got that over with

i do a mass

happy

new year emoji,

gif,

texting thingy.

fireworks, etc.

with party

noises,

to three hundred

close

friends.

whew.

that's done.

at least for now,

but it's only forty-five

days or so

until valentine's day.

it never

ends.

beef liver for dinner

i keep reading 

and watching informative

videos

about how good liver

is for you.

packed with vital nutrients

for better health.

the French call it foie gras,

for duck

or goose liver,

but what do they know?

so i buy some beef liver

instead,

a bloody

pack at the grocery store.

a dollar ninety-nine.

it's about the size and shape

of a deflated

football,

but solid red, almost blue.

boneless of course.

after draining the blood

off,

i toss the slab

into a frying pan

with melted butter.

i'm gagging already.

wincing

as the organ meat fries up,

throwing a grey unfamiliar odor

into the air.

what was i thinking.

should i add some

onions, garlic, season it?

finally it's cooked, i think.

so i slide

the mess onto a plate

and cut off a small piece.

i grimace and put it in my

mouth,

slowly i chew.

then i think, i'm eating 

a cow's liver.

i've crossed some line in the sand

that i might not

be able to go back to.

animal organs.

what's next, hearts,

kidneys,

lungs? bladders?

i can't spit it out fast enough

into the sink,

then turn on the garbage

disposal.

i rinse my mouth out with

water, gargling

as much of that liver taste away

as i can,

then quickly floss

my teeth, after a thorough

brushing.

finally after

settling down, with my hands

no longer trembling,

i go back to the fridge.

how about scrambled eggs

tonight and bacon?

the gypsy souls

they move,

they travel, they have

no home,

no roots,

they never stay in

one place

too long,

or fall in love forever.

it's all

temporary.

what's great today

is gone

tomorrow.

you've known them

all along.

they've always

been this way. 

unsettled,

unsure of what to do

with their lives,

where to go.

who to be with,

where to land.

what's next?

that went by fast

who likes

the ticking clock,

the loud

strike

of hands

within the machinery.

it never stops,

does it?

always, tick tick tick.

relentless

as the hands continue

to swing around

to another hour,

in another day.

there is no rest for

the clock.

there's little

rest for us either,

as we flip

the calendar page.

give me five hail marys

my last formal

confession

was a few years ago

in Father Smith's office

over at St. Bartholomew's.

it was a nice

office with statues and pictures

of holy figures

scattered about, 

and on one wall

a black and white photograph

of the 1950

New York Yankees,

autographed by

all the players.

as i knelt on the plush

blue rug,

praying and confessing,

i squinted up

at Yoki Berra's signature

under his grinning face.

he wasn't a great

player, but he was

funny. durable, lovable.

a team player,

which makes up for a lot

shortcomings.

finally i finished my list

of sins,

your basic, lust, anger,

jealousy,  a dab of envy,

here and there, etc.

i looked over at Father Smith,

who was now staring at me.

that's it, he says. that's all

you got?

no other sins you want to

confess to? are you sure?

you know it's an even bigger

sin if you're lying to me?

i shrug, nah, i think that's

it. but the day is young.

he didn't laugh.

nine hail marys, two

our fathers, and i want you to

wash and wax my car.

detail it, inside and out.

what?

we stand up and he tosses

me the keys.

pull it up out front when your

done, i've got an exorcism

to take care of this afternoon.

i blurt out a name, an

ex wife.

he looks at me, stunned,

how did you know?

finding faults

okay, okay,

i admit it, i tell her.

i too, yes even me, i too

have faults.

oh, do tell she says,

smirking,

while she brushes her

hair in the mirror.

well,

for one, ummm.

i had one, hold on,

let me think on this.

short term, memory?

she says.

no, that's not a fault.

that's not one.

okay.

go on.

i'm too forgiving of

people, i finally blurt out.

oh, brother she says.

that's it? really?

and i drive to slow

sometimes

in the left lane.

okay, we're done here,

she says.

i'm going shopping.

do you need anything at

the store?

nah, i'm good.

give me that pitch

you want the pitch

fat

and hard

right down the middle,

of the plate.

you want

to see the stitching

of the seams,

the words

inked on the white

leather.

you want that pitch,

not the curve ball

down and away,

not the inside slider,

and definitely

not the knuckleball,

slow and tumbling

through the air

when you're standing

at the plate.

give me fat and hard,

you want that pitch,

and then

you wait.

finding your way through darkness

when

waking up in the middle of

the night

in the pitch black

lightless

room

you find the dresser,

then the wall,

then the doorway

to the bathroom.

your fingers

using the house as braille.

the thought

actually crosses your

mind

that's this is how

the genius

Stevie Wonder

gets it done all the time.

if only

you could sing and play

the piano.

staying out of trouble

please

remind me of your birthday,

our anniversary,

and whatever

other holidays

you hold dear.

write them down.

text me

the dates.

scribble them on a pad

by the door.

write them in the sky

if you have to.

then tell me what you

want this year,

make a list,

cut out some pictures

from a magazine.

sketch

what you want, flowers,

clothes,

maybe another diamond

ring.

just let me know, okay.

some advance

warning, please.

you can stay one more night

it's one fly.

one blue

black winged thing

buzzing about.

i open

a window,

the front door and try

to shoo

him out,

but it's cold

and the wind is blowing.

white flakes

of snow are coming

down.

he flies back to the light.

circling

circling looking for a place

to land.

who can blame

him,

the warm glow

of the bulb. 

his sun.

i tell him okay,

but

just one more night.

coming home

stuck

in the mire, the mud,

the swamp.

knee

deep in shallow

water.

it's Friday,

late

in the day.

late in the month.

late

in life

but i see light

up ahead,

and i smell

what you're cooking

on the other side.

put a plate out.

i'm on my way

home.

no need to worry, 

i'm coming home

tonight.

end of month sale

the saleswoman

at the car

dealership calls again

to tell

me that there are no cars

in production

anymore.

in any color, shape, or

size.

what do you think about

a rickshaw,

she says.

bamboo. hardly used

by a Chinese man

in Peking.

it's got maybe ten

kilometers on it, at

best. it's on the lot now.

come on in, when you can.

a suitcase by the door

when everything seems

to be okay,

the most feared words

to a man are,

'we need to talk'.

nothing good

follows that.

now? you ask, 

right now?

i was just going

to take the dog

for a walk.

yes, she says. now is

as good as time as any.

please, sit down.

she's grim 

and looking away,

then you notice

her suitcase by the door.

please, can we do this later?

not unlike

your body, the machines

in the house

tell you

when they need a rest,

need to

be replaced

or fixed.

they leak, they wheeze

and squeak,

there's a rattling

noise

in the washer,

steam

rising from the pipes,

dripping

water.

i put my feet up on

the couch

and go back to drinking

my coffee

and reading the paper.

later.

i tell them all. later.

not too old

i can get there

from here.

i'm sure of it.

i just need to watch

my step,

find my balance.

place

one foot after

the other onto the stones

in the cold creek.

i've crossed over before,

and i'm not too old,

not yet, at least.

can i get a jump

when i hear

my neighbor's old truck

cranking

its engine, unable

to start,

coughing

and sputtering,

i know that in about

two minutes

there'll be a knock at the door.

it's winter after all.

but i have

the jumper cables

ready and my

boots and gloves on.

i may buy him a new

battery

for Christmas.

cracking open the new nut

when i need to,

i study psychology,

especially

when i have some new nut

in my life

that i have to understand

or get rid of.

i dive into

the deep end of Freud

and Jung.

i immerse myself in

YouTube videos about

narcissism and all the other

personality disorders.

i read books, i go to

therapy.

i take cold showers

and lower my carb intake,

I exercise more.

none of which is necessarily

connected

but it seems to help.

what's with the big spoon

they tease you

with a bump in a pay.

it's always been that way.

a ten-cent raise.

another

dollar, matched

in your retirement.

social security sending

you notice

that you'll get a few

more hundred of your money

back each month,

that they so nicely

saved for you.

restaurants do it to with

their big spoons,

ladling on

the rice and beans, the meat,

the spoon half full.

why have a big spoon if

you're not going to use it?

come on man.

quit being so stingy

with the money, the food.

you go on ahead

if someone

tells me that they want to

buy a Winnebago

and cross the country

to visit the Grand Canyon

and ride a burro

down the narrow

rocky path,

i immediately break up with them.

it's a deal breaker

on so many levels.

same old sunrise

do we

get bored with another sunrise?

do we

no longer wake

up

as the colors

spread across the horizon

and take

note,

of the beauty and majestic

wonder of it all.

the cascade of pastel hues.

yes. we do,

but it's no one's fault,

you've just

been around for a long time

and seen

more than a few.

okay, i give up

it's just

a paper cut, a small

thin

slice of skin, but it's painful

enough

to give up

all my secrets,

where the money is,

everything.

no need to torture

me any

longer,

i'm all in, i'm on 

your side now,

put the paper

away. and get me

a Band-Aid,  please?

her last dying words

as she lay dying,

my aunt Delores,

famous for her Italian meals,

called me over to her bed.

candles

were lit,

statues of saints

had gathered on her nightstand.

the Priest was finished

with his job.

she was old.

very old, but able

to whisper

and with her finger curled

beckoned me

to her ear.

she told me what she had

to say,

then closed her eyes

and died.

i cried. the room cried.

then someone asked

me what she said.

I told them.

keep stirring

the red sauce, she whispered

to me with her last

dying breath.

use low heat

or else it will splatter

all over the walls and your

nice white shirt.

keep stirring

and when it comes to a boil,

then you add the meatballs.

the longest day on the couch

i'm more

tired doing nothing, than

i am working

all day

going to the post office,

the market,

the gas station,

then out to the stables

to feed the horse,

chasing

the flies away.

she nods, and hands

me the remote.

lying around is exhausting,

i tell her,

tapping her leg.

hey,

are you asleep already,

it's half past eight.

let's see if we can stay

up for the news,

it starts at ten today.

the blood drive

it's strange

to watch the blood curl

in burgundy

waves, wispy strands

out of the vein

and through the tube

then bagged,

to be used

by others.

someone you don't

know, both stranger

by face and name.

you may save a life

with your precious

O negative brand,

of juice,

or your own.

it's mainly the needle

going in

that you can't stand.

getting lucky

i'm afraid to look under

the bed.

it's never good.

there's always something under

there

left behind.

a shoe,

a skirt, a pair of earrings,

or a watch that you have

to now locate

the owner for.

sometimes it's a tube

of lipstick,

or a phone charger. or

a wobbling

empty bottle of red wine.

but sometimes you get lucky

and it's a pack of gum,

unopened.

the spearmint kind.

wrong side of the bed

you wake up

in a bad mood, but you don't

know why.

everything is basically good.

the heat is on.

you have food.

the bills are paid.

the coffee is hot and it

looks like a nice

day outside. plus

you're no longer in communication

with the ex-wives.

why the bad mood?

it's all downhill from here

you hear

people say, it's all down hill

from here.

the rest is gravy.

we're on the home

stretch.

these are usually people

not doing the work.

they're standing

over

the road being tarred,

or the ditch

being dug.

they're wearing a white

helmet

and drinking coffee.

whistling.

a can of boiled potatoes

i stare at the dented

can

in my cupboard.

boiled potatoes.

i remember reading about

botulism

in a health magazine

in jiffy lube

when i was waiting

for the oil to be changed

in my car.

i'm afraid to open it.

i don't even know where

this can came

from.

who would buy a can

of boiled potatoes.

and then i think of Dasha,

my friend in

St. Petersburg.

i think she sent it in an

effort to get

a visa.

.

top of the speed dial list

she went

from being at the top of my

speed

dial list

to being blocked and

deleted.

no contact.

funny how that goes

in such a short

time.

one never knows

who sticks.

leader of the pack

at the end of our

senior year

rob may,

the unofficial

leader of the pack,

wrote in my yearbook,

thanks

for helping me with my

physics

homework.

i owe you a bottle

of sweet cherry wine.

best wishes

in the years ahead.

he passed away

a few years later

in Viet Nam.

i never got my wine.

but i've

got the memory of

his C plus on the test.

suddenly the light goes on

the light went

on

in my head

when i was standing

outside

the dressing room

waiting

for her to try on another

dress.

i can't do this anymore.

it was an 80 degree day.

perfect

weather.

sunny.

i could be anywhere

doing anything,

the beach,

a ballgame,

a walk around the lake.

but here i was

holding

two dresses

waiting for her to come

out from behind

the curtain and ask,

how's this? do i look

okay?

i think blue is my color,

don't you?

castles in the clouds

he fictionalizes

his life.

puts a polish on the rotten

apple

that it is.

he turns the fruit

around

to hide the dying

spot of

brown.

the bruise when he

fell from

his imaginary castle

in the clouds.

he whistles

in the dark, spins

a good yarn

as he

dances around the whys,

the hows.

the lies.

it's not

all wine and roses

anymore,

you can

see the sorrow in his

eyes.

where you were meant to be

it's just brick and mortar,

wires

and glass, wood

and tin,

pipes

and vents. coats

of paint.

it's just a house. but

you don't leave

it without a tear in

your eye,

a scar on your heart.

it's been home for so

long. it's

held you in its arms,

bathed you,

let you read books

by the window.

kept you warm 

in winters.

you've watched 

the trees rise above the roof.

raked the fallen

leaves.

you shoveled snow

away from the doors

to let love in.

it's where you belonged.

it's a part of you,

never to be forgotten.

don't let them in

narcissistic

people have a diving rod

for finding

calm

and normal.

for seeking out

empathetic souls.

they want

what you have.

they want to get out

of their own 

world of cold,

take hold,

and steal what's yours.

your peace,

your soul.

don't let them.

the distorted blur

in the beginning

there weren't enough mirrors

in the house

for the both of us

to preen in.

young, we were, pretty

and unlined.

at least in our own eyes.

she went her own way though,

and i went mine,

aging apart.

we are both now i imagine

down to the reflection

in our toasters,

our spoons, our glasses

of dark wine,

squinting at our image

in the distorted

blur called time.

down to one candle

it's a small cake,

with one

candle.

to add the correct

number would

cause a prairie

fire now.

it's a birthday

cake.

round

and in it's 

soft blue

jacket.

chocolate

with white icing.

we're happily

down to

a single flame now.

which is more

than enough.

thank you for

no longer keeping

count.

the pepper mill

the large pepper

shaker

is kept in the vault

in the manager's office.

not far from

the arc of the covenant,

and shroud

of Turin.

only when the plate

of food arrives

are you asked

if you want some.

tell me when to stop,

the nervous

waiter says, trembling

as he turns

the enormous pepper mill,

carved out of wood

from a nearby forest.

it's too risky

of a seasoning

to be left on the table

with mere salt, or left

to the hands

of unskilled patrons.

those late night monologues

did Shakespeare

have 

a large eraser, or did he just

cross things

out

with his feathered pen,

and write below

what

he just wrote. did he

say the lines

out loud, to himself.

i think so.

it must have driven

his wife

crazy, whoever

she was.

ah the stories she 

could tell

about Will and those

late

night monologues,

roaming

the house in

character,

while she tried to sleep.

we got this

it's mostly

men

lingering in the tool aisles

at the big store.

salivating

over saws and hammers,

wrenches

and power

tools.

stroking lumber,

eyeing

the rigidity

and plumbness

of two by fours.

we need to make things.

we like to

build

and tear down,

start all over

again.

that's why love is such

a great

challenge to us.

we can start to build

it once more from scratch.

stand back,

we got this.

2023

no gym,

no club,

no orange theory,

or planet

fitness.

no pool, no track

to count the laps.

no dumbbells to lift,

no cross fit

gizmos.

no pull up bar,

no rowing machine,

or stair master,

no tread mill,

or stationary bike.

no leaden ball

to throw around.

just some push ups

maybe a bike ride

and

occasionally

a brisk walk

around the lake.

of course no sugar,

no seed oils,

no processed foods,

low carbs

with good

sleep and love.

that'll work.

a mere thought

it's just a thought,

a mere

memory of years ago,

words said,

but it's enough

for you to tilt the clock

at three a.m.

and see

how little you have

traveled since then.

polishing an image

her act

of kindness was part

of it,

part of

the image she wanted

to portray.

virtue

signaling with

each

vegetable on her plate,

her insistence

on

prayer at each meal,

or with an orange

sliced.

the beads

that hung from her

mirror.

the peace sticker on the car.

the rescue dogs,

now dust

in jeweled boxes.

the visiting of graves.

all a part

of her

failing, yet obvious

play.

between the lines

as much

as we desire simplicity.

we

need the complex,

the nuance,

the slight of hand

reference.

wit

and cleverness.

it can't all be checkers

and tic tac toe.,

pratfalls

and easy laughs.

we need

the game of chess

too.

we need to read

between

the lines.

it's why i need you.

she's light, i'm dark

she likes

the hallmark channel.

the boy

and girl

reuniting in a small

town,

both coming home

for Christmas

to inherit the family

llama farm.

it's always Christmas

on the hallmark

channel.

i like

the dark and quirky

fare on the tube,

the noir,

the mysterious

ending,

the anti-hero, the twist

and turn,

the ending

that you didn't

see coming. we try

to indulge one another,

but 

it's good to have two

tv's in the house.

tip toe into love

it's better to inch

towards

love.

tip toe into the deep

water

of affection.

the leap

is usually fatal.

love

at first sight

is fool's gold.

give it fifty years

or more,

and then,

if it's still alright,

give it a go.

a tenth row seat

don't buy

the cheap seats,

and don't buy

the front row either.

find something not too

far,

not too close.

it's a lesson

to live by for baseball

games

and comedy

clubs alike,

you don't want to be

hit by a line

drive,

or catch the comic's

eye

and be the star.

by the time we got to Woodstock

after the summer

of love,

and the summer of Woodstock,

you could

see the teachers

in our high school

change.

suddenly they were wearing

their hair long,

wearing

bright colored clothes.

the women

had flowers in their hair.

the men

had a strange a look

in their eyes,

as if they'd seen something

on the other side.

but they still had geometry

to teach,

sentences to diagram,

history to unfold, and

explain the differences

between sine and cosine.

peeling potatoes

she'd sit on

the kitchen stool, close

to the floor,

a pail beside

her, a box of potatoes

to her left

then begin

to peel.

her red hands shaving

off the brown

skins.

one after the other.

so many mouths

to feed,

and yet, she felt

blessed.

it's not my fault

if we can

find someone to blame

it all on,

we feel better.

it's not our fault

for where we are

in life, our

current state of affairs.

it was our mother

or father,

the color of our skin,

our lineage,

our hair.

our lack of money,

or education.

our gender.

nothing in life being fair.

we like being

the victim.

it gives us reason

for failure.

for underachieving,

for misery and despair.

throwing dice against the wall

Einstein

said,

God does not play

dice

with the universe.

but it

feels that way

sometimes

when you're out

in the world

and there's so much

chaos

and mystery,

so much

confusion and death.

you can almost

hear the rattle

of dice

rolling

on the floor 

the moment you

wake up.

where'd they go?

people disappear

all the time.

they just go, move away.

for one reason

or another.

a marriage gone bad,

financial troubles,

or just wanting

better weather.

they pack up their

belongings

and drive south,

or west

and make a life there.

they cut

all ties, 

leave everything

and everyone they ever

knew behind.

you wonder

what happened to them

as the years go by.

they don't

return your calls,

there's no forwarding

address,

no texts,

nothing.

just poof

and they're gone.

so long.

it never sleeps

you have to hand it

to rust.

it never

gives up.

never stops eating

away

at metal

once past the paint.

with tiny red teeth

it just eats

and eats and eats.

twenty-four seven,

it never sleeps.

take the bus

don't get in a small

plane

in any kind of weather

especially

if you're a musician

in a band

with a thimble

full of fame.

so what if you have

the money,

take the bus,

a car,

uber.

hitchhike

if you can.

the list is so long

of the ones gone down.

punch the clock

i've

never heard a bird

complain

about the wind,

or rain, 

the lack of worms

in the hard

ground, or

a turtle

coming out of the stream

murmuring

about the water

being too cold.

i've never

heard a red fox

gripe

about the weather,

or that he's

hungry and tired

of hunting the rabbit

or mole.

they just get up

and get it done.

the two ends meet

as when born

we are now

at the mercy

and kindness

of others,

our mouths open

for the spoon

of warm

food, soft enough

to swallow.

we are looking

for safety

and comfort.

if someone would

read to us,

that too would help

us sleep.

how quickly the circle

closes 

from birth until death,

where the two

ends at last

will meet.

the fruitcake murder

it was the first recorded

murder

of this Christmas.

a woman

hit her husband in the head

with a

loaf of fruitcake

a gift he thought

would please her,

because

of the cherries

and other assorted fruits,

like jewels

embedded within

the thick

inedible brick

of sugar and flour,

and other mysterious

ingredients.

he chose that for her

special Christmas gift

instead of the diamond

necklace

she showed him

online, nine weeks ago.

the day after

ahhh, the leftovers.

the cold

bowl of potatoes,

a mini Everest

with a peak.

the once silken gravy

now mud,

the turkey slices,

limping

their way home

as if lost

on the shelf, no longer

the center of

attention.

where are the bones?

the hard rolls,

unbuttered and waiting

to be resuscitated

by the tired stove.

whatever was green

is less green now,

hidden away

beneath plastic sheets,

everything seems

ready

to be swept into

the can, opened by

your foot,

only the bread pudding,

and cookies,

will get a kind reprieve. 

life of the party

at this

age, now, 

in the winter

of her life,

it's easy

to concede

that she's a marvelous

antique,

an heirloom of sorts,

fragile

with silvered hair

and skin like a parchment

scroll

from the Dead Sea.

when she speaks

we listen,

and when she doesn't

speak we wait

for some snippet

of wit,

or wisdom to fall

like petals

from her soft spoken

lips.

they say she was life

of the party.

still is.

a better gift

it's not

the biggest box

wrapped

beneath

the tree, it's not

the most expensive

thing

bought,

it's not the shiniest

or the newest

gizmo

on the block,

it's just this, this

kiss,

this gentle hug

in friendship,

from the heart.

the mystery of gravy

gravy

is my Achille's heel.

not

sex, or food,

or drink,

or work,

or money. not greed

or fame.

lust or envy

just gravy.

i'm unable to master

this culinary

mystery, so

help me.

just human

you can't pick

your children,

or parents.

siblings too.

you get what you get,

for better or worse.

you navigate

your way through life

with them.

loosening the reins,

forgoing arguments,

at last,

as wisdom sets in,

you accept the fact 

that like you,

they're just human.

pick your dish

pick your holiday

dish.

would you like

it bitter

and cold,

full of regret and remorse.

unable to move

past

the past.

or would

you rather feel cheerful,

and grateful,

with a big spoon

of sugar

in your Christmas

bowl.

one less reindeer in the sky

he won't tell us

what it is,

the grey slab of meat

on the Christmas

table.

seasoned

and surrounded

by small

potatoes and carrots,

peas.

just eat, he says, smiling,

you can't help

but notice

the antlers on his

wall,

the shotgun

propped up in the corner.

still warm,

his orange

hunting vest

forever on.

my future bride to be

i meet my future

wife

at a rib roasting class

down

at the elementary

school.

a late night

three-hour session,

non-credit,

detailing all the things

we need to know

about cuts of meat

and au jus.

we learn through

an excruciating lecture

what temperature

to turn the stove on, etc.

blah, blah, blah.

we're both

wearing chef hats

and aprons.

when we arrive,

clicking our sharp knives

together.

like her

the only culinary success

i've had lately

has been PBJ's on

Wonder bread, 

her too.

it's meant to be.

the beauty of aging

the beauty

of aging is that

you say

what you mean,

and mean what

you say.

and have no qualms about

the consequences.

you've never suffered

fools gladly,

but now

it's turned up a notch.

you have no

patience for the angry

or selfish,

for the rude and dumb.

it's refreshing

now, to block and delete.

to walk away

happily, to just click

and move on.

hitting rock bottom

they talk

about rock bottom.

that's when things get turned

around.

but not always.

some like it there.

some

feel at home

with almost nothing

owned,

with no one

to care for

and no one to care

for them.

they don't want pity,

or help.

they've surrendered

to the world

and no longer

want to join in.

the wind off the Hudson

sure

the ocean is swell.

all that blue

and salt in the air,

the gulls,

the long stretch

of white sand,

it screams

of sun

and youth.

but a day at the beach

is no longer

a day

at the beach

for me.

give me the subway

car,

the jostle

of Manhattan,

give me the bum in

the alley,

the neon,

give me the chaos

of taxis,

the steel and brick

of it all.

art and movies.

martinis.

pastrami.

give me the wind

off the Hudson, give

me a place

where imagination

is born.

being grateful

when it's cold

like

this 

grateful sets in.

you aren't

on a steam grate

bundled

in rags,

or under a bridge

in a makeshift

tent.

you have

fire,

you have wood

and shelter.

you have food 

and water.

even love

is in abundance.

we have the car you wanted

the manager,

there are not salespeople

anymore,

just managers,

at the car dealership

texts to say that she has my car

on the lot,

finally. it's red, she says,

with red interior.

i tell her no, i want

black, with parchment interior.

all wheel

drive, she says.

no.

just front wheel drive.

it has the advanced

package.

i don't want that, i tell her.

i want the technology

package.

there's only twelve thousand

miles on it.

i want new.

it also has all season

floor mats,

no extra charge for those.

when can you come in?

no prescriptions necessary

i text my pharmacist

friend

in India

to inquire about prednisone.

Nida Shaikh.

he calls me brother,

and tells me to call

him Brian.

fifty pills at ten mg,

i tell him. no knock offs,

the real stuff.

he takes his

time about texting me back.

maybe because of the ten

hour time

difference.

he's pretty reliable.

and i trust him.

no prescriptions needed.

he has a farm

outside

of Delhi,

sometimes i hear sheep

and roosters

in the background

when we talk.

what could go wrong?

oh please, go on

so many

conversations are one way.

we sort of listen

to the long story about how

the cat was

stuck in the tree,

or how

your father used to take

you over his knee,

three eggs, not two,

really,

but

you wait patiently

just the same,

tapping your foot,

waiting

for the other person

to finish

so that you can say what

you have to say.

a lot of nodding

is involved,

a half smile,

blinking. pulling

at your ear,

just looking for that slight

pause

to jump in.

then finally it's your turn,

but you've forgotten

what you had

to say.

the big parka

nine degrees.

who can survive nine degrees?

single

digits.

ten, i can handle.

twelve

or thirteen, ok,

we'll figure

it out

with the big parka,

earmuffs

and mittens,

but nine.

that's ridiculous.

the morning city

the morning

city

is different. different

from

the night.

the debris

is present. the glow

is off.

the shine

diminished

by the broken shade

eeking light.

who was fun 

is now

tired and half asleep.

the wallet

emptied

the desires

drained

by the stranger lying

next to you

on your right.

what time do you get off?

at 2 a.m.

it was coffee

and cigarettes at 

the roadside diner.

how we sat

there, taking off

our winter coats.

our hats,

rubbing the winter

out of our hands.

we were

exhausted from a night

of carousing.

we kidded the waitress,

all of nineteen,

and asked

what's good here.

and she'd reply

nothing.

not even me,

to which we'd say, no doubt,

then order

steak and eggs

and hashbrowns,

toast, and jam. 

keep the coffee coming

we'd tell her,

then ask

what time she got off.

who they really are

with anger

you see the true soul.

the dark

side

of someone.

their thin

skin

and insecurity shows.

it's been there all along,

but it took

a few cross

words

to bring it out,

to bring it home.

when the curtain falls

the curtain

falls,

the stage is cleared.

the actors

have taken

their final bows and wiped

the grease paint

from their faces.

it's back to the real

world now,

where there is no

script, no lines

to read,

no director

telling you how hard

to laugh,

how long to cry,

or when to bleed.

the hall is emptied

as the lights go up,

and everyone,

exits onto the dark

cold street.

man in the cellar

who's in the cellar?

who's banging

their cane

against the ceiling.

is it too warm, too cold.

is he hungry again.

whose turn

to sponge bath him.

someone go down and

check on him.

it's hell getting

old and living down there.

but he pays

the rent on time.

so there.

keep all receipts

i keep all my receipts

my mother would say,

showing

me her cigar box

full of them from

years gone by.

you never know,

what fits today might

not fit tomorrow,

maybe you've lost

your taste for green,

or a style that's passed

by. be prepared, honey,

mark the date on them.

and hope you can return

things, before the time

expires.

non-stick

carefully

i take the scissors

and approximate

the amount of wrapping paper

i'll need for

this frying pan.

non-stick,

mind you.

Cuisinart.

the handle part is the

hardest.

a lot of tape

comes in handy

there.

the frozen snow

it's hard to tell

if she's bitter, or happy.

the Botox

for Christmas has set in.

one expression

fits all moods,

all circumstances that

she finds herself in.

she's like

the new fallen snow

out the window.

but a little colder.

a girl and her luggage

it's just for two

nights,

i say to myself as i watch

her

pull luggage out

of the car.

her bags are a happy

green.

i put my shoes on

to go out

and fetch the larger

ones.

she takes the one

on wheels,

i grab the ones with straps

pulling them

onto my shoulder,

down my back.

i've learned

not to ask.

the Christmas card

it's a very shiny family.

you can see

that in the Christmas portrait

made

into a card

sent out

to friends and family alike.

each boy, each girl,

an ornament

catching the light.

hung onto the tree well

watered,

by man

and wife.

even the dog has a glitter

about him,

red bowed

and still, waiting for

someone

to take him out

to do his business

in the cold night.

now what?

you remember

quite well

the first girl you kissed.

how it

reddened

both your faces

as you negotiated

tongue and teeth.

lips pressed too hard,

too soft.

what to do with your hands?

where

do you place

your feet?

but by summers end

you had

it down.

now what?

poetry air balls

from here,

this chair, i can ball up a piece

of paper,

crumbled

because i didn't like

what i wrote,

and toss it to the wastebasket.

sometimes

i hit dead center,

while other times, like

most of the time,

it rims out

onto to floor.

i need to move

closer, or stop printing

each poem

out.

destination divorce

we planned

a destination divorce.

she went

to France

with her new boyfriend,

Carlos,

while

i went to New York

to get a hot

pastrami sandwich.

with Betty.

from each location

our lawyers

struck the deal.

we split the money

down the middle,

she got the cat, Fluffy

and the Williams

Sonoma kitchen gear,

while

i got the dog,

Rex, 

and the weight machine

in the basement.

are we scared?

are we scared?

does

the weather make us worry,

put us

ill at ease.

does the frantic

voice

of the weathergirl,

make

us go to our knees

and pray.

what about our milk

and bread.

our coffee?

how will we survive

this rain,

this ice.

wind? when was

the last time we had wind?

is this how it all ends?

nothing like

this has ever happened

before,

it's the first

snow ever.

stay tuned, we'll let

you know

who lives and who dies

after this brief commercial

break.

grab your coat, it's cold out

i've lost

my taste for debate,

for arguing

a point

about the world

at large.

i care and yet i don't care.

it doesn't matter anymore

what you

think,

what i think.

let's just leave it at that

and move on.

grab your coat,

it's cold out,

let's walk

in silence,

no need to bring

our phones.

don't wait up, i'm going out

she was stuck

with the aging husband,

separated by

drywall, and a floor,

now

in the basement.

old and sick,

an invalid too soon.

his finger

on the bell.

no insurance.

obese and penniless.

what was there to do.

but feed him,

pay his bills,

do his laundry.

yell down the stairs and say,

don't wait up,

i'm going out.

the bricklayer's helper

the bricklayer

with a cigarette clenched

between his teeth

and last nights

drink on his breath,

said

show me your hands.

i held them out,

eighteen

and wanting a job.

he felt

the smoothness of them,

turned them over

and laughed.

you won't last a day,

he said.

but come on.

pick up my bag

and follow me.

blood in the socks

it's a small

blister on the back of your heel.

blood

and skin.

new shoes

will do that

to you.

they have to be worn,

broken in.

put some miles on them

the leather needs

to bend.

but tomorrow

it's back to the old

loafers, soft and 

comfy, time to slip

them on

once again.

he's had enough

he's got winter

in his hair,

in his bones, his blue

eyes

are ice

his teeth, brittle,

his voice

soft

and low.

he's seen it all,

done it all.

but he doesn't talk

about it much.

he's not worried about

tomorrow,

or the next day.

he's had

enough.

just passing through

don't get angry

don't get blue,

no need to worry,

no need to cry,

put it all behind you,

i'm just passing through.

you've known it all along,

i'm just passing through.

finding love on the cross-town bus

the young woman

beside me on the bus,

with her 

shopping bag from Garfinkle's,

between her feet

falls asleep.

her head eases down upon

my shoulder.

her hair is lovely

and soft

against my neck.

i'm immediately

in love with her.

i imagine what our life

will be

like.

how many kids?

will we have a dog.

will we live in the suburbs

or in the city,

perhaps near a park

where we can

ice skate in the winter.

i try not to move

so that i don't awaken

her.

it's nice to have dreams

that aren't disturbed.

going back to school

i go back to university

soon,

not to

take classes or to learn

anything new,

but to teach.

i've given them my

resume,

which happens to be this

blog,

and marital history.

and extensive knowledge

i've acquired on

youtube and

webmd.

they immediately

accepted me

as a tenured

professor.

i start next week.

i have my choice of classes.

psychology.

nutrition.

creative writing.

and grilling meat.

made in China

can we trust

where these things come

from.

the Virginia

peanuts,

the Boston cream pie,

the north Atlantic

salmon?

how do we really know

who made

our Maple Syrup,

can we be sure it was Canada,

or Vermont.

who's really making

this sweet amber goo?

every gizmo i turn

over says

made in 
China.

i thought we were mad

at China.

what's the deal here?

can anything be true?

boney fingers

they find

the bone of a finger in a cave

and this

changes everything.

it's a whole new

line

of prehistoric

men and women,

move over paleolithic man.

slide down

mister neanderthal.

these were thinkers,

look at the way

the finger curves.

they put it to

their chin.

artists, writers, philosophers.

look how

large their foreheads

were.

they sat straight up

and pondered,

they weren't just out there

killing

the wild animal

that galloped in herds.

the tiresome trio

when

did musk become king

of the world.

bill gates.

trump.

when will they go away

and leave

us alone?

a tiresome

trio

of over achievers

who keep

beating their

own ego

laden drum.

please, get off the stage.

stop

with the madness.

it's no longer fun.

oh and Putin too.

that makes four.

marketing 101

no mystery

that

sex sells. 

the pretty girl holding

a can

of beer,

a pretzel,

soap suds.

the woman at

the wheel,

the come hither

look on her face,

the leg

bared.

buy me,

buy this.

get her.

critics be damned

the energy

wanes, the critics point

to old

paintings,

old novels,

ancient poems,

they say he's not the same.

his best

was in his early

days.

when he was young

and ambitious.

when he

was the hunter,

the matador in the ring.

sad how

the brilliant fade,

why don't they just

stop

and go away.

fuck the critics, the artist,

the writer,

will say.

a six month lease

the empty

small apartment,

one bedroom,

one bath is

waiting to be rented.

a starting point

for the young, or

a stopping point

for the old.

the walls

with a fresh coat

of white paint.

the stove

cleaned,

the bathrooms too.

a coat of wax

on the wood floors.

a set of new keys.

the bus stop out

front will sell it.

it's waiting,

waiting

for someone in between.

someone waiting for

the pages

of their own life

to be turned,

waiting for what's

next before

once more they leave.

a lot of crumbs

i was watching

the neighbor

vacuum out his car

the other day

and it occurred to me

that maybe i should

do that.

i can't imagine

how many crumbs

from scones

and sandwiches

are all over the place.

or maybe i should

get a small dog again.

short but with a long

nose, flexible little

fellow,

to get between

the seats.

ne're-do-wells

the old adage

that crime

doesn't pay, doesn't seem

to be holding

up anymore,

has there ever more

of a crime

wave

than now.

each phone call is

some sort

of thief

or ne'er-do-well

wanting

you to get your

wallet out.

no vacancy

with the guest

bed

gone, you are safe once

more

from overnight

visitors,

relatives arriving

to tour

the city.

there's a small

couch

in there now.

a bureau,

a desk,

a window with a

pleasant

view. some books

parked

along the shelves

of a small

bookcase.

there's no one

there in the early

morning hours,

for you to politely

knock on the door,

and ask what

they want for breakfast.

this changes everything

i haven't had a conversation

with my

mailman in over ten years.

we pass each other

with hardly wave

or nod,

and then

yesterday,

he stops me as i get out

of my truck,

hands me my letters

and asks

what do i know about

painting cabinets.

this changes everything.

the frozen pond

it looks safe.

the thick ice picking up

the blue

in the sky.

you throw a rock

across

the pond and watch

it skate

to the other side,

you press a stick into

the ice

until it breaks.

it looks safe.

should we give it

a try?

but in your ears

you hear your mother's

voice,

saying no.

why did i come here?

there are days

when you can't find

what you're

looking for. even when

the grocery clerk asks

if you did.

you search

without a list,

up and down the aisles,

then the moment occurs

when you don't

even remember

what you came into

the store for.

it comes back to you

later,

when it's time for dinner,

and you sit down.

the shrinking thesaurus

as a kid,

and even as a teenager

i rarely

used salty

language,

and if i did as i

grew older,

they were muttered

underneath

my breath.

but now i can't stop

swearing.

despite all

the words i've learned,

all the reading

i've absorbed,

certain words just

seem to fit

best when

angry, or a story

needs a good telling.

oops!

who hasn't

left

the stove on

once or twice in life,

left the door

unlocked

all night, who hasn't

turned

off the iron

as it sits hot on

the board.

who hasn't

left their keys

in the door, or

let the water in

the tub overflow

until it came 

through the floor.

who hasn't

called

someone by the wrong

name,

when expressing

affection,

telling them they're

adored?

act one

present

the big bed.

the soft bed.

the room with a view.

roll out an ocean.

a full moon.

let's set stage

for romance.

que the music,

light the candles

and pour

the wine,

enter you.

quiet on the set,

now action.

the smaller version of God

we make

our god small,

we

limit him or her,

or whatever

the case may be

as being like us.

maybe old,

maybe with a white beard,

maybe

a judge of sorts,

angry at times,

but loving too.

caring at times,

but aloof

and distant.

we think of him as

some wise grandfather

figure,

with a gavel and sword.

a scale

to balance out

the good and evil

that we do.

but i suspect He's nothing

like that.

nothing like us,

but more,

impossibly fair,

infinitely true.

careless

despite our

best efforts to kill

ourselves, the body

does

it's best to keep

us alive, to

keep us healthy.

but we

feed it junk.

sugar,

processed foods.

we smoke

and drink,

feed ourselves drugs.

we leap off cliffs,

we dive

deep

into the pool of

fools.

we want to touch

the stars,

climb

Everest.

we're not satisfied

in being

content and happy on

the ground.

we're so careless

with what we

put into our minds,

into 

our mouths.

better night than day

some days,

july days in particular

the sun

feels closer,

a hot

bath of light.

too bland

and too much.

while other days,

and nights,

it's the moon

that hangs

tight over your

shoulder.

a cold smile on

it's rocky

face. more mystery

is my take, the

nights are much more

interesting

than days.

living underwater

i can swim

better

underwater, than i can

on the surface.

the same

holds true

for living.

bending like a fish

through

the troubled

depths

of life, hidden

in the shadows,

the murky

light.

washed ashore

the debris

of you, of me, floats

to the surface

washed

ashore

by time and waves.

by

storm and disrepair,

the sinking of it all,

driftwood.

algae.

old green bottles

holding messages

from those

still lost

at sea.

the timber of our

hulls,

bent and detached,

little is left,

most

is gone.

the same Christmas card again

as usual,

the best Christmas

cards

come from the Exxon station

up the street

where i get my oil

changed,

and from my dentist

who cleans

my teeth,

not to mention

my lawyer

and tax preparer.

they're beautiful cards,

oversized

with embossed lettering,

brilliantly colored

pictures of mangers

and other religious

scenes.

pieces of art that

should be framed.

they never send the same

card, year

after year, like i do.

sending one out from

the box of one hundred,

which seems to 

never end.

raised by wolves

raised by

wolves we were,

and television,

and what we learned

on the street.

the parents were busy

with their

own drama filled lives.

work and babies,

keeping

the house afloat,

making sure there

was something,

anything

to eat.

no words of wisdom,

no pondering

of our futures,

no planning a path

for us,

schools or talents,

or otherwise.

just grow up

and stay out of trouble.

get a job.

everything will be fine.

just a few hours late

i got lost

going to Fell's Point

in Baltimore

one year.

i told her seven o'clock.

she was making dinner,

i was bringing

the wine.

i took the wrong exit

and started

back across the bridge

again past

the glowing

Domino Sugar sign.

finally

i arrived

and she put out a plate

for me.

the strip of salmon

more dried

than any fish i'd ever

seen.

delicious i said, and

poured the wine.

it was almost nine.

one thing well

to do one

thing well is a blessing

in life.

whether

hammering

a nail.

or grinding metal

at the factory.

the baker

up all night

icing

his wares.

one thing well.

that's all you need 

to make

a lifetime

rich

and fulfilled.

a good starting point

penniless,

or weak, sick and 

lost.

beaten down.

these are good

starting points,

for when

blessings arrive

you'll understand

and be grateful,

having seen

both sides.

beware of the silver

spoon in a child's

mouth.

they never know

struggle, or less,

everything given

to them

too soon.

the humming bird

the nervous

yellow

bird,

never still,

a bright splash

of color

floating,

and darting

from

flower

to flower.

the life of springs

party,

too pretty for

it's own

good.

not unlike you.

sleep on it

sleep on it.

give it a night,

maybe two.

do nothing, but wait.

the answer

will come to you.

make no rash decisions.

just sleep on it.

you'll see.

when tomorrow

comes,

you'll know what

to do.

a love poem

why don't you write

a poem

about me,

she said.

oh, you don't want

that,

i told her.

let's make love

instead.

before life began

in the night

shade

of my room, the blue

lights

of my Pioneer

receiver,

setting some sort

of mood,

i'd lie in bed and listen

to the stack

of lp's

i mounted on the turntable.

Elton,

and McCartney,

Croce,

Dylan.

i knew each crackle

in the vinyl.

each skip, each word

forever

etched in memory.

it was before so much,

almost

before life began.

asleep before me

she talked

about ending things,

of moving on,

not from us, but from

the world

at large.

life was too hard.

she said it sincerely

and i believed her,

but instead,

she brushed her teeth,

and set out

her clothes

for work the next day.

then fell asleep

before i did.

that time of the year again

as the holiday

grows nearer in celebration

of the birth

of Christ.

and the stores

get crowded,

the roads jammed

with traffic

in all directions,

a man reaches

out the car window,

as he beeps his horn,

and waves

one finger in my

direction,

his face red with anger,

and scorn.

it's that blessed time

of year again.

the vegan restaurant

for her birthday

she

wanted everyone to go to the vegan

restaurant

in Vienna, because

she was special

and everyone wanted

so hard to please

her,

an impossible task

to begin with.

but we did it, 

or else faced

the consequences

of silence

and brooding.

it was a well known gathering

spot

for anorexics

and tree huggers.

there was

no meat.

just pretend meat.

fake meat

made out of some bizarre

soy

concoction.

a veritable plate, or bowl

of rancid

vegetables,

straw and twigs,

indigestible

kale

and spinach, leeks.

after a visit or two there,

and being sick

for days,

i took things into my

own hands

and stopped

for burgers along the way,

grilled

beef.

cow meat.

short ribs and steaks.

dr. feelgood

i see my

doctor at the bar

chatting it up and having

a good time

with the local pharmaceutical

salesman.

laughing,

hitting each other on

the back,

clinking glasses together.

they should get a room.

i'm buying,

the salesman says,

a round for everyone.

go ahead

get the big steak.

we had a good week,

a good year.

don't make me pull over

you can't take kids

to mars,

they'd be in the back seat

of the space

capsule,

moaning, are we there yet?

i'm bored,

i have to pee,

i'm hungry.

can't we stop somewhere?

i can't see

out my

window, my stupid sister

keeps

bugging me

with her boney elbows

and knees.

it smells in here,

someone just cut the cheese.

can i open the window?

a new birth

the seed

pushes itself upwards,

forward

to the sun,

into the rain.

the world pushes onward.

the rush

of cars,

the rush of trains.

nothing stops,

everything

keeps growing

and dying.

a new birth

for each new grave.

the orange shag rug

at the start

of the marriage,

the first house,

had

orange shag carpet,

wall to wall,

ala 1980,

and

blue vinyl siding.

there was

a squared mud yard

out back

where

the new dog

would go to do his

business and bark.

the front porch

had concrete

steps

with a loose

handrail that her mother

insisted we'd

be sued if we didn't

get it fixed.

the front

door was white, though,

with a pineapple

knocker, faux gold.

which gave us

hope.

eventually we changed

the carpet,

before it ended in

divorce.

it was

a low pile oatmeal color,

which said

everything.

what's the weather

science,

not unlike the weather,

has a way

of changing.

what's good for you today,

is bad

for you tomorrow.

they keep

you on the edge of

your seat,

snow shovel,

or umbrella?

never quite knowing

what to drink

that's healthy,

what to eat.

the large fish on a board

it's a large

fish, presented to the table

on a charred

wooden

board.

tail intact as well

as head 

with flat doll like eyes,

staring glumly,

night black.

some clap

some oooh and aw.

how long ago it swam

in the sea,

we wonder,

flash frozen,

or fresh, or laid

out in ice behind

the butcher's glass

for weeks?

our aching bellies

late into the night 

would like

to know.

maybe twelve percent

as i sit

pondering twenty percent

of the bill

for the waiter

often

unresponsive

and lacking

in memory.

aloof

in his casual care

of work.

she got my steak,

i her

fish,

the drinks uncold,

the butter

stiff.

i wonder if he would

even care

if i lessened his tip.

a learned lesson

your gut

is your true brain,

it holds more neurons in

it than the one

cradled in

your head.

it's instinct,

it's premonition,

intuition,

it warns you of danger.

of someone

with toxic energy.

it gives you

fear

and pause.

it's the wisest part

of your body.

listen to it,

don't ignore.

this friend, this lover,

is not good for you.

move on.

the glow of you

there is a roundness

to you,

a soft glow,

of sun

and water as you

lift yourself

from the sea.

i'm happy that it's

allowed

you back onto dry

land,

and back,

walking towards

me.

at three a.m.

it's in the wee

wee hours, 

when we are awakened

by thought,

a dream

curtailed,

it's then that we truly

examine our

life.

where have we won,

or where we may

have failed.

there is no stick to

measure

the depth of fear,

or joy.

we are just wading it

seems in unclear waters,

going nowhere

faster and faster

with each

new year.

the new Christmas sweater

i tell the clerk 

at the liquor store 

that i'm attending 

a Christmas party tonight,

and need a

recommendation

on a drink

that will make me

smart and funny,

clever, and able to withstand

a few hours of small talk,

but not drunk,

or obnoxious after

three tumblers.

maybe a little buzzed,

but not

swaying, or getting

sick.

hmm. he says.

i think i have just

the thing for you.

are you possibly having

a romantic interlude

that evening? we don't

want to ruin that, you know?

maybe, i tell him. i'm

hopeful.

i'm wearing my new Christmas

sweater,

so i may get a lot of attention.

let's see he says,

as we walk down the long

aisles of alcoholic

spirits.

wine? nah, the tannic

acids give me a headache.

what about,

rum, no, i got sick on that

in high school and now

i can't even smell the stuff.

tequila?

hmmm. maybe.

or perhaps a good scotch.

people are impressed when

you drink scotch, he says.

makes you look

literary and mature. wise.

you just sip it and observe

the crowd. no need to talk

much.

that's it, i tell him.

give me the big jug

and ring it up.

express replacements

no one fixes anything

anymore.

the washer

on the blink, get a new one.

down

the block there's a store.

the tv

on the fritz,

amazon

will bring you a new one

tomorrow.

the computer

screen

gone black, no problem,

so easy

to replace that.

along with phones,

and all the other gizmos

you possess.

even marriages gone south,

not to worry,

get a new wife, a new

husband

on dating.com,

there's a no-fault lawyer,

cheap,

with a coupon willing

to get you out.

seemed like a good idea

we went down

to see

the cherry blossoms.

but everyone else had the same

idea.

there was no where

to park,

so we circled the monuments,

got stuck in a detour,

waved on by cops.

tomorrow

it was going to rain

and be windy,

the trees would

be bare again. this was

our last chance.

but we were running out

of gas,

then finally gave up,

going home

to look at the blossoming

tree in our yard,

which was beautiful

enough.

in the fall we have plans

to go

to the mountains,

to look at

the foliage,

what could go wrong?

employee of the month again

i'm thinking of giving

myself a raise,

a small increase

in salary

and maybe a few more

days

off next year.

a bonus for Christmas.

after all i have

been employee of the month

for 28 years in a row now.

do the math.

i might give myself

a gold watch too,

and a window office.

but i don't want to get

ahead of myself,

let's see how December

goes.

ten inches away

alone

reading, 

alone

on a walk

deep into the woods,

or biking

on the trail.

alone listening to music,

or watching

a show,

alone eating,

alone

at the movies,

alone

at work, alone writing,

alone in my head,

and yet never 

ever lonely,

i only felt that

way

when you were here,

ten inches away,

sleeping

in my bed.

that's what i'm talking about willis

it's interesting

how the preacher, or priest,

or minister,

can find a single line

in the Bible,

and run with it.

he'll analyze

the words, in Greek, in Latin,

and finally

in the language that 

you know.

he'll take it apart like

fileting a fish,

picking the fine bones out.

carefully dissecting the hidden

meaning.

he connects the dots

to another verse

in the Old Testament,

about two hundred pages

before that

said by a man with a name

beginning with Z, that

no one uses anymore,

because it's too hard

to pronounce.

see that, he says. hitting his

hand against the pulpit

which wakes everyone up,

do you see that? yes. yes.

that's what i'm talking about.

but he doesn't end

it with Willis.

as i would.

the christmas parade

as a parade

goes by, men

and women, small children

dressed

as santa's helpers

wave to the crowd.

the firetrucks,

the cars

decorated like candy

canes roll by,

and then at the very

end

is Santa on a made

up sleigh, which

is actually the back of

a Toyota pickup truck

filled with hay.

there's a tiny tyke

standing beside me

in a ball cap,

sucking on an enormous lollipop,

fun, huh? i say to him.

he looks up at me and says,

not really. this stinks.

lame.

like we're supposed to believe

that's Santa Claus.

i've seen him before,

at the mall,

he sold my mother a 

pair of shoes.

the grey mouse

how

do you kill a mouse?

why,

when they eat so little,

so quiet

in their ways,

soft and small,

a lighter shade of grey.

up and over

counters,

they find a way in,

they find a way out.

but they seem 

well mannered.

think of them

as tiny

butlers,

small maids, cleaning

up the crumbs,

the mess

that you've made.

who is that girl?

after she got her new nose,

and her skin

tucked

behind her ears,

making her face tight

as a drum,

and her tummy

squeezed clean of fat,

i almost didn't recognize

her when she walked

into the room.

her eyes were blue now,

not green,

and her curves seemed

to be more curvy.

but then i knew it was her

when she ordered a martini

and a basket of fried calamari

and onion rings.

young whippersnappers

when the clerk

asks

if you want the senior

discount

on your groceries,

and asks

if you need help with

your bags

in getting to your car,

or when a young

man holds

the door for you and calls

you sir,

you want to scream,

i'm not ready for this,

not yet, go play in

your sandbox, 

and i'll let you

know when i'm old.

Vice-president of sales

everyone's a manager now.

a vice president

of operations, of sales.

a CEO,

a chairman,

chairwoman,

a senior officer of some

sort.

there's no worker bees anymore,

no little people.

just big wheels.

look at their

business cards,

everyone is important.

you can tell by

the raised gold lettering.

in the dog house again

i see 
Father Smith coming

down the center

aisle 

about to give mass,

the little altar

boys trailing

behind with the cross,

and staff

and other assorted

instruments

of faith.

i give him

a nod,

a little wave, but

he scrunches up his mouth

and rolls his

eyes.

he's mad at me.

i've  written too many

poems about

him

and the church.

i'm in hot Holy Water

with him,

i'm banned to the

the proverbial doghouse,

a perpetual

state of purgatory, or is it,

limbo?

picture book triage

my father

used send me pictures of the fish

he caught,

or the steak

he was cooking,

a new shirt,

a new car every

fifteen years.

but now

he sends me a picture of

a bump

on his shoulder,

or the veins

on his hand gone blue,

or perhaps

a foot, swollen

and bruised,

and asks,

what's this look like

to you?

the tilted shades

there is something

missing,

gone

from view,

that chair is an inch

out of place.

someone has

tilted the shades.

left the stove on.

who's here?

who came and went.

was it the wind,

a ghost,

or is it

my memory failing me

once again.

something's happening here

i ask

the activist guy

next door if there's

any

protest

marches going on downtown

today.

the weather is perfect

for a rally

of some sort.

he's out walking his dog,

that he named Greta Thunberg.

a small wiry mutt

that bites and barks

at everyone.

i have the day off

and i feel

like yelling

or carrying a sign

in front of the white house.

there must be something

going on,

women's rights,

a war,

babies, global warming.

inflation,

general malaise,

disease, something?

nah, he

says,

we got nothing right now.

spring is best.

any ideas?

fruitcakes

i see the mailman

coming up

the street bent over,

the mail sack

weighing him down.

i wave,

he manages a nod,

as he

he hands me my

mail.

fruitcakes, i ask?

yup.

he says, slapping

at his bag,

they're killing me

this year.

the snowoman

while the other

kids

were building a snow

man

out of the freshly

fallen

snow,

getting us out of school,

i was busy

with a snow woman

ala

Sofia Loren,

with all her curves,

pleasing

my father as he 

looked out the window.

retirement

i see my retired friends

at the grocery

store

reading

the backs of tuna cans.

perusing

oranges with a squeeze.

looking for the most

ripe tomato.

i see the coupons

in their hands.

or the receipts

adding up the cost

to see if the clerk

got it right.

i see them going into

the library

and coming out with nothing.

or down at the lake

with a loaf

of bread to feed the ducks,

now fat and overfed.

i keep waiting

to hear the gunshots

signaling,

it's over.

my stumbling block

it would

be impossible for me to give

a speech,

or accept an award

in front of a crowd

of people.

it's the only

thing holding me

back from

fame and fortune,

immortality

in the written arts.

one day i whisper, one day

i haven't sharpened

a number

two pencil in ages.

i could if i wanted to

but i don't.

i leave it in the little

basket staring at me.

new and unpointed,

it's school bus yellow

never fading.

the red tip of the eraser

unused.

one day.

one day i whisper to it.

don't you worry.

i'll find something for

you to do.

there are no losers

it's

the first participation

award

we get, when born,

the birth

certificate.

you had nothing to do

with it,

and yet there it is.

the legal document

of your existence.

more trophies will

follow that mean little or

next to nothing.

but they will be saved,

and cherished.

the plastic statues,

and gaudy tin,

reminders of a last

place finish.

why try when

there are no losers,

when everybody,

even the average, wins.

the long hot shower

where once

he stood in the shower

until

the hot water

gave out,

singing in

the small tiled room

steamed

like a Turkish 

bathhouse.

he'd rub the ball

of his fist

to clear the mirror

then shave,

then brush his teeth,

brushing

back

his thick curled hair

with cream.

and now,

even the ledge of

the porcelain

tub is too far a reach,

unable

to lift

his leg to enter.

the new world of woke

they're digging up

graves,

removing statues,

burning books,

rewriting history.

faces are x'ed out,

history erased.

people are losing their jobs.

jokes are no longer

acceptable,

sarcasm is punishable

by death.

we are to the extreme

left of left

where movies are banned.

language is changed.

genders are neutered.

welcome to the new

world of woke

where the inmates are

running the asylum.

the nightmare

has just begun.

i thought you said casual

it was our first date.

she wore

a short black

cocktail dress with

heels

and stockings.

a low

cut blouse, lipstick

her hair

pulled back like

a tango dancer.

i was in shorts and a 

soaked t-shirt,

just finishing

up a three hour

morning of full court

basketball.

luckily i had some

old spice cologne to splash

around selective areas

before we went into

KFC for a three piece

chicken lunch, 

extra crispy.

she didn't want her apple

pie, so i wrapped

it up for her in a napkin

to take home.

i told her she was the 

best looking

woman in the place

which made

her blush, and say, oh my.

really?

i think we hit it off pretty

well, except

for the dress

miscommunication. 

the atlas map

you had

to have good eyesight

back

in the 80's

and the century before that.

we had to turn

on the dome

light in the car

to read road maps,

not unlike the ones used

by bombardiers

during world

war two.

we'd flip through

a twenty pound atlas

bought

at the Esso station

to plot where you were going.

we had to

read phone books too

chained

inside a booth.

the tiny letters

and numbers,

scrunched up on thin

parchment paper.

everyone wore glasses

back then,

or had a

magnifying

glass and a flashlight

in the glove

compartment.

everyone had a headache

and put

a bag of ice on their head

after taking three aspirins.

don't be that fool

i was always buying

her flowers.

roses,

a bouquet

of some sort.

daffodils,

orchids,

petunias.

i was trying to win

back

the affection i thought

i once had.

an apology of sorts.

of falling

on my own sword.

chocolates too.

i believed

in the power of hallmark

cards.

of lover letters,

poetry.

jewels.

it was all in the game.

a game

where i thought i knew

the rules.

but didn't not, really,

it takes some years to

get wise

to women,

to wake up

and not be that fool.

when the cop pulls you over

the cop

aways asks, as he stands

at your car window,

his party lights

on behind you,

do you know

why i pulled you over?

or do you

know how fast you were

driving?

they never ask you,

where

one might get a good steak

around here,

or where

to get coffee

and donuts, not the

store bought kind.

they rarely ask you if

you've lost

weight, or

how to make the perfect

Bundt cake

for the holiday gathering

you're rushing to.

if you were a tree,

what kind

would you be?

they never ask you that

either.

unfixable

you can fix

a flat tire, or a broken

down

car.

you can patch a leak

in the roof.

you

can mend a torn dress,

clean up

a spill

on the floor.

but humpty dumpty

falling to the ground

is a problem.

not unlike you,

unfixable.

your cheating heart

while her part time

lover,

the podiatrist

is in the water, she shoots

me a text

and asks how

i'm doing.

it's eighty degrees here,

she crows,

and sends a picture

of the shoreline,

an island off

the coast of the Dominican

Republic.

i can see a large shadow

of a man

in the distance.

a very white whale on land.

the doctor, who's paid

for the trip.

he's coming back now,

she says,

i think Irvin found a watch

or something

with his metal detector.

i'm having my morning

pina colada,

and scrambled eggs

with crab meat.

and a smear of cream cheese

on my bagel.

more later, kisses.

another twenty minutes

i'm killing time.

drinking coffee.

i'm in my underwear at

this machine.

i'm looking out the window,

waiting for ice

to melt.

for traffic to die down.

i'm in limbo.

i'm idling,

waiting for the day

to start.

i'll give it another ten

minutes,

then i'll heat up a cup

of joe

to go.

put some clothes on,

shoes.

bundle up

and hit the road.

while sitting in her blue chair

it goes by fast.

my friend Mary, 

at ninety-five

used to pine as she made

us tea

and opened up

a tin of cookies.

she'd say

i still feel like

the twenty-five

year old girl who moved

into the city

during the war.

i met Kenny the next

year.

he worked for the trains

like i did.

it goes by fast,

she says,

sitting in her blue chair

from 

the Hecht company.

left with no choice

like the bee

you swing at with the newspaper,

your hand,

a book,

keeping him

away,

one can only

take some much abuse.

and you

find a way

to fight back,

to land on a tender patch

of skin,

and sting.

you've been left no

choice but to

attack.

ten miles away

my mother,

despite living a mere

ten miles

away,

would often ask

if we were getting snow

now,

or rain.

was it windy there

like it was

where she lived.

is there ice too?

she was glued to

the weather channel.

be careful

it's really coming

down

and the man says it

won't be over

soon.

going along for the ride

i always

wondered why people of

a different faith,

or no faith

at all

put up a Christmas tree

for Christmas.

they nail a wreathe to

the door,

exchange gifts

and hang

stockings

on the mantle.

they string lights around

the house.

They don't believe in

God,

or that Jesus

is the Son of God,

savior of the world,

but they go along

with the festivities just

the same.

why, because it's fun?

the singing, the food,

the opening of presents,

the office party,

the punch bowl

full of rum.

my father who never

stepped inside a church

or prayed,

used to win the neighborhood

Christmas yard decorating

prize

every year.

he called religion a bunch

of malarky, but

there were the three wise men

in his yard, a manger,

the baby Jesus,

Mary and Jospeh,

colored lights

and elves, Santa on his

sleigh and behind him

all those reindeer.

the Christmas list

i pull out my list of

excuses

for not attending the annual

Christmas

party across

the river

where we have to exchange

gifts

and dance,

eat fruit cake.

i go through the list,

unravelling

the old piece of paper

i stuffed into

my wallet.

rain,

traffic,

covid (just recently added)

sprained my ankle

putting the tree up.

the heartbreak

of psoriasis.

my grandmother

died again.

getting married that weekend.

kitchen fire.

water heater

blew up.

there's a squirrel in

the house

and i think it's rabid.

can't find my car keys.