they shoot horses, don't they?

they shoot horses

don't they?

as the movie

title says,

starring Jane Fonda

and Gig

Young,

a film about the depression

and marathon

dancing

for pay.

a brutally sad affair.

with not

a happy ending.

i can't help thinking

of that movie,

after watching

the presidential debate.

now that's interesting

the neighbor

is banging against the shared wall.

i thought

at first that it

was a headboard,

but no,

they aren't that kind of neighbors.

at least in my

addled mind.

the woman

is a librarian,

and the guy drives a 

Good Humor

truck selling ice-cream.

i think he's trying to

hang a picture of

some sort

in the bedroom,

or maybe a mirror,

but the woman must keep

telling him, no.

an inch left.

six inches down. maybe a little

to the right.

how about this other wall.

and then,

the ceiling.

i may have been wrong about

them,

after all.

the paddle and the cross

the nuns,

those damn nuns, 

monitoring

the playground,

in black

and white.

tall and

rounded penguins

standing there

like shadows,

with a paddle in hand,

the crucifix

hanging from

their necks.

it was very disconcerting,

and contradictory.

the paddle

and the cross.

i still haven't quite gotten

over it.

when Ernie reported a UFO

we were playing

kickball

in the street one summer night,

before

the sun went down,

when a green streak

of light flashed across the sky.

we yelled and screamed,

and looked at each other

with amazement. did you see

that? oh my God.

it's an invasion.

Ernie, was the first one in

my mother's house

calling the FBI

to report an alien spacecraft

in the sky.

they took his name

and number, and told him

that they'd be back in touch

soon. thank you for calling,

they told him.

we all went back out

to stare up into the now

full sky of stars,

waiting for another space

ship to arrive.

then our mothers called us

in to go to bed.

that summer Ernie and his

family moved.

never to be seen from again.

sorry to see you go

she sends

me a note, 

a text message actually,

because who really

sends notes anymore?

that would involve,

a pen and a small piece

of paper, which would

have to be folded

over and handed to you,

or slid into your mail

slot on the door.

regardless.

i get the text.

she tells me she can no longer

follow me on

my so called blog slash poetry

site.

i've offended her with

my ramblings,

my off center observations,

often leaning

right.

i can no longer be a part

of your literary

mishmash, posing

as poetry. i'm done, she says.

i've unfollowed you.

she signs her name, but

i still have no clue who

she is.

Robin, Jane, Sally Mae?

is that you.

Beatrice?

oh well. it's a shame.

shark week feeding frenzy

it's shark week,

at last,

and the sharks are happy,

finally

these primordial predators

are getting

some attention this summer.

they've

brushed their teeth,

flossed,

and used whiteners.

they've even

buffed their

fins

to nice sharp point.

they're ready for their closeup,

let the eating

begin.

boardwalk buffet

aficionados, 

waddle forward, come on,

and jump on in.

no one drowned that week

we begged our father

to pull

over and get us ice cream.

he was driving

us to the beach in his 58

chevy impala.

all five kids,

and our mother in the front

seat reading

a photoplay

magazine,

smoking a cigarette,

and ignoring us.

finally he stopped and we all

got out.

being yelled at so as not

step onto

the highway

as cars sped by at ninety

miles an hour.

we each got a cone of

ice cream

then sat in the shade at a

picnic table

while my father went back

to the car

and had a conversation

with my mother who refused

to get out.

she lowered her sunglasses

and just stared at him.

i think she even

blew smoke rings into his face.

then one by one, we all

used the bathroom around back,

before getting into

the car

and moving on.

it was a long week at the beach,

but no one drowned.

you have a very good point there, kind sir

we walk

on eggshells with our political,

or religious

beliefs.

we want to be liked,

to be loved,

we want people to be our

friends,

at least on the surface.

why can't we all just get along,

a great street

philosopher once said.

we curb our

words,

nod politely as if we see

both sides of things.

agreeing to disagree.

then when we leave

we sigh

with relief

shake our heads and say

to ourselves,

yikes,

what dope he or she is.

geeze Marie.

how much to park here in this open space?

i've never parked my car

in Washington D.C.

whether in

northwest,

or Southeast,

without getting a parking ticket.

never.

whether in a low crime

area or the hood,

the signs on the street

are extra wide and extra long

in order to write

the endless instructions on.

the verbiage is indiscernible.

grammar is not used.

nearly every sentence

begins with the word, If.

if Tuesday,

if Sunday.

if it's after 9 pm on a holiday.

if you aren't a resident,

if you are

a resident.

if it's the second Thursday

of the month,

or if it's snowing.

if it's raining, or windy.

if you have a disability

or have ever been convicted

of a crime.

i usually leave a blank

check under the wiper,

with a note telling the meter

lady or man to just fill it out.

independence day suburban style

it's the annual

4th of July pool party.

the driveway is packed

with cars.

hot dogs are on the grill.

burgers

and sausages.

the watermelon is

in the cooler.

Marge made her potato salad.

Jenny

brought a cake,

two cakes actually, with a

frosted fireworks display on top.

kids are running wild.

screaming

madly.

the dogs are out.

Amber is wearing her flag

bikini

and smoking a cigarette

while on her phone.

Journey is on

the stereo, speakers

set about.

the hose is nearby just in

case the house

catches fire when the roman

candles explode.

bandages and Neosporin

are on the window

sill.

sparklers are set fire

and waved about.

big Jim is doing a cannonball

off the diving board.

it never gets old.

putting on the Ritz

i go down to the fancy dan

men's

warehouse

for formal clothing to buy

a tuxedo.

jet black

with a white shirt.

they do some

quick measurements,

then ask me what the occasion

is.

wedding?

party, some glamorous

event

at an embassy or the Kennedy

center?

are you giving a speech

somewhere

in Sweden?

nah,

i say. sometimes i just

want to put

a tuxedo on

and walk about.

shopping, strolling around

the lake,

taking the trash to the curb

on Monday mornings.

that sort of thing.

but hey,

maybe put a carnation 

in the lapel, okay?

if you have any and

a cane and a top hat would

be nice too,

do you have any of those

high gloss shoes?

put a pair of them

in the bag.

size ten please.

she leans way left

she leans

way left, i have a foot

in the right,

but straddle

the middle as best

i can.

i feel that crime is

a problem,

homelessness,

immigration and inflation.

the whole woke culture

is running wild

with blue hair

and gender dysphoria.

while she

feels the president

should get

another term,

he's done an excellent

job,

she exclaims.

just think what he can do

with four more

years.

he may be senile

and incoherent, but deep

inside he's

a really good man.

engine company 42

as kids

we used to hang out at the firehouse.

we'd watch

the trucks

go out,

the men slide down

the pole

in their heavy hats and coats,

gloves

and boots.

the siren would scream

and they

would drop

their chicken legs

and sandwiches

and hop to it.

coming back an hour later

with ashes

on their face.

then they'd go back to eating,

as if nothing

happened.

having donuts and coffee

for dessert.

captain of the cheerleaders

i can still

fit into my cheerleader outfit

that i wore

in high school,

she tells me,

jumping around

with her

frayed pom poms

from back in

the day.

dust and confetti

flying in the air.

i just found it hanging

in the closet.

okay, i tell her. prove it.

put it on,

then do a cartwheel.

a cartwheel?

she says.

yes, or a headstand.

okay, she says. maybe tonight,

when you get

home from work.

great.

i'll be home early,

i tell her.

a ponytail would be nice

too.

thank God for plastic

thank God

for plastic. what would we do

without it?

the world would

literally fall apart

without it.

i look around the room

and there's

nothing that doesn't

have a plastic part

to it.

yes,

whales are choking on empty

water jugs,

seals

and seagulls,

are full of it.

but hey, it's survival of

the fittest.

maybe they have to figure

it out

at some point,

right?

maybe the animal world

needs to have

a talk about the dangers

of plastic

and not try to digest

a peanut butter jar

or an empty

Starbucks cup

floating in the ocean.,

or one of those necessary

plastic stirrers.

don't get up

the old boxer

wants one more fight, one

more

night of hearing

his name called

in the ring.

he wants what he used

have.

the glory of it all.

the crowd shouting his name.

he wants

another knockout,

another win.

but no one

wins against father time.

in the end we

all hear the countdown

as we lie there

in a stupor,

seven, eight, nine...

the truth will prevail?

at times

it may appear as if the cards

are marked,

the dice loaded,

the butcher

has his thumb on

the scale,

but it isn't so.

not always, at least.

perhaps in the end

the truth will win out,

the good

in people will

prevail. i hope

that's true, because

i love these kinds

of fairytales. 

as you drive by

for years you've

seen the old

clapboard white house,

a Sears house,

no less,

with a garden and an old

woman

out there in

her flowered dress, tending

to corn

and berries, peppers

and tomatoes.

her hair

tied back into a knot.

but this year.

the ground is flat, 

a dry patch of

weed filled dirt.

did she die?

the house appears cold

and dark now.

boarded up.

not a light on, no smoke

from the chimney.

it's a surprise, but it shouldn't

be, as you

drive by.

maybe it doesn't matter

will it make

a difference if you stay home

and don't vote?

will

things change or stay

the same

if you do?

it's hard to not take on

the blase

attitude of,

who cares.

what's the point,

you wonder,

as you lie down to sleep

and turn off

the news.

light the fuse

it's a bad

word, but it's the word

you've used

over time.

trapped.

trapped in a bad job,

a bad

marriage, a bad deal,

a bad situation

with no solution

in sight.

the clamp

of claws 

are around your ankle.

you've stepped

into and can't get out.

thankfully,

you have your trusty

matches

and sticks of dynamite

waiting

in your pouch.

the favorite cup

how the rim

of the cup became chipped,

i have no clue.

it's only me

here,

pouring coffee or hot

water

into it, after

boiling on the stove.

how many sips

are there

in a glass cup?

my favorite, no less.

my initial

on the side.

when is over, when

does it

say enough?

thinking less of it

will i remember

the bite,

the nip

of arm

or leg, the pain

of heart

as a loved one

betrays.

of course i will.

i may

think less of it,

but

the scar is there

whenever

i need it to be made

more aware.

all in good time

if you put

your ear to the ground

you'll

hear

the world

going neither

fast

or slow around.

these seasons haven't

changed

much over the years

and neither have

you,

despite joy,

despite fear.

just as soon as summer

approaches,

it too will

be gone,

and winter will appear.