911 driving

in a hurry,

we seem to be,

to get from one place to

another.

running red lights.

speeding,

recklessly

endangering our lives,

each car

should have a siren now,

with flashing

lights

and a megaphone

telling

all others

to get the hell out

of the way,

i have to get home

to walk

my dog, 

to sit on

the couch and watch

tv for the rest

of the night.

a little action

my father's advice

was simple,

being the wizened

sailor that he was,

having sailed

a dozen seas.

don't start drinking,

he said,

don't worry.

go out,

carouse,

have fun, there's more

fish in the sea.

get yourself a little action,

you'll see,

everything

will be fine.

last resorts

i stare

at the cans of anchovies,

the tins

of sardines.

in water

in oil.

i shiver, i cringe.

maybe later

when the world has

gone to hell,

when there's nothing

left on the planet

to eat,

maybe then

i'll dig in.

mr. bacon and mrs. eggs

they put on their costumes

for the trip

into town

for the Halloween

celebration.

she's a plate of eggs,

sunny side up.

he's bacon.

two strips in a pan.

he looks at her as

he slides into

his tight outfit,

she's bending over

trying to snap

the buttons

on her egg costume.

it was fun

thirty Halloweens ago,

but now

not so much.

he's no longer in love

with eggs,

she's no longer in love

with bacon.

he thinks of French toast,

she thinks

of hash browns.

missing nothing

what is there to miss?

not much.

perhaps

her long nails dragging

across your skin

when you had

an itch.

is there something

else you

long for.

her culinary skills,

love making,

conversation or friendship.

laughter?

no,

nothing i can think of

the snow globe

we make

fond memories

out

of sand

and

cardboard boxes.

we romanticize

the past,

polish it

to a nice glow.

embellishing

the good,

letting all the bad 

fade.

we shake

it up

like a snow globe

and twist the turn

for music.

let's remember

things that

way.

last chance dot com

my friend Jimmy calls me

on the phone

the other day

to shoot the breeze,

he sounds bored and lonely

after going through

a bad divorce with his

Russian pay for order bride,

Dasha.

she arrived in a wooden

crate

that he picked up in

the Port of Baltimore.

i ask him, what's up.

i don't understand women,

he says.

i thought she was the real thing,

the love of my life.

yes, there was a language

barrier, and she only knew

how to boil potatoes,

but we seemed to get along

otherwise.

i mean there was a thirty

year age difference, and it

did get annoying with

her calling me Daddy all the time.

but i liked her, i really really

liked her

even though she was here for

only three weeks.

this is going to take me a while

to get over this, you know.

i mean, how do you get over

break ups, i know you've been

through a ton of them.

therapy, self-help books,

meditation, exercise, taking up

new hobbies, stuff like that

i tell him.

isn't there a short cut, i don't

want to do any of that.

i feel too old to get back out

there on the dating sites.

all the women look like my mother

at this point.

what about LastChance.com

it's a dating site for old people

who are giving it one more shot.

a lot of desperate people,

with neuropathy

and mental disorders, but 

a hey, beggars can't be choosers

at this point, right?

yeah, he says, i guess so.

by the way, did i tell you she took

my cat with her too?

she had absolutely no taste in furniture

as boys

we chose what we wanted

to be

by how we played.

cops

and robbers,

cowboys and Indians,

space men.

rarely were we chefs,

or politicians.

we were baseball players,

football

and basketball players,

aspiring athletes

heading for the hall of fame.

we were soldiers

and sailors.

rarely artists or 

interior decorators,

although

i do remember crying

when my mother bought

a couch

fit for Mt. Vernon,

flowered and overstuffed,

instead of

the streamlined

aqua blue one,

mid-century modern,

the one i picked out.

left overs

my mother

was adamant about leftovers.

into

Tupper ware

they'd go.

mashed potatoes and green

beans.

turkey slices,

stuffing

beside it, all to go.

gravy

in a covered bowl,

slices

of pie.

she'd pack it up neatly

in a brown paper bag,

and mark

each one with our names.

seven bags.

for seven children,

and then

she'd stand at the door,

flash the porch

light

and watch us

as away we drove.

perpetually smiling

it was someone's doll,

with blue

marbled eyes

and

a color of skin

towards

beige,

the frizz of yellowed hair,

barely resembling

hair,

more wire like,

but oh how some child

surely loved her.

did it squeak,

or leak, did it cry

when a string was pulled?

did it's arms bend,

did her legs?

were there clothes to dress

her in.

shoes and an 
Easter bonnet?

who's to know these

things,

as she sits up right 

in the fading light,

perpetually smiling

on tomorrows

trash bin.

rentals

anything with the word

rental

or lease,

attached to it

eventually goes to hell

in a handbag.

houses,

cars.

sex workers.

most people that rent

don't really

care

about the leaky roof,

the dented door,

the hooker with a heart

of gold,

unable to move

forward.

life is a bus stop

for renters,

for the many and varied

lonely souls.

the sunday paper

the news

is full of what i rarely think of,

or worry about.

climate

change, though i do my part

and put

cans and bottles

into the blue

box for

Wednesday pick up.

there's an article on nuclear

attack,

how to survive

and make the most of it.

tips from Heloise

on radiation poisoning.

i have beans

in the cupboard,

and a tube of Neosporin

so i'm ready.

and then there's all the confusing

rage of gender,

of transgender,

of they, them, him, her,

and what not.

what's the point of even thinking

about that?

our mirth

children

purposely find the largest

puddle,

to run through,

the tallest tree

to climb,

the biggest

slosh of mud

roll around in,

the steepest hill

of grass

to roll down.

and then

we grow old

and stop.

fun

is unmeasured

at a young age,

but now

we use

teaspoons to ladle

out

our mirth.

stand near

don't

be impatient with 

those in sorrow.

those injured or

lost.

be kind to the grieving.

it takes time.

it takes time.

stand near

and hold them,

your turn will come,

each life

has a cost.

current dreams and desires

current dreams

and desires

vary

from time to time.

they're different than

when you were young,

rosy cheeked

and dumb,

but the bloom is off

the rose

at this stage,

there is nothing you

truly need.

no longer do you pray

for snow

to get out of school

the next day,

or for summer to last

forever

instead you pray

for the health and well

being,

of not just you,

but for all others.

what are you wearing this year?

i run into my ex

at the grocery store,

she's buying candy for Halloween,

i see a big

orange pumpkin

in her basket.

she's wearing her black cape

and pointed hat,

which is

her daily wear.

her skin is a greenish color.

her nails long

and scary.

the broom she rides

is tied around

her back with a string.

i ask her

what she's wearing

this year for Halloween.

she says, i'm not sure et,

i haven't decided,

you?

love and money

i think too old.

i think

like

men of another era,

i think

of work. how work

is necessary.

the only fear is to not

have work.

to not have

money.

to be on the dole,

in the bread line,

depending on the kindness

of others

to get by.

love comes first

of course.

but money and work

are not far behind.

do nothing

there are days

when you can't stay awake,

they go along

with nights when

you can't fall asleep.

what is it

that makes you stare

into the ceiling of shadows

and light.

what's on your mind,

what is it now,

that needs attention.

how do you make these

things right?

do nothing seems to work.

the yellowed woods

when you look out into

the blonde brush

and yellowed woods,

the red fire

splashes,

the orange stars

of leaves

falling, you think

the world

is okay. that

things are normal

as the season changes,

but it's

an ephemeral

thought,

that soon slips away.

find home

i get the idea

of drifting from job to job,

relationship

to relationship,

apartment to apartment,

never quite

settling down.

always packing your life

away in boxes.

changing

addresses, phone numbers,

trying to remember

where you are

each morning you wake up.

i recall those days

and cringe.

i did it for much too long.

you have to settle down

at some point and

find home.

the rest of life is so much

easier once you do that.

you're one of those now, eh?

you're one of those now

aren't you,

the woman

says to me, as i push my

groceries

onto the belt.

she slowly

rings me up.

you buy nothing sweet

anymore.

i see no sugar,

no cakes or pies,

no bags of chips, sodas,

or ice cream.

no french fries.

no vegetable oils,

nuts.

just steaks,

and meats of all kinds.

eggs

and butter.

bacon.

how long do you think

you can keep

this up?

we'll see, i tell her,

then point at her triple

chin

where a glop

of jelly donut

is trying to roll off.

yo, nice boots, dude

it's strange when a grown

man 

compliments me

on my shoes.

it makes me uncomfortable.

i look down

at them,

puzzled.

they're just

boots, they're brown,

unpolished,

mud caked

and dulled, long

laces with little

zippers on the side.

i almost blush

and shrug my shoulders,

tossing

the compliment

aside.

thank you, i say,

then quickly change

the subject.

spoiler alert

it would be nice

if occasionally God

gave us

spoiler alerts

to what's about to happen

in our lives.

just a little hint,

a small preview

or trailer

of coming events.

just a taste would be

nice so that we

could prepare ourselves

for what's coming next. 

taking pause

i find myself

not finishing things.

the crossword puzzle,

hardly done,

the paper set down,

beside a pen.

a drink poured out,

while

a half meal 

gets swept into the bin.

i start to read,

reread,

but that too

i push aside,

not interested in fiction,

or truth,

the movie, gets turned off.

i feel like

i've seen too much 

of the same things,

repetition has caused me

to hit pause,

or perhaps, 

just give up,

and so it is with love,

again.

caution in the weeds

don't be fooled

by the glad hand, by the treats,

and

sugar.

be wary

of smiling faces,

of those quick to praise,

quick

to do anything to 

get their way.

a heavy dose

of intimacy must

be questioned.

intentions are not always

what they

appear to be.

walk cautiously

in those weeds.

what makes us whole

is it greed or hunger

that makes us

take more at the till,

even when

thirst is quenched

and belly full, 

we keep taking

and taking.

what is

it that drives

us to seek more.

are we ever satisfied,

ever truly willing

to say enough, i'm

done,

i'm whole.

crossing the street

you look at some people

and think,

they're up to something.

somewhere

on them is a gun,

or knife, or a plan

to do damage in the world.

you can feel

the darkness.

it's not the tattoos

and piercings,

or skin color, or

the beat-up car with

blackened window,

it's not the language

they use, or the total

disregard for courtesy

and niceness.

it's beyond that.

for most of them look

just like me

and you.

it's something else

that makes you

cross the street

in a hurry.

a bowl of broth

we like our broth

to be hot,

for the steam to rise

into

our face,

our nose and mouth

with the memory

of yesterdays.

we want it to soothe

us, we want

the kind spoon

to bring it to our lips,

like warm kisses.

satisfying some

childhood dream

now gone, 

but preserved.

the wordless ocean

i'm not surprised

by the wordless grumbling

of the ocean

that has

so much say and yet

remains

quiet,

except in storms.

how often we too,

betrothed,

behave 

in that way.

press on

it's

turning, this wheel,

listen to squeak,

it needs

grease,

so do i,

so do you.

we need to keep

moving,

don't let the rust

of bone

and tendon

slow

you down.

to hell with the wind,

and time,

rain.

press on.

the landlord with his flashlight

troubled

no longer by the landlord

coming in

with his flashlight,

inspecting

the flat 

where you reside

no longer

worried

about mice,

or electricity,

or food, or, car,

the essentials have

been dealt with.

your worries

are different now,

but no

less disturbing,

keeping you awake

at night,

all hours.

three days later

it takes a while

for the doctor to respond

to my

long email with photo attached

of my swollen

wound.

what's this,

i ask.

will i lose my leg,

my life.

should i get my house in order.

draw out a will,

sell off

my stocks and investments.

make plans

for the afterlife.

but he simply says,

put some Neosporin on it.

it just could be

a bug bite.

today blonde, tomorrow who knows.

is variety

truly the spice of life.

sometimes.

sometimes not.

i look at your collection

of wigs.

blonde, brunette

and red,

and think, 

sure, why not,

surprise me,

or should i make

a wish?

we want things the same

we need routine,

a place

to go and be

seen

on a regular basis.

we need

structure

and sameness.

we feel safe when

we do

the same things

over and over.

we like to

order the same

meals,

sit in the same

chair.

we want our barber

to know our

name,

we want the mailman

to arrive

at the same time

each day.

we want to settle

on a place

for

everything,

it gives us comfort

when we return home

from a long day,

and open

the door to see

that

nothing has changed.

the cartwheel in the park

the old man

watches the children

in the park

doing cartwheels

and he remembers when he too

could lift himself

into the air

and set his hands to the ground,

legs going around

like a pinwheel.

he remembers, alright.

and feels that joy,

that same joy,

not sorrow, that soon

it will be

that long good night.

what makes us tick

it's interesting

what makes us tick,

or untick.

what lies below

is the muddy secret

to our soul.

we are all,

we are none.

unique and yet

the same.

but who we really are

is always 

and forever

never quite known.

better days are to come

better still

are days to come.

i may not say it,

but i

think it quite often.

why

spoil the image

though

and put such optimism

out there.

i adjust my mask

and

press on.

thoughts waiting their turn

i like the white room.

white as feathers.

half dark,

half-light.

the calm

desolate absence of color.

words

come easier

in silence.

an island of quiet,

while

thoughts march forward

on cat's feet.

waiting their turn

to be written.

the seven dollar donut

i see the sign

on the side of the road,

next to the church.

God is still here,

it's you

who has moved on.

i nod in agreement

as i sip on my five

dollar cup

of coffee and eat

a seven-dollar maple donut

with bacon on it.

i seem to need God

more in times of trouble,

than when the road

is easy,

the day full of joy

and laughs.

i don't wish it upon me

or anyone, but

at times

i do need that foxhole

with the bullets

flying overhead, 

i need a bomb to drop,

my leg caught

in the barbed wire

as the enemy attacks.

i need fear and pain,

suffering, it seems

to bring me back

into the flock

of the faithful.

just shoot me

it used to be full contact

football,

then basketball

for decades.

outside in the hot sun,

or cracking

ice off the rim.

volleyball was in the mix

too.

occasional tennis,

five mile runs or more.

day long bike rides.

hiking

any mountain in view.

and now this,

here i am with Aunt Trixie

and her friends,

playing

pickleball.

tapping a ball gently

over the shortened net

so that no

one has to run.

the riptide of psychology

i look at my ever growing

library

of psychological books.

studies

of Freud, of Jung.

of the DSM.

i immersed myself in

personality disorders

to the point

of becoming

crazy myself.

seeing every twist

of someone's mouth

as a sign,

every blink,

or gesture as meaningful.

every word,

or sigh, or rolling

of the eye,

had a whole life behind it.

the Id, the Ego.

the Shadow self.

everyone seemed narcissistic

at one point.

i slept with it, ate with it.

walked around

with it.

i could rattle off a diagnosis

in no time.

the weight almost unbearable.

so much

that i nearly drowned.

doing the opposite of why

i started out

in the first place.

whose book is this?

i can't remember who 

lent me

this book.

it's been sitting on the kitchen

counter for six years now.

never read.

partially skimmed

and then a glance at

the blurb in back,

and the slight bio of the author.

it's a hardback copy.

i feel odd about putting

it on the shelf with others,

ones that i've read.

i don't know why

i never sat down and read it.

maybe it was the person

who gave it to me,

he or she, i can't remember.

did i like them.

we're we in love.

was i bored with them,

were they bored with me.

did things end badly?

perhaps. they often do.

the book is still here, though.

waiting,

for what, i wish i knew.

finally a happy poem

it's the most

common bar room boast

late in the evening

after a few too many

adult beverages.

when i die, i want to die

in my sleep

at the ripe old age

of ....fill in the blank,

after a good meal, 

great sex, and a smile

on my face.

i want a party, not a funeral

when i pass away.

i want dancing

and drinking,

and fun.

throw confetti in the air

at the end

and blow a horn, but,

so few go out

that way.

for most it's dreary

drip drip drip of another

hour, another day,

another week,

another year,

down the inevitable

drain of oblivion.

soon forgotten.

friends gone.

spending your last

few dollars

in a village of elderly

old souls.

your life sustained by a spoon

of oatmeal at the end

of the hand of a complete

stranger.

so it goes.

a change of scenery

strange how our curiosity

wanes.

how we lose

interest in old loves,

even old

friends,

distance and time

shoving

everyone aside.

you see their names

in your phone,

their pictures, but

shrug

and do nothing, never

bothering

to dial

or drop a line.

it's not about caring,

or wondering,

it's just that other things

and people

are now on your mind.

the best people

with some

you don't need an invitation.

you don't

need to call ahead

or text, okay,

maybe a text.

but for the most part

you just show up,

no need to knock either.

just turn

the knob

and enter yelling out,

hey.

it's me.

are you dressed,

i'm coming in.

what's up, what are you

doing?

let's grab dinner.

a single yellow leaf

the art,

the beauty of the one

yellow leaf,

small

and translucent,

stuck to my windshield

does not escape

me.

it's endearing.

it feels like

an embrace of some

sort.

a message.

a small bright kiss

on the glass

of me

as fall settles in.

in the cold shadow

it's cold

in the shadow,

the sun no longer a part

of this day.

it's slipped

behind clouds and trees

the concrete

edges

of buildings no

longer white

but grey.

it's cold here

on this bench,

the one i go to by

the lake.

i expect you to show

up any minute

now,

i've been waiting my whole

life,

being patient,

biding my time.

i hope it hasn't been

an enormous

mistake.

uncle sam wants you

although i feel like

i'm a good person,

i've never volunteered

for anything.

never helped

putting up someone's

fence,

or painted

a room that didn't involve

money.

never ladled soup, or worked

in a hospital

answering phones, or

gathering bloody bandages

for the trash.

i've never

gone down to the shelter

to sweep

or mop,

i've never joined any clubs,

or military

organizations.

never went down to the elementary

school

on election day

and helped people vote.

i'm not a volunteer.

not a peace corps worker,

or UNESCO, whatever

that is.

my therapist suggested

though

that i should go to Africa

and dig

latrines

to help me get over

a failed relationship.

i'm not sure why she would

want to punish me

like that. 

dodging death

when you get a headache

it's normal

to think the worse.

you test your vision by

closing each eye

to see how blurry they might be.

of course it's a massive

brain tumor.

what else could it be.

you put an ice pack on

the back of your head

and carefully lie down.

almost tripping over a black

high heel left on the floor,

and then you remember

that Betty came by last night

with a bottle of tequila.

term life insurance

there's a skinny

white teenager at the door.

knocking

with authority.

it's almost dark out.

i get the baseball bat

out of the closet in case

there's trouble.

i slowly open

the door

and take a look at him.

he's freckled with

red hair

and holding a clipboard.

hello, he says.

i'm selling life insurance

in your neighborhood.

he looks all of fifteen.

what?

i say, still holding the bat.

i'm in my underwear

and the smoke alarm

is going off.

my burger is burning in

the pan.

maybe this isn't a good time,

the kid says.

but here's my card.

he hands me his card

and i close the door.

yeah, fish i can do

as much as i like steak

and chicken

beef.

pork, little baby lambs,

or sheep,

i couldn't actually kill

an animal

unless i was starving.

i couldn't look

a cow in the eye,

a pig,

or bird before i 

raised the knife

and turned them into meat,

but for some reason

fish is a whole

other thing.

self admiration in small doses

it's a skill

you mastered in high school

parallel parking.

it still makes

you proud

to back into a tight space,

hitting neither the car

in front of you

or behind.

no scraping the curb.

with

one hand on the wheel,

using the rear-view mirror,

another arm over

the seat, looking back

you guide

your car in,

impressing no one,

but yourself.

but still. pretty neat.

cat's in the craddle

sometimes you feel a little blue,

like when

your only son,

or at least 

the only son you know of 

forgets

to send you a Father's Day card,

a birthday card,

and a get well soon card.

but you hold your hopes out

for Christmas.

who doesn't send a Christmas

card to their father?

but then i shake the sadness off

and realize how busy he is.

walking the dog, cooking

and cleaning the house

while his girlfriend is at work.

playing basketball with his

friends, traveling

and going to movies.

hanging out with his mother

down the street.

maybe he's taking classes or

something. working on another

college degree.

writing poetry.

i'd be forgetful too if i had all

that on my plate.

he had such a wonderful

childhood too.

bless you, almost

sometimes

you're about to sneeze,

but nothing happens.

it feels like

a lost moment.

you were so ready.

prepared with a kleenex

for what was

about to happen.

it's disappointing in a way.

not heartbreaking,

but still a little bit

of a let down.

we all need a good sneeze

now and again.

sort of like crying.

stuff just has to get out.

we need to talk

as soon as i hear the words,

we need to talk.

i hold my hand up

and go upstairs to the bedroom

to start packing her bags.

not mine,

hers.

i clean out the closet

of her clothes.

i empty the drawers.

i get a box for all her make up

and hairbrushes,

and all the mysterious tubes

and lotions, perfumes 

that create the image of who

she wants to be.

a few hours later.

i go back down.

she's still sitting at the kitchen

table, her hands folded

around a cup of tea.

we have to talk, she says again.

please, sit down.

let's discuss things.

nah, no thanks i tell her.

i'm heading out for a long walk.

do what you have to do

and leave a forwarding address

for your mail. later.

something wonderful is about to happen

as you get older,

you have to get up a lot

at night

to go pee.

or at least try to.

sometimes it's like

a fire hose

or a racehorse,

while other times

it's a slow drip,

so slow that you give

up and go back to bed.

you can't coerce it,

you can't beg, or bend,

or shake it.

maybe later, you tell

yourself.

you turn the light

off, find your way back

to bed,

and say a bad word

that rhymes with truck.

okay, where was i,

you say to your self

trying to reconnect to

the dream you were just

having where something

wonderful was about

to happen.

we all make mistakes

there was the NYC girl,

the 
Chinatown

girl,

the Solomon's Island

girl.

the high roller,

the smart girl.

the artistic girl.

the flight attendant.

the scientist.

the doctor.

the lawyer.

the cupcake baker.

the Playboy

Bunny.

the equestrian.

the tattooed girl.

the waitress at Denny's.

the tall girl.

the short girl.

the boney girl.

the busty girl.

the seamstress. 

the dominatrix.

the cowgirl.

the student,

the teacher.

the Librarian.

Zoo Girl.

Blondie.

Red.

the religious girl.

blabby girls.

quiet girls.

athletic girl.

tubby girl.

the girl in Baltimore,

in Cleveland,

in Berlin,

in Seattle,

in Florida.

in Jersey.

St. Louis.

the high school sweetheart,

the college

coed.

the girl next door.

the one

who got away is each

and everyone

of them.

so, i made a few mistakes

along the way,

three to be exact.

so sue me.

that once sweet wine

it's a long distant

wedding

in Pittsburgh.

i look at the invitation

and sigh.

dead of winter in Pittsburgh.

who are these people.

do i even

know the groom,

the bride?

can we do a face time

thing,

a skype,

or zoom.

i'm not good with weddings

theirs

or mine. but

i understand their optimism.

love is a potent

elixir.

you never believe that

it will

fade in time,

that you will sober up,

no longer drunk

with that once sweet wine.

the preparation

i prepare

for the maids to come.

i set out the clean sheets.

i tidy up

the towels

that lie on the bathroom

floor.

i put things away,

stack books,

hang clothes in the closet.

i empty the dishwasher,

wipe the counters

and bag the trash.

i tape the note in spanish

on the door

to leave

the keys in the house,

not under the mat.

okay.

have at it.

twelve years and more

most hours

were wasted in the classroom.

whether the subject matter

or the inept

instructor, something

kept you from

listening too hard,

or from raising your hand

to ask a question.

you were bored.

doodling, writing,

daydreaming,

staring out the window

at the freshly cut lawn.

gazing at the clock

on the wall.

waiting, waiting for

the bell.

twelve years and more,

were a painful

crawl.

we hadn't talked in a week

there was romance

in the pay

phone.

the coins stacked as

the operator

connected your call

long distance.

it may have been

raining,

cold and wet

as you stood in

the glass booth,

the bifold doors

pulled shut,

turning the  dial to

O, then reading out

the number

to whom you'd like

to speak to.

your heart beat fast.

as you waited 

to hear her voice.

it's been too long,

a week,

perhaps.

the monk life

i could be a monk for about an

hour,

and then i'd

need coffee,

or a show on netflix,

a new book,

a date with Elanore.

i need stuff.

things.

food, clothing. house,

cars.

i don't have a bone

of non-attachment in me.

i could never

handle a vow of silence.

i'd be whispering to some

other monk

about how the roast

needs more seasoning.

or asking if his

robe was itchy too.

i'd be staring

into my phone with 

every ding.

i'd last about an hour

before they'd 

kick me out,

send me tumbling down

the mountain,

out of the monastery.

what's wrong now

i think she's angry with me.

i can't tell anymore

with women.

they get quiet on you.

aloof and distant.

then suddenly everything

is okay again.

when she says, i'm sleeping

in the other room tonight.

your mind races, what did

i do now.

or yesterday?

i saved her the last piece

of cake, doesn't that count

for something.

oh wait a minute, right.

her birthday.

he's alone

i see him

around his fire,

his yard clean.

he's alone.

i stand at the window.

he looks

up and waves,

then puts his hands

back on his face.

i move away.

i've been there too.

best to leave

that alone.

sorrow being holy

ground.

309 Dorchester Ave.

it was a house well

lived in.

the broken window,

the screen

ripped out

of the back screen door

so that the dogs

could come and go.

coffee rings on

the table,

spills and scrapes

along the walls.

cobwebs

in the basement

stuffed with toys

outgrown.

broken locks,

cold rooms and closets

without doors.

drawers stuck,

the loud refrigerator

never resting

with its buzz.

the mud yard

squared off by a rusted

chain link fence.

someone else lives there

now.

white bread and bologna

my dearly departed

friend

and worker,

Jake,

used to stroke his

gnarly beard

and yell out the window

at pregnant

women.

he'd say, hey baby,

i know what you've been

doing.

but he didn't mean

any harm.

he was just being Jake,

cigarette in one

hand,

beer in the other.

his painter pants below

his waist.

his lunch bag

holding a sandwich

of white

bread and bologna

that the shelter gave him.

down at the art center

we take

pride in our pottery,

our knitted

hats and scarves,

our numbered paintings.

down

to the art center we go

to make things.

hands

on the cold clay,

straddling the wheel,

holding brushes,

welding

pieces of metal, and naming

the project,

Today.

we take fragile sticks

and the skin of birch

trees

and create a feeling,

an emotion,

something

we're not quite sure of,

but it pleases us.

keeps

our mind free off what

lies ahead, what lies behind.

what shores await

i see the old man

in the lake

with his ancient boat,

creases in the planks

taking on water.

he's wearing his green hat,

his favorite shirt,

his hands are on the oars,

pulling, pulling

against

the thickness of water.

he's still rowing,

still moving,

still alive and wondering

what shore he'll

arrive at next.

good bones

good bones,

the agent says,

as she

spreads

her arms out wide

to present the old house.

brick

and mortar,

hardwood,

and steel, plaster walls.

1930s,

she says it has good

bones.

my father used to say

that about

cars and women.

good bones, he'd said,

look

at bone structure,

see how they sway

in the wind,

how they stand up

to bad weather.,

hard times.

can they sustain

reliability over time?

she had great gams

i met her in New York,

she was a Radio City 

Musical Hall dancer.

one of those high

kicking babes

in red stockings

that they bring out for

the holidays.

i had a front row ticket

and we caught each other's eye

as she stood

arm in arm, with the other girls.

kicking their legs

in the air.

she winked, i winked.

admittedly

it was all about the legs.

we met after the show.

hit it off and eventually

got married.

trouble was. she had nothing.

no cooking skills,

was mediocre in the love

making department,

and refused to get a real job.

i'm a dancer, she'd say.

God gave me a gift, and

that's what i do.

plus she smoked and drank.

but damn,

those legs kept us together

for years,

sadly though,

she eventually developed

some varicose veins,

her knees got sort of knobby

and she injured her meniscus.

so her career ended.

i think about her sometimes

around the holidays

and wonder what she's up to.

chopping down the tree

my father

once pulled over at the side

of the highway

opened the trunk

and took

out an axe.

i watched him

from the back window,

as he took a slug

of his pint

of whiskey,

then went into the woods

and chopped down

a tree for Christmas.

the state park was full

of trees.

he dragged it back

to the car

and strapped it to

the roof with rope.

it was snowing,

and the woods looked

beautiful

along Mt. Vernon

Highway,

heading towards

the city.

guaranteed weight loss

did you lose weight,

an old girlfriend says,

bumping into her at the pumpkin

patch

near the gas station.

you look marvelous.

a little i tell her,

shyly.

i've been working out.

plus i went through an

emotional

breakup.

you too? she says.

in my book it's the best

way to drop

pounds.

sometimes i start a relationship

just to break it off

with someone.

i make myself feel so bad,

that i don't eat.

i think i lost fifteen pounds

when we broke up,

i tell her, you?

i lost nearly eleven.

great.

high five, she says, putting

her hand up in the crisp

fall air.

i slap it and move on,

looking for the perfect

pumpkin.

Christmas Cookies

i drop off

at the church,

two bags of sugar,

unopened,

powdered and granulated.

a sack

of almond flour,

and unbleached white

flour.

baking soda

in a small red can.

a bottle of canola oil,

vegetable oil,

each unopened.

a tin of Crisco,

ten ounces of chocolates,

pecans

and walnuts,

a tiny bottle

of vanilla extract.

one roll of parchment

paper,

and six cookie cutters

in the shape

of snowflakes,

Santa,

Christmas trees

and reindeer.

i'll keep the butter,

but

i won't be making cookies

this winter.

glued to nothing

i am glued to nothing,

to no one, i'm

not set in

my ways,

i refuse to be

stuck in the past.

my views on politics

continue

to sway.

what i eat and drink

changes

from day to day.

what i read

what i watch is

an hourly mystery.

i feel indifferent about

the weather.

bring snow,

bring rain.

i'm undecided on nearly

everything.

including you.

we have a pill for that

what ails you?

headache,

stomachache,

high cholesterol,

high blood pressure?

we have a pill

for that.

can't sleep,

can't get up,

low libido,

hair loss,

we have a pill for that.

need more energy,

a spring in your step,

clearer skin,

something to help

you stay focused,

stay slim,

we have a pill for that.

depressed and lonely,

angry

and crazy,

without mercy,

without compassion.

sorry.

you're on your own

with that.

the beauty unfound

is the grocery clerk

a genius,

maybe, the man cutting

the lawn,

the woman

lying on a bench,

barefooted.

are they smart, creative.

intelligent souls?

maybe,

maybe,

but where did it go wrong.

what's lacking,

was it the mother or

father

who kept love away,

or who wouldn't let

them go.

who's to know, but you

can't help but wonder,

if there's art

within them, inventions,

books

and poetry,

paintings and songs?

a familiar road

you reach a point,

of saying things like, oh well.

nothing changes,

we've been down this road

before.

the bumps and bruises,

the missteps

along the way,

are all familiar.

the broken heart.

etc.

and yet. as you accept

the world for what it is,

it's all still

a mystery,

you begin to say things

like,

don't worry about dying.

just live.

the ribbons in her hair

she's a good sleeper.

look at her

lying there, blending into

the white

sheets,

the snow drift of linen.

her hands folded

as if in prayer,

her freckles still,

her breathing, soft

and gentle.

i'll let her sleep a little

while longer,

while i ponder

the ribbons in her hair.

the poison berry

i probably shouldn't

have eaten

that berry

shining in the sun,

amidst

the briar patch,

but it looked sweet

and harmless.

a perfect blue,

the shade of blue

that reminds me of a

a porcelain vase

i once gave

to you.

it fell and broke into

a thousand

pieces,

and now this.

a parade and new law for everyone

do we really need

a new law

and a parade for everyone

now?

five different bathrooms

for the confused

men and women,

boys and girls,

they and them.

jiminy crickets,

what's the world coming to?

if Larry wants to be Mary,

go for it.

if Edie wants to be Eddie,

pop the champagne

and move on.

do whatever you want.

put a dress on,

lipstick, heels

and sashay around.

grow a beard,

sideburns, get muscles.

who cares?

have fun.

and you surgeons,

so called doctors, cutting

things off,

adding things on,

stop the madness.

you're in Freud's and Jung's

wheelhouse now.

go help someone that

really needs help,

i know you need a new

boat and house,

and another car,

but come on. put the scalpel

away.

the cooks i have known

i remember my old

girlfriends by what they used

to cook or bake.

Isabella was a master chef

in the kitchen,

beef or lamb,

roasted in her Viking

Stove,

then there was Lucy,

she was more of a pasta

girl. lasagna and meat balls,

fettucine alfredo.

then there was Mary,

who made 

three dozen cookies

and it wasn't even a holiday.

each a different shape,

some iced,

some crunchy, some

powdered and soft,

all wrapped with a red ribbon

on a big white plate.

Donna was an expert

at baking German Chocolate

cakes,

and Lisa knew how to make

French toast,

with bacon and eggs.

of course there was the vegan

girl,

carrots and lettuce,

nuts and berries,

rabbit food.

that's how i lost the weight,

but least i forget Betty,

well,

she was good at heating

things up

in and out of the kitchen.

pizza slices in the microwave

was her specialty.

boy do i miss her when

the hour grows late.

nah, it's not a cult

there's smoke

and incense,

a solemn quiet

mystery,

stained glass,

and Latin, there's gold

chalices,

long robes,

old men,

young boys,

cloaked women

in black.

they talk about your soul.

they sing

songs you've never

heard before.

a bell rings,

there's beating of

the chest.

they collect money

and want you

to confess.

kneel. rise, bow.

repent, repent. repent.

it's not a cult.

not a cult at all.

just Sunday mass

at St. Bernadettes.

women and autumn leaves

let's take a drive up

to the Shenandoah Valley

to see

the fall foliage, she says,

over morning coffee.

she's wearing her flannel

shirt, and jeans,

hiking boots.

all the ways up there,

i say, wincing, really?

my mind is whirling trying

to remember what time

the game comes on tv.

we live in the woods now,

i tell her.

look out the back window,

there's approximately ten

thousand trees with leaves

falling all over the place.

plus there's a nice stream

out there too.

look, look, see.

orange, red, brown, yellow.

a whole bunch of leaves.

but it would be fun,

she says.

we can stop and get

a pumpkin at some

roadside market.

get some candles.

candles? 

i hit the light switch

in the kitchen. still working.

yes, candles, and maybe some

apple cider that some

poor hill family made.

they look so happy when

we drive by,

the little children waving

their skinny arms.

i just love the leaves this

time of year, don't you?

yeah, sure, i guess so.

i mean they're okay.

great, we can take the land

rover today. the white one.

 

the snail joke

there's a knock

at the door,

i look down,

it's a small grey snail,

dragging himself

up the sidewalk

leaving a wet trail

behind him,

up the steps

he goes,

somehow knocking

on my door

with his shell.

i almost step on him

when i look out,

then pick him up

and throw him back

across the yard.

i look around, but see

no one.

i go back to bed.

a year later,

i hear a knock again.

it's the same snail.

he looks up at me

and says,

what was that all about?

the roadside diner

was there ever a better

breakfast

than the one you ate with your

pals

at 3 a.m.

in the morning,

in some side of the road

diner,

coming home from downtown

after a night

of drinking and dancing,

carousing, as young men

are prone to do.

eggs and bacon, hash browns,

coffee and juice,

french toast

and pancakes,

greasy sausage links,

more toast please, butter

and jam.

we ate and ate, drank our

coffee,

flirted with the tired

young waitress and reviewed

the night behind us,

before heading home.

each going

our separate ways.

three olive martinis

i can stay in a crowded room

for maybe an hour

before i begin

to itch

and shuffle my feet.

the first thing i do at

a party is find where the exits

are.

kitchen, front door,

back door,

a basement window

that i could easily slip

out of and disappear into

the night.

i sweat as i mingle.

making awkward small

talk, adjusting my collar.

i'm no fun at things like

this. i want to go home

the second i arrive.

martinis help, but only

so much.

done with that

i have a conversation

with the stray

cat that wanders up to my

porch as i sit out

and read.

she moves cautiously,

gazing with green eyes,

then settles down

in the sun between my knees.

i can't take you in,

i tell her.

i'm sorry. i can get you

a bowl of buttermilk

if you'd like.

i can stroke your tail,

your back, your silky ears,

but i can't take you in

and love you like you deserve

to be loved.

i'm sort done with rescue

missions.

done with that.

they don't know when to leave

strange how ghosts

persist.

how patient they are in leaving.

long gone.

ancient history, and yet

their presence

lingers,

like a smell, or sound

in the pipes,

the rattle of chains,

the wind blowing.

rain.

they just don't know when

to leave,

do they?

a thousand cuts

i take the bandage off

the long

deep cut in my leg.

it's healing,

red and swollen, but

already

coming around.

i look at the scars on

my hands,

my arms, the bridge

of my nose,

ignoring,

the ones of the heart.

do we really die

of a thousand

small cuts?

is that preferable

to one swift blow?

cold chicken at 3am

i sit on the top

step and look down.

who's up at this hour,

who's in

the kitchen,

sitting at the old table,

eating

cold chicken in the dark,

drinking a beer,

a cigarette burning in

an ashtray.

what worries him so.

what keeps

him here.

why can't he sleep.

regret, remorse, fear?

i suspect all three, but

i'll never know.

just yesterday it was july

the world

moves at a snail's pace,

when young.

a slow

crawl of hours,

the clocks hardly moving,

as you sit

in school, staring

out the window

at blue skies,

and sun.

but now.

you can't stop it

as time flies by.

it's December already,

when yesterday

it was only 

July.

when the child goes west

when the child

jumps

ship

and swims off into a direction

you've never been

before,

west,

you wonder

what will happen to him,

never having

grown

wings to fly out

of his mother's nest.

ten pm

i can't shake

the cold

out of my hands,

my fingers stiff with 

February.

i should have worn gloves.

a hat too.

and these shoes

do nothing in this snow.

i blow on my

cupped hands

to keep them warm,

the bloom of

my lungs feathering out

into the black

night.

i pull my coat tighter

around my neck.

i'll keep going,

one more hill,

another mile,

but you're worth it.

stories without endings

it's too late for coffee,

even

tea.

so i settle for water

warmed

to a boil

on the burner,

my hand over the steam,

giving a lemon

a gentle squeeze.

some dreams

will arrive

because of it,

as usual a story

without an ending,

not unlike

the story of you and me.

my one week in a cult

they seemed like nice people.

at first.

a lot of singing,

and hugging,

all that namaste,

kumbaya

malarky. but they seemed

sincere

and genuinely

caring about me as a person.

i felt loved.

there were lots of frisky

women,

and pretty too.

i didn't even mind when

they asked

me to put on a long orange

colored robe,

or give them

access to my bank accounts.

sure, i told the chief

guru, Bob,

have some money.

who needs money?

take my house

and my vinyl record collection.

i don't need all those

attachments

when i'm living here for

nothing.

take my car, sell it.

no need to call me by my

name anymore either.

called me Bluebird

from now on,

that's my new name.

i loved the dance parties,

though it took

a little getting used to,

not wearing clothes,.

you had to be extra careful

around the campfires.

the special homemade kool aid

seemed to help though

and loosen my inhibitions.

a girl named Daffodil taught me

how to play

the tambourine and the bongo,

but then,

they asked me to get a branding

on my neck,

to show my loyalty

to the group.

they wanted to use

a hot cauterizing iron,

to seer my flesh

into the shape of a smiley face

with a dollar sign through it.

i left after that.

crawling out a window

one night in my robe

and sandals.

i'm flipping burgers now at

Five Guys.

not a cult.

there's light at the end

sometimes the only

way out

is in.

go further, push on

through the unlit tunnel.

breathe,

keep moving

through the darkness,

the cold.

stop and rest.

then go again.

don't turn back to the point

of where you

began.

go forward.

you're almost there.

there's light at the end.

fashion dilemmas

i can't decide

which

t-shirt to wear today.

i lay out the clean ones

on the bed.

black, white, blue, teal green.

i go make some

coffee then come back

up to look at

the possible selections.

what fits the weather

today?

sunny, mild.

a slight fall breeze.

do i want to make a fashion

statement?

maybe the white long sleeve

t-shirt over

the black short sleeve

t-shirt.

the never out of style

layered look.

that's it.

okay, now pants.

which jeans to wear.

faded, not too faded, or new?

it's getting harder

each day to leave the house.

and i haven't even

begun

with my choice of shoes,

loafers,

boots?

how not to fight

she's been working on

her homemade

salad dressing for about ten

years now.

here, she says,

take a sip of this,

i added something different.

she carefully carries

a spoon full

of the newly made salad

dressing

and puts it in my open mouth.

well,

she says.

i try not to wince, but

tears are coming out of my

eyes.

i swallow and smile.

boy that's something.

delightful, i tell her.

you've nailed it this time.

too much vinegar?

no, no.

perfect.

are you sure?

yes, dear. it's great.

necessary distractions

we find

distractions necessary.

sports,

shows,

movies, drink and food.

we need

to be entertained.

we need the Ferris wheel,

the big top,

the flying Zambinis.

we're not monks

up on the mountain,

how long

can we self-analyze,

stare at our

navels

and brood?

we're in it

for the long haul.

we're here to stay,

at least for a while.

give me something

to read,

someone to kiss,

something

unbland, tell

me a story,

a joke. let's dance.

swing your hips.

intrigue me with magic,

let me guess

which hand.

the church bake sale

i see Father Smith

siting on the church steps as

i ride by

on my bike.

i pull over to talk to him,

ringing my bell

to let him know i'm approaching.

he's wiping

tears from his eyes,

shaking his head.

what's up, i ask him.

ah you know, confession.

not sure how much longer

i can listen

and not yell at people.

every week it's the same

old sins.

they never stop.

as soon as they're forgiven

they go right back out

and do it all over again.

lying, stealing adultery,

the whole nine years.

sorry, he says. i shouldn't

be telling you this,

but they're are a lot of bad

people in the world.

men and women.

they have no morals,

no real sense of guilt,

shame or remorse.

he stands up and lets out

a long exasperating sigh

looking up into the heavens,

as if waiting for an answer

or a lightning bolt to hit him.

i want to hug him, or give

him some advice, but i don't.

instead i ask him,

if the Church bake sale is

still on this weekend.

i just love that sourdough bread,

i tell him.

and the olive bread.

so crunchy.

what's coming next

as the cold

sets in, i secure the doors

and windows.

i latch

the barn.

mend the fences down

by the road.

i chop

wood for the fire,

the stove.

i count my eggs,

my chickens.

i stand by the window

and wait

for what's coming

next.

her address on a napkin

it took years,

decades

to finally take her number

out of my wallet.

she wrote it down

in a Georgetown bar

on a white napkin.

it was 1980.

she drew a crude map

of where she

lived with her parents,

her brothers

and sister.

i found her house with it.

the arrows pressed down

in blue ink,

as to where to turn.

it wasn't love.

just fun.

just fun.

but it still took years

to throw it

away.

finally, at least with her,

i was done.

sea glass

there are small

treasures

at the bottom of the sea.

hidden

gems, lost souls.

the mystery 

of deep waters, 

embracing

it all,

letting few things

rise

towards the sand,

out from the cold.

how surprised we are

to discover

the small beauties,

of silkened glass 

of every color

in every rainbow.

a room full of smoke

we grew up

in smoke filled rooms.

blue and grey

puffs

billowing from the mouths

of parents,

adults, young toughs.

cigarettes cupped

in hands,

cigars,

a pipe here and there,

a symbol

of being learned.

packs

of pall malls stuffed

in the sleeves

of sailors.

yellowed fingers,

and teeth,

ashtrays full,

burn holes in nearly

everything.

matches and lighters.

gangsters and molls.

presidents and kings.

thugs

and priests.

three out of four doctors

recommended

mentholated

gold kings.

nuns behind the chapel,

blowing

smoke rings.

who wasn't a nicotine

fiend?

before the pipes freeze

before the pipes

freeze

i turn off the water valve

that connects

to the outside.

not sure why

i opened it

last spring.

did i ever use the hose

this year,

this summer,

for anything?

there was hope though,

a new garden,

a patch of tomatoes,

peppers.

green beans.

i look out at the brown

patch

once green,

the rabbits loved me

for that.

green jello with fruit in it

i go to visit

her.

she's on the fifth floor

of Belleview.

she has a nice

tidy room.

padded walls,

rubber sheets, but

she's bathed

and well groomed.

she's wearing

a set of pale green

pajamas,

no shoes.

i peek into the caged

window

and say hello,

how are you?

she whispers,

through the grate,

and says,

get me out of here,

please.

i'm okay now.

i'm healed, i'm all better.

from now on

it will be just me and you.

i promise.

cross my heart.

please, see what you

can do.

yesterday they made me

eat jello.

it was green and had

fruit in it.

i nod, sure i tell her.

sure thing

 sweetie pie,

see you next sunday,

between

one and two.

no magic wand

i walk off the job.

i'm too old for this,

coddling

crazy people.

delusional old men

and old women,

with mansions.

trying to turn hundred

year old wood

into new wood.

they've waited too long

for a paint job.

the trim is peeling,

cracked,

the gutters sag.

mildew and rot

is everywhere.

the window sashes

have lost their glaze.

the colors have faded,

the slats on the shutter

are gone.

i pack up and leave.

driving away in the early

morning sun.

my coffee still warm.

no note, no word,

no call.

i have no magic wand.

taking piano lessons

i take piano lessons

after buying a baby grand

piano

for the front room.

my teacher

talks to me like a child,

which i am

when it comes to music.

she sets my fingers on

the keyboard

and presses each down,

then glides my hand

across, pushing down

on the keys,

resulting in sound.

it's obvious that i have

no musical talent.

how old are you, she asks,

why, i reply.

well, i'm not sure that we

have enough time.

not our turn

we turn

our heads towards the sirens

coming up

the street.

the brittle glare of sound

digging deep

into our

minds.

wondering what's

ahead,

when or if

it will ever be

our time.

beauty fades

beauty

fades and yet blossoms

in other

ways.

taking time,

to grow

within,

a more permanent

phase.

don't lose your number

it's a madhouse.

Katz's deli on Orchard

Street.

chaos

and pastrami.

everyone in their

heavy coats, hats

and gloves.

the line snakes

through

the long alley

of the restaurant.

we wait

with snow melting

on our shoulders.

tickets in hand.

we salivate

as plates of sandwiches

go by,

carried by strong

waitresses,

elbowing through 

the crowd.

the guy behind

the counter

keeps slicing the meat

in a far away

trance.

don't lose your number

the guy at

the front says.

cash only.

come on, keep it moving.

close the door,

it's snowing for God's sake.

bad luck?

it doesn't seem

to add up.

there are so many jobs

available

and yet

there are so many people

sleeping

in tents under the bridge

looking for handouts.

what's going on here?

is it laziness,

pride,

unskilled on any level,

mental illness?

has our educational

system failed us,

has our society let us

down?

is the government

to blame?

bad luck?

are all our lives an inch

away

from going down

that drain?

writer's block

i ball up the sheet of paper

and toss it

towards the basket.

it rims out.

i type another word,

print it,

ball it up

and try again for

the basket in the corner.

swish.

sometimes when the words

don't come,

this is what you

go to.

incompatible

it's too crowded

here,

she says.

not quaint enough.

are these eggs organic,

from pasture

raised chickens?

i prefer

a dive bar.

somewhere that

we have

to drive

two hours to get to.

with homemade beer.

somewhere where

we can 

pick apples,

or berries on a farm.

where we can

go spelunking,

or hiking

in the woods.

i prefer nature,

not here.

i want to go antiquing.

i want to kayak,

and take pictures

of turtles

along the river.

see that mountain

over there,

let's buy 

some climbing gear,

and climb it.

who are you anyway?

i look at the long

incision

in the back of my leg.

a cross stitched wound,

red and oozing.

it's interesting.

strange.

how easy it is to cut

open the flesh

to look inside,

and yet so rare that

we really know

someone,

who they really are

within.

a broom stick to ride on

it's the neighbor hood

yard

sale. again.

everyone has all their junk

out

on the grass.

tables set up,

with folding chairs,

as they drink coffee

and eat

donuts.

mostly dusty old trash,

marked down

and down and down.

little billy's bike

with flat tires,

a rusted push lawn

mower.

a mixer with the mashed

potatoes still stuck

to beaters.

how much for that picture

of dogs playing poker?

and what is that,

a broom stick

to ride on?

does my ex wife know

you have that?

raking the fallen leaves

the old

 man, my neighbor,

is a wry fellow, a little

on the distant

side.

quiet, but friendly,

all at the same

time.

he nods, instead of

waves,

as he rakes his yard

the fiftieth time

in living here.

few words

leave him, he's

content with where 

he's at, what he's

done with his life.

he's seen his children

grow,

the neighbor's children.

he's seen death

and dying.

he's had his share

of love,

of sun and ice.

he's good with a nod,

a tip of hat.

a smile, then back

to raking

the fallen leaves,

for him that will suffice.

Holy Water

how does the water

become

holy?

is it just someone

from

the clergy

saying a few words

over the pipe

as he turns

the spigot on,

collecting the newly

blessed

water into

a gold chalice?

can they do the ocean

and be done with

it?

the game is rigged

trust no one.

you learn that early in life.

there is no Santa,

no easter

bunny,

no leprechauns, 

no wishing well,

or falling

stars to cast your

fate upon.

there is no tooth

fairy.

trust no one.

not the priest,

the politician,

your friends, 

your colleagues 

your husband, 

your wife.

trust no one,

not the doctor,

or teacher, the lawyer,

the cop.

the accountant,

the butcher with his

thumb upon the scale.

the game is rigged,

trust no one.

don't look back

best wishes,

farewell,

goodbye, so long.

there are many ways

to leave

and end things,

but the best way

is to be silent,

don't look back

and be gone.

buying the farm

you stop looking

at prices.

you just put things into the cart

and move on.

six berries

six dollars.

a pound of meat

for your left arm.

chicken wings,

where's my credit card?

i'll trade you 

my watch for an

oven roaster,

it might be

time to buy that farm.

they're into it

the neighbor

unloads a fifty-pound pumpkin

from their truck

and roll it into

their yard.

orange lights

are strung along windows.

ghost and goblins

hang from

the trees.

he gets a wheelbarrow

out of his shed

to load

the candy.

she's dressed as a witch,

in black,

he's

Frankenstein,

his skin painted green.

it's two weeks before

Halloween,

but they're into it.

your favorite jeans

when your favorite pair

of jeans,

finally

falls apart,

faded

and thin,

loose at the seams,

a loop or two broken,

the zipper

stuck,

the pocket with a hole,

the frayed

cuff,

patches needing patches,

you fold them

and put them on the high

shelf.

there's no other

choice but that.

what's on your mind

we don't mean to,

but we do,

at times reveal what's

on our minds,

the discussion of weather

and rain,

snow and ice, suddenly

takes a turn

and we slip

into a thought or two

about

what's really going on

in our life.

the remnants of childhood

when the nest,

is empty, 

the safe

harbor

for children

now hollowed out

by

what's left,

when

the outgrowns

of childhood,

the remnants of holidays,

the toys in the attic,

the strollers,

the bikes

and skateboards,

the clothes

that no longer fit

remain,

how can she not cry,

and grieve,

her heart is bittersweet

with the knowledge

that

those days

will never come again.

time is not on our side

if i had to choose,

deem

a favorite,

i would take the hour

hands over

the minute

hand,

or the swift

but endearing second hand,

give me the slow

black arrows

casually

moving around

the clock.

of course that could

change

depending on the day,

or where i might be,

or with who.

a cult of one

after watching

the show on a cult in Albany,

my first reaction

is what stupid

idiots these people are.

giving up

their money,

their lives,

their sexuality for this nutcase

who captured their souls 

under the guise

of self-help.

worshiped and adored.

what's wrong with people?

how easily are

they brainwashed

and suckered and hypnotized,

and then

i stop.

i think about my own life,

once or twice being

dragged into a relationship

resembling

a cult of one.

do you believe in God?

once the meds wear

off

you become grumpy,

not yourself,

at least not your sweet,

kind,

nice compassionate

self

that so many others

adore.

delusion is part of the equation.

but the meds,

though they

lasted through the night

have waned

and now i feel

the ache

and pain of a sharp scalpel

digging

into my leg.

i stare at the ooze of me

trying to break

out from under the gauze.

six weeks, the doctor says.

bite on

this piece of leather

meanwhile

and drink this.

a shot of whiskey from

an old barrel.

do you believe in 
God?

the factory sealed air tight chicken plastic package

i can't remember

when i

bought those chicken legs.

a week,

ten days.

Easter?

i'm afraid to cut open

the factory

sealed plastic

package they came in,

plus i can't

find the hack saw

to open

them up, or the pliers

and exacto knife.

i hold them up to the light,

dig a hole

into the plastic

with a screw driver

and smell.

i still don't know.

i ask myself one question,

do you feel

lucky tonight, well, do ya,

punk?

it's complicated

when someone

says to you, it's complicated,

as they take

your hand into

theirs and look deeply

into your eyes,

maybe with alligator

tears in theirs,

some manufactured sighs,

expect the worse.

the end is a painful

ten minute

convoluted conversation

away.

just rip the band aid

off, and 

grow a pair,

say what you have

to say.

you have no patience

for junior doctor phils.

two cans and a string

do you have

what's app, she asks,

facebook,

instagram,

skype

zoom or video chat?

umm,

no, i tell her

pulling out an ink

pen

and a pad of paper.

what's your

address, i'll send you

a postcard.

luck be a lady tonight

it's the lidocaine

that stings, the needle prick,

the flow

of a liquid

strange,

that the body

reacts to.

the rest is easy

as the scalpel

eases it's way around

and down

the numbed skin,

in surgical search,

challenging

the bad cells

to give up, to

disperse.

all the while

the surgeon whistles

a Broadway

tune.

luck be a lady tonight.

i know

that tune too.

the radio city rockettes

i stick my bare foot

out

the door to see how cold it

is,

wagging my leg

to see if it's raining,

if the wind

is blowing.

trying to decide what to wear.

i look down the street

and see

a dozen or so other legs,

black

brown,

tanned, or pasty pale

like mine.

all doing the same thing.

we are

the neighborhood

radio city

rockettes 

on tour.

after the Eisenhour heart attack

we had a sugar

bowl

on the table,

salt and pepper,

side by side.

a stack of wonder bread,

in the middle

on a white

plate.

we had margarine

and skim milk.

vegetable oils,

no tallow,

or lard,

everything was low

fat.

no meat or eggs

anymore.

no bacon.

just

kale

and carrots,

lettuce and pasta.

we had dessert.

ice cream

or cake

piled high

with chocolate syrup.

dripping down the sides.

who knew anything

back then

about obesity,

or how our doctors

lied.

waiting to be discovered

i know a few actors.

dramatic actors.

degrees in drama, but

they don't work.

they do house chores, while

the wife

works.

they cut the grass,

make stews in the kitchen.

they change

the sheets,

dust, mop,

vacuum. 

they watch tv.

the calls aren't coming in.

they walk around

the house

practicing lines

from Shakespeare.

to be or not to be.

they look out the window,

to see how the dog

is doing,

they pray to the heavens,

with dramatic flair,

will 

someone please 

discover me.

the bridge is out

i hear the bridge is out

because

of the heavy

rain.

the flooding.

it makes me happy.

no one was hurt, thank

goodness.

but now i can change

my plans.

i don't have to go

to that same dumb

party they have every

year.

sorry, i'd love to be there,

but the bridge is

out,

i exclaim.

eight fifteen

i miss a button

on my shirt.

i'm in a hurry, it's dark,

so i'm off

one button.

i forget to pull up

my zipper

and my white

boxer drawers are

hanging out.

there's shaving cream

in my ears,

i've cut my chin

shaving,

the blood is everywhere.

i'm a five year

old running to catch

the bus.

i can't be late.

switching doctors

we all want the best,

the best

lawyer in town,

the best doctor,

the best

restaurant or chef.

we want the best clothes,

and cars,

and hotels.

we don't want the second

or third tier

things.

we don't want motel six.

we don't want

the hand me downs,

the used,

the tossed,

the refuse.

what's the yelp reviews

on that?

i think i know

i know.

i know, i know.

then i don't know.

i'm assured and confident

of my beliefs

and then

i'm not so sure.

maybe

it's the caffeine,

maybe it's you

and your influence

on me,

or maybe i'm just

as confused

as everyone else

seems to be.

what are women doing in there?

she takes

a long time in the bathroom.

the door is warm

with steam.

i knock

gently, light taps,

hello, hey,

are you okay in there?

yes,

she whispers.

i hear the water running.

i hear

what may be soap

and splashing.

is that a magazine

she's reading?

i hear the pages turning.

she's singing.

quit standing at the door,

she yells.

i can see your feet

in the hallway.

i'm just checking to see

if you're okay,

if you need anything.

do you need some water,

or something?

a nice cup of tea?

go away,

she says.

can't i have one moment

of peace

and quiet?

okay, okay.

i'll check on you in a bit.

be careful

in there.

i put some clean

towels by the door,

when you get out,

be careful,

don't slip.

bottles cans and plastic

nature

will run its course,

despite our

meager efforts

to delay

the inevitable.

leave it

alone.

let what grows grow.

the earth will

split,

the oceans

will overflow,

fires will consume

the trees.

there is little

we can do,

paper or plastic?

really?

put your mind

at ease.

a deep snow

remember 

when it used to snow,

she says,

sleepily,

as we linger

in bed, 

each to our own side,

the big window

facing us.

remember how the trees

would bend

in whiteness.

how we had to shovel

our way out,

how we made hot drinks,

and pies.

how wonderful it was.

how we made love

in the afternoon

by the fire. remember,

she says,

remember?

i do, i offer.

maybe we need

another deep snow

to save us.

getting a mulligan from Father Flannigan

the pope,

or someone high up,

a bishop maybe,

a cardinal,

someone,

maybe Father Flannigan,

notified me by mail

that the last marriage

was annulled.

a mulligan of sorts.

a do over.

it never happened

they write,

but it did, i laugh,

staring at my

bookcase dedicated

to self-help books,

and exorcism.

we have to let you go

when the church

says

they're done with you

for a variety

of reasons,

you get a letter in the mail

saying that you've

been ex-communicated. 

you read down

their list of grievances

on the stiff piece of parchment,

stamped

by the bishop.

notarized by God,

you imagine.

sorry it says, but we

have to let you go.

your kind is no longer

welcome here.

stuck on stupid

we get stuck

on stupid at times.

the wheel of learning,

somehow

broken.

no longer taking in

words of the wise,

no longer

growing

and understanding,

but it's just a phase

you're going

through,

a temporary set back,

as you straighten

out

your life.

the layer of time

is it the distance,

the hours,

weeks

and months folding

into years

that 

keeps you warm.

each

layer of time,

a blanket,

pulled up to your chin.

safe

where no one can

do you harm.

the wedding photo

it's a picture of John

in his

wedding suit.

brown

with wide collars.

it was early

in the seventies.

a rented suit,

but he's wearing

his old boots.

his beard is full.

his wife, Emily,

is beside him

in a yellow dress,

almost

white.

she has flowers

in her hair.

the sun

is over the roof

of the small church 

on

Bachman

Road,

beside the cemetery.

it's early in the morning.

it's early

in all our lives.

the perfectionist

beware

of the perfectionist.

she'll see

all the flaws

in you

there is to see

once

the initial

phase

of infatuation wears

off.

the way you

stand,

the way you walk,

the way you

breathe.

all your jokes

will

be thin by then,

you'll hardly

speak.

could you not leave

the butter out

on the counter

overnight,

please?

office space

i enjoyed coffee

breaks,

happy hour,

birthday parties

in the conference room.

i liked 

the camaraderie

around

the water dispenser,

shooting the breeze

with

cubicle mates.

volleyball on

Wednesday.

i liked the Christmas

party,

the company picnic.

the new secretary

at the front desk.

i liked everything

there was 

about the office job,

everything

except the work.

with full moon in view

it was

sloe gin

that did me in

as we drank on the high

school

bleachers.

summertime.

a full moon

in view.

some boys,

some girls.

some mischief.

a hundred years

ago.

i still can't smell it

without

remembering

that night

and feeling sick

again.

free range children

we were free range

children,

no fences, 

no boundary, no yard

to keep

us in.

no cage.

we were free

to venture out wherever

we wanted

to go.

just be home by dark,

our mother would say

from the screen door,

or kitchen window.

stay out of trouble,

be careful

when crossing the highway,

take your brother with you,

and if it starts raining

don't go into the storm drains.

the bullet report

the news

gives you the weather,

as always.

sports,

and money,

the basic news of the world.

war,

pestilence,

plagues

and famine.

and then there's

a new segment,

safest places to travel

when going

into town.

it tells you where

the least amount

of violence

and gunshots

are.

take this route, but

don't stop

or get out of your car

lock your

doors,

new jersey avenue

heading north,

is clear

for now.

endless paper

how long do i keep

these papers,

the tax returns, the phone bills,

the insurance

policies, incomprehensible

packets i never

read.

how long do i keep

these credit card

bills,

the bank statements,

the invoices,

the receipts?

what about the divorce

papers

from twenty years

ago,

the ones from last week.

what's the expiration

date on all this

paper in boxes stacked

at my feet?

anyone?

is anyone

happy,

anyone content,

not whining

about

gas prices, or

the weather,

elements beyond

their control.

is anyone satisfied,

secure

and safe.

is anyone happy.

anyone?

a lot ain't.

i get the broom

the slender

cross hatched snake

on my porch

step

startles me.

an omen?

a portent of the day

to come?

we look at each

as i wait

for it to slither on

to whatever

mischief

it's up to.

but he doesn't move.

i get the broom.

sharing poetry

it's light verse.

sing

song

lines hard

rhyme

at the end of

each line.

nature

for the most part.

oceans and trees,

birds

and bees.

faith

and love,

all the gooey

sentiments

one can imagine.

it's a candy

store of poetry.

but not my cup

of tea.