roughly, how much?

can you
give me an estimate
on this wallpaper job
I need done,
like yesterday?
I don't
know what kind of paper
it is.
or how many rolls.
or if it needs
paste or is pre-pasted.
I have no clue
of the seller, the maker,
or the composition
of the paper, or size,
width, length, or
linear yards,
or what areas are going
to be done,
but just roughly
what would it
cost to paper this house?

the last slice

I don't want
to fight to argue
to disagree
and debate
such things as this,
so small.
I want
to let you have
your way.
to let you win.
to let you have
the day. go ahead,
take that last
slice of cake.
it's yours.

the christmas tree

there was the stolen Christmas
tree.
the unbalanced tree
that had
to be tied
to the rail, nailed
to the floor. there was
the tree where the needles
fell off
the first day.
the tree the cat ran up.
the too large
tree
that had to be cut
at the bottom,
then the top.
the tree that caught fire.
the tree
with sap.
the crooked tree, the tree
we cut down.
the tree we bought
at the church lot.
the tree
we all decorated together,
my father on a stool
putting the star
on top.
the tree we did alone
as my mother cried
at the darkened string,
sitting on the floor
as she tested
each bulb one at a time.

which way?

the roads
not taken are many,
as are the ones you've traveled
on.
God's will,
or human error, it's hard
to know
sometimes,
but off you go again.
bags packed,
with no forwarding
address,
no clue as to the next
stop.
hands pressed together
in trust.

the horses

we would run to the door
or windows
and look out when we heard
the clatter
of hooves on the street.
the heavy
clang of horse shoes
and wheels,
while the sagging horses
pulled the dark wagon along.
the gypsies draped
in black, with babies
under their arms would stand
and moan.
they'd stop and hold their
babies in the air
as if cursed with what they held.
sometimes my mother would
go out
and hand them what she could.
sometimes money, sometimes
eggs, or bread, a dish of stew.
they'd move on,
snapping the reins
to awaken the horses,
then into the woods
they'd go.

against our will

she refuses
to die. to let go.
what's going on here?
it's hard to understand
why life
goes on, when stuck
inside
your own body. your own
mind
not working
as it should.
talked to as if a child.
bed ridden. fed by
a baby spoon, the straw
brought to
her lips
for water.
what strange ends we
come to
against our will.

let them eat cake

she is the baking
queen
in her apron.
happy as all get out
when she mixes
and stirs
the eggs and sugar,
flour and cream.
what can't
she bake?
whether square or
round.
the dough will rise
and be iced when cooled,
then start again.
how happy she is
when
bringing it to your
door
and says, here,
I made this for you.

the start

it's not the face
you
expected
when getting up
in the cold
morning.
how did we get so old,
so quickly.
so tired.
so young at heart
and limping
at times
towards
the finish, or is it
the start?

bright green

I love the green light.
not stopping.
but going.
not a yellow
or red
before us.
not a detour in sight.
hitting the gas
with the windows down
the tank full,
the radio on
as we speed along
the wide open road
with nothing but
green lights.

the engagement ring

i look at her

in this dim light and she

looks

old.

ugly even,

her face

showing the years

of hiding

who she really is.

the cragginess

of deceit

under her eyes,

in the lines

bordering her mouth.

the bristle of grey

in her roots.

it was for a moment

that i saw who

she really was.

the mask off.

she'd gone sour over

night.

the married boyfriend

in her phone.

her boxes of secrets.

the clothes on her

back were all she owned.

the rest borrowed

or stolen.

i was seeing evil

first hand. right in front

of me.

but i was lost.

and said good night

and kissed her,

giving her a ring to

make her mine.

when mice visit

the mice,
oh how the mice find
a way
to creep in on
soft feet,
their long soft tails,
their
quiet ways.
in from the cold
and hungry,
how they munch and chew
at the wood,
then enter
and eat.
they bring friends
of like ilk.
they eat too.
whispering among themselves,
with quiet
voices.
in time there is no
more angel hair
pasta
in the box, but what
a feast it was.

when mice visit

the mice,
oh how the mice find
a way
to creep in on
soft feet,
their long soft tails,
their
quiet ways.
in from the cold
and hungry,
how they munch and chew
at the wood,
then enter
and eat.
they bring friends
of like ilk.
they eat too.
whispering among themselves,
with quiet
voices.
in time there is no
more angel hair
pasta
in the box, but what
a feast it was.

the light

she's the light.
a glimmer.
she's the twinkle
in an eye.
the bright after
the lifted fog,
the morning
after a long
cold night.
she's a chandelier
of stars.
she's a white candle
with a single flame.
she's aglow.
she's the light.

the light

she's the light.
a glimmer.
she's the twinkle
in an eye.
the bright after
the lifted fog,
the morning
after a long
cold night.
she's a chandelier
of stars.
she's a white candle
with a single flame.
she's aglow.
she's the light.

lemons

the transmission
goes out on his car.
he gets out
and walks the rest of
the day.
he's had eight cars in
two years.
three were t-boned,
two impounded.
one threw a rod
another was stolen.
his shoes are worn,
as is his thumb,
which goes
out to the traffic
heading my way.

where am i

she's up before me.
i see the light on
down the stairs.
everyone
is up before
me.
I've slept too long.
the dog
is on the bed,
the cat
on the sill purring
about something.
i look out the window
and see
all the cars gone.
what day is this?
where am I?

where am i

she's up before me.
i see the light on
down the stairs.
everyone
is up before
me.
I've slept too long.
the dog
is on the bed,
the cat
on the sill purring
about something.
i look out the window
and see
all the cars gone.
what day is this?
where am I?

a caution yellow

when I was stuck
in the round about
in the city,
unable to leave,
I thought
of you.
the nature of us.
going around
and around, not getting
to where we
wanted to go.
the lights rarely green,
but always red,
always
a caution yellow.

magazines

I can't read them all.
who can?
they keep coming.
one after the other
every two weeks.
the covers are
enticing, but there is
no time.
so I skip and skim,
go to the obscure
cartoons,
the shouts and murmurs
the movie reviews,
food
and fashion.
photos.
the rest can wait.
I need a week of hours
to lie down,
to dig in.

Fearful

we
were not bad children.
in the great scheme of things.
we teased
the edge.
rebellious, but fearful
of consequences.
this keeps us still
in check.
do we ever change, or
is the die cast
early.
are we born into what we
are,
set?

in passing

it's not all fun
not all
games.
there's this little thing
called death
that interrupts
the programming, and puts
everything
on hold.
we hardly talk of it.
hardly
breathe a word about it.
we pass the graveyards
and look,
but don't linger long.

stuffed

I've got turkey
coming out of my ears.
I look at my neck.
there's a new wobble to it.
I pinch my
sides and feel the stuffing
bulging.
my shirt is
stained with gravy
and cranberry sauce.
if I never see a pumpkin
pie again,
I think as I spray
whipped cream into the tin,
i'll be happy.
at least until next year.

snow bird

he's a snow bird now.
retired
but young.
off to florida to his beach
house.
his bungalow by the sea.
the rods
are waiting, the little
boat he'll tow
to the sand and set
sail
upon the blue warm water.
his bags are packed
with shorts and short sleeve
shirts
decorated with pineapples
and oranges.
he has a straw hat,
sandals.
he fills up the tank,
and off he goes.
into the light
of a different life
away from ice
away from snow.

the phone calls

there are places
I don't want to get a call
from.
people too.
the bank for one.
the credit card service,
the doctor.
my sister, actually two.
any call in the dead
of night
is deadly.
the vet, the lab with
blood work.
the neighbor next door
who pounded
on the wall with her shoe.
the police, the IRS,
or the county delegates
wanting my vote,
wanting me to decide
and choose.

the phone calls

there are places
I don't want to get a call
from.
people too.
the bank for one.
the credit card service,
the doctor.
my sister, actually two.
any call in the dead
of night
is deadly.
the vet, the lab with
blood work.
the neighbor next door
who pounded
on the wall with her shoe.
the police, the IRS,
or the county delegates
wanting my vote,
wanting me to decide
and choose.

trimming the tree

they sing,
they bake, they put out a plate
of cookies and treats. it's
Christmas carols all day.
they take down the boxes
from the attic.
plug in the lights,
turning the tree
from left to right.
she does the ornaments,
he does the tinsel
and angel air,
together they place the star
at the top.
the whipped cream is
like snow on their mugs
of hot chocolate.
they turn down the lights
and sit together
on the sofa.
the fireplace burns bright,
the cat in their laps.
I get the feeling that
they've done
this before,
many times before and wish
that Christmas came
more than just once
a year.

open doors

the other
day when you said what you
said,
then I said
what I said,
and then we went into
separate
rooms
quiet as mice,
closing the doors.
I was worried. worried
until
you turned around
and came
to me with open arms
and said,
forgive me,
forgive me as I forgive
you.

the quiet

being tired like this,
is something
I've grown used to.
bone weary
in work clothes,
standing at the sink
with a turkey sandwich,
watching
the cars pull into
the lot.
kids getting out,
husbands and wives.
dogs too.
I can hear them talking.
do your home work.
i'll start dinner
while you walk the dog.
don't forget the mail.
I set a plant beneath
the spigot and let the water
trickle over it,
then the other,
i set them back
onto window sill.
the quiet is here.
it's been here for way
too long.

her blue stone poems

her book
blue stone made me realize
what was
possible.
small poets win
too
in time, with enough
words
on paper, enough
life
lived
both in
and outside.
keep at she'd say.
i'm eighty five,
can you believe that?
I do believe it, I'd
tell her.
I see it in the poems
you write.
the lines on the page,
the lines
around
your soft blue eyes.

it's probably nothing

they
want to find out
what ails you.
so they photograph
within.
hold still they say,
then run from the room.
you hear the click click click.
later
they hold the photos up
to the light,
and agree that it might
be something.
or maybe not.
they place their hands on
their chins.
adjust their glasses.
shrug and look at one another.
perhaps we'll take a knife
and go in, one says. or
maybe we'll just wait and see.
let's just
forget about it for awhile
and go on
as if all is well.
it's the holidays after all.
you get dressed as they
tell you
not to worry.
you stare up at the wreathe
on the door,
the garlands in green,
the lights
on the window flickering white.
the box marked Christmas
in the corner.
you put
one shoe on after the other.
buttoning your shirt,
clasping your belt.
you put on your coat
and hat,
your scarf.
they pat you on the back
and send you on your way.

the fire place

we build a fire.
the kindling, the dry
logs,
the long match
that lights it all.
we lean in
and watch the flames
rise,
feel the heat of the yellow
red ribbons.
what a strange
sight to see this fire.
this blaze.
this primitive thing
in the dead
of winter, crackling
warmly before us.

the relatives arrive

the relatives arrive,
the aunts
and uncles, so rarely seen.
they bring a dog
and ask if you mind
as he runs off the leash.
the cousins
come in droves, energetic
with
bottles
of wine. pies
and cakes. they've
parked on the lawn.
children come from afar.
grandparents
shuffle in to find
the soft couch.
they smile and pinch
the cheeks of grown
children.
parents
open the window, pull
the chairs around,
make tea.
they ask why things are
the way
they are, then make them
the way they want
them to be.
everyone is hungry,
thirsty and off we go.

getting your coat

we inch forward
at times. we rarely take
that giant
leap.
it's small steps, careful
steps
towards
the door to leave.
we look at the window
and wonder how far
the ground is below.
is there a kitchen door.
a side
exit.
it's hard to go,
to get your coat
and end things
when love isn't what it
should be.

the card game

the card game
goes long into the night.
old friends
with old hands.
jacks
and aces held tight
to our chests.
pairs of clubs.
straights.
the chips are stacked
in front
of us. a small
ante in the middle.
we raise
and draw,
we ask for two, or
more.
we all want the winning
hand
as the night goes on.
in time
the conversation
is about us. not cards.
not about who wins
or loses. it's
about where we are,
who we are, what we
mean to one another
without ever saying it.

trick question

it's a trick question.
most are.
multiple choice,
or
true or false,
or essay.
just tell us what
you want us to know.
don't let us guess
whether a b or c
is the way
to go.
we're tired of guessing.
tired
of being neither right
or wrong.

some days

some days
swing by too fast.
like a turnstile
oiled
we slip right through
into night,
hardly
looking back.
will we remember
each hour,
savor
the moments, or
let them slide
into dream,
forever past.

three unwise men

the unwise
men appear. they have
gifts, having heard
the news from afar,
but
they're lost.
they can't find
the manger,
they're looking at the wrong
star
uncertain
about which way to go.
they were going to bring myrrh
but they heard
that others have already brought
myrrh.
what's myrrh, one says to the other.
they ask strangers
on the street and ask
if they know where
the child might be.
he's about this big they
say,
holding their hands
apart.
Joseph? Mary? heard of them?
they wander all night
in the cold air looking
up at the stars, lost,
but they're
hearts are true,
despite their sense
of direction.

the ribbon of me

it's a trickle of blood,
on the bend
of my chin.
a razor gone awry
while sitting in the tub
in the dark
in the early
morning light.
the water goes pink.
a ribbon
of me
afloat.
the abstract of our lives,
is always
near.
it comes it goes.

i forgot

i forgot
how much we slept in when
young.
how noon
fast approached
with us still in bed.
i forgot how much we
ate,
how much we needed food
and more food
to keep going,
how easy it was to
go all day,
to stay up so late.
i forgot how fresh our
eyes were,
how new the world appeared,
a clean and
unmarked slate.
i forgot
so many things about
being young.
it's nice to be reminded.

the jewel box

she left
behind some things.
a brush, a bracelet,
some shoes,
a ring.
I left
behind
some things.
a coat, a scarf, a book,
an unread
magazine.
we talked
it over as best we could.
we drifted apart.
in time,
the cards
and letters stopped.
the anger
subsided, the hurt
was less.
the memories
for better or for
worse were
encased
in a jewel box
of thought.

the jewel box

she left
behind some things.
a brush, a bracelet,
some shoes,
a ring.
I left
behind
some things.
a coat, a scarf, a book,
an unread
magazine.
we talked
it over as best we could.
we drifted apart.
in time,
the cards
and letters stopped.
the anger
subsided, the hurt
was less.
the memories
for better or for
worse were
encased
in a jewel box
of thought.

the vine

if left alone
the vine will grow. grip
the fence,
embed itself
in brick and mortar,
crawl
upwards and inwards.
disguised as beauty
it has no
boundaries.
in time if not killed
at the root,
it will
weaken the whole,
take
it all down.
sin
can be like that.

today becomes tomorrow

we come into this world
against our will,
and most
likely will leave
the same way.
each day a choice, a path
taken,
or untaken.
how it all unfolds,
who knows.
but we keep going.
what else is there to do,
but go on.
today becomes tomorrow
before we know.

today becomes tomorrow

we come into this world
against our will,
and most
likely will leave
the same way.
each day a choice, a path
taken,
or untaken.
how it all unfolds,
who knows.
but we keep going.
what else is there to do,
but go on.
today becomes tomorrow
before we know.

slow music

the soft
languid voice of chet
baker
seeps
into the room, the sleepy
room,
the darkened
room. a candle
burning.
the melancholy horn
blowing,
the ache of the piano.
each struck key
a memory.
taking you to a place
you used to know.
a place
where you used to live,
easy and still.
slow.

not quite done

they are young.
lineless.
almost full grown.
almost
ripened, still unplucked
from any
tree.
they are new to this planet
risen from a seed
of love,
almost ready
for what's to come.
but not quite yet,
still tethered
to the tree,
the youth of them,
not quite done.

not quite done

they are young.
lineless.
almost full grown.
almost
ripened, still unplucked
from any
tree.
they are new to this planet
risen from a seed
of love,
almost ready
for what's to come.
but not quite yet,
still tethered
to the tree,
the youth of them,
not quite done.

the old windows

I like
the old windows,
the wood, the glass panes.
the cold
wetness when you press
a hand against
them.
I like the songs they
sing
when the wind
persists
throughout the night.
I like the way they stick,
the way
you have strike
them with a fist and
muscle them upward.
I like the old
windows.
the webs and skeletons
of things
that flew
between the screens
and died. the webs
of time.
clasps they don't quite
lock
anymore.
I like the old wooden
windows,
but will I miss them,
no.

what cold?

I don't feel
the cold.
i'm numb to the wind.
I can
walk into all day
and not
button my coat,
tighten the scarf
around my neck.
I hold my in hat
in hand.
squint into the winter
sun.
low and white
between bare
trees.
i'm in a different place
now.
tomorrow will be
different.

what cold?

I don't feel
the cold.
i'm numb to the wind.
I can
walk into all day
and not
button my coat,
tighten the scarf
around my neck.
I hold my in hat
in hand.
squint into the winter
sun.
low and white
between bare
trees.
i'm in a different place
now.
tomorrow will be
different.

silver planes

the faces
of those arriving,
luggage in hand,
the embrace.
the tears
of those departing,
final turns,
and waves.
strangers
to me.
but the warmth and glow
of love
and
friendship
hovers
as I drive home
beneath the red glow
of silver
planes.

the rain

a sheet
of rain falls across
the world.
but the world
spins on its axis.
the sun
comes into play.
the rain
will end. night
will
become day.

the rain

a sheet
of rain falls across
the world.
but the world
spins on its axis.
the sun
comes into play.
the rain
will end. night
will
become day.

the queen of gravy

she offers to give
me a recipe
for gravy
as i hang wallpaper
in the dining
room
a day before the holiday.
i can write it down for you
so you'll have
it she says,
already writing on a pad of paper.
i see little turkeys
and pilgrims
at the top of the pad.
real gravy
is the only way
to go, she says, nodding
her head.
stay away from those packaged
gravies.
i mean look at me, do i
know gravy, or do i
know gravy.
she pinches the side
of her stomach
and jiggles her belly.
she winks.
yes indeed she says.
i know gravy.

hearts and bones

there is so much
we don't know, so much beneath
the surface.
beneath the water,
below
the linear
movement of our lives.
the tip of the ice berg
is often
all we see, but
even that can sink our
ship.
even the smallest of holes
can
send us to the bottom
with hearts
and bones undone.

the red balloon

a red balloon has gotten
loose
and swims
in the cloudless
blue sky.
i follow it as it dips
and sways
floats so easily away
with string attached,
somewhere a child
is wondering,
as i often do,
what's up with this world
where nothing
stays forever,
no matter how hard
you grasp.

we can catch them

the cop
looks ready for war when
he arrives
in his unmarked car
with his dna kit.
his gun, his badge,
his vest.
his other gun.
his radio
crackling.
did you leave your
car unlocked? he asks.
it locks on its own,
I tell him.
he comes into the house
and sits down.
his holster is in the way.
I look at his polished boots,
his baton.
he's matter of fact
about it all.
but nice and compassionate.
he tells me about
the time his car was stolen.
it doesn't make me feel
any better.
we can catch them, he
says. don't worry.
we catch them all the time.

where is it?

I can't find the spot
we need
to scrape off the top of your
head
the doctors tells
me, holding a light
on my smooth dome.
she looks at the picture
on the monitor,
goes back to my
scalp.
where about was it?
she asks,
I point. I shrug.
I don't know, I tell
her.
somewhere up there.
I can't scrap if I don't
see anything she says.
what else you got?
I point at two spots
on my back that itch like
crazy.
she takes out her freezer
gun
and blasts them
away.

confession

how many years
since your last confession
the priest
asks me.
as I bend
in the darkened box.
too many I reply.
decades.
let's call it thirty.
so I round it off
to the nineteen seventies.
the sins,
like dirty snow
have been plowed to the side
of my
road.
does he need detail?
I spare him. I spare me.
the penance
is light, but the absolution
is mighty.

the easy swipe

they break into your car.
steal
money.
steal your wallet.
your credit
cards.
the photos, though
few are tucked
in the inside
pocket.
they take a gps.
they are quiet in
the early
morning dark.
a cigarette one was
smoking is left behind.
by 7 am.
they are using the cards.
eating breakfast,
buying gas,
purchasing small things
that they need.
that we all need.
holding up your driver's
license
and getting a good
laugh.

the scream

it's a formal letter.
stamped
and printed out,
signed by a variety of people
on the board.
it's detailed and long,
but the gist
of it is that I put
a bag of trash out too
early
on the curb, before dark,
and left one behind
a bush
where they found it
and were horrified.
I can almost see their hands
upon their faces,
mouths wide open
emitting a scream.
(see Edvard Munch's The Scream)
but the letter,
it's a legal document.
there's a wax seal embedded
at the bottom. blood red.
i'm on a list now,
i have a record. i'm
being watched.
I almost feel like
a communist in the 50's.
I am a Rosenberg.
I ball up the letter and put
it in a bag of trash.
I set that out behind the bush.
it should be dark
in a few hours.

why the corn starch

is there a reason
that I have three unopened bottles
or ray's original
barbeque sauce?
or four boxes of rigatoni,
six cans of soup.
campbells rice and chicken noodle.
two boxes of white rice
from uncle ben?
one wild, the other not so wild.
is there a reason,
to have so much brown
sugar
hardened in the bag,
or flour,
or corn starch?
why for the corn starch?
what is it anyway.

the stone steps

the cold air
constricts my lungs.
the wind pushes me around.
I bend
and inhale, stop half
way up the stone steps
to catch my breath.
the world is covered
in yellowed leaves.
it doesn't seem
that long ago
when I ran down, ran
back up so easily.
going to the stream
to find
a tree
to carve our names
into.

a quilted world

the woman has a sewing
room
like no other.
six machines in line,
the largest and newest one
the cost of a small
car.
loaded with soft ware.
a rainbow of spools
are aligned
like soldiers dressed
for battle. the
stacks of quilts are
everywhere.
hung on the walls, draped
over chairs.
packaged and ready
to be sent to children,
grandchildren,
dear friends,
somewhere.

through a glass

sorrow
brings you to your knees.
through a glass darkly,
you suddenly
know exactly what that means.
what's dark
is darker still.
what's light is too hard
to bear.
you understand so much
when
surrendered, when no
longer
thinking of what you need
or want.

fingers like sauages

she tells me,
from ohio, that when she wakes
up
in the morning that her fingers
are swollen
like sausages.
I open the fridge,
and take out two eggs,
crack them into a pan
of melting butter.
she
says that her life is
going
down the drain.
I toss the shells
into the sink,
letting the water
flush them away
into the grind of the disposal.
I have so little time
to do the things I want to do,
she whispers, she sighs
into the phone.
I look at the clock
on the wall, on the stove,
on the microwave,
on the phone.
all saying different
things.

what's in the box

I find a card
she wrote, an earring,
a shoe.
a lipstick bullet,
a poem she wrote
when we were new.
I find
what used to be
so dear
inside a box.
I wonder if she does
the same
for me.
keeping it in a
closet,
or letting it all go.

close to the basket

the tall
boy, has no problem
under the hoop.
they throw the ball
to him
and without hardly
a jump
the ball slides off
his hand
and goes in.
it's easy for him.
we want
all of life to be that
easy,
to be that tall
and close
to the basket.

the loose thread

I pull the thread
and
tear apart what was made,
thin
as it was, loosely knit
and woven.
I pull
the thread and have it
all come undone.
how we often we unravel
the things
we want or need,
then start again.

the son

the son
is coming into town.
girl friend too.
it's been years since I've
seen him.
felt his hand in mine,
kissed his cheek.
was it yesterday
that I rocked him to sleep.
read to him,
helped him
with his homework,
argued, or threw a ball
across the yard
into his hands.
the son is coming into
town,
his girl friend
too.
there are small joys
in the world
and there are large ones.
this would be
the later.

far from anywhere i know

the electrician
arrives with his son.
they are country.
they are going hunting
for deer
and turkey when they leave
this job.
I tell them that safeway
has turkeys now,
which makes them laugh
and push back their straight
parted hair.
like father like son.
they go to work.
no music on.
no words said. I hear
one whistling, but I don't
know the song.
I bring them water.
in time the young boy
comes up
the stairs
and says, mister, we're
done.
I pay them, we all shake
hands,
then off they go to kill
a turkey
somewhere far from anywhere
I know.

the whole pie

my waitress, tina,
sees me come into the diner
and winks.
be with you in a minute hon,
she says.
she's wearing pink
today.
a black apron, her hair
up, a pen
stuck behind her ear.
a little too much rouge,
a little heavy on the red
lipstick.
but why not?
I can see smudges on her
nice teeth.
she holds out her pad
and says,
the usual?
I think for minute,
perusing the laminated
menu.
turning it over and over
again.
yeah, I say.
the usual.
one coffee, one slice
of apple
pie, she says, writing
it down on her pad.
leave the pot on the table
I tell her. a fresh pot
if you could and
cream and sugar. oh,
and the pie, the whole
pie.
the whole pie?
yup, I tell her.
rough day darling? she asks.
you don't want to know
I tell her. you don't want
to know.

we are late

we are late
in being who we want to be,
who we
really are.
we've missed so
many buses, gone
the wrong way, taken
unnecessary detours.
hopped the wrong train.
we are so far behind,
off schedule.
is it the journey, or
arriving
that keeps our feet
going
one foot in front
of the other.
maybe a little of both.

to clean house

i clean
the house. i go at it.
with mop
and broom.
i find dust everywhere.
i scrub
the floors.
i vacuum the carpet.
wipe
the windows,
the shelves. knock down
the cobwebs
in the corners.
i empty the closets.
i am quiet in my work.
all day.
into the night.
so
much to do, to get
there. i want to get
there.

into the woods

i remember being
betrayed.
lied to. hurt beyond words.
i remember
lying in bed
in tears. aching. unable
to eat.
to sleep.
to do anything but
walk
bent into the woods
seeking comfort.
i remember
kneeling in the dirt
beside
a stream.
in the dark wet soil,
and staying there
for hours
wanting the pain
to go away. in time it
did.
but i can bring it up
and remember
that bittersweet broken
moment at any time.
i don't wish it on
others. ever.

confession

I settle into the confession
booth
to confess my sins.
this could take awhile
I tell the priest
through the mesh screen
in the darkened
closet.
I can see him
shadowed in the soft
light, head
bent awaiting my words.
I ask him if he's ready.
I am if you are, he
says.
so I begin.
it's been 50 years since
my last confession,
I tell him.
oh my, I hear him say.
I imagine him rolling up
his sleeve to look
at his watch.
I hear a bottle of water
opened
and a loosening of
his collar. please begin,
he says.
okay, I tell him, but I
really need this,
so bear with me. there's
a lot that i'm sorry for.

pain and suffering

what damage we do
to one another, the cold careless
ways
that we behave.
the blasé
attitude towards
love
and sex, affection
and friendship.
the selfishness of desire.
what sorrow and pain
comes after
when it breaks.
when the light comes on
and you
see what you
have done. no words
can
say enough to heal
these wounds to make
it right again.

hey

I get into a discussion
with a toll
booth operator, but it's short.
very short.
in fact,
it's hey,
and hey back.
on a cold rainy
day like this, it's all
the conversation I can
handle
with strangers.

dog dance

the dog wants to dance.
to embrace.
he puts
his paws up on your chest
and
leans with all
his weight, acting as if
he's never
once been petted, walked
or loved
one bit.
who doesn't need that
kind of affection?

circumstances

keeping
safe while in the tornado
is more
important than
wishing it gone.
all in good time.
it's here, let it blow,
let it roll,
hold on.

the dented can

the dented can
is cheaper. on sale.
holding what?
tomatoes and such.
green beans.
the poor dented can,
there so long
on the store shelf with
perfect friends,
untouched.
no different on the inside,
but pushed
aside just
the same
for a brighter more
perfect can.

galloping along

the more one has to do,
the more things get done.
a day off gets you nowhere.
sleeping in.
indulging oneself
under the grey rain
with books and such.
but if the clock
is on you,
if the list long,
off you go, a race horse
galloping
towards
the finish.

staying home

change is hard.
old age
keeping us where
we've always been.
with things just so,
the chair
in the corner,
the sofa with its
imprint of us
when we rise.
the vase
on the mantle.
the parted curtains
letting light in.
all the comforts of
home.
a tea kettle rattling
on the stove.

staying home

change is hard.
old age
keeping us where
we've always been.
with things just so,
the chair
in the corner,
the sofa with its
imprint of us
when we rise.
the vase
on the mantle.
the parted curtains
letting light in.
all the comforts of
home.
a tea kettle rattling
on the stove.

they need more

hardly worth
the effort convincing someone
who does
not believe
in God, some God, some
power.
no words
can win them over.
no church or dogma.
no scripture.
not love,
or hate, or flower.
no beast
of the jungle, or bird
in the sky.
they need more than
the miracle of life
to say I get it now.
they need
a plane going down,
death
at their door
to put their hands together.

good cheer

we had a cheer in high school
that went like this.
the whole student body
knew it
and said it loudly at a game.
I've got some vodka,
up in my locker
and if we win
we get some gin, but
if we lose we get no
booze. go wild cats!
the parents and teachers
were horrified.
but laughed just the same,
then took their flasks
out and sipped
while huddled in the stands
on a cold winters day.

good cheer

we had a cheer in high school
that went like this.
the whole student body
knew it
and said it loudly at a game.
I've got some vodka,
up in my locker
and if we win
we get some gin, but
if we lose we get no
booze. go wild cats!
the parents and teachers
were horrified.
but laughed just the same,
then took their flasks
out and sipped
while huddled in the stands
on a cold winters day.

wild flowers

I forgot
that I had thrown
the wild flower
seeds
around the bare
brown
square of a desolate
yard
I own.
so when they arrive,
after winter,
popping
up in bright colors
at their own
free will,
i'm
pleasantly
surprised.

making it a day

they are so busy.
these monkeys in the zoo.
look at them
picking
at one another. kindly.
jumping from branch
to branch.
making noises. arguing.
swinging from the vines.
making a day
of it.
here they are.
here
they'll stay.
cage to grave. no
different, perhaps
than me or you,
I hate to say.

making it a day

they are so busy.
these monkeys in the zoo.
look at them
picking
at one another. kindly.
jumping from branch
to branch.
making noises. arguing.
swinging from the vines.
making a day
of it.
here they are.
here
they'll stay.
cage to grave. no
different, perhaps
than me or you,
I hate to say.

let's talk

I haven't heard from
Mary in some time. no cards,
no letters,
no calls.
no updates on her new
digs in Miami.
at ninety five any day
could be her
last day.
I need to call her.
talk
the trash we used
to talk.
say remember when.
say all the things we
always say.
nothing's new, nothing's
changed.
let's keep it that way.

let's talk

I haven't heard from
Mary in some time. no cards,
no letters,
no calls.
no updates on her new
digs in Miami.
at ninety five any day
could be her
last day.
I need to call her.
talk
the trash we used
to talk.
say remember when.
say all the things we
always say.
nothing's new, nothing's
changed.
let's keep it that way.

like it never happened

they take
down the statues. heave ho.
a man on his horse
with sword drawn.
history
ain't what it
used to be.
we're offended
so easily by what was
wrong.
we're fragile, let's
pretend
that today is all there
is,
that the past never
happened.
let's erase
the bad
and make a new world.

like it never happened

they take
down the statues. heave ho.
a man on his horse
with sword drawn.
history
ain't what it
used to be.
we're offended
so easily by what was
wrong.
we're fragile, let's
pretend
that today is all there
is,
that the past never
happened.
let's erase
the bad
and make a new world.

jersey girl

she's a jersey girl.
bright
eyed
and smart. but
not a boardwalk girl.
not a wild
thing
in the club or on
the beach.
she's a jersey girl.
up the coast
along the ocean.
she smiles,
she waves, she winks.

jersey girl

she's a jersey girl.
bright
eyed
and smart. but
not a boardwalk girl.
not a wild
thing
in the club or on
the beach.
she's a jersey girl.
up the coast
along the ocean.
she smiles,
she waves, she winks.

small town

they move away
to a small town after
working hard
their whole lives.
the money saved. they
move to a place
where no one knows them.
where the sky
is large the hills green.
there's a church
on every corner.
people wave and say hello.
they bring pans of food,
pies to welcome them.
it's picturesque and
pristine.
but there's not much to do
once it's done.
and in time
they're bored out of their
minds
and move back
to civilization.

cook it slow

cook it slow.
on low.
all day.
stir and spin,
turn the light on,
take a look.
nice and easy.
let the heat
soak in.
let the juices flow.
cook it slow.
on low
all day.
by night it's
ready.

cook it slow

cook it slow.
on low.
all day.
stir and spin,
turn the light on,
take a look.
nice and easy.
let the heat
soak in.
let the juices flow.
cook it slow.
on low
all day.
by night it's
ready.

night or day

it has
no schedule of its own.
night
or day.
when you're in a crowded
room,
alone.
there is no rhyme no
reason
found.
no getting from point
a to
b.
it just happens.
the heart comes around.

night or day

it has
no schedule of its own.
night
or day.
when you're in a crowded
room,
alone.
there is no rhyme no
reason
found.
no getting from point
a to
b.
it just happens.
the heart comes around.

a good dog

the old
dog on the floor.
runny eyes, and tired.
hardly hears
the door bell anymore.
she smells
like
the yard, the woods.
her bark
a whispered growl.
the tail
is unwagging, she limps
to her bowl.
the tongue
set still. she's a good
dog.
a fine
piece of God's work,
about to run
free
in a long sweet field
of grass.

a simple poem

he called her
angel.
blew her kisses
on the phone, flowers
gifts.
the yacht, the beach house.
the country club.
what was I to do
but write a simple poem
and open up
my heart.
then hope that was enough
to win
and keep her, keep
them
both apart.

a shade of blue

she was most happy
when she was unhappy.
the ex wife.
ancient history now
and
hard to explain, but true.
nothing
pleased her more
than a gift
she didn't want,
a ring, a blouse,
a sweater, or jewel.
the wrong color, or fit,
or style
made her swell with
joy.
what was there to do
but keep
trying. maybe green,
maybe gold,
maybe a different
shade of blue.

cutting down the tree

my father would pull over
in his
turquoise impala
leave the engine running,
kids and mom
in the car
and with a dull saw
go down into the woods
off the mt. Vernon parkway
to chop down
a Christmas tree.
drinking was involved.
we were on federal park
land, it made
no difference, red faced
and blowing
out coughs
of cigarettes and whiskey
he'd tie the tree onto the roof
of his car
and off we'd go.
merry Christmas.

lace, to let the light in

she tells me that she would
be happy
in a cardboard box
behind the liquor store.
i'd be perfectly content
with that, she says.
we'd need pillows, I tell her.
a warm blanket.
chardonnay she adds in.
maybe
a toaster oven, I offer.
yes, she says.
and a bowl
and mixer to make cookies.
we'd need a big box,
I tell her.
big enough to stretch out
and read,
enough room
to do the sunday crossword
puzzle.
maybe some curtains too,
she says,
lace
to let the light in.

lace, to let the light in

she tells me that she would
be happy
in a cardboard box
behind the liquor store.
i'd be perfectly content
with that, she says.
we'd need pillows, I tell her.
a warm blanket.
chardonnay she adds in.
maybe
a toaster oven, I offer.
yes, she says.
and a bowl
and mixer to make cookies.
we'd need a big box,
I tell her.
big enough to stretch out
and read,
enough room
to do the sunday crossword
puzzle.
maybe some curtains too,
she says,
lace
to let the light in.

the table

in time
the wood is smooth.
the edges, the corners
rounded
by hands,
by elbows, arms
leaning
against it.
hands pressed
to write things down.
in time the wood is
different,
becoming what it's
meant to be.
discolored and stained.
nicked
and bruised, but perfectly
used and somehow
new,
like us.

the table

in time
the wood is smooth.
the edges, the corners
rounded
by hands,
by elbows, arms
leaning
against it.
hands pressed
to write things down.
in time the wood is
different,
becoming what it's
meant to be.
discolored and stained.
nicked
and bruised, but perfectly
used and somehow
new,
like us.

not alone in this

the storm
brings out the candles.
the flashlights.
the blankets.
pour a drink. find the couch
in the dark,
lie back
and listen to the wind.
we're not alone
in this.

not alone in this

the storm
brings out the candles.
the flashlights.
the blankets.
pour a drink. find the couch
in the dark,
lie back
and listen to the wind.
we're not alone
in this.

the new scarf

she left a scarf.
in fact she left everything behind.
some of which I kept.
the perfume
on silk.
a pin, a picture.
a sock.
what can one
take into
the next life?
nothing much.
but the scarf. wrapped around
a hanger,
next to a new
one is still there.
it's time
to let things go,
start anew. its time
to wrap
the new scarf around me,
let her keep
me warm.

fog

it's a vague
soft fog that comes along
on cat's
paws.
gentle in the night,
a blanket
of grey,
a cool wave of darkened
light.
it's how I feel
when
i'm dismayed.
confused or uneasy about
tomorrow.
I step warily
across the street,
first the left foot,
then the right.

room at the table

the myth of family
that the larger one is
the more siblings get along.
that you can't wait to see one another
and share your lives.
but sometimes,
not always,
norman Rockwell got it wrong.
despite the same mother,
the same father,
raised under the same roof.
something went
awry along the way
and can't be fixed with
human
hands.
divine intervention
of the first order is needed
to right this ship.

the food chain

we are all part
of someone's food chain.
the a list, the b list.
or in reserve.
who gets the best seat,
the first
served?
who gets the call in
the middle of the night,
a postcard
when away.
who gets the news first?
who brings you cake
and wants to stay the night?

the food chain

we are all part
of someone's food chain.
the a list, the b list.
or in reserve.
who gets the best seat,
the first
served?
who gets the call in
the middle of the night,
a postcard
when away.
who gets the news first?
who brings you cake
and wants to stay the night?

pass the gravy

we don't worry much
about the turkey.
we have no musket to chase
it down
as it tries so hard
to fly away
but can't,
born to stay on the ground.
the food we bring to the table
is ready.
head gone,
wings
and legs,
no feathers to fuss
about.
no eyes or heart
remain. it has no name.
just white and dark
meat that
we baste and baste,
roast all day,
say grace, then eat.

lost and found

a loose ring
found
in the change jar.
gold, without the shine.
a wedding ring from
years ago,
thought lost after
a handful
of moves.
it no longer slips
over
the knuckle
into place. it never
fit then
either.

new eyes

is there a place
I haven't been but want to go?
none that I can
think of, at least alone.
but with the right
hand
in mine, and mine in hers,
this all changes,
nearly everything,
every place is new again,
and i'm ready
with new eyes for the road.

the radio

a radio might last
a year,
maybe two if it doesn't
fall off a roof,
or down a flight of stairs.
paint splattered,
gelled with glue,
caulking on the knobs.
the antennae in time
is bent
or broken off,
the speaker scratchy
with static.
batteries long dead,
the cord wrapped around
the middle.
but every now and then
I can hear song
or two eek out,
something that makes
the day go easier,
makes me remember a girl
I knew,
a place a time, when
we were younger.

betty's brownies

I find my mother's old cookbook
in a stack
of other things
to be thrown away.
the woven cover is stained
with years
of cooking.
baking.
making due with what she
had to work
with.
it was all about the substitutes
back then.
I see her handwritten notes,
next to all the things
she made for us
when growing up.
add this, take away that.
the crumpled notes for
betty's brownies,
joe's barbeque sauce.
gloria's lasagna.
I can almost see her hands
on the pages,
the book open on the counter
by the stove
as she wiped her glasses
clean
then began.

the food pyramid

when growing up
bacon was at the top
of the food pyramid
followed by milk
and bread, eggs,
butter. chicken and
steaks.
cake.
there's an alfalfa sprout
up there now.
parsley
and kale. an apple.
tofu.
soy milk
and salmon.

off the tracks

she sweeps
and sweeps. there is something
on her hand
that won't come off.
she stands at the sink
running water
over her hands,
rubbing.
she touches the corner
of each table
then circles back to
do it once more,
stepping carefully
away from the lines in
the tile.
she takes her cat
and goes sits in the closet
while we work.
a crease of light
falls against them from
the nearly shut
door.
somewhere the train
has gone off the tracks.

the boss of me

one boss kept a pad
in his pocket to write down
hours worked.
to the minute. subtracting
for lunch, for breaks, for
clean up.
another boss, said I knew
nothing.
yelling at me in the office,
a cigarette
clenched in his teeth.
his shirt sleeves rolled
up like a bantam boxer
about to go into the ring.
one boss was mysterious.
bland as toast.
never saying what he meant,
never meaning what he
said. another boss
would ride by in his
white Cadillac to see how
the job was going.
he was suntanned with a slick
mane of brown hair.
he liked to show us his golf
clubs in the trunk.
his new girlfriend would
be sitting in the car
doing her nails. but
there were good bosses too.
kind and compassionate,
telling me to stay home,
sleep, get some rest, you
don't sound well.

the rising tide

the rainy day
money. the change in the jar.
the bills
folded and slipped
neatly into
the box
are spent now.
the sea wall, the tattered roof.
it's been raining for some
time
at this wind blown
beach house.
I see the water rising,
moving like
a blue fist towards
the sand
filled yard.
I imagine the ocean's
wants
are stronger than mine.
you can't stop
what's coming. something
is telling me it's time
to move on.

are your shoes dirty?

are your shoes dirty?
it's the first thing she asks
when i enter
the house.
not how are you, so good
to see you,
i'm glad you came.
do you mind taking off your
shoes,
she says. we want to keep
the carpet clean.
so I do, sitting on the steps,
watching her
dog in the corner,
on the rug
relieving himself.

let it go

I put out fifteen years
of junk
on the curb for trash pick up.
computers,
monitors, printers.
mirrors and pictures never
hung.
jackets and shoes.
old books I never read.
I drag out the rugs,
the bags of paper bills,
debris from so many years.
so much grey water
under the bridge.
it's a large heap
by the hydrant when I leave
for work.
I am pleased to see it
all gone when I return home.

the girl in the front row

i fell in love
with the girl in the front row.
the smart girl
with dark
hair. where was she from?
Europe we guessed.
a hint of French in her voice.
she was different, so neat
and nice,
so polite. she wasn't like
the other girls.
she knew who she was,
there was no
confusion about this
world we were growing
into, this life.
i would write her name
on a piece of paper.
over and over again,
next to mine.
i imagined how perfect life
would be together
if i was hers,
and she was mine.

punching the clock

i don't miss the office.
the work,
the grind of it.
the bosses.
the endless birthday parties
and store made
cake.
i don't miss
the copying machine, the soft
cubicles of mauve
and blue.
the shimmering fluorescent lights
above the maze of lost
souls
set out like cages
in a zoo.
i don't miss the bad coffee,
or the daily
meetings
of blowing hot air.
the chit chat, asking so what
did you do
this weekend.
i don't miss the cheap
ties i wore,
or bad shoes,
the worn suits. the dry cleaned
shirts starched
heavy in the collar.
i don't miss
any of it, except happy
hour at five.

i'm leaving town

i tell my ex that i'm leaving
town.
in fact,
leaving earth, i
tell her that i'm now with
the space program.
if you look up into the sky
I tell her,
and the sky is really black
you may see my capsule heading
towards mars.
she doesn't believe me.
i show her my
space suit
my helmet, my oxygen
tank, and jar of tang.
my space sandwiches
and cookies. a can
of spam.
still,
she thinks i'm trying to
pull the wool over her
eyes, trying to gaslight
her once again
and get away with something.
nothing changes
between me and her. nothing.

the beltway

the race track bores me.
the left turn for hours on
screeching wheels,
rubber burning, the wrecks
and flags
waved yellow.
the tow trucks clearing
the debris.
the ambulance careening
loudly down
the side lane.
I can get that on my
to work
each morning.

cream filled

the bakery
you remember. the smell
walking
by on your way to school.
the air
warm
with cinnamon
and dough. peering
through the window
with cupped hands at
the pastries, donuts.
the old man in his white
apron, tired
already at 7 am.
the bell above
the door swinging
open.
digging
deep into your dungaree
pockets
for enough change to buy
just one,
chocolate covered,
cream filled
without a hole.

do it like this

all day the boy
skips rocks across the still
water
of a pond.
standing at the shore,
finding the flat stones,
and flinging them
sideways,
as he was shown
by his father
it was a small thing
given.
but it will take
the rest of his life
to keep trying
to get it right.

politics and God

the church can't help
themselves sometimes,
speaking out on
life outside
the doors, away from the cross,
the pews,
the candles
and altar.
forgetting the whore
at the well.
the tax collector,
go and sin no more.
they dive into what is right
or wrong
in their eyes,
preaching politics.
some leave, some bitterly
stay gone.

one or the other

there's beauty in everything
I suppose,
and ugly
too.
take the snow
for instance. the soft petals
of flakes
at first.
then the grey sludge
of it all
as cars plow through with
blue exhaust.
pick one or the other,
but you have
to choose.

in a summer dress

who would want me,
he says, stroking the brush
against
a window sash.
i'm done with women,
with love.
sex.
I've had my fun, my
share
of that.
i'm an old man now, past
my prime.
who would want me, he
says,
playing with his grey
beard
and staring out
at a young woman walking by
in her summer dress.
his eyes on her
until she turns the corner
and disappears.

the red bird

the card
is sweet. happy birthday.
love mom.
it's fifteen years old
at least.
signed with her distinctive
catholic
script.
a small red bird is on
the front.
a sticker of a dog is
inside.
she's drawn a heart
around my name.
i'm surprised
when the twenty falls
out into my hand.
so much
of her is still giving.

oh well

i can't reach
her arm as she stands on
the corner
with her sign. her hand
reaches out
to me,
but we don't meet.
so i crumble the bill
and toss it
towards her
as the light changes
and
the car behind me beeps.
she's unhappy with this
exchange of money
and waves
to me
as i look back through
the mirror,
with one finger.

friendships

it's hard
to love and leave.
to say farewell,
to walk away
and not look back.
who can do that?
I always look back,
taking the good with
me,
and hoping
friendships
will survive,
that they can
be found
again with passing
time.

shredding

my shredder can't keep up.
it fills to the brim
with old bill
confetti. cards and letters.
greetings from afar.
lists of things
to do,
that may or may not have
been done.
circa 2001,
and before.
bins of stuff I don't
need, but
have kept. an attic
full,
a basement that overflows
with the past.
numbers mostly.
the places lived,
the places left.
the people who I have known,
or
crossed paths
with.

every vote counts

i go to vote,
just barely making it before
they close the doors
and begin the count.
i rush in telling the man
behind the counter
that whew, just made it.
he's wearing several American
flag pins on his jacket.
a red white and blue tie.
his hair is a golden comb over,
a meringue of yellow.
i'm soaked from the rain,
hungry and tired
from work.
he looks at me
and says, you've known
all day that you had
to vote, you should have
made better plans, and not
have been so rushed.
you almost missed it
young man.
he shakes his head at me
with disdain,
then scans my id.
what's your preference
i ask him, and he says.
i can't tell you that, but
let's make America
great again, okay.
he points to the other room,
go he says.
now go in there and fill
out your ballot. we have
to close in two minutes,
every vote counts.

tell me a joke

i tell my dad
the same jokes now.
his memory though sharp for his
age
is not quite what it was.
he likes
quick jokes.
play on words, that sort
of thing.
i keep a fresh one on a pad
in the kitchen
so that when we talk
on the phone
and end the conversation,
i can hear his distinctive
laugh before we say
goodbye.
a tree fell in the woods,
i tell him,
but no one heard it because
somebody's wife
kept talking.
he's always liked that one.

spider web

the spider web
in my shed was so large
that when I walked
into it
I couldn't get out.
there I was stuck next
to beetles and flies,
a bird or two,
a little kid
from down the street
and an old lady
who used to live
next door
who must have been
nosing around.
hey, I said. how long
have you been here.
a long time the kid said,
like maybe ten minutes.
I came in to get my
ball today
and got stuck.
the old woman
was sleeping, so I
didn't want to wake
her up.
how big is this spider?

again and again

if every one that had
a gun
shot themselves first
the problem would go
away.
I know.
not a fun thought.
but one that passed
through my
mind
while reading the paper,
listening again
to the blood
soaked news.

chicken or the egg

the chicken or the egg,
which one
came first. it doesn't matter.
scramble me up a few
with a side
order of hash browns
and bacon.
let's not turn this
breakfast into a therapy
session, dr.
freud, although I would
like to talk about
my mother, if you have
some free time later.

easy to be kind

it's easy to tell someone
don't worry,
be cool,
no stress or strain,
keep the faith.
this too shall pass.
it's easy to be on
the other side of the fence
when you're
in a good place.
when your world is going
well.
it's easy then to be kind,
not cruel.

for the good of the team

not all jobs are home runs
where all goes well.
some are
simply singles,
bunting a slow roller
down third just
to get on base,
or letting a pitch
strike you in
the arm, or leg,
for the good of the team.
the team
being me.
some jobs are sunny
with blue skies and birds
chirping.
a rainbow of love.
la de da jobs, while others,
well,
it's raining, it's grey,
it's cold and damp,
frowns arise,
and there may or may
not be a pay day.

we sing

we sing.
we dance, we do what
we can
to make the day
livable.
we eat, make love.
we make
room
for those that bring
us joy,
and us them.
we sing, we dance,
we are grateful
for what is,
what's given or
taken away, knowing
that both are
from above.

it'll melt

we're snowed in.
no one can get out,
or in.
the trucks haven't plowed,
it's still
coming down.
we stare out the windows
and think
this could be
the end.
but it isn't.
it's just snow.
like last year and the
year before.
our parents had snow,
and theirs.
we never quite
get used to the small
problems that come
then go again.

guys buying jewelry

I see my friend jimmy
at the mall one day.
he's shopping for a ring for
his new
girl friend, betty jean.
hey, he says. help me
pick something out in this
jewelry store. it's over
there next to orange Julius.
what do you know about
white gold,
or the four C's?
clarity, color, carat,
I can't remember the other one.
but
i'm leaning towards zirconia.
I have no idea what you're
talking about, I tell
him, but let's take a
look see.
she's got giant fingers,
he tells me, enormous knuckles
from cracking them all the time,
and a stack of big black hair.
so I need a big ring. like
an Elizabeth Taylor
type ring.
we look at the glass cases
stuffed with
shiny rings and necklaces.
rubies, emeralds, topaz.
I want
something that shouts out
at you when you see it,
but affordable, i'm in between
jobs right now. but
something that when it catches
your eye in the light
it burns
your retinas. maybe a gemstone,
for her birthday, I tell him.
or a little turtle with stones
in them with a stick pin to wear
on her blouse.
yeah those are nice.
I bought one for my ex wife once,
but she never wore it.
she said she didn't want
to accidentally lose it.
what month was betty jean born in?
I don't know. good question.
I guess I could text her.
you really love this girl,
I tell him, don't you?
yeah, she's okay. tomorrow's
our anniversary. three weeks.

what's the deal

what's the skinny, the low
down,
the deal?
haven't seen you around
lately,
what's up with that?
got any dirt?
come on and spill
the beans, you're holding
out on me.
what's her name?
who is she? do I know her?
is she on face book,
linked in.
is she in the white pages?
I promise I won't tell
anyone.
whisper it in my
ear. it's just between
me and you.
no one else needs
to know.

doing business

i'll get back to you on
that.
i'll call you tomorrow.
i'll let you know.
give me a few
days
to sort things out.
I need to sleep
on it.
let's stay in touch.
if you don't hear
from me
in three days,
call me. I need to run
this by
my husband. he's
in Germany right now.
there's something up
with my
cat, and the vet bill
is out
the roof,
so can we touch
base after the holidays?
or after tax time?
in fact summer might be
best
after we take a vacation.
we appreciate you
returning our call right
away,
and driving out
in the rain
on a Tuesday night. but
will call you, okay?

listen to my heart

I can't play the violin,
or drums,
the guitar,
or piano. I can't sing
very well,
or strum a harp.
my musical abilities
lie elsewhere.
I can whistle, tap a foot
to the beat.
put your ear up
and listen to my heart.

if i make it

if I make it to ninety,
god willing,
the cholesterol count
down,, blood pressure
low, weight
in place, i'd like to
be able to say,
finally,
that i'm done with
mistakes, that I have
hit my stride, no longer
apologizing for my
behavior, improved
from the year before at
eighty nine.

unscripted

it's free form,
this life,
unscripted from start to finish.
lines are flubbed,
cues missed,
spots on where to stand
ignored,
or dismissed.
wrong gestures are made,
dumb
things said
or done in spite of knowing
what's right
wrong.
we are so often misunderstood
going at it on the run,
spontaneous with so
much room
to improve upon.

suddenly

all skin
and bones, the hollow of
her chemo
eyes. her cheeks.
the dark lines, the thin
haired
scalp.
how quickly life
gives
then takes away.
what strange creatures
we are.
happy one day,
dying the next.
we wait in sickness
and see
the folly of so much,
the grasping
finally done, except
for friendships, except
for love.

shyness

the sun is
shy.
hardly lifting up her veil
to peek
out.
no warm and yellow
smile
today.
no bright
words, not even
a whisper, or kind thought
to share,
nothing
to melt away
the grey.

short bread

because she was so tall,
close
to six feet in length without
heels,
she called her online
dating journey
the march of the penguins.
she could never find
a man
who met her eye to eye,
shoulder to shoulder,
nose to nose.
well, you get the picture.
so she settled
for less. less being more,
of course and lived
happily ever after.

they just go

a flock
of birds heading south,
v shaped
on soft wings,
glide through the chilled
blue sky.
they take turns
leading, falling back,
then rising
higher, dipping lower.
they know
what we know,
but have little, if
anything to say
about it.
they just go.

the candy shoppe

the candy store is closed.
the sign
says going out of business.
the man
in his black apron,
mustached and silver haired
is in there, eating his
inventory
with his wife
and grandchildren.
they have chocolate all
over there faces.
no one wants a five
dollar
piece of chocolate
with a cherry or blueberry
inside, it seems.

in the cloud

the hand written letters are done.
few books are made containing
what we write
to one another.
our legacy
now is hey, what up.
a smiley face,
a grimace,
a photo of a cake.
every great writer, great
poet
wrote and wrote to those
they knew
or loved, or both.
licking the stamp
and giving it to the postman.
in the end,
together, what they wrote
made the man or
woman whole. we
saw what made them tick.
that's over. ancient history.
text me. e mail me.
leave a message
at the beep.
everything is in the cloud.

the eight count

some mornings it's
not unlike getting up from
the eight count.
woozy,
on bent knee rising
from the canvas
to go at it again.
gloves heavy in my hands.
stopping the bleeding,
putting ice
on the bruises,
trying to remember
to keep my guard up,
to jab and step,
jab and step, don't get
caught
with the right hook.
holding on, holding on,
looking at the clock,
waiting for
the bell to ring
to end the round.
it's almost Friday.

i'll take it

two women,
in their seventies, perhaps,
linger in
the jewelry store,
a guard at the door,
browsing
the counters made
of glass.
the girl takes out a ring,
a bracelet,
a brooch,
a handful of bracelets
for each of them to try on.
earrings.
they take off what they have
to put
the new in place,
then gaze at themselves
in the mirror,
setting their other shopping
bags down.
they are draped
in cashmere
and leather, hair done,
lips
sealed in lipstick
of a rich red color.
they have little to do it
seems but to
adorn themselves in silver,
in gold,
to find a way
to fill the void
that never ends.

fine dining

I remember vividly
the four petite
raviolis on my large
white plate.
new York city.
fine dining.
I kept looking for
the big steaming
bowl in the middle
of the table
for four more.
where's the meat balls,
the bread,
the salad, not these
strange green leafs
arranged
like a wreathe
with one or two
cherry tomatoes
and parsley.
thankfully ray's original
pizza was right
next door.

trying to get home

this is a crazy road.
the detours
the dirt
and stone, the unpaved
stretch
along the mountain.
the slick wet stripes
of the interstate.
this road
has no lights
no cop directing
traffic, no signs.
no toll.
it's just me
driving in all sorts
of weather
trying to get
home to you.

don't leave me

I've lost track of how
long I've had
that bag of frozen peas
in the freezer.
years, maybe.
petite green peas, no less.
they give
me comfort though,
opening the door
each day to take out
an ice tray.
seeing them in there.
snuggled against
sweet corn and cut carrots,
also frozen.
i'd miss them if they'd
go.

time to go

the corner store
is closing and the new drug
store
will be in soon.
down goes
the hand made sign, the door
with the bell,
the crates
of fruit and vegetables
out front.
flowers, where did they
come from?
away goes
the man hosing down
the walk
in the early morning
sunlight.
they are old now.
why not take the money
and go.
why not let the water
of time
and progress
wash over them,
take them home to
that imaginary promised
land.

shadows

we worry about shadows.
the long
and short of it.
what's dark in the corner.
the alley.
what we
can't see, but
hear up in the attic.
we concern ourselves
with things
we have no control over,
like tomorrow, the weather,
our children,
each other.

waiting

we used to stare
into the sky
lying on the ground
in the narrow back yard
surrounded by
a chain link fence.
we put a blanket
down on the wet grass.
we looked up
into the blue black night
and counted stars,
we pointed at the ones
we knew.
imagined things to
come, what we would
wish upon when a comet
came through.