the house with blue shutters

it's all about

the blue

shutters, the blue door

on the brick

house

at the end of the road,

that makes

you want

to live there, maybe it's the fence

too,

white pickets

going around.

maybe it's

the chimney

with a slender braid

of smoke

coming out, or

the unkempt yard,

growing however it wants

to. or maybe

it's the woman

in the kitchen standing

near the stove.

switching over to martinis

i can eat

chicken

or steak, or pork, with absolutely

no sense

of guilt

or shame.

i'm oblivious to what

the poor

animal had to go through

to arrive

on my plate.

i eat, i summon

the waiter

for butter and bread,

and another

round

of pepper

from the big shaker.

no more beer,

i tell him,

i think i'll have a martini

instead.

the morning meltdown

the newscasters

are crying.

they are upset at the results

of the election.

it's seven in the morning,

they look

beat and weary,

hungover.

we tried

so hard to villainize

the other side,

they say as one.

we bent the news,

we exaggerated

and lied.

all for nought.

we thought we could

turn the tide,

brainwash

their minds. but sadly, no.

they weren't as stupid

as we thought they were.

each broadcaster has a box

of Kleenex

to dry their eyes.

the make-up is running

down their faces.

four racoons sitting in

the studio light.

men and women.

the sobbing is pathetic.

professionals,

so called.

unbiased, professionals,

hardly.

the director breaks

for a commercial,

shaking his head

and sighs.

the one term blues

it's tough

moving out of the white house

after

only one

term.

you've had the rooms painted,

the pictures

hung,

your own portrait

is not quite ready.

the artist

is having trouble with the eyes

because

of squinting.

was that chair mine, or

Abe Lincoln's, i don't remember.

and that cushion,

did Mary Washington sew

that and put

it on the sofa,

saying home sweet home,

with an eagle on the back,

or was that the work

of Jill at Rehoboth Beach

when she took

that cross stitching class?

will

i have to get a new Advantage

plan

to supplement

my Medicare,

what about,

my masseuse, my pool, my

cooks

and maids. my doctor.

you mean i can't take them

with me?

can i at least keep the plane?

they keep popping out

you would

think

that people would stop having babies

what with

all the fear

mongering

the news does.

who would want to bring

a child

into this turmoil,

this dying planet?

but they keep

popping out.

my neighbor has three

so far,

and they all look very

happy.

unfazed.

they're playing hopscotch

and throwing

a ball about.

one day at a time

i hear people

say

that they're living one day

at a time.

i believe

them.

there is no other way

than that

to live.

one foot in front of the other

too.

left

then right.

a hill or narrow path,

an alley,

a street.

a mountain.

then down the other side.

one day

at a time.

so far so good

i open

my window to listen

and to see

if the city

is on fire.

not a waft of tires burning,

no cracking

of glass

on store front windows.

no statues

turned over.

no burning, looting,

or murders.

is it possible

there isn't

a riot

on this cool November

morning

after the election?

is it true 

that people have peacefully

accepted

the turning

of the page, at last?

joy cometh in the morning

it's taking

so long for them to count

the votes,

licking their finger, saying

the next number

than the next,

then being interrupted and having

to start all over again.

pencil

and paper.

frayed notepads.

i can hardly keep my eyes

open

as the count goes on.

do i care.

yes, i do, but my eyes are

half mast

and i'll have to wait until

morning to see

which direction

the free world is going.

red or blue.

the long show into the night

they show

a picture of the great

communist dictators

of China

and North Korea,

Russia,

and California,

each sitting back on their couches

watching

the election

results.

making bets while they eat

potato chips

and cookies,

and other assorted munchies.

candy

and Fritos with salsa,

pork sliders and dumplings.

it's a long night.

thank God for Pepto Bismol,

no matter who wins.

left or right.

bring out the Rockettes

with no

news to report

before the polls close,

they keep talking

anyway

about what if,

what was,

what may be in the coming

hours.

they bring up Garfield

and Taft,

how they won Ohio,

or they talk

about how Reagan

made red the map.

but they have

seven more

hours to fill.

and fill it they do with

newspeak

babble.

charts and maps.

how about a song dance

team, to fill the void?

some jugglers,

or magicians, or acrobats,

a few comedians

doing their act.

hell, why not bring out

the Rocketts?

who wouldn't watch

that?

home sour home

the sheets

could be whiter.

bleach?

i don't know. maybe new

ones.

there are days

when i wish

everything was cleaner,

brighter,

fresh and new

again

with that lavender

smell.

every inch of wood

and carpet needs a deep

clean,

and yet when i've

been away from home

for a week,

or more,

i do miss

and like the scent of must

and mold.

home

sour home, when i

come through

the door.

there are no mistakes

sometimes

you know what you're doing

is wrong.

but you

do it anyway.

you can't stop yourself

from making

the mistake.

there's a power that's come

over you,

as if there's a lesson

to be learned

if you do what you're

wrongly about to do.

so you bend to the will

of a higher

power, bite your tongue,

and say, i do.

washing his hands raw

we worked

together for years

and then

i noticed that he washed his hands

a lot,

as if he couldn't get them

clean.

he used soap

and a brush,

a rag,

digging at the nails.

he rubbed them raw

under hot water

from the sink.

i couldn't understand

what it was

all about

until i met his wife and kids,

and visited

the house where

he lived.

a ticket out

live

long enough and you acquire

the skill

of moving on

without too much

drama.

without tears

or cursing,

nothing thrown or broken.

no longer writing

the heartfelt

note.

it's just a matter

of packing clothes

and buying

a ticket to somewhere

different.

somewhere

warm or cold,

somewhere reachable

by plane

or boat.

or walking.

lost in southern maryland

there are box houses

along

the road,

clapboard affairs

painted pink

or blue,

squared onto dirt fields

where

corn used to grow.

wire fences

contain

the livestock.

chickens and goats.

a sickly horse

roams the far edge of a hill.

there's smoke

coming out of one chimney

and there's

a child

staring out the upper window.

a woman

is hanging wet

clothes on a line,

there's an old man

on a tire swing smoking

a pipe.

they turn their heads

as you roll

slowly by.

you feel that

they want you to stop,

or maybe

that they want

you to keep going

and to not look back.

just passing through

as i listen

to the conversations

i'm not a part of,

i take notes.

i'm curious about what's

being said,

and why.

i am a voyeur,

a peeping

tom looking into

their mouths,

their eyes. i watch

their gestures,

how they stand,

how they move about.

i feel as if i'm new to 

this world

at times.

just passing through

observing

lives so different than

mine.

which is it?

you sit

in the cold room

without heat.

you wonder where everyone

has gone.

the furniture is missing

except for the chair

you sit on.

the curtains are off the window.

outside

you see that the trees

are empty

of leaves.

there is snow falling.

it feels like the end

of something,

or maybe the beginning.

but you're not worried.

you've been here

before.

at the start

and at the end.

clarity

you

need silence

to achieve

some semblance

of clarity.

you need to sit somewhere

without

noise.

without a voice

in your ear.

somewhere

in the woods, or by water.

no sound

other than the sound

the earth makes

as it goes

around.

Oprah knows everything

i hear

Oprah on tv telling the crowd

that

if we don't vote

the way

she wants us to

it will be the end

of the world.

democracy will die,

and a fascist regime

will reign for

a thousand years.

every woman will be

chained up

and incarcerated,

their heads will be shaved.

children

will be tossed into the sea,

old folks

will have their plugs

pulled

as they wait to die

anyone with blue hair

will be rounded up

and disinfected

and will no longer be allowed

to read

or watch tv.

she begs the audience, to please

please

vote for the one i've chosen.

if not it's the end of 

the world

as we know it,

just watch and see.

the long and winding road

sometimes

i put

the phone down,

hit the speaker button

then

do the dishes.

fold laundry,

run the vacuum, or take

the dog

out for a walk.

about every ten minutes

or so,

i make a noise

into the phone or say

something like

really? you're kidding, right?

i've gone to the store

at times

to shop and come back,

to have her still talking,

telling me

a story about the time

she had a pet chicken

that laid eggs.

i tell her that i love eggs,

then crack when

in a pan.

she continues, making

a segue into bacon.

i eat and read the paper,

watch tv.

the new rules for 2025

the new

rules for the neighborhood

arrive

in the mail

special D.

it's a forty-page packet

of instructions,

restrictions, laws

and regulations

that we must obey or

be penalized with fines

and liens.

everything

from dogs to birds, to leaves,

to the color

of your door

where you park your

car,

or your Christmas wreathe

is covered.

there's a list of who's on

the board,

the same gaggle of

karens

who have been there

since the new Millenium.

here they come,

with pitchforks

and torches

marching down the street.

it's almost over

i know

i've been watching too much

news on

both fox and cnn

when

i have a dream

about Mark Rubio

and Donald

Trump,

and Pelosi on

her broom.

i may need serious therapy

when this

election ends.

hopefully soon though,

real soon.

catch and release

it's not

fair,

the fish thinks, hook in his

rubbery jaw,

yanked

mercilessly to shore

for the umpteenth time,

then held

up

for a photo.

maybe weighed

and measured

before being tossed

back into the water.

why?

just eat me next time.

i can't keep

going through this.

i'm a nervous

wreck,

look at me,

all bug eyed from

the air

seeping into my gills,

i'm losing my mind.

waiting for the sun to rise

it's over

the candidates say

to themselves,

sleepless

in their hotel beds

eating ice-cream

from the box

and drinking wine.

one eye on the clock,

the other on

the window

waiting

for the sun to rise.

the clamor is over

as they lie

there twitching,

wondering if anyone really

believed any of the

b. s. that they've said,

did they tell

enough lies.

with tears in his eyes he says, we're still here

cautiously,

we

lean into each other

and whisper,

can you believe it?

we're still here.

no,

he says,

finishing his glass

as the lights

go up.

a friend for sixty

years.

i don't believe it either

when i think

of grade school

and beyond,

all that we've been through,

the work,

the women,

life,

but say it quietly,

let's not

jinx our luck.

there's more to do,

more days

to share, more rebellion,

more

fun, more love.

here's to you brother,

cheers.

what does this even mean?

there's no need

to puzzle

over this poem, no need

to dissect

it

or look up words,

or read

books on mythology,

or peruse

the Bible

to figure out what i'm

saying here.

there are no

five syllable words

or complex

metaphors.

no cryptic message between

the lines.

no.

it's pretty much simple

and clear.

easy

to understand.

and thankfully,

the new yorker won't

come near

it.

it's cold in here

everyone

should be poor for a day

or week,

or year.

just to see what it's like

to go hungry,

to not

have shoes,

or gloves.

to at some point

steal

a loaf of bread

and a can of tuna,

then run.

everyone should

see what it's like

checking into

a motel

six

or driving a Pinto

from back

in the day.

using a beer tab

for a ring

to give to your wife.

to stare out a cracked

window

from a bed without sheets.

everyone should feel

the cold

without heat, or feel

the sweat

without ac.

everyone should

be poor just for a short

while.

you won't forget it.

the chameleon candidate

she's a pastor

in a black church one day

making a speech,

throwing

around words

like thee and thou

and cometh

in the morning,

then

speaking

with a Mexican

accent at the border,

while

eating enchiladas

with hot sauce.

the next day.

there's the Jamaican

accent

at the market

when buying a coconut

for her pina coladas.

tomorrow

she's heading to Chinatown

for a rally,

this should be interesting.

she's making her weekend list

she was

a list

maker. i was a list ignorer.

i'd see

her at the table on a 

Saturday morning,

pen in hand,

the white sheet of paper

numbered

down the side

and her pondering

what to write.

good morning, i'd say,

heading

towards the kitchen

for coffee.

making a new list?

yes, she'd say.

but i'm stumped, can

you help me?

all i have right now is

rake leaves.

can you think of anything

else?

no, i tell her

then disappear into

the other room.

maybe they'll tire of throwing rocks

will they

run

out of bombs and bullets

at some

point?

who's making

all these weapons

and ammunition.

maybe

that's part of the problem

too.

not race

and religion.

stop giving both

sides

the means to go on.

let them fight with

rocks

and sticks,

calling each other names

on the other

side of the fence

or wall.

see how long that lasts

before

they go home

and to back to work.

one foot without a shoe

seeing one

shoe

in the road makes me wonder

how and why

it got there.

who loses one shoe

and makes

it home?

so goes the red heel

beneath

my bed.

i have no clue.

it wasn't a friendship afterall

you

remember the next day

what

you should have

said

during the conversation you

had

with someone who

used to be your

friend, but who isn't anymore

because

of politics.

but you resist the call.

you swallow

the words

and move on.

what's the point?

maybe it wasn't a friendship

after all.

don't tell me who to vote for Hollywood

as the celebrity

stands

there

in the spotlight, 

all shiny and rich,

smiling

with good teeth

and posture,

telling me

and the very poor

and struggling who

to vote for

i want to say two words

to him

or her.

but

i don't say it out loud,

or even whisper

it. but

you can probably figure

it out.

letting go

it's a book

about letting go.

surrendering 

yourself from all the things

that hold you down.

the rocks

you've tied to your heart

and mind.

it's about

cutting the chains

of this world, the attachments.

freeing yourself

from anxiety

and fear.

a good read.

but

when you're not in the mood

for this sort

of thinking,

it all sounds and reads

like mumbo

jumbo.

maybe later i'll dive in

and take another look.

but for

now, i'm letting it go.

pumpkin pie

i see

my first pumpkin pie

of the season

on the store shelf

and now

i can't get it out of my mind.

the brown orange

pastry

with the crumbly crust.

i want it.

i need it.

i want it on a fork

heading

towards my mouth.

please don't wear that

black dress

when you walk by.

throwing stones

before

we can change the world

for the better

we need to clean

up our own

act.

tidy up

our heart

and room.

take the speck from our

own

eyes, stop

throwing

stones.

but it's hard to do,

when

there's so much

wrong in front of you.

get over yourself

you need

a hobby, my therapist tells me,

as i lie

on her couch

staring at my cuticles.

i've told

her that i'm bored

and floundering.

collect something,

she says,

buy a boat,

or play pickleball.

maybe

join a book club,

or a meet up group that

hikes,

or enjoys movies.

take an art class,

or yoga.

get your mind off of yourself.

be a volunteer

down at the soup

kitchen,

or at a hospital.

give back to the community.

i sigh

and crack my knuckles.

i don't know,

i tell her.

do you have something

else?

civil disobedience

the board,

the condo board association,

the omnipresent

gaggle

of brown shirted women

and beta

men

have

posted

notes on all the doors

in bold

black letters,

in caps.

do not

rake your leaves

and toss them into the woods,

back towards

the trees

where they have fallen

from.

we're watching you.

punishment will be swift

and hard

upon you and yours.

bag them

and place them at the curb

for pick up

in the morning.

how can i not

but disobey them.

so quickly

there's a hole

in the elbow,

one below the arm,

the threads

are frayed around the collar,

how is this

possible?

so quickly

it's done.

i just bought it yesterday

ten years

ago.

my favorite sweater.

where

does the time

go?

after the surgery

she's different

now

somehow.

different in how she moves.

how she talks

and listens.

her eyes are in your

eyes.

she's patient

and more kind than i ever

remember her

to be.

seeing God's light

at deaths

door

will do that to you.

the empty nester

it's an old

bird's nest high in the tree.

i can

see it from my window.

but the birds

are gone,

the blue eggs

hatched.

how i watched

the fluttering of wings.

what was

new birth

is gone now. it's winter,

no longer

spring.

uneasily

i understand though,

and grieve.

early voting discourse

people are 

restless in the hot sun,

waiting for the long line

to move

so that they can vote early,

five days

before the election.

you can

hear people going back and forth

arguing.

there's tension in the air.

well,

he wants to put us all in 

concentration camps.

he's a fascist, a dictator.

no he's not.

she's a stupid idiot,

word salad,

word salad,

the crowd begins to chant.

well,

he wants to kill women

and

electrocute

old people. take away

their food stamps.

yeah, well, she's drunk all the time

and fell out

of a coconut tree.

well, he slept with a porn

star,

big deal,

her husband got his nanny

pregnant

and she slept with a married man

to slither her way

to the top.

he looks like an orange person

and eats

at McDonald's every day.

and what's with the spray tan?

so what,

she cackles

like a hyena over nothing.

and lets in the illegals

who are eating

the dogs and cats.

finally the line moves

and we vote.

i think everyone's mind

is made up.

popcorn and melted junior mints

is it better

to wait,

better to let a week go by

before

seeing the movie?

should we

wait for

it to appear

on the small screen.

or should

we go the theater

and sit

with the murmuring

crowd,

risking

air borne diseases,

or fire?

don't we have

stale popcorn

and melted junior mints

at home?

we've made some changes

my phone

is doing things in the middle

of the night.

updating,

whatever.

i see the lights

flash,

the sound

go on and off.

disconcerting dings

are in my

ears.

it's doing something,

installing,

deleting,

rebooting.

rearranging.

it's up to something.

i know that in the morning

i'll have

to learn

all the new things that

have been

done

without me lifting

a finger.

why do we stay too long?

who hasn't

been the frog

in a pot of cold

water

before

the heat

goes on.

who hasn't stayed too long

in places where

we shouldn't have

gone?

why didn't we hop

out

before the boil?

before it all went

wrong?

we are bookends

we are bookends

holding

the middle together,

keeping

days

aligned,

months into years.

holding

love in place.

we need each other,

it seems

to keep life right.

a suitable photo

i see her

mother's face in the obituary

column

on the last

page

of the metro section

of the Sunday paper.

she's young

in the photo.

she's wearing a white

dress

and holding flowers.

smiling

for whoever took

the shot.

there's not a trace of

bitterness on her face,

no hint

of the heart break

that is yet

to come.

new and improved parts of town

grow

old enough and you'll

see

the new

buildings go up,

new houses,

strip malls,

trees

planted,

sidewalks and roads

paved, the erection

of lights,

billboards

and signs,

but given enough

time,

it will all fade.

be emptied by wear

and time.

impoverished.

what was new is old

now, fallen and

abandoned.

no worries though,

new money

is coming

to revitalize the town.

a single black fly

i don't want

to kill the fly buzzing

around

the light,

then my

head,

my cup of coffee,

my maple

scone.

he's gone to great lengths

in getting

into the house,

arriving from the far

unknown,

finding

the smallest of cracks

in the window

screen.

i admire

his or her ambition.

but it's time.

grocery store flirtations

as i reach for a hot

house

tomato

at the store, a slender hand

reaches

below mine

and snatches it.

i look at her,

and say hey,

that what was mine.

apparently not,

it's in my cart

now.

you snooze, you lose,

buddy.

quickly

i go over to the bananas

on a vine.

she's too slow

this time.

a severe case of the vapors

she's sad.

she's angry.

she's upset about the election.

she's red

in the face.

she's blue.

she's trembling with

fear

about the outcome,

what will

we all do, she sighs,

if he wins,

and she loses?

how can we go on,

where we should

we move?

the world will end.

the sky is falling.

what will we do?

the rap of little knuckles on the door

i completely

forget

that it's Halloween

until i hear

the rap of little knuckles

against the front

door.

i've left the light on.

there's a small

glass pumpkin

on my windowsill.

they think

i'm a part of it.

but i have no candy,

no treats.

but i do have a stack

of one-dollar bills,

that will have to do.

before i know it kids

are coming

out of the woodwork.

it's Lord of the Flies

as they mob

the porch,

screaming,

he's got money. hurry up.

before it's too late.

there must be something i need

there must

be something i need to buy.

a book,

a candle,

a new set of sheets,

maybe food.

but i can't think of anything

at the moment.

does my

car need gas?

what about a new hat

or pair

of shoes.

nope.

nothing to comes to mind.

but the day

is young

and i haven't logged

into Amazon

yet, online.

just a little room

i need

room when i sleep.

at least

a foot or two.

after we've

finished with our monkey love,

after the afterglow.

i need to roll

over and cool

off

and think about things,

but she doesn't understand

that.

she's stuck

to me like glue.

legs entwined,

arms

akimbo,

breathing heavily

into my neck where

her hair

is stuck

to my skin.

it's not that i don't love her,

i just need

a little room.

and then she whispers,

are you ready

to do it again?

why he votes democrat

my father,

at ninety-six,

is a true-blue democrat.

and it's all

because of JFK

being

a war hero

in the navy.

he can relate to that.

the new frontier,

the vigor,

the promise of it all.

he doesn't

see the difference

now,

how times have changed.

his eyes have blurred,

his ears

deafened.

he's hanging on to what

was

when he was young.

hoping

that the party is the same.

selective charity

it's selective

charity,

do i give the large

man

on the corner

a dollar

bill,

he looks fine, he looks

healthy

sitting in his

folding chair

with his

God Bless sign.

or do i wait until

i see a more

bedraggled person,

maybe a woman

or a child

in rags

with no shoes on?

this Catholic guilt is

killing

me,

one corner at a time.

not yet

not yet

we say silently to ourselves,

holding on

to the rails.

not yet.

there is more

to do,

more to say,

to write, more love

to make.

not yet.

maybe sometime

in the far

future, maybe

years from now

when we're

old and grey,

but not yet,

not soon.