the key lime pie apology

she never

said,

i'm sorry, for all

her lies

and betrayals,

instead

she'd bake cookies, or

a cake

in lieu of an apology,

sometimes

before

she even

whispered out

her latest lie,

she'd whip up

a preemptive apology

in the shape

of a key lime

pie.

which i ate and turned

to her

my twitching blind eye.

presenting from the great state of Maine your democratic nominee

just because

several women have come forward

and accused

him of sexual abuse

and domestic violence, and

the fact that he has

a Nazi tattoo on his chest,

once worn

by Auschwitz camp guards,

and that he denigrates

American soldiers who were wounded

in war,

and that he's on a questionable

underage dating

site known

for predators,

not to mention his anti-sematic

views,

all of that doesn't mean

he can't be our new Senator

from Maine, right?

we've all made

mistakes. some, more than

a few.

well, well, look at you

people are surprised

to see you

clean shaven,

showered,

the paint and debris

no longer on your face

or hands,

imbedded in your

nails.

you may have a suit on,

a pair

of gabardine pants,

with wing

tip shoes.

perhaps a splash of

Old Spice

cologne has been applied

to your cheeks.

well, well, look at you,

they say,

standing back in astonishment,

don't you clean up well.

what gets stolen

some people

steal

your wallet, your car,

the flamingo

pink and made of metal

planted

feet first in your yard.

they steal

the pumpkin you set out

full of candy

for the little ones.

they steal the rake

leaning against

the shed, the snow

shovel

on the porch.

some people steal anything

and everything

not nailed down.

even your heart.

three tier or four spice rack?

i spend

about two hours of the morning

sitting at my

desk

scrolling spice racks.

i need to unclutter

the cabinets.

so many random jars,

from garlic

to cinnamon, to peppers

and Himalayan

salt.

where did this thyme come

from,

the parsley

and sage.

rosemary.

i'm humming Simon

and Garfinkle now

as i continue on.

i'm on a mission.

do i want the racks that

attach to the wall,

or cabinet,

or do i want the lazy Susan

types for the counter.

will it be

metal, or wood, plastic?

how hard are they

to install?

i'll never get these hours

back,

will I?

to squish or let live, that's the question

it's a decision i need to make,

watching

the large

black spider crawl

between the sheers

and the glass,

whether to let him or her

live,

or to use a shoe,

or a toxic spray to end

it's simple life.

where there's one, perhaps

there's many.

maybe this book i'm

reading,

or a rolled-up magazine

will suffice.

somedays decisions

are easy to make

and other days

for some reason,

they're harder.

the silent majority

we are

not loud people.

flag waving patriots,

though we love

our country.

we are

not on the streets

protesting for or against

anything.

we go to church,

we pay our bills,

our taxes.

we vote.

we obey the laws.

we work hard and respect

others.

we quietly go

about our days, we raise

our families,

and believe

in common sense,

in prayer,

in courtesy and morals.

we're not in

the news, or on tv.

we don't have podcasts,

or write books.

we are real people,

the silent

majority.

the chair by the window

there

is the paring down of things,

the purging

stage

of life, downsizing,

moving

reluctantly into a smaller

home,

a senior place

where little needs tending to.

a time

where everything

accumulated must be given

a grade

of keeping or tossing out.

what was valuable

once,

is now set out on the curb,

or sold

for a dollar.

how much you loved that painting

with fading colors,

that cracked

vase on the mantle,

that chair you sat in for

half your life.

keep it to yourself

best not 

to tell others your troubles.

whatever

tragedy

large or small

that may have occurred to set

you in

this dark mood.

they will not forget it

and ask

you about it from

here on out

when meeting,

or on the phone.

perhaps it's out of love

or just curiosity

that makes them bring

it up again

and again.

but still they keep it

going on.

wanting more,

while you want less.

it's best to seal those lips.

send it up in prayer

and move on.

my brother's coonskin hat

i remember

the first time i did a load

of laundry

for myself.

i had studied how my

mother did it.

i was twelve years old

and needed

clean clothes for school

the next day.

i set up

the iron

for my dungarees

and button down short

sleeve

argyle shirt.

and waited on a chair

reading comic

books,

sipping on a Nehi

grape soda.

i waited

until the clothes were

washed then

dried, then

ironed and folded before

carrying them upstairs

to my one drawer.

in an act of kindness,

i let my little brother

throw in his Davey Crockett

coonskin hat,

that got mauled

and soggy with saliva

by our dog.

we almost saved the world

i'm

in the middle of a deep

conversation

with my

friend Jimmy

on the phone.

we are saving the world

with our

brilliant ideas,

our genius takes

on what should be done

about so

many important

issues facing

the world at large.

but then the phone dies.

Jimmy, Jimmy,

are you there? but no.

there's not

a single charge

on it, and i'm in

my car driving to Montana

without

a charger.

it's dead.

the world will have

to wait

until tomorrow to

be fixed and set right.

what in the ham sandwich is going on?

i put

an American flag decal

on the back of my

car

in a display

of patriotism.

the next day,

the windows are smashed

in,

the tires

are slashed and in spray

paint

they've written on

one side

fascism,

and on the other side,

racism.

she used to be such

a loving

and kind

and empathetic wife,

but not

since she moved

to Portland

and colored her hair

purple

and yellow,

with green stripes.

Liver and Onions, Thursday night

there used to be a dive

bar

in Little Creek

next to a motel 6,

that advertised Liver and Onions

on Thursday nights.

in bold red letters it was

lit up on their

parking lot sign.

dancing too. live music.

ladies night,

half price.

why?

i don't know.

we avoided it like 

the black

plague,

there was always a cop

car and

an ambulance 

outside.

although my father

couldn't get enough

of place,

which accounted

for his occasional broken

nose,

and black eyes.

hurray for spandex

either my

body

is changing, or these companies

that make

clothes

are fooling around with

the sizes.

large, extra-large,

small

and medium

are not what they used to be.

one man's size

thirty-two is another brands

thirty-six.

i appreciate though

the spandex

now in all the waistbands,

collars

and long sleeves.

the socialist love in

funny

how the young tikes, still

in their

college

diapers have fallen in love

with socialism

and communism.

they're tired

of sharing apartments

and living in

their parents basement.

they haven't quite figured

out the attributes

of hard work

and saving money.

they've taken the word

free

out of the word

freedom and claimed it as their own.

nothing is free,

they are yet

to realize.

they don't know that

Stalin killed more

Ukrainians

than Hitler ever killed

Jews.

they took from the rich

and gave

to the poor

as well as themselves.

they've never seen the bread

lines,

the gulags,

the sweat camps

and factories with child

labor in China.

apparently they've never

studied

a lick of history,

the cold war,

the revolutions,

they know nothing about

Cuba

or Venezuela,

how they went from being

rich

to being dirt

poor. maybe the fall of New York

City

will give them a clue.

my neck hurts from looking up

i injure

my neck staring up into

the 45 minute

firework display

down on the mall.

so many booms,

so many

explosions of red

and gold.

my eyes

are full of smoke

and ash,

my lungs are heavy

with hot air.

drinking a cold

beverage helps,

as does a massage 

therapist

located on the far

side of the grass.

time for another hot dog

and burger,

a slice of melon,

and a piece of apple

pie with a scoop

of French vanilla on the side.

i think i'll just lie

down for

awhile on this cold

wet grass and stare at 

the hazy sky.

the ten hour summer day

it was a long

walk

to the river. we had our fishing

poles,

our small box

of worms.

a jug of water

and all the time in the world

before the sun

went down.

we crossed the highway,

through

the parking lot

of Eastover shopping center

then into

the woods,

finding the path that led

to river beneath

the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.

there was no shade

and the water was too dirty

to swim in.

it was 1968,

and the Blue Plains Treatment

plant was

nearby.

the sewage killed most

of the fish.

but sometimes we'd land

a carp

or a catfish, or a long black

eel which we'd

cut off with out pocket

knives.

eventually, we'd have our

fill and head

home.

saying nothing to our parents

about where we

were, or

what we had done with

the summer day, now gone.

the birth of a nation

sad

and alone on the fourth

of July

in my flag

t-shirt and Uncle

Sam

hat, it's

just me

and my dog, George W. .

i put some

hot dogs on the grill

and a few

corn on the cobs.

i throw a burger on there

as well.

i've made a cake too,

with red, white and blue

icing.

it's getting dark

soon,

and it won't be long

before the fireworks

will begin.

i've filled up my little

blow up pool

with water from the hose.

after i eat,

i'll lie back in the pool,

with my

dog and together we'll

look up into the sky

and make noises like

oooh and awww.

the photo booth snapshot

we spent

the weekend in Coney Island

one summer.

we were in love

back then.

just kids.

holding hands, licking

the same

cone of ice-cream.

shooting

the water gun to win

a stuffed panda bear.

riding the roller coaster,

screaming

and laughing in the fun house,

kissing

as the car slowly

rolled through

the tunnel of love.

we'll always have Coney Island,

i think as i

stare at the photo booth

snapshot,

no matter

the years gone past

or where we are.

born in the USA

it's a tough

day

for the far-left wing liberals

and socialists on

July 4th.

they cringe when

they see

an American flag

being flown, 

unless it's of

another

country, or some cause

they represent.

they don't want anything

to do with

the celebration

of the countrys birth.

they laugh

and sneer

at the patriotism displayed

for the greatest

country on earth.

it's all negative

with them.

playing victim is a hard

way to live.

strange to hate a place

you reside

in and make no effort

to leave it.