A Rosebud moment

do we all

have a Rosebud moment,

ala Citizen Kane,

as we take

our final breath

in a dream like state,

muttering

about some childhood

sled

before death?

perhaps, but

my last words, i truly

believe,

will having nothing

to do with a sled,

but maybe

something about

the Radio City Music

Hall,

Rockettes, and

how they kicked those legs.

you can't handle the truth

something

is wrong with you, isn't there?

my friend Judy

asked me

as i dribbled coffee

onto my shirt.

yeah, i think so, i told her.

i can't sleep at night.

it's the news.

the weather, my ex's,

my five children.

you have five children?

no, not really, i'm making

that part up.

like i said, she said,

there's something seriously

wrong with you.

you make a lot of stuff up,

don't you?

they don't even know we're lying

i told a woman

once,

that i met online

that i used to be an astronaut.

that i had

gone to the moon.

she believed me.

why not?

i posted pictures of me

standing

next to the lunar

landing

module and the American

flag,

in proud salute,

as the blue marble

of earth floated

in the background.

she invited me to one

of her fancy

parties up on Foxhall

road.

she said

i'd be an interesting guest

to include

with her assortment

of politicians

and generals,

movie stars and the rest.

i didn't go though,

because i had already booked

a party with

former workers

for Ringling Brothers,

having told them i used to

get shot out of a cannonball

back in the day,

in the big tent.

life is funny like that

i googled my

father

once and found out that he

had recently

won the Virginia state lottery.

a few hundred

thousand dollars.

they had him on a stage

holding a giant

oversized check for 

the photo shoot.

he looked bewildered,

worried perhaps that his

nine children

would find out.

but below his name

and the lottery photo was

my older brother's name,

with a junior at the end.

and an article about how

he was trying to pass

a law to keep gambling

out of 
Tennessee.

life is funny like that.

the winning tickets

when i was  kid,

i used to go

to the racetrack with my friend

Ritchie,

the harness

races in Baltimore.

i remember his father

in his dark

sunglasses,

his white shirt

and black suit.

he used to buy us candy.

he won a lot it seemed.

it's almost

as if he knew

ahead of time which

horse would win.

standing there with his

hands on hips

smoking a fat cigar.

i read about him years

later in the newspaper,

his hands

behind his back,

being led out of a nightclub

by the police.

his sunglasses

still on.

i have no idea what

happened to his kid.

go fly a kite

when someone is mad

at you

and they tell you

with a wave of their hand

to go fly a kite,

listen to them.

Ben Franklin's wife

said that to Ben

when he annoyed her

with his stamp

and coin collection

from France,

and viola, it wasn't

long before we had

electricity and lights.

the animal house

she lived

across the street from the zoo.

i called her

zoo girl.

at night

i could hear

the monkeys

chattering, 

i could hear the elephants

doing

what elephants do.

i could hear the lions

roar,

the seals clap their

paws together.

i could even hear 

the rhinoceros's snore.

but that's not what kept

me up night.

it was her radiator,

seventy-five years old

spitting and groaning

upon her floor.

got milk

once upon

a time

there was a cow.

and that

cow

gave milk

if you got under it

and squeezed it's

teats

with a bucket

below it's belly.

you got milk.

fresh from the source,

milk.

there wasn't soy milk,

or almond milk,

or a dozen

other man made,

plant base

concoctions calling

themselves milk.

there was no

skim milk,

or lactose free

milk.

it was just milk.

white

milk, pure and wholesome

and if you whipped

it, hard enough,

you had cream,

then cheese.

and that was it.

that was the whole story

of milk.

bricks through the window

the woman

down the street, the mayor

of our

cul de sac,

the brown shirt

who goes by the name

of Becky,

tells me to take the blue

and white

Christmas

lights out of my window.

i know what you're

doing, she says,

you're making a political

statement,

you're taking a side

aren't you?

well,  we'll have none of

that here on this block,

on my watch.

now unplug those lights

and get some real Christmas

lights,

or you're going to get

fined by the board everyday

until they're out,

and or a brick

through your window.

do hear me, little mister?

and if elected

as president

my first act as commander

in chief

would be to outlaw

leaf blowers,

followed by

loud motorcycles,

and then

i'd start working on

crime,

the borders,

on poverty and hunger,

terrorism,

cartels and fentanyl

inflation, homelessness

and teachers

that actually teach,

outlawing wokeism,

not to mention refunding

the police

and allowing free speech.

that's day one.

the second day i'll probably

take a long nap.

the clean car road trip

there is something about

a clean car,

washed and waxed

that makes

one feel as if it runs better.

the engine seems

to purr after so much

love and tlc.

the inside

smells like wintergreen,

the black wall

tires gleam from

the silicone spray.

the windows are clear

from vinegar and newspaper.

grandad's recipe.

maybe we should gas it up

and take a drive 

to the eastern shore,

eat some seafood, get

a room and make love

to the sound of the ocean

through the open window,

the open doors.

we're so so sorry

the illogic

of evil is showing,

that after

raping,

and killing, beheading

babies

stuffing them alive

into ovens

and

slaughtering hundreds

in their

sleep,

at the breakfast

table, and at a music

festival in peace,

that now,

a few,

handful of kidnapped

innocents

are released.

see how kind we are,

how generous

and loving

we are towards humanity?

here, please take back

this little

baby,

and this nine year

old girl.

please don't be

mad at us

anymore, please.

don't hurt us as we hide

beneath

our hospitals,

our homes, our sheets.

buying a second home

he's busy,

this red headed woodpecker

in the tree.

fat with feathers.

people are stopping

to take pictures

of him,

as he hammers loudly

his beak into

the trunk.

digging a hole, for what?

winter?

eggs?

or perhaps a second

home with a view

of the lake.

fall in love that way

it's best to meet

people

in a train station, sitting

next to each

other

with your bags

on the floor between

your legs.

sharing so much as

strangers

often do

the icing on your cake,

not the troubles

that burden you.

when travelling

fall in love that way,

then part

still as friends, with

the hope

that forever love

still can begin.

get over yourself

no, it's

the wind, the cold.

the bitter

air, that's

the reason

my eyes are wet and

running

with tears, no, it's

not because 

of you.

so get over yourself.

it's January.

going carnivore

i always

went with the third doctor,

the outlier

when it came to what

they were

recommending

to keep us healthy.

two out of three doctors

preferred menthol

cigarettes, but not me,

i went with the Camels

non-filtered.

three packs

a day.

two out of three doctors

preferred red wine

over white, while i went

with gin and tonics,

and the occasional

shot of tequila

at the bottom of a

miller lite.

two out of three doctors

said to eat

plants and vegetables, 

salads, but

not me,

i went with steaks,

mostly sirloins and ribeyes.

finally i got 

something right.

the glue of us

what is the glue

that keeps

us together, is it love,

sex, kissing skills,

money, power?

location?

is it mutual interests.

bird watching,

or growing

flowers?

reading the same books,

listening to

the same music,

going to bed

at the same hour?

is it looks, the way

she smiles,

the way

she's honest

and forthright, 

how she melts your

butter, or is it,

how you never catch

her in a lie,

or is it her

cooking skills, her

fried chicken and mashed

potatoes, her

apple pie?

please God, no bubbles

before

any job i do, hanging 

wallpaper,

i get on my knees

and pray

at the side of my bed

that all will go well.

i pray fervently

that the client is not a picky

knucklehead.

an anal retentive

perfectionist.

i plead to God,

that it's quality wallpaper,

that it lies

down nicely,

flat without wrinkles

or bubbles,

or misprints.

i pray that the seams

all butt

together

with no splitting.

i pray that the paper is

wipeable with no stains,

easy to cut,

easy to hang.

i pray that i don't fall

of the ladder

or cut my hand.

i can almost hear God

laughing,

and shaking His head,

saying to the angels,

oh my, not this prayer

again.

the guilt phone call

i'm waiting on the holiday

guilt phone call

from

family.

it's a yearly thing.

the why don't you

visit more,

why don't you call,

why don't

you stop by for dinner

this Sunday,

or fly

to California?

why don't you send

me some

more money

or buy me 

a new car.

that sort of thing.

but

it beats getting the hallmark

card.

a box of stockings

i go through my box

of Christmas stockings. 

all of them red

and soft with

glitter stuck to the cloth.

but each with a big cursive

letter sewn onto

the front.

a few J's, a few C's

and S's.

lots of A's and B's.

half the alphabet is

represented.

there's even an X

and the rare Y,

i think that was Yvonne

i finally find one that 

hasn't been used before.

a big M

i find the hammer and

tack it to the mantle.

next years resolution

i'm turning over

a new leaf

my friend Jimmy tells me

over drinks

at the local pub.

i'm cleaning up my act.

no more drinking

and chasing skirts.

i'm going to lose

weight.

i'm going to start going

to church again.

i'm going to read all the books

i need to read

and find out where my

children live

and not call any of their

mothers names.

i'm going to see the world

as a cup half full.

are you with me?

i raise my glass and clink

it against his.

sure. i tell him, but

didn't you say

all of this last year too?

Merry, whoops, i mean happy holidays

i'm not sure

you can say Merry Christmas

anymore

when you're out and about

on the street.

the birth

of Christ

has been diminished.

kids no

longer have

that party where

they exchange gifts.

no tree in the school,

no ornaments.

we're all walking

on eggshells these days.

even Mrs. Claus

and the elves

are nervous with what

gives.

three times around

as the dog

circles

three times before

he lies down

to sleep,

i too have my

routine before

bedtime.

it involves just

falling

into the feathered

bed,

face down,

to weep.

the lost Christmas card

lost in the mail

for years,

the Christmas card finally arrives

from my

mother,

who's been gone

for six years now.

it's from the box of five

hundred cards

that she bought years

ago

at j.c. penny's.

a snow scene, with Santa

Claus in his

sleigh

crossing a deep blue

sky

with silvery twinkling

stars around him.

i have ten of them.

each signed

love Mom,

all with the five dollar

bill

still inside.

scraping ice in the morning

each chip

of ice

on the windshield, is

slow

going.

it's taking time for

the heat

to build inside.

the bloom of my breath

against the glass

helps, but i'll

be here for a while,

bent across

the hood of the car

in the darkness

of morning.

and now, the other side.

another day another march

as the children

march

on the streets, clueless

with their

flags

and signs,

their chants.

they are birds without wings.

wasting

their precious time

when

they could be learning,

reading,

becoming

better people,

more forgiving,

more kind.

for one moment

if they could put down

their anger

and look at both sides.

as we drive by

we could see it

from

the road as we drove

by, it was

a white church.

clap boards, old timber

held

it together.

the arched roof,

the tattered cross

needing paint, but too high

up to venture

painting.

empty now, a shell

on the shore

of this

dying town.

the doors opened

to see

the turned over

pews,

the altar gone,

hymnals strewn about

the floor,

but lives must have

filled it

at one time.

people of faith,

or no faith

kneeled there,

they prayed, got married,

babies were

baptized

it was a final

stop

along the way,

before the nearby grave.

beyond the clouds

small

gems they are.

these

stars, this glimmer

far off

beyond everything

we know,

sparkling. earths

emeralds and diamonds.

rubies.

they have

nothing on what lies

beyond

the clouds.

the jewelry

box

of God.

the human chessboard

it seems

that evil has our hands

tied

behind our back,

we're blindfolded

and 

starved,

hidden in some tunnel

waiting to be

released,

to go home, to go back.

even the devil

can quote the Bible

when he

needs to, when

he wants

the world to believe

that what he

does isn't so bad.

played like a pawn

on a chessboard.

what's black is white,

what's white

is black.

the yearly visit

it's a yearly

thing.

the car

colonoscopy.

the sticker about to expire

on the windshield

of your automobile,

taking it to the garage

where a man

barks

at you if you've pulled

up too far

in the inspection line.

telling you

to leave your keys

and registration.

there's a wrench

in his hand,

grease on his face.

he appears to be suffering

from dental issues.

at last he waves you

forward

into the darkened hole

of the stump like

building.

you hate this visit,

almost as much as he

hates his job.

maybe tomorrow

the mistake

we make so often is

that we

stay too long

at the proverbial fair.

whether in love gone

sour,

or a job we hate.

the room we rent.

we delay

tomorrow, but hoping

and wishing

that things

will get better.

we don't want to quit,

surrender.

we press on, gritting

our teeth,

we dig in.

but in the end we're

just digging our

own grave.

surrender

as the leaves

carpet the yard in an

autumn

quilt of color,

i imagine

that the neighbors

think i've lost it.

gone mad.

i hear them

out there with their

blowers,

their rakes,

and bags, collecting

what's fallen

in their yards, but

not me.

i'm done with that.

i've surrendered.

let nature

take its course.

smaller portions

a smaller

portion does the trick now.

having lost

the sense

of taste

and smell because

of a cold,

and the chronic travails

of a stuffy

nose,

my appetite has waned.

i settle for this,

this small dish,

hot or cold.

as you get things done

despite the winter

slash

holiday blues, things still have

to get done.

the plants

need watering.

the dog

has to go on his walk.

there are bills

on the table.

dishes and clothes

that need to be washed.

there is little time,

to sit

and ponder 

the weight of life, 

the trouble underfoot,

so you carry it with you

as you get

things done.

the fading lights

he did

a little acting

in his day.

dinner theater mostly,

community

playhouses.

Hamlet in the round

while people

ate

roast beef

and drank bad wine.

he often quoted Shakespeare

or Eugene O'Neil

randomly

in conversation.

it was in his

blood, this acting

thing,

the call of the lights,

the stage.

i saw him at the mall

the other day,

getting his steps in.

he was wearing a long

blue cape,

reciting lines, rehearsing

for his next play.

the demonic spell of Cinnabon

how can

you not stop at the rest

stop

on the Jersey Turnpike

after nine

hours of driving

and get a cup

of coffee and a Cinnabon?

for twenty miles

the signs have been persuading

you in neon

letters to stop soon.

the demonic

pull of sugar

beckons you to put on

your turn

signal and park.

there's little one can

do when

this spell comes over you.

conflicting prayer

i see

a group of young children

out in the street

staring up

at the grey sky.

it's Sunday

and they are praying hard

for snow.

their mittened

hands

pressed together 

pleading

for a foot or two of

a cold white

blizzard

that will cancel school.

i'm inside,

praying for the opposite.

xmas in the city

although there's

a string of Christmas

lights that adorn

the bars

on the windows,

and a wreathe on the door

of the convenient store,

it does not feel warm

and welcoming.

there are cameras

in every corner,

the lone employee

is protected inside 

a bullet proof glass cube

with a small

opening to slide your

card or cash through.

will your car

still be there

when you leave with your

bread and milk, 

will there be

a gun

in your ribs, a hooded man

or two

asking

for your wallet,

your phone, your keys?

it's Christmas

again in northeast dc.

more than a few regrets

i regret a lot of things

in my life,

making bad

decisions about work

and relationships,

cars i've bought,

clothes, that plaid shirt

for instance

with orange stripes,

and places to live.

what was i thinking

renting an apartment

near the railroad tracks?

but right now my

biggest regret is eating

at that Ethiopian

restaurant last night,

and ordering something

i couldn't pronounce.

Sweet Jesus, forgive me 

for all my sins,

I murmur in tears,

lying on the cold

bathroom floor

with my hands clutching

the porcelain rim.

Christmas in July

my mother

who was on a strict budget

set by her nefarious

second husband,

Hitler, you may

have heard of him,

would finish her Christmas

shopping in July

and tell us all about it.

her basement would

be stacked with meticulously

wrapped

presents, bows and ribbons, etc.

gifts to all her children,

grandchildren,

and others. i'm sure

the dollar store misses her

dearly.

the holiday dazed and confused

i agree with you,

it does

feel like Tuesday, it's got that

whole day

after Monday

feel to it.

a day before the middle

of the week, 

but it's not.

it's Sunday.

maybe we should leave

the house

today,

after we throw

the turkey carcass

in the woods,

get some fresh air,

see human

beings beside each other.

we've had the tv on

for so long

i don't know how to turn

it off.

those small fluffy animals

beware

of the small animal.

the fluffy furry

thing on the side

of the road,

striped or non-striped

they'll do

anything to live.

if they can't

run, or escape from

you,

they'll rip your lungs

out Jim.

they have teeth

and claws,

some like porcupines

have spikes

to throw at you.

don't even make

eye contact

with their kind.

with a scoop of vanilla icecream

do i miss

the arguing, the fights,

the disagreements?

the tears

and anger?

the lies?

do i pine over

anything

about you, about us

being together.

not really.

although at times

i do reminisce about

your apple pie.

none of it my plan

strange

how quickly the city changes.

buildings

gone,

concrete and iron

disappearing.

trees

and shrubs, the old

dime

store,

the park and playground,

no longer

there. the place

where we met

so long ago.

all those memories

washed

away

with the big hand of

time. none of it

my plan.

circle the lake

it was cold

in the city, but we didn't mind.

the sun

was out.

the park was crowded.

but we had

our coffee,

our paper,

our toasted bagels,

and it was Saturday.

we had a plate

of empty hours

before us and in no

rush

to do anything. to do

nothing,

but walk and bask in

the sun, to

circle the lake.

when they play you

she used

to throw hints my way,

and say things like, oh my,

i love that scarf

that woman is wearing.

so silky and luxurious.

it wasn't long before

i'd find

the same exact scarf and

give it to her

for no reason.

or she'd say,

i love dark chocolate

with almonds,

the next day she'd

have a big bar

of chocolate on her pillow.

wouldn't it be nice

to lie at the beach

in the sun

and drink pina coladas

all day, she said

one night at dinner.

the next week we were

in Cancun.

just yesterday she pointed

out to me

a beautiful white

Mercedes Benz. oh my God,

she said,

that is my dream car.

then a light went on in my

head,

finally i understood what

was going on here.

game over.

the dwindling Christmas card list

my Christmas card

list is

down

to three.

i look at the thirty-five

names

that i've crossed out

over the years.

dead,

dead,

dead.

no longer in contact

with.

disappeared from 

the face

of the earth.

mad at me.

mad at me.

mad at me.

won't return calls.

they owe me money.

i owe them money.

in prison.

in rehab.

lost at sea.

they'll know who did it

one of the ex wives

said to me

once as we

were going through

the usual

marital spats,

while eating dinner,

she said,

that if anything ever happened

to her,

and she disappeared,

they would know that i did it?

huh?

i said.

what are you talking about.

i'm just saying, she said.

it's always

the boyfriend or the husband

that gets rid

of his wife,

or girlfriend.

they find them in a swamp

in Jersey,

or behind a brick

wall in the basement.

every episode of Dateline

tells you that.

so, i just want you to know

that you wouldn't

get away with it.

okay, i tell her.

is there anymore pot roast

in the kitchen?

this is really delicious.

have you taken your meds

today, by the way?

dial 911

everyone is scared.

and how

did we get this way?

our parents

for starters.

telling us to not talk

to strangers.

don't touch

that dead animal

in the street, look both

ways before

crossing.

zip up your coat, or

you'll catch

your death of cold.

our teachers

showing us how to hide

under our

desks when

the H-bomb drops.

telling us that

if you don't study, you'll

fail and be

a bum

under the bridge like

your cousin Eddie.

eat this, don't eat that.

chew your food, or

you'll choke.

say your prayers,

brush your teeth, you

want teeth when you get old,

don't you?

if someone breaks

in, there's no time to load

your father's gun,

there's a baseball

bat in the hall closet.

use that, or just climb

out the window

and run. dial 911.

never leaving the nest

some kids

never

leave the nest. never

fly away

and build their own,

never laying

eggs.

despite the college

degree

the car, the clothes,

the food,

the bed, they've

never had to struggle,

or work too

hard.

why leave when

there's the basement,

or the upper room,

the mom

or dad, or both,

keeping

them safe and warm.

the meals cooked, 

the laundry done.

why leave, 

and fly into the unknown,

when you can have

this instead.

is this who they think i am?

when the boss

comes around to your cubicle

in the office,

and asks you

if you'd like to play Santa

Claus this

year

at the annual office party,

you hesitate,

giving him a jolly

laugh,

and tell him that you'll

think about it.

when he walks away,

you feel the long white

beard on your face,

pull at the belt

around your ever increasing

waist, and think,

is this who they think i am?

it's a good place

there are days,

sometimes weeks where you

no longer

feel the need

to reach out to anyone,

being alone

is enough.

you no longer

ask for

forgiveness or feel  the need

to forgive.

you are free

of the past, unworried

about the future.

settled in the now.

it's a good place.

making sandwiches for the PCH team

in order to collect

my 4.5

million dollars from

the Publishers Clearinghouse

prize package,

my Jamaican friend,

Mr. Lexus,

instructs me to put ten thousand

dollars in cash

in a box,

and send it to his mule

in New York.

i have to put the bills between

pages in a magazine,

and double wrap

the box to protect it from

being x-rayed. plus bubble wrap.

it makes sense.

paying the taxes early is how

it's done with the PCH,

Mr. Lexus tells me.

i also need a receipt so that he

can track the package

as it makes its way to NYC

he promises to deliver my winning

prize money

and the Mercedes Benz,

early next week after

the box of money arrives.

i tell him that i can't wait

to meet him, finally after

talking to him for three weeks.

boring him with stories about

the bunions on my feet

and the trouble with blue jays

in the bird feeder bullying

all the little birds.

i tell him i'm going to make

sandwiches, for him

and his team when they arrive,

and a jug

of strawberry Kool-Aid.

i narrow it down to

egg salad, tuna fish and ham

on rye with cheese.

thank you, he says.

i love you Emily.

the feeling is mutual, i tell him,

as i dial up the FBI.

get used to it

and yet,

there's not a whisper

of

complaint

from

the bird,

the ant, the snake,

the bear

in the woods,

the raccoon, or

beaver.

not a hint of anguish

from the lion,

or deer

as each

make their way

through life.

it's only us making

noise

about the struggle,

about the strife.

forgiving lateness

the milk

man is

tardy with his bottles

of cream

and juice,

butter,

a carton of eggs.

the rooster crowed two

hours ago.

the newspaper

boy,

taking his good old

time

slinging my newspaper

towards my

porch

finally.

the mail is late too,

i see

him coming up the walk

slouched

by the heavy

bag on his shoulder.

unhappy with Christmas.

i don't dare

look at my watch.

pumpkin old spice aftershave

i buy

some Old Spice

after shave at the grocery store.

i'm surprised it's

still on the shelf after

all these years,

but this bottle is

pumpkin Old Spice,

a seasonal selection

for the holidays.

there's a hint of nutmeg in it.

it's a hit with the old

ladies on the subway

as i head into town

to shop.

they all want to sit

next to me, and tell

me recipes for holiday

desserts.

one tells me that her husband

used to wear that same

cologne before he

went off to war

in 1944.

they ask me if i'm married

or single,

i tell them no, not married

but i am on the prowl.

which makes them laugh

and giggle, all

gathered around me

like school girls

in the playground.

pumpkin

old spice after shave.

it's the bomb.

so, what have we learned?

so what have

we learned, i ask my therapist

as i write

her another check

for two hundred and twenty-five

dollars?

what have we learned

in today's session?

i get up from the couch,

lightheaded

and woozy.

confused. she hands me

a bottle of water.

so what have we learned,

i say again.

this always makes her laugh,

when i say this.

will this ever end?

i ask her, will we ever get

to the bottom of this

troubling

anxiety that i feel?

i hope not, she says, i just

put a down

payment on a new boat.

just shut up

my rich uncle

leaves me a large sum of money

in his will.

a million dollars

to be exact.

i was his favorite, or so

i thought.

i find out that he left all my

siblings

two million dollars a piece.

this bothers me,

i feel resentment, anger

and envy.

i can''t sleep at night

over this disturbing slight.

i tell my therapist all of this

at my weekly session,

after talking about

my mother again for thirty minutes,

and the only response i get out

of her is,

just, shut up.

the meaning of gifts

i get a tin

of assorted nuts in the mail.

cashews, almonds,

pecans,

walnuts, Brazil nuts,

peanuts and Macadamia nuts.

all salted.

i'm grateful,

but as usual i try

to read between the lines

of this gift.

what does it mean?

does someone think i'm nuts?

is that it?

or am i being too sensitive.

of course i did

send that person

a fruitcake again.

Innagodadavita

i'd write you

a love

song but i don't do music.

i have

zero talent when it comes

to playing an instrument,

or constructing a song,

piano, forget it.

guitar forget it.

although

in high school,

i could tap out 

Innagodadavita by Iron

Butterfly, on a Ford

Fairlanes dashboard

like nobody's

business.

so that's something.

the Sibley Emergency Room

i awaken from

a turkey coma in the emergency room

at Sibley

Hospital.

someone is pushing on my

chest

and scraping the dried

cranberry sauce

off my chin.

there's a tube

in me,

gurgling up fat, and

there's a needle in my arm

shooting fluids

into my body

to reduce the inflammation

from salt

and butter, gravy

and pumpkin pie.

give it to me straight, i ask

the nurse who's

putting ice on my brow,

am i going to make it?

be truthful,

we'll see she says, we'll,

see, but for

now, get some rest and don't

eat anything else

for three days.

now roll over on your back,

we've got one more

thing to do.

the airplane ruckus

there seems

to be

a lot of people losing their

minds

on planes

lately.

screaming and kicking,

causing a ruckus.

hallucinating,

seemingly

possessed by the devil.

what is it that's causing

these mental

break downs?

the long lines?

the wait, the security checks,

the pat downs,

the airport food,

salty crackers handed out

by the stew?

maybe it's the air

everyone is breathing inside

that long

metal tube.

holding your legs

and arms

together for six hours

like sardines

in an oily can can't be

healthy either,

not to mention that little

box of a bathroom

called hell.

maybe that's it.

the middle ground

i'd like

her more, if she didn't talk all

the time.

she'd like

me more

if i opened up

and spilled my guts.

let her know

what i'm really thinking.

there has to be a middle

ground somewhere.

maybe that's what

friends are for.

thank you for our bounty

as i peel

back the foil of the steaming

hot Swanson

tv dinner, baked for

thirty-seven

minutes at 350 degrees,

i say a prayer

and thank the good Lord

for once more

providing me

with a meal,

and all the other stuff.

it sort of looks like turkey

as i pull back

the curtain of tin,

potatoes

and green beans.

and what's that, a biscuit?

do tell.

but they still haven't,

even after

all these years,

found a way

to keep the applesauce

cold.

the pale girl in the shade

the pale girl

is more interesting,

the white

of her,

the calmness

of her nature.

unworried

by what she needs

or doesn't need.

there she is in the shade,

never wasting a moment

of her life

lying in the sun

with her eyes closed,

her body oiled,

there is so

much more to do,

to read,

she has so much more

to offer when

she asks you to sit,

come here and sit

in the shade with me.

winter is best

the winter

beach

is best. the deserted

sand,

the cold air changing

the color

of the ocean

to the darkest of blues.

the weathered

gulls,

the freighters

plowing

their wares to other

lands

across the endless

curve of the world.

winter is best.

the hardened shore,

the low melt

of sun, the absence

of nearly everyone,

the salt carried 

in the wind.

the long walk in thought,

a shell in hand.

the dodge dart swinger 1970

the dodge dart

swinger, circa 1970,  painted

a dull army

green

was a piece of junk.

it died on

the highway

coming off the lot.

the window was cracked.

the trunk filled up with

water when it rained,

the whole

thing shook like having

an electrical

shock treatment

when it hit sixty miles

an hour

on the interstate.

the engine smoked,

the oil leaked,

and it ate gas like it

was going out of style,

which it was at the time,

but other

than that, 

it was the car i made love

to Martha in,

which seemed to cancel

out everything

else.

whatever melts your butter

i need a menu

for all

these different religions.

Wikipedia says that there

are over four

thousand of them.

but it would be nice 

to have

a clear

and concise description

of what they all believe in.

Judaism,

Buddhism,

Islam,

Muslim,

Presbyterian,

Mormon.

you've got your Quakers

and your

Lutherans,

Catholics of course

with the gowns

and gold,

then there's the Baptists,

you can see

them coming with

their pot luck dinners,

clutching knives and forks.

Unitarians,

Amish with their chairs

and tables,

the Shakers,

Taoism.

Seventh Day Adventists.

whew. it's endless what

we believe in or don't believe in.

God must feel like Gumby being

pulled in so

many directions.

the fifteen cent raise

i had a job once,

where each

year

they'd give you a Christmas

bonus.

and a small raise.

usually fifteen cents on

the dollar.

quickly i'd add up the hours

and figure out

how much more money

would show

up on my next paycheck.

minus state and federal

taxes, FICA.

i was grateful,

strangely thankful to have

a job. to be

working.

they gave everyone a turkey

too. that was the bonus.

that was gravy.

for a brief delirious moment

there are moments,

brief moments

when i feel like i need a pet

of some sort.

a dog,

or cat, something.

a live animal that's waiting

for me when

i get home.

a face, albeit it furry,

in the window.

and then i come to my

senses and sober up,

and call Betty

to see what's cooking.

open the windows

whereas most people put out

the good China

when having guests over for

a holiday dinner party,

my mother

went the other way,

using paper plates.

but not the cheap flimsy

ones that couldn't hold

the weight of a potato, no

she went with the thicker kind.

sturdy and safe. Chinex.

with thirty people over,

and no dishwasher

she had no other choice

in the packed warm house,

the oven and burners

still on, a pot of coffee and

candles heating the place up.

there are times i still want

to drive over to the old house

and break in,

and open the windows, let

some air in.

What's up with Ming?

the only

thing i know or half

know

about the Ming Dynasty

is that

they made some good pottery,

bowls

and other

things.

plates and saucers too,

i suppose.

who was this fellow Ming,

that his

legacy

is an expensive bowl

that's too valuable to even

put a salad in?

i'm sure he must have had

his hand

in other things.

where's my phone,

i need to google this.

mayhem at the market

a woman

in the  grocery, no bigger than

Bella Abzug,

knocks me over

and takes

the last sweet potato

out of my hand.

she looks

into my cart and steals

my dinner rolls too,

along with the last packet

of turkey gravy.

i yell her, to stop.

but she smirks and then

kicks me in the knee

so that i can't follow

her through the crowd.

an old man, comes over

and looks at me

he tells me to get up,

what are you doing down there?

the floor's dirty, what's

wrong with you people?

he says, then runs

the wobbly wheel of

his grocery cart over

my hand.

whenever you're ready, come on back

there's too much

news going on.

too much happening in this

wacky world

of ours.

wars,

politics,

terrorism.

China, Russia, Israel,

Mexico,

what the hell.

inflation and fear.

civil rights,

gender rights,

protests and pronouns,

animal rights, don't drink

the beer.

the migrants,

the tyrants,

the lost and lonely,

the poor and homeless,

the mentally ill.

drugs and drink,

all of it news, breaking

news.

tik tok,

x,

CNN and Fox,

i'm mainlining news.

Sweet Jesus, we need a break.

anytime you're ready,

come on back.

it feels like you're way

overdue.

the lemon cake travels

for years

i'd bring a lemon cake

to a gathering,

to a party,

iced

with cream cheese frosting.

it was my thing

for a while.

don't ask me why,

why lemon,

why not chocolate or spice

cake.

why not vanilla?

it's one of life's great mysteries

i suppose.

and here i stand with

the mixer,

staring into the yellow batter

swirling in the big

blue bowl.

you're part of it too

i know the way by heart,

but let me 

give you directions in case

you want

to stop by.

bring nothing, but you.

i'll be there before

you arrive.

you take a right at the stop

sign,

then at the light go left,

from there you take

the exit to the highway.

after ten miles or so,

you bear to the left and

turn right at the yield sign.

in the summer there's a field

of corn as far as the eye

can see, but it's autumn.

you're close now.

another mile and into the woods

you go, over the stone

bridge, onto the gravel

and dirt to her cul de sac,

to her wood framed house,

whitened by the sun.

her wishing well out front,

the pond to the side.

the white geese,

the dog barking as your

car arrives.

there she is, her house,

and her waiting with open arms

to all her friends,

you're part of it too.

time to regift

i still have

the horse someone gave me for

Christmas

last year.

actually a pony.

it's in the back yard

that i filled with oats and hay.

i haven't

bought a saddle yet,

but soon.

i talk to it from the window

sometimes,

but haven't yet

decided on a name.

i should take it for a walk

at some point.

or just open

the gate,

and let it go on it's way.

perhaps it's time

to regift.

settling on the snow globe

to buy a tree

or not buy a tree this year?

to go down to the church

and haggle

with a man

in a red hat and drinking

whiskey from a flask.

is it time

for the plastic one?

the one

already with lights.

already decorated

and stores easily in the attic.

all i have

to do is plug it in, no

tying it down,

or watering it.

no falling needles, or

fire hazard.

what about one of those

little ones

i can set on the table?

simple and easy,

no strapping it on the roof

of the car.

or how about the kind

in a little glass globe

that i can

shake and make it snow?

i can put it on the window

sill so that

anyone walking by will

know,

that i'm into Christmas

this year.

i think i've

made my decision.

the street clinic

i see my

doctor on the street corner

with another

doctor,

eating donuts and smoking

cigarettes.

two large coffees

in hand.

quickly

they toss them aside

as they see me coming up

the street.

what else are they

keeping

from me?

my doctor says hey.

i say hey

back.

your x-rays came in he,

says.

they look good, real good.

you've got at least six more

months.

huh, i say.

you must be thinking of someone

else.

oh. right, right. you look just

like this other patient that i have.

did you have

your flu shot yet?

i say no.

well roll up your sleeve.

he then takes out a syringe

from his pocket

and stabs me in the arm.

thanks i tell him.

then walk away.

when i look back i see

him retrieving his donuts

from the bushes.

the gift of giving

gifts are hard

at this point in life.

what to buy for a loved one.

what doesn't she or

he have?

more baubles for the jewelry

box?

more clothes, more

shoes,

more books,

more blankets to keep

you warm.

gift certificates

to the local

massage parlor?

what is there in all these

stores

that she really wants?

i settle on

a homemade pumpkin

pie

and an enormous bottle

of red wine.

the hour glass

the circle

is closing.

your radius of wandering

out

decreases

over time.

true friends have

come and gone.

your world

is shrinking, the hour

glass

once full of sand

is running

out of time.

even you, once strong

and straight,

has curved

and slowed,  bent

but clinging

like a vine.

you can't tell anymore

she was pre-med,

but dancing her way through

college

at the Kitty Kat Lounge

near the airport, next

to the train depot

and county jail.

she was different than

the other girls.

beautiful with long legs.

but less trashy.

she didn't smoke

and had no tattoos,

or needles marks

that i could see,

and during her breaks she'd

be at bar

in her thong, watching

reruns of

Grey's Anatomy

on her phone.

it wasn't love, but clearly

there was deep admiration

and infatuation.

i finally made my move,

and sat next to her

at the bar,

milking my Shirley Temple,

because it cost

twenty-five dollars a pop.

she looked at me and smiled,

then put her hand out,

which was strangely larger

than mine, we shook,

then she said,

before we go any further,

i have to tell you, my name

used to be Stan,

but you can call me Star.

the strangers that i know

i wish my

walls were thicker,

the floors

and ceiling too in this

old hi rise

building.

i know everything there

is to know

about my neighbors,

the food they cook,

the music they like,

when they go to bed,

when the tv goes on

or off, i know

when they arise

to the chirps of their

alarm clocks.

i hear their footsteps

from the bed

to the bathroom,

i hear the water in

the shower, the toilet

flush.

i hear their arguments,

and the lovemaking

late at night.

but when i see them in

the hallway or on

the elevator going down,

i don't let on to what i know.

we're strangers

in public,

it's better that way.

holiday traffic

i see the van

beside me,

full of children and dogs,

a mom and dad,

luggage tied to the roof.

there's a Christmas wreathe

wired to the hood.

the rosy cheeked children

wave at me.

i wave back.

i wonder where

they're going.

Pennsylvania, maybe,

Vermont,

or Boston,

to see the old folks,

to eat turkey

and pie.

to reminisce about

the old days and comment

on how big the children are.

i'm taking the next exit,

to work,

stopping for coffee at

7-11 and a package of

Little Debbie Cakes.

the nine to five carrot

bushed.

tired, call it what you may,

but the strings

that tug

at your arms and legs

are frayed

from being

pulled by

your masters, controlling

the puppet

that you are,

making you obey.

the carrot is always

just out of reach,

but you reach

you will again come

Monday.

the wedding album

browsing

through my book collection

is not unlike an archaeology

dig, a time line

of relationships and life.

beside Catcher in the Rye,

and The Red Comet,

there is a tattered copy of Life as an INFJ.

and The Art of Loving

by Erich Fromm, then

there is the Venus and Mars book,

the Four Languages of Love,

Psychopath Free,

and Should I Stay or Should I Go?

by Dr. Ramani.

then the big book.

the DSM 5.

describing in clinical detail

every mental disorder

there is known to man.

i put photos between

the appropriate pages,

wedding photos, mostly.

but some close calls too.

day two of a ten day cruise

when she

took a swing at me on the cruise

ship

as the boat

sailed gracefully

down the Aegean Sea,

i ducked

and her fist hit me on

the shoulder.

she was red faced

and crying.

i asked her what's up with

that?

and she said,

you don't know, do you?

i said, no, i don't.

i sat back down and continued

to eat our gourmet

dinner as she stormed

out, going

back to the cabin.

a few hours later, i peeked

in to see her in bed.

what was that all about?

i asked her.

i'm sorry, she said. but i

didn't bring my

meds.

i slept with one eye

open the rest of the voyage

with a butterknife

in my hand.

tomorrow we were going

to be

climbing a volcano.

getting a fresh start

you've got your

menial sins, your lite sins

if you may,

and then

you've got your mortal

sins.

game over.

it would be nice

to have a list to see where

you stand

in the hierarchy of sins,

and the penance

required to get a fresh

start, as the new year

approaches, but the Pope

refuses to answer

my letter personally.

google it,

is the only response 

i get from the Vatican.

adorable and fun

i buy a live

turkey

for the holiday

and put it in the back yard.

thanksgiving

is a week away.

the turkey knows what's

coming.

he sees the axe stuck

in the tree trunk.

i see him out there

rubbing his neck

and looking

for gaps

in the fence.

before long he starts doing

tricks,

tap dancing,

telling me jokes.

singing songs

and doing cartwheels

and flips.

i know what he's doing,

he's trying to get on my

good side, making himself

adorable

and fun.

it reminds me of an old

girlfriend i used to have.

Beth.

black coffee

the dream

sticks with me the whole day.

a bad dream.

a grey

once pink

wad of gum now

stuck to the bottom of my

psyche.

it nudges itself into

my day, my

pondering,

my quiet reflection,

as i stare

deeply into a cup

of black coffee.

they want us to be happy, Dad

when my

son

was young, i looked at his

homework,

his tests

and quizzes and asked

him why

so many words were

misspelled?

why the math was wrong,

the history

twisted.

his writing looked like

a chicken

had dipped it's claws

in ink

and dragged them

across the paper.

he had an A plus at the top

of every page.

he smiled and said

teachers don't care about

stuff like that

anymore, Dad.

they want us to be happy

and feel good

about ourselves.

we too can be a fool

we need

to fail, to fall and stumble

to say the wrong

thing

at the wrong time.

we need

egg on our face,

a coffee stain on our shirt,

a streamer

of toilet

paper on our shoe,

we need spinach

between our

teeth, our zipper down,

we need to be

caught in a lie,

caught in the rain

without an umbrella.

we need to remember

that we too

can be a fool.

our ant hills

funny

He must think

we are, how we

accept

so much

assigning to it

the mystery of life.

resilient to death

and pain.

still believing, still

with faith.

does He laugh at our

folly,

at us, trying to figure

it all out,

asking why,

why why, each day.

how can He not Love us

as we start over

like the ants do,

when their world

is brushed away.

three trips past midnight

you can only

pull back on the reins

so much.

at some point,

it overtakes you,

not in one enormous

wave,

but in small increments,

the pain

in one's knee,

one's hand,

the sudden notice

of the crepe skin,

the circles

and ravines

of age.

the three trips to

the loo

past midnight.

flowers on flowers

the house is dark,

with shadows.

shades of yellow and

muted green

on the walls,

complimentary colors

to the wallpaper

i'm about to install.

flowers on flowers,

the curtains half drawn.

it feels like

surrender

of some sort, of fatigue.

the room a collection

of years of travel.

she looks up

from the newspaper and

greets me

with a placid

smile.

welcome back, she says.

my husband will show you 

around.

let me know if there's 

anything you need.

what's wrong with this picture

i remember

seeing my father in the kitchen once,

standing at the sink

doing dishes.

forlorn

and staring out the window.

i stood there

for awhile and thought,

what's wrong

with this picture.

what other strange things

are down

the road.

a flip of the coin

i flipped

the coin a long time ago,

but it's still

in the air,

turning and turning.

my hand is out waiting.

i still haven't

decided on which

way to go,

what to do

on so many things.

hopefully it will land

soon.

the suspense is killing

me.

just turn the page

there are

no scandals anymore.

no such thing

as sin.

no embarrassments, or lies

to unfold,

no shame or guilt.

from top to bottom

the well

is poisoned.

getting caught means

nothing,

no one truly

cares anymore,

we shrug and say oh well.

just turn the page,

and move on.

someone like you

i used to stay

out late, it's true, ask anyone

i used to know

if they're still

around.

they'll tell you stories

of those 

youthful days,

most of them

true.

sometimes i didn't bother

coming home

at night,

not lost, not wandering,

just finding a bed

to lie down in

with the likes of someone

like you.

finding your island

we are

creatures of habit.

it provides us comfort,

stability.

we're known for what

we like,

our tastes,

or choices, whether

perceived as

wrong or right. it's how

we survive in

this world of chaos.

savoring a tiny island

of control

between the blare 

of riot.

early in the holiday season

it's still early

in the holiday season, 

Thanksgiving hasn't even

come and gone

yet, and

yet there lies another

store front Santa Claus 

in the alley,

beaten by muggers,

with his empty pot

turned over, a jumble

of knots

on his bearded

pink head.

the mad cow

is the cow

really mad? or just having

a bad

day?

angry, perturbed

with the weather, or grass

she has

to eat.

the cold rain.

tired of people

or machines pulling

on her

for milk.

patting her

on the head, giving

her human names

like Elsie.

who can blame her?

i've seen enough

the woman

in the apartment behind me

has no

curtains.

no shades or blinds.

she gets out of the shower

with no towel

or clothes on.

she strolls around buck

naked

from the bedroom

to the kitchen

drinking wine.

at first it was interesting.

i couldn't help

but look at times, but

now, a year later,

i've seen enough and turn

away,

pull the shade. 

tighten the blinds, strange

how familiarity will

bore us

over time.

i am Emily Wilson

I channel

my inner feminine side

and become

Emily Wilson

when the phone rings with

an unknown

number,

local, long distance,

or otherwise.

my voice changes into

the voice

of a seventy-two year

old widow

who doesn't drive,

who has no money,

no life to speak of, but is

happy to take

your call.

happy to hear the news

about winning

the publisher

clearing house prize

package

for the ninth time this

month. i'm thrilled to talk

to the cable guys,

Microsoft,

social security people,

the Medicare men and women

selling me

a new policy.

insurance folks from India

or Pakistan.

Dubai.

i'm a chatty old lady, sweet

and nice,

a Baptist,

with two cats, and a friend

named Betty

who drives me

around when i need to go

to the bank,

or buy gift cards

from target,

or wire money to you in

Kingston Jamaicia,

i want to keep you on the phone

for hours, for days,

for weeks

at a time. i'm.

willing to allow you to enter

my web of lies,

my life.

please, call me any old time.

the blueness of water

we look

past the small darkness,

the coffins

in the roots

of trees,

the burrowed

hills

of dirt, of leaves.

we see

the blueness

of water,

neglecting that winter

has

taken

its toll on us

and so many

things.

the sound beneath your feet

the board

that creaks beneath your

feet

does not bring to mind

a hammer

and nail, or screw

to tighten it.

no, not at all. 

by that familiar

sound, it means

you're home again, 

at last

once more,

where you belong.

for one brief moment

when

sitting on a park bench

on a warm summer

day,

licking a cone

of ice-cream,

you're at peace with

it all.

for one brief

moment,

everything feels fine.

the beginning of the end?

as you read

the list of atrocities

the hate crimes,

in

the latest terrorist attacks

on innocent

people,

it makes you sick

for the world.

how can anyone do that?

rape and pillage,

behead,

and place

babies into ovens.

then  torture

and burn human

beings alive.

there is evil

in the world and it's

spreading.

is this truly the beginning

of the end

of times?

the American breakfast

it taste like

vanilla, or a banana,

or an apple,

or chocolate,

but it's not.

it's a concoction

of chemicals

made in a lab

in New Jersey

to duplicate what

nature has already

done.

who's to know

the difference

where there's an extra

heaping of sugar

on top.

The X rocket

when

the rocket blows up

nine

minutes into the flight,

there is laughter

and applause,

hand shakes,

the control room is filled

with joy,

delighted at the explosion

in the sky.

we've come so far

this time.

what a success

it's been.

ten million dollars spent,

but well worth

it.

the next flight we're hoping

for ten minutes

in the air

before it blows up again.

with a foot between us

is the moon

cold,

the white rock, the airless

space,

the craters,

the hills and valleys,

of icy

dust.

i imagine it is cold.

very cold.

but not as cold as it is

right now,

with a foot

between us.

Victoria Secrets

i remember

years ago,

standing in line at 

the Victoria Secrets

Store,

buying

lingerie for a sweetheart,

for the holidays.

something to ring the new

year in with.

something sheer

and black,

sexy and slinky,

a pair of form fitting

fishnet stockings

and maybe a

decadent mask.

and now here i am at Kohl's

with my coupon,

holding

flannel pajamas, and slippers

in the shape

of a bunny rabbit,

and woolen socks that

she can pull up

past her calf.

it's official

it's official..

i'm old,

i say to myself as i put

on my

reading glasses

to read the ingredients

on the back

of a jar

of peanut butter

at the whole foods store.

sink or swim

it's confusing,

is she waving hello

to me

as i walk along the shore,

or is it a cry for help

as she drowns

from the burden

of her life

weighed down

by future and past

mistakes.

i can't try to save

another one,

anymore.

where's my car today?

the city

of Washington D.C.

is handing

out free

stickers to put in your car

to find

it after it's been

stolen

or hijacked.

the location

will show up on a screen

via GPS.

a micro chip buried in.

there it is

off Benning Road,

tireless,

ransacked and taken

apart,

burned.

they are too kind and

thoughtful

these days.

no thank you

there are so many

times

i should have said no,

no,

i'm not going there,

no, i'm not doing that,

no,

thank you, but no.

no, no.

instead though, being the kind

and compromising

soul that i am,

i caved in

to the wishes of others,

and did so many things

i had no interest in.

three nightmarish marriages

being clear

evidence of that.

letter to NYC

so how are you

in that great city. are you well?

is your room okay,

can you see the park,

the Empire State Building from

your window?

what have you done

since arriving,

how many plays, how many

walks to the museums,

through Central Park

have you done?

did you find

a book to read at the Strand?

do the taxis still race like

madmen down the thoroughfares?

is it safe?

tell me dear,

tell me all.

is the Hudson the color of

blue steel along

the west side?

is Katz's Deli still open

on Houston?

leave some fun for me.

i'm on my way.

i won't be long.

celebrating Arbor Day

my friend Jimmy

used to keep

his Christmas tree up all year.

the lights

on his house too.

there was an Easter basket

on the table.

a plastic pumpkin

full of candy

on the mantle.

Flags for flag day

hung on the porch.

balloons and hats for

new years eve,

were in the corner.

three leaf clovers

were stuck to the wall.

a small oak tree

in a planter

stood in the middle

of the room.

i asked him what that was

for.

Arbor Day, he said.

it sneaks up on you.

blood in a hurry

it's a surprise

how

red the blood is when

i cut

myself on the sharp

knife.

it takes my mind off

the wound

for a few seconds as i

watch

the blood flow

out like mercury

into the sink.

there seems to be so

much

wanting to escape,

it's in a hurry,

tired of being

locked up

tight and warm for

so long.

maybe i should wrap it.

the dust laden books

if you

don't study history, you

won't understand

today,

or have any clue

about where we're going

tomorrow

when your turns

come.

please, young people,

pick up that dust

laden book,

or scroll through

your god forsaken phone,

and read.

three pears in a bowl

her painting

of three pears

in a white bowl

is hung

in the kitchen,

the sheen of oil catching

the morning light.

the glow of green

in my eyes.

it feels

like a holy painting

of some sort,

i don't know why.

navel gazing

her therapist

suggested to her, that having

a hobby

of some sort

might take her mind

off of things,

off herself and her many

imaginary

problems.

but she said,

this is my hobby, you

and all the self-help books

i read,

our sessions twice a week,

trying to figure

myself out,

my victimhood,

trying to understand

all my impossible needs.

red roses for who?

they find

in his coat pocket a note

of sorts,

a list

of things,

reminders of what to do.

it's neatly

written in ink

on a yellow page

from the notebook

he kept on his desk.

there are groceries,

milk, bread,

the usual, the mundane

things

to keep us alive,

then there's the oil

change,

the trip to the bank,

a poetry anthology

by a man

named Hughes,

and then a reminder to

buy flowers,

a dozen red roses,

but it doesn't mention

for who.

somewhere where he's never been

was it love,

was it romantic love.

was she the right one,

the one

who filled his sails with wind.

or just

another boat,

to get him

somewhere

where's he's never been.

these things

he ponders as he pushes

the mower

up and down the hills

of long grass

in her yard, then rakes

until the sun

goes down.

girls and boys

she loved

her dolls, i loved my

toy soldiers.

me in the dirt

for hours reenacting

world war

two,

or a futuristic

world war three,

and her,

pushing the stroller,

making baby talk

and

squeezing her plastic

doll,

to make it pee.

don't join anything

don't join

anything, don't hitch your

wagon

to the latest

trend,

stay clear of clubs,

and 

memberships,

organizations

that make

promises they'll

never keep.

don't sign

or give away your name.

resist

the temptation

to belong to the maddening

crowd,

carrying their flag,

life will never

be the same.

my father the barber

as my

father clipped my hair

with a sheet

around my

neck,

i knew that he didn't

know what he

was doing.

the scissors, the comb,

the electric

clipper

moving around my

head, like

it was wild brush,

or hedges.

i could see in his eyes

that he

was clueless, despite

his smile.

my tears at the end

when i looked

into the mirror

seemed to disappoint him.

1961

with each

cupcake she baked and iced

and set out

to cool on large

plates,

she felt that her job was done

as a mother,

as a wife

as a woman

of a certain age

with college behind her.

this small task showed

some sort

of love,

some idea of what

happiness looked like,

but the cheerful wave

from the door

as the world went on

without her,

would soon unravel,

and all would be undone.

seeing doubles

i've been

reading way too much poetry.

when i

see a homeless person

on the street,

i immediately

think, oh my, that guy

looks just like

Walt Whitman,

or when i see a tall

anxious woman, wringing

her hands

and staring into

the sky, i think,

she looks just like Sylvia

Plath,

or Anne Sexton.

that man at the bar

having one pint after the other

looks just

like Dylan Thomas.

who is that in the long line

at the bank,

is that Phillip Larkin?

or Robert Lowell?

who's that 

at the window of the fast

food restaurant,

is that Raymond Carver,

or Mark Strand?

my neighbor is the spitting

image

of Elizabeth Bishop.

and the policeman who

just pulled me over looks

exactly like

Ezra Pound, on a good day.

my community college decade

when i finally

made

the dean's list at the community

college

my mother was

astounded.

i took math,

biology,

chemistry

and economics off my 

curriculum,

basically anything that

involved books

and reading,

or studying.

i narrowed it down

to Phys ed,

modern art,

and yoga meditation.

i audited flower arrangements

too.

straight A's yo.

three more years

i told her, and

i'm out of here.

no bombs falling, yet

there's no

water

in the entire neighborhood.

some plumbing

issue

that's gone unexplained

by

the men in the six trucks

with flashing lights.

there's a crowd

out in the cul de sac

getting restless

and angry.

i have to use the toilet

i hear one

woman say,

i should never have eaten

all those oysters.

a man whines about not

having water

for his scotch.

no ice either.

it's a terrible mood

out there.

what are we going to do,

someone asks,

if we can't bathe in

the morning. if we can't

brush our teeth or wash

our hair.

i look up into the sky,

and say

at least there are no

bombs falling. yet.

if i get another dog

if i ever get another

dog

i'm not going to let him get

fat

like i did with the last dog, Moe.

allowing him

to eat

what i ate,

the standard american diet,

full of crap.

sugar and chemicals, oils,

carbs,

processed foods,

and all that.

he'll be eating meat.

chicken and steak, poultry,

pork.

like the carnivore beast

he is.

but i might have to get

a second job

to support him.

a book of stamps

i ask the clerk

at the grocery store for a book

of stamps.

he stares at me

and rubs his peach fuzz,

then says, what?

what's that?

a book.

this is a grocery store

not a library

or Barnes and Noble.

no, no, i say.

it's for

putting onto an envelope

or a letter,

to mail out.

little sticky square

things

to lick or are self adhesive

to push onto the right

corner

of something you're mailing.

let me get my manager,

he says, shaking

his head

and pushing the button

to make his sign

light up and flash.

you old people, he says

under his breath,

then stares at his phone

while we wait.

Mazel Tov

i call up

a few friends and business

acquaintances

to catch up.

it's been awhile since

I've talked

to Abraham, my good lawyer,

or Jacob,

my neighbor,

who owns my favorite

deli

in town.

my doctor Saul is on

vacation,

and my dentist Vivian

is wondering where i've been.

i need to set

up an appointment for

a new crown.

i haven't seen Levi

around in ages,

my accountant,

not to mention Ezra or Ariel.

i've always been

in love

with Ariel, as well,

and her twin sister Sarah.

i wonder if they're

still single.

she was almost perfect

when i wrote

her obituary, i embellished

quite a bit,

i laid it on pretty thick

trying to convince

the world

how wonderful she was.

how kind

and generous,

how loving she was

to friends and family.

she was perpetually happy.

i mentioned her humor,

her gentle nature,

her philanthropic side.

i selected a picture of her

when she was in her prime.

young and healthy,

sexy, with a glimmer

of mischief in her eye.

hopefully someone will

do the same for me,

when it's my time.

the empty calendar page

i look at my

calendar,

my day-to-day notebook,

my phone,

i've got nothing

to do today.

how is that possible?

nowhere to go,

no work,

no need to be anywhere.

no checking the time

and traffic.

no worries about the weather.

no errands to run.

no calls to make.

no need to go to the 

post office,

or bank.

i don't even have a dog

to walk.

now what?

the invitation to the party

my neighbor Becky,

who i despise,

invites me to her annual

Christmas party.

it's a beautiful hand written

invitation.

drinks, food, music, dancing,

gifts. let's celebrate

this most joyous season together

it says..

i'm stunned.

i've enjoyed so many

years in not liking

her, and now this.

how do i get around this?

how can i continue

not liking her if i go

to this party?

damn her. she's so devious.

with her fur coat on

it's single digits

on the red

thermometer

out the window.

i see a bird with a hat on.

a squirrel

wearing

a tweed jacket.

there goes a raccoon

with gloves

on his paws.

and you,

still in bed wearing

a fur coat.

i guess

we all need to fatten up

for what's coming.

in her camouflage apron

my mother

would have made a fine

army cook

after dealing with her

seven children

and wayward husbands.

i can see her standing

behind the battlefield

in her camouflage apron

cracking eggs.

throwing strips of

bacon onto a pan, with

a griddle of hash browns 

and a plate of toast

on the gurney.

yelling at the soldiers

to slow down,

don't talk with your

mouth full,

and use a napkin,

for Pete's sake,

wipe your chin,

right there, right there.

you've got some

blueberry jam.

a small good fire

despite

what you witness,

some

fires are good. small ones.

controlled

blazes.

like the little bon fire

in the iron

pit in the backyard.

how easily it consumes

history

and tainted memory.

makes it all go away.

every breath you take

i know

all your secrets.

i know where you hide things.

i know what

you think

before you think it,

i know what 

you're going to say

before the words fall

from your mouth.

i'm onto you,

i'm in your head,

i'm in your closet and

under your bed.

i know everything there is

to know about you

so don't even give me

that smile,

that wink and start

to play.

the hiking Meet Up

bored and feeling

the need

for social activity

i go to the meet up

for hiking.

we rendezvous at the base

of this small hill

near a Starbucks.

it's about what i expected

twenty

woody Allen type guys

in cargo shorts

and black

glasses,

and a handful

of wiry women

who don't seem to bathe

or shave their legs.

we're hiking

Rag mountain today,

the leader says.

be careful of snakes.

there's water and peanut

butter crackers

in the bag, help yourself

and if you need to use

the bathroom

before we begin,

there's a Johnny on the Spot

over there.

i can't wait to get to the top

to jump off.

the Medicare Advantage Plan

pestered beyond

belief to acquire a new

Medicare

advantage plan,

i finally give in

and give

the man on the phone

my social

security number,

my bank account information,

my age

and weight and height,

i give him

my birth date,

my mother's maiden name.

the names

of my children

and wife.

and when i get home

from work,

he's at the dinner table,

wearing my clothes,

petting my dog,

eating

a pot roast

and explaining to my

family 

the meaning of life.

our time would come

not quite old enough

to go

kill people in

southeast asia, we went

downtown anyway

to join in the protests

to end the war

in Vietnam.

smoke was heavy in

the air,

and sometimes tear gas.

there was music, and

lots of hippy

girls

in hippy garb with

long hair,

swimming half naked

in the reflection pool.

sometimes Bob Hope

or the Mormon Tabernacle

Choir would be

performing, but we didn't

care.

we had fun, it wasn't yet

our time to go die

over there.

we still had a few years.

it must be better

the manufacturers

know what they're doing.

if they want

to sell a new product

they put

a French name on it,

or a German name.

they tell you it's from

Italy, or Spain.

whether wine or bread,

or sauces.

it must be better than

the other brand,

those people know

what they're doing

over there when

it comes to food.

slap an accent aigu on

the e and off you go.

who buys American

cheese anymore?

a thin gluey strip

wrapped in plastic.

give me the Camembert

instead.

wringing your hands

we mentally wring our hands

of things,

we sigh and say,

okay, i've done everything

under the sun

to solve this,

but now i have to walk away,

i'm done.

it's no use in going on.

but

despite the grief of it all,

there's a strange

sense of relief, a calm

in moving on.

how dare they be like us

as

the stars fall

into illness and old age,

stepping

into

their graves, we ponder

our own

mortality,

these people seemed

forever.

their movies

always on the screen.

forever

young,

forever vital and strong.

we saw

them as children,

then older and older

but less on

the marquee.

how dare

they be like us

and age.

never been married

the man

at the hardware store,

Frank,

after making me a new

set of house keys,

asks me

how many times i've been

married.

i hold up three fingers,

he laughs

and says, get out of town,

no way

you've been burned

that many times.

but i tell him hold on

a miniute.

let me break it down for you.

the first one

was for six months,

and it was annulled by the Pope,

she walked home

with her suitcase

and a toaster oven.

the second one i caught

her cheating with my son's

karate teacher,

but besides that we were

married in a foreign

country, so that one doesn't

count either,

and the last one,

well, she had a married boyfriend

the whole year

we were together,

and i believe she had her

fingers crossed when

she said her vows.

so you can throw that one

out the window too.

so basically i've never

been married.

i make a zero with my

thumb and finger.

zero times, brother, zero.

three feet of snow

as you go through

the stages

of life,

your desire for snow

changes.

three feet is fine

when you're

in school,

but when working

a dusting

is okay,

the streets clear

of ice,

but now, i'm okay

once more

with three feet

and the roads closed

down until 
April.

dude looks like a lady

i admit

i wore some girly clothes

in the seventies.

blousy shirts

with ships

on them,

Spanish boots,

vests,

and even a pair

of lavender pants

that went along

with my buccaneer

shirt.

skinny,

with the long hair,

i often heard the words

from the Aerosmith

song,

dude looks like a lady.

but i grew out of it.

they can almost smell the cheese

it's not unlike

mice

in a maze at the lab,

with

white coats observing

their behavior,

rushing home

from work,

to the store, to the gym,

to somewhere.

it's a frenzy

through

blocked streets,

the slow lights,

the detours, everyone

leaning

on their horn,

and cursing out 

the window.

they want to get home,

they can

almost smell

the cheese,

they can almost taste

it.

butter churn in the kitchen

she asks me why

i have so many pens

all over the house.

and i tell her,

in case i need to jot something

down.

like what?

she asks.

i don't know, a phone number,

a thought,

maybe write a check.

what's that, she says.

a check?

it's this slip of paper that

comes in a folder

from the bank

with sequential numbers 

on it.

it allows people to take money

out of your account

for payment.

huh?

no Venmo, no PayPal?

no credit or debit cards?

nah. i don't trust that sort

of thing.

online banking, etc.

i bet you have a butter churn

in your kitchen,

don't you, she says.

two summers and a winter

she was

a beautiful Jewish girl

from

New York,

with dark eyes, and black

hair.

her mother sold wedding

dresses

and her father

was a psychiatrist.

they didn't seem to care

that a good Catholic

boy, like me, was

seeing their jewel of a daughter.

you could see it in their

eyes, that they knew

this wouldn't

last.

but it did, two summers,

and a winter,

and i've never

lost my taste for bagels

and lox.

but not the subway, please

we need space,

elbow

room, but

the rules are different

here,

you can stand too close

to people,

or touch them

without

a written approval.

we can hardly breathe.

there are no boundaries.

we worry about

the thief,

the sneeze,

that guy over there

selling

watches,

there's something up

his sleeve.

we've got to get

ourselves

our of times square,

pronto, but

not the subway,

please.

we need an island now

like God's eyes, that

we don't

seem to care about,

anymore, there

are cameras

everywhere

recording sins,

and thievery

the brazen sides

of criminality.

it's big brother now,

big sister,

catching nearly everyone

in the act

when the devil

has his way.

forget the jails, we need

an island now.

going home again

for once

we make the train on time.

our luggage

stowed away

we settle into our seats

for the long

ride home.

through the dark tunnel

beneath

the cold city we go.

the rattle

of the rails, the conductor

taking

stubs.

then out and out,

into the wide

pastures of the land.

shoulder to shoulder,

hand in hand,

we go home again.