why go anywhere else?

the pigeons

are

fat in this city, and so

are we

wobbling from

store to store,

swiping cards,

buying things

we don't need.

the pigeons never

fly south

or north, like we do,

they're

here for good,

centuries of them

in their

grey jackets,

hobbling on yellow claws.

they're everywhere

you look.

they live

where the rich

live,

the poor, every

neighborhood has pigeons,

on every statue,

on every ledge of every

building,

they adorn.

they know

they have it good here.

they hardly flinch

a feather

when you walk by them,

their beaks

gnawing on a bagel

just thrown.

baked beans over an open fire

when you

start out with nothing,

it's hard to let go

of that

state of mind.

for the rest of your life

you are stuck

on zero

no matter how much wealth

you've accumulated

over time.

a million,

two million, a billion,

it doesn't matter.

you always feel like you're

one day away

from living in a tent

behind the liquor

store and cooking beans

over an open fire

with some dude named

Jake the snake.

there's one born every minute

before we were

married

she studied my tax statements

and 401 k

and

my blue chip

stock investments,

she took note of

my real estate possessions,

cars, etc.

she couldn't

keep her

hands off of me

while she strode around

in her sheer

negligee.

she wore me out.

but the day

after the wedding,

with the ink

barely dry on the decree,

i tried to hold

her close

and nibble at her neck,

to which she said,

we just did it yesterday,

we're kind of clingy

now,

aren't we?

the party next door

i see the beer

truck

and the deli delivery van

arrive

out front.

deliveries are being made

to the house

next door.

a DJ

appears with his

sound equipment.

i suspect

a new years eve party

going on tonight.

i check my

mailbox, my phone,

but nothing,

no invite.

i never should have reported

them

for their barking

dog.

it's okay, though.

i have a hat,

and a cowbell

and Betty coming over

with some

eggnog.

could you close that door, i can hear her screaming

of course it's a miracle,

a wonderous

thing to behold, but

i never wanted to film

the birth of my child,

or be in the room,

like so many do

when the biscuit come

out of the oven.

i got out of there

while they held my

wife down,

screaming bloody murder,

cursing the day

i was born.

i put my phone away.

i found the waiting

room, with the other

exhausted and nervous

husbands to be my

place to wait it out.

i tapped my foot incessantly

and bit my nails

while reading

the sports page

and sipping a cup of coffee

from the hall

machine.

home for the night

i remember

my father smoking in his

big chair.

filling the room with

blue smoke.

a cigarette,

a cigar, or perhaps his pipe.

i can hear

him tap tap tapping

it against

the ashtray,

filling it with a strange

wood cherry

tobacco.

pressing it tight.

holding the flame

above

the cup

as he lit it.

we didn't seem to mind.

at least he was

home

for the night.

before the year ends

so much

to do

before the year ends.

so

much

mending of fences,

of

distant friends.

i strap

on my tool bag

of empathy

and 

regret and get to it,

the clock

is ticking,

yet again.

chasing the last leaf fallen

for an hour,

i hear

the roar, the thunderous

continual

roar

and think that maybe

a jumbo

jet

or helicopter

is hovering over the cul de sac.

so i look

out the window

and there i see a man

with a leaf

blower

on his back,

chasing the last leaf

fallen

towards his burlap

bag.

no secret ingredients here

how can

you not like someone that

has a secret

recipe,

a secret sauce,

or set of seasonings

that they can't

reveal.

it's the twinkle in the eye

that

makes you

smile.

them ribbing you,

you being

just a salt and pepper

guy.

the cold cup

distracted,

i let the cup of coffee go cold.

i've

been too busy

with

this machine,

this book

that never ends,

these words as they unfold.

but there's

more to pour,

always more.

the carrot stick girl

she was

a carrot stick kind of girl.

a rabbit

of sorts

with her lettuce

and kale,

her

probiotic juice,

her barely

getting by in her

sugarless

world.

sometimes i'd hold

her up

when the wind

blew,

tie her

to my belt,

as i ate my double

burger

from Five Guys.

no trumpets will fill the air

for many,

for most, there is no grand

announcement

of passing.

no church bell rings,

no trumpets

fill the air,

no banners are unfurled.

for most,

it's the cleaning

lady

that finds us

at the table,

next to a cold bowl

of cereal.

maybe a despondent dog

curled

by the window

in our empty chair.

let's drink, let's eat

show

no frugal hand

in this

feast.

bring to the table

more

than you can afford,

the finest wines,

the fruits

and vegetables

that are hard to find

with winter

on us,

bring me

the largest

beast.

let's show

them

how much we care

and love them.

come

the new year

will start all over

again.

but for now let's drink,

let's eat.

please, tell me more

when i hear 

your countless troubles,

as we walk,

i forget about my own,

so please

go on,

the sun has yet to set

and we have miles

to go

before we're home.

more happy faces arrive

i could paper my walls 

with the pictures you send

of your family.

the mawkish

scrawl

of hallmark cards.

with each

holiday more arrive.

faces i don't know,

from

old to small.

from birth till death,

i have them

all, even pets.

i have no guess

what to do

with the boxes

that holds them.

what is remembered

the evil one does 

is remembered,

it's cut

into stone,

while the good we

do

is written in sand,

though it outweighs

the later,

it is soon

washed away

and forgotten.

the google search

i am guilty.

i waste my time

on simple

things,

on

careless forays into

places

i don't belong.

these fingers often take

me there,

into dark

forests

full of searches,

unwise,

poisoned ivy,

thorny

bramble and twine.

why

do i bother with your

whereabouts,

when

i should be concerned

with mine?

melancholy

such a lovely

word,

melancholy is.

a pensive

state of mind, a blanket

of gloom

and clouds.

not a hint

of sun,

as rain falls and the

wind blows

loud.

savor

the light darkness

of your soul.

it will make joy

that much

better

when the skies

unfold.

neither joy or sorrow

worry not,

for these

are not tears of sorrow,

or of wretched

grief,

or for that matter

joy, no,

they are tears

that have

arrived via

the knife

and round onion

on the hardwood

board

that i lean upon

and slice.

lovingly sweet

do i tell

her about how that color

does

not suit

her nature,

does she tell me that i snore

loudly

when i sleep.

do i

eat what she cooks

despite

my not liking the taste,

does she

disagree with me

about

the books i

read,

the politics to which

i lean?

or do we go on as usual,

happily

content.

lovingly sweet?

at least that's the plan

we are

born green, salad

green,

hardly

tossed.

we know so little

of the world

we've

been dropped into.

oblivious of

what

joy,

what pain awaits.

each

day a lesson,

each

love, or hate,

each new year

we are less

and less green

and more

wise,

more mature. at least

that's

the plan.

the rising of bread

as the bread

rises

in the hot oven,

i stare

into the window where

it bakes.

i am often

looking into windows

trying

to be patient

for what's to come next,

but i can hardly

wait.

too many choices

like so much

in your

life,

you window shop

for

toys

and things,

for places to live,

for clothes

and shoes,

for even

love.

you click here

and there,

you swipe.

it's too much work.

there are too many

choices

for this one life.

what wind blew you here?

what wind

blew you here? my love.

what

convenience of catastrophes

set your

sails

to this land,

where i am?

what vows were broken,

or unmade

to have you stand

before me

with all that charm

and beauty?

you will be tonight

i was adored once

too,

she tells me

in the dying light.

i was beautiful when i was

young,

adored and loved.

we all were,

i tell her.

and you will be

tonight.

deciding what to do next

a troubled

mind

needs to walk.

a long walk in the cold

barren

woods

until you reach the lake,

that pool

of grey sky.

it's there,

in the bloom of your

breath

from walking

hard,

that you will you realize

what

to do next.

I miss the rabbit ears and three channels

VA communications sales tax,

VA state sales tax,

E-911 tax,

VA public rights of way use fee,

Verizon surcharges and fees

local license tax surcharge

VA gross receipts tax surcharge

federal universal service fee

PEG grant fees

regulatory recovery fee-federal

FiOS broadcast fee

regional sports network fee

FDV administrative charge

3 FiOS tv connections

3 set top boxes

your bundle price

and at last

your subtotal and total due.

Verizon is the devil.

let us bow our heads and pray

i know it's against

my better

judgement, but i'm a fool for love.

fourth time

is the charm,

i heard

someone say once,

or was that the third time?

but i don't get on

my bended knee

this time,

because they hurt from 50

years of playing

basketball

on a concrete slab.

i text her instead

and send her

a picture of the ring,

an old

beer can tab

i recovered from the trash.

but she says no,

i appreciate the offer,

but no.

what are you nuts?

to which i sigh and say,

at last

someone has given me

the right answer.

now let us bow our heads

and pray.

i never should have banked it all on red

before i officially retire,

after

an unfortunate trip to Las Vegas,

when i put

my entire 401k on red,

i pour

out the change from

the change

bowl.

i lift the mattress for

the cash

i've hidden

under the far corner.

i go to the safe

and take out the rainy

day money.

i separate the cushions

of the couch

and chair,

then go down to the washing

machine and dryer

to find what

other coins might be there.

i empty

the pockets of all my pants

and shirts,

coats.

i stack them up

on the counter,

and look at my life's savings,

i think i can do this,

if i don't eat

anymore and go live

in the woods

with the fox and bear.

finding the opposite of me

about once

a year,

she tells me about her new love.

how she's moved

on from me.

we're in the friend zone now,

she says.

she goes into great details

about how

much money

he makes,

how large his house is,

his fancy

cars

and swimming pool.

she tells me where he's

taking

her next week

on a cruise.

i'm happy for her.

i truly am.

after me, she now knows

what true love

can be.

i'm glad to have helped

her out,

giving her a comparison.

club soda and lime

i milk the drink

until the ice

melts and waters it

down

to nothing but

the taste

of lime.

i could drink three of

these

in an hour

in the old days,

the glory days, as they

say,

but just one

now

is all it takes, 

i can't wait to get home

where

bed awaits

when the Godly mask slips

she's a fine

woman,

a pillar of the community.

a stellar

role model to the younger

generation.

she goes to church

four times

a week,

ladles soup at the shelter.

her children

are gold,

her grandchildren too.

she preaches

the good word and

exudes love wherever

she goes.

every other word that comes

out of her mouth,

is praise the Lord.

so it's shocking

when she tells me what act

she'll perform on

my father's grave

when he dies.

train hits man on tracks

the man,

hit by a train

heading north, hardly

had a chance,

since he

refused to step

aside

and get out of the way.

he could hear

the whistle blowing,

hear the rumble

of the wheels

against the steel

tracks, but no.

he kept walking just

the same.

he spent

his whole life

being careful,

avoiding

falls,

and cuts, bruises,

scrapes

and burns, and now

this,

engine number five

running

him over.

is it true, or just you

watch

enough news and podcasts

and

YouTube

videos

and soon

everyone looks like

a nefarious

character,

up to no good,

walking around

the lot,

making you the prey

before

the attack.

is it true?

or just you?

i'm on my way, make room

as the snow

deepens

and the pot boils

on the stove,

i see you curling deeper

and deeper

into the couch,

wrapped

in holiday 

sleeping clothes.

i'll be there soon,

as soon

as the water

boils

and i carry to you your

cup of tea

and plate

of Christmas cookies.

hold that thought,

my dear,

i'm on my way.

make room.

picking Jake up at 7-11

it was a few years ago

when

i drove

Jake to the hospital because

he was spitting up

blood.

lung cancer that was spreading

like a wildfire.

he died a year

later,

on Christmas day.

i visited him

that Christmas eve

and brought him a pack

of cigarettes

and a pint of 
Southern comfort,

his favorite.

he asked

me if i had any winter

work

coming up.

he'd be out of there in no

time.

just as soon as they took

the bandages

off that were

wrapped around his head

because of the brain

operation.

i told him, sure.

of course.

i'll pick you up at the 7-11

around eight.

the day after new years.

don't be late.

the ticking watch

to say my uncle

Joe

was cheap, or frugal,

or tight

with his money would

be an understatement.

he washed

his car only when 

it rained,

read by candlelight

and hand

washed his clothes

in the sink.

on his death

bed, with only

an hour left to live

he negotiated a price

for the watch he was

wearing, and sold it

to me. cash only.

so much to do, so little time

as i lie

in bed, staring up at the fan.

i think

about buying

a new fan.

how old

is this fan?

it's dirty.

and then my thoughts

drift to other

things.

i hope that

there's not

a nuclear holocaust

this year.

there's so much i need

to do

around this house.

sending out holiday kisses

i text Sally,

but i meant to text Diane,

i send

her a kiss

emoji.

which makes her husband

angry.

i say

whoops,

sorry, wrong person.

so i try again,

this time

it's Maureen,

an ex

who's blocked me.

after a few more tries,

i send out kisses to

Lilly,

Marge and Francine,

with no reply

back,

i give up.

i need to clean out

my phone again.

apparently, everyone 

has moved on,

but me.

watching the ball drop alone

i keep waiting

for my invitations to the new years

eve parties.

i check my

mailbox, my laptop,

my phone.

nothing.

not a word,

no rsvp notes.

no texts,

no calls.

what's going on

with my dwindling circle

of friends?

have i fallen out of favor

with everyone?

my holy baby steps

i drop off a few

cans

of beans,

and assorted vegetables

at the church

drop off

box.

sweet corn and peas.

i feel good about myself.

not saintly,

but

it puts a spring in

my holy step.

and then

i see the cookies and

baked

cakes,

the pies

being carried in by others.

flowers

and frozen turkeys.

it makes me sad.

maybe i'm not as good

as i think i am.

those years are done

everyone

is home this week.

the schools are closed,

the worker bees

that usually leave at five

a.m.

are here.

i see their cars,

their trucks, their teenage

children

are playing

music

next door.

i used to see them on their

tricycles

out front,

when they were young,

the day after Christmas,

i'd wave,

they'd laugh and smile,

cheeks red

and happy in the winter

sun.

but

these days, things have

changed,

if i'm lucky,

i might get a nod,

or grunt.

but little eye contact.

those years are done.

a thread of wood

it takes

an embedded splinter,

a thread

of wood

below the skin

to awaken

you

to this world.

the red

swell of infection.

the bite

of life

gone wrong.

how fragile we are

even when

we meant no harm

with this nail,

this hammer.

the NYT blurb said it will change your life

i either hate

the book

right away after reading the first

dozen lines

or so,

or like it

and press on.

love

comes at the end,

if i make it that far.

no matter what the blurbs

say,

no matter how much

attention

the author has received,

or the book

praised,

i have to take a bite

and then decide whether

to eat

and chew the entire thing.

if a movie is already

in production

about it, then

i'm done before i start.

heads or tails

the coin

that's flipping in the air,

has been

up there for a very

long time.

maybe fifty years

or so.

when it finally comes

down,

maybe i'll make

a decision on what to

really do

with my life.

it's not a straight line to us

of course

there are smart animals,

elephants

and dogs,

chimps

and dolphins.

they know you by

sight.

they know their names,

some can count,

or sing,

some can find

their way

home

from a thousand miles

away,

they have instincts.

but if you tell your cat

or dog,

or pet gorilla

that the second

Tuesday

of next month,

you're going out for 

ice-cream,

they won't know what your

talking about.

so let's not get too carried

away

with this similar

DNA chain.

if only i had a secret to tell you

i wish i had a few

secrets to tell you,

or two,

a handful, or even 

just one

to tease

you with, to whisper

half of it

into your ear, and have

you longing for more.

it might bring us closer

together

in some nefarious

way.

i really wish i had

a secret, just one

would do.

red birds on snow

like blood

on wings, the red birds

light

down

upon the snow.

they flutter

into

the blue basin in the yard,

into the pooled melt

of iced

water.

it's where i  would go too

if you

were there,

to feed me.

socks and slippers

it's hard

to buy gifts for the wealthy,

for the middle class,

or even

for the mildly poor.

everyone has a flat

screen

tv these days,

a blender,

a computer,

a phone,

shoes and clothes.

and who reads books

anymore?

so what's left to give?

socks

and slippers

are my choice of 

Christmas gifts.

maybe a card from Target.

taking in the wrong peeps for the holidays

after a two-week visit,

at last

they leave, the holiday

crew

from Idaho.

the two kids,

the baby,

mom and dad.

uncle willy

and the dog, Ghee.

i ask my

wife,

as we stand at the door

and wave,

how exactly are

you related to these people?

i'm not

she said,

i thought they were

your peeps.

it's the thought that counts

when she

died,

we all wrote a tearful note

to her

and stuffed it into a bottle,

we put the cork

on and threw

it into the sea.

it didn't go far though,

and came

back to shore

in the grey winter waves.

finally,

i swam out into

the freezing

water

with the bottle and tossed

it towards

France

with a mighty heave.

we found it again

the next day,

talking after the show is over

it's a mask

of sorts,

a costume of goodness.

a white

robe

a painted smile,

but then

it slips

and falls to the stage

floor,

dark words come

out.

it's what you

suspected

all along.

there's the show, and

then

there's after

the show,

when

the curtain closes

and no one else

is around.

no patching here

like a tire

with a nail in it.

things

go flat,

but you keep driving

anyway,

tearing

the rubber off the road,

getting

down to the rim,

where

life screeches to a halt.

i'm sorry, but

we can't patch up

everything,

my old friend.

when they want to turn the page and you don't

it's usually the guilty,

the shamed,

the ones caught red handed

in their game

that plead

to move on.

let's turn the page.

let's forgive and forget

like it never

happened.

come on, let's live in

the now,

let's be friends again

let's erase the board

with a new slate,

let's get along.

so much we still don't know

so what

will he leave behind

for us,

when

it's time?

will there be gold

in a pot

well hidden,

letters

written and received.

maybe postcards

from a loved one,

unknown,

or a notebook

full of rhyme.

in what closet will we

find

the secret

of his soul,

under what bed will

lie the clue of

who he really was

or wasn't.

there's so much of him

we still

don't know.

we're halfway home

we're halfway

home

down the long-wet road,

the snow

is soft

as the wipers thump

back and forth

across the white

diamonds

falling.

we're not late,

we're not on time,

we're just driving,

tired, we miss

our bed,

our quiet time alone.

we're halfway home.

early Christmas morning

the dog

loved Christmas.

he remembered, he knew

that in

that stack of gifts

below

the tree were things for him.

a ball,

some treats, a new leash

or bowl,

a rubber bone.

but he couldn't read

the tags,

so he went at it all

until each

was opened.

our heads in the clouds

i remember

kissing

some girls until my face hurt.

their cheeks

would be flush

with the brush

of my new whiskers.

our teeth

would clanging

against each other,

a our tongues

grew sore.

they were only first base

sessions,

usually in the woods,

or in a parent's 

basement, but innocent,

and leaving us

in the clouds

and wanting more.

lorton reformatory

the notorious

violent

prison on Lorton Road,

is still

there. the walls, the guard

towers,

the barbed wire

surround,

the mess hall,

and cells,

row after to row.

but the prisoners are gone

now.

most are dead,

or grown old, shipped

off

to new dark homes.

little old ladies

and old men

in loafers

bring their paints and canvas

there,

setting up

on easels.

they paint the clouds.

they paint

the cells.

there's a room where someone

spins

a wheel

and pottery appears.

the entrance is painted

with a rainbow.

on weekends there's show.

a picnic lunch.

it's almost as if no one

ever died,

or suffered there.

i like your boots, dear

of course

i like your new boots, dear.

black

and shiny,

with a zipper up

the side,

but i also

like the short white ones,

and the red ones too,

that rise up

above your knees,

and the brown

ones

and even the green

ones

that you wear

once a year.

but it's not about the leather,

or the style,

or the cost, dear,

it's more about the leg

that's in them.

come on over here.

for better or worse, it's just wind

the wind

of change

does not push us forward,

or backwards.

it's just doing

what wind

does.

there is no good

or evil

in its stirring.

it's not 

for the better or worse.

life easier once that

is understood.

small cheer and great welcome make a merry feast

as i look

back

on the local community

trade school

giving

night classes

on a variety of subjects

from photography

to gardening,

i realize now 

on this

Christmas morning

that

i made

the right choice

in taking a class not

on Shakespeare,

but on

cooking a standing,

French cut,

prime

rib roast.

the long night

troubled,

enmeshed in drama,

i couldn't sleep.

one, two,

three a.m. .

i rolled over, i moved

the pillows around.

i nudged the blinds

to look out

at the moons

half smile.

still i was far away

from sleep,

miles and miles

away from

dreams.

i knew

i had it coming

to me

for so many reasons,

but still i longed

to sleep.

the human cookie

she'd be

covered in flour

as she made

trays of Christmas cookies

in the hot

kitchen.

she'd be sprinkled

with

sugar

and cinnamon.

all in her hair

and eyes,

on her face.

eggs

and cream were

spilled on her sleeves

and apron.

if you stuck her into

an oven

she'd be baked

and ready

for eating

in no time.

the prodigal cow

it's a long

stretch of fence that keeps

the cows

in.

we walk through the mud

and old

snow

with our tools

to go mend the gate,

to rebuild

a few

lengths of fence.

we've lost so many cows

this year.

and so few

rarely come home

again.

holidays in south beach

we spent the week

in south beach,

a little get away between

Christmas

and the New Year.

we lay out

on the white sand

with our pina coladas,

the blue

water

at our feet.

a hot sun glimmering

down.

we tried not to look in either

direction

at the women lying

beside us in their

thongs,

topless and buttered

up with coconut oil 

for the holy week.

one red glove

it's one

red glove on the snowy

bank,

lying

there without a hand

to cover,

it's left behind

by someone that's moved on,

someone

who will reach into

her pocket

and discover that it's

long gone.

we are so 

unaware of

so many things

as we move

along.

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.