the let's forgive and forget court system

no one

is guilty anymore

of anything.

no matter how horrific

the crime is,

rape, murder,

strangling babies.

it's society's fault.

it's 

lack of parental guidance,

our education

system has failed

us.

it's the patriarchy.

genetic

disposition.

they weren't hugged

enough.

it's hormones and estrogen

run amok.

it's testosterone

and medicine,

or maybe it's just good old

fashion

demonic

possession.

everyone needs one more

chance to be good,

or at least ten or twenty

more chances.

a cruise on the high seas

i ponder

Noah's Ark.

the bathroom situation

in particular.

flush or no flush.

two ply or four?

was there

a cafeteria?

a lounge.

were there complimentary

drinks

when the ark

hit rough seas?

was one able to get any

sleep

with all those

animals making animal

sounds?

anything to read?

there must be some dirt on them

it used

to be there was an election

that caught your

interest.

governor, senator,

president.

maybe you went down

and voted

if you weren't too busy

that day

getting a haircut or mowing

the lawn,

and then

you paid

no mind to politics

for the next two 

or four years.

you just wanted to be left

alone

and not listen

to another lame

speech full of promises

and platitudes.

but now

you find yourself

googling mayors

and sheriffs,

the dog catchers

and delegates

in your county and city

to see if there's

any dirt on them.

are they worthy of your vote?

thoughtful birthday gifts

she bought me

a sampler box of ED meds

for my

birthday,

and a negligee

for herself

from 

Victoria Secret,

stiletto heels

with a matching

small leather

whip.

i guess tonight would

be the night.

candles were lit

around the house,

a bottle of red wine

poured.

the dog

sent to the pound for

a few days

and nights.

Marvin Gaye swooned

gently

on the old stereo.

everyone looked different then

during

the pandemic years,

when everything was shut down.

it was harder

on women.

no nail salon

to go to,

no tanning booth,

no hairdresser,

no esthetician.

no yoga class, or Pilates.

no book

club or parties

to go to.

no Botox injections.

no girls night out

or in.

but for men it was business

as usual.

the little black book

maybe you knew

three

or four phone numbers by

heart

when growing up.

your own

and a few

close friends,

a girl friend or two.

but those days are gone.

now it's worse,

you have

to remember fifteen

different

passwords to get anywhere.

caps and symbols,

sequential numbers,

random letters, all

breadcrumbs on paper,

clues to your world.

the little black

book

is different now.

how old was he what killed him

i don't know at what

point,

but suddenly you take great interest

in the obituaries

in the back

pages of the metro section

of the paper,

or the notice

online,

of other's your own age,

or younger dying.

whether movie stars,

or singers,

or regular Joe's,

like you or I.

you want to know how and why,

what went wrong.

you want to educate yourself

on their failures

on how to continue on.

at last and honest word or two

one

wife told me, during settlement

negotiations

for the divorce,

that she had one regret

about getting married.

and what is that,

sweetheart?

i asked as we sat

outside the courthouse.

and she said,

with a straight and honest

face, for once,

that she wished she had married

a doctor or a lawyer,

instead of me.

the alimony would have been

much greater

than what you can afford

to give.

guessing one's direction

such an

easy thing to do. to use

the blinker

in your car

to warn others as to which

direction

you are going next.

such a polite

and civil task to take on,

and yet

few do.

they believe, like race

car drivers

on a track,

that it's unnecessary

at any speed

to click or left or right.

guessing one's 

direction

is up to you.

trying to escape

bored with

war news, with protest news,

with political

news,

you burn the newspaper,

shut

off the tv,

close the phone.

you take a walk and shake

off what you

know of the world.

you ignore

the graffiti

along the way,

harsh words painted

in black.

that too trying to tell you

what to think,

how to behave.

the splinter

it takes

a small thing to steal

your mind.

a small wound,

a splinter

in a thumb,

a white lie.

all day you ponder

the sore.

you stare at it

under the bedroom

light.

tomorrow will be

better.

it usually is,

sleep will make it right.

persnickety

i don't believe

in wrapping paper. i'm done with it.

Christmas, Birthdays, etc.

the folds,

the dull scissors,

the scotch tape,

the ribbons

and bows.

my hands are too big,

i'm not good at it.

it's a racket, this wrapping.

why not

just give the gift

and be done with it,

tell them to close their

eyes,

then hand it to them.

or wheel it in on a cart,

if it's that big.

why does every gift have to

be wrapped?

who started this nonsense?

a persnickety  woman

would be my guess.

a long night into morning

it's a breakfast

buffet

at the no tell motel

along

the interstate.

i'm with Susie who is still in

her black

dress and high heels,

the same outfit

she was wearing last night

when we sat next to each

other at the bar

in very dim light.

we get in line.

there are scrambled

eggs and bacon, potatoes,

and pancakes

that sort of thing.

still recognizable despite

the heat

and time.

eleven forty-five

by my watch.

we grab a cold plate,

a tin fork and spoon, a butter

knife.

we set it all on our plastic

tray,

and slide along.

already i regret

what i'm about to eat,

as i am

by who i'm with,

who i met last night.

ankle deep in the dunes

that the water

is rising

is of no surprise, the ocean

with its

roar after

a week of rain,

the northeastern storm,

a thick bruise

of blue,

and yet

we step closer to it,

face in the wind.

we enjoy this

the angry tantrum

pounding the shore.

we stand on

the edge of

annihilation, but thrilled

at the chaos

of nature, we fear it,

but want more.

under a half moon

there's no reason

to feel

cold,

but you do, lying here,

under 

a half-moon,

leaking

pale light

through the blinds,

the blankets pulled

to your chin,

the dog at your side.

what is this

bone chill

within you.

what's bothering

you tonight?

what gloom has returned

again?

mixed emotions

come in

out of the rain little one.

where

have you been?

we looked all over town

for you.

we're glad

you've returned,

scratching at the door.

we've worried

about you.

we're sorry to have

struck you so many times.

come in out of the rain,

little one.

shake off

the rain, 

here's your dish,

your water,

settle in.

let me tighten

your collar,

put the leash on again.

small distractions

i'm distracted

easily

these days, my concentration

not being

what it used

to be.

i can spend a whole morning

watching

the flight

of a fly

or bee, somehow in the house.

they seem

to have no rhyme

or reason

in their flight.

bouncing from shadow

to light.

we're so alike,

right now.

guilty as charged

i'm taken

in for

questioning at the police

station.

i'm a suspect for a crime

i didn't do.

they set me down

in a cold

chair

in a small cinder block

room.

there's a bright light

above,

as the fat detective

sits across

the table,

tapping his fountain

pen.

he pushes a coke towards me

and a sandwich,

which i open

up and begin to eat.

cold cuts on an Italian

roll.

chips? i ask him.

no, he says. sorry. no chips.

so where were you on the night

of Friday the sixteenth?

he asks.

i think for a moment,

taking a pickle out of the sandwich.

hmm.

where was i?

i don't know. i'm not sure, but i'm

guilty, i'm guilty i tell him,

wiping mayonnaise

off my cheek.

he scratches his

head.

but we didn't tell you what

the crime was.

it doesn't matter, i tell him.

i hate my job,

my home life

is miserable, my wife

is cheating on

me and my old dog

died last week.

my kids are covered in tattoos

and they love

Bernie Sanders and AOC.

put me in the jump, i tell him,

throw away

the key.

empty halls

your

lips leaning in

against

the cold arc of water

from the steel

fountain

in the school hall,

comes to mind

for no reason

at all.

the battery of closed

lockers,

the linoleum

floor

scuffed and dirty.

the smell of food

boiled

in the cafeteria.

the startle of a bell.

these days

never leave

you,

they continue on.

what's going on down there?

we used

to do the peppermint

twist in the basement

to Chubby Checker

records and

do the limbo.

we were

athletic and lean,

able

to bend under the bar

without

touching our chin.

Angel's mother was upstairs

with her husband

Roy

watching tv.

Gunsmoke, or Lawrence Welk.

sometimes we'd play

post office,

or spin the bottle,

sitting dangerously knee to knee.

but if it got too quiet,

Angel's mother

would be at the top of

the stairs again

asking what the hell is

going on

down there?