the blue box full of yesterdays

it's a steel

box,

with a slight sheen

of azure blue.

i think it's steel, 

or a metal of some sort,

fireproof

according to the life

insurance

man who

gifted it to me once

i signed up

for the million dollar

policy.

but i cashed that in a long

time ago

after seven years of premiums.

cashed it in

for 671 bucks.

but the box is full of pictures

now,

childhood photos,

a birth certificate,

car titles,

banking information,

a list of names

and numbers,

once friends, now strangers.

the deceased are side by side,

stuck together

until the end of time.

there's 

a few marriage certificates

in there too,

folded up

and yellowed,

and an equal

number of divorce

decrees as well.

a coin from Mexico rattles

around

with a Saint Christopher's medal

and a key

to my mother's house.

there's a combination lock

on the front

that suggests i should lock it,

but i don't.

rainy day friends

there are fair

weather friends, and rainy

day

friends,

the kind

that like to come around when

nothing

is rosy.

when you're blue

and down.

they like that, to see

the smile

gone from your face,

no shine

in your eyes.

they like

to visit,

and stay late,

somehow enjoying your

temporary,

but to them satisfying

dark

and gloomy place.

we need more ICE, said grandma

it was a pleasant

holiday dinner around the table.

everyone was there.

all the siblings

and cousins,

aunts and uncles.

children.

a few friends and neighbors.

it was going well,

hugs and kisses

were dispersed

all around.

grace was said before everyone

dug into the feast

before us, but then

grandma blurted

out, getting up from her chair,

that what we need is more ice,

then went into the kitchen.

all hell broke loose

as the discussion got heated.

the table was turned

over, food was thrown

across the room,

chairs were broken.

uncle bill got a hold

of the electric knife

setting it on low

against his brother's throat,

cutting off his red tie.

Aunt Lilly, who

made the Waldorf Salad

had cousin Betty,

with her blue hair, in a stranglehold,

and someone poured hot gravy

on Jimbo's head

who works for DOGE.

finally grandma

came back from the kitchen

with more ice

in her drink

and said loudly over

the furor,

holding up the tray,

anyone need more ice?

one last piece of pie

i stare

into the cold blue light

of the fridge

and see

the carcass of the turkey

staring back

at me.

the bones

of it all,

now flattened

into piles of dark and white

meat.

i wonder if i can squeeze one

more meal

out of it.

slap it all between

to slices

of wonder bread.

there's hardened hills of potatoes

too,

and stuffing.

the carrots look sketchy though,

as do the

Brussel sprouts.

the gravy

looks terminal.  a greyish

brown

gel, begging for the trash.

what about this last piece of

pumpkin

pie, still in the box.

i pinch my stomach, and nod

yes.

i'll have a go at that.

have you seen the charger?

have you

seen the charger to the phone,

i yell out,

leaning my head up the stairs.

no.

she says.

what about the charger for

the i pad,

or for

the electric blanket, or for

the red-light therapy

knee wrap,

or the face mask?

have you seen any of those?

nope.

she yells down.

look under the sink, maybe.

or in the dog's bed.

what about the charger

for the electric

drill,

and the weed whacker?

seen any of those.

i can't find

the battery pack either,

check the wire trough in the garage,

she says.

next to the box where we

put the batteries

and the

extension cords

and the instruction manuals.
look there, she says,

oh, and do you mind taking a trip

to the dump

today.

all of those old tv's, computers

and monitors,

phones and printers are

blocking the hallway.

standing in line for three hours for a massage chair and a vacuum cleaner

there's a long

line

of cars on the highway

trying to get off at the exit

where the shopping mall

lies.

it's Black Friday

once more and stores have

opened wide

their doors

at the crack of dawn.

it's when the best deals are found.

what once was a hundred dollars

yesterday,

is now

only 97 dollars.

but for this day only.

the stores are lined up side by side,

linked by

Auntie's Pretzels,

Orange

Julius

and Cinnabon,

turbaned entrepreneurs

man the kiosks 

which crowd the walkways

with jewels and watches

from faraway lands,

like Ohio.

and the big stores that anchor

the mall are stuffed with shiny goods,

not unlike

Santa's overflowing bag

as he flies across the winter

skies.

there are deals

to be made.

savings galore.

come one, come all. let's

give those credit

cards a workout.

but who doesn't have a tv yet?

a blender,

a phone,

a camera, or laptop,

or printer. who doesn't have things,

if not one,

at least two or more?

they see what i don't

strange

for someone to hold the door

for you,

am i that old?

do they see it in my face,

my walk,

the way

i bend in the wind

as i approach

the store,

is it

the limp,

they see,

my blue eyes now

watered

grey?

i don't feel old, at least

i didn't

until they reached

around me to open

the door,

helping me on my way.

writing my name in the sky

there's a small

plane

in the sky, i can see the white

wings

against the blue.

i can hear

the sputter

of the engine, the turning

of the blade.

it's writing in dark smoke

my name,

followed

by the word

surrender. Dear Lord,

it's her again.

Saturday cards

this deck

of cards, coffee stained,

smudged

with the food

of Saturday nights. shuffled

a thousand

times over,

dealt out over the round

table

into the late night.

then held

by the slender hands of men

with cigars

the smoke yellowed

by the dim

light.

each tossing into pot

bills

and coins,

white chips.

studying the odds with

old eyes,

young hearts.

cold beer comes down the stairs

by someone's

wife.

we're no different

what

dog in his right mind doesn't

want

to be free,

to leave the yard,

dash through

the open

gate,

jump

the fence and roam.

to at last

be off the chain.

no different is he

than me.

a few finger foods before dinner

i can't eat

all of that. impossible.

my eyes

are bigger than my stomach.

i loosen up

my sansa-belt stretch pants

and go for it.

i'm bursting

with nuts

of all kind.

cashews, walnuts, 

honey roasted nuts,

those big

nuts you have

to crack open

with that metal

cracker thing.

i'm almost full and it's an

hour before dinner

begins.

ten olives,

stuffed with crab meat

and three stalks

of celery filled with

cream cheese

has bloated me.

what's that over there,

oysters?

really, okay,

maybe just a few.

give until it hurts

it shouldn't bug

me,

but it does. which in turn

adds

to a long

list of things to feel guilty about,

but just the same,

it bothers me.

i don't mind giving,

tithing on occasion,

but to a point.

working hard

for my

money,

it often troubles me that every

church,

ministry, religion,

tv evangelist and free lance

religious

group

is always, and constantly asking

for money.

there's always a letter in the mail,

someone ringing

a bell on the corner,

or knocking at the door.

it's a 24/7 endeavor, twelve

months a year.

i get it. hopefully,

most of the money goes to the poor,

to the needy,

to food kitchens,

for clothing

and shelter,

hospitals, etc.

but after a while, when you

see these church people

on cruise ships, traveling to France

and Italy,

when you see the gold chandeliers

and chalices,

the priceless

artwork,

the shark skin suits,

and silk dresses,

the statues and buildings that the church

owns,

you get a little antsy about it all.

it smells like fish or meat

things,

both living and mechanical

eventually

die.

they give up,

break down.

i know that, i expect it, but

it still

surprises me

when i open

the refrigerator door

and the ice

has melted

in the ice trays,

the bags of food in the freezer

are soft

and almost warm.

mushy.

there's a bag of sweet peas,

and something pink

that resembles and smells like

fish or meat.

i try to remember when i bought

this refrigerator.

how many years

has it been?

was it between wife one and wife

two

that i had it delivered

from Best Buy?

i can't remember, but

here we go again.

Wilbur the turkey

i remember watching my

grandmother

chase

an enormous turkey around

her small yard

in Philadelphia.

she had a gleaming sharp

hatchet in her hand,

held over her head

as she ran

maniacally around,

shouting in Italian.

we had named the turkey,

Wilbur

and often

would pet it.

at some point

my mother would come

into the room

and put her hands over

my eyes,

leading me away from the window,

and say.

let's go down to the kitchen

and see how

that pie is doing in the oven.

day laborers

i used

to ask my day workers,

Francisco

and Alex,

if they'd like to become citizens

of the USA.

one was from Guatemala

and the other

from El Salvadore.

they were excellent workers,

honest

as the day is long.

they both had cars,

no insurance though,

or driver's license,

and carried in their back packs

all of their earthly

belongings.

so, i'd ask at the end of a long

day,

do you want to become

citizens.

make the pledge of allegiance

to the flag

and all that jazz.

they'd laugh and shake their

heads,

why, they'd say.

that would be a stupid thing

to do.

then we'd have to pay taxes,

register our cars,

get insurance, the government

would know who we are then,

where we live,

they'd know our names. no way.

the way it is now

everything is free

and we have enough money

to send home to our

families.

makes sense, i'd tell them.

see you next week, same time,

same place?

the emotional weather report around the country

after the weather report,

the regular weather, rain, clouds,

sun,

snow, that sort of thing,

they bring out

a psychologist to give the emotional

weather report

for the country,

Dr. Sheila Abramowitz.

fear and loathing are up

considerably today, she says,

using a pointer 

to show where on the map

she's talking about.

paranoia

is off the charts as well as

a down pour of more

TDS.

there is a high pressure

system building

up over most of California,

with delusional

tirades,

protests and parades.

most disturbing, she says, clearing

her voice,

anger and violence is up nearly

fifty per cent in

most liberal states and cities

run by

democratic mayors.

roadblocks, riots and fireworks

are expected

throughout the night

as well as a flurry of gunshots

in Chicago, Portland and LA.

Florida and Texas seem to be

pleasant though.

sunny and quite calm,

with a chance of fun all day.

making a little scratch for the holidays

thinking about making

some extra

money for the holidays, i go down

to the ICE

detention center

to apply for a job.

i just want ten hours a week

i tell the giant

soldier

dressed in army gear.

okay, he says, but first we have to

test you to see if you're

physically qualified.

we want you to stand here for

one hour and let this woman

from the suburbs

who just pulled up in a Range Rover,

scream in your face,

calling you Hitler and a pedophile,

spitting on you

and screaming shame shame shame

before she hits

you in the head with a can of 

pitted jumbo black olives,

then you have

to chase her down the block,

tackle her,

tie her hands behind her back,

and drag her back to the compound.

all within thirty seconds,

or less.
it's no different than what cowboys

do at a rodeo.

hmmm, i tell him.

i'm not sure about this.

what else you got?   i'm really good

with paperwork.

secret recipes

there's always

a sister,

or an aunt, or uncle, who has

a secret recipe

for something that they've brought

to the Thanksgiving

feast

across town.

what's in this cranberry sauce

i ask

Aunt Sylvia?

she smiles and whispers,

i can't tell you that, 

if i did, i'd have

to kill you.

tell us about the stuffing i ask

Max,

the neighbor

who comes in carrying a plastic

bowl

of stuffing.

he smiles, and shakes his head.

can't tell you that.

same goes

for Martha, my sister with her

mashed potatoes.

her lips are sealed, except when

she's gnawing on

a turkey leg the size

of her arm.

sail boats on his boxer shorts

when i told

my father about the marriage ending,

he laughed.

he was in the sun,

in his boxer shorts

with sailboats

on them,

outside his

apartment, watering

his plants.

don't worry about it, he said.

there's more

fish in the sea.

whatever you do don't stop

drinking.

you mean, start drinking?

i asked.

oh right, right, he said.

sometimes i get confused

when talking

about things like that.

a good mattress too

after

thinking about it for awhile,

as i pick out

which socks

to wear today,

i realize that it's the simple things

in life

that put a smile

on your face, make you

somewhat

happy.

love being one,

friends and family,

health,

and enough money to survive

until your dying days.

that's about it,

but strong coffee helps as well,

and books.

back into the crowd

i brush

a square type bug off my shoulder,

flick it

with a finger

off into the yard.

off it goes,

tumbling towards

its future.

i feel bad for it.

i too have felt the dismissal

of someone,

tossed into the high grass,

back into

the crowd.

when lying down becomes a problem

it takes

a few days to recover

from jet lag

when on vacation.

the drive,

the flight, the traffic,

the luggage,

the kids, the wife.

all in tow,

or them towing you

constantly on their phones.

the lines,

the crowds, the noise.

all of us squished

like sardines in a tube

for ten hours.

you want to lie

down

on the tarmac

and stare up at the sky,

reflect on

the grape covered hills

not far away.

just five minutes

alone.

but then security arrives.

it becomes

a problem.

memories of Blanche Dubois

your

slight of hand no longer

impresses me.

i've seen

enough of what you can

do

with distractions,

with the words,

that you say.

all lipstick and perfume,

dim lighting,

not unlike 

Blanche DuBois

before the strait jacket

went on.

open your mouth and

lies

fall out.

i don't believe you anymore,

you are not

who you

pretend to be.

please disappear.

let's close

that door.

holiday sedition

the politicians, after

drinking

one too many spiked egg nogs

decide

to make a video

telling soldiers

and sailors,

FBI and CIA agents to not

obey

the commands of their superiors

if they think

they might

be wrong.

suggesting that treason might

be the proper

way to doubt orders

sent down

from above,

comparing

it all to the Nuremberg Trials,

somehow.

of course, they're telling them

to do this from the comfort

of their homes,

while tucked warmly in bed

beside a fireplace,

letting others

lose their heads.

moving on

they

put a picture of the young

man

on

the wall at the paint store.

he died

from an overdose

of fentanyl

a few months ago.

his floppy

brown

hair hangs over one

blue eye.

he's smiling, and looks

like he's

about to write your order

down.

so young

to be gone.

the new clerk is older

and never

knew him.

she says, how can i help you?

pressing a pen

against a pad on the counter,

as we all

move on.

put your leaves into big plastic bags for pick up

the condo

board

sends out a warning, to not to rake

your leaves

into the woods

where they originated from.

the forest

of tall trees

that border the community.

under strict penalty

do not

put them back into the woods

the notice

reads.

anyone caught putting leaves

back into

the woods

will be severely fined and taken

out to the stocks

where they

will be publicly humiliated,

then dunked

into the pond

like how the witches were

done

back in Salem.

red light therapy for everything that ails you

i go wild

on Amazon

and order up a bunch of red-light therapy

wraps

and gizmos

to stick up

my nose, put around my knees

and elbow.

i'm drinking

the red-light therapy kool aid.

i call

up my doctor,

to ask him if it's a good thing to do.

he says,

who is this,

do i know you?

i give him my nine-digit insurance

card number.

oh yes,

he says. you again.

sure, red-light therapy. give it

a shot.

you've tried everything

else to breathe

again.

everything but voodoo.

why not.

let me know what happens.

gotta go.

visiting the in laws for the holiday

we're heading

to Altoona

for the holiday. 

the roads are wet with

salt

and melting snow.

Billy and Susie

are in the back seat of our

Rambler,

the dog,

Rex,

is there too. Marge and I

aren't talking at the moment.

she's smoking

a Parliament cigarette

and staring

out the window

at the cows and farms

that we drive by.

we do this every year,

visiting the in-laws,

and fight

over it. she's 

deadly silent while we drive.

but all will be well once

we arrive.

we put a smile on all our

troubles,

all our lies

and carry in an enormous

mince eat pie.

the damnation of the fitted sheet

i don't curse

much.

in fact,

never do i take the Lord's name

in vain.

but all the other

curse

words are fair game.

rarely

do i burst out with 

the F bomb,

but sometimes

when i'm trying

to fold a fitted sheet

to try

and stack it into the linen

closet

along with towels

and neatly

folded sheets

i start cussing like a drunken

sailor

on leave.

a transformative Thanksgiving

we had

to make new

placards for the kids

to signify

where

they would be seated for thanksgiving

dinner

this year.

fully grown, they are

no longer relegated

to the children's

card table

in the other room,

James

is now Jen

no longer sporting

that military crew cut

he wore

when playing football.

he's now blonde

with pigtails,

Betty is now Billy,

recently

healed from

her bosom reduction

surgery,

and 

Sally

is now fluid, non-binary,

using

thee and them.

she brought along her bearded

girlfriend

named

Stan.

but it's good to see them

all again.

it's been a long time

since we've seen them.

i pin a name tag on each so

that no one

is offended

when asking to pass the hummus.

at the end of Monday

at the end

of the day you lay out

everything

you've carried

for the last

ten hours.

you empty the pocket

of your coat,

gloves

and glasses.

you reach into

the pockets of

your pants

for loose change.

you set upon the dresser

the watch you wore,

the keys,

the money, the wallet.

you set your phone

on the counter,

toss into a bowl

the receipts from the food 

you ate,

then lie down.

some days are longer

than others.

congress is in session

go ahead

and slam the gavel,

make promises you

can't keep.

get elected

again and again and again.

filibuster.

say stupid things. go on tv

and act

like a fool.

say things you

don't mean.

point a finger,

accuse.

raise a raucous.

be mean,

be cruel.

what else do you know

how to do?

ever had

a job, ran a business?

yes you've written three books,

but have you ever

read one?

what do you really stand

for?

it's hard

to figure out these days.

it's a masquerade,

a ship of fools,

a clown

parade.

eat drink and be merry

so what will it be,

fire

or ice,

a combination of both,

another

great flood,

a war to end all wars

one last

time.

an asteroid

coming to pulverize

the earth

with one big bang.

how will we no longer exist.

it's hard

to tell these days,

it depends

upon which way you lean,

which 

mad scientist

or politician you choose

to believe in.

who knows,

who cares, there's nothing

to be done

about it.

eat drink and be merry.

let's have another slice of that

pumpkin pie,

my dear.

things i should know by now

again

i'm researching gravy.

cranberry sauce.

how long

does it take to cook a twenty

pound

turkey.

what temperature

should the thermometer read

when buried

in the belly of the beast?

i should know these things

by now.

there's a lot i should

by now.

i almost dial you up

i almost

call you up.

i almost

pull the trigger

and hit the button.

i still

have your number.

i still have

your picture

in my phone.

though blurred

and old.

and yet still,  i almost

dial you up.

but

thankfully

i come to my senses,

and don't.

nearly every leaf has fallen

as i rake

the leaves, i take my time.

what used to be

a chore

each fall.

is now a pleasurable thing to do.

i like

how the air

has cooled,

nearing winter,

as i gently pull the rake

across the yard.

almost every leaf

has surrendered,

and fallen.

we too, will get there

soon.

gypsy friends

when asked,

i say things like, i don't know

where they are,

or what they've been up to.

he's in the wind.

she's in the wind. no clue.

haven't hear a peep

out of either one

of them.

i have no idea where they live now,

or with whom,

i've lost track of how many times

they've moved.

their phone numbers have

all changed.

they purposely can't be found.

apparently

for reasons unknown,

i guess they're gone for good.

running on empty

we gambled

on the gas gauge, the red

arrow

lying

flat on

the letter E.

but it was before

the orange

light went on

warning us

that the car will die soon.

it was before seat belts,

and buzzers,

the car

telling you robotically

what's wrong.

we rolled the windows

down by hand.

it was

in the days of a radio,

am and fm,

with an

antennae

wobbling on the hood of the car.

we

gambled on the gas gauge.

living by

the seat of four pants.

eventually

pushing the Impala

it to an Esso Station

not far from home.

fine dining while grieving

the funeral

was well attended.

some cried, some stood by

stoically

and said pithy things like,

oh well,

it is what is, if you know

you know,

we all

will eventually die.

i suppose that

it was just his time.

and then

there was the after funeral

feast,

self-served,

back at the house,

where his

bike hung

on the wall.

his tennis racket and running

shoes

on the floor.

there was

a long table of shrimp

and lobster,

filet mignon,

water cress nuts

wrapped

in bacon

on silver trays.

no one was grieving so hard

that they

couldn't eat.

they said things like, remember when

he said this,

or did that?

there was music, but no one

got up to dance

wine,

desserts.

it was a fine Last Supper.

making many

having to loosen the buttons

on their pants.

the Atlantic Movie Theater

the local

theater down the block

had a long

heavy maroon

curtain that was pulled back

as the music started

and the show

began.

advertisements came first,

for treats,

and sodas, Junior Mints

and red licorice

under glass

at the popcorn stand

in the lobby.

quickly we hurried to 

our seat

with our ticket stub torn

in half

as the usher walked down

the aisle

with a flash light

advising us sternly where not

to put

our feet.

and then the previews

started for the coming

attractions,

starting next week, followed

by a few cartoons.

Bugs Bunny, Popeye, Wiley Coyote.

finally the first flick began.

a Western with John Wayne,

or a horror movie

with Bela Lugosi or Vincent Price.

two hours later,

when it was

over, we ran to the bathroom,

then back

to our seats after loading up

on more sodas

more sweets.

the next show would start

in five minutes.

it was a long afternoon,

the double feature,

and almost dark out

when we went home, rubbing

our eyes. tired,

with our upset stomachs,

but

so pleased.

we are the world

there's

no

need to go visit another country.

to eat

their food

and enjoy

their culture.

we have every

country in

the world right here.

why bother

to board a plane

or train,

to sail away to some foreign

land,

the world

has come here to live

and make their way,

leaving their

horrible

lands of birth

for the USA.

just look

out the window,

smell their cuisine

in the air,

observe the flags

they've raised,

get used to it,

they're here to stay.

bent over her garden

i understand

now

why my mother never wanted to go

anywhere

in her later years,

why she liked

to be on her knees

in the wet grass,

the dirt of her yard,

bent over

her flowers, her garden,

for hours

and hours.

i understand why now,

the serenity

in that.

a bread line near you, coming soon

surprisingly,

it's a nice

visit, the Commie Mayor

and the Pres.

they

seem to like each other

despite being

so different in so many ways.

different religions,

different politics,

different

ideas of how to run a city

how taxes

should be paid.

one wants

the people to be free,

to work hard

and save,

responsible for their own

well-being,

while the other one wants

everything to be

free.

for the government to be

their mommy.

this should be fun to watch.

let's wait and see.

the scream that doesn't go away

does she

remember

the time we slow danced

to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts

Club Band

in her parents

basement,

with the lights dimmed,

her friend

Alice

making out with Cricket

in the corner,

her blouse unbuttoned,

when the gum fell out of my

mouth and got

tangled impossibly

in her long

black hair.

does she remember that

night, i do.

in fact,

i can still hear the scream.

a real estate upgrade

i don't like

things

that leak

or squeak, or splinter,

or rattle,

anything loose

or broken,

that needs repair.

i prefer

good wiring,

lights that don't flicker,

an oven

that warms,

plaster

that doesn't crumble

upon the floor.

no mold or mildew

please.

no broken windows,

or gurgling pipes.

what i'm

saying is, is that

i can't be with you

anymore.

don't tell your sister

the letter

in the mail looks real.

but there's no return address on

the envelope.

dear sir,

it says.

i am a wills

and estate

attorney in Nova Scotia.

someone with your last

name

has died and left twelve million

dollars

to you or any relative

that shows

up by the end of the week.

please call,

soon.

we can split the proceeds

two ways,

if you don't tell anyone,

especially that one

sister of yours.

her blueberry pie

she tries

to win me over by telling me about

the blueberry

pie

she just baked and took

out of the oven.

it's a crumble crust,

she says.

it's warm,

like me.

sweet and juicy. 

made with fresh blueberries

from a country field,

so blue. so easily

to slice

through. you might want

more

once the first piece

is through.

i'll put it on the shelf

and let it cool.

i'll set out a plate, a fork

and knife.

a tall glass of milk.

come soon.

discussing new wedding vows

of course

i will.

yes. i promise. no worries.

you can

count on me.

i'll always be there.

i'll show up.  i'll be on time.

no need to fret.

just

shake off that nagging doubt.

you can count on me.

i'll take my feet off the coffee

table,

pick up my clothes,

shut the lid

to the toilet.

i'll take the trash out,

walk the dog.

i'll take the tracker off your

car,

off your phone

and won't ask where you've been

and with whom.

i won't complain about always

being alone.

i've got this.

i'm true blue,

i'm everything you

ever wanted

or needed. i'm a puppy dog,

on my hind feet

begging for a bone.

you'll see.

i've got your back,

i'll lift you up.

tell you that you don't look

fat

no matter how big your shadow

gets.

i'm here for you,

in sickness and in health.

whether mental

or physical.

i'll understand you

and validate you're feelings.

daily if need be.

i won't ignore your family anymore

or you

when you tell me a long

boring story about your cat.

just wait and see,

forever and ever

just you and me.

umm, can you hold on.

i have another

call coming in.

the Barista Barricade on Main Street

the road is blocked

by a mob

of Starbuck baristas who are on strike

until

they get higher

wages and

free room and board,

a scholarship

to the college of their choice,

a new car, a free facial

massage,

free tattoos and piercings,

and memberships

to a local spa.

they are lying down

like stale scones

or soured lemon bars,

in the middle of the road,

all in a row, keeping the traffic

from moving on.

sometimes they break

out into a chant

which reminds me of the old

civil rights marches,

or the protests to end

the Vietnam war.

but i don't see Bob Dylan,

or Joan Baez anywhere.

Martin Luther King, absent,

Pete Seeger,

unaccounted for.

i guess they don't realize

that people can

actually make their own

coffee at home.

just grind and pour.

which holiday party invite to accept?

i take

a walk down to the mailbox

to gather

up

all of my holiday party invitations.

but once

again,

the box is empty except

for a coupon

on butterball turkeys

at the local Kroger's.

but not to worry, there's still

time.

i have my red sweater

laid out on the bed in the guest room

with a pair

of brown corduroy pants.

i've practiced a few stories

and jokes

to tell when mingling

in the crowd of party goers.

i stand at the mirror

and mumble

some small talk

while sipping on a tumbler

of egg nogg spiked

with Jack Daniels,

i'm preparing my body for what's

to come next.

saying things like,

Merry Christmas,

Happy New Year, it's a pleasure

to meet you.

how about this weather we're having?

i'm ready.

dammit.

any day now, 

the invites will arrive.

they dial up a new accent as needed

i enjoy

how our politicians can change

their way

of talking

just like that,

depending on what part of

the country they're in.

they can so easily

change their accent

to whatever

dialect they need.

listen as they

do the deep south

with a buttermilk flavor,

or new

Orleans with a hint of spicy

gumbo rolling

off their tongues.

Arkansas, giddy up,

or inner city.

how about some ribs and greens.

south of the border,

no problem.

my enchilada friends,

they can even do wall street

or Ivy League,

mayo on white bread,

American cheese.

in a moments notice

they lean into

Somalian,

when they visit

Minnesota, or deliver a tinge

of Arabic when

they go to Dearborn Michigan,

biting on a kabob,

as the prayer

chants begin.

ohhh, so you're not that Lizzie Borden

it's guilt

by association

with congress.

and the dim witted bulbs that rule

our country.

God forbid you too

have the name

Jeffrey Epstein.

you are tainted by the creep

despite no

connection.

take for instance

my friend Charlie Manson

who often

asks me out

for a drink or to dinner,

to catch up

on sports and life. but it's

not that

Charlie Manson, it's a different

person of no

relation

to the maniacal killer.

i've been trying to talk him

into changing his name

for years.

but no dice.

so why go out?

some

days you go nowhere.

you don't

leave the house.

there's no reason to leave

the confines

of your home.

and why should you?

you have

food.

a pot of fresh brewed

coffee.

you have books to read,

a tv

to watch.

it's warm and comfy

near the fire,

besides,

it's cold out and you are

beginning

to dislike people

more and more,

especially people you don't

know.

so why go out?

how's the weather?

the man

on the phone wanting

all of my

personal information to sign me up

for an

advantage plan

through Medicare,

puts me on hold

before

the real agent

comes on the lline.

it's a busy

day at the Pakistani call center.

he asks me how the weather is.

i tell him

to hold on, let me go

look out the window.

i look out.

then return to the phone.

i tell him

it looks cold.

windy too.

i inform him that it may rain

soon.

what? he says, then

hangs up

without even saying

thank you.

without you i'm lost

i'm

asleep

at the wheel of life,

broken hearted

and alone.

i wait

for the bus to stop.

i wait

for someone

to pull

the wire above

the doors

and windows,

for the wheels of the train

to halt.

i need someone to

tell me what to do with

my life.

i need a conductor,

a driver,

a map.

without you i'm lost.

things to do with your free time

you should do something

with

your free time, my friend Betty tells me,

as she puts

out a cigarette

under her flip flop

and lights another

one with a long wooden match.

we're sitting out back in her

plastic chairs

near her trash cans

and whirring

air conditioner unit.

what do you mean, i ask her.

pushing the smoke away

from my face.

do some volunteer work,

she says.

pick up trash along the highway,

or go down to the shelter and ladle

soup or something.

or maybe see if the hospital

needs help with

sick people.

huh?

doing what with sick people?

i don't know,

read to them, or something.

rub their feet.

tell them stories about all the internet

dates you've been

on.

you have some great funny stories

about all the wacky

women you used to meet

and buy dinner and drinks for.

you could be like

a modern day

Mark Twain, or something.

she blows a few smoke rings in

my direction.

i shake my head.

you know those cigarettes are going

to eventually kill you?

you know that, right?

yeah,

probably, she says.

more than likely.

get you another beer?

meeting the neighbors for the first time

i see

the neighbor

with a broom, she's sweeping

away

leaves,

before

the open house begins.

there's a for

sale

sign in her yard.

the freshly painted door

will be open soon.

they've

lived next door for ten years.

i don't know

their names,

they don't know mine.

sometimes i might

here a dog

bark or a baby cry.

she says hello as she sweeps

the leaves

away from her porch,

preparing

for visitors to arrive.

it's getting cold

out, she says.

yup, i say back.

i guess winter has arrived.

his secret ingredient

when

my father cooked, he always

had to pour

a bottle

of beer

into whatever it was he was

cooking up

for dinner.

he loved to cook.

stews,

soups,

ribs on the grill.

a roaster chicken.

with a twinkle in his eye,

he'd pop

the cap off a Miller High Life,

take a swig and tell us

not tell

our mother, then pour

the rest

into the pot,

or pan.

smothering the bird

or beast

with beer.

can i interest you in a few cords of wood, ma'am?

some

good ole boys from Culpepper

pull

up in their old

chevy beat up

pick up

truck with cords of wood

stacked high.

they go

knocking on

doors,

trying to sell the wood

they drove

so far for.

but no one has a fireplace

that lives

here.

and yet, it doesn't stop

them

from continuing

to run from door

to door,

while pulling on their beards,

ringing bells and

knocking

on more doors.

they need new management,

it seems.

the new telescope

i invest

in a nice telescope

that i find

on Amazon, trying

to expand my

interests, my intellectual

horizons, so to speak.

i want to

check out the stars,

the planets,

the moon,

Jupiter and Mars.

i want to see what's out there

in this vast

universe,

what's happening

in the skies

when

the lights are out.

but then i notice in the high

rise building

across the street,

this woman doing yoga

in her apartment.

she does an amazing

routine,

sometimes standing on her

head for minutes

at a time,

wearing

what looks like something

from Lu Lu Lemon,

sometimes lavender,

sometimes in pink.

very celestial,

heavenly

in a manner of speaking.

oops, we've done messed up again

oops,

the dems say. maybe we shouldn't

have pulled

back

the curtain

so far

on this scandalous man.

it seems

many on our side

have been

in bed with him

for decades,

flying

on his plane,

taking his money,

accepting

millions of

contribution for re-election

campaigns,

calling

and texting, having dinner

with the convicted

pedophile

in his house and on

his Lolita Island.

oops.

our bad.

let's not talk about it

anymore.

it's all ancient

history,

let's move forward, okay?

soy soldiers in Portland and Chicago and Charlotte and....to a city coming soon near you

the protestors,

clueless

in their

costumes of black clothing,

helmets

and masks.

leather boots,

chanting their

nursery rhyme

socialist chants

through

megaphones

and cupped

hands.

they look like soy soldiers

or army

ants,

still jobless

and living with their parents

in a moldy

basement.

full of vim and vigor,

but

so easily swept aside

by a single

grown

man.

the trips are getting shorter

i've

never enjoyed traveling

too far.

but i'm worse now.

it's the luggage

that bothers

me,

the cramped seats,

the flashing

seat belt sign

when turbulence

arrives.

i can

barely make

the three-hour drive

to the eastern

shore, to 

Ocean City, to the boardwalk

and Thrashers

French Fries.

the plane

trip to France, or England

is hard.

Australia

is out of the question.

i could never

be an astronaut

on my way

to the moon

or mars. just

strap me in, send me up

then down.

that would be

enough, unless there's

an open

bar.

death or ice-cream

the boat,

a rowboat made of wooden

planks

borrowed

from

the sandy beach

next door,

all five of us got in.

our feet

wet in the leaking

water.

no life

jackets,

no idea how to swim,

as he rowed

us across the bay

for ice cream.

there's a picture on my

dresser

of that day.

the day we could have all

drowned.

his blue eyes

in the sunlight,

the curls of his blonde

hair,

his wide

mischievous grin

while 

his muscled arms

rowed us to another

shore.

the mute button

the newsman

asks

the victim, so why don't you

tell

us who was there?

give us

the list.

not everyone was

young and dumb.

you were 25 years old when

it happened.

and you went there

thirty-two times.

why can't you just tell us

who

was on the plane,

who was getting massaged,

who

was just like him,

sick?

it's been ten years now.

he's dead.

so why don't you tell us who?

why keep

it a secret, keep it all in your head?

these people need to go

to prison,

now.

she shrugs

and sighs,

umm. i don't know.

good question.

next.

can i get just one, just one, i'm sorry?

you hate

to think this way, but over time,

after following

the news, watching all the channels

listening

to each side,

you begin to believe that all

of them

are despicable people,

liars

and losers,

committing crimes.

no shame.

no admission of guilt,

or remorse

for what they do.

just actors on a stage reciting

the same old lines.

why do you really love me?

feeling

blue, i take a walk up to the lake

with a bag

of bread.

i lean over the rail

and throw out large pieces

to the ducks

and geese

floating by.

i'm generous

with the bread.

in short time the bag is empty.

so they fly

away.

all but one.

she follows me home.

waddling

behind me.

she senses my despair

and doesn't want me to be alone.

a sentimental

tear comes to my eye,

but maybe, i think,

she believes that

i have more bread

at home.

the left shoe dancing

sometimes

my left

foot feels the beat

and wants

to dance,

it clicks and bends,

taps

to the sound

of the music,

while the other one doesn't

move an inch.

it just stays still

at the bottom

of my pants. quiet

in my shoe.

they are so

different despite

being

being born of the same

parent.

siblings are like that too.

dating women with long hair

i leave

a note on the bathroom mirror.

please

block the hole

to the drain

before you brush your hair

and don't

flush any personal

products

down the toilet.

i leave

the plunger out

and the clog cleaner,

but they do it anyway.

the next day

i see the pool of water

in the sink,

there's water

on the floor

and strands

of hair,

both straight and curly,

blonde, brunette, red

and grey are everywhere.

tomorrow

i'm removing the mirror.

a pink holiday sweater for men

there's

a pink sweater on sale.

it's in the news.

one hundred and sixty-two dollars.

it's for men.

it has a nice

flower

like arrangement around

the collar.

it's a very pretty sweater

made with a blend

of polyester and cotton

fiber.

a handsome manly

man

is posing

with it on, though

there's a hint of mint in his eyes.

the pink is the color

of Pepto

Bismol,

or double bubble gum

chewed.

i tell her

politely,

please don't buy me one.

finding the good ear

i forget which ear

is the bad

ear sometimes and lean

in to hear

a conversation across the table,

trying to read lips,

straining to

catch a word

or two

to figure out what's being

said.

i become adept at nodding

in agreement.

i smile

and shake

my head

according to the facial

expressions

i observe.

i make sounds like hmm,

or mutter yes.

but i'm never sure if it's my

right ear

or my left ear

that allows sound in,

sign language may be next.

finding a good pair of shoes to walk in

there are stages

in your

life

that you are motivated

by

ambition,

or money,

sex,

something new. you get

up and

have that youthful spring

in your step

as you go

out to conquer

the unknown world

around you.

sometimes you get what

you're looking

for,

sometimes you

don't and just settle for

the lowest

of low hanging fruit.

but it's fine.

life becomes calmer

if you let it.

and then

an older age settles in

and you

think about, good food,

good conversation,

real love,

not hit and run,

long winter naps,

books, and

easy to walk in shoes.

the Diaper pick up man

before

there were disposable

diapers

there was

a truck that used to come

around

and pick up

the dirty ones,

then return them clean

at the end

of the week.

i remember my mother

setting out

a dozen

or so

on the front porch

in a bag.

fifteen pounds

of diapers.

the man would arrive

in a nice

uniform,

with a name tag.

he'd tip his hat

and move

on to the next house as

we looked

out the window.

promising each other to

kill ourselves

if we ever

had to do that.

shaving the number two pencil

i haven't

sharpened a pencil in years,

although i have handful

in the drawer

still in the box

waiting.

unsharpened.

waiting.

maybe it's been 40 years

since i last took the flat

head

of a number

two

yellow pencil, the color

of a school bus

and stuck it

into the sharpener,

selecting

the right hole.

was there a number one, or three,

or four

pencil? we didn't care

or ask.

we turned

the handle around and around,

then took

it out for

observation,

letting the shavings fall

into the trash below

where it

hung on a cabinet.

we seemed to be

always sharpening

pencils,

the others used down 

to a nub,

two inches long, not counting

the bald head of

the red eraser.

96 tears

i'm

sick of the Epstein

files.

tired of the constant

attention

to it

by the salacious news.

he's dead.

gone.

turn everything

over,

let it all out, who cares

anymore.

line up the women

and let

them tell all, tell every

name

of every

someone

or no one who was involved.

give them

their day

in court, their money

if that's what

they want.

give them all the help

they need to

get over this

so that we can get over

it too.

momma mia.

dreaming about an oversized baby

i dream

about a baby on my lap,

three

days

old, laughing, and talking,

with long

hair.

she's a bundle

of joy.

there's only happiness

in her new eyes.

i don't know what this dream

means,

so i ask 

ChatGPT.

she tells me that it's a positive

thing,

indicating

a feeling of love

and hope,

new beginnings.

or maybe you were drinking

too much last night.

can you hear me?

i get

a few calls a day,

eighty or so yesterday,

by someone

in India

or Pakistan, or Jamaica

wanting to

buy my house,

or award

me with two point five

million dollars

and

a C class Mercedes Benz.

it sounds

like the same call center

that i

get my Medicare

information

from,

as well as my funeral

expense 

whole life

insurance,

and Medical Alert Bracelet.

as well

as car insurance,

and legal assistance for

what Round Up has

done to my nervous system.

thankfully i'm known

on the dark

web

data base

as Emily Wilson

on Oak Street.

who is alive and well,

though

only in my scratchy voice

and head.

preparations for winter

my preparation

for winter

involves

turning

off the water to the outside

spigot

and

putting on a sweater

after finding

a pair

of leather gloves

on the top

shelf of the coat closet.

i'm ready,

again.

you need to get out of the house more

my therapist

tells me

i should join something.

a club,

a book club,

a coffee

clutch,

a meet up group to hike

with,

a film

club,

a club that likes to travel.

join

meet up,

she says, get out of the house,

make some new

friends.

you're not

over the hill,

you're on top of the hill.

i show

her a bump on my arm

and ask her

what she thinks

that is.

pleasing the dog

i kick

my boot off, coming

in out

of the snow

and ice,

which sends

the steel toe

flying across the room,

through

a window.

the wind

and cold

come in, blowing

everything

at once.

this seems to please

the dog

who runs to the hole

to bark out.

you're not part of it

this

ragged line of grey

trees,

bared,

this beaten path

around

the black pool

full

of old rain

the bleached bones

along

the way,

so much has fallen,

so much goes on without

you being

a part of it.

both death

and birth

occurring 

while you stay busy

with your dreams.

avoiding the black cat

i'm

not superstitious by nature,

but i do

avoid

the black cat,

or

the ladder, walking around it,

i'm careful

around mirrors too, not

to mention

stepping over

a crack.

i love my mother

and would

never do her harm,

i'd never throw a hat onto

a bed either,

but

yes, occasionally i'll

knock on

wood,

or rub a rabbit's tail,

toss a coin

into a wishing well,

or cast a wish

upon a star,

but i wouldn't say i'm

superstitious.

not at all.

time for new recruits

i wake

up with the feeling that i should

apologize

to someone

about something.

something done,

or said.

i can feel it in the air,

that

someone is upset with me.

someone has dismissed me

as a friend.

i go to the list

on Facebook. oh my.

several

are missing.

i need to recruit some

new ones

i guess.

Island Hopping

did any

of the parents ever ask, 

so where are you

going

this weekend

with that three day 

luggage,

wearing your yoga

pants

with your hair all done

and your lipstick on?

you're taking

a trip to an island

with a middle-aged man

and 

some lawyers, a Prince,

some congressmen

and an ex-president?

when will you be home?

and we were

wondering how

you can afford that new car

and mink stole.

is there something you aren't

telling us?

are all of your friends

also going along?

don't forget to bring your

homework

with you,

you have an economics

test on Monday.

so where is this island

anyway?

can we reach you by phone?

the laminated photo

i lose

my wallet on the train.

it has

no money in it.

just a Kohl's card,

two ticket stubs

to Star Wars,

a library

card

and a laminated picture

of my

dog

being held by an old

girlfriend

in a negligee.

her number

is on the back.

when i get home,

she calls

to yell at me, and tells

me

to stop giving my

number

out. her phone is ringing

off the hook.

May December relationships

she's a morning person,

while

i get going

around noon,

or one.

she's already walked,

and swam

done Pilates

and played a round of golf

before i even

get my loafers

and compression socks on.

that's the trouble with 

May

December relationships,

despite

the obvious fun.

her long door mirror

as i stand

staring at my body in the long

mirror

she left

me,

attached to the door

with four

short screws,

i give my waist a pinch.

not good.

i make a vow,

no cake

for a week.

i'm always making promises

i can't keep.

in time the moon appears

so much

of life is waiting for you.

waiting

for

you to pick out the dress you

might wear,

which

shoes

to step into,

which lipstick to apply

as you

brush your hair.

i sit in the big chair

down below

and listen

to your footsteps

as you walk

from room to

room.

opening drawers,

closing

doors.

i find a window

to look out and stare

while

jingling my keys.

in time

the moon appears.

the angry mail person

i see the mail person

lugging

her enormous leather mail bag

up the sidewalk.

she's sweating

under her

government issued

pith helmet

and uniform of a blue shirt

and grey shorts,

both soaked

with perspiration.

she seems more

angry

than ever,

as mail drops behind her,

littering

the ground, which

she doesn't stop to pick up.

i open the door as she 

approaches

and give her a howdy,

nice day,

isn't it?

she sticks her hand

out

with my bills.

a half dozen or so

with store 

circulars, coupons

and what not.

after a grunt,

she gives me the side eye,

and tells me with a loud

voice,

you know there's this thing

called online banking now.

you know that, right?

his first transaction using change

not

used to being

paid

in cash,

the young clerk stares

long

at the twenty dollar

bill,

turning it over

and over,

then opens the register

with a ding.

where to begin?

he wonders,

looking at the drawer

of pennies

and nickels,

quarters. he's confused,

having never

made

a transaction

needing change. but

i see the trouble he's in,

his head

in a tizzy,

and feel the need to save him.

i take the bill back

and hand him

a card named Visa.

art therapy

so much

of art

is relieving pain.

aspirin

for the soul, an ointment

for what

lies

within.

we try to smooth

out

the ruffles

of wrongs.

we try to start over

and over

again,

with a splash of paint

with the angry

brush,

browns

and reds,

the abstract slashes

of black,

going around and around,

searching

for a soft landing,

a finished canvas,

some

restful end.

lying in the beds we've made

it's a blue

house, dark, almost plum

in color

set in the woods

down

the curve

of a driveway.

the gloom of old trees,

old wood,

stones,

rotted

things from when the children

were young.

the memories

sore

sore with betrayal.

the swing

rusted on a chain.

the garden

now

weeds.

so much of what remains here speaks

of better

times, better days.

you can retreat

and go

home again, but it's not

the same.

not the same.

the beds we've made, we

now lie in.

clever boy

i can't help

but laugh when i think about my

best friend

from the 4th grade

into college.

how he never did his homework,

copying

off my quizzes

and tests.

cheating

with the inked answers

on his arms.

rarely taking a book home,

perpetually absent

from class. flirtatious

with

a charming

smile, loved

by everyone.

he's a doctor now,

while i'm on a rooftop

painting

shutters and windows.

clever boy.

clever boy.

there is no cure

would

public hanging help,

or maybe

the guillotine

in Times Square.

the electric chair

set up

on the fifty-yard line

at the Super Bowl,

or

the firing squad

against the remnants

of the Berlin Wall,

would killing very

very bad

people make

it all stop

and go away?

make the world behave?

nah.

you can't cure crazy.

sadly,

it's here to stay.

the meaning of life

feeling whimsical

and curious

i ask ChatGTP

what the meaning of life is.

she takes

her time

then finally says something like

how about

this weather we're having

in your area?

i smile.

good answer, i write back,

it's fine.

green in passing

i take a

green glass from her house.

a wine glass.

Lynnie's.

she won't miss

it.

and when

i visit my

father's empty apartment

after

death calls,

i take a green

ashtray

home with me.

i wash out

the ashes and

set it on the kitchen

sill

along with the green

glass

dish

which once held my

mother's rings.

wiping the slates clean

it comes

to you early in the morning

after

a solid

sleep.

it occurs to you how little

you care

about

the things that used

to bother you and keep

you up at night.

words

said,

people

and their slights.

bothersome

sorts

you never

really liked.

it puts a smile on your face

with all

the worry

and concern

almost completely gone.

how easy

life is

when at last you get it

right.

eggs over easy hashbrowns and bacon

do you

have to tip even if the food

was bad,

the service

horrible, and the roof was

leaking

rusty water?

yes, you ate the bacon

and eggs,

the hashbrowns.

you

drank the coffee and

had

extra toast, but what about

the tip? nothing?

ten percent,

fifteen percent?

your Catholic guilt defines

you though.

so you leave

twenty

like always.

can't we argue later, dear?

can't we

argue later, i ask her,

while

brushing my teeth,

staring into the mirror,

wondering

where that new line came from

on my forehead.

no,

she says, standing in the door

way

in her pink terry cloth

robe,

the belt tightened

around her waist.

no, she says again,

flipping the light switch on

and off

to get my attention.

i want to fight now, not later.

if we wait

until later

i won't even remember

what i'm mad

about.

so let's go at it now.

i think we're out of floss,

i tell her.

do you have any in your

purse?

Red Cup Day

oh no,

she tells me,

waking up in a panic, staring

at important

updates on her phone.

today is

red cup day at Starbucks and all

the baristas

are going on

strike.

get up, get up, come on,

we have to go down

there now

to support them.

she throws the pillow off my head

and shakes me

with two hands.

red cup day?

yes, it's the most important day of the year

for Starbucks.

when you order your

seven dollar

cup of coffee they give it to you

in a red cup.

and believe it or not,

it's reusable.

yikes.

oh no, this is bad. let me hop

in the shower

and get dressed.

did you say the baristas are going on

strike too?

yes. they are underpaid

and treated horribly

by the corporate oligarchy.

some of these baristas have college

degrees

from Columbia and Harvard

and are only making

twenty dollars an hour

with health benefits, maternity

leave, 

free coffee and merch

as long as they work there.

and six mental health sessions

each year

at no cost.

it's a hard demanding job.

they are like scientists working

in a lab behind

that counter.

do you know the training they have

to go through

to make a triple shot, soy, no foam,

vanilla latte dusted

with nutmeg?

they force them all to wear

those ugly green aprons too.

wow. 

that's terrible, just terrible.

dang, and now they're going on strike

on red cup day?

the horror, the horror.

funny how red is the commie color,

isn't it?

oh stop.

get up, come on

and quit goofing around we have

to get down

there now.

the new mayor is going to make a speech

about the strike,

he's behind it all the way.

okay, okay, i'm up. i'm up.

which one should we go to, the one

on 5th Avenue,

or the one at Columbus Circle,

or the one on the corner

of Broadway

and tenth, or maybe the one next

to Target,

or the one

inside of Target?

or should we take the free bus and

go across town

to the ones

near the Brooklyn Bridge?

finding fun couple things to do

she suggests

that we

do something different this weekend.

perhaps

take a flight in a hot air

balloon over

Orange County,

or jump out of a plane from

ten thousand

feet.

we should have some fun

with our life,

wrestle sharks,

box kangaroos.

put our heads into the mouths

of alligators

and crocodiles.

maybe

go pick berries in Winchester,

or ride

a horse in Middleburg.

there's the polar bear plunge

coming up

soon, at Sandy Point in Maryland,

come on, we should

go,

put on our suits and join in.

i lower my book,

stretched out

in the warm bed, with a strong

cup of coffee in hand

and ask,

and just who exactly are you?

thanks giving

there was

shame,

but gratitude in the church

basket

of food

left on our porch in the freezing

cold,

we worried

if neighbors saw it,

kids

heading off to school.

did they know

how poor we were,

the holes

in our shoes stuffed

with cardboard,

did anyone have a clue

that the social worker

was coming

to see

which kids would be removed

and taken

to a better

place to live.

a place with beds

not shared,

a place with food

and first worn clothes?

did we panic when the lights

went off,

when the heat died

for lack of payment,

did the church laugh at our

coin filled

envelopes,

perhaps.

and yet somehow, we overcame

it all

and grew.

tight wire walkers

we were skilled

children,

athletic, bone thin,

tight wire

walkers along

the sills

of rooms, kitchen counters,

skilled

with butter knives

cleaning the remnants

of jelly and peanut

butter jars,

we knew

were the cookies were

hidden,

the candy,

drinking from the gallon

jug the last

spills of milk

or juice.

we knew not to bite

into the brown

soft spot of an apple.

we knew how to survive,

eyeing the plate

of seven pork

chops on a plate, waiting

for grace to end,

to snatch the largest piece.

if we can only get to the bottom of that

so what's the most important

thing

on your mind

the poll asks

the college students

and other

bright minds. though

dimly lit.

is it jobs,

inflation, the rising cost

of everything.

is it wars,

climate change, the rising

ocean,

death from drugs,

the homeless,

or maybe it's

immigration, or crime

run amok,

or maybe the lack of

housing and lower

health care costs?

no they say, none of that.

it's the Epstein

files, if only we can get to

the bottom

of that.

go to Florida instead

some cities,

such as the windy city,

like their crime, their robberies

and murders,

their assaults,

vandalism

and 

carjacking stats.

we've got this, they say.

stay away.

we don't need the help

of the government to make

things safe.

we'd like our city

to stay as it's always been,

an urban jungle,

with gun carrying

criminals.

fear is fun.

it gets your heart

going.

we know which streets

to walk on,

which blocks

not to tread.

if you don't like it,

don't come, go to Florida

instead.

someone to blame it on

there's some

sort of goo stuck between

the return

bar

and back space button

which is driving

me crazy.

a short drive, no doubt.

but with each

tap

of the affected keys,

i have to strike

it again

and again until it works

giving me

the proper word.

i wish there

was someone here to blame

it on,

a dog or cat,

spilled milk.

but it's me again. i'm to blame

for nearly everything

these days.

how the story ends

you can't

help yourself, typing in the name,

peering over the fence

in a safe

and secure cyber way.

you just want

to know

what you don't know, for no

reason other than

your insatiable urge

to turn

the next page.

you want to see how their

story turns

out before

you shelve that book

and put it away.

you want to know when

their ship

sinks,

when the wheels come off,

you want to know

how that disaster

ends,

like in the Perils of Pauline,

not hoping, but imagining

that it ends

in flames.

cooking together

unseasoned

and bland,

saltless,

no pepper, no spices

of any kind,

make

the meal dull, boring,

forgettable.

before the night

is over

already, it's left your

mind.

let's cook

together

and make it last

next time.

The Epstein Island Witch Trials

it's not unlike

the UFO files, the JFK files,

the Bermuda

Triangle Files,

the Salem Witch Trials,

all of the files that have

been opened

and closed

over and over again, and what

do you get?

nothing.

nothing but hearsay,

vague e-mails and texts,

a list of names

of who's who.

gossip and chit chat.

a gobbledygook of lies and truth.

roll out

the flight logs

of politicians, lawyers,

celebrities

on both sides of the aisle.

loddie dottie and everybody

is on the list.

can we get a witness?

Presidents, ex-presidents,

congressmen

senators,

money bags

and old hags.

CEO's and regular

joes.

high school girls with

ponytails

and pig tails in cheerleading

outfits.

Princes are in pictures,

royalty,

losers and winners.

anyone who ever was five feet

away from

the pedophile creep

is on the list.

just line them all up and get it

over with.

put them before

congress,

hand on the Bible. 

use a lie detector and go

at them

until they break,

or don't break.

water board them,

put them on the stretcher,

shoot them up with

sodium pentothal.

get it over with, it's ridiculous.

the dude has been dead

for six years now.

give the victims their due

and at last,

for all of us,

peace and rest.

Divorce or Exorcism, tough choice

i was amazed

at how

strong she was breaking the ropes

that were around

her boney wrists and ankles,

tying her to the bed posts while

Father Smith

threw Holy Water

on her writhing body,

trying to cast out the demons

that had taken over her soul.

she snapped those ropes like

Conan the Barbarian,

and then levitated

while she laughed in Latin,

she started singing

a song from grade school,

Mary had a Little Lamb,

in French then

tossed out her mother's split pea

soup with ham

onto the walls,

making me send an emergency

911 text

to my housekeeper, Milagro.

Father Smith looked at me

and whispered, be strong

my son, have faith, 

but my advice is to not get married

again, ever.

okay? promise?

promise, i told him,

cross my heart.

save that he said,

it's going to be a long night,

put some coffee on

and grab the big net

and chains.

i believe she keeps a pitchfork

in the hall.

i get insomnia and indigestion when with a woman

as i look

back on my so-called life,

i make a list

of 

things like insomnia

and indigestion,

anxiety

and panic attacks, fits

of jealousy

and crazy thoughts.

moments of

cursing

uncontrollably

with my blood running hot.

all in the pursuit of a woman,

or love.

or something

that resembles love.

i'm Woody Allen twitching

and kvetching,

otherwise,

in between relationships

i'm perfectly fine.

happy as a lark.

a road less traveled

big

as a thumb, brown

and

wide,

antennas sticking

out

from all sides

it catches

my eye on the white wall.

waddling as they

do with

little plan ahead of them.

what is that?

another floater

on my retina, or an insect

that's found

his way in

from the cold outside.

which magazine do i use

to kill him with,

a messy job,

or

which book to toss,

smashing him to bits,

Syvia's Collected Poetry,

or Robert Frost's?

the cold shoulder of Canada

they say,

they being the pundits,

the collectors

of numbers,

the farmers of polls that one

in three

residents of this northwest

city

are mentally ill,

struggling with a variety

of emotional issues.

Portland.

half abandoned

empty

with the poor and homeless.

divorced

from a real world.

i get it though.

the dark green, the endless

rain.

chasms of blue.

the wind off the sea.

the cold shoulder of Canada

leaning in.

who wouldn't be?

the runaway bagel

before

the first bite, the onion

bagel toasted

with a schmeer of cream

cheese

drops

out of my hand and begins to roll

down the sidewalk,

i rush to it,

but the wind keeps it rolling

along,

it hops a curb,

then into the street it goes.

i give chase,

but i'm far behind.

it's heading for

the Lincoln Tunnel

into Jersey.

i feel like there's something

that it knows.

that maybe it's time.

four skips across the pond

it's been

awhile since going down this path.

it's where

i go when

things are bleak.

dark,

with no light at the end

of my

personal

tunnel.

it's been ages, a decade

almost

since

i walked through the briars

the weeds,

picking up stones

that caught my eye,

then

skimming them across

the green

pool, cupped in the woods.

four skips

are golden

now.

life is easier when you

can smile.

money for nothing, chicks for free

the senators

and congressmen are so pleased

with themselves.

patting

each other on the back

after the bill

is signed.

they shake hands

and smile,

giving each other the thumbs up.

we've done it again,

we've saved

the world,

they say,

sitting back

in their leather chairs

drinking a celebratory

scotch, opening

a new bottle of wine.

what a job we have. nothing

like it in the world.

money for

nothing, chicks for free.

counting calories

we didn't

count our calories back then,

we were just

kids,

so what the hell.

we ate

whatever it was we wanted

and then

ran it off

in the street.

we didn't count our steps,

do crunches

and squats,

time ourselves when we ran

around the block.

we grabbed

a bat and ball and came

home for

dinner

when it got dark.

we ate spaghetti and meatballs

then went

to bed.

so what are you thankful for this year?

i make

the unfortunate mistake of accepting

a Thanksgiving

invite

for dinner

in the neighborhood.

dinner is nice, despite

the turkey being made of Tofu

and the kale

organic, very

hard to chew.

everyone

is pleasant

and well dressed, the men

in crocheted vests

and the women in

peasant dresses.

all

leaning left with

their blue hair and nose rings,

their bumper

stickers,

saying coexist.

they are a

courteous and polite bunch

of souls,

your hug

the tree types, many still wearing

their covid

masks from five years

ago,

and then

a woman,

someone's wife/husband suggests that

we go around the room

and tell everyone

what we're grateful for.

so around we go.

someone says for their work

down at the shelter,

friendships

are mentioned,

homeless men and women

on the corners

that they know.

pets and vacations to Moscow

and Mexico,

compost piles and plastic

and tin

bins for Wednesday pick up

are brought up.

someone is pleased with

their new hybrid car

that gets sixty-seven miles per gallon.

another is thankful

for funds being infused into

their cause by

billionaire George Soros.

three women stand up together

and shake their bottles

of Prozac,

and Xanax,

to which they are very grateful

for.

then it's my turn.

i gulp, then burst out,

as i grab my coat, that i'm

thankful

that we have three more years

to go with

the current President. the best one we've

ever had

since Abe Lincoln.

i grab a pumpkin pie

from the table as i run out

dodging

slurs and buttermilk biscuits.

hoagies in the hands of the work crew

the neighborhood

is full

of trucks

and back hoes,

diggers of all sorts,

jack hammers, throngs

of green

vested men

with white helmets,

shovels

in hand,

signs

saying slow

or stop,

road narrows.

Washington Gas.

for three weeks now

they've been at it.

they wave

politely

as you drive by.

throwing metal plates

over the ditches

so that you don't fall in.

they seem

happy to be working, even

in the cold,

this November wind.

i wait for noon to leave

my house,

their lunch hour,

the road cleared while

to their sandwiches

they go.

waking up in strange beds

i was

slow in coming to the realization

that

alcohol

consumption, though never

heavy

or out of control

was

a dumb 

thing to do.

the occasional beer

or two

or three, when out with

friends,

or glass of Pinot,

the Martinis

at a bar,

the toothpick and olive

leaning

so.

so much social drinking,

never at home.

what good was it?

did it make me wiser

more

congenial, was there any

nutritional value

involved. i don't know.

it just seemed to ease you

into making

phone calls you didn't want

to make,

doing things you

didn't want to do.

waking up in strange beds

with a headache,

feeling blue.

take as many as you can carry, boys

the pear tree

is still there behind the bricked

walls,

on the corner

of Prince

and North Patrick.

how many summers ago

was it

that John and i painted that house.

our ladders

angled

against

the clapboards?

how many pears did we eat,

devouring

the pale

green fruit

hanging within reach

in the fall sun,

our pockets full.

our bellies

gone hard.

the owner encouraged

us to take

as many as we could carry

when we finished

the job.

so we did.

hardly a day goes by when

near there that i

don't think of him.

a punched hole in the wall

it's three a.m. as i lie

here

scrolling through my phone

looking

at dry wall

repair videos.

is there a new way to patch

a hole,

a gizmo

i can buy and save time with?

something

to lower

the cost,

make life easier

for the wall that was punched

with minimal

sanding.

oops, our bad

okay, it's time.

let's open up the government again.

it looks like

we are not going to get what

we've held

our breath for,

turning our angry

faces an even deeper shade

of blue.

we haven't missed

a single paycheck, but our constituents

have.

they're stuck

at the airport, how much

longer can we go on

before they realize that we've

pulled the wool

over their eyes, blaming it all

on the Orange man,

who has nothing to do with it.

it's all about Congress

and the vote.

42 million of our democratic

voters

are out of

food stamps.

children are starving,

stores are being looted, it's only

a matter of time

before they burn

it all down again

like the summer of love

back in 20.

we just need 8 common sense

voters (traitors)

to do it for us.

so let's vote

like we always do with a clean

bill of resolution,

and blame it all on them.

let's accept

the same extension we signed time

and time again,

with Obama, Bush, Trump

and Biden.

the same exact one.

let's get the government going again.

and negotiate later,

like always.

our bad. ooops.

so sorry to have wrecked your lives

for the past five weeks and counting.

no worries,

you'll get your butterball turkeys

soon.

slaves to the candy

you have

to hand it to the drug cartels.

their ingenuity

and relentless

pursuit of money

is amazing.

decades of hard work,

with foot to the pedal,

nose to the wheel.

how well organized they are.

willing to

hide a bag

of drugs

into any orifice

of their day laborers to

carry it across

that invisible line

of a border.

nothing stops them.

they possess

boats and submarines

a fleet of planes.

soldiers and weapons

beyond what

most countries have.

trucks

and cars. dope

stuffed into the fabric

of coffins

from afar.

they leave a trail of dead bodies

across the world.

a new tombstone goes up

every ten minutes

with the dead,

the youthful veins filled

with the golden

poison. insatiable

slaves to the candy.

their learned chemists get the most

out of one

tiny pill,

one enormous plantation field.

we know were they are,

hiding in plain sight,

we can circle the dots on a map.

the politicians

in their countries

know where they are,

but the money is too good

to stop them.

everyone has a hand out for

dash.

why slip further into poverty

when we have this well oiled

machine

and there's more

veins to be fed.