a good snow

we need a good snow,

she says

longingly

starring out the window

at the birds

in the budding tree.

it's still February.

a few feet

would be nice,

wouldn't it?

it would i tell her.

we could build a fire.

we could

shovel and sled,

and dig our way out,

hike

up the block

deep into the woods

until we're exhausted.

we could

have a snowball fight.

a good snow

would be nice.

the weekend marriage

it was nineteen sixty-nine,

and we tried

to check into a motel at the beach

but the woman

wanted to

see our marriage license.

you don't even

have rings, she said

from behind the counter

of the Capri Motel

on Pacific Avenue.

nice try.

we were eighteen.

so we went out and bought rings

at a five

and dime

and put them on,

we tied some tin cans

to the back of the car,

soaped up

the windows

with the words

Just Married.

then we tried the next motel

up the street.

it worked this time.

where's the latch?

i used

to work on my car.

wash and wax,

vacuum it out.

give it new plugs,

a new

oil pump,

water pump, change

the shocks,

the oil.

filters.

set the points.

all on a Saturday under

the big oak

tree, sipping on a cold

beer

with the radio on.

and now,

i'm not sure where

the latch is

to raise the hood.

we endure

as i speak

only one toilet out of four,

seems

to leak.

not bad.

it's been worse.

it's not really

a leak,

but a gasket gone

awry,

its lifetime

of enduring flushes

have ended

apparently

and now the tank has

to keep

refilling itself.

almost on the hour.

i'm used to it though.

i'm used to many things

that used to annoy

me.

part

of the aging process,

i guess.

we endure.

why can't we be friends?

i confuse

the president of the condo board

by waving

to her,

and saying hello.

no one

says hello to her.

most people hate her.

her and

her witchy friends

with their

clipboards

and cameras. theirs list

of things to condemn.

she wants my red door

black.

how dare i paint it without

an approval.

i wave again.

she doesn't wave back.

but snarls.

why can't we be friends?

the senior app

i make

a billion on my new invention.

the senior citizen app.

it finds

your glasses

when they're lost,

or on your head.

tells you what route to take

when walking.

where the steps are.

the steep inclines,

places where you might slip.

it informs you

of sales.

where bread is half price.

eggs.

and prune juice.

freshly squeezed.

it beeps when the milk

goes bad.

it counts your pills,

reads

before you go to sleep.

it tells you what day

it is,

what time.

it turns on the lights

when you get up to pee

for the third time

that night.

it rings with a new message

nearly every other day,

telling you which old friend

has died.

the long haul

as it is with

water

in the pot, there's no

use

in standing there,

watching,

waiting for it to boil.

so it is with

the market.

don't watch.

it's not for the weak,

or poor.

it's for

the long haul.

at least that's what

they tell us.

the orange tree

maybe an orange

tree

will change things.

the bright

globes

of fruit in the yard.

the blossom

of it all.

the color, the anticipation.

from seed

to sprout to tree,

watching

it grow and grow,

all of it, because

of me.

a shoe shine

i feel bad for the shoe shine

man

at the train station.

everyone

is wearing

tennis shoes, or felt loafers,

sandals.

he's used the same

tin of polish 

for six years.

who needs a shine now

a days?

who sits there in his wing

tips,

and reads the paper,

while someone

brushes and polishes

his shoes

before the train arrives?

what's up with that?

so what have we learned

so far,

i ask the therapist

as she looks at her watch

trying to get me

out of there.

there's a crying woman

in the waiting room,

pulling her hair out,

waiting her turn

on the couch.

what have we learned?

she asks.

well. i think you're better

now. maybe a tune up

now and again,

and not our weekly sessions.

you haven't really had

any problems to talk about

in the last two years.

all you do is talk about

your observational takes

on the world. 

doing your thing, like

we're in a Seinfeld episode.

i write her the check,

and stretch my arms over

my head.

have you ever noticed

how pigeons almost prefer

walking around,

than they do flying when

you're in the park?

what's up with that?

before you're cold

you take out your calculator

and figure

out your finances.

how to make them last until death.

although,

death is the wild card.

it could come tomorrow,

or thirty years from

now.

food, mortgage, gas, etc.

that damn

cable bill.

bundled, no less.

you'll buy less clothes when

you're old.

no longer keeping up with

the jones.

eat less perhaps.

oatmeal is relatively cheap.

less trips to nyc on account

of your knees.

no longer binge dating,

or buying flowers

on valentine's day for a stream

of women, most

will have passed.

zero cost for haircuts.

you'll buy less books, because

of vision issues.

you might make it.

breaking even is the goal,

writing the last check to the

undertaker,

before you're cold.

sunny side up

we all have

a good side, a bad side.

when

we pose

for a picture, or when

we expose ourselves

to those we love.

we let our guard down,

we're tired,

frustrated,

and out it comes.

a  good nights sleep

will fix it

though,

tomorrow, once more,

you'll be sunny side

up.

what lasts forever

you feel sometimes,

like no time

has passed.

you're still

a child.

still eighteen, or

thirty.

nothing's changed,

not really.

you're the same boy

your mother

fed,

the same boy

she taught to tie

your shoes,

read to you while

you lay in bed.

you're only different on

the outside,

as it is

for all of us, it's what

lies within

that lasts forever,

it's you still,

in your heart

and head.

she's content now

she remarried

a man with a horse,

and a cow,

a pig.

chickens.

her third time

around.

luck coming in threes,

no doubt.

he owned a small farm

down south.

she put away her dancing

shoes,

her fancy

dress.

her make up kit

and jewels.

she was gathering eggs now,

what a surprise,

that that's what finally

made her content.

at night she ironed his

overalls,

and checkered

shirts, then slept beside

him

until the rooster crowed

at sunrise.

it's not about the pay

the best

job you'll ever have

is the one

that exhausts you.

makes

your bones weary,

your muscles ache.

the kind of job

that makes

you sink into the big

chair 

when you get home,

dropping

into the cushions

before fixing something

to drink

and eat.

the job

that puts you to sleep

at night.

unworried

about the day.

the best job is one that's

about

freedom

and productivity,

sweat.

it's not about the pay.

flying north now

there

are birds flying north.

streaming

in

v formation,

sunglasses on.

the men in little Sinatra

hats,

the women

in floral

dresses. they

tanned and rested.

white shoes,

and white belts.

small

bags in their arms

from shopping

in boutiques

in south beach.

they swoop down,

searching

for their boarded

up nests.

ready

to unpack and color

their eggs

for Easter.

i've made sandwiches

apparently i haven't won

six point five

million dollars

in the publishers sweepstakes.

and yet

the young man

from Jamaica

sounded so sincere.

he gave me two choice

of colors

for my new Mercedes

Benz.

i sent him the gift cards,

only five hundred

dollars to register my claim,

but he hasn't shown

up yet.

and i've made sandwiches

for his entire team.

my addictive nature

i admit

i'm a binger.

be it cookies, or

chips,

candy,

or salted peanuts,

Netflix.

i push the yes

button

with no restraint.

give me more

of what tastes good.

another handful.

please, let's watch

another episode,

i need

another hit

of dopamine,

a spike in my cortisol.

the early exit

there was a time

when

you enjoyed going out,

or over

to another's house,

for drinks and dinner,

small talk

about the world,

the latest movie, or

war,

or political drama

unfolding.

you'd sit and engage,

have it out,

until late in

the evening, or better

when the sun

gave light.

but now.

you arrive and quickly

find a chair

near

the exit sign.

the value of cooperation

it's usually

in a car, or in the edge

of the woods

out of sight,

or on a basement

couch,

where at an early

age

you both discover

the mysteries of buttons

and snaps,

zippers and all

the clasps that hold

our clothes

together.

it's so much easier now,

cooperation

solves all that.

perfection

we give up

early on the idea of

perfection.

most do.

we discover soon

how

there is no such thing,

no perfect

anything.

there is fault in all.

we just

accept life as it is,

or else

go crazy,

and move on.

giving Emily advice

my neighbor,

Emily Dickinson, lives

below me.

maybe you've heard of her.

the spinster

from New England.

at night i hear

her typing

on her manual

typewriter.

the snapping of the keys,

the bell on the carriage

return.

i can smell the candles

that she burns.

sometimes she'll

stop by with a handful

of new poems,

the ones not stuffed beneath

her mattress,

and ask me to critique

them.

she usually leaves

crying, after i've lectured her

and used a red ink pen

to thoroughly

edit her work.

do you have to rhyme

every other line? who are you,

Dr. Suess? Biggy Smalls?

i tell her she has to get

out of the house more

let her hair down.

go dancing, do some shots,

meet some guys.

that bun on top of her

head is so 1860. let it

go, i tell her.

and that dress, geeze

marie, does your grandmother

know you're wearing

the clothes she was

buried in?

she's very sensitive, and

doesn't take criticism too well.

but she's my friend,

my neighbor and we both

love poetry.

although, what she's

writing has no shot at

being published, not yet

at least.

but i'll get her there at some point.

moon river

reluctantly

i get up for my turn

at karaoke,

i choose

Moon River, sung

Andy Williams style.

the crowd boos,

someone throws an onion

ring at me,

which i catch and eat.

someone yells out,

Free Bird,

but i keep singing.

wider than a mile,

i'm crossing you in style,

my huckleberry friend,

etc.

i loved sweet Audrey

in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

a tear

rolls down my cheek,

as i finish up

i catch another onion

ring, this one has a dollop

of ketchup on it.

it's good.

it's all good.

the crowd applauds.

the surprise of the day

even

a small surprise

lifts

your spirits

these days.

it's come to

that,

finding a clean

five

or ten dollar bill

in the dryer.

warm

and crinkled,

how about

that?

the georgetown pub crawl

yes,

we did the pub crawl

back

in the day.

full

of piss and vinegar,

eager

though poor

to make

it through the night,

closing down the last

joint

with singing,

and failed efforts

towards

pretty girls,

who still lived at home.

it was

last call for alcohol.

then somehow driving

back to the burbs

where we all were

from.

the all you can eat cruise

as the boat

sinks, tilting

west

towards Puerto Rico,

we put on our orange

life vests.

they're tighter

than they were

when we set sail

four days ago.

we say

a prayer.

someone starts to sing

as the water

rises above

our knees.

the Mirarchi Band

keeps playing on the lido

deck.

it was a fun cruise

while it

lasted.

i'm still clutching

a chicken leg

and a lobster tail

from the third lunch

of the day.

while others, are heavily

drinking.

the best back scratcher ever

she may be

the best back scratcher

i've ever met in my life.

she has slender

hands and long fingers,

but

despite her

short, but well manicured

nails.

they are perfect

for scratching.

two hands or one.

she doesn't stick with one

small area,

going around and around

mindlessly

in one spot, no,

she's all over the place,

shoulders,

down the spine,

the sides,

and gently into the southern

regions,

which tickles

a little, but i don't mind.

she listens, when i tell her

harder,

deeper, right there, right there.

ahhhhh.

there it is.

thank you, thank you,

my dear.

you're scratching is sublime.

Sundays

what other

things are there to do

today

that haven't already been done.

the clothes are 

washed,

and dried, folded, waiting

in the basket.

to be carried up.

the dog is walked.

the bills

taken care of.

a frozen steak defrosts

on the counter.

i've swept the floor.

made the bed.

i've taken a walk and

read the paper.

the leaves are raked

and bagged in the back yard.

i've made all of my Sunday

calls.

perhaps a nap

to top things off.

don't leave

i spend the morning

chopping

carrots,

and potatoes. onions.

the onions bring

tears to my

eyes, despite

you thinking it's about

something else,

or even you.

i boil water.

i add garlic, pepper

and salt.

meat.

we'll eat later, in

four hours.

i'll call you when it's

ready. trust me on

this.

and everything else.

don't leave.

black ink

i forgive

the ink pen, it's black

drip

against my hands,

onto my

clean white shirt.

i forgive

its need to bleed.

i completely understand.

nothing last

forever.

neither you, or me.

when is your birthday

he forgets

my birthday, but it's fine.

half

the time, i don't remember

it either.

i need no

cake, no card,

no dinner out, or wine.

another year

goes by.

and we're all still here.

relax.

more than enough

celebrations

have gone by.

the next season

there's always

a new

bud,

a new blossom, a new

seed

sprouting green

from

the ground,

or tree.

despite how many

die,

or fall,

there is always someone

new arriving,

coming along.

we should talk about something else

it's the wrong

subject

to discuss over dinner,

but so it goes.

she's pro abortion,

she does the marches and all

that. she wears

a t-shirt with a line

through

an egg.

i straddle

the fence, claiming

there's

a life growing in there,

and it's more

complicated

than one realizes.

she says,

what about capital

punishment.

are you for that?

yes, i say,

if someone murdered

my family

or your family, i'd

want them to die, though

i couldn't pull the switch.

i couldn't kill a chicken

even if i was starving.

but the baby inside

your womb

hasn't killed anyone,

yet.

in fact, there are more

laws

protecting bird's eggs,

than there are

protecting

human embryos.

it's not a baby, she says.

it's a bunch of cells wriggling

around.

a bunch of cells?

at this point she slams

her hand

on the table, and gets

up to leave.

don't tell me, you stupid man,

what i can or cannot do

with my body.

i'm not i tell her, relax, sit

back down.

i think at our age we don't

have to worry about this issue.

come on, sit. sit.

oh, we're done here

mister.

we're done. i'm leaving.

she grabs her purse,

her coat

and her picket signs

and starts for the door.

hey, hey, 

aren't you coming back

to my place?

i'm not an animal

i drop

a fork on the floor.

i stare

at it for a moment,

and shrug.

i give it a quick

wipe on my sleeve.

i guess it's okay,

i won't die if i eat

with it.

but if someone was here,

of course

i'd get a clean one

from the drawer.

i'm not an animal

for God's sake.

two men running

i see

a man being chased

down

the street

by another man.

he's yelling, stop him,

stop him.

i step aside

and let them pass.

i prefer

not to be involved

in other's problems.

i've had

enough drama

for one

life.

sleep on it

don't close

the door, just yet.

there's still time.

still a shot in the dark,

a fleeting chance

that things could work

out between us,

despite no love

or affection.

sleep on it, she says.

no, i tell her.

it's too late.

in fact,

you owe me sleep.

three pairs of skivvies

i see her

in the bathroom

washing

her underwear in the sink.

scrubbing madly

with a bar of ivory

soap.

you can use

the washing machine,

i tell her,

poking my head

in the door.

maybe the gentle cycle,

cold water?

i don't trust the washer,

she says.

these are my only three

pairs

of underwear,

and they were

a special gift from

someone

i still love

and would have

married

if he ever left his

beautiful wife.

i can't risk losing them

in your washing

machine.

do you understand?

Umm, no,

not really.

but i'll be downstairs

getting your meds

ready.

finding Ginger

i find

a few roots of ginger

in the

crisper

at the bottom of the

fridge.

strange.

very strange.

i haven't cooked with

ginger

in like,

never.

whose ginger is this?

what do i

do with it.

smells good, even

now.

where's my cook

book

i feel Chinese food

coming on.

where to go

that the news

is terrible

is no news, it's the same

old story

each day.

there's blood

everywhere,

so you look for another

place to live.

a new country

to call home.

you stare at the map

and wonder.

maybe France,

Italy,

Iceland.

you still have time

to learn

a new language

and pack.

surprises

few things in life

are what

you imagined them to be.

most

is a surprise.

for better or worse,

nothing is exactly

what you

thought they'd be.

take you and me,

for instance.

waiting on the free ride

close to nothing,

not penniless,

but

close to it.

barely scraping by,

careful

with heat,

the ac,

cutting coupons

at the table,

sewing a tear in

an old coat,

watching the clock

as time

slips by.

maybe a better job

tomorrow,

a wife, a child,

a better place to

reside.

maybe your 

luck will change.

God will say enough

and give

you a free ride.

stormy days

inclement weather

is

fine

by me.

the drama

of a storm is welcome,

as long

as no one drowns

or is injured.

bring on

the wind, the rain,

the hail.

let the heavens

entertain us

with dark skies and

wonder.

put a show on

before

the next sun prevails.

seemed like a fun idea

we take a trip

to the Grande canyon

in our new Winnebago

because

that's what retired people do.

we take a lot of pictures

to send to friends,

then to Yellowstone

and the Red Wood Forest

to see the big trees.

then to Minnesota

to shop at the biggest

mall in the world.

we spend six weeks driving

around America.

sleeping, eating, using

the tiny bathroom in

our mobile home.

in time though, it all wears

thin and we start to hate

each other, so we drive

back home,

saying nothing for 

a thousand miles,

then we get on the phone

pleading to our

bosses to get our jobs back.

two hundred dollar ripped jeans

when i saw

her in ripped jeans,

not from wear and tear,

but because they came that way,

i knew

she was trouble.

a sixty year

old woman wearing

a thirteen year old's

clothes.

the mind did follow.

cherry picking Father

in an effort

to eat better, to have

more nutritious

food

in my cupboard

and fridge,

i take the sacks

of white

flour, almond flour,

sugars

and syrups up to

the local church.

gum drops

and licorice,

seed oils,

boxes of cereal,

bread

and cookies, crackers,

bags of chips.

Father Smith is there

to greet me,

at the donation box,

where he proceeds

to bend over in

his Orson Wells styled

robe,

and cherry pick.

we're almost there

who hasn't limped,

walked

slowly

because of an injury,

or worse.

an arthritic

pain.

who hasn't grabbed

the rail,

steadied

themselves

on the shoulders

of others,

taken a helping

hand

to climb the stairs.

who

won't be old?

many people, but

not us,

we're almost there.

her sorrow bone

occasionally

i'll get

a note,

a text, a comment

on a poem

that 

strikes a nerve

in her heart.

tickles her

sorrow

bone.

the words

trigger her to respond

in an unhappy

way.

fear not dear girl,

there's more

to come.

soft shell crabs

i think i saw it move,

i tell her,

staring at my plate.

crowded with

a soft

shell crab on

a pillowy roll

with fries

bunched around,

slaw on the side.

i think it twitched

it's claw.

the big claw, not those

scrawny little claws.

it jiggled a little,

opened up,

like it was reaching out

to me for help.

i hear a crunch

and look at her.

oh, just take a bite,

and quit whining like

a little girl,

she says,

wiping

crab juice off her chin.

the shard

of a shell stuck

between her teeth.

the Achille's heel

oh, i suppose, 

we could

do that, i tell her.

sure.

why not.

let's do it.

full steam ahead.

this makes

her happy

and me nervous

as i stare at her

standing in the doorway,

dressed to kill.

i'm easily persuaded

by the suggestions

of an attractive

woman.

my Achille's heel.

is, in fact,

the stiletto heel.

see you in May

she would have laughed

at the fact

the ground was too hard,

too frozen

for the shovels

to dig her

grave.

it was early January.

they put her on ice

until spring.

stored her away

neatly,

in a cold morgue

in Maine.

she would have roared

at that,

rolled her eyes

and said, oh well.

oh my.

see you in May.

hello, goodbye

i never

met so many nice people

i never

wanted to see

again

when doing the binge

dating

online.

wonderful people.

smart,

attractive,

full of life.

well dressed and on

time,

but something was missing.

for them too.

it was a mutual

parting of ways

after one meeting

of drinks and small

talk.

small plates of food.

then

a final hug, or shaking

of hands,

a wave goodbye.

two steps at a time

where once

you bounded up

two steps at a time

on a flight stairs,

leaping

over puddles in the road,

flinging

yourself over fences,

for no reason

but to get

to the other side,

you climbed trees

for the fun of it,

your head in the clouds.

well,

it's different now.

you find the rail and

go slow.

you take your time.

finally,

you're allowed.

Pond's Cold Cream

even after having seven

children

and two

miscarriages,

and enduring

an abusive husband,

and subsequent divorce,

not to mention

excommunication

from the church

because of it,

my mother never gave up.

she had a thing

for Pond's

cold cream.

each night

she'd be lying there

with two circular slices

of cucumbers covering

her eyes,

and her face covered

in a slick 

layer of creamy white.

she was very optimistic.

may she rest in peace

if i had a dollar

for every time she lied

to me,

or cheated,

or betrayed,

or gaslighted me,

or, or....

the list is too long

to type,

just buy the book

Psychopath Free

to catch the full drift

of what i mean.

but, if i did have

a dollar for

such things,

i'd have about

a million dollars

and some change.

but who's counting.

the bank is closed.

new locks are on the door.

and there's security

cameras pointing in

all directions.

may she rest in peace

in whoever's bed she

ends up in.

separate entrances

nearly half

of the separated

women

in the neighborhood

have their husbands

still living in the basement.

it's a trend,

a thing these days.

no one can afford to get

divorced.

lawyers, of course.

it's all about health insurance,

kids and dogs.

all the things that

tie us together.

financial strings.

love is over, but they

share the kitchen and

the laundry room.

they split a pizza

when a show is on.

does this look infected?

take a look at this,

she says,

holding her arm up,

showing me

an angry

red sore, oozing

with some sort

gelatinous

goo.

does this look infected

to you?

i rear back my head

and tell her,

too close, too close,

pushing her arm

away from me.

sit tight and don't move

an inch, i tell her.

let me get my medical

bag

and rubber gloves.

don't scratch it.

on the dole

i can't

remember ever borrowing

money

except

from the bank of course,

to purchase

a car

or house, but that's about

it.

i try to pay cash

for whatever it is i  might

need, or wish

to buy for

someone else.

i don't recall ever

asking

my mother or father for

a loan

of any kind.

a hand out of sorts to get

me through

the day.

although they often did

of me.

the neighborhood book club

bored,

because football

season is over,

i join the neighborhood

book club

that meets on

Saturday nights.

it's mostly women

who also belong to the

gardening

meetup, the survival

after divorce meetup,

and the weight watchers

club,

the book we

are supposed to read

for next weeks

gathering,

is the autobiography

of Gwenyth Paltrow.

i want to shoot

myself in the head, 

but don't.

i grab a handful of sugar

cookies off the table,

that Becky made, and

a cup of coffee, 

which i carefully

splash with a healthy dose

of Bailey's Irish Cream

and listen

to the discussion of last

week's book.

it was written after the movie

was made.

Love Actually.

who wants to start us off,

Becky says.

wait for me

it's a tough decision,

but i give up

coffee for Lent.

i start to shake, tremble.

i have a headache

and it's only been

three hours

since Father Smith

swiped my

forehead with

black ash.

i stare at my coffee

machine,

i put my hand on it

and whisper. i'll be back,

don't worry.

wait for me.

we can do this.

i want my money back

i see his college

degree

on the wall, behind glass,

framed in

black.

it's above the poster

of Elvis Costello

and the Attractions.

he tells me,

at thirty-five,

that he doesn't want to

work.

never has, in fact.

i don't want to work for

money, he says.

he's artistic, an actor,

an ecology crusader,

a do gooder.

i want to be passionate

about what i do for a living,

he says.

then his girlfriend comes

home

from work,

at the same time his

mother

is coming in the door

with a home cooked

meal.

i want my two hundred

thousand

dollars back.

salisbury steak and applesauce

i often

respond to random

text messages with, 

who is this.?

forgetting

to enter them

into my contact list.

it's your mother,

the response back is,

call me.

dinner at six,

this Sunday.

why don't you ever visit.

i haven't seen you

since last week.

don't bring your dog, or

your new wife.

i don't like her.

i hope you like Salisbury

steak,

because that's what

we're having,

and applesauce.

there's been a recall

are they making things

too fast,

are the workers too careless

as their

nimble finger

attach,

metal onto metal,

welding,

stringing wire

onto plastic gizmos

and what not.

please return this

immediately, the email says.

your air fryer, your toaster,

your micro wave

oven may

catch fire and kill you.

there's been a recall.

unplug it all ,or die

a horrible death.

three days in Puerto Rico

it's a large

purple envelope, full of

hard

paper, a soft flowery

insert,

another

envelope, information

as to where

and when,

the date, that sort of thing.

it all smells like

jasmine.

you are invited

with a guest of your choosing

to attend

the wedding

of so and so.

please come and celebrate,

spend three

days with us

in Puerto Rico.

i've had this talk with him,

so many times,

but he didn't listen.

women fall for it

men, by nature,

instinctively are always

trying to prove

to women

that they can provide,

they can protect.

that they are virile.

that's what all the muscles

are about,

the cars,

and houses,

the excess.

and women, primitive

too,

fall for it.

must love dogs

you should get a dog,

she says

to me,

petting her dog, picking

fleas out of

it's floppy ears.

she's holding the leash,

as the dog

lies down

in the sun.

really, she says again.

you should get a dog.

i see the plastic

baggies in her pocket

and one filled

gripped in her hand.

then there's the small white

bag from the vet

holding heart worm

pills, and other assorted

meds

to heal the dog of an

intestinal infection it picked

up after eating

a dead bird.

i love my dog, she says.

we go everywhere together,

she loves the car.

the dog looks up to her

with big brown eyes,

and stands, tugging at the leash,

misinterpreting what was

said.

no, sweetie, not yet.

not yet.

really, she says.

you should think about getting

a dog.

rocky road on a sugar cone, please

there is so much we don't

know

about

nearly everything.

take ice cream for example.

i know

the sugar cone,

the cake cone,

and the cup.

two scoops or one,

or the exorbitant piling

on of three.

i know the flavors.

i see the big buckets

that lie

under the glass,

kept cold, but not frozen.

but that's it.

that's all i got.

i have no clue as to

how to make it, how

much sugar to pour in,

how much

cream.

what to add?

nuts, fruit, candy?

i won't be opening up an

ice cream store

very soon, but

i will visit on occasion.

then the spoon, stir, stir

there are times

when you want to leap out of your

body,

and be someone

else.

leave your mind,

take on another way

of thinking.

you're tired of the same old

you,

the same thoughts,

the same habits,

the same desires.

always with the cream

and two sugars,

then the spoon,

stir, stir.

good people to know

there are planners.

list

makers,

organizers. there are

people

who put

the world in motion,

they know

when the train

arrives,

when it leaves.

they have the tickets,

the stubs,

the 

itinerary.

they know where

to eat,

making reservations,

they know which

streets to take,

which

room to fall asleep in.

there are people

who

grease the wheels

to keep

them rolling.

they're good people

to know

when you travel.

the long hot shower

as soon as i get

home,

i try to wash the grime

of New York off me.

the streets,

the restaurants, the train.

the chaos and noise.

it's in my coat,

beneath my shoes,

under my skin.

i smell

food, and garbage,

stale wine and 

puddled rain.

i feel the wind

off the Hudson.

the fatigue from standing

in lines.

swaying back

and forth

in careening taxis.

it was fun, exhausting,

expensive.

it's good to be home

again.

more bad advice

she bites her lip.

she wants to tell me something,

but doesn't

want to hurt my

feelings, she knows how

sensitive i am.

what is it? i ask.

go ahead and spit it out.

well,

she says, softly.

it's your writing, your

so called poetry.

it can be dark and maudlin

at times.

aren't you ever happy,

ever content?

you seem to dwell on the past

a lot.

i think you need to take

a break, and

refresh your thoughts.

i'm starving, i tell her.

have you had lunch yet?

blow the whistle and let's go

i get on the wrong train.

but it's okay.

i'm tired

of heading in the same

direction.

time for a change.

it's not a mistake,

it's fate,

i tell myself,

destiny, that sort of thing.

the conductor comes

down to take my

ticket.

he tells me, you're

on the wrong train mister.

i smile, and tell him, i

know, i know.

it's okay.

blow the whistle

and let's go.

the window is closing

in a way,

i guess i understand why

young people

don't want to work.

who wants to flip burgers

for a living,

or mop halls,

or paint,

or tack on a new roof.

why sweat

when the checks

keep coming in, when

mommy and daddy

still love and adore you.

showering you

with gifts.

yes, at 35, the window

is closing,

but not yet.

ladling soup

you need

a hobby, the therapist told me,

in an effort

to wash that

woman out of my

hair. (it was a long time ago)

you need

to travel more,

maybe start a vegetable

garden.

what do you

think about joining the peace corps?

you need to

volunteer to take

your mind off yourself

and past relationships

gone awry.

how are you with ladling

soup?

helping others

will help you.

i'm writing all of this down

as she talks,

knowing i'll never do

any of what she's suggesting,

but it looks

like i'm onboard.

virginia slims

if one

or two people get ill,

or God

forbid die by eating

a rancid

jalapeno, the government

closes down

the farm

industry until they

get to the bottom

of it.

they have our best

interest

at heart, they claim,

and yet,

six hundred thousand

people a year

in this country alone

die from

cigarette smoking.

cancer,

heart disease,

emphysema, etc.

it's insane.

those were the days

thumb weary

i go back and correct 

the auto-correct

that has made a mess

of everything

that i wanted to say.

my words have

been hacked,

distorted,

gone awry, by

not mine, but someone

else's mind.

i remember

fondly talking on

the phone, or better

yet, in person.

oh, those were 

the days.

the book in all of us

it's been said

that we all have at least one

book in us.

i believe

that to be true.

though not

all are well written,

or worth

reading.

not all lives

are of interest,

but despite that,

the shelves are quite

full.

even those

even

the most wise,

the most intelligent of souls,

the most

learned

and experienced,

the most spiritual

still

fear, they too

are unsure

about nearly everything.

there is insecurity

in all of us.

it keeps

us on our toes,

saves

us. let's hope.

everyone was darling

she called

everyone darling.

she was like that.

her cigarette held

high,

to the side of her

face,

as she blew smoke,

blue

and fluid

from her parted lips,

be a darling, she'd say,

go on, do this,

do that,.

and so you did.

shadow and light

there

is, in both,

shadow

and light

an island of peace

and joy,

comfort.

if not for the wind,

you'd be happy

enough

to go on like this

through life.

but it's the wind,

the changes,

the unseen

upheavals,

that keep you

close, but unable

to cross

the finish line.

we're not done yet

i hear

nothing from the neighbors

on either side.

not a peep from

their children

or dogs either.

i wonder

if they hear me.

my morning cough.

my flushing

of the toilet.

my off key singing

in the shower

and out.

why are they so quiet?

can they hear

my music,

my television.

my lover crying out

in the midnight hour,

hey,

we're not done yet.

the girlfriends

i always had

girlfriends who dressed

nice,

and looked nice,

but they had no money.

they drove beat up cars,

or took the subway,

or bus

and lived in a three

floor walk

up in the city.

all their furniture

wobbled

beneath fancy

colorful sheets

cut to size

from their mother's

closet.

there was always

a window stuck,

a lightbulb to be

changed,

a smoke alarm

going off, or mouse

that had to be caught.

and most knew only

how to cook salmon

and make

a salad.

but they were fun.

full of life.

they were great

dancers. lovers. but

they knew as i knew,

that it was all temporary,

we'd both move on

at some point

when another bus 

would arrive.

they come around eventually

everyone

you haven't heard from in ages,

at some

point

come around.

they always do.

it's human nature to return

to the tribe.

we don't want to die

alone,

to live alone.

we need others, before

and perhaps after

we leave

to the other side.

we'll see.

soon enough, soon enough.

can i get you something

everyone

wants to get you water,

or coffee,

or tea.

they say, can i get you something

while you wait.

you smile

and say no,

but a winning

lottery ticket

would be nice, or a neck

massage.

lower

please.

somehow it all worked

as my father

approaches ninety-five,

his latest

girlfriend

at his side, you begin

to wonder.

maybe whiskey

was the way to go,

cigarettes,

and a life in the navy,

full of bars

and fights,

and women of the night.

women

of the day.

etc.

always basking himself

in the weakest

of sunlight.

face up.

maybe all those pills,

vitamins

and creams he'll leave

behind actually

worked.

or maybe it was luck,

or genes,

or something beyond

our understanding.

he's on the phone now,

he's run

out of baby oil

and Cialis.

yes, there were mice

of course

there were mice.

you could look at him

and almost

expect one

to jump out of his beard.

his flannel

shirt

and pajama pants,

hanging loose

on bones,

paled to a scaley pink.

glasses

on his nose,

his a hair a bush

not unlike

a tribesman in 

the outback.

was he somewhere

still inside all of this.

who's to know, but yes,

there were mice,

a lot of mice.

Be Mine

the cabinets

over

the fridge,

nearly unreachable,

have nothing in them

that i know of.

i haven't looked into them

in twenty years.

i should look someday,

get a stool,

or step ladder,

and see what someone

may have left behind,

maybe some 

treasure, some hidden

cash or jewelry,

an old bottle of Vermouth,

or maybe a valentine candy

that reads,

Be Mine.

the age of heroes

we are living in the age

of heroes.

it used to be that if you saved

a life,

in war,

or peace, well

then, you were deemed

a hero.

if you showed a great amount

of courage

in extremely 

dangerous situations,

you were carried around

on the crowd's shoulders.

you got applause

and perhaps a medal.

but now.

if you pick up trash on

the road,

or put out a fire, or

walk the beat for a hundred

years,

you're a hero.

doctors are heroes.

teachers are heroes.

politicians.

basketball players, etc. 

all heroes and role models

to be looked up to,

at least until truth

rears its ugly head.

being pro-active

it's cold,

i feel a breeze.

so i take action.

like the young folk do.

i'm pro-active

and do 

something about it.

i unfold my legs,

put the book down,

i set my

cup of tea on the side

table,

and brush the crumbs off

my sleeve,

then i get up

and go over to the window

to close it.

selective disspointments

i select my

disappointments carefully

these days.

in people especially.

i've earned the right

with this current

age i've landed on.

i'm saving

my angst for

larger issues,

like

lack of Wi-Fi,

or coffee

in walking distance.

no heavy cream

again,

has a tendency to set

me off, 

but i'm working on it

through the use of yoga

and transcendental

meditation.

i'm somewhere between

live and let live,

and go away.

i'm sort of done with

world problems,

war,

and pestilence,

catastrophes of Biblical

proportions,

and what not.

breaking in the new mattress

the car

in front of me,

with stickers on

the bumper,

save the whales,

coexist,

Yellowstone Park,

eat kale,

is a small car.

a Prius perhaps.

a democrat

i'm sure.

on the roof is

a wobbly mattress.

loosely held by twine.

the woman,

has her arm out the window

trying to

steady it.

the man at the wheel

is doing the same

from his side.

it's windy.

it's cold.

but there's a sale on.

i wonder

if they'll ever 

make it home, and if

they do,

will either of them

be in the mood to break

it in.

doubtful.

you need to floss more

the dental

hygienist is new.

they're always new here.

she begins with x-rays,

eighteen of them, nearly

one for each tooth.

she's very plump

and fun,

blue rubber gloves

on her thick hands.

she's everywhere at

once.

i hear the whirr as she

escapes the room,

the button pushed for

a picture,

and at last she says one

more, open wide

setting a contraption

invented by Marquis de Sade

inside.

then there's scraping,

polishing,

shining a blue light

onto my tongue,

my gums.

she's asking questions

about my day,

what i had for breakfast,

but i can't answer them,

because half her hand

is in my mouth, my

tongue trapped

by her thumb.

there's no one home

i forget that it's a holiday.

President's Day,

and go to the bank, the drive-

thru,

to make a deposit

and pour some change

into the machine

inside.

but it's closed.

i put my face up to the glass.

looking about, but

no one is home.

no teller

at the counter,

no serious man at his desk.

there's a certain sadness

with no one there

to answer the door

and let you in. i've lived

in places like this.

she was different that way

she was different

that way,

making breakfast for dinner.

turkey

in July,

a Christmas tree

in the corner all year,

with ornaments

and lights.

she was different that way.

waiting to get out

of the shower

to sing,

saying hello, when she

meant goodbye.

she was different that way,

so really

it was no surprise when

she leaped off

the George Washington

bridge, not

the Brooklyn Bridge,

to take her life.

the museums

there's a museum

for nearly everything under

this far

away sun.

name it

and they've place it under

glass, steadied it behind

velvet ropes,

hung on walls, or displayed

with its history

down long

marbled halls.

name it.

and there it is.

a museum for sex.

for art,

for machines,

for food, for postage stamps.

for death,

for God.

for what's come before

us,

and what will soon

be gone, 

for things not yet seen.

central park

under

this same sky. this same

half

sun,

peeking out,

waiting

for July, we sit and watch

what comes

up the path,

who passes

us by.

what woods are these

we come upon,

this not quite

green

surprise?

the lake is full of ducks,

despite

the calendar.

we've walked

far enough

in this city.

let's rest here for a while.

no rush.

all is rust

there shouldn't be,

but there is.

a light shock at illness

of someone

younger

than you.

all is rust, all of us

decay.

it's inevitable

this death

that waits, and yet

and yet

and yet,

we hope with friends,

and self

that it is delayed.

stretch pants

is there any wonder

why the world

has grown

fat?

why we've accepted

stretch

pants and tent tops

as our

daily dress.

what temptations

aren't out

there

on every block?

cake

and ice cream.

bread

and sugar.

pizza and orange

marmalade.

are you hungry again,

let's stop.

let's fill up again

and again.

it's a whole other block

before a light

beckons us in.

these pants will stretch,

hand me

another pretzel,

another soda,

another wand of cotton

candy,

another pork chop.

the scrolls

i prefer

a stamp, an envelope.

a pen

and paper.

i'd be the first to 

agree

that papyrus must stay.

we shouldn't

change

anything,

let's write it all down

and put

it in a drawer,

or tuck it safely

away in a cave.

the long slow crawl home

as the train

leaves in a slow rumble

through

the tunnel

beneath

the city, your eyes adjust

to the light

as it slithers

into Newark,

the wastelands

along the jersey pike,

Philadelphia, stacked

in bricks,

into Delaware,

across cold

blue water, 

along side all the places

you'll never

visit on foot.

nothing good seems to

grow

near the bands of

steel tracks.

abandoned warehouses,

rusted signs

of another age.

who lives these lives?

into Wilmington,

to Baltimore,

it's getting dark out,

and finally, a slow

crawl

to Washington, home

at last.

things change

it's not

the same as it used to be.

but what

is?

what holds the first blush

of love,

the first beat

of heart

after the first kiss.

the city has changed,

more grey,

more tired and dirty, more

less

of everything

important

that brought you here

in the first place.

you

pick your memories

with care now,

stepping carefully

around each corner

with eyes

wide open.

no nighthawk or chop suey

is it just me,

or does Mr. and Mrs. Hopper

seem

like a gloomy couple

up there in

their four story walk up Brooklyn

apartment.

just a feeling i get,

as we stroll around the Whitney,

taking snapshots

of his paintings.

faces looking in,

faces looking out a window

at barren landscapes,

and bland buildings.

the exhibit spans most

of his life

in five white walled rooms

full of on lookers.

dark rimmed

glasses on the tips of their noses,

studying,

examining the strokes,

questioning

the meaning of it all, or lack

thereof.

it's an education, a glimmer

of what can

be done with a talented mind

and hand

attached.

we linger, we stroll. we gaze

and chat it up

about the browns and olive

greens,

the greys, the smile less faces,

as if the apocalypse

had taken place.

we wonder where should we

should eat lunch

today.

sleep can wait

i manage to get

the two

pound slice of 14

layer chocolate

birthday cake all the way

home in

my suitcase.

still intact, wrapped

in foil.

it survives

a ten block walk from

the hotel,

a cab ride,

up a staircase

an elevator

and down an escalator,

where we wait

with our luggage,

me guarding the cake.

then onboard

the train

at Penn Station

for a three hour trip

to Union Station.

the uber ride

home is another hour.

but i make it.

it's dark, it's late. i'm tired.

but then there's

cake to eat and the milk is cold.

i open up

my suitcase, there it is.

sleep can wait.

what's your body count

i ask the cab

driver how many people does

he kill

each year speeding up

Broadway,

running red

lights to get to the next fare.

this makes him laugh

and spit

his kebob

out onto the windshield,

he starts to choke,

but manages to clear his throat

as he wipes the glass

with the sleeve of his shirt.

you funny, he says,

twisting the rear mirror

to look at me.

all of it for keeps

as the skaters

slide

and glide along the white

sheet

of the frozen

pond.

you see the glee of youth,

the speed

and agility,

the joy framed

with

appled cheeks.

but it's the old ones,

hand in hand

slowly circling,

together

that gets your attention

the grace

of age,

the beauty in love

and friendship.

hand in hand skating.

all of it for

keeps.

the best in town

there is a strange

desire

to be the best.

you read the signs

along the way,

on the back of buses

and taxis.

the best hamburger in

the city.

the tallest building

with the best view.

the oldest bar,

the best bagels

in Manhattan.

the original slice

of pizza.

the best show in town.

the best

music.

the best carriage ride

through the park.

the best pretzel in times square.

no one wants to be

second, or third

best.

why bother with that

when you

can have the best.

go it alone

keep it to yourself,

the old man

told me.

don't be so open

about your troubles.

relationships

and work.

people will define you

by what comes

out of your mouth.

be quiet, silent

if you have to.

no need to share so much.

they will only

confuse you with opinion

and their own

tales of woe.

there is wisdom

in silence.

go it alone.

vincent

troubled,

he was, brilliant too,

painting

landscapes and haystacks

in his muddled

but effective way.

but the ear thing,

cutting it off for unrequited

love, that threw

me for a loop.

i've been heart broken before,

but not like that.

i never once thought

to grab a knife

and hack something off.

i just moved on,

got my rolodex out

and started

calling, starting with

the A's first.

end of life insurance

at least ten times

a day

someone calls me to ask

if i'd like

end of life insurance.

i look out the window

to see if anyone is in the trees,

spying on me.

how do they know these things?

but they are very nice,

maybe Indian,

or from Pakistan,

somewhere

in a foreign land.

they verify my age,

my height and weight,

do i smoke,

or have any heart disease,

diabetes,

cancer or any disabilities.

what medications do i take.

do i live in a nursing home,

do i make my

own decisions about

health, etc.

do i have a beneficiary,

and finally, at last,

do i have a valid credit

card, or a checking

account number

and do i want to be

cremated or buried,

to which i reply,

half and half, which is when

they hang up.

turning over the pillow

i see the imprint

of her face

on my pillow.

lipstick, mascara,

blush,

and a variety of other

types

of make up.

it's the exact image

of her face,

eyes, lips,

cheeks, etc.,

but pressed against

my white pillow case.

quickly

i turn it over to the clean

side and wonder 

what she really

looks like.

how long is jello good for

i look

at the graveyard

in the fridge.

half dishes of what not.

things i cooked

but can't remember

what they are.

meat, vegetables.

a failed

attempt at chicken soup.

some are covered

in foil, or plastic but

the whole place

looks like the side

of mt. everest.

littered with bodies.

how long

is jello good for?

the kind with fruit

cocktail

inside?

a little dust up with Milagro

i tell the maid

that i'll be out of town for

a week.

this angers her.

she writes that she has a strict

schedule

to keep,

that i can't just move

people around

willy nilly.

she didn't use the phrase

willy nilly,

i added that on.

you were sick last month,

she goes on

to say.

and i had to rearrange my

schedule for you.

i have you down in my

book

for the 15th.

but the house will be locked

up,

i tell her.

i won't be here.

aiyee caramba, she says.

to which i reply.

see you in four weeks.

a woman jumping out of a cake, please

what would you like

for your birthday, she asks me,

hoping i'll say nothing,

that as usual i'll pretend

that i want to ignore 

that yearly marking stone.

let me think, i tell her,

which makes her jaw drop

a look of worry

comes over her face.

hmmm.

i think i'd like a woman

to jump out of a cake

for me.

someone like Marilyn

Monroe, in a red bikini,

but a chocolate

cake, not vanilla.

knitting is the devil's workshop

i don't trust women

who knit,

or cross stitch, who sit

all day

in a chair with balls of yarn,

or stitching

a meme

on a round thingamajig

like

must love dogs.

women have

too much time to think

when they're knitting,

sitting around all

day alone or with

a few friends.

it can only be bad for you,

as they add up all

your faults and mistakes.

they have too much time

to figure you out,

and make a plan as to

what to do with you.

gone fishing

i tack up

the sign on the front door

that reads,

gone fishing,

will return in a week.

leave all

packages around back.

but i'm not

going fishing, in fact

i haven't fished

since i discovered

that Safeway sells fish.

you can get it

in the back of the store

on ice.

Jimmy, the fish monger

will wrap you up

a slab of catfish,

or turbo

in brown paper.

no need to fish anymore,

but maybe

i can get some in new york

while i'm up there

if i'm not stuffed with

hot pastrami

from Katz's deli.

what's up with pigeons?

what is it

with pigeons, too smug

for their

own good,

fat and bold,

dressed

in their grey jackets

with flecks

of colors.

always walking about,

strutting,

if you want the truth,

rarely

flying.

look at me, they say

to the other birds.

i'm walking

here.

i'm not scared of anything.

i'm a pigeon.

the bread

they toss around

is mine.

mr. fancy pants

he had

money, houses, cars,

he had

the women

flown

in

on his jet.

he had

the pool in the backyard.

he had

a sunken tub,

a vacation

home

in the south of France.

he had fancy

clothes,

expensive shoes,

fancy pants.

he had

a barber, a masseuse,

an investment

plan.

a gardener

who doubled as

a chef.

he had a Rolex on his wrist,

and

a diamond in his ear,

but he never had

a wallet, or a dollar

in his pocket

when you went out

for coffee,

or a beer.

the chaff and wheat

in an effort

to spring clean.

i go through a few hundred

old poetic

entries, though

many are hardly poems,

and i sift through

the emotional

debris, the dark

and vindictive ones.

i permanently delete

the worst

of them,

swinging the sickle

in wide

long swings 

to separate the chaff

from the wheat.

falling off the angelic wagon

you go on

a long stretch of being nice,

kind

and compassionate,

like your mother 

and church taught you,

never saying

a bad word about anyone,

though they

might deserve it,

you turn

the other cheek,

you ignore

slights,

and insults.

you are a duck and 

the world 

you live in is

all water rolling

off your back,

but then you slip up,

you unexpectedly snap.

you have a bad day,

a bad moment.

a curse slips from

your lips,

a thought, dark, and

almost evil

clouds your mind.

you've fallen off

the angelic wagon

once more.

a few dollars more

it's a long

drive

for a small amount

of cash.

Rockville.

down the pike,

of all places.

an hour, maybe

more depending on

traffic.

it's work though.

some

structured form of life.

left overs

i google

how long can a pot of cooked

meat,

boneless short

ribs,

last while

it sits out

overnight on the counter.

it's a lot of meat,

so it's worth

the investigation.

but my gut

says no.

go with the scrambled

eggs

when you get home.

the blurred last years

before my

mother took her last breath,

having fallen

into a coma,

the sisters

cleaned her

out.

took her glasses,

her rosary,

her good China.

yanked the rings

off her finger,

her watch

from her wrist.

then she woke up,

but they couldn't

take her home

again, because everything

of value

was gone.

six years later,

she died.

still asking for her glasses.

damn monkeys

at night,

when she lived across the street

from the zoo,

the lions

would wake me up,

if i wasn't awake

already

because of her ancient

radiator

thumping

and dripping, reluctant

in giving heat.

i can still hear

those lions, though,

years

later. their muffled

roars,

the growl of their

discontent,

and the monkeys too.

damn monkeys.

the brevity of February

February

is not my favorite month

by any stretch

of the imagination,

what with all the snow,

the cold,

the birthdays,

valentine's day.

work is slow.

i've been married

in this month,

divorced.

fired from jobs,

and been lost, stuck in a storm.

the power is prone

to go out

during this month.

pipes break.

thankfully it's a short

month.

it doesn't have the full

assortment

of days like the others do.

that's the only

thing i like about the month

of February.

its brevity.

what does he want?

there's

a man

outside the house.

all day long.

he's wearing a dark suit

and an old

hat.

i think they call it

a fedora.

he's neatly dressed.

a white

shirt, a dark tie.

his black

shoes have been shined.

i see him looking at

his watch,

which makes me

look at mine.

i wave to him from

the kitchen

window.

he raises his hand

in response.

i really don't have time

for this,

and i hope that he's

gone when i get home.

you won't get fooled again

i have

a tendency to bail

people

out of jail, to help them

when they have

nowhere to turn,

no money, no friends.

hoping

that they've seen

the light,

and that they will

behave

differently.

be kinder, be more

compassionate

and honest,

nice.

but people don't change.

the second

they're set free

it's back to same old

way of living,

with no remorse,

no regrets

or guilt,

no change in their

daily itinerary.

where did i put you?

i put

things in a place

where

i can find them again

when i need them once more.

keys, a watch,

my notebook,

sunglasses.

if i could

only pin you down,

find a shelf,

a room, a closet to put

you in,

perhaps

a nearby drawer.

you're elusive

as most good things

in life tend to be,

things

that you need,

people you adore.

collecting things

i admire

the person that collects things.

small trinkets

of like kind.

porcelain

figures, or dolls, or stamps.

maybe magnets

for the fridge.

little mementos

from far away

places like Cleveland,

or France.

i like how they've

made a little mission for

themselves

in getting one more

piece for their collection.

distracting themselves

from

the horrors and terrors

of the world

we live in.

valentine flowers

i get into a tussle

with a young fellow at the Safeway

grocery store.

some hipster

with a greasy haircut

and a tight suit on.

there's only

one bouquet of flowers left

that we both reach

for at the same time.

we wrestle over it,

petals flying everywhere.

stems breaking,

finally the store manager

comes over to break it up

and does eeny menie minie moe

to decide who gets

the flowers.

the kid wins.

next stop, the cemetery for

a fresh bunch.

the dead don't need flowers.

we do.

the garden hose

i can still taste the warm

stale breath

of the garden hose

as it

spewed water

out of the long

green snake

lying across

the grass.

out it poured

in fits and stops,

from

some buried

pipe,

the broken knob

in the brick.

but it was water,

or some form of it,

and as a thirsty kid,

i had little

time to waste,

waiting for it to grow

cold

and fresh, which

never happened.

the iron clad pre-nup

i tell everyone,

grabbing them by the arm,

don't get married.

don't do it.

because no one ever said it to me.

no one.

not a parent,

a friend,

an acquaintance.

no uncles

pulling me aside.

no one warned me

that i'd lose

the house, half of my

savings

and earnings, etc.

despite the fact that none

of it was my

fault

when it came to the inevitable

divorce.

my dog didn't even

bark at me

in distress as i put

on the new suit

and shined my shoes.

a boutonniere

in my lapel.

so now, i'm the town crier.

i'm on the street

corner.

i'm in front of the Bridal

Shop,

i'm at the bachelor

parites

coming out of the cake,

standing on the bar,

screaming, stop

the madness, don't do it.

don't make a business

contract

based on an emotion,

don't make 

this irrevocable mistake.

and if you can't

turn back because the invitations

are in the mail.

have an iron clad

pre-nup.

a free pass

to get yourself out of jail.

tax season

it's a strange feeling

that comes

every year

at the same time.

it's a tingle

up the spine, a nervous

tick

begins,

the eyebrow

flickering up and down.

the mouth gone dry.

yes.

it's tax season again

and the books await.

the adding machine,

the battered ledger

littered

with retractions,

blotted with white out.

there lies 

the collection

of bank statements,

investment reports,

write offs and donations.

receipts out the ying yang

sloshing around

in the shoe box awaiting

the stapler.

the car that starts

if i had

this or that, 

a bigger house

with a pool,

a nicer car,

a trip to Europe,

if my bank

account

was at a certain level,

then,

then i'd be happy.

but it wasn't

always that way.

when young.

it was good enough

to have  few dollars

to take a girl

you had a crush on

out on a date.

that was enough.

a one bedroom apartment

and a car

that started

on cold mornings

to take you away.

give and take

ankle

deep in water.

he lights a cigarette

and suggests

to his wife

that maybe it's time to move.

this is the third

hurricane

in three years.

we have no roof.

but she says,

at the stove,

scrambling eggs

over a fire,

and making

toast,

but i like it here.

it's hardly ever cold

and the taxes

are so low.

a little off the top

just a trim,

i'd tell the barber,

a little off the top,

the sides,

even it out a little.

but now,

he says nothing

with his

smile,

just lathers up

my head,

swipes the sharp

blade across the leather

belt

then proceeds to make

me shine.

they just know

in flight

nearly as one

a cloud of birds

swim

upwards, through

the clouds

and trees

reflecting shadow

off the sun.

it's a mystery

how they know

who to follow

which way to go,

but they

do.

her things to worry about

i find

her list of things to worry

about in the coming

year.

money for one.

losing weight is two,

old age

is three,

where to live next

is four,

and me is five.

i've fallen

down in the rankings

once more.

the yellow finch

the bird bath

in the yard, a stone saucer,

sitting bare

for most

of the summer, is at

last full

with last nights rain,

the yellow finch

approves,

and flutters

his wings, happy

at last.

can't get the top off

no matter

how many weights i lift,

how many

bike rides

i take,

how many push ups

and sit ups i do,

or how many times

i go to the gym

to work

on my endurance

and shape,

i still can't open

a jar of

pickles without

breaking my wrist.

made in china

as the debris

of metal

and fabric

falls from the sky,

at seventy thousand feet,

with the great

balloon punctured,

the blinking

stops,

the whirring noise

emitting signals

from

the complex machine

comes to a halt.

at last

it hits with a thud and

the mystery is solved.

a thin piece is turned over 

and it says

in bold print, like

everything else we purchase,

made in China,

return if found.

clean up in aisle six

i've always

wanted to work at a grocery

store, but

just to make the announcements

over the speakers.

i'd like to say

in a very authoritative voice,

clean up in aisle six

just once before i die.

jimmy, drop whatever

it is you're not doing

and bring your mop,

and a squeegee. pronto.

a gallon jar

of dill pickles has fallen

off the shelf.

it would be fun

to inform the shoppers

that

grapes are on sale,

the green ones,

and that

the day-old bread

and pork

chops are half price

if you're a member.

calmly i could alert

the public that

there's a little kid at

the customer service

counter,

freckled face, 

red hair.

so if anyone lost a kid,

please come

to the front and claim

him if he's yours.

we caught him eating 

his way up

the candy aisle, row

seven..

no snow again

i feel

sad

for my snow shovel,

another

year gone

by

and there it sits by

the door

and bag of salt.

the handle

still strong,

the shovel

a shiny red, unscared

by scraping.

maybe next year

my friend,

we'll see, but

the way

the world is going

now

we may need 

a boat,

or fins.

when it was just a game

it's not

just a game anymore.

it's about God and country.

support the troops,

the sky full

of jets,

flags

and songs. confetti

and fireworks 

in the air.

gorging ourselves

with  food

and drink.

cold beer.

religion and sex.

money

all wrapped into one

red white and blue

affair.

we're supposed to admire

these men

in gladiator uniforms,

most uneducated

and wealthy

beyond the norm. we're

supposed to make them

role models

for our children, worship

the ground

they walk on.

it's hardly

about the game anymore.

i miss the game.

a few guys on the field,

in the mud,

tossing the ball around.

drawing plays in the dirt.

playing until

the sun went down.

nothing to do

we would linger

at the counter

of the five and dime,

our feet not

touching the floor,

sipping

cokes through straws,

nibbling

maybe

on a grilled cheese

sandwich,

reading comic books

until the manager

came by

and shooed us out.

it was summer, it was

raining, there

was not much else

to do,

having seen the current

movie already

at the local bijou.

tasting the sour

we need

the rough road,

the obstacle, the struggle.

we need

the pain,

the suffering, the hunger,

troubles

and storms.

we need to lose

and lose

and lose.

we need all the sour

that the world

can

bring on to us,

to appreciate

the sweetness that will

follow.

don't tell anyone this, promise me

if you ever needed

the whole

world to know 

about something serious

that was

going on in your

life, all

you had to do was phone

my mother

and tell her the story.

you'd ask her

to swear to God

that she'd never breathe a word

of what you were about

to tell her to anyone,

stressing the word,

anyone, several times,

until you got

a weak, okay.

she could keep a secret

for about three

minutes, tops.

four minutes if the other line

was busy.

three day max vacation

three days

is my vacation limit.

after three days i want to go home.

it doesn't matter

where i am.

Hawaii or Timbuktu.

i could be on the moon,

and i'd get

the itch to go home.

staring out the window

of the space

capsule

at the blue earth,

longing

for my couch.

can we go back now,

i'd say

to Houston Control.

i'm done here.

we got your stupid rocks.

i can't find anything

i love my house cleaner,

Milagro,

and her hard-working team of

women

who professionally deep

clean

my old house

on a monthly basis.

it's worth every penny,

but when they leave

i never know where things

are.

i find my shoes

all in rows in the closet,

who does that?

pens are in the drawer,

pants are neatly

folded onto clothes hangers,

socks are now wrapped

in balls in the sock drawer.

and what about the carton

of eggs,

really, in the egg box on

the door?

a quick drive to the landfill

i find an old

bag

of frozen lima beans in

back

of the freezer,

which

triggers me into state

of rumination.

i stare at the bag

and remember

what it was like

when someone stood

there

at that stove

and boiled them, ladling

some onto

my plate next

to a dried up piece

of unseasoned

salmon.

a sprig of parsley

in sad repose beside it.

i hop into my car

and drive the bag

quickly to the landfill.

should i stay or should i go

it's always

scary when you realize

that

you may be a smidgen smarter

than the doctor,

or lawyer,

the therapist that you 

go to see, and yet

you trust them

with your life,

or money,

or state of sanity.

but when you hear

something

ridiculous

come out of their mouth,

you dig your nails

into the chair

and grind your teeth,

trying to decide if it's

time to run.

well, la dee da

i get stuck 

on the phrase

well,

la dee da,

ala Diane Keaton

in a Woody Allen flick.

it seems

to carry the day.

there's so much

out there

in these times

to say

la dee da to.

that old blue Chevy

my father

would never buy a Japanese

car

because of the war.

that whole

Pearl Harbor thing,

or a German car.

damn krauts

he'd say

with a beer in his hand,

waving a cigarette

around

from his easy chair.

of course his blue

Chevy Impala was

on the back of a tow

truck more than it was on

the road.

i never once visited him

when the hood

wasn't up

and he was lying under

the engine

with a wrench.

he never gave in.

my woman the vampire

i always suspected

that she might be a vampire.

but was never

sure.

the pale skin,

the night life,

that coffin in the basement

full of top soil.

her fear of

garlic

and crosses. she couldn't

even cross stitch

a pair of booties for my

new born niece.

she had enormous teeth too,

which i thought

was just a genetic impediment.

her father

had the same set of choppers.

hey, we all have something.

she told me she was new jersey,

but she had

a German accent, or from somewhere

in eastern Europe.

Jersey, my foot,

and then she bit me

one night in the middle of

making love.

i yelped like a wild

coyote and turned the light on.

what the hell, i said.

you bit my neck.

there's blood everywhere.

i just got these California

bamboo, hundred per cent

sateen cotton sheets on amazon.

now look. blood is everywhere.

jiminy crickets.

i need to put some Neosporin

on this bite and a bandage.

don't move an inch,

hold that thought, okay.

we're not done here, but no

more biting.

okay? okay?

she just smiled, licking the blood

off her lips.

whew.

i've got to vette these women better.

see you at mass on Sunday?

Father Smith stops

by with

an apology hot dish

of linguini,

i'm just a stones throw

away from

St. Bernadette's, so

he didn't have to walk

far, and the plate

stayed warm.

i ask him and if he wants

wine. red please he says.

sitting after pulling to the

side his long black gown.

i get him a glass

of pinot noir.

thanks for meal, i tell him.

my pleasure, he says.

i just want to apologize

for things, for how

it all went down.

i had no idea of the demonic

forces you were dealing with.

pfffft, i say, taking a bite

of the pasta.

hmmm. delicious.

and meatballs too.

yeah, I used Mother Theresa's

recipe. not many people

knew what a genius

she was in the kitchen.

she could have gone to heaven

and become a saint on

her red sauce alone.

have you ever looked at a picture

of her and the priests

around her.

tubbies, all of them.

sumo wrestlers,

and all because of her cooking.

so anyway.

sorry for everything and i appreciat

that instruction

manual on exorcism that you gave me.

we're cool, i tell him.

we're good now.

have a nice walk back to the chapel.

do you mind if i take

the wine with me?

nah, not at all, take the whole

bottle.

peace be with you, he says.

see you in church Sunday?

ummmm, maybe.

that rattling sound

be careful when picking up

the large

rocks

imbedded in the wet

ground

deep into the woods.

you never know

what might be found.

what might

leap at you with fangs

bared,

slithering and hissing

with that rattling sound.

the long hot shower

hand me

the lava soap,

the pumice, the hard

stuff

that mechanics use

to scrub the grease

and grime

off their hands,

their faces.

give me the big

cake of soap,

extra strength,

the abrasive stuff.

i need to wipe

the smell

and memory off

of me,

the residue of you.

joining the think tank

i'm asked to join

a think tank by my neighbor.

he's a philosopher

and nuclear

waste scientist,

a former astronaut

and senator from Wyoming.

i tell him, i'm not that smart,

i'm not sure how

i could contribute

to your think tank.

it took me six years to

get out of community college

with a certificate

in basket weaving.

he smiles,

puts his arm

around me, and says,

we know that, we just

want to try and understand

what dumb people

think about the world.

we want

to see how the majority

of the planet

perceives the current

state of affairs.

we have a great group.

free coffee and Duck Donuts

in the morning.

okay, sounds great.

i'm in as long as i don't

have to wear a bow tie.

when they future fake

when we met,

she told me that she loved the beach,

we'll go to

the beach this summer,

i have seven bikinis

that i haven't worn yet.

oh,

and NYC too.

i absolutely love the city.

we'll take the train

up, stay a week.

we'll walk from soho

to the zoo, to the highlands

and back again.

we'll eat eat eat.

and books,

don't get me started, i love

poetry,

when we're finally together,

every week

we'll attend a reading.

do you like Italian food,

we'll that's my specialty.

wait until you try

my lasagna.

it will be your treat,

i almost like it as much

as making love to you.

i'm all about

intimacy.