going caroling on Christmas Eve

i left

the bathroom window open

the other

day

to let the steam out,

and my neighbor heard me singing

Christmas

carols in the shower,

switching my voice

around

from Sinatra,

to Bing Crosby, to Bob Dylan,

hitting the high notes

not unlike

Barbara Streisand

would.

so, my neighbor, Milly, 

asked me 

if i would like

to join their choir and go

caroling

on Christmas Eve.

we've heard you singing

from your bathroom and you have

a very good voice.

we love your version of 

Jingle Bell Rock.

so would you like to join us?

damn right.

i tell her.

i'm all in.

so what's the playlist.

i can practice.

i'm taking another shower, 

later today.

seriously, what's wrong with you?

she yells

at me because i let my freezing

cold feet

touch her long warm

legs.

it's our first fight.

what's wrong with you, she says

loudly into

my good ear.

you need to get a checkup,

a cardiologist

needs to do a workup

on you.

you have

zero circulation

in your body.

there's not a droplet of blood

in your feet.

seriously.

keep those ice bergs

away

from me.

i'm surprised your toes

don't just snap off 

at some point,

like icicles.

sorry, i tell her. sorry.

so i guess that's it,

you're not in the mood anymore?

we're going to sleep?

yes, now put these socks on.

the daily grocery stop

it's a hard

decision to make,

which aisle to go through

to check out

my groceries.

am i in a hurry. am i in

a bad mood, 

do i choose

the angry

woman

wearing all black

covered

in tattoos,

who yelled at me once

for having

cash, or

the pimply teenage

kid

on his first day at the job,

wearing his

trainee badge,

or the self

serve registers, where i have

to scan

everything

and hit the help button

because i

misspelled

jalapeno again.

are you a member here?

type in your phone number.

paper or plastic?

i see a large vegetable garden

in my yard

at some point,

with cows and chickens,

maybe a pig

or two.

starting the puzzle i got last Christmas

i stare

at the cover of the box

the puzzle

came in.

one thousand pieces.

it's a windmill

in Holland

surrounded

by tulips.

a cascade of flowers.

red, yellow, white.

the sky is blue

with puffy white clouds.

i put my elbows

on the table

and rub my face.

i need a drink.

i go to the kitchen and

pour

vodka and Kalua

into the blender,

some cream

and hit the button for

shake.

it's nine a.m. Eastern

Standard

Time.

i take my drink and sit

back down.

i find my first piece.

give me my damn cupcakes

we know

the vending machine.

the candy,

the cigarette,

the coke

machine.

we know how it works.

the coin

slot,

the pull of the lever.

we know

how the Snicker Bar

gets stuck

halfway

down.

the peanut butter crackers,

the pack of gum,

or Camels,

we know how to slap

the side,

to kick

at it, trying to free

what we've

paid for,

what's ours.

we know how to use

both

hands

and how to shake it hard.

to jiggle it like

a madman,

we need

these stale cupcakes now,

right now,

before we starve.

first digs

it's 4 flights

up

to her apartment with

windows

overlooking

the Exxon station and a small

graveyard

for cats and dogs.

she's carrying box

after

box

after box of life,

books from college,

magazines

from Vanity 
Faire to Vogue.

her clothing is over

her shoulders

and under

her arms.

for pizza, her friends

are coming

over to paint

the walls.

they're bringing beer

and

music.

wine coolers and a blender

for something

hard.

the mattress is on the floor.

a few stuffed

animals

are strewn about,

brought from home

which seems so long ago

and far.

the wobbly

table

is in the corner,

holding a bowl of Cheez its.

her mother's lamp

is in the middle of the room

attached to a long

extension cord.

it's a start.

who hasn't been there

before.

the field trip to Gettysburg

on the cold yellow school bus

to Gettysburg for

the 8th grade

field trip,

a girl, Madeline, who everyone

called Mouse, 

came over to where

i was sitting,

staring out the window,

happy to be

out of school, thinking

about the civil war.

she told the kid

sitting next to me to scram,

then sat beside me,

and said,

i'm Madeline, i think we

should go steady

and go to the 8th grade

dance

next weekend. okay?

i looked at her round 

freckled face

and wiry red hair

and shrugged. sure.

whatever, i said.

having no plans for that evening.

she went back to her seat

in the back

of bus with her giggling

girlfriends.

i turned back to the window

to the rolling

hills of the battlefield,

to the long fences,

the stone walls

and gravestones and wondered

which side would i

have been on.

that enormous oak tree

would be a great place to hide behind

as i pointed

my loaded musket.

setting rain to music

it's a soft

rain,

the kind of rain that should

be set

to music.

a lovely grey

of a rain,

steady and

windless

under low clouds,

making

silver

mirrors

on the road.

who needs the sun,

with rain

like this?

have a nice day at school sweetie

the new

parent doesn't tell their children

to have

fun at school,

be a good boy.

study hard

and listen to your teacher.

have a nice day.

that was a long time ago.

now,

the mother

wraps her arms around the child

as if it could

be the last time,

and says,

keep your head

on a swivel my love.

don't forget to drop to the floor

if you hear

gunshots,

be silent, play dead.

you can use your biology book

as a shield.

and on the way home,

don't talk to strangers,

or take short cuts

down an alleyway.

watch out for any unmarked white vans

slowing down beside you.

wear your running shoes,

and if you have to,

use your pepper spray.

i packed it in your lunch box

with a tuna sandwich

and some cookies

that you like. 

oatmeal with chocolate chips,

not raisins.

your whistle and cell phone

are in there too.

dial 911 of there's an emergency.

and remember,

kicking, biting, and scratching

are perfectly okay.

counting pennies

the job,

the menial job, the boredom

of repeated

tasks,

the mindless

repetitive

work

of manual labor, i never

felt bad

about it, never

disparaged the grind

of it all. 

i welcomed

the paltry check on Friday.

never moaned about

the aches

and pains that came

along with it. 

i counted my pennies,

and was grateful,

knowing that it was

a steppingstone

to what would come next.

get over it, i have

i make

an early new years resolution

to not

feel bad about

things.

to no longer feel regret

and remorse,

to no longer feel

sorry or the need to apologize

for things

said and done.

i'm done with guilt and self

doubt,

shame and dismay.

what's done is done.

get over it.

i have.

maybe this year

i'm waiting

for the river to freeze over

so that i can walk

across it

and visit you.

to make amends,

to apologize,

and set things right.

it hasn't frozen

in over

forty years.

but maybe this is the year

it will turn

into a road of ice, 

wouldn't that be nice?

how dare you say Merry Christmas

for a while

when

the woke madness was in 

control

of society,

we couldn't say Merry Christmas.

we couldn't

celebrate

openly

the birth of Jesus,

savior of the world.

how dare we utter those words,

making

the non-believers,

the atheists

and agnostics

Muslims and Satan worshippers

feel bad.

what a horrible thing to do,

to greet others

with the words,

Merry Christmas, 

thank God, that's in the past.

those poor shipwrecked sailors

one side

calls them ship wrecked sailors,

like those

on Gilligan's Island,

the captain,

the professor, Ginger, etc.

harmless

fishermen,

poor fellows

on a three-day cruise

on the high seas

when a bomb

struck their drug filled boat

causing

it to sink.

while the other

side, the more rational

and common

sense side,

sees them

as drug dealers,

evil,

cartel members, hell bent

on killing,

and addicting our youth

with their

nautical dope.

if one bomb doesn't do the job,

lob another

one, fish have to eat too.

preparing for what might never come

as i cleaned out

the apartment my father lived in for 36 years

i was

amazed

at how he threw away

nothing.

not a cracked dish

would leave

the cupboard,

not a chipped cup,

or bent

fork or spoon,

were ever tossed.

ten pairs of old shoes

were under the bed,

waiting to be worn.

shirts i'd never seen before

hung in the closet

next to the uniforms he

wore during the war.

so many rusted gardening tools.

he stored water bottles,

stacked to the ceiling.

peanut butter in barrel

sized jars,

gallons of ice cream.

loaves of bread were

frozen in the freezer.

empty containers were everywhere,

folded bags,

plastic and paper,

string and rubber bands

wrapped in balls.

the next great depression

was not going to catch

him off guard.

it's all make believe

it's just

a movie, a show

on tv.

it's not real life, but

if you

watch it

long enough you begin

to believe

that it's all true,

that the characters are real.

Alice in Wonderland,

The Matrix.

Captain Kangaroo.

you begin to have

feelings for them,

love and hate,

sympathy and compassion,

disgust.

it's not unlike watching

the daily news.

the bank turnover

at last

the five-month cd

has matured

and come to fruition with

its piddly gained

interest.

i take my piece of paper

down to the bank

which is no longer First

American,

but Crestar,

and sit down

at Sally's desk.

but she doesn't work there

anymore,

despite her name placard

being left behind.

she had replaced

Bill from when it was Chase,

who had replaced Emily

from Sun Trust.

but now

it's a fellow

named Salamander, who is there

to help me

roll it over at 3.4 percent.

which he does.

see you in five months,

i tell him.

oh no, he says, not me.

today is my

last day,

i'm moving to another branch

when we become

Truist.

the sand untouched

it's a blue

cold,

this sea. this winter

madness

of waves.

the white frost

of each,

the boom and crash.

the solitude

of sand

untouched,

as far as the eye can see.

no one

is here.

just the thought of you

in summer,

and me.

finding her list of lovers

i found

her diary the other day.

i shouldn't have been looking for it

in her closet

buried beneath

handbags

and books, clothes

and shopping bags,

but i felt

the urge to dig a little deeper

into who i was

hitching my

wagon to.

in the diary

going back to high school

she had

a list of all the men she ever

made love

to.

rating each with a four star

rating

system.

after reading about a hundred

names,

there i was,

not the last name on the list

in chronological

order, but near

the end,

maybe sixth or fifth

from the last one,

next to Sam,

our next door neighbor,

who only got one star,

but she gave me four stars so

i felt better

about it.

the queen of soups

she was a genius

when it came to soup.

name a soup,

she could make it.

no need

for a recipe,

no notes, nothing jotted

down.

she could make soup

out of a single tomato

or celery stalk.

one potato, no problem.

tree bark.

it was all in her head,

clam chowder,

French Onion, pumpkin,

butternut squash,

potato soup,

gazpacho.

give her a pot, a spoon,

water,

salt and pepper,

and sixty minutes

and you had

a bowl of soup

on the table.

she could make soup

out of anything

sitting in the cupboard,

or in the crisper drawer.

she'll be the queen bee

when

the apocalypse

occurs.

the divorce dad every other weekend

the divorced

dad

with his divorce puppy,

brand new

for the kid,

the Christmas

lights

strapped to the house

like it

was

when life

was bliss.

the blow-up Santa

waiting

in a puddle beside the bush

for air.

playing catch in the yard.

welcoming

with open arms

every other weekend

the child

with tussled hair.

doing things

together,

off they go to a game,

to a concert,

to the mall.

both wearing the same clothes.

finding the time,

going the extra

step,

the extra mile,

showing

that he loves his son

despite all

becoming hard.

the first credit card

i  couldn't believe

that Montgomery Wards

would

offer and actually give me a credit card.

but they did.

how easy

the world seemed at 18

with 

little money in the bank and working

in a field of mud

as a laborer.

name

and address was all

they asked for

and now

i could charge things.

what a world

it was.

i bought my first bed with it.

my first

couch

and set of dishes.

sheets and blankets, pillows.

i wore

the card out.

a very smooth stick behind the shed

i show

her the half-moon scar on my knee,

and tell

her the story

of how

i picked up a snake

at the age

of five,

thinking it

was a stick behind my

grandmother's shed

in New England.

how could a stick be so smooth

and shiny,

a keeper

if there ever was one.

and then

the frantic toss of it into

a tree

and me falling

into the broken shards of glass

in front of me.

mason jars

and beer bottles,

shot glasses.

Canadian Club bottles tossed

onto the ground

with other trash.

i never knew my grandmother

was such a lush.

cold drinks in the shade

how

did suddenly

the skin

on your arms, your neck

begin

to look like parchment paper.

something

the Magna

Carta was written on.

when

did this happen?

were

you left out in the rain,

then dried

in the sun

to reach this age?

oh well.

it's long shirts and turtle

necks

from here

on out

and cold drinks

in the shade.

the nightly news at 6

the once nightly news,

an hour

at six o'clock,

is now every minute 

of so called

breaking news.

which isn't

news at all.

it's whining, crying, sobbing.

a boat load of

men and women

in fine

clothing,

dresses

and suits, with coifed hair,

and air

brushed faces

to make us like them more

than they

deserve.

bright eyed and busy tails

with good

teeth.

who cares?

go one day,

one hour without their voices

in your head

trying persuade

you one way or the other

as to which side is the best

and you'll be fine.

more relaxed.

more

calm and at peace with the world.

click off

and close your eyes.

stranger in your own land

as so

many of your peers

slip

into the great sea,

you look

around the stores

while shopping,

while driving in your car,

at the bank,

at the DMV

how few of you are left.

everyone

is younger.

you've become a stranger

in your own land.

how swiftly

the world has changed

and never

going back to how it was

when you

were young.

simpler times?

perhaps.

more common sense,

more civility,

more family?

maybe.

or maybe it was all a mirage,

imagined

and discolored

through the prism 

of looking back.

kiss number three

her first kiss

was just a sample.

a small

sweet planting of her lips

against

my cheek.

dry, not wet.

just a taste

of what was to come.

so kind,

so gentle.

i remember it fondly,

as i now

wipe the blood from

the swollen bruise

on my face

with a handkerchief.

this elderly age

holding

hands meant everything

back

then,

when young.

it meant so much,

as it does now

at this elderly

age.

the fingers entwined,

the warmth

of friendship

and infatuation

running down your arm

into hers.

the walk

together,

hand in hand,

down the path of time

finding mercy

harmless

or not, there is the fear,

the fear

that makes

you want to kill the snake.

to take

a rock to it,

a stick

or stone.

to find the sharpest tool

in the box

and slay

it's slithering, frightening

life form.

but for once maybe

you'll let it pass

this time,

find it's way out of the grass,

and past

the gate,

back down the hill to the stream

where it belongs.

wet paint

the railing

is wet, i tell the woman.

then

the man

of the house.

i put a sign up.

i stick a long

band

of blue

tape

across the door.

i prop a ladder against

the steps.

it's wet

i tell them once more.

it may take

two hours to dry.

the next

day

i see their hands, all

five fingers

and palm of each,

are white

like a pair of gloves.

they are all in the wind

strange

how

people choose to disappear,

leaving

no breadcrumbs behind,

no trace,

no footsteps in the snow.

the line

is dead.

no forwarding address.

the house empty.

they're gone.

they've left to a place

they

don't want others

to know.

abandoning a life they no

longer

want to belong to.

something inside of them has

gone

terribly wrong.

the Christmas flannel shirt

the plaid

shirt, so sad hanging

in the closet

for ten years,

flannel,

with pearl white

buttons.

red, blue, green.

yellow

in the thatched mix

of threads

criss crossing

within the itchy fabric.

i could chop a tree wearing

that shirt.

i could eat

pancakes

with syrup on them.

i could grow

a beard

when stepping out into

the cold

with my axe,

wearing

that shirt.

a Christmas gift from my

mother.

i don't know what she was thinking,

having never once

seen me

in a shirt like that.

with feathers in their mouths

if you want

to become wealthy without too much

effort.

become a politician.

get elected.

small town,

large city,

congressman or woman,

senator.

strange how,

they come in with so little

to their name

and leave

with so

much.

literal wolves in the hen

house,

with feathers

in their mouths.

her Gideon Bibles

she opened up

the trunk of her car once

to get

the spare tire out and jack.

there were

stacks of Bibles

in there,

randomly tossed about.

what's up

with all the Bibles,

i asked her.

she winced, and shrugged.

come on help

me with this flat.

they are all Gideon Bibles,

i said to her,

picking one up,

shaking the dust off.

you steal them

out of motels, don't you?

you take them from

the dresser drawers.

yes, or no?

i'm not helping you with

this tire

until you come clean.

she looked at me

and nervously laughed.

yes. yes.

i steal them.

i need help, okay. i'm mental.

now help me

with this flat.

the bus stops along the way

there

are jobs that you expect to be

temporary.

bus stops along the way

to your

destination.

paper boy,

for instance,

tossing newspapers

onto porches

at the crack of dawn,

or being a barista,

pouring coffee each day

draped

in a green apron.

the kid that cuts your lawn,

with rake

and clippers in hand.

maybe a dancer

in

a dinner theater performance

of West Side Story.

it's not for

long, before your feet hurt,

and you

are no longer young.

you toss in the towel.

you move on.

two nuns at the Safeway

two elderly

nuns

at the grocery store.

in black

and white garb,

one

older than the other, lagging

behind,

a loaf

of bread under her arm,

marked down,

the other,

pushing the cart forward,

filling

it with things to take

back

to the convent. both

quiet,

and deliberate, with a subtle

glow about them.

wordless.

it makes you wish

you were

a better person.

can i talk to Sylvia, please

lonely at times,

a little blue

and glum, partly cloudy,

you don't

mind the wrong number

caller

who asks to talk to

someone you don't know.

is Sylvia there?

they ask,

no, you tell them, 

she's not.

but you try to keep them on the line

just the same,

using your

most pleasant voice.

you ask them

personal questions about

their life,

how they're getting along.

where do you live, you

ask, do you have children,

a wife.

do you like your job?

do you have any pets,

cats, dogs?

how's your health?

perhaps we could talk again

sometime, 

maybe meet for a drink

or lunch,

you say to them,

before they quietly hang up.

shopping for a box

we go

shopping for a box.

a long

box.

but so many to choose from.

some with

cotton

cushions inside,

pleated,

downy soft,

fit for a prince or king,

or queen.

hinged, with or without

locks.

gold inlaid,

chestnut,

hardwood, or bronze.

go ahead and climb

in the funeral

director says,

try it out.

make yourself comfortable,

you'll be in there

for a long time.

sunny side up people

we

are hopeful people,

optimistic

sorts.

we are the sunny side

up

of humans,

wishful thinkers,

and 

glass half full

kind of folks.

we always see the light

at the end

of any dark

tunnel,

the silver lining

in the cloud

as rain falls.

we laugh in the face

of adversity.

we get up when knocked

down.

we

appreciate how so much

of this life

is a joke.

and for the most part

are able

to turn

that frown around.

captured by the prey

she tapped

my phone, put a tracker

on my

car,

had me followed

by a private eye,

sifted through my drawers,

my laptop,

downloaded

every key stroke i ever made,

put a camera

in my house, 

rummaged through

my closets,

emptied my pockets,

she did

all the things

she thought

i was doing to her.

but i wasn't.

and in the end the hunter

was captured

by the prey.

the bright orange chair

i regretted

buying

the orange chair

with large wide cushions,

midcentury modern,

the bright

retina damaging 

chair

that consumed all the light

in the room.

so i gave it away.

then i crazily married the girl

i'd given it to,

so the chair returned,

but in short

order,

i regretted her too.

eventually they both

had to go.

where to put the ocean this year

tired

of where the paintings

and photograph

hang,

i stand

back with hands on my hips,

and mentally

rearrange

the landscape

of the walls.

maybe the ocean

would go

better beside

the window,

the black and white photo

of the flat iron

building

in the dining room, 

perhaps,

the trees nearer the kitchen,

the portraits

in the hall.

i get the hammer

and jar

of nails out,

and change my little world.

hitting the lottery in Minnesota

it's a very

curious thing, how 

hundreds of thousands of people

from a country

on the eastern coast

of Africa,

Somalia,

bordering the Indian Ocean,

that is arid

and tropical, with a temperature

of 87 degrees

year round,

decides to move to America,

to a state 

that gets 51 inches

of snow annually?

a place of howling winds,

blizzards,

and herds of moose

running wild

across the frozen tundra.

where the winter temperature

runs from

minus 30 to plus 30

degrees Fahrenheit.

a place where ice fishing

and snow boarding

are daily activities.

where chopping wood

is a necessity

in staying alive.

why would they choose

this particular place

to travel thousands of miles

to and call home?

oh right.

Walz and Omar live there.

cha ching.

8 billion in tax dollars stolen,

and counting.

now you know.

the 50 count Christmas card box

i still have

about twenty

Christmas cards left over from

the box

of fifty

i bought ten years ago.

people are dying

off

like crazy.

friends,

parents, lovers.

siblings are in the wind,

children

are estranged and living

in unknown

places.

neighbors have moved on.

it's a beautiful

card though.

silver,

with white crumbling candy

like stars.

Santa in a red

suit waving

from his sleigh as it's pulled along

by smiling reindeer

in the sky.

i signed them all

when i first bought the box,

Merry Christmas

and a Happy New Year, to you

and yours.

my name, below.

embracing the non-entity that i am

an old

girlfriend,

that i never loved

for a variety of reasons,

told me once

that

i was a non-entity, that her

and her

friends

had agreed upon

this

summation of who i am

over

wine

and cheese

in her penthouse condo

in Arlington.

i had to google exactly

what that meant.

a non-entity.

i read

the definition out loud

to myself.

a person with no special

or interesting

qualities,

an unimportant person

or thing.

gee whiz,

was that really me?

it left a bruise for a second

or two,

but somehow

i recovered

and healed from that 

devastating sting.

pillow talk

she liked

the heat up,

73 or so.

the big comforter on the bed.

the downy

one that could keep

biscuits warm.

pajamas

and socks,

sometimes thin gloves

on.

whereas i preferred

sleeping

in the buff

with one blanket

and a sheet

over me.

maybe the window cracked

open a little

to let the snow in.

the overhead

fan

on medium.

even with the pillows

we disagreed,

i needed one,

she needed

at least three.

we should have upgraded for fifty dollars more

we expected

a room with a view.

an ocean

view.

the sand and sea,

gulls

frolicking about.

a room

where we could see the long

stretch

of the boardwalk.

a veranda

to sit upon and sip our

coffee as the sun

came up

all bright

and yellow and full of

seaside hope.

but no.

we got the other side,

the dark

side

where the ac units are

stacked high

and churn

and turn all night.

where the green dumpsters

are picked

up at the crack

of dawn. 

sending a waft

of garbage into our eyes.

how we

endured the thump and clank

of the trucks

as they idled loudly

before

driving off.

and the sirens of cop cars

flying by.

The Twin Cities, free money

how

does one city lose

two

billion dollars?

stolen,

not in the dead of night,

but in broad daylight.

how

does no one notice that

someone

is draining

the tax dollars out of the coffers?

who's at the wheel

here?

governor,

mayor, congressman or woman.

is there

an accountant in the room,

a comptroller,

anyone with a calculator

and an elementary knack

for mathematics.

if someone stole

five

thousand

from your bank account,

or just one thousand,

you'd notice it

gone

at some point,

like at the first of the month

when the statement

arrived,

or when you logged into

your account

online.

questions would be asked.

heads would roll.

this has to be a joke,

right?

go get your leash

at night

when i arrive home.

i sit

on the side chair and remove

my shoes.

i rub

my feet then go into

the kitchen.

i empty my pockets into

the green bowl.

keys

and change, dollar

bills.

notes.

i open the refrigerator

door

and brush

the stubble on my face.

the dog

follows

me around.

i pour food into his plate,

water

for his bowl

then go sit back down.

the dog comes

to sit beside me after

finishing his meal.

i put my hand

on his warm head and ask him,

so what's new?

walk?

where's your leash?

it's getting late

i'm

still in my Saturday clothes.

the same

jeans

and old shirt,

the frayed flannel, missing

two buttons,

there's paint

splattered on my shoes.

a screwdriver swings lose

in my back

pocket,

a hammer lies nearby.

i'm looking for something

to do around

the house.

my ear is against the wall,

to the floor.

i'm listening,

for a squeak, a leak,

some

wind

coming through a window

that needs

adjustment.

i'm still in my Saturday clothes,

but it's Thursday

already.

it's getting late, time seems

to fly by.

the bed away from the wall

i push

the bed away from the wall.

oh, my.

so much

dust,

tumble weeds of

time.

spare change, quarters

and mercury

dimes.

case

nickels.

earrings, broken promises,

rings,

books half read,

dead

bugs swatted

on summer nights.

who leaves

a dress,

a shoe behind?

these poor fishermen

since 2018

over a quarter of a million people have

died from

fentanyl poisoning.

look it up.

so when you see these

'fishing boats'

being blown to smithereens,

full of drugs,

it's hard

to feel sorry for them,

for the choices

they've made with their lives.

should we arrest

them?

read them their Miranda rights,

take care of them

for the rest of their lives

in prisons,

paid for

with out tax dollars?

are they the victims now,

not the dead,

who die

by the hundreds, 

both day and night.

the great waffle debate

we fall

into a deep discussion about

waffles

and syrup.

should fruit be involved,

berries

and what not.

nuts.

whipped cream.

what about butter,

salted and sweet,

creamy,

or unsalted

and cold.

what's the best side.

bacon,

or sausage, or what about

the much criticized

scrapple.

where has scrapple gone to

these days?

it's snowing outside.

we can see

it covering the cars from

where we sit

in the diner

next to Costco.

we ask for more coffee,

more time

to peruse the menu.

we have all day.

what about pancakes?

pondering the big store

do i need

a ten-pound bag of shrimp,

snow

tires

and another computer,

a rotisserie

chicken

and half

a cow

to stuff into the freezer.

is the annual

yearly fee worth it

for

a Christmas

tree and a tank of gas

at a discount?

do i need more clothes,

more

things i don't really need?

probably not,

but the prices are so low

it's hard

to resist.

i can't eat or sleep because of him

my old friend

LG,

who has a severe case

of TDS,

calls me on the phone crying.

what's up,

i ask,

boyfriend break up again,

horse die?

cat coughing up fur balls again,

dog has fleas?

trouble at work?

no, she says, sobbing into

the phone.

none of that,

well, yes, all of that,

but mainly,

i can't keep up with the Orange man.

everyday

he keeps

doing things that drive me

crazy.

he's up all night tweeting,

making fun

of Somalians.

referring to them as garbage

just because they scammed

two billion dollars

out of Minnesota taxpayer's pockets.

he calls people fat and stupid

just because

they want to put Tampons into

boys' bathrooms.

he's besmirching

our mayors and governors.

he's in the news

all day

long, ending wars, lowering

the cost of living,

bringing gas down under three

dollars, he's

securing the border,

building a beautiful ballroom,

arresting criminals,

attacking drug boats. 

keeping

men out of girl's sports.

ending wars around the world,

and now

he's created an investment

account for newborn children.

why is he doing this to me?

doing so many good and wonderful

things.

i can hardly eat or sleep anymore

because of him.

egg shrinkage

i'm staring

at this brown egg,

small in the palm of my hand,

despite

the box saying that it's an extra

large

farm raised,

free range,

organic egg.

it's the size of a pigeon's egg.

i need to crack about

five of them

to make

a decent sandwich,

once fried

in the frying pan.

the ten year Christmas list

after about

ten years of being married,

you start

giving gifts

like vacuum cleaners, and toasters.

mops and brooms,

cookbooks

and blow dryers.

neck massagers,

batteries

included,

and maybe a gift certificate

to Victoria Secrets

just to prove that you are still

over the moon.

Hilda is on the phone

all of my mother's friends,

from

childhood

and into adulthood had names

you rarely

hear anymore.

it's a shame.

it's rare to meet an Edna these days,

or a Gertrude,

Evelynn, or Agnes.

no longer do you hear the name

Mitzi or Myrtle,

and yet

when the phone would ring,

we'd call out

to mom, yelling out

their names.

mom, Bertha's on the line,

or Ethel,

but it sounds like Eunice,

Edwina's sister,

and Midge is at the door

with a strawberry

pie. i think i see

Sylvia coming up the street

walking her dog,

Gladys.

we need a time machine, ASAP

we need

to work on the time machine.

it should be

a priority.

put Elon on it and a bunch

of brilliant

nerds,

smarty pants.

make them work around

the clock until

it works.

we need to go back in time

to fix

the mess we're in.

mistakes have been made.

this all comes to mind

after eating

a four-piece spicy meal

from

Popeye's Chicken.

let's go block some traffic this weekend

i see

my neighbor,

the third-grade schoolteacher,

coming up the street

on crutches.

yo,

what happened, i ask her,

helping her

to sit down on the stoop

in front of her house.

oh, she said,

broke my leg

trying to block a police

car after

a criminal was arrested.

the front

tire ran

over my leg.

they didn't even stop, can

you believe that.

what about your face?

oh, that's nothing,

bear mace.

i got sprayed when i tried

to hang onto

the bumper of an unmarked van

as it

sped away.

i put some baking soda on

the peeling skin.

hey,

you should come out and block

traffic with us

on Saturday.

we're protesting

the killing of the drug traffickers

and cartel members

in their fishing

boats.

i get my wheelchair from Amazon

today.

let's see them run me over

when i'm in that.

city life

we need

more insane asylums.

more

institutions for the mentally

ill.

the dangerous

ones.

the crazies that roam

the streets

causing mayhem.

why do they keep releasing them

after the

mayhem they cause.

who's running

this system of catch and release,

frustrating

the citizens

the police.

career criminals

set free by

the sympathetic

mayors, judges, and tree huggers.

all day long it's rob, rape,

murder,

rinse and repeat.

the new born appliance

on day

one, you are so careful

with the new

appliance,

your proud and haughty

GE fridge,

all shoulders and made

out of stainless

steel

you can see your face in.

you use

your best wash

cloth

to clean up spills

and stains.

wiping it down like a new

born child

you just made.

but by week two,

you still care, but ignore

the ketchup dribble,

the coffee spills,

the rotting lettuce in the bin.

you put off

for a few

days the pickle jar

stuck on the shelf

beside

the tumbler of Tanqueray

gin.

holiday prep

i put

the snow globe out.

the two

battery powered candles in

the window

that flicker red

i display

the Christmas cards

from

years ago, then

tack up some mistletoe

over the doorway.

the wreathe

of dried

cranberries is

hung on the door,

and last but

not least i haul

out the fruitcake

my father

sent ten years ago.

first day at the new high school

i remember when my son,

Billy Bob,

came home from his first day of high school,

the new

progressive

Rachel Maddow High School,

down the road.

he was full of new

ideas

in his puttylike brain.

he sat

at the dinner

table and asked me,

dad,

do you know we are living

on stolen land,

and that

our ancestors were slave

owners.

native Americans

used to live

here until we slaughtered

them

and gave them

blankets full of

measles.

this country was built on

immigrants,

and now ICE is trying to kidnap

them

and take them away.

who will pick

our tomatoes come spring?

i don't want to be white anymore either.

we should by

a tanning machine.

we're bad people.

i asked him

to pass me the butter,

then spread

it across a nice warm slice

of a baguette.

and, he said,

also, i don't think i want to be a boy

anymore,

i think i want to be Jane.

if i wrestle girls on the girls team,

i think i can

win.

okay, okay, i told him,

we'll talk it over

with your mother

when she gets back from her yoga class

and wine tasting.

by the way,

what's with the big black framed

glasses you have on,

i asked him.

you don't wear glasses.

oh, everyone wears them at this school.

they gave them to us

when we came through

the door.

they look great, i love the Woody Allen

look. you look smarter.

so what's on the agenda tomorrow?

your second day.

the whole school

is going on a protest march

downtown,

so no school.

that's great, i told him, great.

maybe bring

an umbrella and a gas mask.

the national guard will be there,

and it might rain.

why the world stays troubled

the trouble

with the world is that

people

get old and die.

all the wisdom and knowledge

they have obtained

dies along with them.

which leaves

the young

to find out for themselves

that things like

communisim

and socialism

don't work.

but they're ignorant

of such things.

having not read books,

or been to other countries.

they all want

what the rich have, but

they don't want to work 

for it.

they just want change.

the strip club for lunch

we

stop into a bar,

randomly,

to get out of the rain.

there's a woman

dancing

on a round

stage.

she's nude, except

for a pink

fuzzy boa

around her neck.

amazingly

despite her age,

she stands on her head.

we can easily

look up

her address.

we order drinks.

take off

our coats.

we order sandwiches

and snacks

as the girl

keeps dancing

under the blue lights.

how quickly we tire of her

after seeing

it all

for a few minutes.

Jimmy

takes a bite of his tuna

sandwich, wiping

mayonnaise from his chin,

then yells out,

next.

enough about me, tell me about you

she liked

to talk about herself.

she was the main

character in a Charles Dickens

novel.

i preferred to listen.

she'd say,

so what about you? enough

about me.

i'd shrug and tell her,

truthfully, there's nothing

really much to say.

so she'd once more take the reins

and ramble on.

i learned a long time

ago,

that people like you better

if they

don't know

anything about you.

it's best to keep it that way.

the pay stub

we would

analyze

out pay checks,

the perforated stub,

on pay day, which was 

Friday

after the clock had been punched

in the trailer

at the edge

of the construction site.

we'd sit,

with our empty lunch

pails,

our dirty hats,

tilted

in the sun, and moan

about

the taxes taken out.

we couldn't believe how

the man

was keeping us down.

we'd shake our heads,

then get to the bank before

it closed.

there was beer to drink,

girls to chase.

and if lucky,

there was something left

over for rent

and gas,

food for the week,

and a phone hanging

on the kitchen wall

in the one bedroom 

man cave.

all those well heeled women

in my

online binge dating days,

i would often

meet successful women.

doctors,

lawyers,

CEO's,

heads of regional sales,

directors of some sort.

all well-schooled,

well coifed,

feminists

who had broken through

the glass ceiling.

each wore the perfume of money,

purchased through

work

and divorce.

an impressive lot.

and yet rarely did 

any every offer to pay

for a meal,

putting down

the cash or card

to cover or split

what we just ate and drank.

i took notice of their 

Jimmy Choo shoes, their

gold watches,

and pearls,

the cobwebs

and locks

on their Prada purses.

tell me all about you

who

are you, i say to the small

bird

on the sill, browned

and gold,

perhaps a sparrow,

fluttering

like a fist

full of feathers, shaking

off the arrival

of cold

weather,

i get no answer of course.

it's just

a bird.

but still i wonder.

they're always open

i set

the shovel near the door,

next to the sand

and salt bags.

the gloves and winter hat.

boots.

will it snow

this year,

a snow worth remembering,

one that makes

you take

a photograph?

make you ponder whether

it's worth

driving

five miles for a cup of coffee,

bacon and eggs,

with the power out,

and the wires

down.

there's

one old diner in town

always open.

the owner lives upstairs

above the grill.

so he's got this.

the next new year

there is no

fan fare

for the changing of the month.

the turning

of the calendar

page.

it just happens

that way,

and then the new year

with a new

number

to remember.

it's all slipping away so

fast as i watch

the snow fall.

the four a.m. tow truck

i post a notice

on the community page

that if

the powers that be could please

refrain

from towing my car again

for the third time,

they are so anxious

every night

to tow cars in this small

community

where everyone knows everyone.

flat tire,

cracked windshield.

ladder on your truck.

one wheel over the yellow line,

late stickers,

and you're gone.

the mail is late

once more 

and the stickers have not

arrived yet

to put on my plates.

i print out the receipt

from the DMV

and tape it to the windows

on all sides.

all night, i toss and turn,

listening for

the sound of the predatory tow truck

and their

stealthy take.

i have the sneaking suspicion

that someone

is getting kickbacks.

there's the news and then there's this

with  a full

head

of brown hair, i see the man,

his ball cap

on backwards,

half

man,

his college

sweatshirt on,

half boy carrying out his baby

to the car

in the rain.

the young wife

on the porch,

holding the newest

child

in her arms.

she lifts the newborn

child's hand

to wave.

no matter what the news

says,

that the world

is ending.

life goes on as usual.

take it, we won't eat it

my

mother was the queen of Tupperware

and assorted

plastic

boxes and bags.

you couldn't' leave

her house

without food

and photographs

of people you didn't know.

take it, she'd say.

we have plenty,

we won't eat this if you don't

take it.

it will go bad.

take these pictures too.

it's from

your second cousin's wedding

in Philadelphia.

Uncle Leonard

and Aunt Delores were

there too.

but neither are in the pictures.

oh wait a minute,

let me

pack up some of last weeks

stew.

names and faces

i can

remember names,

but not

faces.

i can't attach one to the other,

whether

Jim or James,

Brenda

or Jane.

it's a guessing game.

best

to say nothing,

and murmur, so good

to see you

again.

how have you been?

it's always fun until someone puts an eye out

she had ideas,

she was

an idea girl. if it snowed, she'd

say

let's go out to the car

and make

love,

turn the radio

on,

or in the summer,

she'd

take my hand,

take off her clothes

and dive into

the ocean under a full moon.

then there

was the hot air balloon,

the jumping

out of a plane.

with glee she'd say,

let's get

married in Rangoon.

she was fun for a very

long time,

but the crazy in her

got old.

the word of the day

it's the catch word

of the day,

affordability, but no one

knows exactly what that means

or how to do it,

but it sounds good

when you're up on stage.

make everything cheap

again like it was in 

1963?

make America less expensive

again, okay.

but how?

good luck with that.

nothing ever goes down,

except maybe

gas and eggs.

they waste twenty billion

on getting

elected

and no one bats an eye.

but affordability,

it sounds good to say.

wouldn't the administration

before the one

now, and the one before that,

and the one

before that,

have done that already?