have you met my friend President Lincoln?

the maître 'd

at the fancy Chinese restaurant

tells me

that there are no

tables

available.

you should have called

ahead

and made reservations.

but it's just

me,

i tell him.

can't you slide me in.

i see five

open tables in the back.

no,

he says.

call ahead next time.

i take out a five dollar

bill and show

it to him.

may i introduce you to my

friend,

President Lincoln,

i tell him,

flashing it before his eyes.

he scoffs.

no Lincoln here.

i want to meet President

Grant

and then maybe i can put you

at a booth

near the kitchen.

really, a Fifty?

yes, inflation and Covid.

Grant now.

they be smoking the wacky weed

suddenly,

socialism is the new fad,

the new

latest thing

to be a part of.

the plan is to give free

health care

to all,

freeze

the rents, provide

housing for the homeless,

who are drug

addled,

and living on the street.

more syringes,

please.

less police.

let's raise taxes and

share the wealth, why

work

and get off our lazy buns, 

when

we can take what they have,

take what they've earned

through brains

and grit

and by working long hours.

of course socialism has never

worked

in any country

in the entire history

of the world.

but you'd have to be

educated

to know that, and have

read a book or two.

pretending to be an orange

it looks like

an orange, a sweet plump

orb of fruit

picked

off a tree in some orange

grove

in Florida.

but when i crack it open,

peel it

back and take

a bite, it's not an orange

at all,

it's a grapefruit,

pretending to be an orange.

it's bitter,

not sweet.

false love

can be like that at times.

business as usual

i go onto

the condo board monthly

meeting

zoom

call, to see what's up.

dogs are

pooping in neighbor's yards,

the trash truck

comes too early.

stickers are not clearly

visible on cars,

thus being towed.

people are jumping into

the pool

before taking a shower.

someone lost

a watch 

at the Tiverton
Court

compost pile.

Christmas decorations are

being kept

up way too long.

there are several complaints

about the condo

fee being too high.

business as usual.

breathing exercise for the hopeless

take a deep breath

in, now exhale,

the yoga

instructor says, sitting

in her pink

leotards

with flowers in her hair.

her arms are outstretched

above her head

with bangles dangling

from her

anorexic wrists.

i've been

hearing this baloney

since 1967.

inhale the hope,

exhale

the hate.

it's usually the same

people you

see

sitting down in road

blocking

traffic

for some far-left protest

and getting arrested

for attacking

police.

what are summers for?

what are summers

for

if not for ice-cream, for

watermelons

and the neighborhood

pool.

what is summer

for if not

the beach,

the wide blue ocean,

the boardwalk, 

the smell of French

fries in the air,

a long afternoon

snooze.

the open hydrant on

the corner,

the happy screams

of children,

stick ball

on the field.

fireflies and first kisses.

the strange

and sudden infatuation

of the girl next door.

after the handshake

after shaking hands,

we exchange looks

before we talk.

two aging men nearly

the same

age.

we measure each other,

not with words

but with a glance.

we get the feel,

the vibe.

the energy,

the presence.

then we talk. we know

enough

now

to hold a conversation,

though light

and easy.

the crow of a rooster

it's an enormous shed,

almost

a barn

set out in the far west

side of

the long yard.

circa 1929, but it's still

up.

the wood still strong

and painted red.

new boards nailed in

where

the rotted ones fell.

a weathervane still sits on the arched

roof,

a silver arrow

turning with

hard winds.

the cows are gone, of course,

no chickens,

no horse.

it's where the bikes go now,

the jet ski,

the old tires,

old things too good to be

thrown away.

chairs for the pool,

sandbags

and salt for winter.

shovels and mowers.

how nice though it would be

to hear the crow

of one

old rooster when the double

doors are opened.

Iron Butterfly

i love

music, but have zero musical

talent.

the best

i can do is sing a song

in the shower,

or tap

my hands on the dashboard

like i use to do when

i was young

and riding shotgun in someone's

smoke filled,

beat up old car.

usually a green dodge dart.

i used to have In-a-gadda-da-vida down

pat, by

Iron Butterfly.

especially the drum solo.

sometimes i can't get that beat

out of my head.

which is distracting

and a concern to my therapist

as i tap

my fingers and feet

while she asks me another question

about my mother.

the train is coming

sometimes

you get the feeling

that something

is about to happen.

it's a weird feeling.

you don't know if it's

life changing or not,

or if it's a bad, 

or a good thing.

but you feel it in

the air.

all of your senses are

on high alert.

you wait for it.

like a train coming down

the track,

soon it will be here.

time to burn and loot, we won

in celebration

for

their sports team winning

the championship

they

burn and loot

the city. they

set fire to cars and buses.

break windows

and turn over

dumpsters.

fights and brawls break out.

they're happy.

very happy.

the millionaire players

are too,

as they go home to their

mansions

in hired cars.

drinking champagne

with their

posses, beautiful girlfriends

and wives.

in the rear-view mirror

they see

the flames and smoke

behind them,

the city left

to burn.

they laugh and laugh,

we won.

that ticking clock

it's always

later

than you think. we all believe

there is more

time.

sick in bed,

tired of it all,

we trust that we will be

back on our feet again.

there's more

time,

there always is time

to start over.

there's another day

ahead of us.

we never hear the clock

ticking.

the bells that toll.

he knew it was me all along

with

great stealth i went

around his

rooms

as the party roared

on, to his hallways and foyer

and tilted each

mirror,

each picture hanging on

the wall.

a sconce or two,

a family

photo.

i made each one lean

just an eighth

of an inch to either side.

he called

me the next day and said,

i knew it was

you.

it had to be you.

i wish he was still around

to laugh

about it,

once more.

Jurassic park beneath the bed

she's not

unlike a paleolithic scientist

who

finds a single small bone

of a dinosaur,

a toe,

or the skeletal remains

of a knuckle,

or droplet of blood

locked in amber

and then builds an entire

beast out of it.

almost out of thin air

she creates a long

ago dead monster roaming

the earth with

bad intentions.

she does the same with a small

lipstick cannister

found under my bed

and one

red stiletto heel.

one random phone call

my mother

was

a telephone operator

back in the early

1950's.

my father, an infamous flirt,

was in the Navy,

stationed in

Philadelphia.

one day,

holding a fist full of change,

he made a long

distance call

from a phone booth

along the pier

to his mother in Boston.

my mother,

being the operator 

on the other end of the line,

connected the call,

pushing a black wire

into a slot

on the board.

they met

that night for pizza and beer.

within a year

they married.

then

after sailing the seven seas

and making

seven children

and dozens of grandchildren,

and great children

they both

were both laid to rest.

old and grey.

but it was a quite a phone

call i suppose.

coincidence,

doubtful. divine intervention.

perhaps.

what's wrong with these people?

they have

a nice yard, the new

elderly neighbors.

i'm jealous.

the iron table, black

and shiny,

the red

umbrella.

the long strings of Edison

lights across

the yard.

the bricked in patio

and bird house made

of wood.

the stone bird bath

full of water,

and blue birds splashing

about.

their garden is lush

with flowers

that i can smell across

my fence.

they play soft music

at night.

sometimes i see them

slow dancing

out there

and kissing one another.

whispering sweet words

of adoration.

they are enjoying their life.

who are these

people?

what's wrong with them?

the hot dog catasrophe

starving,

though not really starving,

although my

stomach has a tendency to lie

on occasion.

i pull a hot dog

out from a plastic wrapper

pushed to the rear

of the shelf

in the refrigerator.

i roll it around on a plate

and examine it closely

after searching

the cupboard for another option

like peanut butter

or tuna fish, but

nope. nothing there.

but the hot dog looks okay.

i don't see any green

spots,

or grey darkening the pinkish sides.

so i send it to the microwave

to cook.

three minutes later

after it settles down a little,

and stops wiggling,

i give it a nice swath

of brown mustard

and a spoon full of sweet

relish.

all on a soft bun,

also not moldy.

three hours later i'm in the ICU

with a glucose

line

attached to my vein

and wearing an extra-large pair

of Depends.

Amazon Returns

after struggling

with the new sheets to get them

over the mattress,

i'm sweating,

and cursing.

i've tugged left

and right,

flipped then around.

finally i give up and look

at the tag.

they've sent the wrong size,

standard

instead of queen.

oh my.

how late is Whole Foods open

today?

the road up to Ephesus

as we

climb the hills, the dirt

roads

to Ephesus,

the rug and garment

salesmen

and women,

crowd us,

and reach

for our arms. they

yell loudly at us

in broken English.

we are mere tourists off the boat,

off the long air conditioned

bus

that has taken us here.

do i need

another rug,

another shawl, or

blanket

or shirt that will shrink

three sizes

in the first wash?

another pair of sandals?

we are not rich,

despite what they believe

and shout.

we worked hard

and saved to get here.

we press on as if guilty,

bent to their voices

as if

carrying our own cross.

the last lunch together

for sake

of the funeral, all of us siblings

set aside

our grievances

and put our

guns and knives on the table

and nibble

on our salads

and bread.

at last not

an unkind word

is said,

not a snide remark,

not a single complaint

about one another

is heard.

we're all saving it up

for the ride

home

in separate cars going

in different directions.

what wasn't said, is at

last said.