it has nothing to do with luck

you're lucky, she tells me. so

so

lucky.

look at all you have.

so much.

your house,

your cars,

the money in the bank.

you have

everything

you've ever wanted

and more.

you're so lucky

to be where you are.

and then i turn my hands

to her and open

them. for her to

see the scars,

the wounds from today,

fresh with blood,

the callouses of decades.

i open them flat

upon the table

to show her

that it has nothing to do

with luck

at all.

we had some laughs

i hear her voice

on the line.

it's whispery and distant.

come home, i tell her. you've

been away

too long.

i miss you. 

i ache for you

to be in

my arms again.

she begins to cry.

i can't she says.

i've met someone.

i've fallen in love and won't

be coming back.

i'm sorry.

i'm really sorry. but it's

nothing to do

with you.

it's me.

it's always been about me.

i'm sorry that it had

to end this way. i really am,

but you'll be fine.

you'll find someone new,

you're a wonderful person.

remember that.

and yes, i know we had 

some laughs.

the beautiful child

she was a beautiful child

before

life

took hold

of her. before

mistakes

were made. before the storms

arrived.

those eyes.

those arms. that hair,

so brown

and bright.

how life takes hold of

all of us

if you live long enough.

like water

changing 

the river bank, time

and circumstances

has their way on us.

aging us.

reminding us of who

we once were.

lineless

and beautiful.

innocent

flowers just risen from

earth.

that's a good thing

when i look 

out the window

and see

the cold

white splash of moon

upon

the wide

stream

rolling with new rain.

i'm grateful.

not full of joy,

not full of happiness,

not thrilled to be where

i am at this point.

but grateful

just the same,

and that's a start.

that's a good thing.

treading water

there were years

when i was invisible.

punching the clock in a lifeless

job

coming home to

a loveless marriage.

a garden of roses gave me

no joy.

i hung a picture on the wall

without measuring.

i listened to the clock tick

and wrote nothing.

there was no salt

in anything. no spice.

sugar was a thing of the past.

i was invisible.

walking about unseen, unheard.

treading water in the Sargasso sea.

uncertain about so much

in my life.

i wondered often 

when i'd

be alive again.

would that chance present itself

once more.

and luckily it did. 

i fell asleep on the train

i fell asleep on the train 

heading home

and missed my stop.

i didn't hear the whistle,

i didn't hear

the conductor's voice,

i didn't hear the wheels come

to a halt.,

the bustle of passengers

departing.

i was asleep,

sound asleep. the kind of sleep

i used to have when i was a child

in

northern Spain,

the sky ceruleasn..

the Pyrenees off

in the distance

like thoughts waiting

their turn.

when i awoke, i smiled.

not knowing

where i was or how i would

return.

but things were

fine.

things at last were good

again.

sleepy time yo

i force myself to keep reading

my book

about churchill

the bombing of great britain.

the war may have been shorter

than the time

it's taking me to get to the end

of this tome.

they haven't even

bombed pearl

harbor yet.  

but i order more books

and stack them up on the nightstand

to prompt me on.

to push me forward.

it's just that after three pages

about

winston, talking about

his baths

his dogs, his drinking, his 

temper

and humor

and how he chewed his cigars

i'm out like a light

in no time. i'm nearly off

my trolley

with this book.

get the hell off my lawn

everyone

seems younger. the cop.

the clerk.

the priest. teachers and lawyers.

the news people on tv.

where are all the old people.

even my

friends have

suddenly become old.

please

don't call me sir.

please don't call me mister

so and so.

no need to hold that door.

or help

me with my bags.

get out of my way

you little whipper snappers.

get off my lawn.

i'm here, i'm forever young.

i'm here to stay.

is it real love?

don't keep acting 

like you really

love me if you don't

i tell her

when i come home

from work, taking my

coat off,

setting my brief case down.

her big brown eyes

flash wildly

in the foyer light

as she kisses my face..

she's all over me

as she shimmies and shakes.

she's absolutely

beautiful, a sight to see, but

is she gaslighting me,

is this love real?

i'm such a sucker for

affection these days.

okay, okay. i tell her.

giving in and finally

believing her in that last

sloppy kiss.

let's go get your leash

and go for a walk, 

a long walk around the lake,

i know

you've been stuck

inside all day.

and maybe when we

come back

i'll give you a treat.

and by the way,

that tail is going to fall

off if you keep

wagging it like that.

leaking toilets

i take a wrench to the leaking

toilet.

not sure if i turn right or left.

it turns.

it leaks more.  a puddle forms.

my sleeves are wet.

i say several words that surprise me.

and get up

from

lying down like a drunken bum

from under the tank.

i pull myself up trying not to

slip in

the water spitting furiously

from the pipe.

i find the main valve and turn

it off.

i shut

the door and look at my watch.

my god.

it's happy hour. i fix a martini,

then text mike

the plumber.

i'll leave a thousand dollars

on the table i tell

him. key under the mat.

if that's not enough. let me

know.

alfredo sauce

i have limited skills in the

kitchen.

i admit that.

martinis have never been

an issue, but

i've got the basics down.

pasta

fish, meat.

scrambled eggs.

occasionally i'll step it up

and make

alfredo sauce

from scratch and pour it

onto

a steamy plate of fettuccine.

that's basically a moon landing

for me.

i'm much better in other

rooms, although folding laundry,

especially the fitted sheet

is an impossible task.

and then there are other days

i go through a phase

where i trust everyone.

each

soul

that comes my way.

a hand shake,

a smile, a contract made

as a name

is signed on the dotted 

line.

a kiss received is sincere

and real,

lips puckered

and fine.

i feel that they are good

souls, people

who would never hurt

a fly,

or lie,

or do anything that could

alter my way

of thinking about

their unknown lives.

and then there are

other days.

quit nagging me

i tell myself

to get up and get going.

what are you going to do, sit

here all

day

drinking coffee and eating

cinnamon toast?

come on brother, get a move on.

giddyup.

there's work to do.

i look out the window.

it's raining.

it feels cold. i can hear the wind.

i don't know what to wear.

jeans,

shorts.

maybe i'll just leave the house

in my

bathrobe and slippers.

it feels like

that kind of day.

okay. i tell myself, ten more

minutes, then i'm

going to take a shower,

brush my teeth

and get going.

so quit nagging me.

you get three wishes

i find an old bottle

in the attic.

left over by someone

who lived here

years ago.

it's more of a lamp

than a bottle.

i give it a rub

to wipe the dust off

and out comes a Genie.

who are you, he says.

where's Mildred?

i don't know i tell him.

i think she's probably

dead.

oh, he says, rubbing

his eyes.

i've been asleep for

a long long time.

but you know the drill.

you get three wishes.

that's nice i tell him.

his arms are folded

and he's wearing a turban.

with a big jewel

in the center of the purple

wrap.

three wishes? i tell him.

yes.

can i think about this

for  day or two.

is that your wish?

no, no...don't try and trick

me.

what did Mildred wish for.

hmmm. he says, hand

on his chin.

well, she wanted a new

boyfriend, she loved the mailman,

so i set that up.

complete disaster.

he had more girlfriends on

his route than you

can shake a stick at.

then she wanted

a cat,

and then she wanted to learn

out to crotchet really fast

to make her friends 

jealous when they came

over to have tea and a chat.

where's the cat?

the boyfriend?

i don't know, he says, these

things rarely work out

for good.

so my advice is to keep it

simple. don't go for emotional

things like

love, or peace and harmony.

feed the world, all 

that liberal malarkey.

it never works out the way

you think it will.

go for money.

a boat maybe, or a nice house

in Nantucket.

do you want a nice watch,

something like that?

No.

okay, then what?

okay. i tell him, rubbing my

hands together.

here we go.,

i want a beautiful house

on Nantucket. Unlimited

money and Heidi Klum.

really? he says. that's it?

those are your lame wishes.

Heidi Klum?

i shrug i guess so, no wait.

maybe the ability to go back

into time

whenever i want.

so no Heidi Klum. yeah, forget

her.

okay, he says, bored with the whole

thing. but i like

the go back into

time one, he says.

 that should be interesting.

he shuts his eyes and says

some hocus pocus mumbo

jumbo and then says your

wishes have been granted.

it'll take about a month for

them to happen. sorry, but

it's policy...paperwork. etc.

then he disappears

in a puff of smoke.

we want it now

we want the short line,

the speed pass,

we want

instant coffee, 

the microwave.

we want the screen

to appear, to stop

buffering

and get clear.

instant gratification

is our goal.

we want the third date

on the first date.

we want our

tickets stamped,

our fast food quicker.

we want

our overnight delivery,

our water to boil.

our waitress

to pick it up

as she lingers with

the check.

we want to get out

of here.

get on to the next.

we want the call,

the text.

we have no patience

for the sun

to rise, for the traffic

to move.

we want what we

want and we

want it now.

we are babies in

the crib, whining

on our backs, 

turning blue.

purpose and passion

do we need a purpose?

do we

need that kind

of pressure on our already

difficult lives,

do we need

a plan, a goal, a place

we need to get to,

or can't we just

relax and find peace, find

joy in the simple things

in life, in what we do?

it's more about passion,

i think

than purpose.

let's pretend

let's pretend.

let's sit

and talk.

have a drink. have

tea.

have a chat

along the promenade.

let's pretend we

don't know

each other,

you be Danielle and

i'll be Etienne

let's imagine we're

in paris,

on the left bank.

i have a beret, you

in gucci,

prada

dressed as if for

a parade.

let's laugh in another

language,

let's blow kisses

as we sit

across the small

round table

in this outdoors cafe.

let's fall in love

and stay

where we are, never

leaving

this moment, this day.

the amusement park ride

i hang onto the bar

in front of me

as the rollercoaster climbs

the first

steep hill

upon the tracks,

it feels straight up

as we rise to the clicking

and clack, it's

as if we're going into

the clouds.

there is no turning around,

no point

in looking back..

i feel my heart

pounding.

the sort of feeling i've

had when

falling in love,

when it's all good, all

wonderful.

the clouds are white,

there's a warm

sun above me,

and then it peaks, and

down we go in a blood

curdling scream.

my gut tumbles,

my eyes are wide

with fear

and strange joy,

but not for long, there

are hills, other turns,

other places

to keep the love

strong, to keep it going

and going

until at last the ride stops,

and it's gone.

the barren field

i sit with my therapist in her small

corner office.

a large window

shows the parking lot, the road,

the lights,

a building

being torn down across the barren

field

covered in thin snow.

her books are on the shelf.

her degrees on the wall, a picture

of an ocean.

a picture of trees.

it's neither here or there. this place.

benign and safe.

a womb of sorts.

she looks at me and crosses her

legs. she's very patient, very smart,

she sees what i'm doing.

she waits.

let not a minute waste

you stare at your hand.

there's

a slight tremor, a shake,

a nervous

movement.

as if a small wind

has

pushed

it again and again.

you stare at the lines

on your face.

the smoothness

of your scalp.

you take stock of your

posture your waist.

the slight pain

in your back,

your knee and leg.

time has been neither

cruel nor nice.

but let's turn off the

light and go  forward,

time is fleeting.

let not a minute waste.

we can still be friends, can't we?

we can still be friends,

can't we.

we can still laugh and talk.

meet for lunch.

take a walk.

all is forgiven.

all is not lost.

we can still be friends

can't we.

despite all, it was that 

that brought us together.

nothing more, nothing

less, the shared small things

of life. the connection

of heart and mind.

let's forget the rest.

let's mend the fence,

let's talk.

the neighborhood network

the next door neighborhood

online

forum

is alive with questions.

did anyone hear

that bang last night.

it sounded like

gunfire,

or fireworks.

i heard the post

office is closed.

does anyone know why?

is it covid?

i found a white

cat on my porch, here's my

number if you

want her back.

what's the best way to freeze

left overs?

what kind of snake is this,

picture attached.

has anyone here seen

that white

van driving around?

the police were on my street,

what's up

with that?

i have some old clothes,

that i'll put

on my porch,

shoes, underwear,

my father's old derby hat,

come by and see if any

of them fit.

no direction home

she says glumly.

i'm lost.

i have no direction.

i feel adrift.

the air is cool.

the lake

before us rolls

like a blue

 knitted cloth

of waves.

of birds, of sky.

it's crowded.

but warm enough

to walk.

we find a bench

in the sun.

i have no

purpose she says.

looking towards

the darkening woods.

there is nothing

i can tell her.

there is nothing

new, nothing old,

nothing wise

to say.

but have fun and

enjoy your life.

in time this will all

go away.

you'll be old, you'll

be grey

and you'll wonder why

you spent

so much time

with worry, with dismay.

by george i think i've got it

she fiddles with the lock.

a screw driver

in hand.

a pair of pliers.

she's  in her underwear,

her thick

wool socks

with little christmas

trees

upon them.

she closes the door,

then opens it

back up.

she squeaks a little

oil

onto the hinges,

into the slot. 

at last, she folds

up the paper instructions

and smiles.

by george, she says.

i' think i've got it.

best of friends

best

of friends. 

we see each other off.

we

go our separate ways.

one back

to work, the other

into the clouds,

the grave.

it's the way

the world is,

one leaves, one

stays behind

while the other

finds their end,

such is

this life.

this mystery. this

star filled

night

we live in.

ready for the show

there was an elderly couple

on the subway

beneath new york

who sat apart because

of the crowd.

him in his black overcoat.

his flower

in his lapel.

his hat in hand, a cane.

his boots

gleaming in the flickering

light of a rambling

train.

and she, i suspect his

wife.

across from him. a cat like

smile upon her

face. a gentle aura

of love

between them. each nodding

at each stop.

knowing when to rise

and go, when to hold

each other's arm

and disappear upwards

tickets in his coat pocket,

ready for a show.

her empty plates

i have a stack 

of her dishes.

trays, a pan.

a cup, a saucer.

a plate adorned 

with flowers.

all had arrived with 

something

on them, wrapped

and sealed,

some hot, some cold.

some rich desserts,

others

a dinner, just needing

the oven

to get warm.

but now they're empty,

i've taken care

of that.

they sit by the door

in a paper bag, waiting

to go home.

the complaint department

i write down my list

of grievances

and go down to the local

complaint department.

i see disgruntled

husbands and wives,

children full of sugar

with homework

under their arms. i see

old people

with canes and dogs

that are now their eyes.

i see cops and protestors.

tear gassed and bruised.

dazed and confused.

i see a world of

upset souls,

store owners, bar keeps,

priests in long

robes.

all cold and stone faced,

sharpening their knives.

chomping at the bit

to express their woes.

i look at my list.

it's a short list. just

one thing, just one thing

i want to know.

i've got nothing really

to complain about,

so turn around

and go home.

handle with care

be gentle

with the box. handle with care.

don't rattle

the inside,

don't shake it.

don't

try to know what's in

there.

give it time.

let it age like wine.

she'll come around.

you'll

see.

one day, one day soon,

she'll open up,

again she'll be mine.

sunshine and oranges

they retire

and sell the house.

they quit the fast lane.

take their money

and head

south

where the tax man is kinder.

where

the sun is warmer,

where the ending

will be easier,

life will be less of a pain.

no snow

to shovel

no yard to mow.

no traffic to get stuck in

with no place to go.

it's sunshine

and oranges. it's sand

and surf.

it's a metal detector for

him

a book club for her,

it's where the old folks

go

to live

before they're under

the dirt.

finding a new path

it's the same lake.

the same worn  trail.

the water, the sky, all of it

a familiar

canvas

to fill

my eyes.

the memories of so

many

friends that have

come to pass

are in the stones, the leaves

the weeds,

the grass.

i breathe deeply

as i walk.

stepping over the cords

of vines,

the fallen

trees. the rocks.

the debris of woods.

i'm here every year.

but this year

i realize, that i need

a new path, a new way

to travel on,

and to not look back.

stirring the fire

i put some music on.

some delfonics

some gordon

some

al green

marvin,

teddy, a little jazz.

chet baker,

some old

songs.

mood music for the soul.

i fix a drink

and find

a couch

after stirring the fire,

getting the house

warm.

i'm in no rush. i'm patient

now for all things,

in this life

and the next, with no

lack of

love,

no waning of desire.

i don't expect an answer

i don't expect

an answer.

not a call or text. not a card

in the mail.

not a signal in the sky.

there will

be no tin can

tied

by string to mine.

i don't expect an answer.

but it's

okay.

i've tried.

when i see snow

when i see snow

i think of you.

the same goes for rain.

when i feel cold,

again

you come to mind.

when a summer breeze blows

and the warmth of

sun

lies upon my face.

yes. 

there you are.

i'm waiting for your

departure.

for our season to end.

but

it's taking time,

a long long time,

for you not to be

so near,

but far.

the absence and quiet

i'm surprised

that the mail man hasn't come today.

i take the letters

out of

the door slot and toss

them on the table.

i look out the door, up

the street.

i don't see his truck or

him either,

slouching under

the weight of christmas

coming.

no dogs are barking.

no mail is going out.

or coming in.

his absence worries me.

the absence 

and quiet of anyone

i like

makes me ill at ease.

the curl of her toes

she'd reach

over with her long arm

her long

nails

her long sigh

and say

where.

tell me dear

where does it itch?

direct me to the spot

and i'll

relieve you,

i'll take care of it,

but then it's my turn.

you can

start anywhere,

but be gentle,

go slowly

until you discover

by my smile

and the curl of my

toes,

where it is.

i can't eat another bite

i can't eat

another bite. another slice,

another

chew

of food.

i can't put another fork

near my mouth,

not a crumb

or speck,

not a single

table spoon

of anything from a

dish

or bowl

or tin. please

wheel me away

from this table.

i'm done.

i'm full.

shame it had to end

we used to sit

on the front porch,

remember?

that gentle sway of swing.

we used to talk, or even

better

yet.

not say a word.

a splendid quiet would

come upon us.

suns would rise and fall,

summers

would pass.

winters would

arrive.

we had more than we

would ever need.

ever spend.

we had each other.

sitting on the front

porch.

hand in hand.

shame it had to end.

a shiny new pan to bake on

i buy what i need.

what i want.

what makes me happy.

no more

no less.

if i need sugar.

i put it in the cart.

unsalted butter,

of course.

flour.

vanilla extract,

walnuts,

in pieces, dark

chocolate chunks.

a new shiny pan to bake on.

do you see what

i'm getting at?

a new best friend

you lose a  friend

a best friend.

so you look around for

a new

friend.

someone that gets you.

that understands

what

makes you tick.

what melts your butter

what

pleases you,

what bothers you.

and you understand them too.

a new friend, a best

friend would be

nice

to get through the winter

with.

the hard

times.

the good times.

just one

new friend, with a heart

of gold,

would suffice.

remember the time...

she calls me up,

crying.

i miss you so much, she says.

i miss

everything about you, about

us

about all the fun we had.

she blows

her nose

and takes a deep breath.

remember

that time we went to the beach

and stayed at that great

hotel.

how we rode the horses

along the white

sand.

we made love night and day.

remember that?

room service,

champagne and breakfast

in bed.

remember how we watched the sun

rise

over the ocean

as we sat on the balcony

holding hands.

no. i say.

she's sobbing now. ignoring

that i just said, no.

we had so much fun together.

how you proposed to me

on your bended

knee

and i screamed yes, yes.

yes.

i was so in love with you

and i still am.

ummm. who is this?

it's me. jennie, she says,

blowing her nose onc again.

i'm sorry, but i don't know

any jennies.

who's this? she says. you're

not William?

ummm. no. i think you might

have the wrong number.

oh, she says. oh my.

but, what are you doing later,

i ask her.

you sound like fun.

want to meet for lunch somewhere?

sure, she says. i just need to take

a quick shower

and clean up a little. one hour?

casual wear?

sure. perfect. jeans and a sweater

are fine.

we won't be waiting long

i get in line.

why not?

i have nothing to do

today.

it's a long line, but

it seems to be moving fast.

it wraps

around the block.

we inch forward

in the cold

wind, our hands

in our pockets.

i tap

the man in front of me

on the shoulder.

i ask him

what the line is for.

he shrugs

and says he's not sure.

but it's

moving fast, he

says.

i don't think we'll

be waiting long.

leave it alone

a carved

white stone. let's call it 

the moon

for poetic

sake

is just a sliver

above the trees.

empty and devoid

of life,

but we

stare at it as if

we'd never

seen

the likes of it before.

a symbol of what?

but

for the sake of

poetic

endeavors 

please

leave it alone,

don't go there

anymore.

the dark and the light

there's good

in the world, you can feel that

energy

in certain people.

it's sweet

and light. forgiving

and full

of warmth.

you can see the aura

of goodness,

compassion and empathy.

you want to be around

them,

you want to hold

them tight.

and then

there's the other side.

when you

meet someone and you know

something's wrong,

you feel it.

the darkness,

the shadow. your gut

screams

run. take flight.. it's 

the vibration of someone

lost

and dangerous to your

soul

if you let them in

it will

be a long cold

night.

i can't be your friend anymore

i can't be your friend anymore,

i tell

jimmy, my life long 

friend.

you are too obnoxious,

too political

too narcissistic

and self centered.

it's all about you. you never

ask how i'm doing,

and you always

contradict every single

thing i say.

you think you know everything.

you're a bully

and a misogynist 

a liar and a cheater.

a closet racist.

a person without morals.

so, i'm sorry, but i have

to end this friendship.

so what do you have

to say about that?

he looks at me

and smiles. shrugs.

yeah. i know. but are we

still going out later

for drinks?

pinching pennies

all his pennies would

groan

lincoln

had a grimace on

his bearded

face.

pinched

flatter

than a dime.

his thumb pressing

down

holding

on, holding on.

saving

for what, he wasn't

sure,

perhaps

when the world went

down,

when all things

went awry.

it's not too cold out

it's not

too cold to sit out in

alley

now deemed

the meadow.

it's a ghost town.

hardly

a soul about.

the waitress appears

then

disappears,

masked

and coated

with boots, a hat.

the walls

are painted orange

and blue.

a few stars peek

through

the high brick,

but it's not too cold

to sit out

and talk.

to keep it light

and ignore

a world gone wild.

when dogs run free

when the dog

runs

out the front door,

she looks back

with wild eyes.

free at last.

her tongue out,

her tail

wagging. her fur

a blonde brush

in the wind.

she hops the fence,

and gallops

across the street,

disappears into the woods.

she might

come back.

but the odds are

against

that.

don't wait for me

don't wait for me.

again i'm

late.

no need to look down the street.

it's the traffic,

the rain.

life

getting in the way

of you and me.

no need to wait much

longer.

you deserve better

than this,

and so

do

i. so it's fine,

it's okay

if you decide to leave.

a cup with a hole

you fill your shoes

with your feet,

your day with work,

your belly with food,

you quench your thirst

with drink.

you fill the tub with

hot water

to soothe your wounds,

your tired back.

you fill the time with

books,

with reading,

with writing the next

line

on the next page.

you fill

the void

with a search for true

love

and find maybe.

you fill your soul

with

prayer, with hope

and faith, and yet.

it seems at times you

remain

unfulfilled, a cup

with a hole, perpetually

draining.

the palm reading

i ride by

the old gypsy house on

the way home.

i see Esmeralda on the porch

smoking a cigarette.

there's a u-haul truck out

front.

i pull over and get out.

what's up? i ask her, you moving?

covid, she says. i haven't

given a palm reading

in three months.

damn virus is shutting me

down.

do you need to know the

future?

i haven't packed up my 

tarot  cards or crystal ball

yet.

maybe read your palm?

i'll give you the holdiay

special.

here's a coupon.

sure, i tell her and go sit

beside her

on the porch with her

green eyed black cat.

she takes my hand

and sprays it with some rubbing

alcohol

then stares deeply into the lines.

oh my she says.

what hell has been  going on

with you dude.

she puts out her cigarette and

blows the last puff of smoke

into the air.

yeah, yeah, i tell her.

but tell me the future

forget the past.

geez marie, you have so much

paint and what is that,

caulking, on your hands.

it's hard to get a clear reading.

but from what

i can see

it's pretty damn good.

the rockettes just flashed into

my mind

for some reason.

they're coming to town for

the holidays.

i see you with the rockettes

at the Hilton Hotel.

i give her a twenty

dollar bill.

and tell her good luck.

skipping down the steps.

wait wait, she says, there's

something else. there's more.

stay far away from the red

head. don't go near her.

okay, i yell from the car

as i pull way. got it.

stay away from the red head.

sharing the wealth

i box up my collection

of psychology books. 

self help manuals.

my thick copy of the DSM.

twenty one by last count.

i say goodbye.

carefully putting them into

the large box

then tape it shut.

it's time to share all

that i've learned.

i carry them all to my

therapist's office and find

a seat in the crowded

room. i ring her bell.

she comes out and says

thank you, i'll put these

on my shelf, i'm so 

glad they helped.

do you need to talk.

i tell her no, not today.

not tomorrow. i'm actually

good to go.

but stay tuned, one never

knows.

start here

i feel i'm losing it.

what it is is yet to be determined.

my mind.

perhaps.

my memory.

my ability to run five

miles.

my strength

in lifting small dogs over

my head

or the sunday new york times.

i'm losing things.

my keys.

my wallet.

my friends.

what day of the week is this?

i'm wandering the streets

of new york wondering

where everyone

is.

i'm in central park

looking up into the impossibly

blue sky

and thinking, okay.

start here.

begin once more to live

again.

your best image

we want to know people.

but

not really.

give me your best image.

your best

behavior.

don't tell me about

the cracks

in the foundation, the past,

the awful

present,

the dire future

that's in store for you.

i don't want to hear about

the if onlys,

the buts,

the maybes.

just smile and be pleasant.

that's enough

for now.

it's early, i know, but kiss me

i like an old book, 

dusty,

the cover loose,

a page torn,

dog eared and read

over

and over again.

stained and 

worn.

i like

an old bed, old

music.

an old friend.

i like what i know,

what

brings me comfort.

the old car

in the drive way,

how it starts up so easily

on a cold

morning.

not unlike you my love.

it's early i know,

but kiss me.

time to head home

we come out of the roundabout

and

head straight

for home.

we've seen enough

of the country side.

the shoreline,

the winery,

we've filled our minds

with land

and horses, cattle that we

pass by.

we'll sleep with the clouds

tonight.

the long fences.

the barns across the field.

we'll find

our dreams filled

with stone houses

built

before we were born,

before our

grandfathers were born.

we've had a day

together. alone.

that box is checked.

it's time to head home.

the flower

she's a rose.

a flower.

she's perfume in the air.

a colorful

vase

of petals

in the sun.

she's everything.

she fills

the void,

the room, but i fear

the day

that always comes,

when

she loses 

her joy,

her heart, 

her ephemeral bloom.

at the end

he doesn't answer his phone,

or open

the door when

knocked upon.

his

fear

is children.

some he claims aren't

even his own. but

they come around

just the same

for crumbs of

money,

of love, for affection

that he never gave.

so he sits in the sun

out back

without a phone,

his hearing aid unplugged.

quiet and still.

his mind

empty of all things

gone wrong, of

what was done.

as the day dies

as the day dies,

as 

the faint

blush of an autumn

moon appears, as we

lie in

bed and ponder the day

that was,

still near.

we wonder, still 

unconvinced

of so many things

about us,

about love, what

there is to fear.

i can't remember not knowing you

i can't remember 

not knowing you, she says,

there is no

defining moment, no day

or night

no calendar page,

no clock to delineate when

we first

said hello, when our eyes first met.

i can't remember 

not knowing you,

we've known

each other since birth, and will

forever,

even beyond

our death.

the blackbirds

it's unclear at times.

nearly everything.

the fog

lies down in front of you.

the unwashed

sky.

unwarmed

by

a hidden sun.

it feels like sadness

but it isn't.

the stones

below the raw stream

are fine.

it moves on.

the trees

with bare limbs, they

too have

no complaint

bending or fallen

against

the ravages of time.

so much of our desires

and sorrows

are just that,

imaginary things 

sitting like

black birds

on the wires of our

mind.

what they will become

i remember

the woman next door, 

moving in

five years ago,

about to

give birth

to her daughter.

the husband attentive

to her needs

holding the door, the hand

of other child,

perhaps one, in his,

but now i see the for sale

sign

in the ground,

the truck arriving.

they are about to leave.

i'll never look out

the window again

and sadly not see 

them growing

into what

they will become.

when Ingrid calls

when ingrid calls

i can 

finally understand what she's

saying.

my ears being practiced in her Irish

way

of talking.

she's learned to slow down

when speaking to me,

enunciating her words

more clearly

as if i'm a small child who's

hit his head

too many times.

we talk

about Philip Larkin

again,

our mutual friend

and wonderful

book

the Whitsun Weddings.

i could listen to her

now recite a book of poems,

or just a grocery list,

the lilt, the tug and pull of her

homeland.

the sound of salted waves.

i can almost smell the sea.

the city of Belfast in her voice.

the holiday stretch pants

i find my holiday stretch pants

at the bottom

of the drawer.

and put them on.

not too snug or tight.

with a little room at the waist

for what's

to come.

i reach into a pocket and find

a note

from a former ex wife.

it's a grocery

list.

perfect, i think, now

i don't have to make another

one.  off i go to the store.

buying things i need

and other things,

that i have no

clue

what they could be for.

i'd like to call her to say

thanks,

but she's blocked and deleted

me

not unlike what so many others

have done before.

the new room mate

i find a cricket in the house.

i've heard that it's good luck.

but i'm not sure

about that.

i have a conversation with the cricket

asking

him what

in the world he's doing here

this time of the year.

are you lost?

how'd you get in here.

i can hardly hear him, though,

because

he's so small.

i ask him if he wants to go

back outside

into the woods, perhaps.

he shakes his head no.

at least i think it's his head.

he asks me in a high pitched

scratchy

voice

if have a box he can live in

until spring.

it's too cold out now.

maybe throw in some grass

and dirt.

a few branches.

that sort of thing.

i shrug.  i tell him i'm not big

on room mates. i've had some

trouble

with people living or visiting

my house for very long.

he puts his two little feet, or

hands, arms,

whatever they are out

and pleads with me.

okay, okay. i tell him. but keep

it down.

lights out at eleven and

no visitors. i don't want some

butterflies, or lady bugs coming

around

keeping me up all night.

and keep

your cricket noises down.

do you really have to rub

your feet like that all the time"

what is that. ADHD?

i'll leave the hall light on

in

case you need to use the bathroom.

and i prefer

if you're

hungry to not bring food

up.

i had trouble with ants last year.

he tips his antennae and says. okay,

got it. thanks.

not really friends

he knows

a lot about a lot of things.

i tend to just

listen

and not add much to the conversation

knowing that whatever

i say

will be refuted,

dismissed or ignored. so

i put him on speaker phone

and make a ham

sandwich.

if i say the name

winston churchill, off he goes

telling me

the history of england

during world war two.

if i say.

soy bean.

he'll tell me what a valuable

crop it

is, and how easily it grows

and sells, and all the products

than can be made

from it.

he never really says hello,

or asks

a single question about me,

my life.

my work. my son.

where did the last love go?

he just goes and on and on.

we've known

each other forever,

but not really.

so off i go

it's raining.

cold.

miserable out.

the wind

rocks the house. trees

are swaying.

i peek out the door

and shiver.

i stamp my feet in the hall.

the sky

is alive with lighting.

it may snow.

it might all turn to ice

by sunrise

if there is a sun left

after

this storm.

but i need a stick a butter.

so off

i go.

in just a blink

you try hard to be more kind

to the unkind,

more understanding of the misunderstood,

compassionate

to the mean.

more loving to the unloved.

you reach out and forgive

the unforgiveable.

you try hard to take

the higher ground, to be

a better person than you

were the day

before,

but it's harder than you think.

it's tough.

we have both

sides within us, depending

on so much.

more, please

she makes

her famous bread pudding,

her cranberry

sauce,

her special stuffing.

all

secrets passed on.

she hides

the recipes.

she never gives a clue

as to what

goes in, what goes on.

we don't

ask

we just smile and say.

more please.

the black horse

the black horse

is in my dreams. 

rider less

as it

moves across

the green

pastures

before dark.

i watch it run

until it disappears

into a grove of

trees.

i wonder

what it all means.

unworried though,

i understand

that so much of life

will always

be a mystery.

a house of noise

growing up in a house

of arguments,

of loud voices

all trying to be heard

above the din.

i cringe now

at confrontation, 

of disagreement.

i'm done with the fight.

done

with the drama,

the tearing out of hairs,

the punch,

the broken bones,

the curses that once

filled

my ears.

turn off the noise.

wipe the blood off my

mother's face.

change the locks, tolerate

no abuse.

no longer be afraid.

return to sender

i unsmile

what made me happy

i unpack

the goodness of what was.

unstaple

remove

and cut. i tear away

the labels

i once stuck upon the box

of

this life.

i unsend myself.

i write return

to sender

upon the package with

a

dark pen.

i wait until midnight,

under a full wolf

moon

then send.

adjusting

the river bends

it moves

it's hardly in the same place

from

rain to rain.

the banks

overflow

are smoothed and ground

down

into a different shape.

time and weather

having its way

on who we are who

we are yet to be,

we can only look up

to the sky

to pray,

and wait.

the first thanksgiving

i remember when we came

over on

the mayflower.

cold as hell on that ship.

it was like

a cork

bobbing on the ocean.

i was sea sick the whole nine

months

we sailed.

i had nothing to read

no internet connection, nothing.

and my wife was still mad

at me for

something i said back

in england

about her never wearing

high heels.

she yelled constantly

at me for stealing our

one blanket as we

rolled along the wet deck

trying to sleep.

finally someone yelled out

land ho.

we all screamed with joy.

pointing at 

the rocky shoals.

but the captain said, no.

not there.

what the hell.

he had the map upside down.

at that point we were 

so sick of eating fish

we started to eat

our shoes

and parts of the ship.

all of us had cut lips from

the splinters.

finally we landed.

we had nothing.

the indians killed off half

of us

in about two minutes

for stealing their corn,

i got an arrow in my arm,

which i immediately broke

off and ate.

the rest got measles,

chicken pox,

and whooping cough,

but there were lots of squirrels

to eat.

i made a coat out of about

a dozen rabbits

and was quickly named

mayor for the week.

i'll never forget that first thanksgiving

though.

turkey, mashed potatoes.

gravy.

someone found a pumpkin

pie in

storage next to the salt,

then we put the game on.

party time

i invite thirty five of my dearest

and closest

friends

over for thanksgiving.

i figure maybe three will make

it.

i have the swanson turkey tv

dinners

stacked in the freezer

and ready for the oven

set at 375.

no need for a pie, or cake,

i tell them.

Swanson has that covered with some

sort of apple

glop in a little tiny

side compartment of the aluminum

tray.

just bring whatever you're drinking

and your hazmat suits, extra masks.

i have straws,

plastic utensils.

i have all sorts of cleaners,

bleach.

wipes.

etc.

take the side entrance and

come up

the fire escape.

the law is on the look out for

gatherings.  tip toe quietly.

text me when you get here.

just her tree

she tells me that the tree

in her yard

can be seen from outer space.

it's a strange thing

to say

and yet

i wonder what else can be seen

from so high.

how small our world

is.

how important the unimportant

seems

to be.

when alone.

when lost, when grasping for

straws

treading water

in a placid sea.

Poem 3

i turn back the clock.

i empty

my pockets of all things

that are important

to me.

i throw my wallet into

the street.

i burn

the photo albums.

i erase

the messages on my

machine.

i take a broom and sweep

clear the rooms.

i am not

who i was before this.

i am exactly the same

boy my mother kissed

and sent to school.

i'm going back to that.

to the innocence

of childhood, 

the brightness of youth.

taking with me 

the wisdom i've learned,

all pain removed.

there is crying, of course

there is crying of course.

sadness,

sorrow,

confusion.

death is like that.

and as i lie here looking

out

upon the crowd. i see

many people

i haven't seen in quite

some time.

well dressed as they bend

towards me

and say

things

i've never heard them say

before.

how they've aged.

how strange

to be now on the other side

of life

peering out.

it's almost the first time

i've ever really

not been worried

about someone or something

trying desperately

to make things right.

he'll have to do

there are no more sugar plums

dancing in my

head

she tells me.

no disney princess story.

no cinderella

losing a slipper.

at our age,

he's good enough.

he can chop wood, and 

lay tile.

he's handy.

the dog seems to like

him too.

i'll settle for this. for him.

we get along, as best we

can

he's someone i can live with.

i can trust

and

almost understand.

a simple man with no

ambition

no plan other than being

with me

morning noon and night,

seeing out our final

years together is what he wants.

at least it's not misery.

it's good enough for

now.

in fact at times, it almost

feels like love. though

it's not.

the white page

i stare at the white page

imagining things i might say,

what i might write

if i wanted life

to go a certain way.

to manipulate

the cards

that have been dealt.

trick fate.

i could

rant and rave, to get things

of my chest,

out of my mind,

to try and save

what's been lost.

but i don't write a single

sentence,

not a word.

not a phrase.

silence and the purity

of white

will remain upon this

cotton cloth.

she's yours now

there is a man outside the window.

he looks familiar.

his hands are in his pocket

his collar up

in the cold wind.

he looks like

he has questions to ask.

he may be lost.

he may have found what he's

been looking for

in the empty space out front.

i wave to him.

he waves back.

he smooths out the grey

in his hair,

his mustache.

age has caught up with him.

i want to tell him she's no

longer here.

she's yours now.

go home. it's okay.

may peace be with you.

relax.

you sit in a chair

you sit in a chair

and wait

for tomorrow to begin.

the room is cold.

the walls are as white as

a wedding dress

without the promise.

you remember childhood.

and then

when it wasn't childhood.

what comes next

reminds you of the blank

page

in the back of a book.

you sit in the chair and listen

to nothing.

not even your heart

is loud enough

to fill your ears.

you are waiting.

it seems you have been waiting

for a long

time.

for what you aren't sure of,

but it feels

close.

it feels near.

you wait some more.

you sit in a chair.

the missed calls

i see

that there are seventeen

missed calls

on my voice mail.

not a single 

message left,

and yet

the one i pick up

on and take

is the one i wished

i missed

the most,

the one i'll always

remember.

the one i'll always

regret.

xmas prep

i'm ready for christmas.

my three cards

have been signed and stamped.

sitting on the table.

i've got

the candles out.

the snow globe brought

up from the basement.

the small aluminum tree

that i put on

the console.

a string of lights plugged

in behind

the side table.

i've got a wreathe on the door.

and some

of those pine

cones in a bowl

that make me sneeze.

eggnog in the fridge.

and some sugar cookies.

what's left?

a stocking hung on the fake

fireplace.

that's it. done.

the black stapler

i stare at the black stapler on my

desk

that i stole in spite

from the last office job i had.

i try to remember

the last time i used it.

maybe nine years ago

when i had to staple

up some divorce papers to send

to my lawyer.

it's full of staples

and ready to go when needed

again.

so i just can't part with it.

at least not yet.

there's a will to make.

don't ghost me

if we do this, you're not

going to ghost me

are you?

what, did you say something?

this

snap won't come undone.

why are there so many snaps?

we might have to turn the light

on unless

your phone has a flashlight.

i'll get it she says.

reaching behind

her back.

i said, you aren't going to

disappear

and never call me again, or

text

or anything like that are you?

you know, ghost me?

i just need to know

that before

we go any further.

hey,

i tell her.

do you really think i would do

that?

what's up with this crazy button,

for the life of me i can't

get it undone.

and then it starts to rain

i almost buy

a piece of property

down

south.

next to the river bank.

the agent says, we haven't

had 

a flood in weeks.

i believe him as i hold

up the pen

about to sign my name.

it's going to be my dream house.

my last

stop.

where lulla belle and I will

grow old together

in sweet marital

bliss,

my final resting place.

and then it

starts to rain.

don't let the door slam

i miss the sound

of a screen

door slamming and my mother

yelling out

don't let the door

slam while

she was on the phone blabbing

to her friends

about

a chicken recipe.

i don't even know why

we had a screen door.

the screen was busted

out at the bottom

where the dog would run

out and come back in

and at the top were holes

where balls struck.

flies and bees and the occasionally

bird would be all

over the house.

why we kept that rattling

slamming

door on its hinges is

beyond me.

i'm sure it's still there,

though,

and someone else's mother

is yelling

the same thing.

red white and very blue

i used to work on my american

made

cars.

chevy's and pontiacs,

back in the 70's and 80's.

oil pumps,

water pumps,

gaskets, filters.

leaks.

carelessly made junk

that broke down a mile

away from

the show room floor.

on saturdays

i was always on

my back asking

someone to hand me a wrench.

and then i bought a little

honda from japan

and never again

opened the hood of a car.

much to my father's dismay,

calling

me a traitor

to this day, he just can't

let go of that silly little war.

five hail marys

i feel a sin coming on

i tell

her as she closes in for a kiss.

her hand

on my knee.

her eyelashes

batting like

the wings of a bird in heat.

not to worry

she says.

tomorrow is sunday.

we can go to church

and confess,

do our penance 

and be good to go 

once clean.

apple martinis in bed

she melted

my butter, curled my

toes.

gave me reason to live.

she never

burned a single

piece of toast.

made the bed, baked

a slew

of cookies.

she even

was intimate if i was

a good boy

and let her

run wild when i wasn't

around.

it's hard to get these

people

out of your head,

without therapy

and books

and you tube videos

and 

apple martinis that

you sip in bed.

rinse and repeat

ingrid asks me why o why

do you keep

writing about the past.

about past relationships,

about women that have done you wrong,

things that have

gone bad.

i don't know i tell her.

it's fun, i guess. and i don't

have a crystal ball to look

into the future,

so i got nothing to say about

that, at least

not yet.

firing my doctor

i need a new doctor.

the one

i have stinks.

not literally, but if i told her

i had

something wrong.

an ache a bruise,

a bone

pointing in the wrong

direction,

or i'm seeing double lately,

she'd say, oh, oh my.

that's too

bad.

have you had your flu

shot yet.

you can't

you can't unsour

the milk

unstale the bread.

you

can't undo the meat

that's gone

bad,

or uncrack the egg

that's spilled,

and yet we keep them

around

just same,

hoping beyond reason

that things will change.

to the bitter end

i feed

the cat her food.

premium cat

food, black caviar

and fish,

but do i get a thank you. no.

she's selfish

and aloof.

distant

and quiet. always in

a strange

mood.

i try to pick her up

but she claws

my hand, drawing

blood out

in four lines of skin.

i put her out the door.

she disappears for a while,

finding an alley

full of strange

cat men,

but returns

in the morning, her hair

a tangled mess,

her lipstick on her chin.

she cries and cries

to come back

in.

so i let her in.

i always let her in.

codependent to the bitter

end.

the senior book club

the book club,

everyone over the age of

seventy,

is reading the joy of sex.

the illustrated

version

with real photographs

of real people

not those stick figures

charcoal sketched

who neither bend or flex.

the discussion

is short and brief.

one woman says. oh,

i remember trying that once

with Edgar,

it was fun, but he hurt his

back

and was never the same

after that.

another man has to excuse

himself

and go into the bathroom

taking

the book with him.

the discussion goes dead

after

a while.

and someone says, let's have

a drink.

so the drinking begins,

martinis go around,

the lights go down.

someone puts on the some music

from their phone.

dancing ensues.

what's the next book we're

discussing

yells betty and joe,

from the coat room.

the cosmic dots

do we need to think

that stubbed toe

is the beginning of the end of things.

the flat tire,

the broken nail.

the lace

that's frayed and will not

tie again.

do we connect some cosmic

dots

and call it a bad

day,

the beginning of a bad week.

do we lump

it all in with the news and say

it's just the year 

we're in.

it will be over soon?

off my trolley

i find myself

drifting off into a british accent

from time to time.

it's not that good, but it gets the job

done

when i need

to speak to someone

who might be amused by

such

fun.

and yes.

i do think that i'm off my

trolley

today,

so early in the week.

just monday?

dear lord, i do so miss

my 

tea times across the pond.

i'll drink to that my dear

we have a delightful conversation

about fruits

and vegetables.

i can tell she's on 

her third martini.

i hear the clink of the glass.

the splash of an olive

going in.

she starts off with asparagus

and i segue into

squash corn,

then gin.

we talk soups, and desserts.

how ripe

the pomegranates

are

this time of year.

but how small the oranges

are.

she claims

she's never tasted a potato quite

like the one

she had

last night for dinner.

those

granny apples are special

too.

maybe i'll make an apple for

you.

make the crust

thick and crispy, i tell her.

and she says

cheers. i'll drink to that

my dear.

the long ride to the city

on the bus to new york

a kid

is crying. he won't stop

crying.

his mother

has her ear phones on

tapping her foot

and mouthing the words

to a song that only

she can

hear.

the kid has his gooey

fingers on the window.

drawing patterns on 

the glass with his face

in abstract smears.

he looks back with a demonic

smile,

then throws

a pickle at me from

the hamburger

he has in his hand.

he's

red faced, tear stained.

his blue

eyes dark as the devil's.

it's going to be a long

long ride

into the city.

the pre date questionnaire

did you vote.

recycle.

do you go to the doctor.

do you weed,

do you see your children

often.

your parents.

do you save

your money.

do you drink and drive,

speed.

do you go to church,

do you give,

do you volunteer,

do you get eight hours

of sleep

do you floss

do you eat raw,

avoid dairy

and meat.

do you meditate

did you validate your

parking,

cut out some coupons.

do you wear

a mask.

do you help the poor

are you kind

to the unkind

compassionate and loving

to those

less fortunate.

have you ever been arrested,

do you have

a psychological

disorder.

how many times have you

been married?

are you ready for a commitment.

loyal and true,

how much do you weigh,

how tall are you,

how's your blood pressure,

your blood sugar,

your cholesterol count,

your IQ

where did you go to school?

i've never done

this before.

should i be afraid of you?

maybe zoom first, okay?

the widow stepping out

the widow

no longer in black, but

 pink

and frilly white,

is done mourning. she's mourned

for most

of

her life 

the choices she made.

stuck

in the sadness

of love

soured. decades of biting

her tongue,

being silent.

but game over.

now it's her turn to take

a swing

at the night. stepping

out

with lipstick on, heels.

dressed

to but nines. may he rest in peace,

but

it's way over due

to live,

to have fun.

the old rockers

i see the old rockers.

still 

in leather.

still rolling their joints

but no longer with the boone's

farm

now it's red from france,

or nappa

valley.

the long grey hair.

a pony tail.

hanging on to bruce,

to journey

to the rolling stones

and others.

keeping the flame going.

the old hippie

chicks and dudes.

beads

and tie dyed clothes,

and hair.

the boots.  they are stuck

somewhere.

dreaming of woodstock,

not here. but

the party ends at ten

now.

we need to get home,

call the grandkids

and tell

them

we were there.

lost in the crowd

there are geniuses among

us.

but we don't know.

they are lost in the crowd.

they might be pumping gas.

stocking shelves.

cutting grass.

lying flat, drunk and broke

on skid row.

the brilliant minds

and talents

of the world aren't always

out front.

aren't in the news.

on shows.

not at all, 

in fact i saw a grocery

clerk the other

who had that gleam

in her eye.

i could see the brilliance

she possessed

in the way her hands moved,

the way

her lips parted

when she took a breath.

the way she held herself

above the grey

of her life,

above the struggle,

above the rest.

let's go for a ride

my friend, who turned seventy

five

the other

day

said out loud.

this might be the last car

i buy.

he laughed.

but i understood exactly

what he meant.

he tells me about the engine,

the horsepower.

the leather seats,

the manual shift.

he tells me what it does

in the quarter

mile.

even at this age, just a simple

like a car

that goes fast

will make him smile.

come on, he says, get in.

let's go for a ride.

your life now

i haven't

melted in a while.

i haven't sat with head in hands

and

let out 

a storm.

i haven't been there

for sometime.

strange

what healing does.

at last,

to heart and mind.

come sit beside me.

it's about

your life now,

not mine.

the ingredients needed

i don't like to measure,

no cup

or spoon, no sifter,

no reading from the book.

no recipe

needed.

i know what i need to put

into

this relationship,

to make it work.

to bake

love

without a glitch.

trust

loyalty

affection

respect,

all musts.

i turn the oven on

and begin

there.

no surprises

i don't want to be surprised

anymore.

i don't

want to find a note

in your over coat,

find

a message in a bottle

washed upon

the shore.

i don't

want to pick up your phone

and find

out what i already 

know.

i don't want to know anything

anymore

about anyone

i love.

just show up and be true.

trust me

and i'll trust you.

good luck, bad luck

i blew out the candle

without

making a wish.

i'm very done with making

wishes.

tossing coins into fountains,

searching for that falling

star

in the sky.

i no longer avoid

the ladder

and walk around it.

i'll

step on ever crack,

and pet

every single black cat

i come upon

and wish it well.

bad luck

good luck.

in this age we live in,

it's so

hard to tell.

outside of your own

you see pictures

of houses being washed out

into the sea

or set on fire,

burning

like squared candles

among the trees.

you see

people with all their belongings

in a bag,

searching

for a new path.

grasping late in life

for some semblance of

dignity.

there's the dying, the sick,

the needy.

deformity.

you watch it all as if from

afar.

feel bad.

then change the channel,

you can only take so much

misery

outside of your own.

things happen

unfortunate things happen.

they do.

is God's hand

on this.

his dark humor,

his

spiteful vengeance 

for things

he does not approve,

or is there is someone else,

to blame

it on.

perhaps a fallen man,

or dark

angel,

red skin and hooved.

the night we met

the night we met

was

different. how quickly it

went

from zero

to ninety

under the ocean moon.

the black

car waiting,

a hand suddenly in

hand

the touching

of a knee.

the salt and brine,

the still warm sand.

the night we met

will be ours

for many years,

my head is still in

the clouds,

i've yet to land.

the therapist and i

don't worry about me.

i tell my therapist

stretching out

on her couch,

my hands behind my head.

you worry too much.

really

everything is fine now.

let's talk about you for a change,

enough about

me.

she laughs.

you're funny, she says.

tapping her pen

against her yellow legal

pad.

now tell me about the set back.

the red transistor radio

i'd hold the red

transistor radio up against

my ear

as i lay in

bed.

the volume low so as not

to wake

my brother, two feet

to my left

in another bed.

i listened

to the songs

of my youth, learning

every beat,

every word

every new tune.

the beatles.

the stones.

dylan.

the dave clark five.

i'd fall asleep to them,

with the battery

dying, running low,

then wake to nothing

but the alarm

and my mother yelling

up the stairs.

you're going to be late

again.

let's go.

finding home

i count

the times of moving.

eighteen in all.

most 

against my will.

or trying to get closer

to someone

i wasn't close to

at all.

seven states

two countries.

the boxes, the trucks.

the plugging

in and out

of sockets. the nails

pulled

and struck again into

new walls.

up goes everything one

more time,

one last time, i ponder

and then

goodnight, that's all.

am i talking too much

she's worried about

the spinach

that might be in her teeth.

or if

her hair looks

right,

or if her dress is too short,

her blouse

too tight.

am i  talking too much,

she says.

no, i reply.

not at all. not one bit

she doesn't

have to worry,

i like the whole package.

she's

a perfect fit.

show me yours

what?

this scar. oh you don't want to know

about that

one.

it's an old

wound.

very old.

took a long time to heal.

years, in fact,

but

it did.

now show me yours,

and be

honest, nothing surprises

me anymore.

light baggage, please

we want to claim

small baggage

at the turnstile. we want

to say

we have no

burdens

no skeletons in the closet.

we want

no drama,

no old loves hanging

tightly

to the rails of your

life.

we want to be done

with

yesterdays troubles.

we want this new day

to be empty

of sorrow, we want

the weight of what

we carry to be easy,

to be light.

the museum of modern art

i have a picture of her

in

the museum of modern art

in

new york,

of course.

it hasn't faded.

that memory of her

and i

in the city.

walking in the cold

from the roosevelt

all the way

through

the park,

to guggenhiem. 

her face

wrapped upon a smile

as she

stares

at the nude sculpture of a

man.

oddly life size.

i know that look.

i know it well.

we taxi back when we've

had our

fill of art,

this time, no train, or

walking

slowly

back to the hotel.

at the stove

my mother meditated,

although

she wouldn't call it that.

she'd call

it stirring red sauce in a

two gallon

pot on the stove.

but there she stood,

calm and collected, her

thoughts elsewhere

as the sauce bubbled

and boiled,

adding salt, or pepper

another garlic clove.

she was there, or somewhere,

but in a far away

place we

were never told.

namaste yo

i'm not wild

about this new age malarky.

(is that still a word)

live in the moment.

really.

what other moment can you be in?

forget the past.

right.

and repeat your mistakes.

meditate

and empty your mind.

find

peace

in thinking of nothing.

sigh.

breathe. please. should i

not

breathe? thanks for reminding me.

i was wondering why i was

turning blue.

i want to think. i want

to remember.

i want to know everything

i've ever said

or done.

i want to own what's mine

and be better for it.

it's not good to be silent,

to be deaf.

to be blind. 

namaste, yo.

i don't think so.

sorting through yesterdays

in the early morning

rain

i clean out

some drawers, some boxes

in the attic

some stacked

high in the laundry room,

on the cellar floor.

old

things from the seventies

then eighties,

then nineties.

it's an archeology dig

of sorts.

memory lane

with a twisted road

full

of abrupt detours.

picture frames with

photos of loves lost

still

behind the glass.

rings

and watches.

a card, a note, a napkin

with a lipstick stain.

i find a nylon stocking.

and a heel,

red valentine

things, tucked away

and safely

stored, but for what?

a tool belt

holding lipstick and perfume.

slowly

i take each item out.

it's a long long day,

a journey

backwards and before

long it's no

longer afternoon, and i

don't have the courage to

throw a single thing away.

circling

i see a hawk

in the sky circling.

circling, slowly dropping

then

a swift rise.

the shadow of it's stretched

wings upon

the ground.

i understand it completely.

it's what i

do when shopping for clothes,

or things i don't really need,

or for someone

that's caught my wandering

eye.

rolling my eyes

i roll my eyes a lot at things

and mumble

under my breath.

really, no turn signal, and your

going left?

or right. make

up your mind and be

done with it,

or

soup again for dinner.

how much

chicken noodle soup

and one man eat

before passing out

of starvation.

i mean no never mind by

doing so, it's just a habit

learned in school

when homework was

handed out or the cute girl

in pigtails in front of me

said,

stop kicking my chair

or i'm going to tell on you.

so what else is new?

people often point

at

my clothes or hands,

my shoes,

or face

or the top of my head and say

with a pointed finger,

you have paint

on you.

right there, and there,

and there.

i know, i tell them.

i know.

so what else is new?

putting the brakes on

i put the brakes on,

and come to a screeching halt

with food.

out with the sugar and salt.

out with

the fatty foods.

the starches.

good bye bread,

good by potatoes my dear

old friends.

idaho and redskins.

down the drain goes

soda and

cow juice 

into the trash go the oreos.

the ice cream

too, but only after having

one final

enormous big scoop.

way too happy

she's too happy.

too much fun, too perky

too full of herself.

nothing

ever seems to be

undone.

rarely does she swear

or get angry

or feel blue

or get down

in the proverbial

dump.

and if she does, she

only stays for the very

briefest of moments.

she's too happy,

as if she knows the score,

has it all figured out

from top

to bottom.

i'll have whatever

she's having.

i want some of that,

pass me

the bottle of her faith

and fun.