my kingdom for a blow torch

so many

of us

are limping from the storm.

legs

are sore,

arms weary.

fingers

and noses frost

bitten.

our backs

are strained from bending

over.

it's not

snow.

it's nothing like

snow.

it's blocks of ice

that we're shoveling in

bits and pieces.

piling it

all up into the yard.

we're using

garden tools.

pick axes, spades

and sledgehammers.

my kingdom

for a blow torch

to hold.

April can't come soon enough.

conquered land, not stolen

my immediate

knee

jerk reaction to when some dope

says

we're living on

stolen

land is to say

shut up you stupid

uneducated

moron.

and when they continue

to tell you

that there should

be no borders,

no countries, i start

to laugh.

i can't believe how

badly

our education system

has failed us.

entering the padded cell years

does one

slip

into retirement like

a pair of

bedroom slippers,

into a silky robe

to lounge around with?

yes,

it's a good start, but

what to do

with all these hours?

which room

should i go to 

to look out a window.

what's left

in this world to buy

that i don't already

have?

what country is urging me

to visit,

and why?

if these are the golden years,

why do i see

a ring of rust

around me?

i need to start

making new friends

soon

before they come

to take me

away.

taking a cruise

we take a cruise.

it's actually a barge floating

down an icy river

close to Siberia.

we found it on

the back of a magazine

at the dentist's office.

AAA

says it's great.

but it's a working

cruise.

they give us leather gloves

and heavy

clothes

for the bad weather.

rubber boots too and

a life preserver

in case

we fall in when

the winds pick up.

we have to pull nets up

loaded with fish

every morning, then scrub

the decks.

but the scenery

is fabulous

and the food isn't too bad

if you like

cod, rock fish and herring

every morning

with a cream cheese

spread.

bribing a cop with donuts

there's a cop

behind me with his party lights on.

i pull over.

he pulls

in behind me and gets out.

i put my

coffee and donut

down and

quickly

get my license out,

my registration

and acquire a nervous smile.

maybe i didn't make

the yellow light

after all.

yes, officer,

have i done something wrong.

oh, no.

he says, you're fine.

i just wanted to know

where you

got that donut.

i saw you biting on it

when

you turned the corner

and ran that yellow light.

i haven't seen a donut like

that since

the summer of love

riots.

anymore in the bag?

two cinnamon cake

donuts

and a curler,

here, help yourself.

i tell him.

i hand him the bag

and he moves on.

eleventh grade French

it's a little French restaurant

on the edge

of town.

4 stars on Yelp.

there's a view of water,

lamp posts,

the passing

crowd.

linen table clothes

and candles

are set about.

a waiter

dressed neatly

with a mustache

pulls out our chairs

and bows.

i peruse the menu

looking for a word i remember

from 11th grade

French class.

this could take a while.

cheeseburgers

and fries

are nowhere to be found.

abstract

is the abstract painting

too abstract,

too

random and disconnected

to the real

world.

is just a lot of drips

and spills

ala

Pollock?

or is it an emotional

landscape

of good and evil.

a storm

of color.

i need a face, or a tree,

or a building.

something

i don't have to imagine.

something i can actually

see.

a lighter shade of pale

he tells me

that he needs to ask his wife

before we

go forward,

before any serious 

changes

are made

in the color.

perhaps we should use

a different white,

something

less, or more

white than the one you're

putting on

the wall.

a higher power

needs to be

in on this discussion.

stop

painting where your

are.

let me

text her

and put her on zoom.

hold the paintbrush up

against that wall.

you worry too much

i promise

myself not to worry so much

about

everything.

then i begin to worry

about worrying.

is it harming me.

causing damage

to my

brain and heart.

am i driving myself to

an early

grave with all

this worrying?

i need to stop it right

now.

but i can't.

i'll try again tomorrow.

carrying in a bundt cake at 12 am

as i take the trash

to the curb,

i see

the neighbor, the new

neighbor.

again

a new neighbor. they come

and go

so quickly.

a turnstile would be

appropriate

on that house.

but i say hello

as he carries in an armful

of Tupperware

and an enormous

bag of plastic

forks and spoons.

it's nearly midnight.

freezing cold.

i'm Eugene,

he says.

his wife gets out of the car

carrying

what looks to be a bundt

cake,

uniced. it's under

a fancy

glass case.

she nods hello and winks.

she seems

nice.

don't leave yet

it's too early

for this.

rising

before dawn,

slipping into clothes

and boots.

the bed whispers, come

back.

return.

we have more sleeping

to do,

more dreams

to be hatched.

don't go. please.

come back,

come back

while the bed is

still warm.

the new years eve party

it was

New Years Eve

as we sat in the drive thru

at Jack in the Box.

the three

of us,

Mike,

Dave, me.

we were hungry.

it was snowing.

the frayed wipers

pushed

off the heavy flakes.

when we got our food

we parked

in the lot and ate, listening

to the radio,

talking about

how great

everything tasted,

washed down

with cokes.

we talked about the girl

in the red

dress. how she danced.

they were

the best of nights,

then we went home,

going forever,

our separate ways.

new essentials

what were

essentials, no longer are.

the weekend

forays

into town,

the chasing of skirts,

the long

nights

of drink and dance.

barely home

before dawn.

how fun

those years were,

sweet memories

of the past.

but other essential things

have taken

their place,

the cane by the door,

good shoes

and glasses,

the earmarked book,

an afternoon nap.

so few will

we should feel better,

shouldn't we?

at this far

point in years, so much

more

behind us

than in front of us.

the kids

beyond our leash,

the bills paid,

sheltered in

our homes with

plenty

of food and drink.

we should, at last, one

would feel

that we could sit by the fire

with a loved

one,

and full glass, and relax,

and say

what's done

is done, and yet,

so few will.

no one is all good

i'm skeptical

about

the priest, the minister,

the shaman,

the mystic

and wizard.

the gurus and yogis.

as hard

as they try to be a shining

light.

i can still

see and hear

that all is not well. that

there's something

not quite right.

fixing each other

imperfect,

as we all are, never quite

polished

and done,

finished as to the way

we wish

we were

born.

alive

with so many

faults,

but we try. dear Lord

how we try

to make

each other right,

fixing

all that is wrong with us,

when seen

in the morning

light.

a new song to sing to

it's rare

to find new music, new

artists

that you fall in love with

and have

to listen to it all.

music that you

add to your

stalled list of favorites.

but it happens.

and so you

tuck a new song

into the play list

between Marvin Gaye

singing What's going on,

and 

Dylan's

Highway 61,

Laura Nyro,

Eli's Coming,

Sinatra's

Summer Wind and songs like

Maggie May

by dear old

Rod.

receiving personal news

there's news,

the daily, world and local

news,

the same old

day in day out,

the constant barrage

of editorialized

news,

skewed to a certain

point of view,

and then there's personal

news.

whispered in quiet tones

across

the back fence.

all of it true.

news that actually counts.

news with

consequence.

he loved to make lists

he loved his lists.

things

to do, 

grocery items,

tasks

that needed to be done,

but if not

written down, he'd

forget.

the filter for the furnace,

the oil

in the car.

the dentist visit.

flowers for

his love when her birthday

came around.

there were

so many lists,

some on his desk,

sticky notes

on the screen,

and others folded

neatly in his

pockets,

after he was found.

the unshoveled walk

before the divorce

i'd see her husband carrying out

the trash,

mowing the lawn,

washing

the cars.

he'd be up on the roof

with a shingle

to fix

a leak,

he'd be in the garage

with a hammer

and saw

building another bookshelf.

there was

a ladder to the window

in the spring

for cleaning.

he was under the car

changing the oil,

putting air

into the tires,

and now.

i see the wife going to

work

slipping on the unshoveled

walk.

i believe she's having

second thoughts.

the short month of agony

thankfully

it's a short month.

the dark

cloud of another birthday

approaching,

the impending

doom

of Valentine's Day.

the purchasing

of flowers,

and gifts on Amazon.

the President's Day

sale

for a new mattress

thrown

onto the roof of my car.

it's not just the cold,

the wind

and frozen tundra

outside

the window.
it's never a good month.

even on a leap

year.

we've got to get out of this place

it's a familiar

sound,

i remember it from

years past,

that screech of one tire

on the ground,

on the square

of black pavement while

the other

three tires

are on frozen snow.

unmoving.

but the one

tire,

the only tire

with ambition, insists

that i press 

on the gas

shift and go.

a woman we both used to know

there's a man standing across the street

in the snow.

he's holding a shovel

and staring

into my window.

who is he?

what does he want?

have i parked in his space,

does he need help.

is he a friend, or soon to be foe?

i wave to him.

he waves back.

he may

be crying.

there are frozen tracks

of tears

on his cheeks.

should i bring him coffee,

talk to him,

invite him into the house

to get warm.

perhaps, but

i suspect it's about a woman

we both used to

know,

i can't be certain.

i may never know.