lion eats zookeeper

it makes

the news, all channels,

the world

wide web,

and even the newspapers,

have a column

with a full

pictorial spread.

lion eats

zookeeper

the headline says.

and what are we to think

about this?

when did the lion

give up

on the raw meat thrown

into his cage

and want something

a little fresher.

something to chase

as it runs

away. something

fitting to his own

particular nature.

a pair of white socks with holes

i've noticed

over the years, that women

spend a lot

of time on

their nails.

fingernails, toenails.

buffing and sanding them

with

little tools,

painting them with the tiniest

of brushes.

a lot of time.

i've seen all colors

of the rainbow on those nails.

from cherry red

to black

to shades of green

or blue

and of course pink.

which goes without saying.

if it's not their hair

appointment

they're going to,

it's one for a pedicure

or a manicure.

it's an interesting thing

i ponder

as i stare

at my virginal toes, 

and slip into a pair

of white socks, 

with holes.

ready for kids

it's the largest pumpkin

i've ever seen.

it's gorgeous.

so round

and bright, 

as orange as any

harvest moon could be.

the stem still on which

helps them

spin it

to the good side.

the newlyweds carry it

together

to the yard,

where the skeleton

swings,

to where the cobwebs

float against

the hedges.

to where plastic bats

sway

on strings.

the young woman,

tells me

that they want children

one day.

i say, indeed,

staring at the yard. why wait?

i think you're ready.

long overdue for confession

i should

go visit the church.

St. Raymond's.

i can see it through the window

now that the leaves

have fallen.

i can hear

the church bells, 

the organ, the choir.

i can

smell the incense.

i'm way overdue for confession.

maybe tomorrow

i'll sneak

into the Little Chapel

and hit my knees.

ask for forgiveness.

give thanks.

two of your biggest fears

when you're eighteen

in 1971

the scariest

words

other than your number

is up,

your drafted,

and about to be shipped off

to Vietnam,

is your girlfriend telling you

she's late.

i can still

feel the chill running up

my spine.

my mouth going

dry.

my hands beginning

to shake.

and then the elation when

she whispered 

into my ear.

don't worry.

it arrived, it's okay.

some stayed, some died, some moved on

we used to sit

around

in Joe's mother's basement

and play

records.

drink beer.

he had a black light

on the dresser

and posters

on the wall, there were

five or six

of us.

children half grown

who used

to play sandlot ball together.

then things

turned.

Henry brought in the weed

and the dark room

filled with

smoke.

in time,

he tied his arm up, and

shot

into a vein

a syringe of dope.

childhood

ended then

and we went our separate

ways

for good. but some stayed

on the dangerous

and slippery

road.

they say it's your birthday

men for the most

part

ignore their birthdays. they

want no

fuss,

no cake,

no gifts, no cards.

maybe dinner out.

that's enough.

but no candles please

or anyone

singing.

but

with women it's different.

it's not

just one day,

it's all week and beyond.

every friend within

a hundred

miles is in on the celebration.

a parade takes place.

music

and gifts, confetti falls

from the sky.

it's a birthday greeting

all month

long.

with apologies to david ignatow

as i sit

at the table outside

the coffee

shop,

i begin to butter my toasted

bagel,

but it slips from my hand

and rolls away,

down the sidewalk

it goes,

down the street, down

the hill.

i run after it,

but it's futile and before

long,

i'm rolling too.

around and around.

my life

out of control.

this wasn't what i planned.

the rising tide

is it nature,

or God or a combination

of both

telling

us

something.

see how the flood water rise

and takes

lives.

washes

the town away.

are we being punished

or were

we fools

to move here and always

ignore

the rising tide.

a change is gonna come

i can

hear music from the upper

window

of the apartment

building.

there's a potted

plant

on the sill.

i hear Sam Cooke

singing,

in his mellow way.

a change is gonna come.

i take a seat

on the stoop and listen.

i savor

the moment.

drifting

back into yesterdays.

nothing is

truly gone.

embracing winter

good to take

out the heavy coats,

the scarves

and hats.

gloves.

setting on the steps

the boots.

soon snow

will fall.

soon you'll build a fire

and take

the shovel out.

you'll embrace

the wind

and ice.

you'll savor

a new season of low

sunlight.

summer was too long,

too hot.

this will feel right.

the court jester

i tried

to win her over, make

her happy

with gold

and silver.

with rings

and bracelets.

bouquets of flowers.

expensive things.

i told her jokes

to make her laugh.

i bought her a car,

a mink,

a house.

i dropped to my knee

and gave

her me.

i danced the jig.

still it wasn't

enough.

i was the court jester,

she was

the queen.

it's too nice out to stay in

i neither

care

or don't care what

the score is

anymore,

which team wins.

i no longer wear

the colors

or sit and watch or

listen

to the game.

what matter when young,

seems

odd now.

feels silly, 

feels strange.

a single flower

strange

to see a single flower

coming out

of the crack in the pavement.

a bloom

of yellow gold.

it gives

you hope,

gives you a reason

to go on,

and begin

again

despite everything

you know.

camping will bring us closer together

we wanted

to reconnect, to reinvigorate

our marriage,

because our love for

one another had waned

over the years

in sharing the same

bathroom.

so we bought camping gear

and a map

of the Appalachian Trail.

we bought

a tent,

a canteen,

a lantern, sleeping

bags,

bear repellant,

several cans of baked beans

and rain resistant

ponchos.

then we went

camping.

when we got home we

called our

lawyers.

the moving truck

would arrive the next day.

opening the third eye

i do some

yoga

with my left arm, stretching

it out,

up

and down,

as far behind my back

as i can

go.

i'm a bird,

a bee,

a plane.

then i do my right arm.

around

and around, spinning it like

a propellor.

spinning

both in conjunction

with each other.

before i know it

i'm off the ground and

flying upwards

into the clouds.

it's bliss for i can see

and understand

everything now.

adrift in Portland Oregon

her new

about to be ex calls me on

the phone

from Portland.

he's weeping.

she's taken half of everything,

he says.

the same as she did

to you.

she emptied out

my bank

account and now i have

to pay alimony

for the rest of my life.

she has the car,

the furniture,

the art.

she took

the dog too.

any advice?

you should have called

me twelve

years ago,

i tell him before you said

i do,

and made her your wife.

be careful though,

she likes to tap the phone

and download

what you write.

your true self

i get bored

easily these days,

i turn

off the television or toss

a book

across the room

with no

problem.

i push away a tasteless

plate.

i get off the phone

quickly

when

my eyes glaze over

with small talk,

or leave

the party early.

i get out of line

if it doesn't move

fast enough.

i've found out

who i truly am

at last

and make no apologies,

so please,

don't ask.

the exit wound

she rubs

her finger along the circle

of hard

skin,

a scar, healed.

an exit wound, i tell her

with

a grin.

there's more where

that came

from.

but i'm still here, willing

to love

again.

in the white room

strange

to be in a room with strangers.

white walled

and absent of frills.

in a bed

next to who.

eating

meals at a long table

with

people you never

knew.

and yet here you are

at home.

not yours,

or theirs, but a place

somewhere

on a hill, a strange

place,

unknown.

your eyes long for a color,

not white,

but red,

or green, maybe blue.

but we love it here

it's hurricane

season

again.

the winds roar, the streets flood,

houses

and cars

are washed away.

every year it's the same

sad story,

but no one

moves.

no one relocates.

they fix

things up, dry it all out,

batten down the hatches

once more

and wait

for the next hurricane

to arrive,

next week.

i wanted Dr. House, but got Dr. Suess instead

i try

to get my doctor on the phone,

but he's on

his boat

off the coast of

Italy.

if this is an emergency,

dial 911

the recording says.

otherwise,

i'll contact you after

the holidays.

Merry Christmas

to you and your family.

for refills on your prescriptions,

call my head nurse,

Maybeline.

otherwise see

you on the flip side.

next year.

i look at the calendar.

it's still

October.

don't worry, they'll make more

the food is all farm

raised now. or

factory processed full 

of sugar and oil

stuffed into bags

and boxes.

fried hard.

the salmon and chicken,

trout

and pork,

are crammed together

in tubs of water,

or stuck in

tiny little cages,

fattened and colored,

plucked

and chock full

of vitamins and antibiotics.

no wonder

everyone is fat

and sick.

heading to an early grave.

eat up, though,

don't worry,

they'll make more.

question mark and the mysterians

i hear the ding

of the text,

and quickly open up the phone

to see

what important

message

is awaiting me.

what valuable information

has been

sent my way.

but it's a single punctuation mark,

a question

mark.

nothing else.

i write back the same.

i don't recognize the number,

out of state.

i scratch my head,

it's no one familiar.

but i'll think about it all day.

we love you, but you're fired

i think

i was either fired or laid

off

from nearly

every job

i ever had.

and for good reasons too,

how many

more days

could i go

mopping a stairway,

or washing

dishes,

or mowing lawns.

how many

more years could i sit

in a cubicle

with my fingers on a keyboard?

somedays, i even sit down

and have

a talk

with myself now,

and threaten to fire me

from

my own business.

i can be lazy,

and disinterested,

bored

and annoyed

by the work, by the hours,

but i press on. bread

and shelter

being of the utmost

importance.

the eulogy

so much

was made of her iced tea

after she died.

the lemons,

the black tea bags

from

China

soaking

in the boiled water,

how she set

the jar

on the porch in the sunlight.

old school,

the way

her mother did when

she was a child.

a sprig

of mint on

each glass,

how she poured it over

ice,

then rocked on her front

porch,

back

and back and back.

when things bite you

it's one

black spider on the wall.

a fat

long armed spider

swinging

on his web,

faster than i can swat

him

with yesterdays rolled

up paper.

are there more?

is there

a family

of spiders,

living under the floorboards?

residing in closets

and dark

corners.

there's so much going

on in the world

that we don't know about,

until it

bites you.

image is everything

it doesn't matter,

if you're

Indian

or black, white or

Chinese,

Russian or Mexican.

are you a good person?

are you changing your

stance

on everything

you once believed with

all your heart,

flip flopping for votes?

can you articulate

your thoughts,

are you intelligent enough

to string two

sentences together

and tell the world who

you truly are.

or does that even matter

anymore?

i can help you if you ask

i admire

the old man's garden next door.

the tall

black eyed Susans

peering over my fence.

the trellis

full of grapes,

the tomatoes,

the peppers, even a pear

tree

in the corner

with 

green ornaments catching

sunlight.

i see him out there, 

weeding, and watering,

his wide hat

tilted on his tanned face.

sometimes

he looks over

at my yard

and laughs.

he tells me, i can help you

next spring,

all you have to do

is ask.

bottled water

the idea

of bottled water seemed

crazy

as a kid.

we had the hose

attached to the house,

lying

in the grass.

there were spigots to be

turned

on with pliers.

kitchen sinks

had faucets,

bathrooms too.

to have a bottle of spring

water was

was what kings and queens

had.

the rich across

the tracks.

not you.

beauty from a distance

from a distance,

from

a far safe place

those mountains look

beautiful,

the snowcapped peaks,

like

lace,

the green and blue

of the slopes,

full of trees

bending in the wind.

it's a postcard

worthy of Hallmark.

it reminds

me of you, 

knowing that

up close and climbing

that mountain,

you may fall and freeze,

your life may end.

the air is filled with violin strings

when

did it begin, this victimhood

society.

of color,

race,

skin,

age and faith,

gender.

fat or thin.

trans or normal?

when did each and difference

become

a flag

to raise

to get what's coming to you,

what you

perceive

to be a deserving 

thing.

all day long the air

is filled

with violin strings.

the firewood men

the bearded men

in a red pickup truck

are

in the cul de sac.

their loud

engine idles in the road.

the back

is filled

with firewood.

cords and cords,

stacked

high.

they've driven all the way

from Winchester

Virginia.

they're a long way from

home.

they look tired.

they knock at the door,

but i tell

them that i don't have

a fireplace.

which disappoints them,

so i say

okay.

and buy a cord,

and give them a tip.

i watch them turn around,

and head

home.

the blue from their exhaust

clouding the new

moon.

the house on fire up the street

a house

is on fire

down the road.

the red trucks scream

up the highway

with men

in long coats and helmets.

ladders

swinging as

they speed

through the signs

and lights.

the dogs

are loose

chasing,

there is smoke in the air.

you can see for

miles

the flames rising above

the rooftops.

people rush to take

photos

and stare.

the news is already there.

we go

home

and check the oven,

the iron,

she unplugs the dryer

for her

hair.

how dare you express and opinion that doesn't agree with me

an anonymous

person

leaves me a note, saying

that she

won't read

what i write anymore.

i prefer

your silly poems,

your stories

about love and loss,

your benign observations

about the world,

but now,

you've gone too far.

how dare you write about

politics,

how dare you

have an opinion,

or make fun of our political

leaders.

who do you think you are

expressing yourself

so freely,

without censoring.

you're a threat to poetry,

to democracy.

i respond back, Mom,

is that you?

making butter overnight

i sympathized with her,

never being able to lie still,

having

restless leg syndrome,

something we

used to call the Jimmy Leg.

but i couldn't get to sleep

with her lying

there and her leg shaking all night

with a mind of its own.

round and around it went.

the thought suddenly came to me

that if i put her foot

into a bucket of cream,

that i'd have butter by morning.

but she wouldn't go for it,

and screamed.

playing solitaire while waiting for Shirley

i break out

a new

deck of cards as i sit

in the coffee

shop

waiting for Shirley

to show up

with so called big news.

she's always late.

i move the cup away

and my

scone

and lay out the cards for

a game

of solitaire.

someone walks by and tells

me,

that i don't need to do

that anymore.

you can play that game on

your laptop

or phone.

i look at the girl with

blue hair and say, 

yes, i know.

i sigh and put the cards

away,

i take a bite of my scone.

when dogs run free

it was

normal to see stray dogs

back

in the day.

dogs

without collars

roaming the streets,

feral

cats in the woods,

or near

garbage bins.

it was before

we

took them

to dog schools and 

the beauty

parlor,

and gave them names

like girlfriend.

it was before

dogs were surrogate babies,

carried around

in baskets,

wearing

ribbons and bow,

and hats with

little sweaters

to keep their bellies

off the snow,

dogs and cats

ran free back then.

promises promises

the price

of nearly everything

will

not go down.

lumber,

food,

housing.

it's too late for that.

you can't go back.

but joy

is up.

and when you have

joy

well,

there you go.

ignorance

being bliss.

they know everything there is to know about me

they seem

to know your age,

that your knees hurt,

that

you might be overweight,

and on the verge

of pre

diabetes.

they know about your prostate

and ED.

they know about what

vitamins you take,

and your dietary

needs.

they seem to know that

your house

is paid for

and that you are eligible

for a reverse

mortgage.

they seem to know that

you're thinking

about moving

to the beach,

to something one level.

they know

you have money to spend.

that you might

want a new

car, something red,

a convertible,

or a boat to sail away on,

or new dentures, or a hip

replacement

and a phone with big numbers.

they know.

if the phone rings all day,

it's because they know

all about you.

they know what you want,

what you need.

maybe why the cake failed

maybe

i didn't stir the batter

long enough,

maybe

i didn't

put an extra egg in

like the recipe

suggested,

or i put

too much

flour

or sugar into the mix.

maybe i shouldn't

have opened the oven

so much

to check on it,

or kept sticking

toothpicks

into the soft unrisen

skin.

or maybe i took

it out too early.

maybe the heat was

too low,

too high,

or maybe i just didn't

love her

the way she wanted,

from the very

beginning.

i don't know.

the rescue dog

he was a good dog

until

he started to bite people.

men, women,

children,

other dogs.

he chased cars,

and barked

all the time. he chewed

up the furniture,

clothes

shoes,

books and begged

all day for food,

digging into the trash

when i wasn't

home.

he rushed the tv

when he saw a horse

on the screen,

knocking it over,

and yet, i couldn't let

him go.

he was my dog,

my buddy, my friend,

but i'll never rescue

one from the pound again.

wired up

i'm wired

up.

i've got a charger in my car,

in my bedroom,

the office,

the living room,

the basement

and there's one

next to the washer and

dryer

in the laundry room.

as God is my

witness

i'll never miss a text

or a call,

or an update

on Facebook

or YouTube.

there was no one there, but you

i used to take the long

way

home.

the scenic route,

sometimes i'd even

stop

somewhere along the way

for a beer or two,

or grab

a bite to eat,

or sit and watch the sun

go down,

throw bread

to the geese.

i delayed the inevitable.

i didn't want to go home.

there was

no one there,

but you.

political science then breakfast

those countries over there,

them folks,

plum don't like

each other,

my grandfather

from West Virginia

used to say

as he chawed on some

tobacco

and whittled a stick

into a smaller stick.

they've been bickering

since before

Jesus shook the sand out

of his sandal

and turned water into wine.

and i got some news

for you too,

it won't ever end,

never.

they just don't see eye

to eye on anything.

it's like the Hatfields and McCoys

with those people,

or the Capulets and the Montagues.

it ain't never gonna

end.

not until the big one drops,

kaboom.

and then it's sayonara for

everyone.

now why don't you 

be a good boy

and run over to

the chicken coop and see

if we got

any fresh eggs. i'll start

frying up some scrapple

on the griddle.

i miss eating pancakes

my friend Jenny,

from Canada,

went home to visit

her old friends,

but before

she left

she asked me if i wanted

anything from

that northern land.

i told her a bottle

of pure maple syrup

would be nice,

that sweet

golden amber

sucked

right out of a tree

in the woods.

i was eating a lot of pancakes

those days.

so she smuggled it in.

i still have it.

i look at the unopened bottle

almost everyday

when i open the cupboard.

i wonder

where she is now, sweet Jenny.

deported maybe.

i miss her,

as well as pancakes.

the scripted world we live in

can any politician

speak anymore without

a teleprompter

and a script?

does every word spoken

have to be

written down

by their handlers,

and 

read off the screens

to the right,

to the left.

why can't they just talk,

and say

what's on their minds.

is it a lack

of intelligence

or confidence?  or both.

the whole world is a stage

as it's always

been,

with memorized

lines.

big smiles and grins.

i think we're close to Halloween

i know

when it's close to Halloween.

it's obvious,

no one has to tell me,

or point

at the calendar page.

the neighbor has strung

up cob

webs on the trees

and over their door.

they've

set out an array of pumpkins,

carved

with lights

beaming

from their chopped eyes

and mouth.

there's an illuminated

skeleton

hanging from the flagpole,

and a speaker

with music, emitting

screams,

and guttural roars.

rubber spiders and rats

are everywhere

you look,

but when it comes down to it

for the kids,

it's all about

the candy.

no boxes of raisins

or apples, please,

just candy bars.

the burial

i lie

down in the open field.

i am alone

despite the gathering

around me.

the field is wide

and green.

i hear the wind

move

between the trees.

i could lie here

forever

if they'd let me.

i listen to all the words

spoken,

to all the music

that fills my ears.

i smell the earth

around me.

i can almost touch

the hands

and tears of those

i've known.

i'm alone.

but at last there is no fear.

beware of happy people

beware of happy people.

their joy

and laughter

will weigh

you down. you will

feel worse

than ever

being around them.

they can't be trusted.

they are too shiny

and too bright to look 

at very long.

they are ornaments

glittering on the tree

of life.

beware of them.

steer clear.

don't fall for their light.

the wig store on King Street

i stand in front

of the wig

store on King Street 

and marvel

at all

the wigs

on the mannequin heads

staring back at me.

all colors

of the rainbow

are represented. 

curly wigs,

silvery

straight blondes, wild

brunettes.

and kinky

red heads. they remind

me of so much.

i move on.

what happens next

we think we know,

but we

don't know.

we'd like to envision

the future

to project in our mind

what could

be.

to see how the years

will stretch out.

we'd like to have a plan,

and see it

through.

but we don't know,

not really.

the next year, the next

day, the next hour 

is always

a mystery.

keep your hands to yourself

i know

my body. i know the difference

between

a cough

and the flu.

i know what

a rash is, and what

the difference is

between

a strain and a torn

tendon.

i know how to wrap,

or put

a band aid on.

i know what a fever is,

i know

why that spot on my

arm

turning green

used to be blue.

i know why my eyes

are blurred

this morning and my

voice hoarse.

i know what palpitations

are,

what the jitters

are,

why my knee aches.

i know all there is to know

about elevation,

ice and heat.

i know what pills to take

and which ones

to leave alone.

i've lived in this body long enough

to figure most

things out.

i'm good as long as the doctor

keeps his hands

to himself.

leaving and arriving

i can't remember

why

i'm here,

why i left where i was,

i can't recall

what i was trying to get away

from.

why i had to leave

and get out

of there.

but i'm here now.

we'll see how long

this lasts.

this one time in band camp

the old

have stories that they want to tell,

tall or short tales of

the adventures

that they lived,

but the young

are too busy

making

their own stories

to listen, to sit and be still.

no one

gathers around

like they used to

and ask

the elderly questions

about past lives, mistakes

made, regrets.

few if any let them express

how it used to be,

no one has the time now

or the patience

to listen to stories

about how life was

way back in the 1970s.

clicking all day on click bait

i'm a sucker

for click bait, i can't help

myself, i don''t have

the will power to not

hit the button

to learn

how to double my money

in one

easy

step, guaranteed.

i click the button that explains

why 

college aged girls

love older men

and what city

to move to 

to meet them.

i click

on the title of how to grow

your hair

back with one

common vitamin.

i hit the button 

that will give me absolute

proof

that aliens exist,

photos included.

is that record collection

sitting in your basement

collecting dust

worth five million dollars.

the answer is yes.

click here to learn the rest.

open borders and no doors on the house

i get into

a big argument with my wife

over politics.

i may be

sleeping on the couch

for a few

months because of it.

she says she

believes in open borders,

that we should

let everyone in.

come one come all.

give me your tired, your poor,

your downtrodden,

etc.

so i get out my

power tools

and take all the doors

off our house.

the front door, the back door,

the side

door,

the garage door.

she looks at me with her

hands on her hips and asks,

what are you doing?

why are you taking

all the doors off our house.

anyone can come

right on in

and kill us, or steal everything

we have.

we have little children

in our house. we need 

to protect them.

we can't let complete strangers

come into our

house when we know

nothing about them.

they could be mentally ill,

or hardened

criminals.

exactly, i tell her.

inspired by the VP's speeches

i had some

free time on my hands,

so i started to

unburden

my closets from

what was burdening them.

and as we know,

time,

the passage

of time

is important. so i wanted

to do something

constructive

with this time.

i set things out on the curb

for the community,

the people

in the community,

because as we know,

the community is made

up of people.

many of whom

are middle class people

with nice

lawns.

some with borders,

some with fences

or stone walls,

maybe hedges,

or electric monitoring, but,

however

i am filled with joy

as i strive to make my

closets cleaner,

neater,

making my heart full of

ambitions

and hope.

another Batman movie?

is it possible

for Hollywood to make a movie

that doesn't

involve Batman

these days,

or Marvel

characters from the comic

books?

everything is fantasy,

written for

a child.

we're in the era of special

effects.

is this it now?

no more scripts with

complex plots,

and fleshed out

characters,

no more thoughtful

dialogue,

or authentic people

and towns. just guns

and wars

and aliens,

zombies and the end

of the world.

has our intelligence

really fallen

that far down?

slow down, there's a cop

i like

how when people

in traffic

zig zagging,

speeding,

tail gating,

running lights

and stop

signs suddenly see

a cop behind

or beside them

and slow down.

i like how suddenly

they're on

their best behavior,

following the rules

of the road

until he's out of sight.

it tells you a lot

about 

the world we live in now.

dear so and so, i'm sorry

it's a gloomy day,

rain,

cold,

there's nothing on tv,

and i'm waiting

on new

books to arrive

from Amazon.

so i get out a piece

of paper

and make a list of all

the people

i should apologize

too

for things i've done

or said

over the years.

i'll show remorse

and regret,

but then i change my

mind,

and take a nap instead.

tracing our roots

i drool

into a glass vial

and send my spit in to check my

DNA

at the ancestry

company

to see who i might be related

to, both

currently and down

through the ages.

a man in Finland comes up

from the paleolithic period.

they find a cave

drawing of him

that looks just like me.

and beside

him is a woman holding

what looks to be an iron

skillet

about to clobber him 

in his shaggy head.

his dirty feet seem to be

resting on a coffee table

of some sort.

it all makes sense now.

the owl before dark

there's an owl

in the blue

dark

of the trees as the sun

slips

into the rocks

and hills

beyond

the sea. we stop for it

when we

hear

his deep voice

calling out.

we look

up.

we look for the burnt

yellow

of his eyes,

the spread of his wings,

the glint

of his talons

gripping limbs,

but

there's only shadows,

and we realize,

there's much in these woods,

that can see us,

but we can't see them.

can't stop what's coming

when

you see someone on the news,

a wheel

of some sorts

in gold chains and dark

glasses,

a celebrity

in handcuffs,

being arrested

by the po po,

being shoved into the back

seat

of a squad car,

as they

play his rapper

soundtrack,

you often shake your

head

and laugh, and say,

yup,

who didn't see that coming?

sweet terms of endearment

in the beginning,

she called

me darling,

i called her sugar,

or kitty cat,

she called

me tiger, or

sweetie pie, i called

her honey bun,

or buttercup.

it went on like this

for years

and years,

with sweet terms

of endearment,

but in the end.

we called each other

by our complete

and formal names.

first middle and last,

as it read on the separation

agreement,

things

had forever changed.

the unregistered nurse

she was

an unregistered nurse,

i met

in a local dive

bar across town,

but

the lack of a degree

didn't stop her from helping

people,

tall in the heels,

she always

had her

uniform

on and a red cross

bag

beside her. she wore

a stethoscope

around her neck

like a strand

of pearls.

she's coming over later

to examine me

and administer

a dose

of TLC.

i hope they never catch her

and put her in jail.

i read the news today, oh boy

my dog

likes to watch television

with me,

he enjoys

the cop shows,

when

the dogs are chasing

down

criminals

as they jump

over chain link fences

with their

trousers

half down,

but ever since the news

reports came out 

of Springfield

Ohio concerning

the influx

of seventeen thousand

immigrants

with different dietary needs,

he runs and hides

when he

sees me in the kitchen

sharpening

a knife

with the oven on,

and the big roasting pan

on the counter.

the enormous word salad continued

so how

would you curb inflation

and bring

prices down

the interviewer

asks

the candidate

who can't

stop laughing.

seemingly filled to the brim

with laughing

gas.

well, she says.

as you know

i come from a middle

class

family,

my mother had to actually

work to earn

money.

twenty minutes later,

with still

no answer,

she says, i hate that other

guy.

he's the reason

this country is in such bad

shape.

which makes the audience

scream with

approval.

but you and Joe have had

four years

to do something about all

these problems that

you promise to solve.

why haven't you done it by now?

you don't like

strong women, or

women of color,

do you? she replies.

air is good

so much

depends on air.

these tires on my car,

to keep

it rolling along.

my bike,

the ballons

in the sky,

the blimp sailing by,

the wings

of a plane,

my lungs.

a diver fathoms down.

it goes without saying.

we need air,

it's quite necessary

it appears.

carry on

it's a great documentary

of the musicians

that lived

in Laurel Canyon

during the heyday of

classic

rock

music being made.

there's genius,

there's drugs, there's

drinking and promiscuity,

inflated egos

and true talent

all rolled

into one.

there's Joni

and Judy,

Nash

and Crosby,

Stills and Young,

but like most fairy tales,

gone awry.

the endings are varied,

both love and

animosity survives.

here's the plan

it's not maybe,

or we'll see, or let's wait

to see

what the weather is like,

no,

it's mandatory

that we stand

in line at Liberty Deli,

early 

in the morning, for

coffee

and a bagel,

then stroll over to Central

Park,

with a newspaper,

then find

a park bench seat,

every day this week.

holy ground

sorrow,

as they say, is holy ground.

i'm not

sure who

said it.

some sage,

perhaps,

C.S. Lewis,

or Henri Nouwen,

but it's true.

it's an island of quiet

contemplation,

tears

and deep sorrow.

it's

looking through the glass

darkly.

words

don't help.

nor does time.

but with faith

in God,

you'll find the other side

my feet will find them

i find

things that i've lost

with my

bare feet,

usually in the middle

of the night.

coins,

and earrings,

rings,

notes fallen

from my

pockets

to the floor.

pens

and keys.

a stray high heel

left behind.

my feet know where

they are.

given time,

they find them all.

feel free to go

when i would

visit

my mother

in hospice, visit her

curled

body,

still and near lifeless

in a Pompeii pose,

eyes blinking,

as water was dripped

into her

mouth from a straw,

i'd whisper

into her ear,

it's okay now.

it's okay, we're fine,

feel free

to go.

before subtraction begins

in the beginning

it's about

addition,

adding on to what

little you

have.

collecting more,

putting things

on the shelf,

stuffing the closets,

the drawers.

you make more friends,

finding room

for everyone.

you make

more money.

you find new

places to put things.

you're a long way away

from when

subtraction

begins.

take two of these and call me in the morning

rage

seems to be

in fashion these days.

road rage,

political rage.

parking

rage.

border rage.

rage about prices,

about

the lines,

everyone seems to be

enraged

over something.

there's a foe

around every corner.

it's hard

to leave

the house sometimes

without a suit of armor,

a helmet on

and a shield

in hand

to protect you from

all the brimstone

and flames.

different forms of happiness

happiness

to a child, is an ice-cream

cone,

a lollipop,

a ride

on the carousel.

it's a snow

day

from school.

a ride

on a pony,

a new ball, a new

pair

of tennis shoes.

but now,

it's different,

and yet still

simple

to define.

a good sleep perhaps,

or a fine meal,

maybe

a tall glass of wine.

or a waiting

book

in your lap,

legs reclined.

but you too

comes to mind.

the unemployment line

it was

early 1970's when John

and I

together,

after getting laid off from

some lame job,

would

go through the want ads

in back

of the Washington Post,

looking for work.

we had no

skills

other than being sarcastic,

and being

young and strong.

chef,

lawyer, clerk, maid,

driver.

we crossed them all off,

and circled

the few that maybe fit

our limited skill set.

construction laborer,

custodial

engineer.

then we went down to the local

unemployment

office to apply

for benefits.

the line was long. it was cold

and windy

as we stood there

with our hands in our pockets,

stamping our

feet in the ice

and snow.

it seemed like everyone was

out of work.

but it was strangely

not alarming though,

to be adrift

in a world where the future

was unknown.

not a blonde in the bunch

at one point we

thought about putting my father

into a home.

a nursing home

of some sort.

at 96 he seemed ready.

crumbling

like a cookie in milk.

he agreed to visit, but only

because he wanted

to see what

the nurses looked like.

not a skinny blonde

in the bunch,

so he said no, and stayed

at home,

with his walker, and his

meals on wheels,

his tv and phone,

and occasional visits

from Mitzi

who brough him cake

and baby oil.

knitting frenzy

my mother

would

sit and knit

for hours

in the big chair in the corner

listening to

the radio with

balls of yarn

at her feet.

blue, red, yellow, green.

the needles clinked

against each other

as she went

at it.

you had to leave her

alone,

and not ask her

where your baseball glove

was,

or your shoes, or

your blue jacket.

she was in a zone.

Christmas was coming

and she

need

to make six more

Afghans.

Oprah will tell us what to do

how could

we live a good life without

celebrities

telling us

what to eat or wear, or what

to read.

how to lose weight,

or keep

our skin smooth

and moisturized,

and now

because of their enormous

wisdom,

and spotlight,

they tell us who to vote

for.

it used

to be intellectuals,

writers

and poets,

philosophers and sages,

religious leaders who tried

to give us

insights

on life,

but now it's Oprah.

starting over again

i'm hungry.

very hungry, so i go downtown

to my

favorite

restaurant.

Aldos on the boulevard.

i've been going there

for years.

they know me

by name.

i know the menu

by heart.

i know Joseph at the door,

Linda

at the bar,

i know all

the wait staff.

it's a pleasant place to go

on any given night,

a refuge

of sorts, a home away

from home.

but when i peek into the window,

the room is dark,

chairs are on

the tables,

the door is locked.

the sign says we're forever

closed.

no one told me.

how was i to know?

i look around at what else

might be open.

there's Peking Gourmet

on the corner.

why not go there?

so i do.

i start over.

it's what i'm good at.

rarely am i bored with you

they say

only boring people get bored.

i beg

to differ.

i can ride my bike about

ten miles

and then

i'm bored

and have to get off.

i've seen enough.

an hour in the pool

splashing around

and i

want to get out

and lie on a chair.

an hour

later

i have to walk

and skip stones

in the lake. if i'm bored

with tv,

i can easily turn it off,

if i'm bored with a book

i throw

it across the room,

if i'm

bored with a tuna caserole,

i dump

it all in the trash.

i'm bored with many things,

many many

things,

but never, or should i say,

rarely am i ever

bored with you.

the last leaf on the tree

i don't trust

anyone

who doesn't have a pen

or a pencil

and a piece

of paper nearby to write on.

or books

on a shelf.

or envelopes,

and a checkbook,

or stamps.

or magazines.

i want them to be like

me still hanging

on to

the last century.

holding out

against

the digital man,

and

as tom waits sings.

i want to remain the last

leaf on the tree.

it's you again

i pick

up a random seashell

on the beach,

it's white and pink,

shiny

with rainbow stripes

of color

thread

thin.

i put it to my ear,

to see

who might be calling.

it's you again.

i toss it

back into the sea

and keep

walking.

minimum skills

my technical

skills

are weak,

i know enough to answer

the phone,

or log on

or off,

or search for many meaningless

things.

but that's about it.

and truthfully

i don't want to know more.

i just want

it

to ring or not ring,

and to be able

to order

and have delivered

at my door

a variety of things.

they never give the ring back

i remember

shopping

for wedding rings.

engagement rings

to be precise.

agonizing about what size,

what shape,

gold or silver,

what type of stone,

pear or round,

maybe a multiple setting

style.

can one put a price

on true love?

but then the thought occurred

to me,

that what if this is

another costly

mistake.

so i don't go cheap, but

i don't

go crazy either at Tiffany's,

putting the house

up for collateral.

i find a safe middle ground.

a price i can

absorb

when the ship inevitably

sinks.

plans for the future

my neighbor

has an end of the world

plan.

he's dug

a bunker

in his back yard, with air

vents.

generators,

freezers and accommodations

for four.

i see him carrying in books

and board

games.

he's even made

room for Fido,

his dog.

it's a very nice tunnel

that he's dug

from his house

to the entry way

for when the bombs are

dropped

and apocalypse sets in.

he asks me

what i'm preparing to do

when the end

comes.

i tell him. my plan is to run

towards the light

and embrace

it.

it was all there in her phone

i knew

all the answers were there,

there

in that phone

that

she clutched

like a cold

revolver

in the middle of the night

expecting

bandits.

one eye open.

if i could somehow pry

that phone

out of her death grip,

and figure

out her nine

step security code,

and fingerprint 

and retina scan lockdown

i could at last

find out

what life

she was really leading.

that wife of mine.

hope joy and opportunity

i've been

watching way too much news

covering

the presidential

candidates,

interviews

and debates.

no matter what someone asks

me,

i immediately let out

a loud cackling,

laugh, rolling my eyes

into my head and

tell them

that i was born into a middle

class family,

where my mother had to work

to have

money. we lived

in a neighborhood,

where people

liked their lawns.

i believe in hope and joy,

and opportunity,

do you know what a babysitter

costs these days?

or what bread

costs?

my barista looks at me,

and shakes

his head and says,

what?

what are you babbling about?

have you lost

your mind?

i just asked you if you needed

room for cream

in your grande Americano.

a simple yes or no would

be nice.

oh, sorry, yes, i need room.

now go ahead

and ask me about

how we can close

the border, ask me about inflation

too

or how i can save democracy.

where to put mom

it's big

business, where to put

the aging

country.

a place

for mom, for pop.

a room,

with a bed, a tv,

a bathroom

down the hall, meals

when

the bell rings.

someone there to pick

you up,

when you fall.

a nurse

to turn you over.

strangers, all.

no cats,

no dog.

the end of life is brutal.

as is

the cost.

the fifteen cent nutty buddy bar

i hear

the ice-cream truck

out front.

the monotonous

song

like a kaleidoscope

of some sort

playing over and over

again.

i hear

the children

screaming, running

towards

the window

in the side

of the old beaten

truck,

once swan white.

immediately i go

to my

couch looking for 

nickels and dimes

between the cushions

to buy

my nutty buddy bar

before he drives away.

fame and fortune

fame

and fortune both

seem like

great ideas

when you're starting

out

in life.

being adored,

being rich

and recognized.

but it isn't long before

invisibility

seems a better road

to take,

weary

at all the smiling

you have

to do,

at all the hands

you have to shake,

the money

is not what you thought

it would be

either

as you keep buying

more things

that you don't need,

never satisfied

in your castle

behind the iron gate.

the yellow tree

at last,

as the air

cools,

the tree outside

my house

is yellow with leaves.

i've been

waiting,

here at the window

for them

to appear,

long hot months,

in fact.

it's the best time,

autumn,

this time of year.

now you get it

as the leg

heals

i feel for the world

and all

those

in pain, all those who

struggle

going

up or down a flight

of stairs,

getting in and out

of the house,

walking

just walking.

i get it now.

you never know what

their life

really is

until it's your pain.

every hair in place

a fresh

hair cut went a long way

back

in the day.

those barber shop days.

you felt

great

walking out on the street,

with every

hair in

place.

the mirror was your

friend.

you couldn't stop

looking

at yourself,

adjusting loose

ends with your little

black comb.

it lasted a week though,

one wash

and you were back

to square one

again.

she wanted a million dollar policy

the life

insurance man came

over to the house

on a hot

July day.

i rolled

up my sleeve for him

as he drew

blood

for the policy.

i passed out

and fell to the floor

and woke

up with my wife

standing over me laughing.

saying

things like

and you call yourself

a man.

now get up and sign

on the dotted

line.

the friendly garbageman

what's that noise,

i ask

her,

sitting up in her bed.

it's six a.m. .

what's

that loud

metal clanking,

and grinding,

slamming

again and again?

oh,

it's the garbage men,

the truck

empties the dumpsters

this time

of the morning.

i get up and look out

the window

of her second floor

apartment

facing the loading dock.

a man with a pair of

brown

gloves and a red bandana

around his head

looks up and waves,

thinking

i'm her.

you get used

to it, she says.

now come back to bed.

a reduction in worry

i used to worry more

than i do now.

i worried about jobs,

and girlfriends,

wives

and children,

cars and houses.

all the normal things

that put lines on your face

and makes

your head bald,

but now,

most of that heavy lifting

is done.

those worries

are over.

instead i stare at a red

bump on my arm

and wonder

what bit me, where did

that little welt

come from?

water therapy

i see her

fins

in the trunk of her car.

her goggles,

and pool floats.

there's a pink bathing cap

too,

to keep her hair

dry

when she gets into the pool.

there's a towel,

and zinc for her nose.

sixty laps

today,

she tells me,

flexing the muscles

in her arms and shoulders,

sticking out

her long

shapely legs.

you should come some

time,

she says.

it's fun.

i tell her no, i like to soak

in the tub

with Epsom salts,

and lie

back with a book,

stretched out

on my bum.

not going gently into that good night

no matter

the lighting, no matter

how well

i slept

the night before,

no matter what i wear i just

can't seem

to get the right

selfie

down to post

on all my

social media accounts.

i turn left,

i turn right, i hold my

arm out

as far as it can go.

who is that now?

why am i so reluctant

to getting old?

the runners high

when i used

to be a runner, before 

the cartilages

on my knees

completely wore off

and it became bone on bone,

kneecap to femur.

i had to run

at least

three miles or four

in the morning.

rain or snow.

sometimes more.

i forced myself out there

onto the slick

streets,

down to the woods,

or high school track,

circling,

circling.

pounding the pavement,

believing it was

all for the betterment

of good health.

but my wooden cane

says no, now. 

says, maybe it was a bad

idea after all.

i need to punch that clock

as i

push into the wind,

my arms

swim

forward,

i hold onto my hat,

my briefcase.

maybe

i should

have checked the weather today

before going

out.

and where is everyone.

am i'm the only

one going to work?

the only who cares?

what gives?

what's that sound i hear,

what's

that dark

spinning mass coming

towards me?

it's your turn dear

how quickly

the baby learns, that in crying,

help will

come.

the parents will

rise

from their bed and hurry

to the rescue

of the poor child

in its crib.

they will rock and sing,

they will

comfort the child

back asleep

again.

but at some point they'll

have to stop

when the alarm

rings,

or it will be

a long life

for everyone involved.

we can't help ourselves

we can't

help but to judge

others

when we see them

in passing.

we try,

convict and sentence daily

by just looking

at them.

making assumptions

about their

character for

the way

they dress, the way they talk

and behave

in public.

if they do that out here,

what must

they be doing at home

with no one

near?

we're good Christian

folk,

of course,

but we can't help ourselves

a pandemic without a cure

after the most

recent assassination

attempt, i realize

that it's not war,

or inflation, disease

or poverty.

it's not racism,

or the border,

or the differences

in religious or

political beliefs

that ails the world

the most.

it's mental

illness.

the pandemic

without a cure.

seventy-nine papers to deliver

despite

the darkness of those early

mornings

in the snow,

in the cold

of February,

the sun a pink flower

still

rising,

there was no fear,

in pulling

the wagon

of bundled papers

through

the streets of Glassmanor,

up the hills

of Deale Terrace,

down Audrey

Lane,

and Winthrop street,

down

Dorchester

and back home.

i was the only one awake

in the whole

world

i imagined.

the dog patiently

walking

with me,

waiting at each gate.

take these once a day, good luck

this pill

the doctor prescribed.

a fat

blue pill

in the brown bottle

is a killer

of bacteria.

but it also makes you

vomit,

and hallucinate,

it strains the tendons

in your legs,

it makes

you confused

and suicidal.

it does a lot of harmful

things.

but at least for now

you're not blowing

your nose.

the passport photo

i can't decide what to wear

before

going for a new

passport photo,

the little

square

to be embedded in the very

official blue

confirming non-domestic

travel.

perhaps a suit, to be formal,

or a sports coat

with a fancy tie,

maybe

a black, or white shirt.

maybe a button down

cowboy vest,

or a Mexican poncho,

or a turtleneck

sweater.

is that how i want to look

for the next ten

years when

they open and stamp

the book

before boarding the plane

to Timbuktu?

don't smile, they say,

before they click the button,

no worries there,

i tell them.

the high yellow chair

it was a yellow

chair

in the kitchen,

a chair

that followed us wherever

we moved.

from Boston

to Chicago,

to Barcelona, to Norfolk.

to Washington

Dc.

it was tall,

slick with plastic.

and it wobbled, but

it was well used.

we pushed

it to the window

to peer out,

we pushed it to the sink

and cupboards

for water,

or to find whatever

we could

to eat.

it's been long gone, like

so much

in life,

but i can see it now.

more tabasco sauce

words heard

on the campaign trail.

we need change.

we need

to move

forward.

we need to give opportunity,

we need joy.

we fight to win.

we don't go back.

we need to turn the page.

we need 

lots of tabasco sauce

for this

word salad.

turn left, now turn right, say give me all the money in the drawer

i get picked

up by the local police

as a suspect

in a bank robbery.

i look similar

to the dude

who ran away with a few

thousand bucks.

they frisk me

and toss me into the squad

car

and take

me downtown to the precinct

where

i'm fingerprinted

and asked to stand

in a line up.

the first thing that comes

to my

mind, is how many poems

will i be able

to get out of this

situation.

i ask the desk Sargent for a pad

of paper

and a pen, so

that i can take notes.

he gives me

a crayon

and an empty bag of donuts.

a late day in June

i am

the weather.

i run hot and cold.

i'm known to

be windy

at times.

i may rain

and storm at any given

moment.

i can be icy,

i can thunder,

but i have

my sunny days too.

in fact,

most of the time

i'm as calm

as a late day in June.

fishing summers away

as kids,

we fished

away our summers,

if we weren't playing ball

in the street.

a group of us

would dig

up earthworms

in the

soggy back yard

and take

our cheap poles

and spinners

down to the Potomac

river

to catch catfish

and perch,

carp

and eels.

casting our lines out

into

the filthy river,

downstream from the Blue Plains

Sewage Plant,

using lead

weights or bobbers.

sometimes we used pronged

hooks

to snag the herring

when they ran.

we never ate the fish.

most we're sick and scabbed,

weak

and cross-eyed

as they struggled

against our

skinny arms reeling

them to shore.

we threw them back, or

cut the lines.

especially with eels,

and catfish

whose teeth would snap

at our fingers.

it was a long day,

but we were almost always

home for dinner,

almost always on time.

bamboo trends

i get a bamboo

cutting

board,

a bamboo curtain,

a bamboo

rug

and bamboo

wallpaper.

my sheets are made

of bamboo

despite being

extraordinarily

soft.

bamboo is the thing now.

i like

bamboo,

having seen it used

as breathing

devices

in Tarzan movies.

or 

instruments to shoot

poison

darts

at the necks of bad

guys

by the natives

in the jungle.

the grande opening

the sign says

under new management.

the banner no longer

says

the greasy spoon,

but says

the silver spoon in bold

red letters.

breakfast

all day.

new and improved.

unlimited coffee,

and soft

drinks.

ice-tea.

organic parsley

and local

potatoes.

new hours.

we're open 24/7.

grand opening today.

so i stop in.

it's the same waitress,

Lil, in her

pink uniform. it's

the same

guy cooking, Sam,

manning

the grill.

it's the same menu,

the same

bent silver ware

and old vinyl booths

with a broken juke

box.

but i'm

here.

so i order the two

eggs over

easy,

hashbrowns

and sausage, wheat

toast

and juice.

just like i used to.

Lil yells over to Sam.

number two

please.

the opera singer

my grandmother

sang

opera

as she went about her

housework,

scrubbing

the marble slab

stoop in 
South Philadelphia,

mopping the floors,

dusting the lamp

shades

and curtains.

cooking at the stove.

the birds in her cage,

whistled with

her.

how nice it would be

to hear her

contralto voice

in Italian, once

more.

the ten inch ceramic frying pan

i stare

out the window waiting

for the Amazon

truck to arrive.

it's been over 24 hours since

i ordered my

ten-inch ceramic

Calphalon

frying pan,

that is dishwasher safe

and can be used

in the oven,

if for some strange

reason

you need to use it like that.

i pace the room as my

three eggs

wobble on the counter,

my four

strips of bacon

limp in a plate.

i've sliced and diced

the onions

and peppers, shredded

the cheese.

the toast is waiting too

in the toaster,

ready

for the word go.

what has the world come to?

we have to wait

for everything

these days.

the morning trip to the 7-11

there is a man

in rags,

with no shoes,

standing on the side

steps

of the 7-11.

his zipper is down

and he's

emitting a golden arc

of urine

in the early

morning sunlight.

carefully

i step around the growing

puddle

as pee streams

onto

the ground.

i go in and get my

newspaper

and milk,

then go home. saying

nothing

to no one about

it.

for what is there to say

that wasn't

said

yesterday

and the day before that.

springfield, ohio

it's doubtful

that the new influx of twenty

thousand

Haitians

into the small town

of Springfield, Ohio,

are actually eating cats

and dogs,

people's pets, and

stealing

the park

geese for a roasting

with small potatoes

and leaks.

but it's a fun week or so

on the internet.

the recipes are all over 

the place

for 
Dalmation Stew,

and Cat burgers.

Geese skewers, Dachshund

nuggets.

it's a nasty rumor

spread by the endless 

pranksters on the web, it's

just a joke

that's gotten

out of hand, but the moving

trucks are

lining up there,

just the same.

the endless mind numbing nonanswers

the moderators

ask

the candidate, so, what

will you do,

to bring down inflation

if you are elected to be President?

you have

two minutes.

and away she goes.

as we all know,

when i was a little girl,

we had

nothing,

we were poor, we lived

in a town

where people liked

to work on their lawns.

you know,

cutting the grass, weeding,

trimming

the hedges, if you

had them.

which we didn't, because

as i said we were poor.

we had one tree in our yard

that we used

to climb.

i have wonderful memories

of climbing that tree.

but

we did what we could

to make

ends meet. sometimes bringing

our own lunch

to school.

my sister and i had bunk beds,

can you believe that?

and by the way,

i'm all for small

businesses,

giving them the opportunity

to grow. i want to help

them grow

by giving them money.

i've never had a real job,

or run a business, but

i think we should crank up

the printing presses

at the Treasury Department

all day

and all night,

until everyone has enough money.

work is hard

after all

and some people have

to do it all their lives.

did you know i once worked at

Mcdonald's, i think i did, at least.

but

as we all know. we need

to give people more money.

okay? okay?

umm, the question was what will

you do to bring down inflation,

but okay, your time is up now.

however,

we have another question you for you.

if you were a tree,

what kind of tree would you be.

you have ten minutes.

oh my goodness, she says.

i'm so glad you

asked me that.

as you know, when i was a child

and we

were very poor,

we had one tree in our

back yard.

who doesn't love a tree, right?

what bird doesn't like

a tree,

or a dog,

or a squirrel.

the tree gives you shade

in the summer, and sometimes

there's fruit on it,

or berries of some sort.

i love all trees.

and if i'm elected i'm going

to personally

plant more trees on the 

white house lawn.

thank you again for that question,

and by

the way are you coming over

to the house

this weekend for the party?

it's the government

i see the same

man

on the same corner every day.

he's from

the shelter

up the street.

he's young

and red faced from the sun.

he has a sign

that says

God bless.

and nothing else.

he looks fine,

only his wild

hair

and beard

sort of gives him away.

but he's

well dressed and well fed.

i've given

him money before

rolling

down the window

at the light.

a dollar or two,

but sometimes i don't.

once i asked him how long

can he keep doing

this,

year after year,

and he looked me and said,

it's the government.

i drove on.

you do you, i'll do me

we have

rituals. it's human.

we find comfort in the same,

doing

each

day like we did the day

before.

how we rise

from

one side of the bed

or the other.

the clock

saying what it said

yesterday.

we're aware of

how set

we are in our ways,

but don't care.

you do you, i'll do

me, as the cliche goes.

that seems fair.

the fact checkers

they

are the fact checkers,

the bespectacled

nerds

and smarty pants

who

go through the verbiage

of speeches

and debates,

dicing and slicing

at the words

said.

what's true, what's false.

what a fun

job, to tell others

what's right, what's wrong.

they are the true

poets

of our time.

from a very far distance

from

space, the world looks

perfect.

the blue

white globe slowly

spinning

on its axis

in the enormity of 

nothing else.

a jewel,

a miraculous orb

in the sky

of just twinkling

stars

against the black fabric

of time.

it's how i often think

of you.

distance does strange

things

to the mind.

from Russia with love

Dasha tells me

in a postcard,

that all the men have gone

off to war.

only the weak

and lame

are left behind.

the very young,

the wounded scores.

you should visit me,

she says.

i'm right outside of Moscow.

come before winter,

before we're buried

in snow and ice.

we could make love in

my Subaru under

the Russian moonlight.

plum crazy

i stare

at the bin of plums in

the grocery

store,

blue and purple,

and wonder

when was the last time

i bit into a plum

and had the sweet juices

of summer

roll down my chin.

i pick one up,

i study it

in my hand, turning it

around

and around,

then put it back again.

maybe next

year i'll eat a plum.

we'll see.

the fifteen cent raise

the first year i worked

there,

i got a fifteen-cent raise.

i was happy

for it,

plus i got a Christmas

bonus

of twenty dollars,

and a small

ham from the market.

a few

pounds

of wrapped mapled meat

that i carried

home under my arm.

quickly i tallied up 

the increase in my wages,

then drank

too many glasses of wine

in celebration,

or was it

hidden dismay?

next year was a little less,

twelve cents

more per hour.

the recession

was in full swing.

i believe it was the Carter

years.

their precious feelings

i censor

my words, because

i don't

want to offend anyone.

i don't want to hurt

anyone's

precious childlike feelings.

i curb my

disgust

and dismay at the rude

world. at

the dumbness

of the educated,

the elite academia,

that rule.

but this only

last a half a day,

then i'm back at it,

getting

nasty notes

from places 

both near

and far away.

an early Christmas

it's too early

for 
Christmas, but i put a tree up

just the same.

i know

the needles

will fall

off in November, but i have

that covered

with a can of green

spray paint

i purchased at the hardware

store,

and the scented

candles, that have the smell

of pinecones,

and evergreens.

i keep a small fire extinguisher

nearby

as the tree dies,

and dries out

and becomes a fire

hazard.

i put a smoke alarm

at the top

of the tree,

instead of a star.

my dog and cat both look me,

then at one another,

and whisper.

i think he's losing it.

no, scratch that,

i think he's lost.

the greeter at Walmart

they try to tell you

the story

about the microbe that becomes a cell,

that becomes a fish

and then a bird,

and then a monkey,

and then voila,

a human,

standing on two feet,

someone just like the woman

at Walmart,

greeting you as you enter

for your treats.

it's a good story.

an incredible tale, but very

very hard to believe.

Levofloxacin

i peek inside

my doctor's office as he

spins

the drug

wheel nailed to the wall.

he gives it

a hard spin,

as the nurse stands there

with a chart

ready to write down

what drug the wheel lands

on this time.

finally it stops on Levofloxacin,

a drug often

used to treat the bubonic

plague

and other dreadful

illnesses, or to help

recover

from the inhalation of anthrax.

but i have none of that,

regardless,

he prescribes me 21 pills,

for three weeks

straight.

after taking three,

one each day,

i wake up one morning

and i can't walk.

fifty years of playing every sport

and never

getting injured

seriously, and now with a few

swallowed pills,  i can't walk.

my legs are swollen

and it feels like my tendons

are about to rupture.

i crawl to the bathroom

to vomit

in the toilet.

i'm dazed and confused, more

so than i ever

was in the 1970's.

if i make one wrong move

i may fall and crack

my head open

on the cold tile floor.

i call him up, and mumble,

yo, dude?

he says oops, my bad, let's

try something else.

i hear the wheel

spin, and the nurse say,

can i spin it one time too?

doing time in the big house

he tells me about

the time

he spent in the big house.

scratching

numbers

onto the wall, as the dark

days

crept by.

he tells me about sadness

and depression,

regret

and guilt,

the lines of bars on the wall.

he tells me

how alone

he felt all those years,

sleeping

on the small bed,

the cot,

staying up all night, making

wishes on the stars.

full of suspicion

and fear.

it was a hard

life he tells me.

but i'm never going back,

i'll never get

married again, the words

i do,

are words

you'll never hear.

the gold service program

they offer

the gold standard service,

with it

you get a massage

as you wait,

a glass of wine,

while a three piece

band plays soft music

on a small stage.

there's an all you can

eat buffet

and a beautiful

woman in a silk

gown with long legs,

who

peels you grapes.

then

the silver service,

which offers a massage

chair that vibrates,

and sodas, chips

and dip, a garden salad

with a citrus dressing,

and a remote for the tv

in the corner.

then the bronze service,

the bronze,

gives you a People magazine

from last year,

and a cup

of coffee,

and a chair with a window

view of the parking lot.

the last

one is the tin service

program.

the cheapest of them all,

so i oft for that.

so now,

i'm eating my bag lunch 

brought

from home,

while i stand

in line in the pouring rain,

outside the door,

over a steam grate.

select your victim and send a check

the world

has shrunken to a point

like

never before.

we know

about the child in India,

the wars,

the dogs

in Singapore,

the homeless in

Seattle,

the victims from

each flood,

each tornado. we know

their faces,

their names.

the wrongly incarcerated,

the children,

the babies.

unborn or born.

we're inundated

with the victims that

multiply

with each new biased

report.

and what are we to do 

about it?

very little, but

we feel bad

about doing nothing,

about

shaking our heads

at a world gone wrong.

we're all

guilty as charged, i suppose.

maybe this little offering

in a check,

will help

assuage our guilt

and help us move on.

but doubtful.

getting ready for Milagro

at last,

the house cleaners

have arrived.

i've done

my best to tidy up before them.

taking

lingerie

off the chandelier,

high heels

off the counter,

setting wine bottles

in the trash.

i've shoved all my

secrets into a box

and pushed it under

the bed.

i leave a check

on the counter, and a note

written

in Spanish

telling Milagro to leave

the keys

inside when she's done,

don't put them under

the mat.

sweet minutes

joy

doesn't have to be large.

it can

be small.

it can be this moment

of peace.

sitting

quietly in the yard

saying nothing.

listening.

birds

seem to understand

this

better than we do.

love is all you need, sort of

love is all you need,

she says to me,

spinning

around 

with her hippie dress

and headband

on.

well, yes,

i tell her,

getting dizzy looking

at her spin

across the room,

but having a job is important

too,

and a car,

and food,

and shelter.

pants and shoes.

maybe a toothbrush

and a bar

of soap

plus starting that retirement

savings

program early in

life

at Morgain 
Stanely is important

too.

finding a bush behind the building is easier

bathrooms

are suddenly confusing now

when I'm

out and about

and really have to go.

is that a drawing

of a boy

in a dress or a girl

on the door

with no breasts.

short hair,

no pig tails to give me a clue.

and this one

over there,

are they humans

without genitals?

aliens

from another planet

born

smooth.

i knock gently

and ask,

is anyone in there?

miss, sir, them, they, non-binary

circus person?

it's strange now trying

to figure out

which one

to go into to relieve

myself. and

why are all the seats down?

shape shifters

they are shape shifters.

they

change in the blink of an eye.

their voices,

their beliefs,

it's all smoke and mirrors.

truths are now lies.

forget what they've preached

their entire life.

it's all about the vote

winning you over

to pull the lever

for their side,

it's about power,

about ego.

it's not about me or you,

not ever.

maybe i'll bring Louise

we are

old men at the round table.

shuffling the deck

and tossing small

change into the middle.

we go late into

the night.

no one smokes anymore,

or hardly

drinks.

each beer can has the word lite

written on it.

we have special

dietary needs,

and avoid

the spicy things set out.

Tums are passed

around

the table,

as the pizza arrives.

it's late

nearly ten o'clock with

yawns becoming contagious.

no one wins

the pot, but we agree to

meet again, same

time next week for cards.

maybe

i'll bring Louise.

almost beyond saving

we walk

out into the shallow water.

gingerly

stepping

on the hard

sand.

sinking into the rubble

of eons.

letting the waves

caress

our legs, our waist.

the next wave

into our chins.

we keep going.

we see the sun out there,

we can almost

touch it.

that sinking

orb

of gold.

we keep going until

we're almost

under,

almost beyond saving,

and at last

we hear the whistle blow.

look back

you

have to look back.

you

have to remember

the mistakes

you've made.

you have to rub the scars

on your skin,

your heart,

your arms,

your legs. don't let the past

die.

remember it well.

you'll need it

to survive.

celebrity soap boxes

unless

they are stinking rich,

most celebrities,

actors and singers,

are quiet

on politics. only

the wealthy ones

brave

the possibility of losing

fans

and money.

and those who are

you can't shut up

with their

nursey rhyme

songs,

and rants.

no news is good news

no word

from afar, no postcard

in the mail.

no letter,

or call.

is it still true that

no news

is good news?

i hope so as i turn

the tv

off.

lots of screaming too

the rollercoaster

was the perfect

metaphor

for our relationship.

lots of fast moving

curves and hills,

steep highs

and placid lows.

we strapped ourselves

into the rattling car

on rails

and hung on.

fear and joy

were part of it 

as well,

lots of screaming too.

not always friendly

nearly

everyday i get several new

friend suggestions

on Facebook.

men and women,

young and old.

i go and look them,

their faces,

i try to figure out

who they are.

why would i friend them?

why would

they want to be my

friend?

i'm not always as friendly

as i appear to be.

i ask this to my dog,

who sits

beside me with his

leash in his mouth,

waiting for his walk.

he agrees.

he understands.

i can't walk, my leg is asleep

you've been sitting in

the same

position

for hours, waiting

your turn.

your right leg is folded

over your

left leg.

you doze off,

you wake up and read

a little,

you crane your neck around

to see who's coming,

who's gone.

it's only you now.

soon it will be your turn.

you stretch out

your legs

and shake them,

one has fallen asleep.

it's become a

tingling heavy log.

then they

call you.

debate results

i hear her in the bathroom,

kneeling

over the toilet,

holding her

hair back.

the retching is awful,

i tap on the door

and ask her if she's okay.

no, she says.

no.

promise me you won't let

me watch

the next debate if there is one.

your next set of dreams

you know these streets,

they

still provide

a roadmap

for your dreams, it's where

you walked

where you ran

and wove

your bicycle on

summer days.

it's the corner where you

waited for the 

school bus.

it's the yard where you

and brothers,

your sisters

all played.

going back though is

not the same.

everything being smaller

and less

important, it's always

that way.

you make a note of that

for your next

set of dreams.