that kind of boy

i step into

the puddle, ankle deep,

then splash

and kick through it.

the street is long and wide

and black

with rain.

i find another puddle

and do the same.

i'm still that

kind of boy.

nothing's changed.

the wrecking ball

we stand

at the fence, watching 

as the wrecking ball

swings wide and hard

at the walls 

of the old school.

throwing

bricks and wood,

steel

into piles soon to be

hauled away.

how quickly

things end.

i can still remember

the halls

of learning.

the chalk boards,

the books

and desks, globes spinning.

the education of it all,

some of it in the classroom,

but most out

behind the gym, 

near the woods at the end

of the field.

under bleachers,

in a bathroom stall.

first kisses,

first feels.

first broken hearts.

none of it seems real

as the wrecking ball

swings hard.

eating light and yet still needing stretch pants

the white

chickens

in the yard next door

are clucking madly,

pecking

wildly

at the tiny bugs on

the ground,

they seem to never

get their fill.

it makes you wonder

how they ever got

so fat and round

on such a diet

of insects.

the Sunday paper coupons

buying an enormous boat,

or a horse,

or a beach house to go along

with your regular

house,

or a sports car

in addition to the Land Rover

means that you are pretty

much set,

no longer cutting out coupons

on a Sunday morning,

or worrying about

the price of eggs,

or paying the electric bill.

a ski trip to the Alps?

sure, why not?

the scissors will never again

see the light of day.

dream on lover boy, she says.

look i found a double

for toilet paper and another one

for bug spray.

failure

it's the failure

of throwing the apple core

towards

the basket

and missing, having it roll

across the floor

after hitting

the rim

that bothers you.

perhaps you've lost it

after all.

telling Becky to get over it

i've reached

the age where i answer the door

in my underwear.

i take the trash

out that way too,

or fetch the mail

in the box.

i don't care anymore.

they're just shorts, no

different than a bathing suit

at the beach or pool.

it's not a Speedo for God's sake.

so get over it, Becky,

mayor of the court,

queen of the condo board.

the over sixty protest

there's a new protest going

on up the block.

remnants from the end the war

crowd back in 69.

did someone forget to lock

the rest home doors?

they chant and yell, hold

up their home-made signs.

they whistle and blow

their horns.

stamp their feet at the cars

driving by.

there's a table under

the shade tree with cookies

and Ensure,

free sunscreen, and prune

juice.

it goes on for nearly an hour

or so, until sometime

reminds them that it's

dinner time.

instant karma

do we ever get

what's coming to us?

they call

it karma.

are we ever punished in this

life

for bad things

that we've done

to others,

or is that in the next life

when we burn

in hell.

having thought about it,

a lot,

i'd rather take my lumps

now.

i'm not good with hot.

the first grade report card

i found in my mother's

attic box

after she died, my first grade

report card.

i read down

the yellowed paper with

the checks beside 

each task i performed.

he colors well,

staying between the lines,

behaves himself.

he knows his alphabet,

he can count 

up to 99,

he's polite and kind,

though shy at times.

he's a good runner,

does well

on the monkey bars,

the swing

and slide.

he is proficient at spelling

for his age.

he eats with his mouth

closed.

is properly dressed,

his hair is always combed.

but i've noticed,

wrote the teacher,

Mrs. Barone,

that he won't leave

the girls alone.

especially the ones with

pigtails.

her daily circle

i see

the black cat,

Lilly,

walking slowly through

the parking lot,

beginning her

daily stroll.

no collar,

in no hurry to do what

she does.

which is what?

sometimes

she'll turn her green

eyes my

way,

and stop.

she'll  let out

a raspy meow

when

i say good morning Lilly.

then she moves on.

the concert pulpit

the show

was fine up until the point

where

the leader of the band

began to make

a political

speech.

going on and on and on

about

what he felt the country

should believe

and do.

preaching from his pulpit

to a stuck

group who came for the music

not this.

some clapped, some booed.

i wondered

as i drove away,

how many of his

old albums, cassettes and cd's

could i sell on e-bay when

i got home.

punch drunk on love

to be punch drunk

on false love

is a dangerous thing.

lost

without a map.

stumbling

in the darkness

of infatuation

and lust,

unable

to walk a straight

line,

or to recite the alphabet.

and the morning

after,

when at last sober,

you wonder

what was i thinking,

vowing never

again to imbibe

in this kind of

drinking.

before the school bus came

we stood

in line

in the hallway, waiting

to use

the bathroom in the morning.

a towel

in hand,

a toothbrush.

a comb.

the girls took too long,

the boys

were in an out.

by the end of the morning

rush,

there was

no hot water left,

the seat left up.

but my mother

sighed

and smiled,

we were gone,

and out of the house.

nothing yet

i'm standing at

the window waiting for the promised

storm.

waiting on the wind.

and rain.

the deluge to begin.

waiting on

the fury of gusts to ravage

the land

to overflow

the stream.

channel seven eight and nine

swore

their lives

on it.

they were on the roof

in their yellow rain

coats,

pointing at some distant

slice of lightning.

they promised.

they warned us to batten

down the hatches,

to get into the cellar,

grab toto

and to call your next

of kin.

get out the candles,

charge your phones now.

get out the limes

and gin.

that can't be me

it's not you in the store window,

the blurred

reflection

as you walk, hurried as usual.

it's not you,

why bother to pause

and take a

longer look.

it will never be you.

keep telling yourself that.

be content, 

though disillusioned

and ignore what's true.

picking blueberries

let's go

pick some fruit, she tells me

one Saturday morning.

i lower

the newspaper

and say,

what?

let's drive out to Berryville

and pick

some blueberries,

or strawberries.

spend the day out in the country.

come on,

there's not a cloud

in sky.

it'll be fun.

i try to get a read on her face

to see if this

will be a problem

if i say no.

but the look in her

eyes says

that there's no way out.

there will be hell to pay.

okay, i tell her.

swallowing a sigh.

let me get dressed, then we

can go.

great she says, i've already

packed the car.

less adventurous

i am

no longer as adventurous

as i used

to be.

i stick with lasagna

on the menu,

steering clear

of clams or snails

to eat.

i buy Japanese

when it

comes to cars.

i go with cotton sheets.

and stay

away from women

in perpetual therapy.

i'm no longer in a hurry,

i drive in

the right lane,

taking the back roads

to enjoy

the scenery.

why even think anymore

no need

to write, or read, or think

anymore.

A.I.

has your back.

it's working overtime

to fill

your day

with creative endeavors.

go back to sleep.

be dumb,

be quiet.

music and art too.

who needs

Da Vinci

or Beethoven,

who needs

Harvard or Yale,

who needs

sixteen years of school?

i think we can make money on this debacle

all the newsmen

are

writing books now, throwing

up their hands

in wonder.

we never knew,

they say.

how could we possibly know

that he

wasn't up to the job

of being president

of the United States

anymore.

our bosses,

despite all the constant

mumbling and stumbling

and falling asleep,

made us say

that he was fine, sharp

as a tack,

fit as a fiddle.

in great shape.

the best he's ever been.

my book will tell you all

about it, 

how blind we were

and complicit in the masquerade.

only thirty-nine, ninety-five

on Amazon,

or at your local bookstore.

a great Father's Day gift.

you'll be amazed

at what we did.

stay tuned for more.

Violet at the deli counter

i ask the young man,

or woman

behind the deli counter to slice

me up

a half a pound

of pastrami.

he has a beard, but is wearing

a dress.

lipstick

and a nose ring.

his blue hair is under

a tight net.

on his arm is a tattoo

that says,

U.S. Navy, with an anchor

on his wrist.

his name tag says, Violet.

i try not to stare,

but i can't help myself.

i see a red bra strap under

his work shirt.

will there be anything else?

he says,

as he hands me

my pastrami.

maybe some coleslaw

i tell him, a medium sized

container, please.

thank you, Violet.

flexible hours

i see the same

man

nearly everyday on the corner.

sign in hand,

a folding chair,

a backpack

and water.

he's doing well it seems,

well fed

and tanned

new clothes,

wearing Michael Jordan shoes.

it's becoming harder

and harder

to feel sorry for him.

he waves

and smiles as i roll

by his office

on the corner.

his job

of doing nothing

seems to be paying well.

the red bulb is blinking

there should be

a red

light installed in the center

of everyone's

forehead,

so that when they tell a lie,

the bulb lights up

and blinks.

there would be no news

reporters then,

no journalists, or politicians, 

no salesmen,

no doctors,

no Facebook friends,

no one

on a dating site.

in time,

the world would glow red.

three days of rain

it's best not to stay

home

too many days in a row.

you begin

to see that the carpet

needs cleaning,

the walls

need paint.

you see the dust,

the mud

tracked

on the tile.

spills on the stove.

maybe it's time to change

that dead

lightbulb

in the hallway.

perhaps pour Drano

down the drain.

what is that dripping noise

i hear?

was that a mouse

scurrying across the kitchen

floor?

hopefully the sun will

come back

tomorrow

before i open

the refrigerator door.

the girl fight outside of a bar

it was a girl

fight,

for reasons unknown,

there was

a lot of screaming and cursing,

hair being

pulled,

scratching, punches

swung

wildly

and missing.

handbags

used as weapons,

clobbering

each other across

the chin.

kicking too with

thrown

shoes.

strangely,

as the crowd gathered,

no one wanted to break it

up.

breakfast at denny's

the older

one gets, not me of course,

but the elderly,

they want

more out of life, they want

to go

live in the Villages

of Florida,

or Margaritaville,

maybe find another love

or two,

a new husband or wife.

they want paradise on

a plate

of grass, golfing and music,

dancing

until morning light.

the pool, the hot tub,

the sauna.

blue skies.

they want the grey out

of their hair,

and to be thin again.

no one wants to grow old,

then die.

they want to make one

last effort

into not going gently into

that good night.

it's no longer the romance

of Breakfast

at Tiffany's, maybe Denny's

will be alright.

the shampoo girl

i fell in love

with the shampoo girl.

her

hands

in the lush

soapy water,

warm

and soft

upon my head.

i could only see

her from

upside down.

but it didn't matter.

now i remember

i forgot

that part of you until

we ran

into each other on the street.

in a few short

minutes

of talking and catching up,

with me hardly

saying a word,

i remembered

why

the years have gone by,

without me looking

you up.

a new kid behind the counter

the boy,

the paint store clerk,

has

his picture on

the wall.

draped with a black

ribbon.

he's smiling, a smile

i've

seen before.

blue eyed

and the hair, my God,

the hair.

the blush

of freckles

on his face.

no hint of the short

life, that short road before

him.

before the pill was taken.

but the world blinks

and moves on.

there's a new

kid now,

behind the counter

of the paint store.

boiling water

i know

this water will eventually boil.

i have

faith in it,

and yet,

by standing here

staring into the cold

pot,

dashed

with salt, i feel the need

to help it

along.

to will it forward.

oh, sugar pie

she had

her sister follow me,

her brother-in-law

download

every stroke of the keyboard

on my

Dell computer,

she searched my pant pockets,

shook out

books,

she lifted

up rugs

and pulled open drawers,

searching

for that one clue

that would put the final

nail into my coffin.

she was endless in her

pursuit, in

justifying the reason

for a divorce.

but it wasn't always that way.

there were days

before

when we took long walks

and held hands.

when we called each other names

like honeybun

and sugar pie.

the thin walls and floors and ceilings

i didn't realize

that the walls were so thin

in my

first apartment

off Brinkley Road.

i didn't know

that everyone

could hear the music

i played,

the loud

conversations with my

friends,

the love i made with

the second or third love of

my life

in the bedroom

or in the kitchen.

i didn't realize how thin

the walls were

until the banging

from next door and below,

from above

on the floor began.

the bottom line

there was a bar

downtown.

a dark place that you had

to go down

a flight of steps

to get into.

it was called The Bottom Line.

there was a black and white

tv in the corner,

always on,

but no one watched or listened,

the volume

turned down.

i don't remember if

there was music.

maybe a jukebox

next to the cigarette machine.

the bartender poured good

drinks

and someone you never saw

made sandwiches

in the back,

there were

French fries and coleslaw too,

and always a bowl

of nuts

within reach.

a bottle of ketchup

and mustard, sat

side by side.

people smoked

back then, the long room

was blue with it.

there were no cell phones.

they talked to each other

as the night went on.

they drank

too much,

came early and left late.

they laughed, they cried.

they were trying

to figure it all out.

sometimes they wrote

names

and numbers on the bathroom

walls

next to the condom

dispenser.

call June for a good time,

or clever thoughts like,

without dreams we are

destined to a life

of mediocrity.

the subway car we lived in

the house

was a subway car

full of children.

it thundered down

an unknown

track.

we jostled one another,

hanging

on to the straps,

bumping

against each other,

fighting for

the chair,

the spot we wanted

by the window,

squeezing

our shoulders together

through each door.

the motion

of those years,

is still with me,

even with all these empty

rooms to live in.

the soup and cold compress

how instinctively

kind

she was.

with the soup and cold

compress

for your

forehead,

reading to you as you

lay in bed.

propping up the pillow

just so.

did she have a choice

with this

love,

or was it built in

by nature,

doing

what all mothers

are prone

to do.

don't settle

in many

ways

you are still running

towards

first base,

the ball struck into

left field,

with a hard crack

of the bat.

maybe you should

go for two

bases,

not settling for one.

or go further,

testing the arm

of the boy

far out in the grass.

go for three, boy, go.

and why not,

why not, keep running,

go all the way,

go home.

four seasons

the metaphor

of seasons, is an easy one

to apply

to our lives.

the tragedy of being

cut down in spring,

the hot

summers

of youth,

where love overflows,

old age and the falling

of leaves,

our hair full of snow.

it's easy

to see how things go

when we take

notice,

no need to read poetry,

or to study Shakespeare,

just look out the window,

look into the mirror.

now you know.

summing each other up

as men,

perhaps as women too,

we measure

the worth

of someone by their

handshake,

whether right

or wrong,

false or true,

we feel the grip or

none,

the softness,

the moist palm,

the vigor of the shake,

are we

holding on

too long, too short?

so much

of what takes place

next

relies upon it.

the daily morning phone call

it's early

but

i take the call 

anyway,

i'm still in bed,

yet

to make the first cup

of coffee.

i've won

8.5 million dollars from

the publisher's clearing house

again.

and another

pearl white

Mercedes Benz.

i listen

to the polite man

from Jamaica

tell me what i need to do

to receive

my prize money and car.

i only need

to buy

one green dot money pak

gift card

for a mere

500 dollars

for the prize patrol to show

up

at my door.

i tell them wonderful.

can't wait to see you.

then i hang up,

and take a long hot shower.

waiting for help to come along

the quick

sand

is not so quick at all

i think

as i step into the soft

parcel

of ground.

as i slowly

slip under,

i wonder why they

call it

quicksand

when it's so slow.

sadly,

i may never

get the answer to this

question

unless helps comes

along.

take the long way around

my knee

tells me the weather.

my shoulder

too.

they each say rain,

a cold

rain

is coming,

take an umbrella,

wear

rubber shoes.

the bridge may be out.

take the long

way

around.

i trust these aches

and pains,

they're rarely wrong.

don't cash until Tuesday

the landlord

is coming up the stairs,

i can hear the heavy

drop of his shoes,

and the long

deep breaths he takes,

stopping

at each landing

of the four

floor walkup.

with work being slow.

the rent is

overdue,

i slip him a check

and a note

half under the door

before he even knocks.

which he finds

when he finally arrives.

i see it disappear

into his hand

as he mumbles thank you.

it's an arrangement

we both

understand.

chewing on beef jerky all day

like a strip of

old beef jerky, unseasoned

and dry,

a long

strap of seared

cowhide,

i chew

on the thought all day

and come

up with no solution.

there is no

answer i can rely on.

only a deep sleep

in a feather bed

might show

me the way.

dear Russia

it's hard

to understand the killing.

the slaughter

of those

of your kind.

the bombs

and drones,

the bullets

and missiles. what the hell

is going on

here,

and why?

how many more souls

need to die?

what's the point of destroying

all the land

and cities,

the towns and farms that

you eventually want

to occupy.

what then?

will new boundaries

on a map

at last

make you satisfied?

Friday was payday

it was a wonderous thing.

this slip

of paper,

a rectangular payment

for work

done

the last week.

manual labor

of some sort.

there it was in your hands.

your very first check

from your first real

job.

you looked

at the bottom

line, the 

dollar amount

and cents

in the box beside

your name,

then read through what

was taken

away.

FICA, state

and local taxes,

Federal taxes,

a strange fee of some kind.

you grumbled with those

around you.

hearing someone say

that the man

was keeping us down.

you shook your head

in agreement,

but just the same,

you folded the check carefully

and placed

it into your wallet,

then took it to the bank

in town.

Best on the Beach

it says

here, best on the beach.

it's right here

in the hotel

magazine.

it's even on the banner

pulled

by the small

plane going by.

it's a list of what's been

voted best

at the beach

since 1985.

we need look no further.

best buns on the beach,

best coffee,

best ribs,

best chicken.

best place to get your oil

changed.

best bank,

best massage parlor,

best pizza,

best hotel

best bar.

best lawyer on the beach,

best optometrist, 

best locksmith,

best beach band,

best boat rental,

best fishing,

best sailing, best all

you can eat.

best margaritas,

best medical clinic,

best animal hospital.

best 7-11 on the beach.

best saltwater taffy.

best crabs,

best sand dunes.

best tree.

here we are

it's impossible

to

reason with the enormity

of

space.

the endless,

bottomless barrel of stars,

of galaxies,

the spin

of it all,

the black emptiness of so much.

and yet

here we are.

until further notice

i retreat

into the cave and lie

down.

i put the sign

up.

closed until further notice.

i lock

the cave door

and set the alarm

for

tomorrow.

i've had enough for

one day.

her collection of sea shells

i admire

your collection of shells.

each

handful

from a different beach,

a different

state

or country.

i like how you've placed

them

on the shelves,

the windowsill so that

everyone

can admire them.

i have nothing bad

to say

about your shells,

white and pink,

some streaked with gold

or blue.

i like the story that

each

shell tells.

sometimes i hold one

up to my

ear,

and listen.

leftovers

it's hard for me

to let go of things.

things that are

no longer of interest

to me.

take

all the frozen

leftovers,

in my freezer,

for example.

better days are coming

i feel that

better

days are coming.

i can feel it in the air.

there's

a general

feeling of lightness,

of good times

up ahead.

things

will improve,

i can almost taste it.

i just know they will,

there's promise

in the days to come,

or maybe

it's just the wine

i'm drinking

with the bottle almost

done.

the wagging tail and the butcher

the butcher,

it seems, has no feelings.

there

is nothing

on his face

that resembles kindness

or hate,

there is just the flat

tone

of his voice

taking

the next number as

he waits for

a customer to point out

which

meat

and what weight.

the blood on his apron

means nothing.

it's work.

he'll go home tonight

to his wife

who loves him.

to his children, but the dog

will be

the most excited,

staring longingly out

the window.

he can hardly wait.

the shaving mirror

you saw

your father do it first,

standing at the bathroom sink,

the mirror fogged

then wiped with

the ball of his fist,

the shaking of the can

before

the lather came out

and was pushed upon his

cheeks, spread

under his nose,

to his chin and ears,

his neck,

and then the slow drag

of a razor,

up and down, across the

softened bristles

of his face.

you saw him do this a hundred

times,

at least.

and now

your son watches you,

standing at your knees.

or is it just today?

i have

nothing against the bug

crawling

up the wall,

but when i was younger

 i'd roll up 

a newspaper

and take him

out.

extinguish his life

without a thought.

but i don't now.

i carefully lift him

towards the window,

where he surprises me

by spreading his wings

to fly away.

have i really changed?

or is it just

today?

something to do before bed

you need

a hobby, my therapist tells me,

as i go

on about

the long days and nights,

the absence

of so many in my life,

through distance

or death.

you need a hobby, she says.

perhaps art,

or golf, or pickleball,

something

to keep your hands and

mind occupied

before bed.

i sigh and stretch out my legs.

you really don't

understand me, do you?

i tell her.

finding home

i've settled in.

i can say that now, after

seventeen

moves

in my life. this is home.

this is where

i should be.

i know where everything

is.

i know the steps

going up or down,

the way the sunlight arrives

through

each window,

in each season.

i know the moon too,

how it hits

the water

in the stream below.

i know the creaks of

each floorboard,

the noises

the plumbing makes.

i know the dust, i know

the stuck doors,

i know the sound of 

the shutters when the wind

comes.

the sound of rain

on the roof.

i know this house more

than

i've ever known a house before.

the three-day weekend

what

gold the three-day weekend

used to be.

what pleasure

there was

in lying in bed

on a Monday

morning,

close to noon,

with the sun coming

through the window.

what a luxury

it used to be

but now, sadly, it isn't

anymore.

the arched shadow and hiss

the cat

arching his back

spooked

by you

coming around the corner.

and you,

scared too

of the arched shadow

and hiss,

letting out

a gasp.

this living alone

is getting

to you.

the quiet husband

the couple,

married for more years than

all three of my

marriages combined,

are sitting

together

at the party.

she talks a lot, while

he keeps quiet.

he's learned

his place

over time. never saying

what's on

his mind,

for doing so

would ruin a month

of nights.

never the horse's fault

she falls

off her horse nearly every year

and breaks

a bone.

an arm,

a leg, her neck.

but she heals

and hops right back on,

it's never

the horse's fault

she says.

it's mine. it's all my

fault,

then she puts another

helmet on her

head.

same old

in time,

there is less and less

that bothers you, riles you up.

you're more

apt

to smile

and laugh.

step back and observe

the parade

going by.

you've been

through what most of them

are going through

and you're done

with it.

it's their turn to try

and change

what can't be changed.

she's absolutely right

she tells me that

my religion,

my faith is a crutch.

my trust

in Christ is

something

i lean upon,

a place i go to when

things

are rough.

a light i run to when

darkness

surrounds me.

i tell her, she's absolutely

right.

step lightly

it's

unavoidable

the violence of this life.

it's in

the art,

the music, the screams

and yells.

it's in

politics, nature,

traffic.

the violence is in

the cancer

lurking

in our cells.

the falling trees,

the thunder,

the floods and fires.

it's a violent world.

murderous

and frightful.

step

lightly as you go

about your day.

i blame technology

i get depressed reading

about how

many people

are depressed

these days.

young and old.

each with their own set

of problems

that are bringing them down,

raining on their

parade.

why are they so cloudy

and disturbed

all day?

it's just a wild guess,

but i blame

technology.

solving the math of you

i can't solve

you.

your problems, your

issues.

you are not a group

of numbers,

an equation

with a right or wrong

answer.

there are many answers

to you.

many solutions,

and unknowns.

if only there was one

answer,

that was true.

Joe's autopen

i buy

an autopen, like the one

used in the white house

for the last four

years.

it signs

all of my checks and bills,

my letters

going out.

important documents.

i no longer read

anything anymore.

i just find the bottom line

and hit the button

and sign.

i use it for ordering things

i don't need,

for divorces

and settlements.

i'll never get carpal

tunnel syndrome

again.

the clearing of birds

the men

come with their long ladder

to remove

the bird nests

in the soffit

of the house.

no more

chirping or flapping

of wings,

no more eggs

and straw,

or droppings raining

down.

i see them on the fence

staring up

at me

through the window.

disappointed in

who i am.

the puddle of your dress on the floor

i like how

you throw your clothes around.

letting them

lie on the floor,

underwear,

robes and gowns,

pants and shorts.

i stare at the puddle of

the yellow

dress you wore

last night,

listening to you as you

sing in the shower.

we're so much

alike.

keep it moving

somehow

the line moves forward

in the bagel

shop,

winding out the door

towards

central park.

it's not unlike the stock

market

early in the morning.

there's shouting

and bumping

of shoulders, indecision,

and barking

out of orders.

but we get there.

we get our tightly

knit

bag

of two bagels,

onion and cinnamon,

one with cream cheese

the other

buttered and toasted.

but the coffee is bad.

the green people

we need

blue people. people with

blue

skin, or green,

so that we can

all get together

as one

and hate them

and stop

hating each other.

we need an alien

migration

to land

to pick on.

a common cause

to bring us

all together. now let's

all join

and hands and sing.

going shopping with women

when i would go shopping with her,

the first

thing i'd do upon

entering the store, would be

to look for a bench

to sit on

close to a woman's dressing

room.

her purse would be sitting

between my feet

as i read the book i brought along.

eventually

she'd come out from behind

the curtain

with a dress on,

spinning this way and that,

playing with her

hair for some reason.

so, she'd say.

what do you think?

too long, too short, too

many colors,

does it say me?

it's you, i'd tell her.

perfect.

it brings out the color

in your eyes.

more dresses were to follow.

slacks and blouses too,

shoes.

eventually we'd leave

with nothing bought,

but with

the book almost finished.

his heartfelt prayer at dinner

he was a good boy,

a tall

boy,

out of college,

handsome,

a Catholic who actually

attended mass

each Sunday.

he came over for dinner

one night

and proceeded to take

on the task of

saying grace.

we all sat at the dinner

table

with hands folded

and eyes down

as he proceeded with

his prayer.

he offered up

the usual words of thanks,

the standard

rote prayer,

but then strayed off course

petitioning God

to help the people

in Africa

and Asia,

wandering into the hills

of Appalachia.

bless the homeless and sick,

the disenfranchised,

etc.

i opened one eye at him

to take a look,

wondering how

long this prayer would

go on.

i stared at the steak on

my plate

going cold. the potatoes

beginning to harden.

i wanted to pray that this prayer

would end,

but didn't,

and then after reminding God

about the measle

outbreak,

and with some hesitation,

he said,

and dear Lord,

forgive me for what

happened with

me and Becky last night

at the drive-in.

amen.

rare happy endings

some lives,

not all, but some are short

and brief snippets

of life

on earth.

call them haikus

or poems,

sonnets perhaps, 

maybe songs, while

others survive

enough days to become 

a short story,

a novella,

neat and compact

though not very long,

but then there are those

that become

a novel.

a thick tome of pages

full of words and deeds,

love

and death, etc. etc.

but one wonders

what is the plot

of those lives,

their theme,

what is the rising

and falling of the story,

what is

the climax.

is there a hero, a villain?

is there a denouement?

do things come together

in the end

to make

a lick of sense?

is the resolution satisfying?

rarely.

will the world run out of chickens?

as we sit at a picnic

table

near the airport,

at a Popeye's chicken

establishment,

i ask her,

will the world ever run out of chickens?

what?

she says,

as she cuts into a chicken

breast with

her plastic knife,

delicately as women

are prone to do

when cutting

into meat.

she has the four-inch square

of a napkin

on her lap.

what are you talking about?

she asks again.

chickens,

i tell her.

waving the drumstick

in my hand

to emphasize the question.

what would happen

if there were

no more chickens?

i wait until a plane passes

by overhead,

then continue on.

what would we eat,

that's cheap

and plentiful, and available

twenty-four seven

down the street,

plucked and cut up,

baked or

fried?

i don't know, she says.

do you want my

skin?

it's very crunchy. quite

spicy too.

one card fits all

i beat

the system, much to Hallmarks

chagrin.

i invent a card

that you send on the first day

of every year.

on it,

it says everything you need

to say

throughout the coming months.

you're covered for

the whole year,

guilt free.

merry Christmas,

happy birthday,

happy fourth of July,

happy Thanksgiving,

happy Memorial day,

happy President's day,

Columbus day,

Veterans day,

Groundhog day,

Arbor day,

and Valentine's day.

happy anniversary,

get well soon,

sorry for your loss.

congratulations on the birth

of your child,

your marriage,

your graduation,

your new house or job.

signed,

affectionately yours,

best wishes,

see you soon,

take care,

yours truly,

with love.

waiting for the governor to call

we may never

know

what it feels like to be standing

on the gallows

with a rope

around our

neck,

the trap door loose

beneath our

feet.

but standing at the altar

about to say

i do,

comes close.

a peculiar gift

funny

how you know things

that you

don't really know.

it's intuition,

an other worldly

attribute

you have,

handed down by

your mother,

who knew

before she knew

what was about

to go down.

it's a peculiar

gift,

but handy to have.

sorry i said i'm sorry

i tell her i'm

sorry,

she says, i'm sorry too.

really, i ask,

what are you sorry for.

she looks at me

wide eyed

and says,

i just said it because you

said it.

but, i say,

what exactly are you sorry

for, come on,

be specific.

i have time, i have

all day.

you go first, she says,

then it's my turn

if i can think

of anything.

Safeway has fish now

i shouldn't do it,

but i yell

out to the people standing

at the side of the lake

fishing,

and inform them that Safeway

has fish now,

caught and fileted,

on ice

or frozen.

all kinds.

trout, cod, monkfish

even Chilean seabass.

no need to stand there

all day with your

fishing rods,

casting out

your little worms.

they don't seem to like

me

and give me the one

finger wave.

the local camper deluxe

she's an expert camper.

she has the tent,

the sleeping bags,

the portable

propane

stove,

the battery powered lanterns,

the special bag to keep

things cold.

she has dinner ware

and cutlery,

bug spray

and snake repellant.

she's wearing a plaid

shirt and a doo rag

around her head,

she's in her hiking boots

and cargo pants.

she has a bag of marshmallows

and plant based

hot dogs.

she knows how to build

a fire,

and to make bird calls.

she has a hatchet and a knife,

a whistle

to scare away

the wildlife.

at night she'll tell stories

around the campfire

and break out her guitar

to sing

a Joan Baez song.

we're a half mile from home,

but it's wonderful

thing.

my goal for today

my goal

for today is to open

up

this jar

of olives.

i know i can do it.

i've done

it before

with jars

of pickles. peanut

butter,

strawberry jam.

i have the strength,

the torque

in my wrist to do so.

but if all

else fails, the tapping,

the hot water,

the cold,

there's a butter knife

in the drawer

to help.

the calm water

don't let

the calm water fool you.

don't trust it.

the placid

blue holding clouds

and rays

of sunlight.

don't dare

dive in

and try to swim across

to the other side.

beware.

take care.

i've warned you.

the seven year itch

my friend of forty

years, Joe,

calls me and wants to know 

if i still have

a guest room

with an empty bed.

my wife

wants me out,

he tells me.

she says, it's over. we're done.

all we do is fight

and argue

over the smallest things.

i think she has 

what they call the seven

year itch.

i've been sleeping

on the couch

for i don't know how long.

i just need a month

to get my act

together,

stop drinking and smoking,

stop doing so many drugs,

get a job, save some money,

buy a car,

and get back out

on my own.

maybe a few months,

six at the most, a year, tops.

do you mind

if i stay

at your house?

the lidocaine blues

i stare

at my knee. i rub it,

i twist the leg

around,

straighten it out,

flex,

and fold it

back

with my foot on the ground.

i wonder how many

more years

i can get out

of it

after fifty years of

pounding

on basketball courts,

and running around.

i'd like to leave this

earth

with all my

original parts,

i tell the doctor,

which makes him smile

and say,

it's good to have a goal

like that.

then he pushes the needle

of cortisone

all the way in,

the lidocaine making me howl.

just passing through

i feel better when

i go

to church.

St. Raymond's.

just driving through the parking

lot and slowing

down

as i pass the grotto and statue

of Mary.

it makes me feel better.

not forgiven

necessarily, but close

to it.

and if i park for a while,

i feel even

better knowing

that

i'm that close to going in.

no one to blame it on

i see the trail

of me,

the drips

and crumbs,

the cups and plates

left behind,

as i go through the day

into the night.

newspapers

and magazines,

wrappers,

a bowl of grapes

off the vine.

i'll get to it all

at some point.

i'll take out

the broom, the rag,

the vacuum

and get busy,

but without a visitor

on the schedule,

i'm good with it

for now,

i'm fine.

a little dab will do you

just a trim,

i used to the tell the barber

when i sat

in his big

leather

chair that swiveled

about.

just a trim, please,

but do something

about the cowlick.

and by the way

my part is on the left

not right,

and i like a little

wave in front

when you get the Bryl Creme

out.

it's so much

easier now, i think, as

i drag

the razor

around.

my robot is on order

i think

that maybe having a personal

robot

could be a bad idea.

they would makes us even

more lazier

than we already are.

why get up

from the couch, when

the meal

is made,

the dishes done,

the wash

folded and put away.

they could answer the door

and tell

the Fuller Brush Man

that we don't need

anything today.

why pick up

a book

when they can read one

to us without turning a page.

they could

tuck us in at night,

say prayer

for us.

they could mow the lawn,

trim the hedges.

we could send them to

work to do

our jobs,

perhaps, maybe they

could even write us

some poems, as they

keep our house in order.

i think i've changed my mind

on having a robot.

it might be swell

as long as

we keep them charged

and oiled,

and away from water.

his childhood

did he dream

of his childhood in Halifax.

the farm.

his dog.

the one room

school house with a wood

stove.

the blonde fields,

the harsh

blue of the sound.

did he hear

the whistle of trains,

the cry

of gulls,

the ships with their freight

crawling by.

did he taste

the salt of the sea

in his mouth,

the succulence

of shellfish.

did he grieve, did he

dream of any of it,

or all?

they are all aliens

i loved

the twilight zone,

the outer limits,

the eerie

twists and turns,

the dark plots,

the surprise ending

when the masks

come off

and your wife

and children are all

aliens.

back to bed

that's some rain

coming down,

she says

to me, as we stand at the big

window

staring out.

that little stream

is a river now.

look how dark it is,

those black

clouds.

what do we do now?

back to bed?

sure.

the ex-patriots from tv land

they move

to England or Ireland

to escape

the politics

of their home country,

they run to maybe Sweden

or Finland,

but hardly ever

to Cuba

or Russia, or anywhere

in the middle east

or Africa.

they have the money

to live anywhere

as they flee the political

landscape that

conflicts with theirs.

funny how it works like that.

will they be missed?

not at all.

who?

my mother, my phone

my phone

is my mother now.

reminding me

of things i need to do.

appointments i need to make.

telling me

it's time

to restart

and have a new security

update.

there are apps

we need to put to sleep.

temporary

files you need to delete.

it's time

to clean up your room,

and eat

your vegetables, i want

you to clean your

plate,

now go brush

your teeth,

it's time to eat.

don't talk with your mouth

full,

sit up straight.

taking the doctor's advice

i see my

doctor out on the golf course,

smoking

a cigarette

and drinking a beer between

drives

and putts.

he's eating

a hoagie

from the pub,

there's mayonnaise

on his face

and

his belly hangs over his

striped

polo shirt, his knees

bent from

the weight.

he sees me and waves,

comes over

to tell me

that i should put some

sunscreen on.

the sun is really hot

this time

of day.

finding yourself

i see my

face

on the side of a milk carton

from years ago,

when i ran away

from home.

if you

see this person,

dial this number, the side

says.

i call it up.

hey, i tell them.

it's me.

i found myself.

did they ever even look

for me?

well,

i'm free, i'm okay.

where can i collect

my reward?

please tell my family

that

i'm no longer hard

to reach.

but it doesn't last

why

did the tall handsome

boy

in school

always get his way,

why did

the bosomy

girl

with blonde curls

and blue

eyes

become the queen

of the prom?

and us,

marching

onward with our books,

remained faceless,

forever

lost in the shade.

only the caught say let's move forward

my son after

eating

all the cookies in the bag,

with chocolate

on his face,

is caught red handed,

his belly

full,

his body trembling with

sugar,

licking crumbs

from the bag,

tells me,

okay, okay, you caught me.

can't we move on

from this Dad?

can't we

move forward.

we all make mistakes.

let's turn the page.

how to be a politician

they have

to have a secret life,

a life

of manipulation and lies,

black

or white.

they have to put a smile

on

the worst of times,

a good coat

of paint

to cover up

what ain't.

there is no other way to

get the votes,

and stay in power,

than to pretend

to be who you aren't,

to be a saint.

watching the river flow by

it truly

is entertaining these days,

the news,

the protests out

on the street,

the marches and parades.

all these wild colorful

characters

in the flesh, not on Disney.

sometimes

i'll pack a nice

picnic lunch and a folding

chair, and find a shady

tree to watch

the show go by.

occasionally i'll bring

a blanket

so that if i get drowsy,

and there are no drums,

or megaphones,

or sirens

from the cops, i'll take

a cat nap

and close my eyes.

change between the cushions

when i hear

that familiar dinging of the ice-cream

truck

outside,

a familiar chiming sound,

out of tune,

and the screaming

of kids

running out of the houses

to buy a nutty buddy,

a popsicle, or creamsicle,

or a caramel ice cream bar,

i run over to the couch

to dig

between the cushions for

fifteen cents.

old habits are hard to break.

the hidden room

it's good

to have a trap door,

a back

door,

a shelf of books

that slides

away

at the lifting of a lamp

shade.

you need a hidden

passageway

in this life to get survive.

a hidden

staircase,

a place where no one

can find you,

an attic, a loft, a cellar,

a good place to hide.

crashing into the Brooklyn Bridge

it's a ceremonial

ship

from another country,

waving its enormous flag,

that loses its power and drifts

backwards

into the Brooklyn Bridge.

throwing sailors

off the masts where the men

are strangely

waving and standing,

in no hurry to get off

before the crash.

hopefully they don't

have a ceremonial air force too

coming to visit.

spending money

it was an old

lawn

mower.

rusted,

and worn, the blades

dulled

by years

of mowing the tall

weeds,

the wet grass.

and yet it started

with a pull

of the rope,

it growled then

choked out a belly

full of blue

smoke,

then away we went.

across the neighbor

hood,

a gallon of gas,

a rake,

a bag

and by days end

a pocket full of money

to spend.

do i miss you?

do i miss

you?

the smell of you, the sight

of you,

the voice

of you.

do i miss what we had.

the snuggling

at night,

the games we played,

the way

you greeted me at the door,

all love

and kisses

as your tail wagged.

of course i do.

your leash and collar,

your tag

still hang on the hook

by the door.

your bowl

is still on the floor.

finding a spot on the beach

i surrender

to the years, i throw

up

the white flag

and let

out a sigh of relief.

the battle is

over,

the war neither won

or lost,

it just ended.

where should i sit

this day

on the beach?

my first hot yoga class

i sign up

for a hot yoga class

down at the community center.

it's more of

an effort to meet new women,

some limber

and flexible ladies,

and less

about getting in shape.

i'm in my

new yoga pants,

a combination of spandex

and cotton

with a polyester blend,

but a little

tight

in the wrong places,

if you know what i mean.

i'm carrying my rolled up

mat and have 

a red white and blue

head band on.

i take a long sip from my

personal water bottle,

as i find a space in the back.

it concerns me

that there are no windows

open, and no fans.

an hour later

i wake up in ambulance

with an IV

in my arm.

and a brace around my

neck,

i've been informed

that they won't me back.

surprised when i saw her mug shot

she was one of those

take

your shoes

off before you come into the house

kind of people.

well mannered,

well

educated, with good morals,

and values.

a good citizen

to boot.

not once did i ever see

spinach between her teeth.

she voted whenever there was

an election

to be had.

she exercised

and ate well. a vegetarian,

i suppose.

she had two cats,

and one

dog.

she went to church.

she danced and sang in the choir.

so it surprised me

when i saw in the paper

that she robbed

a liquor store

and was involved in a high

speed chase

down the boulevard.

who has time for this nonsense

i can't imagine,

my mother or father, taking

the time out

of their busy lives

to go

protest for some political

reason.

there were babies

to tend to.

doctor's appointments.

yards to mow,

children to play with

and help

with their homework,

tying their

shoes

and brushing their hair.

there were birthdays

and cakes

to be made. 

balloons to be blown,

shopping

to be done,

clothes to wash,

meals to be cooked.

diapers to be changed.

who had time to be in

a protest parade or to

tie themselves

to the white house gate?

they had no time

for such charades.

whatever it was i was talking about

in the middle

of the conversation, i get distracted

by a fly

in the room,

buzzing

around the light, then

towards

the window.

fat and black,

full of sound,

with neon greens

speckled in

somehow.

i lose my train of thought.

whatever it was

i was talking about was

probably

gibberish to begin with.

it's all about the fly now

and opening the window

to shoo him out.

they are waiting patiently

the headlights

shining

into the woods, catch

the eyes

of animals,

so many

lurking on the edge.

the glimmer

of their

small mirrors

reflect back,

they are

waiting

patiently for you

to go in.

it's trash night after all.

this doesn't mean i'm a good person

i don't

eat the last slice of cake,

because

i know she

might want it.

it doesn't mean

i'm a good person.

it just means,

that i hope she'll say

no, that's okay,

you have it.

and then

hopefully, at the very least,

we'll cut it down

the middle

and share.

a simple plan

there is a simple

formula.

a tried and true

method

of living well

and long.

drink water

and eat whole foods,

push away the sugar

and tobacco

the alcohol.

exercise and sleep well.

find love

where you can find it.

don't hurt others,

and don't be hurt.

pray often.

aging badly

the old men,

the rock and rollers,

the actors,

the washed up

and nearly

forgotten stars of the past,

like turtles

come out of their shells

and squeal

and bash,

they are aging

badly,

showing their true colors,

wanting once more

to be relevant.

but they lose more and more

followers

with each

bizarre and deranged

rant.

my early morning apology

before i sit

down in the back yard

in the rising sun

on the iron

chair

next to the black iron

table,

i apologize to the spiders

who scramble

at my noise.

i use

an arm

and a magazine

to unstring

their hard work.

unraveling

the gossamer threads.

how busy they've been

all night

into the morning,

with their webs.

i'm sorry, i tell them.

i truly am, then sit.

and then there's tomorrow

and there's tomorrow

after

all of this ends,

whatever this

is.

when work stops,

when

friends move away,

when

situations change,

parents

dying,

pets grown old.

and then there's tomorrow

to deal with.

and whatever

comes next

our way.

how far is too far

the fright of

it,

the cold

unwelcome ocean

with it's long

dark

arms

and froth.

full of salt and sand,

and

strange

things below,

that each foot finds,

when

wading out,

away from land.

how far is too far?

another foot

another

yard,

another step before

we drown.

seashells in the sand

as i walk along

the beach

i keep seeing seashells

aligned

with cryptic political

messages

on who to vote for,

who to love

who to hate.

children at play?

old men

or women with nothing

better to do

on a Saturday.

mermaids,

perhaps, rising from

the sea

being playful.

the accidental wedding

we stumble

onto

a wedding in St. Patrick's

Cathedral.

we're not part

of it,

and yet we are, tourists

sitting on the far

side

with a hundred others.

the music plays,

the singing

echoes up and

through the marble

walls.

the bride at last arrives

walking slowly

up the center aisle.

a vision in white.

the groom

at the altar, 

standing nervously,

waiting for

his life

as it is to end,

for another life to begin.

we waiting on luck

we wait

on so much, for buses

to come,

for water

to boil,

for the rain to stop,

for Friday to

arrive

at last.

we're always waiting

for something

or someone.

we look out

the window for the

mailman's

truck,

for the sun

to come up.

we wait on the news,

whether good or bad.

we wait

for good luck.

keeping the trains on time

we keep

track of mundane things.

us humanoid

people.

we remember trash

on Thursday,

the clocks

being changed.

turning the water

off in winter,

and back on

in spring.

we set alarms to rise.

after awhile we know

our place

in this world,

we know 

what our duties are

to keep the trains

on time.

we remember

when to change a filter

in the house,

the oil

in the car.

the cleaning of our

teeth

each six months

without fail.

we smell the milk

to see if

it's sour. we read labels

to see if that

can of beans 

has expired?

monkey business

i fall in love

with a girl who speaks no English.

she speaks

French

and German,

Italian,

but not a word

of English.

but we hit it off.

thankfully i've seen

the documentary with

Jane Goodall

and KoKo the gorilla.

i know

how to signal

for thirst or food,

for sleep,

and for fooling around

later.

i'm all over this monkey

business

without uttering

a sound.

in need of ear plugs

there are some noises that

bother you

more than others,

a barking dog,

all night,

outside,

a baby crying on the bus.

someone chewing

their food loudly

at the table beside you.

Yoko Ono's

music.

a solid eight hours coming

nothing like a hard

at work,

a physical day

to let you

know that tonight

you'll sleep good,

no tossing and turning,

no worry

or concerns to bother you.

you'll fall into the bed

and like rock

won't move

for the next eight hours.

there'll be

no need to read a book

or watch a show,

or check your phone,

you'll just lie

there, close your eyes

and be gone.

misapropitation of funds

i remember

those

days, of going to the jewelry

shop

and examining what

fine jewel i could buy

for my

sweetheart

to smooth things over,

to win her

back, or to seal the deal

on a lifetime

of walking on eggshells.

what long hours

i would spend, telling

the clerk

to take out a ring

from under the glass,

or a bracelet,

a necklace,

or a watch.

then checking the price

on the tiny tag,

was this one worth it?

should i swipe

the card

to win her back?

just for awhile

there are birds

in the soffit.

the vents have fallen out

and now

a variety of birds

have made

their homes

in the small round

holes

in the wood attached

to my house.

they're noisy in their

caring of

the young, flying in

worms

and assorted crumbs.

i hear the small chirping

of mouths

being fed.

it won't be long though

until they're grown,

and gone,

flying 

off to their own world

as children

are prone to do. but

hopefully,

another spring will come.

fine dining

there's one

waiter

assigned to water.

a soldier at attention,

at the ready.

he's over there next to the post

with a giant

pitcher

of water.

i pretend to take a sip,

to make him

come over

to top my glass off.

but there's

disappointment

in his eyes

when he sees that another

pour

won't fit. for more fun

i drop my salad fork

on the floor,

which

makes them

all come running

with a clean one.

agent agent agent

have i dialed the right number?

i hope so.

i've gone through

all the prompts,

answering digitally

all of their questions.

i mute

the music, a horrible

wordless

jumble of noise

you could never dance,

or even tap

your fingers to.

i have all day to sit here

and wait for an agent

to answer the call,

or to transfer me again,

but so do they, at least

until five o'clock.

hunting season

the hunters

are in the woods wearing

orange vests.

i smell whiskey

on their breath.

they have

guns and cross bows,

armed to the teeth

to eliminate

those pesky

deer and rabid raccoons.

coyote

and fox.

it's nearly dark

as i speed forward on

my bike,

ducking and weaving,

hoping

for the best.

racing down broadway

jokingly,

i ask the cab driver

eating a kabob

how many

people has he run over

today,

as we race at sixty

miles

an hour down 

Broadway.

he uses the wipers

to smear away

a few bugs.

honks his horn 

at jaywalkers, lingering

in the box,

staring into

their phones.

he looks into the rear

view mirror

and laughs.

he adjusts his turban.

oh, he says, not many.

not many.

a few tourists maybe.

some pigeons,

some protestors.

not many, but it's early.

hiring a new assistant

if i had

an assistant, i'd tell her

what to

do all the time.

i'd have a list of things

for her to

accomplish

by the end of the day

or night.

she'd be at

the ready when the bell

dinged.

standing at attention

by my side.

if i had an itch,

for example,

i'd give her the exact

geographical

location on my back

that needed to be scratched

and tell

her not soft,

but hard, dig in.

i'm posting the ad tomorrow

on Linkedin.

the perpetually unhinged

yes, she tells me,

pulling on her blue hair,

and nose ring,

he may have cured

cancer,

saved

the children,

reduced crime

and made

everyone prosper,

brought peace

to the world

ending several

wars,

but we still hate him

she tells

me,

tying herself up

in knots

as she watches the tv.

do you even know what

he said

once in 1994?

the sweet spot

it's the sweet

spot

of a summer day.

the sun

nearly down behind

the trees,

the world at home

now,

at rest.

and you on the porch

swing

in the cool air

sipping lemonade.

glad for no reason,

with a hint

of a smile on your face.

the red light spinnng

occasionally

you'll

look out your window

and see

the spin of a red lamp

on the ambulance

that has arrived

quietly in the night

or morning. doors

open and heads

appear, shoulders

lean out cautiously to

see whose turn it is.

no need to change anymore

they want

bright colors and change.

they want

to jazz

things up,

throw caution to the wind

and become

new again

they don't want

the same old

thing.

it's boring,

mundane.

the young at heart

and young

believe

so, but

rarely the old and grey.

they like things

the way they are,

what they know

and love,

they want things to stay

the same.

turning the cameras off

i change

the locks less frequently now.

hardly

ever pull the shades,

or worry

about the back

gate.

i disconnected

the alarm

and the ring camera.

gave away

the watch dogs,

the pit bulls.

i'm in a no worry

zone,

in a happy place,

since i heard

you moved

to the South Pole.

finding common ground

you

read different books

than

i do,

you wear different clothes,

watch

different shows.

you talk

with a drawl,

while i'm a Boston boy.

you like vegetables,

while i prefer

red meat.

you lean left, i lean

right.

we have almost

nothing in

common.

expect for when we

turn out

the lights at night.

you don't know

as a child,

a young child,

you don't know poor,

you don't know

rich.

you just know what is.

happy to have

what's on

the plate

and the rest of it.

daily meditation

i have

the ability to meditate

and stare

at a candle

for about two minutes.

after that

i have to stop

because i feel like i'm

going crazy

sitting there

on the floor,

twisted like a pretzel

there's

work to do.

my mind refuses to empty.

i'll relax later when i stop

at Moe's after work

for a gin and tonic.

where to now?

we press

our faces to the darkened

windows.

cupping our

hands to see in.

we try the locked

doors,

the chairs are on the tables.

the lights are off.

pictures are

off the walls,

the silverware

and dishes are gone.

there's no on around,

no waiters,

no cooks. no Maitre d.

it's over for Aldo's.

our home away from home.

retail therapy

it's disturbing

to look

into the eyes of so many

in the crowd

down 5th Avenue,

most in an unruly

march

to somewhere, or nowhere.

some talking

to themselves.

the lost

and disheveled.

the worried

and ill.

but there's little sense

of guilt,

only comfort,

as the shopping bag,

swings

under our arm,

now filled.

what was is done

we gather

years upon us.

the weight

bends us closer

to earth.

but we adjust.

we find a hand to hold,

a railing

to grip

as we go down

the stairs.

we lay down so

much

to lessen the weight,

not forgetting, but

not carrying

it either. we surrender

to lightness.

what was

is done.

the emergency bar of chocolate

it's good to have

a secret emergency bar

of chocolate, tucked away

in the ice box

behind the frozen bags

of peas

and carrots.

a large wrapped chunk

to break

off a piece

or two

to get you through

the night,

or day,

whether the issue

revolves around love or work,

a broken nail or

a bad hair day.

it can have almonds

if you need that crunch.

dark Belgium chocolate

is preferred.

it's only money

it's only

money, that's what someone

says

who either has

none,

or a lot.

us in the middle,

rarely

say that.

we've worked too hard

to save it

for the pot.

our main goal

in life

is to not run out.

mount Vesuvius

i remember

my father sitting in his big

chair,

in the dark,

smelling of Canadian Club,

smoking a pipe.

stewing over something

we didn't understand,

giving my mother

the silent treatment

once more.

a weekly thing.

we stayed away, we

walked on tip toes,

not even saying goodnight

as we crept up

the stairs.

he was a volcano

growling, rumbling.

we wondered

when would he finally

erupt. would it

be tonight?

upon hearing bad news

this isn't

supposed to happen.

but now

what?

there are phone calls to make

to pass the word

along.

but can i sit on it a while.

take a bath

and ponder the news.

maybe have lunch

and read the paper.

can i pretend

that nothing has

happened,

that none of this is true?

how long can i wait,

before i change

the world of others?

i remember you

the cup

of moon was milk.

its sheen

turned

the grass

silver,

the leaves in the trees

danced

with white.

i moved closer

to you,

i pressed my lips

against

yours.

this moment wouldn't

be forgotten.

even

now after so many

years.

i can still taste

the life in you

and feel the drum

of my heart.

picking horses for beginners

it's

a horse race.

we have money

on the number

nine

horse.

Happy Days.

but he's

not doing well

in the mud

no matter how hard

the little jockey

whips him

and eggs him on

in Ecuadorian.

he comes in

last.

oh well. we say,

and tear up the losing

ticket.

what's a hundred dollars

these days.

let's try again

in the next race.

how about Bewitched?

i loved that show.

plus his colors are green,

my favorite.

tapping my shoe as i wait for you

we're an impatient lot

of people,

aren't we?

us with our instant

coffee,

our instant oats,

and minute rice,

our fast food lines,

the drive-thru,

and express lanes.

the EZ pass for a toll.

one hour

dry cleaning for all our clothes.

we need to be everywhere

and anywhere

in a New York

minute.

there's no time to lose.

without our phones to

stare into

while we wait for things

to happen

and for people to arrive,

what would we do?

at your earliest convenience

i want less now.

i need

less.

i can go to nearly

any

room in this house

and find

what i want.

there is nothing here

that isn't

mine

anymore.

i've set all of that on

the porch

for you to pick up

at your 

earliest convenience.

no need to knock,

or to apply

the horn.

just come,

just go.

tomorrow will be the same

the days

go by, but little changes.

you fill your days

with work,

with food and drink.

you long

for sleep.

for love, for reason.

you discuss life

with others,

you read books

hoping there's an answer

there.

you watch movies,

and listen to music.

and still,

little changes.

tomorrow will be the same,

permitting no

catastrophe occurs.

he looks different lying there

he doesn't look

like himself,

she says to me,

whispering,

nudging me

in the ribs

as we inch past

the coffin.

he looks different

somehow,

not the same from

what i remember.

it's because

he's dead,

i tell her

as i steer her out the room

and towards the long

table where

the food is.

he's been dead for

almost a week.

you should see me

on a

Sunday morning

after i've gone out drinking

the night before.

can i fix you a plate?

some shrimp maybe?

blowing out candles

she was a girly

girl.

she liked linen and lace,

candles

with fragrance,

vanilla

and clove, cinnamon,

lilac,

and lavender.

each room

had a scent

of flowers in the air,

but they made my nose

itch,

they made

me sneeze

and scratch, break out

into hives.

so i blew them out.

sadly this love, like

so many others,

didn't last.

this is who we are now

we wander

into Times Square, holding

our pepper sprays

in hand.

we want to take a look at the giant

statue

recently erected.

a twelve foot tall

obese woman

in a pant suit with her hands

on her hips,

about to hit her boyfriend

with a frying pan,

or steamed and demanding an

explanation

from the fast food clerk 

why there was

no ketchup

with her bag

of French fries.

it says a lot about where

we are as a country.

this is art for us.

this is who we are.

Europe must be jealous.

letting go of things

i get sentimental

over

the old car,

trading it in,

or the old couch

set out

for pick up

on the curb.

in my mind they were

almost friends

of some sort.

i spent so much

time with them.

through hell

and highwater.

it seems cruel

or unkind

to let them go on without

me.

handing them off

to strangers,

who never ask

or really care

what they know, or have

been through.

vampires on the road

we're starving, okay,

not

really starving, but hungry.

fortunately

her purse

is a treasure trove

of life saving

peanut butter crackers

and gumballs,

red licorice

and a tin of breath mints,

fireballs

and what not.

in five hours

we'll be out of Newark

and close

to home.

we'll make it, although our

tongues and lips,

like Dracula,

will be all red.

the comfort of broken

newer

is not better. give me the old

wood,

the dull,

the worn and tired

look.

take

me to the comfort

of

the broken big

chair,

the scratched record

spinning.

the hum of the icebox.

i want the used,

the bent,

yet kept.

the stuck window shade,

the rusted latch,

the loose

hinge on the gate.

the torn sweater

and loafers with a hole.

all of it tells me

i'm back home.

somewhere in between

they fall

somewhere in between

meaning

everything

and meaning nothing, these

dreams

we have. lost

in the fog of sleep.

the truth

is mixed with lies.

just like

when we're wide awake,

and alert,

saying things

with open

eyes.

i wish i never met you

i wish

i never met you, she says,

throwing

my clothes

out the window.

i run around

the yard

trying to catch my

shoes,

my good pants

and shirts.

my shaving kit.

my hats and gloves.

and then

a few of my books,

and at last

a frying pan,

which isn't mine so

i throw

it back.

don't forget to write

you will

write to me, won't you?

you'll find

the time, to drop me a line

when you

go overseas,

won't you?

do you have a pen to write

with?

do you have postcards

and envelopes,

stamps

and paper to jot notes

on?

don't leave me hanging,

please.

don't have me looking

out the window

down the street,

for mail to come.

or, i guess you could just

call.

here's my number.

no shady tree will do

i can't

sleep on the train

or bus,

or a plane.

i have to have a bed.

the car

won't do either,

especially if i'm behind

the wheel.

no sleeping bag

for me,

no park bench,

or shady tree.

no steam grate on Madison.

give me the big bed

with pillows,

give me

the stuffed with feathers

mattress,

lay me down on

800 count cotton sheets,

and then i'll fall

asleep.

hit the lights please.

the NYC public library

we sign

up for the library tour

in the city.

the New York City

library tour.

we have a sticker that

shows we are

a part

of the tour.

a group of twenty

from all over

the world.

our tour guide is bored

though.

she points at the marble,

the ceilings,

the floor.

she goes on and on

in a monotone

voice

telling us about

the rich and famous who

poured money

into it all.

the Astors and Fords

her voice echoes and disappears

in the long

hallways,

the tunnel of it all,

the book tomb

where we stand.

through another set of heavy

wooden doors

we go, the periodical

room where

the librarian puts a long

finger

to her lips

and says shhhhh.

we don't last long.

drifting off into the gift shop

where we'll

buy a magnet saying that

we've been here.

onto the fridge

it will go when we get home.

the neighborhood cherry tree

we had the cherry

tree

nearly picked clean of cherries

when

the owner came

home.

our pockets and bellies

were full.

but when the car appeared,

the headlights

turning into

the driveway, we froze,

and were still,

not wanting to be seen.

we hung on to the trunk

and branches

of the tree,

whispering to each other

to be quiet.

the man sat on his porch

for an hour smoking,

never saying a word.

and then his phone rang.

he yelled out to us from

his window,

telling us that it was time

for us to leave,

to go home,

it was our mother on the phone.

rearranging the deck chairs

i move

art around, making

new holes

in the wall. i shift

chairs,

turn the rug

in a different way,

maybe

a vase of flowers over

there,

not here.

i pull up the shade

to let

more light in.

i straighten books

on the shelf.

it's not the Titantic

going down,

but it feels like it

sometimes.

don't write a book about it

we all

have a story of some sort.

a tale

of joy and woe.

with a beginning,

a middle

and an 

uncertain end,

with

time still to go.

there's drama,

love and death,

remorse

and regret.

there's the formative

childhood years,

and the long stretch up

until now.

is it worthy of a book?

probably not.

sometimes it's best

to keep it to yourself.

why are you bleeding?

the masked

and gloved dental

hygienist 

hovers

over me with her tools

of the trade.

she tells me

that my blood pressure

is high today

and that my

gums are bleeding

when she

sticks the sharp metal

prong between

my teeth.

poking at my gums.

she acts as if she has

nothing to do with it.

but there's nothing

i can do or say because her

hands are in my mouth.

like a coal miner

in a cave

how love should be

as the train

moves

forward through the rain,

the seat

beside me is empty

until we stop

in Baltimore.

a woman

sits down in the empty

seat.

takes her coat off,

her scarf,

settles in with a book,

nods and says

hello.

this is how love should

be.

simple and quiet.

going forward

on a journey, giving

each other

room,

and when you get up

to leave, 

at your stop, being polite,

and saying

excuse me.

the stingy wealthy

why

work anymore.

there's mommy

and daddy,

and grandparents

with deep pockets

of love

and money.

not to mention Uncle

Sam,

both state

and local.

just put out your hand.

no need

to work anymore

and be a part

of the wheel that turns.

just live off

the kindness of strangers,

live off

the land.

let the rich take care of us,

they have so much

to give.

so much to spend.

sorry, but i can't hear you

i'm waiting

for my memory

to fail. so that i can stop 

remember things

that i don't want

to remember

anymore.

but selectively of course.

aging

is not so bad when

you think about.

take hearing as well,

waiting for it

to fade

so as not hear what

you don't want

to hear anymore.

cupping your ear

to ask "what did you say?"

whether they sit 

near or far.

hot stones on my back

where am I, 

I ask myself

as i lie down on the massage table

at Kim's Steam

and Massage

Parlor

next to the bowling alley,

adjacent to the airport

and Big Jim's bar and grille

beaming out its sign

to the interstate,

Liver and Onions night,

but where am i exactly

in this life?

is this it?

is this the end of the road,

or is there more?

so tight,

the massage therapist

says,

as she jumps up

and down with her little

feet

on my back.

relax, relax. she says,

you so intense.

i got you.

maybe hot stones?

salon and saloon

she's the plaza hotel,

i'm

motel six,

she's red wine and escargot,

i'm Five Guys

with bacon and  

American

cheese,

the patties

double stacked.

she likes

fine art,

Monet, Degas,

Seurat,

i settle on Rockwell,

and subway

graffiti.

she prefers the opera,

while

i turn up Led Zepplin,

and Tom Waits

8 track.

how this marriage lasted,

i'll never know.

my leg is asleep

my leg

is asleep, but i'm not,

i'm wide awake.

it tingles

from hip to foot

and

weirdly

burns

in a benign sort

of way.

so i shake it, which

wakes up

my wife, who asks me

what i'm doing.

go to sleep

she says.

i'm trying to, but only my

leg wants

to cooperate.

i saw a video on YouTube

the other day

on neuropathy,

i think i might have that.

oh my God,

she says,

then takes her pillow

to the other

room.