what's left behind

her father
steps out into the room
without clothes.
he's unshaven
and curt.
the steady hand
of his daughter
draws him back into
the bedroom,
to the bathroom.
this lion
of wall street,
now a mere kitten.
at the mercy
of his mind, those
brilliant years
of life
and living have
disappeared, only
the photos show what
was and what's been
left behind.

the longer night

the long day
proceeds even the longer night.
the owl
perched
under a silver moon
on a bended
branch
in thick pines,
is watching,
listening before
spreading his wings
to kill
what lies below.
a fox sides through the bramble
with something
half alive
in it's teeth.
snakes curl coldly
side by side. all the
birds have gone quiet.
the woods
are under the spell
of darkness.
a possum wanders
into the street,
blinded by the lights
surrendering his pondered
life.
and here we are inside
doing
what we do best,
we're quiet, a book
in hand
beside a low soft light.

what's wrong

count your blessings,
she says.
you have so much
to be thankful for.
look around you, who has
what you have?
she lists my
belongings,
my health, my friends
and relatives.
she throws out her arms
and says most
people would be happy
and thrilled to be where
you are,
what's wrong?

two steps forward

two steps
forward, one step back.
the chill,
the bone ache
of cold,
the hair on end
the swirl of
thoughts,
suspicion and lies,
jealousy
and pain
taking you down
once again
to that dark hole
of yesteryear.

around the bend

it's down the road.
around
that bend,
past the corn field,
the water tower,
the gas station.
keep going,
you can't miss it.
you'll know it when
you get there.
a cold drink
in the hot sun.
stretch your legs,
relax.
have a bite to eat.
true love is waiting.
you're home son,
at last
you're really home.

i hate face book

it's official.
I hate face book. the social media
in general.
you tube, myspace,
your space,
snap chat and the rest.
don't send me any more of
your cake
photos please, or tell
me where you've
been or what you're doing, or
eating,
and with whom.
that new house, or car,
or tan you got on some island
bores me to tears.
I don't want to know about who
died, or is dying.
don't tell me your medical condition,
or post a photo of your rash,
or lump,
or eye that's gone awry,
or new pair of shoes.
I don't want to attend another
reunion, or connect
with long lost relatives
or friends.
i'm perfectly content with
those I have, or don't have.
your dog or cat or grandbaby
is not
interesting to me, nor
are your political
or religious views.
spare me the gossip of
your life.
sorry, so sorry,
but please delete me,
don't tag me, or like me.
just go away and leave me alone.
it's official,
I hate face book and all that
it entails. if we're really
friends, meet me
for coffee, or lunch,
or call me on the phone.

beware the mood

everyone has a breaking point.
when
kindness and compassion
suddenly
are erased with a fit
of red rage, when
the desire to harm
and set right
the wrongs overtakes
the kind and gentle soul
you believed you were,
but aren't.
beware when that mood
strikes. beware.

sleeping dogs

the sleeping
dog
is left to his sunny
nap
on the rug.
stretched out in the warm
spring sun,
he's deep
into a dream.
let's let him lie
a bit longer,
no need to disturb
his sleep.
no need to feel the wrath
and bite
of those hidden teeth.

contact

he used to find
the smallest of reasons
to call,
to make contact.
he was a child begging
for his mother
to tuck him
in, to give him one
more sweet
from the jar high
on the counter
where he couldn't reach.
and with her
soft heart she did,
over and over again,
until he was back
in her good graces
and starting once more
the game
with no end.

to the other shore

the fog
has lifted.
I see clearly now what has
to be done.
where I need to go
from here.
the water is calm.
the other shore
is closer than I imagined.
I could swim
the last mile
easily.
I take off my pants my
shirt, my
shoes and dive in.
take my hand on the other
side,
i'm coming.

what love is

i sip
the poison daily.
small sips.
i don't want to do it
all at once.
too dramatic.
i want people at
bedside
telling me how
much they love me.
how they're going
to miss
when i'm gone.
when they leave the room,
i smile.
finally
i know what love is,
or pretends to be.

the strong wind

I see small children
in the air
flying.
the wind is strong today.
they seem
happy
as they float aimlessly
against the blue.
their books and bags
are let go.
the smiles
on their faces are
filled with joy.
their parents are desperate
to save them,
to bring them down.
to keep them
in hand, close by.
it's a trend that will
never end.

untethered

the phone is dead.
the battery drained dry
of me
calling,
texting, emailing, looking
at cats
on you tube videos.
i'm untethered
to the world I've
created.
but it's okay.
it's fine.
I can breathe now.
free
from what I think
is so important
but isn't.

the fun house

logic goes out the window.
rational thinking
too.
everything is upside down.
what's right is wrong.
black is white.
it's a fun house of twisted
mirrors.
of rolling floors
and trap doors.
the blinking lights
it's a circus of blowing
horns,
tears and laughter
at the same time. it's
maddening and scary.
is it day or is it night?

breaking point

everyone has a breaking point.
a line
in the sand,
a point where tolerance
is no longer
an option.
it takes a long time.
a lot of bending before
the break, but when
it does,
when it happens, there
is no looking back,
no regret,
no remorse,
no dragging of the lake.

the tropics

it's hard
to know when a storm
will arrive.
the day being so peaceful.
the sun out.
in an instant
though things change.
a wind picks up.
the sky goes dark.
the rain pelts
us without warning,
the air grows cold.
an hour later,
it's as if nothing
had happened.
the smile returns.

the vew from here

i like the view from
here.
the rocks. the mountains,
so layered
in blue,
the distant clouds awash
in white, grey wisps.
i like this chair
i sit in.
alone with a book,
my feet upon the wall.
the trees anxious to be
full with life once again.
like me.

my rose colored glasses

my detective days are over.
i'm done with that
I know more than enough
about what's going on.
no longer do I need
confirmation, or clues, or
tracks in the sand. I need
no dna, or blood. no photos
or texts, or emails.
I know what the truth is.
I've known it all along
but now I know for sure,
my instincts were right.
the rose colored glasses
are off, shattered
in my hand.

a square of metal

it's an addiction
this
phone. these texts.
these
emails,
these voicemails.
this constant need to
look and check
what the ding is,
what the vibration means,
what the light
glowing could possibly
be.
it's a sick world
we've made.
no conversation. no
gentle touch
of hand in hand. no
power to stop reaching
for what was,
what's ended.
we're slaves to this
square of metal.
till death do you part.

given time

i kiss February
goodbye.
i wave to it as it
finally
slips away into another month.
the birthdays
the drama,
the holidays.
enough already.
the ice of it.
the shortened light
of it.
the cold and wind.
it seems as if it will
never end, but it
does, as most
pain will, given time,
given friends.

is this life

I don't blame the animals
in the zoo
for plotting their escape.
despite water
and shelter, food,
it's the bars
that make them worry.
the lack of freedom.
they long to live and die
in the natural world.
they pace and swing from
the rafters,
swim in the shallow pool.
is this life,
they ask each other,
passing notes, whispering
in their own way
to one another.

the rare light

survival makes us forget
the pain
of what was.
we put a shine on it.
soften it
with false memory.
we ignore the scars,
the limp
of heart,
the broken trust
and lies.
we tell ourselves
it wasn't so bad.
we remember
the rare light,
despite
the darkness of
those days.

it's quiet here

it's quiet
here.
the dust has settled.
the debris
of words
have been swept up
and tossed
away. by morning
the shattered glass
of love
has been picked up.
the fingers bleed,
there is little
left to say.
it's quiet here.

his garden

he can hardly see,
but
into the garden
he goes
on bended knees.
the dirt is known.
the seeds, the spade
and hose.
the square of ground
he's worked at
for thirty years
or more.
it's just tomatoes,
peppers,
that sort of thing.
but still,
something he can hold
onto,
something to wait
and look forward
to this spring.

go left go right

sleepless
in the great room
where the cool light of
morning
comes too early.
how the cold catches you,
a leg uncovered,
an arm
above your eyes.
the conversation within
you
goes on and on.
the argument
unceasing,
go left, go right.

game on at four

i hear the other foot
finally
drop.
the door close,
the cab pull away.
i go to the window
to wave,
but it's too late.
the bags are in
the trunk.
i see the blue exhaust
blow out
as the car
turns the corner.
i sigh
and make myself a sandwich.
there's a game
on at four.

mush

it's her brown eyes.
her
smile.
her sweetness in general
and mind
that melt my bones
turns me
into mush when I
see her
and kiss her, the time
goes by so quickly.
there's never
quite enough.

romancing the past

it was hard for her
to leave
the past behind.
the sweet harmony they made
together.
the deck,
the dogs, the stream
and woods
behind the low rise
of a foot bridge.
it was hard
to not romanticize the past.
pretending
that all things
were good in that life,
no pain,
no sorrow, no
strife.
it was hard for her
when thinking back,
and harder for
me when I knew
where her thoughts
were at.

stalker

I see the stalker's
car
in the shadows, beneath
the trees.
he's waiting
for a glimpse, a wink
or a wave.
his basket full of goodies
under arm.
he'll never give up.
he's
a knight in rusted
armor, a predator
of the worst kind,
a savior of the blind.
he's as patient
as the snake is at the bottom
of a tree,
with his slithering tongue
and convincing eyes,
waiting for spring,
waiting for the eggs,
for that moment to arrive.

the earth spins

the earth spins
without our help,
the rain
falls,
the heat makes the desert
what it is.
there is little
we can do to change
things,
as in people. they
are
who they are,
not what they say.
beware of words
whispered over and over
again.
there is little truth
in them.
liars never change.

dog beach

the dog loves the beach.
the roar
of the ocean.
the expanse of cold sand.
how blue
the sky is above his prancing
paws.
the joy seen in his
wide
lapping tongue.
his dash to the waves,
chasing gulls
into the sky on soft wings.
this is heaven for him.
sweet bliss
in early spring before
the tourists arrive
and change
everything.

the new prehistoric

some are readers,
others not so much.
some
like the printed word
while
others like to stare into
their phones
looking at cats
or people falling down
on you tube.
the world is dumbing
down
at record speed.
listen to the music.
watch
the shows.
the comic book movies.
hardly an intelligent word
or thought
is spoken
these days.
it is what it is, we say,
not having
anything worth while to add
to any give
day.
we are going back
to the cave
with a stone and stick
in hand,
etching
bison on the wet dank
walls
we live in.

snow day

the snow sure does look
pretty
today, mother, the child says,
elated
with the cancellation
of school.
do you think we'll have two
days off, not
one?
the mother, stands at the door
and looks out
at the freshly fallen
snow.
she wishes she felt like
the child does about such
wonderment.

the same feeling

i can see in her eyes
the memory of someone else, not
me.
i feel the weight
of it
on my heart, but try my best
to let it go.
she goes quiet
with her thoughts, and i
know better than to ask
her, what?
what's going through your
mind right now.
i don't want to know.
and she looks at me, with
the same feeling.

hold on

my father coughs into the phone.
I can't remember a conversation
with him
when he wasn't coughing,
or blowing his nose, or asking
me to hold on
while he gets a glass of water.
I tell him a joke or two
to set the mood.
he's always been a good laugher.
the worse the joke the harder
he laughs. we've got that going
for us.

another day

the birthday
comes and goes. another day
in the life.
an uneventful
twenty four hours,
which is nice.
a cake, a card,
a candle to blow on.
a small gift
with a hand written note.
we move on,
and on, until
there are no more days
to wonder
about, and think what's
next.

the sickness of her

she is sick.

i see her lying on the bed,

groaning

in pain.

heat on her stomach,

pills in

her mouth.

ice on her head.

bone thin and gaunt.

she's sick.

and she's making me sick

being with her.

every day

is misery.

she lies, she betrays,

she's a demon

sleeping six inches away.

dear Lord

get me out of here

before i too go crazy.

from a window

the morning coffee
is
good
against the back drop
of quiet.
a blue
sky
rises
against the yellow sun.
the bare
trees
reach and bend
towards another day.
we do
too.

love balloon

she says that love
to her
is like a balloon
but with
a tight knot so that it
doesn't loose
it's air.
a red balloon, perhaps,
or pink
or white,
no strings
attached.
love is meant to fly
and be free,
to go where it needs
to go
without a worry or a care.
love is something to be
shared.
something to last.
never once though
does she think about
the thorn that lies
in every path.

bread on the table

the bread
rises in the oven.
I flick on the light and watch
the heat
do it's thing.
a simple thing.
a small
good thing as the sun
settles
beyond
the city.
the room fills up
with the scent of baked
bread.
the calmness of it all.
the taste of it
in warm slices
on the tongue,
a wealth
of butter atop
each piece,
cut or torn.
out the window,
the sky gone blue
in darkness, but there is
this,
fresh bake bread
on the table.

knockout

the boxer
in his corner on the stool
looks
out to the maddening crowd.
blood
cakes his eyes.
his nose is flattened
wide.
his ear are swollen.
they douse him with water,
clog the cuts.
rub his shoulders.
you've got him this round
they whisper into his one
good ear.
upper cut, upper cut.
he's dropping his guard.
but the boxer isn't there.
he sees a girl
in the stands. she reminds him
of a woman he used
to be in love with.
the road not taken.
he misses her, he loves her.
he'd do anything to win
her back.
he'd even get up exhausted
with no life in him
to win her love again.
so this is what he fights
on for.
the bell rings and he
charges
into midnight. he doesn't
see the glove coming
towards him,
he only sees the girl.
he goes
down and down and down
into a slag heap. he's out.

family dsyfunction

I see the pattern.
the circle of it all.
the good days
versus the bad.
I see a trail of train
wreck
holidays.
new years.
Christmas.
thanksgiving.
mother's day.
father's day.
birthdays.
valentine day.
only arbor day and flag
day goes unscathed
by some turmoil
and dysfunction.
maybe ground hog day too
is clear
of door slamming,
or sleeping
in the other room,
or the dreaded blanket
of silence for
a few days. I fear
St. Patrick's day
looming
on the horizon.
I tap my foot and bite
my nails,
what will I do wrong,
what misdeed or word
spoken will wreck
that day and put me
in the black, send me
to the dog house?

for anyone to see

I used to have
friends I could call
and tell them anything.
tell them
everything
no matter how dark
the circumstances were,
no matter who was right
or wrong.
I could rant and rave,
spill my guts to them
and they'd never turn on me.
they'd listen.
they'd hold me in their arms.
they'd put their
hearts into it
and tell me that they're
there for me
through this storm.
good friends. people
who'd listen
and love without judgement.
souls who knew me and
really cared,
but they're gone
now.
seven down and counting.
so I sit here and write this.
I cut a vein
and bleed upon this keyboard
for anyone to see.

adrift at 5 a.m.

I stumble
down the stairs on one hour
of sleep.
I can't wait to get home
and I haven't
even left yet.
I find my clothes
in the dark,
brush my teeth, wash
my face.
I don't even look in
the mirror.
why bother.
why upset me even more
with that.
I fix a cup of coffee,
find my shoes,
my stack of underlined
self help books.
I grab my keys, my wallet,
my phone.
I got nothing on the phone.
the world
has changed.
not a call, or text.
nothing. i'm truly alone
in this.
i'm adrift
at five in the morning
wondering
if life will ever be
sane again.

wating their turn

the alley
cats know their way around
the neighborhood.
where the
good trash is.
the sardine cans,
the chicken bones,
the flounder
scraped
from a pan.
they tip toe along
the fence,
jump through
the hole in the brick
wall.
the rats
wait their turn.
they sit in the shadows
playing
gin rummy
with friends.

the road we're on

the roads
at this hour are quiet.
most are at home
asleep with loved ones.
a dog
curled at bedside.
children tucked away.
but not me.
I drive the earth.
I stare up at the broken
glass
stars.
at the shard of a cold
moon.
I can drive all night if
I have to,
the tank is full.
the radio on.
I know almost all the words
to every
love and unloved written
song.

unslept

who needs sleep
anyway.
that sweet slumber is over
rated.
I can do without it,
without the dreams,
the nightmares,
the bed
going cold.
the reaching out for
love that isn't there.
i'll slug through the next
day as if under water,
but that's fine.
it's nothing new, nothing
to worry about.
it's what I do.

a mere tick

I stare at the compass.
all directions
are open.
I choose north.
I want to be in the coldest
place possible.
to be frozen,
unmoved
by circumstances.
I haven't done well with
decisions.
by choosing north, I won't
have to decide anything
anymore.
i'll be the ice man.
i'll be perfectly content
without a voice.
my heart slowed to a mere
tick.

the merry go round

it's a merry go round
minus
the merry.
there is no merry anywhere
near this
junk ride of squeals
and wheels,
nuts and bolt flying off
with each turn.
the wind bleeds my eyes.
the up and down unsettles
my stomach.
my soul is unpinned.
can't anyone hear my screams?
I hold on for dear life,
as the ride begins
again. again. again.

nights like this

I see my future.
the dry road, the bleakness
of dawn
approaching.
not a wink of sleep
will I find this night.
I burrow
down into the hole of me.
wrapped
in sheets, the window
of trees
scraping in cold wind.
I find no comfort,
no joy
or lasting pleasure in this
mood
i'm in.
I see my future. it's more
and more
not less of nights
like this.

love child

the nursery is full of new babies.
pink and brown.
freshly born.
they lie in rows
behind the glass while the parents
outside point
and say, look that one's mine,
oh look, he's ours,
it's wonderful, this child.
and a wary world hopes
this love will last.

how it goes

there is blood in her eye
from
crying.
the sallow
look
of despair.
the wrench of this night
has unloosened
the screws
and bolts, unhinged
the bones
of her. black hot oil
drips
from below.
the gas is spilled.
a match could send it all
up
in an instant.
this is how it goes.

to all of us

the store bought roses, wilted
soon in their wrap.
the simple
card.
the quarter pound of sweets
in bright foil.
our love is thin
and fragile.
the broken glass is on
the floor,
the spilled wine,
the burned meal
unserved.
I hear my father's curse,
taste my mother's
tears.
the salt is in the wound.
what has cupid done
to all of us?

the shipwreck of night

the shipwreck of night,
the tossed
waves
of light and dark,
the bitter green of ocean
unfolding
onto itself,
the worry
and concern over the sails
split down and shorn.
the mast creaking,
the water
rushing onto the deck.
the lightning shows
the shore,
the jagged cliffs,
the shoals.
how close we are to home,
how far away we are
in getting there.
where is the dawn.
where is the calm port
we wished for, when will
there be an end to this
storm.

something to do

I pick up the phone to
see if
there is a dial tone.
why isn't it ringing.
i'm here,
ready for work.
i'm idling.
going from window to door,
looking out.
it's Monday.
grey, wet, slick.
maybe there's movie to
go see.
the back row, pop corn
in hand.
candy and a drink.
just me and another straggler
under the dimmed lights
as the film
begins.
i'll stretch out
in open cavern of seats.
I've got all
day.
join me if you've got
nothing better
to do.

the hidden

nothing is ordinary.
dull
or stale.
no one
is not unique,
or
special. a star
or flake
fallen from the sky.
despite the frown
or tears
the poverty
of pocket
or soul, no one
is the same,
or lacking in spark
or
glory,
though few blaze
open
for others to see.

three boats, four wives

my friend tells
me about his boat, his second
or third. maybe the fourth.
one less than the number
of wives he's had.
they seem to sink
annually, or catch fire.
the boats, not the wives.
he's usually in a bar
when he calls,
sounding lit up and
happy. healed from his
mini stroke and hip replacement.
i'm in a tiki bar in
Solomon's he'll say.
come on down.
it's crazy.
he holds his phone up
to the clanging
of the band
attempting Margaritaville.
he'll be seventy soon,
which he reminds
me and everyone else within
earshot of his loud
voice.
he's in his silk shirt,
the one with coconut trees
emblazoned on the front
and wearing his famous
khaki shorts and sandals.
it's February. there's snow
on the ground.
I imagine he's doused himself
with his favorite cologne,
old spice.
his sliver hair slicked
back, a rolex on his wrist
that's only right just twice.
he's on the prowl and
needs a wing man, but I
tell him sorry,
I can't make it tonight.

find an answer

I look at the clock.
see
the hour
that it is.
the incessant
motion
of the second hand.
time to go.
to leave.
to wander.
to find an answer
not in a book,
or
in the words of
well
meaning friends
who worry
about me. there's
something else
out there, waiting
to be embraced,
to tell me
sweetly, everything
is fine,
come home.

trust, like ice

trust, like ice
once broken and you've fallen
into the cold
dark water,
is hard
to buy into again,
it's difficult to walk
or slide
towards the middle
no matter how many times
you hear the words,
it's fine.
take my hand
and trust me, I wouldn't
ever lie,
at least not a second
or third, or
twentieth time.

picking oranges

I've got an itch.
a
hankering
to catch
a freight train out
of town.
run with a single bag
and hop
into the open
car
heading south.
i'll leave no forwarding
address.
i'll cash in my chips,
keep my money
in my sock.
I can pick oranges,
I think.
even now
at this age.
i'll be the best orange
picker in
orange county
and be so tired i'll
finally
get some sleep.

the paperwork

the line
is long outside the door.
have your
i.d. ready.
picture please, place
of birth,
your mother's maiden
name,
your first born,
your marriages, one through
three.
siblings?
addresses
and numbers that tell us
who you are.
but that question
is rarely answered
satisfactorily,
who knows truly
beyond the paperwork
who we are.

appearances

on the outside
looking in, everything seems
fine.
ordinary
and normal.
the quiet smile,
the pleasant greeting,
a farewell kiss,
lips upon lips.
a gentle hand
upon the back.
what nice icing they've
given
to it all.
a sweet swath of cream
upon the stale
and crumbled cake.

to you

the silly
birthdays arrive. cakes
and cards.
balloons and small
gifts wrapped
with ribbons and bows.
the candles are lit,
we heave
and blow.
we make a wish.
the song gets sung.
another year,
another
promise broken.

spiritual advisor

her spiritual
advisor
tells her what to do.
despite
the fact
he's lost in
the wilderness.
but he's got the collar
on,
the sheep skin
on the wall,
the crucifix
and all the trimmings
of the church
behind him.
so why not listen
and obey,
he's got to have his
stuff
together, right?
hardly. dour and sad,
he ponders
his life, the choices
made, the roads not
taken,
the one he's stuck on.

medicine

just one drink,
he says,
staring
at the tall full
flask
of gin.
one sip will do.
one smell,
one swallow
and i'll be good
again.
one taste of
the elixir
and i'll be right.

hail storms

there aren't enough
straight jackets to go around.
hardly a day
goes by
when I wish I didn't have
one for
someone, or for myself.
a bottle of pills
to calm the nerves,
dull
the wits.
we are small
typhons of emotions.
spinning sadly,
sleeping barely.
wondering in worry,
keeping
the trouble fresh and
alive,
what our parents did.
what our jobs
do.
what the weather has
done to us
today.

love given

the really smart boys
and girls
sat up
front
raising their hands
to every
question posed.
good breeding in most.
off they go to MIT,
to Harvard
and Yale,
assorted other
ivy league schools.
NYU, for the writers in
the group.
Northwestern
and Columbia.
I found
my home
in the community college
around the corner
with professors whose teaching
position
was their second job.
thirty bucks per credit.
i'd drive my beat up
dodge
with leaky brakes
and a cracked windshield
to night classes.
walking when
the wheels broke down.
but it's okay.
i'd change nothing.
the books are out there.
the world
is yours if you
want it. Every word
written is yours to read.
every
ounce of knowledge
awaits and besides,
it's more about the soul,
the heart.
the love
given, not taken.

flying south

we fly south for the winter.
hand in
hand
on an airplane.
the ground gets smaller
as we rise.
our problems
slip away,
go under us.
they're forgotten
after the first
on flight drink.
we've packed light.
we're on easy street
as the plane
streaks
to an island
in the middle of a
crystal blue sea.

hope

a bright
sun
slips through the cathedral
of tall white
clouds.
it sings
upon the grass,
the wintered trees.
melts what's left of
the grey snow.
there is hope
in warmth,
in the glow and kiss
of a soft
pre april breeze.

hiding

from the first time
the child
hides beneath a bed,
or burrows inside
a dark
full closet, it's then
the boy
or girl realizes,
that this feels fine,
escaping
the world, it's
pain and sorrow,
it become
a pattern.
the mind is wired
to go this way,
to hide in times
of trouble,
to find rest.

missed calls

there are 13 missed
calls
on the phone.
not a single message
left.
strangers
dialing my number
wanting something,
someone
who isn't home,
someone
who won't answer,
or pick up,
too busy with more
important things,
like sleep,
like food,
like love
and all the rest.

the cellar

the cellar

is cold. there is no
wine to be found, no
hand,
no body near
to hold.

no mice,
no bats or broken latches
or windows.
no memory to rest upon.

I sit in the long chair.
against the wall.
the tv
is off.

I ponder my next move.

sipping hot tea
in the dark.
alone.
it's nearly a new day.
i'll rise
and go up
soon.

drama

the show goes on.
we know our roles by heart
at this point.
when to laugh, or cry,
which direction to turn,
where to stand
to hit our mark.
we know the cues, when
the music stops,
or starts.
we are one in this drama.
a king and queen,
for better or worse,
we are actors stuck
in a self written play.
a performance
with no fore seeable end,
both tragic
and comedic on any given
night,
any given day.

the pressure of life

the barber
would be waiting in the chair
that i'd
sit in. not my usual
barber alfredo, but
don from Greece.
he'd be smoking a cigar,
the morning paper
stretched out between
his thick hairy arms.
it's 1965.
i had a lot of hair back
then. trim, he'd ask.
short in
the back? a little off
the top? where's your mother
he'd ask.
I don't know I tell him.
but give me the usual,
like alfredo does. okay,
he'd say and wrap the cape
around my skinny neck,
pinning it at the collar.
we're gonna make you handsome,
he'd say.
all the girls
are gonna love you.
but i'm only ten, i'd tell
him
feeling the pressure of
life upon me.

key after key

i could type at this machine
all night.
grow old
as each sun rises and falls
out my window.
just bring me
a sandwich once in a while,
coffee.
every now and then
come to see if i'm okay.
come close and put your
hand on my shoulders.
lean down
to kiss me and tell me
that you love me,
then let me go at it.
key after key struck because
that's what i do,
what i need.

everyone is home now

the baby is crying
through the wall.
it's a soft
weep.
she needs to be rocked,
to be held, or
fed, perhaps read to
as she falls asleep.
I could
if I could, but
those days are long
past me.
i'll just listen
as i lie here to
the sweetness of the voice,
a warming
sound, that says all
is well. everyone
is home now.

when it's spring

it's a mystery.
a riddle.
a long way home
from here.
no direction, no map.
no clear
path.
we're in the fog.
the cold
sleet drizzle.
the mud once snow.
our ears are full
of whispers.
cold wind.
February doesn't sing.
it thuds
forward
on ice.
one boot after the other.
wake me when it's
spring.