genetics, fate, luck, destiny

two kinds

of us exist, the ones

who care

and the ones who don't.

the caring kind

watch what they eat,

they sleep well

and exercise. they avoid

hard drinks

and smoke.

rarely do they scale a mountain

or swim

with the sharks.

taking chances

is not their nature.

and then there are those

who don't care.

those who don't give a flip.

the ones who eat and drink

whatever they want,

they smoke,

and curse,

they avoid church, they speed

down the highway.

you see them

on the snowy slopes of

Kilimanjaro,

or on a rollercoaster

at the park, yelling look Ma,

no hands.

and yet, it's a flip of the coin

as to which

lives longer.

looking for Marge

the strange

man

who's been circling the block

all afternoon

in long black car

is suspect,

although no crime

has been

committed.

some feel that he's either

done something,

or is about to.

Laura,

the self-appointed

mayor

of the street

has already called the cops.

i see her at the corner

with a long handled

hoe in her hands,

a guardian

at the door.

at last

he slows down

in front of my house

and rolls his window down.

he asks me

if i've seen Marge, his ex-wife.

a lanky blonde woman,

black dress,

red lipstick.

i shake my head

no.

i don't tell him that she's

in my house,

sound asleep on the living room

couch.

her car parked four blocks

away, out of sight.

finding a tree to lie under

i fall

in love with the tree in the yard.

it made me

buy the house.

it's been

here before

my birth and will

still be here long

after i depart.

it doesn't judge me.

it seems ambivalent

about

everything

as my life passes

before it.

it's my kind of tree.

it lets me rest

under its shade.

lying down beneath

it on lazy

afternoons.

it let's me

watch the leaves turn

colors with

each new season.

from green to gold then

bare again

before my eyes.

it lets me listen to

the birds

astride on its welcoming

branches.

between us there is so

much unsaid love,

between us, there is

no animosity.

what will they think of me

i find

that lately i don't

put the broom

away

until company comes over.

there it

is in the corner

with the dustpan

awaiting dirt.

the same

goes for the dishes

in the sink,

the clothes on the floor,

shoes on the steps.

the vacuum cleaner

i step over

nearly every day.

why put the butter away now?

apparently

i worry less

about appearances

when alone.

not seen and not heard

it's easier

to like our own child

than it is

to appreciate

another's

little boy or girl,

same goes for a cat

or dog.

if it's not ours, 

our affection is not quite

the same.

so that's why i put

in the invitation,

just you

and maybe plus one,

in case you decide

to attend.

landing on our feet

to save

a marriage, to save

a job,

a relationship,

a house,

a place where we live,

we dig

our nails into

the cliff wall,

hanging on for dear

life

for as long as we can

until we at

last, exhausted, let go.

how surprised

we are to find that the drop

was only

two feet down, again.

I'll wait until you're gone

i can't paint you, she told me.

i can paint

still life,

apples

and oranges, peaches

in a white bowl.

i can easily go to my

canvas

and paint

a wheat field.

i can paint

those departed

from this world,

parents and lovers, 

dear friends

now gone.

i can paint the sky, the mountains,

the ocean as

it rolls in.

i can paint anything you ask

me to.

but not you,

not yet.

you're still here.

i'll wait until you're gone.

the warm sink water

we

wish it was

that easy,

to be free of sin,

as the New Testament says,

to rub our

hands together

with God's redeeming

grace under

the warm sink water,

dry them

and begin again,

unsoiled.

dirt free.

we want to believe

that truth,

that we can

all start over, be

clean once more, 

but

the problem

is our memory.

how dare you look at me in my low cut tight red dress

you know,

she said, 

as we talked

in the doorway,

you know that you

can't keep 

your eyes looking into

my eyes

when we talk.

what?

i asked, what are you talking

about?

i see that you keep

glancing

at my breasts. sometimes

lingering for more

than a few seconds.

it's very demeaning,

there's more

to me than that by the way.

what?

that's not true. 

that's not true

at all.

i'm having issues with

the optic nerves

in my eyes lately, so

it's not true, not true

at all.

yes, it is, she said, 

it's called gawking

and i

can only imagine

what you look at

when i walk away.

somewhere before dark

with our

heads on a swivel,

thumb

on a cannister of pepper spray

and

our money

tucked away in our socks

or zippered

jackets.

we stand on the subway

platform,

carefully

looking around,

without eye contact,

not wanting to be pushed

in front of a moving train,

or jabbed,

we position ourselves

against a pillar

that indicates Rockefeller

Center,

the current stop.

if we make it,

we'll walk to Central Park

and grab

a bite to eat

somewhere before dark.

ham biscuits

his wife,

Ruby, of Carolina descent,

would hand

us ham

biscuits through the window

as we painted

her house.

she was as plump as one might

expect with

southern cooking.

i can see her pink hand now,

extended

past the screen

and glass,

cheerful to a fault.

and when she died, he had 

a flat stone

put in the ground

in front of the house.

capturing her smile with

her name

inscribed, to which

we were always careful

to walk around.

avoiding adult conversations

we steer

clear of politics

at the dinner table,

as we do with

religion

and current, or past

wars

going on.

we avoid the news,

domestic

or foreign.

not a word is spoken

of the climate

or the price

of eggs or petrol,

the latest revolution

on other shores,

we talk about how fine

the meal is,

the bird

and stuffing,

the wine,

and with surprise,

we praise

the dessert as it come in.

the inheritance

as i spread

this fig

jam

across the Saltine cracker,

over the kitchen

sink,

i think of you.

how in love

you were

with assorted crostini,

cheese too.

how you held the silver

spoon,

and dipped

and then delicately

spread the brie

across

with a special knife,

rounded

with an ivory handle,

your grandmother's

i presume.

at each rattled stop

leaving who

you are,

even for a minute will

divulge

the nature of the person

your eyes

are looking into.

not by words, but

by their faces.

you can tell if they

are angry,

afraid,

or in love,

as they hold the strap

in the subway

car,

perhaps hurt.

is it darkness you see,

or light?

but you have to put

yourself away

first.

which is hard to do,

each rattled stop

brings

more. all new.

none of this will last

those wild

oat

years, kept us busy.

mostly chasing skirts

we'd never

have.

the boys

together in sports

and school,

in extracurricular behaviors.

our beat

up cars

would take us places

in the dead

of night.

a bar across the track,

to Georgetown,

to Virginia,

anywhere still open

at some

ungodly hour.

where to, one might yell

out and in

three hours we were at the beach

asleep on

the sand, our mouths

dry with

beer, but with no regrets.

we knew, to a man,

that none of

this would last.

the cat is out of the bag

bad

news travels.

it can't stay in one place.

it has feet that scurry from

one hot

ear to the next.

the grapevine,

though cut in many places,

survives, it

still functions

for most

family news.

illness,

cancer or a heart

gone wrong,

some tragic

event will eventually

leave

the mouth of a nephew

or niece,

an aunt on the phone

with a ball of yarn

at her feet.

in time it will

come my way, distilled,

but still,

at the same time

digestible.

leave me to my ways

it should

be easy, the story books tell you.

the gold

watch, the big

chair in front of the tv,

a white plate

of hours on the wall,

all yours.

and yet,

i see the men,

bent

by smoke and drink,

work,

the women in knee high

stockings,

shuffling

down each aisle for

what they

already have, and then

what?

it feels grey and despondent

this destination.

there is no rainbow,

no golden

pot at the end of it all.

so spare me,

your best wishes, your

retirement party.

pop those balloons,

dispose of the cake.

leave me be

to my natural ways,

which is work,

until there is that day, when

i'll welcome

and embrace that open grave.

everything has been said

as i leave

her house,

the color of parsley

paint

on my hands

and face

she hands me a cupcake.

apple

and cinnamon,

a few

crumbled pieces

of walnut.

she writes

the check, but i can

tell she wants

to talk,

she doesn't want me to leave.

her husband died 10 years

ago.

i see his car

in the garage, his mower,

his rake

his gloves on a hook.

his boots are on the steps.

she tells me,

as i carry out my ladder,

that he

loved to bake bread.

me too, i tell her,

and then everything that

there was

to say,

has been said.

one third cup of brown sugar

it's rare

to have a neighbor knock on your

door anymore.

no one

seems to want or need

anything.

and it's scary if they do,

as you edge

to the door, eye upon

the peephole.

i remember

Jennifer, the piano teacher

next door.

single like me, always

knocking

when the sun when down,

low on olive oil

or sugar.

brown or white,

just a third cup

full she'd say.

when i think about her,

i wonder

if there was something else

she really wanted,

or needed.

maybe i missed a chance

at dating her,

or something better,

something more.

the cold wet line

i still see her

beating sheets

against

the wind. wet clothes

in the cold,

along the frozen

line.

her raw

hands with the broom.

maybe the sun

will come out,

maybe it won't.

how many

pairs of jeans did i wear,

still wet?

too many to count.