they never age

i've seen

the movie a million times,

at least.

black and white.

late night.

the actors long gone

but still young and beautiful.

i know the lines.

i remember

the plot,

the twist at the end,

but that's fine.

it's a nice place

to go

from time after time,

rarely

do i turn it off.

the handshake

no one

wants to shake

the clammy

hand,

the fish shake,

the flounder wiggling

at the end

of someone's arm.

we want

a firm grip.

whether man or woman.

we want to know

that you're present,

that you're strong.

a basket of yarn at her feet

it was

an enormous straw

basket

full of colored

balls of yarn,

pointed

metal sticks

and patterns folded

over,

that she sat with

in her chair.

i can still

hear the clicks,

like

a broken clock,

but faster

as with quick fingers

and wrists,

she left this world

for another,

to furiously

knit.

if it taste good, it can't be bad, can it?

the supermarket

tells

you all you need to know about

commercialism.

this place

we live in,

shop in,

die in.

bright lights and soft

music piped

in overhead.

shiny apples

stacked like pyramids.

there's a smile on everything

but the store clerk.

with brightly

colored

packages to subtly lure

you in.

so much

we don't know

and don't want to know

about what

we're eating.

when exactly did that cow

die?

what country

sent those tomatoes

green on the vine?

if it taste good, it can't be

bad,

can it?

bumper stickers

we like to

advertise our feelings.

with

placards

in the yard, t-shirts

printed

with who we love

or despise.

displaying the accomplishments

of our children,

or who we voted

for by

bumper stickers

on our cars.

it's easier that way

than talking

about it.

though thankful

for the garage.

the line in the dirt

we're all

nice

and compliant, easy

to get along with

until

we break,

and then at last

the hidden

true self

is revealed.

some break easy,

some break

hard

needing time to be

pushed just

once more

across that drawn

line.

burning bridges

i look

back at all the bridges

burning

behind me.

the blazing

fires that

will keep me from

ever going

back in a moment

of sentimental

weakness.

burn on.

please, go on with your story

i'm not ignoring you.

i'm just studying

the sole  

of my boot.

the heel

is loose

and the stitching is frayed.

plus, i seemed to have

stepped into

a wad of something,

part pink, part grey,

but go on. please,

go on with your story.

i'm listening,

really, i am.

i could listen to you talk

all day.

her barn full of hay

our grandmother

in North Reading,

would

send us across the road

to steal

ears of corn for dinner.

we'd cross

the vacant stretch of dirt

and gravel

with our baskets and snatch

the ears

right off the stalks

which towered over us,

then scurry back,

gleeful at our theft.

she said she knew the

farmer and his wife

which made

everything okay. 

years later we found out

that she was sleeping

with farmer Joe,

which explained everything.

the cherry pie on the table

half gone,

her barn full of hay

and the jug of milk

now cold.

it was our first encounter

with bartering for goods.

we seldom run away

who hasn't

wanted to run away at some point

in their life,

whether

at the age of ten

or sixty,

we wonder what lies

over there,

way over there,

on the other side.

away

from this,

whatever this might mean.

but seldom do we pack

that bag

and go.

change is hard,

and for the most part we're

cowards.

we stick with what we

know.

the accident

it was

odd to see something

so large

lying

on the street, the horse

turned

over

with the wagon, struck

by a car

at a high speed.

and the man beside

the horse

crying into his hat,

weeping as if

she was a loved one,

a spouse

a child, a friend.

and the policeman with

his revolver,

the single shot

of the gun, bringing

the street

drama to an end.

and yet looking out the window

of my father's

car, i remember

the fruit upended onto the street,

strangely ignored

by everyone,

the apples and pears,

the bananas, broken melons,

all set free.

guilt free littering

as i unwrap

the paper and foil 

from the stick of gum,

a gust

of wind

takes it out of my hand

and sets

it sailing far

down the road.

when i was

younger

i might have chased it.

being the good

person

that i am.

but i guess i've changed

from who i was

back then.

the good light

it's a good

flashlight. an old lamp

kept

on the top shelf of the hall

closet

along with

hats and gloves, winter

boots

and salt for the steps

off the porch

when ice arrives.

i flick

the switch and the beam

shoots across

the room,

making light where

there was none

with the power down.

good

bones, good steel,

strong

batteries.

like you, my dear.

bright when darkness

tries to overcome.

the cracking of eggshells underfoot

you have

people in your life,

friends,

relatives,

etc.

that you have to be careful

with

so as not to trigger them.

you are perpetually

walking on

eggshells,

hoping not to upset

or hurt

their feelings.

God forbid

you talk about politics

or religion,

things of that nature.

it makes for a long day

and a non

interesting

conversation

when it's always

about the weather

and what's for

dinner.

we differ

we decide

to begin knocking things

off on our

bucket list.

things to do

before we die.

her list is different than mine.

she wants

to visit the Sphinx

in Egypt,

jump out of an airplane,

and go

deep sea diving.

i show her my list.

item number one,

is to buy a double scoop

of ice cream,

rocky road

and mint chip

on a sugar cone.

the human globe

my cousin big Bertha,

decides to get her entire

head

covered with tattoos,

down to her neck,

and nether regions.

torso, front and back,

arms and legs.

it's a map of the world

in great detail.

with latitude and longitude

lines going north and south,

east and west.

she's very helpful now

when we travel.

if lost,

there's no need to google anywhere

with her around.

com si com sa

it's either the end of the world,

or the beginning

of a golden age,

it all depends on who

you listen to on tv.

what channel you turn to,

what newspaper you read.

is there an in-between?

a fat middle of everything

is pretty much okay?

com si com sa.

chicken again, honey?

i put

a chicken in the oven,

a fat roaster

from Kroger's,

then wipe

my hands on my

new apron,

which i bought online from

Martha Stewart's

merch store.

i start

dicing carrots

and potatoes, tossing

about a Ceasar salad,

using my

own recipe for the dressing,

not handed down.

my wife yells at

me from

her easy chair.

she lowers the tv,

and her phone,

taking sips of wine.

we're not having chicken

again,

are we dear?

perpetual Halloween

why

argue, why fight?

if you

want to call yourself a man,

or a woman

or something

in between, or none of the above,

have at it.

it's your privilege

your right.

wear a wig,

a dress, put on a helmet,

grow muscles

and fight,

grow a beard or alter

your body

parts, 

slice and dice away

who you used to be. 

who cares?

go dancing

with your new

found self.

it's all okay, it's alright.

let's play

Halloween all year round,

all day,

and all night.

we used to like you

we used

to like you. 

for years we've read

what you wrote

and laughed,

we used

to think you were smart

and clever,

a good person.

but after

what you wrote last

week,

we'll our love for you

has passed.

still happy, regardless

he liked

to fish, the old man.

he liked to get up early and dig

for worms

in his back

yard

then put them in a paper cup

to take

down to the river,

where he'd

stand in the morning sunlight

and wait

for the first

bite on his cast

line and hook.

sometimes the fish

would

come home with him,

still alive

in a white

pail,

and other times it was

just him.

still happy,

regardless.

man peeing outside of the 7-11

there

was a man, a grown

man

with a Christmas beard

and a long coat on,

peeing

beside the trash can

in front of the 7-11.

we looked

at each other as we

sat in the car,

and asked

how badly

did we really

want a hot dog and a big

gulp,

and another lottery

ticket?

don't go into the basement, she said

she wouldn't

let

me see her basement.

what was

down there?

bodies?

feral cats,

wild dogs?

mice and spiders?

what was she hiding?

money,

love letters, her diary,

a life

when

she broke the law?

a portrait of her

with nothing on?

she kept

the door locked.

the dead bolt slid tight

into the slot.

sometimes

i'd put my ear

to the door

and listen. but nothing.

nothing but the smell

of wet laundry

and the ticking

of a clock.

the crying towel

some actors,

can

cry on a dime,

make

tears come out of their

weepy

eyes

with a little twist

of their

tongue and mind.

she was like that.

which was why

i kept

a crying towel

nearby.

when the boys came home

when the neighborhood

boys came back from

the war.

they

were different.

shorn of hair,

thin

but muscled, a look

of joy

and forlorn

on their aged faces.

relieved

to be home again but

still in creased

uniforms.

before

they left

we sat on the porch

and talked

about girls

and sports, we flew

kites

in green fields,

and drank

beer on the bleachers

behind the school.

now they say little,

staring off into a place

you can't see,

or want to.

no I.D. to vote?

we need an I.D.

to apply for welfare, Medicaid,

Social Security,

to make a claim for unemployment

benefits.

we need an I.D.

to get a job,

to apply for a passport,

or to drive

a car, or rent a car,

to sail a boat,

or to board an airplane.

we need an

I.D. to buy a gun,

to buy a bottle of whiskey

or wine,

or to get married,

or to adopt a pet,

or a child.

to get into Costco

or to check a book out of the library.

we need an I.D. to 

rent a hotel room,

to acquire a fishing license,

to get health insurance,

to buy a cellphone,

to visit a casino,

to pick up prescription drugs

at the drug store.

you need an I.D. to donate blood,

or to purchase

nail polish.

but you don't need an I.D.

to vote,

the most

important thing a person

can do

in a democracy?

let's take a breather

we need

more humor, more fun,

more

forgiveness

and

empathy.

kindness.

it would be nice

if we

all got along,

regardless of political

affiliations,

race

creed or color.

live and let live.

make love

not war.

no violence.

let's take a break

from all the wars,

personal

and far away.

let's take a breather

and pray.

a black bird against the blue ceiling

i was

watching Bill and Nancy

dance

while i drank

my beer

and nibbled on peanuts

at the Knights

of Columbus Hall.

it was back

when you could smoke

anywhere,

and everyone did.

young and old,

men and women.

i finished the peanuts

then

the waitress brought me

a club sandwich.

i ate it,

putting mayonnaise

on my lips

and on my jacket.

Bill and Nancy were still

dancing,

third song in a row.

i wished i could dance

like that.

after i finished my sandwich,

i ordered

another beer,

then lit up

a cigarette,

and blew smoke rings

up into the blue ceiling,

where a single

black bird

was flying around.

Lucinda and fried beef

is everything

we consume made in either

China

or Mexico?

i ask my wife,

Lucinda.

yes, she says,

showing me

the little tattoo

on the nape of her neck

which says

made in Tijuana.

then we go

out to dinner,

to Hunan West, for 

Peking

fried beef

and broccoli.

back then there was no Burlington coat factory

from my

calculations, the weather in 

the Garden of Eden

must have been pretty nice.

maybe around 68 degrees,

slightly

overcast.

they had no clothes, so in

order to survive,

things had to be just right,

with a limited

chance of sunburn

or frostbite.

it was like San Diego,

sort of

in the spring,

back in the sixties,

during the Summer of Love,

but then it all changed

with that damn

apple.

now we're buckling up

galoshes

and wearing hats,

putting on an extra layer

of clothes

because it's freezing

with three feet of snow

on the ground.

we're at the beach

lathering on sunscreen

in our bikinis and speedos.

as humans we adjust

as humans

we are very flexible.

we get fat,

we adjust.

we open up the belt a little,

going to the next

notch.

we get old,

we move slower

grabbing the rail.

we get fired,

we get another job,

telling the old boss

to go to hell.

we get

married

which makes us compromise

on everything

from food

to shelter,

and

if we have to,

we sleep in the other room.

when we get

divorced,

we stretch out and

put some music

on. we dance

in our underwear.

we adjust, that's what

humans do.

the prisoner swap

it's interesting

the swaps

we make

with foreign countries

for prisoners.

we give them

back

the bomb maker, 

the arms dealer,

the terrorist

and

the murderer,

a gang leader,

and they give us back

a ballerina, three nuns

and a Mormon.

even Steven

sort of.

the bear in winter

like a bear

in winter, my father

would

retreat

to his big chair in the corner

and smoke

a cigar

in the dark.

he was in a mood.

a silent mood

angry about things 

to which we had

no clue.

my mother would whisper

to us,

telling us to

stay

clear.

give him a few days,

he'll get over it.

here,

take him this bean

soup i made

and this beer.

the Go Go dancer

she used

to do a dance for me

on Friday

nights.

like you'd see the go go

girls dancing

on Shindig.

sometimes she'd be up

on a chair,

wearing her

tool belt and little else.

throwing

herself around

as if demon possessed,

her hair flying

about,

arms in the air.

i'd ask her if she wanted

me to put

some music on,

to which she'd say,

no, i'm good.

last night she came over

with a bottle

of Pepto Bismol,

and i had to help her

up the stairs.

a cold cold shower

i take

my morning cold shower.

freezing

cold

with the pipes still

hanging

onto winter,

despite April ninth.

i stand

in it,

until my skin is numb

and i'm awake.

tingling

all over.

it's always interesting

to start

the day

with a little pain,

it's downhill from there.

all gravy.

in Mexico for six nights

we were in

Mexico

drinking tequila for

five

days, six nights.

sick and sunburned.

that's what i remember.

that and

the rain.

the busy hotel.

the tourists

in hats,

in white. we'd

go home,

alive, still together,

but nothing was ever

the same

again after that,

the world

wasn't right.

she's leaving again for the weekend

who doesn't

like

a bit of juicy gossip.

though

sinful,

it's delightful to have

an earful

of what

Mrs. Smith,

the librarian, is up to

when

she goes away

for the weekend

wearing her wide

white hat,

and carrying her parasol.

tip toeing

out in the dead of night,

with perfume

on and red lipstick

heavy on her lips,

which she never wears

around us.

i believe the mouse

does roar

at times.

small talk

he had

more degrees than 

a thermometer

hanging on the walls.

he'd studied

everything from

medicine,

to theology, to law,

and yet,

when you talked to him

about anything,

making small

talk,

your eyes grew heavy

and you began

to yawn.

everyday a win

it's not

proper anymore to want

what

used to be.

the wife at home raising

the children,

the man

at work,

the simple life, traditional

and old,

church

and school.

family and friends.

a yard to mow,

a dog.

the good life, a white

fence

keeping it all in.

everyday a win.

the lucky few

a splinter,

a thumbtack,

a cuticle bitten

raw,

small pains they are,

perhaps

portents of things to come,

or maybe not.

some go through

life

with a minimum of

scars.

i see no answers here

are the answers

really

blowing in the wind?

i think to myself

as i watch

hats flying off,

and shopping carts rolling

down the parking lot,

the ears of dogs

flapping.

dresses are being held

down because

of the wind.

small children are tumbling

away as their

kites are ripped from

their hands,

trash cans

are blowing over,

the trees are bending,

fast clouds are flying by.

i see no answers here, Bob.

is there anything in there i can eat?

i need

to label the food in the fridge.

one day,

two days,

you have an hour left

before

mold sets in.

what is that in foil?

can ketchup

go bad?

will Styrofoam

keep

it fresh?

i still have a box of baking

soda

in there that

the ex-wife put in.

has it helped?

i don't know, but

why is the lettuce

brown

when i just bought it an

hour ago?

do i have to smell test

everything?

not guilty clothing attire

i can't

find my shoehorn.

so that

makes wearing these shoes

impossible

today.

it's not a good start.

i lay out

some shirts and pants,

so many

choices,

so much clothing i never

wear anymore.

and yet

can't throw away.

the mirror in

the corner

is waiting for me.

i can't be late for another

court date

and i don't want to wear

something

that will make me

look guilty.

the paid protesters

my neighbor

with blue hair and a nose

ring,

which has rusted because 

of all the crying,

is leaving her house early

this morning

with her

bullhorn

and cowbell.

another protest today?

yes, she says,

we must band together to

stop

fascism.

plus the organizers

are getting

paid.

so i'm an organizer now.

i help bus

the protesters in

and give

them factory made signs.

i tell them what

to chant but it's so hard to find

words that rhyme

with fascism.

so what exactly is fascism?

oh you know

having a dictator

bossing people

around.

taking away their rights

and stuff.

i haven't looked it up exactly.

so what rights?

oh you know. reproductive

rights.

but aren't you 60 years old?

didn't mother nature take that

right away from you?

what other rights?

look, i have to go in a minute

after i run back

into the house to get my meds.

i can't protest

without my meds.

the trade war with China

what about

these tariffs, i ask my

96

year old father as he works

a Qu-tip into his ear.

what?

traffic?

i don't drive anymore

sonny boy.

i don't give a damn about

traffic.

no, no.

tariffs.

were in a trade war with China.

China?

they're increasing their

tariffs on us,

and we're retaliating.

the only thing

i like about China

is their General Tao Chicken,

he says,

and their

spring rolls.

i used to tell your mother

i was going to take

a slow

boat to China,

when she used to nag me.

i'm not worried about China.

they have those

little slave

kids working around the clock

making stuff

for us, and cheap too.

i think we still have a set of China

in the hutch, but you

can't even put it in the dishwasher.

China. pfffft.

some things get left behind

my

friend Gina,

who likes to snoop,

is waiting for me when

i come

out of the shower.

she's holding

a bra in her hand,

a black

sheer thing

with a single snap

in the back.

she's shaking it

in the air

like a dead fish.

not wanting to get too close.

what's this? she says.

is there something

you want to tell me?

i found this

under the bed.

i look at the label,

ah yes.

that's Donna's.

from years ago.

see all the dust on it?

why don't you try it on,

see if it fits.

the walking advertisement

while

standing on the subway

train

seeing my

reflection

in the window glass,

i realize that i'm a billboard

of advertisements.

the logo

on my hat,

my coat, my jeans.

even

my shirt and shoes

have tags.

and there on

my arm

is your name,

which at some point

i'll have removed

at last.

when people like you

you know

that people like you

when

they call or text and tell you

that the space

in the driveway

is open

for you.

they've moved their

car down the street,

and now

you don't have to worry

about where to park.

it's all yours,

they say.

we'll leave the light on

for you.

and not to worry,

the dog won't bite,

he just barks.

the great idea

it's nice

to have a good idea.

something

that seemingly pops into

your head

one

morning while taking a shower,

or when

scrambling eggs.

you think,

why haven't i thought of this

before.

and then

the day gets in the way.

and whatever brilliant

plan you had

seems not so great after all

when

sit down in the easy chair,

and night falls.

politics and friends

the friends

you

lose

won't return, at least

not

like before.

but in

a different form.

something has changed.

that old

water

under the bridge thing

has eroded

the love, 

it's

taken its toll.

surviving a nuclear winter

if it came

down to it, i could

bake

bread

and live on that.

i have

water

and salt.

flour.

packets of yeast.

a variety of condiments,

ketchup

mustard,

Paul Newman's salad

dressings

on the refrigerator door.

i could

survive

maybe a week or

two of the nuclear winter,

but that's about it.

i don't know what you're thinking

you're impossible

to read,

she tells me.

i never know

what you're thinking,

if you're being

serious

or joking around.

i know, i know. i tell her,

i'm truly sorry.

i am.

i don't do it on purpose.

but i can't

help myself.

i've always had a fear,

like Oscar Wilde,

of not being misunderstood.

assisting shoppers

there's a young man

standing in front of the meat section

at the grocery

store.

picking up one

steak and setting down another.

he's wearing

an orange vest

and big boots

caked with mud.

his face is tired.

his white road helmet

is slipping

off his head. the light

is still on.

i guess he's trying to decide

on dinner.

he sees me looking

over his shoulder and says,

sorry, am i in your way?

no, i tell him, no rush,

then point out to him

that the rib eyes are a better

cut of meat,

more flavor.

look for marbling.

i drag my finger across

the package

along the white fat imbedded

in the meat.

he puts back the top sirloin

and nods.

okay, okay. he says.

i hand him a thick pack

of three rib eyes on sale.

never get the thin

kind, i tell him,

tapping my finger on the plastic

wrapping,

especially if you're grilling

they'll cook too fast

and be overdone and tough.

and don't be scared

of salt,

dry the meat off and salt it down.

good, he says good.

great advice.

thank you.

do you mind if you walk

over to the produce

section with me?

i need to pick out some potatoes too.

sure, sure.

let's go.

have you thought about dessert

yet?

i love who you pretend to be

i like the person

you are pretending to be.

so sweet,

so kind, so gentle.

honest and loyal

to a fault.

i've fallen

in love with this image,

the false self

you present to the world.

honed

from childhood until today.

please don't ever

change.

don't take your mask off.

it's this fake you,

that i've fallen in love with,

the one i want to stay.

her yellow dress

i see

your picture in the paper.

it's a familiar

face.

with beauty,

only the young can

possess.

is it true

that you're really gone?

it was

just yesterday

i saw

you in school wearing

your yellow dress.

what was it i wanted to tell you?

what was it

that

i wanted to tell you, before

you closed

your eyes

and kissed me

goodnight.

what

did i have to tell you

before

we fell asleep in each

other's arms?

will i remember

tomorrow,

with a new sunrise,

a window

full of light?

time

like all good thieves,

it's slow

and quiet,

but steady, moving in

light or

dark.

carefully

putting into the black

bag

minutes

and hours,

days

and years.

then back out the window

it goes.

fearless,

onto the next aging soul.

the Rexall drugstore

it was a long

steel counter that curved

at both ends,

with

red vinyl capped stools

that spun

around.

my record

being ten.

but we ordered grilled

cheese

sandwiches

and cokes,

a paper tray full of French

fries.

from the woman behind

the counter,

a pen

in her hair.

lipstick and rouge,

the crease of her breasts,

white,

and begging

to be viewed.

we were kids.

in out of the rain, the fields

too wet,

a Saturday

with nothing to do.

we'd linger with comic

books

off the rack until

the manager,

a thin man

wearing a thin tie would

chase us out, back into

the rain.

it's sunny and warm, it's nice

my father's last

girlfriend calls me each

month

on the anniversary

of his death.

she's still working it out,

things done,

things said.

the pondering is endless.

she's in the deep end,

the mud

sucking off her shoes.

she can't move.

i try to keep it light,

but she insists

on crying at some point.

she tells me it's been

three months, four days,

and fourteen hours

since he left this life.

i ask her how the weather is,

hoping to change

the subject

to which she's grateful.

she tells me it's sunny

and warm. it's nice.

celebrity confessions

it's a book

about

her life, a very public life,

from a very

famous

family.

you know about the tragedies

and triumphs,

the heart

aches.

you've been a casual

observer

from afar.

reading and hearing

snippets

gossip

in press.

it's interesting and it's not.

we are all

so self-absorbed.

wringing our hands, trying

hard

to come out

the other side.

does another book help,

another speech

or talk?

we want them to be happy,

they seem to deserve it,

more than us.

it feels that way sometimes

it feels

as if it's nearly everyone

has

lost their mind,

but in reality,

it's just a few.

i stick with that thought,

and believe

it,

though

deep down inside,

i doubt it's true.

tell me nothing is wrong

there is

beauty in this stillness.

this

sweet quiet

of Sunday,

alone

in the yard, a book half read.

no noise

but the birds,

a dog barking

down the road.

the laughter

of children

from the playground.

what could possibly

be wrong

with this world?

batons in the air

she shows

me

her pom pom routine

from

1975.

putting on her white

boots

her spangled

skirt

and blouse,

her tall hat with a gold

medallion

attached.

everything still fits

like a glove.

we put on some marching

music.

she spins her rusted baton,

tossing it in the air.

and around

the room she goes.

having not

lost a step.

yesterday is a blink away.

we're forever young,

never old.

a man at the gate

we called

it a starter home.

the little

townhouse

on the edge of town,

by the railroad

tracks,

the power lines

and grids.

a school was nearby,

a Chinese

restaurant

and a Wal-Mart.

we were there for thirty

years

until the children

were on their own.

but now

we've downsized.

the steps

getting harder

to climb.

we're in a condo with a view

of the mall,

and the interstate.

we can see and hear

the airplanes

all night

and all day,

but there's a pool,

and an exercise room,

a man

at the gate.

getting paid to protest

it's a great

new

part time job,  put on a mask

grab

and sign

and chant

and scream at the top of your lungs

for a few

hours,

then go back home

to your television fire.

democracy

at its finest.

even ideas

can be bought at the right

price.

so much

hatred

and

violence from

the empathetic

and kind left side.

what time is it?

i recognize

that extended sigh,

that

rubbing of eyes,

that exaggerated yawn.

i know it all too well.

it's my hint too,

for moving on.

it's like magic

i know

so little about so much.

it's obvious

to many

when they hear me speak

about

things

i shouldn't

breathe a word to.

take trees for instance,

i might

recognize

a birch or oak, or willow,

but for the most

part

i have no clue.

i'm lost.

i barely

understand

that in the autumn

leaves

turn color and fall,

while in the spring,

more arrive,

magically,

all with new buds.

nothing to barter with

somehow,

in the wind of life,

i lost my recipe for chocolate

chip

cookies with nuts.

handwritten

by an ex-wife.

how do i possibly get a new

copy

without stirring

the emotional pot?

should i wing it,

or barter?

but what do i have

that she could

possibly

want?

apparently nothing, which

is why

it never worked out.

grandma Joan of arc

i wait

at the gate for my grandmother

to be

released

from jail.

i told her not to scratch

cars

and set fires,

but no, she wouldn't listen.

she says

she'll be back out there

again

come Saturday

with her signs

her chants and synchronized

yells.

she'll be putting on her orthopedic

shoes

and back brace,

her tin foil hat.

we did this back in the 60's,

she says

with fire in her eyes,

and we're doing

it again.

she's even baking brownies

this time

to feed her

friends and comrades

in the field.

keeping on eye on things

my neighbor

has a dozen

ring cameras set up around

his house.

motion

and light detectors.

i saw him the other day

with heavy

bags under his eyes,

exhausted

because every time

a bird

or squirrel

or spider spins a web

near his yard

he's alerted and climbs

out of bed

to observe his monitors.

on windy nights,

he doesn't even try

to go sleep,

he just sits and stares

at his phone

waiting

for the sun to rise.

too much cake and candy

there's a conflict

of heart

and mind,

body and soul. what

tastes

so good

what feels good,

is not always good for

you.

too much

of a good thing,

will

trap you into believing

that's all

you need to find

joy and happiness.

the rest of the world

means less

with too much

cake and candy,

sex.

the weekend crazies

why

are so many of the weekend

warrior

protesters

so overweight

and goofy looking?

who are these people?

circus people

covered in colorful clothes

and wigs.

masked

and angry,

with bulging eyes.

rebels without a cause,

or one

they can put their finger

on.

are they off their meds?

why are so many boys

dressed up

as girls.

what's with the cow bells

and drums,

the chanting

and screams.

have they nothing better

to do

with their lives?

no loved

ones at home, no hobbies,

no golf

or fishing,

no working on their

homes.

no books to read,

no bikes to ride.

no church or synagogue?

no taking a stroll, or having

a picnic.

what good is all this madness?

to what end?

sanity has died.

wishing on a star

we used

to lie

out on the summer grass

and count

stars,

the next door

girl

and i.

but we didn't care about

stars,

or meteors

flashing by, the moon

meant

nothing,

we were just delaying

the wish

of the first kiss,

and hand

holding moment,

that seemed

so near,

and yet so far.

making the F word just another word

the f word

is very popular right now.

politicians

use it,

children,

teachers, mothers and fathers.

lawyers

and chefs.

the internet

is chock full of the word

without

little or no effort

to find it.

scientists, yoga masters,

poets

and writers.

the doctor when staring

at an x-ray

exclaiming,

what the F is that?

we're living in an F bomb

world.

and it's lost

its effect.

a continental breakfast and free Wi-Fi

tired

with driving all night

in the rain,

i suggest that the next motel

we see,

we stop

and spend the night.

what about

this one

she says, free Wi-Fi,

a continental

breakfast

in the morning, 

the vacancy light is green.

the pillows

are soft,

and the mattress comfy

and clean.

it's very private and quiet

with parking

in the rear.

slamming on the brakes,

i look at her and ask

how she

would know this.

her strawberry patch

she told

me

she was going to grow

strawberries

in her

back yard,

and sell them on the corner.

i'm not joking

she said.

you'll see.

you'll see.

but next spring she was gone,

a tiny

bump found.

and now

when i walk by

her house,

i see the strawberries

are out

there

along fence, growing

wildly,

going strong.

the new house cleaner

my new

housekeeper has at

last arrived.

she says

she's from Paris, France,

but i suspect

it's Paris, Texas.

the lipstick

and perfume

is refreshing though

after the likes

of Wanda

and her minions.

but she doesn't have a lick

of an accent.

and the black stockings

and heels

don't fool me

one bit

with her little duster

in hand.

she says, what's that?

when i show

her the washing

machine.

i tell her where

the linen closet is and

the cleaning supplies

under the kitchen

sink, then ask her 

who that enormous

man is waiting out in the van

she came in.

he's my friend, not to worry.

but can you

pay me before i begin?

the magical world

is it real

money, or imaginary dollars.

stacked

up

in the magical world

of high

and low

finance.

will it be gone soon,

slip sliding

away,

like a fat fish in my

hands,

as the boat rocks.

will i

be eating tomato

soup

in a tent beneath 

the over ramp,

wringing out my wet

pants

and socks.

how it usually goes

they're back.

i hear

the morning rustle of their wings

and

birds

barking.

feathering the nest

again,

in the small

corner of the soffit,

into a crease

of wood.

eggs will

be laid soon

i suppose.

it seems that's how it

usually goes.

boy or girl, easy to find out

no need

for genetic testing,

or

pulling down one's drawers

or lifting

up a dress

to determine, boy or girl

when trying

out for school

sports teams.

no.

just ask them

to tell you what happened

yesterday

in school.

the boy will talk for five

minutes

summing it all up

with clarity

and in an efficient manner,

while the girl will go on

and on

for an hour, or longer,

adding in a bevy of useless

and unrelated

information, drifting off

into a mind numbing

word salad.

she may never

get to an end and finally

ask,

so what was the question?

that is not my baby

there's a knock

at the door.

i look through the peephole

to see

who it is.

Mormons?

girl scouts selling cookies?

my neighbor

wanting to borrow

a cup

of cold pressed olive

oil?

someone serving

me a subpoena again?

what is it this time?

it looks like a young woman

out there

she's holding a small child

in her arms,

this can't be good.

quickly i drop to the floor

and crawl

around turning off

the tv

and all the lights, but

she keeps knocking.

i know you're in there,

she says.

just open the door, it's

not your baby.

don't worry.

i wipe the sweat off my

brow

and open the door.

what?

how can i help you?

i'm new in the neighborhood

and we're starting

a morning playgroup

with all the other mothers,

and we were wondering if

any children live

here.

we'd love to have them join us.

i open

the door to show her my

living room.

beer cans everywhere,

pizza boxes,

fishing equipment

and hunting rifles.

there's a poster of Farah

Faucet in a red

bathing suit

on the far wall.

what do you think? i ask her.

oh my,

she says. sorry to bother you.

no more TikTok

i ask

my ninety-five year old father

if he's concerned

about the country

losing Tik-Tok.

what?

he says, staring at his wrist

watch.

my watch is fine.

he puts it up to my ear.

do you hear

that, tick tock, tick tock.

look over

there on the wall,

in five minutes the rooster

will come out

and go cock a doodle doo.

what do i care

about tick tock, time goes

on and on and on.

you can't stop it.

no, i tell him. not that tick tock.

TikTok.

it's in your phone.

what will people do when

they're in the waiting

room at the doctor's office,

or on a bus

or train, sitting there

for an hour.

how will people enjoy their

morning coffee without

scrolling

their phone and viewing

TikTok videos?

monkeys playing the piano,

grown

men and women

dressed up

like cats.

people falling down flights

of stairs,

or car crashes.

how will they live without

viewing all that?

i don't know, he says.

maybe they can read a book,

or a magazine,

or talk to each other.

maybe they can shut their

eyes and pray

or meditate.

pfffft, TikTok, who needs it.

my watch is fine,

thank you.

it's a Timex, you never have

to wind it up.

my musical talent

i have

no musical talent whatsoever,

no inkling

of chord

changes,

of piano keys, or pedals.

guitar strings.

bass or lead

means nothing to me.

the banjo is impossible,

as is the harmonica.

although for a certain

period of time

while driving around in

my friends 68

Chevrolet,

with a beer can between

my knees,

i could pound out

on the dashboard

the drum solo on

In-a-gadda-da-vida

by Iron Butterfly.

the art of taking selfies

it's getting

harder

and harder to take a good selfie

to post

online,

to show the world

how young

and handsome i still am,

despite

the weight gain

and bald head.

it's tough

finding the right light,

the right turn

of the head,

do i smile, do i look

straight ahead,

do i toss my head back

in a laugh?

will sunglasses and a hat

help?

how do i show the world

how wonderful

i still am?

maybe if i have the ocean

behind me,

or a plate

of food in front of me,

or a dog

in my lap,

it will distract them

from whom i really am.

waving down the hot dog man at the ballgame

there's always

someone

pointing out to you what's

in a hot dog,

as you stuff

one into your

mouth,

dripping with relish

and mustard.

do you know what's

in there,

they ask?

they basically sweep

the butcher shop floors

of meat scraps

and form

them into shiny tubes

of pig skins.

i heard once that if you

feed them

to children that they will

get leukemia.

true story.

i keep eating, then wave

down

the hot dog man

for another.

do you want one?

my treat.

ok, but just one please.

in a heated bun.

going off the deep end with Jimmy

and what

exactly are your sources

i ask,

my friend

Jimmy,

the conspiracy theorist.

who exactly told

you that

the world

would end in five years

give or take

a few months,

if we don't stop carbon

emissions

and find a place

to put all the lithium

batteries.

some dude, i don't know,

he says.

he has a podcast.

he makes

artisan bread too.

farm raised children

they

were farmed raised

children,

penned into

small

lots at the daycare

center,

fed together,

bound

by ropes as they

walked

the street

by their teacher

masters.

unlike

fish or meat,

it was food coloring

and chemicals

of a different

sort

added to their

malleable brains.

at five pm,

into the arms

of tired parents,

they'd be released,

somehow

not the same.

Mexican jumping beans

on

the back of comic

books,

there were ads

for things we could buy.

gum that would make

your tongue turn

black,

buzzers to shock

a hand

when shook,

b b guns,

cap guns,

ant farms, Mexican jumping

beans,

and magnifying glasses.

all easily

purchased with a coupon

and allowance

money

if you cut the grass,

through the U.S. mail.

weapons

of minor destruction.

we waited

daily,

impatiently, with elbows

on the window

sill.

what point would there be in that

like most

families in the sixties,

we had

a fishbowl.

a clear simple glass

bowl

with blue gravel

on the bottom,

and some

plastic shrubbery

for the

goldfish

to swim around

or through,

maybe a lighthouse

made of plastic,

too.

each day we'd come

home from

school

and drop pebbles of food

onto the water,

after scooping

out the dead fish,

never named of course,

what point would

there be in that,

a routine

we grew used to.

pleasantly unsurprised

there was

a redheaded boy,

muscular chap in the old

neighborhood,

who

was willing to beat

up anyone

half his size.

he'd carry his boxing

gloves

with him wherever

he went.

challenging

the smaller

fries,

and now

when i see him online,

fat

and old, alone,

dumb still as the ox

he was in

school,

I'm pleasantly

unsurprised.

much later in the night

it's later,

much later, while lying in bed,

and staring

at the shadowed

ceiling,

pondering

the argument

and what was said,

or left

unsaid.

is when the words

come to you,

brilliant

and clear.

damn it all, you mutter,

the win was so close,

so near.

whatever

there's

a point in your life,

a blissful,

Ghandi like point,

where

you don't care anymore,

not about

everything,

but little things,

minor

inconveniences,

small bumps in the road.

you shrug your

shoulders

and say oh well,

then move on.

the bigger things are

harder

though.

the ballot box

when

young, i don't remember

my mother

or father

wringing their hands

over

voting.

they went down 

to the local school and did it,

then came

home,

never to speak of it again.

they didn't huddle around

the tv

agonizing over Walter Cronkite

giving the count.

they had

work to do,

children to raise.

i never saw them heading

out the door

on a weekday

with a sign

and spray paint, 

megaphones

and cow bells, heading

downtown

to make a ruckus.

no.

i'd see my father with the lawn

mower

out front,

head down,

my mother out back,

hanging clothes on the line,

clothespins

in her mouth.

will Macy's understand?

the mail

is slow, very slow.

have they

gone back

to the pony express method

of delivery?

horses

and saddle bags,

riding fast

from east to west.

i see the mailman

trudging

up the street,

mumbling

incoherently.

it almost seems like

he doesn't

care, which

house, which number

which name

where he puts the mail.

will

Macy's understand though

why the bill

is late,

the gas company,

the ex-waiting

on her

alimony check?

will my credit score

be lowered?

will i end up in jail?

bitter fruit

i've chewed

on the bitter fruit

of jealously

before,

swallowed it,

bent over in the street

and let

it go.

it was mostly bottled

up anger,

fear

of being left behind,

of being

alone.

betrayed by someone

close.

and then years go by.

more time.

more water under that

broken

bridge,

but still a tinge of it

holds on.

broken windows

it's almost

a ghost town, the abandoned

buildings,

houses,

stores,

cars left to rust,

but there was life here

once.

i've seen it

in a book,

in a black and white

movie.

babies were born,

lives

lived.

love and hate, all of it

existed here

at one

time.

but now it's gone.

how quickly we move on.

i know someone who can help you with that

in a different

age

or time,

an era of horses

and farms,

hard work, you'd often

hear someone

give out the name of their

cobbler,

or carpenter.

there's a man, one might

say,

in town,

who can fix that for you.

but now,

it's, here's my therapist's

number,

or my psychiatrist's.

one leaning

on Freud,

the other Carl Jung.

i trust too much

i don't

know why or how it works,

but

i scan

the little lines

on the package

of food

and a ding

let's me know that

all is scanned

and

ready

for bagging.

i punch in one bag

and place

my carrots in.

five cents.

i trust so many things

in this

life that i don't

understand.

persistent acts of repetition

what is

life

but not

persistent

acts

of repetition.

the sun and moon,

in orbit,

even

the beat of a heart

says so,

the lungs,

taking

in

God given air

and then

the exhale,

but it's the daily task

that keeps

us anchored,

keeps us

from setting adrift

to uncertain

shores.

i'll have coffee please

and

a read

of the morning news

before

shoes go on,

and i'm out the door.

cherry blossoms in bloom

it's been a while

since

we've heard news about

the war.

about the death

count.

we haven't seen a photo

of buildings

bombed,

or children

on the street with little

or no clothes on,

starving. all quiet on

the eastern front.

but spring is here

and we have

cherry blossoms

to go see

downtown, maybe lunch

at Old Ebbitt's 

grill.

we refuse to be bored.

but is it mine?

for several years,

a girlfriend,

a pretty

but wild thing,

would take this day,

April first,

to call and tell me that

she was pregnant.

it worked

a few times, startling

me

into saying,

but is it mine?

while still young

it's a lovely

sight, this bowl of fruit

on the table.

the colors,

fresh

and bright.

the reds and yellows,

the green grapes,

apples

and bananas.

peaches too.

i hope someone stops

by soon,

to see and enjoy

this bowl

while everything is still

ripe.

accidental litter

i feel a tinge of guilt

as the wrapper

flies from

my hand, before i can

put it into the

waste basket.

i have no chance in

retrieving it

in this wind.

i watch it blow and tumble

down the street,

finally out of sight.

chasing it, 

as it is with anything

one chases,

would only bring defeat.

sleeping on the bus

i ask

the man kindly,

sleeping

against

my shoulder on the bus,

to please

move

to his own side.

he's crowding me,

entering

my social space,

but he doesn't

wake

up.

he takes my hand,

and mumbles

something

about his mother, his

father.

i stare out the window,

waiting for my

stop.

truly, it is what it's all

about.

avoiding being brainwashed

i cancel

the paper, three

subscriptions

to magazines,

i turn

off the tv,

the radio, i stop

scrolling my phone.

i put my fingers in

my ears

and stop

listening.

i'm becoming the 

Manchurian Candidate,

hypnotized.

i tell the neighbor

with flags

and signs in their yard,

to shut up,

then put a blindfold

around my eyes and buy

a white cane.

the silence truly

is blissful

in this golden age.

just around the bend

you believe

from early on, that money

will

fix things.

love too,

houses and cars,

jobs,

degrees

of some sort.

friends.

maybe a dog,

a child or two.

it's just around the bend

this thing

called happiness.

just out

of reach,

that carrot making

you pull

the cart further down

the road.

believing

that it's all true.

unexpected quicksand

after

too much wine

and moonlight, music

and

kissing,

she tells me about her many

lovers.

the trail

of broken

hearts she's left behind.

how they

still love her,

and call,

and text, and write apologetic

letters

wanting to regain

her heart.

i feel my legs sinking

into a quicksand

i didn't know

was there.

i'm grasping for vines

to pull

myself out.

is it too late again?

necessary pains

you need

a stitch in your side,

a bruise,

or stubbed

toe,

a minor cut or bump,

a small

pain,

a health scare

of no

importance

to make you realize

that you're alive

and well,

unlike so many others

and all is not

as bad

as you think it is.

most likely to succeed

it's hard

to be king or queen

and then

not be one.

it starts in high school,

the most

likely to

succeed. 

the prom

queen, the valedictorian,

the football star,

the pressure

is on

to be smart

and funny, to be pretty,

to be strong,

to be perpetually

on.

the fall is hard

and sadly,

it doesn't take long.

changing the world one scream at a time

i see my

neighbor come home after a long

day

of protesting

and screaming

at Tesla

drivers.

she's exhausted, her voice

is hoarse.

so how did it go?

i ask her.

she sits down on her stoop

with her

signs,

and cowbell, her drum

and air horn.

it went well, she says.

i think

we changed the world

for good this time.

we annoyed a lot of people.

but we need to step it up a little.

we're going to do it again

next weekend,

you should come.

by the way do you have

any

gasoline

or empty bottles,

some rags

you don't want?

the left and right hand

my left

hand though strong, and 

similar

to my right hand,

is not very

handy

at most things.

it can't write,

or play a guitar,

or text

very well,

but it gets by as best

it can,

with opening

jars

and scrambling eggs

in a pan,

though i'd never trust

it to hammer

a nail,

held by my other hand,

the good one.

her purse, a survivor's treasure chest

i'm in

the mood for something sweet,

but not

too sweet,

not gooey either, or

anything

that sticks

to my teeth. just a little

bite of something,

what's in your

purse,

dear?

perhaps a bit of chocolate,

maybe a stick of

gum?

she opens it up and pours

it onto

the table, there's

everything

under the sun.

from batteries,

to forks 

and knives, maps,

a bottle of

amoxicillin,

matches,

make up and a magnifying

glass.

being deserted on an island

with her

would be no problem.

a few

pebbles of old M and M's

finally roll out,

i grab one

and say, thank you hon.

the crowded bin

i'm writing

another letter to you.

one

i'll never send.

it says

everything i've ever

meant to say

to you and more.

but

i realize that you already

know all that,

so i ball it up and toss

across the room

towards

the crowded bin.

cucumber sandwiches and the minister's wife

i had a guy

working for me one summer,

a dude i picked

up outside

a liquor store, he claimed

to be

a painter

and carpenter.

i told him it was a one

day

try out,

to see how he did.

it was hot, so he took

his shirt off

as the woman of the house

brought us

out a pitcher of ice

tea

and tuna and cucumber

sandwiches

cut diagonally with

the crust cut off

and a handful of cookies.

unfortunately, my new

worker had a full

length tattoo of Satan

on his chest,

down to his belt buckle,

in bright red.

the devil was holding a pitchfork,

and flames

were coming

out of his mouth.

the woman dropped the tray

and ran

back into the house.

it was a one

day job.

she yelled out the window

to leave,

and dropped a check

in the mail.

the end of democracy, oh my

i have a talk

with my neighbor

over the fence.

'they' has bright blue hair

now, like

a robin's egg,

and a giant

cow ring in her nose,

the kind

they attach to livestock

when they

lead them

out of the barn

to be slaughtered.

she says,

you better store up on food,

Doritos and Skittles,

water,

household necessities,

matches

and batteries.

get ready, she says.

it's coming.

but why i ask her, why?

what's going on?

what's coming?

i look up into the sky expecting

to see an asteroid

streaking towards earth.

don't you watch CNN,

she says,

or MSNBC?

any minute now democracy

is going to end.

oh, dang.

and i just planned a cruise

to the Bermuda.

that's a shame, i tell

her, then slap a fat

rib eye steak on the grill

and pour myself

a tonic and gin.

that ice cream belly

it's time

to shed

that ice cream belly, those

wobbling

thighs

and

double chins.

it's been a long cold

winter.

time to get out there

and take a walk.

stroll

the park,

bike ride, take a spin.

but it looks like

rain,

doesn't it?

let's stay in.

Donald's shopping list the first 100 days

while giving a speech,

the president

drops

a piece of paper from his coat

pocket.

it's a shopping list.

it reads,

three new red ties,

another

blue suit,

three white shirts

and one pair of white 

golf shoes.

below that there's milk

and bread,

eggs,

yellow hair dye,

a new comb

and Coppertone spray

on tan

in a can.

a box of Sharpies,

ice cream and diet cokes

are next.

ten rubbers stamps

with refillable ink

that say your Visa and Green card

have been revoked

Get Out,

are on the list too.

all of that followed by

Greenland,

Cuba,

the Panama Canal,

parts of the Ukraine,

and Canada.

fortunately, his wife sees

the dropped list

and picks it up

before the starving jackals

at CNN and CSNBC

get a hold of it.

whew.

close one.

why is this fish orange?

nearly

everything has paint in it,

a food

coloring

or dye.

not to mention sugar

and seed oils.

the chips you eat,

reaching

deep into the bag,

look at the stains on your

fingers,

your mouth.

cookies

and cake,

candy.

cereals, each more addictive

than heroin.

the fish

pulled out of the ocean,

the meat

and poultry.

they're sticking needles

into our

food,

jab after jab filling

their veins

with chemicals

so that everything is fatter

and looks

better

for your snacking

pleasure

or candlelight dinners,

all of it gumming

up your heart.

she's a gourmet chef now

she was a strange

little

girl

from Sperryville.

even at ten

she wore

black

and had make up on

like Morticia.

when her gerbil died,

all the kids gathered

around

and placed

little Sam

into a shoe box,

then took

him out

to the back of the yard

for a burial

service.

but the girl,

said,

why are we doing this,

why don't

we eat him.

that way he'll be a part

of us

instead of rotting

in the ground.

my mother has a great

recipe

for roadkill.

we ignored her

and continued on.

state champion five years in a row

she asks

me if i'm a good kisser.

i laugh,

and pull the phone away

from my ear.

good kisser?

are you kidding me, i was

the state fair champion

for five years

in a row until the accident.

accident?

she says.

yes, i got hit by a foul

ball at a baseball

game,

which made my two lips

uneven,

and broke a few teeth.

so i'm a little sloppy now.

the drool

makes me lose points,

i suggest wearing a bib

if we head

in that direction.

but my kissing booth days

are over.

i've learned nothing today

i've learned

nothing today, not a single

thing,

nor have i improved

my character,

or strengthened my

body with exercise.

i haven't read a book or

even prayed,

i haven't done a single

thing

of value.

i just sit here

and drink my coffee,

staring into my phone.

even the bird feeder,

swinging empty

in the yard will have to wait.

keeping the shirt on

damn

these cranberries.

this

blood red juice.

i just purchased this white

shirt.

barely buttoned

it up

to the color

before church

and now

it's done.

stained and ruined,

but for spite

in making me go to

high mass,

i'll  leave it on.

lipstick on a glass

you leave

behind

lipstick on your glass.

i set it

in the sink, and wonder

what else,

what other things

have you

left behind

for me to dispose of.

shoes

and clothes.

love notes

left

between the pages

of books.

lipstick again

upon them

in the shape of a kiss.

it's your

signature

when parting,

a dark gift.

when flowers bloom

the air

is thick this morning,

the trees

beginning

what trees do in spring.

i sneeze,

i cough,

i take a deep breath

and exhale.

i find one

of many inhalers i have lying

around,

shake it

and squeeze

the chemicals down my

throat and into

my lungs.

this is how it ends

perhaps,

when flowers bloom.

anger is fine

anger is fine,

even hate

given reason, can be

okay,

at times.

but destruction

of property,

of injuring others,

murder

and mayhem.

arson.

that's

mental illness of a

different kind.

her voice a song

i should

write a poem about her.

Neva.

who recently

passed

away at the golden age

of ninety-seven.

i presume

her final destination

wasn't hell,

but heaven.

i can count the fingers

on both

hands

the poets she revealed

to me

over the years,

standing in front

of the class

for over

an hour with her coat

still on,

her large purse 

with a strap around her

shoulder.

lost

in teaching.

her voice a song.

fig leaf fashion

it started a long

time ago,

after the first forbidden

fruit

was bitten into

by Adam,

that single

apple

plucked from a tree

in the garden

of Eden,

by Eve.

after that every man had

to answer the question

from his wife

or girlfriend,

do i look fat

in this fig leaf?

i'd rather not know

i'd rather

not know your secrets,

or for you to know

mine.

please,

refrain

from confessions.

save me

from knowing too much

about you.

let's keep it this

way,

keep me in the dark

as i will you.

it could last forever if

we stick

to this plan.

i invite Elon over

i invite

Elon over and his team

of brainiacs

to go through

my finances.

my wife, or rather ex-wife

was spending money

like a drunken

sailor

on liberty,

before the account hit

zero.

the team gathers around

the table

with my bank statements,

my tax

returns for the last

five years,

and a box of receipts,

a box that once held

a pair of Jimmy Choo heels.

painfully,

line by line

they show me where

the waste

has been,

massages

by someone named Carlos,

Norstrom Shoes,

clothes, make up,

creams and lotions, 

hair and nail appointments,

sauna treatments,

yoga,

daily trips to Starbucks

and 

Whole Foods.

Tiffany's.

dent repairs in the car,

flat tires,

broken headlights,

parking and speeding tickets,

and finally,

a monthly subscription

for ten gallons of home delivered

box wine from

California.

living his best life

he tells

me about his hip replacement,

his knees,

his teeth

implants, he has

32 brand

new shiny white

ones in

his mouth.

he has a new heart,

a new

kidney

hair plugs,

and

and he's chock full of

ED

medications making

the senior

home

full of grateful women rock.

bingo

is on Saturday at 6

he tells me.

at 8

that's when the music

starts.

the community pool regulations

the pool passes

arrive

early this year from

the management

office.

three little bright yellow

cards

with my

address on them,

and in small print the legal

waivers,

about drowning,

falling,

injuring yourself on

the premises.

there's a side note

attached,

telling you no drinking,

no smoking,

no diving off

the side

or hanging onto the rope

when in the deep end.

no food allowed.

no open wounds,

or communicable diseases,

or infections

will be permitted

in the pool, or patio area.

please have your children

use the bathroom

before entering the water.

diapers must be made

of plastic,

and relatively clean.

we do not

provide towels.

have fun!

the cup gone cold

caught

in a thought, at the sink,

stirring

what once

was a hot

cup of coffee, i think

of you.

i think long

and hard

about what took place,

so long ago,

before

this cup

and everything else

in the world

went cold.

who has time to read and study

i watch

from afar the ivy league

protests.

the heads and faces

wrapped in scarves,

screaming,

yelling,

supporting the likes

of Hammas.

how much i wanted to go

to a school

like Columbia,

to be taught how to write,

what to read,

the literature

of the world taught

by scholars.

what gratitude and pride

i would have

had,

with little time

to vandalize and set

the world

on fire.

the paint store clerk

his face

of cherubic nature,

lineless,

the floppy hair

of youth

impossible to comb

and keep

in one place,

a shy laugh

added to his young

voice.

just starting out,

just beginning a life,

now gone.

another fentanyl

death.

a night with pals and music,

in a darkened

loft.

i see they've put his

picture up

already on the store wall,

cut out of his high

school

yearbook,

from not long ago.

the first date prenup

before we get serious,

i tell Amanda,

when we meet for the first time

at the coffee shop,

i want you to sign this prenup

agreement

i had drawn up

by my lawyer.

it's just six pages of fine

print stating

the boundaries of our

relationship, and what

will happen if we dissolve it.

but i can sum it up for you

fairly quickly.

basically it says,

no matter what happens

between us, should we break up,

you get nothing.

zip, zero, nada, you get

not a single penny from me,

including property, cars,

investments, retirement funds, etc.

no alimony, lump sum

severance pay,

nothing.  and if God forbid,

we have to go to court,

you are fully responsible

for all courts costs and lawyer fees.

i push the paperwork

in front of her and hand her

a pen.

i show where to sign, and

initial, turning page after page.

take your time, i tell her.

look it over while

i go get you your coffee.

cream and sugar?

maybe a breakfast bun?

waiting for coffee to percolate

while doing

sit ups and push ups,

stretching on

the kitchen rug,

waiting for the coffee

to percolate,

i notice

how dirty the floor is.

crumbs

and spills, small

tumbleweeds

of things dropped,

i realize that from

now on

i need to exercise

in the other room

with as little light as

possible on.

expiration dates

i remember

when

there were no expiration dates

on cans

and boxes,

bags of food,

things wrapped

in foil or

plastic.

milk

or jams,

all you had to do was

look

at them,

crack it open and smell,

sometimes

it was toss up

before you took a taste,

but that's what little

sisters were for.

through a glass darkly

when

it's our turn

with it,

we seek

answers in places

we don't often

visit.

we look for comfort

in therapists,

we turn

to books for reason,

to priests

in long black gowns.

words we held back

on are stuck

in our mouths.

kisses undelivered

have gone

sour.

the roses limp

in the vase,

too late in arriving,

have gone brown.

without them it's just us

it's

wishful thinking

that they

possess,

but we

welcome them

with open arms,

the optimist

in

the crowd. we need

them.

we need

their soothing

words,

their smile,

their Un furrowed

brow,

we need

their

uplifting thoughts,

because without them,

it's just

us.

is it December or July?

she loved

Christmas. the tree, the wreathe,

the cooking

and lights.

the mistletoe.

she loved

her long list of who

to send

cards to,

the gifts,

the wrapping paper,

the ribbons

and bows.

the snow

globe,

the train set 

chugging smoke around

the mirror,

as if ice.

she loved Christmas,

but in the end,

at the senior home,

she didn't know

if it was

December or July.

you're fine

you almost

wanted to be sick,

to have

a fever

when your mother

came in

shaking the glass

thermometer

before sticking it in

under your tongue

and saying

close.

you wanted

to justify your day

home from

school.

tucked in tight,

a cold cloth on your

forehead,

hot cocoa and treats

brought to you,

books to read,

television to watch.

let the world

outside go on without

you.

you're fine.

blended in

ruin

yourself, go ahead

and be

one

of them.

join

the party,

submit to what

they do,

what came before

you.

be not yourself,

but them.

erased

and forgotten,

blended in.

i'll get to it

i know

what needs to be done,

but i can easily

push it aside and tell myself.

tomorrow.

i'll get to it

tomorrow.

that call i promised to make

to you today.

i'm sorry,

but it'll have to wait.

it's tomorrow

for that too.

looking down

from

the slant of a warm

roof.

high beyond

the trees,

i sit and look out over

the town.

everything looks

smaller

now

and far.

work

can wait a few minutes

more.

i want to see

what birds

see.

i wonder if it means

less to them,

or more.

bring something dark and cold

come to

me

without confessing

your sins.

be of good

cheer for once.

of course i'll listen,

but i can't

forgive you,

that's beyond my

empathetic skills.

i have no penance

to dole

out.

i'm dealing with my

own

at the moment.

but if you're

coming,

and bringing beer,

bring something

dark and cold,

preferably not stout.

don't worry, you'll find it

i used to worry

when losing things.

small or

large.

somehow left behind

or dropped.

but now

i wait, and know that

inevitably 

they will turn up.

hardly

anything is ever lost

completely,

except for love.

but then there's more

of where that came from too.

sweetened purple

even now

i can

feel my arm in the cold

ice water

of the metal

cooler

in the corner store,

pulling out

a long

glass bottle of Ne-hi

grape soda

then cracking

open the tight cap

and tasting

the first gorgeous

sip

of sweetened purple,

the bottle turned

upwards

to a sunlit sky.

the dog walker

despite being careful,

coming to full

stops

at each light and sign,

looking left then right,

a man

and his dog

come out of nowhere,

from behind

a row of thick hedges,

and i almost

flatten them to the ground.

he yells,

and screams,

the dog barks, pulled

back hard

by the angered man.

how did i not see

them?

why didn't they see me?

no apology will appease

him,

i can do nothing but

drive on.

i'll sleep uneasily tonight,

though

uncertain of the wrong.

the get well bouquet

the flowers

that you sent,

a get-well bouquet,

on the table are too bright,

from here,

this length of sofa i lie upon.

i'm unsure of what

the proper

flower is for ill health,

but red roses

feels wrong.

perhaps they'll fade

and die

in limp arms before

i return home.

the history of my life

is in the hands

of others now,

as i wait

for them to arrive and

wheel me

out, down the three steps

of concrete

i used to sit upon

and sun myself. once

so young.

have i ever told you

that i miss you 

coming around?

heading home together

let's be careful

where we step, there's

ice,

there's

slippery stones,

and grass

along

this path.

there's no rail

to hold onto

as we go down these steps.

here, take my hand.

embrace my arm.

together we can get

there

if we're brave,

never mind that we've

grown old.

gone off her trolley

feeling

nostalgic, i go up

into

the attic

to sort through the old

boxes

holding

photos and letters.

trinkets,

and memorabilia

from

years ago.

gooey Hallmark cards,

memories of past loves,

for better or worse,

and then

i see the straight jacket

i used to have

to put you in

when you went off the rails,

and i quickly climb

down

the ladder.

i pull

the rope

to shut the trap door.

oh well.

the one night stand

she tells

me

about her alien abduction.

the silver

craft

hovering and the beam

of light

that lifted her

up

out of her bed

and into

the open bottom of

the spaceship.

they made

love to me

she said. it was fabulous,

leaving my hair

in a mess,

my pajamas in a

disarray.

then they

lowered me

back down,

but left no phone number,

no address.

they just flew away.

it was just

like the old days

back in the eighties

when i used to go dancing

downtown.

your lightning strike

carefree

we are until lightning

strikes,

easy

going and bright,

quick

to laugh,

quick

to tease,

quick to be light

on our feet.

but by days end

no one gets out

unscathed

by life.

it's what's you do

next,

that reveals you.

the endless chase

what are we chasing?

is it sweets,

a thirst

or hunger, a possession?

what do we

need to acquire

to achieve

lasting contentment

and satisfaction?

is it the pretty girl

or boy.

the house on the hill

with an ocean view?

is it luxury?

muscles or thinness?

what thing do we need

to accomplish,

to say, i'm done, i'm

finished,

to feel at last that

there's no need to chase 

anything or anyone,

anymore.

the winter fields we ran a 8 a.m.

you remember most

the hard

teachers,

the rule setters,

the inflexible ones,

going by

the book.

they taught you the most

of what would

stick with

you when school ended,

but

there were the easy ones

too,

the lazy teachers,

hung over,

the ones just punching

the clock

and coming in

half pretty

after a night of cigarettes

and booze,

not really caring, letting

you rest your young

head on your

arms to sleep out the entire

lecture.

there were

the rough gym teachers as well,

treating you

like soldiers,

training you for life's battles,

sending you with spindly bare legs,

around and around

the winter fields.

the road to Carolina and Jodi

i haven't

had a good piece of home made

cornbread

since

Jodi moved

back to North Carolina.

same goes

for sweet tea,

and barbeque.

she never stole my heart,

but she certainly

planted a flag

in my belly.

i'd salivate just talking

to her on the phone

sometimes

and begin to sweat

with hunger.

i can see her in the kitchen now,

with her big

apron on,

double tied and covered

in flour.

it might be

time for a road trip

back down old 95.

do i really care?

do i care

for the world at large,

the rabble rousers,

the activists,

etc.

do i give a damn really

about

the ice bergs,

or pollution,

or even politics.

sometimes

i think i do,

and other times i know

i'm faking it

just blathering words

to make

conversation.

i know that were all

human

with our own faults

and foibles,

but i see the words

help me

painted on most

of their foreheads.

days would go by

days

would go by without

him

saying a word.

no one

stopped by,

the phone never rang,

the doorbell

never sounded.

what friends there were,

were gone

to places unknown.

sometimes

he'd go to the window

to look

out on the world

he used to know.

he thought that things

might change

at some point,

but no.

it starts with pink

i painted

the young girl's room,

a bubble gum 

pink when she was four,

and then

middle school

came along

and she wanted

green and blue and yellow,

so a rainbow it was,

painted

from ceiling down to the floor.

and then

at last

high school

came around

and everything went black,

with little

pinpoint stars

stuck

on the ceiling with tacks.

she called me the other day.

she's married now,

and wants me to stop by

with a fresh

gallon of pink

to paint a room

before her daughter is born.

my lovely good neighbors

i want

to buy an electric car,

to be done

with gas

and oil, etc.

i like how fast they are,

how sleek

and

smart.

so technologically

advanced.

but i don't want my neighbor,

an extremist

left wing

democratic elementary

school teacher who marches

every weekend

for climate

control

setting fire to it

or throwing a rock

through

the windows,

or inscribing on its hood

a fascist sign.

when i see them,

i'll ask them

at church tomorrow

if they could

give me a break and calm down.

the girl with long arms

she had

long arms, extremely long

arms.

but not too skinny

or too fat.

they weren't alien arms

alabaster white and

bent like

you see in sketches by hillbillies

who have been

abducted

into UFOs.

no.

they were normal, human

arms, but

very long, i can't say

that enough, she had

very long arms.

they were able to reach 

the ceiling

to clean out the cobwebs

in the air vents, or

to search the top shelf

of the cupboard

to find

that last box of pasta,

or to change

a lightbulb in the hall,

while holding the shade

in her hand.

i miss those arms sometimes.