a note on my pillow

don't leave me

notes

on my table, or pillow,

or taped to the refrigerator

door,

or in the mail

slot

lying on the floor.

don't tell me your grievances,

your disappointments,

don't point out my

faults,

my weaknesses.

my failures and inabilities.

don't.

please, just don't.

that complaint line is long

and old.

just pack your bags

and don't look back,

just leave.

as you are often

told.

in the garden of eden

at times i have

the discipline of an infant,

unable

to touch, or want,

or put something desirable

into my mouth.

but if i was in the garden

of eden

and the only rule was to not

take a bite of an apple,

i think i could handle

that.

i could say no, i'm good.

who needs an apple when

we have heaven right

here on earth.

pfffft, apples, who needs em?

the financial advisor

she arrives

in a small car, old,

a Chevrolet?

maybe,

blue smoke belching out

the back pipe.

the windows are rolled

down on this july day. 

ninety in the shade.

she waves

with a pencil

in her small round

hand and gets out.

she has folders under

her arm.

black notebooks full of

laminated sheets

of future earnings.

actuary tables.

stock

predictions, algorithms.

she's sweating.

her clothes too tight.

she's acquired my name

from a friend of a friend,

of a friend.

she wants to be

my new financial advisor,

she wants to

show me the light.

wet cement

with the new cement 

poured

between the boards

for the sidewalk,

and the workers gone home,

i see from the window

two young boys, both

with sticks in hand

scrawling

their initials into

the wet concrete, 

yet to harden.

marking their life,

letting the world know

that they were here.

that they exist,

a desire that never

seems to end.

when you're down that low

to me it was a job

to get

to another job.

maybe a summer,

maybe a year.

but for others, they were

grown men.

some just out of prison.

grey faced,

and weary,

hunched over mops,

or brooms,

trash bins,

living on the small paycheck

they got

twice a month.

there was a clock we

punched into.

stiff uniforms

that never quite fit,

our names

on peel off stickers

over our chests.

there was a green tiled 

room where we ate,

sitting side by side

on hard benches,

many of the men and women

black or hispanic,

and me white, but it

made no

difference,

we were all in the boat,

color meant

nothing

when you're down that low.

is this a long story?

the elderly ask

you to be quiet so that they

can tell

you a story.

come over here and sit

by me.

let me tell you what happened

back in my day.

was it sixty-one,

or two,

maybe sixty-three?

but the young are

impatient, they want

the punch line now,

the end before

the beginning.

they don't want to waste

time on the middle.

they need to get away,

and out,

their own stories 

itching to start.

betty and veronica

she named

her cars

betty and veronica.

the first one being an

angelic pale blue,

the second one

red.

cherry red.

fiery and wild.

she drove a different

one each

day, depending

on her mood.

i'd look out the window

when she stopped

by for a visit.

hoping for veronica,

bursting red,

not blue.

have you found everything you were looking for

the clerk, a young woman

with red hair

and a blush

of freckles on her lineless

face begins

to move my

groceries along the belt.

she seems neither happy

or sad,

but elsewhere.

she asks me

if i've found everything i was

looking for.

i think for a minute,

then tell her

that's such an existential question.

do you mean

here, in this store, or

are you talking

about life? life in general?

she doesn't respond,

but continues to ring up

my milk and bread,

shaving cream,

her fingers rapidly

clicking

onto numbers.

i've worried her.

monkey business

i suddenly

have a craving for bananas.

there's a sore

on my leg.

i'm climbing trees.

making

strange O shaped

noises.

i'm very jumpy

and excited about everything.

i scratch

the raised bump

on my leg.

i'm picking fleas 

off my sleeve.

i'm wondering.

monkey pox?

nothing's wrong, nothing

one minute 

in the kitchen

icing cupcakes,

and the next minute

she's on

the ledge about to jump

out the window.

gently i take her arm

and help her

down.

i ask her what's wrong.

nothing she says.

nothing.

i take a bite of a cupcake,

and look at her.

smiling.

these are good, i tell her.

real good.

what we remember

we drink,

clinking glasses together.

laughing like boys

at the bar.

most of us

white haired, grey,

stretching knees,

and arms.

the wind of time in our

faces.

but we were young once.

and that's

what we remember

and savor

as we press on towards

our own good night.

i won't be there

it's possible that

i won't hear him

when he falls, when he yells

out

for help.

i won't be there

to hold his hand

as he

takes his final breath,

his heart

reaching for air

and more

beats.

i won't be around.

but he knows,

and it doesn't

matter.

love

is beyond all that.

a handful of feathers

it's a small bird

on the sill.

a sparrow

resting,

carved

brown and gold.

hardly a handful

of feathers.

she looks in, i

look out.

our paths may never

cross again,

i think, as she

flies away

and i return to

my own life.

hoping for the moon

i see the entitled child

up in the clouds.

his small hand gripping

a dozen

red balloons.

his parents stand below

and wave goodbye.

they did the best they could

giving him

everything he ever wanted,

indulged his

every desire,

and at last he's gone.

now away

he goes.

further and further

into the sky,

overconfident

and hoping for the moon.

no need to say anything

i like how you say

everything

by saying nothing.

it's the look, the sly smile,

the wink,

the nod,

the finger urging me

to come closer.

it's how you stretch

out on the long

black couch

and purr like

a cat up to no good.

the factory worker

all day

the man stands 

at his machine

in his thick boots

and hooded shield

amongst

the sparks of fire

and steel shards,

grinding metal.

polishing.

creating what the factory

needs.

he wonders

what took him down this

road into these

long years.

he wonders

what could have been,

if only, so many ifs

to ponder,

but then he pushes aside

those thoughts,

and thinks about the love

of his life, at home.

her kiss.

no easy way to get there

few roads are straight.

you have to go

around,

negotiate the detours,

bridges

being out.

fires and floods,

delays.

there is no easy way

to get from

point B to point A.

but once you get there,

you remember

how you came.

rainy days at the 5 and 10

it's a vacant lot now.

gravel,

dirt,

a chain link fence

around nothing.

but i remember

the building,

the 5 and dime.

the counter where we

read

comic books,

drank cokes

and ate grilled cheese

sandwiches

until they made us

go home.

somewhere between

childhood

we wiled away

the rained filled summer

hours

in the cool store

with just pennies to our name.

the round wooden table

it was a good

piece of wood. it took

stain well,

bringing out the grain.

hard

and clean,

unblemished,

the bark

sanded away, no knots.

a nice table, a nice

round table

polished and centered

for the room, but i wonder

if it missed being

part of a tree,

with its friends in

the forest.

you should go sometime

she comes

back

with pictures of the Grand Canyon.

an old mule

or two

struggling up the path

with people on

their backs.

a snake

in the sand,

curled and lazy in the hot

sun.

she gets every angle

of the deep crevices,

down

up

sideways.

shadows and sunlight.

the river below.

she says she might go

back next

year too.

ninety-seven pictures

not being enough.

he was frugal, you might say

he was on the cheap

side,

washing his car only when it

rained,

buying a christmas

tree

the day after christmas.

used cars,

used clothes.

a second hand mattress.

even his wife

was passed down,

third time's the charm.

charging his

new step children room

and board.

he stuck with generic

ketchup

or mustard.

the day old bread, the meat

about to expire

was just fine.

he saved it all for his

rainy day.

and now that day

has arrived. alone

in his house,

with no one stopping by.

out of the tub

is there a happier

thing

than a dog

getting out of the tub

or pool

soaking

wet

and shaking, running

through the house

barking,

dragging the towel

in his mouth,

i can't think of anything

at the moment,

so much like me,

glad to be free,

happy to be clean.

chicken wire

the chicken

wire

keeps the chickens in.

the fox

out.

or so the theory

goes.

but nature finds a way

to get around

these things.

take the wedding

ring

for example.

the ant farm

you can only stare

at a goldfish

for so long.

swimming in circles

looking up

when a hand

comes near,

not unlike an office worker,

in the elevator

going up, or down.

sitting at his desk for

thirty years,

or an ant

pushing

through the paths

of his ant farm, going

nowhere,

it's a reminder

of the struggle that life is,

and the boredom that

we all share.

busy dying

people are busy.

right up until they keel over

and die

with phones in hand.

too busy.

to meet, or greet,

or to say hello

when passing by.

and when the dirt is thrown

upon them,

that ringing noise

continues,

but now there's no one

left to talk to,

though no longer busy

on the other side.

when the in laws would come for dinner

she would take out the good

china

when her parents came over,

her sister too.

the silverware

would be lifted

from the velvet box.

the crystal glasses, showered

and free of dust.

the delicate cups and saucers

for after dinner

tea.

suddenly a bouquet of flowers

was on the table.

a fine linen cloth spread

white across the wood.

the house was clean,

it smelled of lavender and jasmine.

a gourmet meal would be

prepared, not

unlike Babette's Feast.

the best wine uncorked.

sparkling water

in green bottles poured.

there were

deserts and sweets.

music would be playing low.

candles lit.

there'd be no arguing.

just peace.

oh what a day and night

it would be.

i miss her parents and her,

but only for

those reasons.

knowing God's will

being God fearing,

and God

loving

is hard.

you have questions,

you want answers.

you're impatient.

and you know, yes you

know,

all things in God's good

time.

it's not His will.

etc.

but why the utter silence,

the mystery,

the thick fog?

where's my money?

when you don't get paid

after a month

of finishing the job,

and they

don't answer the phone, or

return your emails,

your texts,

your invoices in the mail.

you sigh

and drive over to their

house, with tony soprano

and Joey Balducci,

to remove

the paint and wallpaper

from their walls.

you close your eyes to rest

tired

you lie down.

put your feet up.

you stretch out

and close your eyes.

you exhale.

suddenly

the dog appears with

his head between

your arm.

the cat jumps onto

your belly,

curling into a warm ball.

the phone rings.

someone's at the door.

the world

continues, though

you're tired.

give me a moment

there are spaces

between our words,

our thoughts.

a visual hesitation

of sorts.

we look to the left

then right, then down

until

the right answer or

response appears.

not lying,

but adjusting to what

the other person

may want to hear.

graduation day

i put my

fat little rolly polly

dachshund, Moe,

into dog school one

year.

he was out of control.

barking,

not understanding what a

walk was,

getting into the trash,

eating dead

animals

when he found them.

chewing anything

he could get his mouth around.

but he passed

his six classes with

flying colors.

obedient and quiet.

he heeled, on command,

rolled over,

and begged for treats.

he was a changed dog.

polite and respectful

to those around him.

walking in a straight line

when on his leash.

then i got him home

and all hell broke loose.

he tore off his graduation

gown, threw his hat

out the window

and ate his diploma,

then started barking at

Mister Ed on tv.

game over.

what time is it

after buying

a giant pretzel on

the corner

of Broadway,  i buy

a Rolex watch in times square.

of course it's not real,

how could a sixty thousand dollar watch

only cost

a hundred dollars.

but it keeps good time,

if i shake it enough

and when the sun hits it

just right,

it has a blinding shine.

book world

i had a neighbor once

that would

steal

my newspaper

every morning, so i ordered

him the times,

the post

and the wall street journal.

he never thanked me,

because he never

knew.

i only took the times

off his mat on sundays,

though.

loving the Book World.

he was a good shark

he was a good shark.

did well in school.

obeyed his parents.

went to church on Sunday.

he never meant to hurt anyone.

he was just hungry,

never resting,

always in motion.

all that swimming,

fighting the currents

those bossy whales.

and annoying dolphins.

what's one to do with all

those teeth

and a fresh pair of legs

in front of you.

bon appetite.

more stupid ideas

do we really need

to 

explore space,

go to the moon or mars.

do we really need

to waste all that money

on places

that have no air, no food,

no coffee.

why not work on the mess

we have here first.

really, driverless cars?

who the hell is making

these decisions,

who's really in charge?

the suggestion box

i put a note into my

suggestion

box.

take more time off.

take a vacation.

sleep in.

eat well.

have a drink or two.

take naps.

go to the beach.

back to nyc.

get over it.

move on.

read more.

watch more movies.

more art.

more museums.

more ice cream.

more you.

it's going downhill

the neighborhood

is going downhill,

my neighbor says to me over

the back fence.

she whispers,

it's like Ellis Island here.

Julie moved.

Sam and his wife split up.

they're in

Washington now.

they cut the big tree down

the other day.

all the curbs

are painted yellow.

there's no place to park.

without a sticker

the board will have you

towed away.

my new neighbors

are noisy.

three kids and two dogs.

they play Moroccan music

all day long,

and the pool,

the chairs are dirty

and lifeguards won't let

you bring alcohol

onto the premises.

they shot a rabid coyote

in the woods

the other day,

near the hydrant,

where we put the trash out.

it won't be long before

i'm gone.

the part time job

rarely do i see the same

clerk

the next day

in any store.

never knowing their name.

their face.

they come and go.

the clock punched

one last time,

the uniform

turned in.

there's no gold

watch

at the end

of an eight hour shift.

no retirement

plan

fulfilled,

but you wonder where

they go.

the next time out

everyone

is guilty of something.

though

few are caught at it,

and those they do get

caught,

say they never did it.

claiming

innocence

as they sit behind

the bars.

staring at the walls

for now,

promising themselves

to be more

careful the next time

they get out.

in long hot afternoon

as the men

fish

and the women sit

in the shade

beneath the great oaks

beside

the lake.

the children play.

the men

telling them to be quiet,

you're going

to scare the fish

away.

the hot afternoon

folds into

night.

just a few fish are

caught,

and saved, the others,

too small

for eating, are

thrown

back

for another day.

on holy ground

in thought,

i see him down by the water,

off the path

through the untrailed

thick woods.

he's thinking,

maybe grieving.

he's throwing stones

into the iridescent

blue stream.

one after the other.

he's crying.

wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

i leave him alone,

he's on holy ground.

i've been there

more than once,

though not recently.

time for another great flood

as you listen

to the president, the vice

president,

the other side,

each politician venting,

or proclaiming

something.

giving a speech telling

us they're on 

our side,

we're patriots, they say,

and the unbalanced media

telling us

who's wrong

and who's right.

you cringe at the word

salad from all of them

and look up

into the sky for the hard

rains to begin

to fall.

paper gold stars

what's clear

is that everything is unclear.

the fog of war,

the smoke

of fires burning.

the screams

of babies dying.

children

running through the streets

chased by madmen.

a world

of fantasy,

and unknowing.

what will save the world?

not me,

not you.

not separating the tin cans

from the glass bottles.

not eating

organic chickens,

or saving a whale,

or driving electric cars.

all of it,

fool's gold.

mere drops of do gooding

going nowhere.

making us believe

it's all working,

our lapels

pinned with paper gold stars.

unconditional love

there is no such thing

as unconditional love.

it doesn't exist.

betray me,

deceive me, lie to me,

and we're finished.

once that line is crossed,

forgiveness

will never come.

the center will

no longer hold.

whatever we were together,

has come undone.

where we land

is he happy and content.

is he

satisfied

with where he's landed.

i'm not so sure.

i see him,

in the morning.  he waves,

coffee in hand.

his pretty wife

on the porch

blowing kisses.

the kids at the bus stop.

the dog in the window

barking.

his lawn cut,

his hedges trimmed.

i see him drive off.

but his face, once the smile

disappears,

in the soft light

of morning,

seems bland.

no longer compromising

it takes years

and years, decades maybe.

but in time.

you have everything that you need

and have put it into

places

where they need to be.

the colors on the walls

are picked by you.

the art work

hung where you desire.

there is no compromise

with that vase on the mantle,

whether the windows

get opened,

or you light a fire.

the flowers.

the way the chair

is positioned against

the wall.

dishes in place.

your favorites cups

in reach.

the locks on the door

and heart,

keeping anyone from coming

in and moving

things an inch.

ten minutes at most

like kids,

and dogs, and cats.

and friends with unending

issues.

you've had enough

of all of them.

you've lost your

once famous tolerance

for the likes

of them.

they're okay

for a short while.

a visit,

but now only for a short

stay,

a brief while.

leaving the emerald city

when the dog

pulls

back the curtain on the wizard

of oz

and the truth is revealed

as to who the wizard

really is,

a sham,

we all know

that feeling.

your suspicions were

right all along.

nothing is what we think

it is,

as we ride away,

never to be fooled again

in the balloon filled

with hot

air, and gas.

steering back to what's

right,

not wrong.

beware of whistlers

when i hear a woman

whistling,

not alone, but with

me in the room

or car,

the hair on back of my neck

stands up.

they don't just chirp out

a few bars,

no,

they whistle an entire

score to 

the west side story,

or phantom of the opera,

or oklahoma.

it's scary.

dentists like to whistle.

grave diggers.

people in solitary confinement

doing life,

like to whistle.

i pull out my DSM, and sure

enough,

it's a sign of a giant

cup of crazy.

the hundred year road repair

road closures,

are not unusual around

these parts.

detours.

twelve men in green glow

vests,

some with shovels

in hand, others

waving you to the left or

right,

with flares and flags,

pointing

where you're to go,

beyond

the orange striped barrels

the steel plates

now standing upright.

they're digging

up the street again.

something about

drainage,

or power outages,

or mining for gold.

who's to know,

so you go left,

and left again, you take

the scenic route home.

let's take another look

when the doctor found

a shadow

on an x-ray

of my mother's chest.

she thought the worst.

she called

everyone in Philadelphia

to give them

the bad news

that she was dying.

but the second x-ray,

showed nothing.

an aberration, a flash

of light, something,

but it was nothing after all.

so when i visited her,

i asked her why

she was still crying,

why so blue.

and she said, 

what if

the first x-ray had

been true.

why are they singing?

i don't like

going to a musical.

a movie or play,

with

singing and dancing.

all that

prancing around,

with hats and canes.

why are they doing this?

it was going along

just fine, until someone

started singing.

first the happy song,

then the sad song

with the blue lights

shining down, 

trying to get you to 

feel that way.

i'm not into it,

i stare at the red exit

sign in corner,

and eat my buttered

popcorn, nervously. 

they've got it better than us

the animal world has it so

much better than we do.

they don't have to meet the in-laws,

or worry

about birthdays, or holidays.

they don't 

wish for anything, or than

another animal to eat

or a stream to drink from.

they've got it made.

no birthday cakes, blowing

out candles,

no wife asking if she looks

fat in these feathers.

there's no keeping up with

the joneses,

telling them how you flew

all the way to new jersey once.

no grumpy kids, wanting more

of everything,

no therapy after

a snake crawls up the tree

and eats all their new eggs.

they shrug it off

and keep going

to another tree, another branch

with another mouthful

of twigs.

there's no small talk,

about work, or the weather.

biblical heat

i can't get enough

cold water

down

me to douse this heat.

this Biblical

event.

Is God punishing us

for something?

the sun has mysteriously

moved closer

to the earth.

my bones

are on fire, my tongue

parched.

my lips dry.

i don't know if i can

make it to

the thermostat

or the beer cooler

in time.

French Bikini

we were watching jeopardy

one night.

well,

nearly every night,

nibbling on

sea weed potato chips,

when a question

came up

in the France category.

i yelled out,

French Bikini,

or rather what is a French

Bikini,

when the answer came

up as a sliver of black

fabric worn by

a woman on the beach

hardly covering her body parts.

she looked

at me, my ex, stood up and stomped

out of the room.

what? i said, as she turned

around to scowl at me.

what's wrong?

you know too much about

women's clothing,

she said, then turned to

go up the stairs.

French bikini, Alex said,

with a smile on his face.

i was right, but would pay

for this answer

with a few weeks of silence.

just a regular night at home.

we need to have more fun

we should travel more

she tells me.

when was the last time we went

anywhere.

i pull the paper down,

and look at her.

what are you talking about.

we went to starbucks,

target and bed bath and beyond

last weekend.

then we took that bike

ride to the lake,

remember?

i want to go to France, 

she tells me.

and Italy,

maybe Ireland and Portugal.

my friend Lulabelle

just got back from

overseas

with her new hubby.

her new hubby?

yes, she met him on 

senior last chance match

dot com.

hmmm.

interesting.

did he pay for the trip?

no, no.

he's in a little financial trouble

because of his divorce,

so she paid for the whole excursion.

i see.

how about ocean city?

play a little pin ball, maybe

take a ride on the tilt a whirl?

maybe go to 

Captain George's for an all you

can eat buffet.

can i get an amen?

there's someone out there

with a bad

liver,

i hear the prosperity preacher

screaming from

his televised pulpit.

he's wearing a white suit,

with a red bow tie.

there's someone out there with

a deep pain in

his liver

from drinking too much

alcohol.

if you pledge

and give a thousand dollars

right now,

i'll take that martini out

of your hand and heal

you.

i'll heal your aching liver.

call now on this 1 800 number,

and donate to the cause.

put your hand on

the phone and dial right now,

put your other hand

on the tv screen and a foot

on the door,

don't let anyone stop you.

from praising the Lord.

for one thousand dollars we'll

give you the cure

i go into the kitchen to freshen

up my martini,

two olives this time.

i feel where i think my liver is.

it feels fine,

my stomach is a little upset

but, i think it's from the flounder

i had the other night.

too good to be true

too good to be true,

the deal,

the girl,

the boy.

the job, the house.

the market.

the car,

the investment.

the hotel,

the plane,

the train.

the vacation.

too good to be true.

always,

and yet

you sign on the dotted

line,

your belief in humanity,

despite

all,

in tact.

i love the way they cook chicken here

you rarely hear anyone

say

i'm madly in love, right now.

they might

say,

i love that dress you're wearing,

or i love

ice cream,

or i just love the way

they cook

chicken here,

but rarely do you hear someone

say, i've

met someone

and i'm in love.

true love.

it's a wonderful thing.

my financial advisor Rosa Lee

i call up my old friend

the gyspy. Rosa Lee.

she's working out of her car

now,

reading palms

over the phone,

and zoom calls on her laptop.

she's high tech

with her tarot cards,

and crystal ball.

what's up, she asks,

as she adjusts the volume

and the screen size.

and puts on a purple turban.

just checking in, i tell her.

trouble? she asks.

i told you not to mess

with that last woman,

the psychopath, but

you didn't listen did you?

so what now?

i just wondering if you can

look into your crystal

ball regarding the stock

market.

i'm trying to figure out what

to do with a little

saved cash.

should i go into the market

where my retirement is,

or delve into municipal

bonds, how about annuities?

cd's?

she starts laughing.

no, no, no.

do you have a thick mattress?

yes.

queen sized.

well good, put your money

under that.

use your paypal account

to pay me for this session, ok?

the world in black and white

at an early age

your soft mind was filled

with television.

all of it in black and white.

dennis the menace,

leave it to beaver,

sky king,

and lucille ball.

mayberry.

you never quite got over

it, thinking

that this is how the world

really is.

my three sons.

my favorite martian,

mr. ed,

donna reed and marlo

thomas.

it took Alfred Hitchcock

and the twilight

zone to set

the world right.

to show you what was

really going on.

the long walk at night

the dog,

knowing the route

of our walk

is way ahead

of me.

he's off the leash.

he looks back

to see where i am.

slow in the shadows.

i trust him,

he trusts me.

we're good like

that.

finding such love

is not easy.

down to nine percent

i'm down

to nine percent on my phone.

with no

charger

around.

who gets the last call

of the night.

the last text,

the last picture sent.

down to seven now,

time is running out.

now four,

maybe some

music before it dies,

something to put us both

to sleep.

the quick fire

i stir the wood,

the twigs, the leaves,

the paper,

and toss a match into

the pit.

it's a nice flame,

that i warm my hands

around,

a quick rise

of fire.

but it too will burn

out.

not unlike desire.

hand in the fire

the slow learner

that i am

i have the cuts and scars

to prove it.

i have to put my hand

in the fire

a dozen times

before i understand

not to do it.

then suddenly a light goes

on. and at last

i say to myself,

oh, i see now.

that's what caused

the pain,

let me write that down,

make a note

of it.

it wasn't always that way

she was caught

somewhere between

afraid of dying

and afraid of living.

but it wasn't always that way.

i have a picture

of her at the beach

in a pink bathing suit,

sitting under an umbrella

holding a drink

with a long striped

straw.

she's smiling for the camera,

her sunglasses on.

behind her is the ocean,

the sand.

the blue sky stretching

beyond

and beyond.

porcelain and plastic

is it collecting

or

hoarding?  one blends into

the other.

things.

sentimental

things.

porcelain or plastic.

makes no difference.

bought, or found,

gifts.

they line the shelves

now.

the staircase,

beneath the beds,

closets stuffed

with old clothes.

a perpetual storm

of lost and found.

nothing can be thrown

away,

for then what?

enjoying nature from a distance

so much of nature

is better appreciated

from a distance.

take the snow peaked

mountain.

why go there, why climb,

when you can sit back

and stare at it,

while having a glass of wine.

deep sea diving too.

who doesn't like

fish.

but why put on a scuba

tank and try to be one,

going to the deepest

depth of the ocean.

better to find a raft

and float while whistling

a song.

that goes for the jungle too.

i like the lions

and tigers, i like all those

animals that they keep

in a zoo,

i just don't want to become

their dinner

when out on a safari,

ready to eat food.

the vacancy sign

you see in their

eyes

the vacancy light on

blinking

red.

open.

wanting another

occupant.

another love

to pull

their life in

and come inside.

call this guy

each to his own

rolodex

of numbers, his or her

list

of go to

friends,

electricians,

plumbers.

someone who specializes

in listening,

or fixing

things gone awry.

dried flowers

just as flowers

do,

beauty fades.

the dry

petals will fall,

the bouquet

once a sight to see

will die.

when it's your time.

let go.

it's natural, it's

how the world is.

we are all

cut at the stem,

cut from the vine.

summer plums

i bite into the fat

purple plum

as if it was a lover's mouth.

the gush

of it down

my chin,

the sweetness of it,

holding summer

under

its skin.

don't end summer.

let's go back to June

and bite more

plums again.

the click of heels coming up the stairs

i know that sound.

the turn of the lock,

after the car,

is parked,

the engine off.

the keys

thrown

to the table.

the purse to the floor.

the refrigerator door

opened

then closed.

the soft sound of

a cork

unscrewed.

the clink of glass,

the pouring of wine,

then the click

of heels coming

up the stairs.

i know all those sounds.

each one

full of anxiety

and fear.

room with a new view

it's a new view,

but nothing changes.

a new address,

a new

street and stream

to walk

beside.

a new set of trees.

a new hill, or mountain,

a rainbow

waterfall,

to jump inside.

it's all new.

but it isn't.

that will take time.

how she breathes

you can feel

the love between people.

the way

he looks at her.

the quiet smile,

and whisper.

the way her hand folds

into his.

how she touches

his shoulder,

his knee.

how he laughs,

how she breathes.

so much

in the world gone wrong.

but this,

this is what we need.

while reading charles simic

as the man

replaces the light

on the front porch,

on this blistering July

afternoon,

i sit in the cool dark

of my

living room

and read Charles Simic.

i feel guilty,

so i bring the man cold

water.

a better ladder.

i ask him

if he's hungry.

he hesitates, then says

no.

i make him a ham

sandwich

and bring it out to him.

then at last,

my guilt assuaged,

i leave him alone.

i return to the book

once more, and read

Coney Island,

again, before turning

the page.

there'll be days like this

there will be days like this,

your mother said,

not your father, he had little

to say,

he was quiet about the storms

in life,

he just sat there

in his easy chair,

with his whiskey

and cigarettes

and stared

at the tv.

but your mother,

pushing back your hair,

holding your hand,

calmed you,

told you not to worry,

said things like this too

will pass.

you'll see. in the morning

things will look better.

and then

before you closed your eyes,

you'd see your father's

face in the door.

saying goodnight.

sweet dreams.

at times it almost seemed

like he did care.

love and horseshoes

almost

we say, as we throw

the horseshow

towards

the spike in the ground,

clanging

as it hits

then bounces away.

almost.

almost.

let me try again.

and again.

i'll get it right

eventually.

good bones

she says,

standing back, with hands on hips,

the sun on her

aging face,

this house

has good bones.

it was built

in the 50's.

hardwood floors,

brick.

the tiled roof.

they don't make them

like this anymore.

surrounded by trees,

a stream in the woods.

places to park.

walking distance

to anywhere you need to be.

it's a place

to raise children in.

good schools.

a place to stay for the rest

of your life.

then she carries out

another box

to the truck that's helping

her move.

what goes on here?

neither kind or unkind,

the moon

plays its part

in our lives.

a romantic pendant

in the night sky,

or a wafer

to swallow whole,

in hope

of forgiveness.

a mask of what,

sadness,

grief?

or strange joy?

since childhood we've

stared at it

and make of it what we

make of it.

trying our best

to understand

what goes on here,

on earth.

the summer of 63

there's a break

in the rain.

a short spell of almost

sunlight.

the steam rises off the street,

we wipe

our brows,

our necks.

we shake our heads and

collectively say,

it's hot out.

but it's not like it was

in 63

says grandma,

and nobody confronts

her on her memory,

it's not worth

it to disagree.

home for sale

the walls,

yellowed, not from paint,

but

cigarettes

and breathing.

the stove.

age and time, taking

it's normal toll.

the sign in the yard,

for sale.

i should get rid of the clutter

she says,

pointing around the room,

to broken

chairs,

old magazines,

and

her husband on the couch

snoring.

it's time to get out of here.

he doesn't know

yet.

but he will.

have i shown

you the attic yet,

lots of room for storage.

my fishmonger Bluto

i ask my fishmonger,

Bluto,

at Joe's

seafood stand if this is local

calamari,

or from Asia.

he shrugs his shoulders.

i have no idea, he says.

do you want some?

pound? half pound.

it's on sale.

what is calamari, i ask him.

it's a squid, he says,

slapping his hand against

the bloody counter,

it's a cousin to the octopus.

pound? or more?

they shoot black ink when

they're in danger,

don't they?

i don't know, he says.

yes or no, do you want to buy

some?

what about

chicken, do you sell chicken

here.

calamari is so rubbery,

preferably free range chicken

if you have it.

next, he yells out.

try it, Alexa says

can blue cheese go bad,

i ask Alexa,

yelling out across the room.

isn't it bad already,

i say

sniffing the plastic tub

of blue crumbles

found in the Siberian

section of the lower

fridge.

i don't know, Siri answers,

maybe.

try it, but yell out if

you need me to dial 911.

i gave her four stars

we remembered

phone numbers back in

the day.

a day that doesn't seem too far off.

we knew our own

number,

our friends,

distant relatives.

sometimes we had a little

black book

as we got older.

scribbling in a new

love's name,

maybe we etched

a star beside it, 

or several depending

on the date,

or future dates to come.

as close as i can get

she planted the mint

fourteen years ago

on the side of the front porch.

it's the first thing

i notice

and smell

before turning the key

in the door.

it's not perfume,

it's not her,

but it's as close as i can

get right now.

the custard stand

the line

at the custard stand is long.

it could be 1930.

everyone

in white,

or pale blue.

the women with hats

and light dresses.

the men, polite

in khaki, polished shoes.

it's summertime.

there are dogs, and children.

sweethearts holding hands.

old folk too.

who doesn't like cold custard

on a cone.

the sweet innocence

of ice cream.

this is what makes life

worth living.

a short breath of fresh air,

and for a moment.

nothing seems wrong.

we praise the cool air

we praise

the cool air, the wind

carrying

its rain down from the mountains.

we open the windows

and go out 

to sit on the wide

porch, holding hands,

sipping

fresh lemonade.

so much time has slipped

by us,

and yet,

we still are amazed

at what the sky

brings forward.

the stripes of lighting,

the blue

cascade of open clouds

and rain.

the fear between us

the snake,

the gloriously decorated

snake.

a rainbow

of colors

and stripes,

a masterpiece of art

slithering

along

the ground, crossing

our path.

he means no

harm.

we mean no harm.

but there is fear

between us.

as we both

wait, then go our way.

wet ink

the ink

hardly dry, you move on

to the next thought,

the next

set of words,

a new line.

it's what you've always

done,

moving on,

moving on,

when it's time.

are you almost done?

she wasn't clinically dead,

but her pulse

was low.

her breathing shallow

and her skin

pale and cold.

sometimes

i'd hold a mirror

up to her mouth

when we made love

to see if she was still alive.

but i knew she was

whenever she asked me

if i was almost done now.

you get nothing

i could never understand

the reasoning

behind the law

of equal distribution

of money

and real estate once the marriage

was dissolved.

no fault.

i always thought

that whoever's fault it was,

they get nothing.

they get what they came

in with,

and that's it.

that's all that they deserve.

adios.

you cheat, you lie, you manipulate

and make someone's life

miserable.

you leave and get nothing.

one cheating ex told me once

that she'd wish i'd been a doctor

so that her alimony

could have been more.

missing old friends

before the new windows

were installed

the house

was full of bugs.

flying, walking,

jumping.

crawling.

some that lit up,

crickets, beetles,

loud bees

and flies,

then the new windows

went up,

and sealed the house

tight.

sometimes i leave

the door open,

missing my old friends

that slipped in

from the night.

the sediment

the layers

of life.

the sediment of old

things.

old memories

building up

on top of each other.

the papers we don't throw

away.

photographs.

the books,

the pots and pans,

the dishes

that are never used.

the clothes

in the far closet,

the old shoes.

all of it history of sorts

of where we've been

of who we are,

or were.

in the end someone will

dig it all out

with a careless

shovel and a

a new life will come

to take its place.

new layers

will begin.

his dish was deviled eggs

after he died

we noticed that during the holidays

there were no deviled eggs

on the table.

his specialty.

he'd make twenty-four,

for christmas,

easter,

thanksgiving.

so far no one has picked up

the slack

of his absence.

but his wife

Lydia,

still brings her homemade

cranberry sauce.

(secret recipe),

and we're grateful

for that.

she sets the bowl

next to the empty space

where his eggs would be.

poetry foreplay

you're so humble,

she says,

reading one of my poems

out loud.

i look at her playing 

with a loose

button

on my shirt.

flipping casually

through the pages of

my self-published book.

i am, aren't I?

i tell her.

i'm very humble.

i never blow my own

horn.

there's not

a look at me bone

in my body.

you're a genius, i think,

she says with a cat

like purr.

really?

yes, really.

but you don't know it,

do you?
pffft, i tell her,

then find the clasp

to the zipper

holding up her dress.

wanting the same thing

there are few moments

in a life

where a man

wants what the woman

wants

at the same exact time,

and vice versa.

they differ

on clothes and meals,

where to live,

where to vacation,

what books to read,

or movies to watch.

they disagree on so much,

until they both want

to make love,

and even then, there's

room for error.

the fuller brush man

the Indian man

on my cell phone wants my

social security number,

my credit card number,

he wants me to log onto

my banking account.

he wants my name,

my age,

my address.

he wants me to go to target

to get a vanilla gift card.

i've won the publishers

clearing house grand prize

five times this week alone.

all day the calls keep

coming

from social security

and amazon.

direct tv and medicare.

i miss the random knock

at the door

from the fuller brush man,

or Mormons.

walking on eggshells

that crunch

you hear are eggshells.

you step carefully,

word

your questions gently.

you're on guard

twenty four seven,

trying

hard to not upset

the other person

who has filled

your life with dread.

there will be hell

to pay

if you raise the ire

of the narcissistic soul

you've mistaken for good,

and allowed in.

teenage shopping spree

as teenagers

there wasn't a day gone by

that we weren't

in a 7-11 store

to buy something.

bunkers of beer, 

or apple wine,

cigarettes,

zig zag rolling papers,

a hot dog on the spinning

greasy grill.

a big gulp.

condoms,

or playboy magazines.

it was teenage heaven

in there.

potato chips,

cookies and sodas.

slim jims

and beef jerky.

peanut butter crackers.

blood worms for fishing

in little boxes

in the ice box.

cans of oil for our

beat up cars, coughing

out blue smoke

in the crowded parking lot.

a skinny blonde

riding shotgun

with her leg out the window.

there was always a giant

jar of pickled pigs

feet on the counter too,

or boiled eggs

in a pinkish soup,

which we never touched.

we had to draw the line

somewhere.

does your wife like fur?

when Mimi's husband,

Irwin,

died of a heart

attack

while driving

his Cadillac

to the liquor store

in Tenley Town,

because it was cheaper

by a nickel

for Candian Club whiskey

than in Arlington,

she decided to move to Miami.

I don't need all

these fur coats, she told me.

it's hot there.

take your pick, she said.

i stared at the racks 

of fur coats in her garage.

a virtual zoo of dead animals

hanging on racks.

rabbit, fox, bear, mink

and leather.

kangaroo?

some with heads,

the eyes dark and black,

every time Irwin cheated on me

he bought me a new fur

coat, she said.

take one, take a couple,

one for your wife,

maybe one for your girlfriend

too.

be home by dark

we were free

range children, permitted

to roam

the streets,

the woods,

the river bank.

the park.

no questions asked

as to where we were

going,

or what we were doing,

or who we were with.

just be home

by dark.

what am i doing here?

when i shuffled papers

in an office

for a few long years,

staring at the clock

that hardly moved,

i drank too much,

ate bad food.

stayed out late in my

wrinkled suit.

i had many 

sleepless nights.

it wasn't work, it wasn't

anything i wanted

to do.

till this day i can't even

explain what it was

that i did.

no clue as to the job

that i was hired to do.

if you put a gun to my head

i couldn't explain it.

i just remember leaving,

quitting,

cleaning out my desk and

handing in my badge,

then waving goodbye

as security walked me out.

a stapler in the pocket

of my pants.

i wait for her to go

i see her

at the grocery.

a girl i once pined for 

for many years,

back when i was twenty-five

or so.

it ended

badly, then

we both just disappeared.

i see her putting

groceries

in her cart,

then wheeling towards

the register.

she's limping,

her hair

no longer gold,

but silver.

there's no point in stopping

to say hello,

in catching up.

i keep shopping,

i wait for her to go.

not all can be fixed

not all that's broken

can be fixed.

try as you might.

with glue

and tape, tacks

and screws,

it doesn't always work,

the center won't hold

despite

the effort given or

the love you once had.

the shine is gone,

it's broken, it's old,

irreparable,

give up, let go.

relaxing at the lodge

with age

we take less risks.

no wrestling with sharks,

or diving off cliffs,

no longer willing to leap

out of planes,

or climb

some snowy airless mountain.

we see

the dangers of such

behavior,

so refrain.

there is nothing to prove,

at this age.

we're not done,

just relaxing at the lodge,

thinking more sane.

our permanent record

teachers warned us,

that

misbehavior

would go on our permanent

record.

we laughed. but

i believe it now,

as i look

back

at my phone

and social network

accounts.

there's no escaping

our past.

every key stroke

saved 

every picture and thought

reflecting back.

has it arrived?

is the trip

up the stairs a sign,

not finding

the memory or the words

that you

had in mind.

putting your keys

in the ice box, leaving

your dog all night

in the yard.

the slight slip

on a name you mispronounce,

the up and down

through the night,

steering yourself

to the bathroom

to trickle out what you can,

is it all a sign,

is it the future you're

staring at,

or has it arrived.

the money counting machine

i take the bucket

of coins to the bank

and begin

to pour them into the mouth

of a machine

that magically counts them.

no more

sitting on the floor,

counting fifty pennies

to stuff into a little

red paper sleeve.

it's loud

and whirring as i push

the button

and pour in another pile

of silver and copper

coins.

i sift the lint out of the bucket,

the nails and screws,

dead leaves.

gum and paper, stray 

twigs and toothpicks.

backs of earrings.

it's better than the old ways,

but still not easy.

sixty-seven dollars and

a few spare pennies,

i print off the receipt.

and hand it to my man

Kamil behind the bars

and plexi-glass. like me,

he seems pleased.

the pink table cloth

it's not a cave,

not a man cave by any

stretch,

not a bachelor pad either.

it's just blues

and black, greys.

white.

no clutter,

no fancy vase.

no flowers about, no

excess,

no trinkets or sentimental

items

of bad taste.

no cliches.

so when she threw a pink

table cloth

across the dining room

table, i knew

it would never last,

and i counted the days.

while salting the egg

not knowing

where

to go,  I stay put.

does one pack up

and leave

head to a warmer

climate.

or maybe north

where the snow

warms you.

west has no appeal

to me.

either coast would

become routine.

i want to keep the ocean

unique.

here is good.

here is quiet, i think,

as i salt a hard

boiled egg and eat.

serene.

i want your corn bread

it was the best corn bread

i ever

put in my mouth.

stuffed full of real corn.

soft and thick

with butter

and sugar.

she bragged about her

corn bread

and had every right to do so.

it was blue ribbon

corn bread.

the winner at the county

fair five years in a row.

three men married her

because of it.

i wish i had the recipe

but she's not returning 

my calls.

when he didn't leave his wife

it was a one bedroom

condo

facing

a stagnant

man made pool 

of green water.

near the highway.

above was another unit,

you could hear every

word they said,

footsteps too.

smell their food.

the metal door was thin

the air whistled all night

through the cracks.

never a near spot to park.

it was a stopping point,

a bus stop of sorts.

everyone that lived there

seemed to be

just passing through.

after moving in, you

couldn't help but think

of elsewhere

and the mistakes made,

how he had you fooled.

it's all your fault

when we stopped

seeing each other,

her dog passed away,

her horse went out into

the far end of the field,

lay down

and died.

her father soon

succumbed to a virus.

her mother

took her own life.

she lost her job at

the school.

but i take no responsibility

for any of it.

though she blames me.

forgiveness

relief arrives in a cold rain.

the steam

rises from the street.

we let it fall

upon us.

a cleansing of sort from

all our sins,

the past and present

and those yet

to come.

we can start over, we

hold onto that.

we have to,

there is no other way.

canned tuna

it seems like it happened

over night

that i lost my taste

and desire for fish

of any kind.

shrimp i can tolerate,

and crab cakes,

lobster

on a soft roll.

but the rest of the fish world

means nothing to me

anymore,

leave em alone.

i can't even look at a slab

of salmon,

wild or farmed,

nor can i bear

to smell a slice of cod

fillet

in a pan.

maybe, just maybe,

if i'm starving 

i'll crack open some 

albacore tuna  

in a little can.

get out of the way

young people

used to seek advice and wisdom

from older

people.

sitting down beside

them

to hear about life

and love,

death.

listening to the stories,

getting a glimpse

of what may

lie ahead.

now they honk the horn

to get them

out of the way, what

is there to gain

by wasting time

with the almost dead?

she was that kind of girl

she was the kind of girl

i washed my car for.

waxed.

bending over the bumpers

with a chamois

cloth under the shade tree.

wiping down

the seats,

the windows.

putting a shine on everything.

i got a haircut too.

maybe a new pair pants,

a pair of shoes.

i even took a long hot

shower, and shaved

what there was to shave

at that young age.

and then dabbed on each

cheek, a small puddle

of Grey Flannel,

or Canoe.

she was the kind of girl,

a girl i washed my car for.

it's all gravy

it's all gravy now.

the extra

dough,

the filled ice box,

the cupboards

overflowing with cans

and boxes

of things

i'll never eat again.

it's all gravy,

the money,

the savings,

the time to do nothing

now.

the overflow of things

accumulated

from hard work,

the absence

of being lazy.

there is no guilt in

any of it.

it's just gravy.

the closed door

the closed

door

is the one you want opened.

what's hidden in

the shut drawer,

the locked

box,

the trunk,

in the far corner

of the attic,

it's there

that you'll learn 

the truth.

not about me,

but about you.

intelligent design?

we see a building.

a complicated

arrangement of glass and steel,

wires and moving parts,

pleasing to the eye

as it reaches up

from the ground into the sky.

a technological masterpiece.

you wonder who built it,

who constructed such an

ingenious wonder.

what creative mind was at

work to make such a thing,

and yet when we look at

a human, 

most think differently.

a brief truce

it's Friday.

is it okay if we don't argue

tonight?

i ask her.

can we

make a truce

and not talk about our

grievances

for once, spoiling

the weekend.

she puts her hands on

her hips,

and looks at my

shoes,

you're tracking mud in again,

she says.

on the clean rug,

and you forgot 

to take the trash out

last night.

and so it begins.

is there cream and sugar?

the water boiled,

at last,

then the beans go into

the grinder.

spilling some along the way.

once grinded

they are poured like

sand into

the metal cup.

then the water poured over.

the rise

of a coffee bubble

goes slowly down.

your impatience

is obvious to anyone

around.

is it ready yet?

is there cream and sugar.?

will you ever

have a cup, will you

ever sit down?

too long at the inn

it's hard

to know which is worse

to be,

the guest

or the host, each

wanting

one or the other

in good time,

to leave.

the presence of another

is welcome

in short stays,

but too long

for either

makes both less eager

to once again

pass this way.

faith is hard

faith is hard.

very hard in this world.

it's not just the times were in,

it's always

been this way,

war and murder.

crime. disease and distress.

we are always

in some plague.

in some flood or fire.

both the innocent 

and guilty are chosen.

no one escapes.

faith is hard.

and yet still i pray.

they can wait

some are quick

to write

back with an answer,

fingers at the keyboard,

texting,

while others,

will let you dangle,

a power 

play, letting

you know who's in

charge

of this friendship,

and how dare you disturb

my important day.

they let

the question

linger in the air a little

while longer,

the ding finally arriving later,

after you've

long forgotten what was

asked.

a pinch of salt

i see the cookbooks,

all gifts,

shelves of them,

all countries

seem to represented.

but few

are visited anymore.

what is there left to learn

about sauce,

she says,

or heat,

or measurements.

i know what they like,

what i like,

so cook that.

no need for spoons,

or cups,

scales.

a know a pound, a quart,

a gram,

by feel.

i feel it in my hand, my

arm.

when i learned what

a pinch of salt

was, it freed from books,

cookbooks,

forever.

is it time for lunch?

we are a spoiled lot,

we are.

what is it that we don't have

that we want?

not much.

we pick and choose

our news too.

bored with the war over there,

is it still on?

still?

we turn to the weather,

the local

traffic.

ignoring the rest of the world

and their endless

problems. 

is it time for lunch?

the unstarving artist

he tells me he doesn't

want to work

just for money,

like the common man,

the untalented

souls,

bent over a broom

each day to make

their crust.

with room and board

paid,

he's suddenly Vincent

van Gogh.

now.

Edna St Vincent. Millay,

it's about his art, his

passion.

his pursuit of fame

and fortune, but

without the cost

of mundane

tasks getting in the way.

lint on the sweater

they go

and place flowers on the grave.

sit on the stone

bench,

they talk to the deceased

as if they

were still alive.

they cry,

they laugh.

it's a nice visit.

they tell them not

to worry,

they'll be coming back.

they pull a weed

from around

the headstone, brush

away

sticks, as if lint

on a sweater,

then go.

dinner served

the forks

wait, the knives sit in

the drawer,

in place,

the spoons and dishes,

the cups

and saucers.

all clean

and ready for use.

and yet

you stand at the kitchen

sink

tired and hungry,

eating cold

chicken

by hand.

dinner served.

fresh fish

the fish,

black eyed and still

on the crystalline

bed

of crushed ice

are still beautiful.

still wonderful

despite their

death

and undignified

setting. it wasn't

too long ago

that they swam

and bent

themselves in

the rainbow shadows

of water

below the sun.

did you find everything you were looking for?

did you find everything

you were looking

for,

the young clerk

chirps,

in her red apron,

hands

with cherry nails

about to push

the keys

of the register.

yes.

i tell her,

sliding my groceries

onto the belt.

nearly everything.

but not quite.

closing it down

there's a picture

of us,

the three of us,

three boys, halfway

to being

men,

drinks in hand,

all of us in jeans

and turtleneck sweaters,

hair hanging down,

the girls we were with

at the time,

beside us.

there was music going

on,

dancing.

the club was full of smoke,

a blue

haze.

the bartenders knew

us by name.

it seemed this life

would never end.

we'd close the place down

then drive

home,

sometimes

with a new friend,

sometimes

alone.

sometimes the three

of us together,

stopping

for eggs

along the early morning

road.

the matinee

you see them

at the matinee, the elderly,

widows

and widowers, perhaps,

or just

those

with a day off, a rainy

day of sorts,

lone souls.

there is no line,

no rush,

no worry of seating.

the aisle is fine,

or the back row,

they go up with canes,

their hats

taken off, their hand

bags on the seat

beside them,

settling in with a small

bag of popcorn,

a box

of candy, a drink.

do they remember the date

nights

at the movies,

the new lovers beside

them,

holding hands,

a kiss in the dark,

a time

when

it didn't matter what

the picture was?

the hoover mantra

my mother never

took a yoga class, or meditated,

or sat

staring at a candle

to clear her

mind.

she had no mantra.

but a vacuum

which she ran all the time.

she had other things to do,

which put her there,

diapers to change,

food to cook,

clothes to mend.

there was no need to

go to a gym

to exercise.

not with seven children.

we dream of snow

we dream of snow,

when

the grass

is green,

the sun a sweltering

globe

above us,

and when it's cold,

with icy roads,

we want

the summer

to come again,

and not take too long

in doing so.

the carousel horse

i tell my friend, who has

fallen

off many horses, and has

the bruises

and broken bones

to prove it,

i tell her that i have never

fallen off a horse.

never, except for once

on a carousel, 

to which she says, because

you've never been on

a real horse,

which is true,

and i aim to keep it that way.

a window

i see a window

in the schedule, 

a span of days

with nothing

planned,

no work,

no play.

just a long empty stretch

of pages

on the calendar

that spreads

across my desk.

something will come up.

it always does.

but if not,

that's good too.

agrees so often to disagree

we differ on many things.

the thermostat

for one.

her liking a cool

sixty-eight, while

i prefer

a tepid seventy-one.

and there's tea over coffee

for her.

cream and sugar,

whereas, i prefer black.

the morning is my preference,

but for her

it's midnight that

she becomes a purring cat.

i love the shore,

a lazy day by the sea,

but she the mountains,

the woods,

a long hike with nothing

but trees.

and yet we last,

agreeing so often

to disagree.

a girl named Ivy

it's just ivy,

just a vine crawling

slowly

up the side

of the red brick,

you have

no sense of the damage

and grip

it has, 

it appears

beautiful

in its own way,

as most

lovers do

in the beginning.

the long list of lovers gone bye

when she asks

me about my former

relationships,

i sigh, then 

rattle off the list,

the narcissists,

the borderline, the psychopath,

the histrionic,

the Asperger,

the sociopath, 

the suicidal, the anorexic,

the liars

and cheaters,

manipulators.

and what about you,

she says,

do you have some part

in all of it?

backing her chair away

from the table,

me? yes, of course

i do. 

i'm empathetic

to a dangerous degree

and 

codependent, chasing

the love

of an absent father,

who was abusive and angry,

all of it still

unresolved,

but ancient history.

making more babies

when i was a child

and observed

my parent's life, their marriage,

the breaking

of dishes and arms,

noses.

the cutting of telephone

cords,

blood on the floor

and whiskey

in the morning,

the police at the door

i thought

these people are nuts.

it wasn't too long

before i understood

the nature

of their crazy, and yet

when it came to 

making babies,

they kept making more.

coming home from work

she loved me

best

when i came home from

work,

filthy

dirty. the grime of grease

under my nails,

my hair full of dust,

my lungs

coughing

up the day, tired,

but not too tired to fall

into her arms,

and hear her whisper

i love you,

i'm glad you're home,

take off your shoes,

go bathe,

dinner

is almost ready.

my best flashlight

he comes to me with tears,

with a bent

body

and broken heart

to talk.

to examine

what's behind him,

what's to come.

i give him

my best flashlight,

a book

or two,

a few comforting

words

of earned

wisdom,

to help him through

the darkness,

the sorrow which

is his night.

the dress shirt

she wears

my shirt, the dress shirt

off the floor,

blue as sky,

large

and billowy on

her thin

bare frame,

she dances

in it,

swirls and spins,

arms

in the air,

there's light

in her

steps,

in her eyes,

her hair.

new art work

the cross

bars of shadows on the wall,

the dapple 

of flowered curtains,

random sketches

of sunlight

and shades,

the blinds half pulled.

artwork

without

the work,

just casually made.

visiting day

i hate the hospital.

the astringent smell

of it.

the whiteness of it.

the seriousness of it all.

the hope.

the waiting rooms,

the little chapel,

the morgue,

the receptionist desk.

the elevators

up and down,

the arrows in the hall,

the glass windows,

the pulled shades,

the trayed food,

green jello,

flowers.

the separations between

beds.

the stone faced doctors

and harried

nurses,

the machines beeping,

the red button to push,

and then there's

the living, least we

forget them,

straddling eternity,

almost dead.

can i borrow that?

i know,

the second i hand a book

over to someone,

or a tool,

or dish,

or bowl,

that i'll never get it back.

they do too.

movie night

the movie,

too long, the script too

confusing,

the plot

a mess,

the acting poor, but

we stick with it,

sunk into

the couch,

dinner done, drinks

in hand while

outside the rain

does pour.

getting shots

the tetanus shot.

Novocain to numb,

the boosters,

the vaccines,

the polio, the shingles,

double dosed,

pneumonia shots,

cortisone shots,

and then there's tequila,

Jose Cuervo.

an open window

i leave a window

open

on most people,

a cracked door,

a key under the mat,

or in the shed

hanging on a nail.

i leave a way back in

for most people,

a strand of olive branch,

for most.

but not you, my dear.

too late for that.

a five and under treasure trove

the house,

narrowed by boxes and clothes,

furniture,

and bags

of trash,

a dog with three

legs,

relieving himself

in a far corner,

large children,

arms deep in bags of

chips

and sweets,

and a husband

lying

in stroke

repose

on the Barclay chair,

is disturbing

to say the least.

the black

curtain of mold

in the shower,

the broken gas leaking

stove,

the shattered

glass,

a five and under treasure

trove

of Knick knacks and what

nots.

the wife pointing out

that the table

is made cherry wood,

hand crafted by Shakers

in Lancaster.

on this job,

i'll pass.

is this love too?

what does it mean,

if anything,

to be standing in line

on a Saturday

at the big store, holding

plumbing pipes,

and 

wrenches.

gripping our hammers

and nails

as we wait our turn

at the checkout counter.

does it mean

love is gone?

romance over, have we

hit the wide dry desert

of a relationship?

fixing things

on the weekends,

no longer

at the park holding hands,

or at a restaurant

sharing desserts,

or on an exotic beach

dancing

under the stars,

madly in love, whispering

about later.

is this love too?

stuck with the mundane

tasks

of maintenance.

all aboard

the weather man

says

that the rain will stop.

famous

last words

in Noah's ears as he

hammered nails

and bent long trees,

building

his ark.

only room for two of each,

he said,

standing

at the gang plank,

the big ship tied 

to the dock.

no running, no fighting,

we all need

to get along.

put your life vests on.

cold blooded

animals

to the left warm blooded

to the right.

hurry it up turtles

and penguins,

it's about

to storm.

we have all day

a penny

for your thoughts, she says,

handing

me

a fist full of change.

nickels

and dimes,

quarters too.

tell me what you really

think about

us,

take your time,

we have all day.

the maddening crowd

eat what you like,

drink

what suits you,

wear the clothes you prefer,

read what

you want,

write what you desire.

speak your own

truth.

be you

as best you can,

not swayed

by the maddening

crowd

at hand.

get off the rope

with rolled

up towel, and lathered

skin

in coconut

oil,

shades on,

sandals,

a new blue suit,

the paper under your

arm,

a drink in hand,

to the pool you go.

finding a lounge

chair at the far end,

away from

children and loud mothers

trying to gather

them in.

you find a patch

of sunlight,

and lie back, lie

back,

as you've done for

so many years.

the familiar sound of summer,

the guard's whistle,

blown,

and in your ears.

who could imagine such a thing

when you arrive

at

the shore,

all senses awaken.

you

are alive

once more.

the smell of salt

and seaweed,

the gorging of waves

into sand.

the white wings

of gulls

and sails

fluttering before you.

the surreal canvas of

clouds and

sea.

who could imagine

such a place,

pull it from thin air,

and place

it here.

the black pond

the black

pond, around the small

wooded

bend

in the park,

is a mirror of everything

it can reach.

darkened by

the canopy of trees,

strange

shallow water,

filling

and drying up over

time.

each season,

quietly there,

a familiar friend

of mine.

the go getters

not everyone wants more,

wants to be

what they aren't, 

reaching for higher

brass rings.

some

are completely happy

with what is,

feet firmly on the ground,

casting aside ambitions

and desires

for peace.

it's the go getters that

struggle, that can't fall

asleep.

before the night wine

ah, there it is,

us

together at the beach,

in the lobby

of a grand

hotel.

both of us in the pink.

happy

on this weekend

trip.

a lark taken

on a whim.

your one bag next

to mine.

smiling for the held

camera

before we go to our

room

and drink

the night wine.

it won't last

it won't last,

it's cheap.

look at the thread,

the plastic,

the fake sheen.

it's a knock off, is what

it is.

from a distance

it looks

genuine, but it's not.

it won't last.

she's not real.

trust me

on this.

go light

too much salt,

too much

sugar,

or pepper, or any kind

of seasoning

can ruin

the dish.

go light with your love

my dear.

no hurry

on this wish.

the medical museum

i visit the medical

museum

to ponder what becomes

of us all.

parts in jars,

bits and pieces.

slides

of the human body.

petri dishes,

tissues

and brains.

hearts preserved.

and then i see a full body

skeleton

brittle and gangly,

and have to leave,

the memory

of someone hitting

a nerve.

the game still on

in the vague light

of summer

dusk,

we would

hide from each other,

in the trees,

the bushes,

behind a car.

lying flat on

the ground,

holding our breath as

the game went on.

some of us

were no good at it,

easy to be found,

while others,

are still out there,

still hiding,

the game still on.

twenty eight years

we were married

twenty eight years, she says,

looking

at her hands

as if they

weren't hers, but someone

else's.

discovering for the first

time

that she was now old.

the best years of my life,

she says.

well,

at least the first two years

were.

but after that,

after the honeymoon was

over,

we were both

sort of done with the whole thing.

but we had kids

then,

obligations,

the house, the yard,

in laws and friends.

we slept in separate rooms,

i can't remember the last

time we ate a meal

together, took a vacation,

held hands,

or had sex.

it surprised me though when

he left last year

with a new young thing

half his age.

how could he do this to me?

to us?

the crying baby

my neighbor knocks

at my door

at two a.m.

she's holding her crying baby

in her arms.

do you have any

baby formula,

she says. i'm plumb out

of breast milk.

this baby has cleaned

me out.

i try not to look at her

breasts under her terry cloth

pink robe.

hmmm.

hold on let me check,

baby formula, baby formula.

i  start searching

the cupboards

for baby formula.

pushing things around,

up, down,

under the sink.

does it come in a box, or what?

yes, a box.

i look in the fridge.

nope. nothing.

i do have some cream of

wheat though.

and some sour

milk.

will that work.

maybe throw an egg

in there with a couple

spoons

of sugar. stir it up.

okay, i guess i could try

that.

the wishing well

with no

cell reception, no maps,

i pull over

and ask

a guy at the gas station

where

to go.

he wipes his oily hands

with a black rag,

pulls his cap

back and scratches his head.

welp,

you know the water

tower,

he says

no.

well, once you find the water

tower,

you go another six

miles

until you see a red

barn.

it caught fire last year,

but part of it

is still there.

you can't miss it because

it's near the church.

right beyond that there's

a dirt road,

but don't take that.

you'll be in trouble

if you go down that road.

keep going straight

following the chicken coops

until you

see a wishing well.

stop there,

and drop a coin into

the well

and make a wish.

really? what should i wish

for.

wish that you'd never ask

me for directions.

cause i'm new around here

too.

pants on fire

how could you

lie to me about

where you were

last night, she says,

as she takes

off the extensions

on her dyed blonde hair,

removes

her makeup,

her tight-fitting girdle,

placing her dentures

into

a glass of water,

then

removing her bra

from her silicone

enlarged beasts.

i have a strict rule about

people that lie,

she says while dropping

her syrupy southern

accent,

revealing a trace

of the bronx.

i don't like people who

pretend to be who

they aren't.

the swollen thumb

hitting your

thumb with the hammer

is part of it.

hammering

a nail

into the board.

building something.

but does there have

to be no pain

no gain?

can't we just be more

careful,

more gentle

with our ways,

with eyes wide open.

almost cut my hair

for my first

real job i had to get a hair cut.

i'd let grow

long

in protest to

the vietnam war,

and nixon.

which seems ridiculous now.

it was down to my shoulders

and parted

in the middle.

a pretend hippy

at the end of the hippy era.

it was a lot of work,

washing it,

blow drying,

combing and brushing,

but girls seemed

to like it.

the barbers gathered

around my chair

as the barber

took out his long scissors

and joyfully cut

it off.

it was a relief though

i thought

as the long locks fell

to the floor.

it wasn't me.