word of the day

i say no.

no.

i like the sound of it rolling

off my tongue,

out of my

mouth

into the air.

no.

it's a word so rare,

but not

anymore,

my dear.

here, let me say again,

come near.

no.

did you hear it.

no.

are we clear?

who has the time?

with hand

made signs and streaks

of color

in their hair,

weighed down

by an assortment of metal,

pins

and hooks,

rings,

with enormous

holes

in lips

and ears,

they appeared to be of a low

wattage

group

of souls, protesting, while

children

in cribs, in schools,

in the woods,

waited at home

or near about.

was there work being missed?

books left unread,

clothes to fold?

was there a pot left

unattended,

waiting to be stirred

on some stove?

these chants, so much like

children's

nursery rhymes.

who has the time?

where will this all go?

things would never be the same

i came

home early from work one day,

the ex-wife,

number two,

was packing up all of my books,

books i've bought

and read

since the ninth grade.

they were all boxed

and ready to go

out the door when i arrived.

not a second

too late.

what's going on, i asked her.

what are you doing

with all my books?

my Raymond Chandler,

Larkin and Lowell,

my Cheever and Updike,

my Plath and Sexton,

my Raymond Carver

and Bukowski,

my Mark Twain.

i'm giving them away, she said.

i need more room

on the shelves

for nick knacks.

maybe the homeless would like

things to read.

then i reminded her

of a place called

the public library.

what else was there to say?

things would never be the same.

the nightly news on msnbc

in a month

or so,

we won't have food,

or milk

to drink.

no water, people will

be picked

up off the street

indiscriminately.

arrested

for nothing more than

a bad hair cut

and deported to

El Salvador.

dogs will be put down,

no singing will

be allowed,

there will be locusts

and droughts,

famine.

floods and pestilence.

the world will end

in a few weeks.

unwanted babies will be born.

boys won't have surgeries

to become girls,

and no longer will they be

allowed to

compete in girls' sports.

vaccines

will be unlawful.

everyone will be saluting

the orange man,

sieg heil.

the elderly will be taken

off welfare

and oxygen

and set out into fields

to die.

democracy will end.

the constitution

burned.

so that's the news for now.

but we'll be right back

after

this brief message

from our friends

at big Pharma selling us

Prozac

and boxed wine

and a new book

describing

the environmental dangers

of flatulence 

from cows.

the geometry of cheese

i like

to circle the cheese section

of the grocery store.

it's a pentagon

shaped

area surrounded

by cool bins

of wrapped cheese.

there's a man

and woman back there

in white smocks.

cheese surgeons, i guess.

busy with

knives as they cut

enormous

blocks of cheese

on cutting boards.

all this cheese, the varieties,

the sizes,

the bricks

and rounds,

the triangles.

the rhombus cuts,

the squares and rectangles.

i circle and observe,

circle and read

the labels

until security comes.

finding love on the bus

sometimes

i pretend

i'm choking on a walnut

or something

so that

people

on the bus will ask me if

i'm okay.

are you okay

sir?

they say.

do you need help?

can you breathe?

do you want me to sit

with you a while,

give you a Heimlich

squeeze?

yes. i tell them,

yes,

please.

i'm that desperate

for love

and affection these days.

it's a bird, it's a plane, it's...it's oh, a weather balloon

everyone

has

a phone that can take

a picture,

or a video,

and it's perpetually

in your hand,

and yet, there's not

one clean

clear shot, or

close up of a UFO

or a little

green man

from Mars or Jupiter.

no photo of big foot,

or the loch ness monster,

but fall

down a flight

of stairs and you're

immortalized

forever.

detailed and in living

color

as you tumble

and flop.

and finally nameless

once sharp

and bright as any light,

she suddenly repeated herself

in conversation.

asking

the same

questions

over and over, forgetting

what she

had said

two minutes before.

a button had been pushed.

the rewind

button.

it was a long five

years

from that point,

until the end.

finally

remembering nothing,

not even

our names.

sprinkles and nuts

it takes

so much energy to hate,

to be

negative.

to live in the dark

stew

of resentment.

swallowing

that poison

day after day.

give

me the elixir of love

please,

the ice-cream

of happiness.

a banana split

at the drug store

counter

with Marracino cherries,

sprinkles and nuts.

bricklayer's helper

just one

long day in the dirt and debris

on a barren

site,

where timber

and steel

went up.

i pushed a wheel

barrow along a narrow board,

filled with

bricks

and stones,

i heard the men groan

as they

built the walls.

raising them,

one brick after another,

quietly

and slow.

they were silent for the most

part,

other than curses,

and vague talk

of women.

their skin was

bronzed and burned,

with hard hats

tilted on,

Da Vinci sculptures

with muscled necks, and rope

like veins

on their arms.

they exhaled the whiskey,

from the night

before.

over here, they'd yell,

over here kid,

what the fuck, come on.

more bricks, more mud,

not knowing

my name,

nor would they ever know it.

it was my first day

on the job,

and my last.

the next morning i never

felt such pain,

and was unable to get out of bed.

i stared at the ceiling

and wondered how

those men could go on.

the heat of summer nights

okay,

i'll admit it.

i was in love with her.

i stood outside

her house

and threw pebbles at her

window,

until she came

out.

it wasn't sex, it was

nothing like that.

we were

young, too young to understand

what made

this world go around.

it was more

like two fireflies

buzzing

about,

our hearts

flashing in the heat

of summer nights.

shaving her head while she sleeps

i stare

into the shallow pool

of water

sitting

in the sink and sigh.

where's the plunger?

i yell

to the wife.

where's the Drano,

where's

a clothes hanger?

she doesn't answer,

she's in the other

bathroom,

brushing out her foot

long red hair

into another sink.

the once shiny apple

i can

no longer shine

the apple

of you or hide

the brown

spot

were rot has formed.

i know too much now.

the flies

have gathered.

you're on 

your own from

here

on out.

was it fun while

it lasted?

honestly, no.

smoke em if you got em

everyone

used to smoke.

my mother smoked,

my father,

my grandmother always

had a pack

of Virginia Slims

next to her

cup of Earl Grey tea

short cake.

ashtrays were in every home.

doctors smoked,

construction workers.

men,

women.

office workers.

cigarettes were free

in the military.

men about to be executed

by the firing squad

wanted one

last puff

before the bullets hit

their heart.

people smoked after sex,

after dinner,

in night clubs,

at bars.

it was cool, hip, slick

and sophisticated

to puff on a cigarette.

rich or poor.

everyone was a movie star

with a Camel

clutched between their lips

with a ribbon of smoke

in their eyes.

it didn't matter

what the research said,

or what was

printed on the side of

the package.

just one more puff,

one more.

one small nibble of a donut

it takes

one small bite, a mere

nibble

of a donut

and i'm back on the sugar

train.

slipping a pack

of Oreo

cookies into my cart,

along

with ice-cream

and cake.

Twizzlers

and junior mints.

how easily we're tempted.

maybe being fat

is just our fate.

i don't like people anymore

as i sit

in the DMV, it occurs

to me

that i don't like people anymore.

the woman

sitting next

to me

is eating from a bag of

Doritos.

crunching loudly

each bite

into my ear.

a kid

behind me keeps

smacking

my seat, and making

monkey noises.

and the man sitting across

from

me,

won't stop looking at me

as he flosses

his teeth.

i look at the ticket in my

hand,

number one hundred

and nineteen

and they're only on six.

i've had it with people.

the lost train of thought

i was on

the brink of a new thought,

a new

way of thinking,

a door had

opened up.

a brilliant poetic topic

had appeared

like an angel

in the clouds,

and then

it was lost.

i lost my train of thought.

the damn

phone

dinged again,

that toilet that continues

to flush.

i'm still your friend

i don't care

if we disagree, i'm still your friend.

it doesn't

bother me,

the purple hair

and nose

ring or

our

political differences.

none of that matters.

i'm still

your friend.

if you fall, i'll help you up.

if you're

hungry i'll feed you,

if you're sad and lonely,

i'll sit with you

and talk.

no need for this friendship

to end.

if you're thirsty, here,

take my

cup.

the wrong side of the bed

is there

a wrong side of the bed

to get up

on?

is that true,

or just a myth.

i try it out one morning

after you've

left

and trip on your

high heels,

your balled up clothing

and make up kit,

falling

into the closet door

banging my head.

it's true

after all. there is a right

side and a wrong

side to this bed.

the ship is tilting our side

the cruise

is all

about food and drink.

we'll never leave this ship

and go

onshore.

it's about

meat and potatoes,

fish

and desserts.

pizza

and sushi.

puddings and pies,

pina coladas

galore.

we bring our stretch

pants,

our spandex,

our extra-large robes

and undergarments.

it's seven days

on the high seas.

the feedbag is on

as we stretch out on our

chairs

by the whirlpool.

snapping our fingers

at a waiter

for more drinks,

more food.

the barb wire fence

the barbed

wire

should do it, keep

the chickens

in.

keep

the wolves out.

the fox

from

finding their own

convenient

dinner.

it's a squared

yard

for them to peck at

the ground

until

fat.

it won't be long.

valid once more

i stand

in line at the DMV

to apply

for my Real I

D.

the passport, the birth

certificate,

the bills

and credit cards are not enough

anymore

to prove

my legal

existence.

i bring my mother and children

with me

to be a witness

for my proof of life,

my valid

citizenship to these united

states.

it only

takes a mere ninety minutes,

circling the room,

from chair to chair,

and i'm

out the door.

valid once more.

bless you

there's an

inch

of yellow pollen

on the car,

the sill where the window

has been

raised.

the cars,

the table,

the lamps.

it's a wind of tiny grains

of seed

and sand.

i bend 

and sneeze, again,

again.

very very quiet people next door

i see

a baby in the yard.

the man

sitting outside fiddling

with a spade

in the dirt.

i say hello,

and stare

at the little baby in

the small

crib.

he has a shock of black

hair

and wandering

fingers

and eyes.

pink arms

stretching out into

this new

unknown world.

is that yours? i ask him.

yes.

he says.

my wife and i, it's ours.

five months

ago. oh my,

i say out loud.

i haven't heard a sound.

the smudge of a kiss

she used

to send me postcards

from

whatever city she was in.

from

whatever country

she visited.

whether Paris

or Rome,

Perth or Bonn.

a brief note

handwritten on the back.

wish you were

here.

with love,

Allie,

along with

the smudge of a kiss.

and then they stopped.

knowing every word to every song

is it over

for the rock and rollers.

soft or hard.

has

all the good

music

been done.

from the late 50's

into the 80's.

is that it?

no more Buddy Holly,

or Zed Zeplin,

no more

Elvis,

or Pat Benatar.

no Croce,

or Dylan,

Costello or Elton.

no more songs

to dance

to, to sing too,

to roll the window

down in

the car

and drive to, knowing

every word

as we sing along.

we need more babies

we're running

low

on babies,

the population is dying out.

all colors

and sizes,

races

and religions.

we need more babies.

come on

people,

get busy with getting

more born

before it's too late.

let's have some fun

like in the olden days.

come on.

let's go.

playing at funeral

in a cardboard

box

we take

the small bird, a parakeet,

no bigger than the palm

of a hand,

bright yellow

and green

now folded into

it's own wings,

we take it

to the back of the yard

for burial.

behind the shed, beneath

old brush

and trees.

we're playing at death

now.

teaching

the young,

how it's done.

we take the shovel

and dig,

set the box into

the shallow grave and cover

it up

with freshly turned

dirt and grass.

we say

a few words.

we thank the bird for

it's short

sweet life,

the whistling we heard,

then go out to lunch

for happy meals.

being judgmental

you're so judgmental,

i tell my friend

Betty

while we

sit in a restaurant, staring

at a menu.

she's a circuit court judge

in town.

well, that's my

job,

she says.

i carefully listen to both

sides of the story

and determine

by facts, not emotion

or political persuasion if

the perp is guilty or not

guilty.

and then i hand down my

ruling.

i'm rarely ever wrong.

so what do you see on the menu

that you

want to eat, my judicial friend?

hmmmm.

she says.

i can't decide.

do the cooks here

vote on the left

or right?

right.

oh no, well,

we can always go somewhere else.

it's hard being God

i stare

at the fish washed up on shore,

bloated

with air

and rot.

i poke it with a stick,

it's dead,

of course.

do i push it back into the water,

or let the sun

and gulls have

their way with it?

it must be hard being God.

finding the right protest to go to

feeling bored

on this wet Saturday morning,

i get an itch

to get out of the house.

tired of being in.

i need to go somewhere, but

where?

i go online to see if there's

a new protest

going on,

something i can participate in.

i could make a sign,

a banner of some sort.

maybe paint my face, or

wear a colorful outfit.

i go through the list of protests

that i find online.

there's a save the whale one

down on the mall,

mixed in with saving a variety

of shellfish

and turtles,

and another one where you chain

yourself to the white house fence,

for some obscure cause.

something about plastic.

there's one more at the National

Zoo, for the release of all

the animals unfairly caged

and improperly groomed.

i can't decide, but then it starts

to rain really hard,

so i give up on the idea,

and take a nap on the couch.

making new friends

the almost

famous

singer wants to friend me on

Facebook.

she's beautiful,

so why not.

i confirm our friendship

with a push

of the button.

but before

long,

after some flattering

small talk,

she asks me for money.

just a little to

tide her over

until her next world tour

and gig

in the states.

she suggests using

pay pal, or Zelle,

or a cash app.

i ask her, what's that?

suddenly

we're no longer friends,

and she's gone.

a little personal time

i call

my boss, Mr. Jones, and tell him

that i'm

not coming in to work

today.

i need some personal

time.

another personal day off.

i'm going through

some issues

with family and finances.

my mental health

and my

dog who has fleas.

he listens to me rattle

off my reasons

for not coming in.

using a soft low whisper

to win over

his sympathy.

i see, he says,

then tells me plainly

that if i'm not in by nine

a.m. today.

i'm fired. it's time to join

the human race.

he says.

grow up, grow a pair

and get in here. we need you.

quickly i take a shower,

get dressed,

and run

for the bus, i don't want

to be late.

they know rain

the leaves

turn up

in the quick breeze

like small palms

or cups

ready

for what's coming next

under

the darkening sky.

they know,

before we

do.

they understand

without complaint.

it's not love

exactly,

but they know rain.

the duplicate key

i see the doorknob

turn, a twist

in the soft light,

testing to see if i've

left the door

unlocked,

which i haven't.

then

the click of a key,

pushed in and turned,

then taken out.

are you home?

i hear you ask,

in a half whisper,

using that old familiar

voice of yours.

i see you standing

in the hall,

wet from the rain,

dropping your bags

to the floor.

what now?

why do you live here?

years and years ago,

we tied

the small boat 

we arrived on 

to the pier.

pulling

tight

on the knot,

but the water pulled

at it,

wind and rain,

working it free.

casting

the boat back

out onto the waves,

back out

to sea.

it's why we live here

now.

the man in you

the man

in you,

the father, the son,

the brother,

the boy,

the teenager, the child

of you.

is all wrapped

into one.

dumb and smart

at the same,

time

wise

and foolish.

each day a set 

of new

choices

to be made, or

undone.

self portraits

the portrait

gallery

is full of faces staring back

into ours.

no pictures

or photographs

but an artist's rendition

of who

these people were.

oils

and acrylics,

sketches made

in charcoal.

some shadowed

some

basking in British

sunlight.

we learn

their lives

as we walk down

the alley

of art.

wondering if we're ever

happy with

who we are.

i will never run out of ink or socks

it's hard

to walk by a set of ink pens

in the store

without buying another pack

of them.

fine pointed,

or roller ball, black or blue

ink.

i haven't counted,

for who has the time

for that,

but i do believe i have over

three hundred

and seventy-nine

ink pens in my house.

in drawers,

on tables,

in pockets. 

in the cubby holes of my car.

don't even ask me about

pairs of black socks.

what is a woman?

how did it become

a hard

question?

what is a woman?

i take out a picture from

my wallet

of my mother,

and say,

there you go. she's a woman.

seven kids

came out of her,

and then

a picture

of Marilyn Monroe

in a bathing suit.

she's a woman too.

factory parts, nothing added

or subtracted.

Jimmy in a dress

wearing lipstick is not a woman.

why is this question

so hard?

the onslaught of propaganda

it's nearly

impossible to watch the news

or listen

to anything

coming out of someone's

mouth and not

think it's

a lie, or some kind of distorted

half truth

heard

from

an unreliable source,

called

the newspaper

or a magazine, or God forbid.

a news

anchor on tv.

sugar craving

when

the desire for a sweet

hits

your brain,

that's it.

you're stuck until

something

gooey

is in your mouth.

the craving has begun.

a gum

drop will do,

an old candy bar

from

Halloween,

a candy cane with the

plastic

glued to it,

or 

that plate of Christmas

candy,

melded together,

still on your mother's

coffee table

in the other room.

sampling throughout the house

i carry

books around the house

for future

reading.

a novel

here, a poetry book in the bedroom,

a book

full essays,

in the kitchen.

against the tub and shower

famous quotes

from comedians

and politicians,

(is there a difference?)

each book opened and turned

to a page

earmarked for a line

or phrase,

underlined,

something of interest

i want to steal at some point

and call my own.

some birthdays are better than others

she settles on one

candle

for her cake.

a cup cake, because,

we're all continually

watching our

weight.

she buys herself a gift,

wraps it,

then unwraps it after

blowing out

the candle.

she feigns surprise

at the silver necklace,

then opens

up the card that says,

i love you,

another year,

but we're still alive.

a card she sent last week.

she's alone, but pours

herself a drink.

sings happy birthday

to herself.

the cat is asleep on

the windowsill.

she puts some music

on and dances

across the room.

some birthdays are

better than others.

and now what?

why does

one country want

to destroy

the country

beside them, 

to conquer the land

and people,

to bomb the buildings,

villages, towns and cities.

schools

and churches.

to wreak havoc everywhere.

what's the point?

it's all rubble now,

it's hell on earth,

but at last it's yours.

so, are you happy?

he's unbroken

the dog

chases everything.

he's that kind of dog.

the kind that doesn't listen

or obey.

he breaks all the rules

and jumps

the fence.

he's unbroken.

we're

the same.

keep rowing

no land in sight,

but we keep rowing,

we keep

at it.

what else is there to do?

get some sleep,

i'll continue

on through the night.

together we can get there.

rest your head.

i'll let the stars guide us.

sleep well.

i'm here for you.

you'll see, in the morning.

we'll see land,

we'll see the other side.

rainy day money

it's rainy

day

money in the blue

bowl

on top

of the refrigerator.

coins,

nickels and dimes,

quarters,

pennies.

will it ever rain

so hard

that i will need it?

i hope not.

Saturday Morning in the barber's chair

he was a large man

with fingers

like sausages.

i was

a small boy sitting in

his barber's chair.

i could smell the onions

on his fingers,

the garlic

on his breath,

the salami, the prosciutto 

the provolone.

his belly bumped

the chair

as it spun around,

there was a long striped sheet

wrapped

around me,

my shoes dangled

in the air

not reaching the leather

step.

i heard the scissors

snapping

like crickets,

dancing

around my ears.

the girls will love you,

when i'm finished,

he said, with a laugh,

dusting my neck with

a cloud of powder,

then giving my cheeks

a gentle

slap with a blue cologne.

i drifted off, as if

in a dream,

wondering which girl i'd

pick,

which one would be

the lucky one.

who would be my queen.

after what you told them

it feels like a strange

city,

now, this place

where i used

to live.

the roads have changed.

buildings

torn down,

new ones risen from

the graves

the old.

i have no idea where

i'm going but

i'm getting looks from

people

on the street.

windows

are being closed,

curtains

drawn,

i can hear the dead

bolts slide

as each door is

locked.

i should have never

come back

to my hometown

after what

you told them.

i'm taking the next

bus out.

waiting on your arrival

the cat

is unbothered by our lack

of attention.

the feeling

is mutual.

but the dog is another story

altogether,

anxious,

worried about love

and affection.

staring out the window

wondering

when you'll be home.

just like us,

no different.

limping home on one shoe

i'll return

this shoe you left behind

at some point.

i'll call you up

and tell you

that i have it.

it's black and almost new,

worn once

or twice,

quite nice.

i wonder how you limped

home without it.

sweeping up birds

why

some birds fly into the window

i'll never know,

they have the whole

sky to themselves,

blue as far

as the eye can see,

and yet.

clunk,

another one decides

to end

it all, to see what's

inside, where

i am,

behind

the glass wall.

rebels with a myriad of causes

the protest

is a mishmash of concerns.

it's not

just one issue

they're here for. it's many.

from

wars

and climate,

to transgenders and 

government spending.

it's everything

under the sun,

that they're screaming

and marching for.

it's not

just for women's rights,

or the unborn,

the price of eggs,

or immigration

reform,

it's a whatever's ailing you

march.

come one,

come all.

wave whatever flag

you want,

in some crazy way

it's something to do,

it's fun.

a row of turtles

it's a line

of turtles on the long branch

resting

in the water.

a set of helmets,

dark brown,

like steel

and hatched, necks out,

long

into the sunlight.

a dozen or more,

no sound,

no quarrel.

just bathing in the warmth

of spring

side by side.

end to end.

whether left or right

you have

to laugh, you have to have

a sense

of dark

humor to survive

in this world.

you have

to shake your head

and scoff.

it's the only

way to move on from

all the craziness

out there.

why argue, why fight,

why try

to make

someone see the other

side.

it's hopeless.

whether left or right.

i used to care but things have changed

my complaints

are less

verbal these days and more

internal.

i breathe them out daily,

though.

exhaling

the toxic fumes

i've taken in.

with age i've come to realize

how pointless

it is

to rage.

i used to care, as Dylan says,

but i've changed.

in the hands of others

the mail

is unreliable.

it comes, or it doesn't come.

there's a new

mail

person every other day.

sometimes

it's late,

sometimes

it's in a neighbor's box,

or torn

or wet from the rain.

i find

on the street my retirement

statement,

a valentine card

from a sweetie.

last months electric bill,

now late.

so often our lives turn

on the hands

of others.

remembering nearly everything

even at the end

of a long

life,

lying in bed, nearly done,

with eyes

closed,

the sound

of a screen door

slamming, or the bark

of a dog,

will bring to mind

nearly

everything.

in line for a bagel with everything

as we

stand in line for a bagel,

a block

from Central Park,

the snow

covers our hair,

puts roses on our cheeks,

puts sparkles

in our eyes.

the line crawls slowly

to the door.

but we're in no hurry,

the waiting

is divine.

from a distant star

from

another planet or star,

from

some far away

galaxy,

as they look down upon us,

do they see

that not everyone is crazy

here.

that there

are good people too.

sane

and reasonable?

not at war

and full of hate and pain.

do they laugh at us,

at the riches

we have,

the blessings of an ocean,

and wildlife,

flowers?

do they not see the smiles

on children's faces

as they bite

into the cold red fruit

of a summer

watermelon?

Moe's Diner

everyone

needs a corner diner.

an old place

that should have been

torn down years ago,

but still serves

a decent breakfast,

brought to your table by

a busty woman

with red hair

named Marge.

you need the skinny guy

in the back,

with a paper hat,

working the skillet.

still rattled by war or something

in his childhood.

but he knows how

to flip and egg or

flap jack.

his bacon is perfect.

and the coffee keeps coming.

there's a juke box

on the table

with songs by Elvis

and Nancy Sinatra.

Mel Haggard.

it takes nickels and dimes,

quarters.

there is no breaking news

there's breaking news,

as proclaimed by

the enormous

red lettering

pulsating on the screen

damaging your retinas.

but not

really.

it's old stale news

from yesterday

but wrapped up

nicely with a few more

juicy morsels of maybes.

they've put a ribbon on it

and will be opening

it after

the next commercial

break, stayed tuned.

don't change the channel,

don't move.

the cafeteria line

the fat

women in white smocks

and aprons,

some shorter than we were,

with

hair nets,

and muscled arms

were behind the counter

setting up

more plates

of Salisbury steaks

and green

beans.

a dollop of 

mashed carrots

in shallow bowls,

lining up dixie cups

of stewed tomatoes,

and then

the Jello,

squared onto a plate

with a puff

of cool whip.

we avoided

eye contact with them as

we slid our

trays along. was it really

food?

who's to know.

2 pm Physics class

we sat

in school, bored.

staring

out the window

at spring.

the teacher at the front

of room,

bored too,

but continuing to write

on the blackboard

with her white chalk.

she wanted

to go home too.

the clock would never

move,

the black hands

defying

the laws of gravity

and physics.

all the things we were

supposed to learn

and understand.

the Senator's number one priority

so what

are you worried about, the newsman

asks

the Democratic

Senator

heading to El Salvador

to rescue a gangbanger

covered in tattoos,

and gang colors.

who has been in front of nineteen

judges so far.

what plans

do you have in the future

for your constituents?

better roads?

and housing, maybe more

research and money

dedicated to disease and

addictions.

improve the schools and our

children's education?

what exactly do you want to

do during your

term as Senator

to serve your state and country.

what do you want your legacy

to be?

oh, he says.

pausing,

with tears in his eyes.

my number one priority

is to bring back

a known gang member

from his own country,

back to our state,

and set him free.

i don't care if he's

a man who belongs to

MS-13, a man who beats his wife,

and is here illegally.

and is suspected

of human trafficking.

nothing is more important

than this man.

i dedicate my every waking hour

to obtaining his freedom.

the bridges and roads,

education,

and cancer, etc. can wait.

the fate of democracy depends

on this man.

scheduling sex

what about

Wednesday night, i ask her.

between seven and nine p.m.

after softball

practice,

no, she says, i can't. i told

my sister that i'd

go shopping with her.

okay, okay.

how about Thursday then,

i wish, she says,

but i have meetings all day,

and after work

i'm going out with friends

to a movie.

Friday?

maybe, she says.

we'll see. my mother is making

dinner that night,

meatballs and spaghetti,

if you want you

can come with me.

hmm. Saturday?

sure, sure. that should work.

i'll get back to you on that,

but if not Saturday.

Sunday after church between

one and three

should be perfect.

i'll leave the key under the mat.

i'll be upstairs

taking a nap.

not quite whole foods study group

i've become one of them.

one of those

people that stand

in the middle of the aisle

at the grocery

story

reading labels.

examining the ingredients

of every jar,

can

and package that i might

put into my cart.

it's crowded.

some people have brought

their own

folding chairs and flashlights,

they scroll their

phones looking up words

they've never heard of.

researching the countries

that have caught these sardines,

or grew these tomatoes

in this red sauce.

we help each other,

warning each other, showing

the rashes on our arms,

relating how that brand

made us sneeze, or choke,

or gave us the hiccups.

giving blood

she tries

one arm, sticking the needle

in.

but no blood comes

out,

no blood drizzles

into

the line, 

then vial.

she pulls the needle

out,

rubs the vein,

then tries the other arm.

tapping

and wrapping a band

around.

ten minutes

later,

someone is

putting a pillow 

under my head

and making me

bite into an oatmeal

cookie

and sip from a dixie cup

of orange juice.

raised by wolves

i'm

wearing a white suit in the photo.

i'm twenty-two

years old.

a mere

child,

and yet i'm walking arm

in arm

with an even

younger person down

the church aisle.

this is what happens

when you're

raised wolves.

and there's

no one around

to give you advice,

or pull you

aside to tell you,

not yet, not now.

a picnic by the river

she insists

that we go on a picnic.

she's been looking at too many

Claude Monet

paintings.

she buys a basket

and makes

sandwiches with the crust

cut off.

cucumbers

and pate.

she packs two apples,

some cookies,

that she made,

a bottle of wine, corked,

and a glass

bowl of grapes.

isn't this romantic she says,

throwing down

the clean white

blanket,

not seeing the ants,

the field mouse,

and in pursuit

a slithering snake.

internal squabbling

because

of internal squabbling

and sibling disagreements

the traveling carnival

has split up into several

factions

this year.

they argued

over prices,

and retirement programs,

dental plans,

insurance.

who's turn it was to clean

the monkey

cages.

that's why there's only

the Scrambler

this year

in the mall parking lot,

and a cotton

candy stand.

next week half of the roller

coaster

will appear.

field after fields go by

on the way

to the eastern shore

we see

nothing

but farms, fields of soy,

corn.

we have nothing to say

to each

other anymore.

in the past

we would point out

an old

barn,

or horses,

cows, as we drove.

but now we roll the window

down

and let the wind

do the talking,

the tires on the road.

no fault of her own

through

no fault of her own,

one leg

was shorter

than the other, which

made it easier

to hear her coming

when she approached,

the larger shoe

clunking against the floor.

but i loved her

just the same, as she

loved me

with my multitude

of faults,

too many to mention here

in such short poem.

a passing fancy

we have

all been under one spell

or another,

whether

it's the spell

of love

and infatuation,

a political ideology,

a writer,

a poet,

a Hollywood actor,

or singer.

maybe it's a religious

cult.

but

we've all

drank the Kool-Aid

from someone we've

looked up to,

and brough more home,

for others to taste

and agree

with you.

please Oprah, tell me how to live my life

it's not

easy being a celebrity.

with everyone

loving you,

thinking your beautiful,

talented

and smart.

even after one Disney

movie

where you

played

a dolphin come to life.

a sequel coming soon.

you believe the adoration.

you want to

tell people who

to vote for,

where to spend your money,

how to live.

you write a book

about

eating vegetables,

and protecting

turtles.

you go on tv

to promote a face cream,

and Cheez whiz.

you want the best table

to eat at,

no lines for you.

you've arrived, but sadly

because you never read

a book

you're still dumb, still stupid.

the arc of words thrown

i ball up

the long letter that i just wrote

by hand,

on a clean

sheet of white paper.

i've read it over

a dozen times,

but have no intention of

mailing it out.

i can't decide if it's too harsh,

or too kind.

i toss

the ball of paper across

the room

to the trash can

where it sinks into middle,

with perfect aim,

swish,

onto a hundred

other balled

letters never mailed.

i'm getting good at this.

can we park here?

i have

never driven into the city

and parked

on a street

without getting a parking

ticket.

no matter

how many times i read

the wordy

signs,

loading zone

on Saturday,

no parking Monday

through Friday,

unless it's a federal

holiday.

street cleaning

on odd days, but even days

are fine.

Sundays only

if you have a permit,

or a handicap

sticker, but only

between the hours of

7 a.m. and 9.

and in red,

emergency snow road,

if towed,

please call, open on

Monday,

use online banking

to pay your fine.

fhe devil works in mysterious ways

how in God's name

we got

from

the empty tomb,

to the resurrection,

to this.

Christ risen

from the grave.

jellybeans

and marshmallow peeps,

chocolate rabbits

and parades,

i'll never know.

the devil works

in mysterious ways.

off the grid for two nights

tired,

of everything,

we move off the grid,

quit our

day to day lives

and move into

a log cabin in the woods

off the coast

of Newfoundland.

we're strong

people

with strong back bones.

but there's

no

electricity

or running water.

no food,

just living off the land.

neither of us can

skin

animals or sew.

in three hours we have

blisters

and callouses on

our hands.

we last

two nights,

then go back to town.

we're not

of that kind people.

we love coffee

and toilet paper,

television

and our phones.

next year we're travelling

to Iceland.

but staying

at the Hilton.

i just want ten minutes of your time

it was easy

dodging the door to door

salesmen

back in the day.

before

robo called took over,

calling you

a hundred

times a day.

when you saw the man

at the door

with his satchel

of cleaning products,

a new fangled

vacuum,

or encyclopedias,

or insurance plans,

you dropped

to the floor

and turned the lights off.

you held your breath,

until he gave up knocking

and went sadly away.

flying ice cubes

i crack

open a tray of ice,

the old fashion

metal type,

circa 1965,

an heirloom

from my grandmother.

i snap back the handle

which

sends

a few cubes flying

across

the kitchen

floor.

i'll find them later

when i step,

wearing socks,

into a cold puddle

of melted water.

a week in review

the stock market surges,

then drops.

immigration, protests,

schools shut

down.

trans athletes

on top.

crazy car burning mobs,

shootings,

deportations,

watching the wars

from afar.

violence and rhetoric,

politicians

pulling their hair out.

injunctions,

delays,

tariffs and trade,

judges and courts.

in total disagreement

over nearly every law.

Hamas and Putin,

Iraq

and Iran.

Musk

and Trump.

the Pope waving

with a small pale hand.

Biden bumbles and stumbles

all over again.

the Shroud of Turin.

eggs are up

eggs are down.

eating a ham

sandwich

at the couch while

the world

goes around.

next week, guess what?

more

of the same.

pass the mustard please.

the store limit of ten cartons of eggs

i see a woman

carrying ten cartons

of eggs

in her arms.

brown, white,

organic,

and farm raised,

made by uncaged chickens

who were

able to stroll

around the grounds.

ten cartons

is the posted limit for this store.

she's smiling

from ear to ear

as she sashays to the counter.

she's almost glowing

with contentment.

i have no idea,

what's going on,

but Easter is near.

the sugar high mass

on Easter

morning, before she chased

us out of the house

to go to church

in our new pants

and shirts,

we bit off

the heads

of chocolate rabbits,

disappointed

that they were hollow,

and stuffed

our mouths with jelly

beans

and yellow peeps

floating in the shredded

rainbow of

confetti in our Easter

baskets.

no one ate the colored eggs

which would

be around until June.

it was a jittery hour

at high mass,

squirming in our pews,

fidgeting,

and kicking our skinny legs.

filet o fish

like an old

big

fish, you too have

hook

marks and scars

on your lips

from being

wrangled to shore

by some damsel

in distress.

she reeled you in,

put you

in a bucket,

saying sweet things

all the way,

then took

you home to be deboned

into a malleable

filet.

two tin cans and a long piece of string

back when

we virtually had tin cans

attached

by string

in a phone booth, you

had to feed

it with coins

to make a long distance

call.

there was no

small talk.

you had to get to your

point, you were

on the clock,

before another five

quarters

went through the slot.

forget the weather,

the blah blah blah.

just tell me what's up,

when are you

coming home,

what airport and what

time can i pick

you up?

and then before

the call drops you ask

do you still love me?

but it's too late,

the operator has cut

you off.

ET go home

i see

the senator on tv

having margaritas in El Salvador

with the latest

hero

of the left.

a criminal deported.

although i'm sure

he's a fine

upstanding young man,

jobless

except when he's transporting

people

from Texas to Maryland,

in a van,

driving without

a license.

he's only

beat up his wife a few

times

that we know of.

a black eye or two,

some scratches

and clothes ripped off her.

according

to the police reports she filed.

the dispute was

something about burned

toast or playing

her music too loud.

he's wearing

a tropical shirt

and sandals, as he has

lunch with the Senator,

the Denny's grand slam,

and is doing his best to hide

his gang

tattoos

on his hand and head.

the senator wants him to

come home,

like ET, on his private jet,

although he's in the country

where he was born

and raised.

it's just another day.

another day of crazy

in the land

of the free, home of the brave.

a late spring snow

it's late spring,

but it's snowing.

we're in our shorts and 

t-shirts,

our sandals.

but it's coming down,

heavy

on the trees,

the streets are white.

we put away our skates

and bikes,

our volleyball and tanning

lotions,

we go to the big closet

to find our shovels

and salt,

our cross-country skis.

her tight leather pants

how many

times

have i asked you to not wear

those leather

pants

when you come over?

we never make

it out of the house

when you do that.

we're always late,

for the show, the party,

it takes you an hour

to get in and out

of them,

even if i help with the

shoehorn.

the key lime pie evaluation

i'm not convinced

that his key lime

pie

with a meringue

topping

is delicious.

a crumb crust

is holding it altogether

in a beautiful

dish.

the first bite

was quite delicious,

but this will take some time,

some milk

or tea to wash it down,

might help me

decide.

why cut a single slice,

when i can carry the whole pie

to the coffee table,

and take

my time.

avoiding the army

i think

Wednesday will be a good day

to go

see the doctor

to have him weigh me,

take blood from my veins

and spin a vial

of it

around in the lab.

he'll

look into various orifices.

maybe tap

my knee

with a little rubber

mallet.

he'll ask me

to look this way

then that,

i'll stick out my tongue,

and on command,

drop my

drawers

and cough.

at last he'll take my blood

pressure,

which will be

through the roof,

from fear.

will it keep me out of the army

again,

out of the draft.

i hope so.

please, dear God, stop whining people

here's what

you do if you don't like

your marriage,

your partner,

your friends.

if you don't like

your job,

or where you live,

the car that you drive,

the restaurant you're in,

if you don't

like your family,

or the circumstances

that you're stuck in,

or the country where

you live,

here's what you do.

first shut up and quit

whining.

no one likes whining.

then you leave.

it might take a day,

or year,

or more.

but make a plan and

stick to it,

pack your backs and

skedaddle.

leave. 

we don't want to hear your

whining anymore.

pricing by the pound

they weigh our meat

at the grocery

store.

steaks

and ground beef.

pork ribs,

and sausage.

they weigh the fish

and fruit,

produce,

flour and sugar.

everything goes

onto the scale,

measured

by the pound

or gram.

we pay a price

for what it weighs,

and yet

when we board a plane,

it doesn't matter

if you're skinny or

enormously round.

she's back home now

she sent

me

a picture of her under the Eiffel

Tower,

another

while standing in

the Roman

Coliseum,

riding a gondola in Venice,

one more

at the Plaza Hotel,

in her suite,

then a postcard

from Dubai,

with a picture of her

in a Mercedes limousine,

so it was strange to run

into her

at Walmart

buying a giant bag of

marshmallow peanuts,

toilet paper,

and Drano for her sink.

spring cleaning

a good spring cleaning

will

do the trick,

brighten the day.

let's get started, shall we?

open the windows,

throw up the shades,

rip off the sheets

and blankets,

bang the pillows and dust

off the shelves,

the sills,

the mantle.

let's get out the mop

and bucket,

the disinfectants

and sprays.

are you with me?

are you with me?

no? tomorrow?

okay.

the hidden thorns

beware

of the rose bush,

the flowering

red

and yellow

roses.

so beautiful

in the early morning sun,

but

go gently when plucking

them for

your vase

at home.

the bite is bloody,

as it is

with every

hidden thorn.

everything is hunky dory

it's easier,

when asked if everything is okay,

to say,

yes.

i'm fine, all is well.

and you,

how are you?

why tell them

about the bee sting,

the rash,

the tax bill. why get into

what your

mother said,

or how your children

won't take

out the trash.

there's no use telling them

about the line

at the store, what the dog ate,

or how your wife

doesn't love you anymore.

why burden

them with all the details

of your life

run amok.

it's better to just say,

i'm good.

i'm fine.

and how are you?

the memory of you is like gum stuck to my shoe

the memory of you

is exactly

like this pinkish grey

gum

stuck to the bottom

of my shoe.

i scrape at it day after

day,

but it's deep into the tread.

hardened

like old clay.

impossible to completely

gouge away.

maybe it's time

for a new pair.

maybe today is the day.

billions and billions

everything

is counted

in billions now.

tax dollars,

expensive handouts

and wars.

programs

for schools,

for the poor.

for windmills, and turtles

crawling

along the shore.

what it cost to do anything

is counted

in billions now.

the budget, the cuts,

the waste.

millions

is so old school.

mere drops in the bucket

of revenue.

the good thief on the cross

the good

thief

on the cross, is the one

we're

nearest to.

finding faith in the worst

of circumstances.

no longer

in fear

of death

or life. forgiven

and

about to enter paradise

in the blink

of an eye.

one good thing

it's a blessing

to find one good thing

to do

with your

hands.

with your mind, to stand

in one spot

or sit,

and make

something that you're

proud of,

something

that someone can

buy or use,

to eat or enjoy,

and thank you for it.

it's one

good day after another.

not as king or queen,

or even

prince.

just a person,

whether man or woman,

making their way in life

honestly.

eleven expensive minutes in space, barely

the Russians

sent

up a few dogs,

we sent up a few

monkeys.

nothing much

has changed.

things go up

and come back to

the ground

again.

now it's celebrities.

no buttons to push,

no levers,

no steering wheel.

just a window

and cushy seats.

not even a cup

of tang.

eleven minutes,

whoopee.

buried seeds

will

these seeds i've

buried

come up

soon,

will the rain

help?

will the sun

bake

the ground

and make

the sprouts rise.

is prayer

like

that?

tell me the truth.

no lies.

the sugar cube was the best

there

are things we had as kids

that

we

usually don't worry about

anymore.

measles,

the mumps,

whooping cough,

having our

tonsils taken

out.

we got all the shots

back then.

kids would miss school

for months

at a time

with scarlet fever,

or diphtheria,

small pox

and the German Measles

otherwise known

as Rubella.

we'd look around the classroom

and wonder

where the hell

Jimmy was

or Clementine.

they'd line us up in 

the cafeteria

and fire vaccines

into our

boney arms

as we tried to muzzle

our screams.

sometimes

the medicine would be

tucked away

inside a sugar cube.

sweet and squared like

dice.

we were inoculated from

head to tail,

through and through,

nearly every day

at lunch,

before we ate our Jello,

and dug into

our lunch pail,

a nurse would be sticking

a needle into our arms.

let's prove them wrong

insurance

companies are clever

with their actuary tables,

their

measures.

taking note

of your weight

and height,

your race

and lifestyle.

they know more about

you than

your own

mother.

they can predict within

a small

margin

of error, the length

of your life.

the years left

on earth

you have to survive.

let's prove them wrong.

the bastards.

things left on his desk

there

were things left on his desk.

a letter opener,

a stiff

blade meant

to cut open

a sealed envelope,

a magnifying glass he

used for

the small print

which was getting smaller

each year.

there were stamps,

and ink pens.

pencils in a jar,

erasers. cut coupons,

a calendar

placemat

with coffee rings embedded.

an address book with the name

and numbers

of all his children.

a check book

with one check left.

his will.

his wallet.

and a picture of his

dog beside

his bright blue car.

this will always be here

when

you're out in the middle

of the ocean.

it strikes you how

that this has always

been here.

always,

and will always

be here,

this vast sea of blue.

virtually

unchangeable,

and yet

you live your life a thousand

miles away

never giving

it a single thought

as you go about your day.

the rinse and repeat protests

the crazy thing

about

protests

is that they do absolutely

nothing

to change things.

they only annoy

and make

those that disagree laugh

and mock

their behavior.

sure

they're fun,

and exciting,

being with your like minded

friends,

screaming and yelling

at the top

of your lungs,

waving signs

and foaming

at the mouth, but in the end,

for what,

to what end?

should we meet here 

next weekend?

rinse and repeat

all over again?

five consecutive sneezes

after sneezing

five

times in a row,

and coughing

up

a wind filled wave

of pollen,

the dog

looks up at me and wonders

if this it,

how will i live

on without him?

how will

i get the bag of food

off the counter

and drag it

to my dish.

who will walk me

and throw

the ball to me?

i see worry in his eyes.

who will brush me

and get

ticks off of me?

what about water,

i can't reach the sink

or turn

the knobs. i'm a dog

dammit.

and then,

i'm suddenly okay.

and he lets out a big

sigh

before circling three

times to go lie

down on his cushion

in the corner.

he didn't want to work for money

my son

told me once when he was about

34

that he didn't

want to work

for money.

he was above such labor.

he didn't want to waste

his life

on mundane

tasks at some job

he had

no interest in.

he was creative

an actor, a singer, a dancer.

no factory work for him.

no office,

no construction

job, or trade.

he'd been living on the west

coast for

sometime now,

a mother

nearby,

a girlfriend who didn't

mind working

and paying

for all they had.

i cringed

and thought about

his college tuition down

the drain.

i stared at my hands,

worn

from 40 years of work,

cuts

and calloused.

curled with the tools i held

onto,

hoping that work would

never end.

in love with a bartender

there

was a bartender in a bar

called

Bojangles down

on M street,

Dixie.

short blonde hair,

blue

eyes. she may have

been from

Finland,

or some far away place

where everyone

is pale

and knows how to ski.

but she knew what i

drank, a long pour

of vodka

over ice and tonic,

a slice of lime,

it was waiting on the bar

for me

when she saw

me coming down

the stairs with

hair blown,

cologne splashed

on my face.

grinning from ear

to ear to see her.

then she was gone.

someone told me she

moved to Colorado.

i still think about looking

her up

for one last pour.

how could she leave me

this way.

when the party ends

it's not over

overnight, it never is,

but it feels

that way,

as if this party

will never end,

this current life,

of love

and fun,

dancing the night

away.

making wishes

on stars,

throwing coins

down

wells, into fountains.

the frivolity

comes

to a halt,

and you wake up one morning,

suddenly old,

missing so many

friends.

we want our criminals back, dammit

some

people want to send the criminals

out of the country,

while others

want to keep them

here

and take care of them.

feed and clothe

them.

save them from themselves

and their criminal

lives.

and if they're

gone, sent

back to their home countries,

they want to bring them

back here,

at all costs, despite

the charges,

despite the crimes.

it's an upside-down world

sometimes.

the Chinese fortune cookie

i could

never quite figure out if my dog

truly loved me,

or just showed

affection

because i may have

wiped

my fingers

on my pants after

eating

a leg of fried chicken,

or a slice

of pizza from Ray's Original.

he loved

my sweaters

and coats,

full of crumbs,

chips

and spills,

remnants of cinnamon

buns.

he couldn't wait for me

to get home

and jump

into my lap

to dig into my pocket

for a Chinese fortune

cookie.

business has been slow

i care little about

things

i used

to care about a lot.

the weather,

fashion,

what's on tv,

the price of eggs

or cars.

haircuts,

visible scars.

i just don't care anymore.

i have

what i need.

i'm no longer the shopaholic

i used to be.

same goes for love,

that shop

is temporarily closed

for now,

business has been slow.

she knew where everything was

if we couldn't find

something,

we had

a magician living in our

house.

we called her

mom,

or mother sometimes.

she knew where

everything was,

no matter

how obscure it was,

hats and shoes,

baseball gloves,

books,

pens and paper clips.

a pet turtle

or box of rocks.

she had eyes in back

of her head.

she knew

what was in every closet,

every nook and cranny

of the house,

basement or attic,

and sadly

what we hid beneath

our beds.

the same old tired words

it's easy

to dislike politicians.

slick

and well groomed.

rich

and smart.

they look good coming

into a room.

but then

they open their mouths

and out comes

the same old words 

you've been listening

to since you

were a child.

promises

and vows made,

none of them ever done.

the maintenance man Podcast

like almost

everyone, the Super in my

building,

Frankie,

has a podcast.

he's on YouTube

and 

X.

Facebook

posting videos of what

his day is like.

the backed up

toilets,

the bugs

and mice. dealing with

angry

tenants who come home

drunk and want to fight.

he spent an hour

on one episode explaining

what all the keys

hooked to his belt are for.

some days

he's on the fire escape,

or the roof

chasing pigeons off, or

wrapping duct

tape around a pipe.

sometimes his wife

joins in,

asking him to turn that

damn thing

off.

next week he's doing

a compilation,

a best of video of the building

he watches

over.

i can hardly wait.

it's not your turn

the sirens

are going off all night.

the screaming

trucks

and cars

racing by with their

party lights on.

hoses and ladders,

Dalmatian dogs

barking,

squad

cars.

something is going on

somewhere

close by.

but it's not your turn

apparently.

so back to sleep,

good night.

shopping on Madison Avenue

i often

tell people when

the conversation awkwardly

lags as we walk

along the path

and it's cold out.

i say,

by the way,

do you know

where i bought these gloves,

these gloves

that i'm wearing

right now?

i hold my hands up

to show

them the brown leather gloves.

spreading my

fingers for effect.

they look at me in a strange

way,

the way one

looks at crazy people on

the subway.

no, they say.

but do tell.

where did you get those

nice leather gloves?

i tell them

Madison Avenue in New York City,

a few years ago.

a little shop along the way,

next to a deli,

but it's not

there anymore.

a stranger looking into my window

i don't know who he is,

but i see

a man,

standing across the street

staring into

my house.

i lower the blinds

and peek

out.

he's wearing a hat,

a grey flannel suit.

he's around fifty

years

old, i suppose.

there's a briefcase 

in his left hand,

and what looks like

a subpoena in his right.

he's wearing sunglasses.

i want to go out and find

out who he is,

ask him what he's

doing here,

and why he's standing

across the street

staring into my window.

but i'm not wearing

any shoes,

or pants,

so that ends that.

seven minutes at lovers lane

the first

time we made love was in

the back

seat of a car,

a Dodge Dart Swinger

of all things,

with plastic

vinyl seats

and windows that would

never quite

roll down.

we parked on a curve

of Owens Road,

not far

from the Dairy Queen

in town.

it was summer, so

she was

wearing

shorts. i remember

her long

tanned legs clearly,

but forget the rest

of the story.

the next seven minutes

are all a blur now.

return to sender

women in general

are good at returning

things.

they never

take the tags

off until

the last moment.

they save

the receipts,

they keep the bag

or the box,

the wrappings

that the item

came in.

they know how print

a return

code and where

to go

if need be.

they have scissors and tape

at the ready,

stamps in their purse,

if necessary

they're prepared before

the package

even arrives,

to send it back.

time to go

your yawn

is a hundred words held back.

the way

you rub

your eyes and glance

at your wrist

watch.

i know it's late,

i know

you're tired.

no need to tell me that

it's time

to go. no excuses

are necessary.

let me get your coat

and hat.

to the moon Alice

they stuff

five

rich women into the top

of a rocket

ship

and send them

into the fringe of outer space.

but on the way,

two

of them

have to use the bathroom

and the other

one forgot

her phone

and makeup,

so they have to turn

back

and there's a delay.

mission control has to

yell at them

to be quiet

for five

seconds to inform them

which button to push

for this emergency

re-entry.

when Mary moved to Miami

when

Mary moved to Miami

in her

eighties,

to become queen of

the senior home

she moved into.

i figured that i'd never see

her again.

i was right.

but she did send me

a card

every year

for my birthday,

for Christmas

and for

no reason at all sometimes.

occasionally

she'd call.

and then

they stopped

coming.

so i knew, despite

not knowing,

i knew she was gone.

the first snowfall

it's just

snow falling. i've seen

it all

of my life.

the long soft

curves of drifts,

the sparkle

of white.

but that doesn't make it

less beautiful.

it's like when

you come into a room.

it's as if

i'm seeing you 

for the very first time.

straight A's in the fifth grade

when my

son was in elementary school

he showed

me his test paper

with an A plus on it.

i tried to read it,

but every other word

was misspelled,

the handwriting

looked like

chicken scratch.

most of what he had written

was copied

from somewhere.

i asked him

how he got an A with

such crap.

and he told me they don't

care about

spelling, or handwriting,

plagiarism,

or things like that anymore.

he got straight A's

that year.

i no longer had to help

him study.

the open door policy

my wife

leaves the door open

overnight.

the next morning there are people

all over the house.

eating,

sleeping,

watching tv.

she's serving them food,

and drinks.

putting clothes

on their backs.

handing them money.

i ask her who are these people

that trespass?

she tells me to lighten

up.

they've traveled a thousand

miles to be here,

leaving their own

homes,

risking robbery and death.

perhaps you

should get a second job

or a third

to help them out.

they never age

i've seen

the movie a million times,

at least.

black and white.

late night.

the actors long gone

but still young and beautiful.

i know the lines.

i remember

the plot,

the twist at the end,

but that's fine.

it's a nice place

to go

from time after time,

rarely

do i turn it off.

the handshake

no one

wants to shake

the clammy

hand,

the fish shake,

the flounder wiggling

at the end

of someone's arm.

we want

a firm grip.

whether man or woman.

we want to know

that you're present,

that you're strong.

a basket of yarn at her feet

it was

an enormous straw

basket

full of colored

balls of yarn,

pointed

metal sticks

and patterns folded

over,

that she sat with

in her chair.

i can still

hear the clicks,

like

a broken clock,

but faster

as with quick fingers

and wrists,

she left this world

for another,

to furiously

knit.

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

the supermarket

tells

you all you need to know about

commercialism.

this place

we live in,

shop in,

die in.

bright lights and soft

music piped

in overhead.

shiny apples

stacked like pyramids.

there's a smile on everything

but the store clerk.

with brightly

colored

packages to subtly lure

you in.

so much

we don't know

and don't want to know

about what

we're eating.

when exactly did that cow

die?

what country

sent those tomatoes

green on the vine?

if it taste good, it can't be

bad,

can it?

bumper stickers

we like to

advertise our feelings.

with

placards

in the yard, t-shirts

printed

with who we love

or despise.

displaying the accomplishments

of our children,

or who we voted

for by

bumper stickers

on our cars.

it's easier that way

than talking

about it.

though thankful

for the garage.

the line in the dirt

we're all

nice

and compliant, easy

to get along with

until

we break,

and then at last

the hidden

true self

is revealed.

some break easy,

some break

hard

needing time to be

pushed just

once more

across that drawn

line.

burning bridges

i look

back at all the bridges

burning

behind me.

the blazing

fires that

will keep me from

ever going

back in a moment

of sentimental

weakness.

burn on.

please, go on with your story

i'm not ignoring you.

i'm just studying

the sole  

of my boot.

the heel

is loose

and the stitching is frayed.

plus, i seemed to have

stepped into

a wad of something,

part pink, part grey,

but go on. please,

go on with your story.

i'm listening,

really, i am.

i could listen to you talk

all day.

her barn full of hay

our grandmother

in North Reading,

would

send us across the road

to steal

ears of corn for dinner.

we'd cross

the vacant stretch of dirt

and gravel

with our baskets and snatch

the ears

right off the stalks

which towered over us,

then scurry back,

gleeful at our theft.

she said she knew the

farmer and his wife

which made

everything okay. 

years later we found out

that she was sleeping

with farmer Joe,

which explained everything.

the cherry pie on the table

half gone,

her barn full of hay

and the jug of milk

now cold.

it was our first encounter

with bartering for goods.

we seldom run away

who hasn't

wanted to run away at some point

in their life,

whether

at the age of ten

or sixty,

we wonder what lies

over there,

way over there,

on the other side.

away

from this,

whatever this might mean.

but seldom do we pack

that bag

and go.

change is hard,

and for the most part we're

cowards.

we stick with what we

know.

the accident

it was

odd to see something

so large

lying

on the street, the horse

turned

over

with the wagon, struck

by a car

at a high speed.

and the man beside

the horse

crying into his hat,

weeping as if

she was a loved one,

a spouse

a child, a friend.

and the policeman with

his revolver,

the single shot

of the gun, bringing

the street

drama to an end.

and yet looking out the window

of my father's

car, i remember

the fruit upended onto the street,

strangely ignored

by everyone,

the apples and pears,

the bananas, broken melons,

all set free.

guilt free littering

as i unwrap

the paper and foil 

from the stick of gum,

a gust

of wind

takes it out of my hand

and sets

it sailing far

down the road.

when i was

younger

i might have chased it.

being the good

person

that i am.

but i guess i've changed

from who i was

back then.

the good light

it's a good

flashlight. an old lamp

kept

on the top shelf of the hall

closet

along with

hats and gloves, winter

boots

and salt for the steps

off the porch

when ice arrives.

i flick

the switch and the beam

shoots across

the room,

making light where

there was none

with the power down.

good

bones, good steel,

strong

batteries.

like you, my dear.

bright when darkness

tries to overcome.

the cracking of eggshells underfoot

you have

people in your life,

friends,

relatives,

etc.

that you have to be careful

with

so as not to trigger them.

you are perpetually

walking on

eggshells,

hoping not to upset

or hurt

their feelings.

God forbid

you talk about politics

or religion,

things of that nature.

it makes for a long day

and a non

interesting

conversation

when it's always

about the weather

and what's for

dinner.

we differ

we decide

to begin knocking things

off on our

bucket list.

things to do

before we die.

her list is different than mine.

she wants

to visit the Sphinx

in Egypt,

jump out of an airplane,

and go

deep sea diving.

i show her my list.

item number one,

is to buy a double scoop

of ice cream,

rocky road

and mint chip

on a sugar cone.

the human globe

my cousin big Bertha,

decides to get her entire

head

covered with tattoos,

down to her neck,

and nether regions.

torso, front and back,

arms and legs.

it's a map of the world

in great detail.

with latitude and longitude

lines going north and south,

east and west.

she's very helpful now

when we travel.

if lost,

there's no need to google anywhere

with her around.

com si com sa

it's either the end of the world,

or the beginning

of a golden age,

it all depends on who

you listen to on tv.

what channel you turn to,

what newspaper you read.

is there an in-between?

a fat middle of everything

is pretty much okay?

com si com sa.

chicken again, honey?

i put

a chicken in the oven,

a fat roaster

from Kroger's,

then wipe

my hands on my

new apron,

which i bought online from

Martha Stewart's

merch store.

i start

dicing carrots

and potatoes, tossing

about a Ceasar salad,

using my

own recipe for the dressing,

not handed down.

my wife yells at

me from

her easy chair.

she lowers the tv,

and her phone,

taking sips of wine.

we're not having chicken

again,

are we dear?

perpetual Halloween

why

argue, why fight?

if you

want to call yourself a man,

or a woman

or something

in between, or none of the above,

have at it.

it's your privilege

your right.

wear a wig,

a dress, put on a helmet,

grow muscles

and fight,

grow a beard or alter

your body

parts, 

slice and dice away

who you used to be. 

who cares?

go dancing

with your new

found self.

it's all okay, it's alright.

let's play

Halloween all year round,

all day,

and all night.

we used to like you

we used

to like you. 

for years we've read

what you wrote

and laughed,

we used

to think you were smart

and clever,

a good person.

but after

what you wrote last

week,

we'll our love for you

has passed.

still happy, regardless

he liked

to fish, the old man.

he liked to get up early and dig

for worms

in his back

yard

then put them in a paper cup

to take

down to the river,

where he'd

stand in the morning sunlight

and wait

for the first

bite on his cast

line and hook.

sometimes the fish

would

come home with him,

still alive

in a white

pail,

and other times it was

just him.

still happy,

regardless.

man peeing outside of the 7-11

there

was a man, a grown

man

with a Christmas beard

and a long coat on,

peeing

beside the trash can

in front of the 7-11.

we looked

at each other as we

sat in the car,

and asked

how badly

did we really

want a hot dog and a big

gulp,

and another lottery

ticket?

don't go into the basement, she said

she wouldn't

let

me see her basement.

what was

down there?

bodies?

feral cats,

wild dogs?

mice and spiders?

what was she hiding?

money,

love letters, her diary,

a life

when

she broke the law?

a portrait of her

with nothing on?

she kept

the door locked.

the dead bolt slid tight

into the slot.

sometimes

i'd put my ear

to the door

and listen. but nothing.

nothing but the smell

of wet laundry

and the ticking

of a clock.

the crying towel

some actors,

can

cry on a dime,

make

tears come out of their

weepy

eyes

with a little twist

of their

tongue and mind.

she was like that.

which was why

i kept

a crying towel

nearby.

when the boys came home

when the neighborhood

boys came back from

the war.

they

were different.

shorn of hair,

thin

but muscled, a look

of joy

and forlorn

on their aged faces.

relieved

to be home again but

still in creased

uniforms.

before

they left

we sat on the porch

and talked

about girls

and sports, we flew

kites

in green fields,

and drank

beer on the bleachers

behind the school.

now they say little,

staring off into a place

you can't see,

or want to.

no I.D. to vote?

we need an I.D.

to apply for welfare, Medicaid,

Social Security,

to make a claim for unemployment

benefits.

we need an I.D.

to get a job,

to apply for a passport,

or to drive

a car, or rent a car,

to sail a boat,

or to board an airplane.

we need an

I.D. to buy a gun,

to buy a bottle of whiskey

or wine,

or to get married,

or to adopt a pet,

or a child.

to get into Costco

or to check a book out of the library.

we need an I.D. to 

rent a hotel room,

to acquire a fishing license,

to get health insurance,

to buy a cellphone,

to visit a casino,

to pick up prescription drugs

at the drug store.

you need an I.D. to donate blood,

or to purchase

nail polish.

but you don't need an I.D.

to vote,

the most

important thing a person

can do

in a democracy?

let's take a breather

we need

more humor, more fun,

more

forgiveness

and

empathy.

kindness.

it would be nice

if we

all got along,

regardless of political

affiliations,

race

creed or color.

live and let live.

make love

not war.

no violence.

let's take a break

from all the wars,

personal

and far away.

let's take a breather

and pray.

a black bird against the blue ceiling

i was

watching Bill and Nancy

dance

while i drank

my beer

and nibbled on peanuts

at the Knights

of Columbus Hall.

it was back

when you could smoke

anywhere,

and everyone did.

young and old,

men and women.

i finished the peanuts

then

the waitress brought me

a club sandwich.

i ate it,

putting mayonnaise

on my lips

and on my jacket.

Bill and Nancy were still

dancing,

third song in a row.

i wished i could dance

like that.

after i finished my sandwich,

i ordered

another beer,

then lit up

a cigarette,

and blew smoke rings

up into the blue ceiling,

where a single

black bird

was flying around.

Lucinda and fried beef

is everything

we consume made in either

China

or Mexico?

i ask my wife,

Lucinda.

yes, she says,

showing me

the little tattoo

on the nape of her neck

which says

made in Tijuana.

then we go

out to dinner,

to Hunan West, for 

Peking

fried beef

and broccoli.

back then there was no Burlington coat factory

from my

calculations, the weather in 

the Garden of Eden

must have been pretty nice.

maybe around 68 degrees,

slightly

overcast.

they had no clothes, so in

order to survive,

things had to be just right,

with a limited

chance of sunburn

or frostbite.

it was like San Diego,

sort of

in the spring,

back in the sixties,

during the Summer of Love,

but then it all changed

with that damn

apple.

now we're buckling up

galoshes

and wearing hats,

putting on an extra layer

of clothes

because it's freezing

with three feet of snow

on the ground.

we're at the beach

lathering on sunscreen

in our bikinis and speedos.