the cars i left behind

there was the car

that i left on the side of the road,

out of gas.

the car

that when it rained

the trunk

would fill with water.

the car

that wouldn't start,

the one

that the wheels shook

when

i drove it on the highway,

the car

that leaked gas,

the one i couldn't get the smell

out of.

there was the car

that was stolen,

the one that had the window

cracked.

the car with torn seats,

a broken mirror,

the one with the headlights

pointing left.

the car i drove

to the drive-in theater.

the car i lost my virginity in.

the car i dragged empty beer cans

behind

after the first wedding.

the cars with flat tires.

the car i washed and waxed

every Saturday.

the car i fixed.

the car i couldn't fix.

the car i have now 

that i can't figure out

what all the buttons

are for.

who wants that?

who wants

the old

girlfriend to still be pretty?

no one

that i know.

we want

to see them limping

down

the street, bedraggled

and poor,

blemished

and weak.

we don't want them

more blonde

than before,

healthy as a horse,

we prefer 

not to witness them

riding

in a Lamborghini,

waving

and laughing,

from the passenger seat.

all of your Joe's and Mary's

of course

the world

will end.

and all that we hold dear

and true

to our

hearts will disappear

with it,

but why worry.

that's a long way off?

right?

so eat

drink and kiss

with gratitude all

of your

Joe's and

Mary's.

just one night

as i sink

into the east river

with a

cement block tied to my

ankle.

i think back

on my life,

especially the last

twenty-four hours

with a girl

named Lucinda.

she wasn't lying

about her

mob connections,

or her brother

Joey.

and as i slip down

into the cold murky

water,

i see the city waking

up

to a pink sunset.

i wave goodbye

to Lucinda

while she waves back 

from the pier.

the white field

the field

is white with last nights snow.

there are white

mountains

beyond it.

i start.

one foot before

the next.

i sink to my knees.

will there be an end to it?

will

i know it when i

get there?

it doesn't matter.

nothing matters.

it's the walk

that counts.

but less so than yesterday.

you look familiar, do i know you?

i bumped

into her coming out of the shower,

soaking wet,

her hair

matted

on her head,

her make up washed

away,

her glasses on,

and a towel

wrapped around her

bones

and flesh

where a shiny black

dress

once hung.

oh, excuse me, i said.

do i know you?

not yet,

she said.

almost, but not yet.

one more for the road

being inebriated,

was sort of cool, being tipsy,

and wobbly

in the late

night

hours with

happy hour turning into

one a.m.

at the blink

of an eye.

one more for the road?

one last

dance or kiss,

or song to sing

before the lights go

up

and the place closes.

how we survived those

years,

i'll never know.

the word on the street

we'll survive.

we always do, right?

we'll

get past this.

whether cold or heat.

flood

or drought.

we'll find

a way to keep going,

but take my

hand,

the word on the street

is that it's

easier with two.

when meeting out of context

i see my

dentist coming out of the coffee shop.

she's dressed to nines,

all decked out

on my

last dime.

i wave

and say hello, but she

doesn't recognize me, so i open

my mouth

as wide as i can

and mumble,

letting drool

roll down my chin,

and then she says, oh, yes,

hello there,

three crowns,

a bridge and four fillings.

how are you?

the new car salesman

i think back

to every car or truck

i've ever

purchased

and think if there

was one,

just one,

a single transaction where

it all went

as planned,

with no underhanded

shenanigans.

no lying, no cheating,

no extra charges.

i count zero.

when i've driven away

in the new

vehicle,

i've always felt

that i've been taken,

but vowing to myself,

never again.

our original weight

we grow

into our clothes.

we need room in our

shoes,

our shirts

and pants.

we're growing up and out,

in all directions.

and then

that stops

at some point,

and we go the other way,

heading back towards

our original

weight.

the early morning stretch

as i lie

on the kitchen floor, doing

my early

morning stretching,

while waiting

for the coffee to boil,

i hear a series

of serious cracks in my

back

and shoulder.

breathe, i tell myself.

just breathe. but

my knees sound like crickets

and my

neck

refuses to turn from side

to side like

it used to.

it doesn't help when the cat

and dog

come by,

one on my spine and the other

licking my

face

growling for a snack.

lost in the funhouse

of course

drama

is more fun, it's more exciting,

to have

a crazy person

in your life.

crazy in the head,

crazy in bed,

as they say.

why not have

the ups and downs,

the walking on eggshells,

the rollercoaster

ride

of instability,

the fun house of

a mental disorder.

you never

know who they'll be today,

and neither do

they.

the old key in the shed

i hear you

in the kitchen, cracking eggs

into a skillet.

i smell

the bacon

and coffee.

there's music too.

the window is open,

birds

are chirping,

and the blender

is making

juice.

who are you?

do i know you?

did i leave the door unlocked

again,

or did you find

the old key

i left hanging in the shed?

a short visit maybe

in which

age, which era of time

would

you be happier in.

the dark

ages,

the renaissance,

the fifties,

when the world was black

and white,

the roaring

twenties perhaps,

or maybe when

dinosaurs roamed

the earth

biting legs.

would you look good

in a white

wig like GW,

or in a top hat,

like Abe.

could you be a minstrel

or a court

jester

in ole England

with the guillotine

and saucy maids, or

maybe an Egyptian

with a Siamese cat

back

in the Cleopatra days.

this pill will solve everything

if you can't sleep,

they have a pill,

just swipe your card.

fat,

no problem, here's

a needle

stick it in,

stick it anywhere.

unwell,

step right up,

sign

here and there,

take two in the morning

two at night.

nervous

and anxious,

come over here and stare

up into the light.

bend over

and say ahhh.

going bald,

unsightly skin,

the jimmy leg,

drink this, rub it on,

we can help you,

we can fix anything.

we are your friend.

the mid-life crisis

i keep

thinking that this must be

what

a middle age

crisis feels like.

the angst

and uncertainty,

the feeling

that it's all slipping

away too fast,

but if i do the math,

that would mean

i would have to live

to be a hundred and forty,

which would

put me into

a biblical category.

although

Moses did sit behind me

in Geometry.

suspicion

when

she used to search

my pockets,

my coats,

my desk drawers for

clues,

for money?

for what i was never

quite

sure of,

i'd leave her notes

to find.

not here,

i'd say,

or here either,

keep looking, then

i'd draw

a smiley face and tell

her, keep

searching, sweetheart,

maybe next

time.

check this off my list

i make

my bed a few minutes 

before

going to bed.

i put on

clean sheets

and fluff

the pillows

just so,

and then

the careful final

fold.

i feel

good about this.

it was on my

long list of things

to do.

and now at last

one of them has

been accomplished.

a religious quest

i see a woman

standing

outside in the cold grass.

she's been

there all day,

and now the sun has set.

she's alone

and facing my window.

she glows like the statue

of Mary,

my mother

had on her dresser.

i raise my hand to her,

but there

is no response,

no wave

in return.

she's motionless

in the wind.

only her red hair

moves side to side

she reminds me of no

one,

she reminds me

of everyone.

she removes her dress

so that i can

see her pale

body.

the curve of her breasts,

the length

of her legs.

it's what all women do

when they want

love, i suppose,

when they want forever

to occur,

but this is just a guess.

it's easier now

it's easier now

to let go of slights from

long

ago,

to forget

the injuries acquired

in love

and game.

it's easier now to be

wise,

to be kind,

to accept the now,

to welcome

each tomorrow

without

blame.

if only that flight of stairs,

i'm about to

climb,

were the same.

a night at the Bijou

we settle

into our seats at the movie

theater.

it's forty dollars

later, but we're

excited to be out

and about

to the big screen show.

we have

pop corn

and soda

in hand as we awkwardly

remove

our coats and hats,

our scarves

and get settled in.

we're on the aisle seats,

the number nine

seat and

number ten. row G.

the place goes dim

as the previews

begin

and then more people arrive.

excuse me,

excuse me they say, pardon

us,

as they squeeze by.

we have to stand up,

and do it

all over again

then again.

someone begins to cough

and talk on

their phone.

a woman in the middle has

to suddenly go to

the bathroom.

a pregnant

woman

is having bigger issues

as she holds her belly

and climbs

over the rows,

the man behind me has

enormous boots

that keep kicking my chair.

i notice

that it smell like ammonia

and cabbage

in here. then

someone from the balcony

screams fire.

next time i think we'll wait

for Netflix.

is there a note explaining why?

we go in

with boxes, enormous

plastic

bins.

the end has arrived.

what books

do we take?

what clothes, what rings

or watches.

those pictures

on the wall?

who wants them?

there's milk in the ice

box.

do we pour it out?

there's a sandwich

on the counter.

stiffened 

with time.

someone turn the oven

off

and open a window.

see if you can find

a note

explaining why.

don't make me beg for it

it's cold very cold.

the engine

won't turn over.

the car won't start,

i keep cranking it,

pumping the pedal,

talking sweetly

to it, whispering into

her ear.

come on baby, come on,

turn over.

here we go, Betty.

don't make me beg

for it.

but there's no juice

in the battery.

yes, i call her Betty.

i've named the car after

my ex-wife,

because they are so

much alike

on a cold frosty day.

the soft warm summer land

i believed

that if i ran across that yellow

field

that i

would be somewhere else,

hidden

from the world.

i just needed to let

go of

my mother's hand,

and run.

run through

the high grass,

the oats, the rye,

the soft

warm bed

of summer land.

not done with them yet

we often

raise

the dead with words.

praising them

beyond

measure,

remembering

those good times,

or we

bury

them even deeper

with a dark

shoveled memory

here

or there.

we're not quite done

with them

yet.

we remember strangely

what they

said,

what they did,

for better or worse.

i can't escape you

i go

into the empty room,

and you

are there.

i climb

the stairs,

i pull the ladder down

from that attic,

i go

into poorly lit

room

below the roof,

and you are there too.

i try

the cellar,

but i see you in the

damp

corner

beside the stacks,

the boxes

of old news.

i have to leave the house

to escape you,

but then, 

there in the sunlight,

beside me,

i see your shadow.

we've hardly swept the confetti

another

day,

another bomb,

another

bullet

another news cycle

of tragedy.

a new

year,

a new fear.

we've hardly swept

up

the confetti

and away we go again.

business as

usual.

there's no

stopping

evil,

no stopping

the demons.

boys class math while the girls played volleyball

what was

the value of x,

this y, this z,

this

ab squared.

what were these

numbers

and letters

between the equal

sign, for what purpose

did we divide

and then multiply.

and dear lord

what about Pi?

what was

the square

roots of our young

and 

questioning

lives?

poor Mr. Reber at

the chalkboard,

trying so

hard to teach our

girl distracted

minds,

while they lunged

at the volleyball

outside.

an early morning portrait of you

i can't help but think of Picasso

or Matisse

when i see

the curve of you

in the morning,

your long leg hanging out

from the pink

sheets.

the twist of you,

one arm

unseen, your pale body

in slumber,

the morning light and

bright

clock with

red

blinking numbers.

and when the cat appears

to curl

beside you, it's face

becoming yours.

it's finished.

here's a shovel, start digging

i can be

kind,

or cruel, impatient,

loving

and rude.

i've got it all in me.

name

a sin,

name a trouble.

you won't have to dig

far

to find the worst

of me,

the dirt floor,

the rubble.

but i think

there's a diamond

in there too.

and if you stick around

long enough,

and dig hard, 

maybe you'll see

a little of that shine

coming through.

before i lie down

before i lie down,

i need to tell you

something,

i need to tell you

that i won't

sleep well tonight.

i can feel

the ocean in me,

a quiet storm.

it's not one thing

or another.

there's nothing i can

pin it on.

i just know, that sleep

will be hard

to come by,

that's all you need to know,

now kiss me

goodnight

and close your eyes.

no matter where you've been

no

matter where you go,

or where

you've been,

the wonder of the trip,

and all you've

seen,

you can't wait

to get home.

it's not a castle, or

a penthouse suite,

a mansion

on the hill.

it's not the taj mahal,

it's just

your humble abode,

a place

where your love and you

can sleep

in peace.

safe and warm.

i'm not angry anymore

i take it back,

all of

those things i said about you,

and more.

i take them

back.

i'm not

angry with you

anymore,

but

don't get the wrong idea.

this isn't

an invitation

to return,

it's not forgiveness

either,

i'm just tired of hating

you,

i can't carry

that toxic weight anymore.

leave those boots alone

i don't want to talk about

my boots,

the old muddy

pair

in the closet.

the brown ones

that i can't seem

to throw away.

i don't want to remember

those times.

just leave them

in there

with the dirt all dried,

who needs

to go there?

i'm way past them now.

i'm in a different

life.

write me something

write me

something. go on.

put into

words

how you feel, write

me a song,

a poem.

something i can hold

on to

when it's cold

and raining,

when there's no

fire

to feel.

tell me, go on,

be the poet you claim to be.

write me something.

here's a pen.

be kind and

write something for me.

she never said it with words

this ain't love,

she told me, it's convenience.

i'll be moving

along

in no time.

just as soon as the next

train

arrives.

but she never said this

with words,

no, that would

be unkind,

instead,

she said it with her kisses,

or lack thereof,

so far from spring

i could see

that he was wearing his

January

face.

the long frown,

the whitened

brow,

the ice

and frost of winter

upon him.

so far spring from we are,

he whispered.

i don't believe that i shall

ever see it

again.

the early morning triage

i take my early

morning

triage

of pains

as i slide out of bed.

which knee hurts worse.

the back,

the neck,

the arm, the stiffness

of feet

and fingers.

which one shall i treat

first

with a wrap,

or pill,

an ointment for

my chest.

or shall i just turn

the shower

on cold, full blast?

and be

done with them all

in thirty minutes

or less?

a taste for the new

i no

longer have a favorite color.

it used

to be blue or some

shade of blue,

indigo

would often do

when asked,

my closet is full

of blue,

but now

i'm friends with green

and red,

even yellow

or brown will strike

my fancy.

each day is different now,

my tastes

in many things have changed,

i guess

i know that you know

i know you know

that i know

that you

know that i'm on to you.

but let's

not talk about that,

okay?

let's move on,

and pretend that all

is well.

let's march through

the darkness of

another day.

there are ghosts

there are ghosts.

i have

put

my arm into the sleeve

of cold air

and pulled it out,

as the dog

stood barking madly,

with upraised

hair.

i have felt the presence

of the other

side.

and sometimes i see

it in your

shadow,

following me,

but wordless,

stride for stride.

which wink is that?

is there

something in your eye,

smoke,

or the sting of

an onion,

or medicine?

or are you winking

at me,

at last

in the mood

for fun?

but the year is young

i go back

on three of my five

new years resolutions

by nine am

on January first.

i eat

a donut,

i text Betty,

and i drink three cups

of coffee

spiked

with Kalua.

two more resolutions

to go,

but the year is young.

orange chicken and rice

i stare

into the abyss of the ice

box.

frozen pea

and eggs,

ketchup

and mustard.

an onion on its last

legs.

i think

it's Chinese tonight

dear,

shall we get dressed

and go out?

no? too cold?

okay,

let me call ahead

for delivery.

orange chicken and rice?

yes?

and two egg rolls?

let's pretend it never happened

by the way,

what happened last night,

didn't happen,

or at least let's pretend

that it didn't.

let's call

it not a mistake, but an 

unfortunate

turn of events.

let's blame it on new

years eve,

on champagne and

celebration.

let's blame it on loneliness

and the mistletoe

hanging over

the door frame,

or us being the last

two standing,

as the crowd drifted

away.

and by the way what should

i do with the things

you left behind.

your purse, your shoes,

your handbag,

your negligee.

i can fix this, trust me

perhaps

i can glue this broken thing

back

together.

i can fit the pieces

like

a puzzle

into what it was before,

minus

the cracks

and shards

that are lying on

the floor.

i can repair the damage

of us.

truly i can.

trust me.

no need for you to walk

out the door.