the world is scary

sometimes you go out

and it seems

that the world is full of

circus people,

carnival workers.

everyone looks strange.

oddly shaped,

bone thin,

or obese with

a look in their eye

like maybe they've escaped

from an asylum,

or cage.

planet nine?

the ink, the piercings,

the blue hair,

the leather and latex.

when did pajamas become

all day

wear.

just needed a reason

it was disagreeable weather.

the kind

of weather than makes

you shake

your head and say no,

when you open the door

and take a step out.

the chill running up your leg.

nah.

i'm staying in.

yes. i know i'm getting

married today,

the whole thing is planned

and she's waiting

at the altar,

but no.

i can't go out into this

cold and wind.

tupperware

slow.

let's take it slow.

no.

slower.

slower than that.

shhh.

say nothing.

let's keep our thoughts

to our self.

zip it.

why ruin things.

i'll bring

your tupperware

back.

the very short holiday visit

he wants

to talk politics. always.

he tells me

he's reading the constitution 

the magna carta

the bill of rights.

he's pondering

running for mayor, or

something

in his small town

of one hundred.

he says the police

are too scary,

they should wear pastel

colored clothes.

pinks and blues, soft greens,

and be armed

with water pistols.

more stimulus

checks, please.

more government

gifts.

everything should be free.

i yawn, and smile,

and ask

him where the remote

is.

i think there's a game on.

the world needs saving

has the world gone

dumb.

stupid,

are there no readers

left.

no scholars,

no one

looking up, or around

instead

of at their own

navel,

which is now

their phone?

it may be time for

the great

flood,

or for dr. strangelove

to drop

the bomb.

one way or

the other, the world

needs saving.

the trader joe haul

feeling a tad glum

and blue

my nose runny as i sneeze

into a handful

of thanksgiving napkins

i head up to trader joe's

for some soup.

chicken soup, minus the noodles,

you know,

this whole carb thing.

but then i pick up some

flowers to brighten

up the house,

a bottle of champagne,

some shrimp

and oysters. all about the zinc.

a jar of coconut oil,

some candles

in case a storm blows through.

then go to the check out

counter,

once i figure out which lane

to steer my cart.

do i stand here, push the cart

there, or do i zig zag

over to that register

where the girl

in chuck taylors and a

Hawaiian shirt stands?

Jimmy, a kid with a straight

pin through both eyebrows

and a tattoo of a dolphin

on his arm,

waves me over.

far out, he says. party tonight

eh?

candles, oh yeah.

coconut oil. chicks dig that.

you da man. bringing in 

the new year with a bang?

shut up, i tell him, or i'll

sneeze on you.

it's not that simple

i want people to work.

to get their hands

dirty, to join

the grind.

i don't

want them on the corner

begging.

i want

the lines to be shorter

in the soup

kitchens.

the shelters empty,

the tents to be gone.

take a job,

any job.

i whisper.

naively, simplistic

as always

with what's wrong.

if you were closer

if you were closer

we'd be in love

by now.

if we lived in the same

town?

maybe.

or perhaps we'd grow

tired of each 

other, as lovers often do.

would poetry

be enough

to see us through?

the end is near

masked

and blue gloved.

the hospital workers,

doctors, nurses,

go eyes forward

down and around

the patients.

finding a corner in the elevator,

mumbling

their floors, or

taking the stairs.

everything about them,

screams beware,

the end is near.

coming undone

who hasn't come undone,

fallen apart

at the seams.

crumbled like a stale

cookie

in soured cream.

who hasn't

fallen off the wall,

shattering shards

of thin shells

upon the street,

i raise my hand, both

hands in fact,

to it all.

the new portrait

i should settle down

again,

get married

to someone named muffy.

have a few kids.

a dog,

a cat,

a fenced in yard.

i could have new neighbors

who wave

to me and say

hello, how's

the wife, how's life,

i see you've

taken care of the weeds

in your yard.

i could have

norman rockwell come

over and paint

our porrtait.

this will be life

the way it's supposed to be.

we can send out

long holiday letters

telling all our friends

how wonderful

things are.

i can rewrite the whole story.

start over.

fresh and new.

but then again, on second

though, i'd never

have met

you.

a new flight of stairs

winter

reminds me of what i haven't

done.

the end of the year.

the books unread,

all the things i planned

on doing,

have gone

mostly undone.

i need your shove,

your push upon my back.

in fact, carry me up 

the new flight

of stairs

of another year,

together we'll find a way.

or not.

you go your way, and i'll go mine

i have wasted 

a lot of hours, spent a ridiculous

amount of time

on useless

endeavors.

but so what.

it's my life. my days

to wile away

as i see fit.

i'm past the point of being

pushed into

another direction,

of being 

admonished, or corrected.

i'm purposely, 

without purpose

on the path i've

chosen.

live with it, or don't.

the next snow drift

this snow.

knee deep as i plunge

one boot

after another

carrying a bag of groceries

up the yard.

i see you in the window,

at the sink, below

the yellow light,

your hands in

water.

you smile.

i return the smile, but

there's a part

of me that wants

to keep going,

to find another house,

another place to live,

somewhere

past the next snow drift,

i might find 

a different life.

being buttered up

when  someone wants

something

from you

they usually begin by buttering

you up.

oh my.

have you lost weight?

are you working out,

i've never seen you looking so

young and fit.

new love in your life?

tell me your secret.

i want what you're having,

they say, chuckling,

with a big smile.

then they ask you for a ride

to the airport

the next morning

at 5 a.m.

last meal requests

she asks me

what would be my last meal

if i was going to be executed the next

day.

what?

what crime did i commit, i ask her.

doesn't matter,

that's irrelevant.

wait.

wait a minute.

what possible crime would i do

that they would

put me in the electric chair.

she sighs.

oh brother.

just suppose, she says. just

imagine that you have one night

left on earth

and you can choose anything

you want for a last meal.

anything?

yes, she says, with exasperation.

anything.

hmmm.

maybe a standing rib roast

or tacos.

tacos?

yeah, i haven't had them in a while.

with hot sauce.

i stopped eating them because

of acid reflux, but

if i'm being executed the next day,

why not?

a little bit up and to the left

i start wondering why

my skin

is so itchy this winter.

i'm scratching at it all day.

rubbing up

against

the corner of a wall,

or sticking a wooden spoon

down my shirt

to get to that one unreachable

spot.

i pick up a stray cat on the street

and place it on my

back. 

when Lulabelle was

around, she took care of it

with her long

dagger nails.

but she be gone.

i google itchy skin

and tumble down that rabbit hole.

it's either

impending doom,

or nothing

but cold air.

Betty gives them four stars

i go up to the tire

store

to get four new tires for 

the truck.

i have a set picked out.

on sale.

i see the ad online.

where the rubber meets

the road it says.

yelp gives them four stars.

bob in mechanicsville

says they're the best tires he's

ever owned.

betty in spotsylvania county

claims

it's the softest ride

this side of her Serta bed.

wide, good traction

in rain, or snow.

of course they don't have that

particular tire anymore,

the ones i'm holding

a coupon on.

the man shrugs and taps

his greasy fingers

on the counter. Covid,

he says. Supply chain.

ya know?

but we do have this tire.

this one here.

the ones we never sell.

pull up over there

and we'll call you when

we're done.

i read the news today, o boy

i'm down

to the sports page,

a casual glance at scores

about games

i really no longer care about.

the metro section,

straight to the obits

to see who's bought

the farm.

the rest of the paper

i tear up

and put inside my hamster

cage.

at some point i'll get

a hamster.

there used to be a time

when i read the paper

everyday,

picking it up off the porch,

the cold baton

of news

freshly printed.

the black ink smudging

my eager hands,

but i'd almost rather not

know now

if the world is nearing

an end.

i have coffee

and a window, that's enough.

bamboo sheets

i should never have

bought

these ice blue bamboo sheets

800 hundred count.

i can't get out of bed

now.

bamboo, who knew.

i expected

splinters, or a cold

hard wood feel.

no siree bob.

they're as soft as, well,

you fill in the blank.

don't open that door

it's best not

to look under the bed

or in the medicine

cabinet.

best not

to open a shut door

to a closet,

or to open a drawer.

the temptation

to look at phone is there,

but don't.

it's better to not know

what's unknown.

we all have our secrets

that are best left

undiscovered.

to the moon alice

i find a foil packet

of atlantic

wild salmon

in the cupboard

behind a can

of lentil soup, both

left by a previous

short lived relationship.

i guess it's still

good. unspoiled

by time.

sealed with the look

of astronaut food.

ready for a moon

trip, or better yet

a one way trip to mars.

guys night out

guys night out is different

now.

it used to be wild

with drinking and dancing,

carousing

with dangerous girls,

almost women

with their fake i.d.'s

but now

howard

won't drive in the rain

or too far.

mark's neuropathy

is bothering him,

so he needs

a cane.

jerry is watching his

weight

and has special dietary needs.

jim is having trouble

with his third

wife, and can't stay out

past ten.

Elgin brings his coupons

and insists

on a booth

near a window to keep

an eye on his car.

Randy asks me on the phone,

what are you wearing,

will we be out late?

the enormous white lie

i give her a bouquet

of words

freshly cut

and dug up from somewhere

deep inside

my brain.

i put them

in a vase with water

and say 

with a white lie,

here you go.

i'm sorry for the past,

the present

and the future.

it's not you, it's me.

i'm the one to blame.

what now?

lately, i find

children

hard to be around.

from one

to the age of thirty

and beyond,

stuck somewhere

between an adult

and child.

so messy.

crumb laden,

loud.

the spills,

the selfishness,

the ups and downs.

each day

a new drama.

you wake up and

ask

as the phone rings,

the knock at the door,

the crash,

the tears,

what now.

the sea of distance

i look back and think

that we

would be

friends for life.

not so.

whatever binds that held

us close together,

have been

cut.

by the dull knife

of time

and age. 

the sea of distance,

and yet hardly

a day goes by

when i haven't thought

of you.

yellow peeps

do i take the decorations

down now,

or wait until

after the new year.

or maybe i should

just leave them all up.

why does

christmas have to be

such a short span

of time.

i get out my frozen

yellow peeps from

the ice box.

and set them on

the window sill beside

the candles

and the shamrock.

the peeps look

happy, all fluffy and yet

hard with their

sugary marshmallow

bodies.

never too early for them.

the world can wait

my hours have changed.

i'm suddenly

leaving the house

later

than i normally do.

i'm taking my good old

time, as they say.

lolly gagging. 

it's almost as if i'm

my own boss. 

which i constantly

have to remind myself

that i am.

i'm in charge here,

dammit, what's the rush.

the world can wait.

the warm old coat

i'm missing a button

on

this old

coat.

the collar frayed,

the pocket torn,

but i love this coat.

it's kept

me warm

through many winters.

it's seen better

days, as i have,

i hope

there will be

more.

curfew....pfffft

i remember

sitting in my car outside

of her house.

suzie's house.

well, not hers, but her parent's

house.

i'd lay on the horn

as i combed my

hair again

in the rear view mirror.

i could see her mother

in the window

cursing me in Lebanese.

her father

shaking his

head, holding a club

in his hand.

but suzie loved me,

and out she'd come,

smelling of baklava and

stuffed cabbage.

a pair of kibbeh rolls

on a plate.

off we went

with an eleven pm

curfew.  pffffft.

when a war ends

when things end.

at last,

whether

war

or trouble,

divorce

or sadness.

we dance in the street.

we drink.

confetti

falls from the sky.

it's the end,

it's the beginning

of a new

and better life.

kissing in the car

it's awkward

kissing

in the car, what with

all the gloves

and scarves,

our big coats,

the stick shift in the middle.

the seats that

won't go back too far.

how quickly

the windows steam,

as we reach over

and smooch,

using out hands

to balance ourselves

against the seat 

and dashboard,

crimping our kidneys

and spleen.

the car behind us honking

his horn and cursing

as the light changes

from red again 

to green.

just say no

i warm

up my new phrase

that i've vowed to use

throughout the year when

i'm asked to do things

i don't want to do.

i'm sorry but i can't make it.

it's my new mantra.

i've embraced the power of 

no.

i've seen it used in the past,

by mostly

fathers,

or grumpy men.

they've had enough of doing

all the things

their wives or children made

them do.

the opera, or hallmark movies,

string quartets.

museums and hikes up old rag,

mountain,

wineries.

pickle ball.

perusing lettuce at

the farmer's market.

a trip to the mall,

then holding her purse while

she tries on a dress.

a weekend in pittsburgh

because the grandparents

are getting old

and won't be around much longer.

fishing or bird watching.

getting up early to watch sunsets.

no, i don't want

to taste that Indian food

on the end of your fork,

or take a sip

of your cold beet soup

the holiday

there is good food.

and drink.

each with

one in hand. uncle bill

is on

the deck smoking.

sister jane

is in bathroom crying.

the sisters

aren't talking,

the brothers are gathered

around the game.

a grandmother needs

help down

the stairs.

children

are already full of cookies.

as the oven

heats the house.

the dogs need walking.

the cat is on the table.

the phone is ringing.

the smoke

alarms blares.

the young folk are staring

at their phones.

wondering,

just why are we here.

the dry field

the shadows

are long 

on the dry field

as the sun slips

warmly

beyond the hills.

maybe rain

tomorrow. maybe.

there is always hope.

maybe love too.

we'll see.

there is joy after all

i find a lovely

cake

on my front porch.

in a white box,

tied neatly

with a ribbon and a bow.

who has taken

the time

to bring me such a treat?

carefully i take a peek

inside.

i'm so happy.

so full of joy,

the world is not so

bad after all,

and then i see the note.

it's for neighbor 

next door.

will he be angry if i

take just a slice,

a tiny piece,

really small?

peace on earth

cars are being broken

into.

stolen.

rummaged through.

glove boxes

emptied.

devices swiped.

wires

cut. packages

carried off in the dead

of night.

windows broken.

a band of holiday

marauders

have struck again.

santas in reverse, taking

what's left

behind. it's christmas time

once again.

another prince arrives

when she fell

off her high horse

i wasn't worried.

more horses were on their way.

she picked herself up,

dusted off her

shiny crown

and found a new lover,

a new savior,

a new victim

to take her home.

there's always a new

source of supply

riding around.

let it go

i feel no shame about

the yard,

the unraked leaves, the vines

crawling

along the fence

and wall.

there is no residue

catholic guilt about the

shape it's in.

no angst about

the unpulled weeds,

or in not trimming

what needs to be trimmed.

i smile at

the saintly statue tipped

on it's side,

the water bowl

gone dry.

i'm more accepting now.

life is often

in strange disarray,

and so am I.

like a lion or lamb

do you rise like

a lion

in the morning, or more

like a lamb?

i lean

towards the later.

going slowly

into the new light

of the new

day.

i'll roar later perhaps,

but for now,

i'll tread cautiously

towards coffee

down the stairs.

laugh and listen

my father at 93 sounds

great

on the phone, 

lucid and together.

up to date on the news,

the weather.

he's got a handful

of blonde jokes that he

wants to tell.

i hear christmas music

in the back ground.

the rustling of wrapping

paper, the snapping

of his teeth

on cookies.

the sound of coffee

being sipped.

what do you get a man

of that age?

nothing.

you just laugh and listen.

new friends and family

i'm disappointed in

my gifts

this Christmas.

socks again.

coal.

a plaid tie i'll never wear,

a sweater

with wide stripes

of unearthly colors.

a fruitcake.

a subscription to a gym

that closed.

last years calendar.

batteries to my smoke

alarm,

a six pack of red white

and blue beer.

i make a vow

to find

new friends this year.

the morning after

it's leftover city

in the fridge, where do i begin

to lessen

the load

of food taken

home and chilled

now in

various dishes,

containers and bowls.

is it cranberry

and stuffing for breakfast,

or a turkey

leg.

perhaps a slice

of prime rib, still pink

in the middle.

and what's this?

aunt mabel's apple pie.

joan's brownies,

mrs. smith's

lemon cake.

iced cookies in christmas

shapes,

who made these deviled

eggs.

i don't remember carrying

in a whole pork roast

with the trimmings.

perhaps i'll start from

the top shelf and work my

way down.

hold it tight

it's a fortune.

a life's savings,

a gold

mine.

a handful of diamonds.

it's blessed

sleep,

a full stomach,

a quenched thirst.

it's calm,

it's a summer night,

a swing

cast upon the breeze

holding

new life.

it's everything you

ever dreamed.

the rainbow,

the unicorn,

the impossible.

and when or if it

ever appears,

hold it tight.

prove me wrong

i trust

that tree, the stream,

those rocks.

all of them

full of some truth,

some beauty.

there's no lie out there,

no deception,

no cruelty.

how much i wanted

to see the same

in you

and did until you

proved me wrong.

my thirst

i day

dream

about you.

the length of you.

the paleness,

the cherry lips that open

your mouth.

the silken

hair.

the banquet of your

limbs.

i drift quickly

towards

dessert, when i dial

your number

to hear

your voice

and you my thirst.

a world apart

the world

cannot hold together

what's made

by our hands, in time,

so much

of what we've built succumbs

to wind

and rain,

the impulsive nature

of gravity.

and our love, sadly too,

falls apart

for reasons just

explained.

making preparations

before she

she passed away

she dropped off all her

gifts

at the post office.

she cleaned her house.

watered each

plant,

the christmas tree

in the corner.

she paid all bills

and set them

out

where they could be found.

her papers

were neatly organized

on the table.

the last load of her

laundry done

and folded.

don't buy

us dinner yet she 

said cheerfully

on the phone,  three

days before she died.

adjustments

it's about

adjustments. the wheel

needing

grease.

the gate wanting a longer

nail

to hold 

it tight. the meal

wanting

more salt,

more spice.

more

touching and kissing

for us,

getting closer

throughout

this wintry night.

with desire gone

for reasons

unknown to me, the red

bird,

a cardinal

keeps flying

into the big window

facing out.

again and again,

he hits

the glass and tumbles

down.

there's something in

here that he

sees

and wants.

perhaps he'll give up

in time,

as i have often 

done, with my desire

gone.

christmas morning

i lifted the

amazing turkey off the front

porch,

pulling it out of

the basket it arrived

in and carried

it in to my mother who was

asleep on

the couch in the living room,

her bed

after my father had left.

wake up i said to her, mom,

look, look.

she put her glasses on

and said

where did you get that.

she followed me

to the front porch

where the bag of potatoes were,

the canned goods,

the breads,

the gallon of milk,

fruits, a cake, a pie.

all overflowing.

she began to weep,

which surprised me, as

we gathered around,

filling our arms to bring

it all in.

finding a small space

there was a time

when there was no quiet.

no silence.

the house

full.

the line at the bathroom

door.

a radio always

on.

the tv too.

a cat on the sill,

a dog

coming through the ripped

screen door.

it was

a doable but chaotic

house

of siblings, parents,

friends,

animals.

all finding a small space

somehow

to be

oneself.

a giant hunk of red meat

i buy a ninety eight dollar

rib roast.

why is meat so expensive

now.

lack of cows?

i'm scared.

now what?

i lay out 

this giant hunk

of red meat on the cutting

board

and salt it down,

pepper.

i stare at the recipe,

finding it

on you tube. they're talking

too fast.

i can't mess this up.

the pressure is on.

will it burn, will it be

undercooked,

will anyone like it?

will i have to call 911 to save

them from food

poisoning?

for back up i call the local

restaurant and make

reservations for six.

should i do a ribbon too?

if  someone

put a gun to my head

i still couldn't properly

wrap a present

with christmas wrapping paper.

i'm hopeless.

the scissors, the scotch

tape.

the paper so thin,

and ripping with the slightest

of tugs.

the weird angles

on wrapping a tennis racket,

or a cup.

where do i put the bow,

should i do a ribbon too?

name tag?

where the hell

are the name tags?

wait a minute this is

birthday paper,

not christmas paper.

the ten benefits

i realize one night,

lying in bed, that most of my

knowledge

is coming from my phone.

you tube videos

to be specific.

medical advice,

therapy,

cooking lessons.

what to eat, what to wear,

where to go.

how to improve my

posture

and enhance my sexual

prowess.

i read the ten benefits

of cold showers,

the ten benefits of 

intermittent fasting.

the ten benefits of going

no contact with

past relationships.

it's always ten, rarely four

or five benefits.

do this to sleep better,

to get bigger biceps,

to grow hair,

to remove skin tags,

to stop ruminating,

to increase your memory.

i'm overflowing with new

information to the point where

i have to click

on the meditation videos

of waves rolling onto shore

with seagulls

squawking in order to get

to sleep.

bar hopping

trying to stir up

our plateaued

relationship

we go bar hopping

one night.

well, actually we move

from the seat by

the window

to the bar area

after it's cleared out a little.

we ask the bartender

if he could turn down

the music a little.

it's almost nine o'clock.

we both look

at our watches,

sip our drinks and chew

on the last

cold rubbery ring

of calamari on our 

shared plate.

should we go, i ask her,

and she says,

okay. the cat is probably

wondering where

we're at.

should we get a box for

this?

nah.

not a big hugger

i ponder the idea of

shopping for a new church.

having been

catholic

all my life,

i already feel the pangs of guilt

and punishment.

i'm a little tired

by the smoke and mirrors,

the rituals

and rote prayer.

the architecture is nice

though and the gowns

the priests wear. i love

the stained glass,

the solemness of it all

with the statues of saints

staring down at you.

i'm always a little bit scared

when i go to mass,

and repentant.

but i need a little more

than that.

a little more connection.

of course i don't want the snake

handling congregation,

or the ones

where there's a lot of jumping

around and shouting,

speaking in tongues with

everyone hugging each other.

i'm not a big hugger.

maybe something in between

all of that.

a day like that in winter

the sun

heavy in the sky, barely

able

to lift it's shiny

face above

the trees,

looks white.

a pale resemblance

of what it used to be.

who hasn't

had a day

like that in winter.

that Christmas spirit

determined to improve

my self-image

and be like Becky, my neighbor,

who was voted woman of the year

in our cul de sac,

i decide to be a volunteer.

i buy a yellow sweatshirt

that has VOLUNTEER

stitched on the front

so that everyone knows

how altruistic i am.

i think about what skills i have

and how

i can use them for good,

contributing in a positive way

to society. after all it is 

the Christmas season.

i'm very good at ladling

soup so i put my ladle in my

back pocket and off i go to do good.

i go down to the local

soup kitchen, but they're

already booked up with helpers.

why do all the homeless people

look so fat? their buttons are

popping off their shirts, i ask

a man who introduces himself

as Pops.  he seems to be in charge.

are you hungry, he says.

split pea today.

yuck, i say and get out of there.

i try the shelters,

the halfway houses. dang.

i'm beaten to the punch

at each stop. the parking lot

is full of range rovers and good

samaritan big blonde haired women

with the sleeves of

their fur coats rolled up.

i'm about to give up when

i see an elderly woman

stepping off a curb and about

to cross the street.

i run over there and take

her arm, here we go miss,

i tell her, let me help you

across. she turns to me and

screams, whacking me across

the head with her umbrella

and spraying me with

pepper spray. she blows

a whistle and starts yelling

for help. police police.

quickly i run away,

sitting down in an alley

where a stray dog walks up

to me.  my eyes are swollen

from the pepper spray.

i have some beef jerky in

my pocket, so i offer it up

to him, he takes it, but

bites my hand

before running off.

as i'm wrapping my bloody

hand with a handkerchief,

i set my hat down beside me.

within an hour it's full of money.

i got you a cat

i decide to get everyone

a cat

this year

for christmas.

i go down to the Pet Store

and tell the young

woman

in a red smock, holding

a dustpan

and broom,

give me all of those cats

in the first two

cages.

i count them out.

one to ten, but then say,

no, not that one,

i don't like that weird

stripe, or the color

of her eyes,

how about that one over

there with 

the stubby tail?

i back up the car, where

i've laid out

a big blanket and spread

out a bunch of cat treats.

then i tie red ribbons around

each of them,

wearing gloves of course

to not get scratched.

the office circa 1985

the longest hour

of the day

was when the minute hand

was climbing

towards

twelve,

eventually making

it five o'clock,

setting us free from our

cubicles.

allowing us to be

unchained from

the drudgery

of the office that

barely paid our bills.

could we get to happy

hour fast enough

in our cheap suits,

and dresses with 

big shoulders, 

our gelled hair?

with arms above our heads

i don't really know you.

nor you me.

but let's keep it that way

for a while.

why ruin things with deep

conversations

about fears and mistakes,

why muddy the water

with talk of the future,

or the past.

why not

just get on the ride

and strap in,

make the most of it

while we still can,

arms above our heads

as the coaster screams

madly down the rails.

savor those days

in full measure

you will

know the long stretches

of doldrum.

the benign

years.

the calm sargasso seas.

it will be

a grey wash

of sameness.

boring

to say the least,

day in

day out,

year into year,

but drama free.

savor those days.

it's a feather now

it's a feather now.

hardly

that

in weight. it's a small

dark

spot

so far away, one might

suspect

it's

a grain of sand

or dying star,

it has

no voice, no

life.

how nice to be so

far

from the distant

past.

dear diary

if you really

want to know what a woman

is thinking

go to her bed

and lift up the mattress

at the corner and find

her diary.

she started it when she

was ten.

women will write down

everything.

everything in their

heart and mind,

whereas with men

you need a

blow torch and a drill

to get in.

hey, i've got eggnog here

i bought too much

eggnog

the other day.

the gallon jug was going

too far.

but i thought i'd have

more visitors

this time of year.

i go to the front door

and yell out,

hey, hey.

i've got eggnog here.

and rum.

dark rum.

i smell the carton,

it might make it until

the new year.

the minimalist christmas

there are christmas people

and then

there are those

that go phooey

to all that.

a tree on every floor,

the lights,

the blow up snow men

in the yard,

a wreathe

on every door.

stockings hung,

the whole shebang,

while i'm more of a

minimalist with just

a mistle toe

over the transom.

one more for the road

sure you have  your doubts

at time.

who doesn't?

whose faith doesn't falter

when the chips

are down,

when the dark clouds

form.

but it's your only crutch,

your only

rope

to pull you up.

and you've seen a few

miracles in your

life, so

why not one more time.

if you were here

if you were here,

i'd kiss you on the lips,

play with your hair,

nuzzle your neck.

if you were here,

i'd whisper sweet nothings

into your ear,

i'd put my arm around

and squeeze.

put my head into your lap.

but you aren't here,

are you?

why is that?

i stir some more

i take the big spoon,

the wooden

one

from the drawer

and stir

what's in the bowl.

i look out the window

as i stir.

oh, they're home early,

i say to myself.

and

who's that?

with the suitcase,

never seen her before.

it's not his wife,

where's his wife?

very interesting, and

is that the mailman.

with his bag?

at this hour?

i look down into the bowl,

almost done,

i stir some more.

why work anymore

it's a generation

of entitlement.

we've given too much

made life too easy

for our sons and daughters.

their bones are weak,

they lie awake at night

because they aren't tired.

their hands are soft.

there is nothing that they need.

we loved them

too much,

as they yawn in front

of their phones their tvs.

if you cut them, i'm not

sure they'd even bleed.

the whispering bed

i hear the bed whisper.

come now.

now is a good time.

i'm ready for you.

see the clock,

it's dark, it's late.

it's cold.

come soon, don't read

or write another

word, or make another rhyme.

you need your rest.

you need to dream,

we've been waiting for you.

come, come soon.

let this day go.

it's time.

backing up the truck

i back the truck up

to unload

on you.

i need to tell you how

i really feel.

it may a take a while,

because the load is large.

so much to say.

it's a delivery

way overdue.

the midas touch

when given little

we expect little, but

the child

given much

in youth, expects

even more

as he grows

into his clothes,

his suits,

his shoes.

he expects much,

because this is the lesson

he learned, his

tears

have become the midas

touch.

it goes like this

in the fourth grade,

when it rained

and recess outside

was cancelled,

our teacher

Ms. Ingrid from 
Ireland,

green eyed and red haired,

with a light

lisp,

would make us stand

at our desks,

then she'd put on a

45 record

with chubby checker

doing the twist.

okay, now class,

watch me

and you go like this.

so many years have gone

by, but

i'm still madly in love

with her,

remembering little of

what i learned

that year, but

never forgetting her

mesmerizing hips.

waiting on a rainy day

in later years,

for my birthday

my mother

would send me five dollars.

a crisp bill

folded in

a small card with a bird

on it,

or maybe a cake with

candles.

she'd sign it

and say save it for

a rainy day or

don't spend it all

in one place.

love, mom.

i put it with the others,

then looked up

at the clouds, 

wanting it to never rain.

mistakenly

mistakenly

i counted you as 

more than a friend

one of few

that can be counted

on one

open hand.

but it wasn't to be.

me here

and you over there.

with someone else

holding you

under

the apple tree.

tell me less

before you speak,

do something rare 

and think

about the words

that may

come out of your mouth,

half formed.

be hesitant to say

too much,

when saying less

is much more interesting

that telling

me all the rest.

rollover and play dead

i don't want a trained

dog.

i want a wild

dog.

one that doesn't bark

on command,

or sit, or heel, or rollover

and play dead.

i don't want a dog

that went to school.

that listens,

that obeys,

that patiently waits

to pee.

i don't want one

that never gets into

trouble,

or the trash.

i don't want a dog

that follows the golden

rules.

i want a dog like me.

waiting at the lodge

i wait for her

at the lodge. my feet up

on a table,

stretched out

with eggnog

spiked hard.

she's out skiing, i 

suppose.

climbing some mountain

in the frozen

snow.

skating on the ice,

hiking in the near dark

with her

grappling ropes.

if she comes back

i'll be here

for a while.

i check my watch

and adjust my turtleneck.

i'll give her another hour

then see

what's happening

at the bar.

perfectly imperfect

i keep the tree

near

bare this year.

a bent trunk,

with a bellied shape.

some sort of spruce

i imagine,

the man at the lot

wasn't clear. i

circle the lights around

then carefully thread

tinsel on

the branches, a live

sparrow suddenly

pops out.

i continue on.

i scatter old ornaments

from earlier

years. it's perfectly

imperfect.

i put a star on top.

then plug it in.

then on comes dean

and frank

and bing.

then back comes

the bird,

flying home.

the lemon face

the annual

guilt trip phone call arrives.

he's sad.

again.

more than yesterday

or last year.

nothing is going his way.

the worshippers

are fading

fast.

age is upon him.

the light

has dimmed a little,

not quite

in full fade.

i have no gems of wisdom,

no secret sauce

to ladle him with,

no joke to tell that will

put a smile on

his lemon face.

it's all his doing. not

mine.

time to grow a pair

and man up

before there isn't

time.

the magic wand

how wonderful

it would be

to have a magic wand.

to walk around all day

tapping it on

shoulders.

making people happy,

even if just for a moment.

making them

content and full joy

for a good hour or two.

tap tap tap

i'd go about the day

until my arm grew weary

and there was only

one tap left

for me.

trains going somewhere

the train doesn't

come through here anymore.

i used to watch it as a child.

listening

to the thunder of wheels.

furious on the rails.

the engineer pulling the chain

to blow the whistle.

the tracks are covered now

in bramble,

and weeds. tall grass. the

first start of start

of trees.

i would watch the trains

for

hours and count the cars.

the coal cars,

the passengers looking out

from fogged windows.

waving to children unlike me, 

going somewhere.

every time a bell rings

i get the christmas

message from my son that i'm

not a good father,

never was and never

will be.

i expect it

with his mother in

his ear

poisoning the well

he drinks from.

it's an annual thing.

i listen, i nod. i make

a mild attempt to defend

myself.

but what's the point.

it puts me

in the holiday mood

again.

the one i grew up with.

i guess i still won't get

my wings,

with the ringing of the bell.

my ex tik tok girlfriend

i break up

with my new girlfriend

because she's

on tik tok.

she's baking cookies,

she's jumping

over fire hydrants,

holding her breath

under water.

she's filming every stupid

thing she does.

she's singing Christmas

carols with

her cat. she's standing

on her head.

she has nine million

followers

now.

she has no time for me.

look at her,

she's in her underwear

and showing

the world how she can

put her ankles

behind her neck.

under the willow tree

we plan a picnic

under the willow tree

in the park.

her idea.

it's summer and the sky

is bluer

than it's ever been.

she brings the basket

full of egg sandwiches

and cut melon,

drinks, and wine

of course.

but it doesn't last long

on account of ants.

red ants.

and my laughter 

only made it worse.

just suck it up

i throw myself

off a bridge into the raging

water below.

but halfway down,

i question what

i'm doing. maybe i shouldn't

be killing myself,

maybe i should just suck

it up like everyone else

and live.

go back to the cubicle

and toe the line.

then i wake up, shaking

the dream out of my head.

i go the shower,

gingerly stepping into

the basin, being

careful not to slip.

i think about Friday

being right around the corner.

happy hour.

how the words just came

while hank

williams wrote

your cheating heart on the back

of an envelope

while near

sober in a bus station

somewhere between

fear and doubt,

just outside of

nashville.

did he stop and think

of immortality.

that his words and songs

would be 

remembered forever,

or did he wallow

in the pain

and make the most

of it.

yes.

saying later, as he stummed,

how the words

just came.

what i don't do

what i don't do

is call

my father to ask him why

he never

drove the one hundred and

eighty miles

to visit me.

why he never took 

the train, or bus,

or drove in my direction.

he never flew.

instead, i pack a bag

and go to

him. with

no resentment,

no complaint.

love like that is true.

cold coffee

it's cold coffee

in the paper

cup.

the wind encircles

my

weary knees, up

the leg

around

the cuff

as i walk down a new

path.

i am lost at sea.

no sexton, no map,

no way

of knowing,

which way is west,

which way

is east.

the road taken

i feel his

sadness in my bones.

flesh of

my blood.

his disappointment

with life.

the shadow of impossible

failure

at his feet.

doors unopened,

wondering

why.

is it passion, or luck,

or something else

yet to be unveiled

within his life.

perhaps

will i ever see you again?

i'm not so sure

of that,

we're both on different

paths,

but why worry,

each is leading

to the same place,

a life after death,

perhaps.

all of your tomorrows

all of your tomorrows

come not

at once

but in small lines

etched

upon your pretty face,

once smooth

once young.

i catch you smiling

i catch you smiling.

i'm surprised

that at last 

you've let your guard down.

there is hope in you

after all.

the gloom of grey

about you

is perhaps just a temporary

weather front.

can it be

that the light within, 

behind your clouds,

has finally leaked out.

the feast

love is tricky.

lust

and like

are easier paths to take.

but

oh, the beast

of love,

of more,

begetting more

and more.

it's magnificent

but

a never filling

feast.

pleasing no one

you can't please

everyone.

impossible.

you don't even try

anymore.

what's the point.

my mother

figured it out

early in life.

this is what we're having

for dinner.

pull up a chair, grab

a knife

a fork.

dig in, or go hungry.

your choice.

out of chaos

out of black

chaos

comes a star.

stay still in the midst

of it.

be patient.

be of no fear,

you will

come out

the other side,

this is not an end

but a start.

the bent nail

we are

all chipped, splintered,

partially

or fully

worn through.

live long enough

and the wear

and tear

shows.

the frayed collar,

the thin sole

of your shoe.

the bent nail 

where you

hang your heavy coat

is suddenly

loose.

his cousin Bernadette

i run into Father Smith 

up at the liquor

store, near trader joe's.

he's got a grocery cart

full of booze.

he sees me and smiles,

showing the gap 

between his teeth.

tis the season, he says.

ho ho ho.

i've never seen him happier.

attendance must be up.

this isn't all for me,

he laughs.

i'm picking up for the whole

gang.

tonight's the annual

christmas party.

you should come,

bring a date if you want.

it's going to be in the small

chapel. we've cleared

out the pews and made

a dance floor.

my cousin Bernadette

will be there. she's still single

by the way.

he winks.

she decided not to be a nun

after all.

so she's back on the market.

she cuts a mean rug.

i think you two would really

hit it off.

casual wear, i ask him.

yes, that's fine.

starts at seven after the last

mass.

my new medical alert device

i get a random

call for a medical

alert device that informs

the paramedics

or friends, or

family

when i'm in distress, when

i've fallen down

a flight of steps,

or slipped on the ice

outside when

going to the mailbox.

i ask the kind man what

colors do they come in.

can i get the bracelet

instead of the necklace.

seems less feminine.

black goes with just about

everything i tell him.

but  a silver one would

be nice too.

is there a limit as to how

often it can be

used.

sometimes i get lonely

and would like

visitors when it's winter

and i'm feeling blue.

things not forgotten

i may lose my keys

at times,

misplace my wallet, or glasses,

or some

thing

when i'm in a careless state

of mind,

i might be late,

or forget

a date on the calendar,

but what i don't forget

are words,

looks,

askew glances.

lies, or truths meant

to prick my thin skin.

i never forget

a slight,

which is an awful burden

to carry around

when these memories

pop up again.

to raise a glass

i asked Jake

once, what made him drink

so much.

why drink and make

yourself sick

in the morning

for that fleeting moment

of immortality

the night before.

and he said.

i drink when i'm sad.

when i'm grieving some loss.

i drink when i'm happy

when things

are going well.

there is never not a reason

to make a toast

and raise a glass.

can we not talk about that

i'd like

to have a serious

conversation

with someone,

but i'm afraid it will hurt

their feelings

bringing up a touchy

subject.

so i tip toe

around the room

trying not to crack

any more egg shells

scattered about the floor.

i carefully negotiate

my way around

the elephant,

fat and grey,

the long trunk,

the ears

flopping, once more

ignored.

under the full moon

i have known my share

of vampires,

people that suck

the life out of you.

drain you

of joy

and leave you in 

a sallow puddle of flesh

and bones,

but i too

have taken a bite out of a few

necks along way.

we all have fallen

prey to

full moons

and wolves that bay.

dot dot dot...

when there is nothing left

to say

you still

find more to say.

maybe put it in a letter,

an email,

maybe write something

in smoke

across the sky.

a phone call, a text.

you can never put

a period at the end of

your sentences,

put a stake into the heart of it.

there's always more,

another thought to finish,

another word

to say.....

your life is a continuance

of dot dot dot....

who left the milk out

after growing

up in a house with seven kids

cats and dogs

parents

cousins on occasion, 

a stray aunt or uncle

bedding in the basement,

i'm done

with sharing, having a

roommate.

wife, girlfriend, brother,

sister or son.

i don't just want to be alone,

i need to be

to maintain my sanity,

which is fragile

to say the least.

if the house is a mess,

it's my mess.

something breaks, i did it.

i get to eat the last piece

of cake,

leaving it on a plate

with no worries that someone

else might take it.

if i leave the milk out,

it's okay. there's no need

to interrogate people to get

to the bottom of it.

i did it.

and i'm fine with that.

getting the pink slip

i get the pink

slip

for the house.

it's done.

all paid for.

the last coupon sent

in to

one of a dozen banks

that bought my loan

over and over

throughout the years.

i painted a lot of

houses

to get here.

wallpapered plenty

of walls.

i've fallen from great heights.

been bitten by dogs.

climbed forty foot ladders

onto rooftops,

shimmied through attics

and cellars

to get to a post, or board,

i've been shocked by

loose wires,

my hands cut from nails

or broken glass,

my head sliced open

by a falling brick,

gotten woozy from leaking gas.

i've met nice people, mean

people,

had a few flings with some.

made friends with quite a few.

i've worked

in the heat of summer

and in the dead

of winter,

sometimes with a cold or flu.

through marriages

and divorces.

deaths.

no questions asked.

okay.

now what?

surf's up

i have a dream

about Lynnie, an old

girlfriend from the eighties.

she passed away

a few years ago.

but here she is in 

the dream, in her

little vw bug,

pulling up outside my

door. smiling.

waving.

beeping the horn.

come on she yells.

let's go.

let's go have some fun.

surf's up,

we're going to the beach.

updates

my tv informs

me that it needs to update

its software.

same with my phone,

my computer.

my sirius

pandora and spotify

radio.

i go to the basement

and slide

an LP

out of it's sleeve.

Grand Funk Railing.

i'm getting closer

to my home.

i set it on the turn table

and drop the needle.

i lie on the couch with

my eyes closed.

it's all the updates i need.

mystery meat

i don't want to complain,

but i have

to say that

she wasn't a good cook.

i think her mother

passed down

her skills, which were

none.

boiling water was a challenge.

but she wanted to

make it a real home

like the ones she saw

on tv when growing

up and tried to cook.

some families

pray before a meal,

but i prayed afterwards.

a dish was never

placed on the table

without me asking her,

what is it?

pardon my french

every now and then you

have  a crazy

rumination

or two

about a past

relationship. how it went

down.

the insanity of it all.

but it doesn't stick anymore.

it's quick and painless

and brings a smile

to your face.

what the hell were

you thinking

you mumble to yourself.

pardon my french but,

jimminy crickets.

whew.

the actuary table

is there anyone more slick

and calculated

than the insurance

salesman?

maybe the used car guy,

but the insurance man

has charts and graphs,

numbers, the history of

how it ends for people

of all ages. you need

to prepare for the future,

he says, showing you an

actuary table of how

it's going to end for you.

you don't want to leave

those you love hanging

in the balance, coming

up short on cash when it

comes time to dig a hole,

or turn you into ash.

buy now before

it's too late, trust me,

he says, pushing the contract

across the table.

i've been in this business

a long time, and 

so far no one gets out alive.

it's been a hundred

per cent so far, so what

do you say. sign here.

how long do i have doc?

the doctor comes in

shaking his

head sadly.

ah oh, i blurt out, what

what is it.

give it to me straight doc,

how long do i 

have to live.

cancer, tumor, my heart,

what is it?

come on, tell me, i can

take it.

lupus?

what? he says scratching

his head.

did you say something?

then mutters,

can you believe it,

my tee time was cancelled

on account of rain.

one more year

like an old car

we stick

with loved ones,

tried and true.

one more year.

let's hope she'll

get us through.

six miles under

i can't enter

a parking garage without

thinking of

Edgar Allan Poe.

being buried

alive

if an earthquake

occurs.

what if the end of the world

happens now.

how do we

get out of here, stuck

forever in lot B

the blue level, slot nine,

six miles under.

the peaceful break up

my friend told me

that this was going to be one

of the most peaceful

and easy divorces

in the history of marital

break ups.

we'll just split everything.

down the middle.

have joint custody with

the kids, share the dog

and go our separate ways.

after all we still love each.

we just can't live together anymore.

the next week i saw him

putting a tv in his car,

a toaster oven

and a vacuum cleaner.

that bitch is not getting these,

he said, angrily. no way.

a town full of churches

i'd never seen so many

churches

in one small town.

each corner

had an old wood

and stone

cathedral, or temple.

a simple shack

painted white

with a cross

on the steeple, far

off the ground.

was there even enough

worshipers to fill

the pews on sunday.

what was the need,

what were the sins, 

that drove them here,

those that were

lost and then found.

let it rain

i remember catching

her tears

in my hands as they rolled

out of her baby

blues.

go ahead, i told her.

cry, cry it out.

why not.

this is the world we live in.

don't worry about

what comes next, or who

loves or doesn't love

you.

trust me, i've been there

and back.

put your head upon my

shoulder,

and rest.

no need to worry.

cry and cry it out,

let it rain, let the streets

fill up and flood, until

there are no tears left.

imagine that

i almost thought of you

the other day.

i can't remember exactly what

happened.

what time it was,

a scent in the air,

the season, perhaps,

a face in the crowd,

a head of hair

in front of me.

but i almost thought of you,

imagine that,

with all these years gone

past.

the top shelf

don't go cheap.

don't settle.

pay full price. go

into

the deep pocket and get

the best

you can afford.

the same goes with love.

don't pick from the lower

shelf.

it won't last.

in time, you'll be lonely,

you'll be bored.

the afternoon show

i slide into

the back row of the theater.

it's dark.

it's sparse.

i have my choice

of seats.

i'm prepared to be underwhelmed,

but it's okay.

i just need to get out.

to be somewhere

other than home.

and this fit the bill,

this B movie.

this matinee.

this enormous bucket

of buttered

popcorn.

the corner of asaph and gibbons

john and i painted

that house

thirty five years ago.

a pale

pink on the siding

to her wishes.

the wallpaper

inside, to his.

we were young then.

death was

what happened to old

people,

grand parents.

we would never die.

we'd keep on like this

until the end of time.

on ladders,

with brushes in our hand,

side by side.

he's gone now,

but rarely a day goes by

when i don't talk

to him,

between the pear trees,

the wires,

the sun beating heat

upon the sunny side.

what's the point of living

what's the point

of living, he told me,

if you can't smoke

and drink,

chase women and tell

bad jokes.

they want to take all our

fun away.

no red meat. no potatoes,

no cake, no pies.

Jesus Mary and Joseph,

if they push another 

plate of kale in front

of me, i think i'll die.

swimming in circles

i'd rather not,

but i can tread water

if i have to.

i am strong enough

to swim in circles above

and under

the waves.

i can paddle,

lie on my back and kick.

i can do just

about any stroke

you name

to stay afloat,

my feet won't touch

the bottom.

but at some point,

i'd like to stop.

i'd like to swim to shore

and find you.

keto bread

after spending hundreds

of dollars

on kitchen equipment and

cookbooks,

almond flour, coconut flour,

flax seed,

swerve, xanthan gum,

egg whites, 

baking powder

and parchment paper

i throw in the towel

with keto bread.

it's not bread, it's not

anything you want to put

into your mouth.

it's cardboard.

if you want bread, it's

okay, God will not punish you.

break your keto fast

and go down to a

bakery and get a hot fresh

loaf of French bread

and fill it up with deli

meats, cheeses, mayo, 

lettuce, tomatoes,

onions and peppers.

olive oil.

toast it if you want.

stop with the stupid

keto bread.

it's not bread.

just like almond milk isn't

milk.

there is no almond cow.

the hair cut

back in the day 

i loved my barber, Giovani,

a hefty

older fellow from Italy

with big bushy

eyebrows. i think he may

have been connected

at some point

and was now

in a witness protection

program.

he smelled

of onions

and garlic, a spot of red

sauce always on his shirt,

but he did he job.

i had some hair back

then,

so he had his work

cut out for him.

i'd bring him in a picture

of bobby sherman

or billy idol,

whatever era we were

in and said,

there it is.

that's the cut i want.

he'd laugh then

turn around

and take a swig

of chianti from his scissors

drawer

and away we'd go.

he was good with sharpened

blade

when he trimmed my

sideburns.

don't forget to hydrate

my friend Amber Lynn

who works

out like an Olympic

athlete at the mall gym,

reminds me to hydrate

when she sees me

in my slippers,

walking the dog

to the corner hydrant.

don't forget to hydrate

she says,

making a motion of

a water bottle going

to her mouth.

she's in her gold tights,

wrist bands

and head band

holding back her wild hair.

she looks like a dancer

in a 1980's van halen video.

hydrate, she says again.

it may be the most complex

word she knows.

i pause, and write that down.

hydrate.

drink when thirsty.

i underline it

several times.

Reading and reading and reading the red comet

i make a new years 

resolution

to finish

the book i've been reading

for nearly a full year.

the life and times of

Sylvia Plath,

called, The Red Comet.

it's endless.

thick as a cinder block.

it records nearly every word

she spoke,

every thought she had

in her mind, every meal she

ate, boy she kissed

and a dissection of

every poem she wrote.

she only lived until the age

of 30.

whew.

i can only imagine

the size of the book

if she had made it to my age.

my story may be

an illustrated

comic book, at best.

a day off

the day

off is like finding

money.

finding a gold nugget.

finding

a kiss in the cold night

on your lips.

the day

off is a wonderous

lazy thing

of doing little

but reading and sleep.

a bite

to eat.

a flurry of words on

this old

machine.

the pink eraser

the worst gift

i ever

got for christmas was

a pink rubber

eraser.

we picked names

from

a hat in school

to buy gifts for one

class mate.

the name

i picked was Ernie.

a big kid

who sat in the back

biting his nails

and making

strange noises

from his bean filled

diet. he was the kind

of kid

who was always asking

you to punch him in the stomach.

go ahead, he'd say.

you can't hurt me.

i wrapped up a nice

model truck up for him.

took all my

savings.

it was bright red

and reminded me of

the truck his father

would pick him up in

after school.

i was stunned when i

unwrapped my

tiny little gift.

a pink eraser from some

kid who could barely

speak English,

recently arriving from

Russia.

oh well, there would be more

disappointments

to come.

he was thoughtful boy

there a was kid back

in the old

neighborhood, Jimmy Click,

who always wore a black

beret and a long

black trench coat,

who would

give out nickel bags of

weed

for christmas.

high quality stuff,

not your weak home grown

basement plants

with a light pointed at them.

this was refined weed,

with the seeds shaken out.

he'd tie up the dope in little

burlap bags with a nice

festive red bow.

he was very generous

and thoughtful.

sometimes he'd add

in some rolling papers,

or a small homemade

pipe created from tin foil

and an empty toilet paper roll.

i always felt bad that

i never got him anything

for the holidays,

or visited him

when he went to jail.

what?

i let the ex

take over the finances one year.

after

a heated session

at the marriage counselor

they broke

me down.

okay, okay.

you take over the check book

i told her.

you pay the bills.

i handed it over

to her.

it had a solid two thousand

in the account.

back up money.

emergency funds,

etc.

the next month i took a look

at the account

and the balance was down

to zero.

i asked her what happened

to the reserves

and she said, you told me

to balance it out,

so now we're at a clean

starting point.

zero.

out with the old

i look at last years christmas

tree

still up in the corner,

not a needle

left on the branches,

bare as someone

getting out of the shower

without a towel.

the lights still work though,

the tinsel is a little limp,

but hanging in there.

the bulbs, the angel 

at the top. i turn the little train

on beneath it just for fun.

it had a good run, this tree.

this fifty dollar tree from

st. bernadettes parking lot.

i got my moneys worth.

i've had marriages that have

ended quicker than that.

just keep it another year

it's hard to discard

the comfy chair,

the table in the hall that

wobbles,

held steady

by a match book cover.

the bent spoon,

the chipped cup.

the frayed lamp, that

shimmies on and off.

it's hard to 

get rid of friends that have

been there since

day one,

though now old

and cranky, under the weather,

always with a problem

for you to solve.

get out of town

i sign up

for the space program.

i just

need to get away for awhile.

it's a round

trip

to mars

which may take

a year or so, but

i've got some free time

on my hand.

i have no astronaut

skills,

but maybe i can do

the cooking on board,

bake some cookies

for the long trip,

point out the stars.

i think i can drive

for awhile when they

go to sleep.

i used to do that for my

father

when he passed out

behind the wheel

in his big comfy car.

the funeral march

i cringed when i came

through

the door

and heard her fingers

on the electric

piano.

slow and deliberate,

like a child's

first lesson,

cautious as she plunked

left then right

across the keyboard.

it was a sad song,

a dirge,

a funeral march.

one she played so often

i felt like it was mine.

her baby grand

he let the tub overfill

which led

to the floor falling

through the ceiling down

below.

which

wrecked the Persian rug,

the chandelier,

the baby grand piano

which propped up

the wedding photos,

that she held dear.

but none of it mattered much.

in fact it was a high note

of a very bad year.

yours or mine?

your book, or mine

i ask

as we separate our things

before

moving on.

i look inside and see

her handwriting,

the note that says

with love always,

forever yours.

yours, i say,

and place it in her hand.

poison gas

when the word

marriage

is thrown out there in casual

conversation.

how wonderful it is.

i quickly hit the floor

as if poison

gas has entered the room.

i crawl quickly

to the nearest exit.

inhaling fresh air,

not a second

too soon.

slide over

the earth has shrunk.

no where

can't be reached with the right

ticket punched.

we are closer

to one another more

than we've ever been,

strangers

are now friends.

enemies

are closer.

something has to give.

slide over,

you're sweating, i can't

sleep skin

to skin.

the grateful hour

will i live longer without

you.

perhaps.

just maybe.

but i have no worries

about that.

my main concern is

now.

today,

this grateful hour of

peace

that i dwell in,

due to

the absence of you.

the old poet

i never saw him

without a girlfriend, a new

one,

or an old one.

he didn't work.

he went to the race track

every day.

he smoked and drank.

cursed.

he was average looking

at best,

and yet on his arm was

some new blonde

or brunette,

some harlot with long legs.

most of them, he never

knew their name.

but they loved him.

he had something going on.

something

that they liked.

the poetry perhaps, it's

what got me into the game.

fair weather people

we've reached the age,

both men and women 

where you hear them say.

i don't know.

i'm not comfortable driving

after dark.

it might rain.

and the wind is supposed

to gust.

i remember

going out in ice, in blizzards

to drive downtown

to go dancing,

drinking

and getting into mischief.

we had hats

back then, gloves.

the women had mittens

and boots.

we buttoned up our coats

and dug our cars

out. there was little in

the way of weather that could

stop us from having fun.

down to four

i look through my

box of 

christmas cards trying to

remember if i sent

that one out

last year.

the one with the snow

falling down

on a norman rockwell town.

it would be a holiday

faux pas

for sure if i sent the same

one again.

i may have to go out

and buy more.

although my list is down

to five or six,

check that. after Betty's 

demise,

i'm down to four.

just shoot me

i hear people say

that when they retire they want

to travel

the world,

the country.

in a van maybe or a big

winnebego. 

criss cross the states

taking the blue

highways.

taking pictures

and eating at every dive

bar along the way.

come on, it'll be

fun they say. grab

a bag, your hat,

and come along with me.

the grand canyon awaits,

the red wood forest,

let's go see some

big trees.

juggling skills

i can't juggle anymore,

i can't hold

three balls

in the air, three knives,

three

of anything.

i don't have the energy

or will power

to perform

with such a skill.

i can barely keep you

above the ground,

let alone

the others.

loose ends

please don't pull

the thread

on me.

leave it alone,

let me

cut it off 

when i arrive

back home.

i have special

scissors

for such events,

ending

ties cleanly,

separating all

loose ends.

this i doubt

i see

the wander in her eyes.

as she

walks

thread bare

through the empty

christmas

streets.

it's all caught up to her now.

real

tears this time

tumble out.

do i feel sorry for her.

yes.

i do. 

will things change

in her life,

i doubt.

st. elizabeth's farm

we would slip

under the wire in the dry dirt

then crawl

through wide

patches of melons

watered

in rainbow

rows beneath

the august sun.

nearly half our size

we each would

twist a melon

free from the vine.

then run.

looking back, 

despite our Catholicism,

there's

no guilt,

no regret or shame,

just a sense

of childish fun.

let it ring

i don't answer

the door anymore.

it's never good, it's like

picking up the ringing

phone

after midnight.

only trouble arrives

at that hour.

best get a good nights

sleep and deal

with it in the morning.

the dead are very patient.

the knock at the door

is usually

a neighbor

wanting to borrow a cup

of sugar

or olive oil,

or a salesperson, 

or a clean shaven mormon

with evangelizing

tracts,

or someone

you don't know holding

a pair of jumper

cables.

the bad dream

the relief

of waking up, no longer

in the bad

dream

is wonderful.

how scared you were,

how lost.

how not

yourself.

your heart races

with that old fear.

but it was just a dream,

a bad dream.

relax now,

she's no

longer here.

the cry for help

i understand

why people cut

and hurt themselves.

a slice

of skin

to draw blood.

testing life.

they want to know

they are still alive.

they need

to know

there's more to this

world

than shadow.

three pulls of the chain

i like the train whistle

as the wheels

cross the trestle

through the grey woods.

i like to know that

others are going places,

or coming home again.

three blows, three pulls

of the chain, let's me

know that the world

is right again.

paroled

when he left

prison

to mop the floors in the high

rise

building,

his face was grey.

his hair

slicked back,

his elderly shoulders

strong

from lifting weights.

he said little,

but was polite as he

carefully went

his own way,

still behind

the shadow of bars

until his dying day.

one morning

when ill, when struck with

virus,

whether

in thought or body,

we think we'll never return

to good health.

we can't imagine

being strong again, as we

lean

against the sink,

the stove.

we walk carefully through

the world

when sick.

with hearts exposed.

we never think that there

will be an end to this.

and then

one morning.

there is,

and off we go.

this is where we rest

my grandmother

would walk us

through

the north reading woods,

the same

path she took

when she was a young girl.

there was an

old stone wall

half over

that she would say,

this where we rest,

let's stop here.

i remember

her blonde curls

around her blue framed

glasses,

lighting a cigarette,

blowing smoke into

the cold Massachusetts air

as we

grew further

and further towards

our own lives,

our beaten paths.

nothing out there

so far, nothing yet, 

as we reach outwards

to distant stars,

grasping

for straws, blinking

lights,

emitting waves

of sound.

either there's nothing

out there, or

they're choosing to

ignore us, seeing what

we've done

to our own home town.

two feet at least

i want the deep snow.

the killing frost, the roads closed.

i want the wires down,

the trees heavy

with the white stuff.

i want the world 

to shut down

and get back to normal.

turn back the clock please

to 1960.

before everything we know

took place.

i want to go out

and talk to neighbors

and say things like, we haven't

had snow like this since,

God knows when.

scratching the itch

i like having

a hand

around, to reach

the itch i can't reach.

i like her

long nails, her patience,

her soothing

words,

as she says, there,

higher,

lower.

maybe all around.

i nod

head on the pillow

facing down.

falling snow

as i slip

my hand into the new

crust of snow

i remember

things.

faces and words,

all the true loves

i used

to know.

and as the snow

keeps falling,

the coldness brings

it all back,

as if new.

i turn my face up

to the sky

and drink and drink,

remembering

you.

the long way around

i haven't lost

my way.

quite the contrary.

i've found it.

i just took the long

way around

to get there.

with detours

and bridges out.

fires,

and flood,

false loves,

and trouble makers

slowing me 

down

to get there.

the slush filled shoes

who can't remember

the first

slush

in one's shoes, wet

and cold

in the hard sleet,

giddy with speed

against

the wind filled snow,

barreling down the hill

on your flyer,

with numb hands

and toes, face

as red as apples.

who can't remember

such times

and wish them 

back again, trading them

easily 

against the warmth

of fire

and home.

a true blush

innocence

is appealing, as is shyness,

a true blush,

a quiet

way of speaking.

this is a person

you want to know.

what's inside,

what secrets are they

keeping.

give me the calm

soul

every time over brash

and loud,

owning the room,

falsely wise.

no forwarding address

like cold wind.

ice,

you decide without reserve

that you

don't like

these conditions anymore.

you do your best

to tolerate

them, layering clothes,

gloves,

and hats.

ignoring the pain.

but then you reach a point

of deciding no

more,

and head south

with no forwarding address.

a sort of kind of day

it was a day

of sort of.

sort of hungry, sort of

tired.

sort of lonely.

sort of sad.

sort of 

busy, sort of annoyed.

sort of blase.

sort of

glad.

sort of content

and relaxed.

sort of nervous.

i could go either way

the whole day.

and at night

as i climbed in bed

i was

sort of tired,

but not quite

enough to make

me stay.

a natural response

i went through

a period of time where anything

could make

me cry.

i had become a woman,

a girl,

a blouse wearing poet.

i started to watch hallmark

movies.

the ones where the woman

returns to her

small town

to find that her old high school

sweetheart is

still there

and needs help

on his Christmas tree ranch.

i start crying

and have to change the channel.

soap commercials.

standing in line

for coffee.

i'd start with the water works.

i finally went to my 

therapist and asked her what

the deal is.

she said, you're grieving

a loss.

not just the last relationship,

but every relationship that didn't

pan out.

you're grieving your absent

father, your mother.

childhood.

everything behind you is part

of you now.

and crying is a natural response.

it will end at some point.

let it flow. let the tears shower

down.

say that i again, i tell her,

i think i may use that some day

in a poem.

let me write that down.

what matters most

we speak of what we need

in terms

of food

and shelter, the basic 

necessities.

a roof,

a pair of shoes.

a shovel

to dig with.

a wheel barrow to push

and pull.

we need the earth

to respond

to our hands.

we need rain.

but without someone

beside you.

someone to love,

and loves you in return,

it all seems

to be in vain.

my gift to you

i have no stomach

for arguing anymore, no desire

to prove

my point.

you can be right

all day now.

 it's okay.

i'm fine with that.

i've slipped into the realm

of indifference.

so save your words,

your breath,

your speech.

it doesn't matter anymore

to me.

a sky gone pink

when i look out 

the back window

i see woods.

i see the sleeve of blue

water

rolling along

i see birds,

deer, a fox or two.

woodpeckers

against the trees.

i see the sky gone pink

through

the bare limbs,

the thick trunks

of oak

and birch.

i see the sky

delighted with itself

in settling in for the night.

as i will.

that's what i'm talking about

people used to have

cobblers,

maybe a seamstress

or a gardener.

someone that they called

their own.

my plumber,

my painter, let me give

you the number

of my divorce lawyer,

my neighbor becky said.

she's the best

in town.

yelp gives her four

skulls and cross bones

for her ability

to slay

the defendant.

she's handled my last

three divorces.

see that car out there.

it's a Bentley.

that's what i'm talking about

willis.

express flight to Barcelona

when my father

hit the lottery, they posted

his picture

on the internet.

he doesn't have a computer,

so he had

no clue that his face

and the big

check was being seen

by all nine of his children,

or by anyone who googled his

name.

i called him up

and asked him what he was

going to do with

all that money,

new car, house, boat?

all of the above?

and he said.

what money. i don't know

what you're talking

about.

then he packed his bags

and moved

to spain.

wedding bells

i go to the blue light

facial treatment for round number

two.

i'm ready this time

for the pain.

the sting, the waffled rays

of electric heat

making my skin 

turn red.

but it still hurts, just the same.

reminds me

of other things i've done, 

despite knowing what's ahead.

only the good die young

for some reason it's disturbing 

when bad people

live a long time.

people that never

did a sit up, or ran around

the block,

or did yoga or put a piece

of fruit in their mouth, let

alone broccoli. 

they never went to church,

never volunteered, never

helped anyone across the street.

selfish, unempathetic people,

pretentious and mean.

and yet, here they are

at ninety two, ninety three.