today is sock day, sorry

i'd like

to sit here all day and hear

more about your

seemingly endless set of

problems,

but today is sock

day.

it's the day i wash

all my socks

and separate them,

then fold then

into cushy balls and toss

them into

the sock drawer

from across the room.

later perhaps,

okay?

strangers on a train

who

isn't a stranger?

do i really know my father,

my mother,

any of my

ex-wives,

or friends. 

my children?

do i really

know what

goes on inside

their brains.

is everyone performing,

is everyone

on a stage,

saying

the right or wrong things

when the curtain

rises.

we'll never know each

other truly,

not even

at the end.

when they finally let me go

when i worked

in an office,

coming in a little

late,

and leaving

a little early,

extending

my lunches

with chit chat,

i had a drawer full of snacks.

right below

the rarely touched

client files.

i had candy,

cookies,

crackers and chips.

maybe cake and pie

from home.

the rest of

the workers knew where

to go,

where to find

my stash

when they needed a fix.

i kept everyone on a sugar high.

i became an important

part

of the office,

i kept morale up.

i was cheerful and talkative

at the coffee

counter,

reliving the weekend,

talking sports,

and chicks,

so it

was a big surprise

for me

when they finally let

me go.

taking my entry key

and hall pass.

the loud sneeze

your

nose runs. it drips.

you sneeze.

you reach

for the Kleenex box.

someone

says

God Bless you,

but you

don't know what that

means.

you say

thank you

just the same,

and try to sneeze

again.

blessings are a good

thing.

eventually it comes

we all

grieve differently.

some

sob

and cry, are bent over

in pain,

at the grave site,

while

others let it simmer

over time,

burying

the sorrow

of dying

deeply.

with not a tear shed.

the agony

will

arrive at some point,

maybe

months later,

or even years,

when

standing 

mindlessly with

strangers

in a long

line.

we want more, not less

despite

the boredom, the grey

monotony

of so many

days,

the repetition of food

and sleep,

of waking

up at three in the morning.

facing the mirror

and seeing

the arrival of old age.

despite

the sameness of each

season,

each holiday

and birthday.

despite it all

we want more, not less.

will they miss me

as i half

swim, half paddle,

meander

out further

into the sea, my

feet no

longer touching the rough

sand,

my legs

now cold

and getting colder,

i wonder

if anyone will miss me

when i'm gone,

or when

i'm older.

the terrible bright light

the last

thing anyone needs is

fame.

don't ask for it,

don't seek it.

run

from those bright lights,

cover your

ears when

you hear the first sound

of applause.

don't read

what they write.

run from fame.

run and hide from

this terrible light.

it will ruin

your life.

why do they keep bringing me jello?

i can't shake

this cough, my friend says over

the phone

from his hospital

bed.

it's my lungs, too many

cigarettes, they tell me.

i hear

him gag

and cough some more.

hold on he says,

muffling the phone

with his hand.

i hear the nurse come into

the room

bringing him

a tray of food, taking

away

his bed pan.

i'm back now,

he says.

my gown was stuck

behind me.

i wish i had a cigarette,

just one more

before i die.

what were you saying?

go on,

go on, you were talking

about your

summer plans.

why do they keep bringing

me Jello,

he says.

i hate Jello. but tell me

more.

tell me all

about the beach you're

going to with Ginger,

the blue water, the white

sand.

the other side

the window

seat

will provide you with the truth

you need

to see the world

clearly,

unmuddied

by words,

unblurred by opinions

or by

speeches filled

with hope.

it's the simple

truth

beyond the tempered glass

as the train

moves

on bended rail.

there lies

each dark village,

each

collapsed roof,

each wired

fence, each

burned out car

along

the route

heading

north or south

with dogs chained

to a leafless

tree.

there are few dreams

found there.

here catch this

my left

hand and arm, are not

as strong

as the other side.

but they aren't

worthless either.

they do many

things for me when

i can't use the right.

they're

just not as efficient

or precise

when catching or

throwing a ball.

i'd like to blame

my parents,

or society, or the strange

prejudice

against lefties,

or perhaps

it was just

Adam catching

the apple thrown by Eve

with

his right.

the dining room table staging area

the dining room table

has become

the staging

area for

so many things.

the black wood

unmarred by

drink or food,

dishes

and silverware.

it collects my

life now.

laundry coming up from

basement,

laundry going down.

detergent,

and groceries not

yet put away.

bills,

a checkbook, stamps,

an assortment of mail,

pens,

cash and coins

rolling around.

i can't remember the last

dinner i had

there.

when was that?

thanksgiving?

i've lost count of the years.

understanding everything

i am occasionally

on the verge

of understanding everything,

when

it slips through my

hands

like a fish

reluctant to come out

of the darkened

sea,

into the sunlit air,

to stay there.

no one is coming to save you

sorry,

but help is not on the way.

no one

is coming

to save you.

put your boots on,

your helmet,

and go forth and face

the day

with all of its trials

and tribulations.

get out of bed

and get to work.

stop staring into your

phone,

and get going

make something out of

your whiney self.

no one is going to save you.

not the government,

not your school,

not the color

of your skin, or

country of origin,

not your mommy and daddy

either.

no one is coming

to save you.

it's all on

you.

buckle up, it's going

to be a bumpy ride,

buckaroo.

the refrigerator magnet

we arrived at the seaside town

after a long

drive.

so we had

to buy

something to remind

us that we were here.

a glass paperweight

perhaps,

a magnet for the refrigerator.

maybe a t-shirt,

or hat with the name

of town

embroidered on it.

maybe a beach towel.

after long discussion, we settled

on the magnet.

and despite everything,

i still have it.

the heart shaped cloud

as we drive south,

she points up

at the sky.

that cloud

over there,

looks like a heart,

she says. look at

it,

it's a perfect

heart.

i point at one

that i claim to be mine,

that one

looks

like it might rain.

i tell her.

we should hurry,

the edges are bruised

and dark.

the conversation

it's a bad connection.

she's in

and out.

her voice fades,

it sounds like she's underwater

or in a cave

with the swirl

of bats

around her.

she could be on the moon.

the line

crackles.

i'm sorry, i tell her,

what did you

just say?

she's been talking for an

hour

without taking

a breath.

i believe she could swim

the English

Channel underwater

if she put

her mind to it.

never mind, she says.

okay,

i tell her.

bye for now.

who left the milk out?

living alone,

i talk to myself

sometimes.

i ask

myself who left the window open

all night

with this cold

breeze blowing

in.

i get angry and walk

over to close it.

the nerve of some people.

and now

downstairs,

to wonder

who left the milk out

on the counter

overnight.

look at me

there is no

shame anymore.

there is 

little or no dignity,

no guilt

or remorse, regret,

or second thoughts.

every sin is welcome

and forgiven.

three minutes

on tik tok

will solidify that.

the apple trees beyond

on the gallows,

hands tied behind his back,

the noose tightened

around his neck,

before the black

mask

is slipped

over his head

and the trap

door opens.

he sees in the distance

the blossoming

of apple trees,

he smells

lilacs in the field,

the perfume of a woman

at his feet,

and for a second he

believes

he could have lived life

differently.

the silent treatment

there is no

quiet in the world.

no stone

silence.

no place where you

can

hear a pin drop,

or the splash

of a single of rain.

but the last

false love

proved me wrong

about that.

clean hands

he couldn't

keep

his hands clean enough,

they were

always

underwater

with a bar of soap,

rubbing,

twisting the fingers

together.

getting under

the nails,

between

the joints, up to

the wrists,

the suds

bubbling under

the hot water.

he washed them all the

time,

as if a surgeon

going in to operate.

i never asked him

what was wrong,

he never told me.

the Wednesday lover

she was a Wednesday lover.

same time,

same place,

unless there was inclement

weather,

or her kids

or husband got in the way.

she felt no

guilt, no regret.

she just wanted to be loved.

to be held.

to be listened to.

the promise of what life

could be,

had left.

the other century

i live

in the other century

with my black cord phone

on the kitchen

wall,

my stamps and envelopes,

my bills

laid out on the desk

with

checks waiting

to be filled out.

i crack ice for my drinks,

i buy milk.

i read.

i write with a pen

and paper.

i put under the backdoor

mat,

my key.

i haven't forgotten you, and yet

i haven't forgotten you,

my old friend.

you

still cross

my mind every now and then.

i remember

you.

i know your number

and where

you live,

i could easily drop

by if i felt like it,

but i just can't bring myself

around

to seeing you again,

i wish i had a reason why,

but i don't.

maybe too many years,

have passed by.

staying home

they've let

the old theater go to hell.

nobody comes

anymore.

the popcorn and candy

counter

is closed.

the once

proud

jewel on main

street

is falling down.

the last show

is over.

the curtains

drawn.

the elderly are weeping.

they remember

Saturday

nights

and the golden age

of Hollywood,

the stars

who've passed on.

why go out anymore

when everything

can be watched at home

while staring

into your phone.

each to his own version

what's real,

what isn't real. who isn't

gaslighting

you.

what words

can you trust coming

out of so

many mouths.

the truth meter

keeps dinging

false.

there's no such thing as

a lie anymore.

each to his own

version

of truth.

the night gladiators

what armor

these bugs have, these

insects,

though small,

vulnerable,

when looking at them

closely

they appear to be gladiators

with helmets

and shields, ready

for war,

which is everyday

on the lighted

kitchen floor.

Brinkley Road

the one

bedroom apartment

backed up

to the woods, and beyond

the woods

was the racetrack.

the bloom of lights

in the trees.

i could hear

the races called at night

when i opened

the windows.

i could smell

the dung of the horses,

the hay,

hear the bellow

of the crowd, winners,

losers.

i'd lie in bed

with my love, her skin

as white

as stars,

her eyes as blue

as sapphires.

we'd make love until

there was no

more love to give.

eventually i moved,

i took

most of it with me,

though sadly, not her.

the lost right slipper

as i take

out the last box of clothes

and shoes.

i find one

last slipper in back

of the closet.

it must have fallen

behind

the dresser.

it's old, covered in

dust,

but thick and fluffy,

curled to that last foot

it held.

how he must have searched

for that slipper

when the nights

grew cold.

living years with just

the left

slipper to warm

his toes.

the S O S

the crash

and burn of planes

and ships,

things

in the sky falling,

or on the sea

going down,

have a message

for you.

get your house

and heart in order,

hit your knees,

your time too,

may be coming

soon.

this is what you should do

at a certain

age,

people finally stop giving you

advice,

because they see

that f off look

in your eyes.

don't tell me what to think

or do,

what to eat,

or read, or watch,

what clothes to wear.

don't tell me what

i should or shouldn't do.

it's refreshing

to have them at last

see the light and

ignore you.

what once was new

parts

are wearing out,

the a on the keyboard

has faded,

the delete button too.

the mouse won't scroll anymore,

up or down.

the chair

wobbles,

the window

won't close.

things are broken,

what once

was new,

is now old.

me too.

you must be normal, right?

her blue

hair

and rainbow flag,

her many

piercings,

her bumper

stickers

and tattoos tell me

all i need to know

about

where she

leans.

no need to discuss

things.

and she thinks

the same

of me,

because i have none

of that

going on.

running wild in the streets

it was nothing

to scrape

a knee, an elbow, a chin

when

falling off

a bike or skateboard,

or when

playing

kickball in the street

or four square,

running wild,

playing tag

or hide and seek.

who didn't have

welts from bee stings?

who didn't bleed?

we all had scabs back then.

war wounds

from the summers

when we ran

wild

in the alleys and in

the streets.

with a cherry on top

it's an art

form.

the late-night cup of hot chocolate.

it's a skill

hard

learned over

the years,

from being in

child pajamas to robe

and slippers

now in

my later years.

you need cold

whole milk poured

into a cup,

no need to measure,

and then a pot.

the heat is on low.

then the stirring in of

the chocolate powder

begins.

nothing weak,

or some cheap variety

of Nestle's or

Ovaltine.

no, you need the gourmet

kind.

deep and dark, a thick

powder,

almost illegal

in some parts,

from a deluxe Dutch

tin.

two tablespoons

should do the trick, stirring

slowly,

but consistently until it's

dissolved

making the brew thick.

let it boil and rise to the top,

bubbling hot,

but not

allowing it to overflow.

then you

pour it into a mug with the picture

of a dog

on the front,

you blow on the rim

before covering it with 

shaken whipped

cream,

and at last,

without the stem, you drop

a cherry on top.

at this point

you sit back in your

easy chair, and the sipping

carefully begins.

third dog this week

we've been

fighting, having terrible

horrible

arguments

about nearly everything

under the sun.

i think

she hates me,

or at the very least 

despises

the day i was born.

but we've been married

for over ten years,

so it makes it hard

to just bail and

go out the door.

i'm getting suspicious

though of the soups

and stews

she's making

lately.

i let the dog get the first

bite, or lick.

i'm on my third dog

this week.

the Abe Lincoln stamp

i have

no idea what a stamp costs.

but it seems

that i need

to break a twenty dollar

bill

to buy a single book.

are they

good forever?

if i don't mail anything

for three

years can

i still use them?

i see no numbers, no

price

on them.

how far will a stamp take

me,

at what weight will

i need

two or three?

is there still a big blue

iron

box on the corner

that i can put a letter in?

can i leave

it in the slot in the door

for the mailman

to take with him on his route?

is Abe's

picture still on the front?

a lesson in traveling light

i point out

to my friend Betty,

as we watch tv, i say look,

see all those

people in handcuffs

boarding that

massive plane,

being

taken back to their home

country

because of criminality,

see how they travel?

maybe a small

bag,

or backpack,

a toothbrush, and the clothes

on their back.

these are international

travelers

and they travel

light.

so why do you have

three suitcases, two handbags,

a make up

kit

and a trunk full

of shoes for every kind of

climate,

when we take a two

day trip

to Ocean City?

same day, same time, next week?

tell me

a little about yourself

before we go

on,

the therapist

says, sitting across

the room

with her yellow legal pad.

so i spit out the basics.

divorced,

one grown child, who lives in Portland

with his mother,

Cruella deVille

i write, i read,

i bike,

i eat and sleep,

i exercise.

i still write checks out of a

check book,

and buy stamps.

i like coffee and movies.

i dress casual

and sometimes wear

a hat if it's

cold or sunny outside.

i sleep on my left

side most nights.

i like living alone,

but never feel lonely.

i have no cats or dogs,

or plants that need watering.

i take no medications

but cut my own hair.

sometimes i like

to travel,

to the beach or to NYC.

i have three brothers

and three sisters,

half of which i get along with.

both of my

parents have passed

away

and i miss them.

i've lost six lifelong friends

over the past

seven years.

men and women.

i still have their numbers

in my phone

and occasionally

dream about them.

i enjoy working

with my hands, and sleep better

when i have

a hard job to do.

i sing in the shower and in

the car,

but not in front

of people.

i rarely drink alcohol, or eat sugar,

but will make rare exceptions

on holidays.

my favorite color is indigo

and my Achille's heel

are women with

long legs

wearing stilettoes

and a swipe of lipstick.

oh, and i'm

thinking about buying a little

sportscar

once i retire.

okay, okay, the therapist says,

stopping

her pen. whew.

i think our time is up, see you

next week, same time,

same day?

i think you might be able to help me.

this book will change your life

i can no longer keep reading this

book,

this self-help,

new age baloney,

despite the blurbs

on the cover,

claiming how

it will change your life.

so i throw

it across the room

towards

the trash can,

but i miss.

it hits the rim

and bounces back out

and into

the kitchen. i can't decide

if my aim is

off, or if i should give

the book another

chance.

do i really need to have

my life

changed again?

wonder woman

i've never

been

weaker, physically,

than

a woman,

until i met you and your

muscles.

i'm afraid

of you.

your biceps and thighs,

your rippled

abdomen,

your shoulders

and forearms.

you've turned my world

upside down,

and now as you hold me

above your head,

like a dumbbell,

if you could carefully

lower me 

back to the ground.

the more i know

the more

i know

the more i realize how

little

i know.

it's disturbing to

be so

dumb so late

in the game.

the bliss

of ignorance has

worn off

completely.

the Jackson Pollock sweater

it's a new

stain on this white sweater.

coffee?

maybe, tea?

chocolate milk, perhaps.

it's next to

the shotgun splatter

of spaghetti

sauce

from Friday night,

which is

next to the salsa spill

from Sunday,

a week ago.

and this green dried blob,

gone blue,

what could that be?

hot pepper jelly,

i suspect

from Thursday

when i first met you.

more rainbows and lollipops please

she sends

me a message, dear cynical man.

why

don't you see

the good in the world?

why not

write about that instead

the dark side

of life?

you are stuck

on cynicism. that's why

i can't read what

you write

anymore.

please, for inspiration,

why don't you go

to a Hallmark

Store,

and enlighten your sour

mind. smile

for once.

be happy, old friend

of mine.

who is this? Betty?

i reply.

the downtown lunch counter

the diner

had a long glass window

with which

we could peer in and see the noon

lunch crowd

on their swivel

stools

eating the daily specials

of cod

and chowder. or eggs

and bacon.

with their coats still on,

their hats

on the counter, they'd

eat,

steaming up the window.

we were kids

skipping school, wandering

downtown

with a few nickels

to take the D.C. transit home.

our books

stashed behind a tree

somewhere

near ninth street.

we were hungry

for everything.

sometimes we'd go in

and feast,

then run without paying,

down the long

cold streets.

petty thieves who would

not be chased.

the new sanctuary city

the city has become a sanctuary

city.

anyone can come

and hide out.

no one will touch you

if you're

a drug dealer

or murderer,

or just here illegally

coming over or under

the fence

along the border.

we have churches and schools

where you can live

in underground shelters,

and lie low

until the heat is off.

car jackings are permissible,

as are

kidnappings

and sex trafficking.

looting, no problem here.

we will protect your rights.

but in addition to that,

stray birds and wildlife

are now included in

the sanctuary policy.

rabies, no problem,

chickens with the bird flu,

come on in.

bats that have escaped

the wang fu lab

in China, fly on over.

vultures looking for an easy

meal, step right up

and make your nest on

the tallest building you

can find.

black bears 

and poisonous snakes

are welcome.

as are displaced coyotes

and beavers looking for

trees to gnaw down.

come one come all,

we love you.

we want to be your safe

and secure town.

the new lime green parking passes

the frenetic

man

waves me down on the street

as i drive

by in the slush

and snow.

he's waving both

arms

as if the world is on fire.

i roll my window

down

and say,

what's up?

where is your new parking

pass?

he asks.

i don't see it hanging from

your mirror.

you have one

more day

before the tow trucks come

in and tow

you away.

you don't want that, do you?

no, i don't that.

and who are you exactly?

i'm the vice president

of the board.

i got a majority

of votes, two out of three,

this year.

next year i'm going to be

president if all goes well

with these

parking passes.

give me the cold water

give me

the cold water, the ice

bath.

the freezing

dip in

the winter lake.

give me the chill

of the faucet

on a February day.

the icy plunge

in a barrel.

wake me up

from this doldrum

of grey.

run a chill up

my spine that makes

me scream,

that forces me to

be awake.

easy street

the hustlers

are no longer on the streets

hawking

snake oils

and magic potions,

traveling

in wagons

pulled by horses.

they're no longer

pickpocketing

the tourists

looking up at the Empire

State Building.

the swindlers aren't

doing card tricks

on the boulevard,

setting up tables

to do five

card monte.

they aren't

selling Rolex watches

in Times Square.

no.

they're on the phone

now.

slipping a stealth

hand

into your life,

your bank accounts,

taking everything.

gone for three weeks

the cat

comes home, at last.

she's been

gone for weeks.

we leave

the window open,

and wait.

finally we see

her

slipping in slowly

as cats

do on cat paws.

slow,

and sleek, quietly.

we ask

her where she's been.

she shakes

her wet,

scarred ears and

says,

don't ask.

the dog smiles,

looking at me,

and shakes his

head.

half a crying soul

if you want

to know

true sadness, go to the local

pawn

shop and look beneath

the hard

glass cases

at rings and watches.

pearls

and diamonds,

rubies

and emeralds, all once

adored

and worn

to a wedding or

some event,

marked on calendars

long ago,

but now

sold or pawed for a tenth

of their worth,

and half

a crying soul.

minus the long orange gown

there are days

when

i have zero patience.

the red light annoys me.

the long line

at the store,

the buffering of this screen,

the inability

to log on.

and then there

are other days when

i'm the Dahli Lama,

patient

as a saint,

but missing

the long orange

gown.

the corner store with no parking

what hasn't the corner

store

been over the years?

it sold mattresses at one

point, then

auto parts. it

was a Korean grocer

twenty years ago,

then

a place to have your

taxes done.

a deli,

a sandwich and coffee

shop,

a business

to have your nails manicured,

a massage parlor,

and bikini

wax emporium.

a barber pole

once spun outside,

and then

a Chinese restaurant

appeared.

buffet all you could eat.

it's been closed and open

more times,

than i can count.

and now, a new sign is

up.

The Zen Center.

kumbaya.

i wish them luck.

let's rewrite this script

we're all

in a show. a movie,

a play.

we're all

acting in some role

decided

by fate

or destiny.

a comedy, a tragedy.

the curtain rises

when the cock

crows,

and the sun 

comes up.

although there are

times

when you don't want

to get out of bed,

you have

little or nothing to say,

you need

a new script.

a new stage.

searching the globe

we look at a map

of the country

and start perusing which state,

which city

to retire in.

fifty choices.

but hmmm, not there, the taxes

are too high,

and that state

has earthquakes, fires

and mudslides,

that city is crime

ridden

and expensive,

that state has hurricanes

and alligators.

in the wide middle they've

got tornados

and coyotes,

people eating cats and dogs

and it's always 95

and windy.

there's

flooding down south

when the levees break,

and up north the lakes

are frozen

and it's a blizzard from

October to April.

let's spin the globe and

see what

happens.

so what doesn't hurt today?

i meet my friend Jimmy

at the lake

where we bring stale

loaves of bread

to feed the enormous geese

that pepper the path 

with little pyramids

of green excrement.

we talk about the game,

about retirement,

about ex-wives and girlfriends,

cars and movies.

in the old days

when we'd meet,

usually in a bar,

we'd compare injuries

after playing sports,

basketball or football,

being the weekend warriors

we became.

we'd discuss

a twisted knee,

an ankle turned,

a pulled muscle of some sort.

we'd know the exact moment

the injury occurred.

and talk about

the ice or heat 

we used to heal it.

but now when we talk,

and meet,

we ask each other,

so what doesn't hurt today?

put on your fat pants, it's January

we all have fat

pants,

fat dresses and shirts,

blouses,

even underwear

stuffed away

in drawers and closets

just for this day.

we get them out

when we can't fit into

our summer clothes

anymore.

the zippers won't go up,

the buttons

won't snap.

we've become Orson Welles,

and Momma Cass

overnight.

we need them,

we need these fat clothes,

with 15 per cent spandex

embedded in the waist,

because it's winter and

we just ate

a giant plate

of lasagna with meatballs

and garlic bread,

followed by two

Duck Donuts

and a carafe

of hot toddies.

and now

because it's like Antarctica

outside

we can't walk anything off.

tea and sympathy

she appears

like an apparition in white.

a light

tap on the door

and i let

her in.

i wipe her eyes and

give her

tea

and sympathy.

i listen

to her troubled

life.

then off she goes again.

future mayors run the HOA

the LA mayor

reminds me of the HOA president

in my

neighborhood.

rules

on top of rules.

rules that make

no sense.

spending money

on useless

ventures.

speed bumps

and unbroken fences.

slow down signs and 

holiday

decorations

on every gas lit pole

in the neighborhood.

punishing

the tenant for painting

with

the red

paint that isn't their

required

color.

putting trash out before

the sun goes

down.

allowing your dog to bark,

and getting

fined 

for the exorbitant

HOA payment being

an hour late.

but

smiling all the way

to the bank.

walking about

with her clipboard,

as the community

becomes miserable

under her

DEI weight.

love and hate

i hate

my phone. i love

my phone.

i despise

this addiction.

tik tok,

you tube, f you

and your

little

reels of stupidity.

i'm a lemming

going over

the cliff.

i'm a crack head under

the bridge.

i half believe

everything i see.

i'm obedient to its ding.

i worry about 

leaving

the charger

behind.

how many bars?

my entire life is inside.

i wake up to it.

i go to sleep

with it nearby.

i hate my phone.

i love it.

the brick duplex near the bowling alley

we lived

on sugar and tv.

processed meat.

big bowls of Fruit Loops

and sodas.

the dentist made

a fortune

on our little teeth.

like mice

we were made happy

by the grub

bought cheap.

there was no food

pyramid.

no doctor saying eat this.

just boxes and plastic

bags

filled with empty

treats.

there were coupons

and vouchers,

church handouts,

food stamps,

and starch

filled recipes.

our bellies ached

as she lay

on the couch without

sleep.

the Gideon Bible in the drawer

one by

one, they arrive at night.

the cars

pull

into the gravel lot

of the midnight

motel

down route 5,

outside

of town.

before the road divides

and takes

you to the Pacific

Ocean.

married

men

married women.

unsatisfied.

one arrives before the other

and sits

on the hard

bed awaiting

some semblance

of love

and affection.

they wait and open the drawer

to pull

out a worn

but dusty Gideon's Bible.

they look for

a line to save them,

before there's a knock

at the door.

where are the locusts?

the land is on fire,

flames sweep

down

from the dry hills

into the valley.

the floods

are

here,

rising above

the roof tops.

the ice has covered

twenty-seven

states.

where

are the locusts?

right where we left him

the telescope

is magnificent. 

a feat of brilliant

technology.

look how far its eyes

reach

out beyond

the stars,

deep into the universe

searching

for answers, for life,

for reason

of our being.

so where is God

exactly?

maybe He's right here

where we left

Him.

death by a thousand small cuts

ninety-nine point nine

percent

of the phone calls and mail

that comes

through the door,

the texts

and emails

are junk.

but in they come,

day after day.

long into the night.

long after

we're dead and gone.

coughing spasms

how fragile

you are,

coughing, your eyes

watering

as you heave

forward

trying to loosen the 

hair like sliver

of an almond

stuck in the roughage

of your larynx.

what a big strong

man you are,

taken

down by a mere

shelled nut.

people asking are you

okay,

do you need water,

CPR,

or the Heimlich 

maneuver?

slapping you on the

back

as if that helps.

subscribing to a magazine

i make the mistake

of subscribing to Psychology Today.

it's half

price, so how could

i resist. but

every week now

after reading another

in depth article

of psychological ailments

i think i have something new,

a new disorder.

i believe that i need help

and a therapist with a long couch.

i'm a covert narcissist.

a psychopath,

a sociopath,

i have OCD.

i'm paranoid and bipolar

with hints of

schizophrenia.

i have the traits of a borderline

hoarder.

i'm delusional

and self-centered,

trauma bonded

with low self-esteem.

i realize now that

i should have subscribed

to Italian Gourmet

or Playboy

Magazine.

we need butter

i'm sent

out to get butter.

an easy

task one might think.

but then

i stand

at the big glass doors

in the grocery

store

and stare in

at everything.

i ignore the margarine,

the fake

buttah showing images

cartoon cows.

there's

sweet butter,

not sweet, salted, unsalted,

creamy

or hard.

a tub,

a box of bars.

a squeeze bottle

with canola oil added.

i take pictures of all

the butters then

wait for word from

afar.

ounces added to the pounds

nothing is

black

and white, there are

subtilties,

nuances,

whispers between

the lines.

frowns

and half smiles,

white lies.

the world is full of

Mona Lisas.

nothing is straight on.

the thumb

is on the scale.

ounces are added

to the pounds.

take me to the zoo

it's good

to get away, to not be standing

in your kitchen

at five pm

frying

eggs.

it's good to put pants on,

and shoes,

and walk

around

in a different city.

to stop what

you've been doing

for the last

year or two.

it's good to get into

a cab

on Broadway

and say

take me to the zoo.

sick politics

though sick,

it's

entertaining

to say the least.

the sport of it all.

the words

and gestures,

the rants.

how angry,

how happy people are.

the flags

going down,

new ones going up.

like children

so many

mope and cry

and sob

when not getting

their way.

i don't remember

elections

every being

like this, hoping

the other side

would die.

remembering Dwight

when

we had tv guides and rabbit

ears

on our tvs,

when the milk man delivered

milk

and bread,

butter,

when the postman

came twice,

when

you could trust what

the man

on the news said

as being

true,

when they filled

your tank

and gave your windshield

a wipe.

green stamps

and letters to send

and write.

when the girl

next door was real, the boy

too,

when few were

confused.

when you could play

in the streets

until night,

when there was one phone

in the house

hanging on

the kitchen wall,

ah yes,

perhaps not better exactly,

but simpler times.

i remember Dwight.

what the hell is Crypto?

i ask

my very smart friend,

Sherman,

a bespectacled man

with

more degrees

than a thermometer

to tell me

in layman's terms

as simply

as he can,

what the hell is crypto.

should i invest

my lifes savings

into it?

he smiles

and sits me down,

puts his hand

on my shoulder, and

says,

my friend,

no one really understands.

but put your

money

under your mattress,

that might

be safer.

the dimming of your light

i can see into

the future, but only about a minute

or two

forward.

i know what you're

going to say

before you say it,

i know that that dish

is going

to come flying at me,

the cup,

the saucer.

i know that i'll be sleeping

in the other room

tonight.

yes, dear, i am a soothsayer,

a mind reader,

a fortune teller.

i can see

the dimming of your

light.

another day please

i could work all day.

into the night

sometimes.

shovel after shovel

of coal

into the open door

of the engine.

more and more.

i liked the speed of

the train.

the sweat and grime.

the wind at my back,

the aches

the pain.

give me another day,

dear Lord,

one more.

just one more

day of work please,

on that rolling train.

a good day to do nothing

not everyday

has a goal,

a list of ambitious

things

to get done.

the hours 

filled with places

to go,

people to see.

some days are like this.

with nothing

planned.

no work,

no play, 

just us lounging around

contentedly,

while we twiddle 

our thumbs.

the first week of the new car

i vow

to not eat in the new car.

this clean

beast hugging

the road.

with plush leather

and pristine

seats.

to not

drink

coffee or

snack, or to nibble on

a cookie

or chip

while stuck in traffic.

i promise

myself to keep the crumbs

out of this

new vehicle. to keep it

free of trash.

not a buttery bagel

will touch my lips.

now let's see how long 

this will last.

we're Eskimos

the street

is solid ice, the steps,

the rail.

icicles hang from the gutters.

we're penguins

shuffling around.

we're Eskimos.

we're skaters on the rink,

hockey players

without sticks.

what good is the sun,

as weak

as it is?

come here and let's

rub noses.

happy tears

there's

a lot of crying going on.

whining,

sobbing.

noses being blown,

aspirin

taken,

cold compresses

held to

foreheads

while the news is on.

winners

and losers, 

smiles and frowns.

it's easy to see with one

quick glance

which side

you were on.

film at eleven thirty

for once

i'd like to sleep without

a dream

haunting me

the entire

next day.

just once, i'd like to lay

my head

upon the pillow

and go

dark, without

the camera of my mind

rolling.

i'd like to

go quietly into the night

without

a cast of characters,

plots

and conflicts

getting in the way,

rewriting

in technicolor,

my history,

the sound overhead,

whispering

a stranger's name.

the day job

the corner

guy,

white beard and short

hair,

a thick wool

sweater around him.

the sign

in his lap.

the water bottle, the

knapsack.

he's been there for nearly

seven years,

or more.

lean and alert

with bright blue eyes.

sometimes he'll

stand up

and i'll offer him a dollar,

other times,

he'll take a call

on his I phone

and ignore me

and

the cars rolling by.

comfort food

i want comfort food.

give

me the meat,

the potatoes, the biscuits,

the milk

and gravy.

give me the comfort

drink,

the strong brew,

the thick pies and stews.

give me comfort love

too.

in the spring we can try

and slim

down once more, both

me,

and you.

will Canada take him back?

i want to know

too much. so how

did he die?

was he in pain?

was he alone?

what did him in?

did he have last words

to say,

was there a will,

was there

a note written?

was he asleep or watching

tv?

was he reading?

what did he have to eat

or drink that night?

will there be

a service?

will he be cremated or

buried?

will Canada take him back?

is there a plot

for him 

next to his mother 

in Halifax?

was he scared?

did he say a loved one's

name before

his last breath?

tell me, please, tell me

everything in great

detail, i want to know

so that i won't

forget.

not all people are bad

to have

a door held open, as you

struggle

with your bags,

gives

you hope

for the world.

this simple act of kindness

reminds you,

despite everything,

that not all

people are bad.

finding her pill bottle

i find

a bottle of her pills in back

of the closet.

old pills.

the brown bottle smudged

with 

sweaty handprints.

her name

is on them.

the date.

take two of these every

twelve hours.

if still crazy,

full of anxiety

and depression,

at the end of that,

take more,

then have a glass

of wine

and lie down.

the tax return

i despise this time of year.

tax time.

snow and ice time,

another birthday looming

in the cold shadows

of February.

the snowplows, the salt

trucks.

the frozen windows,

the doors

stuck.

i've had enough.

i stare at the pile of corporate

tax forms,

w-2s,

and 4's,

investment gains or losses.

i plug in the calculator

and take out

the ledger holding

the names

and numbers of all the work

i've done.

form after form

awaits the stroke of my pen.

i want

this winter to end

and for

the melting to begin.

into the wee wee hours of the morning

while most of the country

is singing

and dancing

at the ball,

in glittery fashion,

raising the roof

with joy.

the rest

are at home, eating

from

half gallons of ice-cream

with an oversized

spoon,

or sipping straws

inserted

into box wines,

drowning their sorrows

on bluesy tunes.

the president's dog gets a pardon too

the list of

people being pardoned

has extended

to the president's dog.

he bit

a dozen

people in four short years,

drawing blood,

and breaking

bones.

he's been in a holding cage

waiting

for his pardon,

or sadly his end.

but he's out now.

wearing a muzzle,

drugged and on

a farm

around the bend.

family outing

after

midnight, my brother

and i, hungry,

we'd

roll out to a hamburger

joint

for food.

it wasn't long before

a patrol

car

was behind us with his

party lights

on.

where you going,

why are

you out so late,

do you mind stepping

out of the car,

have you been

drinking or

smoking dope?

does your mother know

where you

are.

your father?

ask her, she's in the back

seat

with paw.

pull over

some

towns you stop in.

you eat.

you take a break from the road.

you find

a diner,

a restroom,

you park the car

and get out.

you stretch in the warm sun,

or cold.

nothing of importance

will happen here,

in this short

stop,

but you'll remember it

for the rest of

your life

for reasons unknown.

his weaknesses

my mother

knew

my father's weaknesses.

bean

soup,

a winter stew.

apple pie

and ice cream.

a hot toddy

with a shot of whiskey,

and lingerie

with the days of the weeks

embroidered

on each

sheer piece

clothing.

a new sidewalk is coming soon

because we drew

our initials

inside

a heart on the wet

cement

ten years

ago,

it didn't mean we'd

last forever.

a week

and then we were done.

but i'm so looking

forward for the jackhammer

to arrive,

the steam rollers

too.

thankfully unlike you

i never was

tempted by an ink

filled tattoo.

i'm looking out the window

the postman

delivers,

the pizza man,

the chicken

sandwich man,

the milkman,

Amazon

and UPS,

FedEx.

they all have a big

truck that pulls

up in front of my

house

to bring me gifts

from afar.

rain, or snow,

a sheet of ice,

it doesn't matter,

they come,

so why can't you?

a wave of common sense

like a breath

of fresh air,

a wave of common sense

floats through

the window.

clarity is spoken.

the adults are in the room

once more.

sanity is restored.

prayers are answered,

let's fix what's broken

and move

forward.

brother can you spare a pill

when my

father turned 90, he called

me

and asked me if i could

order him

some Viagra

on my cell phone.

apparently he thought

cells phones

were also pill dispensers.

i told him

no.

no way. i'm not going to be

the one to kill

you.

you'd be taking those pills

like Fred Flintstone

vitamins waiting

for the sun

to rise.

but, he said. i've been dating

this new

babe i met at bingo.

and i don't want to start something

with her

that i can't finish.

is she in a wheelchair?

i ask him,

no, no, she's quite mobile,

and has

a walker.

call your doctor, i told him.

and maybe

a lawyer.

the inheritance check arrives

the million dollar

check arrives.

the inheritance check.

i've never seen so many zeros

on a check

with my name on it.

what will i do with so much money?

so many ways

to go with it.

give some to the poor,

or make conservative

investments, 

perhaps an around the world

trip.

a new car,

a boat,

maybe an addition

on the house.

plastic surgery and hair

plugs.

a new wardrobe.

a fancy watch?

or do nothing except fix

that squeaky

belt in the washing machine

that drives me nuts.

becoming Batman

watch

enough tv

enough movies on cable,

when stuck inside

due to

three feet of snow,

watch enough

series,

enough shows

about being a doctor

or a lawyer,

you start talking like one.

you can make

yourself believe

that

you too could be a judge,

a scientist

a policeman,

or Batman.

you too could save the world,

if you could

just get out

of these sweat

pants and flip flops

and leave

the house.

is there something i need?

do i really need to venture

out into

this icy

world to buy something

at the store?

my legs

say yes, my mind, says

go for it.

come on,

there must be something

that you need,

something you're

lacking

not in the cupboard

or ice box.

think about it, think hard.

it's just a few miles

away.

go dig out the car,

brush the snow off the

windshield.

just go and fill up

an empty cart.

you're out of Oreo cookies,

aren't you?

a new Sheriff in town

in an act

of kindness, a parting gift

to his

loyal

followers, the lame

duck

president pardons

every person

in Hollywood

that sent him money

or who voted

for the cackling VP.

his arm and hand

aches with

carpal tunnel syndrome.

it's a busy night by candle

light,

as he goes through

the lists

of scientists and journalists,

who might

be indicted on crimes

against the nation,

mayors and congressmen

and women.

senators.

the entire cast of the View

and MSNBC.

teachers and lawyers.

university presidents.

the whole messy left,

is quaking

in their boots,

wondering if they're next

when

the new Sheriff in town

starts making arrests.

a visit in the spring

i'll come up in the spring,

i tell her

on the phone.

i'll pay you a visit.

but i'm lying.

i won't take the time,

or make the drive.

we've long since gone

our separate ways,

still friends, 

friends for life,

but now we've

strayed too far away.

the permanent stain

i know

before the drip from this

cup,

this loose

lid,

that i'll never

get this coffee stain

out of my

white shirt.

its fate is sealed.

the brown

stain

has been absorbed.

i let out a small

soft curse,

but move on.

some lessons are

learned

and learned, some

are often worn.

take it and go

the open

door,

full of sunlight

and

blue skies

is wide open this morning.

those

are birds

flying high,

those are smiles,

wings

against white clouds.

this is the road

ahead,

not behind.

take it

and go.

the numbered seven page hand written letter

as i sift through my

grandmother's letters

sent to my father,

in the last year of her life.

i see how much she loved

to write.

the flow of it all,

the stories,

she had to get out

by

the gliding of her hand

in old school

cursive.

each sentence a juicy

bite of a sweet

peach,

but some sour long

the way as well.

black gossip and complaining,

though always ending

on a sunny note,

i love you my dear boy,

my son, my life.

followed by a dozen

x's and o's.

when limbs fall asleep

my arm

has fallen asleep

in the cold

night

during an uneventful

dream

that i take note of

on my

little pad

on the nightstand.

i observe

the lifeless form

of my left hand

and forearm,

the tingling

of nerves.

the strange warmth

into the shoulder.

but i expect the feeling

to return

before long.

i'm very hopeful,

quite

optimistic, in fact,

and then the leg

too.

a very large crowd at the game

when you

take a look at the massive crowd,

in their

bright blue jerseys

at the big game, it occurs

to you

that the city must have

closed every

Denny's

and dive joint

around

for the day.

all the patrons and waitresses,

and short order

cooks are here,

chanting

go team.

ten more minutes, then forgiveness

we live

near church bells.

they remind us on Sunday

morning

of our

sins.

we should go sometimes,

she says.

punch the clock

occasionally

with God

to let him know we're

still

all in.

ten more minutes of

sleep,

i tell her.

just ten.

when you're whipped

why are we

here?

he asks his wife as they march

through

the streets

and parks

with signs.

down the boulevard,

in the face

of sleet

and ice.

she looks at him

and rolls

her eyes, we're here for

me,

for women's rights.

and what exactly

are the rights

that you don't have,

exactly?

he says,

checking his phone for the

scores of

games he's missing.

shut up, she says.

and if you keep asking

dumb questions

like that,

you won't get anything

tonight.

Sailing the Seven Seas

there are boxes

inside of boxes and then

at last

an old yellow cigar box

stuffed with

paper.

i've struck gold.

therein

lies the letters,

the little black book.

the history

of his love life

from day one until the end.

i ignore the smell

of old smoke and dig

in to read about

the woman

from Barcelona,

one from Italy 

another from France.

someone from

Seoul Korea.

picture enclosed.

all with beautiful handwriting,

the envelopes

perfumed.

they tell my father

that they love him

and can't wait to see him

again

when his ship comes in.

they can't wait for him

to meet

the children he's never met,

all who look just

like him.

baby it's cold out there

i should have

been

a weatherman.

like them,

i'm right only half the time

about nearly

everything.

but instead

of looking out

the window,

or using high tech maps

and satellites,

Dopler radar,

i go by feelings, by

how much

my bones ache

or my

sinuses clog.

i can get within one inch

of a snowfall

or just a degree

or two off with the wind

chill,

when the wind

blows.

plus i'm good with a pointer,

often

using my umbrella

to show my dog

where to lift a leg

and go.

watching the big game with Amber

thrilled that my

favorite team was in the playoffs,

i invited

my new love interest over to watch

the big game.

she was a former cheerleader,

and currently

a yoga instructor

at the local

community center.

she brought

the chips and cheese over,

the wings

and wine.

gluten free cupcakes for dessert.

we snuggled on the couch,

giving each

other a high five,

and then

the game started.

it wasn't long though before she

asked me

what the lines on the field

were for.

and why do they kick

the ball sometimes

and other times they throw it.

how come they

keep running the ball up the middle

where all the other

players are?

they don't seem to go anywhere

when they do that.

and who are those men

in striped shirts like zebras,

with the whistles.

they act like they're the boss

of everyone?

i looked deeply into

her beautifully vacant

blue eyes and sighed,

then went to the cupboard

for the tequila

and shot glasses.

thankfully she had other

plans

for halftime.

waiting in line for my life to change

as i stand

in line at the 7-11 eating

a hot dog,

bundled

up from the cold,

ankle deep

in ice

and snow,

i wait my turn to buy

another

mega millions ticket.

i dream

about what i'll do with

all the money.

the mansions i'll buy,

the cars,

the villa

in Rome,

the lingerie models

i'll get to know.

celebrities,

maybe i'll have my own

podcast show.

i'll buy suits made of silk.

shivering and stamping my feet,

i look over at my wife

and three kids,

waiting in the car,

blowing the horn.

they want their donuts

and Doritos,

their big gulps,

their beef jerky to chew on.

the contortionist

home

is where you can

rinse

a cup

in the sink,

and with your left

foot

close

the dishwasher,

or open

the lid

to the trashcan,

tossing

an empty can

across the room

and landing

it square

in the middle.

all at the same time

while talking

on the phone,

secured

in the crook of your

neck.

on the road again

he asks

me if i have room in my house.

an extra

bed or couch,

somewhere to crash

until

hell freezes over.

his wife,

has changed the locks

on the doors,

put all of his belongings

in the yard.

it seems like

just yesterday

when they were drinking

champagne

and eating cake.

but he's still wearing

his wedding band,

so i guess there's hope.

twilight lovers

my father's 

most recent and final lover,

and i use

that term

with

a grimace on my face

and

trepidation,

is

in mourning.

even in their tenth

decade

on earth,

they found a way

to ease

the pain

of aging.

there's an emptiness

in her

that is no

different than anyone's.

she tells

me

she's lost on Wednesdays

and Sundays,

not knowing what to do

with herself.

so which is it

it's fate,

it's destiny, or stupidity.

bad luck.

divine intervention?

pick one

and go

with it.

the wrong left turn.

the wrong

side

of the bed.

the timing of it all.

a second later,

a minute

sooner.

if only

i'd done this

or that,

instead.

welcome Greenland

there's unlimited

ice

and fish,

haddock

and lobster,

whale blubber for oil.

God knows

what's under

the frozen tundra of

Greenland,

minerals and gold.

let's plant the flag

and go for it.

make it a new starter

home.

once the changing climate

kicks in

with warmer

weather,

it'll be just like Idaho.

i'm sold.

the three month no refund yoga class

i'm listening,

sort of, to my friend

Betty talk about her cat,

but i'm

half in and half out

of the conversation.

things

are on my mind.

i'm worried

and anxious

about so much.

money, old age,

the weather

and politics.

all the meditation

and yoga

i've been doing

since the new year started

seems not to be

working.

i've spent so many

hours

staring at candles

and opening up

my third eye,

and for what?

i'm still the mess i was

before i bought

this yoga mat and tights,

before i

swiped my credit card,

and signed up.

your Saturday clothes

it happens.

your Saturday clothes

become 

your Monday clothes.

the shorts

and tennis shoes, the t-shirts

and hats.

the blue

and black suits,

the ties

and dress shirts

and shoes

are in the closet,

waiting for what will

never come.

maybe

a funeral or wedding,

will allow

them once more

to see the sun.

more of an inside guy

i have thumbs,

but

neither is green.

plants

die

in my presence

bushes

curl up

and burn.

the trees lose

their leaves,

the roses

bend

and break, die.

the yard is dirt.

i'm more of an inside

guy.

a new face to live with

i wake up

as someone else.

i look into the mirror

and don't

recognize my face.

my eyes

are of a different color.

where is the blue?

my skin

is pale. younger.

whose ears are these.

whose

hair?

should i go back to bed

and start

over,

or live with it?

i've been tired of myself

for some time

now. perhaps,

this would be a good change.

no one will

know me.

all of my mistakes will be

erased.

we just don't get along dagnabit

it's impossible

to love

every sibling, despite

the DNA

connection,

the blood, the parents,

being raised

in the same house,

eating the same

food,

and sometimes sharing

the same bed.

some of them

you don't like and they

don't like you.

and there's nothing you

can do about it.

it's strange,

but not unusual from

what i hear

on the street

and from a slew of

therapists.

lost and never found

i leave

my gloves on the bus,

brand new,

a leather pair

from Christmas.

my hat

is in the theater,

my wallet

is on the floor

at my doctor's office.

the umbrella

is in a cart

at the grocery store.

and now,

i can't find my car

without my

glasses,

left in a restroom

at a happy hour

bar.

i can beat that

he once

told me,

over drinks,

that for him

there was no

greater feeling of hopelessness

and depression

than when he was

lying

in a hard bed

in a roadside motel,

while a cold rain fell

in the gravel lot

outside.

he told me that he had

no job

prospects

ahead,

and that his doctor found

a shadow

on his x-rays,

near his heart.

i nodded, that's rough,

i said,

that's bad,

but you've never

met my last wife,

have you?

plowing the field

we need

our hands on something.

whether with

a hammer

or nail,

a pen

a brush,

an iron or broom,

we need to work.

we need a plow a field,

to throw a net to catch

things in,

a voice

to sing.

we need the dust on

our shoulders,

the fatigue of the day

when it ends.

we need to make

something

of ourselves,

to be needed and counted

for.

love comes

into play too.

too much information

it's all

politics now.

the weather, fires,

floods,

food,

and science,

genders

and money.

schools

and disease.

it's all a quagmire

of disinformation,

lies and 

erroneous beliefs.

there used

to be two papers

in town to read.

now

there's a thousand

voices screaming

their uneducated opinions

from the tops

of trees.

the senate confirmation hearings

so,

in leading our

nation's military,

do you promise that

you will

stop

beating your wife,

and getting drunk every night

in strip clubs?

and if you don't mind

could you remove

your shirt to show us your tattoos?

the senator

from California asks

breathlessly

while wiping the fog from her

glasses.

but, i've never...

so you refuse to answer

that question.

it's either yes or no.

and you refuse to take your shirt off?

is that right?

but....but...I never...

i'll take that as a refusal

to answer

the simple question

and mark it as a no.

lets move on.

when you were ten,

you once

pulled the pigtails of

the girl who sat in front

of you

in algebra class.

do you regret doing that,

and would you

like to apologize

to her right now?

she's here, in the courtroom.

we flew her in

from New Jersey.

what, who?   i'm sorry but...

sir, i'm asking you a simple

question,

would you like to apologize

to her.

yes or no.

but....i don't....

again.

it's a yes or no answer.

does the cat have your tongue, sir?

but....

fine. i'll mark that down as a no.

if aliens

from Mars landed on

our planet would you want to

put them into

interment camps

because of the color of their

green skin,

and have them

guarded by our military?

yes or no?

you rolling your eyes

at my questions,

and audible scoffs,

will be formally noted into

the Senate Hearing Record.

and i take your answer

to that last

question as a yes,

you would put the Martians

into camps.

and one last question,

if you are confirmed will you ban

all vaccines,

which would in fact

kill millions of people,

and take the fluoride

out of the water

allowing everyone's teeth to fall out

like chiclets from a box?

yes or no.

wait a second, that question is

for the next guy.

never mind.

her girlfriends

it's too late for me to cover

up my ears,

the words

have already entered

and sunk in.

she wants to tell

me the story,

the heartache

of being so endowed

from the top

down.

she tells me how strangers

have been whistling

at her

since she was a child.

she tells me

about her uncle

and his long gazes

as she ran around.

the schoolboys, the grown

men,

even the women

making comments

about her girlfriends.

it hasn't been all fun 

and games,

she tells me.

i gulp and look away

and tell her,

you know, i've never

even noticed them.

let's go for a ride

not unlike

a used car salesman,

sleek

and perfumed,

you

come to me

with the promise

of something shiny,

something

i can

drive long into the night.

a prize

for life.

you offer

me

the keys,

you fill up the tank,

and whisper

sweet nothings into

my ear.

sign here.

you tell me.

sign here.

let's go for a ride.

with the green sea behind you

it's an old

photo.

one where you look happy,

though

i know you weren't.

the green sea

is behind you.

there's a gull in the sky.

you shade

your eyes with your

long arm.

you'd rather be anywhere

else then here.

i sense that 

as i snap the picture,

you're miserable,

but you smile in spite of it,

you don't let on.

stick to your guns

be stubborn,

be hard,

be set in your ways.

be selfish,

but not cruel or mean,

be kind,

but don't let others

make you

sway

from what you believe.

don't waste

your time with dumb.

stick to your guns.

in praise of old windows

i can close

the new windows.

they are made

of vinyl

and metal, plastic.

surgically installed

by trained

technicians.

they are

no longer wood.

no air gets in, no air

gets out.

do i miss the wheezing

of the old

wooden ones,

yes, i do.

the cold breeze,

the broken latches,

the cracks,

the bullet holes from

hunters

in the woods.

i miss how they shook

in storms,

and iced over.

the older i get 

the more i prefer what's

old.

i have no answer to that

i send

him a note, telling him

that his

father has died.

peacefully

in his sleep,

at 95.

he writes

back.

i don't care.

i have no answer for that.

no reply.

chocolate cake and you

i've whittled down

my

vices

to a mere

few.

coffee being one,

sleeping in,

chocolate cake,

and you.

the martini days

i sit

and order a club soda,

with

lime.

it's my seat, my

place

at the bar where i used

to imbibe

on martinis.

clear

hard drinks,

with an olive on

the side.

the lights would

be low,

the music

soft

and sublime.

then a stranger would

appear,

someone searching,

like me,

someone i'd meet

for the first

and last time.

mums the word

mums the word

with politics now,

best not bring up

the cackling

one.

the zombie one,

the slick one

in LA.

why point fingers

anymore

at

any of it, or anyone.

the results are in.

common

sense has at last has won.

time to

get things done.

can we have some?

so how did he die?

disease, accident, foul play?

was he at peace,

was he in pain, what was

the exact cause,

was he alone,

was he in bed, or did

he fall to the floor

and hit

his head?

was he taken to the hospital

before his demise?

will there be a funeral,

a service

of some kind?

what did you do with all

of his belongings?

didn't he have a million

dollar life insurance

policy?

was there money

in the end?

real money?

can we have some?

getting even

i leave

the dog out overnight

and find

him on the front porch

frozen

stiff, with only his eyes

blinking.

he's not happy.

quickly i bring him in

and put

him in a

tub of hot water then

blow dry him,

full blast with the hottest

button.

when he's finally

back to normal,

he looks at

me, then bites my hand

so hard that blood pours

out.

i bandage it up, and nod

to him.

i understand.

i've learned

my lesson. we move on.

towards the waterfall

these stones

will always be here

on this trail.

too heavy to lift

or move.

smoothed by time

and rain,

the whip of cold.

so much

will pass.

even our bones will dry

and turn

to dust.

but not these stones.

they're forever here,

they haven't changed,

nor will they,

since i was born.

see you at 8 for dinner

i give

my lungs a few puffs

of

the inhaler

to catch my breath.

it's the cold

air,

the long hard walk

through

icy woods.

it's the wind,

it's who gave me birth.

it's the food

i ate,

my weight, my age.

but

i'm saved

for another day.

see you at 8 for dinner.

climbing the white tree

tired

of the big chair

in

the corner, i take off

my clothes,

my shoes

and go out into the cold

and climb

a white

leafless tree, heavy

with snow.

i don't know why,

but i feel

it necessary

to get out and do

so.

i need desperately

a different point of view.

i need to shake

things up,

bored

with yesterday

and today.

i need to change my

tomorrows.

layers of dust

as my finger

drags

through the dust on the black

shelf

i think

about

the housekeeper

and wonder

where she's been.

retired

perhaps?

or busy i suppose

with

the cleaning up

of holiday parties.

my mind drifts

as i make

a smiley face in the dust.

i create a whole

new world for her,

a better world

for me.

one that's dust free.

everything must go, come on in

as i clean

out my father's two bedroom

apartment,

by the pool,

with a dirt yard

and concrete

patio

out back

i pull a crowd of curious neighbors

into the darkening

rooms.

take anything you want,

i'd tell them.

everything must go.

cups and saucers,

silverware,

China laced in gold.

who wants a book on fly

fishing,

a book on

diabetes, or cancer.

who here needs a gallon

jug of baby oil,

tubs of hydrogen

peroxide,

or a subscription to Good

Housekeeping.

how about a leather coat

with an alligator

stitched on the back,

three American

flags, with poles.

come on in, don't be shy.

use that box over there, fill

it up.

anyone need a wreathe

for their door

at Christmas time,

how about a glass pumpkin

that lights up?

we've got hoes and shovels.

rakes and brooms.

in the ice box

we have ice cream. four

gallons.

four different kinds.

rocky road, pralines and cream,

strawberry

and mint chip

who wants an Hawaiin shirt,

or a surfboard,

never used?

step right up, step right up.

everything must go.

clipping coupons

i'd see

him at the table

cutting

coupons from the morning

paper.

like a skilled barber,

he'd carefully clip each one out

with his

dull

black scissors from

a sewing kit,

pilfered

from a relationship

gone wrong.

he had money, that

wasn't the point.

he was a child

of the great depression,

a penny

saved

was a penny earned,

or some such nonsense.

i'd drive

him to the commissary

with an envelope 

bulging with

coupons for Ivory soap,

Cheerios and Barbasol

shaving cream.

into the cart went

Oscar Myer's bologna,

and Quaker Oats.

Debbie Cakes,

and Swanson tv dinners.

once home, he'd show

me the receipt

and display his savings

of three dollars

and twenty-seven cents

for six bags

of groceries.

lie down beside me

come lie

down with me in the cold

bed,

the winter

white sheets.

lie down beside me

and do not

speak.

let me hold you

in my arms.

let me listen to you breathe.

in this way.

we'll fall in love

again.

i promise. please,

don't leave.

the endless sending of photographs

i've sent you

so many pictures of me and my

family.

year after year,

holiday

after holiday,

and yet

i don't see one photo

in a frame,

none taped to the refrigerator

door,

not a single photograph

do i see

anywhere

in your home.

are you trying to tell me,

to not to send

anymore?

don't say yes

i don't expect you

to agree

with me.

don't take my side.

take your

own side

and contradict what i say.

please

don't be a yes

person,

i'll lose respect for you,

as you would

for me

if i did the same.

the smelt are thriving

standing on the perch

of a burned out

black hill

with a thousand

homes in ashes

behind them,

beside the Pacific Ocean,

the mayor speaks,

then the governor makes

a speech.

they say together,

that

it's not their fault that

there was no

water in the reservoirs

or in the fire hydrants.

we'll look into this

oversight soon.

and yes, perhaps,

we never should

have cut

funding to the fire department

and have given

billions towards

the homeless,

or made such a drastic

expensive effort 

in saving the smelt,

but thankfully the smelt

are thriving.

a dozen x's and o's

they are handwritten

letters

from my grandmother to my father.

all stuffed inside

a yellow

cigar box.

the ink

from a heavy

cartridge pen

has spilled at certain points,

making black

dried pools

of ink

at the end of each line.

it's hard to read,

cursive and old school,

but it's full of gossip.

who's marrying who,

who drinks too much,

who doesn't have a job,

who's still

in the Navy.

she says she'll be up in 

the fall,

not knowing that she'll have

died before then.

she signs it with

love, your adoring momma,

and with a flourish of 

a dozen x's

and o's

beside it.

why is God punishing me like this?

she was hungover.

too much

white wine

in celebration of the big

game.

she's wasted from

the grape.

the bottles of 

fermented grapes

in fancy

bottles with names

like,

Chuck

or Josh.

she's holding an empty

bottle

as she lies there in

bed.

don't look at me she

says,

and turn the light

off.

what's all that noise?

it's the cat

walking on the carpet.

i tell her.

kill that cat please,

the noise

is killing me.

what day is this?

Monday, i tell her.

are you going to work today?

no,

i quit.

why is God punishing me,

like this?

press one and hold

if this is about your

invoice

press one

and hold, you are

thirty-seven minutes

away from talking

to an agent,

or in receiving further

instructions about 

the next prompt.

if it's about

your past due

account

press two,

if it concerns the renewal

of your

service, press three.

if you'd

like to stand on your

head

and wait for an hour,

press four.

if you're angry and

perturbed about

all of these prompts

and the inability

to talk to a human,

press five.

if you've lost the will

to live,

press six and hang up

and contact

a therapist.

one will be provided if

you press seven.

have a good day.

the almost amended will

she took

care of the elderly men

in her

neighborhood,

and church,

bathing

and feeding each one,

changing

their clothes.

giving them pedicures

and manicures,

haircuts,

massaging their shoulders

and combing their

baby like hair.

and with each visit

she'd bring

them a sweet cake

from the market.

candy or ice-cream,

perhaps

from the bakery, an eclair.

she believed 

that with each old man,

there was a pot

of gold at the end of

the rainbow,

and there might have

been if she

had been smart enough

to move their trembling

hands with a pen

across the freshly

amended will.

but she didn't, so it's back

to church she goes,

back to square one.

in the land of Oz

i bought her a pair

of ruby red slippers,

bright red

shoes,

that glowed

and glimmered

even without a light on them.

they absolutely

sparkled.

but she didn't get it.

she couldn't read

the room.

i kept telling her

to put them on

and click the heels

together.

and repeat after me, 

there's no

place like home,

there's no place like

home.

but she wouldn't do it.

so, sadly,

she's still here,

she's in the other room,

talking on her phone.

three culinary experiences

i married the first

woman

for her

grilled cheese sandwiches

and tomato

soup,

but i forgave

her, she

was only nineteen.

the second one

the longest of all,

made beef

stew

and homemade biscuits,

prime rib

with au jus.

sadly she was sleeping

with my

son's karate

instructor, so

i had to let her go,

but the third one,

could only

open a can of tuna,

Charlie's

from the sea.

that was the shortest

one of all.

a very short 

catch and release.

all these tasty bugs

i don't know

why,

but my arms are flapping

at my side,

i'm eating

bugs

off the ground,

i'm pecking

at the tree,

chirping madly

as i run about with

twigs

and worms

in my mouth.

quickly i google

web md,

they believe that

the bird flu

may have infected me.

there's just ashes

there is no

funeral. no ceremony,

no celebration of life,

no eulogy,

no open

casket, no pictures or

music,

no mourners crying,

no banquet.

no long black

hearse winding its way

to the cemetery

in the cold rain.

no.

he never wanted that.

and he always

got his way. 

so nothing

has changed.

there's just ashes.

all those winter coats

what is there left

after a life well lived?

where's the will?

where's the picture box,

the dusty

albums of children,

before phones took over.

where's

the money jar?

the lock box, the bank

account statement?

what's in it for me?

who was favored, who

wasn't?

there's a lot of digging,

a lot of searching

in places you've never

been before,

there's so many pockets

so many pairs of pants 

and winter coats,

to empty.