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.

help is on the way

i couldn't turn

off my

father's medical alert system

after he

died.

there was no obvious

power button,

no battery

door.

despite all efforts,

pulling

the plugs from the wall,

it kept on.

i wanted to return

it to the company he rented

it from.

the pendant

around his

neck too, pried off

at the funeral home.

they wanted that as well,

though it never had

a chance of being used.

i wrapped the box

in the only paper i could

find. valentine's paper,

with hearts and fat

cupids floating in pink air

with arrows poised.

I sent it out, via

UPS.

i laughed as my father would

have as i left

the package

on the counter. it continued

to plaintively

announce

without stopping, help

is on the way,

help is on the way. help

is on the way.

our flotilla of ships

we'd

form sails from

thick

typing paper

and toothpicks

and set

loose our

flotilla of corks

into

the ocean

of Central Park,

the great

pond

below the rocks,

and timber

of skyscrapers

half lost

in fog.

west 56th

as the sleet slashes

against

our faces

we splash through

ankle

deep puddles,

slick ice

and peddlers

selling

umbrellas

and roasted chestnuts.

dinner

reservations are at

w 56th

if we survive.

she says turn left,

i say,

turn right.

a long hot bath for two

i take a long

bath

to settle my nerves,

to soothe

my aching bones.

it's a hot

bath.

no bubbles or Calgon

though,

please i'm a man

for God's sake,

what would

people

think.

i leave my self-help books

in the other room.

i do light a candle though,

and turn the light

off,

i put on some soothing

music.

and lie back on my

rubber

inflatable pillow.

i sip on a glass

of chardonnay.

then the dog comes in.

he wants

to join me.

so i lift him up

and carefully lower

him in.

page one of the new novel

i start a new novel.

i've outlined

the plot,

listed the characters,

given them

an identity

before i begin to write.

i research

the country,

the town

where it all takes place,

i learn about 

the manner of dress

and speaking.

i imagine flashbacks,

and twists

and turns as secrets

are revealed.

i even see the ending

before i know

the beginning.

i sit at the typewriter

with a clean

sheet of paper,

hands on the keyboard,

ready to start,

but already i'm exhausted

and need to rest.

i set it all aside 

for a tomorrow

that may never come.

poetry is so much

easier.

i can no longer be friends with you

the defining

question

of who you should date,

or be

friends with is now,

who did you

vote for.

politics has become

the deal

breaker

in relationships.

which is nice.

now i no longer have

to worry about

hygiene

or clothing.

i just head out the door

and take

both my red hat

and blue hat.

no worries, no more.

slow, very slow to anger

i'm slow

to anger, maybe too slow.

i'm a turtle

when it comes to anger.

i used to look over at the 

now ex-wife,

tipsy again

from going to happy

hour

with her friends

and cringe.

i'd stare at her

bags from Norstrom

on the floor.

i wanted 

to say something to her,

to let

her have it,

and tell her something

like, why don't you get

a job.

but i didn't.

i need something bigger.

at some point

while she slept like a baby,

i needed to look

into her phone.

in need of a sherpa

i over pack,

as usual.

i have enough clothes in this

expandable

suitcase

for seven days

not three.

socks

and underwear,

shirts and pants,

what if it's cold,

what if there's a sudden

heat wave,

or if it rains,

what about snow.

i can barely

lift the bag out the door.

i need a sherpa

or a sky cap,

pronto.

the long way home

i take

the long way home

this afternoon.

there is no where to be,

no work,

no loved one

standing at the door,

no children

looking out the window

for my car

to appear.

no dog waiting to be

walked.

i drive slowly

around the lake

and ponder the setting sun.

yes, i've made some

mistakes.

she was always out of something

my neighbor,

the flight attendant,

liked to borrow things.

the door

bell would ring

and she'd be standing there

in her nightgown,

with an empty

cup.

sometimes it was olive

oil

that she needed,

or sugar,

or salt,

or a dry pork rub.

i think she was flirting

with me.

but the light never went

on in my head.

she was giving me

the green light,

and i was giving her

condiments,

hoping that it was enough.

oh no, it's the end of democracy again

when one political

party

rants and raves

like

childish lunatics,

and screams that it's the end

of the world,

the end of democracy

as we know it,

and then the end

never happens, day after

day.

you stop listening

and roll your eyes.

you laugh and shake your head.

you shut the window,

close door

and turn off the tv.

you burn the newspaper

in the fireplace,

or use it for the hamster

cage floor.

blue valentine

i'm lost

in the thicket of cards at the hallmark

store while

i hold

a nine

dollar bundle of fresh

cut flowers

in the crook of my arm.

i'm

wondering

it that's enough.

should i go for roses this year?

do i need to go to Kay

Jewelers too?

or Victoria Secret's for

something sheer

and black, or red,

but see through?

and what about

chocolate, do i go for the giant

heart shaped

box, or a bar this year

with nuts in it?

dear Lord,

it's valentine's day again,

what am i to do.

do i buy a card

that rhymes,

a funny card,

a sexual innuendo card?

no one teaches

you these things when

growing up. no tells you

about this in school.

i see old men

with shoulders bent

in the aisle,

young men too.

all of them despondent

and shaking

their heads.

all of them Valentine Blue

that's something i can do

the plumber on his knees

in water,

with a broken

pipe.

the car

mechanic

full of oil

and grease,

the carpenter with

a swollen

thumb,

and sunburned face.

the weary roofer,

standing

to one side all day

on the hot slate.

the painter splashed

in paint.

the brick layers

with broken

fingers, and

the baker covered in

icing from

making cakes.

at last,

now there's something

i can do.

the office apocalypse now (the director's cut)

i used to have a boss,

Su Bao.

a wiry little fellow

shot up in the war,

almost a character from

Dr. Strangelove

and how i learned

to love the bomb.

he was a major

of some sort

from South Viet Nam.

a survivor.

he had scars all over him.

bullet holes

and knife

wounds

from when he escaped

on his raft

away from

the Viet Cong.

there was hot

shrapnel still in his

head.

which he'd tap

on occasion to mock me

and my

Billy Idol inspired hairdo.

he was about five foot

four,

perhaps the most courageous

man

i've ever met.

but a horrible boss.

i can still hear him

screaming

at me in the morning

when i

came through the door.

late of course

and hung over.

you know nothing,

he'd scream.

you lazy American, you quit

our war.

which i didn't because

i never made it out of the cub scouts.

sometimes i'd put my

ear to his office wall

and listen to him

muttering

in Vietnamese and French,

clicking madly

on his keyboard

while smoking a hundred

cigarettes and sharpening

his bayonet.

stuck here in Kalamazoo

i wish

i knew another language

or two.

French

or German.

but only because i have

a thing

for women

over there.

maybe Italian too.

perhaps i should

take some classes

at night and master

another tongue,

then pick

myself

up and move.

but i'm stuck

here

in the cold, 

stuck with Betty Loo who

works at the diner,

i'm stuck here

in three feet of snow,

i'm stuck

in Kalamazoo.

a feather in the winter sun

in time,

with age, you sigh

and give

up the fight,

you forgive and forget

as best you

can.

you've lost your youthful

steam

over many people

and things,

surrendering

the indignities

of life.

suddenly you're a hundred

pounds

lighter.

a mere

feather in the winter

sun

floating

about.

plastering down the cowlicks

my mother

thought it scandalous

to send

us off to school

without a handkerchief

in our pocket,

a stack of change for milk

and a tray

lunch.

our hair was combed,

our teeth

brushed,

our laces tied

and our

zippers up.

a cowlick or two

plastered

down

by her licked fingers.

i see the pictures now

from the box,

in black and white,

and wonder how she did

it.

gods and goddesses

our own

lives

are full of mythology.

Greek

gods

and goddesses

are

remembered

from our early life.

the teacher,

the sage,

the roman guardian,

the cop next door.

the queen

in the fifth grade.

Linda

with pigtails,

and Billy who would

rule

the playground

like Maximus,

a chained

slave,

holding back the hordes.

and over

there,

Aristotle and Plato,

playing

checkers

at lunch, such squares.

the alarm clock goes off

somehow

the alarm goes off.

i haven't set it,

or touched it since

1985

when i worked in an office,

but it goes

off just the same.

seven fifteen.

i get up and find an old

suit in

the closet.

a white shirt,

a blue tie

with happy hour

guacamole dip on it

from Chi Chi's.

i dust off my Tom Mcann

brown shoes

and slip

into them.

i find my old briefcase

in the attic

and climb

back down.

i check my watch

and make a cup of Folgers

Instant Coffee,

then rush

off to the bus stop.

i can't be late again.

scotch infused hyperbole

we pick up

where we left off.

my dear friend and I.

we have

the same old

argument, making the same

old points.

talking long into the night

with

scotch infused

hyperbole.

we go back

and forth,

volleying like on a tennis

court.

maybe one

day we'll put down

our swords,

and

talk less about things

that won't

be solved

and more about the joy

in each other's life.

yes, let there be no question about it, evil exists

the terrorists release

the hostages in drabs

and dribbles.

human

life

bartered on

the open market,

dangled

like fish

in the window.

chained

in horror

cells, tunnels.

beaten

and tortured.

barely hanging

on to life.

years

away from loved

ones.

maybe tomorrow, one

more will

be let out.

how kind of them,

so generous,

how nice.

stand by your man

i can't find

the bag, or the receipt

to these

pants i bought yesterday.

they don't fit

like i thought they would.

i look

everywhere,

but no luck.

so i stuff them into

a plain white garbage bag

and head

out to the store.

credit card in hand.

i pray to the retail Gods

that they will

understand,

for after all, as Tammy

Wynette sang,

i'm just a man.

kitchen rebellion while making cornbread

i disobey

the 

laws

of the recipe.

the printed page

in the old

book

my mother saved.

what is a tablespoon

after all,

a teaspoon?

i deal

in smidgens and spills,

a little extra

or a little less

in the measuring cup.

a sprinkle here,

a dollop

there.

the oven set at

a temperature

i want it to.

don't tell me

what to do

Betty Crocker.

i'm done with you.

congressmen and women, oh my

the aged protesters

are sleepy, 

they're out of steam.

their voices

croaked with

unintelligible chants

and screams.

it's cold,

it's snowing.

they can hardly

stand up

in the wind,

as they wave their canes.

they pass around a bottle

of Ensure

to stick it out, while

their wigs

and toupees

slide off their heads

like fried eggs

in a pan.

God help us,

these are our leaders, our

elected

congressmen and women,

thankfully,

most are of a dying

woke breed.

tax dollars well spent

we send ten million dollars

to Chad

to teach them parcheesi

and other

board games

by Matel.

2 million

to Uruguay

for massage therapy

for their cows,

creating better milk.

500 thousand dollars,

to Mongolia

to study wooden straws.

another million

or three to Siberia

to study

sex slaves

who break big rocks

into little rocks

all day.

we're America God

dang it.

and we're

plum crazy.

we're sponsoring

chickens

in Bombay, 

what taste better, white

or brown eggs.

our scientists are

in Jamaica studying why

the tree frogs

make the chirping noise

all night and all day.

and who doesn't like a

trans cast

of Sesame street Muppets

putting

on a play.

Elmo is in drag,

with Kermit

and Ernie now

married.

tax dollars well spent,

i must say.

let's stop here boy and rest

let's stop

here

boy and rest.

let's sit on these warm stones

stacked

by the farmer

next door.

i want

to go on

but i'm

old.

you'll see one day,

my child,

you'll see, but

you

continue on,

get to the lake

then circle back,

i'll be here waiting,

and then

we'll go home

shaking off the snow

like a big

dog

i shake the snow off of my

coat,

my arms and legs,

my head,

then run

around

the house

at full speed

with my tongue out.

i knock into

the chair,

i spill drinks,

i run up the steps

and go

back down.

finally you grab me

by the collar

and settle me down.

good boy.

you tell me.

good boy. now 

take your shoes off,

and go relax

on the couch.

dinner will be ready

in an hour.

in the half dark i add up

in the half

dark of this empty

restaurant,

ready to close, i squint

at the bill

trying to figure out

what tip

to leave.

what percent is right

for this fine

meal and service.

the waitress is

at the end

of the aisle,

tapping her nails

against the bar.

she wants to leave.

there's a world beyond this

place that's waiting

for her.

i round up

and leave her a fat tip.

i remember

how that life used to be.

becoming a fan of women's sports

i realize,

that the only reason

i ever watch

beach volleyball is because

of the skimpy

outfits the girls are wearing.

i'd admit this but

feel no shame,

or guilt.

who doesn't

admire the beauty

of women?

and i know that if bowlers,

or golfers,

or soccer,

or pickle ball players

wore the same outfits,

that i'd be a fan

of those sports

too.

grape jam and a trillion dollars

they throw

words

into the air, like billions,

or trillions,

as if they

were mere dollar bills

floating

around in the air.

tax money

collected and spent

like drunken

sailors on liberty,

mostly 

on whores and drink.

and as i sit here rubbing

my cold

feet and hands

against the radiator,

i remember

that i have

two eggs left in the ice box,

and a cup of milk

in the jug,

a slice of bread for the toaster,

a dollop of grape

jam,

and

this makes

me happy.

up at the crack of dawn

yes,

i see two feet of snow

outside,

burying my car,

covering the walkway,

the steps.

but it can wait

for a while.

i have what i need.

coffee and food.

no rush

in going out with

shovel in hand,

scrapper

and salt, a broom.

but i see that Becky's

car is already

cleaned.

it shines in the winter

glaze

like new.

i see that she's tunneled

her way

down the sidewalk

as well.

i hate Becky.

when no one is at the wheel

it's a rare

commodity these days.

being

frugal,

being reasonable,

seeing both

sides of

the story

and making rational

decisions.

common sense

seems

almost extinct at times.

foolishness

prevails,

the country has gone

off the rails.

seventh grade P. E.

when

you enter junior high school,

skinny and shy,

it's then

that you

begin to learn how strange

and unusual

the world really is.

you're outside of your home,

away from your parent's

arms and eyes.

the PE teacher,

like a drill Sargent tells

you run,

to jump, to get in line,

someone throws

a ball at your head,

you climb a rope to the top

of the roof,

and then

they make you take

a shower

after gym

class with twenty

strangers. naked like

plucked chickens.

it's then that

you realize

that we're all just animals

doing our

best to survive,

and when you see the chalk

outlines

on the school

walls out back, of 

men and women's genitals.

your heart is broken

for what lies ahead.

three hours in limbo

as you sit

in the waiting room

of the car

dealership, the television

on

to the muted Family Feud,

and the music

overhead

playing songs you don't

know,

you ponder your

life.

you cross your legs

and close your eyes.

you unbutton your coat,

because it's ninety-degrees

inside.

you keep looking towards

the door, for

Becky, your tire technician,

to come out and get you,

telling you

that your tire is fixed,

you can go home now.

one boot in front of the other

when it's nine degrees

and the wind

is blowing at thirty miles

and hour,

cutting through you

like a knife,

clothes don't

matter.

nothing matters, but

getting through

two feet of hard snow

to get home.

all you care about is

surviving.

moving forward, one

boot in front of the other.

treat every day like that,

sunny and warm,

it makes no difference,

and you'll get there.

a light tap on the wrist

we live in a country

of second

and third chances,

and even

with three strikes we're

not out of the game,

we're never out.

forgiveness

and forgetfulness is

in full supply

after the light tap on the wrist.

just let a little time go by.

crimes and scandal are

quickly

dismissed.

one quick apology

and we turn

the page,

we move on.

i need new material

it's Monday

at the busy office building,

the elevator

is nearly full, but i manage

to slip

in, giving the appropriate

amount

of apologies.

sorry,

sorry, whoops, didn't

mean to bump

you or

step on your foot,

or your little

dog.

sorry.

what floor someone says?

any floor,

i tell the grumpy

man, looking

at his watch.

just hit all the buttons,

i tell him.

thank you.

i'm just retired

and i'm observing how you

people live.

i need new material.

the city zoo

do i regret

moving this close to the zoo?

sometimes.

but then

there are times

when i lie

back and enjoy the chatter

of monkeys,

the roar

of the lions,

the thunder of elephants.

seals flapping

fins

together for fish.

i like to hear

the exotic birds flutter

beneath

the net that holds

them captive.

it's just the wind

in the summer carrying

the pungent

smell of it all

across the road

that brings

me to tears.

do you want pickles with that order

the old

man behind the counter,

behind the slant of

the deli

glass,

behind

the bins

holding cold cuts

and cheeses

is dressed in white.

it seems that he's never

been younger

than he is

right now.

his paper hat tilted

to the side.

unshaven,

and tired.

but he smiles and says,

you're next,

number six hundred

and seventy-six.

do you want

pickles?

when i was young, when i was poor

why

haven't i thought of this

before?

sleeping

in

like this.

ignoring the phone,

the knock

at the door.

why haven't i given more

thought

to doing less,

not more.

of stretching out

in the summer sun

like i used

to do

when i was poor,

when i was young.

fresh old words

i lick

my thumb and finger

as i often

do,

to turn the page

of an

old book.

the parchment

dry,

but the words

still 

the same.

i'll etch it once

more

into my eyes, let it soak

again into my

brain.

the child who has his own

i bite

not only the hand

that feeds

me,

but the leg too.

the arm,

the neck.

i take a chunk out

of a shoulder

and work

my way

down.

i have no fear of losing

the likes

of you.

God bless the child

who has

his own.

the late bloomer

the other kids

called her tin grin

on account of her silver

braces,

or freckle

face,

or strawberry shortcake,

they made

fun of her frizzy

hair, 

and skinny limbs,

scarecrow

was another name

they called

her on the playground.

but i stuck with it

and in

the end, years later,

they were jealous

of the gem i found.

hide the kids

half time of the big game

used to have

Al Hirt

and his trumpet.

maybe

someone like Ray Charles,

or Burt

Bacharach doing a medley

of hits.

The Tiajuana Brass,

or Brazil 66.

but now

we have nursery rhymes

sung by

Dr. Suess on crack.

even with the closed

captions on,

it's a mystery what any

of it means.

and the hundred dancers in red,

as if in some

Satanic ritual,

add nothing

but more confusion.

maybe we should hide

the kids.

however, it does allow time

to walk the dog, and

take a long bathroom break.

feeding the wildlife out back

i wake up,

the day after the big game

and stare

into the refrigerator

and wonder

what i'm going to do with

thirty-two

leftover meatballs,

eleven chicken wings

and a plate of

untouched cut cheese.

i look out the window

at the woods,

and decide to wait until

dusk to feed the wildlife.

will they eat guacamole

if i spread it onto crackers?

the lone wolf syndrome

women

are better at keeping friends.

men,

care,

but don't make the effort.

when younger,

we used

to play cards together,

go out

drinking,

chasing skirts,

play ball together, or go

to games,

girl free, just the guys.

but now,

we're lone wolves

content

to stay at home

and kiss the wife or girlfriend

goodbye

as she goes off

for the night, with all

her lifelong friends

from high school, from

college,

from work. while

we're perfectly content

to sit

in the big chair, with

a book,

or watch tv.

one more thing to worry about

it's the plastic

that will

kill us all,

the tiny almost invisible shreds

of it

that we consume

unknowingly.

it goes

down so easily.

gets absorbed in our blood,

stored

in our brains.

it's in the bottles

we drink from,

the wrapped food,

it's in the air,

it's on the ground,

Nemo the whale

and Charley Tuna

are daily washing up

on the shore.

it's one more thing to worry

about.

but don't.

do you have enough beer?

you know

we're old, when men,

ask

each other, what everyone

is wearing

when we meet

up

to watch the big game.

should i bring something,

Bill says,

maybe a casserole,

or some

wings?

what about parking?

i had a knee

replaced two months ago,

i'm still a little gimpy.

you know

i'm allergic to gluten

don't you?

says Jimbo.

and what about the wives,

divorced

Dave asks,

are you guys bringing

anyone.

will i be uncomfortable coming

alone?

do you have enough beer?

is your sister coming

Joe?

the changing room

i knock on the changing room

door

at the department

store.

i'm holding pants

and shirts,

more clothing i really don't

need,

there's no answer, so i turn

the knob and go in.

there's a beautiful woman

in there,

in her underwear,

a silk dress in

her hands.

sorry, i tell her. i didn't know

you were in here.

it's okay, she says.

i have brothers. please,

we can share.

i remove my clothes

and shoes and sit

by the mirror.

she says,

maybe you should lock

the door.

i look at my watch,

and say okay, why not.

three hours later we both

come out,

exhausted, but with still

more shopping

to do, but for what

isn't clear.

a hard nut to crack

she used to tell me,

i never know

if you're being serious or joking.

you have a perpetual

smirk on your face

when you

utter another cryptic

line.

i can't read you.

it's hard to tell

what's on your mind.

you're a hard nut to crack,

she says.

thank you, i tell her,

more wine?

be soon, be long

don't worry,

i'll wait for you.

i'm the king of waiting.

i have

the patience

of a stone.

unaltered by the wind

and rain.

i'll sit here

and drink my coffee,

stare into

my phone.

and i have this to book

to read,

this anthology

of poems.

i'll wait for you,

so take your time,

be soon,

be long.

waiting for a warmer day

the wind

convinces me to stay home.

to delay

the walk for

a warmer day.

i can see

the trees dancing

outside

the window.

the bend of the old oaks,

are almost

ready to fall,

fat with

rain and cold,

some boney and grey,

as we all

eventually are.

nails to scratch with

she has

wonderful nails.

some days they are pink

as roses

other days,

they are black like coal.

but i don't care

much for

what color they are,

i just want them sharp,

and pointed,

strong enough

to find the spot,

when i tell her

where to go.

the ambiguous stalker

do i care

what's become of past

lovers

and friends,

siblings

gone sour,

those now in the wind?

yes

and no would be my

answer.

yes, there's still

enough interest

to type

in their name,

but never enough to 

take the time,

to drive

by their house

again.

my internal clock

my internal

clock

has been ticking madly

these days.

am i out of time,

already,

it seems like just

yesterday

that i was putting

on my sneakers,

and grabbing

my glove

to go out and play.

love and longing

i find

a stack of old postcards

at

the flea market.

a dozen or more

banded together.

beautiful

postcards

with

original art on the front.

landscapes,

buildings.

Amsterdam, Berlin.

Rome

and Paris.

and on the back sparse

lines

of love,

and longing.

soldiers at war about

to die.

into the air they went,

over seas

and land,

and now

strangely,

here they are,

resting in my hands.

talk slower please

she's too smart,

i can't keep up

when she talks to me.

this book

is way over my head.

this job,

this science.

i can't follow these

instructions.

i'm way dumber than

i look.

it's a hard thing to hide.

they seem

to figure me out

in short time.

filling buckets with rainwater

i put

a bucket down to catch

the rain.

there's a leak in the roof.

it's an event

of sorts.

the cat comes in,

the dog,

they look up 

at the ceiling, then at me.

they seem

worried,

more worried than i am.

i've dealt with

leaks before.

nearly everything broken

can be fixed.

but they don't

know that.

the cold wind

he's not

a good texter. he's a delayed

texter.

his responses are

weak

and vapid.

emojis.

three or four days

might go by

before he answers

anything.

he doesn't pick

up the phone

when i call.

he's telling me something.

he may be gone.

at 96

we

disappear. we

turn

over

and over and fall.

we're diminished

with time.

bones

and ash.

our history

is reduced to

photographs,

white lies.

savor

the days you

can

stand and hear,

and see

with

your own eyes.

without bad luck i'd have no luck at all

is there

such a thing as luck?

good or bad?

being in the right place

at the right time,

turning left

instead of right to avoid

the crash.

picking the winning

numbers,

pulling

the weary arm

of a slot machine

and having the dollars

pour out like rain.

and bad luck, what is that?

not stepping

on the crack,

avoiding

the ladder,

or the black cat

never throwing your hat

onto a bed,

or breaking a mirror

both of which will cause

certain doom.

but perhaps you can avoid

all of that by

rubbing on a rabbit's foot,

now unluckily

for the rabbit,

unattached.

the black and white matinee

it was a black

and white movie. like how

they used

to make

before they started to jiggle

the camera

from every angle,

making you seasick,

never focusing

on one person or place

for more than

three seconds.

the dialogue

was clear back then,

people annunciated their

words,

except for actors like Marlon

Brando.

you didn't need

closed captions,

the music was

not trying to force emotions

upon you

with violins and drums,

a full cacophony of

orchestrated of noise.

people kept their clothes on

for the most part,

a kiss being sexier

than bare

skin.

the story

depended upon

good writing, a solid

script

and plot

and what they used to call

acting.

the last page first

i read

the last page first.

i want

to know what

i don't know

before i even start.

no tricks,

no hidden agenda,

no gaslit

lines

and words.

no false vows

from the heart.

don't make me read

the whole book

of you,

and be disappointed

the banging shutter

as i listen

to the shutter bang against

the house

in the wind.

i lie there in bed

and wonder about

so many things.

where i might

me going,

where i've been,

the next tomorrow,

and how it all

might end.

the cha ching relationships

i've bought

a lot of flowers in my day,

mostly

apology flowers for

something i did or

didn't do,

something i

said or didn't say.

i've purchased so many

things out of

guilt or in an attempt

to win 

someone back, to make

it all hunky dory again.

a lot of jewelry,

watches and gold

bands,

cashmere

and sable wraps.

a lot of expensive gifts,

but where are they now?

oh, there they go,

walking down the street

with some other

dude.