hazards of the job

i have to move

the bed

and other furniture in order

to paint

the far

wall.

she wants it pink.

but out rolls a sex toy

or two.

battery and electric.

one has

a solar panel (interesting).

there's a zorro mask,

a feather boa,

a whip, a pair of handcuffs.

a polaroid camera,

and a blonde

wig with pigtails,

not to mention

an enormous squirt bottle

of biodegradable lube.

i go back out to the truck

to get my

latex gloves

and mask,

my hazmat suit,

to delicately slide all things

out of view.

just sharks being sharks

there are neither

good sharks,

nor bad sharks.

they just have a lot of sharp

teeth

and an insatiable

appetite

to eat

whatever is in front

of them.

another fish,

an errant leg,

an arm

a hand.

some dope swimming

out too far.

makes no never mind.

just sharks, being sharks.

bon Appetit.

biblical times

LA

is burning, but no one cares.

the Hollywood

sign

is on fire.

an earthquake

has sucked the lives

out of millions.

famine

and pestilence

are everywhere.

locusts

and the plague

have arrived.

the ocean

has swept away most

of the west coast.

no one cares.

the streets are crowded

with people

running wild.

now it's time for the planes

to drop

great boxes of

soap

from the sky.

on second thought

don't do it,

the neon light in your head

flashes.

whatever

you're thinking

of doing

don't do it.

don't react.

don't say it, don't go there.

don't even

think about

it.

back away.

keep your mouth shut.

put your hands

in your pockets

and slowly

go away.

waiting on Jane

i lost

track of Jane,

from

Montreal.

she owes me some maple

syrup.

she promised

that when she returned

from up north that

i'd have a bottle

of syrup.

the real stuff

with a picture of a maple

leaf on the front.

i'm sitting here with

my waffles

going cold.

the butter old.

the bacon

brittle,

waiting for Jane

to knock at my door.

the old bike

the old bike.

twenty years old.

i let it go

for a mere fraction of its

original

price.

a dollar

i tell the man.

it's yours for a dollar.

i don't tell him about the countless

hours

i rode it

through rain and ice,

snow

and wind.

my magic carpet

ride

from whatever drama

i had landed

in.

take it, it's yours now.

treat it well.

as it 

took care of me.

oh what a world, what a world....

there are good witches

and bad

witches.

amber having nothing

on the later.

i''ve known

both.

i've seen the glow

of one,

and the darkness of the other,

the house

landing on her,

with the striped sock

of her foot

sticking out.

i've

heard the angelic voice

of the north,

and

endured the cackling of

the green skinned

witch

of the east.

the one i threw a bucket

of water on.

get over yourself

the rusted

nail

doesn't find you.

the stiff

sharp point of a spike

uplifted

from the floor

by age

and time,

the softening of things.

you find it.

with the sole

of your foot.

it's not

fate, or karma,

destiny,

it's none of those

mystical things,

it's just a nail

you stepped on.

get over yourself,

the world

here

and beyond does not

revolve

around you.

will you vote for me

the man

at the door asks me if i'm going

to vote

in the upcoming election.

i shrug.

maybe, i tell him.

but i pretty much

don't like either side

of the aisle.

oh, he says, you're independent.

you could say that,

i guess.

i'm also hungry

and i've got a pie in the oven

that i have

to check on.

he puts his foot in the door

as i''m about

to close it.

will you read these pamphlets

and think about

voting for me?

i'm running for a delegate

seat in the third

district

in the southern

part of the county.

sure i tell him.

but i really have to check on

that pie.

it's next tuesday,

he says. his foot still in the door.

i push hard

to close it,

crunching his foot.

i can hear the sound of a bone

breaking.

finally he pulls away.

i look out the window as 

i set the pie to cool

on the sill.

i see the man limping

to the next door, straightening

his bow tie.

it's legal, man

you can smell

the weed burning on the streets now.

people are

happy

to smoke the dope.

store bought

or off the street.

it's legal, they say and smile,

wandering about.

holding

the toxic fumes in their

precious lungs,

as the music plays.

blissfully stupid once more,

just like the old days,

the memory cells

and cognitive functions

slipping tragically

away.

life lessons

get a good grip,

your father says, as you hold the bat

in your hand,

about to take

a swing

at the ball

for the first time.

wrap your hands around

the barrel.

feel the weight of it,

swing it back

and forth,

get the feel for it,

turn your hips,

relax

and breathe.

dig in,

focus on what's to come.

then swing.

before and after

we divide our

lives

in before and after segments.

before school,

before

marriage,

before a job.

before the move,

before someone was born,

or died.

before the war,

before

is a dividing line.

everything that comes after

that seems different

somehow.

a wonderful day

it was a day

when nothing happened.

you went to work

with

no surprises.

the traffic was light.

you drank

coffee.

you listened to the radio.

you finished the job,

got paid,

then went to the bank.

you drove home

to no messages, no mail.

no packages

on the porch.

you took a shower,

took a nap,

had dinner.

watched a show,

read for a while before

going to sleep.

it was wonderful day

of nothing

happening.

yearly inspection

i give

myself a complete inspection.

standing in front of the mirror

in my bvd's.

emotionally stable.

no drama.

a pleasant and peaceful 

disposition.

a nice healthy glow with

no waxy buildup.

most cuts are healed.

i look at the scars on my hand,

my arm,

my chin.

bones are

in place.

the crick in the knee not too

bad today.

muscles sore, but nothing

torn.

a few strands of hair

still in place.

a few real teeth hanging in there.

no redness

of throat,

the tongue is a nice pinkish

hue.

i can still touch my toes.

blood pressure.

a ok. blowing my nose is down

to only

fifty times a day.

but i'll live.

i place the sticker on my forehead,

and off i go.

maybe a brownstone on the west side

i couldn't live

there,

i think.

despite my love of the park,

the museums,

the village,

and hot pastrami

on rye

from katz's deli

on orchard, but

i'd need millions.

i'd need a driver,

a butler,

a doorman,

a chef,

a housekeeper.

i'd need everything

i don't have.

and then there's

the crime,

the traffic,

the tourists,

the crowds.

so i think

i'll just stay where i am,

for now.

before Dallas

was it ever

that way.

church on sunday.

the corner store

with a cooler of cold bottes

of grape nehi

and orange soda.

the neighbors greeting

you with a nod,

a tip of the hat,

a wave.

did you ever know every

kid

within ten miles

of where you lived.

playing stick ball in the street.

four square

and hide and seek.

did you camp

in the back yard, disappear

for the day

to forage the woods,

to roll up

your pants

to walk in a stream.

did you fish

in the river with your friends.

did your father

wash his car

in the driveway

with a cold

beer in hand. his radio on.

was that your mother

whistling

at the clothes line, 

a pin at the ready between

her lips.

were dogs ever on

a leash,

did your parents help

you

with your shoe

laces,

your homework,

stuffing your lunch box

with good things

to eat.

did you wash behind

your ears, brush your teeth.

say your prayers

before you fell asleep.

it all seems like a dream,

all of it

occurring before Dallas,

before 1963.

the twilight zone

it seemed like

every year or so my mother

would be

bringing home

another baby.

she'd be gone

for a few days,

and then home again,

with another kid

crying

in her arms.

i could hardly hear the tv

sometimes.

watching

my favorite shows,

the outer limits, or

the twilight zone.

dinner is served

i knew how to make

a peanut butter sandwich

as a kid.

using the chair

to climb onto the counter

to reach the cabinet where

the bread

and jar was.

i took out

two slices

of wonder bread,

grape jelly from the fridge,

and with a broad

knife went to work.

spreading

the peanut butter onto

a slice, then

the jelly.

aligning the two

pieces and

pressing down.

not too much

coming out the sides.

a pat or two

for good measure.

it kept me alive

in those formative years.

if i wanted to be fancy

i'd make a diagonal cut

from one corner to the other.

and if there was milk

to wash it down,

that was gold

no green thumb

i can't say that i have

a green thumb.

i'm not good at growing things,

or keeping

them alive,

watered,

weeded, turned

towards the sun.

once they're cut

and in a vase, or dirt pot,

or rising from

the ground,

they're on their own,

just like me

when i was born.

packing lightly

the worst night

of my

life

was spent in a hotel room

on route one

trying to get away

from someone

i no longer wanted

a part of. it had

thin walls,

coughing neighbors,

arguing

smoking.

the headboards

banging,

i lay there fully dressed,

shoes still on,

listening

to people at the end

of their rope

deciding what to do

with their lives.

at one in the morning,

i grabbed

my toothbrush

and left.

i figured i still had more

rope to use.

full of bats

the wreck, abandoned.

the house

with broken windows,

the open door,

the roof

collapsed.

the yard unattended

to,

the rusted

fence,

the broken gate,

the tilt of the chimney

missing

bricks.

full of bats

not all things, or people

can be saved.

at some point it's best

to move on

and to not look back.

skin deep

i'm not reckless

with fruit

like i used to be.

no longer lugging home

the full watermelon.

the cantaloupes,

or three pears

in a bag.

i'm off the black berries,

sour as all get out.

the strawberries

never sweet.

the grapes like wet

stones

impossible to break.

the bananas brown

before you leave.

it all looks good

in the shiny light 

of the store.

buy two get the third

free.

but it's so true,

as i've learned the hard way,

that beauty

is only skin deep.

the cat on the sill

she's greta

garbo in the corner chair

of the breezeway,

drinking coffee.

reading

her Russian novel.

aloof

and distant.

detached from the world

around her.

she's a cat on the sill,

not a part of it.

blue eyed

and dark hair.

she's a mystery,

an enigma,

you try hard not to stare.

the history of floors

as the detective

leans down

with his trained eye,

he sees that

there's a history to this floor,

this carpet,

this throw rug,

the wood,

the steps going

up and down.

even the walls give clues

as to what's

gone on here.

the wine spills, the coffee

cup tilted,

the knicks and cuts,

a hole in the wall

punched out.

the bruises

of things

dropping down.

splinters of glass,

a shell casing

of lipstick,

an exit note torn in half

a stain of blood, that's 

the only

story now that seems

to count.

jump shot from the corner

after playing

continuously for nearly fifty years

on black top

courts,

basketball,

i now dream about it.

it's replaced,

Betty

and Joan, 

Linda

and Suzette.

Debbie.

i don't know if that's a good

thing

or a bad,

but i can once again

leap

and hit any shot

from anywhere on

the floor.

i'm in the air.

in flight.

my aim is true, truer

than any

love i've ever had

before.

the peephole

thank God for the peephole

it has saved

me so many times

over the years.

a disgruntled ex,

a salesman,

a politician,

or mormon wanting

me to join

their cause.

i look out and sigh,

i hold my breath,

and drop to the floor,

i inch my way back

to the couch,

but not before

turning the dead bolt

on the door.

things settle down

things settle down,

at last,

the drama

of winter

is gone, new grass arrives,

green

as ever.

trees fill up.

the sun is warm.

it's hard to even remember

what was

wrong

on days

like this, stretched out

on the soft

new lawn.

Blanket

the old dog,

white and brown,

with a strange name.

Blanket.

he or she,

yet to be determined

sleeps

all day as i work around

the house.

moving

furniture,

painting,

plastering,

hanging paper on

the accent wall.

the dog lifts his head

on occasion

at some loud sound

and blinks

at me,

then lies back down.

the water

bowl

is there, the food.

the walker comes at

noon.

au revoir

he's in his bonus

years,

the gravy

years.

no longer a need

and longing

for money,

shelter,

or car.

all pretense is over.

no wishing

on a star.

there's food, a bed,

and love.

the rest

is in the past.

au revoir.

the lesser of two evils

did you vote,

he asks.

no,

i respond.

when there's someone worth

voting for,

then i will.

well, then

don't complain

he says,

when things go wrong.

shut up

i tell him.

i'll complain as long

and hard as

i want to.

the lesser of two evils

is never

a choice of mine.

a generous helping

it's a generous

helping

of affection

and caring,

almost

more than i can eat,

or drink.

consume.

she's too much,

too giving,

is she too good

to be true?

my lawyer

when you hear

someone

speak of their lawyer as

my lawyer,

as in

my plumber,

my electrician,

my painter,

or landscaper,

beware.

if he or she is part

of the staff,

on call at the top

of the speed dial

list,

you're in for a long day,

if things

go amiss.

lowered expectations

i thought

the spoon was stronger

than what it was.

it bent so easily

when i used it to open

a can of paint,

to pry

open the door,

and

to unclog the clogged

sink.

but it failed

and broke in two.

i've lowered my

expectations on spoons

these days,

as i have

with so many other

things,

and people too.

stop, don't tell me

if you stop

watching the news,

stop

tracking

the neighborhood posts,

turn

off the tv

and radio,

discard

the newspaper

on the porch.

don't answer

the phone.

life suddenly seems okay

again.

bread crumbing

the ducks

at the lake see you coming

with your

bag of wonder

bread.

still white and soft,

as gooey

as it was when you were

a child.

the ducks paddle over,

they fly

in from the other side,

they crowd

the shallow water,

splashing their

wings,

honking,

ready

for the bread crumbing

to begin.

seize the nap

some

seize the day, while

others

say

nah,

no thanks, i think i'll

take a nap.

relax.

kick back for a while.

it's been

long one.

the mountain

will be there tomorrow.

cabbage rolls

she was a beauty.

black eyes,

black hair.

lean,

the Lebanese girl i met back

in the late

seventies

at a club called The Dome

on M street.

her mother hated me

because

i'd pull up in front of her house

and beep the horn.

i wasn't going in to

eat Kibbe and cabbage rolls.

the girl could dance.

she smoked.

drank,

cursed and drove a Pontiac

Firebird

with big tires.

but she went to church

every sunday

morning.

no matter where she was,

who she was with, or

how big of a hangover

she had.

it didn't matter.

off she went.

confession and communion.

rinse and repeat

and do it all over

again

the next weekend.

going out for awhile

a good shirt,

a clean

and well pressed shirt,

be it white

or blue.

tucked into

Italian gabardines,

the shine

on the banister shoes.

a shave,

a dab of Geoffrey Beene

on each cheek..

well

there you go.

better,

than you were,

the day before,

aren't you?

he's not the same man i married

his troubles

became hers after a spell

of some brief

placid bliss.

what she never knew

about

him.

she knew now.

how he slept,

taking the blankets,

how he

ate

and dribbled food,

the noises

he would make.

doors

left open, the yard uncut.

he seemed

so different

when they met.

careful with money, polite

and well

kept.

and now this. this.

unshaven.

always with the seat up.

places we've never been

the bird's death

was

an accident, or was it?

flying

fast

into the glass

window,

shut.

his beak struck first

which

must have

surprised him,

was it love that he

saw,

another blue

sky,

a range of trees

reflected.

he seemed to have

gone

faster the closer

he got,

his wings furiously

beating

to take

him where he'd never

been.

so often, at a cost.

you know

the veil,

the fog before your eyes,

the cloak

of

life

is suddenly done.

fallen

to the floor at your

feet.

you know

you know

and you know

all things.

you can smell it,

taste it

in your mouth,

hear it in your ears,

you can

see it in another man's

eyes.

the gig is up.

you know what the game is.

money

love

birth and death.

you've

seen enough to have

it at last

sink in. you've endured.

you know

what's going down,

what is.

what isn't. 

the wool won't be pulled

over

anymore

her obituary

i read

her obituary.

it's not who she was.

she

had a mean streak.

stubborn

and cold at times.

unfaithful.

she pinched her

pennies,

her dimes.

and yet, with the picture

of her in the paper,

the flowers,

the garden,

a youthful smile,

you could almost believe

that she was

never unkind.

the same path

you go back the way

you came.

it's always that way.

the same

trail,

the same path, the woods

new with

itself again.

the steel blue

of the lake, less cold now,

more

gentle

with the warm air.

halfway in,

then out.

you walk.

you walk.

sometimes you almost feel

as if you're

getting somewhere.

making change from the church basket

i'm

at church, when the basket

comes around,

the second

time.

i already put a five

in earlier,

and now

i only have a fifty,

which i need

the change for lunch

and parking

later when i meet Betty

downtown

for brunch and mimosas.

so when the basket

comes to me,

i make change.

leaving a ten, but taking

out two twenties.

this stops

everything. there's gasping.

a woman

beside me faints

and hits her head on the pew.

the priest

comes marching down

the aisle in his

gold trimmed gown

and asks

me what i'm doing.

making change i tell him.

i'm meeting Betty later

and i need

forty bucks. i put ten

in and five in earlier.

a crowd

gathers. an altar boy

throws

a handful of communion

wafers at me,

striking me in the brow.

someone says stone him,

another

says cast him out.

okay, okay, i say, and put

the fifty back in.

jimminy crickets.

i guess i won't be going

back there

for awhile.

a million dollars, pfffft

a million

dollars

is nothing now.

work long and hard

enough and 

who

doesn't have a million dollars?

money

tucked away

for the rainy

day,

or surgeon, or divorce

that comes

your way.

perfectly imperfect

are we all

not

perfectly imperfect?

faults

and misaligned to

some degree

or another.

unbalanced,

incorrect,

no one is a da Vinci

sculpture

or Raphael

portrait.

gravity

and time

takes care of that.

we come up short,

which is

fine.

in the end, God willing

we all

will be

divine.

music to shop by

with his hat 

on the ground,

the guy

in front of the grocery store

is playing

an electric

violin,

but then the music starts

to skip,

so he goes over

to his car

and lifts the needle.

he begins

to play

again.

hardly missing a beat.

moving out day

i'll tell you tomorrow

what i'm

thinking, she says.

if i tell you today it will

come out wrong.

so tomorrow,

we'll sit down

and talk things out, okay?

no,

i tell her.

tell me now or forever

hold your peace.

she laughs.

okay.

i'm leaving you

at the end of the week.

moving out.

excellent.

Saturday is good,

i tell her.

i'll pick up some boxes

for you,

a roll of bubble wrap 

and plenty of tape.

religious thieves

it's a feeding

frenzy

for the thieves

last night.

a slew of cars

broken into.

my mints are gone,

my ice scraper

and a half

eaten candy bar,

my favorite,

almond joy.

my

Simon and Garfunkel best

of cd. is missing,

my carry on coffee

mug

i got  for christmas,

my anthology

of poets

who lost their minds.

my Jesus

statue on the dashboard

too.

religious fellows

i guess.

another war

joining the army

never

seemed like a viable option

when

i was of age.

the uniforms,

the crew cuts,

people yelling at you

all night

all day.

then off to war with a new

gun

in your hand.

off to kill the yellow man

in some jungle

where they were born.

another life on the west coast

she had

a secret life on the west

coast.

i'd see

the cuts

the bruises on her,

lipstick smeared,

her wrists

raw

with rope marks.

her hair

entangled

as she got off the plane.

rough

flight, i'd ask her

as she stood

at the curb,

no, she'd laugh,

and look

away, it was

more the about the landings

that occurred.

jump in

we avoid

the slosh of puddles

where

once we

stepped into them

with joy,

not dodging

the deepest,

or stepping around,

we pounced

upon the filling

void,

as the rain

kept

coming down.

her leather gloves

she shows me

her new

white

leather golf gloves.

the dog

having chew apart

the last pair.

she gives me a light

playful

slap

across the cheek.

they're soft

and sexy at the end

of her slender

arms.

snug as she shimmies

them

down each finger.

i'm doing just

the front nine today,

she says,

so when i get back,

be here.

it's not over yet

i'm concerned

about my father, 

at this age,

ninety-three,

a walker

to steady

his gait,

his eyes watered down

with disease,

his hearing

muted,

and yet

he still eats and drinks,

and lucidly

holds

a conversation about

anything

there is to talk about.

i love him

dearly,

but i can't comply to his

request for

a little blue

pill, to satisfy his

urgings,

with his latest and oldest

new found

date.

just one candle please

we forgo

the candles on the cake now.

it's the right

thing to do

at any age

past thirty or so.

who needs

to know

the number of years

or decades

we've survived

on this earth.

put one candle

in the middle and light it.

blow it out,

then eat

the largest slice

of cake

your stomach

can take.

have they all grown?

where are

the children, the flies

that used to buzz about the courtyard,

the playground?

have they

all grown,

have their short days been

made shorter

by the leash

of parents and home?

where is the round

ball,

the stick bat,

the carboard box

for a base,

the yells and screams, 

as they fought

off the daylight

before being called in.

are they us now?

staring out the windows,

longingly,

remembering

the joy

back then.

the furious cold

as a child

i loved the swimming pool.

the vision

of hope

that it portrayed,

the sun upon

the colored

blue water,

clean

and still,

the safety of a guard,

the rope

at the dangerous deep

end.

so many rules

to keep us in line.

don't run,

don't eat,

no diving off the side.

and then

the ocean

appeared and all order

disappeared

as i ran towards it,

embracing the furious 

cold and mystery 

in a reckless dive.

learning to swim

for many

years

we wrestle with what's to be,

what to do,

who we are,

what the future

holds,

or doesn't.

we rearrange

the deck chairs,

we patch

holes,

we learn how to swim

in case.

and then at last

we float

upon our backs,

or earnings

if some remain,

the sun

before us,

setting strangely

warm

and fast.

saying No to Zen

it's a Zen thing,

i guess.

when you do the dishes,

they tell you to

be in the moment.

do the dishes.

feel the water,

the steam

rising,

the smoothness of glass,

the forks and spoons,

the edge of a knife.

be there,

listen to the clink

of things

as you scrub

and rinse,

and dry, be careful

and deliberate as you

set things aside.

be mindful as you

wash your dishes,

with only that on

your mind.

no.

a mouse strolls by

the cat

on the leash is not happy.

twisting

under

the collar,

wanting the bird in the tree,

the crevice

in the street.

a squirrel,

a fallen leaf.

a mouse strolls by

with a cane

and a hat,

and laughs.

miscellaneous days

they were

crazy times. chaotic,

drinking was involved.

late nights

out.

finding

clothes at the bottom

of my

bed that i didn't recognize.

how do people

get dressed

part of the way,

then leave?

how are you driving

with one heel

on.

no underwear,

in the winter with

a skirt on backwards,

short sleeves.

and those

earrings,

that watch,

that bracelet.

yours?

all into the cardboard

box they go,

marked 

miscellaneous.

eyeglasses and keys.

don't rain, i need the money

i look back on the twenty

nine

or so different

jobs i've had

over a lifetime.

staring

at the pay stubs,

thrilled

with a ten-cent raise.

a Christmas

bonus

of twenty dollars.

a slap on

the back,

an expression of praise.

the factory work,

the yard

work.

construction.

always out in the weather.

the office job,

which was the

worst of them all.

i never slept so well

as i did

in those days.

never worried about

what i ate

or drank, or how late

i stayed out.

invincible, immortal.

just hoping

it wouldn't rain.

a swan song

you let some people go.

you don't

call them

into your office

and politely discharge them

from your

vague friendship,

you just sort of delete

and move on.

fade into the past.

who needs

the drama.

who needs a swan song.

twist off caps

the world

is made harder with twist

off caps

on nearly everything.

i keep

a pair of plyers

and a blow torch

nearby

to open a carton of cream,

the pills,

the toothpaste.

the bread which

is triple wrapped.

the butter is

sealed

inside its little tub,

almost impossible

to open

with a snap.

organic chicken

in parts,

air tight and factory

sealed

with space age plastic.

i need the power saw

for that.

i stick a small pack

of explosives

on

the peanut butter jar

and wait

in the other room 

for it to blow

open.

what's your overhead on the ribeyes?

i hold up

a rib eye steak at the grocery

store

and yell

out the price,

thirty seven dollars.

are you kidding me?

the manager

comes over.

is there a problem,sir,  he

says.

why are you yelling?

do i need to call

security?

i point at the price tag

on this

thin, meager

slab of meat.

thirty seven dollars?

really. for this?

where's the rest of the cow?

then the net goes over

me

and i'm in the paddy wagon.

it's easy, she says

it's easy,

she says. easy.

she counts the times

she's been in love

in her head.

i see her

fold 

her fingers out like

a child

touching each one.

the number

unsaid.

it's over and i begin again.

she smiles.

then looks away

as she turns

her head.

the sunday plumber

with a wrench in

hand

i can easily

sink this house. 

one twist and the pipe

is broken.

and i'm on 

the phone

to Mike. it's sunday

and i have the

buckets and towels.

the mop

all out.

i apologize.

come soon, i plead.

i bake him a cake,

make sandwiches,

i put his favorite

beer

on ice, then

i leave him a pile of

money

on the table,

take it all i tell him.

the key

is under

the mat.

i should have turned

left,

i guess, not right.

what wasn't new then?

we lay upon

the picnic table, examining

the stars.

my neighbor love,

just ten

and eleven

we were

and yet, what feelings

we carried

within our

hearts.

what wasn't new then?

each star,

each breath,

each gaze into one

another's eyes.

i could hardly breath

around

her.

touching her hand,

would

the beginning

of a life

of love, yet in the end,

all from afar.

winter in Boston

the short

years

in Boston are only remembered

now

in black and white.

we looked happy

beside our snowman,

his hat on,

the carrot nose,

buttons for eyes, his

mouth stitched with

with twigs

and twine,

just me and my brother.

the camera

holding

still

in my mother's hands.

she was happy

then,

i hope.

the jar lamp

a line of white glue,

squeezed

from

the toughened

tube,

used once,

maybe twice

when a ball was thrown

across the room

to strike

the vase

on the mantle.

tears were shed and yet,

it was hardly

an heirloom.

and now.

in this morning light.

i gently

apply another line

along

two halves of an old

jar

lamp,

cracked

down the center,

not mine.

but maybe it was important

to someone,

so i try.

quaint memories

there's no cure

for this, no balm or pill

that will

ease this rage,

this unbridled fury

boiling

over

in a world gone mad,

civility,

politeness, decorum,

a quaint

visage 

of the past.

there is no tipping

of the hat,

no

grace,

no apology

which makes us elders,

like

generations before us,

linger

in shadows,

sighing, depleted

and sad.

time to start giving back

having a little free time

i go

down

to the local hospital to volunteer.

okay,

the head nurse says.

what are your skills?

ummm.

well.

i'm not good with

babies,

all that crying

and throwing up.

the whole diaper thing

gives me the willies.

or really old people.

they scare me.

and i have little or no

patience

around

sick people, i'm afraid

of catching what they have.

basically

i'm not good at comforting

others

when they're in

pain.

so i don't know.

maybe i could work in

the cafeteria?

i can do eggs. hard boiled,

scrambled.

the secret is lots of cheese.

she looks at me and smiles.

i got just

the thing for you,

she says,

then hands me a broom

and a dust pan,

pointing out the window

at the trash

and leaves.

being misunderstood

i probably

drink too much coffee,

read

too many books,

watch too many shows,

work too long

and hard,

buy too many clothes,

shoes.

i can't take enough

naps

it seems.

or stop writing too

many poems.

some good, some bad,

some that

i'll regret later,

when i pick up

the phone.

the six iron

we all have a sweet

spot.

the swing

of a club

hitting the ball

soundly

towards the ninth hole,

plunking

the ball

onto the green,

over the bunker,

the pond,

with little or no roll.

a perfect

lie,

for an eagle, or

at worst

a birdie. sometimes

it just

magically

goes.

let's go sailing

we buy things

because

we think that we want them,

need them.

they will

complete our

lives, or what we imagine

our lives to be.

we buy a stupid boat.

we buy

a captain's hat,

a shirt with

parrots on it.

three weeks

later,

we're looking at  it,

swaying

against the pylons,

the rust,

the algae,

the mold, the gas

prices,

no one wants to sail

all day

to smith island,

for an oyster

anymore.

house arrest

he was under

house

arrest for a while.

lock and key until the sentence

was over.

when good behavior

made the judge

more lenient

and smile.

was the money worth it.

the loss

of respect,

and trust.

how did it happen so

suddenly,

was it greed,

or power,

ego,

how did life turn him

from a lion

into a mouse?

debonair days

the debonair

days seem

to be done, the well-dressed man

in gabardines

and fine

suits,

alligator shoes

and cuff links

to hold the sleeves down.

the days

of fine

cotton

and silk,

have left us.

the ascot,

the handkerchief,

a sharp hat, a dab

of cologne.

the morning paper,

coffee.

the martini lunch,

golf

then the afternoon

snooze.

st. petersburg

the signs are planted

in the yards.

for sale.

everyone is moving.

they're at an age

where

they feel the need to sell

and move on.

the yards too big

to care

for. the upkeep.

too many stairs

for these knees, 

time to get out.

out of the old

house,

away from the old memories.

time to sail away,

starting

new

somewhere,

somehow.

there were people here

there were people

here

at one point, a family,

and before them

another

and before them

another.

children were made,

their height marked

against

the kitchen door.

they grew

and went off to their

own lives.

christmas occurred.

birthdays.

new years were welcome

with

music

and toasts.

people got old

and died

in the dark rooms.

the snow came up to the window

some winters.

in the garden

flowers grew.

there were people here

at one point,

a family, 

and before them another.

this was all

before you.

it's about money

it's not

about money, but it is

about

money.

day

one, day of death, all

the in between.

will there be enough?

enough

to pay

each bill, to clothe

and feed.

will the lights stay on?

will the bar be open,

the cake wide

and high

as we say our vows.

what is the count of our

threads?

and in the end,

will it be

gold or wood

that they'll lay us

in,

before we're gone,

before

the last prayer is said.

just pack and leave

i listen

dispassionately to the trial,

the witnesses

of the two

celebrities

suing

each other for divorce.

why

are they wasting the worlds

time?

no one

cares.

why is it even on the news.

on any

one's mind.

and yet,

it's fascinating

in a world gone mad

with narcissism

and self

importance.

just pack and leave.

please.

the next man down

it's all you can eat

at captain George's along

Laskin

Highway.

the plates are large,

there's

no end

to what sits upon

the great buffet for

you to eat.

crab legs,

linguini,

eggs or chicken.

five different kinds of cake.

mounds of

potatoes,

slabs of ham,

cinnamon bread

and biscuits

to suit your taste.

there's a nurse 

on duty,

a defibrillator

by her side, waiting

for the next man down.

a snow shower

nearly

May, the ice in the sky falls

like

broken

glass,

cold

and blustery.

wind

seared, and strange,

not far

to the left a sun

peeks

through the green

of trees.

undecided.

i've dressed too lightly

for this

day.

the claws of the world

the strange thing

about letting

go,

not this namaste

bullshit, but

really letting go.

is that you finally have

your life

in your own hands.

when the worry

is gone

about pleasing others,

gaining wealth

or power,

or love,

or some sort of fake

happiness

found briefly by what

you own.

it's then.

at last. that

peace is upon you.

the world

and its claws have

been

overcome.

serenity knitting

i used to tease

her about her knitting.

sitting

on the porch, rocking,

back and forth,

balls of colored yarn

at her feet.

the sun coming up,

going down.

still at it

as the seasons changed.

quietly

knitting, more blankets,

more mittens,

more hats

and scarves.

she'd rather knit than

say what was on

her mind.

the worst is yet to come

when the big one drops.

and the mushroom

cloud rises

in the near distance,

beautifully tragic in 

the blue sky,

don't run, don't hide.

embrace the light.

run towards it.

the worst

is yet to come, but

only if you survive.

her days in the big top

she told me in great detail

about her days

with the circus.

she got dreamy eyed with drink

as we

sank into her velvet

plush sofa,

fading from violet into

a shade of sunset pink.

oh, those were good times,

she said.

i had a crush on the lion

tamer,

but i couldn't get the trapeze

artist,

Anzio out of my bed.

my best friend was the woman

with a beard,

all fake, she says, whispering

the secret

into my ear.

i loved the animals, she went

on.

the elephants, the lions,

the horses.

i'd ride Jumbo into the big top

to the applause

of the crowd.

sitting on top of his massive

grey body.

but i couldn't stand the clowns.

she shivered and closed

her eyes.

they were miserable people.

they smoked and drank,

and never left me alone.

a thin layer of dust

the dust

of room is persistent.

the exhale

and inhale of the house

settling

on shelves

and tabletops.

books,

and fans.

a thin layer of time,

telling us

what's to come

despite

all our efforts at

staying relevant,

and alive.

the last check written

they fought over

the will, thinking there was money.

but there wasn't.

instead

there was debt,

bills unpaid,

a wreck of a house.

outstanding loans,

lovers and stray

children left holding the bag.

the torn

bag,

with a hole.

he made sure, with a smile

on his face,

that his last check written

would bounce.

giving too much

the spoiled

child

with too many balloons

is in the sky.

i see him,

going up and up and up.

towards

the sun.

we take pictures of him,

as he rises.

he waves,

everyone waves.

it's a birthday party

that won't soon be

forgotten.

his unhappy life

has just begun.

the quiet room

say nothing.

retreat

to your quiet space.

don't return

fire

with fire.

let them have their say.

some people

are never happy.

your fighting

days

are over.

drama free.

at last saved.

rolling in the hay

my father had

no skills

at being a father,

never

having one himself.

he had

zero interest in kids.

kids

were toys,

or pets,

best kept quiet

in front of the tv,

well behaved

and fed.

it seemed to surprise

him that

another was on the way.

never quite

connecting the dots

of him

and my mother

rolling in the hay.

his dark cloud

he always

pulled the short stick,

never

out of bad

luck.

rarely was he not in

a jam,

needing,

a tow, or a dollar,

or a shoulder

to lean upon

when his ship went down.

you could see

the dark cloud above

him,

as he approached

on the street.

it was going to be along

and drama

filled

conversation.

you needed a stiff drink

and a seat.

my butter churn

it wasn't a shotgun

wedding,

but it felt

that way.

her father was italian.

mustache

and muscles.

a wife beater t-shirt

showing off

his tattoos.

he knew from day one

when he

met me,

what i was up to.

he actually told his

wife,

my future mother in law,

that it was time

i started paying

for the milk,

and to buy the cow.

from then on i thought

of my bride

to be as a butter churn.

the neighborhood has changed

the neighborhood

has changed.

the cranky old people

are dying or

moving

out

to greener

and final pastures.

kids, like

flies

fill the cul de sac.

screaming,

and playing,

balls bouncing in

the air.

dogs

barking.

strollers are everywhere.

someone said

hello

to me the other day

and i almost fainted.

no herbal tea

he rarely

exercised, never ran around

the block

with a stop watch.

no sit ups,

no crunches or

push ups.

no aerobics, or

zumba.

he was never on

a bicycle,

or used a rowing machine.

never

did jumping jacks,

or watched what

he ate.

cake

and steak were his

things.

no herbal tea, or organic

anything. he chain

smoked camel

cigarettes,

and drank daily

Canadian club whiskey.

it's hard to explain him,

still ticking,

now 93.

sorry i missed your call

sorry i missed your call,

your text

your emails,

your knock at the door,

then around

back

tapping at the window.

even the wind

blew away your smoke

signals.

i've been busy

without you.

let's try again,

tomorrow.

blue eggs

the blue

eggs, perfect in color

and shape

warmed

by

the sun, by the feathers

of

a mother.

how nature goes on,

and yet,

here comes

the snake,

black

as oil, slithering

up the tree.

olive bread

in a giving mood,

i hand the fat man who sits

on the corner

in his metal folding chair

with his sign

reading, god bless,

homeless,

vet,

three kids,

a loaf of olive bread

from the

bakery.

it's crunchy and best

served toasted

in slices

with a pad of butter.

he looked at me and

said,

what's this for?

i said

it's for you to eat.

he laughed and said

does that

make you feel better

giving me

a loaf of bread?

i can get all the bread

i want

at the shelter.

what i need is money.

cash.

if you want to really

feel

good about yourself

write me a check.

just try it, i said.

the way in is the way out

the way in

is the way out,

it's obvious now,

not around,

not over,

not under.

not through 

a window

to drop down.

use the swinging

door,

and go.

step out.

get back on

we break a leg

falling off

a horse, but we heal.

we forget

the pain and get back on.

the body

and mind

moves on, thankfully,

if not,

we'd never leave

our home.

cloak and dagger days

the cloak

and dagger days, are gone.

mere

memories

in the diary

written

in blood and tears,

sweat

running

down.

what chaos they were.

what

strange

and addictive fun.

how strong

we think we are, but

how easily

we come

undone.

five miles around

the trail

under rain is empty.

everyone got

their walk in yesterday.

in the sun,

the soft breeze.

the lake is more black

than blue.

more

a bruise

than a source of good

will

and healing.

just five miles around.

i did it

twenty years

ago, 

the day she died,

and will do it again,

now.

wedding dresses for sale

i find a couple of old

wedding

dresses

in the attic.

wrapped and sealed

hermetically

in thin sheets

of plastic.

once white, but slightly

yellowed now.

maybe i could sell them,

used once.

briefly.

no stains,

no remnants 

of cake crumbs.

both with workable

snaps

and zippers.

hooks and clasps.

willing to negotiate,

or

best offer.

complimentary

rings to go with it too.

young doctors

how much

can this young doctor really

know

about me. ten years

of school, pffft.

i've been

self medicating for years,

diagnosing,

mending

cuts

and bruises,

setting bones.

i've found

garlic to be great help.

turmeric

and chicken soup.

sleep.

and drink.

a borrowed pill or two

to get

me through.

i've done the research,

listened

to my heart,

looked deep

into my mouth

my ears,

my soul.

what could this young

whippersnapper

know.

not quite there

it's a cast

of blue snow

on

the sky.

the falling of clouds.

the shredding

of ice.

the grip of winter

still

holding on.

and we

with our daffodils

up,

our daisies,

and tulips.

sandals on, our

toes

in for a surprise.

we've got to get out of this place

the sharpest

of stars

draws my attention

as i lie

on my back in the short

grass.

i raise my arm,

to point at it.

that's venus she says.

we're on a hill

overlooking the town

we're in,

the town

we've always been in

and probably

will never leave.

i love you, she says.

holding my

hand.

i love you too, i tell her.

let's go

there one day. let's get out

of here.

there's so much of the universe

we've yet to see.

okay, she says,

i'm game.

wherever you want to go,

that's where

i'll be.

the pet rabbit

the pet

rabbit,

fat and white, a black

spot

or two

scattered across it's

shaking back.

pink eyed and nibbling on

something,

a carrot, some sort of weed,

or straw?

is it friendly, i ask.

not really,

she says.

pushing the cage

to the corner of the room.

a pyramid of dark

pellets

to the side.

a bowl of water,

half spilled.

it's teeth are very big.

she says,

we can't hold it,

or walk it,

it doesn't know it's name,

but it's cute and fluffy,

don't you think.

that has to hurt

is it a cry for help?

twenty-nine

tattoos, skulls

and crossbones,

butterflies

and hearts

inked on

necks and torsos,

breasts

and other assorted

parts. what is it with

the metal dripping from

ears

and tongue,

nose,

the ear with a hole.

the pink

hair.

is it wanting to be

noticed?

a lack of early hugs?

some

deficit of self-esteem?

who knows,

but i think i'm going out

the same

as i came in.

the empty tomb and potato salad

on Easter morning

I stand

in the cold line

for my ham.

it wraps around the building.

a cop

with cones

and a lively flare

directs the parking.

there is little

small

talk as the line slowly

moves along,

no one dressed quite

warm enough.

we stare into

the window,

deciding on potato

salad,

or other sides,

with

families waiting at home.

all of it

feeling trivial

and having nothing to do

with an

empty tomb.

what the hell?

strange

how she would wash out her

underwear

in the bathroom sink,

foregoing

the whirpool

washer and dryer

in the basement.

just three pairs.

mementoes of some sort?

blue and green,

one pink. she'd

lay them

out to dry on the bed.

frayed

and pale of color.

the elastic

stretched beyond

repair.

it was odd.

but not unexpected

of her.

a small clue as to

more

unusual things i was

yet to view.

absent of malice

mischief

is alluring, as long as it's

absent

of malice.

but the prodding or tease,

the gentle

tug of

hair, the rap

upon one's knee is

endearing.

love

beginning,

like counting freckles

on your 

young face.

wondering when 

the first

kiss

will take place.

the weary and battle worn

there is no ugly

in anyone.

form

is less important

than

function.

love conquers

all

defects,

all misaligned

or wrinkled

souls

come forward,

the weary and battle

worn

are the best.

running all the way home

with our envelopes sealed

with coins.

off we went to

church

on Easter morning,

the cellophane baskets

of pink

and yellow,

full of chocolate rabbits

and jelly

beans would have to wait.

would the mass

ever end?

our knees ached.

our hands pressed together,

sweating.

then finally the priest

would parade

by, so slowly,

and we'd scurry out 

the side door,

running all the way home.

they want everything

beware of those who

say

they want nothing.

they want everything.

if they

tell you they are drama

free,

prepare yourself for the hell

you are about

to go through.

low maintenance,

please.

batten down the hatches.

this ship

will sink

in the smallest of storms.

Springfield, Virginia

it's not

Paris, or Berlin.

or even

Amsterdam.

there's no monument, no

statues

to speak of.

nothing of importance

has ever happened

here,

or ever will

i imagine.

it's just streets

and bike paths.

a clover leaf to get you

north or south.

patches of woods

where the homeless sleep,

and man made

ponds that the children

wade in.

there's an Old Navy

at the mall.

an Orange Julius,

and a

Spencers.

I go to the Jiffy Lube,

nestled between

the 7-11

and Mr. Donut,

when it's time,

when the light comes on.

i told her no lima beans

she knows i hate lima

beans.

i've told her

so many times. please,

no lima beans.

and yet.

there they are

in a bowl,

in a salad,

a side dish almost touching

my pork chop.

my intuition

is telling me that

she doesn't really care

about my

dietary concerns.

which means,

this relationship

is doomed.

the fifteen cent raise

i had a job

once, at seventeen,

where i got a fifteen cent raise.

and i was

thrilled with it.

adding up

the new pennies over

a whole year.

imagining what

new things

i could buy.

where i could travel.

how much i could

save.

dinner theater

we saw

fiddler on the roof,

and then the next week,

with the same

exact cast,

west side

story

at the dinner theater 

in the round,

serving

hot meals

and drinks to the bus

loads

of seniors from Jersey.

in the middle

of Maria

an old man jumped

up

out of his seat,

spitting his food and yelled,

i can't eat this meat,

it's stringy.

the long distance call

there was a time

when the long distance call

was

romantic.

standing in a glass booth

along the highway

in the rain.

late at night.

a pocket full of change

ready.

to hear her voice

again.

after so long, too long

away.

when did we last speak,

days,

weeks?

this morning, she says.

not long ago.

i miss you too,

she breathes, you are

so sweet.

low on fluids

i ask her why

she's being so crazy lately,

nutty

as a christmas

fruitcake.

there's a strange

look in her eyes,

her voice

deep and dark,

as i take

a cake knife from

her trembling hand.

i finally get it out of her.

estrogen,

she says, weeping

into

her third piece of pie.

my doctor says

i'm low on estrogen.

how much?

i ask her.

a quart, a pint, a vial?

where do you

buy it?

maybe we can check

jiffy lube,

i think i have a coupon.

oh quit joking around,

she says,

getting the vanilla

ice-cream from the fridge.

this is serious,

you have no idea how hard

it is being

a woman.

so i've heard, i tell her.

so i've heard.

nearly every day.

sheep to the slaughter

with peach fuzz

on my

chin and cheeks, a pocket

full of

hard earned

cash,

i walked into

the dealership

to buy my

first car.

oh,

the salesman said,

wiping

the oil

from his hair with

a rag.

you want tires with

that car?

a steering wheel too?

undercoating?

you want

the deluxe version

don't you?

cold and sweet

is it karma,

is

it some sort of universal

energy

that

swings

back and forth,

waiting

for the right time?

serving

revenge cold

and sweet.

in the end.

does good win

out?

do we live long enough

to see

them

come apart?

it doesn't matter,

does it,

if all is well with

your own life,

your own

heart.

we're they ready for this?

the little girl

two doors down is walking

now.

it seems like

yesterday

when she was

still a biscuit in the oven

of her mother,

with

the smallest

of baby

mounds.

we're they ready for this?

who knows.

who ever is.

it won't be long

before she's waving from

a window,

in a car

departing,

now on her own.

busy before night fall

when my

mother was this age,

she was

on her knees in the garden.

another

case of poison ivy,

on her arms.

a cake

in the oven.

a puzzle on the dining

room table,

three hundred

and seventy nine piece

left

before it's done.

she had a parakeet

in a cage.

she had her sewing

room,

her doll house, with

her specks of glue

putting miniscule chairs

and beds

together.

when my mother was

this age,

she was going strong,

what possibly

could go wrong?

the night owl

is there a reason

to be

a night owl. are things

on your mind,

are you

distracted by the shows,

the cliff hangers

keeping

you hanging on.

the book

you'll never finish

as you linger

past the midnight hour.

is there something

left unresolved,

unsolved,

someone from the past,

someone

down the hall.

my cousin betty lou

she tells me about her

cousins.

jimmy, sally, don and rick,

betty lou.

she goes on and on about

them.

my cousin did this, my

cousin did that.

they sound like wonderful

people, interesting

and busy with their lives.

living abroad, 

taking trips, getting married,

having babies

and all of them

getting along.

i need some cousins.

i haven't seen any since

the 1970's, maybe i should

reach out and give

them a call.

start fresh

i believe in the scorched

earth

policy

of ending relationships.

toss, burn,

napalm the landscape.

make it all

a clean slate,

from cards to mementos.

all of it goes

to the curb.

start fresh.

we all make mistakes.

what's behind there?

can it be this heavy.

this

bureau

that i've moved a hundred

times.

an inch or two,

left or right.

forward or back.

have i gotten that old

that

my muscles

have lessened, my

back no longer

strong and straight.

it's possible, but

my will

to find things dropped

behind it,

is no longer a need

that great.

i'm bored with my printer

i think about getting a new printer.

there's nothing wrong

with the one i have.

dull black with a little blue

light.

it prints if i feed it enough

paper and ink.

it makes copies, it can scan.

it can even fax

if i want it to, although i've

never faxed a single thing

to anyone.

but it's dusty.

and noisy at times.

i want to be able to talk to it,

instead of going through

the trouble of pushing buttons.

i want to boss it around,

to have it make me a cup 

of hot coffee.

i want it to do more than

just print and scan.

i'm bored with it, and i'm

in the market.

it's about to go into the closet

with the other printers

i've had.

getting busy

April

is about to leave us

and what

have we learned.

anything new?

any

wisdom absorbed

along the way

of

budding trees,

streams

now fat with rain.

the birds

and bees

do seem busy,

why don't we?

can you heat this up?

we get the war news.

it comes

instantly

on our phones,

our tubes.

we see the bombed out

buildings.

the dead lying

in the street.

the homeless, the injured.

the tears and chaos

as it goes on.

then we

go to work,

stopping for coffee

along the way.

a cinnamon

scone.

her new Mercedes

i see my

dentist pulling up to

a stop

sign.

she rolls the window

down

and waves.

hey she says.

walking?

yeah, i tell her.

my car ran out of gas

and i'm

tapped out.

but hey, 

nice ride.

Mercedes?

yes, she says, top

of the line.

i have to run now,

but thanks.

i couldn't have done it

without you.

time travel

as i lie

on the cold tiled

floor,

hugging 

the porcelain wheel,

i ponder

that if i had a chance,

just one chance to go back

into time,

to go to any year,

any era

of my choosing,

i'd go back

an hour ago and order

something different

off the menu.

Indian food just doesn't

sit well with

me.

a few more degrees of separation

before he died,

he told

me about the time,

when he

was in jail

for assault and driving

drunk,

that his ex wife had

an affair

with the drummer

in the Marshall Tucker

Band.

while he was doing time,

she sold

his Harley,

burned his clothes

and moved

without a forwarding address.

but he was still

excited about

the drummer,

coming that close to

knowing a celebrity.

mincing words

uncertain,

you mince words, shuffle

in place,

play with a button

on your sleeve, you

put your hands into

your

pockets.

you avoid eye contact.

you rub

your nose,

scratch your ear.

okay, she says, i get it.

fine.

i won't bother you anymore.

it's all

very clear.

blue hair

i see 

her sister.

blue hair and heavy.

lots of clunky

jewelry

like the broads wear

in Cleveland

park,

she's on an electric

scooter

coming down King

Street.

she's holding

a grande vanilla latte

with extra

whipped cream.

she has a white mustache

because of it.

she's all of sixty-four.

there's a new

tattoo on her neck.

it looks like a feral

cat with

claws.

they don't even look

i almost

run four or five people

over

this week.

all of them, staring into

their phones

and without looking

crossing

quickly across the street.

i have the green light,

but they've

come out of nowhere.

i slam on the breaks,

they don't even look up,

they have no

clue that they were almost

hit by a car.

life for them

goes on.

but barely.

coloring eggs for Easter

we discuss

heaven and hell while

sitting at the bar.

she says

she doesn't believe in either.

she says

this is one or the other

here on earth.

you're not one of those

religious nuts, are you?

i can't date

a crazy person who believes

in those stories

in the Bible.

Noah's Ark, dude, come on.

give me a break.

Adam and Eve

oh, please don't eat that apple.

if you do

for the next million

years

the world is going to be

fucked up.

i thought you were a smart

man.

the empty tomb?

pfffft.

get real dude.

hmmmm. have you

looked at the menu yet?

are we ordering dinner?

i'm starving.

and by the way, i'm

coloring eggs for Easter

if you want to come over

Sunday

after mass.

big pinch, he says

this will hurt, the dentist

says,

hovering over you

with a silver

syringe

that seems to salivate

with what's ahead,

aimed upwards

into your most

sensitive skin.

big pinch,

he says, then goes in.

welcome to the neighborhood

when i moved into

the house

someone brought me an

enormous

tray of food.

tuna casserole.

i'd only been there for

one night.

what possibly could

i have done to them

to deserve this fright.

what's wrong with them

you can tell

where someone's head is at,

or even heart

by how

they drive.

too fast, too slow,

inconsiderate,

or mean, bumper

to bumper,

cursing and tossing

gestures

as they go.

running lights,

ignoring signs.

their lives are in

disarray, so they try

to straighten

out their problems

on the road.

the small smile

when less

ache

arrives, unannounced.

the pain

not quite

gone, but less,

and you've survived

there is a small

smile

of joy,

not full, but enough

to get you

through

the next day,

the next night,

and morning.

forgiveness

i come up short

on cash.

so i can't take the bus.

i have

to walk

in this rain.

i can't remember the

last time

i got soaked

like this.

to the bone,

my clothes heavy

on me.

but it's a good walk.

a cleansing

of sort,

minus a bar of soap.

forgiveness

arrives

in strange ways.

the tomato dilemma

whatever happened to what's

her name

someone asks me

in passing,

while shopping, holding a 

tomato in hand.

trying to decide on

organic or pesticides.

who? i ask.

who?

you know, the crazy person

you were related to

by the institution

of marriage.

i shrug.

who cares.

what do you know about

tomatoes?

i ask in return.

hot house, or beefsteak?

where is the will?

they can't find

a will

when the man dies.

they've looked everywhere.

the bureau

drawers.

the kitchen cabinet.

his busy desk,

beneath

the mattress,

the loose floor boards

in the attic.

no one knows

where it is,

listing his grievances

in how

he gives or doesn't give.

what matters most to her

the door, left open,

someone

has left in a hurry.

no trace

of them remains behind.

the clothes are gone.

rings

and bracelets,

the shoes

she wore.

the handbags,

the books.

she's even taken her

Warhol

pop art rendition

of the lord.

wisdom

not all old people

are wise

and thoughtful,

some are as dumb and careless

as i am.

don't let

the age fool you.

wisdom

can be found

at any age,

holding onto is one

another thing.

night versus morning

i prefer night.

she prefers morning.

we disagree

on so many things.

salt

is her go to,

sugar mine.

there's no middle

ground

to our disagreements

and yet

somehow,

we get along

just fine.

drop the shades

she was

all noir. everything she

wore

was black.

from heels

to hat.

dim the light, she'd say.

drop the shades.

she was in mourning

for most

of her life.

her moods dark.

there was no getting

around that.

somewhere new

other plans

get made.

other things to do.

the sun

has something to do with it.

call it

spring

flu.

you have to get out.

get away.

go somewhere

new.

she cries herself to sleep

she cries

herself to sleep.

who hasn't at least once

in this life.

it might

be about love,

or maybe it isn't.

maybe it's something

beyond

that.

maybe it's about 

something within her 

that no one

can reach.

not yet, not yet

the skin

will sag, will become like

crepe paper.

the hair

will fall out,

going white.

the eyes will have

lines,

the mouth,

the nose,

the teeth will loosen,

the muscles will go

soft.

the libido

will

lessen,

things that seemed

important

not long ago

will no longer have

at it.

but not yet.

not yet.

it wasn't always that way

there's is nothing

i need

at the grocery store. but

i want to go

just the same.

maybe a sweet.

a piece of fruit.

something i can freeze

for next week.

i like to browse

the aisles,

knowing that anything

is now

within reach.

it wasn't always that way. 

if she were a candle

if she were a candle.

she'd be

scented.

maybe vanilla, or almond,

or cinnamon.

often lighted

with a glass wine.

when i visit

i see the puddle of her

in the saucer.

brittle and hard,

the lovers

she's left

behind.

middle brow poetry

it's middle brow

at best

the critic says. pedestrian

prose,

and poetry.

not even a hint of

complexity.

there's no puzzle to solve,

no words

or mythological

creatures

to look up.

everyone knows what

you're trying

to say.

give up. let it go.

poetry should be confusing,

not

this way.

the neighborhood watch dogs

the neighborhood

watch

is on it.

catching

the car thieves,

the package stealers.

the dog

walkers who don't pick up.

look, no sticker.

tow it.

i see the angry

mob with

their torches lit

coming up the street.

they're cleaning

up this town,

these cul de sacs,

these narrow streets

of houses

where we live.

the unremembered day

there's rhythm

to the hours,

good days, bad days.

blah

days.

one never knows

when

unfolding

out of bed, what the day

or mood

will bring.

what luck will there be?

what misfortune

will befall you.

neither is quite fine.

keep it blah, if up

to me.

.

and now spring

these clothes,

threadbare and old,

hang

loose.

the winter took its toll.

a hard

snow.

little to eat,

the ice too thick

to fish.

and now spring.

what are we to make

of this.

nothing.

plug on.

in his sleep

his curtain fell

while asleep, was he in 

the middle

of a dream,

we'll never know, was

he thinking

about past loves,

the beach,

a city he's from,

again,

who knows.

but quietly he slipped

away,

no bang, no whimper,

with just

sigh

and then taken away.

same old

you're poems

are so

dark lately, she tells me,

with

a smile.

what's going on?

nothing,

i tell her.

same old.

with receipt in hand

spoiled

milk and meat.

i've fallen behind on

eating

things.

lettuce

and leftovers.

why bother bringing

them all the way home,

why not

toss them into the can

with receipt 

in hand,

when i leave

the store?

take nine of these and call me in the morning

nothing touches

this pain,

no kind words,

or cards,

no flowers,

not codeine, or aspirin,

or ice.

no ibuprofen

reaches

the level of anguish

where i am.

nothing over the counter

or under

the counter

seems to put out

the fire

of this wound.

not even skin to skin.

but this too

shall pass,

i know it will, because

it always

has, in time all things

will end.

more rocks

is that the moon

still

out.

the white spud of space

stuck

in blue?

is that really where

we want

to go again.

for more rocks, more

nothing

that's already here

in Arizona.

more rocks for me

and you.

before sunrise

i haven't been up

this early

since i delivered newspapers

for the washington

post.

a wagon full

of news, the dog by my

side,

hustling up and down

the streets

of oxon hill,

down the back alleys,

through

the cold shadows

before sunrise.

the wall between us

near mended,

i see him in his yard,

the old neighbor,

a slight

limp

in his gait, but still strong,

strong

enough

to set each stone upon

the wall

between us.

we wave and nod, 

but rarely speak, unless

spoken to.

keeping our distance,

our friendship

where it should be.

each of us

hardly known.

the tag still on

i stare at the orange

sweater

hanging in the closet

and wonder why i bought it.

what possessed me

to make such

a purchase?

it's never been worn,

the tag still on.

what day is a good day,

to wear

an orange sweater,

so far none have 

come to mind and i foresee

none in my

immediate future.

room with a view

we plan

for the ocean.

the seaside resort

on the eastern shore.

yes,

there will be sand

and sun.

there will be music.

and cold

drinks. hot food.

we might get sunburned,

we might get

tired from the swim.

the salt will

be in our ears,

our eyes,

but we won't

mind.

at night we'll

observe the moon

from high above in our

tenth floor

room

facing north,

one with an ocean view.

got milk?

milk has become

complicated.

what used to be simply milk.

white milk

squeezed from a cow

is now half and half,

whole milk,

2 per cent,

skim

and heavy cream,

light cream,

soy

and almond are now

claiming

their rights to milk.

let's not forget

canned milk,

condensed,

or powdered milk.

which i remember well

from childhood,

pouring the flakes

into water

and stirring hopefully

with a long

spoon.

half good

no matter how

good

you think you are, there's someone

who thinks

the worst of you.

one believes

in your goodness,

the angelic nature

you possess, while

the other,

bites at your ankle

seeing

the darkness.

the human side of you.

your clipped wings

and limitations.

somewhere in the middle,

like everyone,

is where your

true self rests.

other's gold

the soda can,

empty

and half crushed on

the curb.

ant filled

now.

a do not disturb

sign

up

in small letters.

the line is

long

as they enter,

then go.

what we toss, so often

becomes other's

gold.

drama kings and queens

so many drama

kings

and queens, sitting on their

rusted thrones,

wearing

their tilted

tattered crowns and tiaras.

where did the good

life go,

the shine of youth,

the money,

the perches they once

sat upon.

where is the adoring crowd,

the bows,

the gifts

the praise and glory

that was

once their own personal

Rome?

emotional eating

emotional eating.

is what

it is,

or not eating, we let

life

get the best of us sometimes.

more cake

please,

more drink,

more sweets,

more

of everything and then,

i'll eventually

feel fine.

or it goes the other way.

just water

and bread

for me.

as i lie in my cold dark

cell

and grieve.

war wounds

i didn't want to see his scar,

but he insisted.

drink taking hold

of his senses,

telling me in graphic

detail

how his ex-wife

took the knife

and cut him.

he pulled up

his shirt

lowered his pants

below the belt

and said, look at this,

my scar,

thirty-seven stitches,

and all of this was while

we were standing

at the bar.

what we want

the poor

want to be rich.

the rich want even more.

the single

and lonely

want a partner,

while the married

ones

want the door.

her garden

i like her garden.

it's neat

and clean,

well fenced

to keep the rabbits out.

tomatoes over there,

string beans.

radishes

and lettuce.

the little popsicle

stick

in the ground

tells you what's what,

the seed package

upside

down.

what's wrong with God?

the hard

questions go unanswered.

the why

of death

and disease, the slaughter

of the innocent.

the bad

turns

and failures,

wars allowed

and plagues.

why,

if one has faith do

these things happen?

what's with wrong with

God?

or should the question

be 

what's wrong with us?

palm sunday

i like

that she goes to church without me.

she doesn't

need my hand in hers

when she kneels.

her faith is sincere.

her aim is true.

she'll bring home her palms.

she'll cross

herself and be forgiven,

as i will be

forgiven too.

small and large things to write

you learn

early that you are less

participant

and more of an observer.

a witness

of sorts

to this life.

untethered to the masses,

watching,

listening, going

your own 

careful way,

finding small and

large

things

to write.

too far astray, come home

we go too far at times,

straying 

deep into

uncertain woods. not knowing

the land.

the turn

of streams,

the rocks ahead.

we are unprepared

without

food and water,

a good plan.

we go too far at times,

away from

home.

our ears

listening to a different

drummer,

a different band.

car sick

she would

get car sick, woozy

and yellow

from

the ride.

too long staring out

the window

as

that world

passed by. she wanted

off,

she wanted

her feet on the ground.

to get out.

and breathe

fresh air.

she wanted the drive

to end.

to at last arrive

and be found.

to full bloom

she picks

at her sadness as a child

would

at

the scab

that itches, forgetting

the wound.

bringing

once more to bleed,

starting over

again,

bringing the pain

of unrequited love,

to full bloom.

what else haven't you told me

what else haven't

you told me,

you ask

the world,

with ear to the ground,

to the sea,

to the bend

of branches

in the wind.

you open your arms

to the sky

and ask for

more.

more secrets, more

truth.

no lies.

we're separated, she says

she can't get divorced.

health reasons, she says.

his.

we're on

the same policy.

finances have

tethered us together.

we share the same house

too,

what about the disappointment

of our children?

we have

the dog to tend to.

the same friends

and relatives.

holidays are shared.

we still sleep in the same

room,

in the same bed.

but we don't have sex,

she tells me, 

that's been over for years.

we rarely talk anymore.,

but we love each other 

and it would be too sad

for everyone involved

to just get divorced.