ten bottles of salad dressings

it's time,

i tell myself, staring into

the white

glow

of the ice box.

the trash can

tilted nearby.

who's ranch dressing is that,

thousand island?

Paul Newman's

pear vinaigrette?

who put

this Marie's Blue Cheese

dressing

in here,

that fat bottle

stuck 

in the corner,

the vinegar and oil

in a square

jar.

i read the small print

of expirations.

all of it ancient.

bought in another life.

in salad

happy times.

where did all of this come

from.

the caps

stuck tight.

the floating of strange gel

at the top

of each old liquid, unpoured.

it's time.

good Lord, it's time.

the lost key

i find

what i'm looking under

the table,

in the darkness,

the shadows.

i'm on my hands and knees

as i often

am

when wanting something

or someone

to give

me what i want,

what i desperately need.

i flounder in

the dark until my hand

touches

what it is

that was lost for so long,

that all important

key.

letting them know who's boss

as i wait

for the sun to rise high

enough

so that it

warms the yard,

the chairs

so that i can go out

and read

the paper,

i fix coffee and 

commiserate with the dog

and cat,

bewildered

by the divorce.

one on the counter

pawing

a can of tuna,

the other

with a ball in its

mouth,

holding a longing stare.

all in good time,

i tell them,

and as you both know

by now,

i'm currently

the new boss here.

the racetrack years

i lived

near the racetrack for a few years.

from

my bedroom

window

i could hear the call of each

race.

i could hear

the thunder

of hooves. smell

the atmosphere,

of good luck and despair.

Sheila would

ask me to close the window

when she

came over to make

love

but i told her know.

it's part of it.

an omen of sorts

it was

our first date, our last date,

when she

screamed

and pointed

out the window of the car,

and said,

oh my God,

look,

it's the severed

head of a rabbit.

she began to cry

hysterically.

i slowed

the car down

stopped and got out.

i took a look.

it was a cinnamon

donut

bitten in half.

fatherly advice

i told my father once,

about a horrible

break up

with someone i was in

love with.

terrible love.

his response was, well,

whatever you

do,

don't start drinking or

taking drugs.

there's more

fish in the sea.

that night we went out

to eat

at Captain George's all

you can eat,

seafood buffet.

he was so right and so

wrong in

so many ways.

fine art disposed of

it's a beautiful thing.

this

hornets nest.

i knock it to the ground with

a long

stick.

dried

and empty

at winters start,

but a work of art.

an amazing

thing.

the intricate

web

of cones.

paper thin.

i think about taking it

home,

maybe spray

painting it, turning it

into a lamp

shade

of some sort, but don't

of course.

i drop it into the bag,

and place it in

a can,

for the man on Monday.

we commiserate

he tells

me about his knee replacement,

pulls up his

pant leg

to show

me the eight inch scar,

puffy

and pink.

i in turn tell him about my

sinus surgery.

and my

reaction to Levofloxacin,

how it nearly

ruptured my

Achilles tendons,

after just three pills

swallowed.

then out

of the blue he tells me

about

how Hitler escaped from

Germany

and lived out his life

in Argentina.

I've got nothing for that.

leaving the door wide open

i left

the door wide open

all night.

not because i wanted people

to come

in,

but because i just forgot

to close

it after i turned

out all

the lights.

a Freudian slip,

perhaps,

but no one

arrived. not a stranger

or ex-wife.

i guess i was

just lucky this time.

the enormous building

he owned

the enormous building on the corner.

he was a business

man.

known

about town. he could have

been the mayor

if the wanted to.

beloved

by all who knew him.

but then came

the slow decline.

he forgot appointments,

names,

and places to be.

he'd leave the house

with stained

shirts,

baggy pants, that

sagged

on his thinning waist.

his eyes

had lost that shine.

and then i saw that the building

had been sold.

it was

painted a different

color, his name taken off.

it didn't take

long to find him though.

lying

beneath that beautiful

and

enormous stone.

the handwritten note

i appreciated the effort,

the time

it took

to carefully construct

a handwritten

note, telling me that she's

leaving.

i liked how it was folded

neatly

and placed upon

my pillow, so that i would

see it when i got home.

she even drew

a heart with an arrow through

it, with a red

ink pen.

it was the effort

that i'd been looking for

from her,

since the day we met.

and here it was, at last,

thoughtful,

at the end.

we all make mistakes

she tells

me about the one that got away.

a country

boy

who sang

and played the guitar.

he had blue

eyes,

she said,

tall and lanky, but a momma's

boy.

he wore

a hat, a cowboy hat,

and knew

his way

around a farm.

he wanted to marry me,

but i said

no.

it was probably

my biggest mistake,

if you don't count

this tattoo

on my face

that runs down

my neck 

and breasts, and onto

both arms.

deserving gratuity

i leave

a generous tip for the waitress,

and despite

my wife's objections,

i insist that it's

not because the girl

is so beautiful

with long

legs and doe

like eyes, or her bright smile.

it's not because her skin

glistens,

or that she smells

like a bouquet of flowers

when she bends

to fill my

cup, one more time.

it's the service, i tell her,

she's so attentive

and efficient,

that's why.

the inside weather

the outside

weather is meaningless

if the inside

weather

is bad.

sunshine is nothing,

nor is

a pleasant breeze,

or a soft rain.

if the inside

is full of dark wind

and heat,

thunder

and lighting.

the outside air has

nothing on what goes

on inside

of here.

it wasn't long before they knew

i wore

a new shirt and tie to the interview,

i polished

my shoes.

i was hoping

to distract

the interviewer from

my lack

of skills

and education.

i smiled, was congenial.

my hair

was combed.

i was the boy my mother

sent off

to school.

so i got the job,

but was clueless.

it wasn't long before they

figured me out,

and knew.

wanting more cold water

i first

discovered the joy

of cold

water

in a clear glass when

my mother poured

the drink

from a pitcher

full of ice.

we were kids, out

of breath,

panting

in the summer heat

of Barcelona,

having been

chased

down a long dusty

street.

running away from

something,

or someone.

i can't remember that

part.

just the water

and wanting more.

when everything is fine

i try

so hard to block out

the foolish

things i've said and done

over a lifetime,

i try to push

those thoughts away,

block them out of my

mind.

but they're determined

to stay,

rising their little ugly

heads, just

when everything seems

fine.

is it just for tonight?

what

reason do i feel you beside

me

in the night. pulled

so close.

your skin,

your arms

wrapped tightly around

me.

is it the cold,

the wind

outside,

are you lonely, are you afraid?

what

brings you next

to me?

holding me so tight.

is it love this time,

or is it

just for tonight?

giving God a helping hand

the grapes

at the grocery store

are so huge.

so green and plump.

these apples too,

and the oranges.

the bananas have a radiant

glow about them.

i've never seen such

enormous melons,

or pineapples.

everything

is sugary sweet now,

so much so it hurts

your teeth,

not a sour

bite in the whole lot.

mad scientists, it seems, 

not God,

are now full time

on the job.

so much is over

exhausted

with it all, we 

settle into

the age

we are, who we are

and what

we've become.

the weight of us no longer

means

anything, the lines

on our face,

the greying of hair.

even the aches and pains

are acceptable.

at last

we relax into the big

chair

and sigh,

relieved that so much

is over.

what can't new love do?

what seems

bleak one day, suddenly in

the sunlight

is not

so bad

or dreary.

sleep helps, of course.

and new

love.

what can't new love do

to a life

gone astray?

i don't need a cloud

i don't believe in

the cloud.

i believe in the attic,

or the cellar.

a place

where i can go on

a rainy day

with a flashlight and look

at all the things

i deemed important

at some point

in my life.

the boxes of photos.

the year books,

love letters

unsent, or received.

the mementos, the journals,

the old ball glove,

the deflated

football,

the tennis racket.

i used to wear that jacket

over there.

those boots.

i once tried to learn how

to play

that guitar,

that harmonica,

and all those records.

those albums

i played until scratched

or warped.

there they are. there they'll

stay.

i don't need a cloud,

i write things down.

even a house with good bones

you know when it's time

to move,

when

there's a leak

you can't find,

when

the floor creaks, and

the furnace

no longer

churns

providing heat.

when the windows

let the air

in 

and the roof sags,

when

the handle on the door

won't turn

and the oven breaks.

it was a good house 

with good bones

for a long time,

but all things

must pass, and it's time

to move on.

two birds singing an old tune

the debate

changes nothing. no one's

mind is

swayed

or switched

to the other side.

it's two birds in a cage

singing

an old tune,

one red,

one blue.

we've been listening

way too long.

i plug my ears

with my fingers

and escape to another

room.

i'll figure it out later

halfway

into the book, i come across

several

pages

stuck to each other

by some

spill

of a drink,

or rain

storm leaking in.

i can't separate them

without

tearing

them apart. it's where

the meat of

the story

unfolds, the denouement,

but

i move on.

i skip ahead.

i forgive

and forget. the movie

comes out

tomorrow.

i mispoke

politics

are brutal. it exposes

lies,

and lies

that one thought would

never

see the light of day.

but

the media will bend you

over,

make you

cough,

and drop your drawers,

poke

around in your ears,

your nose,

it will show the world

your

old deceptive

ways.

store music

when

you hear the Doors,

or Hendrix,

or Joplin,

or Stairway to Heaven

in

the grocery store,

playing

softly

from the overhead

speakers

somewhere in the ceiling.

you know 

that it's

nearly over.

holding onto the light

it's no

different now than it was

when we

were children

chasing

fireflies with mason

jars,

trying to capture

and hold

onto to joy forever.

keeping

that golden

light on.

eating the last slice

i see the last

slice

of cake in the ice box.

it's past

midnight

and i can't sleep.

the open door

shines

a yellow light on my

legs,

my arms

and face.

i eat the cake.

please forgive me

in the morning.

it's just

cake.

i miss my stalker

at times

i miss my stalker.

the strange woman in Maryland

who

texts me

from a variety of phone numbers

giving me

a hard time

about 

whatever bothers her woke

sensibilities.

i wonder how she is.

if she's taking

her meds

and still going to therapy.

i wonder

if her husband is still

in the basement

chained

to a bed.

the shoe sale at Nordstrom Rack

the wife

looks over at me as we sip

our

morning coffee,

reading the paper

and says,

we should protest more.

we live

so close to the White House,

and we haven't

gone down there

in months to protest something.

we used to be

activists,

remember.

we marched and carried

signs,

we got tear gassed

and arrested.

we don't seem to care

anymore

about the climate or the wars,

or the injustices

going on

in the world.

i look up from the paper,

and say,

i'm sorry, did you say something.

i was just

reading this story

about a cat who walked 800

miles back home

after it was lost in Montana.

and by

the way,

there's a shoe sale on 

at Nordstrom Rack today.

we should go.

Saturday Clothes

for the first

day of school, we wore

our

school

clothes, bought three days

ago

at Sears or Penny's.

but it wasn't long before

the school

clothes looked

no different than our

Saturday clothes.

holes

in the shoes,

the shirts and jeans.

buttons missing,

zippers

broken,

but at least for one day

we looked

shiny

and clean.

a very short stay at the hourly room

we were tired.

from the long drive.

it was raining and cold,

the roads

were dangerous so we

pulled over

at a motel on the side

of the road.

the room was cheap,

but it had a vibrating

bed, which my son

wanted to slip coins

into the meter.

i could see outside

the thin sheers

the pulsating red light

of the sign

saying Liver and Onions

all week.

a roadhouse bar.

the place reeked of beer

and smoke.

my foot stepped into

a pair

of underwear on the floor.

i told my son and my

wife,

don't move an inch.

don't touch anything.

we're leaving.

try not to breathe.

something from the Ming Dynasty

it was a tall

vase,

set proudly

in the foyer.

a pot of sorts that i told

her

looked

like it came

from the Ming Dynasty.

it's beautiful

i told her.

the blue swirls of

dragons

and vines

against the gleaming

porcelain

white.

Target she told me.

twenty-nine,

ninety-five.

i've got another one

in bathroom.