the best gift ever

at a certain point,

when

she was out walking

five miles with

two pound

dumbbells

strapped

around her ankles

to help

her wear

off the kale she just ate,

i'd rummage

through her purse,

looking for clues

of her infidelity.

but it was a waste of time,

a mistake,

i found

receipts and jewelry,

hotel keys,

and photographs.

but it didn't matter.

it was already way

too late.

she'd be gone before

the holidays.

i could hardly wait.

holiday warfare

family drama

erupts

on the home front.

it's the holidays,

so what else

is new.

a sister recalls the time

i cut

off the head

of her favorite

doll

with a hacksaw.

but she left my baseball

glove

in the yard

to be stolen,

signed by Mickey Mantle,

leather and brand new,

so what was i to do.

it's a free for all at this

point,

as the wine gets poured,

the cocktails

made,

the desserts dug into.

old wounds surface,

hard words once said

forty years ago

are suddenly

repeated verbatim.

my mother sits there

at the head of the table,

amused,

happy to have us all

together once more.

there's no place like home

for the holidays.

the cost of poetry

when she drank,

she liked

to read poetry, her own,

and others,

but never mine.

she was selfish that way.

but she'd

stand up

in a crowded room,

take the floor

and would perform

as if Dylan Thomas

on a rage,

quoting word for word,

what she

had memorized.

there was applause

of course,

and more drinks bought.

sometimes

she wouldn't come home

that night.

poetry has its cost.

and then the thought passes

i wake up,

and think, i should get a dog.

i have more free time

now.

a new dog.

what fun

would that be?

i can use the old leash

still hanging

on the door,

i could wash out

the old bowls,

the sweaters

that the other dog

once wore.

i could

treat him better than

the last one.

more treats, more toys,

more walks,

more bones.

no longer would i be

taking walks

or sleeping

alone. i'd be home

every night

to be with him,

not waiting sadly

in the window.

and then the thought passes.

dying on a pot of gold

they tell

you at an early age to save

your money,

don't spend it all

on Friday night.

put some away for a

rainy day.

invest in the market.

save, save, save.

don't spend all your

wages

on love.

or gambling,

or shiny things that

will rust

and fade.

so you do. and then

you sit there on your

pile of gold,

wishing you'd had more

fun, more

adventures,

but the hourglass has

trickled

down to its final grains.

a country cupcake in hand

he used

to dance at Nick's, the country

western

bar,

on Pickett.

he was the king of the dance

floor. but

before those

years, he did the hustle,

and was

proficient

in disco dancing

in the clubs in D.C.,

but then,

it became two step,

and line dance

at Blackie's and Deja vu.

i can see him now

in his chaps

and white hat,

his big belt buckle

holding up his tight jeans,

doing the 

Dosey doe,

gliding across the sawdust

floor

with a little

country cupcake from

down the road.

a box of life

as i sort

through the box of photos

and Christmas

cards,

that's been

in the cellar,

stored under other boxes

of Christmas

lights and ornaments.

the tree stand,

and moth balls.

i sit on the cold

slab

floor of the laundry room,

and sift

through the years

of when

we were young.

when the world was young.

and everyone

we loved

was living, available

by visit, or by

phone.

the winter journey

the last we saw

of him,

was a posting on Facebook.

he was in

his kayak,

wearing a yellow life preserver,

and holding

a paddle in

his hand.

he was about to shove off

into the sea,

the channel

taking him to southern

shores.

he was for the most

part

indestructible,

a strong mind,

an even stronger man,

though

white of beard.

but we're not worried.

he'll turn up again

as he always does,

in spring.

sugarplum and fairies

it's not

all

sugarplums and fairies,

candy

and cake

merriment

of all sorts.

for many it's a dark

reminder

of loss,

of being alone.

being

frightened

or worse.

sometimes the Christmas

carols

and

the joy of others

around you,

will make

you break.

the secret of a long marriage

everyone

asks

the elderly couple who

have been

married

for fifty years,

what's their secret

for this long

and fruitful marriage.

the wife laughs,

then

goes on

and on about how

they've stayed

together

through hard times

and tears.

she barely takes the time

to take a breath of air,

and then

it's the man's turn,

who smiles gently 

and pulls 

the cotton balls

from his ears.

as the train pulls away

leaving

is harder than arriving.

the day

behind

you,

the night before you.

the train

pulling out

of the station.

a final kiss,

a final wave farewell

and on

we go.

will we meet again,

will

say the words

i love you, or until

tomorrow?

i don't know.

taking the subway

we would

always

take the subway into

the city.

and there were always

crazy people

onboard.

a token took you

in any

direction,

as far as you wanted to go.

never saw a cop

of any

sort.

but we read, we did

our homework,

we stared out the window

and bundled

up

from the city cold.

no need

for eye contact,

or small talk.

we just wanted to get

to where

we were going

unscathed, unbothered.

alive, ready

to fight another

day. just close the doors

and let it roll.

we can fix this

i'd see my father

out on the street staring

at the engine

of his car,

the hood up on the blue

Chevrolet.

sometimes he had a cup

of coffee with

him,

some tools,

maybe a small radio

would be playing.

i'd get dressed and go

out and stare

into the engine with him.

happy as a clam

to do so.

we can fix this, i'd

quietly say.

stay away from mirrors

i used to be taller,

thinner,

i had more

hair.

more energy,

more

teeth.

better hearing

and vision.

less wrinkles,

but ask me if i care?

less is

more

at this stage of the game.

i just

stay away

from mirrors.

the mega party church

it was a mega church.

an enormous

cavern

with a good sound system.

plush seating

and no

kneelers

like in the old days

where you

knelt and prayed.

no, here you stood up

and sang.

you threw your arms

into the air

and shook

like a basket of fries

in hot oil.

no need to pass the basket

around,

here

they put an app on your

phone

for automatic withdrawals

and deposits.

there was no talk of sin,

or redemption.

no mention of the blood

of Christ,

no talk of shame.

it was more

about live your best life,

prosperity and fun.

smile

and be happy.

come often.

come again.

bring a friend.

let's play victim

pick a card

any card, hold it up

and stick

it to your forehead.

pick what

victim you identify with

and cry to

the world with it.

i was abandoned

as a child,

i was poor, i was neglected.

look at the color

of my skin

or where i'm from.

how short i am.

play victim.

it's easier than being

strong

and rising

from the ashes

that you imagine

and prolong.

when the mask slips

when the mask

slips

and the words

pour

out

you see

who they really are.

the shiny

dress

that they wore

has fallen

to the floor.

a mirage for the world.

they are naked now

with

no cloth to hide

their true beliefs,

their

dark soul.

one of Santa's many helpers

i was shocked,

when i snuck down the stairs,

past midnight

to see if Santa had come yet.

and saw

my mother

kissing Santa,

moving his beard aside

to slobber on his lips.

his hands,

that looked a lot like

my father's,

were tugging at her

hair

and she was making

strange noises

like she was injured

or out of breath.

she was wearing high heels

and a red satiny

dress

that barely covered

her legs.

was she really one of Santa's

helpers

all this time?

quickly i ran back up the steps

and crawled into bed

then put

a pillow over my head.

my new home in the city

i always

tell

the telemarketers that my

name

is Emily Wilson.

and that i live

at 1600 Pennsylvania

Avenue.

and yes,

i do need new windows

and 

solar panels.

sometimes when they hear

my voice,

they automatically hang up

after cursing me.

i must be on a list

of some sort,

but if it's a rookie telemarketer

i can

drag it out to close to half

an hour

or more.

this is a bad idea

i take the entire

month

of December off.

i haven't had more than five

days in a row

off from work

since i was in the sixth grade

and delivering newspapers

of the soon to be defunct

Washington Post.

i pretty much am bored out

of my mind.

i've got a severe case

of cabin fever.

i may take up knitting, or

painting by numbers

to pass the time.

i've worn a spot out on the rug

where i stand

in the morning with a cup

of coffee and stare out

into the woods.

at the grey leafless trees,

and cold blue stream

down the hill.

What's going on?

i ask

the minister, or pastor

or priest,

the man

in black

with the white collar,
why do we have to sing

these old

horrible songs

from the hymnal?

they're so long

and dreary,

dirges that sailors

may have

sung when going out

to sea

to hunt whales.

and what would you suggest?

the priest

asks me.

how about some Marvin Gaye,

or Barry White.

something we all

know the words to

and can sing.

awaiting snow

there is

the weight of the sky

at six a.m. .

the ominous

black

and blue

belly of cold rain about

to fall. but

it might be snow

this time.

the children

have opened their

mouths

and put away

their books in hope

a foot

may fall, or more.

and then the yellow

bus

pulls up.

not yet. the mother says,

now let's go,

get on board.

airing their grievances

as i come through

the door

i hear whispers in the kitchen.

the toaster

is talking

to the microwave.

it's a group discussion with

the blender

and the coffee machine.

they are talking

about me.

i lean in so that they

can't see me

and listen.

i'm tired, i hear the frying

pan say,

look at me,

all scratched and burned,

and then the disposal

chimes in,

and what about me,

he put an apple core

down my throat

just yesterday, and the day

before that

poured in a cup full of Drano.

i can't live like

this anymore.

i'm still shaking from all

the popcorn

he keeps making,

says the popcorn machine.

and then

the fridge

speaks up, have you people

ever seen what

goes on in here.

i'm a science project

with rotting fruit and vegetables.

i have a dozen

salad dressings weighing

down my shelves.

it's cold in here and the light

goes out when

he closes

the door.

summertime flowers

i like to walk

the path

through the cemetery.

they have

the best flowers there.

bushels

of yellow and reds

lying on dirt

or grass,

against an old tombstone,

mostly fresh,

great bouquets

of roses at

no spared expense.

summertime

is the best.

which concurs 

perfectly with

your birthday.

none of this is my fault

very little,

if anything, that has ever

gone wrong

in my life

has been my fault.

i can find

blame all around me.

starting with

my neglectful parents,

leaving me to be

raised by wolves,

poverty

and shyness

brought on by deep

insecurities

about every

minute of my childhood.

and then

it's the women

i attached myself to.

then the dead

end jobs paying little.

and then

the government, of course,

local

and federal,

taxes

and the man keeping me

down.

not to mention my dog,

whose

favorite bone

seems to be the one

in my arm.

the crowd going by

i see no faces

on the street

that i recognize,

nor in

the crowd,

nor in

the bustling mob

coming

up from the subway.

the known

have thinned

to a few.

a few friendly faces

that i once

knew.

but heartbreakingly,

none of them

are you.

streets of dim lights

do we

need goals, a purpose

in life,

a defined

path

of ambitious yearnings.

do we need

the stage,

the award,

the applause

and a standing ovation,

the spotlight?

or can we just go on

about our

days

in peace

and quiet

on streets of dim lights.

eating a giant turkey leg

i dream

about a roasted turkey leg,

covered

in gravy.

greasy and shiny

with crispy skin,

right out

of the oven.

i've gone to bed that hungry.

starving

for a good solid

meal

and not peanut butter crackers

before bedtime.

i hold the leg

in my hand like a Roman

Emperor

and give it a mighty bite.

the giblets and gravy

drip down

my chin

into my beard,

and then i look out the window

of my castle

and i see a flock

of turkeys in the field

limping by,

each with one leg missing.

i wake up with the feeling

that i've sinned.

i reach for

the peanut butter crackers

again.

kissing Donna Reed

there's a new

tv

up at the big store, on sale

for the holidays.

it's one hundred and three inches

wide,

the side of a wall,

with surround

sound

and the clarity

of the Hubble telescope

after they

fixed it.

it's hyper interactive.

you can actually put your

hand into it

and slap

someone on the Morning Joe

in the morning

when they say something

stupid.

you can feel and smell,

and taste

whatever

it is going on on the screen.

you can take

a bite of a waffle,

or have a sip of the drink

at someone's table.

you can actually

kiss Donna Reed on the lips

as you watch

It's a Wonderful Life

for the fiftieth time.

no resolutions

i make a long

list of new years resolutions.

every year

i sit down

and ponder what improvements

i need to attend to.

what obvious things do i need

to do

to make life easier

for me

and those around me.

specifically

the cat and dog.

but i'm stumped this year.

i've got nothing.

nothing new.

complete self awareness

i drink when

i'm happy, he'd tell me,

red eyed,

and sleepy

in the truck

as we headed off

to work.

it's the cure for all

my ailments.

i drink when i'm sad,

i drink when

i'm bored.

i drink in the morning,

at night.

it doesn't matter.

i know it will kill me,

but so what.

at least i know

that i'm falling on my

own sword.

the frost of night

bring

on the frost of night.

the glaze

of winter

shone bright by

the one

eyed moon,

the cow

and the silver spoon.

bring back

childhood

and rhyme.

the window to stare

out of

until the end

of time.

bring back their

voices,

as they turn

off the lights

and blow a kiss

while whispering

good night.

keep them alive

a little while

longer. we know

how hard they tried.

first glimpse at nudity as a child

before

i found my father's

playboy

magazines hidden

in the back

of a closet

next to his shoes,

i discovered

National Geographic

magazines

at the library

in high school.

next to a hippopotamus,

or a roaring

fire

there were

always

semi-clad tribal women

dancing

around in grass skirts

howling

at the moon.

playboy

was a step up, for sure.

the basement reading room

she was a hoarder,

this

woman i dated for a few

years

at the Chesapeake Ranch

Estates,

but i didn't mind her clutter

and firetrap

house at all.

the floors and stairways

were

filled with old

books and magazines,

clothes

and shoes

from a different era.

bent forks

and spoons, chipped

dishes

and cups. but

once i got used to the smell

of dust

and mildew,

i'd throw down one

of her horse blankets

and get lost in the basement

for hours

reading old Life Magazines,

National Geographic,

and Look.

buying a birdcage for the newspaper

i'm selective

with what

i read or watch on the news

anymore.

another senseless

school shooting,

nope,

click, i turn

the page.

political grumblings,

click,

turn the page.

another senate hearing,

another

march,

another charade.

click

and turn the page.

more brutal news about

the wars,

click and turn

the page.

sports, click and turn

the page.

time to cancel the paper

or buy a parakeet

and a large

cagebu

i like what you've done with that tree this year

there are those

who love

Christmas.

those rosy cheeked

brownie

baking, eggnog

sipping

glorious souls

with tinsel

in their hair,

and wearing

red sweaters.

they have the lights up.

the tree,

the candles,

the wreathes.

they are making cookies

and singing

carols.

they've already finished

their shopping,

but go out

anyway,

for just one more thing.

i appreciate

these people

they do all the work.

and allow me to relax

on the couch,

or luxuriously

sleep in.

Joe's hardware in town

it was a fine

hardware store in the heart

of town.

old men

in red vests

would show you where

to find

that exact screw

or nail,

a hammer or Phillip's head,

to secure something down.

many of them went to school

with your

mother

they'd tell you with a wink,

she was a looker,

just like you.

the right

paint?

please follow me.

the bag of salt for the driveway

is over here,

sir,

or madam.

do you need a new

broom,

or brush,

perhaps an umbrella

for when the rain

comes down,

a shovel

for the snowy

mush?

bird seed? step this way.

don't mind

the clutter.

aisle six needs a clean-up,

help

is on the way.

a pet free zone?

will there

be dogs in heaven,

cats,

maybe our favorite

horse

or chimpanzee?

turtles

and snakes.

will the T-rex

make it

behind the pearly gates?

or will it be

just us

in our robes and gowns,

our golden

crowns,

with not a parakeet,

or chipmunk,

not a squirrel or pigeon,

or owl

to be found?

please be aliens up there

it's not exactly

the day

the earth stood still,

the movie

from 1951,

but it would be fun

if the drones

that are flying above

us like swarms of bees

were of alien

origin, sent

from a galaxy far away,

and not related to

some goof ball

nerds

sending them

up from their

garages

and yards.

ordered on Amazon.

what a disappointment

this whole

scenario

will be.

i'll pray for you

it's a mystery.

your liking me.

i can't quite figure it out.

why

on earth would you

choose

the likes of me.

especially knowing my

history.

you see in

me what no one else has

seen.

and disregard

the rest.

i'll pray for you.

the rose bushes have thorns

careful

where you step in this

yard.

the rose bushes have

thorns.

the dog

has been here

and there.

the cat

too.

squirrels and birds,

snakes

and turtles.

that plant

over there might be

poison ivy,

or oak.

i'm not sure, but

be careful

just the same.

the puddles

are deep

and

the gate is splintered

too, so push

lightly when

you leave.

thank you for the visit,

it's been so nice

to see you too.

hard candy to find

i don't know

exactly where my mother

hid the hard

Christmas candy

that she

set out in bowls

after Thanksgiving was

over.

the ribbons

and bows,

cherry red

and white striped,

the mint green squares,

the brown

peanut colored

ones.

an assortment of holiday

decor

formed from hard

glazed sugar

and fructose.

i didn't know where she

hid them all year,

but boy,

did we search

and explore.

Irwin's sudden departure

when

Mimi's husband died,

heartache

at a red

light and she couldn't rouse

him

from his sudden death,

hunched

over the wheel

as the horn

blared.

she shook her head

and said.

why now?

what a mess.

you couldn't wait ten more

minutes

until we were in

the driveway.

could you?

i'm catching a cab,

let

911 do the rest.

a goal for the day

my goal

for the day is to leave

the house.

to put pants

on,

a shirt,

maybe shave

and brush my teeth.

i might

take my phone,

i might leave

it behind.

what's the difference.

no one

calls anymore.

maybe i'll take a loaf

of stale

bread

and walk up to the lake.

i'll feed the ducks.

that should take

care of an

hour or two, leaving

the rest of the day free.

the sloe gin celebration

i think i was in the eleventh

grade

when i got

sick

while drinking

sloe gin

on the bleachers

at the local

high school.

it was a purple

gooey

substance,

sticky and slick

going

down.

i can still smell it all

these years

later.

sometimes if i ride by

a high school

stadium

i bend over

and gag again.

a drone for Christmas

i get a drone

for Christmas from

Radio Shack.

it's an early

present

from my Uncle

Sal.

he shows me how to fire

it up

and get it into

the sky.

easy peasy.

we get a pizza

and crack open a few

beers

and sit out in the backyard.

where do you

want to fly it, he asks me.

over a military base,

a nuke plant,

or over the airport?

maybe the white house.

we can

peek into the windows

and see old Joe

asleep.

won't we get in trouble,

won't they shoot

us down?

he laughs

and lights a cigar.

come on, man.

they don't have that kind

technology

yet.

we're fancy free.

the bucket list in reverse

i have a new list.

it's my

bucket list in reverse. 

i make a vow

to never see the Grand Canyon,

or the great wall

of China.

i promise to never jump

out of a plane

or go bungee jumping,

or zip line across

Niagra Falls.

i won't be a tourist in Paris

pretentiously

sipping coffee at an outdoor

cafe.

i won't take a cruise to Alaska

to see the icebergs

melt

and the polar bears

eating

baby seals.

i won't go rafting on

the Zambezi,

or swim with sharks.

you won't see me on a camel

near the Great Sphinx,

or scaling

Mt. Everest.

but please go, 

go and take pictures.

i'll wish you

the best.

bringing sand back with me

i bring

sand back from the beach.

handfuls, but

little else.

no salt water

taffy,

no magnets

for the fridge, not

even a picture

in my phone of the sun

rising

over the ocean.

the sand is in

my hair, my shoes,

my eyes.

it's between the pages

of books

i barely read.

it's everywhere

at once.

not to worry though,

i've saved

a few granules

for you,

and some for your 

once clean bed.

when the hunter gets captured by the game

beware

dear hunters

of beauty, the flashing eyes

and long hair,

the legs.

the sex they'll

dole out to you

for good behavior.

beware of the trappings

of girls

that too quickly

became women,

all lipstick

and bling.

beware of the wink

and sashay

down the street,

for in the end, once

captured,

they'll make you 

crawl, they'll make

you weep.

the first day of school

it felt

like school would never end.

the clock,

the chalkboard,

the books,

the annoying children

in the halls

and rooms.

when would that bell

finally ring?

this feeling

came over me

in kindergarten

and stuck with me all the way

through high school

and beyond.

i remember

sitting at my desk the very

first day,

staring at the clock,

holding

a crayon,

and murmuring to myself,

Jesus, Mary and Joseph,

how long

will this go on?

bathroom decorating

it catches

my eye,

the rust

ring around the bottom of

the vinyl

liner

and shower

curtain.

it seems like just

yesterday

when i bought a new one

online.

how quickly

time flies,

before

it dies.

maybe something

sparkling,

something shiny

and glittery,

for the holidays this

time.

we can't sleep for different reasons

for a variety

of reasons

we couldn't sleep.

we couldn't get there,

no matter

what we dwelled on,

no matter

how many unshaven

sheep.

we said nothing of it

though,

lying beside

each other,

below the soft spin

of a fan

in the summer

heat.

what was there to say

anymore

that we didn't

understand, or wouldn't

until

morning keep.

cutting through the fog

i'm no longer

confused,

no longer in a daze

of wonder, lost.

no longer

in a fog.

i get it now.

i have a flashlight

on my head

like the miners wear.

i can see

through it all now.

i can go anywhere.

those sticky keys

i look at all the machines

in the cellar.

new and old.

the machines

i typed on.

from

the metal ones with

sticky keys

and ribbons,

the bar going across,

and then the ding at the

end of a sentence.

my favorite

machine to type on.

rarely allowing

a finished

thought.

the talk turns serious

at the holiday party,

we drift

into a serious discussion

about

all things

we have

no control over.

wars

and oil.

the climate.

wives

and children

come up in the conversation,

and the men

sitting around

agree

as one

in nodding silence.

they fill

their cups and drink.

i regret that i will not be able to attend the dinner

we have

cross words over the phone.

he's drinking

again.

he's angry

at the television.

i hear dogs barking,

and his

wife

yelling at him

from the kitchen stove.

come over

for dinner,

he says after calling me

stupid

and dumb

for who i voted for.

we'd love

to see you.

he presses me.

he wants an immediate

verbal

rsvp.

you like tofu

and hummus, don't you?

the third and final wife

he sank

one boat for insurance,

high maintenance

as she was,

the second

one caught on fire,

mysteriously

and also

sank,

and then the third

boat,

went down in a storm.

he rows

now in a small

canoe

with

paddle in hand,

but penniless from all

the boats

that came

before.

to be blind

to be

blind,

to no longer have

the vision

to see

what's in front of you,

or behind,

to see what's true,

has little

to do with

eyes

and more to do

with what's

inside of you.

the juicier bone

they look

you in the eyes as if they

know you,

as if they have

real feelings

and love

for you,

loyal

and true,

these hounds,

these dogs

you've taken in,

until someone else

hands them

a juicer bone

to gnaw

and chew.

a savior in overalls

i'm waiting

on the front stoop for the plumber

to arrive.

i've given

up

on the wrench,

the leak,

the drips,

the puddle of cold water

on the floor.

i need a savior

in overalls.

i pray that

a blank check should

suffice,

that it will save me 

once more.

nothing to see here, all is well

like enormous

bees

they arrive in droves

buzzing up

and down,

between the clouds,

the trees.

dozens of them.

large as cars,

small

as dogs.

strange drones.

what are they?

biological

weapons,

nuclear bombs?

hovering with no

rhyme or reason.

are they eyes,

not so secret surveillance

on our lives?

but the government says,

with a grey coat shrug,

beats me,

but 

all well,

no worries.

nothing to see here.

go back

into your homes.

president elect

let me tell

you

about the speed bumps

in our

development

of a hundred

houses.

why o why

are there

three foot high

concrete

embankments

that we need to cross

over

in order

to get to the red light

and out

onto the roads

beyond

our confines.

a mere fifty yards

away.

the bottom of the car

scrapes

and moans,

sparks fly

even at a crawl.

next year i'll running

for the board.

and they

will be gone.

welcome to community

DOGE.

what knees are for

there are days,

sometimes weeks, when

you feel like God 

isn't real, 

almost

like He doesn't exist,

and never

did.

the dark thought 

goes through

your mind

that maybe

religion

is a hoax. a myth.

and then

tragedy occurs, 

and before the sun

goes

down,

you're on your knees

in prayer.

not a lost moment

we drive

two hours in bad weather

to go

hear the famous

poet speak

and read his poems.

many that we know by heart.

we have his books

on our

shelf, on the floor,

or near

the bathtub,

a few

in the car when traffic

stalls.

dogeared

and worn,

pages torn.

coffee stains on the cover.

we each

have our favorites.

and then

the announcement is made

as the room

fills, and settles in,

removing coats

and hats,

woolen scarves.

he wont

make it tonight.

he's ill.

quickly i take out my notebook,

there's a new poem in here

somewhere.

if you could read my mind

nobody knows

you.

not really.

nobody knows

exactly who you are

and what

you're thinking.

and you

don't know them either.

mind reading

would be a disastrous

ability to have

in most

relationships

that are arriving

or leaving.

the red tin of cookies

i get the round

red

tin of cookies that my father

sends

every year

for Christmas.

he used to send

the large

tin,

but this year it's the smaller

version

holding

the three tiers

of cookies

in little aprons.

i go down my list

of possibilities

to see who

i can regift it to.

checking on the temperature

i stick

a bare leg

out the door

to check on the weather.

and sure enough,

it's cold

out.

i look down the block

and see other

legs

sticking

out from other doors.

some with socks,

some without.

i see the woman

three doors

up with a fishnet

stocking on

and a high heel.

it's a long leg

pointing up to the clouds.

i hear she used to be

a Rockette.

bread to die for

at some

point i have to pay a visit

to the new

local bakery

that everyone is raving

about

on the next-door app.

the cinnamon rolls

are to die for,

the cakes

and bagels,

the cookies and pies

are amazing.

go early

and get the bread

fresh and warm

right out of the oven.

yelp gives it four stars.

it's located right next

door to the pharmacy

selling boxes

of Ozempic.

the writer's group

i join

the Wednesday night writers' group

at the local school,

Franklin Elementary,

7 until 9 pm.

unless it snows.

there's a picture

of Benjamin

Franklin

on the wall.

i'm angry at myself

for doing so.

i'm not above

this

or below this, i just feel

out of place,

like i don't

belong.

i say nothing and sit

there

like a stone.

slowly

i make myself smaller

and check

the nearest exit.

maybe i can get at least

one pedestrian

poem

out of this before i

sneak out,

but these two hours

are so long,

and the desks

so small.

seven games on tv today

i used to like

sports.

played them all 

from

baseball

to tennis,

to football

and basketball.

i watched the games,

on tv,

one per week.

i read the sports page

every morning

to check the box scores

on my favorite players,

or teams

i had cleats and jerseys,

gloves

and pads,

helmets and whatever

each sport

needed.

i played in the mud

and rain.

i sat on bleachers

in cold stadiums,

or on

hot July days.

i wore the colors.

i sang the songs, i hung

the flag

out on the porch.

i yelled and screamed

with each

loss or win.

and now.

not so much.

there's too much money

in it. too much

worship.

too much narcissistic

fame.

taking the bullet train

we become

fast

new friends. we text

and call,

we are

so much alike,

we are on

the bullet train

towards love,

and then,

like so much life,

you're gone.

your long left leg

i remember

your

left leg. just the left leg

for some reason,

not the right

one.

it's the one leg you let

hang out

from under

the sheets

and blanket.

letting it drape long

and pale

over the side of the bed.

i can still

see it now.

it's the leg of a statue.

cold marble,

unalive.

the opposite

of Venus De Milo.

i'm not lost, just delayed

i'm lost

but i refuse to pull over

and ask

someone

where i am.

i learned this from my

father.

it's cheating

to use my navigation

system, or

gps, or Waze.

i'd rather drive

for another hour

or so,

burning gas.

i continue on

wandering through

this maze.

but then,

mother nature calls

and tells me

to stop.

and ask,

it's either that or

i wet my pants,

or find

an old coffee cup rolling

around in the back.

as long as you don't get married again

so where are we now,

i ask

Betty,

my tax consultant

and

life coach,

all around advisor

on things,

large

and small.

do i have enough dough

to finally

quit work

and sleep in late?

she readjusts the wig

on her head,

and wipes

her fogged glasses

on the sleeve

of her

mountain dress.

she flips through my

paper work,

licking her fingers

with each turn

of a page.

well, she says. with what

you have

now, you

should be good for

another thirty years

or so,

as long as you don't get

married again.

waiting for my presidential pardon

i'm waiting patiently

for my

presidential pardon.

i know old Joe

is busy

and probably has carpel

tunnel syndrome

from signing a few thousand

pardons

of his nearest and dearest

friends, but i'd like

the years between 1970

and 2023 to be

covered,

ala Hunter.

i can't remember half

of the things

i did,

or may have done,

or have been

accused of doing

by disgruntled siblings

and girlfriends,

but a full pardon

and clemency

would be a nice Christmas

gift this year.

thanks, Joe.

i didn't vote for you, but

i think you're

a swell guy.

the incident at St. Raymond's

i accidentally

sat down in a pew,

at church,

in a spot where an

old couple had been

sitting

for forty years.

excuse me, they said,

but that's where

we sit.

i looked over

my shoulder at the dozens

of empty pews,

and said,

i'm sorry, but there's

plenty of room.

get up, the woman said,

or else,

holding up her umbrella,

the man

took out a cannister

of pepper spray

and said get the hell out of

our seats,

but i refused to move.

then the service stopped,

and the choir

came rushing over,

the altar boys

drew swords, the priest,

ran up

with his holy water.

but i grabbed

a hymnal and began to sing

and pray,

i hung on.

the narcissistic pandemic

when you

dive

into the whole narcissist thing,

reading a few

books

and scrolling through

the countless

you tube videos

on the subject,

you begin to realize

that the entire world is

narcissistic.

and you aren't

far from wrong, as

you stand

in front of the mirror,

examining 

your receding hairline.

yes, it is cold out today

at times,

i miss the lack of verbal

communication

with

wise souls.

philosophers and theologians.

teachers

and gurus.

i need a complex

thought

to ponder,

a stimulating conversation

of some sort

to awaken me.

my barista

where i get my coffee

just isn't

getting it done

anymore.

delete block and no contact

i haven't

had

an emotional crisis in ages,

i suddenly

realize

one morning,

getting out of bed.

knock on wood i whisper

to myself.

which i do,

reaching over to knock

my knuckles against

the scratched

and wobbly

headboard.

i haven't been sick,

or cried,

or been to therapy

in years.

i'm sleeping well,

eating right

and enjoying life.

can this be real?

yes, it is.

deleting, blocking

and going no contact

is a wonderful cure.

the one cure all for all ailments

chicken soup

was

my mother's answer to every

ailment,

or broken bone

or any emotional crisis

you might be going through.

blow your nose,

she'd say,

i'm making soup.

stop whining.

you'll feel better in no

time.

you've already missed

too much school

or work.

divorce?

no problem.

she'd be at the door

with a giant

pot of chicken noodle

soup

and a thermometer.

freeze what you don't eat,

she'd say.

it'll be good for

months.

and don't call me during

my shows,

okay?

110 over 75 after you visit

my blood

pressure is a roller coaster

ride

of numbers.

it's up,

it's down.

the sight of a white

coat

holding a needle makes

it jump

like a Musk rocket

heading

to the moon.

the sound of a baby

crying on

a crowded train,

or when it's tax

time again.

when i see a cop behind

me with

his party lights on.

my blood pressure rises

and my heart

beats like a rabbit.

only sleep,

and making love with you

seems to bring

it down

again.

come on over,

we can solve this.

drones and the slanted roof

strange objects

are flying

overhead, drones from

the beyond.

are they armed

with 

bombs?

biological weapons?

Barney Fife has his gun

drawn,

but no one

seems to care much.

the government

shrugs, the president

says,

beats me.

it's not unlike the danger

of a slanted

roof,

left alone.

let's move on.

back scratching instructions

no,

i tell her. up,

three inches to the left,

use your nails,

enough

with this rubbing

nonsense.

scratch.

now

down,

go right a little,

down the spine,

there,

at the edge of my boxer

shorts,

lightly please,

now up again, near

my shoulders,

my neck.

a little harder,

there,

right there.

don't be afraid to dig in.

ahhh.

i think you've got it.

planning the big holiday party

we sit down

with some spiked eggnog

to plan

the big holiday party.

what food

to buy,

what drinks,

whiskey or wine?

should we 

have it catered this year,

or call in for help

from friends

and neighbors?

what about plates

and glasses,

silverware?

which people have special

dietary needs?

what about parking

and the noise

that might bother the uninvited

neighbors.

(Becky)

what music should we play?

what about

political

affiliations, will that

be an issue

this year.

do we have enough room?

should we move

the furniture

in case dancing takes place?

what about the dogs

and your crazy sister,

who was just released?

exhausted

we finally agree, 

let's go out this year.

what's mine is not yours

to cover

the round black dining

room

table,

modern

against the white

chairs,

she placed a pink frilly

cloth,

something from

the age

of Woodstock.

nearly a quilt 

for a love child

still

wandering in the rain,

lost.

it went against

everything

i believed in.

she knew that,

but did it anyway.

it took time,

before i took it off.

it burned beautifully 

in the bonfire

out back.

last light

narrow

light 

from a faraway sun

will find

a way

in

between the cracked

boards

of the bent house

falling

on its old legs.

white rays

still shine

against

shards

of glass hanging

on to window

frames.

what was here is gone.

but the light

comes in.

beyond the rough

i'm beyond

the rough, into the deep furrows

of thick

grass

and brush.

the hole is a hundred

yards away,

or more.

i can't even see the flag.

the wind

is blowing as i stand

here

with one

foot in water,

the other

in sand.

my eyes are closed

as i swing away.

some

days are all like

that.

stuck in the rough,

please call.

go on, it's your turn now

there are some

days

when you feel prehistoric.

everyone

is younger

than you.

policemen,

politicians, 

lawyers and doctors.

you look around

at all the lineless

faces

in the cars

flying by,

the full heads of hair,

you see

the spring

in their steps,

the young children

in their arms,

you sit down and watch

with a wry smile,

this brave

new world.

it's their turn now.

which

is fine.

you gladly make room

and let

them pass by.

the Christmas Sweater

i don't like

what i'm wearing, 

the Christmas sweater

is too red, 

with reindeer flying

through a snowy

sky, so i take

it off and start all over again.

i stand further

away from

the mirror and dim

the lights.

that's better.

should i wear black again?

i look out

the window, it's raining,

it's cold.

maybe grey today.

with a black scarf.

we haven't changed

the small

photo of a young woman

is still in

my wallet.

the edges yellowed,

crimped,

but she's still beautiful.

mona Lisa

in a graduation gown.

she was

my sweetheart,

my girlfriend,

my one

and only.

it's fifty years old,

at least.

i'm sure, she hasn't

changed.

the same as me.

one day,

i say to myself

and tuck it back it in,

for safe

keeping.

dazed and confused at the Mall

i haven't been

in a mall for years.

but

for an adventure i drive

over to

Springfield Mall,

famous

for car jackings,

assaults

and murders.

cameras are everywhere.

signs, saying

don't leave

valuables in your car.

break ins are frequent

and the barbed

wire

is disturbing.

i see a hooded gang

of miscreants

in the garage,

hiding in the shadows

passing around a large

drink

from Orange Julius.

quickly i make a mad dash

towards J.C. Penny's,

but the doors are locked.

the gang

is chasing me.

i follow the smell of 

Cinnabon's around

the corner,

and try that door, but Sears

and Roebucks is

closed too.

i see a security guard riding

by in his smart

car, licking

and ice-cream cone.

i try to wave him down,

but he waves back

and drives on.

i begin to empty my pockets

of cash,

leaving it behind

to try and slow

the gang down.

finally i make it to the main

entrance

and dive through the glass doors,

hitting my head

on a fountain spewing

up colored water.

woozy,

and glassy eyed,

i look around.

there's Spencer's

and Aunties Pretzels,

kiosks to get a battery for

my watch.

Hahn's and Kay Jewelers,

massage chairs

and Victoria Secrets.

i'm dreaming that it's 1980

all over again.

there's Chess King where i bought

my first ill

fitting suit

and Hickory Farms

with stacks

of beef logs.

and over there,

next to Radio Shack,

there's the food court,

where a woman

puts a piece of pork

on a toothpick

near my mouth and says,

want to try?

i say, yes, thank you.

home at last.

a tear falls from my eye.

autobiographies of Hollywood stars

the autobiographies

of new

stars, child stars,

unknown

and already fading

stars

is bothersome.

tv

people,

a cast of characters

in

cartoon movies.

singers

who sang one

song.

they put their lives

out there

for examination,

full of wisdom

and advice

despite

sill being babes in the woods

at thirty

or twenty-one.

it's page after

page

of baby food,

soft carrots and plums.

chewable

without teeth, 

just gums.

we were all beautiful once

we were all beautiful

once.

before we befriended

the sun,

before gravity

and grief

got a hold of us.

we were all lovely

creatures when

newborn, held in our

mother's arms,

we were like lights

walking about

with our smiles

and glistening hair, 

the gait

in our step, the cheerfulness

that one has

when not knowing

what is yet to come.

we were all

beautiful once, and many

still are

if you take the time

to talk to them.

i think he ghosted me

she tells

me

on the phone how her lover

of six months

has left her

standing at the altar.

well

not the altar exactly,

but at

Starbucks

on the corner of 59th

and Lexington.

i waited and waited,

she tells me,

but he never

showed up.

i bought him his usual

cup of coffee

and a maple

scone.

but he never arrived.

i texted him,

i called.

i looked up and down

the street.

i sat there and read 

the newspaper, i ate

the scone.

i had another cup of coffee

and then i had

to go in to pee.

that's when he showed up.

he looked around

and left when he couldn't

find me.

so i guess it's over.

i think he blocked me on

his phone.

what should i do?

i don't even know his last

name, or where

he lives.

i think he might be married

though.

i could see his ring

in his pants pocket.

act one is love

i lean

against the wall,

the adjacent

wall where the newlyweds

have moved in.

last night,

they were making love,

today

they're arguing

over

something i can't quite

figure out.

burnt toast?

i write it all down

for my new

play.

the dialogue is perfect.

act one.

the bliss.

act two, 

not so much.

praying in the fog

it's beyond

foggy.

it's a black and white

movie

starring

Claude Raines.

it's treacherous

out there.

the air is thick

and wet.

you can't see your hand

in front

of your face.

everything

is in slow motion.

even

the birds are cloaked

in black

and grey.

the stillness

and quiet of the earth

is eerie.

it's time to kneel

on the soft ground

and pray.

use the whole spoon

i question

the server at the Mexican take

out

why the spoons

are so large

if they don't fill them

when making

my enchilada.

they barely tip the end

of the enormous

spoon into

the guacamole

or rice

or beans, or sour cream

when making

my giant roll

of carbs and goo.

i have to beg

for more as the line

crawls forward.

please, i tell them.

a little more

beef or chicken, or shredded

cheese.

use the whole spoon

this time.

dumb and dumber and ivy league

people

are making weapons

from

3d printers.

killing

murdering in cold

blood

in hot blood

spilling

it with glee

on the street.

dumb

or dumber

or Ivy League.

there's something going

on here.

something

in the water,

the air.

the food we eat.

technology.

it's the beginning

of the end

it seems. and then

so easily

caught eating an

unhappy meal

in the middle of nowhere,

about to serve

life in prison,

breaking big rocks into

little rocks for what

seemed

like a heroic

idea

at the time.

it's not that i don't care

i read

the news about Turkey

and Pakistan,

Syria

and Taiwan.

the problems in Africa

and

West Virginia,

the fentanyl and tsunamis,

the starving people

and dogs

in Afghanistan,

and it's not that i don't

care, it's just

that i haven't

even started

my Christmas shopping

and my mind

and wallet

are elsewhere.

a story to every scar

there's

a story to that scar,

and that one

under my eye,

and the other, the curved

quarter moon

of pink.

the straight line

beneath

my chin.

the blue

unhealed cut

on my arm,

a new wound

from last

night. a fresh bruise,

a mysterious welt.

live long enough

and you'll have plenty

of scars

and stories

to tell.

maybe at last the cupboard will be bare

maybe one day,

they'll

go to the cupboard for more

bullets

and bombs,

missiles

and what not,

and find

that the cupboard

is bare

on both sides.

maybe then the war

will end,

lives will

be spared.

and maybe Santa Claus

will come

down the chimney

for real

this year.

dear landlord

the check

is in the mail.

i sent it three days ago.

please

mister landlord

don't turn

off the lights, cut

off the water.

give it some time.

i've got

prospects, i've got

a line

on a new job,

a new

career.

please give me

a little more

time.

i know i've been late

before

but this is the real deal.

i won't let you

down.

never again.

don't change the locks

on the door.

i just need a little more

time.

the fast turning of pages

it's not

just the days that seem to fly

by.

it's the months,

the years,

the decades.

how did we age

so quickly?

so cruel the world

is when

we are full

of memories.

sweet or bitter,

we hold them tightly,

we don't

let go.

i put more water on

i've waited too long

to take

the second

sip of coffee. it's gone

cold.

the nearly

full cup

on the sill by

the window is

frosty

now.

but the book was

too good

to set down.

i put more water on.

the unringing phone

i think

there's something wrong

with the phone.

it hasn't

rung in days.

i pick it up

and listen to the dial tone.

the long

benign

buzz of the world out

there,

disconnected,

not calling me.

maybe later.

i'll stay nearby

just in case.

it's a slippery world

it's a slippery

world.

hold on, hold the rail,

find a hand,

a shoulder

to lean on.

the road is slick,

the steps

are icy.

the sidewalk is covered

in snow.

the second

you are born, you

spend so much time

keeping

upright

and pressing on.

staying in tonight

let's keep

it simple tonight, i tell her.

taking out

a loaf

of white bread.

a jar of peanut butter

and some

blueberry jam.

let's not get all

dressed

up and go out.

it's cold

and it might rain.

okay, she says.

and pours out two

glasses

of milk then

places three cookies

each

next to the sandwiches.

we take it out on the tv

trays,

and settle

in.

duck and run

i say the wrong

thing,

again. but it's too late.

the words

have left

my mouth.

the conversation stops

and

a woman

stands up and says

i can't believe you said

that.

just who do you think

your are?

i tell her that she sure

looks

pretty tonight in

that tight fitting short

black skirt,

usually you don't see

old women

wearing clothes

like that

out in public,

which makes it worse.

the country bar in town

i see no horses,

no cows,

no ranches, or fences,

nothing

to rustle

up for miles. and yet

i see a lot

of cowboy hats.

and big belt buckles.

boots and chaps,

and girls

with saddles.

there's a twang in

their voices,

country

in their stride.

everyone is

dancing in a line.

i'm lost in a Peckinpah

movie.

i've got to get outside.

when the school yard bully grows up

i've

shaved a minute

off

my drive by

taking

a short cut through

the park.

driving on the sidewalks,

scattering

pedestrians

and dogs.

i used my horn

all day.

i'm in a very big hurry.

i always am.

i'm short

and squat but in my circles

i'm a big shot.

i roll through

red lights, i jump

lines,

i ask

the cop do you know who

i am.

when i die

and they hold the funeral,

you'll need tickets

to get in.

she just had to go to a dive bar

she only

wanted to go to dive

bars.

nothing local

of course.

no chain coffee shop,

or restaurant

would do,

nothing with linen

tablecloths

or candles or menus.

we had to drive

to the boon docks,

to a run down

shack,

serving

eggs and scrapple

all day long.

there had to be

liver and onions on

Thursday

which

would be written on

a chalk board

out front.

and they had

to have

their own beer of course

made

in the back

by some guy named

Earle.

some people had teeth,

some didn't.

and there was always a dog

chained

to a tire

around back.

most of the time, i'd eat

after

i got home.

what is crypto exactly?

it's money,

but it's not money.

it's electronic

currency of some sort.

bizarre wizardry

invented

by some unknown

tech guru.

it's bits

of this,

pieces of that.

there is no bank,

there is nothing

to hold in your hand.

no coin,

or folding

cash.

no gold,

or silver to back it.

it's just numbers

going up

and down.

i'm getting

a headache

with your explanation.

i'm sorry that i asked.

did you hear that, i think i heard something out there

she likes

to go camping.

the wood

fire.

the stars at night.

the breeze,

the ripple of the stream

nearby.

she likes

her cozy tent

and sleeping bag.

she enjoys

the sound

of the crickets,

the rustling of birds,

and creatures

prowling around.

she doesn't mind

the snakes

that appear out of nowhere,

or having to go off

into the trees

to relieve

herself.

or putting all our food

in a basket,

on a high

branch to keep

the bears away.

she doesn't mind the hard

cold ground,

or the fact that there's

no cell reception, 

at all.

whereas,

i like the Holiday Inn.

waiting on the first born

you can

always tell, in the waiting

room,

the men

who are yet to be fathers,

and the ones

who are

fathers already,

with three or more kids

long out

of the oven.

the first

group

of men, are pacing.

they look tired and scared.

constantly

looking

at the door for the nurse

or doctor to appear.

while the later

group of men are on their

phones,

placing bets

at the racetrack,

or ordering pizza

for when they get

home.

what if this is it

startled

by the thought of

what if

this is it

i sat up in bed and wiped

the cold

sweat

from my brow.

i hadn't

had that thought

in a while

not since

the last bad marriage.

whew.

i took a few

deep breaths, held

the dog

closer and went

back to sleep.

temporary stays

when

i met her, she was living

out of boxes.

no dressers,

nothing hung

in the closet.

i asked her how long had

she been

living in this apartment,

two years

she said.

she washed her clothes

in the sink.

and sat

on the floor

to do her make up,

using a toaster

as a mirror.

nothing changed when

she moved

in with me.

democrats fighting

he tells

me

the marriage is over,

he's nearly

weeping

as he sips his vodka.

she wants

me out,

he says.

gone,

that's what she said.

too bad

i tell him. marriage

is tough

at times when you don't

get along.

i thought you two were

on the same

page with the election.

me too,

he tells me. but

she wants me to march

around the white house

and i don't

want to march

anymore. plus

she's shaved her head

and is withholding

sex.

also she wants me to wear

a dog collar

and put me on

a leash, and

she's not even cooking

anymore.

do you have

any room

at your house, he asks

in a whisper.

cupping

his hand on the phone.

umm.

not really.

but i could sleep on

the floor,

or in the basement

on a pile

of clothes.

didn't we do this eight

years ago,

i ask him, staring into

the phone.

pop tarts and other assorted poisons

the new

nicotine is sugar

and

fructose,

corn oils

and a hundred other

unpronounceable

chemicals

that they

are putting in our food.

keeping us

addicted

to the good taste,

the dopamine

fix

of sweetness.

no wonder

everyone is fat

and sick.

taking pills

by the handful,

sticking

needles

into their bellies

to remove

the last dozen donuts

that they ate.

the playground

is full

of tubbies

in stretched clothes.

heart attacks, cancer

and diabetes

used to be rare

fifty years ago.

now it's the new normal.

the scale

is broken and the doctors

don't care.

there's money

to be made here in them

there hills

and rolls.

the long drive back home after visiting the parents

it's a long

boring drive from

Pennsylvania.

we take turns

at the wheel.

she puts her foot

out the window

when it's my turn.

she opens a bag of potato

chips.

some go flying

around the inside

of the car.

we're both quiet

and tired

from the trip.

the trunk is full of

rattling

Tupperware,

jammed with leftovers

from thanksgiving.

the radio

is on.

the signs go by in

blurs,

the billboards,

the telephone poles,

the dashes

on the road.

it's becoming night.

she points at a cloud

in the sky

and asks me what

i think it

looks like.

i tell her, i think it

looks

like a witch on a

broom,

angry and frail.

she says i think it looks

like your mother.

we don't talk

for a while.

conversation with a parking meter

i stare

at the parking meter, fumbling

for coins.

what is it this

time, a credit card,

a license plate? yes it's

you again

i say to the meters

face.

the metal

lips

gone cold.

the throat of it hungry

for gold.

i know you, i tell it.

i know

your ruthless

soul,

your skinny 

but bent steel pole.

i know i'll run out

of time

again before i leave,

before i

have to go.

i know

i'll owe the man again,

it's what you

people do.

i know.

love is not for the weak

she wants

a love

poem, a sappy bouquet

of flowery

words,

a Hallmark

card

of sorts,

but love isn't like that.

it's strange,

it's hard.

it's blood and guts,

it's

wandering

the night streets

with the insane.

love is a mysterious

and dangerous

game.

it's not for the weak

or faint

of heart.

it's not

a gentle summer

rain.

sorry, we're out of coffee

it's a coffee shop

in the heart

of town

with a big plate glass

window that

says Joe's Coffee.

French Roast.

whole beans and ground.

coffee from all over

the world.

Jamaica and Morocco,

Turkey,

and the far East.

yelp gives it five stars.

it's cold

and windy so we go in

and sit down.

but they're out of coffee.

they have

water, and tea though.

i ask them when

will they have coffee

again.

they shrug and say,

we're not sure.

we're waiting for the ship

to come in.

no Sanka, even?

no Maxwell house?

nope, sorry, but

would you like some

Lipton, or Earl Grey.

maybe some herbal tea?

have a nice day mister Wilson

i see you

shiny dime on the floor.

mister

Wilson.

i saw you

yesterday,

the sun caught your

shiny

face

when it came through

the window.

i'll be back

tomorrow.

but i have to go to

work

now.

i'm running late.

have a nice day.

a fifty-cent cup of joe

as i sit

here

sipping on my seven

dollar

pumpkin spice

gingerbread

latte,

with soy

and an extra

shot of whipped cream,

nibbling at my

pumpkin scone.

i think

back to the fifty cent

cups

of coffee i used

to drink from 7-11

and a donut

from the case,

approaching mold.

it's not about that

we're spoiled

here.

who's hungry, who's cold?

who's down

on their luck

with medical bills,

divorce,

an accident.

who needs a job?

sign here.

who's

disenfranchised?

there's

a shelter

nearby,

a soup kitchen

down the road.

we have safety nets.

we have

rehabs centers,

community outreach,

we have

free meals,

free clothes.

but it's not about that.

when the mind

is gone,

the mentally

ill are tossed out

into the cold.

those days are never that far

i was

never burdened with a large

tuition

to pay

off once school

had ended.

i was fortunate enough to be

poor

and get into a community college

which i hitchhiked

to every morning,

it was the best

six years of my life

as i read

every book

i could borrow.

i educated myself,

i drank and sang songs,

i played a guitar.

and then

i dug ditches for a while,

washed

dishes, sold shoes

and

painted houses.

sold cars.

i couldn't imagine a more

productive

life. and still,

those days are never

that far.

the big chair in the middle of the room

nearly every man

has his

own chair in his house.

it's where he

sits in front

of the tv,

the fireplace,

he can see the whole

room from

this seat.

it's where the children

get up from

when he gets home.

the dog

and cats

scatter.

it might be faux leather,

or plaid.

there might be a newspaper

nearby,

it's his chair his throne.

maybe it rocks

back and fort

or is electrically warmed.

maybe it has

cup holders,

and the footrest extends.

maybe sometimes

he falls asleep in it,

and then, maybe then,

everyone at last

leaves him alone.

eat drink and be merry

being

an atheist

would be so much easier

than

having faith,

believing in a kind

and loving God.

there would

be no questions to answer

about death

and disease.

heartbreak

and sorrow.

why bother with the idea

of heaven

or hell.

there would be

no need to explain 

the world

at large, the mystery

of it all,

believing that

life is just cosmic

mistake.

you could just shrug

and say,

so it goes.

we're here one day,

and gone

the next.

so fare thee well.

eat drink and be merry,

it's getting late.

when the wheels fell off

my father

kept three jobs while

raising

his children.

he was in the Navy,

managing

the Chief's club,

and flipping

burgers

in some joint down

the road.

he was rarely home,

i'd see him

going through the drive-thru

at the liquor store.

it was too much.

too hard.

he never knew

his father, he had nothing

go on.

but he tried,

and he tried and then

the wheels fell

off and he left to find a new

life,

a new bride.

a gift from my Aunt Jane

we kept

the wedding photos,

captioned

and sealed

behind

plastic sheets,

in a large white album

under the coffee

table.

it was the first wedding.

a hundred

and fifty or so

of friends

and siblings, parents

and children.

all you can drink,

all you can eat.

there was a band too

playing Proud Mary,

and the Hustle

by Van McCoy,

and other

fabled tunes.

we kept

a tremendous

slice of wedding cake

in the freezer,

saved, to be eaten

on our one

year anniversary,

which never came.

i can still see

her walking up the street

a suitcase

in hand,

with a toaster

oven under her arm,

a gift from my Aunt Jane.

i'm sure she misses me

i'm sure

she misses me.

the coffee cup stains on

her wood

furniture,

my shoes

left in the hall for

her to trip on,

the cap

off the toothpaste,

the butter

left out

overnight on the counter.

the stubble on

my face.

i'm sure she

misses the sound

of my snoring,

my taking of all

the covers,

my concern over

money,

the oil changes in the car,

and her past

lovers.

i'm sure she misses me,

there's no doubt

in my mind.

it's just a matter of time,

before the phone

rings.

the forever strike zone painted on the wall

behind

the bowling alley,

sixty years ago,

we painted

a strike zone

on the wall with a can

of black spray

paint.

our ball caps on,

with a rubber ball,

one bat,

and one glove

we played

stick ball

until the sun went down.

our arms

would be sore,

our legs tired from

chasing

the ball down the street,

or over

the fence into

the storm drain

beside

the lot, or down a sewer.

i drove by there yesterday,

with the doors locked

on my car.

the strike

zone

was still there, but

little else.

his newfound happiness

i never

see the neighbor anymore.

the divorced man

who moved in

a year ago

with a wife

and three teenage

children,

a dog

a cat, a lawnmower.

the grass

is high now,

the bushes untrimmed.

the garbage cans

are full

beside the garage.

he's disappeared

behind

his closed drapes,

i don't see him anymore.

but i see food deliveries.

Chinese,

pizza,

sandwiches from the deli.

beer

and liquor

in boxes.

sometimes women

arrive

in taxi cabs.

party girls

in sequined dresses

and big

hair.

i envy his newfound

happiness.

the sinless hour

i make

a plan to go an entire day

without

sin.

no greed,

no lust, no envy,

no pride

or sloth.

and then

a young woman

walks by in her

summer

dress.

vanity is everything

with the change

in weather,

the dropping of the temperature,

i need

to rest

more on the city

bench.

i catch my breath

from the long

walk

and take

out my blue inhaler.

i look around

to see that no one is

watching,

then take a hit or two.

filling my

lungs with the chemicals

that will

me allow me to rise

and go on.

vanity is everything.

boredom will kill you

boredom

will kill you.

perhaps not as quickly

as sadness

and grief,

long sorrow, but

it will take its toll

in the long

run.

how many hours, or

days,

can go by

before you get dressed

and leave

the house?

the garbage of others

it was an old piano

left in the woods, a

dump

of sorts, unauthorized,

with

blue

refrigerators and pink

stoves,

toilets,

tires, clothes

left

to rot and dissolve

into the brown

earth.

we stumbled upon

the treasure trove

of

books,

and knives,

cracked plates, records

tossed

aside.

plastic dolls and toy

trains,

but it was the piano

that held

my interest,

and when i struck

the keys

a sound came out.

then more

and more. a hollow

off tune

ping.

someone played this

once before,

they sat

there turning the page

of music.

perhaps singing

a song.

a family gathered around.

them

in joy,

and now this, at the end

of a dead-end road.

the differences of men and women

women,

from what i remember,

would

put limits

on men.

how much money

do you make,

they'd ask,

where do you work,

tell me about the school

you went to.

your parents?

what kind of car do you drive?

are you healthy?

do you love your

mother?

so many questions,

so many

beer induced

lies.

when we only cared about

if they would go home

with us

when the lights went up

and the joint

closed,

and that she looked

relatively fine.

that faraway star

before

my sister took over my father's

finances,

he had

almost zero in the bank.

he was flat

out of cash,

bone dry.

all of it

spent on drink and women

of the night,

or afternoon,

maybe

mornings too.

lottery tickets, at twenty

dollars a pop

in the machines

at the grocery store.

he overfed

the vice.

and then the eyes went,

the car was sold,

the walk was too far.

he couldn't trust anyone

to tell him

if he was a winner

or not.

and now

he has money.

a lot of money.

but happiness

is like

a faraway star.

i can't get used to this

i've

narrowed down my

love

interests to one.

i've removed

the toxic people from

my life,

both siblings

and friends.

i've made

my bed.

i've swept the floor,

i've defrosted

the ice box, raked

the leaves,

cleaned the oven.

i've changed the locks

on the doors.

i've put flowers in a vase.

every picture

is rehung straight.

there's a fresh coat

of paint on the walls.

but now

i'm distraught.

i can't get used to

not living

in utter chaos.

the very short list

today,

tomorrow, maybe next

week,

or tonight.

i'll get to it.

i have

my list.

my very short list.

i've written

it in ink,

it's short and sweet,

but sadly,

once more, you

aren't on it.

the snow globe

i shake

the snow globe

that i bought at Coney Island

one summer

when traveling with someone

i thought

i loved.

i bought the globe

from a woman

with whiskers

behind

a glass cage,

she slid it through

the opening

and i gave her three dollars

and seventy-five

cents.

i take it out for the holidays

now.

i spin

the dial

on the bottom

so that music comes out,

jingle bells,

then shake it

hard

to make it snow on

the little people inside,

a reindeer on top

of the tiny

house.

joy comes

in strange ways sometimes.

i need glue again

there

comes a point where

i need

glue,

a strong binding

potion

of some sort.

half the room is held

together

by such a thing.

another dish

has cracked, a vase

broken.

the handle of a cup

has fallen

off.

the sole

of my shoe has

come loose.

i go to the kitchen

drawer

where everything

important

lies in wait.

but the plastic tube

is hard

as a rock,

i need more.

blue suede shoes

they are beautiful

shoes.

blue

suede.

ala Elvis, but i've

never worn

them out,

but

i can't bring myself

to throw them

away.

sometimes i step

into them

when no one is

around.

i dance, i dance,

i tap

i sway.

the soft landing

there's the lap dog

with runny eyes,

the white couch,

the floral

drapes.

i'm an old lady

living here

in my two bedroom

apartment

in Rockville.

i'm my mother's mother

with a green

and yellow

parakeet.

i have an electric

blanket,

a space heater in

the bedroom.

i have plants 

on the windowsill

that i water

everyday.

sometimes i talk to

the desk

clerk

for hours at a time.

my hearing

has gone so i don't mind

the neighbors

above or below, or

down the hall.

i'm worried though,

that this is it,

that this is all.

the enormous bone in ham

i get a coupon

in the mail,

it comes through

the door

and falls

to the floor.

it's for

for an enormous bone

in ham

at the grocery store.

fifty percent

off.

is this the universe

talking to me,

or Kroger's?

turning the page

never, never

never,

he says, never will i pardon my son.

this helps

to get votes,

when there were

votes to get,

and yet.

it's his own flesh

and blood.

so he does.

he goes back on his word.

but hey.

it's what

politicians do.

what people do. they say

one thing,

and do another.

from childhood

to death

you're forgiven for all

the things

you've ever done.

the known and unknown.

no longer do you have

a debt.

let's turn the page, 

my wayward

son.

the holiday apologies

i write

a long heart felt letter

of apology.

i fall on my sword,

i go

full mea culpa.

i sign it,

with a kiss,

then place it into

the envelope.

a stamp in the corner,

licked.

then look at my

list.

who gets this one

today?

Christmas money

the court yard

is full

of trucks.

plumbers come

to fix

the broken pipes.

the pipes

left on

when the freeze hit

overnight.

i see them in their

overalls,

their hats and gloves

on.

shovels

and wrenches in hand.

it's Christmas money

again.

three days away

when

i kiss you with this

rough

stubble

on my face,

at last home,

you don't move away.

you

don't ask

me to shave.

you accept me

for who

i am, my strange and

thoughtless

ways.

you tenderly drag

your hand 

across

my roughness

and ask me to stay.

in the hand of woods

i'm

spoiled by these woods,

the large

green hand

of trees,

that blue

sleeve

of stream.

by the absence

of cars

passing through.

not a neon

sign to be

seen.

i'm

unjealous

of the house on the hill,

the mansion

with a gate.

the penthouse

on the roof.

no,

this is good, good enough

for me.

an oasis

to escape.

burning the roof of my mouth

i should know

better.

i should have learned

by now

to blow

on the hot spoon

of soup

before a sip.

to not put half

of the slice of pizza

with the mozzarella

still bubbling

into my mouth.

i know these things.

and yet

i do them anyway.

good weather

it's good

weather, good cold air

from

the north

upon us.

the threat of snow

hangs

in the clouds.

i feel the shiver

in your bones.

it's a fine

day

to hunker down

and wait,

to say aloud,

i love you.

so, tell us dear boy, what exactly is it that you do?

i live

in a town, where the first question

someone asks

at a dinner

party is,

so, tell me,

what exactly do you do?

i usually tell

them i'm a circus clown,

or a bus driver

for the criminally insane asylum

on the hill,

or that i clean

out the lion cages

at the zoo.

which prompts for more

questions,

which i answer

at length.

it keeps me from hearing

what they

do.

having faith in deodorant

do i believe

that this deodorant, with

the scent

of spearmint

leaves

will keep me dry

and smelling nice all day?

or this toothpaste,

will it

do away with the coffee

stains,

the yellowed aging,

and brittleness

of my teeth?

this knife at 3 am,

on tv.

will it cut through wood

and tin cans,

slice a tomato

in thin slivers?

or this little pill,

will it give

me muscles and strengthen

my libido

like it was when

i was twenty-three?

hell no.

but i buy it anyway

and i swipe my card,

let's see.