing
parking space
that opens up
in the middle
of the packed city.
it's a miracle worthy
of the parting
of the Red Sea.
there it is, open
and free,
unrestricted, no
twenty minutes only,
no Sunday
through Thursday
from nine to five,
no meter, no tow away zone,
no nothing. just a clear
open space
where your car
can fit perfectly in.
you grab a box of Kleenex
to wipe your eyes
and take it.

free range

the cow
is only eating free range
grass,
corn and oats
grown without
chemicals
to make her large and fat.
its a good life,
for awhile,
the blue skies,
the endless plain
rolling green along
the hillside,
the sun
warming her
soft white hide.
she could stand there
forever
if she had a say
in it.

the one that got away

my friend jimmy
likes to tell stories
of the women
he's taken to bed.
all of them gorgeous
beyond belief,
but you never see him with
anyone,
not even on a Saturday
night.
he sits at the bar
and orders another round
and says stop me
if you've heard this one.
there was this girl, he
says,
I think her name was Gloria,
or Linda, he shakes
his head.
she had a crazy head of red
hair, and eyes
that sparkled like
blue diamonds.
I don't know why i let
her get away. she was the one.
she was the real deal,
the keeper. he talks
as if she might be a
fish on the line,
hooked,
struggling to be free,
which she may have been.

the dog trainer

the dog
paddles out into the shallow
lake.
the stick he wants
is just beyond
the pier
after a cartwheeled throw.
all four legs
below go at it, as if
running,
but afloat.
the owner stands dry
on the shore, he claps,
proud
of the lessons he's
given the dog,
sit heel, play dead,
go fetch, now here's a
little bone.

come morning

the light switch sparks,
the bulb
sputters on
then off. not a single
watt illuminates
the book i'm trying to read.
a new light might be
in order.
this lamp is done,
the wires frayed,
the connections loose,
the button
won't push anymore,
but it's okay.
the darkness
we live in
will change come
morning.

love and friendship

reality
is a cold glass of water
thrown
into your face.
it's the nail you step on.
the branch that
falls from a tree
upon you.
it's the unexpected bill,
the dog
getting hit by a car,
the storm
approaching
taking everything with it.
being misunderstood.
much of this makes life
hard,
and matter,
but love and friendship,
if true,
will never fade
or fail.

champagne love

some affection
is of the champagne
variety.
there is the pop,
the bubbles,
the fun of it all
pouring out.
the tickled pink
drink of it
going down,
but by nights end,
the bottle
has gone dry,
gone flat and what
was once
infatuation,
brimming with hope,
is now old hat.

get over it

shame about the grudges.
the animosity
that goes on.
the lingering sting of words
said,
deeds undone,
vows broken.
it's too bad about it all.
but what can one do
but reach out,
wait and wait
for them to come around,
or you.

caught in the rain

it smells like rain,
see how the leaves
have darkened
and turned up.
feel the wind, the push
of a front
moving in.
let's wait though,
let's stay a little longer,
finish our drinks
and feel
it when it begins.
let's sit here
hand in hand, then run
to car, soaked.
it'll help us, make
our love
stronger. I don't know
why or how,
but I feel that it will.

does she dream

it's hard
to see your mother lying
there,
wordless.
when was she ever without
something to say?
her glasses lost, or taken,
the white hair
still thick and pulled
behind
against a stranger's pillow.
it's difficult
to remember how she laughed
and told a story,
how she felt
your head for fever,
told you to come inside,
dinner was ready.
how a single sip of wine
made her dizzy.
and now,
still alive, barely,
she lies there with all of
life behind
her.

keep going

trains
arrive, then leave.
we board
and ride to where
we need to go.
tomorrow is the same.
bag in hand.
the trees outside
go from green to bare
as the months
turn.
the wind blows
grey
into our hair.
we lean
and keep going, keep
riding.
what else is
there to do.

keep going

trains
arrive, then leave.
we board
and ride to where
we need to go.
tomorrow is the same.
bag in hand.
the trees outside
go from green to bare
as the months
turn.
the wind blows
grey
into our hair.
we lean
and keep going, keep
riding.
what else is
there to do.

thinking about baseball

the cold shower
helps
at times,
thinking of baseball too.
from first to third,
then home plate,
but then
my mind strays
and I can't help
thinking of you.

Stella

it was a street car
named
perspire.
a lot of sweaty tired
people
were on it
coming home from work.
not a day
went by when your
back didn't stick to
your shirt.
I grew tired of jumbalaya
and catfish.
hanging vines
and swamps.
who dat,
etc.
I needed to get home
to where the water
stayed put,
didn't rise halfway
up the house any time
it rained,
to a place where I understood
the language,
where I wasn't
always yelling
for Stella to forgive me.

hanging on

I see
them hanging on
to the cliff
of love and affection,
clawing at the side
of what was,
but it's over.
nails dug
in. frantic, trying
to hold on
to the mountain,
boots struggling
to find a divot
to keep them steady.
they don't realize
that they're only
two
feet off the ground,
not a thousand.
they need to let go.
other cliffs are out
there.
other mountains
to climb
and rest upon
with easier roads,
and rest stops along
the way.

the last piece

I nod yes.
not because I agree
but because
I don't want to argue.
i'd rather you
get your way then have
to go through that.
go ahead,
have the last piece
of cake.
we'll make more.
there's always more
until they're isn't.

that screeching sound

that screeching sound
you hear
is the caliper which is connected
to the rotar
which is connected
to the pads,
etc. everything is
sticking.
looks like it could
be anywhere between five
hundred and a thousand
to fix things.
we've got it up on the rack
right now.
of course you know
it's best to do both
brakes,
not just one. (long pause).
I hear the whir
of a power wrench,
the clink of lug nuts.
cursing.
so what do you think, bub?
should I give
Jimmy the go ahead?
what choice do I have
I say.
none, he says. making
a noise that sounds
like cha ching. do it jimmy,
he yells out into
the garage.

not like that

when he would
carve
the turkey, she'd take the automatic
knife from
his hand
and tell him
to sit down, let me do it.
so he would.
don't water
the plants like that she'd
say,
don't pour so much.
you snore
she says. i'll be in
the other room.
didn't you wear that shirt
yesterday,
here, let me find you one.
you can't go out
like that.
and now,
that's he gone, she
misses all the things he
did and visits
him weekly to weed
the grass he's under.

toll booth love

every day
she takes my money.
I hand her
a bill and wait for her
arm to
reach out with change.
we say
little, but hello.
goodbye.
we smile.
there is the metal
of my car,
the half rolled window,
the anxious next car
behind me
that keeps us from
knowing one another, from
falling
in love and living
happily ever after.
there always seems
to be something
or someone in the way.

seeing green

it smells
like jealousy. tastes
sour
and bitter
on the tongue.
it's a love gone
bad
left out
to rot in the sun.
it's green, it's a vile
potion
a dangerous
emotion. left unchecked.
it goes red
and wild with
imagination. there's
the ride by,
the phone,
the woods, the roof top
with which to spy.
once it bites
there are no shots to
cure it,
no quarantine
to keep it at bay.
only time, a new love,
or a restraining
order from a higher court
can help keep
him or her away.

nothing else to do

you nearly fall asleep
listening
to chet baker
and his trumpet.
funny valentine.
you try not to think
too much of his troubles,
his addictions,
his strange end.
you let the music
spill
between your ears,
it's almost like
listening to sin.
it's tragic blues,
the blow of the horn,
soft
and sweet.
his whispery voice
singing
melodies you could
listen to all night,
all day
if you had nothing else
to do.

the HOA

the HOA,
that coven of witches and warlocks
who meet monthly
the third Thursday,
at the mark twain elementary
are walking
the streets
with their clipboards.
one has a camera,
another
points with her long
hand
to a bush, or roof,
or color of paint
that isn't on the program.
they nail
a manifesto to your door.
we can't see the parking
permit in your car.
who said you could change
your locks.
third warning.
get that dog to stop
barking
or else. but I don't
have a dog.
it's me they hear.

the safe

she had an ear
for wall safes.
bank vaults.
pulling back her long
hair
to listen against
the thick walls
for the click click click.
with her delicate fingers
she would turn
the dials
and open up any cold
box
holding jewels,
cash,
bonds and stocks.
there was no safe she
couldn't crack, no door
or heart
she couldn't get to,
until will met,
and that was that.

the vampire years

we were vampires
in our twenties.
out all night with our
bat wings,
dressed in black.
carousing the dark
caves
of music and drink,
fluttering near
girls with bright lips
and tight clothes,
tender necks.
we wanted to
make them our own.
to bring them
home to our webbed
nests.
we were upside down
for years, not caring
about the daylight
hours,
avoiding the sun,
delaying the eventual
tomorrow when we believed
there would be
no more fun.

charity bucket

the rag tag girl
in front of the grocery
store
has a bucket,
bright yellow,
with the word Florida
taped to the side.
it's full of dollar
bills
and change.
thank you, she says.
as I drop
some money in.
I see her later
at the coffee shop
buying
a caramel macchiato
and a blueberry
scone.
she's wearing what looks
like a new dress
with new shoes
and a matching handbag.
the yellow bucket
beside her chair
says Tennessee now.

just a rumor

it's just a rumor,
a few words whispered into
my ear,
passed down
along the wire,
across the fence,
through the grapevine.
I say oh my,
really? I can't believe
that.
who would do
something like that.
and the other
person, who seems
to know everything
about everyone, says
I know. I know.
crazy isn't it?
what's wrong with these
people, she says.
I'm shocked, I say,
and then quietly
promise myself
to never tell her anything.

friday night

there is dust
on my shoulders from
the long week. I shake out
my hat
and sit down
in the kitchen chair.
the walls are yellow.
the calendar is a month
slow on the fridge.
I see myself in
the toaster as I bend
to take off
my boots. i could use
a shave, a newer face.
I turn on the radio,
grab a beer
and a cold half sandwich
still on a plate.
a song comes on,
just my imagination by
the temptations, I begin
to dance in my socks across
the linoleum
floor. I spin,
take a sip of beer, go
low, rise and spin again.
I can still dance.
I still have it even after
all these years.

quiet desperation

who isn't brilliant
to some degree.
whether the stock boy
in the store,
the man
directing
traffic,
the stripper on stage
wearing
nothing
but shoes.
the cook, the salesman
with his bag
of goods
going door to door.
there is still something
inside
everyone
that may be never be
known or seen.
they are Picassos
and mozarts,
singers and poets,
people living their lives
in quiet desperation,
while inside
they dream.

three cats

three cats.
not real cats, but hipster
cats
are on the corner
of king
and
union playing songs.
one
with a bass, another
a sax,
the third
beating on a drum.
three hats collect
the coins
and cash.
they nod and smile
with each donation.
how good to be young
and carefree,
to do
such things as that.

zoo girl

when I hear
a radiator clunk in the dead
of winter.
bang and sing its strange
old pipe
song, I think of her.
the steam and rattle of her.
zoo girl
in her ancient digs,
the monkeys across the street
swinging
in their cages.
the pandas
tucked in a cave.
seals being seals.
I wonder about the zoo
bar below her,
the Dixie land band,
the stragglers
coming in
in the dead of night for
one last round,
one last chance at love
before dawn.

pure and true

the best
shot is the one taken
without thinking,
the clean swish
without rim.
the arrow from a bow
striking center, red.
the best spiral of a ball
when leaving
your hand
in laser precision is
the throw
without thought,
landing in open hands,
without measure or push.
it's a natural
thing.
so are the words spoken
when from the heart,
they too flow
most pure
and true.

go slow

it's the slow
food,
the slow drink,
the slow
rise
from sleep, the slow
and easy
love
at night
that takes hold,
puts
you on the right
path.
little remains
of anything else
that happens
fast.

go slow

it's the slow
food,
the slow drink,
the slow
rise
from sleep, the slow
and easy
love
at night
that takes hold,
puts
you on the right
path.
little remains
of anything else
that happens
fast.

go as two

you don't know until
you set
sail
if the earth is flat
or round.
if what lies
beyond your sight
is real.
you don't find what
you're looking
for
by staying put,
staying home,
never thinking
beyond
what you've been told.
but it's better to
go as two,
if you go at all,
and not alone.

a higher power

I lie
down in the bed
I've made.
harvest
the field of seed
I've planted.
I have no one
to blame
or praise
but me for what
rises
from the ground,
or what
dream appear
with or without
sleep.
I don't really believe
any of that.
there is a higher
power.

the best part

i don't see an end.
but maybe
she does.
maybe she knows what i
don't know.
women are like that.
so far
advanced
and evolved than we
are.
i don't see an end,
or a middle.
i see the start.
where the flowers are fresh
and full
in the vase.
i always see the start,
the best
part.

shopping late on a sunday night

with an empty
cart
I wander the store.
the one wheel
off kilter,
squeaking on the linoleum
floor.
what i'm looking for I can't
find here.
but still I go down
each aisle,
reading labels, touching
boxes,
inspecting apples
and pears
for marks.
I hold a loaf of bread
into the air
and put it back onto
the shelf.
i'm there an hour or more,
but I buy nothing.
what I want and need
from her,
I can't buy in a store.

half way there

half way
to where i'm going
I turn around.
maybe the oven is on.
the iron
in the basement.
did I lock
the back door,
close the windows.
blow out the candle.
of course all of these things
have been taken care of.
but I feel better
now,
somehow. I take one last
look around
the room,
then pull the door
shut, I begin again
to go where i'm going.

the separation

i remember
packing my bags at her request
and driving
to a motel
on route one.
a shabby place with thin
walls
and smokers.
loud televisions
filling the hall.
i remember lying on the stiff
bed,
the hard pillow
and thinking
what am i doing here.
what has become of me
that I've landed here on
the edge
of nowhere.
i listened to a man in
the other room
coughing.
he was alone too.
the wall shook with his cough.
still dressed,
still unpacked,
i drove home at three
in the morning.
i went up the stairs
looked into my son's room.
kissed him
goodnight then when to
bed. i would never leave
again, but she would.

three pills

with cold water
I swallow
three pills and wait
for the pain
to subside.
I listen to my limbs,
my heart,
the throb of blood that flows
through me,
that constant
tide.
I place ice where
it hurts,
behind my
mind and hold it there.
a cool blue of bag of ice
upon my neck.
I wait
for pain to leave.
to exhale,
to sigh.

to whom i love

I say
what I don't mean,
not literally
at least.
I babble in obscurities,
vague
cryptic notions
of thoughts
that ramble in the corners
of my mind.
I stretch the canvas,
dabble in
abstract.
I can't get out
of being me,
maybe I can be less
talkative,
less misunderstood,
more
aware of those i'm
speaking to
and their sensitivities.
I can take a vow of
limited silence,
spend less
on talk
and more on
listening to those
I love.

we can remove this virus

it sounds like the same man
or woman
who called yesterday on the phone
about the virus in
my computer.
i'm from Microsoft he says
in broken English.
you have downloaded a corrupt file.
put one finger on the control
button
and the other on the shift
key, press and let
me in. we will fix your computer.
he sounds like
the same guy from the IRS
wanting to help me with
my over due taxes,
and the same fellow who
wants to award me a grant
from the government
for nine thousand and seven
hundred dollars.
I can hear the chatter in
the warehouse of people behind him.
we talk and talk about all of
these issues,
becoming friends of sort, then
they grow weary and hang
up telling me to go do an
impossible thing to myself
involving procreation.
I don't worry though, i know
his anger and frustration with
me will subside. I know
he'll call back tomorrow,
around the same time.

small print

it's the small
print
that gets you.
the tiny words and numbers
on the pill
bottle,
at the bottom of a contract
waiting to be
signed.
the instructions
are hardly legible
on how to build what
came in a box, or
the ingredients
on the back of can
or tub
of something you want
to eat.
who has the time
for small print, if it
was that important
wouldn't they make it
easier to see
and read?

waiting it out

she's category
four
in the rating of storms.
you don't want
to go there
and be caught up in
the fury of her winds
and rain,
the surge of her words.
it's best to
evacuate and let
her roar
herself out. grab
your pillow
and sleep it off
in the guest room
with the dog
by your side.

waiting it out

she's category
four
in the rating of storms.
you don't want
to go there
and be caught up in
the fury of her winds
and rain,
the surge of her words.
it's best to
evacuate and let
her roar
herself out. grab
your pillow
and sleep it off
in the guest room
with the dog
by your side.

the wave

she washes over you
in soft tumbles.
she's clear blue,
with
golden rays.
she's unstoppable.
she keeps coming.
hardly a day goes by
that you
don't drift
into her waters,
to dive, or wade.

the black snake

it's a fat snake,
wrapped
around the fence,
climbing in his rope
like twist
up, up.
he smells an egg
in the tree, a cupped
nest with
no one around.
his tongue out,
his black leather
jacket both
smooth and sticky
at the same time.
with no legs, no arms
or hands, he finds
a way.
hunger
having no bounds.

the new world

everything
and everyone is on camera
now.
nothing is in the shadow
of night.
big brother
and sister, mother and
father,
the bright lens is
at work. whirring
away in some
corner or high point.
the bank
the store, the building
across
the street is filming
twenty four
seven.
not a thing done is
unseen,
not a crime
committed,
or step taken hasn't been
captured forever
on film. for better or
worse,
it's the world
we live in.

the game

let's not keep score,
let's
not
worry about who wins
or loses.
it doesn't matter
does it?
just as long as
no one
gets hurt
and everyone has fun
during
the game
and after. tomorrow
we play
again.

a can of beans

I have this one can of
baked
beans in my cupboard
that I've had since the early
eighties.
i'm not sure why I haven't
opened it
and ate what's inside
after all these years.
sometimes I take it out
and look at the faded
label. it's unreadable.
I see the word soy, and fructose.
salt and something
that looks like
potassium chloride.
I don't even like beans
from a can,
boston baked or otherwise.
but there it is.
this brown labeled can
on the shelf
behind other cans,
boxes of rice
and bottles of barbeque
sauce. i'll never in a million
years eat it,
i'll never throw it
away.
some friendships are unbreakable.

my friend mr. lincoln

the maître d is purposely
a little
snobby, a little uptight
in his dark suit
and white shirt, his
bold red tie with flecks
of gold.
he looks
down at the hungry
people gathering
at the door
reservations? he says,
hardly making eye contact.
there's a three hour
wait, he sniffs,
but please have a seat
at the bar
and we'll let you know
when a table becomes
available.
three drinks later, he
doesn't budge when I go
up to his pedestal.
you're on the list sir,
he says.
there are seven people ahead
of you.
please, be patient.
have you met my friend mr.
Lincoln, I tell him,
casually shaking a five
dollar bill in front of him.
no, I haven't he says.
but if he has some friends,
such as mr. grant
or Hamilton, perhaps we could
seat you sooner.

the roar of her

if she was an animal,
i'd say
lion. that beautiful
mane,
those brown eyes.
the scratching,
the biting,
the dragging me around
by the nape of
my neck into her den.
not to mention
the roar of her.

the car wash

the boy scouts
in their uniforms
covered in merit
badges
would wash cars at the church.
there would be
twenty of them,
all ages and sizes.
except for the old guy
in the same outfit,
who must have been the pack
leader. he stood back
and waved you forward in the line.
they were like bugs on
your car
spraying, washing, hosing
it down
as you sat inside
listening to the radio
and eating potato chips.
they did a great job,
but there was always
one side
missed, somehow,
a five foot stretch
of untouched dirt, which
was okay.
what did they know about
washing cars.
building a fire, yes.
catching fish, or tying knots.
yes.
car washing, well.

what are those for?

her medicine cabinet
was full of brown bottles,
and tubes
of ointments.
there were syringes
and
instruments that I wasn't
familiar with.
smelling salts
and bandages.
tweezers and nail clippers,
not to mention
a jug of hydrogen
peroxide.
there was the little
plastic container
with the days of the month
inscribed
on the plastic doors.
cue tips.
sprays and roll ons.
powders and perfumes.
hair dye,
shaving cream and razors.
loose pills of all colors
and sizes.
pepto bismol.
gum.
I took some gum and got
out of there,
pushing the squeaky door
closed again.

late again

late for work
again.
I have my list of excuses ready.
they are much like
the ones I used in high school.
my aunt died, no, not
that aunt, the other one.
my dog is sick.
I couldn't find my books.
my shoelace broke.
traffic,
the weather.
the line at starbucks
was a mile long,
and there was no
half and half on the counter.
I thought it was Saturday.
I ran out of gas.
my wife wouldn't let me
leave because she wanted
to fool around.
I know, not all of them
are very believable.

holy ground

how quick we are to
flee
from those in need,
those
who have fallen on hard
times.
we want to comfort them
with
an argument of blessings.
look what you have,
who you are, it's not
as bad as it seems.
this will all pass we
say, be patient.
it's not what they want
to hear.
instead they need a quiet
hand upon
them. an acceptance of
where they are.
an agreement that yes,
it's okay to lower
our heads as one
and weep,
sorrow being
holy ground.

one last gathering

we gather around
to all take another kick
at the dead
horse in the room.
not a literal dead horse,
of course.
that would be a cup of crazy.
but the argument
at hand.
it seems to never end.
this sibling disagreement.
passed down through the years
and regenerated
with each new holiday
where we are forced to be
in the same room
together.
we need one last gathering
to get past this.
it's coming
soon, i suspect,
then we can all rest
and move on.

hearts are wild

i don't understand you,
she says to me,
as i look at my cards,
holding them tight
to my chest.
i can't read you.
me either, i tell her,
putting two cards
down on the table
and staring at
the deck in her hand.
it's confusing at times.
i push all my money to
the middle, take off my
watch, my shoes,
my shirt and add them in too.
i look at my two new
cards. i can't win with
this hand, but i do know this.
i want to keep it
going.
i raise you everything
and call.
show me yours and i'll
show you mine.

the old radio

the radio,
a transistor, I suspect,
is beat.
paint splattered, the
antenna bent.
the wobble of the dials
can't find
the station
i want to hear.
forget about AM, you
might as well be on the moon
for that.
it's
battery powered, with
a plug
in option. twenty bucks
or so
at radio shack.
how many drops
off a roof has it survived,
stepped on,
spilled upon,
kicked accidentally
across a room,
but it still has a heart
beat.
four triple double
A's will
keep it going through
the winter, the bent
plug
can be straightened
out,
if there is a socket to
stick it into.

the sun came out

your blood pressure
is strangely low and normal.
it hasn't always
been this way.
at times it seemed as if
your top would
blow, your bubble burst,
your eyes
would pop out because
of the calamities that
you lived with,
the people that you knew,
stuck in your life,
by blood or friendship.
chaos was your go to
place, it seemed safe to
be in the middle
of a hurricane.
but something changed.
the sun came out.

when the water rose

when the floods came
what was there to do
but grab
what we could.
the children, the cat,
the dog, we
let the birds
fly to where ever
they wanted to.
the cow went to the roof.
we stuffed
a phone, some papers,
photo albums,
clothes into a suitcase,
the rest can go down,
go under.
we let the water rise
then boarder our small
boat and set sail
for drier land.
we watched
as we rowed away
as everything we owned slipped
into the sea,
the new sea where only
fish were safe
from drowning.
there was no bargaining
with God for it seemed
He wanted this rain
to come down.

the clearing

the priest in
black, white collar
is just as confused and
doubtful
as you are, at times.
how do we explain
the world
and all that transpires.
it doesn't matter.
you go on.
you kneel, you pray,
you wait for an answer,
which is often
no, or let's see.
it's not blind faith,
but a fog
some days.
the clearing lies
far ahead for him,
for me.

wanting more

a cold cup
of coffee doesn't get it done.
nor does
a stale
slice of bread,
a half moon,
gives us just a glimpse
of what's to
shine in full, to come.
a taste is not a meal.
a kiss on the cheek,
or pat on the back
hello or farewell
is heart breaking
when you desire more.

penance penance penance

penance penance penance
she said
as she lie dying
at the end
of her short life,
having seen the blessed
virgin,
the immaculate
conception.
insane, feeble minded,
a poor child
seeing visions,
why would God choose her
to be a Saint,
not those
in robes, at the heads
of church.
and the water
that sprung from rocks
and dirt,
making the blind see,
the crippled walk,
what is this that lies
beyond our reason,
how often do we need
a Bernadette to still our
doubt,
restore our faith.

wind and moon

if not
for the wind
and the moon,
we'd be still.
motionless,
unable to decide on
things
of the heart,
or otherwise.
there would be no
pull or push
towards one another,
no sail
to blow us forward
across the sea,
there would no way
to discover other lands
to live on,
if one must leave.

i'm not home

it's hard
not to be suspicious
of strangers,
or even relatives
you seldom see,
whether approached in person
or on the street,
or on the phone.
they want something.
advice, or for you
to listen to their
woes. maybe they need
a handout, or a loan,
directions somewhere,
or a lift
to where they want to go.
they want to talk about
a religion they want you to try,
or investments
in real estate.
it's best to keep on
the look out
for these souls.
have caller id,
or take a peek out
the window
to see who's rapping
on that door as they say
hey, I know you're
in there, open up,
I can see you.

she likes pink

she likes pink.
carnations,
sheets,
a dress, or what goes
underneath.
she likes
a pink sunset,
lipstick,
a pale pink.
nails too,
and shoes. she even
likes
pink icing on her
cake.
she's all over
the color pink, but
goes black
or navy blue when
her retinas
need a break.

underwater

it would nice to have
a submarine,
a ship that goes under the water.
everyone has a boat,
a silly
boat with sails,
that floats,
or a motor on the back
that roars, or glides
down ego alley
in Annapolis.
i'd make my submarine
out of glass,
blue glass, or
stained glass
with indigo panes
ruby red, bottle greens.
it would be fun take
friends
out to sea,
taking them under
to float with fish,
the crabs,
the lobsters, cruising
along the sandy
bottom with mermaids
and waving seaweed.

not a dandy

when out and about
you see
that most men your age
and older,
some younger
are wearing the same
clothes.
at some point, without
discussion
we found a uniform
to wear.
it's what we wore
when in our teens.
khaki shorts,
a long sleeved t shirt,
tennis shoes
and a hat.
I look around the room,
and there's
twenty of me.
we've run out of ideas
for fashion,
not a dandy in the room.

pick up days

i chase the trashman
down the street with my bag
of trash.
i heard the roar and clang
of it
as i lay in bed, then rushed
out.
i'm in my robe
and slippers as i chase.
the men in orange
jumpsuits pay me no
mind.
they keep rolling.
throwing bag after bag
into the back.
chairs and boxes.
old bikes,
lamps without shades.
clothes.
they go faster and faster
as i keep running.
by the end of the day
my trash bag
has broken
and everything
has fallen out along
the way.
i walk up to the back
of the dark
truck and throw the empty
bag in.
i walk home, discouraged,
wondering
even after 14 years,
when i will get these days
and times
right for pick up.

someone else

when i get home
late at night i find
that someone else is in my
house.
putting my
kids to bed, kissing my
wife
goodnight.
the dog has been walked.
the doors locked,
the windows pushed
down tight.
i stand and ring the bell
out front,
i look up
to the darkened house
and yell, i bang
on the door with my
fists,
what about me, i say,
this
was my life. this isn't
fair.
this isn't right.

the soft silence

sometimes she's
quiet,
she disappears
for a day or two.
not a word said,
or written,
just a soft silence.
it's almost like
white noise in her absence.
a waiting for her
to tell me
things I don't yet know.

the hydrogen bomb problem

three people in my
neighborhood
have the hydrogen bomb now, 

so we're all a little nervous
and treating each other
with kindness, at least,
in front of them. I have
one too, but the HOA
grandfathered it in,
and I would never use
it for evil,
only good.
behind closed doors
we're a little worried.
we shake our heads
and say, what the hell
are we going to do now?
these people are nuts,

especially mildred.
they promise not to use them
unless absolutely
necessary, but who knows.
we're keeping our dogs
on a leash, and picking up,
and never
parking our cars in front
of their houses.
I tip my hat when I see
them, good day, I say.
my you're looking well.
splendid in fact,
lose weight?

the happy postman

my Christmas list
for cards
has grown shorter and shorter
with each year.
people disappear.
it's whittled down
to eleven now.
down from an even dozen
because
I said her fruitcake
was stale. I guess I won't
ever see it again,
which will make the post
man happy,
when he delivers his
mail.

the unwrapping

the wraps
that you have, the cellophane,
the foils,
the freezer paper.
the gift wrapping,
stars and stripes,
comets,
birthday wishes,
candles burning,
Christmas trees and snow
falling.
your box of ribbons
and bows.
what haven't you wrapped
or unwrapped?
even you,
in heels and little else.

surrender dorothy

so nice
not to hear a word
from siblings.
not a peep from over the river.
but I suspect
they must
be up to something.
tired from writing
your name in the sky,
now off their brooms.
I can almost see them
hovering
over a boiling
cauldron, the raging fire,
with big spoons,
throwing in bat wings
and bitter spices,
chanting
in their special way,
casting a spell
to make something happen
to curtail
the happiness of you
and others.

the island shirt

there's a wine
stain
on my white shirt. or is it
blood?
I don't even drink wine
and I have no cuts.
it's shaped
like
a map of some island
in the west indies.
I can see
the coastline.
the trees
swaying.
I can see the natives
waiting to greet me
as I step
off the boat,
coming ashore.
it was that kind
of night. the shirt is
done,
but i'll keep it.

kenny

he would break into a whistle
at any moment, like
he was eating bird seed
all day.
cool in his button
down yellow sweater,
his blue pants
and white shoes.
he was bing and frank
and dean
all in one.
there was always a wink
in his eye,
a grin
on his face,
shaking his head at the world
bemused
but not worried.
it was hard to see him
pass on.
the world changes,
not always for the better,
one life at a time,
coming and going.

uberville

clarendon boulevard
the young man says hopping
into the front seat of my
car as I sit at a light.
excuse me I say.
he's a complete stranger.
clarendon boulevard, he
says again, and points
down the road.
come on dude, i'm sort
of in a rush.
do I know you, I ask him.
he shrugs, no. how would
we know each other?
let's go, step on it.
he hands me his credit
card. swipe me, he says.
for what, I ask him.
to pay you man, to pay
you, now are you going to
go, or not?
I think you'd better
get out of my car right
now buster, I tell him,
or i'm dialing 911.
hey, aren't you uber?
what? I have no idea
what you're talking about.
okay, man, be cool.
my bad. peace out. I see
him get into another car
behind me, and off
they go.

jenny and bill

it's strange to see a chicken
or two
in someone's yard,
a rooster too
pecking at the ground.
but there they are.
they've given them names.
talk to them
in baby talk.
hey jenny, the woman
says from her window,
hey bill.
watcha doing?
the chicken never looks
up
with her black pebble
eyes, skipping
along in a bundle of white
feathers.
she's more interested
in some bug
in the ground.
the rooster is another
story.
spreading his shoulders,
making sounds
with a sharp beak
to scare you away.
he's angry all
the time.

the eye doctor

my eye doctor
gives me the bad news.
he's moving
back to new jersey to start
his own practice
and make some real money.
a tear
wells up in my
good eye.
but what about us, I ask
him.
us? he says.
asking me to read the
second line
from the top
on the chart against
the wall.
there is no us, he says.
he takes a bite of a large
pastrami sandwich
he pulls out of his lab coat.
read, he says,
I don't have all day.
a e o p, i say,
squinting. the last
letter
might be a w
or an m.
good. he says. good
enough. he wipes some
mustard off his chin.
here's some eye drops
and avoid
heavy lifting, bending
your head,
or wild dancing.
he tapes a new clear
plastic patch over my
eye.
do you have anything in
a different color?
I ask.
no, he says. get out here.
here take this pickle as
a parting gift.
next.

survival

you wake up
thinking of bacon.
potatoes.
eggs.
toast.
coffee.
you look sideways
into the hall
mirror
and see if you have
room today
for such a meal.
maybe
stretch pants
might be in order,
but you can do it.
you'll have water
and crackers
for the next three
days to even things
out.
winter is approaching
after all and
god forbid you get
stuck in a snow
drift miles from home
without a new
layer of fat
to keep you warm.

surrender

it slips by so quickly,
each season.
how days turn into months
feels incredibly
crazy.
it's the scene in the movie
where they show
the passing of time
by calendar pages
being wind blown,
turned or torn off
the pad
in black and white.
have we changed.
have we become who we
want to be,
grown in a good direction
with another year,
or have we surrendered
with our hands in the air,
and said, well.
I think this is it,
this is who I am.

rock on

you can't hear too clearly
the voices
of the band at the sunset
grille. but you can see them.
each silver haired
and slightly
bent over their guitars and drums,
not a wrong note played.
the young woman
in front,
does her best to wail out
a Joplin tune
despite never having the blues,
being born
just yesterday.
no one pays much mind
to the mix being wrong,
the balance of
sound muddled,
or like the screech
of trains wheels stopping
at the station.
no one cares.
the crowd hits the dance floor
to a medley of proud mary
and born on the bayou,
they shake their
collective senior citizen
booties
until closing time at ten.

the first draft

the first draft is really
what you want to say,
but then you let it sit for awhile.
you sleep on it
you rise early and dive back in.
i'm close you think, but not quite.
the second draft is more
poetic, you find words that
you'd never use and prop
them in. you manipulate a rhyme
or two, you try to be more obscure.
you put in the word love.
you stare at it for a while,
shaking your head, then move on,
you come back again
that night with a drink in hand
and sigh.
in the third draft you take
the last stanza
and make it your first.
you change the title. you take
out the word love
and put in the word adore.
you adjust commas,
and punctuation. you wonder if
anyone will understand what you've
said, pffft. so what.
you read it over and over.
it makes no sense. you hate it.
you go back to the first draft.
it's really what you
want to say.

never quite done

from the window
I can hear
the sleeve
of stream, not silver
or blue
but a clear
line
of water
hitting stone
and shore,
making a new curve
against the sand.
the cool of autumn
has begun.
the new trees
have grown,
the old ones wonder
when
they will fall,
it's never quite
done.

what we know

who needs
the trouble. who wants
the chaos.
the roar
of waves
continually crashing
upon
our shore.
who seeks it,
wants it,
wants to feel the same
as they did
as a child.
no one,
and yet we bring
it on,
it's the place
we know, our
safe place, our
crazy place
of discord.

nothing to eat

it's hard to find
food at this hour.
the fridge has nothing
of interest.
dried figs, spoiled fruit,
something wrapped
and frozen
in the ice box.
lettuce
and American cheese,
singles.
I dial
up the local pizza
shop
while I nibble on a
slice of cheese.
nothing.
then the Chinese
place, nothing again,
then my mother.
there's no answer.
the phone keeps ringing.
it's probably too late anyway
to be eating.
although I could
use some of mom's pot
roast right about
now.
I can almost taste
the carrots and onions.
the beef falling
apart
in my mouth. the crusty bread
she set beside my plate,
with butter.
the memory of youth
in each warm bite.

night sounds

it's late.
the dogs have stopped barking,
the neighbors
have stopped
drinking and arguing.
there's not a car on the road,
not a plane
in the sky.
it's raining.
that's the only sound
I hear
other than my heart
still beating,
racing,
because of you.

the big top

we met when we were both
travelling
with the circus. the big top.
she used to ride
the elephants
into the ring,
sitting high behind
their floppy ears, while
I was shot out of a cannon
into a haystack.
we had some good times.
she'd fill in
on occasion for the bearded
woman,
gluing hair to her cheeks
and chin,
and sometimes
i'd stuff myself into a
little car
with the clowns when
one got sick,
or arrested.
it was fun for a while.
being on the road.
the romance of it all.
the smell of cotton candy
and hot dogs.
cigar smoke and sawdust.
kibbutzing with the midgets.
but sadly it ended when
an elephant stepped on
her one day
and that was it.
I was flying though
the air as the human cannon ball
and looked down
to see it all. I can still
hear her scream
and see the puddle of her
in a silver sequined dress. i
haven't been to the circus
since then.

land lubber

I've find being out
on the water
is bad for me.
the save
the cruise marriage
didn't quite pan out,
despite dropping
ten grand
on the suite and bathtub
in the room,
her idea.
the trip
to the Aegean sea
with
linda blair was a disaster,
how the bed rose
and shook,
that mess with the pea
soup
and speaking in tongues
when the waiter
asked if we
wanted another cup of tea.
the boat trip on
the chesepeake
where we nearly cap
sized
after hitting a buoy
was no fun either.
man overboard is not a phrase
I like to hear
when it involves
me being in the drink.
i'm more of a land
lubber,
i suppose.
but even then I have
my issues.

six more to go

it's understandable
why cats
are so aloof,
off into their own world.
unbothered
by the barking dog,
being left alone
all day.
their blood pressure is
low.
they know
while staring out
the window
that they have more lives
ahead of them.
so what's the rush,
the worry?
don't bother me with
your silly
toy mouse, i'm busy.

aunts and uncles

the aunt
who pinches your cheek
and says my oh my,
how you've grown.
look at you.
the uncle
who takes you aside and says,
what now.
what are you
going to do with your life.
you need to have some
skills.
something to make
a living.
what? still no wife?
you're them
now.
handing out advice
like candy.
letting them know what
you've learned,
how to avoid the wrong
turns, pinching cheeks,
and saying
things like, I remember
when I cradled you
in my arms.
you were so cute then.

the social calendar

my social calendar
is wide open.
not a party planned, no
weddings to
go to.
no wake, or class reunion,
not a single invite
to the opera,
or broadway show.
picnic season is nearly
over
and i'm still
holding my basket
full of boiled eggs
and sandwiches,
ready to go.

the apple and tree

the sound of your son's
voice
on the phone
is clear, the cadence
is yours,
the thoughts and words
so like
you.
the apple and the
tree
speaking as one
as he rolls
to his own way
with you staying put,
happy with who
he's become.