leaving the orange chicken behind

we met

online, a dating site for singles.

we agreed

on a Chinese restaurant

at the edge of town.

she forgot to tell me,

until after

the egg rolls arrived,

that she was

still married

to a steelworker

who

threw hatchets for fun.

we're separated, she swore,

with a twinkle

in her eye.

she was waiting for me

in the lot,

in a truck.

a Ford F-150,

with her leg hanging out the window,

which i took for some reason

as a good sign.

it was a nice long leg,

pale and smooth

with a cowgirl boot

at the end.

we had mai tais,

and orange chicken.

it went well until her husband

showed up

wielding a hunting knife,

causing me to run like

an Olympic sprinter

through

the kitchen.

never saw her again.

i still shake my head though

over the leftovers

left behind.

there's a hole in the bucket

millions,

billions,

it's hard to understand

these numbers.

our tax dollars.

it's shocking

where it all goes.

who came

up with these crazy ideas

to spend our

hard earned money

on.

i want names, i want faces.

i want

handcuffs.

i want the perp walk,

the mug shots,

the shuffling of criminals

in a long

line.

she had other needs

he kept

birds,

pigeons

on the roof

in cages.

he gave them names,

tagging

their legs,

letting them

fly

far away.

he was always

with them

on the roof

waiting for their return.

he wasn't a bad

person.

wasn't this

proof?

his wife

disagreed though,

she

had other needs.

if this spaceship is rocking

they've been

in space

for almost a year,

men

and women.

an attractive

and intelligent group

of astronauts

with good teeth

and good hair.

they eat, sleep, drink,

play games,

work

and think while

staring out the window

at a trillion stars.

but are they having sex

up there?

why did he bring cologne

and her

perfume and something

inflammable

but sheer?

who goes

a year without Betty

floating over

to have some monkey

business

in back of the space

station

where they store

pints of tequila

and liters of beer.

the night shift

i understand

the day shift, the night

shift.

the blue

collar job,

the white collar

position

in a cubicle from

nine to five.

i understand dirt

and grime,

paint

and sewage,

low wages and long

hours.

i know

what blood is,

what

cuts are, what sore

knees

feel like

at the end of a day.

i wouldn't trade

any of it

for more money,

savoring the lessons

i've learned.

the mistakes

i've made.

go figure

the boy's face

was in

the shape of a perpetual

question

mark.

the brow

deepened with

lines,

an uncertain frown.

and when

i saw

him again, forty 

years later.

he still was unsure

of himself,

still

with his feet 

in uneasy ground.

but he was

rich and had a pretty

wife.

go figure.

the silent treatment

i like getting

the silent

treatment.

it's a wonderful thing

to hear

that door slam,

and you

going off to sleep

in the other room.

to not

hear

the screams,

or the old arguments

over and over

again.

i can almost hear

a pin

drop.

truly, silence is golden.

the shopping boycott

i do

extra shopping today.

this day

of a shopping

boycott.

i start early by

buying

more things

i already have,

or don't need.

i take out my credit

cards,

my check book,

my cash,

and dance around the stores,

i go online.

i buy whatever my

heart desires,

i'll have this and this,

and this,

and oh, i'll have

some of that.

the food chain

is it

the same on land

as it is

underwater?

big fish

eating little fish.

the food

chain

in a predictable

order.

nature taking its

relentless

course. the weak

and small

becoming

breakfast, lunch

and dinner.

done with people

she tells me,

in all seriousness

that she's

done with people.

people in

general.

they're mean and rude,

she says,

there's

no courtesy

or manners out there.

there's no respect

for one another

anymore.

maybe there never was,

but we played

the part,

we said hello, we held

doors.

we were polite.

those days have sailed.

giving us hope one slice at a time

if i saw

her in the kitchen,

early in the morning

on a Saturday,

sifting flour,

cracking eggs, and setting

out the big

board

to roll dough

onto.

i knew it would a good

day.

she was welcoming hope

of some kind,

a hope

she could

never express

with words, but

with the rising of

bread.

nothing will ever be the same

sometimes

it's a conversation,

a look

in someone's eyes.

maybe a kiss,

maybe a left

turn

on the road.

perhaps it's a movie

or a show,

a book

in your lap. maybe

it's death,

or new love.

a truth, a lie.

perhaps it's

a secret

that you've learned,

but it's a moment

in time,

where you truly believe

that nothing will

ever be the same.

with the hood up on a February morning

it's just a dead

battery.

nothing more or less,

easily

fixed or replaced.

a jump start

will do as well.

but it feels like

something more

on this frigid day,

standing in the slush

as she stares at me

from the bedroom

window.

it's a sign of some sort,

i'm sure of it,

an omen,

if you may.

winning in the end

i could

throw away the old pad

of paper

where we

kept score playing gin rummy

long into the night.

your name

and mine, side by side,

and underlined.

the columns of scores

below.

i could easily

toss this old pad

into the trash,

but why bother.

i like to win,

as i often did,

and this keeps that memory

intact.

will the well run dry?

as it is

with every well,

you

want to hear the splash

of water

when the bucket drops

by the rope

held in your old hands.

will it run

dry. will only a cloud

of dust rise.

will love

survive?

will there be more words

to fill

the thirst, the empty page.

will there

still be memories

to analyze?

how long

can you still write

and make

tears fall from your eyes?

a jamboree protest on capitol hill

i look out

my apartment window on

capitol hill

and hear

what sounds like seagulls,

or cats

screeching with their

tails stuck

under rocking chairs.

but no.

it's protestors singing songs

they just

made up,

something about Trump

and Elon Musk,

they're banging on trashcans

as they croak

out of tune

nursery rhymes,

pumping their pink

fists in the cold

Washington air.

Dr. Freud call your office,

you have a lot of work

to do.

the observant clerk

the clerk,

a young hipster woman

behind

the register,

bags my

groceries as they slide

up to her

on the conveyor belt.

you live alone,

don't you? she

says,

nonchalantly, as she

puts

one tomato, one avocado

and one steak

into the bag,

followed by batteries,

a box of hair dye,

and a

Consumer Report magazine.

divorced, and

living alone,

aren't you, she says,

not bothering to ask if

i have

coupons.

she knows i don't.

the afterglow and pillow talk

seconds after

a wild session of making

monkey

love

in the morning,

exhausted i stare up

at the ceiling

with a smile

on my face

hands behind my head.

she leans into me,

and whispers,

a penny for thoughts,

my love,

what are you thinking

about?

you look so happy.

pastrami,

i tell her,

stacked high on

two warm slices

of rye bread,

with mustard.

i'm just wondering if Katz's deli

in New York

delivers.

schisandra berries

i scroll

the phone. which keeps

me informed

on how

to continue living.

how to pray,

how to

keep from getting

dementia,

or going soft

in the belly. it tells

me how

to stay young, what

to read,

what to eat.

how to stay sane.

it tells me which pills

to take

or not take.

which vegetable is

good for

my libido.

i'm going out for

schisandra berries later

today.

after a nap of course.

and then the mailman appeared

i forget what i was going

to tell you.

something

of great importance.

something that

would change

the future of us.

i had it all worked

out in my mind.

each word

leading to another word,

but i've lost it.

i got distracted by a dog

barking

outside the house.

and then the mailman

appeared.

the first child

she has

no children, i can see that

by the hat

on her dog. the pinafore,

the necklace,

the pink chain,

the knit booties on her

paws.

the basket on her

bike.

all of it

a dead give away

as they ride to the park

for a picnic.

just the two of them,

with sandwiches cut

into small bites.

throwing money around

i look

at my tax dollars

and shake

my head.

this dollar going to a war,

this one

to a country

i've never heard of,

this dollar,

to examining frogs

in

Africa,

dogs

in Somalia.

chickens in Brazil.

the money,

my money, your money,

keeps flying

out the door.

and yet there's a pothole

that i hit,

or miss

nearly

every morning when

i drive carefully

to work.

it's very cold in here

my mother

kept

her house at 78 degrees

almost

all year

round.

but she was still cold,

still

wrapped

in a shawl,

a robe,

a gown.

socks and mittens.

her

husband,

her nemesis,

my stepfather kept

her

icy cold.

mercifully,

she was buried in a full

length mink

stole.

the non-binary blues

he's evil,

Julie says to me, adjusting

her nose

ring,

and scratching

her blue

hair.

he's the worst president

ever.

ever, she says, sipping

on her

soy milk

and eating dried

fruit wedges

and kale.

him

and that billionaire

are stealing

our money, taking away

our rights.

he won't let my son

who transitioned

into a girl

play

on the girl's softball team

this year.

he's evil.

pure evil.

but, he's trying to balance

the budget,

i tell her,

he's helping to end

two world wars,

he secured the border

and is getting

criminals off the street.

he wants no taxes on tips,

no taxes on

social security payments.

he wants to give everyone

a dividend from

the money saved this year

by DOGE.

so what,

she says,

someone last month called

me by the wrong pronoun.

he called me

her, instead of they.

i can't live like that.

i am non-binary, damn it.

i haven't been able to sleep

for weeks.

children

we had

a bad dog. a really bad

dog.

the barking,

the nipping,

the tearing up of furniture

and trash.

peeing

on table legs,

gnawing.

walking him was like

walking

a fish.

impossible.

so we put him into

the local

Dog School.

he graduated with honors.

then he

went to grad school.

four years later

we took him

home.

immediately

he peed in the middle

of the floor

and bit me.

we're taking him back

to get his

PHD.

next week.

we're hopeful that at

some

point

he'll run away.

tourists

we were

in 

Greece,

off a tour bus, off a ship

in the harbor.

tennis shoes

and ball

cap,

wearing a blue

Lion's football

jersey,

while

sipping a cup of Starbuck's

coffee,

and pointing

our phones

at some marble

statue

in an ancient courtyard.

that's nice,

she says to me.

i nod.

yup.

look at that rock over

there.

a table maybe?

could be, she says.

i'm hungry. you?

they're having baklava

on the ship

today

for lunch, maybe we should

hurry back.

get in here right now, Doris

i call

my secretary into the office,

yelling at

her on my father's

1950

wooden

intercommunication

box.

get in here.

get in here now, Doris,

right now!

she finally comes in.

explain to me these

books,

why are we in the red

this year?

what is your explanation

for all these

expenses? 

i'm not Doris,

she says,

i'm your wife, Betty.

you know

you're really not doing

well with retirement,

are you?

a small opening and they're in

it's the soft

pitter patter of paws

on the roof,

they're

looking for a way

in,

a window

or broken

board, a small

sliver

of entry to make

a home

in my home.

women are like that.

what are you wearing?

Dasha,

from Moscow,

calls me

on the phone, WhatsApp.

it's six o'clock

eastern standard time.

she asks

me what i'm wearing.

i describe

my jeans

and t-shirt, my boots

and hat,

which makes her laugh.

i'm dressed like a schoolgirl,

she says

seductively.

and i've been a bad girl.

i didn't do my

homework.

i have no idea

what time it is there,

but she wants

to play

on the phone.

she says there's no men

there anymore,

they're all off fighting

in that stupid

war.

if i was there with you,

she asks me,

tell me what

we'd do. tell me, my American

cowboy,

but make it short, i'm

really tired

and i'm hungry too.

never got the whip

because

the father used the strap

on the boy,

the boy

grew up

and whipped his own

children.

and they

in turn

whipped theirs.

i'm thankful that my

father

was rarely home

and ran

around

most nights chasing

skirts.

free lance obituary

i get a job

writing

obituaries. freelance,

five dollars

per line.

i interview the mourning

members

of the family

and friends

and jot down

a little about the deceased's

life.

tell me about him,

or her,

i ask politely.

what were his hobbies,

his successes,

what did he like.

was a good person,

a good husband or wife,

did he lie,

or cheat,

did he steal. did he break

every single

one of the ten

commandments at some

point in his life?

did he like his work,

or dread

the hours, and the dreary

duties he signed

up for?

was he well liked?

no? well,

okay, okay.

no worries here,

i'm adept at fiction

too, if that's alright.

the blind man next door

the blind

man

in the apartment next door

to me,

had a dog

and a white cane

and yet

i never once heard

him complain.

he had

a wife

who did that for him,

though she

could see,

not he, 

which made

all the difference

in the world.

the old town wig store

i stop

and stare into the window

on King

Street,

gazing into

the Wig Store.

i say to Emily, it must

be a front

for something.

are there really that

many wigs

sold?

blue, red, green, silver

and black.

all styles

are present. from

the modern day

hairdo,

to Jackie O.

should we go in?

no she says,

not yet, all in good time

though.

all in good time.

street shadows

who are

these

people taking all these

drugs.

wandering

like shadows

on the city

streets.

sticking needles into their arms,

snorting,

smoking, swallowing

the pills,

ingesting the weed,

the meth

and crack

that come across 

the border

or are home grown?

what madness are they

trying

to escape

or enter, making darkness

their final stop,

alone.

with lips pressed together

i see the young

couple

in the park, they are

entwined

on a bench,

her legs over his,

his arms

around her,

with lips pressed

together,

cheeks flush

with the cold and

something

akin to love or lust.

it stirs a fond memory

of mine,

now grown

old.

i press the button, but no one comes to save me

i finally

succumb to the endless phone

calls

from the telemarketers

and buy

the medical

alert system.

i get the necklace

and the bracelet.

one white,

one black.

i set the system up

in the house,

then

wake up every morning

and press

the buttons.

no one comes to save me.

no cop,

or paramedic,

no friends or family.

no one comes to see

if I've fallen and can't

get up.

so i cancel

the credit card

for future payments.

i'm free at last.

making a career move

you wonder

at what point does someone

decide

to become

a fire eater

in the circus.

putting a flaming sword

down his

throat.

at what point

did this seem like a good

career move?

did his wife

argue with him,

and suggest

a job at the post office

instead?

there is no middle ground

i try,

i try so hard to have

a discussion

with

my friend,

to find a middle ground,

to suggest

solutions,

to stop

with the name calling

and hatred,

to set aside our differences,

but it's of no

use.

his heart is black

and

frozen,

there is

no useful debate.

there's work to be done

there

are so many loose

ends

to tie

or cut

at the end of one's

life.

so much

left

in the refrigerator,

the dryer,

the cupboards,

bills

to be sent out.

notifications

sent 

to children

and an ex-wife,

that friend

across the way.

get the broom out,

there's work

to be done.

who wants any of these

store bought

heirlooms

now.

leave a light or two on

i leave

the porch light on

when

i go away

for a week or more.

i leave

a kitchen light on

too,

and a bedroom light.

i turn

on a radio

and put a 

dancing silhouette,

of me,

fan blown,

in the window.

there's more going on

here

in this house

when i'm away

than when

i'm here.

the annual clown show

i try

to watch the Oscars.

but 

can't.

i yawn.

i throw up in my mouth

a little

at

the dancing,

the songs.

the speeches

that go on too long.

it's a woke

party

of the elite.

everyone

dressed

like circus clowns.

wearing their politics

on their sleeve.

and the movies

stink.

what happened to plot,

to character

development,

to exploring the human

condition,

to stories

that grip the soul?

i get beat up a lot

i can't

help myself at times.

i troll

and provoke,

i use

cryptic

double talk to make

my

passive aggressive

thoughts

be known.

i'm a wise

guy.

sarcasm is my home

sweet home.

some get it,

and play along,

they poke back,

but

some don't.

so i get beat up a lot.

a treasure trove of beauty

this dump 

is art,

this fallen tree

on the gravel road,

this

murky

swamp,

the baby blue washing

machine

rusted

in the heap.

a pink doll with one

arm.

the cracked

mirror,

the torn coat,

dishes scarred,

vases and

bent cutlery,

the broken alarm

stuck

on three.

all art.

a treasure trove

of discarded

beauty.

not always music

the crystal ballerina

spins

on the velvet wheel

as the music

plays

a tinkling of sound.

it's a mystery to the child

who closes

the small

box and opens it,

again and again.

love is like that

sometimes.

writing her name in the dust

as i swat

a tumbleweed across

the living room

floor

and toss a load of laundry

down the steps,

i wonder

what's happened to Milagro,

my cleaning

lady.

what have i done

to upset her.

she's a hot head

at times,

but this is ridiculous.

it's been two

months since

she came to clean.

was it the no Christmas

tip,

in the greeting card?

no sodas

and chips in the fridge?

she's ghosting me,

ignoring my

calls.

i write her name

with sadness in the thick

dust,

layered

on the cabinet in the hall.

one two three four we don't want your.....

we could

send

more money to support

the war.

we could send

Larry

and Joe

and Karen

in their new uniforms.

more bombs

more

guns,

more of everything

they need

to stall

the fighting for another

ten years

or more. but

haven't we already

seen this

movie

a dozen times

or more?

we used to chant,

knee deep

in the reflection pool

in Washington,

in 1968,

one two three four

we don't

want your f..ing war,

but apparently

we like

war again.

we don't want you anymore

i can

still see the glow

in the dark

Virgin Mary

on my mother's

dresser.

her palms curdled

hard,

the rosary beads

and cross.

and her letter from

the archdiocese

of St. Thomas

More.

saying

she was

excommunicated

after

getting a divorce.

cold soup in apartment 1210

she invited me

for dinner in her studio

apartment

on the twelfth floor.

there were lighted candles

on her card

table.

the music on low.

she had her hair

down,

lipstick on.

the meal

started with soup.

cold soup.

i took a sip then

gently told

her that it was cold,

as if she didn't know.

she looked

at me and laughed

and said

it's supposed to be that way.

i said.

oh.

she said it's called

Gazpacho.

years later i ran into her

after she came back

from Portugal,

and she told

me that

she wished we had

made love

that night,

but the soup changed

everything.

what time can you come over?

i'm done

with nature, at least

for awhile.

i get nothing out of the trees,

or stream,

the woods

full of birds.

the pecking of beaks,

and chirps.

i've had my fill of greenery

and fall

leaves,

the rustic bridge across

the water.

i'm not skipping stones

anymore

or pondering

the clouds

reflecting in the lake.

i don't have a contemplative

thought in

my brain.

i need a break

from this tranquility.

so what time

can you come over?

they're hard to be around

women

can spot a loose thread

from a across

the room,
a rip

or tear in your shirt

or sweater,

they notice things.

the dollop

of icing on your nose,

the drip

upon your clothes.

they're

very hard to be

around

when you just don't care

anymore.

the mystery meat

as children

we'd

huddle around one

another

while one of us

would,

with a butter knife,

pry open the metal latch

on a can

of Spam.

we were out of peanut

butter.

out of bologna,

out of tuna fish.

we stared into the pink

slab of

gooey meat,

glistening in the kitchen

light.

we'd gulp and grimace

with

with clenched teeth

as the lid

bent back.

okay,

we'd say,

to one another,

who wants to go first,

then hand them

a spoon,

a slice of wonder

bread

and mustard,

then the blue can

dripping

with juice.

enjoying the free world

i spend

the day in bed

with books

and coffee

the dog and cat,

the tv remote nearby.

the radio

playing

softly.

i don't answer the door

or the phone.

i've made

my peace with the world.

no work,

no stress, no boss

or wife

to bother me.

it's a world i've never

known.

his tabasco sauce

i move

his ashes from

the mantle

to the kitchen table.

i make

coffee, i ask

him if he wants cream

in his.

he never did.

but i ask anyway.

i make

toast

and eggs.

i set a plate out for him,

the salt and pepper

shakers,

his tabasco sauce.

then we

sit

and eat.

the silence says everything.

snow days

if it

snowed and school

was out.

we'd

rustle up our coins

and go

to the movies.

the double

feature

was best.

the show didn't matter.

we were

entertained,

our minds soft with

imagination.

soaking it all in,

away

from life,

from our parents.

we had escaped for

a few

dreamy

hours while the snow

fell outside.

the rest of your tomorrows

you keep

walking until there's no one

around you.

there's no hand

in yours.

no voices,

no screams, no

babies

crying.

no sirens.

you are in

a wide field

of windblown grass.

no houses,

no farms, no graves

to grieve over.

no factories

to work in.

you stand

in the center of nothing.

you have

arrived at the middle

of nowhere.

once more willing

to begin

again with the rest 

of your tomorrows.

wake us up when it's over

there

are some countries that

you rarely

hear about.

they lay low,

out of the mix

of world

turmoil.

they eat,

sleep and drink.

they make

babies

and take long vacations.

they're drinking wine

in the sun,

stretched out

on a hammock.

while strumming a mandolin.

that's where

we need to go.

how to stop the war

why doesn't

Putin's wife,

or mistress slap him upside

the head

and make

him stop

this stupid, senseless

war.

where are the women

in this mess.

these chicks need to cut

these

men off.

the generals, the leaders,

the grunts in

the mud.

no more nookie

until the shooting stops.

no more

who's your daddy, until

the bombs

no longer drop.

no more snuggle time

until

a peace treaty

is signed.

Jake's Sunday calls

Jake would

call me from jail,

asking

me

for commissary money.

it was

a one way

call from the phone

on the jailhouse

wall.

the food is awful,

he'd say.

but my cousin is a deputy

here,

and says he'll go out

for some KFC.

i could hear his

roommates

banging

metal trays

against the bars,

threatening each other

with

deadly harm.

i'm going to bite your nose

off,

i hear one man say.

thirty more

days, i tell him.

just behave yourself.

and stop

calling.

hold your breath a little longer

i tire

of the tire

losing

air.

i go out and stare

at the bulging

rubber

nearly flat

on the road.

a pin hole

of anil

stuck

between the treads

somewhere.

come on,

i tell it, giving

it a kick.

stick with it.

just hold

your

breath for a mile or

two

longer.

get us down this

old

old road.

get me out of here

i avoid

the crowded rooms,

the large gatherings,

the busy

streets

or stores.

the malls.

the concert hall,

the stadiums.

i resist

the party invitations,

the weddings,

the birthdays.

i'm only comfortable

these days

with funerals

where it's okay to stand

quietly

alone.

i think i'll stay home

i find

myself finding more

and more

excuses to stay home.

the ice box

is full.

i already know the news.

it's windy,

it's cold, it might rain.

it might snow.

the traffic is backed up.

i might meet an

ex-wife

on the road.

not looking for trouble

i haven't seen

a frog

or a turtle in ages.

not even

a snake.

the woods used to be

full of them.

fox

and vultures,

skunks with

their stripes.

not that i'm looking

for any of them,

or for trouble,

but a little safe

wildlife would be nice.

the boy Labrador

the boy

was

more of a Labrador

than

a pit bull.

not lazy,

just likable and sweet.

easy

going. always

finding a circle

of sun

to lie in.

playful

and agreeable,

he didn't mind

the leash.

there was never a fight.

and then

i told him he had

to go

find a job,

which caused the barking

to begin

as well as the bites.

brother, can you help a country out?

like birds 

on a feeder,

there's

a line wrapped around

the white house.

princes and kings,

presidents

and queens,

parliamentary figures

from all over

the world.

it's the gravy

train

with their hats out.

we hate you, but we need

help.

brother can you spare

a few more

billion

to cure our ills,

to fight our wars, to feed

us,

to save us

from the rest of the world.

yes,

we hate you.

but please.

can you help a country out?

so what have we learned here

so what

have we learned,

i ask

the therapist as i write

her another

check.

what?

she says. what do you

mean?

so what

have we learned here in this

last session

with me

whining about my

life?

she stands up and brushes

the lint

off her dress.

we can discuss it next

week, she says.

but for today

your time is up.

can i be helped, i ask

her.

can you truly straighten

me out,

and get me back on

the right path.

we'll see, she says.

patting me on the shoulder

and opening the door.

but it's too early to tell.

washed up upon the shore

i've washed

up

upon this shore, onto

the soft

sea

of a green sofa.

the moon is gently

bathing

me in

its milky light.

at some point

i'll rise

and climb the stairs,

and say

to someone not here,

good night.

putting on our costumes

we learn

early as children that a costume

matters.

Halloween

brings

out the hero or villain

in all of us.

the monster,

or saint.

and we continue

on

in our adult years

with a golden suit

when singing

a song,

maybe 

a holy robe

to bless the flock,

a camouflage outfit

in jungle

green.

a cop in blue,

a sailor in white,

a lawyer with a red

tie,

a farmer in overalls,

the executioner in

black.

but we trick or treat

during the day,

though

occasionally at night.

three sides to every war

we can

extend this war with another

hundred

billion

dollars or so,

more tanks,

more missiles,

more guns and bombs,

or we could say,

no more.

let's make a deal.

have peace.

give in,

give up. stop killing

each other,

but there's

always at least

three sides

to every story,

to every war.

redacted again and again

we want

a deeper meaning.

the true

but

sequestered reasons,

hidden

from view.

we want names

and places,

dates

and times.

we want to cut through

the red tape,

through the mystery

of it all.

we want the hidden

files,

the redacted

type revealed.

we want to know

it all.

something, anything,

we're so tired

of fraud.

the empathetic mugger

the mugger

tells me

to put both arms in the air,

but i tell

him, i can't

i injured my

shoulder, my rotator cuff

to be exact,

playing basketball

over the weekend.

aren't you a little

old for that,

he says.

yeah, probably, i tell him.

okay, he says.

okay gramps,

just one arm up.

thanks i tell him,

raising my good arm

as he frisks me and

takes my

cash.

her Spanish leather

i couldn't

keep up

with her Spanish leather,

her Italian

dress,

her French

lingerie.

her villa

on the island.

i was way behind,

in my

shorts

and flip flops.

all i had

was a house full

of books,

and a kiss.

the dimming of light

my house,

like

the park outside

looks better

right when the sun

goes down.

the dimming of light

hides so

much dirt

and dust.

cobwebs and spills.

the unmade

bed,

and pillows thrown

about.

i look outside

to the sandlot,

to the rusted

monkey bars and slides,

the broken

swings.

everything is more

palpable in the dark.

pennies saved

i read

my father's will,

slowly.

then i read his mother's will

keeping

him out

of any pennies

she might have

saved.

a few stapled pages

of legalese

revealing subtlety

an epic story

of bitterness

and rage.

the lollygagging is over, i guess

the parking

lot

is near empty

as people go back to work

in the city

to their

government

jobs.

no longer do i see

men

in pajamas

drinking coffee

on their porch,

or women

in yoga pants stretching

while on

the phone.

but the roads

are a mess,

traffic is backed up

from here

to the Doge office.

let's go find your mum

i remember

the one

and only time i struck my

son.

he was about to

put a flat

head screwdriver

into an electrical

wall socket.

he was somewhere

between two

and one.

i dove

across the room

and smacked him on

the butt,

protected by

a thick full plastic

diaper, which sprained

my wrist.

i explained to him

the danger

of doing such a thing,

which made

him shrug.

he didn't cry, or

even topple

over,

but said,

dad, can you change me,

to which i said,

umm.

let's find your mum.

ten hours earlier

i don't like

when

the movie or show

puts up

on the screen

in bold type,

ten hours earlier,

and then they

back track for a while

showing you

how they

got to where they were.

my brain

can't wrap around that,

despite

thinking that way

with my own

life

each and every day.

mildly insane

her Christmas

tree

is still up.

her Halloween lights

and decorations.

a pumpkin on the sill.

there's

an Easter

basket on the dining room

table,

wrapped in

pink cellophane.

she's drinking

green

beer.

she's not depressed

or sad,

or crazy,

just mildly insane.

but who isn't these days?

i saw Our Town in this suit

i'm

pleased with myself

that

the suit still fits.

hardly worn,

black

and conservative,

proper

for any era,

it's

still hanging in the closet

beside

the full length

mirror.

it's

the wedding suit,

the funeral suit,

the opera suit, i saw

To Kill a Mockingbird,

in it once, and

Our Town

many years later.

they may have to

bury me

in this suit.

which would be fine

with me.

i keep

all the folded invitations

in my coat

pocket.

tickets, and brochures,

Playbills, 

parking stubs,

receipts.

they say you can't take it

with you.

but i believe you can.

dangling her carrots

she dangled

her carrots

in front of me for miles,

for months.

they were right in

front of me,

i could almost

reach them,

taste them.

the bright color

and scent of those

carrots

intoxicated me.

but no matter

how hard

i galloped,

or trotted or jumped

fences,

those carrots

always remained inches

out of reach.

what did them in?

when

someone dies, it's not

enough

to hear so.

we need more information.

we want to know

what did them

in.

what was the cause

of this early

or late

demise.

but it's all for selfish

reasons,

we're trying to find out

what to avoid,

what line not to cross

in order

to survive.

you're always late for me

i waited

on the roof for you.

high above

the street,

the snow was falling

like stars

from the sky.

i waited for you

to come

and visit me before

i fell asleep.

i'm still waiting here

for you.

you're late again.

you're always late

when it

comes to me.

betty de milo

despite

the missing arms

on

Venus de Milo,

she's still quite lovely

in this

museum

light,

with curves 

seductively chiseled

in

marble white.

it makes

me want to forgive

you dear girl

and call you up,

so maybe,

just maybe, what

are you

doing tonight?

get away from these people, and be well

i stare

at the two shelves

of self

help books i've bought down

through the ages

dealing with heartbreak

and 

grief.

survival and revival,

helping to ensure

that

the phoenix

of me

rises again.

long into the night

with hard

tears would i study

the nuances

of narcissism

and borderlines,

codependency, psychopaths,

and all

the other crap out there.

but i haven't picked one

up in years, not since the last

marriage

ended.

the lesson learned

being

get away from these people

and be well.

diminishing vices

there

used to be more vices.

drink

and carousing

late a night,

chasing

loose

women

fast women,

slow

ones too.

but now it's down to

three of cups

of coffee

in the morning after

sleeping in late,

although

i still have

fond thoughts

of you.

i only grazed him

there is no

infirmary

for the broken

fly,

the black buzz

settling on

the lamp

shade

with one wing torn

aside.

he was too quick

me for,

me with my baton

of news.

i only

grazed him,

and now

his sad attempt

at flying

is making me blue.

winning the Maine state high school girls championship

my daughter's

basketball team in Maine,

will never lose

a game

this year.

they will win

the state championship

and go undefeated.

they've recruited

two boys, who

are now identifying

as girls

to be on their squad.

they wear

dresses,

and moo moos,

Culottes,

that sort of thing.

perfume and lipstick.

one is seven foot tall

and the other is

six foot five

with muscles

and has a 47 inch vertical

leap.

the taller one wears

pigtail hair

extensions

and the other has a weekly

blow out

of his curly locks.

it takes them a little extra

time in the locker

room

for them to shave their

legs,

but once they're in the game,

watch out boy,

i mean girl.

the seven footer goes by the name

of Belle, instead

of Bill.

the other one calls herself

Jenny instead

of Jimmy.

it's going to be one heck

of a fun

season. the WNBA are

already scouting these two

up and coming

girl stars.

black market eggs

i fill up

the pockets of my long

black

coat

with eggs

and head down

to the market.

i stand outside the door

and whisper

to people

as they go in.

eggs?

you need eggs?

i ask them.

i show them

the eggs in my pocket

from home.

a few dozen.

i tell them i have a source

and show

them a photo

of my two chickens,

Thelma and Louise.

don't worry, i tell them,

they'll

make more.

breathing is important

as i go

down the aisle

of the pharmacy looking for

a reliable

cold remedy

i think about the Pope

with two

lungs

failing him.

nearly out

of breath from the long

walk

in cold air,

i use my inhaler,

take a few puffs into my

lungs

and say a prayer

for him.

not that he needs it.

he seems

to have that covered.

the data republican

she can't speak

or hear

like most of the world

can.

but she's a genius

at

creating software,

a brilliant

unbiased engineer.

the data republican.

someone stands near her

to translate

the flurry

of her

hands

and fingers and put

into words

what she has discovered

hidden in

the dirt.

it's worse than you can

ever imagine,

she says.

the fraud, the thievery,

the interconnections

of the dark belly

of politicians

and their

clan.

will anyone listen?

madly chopping carrots

she was

good at slamming a book

down, or in

closing a door

with a loud bang,

or window.

it was a loud period

at the end

of long tirade.

i'd hear in the kitchen

madly chopping

carrots

having run

out of things to say.

lifetime achievement awards

like for actors,

do they

have lifetime achievement

awards

for plumbers

or electricians,

painters and carpenters.

roofers, perhaps.

a gold statue,

maybe wrench or a plunger,

or a saw,

given to a man

or woman

who has saved the day

for decades,

by arriving at

3 a.m.

to take care of the backed

up commode

or septic tank,

to get the power back on.

i can hear their

speeches now,

thanking their moms and dads,

their trade

schools,

Home Depot

and God.

her private conversations

before she moved on,

she used

to whisper to the farm animals.

i'd see her

down

by fence,

talking to goats,

or horses

an occasional cow.

i could see her lips

moving from

the window

as she stroked their

backs

or heads

i'd watch her in long

conversations

with

chickens and pigs

saying things she never

said to me.

it worried me

for a while, but no more.

93 types of mosquitoes

i read

where Florida has over

93 types

of mosquitoes.

whether

that's true or not, i'm

not sure.

but it keeps

me from

gathering up the dog

and cat

and heading south.

at least for now.

where does it all go?

where

does all the trash go?

the orange

peels

the pink

toilets, the newspapers

and empty

cans of beans.

where does

the broken mirror go,

the shoes,

the clothes,

the oil cans

and tools.

where does that turkey

carcass go,

the table scraps,

the old

phones,

the rusted trombone?

on what hill do they

die on,

or go under

with a blanket of grass

to hide

them?

i don't know.

i don't want to know.

picking up Rhonda at 7

i used

to change the oil,

the brake

pads,

the oil pump,

the water pump.

the filters.

i could put four new

shock absorbers

on the car

on a Saturday

afternoon,

have it washed

and waxed

and ready to pick

up Rhonda

by 7 o'clock.

i used to set the points,

change

the plugs,

install new lights

and blinkers and

the wipers too,

but now,

i don't know where

the latch is

to pop the hood.

ice on the fat lip

the fat

lip

is a reminder that

you've

said

too much to the wrong

person

at the wrong

time.

but no teeth were

chipped

and when you

woke

up the next day

you could

hardly remember

what happened,

though

as your head

cleared

you remembered

that

you still had more

to say.

ducking might be

necessary

the next time

you have drinks with

Sally.

everyone was skinny back then

everyone was

skinny

back then.

our ribs showed,

the bones

in our

back,

our legs were spindly,

our

arms

lean, but strong.

we could run

all day in

the street,

in the parks and

fields.

but we ate too,

we gorged

ourselves on home

cooked

meals,

we were sticks

with bellies full.

i look out the window

now

at the playground

but it's

different,

the world has changed,

so has

the food.

he's not as funny as he used to be

it's well

known, the comic, despite

his

pleasant

demeanor

has gone through

hell and back.

people

he's loved have died.

he's almost

died himself.

the decades have been hard

on him.

a falling star

still trying to rise.

he's been on drugs

and drink,

married five times.

his mug shot is well known

and yet

here he is

an hour and a half onstage,

spitting

out his lines.

and when we leave

we whisper to each

other,

he's not as funny as

he used to be.

what possibly could have

gone wrong?

remove the hunger and bite

the lure

of the new, the shiny,

the dangling

piece of

silver

in the calm water

brings

a fish

to see what it is.

why

not take a bite

and remove this hunger?

it disregards

the pointed

barbs,

the filament almost

unseen.

this fish is so much,

so much

like me.

the yellow kite

i could swim

from

here, abandon

this leaking boat

tilting

in the blue bay.

i see sand,

i see the grass and hills.

i see a white

cottage

with red shutters.

i see a small

boy with a yellow

kite

high in the clouds.

i see so much, all of it

seems more real

when

you're close to death.

on red wings

it slips

through the thicket

of winter

trees.

a red

dash of wings

with 

an early worm

in it's

beak.

life does go on,

despite

everything.

pants in the mail

it takes

me a week, a whole seven

days

for me to realize

that i don't like the color

of these pants

i'm wearing.

green, what was i thinking?

fortunately

i still have the receipts

and the packaging

they came in.

i get the salsa stain

out of the seat,

and brush off the dog

hair then fold them

neatly before

sending them back to

Amazon.

easy peasy.

i see my neighbor wearing

them

the next week.

the slight 

stain of salsa still visible.

he tells me

happily

that he found a five dollar

bill in one of the pockets

and a key,

but i say nothing.

i  have a backup hanging

in the shed.

working at home, sort of

i get

an email from DOGE,

it's from

Elon.

he wants me to send

him a list

of five

things i did this week

with regards to my job.

in no consecutive order

i write

down,

eat, drink, sleep

and walk,

read,

watch tv,

shower

and brush my teeth.

i did a little shopping on amazon.

played wordle,

keeping alive

my thirty-one-day streak.

i also

went to the doctor,

the dentist.

took my dog to the vet,

and visited my

mom

at the Sunset

Senior home

for lunch each day of the week.

i really didn't have time

for work.

so i never

turned

my computer on.

it's just by luck i

got this email.

but the government seemed

to work just

fine without me.

it continues to go on.

sorry Elon.

can you give me one more

chance

to justify

all my benefits and nearly

a hundred thousand

dollar income?

maybe i'll stop by the office

next week

if i find the time,

and if i can remember what

street my

office is on.

the prettiest girl in the room

she believed

she was beautiful,

the prettiest girl in the room.

people

told her that

her entire

shallow life.

so did i.

so did i.

how easily we're fooled.

it's why i walk away

ragged

man

lying in the gutter.

i know

you.

pockets pulled out,

empty

of all

litter.

beard gone long

and grey.

your blue

eyes

almost washed

away.

i know you.

i see you

and

believe it's me at

times.

it's why

i turn

and walk away.

i don't really know you

the ocean

of you,

the salt and brine,

the depth,

the dense

green,

the opaque blue.

the grave

of you.

the swirl

of sea,

the endless curves.

i don't really

know

you, but at times

i fool myself

and think i do.

the 876 area code call

Mr. David Sayers

has informed me that 

i've won

the mega millions lottery again.

i'm going

down

to the CVS

to buy a claimers card,

a green dot money

pak card

to seal the deal.

it's only five hundred dollars

to register

my claim

to 2.5 million dollars,

a Mercedes Benz

and a weekly sum of 8 thousand

dollars

deposited directly

into my bank account

once i give him

my account number.

he's taken care of my taxes

too,

and tells me

that God has shined his light

on me,

that i'm blessed

and he's angel of mercy

come to give

me financial freedom.

i tell him to hold on for a minute

while i scramble some eggs

and put

two slices of toast

into the toaster.

community pick up

i unload

a bunch of junk from the house.

old

bikes

and weight machines,

pictures

still in their frames.

a mattress,

sheets and pillows.

towels.

coats i never wear.

old monitors

and tvs,

landlines

and bent silverware.

i drag all of it out to the curb

for morning

pick up.

but by morning it's all

gone

and i see a neighbor

wearing my

old hat

and gloves, with

my wedding album under

his arm.

the annual fall off her horse

i haven't heard

from her

since she fell off her horse

and hit

her head

on a jumping

post.

but since

the election we weren't

talking

that much

anyway.

i think we're toast.

night fever

i dive

into my late 1970's closet

and pull

out

my crock pot

and my fondue dish.

i find

my turtleneck

sweater

and my lavender

flare

pants

with a matching silky

man blouse

with galleons

sailing about.

i slap on some Hi

Karate

cologne then,

throw some records

onto the turn

table.

i then vacuum my orange

shag carpet

and crack open

a bottle of Mateus wine.

it's party time,

i'm ready to dance.

please, don't come in

the doctor's

nurse

sends me an email.

she says

don't come in.

we're really busy right now.

we can do

this on the phone between

the hours of

ten

and eleven a.m.

on the 24th.

so don't

show up here

with your ailment,

whatever

it might be.

if possible send a picture

of the lump

or sore,

or broken limb,

or a photo of your tongue

and throat.

please

take your temperature

and weigh

yourself

and have those numbers

ready for

when the doctor calls.

tells us to color

of your spit

and urine as well.

we suggest you go onto

WebMD

to save

us a little time with

your diagnosis.

hang in there and always

remember

if you feel like you might

be close

to dying,

dial 911.

more than two cats

one cat,

is fine, two is okay too,

but three

and you're walking

a fine line.

more than four

is certifiable.

soon

the men in white suits

with a jacket

will be

at your door.

tossing food out a window

the corner

store

is gone again.

the small

Korean grocery

followed by

a bagel shop with

coffee,

then mattresses

were sold

there,

then a massage

parlor,

then a Chinese

carry out.

after

the Italian market

shut down.

it's a perfect location,

but with

no parking.

no lot, no room on

the busy

street to pull up.

but

they sell chicken wings now,

which they

throw

to you from a 

second story window.

everything

is a la carte

and to go.

not in Julia Child's book of recipes

i've never

been so hungry

that i would consider eating

another

person

in order to survive

until rescue.

even if

stuck in the mountains

in four feet

of snow

in a cave.

even with salt and pepper

and oregano.

maybe just

nibble

on an arm or leg, but

no stews

or roasting

on a spit.

please.

i should worry more

we

worry

about the weather,

and

things,

the bird flu

and chickens,

the lack of eggs.

AI

needs to get in line.

there's micro

plastics

in our food,

the government is

wasting

our money.

hurricanes

and fires are everywhere.

children can no longer

read or spell

or do math.

they can't even figure out

what sex they are.

i should worry

more,

i suppose,

but i'm comfortable with

my books

and shows,

sitting here

in my hundred per cent

cotton,

long underwear.

the late night opera

my mother,

while washing

dishes

in the sink,

would shake a wooden

spoon

at my

father and curse in Italian

at him

when

he arrived

late

again for dinner.

she was a maestro

in the kitchen,

and the opera

was about to begin.

the stripes on the road

the seamstress

stood me

up in between the folds

of three

floor

mirrors.

holding the tape

down

my legs, around my waist

then arms.

i was between child

and man,

at the time, a boy

who needed a suit

for the wedding

i was to be in.

i look

back on the photo

of me

and the child bride,

her white

dress, my white suit

with black piping.

we took our honeymoon

in Ocean City,

three days and two nights,

eating

at Phillips

for crab legs and a salad,

house wine.

on the way home,

down route fifty we stopped

at a road stand

and bought

tomatoes, fat and ripe,

how fast

the stripes on the road

have flown by.

any active addictions

she asks

me if i have any active addictions,

to which i say,

active?

what do you mean

by active?

drugs or alcohol, she says.

any sexual

proclivities

against the laws of nature

that i should know

before our

first date.

i put down

my fork full of chocolate

cake

and tell her no.

no i don't,

i wipe my mouth

and take a large gulp

of milk,

then push the rest of the cake

away.

when heading to Lincoln Center for a show

there

is always a concern

when

riding the New York City

subway

that someone might

push you onto

the track

in front of a rolling train.

your head

is on swivel

as you look from side to side

at the mentally

ill and miscreants

that are traveling

with you.

some singing, some reciting

the alphabet.

you stand safely back

while

your hand grips

the pepper spray

in your pocket while

the other hand

scratches your ankle beneath

your sock where

you've hidden your wallet

and your cash.

rejecting Walt

i don't care

much

for Walt Whitman,

i look

at his picture

and i feel that he needs

a bath,

that he might

have fleas,

or a rash.

his soft blue eyes and 

wild white

hair

look odd beneath

that crumpled tilted

hat.

i read

his words, the generous

flowing lines in his 

famous

Leaves of Grass,

and i shrug.

i'm sure he was a fine

fellow, but

i think i'll pass.

there's a policeman at my door

buried

in this snow drift

of paper

on my desk

and floor,

i have a note to myself,

a reminder

of where i'm supposed

to be

on a certain date

at a certain time.

the string around my

finger is of no

use,

and i've spilled red

wine

on my calendar.

i believe i'm

losing bits and pieces of

my mind

and now

there's a policeman at

my door.

observing his life's work

as we

walk through the art gallery

we stop

once and a while

behind

the velvet rope

to stare

at a painting

and say

things like

i like the way he used

the color

blue

in this one,

see how the light

shines

on the water.

then we

move on

and go to the next one,

glancing

at our

watches

and thinking about where

to eat lunch

when

we're through.

a bird limping across the sky

i ask my

friend, Elanore,

an ornithologist,

what's the equivalent

of a mammal

limping

and a bird

with a bad wing

flying.

do they fly in circles,

favoring

one wing

over the other, like

we do

with a sprained

ankle.

do they wince

as they

fly

across the park,

going easy

on the bad wing leaning

left

or right?

she looks at me, and shakes

her head.

you really

have too much time on

your hands,

don't you?

what's wrong now?

what's wrong,

i ask

her, as she wipes a tear from

her eye.

still in

her sheer nightie

and high

heels

and thigh highs.

oh nothing, she says.

i'm fine.

truly i am.

i just have a little

post coital

dysphoria

sometimes.

it's not that uncommon.

i was reading about it

in a new

psychology book

i bought on

Amazon.

it'll pass. should we

have breakfast

now.

sure, i tell her.

pancakes and bacon?

of course, she says,

the pleasure is

all mine.

let me get out of this

outfit

and put

an apron on.

finding common interests

do you

golf, she asks me,

looking

for some common interests.

i say no.

what about

horses,

do you like to ride horses?

not really,

they scare me,

what about travel,

or boating?

do you like to sail,

or go places?

is your passport current?

umm,

well. sure,

i mean

if you have a boat,

i guess

i'll go out on it.

do i have to paddle?

and dancing,

do you dance, or like

karaoke?

kill me, i mumble.

when was the last time

you went

to a musical

or a museum?

umm, never.

how about gardening,

or being

a volunteer

down at the shelter?

perhaps, i tell her. we'll see.

maybe

this year.

the mid-day matinee

i used

to go the movies in the middle

of the day

when

work was slow,

when

i needed to get out of the cold,

or away

from myself.

a double

feature would

make my day

even if i'd seen both movies

time and time

again.

the popcorn,

the drink.

the back row in the middle

of the aisle

with my feet up.

the long matinee.

it gave me time

to not

think.

when the gravy train ends

my friend

had

two other jobs

while

working for the government

remotely.

he only

had to go into the office,

one day

a week

and that was

to chit chat with

his friends

and colleagues

and pick up his check.

but he was

a dog walker

on the side,

and a carpenter when

the weather

was good.

sometimes he'd do a

zoom call

in his bathing suit

by the pool

outside.

it lasted for years,

until

last night

when the gig was up

and DOGE arrived.

now the tears are falling

from his eyes.

thinning the herd

the man

who kept the yard

at our house

in Barcelona,

in a black beret

and white

gloves

would

take

the newborn kittens,

still wet

from the womb,

and place

them

into a burlap bag,

then carry them

down

to the sea

where he drowned

them.

he was so nice,

this man,

but this seemed 

so horribly

too easy.

in a stiff wind

from

the small bedroom window

i would

watch my mother

at the clothesline,

barefoot

in the cold

wet grass of spring,

hanging

laundry

in a stiff wind,

deep in thought, her

mouth biting

down

on clothespins

and so many other things.

the smallest of prayers

on bended

knee

with hands in the cold

dirt,

after a hard night

of rain.

you bury

a seed.

this is a last resort,

which should

have been your first.

you give in

and believe.

that he was someone

in his long

black winter

coat

and white

beard,

his high boots and hat,

alone,

sitting

on the park bench,

no book,

no hand

to hold, with no one,

he tips

his hat as you

pass by and

you can't help 

but believe

that he was

someone.

i prefer not to zoom

sorry,

but i prefer not to zoom,

not to

skype,

or do face time.

give me

the string

tied to two

cans,

with you

in your yard,

and i in

mine,

a half block away.

taking the crosstown bus

they

don't know your pain,

your struggles,

and you

don't know theirs,

but here

you are on the bus,

shoulder to shoulder

with strangers,

going

across town.

wordless

with many windows

to look out

and observe.

where do you keep all those shoes?

it doesn't

matter, truly it doesn't.

be who

you want to be in this world

without

judgement,

but when

you see a man

dressed as a woman,

or as a woman dressed

as a man,

you wonder

about the closet space

they must

have in order to keep

up the charade.

and the shoes,

where does one keep

all those shoes?

quickly turning pages

when the old man

dies,

i see his

dusty books

stacked

in the trash by the hydrant

for pickup

in the morning.

the wind

seems

to be frantically

turning

each page,

reading each chapter,

before

they're gone

for good.

come up to the house

come up

to the house,

come over. bring nothing

but yourself,

your old

self

the one i used to love

and get along

with.

don't bring me

who you

are now.

please, i beg of you,

i miss

the person

you used to be.

come up to the house,

bring nothing

but your old

self.

drawing a blank

when

i see a simple sketch,

or an

abstract

painting hanging

on a gallery wall,

i tell myself,

that's so

easy,

a child could do that,

and then as i stare

at the canvas,

blank

and white, ready,

with brush in hand

and a rainbow

of paints

on the table,

i realize, i can't.

the lovers across the way

lovers

across the way

in

the room

across the courtyard

are undressing one

another

in a passionate flurry

of clothes,

of twisting

arms and legs.

i can't help

but look a moment

longer

before i draw

the shade

and ponder quietly

my own

life,

my own desires

and needs.

Central Park

these trees

have been painted onto

the grey

sky,

the winter

green

slope of hill and snow,

the pond

of ice

below.

there's

no other way

they

could have been

made.

an artist was a work

here.

i imagine someone

kind.

they haven't forgotten me

i get

a birthday card

from

the local gas station

where

i go to get my oil changed,

another one

from my dentist

where

i'm overdue

for a cleaning,

one more from my health

insurance

company,

and a fourth card

from

DSW where i buy my

shoes.

i line them all up

on the windowsill,

for anyone to view.

i feel love

and remembered,

but somehow still a little

blue.

have the geese returned?

a man

runs by me on the street

followed

by three policemen

in full

pursuit.

their radios crackle

with

anxiety.

i lick my ice-cream

cone

and step aside,

then keep

walking. I wonder 

how the park

is this

time of day,

the broad blue lake.

have the geese flown

back from

their winter sojourn?

the world's best cheesecake

the sign

read world's best cheesecake.

a bold

statement,

not to be out done

by

the pizza parlor

next door

proclaiming

best pizza in town

since 1969.

do i believe them

despite the old rusted

sign,

with a yellowed photo

taken

in another time.

when was the contest

held,

when did the judges

decide?

should we go in

and order a slice,

or keep walking

and give the next block

a try?

wants that pretend

i need

a good sleep,

a good meal, a good

roll

in the hay.

a good book,

a long walk,

a new shirt,

a new pair of shoes.

a new pen,

a new chair to sit in.

but

maybe they aren't needs

at all,

just wants

that pretend.

the boy scout blues

i hated

the boy scouts, the uniform,

the fancy

red scarf,

the pins

and badges.

learning how to start a fire.

what twelve

year old

didn't have matches

or a lighter

back then?

forget rubbing two

sticks

together in the woods

with a little too

friendly

scoutmaster.

i had no interest

in making the sound of

yellow belly sapsucker

in a tree,

or in eating baked beans

from a tin can,

but i did learn to master

the slip

knot.

which pleases Betty,

to no end.

a bag of cookies on the porch

i see

a satchel of cookies

on the porch

wrapped

in gift paper,

in a gourmet fancy

bag

with a bow

attached

and get a chill

down my

spine.

it's a long story,

one

not worth repeating

again.

puddle or ice

unsure

of the street, unable

to discern

between

what's ice

and what's water,

i gently step forward,

then

with luck,

i find

an arm to lean on,

a shoulder

soft and warm.

a year later,

we're married

with a child

on the way.

sometimes it just

goes like that.

will you do the same for me?

i pour

your tea, 

from the whistling

kettle

and squeeze

the lemon,

i drop

in a cube or two

of sugar

and stir.

i hope that later

you

will do

the same for me.

a typical day on the way to the market

no day

is a day on the road,

to work

or to the market

without

a few moments of road

rage.

the anger,

the red faces, the cursing,

is part of the drive.

bumper

to bumper,

the racing to get to 

the next light.

i try to hug the right

lane and

be prompt at the green

light.

i'm no longer interested

in getting

out of the car

in this weather, at this age,

to confront the man

or women,

who has their fists

balled and are waving

a metal pipe.

pigeons in the cupboard

can

they be hungry?

can they actually be that hungry,

these

fat grey

pigeons ringed

and layered

in thick

oiled feathers.

skilled

at pecking the smallest

of thrown

bagel

to the ground.

they remind me of

my childhood,

all bones

and sinew,

standing on the kitchen

counter

searching the cupboard

for a stale

cookie, with nothing

found.

my father's final girlfriend

my father's

final

girlfriend, still calls

after

his death.

she wants to talk about

the past

as if there is

no future

to worry about.

she hears his voice

in mine.

i suppose.

but i understand grieving,

it's so hard

to let go,

if not careful,

it will last.

my favorite new word

my favorite

new

word

is no.

i use it a lot these days,

but sometimes

i don't even

have to say it.

i just don't pick

up the phone

or answer

the door.

it's easier that way.

nothing to shout about

he's in

his winter clothes now.

things

apparently

didn't work out.

he scans

the paper for work,

like he used to do

in 1980.

nothing

to shout about.

there's three feet of snow

on the ground

and

the wind

cuts like a knife

through his heart.

the car

won't turn over.

he misses her,

he misses living south.

reboot the day

it's a morning

of rebooting.

nothing seems to be connected

as i move

my fingers across

the keyboard.

i pull the plugs out,

i hit switches.

i push buttons

dousing lights,

then hit them again,

and yet i'm still

offline.

i climb back into bed.

i'll give

the world

a little more time.

i get it now

when we were

fighting,

near the end of a long

journey

together,

she suddenly

became

shy, or was it

selfish?

she'd change her clothes

in the bathroom,

no longer

allowing me to see

her in the flesh.

it was then that i understood

at last,

that it was over.

flattery will get you nowhere

in the crowded

bar,

with a dance floor,

a small

band

playing, someone

singing,

a woman kept staring

at me

from across the room.

a woman

much younger than me.

pretty with long legs

and bright

green eyes.

slender and wearing

a tight red dress.

i stared back and smiled.

she smiled

and then weaved her

way over

to where i sat.

she looked me and said.

i'm so sorry for staring

at you,

but you remind me

of someone,

you look just like

my father

who recently passed.

he was 85.

clean out of saves

she reminded me

of Judy Garland,

in a certain

dim light,

no, not

the somewhere over

the rainbow

Judy,

with her little dog,

no, not that one.

but the older one who

lost her way.

the one holding a gin

and tonic

on stage,

smoking incessantly while

belting out

songs

from her golden age.

a swizzle stick of a woman

with a string

of bad nights

and long days

behind her.

as much as i wanted to,

i was clean out of saves.

i carried her up the stairs

late in

the night as we lay

in bed

after making love,

she told

me that she had a bad

heart.

i wondered

if she was kidding

and talking

about all the broken

hearts she

had, but no.

she said something instead

about the chambers,

the arteries,

the weak

and leaking ventricles.

she said

it was a strain to walk

at times,

to go up and down

stairs.

she told me that

she only had a few months

at most left to live.

i'm not sure if she was

lying

about this,

but for months afterwards

i carried up

every fight of stairs

and down

at times.

the next spring 

after we had borken up

i saw

her running

in a marathon

and i had to laugh.

no need to bleed with you around

i look for the reliable

knife

in the knife drawer,

i need to cut

something again,

everyday

it's something new

that needs to be cut

in half,

or sliced

or diced. there's

so many

dull ones

in the mix

that i never use or

sharpen.

ancient knives from

lives past

that i never choose.

it's what i like about

you.

you bring

the sharpness with

you, no need

to sort through

the drawer

and bleed

with you around.

Farrah taped to the bedroom door

saying

goodbye is hard

sometimes

very hard.

in leaving the old house,

the old

car.

tired things, you've

kept

but will never use

again.

the attic

is full of them.

the cellar too.

the child's sled,

the broken

guitar. stereos of

a golden

age,

your favorite pair

of jeans

that don't fit anymore.

the poster

of Farrah

still taped to the bedroom

door.

milestones

in your life, though

you haven't

traveled far.

her birthday cards

up until she died,

my mother would send me

a five

dollar bill

in a small card with birds

on it,

for my birthday.

don't spend it all 

in one place

she'd write.

the desk drawer is

full of them,

the money still tucked

inside.

occasionally i'll open it,

like today,

and smile.

too old to snatch purses anymore

i used to

run

until the knees gave out,

bones

grinding against bone.

at last,

the body said,

no more please.

i understand now

why

there are so few

purse

snatchers in the city

that are old.

we'd never

get away, we'd

never make it across

the street.

we're very nosy people

her hair,

a crimson orange,

perhaps a wig,

glows in the low dim

light of the restaurant.

her leopard print

pants

are tight.

he works in sales,

perhaps.

two different birds on

a perch.

are they friends,

lovers,

is she his mother or

his wife?

we're very nosy people

when we go

out at night.

still not funny (SNL)

it used

to be funny. not always,

but on

occasion

they'd hit their mark

and find

your funny bone.

the show was rich in

sarcasm and humor

with both

sides of the aisle

fair game.

maybe two out of ten

sketches

would

make you erupt with

a laugh

a grin.

but that was a long time

ago.

the whole circus

now,

is long in the tooth,

weak and tired,

achingly thin.

the joy of the orange chair

i feast

my eyes on the orange

chair,

mid-century modern,

set out

in the rain,

on the curb

for pick up on Monday

morning.

it's as bright as

any

piece of fruit i've seen

on a Florida tree.

i wonder

about the joy felt

when

it was boldly carried

up the stairs

sixty years ago,

or so,

into the brownstone,

and positioned against

the corner

of Berber carpet,

beige and worn,

loosely rolled and set

out as well

to wait

for Monday morning.

preserved in amber

the young

men

and women piling into the black

limousine

are not

movie stars, or

celebrities, quite

yet,

or maybe never.

and though they

glisten

with good hair and good

looks,

fine clothes,

this

will come as close as it

may get

for most on this rainy

night

on 5th avenue

with cameras clicking

to preserve

the amber

moment.

the party is long over

the bright balloon,

as blue as any eye

of a small

child

is hung up in the black

trees.

stuck within

the leafless

limbs

that fill the rain

soaked park.

the party

is long

over, I suspect.

still keeping time

i walk

by the dump

and hear the ticking of clocks

tossed

into the soured

heap,

alarms going off,

still keeping time,

even for

the deceased.

oh well, it's New York

i stare

at the bill, my face whitened

with surprise.

what, she says.

i show her

the bill.

40 dollars for a Cesar salad,

twenty-two dollars

for a glass of Chianti,

and 75 dollars

for cannelloni,

not to mention

coffee and

the twenty-dollar dessert

cake.

oh well, she says.

what are you going to do.

it's New York.

i'll get the cab fare

back to the hotel, can

you break a hundred?

the long short drop off a cliff

we think

of leaving as if a fall

from a cliff.

a long

drop

into oblivion,

whether

it's a job, or where

we live,

a love or

friendships gone sour,

our fingers dig

into the side of the mountain,

we don't want

to fall.

we want to hang in

there

and hope things get better.

we hold on for as long as

we can,

then drop, but surprised

that it was only

three feet

to the floor.

more gibberish

there are madmen

and mad

women too.

you see in their eyes.

you don't have to go far

to find

someone

talking to themselves

on the street corner,

or rattling

the cages at the zoo.

coffee shops,

and churches have their

share as well.

they're digging through

garbage cans

and mumbling

to themselves, stuck

in a vague hell.

sometimes i

turn on the tv and there

they are

in the halls of congress,

rambling on

and on

in their own strange

language,

more gibberish, as well.

why is that dog barking?

there's a dog barking

outside,

but i'm too tired, too lazy

and cold

to get up

and go take a look.

i wish i had a shoulder

to tap on,

someone to wake up

and ask them to please

take a look and tell me

what they see.

it's in times like these

that i wish i was

in a relationship,

or were married, or

even had a friend with

benefits lying next

to me.

the price of eggs

we decide

in bed after making love

and brainstorming

on how to make more money,

we decide

to raise chickens.

i do the math,

and she figures out

what we

can buy with all

the new cash.

ten chickens, that's

ten eggs a day

times 300 days,

being fair to the chickens,

at ten

bucks a carton,

that's an easy 30 grand

a year,

she screams, bouncing

on the bed,

telling me that tomorrow

we need to build

a shed.

you mean a chicken coop,

i tell her.

whatever, she says.

waving from a taxi

i couldn't tell

if it was

the rain,

the soft diamonds

on the windows,

or real

tears

that fell, as she

waved

from the taxi,

whispering farewell.