an orange in hand

the problem

with

fruit, though bright

and shiny,

colorful

in the store, holding

the promise

of sweetness,

you never know until

you get

it home

and take a bite

what you gotten

yourself into.

infatuation can be

like that.

her birthday party

she told me,

that she still felt

young,

after asking

her what it felt

like to be 81.

no different than when

i was thirty,

or forty, she said.

the years

mean nothing

to me.

many friends have come

and gone,

two husbands 

are buried not far from

here.

yes, indeed,

i'm different according

to the mirror,

but i'm the still the same

girl that my mother

raised,

the same girl

on the swing,

the same girl that sat

patiently as she brushed

my hair before school.

now will you

light the candles so that

i can blow them

out again.

the slower mouse

being

the quickest mouse

in the wall,

is not always

a good thing

when the sniff

of cheese

is involved.

being second is fine

when it

comes to mouse

traps.

sometimes

being last to arrive

gets it all.

before coming home

we travel

to get away from where we

are.

our eyes are wide open,

our ears

to the ground.

will it change

things,

hardly.

will we grow from

this experience,

doubtful.

but we need to go, we

need

to see what's out there,

before

coming home.

nothing is lost

nothing

is truly lost, it's just waiting

to be found.

usually it's

where you left it.

you might

not be the one

to find

what you're looking for,

but someone will,

all in good time,

suddenly it appears

between

the cushions

of the downstairs couch,

or lying

beside the car

on the snowy ground.

our empty cups

the holiday

is over,

outside the window

you can

hear the hammers,

the saws

working,

the leaf blowers and

mowers,

the roar of trucks

backing

up.

mail is delivered,

the phone

rings.

the world continues

as always.

we need to fill

our empty

cups.

friends with a bad case of TDS

so many,

so many friends,

many now former friends,

have the scourge

of TDS.

it's relentless,

everything right or wrong

with the world

is blamed

on the Orange man,

the second time

President.

they can't hold a conversation

without bringing

him up,

and cursing with their

faces going red,

their teeth being bared

as steam comes out

of their ears.

he could bring peace to the Middle

East,

end many wars,

secure the border, clean

up the cities,

reduce crime,

lower taxes,

keep men and boys out of girls

sports.

he could even cure cancer,

and they'd still rant and rave

about

how they hate him.

it's an awful syndrome.

you see it in the old washed

up actors

and rock stars, now fading

into oblivion,

the Hanoi Janes of the world.

it's sad

and boring as they go on

and on and on.

without logic

or reason. they are sick,

very sick with

the TDS.

Let us Pray.

how to write a poem

the trick

is to write an unpoetic

poem,

leave

out the rhyme,

nature,

love and that sort of mushy

thing.

leave out

death too

and the struggle of life.

avoid

mythology

and Biblical references,

steer clear

of Robert Frost

and Longfellow,

especially, Emily Dickinson.

don't even

look at the poetry in the New

Yorker Magazine,

you'll learn nothing

there.

stare at a rock for an hour

or so,

or prick your finger with

a thorn,

and see what

comes out.

leave it at that.

avoid grammar

and punctation as well,

although

spelling, as always,

should count.

putting on the tool belt

as it is good

to have

the right tool, the right

wrench

or hammer,

the proper

screwdriver, or pair

pliers.

so it is with words.

they can

either fix things

or make

things worse.

some days i almost forget about it

forgiveness is a funny

thing,

some days

you have it in you

and other

days, you say no way.

i'll never forget or forgive

what someone said.

the mean

and cruel,

the vile words

that they said.

i wake up not knowing

if i will

be a good Christian soul

that day,

or not, will

i be heartless and cold,

or wake up

with a forgiving

new heart and soul.

when the headstone is in place

once

the headstone is in place,

carved

in the white

stone,

his name and birth,

the date

of his death.

all neatly

engraved with

military precision,

i'll go back there and say

hello.

i might sit

for a while, like we used

to do

and talk about

books, the weather,

the other brothers

and sisters.

i'll listen to his laugh,

and see

the wet twinkle in his

ocean blue

eyes.

and then i'll go home

again,

but now it's a shorter drive.

returning to the shore

when

i return to the ocean,

to stand

with my feet in the cold water,

letting

the wash

of waves roll

up to my knees, i see

that nothing

has changed.

the sea is still the sea.

i'm just older,

but still

childlike in my gaze.

escaping your own life

while

sewing a button

onto

a shirt,

you realize that this is what

true

awareness is.

the simple

act

of sticking the needle

through

the eyelets,

then pulling the thread

up

and then again

through cloth,

until all holes

have been visited

before making

the smallest of knots

to tie

it tight.

you are here.

there is nothing but this.

you have

escaped

your own life.

just a regular holiday thing that we do

tired

of people asking me what

i'm going to do

for the holiday,

i make up

a story.

i tell them i'm having

a barbeque

for fifty people.

i'm making batches

of Pina Coladas,

roasting a pig

on a skewer.

then we're all going to

Glen Echo

to ride the roller coaster,

before swimming

in the pool,

then we're going

dancing,

and club hopping,

and then we're going to sit

up on the hill

and watch

the fireworks.

staying up to see the sun

rise,

at dawn.

how about you?

texting while in the tub and drinking wine

she sends

me a picture of her leg,

a long leg

with fishnet stockings,

then

her arm,

the cherry red 

nails on her hand

holding a glass of wine.

she unbuttons her blouse

so that i can

see a snippet

of her bra,

then a picture of her

high heels arrive,

then bare

feet.

she's in the tub now,

taking

pictures with bubbles

up to her neck,

carefully hiding the rest of her.

now it's your turn,

she writes.

i send her a picture

of a cake

i just took out of the oven.

we never

text again.

the studio apartment

the rent is reasonable,

but only

because

there's mice

scurrying about,

and the heat doesn't work,

and the walls

are thin.

but hey.

you can't beat two

thousand

dollars

for a studio apartment

these days

over a Chinese Restaurant

and massage parlor.

thank you for reading

it's a strange

text.

it's from a number not

in my

contacts list.

whoever it is,

they're very angry.

i can feel

the heat right through

the phone.

they tell

me they hate me.

despise me.

they're disappointed

in what i write.

they don't agree with

anything

i say.

they call me names,

they say

i'm a loser

who will never amount

to anything.

i scratch my head and write

back,

Betty is that you?

Joan, Sandy,

Donna, Christine?

Mom?

a story without an ending

why are you

telling me

this story? she asks me

as i go

on and on

about something of no

interest

to her.

and yet, i don't stop.

i sit

back in the big chair

and sip on my vodka

and tonic,

which has the ability

to encourage me

to proceed

forward,

gives me the ambition

to embellish.

i'm naming names,

giving dates,

and places with great

detail.

i tell her what i was wearing,

i tell her

about the weather,

the rain,

the wind.

she rolls her eyes,

then looks at her watch.

okay, okay, she says.

go on.

you have ten minutes

to finish.

then i have to go.

you won't believe this part,

i tell her,

as i continue on.

his unlived life

yesterday,

the boy behind the counter,

the blue eyed

boy

with a thatch of blonde

hair,

mixed up

a gallon of paint for me.

periwinkle blue,

i think it was.

today, when i go

back for another gallon

to finish the job,

they tell me that

the boy

is dead,

he went over the bridge

last night

into Oxon Hill

and took too much

of the wrong thing.

a lethal dose

of fentanyl.

i can still his

lineless face,

his unlived

life in his gentle

smile.

this will hurt for longer

than a while.

our two week anniversary

we clink

glasses in celebration

of our

anniversary.

we've been an exclusive

couple for

two weeks now,

a record

for me.

we celebrate

with French Champagne

and a dinner

for two

at Mon Ami Gabi.

we hardly

know each other

and have yet to discuss

anything of meaning,

but it feels wonderful.

i'm optimistic

and looking forward

to the future

as we proceed on eggshells

into week three.