Three Rabbits

I think about

planting carrots in the back yard.
I get a trowel

some new soil.
a few package of seeds.

a bright picture is on the front
of the plastic
pouch.

fat orange carrots all bundled
together with a green

tie.
I look at the yard, there's plenty
of room.

I turn the package over
to read the instructions, then
look over

to where the gate is open.
I see three rabbits

looking in, nodding their
heads
enthusiastically,

yes. yes. yes.

We Need to Talk

we used to have these
long

talks after I caught her with
her married

boyfriend, or writing a check
to her ex husband

or lying about something,
anything.

they were circular conversations
going nowhere.

full of dead ends, word salad.

we'd sit down in the livingroom
and talk.

we'll i'd talk. and she'd sit there
texting on her phone
like a fourteen year old.

i'd ask her why
she's still

seeing a married man.
i'd ask her about the visits
to the ex

husband.
i'd go through a list of lies.

my voice would go hoarse.

she'd sit there
and stare at me, or through me

with those dull blank eyes
and shrug.

and? she'd say. so what's the problem?
are we almost done here.

I have to go somewhere really really
important.

this fish stinks

you know when the relationship
is over.
you can smell it.

it's not unlike
when fish goes bad.

it stinks.
you cringe when you unwrap
the paper.
and hold it to your nose.

you know it
when she comes home
through the door.

just hearing the car pull up
and the brake

engaged is enough to make
you sprint for the back

door.
no matter how much you season
that rotted fish,

no matter how you cook it,
fry,
or roast, boil or
steam, not matter what you
do to that
slab of seafood,

it's over. that fish stinks
and it's time

to think of other options for
dinner, not to mention
a few other

things.

Just Doing My Part

I stare at the box of dixie
cups

stacked in my cupboard.

I have more upstairs beneath
the sink.

little paper cups
for rinsing after a brush

or gargle.

nice little cups that old

a mere ounce or two of
water

or vodka if you need a quick
jolt
before

going to church or work.

I might have three hundred
dixie cups.

what do I do? keep them hidden?
I hate to throw them

away, but I feel that I must
do my part

in making America great again.

tonight i'm having Northern
Fried chicken

too. wish me luck on that.

secret lives

i'm always amazed
at how many people have secret lives.

secret boyfriends,
secret wives.

two families, three jobs.
an extra

dog and cat at a different address.
the exhaustion

of all those lies, all that juggling.

I can barely keep one life
straight.

how do they do it? where do they find
the energy

and time to pretend to be other people?
to have fake

lives?

the p.o. box,
the hidden cell phone.

the secret rendezvous. who has the time
for all that

monkey business?

and where does it end?
all these strangers standing over

the grave,
each saying to the other,

who are you? have we met?

facebook update

you stop by

your old facebook profile to see
if anyone is baking

any cakes,
or if their kids are on the honor roll.

there's a few new
cat videos and one with a racoon

going through a bag of trash.

lots of memes about the riots,
about

the virus.
and look there's an old face
in the crowd.

a ghost from the past.
same picture from fifteen years
ago.

the indian vest. the long hair.
the fright mask.

but it beats the old photo shopped

pics.

air brushed to the nth degree.

nobody at sixty

should try to look 23.

delete and block, I mean are we
really friends?

some people never change.
I scroll
and scroll and scroll.

I should post something on there.
but what?

I just scrambled some eggs, that'll
have to do for now.

oh, and there's a worm on the sidewalk.

click and post.

I need to find some more new friends

though.

i'm lagging behind.

the tire store

what can be said

about a flat tire that hasn't already
been said.

a lot.

a nail, a screw, a shard of glass
stuck
into the tread

and out the air goes.

can they fix it, plug it, seal it
back up
and away you go?

hell no.

you need a new tire. no one plugs
a tire
anymore. but it' only has a hundred

miles on it, you tell the man
in his clean blue shirt.

it's the inner lining, he says, stroking
his mustache and tapping
his belly.

damn liner is shot.

so you sit and wait
in the stiff chairs, with the stale
coffee

and people magazines with liz
taylor on the front.

you wait for your new tire.

it's a tire store, but they don't have yours
in stock.

they never do.
they have to send for it across town
or in

Baltimore. but you're welcome
to wait,
or go.

it's up to you. the cab home, walk.
uber.

we'll call you when it's ready,
or maybe we won't.

we're very busy here with tires.
we don't have any

but we can get you one if you want.
have a nice day.

wanting no one

we all need

a safe zone. a home.
a place

of no fear. no anxiety.
a peaceful

island
away from it all.

we all need the silence
of one

in order to regroup,
recharge,

to be not alone, but
to be happy

with oneself.

and for the moment
wanting

no one.

less light

less light

appears. less of everything

draws
near.

less of you. less of me.
we

are all diminished by time,
with each

passing year.

less light though,
is nothing

to fear.

we make love

it's raining out.

a hard rain, thunder.
swift wind.

streaks of lighting against
the far hills.

we make love
and the rain is part of it.

it's tender and sweet.
it's furious.

and when it ends,
we listen

to our hearts and to the rain
still

falling sweetly now
against

the window pane.

we fall asleep.

and when we awaken,

we'll do it again.

counting lies

I used to count

her lies.
write them down on a piece
of paper.

she said this, did this,
etc.

etc.

I used to count them all
up

as if it mattered.
it didn't.

now it's hard to remember
why

I even cared, or took the time
with such

a person.
strange how life takes

a turn for the better once
free

from a toxic person.

sheep

I was protesting

the protests when I was told I couldn't
do that.

who are you to think
you can have free speech

or  a different opinion than
the mob

in the street.

be one of us, a sheep.
quit thinking on your own.

now march with us,
or else,

do not listen to the sound
of your own drum beat.

sleep well

happiness

is not easy. but there are steps
you can

take to get there.
one is to work hard.

educate yourself.
love yourself.

get rid of toxic people from
your life.

eat well. exercise.
read read read.

find a creative outlet.
find peace

in the small things.
let go

of the past. look forward
to tomorrow.

but live in the now.
speak less.

listen more. sleep well.

be true

to yourself.

1939

the world

is walking on eggshells.
everyone afraid

to voice an opinion that goes
against

the mob mentality.
we bite our tongue, speak

delicately.
we censor our minds, unable

to say what we
really want.

it reminds me of another day,
another time,

in another country

1939.

it never happened

I like to erase.

delete and wash clean each mistake
made,
as if it
never happened.

I like to hang the clean
sheets

on the long line,
my bare feet in the cold grass.

I like the blue
sky of april.

the new year arriving in spring.
I keep

no score. no record of the past.

I like to erase.

keeping the blood in

we stop the bleeding

whether
a wound, or a dollar lost,

the market,
love
leaving.

another heart arriving. we stop
the bleeding.

life is about tourniquets.
bandages,

thread and needle.
the surgeon's

scalpel.
keeping

the blood in
for as long as we can.

what lies above

the wind

speaks whispers into
the coffins

of trees.
trees bent towards sun,

towards water,
always grasping,

always in need.
all life is slow dying,

without love.
and even then,

you wonder what lies below,
what

lies above.

beyond belief

we wonder how the wicked
sleep.

how they can lie there
head against the white pillow

with hands folded
legs entwined in sheets.

how can they
sleep, when we stare into the dark
void
of night

and listen
to the woods moving
outside, beyond

the shaded
window, beyond belief.

the way out

you see the way out.

the red exit sign high on the wall.
you see

the steps, the path that leads
to the door.

in your mind, you practice leaving.
slowly.
then you run.

you leave everything behind.
all that is wrong.

your new life

lies beyond that door.
you can get to it when you're ready.
when

courage arrives.
when hope is lost.

when the time is right.

you see the way out.

you rise and begin.

the unwritten future

she tells

me about the babies
that failed.

twins
and one other

that never made it into
the world.

her eyes drift off into some
unwritten

future.
she smiles, a false smile.

it's an offering
that I take

before
bowing out and going
in.

we won't talk of this again.

a reader of labels

I have become a reader
of labels

at this age.

I have become one of them
standing

in the aisle with a can or jar
of something

and squinting at the small
print

examining the contents
of beans,

of fish, of olives.

how much sugar is here,
the salt,

the syrups or carbs.
what am I putting into my

body.

i need a chair to sit and
ponder

this package in my hand.

they believe

they believe.

truly they believe that
if they

make a sign
and go downtown

and march, and yell
and scream.

if they throw rocks
at the police

smash cars and break windows
set fires
to the stores

pull down the statues of
once heroes,

that things will change.

they believe that the world
will right

it self, that the color of
your skin

will not matter, that sin
will end,

that men will at last see
the error of their ways

and make amends.
they believe this with all their
hearts.

well meaning, and naïve.

but soon they tire,
there is work to do. lives
to lead.

they grow old
and grey. their bones turn white,
as the ashes
rise

from their graves.

yelling out the window

I can't help myself,

but when I see two young women,

in the prime of their

precious life

walking

into the bridal shop

with their mother, I can't help

but 

roll down the window

and yell out, don't do it. stop.

don't.

please, just think about this.

they look at me like i'm a crazy

old man,

which is pretty much true.

they don't laugh, but hold their

swatches

of

lime green and peach colored

fabric

in their hands

and run on into the store.

time to protest

my friend asks me if i'm
going

to the protest march today.
I ask him,

what's this one about?
he looks at his schedule.

well, we have one at ten a.m.
for human

rights,
another at eleven for abused
animals,

then one at noon, for books
the we want

banned. there's a lot of words
out there that go against
our liking.

I tell him, maybe.
I have to work,

but if I can break away for a little
while after lunch,

I might be able to do the
animal one.   what should I wear.

black, all white, zebra stripes?

something casual he says,
easy to run in.

okay, I tell him, by the way,

are you bringing bricks and
torches?  or just signs

this time?

the cat walk

I watch the woman
walking

her cat down the street.

the cat's collar is attached
to a gold leash

with little rhinestones.

slowly they meander along
the sidewalk,

the yard.
the cat wants to go under
a car,
but no.

the tree holds interest.
but no.

the woman wants the cat
to walk
on the sidewalk.

but cats have a mind of
their own.

it's a short walk.
the sun is out.

she comes my way, but i
go in before

I say anything about
the cat.

leave me alone

her left leg

is a lot like her right leg.
I can see

that now.
I am a great observer of
legs.

and torsos.
etc.
etc.

it's been a life long obsession.

legs.
i'm sorry. sue me.

I know we're living in
the dreadful

era of extreme political
correctness,

but I don't care.
I like legs.

leave me alone.

the red flags

the body
and the mind

protects itself from harm.
instincts.

self preservation
inborn

from the start.
pain is a warning.

anxiety and fear
are

your friends, listen
to them.

observe the red flags
all around you.

obey them.
get out and get on
the mend.

the illusion

I like

how milagro
stacks

my books. rearranges
the linen

closet.
the eggs.
the tomatoes.

separating, the cheese
from

the rest.
she seems to know where
everything goes.

shoes in the closet.
dishes,

look at how the bed
is made.

the shelves are dusted.

she makes no comment
on what she sees,

what I've left out on
the table

or in the sink.
silently, she goes about
her work.

giving order where there
is none.

keeping the illusion of a
good life alive.

you're looking well

some are always
sick.

the leg, the arm,
the head.

the gut.

the hair falling out.
the knees

sore. they point at a kidney
and wince.

or a scar,

and they never fail
to tell
you so once asked,

to pull out an x-ray,
or form,

from a doctor.
you learn in time to not

ask how are?

instead you say, good to see
you.

you're looking well.

God's Explanation

we know
what we know without speaking it.

we know the truth.
we know

what's a lie.
from birth we know the order
of things

sleep
food
the comfort of love

when to cry.
we take this with us each

year
we survive.

searching for meaning,
for reason,

for God's explanation
of it all,
one day

at a time.

learned fear

as the  two
men work. ladders angled upon
the house,

and the new windows go in,
as the old

ones go out.
I offer water.

I tell them i'll be back.
I think of

hiding things of value.
but why?

there is nothing here
that

can't be replaced.
and why wouldn't I trust

these two strangers?
what is it about us that we
suspect

that we fear?

learned, perhaps.

the cracked egg

if she was
an

egg.
she'd be cracked

and spilled.
gone

sour and sick
within

her own shell.

if she was an egg.
there

would be no
hatching.

no coming to life.
just

part of
a set of twelve

left behind. cold
stored

until later that night.

the summer wind

there is a point in childhood,
half way out,
half way in,

where you wonder,
when will

childhood end. when will
these games

these small
issues,
these playgrounds with
swings,

the slides,
us children, spinning,
like leaves caught
in

summer wind,
come to an end. and then

it does.
and you wish and wonder,
how to get

back there once again.

a serious talk

you have to ask yourself,

she says to me, almost in a whisper,
is this the person

you really want to be with for the rest
of your life?

hmmm.
I say.

hand on my chin, pondering her
question.

then I start to think,
is this the house I want to live in
for the rest of my life.

is this the place I want
to be
forever and a day.

is this the shirt I want to wear today.
these shoes.

black or grey?
an onion bagel or blueberry?

toasted, or not? butter or cream cheese?

do these pants make me look fat?

no one here

we pass one another

in the hall. wordless.
her to her room,

me to mine.
it's early.

sleep was hard. waking
even harder.

I hear the water run
as she steps into the shower.

I get  dressed, make coffee.
I stand by

the window, before leaving.
the woods are
bare.

the grey arthritic limbs
of winter trees
fit the moment.

quietly I leave, there really
is no one

here.

heaven and hell

we talk about the devil,
whether or

not he's real.
if he actually exists,

if there is a heaven or a hell.
how could

God, if there is a God
be so cruel

as to send someone into the flaming
pits of hell,

for eternity?
what kind of a God does that?

i can see the dark aura
around her

as she speaks. I feel the black
vibe
of her soul.

I know the depth of her
history, having watched it up

close.

she's worried about this for
a lifetime

of reasons. heaven yes, but
hell

hopefully no.

the attic box marked done

I place
all the things I have forgotten

and the things
I remember but no longer

need
in my mind

into a box, marked done.

no date, no explanation.
just one word.

done.
which says it all.

I find the deepest part of
the attic

where the cobwebs
have layered
their traps in fine woven

webs. and say, good.
perfect.

I slide the box in, shut
the ceiling door and climb down.

wiping clean my hands
of the whole

ordeal.

everything you need to know

a lie, one lie,

one deception told without
the blinking

of a single eye,
is a thread, a loose thread

on a thick sweater.

pull on it, pull that lose thread
and watch

that life unravel right
before your

eyes.
one lie and then the skin
is laid
bare.

everything you need to know
is there.

the caught fish

as the fish

rises out of the river,
pulled heavy

on my line. I feel
sympathy for him.

the prickly silver hook
caught in his jaw, the awful

air suffocating his
lungs.

he stiffens in  panic
wanting to be back in the water
he was born in.

the blue sky more blue
than

he ever was aware.
what life is this, to be out

here, he thinks,
as I twist the hook from his mouth.

I mourn for his life.
his beauty, the pattern of his
scales

a work of art,
his small heart

heaving towards the distant sun.

time for the next great flood

people used to be happier.

I really believe that.
maybe it's romanticizing the past

as most elderly people do,
but it just feels

different now.
the world is a chaotic mess.

I see no one on the porch
with a glass

of tea,
reading, or talking quietly
with a loved

one.

there is no peace.
just anger, confusion, violence

and grief. let the rains fall,
hard and fast.

they

it's confusing.

he or she, they.
the undecided are multiplying

it seems.
the barista is either jim or jaye,

karen or rob.
depends

on the day.

you are cautious in saying
miss

or ms. or sir, or mamm.

it's none of your bee's wax
what's going

on down there,

to each his or her own
gender, but i'd like

to go out the way

I came in.

whispers

you take some thread
and

sew your lips together.
whatever

you want to say, or might slip
out

could be offensive.
you've lost so many so called

friends this way.

better to be quiet than express
your opinions.

once a free speech country,
it's

the 1984 all over again.

the hallmark card

I sign with love

to the card, the hallmark
nine dollar

fold out, musical
thick

card made especially for this
fake

holiday.
I seal the envelope, put
a stamp

in the corner and lug it down
to the post office.

whew. I slap my hands together.

glad that's done.

the parking ticket

are you a parking ticket

by any chance
she says

sidling up to me in
the crowded bar.

because
you got fine

written all over you.

I laugh and tell her that i'm

going to steal that line
and make it mine.

go right ahead,
she says,
I use it all the time.

the day comes

we mourn the loss

of dogs
hard, if not harder than

others that we love.
their lives shorter than

ours for the most part.
ten years

or more.
maybe twelve.

then old age embraces them.

like us the legs go,
the vision blurs. the hearing

shot.
they hardly come when you
call.

they sleep long, or not
at all.

when the child was the young
the dog
was too.

so many pictures line
the shelves.

the puppy, and you. and then
the day comes.

always. the day comes

and you are left with the bed,

the still ball.

the food and dish from where

he ate.

the leash hung on the hook

in the hall.

fallen soldiers

I see the noose

around old Robert E. Lee's

neck

as they pull him and his bronze

horse

down off the pedestal.

his sword is still

in his hand,

his hat secured.

his uniform tattered with

graffiti.

his eyes still focused on

some distant

field, bloodied and strewn

with corpses.

it seems he's lost the war

again

and will ride no more.

adjusting the points

as a young man

on a Saturday, like today.
with sun

and blue skies, i'd wash my car
under a shady tree.
my

marroon 67 camaro Chevrolet.

a bucket of suds.
rags,
and sprays.

inside and out, then the turtle
wax

to give it a shine
with that chamois cloth.

i'd check the oil. the fluids.
i'd adjust

the points using the sleeve
of a pack of matches.

and if I had a date that night,
i'd

hang a little scented christmas
tree from the rear

view mirror. good times.

the dog chained to a tree

he kept his dog
on a chain tied to a tire
tied to a tree.

a circle of dirt
around it.

bones chewed thoroughly
down to the marrow
littered

on the ground.

a shallow bowl of rain
water

full of black flies was nearby.

was he ever loved?
or always a burden

seen from afar.

the cold blue sleeve of streams

I remember finding

a letter that she wrote to her married boyfriend.
telling him

how much she still loved him,
missed him.

wishing that she could tell the world
about her love
for him.

she drew little hearts around the words.
colored them pink.

then posted it on a tree
where he had left the same for her.

I remember looking at the ring on my finger
and pulling it off

and flattening it with a hammer
on the street.

flat and silver. a thousand dollars,
maybe more.

I remember sailing it like a stone
across the water of the broad

creek..
watching it sink into the cold blue
sleeve

of dreams.

no more.

no time

no one has time anymore
to stop.

and meet, or talk.

they have nine watches
on their arm.

you can hear them ticking
from a mile away.

busy. busy. busy.
they are pale.

approaching grey.

they have no time, no room
on their calendar.

they only have this phone,
this cold piece
of metal,

without a soul, but leading the way.

don't stay, go home

some towns are ugly.
smoke
pouring out of stacks.

a grey fringe of clouds
hiding
a puddled

yellow sun.

traffic and horns blaring.
words cursed

from rolled down windows.
the factories,
steel boxes

of lives fading away.
the percussion of drills and hammers
never ceasing.

you drive through the tunnel
and pause
when you arrive.

the greased roads,
the food
for the fat.

the ancient bones of those
grown old

rocking on peeling porches.

their blue eyes

steeled in yesterday's work.
even the churches

sagging with worried faith,
beg, don't stay. go home.

the pious mask

she's going

to confession now. I hear through

the grapevine.
good for her, is my response.

a life of adultery, lying, deception
and abuse
is finally

weighing her down?

but I feel bad for

the poor priest setting aside
so many hours

and still not getting
the truth

or real penance out of her.
that pious mask.

oh, how I know hers well.

the old sunset

you reach
a point in life where

there is nothing left
to need or want.

it's all there.

stuffed into closets
and attics

laundry rooms,

shelved and boxed in
garages where the cars
never go.

two of everything it seems.

but then
you look at your list
of dearly

departed friends. growing
longer with each

old sunset.

you could use a few more
of them.

which plate to throw

when my mother would throw a dish

at my father
after coming home late

to a cold dinner.
lipstick on his cheek that he

didn't bother to wipe off,
she'd choose the chipped plates.

the old plates.
rarely did I see the next morning

broken on the floor,
in wild cut shards,

her blue favorites. her good
china.

her heirlooms.
even in her anger she had good taste.

the truth

if you want

to truly know who someone is
these days.

look
into their cell phone.

no need for a polygraph,
or
interrogation.

no need to put them in a room
with a hot
light

upon their brow.
just pick up their phone and scroll.

and there
you have the truth of who

they are.

california dreaming

she reminds me of
California.

or what I used to think california
was.

a beach.
a blue sky.

white gulls.

sunshine and blue eyes.
tanned

and golden
in red.

she reminds me of California.

a place I've never
been.

mythical in my youth, just
as she is

now.

i'm all out of sorrys

I reach into my bag
for one more

sorry.
but i'm out.

I used them all up last week
after

commenting on the news.
disagreeing with

people.

I have a new order coming in

though.

a box
of one hundred.

freshly minted sorrys.
ready

to be doled out to the next person
I unintentionally hurt.

insult, or dismiss

as stupid.  sorry.

found that one on the floor.

orange

I roll the orange in
my hand.

squeeze it gently.
I smell it.

hold it to an ear.
it has nothing to say.

the color is bright.
I own nothing of this color.

but it appeals to me
in some
strange way.

orange, I say out loud,
then take a knife

and slice into quarters.
it's sweet in my mouth,

tart upon my tongue.

the life of it dripping
off my chin.

memed out

don't be angry

forgive and forget.

move on. let it go.

don't look

back.

be true to yourself.

don't get fooled again.

listen

to your gut.

your mother was right.

etc.

etc.

I hate memes.

all of their tomorrows

it smells like
rain

the leaves all fat and green
cupped

upwards.

the southerly breeze.
only

the sound
of trees.

the conversation of branches,
the bending
of trunks

before a cloud breaks
and they drink

into life
all of their tomorrows.

another day

she finds
her fish dead, floating

on top of the bubbling clear
water
of the tank.

the others don't seem to mind.
they go about

their way, swimming.
down they go between the castle,

the windmill.
the bright green plastic leaves.

nothing is real.
this is all an illusion, they say

to themselves.
more will come.

it's just another day.

what more is there to ask

he makes a list

and tells me what's wrong.

my lungs he says. they don't work
as well

as they did when I was young.
my eyes
are blurred.

my voice cracks.
my hair has thinned.

the knees are shot, my back,
my back.

but all is well, he says.
all is well.

i have money. i have love.
what more is there to ask?

summer clothes

she had summer clothes

that she took
out of a different closet.

folded away
from last September.

the cedar chest opened
to a lighter wear.

some were white, pastels.
sandals
appeared.

jewelry was lighter on her
wrist.

the nails polished
pinks and blues. her lipstick
too

was different.

she had summer clothes.
how different we were

was beginning to come into
view.

room with a view

the sky was crowded
with a bright array of white clouds.

pillows and sheets
in the sky.

waving in the breeze, blowing
cotton against the blue.

an aerial clothes line.

happiness is just this.
a simple, casual thing,

staring out the window,
at the sea and above it,

a glorious view.

we both have so far to go

shyly, I try to explain,
my eyes down,

but he stops me and puts his hand
on my shoulder.

no need to go on, he says.
he's older than I am.

there is more wisdom in his eyes
than i'll ever have,

so I listen.
we all make mistakes, he says.
don't beat yourself up.

don't be ashamed.
you're heart is good and hers

was evil.
that's all you need to know.

say no more. say no more.
I understand.

let's walk, we both have so much
behind us and so far
to go.

i miss the post card

I miss getting a post card
from afar.

the stamp of another country
on the back.

the hand written note.
hello, how are you?

I miss you and love you.
wish you were here.

hope all is well. see you
soon, my love,

my precious dear.

it says all that needs to be
said

when in love and longing
as lovers
do

for that special one to be
home.

I miss the post card, don't you?

the snake bite

people don't understand how
hard it is

to get poison out of your veins
once bitten

by a snake.
it lingers and lingers.

even in your sleep you feel
the pain.

see the fangs biting down
into your skin,

the black eyes, flat and emotionless
as the beast

has its way.
but you do heal.

your arm no longer is black

with

poison.

you get a spring back into your

step.

your eyes are wide open

watching more closely where you

walk,

where your heart goes.

looking for land

there's a point in most relationships
when
things
are never going to be
the same.

whether it's a lie told,
a betrayal.

a look, or a silence unfolding
into
a day or more,

there's a sea change.
a new course has been set.

it's the beginning of an end.
both of you
looking

through the glass for land.

confession

i can't drink anymore
around
men, she told me while

chewing on a green olive
plucked
out of her dry martini.

before you know it
i'm in bed with them, and
the next

morning I have no idea
where I am

or who the big lug is lying
beside me.

I think I need help, she says.
waving the waitress over

for another.
by the way, my hot tub is
fixed

and cleaned and ready
to go. 

scratching the itch

each age to its own itch
that needs scratching.

the candy when young, the cone
of ice cream.

the ringing of the truck,
the music
playing as you salivated

and thought about that nutty
buddy
in your hand.

a bike, a game.
a tree to climb.

then the itch for love, or sex,
call it what you
may.

those teenage years of wonder
and confusion.

then money became an itch.
a place
of your own.

a car. clothes.

then a wife, perhaps. kids.
a picket fence, a dog. a yard
to mow.

but then what.
what's the itch now, at this
grand age?

a good book.
a gentle kiss.
conversation.

a poem..

free love

we almost made
it to California. Perry, Jim,
me.

we had a connection in Huntington Beach.
a cousin
of a girl
I used to see.

we packed our bags.
stuffed money into our jeans.

gassed up
and away we went.

we made it to the exit heading west
on 66

when the car broke down.
a 57 chevy, baby blue, with
baby moon rims.

it died on us
and so did some fantasy,
some idealized

dream.of
surf, sand, music, free love.

the sea.

the piano teacher

a piano teacher lived
next door to me for a few years.

anne.
she taught music at the local
school

then taught children the piano
in her house

at night, or on weekends.
i'd hear the percussion of keys

through the wall.
almost music, but not quite.

the parents would idle in their
cars, out front
reading a paper,

or books, awaiting their prodigy
to come out.

one by one, they came as the years
passed.

occasionally a complete song
would be heard,

then she married again.
telling me in the snow one day

when shoveling out.
a picture of her fiancé on her phone.

the bright glow of a diamond on
her finger.

the music ended. and now a quiet
couple from
Minnesota live there.

we come. we go.

there's a curious part in all of
us

that wonders what became of someone.
that kid

in high school who used to kick
your chair

incessantly during biology.
the teacher

with the grey hair and startling blue
eyes.

the cheerleader.
the coach.

the girl beside you

in physics,
who broke your heart,
stole
your soul. 

pigtails in a plaid dress,

and a smile that would light

up a room.

and what about the neighbor
who
lived next door. where is she now.

still married to the man she found
on catholic.com,

did things work out?
you wonder, but make no effort

to know.
as you did when you were with
them.

we come. we go.

eating too late

was it because you ate late
at night

that you tossed and turned,
ruminated on

the past?
was it the meal?
the drink, that kept you

awake.
kept you up,
or is there just more work
to done,

more books to read,
more

self examination to rid myself
of the past

mistake?

i'll eat earlier tonight, to
find out.

the empty spaces

I take the day off.

but I get to work anyway
staining

the new wood fence.

a gallon of alkyd teak.
a brush.

the music on.
coffee.

birds stop by on the edge
of the fence

to see how things are going.
by noon

it's done.
I stand back and take a picture.

i like to fill in
the empty spaces of my life that are

left undone.

finding closure

my friend writes to me
and tells me he needs closure.

he needs to sit down and talk with
his ex

to say goodbye. to have some sort
of farewell

discussion.
to put a period at the end

of the sentence.
dot the i's. cross the t's.

I tell him about hell freezing over.
what was

normal about her, I ask him.
nothing.

and so why do you expect the end
to be
normal too?

closure is the door shutting.
the locks being
changed.

going no contact. delete, burn,
erase.

there's your closure. don't look back.

my favorite writer

a book arrives
on the porch from my favorite writer.

Lorrie Moore.

she's golden.
I've been reading her work
since the mid
80's

she's brilliant and clever.
she makes me laugh, and brings
me

to the verge of tears. she's that good.

it's a hardback book.
I see her familiar face on the cover.

we have aged together through the years.
never
actually meeting in person,

but always in  the blissful quiet
of a reading chair.

something terrible

I get this feeling

that something terrible is about to happen.
a gut feeling.

the same one I used to get
when I met my
ex wife.

I knew in my gut that there was a living
hell
in front of me.

but this is different.
it's a world
feeling.

something terrible is about to happen.
i'm rarely wrong,

but this time, I hope I am.

you think you know someone

you think you know someone.
you think
you have them all figured out.

for better or worse, you have
their number.

but then they say something,
or do something
and you have to start all over
again.

the masks slips and suddenly
they aren't who you
thought they were.

it could be a word, an action.
a look,
but something tells you there
is more here
than meets the eye.

it could go either way, i've
gone through both. with one
you run from as fast as possible

and with the other you
run towards with open arms
and a welcoming heart.

the roast beef sandwich

i don't understand men, she told me.
brushing her hair
in the hall mirror
after we had made love.

she seemed at times to forget
that I was a man,
and talked
to me
as if I might be something else.
not a woman,
exactly, but
something else.

she's always in a hurry,
even when arriving.

there was a tenseness about her, as
if she was unable to
remember something important,
or where she may
have put something, like her
keys, or her wedding rings,

or her ever buzzing phone,
politely set for vibrate during
her visit.

where to now, I asked her.
standing in the kitchen making
a sandwich.

hungry?
I could hear the spray of perfume
and the clinking
of things in her purse
as she searched for lipstick
and rouge.

I could eat a horse, she said.
sorry,
no horse, but I could make you a sandwich
or something.

no, no. i'll grab something on
the way home.
I have to stop off at the church
and drop off some canned goods.

my husband is a deacon there now,
did I tell you that?
she peeked around the corner
as I put some roast beef onto a slice
of white bread
and then layered it with mustard.

I set two pickles on the dish, then

found the bottle of milk in the fridge.

no. I said. a deacon?  yes. he's very
involved with the church this year.
he wants me to join the choir.
he says I have a wonderful voice.

you do have a lovely voice. I said,
taking a first bite into the soft bread.
tasting the tang of the brown mustard.

do you think so?  she came into the kitchen.
how do I look?
I looked at her and nodded. wonderful.
no worse for wear.

she looked at her watch then came
over to gently brush her cheek against
mine.

have to go love, she said. be good.
see you in a week or so.

we're travelling up to New York to see
his family. so we won't be able to talk.

but i'll try to text you from the bathroom

at some point, or

when I take the dog for a walk.

okay. I said. pouring a glass
of milk. i'll be here. don't forget to put

your rings back on.

sweetness in the true

there is joy

in seeing boxes leaving.

seeing the truck

pull up and the men carrying

away

what isn't yours.

there is laughter in the emptying

of drawers and shelves.

in the sweeping away

of someone

you once cared about,

but no more.

there is happiness in the new.

sweetness

in the true.

trust me, i know

sometimes you feel a vibe.

a tug
at your heart strings, or a rumbling
of the gut.

something is going on.
something is amiss.

your stomach never lies. it's the
true barometer

of your life.
listen to it.

don't be fooled by charm,
by those

with a twinkle in their eye.
there will be

hell to pay if you don't.
trust me.

I know.

we miss you!

I see that St. Bernadette's
is open for business once again.

the lot is full.
I see father smith with one of those

Styrofoam board signs
standing on the edge of the road

flipping it around as they like to do.

there's a big blue arrow on it
pointing towards the church.

we're open, it says, come on in.
free communion without confession.
this week only.

no penance, no guilt, no need
to even kneel. come on in. we

miss you. cash only.

too many cocktails

tipsy after a few

too many cocktails the night before,
you roll over
and stare at the clock.

it's a red blur of numbers.
you pull the blinds

to the side.
it's raining.

you lie there and stare at the ceiling.
bathroom first,
or coffee?

or aspirin?

you look over at the  body lying
beside you

and tap her on the shoulder.
her long dark

hair, cascades along the white
sheets.

you ask her her name.

waiting for phase three

I get a call from

my old girlfriend Betty.
she's finally out of rehab.

hey.
she says on the phone.
she sounds happy.

sober and dried out.
perky, even.

what up? she says. let's
roll out
and do

something sometime.
but what about the virus
I ask her.

shouldn't we wait until phase
three?

what virus, she says.
I've been institutionalized
for six months.

haven't heard the news.
what's phase three?
I laugh.

and say well, a lot has gone
down since
you were locked up.

turn on the tv.

i got nothing

I spend a few hours

on amazon
looking for more stuff that i
don't need.

but I got nothing.
no new
shoes,

or books, or pants,
or shirts.

no art, no new keyboard
or phone
case

or dishes
or oils to rub onto me.

no music, no how to manuals,
no

new gizmos for the kitchen.
heating pads,

or ice packs.
no pills to make me happy.

nothing.
absolutely nothing.

i'll try again later.

no longer children

as neighbors do

you see the children growing.
outside the window.
bright green

lives
in the street. from stroller
to bikes.

to cars.
they age so quickly.

leaving before they've  hardly
arrived.

their parents growing thick
and grey.

waving from
the porch as their children,

no longer children
wave
and go on

their separate ways.

what sadness brings

she was blue.

sad.
always sad

to some degree.
her face
tilted

and frowned, leaning
on the sill.

waiting for something
or someone
to arrive

that would take the sadness
away.

some to fill the void,
someone
who would provide.

this led to  trouble.
her life

being led
down wayward trails,

led astray.
there was no truth.

just lies.

the joy of ice cream

there is joy
beyond measure

in the small treasure
of a cone

two scoops
of sugared milk

minted
with chunks of dark
chocolate.

let the world go by.
let the cities

burn,
let the oceans rise
and flood

the land.
no worries we have
this cone,

this ice cream,
this cold melting joy
within
in our hand.

the list grows

your best friend

is gone. your other friends too.
they have

left before you.
you stare at the numbers in your
phone,

next to their names.
some were lovers.

some were childhood friends.
they seem reachable

at times, as if they are still there.
sitting by the phone

awaiting your call. you can
hear their voices,

their laughter.
you are ready to console them
over love
lost

over things gone wrong.
and they are there to do the same

for you.

it's just a cloud

you stand at the window
and look

up at the clouds. they are just clouds.
you see no
shapes

or images that they might resemble.
you realize

that this is what you do with so much
of life

looking for meaning when
there is none

to be found. it's just a cloud.

so much is unwanted

so much is unwanted.

stray dogs.
clothes and furniture
set out

to the curb.
the unborn.

the tarnished silver,
the torn chaise.

the aged sitting in their urine
as they watch
tv.

so much
we throw away.
each other.

lovers, friends. all tossed
aside

as we stagger to an unknown
grave.

the silver cross

as a child
you rubbed the metal

crucifix in the cellar
as your

father, fueled on whiskey,

beat your mother
into submission.

a broken arm
a tooth, her glasses split
in two.

but rubbed you did
against the silver Christ.

as if it were a genie in a bottle.

on your childish knees,
on the concrete

floor.
how hard you prayed,

not knowing the life
ahead,

what you were in for.
and how many more times you
would

pray and pray, finding
the cross
once more.

the hour glass

there is less of you
than
there was the day before.

your body
has diminished with time.

the cloth of wind
against you.

the tar of night.
you are weighed down by

so much.
the past, the future.

such as it is. and even that
what is there
to know

or ponder anymore
about tomorrows.

what memories others
had
of you

are going going fast
as they leave
before you.

this hour is all you have,
and that too, just
sand
through an invisible hour
glass.

good news

through the grapevine

I get the news.
a word or two.

the truth watered  down
or enhanced.

I shrug. who's to know.

nothing surprises me
though,
who cares

anymore. no news is
always

good news with you.

the weather changes

the weather  changes.

a chance
of rain has become a storm.

the blue clouds
are grey.

the percussion of rain, the drum
of thunder

is upon us.

lightning slashes the sky
in a brilliant
stroke
of silver.

but we're safe. we have each other.
we'll make

love in the storm.
we'll trade

stories from the past.
predict the future.

we'll fall asleep in each other's
arms.

the weather changes,

just say no

the test

is the word no
when you want to know
the true

nature of the person
you're dealing with.
when

they hear it, they go off
the deep end.

how dare you tell me
no.

don't you know who I am.

no? really. you're saying
that to me,

setting a boundary?

come again.

Behind the Drugstore

you don't see too many people
drunk
anymore.

I remember growing up
and playing stick ball behind the drugstore

which was adjacent to a bar called
SeaShell,

and across the street
was the drive thru liquor store.
there was always

someone out there, bent over,
one hand on the wall,
either throwing
up

or peeing, letting it run
back onto his shoes.
it would interfere with our game.

we would have to wait until
the drunks
would zip up,

wipe their mouths with their
sleeves and stagger off.

sometimes they'd want to join in
on the game

and say things like come on kid,
come on,
let me show you my curve ball.

or give me that bat. let me hit one
out..

they'd be
in their sweaty business suits
and loose neck ties
with five o'clock shadows,

but most of the time they'd find
their keys
buried impossibly deep
inside their pant pockets

and drive off, zig zagging home

to their families.

Two Mai Tais

I finally make it up to
Hunan West

to get some greasy Chinese food.
busting loose

from the Keto diet.
at some point you need some flavor,
some salt

something fried and heart clogging.
I get my usual.

crispy beef and two soggy egg rolls
fried in
lard.

I sit at the three seat bar and order
a mai tai stuffed with a half
a pound of cut fruit and a little umbrella

that I almost poke my eye out with.
the tv is on.

Bruce, the barkeep, looks up
at the screen, then looks at me
and says,
crazy out there.

yup,  a giant cup of crazy.
make me another, please, I tell

him as I slurp the last sugary

concoction down.

you march today?
nah, i tell him. work, bike ride.
read.

netflix.  i've seen this show before.

I got nothing, this time around.

brown or white rice?

you know what. let's go with brown.

how many children do you have

someone asks me if I have
any children.

just one, I say. a son in California.
I had
two

actually. the woman I was married to
for a short while.
she was more like a child than an adult.

so I guess I had two.

this does not get a laugh. so I fill in
the empty

air with my own chuckle.
still nothing.

how about this weather, i say,
pointing up to the cloudless sky.

the search for meaning

I hear the women arguing
about baking recipes

and the riots as they sit

around their knitting circle out on
the front porch.

balls of colored yarn
roll around the big deck.

I see a few bottles of chardonay

scattered about.

I live next door and wave to them.
some wave
back and others shake their heads

in  disgust. don't talk to that man,
one says.

he's the one that kicked his wife
out of the house for cheating on him.

I get my ice tea and settle into my
big chair.

I turn to page one of
Man's Search for Meaning
by Frankl.

the second amendment

I've been studying the second
amendment,

he says, lighting another cigarette
and scratching

the tattoo of a skull
on his arm.

and I think that we should have
the right

to own cannons. those big ones
like there used to be on pirate ships.

there's nothing in the constitution
against it.

and mustard gas too. why not?
we need to protect
ourselves.

what if aliens attack, or the dead
rise from
their graves

and want to eat us.
what if my neighbor suddenly

gets tired of my barking dogs and wants
to slay me?

a plan to escape

the world

is a better place
when you stop reading the news

buying a newspaper
watching tv.

the trees are nice this time
of year,

the lake pristine and blue.
from here

you don't hear the madding crowds,
we walk

the lake
and make a plan to escape.

just me and you.

gifts

I think about all the rings

and jewelry, flowers and cards,
gifts,

large and small that I've given out of
love,
or lust,

like or just a feeling of maybe.

would I like to have it all back?
sometimes, but

what's the difference, you gave it a shot.
and you don't

need the money. you just wonder sometimes
what they

do with all of it.
mine go into the trash.

women with blue hair

I see women

with blue hair now. some with pink,

or bright orange, or even green at times.
it's interesting.

a few have hooks and rings hanging
from their noses,

or lips and eyebrows. while others
are covered in ink.

tattoos telling the story of their life
up to that point.
the age

doesn't matter, or the education.
it used to be that only

sailors or convicts or motorcycle
gangs

had tattoos, but no more. it's a free
for all now.

the images and words, some in Chinese,

running and dripping down the arms
and legs, necks

and backs of women with blue hair.

I sigh

and look at the wrinkles and scars

on my face and

body.

that's enough of a story for me.

the bookstore

during the riots

and the looting, I kept waiting
for

the bookstore window
to be broken into

so that I could slip in and grab
a few books

I've been meaning to read.
but no

such luck.
of course i'd put the money

into the register before leaving.

I do have a few morals

left in me. not to mention

lingering Catholic guilt.

the liquor store was opened,

the grocery store,
the electronics mega store,

but not the bookstore. I waited
all night

as the city burned, but the books
went untouched.

your music

each to his own
way
of thinking.

to his own opinion.
don't follow the crowd,

the marching masses.

for the crowd is often wrong.
don't listen to the pundits

the newsman,
the preacher, the lawyers.

stay away from the learned,
those that

wave a book or a bible
above them.

preaching madly.

don't listen, don't drink
the water of those with fake

tears, fake morals
and no compassion.

look within
that's where the answers
lie.

march alone if you have to.
your music

is to be followed, not theirs.

the silence

suddenly the religious leaders

have gone quiet.
staying safe and warm in their
chambers.

safe in the monastery,
the cathedral,

wordless behind

the rich walls of faith that
they've created.

not a word. not a peep
to the growing crowds.

giving them no hope.
they save that sermon for when things
are fine

and the basket comes around
one more time.

apathy

when apathy sets in

you are free.
no longer is there a worried
thought,

a care
or memory

that lingers. it's just
another day

of sweet enduring peace.
oh death,

where is your sting?

sweet cherry wine

i remember

the tear gas when we used
to march

and protest the war.
the burn in our eyes.
the cops
chasing us in their starched

blue shirts.
helmets on, swinging
their clubs.

giving some a hearty wood
shampoo.

it was exhilarating
and a fun

time, a good place
to meet cute girls down

at the reflecting pool,
splashing

around
in their birthday suits.
we had our chants,
our home made signs.

then we went home and did
our homework

and ate with our family
before
slipping out to the woods

to drink with friends
a bottle of boones farm
cherry wine.

the next year, i cut my hair
got a job

and bought a car, 

slipped a ring on a girl's finger, 

and

that was the end of that.

think like i do

you can have an opinion he says
loudly

over the phone,
but just as long as it agrees
with mine.

if not.
there will be hell to pay.

I know it's a free country,
but I won't
be your friend anymore.

get in line and march with us,

think like I do, or else
you won't be

hearing from me anymore.

okay.

the rubber check

I get a back check,

a fake
bill

just printed on the basement
printing

press.

the check bounces.
the bill

smears.

it's a hard days work
made
longer

by those that steal.

safe in the womb

believe you are a victim

and you will stay one.

for whatever the reason, stay
there

in your mind
and your life will follow.

it's your comfort zone.
woe is me.

safe in the womb
of
what you believe.

fashion

not a yellow
shirt

or red,
or striped or plaid
hangs

in the closet.
give me plain.

dark
colors, solid.

so many are the same.
my comfort zone.

no need at this stage
to think
about even going
green.

why change?

black and blue,
grey
or white.

maybe tan if i'm
feeling
wild

and uninhibited.
maybe.

enough water

the leaves,
their hands cupped open
await
the drink
of rain,
the tears
of clouds, the spray
of life
upon them.
it's always been this way.
all water
has always been here,
and will
always
remain. call it
snow or
ice
or fog.
it's all the same.

her ship is sinking

her ship

is sinking. the hands have
gone
overboard.

the end is near.
drowning in

her own decisions.
she pretends to pray

some more.
the wood has rotted

the sails are torn.
age
has stolen her beauty,

the world
knows who she is,

and therein lies
the rage.

to the bottom of the bottom
she goes.

and from the shore
I stand,
I wave.

sometimes, hell no

you reach an age where the word
no

falls easily from your lips.
you stop doing all the things you

never did like doing.

the long conversations
on the phone

end with, I have to go now.

you stop reading a bad book.
a bad poem.

you have no room or patience
for the loud,
the mean,

the obnoxious.
zero tolerance for lying.

or betrayal.

you turn off the news in the middle
of
the end of the world.

you walk out of movies. send plates
of food back to the kitchen.

you leave an apple after one bite,
tossing it towards the can.

you have finally earned the right
to say no,

and sometimes hell no.

letting the green glass fill

I took a green glass

from her house after she had passed.

only 58.
she'd just been born

in some respects,
finding her sea legs on dry
land.

her book ready.
her golf game solid.

all was well.

unloved by few.

but I took the green glass
off the shelf

of what was left over.
her lips
had been on it.

she drank from it's
bottom.

I put it on my sill.
and think of her each time
it rains.

letting it fill.

the slow cook

are we not

so often, the frog slowly
being

boiled
in a pot of
cold water.

it turns warmer
and warmer

without hardly noticing,

before
we're cooked.

bad love can be like that.
you hardly

know
until it's too late
to get out,

tethered

you let go

of the rope. your hands blistered
from holding on so long.

your legs tired
from being braced, gripping
tightly

the twine
that keeps you together.

you let go

with the simple cut of a sharp
knife.

then fall backwards into
the arms
of normal.

as the years pass by
you stare at the scars on your healed
palms

and wonder, and wonder,
what were you

thinking, holding on so long,
why.

a rock in hand

there was always a kid
that wanted

to spear frogs.
or find

a cat to set on fire.
a boy

with crooked teeth
and a black

heart.
firecrackers into bottles.

thieves
for things they didn't
need.

a knife up their sleeve.
a stolen nudie
magazine.

you wonder what became
of them.

the anger, always with
a rock in hand

ready to throw it
through it a window,

then run. where are they
now.

policemen or priests?

between the pages

I see beauty in the rusted
swing

hanging loosely
on one hinge. the blue
steel
of a slide

turned over.
the weeds and grass
waist high.

I see the bend in the rail
of the chain
link fence

the dirt
where the dog ran
all day

in a path. I see the girl
I love

in the window
looking out. I see the beauty
in her

pressed like a flower
in the pages
of my mind.

I still do.

giving her the business

what's the first thing you're
going to do

when the quarantine ends
I ask my

friend Betty over the phone.
she laughs,

sipping her second glass
of wine at nine a.m.

i'm going to find me a big
strong man,
she says.

oh, really, do tell.
and then what.

i'm going to have him come
over here

and give me his business.

oh my. and then what?

he's going to install new windows
into my house

and paint a few rooms.

good, I tell her. I see
you got your loan and your
stimulus check.

in the bank, she says.
in the bank.

make us happy again

three months
go by.
and they call. we're not
happy, they say,

the paper has frayed at the corner
where we bump

into it daily.
we're not small people

and it's hard to carry a plate
of chicken
upstairs

while turning
the corner, balancing
drinks
and desserts on a large

plastic tray.
can you come back and fix
the rips.

paste down the tears,
make it new again?

you should have warned us
that we can't
bump into it everyday,
and it's
up to you

to make it right. make
us happy again
with your tools, your paste,
your knife.

let's get out of here

while the earth

burns
we leave
and go up into space.

more room up there.
no air
no water
no food.

but it's nice
in our cramped metal box
floating

so high above
the atmosphere.

we did such a good job
down
there,

it's time to bring our
selves
to another place

to infect with our
woes,
our careless behavior,
our dark souls,

and fear.

the legion within

he's twenty

maybe.
short haired, white.
blue eyes

carved into wet diamonds.

lean but muscled. his jaw
clenched in

anger as he swears, his arms
swimming forward

towards what?
I see him, or is it them.

it's hard to decide how many
are within.

a legion
perhaps.

this too was the bride.

in our sleep

misery

is part of it. so is
pain,

the shards
of suffering that are
in our

beds.
sleepless in our dreams.

we roll
from side to side
searching

for peace.

while outside there is

the percussion of rain,
the trombone of thunder.

we are mythical.
we are knights.

kings and queens.

we are no one in our sleep.
we are everyone.

that all is well

the eastern sun
in its

rise.
warm and blue against
the sea.

the white brow
of waves breaking.

the line of sand, wide
and unmarked.

gulls in stripes.
ships

in the distance, red
and green
against the horizon

plowing north.
we sit here, early

in our first day to catch
this light.

you'd almost thing the world
was fine,

that all is well.

one more for the road

let's have one more
cup
of coffee before we go.

one more.
before we hit the road.

we've said everything we
need to say.

there's nothing left
to talk about,
so let's just sit here for
awhile

and let the time pass
in quiet

and then we'll go.

one more cup off coffee
then we'll

hit the road.

of a certain age

children

of a certain age, some
at least,

don't know.
not yet.

there is nothing in their
eyes

but now.
there are no yesterdays

no tomorrows.
it's what they can reach,

what they can put
into their mouth.

the arms of a parent.
the cradle,

the musical star above
them

spinning slowly
about.

human nature

I see the protesters
on tv.

it's late. a sunday night.
some seem

to be having a great time.
full of excitement.

I don't get any sense of mourning.

just chaotic
screaming and yelling.

setting things on fire.
cars turned over.

ah, I remember those days.

throwing things.
chanting until hoarse.

will the world change because

of this.
no.

more injustice, more wars,
more
of the same.

that's the answer, and always
has been
and will be.

human nature,
the impossible force.

blue bird on the sill

I see a bluebird
on the sill.

a beauty of a bird.

she peeks in at me
at the keyboard.

wet from the shower.
towel
wrapped around me.

I sip my coffee.
I go back to writing and when

I turn again to
the window

she's gone.
life is like that.