one bite will do

i've seen bags

of apples,

oranges,

grapes,

peppers even, but never

have i seen

a bag of peaches or pears.

one pear or peach

per year

seems to satisfy most

people.

The Sunrise Senior Home

they paint

the building hope yellow with

white trim.

put a sign out front

in floral

script,

everyone is welcome.

there are lots of greenery,

new

and fresh on

the grounds.

flowers grow everywhere

like rainbowed

nests.

a fountain

in the circle driveway

spews a clear

sparkle of water into the air.

there's three meals

per day,

canasta at six pm,

a pickle ball court

in the rear.

a pool to wade in.

the place

has all the airs

of a beginning, not

an end.

a nice slight of hand.

well done.

and

what's that siren i hear?

could it be

another ambulance

approaching slowly

around the bend.

good luck with that chocolate bar

i bite down

on a

dark chocolate bar

with

almonds and my 

brain

says.

oh this is good

but

also bad.

do i toss the rest of it,

or convince

myself to save

it, tuck

it away in the freezer

and make

it a last

a year?

right.

good luck with that.

you got this

tired

of memes, words

of wisdom,

cliches,

wise

sayings passed down

through

the ages

by scholars

and politicians,

teachers

and philosophers.

poets

and priests.

exhausted by

it all,

those trying to guide

our way.

i need a nap

from the world

and to try and figure

it all out

my own way.

you've had a good run, my dear

when are you too old

to work?

to continue on at your job

and be

affective

and efficient.

is leaving your keys

in the door

overnight,

a sign,

when you put your wallet

in the icebox,

or can't finish a sentence,

having lost

your train of thought?

is it

when you

can no longer figure out

how to set

your clocks

at daylights saving time?

when is enough enough?

when will your

loved ones,

gently take you by

the arm

and tell you, 

whispering in your good ear,

you've had

a good run my dear,

but it's time?

given fair warning

we are being warned

on a continual

basis.

the smoke alarm,

the gas gauge,

the oil light,

the data

usage on your phone,

your email

account,

the amber

alert,

the storm alert,

tornadoes

are coming,

floods

and fires.

the pollen count,

which roads are clogged,

which bridge 

is out.

the sky is falling,

the end is near.

stay home,

get under the bed.

don't go out.

finding true love at Kroger's

every few

months or so, i get a text

from Robin,

telling me

how wonderful her life is.

almost free at last,

she says,

as her husband lingers

in hospice.

she tells

me she's in love,

no, she says, not that guy,

or the guy

before that.

this is a new guy,

i met him at Kroger's,

we both reached for the same

hot house tomato

in the bin.

he treats me like a queen.

he adores me,

he worships the ground

i walk on.

he wants to take me to

Wildwood, New Jersey

for the weekend.

money is no object.

he pays for everything.

he opens the car door me.

i mean who does that?

but i'm not getting too excited,

because it's only been

a week.

earth needs women

women, not all,

but most,

can't help themselves. once

a mother

always a mother,

their instincts kick in.

they want to care for you.

to put a Band-Aid

on your wound.

to feed you,

to tuck you in at night.

they want

to make sure

you take the umbrella

when it might

storm.

they help

you button your 

coat up tight. they find

your gloves for you.

they know where

things are.

the aspirin, the thermometer,

the paperclips and staples,

the peanut

butter jar.

they know where you

left your

keys, your watch.

they keep track of your

doctor appointments.

they always lock

the doors.

and this is just the short list.

more to come

i'm sure.

catching forty winks

i can sleep

anywhere if given the chance.

on a plane,

a bus,

the train.

i can fall asleep on a park

bench.

on the floor.

on the ground

in the great outdoors.

in the rain,

or in a snowbank.

i can fall asleep

in a chair

at the DMV.

at school.

in church at high mass.

at weddings,

at funerals,

at parties.

give me a shoulder

to lean against

and i can fall asleep

nearly anywhere,

especially

if you're there.

lying eyes

it's hard to quit,

hard to step down when

the bones

get old,

when the feet fail,

when the mind

is slow.

it's hard to say no,

no more

can i do what i used to do.

it's hard to set

sail.

especially when those

around you lie,

and say

all is well.

biding time at the party

you could

see and feel those that were just

like you

in a room full

of people, at a party.

the ones

in the chair, against the wall.

leaning into

shadows,

observing.

not dancing, not having

exaggerated

conversations, or

engaged in small talk.

like you,

they were watching what

others do,

sipping their drinks,

biding time,

checking their

watches,

keeping an eye on the exit,

waiting for the right

moment

to go through.

with sharpened scissors

letting

go is hard. letting go

of children,

of friends,

of jobs.

it's not easy in cutting

the strings

and moving on.

but it must be done.

for your sake

and theirs.

get the scissors out,

and cut,

don't look back.

move on.

poker on Saturday night

we played

cards

long into the night.

there was

drinking.

laughing, arguing.

it was for small change

mostly,

rarely did you see

a dollar bill

or a five

go into the pot.

we were young, unmarried.

we smoked

cigars

and played music.

we talked

big talk, talked women

and sports,

we pondered

what tomorrow might bring.

we weren't even out

of the starter blocks

with life.

we played cards.

and in looking back,

i can say

with a straight face that

nothing has ever been as

fun as those nights.

the rowdy bluejay

i've never

seen

so many birds in my life

on the fence

in the back yard.

black, red, yellow,

blue.

they're waiting for me to put

more seed

into the bird feeder.

they're fluttering their wings

and making

a racket with

their individual

chirping.

i open the window

and yell out

at them.

i'm coming, be patient, i'll

be down

shortly.

keep your shirts on.

and hey you, yeah you,

Mr. Bluejay,

stop with the fights.

why is this happening?

there's a look

in someone's eyes when they've

lost it.

my mother

had that look,

that mouth half

open

with bewilderment look

when she

was dying

with dementia.

unsure of her step,

her words

coming slow.

her brain in a fog.

it's no laughing matter.

and when

you see someone propped

up

on a stage

in this state of ill health

your heart breaks.

you wonder

where the people are that love

this person,

the doctors.

the friends, the children.

why are they allowing this

go on?

can't they see this?

where's the empathy

and compassion.

is it all about the ego,

all about the win?

with apologies to Tom Waits

it's all

about making the sale.

persuading

the customer to buy,

to accept the deal.

a vote for

me

is a vote for good times

and prosperity.

we can win this election.

so step right up

and pull

the lever.

you can drive it off

the lot today.

no salesman will visit

your home.

the quality goes in before

the name goes on.

batteries not included.

it's the only

product you will ever need.

it's a job,

it's a friend.

if not satisfied return

all useable

parts for a partial

refund.

one size fits all.

all work

guaranteed.

we can't do it without you.

going out of business.

going out of business sale.

one size fits all.

vote for me,

vote often, or don't vote at all.

open all night.

come one, come on down,

come all.

the gut tells you everything

the intuition

is

mostly good, the strong

hunch,

the ability

to read the room,

the stars,

to understand what

lies between

the lines,

said or unsaid.

the gut being your true

brain.

you know what

lies ahead.

all of it is good and well,

though exhausting.

sometimes

you want to turn

it off,

to give

the spider sense

a rest. not

hear that voice inside

your head.

you want to hit the button

and

just be like everyone else.

surprised.

resistance is futile

sometimes you

wake up

and you need something sweet

and cold.

it's a desire,

a longing.

you can't shake.

temptation

has a hold on you.

at some point

before the day is over

you just know

you're going

to be licking a scoop

of rocky road

on a sugar cone.

resistance is futile.

dear Joe

run into

the light. it's okay.

don't fear

the reaper.

there's no shame

in getting old, to be

that cookie

crumbling in a glass

of milk.

don't resist

the inevitable. embrace

your old age,

be thankful

for the good years,

those

cognitive years,

those years when you

were fleet of foot.

when the world was

your oyster.

don't fight

the last stage,

the dying light.

you can't stop what's 

coming.

and sometimes

it's already here.

dear Joe,

it's okay, it's alright.

down into the hole

be careful

what you google.

you

won't just

fall down

into that rabbit hole,

you will

be devoured and spit

out

in a short five or six

hours.

idle hands are truly

the devil's

workshop.

a lot of what ifs along the way

a life

is full of what ifs.

the right turn

instead of the left.

the girl

next door, the job

not taken.

the move you never

made to LA.

the job

you took.

the house you bought.

that oyster

you shouldn't

have eaten,

but ate.

oh my God, teaching the Bible in school?

the nerve

of some schools actually

wanting

to talk about

God or faith,

or the Ten Commandments.

how dare they

try to introduce

morals

and character into small

children.

what's the world coming

to?

what if my three year

old wants

to be gay?

this will break his little

heart in two.

my new Singer sewing machine

i can't find

a shirt

or a pair of pants

or coat

that doesn't have someone

else's name

on it,

stitched into

the sleeve

or back,

or front.

i'm a billboard

for Calvin,

for Tommy, for Nike,

for North face,

or Columbia.

that's why i shop

at Target

from now on., or attempt

to make

my own.

stay straight until you get to the water tower

i never worked

at a gas station when i was a teenager.

but it wasn't

because i couldn't

pump gas,

or check the oil, or wipe

windshields, no.

it was none of that,

it was because i was bad

at giving directions.

i'd ask people

if they knew where the water

tower was,

or the old mill,

or the fork

in the road.

when you see a pasture

full of cows,

turn left.

after an hour or so, they'd be

back yelling at me

for sending them

in an endless circle, 

needing even more gas

to get where they were 

headed.

repair the fence

i go down

to where the fence

needs

mending, the wire torn

away,

nails rusted,

the post leaning.

the fence

is important to me.

it keeps

things in,

keep things out.

i've been lazy with

the mending

as has been pointed

out so

often with the choices

i've made.

the presidential debate

finally

the two presidential candidates

face each

other face to face.

with moderators

holding

the mute button

in case something gets said

that shouldn't

be said.

censorship

at its best.

but then within the first

five minutes, the larger

man,

with the orange

hair, starts jumping

up and down at the podium,

stomping his feet,

trying to shake

the stage,

trying to get the older

half-awake man to tip over.

which works.

crash, boom, bang.

time for a commercial

break.

summer of 73

when

i finally cut my hair,

it had grown

long,

way past my shoulders.

parted in the middle

like Pocahantas

on the butter

box.

i was

a product of the times.

a faux

revolutionary,

just playing along.

but

i needed a job,

so i took the headband

off and

went to the barber shop

where old Joe
took out his shears

and made quick

business of it all.

as the locks fell

to the floor

i suddenly realized 

that making money,

and surviving

was more important

than

some idealistic cause.

do you want to hold my baby?

the neighbor,

friendly as all get out,

excited about

her newborn child,

asks

me if i'd like to hold her baby.

apparently

everyone

she runs into wants to hold

her baby.

so it's natural for her

to ask me.

i'm taken aback,

to say the least.

i haven't held a baby

in over thirty-five years.

what if i dropped her baby?

what if the

baby threw up,

or suddenly

filled it's diaper with

you know what?

maybe later, i tell her.

plus, all my friends

call me butterfingers,

by the way.

but i can see the disappointment

on her face.

our relationship

has never been the same

since then.

their motherly ways

the doctor's office

sends me

an email, then a text, then

calls.

robotically.

will i be there today

at 2:40?

press yes

to confirm your appointment.

would you like

to do

express check in?

if so,

enter your ID number,

credit card,

birthdate

and mother's maiden

name. or

do you want to reschedule

again?

they're very motherly

in their

corporate

and chilly way.

the gradual wake up

i tap

the screen gently.

i'm not angry or disappointed

i understand

the slow

buffering.

the gradual

warm up

of machine and man.

the power went out in the middle

of the night.

nearly

all the clocks are wrong,

even the one

inside of me.

lights were left on.

the television too.

this will take some time

to wake up.

but i have time.

that i have plenty

of, at least this morning.

we need more guilt

we need guilt.

remorse

and regret.

we need to feel bad,

to feel

sorry,

to ask for forgiveness,

we need to have

the urge

to pay our debts.

accepting penance

in order to move on.

we need

to retract our words,

to apologize

for deeds done,

words said.

we need guilt, or else,

we're in a world 

without

morals, we're just

like the rest.

pay no never mind

the best

advice is to ignore,

to move on, to block delete,

disappear

and pay

no never mind

to the person who

trolls.

scrape

the barnacle off

and press on.

fly away

and be gone.

it's winning

it has the height of a tree.

but is it?

i thought it was

a bush

of some sort.

perhaps a weed.

full and thick with leaves.

it goes in all directions.

sturdy

despite how far i cut

it down

each year.

to the bone, with

inches

just above the ground.

but

it has a mind of its own

apparently.

we're not a war,

but if we were, i'd say

it's winning.

when the rain stops

when the rain stops,

and i'm walking,

well aware

of the deep puddle,

up ahead,

the black

mirror

holding the light

of a weak sun

trying

to come out.

i step into it,

ankle deep.

the water is cold

and thick.

i stop and let the other

foot go in as well.

i'm a full-grown man,

but my

behavior is that of

a child,

perhaps the age of six.

the seventies notebook

it's a worn notebook,

buried in a bin

with photo

albums.

lined

pages

in a spiral

school boy purchase.

dated,

frayed

and yellowed at the edges.

what

was i thinking that day?

so long ago.

girls of course.

the weather,

the world large.

politics and war.

first poems, first attempts

at putting

undisciplined feelings

on a page.

bending the knee

to each

his cup of tea,

his choice of pleasure,

his food

his drink, 

his preference as

to what, or to whom

he bends

his knee.

try everything at first,

but in the end

it will all come

naturally.

the new yorker poetry

what's the point

of a poem

if no one knows what the hell

you're talking

about?

a puzzle of old words

strewn about

on paper.

dramatic prose

with

mythological references.

ancient history

revisited.

Harvard grad

the bio says, but i have

no clue

what any of it means.

so who cares?

night feeding

strange

creatures, these bats

in the trees,

in the air

as the sun sets.

quietly going about

their lives,

less blind than we'll

ever be.

the leathered

wings spread wide,

soundless

and black,

as we duck

and run inside.

never this young again

she will never

be this young again, 

she thinks to herself,

as the wind

blows

her flowered dress into the air.

never will

i be this

this beautiful,

this alive.

it's early in the day,

as the sun

picks up the blue

in her eyes.

there's no shortage of those

who want her

hand.

no lack of choices

of who to love, 

of who to

let inside.

the last thing that he wrote

as he lies

there, as if in some blissful

slumber,

a midsummer

nap,

they reach into his shirt

pocket

to find a list.

a grocery list

of what he was to buy

before

the day was over.

eggs,

milk, cereal and bread.

detergent.

light bulbs,

and apples.

the mundane

things that keep trains

on time.

it's the last thing that he

wrote

before he died.

not a story

or poem, not the outline

of a joke.

no anecdotes,

or rhymes,

just this.

this grocery list.

just daydreaming a little

sometimes

when you go into a bank,

you look

around

and wonder if you could

rob this particular

branch.

pull a hold up

ala Bonnie and Clyde,

minus Bonnie,

or a getaway car.

there's one security guard,

a Barney Fife kind

of fellow

in the corner.

is that even a real gun

in his holster?

he seems distracted by the lollipop

he's sucking.

there's cameras

of course,

and the plexiglass shielding

the clerks.

from mayhem.

but the door of the giant vault 

is slightly ajar.

hmmmm.

there's a manager

in his windowed office 

with the door

closed, probably writing

up a loan.

could i get away with it?

but how much would

i demand

in my handwritten note?

the only problem is

that i have three accounts here,

savings,

checking, and a retirement

account,

not to mention that they

know me by name.

maybe i should

put this whole idea

on hold.

winter love birds

my father's girlfriend

calls me.

she's crying, or at least i think

she's crying.

i don't hear her blowing

her nose,

which is a true

sign of actual crying.

she's 87.

my father is 96.

her feathers

are ruffled.

she's upset with my father.

she says he's

cold and aloof, angry

and jealous

when he doesn't get his way.

will i ever get

used to it?

will he ever change?

i tell her, no.

but it's your choice to leave,

and your choice

to stay.

there's a reason his

front door

is a revolving door.

the frivolous desires

does the bird

wake

up and wonder what

to do

with his day?

is there a plan,

an itinerary

of some kind, the hours

broken down

with chores

to do,

where to go, what's

to be made

or unmade.

do they make time

for fun,

for frivolous desires

like we do?

fatigue makes wise men of us all

work

will bring you to your senses.

make you

see clearly

what's important

and what isn't.

the long day,

the bloody hands,

the callouses.

the ache in your bones

will set

you free from all

that

is wrong.

the check at the end

of two

weeks,

will save you in

the long haul.

fatigue makes wise men

of us all.

making it yours

i prefer

the possibilities

that an empty room poses.

cleared

of clutter,

the walls bare,

the floors willing to

be shined

or covered. no

hint

of yesterdays

still here.

give me

the glass window

with no adornment.

give me

the future,

not the past.

until the end of time

no one

tells you. no one has the heart

to tell you.

but you

will, 

despite all reason,

you will carry them with

you

until the end

of time.

there is no

denying that.

the Windsor knot

did i need the class

on

quadratic equations, or the one

in biology

where we

cut frogs in two?

did i need to know

about the roman 

empire,

the great wall of China,

Magellan and

Columbus sailing

the ocean blue?

maybe, maybe it's all

for the better,

but changing a tire,

or tying a tie

into a Windsor knot,

or scrambling eggs,

or balancing a checkbook

would have been

great classes too.

a cold glass of clean clear water

the earth

has the same amount of water

in it

as the day

it was born.

no more coming in,

and the rest

comes

down in rain or snow,

sleet

or hail,

to fill the rivers and streams,

the oceans once

more.

there's always been enough,

though

now less pure.

the one that got away

i see the captain

of the boat,

at the wheel, white hair,

white mustache

a blue anchor

cap on his head.

the sun has taken its toll

of him but

he presses on,

the sailor that he is.

he steers the modest

boat

out of the harbor as

he sips on his tonic

and gin.

the sun is rising again.

he has all day

to think about her,

the other woman, the one

that got away.

the Friday night quarrel

it's Friday,

so of course we argue.

it's been a long

week,

we're both tired and hungry.

it's a good fight.

the same old

quarrel,

over old ground,

which will put us in

separate rooms

for the night.

but maybe by Sunday

we'll be back

to normal,

and pretending to be nice.

cruise attire

we agree

on a cruise to the south Pacific,

or maybe

Bermuda,

sailing out of New York.

which

presents a problem

of sorts.

i don't have the wardrobe

for cruising.

no one size fits all

baggy pants,

or shirts

with flowers on them,

no sandals,

or white shorts.

no wide brimmed hat,

or fancy

sunglasses.

i need better

luggage too.

it's early, but i can wait

for the door

to open

at Nordstrom Rack.

they all come calling

the grapevine

is thin,

fragile, barely hanging

on

to the fence,

but you

still get some news from afar.

the illness

of the old

man

and his wandering

ex-wife.

funny how they all come

calling,

at the dimming

of the light.

the reading of the will

we all

at some point sit down with

reality,

and ask ourselves,

who gets it all

when I'm gone.

the wayward child?

estranged and far

away

in body and soul.

a friend,

a lover,

a sibling?

who gets the house,

the cars,

the books and clothes.

who comes

and claims it for themselves?

or do you give

it all to charity,

an orphanage perhaps,

or invent a scholarship

for worthy

students,

attempting to reveal

the world

in poetry and prose?

maybe

a stranger, someone you don't

yet know.

right handed

surprisingly

one hand, one arm is larger

than

the other.

but the legs not so much,

nor the feet,

the ears

are balanced,

the eyes

both can see equally

for near

or far,

but these hands.

one thick, one slender,

they seem

to have a mind of their own.

one small step

accidentally

you crush and destroy

three weeks

of ant work

in the yard. industrious

ants

with the strength

of an insect

Hercules.

you can almost hear them

screaming

at you

from down below

where your

foot just stepped into

their home.

wiping away

their massive tunnel

in the ground.

there's no way you can

make it up

them or

repay them.

you've killed some,

wounded others.

families are destroyed.

there's heartbreak

and dismay.

and now with the sprinkler

on,

so many, sadly,

will drown.

the waking hours

you dream

of water,

neither cold or warm,

massive waves

that roll

and break upon the shore.

you dream

of indigo

seas

of depths

unseen. it's calming

in a strange

way,

this storm

of sky

and ocean.

you're able to surf it

out,

to ride it in,

to swim,

to never drown.

and in the morning you

see hope

in your own life.

fashion advice for global warming

it's 98 degrees

at eight o'clock in the morning

in Maine,

so maybe, just maybe

there is something

to be said about this

global warming thing.

but what's the answer?

how can you get a planet

of so many diverse

people and politics to

agree on anything?

half the world hates the other

half.

so, just suck it up, take

a cold shower,

and have a bowl of ice-cream.

wear white thin

clothing

and sandals,

and a hat.

bikinis and speedos are

optional,

especially in France.

don't Bogart the joint

all the old hippies,

with grey ponytails

and fried brains from smoking

the wacky

weed

for decades

are thrilled that it's nearly

legal now.

no more worries

with the Po Po

pulling you over

or raiding your crib

in your mother's basement.

finally

at last, they say,

putting on a Led Zepplin

record again,

and firing up

the bong.

no more explaining to mom,

that it's the smoke

of a big cigar

you're burning and passing

around.

the 64 Crayola box

give me the primary

box

of colors,

i don't need the box

of 64

crayons

to color this page.

we have too many choices

now,

from food

to knobs

on a drawer to soul

mates.

our brains are scrambled

from trying

to decide

which shirt to wear,

which

pair of underwear

to slip into.

what color should i dye

my hair?

where to live,

where to retire, where

to die. 

so much to choose from.

will it be a

pine box,

or something bronze

and fancy,

cushy inside,

or will you prefer cremation

like a burger on

a briquet burning fire?

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.