nothing is lost

nothing is

ever truly lost

it's somewhere.

keys, or phone, a book.

a name,

or number

on a piece of paper.

somewhere.

as are people.

you just aren't in the same

place they are.

which often

is a good thing.

the velvet box

as a child,

after my father left,

i opened up the box

on my mother's dresser.

a small

velvet box.

out came music,

a beautiful tinkling

of sound,

and when it closed,

the music stopped.

but for a moment

a tiny ballerina 

swung around in a circle.

such joy.

but such sorrow too

in knowing

that the music stops.

neither were true

i find

a note with lipstick on it.

two lips

pressed against

white paper.

no words.

none needed.

i keep it

in a drawer

beside the other

note.

the ones that says,

i'm leaving,

we're done.

neither of them

were true.

half past seven

i move

the chair over there.

by the window.

the table,

i slide to the left,

i turn the rug

around.

put the vase on the counter,

lifting it from

the mantle.

i dust.

i empty the dishwasher.

i make the bed again.

put fresh towels

in the bathroom.

water the plants.

i shift pictures

from one wall to another.

i make myself another drink.

i think about painting

the far wall blue.

i light a candle and blow

it out.

i look out the window,

still no you.

i'm ready now

i like the smell

of that, 

what you're baking,

the sweet scent

of warm bread, perhaps.

muffins?

what's in your

oven, dear.

should i take a peek

and lift the lid,

or wait until you

whisper,

i'm ready now,

into my ear.

another new game to try

i've been tricked before.

cruelly.

and yet,

who hasn't been

fooled.

the curtain pulled,

the game

played.

we've all been suckers

at one point

or another.

the dark

hand of others

stacking the deck

and loading the dice.

you can't win with them,

but you can

get up and leave,

find another new

game to try.

another new drink

it's not better

or worse,

it's just what's next.

another way of doing the same

thing.

technology

is the new drink

trying to quench

our impossible thirst.

nothing changes

truly.

we still need fire,

and air

and water,

food from a seed

planted in

the good earth.

burrowed in cool

we change plans

because

of the weather.

it's too hot

for a walk, for a swim

even.

too steamy

for a bike ride,

or to sit outside

and grille.

the sun has suddenly

moved

closer to the earth,

so we choose

to stay inside,

under the fan,

burrowed together,

cool in the shade

of our berth.

a lower power

be careful

what you wish for,

what you

drop

a coin into the well for,

or wish

upon a star for.

be careful,

for it just might come

true,

they are not answered

prayers,

but from a lower

power, 

not the path

for you.

no longer living in the now

tired of living in the now,

sitting here

at the dmv trying to get

my license renewed,

i'm exhausted from

staying focused,

exhausted

by the moment,

waiting for my number

to come up.

B-12.

i drift off into the past.

i'm at the beach.

lying on a towel

near the ocean.

betty is with me in her

red bikini.

we're having cocktails,

and cold shrimp

from the cooler.

not a cloud in the sky.

her steamy long showers

it may have been

ten years ago,

maybe five when i hung

the wallpaper

in her bathroom, but

she calls

and wants it repaired.

the hot showers

and baths

have steamed the edges

apart.

sure, i tell her.

i'll be right over.

hurry, she says. i'm not

well.

i could go at any minute.

will there be a charge?

no, i tell her.

thank you, she says,

maybe the water has been

too hot.

the oncoming train

who hasn't been the squirrel

in the road

trying to decide

which way to go?

who hasn't scrambled

back and forth

our eyes

flickering with doubt

and confusion,

fussing over whether

to cross

or stay put,

who hasn't been run over

by a train

when indecisive

about the best path to take.

send a fruit basket

i can hold a grudge for only

so long

and then

i reach out

the olive branch, or something

like that.

text

or call.

send a note

or a fruit basket.

i might even bake them

a cake

to kiss and make up.

but some

hold grudges until 

the day the die,

unable to let of the anger

that burns

inside.

pickle ball

she tells

me she's going to play pickle

ball.

it's the latest thing.

less running

around

chasing

a tennis ball.

you can even eat a sandwich

and have a drink

during the game.

i bought a new

outfit

for the tournament.

what do you think?

that's an appropriate

color,

i tell her,

dill green.

the necessary mistakes

we flip coins,

draw

straws,

rock paper scissors.

we make

decisions 

on the throw of dice,

by chance

we direct our fate

hitting our knees

and asking

for help,

but nothing seems

to alleviate

the necessary

mistakes.

taking a bag to the curb

i see the fox

at the edge of the woods.

he's chuckling.

shaking his head,

i hear him

say really, are you serious,

pointing with

a paw to his mate,

as he sees me

taking the trash out

in my underwear.

black boxers,

nothing tight,

setting the bag by the curb

while there's still

a little daylight.

so bright, so bright

the moon

a white pill,

a flat balloon

without a string,

a communion

wafer

not

yet bitten into.

a far off

slice of eternity,

a nothing rock

in the sky

reflecting light.

here it comes,

into my room,

so bright, so bright.

still missing

i see her old face

on the side 

of the milk carton

as i pour

milk onto my bowl

of cheerios

and blueberries,

sadly she is still missing.

but not missed.

that's a shame.

reading the room

the trouble with being

an ardent

observer of those

around you,

and what's going on.

reading the room

like a gypsy with a fresh

palm,

you remember

everything.

never weeding the bad

from the good.

absorbing it all

like the empathetic

sponge that you are.

time to prune, she says.

and i agree, not a minute

too soon.

her green martini

i scrape the rust

off the iron grill,

putting my shoulder into it.

scrubbing it

clean for the next

piece of meat,

the next cob of corn.

medium rare, she says,

waving her hand

from the chaise lounge,

draped in shadow,

sipping a green

martini.

oui oui, i respond.

i aim to please.

the honey pot

like bees, these yellow cabs

swarm

fifth avenue,

our hand in the air,

needing a lift.

language

doesn't matter,

color

or creed.

it's the green they seek,

the honey,

and it's a ride

we need.

they let us in.

all things made whole

when our feet sink

into

the wet

soft sand, and we feel

the coolness

of what lies

below,

we are aware of change.

the separation

of all things

made whole,

together as one

despite our

differences.

before the first sin

before the first sin,

the first

lie,

the first betrayal,

you look into a child's

eye

and see

what could be.

the innocence,

the absence of malice,

of indulgence,

of ego, which is

soon to come and take

over,

ruining everything.

the gypsy souls

some need a home.

a place

to call their own, while others

keep on the move.

never quite

settling down.

they pick up their stakes,

roll up their tent

and move on to the next

town,

the next love,

the next job,

the next hope.

their ephemeral existence

full of self-imposed

drama,

always in flux.

just float

on saturday

we'll go down to the river.

to our bench

to watch the boats.

to watch the children play,

the lovers

walk hand in hand.

we'll sit close to one

another,

saying little that hasn't

already been

said.

we're in the Sargasso Sea

now.

no need to row,

or swim,

or sail.

just float along on

the calm blue water.

a long slow yawn

i say the words,

i'm not surprised

nearly

every day now.

sometimes

twice a day.

what is there out there

that's new?

what catastrophe

or war

hasn't occurred before,

what fire or flood,

haven't we seen

or known about,
babies out of wedlock,

Hollywood scandals.

politicians on the take.

priests on the run.

inflation and protests.

crime and punishment.

yawn. yawn. yawn.,

what's their problem

it's a guessing game

sitting

in the waiting room at the therapist's

office.

what's everyone's problem,

why are they here?

a boy,

a girl, 

a couple.

teenagers biting

their nails

with muted phones

in their laps.

an old man with a book

in his hand.

a woman crying

as she flips through

old magazines

on the table.

better homes and gardens.

Oprah,

popular mechanics.

Psychology Today.

i thrash through the pile,

leaning out

of my chair.

still no sports illustrated

swimsuit issue.

with nothing to add

i have nothing

to add

to the conversation

anymore,

so i say nothing.

which says 

way too much

for those still talking.

his confession

the priest

in his black garment

and collar,

with doubt on

his brow

confesses that he's worried

about his

faith.

maybe none of is true,

he says,

or worse yet,

maybe all of it.

not a single cloud in the sky

she tells me about

her broken wrist,

the hard

cast.

the slip and fall on

the front

step.

dry as bone, she says.

no rain,

or ice,

not a flake of snow.

and yet

i lost my grip.

and as i lay there,

she says.

feeling the pain

run

up my arm like

electricity,

i noticed how blue

the sky was this morning.

not a single

cloud

could i see, lying on

my back

in the grass. i felt young

again,

almost alive once

more,

strangely.

there it is

dying for a small

sweet,

some sort of chocolate,

or perhaps

a miniscule slice

of cake.

a spoon of ice cream,

an oreo cookie,

maybe

a snow cone.

something to satisfy the urge,

the craving

of sugar.

trembling, i search

the fridge,

then forage the ice box

on top.

my personal Siberia

for food that will never be

seen let alone

eaten again.

in the corner, covered

in snow

and ice, i see a small wedge

of something

wrapped in foil.

i dig it out and with a hammer

and chisel break it open,

bring it back to life.

it's cake.

a tiny sliver of wedding cake

from Entenmann's. 

it was that kind of a lame

wedding,

who cares.

into the microwave it goes.

i'm almost there.

back to the dark ages

the maid, Milagro,

slams her hoover vacuum

into my cable box

at the foot of the wall and knocks

out the tv,

the landline

and the internet all at once.

i'm suddenly

back in the dark ages.

i stare at the splayed wires

on the floor

and shake my head.

no repairman will come for

a week.

good Lord, what now.

how will i survive.

who am i now?

geez marie. 

so many nice people

i never

met so many nice people

that i never

want to see again

she tells me

in response to my question

as to how's

the online dating going.

smart, nice, funny,

etc.

she says.

everyone has a boat,

a bike,

a horse,

a house at the beach

and a small plane,

they all go to the gym

and hike,

and like wine,

but no chemistry,

no biology.

no astronomy.

not a shooting star in the bunch.

but hey,

what are options

these days.

no animals were slaughtered

she's drinking

the organic juice.

washing her hair with

some

organic potion.

no animals were slaughtered

to make

her lipstick

or rouge.

she's all green

all the time.

apples and tomatoes

from the farmer's market.

no meat,

her water's filtered

and clean.

her trash recycled,

and yet still

she's not a good person.

the reliable brain

you know,

you know, you know.

it's a vibe,

a feeling.

intuition telling you to

not go there.

but

you reason it out

and go anyway.

so much pain could

have been

avoided

if you had followed

your true self.

the gut being

your most reliable

brain.

the stubborn door

it's a stubborn door.

no matter

how many times you shave

the edges

the top,

taking it off

its hinges to sand

and plane,

it finds a way to stick

again.

at last you leave

it be.

you can't change anyone

or anything,

it seems.

old love

i hear them

in the kitchen, 

elbow to elbow

at the counter,

two birds on a wire,

slippers scratching the floor,

the clang of forks and knives

against plates.

his arm in the cold

light of the fridge

taking things out for lunch.

no, she says.

i think that's gone bad.

throw that away.

he lifts the lid

and smells the jar.

i think you're wrong,

he says. it's fine.

gently, she takes it from his

hand

and puts it in the trash bin,

then opens up a new

jar and hands it to him.

there you go dear, there.

it's a jungle in here

i'm not fond

of monkeys

or people that have them

for pets

for that matter.

same goes for iguana

owners

and snake people.

i can live with

your pet goat

or horse,

cat or dog.

but i could never sleep

next to you

with a jungle going

on.

the day of the gypsy

was it the gypsy curse,

the tossing

of glass

in our direction because

we offered

no money

for her begging.

was it a curse she put

on us

in a strange dark

language,

as she stood at the stoop

shouting

from beneath the hood

of her

black shroud,

or was just our turn?

a day in the city

i leave an umbrella

at Chadwick's.

my glasses,

at the A & P,

my raincoat at Winstons

on M street.

i lose my

wallet in a bathroom

at Union Station.

my shoelace

breaks

walking down Wisconsin avenue,

my hat blows off

at Dupont circle.

a taxi hits a puddle

and splashes me

in the crosswalk

on Constitution.

I'm arrested for jaywalking

on Capitol Hill.

I don't do city's well.

mighty mouse in a sarong

the massage

woman

is small. she's asian.

black hair,

quiet

and shy.

but good lord she's strong.

she's mighty mouse

in a sarong.

hands like steel.

elbows grinding out

the deep tissue,

making me moan.

she walks on my back

cracking the bones

like kindling in a forest.

she drums the daylight

out of my legs

and arms,

my shoulders.

with her rapid fired

fists of fury.

ginger bakers got nothing

on this girl.

stay out late

you're at an age

where you can stay out late,

stay up all night,

burn the midnight oil,

as they say.

but you don't, at least

not anymore.

sleep is a drug now,

a drink,

a fine woman.

an elixir for the day.

at ten your head

is on the pillow,

sighing with relief.

to dream, perchance

to dream.

millennials, oh my

in their 30's now,

the college

un educated

young men and women,

still at home

with parents,

holding their Me phones

in hand,

snapping

another selfie

to send and post,

over confident from all

the participation trophies

they got when young,

waiting for the miracle

to happen.

waiting for fame and fortune,

for lightning to strike,

because they

deserve it.

not working,

not reading,

not creating or adding

to the world,

still playing video games.

their lives

stalled

by social media,

technology,

and laziness.

still sucking on the teat

of good will

and go fund me.

salivating for the trust fund

to kick in.

they will soon take over

the world.

what's left of it.

oh my.

perfectionism

every hair in place,

not a crumb

or drip in view.

her

cup

or saucer

neatly stacked.

each edge dusted,

each table

and floor with a shine

shoes

aligned,

the bed made,

the apron ironed.

beware

of this hell

you are about to enter.

a wedge of lime?

when i used

to care

more about things,

i'd hang

onto the paper, the radio,

for updates

about the war, the possibility

of war.

the marches

downtown,

the protests.

the price of everything rising.

but what's the point.

something new

to gripe about.

i try to listen to my friend,

red faced

as he blows off

steam

about a world gone mad.

i shrug,

and ask him if he'd like

a wedge of lime

with his gin.

the traffic jam

there's  a traffic jam

in the cul de sac,

the small circle to turn

around and leave

the neighborhood,

there's a car

bringing pizza, a truck from

amazon.

ups delivery.

someone ordered kung

pao chicken

from hunan west.

there are cars full of maids,

landscapers,

dog walkers,

the trash truck

the recycling truck,

a moving van,

and at last the mailman,

no longer

the loneliest man in town.

no visible bruise

you rub

the knob of your elbow,

the sharp

bone

between

shoulder and wrist.

how sore it is,

no visible bruise

or cut.

somewhere along

the line

you struck it.

the memory is

no longer

with you,

though

the pain remains.

who's in charge here?

is it truly

a colony of ants.

do they have a legislative

branch,

a mayor of their own

small mobile town?

who's in charge here?

this colony

that's on the counter,

carrying

crumbs of bread and sugar

off

to eat and trade

without a sound.

a perfect bake

the blush of sun

on your

face,

your pale legs

and arms,

your shoulders.

sun baked, but

not overdone.

just right,

warm to the touch,

perfect for kissing.

the drama of others

you run

from the stir of trouble,

from

the pain

of others,

self made.

their drama and misconceptions.

you can't help

them.

you don't have

the time or desire

anymore

to lift their spirits,

to wave

the magic wand and make

it all better.

time to grow up.

suck it

up,

pick up your toys and go home.

a radius of two miles

i can't drive at night,

she tells me,

or in the rain,

or on wednesdays.

that's knitting day.

in fact i don't even

have a car anymore,

i rent one,

or call my uber driver,

jimmy, we go by first names.

i try to stay within

a two mile radius

of where i live.

it's scary out there.

plus i have a dog and

a cat at home,

grandchildren who

are waiting for me

to help them read.

plants need watering.

but i am a fun person.

just not after 7 pm,

or on weeknights

or holidays.

a few red flags were apparent

i do a pre-nup,

a post nup,

an in the middle nup,

and have it notarized

by a judge.

she ain't getting a penny

this time,

i tell myself,

staring at her while

she sleeps with her hand

on a gun.

no siree bob.

i'm on top of this one.

thin sliced baloney

i go back 

and try to decipher

the mumbo

jumbo

of the new age gurus

and self

help coaches.

the books are dusty

half read

when trying to figure

the world out.

but i understand the world now.

it's all clear to me now.

i no longer need these books

about living in

the now, namaste and

all that

thin sliced

baloney.

time for a stiff drink

and a night out on the town.

out to lunch

we order two burgers

medium rare

and fries, then she tells

me what she believes,

leaning over the table

to whisper it all to me.

she believes in UFOs.

in the loch ness

monster.

she swears there's ghosts

and goblins,

witches too,

things that go boo 

in the night.

she believes that Oswald

didn't act alone,

that big foot is out there.

that Elvis is still alive

wearing his blue suede shoes.

she believes there's a plot,

a conspiracy around

every corner.

you'll see she says, you'll

see. it's coming

and all will be revealed.

i ask her to pass the ketchup

please.

don't delete me

i'm still in touch

with about four or five

dead people

on social media.

girlfriends and pals

long gone.

i don't have the heart

to delete them,

unfriend them.

i still like seeing their faces.

it's as if they're still

here, a phone call

or drive away.

ready to talk and drink,

have lunch with me.

i hope that

when i'm gone

they'll feel the same way 

as i do someday.

taking less

i'll take less

these days

rather than more.

less

food, less talk, less

sleep

less tv

less drink.

i'll take less and be full,

i'll take nearly less

of everything,

everything that is,

but you.

word salad

there's big words

in the mix,

like leaves of lettuce,

phrases other's have

said, worn cliches,

avoided subjects,

unanswered

questions.

it's a mix of berries

and nuts. a vast

array of unripe tomatoes,

bitter onions,

it's a a word salad

when trying

to get the truth

today.

pages unturned

the stack

of books, the dust of them.

the read

and half read.

the pages underlined

in blue

or red.

my ink, and yours.

the book marks

in place

where we left off,

so many pages

unturned

and not to be.

to you, in late spring

new flowers

have arrived

like the promise

of love.

it's in the air.

as you are

walking towards me

in the sun.

i sit on the bench

and wonder

where the past has gone,

what tomorrow

will bring,

but seeing you 

stops such thoughts

for now,

as i listen to your

footsteps,

and a distant bird sing.

no magic

there is no true

magic.

no slight of hand that

can't be

reasoned with,

there is no trick,

no scam

that can't be figured out.

it's smoke and mirrors,

a false bottom,

a mirage.

like you my

dear,

the world when

standing back

is as transparent

as a pane

of glass.

whatever you do, don't pull my hair

whatever you do,

don't pull my hair, she used

to say,

with a wink.

of course she wanted me

to pull her

hair

and get rough,

and other hijinks.

it's strange the things

you do for love,

hurting the person

you care about most.

a fine line

exists between pleasure

and pain,

she'd say,

purring in her leather

cat suit,

her safe word

being, toast.

use your nails

the small flea

makes

itself known with it's

tiny

teeth.

you versus him

or her,

who can tell,

is no contest.

all night long you

lie in bed

and scratch.

not there, not there,

ahhh,

right there.

use your nails

and dig.

thanks.

when the night was young

years ago,

a friday night would be

happy

hour, which lasted until

the joint closed

at 2 am.

still in our work clothes,

our coats and ties,

our dress shirts,

our scuffed shoes.

we'd have run out of steam

by then,

drunk enough,

full of bar food,

potato skins and burgers,

every girl in the place

knowing our names

and laughing,

shaking their heads as

we sang loudly every

song we knew.

for better or worse,

let's erase

the tape, and do it all

over again

next week, the night was

young

and so was i, and so

were you.

the long black coat

this coat will last 

another year.

another winter.

i pull the collar up

as the wind blows.

i button it to my chin.

i dig my hands deep 

into the pockets.

it's been a good coat.

a good friend.

i like to walk in it 

when the moon is full,

when i need to think,

when i need to decide 

on something

that will change my life

forever.

taking a walk

the dog

refuses to go home.

he lies in the street,

the owner pulling at the leash,

pleading

to let's go.

we all want to play,

to stay out late.

we don't want the closed

door,

the tension

in the house.

now is the past

uncertain times,

the young

man says. i laugh.

always.

always.

take a long look back.

nothing changes.

now is the past.

a dying breed

where are the kind

people.

the gentle

honest souls.

the ones who smile

and hold

open the doors,

where are the cheerful ones.

the calm

and unpretentious

ones.

the loyal,

the true,

the God fearing

souls?

where are the kind 

people.

so many of them

are gone.

baking love

our sweet

sweet

cares, our whistle, our

whispers,

our gentle kisses

and touches,

confectionary measures

of interest,

baking

love, it's going

there.

what bends me towards her

it's not her curves.

her hair,

the length

of arms or legs,

it's not the green in her eyes,

or shape of her

hips,

the tenderness of

her lips.

it's none of that.

it's what

beats inside,

that bends me 

towards her.

so close at hand

don't wait for the dirt

to fall,

for the curtain

to close.

send love now.

receive it

as well.

don't kneel at the grave

of the dead

with tears of regret,

why wait

when the living

are so close

at hand.

there is another world

there is another world.

a world

of hard men

and women.

language and color

keeping

them in place.

lack of schooling.

the lower class. the beaten.

the ones

with calloused hands

and bent backs.

the miners,

the factory workers,

the construction workers.

the farmers.

the orange pickers.

you see them

with their brown bag

drinks,

sitting in the shade on

their rented stoops.

keeping their old cars running.

their children

fed and shoed.

they're too tired to fight.

too worn out

to do anything at night

but go home

to a cold beer,

a meal, the blue buzz 

of a tv screen, into

the arms of a husband

or wife.

then to bed before

the next sun rises again.

take it to bed with you

stay in the ocean long

enough

and you will take it to bed with

you.

the waves

inside

you.

the vague

hands 

of the ocean

pulling you,

releasing you.

the salt and sand,

the burn of sun

upon your skin.

the smell of seaweed and fish,

the bright glimmer

of water

sparkling in your eyes.

on your way out, close the door

i've had people say to me,

you're dead

to me.

i wash my hands of you,

you're nobody

to me anymore.

we're finished, done

forever.

don't contact me anymore.

at first it stings, and then,

i nod and say okay.

i'll see you when you

need me again. but

please, on your way out,

close the door.

what goes around

does it really come around,

what goes around.

is karma

a boomerang

from down under?

will the bad receive bad

at some point,

will the lies

or hurts come back to

haunt them?

or will they continue

to stroll through

life, as if all is well

and perfect?

painted black

where once

you were

idealized, close to perfect

in the eyes

of a loved

one

you wake up to find

that now you're

painted black.

dark.

a shade

of no light.

you think back as

to what

could have done

or said to have caused

this sudden

change of heart.

what have you done

to draw

the curtains

and leave you in

their dark.

ambient noise

there's ringing in

my ear.

i google it.

not enough zinc perhaps,

or magnesium

in my diet.

but i get used to it.

it blocks

out the other noises.

the voices,

the whispers,

the news

and all that.

another chance

they

string a net over the side

of the Calvert Bridge

to catch

the people who no longer

want to participate

in this world.

they get another chance

as they

swing back and forth,

caught

in the net of life

once more.

a hand or two away

when we played

cards,

we played for change,

a dollar or two, we didn't

take chances

with our money.

it was more

about getting together.

drinks

and food,

some music on.

old friends, not quite

old,

not young either.

poker, five card stud.

we were in-between

the next phase of our lives,

a hand or two

away from

where miles

and life

would come between us.

juggling

i throw

each ball into the air.

one, two,

three.

hand to hand they go,

one in the air.

they used

to be sharp knives,

but now

when i juggle,

i take more care.

and draw blood

passive

moves, the tilt of things.

the drop

of crumbs,

a door ajar,

lights left on.

a drip in the sink.

the butter left out.

even loved ones find

a way

to prick your skin

and draw

blood.

what lies within

some never step

off the stage, they have a mask

and script

for nearly every

moment of their life.

stage left

stage right.

they want the spotlight.

the praise,

the adoration.

it's all about image.

not what lies within,

which

is nothing but air,

hot wind.

stranger at the door

a stranger at the door.

a steady

rap.

i look out the window.

i don't know

him.

what's wrong?

is it death, or illness?

is he selling something

that i need?

have i left the car lights on?

it's raining,

it's almost dark.

what brings a person to

my door

at this hour?

he won't be out there long.

sea jewels

the sea glass,

green

and gold, turquoise

and

black.

sea jewels worn smooth

from

the sand and salt,

time.

shards of broken bottles,

and cups,

windows.

clues

that will never be

unraveled

from a distant past.

expirations are for the weak

how many cans

have you opened in one lifetime?

setting

the teeth

onto the edge

of the lid

and biting down.

around and around

until it opens,

then pried clear of the sharp lip.

tuna.

beans.

fruit.

cat food and dog food.

spam

with the twist key

tight

against the top.

potatoes and pears.

soups.

the poor quick fix to an

empty stomach.

expiration dates are for

the weak.

thirty years

someone makes a cake.

another

brings a bouquet of balloons.

someone strings

a banner across

the room.

cards are signed.

small gifts are placed

on the table.

hugs are received,

kisses on the cheek.

hands are shook.

tears are shed.

there's a bottle of

champagne.

the cork is popped.

then it's over.

now what?

it wasn't overnight

it wasn't overnight,

but it felt like it

when looking back,

and remembering

when children

suddenly were no longer

happy with their lives.

when

did this occur?

was it understanding of

how the world

was built.

the end of a summer?

was it the discovery of money,

or sex,

or that a lifetime of work

lay ahead?

what undid the magic

of childhood.

stole away the rainbows

and unicorns,

was it something

in your parent's eyes.

something in the news.

the first

brush with someone else's

death?

two paths

the conversation dwindles

down to

weather.

a bad sign.

not much left to talk about.

little to agree

upon but rain.

the paths that once

converged

have

taken a turn,

one veering left, one right,

a cold front

has arrived.

three ways to sunday

old news.

old news. i get it three ways

to sunday.

paper,

phone, tv,

the internet,

and from the neighbor

next door

who still relies on

over the back fence

gossip,

or news from a string

attached 

to a tin can.

irma la douce

it's not a stray cat.

but

acts like one.

eating

from the hands of strangers.

milk in a saucer.

fish

and what not,

in a bowl.

the owner stares out the window

and shakes her head.

watching her cat

stroll

through the courtyard,

sashaying slow,

being loved

but everyone she doesn't

know.

a good run

they have

a hard time letting go

of the old house.

kids raised.

eighteen years of marriage.

i good run,

i offer the husband.

he laughs.

i guess so, he says,

putting

books into a box to haul

out to the car.

the wife is sweeping

the floor,

one last time.

opening and closing

doors.

she's crying.

the wind

the world

has changed, but we haven't.

have we?

somewhat.

we've adapted.

but it goes fast.

i open the door and feel

the wind

of time

against my face.

what happened to last year,

or the year

before?

gone,

just like that.

just say no

can you cut a lock off

the rail,

change a bulb

in the ceiling, 

a filter

in the furnace,

can you scrub the tub,

put tiles

behind

the sink.

rewire the light switch,

snake out

the drain.

can you walk my dog,

feed my cat.

take the packages in

when it rains.

no.

just paper and paint.

where are they now

the old

friend from the old

neighborhood

reconnects on the dinosaur

site

called

Facebook.

hey. he says, remember when?

then goes

off on our escapades

of fifty years

ago.

i ask him what happened

to joe

and dana,

mike and john,

what happened to charlene,

and bobby bates and lulu,

jimmy click,

henry

and perry, and jim acs.

where's breck now,

byron

and bryson.

what about sharon and

her sister marie.

snookie and fitz?

marsha.

maxie and karen,

ike robey and fran?

beats me, he says.

beats me. half the time

i don't even know where

i am.

warm muffins

i wake up

thinking about a warm

muffin

right out of the oven

at the corner

bakery.

i tap her

on the shoulder,

waking her up.

are you thinking what

i'm thinking?

i ask her.

probably not, she says,

putting the pillow

back over

her head.

getting smarter

are we smarter

with

the smart car,

the smart water,

the smart tv?

what next?

smart donuts,

smart beer

smart cigarettes.

buying anything with

the word

smart on it,

proves

that it's not

working, at least

not yet.

mediation

we settle out of court.

i get all the books,

she gets the kitchen gear.

i get the sofa and the tv,

she gets

the big mirror in the hallway

and the one in

the bedroom.

she takes her yogurt

and frozen fish,

i keep the meat

and potatoes.

she gets the mini van,

i keep the convertible.

i keep the dog, she keeps

the parakeet.

the kids we cut in half,

i get the boy, she gets the girl.

the friends relatives,

we leave up to them.

crickets

i used to get the card.

the hallmark

card.

the humorous card.

or an email

expressing love

and admiration,

gratitude for all i've done

in raising

the wayward son.

perhaps

a hand written note,

a phone call.

or a text.

but now it's crickets

chirping

across the miles

nothing, but air.

time to rewrite the will.

whatever i find

i make the decision

to make

no decisions today,

already

going against my

simple vow.

i'll just do whatever

the first

thing is that comes

to mind.

childlike,

dog like.

picking up and chewing

whatever i find.

the beep beep beep

that sound

you hear, is me backing up.

the beep

beep beep

a truck makes when

it slowly

decides to go

the other way,

or turn

around

and leave.

making that vroom sound

i stare at the new

car

in the show room.

mint clean

with that new car smell.

mythos black

shiny as summer night,

buttery leather,

an alpine color,

top of the line audio.

a stampede

of horses under the hood.

more technology

than

i can understand.

i sit in it 

for a few minutes,

and make

a vroom sound.

pretending i'm on the autobahn.

then the salesman comes

over

and says, you like,

to which i say.

sure, Achtung, 

wrap it up, i'll take it home.

church food

when we were dirt poor.

the church

would bring us baskets of food,

leaving them

on the front porch.

but never any candy,

or sodas,

or chips or cookies,

not a single

Bundt cake,

but meat

and potatoes.

chicken and frozen

fish,

string beans in cans.

the occasional

ham,

heads of lettuce,

carrots.

i lugged it all in to my 

mother sleeping on the couch,

quietly on cat's feet,

nearly

breaking my wrists.

south of the border

she tells me about Mexico.

her travels south.

i have my own Mexico story,

but i resist

the temptation

and listen to hers.

she tells me

how hot it was,

the flowers in her hair,

how she danced,

the tequila she drank,

the bandito

she fell love with.

she lifts up her sleeve

and shows me an old

tattoo,

Jaun it reads inside

a flowery heart.

i miss him, she says,

a tear rolling down her 

trembling cheek.

it was the best three days

of my life.

making things worse

i chase

the lone fly around

with a rolled up newspaper,

at last

having some use

for the post,

but he or she

is too quick

for me.

buzzing close,

between the lampshade,

the blinds,

zig zagging

out of reach.

i open the doors, but

that only

lets in more, not

to mention

a swarm of bees

and a gaggle of geese.

a set of steak knives

the gas station

across the street with

cans

of oil

stacked into pyramid

shapes

sold gas

for 29 cents per gallon

in 1968.

the man,

in a clean white suit,

would come out with

a rag

to clean the windshield,

check the oil

and wipers,

and pump the fuel

for you.

a fill up got you a dish

or two.

a tea cup,

or a set of knives.

and a road map of maryland

if you wanted one

to peruse.

pieces of her

i find pieces

of her

at times, embedded in the rug.

between

cushions.

a strand of hair,

a broken

charm,

the back of an earring.

a brush

left behind.

like all endings,

good or

bad,

they go slow,

take time.

the hydrant

he remembered

how hot

the pavement was on his

bare

feet.

his mother pouring

lemonade

on the porch

into small cups,

how the fireman

opened the hydrant

with 

a wrench,

sending a fountain

of cold water into

the air

and onto the street.

he remembered

that small yet wonderful

joy

of summer,

the leaping and laughter,

as he slipped

into a forever sleep.

willing to negotiate

the man,

a barrel of sunburned

skin,

white haired

and

still, sipping

beer from a can,

sits by the side of the road

with his sign.

shark teeth

and hubcaps.

best offers, it reads.

a bowl of

shark's teeth are on a card

table beside him,

and the hubcaps

are flat on the ground

reflecting

the summer sun.

i like how he's willing

to negotiate.

you have to love

a man

being that good natured

about his

business. 

the sky remains blue

not far from sleep,

i drift,

in the sudden coolness

of

the shaded tree.

a breath

of fall, or is it spring,

coming from

the hollows

of clouds,

and distant seas.

not far from sleep,

i dream

of you.

the miles between us.

the years

and time,

mean nothing,

for the sky remains

blue.

repairing the wall

i take my time

with the stone wall.

it borders the field

where wealthy neighbors

ride their horses.

the old wall,

it keeps no one in, or out

for that matter,

but it needs repair.

some stones have fallen

to the ground, weather

and time

doing its damage, but

it won't take long.

i'll take a cold drink

along with me.

i'll take breaks from 

the heavy lifting,

resting in the shade

beneath

an ancient oak tree,

planted before

my father's birth.

then get back to it,

aligning rocks and stones

where they

need to go. as he would do

at my age,

repairing what's gone wrong.

not too far off

i'm off the grid.

but not too far off.

i'm in the backyard.

where the cell phone reception

is weak.

i'm in a chair

with a book.

no tv.

i'm unseen in the bright

sun.

no friend or neighbor

around.

but there's a cardinal

on the feeder

staring at me with

suspicion.

whispering to others

with a bird like

sound.

those icy years

when the car

won't start on a cold

winter

morning.

turning the key,

pressing

at the pedal,

i think of you and those

icy years,

when you

wouldn't turn over

either.

the spill

i miss the step

going up

and fall backwards,

a bowl

of oatmeal hits me in the

face.

i land

at the bottom.

nothing broken.

nothing

hurts.

just a pile of me

in awkward

disgrace.

but the dog doesn't 

mind

as i feel

his tongue giving

love

and taking some.

still ink in the pen

there's still ink

in the pen, i tell her.

what do you mean by that,

she says.

squinting her beautiful

eyes.

are you talking about

writing,

do you mean that you

have more say?

or are you talking 

about something else?

treading water

do you pretend

at happiness.

secure

and content in your job

your home,

your loved

ones.

does the dog wagging his

tail

say it all

when you arrive.

or is

not like that at all.

treading water,

feeling incomplete,

doing what you need

to do

to stay alive.

good fences make good neighbors

it used to be that good

fences

made good neighbors, 

as Robert Frost

once penned in a famous

poem,

The Mending Wall,

but now

it's a good password,

a good

cyber security system,

an upgrade

on Norton

and Mcafee,

an

impossibly difficult

firewall

with

photo and

two step recognition,

and finger

print accessibility,

altogether

they 

make good neighbors.

although

pulling the shades

down

helps too.

the broken finger

you can tell

the finger was broken once.

the way

it bends

and juts out in

the wrong direction.

but can you remember when

it happened,

and how.

no.

i'm good at pushing

pain

far into the past.

though scars

remain.

cross examination

angered

and frustrated,

i asked her if she was lying

about something,

and she paused,

put her finger

to her chin and looked towards

the window.

and said,

have i lied to you yet?

probably.

but you would lie to me

too

if i asked you the right

questions.

which was true.

a good point.

unsalted butter

my neighbor

would come to the door,

around

nine in the evening and 

ask me

for a few teaspoons

of olive

oil.

sometimes

a can of tomato paste,

or two tablespoons

of 

unsalted butter.

usually she'd been

drinking red wine,

sometimes carrying the half

empty bottle

with her,

and a glass.

want some, she'd ask,

brushing off a strand

of pasta

from her short black dress.

i'm new to this

it's rare anymore

that you can say, 

i'm new to this.

i've never done

this.

or tasted this.

i've never felt like

this before.

the list is getting shorter

of where

you want to go,

or what you want to do

before the closing

of the door.

all those ambers

they don't like

exposure.

they like to roam the dark

skies.

sunlight

kills them.

the pretty mask

hides

their lies.

their true self,

the blackness inside.

they'll steal your

life,

your joy,

your happiness,

but only for a short time.

drive the stake

early.

throw open

the curtains,

expose them to the world,

open the blinds.

the middle life

we want the fat middle.

the boring

middle.

the long stretch of same.

we want,

the domesticated

middle.

cutting grass,

and raking leaves.

eating together,

walking,

reading.

making love while

it rains.

we want the middle life,

not the confusion

of the first

days,

the tragedy

of the end.

Japanese Maple

in the center

of the small yard

i plant a tree.

a red tree.

a Japanese Maple.

it's dramatic.

brilliant

and filling.

something like

candy

for my eye to see.

it reminds me

of you.

planted firmly

in the ground

like you used to be.

nothing will come of it

no matter how often

you water

some things won't grow.

they stay

in ground,

or come out stiff

and slow.

a sad shade of brown.

you give it love.

you give it sun.

you pull the weeds.

you say sweet things

to the earth,

the burrowed

seed.

and still nothing 

will come of it.

she wanted pearls

she wanted pearls,

i got her pearls,

she wanted a ring, 

i bought her a diamond ring.

she wanted a house.

a yard,

a king size bed

with satin sheets.

a vacation home,

one in the city, one

at the beach.

she wanted a maid,

i hired one.

a poodle with a rhinestone

leash.

she got that too.

and then

a cake to eat.

she wanted pearls,

i got her pearls,

and then she wanted to

be alone.

alone,

with someone else,

someone else,

not me.

a moment of truth

it's hard to be untruthful

when

angry.

there is no room

for ambivalence,

or being

on the fence,

or being misconstrued.

there is no

parsing of words.

you can't lie

and be angry

at the same time.

at last

it's a moment of truth.

to recharge

i plug myself into

the queen

size bed to recharge.

then food,

then drink.

the books.

then love.

then silence, the best

recharge of all.

solitude.

we accept it

we accept

it. naming it mystery.

the loss, the death.

the tragedy.

God's love?

or indifference?

it's hard

to tell at times.

is he bored with us?

tired of

petition prayer.

rote prayer.

pleading prayer.

does He shake his head

and stroke his

beard in wry

amusement.

wondering why we

still care,

keeping faith,

accepting what comes,

before returning

to dust.

the bark on him

he had a lot of bark on him.

the smoothness

of youth

taken away

by winters

and summers.

the years of love

and

without love

having their way.

he didn't say much anymore,

for what was there

left to say.

he'd just look

at you and smile, and nod.

and that was enough.

nothing has changed

we may not talk much

anymore,

or see each other,

our lives

may have gone in different

directions,

with many miles between

us,

but the love

has never died.

the friendship has never

waned.

you're still the same

girl

i knew when we were

young,

and i'm the same boy, 

nothing has changed.

simple things

if i take

coffee out of the equation,

what

other simple pleasures

are there.

writing.

sleep.

books and movies.

sex. (hardly simple though)

a ride on the bike.

raking leaves.

yes, raking leaves,

reminding

me that things die

and then are renewed

again.

despondent early love

i remember

standing outside the women's

dressing room,

holding her

purse,

two more dresses and

a pair of slacks,

she wanted to try on,

and thinking about the game

that was on television

that i was missing.

a big game.

my favorite team in

the playoffs.

but here i was holding

her clothes to try

on,

waiting for her to come out

and spin around

to ask me what i thought.

great,

i told her. you look marvelous.

but i felt very sad.

despondent might be a better

word.

the sound of things

we know

the sound of things.

a baby crying.

a door

closing, the stairs

under

the weight of our

shoes and legs.

we know the sound

of coffee being poured.

of opening

a letter.

of water dripping.

the bark of a dog.

wind in

the trees.

the crackle of a fire.

we know all these things

without seeing them.

our minds are full of

sound.

attached

with a memory, a day,

and into

tomorrow.

where she won't be found

she says

let's go visit your mother's grave.

i say why.

she's not there.

she's not

in the ground, below

the grass

and stone.

she's everywhere.

no need

to stand and pay

my respects

in a place where she

won't be found.

thin skinned

he's a walking

bent over banana at this point.

bruises

from bumping into things.

the wall.

a chair.

the shower curtain.

purple

splotches mark the spot

of contact.

then the skin peels away.

grape like.

reddish and oozing.

he was always thin skinned

about many things,

but this is a whole new level.

end of times emoji

i get

a text now.

a lame

three or four word text.

happy

birthday,

father's day.

christmas, or easter.

no more

hallmark cards.

no gooey,

sentimental cards

stirring up

emotion.

just a text and a smile

emoji.

no more calls on the phone.

talking

seems to be

off the table as well.

a love like that

i hear the neighbors

making

love next door, i think,

or maybe

they're having a disagreement,

a fight of some sort.

it sounds

the same to me.

angry words are said.

curses.

there are slaps,

and accusations.

screams.

a crescendo

of bed springs.

things fall to floor, pictures

on the wall

leave their nails

and crash.

who doesn't want a love

like that?

what's wrong with these people

you can't figure people

out anymore.

is it a childhood thing?

chemical,

biological. dna?

maybe demonic possession.

nearly every

day, you shake your head

and mumble

what the hell is wrong

with these people.

were they dropped on their

heads

as babies?

not hugged enough,

born too close to the power

lines?

what's going on here?

geeze marie.

the straight jacket factory

needs to amp

up their production.

just coffee for me

i see

the blue haired sister

eating

a whole

pie with a fork

at the diner.

she's wearing a gingham

dress.

yellow and white

patches

holding her girth

beneath it.

blueberry jam

is on her lips.

she sees me, and taps

the table

with her fork,

have a seat, she says.

how have you 

been?

it's been a while.

want some pie?

just coffee for me i tell her,

no pie

she slips another coin

into the table

juke box.

roy orbison.

pretty woman.

moon pie

i asked her once,

a long

long time ago,

raising my hand like

a good

student. why, i asked,

are there

so many poems about the moon?

anthologies

are littered them.

she laughed,

then read one of mine.

it too was

about the moon.

keeping it light and fluffy

i find your story sad

and depressing, so keep it short.

i'm not in the mood

for dark.

although i've shared my share,

enough

for one lifetime

to make others walk.

but no more.

let's keep it light and fluffy.

pass the whipped cream

when

you're done with.

shake it first, my love.

then give me a shot.

how clever it all is

how clever it all is.

to put

the moon just so, the sun

out of reach.

how we go

around

in circles.

not too close or too far

away.

keeping

all of us in place.

the sea

and things.

you and me

tethered not just by

love

and kindness,

but by

gravity.

the combover

the dog

is losing his hair.

he's shedding all over the house.

i look at him.

he looks at me.

he puts his tail over his head.

join the club i tell him.

let me

get the clippers and

the razor

out and be done with

it.

the combover is

no way

to go through life,

brother.

on a budget

coffee has gone up.

gas too.

i see a cake in the window

but don't buy it.

i'll eat

tuna from a can

until

things go down.

i'll ignore the hole

in my shoe.

i ponder a garden in the yard.

how hard can it

be?

a small cow,

a goat,

a few chickens.

a small row of corn.

i'm on a budget.

just one martini per night

now,

unless

it's friday

and you come over

to dance

and together we sing

the blues.

falling up the stairs

who doesn't

have a scar, an old wound

to speak of.

who doesn't

have a bruise somewhere

gone blue,

a stubbed toe,

an elbow

struck, like lighting

up your arm.

who hasn't fallen,

or stumbled up a flight

of stairs.

tell me.

who hasn't been in love

and lost?

raise your hands.

no one?

when the stream dries

when the stream

dries

in the drought of summer,

the trees

tired

from lack of rain.

holding

dearly onto the memory

of green,

we will walk

across the rocks

to the other side, hand

in hand.

unwet,

unbothered by the rush

of water.

but all things

in their own time

will circle,

come back again.

the old briefcase

i feel the shortness

of the day

before i leave the house.

leaving late is part of it.

lolly gagging

they call it.

listening to music.

trying to decide which

t-shirt

to wear with my khaki shorts.

i look out the window.

i see a man in his suit.

a cup of coffee

in one hand, his briefcase

in the other.

his wife is on the porch holding

a fat pink baby

that they made.

i can't take my eyes off 

the briefcase.

a briefcase?

i go to the attic and find

my old briefcase.

i wipe the dust off it.

i open it

and a dozen pens fall out.

erasers.

a shot glass from a bar

downtown

that's no longer there.

one silk stocking.

1985 the parking ticket reads.

i climb

the ladder down out

of the attic carrying the

briefcase.

i'm back in business.

whatever works

i didn't think

their marriage would last.

he's a city boy.

she's a country girl.

she's large,

he's small.

she's a radical feminist,

he's whatever

way the wind blows.

she likes pie,

he likes beer.

she likes to knit,

he likes to fish.

they're not even opposites,

just different.

but becoming

the same, after just

a few short years.

no refunds

i walk over to buy

a dixie cup full of lemonade

from

the stand across 

the street.

three kids

sit at the little card

table.

ten cents a cup it says.

and below

that no refunds in

bold black letters.

i take a sip.

i understand quickly 

the reason

for the larger sign.

spit it out over

there, in the street,

the little blonde girl says.

not on the lawn.

can't hide your lying eyes

when the paper

lies, when

the newsman lies, your

ex wife

lies.

your siblings, your

parents,

your priest.

when they all lie

and smile

as if a lie

isn't a lie anymore.

you wonder if you should

just join in,

and surrender

to a world gone awry.

an orange in each hand

people are heading south,

or west.

few go north

to where the snow falls.

our bones

don't like the cold anymore

the icy rain.the wind

and storms.

we want billowing shirts,

and shorts.

we want to go

shoeless on the white sand.

we want our taxes

lowered.

we want our skin

to be tanned.

we want to hold an

orange

in our hand.

not a shovel, a scraper,

a bag of salt,

in the darkness of winter

 with the power down.

nothing is lost

when she died,

i put her socks, her combs and brushes,

her perfume

and purple gloves

into a box.

her pictures.

her ring.

her watch.

over time, much is gone.

but nothing

is lost.

not wanting the book to end

there is so much

i don't have to tell you.

you already know these things.

the way

i sleep,

or what i choose to eat.

the books i read.

the unraveling plot of me.

you know so much.

and as far as you go,

i'm still learning.

turning gently to the next page,

not wanting

the book to end.

collecting clues to who

you are,

along the way.

relying on hope

deep into the psych books,

almost

doctor deep.

i'm wading in a masters

program.

heading towards

a phd

in behavioral science.

reading

hard into the night from

the DSM.

Freud and Jung.

i realize at some point

though.

that it's an industry.

a money grinding machine

built on hope.

a dangerous word.

the world is awash with self

book books

and life coaches.

but hope,

no, there is none.

there is no cure.

no way out.

no one truly changes

for the better.

it's the secret they don't tell

you.

no one 

gets healed. it's whispered

between

doctors,

between therapists

and psychiatrists

the patient though keeps

coming back

for more.

more hope.

i could have done more

i berate myself

for only painting three rooms

today.

one bathroom

and some ladder work in the stairway.

twenty feet in

the air.

but at home.

i feel like there was more

i could have done,

stayed late.

burned that midnight

oil.

i'm getting lazy in my old

age.

sleep and warm baths are

agreeing with me

more 

with each passing day.

there was no way to know

it was a long walk home.

alone.

but it wasn't quite dark yet.

you were

young.

the world had a green glow

about it.

past spring

deep in june.

the smell was on you.

the hint

of love.

a brush of hands, a small

kiss.

what magic

there seemed to be

rising

from all sides. up

and below.

where things were headed.

you know now.

but of course then,

there was no way

to know.

take no prisoners

take no prisoners.

we don't

have the room, the food,

a place

to put them.

our hearts are not big

enough

to keep

those defeated around

any longer.

free them.

let them go off

to their own lives

to different battles

in other wars.

take no prisoners.

let them

leave their swords.

the black leather coat

before jake

died

i gave him my black leather coat

that i never wore

anymore.

it was too tony soprano

looking.

i used to wear it to the courthouse

to fight a traffic

ticket.

he looked good in it,

though.

the small time gangster

that he was.

it was a good coat.

it kept me warm

in those jersey winters.

wearing it in snow storms

on a tuesday

night to go meet some

jezebel in a chinese restaurant.

they buried him in it.

all my slips of papers

in the pockets.

fortunes.

it keeps

him warm now, i'm sure,

six feet under.

in session

when i see the geese

at the lake,

following one another,

fighting,

nipping at each other for

some small

thing.

i think of congress,

politicians.

all in their grey suits

and dresses.

not leading us, but

wandering

around

the stagnant pool

they've made.

are you ready?

the butcher,

his blood soaked apron,

his large

red hands

holding a knife,

looks at the lady and says.

what do you want.

maybe

some pork chops, she says.

is  ground

beef

on sale?

are those chicken breasts

fresh?

he points,

at a man behind her

and says.

you, how about you.

you ready?

after you

it's a new job,

a new house, a new lover.

a new 

pair of shoes,

a new

attitude.

a new dress, a new

way of

walking.

a new path to the waterfall.

a new mask

to wear.

a new

ring,

a new

everything after you.

a house with windows

we need a house with

windows.

we need the light,

we need to be able

to see what's out there.

who's coming

who's going.

we need to know what

the weather is.

where the clouds are,

where the sun is in the sky.

we need windows

to look out,

and on occasion for

others to look in.

getting ready

i see the neighbors

hammering

nails into boards to cover

up their windows.

loading their

guns with ammo.

unleashing

dogs in the yard.

electric fences and barbed

wire

going up.

search lights.

i see them carrying in

canned goods and water

by the truckload.

i ask them what's up,

as i lick

a cone of rocky road on

my front stoop.

we're getting ready, they

tell me.

ready for what's next.

third planet from the sun

it's a dizzy world.

upside down.

the list is too long

to write down.

it's growing old before

our eyes.

more crazy

and uncertain with each

turn

around the sun.

how soon

before the third planet

becomes

none.

boys staying boys

before the words leave your

mouth

you know

that you'll sound like an old

man saying them,

but you say them just the same.

it's what old men do.

they don't give a damn.

you say that the young boys

are staying boys.

never becoming men.

they don't want to work,

get their hands dirty.

they don't want the aches

and pains,

the inglorious existence

of blue collar.

of building a business

off minimum wage.

they want the money, sure,

who doesn't?

but they want the house too,

the car,

the clothes, the girl.

they want it all, but they

don't want to work for it.

the first time a man got

a manicure it was the beginning

of the end of the world.

it's time to quit

the teacher tells me it's her last

year.

she's done.

it's not the same anymore, she

says.

i'm going to retire

at the end of this school year.

kids are wild.

dangerous.

they don't listen.

spoiled and entitled.

i'm done she says.

no one wants to hear

about shakespeare

anymore,

or robert frost, or

walt whitman.

it's a jungle in there.

math and science don't matter.

it's no longer teaching

and learning.

it's baby sitting.

time to quit.

time for my life to begin.

there won't be a dinner,

or a gold watch,

or placard.

i'll just turn in my badge,

my key

and slip back into oblivion.

the pool pass

the pool

is not for me anymore.

too many

kids

peeing.

yelling and screaming.

too many leaves and debris

floating about.

families

gathered around taking

all the good

chairs,

the best spots where

the sun

comes down.

i look through the fence,

nah.

i don't think so.

not a single bikini.

maybe they'll go away

there's someone at the door.

knocking, ringing

the bell.

i look out the side window.

it's not Mormons

with their crazy book,

or girl scouts selling

cookies,

it's not my neighbor

complaining that i put

the trash out

too early again,

it's not the police,

or a fireman.

or anyone from the condo

board complaining

about 

me not watering the bushes.

it doesn't look

like any ex wives or

girlfriends holding sharp

knives either.

who the hell is it out

there?

carefully i tip toe back

to the couch.

maybe they'll go away.

easy work if you can get it

i see an old scarecrow

out in the field.

no crops to speak of,

a bare

field of unplowed

dirt,

a few lingering

stalks

of battered corn

as the wind

whips the dust into

my lungs,

but the scarecrow still

hangs

by her arms on the wooden

cross.

the stitched in eyes,

the grim

smile

and tattered clothes.

the long stick nose

now a bird's perch.

all day

she's on the job.

easy work if you can get it.

what's next?

i don't know how

but

it happens.

the picture out of line on

the wall.

a half inch

tilted one way or the other.

the balance

gone.

and i measured so well.

the tape

stretched out,

the level.

the careful pounding of

the nail.

centered.

and now it's gone awry.

is this a portent

of some kind?

what's next?

her version of the Bible

i saw her

with a red pen editing

the bible

one day.

crossing out all the sins

she disagreed with.

what are you doing?  i asked her.

i'm correcting

God's word.

making it more up to date.

a lot of these

commandments 

are very old and seem more

like suggestions.

such as, i asked.

well, here it says adultery

is a sin,

but i think that's not

right.

if two people love each

other,

even though they're married

to other people,

adultery

should be okay.

you know, you're going to

hell, don't you? i told her.

i'll fix that part too, she said

and went

back to work.

fiery pit, pffft, she said.

the cherry tree

we used to climb

the black

cherry tree like monkeys

and eat our

fill

until our stomachs bulged

with the candy

sweet

fruit,

ripe and full.

we scattered and slid down

the branches

and trunk

when we saw the headlights

coming up the street.

the horn blaring

at our silhouettes

disappearing

like shadows

up the street.

the next summer,

like all good things

of youth,

inevitably, it too

was gone.

extra virgin olive oil

i take a can

of extra virgin olive oil.

and squirt it on my shoulder,

around my neck,

into

my elbows.

i give my

knees a few squirts

as well,

down to the ankles.

at last i rise.

i'm loosened up

to face the day.

and i smell

good too.

for now this works

the door

is a tight fit.

the heat has swollen

the wood.

so i shave the edges.

sand

them down.

but i know when winter

comes

the cold air

will

be found.

if i were you

if i were you, i told her,

i'd do this

and this,

and that and finally

do that.

but i'm not you, she said.

and don't tell me

what to do with

my life.

who are you to tell me

what to do.

just suggestions, i told

her,

ducking the shoe as it

flew towards

my head.

but in the end she did

exactly

what i suggested.

all of the this

and all of the that.

are they better off than we

are they better off 

than we,

no feeling

towards others,

no angst

at words, or injuries

made,

little or no empathy

for the world.

do they sleep

well,

beneath their narcissistic

cover,

or do they toss and turn

as we do,

sorting out our

days,

before closing our

eyes in

fatigue.

are they better off than

we are,

numb to the world,

to self.

while we bite our nails

and try

to forgive each other

for sins,

committed or

imagined.

the green polka dot bikini

she shows me her new

polka dotted

bikini.

i approve.

lime green with white dots.

what about the red one,

she asks.

oh my,

yes  that one too.

and the baby blue.

you're killing

me i tell her, it's almost

impossible

to decide.

bring them all okay.

and the heels

too in case the weather's

bad and we have

stay inside.

sailing into the sunset

they cash it in.

sell

the business.

steer the boat south

to sunny

Florida.

where

so many go to die.

the game

is over.

the struggle.

the marriage has survived.

there's no reason to stay

in this old town

any longer,

nothing's

left behind.

time to ride out

the final years,

hand in hand,

sailing into the sunset,

with another

glass of wine.

taking a moment

when black ice takes

you down,

and you're not broken,

or bleeding,

just embarrassed.

don't get up

too quickly, lie there

and stare up

into the sky,

at the clouds or stars.

the blue

between the trees.

relax 

and enjoy the moment.

ponder

your life.

it's a good time

to reflect

and be thankful,

knowing how little control

you really have.

the lost cat poem

i tell her she has nice

legs.

she tells me

that she likes some

of my poems.

especially

one of the nineteen poems

i wrote yesterday.

it resonated with me, she says.

the one about

the lost cat.

i tell her i don't remember

that one.

she says,

it's about losing a cat

and you not

worrying where to get

another one.

is there a double meaning

there?

or is it just about

a cat?

ghosted

it's nothing new.

this ghosting. 

the disappearing

act.

it's been around

for a long time,

i think Shakespeare

had it down

pat.

a lot of ghosts rattling

their chains

from the first

to the final act.

the no response,

the blocked

call,

the fading away of once

true friends,

or relationships

gone wrong,

now shadows creeping

behind

the walls.

it's nothing new.

the crib lesson

i'm on hold

i'm circling the tarmac

looking

for a place to land.

i'm in line.

i have to wait.

where's my luggage?

it's not my turn yet,

don't they know

that i'm

a busy man?

i learned this in the crib.

crying

seems to bring

them

to me.

my bottle, my binky,

my diaper changed.

screaming helps too,

turning blue in the face.

suddenly

i get my way.

good love and time

i lost interest

in counting days.

in words said.

arguments,

i put them all to bed.

what

and where and why

had no

meaning anymore.

all of it washed

away

with good sleep,

good food,

good love

and time.

winter work

you had to work

fast

in order to keep your job.

quick of hand

and foot.

no quarrels

or complaints.

just go and get it done.

tomorrow

you'll do the same.

if you work hard

and keep

your nose clean

and arrive on time.

up the building went

and you with

it.

until complete.

friday you picked up

your check.

and took out

the paper

to find another job,

a hundred

men like you

in line in the cold,

stamping

their feet.

on a good day

the sea,

with

it's enormous

appetite

and apathy

will

swallow you whole.

she sees neither wrong

or right.

she just is.

taking,

sinking, and tossing

back

whatever

doesn't sink, or on

a good

lets you sail

to another port

unscathed.

hide my phone

i have to stay

away from the phone when

i've had

a few martinis.

god knows who

i might call, or text.

the typewriter too.

get the pen out of my hand.

i can only say stupid

things

i'll regret in the morning

when i'm half in the bag

and feeling lonely.

self portrait

i pull the brush

down

across the canvas. blue,

then red.

is it still life,

or a landscape?

self portrait, perhaps.

i can't paint.

or draw.

i try, but it goes nowhere.

a cow

looks like a dog.

i give it a large set

of eyes.

a child

could do better.

i turn it upside down,

then sideways.

i splatter it,

i spill paint on it.

i take my hand

and smear it into a puddle.

that's better.

too many

the man in

his black beret,

speaking spanish,

a cigarette in his lips.

a leather bota of wine

around his neck.

his burlap bag full

of newborn kittens.

he tips his hat and waves,

he smiles

at us children

as he heads down

to the beautiful green sea

to drown them.

all seven of us 

sit on the curb and wonder,

are we next.

the falling out

the falling

out we have 

is not uncommon.

father and son,

wife

and husband.

siblings.

disagreements occur.

but for some reason

it doesn't bother me

like it used to.

it's okay

that you don't see things

my way,

nor i yours.

maybe one day

we'll find a middle ground

to sort things

out.

maybe we won't.

whatever

happens,

i won't lose sleep over

it.

the brick layer

the bricklayer.

his hands

wide

from

lifting, his fingers broad

with

the trowel

in hand.

the walls go up.

he keeps

things level.

he taps down,

to the side.

a layer of mud,

then another brick.

all day, he makes

things

right.

but home is another story.

get out of the game

it's not a world

you want

to be a part of anymore.

just a few

select friends.

shutting the door

to the rest.

it's different now.

sure the sun rises,

the sun

sets.

but beneath it is a world

gone mad.

you find solace

in quiet,

in books and words.

in film.

you go back to the old

writers.

the original

flames

that get you going once

again.

find love

and don't get hurt,

don't hurt anyone,

get out

of the game.

poetry class

the poetry instructor,

says,

write about a rock.

any kind

of rock.

describe it,

the color the shape,

the weight.

how it feels in your hand.

the taste

of it.

salty or sweet?

hold it up to the light,

throw it.

feel it.

sleep with it.

it's just a rock, but it

isn't.

now begin.

never leaving the nest

you get no map.

no

directions.

no gps

system.

you're pretty much on your

own

at a certain

age,

kicked out of the nest

and away

you go.

at least that's the way

it used

to be.

but lately the nests

are

still full

of a lot birds

with wings, but no

desire

to fly.

cream of wheat arms

i examine

my arms.

i need more muscles.

i'm slacking

off,

i need to pump some iron.

hit the gym,

how am i ever going to get

some hottie

if my arms

are skinny like this

i take

some vitamins

and wheat germ.

drink some muscle milk.

i sign up

for a class.

it's a lot of work.

maybe i'll just photo shot

a picture

of my arms,

post it

and that will be that.

gone fishing

you get involved

with the celebrity defamation

trial

because it's fun,

and interesting

and it reminds you of your

own trials and tribulations

with a variety of

nutcakes,

but after a while, you

just want to turn away.

enough is enough.

you change the channel,

twist the dial,

pick up a book.

and go fishing for a day.

early antiques

when i think about

my grandmother,

it seems that she was very old.

always.

wrinkled

with a wild schlock of

blonde

silver hair.

she smelled old.

she talked old.

she moved around slowly

with her cup of tea

as if she would

break into pieces,

a fragile antique.

and this was when she was

fifty.