bingo and pickleball, just shoot me

after

forty years in the big

house,

the house with the yard,

the garden

where you planted carrots

and roses,

where the swings

and slide were set beneath

the oak tree,

where the dogs ran

behind

the painted fence, the house

where the children

grew up,

where you celebrated

Christmas

and all the holidays

every meaningful,

event,

after all those years, and at

last alone.

divorced,

the children finally out

of college

and grown.

you decide to downsize.

it truly is the end

despite the handshakes

and smiles,

as the tour guide

takes you to

the apartment where they

promise you'll

have fun

and make new friends.

Tuesday there's bingo, and pickleball

on weekends.

swimming the county for a happier ending

i hate

my job, she tells me.

it's boring

and i don't make much money.

my boss

is a tyrant

and the hours are dreadful.

so,

why don't you quit i tell

her,

as i smooth some

sunscreen onto my bald head,

then step into

my flip flops.

where are you going? she asks.

swimming.

but you don't have a pool.

don't need one,

i'm going to swim

across the county

and circle back, just

like the guy did in the John

Cheever story,

called The Swimmer.

everyone has a pool, but

me, so, i'll make

the most of it. i have it

all planned out, i'll start

with Hendersons, then hop

the fence

over to Walter's house,

then

to the Clarks, and on and on.

well, good

luck at work,

i should get going if want

to make it home

before the sun goes down.

the ending of the story

was depressing, 

very sad, but i'm going

to rewrite it today.

toodle loo.

strange bug on the windshield

the bug,

alien looking,

a purple spotted thing

with

enormous

and unusual wings lands

on

my windshield.

she has

green flecks on

her long body,

with

streaks of yellow.

i hesitate

to turn the wipers

on to send

her flying,

but she seems to be

staring at me.

giving me

a look.

the same one my ex-wife

used to give me

when i caught

her in a lie.

it almost doesn't look

real,

like most things

these days

with AI.

feeling generous

and kind

i let her stay and go

along

for the ride.

but i'm worried about her

when i pick

up speed on the interstate.

is this where

she wants to go?

will i hear from her lawyer

once the wind

sends her flying?

doing time in cell block H

i still

have about twenty

extra

masks that i bought during

the Covid

pandemic,

and 

a box of testing kits,

all of

them from China,

of course.

not to mention my hazmat

overalls

and 

booties for my shoes

when going out

and then coming home.

my arm

is pock market from

all of the

vaccines i've had injected

into my healthy

system,

as well as the boosters.

i still have the vaccination

card in my wallet,

that i had to show

while dining

out in New York City.

i washed

and washed my hands

and disinfected them

with alcohol wipes.

i stayed six

feet apart from loved ones

and strangers,

and stopped going to

work and school.

i obeyed all the rules.

and yet,

it was the worst headache

and sore

throat i ever had.

all from a man made

experimental virus, not bats,

in the Wuhan clinic.

thank you Dr. Fauci,

a few years in the slammer

is what you deserve.

addressing one another in caps

she calls me

buttercup or sweet pea,

while i call

her 

honey bun, or

sugar plum, except of course

when we're having

a serious

fight

when the door

is left open

and the cat gets out.

then we're back to formal

names,

the middle name

included.

all of it said in caps.

do not send that letter

the wise

advice is to not send the letter,

the one you

write

with all of your complaints

and grievances

set out on paper,

not holding a thing back,

you've given

the recipient of the letter

their deserved

what for.

but the angel on your

shoulder,

playing his golden

harp,

says no,

while the devil with his

pitchfork

on the other shoulder,

holding his

hot pitchfork, says,

do it, do it,

gone on.

revenge is sweeter when

served

cold.

regret comes later after

it drops

into the big blue box.

unhappy hour

whether

drink or drug,

smoke

or pills,

we're a society of numbing

ourselves.

life is hard.

so

drink up, hit the crack

pipe.

find some sort

of crutch to lean upon

to get you

through the days,

the long

nights.

here's a line of coke,

bend over

and snort up.

have that third martini,

that

fourth pina Colada,

you deserve it,

right?

the day shift

i spent most

of my

office hours talking to the secretary

up front,

or at the coffee counter,

or water cooler

discussing plans

for happy hour.

occasionally

you could find me

in my cubicle

staring hypnotically out

the window

at the parking lot,

wondering

why none of the windows

open to get

some clean air in here.

sometimes i'd lean

back in my chair

and close my eyes, but

listening for

the sound of shoes

approaching,

my hands on the key board

ready to pretend

to type.

the happy ending

rarely

do you see a true obituary

in the back

of the paper.

our lives have been

air brushed.

no one

was every stingy,

or grumpy,

mean or nasty.

no one ever kicked a dog,

or cursed

a nun lingering in

the cross walk.

we're all going to heaven

according

to our obituaries.

thankfully,

if we're lucky,

we have at least one

good friend

who can write us up

and give

us a happy ending.

message free outer wear

i look in

the mirror before i leave the house,

trying

to determine if

what i'm wearing

is too political,

sending a message to the left

or right.

no red hat today,

no mask, 

no burka,

no flag decals or

sandals.

no tin foil hat,

or messages on my

sweatshirt.

i'm vanilla from top

to bottom.

i'm a scoop of ice-cream

with legs.

safe

for a trip to Whole Foods.

the WNBA task force to define a woman

the WNBA,

a floundering basketball

league,

constructs

a task force

to figure out what a woman

is, in order to set rules

for eligibility.

for forty days and forty nights,

they convene

in a back room

drinking Cosmopolitans

and Mimosas,

while eating pounds of cheese

and crackers.

they quarrel

and bicker over what exactly

a woman is.

like Moses and his flock

in the desert

they circle around

this very difficult topic,

not finding the obvious path out.

one general manager

says anyone

with blue hair

and a nose ring is a woman,

another one suggests

someone that's non-binary,

or uses any one

of thirty

non-gender specific terms.

a coach offers the suggestion

that anyone

who can walk across the room

in a pair

of high heels without falling over

should be

declared a woman.

there's silence as they consider

this suggestion and then

a radical

owner shouts out, anyone

with a uterus,

and no penis, or has

the xx chromosomes

should be declared

a woman.

the room breaks down in

laughter

at the notion of a no

penis rule

when it comes

to eligibility.

she gets thrown out immediately

and loses her team.

banned for life.

exhausted,

they realize it's an impossible

task to undertake,

it's too complicated.

so they convene,

and once again say nothing

about it, ever again,

especially on Mother's Day.

the guilt free day

it's a guilt free day.

maybe

we curse like a drunken

sailor

when alone

and watching the news,

or open

up a bag of chips and eat

until there's no

more left.

maybe we eat

an entire pie

in one sitting, or

watch an erotic movie

alone,

or use

the telescope to see

what people are up

to in the high rise

down

the road.

maybe we take out

the tequila bottle 

hidden under

the kitchen sink

then have three

margaritas

in a row.

we secretly light a cigarette

after quitting,

and don't

open

a window.

we don't floss or do

a single

sit up the whole day long.

maybe we put our feet

on the coffee table

with our muddy

boots on,

or leave the seat down

when we have to go.

or perhaps

we don't answer the door

when the neighbor

knocks frantically

asking if we're home.

perhaps

we walk around in our

underwear

and socks

all day long

and burp as loud as

we can

for no reason at all.

we crush spiders and bugs

with our shoes,

or cell phone

against

the window.

yes.

there's a side to all of us

that

we don't want

others to know.

we don't want to be forgotten

i was

thinking about why so many

people

continually record themselves,

taking

snapshots of their lives,

eating,

singing, dancing.

showing the world where they are,

what they're doing

and who they are with.

my mother

used to do the same thing

with her instamatic

Kodak camera.

filling albums

with developed pictures.

she didn't want any of it to

end,

to slip out of her fingers

these

moments, whether precious

or mundane.

it's the eternal desire

that we all have, to live

forever,

and not be forgotten.

surrender is always an option

surrender

is always an option,

i tell myself

as i wait

for the phone to ring,

for a birthday card,

or letter

of apology

to arrive in the mail.

how long

can you stare out that window

and look up

and down the street.

sometimes you need

to just go

to bed

and forget about it.

stop singing and dancing and serve your constituents

if i see

an ad for a politician

dancing,

or doing a rap

song,

singing,

all bright eyed

and bushy

tail, wanting money

or a vote,

skipping la dee da

down the halls

of congress,

i quickly make

a note of it,

making a large

black X

next to

his or her name.

sometimes we're lazy

we leave

things for later,

disinterested at the moment,

the nail

half driven,

the wood

uncut,

the meal half cooked.

bread

not in the oven,

still a ball

of dough on the counter.

we leave

the clothes in the dryer,

we ignore

the burned-out bulbs,

the smoke

alarm

blinking.

we delay

our intentions, because

deep down

inside,

sometimes we're just

lazy

and tired of repetition.

a girl no less

the same

people

who want no borders

are the same

people who lock their doors

at night.

the same

people who want free

food

and healthcare

are the same people

who don't want to work.

the same people

who don't want police

or prisons

are the same

people

who commit crimes

and are the first

to dial 911

when needed.

the same people who

defend

women's rights

are the same

people who can kill a

child

in the womb,

a day before birth,

a girl no less.

at last a hard rain

i like

this rain, this hard

deluge

that's coming down

out of the

blackened sky.

it's lovely.

the rumble of thunder.

the cool

wind.

the strike of lightning

beyond

the hills.

it's music on the roof,

against

the window

pane.

let it rain.

it's the end of the world as we know it

the dive

restaurant that i frequent

is no longer

serving

breakfast all day.

it's a greasy

diner on the side

of the road.

i go in

and sit down

at my usual booth and ask

Marge

what the deal is.

why no breakfast after

11 a.m.?

new management, she tells me,

shrugging her

pink shoulders. but,

you can still get everything

that's on the old

menu.

just not pancakes

or eggs. after 11.

however,

you can still get a BLT,

or a sausage

sandwich, if you want.

just no eggs.

after a nine day vacation together

the first

thing i'm going to do when

we get home,

she told me,

was, i'm going to take a long hot

bath,

with candles

and a glass

of wine,

with the door

firmly shut.

i need a vacation from

this vacation,

i'm exhausted.

what about you?

oh me,

i'm going to take a long

bike ride

through the woods,

don't wait up.