a bagel with everything

i have little interest

in the Statue

of Liberty these days, or

the Empire State Building.

i don't care

about the Brooklyn

Bridge,

or Wall Street.

the Lincoln Tunnel.

i don't need to go to

Times Square 

anymore, or Noho,

or Soho, just get me

to a deli,

where they serve

a pile of pastrami on a slice

of seeded

rye, with a swath of

mustard, or just

a bagel with everything,

toasted.

forget Chinatown

and Greenwich Village,

the Hudson

and the East River,

The Edge

and The Highland,

do i need to walk Central

Park once more?

perhaps, but

let's eat first and then,

we'll walk,

and do it all.

when all else fails

i can't trust

my nose anymore,

or my eyes,

my ears.

or even taste.

what was spicy once

upon a time,

is now bland.

words

are garbled.

vision blurred.

i can no longer smell

what's coming

around the corner.

i just have my gut

now,

to see me through.

a few skips before you sink

like the stone

i cast

side armed

across the black pond,

i let you go.

i let you have a few

skips

along

the surface, but that's

it.

one, two, three,

then down

you go.

the train going by

with the window

open

to the yard, the stream

below,

through

the thickness of woods

shedding

leaves,

i can hear the train

whistle

plainly, i can hear

clearly

its tug and pull, its

pitch,

all of it calling after

me.

what kind of cheese?

when i open

the door

to let some air in,

a woman

walking by with her

dog

says to me, hey,

what are you cooking

in there.

it smells good.

i shrug,

oh, just a burger.

actually a cheese burger.

i can smell it

out your window,

she says,

the dog is looking at me

as it raises it's

leg to pee in my yard.

okay,

i tell her.

not knowing what to

say next,

well, i should go in

and eat.

are you putting onions

on it,

she asks.

yup.

what kind of cheese?

umm,

cheddar.

what about condiments?

ketchup,

lettuce and tomatoes?

of course i tell her, trying

to step back

into the house

to close the door.

what about potato chips?

nope.

no chips?

fries?

nope. i'm so disappointed,

she says.

i love fries.

but i bet you're going to have

a beer with it, right.

an ice cold beer.

just some ice tea

i tell her.

the dog is pulling at the leash,

sensing my anxiety.

thankfully the smoke alarm

goes off.

well.

it's ready, bye. i quickly

shut the door

and turn off the burner on

the stove.

i see the woman out the window,

still looking in.

sniffing the air.

you should really have

some fries with it, she yells

in.

give me the black and white Zenith

i look

at the battery powered drill.

push the button

trying to turn a screw

into the wall.

dead.

i have no

clue where the charger

is.

which one of a dozen

wires

belongs to it.

the weed Wacker, dead.

the phone,

almost dead.

the lap top,

the i pad.

i miss the plug in the wall,

and the turn

on and off button.

putting tin

foil

on the rabbit ears

to watch the Twilight

Zone,

Alfred Hitchcock

and the Outer Limits.

fiddling with the horizontal

and vertical

dials like a Nasa scientist.

throwing in the towel

like the rat

problem, the city has

given

up on crime.

they've thrown in the towel.

the jails

are full.

go ahead, loot, riot,

shoot each other,

rob,

we're too tired to deal

with it

anymore.

maybe if they could

just get the criminals

to do their

deeds late at night,

while we're all asleep.

like between the hours

of 2 am and 4.

what's up with babies?

what's up with babies?

when do they

start dreaming?

is it after a day or two

of being born, 

does it begin once

they've got

some life under their belt?

do they dream

about the nurse or doctor

who pulled them

out of the abyss and into

the light.

do they have nightmares

about their bottoms being

smacked.

the audacity

here for one minute

and already

they're being attacked.

do they remember the drive

home strapped

inside plastic seat.

the strange world out

the window

going backwards.

they've got nothing,

no clothes, no money,

nothing

but a diaper and some

lousy shirt

the hospital put on them.

at what point do babies

get annoyed

or worried and start thinking

about the future.

when do they get

sick of apple sauce again

and again, with

no teeth to bite down

on a rib eye steak

or a ham sandwich.

and mother's milk,

how embarrassing.

the left, then the right?

no chocolate or strawberry?

it's tough being a baby.

having to cry

out every time you wet

your pants, or

worse.

you spend all day

staring at the mobile

over the crib making

you sea sick.

you don't even know what

the sea is yet.

there's nothing you can

do when you're too

cold or too hot.

you can't even sit up and

rattle the cage

they've put you

in, or crawl out.

why are they passing me

around,

pinching my cheeks.

everyone looks like giant

monster.

it's no wonder that we have

no memory of those

beginning years. it was

horrible.

making sense of it all

the window

seat is best. i want to see

what's

going by

as we travel.

i want to see how others

live their

lives.

i want to see the abandoned

houses

and buildings.

chain linked fences

around empty lots.

i want to see the estates.

the golf courses,

the rusted out

hulks of cars.

the wealthy

the poor.

i want to see children playing

in the streets,

screaming with joy.

i want to see

banks

being robbed.

dogs off their leash.

i want to see the lights,

the water,

the dirt.

the newborn and old.

i want to see what's out

the window, take

the world in,

and try to make sense

of it all.

the jails are full

as the looters

steal

from the stores.

breaking windows

and glass

cases full of phones

and jewelry,

whatever isn't nailed

to the walls,

they scream

and holler,

it's fun. it's exciting.

they are wild bees

in a violent swarm.

there are few parents

anymore.

they know how to make

the babies,

but that's it.

where did this chicken go to school?

i thought i knew

what an egg was.

a white fragile orb

that fell

out of a chicken

in the coop.

but not anymore.

i'm confused.

brown eggs, large,

extra large,

small,

medium.

pasteurized.

organic. some white,

some farm raised.

caged or uncaged.

the history

of the chicken

is on the crate.

were they treated right,

did they go

to good schools,

did their parents

hug them and read

to them at night.

i just want a few to

scramble in

the morning.

the rest i don't care

about.

new in town

we're new in town.

happy to be look at

a house

on this tree lined tree.

birds are chirping,

and the sky is blue.

it's a sunny bright day.

we like the Zillow estimated

appraisal.

the pictures are wonderful.

we ask

the agent, are the schools

good here?

how far a walk

is it to the library,

to the store.

is there much crime?

do we need to lock

our doors?

the agent laughs

and says,

obviously you're not

from around here.

run, don't walk,

anywhere you go.

send your kids to

parochial school

across town.

and always lock your

doors.

i suggest bars and a

camera

on each one. maybe

get a small hand gun.

creative facial hair

when men

go bald they feel the need

to grow

hair elsewhere,

the devilish goatee,

or the seventies porn star

mustache,

with sideburns,

no less,

a full beard, maybe,

ala Moses.

or the rug burn look,

just a half an inch

of whiskers

that makes the girls scream.

they might dye it,

or style it accordingly, 

depending

on which male

actor has one

in the latest movies.

you've got the Salvador Dali

look, or

the young Burt Reynolds

to go by.

maybe Grizzly Adams,

or that strange Amish look,

creative but

unfinished.

i'm working on

the handlebar stache,

like in the old

westerns.

boy oh boy those were the days

sometimes

i reminisce,

although my therapist,

calls it ruminating.

whatever.

but i go up

into the attic

and see the old straight

jacket, size petite,

hanging from

the rafters.

a few long strands 

of blonde

hair still attached.

boy oh boy, those were

some crazy days.

i look at

her gnaw marks,

fresh as they day she

chewed them

trying to get out,

her teeth bites

denting the straps.

a world without sugar

without

sugar, it occurred to me,

that there

would be

no holidays.

no pumpkin pies,

or cakes, no candy

to hand out on Halloween.

no Christmas

candy in

grandmom's little

plates,

or  mince meat pie,

or fruit cake.

no easter bunnies

made

of chocolate,

or statues of Jesus

or Mary

with almonds imbedded

inside.

no jelly beans,

no peeps.

no valentines box

of sweets,

no candied yams

at Thanksgiving or

cranberries soaked

in sugar.

no more caramel apples

to break out teeth.

Sansa belt and stretch

pants

would no longer

exist.

dentists would all

at last die.

her security door bell

after we broke

up

and i put all her

belongings

on the curb in trash

bags, she found

another place to live.

she put a camera on her doorbell

to catch anyone

walking by,

or near her front door.

how sad

and disappointed she must

have been,

when no one

approached her apartment,

no old boyfriends,

or burglars,

no peeping toms,

not even me.

carnival occupations

i get a job

at the carnival guessing

ages

and weights

of

people walking by.

if i'm right they

get nothing,

if i'm

wrong they get a stuffed

animal

from a box

of stuffed animals

we bought from

Indonesia

made by little slave kids.

it's only a dollar per

guess.

so well worth it.

my goal is to work

the concession

stand next year. it's located

near the tent of

the fat lady

with  a beard.

i feel a vibe

between us.

if there is no God, then what?

as the plumber

fixes

the leaky

pipe, with grease on

his face, he expounds on Kafka,

talking

about our

existential plight.

what's real,

what's an illusion.

he tells me that

if there is no God,

then

what's the point of life.

to eat and drink,

work,

find love, or misery,

then die?

i want him to stop

talking

and turn the water back

on.

i need shower.

i hand him a wrench

and hold

the light.

make yourself at home

my father's new girlfriend

has her

whole

family

over to his house

on weekends.

rummaging

about.

examining his check

book,

and clicking the dials

on his safe

trying to open it up.

her son is asleep on the couch

after reading

his books and magazines

and helping

himself to candy

and nuts.

on a pad of paper he's been

practicing

signing my father's

name.

her daughter is in the bathroom

taking a shower,

and dying her hair

after going through the medicine

cabinet and

looking for drugs.

meanwhile

my father is in his big easy

chair,

at 95 now

unable to see or hear.

he's eating from

a Styrofoam

container of chicken

and mashed potatoes

delivered by meals on wheels.

he calls out

to his girlfriend, i need some

salt and pepper

dear.

chicken soup, sort of

i'm into

reading labels now on packages

and cans of food.

trying to eat right,

not putting poisons into

my body.

i'm one of them

now.

the guy standing in

middle of the aisle

holding

a can of soup up to

the light,

my glasses on the tip

of my nose,

trying to pronounce

words i've never seen

before on the list

of ingredients.

chicken soup is no longer

chicken soup.

it's a conglomeration

of chemicals,

gathered together

in a lab by men in white

coats.

a little chicken flavoring

is present, and then

some of this,

some of that.

don't shake the can,

it might explode.

one two three four

we used

to go down to the mall

and protest the war, chanting

hell no

we won't go, or

one two three four we don't

want your fucking war,

and other little ditties

like that.

on the fourth of July

one year,

Bob Hope was there

entertaining

the  crowd.

we kept it up with our

loud teenage

voices

not wanting to, 

when we came of age,

go fight

in some jungle

for something we didn't

want or understand.

our screams and yelling

interfered with Bob's

dead pan lines,

the dancing girls,

the Mormon Tabernacle

Choirs mind

numbing songs.

then the tear gas flew.

and we ran.

the war continued

for another five years.

at least

another twenty thousand

died.

they just spit it out

despite

being a baby, a relatively

new born

infant.

babies know what they like

or don't like.

put a spoon

full of something

in their mouths and either

their eyes will

light up,

or they'll shake their

heads

and grimace

and spit it out.

there's something there

to be learned

in that.

i'll pass on the lima beans,

thank you.

and you can give my slice

of carob cake

to someone else.

you don't want to see

what happens

if i take a bite.

sowing the old oats

in my

younger days when

they were juggling

me,

and i was juggling

them.

Christmas was never

fun.

always shopping

for at least four or three.

leather gloves for her?

is it time

for jewelry

for Nancy,

a ring for Sarah,

a television for Jean,

she loves tv.

do i dare

give Ruth

lingerie? is it too early

in the game

for Victoria Secrets?

and what about Donna.

a book again

on the culinary history

of Italy?

maybe gift cards this year

for everyone.

make it easy.

the new Ellis Island

we stayed

there once, the Roosevelt Hotel

in New York

City.

a grand old

building

with history.

Guy Lombardo

used to welcome in new years eve

from there.

there was a wedding

going on

when we arrived.

the lobby was

lit up

with bright lights.

there was music and dancing.

i could see the bride in the back

room

in white,

the groom.

young and both happy,

champagne alive,

and now,

with the hotel closed for

business,

it's the new Ellis Island.

a wandering family

from Guatemala

is in our room.

enjoy

your new life.

getting road ready

i spin

the cap off the wheel

and align

the pump accordingly.

attaching one

to the other.

i pull up,

i push down.

i fill the tire with air

until it's hard

and tight

and road ready.

coffee works for me,

most mornings,

except when you're

here.

the business man

he's neither

sad

or happy. he just is.

sitting

there with hands

folded in his lap,

waiting for his flight.

the small

bag beside him.

he's wearing a thin

grey suit

with a blue tie

and white shirt.

black shoes.

perhaps a business man.

no wedding ring.

no phone

in his hand to call

his children,

or ex wife.

i make his story up

as i watch him

over the edge of my

magazine.

is he lonely. is he lost.

rich or poor, or

is he just an average

man.

in the middle

of life.

where could

he be going.

will things turn alright?

under the autumn moon

in the dark

we ambled along

the side of the cemetery

road,

carrying out shoes.

a slight yellow

moon

as if an eye, visible

between

the floating clouds.

the grass

was wet

on our bare feet.

i remember it well.

her hand

in mind

as we read

the carvings

on the stones, tilted,

or on the ground,

upright.

born then died.

was it love, or something

else.

too young

to understand

these desires.

about to be fulfilled.

a box of donuts diplomacy

if i was

in the debate, i'd have a drink

at my

podium

with a long straw

to make a

crazy slurping sound,

and some snacks.

maybe some chips

or nuts.

a box of donuts.

i'd used them

as props, throwing

peanuts at the person

who says something

i don't agree with.

i'd make a point with a 

glazed donut in my hand

and clear my throat

as i choked

on a peanut shell or two.

as a piece offering

when the debate heats up,

i'd reach out

with my bag

of junior mints and say,

hey friend.

go on, take a few.

we can save the country

together.

him her they them

as it buzzes

around my head

i try

to get the fly out of the house.

chasing

him with a newspaper,

not to kill him

or her,

i'm not quite sure

of it's pronoun,

but to persuade it to

fly towards the open

window,

where it's

nice out.

it finally does, but

another one

flies in.

only the faces change

it's out of control,

the debate.

nine

well dressed men and women

babble on

and on and on

about their solutions

to crime,

and immigration,

inflation,

wars

and strikes,

abortion and whatever else

is on their minds.

it really doesn't matter

who wins,

who loses.

nothing every changes.

just the faces.

old age looting

inspired by the news

and lack of law enforcement,

i call my friend Betty

and tell her,

let's go shopping. 

but my social security check

hasn't come yet, she says

i laugh, forget about that.

i'll pick you up

in ten minutes.

so we put

on our hoodies,

our covid masks,

grab a hammer or two

and set out

to the local mall in my van.

Betty calls up her

knitting club

and face yoga class to join us,

advising them

on what to wear.

sketchers will help

you keep your balance

when it's time to skedaddle,

or ortho shoes.

her friend Sally wants to

go too,

but she's in a wheelchair

and can't roll away

fast enough once

the smash and grab begins.

she requests some canned cat

food for her cats

and a bottle of witch hazel,

whatever that is.

we start off at the vitamin

store,

stuffing ginkgo bilboa and saw palmetto

into our jackets.

sleeping pills

and ex-lax.

someone grabs a case of Ensure.

we work our way over

to the heating

pads,

and Depends.

i wipe the shelf clean of hearing

aids,

and wrinkle cream,

then grab a box of Tums,

and a new magnifying glass.

Betty gets a case

of prune juice.

then we limp out of there

before the po po comes.

to be like him

we made

fun of him, of course.

we were stupid

pimple

faced kids

raised

by knuckle dragging men.

we called the boy fancy

pants,

or said that he

was light in

the loafers, there was

a hint of mint

about him.

he liked boys, not

girls. but we were never sure.

he never threw a ball,

or got into

a fight.

he knew how to dance.

he played the piano,

he could sing.

he could paint and write.

in looking

back at him

i think we were jealous

and cruel,

with no

appreciation for

the finer things.

young fools.

the dark wink

i took the wink

from her

as a friendly

gesture, a notion of that

we're in this

together.

a smile attached,

like a cat

with a mouth full

of feathers.

until death do

us part,

the preacher cooed.

what could go wrong,

i wondered

as i said with trepidation,

i do.

the bloodied knife

i'm a slow learner.

look

at the tips of my fingers,

the scars

from putting them

into the fire.

look at the dents

in my car.

the weeds in the yard.

look at the stale

bread

on the table,

the soured milk left

out overnight.

look at my heart,

the pieces

on the floor.

the bloodied knife.

more than fifty ways

we have options.

always.

there's always a choice

we can make

to make our lives

easier,

to exit, stage right

and ease

the pain.

we can leave.

we can quit.

we can end things.

we can find

another.

i can think of more than

fifty ways,

Paul Simon,

to leave a lover.

a waste of time

strange,

how we no longer know

one another.

surreal

at times.

it's like nothing

ever happened 

between us.

not a single sweet moment

can be thought of.

all of it

has become

a mirage, a vague

memory

forever fading.

all of it,

in looking back,

is lost time.

walking pieces of art

can one

have

too many tattoos,

too many

piercings,

too much red or blue

dye

in their hair?

apparently not.

it seems competitive

at times

everyone is a piece

of art now

walking about.

Salvador

Dali

and Andy Warhol

would

be proud.

Sears and Roebucks

he's smoking

a cigarette and coughing

as he sits

on his front porch.

i miss Sears and Roebucks,

he says

out of nowhere.

i used to buy everything.

there.

from tires to dungarees.

my mother's house

was ordered

from their catalogue.

we used to get clothes

there,

do all our school shopping

for the kids,

and at Christmas

they sold trees.

Santa Claus would sit

next to the escalator

and our

kids would hop up on

his knee.

my fridge and my washer

and dryer are all Kenmore.

my vacuum cleaner too.

they don't make

em like that anymore.

and if they broke down,

Sears would send a man out

to fix them.

he crushes his cigarette

under his shoe,

then lights another one

as a big blue truck pulls up

on the street.

Amazon.

my wife, he says. we get

a package nearly everyday.

she don't feel the same as

i do about

old Sears.

as the sun sets

we take

a walk after dinner.

hand

in hand. 

we go up the hill

then

around

the bend

to the lake.

we find a bench to

sit on.

i tell her what a wonderful

dinner

it was.

thank you,

she replies.

we kiss lightly

on the lips,

then get up to walk home,

we go inside.

but all i eat are vegetables

she pretty much

ate green

beans and kale,

spinach

and lettuce for most

of her life.

rabbits had nothing on

her culinary

skills.

nibbling at whatever

grew

in the ground

or fell off a tree.

so then why the clogged

artery.

the heart attack,

why the large

waistline?

could it be

the ice cream

and apple pie, 

the cakes and candy?

maybe.

cruel to be kind

he's mad,

she's mad. they're all mad

at me

for some reason.

maybe they

shouldn't send me

their poetry

for criticism.

it's their fault, not

mine.

i'm cruel when it

comes to

the written line.

theirs and mine.

Flannery's chicken

the man from New York

came

down

to report on the chicken

that could

walk backwards.

he took the dirt

road

to Flannery O'Conner's

house

in Georgia

and watched

as the chicken prowled

around in the

dirt,

pecking at bugs

and finally performing

his impossible

feat.

Flannery was only seven

and never

got to see the snippet

of film

shown in theaters

years later of her chicken

walking backwards.

but it never left her,

the amusement of what a

world it was.

strange indeed.

nothing being what it seems.

we'll see, He says

God is funny

about answering prayers

or in making

proclamations.

is it all in good time?

or is He

trying to decide,

pondering both sides

of the issue,

weighing the consequences

of a yes or no,

by the divine.

maybe he'll

change his mind

after sleeping on it

for a while.

seems He's no rush

with

any of it.

you know nothing

my boss

in my brief office days was

a tiny man

from Viet Nam.

Su Bao

was his name.

he had war wounds

all over him, scars

all over his

body.

one arm was nearly

useless.

his hand folded together

like a vise.

he used to yell at me

if i made a mistake,

which was quite often,

he'd yell loudly

so that the whole office

could hear him.

you know nothing,

you're stupid.

you know nothing.

he'd repeat this over and over.

screaming

at the top of his cigarette

filled lungs,

and stamp his

brown shoes with his clip

on tie

flopping around.

part of me wanted to smack

him across the head

with a keyboard,

and the other half

of me wanted to hug

him. and talk softly

to him, to have him tell

me all about it.

i can't imagine what he

went through,

but he was right.

i knew

absolutely nothing.

the fading blue of the day

at last

the windows are open.

how

nice to feel

the air,

to listen to the rain.

i find

the book i'm half

into

and slide

the chair towards

the darkening

woods.

but i don't read.

this is good enough

for now.

the fading blue of the day

upon me.

i used to be a cheerleader

after a few

martinis, 

and we get past the part

about her being

a cheerleader

and that she can still fit

into her uniform,

it's all downhill from there.

she begins to leak out information.

she's never

had a job.

she has no money.

she has several personality

disorders

and sees three therapists

weekly.

she's a vegan.

her second husband,

twenty years her senior,

is a convicted felon.

her son

has never worked or

had a girlfriend and has

lived in

the same room

for thirty years in his

father's house.

her last boyfriend 

of ten years was

married

and looked like Santa Claus.

her father sexually abused

her as a child.

her rescue dog bit her on

the arm.

she shows me the scar.

she doesn't own

a car

and she's afraid of the dark.

and oh, i'm not really blonde,

she says

as she digs a fork into her arm.

quickly i raise

my hand to the waiter

and yell out,

check please.

the photograph online

it was

the wrong chair for the room.

orange.

too large,

too loud.

the cushions hard.

and yet

in the store it looked

perfect.

stylish

and sexy

in what little light

there was.

even the picture

online

was wonderful.

it got great reviews.

i've made this mistake

with people

too.

the sleep over

as she

sleeps, i stare at her dress

on the floor,

a yellow puddle

in the morning light.

it's the dress

i complimented her

on when

she came

through the door.

she didn't even

bother to fold it on

a chair,

or take a hanger

and hang it in the closet.

she just threw it there

before we climbed

into bed.

i don't know if i can

live with someone

like that.

we'll see what happens

on date

four.

my show is coming on, shhhh

what is enough?

how

much

money do you need to see

you through

until the end.

who will carry you

to your grave,

what legacy

will you leave behind,

what will

others say

upon hearing that 

you've passed

away.

is there a heaven,

is there a hell.

will they

welcome you

at the pearly

gates,

or will the devil

punch your ticket at

the other place.

i don't know.

right now i'm busy

with other things.

who cares, where's

the remote,

my show is coming on.

the shopping spree

i go into the Catholic

book

store on King Street to browse

around.

i grab a cart

and push

it down the rows

of books

and crosses.

i'm the only one there.

there's

holy water in little

jars.

books on saints,

psychology books

combining God and science.

how to pray

books.

paintings of Mary,

of Jesus.

glow in the dark statues.

bracelets and rings.

rosary beads.

a wide assortment of

Holy

things.

Sister Mary Margret,

behind the counter

in her new age

nun garb,

asks me if i need any help.

to which i say.

don't get me started.

achoo, god bless you

when i wake

up stuffy and coughing,

blowing my

nose,

my eyes watering,

i know it's raining out.

a cold front

has moved in.

i don't need

a weatherman,

or doppler radar,

giving me the news.

i don't even need to look

out the window.

i put my rain coat

on, grab

my umbrella and go.

i'm a very private person

please,

the celebrity says, as

the cameras flash

and the audience

claps.

i want my privacy, i'm

a very private

person.

and after this next world

wide tour,

and interviews

on every station,

i'm going to take a break

and only

do ten shows

a year.

i want to write a book

about who i am,

what i believe.

i'm a very private person.

i love every one of

you,

and i know how you

love me,

but please respect my

privacy.

be sure to watch my

three part

documentary 

coming out soon once

the lawyers agree.

it's all about my

wives, my children

my parents and pets,

my illnesses and fears.

you'll see what a shy

and private person i really am.

i'll be signing

autographs in the lobby

after the show,

cheers.

the gold rush in jersey

shockingly they find another

corrupt

politician

hiding in plain

sight.

who has gold bars hidden

in their closet

next to high heels

and loafers?

a half a million

dollars

stuffed

in his clothes, sewn

into jackets,

the cups of his wife's

bra

filled with

jewels.

all after just returning

from a trip

to the Mideast.

and then they find that

he's googled

what a bar

of gold is worth.

and which country

doesn't have an extradition

policy.

new jersey's finest.

serving his constituents.

too tired to fight

prior to believing

this

you believed that.

forever

changing your mind

about so much.

agreeing with

a new

take on whatever

the topic

may be.

you swing left

you swing right,

but then

find yourself

decidedly

settled in the middle,

too tired

to fight.

leaving it all behind

when i

see the new addition

to the neighbor's

house

being built.

a pool dug in the yard,

the new

car

in the driveway, i wonder.

which

grandparent,

or rich uncle has

bought the farm.

who's died?

Peking Duck

i stop eating

Chinese food, not because

of Covid,

or 

their aggressive nature,

wanting

to dominate the world

militarily

and economically.

trying so hard to be like

us.

no.

i stop eating crispy beef

and 

chow mien,

Peking ducks with

plum

sauce

because of the grease

and indigestion.

plus i'm very allergic

to MSG

and find chopsticks

annoying.

not another speck of news

i care less

and less and less

and less

and less

about so much.

i'm sort of done with it,

i'm up

to here with

all of it.

i don't won't to hear

another word,

another

speck

of news.

you too?

it's mutual

do i worry

about

the squirrel with a nut

in his

mouth,

undecided on which

way

to cross the road.

a prewinter

wind

already

thickening his fur.

does he concern

himself with me and

my life?.

what i go through

to make ends meet.

no not at all.

it's mutual.

in a nutshell

more news

arrives

in the shape of no news.

no letter,

or call.

no drive by, or

ringing of the bell

to apologize.

i guess it's over,

that's it

in a nutshell.

beauty is nothing

beauty

is nothing.

it's 

a scam, a game,

an illusion,

an easy

road to hell.

few of them have

learned

what we know.

beware

of beauty.

seek

the ugly

and strange, the boring,

the mundane.

the average.

look for

the underdog.

and

be happy.

stay sane.

my ceiling, his floor

the man

above me used to have

a party

every weekend.

there'd be loud

music

and dancing

into the wee hours 

of the morning.

sometimes i'd call

the police and ask

them

to a pay a visit, to

settle things down.

which angered my

neighbor.

who gave me sneers

and the evil eye

when he'd see me

around.

if only he would have

invited me

once in a while.

all of this could

have been avoided.

what is that?

there's pretend

meat

in the stores now,

pleasing

the emaciated

vegans.

sticks of fake

butter,

taste like butter

the label says.

almost sugar

from a plant leaf.

coconut flour.

almond flour.

soy milk,

which isn't milk

at all.

i remember when

milk used to come

from an animal's

breast.

what's next, a wooden

apple,

a styro-foam

peach.

grapes made in the lab

from a petri

dish?

tourists

after

seeing the robbery,

the man

pushed into the path of

the oncoming

train,

we avoid

the subway.

we walk and take a

taxi

instead.

Central Park,

dead ahead.

staying close to each

other as

we walk up

5th Avenue.

are we scared about

what's around

each corner,

heading back

before the sun sets.

hiding our

money in our pant

legs.

yes.

cupid's first arrow

i see the young

man

in the grocery store

picking out

a small bundle

of flowers,

counting his money.

maybe it's his first

time.

he's carrying a Hallmark

card

and a small

gift in his hand.

he's just getting

started.

infatuated with 

someone, trying

to win her hand.

i nod and walk by,

saying nothing.

staying alive

stay

curious, stay thin,

stay

frugal,

have

friends.

laugh

and make amends.

extend

your life another

year or

two.

eat well

and drink less.

look both ways

when crossing

the road.

if your lucky

and the stars align

maybe

you'll make

it to a hundred.

but everyone else

will be

gone, or a mess.

she always returned calls

i hear

her phone ringing,

as she

lies

in her coffin.

it's in her hand, 

perpetually

there

for years.

and now in a death

grip.

i look over

my shoulder

and ask

if maybe

someone should

get that?

finally it

goes to voicemail

and we hear

her voice

one more time

before the casket

is lowered.

i'm out and about,

she says,

but i'll return your

call just as

soon as possible.

everyone

stares at their phones

and waits.

helping my neighbor Emily

i see my

friend Emily Dickinson,

who lives next door

at the elevator.

she has her cat

on a leash

which she cleverly

named number nine.

i almost mistake her

for a nun.

she's wearing all black

and has

a doily around her neck.

hey, i say.

hello sir, she says back.

she looks glum.

is everything

ok?

i ask her.

we both stare up at 

the lights

of the impossibly

slow elevator.

she shrugs and says,

i guess so.

i'm stuck on a poem.

i shake my head.

you're thinking too much

i tell her.

over thinking gets

you nowhere.

you just have to let

them rip.

blood and guts, 
Emily.

put a knife in them and

make them

scream.

she puts her hands over

her ears and closes

her eyes.

sorry, i tell her. sorry.

look, i'll stop by later

and you can run a few

of them

by me, okay?

thanks, she says.

i don't know what i would

do without you.

you're such a kind

gentleman.

i'll put some tea on.

the all Saints fiasco

as we

made frenetic love,

me and

rehab

patty,

in the guest room,

with

music on.

her religious

bracelet broke

in the mayhem.

off her wrist went

flying

all the saints.

there they went

St. Peter,

St. Anthony, St.

Ambrose.

St. Ignatius of Loyola

down

into the air

vent, clicking

like chicklets.

oh my

are you not

Dorothy

with her little dog

Toto,

in the house

as it spins

high in the sky caught

in a tornado.

the window

to the outside world

holding

nearly everything

you've ever

seen or done,

or thought.

the scroll of your

phone,

your picture box,

your

scattered memories.

all of it

in the air,

wind blown

and  tossed.

when the trees go down

i can hear

the buzz of saws cutting

the trees

away,

having fallen in the street

while it

rained last

night.

lines are down,

a crowd gathers.

i can see them

from the window.

dogs, and children.

cups of coffee in hand.

it's a cheerful

crowd.

i should go out and join

them,

be part of it,

but i'm not feeling it,

i need more sleep

as well.

lock up your cheese

it's a long

article on rats in the New

Yorker.

one for every person

in the city.

it talks about how they

jump ships

and 

get off at each port.

three different types.

it's how the black plague

started.

killing millions,

full of fleas

and lice.

there's nothing we can do

about it.

too much trash.

too many places to hide.

too much

food discarded on

the streets

and left behind.

they chew through walls

and wires.

they're everywhere.

just be careful

when you

go out at night, and lock

up your cheese,

please.

the silk tag

the child

will find

comfort in the soft silk

tag

of his blanket,

rubbing it gently

between

a finger

and thumb. feeling

safe and warm,

the comfort

of his home, the gentle

touch

of a mother

or father.

a good life starts here

knowing

he's not alone.

finding sleep

before

sleep, your mind wanders,

finding

the right pillow

to lie on.

the right soft thought

or memory

to fall upon.

you turn it over

and over,

slip in a prayer or two,

counting blessings,

then find

the right position

to let

the day fall away,

at last

you're through.

down Broadway

as we arrive

we see the city in silhouette.

grey,

mottled wet

by the rain

on our windshield,

so much

life in such a small

space, tall,

stretched out

along the Hudson.,

it all disappears

as we

enter the Lincoln Tunnel.

down Broadway.

it's not home,

but it feels like it

on this rainy day.

the darkened road

i remember

you falling asleep on my

shoulder

as we drove

the long trip home.

the endless

miles of

darkened road,

our hearts

warm.

what could wrong

with love

like that?

bee stings

as the bee

stings

he dies in retreat

leaving

behind

his vital organs.

beware

of the sting,

whether

giver or taker,

either

can be deadly.

she was unsure

as my mother

knelt to tie

my shoes, she told me

to be

good in church,

still not

trusting

the good

already in me.

here's fifty cents to put

in the basket.

now run along,

take your

catechism,

and bring me back

the bulletin.

see how much we loved?

the industry

of death

and marriage, is based

entirely

on guilt, on the weakness

of the human

heart.

we need to go big

and bright,

expensive.

we need to show loved

ones that we

cared.

bring me the gold box,

the carriage

drawn

wedding.

the five-tiered cake,

and the

ornate coffin to be

buried in.

see how much we loved?

with hammer in hand

she's always

looking for a nail to bang

down.

she carries

the hammer all day,

searching

for the loose nail,

the warped

board,

the broken tile on

the roof.

trying hard to make

it all right.

she's a busy girl

in this 

broken world.

this loneliness

her loneliness

has little to do with rain,

the grey

of clouds,

the soft percussion of

weather on

her window panes.

it has nothing to do with

love either.

or lack of friends.

the small apartment

she lives in.

it's deeper.

much deeper than these

simple things.

when you arrive

is there

anything of nature that

swells your

heart more?

puts tears into your eyes,

after a long absence,

as the love

of your own children

greeting you at the door,

when you

arrive?

man overboard

i wonder

about the ark. Noah's ark.

how did

the animals get along.

how did

the lions not eat

the zebras.

how did the snakes

not eat the bird's

eggs,

spiders and bees?

mosquitoes?

the smell of it all

and those screeching monkeys.

not to mention Noah

sharing

his cramped cabin 

with his wife

for forty days

without a fight.

kind of unbelievable.

one or the other would

have been overboard

in a weeks time.

as the ship sinks

the news

shows ten thousand people

in one day

from

other countries 

illegally crossing the border,

knee deep in

the river,

cutting through the coils

of barbed wire.

they have back packs.

kids in hand.

they want out

of whatever hell they were

once stuck in.

come on in, we tell them.

make yourself at home.

food, no problem,

shelter, you want a job,

okay. we got this.

this is the land of opportunity.

come on aboard.

give us your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses

yearning to be free,

there's always room for more.

nothing to see here

nothing to see here

the cop

says as we roll down the window

to take a look

at the accident.

move on, he says, waving his

sparkling

crimson flare,

let's go, 

nothing to see here, he says,

move it along.

but it isn't true.

we're slowing down

because there is something

to see here.

i can't breathe

don't make me

go,

i plead on my hands and knees.

i don't know

any of these people,

and you know how i hate

being trapped

in a room

doing small talk

with strangers.

before i even get there

i'm ready to leave.

i'm sure they're wonderful

people.

all them lovely.

smart and educated, 

good citizens,

kings and queens,

but please, please,

where's my rescue inhaler,

i can hardly breathe.

donna reed with a whip

i shouldn't have

opened her medicine cabinet

or peeked

into her purse.

the crazy pills,

the knife, the gun,

the map

of something buried

in the woods.

and what's this under

the bed?

a leather whip,

and a wig.

handcuffs?

to me she was always

Donna Reed taking

a fresh batch of cookies

out of the oven.

but all of that has

changed.

over twenty dollars a tooth

i think my

dentist is gouging me,

and not just

with drills

and needles, sharp

metal tools,

yesterday she took

thirty-six x rays

of my mouth,

and i only have twenty

two teeth.

five hundred dollars

payable by cash

or check.

she insists on me 

coming in

every six months,

regardless,

cavities or not.

she showed me a plan

yesterday

for gum enhancement,

that's next.

the basement wedding

a wedding

that takes place in a basement

with no

witnesses

held by a man

found on the internet

an hour

before it starts, is more

than likely

a mistake and doomed.

yeah.

i get it.

i know that now.

a climate solution

the weather

is to blame for nearly

everything

today.

rain or snow, heat or cold.

we need

to get back to where

we were before.

you know.

clean air and water,

no people, just

dinosaurs.

a wave from the car

i'll call you,

i tell her, but i don't.

whatever

we had

has ended. not in a furious

battle of right

and wrong,

but with a whimper,

a wave

from the car,

so long.

you can leave now

as she

lay in her rented bed

in hospice,

being fed with

a baby spoon,

and a drip

from a tube, i'd

whisper into her ear,

you can go

now mom. 

it's okay.

no need to hang on

like this,

her brown eyes

searching

for something, her

body a cruel 

pile

of skin and bones.

let go, i'd tell her.

it's time. 

you can leave now.

go on. go home.

strange love

swimming in the ocean

at night, without a moon,

is different.

it's a new kind

of love, with darkness

being the difference.

the water is the same.

it's cold, and the waves

keep breaking upon

us. it's unsafe and unwise

to go in there,

and yet we do.

strange love once more

making us insane.

the recipe

folded

in a book of recipes

i find

her recipe for stew.

undated, but

stained

and frayed,

often used.

a dead sea scroll

of sorts.

i'd never it seen before

when she

was here.

beef cubed, onions

and carrots.

broth,

salt and pepper,

mushrooms.

a cup of wine.

she was always holding

back so much

that would please

me.

her foot always straddling

the door.

picnic at the lake

we find

on the path the white

stones

of bones.

a skull.

a wolf perhaps.

a fox.

no blood, or ravaged

skin,

but teeth

intact.

something has died

here,

along the way

to the lake

where we'll open

our sandwiches

and eat,

drink our lemonade

and tell

each other how

beautiful

it all is.

the destination wedding

i get a wedding

invitation

to a wedding in Italy.

it's a brochure

and a pamphlet,

coupons are provided.

rates of rooms, 

dining

possibilities are suggested

by the bride to be

and groom.

a giant map of Italy

is inside.

there's a picture

of a gondola

and another one of

a bowl of raviolis,

next to a loaf

of bread

and bottle of red wine.

it's his third

wedding and her number

five. maybe

i 'll wait for the next one,

something a little closer.

the maids are coming on thursday, maybe

i hesitate in using the word

maid,

because

now you're supposed to say

housecleaners,

or something,

but my maid Milagro

is late again.

sometimes she arrives

every thirty days,

and other times,

it's two weeks.

8 am, or two pm.

who knows.

i'll get a text at midnight

telling

me tomorrow.

she's all over the place.

i try to reason with her

to set a schedule, but she

yells at me

in Spanish,

and says that i don't understand.

she's right i don't.

i just shake my head

and leave the key under

the mat and go to work.

cleaning up of course, before

she gets there.

the studio apartment

when starting out,

with your

own small place, a studio

apartment

facing

the dumpsters

in the buildings driveway.

your furniture

was cheap

and wobbly.

but you made due.

everything from Ikea,

or Target.

sheets, cups

and plates.

silverware that you will

eventually use

to open cans

of paint.

the walls were thin

and the ceiling

leaked.

were they the good old days?

not really.

but you slept well

and you ate.

do this to live longer

my neighbor,

Ella May, has a YouTube

channel

now,

who doesn't?

something about

plants, my

aunt Delores has one too.

red sauce is her

thing.

my mother

is on Rumble.

and Tik Tok, telling

the world

the benefits of vinegar

when she cleans.

my cousin is on

Instagram.

my sister's on Twitch.

everyone is making

a little money

telling

us how to live.

i saw an ex wife on

there the other

day.

telling everyone about

red light therapy

while

standing on her head.

let's keep them sick

let's keep them

fat

and sick,

diabetic.

the members of the board

at general

mills

all agree upon.

more sugar, more chemicals

they can't pronounce.

do we have a red

cereal yet?

why not? get on it.

we need a chip

like frito-lays does.

the kind

you can't stop eating.

with no

Nutrional value.

we need processed foods

that will

keep the doctors busy

with

pharmaceuticals.

come on now, we're

all in this together.

only 70 percent of the people

are obese.

let's go.

we can do better.

let's get back to work.

more donuts, more cookies,

more sodas, more

cakes and pies.

let's pour that vegetable

oil

down their throats until

they burst

at the sides.

can i get an Amen.

alright, now get to the labs.

we have people

to kill.

san francisco and elsewhere

it's as if

a great war has occurred

the wounded

and broken

have washed upon

the shores

of cities.

the hulls of them

lie about,

the lifeless

souls

stretched or balled

upon

the sidewalks, the stores.

shell shocked,

lost

and sunken,

though now back

home.

half mast

my father,

long retired from the navy,

but not life,

calls me late at night,

he sounds

out of breath.

i can hear a woman in the background,

his new

girlfriend.

he's ninety-five,

she's eighty-nine.

he whispers

that i have to send him

some Viagra,

pronto.

he thinks my cell phone

is a pill

dispensary.

i'm having trouble

here.

i've never had this problem

before.

i tell him no.

call your doctor in the morning

and ask him.

i'm not going to be the one

to kill you.

he hangs up

angry and calls my sister

in Florida.

she says no too.

he's got six more children

to try

and go to.

i can't sleep the whole night

because of this.

trying to shake the visual

out of my head.

there's ketchup on your shirt

do you tell people

about

the spinach between

their teeth,

or

that there's a flag of toilet

paper

stuck to their

shoe, being

dragged around.

do you inform them

that they've

missed a button

on their shirt or blouse, 

or

that their

shoe is untied, or that

there's shaving

cream in their ear.

depends on if you

like them, or

not.

under a spell

we go to the comedy

club

to see the hypnotist

do his act.

in no time

he's putting people under

and 

asking them to cluck

like chickens.

with a few

strident suggestions

they believe

and obey his every

command.

he reminds me so much

of todays politicians.

dressing up for the day

i dip

my foot out the door,

testing

the air.

hot or cold?

no rain in sight.

what to wear?

i find

shorts from yesterday

on the floor.

a t-shirt

from the top drawer.

socks?

sure, why not.

it's good 

to get dressed up

once in a while.

the Rolex watch

when flush

he bought a lot of things

he didn't need.

another house,

another car,

a Rolex watch.

fancy clothes and appliances.

all gone now, but

the watch.

he wears it when

going out

to bars along the beach.

shiny bait on a hook,

still biding time,

still promising

a dream.

nothing to see here

i find

footprints

in the garden along

the edge

of house,

shoes have

been here beside

the window.

they were looking in

to see

what i was

up to.

but i'm sure they

left

early, bored

in seeing little,

leaving disappointed,

with more houses

to look into.

burning leaves

the winter

fire

burns in the barrel

in the back yard.

the way my father did it,

when he

raked leaves.

there was a look in his eyes,

standing

by the flames,

dipping his hands across

the yellowed

heat.

some childhood

memory

that would come back

to him.

sometimes

there would

be tears on his cheeks.

was it lost love,

or just ashes and tinder

from

burning leaves?

you're free to go now

when have

you not been doing paper work?

at what age

did it begin.

the first school day,

until now,

yes,

even now, there's

the pencil,

the paper,

the eraser, the ink pen.

loans,

and agreements.

marriages

and divorces.

cars to buy,

cars to sell.

and now this document,

when things

don't end well.

the final decree.

sign here.

dot the i, cross the t.

initial

here and here

and here.

don't forget page two

and page

three.

you're free to go now.

updating one's social pages

i think

there's trouble in paradise,

as they like

to say.

she's no longer posting

on her

social pages

pictures of

her trips, her dinners,

her 

everyday

encounters with her

significant other,

her one

and only true love

she used to say.

two smiling faces

together.

where are

the hearts in the sand

and snow?

an image of a ring

has disappeared, the posting

of a date.

everything has vanished.

how quickly

it all seems to unfold.

lips finding lips in the rain

we get out of the rain.

the wind

folding

our umbrella upon us.

we're wet.

but strangely happy

to be under this awning

together.

in fact we're closer

than we've ever been.

our lips find each other

as the rain pours,

the wind blows.

it's a wonderful thing,

this storm.

hopefully there are more

storms ahead.

marching left

when she got

her third

cat.

i began to worry.

and then

she let her hair grow

grey,

and began to drink

herbal tea.

she started to play

the banjo

and whittle

ash trays and salad

bowls from fallen

trees.

she began to recycle,

and grow

tomatoes

and celery.

who was she now

with the rainbow flag,

hanging

from her porch.

this new person

was all new

to me.

the fast talk car wash

bedazzled by

the fast

talk,

and cheap promises

by Raul,

i erroneously

sign up for unlimited

carwashes

until the end of time.

i stare

at the small print as i

wait for my

car to arrive

at the other end

of whirring machines

that are spinning

and streaming

water upon

my car.

i go in to ask for a cancellation

of the unlimited

washes,

but am told i have

to do this online.

find the web site and

scan the bar code

the young girl says.

seven hours later,

i sigh. no luck, i'm

apparently stuck with

a forty dollars a month

payment

for a car

i hardly drive, but

forever clean and shiny.

i want my money back

you again, really?

the gypsy fortune teller

says to me

as i go in to get my

money back.

everything you

told me was wrong,

i tell her.

sorry, she says, no

refunds, and points

to the sign

above the door.

you said she was going

to be the love of

my life.

my soul mate.

she ended up being

the worst person i've

ever known,

an evil lying witch.

the gypsy shrugs, my bad,

she says.

you can't get them all

right. i had a bad day,

like you never made

a mistake?

geeze marie.

tell you what,

i'll give you a free

reading today,

no charge.

have a seat, relax, let

me go get my new crystal

ball,

it just arrived by UPS.

amazon.

haven't even opened

the box yet.

maybe just a little lizard on my leg

i see a line

of drunk

people standing outside

the open all

night

tattoo parlor.

young couples holding

hands,

old men

and women with

their sleeves

rolled up

reciting words that

they want

inscribed.

something poignant

and wise.

they discuss

Chinese symbols,

or birds,

or reptiles, some

sort of animal

that they want forever

crawling up

their arms

and thighs.

the truck pulls up

to drop

off another drum of

ink.

it's a gold mine.

love language

she wants

to know my love language,

what's

that, i ask her.

you know, she says.

are you a giver,

a taker.

are you touchy

feely,

or do you need your

own space.

are you a verbal

kind of guy?

depends,

i tell her.

depends on what?

on who i'm with

at the time.

i'm like the weather

when it comes

to that pseudo psychology

kind of thing.

sometimes it rains

and other times

it's a clear blue sky.

towards the end

i remember

my grandfather 

near the end, making

life easy

on himself

with his Sansa belt

pants

and loafers.

his pull over shirts.

he was done

with buttons

and shoelaces.

snaps and zippers.

belts.

eyebrows

and nails all needing

a trim.

sometimes he wouldn't

even get dressed

in the morning,

he'd walk around with a

blanket

and a cup

of instant coffee

in his hand, telling you

about some

war he might have

been in.

tell me how you really feel

you

read about the woman

who slowly

poisoned

her husband

by sprinkling arsenic

in his

cereal each morning.

just enough

to make him ill,

but not enough to kill him

right away.

and he pouring 

anti-freeze into her

smoothies.

not altering

the taste, but just a

splash,

to send her reeling

when at last

it kicked in.

they found them both

on the porch

swing, holding hands

as they died,

each never really knowing

what the other

was thinking.

a great spot to be buried

as if picking

out furniture for a room,

the drapes

and rug,

the pictures

to be hung.

she stands at the gate

of Memorial

Park

and says, i want to be

buried here.

look at the view.

the trees, and flowers.

i can see

the river

from that little hill

right over

there.

maybe a nice stone

bench beside me

so that others can visit,

and sit,

while we talk.

having a field day

are there

conspiratorial dark

forces

controlling

the world.

infecting us with

ways

of thought

and behavior.

who's at the wheel.

big pharma,

big corporations

the government,

the dark

web?

is it Elon,

or Gates,

Zuckerman, perhaps?

or just the devil

himself

having a field

day.

the blank canvas

i can't fathom

having

the skill and talent

of an artist.

his or her steady hand,

the minds

eye,

deciding on blue

or green.

when to dip the brush

into red,

or white.

it's a strange

and wonderful gift

to take

the blank canvas,

and bring

life.

having a bad day

dogs too,

have bad days.

they wake up grumpy

staring out

the window

at the rain.

ruminating about some

dog they

were once in love with.

the beagle that got

away.

they need some time

alone.

i don't try

to rub their ears,

or belly.

i don't throw them a ball,

or sweet talk them.

i say okay, okay.

no worries, then

i carefully

go up to them

and lay down

a nice new bone.

freshly baked dough

i go to the German

bakery

on Lee Highway just

to feel

the buns,

the rolls, to handle

the merchandise.

so soft and squishy,

the dough.

baguettes and croissants.

my culinary Achille's heel.

warm and freshly baked,

right out of the oven.

after a round or two

of circling the store,

my hands all over

the merchandise,

the baker comes out and

chases me with his

rolling pin.

they put my picture

on the door.

jealous of his yard

i admire

the way you've trimmed

your hedges,

cut

clean

and squared

the shrubbery.

and that one over there.

pointed

like a tall

hat on a roman

soldier,

and the yard, the lines

that criss cross,

so green,

weedless

and wonderful.

it reminds

of the greens at

Augusta.

please, when you have

a moment,

show me how to do that.

time for another great flood

is it the lack

of parenting, the absent father

or mother.

is it the absence of spirituality,

church,

the community.

what is it drowning the world

in chaos,

crime

and dysfunction.

technology?

staring into the abyss

of phones

with no human connections

anymore?

self indulgence,

narcissism?

the weather, maybe.

covid.

inflation,

politics.

what's made us sick

and 

unbelievably sad

and cruel?

Lazurus

where does it hurt,

she asks me,

as i lie

on the massage table

with a towel

around my waist.

everywhere,

i tell her.

she smiles and says.

you work

hard, don't you.

she lights a few candles

turns on the soft

music,

then begins,

from the head down

to my feet

massaging me,

her hands are strong

and nimble,

the oil warm,

without a word,

slowly she brings me back 

to life again.

the ice man

we'd hear

the horses pulling

the wagon

up the street and run

out into the yard.

the ice man

would ring his bell,

then

my mother would come

out with

her money

and lead

the man

around the back

of the house

to where she wanted

the block

of ice to go.

but we couldn't get

enough of

the old horses.

sway back now,

their enormous

legs,

their brown eyes.

they seemed still proud

despite

everything.

aren't you a little cutie pie

when you're a kid,

maybe one

or two

years old, elderly

people

like to muss your hair,

pinch your

cheeks

and say things like,

well, look at you.

aren't you a little

cutie pie,

they take hold of you

and raise you to the sky.

passing you around

the room.

it's almost like

they can't believe

they're still making

children,

keeping the world

alive.

here's the guy i use

as you get older

you

accumulate a rolodex

of sorts.

there's a plumber

on it,

an electrician,

a doctor or two.

your dentist.

there's a number to call

if the power goes

down,

or the cable, or

internet

is out.

there's the pharmacy,

the dog pound,

never used.

a painter.

there's the insurance

company,

the condo board,

the tree trimmers.

everyone of them useful

at some point.

even you.

the beach vacation

it was the family

vacation

to the eastern shore.

the car 

packed with suitcases

and chairs,

buckets and toys.

towels

and pillows.

the kids in the back

seat, squirming.

bellowing a

are we there yet

chorus.

a four hour drive over

the bridge and down

50, through Berlin

and Cambridge.

Salisbury.

stopping for ice cream

at the Dairy Queen

along the road.

seven days and nights.

of sand, of surf.

a hotel on the shore.

all saved in pictures,

videos,

now in boxes,

in the cellar.

on a shelf somewhere.

with

the children now grown,

the marriage

dissolved.

tell me all about your cat

just as i'm

a selective reader, so

it goes

that i'm a selective

listener too.

people often say to me,

are you listening

to me?

did you hear what

i just said?

some of it, i usually

reply, or of course,

my dear.

go on tell me more

about your cat.

it's a great story,

i can't wait for the

punch line.

is it true they have

nine lives?

this one time in band camp

you can't be

in the news anymore.

be a celebrity,

or politician, or someone

of importance

to the community

or the world,

the girl you kissed

in the ninth grade

at the drive-in,

trying to unbutton her

blouse,

will come forward

and bury you

in a grave.

the hard flush

the groom,

tipsy, stands beside me 

in the bathroom

relieving

himself

of champagne.

me too.

he's still in his tuxedo,

and me

in my once a year

black suit.

he looks over at me,

in the eyes

not down,

as custom calls for

and says,

i think i made

a mistake.

i shake my head and smile.

been there

done that

a few times, i tell him,

then give

the urinal a hard flush.

the road trip tells all

you find out early

in the game

if the relationship will go on

for the long

run.

the weekend trip

is a test.

will she ask you to stop

before you get to

the bridge

to use a bathroom?

will she bring five bags

to your one.

how will she unpack,

will she take

up the entire bathroom

with her cosmetics

and other assorted

mysterious girl things.

how long will she be

in the shower.

will she be mad when you

switch to the game

at a late hour,

after she's slipped

into something slinky

and black?

in the ways of grocery

i often wonder

as the clerk at the grocery store

bags

the goods

that i have purchased,

are they trained for

this.

does someone teach them

to separate

the meat,

the perishables.

fruits and vegetables

and what not.

setting aside such things

as bottles of ammonia

or pesticides.

each with their own

plastic bag

wrapped tight.

who told them to put

the bread on top, 

to ask

if we want to carry out

the jug of milk separately,

as they roll

the newspaper up.

do they figure it out 

naturally, by instinct,

or is there

a higher up that schools

them

in the ways of grocery?

the mail order gymnast

while looking for love

online late at night,

i meet a Russian gymnast on

a dating site

called Russiangymnasts.com.

she's beautiful

and small

and arrives in the mail

in a breathable box.

the UPS driver

sets her on the curb

beside my house.

i carry her in

and unseal box, then set

her on the couch.

immediately she catapults

herself across the room

swings on the chandelier

then does a serious

of flips and cartwheels

landing in my arms.

it's love at first sight.

the rust at work

i see the rust

on the hinges of the old gate.

i admire

its persistence.

it's work,

staying up late

to melt away the metal

in tiny orange bites

collectively.

i get it.

i fight my own rust

every day.

relentless as it is.

crossing over

there's a leak

at border and the whole

world knows

it.

they come

seeking asylum,

seeking

the dream.

they cross over.

with no job, no home,

no place to go.

thousands

upon thousands.

the country

sags, it groans,

soon it will burst

at the seams.

good will and kindness

doing us all in.

first day on the picket line

it's only

day one of the strike.

the workers

are out there with their

signs.

giddy with dance,

and smiles.

holding

their cups of coffee,

their

food and drinks,

their music on.

it's early in the game.

they want more pay,

they want to work

less time.

they want

more this, more that.

but winter is coming.

snow,

and rain, ice.

we'll see how long

this lasts,

when the bills aren't paid

and the baby 

is crying.

what melts your butter?

what do you do for

fun,

she asks,

sky diving,

mountain climbing,

fishing,

golf?

taking to the high seas

in a kayak?

where do you find joy

in your life.

what do you look forward

to each day,

each night?

what melts your butter,

my friend.

i smile and say,

a good book,

then

the afternoon nap.

who's leg is this?

i get a text image

of a woman's

leg.

a long bare leg,

tanned,

a red high heel

on the foot.

no words,

no name attached,

and the number

is one

i'm not familiar with.

i go through

the rolodex

in my mind

of legs i have known.

do i take

a chance and ask,

who is this?

to whom does this

leg belong?

he played centerfield

i remember

him

drifting back, back,

back in the grass field

to magically snag a

long fly

ball from going over

the fence

in deep center field.

a final out.

it's as clear

a memory

as any that i have.

so it saddens me to

hear that

he's died

in alone in a Florida trailer,

his last home

of kidney failure.

drugs

getting the best of him.

he was an amazing

ball player.

the briefcase

i had a brief case

once of

brown leather.

i kept pens and

blank sheets of paper

inside.

occasionally

a sandwich for lunch.

not much else.

it felt

good to snap

it open,

then close it,

to let it swing importantly

by my side.

it's in a closet

somewhere now,

empty

except for

the dried ink of pens

still inside.

wind in your sails

the wind is in your sails

when young,

you hardly

need

to work at it, it all comes

naturally,

with ease.

you move fast

through the water,

you set your sights on

land,

your goals,

using the stars to guide you

along.

it's a mystical journey,

everything

and everywhere

still unknown,

and then suddenly

you're old.

the wind has died down,

so now you row,

two oars in the sea,

then one.

five dollars a night

the worst

hotel i ever stayed in 

was on

the boardwalk

in ocean city, Maryland.

the Broadmoor.

1969.

a home for run aways

and drunks

for the most part.

five dollars a night.

no sheets,

no pillows.

beat up and stained

old mattresses

with prison stripes.

bunk beds.

there were

open windows with

no screens.

a bathroom down

the hall

shared by the whole

floor,

with a toilet that had

trouble flushing.

but the view was great.

we could see

the boardwalk,

and the beach,

the ocean stretched

out from side to side.

a nice breeze would flow

through the window

holding the aroma

of fried chicken and

French fries.

the sugary clouds of cotton

candy.

it wasn't a room for

sleeping necessarily,

it was more of a place

to pass out.

all spice?

i look at the top shelf,

almost

unreachable as i stretch

my arm

and hand

to grab

a few small jars of

spices.

spices i rarely use,

left over

by a previous but

temporary tenant..

i turn them over to

sprinkle some

out, but they're dried

and jammed.

clumps tumble around

inside.

garlic salt, celery,

hot pepper,

basil in a jar, bay leaves.

what's this?

all spice.

how is that possible.

using my old hook

shot,  i fling each across

the kitchen

to swish into the can.

game over.

they're watching us

there are cameras

everywhere. everyone

has one.

they're in the sky,

in your car,

on your bike,

on each corner.

on each

house,

there is an eye on

everything you do.

even your phone is

watching and listening

to you.

there are no secrets

anymore.

be careful

with what you say

and do.

your mileage may vary

the world

is 

telling you that your

mileage

may vary

with nearly everything

you buy.

the numbers

may not add up,

the calorie count,

the amount

of sugar

or carbs, or seed oils

embedded

in the so called heart

healthy

product.

can anyone be trusted

anymore.

four out five

doctors used to recommend

Lucky Strikes

and which whiskey

you should

pour.

reserved seating

we settle

into our reserved seats

at the theater,

dead center in the back

that we ordered

three days

in advance.

the chairs are

big and comfy, pleather

maybe,

with cup holders

that move mechanically

forward

and back,

depending on

how much room you

need.

i put the enormous

tub of popcorn

in my lap, the drinks

are in their holders.

she's in charge of

the twizzlers

and junior mints. napkins.

just twenty more minutes

of ads

and previews before

the show starts, 

i tell her 

we have one more chance

for a quick restroom

dash.

no longer the boss of me

when the mind

slips, when words 

are suddenly unretrievable,

the keys lost,

a bill

forgotten,

and the refrigerator

is 

the place where you find

your phone

and watch.

you start making notes

for yourself

and sticking

them everywhere.

in the end you're

an employee

of life,

no longer a boss.

pretty please, with sugar on top

i just want

a thimble of regret,

remorse,

a tiny

smidgen of an apology

an

oops, my bad.

that's all i want out

of you.

not a full confession,

or falling down

on your sword.

just a little sorry,

okay?

can you give me that.

pretty please,

with sugar

on top?

the long dismal letter

when angry

and hurt,

i need to write 

it out in a long

letter

detailing

the reasons for my

disappointment,

and dismay,

but when

i'm happy

with things, content

and

easy going, 

a phone call will do

or maybe just

a shout out,

like yo, or hey.

as the plot slows

does the book

put me to sleep, as

the plot slows, 

or is it

just me

being tired,

being up late with

the last light on.

is it the comfort of

the bed,

the pillow,

the cool sheets

with the windows

open, or is

it the hard day behind

me, the hard

day ahead.

what's making my eyes

flutter and close

as i turn another page.

maybe all of it

is making

me dose.

bird brain

it was mistake,

but when she returned from

Costa Rica

on a new age

mumbo jumbo spiritual retreat,

she wanted a bird.

a colorful big bird

who could

speak.

she bought a giant cage

for the living

room, big enough

to fit three people in.

the bird learned our names.

he sang, he whistled,

he fluttered his clipped wings.

but he was a biter too.

having bit my thumb

when i tried to reach in

to pet him.

before i read the newspaper

she'd have it

stretched out

on the bottom of his cage

to catch his

endless droppings.

and then he started to make

a loud siren noise

at all hours of the night.

what can we do,

i asked my then wife?

this thing will outlive us.

we can't just put him outside,

he can't fly. she said.

we can't eat him either, i

added in, there's very little

meat on birds like that.

which made her roll her

eyes and sleep in the other

room, that night.

finally we found a new home

for him on e-bay.

lowest bidder got the prize.

i got out of my cage too

not long after that.

Oh Canada

she reminded me

that she was from Canada

nearly

every day.

i grew tired of it, though.

the maple

leaf sweaters

and hats,

the giant maple leaf flag

on her porch.

always with the maple syrup

and talking

about the Mounties

and herds of Moose.

oh, you people don't know

what snow is,

she'd say.

speaking

in some sort of French and

English

mish mash.

she'd sing all the verses

of   Oh Canada

on Canada Day

and would refuse to participate

in the 4th of July,

or Thanksgiving.

those are your holidays,

she'd say. not mine.

and me left behind

i think about

John nearly every day.

his guitar,

his beard, his bohemian

nature,

his kindness

and beret.

the Fiat he was always

working on.

his cat.

we'd talk on the phone

like girlfriends.

covering

everything

under the sun.

we worked together,

were poor

together.

we shot hoops together,

played sandlot games

throughout

the summers.

we were

best man in each other's

wedding.

strange to have him go

at such a young

age.

and me left behind.