what time is it?

i recognize

that extended sigh,

that

rubbing of eyes,

that exaggerated yawn.

i know it all too well.

it's my hint too,

for moving on.

it's like magic

i know

so little about so much.

it's obvious

to many

when they hear me speak

about

things

i shouldn't

breathe a word to.

take trees for instance,

i might

recognize

a birch or oak, or willow,

but for the most

part

i have no clue.

i'm lost.

i barely

understand

that in the autumn

leaves

turn color and fall,

while in the spring,

more arrive,

magically,

all with new buds.

nothing to barter with

somehow,

in the wind of life,

i lost my recipe for chocolate

chip

cookies with nuts.

handwritten

by an ex-wife.

how do i possibly get a new

copy

without stirring

the emotional pot?

should i wing it,

or barter?

but what do i have

that she could

possibly

want?

apparently nothing, which

is why

it never worked out.

grandma Joan of arc

i wait

at the gate for my grandmother

to be

released

from jail.

i told her not to scratch

cars

and set fires,

but no, she wouldn't listen.

she says

she'll be back out there

again

come Saturday

with her signs

her chants and synchronized

yells.

she'll be putting on her orthopedic

shoes

and back brace,

her tin foil hat.

we did this back in the 60's,

she says

with fire in her eyes,

and we're doing

it again.

she's even baking brownies

this time

to feed her

friends and comrades

in the field.

the bloodbath market crash

was

i going to buy a yacht with

all that money

in my

stock market

account?

an accumulation of wealth

hard earned

through decades

of hard work.

no,

was i going on a world cruise

with a loved

one,

or buying a Lamborghini,

or put an addition

on the house,

or swimming pool in the back

yard?

of course not.

was i going to give it all

away

to help

the needy and less

fortunate?

give it all to the church

when i expire?

let's not get crazy,

but it would be nice to see

that money

sitting there

in my account,

fat and untouched,

when i wake up and drink

my morning coffee.

keeping on eye on things

my neighbor

has a dozen

ring cameras set up around

his house.

motion

and light detectors.

i saw him the other day

with heavy

bags under his eyes,

exhausted

because every time

a bird

or squirrel

or spider spins a web

near his yard

he's alerted and climbs

out of bed

to observe his monitors.

on windy nights,

he doesn't even try

to go sleep,

he just sits and stares

at his phone

waiting

for the sun to rise.

too much cake and candy

there's a conflict

of heart

and mind,

body and soul. what

tastes

so good

what feels good,

is not always good for

you.

too much

of a good thing,

will

trap you into believing

that's all

you need to find

joy and happiness.

the rest of the world

means less

with too much

cake and candy,

sex.

the weekend crazies

why

are so many of the weekend

warrior

protesters

so overweight

and goofy looking?

who are these people?

circus people

covered in colorful clothes

and wigs.

masked

and angry,

with bulging eyes.

rebels without a cause,

or one

they can put their finger

on.

are they off their meds?

why are so many boys

dressed up

as girls.

what's with the cow bells

and drums,

the chanting

and screams.

have they nothing better

to do

with their lives?

no loved

ones at home, no hobbies,

no golf

or fishing,

no working on their

homes.

no books to read,

no bikes to ride.

no church or synagogue?

no taking a stroll, or having

a picnic.

what good is all this madness?

to what end?

sanity has died.

wishing on a star

we used

to lie

out on the summer grass

and count

stars,

the next door

girl

and i.

but we didn't care about

stars,

or meteors

flashing by, the moon

meant

nothing,

we were just delaying

the wish

of the first kiss,

and hand

holding moment,

that seemed

so near,

and yet so far.

making the F word just another word

the f word

is very popular right now.

politicians

use it,

children,

teachers, mothers and fathers.

lawyers

and chefs.

the internet

is chock full of the word

without

little or no effort

to find it.

scientists, yoga masters,

poets

and writers.

the doctor when staring

at an x-ray

exclaiming,

what the F is that?

we're living in an F bomb

world.

and it's lost

its effect.

a continental breakfast and free Wi-Fi

tired

with driving all night

in the rain,

i suggest that the next motel

we see,

we stop

and spend the night.

what about

this one

she says, free Wi-Fi,

a continental

breakfast

in the morning, 

the vacancy light is green.

the pillows

are soft,

and the mattress comfy

and clean.

it's very private and quiet

with parking

in the rear.

slamming on the brakes,

i look at her and ask

how she

would know this.

her strawberry patch

she told

me

she was going to grow

strawberries

in her

back yard,

and sell them on the corner.

i'm not joking

she said.

you'll see.

you'll see.

but next spring she was gone,

a tiny

bump found.

and now

when i walk by

her house,

i see the strawberries

are out

there

along fence, growing

wildly,

going strong.

the new house cleaner

my new

housekeeper has at

last arrived.

she says

she's from Paris, France,

but i suspect

it's Paris, Texas.

the lipstick

and perfume

is refreshing though

after the likes

of Wanda

and her minions.

but she doesn't have a lick

of an accent.

and the black stockings

and heels

don't fool me

one bit

with her little duster

in hand.

she says, what's that?

when i show

her the washing

machine.

i tell her where

the linen closet is and

the cleaning supplies

under the kitchen

sink, then ask her 

who that enormous

man is waiting out in the van

she came in.

he's my friend, not to worry.

but can you

pay me before i begin?

the magical world

is it real

money, or imaginary dollars.

stacked

up

in the magical world

of high

and low

finance.

will it be gone soon,

slip sliding

away,

like a fat fish in my

hands,

as the boat rocks.

will i

be eating tomato

soup

in a tent beneath 

the over ramp,

wringing out my wet

pants

and socks.

how it usually goes

they're back.

i hear

the morning rustle of their wings

and

birds

barking.

feathering the nest

again,

in the small

corner of the soffit,

into a crease

of wood.

eggs will

be laid soon

i suppose.

it seems that's how it

usually goes.

boy or girl, easy to find out

no need

for genetic testing,

or

pulling down one's drawers

or lifting

up a dress

to determine, boy or girl

when trying

out for school

sports teams.

no.

just ask them

to tell you what happened

yesterday

in school.

the boy will talk for five

minutes

summing it all up

with clarity

and in an efficient manner,

while the girl will go on

and on

for an hour, or longer,

adding in a bevy of useless

and unrelated

information, drifting off

into a mind numbing

word salad.

she may never

get to an end and finally

ask,

so what was the question?

that is not my baby

there's a knock

at the door.

i look through the peephole

to see

who it is.

Mormons?

girl scouts selling cookies?

my neighbor

wanting to borrow

a cup

of cold pressed olive

oil?

someone serving

me a subpoena again?

what is it this time?

it looks like a young woman

out there

she's holding a small child

in her arms,

this can't be good.

quickly i drop to the floor

and crawl

around turning off

the tv

and all the lights, but

she keeps knocking.

i know you're in there,

she says.

just open the door, it's

not your baby.

don't worry.

i wipe the sweat off my

brow

and open the door.

what?

how can i help you?

i'm new in the neighborhood

and we're starting

a morning playgroup

with all the other mothers,

and we were wondering if

any children live

here.

we'd love to have them join us.

i open

the door to show her my

living room.

beer cans everywhere,

pizza boxes,

fishing equipment

and hunting rifles.

there's a poster of Farah

Faucet in a red

bathing suit

on the far wall.

what do you think? i ask her.

oh my,

she says. sorry to bother you.

no more TikTok

i ask

my ninety-five year old father

if he's concerned

about the country

losing Tik-Tok.

what?

he says, staring at his wrist

watch.

my watch is fine.

he puts it up to my ear.

do you hear

that, tick tock, tick tock.

look over

there on the wall,

in five minutes the rooster

will come out

and go cock a doodle doo.

what do i care

about tick tock, time goes

on and on and on.

you can't stop it.

no, i tell him. not that tick tock.

TikTok.

it's in your phone.

what will people do when

they're in the waiting

room at the doctor's office,

or on a bus

or train, sitting there

for an hour.

how will people enjoy their

morning coffee without

scrolling

their phone and viewing

TikTok videos?

monkeys playing the piano,

grown

men and women

dressed up

like cats.

people falling down flights

of stairs,

or car crashes.

how will they live without

viewing all that?

i don't know, he says.

maybe they can read a book,

or a magazine,

or talk to each other.

maybe they can shut their

eyes and pray

or meditate.

pfffft, TikTok, who needs it.

my watch is fine,

thank you.

it's a Timex, you never have

to wind it up.

my musical talent

i have

no musical talent whatsoever,

no inkling

of chord

changes,

of piano keys, or pedals.

guitar strings.

bass or lead

means nothing to me.

the banjo is impossible,

as is the harmonica.

although for a certain

period of time

while driving around in

my friends 68

Chevrolet,

with a beer can between

my knees,

i could pound out

on the dashboard

the drum solo on

In-a-gadda-da-vida

by Iron Butterfly.

the art of taking selfies

it's getting

harder

and harder to take a good selfie

to post

online,

to show the world

how young

and handsome i still am,

despite

the weight gain

and bald head.

it's tough

finding the right light,

the right turn

of the head,

do i smile, do i look

straight ahead,

do i toss my head back

in a laugh?

will sunglasses and a hat

help?

how do i show the world

how wonderful

i still am?

maybe if i have the ocean

behind me,

or a plate

of food in front of me,

or a dog

in my lap,

it will distract them

from whom i really am.

waving down the hot dog man at the ballgame

there's always

someone

pointing out to you what's

in a hot dog,

as you stuff

one into your

mouth,

dripping with relish

and mustard.

do you know what's

in there,

they ask?

they basically sweep

the butcher shop floors

of meat scraps

and form

them into shiny tubes

of pig skins.

i heard once that if you

feed them

to children that they will

get leukemia.

true story.

i keep eating, then wave

down

the hot dog man

for another.

do you want one?

my treat.

ok, but just one please.

in a heated bun.

going off the deep end with Jimmy

and what

exactly are your sources

i ask,

my friend

Jimmy,

the conspiracy theorist.

who exactly told

you that

the world

would end in five years

give or take

a few months,

if we don't stop carbon

emissions

and find a place

to put all the lithium

batteries.

some dude, i don't know,

he says.

he has a podcast.

he makes

artisan bread too.

farm raised children

they

were farmed raised

children,

penned into

small

lots at the daycare

center,

fed together,

bound

by ropes as they

walked

the street

by their teacher

masters.

unlike

fish or meat,

it was food coloring

and chemicals

of a different

sort

added to their

malleable brains.

at five pm,

into the arms

of tired parents,

they'd be released,

somehow

not the same.

the brand-new cherry red Tesla S

i see my neighbor Jim

pulling up in his brand new

cherry red

Tesla S.

it's beautiful. 

he parks along the curb

away from

a crew of

workers putting a new

addition

onto his house,

and building him a steel clad

fireproof garage

with gun turrets.

hey, i say to him, waving.

what did you do, hit the lottery?

rich uncle die?

love the addition.

and the garage.

he laughs as he gets out of the car.

no, nobody died,

it's just that business has been

great lately

ever since the election.

you know i'm in pharmaceutical

sales, right?

yeah, you told me last year

at the cookout.

well, business is booming

ever since the election.

my wife's business too, she's

a psychiatrist.

she's working sixty hours a week now,

people are lining up out

her door.

she had to add a third bathroom

for the confused ones

who aren't sure what they are.

very busy.

that's great, wow, i tell him,

as i stare into his sleek new car.

can i touch it?

sure, sure go ahead.

i started setting up a booth

down at all these protests. a little

pharmaceutical kiosk.

maybe you've seen the crowds on tv.

yeah, yeah, a giant cup of crazy.

i have been selling Prozac, Ozempic

and Xanax like hot cakes,

Ambien too,

as well as the generic brands.

i can't keep them in stock.

this may be the most profitable

year ever in my business.

i hope the orange man

alters the 22nd amendment

and runs for office again.

wouldn't that be wild?

i might finally be able to afford

that beach house in Dewey.

by the way,

if you're ever in the mood for

a part time job,

let me know, i can use all 

the help i can get.

but maybe don't wear your red hat,

okay, or your

Space X hat.

Mexican jumping beans

on

the back of comic

books,

there were ads

for things we could buy.

gum that would make

your tongue turn

black,

buzzers to shock

a hand

when shook,

b b guns,

cap guns,

ant farms, Mexican jumping

beans,

and magnifying glasses.

all easily

purchased with a coupon

and allowance

money

if you cut the grass,

through the U.S. mail.

weapons

of minor destruction.

we waited

daily,

impatiently, with elbows

on the window

sill.

what point would there be in that

like most

families in the sixties,

we had

a fishbowl.

a clear simple glass

bowl

with blue gravel

on the bottom,

and some

plastic shrubbery

for the

goldfish

to swim around

or through,

maybe a lighthouse

made of plastic,

too.

each day we'd come

home from

school

and drop pebbles of food

onto the water,

after scooping

out the dead fish,

never named of course,

what point would

there be in that,

a routine

we grew used to.

pleasantly unsurprised

there was

a redheaded boy,

muscular chap in the old

neighborhood,

who

was willing to beat

up anyone

half his size.

he'd carry his boxing

gloves

with him wherever

he went.

challenging

the smaller

fries,

and now

when i see him online,

fat

and old, alone,

dumb still as the ox

he was in

school,

I'm pleasantly

unsurprised.

much later in the night

it's later,

much later, while lying in bed,

and staring

at the shadowed

ceiling,

pondering

the argument

and what was said,

or left

unsaid.

is when the words

come to you,

brilliant

and clear.

damn it all, you mutter,

the win was so close,

so near.

whatever

there's

a point in your life,

a blissful,

Ghandi like point,

where

you don't care anymore,

not about

everything,

but little things,

minor

inconveniences,

small bumps in the road.

you shrug your

shoulders

and say oh well,

then move on.

the bigger things are

harder

though.

the ballot box

when

young, i don't remember

my mother

or father

wringing their hands

over

voting.

they went down 

to the local school and did it,

then came

home,

never to speak of it again.

they didn't huddle around

the tv

agonizing over Walter Cronkite

giving the count.

they had

work to do,

children to raise.

i never saw them heading

out the door

on a weekday

with a sign

and spray paint, 

megaphones

and cow bells, heading

downtown

to make a ruckus.

no.

i'd see my father with the lawn

mower

out front,

head down,

my mother out back,

hanging clothes on the line,

clothespins

in her mouth.

will Macy's understand?

the mail

is slow, very slow.

have they

gone back

to the pony express method

of delivery?

horses

and saddle bags,

riding fast

from east to west.

i see the mailman

trudging

up the street,

mumbling

incoherently.

it almost seems like

he doesn't

care, which

house, which number

which name

where he puts the mail.

will

Macy's understand though

why the bill

is late,

the gas company,

the ex-waiting

on her

alimony check?

will my credit score

be lowered?

will i end up in jail?

bitter fruit

i've chewed

on the bitter fruit

of jealously

before,

swallowed it,

bent over in the street

and let

it go.

it was mostly bottled

up anger,

fear

of being left behind,

of being

alone.

betrayed by someone

close.

and then years go by.

more time.

more water under that

broken

bridge,

but still a tinge of it

holds on.

broken windows

it's almost

a ghost town, the abandoned

buildings,

houses,

stores,

cars left to rust,

but there was life here

once.

i've seen it

in a book,

in a black and white

movie.

babies were born,

lives

lived.

love and hate, all of it

existed here

at one

time.

but now it's gone.

how quickly we move on.

i know someone who can help you with that

in a different

age

or time,

an era of horses

and farms,

hard work, you'd often

hear someone

give out the name of their

cobbler,

or carpenter.

there's a man, one might

say,

in town,

who can fix that for you.

but now,

it's, here's my therapist's

number,

or my psychiatrist's.

one leaning

on Freud,

the other Carl Jung.

i trust too much

i don't

know why or how it works,

but

i scan

the little lines

on the package

of food

and a ding

let's me know that

all is scanned

and

ready

for bagging.

i punch in one bag

and place

my carrots in.

five cents.

i trust so many things

in this

life that i don't

understand.

persistent acts of repetition

what is

life

but not

persistent

acts

of repetition.

the sun and moon,

in orbit,

even

the beat of a heart

says so,

the lungs,

taking

in

God given air

and then

the exhale,

but it's the daily task

that keeps

us anchored,

keeps us

from setting adrift

to uncertain

shores.

i'll have coffee please

and

a read

of the morning news

before

shoes go on,

and i'm out the door.

cherry blossoms in bloom

it's been a while

since

we've heard news about

the war.

about the death

count.

we haven't seen a photo

of buildings

bombed,

or children

on the street with little

or no clothes on,

starving. all quiet on

the eastern front.

but spring is here

and we have

cherry blossoms

to go see

downtown, maybe lunch

at Old Ebbitt's 

grill.

we refuse to be bored.

but is it mine?

for several years,

a girlfriend,

a pretty

but wild thing,

would take this day,

April first,

to call and tell me that

she was pregnant.

it worked

a few times, startling

me

into saying,

but is it mine?

while still young

it's a lovely

sight, this bowl of fruit

on the table.

the colors,

fresh

and bright.

the reds and yellows,

the green grapes,

apples

and bananas.

peaches too.

i hope someone stops

by soon,

to see and enjoy

this bowl

while everything is still

ripe.

accidental litter

i feel a tinge of guilt

as the wrapper

flies from

my hand, before i can

put it into the

waste basket.

i have no chance in

retrieving it

in this wind.

i watch it blow and tumble

down the street,

finally out of sight.

chasing it, 

as it is with anything

one chases,

would only bring defeat.

sleeping on the bus

i ask

the man kindly,

sleeping

against

my shoulder on the bus,

to please

move

to his own side.

he's crowding me,

entering

my social space,

but he doesn't

wake

up.

he takes my hand,

and mumbles

something

about his mother, his

father.

i stare out the window,

waiting for my

stop.

truly, it is what it's all

about.