what the heck

there was a woman in the neighborhood

who

was very conscious

of swearing around the children,

instead she'd

say jimminy cricket, or sweet mother

of god,

or kiss my grits.

something to that effect.

most learned from watching

hours and hours of 1970 reruns

on tv.

cheese and crackers she'd yell out

when the dog

ran into the street. or criminy 

when it would start to rain.

what the heck she'd say

when her husband jim would come

home smelling of booze

and floozies with his clothes

on backwards and lipstick

on his collar.

just once i would have loved to hear

her say a real cuss word.

eggs again

it's embarrassing to watch

the cooking

shows on tv

as you sit and eat scrambled

eggs

for the third night in a row

made exotic by the slapping

of a slice

of american

cheese on top, and adding peppers.

these shows can turn tree bark

and grub worms into

french cuisine.

their pbj is not your pbj.

where did they find bread like

that,

jelly and jam from the swiss

alps,

peanut butter smoother

than silk, made from rare

hardwood trees

in africa. maybe tomorrow

you'll try to make something different.

maybe that leg

of lamb wrapped in garlic

cloves

with mint jelly and baby potatoes

as cute as buttons.

the dodo bird

people worry about

animals

going extinct.

turtles and birds,

small insects that will

never be seen again

because of global warming

and pollution,

basically humans

mussing up the whole

thing.

but it's really good that

there aren't any

dinosaurs still roaming

the earth,

traffic is bad enough

on 95 as it is.

who wants a t-rex

straddling the bridge

at rush hour?

start the revolution without me

isn't there anything you

want to get up

and go out and protest

he says,

dismayed that i'm not

joining the current

revolution.

nah. i

did my time back in 

the 60's and early

70's.

but have fun. i have work

tomorrow and i'm so

far behind on Netflix

and Hulu and Prime.

let me know how it all

turns out. don't forget

your helmet, your signs

and your paint guns.

and if you're looting,

pick me up some milk

and bread, if you don't

mind. 2 per cent.

finding room for beauty

i'm waiting on a piece of art

to arrive.

i don't know where i'll hang it.

i just had to have it.

three months later, it's finally on

it's way.

i walk the rooms, the stairway,

the hall

wondering where it might go.

what will come

down to make room.

there are some things in life that

you want

for no other reason than they're

beautiful.

Sheila

i noticed at one of my weddings

being stung

against my face

by a handful of white

rice

flung

from a former flame, by the name

of Sheila.

she had quite the arm.

she almost put my new wife's

eye out

using a whole pound of uncle

Ben's finest

rice.

we had welts all over us.

rice stuck in our ears,

our noses, our eyes.

it took us the whole honeymoon

getting the rice out of our

hair.

she was mad at something.,

i guess,

but i did invite her

to the wedding,

and we had cake, so what's 

the deal, Sheila?

misunderstood

oscar wilde said

that he feared not being misunderstood.

which i adore.

why

be the same,

why be like the herd.

drinking the wine of others.

going along

with

everyone, compromising

with each

unsaid word.

be real or don't be at all.

don't be a bad person

i remember getting a book

for christmas

once from my evangelist brother.

the title was something like don't

waste your life.

which got me wondering.

am i wasting my life?

and does it really matter

in the big scheme of things

if you're a doctor,

or lawyer, 

the president or a bum out

on the corner with a sign

begging for money.

the cemetery is filled with

over achievers

and under achievers alike.

same ending.

six feet under dirt.

a better book would be.

don't be a bad person.

you don't want to be remembered

as being

rich and famous,

reinventing the wheel,

but in the next sentence

referred to as a dick.

(sorry, but i just couldn't think

of a more appropriate word)

insuring the red sauce

my mother was losing it at the end.

she'd repeat the same

questions over and over again.

it was strange and annoying at

first, but then the light went on,

and it was like, oh, oh my. okay.

i get it now. so i let her ask again

how's work, how's the son,

how's someone from twenty 

years ago that i hoped to never

see again.  when the power went

out and her container of red sauce

melted in the ice box, she tried

to have home insurance cover it.

which was interesting.  she was

very disappointed when they said.

no.  before long it was sundown 

all day long. she was slipping further

and further away. and she knew

it.  she said, please whatever you

do, don't put me in a home

if i lose my mind completely.

promise me that. to which we

all did. and was where she died

five years later.

Garden of Steve

God is my gardener

and truthfully i'm not too happy

with his work

lately.

i go out to chop away what He's

grown.

it's a random mess of weeds

and grass,

poison ivy and what not.

He's all about the wind, it seems.

blowing over

seeds

from the field beyond the fence.

sometimes a snake

sneaks

in.

no apples though with which

to hold

and decide upon

with my current Eve.

the real you

if you want to truly know who

someone is

all you have to do is look into

their phone

or their medicine cabinet.

therein lies

the true self, the false self.

all that they are

or pretend to be.

if you want to be with me.

show me your phone

and open the mirrored door

to your pharmacy.

that's all.

the annual pool party

their pool would fill with frogs

each spring.

tadpoles.

most would die and float

to the top.

they'd skim them out

with long nets on poles,

stretching

their old arms

out across the unclear pond

bricked in.

they'd send a picture of the pool

once filled

and cleaned,

the old motor churning, as

a plume

of black smoke floated towards

a suburban sky.

the leaves of winter gone.

the mildew

and algae scrubbed away.

the remnants of passing geese

scraped

off the walk way.

then the invitation would come.

for the memorial day cookout.

bring what you want

to eat,

and drink

have fun.

the devil in need

beware of those

who go to church and tell you about it.

those with rosary beads

hanging from

the rearview mirror.

those that donate publicly.

a crucifix the size of a spatula

hanging around

their neck.

beware

of those who pray over their

meals

so that others can see.

even the devil

quotes from the bible

when he's

in need.

the unloved

the unloved

are on the street.

in the tunnels, beneath

the bridges

in the fist of trees,

curled

against a fire.

the unloved

are everywhere, some

next door.

others

in the office.

on the train

in the seat beside you.

even you

qualify at times,

lying

next to someone who

has your name.

the promise of more

it's the small wonders

that

we adore.

the rise

of light against the pale

blue

of night.

the flower

wet

in the garden after

rain.

the bark

of a dog, the cry of a child

in a mother's arms.

the sound

of thunder,

the touch of a hand

against

your brow.

a kiss upon the lips

with the promise

of more.

what are you doing in there?

sometimes you wake up,

look in the mirror

and say, what hell.

where did you go?

and so quickly.

i rub the top of my head

it's smooth and bristly 

at the same time.

when i had hair

it was thick and wild.

i'd shampoo and blow

dry it for about an hour

trying 

to achieve that bobby sherman

look.

don't ask who he is, please.

i went to hair stylists.

i did the punk thing, ala billy idol

the long haired

thing, not unlike james

taylor.

the buzz cut.  clint eastwood.

i've had all three hair styles

of the three stooges

at one point or another.

not to mention theodore cleaver.

as a kid i never left the house

without a little black

comb.

my hair was held together

with brylcreme and other

long ago products.

gluing down the cowlick.

a nice part on

the side.  a little slap of

my father's old spice

on the peach fuzz cheeks.

i did the elvis style for a while.

pulling a little strand down in

the center wave.

I put my collar up and would sing

viva las vegas in the mirror

unitl my mother banged on the door.

saying hey, are you almost done

in there?  what are you doing.

there's a line out the door here.

how to lose weight

i've tried every diet under the sun

in an attempt

to lose a few pounds.

no meat,

only meat.

no sugar, no processed foods.

nothing out of a bag

or box.

fish and vegetables.

no bread.

a lot of  bread.

the paleo diet,

the Mediterranean diet.

the liquid diet.

the solid food diet.

i was on Jenny Craig

more times than

Mr. Craig.

the Atkins diet.  i joined

the metrical for lunch bunch.

i did yoga, i ran, i walked.

i drank water

until it was coming out of

my ears.

i lifted weights. i rowed, 

i bought a treadmill.

i joined fitness centers.

i ate tofu

and drank soy milk.

nothing worked for every long.

the only thing that seemed to work

was to stop eating.

and the only way to achieve

that was to go through

a horrific relationship breakup.

so that's my plan. fall in love.

break up.

poof goes ten or twenty pounds.

the big kitchen drawer

i stare into the abyss of my

heavy

kitchen drawer

that holds a lot of mysterious

gizmos. 

when was the last time i used

a meat thermometer,

or baked cookies

in the shape of a christmas tree

or a snow flake.

who brought that serrated knife

into the house.

i could butcher a small

hog with it.

those long metal needles, what

the hell.

six spatulas, two turkey basters,

three wine bottle openers,

nineteen corks, thirty seven

rubber bands and twelve metal

twist its, or

whatever they're called.

extra large spoons.

extra large forks.

metal things, rubber things.

purple, red, black.

sharp knives that glisten in

the over head light.

old table knives and forks. tongs

of every size.

i'm afraid to stick my hand in.

the right and the left

my friend and his wife

are radical

left.  free money for

everyone.

another friend leans

right.  guns and more guns,

it's their

God given right.

it's a mess.

to riot or not to riot

that is the question.

march and scream and holler,

set fire

to the world,

but who's at home walking

the dog

watering the plants?

we'll leave this country

and go

live somewhere else,

they claim. but after the votes

are counted,

they're all still here.

standing in line

to once again voice their

uncompromising opinions

and complain.

smarty pants

i used to know

math.

a lot of math having taken

calculus

and analysis

trigonometry

and

algebra two, or three.

but now

i look at  a column of numbers

and get the calculator

out.

bread, milk, rent, gas,

electric, insurance, miscellaneous,

etc.

sine and cosine,

the square roots of anything,

and quadratic equations are distant

memories now

as are the kids

with thick glasses

and slide rules, pocket

protectors,

all to the likes of MIT, 

not community

college bound.

in the early morning rain

the troubadour was young

once,

strong

on the stage, guitar.

his beard, his blonde hair.

his voice a sweet roar

of masculinity, singing about

love lost,

love won in the early morning

rain.

she's beautiful,

if you could read my

mind.

and now.

i see him, a shell of self.

aged near 80, still singing.

but he's gone. gone too soon,

like we all are.

still

wanting,

still seeking love. still on

stage,

guitar in hand.

searching for the words

to make life right.

small tragedies

there are tragedies

such as death

or fires,

flooding perhaps.

the market tumbles

and then

there are small ones.

the loss

of a wallet,

a purse,

a shoelace snaps.

a spilled drink upon your

clean

white

shirt.

a lipstick smudge

you forgot

about, then paid

a price

when it wasn't the first.

out of range, out of sight

it's a jet plane

that

takes me away from you.

a train,

a bus.

it's anything on wheels

or in the air.

i can't get away

fast enough.

to the moon i'd go 

to escape your presence.

to get out of range

of who you are.

no air,

no water, no life,

no problem.

a thousand miles is 

just a start

as i take another foot

forward.

the divorce lawyer

i see my divorce lawyer 

at the supermarket.

i've never seen anyone so happy.

so chipper

and full of life.

she's wearing a silky

yellow dress

with a pillbox hat.

her cart is full of lobster

and caviar.

filet mignon. wine from

the south of France.

hey, i say to her, putting a jar

of Jiffy peanut butter into my cart

alongside a box of popcorn

and a can of Spam.

how are you, she asks. 

all well? done with therapy?

did your wrists heal up okay?

yeah, yeah. great great.

i hold up my arms to show

her the scars.

and how are you? i ask.

oh me, business is booming on

account of the virus lockdown,

not to mention same sex marriages

are legal now.

I just bought a boat and a new

car. always wanted a

Lamborghini. looking at property

in the Hamptons.

so what about you? getting 

married again, i hope.

back on the dating sites?

that's funny, very funny. 

so funny i forgot to laugh.

but good to see you.

i need to get some bread.

which way is the day old?

no idea, she says. toodle loo.

have to run, have reservations

at the Palm tonight, new client.

don't give up on finding that new

love again, she says, throwing

a slab of Chilean sea bass into her cart.

the long two weeks

i remember

my father's mother, Nellie,

sitting

at the kitchen

table

doing her nails, smoking a

cigarette

and drinking a cup

of coffee.

a plate of cinnamon

toast in front of her.

a pile of thin blonde

hair, like meringue,

sat upon her head.

she had thick glasses

with

pearls stuck along

the frame.

they reminded me of seashells,

and her

some sort of shellfish

washed up

from the sea.

she smelled like the sea.

she hated the kennedys,

rich bastards,

she'd say, teaching us

a new word

as we sat with her, 

painting by numbers geese

and sunsets.

things she bought to keep

us busy while

my mother was in the hospital

recovering from child 7.

she'd make

us kneel in front of the tv

when billy graham

came on, and offer ourselves

up to jesus.

touch the screen, touch the screen

she'd yell,

you never know when lightning

is going to strike,

she said and snatch

your little life right out from

under you.

it was a long two weeks.

giddy up

i tie my horse up,

knock the dust

off of shoulders

with my hat

and go in for a beer.

i've been riding the range all

day,

rounding up

cattle, fighting off indians.

i pull an arrow out

of my arm

and tie a bandana

around the wound.

i should go home

to be with

the kids, the wife,

have dinner and watch

tv.

but i need a drink.

i need

to see some dancing

girls,

and talk with the boys.

the family will have

to wait. it's the cowboy

way.

the censor

when the censor was

here

she'd cut and slash, blue line

each letter

each word.

she'd edit the hell

out of a poem.

shaking her head, asking

me if i was

disturbed.

why would you write

something like

that.

why don't you hide 

your true feelings

and lie

to the world

like i do.

life is so much simpler

when you do that.

just say no

if someone said

to you, when you were

young and compromising,

polite,

can i show you my stamp collection?

you didn't roll your eyes, or look at

your watch, and say,

sorry, but i don't have the time,

but instead said,

of course.

i'd love to see your stamp collection,

where is it?  i just love

stamps.

or if they'd ask you, would you like

to hold my baby 

before i change him?

you didn't say, no way, 

what

are you crazy, instead you said

with a smile,

sure. why not? 

who doesn't like a baby

in a diaper?

it's what we did to get along

when we were young.

but not anymore

four white russians and a half a dozen shrimp cocktails

i mixed up a cold

batch of white russians

one night.

and dimmed the lights.

put on some

al green

and we made out on the couch

until our

lips hurt and our

pelvis were

chaffed.

she was drinking too fast,

one after another

and eating shrimp on top of that.

she asked me if the room

always spins like this,

then she got up and went into

the bathroom

were she lay there for a few

hours moaning.

i tried to open

the door, but the weight

of her

lying on the floor was

too much.

are you okay, i asked her?

are you coming back

out, or do you need a  pillow

and a blanket?

she said, i can't hear the music,

can you turn it up

a little. so i did.

eventually she came out,

and i helped her

up the stairs to the guest

room,

then blocked the stairs

in case she

woke up and tumbled down.

the next morning, she staggered

out without a sound.

leaving a note, asking why

i poisoned her.

sometimes things just don't

work out.

parlez vous

i wish i knew another language.

high school french

and a small sprinkling of spanish

won't do.

i can throw out a word

or two, such as

basura,

or casa, or baquette,

brioche or

comment tally vous,

but that's about it.

je ne sais pas, for the most

part.

une petite parlez vous.

the lifting of spirit

you know

when you know

the kind

heart.

it's an aura of light.

a lifting

of spirit

when with them.

a feeling

that

everything will

be alright.

savor

this soul, hold

her close.

but in fairness

to her,

not too tight.

bad apple

the apple

in hand catches the light.

the sheen

the shine, the glow,

it's weight

is

fine.

it's stem

just right.

all is well, all is

perfect,

until you take

a bite. there's always

another side,

browned and bruised

with a worm inside.

the pill box

some are always ill.

genetics,

environment,

disposition, bad luck,

perhaps,

but always

with the pills,

the heating pad,

the ice

applied to wherever

pain occurs.

some are always ill.

they like it that way.

gives them reason

in how they go about

their day.

you see them twenty

years later,

and they tell you,

oh that cleared

up,

but now

i have this. i'm seeing

my doctor later

on today.

staying put in bad weather

i understand why some stay

behind

when the hurricane

approaches.

the wind, the rain, the floods

rising

taking everything

in sight.

i understand the hunker

down

mentality,

hoping for the best, hoping

it blows

away, takes a different

direction

before it kills us.

i get the cold, the power out,

the lightning strikes,

the rattle of the roof.

i understand completely

why people stay.

i was married once upon

a time too,

to bad weather.

cleveland

would i have been happier

if i stayed

in cleveland

she says

to no one

in her cramped

apartment

in the city,

getting dressed for work.

the heat of the day

already

upon her. 

pearls of perspiration

on her unmade

face,

the rattle of the window

unit

doing little but to blow

a luke warm

breeze

upon her legs.

does he think about me?

is this

all a mistake.

meeting at the lake

we used to meet

beside

the lake.

under the canopy of green.

the sun bristling

white

upon the water.

where the boats would

glide by

with hardly a splash.

the oars

bending softly

side to side.

we'd watch.

we'd hold hands.

but there was no talk about

tomorrow.

or the future.

we knew

without saying a word,

that this love would never

last.

we need to know

is there

comfort in not knowing?

being

in the dark.

is there really bliss

in ignorance?

perhaps.

for it seems what good

is there to know

so much

is wrong, when there are

no options

to change

the world we live in.

and yet still.

we need

to know.

when she was blue

she loved blue.

the drapes were blue

like the carolina sky.

the carpet.

the bedspread

on each

single bed

two feet apart.

the porcelain lamp

with a wide brim shade.

blue

not unlike a robin's egg.

the big chair where her

husband sat

when he was alive.

his eyes were blue.

blue was everywhere.

the flowers,

the suit he was buried in.

his favorite shoes, 

suede,

were blue too.

the good times

i call up my friend Betty

and 

tell her

we need some fun.

she's been down in the dumps

lately because her

husband left her

and her dog died,

and the virus lockdown

and she lost her job

and she's got a rash

on her arm.

she says, we?

yes. me and you. let's

do something fun

today.

like what, she says.

i don't know.

do you have any ideas?

nope, she says.

i hear her light up

a cigarette and pop

a can of beer.

it's only nine in the morning,

are you drinking already.

yup.

she says. you got  a problem

with that?

i'm having fun starting

right now. 

let's get out

in the sun. it's going

to be a beautiful day.

take a walk around the lake.

throw bread to the ducks.

nah, she says.

the sun bothers me, and i really

don't like nature.

ducks are scary and

they look like they could

turn on you any minute.

come on, i'll pick you up

in an hour.

there's a long a pause, then she

says.

maybe i can get this tattoo

off my arm today.

i don't think he's coming back.

the Bridal Shoppe

as i drive by the Bridal Shoppe

i see a gaggle of young

women

waiting for the doors to open.

it's early in the day.

i slam on my brakes and yell

out to them.

stop, don't do it, think this over.

i say.

they wave at me with one finger.

which is so rude

this early in the day.

i'm trying to help, but no, they'll

have to figure it out on their

own. i guess as i shake my head

and drive away.

the welcome wagon

there used to be a time

when

you moved into a new neighborhood

people would

cook

big trays of food,

or carry over things

in a large bowls

to welcome you.

maybe a tray of brownies,

or a sheet

cake with the words

welcome

written on top of the smooth

icing.

the wife and husband

would

knock at the door

holding a pot roast

and a bouquet 

of  flowers. maybe a dog

on a leash,

happy and wagging

it's tail.

he's harmless they'd say,

as the dog licked your

leg.

i'm still waiting

fifteen years later. instead

i get a note pinned to the door

saying how i

put the trash out too early

in the day.

she would have been a good woman

she would have

been a good woman had

someone

held a gun to her head,

the misfit

said in the story by 

flannery o'connor,

a good man is hard to find.

but it still holds

true today.

although, much too violent

of an image

for this peaceful

day and age.

we play along

the good ear

hears what it wants to hear

when it

wants to hear.

the eyes

work

the same way. blind

to some things

and crystal

sharp on others.

we are selective

with what

we absorb,

good or bad.

right or wrong. our

minds are already made

up for the most

part, but we've learned

to be polite,

and play along.

the north end

the view from here is fine.

i've

had better views of the shore

and worse, but

this will do.

the north end of the hotel.

i can see

the sun rise.

i can see the swimmers

out 

early in the cold sea.

i can see the blue ships,

red striped,

plowing forward

towards some far away

port.

the sand is golden, stretched

out

like a sheet

on a well made bed.

everything is different,

nothing changes.

the welcoming tuna cassserole

i think my neighbor

might be a russian spy.

she's always wearing her sunglasses

and a black

leather coat, 

fit for siberia,

not the summer weather here

in washington.

i say hello to her

and she ignores me.

she's always talking on her phone,

which has as very large antennae,

saying loudly.

nyet. nyet.

death to those who defy me,

things like

that.

i made her a tuna casserole

when she moved

into

the neighborhood

and i never go the dish back.

so i'm

a little upstet

over that.

the cheese man

she tells me 

she has a zoom

date

with a man

in wisconsin.

he works in a cheese

factory

and is sending her a sample

tin

with crackers

and pepper jelly.

cold cuts.

how can i compete with

that,

i tell her.

best of luck.

bats in the belfrey

when the bat

flew into her house, she was

on the phone with me,

our first phone call

as we began to know

one another.

she screamed

and grabbed

a broom. i told her

to open the doors,

maybe it will fly out.

but what if more bats

fly in, she said.

or other animals come

strolling into the house.

i live in the woods,

by the water.

snakes are everywhere.

fox and deer,

possum and skunks.

i should have taken

the call

as a warning, but i stuck

it out,

as i usually do. that one

bat

was a clue.

the green sweater blush

my mother would

take us

to Sears

or Pennys for back to school

shopping.

after

the notebooks, and pencils

were bought,

we were allowed

one new piece of clothing.

i picked out a pale

green sweater

the color of celery that i

fell in love with the moment

it hit my eye.

it was on a hanger, which

made it

even more valuable.

not in a stack with the common

colors of red, blue

or black.

i wore

it on the first day of class.

english

with mr. stringer, the drama

teacher, no less.

we went around the room

introducing ourselves

and when he came to me

he loudly pointed out to the class

that we are living in a different

world now.

the age of aquarius, or some

b s like that.

a young man  would

never ever wear

something like that

in years past. bravo my boy.

bravo

and then he clapped and they

all clapped.

the horror.

waiting on water to boil

the man

in the yard, the long stretch

of thick

grass,

is bent to it.

hunch over,

his knees in the soft dirt.

his hands

busy

with weeds

and seed.

twisting

a fence to keep the rabbits

out.

he's not much

older than me.

which

is a concern

as i watch him through

the window,

waiting on water

to boil

for tea.

to end to end to end

i look back

on how she curled herself into

a tight

ball

in the corner

of an unlit room.

was it raining?

i'm not sure, but it would

seem

right.

her mascara

cascading down her hollow

cheeks,

her boned

face carved like ivory

in the pale

slant

of hall light.

the tears cold with fear.

i remember how

she looked

up at me from a strange place,

a hell

i've never known

and said the words

that

she wanted to leave the world,

leave

everything

to end to end to end.

only this could make it right.

of most importance

what is of most importance

cannot

be held,

or touched

there is no weight

to it

or smell

it cannot be pushed

into

your life,

delivered to your

doorstep.

there is no movie

that holds

it, no book

written in the dead

of night.

what is of most importance

cannot be taught.

not in schools

or churches.

it's beyond all that.

only living

will show you

what's real and true,

what can't be bought.

online therapy

curious about the online therapy

site

i give it a shot.

my therapist, marilyn  and i have

a nice

preliminary chat.

i give her my current

state of mind.

half crazy, half not crazy,

and she reassures me that

in about nineteen sessions

i will be fine.

i give up my credit card number,

with fingers crossed.

and settle in to the first session

after fixing a dry martini

and putting on my silky

black pajamas. comfort is my

thing, i tell her, as we zoom,

face to face.

i dim the lights and put

some music on. a little marvin

gaye to set the mood.

the first thing she says 

to me, is

you know this isn't a dating site,

don't you?

we're not on a date. i'm

actually a trained and certified

therapist, here to help you.

to which i wink and say to

her, sipping on my drink.

if you were a tree, what kind

of tree would you be?

ghostly apparitions

there are ghosts.

some alive,

most dead, at least in the physical 

sense.

some live

a few miles a way.

some

live

in your head.

but they are out there.

cold

apparitions.

dragging chains,

and memories

with them.

poltergeists

from a time you'd

best

forget.

warm bread

warm bread

baked

fresh from the oven

fills

you with some sort of

new hope.

that

there is still time

for things

yet done.

you slice it down,

and with

butter

and jam, you spread

it gently

on one side,

tenderly as if it

in love.

the awful tick of the clock

the awful

tick of the clock

rings

into the ears of the once

beautiful.

the aging

prince or princess

and his

or her

love of mirrors. but

slowly

feels quickly now,

now that

time has swallowed

youth

and health.

the dim light is fine.

the darkness

even better.

they cower in the shadows.

no longer

the light

of the party. avoiding

light

altogether.

and there's the awful

tick of the clock

that never

stops until they do.

red and white

we know they're in there.

these cells.

they are always up to something.

living and dying

in their own

microscopic world.

red and white.

they never sleep.

they keep going, keeping

up the good fight

for as long as they can.

when i was younger

when i was younger

i would do anything for love,

or the mirage

of love.

i'd cut my hair, part it on the other side,

wear the shoes

she preferred,

put on a shirt that i never

cared for.

i'd read

what she wanted me to read.

i'd move to  a different house.

i'd bend.

i'd eat yogurt,

i'd be quiet as a mouse,

and god forbid look

at another woman walking

by.

i'd open doors and send flowers

when it was time

to apologize

for things that had no end.

when i was younger,

i wanted love

or what i thought was love,

to last.

and now.

well. it's different.

i have found my true self.

true love is nothing like

what i thought it was.

i was on the wrong path.

wild life

you see the flicker 

and glassy

flash

of eyes,

in the woods, as you pass by.

your beam

of headlights

swinging onto their hunched

bodies.

waiting on the sides

of roads,

patient for

the sun to depart,

for the moons light

to unfold.

slowly they crawl

forward from

the thickets

and brush,

out from the hollows,

from the hills

and trees.

wild life.

wild life.

the foreclosed soul

i underestimated you.

there was less

of you

than i imagined.

your dull 

words, your tasteless kiss.

your ghostly shadow

cold to touch.

there was no

substance, there was

no one home,

not a flicker

of light in any window

of your broken

and foreclosed

soul.

the silent heart

you will not hear me open it.

there will

be no crackling

or rip

of paper, no envelope

torn

apart at the seal.

you will not hear the click

or turn

of knob,

the key in the lock

making

it's metallic kiss

on metal.

you will not hear the box

unfolded,

or the can

cranked open, no drawers

pulled,

no tin box revealed.

no safe

door will swing clear.

no, you will not hear my

heart

open up again to you.

never, i promise you this.

my dear.

popping the bubbles

she used

to chew gum when she made

love.

she said it took the edge off.

made

her less nervous.

she had four

kids that she knew of.

so i didn't quite

get what the deal was

with the gum.

this was not her first rodeo

when it came

to getting busy.

i went with it though,

gave her a break on 

the gum,

even keeping a pack

of double bubble

on the night stand

next to our glasses

of wine

and lit candles,

but i have to admit the

snapping and popping bubbles

in my ears

did get on my nerves

at times.

yes, she's gone

i read about sylvia.

how she put her head in a oven

after

rolling towels

and blocking

the doors to where

her children slept.

keat's oven

no less.

she set glasses of milk

out for them

for when the day nurse

arrived,

then she turned on the gas.

without a flame,

there would be

no mistake this time.

this time her husband with

his new

love would

not have to ask.

love being the least of it

the spare tire

is not really a tire.

this steak

is not really a steak.

this drink

is warm.

the shrimp are soft

and mushy.

this moon is not quite full.

i'm dissatisfied

with

so many things.

i've been taken for a fool.

love being

the least of it.

the cat and mouse

occasionally

a side of you comes out

that you're not proud of.

it's this

sarcastic passive aggressive

side

that you use when

someone gets under your skin,

one of those

know it alls,

someone who

thinks they're all that

and a bag of chips,

(is that saying still in?)

the adult way to deal

with these people

would be to just go no

contact, or say nothing and

be on your way.

but noooo. i have to sling

some arrows.

make sly

comments that can be taken

any which way.

double entendre,

clever

stabs at an easy prey.

i feel like a cat playing with

a mouse after awhile

and the fun gets old,

so i finally stop. i'm not

happy about that side

of me, it's very juvenile,

and sick on some level,

but honest. really, truly,

i'm working on it, despite

today.

muzak to my ears

one lamp arrives.

it's sitting on the porch

when i get

home.

a single solitary box

sitting in the sun.

where's the other three

boxes with the other

lamps,

and the art work?

why do they sell things

they don't have, or

it takes months and months

to send?

i want to ask this of 

customer service person, 

but i

can only be on hold

for three hours

and then i have to go

somewhere.

give me a reason

the smoke alarm

beeps

in the middle of the night.

starling me awake

with

that annoying

shriek.

i begin

my search with a baseball

bat in hand.

which one of the four

is it?

i walk the steps,

down to the basement,

whispering,

okay, i know you're

in here.

come on, come on, beep.

show me your blinking red

eye.

give me a just one

more little beep. that's all

i need.

give me a reason.

the good news

i post pone the marriage.

i can see

already

how this is going to go.

there's too much baggage,

not enough

water has gone under

the bridge.

too much looking

in the rearview

mirror.

husbands and boyfriends

are still

trying to get into her pants.

i cancel the cake, which

is tragic,

i rip up the invitations.

i call the minister

and tell him the good news.

the apple

he studies the apple,

turning

it over

in his old hand.

his sweater

on his wrist, the hat

shading

his eyes

from the florescent

sky.

he spins the green

apple, 

a world onto itself,

holds it to the light

and then

decides.

he puts it back onto

the stack

and moves

to the oranges on

the other side.

most people

most people

go about their lives in quiet.

work

and family.

perhaps to church

to market.

raising families,

or living out their days alone.

but they are quiet.

not simple souls.

agreeing to disagree

as the world

around them burns

and implodes.

leaving town for a few days

i like when people say,

i'm going out of town for 

a few days.

first of all, i like

the idea

that we are in a town.

how nice, how quaint

a small town is.

and that luggage needs

to be packed.

the house locked up.

the dog cared

for.

perhaps  a note left for the milkman

to withhold deliveries.

a yellow cab

pulling up, idling beneath

a maple tree.

i imagine the destinations

they are going to.

what island?

what far away land.

is it Paris, is it Rome, where

will they fly off to

when leaving town

for a few days.

i want to ask, is it business

or pleasure, or both?

a part of me wants to go too.

a thousand good days

we can live

a thousand good days,

but the one

dark

day that happened

is the one you remember

over and over

again.

it will ruin that string

of bliss

quite easily.

it's that day that you focus

on.

the pain

or betrayal, the lie,

the sting.

you rub the spot where

the arrow

went in.

the human condition

we all ache.

it's the human condition.

there's a knee

gone

sour.

a back unhinged.

an ear

ringing.

a heart blistered

from love,

singed.

we all have issues.

a limp,

a blur,

a muted listen.

our heavy tongues

are tired from wagging,

our will

to live

sags, but we go on.

we toss

and unturn, we rise

once more

to face

the day, to stand in

line

where we're told,

awaiting our turn,

our fate.

oh holy night

do i really want this circular ring

of christmas lights

sitting in the basement.

a maze of wired connections

and aluminum pipes,

along with the box,

the fifty foot cord and the other

strands of white lights,

(oh, they look like stars!)

that once went around

the fence along with three

hundred pieces of plastic

green garland.

all of which screams 

nothing to do with the holiday

season or the birth of baby

Jesus, savior of the world.

how did i buy into this?

well, it wasn't me, but the previous

tenant i was once related to

by the instrument of marriage

that bought this commercialized

junk.

so the answer is no.

i don't want it.

i carry it out with glee

to the trash pile on the curb,

not unlike how the elves feel

as they stuff the sled on

christmas eve.

i ain't that lonely yet

i miss my dog.

a little.

not a lot. but he did have a way

of vacuuming

the rug,

the floor, the bed

from crumbs, and chips,

what nots.

the walking was tedious.

picking up

after him.

it was like walking a trout

on dry

land.

the barking.

the fleas.

sometimes he'd fetch

the ball,

and other times he wouldn't.

the vet bills were

killing me, as i took him

time and time again

to the doggie mayo clinic

to have his stomach

pumped from gnawing

on dead

birds, or things.

i miss my dog.

but i ain't that lonely yet.

Is It Over Yet?

i fall

asleep in front of the tv.

as the speakers drone on

about

all the wonderful things that are

going to happen

in november

if the right person wins.

future faking for a vote.

my friend

on our zoom chat,

is all dressed up in an american

flag.

his hand on his

chest.

saluting, with a beer in one hand,

a ham

sandwich in the other.

i open

my eyes, and say,

is it over yet?

good luck with that

good luck with that

she says

when i tell her i'm bored

and need

fun.

she thinks i mean sex,

which i don't,

although, that could be

included

on the list

of things titled fun.

good luck with that she

says,

dismissive, not letting

me finish.

throwing me onto

the heap where all

her past lovers have gone.

which is fine.

because i'm done.

where did he go?

he was a rebel

for quite a while, many years.

never

bright with school

or work,

his hands were his

tools,

his glib manner,

his

way of mixing drinks,

of finding

home

at the end of any bar,

on a stool,

or behind it.

and then he married.

and suddenly

he was

in an apron,

his hair cut short.

mowing the lawn

and walking dogs.

a grandchild on his lap.

saying words that she

preferred.

thinking her thoughts,

quiet, as if

he wasn't there.

his teeth repaired.

a clean shirt,

his shoes shined.

he became who she was,

my friend

had disappeared.

walking by St. Elizabeths

for some reason 

i remember how

green

the grass was behind the bars.

the frightening blue

of sky.

the clarity of that memory

surprises me, even now. it may

have been 1964 or 5.

the wide manicured

field, a pasture

of grass and trees

that lay before the red bricks

that held

the insane

inside.

a place where one would expect

to see horses,

or languid cows.

and those that were allowed

to wander

the yards, they looked

strangely no different

than you

or i.

but there they were, captured

for reasons

beyond 

our reasoning.

trapped inside. it's where

they kept

Ezra Pound for some time.

and yet

never stilling his pen,

never

fixing, thank God,

his brilliant mind.

why is this door locked

as a child

for hours i could sit in the dark

on my rocking

horse

and kill indians

and bank robbers

bad

guys.

two guns

in my holster.

my imagination

running wild

with adventure.

springing along

on my

horse.

caps going off,

as i yelped and hollered,

slapping my

had against my stallion.

my mother

banging on

the door, jiggling the knob,

asking what's

going in there.

dinner's ready, why is

this door locked.

she had no

idea i was about to rescue

the beautiful

girl in distress,

tied to the railroad

tracks

and what was to follow

next.

ten more minutes, i'd

yell out,

then gallop on.

nine cats

the cat

is a pure narcissist.

aloof.

self absorbed.

there is no pretense.

she really doesn't care,

it's not a game,

not a fake personae,

it's natural.

without empathy, or

understanding of your

needs,

your cares.

i'm tired of cats.

exhausted and bewildered

from the nine

i've had

throughout the years.

leave me alone

some days you're in a don't bother

me mood.

leave me alone.

don't call, don't knock on my

door,

don't phone.

please,

don't bug me. i'm

not in the mood.

some days, you just want

to stay in,

be quiet.

retreat and be a recluse.

find solitude and peace

in your man

made

cocoon.

what's in a name?

it's rare to meet a mildred these days,

i'd always expect an

apple pie of her,

or a marge,

or betty lou, hazel?

or ginny. hardly ever

do you hear the name 

ethel anymore, or

violet.

veronica is rare as well.

i see veronica working at

the drugstore counter

waiting to be discovered.

mimi doesn't come

up much either.

jane is a gem, i wished

there more janes.

not to mention

penelope.

always in a yellow chiffon

dress with

pigtails and a sly grin.

finding motivation

i can

swim, but not very far.

i can make it from one side

of the pool

to the other.

i have a strange stroke,

with rapid

kicking,

but

prefer to do my swimming

underwater.

i can hold my breath for

what seems like forever.

which is maybe two minutes.

if you're on the other

side of the pool, waiting

with open arm

and puckered lips,

i can swim

faster.

like so much in life i need

motivation

to get me where i need to go.

meeting mimi

i bump my cart

into another cart at the grocery store,

trying

to start up a conversation

with a nurse

in pale blue

with a name tag

reading mimi.

she has long red hair,

a stethoscope

around her slender

neck. she's

beautiful.

i look at her cart.

it's a lot like mine.

one tomato,

one onion.

one piece of salmon.

a potato, a dark chocolate

bar with almonds,

red wine.

we have so much in common.

but she doesn't

like that i've

crashed my cart into hers.

and screams.

i may have broken

an egg in her organic brown

carton.

i see the yellow drips

falling to the floor.

security comes.

they take me away.

dragging me out,

i look back at her

longingly,

mouthing the words

sorry. sorry. the second

date will be better, i promise.

finding new love

is not what it used

to be.

new love and old love

we think of new love

as something for the young.

those that

are not quite stuck in their ways,

willing

to compromise for the sake

of another.

but i say no.

hell no.

true about the compromise,

change, etc.

but bring love

on.

bring it in droves, in baskets

and barrels,

bushels.

love is even better

once

wisdom has captured

our soul.

the absence of others

i notice

that the man next door has been

gone

for several weeks.

his car no longer 

in the space where it

once was.

the grass in the yard

is tall.

weeds are everywhere.

but

the woman,

his wife,

seems jubilant.

she's wearing new dresses

and tights.

heels

and lipstick.

her eyes are bright.

she even smiled

at me

the other day

for the first time

in years.

we love you

the maid texts and says 

8 30.

i tell her i've already changed

the sheets

took the trash out

and vacuumed in preparation

for her 

return.

the money is on the counter,

the key

under the mat.

i tell her to help herself

to the sandwiches i made

for her

and her crew.

there's tea and coffee,

fresh juice.

she writes back, thank you.

you're such a hard

man

to work for. 

we love your house and

working

for you.

the umbrella

the wind

takes the umbrella for a ride.

it floats

and tumbles,

a red

stretched rose

aloft

in the grey

sky.

it's a beautiful sight.

and as the rain

comes down

with your wet face

smiling,

you realize that

there's beauty

in nearly everything.

it almost makes you

believe in

love again, at least

enough to try.

beware of good people

beware of those

on their knees praying publicly.

the preachers.

the hunger artists,

the environmentalists,

the extremists.

beware of those that claim

to be sinless.

they have the most to hide.

beware of those who say

they know the truth.

they are liars.

they are trying to bend the

world

in their direction.

beware of hunters,

vegetarians,

beware

of pretty women, of powerful

men.

it's all in the game.

stay clear

and muffle your hears,

narrow your eyes,

go your own way.

find your own peace.

they can't help you, you will

only be led

astray.

as the days roll by without us

we wait,

and wait, and wait.

we are all waiting for 

Godot.

tapping our foot, drumming

our fingers.

sipping drinks,

smoking slowly, blowing

warm

grey smoke 

towards the ceiling.

we are

looking out the window.

listening.

when

when will our ship come in.

the right job,

the right house, the next

love of

our life.

when will fear and loneliness

end. boredom subside.

when will joy begin?

we wait, we wait, we wait

as the days roll by without

us.

unconditional love

she says i want to find someone

that loves

me unconditionally,

like my married boyfriend,

or my ex husband,

someone

that will always love

me and never

leave me, no matter what i do.

no matter how mentally

ill i become.

if i lie and cheat,

betray

and gaslight, have them walking

on eggshells

and miserable all the time,

i want them

to stay with me, to accept

me for who i really am,

a giant cup of crazy,

not the person i'm pretending

to be to the outside world.

i want a man like that.

a blind, deaf, mute, stupid man

with no chance of finding

someone else. that to me

is true love without conditions.

that is my dream boat, the true

love of my life.

the casio piano

it's rare, but on occasion

you have

to take out your anger and frustration

by smashing something.

that has symbolic meaning,

breaking it in two,

jumping up and down

on it or

taking an axe to a tree

and chopping away

until it falls.

it feels good to release

all that pent up fury.

then, you go get lunch

and have a nice

day.

where can i read your stuff

where can i read your stuff,

she asks

me

over a lobster dinner.

her fingers are dripping with

butter

and she has the onion ring

basket

pulled up close to her dish.

we should get more beer,

she says,

and corn on the cob,

are you going to finish yours?

i love poetry she says.

spinning the cob around in her teeth

like a machine

Eli Whitney would be proud

of.

my mother used to read me

poetry when i was little.

Do you like Dr. Suess or more

darker stuff

like Tupac?

cause of death

did you see, she  says to me

while turning over 

a page of the paper, did you see

that so and so died.

again? I say, sipping my coffee.

i didn't know he was still alive.

she peers over the top of the paper

then goes back to reading it

out loud.  

cause of death, undetermined,

but no foul play suspected.

i don't like obits without a reason

for death.

for some reason i need to know

how people die, so that i can

put that on the list of things

to avoid.

he was in show business for 60

years, she reads.

comedian, actor, writer.

married six times.

okay.

now i got it, i tell her. 

got what?

the cause of death.

that's not funny, she says to me.

putting the paper down.

well, neither was he the last

40 years.

strangers love me

i like strangers better than

people

that i know, that know me,

she says.

adjusting her bent tiara,

her crooked smile.

strangers have no idea

how fake i am, how lost

i am, that nearly every thing

i say or do is manipulation, a lie

on top of a lie.

i like strangers, she says,

they see the good in me,

when there is none.

but once they do, i'm out

out of there, as you well

know. i'm done.

the cold furnace

hate takes up a lot of energy.

resentment.

ruminations.

it's a furnace fed by memory.

at some

point you shut it down.

go cold.

go numb.

let the wind run it's wintry

hands up

your sleeves,

your shirt, your pant legs.

you have to let the snow

bite

you, the ice sting.

you have to embrace 

the loneliness

and fear.

you have to feast on the love

of self

and get free from what was.

the fuckery of others.

who cares

i remember

trying to convince people

how smart i was,

covered in dirt and grime,

paint

and debris,

knuckles bleeding

from a day of blue collar work.

i'd tell them

about college,

the office job,

brothers and sisters

who achieved.

the poems and stories

published.

don't judge me by the dirt

under my nails,

the torn shirt,

the grizzled beard,

the lunch pail.

it took a while to get over

that nonsense

having  worked for enough

lawyers and doctors,

corporate shills

and what not.

it took some time, but

eventually i felt

lucky to have gotten

out and made

my own way.

draw the shades my love

at what point did anything

that

feels good,

or tastes good,

or looks good to our

naked eye

become sin,

guilty pleasures despite

being with the realm

of moral

and legal 

boundaries, whether music

or art,

or bare skin.

Is it true

that who we are is

determined by how

we behave

behind closed doors

or in darkness

after two glasses

of cheap wine,

or tumblers of gin?

draw the shades my love,

the neighbors

are peeking in.

the middleburg fox hut

i'm going fox hunting today,

LB tells me

from her car.

she sends me a picture of her riding

boots, and crop,

and little black

helmet.

she's in middleburg

where everyone dresses up

for the hunt.

the women look like hookers

from 5th avenue, in orange

and pinks,

frilly boas around their

necks, between their new

enhancements that hardly jiggle

when the horse gallops.

there are no wrinkles in

middleburg, but lots of therapists

working overtime.

we're not going to kill

them, she says, just chase them

around with the dogs.

drinking will be involved,

and cheese and caviar

back at the barns.

we chase them around until

the fox give up

and lie down, surrendering.

then we leave them

shivering and shaking in fear.

it's fun, you should join us

sometime.

blue suede shoes

it's easy to say,

don't look back.

easy to say move on.

get on with your life.

forward ho,

or something to that

effect.

but old relationships

can be like

gum stuck to the bottom

of your shoe,

no matter how hard you

scrape it off,

there's a tiny piece,

grey and hard,

still stuck to treads,

imbedded into your

psyche. what's the answer

to that?

new shoes, perhaps.

mary

i think my friend mary

has died.

no card this year for the holidays

or birthday.

no calls.

her line rings and rings, but no

answer.

at 95, perhaps, she moved on.

i feel no

sadness

though, she lived a good life.

a fun life.

she enriched mine with her

courage and laughter.

no knuckleheads

you reduce,

simplify, chill and breathe.

condense

and organize, make it

all easy.

easy peasy, breezy.

there is no

boat rocking, no arguing

with your

loud outside voice.

it's quiet time.

from here on out.

be crabby and sad elsewhere,

knuckleheads

are off limits in this house.

no last name

i work

at the funeral home, she told me.

the front desk.

i get the ball rolling,

making arrangements for the

bereft. 

oh, really, i say. i had a friend

in there a few

years ago.

what's his name, i may have helped

with the flowers

and the buffet that day.

butch, i tell her, i don't know his

last name.

we played ball together

for about thirty years.

he had no moves to his left,

but had range

on his jump shot.

saw him nearly every weekend.

we must have played a thousand

basketball games

together.

and you don't know his last name?

nope,

why would I?

the apology

at 90 she drove  a thirty foot long

white

cadillac.

barely seeing over steering wheel.

she drove

it to Penny's or Macy's,

the grocery store,

to pick up her friends

on Nebraska Avenue

to take them to Phillips

Crab house

down by the water front.

she'd crash it into bumpers

and fenders, the sides

of cars

in parking lots.

she kept a pad and pen

on her dashboard

to write a note to those she'd hit.

it was the same note.

i'm old, sorry for hitting your car,

but they'll take my

license away

if i wait for you to come out,

or for the police.

i'm sorry. i hope you have insurance.

have a nice day.

Mary

brushing her hair

do you believe in love,

she asks me,

while brushing her 

long hair

in early morning

light.

i look at her in the mirror.

her face is quiet,

shadowed.

not as young as she used

to be, nor i.

is she asking for herself

or for me?

i watch her brush and brush

counting the strokes,

just past a hundred,

to a hundred

and three.

count your pennies

we  count our pennies

at some point.

before one

is placed

on each closed eye.

we add up what's going out

subtracting from what's

coming in.

we count the years left.

ten twenty,

maybe more,

maybe less.

maybe an hour, it all depends

on something

mysterious, something

you can't quite put

your finger on.

God, luck, destiny, fate,

call it what you may, but

still

you need those pennies

to get through

another day.

the blind date

i met a blind girl on a blind date

once.  it was on a dating site

called Come as You Are   dot com.

which was to my advantage

since i hadn't shaved,

or changed my clothes,

and had a crazy red pimple

growing on my chin,

not to mention

a rash on my arms

from poison oak or ivy,

but she couldn't see any of that.

she told me in our chats that

she was legally blind, to which

i asked if it was possible to

be illegally blind.  she thought

that funny, and so wanted to

meet this wonderful wit who didn't

give a never mind about

her infirmity. which it really

wasn't. she had a nice white cane,

a big dog, and was dressed

to the nines. beautiful and kind.

not once did she miss her mouth

with a fork or spoon,

or spill anything on her pink

dress that reminded me of what

Jackie O might wear

to the French Embassy with JFK.

i told her i was partially deaf

in one ear, to try and even things

out, to which she said, i noticed.

left ear? yes, i told her, as she

spoke louder and reached out

to touch my hand, tapping it

as if to comfort me for my

disability.  she seemed to know

what i was thinking, as if her

loss of site, had increased

her ability to sense things, almost

read minds.

you want to kiss me, don't you,

she said. to which i said.

i do. i really really do want

to kiss you.  can I?

she said maybe, which i took

as a yes, so i leaned across the table

to plant one on her lips,

when suddenly

her german shepherd barked

and bit me on the leg.

the new years eve party

he made a special request

to have a port hole painted on

one bathroom wall

of his apartment.

when you're working,

you just do, and don't ask.

the new years eve party was

to start in six hours,

and time was of the essence.

champagne was on ice.

pounds of shrimp

were bagged and ready

in the ice box.  streamers

hung from the ceiling.

balloons too.

i did the best i could.

sketching in the fish,

and bubbles,

the hatch, the flow of green

weeds in the blue water

outside the round plate 

of glass.

it was truly a work of art.

he gave me an extra fifty

bucks for that, but i didn't

get an invitation

to the party. i've always been

a little peeved at that.

home schooled

the home schooled kids

in the neighborhood always seemed

a little different.

off, somehow.

they were strangely alien

amongst us ragmuffin

public school kids.

there was something about 

the look in their eyes,

the size of their ears, or heads,

the clothes they wore.

it was almost as if they were

Amish.

they seemed to be learning,

book wise, but were a few

years behind when it came

to what we were learning

behind the school after

the bell rang.  they rarely were

in any trouble.

going down the woods with

betty jean, or spray painting

the side of a building

with graffiti. 

they were good kids, not yet

infected by what 

the world brings, but if you

threw them a ball, the odds

were that they weren't going

to catch it.

life was different then

as a kid it was nothing

for us to

step on a line of black ants

or strike a bee hive

with a bat

and run

like hell down the block.

dexter had a bee bee

gun that he'd

shoot squirrels

and birds

that lined the fence.

life was different then,

and apparently so was death.

now i gently pick up

the cricket and set him

on the porch to find his

own ending.

i think that's best.

it was about something else

when my mother would clean

the house

it was about something else.

the beating of the rug

against the fence.

the way she got on her hands

and knees

and scrubbed.

onto the ladder to get the cobwebs

out.

the windows wiped

with newspaper

and vinegar.

she went at it all day, then

cooked

at the stove.

stirring deep into a mixing

bowl, peering out the window

time after time

wondering when or if

he would he even come home.

a whole thermos of white russians

my friend veronica

meets me at the park where we used

to go

when we were in love,

or rather getting busy

every time we saw each other

and hold hands and tell each

other things

that would never happen.

it had it's shelf life and ended,

but

somehow we remained

friends, without benefits,

it's just your run of the mill,

luke warm friendship now

that you never

quite know where it goes,

or how it ends.

but we meet just the same

for a chit chat.

she brings her spring water

and a bag of cut up carrots,

i bring my white russian in

a coffee cup, so as not to raise

suspicion with the po po who

might be lurking nearby.

she tells me she doesn't care

anymore about sex.

she's done. it's too messy,

too icky now.

i take a big gulp of my white

russian and repeat the word

Icky!  out loud, really?

yes, she said.  i think i'm okay

now being alone.

i've have my cats and my cross

stitching.

i've had enough sex for one life

time. no one melts my butter

anymore. i'm done.

maybe you just haven't met the right

guy these days, i offer.

no that's not it.

i've met every kind of guy,

she says, picking a bug off

her very attractive black sweater

with little butterflies stitched in.

i see that she's wearing

those jeans where they're all ripped

up like they've been in a

fight with a tiger.

she lets out a long sigh,

i've met skinny guys, fat guys, 

married guys.

guys with muscles, guys with no jobs,

scientists, lawyers. 

short order cooks,

gardeners. men with boats and bikes.

men with hair, men with no hair.

and the thing is they're all fine. in

fact i've never met so many nice

people that i never want to see

again.

oh my, i say. feeling the buzz of

my drink. i take her hand and move

closer to her.

hey, hey, she says, what are you

doing. what about the virus?

i'm good, i tell her, i was tested

a few weeks ago.

although i have some poison oak

or something on my leg.

no. she says. i told you i'm done.

so don't even go there.

i drove the station wagon here,

i tell her. you used to love

the station wagon.   really?

she says. you still have it?

yup, just took it to the car wash

the other day.

had the vinyl upholstery

disinfected.

parked it right over there

under the trees, like the old days.

hmmm, she says.  any more white

russians in the car?

got a whole thermos, my dear.

a whole thermos and some marvin

gaye loaded up

in the cd player.

she pulled the plug

she tells me that she pulled the plug

on him.

as if their relationship was a tub

of water.

cold water now.

done, over. kaput.

so she pulled the plug and watched

whatever it was

drain out,

swirl to where all love goes

when it's over,

and all that's left

is a bar of soap, turned

to a sliver,

no doubt.

norman

he was odd.

different.

a strange boy, a kid who

sat

in the back row of the class

with his head

on his desk, half asleep.

half awake.

the unkempt hair,

and twitch.

a hand that shook, two

legs

that ran while sitting.

never called upon to answer

a question,

never a hand raised.

i think norman was his name.

where are you norman,

what became of you?

with your strange clothes,

your father's belt,

your mother's hose.

that look in your eye,

you were someone that

everyone remembered

but never really knew.

what tomorrow will bring

the key breaks

off in the lock.

the window

is cracked.

the door ajar.

the alarm goes off.

everything is gone.

nothing is left.

your voice echoes

across the room.

time to start over.

it's what's best.

you walk the floor,

go up the stairs.

nothing remains.

it's almost as if you

were never here.

and neither was she.

which makes you

smile, and wonder,

what tomorrow

will bring.

the best of both worlds

i ring the bell

but no one comes. i yell down

to  Charlotte,

but there's no answer.

it's hard to find

good help these days.

i put my robe on and go down

to see what the trouble is.

there's a note on the table

in the kitchen.

i quit. it says.

i have fallen in love with you

and can no longer

stand to be around you

if it's not mutual.

i cook, i clean, i make you

waffles

with bacon.

i squeeze fresh orange juice for you.

when you ring the bell

i come running in

my little french maid costume

that you bought for me

in six different colors.

do you know how hard it is

to vacuum the stairs

while wearing stiletto heels?

and yet.

never do you hold me,

or touch me, or look into

my eyes and tell me that you

adore me.

i need more.

i need you.

i shake my head and put the note

down, then look out the window.

i see charlotte on the front steps

crying.

i open the door. hey, hey. what's up?

i'm starving.

come on back in....i do love you.

really, i do.

she wipes her eyes, smiling, then

comes in to put her arms around me.

oh, i'm so happy. so happy.

okay, okay. i tell her.   would it be

okay if i have scrambled eggs

today....some cheese and peppers

mixed in?   maybe some sausage links?

i'm going back up, oh and the paper

is in the yard, could you be a dear

and bring it up too?  oh, and coffee,

don't forget the coffee.  French Roast.

the third grade report card

i find my third grade report card

in a box

that my mother had

in her basement.

i read the report.

he's a day dreamer.

seems lost in thought.

stares out the window

a lot.

keeps teasing the girl

in front of him.

pulls her pig tails on

occasion

and passes her notes.

strangely he finds everything

unusually funny, 

using humor to

deflect his anxiety

and fears.

he likes to read, and write,

but he

doesn't talk much.

he can't wait for recess

and at lunch

he eats his dessert first.

if he tries, he does well,

but he's just so distracted

by the girls

and what's outside

the window.

he seems bored with 

the school work, except

when i turn the lights

off and read to the class

with their heads

on their desks.

please have a talk with him.

we'd like him to join

in with the rest of the class.

he's too young to be so distant

and aloof.

her eyeglasses

when my mother dies

my brothers and sisters gather

at the old

house

to sort through what's left.

one sister goes straight for the russian

tea cups

while another

gets the cheese cake out of the 

refrigerator.

someone grabs a box of photo

albums,

and the youngest brother

sits in the corner

with tears in his eyes.

the bible, rosary beads goes

into someone's box to carry out,

a sister digs through

the books to look for hidden money,

turning over each can,

each jar

until she yells out Eureka,

finding five dollars

folded tightly into a

squared inch.

who wants her puzzles, laminated

and hanging on the wall?

her doll house full

of furniture, the glue still soft?

i find her eyeglasses

on the nightstand

and slip them into my pocket.

i want to see what she saw,

that's all.

don't forget to vote

a new president

a new vice

president

new congressmen

new senators

a new pope.

meat's okay on friday now

if you're over 65.

new policies

new tax bills

new gun laws

new treaties

new ideas.

new vows and promises.

the new deal replacing

the old deal.

a man of color.

a white person.

a woman.

a transgender.

a gay person.

tall, lean, fat, short.

left or right handed.

okay.

but it's just another day.

and nothing changes.

don't forget to vote.

how could i, some nut says

it to me nearly everyday

for four years.

whatever.

something on your shirt

the whiter the shirt i'm wearing

the more apt i am

to spill something on it.

whether coffee or blue berry

jam, wine or 

chocolate ice cream.

a drip, a drop, a dollop

of something.

all day people point and say

oh my.

there's something on your shirt.

many give suggestions

on how to get it out,

cold water, club soda,

a bar of soap, perhaps,

dabbed not

scrubbed.

sometimes though

i think i do

it on purpose, without thinking,

enjoying the attention,

for which i thirst.

falling down the rabbit hole

i fall down the rabbit hole

of amazon.

i start off looking at new vanities

for the bathroom

and then end up

buying

a cookbook on pot roast

and a pair

of black shoes from bullboxer.

and a blue green air fryer

which looks good for chicken wings.

there's page after page of

women stiletto heels too, but

i don't pull the trigger on that, unsure

of the size.

i save my browsing for later, then

go look

out the window

for deliveries.

they're so slow these days.

in summary of the year 2018

if you hadn't of read my emails

you wouldn't have known

i was cheating on you with my

married boyfriend.

i have no privacy anymore, she

said, as i helped her carry out

her boxes and trash bags full

of clothes to the car that her ex-husband

bought her  in an attempt to win

her back when she left him

for the neighbor.

the only reason i've been lying

to you about everything 

was to protect you and

not make you sad. plus i have this

fake image to protect. people

actually think i'm a good person.

i've even fooled the priests

at St. Leo's, St. Michaels, and 

St. Bernadette's.

it's your fault for finding out

what a lying cheating, fake i am. 

it's all your fault for being so nosy

about my life after we got

married.  i set the last box of her 

train wreck of a life

into her car, and tapped the hood.

okay. have a nice day. you're

good to go now.  good luck.

don't forget to take your medications.