the wide cold bed

it's those

left behind that are sad.

that cry.

it's those 

in the empty rooms,

the wide

cold beds,

those sitting alone

at the kitchen

table

in the morning light,

that grieve.

no words help, no

slight of hand,

no ray

of sun.

each note of a song

has the power

to take you to your knees.

each smell,

each new season brings

it all back.

at first

it appears

that even time will

never heal.

no secrets are safe

you know

when you know things.

when the curtain falls.

your spider

sense

tingles.

it's a wave,

a premonition,

you have what they

used to call

the shine.

you can read the room,

the aura of

souls is revealed

to you.

you know

what's coming,

and what's behind.

you feel

it all.

no secrets are safe

everything comes to light

when your heart

needs to know,

all is revealed,

all in good time.

the long walk home

we never ate

the fish we caught.

why would we.

we were children standing

at the side

of the river.

with boxes of worms,

our poles,

our tackle

boxes

full of hooks and weights.

our feet would be wet

as we stood

too close to the water.

we'd be tired

and thirsty.

miles away from home.

but we fished

from sunup until

sundown,

making it to the dinner

table

where our mother,

busy with smaller

children

never asked our whereabouts,

that was forever

unknown.

who did this to me

the cold

catches you by surprise.

where

did you let it in,

who

was the culprit,

whose sneeze did you

walk into,

whose hand

did you shake,

whose lips

did you kiss to acquire

this winter

cold with

the runny nose

and hoarse voice.

what loose jacket

failed

in the breeze,

you'll never know

as you drop

chicken into the boiling

pot,

it's time for rest.

it's time for soup,

for tea,

the sinless world

the word sin

seems to  have been

stricken

from our world.

it's rare to hear

anyone

say out loud, i've sinned.

you have

to go into a church

to hear

such a thing.

and even then

it's behind

closed doors, 

a muted screen 

where the ancient word

is whispered, 

but with little shame.

the roses behind us

we are pressed with

time,

with

precious minutes,

seconds

trickling

through our hands

like sand

in the hourglass.

we hit the floor running,

hardly

catching our

breath

for busses and trains,

we need

to get back to it.

there is no time

to waste,

work is of the essence

we run and run,

while

the roses die behind

us, leaving 

broken stems in our wake.

beautiful women

i take a walk up to the old

church,

St. Bernadette,

to wash away

a few sins

when i see my old friend,

Father Smith,

playing frisbee 

in the parking lot

with a new

nun

from Italy.

she's beautiful

in her long black garb.

old school.

normally glum,

i've never seen him so

cheerful and full

of life.

beautiful women will do

that to you

sometimes.

the tin foil hat

the tin foil hat

that he spent all morning

shaping

as he sat

in the house

with the lights off

told you

everything there was

to know

about him.

he spoke of gamma rays

and the government.

of conspiracies.

he told

you about the grassy knoll

and area 51.

he told you that it was

best

that we didn't know

what we didn't know.

you'll see, he said, as he

positioned his shiny hat

onto his head.

just wait.

you'll see.

they can't be trusted

beware of too kind.

those

too swift

to smile and laugh,

to give a helping hand.

be careful

of the do gooders,

the church goers,

the volunteers.

beware of those who

wear their hearts

on their sleeves.

those that embrace

you each time you meet.

who compliment you

on your weight.

be careful

of those that recycle,

who hug trees,

and refuse to eat

meat.

they can't be trusted.

rock bottom

you can't live

right,

be right until you feel

hunger.

feel loss,

have little to go on.

what's in your

pocket

you treat as gold.

the cold

winter laughs at

your thread bare

clothes.

you can't know

who you

are until you have nothing

and no one.

and even then

it's a toss up

if you'll find your way

and survive.

the house on the corner

there was

the house on the corner,

the dark

house with

broken windows

where we

through rocks.

curtains still hung,

blowing

in the snowy breeze.

a rusted heap

of an old chevy in the yard,

the hood

up,

the wheels

on blocks. baby blue

washer

and dryer

tilted

on their sides

between the shrubs.

near the oak tree

swung

a tire for the children,

and beyond that

was where they buried

their

cats and dogs,

the hard dirt still

dotted with white crosses.

when we were young

we knew

the family

who lived there.

it's hard to put your

finger on

exactly what went wrong.

careful with the bones

somewhere

along

the line i lost my taste

for fish.

whether trout

or flounder,

haddock

or salmon, i had

no desire for

it anymore, and

truthfully

never did.

but i was forced

by mothers

and wives,

girlfriends, well

meaning

friends who liked

to camp

and hike,

to eat it.

here, here's your

fork and knife.

put some sauce on

that slab

of rock fish,

a splash of lime.

careful with the bones,

and don't forget 

your kale, it's that

green blob

on the side.

Ode to Angie Atkinson

it's strange

when a stranger dies,

having never

known her

in person, 

and yet it breaks your heart

just the same.

she was always there

on YouTube,

giving you her latest take

on narcissism

and psychopaths.

how to avoid,

how to heal

how to move on

and never be trapped

again in

the hamster wheel

of abuse.

cheerful and bright,

a survivor too.

you never knew her,

and yet,

when she spoke

on the screen,

dispersing her wisdom,

you felt

without a doubt,

that she knew you.

happy whatever

i used to go through

the phone list,

like most people do

and lamely send out

a text holiday

greeting.

but i stopped doing that.

i stopped

sending a picture

of a turkey,

or Santa Claus,

or a three-leaf clover

on St. Patty's Day.

i'm done with fake greetings.

if you want to go

out,

call me.

and i'll do the same

for you.

there should be one

day out of the year

where you

can say all of your happy

whatevers

and get it out of

the way.

maybe new years day,

start with happy new year

and go on

from there.

Presidents day,

valentine's day,

birthdays, etc.

ten minutes, tops and you're

done.

let's join hands 

together and put

Hallmark out of business.

the gypsy queen

she moved seven times

in seven years,

at least,

and playfully

called herself

a gypsy,

her life was in boxes,

bags,

suitcases

while the car idled

out front

awaiting a drive

to her new destination,

her new

blind victim.

men had a lot to 

do with it,

okay,

everything to do with it.

follow the money

and

don't look back was

her mantra.

next stop Toledo.

he was always old

there was an old

man

in the neighborhood,

who we

called Mingo,

who had a garden.

sunflowers rose six

feet into the air

in his small yard

bordered by a chain

link fence.

he grew tomatoes

and grapes on a vine.

peppers

and string beans.

lettuce.

he was always old

and we were

always young.

his leathered skin

darkened with age and sun

seemed wise

up against our pale

faces

and blue eyes.

a true massage story

i remember

coming home from work early

one day

and finding my second ex wife,

who never had a job,

on a massage table

in the middle

of the living room.

a man named

Carlos was rubbing her legs

with avocado oil.

candles were lit,

and there was Spanish

guitar music playing.

beside the door

were stacks of boxes.

boxes full of all my books

that i'd read

over the last twenty years

of my life.

hey, i said.

what's up with my books

in all these boxes.

she tilted her head

up from the massage table

and looked at me

in a dreamy half

eyed state.

oh, she said, you're home early.

i'm giving those books

away.

you read them already and i

need room on the shelves

for knickknacks. i'm collecting

figurines now.

i think the poor should have

an opportunity

to read those books.

have you ever heard of a library,

i said.

you're disturbing my massage

she said angrily,

then told Carlos to work on

her neck muscles.

she was feeling stress there.

guilty beyond a reasonable doubt

i'm picked for jury duty,

which surprises me.

obviously they don't know anything

about me.

but it should be fun.

i study up the night before

by watching the movie

twelve angry men.

i yearn to be Henry Fonda,

the one holdout

on a murder case, who

gets to the truth.

but the case is about a

wife who drives her husband

crazy to the point

where he

checks himself into

a psych ward at Belleview

and undergoes

electro-shock treatment

to regain his stability.

right off the bat

i find her guilty of betrayal,

gaslighting,

triangulation,

giving him the silent

treatment and withholding

sex.

making salmon seven days

a week, would

drive anyone nuts.

unfortunately there's eleven

women on the jury,

and i'm the only man.

the only hold out who

finds the woman guilty.

i look around and see the women

jurists

cutting open

avocados and eating

carrot sticks for lunch, sipping

lemon water.

i'm Henry Fonda.  it's going

to be a long long

deliberation.

frog dissection

i can't remember

not being

bored in school.

having no interest

in what was

taught.

from kindergarten on

i wondered

why the clock moved

so slowly,

why were we dissecting

frogs

and equations,

when would someone

say something

that would enlighten me.

it was the window

that held

my thoughts.

beyond the walls,

the desks,

the chalkboard.

only books and words

kept me

from losing my mind

at five,

kept me from finding

a ledge

and jumping off.

putting the kettle on

as the world

grows

smaller with each click

of a button,

each

push of a key,

each view

of the screen,

when we know everything

there is to know

from

your front porch

to Siberia,

we close the door

and stay

in for the night.

lock the doors,

put the kettle on for tea.

Taking a Cruise

my wife Guinivere 

and i were trying

to decide on whether or not

we should leave

our home in England

and travel

across the ocean 

to the new world.

it had been a hard winter,

what with the bubonic plague

and shortage of

potatoes. we could use a get

out of town adventure.

but it was quite an expensive

trip,

so i told her no. much

to my surprise

she had already booked

us a cabin

on the Mayflower

for my birthday.

we had a nice room above

the waterline with a porthole

and a big bag of flour that we used

as a bed.

she had been selling chestnuts

for seven years

in the village,

and had saved up her shillings

just for this special

occasion. 

i thought she was going

to get me

a new pair of boots, or a shiny top

hat, but no. she gave us

this long-awaited honeymoon

cruise.

we were married at the age

of 12 and we were both 

twenty-one now.

we packed up our suitcases

and cruise clothes,

and whatever salted meat

we could carry and set sail.

i'd have to give the whole

trip a one star on Yelp.

between the smell, the rough

water, the wind and limited

bathing facilities, we both

couldn't wait for the trip to end.

we both got scurvy

and a few teeth fell out because

of eating hardtack for three

months on the ocean.

if i never see another fish again,

or hear the words ahoy

Matey, i'll be fine with that.

when we finally arrived

i took an arrow from an Indian

gentleman who was on the shore

with his friends.

i had my arm up in the air,

waving to them, but

they didn't seem too happy

about us showing up.

unfortunately the ship's doctor

put a leech on the wound and

it got infected, so i was of no

use in helping to build log

cabins and making clothes

out of squirrels and deer

we could catch. they started

calling me the Weak Link.

sadly Guinivere fell in love

with the Captain, this Smith

fellow.  He made himself

the Pastor, Mayor and the boss

of everyone, so i don't blame

her, plus he had this really big

musket, so there wasn't

much i could do.

i'm hoping to get a return trip

next summer

if we don't all die.

right now, as i write a letter

of complaint to our

travel agent,

i've got these itchy

red dots all over me and wishing

i had some Neosporin.

just another day

i study

the long scar healing

on my

leg

and wonder if the surgeon

remembers

how he

so easily

cut me open

beside the wide eyed

and too

young nurse

in white.

did he go to sleep that

night

with the image

of my

leg bleeding

under the bright lamp,

then stitching it all back

together,

to make it right.

or did he

just kiss his wife

goodnight,

and roll over

and go to sleep.

it's all part of it

is the ripple

in the water from a pebble

thrown a

part of it.

the flutter of butterfly

wings,

the fallen leaf,

the wave

into the shore.

is

each drop of rain

a part

of it.

each flake of snow?

do we meet

who we're

supposed to meet,

closing

and opening doors?

is it all connected,

or

just chaos

forever a mystery

unknown.

watered down

there's love

for people, love for pets.

love

for linguini,

for

music,

for art, for weather.

for things

we possess.

we say i love your

shoes,

your dress.

the wreathe

on your door.

love.

such an overused word,

so watered down.

it's hard

to remember

at times

what it actually

means

anymore.

with your name stitched

how can

you throw away the quilt

your

mother

gifted you one Christmas.

hand made.

your name

stitched

across the front.

crazy striped in

primary colors,

and yet,

it's thread bare now,

the seams

frayed,

worn from a short

list of dogs

curled in its fabric,

tired and worn

from moving

from place to place,

the harsh sun

and time.

carefully you fold

it from corner to corner

and stuff it

away.

let someone else 

decide

its future.

into a box it goes,

where you carry it to

the attic, for now

it stays.

and then there's this

there's summer

rain,

a warm wash

of liquid sun falling

down

upon us,

and then there's this.

the grey

cold

slush of winter.

the burrowing

of life,

as we endure three

more months

past Christmas.

the staying part

it's not the leaving

part

that's difficult

anymore,

i'm used to that.

been down that road

many times.

now,

it's the staying part

that's

hard.

purgatory

my mother always

said,

don't put me in one of those

old folk

homes

when i get old and start

to lose

my marbles.

promise me that, she'd say

as she sat

there with her coffee

and

newspaper,

doing the crossword puzzle.

and yet,

for five years,

there she lay.

when the beauty parlors shut down

the sink is clogged.

what the hell.

whose hair is this mucking

up the drain.

not mine.

i snake it out with 

my special plumbing tool.

a bent clothes

hanger.

it's a gross tangle of

red hair, blonde, brunette.

one strand of half

blonde

and half grey.

those covid years coming

back to haunt

me.

stalag 17

she could make two

things.

salmon, not farm

raised, of course,

and soup.

water boiling

with a chicken

bone in it.

that was it.

she had no clue about

how to

put together a sandwich.

peanut butter

and jelly,

or Virginia ham

with cheese, lettuce

tomato

and onion,

and a swipe of mayo.

i lost weight

that year.

i looked like an extra

in Schindler's List

until i found the wire nips,

and climbed

out.

1977

the rent

is raised. on my

one bedroom apartment

behind

the racetrack.

i wonder how

i'm going

to be able to handle

the fifteen

dollar increase.

going from 220 per month

to 235.

i get out my pen

and paper.

and go through my bills.

car payment,

gas,

electric.

water.

food,

insurance.

bar tabs

and cologne.

what can i cut back on?

do i really need

lights?

how much are candles

these days?

seeing each tree

depending

on the angle of our

eyes, our heart,

our point of view

may differ.

we each take a brush

and paint

what we think

we see.

you see the wide

expanse of ocean,

the mountains,

while i

see each tree.

the strategy to leftovers

there's strategy

to leftovers.

all that cut turkey,

the small

containers of stuffing

and potatoes.

gravy.

the even smaller

containers

of cranberry sauce,

olives.

pie.

carefully you separate

each

food group on a plate

and place

them into the microwave.

hit 2,

then wait.

the cold stuff then is

arranged on the plate.

touching or not touching

the hot food,

that's up to you.

the bottle of wine

is already opened.

half of which

you've drank, dessert

in the fridge

will only have a short

short wait.

maybe you say grace, maybe

you don't.

your choice too.

depending on your faith.

the self help dance

if you aren't in a bad

place,

suffering with some sort

of mishap,

or brokenness,

the self help

books and videos all

read

and sound like mumbo

jumbo.

self-soothing trash.

a bunch

of words strung

together

with no rhyme or

reasoning behind them.

when you're

happy

and content, in a good

place,

you push them all aside,

and enjoy

a fine day in the sun,

you dance.

that kind of kind

i fall

asleep in your arms,

but you

don't mind.

not even when i call

you by

the wrong name

when we make

love.

you're

that kind of kind.

how to carve a turkey

the electric

knife

refuses to work,

and the other knives

in the drawer

are too dull

from misuse

or little use, of which

i'm not sure.

but there's this twenty pound

turkey

on table,

fat and hot,

and ten people waiting

for white

meat, or dark.

so i go out to the shed

for the axe,

and chainsaw.

strap my goggles on.

i'll carve this

turkey yet.

the line in the sand

we're all cowards

to a certain

degree.

we fear pain

or embarrassment,

we'd rather

avoid

the fight, confrontation,

we'd rather flee.

but there comes

a time

when you break,

when you've had enough

and stand firm.

you say bring it on,

let's go. you want war,

we'll let's go.

i'm ready.

it's never too late

i'm thinking about

becoming a Rockette

she tells me one morning

as i come down

to the kitchen.

she's wearing her fishnet

stockings

and high heels

from last night's foray

and a flimsy

fuzzy boa

that she bought online

at Adam and Eve.

she kicks her leg high

into the air,

knocking the cat off

the counter.

then the other leg,

which hits the coffee pot

sending it

flying to the floor.

i still have it, she says.

yes, you do, i tell her.

yes you do.

let me get the mop.

please be

careful with the ceiling fan.

train watching

i see the old men

down at the train station,

sitting

on benches on the platform.

they have no tickets,

no luggage,

they aren't going anywhere

or coming home

from some trip.

they're just there

watching the trains

arrive and leave.

watching the wheels,

the smoke,

the steel rails glisten

in the morning light.

they're

watching the passengers,

wave and kiss,

greet one another.

there is such joy to be seen.

and the leaving

is exquisitely

bittersweet.

i join them.

i'd rather stick needles in my eyes

feeling neither

guilt or shame,

i have to admit

that i've made love

to some beautiful women

over a lifetime,

but for the life

of me, i can't think 

of a single one i'd want

to be with now.

i'd rather stick needles

into my eyes,

or go swimming in

a pool of sharks,

then have a cup of coffee

with any of them.

life is full lessons, some

you have to keep

learning over and over

again.

Mickey and Minnie

mickey mouse

looks

fat this year, i tell Betty

as we lie

on the couch

watching

the Macy's Day Parade.

yes. and Minnie Mouse too.

six people are holding

them up in the air

by cables.

they both look a tad

pudgy.

not nearly as muscular

as he used to be

and she looks like she's

in her second trimester.

Maybe they stopped

doing Keto.

yup.

carbs and sugar.

that's a shame.

oh look, here comes Goofy.

higher fences

did you vote,

the neighbor asks.

a slippery road to

go down.

no, i reply.

i see no one worthy.

why, do you ask?

but it's your civil duty.

everyone should vote.

you can't complain

if you don't vote.

oh really.

just watch me.

waiting on a taxi

the bags

sit by the door,

the taxi called.

there is nothing i can do

but wait.

sit here

in my long winter

coat.

i can see out the window

the snow

falling.

it's winter once more.

there is nothing left to do

but be patient.

there is no one

to say goodbye to.

things have changed.

now strangers

as time went

on

the fights grew shorter.

the words

dwindled down

to almost whispers.

the game

was over.

passing one another

in the hall

with a civility

used

for strangers.

seven days in Mexico

we were in Mexico

for seven

days,

six of which it rained.

it tested

our will to live.

the hotel room

was a pool of water.

we ate,

we stayed in bed.

she made plans

for a bike ride,

a trip

to the ruins.

to the jungle, but

we never

made it there.

at last the sun came

out,

and we stared at one

another

in our beach chairs,

hung over and tired,

going home

with a sunburn

we'd never forget.

the overnight snow fall

he worried

if the car would start in this cold,

pumping

the pedal

as the snow fell.

fifteen degrees

with the sun

still down.

he put chains on the tires

the night before

and

poured green anti-freeze

into the radiator.

i'd watch from

the window as my father

scraped

ice of the windshields,

front and back.

cursing,

i imagined as he made

his way

around his prized

Chevrolet.

in front of each tire

he pushed the shovel

down

to the black

pavement, clearing what

he could as

great blooms of grey

blue smoke

billowed from the exhaust.

finally he climbed into

the car,

lit a cigarette and waved

as he went

on his way.

licking the spatula

as a kid

i could eat custard until

the cows

came home.

give me a spoon

and the big

mixing bowl,

the spatula to lick

and i'd go into 

a sugar induced coma.

i was happy then.

me and pudding.

i could eat and eat,

until my belly rounded

out, and I

smilingly got sick.

winning and losing

my therapist

once asked me, 

with reasonable frustration

over my

whining and inability

to move on,

are you trying

to get a win

out of this relationship?

i stared at her,

and thought,

i'm really wasting my money

here.

a win?

i say loudly. do you think

this is why

i'm here pouring out

my guts to you?

a win?

hell no.

i'm trying to get out

of this stupid

toxic relationship

and

if you want to call that

winning, well go ahead.

chalk me up

for victory.

i'm done.

a mini sleep

what do you think,

i ask myself,

should we take a nap now,

or wait

another hour.

there's so many YouTube

videos

i need to catch up on.

but hey,

you're tired,

beat.

go ahead, lie down,

put your feet

up,

grab the extra pillow

from the closet

and get some shut eye,

go ahead and take

a mini sleep.

just touching base

just checking in,

touching

base,

doing a drive by,

waving,

saying hey,

hello,

what up, yo.

i'm not coming over

for dinner

or drinks,

or coffee, i'm just beeping

the horn

and rolling on.

we're at that stage

of friendship

now.

no longer missing

as i pour

some milk onto my

cereal

i see on the side of the box

a picture

of me.

missing, please

call

if you see this person.

it's me

from five years

ago.

i'm smiling, happy,

carefree,

full of fun and energy.

i call the number

below

my photo.

i tell them, i'm back,

i found myself

again.

please remove

that image

of me.

welcome back

the woman says.

we've missed you.

that's who she was

i remember the holiday

when

my sister's

husband,

fresh out of jail

for murder

was at the table

with a metal

ring

holding his head

in place,

a bullet still lodged

in his neck

from a drug

deal gone bad.

i remember my mother

cutting

his turkey meat

for him,

pouring gravy

onto his potatoes,

and buttering his bread.

that's who she

was.

getting up

it's the failures

that

build us,

not success.

it's falling down

and getting up,

it's pain

and suffering that

brings you

to your knees,

giving you

wisdom,

and needed

forgiveness,

empathy.

a good idea at the time

sometimes you go the whole

day thinking about

making amends

for a wrong you did,

harsh words.

angered actions, not like you,

you tell yourself,

but not persuaded.

you think of apologies,

flowers or a card,

to give,

gifts, or reaching out

to say you're sorry, but by the end

of the day, you're too tired

to do anything.

so you go to sleep, 

and in the morning everything

has changed.

you've moved on.

it's all okay.

the beekeeper's daughter

i used to live

a floor below Sylvia.

she was a little troubled,

especially

with the men

in and out of her life,

but a fine poet.

beyond her age,

she was beautiful

and kind,

generous with her home

made pies, though,

quick to correct your

pronunciation

of any word she deemed

not right,

but my god,

all night at the typewriter,

Daddy this and Daddy that

pounded out

on her keyboard.

until the early morning

hours.

with frost on her foreign

windows,

she kept stinging herself

with his bees.

back into the wild

some animals

can't

be tamed.

the whip doesn't work,

the dangling

of meat

in front of them.

the shouts

and commands

are no

good.

love has no power

over them,

tenderness will

soothe the soul

for a short while,

but in the end

we will

escape.

and run back into

the wild.

the first look

the first

look of an ocean

never

leaves you,

the width

of it all

the various shades

of blue

and green,

the white breakers

rolling in.

can i touch it?

can i walk

up to it

and drop a foot

into the cold sea?

or should

i rush forward

and dive in

as i do

with

all things

of natural beauty.

things to do and not to do

i make a list

of things not to do

and other things

to do once

i quit work

in the year

2050,

give or take a year or two.

don't buy a boat.

don't ever get married again.

don't invest your money

in crypto.

don't think too much,

or worry

about the past,

or the future.

take more naps.

eat delicious food.

make love with only

those you love.

buy cotton sheets.

keep the housecleaner.

don't buy a dog

or cat,

or bird, or a plant

that needs you.

sit in the sun and say

nothing

for minutes at a time.

don't look at your

phone.

don't answer your phone,

don't answer

the door.

spend it all, every saved

thing dime

until you have no more.

break even 

when the day comes

to check out of this crazy

hotel.

say little

talk too much

and others

can smell the weakness

in you.

your insecurities

fall out

in the onslaught 

of words.

say little

and stay smart,

no need to let them

know,

if you're a fool,

or not.

limping into bedlam

who hasn't limped

with a sore

foot, or

knee,

a sprain, or blister,

some sort of leg

injury.

who hasn't dragged

themselves

around,

hoping to not be seen,

we're so

worried about

how we're perceived.

weak

and getting old.

no longer spry,

no longer full

of energy. image

in this world,

is nearly everything,

it seems.

i hear other things

i listen

past her, as she talks,

and talks,

i listen

to the lawn mower

down

the road,

the plane in the sky,

flying overhead.

i hear

birds in the trees,

i hear the wind rattling

the flag

on the pole,

i hear so many

things,

as i listen past her,

and then say,

what?

all these witches

i'm afraid to look

at my

Morgan Stanley retirement

account.

it's melting.

melting,

like the f.....king

green witch

of the east.

i call my broker and tell

her to yank

it all the next time it

peaks,

and she calmly says,

in her good witch

of the north voice,

no worries,

dear,

just click your heels

three times

and we'll have a talk

and see,

we don't want to pay

that tax penalty,

do we?

the cornbread dilemma

i'm told that i

need

to bring cornbread to the dinner.

enough for twelve.

i reluctantly

agree,

i'm a people pleaser,

how hard

can cornbread

be?

flour,

butter, sugar.

corn, i guess.

maybe i should cancel.

love takes a turn

i slept

with one eye open,

ears

listening,

always.

she couldn't be trusted.

love

takes a turn

like that

sometimes.

the new age stalkers

the new stranger

isn't knocking on the door

or peeking

through a window

these days,

she or he

is emailing,

or texting,

or calling from a private

number,

or a number listed 

as a name unknown.

there they are

in a dark room

at a keyboard

perusing your accounts,

winnowing

through your world

online.

still creepy though.

the wishbone

i know what

i'll wish for this year,

when

in a tug of war

with the turkey wishbone.

i'm ready for a new

wish.

it goes like this.

i take the last wish

back.

the slow boil

who hasn't

been

the cold frog in the pot,

comfortable

at first

in water pulled from

the tap,

the heat on low.

who hasn't been fooled

before with

arms behind your head,

resting easy,

and relaxed

before the water

boils,

and all is lost.

the ungodly hour

how could it be good news?

the four a.m.

call.

i roll over 

and wonder if i should

answer it.

no matter what it is,

there's nothing i can do.

i let it ring

and ring until they give up.

bad news can wait.

good news too.

every breath we take

they know everything

about us.

what we eat,

what we watch,

what we listen to.

they have our number,

our likes

and dislikes.

our tastes in clothes

and food,

they know where

we travel,

where we were

yesterday.

there is nothing

they don't know about

us.

every breath we take,

every stroke

of the keyboard

we make

big brother

is watching

and taking notes.

we got that M.D.

we have pills for that,

my doctor

tells me.

itchy skin,

can't sleep,

no problem, your LDL

is high,

we got that.

blood pressure 

off the chart, here,

take one of these daily.

vomiting

and stroke may ensue,

so call me

if you suddenly lose

your sense of smell,

vision

and libido.

no worries.

got an ailment, we

got that.

there's a pill for everything.

be happy, no need to be sad

anymore.

we got that.

correction tape

there is the eraser,

the sponge

red tip of the pencil,

and correction tape,

inserted into

the electric typewriter,

white out.

delete and backspace.

there are many ways

to correct

mistakes.

but the clean sheet is

best,

start over and remember

what went wrong

the last time.

like a rolling stone

i think Bob Dylan

wants to die on stage

while singing

Ballad of a Thin Man,

or Desolation road

while the never ending tour

continues.

at 80, the fire still burns

within.

from a ragamuffin child

in Greenwich Village,

to another stage

in another country, again.

but i get it.

i get it.

it's hard to let go of

love

and imagination, 

we are all fighting

time and wind.

wanting to be wanted

i feel bad about my black

stapler

that sits on the desk

next to a basket of pens,

a thin coat of dust

on its back,

that the maids missed.

i haven't used it since last

year,

march to be exact.

tax time,

when papers needed to come

together.

i wish i had more uses for it.

something for 

it to do.

it has the same staples in it

since 1982.

to make it happy and wanted

i slide two sheets of blank

paper

under its hungry mouth

and hit it down.

thank you, i hear it whisper.

open up the blue door

it's a blue door

in a short house

at the end of the street,

indigo.

dark and deep.

a subtle sheen

catching the low light

of winter.

a door you want to walk

through.

the brass knob,

the slot for mail,

the heavy

medallion that swings

against the wood.

it's where you are,

behind

the blue door.

waiting for me,

open up.

it's just a movie

i used to go on 

and on about

donna reed, which ages

me, i know,

but i was infatuated

with her.

the it's a wonderful life

donna reed.

the driven snow

donna reed.

young and sweet,

but strong too.

holding her ground,

but never

giving up on Jimmy

Stewart.

and his fledging

bank,

who doesn't want a girl

like that?

someone

who forgives and accepts

who you are,

who takes you back.

my dear friend Barnaby

i stare

at the turkey in the back yard.

fat and full of

feathers.

i never should have named

him.

we've become close friends,

as close

as poultry and human beings

can come to be.

Barnaby.

that was a mistake.

i can't kill him now.

i can't bear

to see the look in his

beady black

eyes when i put his

neck to the stump,

axe in the air.

he trusted me.

maybe ham, this year.

come here little piggy.

a sleeve of blue

what's true,

what's truly true?

hard to

find it in people.

so you look

elsewhere.

that tree out the window.

the sleeve

of blue,

a stream rolling

to where

it needs to go.

the air, cold, and new.

maybe those

clouds

are real,

caressing the autumn

moon.

saint sylvia

when the painters

came

to her house,

with their brushes

and ladders,

she was already gone,

the doors

to the children's room

taped off.

the oven

on.

her last book of poems

typed out on

the table.

was there a note,

a farewell?

we'll never know.

but it seems she'd

been writing

it for so long

anyway.

in each poem,

a goodbye is found.

baby it's cold in here

is it really twenty

four

degrees.

can that be frost on

the cars,

the windows,

the fallen

leaves.

it feels colder than

that

in here.

colder than it's ever

been

with you

beside me.

perennially happy hour

it's hard to let go of things.

we become sentimental

about the big chair,

with the stuffing coming

out, popped springs.

it's where you watched

so many games,

fell asleep in

and spilled drinks.

it's the chair you

tossed shoes from

at the tv,

or towards an ex-wife

giving you hell 

for leaving

the seat up again.

and then there's

bent forks

and spoons in

the kitchen drawer.

all the meals you had

with them,

slurping

canned chili and soups,

ignoring the stains.

the chipped cups you 

drank from.

all those

martinis you made in coffee

mugs.

that clock on the wall,

broken,

stuck forever

on five o'clock, perennially

happy hour.

allergic to children

the older i get

the more allergic

i am

to children.

i break out

in hives

if i see a baby

in a stroller rolling

by.

anyone under the age

of thirty,

makes me nervous.

makes

my anxiety go

sky high.

this is why they put

all the old people

in senior homes together

and

have communities

with gates and guards,

allowing only those

over fifty-five.

the party lights

when the cop turns on

his party lights

and tells you

to pull over with his megaphone,

you know

it's not good news.

he's not going to tell

you to roll down

your window

and report to you

that you won the lottery,

or that

Heidi Klum wants

you to call her,

immediately.

no, it's something else.

maybe that stop

sign you rolled through,

or doing fifty in a twenty

five.

it's never good news when

the party lights

go on.

when are coming?

my father,

at ninety-four has his girlfriend

call me

on the phone.

the final love of his

life,

perhaps.

we talk turkey

and pie.

whipped cream.

he wants to know when i

will arrive.

i remember as a child

asking him

the same thing

on a long distance

call,

and staring out the

window

hoping 

on Christmas morning

to see his car.

stop writing about me

she tells me that she doesn't

read my poetry

anymore.

i think she wants to hurt my

feelings.

why not?

i ask her.

because sometimes you make

fun of me

and you're mean.

you know perfectly well

what you're doing.

words hurt.

how do you know it's about

you?

it could be about someone

else.

no, i know it's me.

it has to be me.

the world revolves around me.

we both know that,

don't we?

she values my opinion on fashion

what about these shoes,

she asks me,

as i lower

the game on the tv.

what?

these shoes.

i can't decide on the red,

or white.

i can take

them back, i still have

the receipts.

she walks over

in front of me,

blocking the screen

and sticks

her leg out.

ummm. either one is good.

i motion with my

hand for her

to slide a little to one

side

so that i don't miss

the next play.

what about black, i tell,

pretending interest.

black?

sure.

okay, she says.

i'll get black.

another baby

when the ambulance

long

and red,

screaming its presence

pulled up

on our street, our game

stopped.

someone held

the ball while we

gathered

around the glass windows

with curtains

parted.

men in white rolled

someone

out on a gurney.

it seemed like

death was near

or that

the worst had happened

to someone.

our young eyes strained

to see

what was going on,

and then realized,

it was just another woman

having 

a baby.

one day they'll get it

each generation

believes

they've invented everything

around them.

music.

poetry.

art.

they know

what you've never known,

they believe.

wisdom

comes late in life,

like us, they'll

eventually see.

unpainted still

she painted

portraits in oil

from photographs

she took,

painting

long hours into the night.

beyond

the light

of sun.

she couldn't sleep

in her high-rise

room,

the drapes pulled

wide

before the city.

her years were

measured

in canvas.

old lovers.

parents,

a bride and groom,

friends departed,

friends still here.

and yet, not a single

portrait of me.

unworthy

then,

and according to her

i always will be.

what about me?

the desk clerk

tells my girlfriend how beautiful

she looks

today

as we come in from

a long day on the beach.

tanned

and rested.

her sunglasses on.

her hat,

still in her yellow bikini.

her long legs

glistening.

you look lovely today,

the clerk says again.

finally i can't take it anymore,

and say,

with my arms out,

hey, what about me?

thanksgiving prep

i'll roast the turkey.

you make

the gravy, and

boil the potatoes.

i'll do the stuffing and

the cranberries,

but the green beans

are in your

court as well as

candied yams, and

pumpkin pie.

one can of whipped

cream should do.

maybe put a selection

of nuts on the table,

some olives,

celery stuffed with cream

cheese

like my mother

used to do.

what are we leaving

out?

oh, yeah.

our pilgrim costumes.

don't forget to wear

your Pocahontas boots,

with a feather in your hair,

and leather

blouse.

i'll be Miles Standish,

with musket at the ready

in case,

before dinner,

you want to fool around.

detour up ahead

i used to refer

to bad relationships as

speed bumps,

mere 

bumps in the road,

survival

nuisances,

but once past them

it's clear sailing

from then on.

but sometimes.

it's not just a bump.

it's a crevice,

it's a sink hole

and you have to climb

your way out

of the crash and burn,

grappling

up the side of a crevice

that's beyond

any bump in the road.

no one warned

you with a detour.

take one every nine hours

i prepare myself

for my

new drivers license.

the last one about to expire

in a few months.

i have to go down to the DMV

and reapply.

have a new picture

taken.

hopefully it won't involve

parallel parking

this time.

i have all my documents

in order,

birth certificate,

passport,

a bag of cash in case

i need to flee.

probably a useless

precaution.

i'm worried about the vision

test though.

what about hearing,

which i'd surely fail.

all day long i've been

trying to read

the small print on

my prescription bottles.

putting one hand

over

each eye.

take one every nine

hours?

or is it take nine

each hour?

time to let it go

she shows me her high school

yearbook,

a cheerleader,

then a picture

from college, homecoming

queen,

one at the beach

when she was twenty-five.

standing on her head

in a red bikini.

i used to model,

she tells me.

i was in a magazine

i say no doubt.

but that was then and this

is now.

we were all beautiful at

that age.

time to let it go,

i tell her.

be brave. believe it

or not,

it's what's inside

that counts.

while writing a check

it's always a surprise

when a pen

runs out of ink.

my favorite pen,

the one that came in a

package of ten

from the grocery store.

i've had this pen for

seven years

and it's never let me

down

until now.

i shake it, tap it

against the desk.

not a drop of black

ink in it.

i hold it up to the light

and shake my head.

what's going on here.

nothing, nothing

ever seems to last.

there's tragedy all 

around us.

the Delray farmer's market

i make my way

to the Delray farmer's market.

with no vegetables,

or fruit in mind,

i have no list,

or bag

to carry my purchases

home.

i just want

a walnut, maple pastry.

made by a happy woman

from Annadale.

no squash for me,

no spinach,

or local lettuce.

i don't need any carrots,

or kale,

or apples from some

far away orchard.

no cider.

just one

maple laced pastry, please,

and i'll be

on my way.

eating, as i walk.

yard therapy

not just men,

but women too, 

who want to escape

in the tasks

of yard work.

to bundle

one's self up in scarves

and hats,

work gloves,

and to go out

to prune, to rake.

to groom the yard

before winter

comes.

a last push of the mower,

wrapping precious

bushes,

to protect them from

the frost,

trimming branches.

it's a long

day of reddened cheeks

and sore knees.

but it's a welcome escape,

yard

therapy.

full service

my dentist has added

Botox

injections

to her repertoire of medical

applications.

clean teeth,

then a shot

to straighten out

those lines

around your mouth,

your forehead,

that crease

between your eyes.

in the back is a tanning

booth

and a hair

salon.

the line is out the door

now.

in the waiting room,

she's serving

wine.

she understands

lonely,

i by a goldfish.

but i don't give it a name.

whether girl or boy,

i don't

want to become too

attached.

and feel the heartbreak

when it dies

when i have to flush

it down

the drain.

the first week is good.

i sprinkle food 

on the water,

as it nibbles,

coming up from the plastic

seaweed

and castle that i've

planted on the bottom

with sand.

it stares at me,

with longing eyes.

i watch as it swims,

it's gills

opening and closing.

i think it

understands.

so much of the world

we perceive to be good,

is actually a lie.

going awol from the cubscouts

it's tough to join

things.

there's always someone

a rank higher

telling you

what to do.

the army,

the navy.

the cub scouts.

i lasted a week in

the cub scouts.

went over the hill,

awol.

i could never master

the square knot

and it bored

me to rub

two sticks together

trying to start

a fire.

why are we doing this

when we have

matches?

i really didn't want to keep

track of the birds

we saw,

or remember the names

of trees.

sleeping in a tent with

twenty other boys

after eating

cans of hot dogs

and beans 

was not a night

i wanted to repeat.

you need to upgrade

my therapist,

a wise

owl like presence,

heavy

in her chair,

round glasses on,

pen

and yellow legal

pad on

her knee,

says to me.

you need to upgrade

and stop dating

dopey women,

then nods

with self-affirmation,

and at last

i finally agree.

check please.

you can't stop what's coming

it's the kind of wind

that blows

your hat off, 

making you chase

it down the street.

it stiffens flags,

frees at last,

to the ground,

the clinging

autumn leaves.

it's the kind of wind,

that sends a chill

across your skin,

turns your cheeks red,

makes your eyes wet.

it's the kind of wind

that forces you

to lean into it,

as you button up 

for what's

coming next.

on a sugar cone

we find the flavor

we like

and stick with it.

strawberry for her,

mint chip

for me.

there are so many

things

we agree upon, but

when it comes to ice

cream,

we disagree.

unfixable

they add up.

the broken printers,

the computers,

the old phones.

televisions.

so valued

when new,

now laden in dust

in the corners,

deep into drawers,

in closets, out

of view.

we replace things

now,

we don't repair,

and that's what i've

done with you.

come home again

we want to leave

the comfortable nest.

it's natural

to get out of town,

out of dodge,

go west

or to the big city,

done

with small ville.

we want to spread

our wings

and fly or sail

across the sea.

we want

pizzaz, excitement,

we want to wrap

our arms

around the world

and embrace

what's different and

new.

it's what we do when

young

and then

when old

come home again.

return to where

we're from.

the cat and mouse

bored

with the mouse, the cat

deletes

her number.

blocks the hole

in the wall.

takes the cheese away.

the game is

over.

ambivalence

has set in.

there's a bird

out the window

that is so much more

interesting.

cold steel

we trust easily,

the building, 

we say it has good bones,

we believe it

will hold us upright

on each floor,

the elevator being safe

as we rise

and rise to get to where

we need to go.

there's concrete

within,

steel bars,

glass as thick limbs.

the building

hums with power.

electricity and water.

lights will guide

the way.

we trust an inanimate

structure.

we have faith in cold steel.

but less so

in people.

live long enough

and watch how they

fail.

temptation

it comes in all

sizes,

all flavors, colors.

when

least expected.

a slight breeze will

arouse you.

a hunger

will overcome you.

a taste of

honey crosses your

wandering

mind.

some sort of sweet

pastry, someone

across the street,

a delicacy.

not unlike a fine

wine.

the Japanese book

i get a book in the mail

from Amazon,

but i can't read it.

it's written in Japanese.

i flip

through the pages.

not a word in English.

do i keep the book,

or return it?

did someone in Toyko

get my book

by mistake?

the world is getting

smaller

everyday.

chained to the man

your job

is hard, he tells me.

don't you miss the office.

your coat and tie.

happy hour

and volleyball on

Wednesdays.

i don't know how you do it.

climbing ladders,

being on your feet all day.

buckets of paint,

rollers and brushes.

spackling,

caulking, laying

wallpaper,

up and down, across

with your tools.

your knives.

your scissors clicking

endlessly

getting the patterns right.

keeping the floor

clean.

it is hard,

i tell him.

but the other life was

a prison cell.

my cubicle

next to yours watching

the slow clock

on white wall.

changed to the man.

escaping that was nothing

less than a miracle.

Swanson tv dinners

for the longest time

my grocery list

was a cariologist's

and dentist's

delight.

a six pack of cokes.

potato chips.

Oreos.

nuts to snack on

late at night.

milk.

cereal.

ice cream.

a couple of Swanson

tv dinners.

a bag of sugar,

a bag of flour.

vegetable oil.

maybe an apple or

two.

some oranges,

bananas, to ease the guilt

of all the other

stuff. but now it's

easy.

beef, butter, bacon,

and eggs.

and heavy cream for

coffee.

cash or check

when you finish a job,

you want

to be paid.

cash or check.

forget about Venmo

and Zelle,

PayPal

and a wire transfer.

no credit cards either.

it's cash,

or a check, 

simple and clean,

at least

for me.

which sends the clients

under forty

scrambling,

searching for the last

check in an old

checkbook

stuffed in a drawer

with dried up ink pens.

i admit it i

i'm still stuck

in another century.

thumbing through the old testament

we expect

the doctor to know it all.

from head to toe.

inside and out.

and yet,

sometimes he doesn't.

he's got

neuropathy down,

but not

psoriasis.

same goes

for the lawyer.

she has to look stuff up.

sure she knows

divorce

and child support,

but when it comes to

murder one

she has to google it.

even

the garage mechanic,

though an expert

on brakes,

has no clue 

with transmissions.

there's a lot faking it

going on.

but none of them tell

you that.

they learn on the job,

as we all do.

even the priest has to thumb

through the old

testament

to tell you

what to do.

red bird

it's a small

red bird on the sill.

but it's enough

to get me going.

the brilliant crimson

wings.

the straight beak.

those eyes.

the flickering of color

as he

flies off

to some unseen

tree.

there's hope in that.

you got 24 hours

what if you only had

a day

left on earth, 

twenty-four hours

before they

pulled the switch on

old smokey,

the electric chair.

how would you spend

it if they

let you leave jail.

what would you eat?

where would you go

and with who.

would Betty be involved,

perhaps

the Rockettes

if you could get a hold

of them.

would your last meal

be fried chicken,

or tofu.

desserts?

maybe a giant rib eye

steak

with mashed potatoes

and green beans.

would you go for a bike ride

around the lake,

read,

maybe take a nap

at three.

watch a little tv?

perhaps all of the above,

and as usual write a bunch

of silly poetry?

stoned again

i couldn't tell if she was

perpetually

high on weed,

or just plain

dumb. grandma

at sixty plus,

her stories were long

and boring,

they never circled back

to any

conclusion.

no punch line.

no finish.

just a lot of babbling

on and on.

she was

dazed and confused,

lost in

the smoke,

the residue.

do you want some,

she asked,

holding out a nickel

bag of home

grown.

nah. i think i'll pass, but

please don't let me

stop you.

button up, yo

we need belts,

suspenders, buttons

and snaps.

we need

to keep things up

and on,

we're no longer

in the garden of Eden.

buck naked.

a hundred per cent

cotton jumper

is breathable,

plus it keeps us

warm.

those gamma rays

we are connected

by

wires

or without,

the surge of electrical

current

from grid

to pole

to me and you.

across the air,

long distance,

short spurts

of sparks, those

gamma rays,

and there we are,

on phones

on screens, 

and yet,

despite the magic,

we're still

so far apart.

the block list

i take a look at my

ever expanding

block list.

phone,

e mails, texts.

WhatsApp,

Facebook, etc.

i dropped the old

guillotine

on a lot of them.

so done with crazy

narcissistic

people.

one fell swoop

and off they go into

oblivion.

one strike and out.

i can help you

i find her old straight jacket

in the closet

and immediately

think of you.

her pills are here as well,

the electroshock

treatments

hang on the wall

next to the snow

shovels, and rakes.

i still have

the wires, the rubber cups,

the glue.

there's the bucket

of holy water

in the cellar,

and the book on exorcism.

i tried to help her,

but nothing worked,

perhaps i can help you.

beyond skin

she's beautiful

in sunlight.

at dawn

at dusk, in the pitch black

cover

of darkness.

whether old or

young,

there's no difference

in her.

she's the same

eternal beauty

she always was.

a diamond

glistening 

in the rough.

shake it off and go

is it harder for men

or women

as they age?

the grey hair,

the wrinkles, the crepe

skin blowing

in the wind.

cosmetics help.

high heels and

clothes.

a trip to the beauty

parlor, yoga,

a small procedure

to tighten skin,

or straighten

a nose.

i guess women

do have it harder

when fighting off

the ravages

of time,

while men,

just wake up,

shake it off and go.

two scoops on a sugar cone

as a kid,

a nickel meant a lot.

a dime

was gold,

if you found a quarter

on the street

you let

the world know.

it was

ice cream time

at the High's store,

two scoops

stacked high

on a sugar cone.

a cadre of socks

the drawer

full of black socks

is full.

and yet, i stuff another

pair in.

three new pairs.

attached

to one another,

close friends.

i need a Saturday

to sort

through them.

so many have

lost their color

and gone thin.

it's time to say good

by to a few,

while others, not unlike

old friends,

i'll try to mend.

a giant cup of crazy

when she arrived home

from work

at the end of the day,

my ex found me

perusing

the book she left on the coffee

table.

tantric sex,

her name was inscribed

inside the cover of

the new and improved

illustrated version

with color photos.

what are you doing with

that book, she asked,

hands on her hips.

how dare you look at

that book,

what's wrong with you?

i was just getting some

ideas.

it's your book.

i thought you left it out

for me to see.

she stormed off

slamming doors behind her.

angry.

just another typical day

in my married life with her.

again, no sugar for me.

off the chain

the dogs

we had as a kid

rarely had a collar,

never a leash,

they ran free

in the streets,

when we went out,

they followed.

and like us

they returned home

when tired,

when at last it

was time

to eat.

making new friends

there

was a time when

salesmen

came to the door

with their wares.

encyclopedias

and vacuum cleaners,

the fuller brush

man

in a suit.

a man with cords

of wood.

magazine sellers.

the Avon lady

with a satchel

of make up.

my mother

would open the door

and let them in.

she'd 

put on a pot of coffee

and listen

politely, though not

a penny to spend.

she was always willing

to make a new

friend.

the big sleep

goodbye,

farewell, so long.

it's been fun,

nice knowing you,

shame about

what could

have been.

with best regards

and wishes,

she writes,

take care

and 

have a nice life.

i stretch and look

out the window.

ready for

a good nights sleep.

i laugh gently

to myself,

then yawn.

trying not to die

rarely

do you hear an animal

complain

about things.

deer,

or field mice,

fox.

birds of any feather.

they're

all the same.

they go on about their

day,

regardless

of the weather.

it's food and shelter that's

on their mind.

making love, and

trying

not to die.

that's it.

home coming queen

polished once,

on a bright store shelf,

the red label

turned out

for shoppers

to see.

new, it said, even

better than

the original 

recipe.

but now, there it is.

a year gone

by,

the can dented,

the paper

torn around its waist.

marked down,

half price,

on the last chance

shelf

at the end of the aisle.

the turn of a key

so many keys

in the drawer

and on the ring,

brown

and gold,

tarnished green,

silver,

fat

and thin,

so many locks

to turn,

allowing me to enter,

or leave.

some

i use daily,

while others,

i no longer have

a need.

what's the worst that can happen?

in the past

i'd see the red flags

and feel

my gut screaming

with

the words run, run, run,

and i'd ignore it all.

i'd dive in

to the deep end.

these are just the butterflies

of love,

i'd tell myself.

she's feisty

and eccentric, a little bit

on the psychotic

and victim side,

but so what?

i like her curves, 

i like the way she flutters

her eyes.

she knows how to bake

cookies,

and makes love

like a minx. so

what's the worst that

could happen?

her modus operandi

when she's not

falling

off of horses, she's falling

in love

with equally

harsh results,

broken

bones, and

broken

hearts,

is her modus operandi.

strangers in the rain

we'll never meet again,

perhaps,

two strangers

on the street.

unlikely,

at least,

i think, as we stand

in the doorway

waiting for

the relentless rain

to cease.

but i believe that

we would fall

in love.

and it would last,

if only 

she'd let down 

her umbrella

and kiss me.

shaving cream

the memory,

so attached to the past,

reminded

so easily,

the mind taken back.

something in the oven,

your mother's

stew,

or a breath

of perfume.

maybe spring cut grass.

there's

the burning of leaves

in autumn.

cinnamon in cloves,

a field of lavender,

your father's

shaving

cream.

cry babies

the baby has

to cry,

you can't reason with it.

there's

no words that

work 

at this age,

no promise of candy,

or a walk

in the stroller

to the park.

there's only food,

a bottle

of milk, or a change

of clothes, perhaps

something for

the rash,

that will do.

separated by drywall

sometimes

when it doesn't

work out

one goes to the cellar

to live.

money makes it

hard to leave.

there's the dog,

the in-laws,

kids.

a variety of store

bought things.

health insurance,

saved

by a ring.

they live separate

lives

under the same roof.

but no longer

pretending to be in love,

it's milquetoast

now. there's

no longer a reason

to not be

alone and distant, with

few words

to share.

there is no need

to explain

where one is going,

or with who.

this separate exit

and entrance

out the backyard,

will do.

trying to get into costco

we need

identification to let you go

further,

the woman with a tin

badge says.

to get past

this point

we need to know

who you are,

what you're up to.

where's your shopping

list?

i just need some jumbo

shrimp i tell her.

about a hundred of them.

the armed

guard puts his hand

out

to stop you

from going in.

are you a member,

he asks.

i need to see your

card.

your name,

your club number.

no one gets in without

being a member.

no shrimp for you.

scary times

are there ghosts,

aliens

from another world.

monsters in the woods,

in the sea.

big foot.

is there something

in the attic,

rattling chains,

under the bed,

coming up the dark stairs.

are there spirits

flying around

the room, leaving

their graves.

doubtful.

the world is scary 

enough

without them.

the sugar bowl

it's a drug,

no doubt, as sugar is.

the confection

of love.

it takes you up,

keeps you high,

but take

if off the table,

and you want

to die.

sailing on

sometimes you

need

to throw

things overboard

or lose the ship.

cast

the useless weight

aside.

the angry,

the crazies,

the nutcakes,

let them slip

into the sea,

as you sail on.

nothing left to eat

i don't know

what to eat.

free range chickens,

brown

eggs,

grass fed beef?

what about fish,

tuna and salmon

drunk on 

all that

mercury.

mad cow disease.

processed foods

and seed oils.

chemical sweeteners.

the pesticides on

fruit

and grain.

the toxins,

the tainted milk,

the acid

rain.

there's nothing left

to eat. it's down

to rain water

and bark on a tree.

the easy way out

it's lame,

it's lazy, it's the easy

way out,

thoughtless,

but i shrug

and say, okay.

why not?

i buy a half dozen

gift cards

to hand out.

Christmas, already,

again?

twisting the cap

have i lost

muscle, strength

in my arms and hands.

have i suddenly

grown

weaker, unable

to twist the top off

of this container

of cream.

where's the tool

box,

the hammer, the pliers,

the blow torch.

i'm as weak

as a kitten, apparently.

into that good night

the young

take chances. look at

them

in the air,

below the sea.

there they are on the mountain

of ice.

hand over hand

trying

to reach the peak.

they run long

and fast,

they dive deep.

we were young once

too, 

fearless with no sense

of mortality.

but now, into that

good night,

we step gingerly.

it takes a long while

to learn

to say no.

no.

but once you've

put

the word no

into your quiver,

that sharp

arrow is quite

effective

in saving you

from doing

the things

you don't want to do.

just the start of it

she had drank

too much

whiskey. so did i, but

it was late,

too late for her to drive home.

i helped her

up the stairs

into the other room,

then took off her shoes.

i left the hall light

on, and placed

a chair in front of the steps

in case she arose

in the middle of the night

and forgot where

she was.

i went to my room

and closed door.

in the morning, after

coffee,

she was gone.

but that was just 

the start of it.

the stone we kick

as Virginia Woolf

once said,

the stone that we kick 

down the road 

will be here longer

than the works of Shakespeare.

we know that it's true,

but we wish it

weren't so.

the yellow shirt

it was Easter,

i remember that clearly.

the cellophane covered baskets

on the table.

metallic greens and blues,

red.

seven in all,

the chocolates

distributed equally

among us.

the buried painted eggs.

under colored straw.

if there was a favorite

child among us,

we never knew

who it was.

i was wearing a yellow

shirt

on the way to church,

new.

my mother pressed it

for me.

it was button down

and short sleeved.

it was beautiful,

though thin and blousy,

too large. for me.

i remember the day

being cold despite the sunshine,

as we walked to mass

at St. Thomas More.

i refused to wear a coat

despite the wind,

the stark blue

skies full of silver

clouds.

and when the service was

over,

we ran all the way home.

clams casino

it's such a small

thing.

a gamble of some

sort.

the hard shell

clam.

a grey

cup slightly

ajar,

letting the salt

of an ocean

out and

your knife in.

but

what a storm it

causes

if not cooked

properly,

if raw,

you'll talk to

God soon

as you crawl upon

the bathroom

floor.

i'll be your server tonight

the waiter

is too friendly, too into

his job.

he wants

to talk,

to introduce himself.

he wants

to bring you butter,

and top

of your water

after a single sip.

you know his name.

where he

went to school.

he rattles off

the menu

that you don't have to.

he tells you the specials.

before you even order

you know

his favorite

dessert,

his favorite food.

you hope he doesn't

follow you home.

nails on a blackboard

they are the nails

dragged

across the blackboard,

the stubbed

toe

in the black of night,

the paper

cut,

a small thin slice.

the broken

nail, or lace.

they

are the red light,

the flat

tire,

the long line

at the bank,

the bugs that

bite.

these are the people

to stay clear

of.

this will never work out

i'm a night owl.

you can see me in the trees

with a full moon

between

the clouds,

while she's an

early bird,

there she is on the sill

at the crack

of dawn, whistling.

this will never

work out.

we need some order here

i need a filing system

for my memories.

something along the line

of the Dewey decimal

system.

thoughts categorized

by good or bad,

fun or 

sorrowful

new and old,

separated

on shelves, in 

ordered rows.

i don't like how they

randomly pop up

at any given moment,.

triggered by

the mere mention or

sight

of anything that

comes my way.

i prefer selective memory.

not this mishmash

of ruminating

thoughts.

i need to sign the card,

and have

it stamped

when needed.

a slice of the pie

i find

my father's image online.

he's holding

an oversized check

in his hands

as the cameras flash.

he's won

the lottery.

twice now, he's come

into money.

there is fear in his eyes.

hardly smiling.

he looks lost,

confused.

he seems to be wondering

will all nine

of his children

catch wind of this

and want their slice

of the pie.

don't know much about history

the early classes

in school revealed what

you were good at,

what you excelled in,

or failed.

math,

biology.

social sciences.

all interesting and fine,

but

in the long run

you'd leave

most of them behind.

what you were best at

was daydreaming,

staring out the window

thinking of words

strung together,

some

that even rhymed.

the boy blues, the girl pinks

they young parents

want washable walls.

a gloss

in the paint, as the children,

climb

and lean,

dragging hands

and feet about the house.

i want to tell

them. don't bother.

it's a battle

that only knows defeat.

call me in another 

dozen years.

we'll start fresh.

i'll cover the boy blues,

the girl pinks.

the cherry blossoms

we drive down

to see the cherry blossoms.

it's what young lovers do.

we stand

at the pink trees

and gaze out of over

the water.

we take pictures of

each other.

we ask someone to take

one of us

together.

capturing the moment.

fleeting.

like the blossoms

themselves,

as rain begins to fall.

every day a sunday

she asks me when

will i

quit the toil, 

the work.

the early 

rising,

the drive,

in sun, or rain,

the arms

and legs

at it again.

when will i surrender

and make

every day

a Sunday

until the end.

when?

making room for others

the black

oiled vultures, gathered

on the side

of the road,

route 4, heading south,

at the end where the water

begins,

tells us,

that the world makes

room

for who's next.

space is cleared,

the bones

are dry and white,

cleansed,

removed of flesh.

i see no end to it

purposely

i crawl under a rock,

to avoid

the world.

culture such as it is.

the onslaught

of news

that isn't news.

a world gone mad.

i make a nest

beneath the rock.

it's safe here.

it's warm and cozy.

i tilt it up with a small

stick to let some

some light in.

i'd like to say

that  i'll

wait it out,

but i see no end

to it.

picnic in new york

no one tells you

about the ants,

the bugs,

the gnats and flies.

no one mentions the wet

grass,

or the heat.

we hear the word

picnic

and our eyes grow

wide.

we sense romance.

a mutual

feeling

of early like and possible

love.

we see the good

in each other.

the word picnic

gives us hope,

as we carry

the basket full of

sandwiches

to a shady tree.

the cup will fill

the cup

will fill, be patient.

let the rain

come.

no need to watch

it.

relax.

your day is ahead

of you.

the cup

will

overflow

and your thirst

will at last

be quenched.

keep walking

that noise,

it sounds familiar,

the crunch

and crinkle of glass

and wood.

i'm afraid to lift my boot

off the floor.

there's something under it,

now broken

beyond repair.

i could stand here

for the rest of the day

and never know

what it is,

or just keep walking

and hope

for the best when i

get home.

who's your daddy?

can i call you daddy,

my

frisky friend Fiona

asks me.

no,

i tell her,

that's weird.

oh come on. i want

to call you

daddy.

no, i said.

look, we're almost

the same

age, give

or take a decade.

do you want me to call

you mommy?

okay, yes,

that might be fun,

she says.

oh my God, i say.

rolling my eyes.

i don't understand

this world

anymore.

the uniform d'jour

a young woman

stops

me on the street and says that

i remind

her of her father

who died

ten years ago.

you dress just like him.

khaki shorts,

long sleeve

pull over shirt,

sketcher sneaks

and socks.

ball cap on top.

i look around the crowded

sidewalk.

yup, i tell her,

there's a lot of us

walking about.

all the Saints are here

her religious

bracelet, with little stone

like images

of all the saints

finally falls apart in my drawer.

i wanted to return

it, but i lost her

number

and my filing system

is not that great.

like chicklets,

i look at St. Peter

and St. James.

Mary and the rest of them.

now bunched

together,

next to coins and nail

clippers,

tubes of Neosporin

and itching cream.

peanut shells.

dipping a toe in

as a kid

you pretty much

just jumped

into the pool, both literally

and figuratively

with all things

in life,

but as you got older,

and hopefully

wiser,

you mosey

on over to the side

and dip a toe

checking on warmth

or cold

before you decide.

the unquenchable world

i fed the birds for a while.

stuffing

the feeder

that swung on the pole

with seed.

they came.

they flew in on rapid

wings.

birds of every color.

some cautious

lingering on branches,

or the fence

until the large birds

would leave.

but they wore me out.

the chore of it all.

another bag,

another day.

i quit,

taking the pole down.

the hunger

of the world is unquenchable,

how hard it must

be for God to answer

so many prayers.