when the housekeeper spills the beans

i never should

have given the housekeeper

a glass of wine,

which turned

into two glasses of wine,

and a shot

of tequila.

oh my.

the stories she told me

once she got going,

her shoes off

and her feet propped

up on the coffee table.

the vacuum still plugged

into the wall.

i egged her on.

please Milagro, go on,

go on i told her.

she went through her list

of clients,

former and current, 

one ex-wife and

friends of mine,

even ones that have passed

into the great beyond.

i told her she should

write a book, a memoir

of sorts, but change

the names to protect

the innocent and

the guilty. 

here have another

shot,

this book will be a

goldmine.

where are they now?

we compare

and contrast our lives with others

of similar

ages,

similar pasts.

are they richer

than us, doing better,

do they have

a prettier wife

or more handsome husband.

or have all their

marriages failed?

do they have a house

at the beach?

cape cod perhaps.

are their children

on their own or in jail

or homeless

or on drugs, what kind

of cars do they have,

what does

their 401k look like.

do they have all their hair,

have they grown

fat

and slovenly,

we are such shallow people

at times, pointing

our fingers,

googling the lives

of others. forgive us lord,

for how we do 

love to compare.

heaven is like that

is there anything

more

satisfying and

luxurious than the late

afternoon

summer nap

after a day at the pool?

the fan

above spinning slowly

as you lie

down

on the cool sheets,

the shades

pulled on the windows?

perhaps

heaven is like that,

but with cake and milk

when you

awaken.

can you eat a rooster?

can you

eat

roosters? why are there no

rooster out

restaurants?

no rooster

filet drive thrus.

no boston rooster,

no southern

fried rooster with gravy.

no rooster

wings,

no stuffed rooster for

the holiday.

no rooster nuggets,

or rooster legs.

why has the rooster

been ignored

all these years.

what does the poultry

industry

have to say about this?

why are they hiding

the roosters

from us.

what do the chickens

have to say?

life is slow dying

illness

appears seemingly

out of nowhere,

but it's been lurking in the shadows

waiting

to spring

its claws upon

you

for some time now.

maybe stress and turmoil

has released

it from its tightly

wound cells,

or maybe food of

some sort,

smoke

or drink, a toxic

fume

your lungs found

in the air.

maybe it's your mother's

fault,

some ancient blood

relative

from the era of the black

plague.

who knows these things?

no one.

but you can't stop what's

coming,

once it starts.

we need to spice things up, she says

the wife,

bored apparently

with our long marriage

and pedestrian

love making,

tells me

one day that we

need to mix

it up a little.

so when i come

home from

work the next day

she's wearing a leather

outfit,

standing tall in six

inches of stiletto heels

and holding

a whip,

and a pair of silver handcuffs.

i set my brief

case down

and loosen my tie, then

find a cold

box of Chinese food

in the fridge,

so what's up?

i ask her as i put it

into the microwave.

hopefully

you are, she says,

snapping the whip at me.

the conspiracy

i see a gathering

at the party table

in back of the restaurant.

there's a loud

and animated

conversation. going on.

my lawyer, my therapist,

my doctor,

my dentist, my broker,

my housekeeper

and my ex-wives

and ex-girlfriends.

a dozen or so people

that i know

or have known.

what's going on here?

suddenly they all

go quiet as i walk by.

is there a conspiracy

of some sort going on,

or am i being a little

too sensitive and paranoid?

but i can't escape the feeling

that something

is about to go wrong.

milk bottles

i count

out the empty glass 

milk

bottles,

four in all,

twelve dollars in

return.

i've fallen in love

with milk

again.

see,

i told you going back

is possible.

one bird of a feather

is it true

that birds of a feather

flock

together, she asks me,

is that the reason

i'm alone

here on a Saturday

night?

can it be

that there's no other

birds out there

quite like

me?

a matinee movie and a hip replacement

there's a new kiosk

at the mall

for hip replacements,

shoulders

and knees.

it's a walk up station

next to

Spencer's and Orange

Julius,

close to Annie's Pretzels.

they tell you

to bite on a leather strap

soaked

in whiskey

and then they take out the old

joint and put

a new shiny brass

ball in its place.

you're in and out in a few

hours,

once the local

anesthesia wears off.

you can take in a movie 

while you wait.

the drift of hours

will this hour

drift away

as well, like the last one

and the one

before that.

how long can i stare

out this window

and do almost nothing

but drink tea

and read.

apparently, all day.

every dog will have a bone, i promise

the politicians

are pulling out the stops 

as the election

gets closer.

they are kissing babies,

handing out

free ice-cream

on a hot day.

it's amnesty for millions,

no taxes on tips

for the waiters,

no longer do you have

to pay off

your student loan.

felonies are reduced

to misdemeanors.

there's a chicken in every

pot.

the homeless now have a

luxury apartment

for a home.

and as God

is my witness, i

promise that

every dog in the country,

if i'm elected,

will have a bone.

possessed

it seems

at times that the more passion

they have

for a cause,

or feeling, the more

they are wrong,

they are

less willing to be quiet

and think

it through.

the anger and madness

possesses them,

so it goes on

and on.

the snow and sky

it's hard

to tell when one day ends

and the other

begins.

like

snow

and the sky they're

seamless

on a winters day.

it's just you that brings

color

to the hour,

you

coming up the walk

your red

scarf around you,

your warm body

coming

my way.

i call her buttercup

i call her buttercup

sometimes,

or sweet potato, or sugar plum.

i wrap my

arms around

her and kiss her madly

when i see her,

while she gives me

a peck on the cheek

and calls me

jimmy.

sometimes i feel like we're

not on the same page

emotionally

or physically.

he's ninety-six today

it doesn't seem possible

that he would

live this long

with all the drinking 

and mischief,

the smoking,

the women and brawls.

all those fast cars,

all that bad food

and whiskey.

and yet, here he is

at ninety-six, still 

on the phone, still opening

the door,

his body

a cookie falling apart

in the glass of milk.

his eyes blurred,

his hearing gone.

but the mind saying,

not yet,

not yet.

the game is still on.

i can hold it until morning

when the dog was young,

and he heard

the word

car, or leash

or walk,

he'd be at the door scratching

with his paws

he couldn't wait

to get out there,

run wild

and bark.

but now,

he looks at me with those

old sleepy

eyes and says,

really?

i just went two hours

ago.

trust me, i can

hold it until morning.

pass me the salt

even Hitler

would pass you the salt

if you

were sitting at a table

with him

eating

dinner, she

used

to say in describing despicable

people.

explaining how

despite the casual

politeness

and manners, many people

are dark

and evil inside.

they'll even talk about 

the weather and say things,

like,

it sure is nice outside.

the constant reboot of humanity

there's a reason

the world

doesn't truly change.

yes,

it has in many ways,

the industrial

revolution,

the computer phase,

we're no longer rubbing sticks

together

to make a fire,

of course not,

but in reality we're still

the same.

and what keeps

the world a mess is that

everyone

that learns their lessons,

and gets wisdom

in the process,

dies.

and the next group being

born,

has to start all over

again,

dumb and unwise.

the little black safe

i can't remember

the code

to my safe,

but thankfully i have a key

hidden

somewhere.

the search is on.

all my important documents

are in there.

divorce decrees,

insurance

papers,

car titles

and a few hundred

Bemjamins

in a neat stack.

finally i find the key.

it's on my

key ring.

i need an influx

of cash.

why should anyone care

happy

pride day, the boy says

to me

as he hands

me my

Grande americano.

he has pink hair

woven into

pigtails

and is

wearing

a green tutu with matching

slippers.

i can see the hair

on his chest.

huh?

i say.

what?

happy what?

pride day, he says again.

it's pride

month all month.

every day

we're celebrating

the diversity

in

our genders and sexual

preferences.

oh, i say.

okay. great.

good for you, but

do you mind putting

an extra

shot into my

cup?

it's a little weak.

birds bathing

the yard

is a jungle, and overgrown

square

of green.

vines

and weeds,

but i can still see the grey

statue

on the stone

bird bath.

that's all i really

need to see.

birds bathing

does it

for me.

the lima bean discussion

at the age of ten

i told her

a thousand times, a million times.

i don't like

lima beans.

and what do i see

on my plate.

a big pile of them

next to my

fish sticks. lima beans.

i shake my head

and stare at her.

what? she says.

you don't like lima beans?

this is the first

time i've heard about 

this.

no mom. i don't

like lima beans, can

you please make

a note of it.

the hopeful mistress

my new boyfriend

treats me

like a queen, she tells me over

the phone.

he adores me.

loves me.

worships me. he brings

me flowers,

gifts,

he draws hearts in the sand

when we're at the

beach.

he carves hearts into

trees,

into snow on the windshield

of his car,

with our names inside.

he texts me

almost every night

when he's free from

prying eyes.

he promises, after

the holidays,

when he has time to do

the paperwork,

and files for divorce

from his current wife,

he crosses his heart

and swears

that he'll make me his

bride.

Mr. Whistle is dead

did i love

my yellow parakeet,

Mr. Whistle, who's currently

lying dead

on yesterdays

news in his cage?

i wouldn't call

it love exactly, but

we found

a middle ground,

of mild

affection,

of being mutually

amused.

sometimes grief lasts

just a day,

and we endure 

a very mild case

of the blues.

yo, do you see any cops?

apparently

stop signs and red lights,

are mere

suggestions

optional rules of the road.

speed limits

are a joke

like so many

rules in life.

if there's no cops

around, what the hell.

let's go.

we have a little pill for you

if you're fat,

overweight, obese perhaps,

no worries

we've got that.

eat all you want.

eat 

beyond being full,

eat the sugar,

the oils,

the processed foods,

we have a little

pill for you.

soon you'll be the size

you were

when you first turned

two.

your gluttony

has been approved.

your shoes beneath my bed

we need

a place to call home.

whether

it's a cave,

or a room in a run

down

shack by the side of

the road.

we need a place to lie

down in,

a place that keeps

us warm,

keeps the rain out.

brick or board,

it doesn't matter much.

just a bed

to put your shoes beneath,

a fire burning,

a loved one close.

we need a place

to call home.

it's in the waiting

so much

is in the waiting.

whether

for the rain to stop,

or the water to boil,

for 

each of us to grow

up and old.

we wait in lines,

in traffic,

we wait for our food

to cook,

we wait our turn.

so much is in the waiting,

and then

it's over

and you wait no more.

vague memories

it's a memory

with no literal meaning,

no metaphor

or

reason,

it's just a memory of my

father

in his white

boxer

shorts and my

mother

in bed smoking a cigarette,

and me

standing at their bedroom

door

with a bowl of dry

cheerios,

telling

them both,

we're out of milk.

why there are long lines at the DMV

needing a new

driver's license, the old one expired,

the picture on it

of me with

Bobby Sherman

styled hair

and wearing a turtleneck

sweater

circa 1978, the clerk asks

me what my

pronouns are,

huh, i say.

you know she says, what

do you identify as?

umm, well, last time i looked,

everything was

intact, so

i think man

would be my preferable

identity.

you're welcome to take a look

if you want,

i say, putting my hands

on my belt.

oh, no, that's okay. we

believe you.

so, she says, it's okay

to put you down

as a male.

white male, right?

well, sort of white, more

a pinkish hue in

the sunlight.

and your hair, you still have

a little, would

you call that grey or silver,

or...

how about platinum, i tell

her.

put me down as platinum

for hair.

the obvious frown

you wake up

some mornings not as grateful

as perhaps

you should be.

in fact, you're

downright cranky,

crotchety,

and annoyed.

you've gotten off on

the wrong foot,

climbing out

of the wrong

side of the bed for some

reason.

maybe later you can

count your 

blessings, but for now,

before that first cup of coffee

goes down,

the world will have to just

deal with your

obvious frown.

setting aside a few hours to do the surveys

i buy

a cup of coffee

and the barista wants me

to fill out a survey

online

telling the world

how well they've done,

in pouring

coffee into a cup and

handing it to me.

tell us how we did,

the young

coffee maker tells me.

sure, i tell them,

her or him,

if i find the time.

i have seven other surveys

to do today,

the gas station,

the grocery store,

my insurance company,

the bakery and others,

and it's not even

nine a.m.

the old rooster

i get up early,

but i don't brag about it

like a lot

of elderly people do.

i peer out the window.

the sun is

a cracked egg in 

a yet

blue

sky.

there are cows to milked.

farm things

to do.

i run

into the old rooster,

taking

his morning stroll,

he looks

at me,

and says, well well well,

it's about time.

every set of eyes

maybe it's the news,

or the weather,

the heat

of summer, maybe it's old age

settling in,

but i look at people

now and think

they might be criminals,

that they're up to no good.

my spider sense

tingles with concern.

i get the stranger danger

feeling with

every set of eyes that meet

mine.

the number you are calling is out of service

the anonymous texter,

who refuses

to give her name, is finally

gone. i think.

she told me that she knows

who i am.

the real me.

not the image i portray

as i go about my day.

she says that i probably

don't know how to please

a woman sexually.

that i'm more than

likely impotent and mean.

stingy with my green.

i go through my list

of old girlfriends and wives.

it could be any of them.

or just some random

drink i had one night, a fling.

it's fun for a while,

not unlike a cat toying

with a mouse.

but then, enough is enough,

and i have to block her.

but knowing her, the way

i do, she'll find another

phone to use.

the snake killer next door

i meant

no harm to the snake

that was

curled in a ball

on the shelf in my shed.

a copperhead,

fat with

dead life of some sort.

he raised

his head

to spit at me as i

stared up at him thinking

he was a silver

roll of pink rope.

a hose perhaps.

i reached

up to touch the skin,

then realized my mistake,

grabbing

a rake

to fend him off.

the neighbor next door,

Sheila,

the piano teacher,

heard the commotion

and came

through the gate with

her gun.

stand back, she said, knock

him to the ground,

then move away.

i got this.

do i really need a bucket list?

trembling

i tell a few friends about my

reluctant

plans

to retire.

they've all quit work years

ago.

i see them

at the lake,

throwing bread to ducks.

i see them

at the stores shopping,

or at restaurants

getting the sunset

discounts.

i see them with luggage

on top

of their cars as they

fly off

to distant lands.

with passports in hand.

they tell me it's time to start

going through

my bucket list.

one by one.

doing all the things i wished

i could have done

but couldn't because

of work.

then i realize i don't have a

bucket list.

there's no list at all.

do i need to see the grand

canyon,

or hike the Appalachian Trail,

not really, Iceland,

Thailand.

do i need to go to Hawaii

or France?

i guess it might be fun, i tell

them with a shrug.

but doing nothing, absolutely

nothing for awhile

except for writing 

and reading books

is all i really care to do

at the moment.

maybe by a ridiculous red

sports car,

maybe sleep in, too.

the green bottled wine

there's an expensive

bottle

of wine

on top of the refrigerator

that i bought

a long time ago.

a dark green bottle

covered now in dust,

the cork still in.

I think

it's French.

the writing on the front

makes me

think that.

i bought it for a special

occasion of some sort.

a wedding, a honeymoon.

an anniversary.

maybe a birthday,

but it's for 

something that has

slipped my mind.

maybe it was to

christen a ship i was about

to buy,

not impossible,

but highly improbable,

seeing that i am not

the sea going

kind.

don't wait up, i'll be home late, she says

the May

December love affair or

wedding.

does not

end well, usually.

illness

suddenly takes the fun

out of it.

old age,

arthritis and dementia

kicks in

and rear their ugly heads.

hopefully

the twenty year

old beauty

in a red bikini

that you hooked your

wagon to

has become a hospice

nurse at some point, 

skilled in the arts

of bedpans

and oatmeal.

it's obvious that

she's already become

quite adept

at moving your hand along 

to write

another check.

small adjustments

we adjust

the cushion on

the chair,

open the curtains

just so,

the plate on the table, we

give it a half turn.

we move

the furniture around,

an inch

to the left or right,

we straighten

the pictures on the wall.

so often

these small things feel

bigger than

they are.

the retirement party

i throw

myself a retirement party.

which

pleases my dog.

he loves balloons and cake.

i pop open

a bottle of champagne,

and cook

a large t-bone steak.

i put some music on.

i dance across

the room,

throwing my arms

into the air.

while the dog chasses

a red balloon.

we'll open the cards

and gifts i gave myself

later, before

it gets too late.

the ruminating treads

there are things

you're able to let go of.

words said,

insults and slurs,

disrespect, but then there

are other things

that stick to you like

gum on

your best pair of shoes,

no matter how hard

you try you can't scrape

it off the treads,

or get it out of your

ruminating head.

go find your own web

do i want

to kill the spider,

black and fat,

that's crawling across the floor?

do i want

to find a shoe

to do away with him

or her?

of course not,

but it's what i do.

still not enough

i see him with his tumbler

of dark

whiskey,

staring out

the window into the well

manicured yard.

the pool

bluer than heaven

might be.

the stone

statue of a Greek god

nearby.

a fountain,

a willow tree.

what now, he must

be thinking,

tired

of money and women,

cars,

the boats,

and the high life.

and yet.

still a void

inside

the heart.

another hit or miss

the blank

sheet holds the most promise.

not a smudge

on it,

the possibilities

are endless you

think

as you stare into its snowy

abyss.

will

it be drivel again that you

type upon it,

or some brilliant

revelation

or observation,

or just the same old,

blah

blah blah.

another hit or miss.

he can't hear me

it's been years, 

but it seems

like just last week 

when i saw

my friend,

running

down the street on his

daily five

mile jog.

his muscled body

gleaming

with sweat.

so

i'm shocked to see the cane

today,

the slow

walk

up the hill to his house.

the pause to catch

his breath.

i call out

his name,

but he can't hear me.

running into the ex

i go to the doctor

and tell him

about this stabbing pain

in my lower back.

it really hurts,

i tell him. can you take

a look, maybe prescribe

some pain

medications for me.

he helps me take my

shirt off and has me

lie down on the table.

have you seen one of

your ex-wives lately, he

asks, staring at my back.

why, why do you ask,

i did run into Betty,

number two last week.

why do you ask?

well there's a pen knife

lodged in your back.

it's pink and inscribed

with the letter B.

hold still, let me pull

it out.

while looking for a quiche recipe

what can't

we learn from YouTube,

from AI?

what

pie recipe

isn't there?

what ten tips can

you find

on how to retire

before you die?

so much medical advice

is at your disposal.

what lesson on building

an engine,

a plane,

a rocket to the moon

has been left off?

it's all there,

how to write a novel,

how to make

a will

how to grow

grapes,

oranges and prunes.

how to pray

and grieve, make a quiche,

where to live

where the taxes aren't

sky high.

the same man twice

like clockwork,

the trash

truck arrives

at the crack of dawn.

the hard

clang of metal

and the grinding makes

you peek

out the blinds.

they're quick

about their business.

it's a job,

a paying job, but

home

and maybe love

is on their mind.

tired already

in the summer heat

of morning.

garbed in orange

overalls,

wordless

they push onward

leaving nothing, but

tossed cans

behind.

i've never seen the same

man twice.

dating Mae West at 70

it's an old

joke,

one that Mae West

once

said

in a whimsical

state

of mind.

is that a banana in your

pocket

or are you

just happy to see me?

no he replied,

it's my inhaler.

what kind of father

was he a good

father?

full of wisdom

and sound advice?

a perfect father?

are there any

hallmark

cards out there that truly

reflect on who

he is, or who he was?

depends on which stage of

life he was in.

the early days

of booze and women,

hard living.

the middle

years of

failed marriages

and children.

and the final act of a long

Eugene O'Neil play,

clean and sober at last,

funny and relaxed.

a friend,

gentle as the day darkens

at the end.

four raviolis

it's a fine

establishment.

the long curve of a bar,

the wood,

the linen

tablecloths, the man

at the door,

the woman

showing you to your

table.

soft music

is in the air.

there is a trained

pleasantness

to it all.

and the food, the menu

in three languages.

none of them

quite yours

is hard to read in this

dim light.

but you spot the word

ravioli

and point to make

the order.

a hundred dollars

later,

you're out the door,

peeking

into a pizza parlor window.

4 raviolis weren't

quite enough,

you need more.

something to hold onto

it's hard to remember

them as whole.

they've been gone too long.

too far

into the ground,

too far

away from home.

but you have pieces

of them,

you have a laugh

a smile,

kind words.

something to hold onto.

a few pieces,

but never whole.

the multiplication of rabbits

one day

there's one white rabbit

in the yard,

the next day

two,

then three.

then four five and six.

an extended family

are all there

within a week.

a herd

of rabbits

have appeared.

was there enough

room on

the ark

for all of them.

they come and go so

quickly.

she suddenly disappears

i tell the stalker

after a brief

investigation,

that i know who she is,

where she

lives,

i give her the names of her

children,

the apartment

number where she dwells.

her age,

her siblings.

the color of her hair.

strangely after this

there's no more cyberbullying,

she's suddenly

exposed,

she disappears.

spoiler alerts

parents

need to give their children

more spoiler

alerts.

more information

about

that goldfish

in the bowl,

the dog in the yard,

the rabbit

in the cage eating clover.

we need to tell

them

early on,

how things come and go.

take away

the surprise.

give them more truth.

less lies.

the new mail person

i ask the woman

carrying the mail bag, out of

uniform,

mind you,

where Fred is.

the old mail man.

he's been delivering the mail

here for

twenty years, i tell her.

is he sick, retired,

what gives?

he's been gone

since February, she says.

i'm in training

now to take

his place.

she hands me a stack

of mail

and smiles, but i yell after

her when

she crosses the

street.

this mail isn't addressed

to me.

wrong address, wrong city,

wrong state.

oh well, she says. we all

make

mistakes.

repentance

after removing

the boxes,

i paint the closet white.

a gloss

white.

i sweep the floor, scrub

it out with

Lysol.

i wipe down each shelf.

i paint the doors.

i change the bulb

in the ceiling

and turn it on.

i invite Father Smith

over to bless

it with holy water.

we say a prayer together.

it's done.

it's perfect now. empty

and clean

of everything.

senile or orange, take your pick

who to vote for?

the elderly man on stage,

lost

and warbling,

slurring

his speech,

falling with each

false step

made,

or the orange man,

the bombastic

felon,

a human storm of mirth,

gleefully

full of rage.

both of them beyond

a reasonable

age.

the founding fathers must

be sobbing

as they roll inside

their graves.

be careful in the trees

my friend,

my client, Mrs. Howell, who

insisted that i call

her, Edith.

would carry out her

manuscript and set it

on the table beside me.

she'd then retreat

into the kitchen for tea,

small sandwiches,

and an assortment of cookies

from a bakery.

it was lunch time after

all, and the painting of her

house could wait.

she'd stir in a lump of sugar,

a dollop of cream,

then offer me a plate.

we drank, we talked.

i want you to read my

book, she said. take it

home with you.

be kind, be cruel, but tell me

what you think.

be honest.

it's a romance story,

not true of course,

but you'll see glimpses of me.

i'll give you until the end

of the week.

and by the way

are you doing the outside

trim tomorrow?

i'll unlock the windows

for you.

be careful in the trees.

after the storm

my ear

is to the ground now,

my nose

wary

of the smell in the air,

i can

feel the vibrations

through

the soles

of my feet.

i can her the slightest

whisper.

i'm more than just

aware,

more than just alert

to danger,

i'm hypervigilant.

my intuition

is in sixth gear.

one strawberry snow cone

there used to be

an old man

that would appear out

of nowhere

on a hot summer day,

pushing his loud

cart of shaved ice

and bottled syrups

to make

snow cones.

he was

a burly man with an

accent,

a smile on his 

hairy face.

for fifty cents

he'd make your day.

and the beat goes on

the roads

are busy this Saturday morning.

the stores

are full,

people are spending

the money

they earned.

the parks are crowded,

kids are playing

baseball,

weddings are going on,

graduations

are in full bloom.

look at all the

funeral

processions with long

lines of cars.

how easily we come and go.

it's interesting how

the world

goes on,

continues as if all

is well, despite

it all.

a torch to light the way

which book

should i read again, for the second

or third time.

which story, which

novel, which

author, which book

of poems

do i need in my head to

pull me out

of these doldrums?

i need a light of some kind,

to take me out

of this darkness.

who's going to step up

and jump

into my hands?

be torch for

the day.

it's hard to tell

they're gone now,

they've moved,

the neighbor next door.

but he didn't say

much in the years

we lived next to one another.

i'd see him going to work

in the morning,

lunch pail

in hand.

overalls and hat,

out to his truck.

sometimes he'd kiss his

wife

goodbye,

on the stoop.

we rarely talked,

but he seemed like a good

guy. the grill out

back,

the dog,

the country music

down low.

the flag decal

on his window.

the gun rack.

he kept to himself,

polite

and quiet.

a hard worker,

a good man. sometimes

i'd hear him

chopping wood

out back.

was he happy? who knows,

like with all of us,

it's hard

to tell.

with flowers in her hair

she pretended to be

a hippy

chick,

with the beads and wild

hair,

the colorful

dresses she wore

that blew

in the breeze,

the jewelry

dangling

from her wrists,

the carefree nonchalance

of her

life.

always happy, full

of love

and empathy,

a social activist.

at least on the surface.

behind

closed doors it was 

different

when the mask fell off,

the curtain pulled.

how easily i was fooled

by all this.

how strange it is

when the image

tricks

and there is no one

really there.

why wait until the end?

forget

the happy ending.

the pot of gold

at the end

of the rainbow.

the gold watch

with applause.

forget

the slipper fitting

at the end

of the story,

the all is well finale,

forget all of that.

give me the middle

years,

the long stretch

of health

and contentment,

make those the best days,

why wait

until the end?

neurology

the brain

is a curious thing, how it

jumps

around

at times like a monkey

in a banana

tree.

one thought leading to the other.

the memories

firing off

the neurons

when triggered.

taste or smell, touch or

feel,

the air,

the sun, the moon, it could

be anything

that takes me down

a path

that reminds

of you.

raised by wolves

raised by wolves,

we often

wandered away from home

to go

explore the woods,

abandoned

buildings,

crawl through storm

drains

when the heavy

rains came.

we trekked across

thin ice

on the river,

we stole watermelons

from the farm,

ears of corn,

strawberries.

we fished with a can

of worms,

built fires, we talked

sports,

and told lies to one

another

about girls.

we were missing from

dawn to dusk.

but usually home for

dinner,

if there was one.

what day is this?

we are

different here on the night shift,

while

much of the world

is asleep

in their beds

we are at wheel of commerce.

under the moon

and stars

the canopy of darkness.

we take lunch

at midnight.

we don't ask what you're

doing tomorrow,

because when

the sun rises we'll be

back at home,

asleep

with a pillow on our head.

rarely do we

know what day it is.

there's still time to make it

maybe i can

beat

the rain, maybe i can take

the long

hike

before

darkness overtakes me.

maybe

i can do this,

even with

the wind picking up.

even

with the bruised

clouds

fisting over,

filled with the crackle

of lightning.

maybe

i can. maybe

i can make it,

but it would be nice

to have someone here to talk

me out of such

things.

my one star yelp review

someone

has written a yelp review

about me.

a bad one.

she says,

i wasn't on time, my

work

was below average,

i over charged

her,

and left a mess

behind.

she said i was aloof,

unfriendly

and complained

about the coffee i gave

him.

the pastries,

the lunch i made.

he played his music

too loud.

i wouldn't recommend

him to anyone

that i know.

don't let him into

your house.

but

she gave me a one-star rating

in the end,

which was kind,

seeing we

were married once,

a long time ago,

back in 1999.

the way to my heart and other parts

she knew

my Achilles heel,

brownies,

cookies, cakes and pie.

she knew

how to win me

over, how to melt

my butter.

it was either lingerie

with stiletto heels,

or eclairs

iced in dark

chocolate,

with both, she became

my master.

fashion faux pas

there is strange

satisfaction

in throwing things away,

bagging them

for the curb

on Thursday,

especially clothes

you never wore with the tags

still swinging

from a button,

that checkerboard

shirt,

pink and blue,

what were you possibly

thinking?

those pants,

the color of a sunset,

the orange shirt,

the pre-torn

jeans.

what state of mind were

you in

to buy the bolo tie,

the white loafers,

that leather vest,

last seen on an episode

of Gunsmoke,

or on mustachioed men 

at the YMCA,

dancing and singing.

put down the sword

why

not, you think to yourself

on

a bland

day

of sun and heat

rising, with

no plans

per say.

why not spend it all.

live extravagantly.

buy and go where you want,

it's what

you've worked

and saved for all

your life,

put down the sword,

the plow,

pull up the shade.

that clock

is ticking

ever faster.

the Rubicon crossed

is there

a defining moment in one's life

that stands

out as a turning

point, an awakening?

is there a

Rubicon crossed?

a point where

you made

a decision that changed

everything forever?

i count at least

ten

for me.

but the day is young,

though

i'm not.

the friend box is full

who are these people

being

suggested

as possible friends

on Facebook.

friends of friends

of friends.

some vague connection

from travel

by land

or sea,

food, or the books

you read.

some obscure group

you joined

about birds

or psychology.

will we share our lives

together,

meet up

and embrace, 

console each other during 

hard times,

like each other's photos,

share recipes?

time to move

the leak

is a concern, of course.

it's a never

ending thing.

you put a bucket

down

to catch the drips.

it's a signal

of sorts,

telling you

there's a hole somewhere,

another hole,

there's

an entry point

where

water is coming in

unobstructed

by tiles

and wood, metal

and glass.

the gutters don't help.

the rain

wants in.

now you want out.

shadowed in stripes

is it fate,

or bad luck, 

or just bad decisions made

over a lifetime

that puts

the man

in the street,

stretched out on this cold day

as people

step around him.

was he ever loved?

did he ever

have a home,

a car,

children, a wife to hold

his hand,

or kiss him goodnight?

what brought him here,

shadowed in stripes

by the bench,

beside

the bus stand?

full of catnip

we all have

mischief in us, a little

cat nip

under our nose

at times.

we like to pull a leg or two,

become the prankster

we've always

been, since nine.

we've pulled on

pigtails,

dipping them in inkwells,

knocked

on doors

and ran,

threw water balloons

at one another,

but all in good fun.

we even made faces,

when they

turned around to pray

for us,

at the nuns.

looking out the window from apt. 704

from her window

in 704

of the old high-rise building,

she stares

out

at the world going by.

lonely,

heavy and bored.

too tired to dye

the roots anymore.

she smells cabbage in

the hall,

hears a baby crying, a dog

barking.

she wonders

with her elbows on the sill

watching the grey rain

fall,

the cars

going by,

where did it all go wrong.

my new friend

i let the water

run

a little while

until it's warm

against my

hand,

my skin.

then i get in.

i do the same with

you,

my new friend.

the twisted truth

the perception

of children

is different than ours.

what they

remember and what we remember

of growing up

are miles

apart.

we see fun,

joy, 

love. family

and togetherness

while

they see neglect

and pain.

abuse of some sort.

they embrace the fallacy

of being a victim,

wallowing in self

pity.

so strange, so strange.

something for the ride home

i'm hunting

and gathering at the local

Kroger's store.

i have my

basket, my list, my

coupons.

i'm perusing apples

and oranges,

artichokes

and green peppers,

chips

and dips.

i put a rotisserie chicken

in the cart.

a head of lettuce,

a bottle of wine

and a box

of pop tarts.

but i need something

for the ride home

before

dinner starts.

ah yes, there it is,

with almonds,

a Hershey bar.

goddamn the pusher man

it's difficult

to not look at your phone every

two minutes.

what if you've missed

something,

someone,

a call, a text, an update

on the world

news,

what if a tornado

is heading your way,

a typhoon.

what if you miss

a new cat video

on YouTube.

it owns you.

this rectangular piece of

metal.

it feeds you,

it's robbing you of your

creative soul.

numbing your brain with

nonsense.

7 G will be coming

soon.

running into Father Smith at the 7-11

i run

into Father Smith at the 7-11.

i see he's

about to buy

eight hot dogs,

straight off the greasy

grill behind

the counter.

don't they feed you over

at the rectory

i ask him,

as we stand in line together.

it's taco

Tuesday, tonight he tells me.

i hate Mexican food.

not Mexican people

mind you, it's just that the food

upsets my stomach.

plus i'm thinking

about entering the fourth

of July

hot dog eating contest

at the church

on the 4th of July.

i'm practicing.

you should come by.

oh, thanks but no thanks, i tell him.

but did you know that hot dogs

cause Leukemia

in children?

it's true, something about

the meat,

the nitrates

and chemicals, all the floor

sweepings that go

into the casing.

google it.

okay, he says, rushing out,

stuffing mustard packets

into his black

pants.

see you this
Sunday, right? he says.

we could use a hand a the men's

pancake breakfast

Bible study.

maybe, i tell him. maybe.

the Botox queen at, 75?

i guessed her age

to be somewhere between

fifty-nine

and eighty.

she was wearing her

skinny jeans

with rips and tears, as

the kids

like to wear.

blonde hair.

and skin so tight you could

use her face

as a bongo

in a tiki bar on Friday

night.

was she smiling,

frowning?

who's to say.

nothing moved,

but her long eyelashes

and whispering

plump lips

i needed 

a sample of her DNA

and carbon dating

to get a true

reading on her age.

let it bleed

people tell

you

when you're going through hard times,

that they're with you.

we're here for

you., they say,

putting an arm around you.

we understand.

we're just a phone call away.

if you need anything,

just holler.

all of it baloney.

these nonstick Band-Aids

trying to

plug the bullet hole

in your heart.

when you're in

trouble,

when you're looking

through the glass

darkly,

you're pretty much by yourself,

no matter

what they do or say.

just let the wound

bleed,

and cry your eyes out.

things will get better,

maybe not tomorrow, or

the next day,

but if you're lucky,

one day.

will the bell ever ring?

as a child

the school day never ends.

time

stops.

each second is an hour,

the hands

of the clock

are like glaciers

crossing

the ocean. it takes

forever

to melt.

how much longer must

i doodle,

i'm running out

of thoughts.

will that bell ever ring?

and that teacher

at the front

of the room,

pointing, with her marker

in hand,

what are these words

coming out

of her mouth?

i'm lost.

the flying monkeys

the therapist

calls them flying monkeys.

you know,

she says,

like in the wizard of oz.

those

monkeys that do the bidding

of the green skinned

evil

wicked witch.

all of her friends

and siblings

have wings.

you have to watch out for

them,

they're not your friends,

she tells me.

they will watch you,

observe you, and report

back

to her with every

breath you take.

i laugh.

no worries, i've already

tossed that

bucket of water

on her.

she's a puddle of goo.

they're my monkeys

now.

the apartment after the divorce

yes, it's an old

crummy apartment,

with bugs

and mice, one bedroom,

built fifty years

ago

when they were making everything

out of cardboard,

but i'm happy here 

after the financially

crushing divorce.

it's a waterfront

property.

go pull open that sliding glass

door, and step

out onto

my concrete stoop

and observe the man-made pond,

but hold your nose.

sometimes the sewage

backs up into it,

and the water is stagnant

with no way out.

but you should see it when

the sun sets, and you can see

all the beautiful and lovely

oil slick rainbows

that appear and

bullfrogs riding on empty

amazon boxes.

they're supposed to dredge it 

this week

for a missing body.

there was a gangland murder upstairs

in Three-B.

i thought the gunshots were

fireworks,

after hearing the

bang, bang, bang. oh well.

okay, let's go back inside,

these mosquitoes 

are killing me this year.

come here and sit beside me little whippersnapper

live long

enough and you start to tell people

how it was

back in the day.

you start saying things like,

back in the day.

yes.

you're that old.

come here and sit

beside me

little whippersnapper,

and let me

tell you a story.

you try to ignore

the yawning,

as people rub their

eyes and look

at their watches,

but you tell them about gas being

twenty-nine cents

per gallon, or

the 235 dollars it cost

to rent your

first apartment

each month,

utilities included.

you talk about ten cent

cokes,

nickel ice cream cones,

twenty-five cent hamburgers.

two-dollar haircuts

and fifty cent

double features at the bijou.

you regal them

with the story of how

you stayed 

in a boardwalk hotel once

for five dollars a night.

of course there

was no air conditioning,

and no sheets

on the bunk beds, but hey.

we were young,

and it beat sleeping

out on the sand,

which was free, by the way.

by the way, you look great

we all fib

a little, spreading little white

lies,

while

trying to polish

up

our diminished image.

we say we went

to Harvard,

though it was one online

class

from the local

trade school for

the culinary arts.

we dye our hair,

we lie about our age,

our height,

or weight.

the size of our belt,

just a little though.

there's no maliciousness

in any of it.

by the way,

you look great.

rescuing dogs

the rescue

dog,

pretty on the outside,

but mean

within,

left a scar on her arm

where it

bit her.

maybe

there was a reason the dog

had been

let go,

time and time again,

imprisoned

in a cage

and waiting

for the inevitable end.

not all

dogs,

or people can be saved.

you're welcome.

finding the password

we need

a way in, a password, a code,

a set

of numbers

and letters, symbols,

a string

of words

to open the door

to our safe place,

to our devices, to our

hearts.

get it right and i'll

open up

and let you in.

she understands me

as my dentist sticks

in hard

pieces of carboard

into my mouth

in preparation for my yearly

dental x-rays

she asks me if i have any

fun plans for the summer,

any vacation

trips planned.

i try to answer, but i can't

move my mouth.

only guttural noises

come out.

but she seems to understand.

ah, yes.

me too. a beach trip would

be nice at the end

of the summer,

or maybe a cruise

to Bermuda.

she then lays down a fifty

pound lead

blanket across my vital

organs

and runs out of the room

to click a button.

you only live once, unless you're Hindu, of course

you've heard people saying

things like this

all your life.

you only live once,

you can't take it with you,

enjoy what time 

you have left.

live in the now.

usually it's a car salesman,

or a travel agent

saying this to you

as you stare

at the little red sports car

in the showroom.

pointing his finger

at which line to sign.

or maybe it's

the travel gal opening

the cruise

brochure, showing pictures

of an ocean,

lobsters and wine,

telling you. 

you're not

getting any younger,

it's time.

the secret recipe

i tell her to turn

her head

as i make scrambled eggs

in the morning.

no need

for her to see the secret

of my success.

my secret ingredient

that make

my scrambled eggs

the best.

and when she sits down

to eat them

and smiles,

and asks if i put jalapeno

peppers

into the mix of onions

and cheese,

milk and whisked eggs,

i'll answer maybe

to her

lucky guess.

a good hard rain

it's a good rain,

a hard

rain,

not a Bob Dylan rain exactly,

but a good

sloshing

of cold grey

wetness

turning the streets

black

and slick.

the gutters full,

the over spill, the rising

of the streams

and rivers.

it's a good rain

to behold.

embrace it,

spring flowers

will grow.

slicing up a banana

death wakes you up.

frightens you

with the sudden

reality that we only have so

many days

on this planet.

it's a cold glass of water

on your psyche.

you want to make the most

of it.

you want more joy,

to read more,

more love, more of everything

that brings you

pleasure.

but in a week or two,

you're back to slicing a

banana at the kitchen

sink, and pouring out

a bowl

of cheerios, no longer blue.

be quiet while i figure out where we are

my father

was of the generation that when

lost,

kept going,

kept circling.

to stop at a gas station

and ask

for directions meant failure.

it meant showing

that he wasn't the man

people thought

he was.

he'd turn

on the dome light,

and pull out the atlas

map

from the glove compartment.

he was a bombardier

over Berlin

at this point.

it was best that we stayed

silent

while my mother

stared out the window,

with a frosted

cake in her lap.

free wi-fi

the clerk,

dog eyed and weary

in his

short sleeved white

shirt

gone grey,

has seen everything,

come through

the doors

of his roadside motel.

every form

of life

has needed a room

at some point,

for an hour or two

or one

night.

it's far enough away

from

probing eyes,

far enough away from

husbands

and wives.

he's past judgement

at this stage of the game.

he hands

over the keys,

and tells them

there's free wi-fi.

not a single word spoken

there are days,

when

not a single word has left

my mouth.

not a greeting,

no conversation,

no polite

hellos

or goodbyes. just the quiet

of time

slipping by.

the solitude i've longed

for, has

at last

come about.

concerns of youth

concern

with things that once mattered,

have taken

up much

of my life. too much.

the clean car,

the wax

and shine of it all.

the pretty girl,

the home.

the right

look,

the hair styled, 

the clothes.

image is a cruel

master,

when you look into

the mirror

and realize

you've grown old.

one of many mistakes

a glimpse

of you, in this shadow,

this

half dream

at three a.m.

startles me awake.

i peer

out the window

to see

what's out there,

who's

out there.

i  lie back down

in the darkness.

i have made many

mistakes.

finding the sunlight

the dog

chases his tail,

around

and around, then finally

exhausted

with this impossible

feat,

lies down in a puddle

of sunlight.

he finds sleep.

as i have

done,

at last, with grief.

no limits to evil

why

would someone kidnap

a baby,

hold children

or the elderly hostage

for months

and months

at gunpoint.

who's changing diapers

in the tunnels,

feeding

old people

with dietary needs,

tending to broken

limbs and

disease,

who's

raping the women

repeatedly.

who are these sick

animals?

what good does

this do

for some cause or

religion?

how crazy can people

be?

there are no limits to evil,

it seems.

kayaking near the city

the river

stinks, there are dead fish floating

everywhere.

the water

is green and brown

except for the rainbow

puddles of

spilled oil

and gasoline

from boats going by.

it needs to be skimmed

and flushed

with a fresh

filling from the skies

above.

we slip into our wobbly

kayaks

and paddle.

trying not to get splashed

getting water

near our faces, into our

mouths

or eyes.

in the distance we

see the city.

the monuments,

the obelisk,

the dome gleaming.

the cherry blossom trees.

we're trying to stay

afloat,

trying to stay alive.

giving up too soon

bored

and confused

with the thick book,

this Russian book, full

of names

i can't pronounce,

a story

that goes on and on,

forever,

i throw it

across the room.

it flies through

the open

window

out to the sidewalk.

later i see my

neighbor on his porch

reading it.

laughing

and crying. maybe

like i've done with you,

given up too soon.

brother can you spare a bit coin?

through the years

i've told

my broker, Sheila,

at Fidelity

Savings

and Investments

to take care

of my dough, but she

bungled it,

stole it,

bought expensive

houses

and cars,

many luxuries' things.

and now

i'm out in the cold,

in a cardboard

box behind

the liquor store

on Hollywood and vine,

not far

from the In and Out 

Burger.

it's raining.

she convinced me to buy

crypto currency.

she exclaimed with glee,

it's the newest

and greatest thing.

easily replaced

i wonder

if my dog loves me

for me,

or is it just because i feed her,

and give

her a place

to sleep.

i brush

her hair, and scratch

her belly when

she rolls over.

am i putting too much

into her tail

wagging when

i get home,

and she greets me at the door,

wanting to lick

my face?

is it really love,

or am i

easily replaced?

i ask my therapist about

this,

and she laughs.

are you talking

about your wife, or your

dog,

she says to me.

both i guess, i tell her,

straight faced.

1958 Cheverolet

i find an old

picture

of my father waxing his Cheverolet

Impala,

circ 1958.

it's turquoise,

like his eyes.

he's wearing plaid shorts

with his shirt off,

his muscled body

gleaming in the Cape Cod sun.

i'm standing beside

him,

with a cowboy hat on,

a holster

and two cap guns

around my skinny waist.

my sister is licking an ice

cream

cone beside me.

refusing

to give me a taste.

happy birthday month

i see

her birthday announced

on Facebook.

hundreds

of her five thousand

friends

have already

congratulated her,

with hearts

and thumbs up

and words of encouragement.

it's a month

long celebration

that she absorbs

with self-indulgent

pleasure.

i refrain

from clicking on the like

button,

she knows

how i feel about her,

why stir things

up again.

the long ride from Guatemala

it's the first

whole

melon of the summer.

i've tapped

it thoroughly

in the store, getting that

hard

hollow knock

in return.

but you never know

what lies

inside until you

take the knife to it

when you

get home.

will it be a bright

red,

juicy and sweet,

or already

yellowed and mealy

from the long

ride

from Guatemala.

the hot yoga girl

she fancies

hot yoga.

not cold yoga, or tepid

yoga,

or luke warm

yoga,

but hot yoga.

no ceiling fan,

no air-conditioning,

no windows open,

just twenty

bodies

writhing like snakes

in a tight room

trying to escape

their skins.

she likes to sweat,

she likes

to make herself

exhausted

and dripping like

a pink rag doll

in the rain.

she's all muscle

and bones, now,

a sinewy map of

veins.

parting ways at an Exxon Station in Missouri

was it was a mistake

leaving

you at the gas station,

in Missouri,

after i

filled up

and waited in the car

while you used

the restroom

around back,

taking the paddled

key?

i should have waited

longer.

i know, i know,

but it was

time to end things,

time

to leave.

i set your luggage

on the curb

with 

your small dog on a leash.

at some point

karma will come around

to bite me

i suppose.

but at least

at long last i no longer

hear the barking

of the both of you,

i'm free.

the meaning of life

i finally,

after a long day of reading,

and pondering,

doing nothing

but meditating,

i figure out

the meaning of life.

it comes to me

in a calm flash

of light

as i lie

on the couch,

staring out the window,

at the blue

sky and trees

blowing about.

then the phone rings.

express gardening

i throw

a handful of wildflower

seeds

into the back

yard,

and say good luck.

i leave

it to nature,

to the rain,

to God,

to destiny or fate,

to do the rest.

i can't spend all my

time

worrying

about such things,

the front yard

is next.

sharp as a rubber ball

sure,

do i forget where i put my keys,

my wallet,

my phone,

have i left

the stove

on after

boiling water,

have i left the door

unlocked

all night.

have i left a bag 

of groceries

in the car?

of course i have.

but it doesn't mean

a thing.

i'm still as sharp

as ever,

and those sunglasses

on my head,

no worries,

i'll find them soon

enough.

tightening the screws

at certain points

in your life, you take out a sheet

of paper

and take stock

of your finances.

what's coming in,

what's going out.

the electric bill.

the mortgage,

food, gas,

insurance,

miscellaneous items,

and Betty.

but then 

a smile comes

to your face when

you figure you can save

two thousand

dollars a year if you no

longer go to Starbucks

for coffee and a scone,

and a newspaper,

and another thousand

if you cancel

Showtime, 

Hulu, Peacock,

SiriusXM

and HBO.

the asthma attack

as your

lungs squeeze themselves

together,

wheezing,

trying

to gulp in air,

and your heart

begins to beat

like a rabbit on the run

with fear,

you

you realize

the importance

of oxygen

in your life.

you've taken it for

granted

for so long,

like many things

that you now

hold dear.

a basket of laundry

you forget

about the wars, and crime,

and inflation

for a moment,

you put aside

the political turmoil,

the marches

and protests,

the climate, the environment,

the price of gas,

the homeless,

the mentally ill

and disease.

you have a basket of laundry

you need to wash,

then dry,

then fold, then put

away

before you leave.

let's get this out of the way, i'm sorry

i start every

relationship off with a long

list of apologies.

it's good to get

that out of the way

before things go any further.

i'm sorry i said what i said.

it was the gin talking.

i'm sorry i forgot your birthday,

our anniversary.

i'm sorry about these daisies,

they were out

of roses.

i apologize for not remembering

how you like

your tea or coffee

and that you're

a vegetarian

after i only bought red meat.

i'm sorry for not holding

the door open for you,

as you fiddled with

your phone.

i'm deeply sorry

for not calling when i said

i would.

i'm sorry i don't know your

shoe size.

your dress size, or your favorite

color.

i'm sorry, for not wanting

to meet your

parents and children,

and aunt and uncle

in Philadelphia.

i'm sorry for not going to

the parade,

or the amusement park

to ride the roller coaster. 

i'm sorry about my snoring,

for not putting the seat down

on the toilet.

for leaving the butter out

overnight

on the counter.

i'm sorry that 

i refused to hold

your purse while you tried

on another dress

in the changing room,

and for calling out some

other woman's

name in the middle of the night.

i'm sorry.

i'm very very sorry about that.

to be continued, no doubt.

she's comfort food

she's comfort

food, meat and potatoes.

gravy.

sweet corn

and biscuits, a peach

pie for dessert.

a tall glass

of milk

poured from a 

cold sweating pitcher.

there's butter on her

table,

salt and pepper.

candles, maybe.

grace will be said.

less and less Magellan

you're less

and less Magellan

set out

on some course 

with a vague

map,

out to sea,

sails full of 

youthful wind

taking

you somewhere

where you've never

been before.

that's you not,

not anymore.

feet on land,

at home is where

you prefer to be.

reaching wise

it's in

their eyes, they know.

set deep within

the landscape

of furrows

and lines,

the plowed field

of a face

long lived, reaching

wise.

it's in their eyes.

straight down route 50

i wake up

thinking about Boardwalk

fried

chicken

from ocean city.

Thrasher's fries,

with little tubs

of vinegar and ketchup.

i can feel

the hot boards of summer

on my feet.

the blistering sand.

i hear the ocean,

smell the salt in the wind.

i can hear

the pin ball machines

in the penny arcades,

the crowds,

the auction house,

the swing of the Ferris

Wheel.

gulls are in the air.

it's July.

it's crowded, but peaceful.

a home

away from home

at seventeen.

i'm laying

my towel

in sand

then diving into the cold

water, that's the plan.

he's grumpy, jealous and stubborn

my father's latest girlfriend

calls me

and tells me

that my dad is grumpy

and jealous,

and very stubborn.

he gets mad at her when

she's sick

and can't visit.

he's jealous that she goes

to a funeral

every week for her male 

friends

that have passed on.

it's interfering with their

weekly rendezvous.

stubborn, i say with a laugh.

really? you've got to be

kidding me, right?

he'll be 96 in two weeks.

nothing has changed

since the day he was born.

get used to it, or

move on.

number eleven

it was a long

drive

to Baltimore but my number

had come up

for the draft.

the bouncing ball

said eleven when it shot

out of the tube.

i had hair past

my shoulders and weighed

nothing

soaking wet.

i wasn't made

for the army,

for killing, for whatever

it was they wanted

me to do while

wearing

their drabby green uniforms,

would i be sharpening

my bayonet,

peeling potatoes too?

i stripped

and bent over, i coughed.

they looked

in every opening

of my young body

and asked me

questions about my loyalty

to the country.

was i red white and blue?

luckily the war ended

before i had

to kill someone,

or be killed

in a jungle far from you.

the Jesus Vitamins

i call them Jesus

vitamins.

the ones you see on tv

chock

full of every known vegetable

to man.

fruits too.

all the juices

and nutrients

squeezed into tiny pills

that you

swallow two

at a time.

suddenly you can see

clearly again,

the pain is gone,

you're no longer lost for words,

your hands

no longer tremble.

you're running marathons

and having

sex three times a day.

you're walking on water,

your mind is clear.

you're solving quadratic

equations,

you're suddenly

a philosopher,

a scientist,

you're saving not only

yourself,

but the world.

the little red sports car

the little

red sports suddenly appeals

to you.

it's an age

thing, i suppose, grasping

for some

youthful straw.

retrieving

what is lost.

it's a shiny bauble you'd

like to drive

with the top

down.

maybe throw a slinky

blonde

in the seat beside

you,

just for fun.

small quakes

it's a small

earthquake, nothing to write

home

about.

but the walls

shake,

and the birds leave

the trees.

no damage

is done,

but it's thrilling

in a strange way.

it's over in seconds.

like so

many interesting

things.

foreign movies

the hard

thing about watching a foreign

movie

at home,

are the subtitles,

you have to read while

watching.

you can't look at your phone

and answer texts,

or emails,

or scroll through

cat videos,

or peruse

hotel rates for New York City

near the park.

if you take

your eye off the screen for

one second,

you might miss

the whole reason

for the movie.

bleeding money

there are months

when

you bleed money. more goes

out than

is coming in.

you have to dip into

your rainy-day stash to

put a tourniquet on

it all.

the car

needs tires,

the roof needs shingles.

the dog

ate a dead bird

and is in intensive care.

the dentist wants

x-rays.

lights are flickering,

pipes

are leaking.

girl scouts are at the door

wanting money

for the thin mints

you ordered

in May.

zero reciprocating love from rabbits

she had a pet rabbit,

then two,

then suddenly

five.

she kept them in her living

room,

fenced in

with baby gates

and bowls

of water,

pellet like food.

newspapers were strewn

about,

the unread daily

news.

but i saw no 

reciprocating love from

those bunnies

despite her fawning

and cooing

over them, giving them

nick names

like girlfriend, 

and boo boo.

opening the yearbook

you wonder

will they miss me, when

i'm gone.

friend or foe.

will they wonder

what happened,

where did i go,

where

have i disappeared to.

did i fall

or leap,

did i get old and die

in my sleep.

will they search

the obituaries to try and

find out

some truth

about me, my demise.

or will

most of them be gone

too?

apple martini cowboy

she liked

cowboys. men in tight jeans,

boots

with spurs,

bolo ties

on an embroidered

shirt.

the belt with a big buckle

stamped

Texas.

she liked the big hats,

white or black,

the way

they talked

with a long

piece of straw hanging out

of their mouth,

chewing

on a wad

of Red Man stuck between

their cheeks.

she liked the way

they danced

in a line, kicking their

boots 

against the floor,

and drank whiskey.

she adored

how they'd say clever things

like this

ain't my first rodeo, or

giddy up.

i didn't have a chance,

sipping my

apple martini

at the bar, reading Hamlet.

but the rent is cheap

the railroad

tracks

are close by and when

a train

passes,

the whole room shakes

and 

the pictures

rattle against the walls.

i peek

out the blinds and see

the silver

blur

of the train rumbling by.

i can almost reach out

and touch it.

Mary looks

at me from the bed,

smoking

a cigarette and shakes

her blonde curls,

damp

from sweat.

you have to move, she says.

i don't know how

you live like this.

this is your final warning.

get a better place,

or we're done.

kaput.

finished.

now come back to bed.

Zombie Hygiene

there's a lot of talk

about zombies

these days.

books

and movies, television

shows. Zombie

this,

zombie that.

it's a fun craze in a way.

the dead

coming back to life.

they want to eat us,

but fortunately they

are slow of foot

and have limited brain

function, and for some reason

they've lost the ability to talk,

emitting grunts of some sort

in a guttural

foreign language.

they don't seem

to be enjoying

they're second shot at life 

and living.

which is sad.

their hygiene is pathetic.

they don't shower or

brush their teeth anymore,

or dress properly.

God knows if they're even

lifting the lid up

on the commode.

i wish they could find

a way to relax

and take it easy, and perhaps

stop trying to bite

people.

maybe read a book, or go to

the beach.

get some therapy.

we all really need to get along,

the dead,

and the living.

the Saturday adventure

my neighbor

just returned from climbing 

up

Mt. Everest.

part of his nose

is gone,

he's limping.

and there's something

wrong

with his arms.

his face

is red behind

the long scraggily hair.

he can't stop

talking about

the mountain,

the snow, the wind,

the crevices

and fear.

he tells me about the three

sherpas

that helped him

up the steep icy inclines,

and nods sadly

at the one that died.

they're still looking for my wife

up there.

but enough about me,

he says,

with a smile. so what have

you been up to

lately,

and i tell him about my

trip to Costco

on Saturday. the crazy long

lines.

the best days

some days

are more productive than others.

some

days you don't want

to get out of

bed.

you don't want to deal

with the world

at large.

and all the trouble

it entails.

sometimes 

you just want someone

to come

up the stairs

and bring

you coffee and eggs.

the baby bump

a few years

ago

there used to be a exotic

dancer

who lived

two doors

down.

a long-legged beauty

with black

hair.

i'd see her come home

late at night

in her high heels

and satin

robes.

she'd be drunk sometimes,

or with

someone

trying desperately

to kiss her.

they were noisy,

laughing,

carrying on.

then i saw her one day

with a belly

bump.

and carrying into

her house

a stroller

and a crib.

she looked at me and

smiled,

shrugged her shoulders

and said

something like, oh well,

things happen.

i won't be dancing for awhile.

the plan was

the plan was,

that your parents

raised

you

in a warm

supportive household.

you went to school.

you lived

in a nice neighborhood.

you had a dog

a cat, maybe.

maybe you got the measles

too.

or had your tonsils

removed.

that being the worst of it.

there was a swing set

in the back yard,

a pool.

you went to church

on Sundays.

you played ball.

you made friends.

you kept your nose clean.

you delivered papers 

in the morning.

you went to college,

met a girl.

fell in love,

got married, had kids

of your own.

you kissed your wife

goodbye

every morning and took

the train into

the city.

where you worked

for forty years.

then you retired and took

up gardening

or golf.

it all went by so quickly,

you say

to yourself, looking back.

wondering

what went wrong.

a grilled cheese sandwich

i look

at the bill that the waitress

has brought me

for a grilled

cheese

sandwich and a coke.

the food

and drinks are there.

then a fee

for 

something

i don't understand,

an added

gratuity.

taxes,

city, state, local,

federal.

some other hidden charges

are added on

as well.

something to do with

Covid

and the board of health.

twenty dollars should

do it,

but it leaves

me nothing for cab fare.

pretend to get along

don't say

that word, or that one either.

don't point,

don't judge

or act

confused.

don't roll your eyes,

or arch your

eyebrows,

don't say oh my.

don't have a mind

of your own,

or express a contradictory

opinion.

follow the lemmings

off the cliff.

you have your marching

orders.

don't

show an inkling

of amusement,

or befuddlement

at a world

gone wackadoodle.

pretend

it's normal, that it's

all okay.

then go home and lock

the doors,

pull the shades.

the people are angry

the people

are angry. they are out on

the streets,

hands raised

to the sky,

voices chanting.

what do they want now?

what is that

they are displeased with.

they are holding

up their babies,

with tears in their eyes.

they are wearing

sack cloth

and ashes.

they wail and march.

they circle

the city streets.

from dusk

to sunrise.

they have nowhere else

to be,

no life,

no jobs.

they are displeased.

permanently,

it seems.

the hot tamale

one small bite 

of this pepper,

this hot green jalapeno pepper

makes

my brain boil,

my head

sweat,

my heart skip a beat.

i begin

to tremble and shake,

my tongue

burns,

my nose aches.

like you, it seemed

like a good idea

at the time.

a bouquet of balloons

somewhere,

at some point in history,

someone

decided that

balloons would make

occasions

more festive.

that it would be 

a good idea to

fill a small plastic

bag with air,

then knot

the bottom

so that the air

doesn't escape.

you can write

a message on them,

happy birthday,

happy anniversary,

congratulations,

or tie a few

together, making

a bouquet of sorts.

they come in every color

of the rainbow,

nice, but

please don't get me any

balloons.

hero of the month

they put

up pictures in the big

box

store.

on the wall

as you enter

for everyone to see.

it used to be employee

of the month.

but they've

changed

that to hero 

of the month.

i sort of agree, you'd

have to be

heroic to work

there these days.

it's never enough

i visit

her in the hospital.

i bring

her flowers,

a book to read

and

a box of candies.

but i eat

some on the way.

the chocolates

with nuts

in them.

my favorites.

this angers her when

she takes

the lid

off the box.

she curses me,

and tells me to

go away.

i need to take this call

live long

enough and you can compare

fifty years

ago to now.

even further back.

are things better, are things

worse

than they ever were?

are there still wars,

still inequality,

still crime and injustice.

still poverty

and loneliness,

yes, tenfold and more.

so what's the deal?

what have we learned

with these

precious phones in our hands?

pretty much

nothing.

it's the same as it ever was,

maybe worse.

hold on,

i need to take this call.

i'll never fall in love again

when she breaks

her arm,

falling off her latest horse,

she tells me

that she'll never ride again.

i'm done with

horses, if i come

across another for sale

i'll just walk

on by.

it sounds like

a Burt Bacharach song

as i listen to her

sing the words,

i'll never fall of a horse

again.

and then she heals.

add more sugar

is it truly

all about money?

nearly everything we buy?

of course it is.

life

is a business.

it's always been

commerce.

they add more sugar

to the mix,

more sweetness,

more curves

to cover,

more skin, more cream

to the desserts

we purchase,

why settle for the wallflowers

when there are so

many queens

covered in meringue

to eat.

the artist's rendition

was Jesus

that handsome, that attractive

with movie

star looks,

the blue eyes

and long

hair. the clean

flowing robes.

was he that muscular,

that strong,

jaw squared.

his long arms

and clean hands

reaching out to comfort

the world,

or was he more like us,

not ready

for his close

up.

disheveled and tired,

sitting down at the well,

drawing words

in the dirt,

with

a worried

stare.

get your house in order

as

a doctor, she tells the sick

patient

to get his

house in order.

i'm sorry, but

you need to

make arrangements

for

the future,

which is short.

best do it now

and not wait.

get a lawyer,

a pen and a piece of

paper,

write it all down

as you slip

away.

make life easier on

those left

behind.

hard words, but kind.

the doll collector

was she mad,

crazy,

a loon of some sort.

perhaps.

or maybe she just liked

collecting

life like

dolls of her favorite

stars

from the past.

there on the table stood

Lucille Ball,

and over there,

the brother and sister duo

Donnie and Marie,

when they

had a show.

is that Dolly Parton

in the corner

staring at me?

leaning forward, almost

ready to fall

down?

I see Andy Williams

in a glass enclosed

shelf,

next to John Wayne

wearing a gun belt.

and then the centerpiece

on the table,

Dorothy from the Wizard

of Oz,

next to the scarecrow,

the tin man,

and the cowardly lion,

holding his tail.

the stuck napkin in a pocket

why buy

one?

a tuxedo, when a rented

suit will

do for the occasion.

it's so rare

that you're required

to put on

such a monkey suit,

but you can't

help but wonder who

else

had the same

idea and wore

this

sleek garb before.

renting it for a weekend,

but why and

where to, what for?

perhaps

a wedding, some

important gathering

of well to do's.

the pictures preserving

it all,

maybe this napkin

stuck in

the pocket

with old cake icing

will provide

a clue.