why apples

when you came home
you pulled up
your mask of zorro
from your sweaty
face and spilled
your plastic bag
of candy onto
the floor. slowly
you separated
the gum from
the lollipops
and candy bars
pulling them all
with a sweep of
your small hand
into large stacks
and the sweet tarts,
the mary janes,
the twizzlers and
licorice. gum balls.
the random apples
never stood
a chance, tossed
to roll towards
the other side
of the room clunking
against the wall
like bowling balls,
why you would wonder
out loud with a
laugh, why apples.
what kind of a crazy
person gives out
apples?

the moment gone

your children
are asleep
in the other room
down the hall
past the lamp
the plant, the
dog that lies
blessedly
unknowing.
your children
tomorrow are
gone, fast
in their own
lanes, their own
beds, towards
another life
you'll never
truly know.
the moment savored,
is the moment
gone.

winter sky

you are barely
there. a thin
fog of a man
in thread bare
clothes, gasping,
on grey lungs,
on two old legs
that hardly
move. you are
barely there
amidst the living
shadowing your
day with tattered
dreams, and moth
eaten memories.
you are barely
there as the sun
rises on cold
blue snow easing
just so into
the winter sky
above the park.

cold summer

it's too cold
out for shorts,
but like the fool
you are, you wear
them anyway. you
have a tendency
to hang on to each
glimmer of summer
fading fast. it's
worth the shiver
to pretend that
things aren't the
way they really are.

gypsy queen

with her black
hair like
a gypsy queen
and her
crystal ball
and porcelain
white skin,
she knows
the future,
she knows
in a minute
after stroking
your hand
and one sweet
kiss where
you are going
and where
you will have
been. believe
her.

the land line

she used
to set her
blackberry
on the table
and text
and type
and take messages
as the meal
came and went.
sometimes
she'd look
up at you
and nod politely
as if she
heard what
you were saying.
her fingers
moved rapidly
along
the blinking
keyboard
between
slices of bread,
sips of wine,
strands of pasta
going down. oh
how i missed
when there was
only a land line.

like

it's like
this, i like
really really
like this
cup of coffee
it's like so
likable. don't
you think,
i mean really.
how's your
coffee, are you
like going to
drink it while
it's still,
like so hot?
are you like
too tired
to talk, or are
you like mad
at me for saying
like in every
sentence. an
answer from you
would be like
really nice. don't
you like me
anymore? i would
really like
to know. please,
like just nod
your head, or
like something.

street theater

the dog wearing
antlers
crossing the street
towards
the bulldog
with a string
of christmas
lights blinking
around his
collar. the moon,
a bright
slice of glitter
above it all
as you in a
policewoman's
outfit sucking
on a lollipop
hold the leash
attached to me
dressed as
abe lincoln
going to the
theater.

the birdhouse

your sister,
the one you stay
in contact
with, sends you
a birdhouse
in the mail.
she made it in
her garage last
spring, she
made six of them,
one for each
sibling. it's
a fine bird house
once you put it
together
and paint it.
and if you
were a bird
you could live
there. it
has a round
hole as a door
and slits
for windows.
you peer inside
and imagine
yourself on
the couch reading
a book or
watching tv.
you hang it on
a tree outside
your window,
and you wait
to see who makes
it a home.

her knee

she wants to show
you her scar
so she lifts up
her dress
and points
at the round bend
of her knee.
there is a moon
shaped curve
of healed
skin, a scar as
thick and pink
as a worm.
and then
it's your turn,
but you don't know
where to start, so
you kiss her
and say, let's
change the subject.

dreaming of camels

you have a dream
about camels.
one hump camels,
brown and long
legged. you
want to ask
them how they
can go so long
without water,
months and months
without even
so much as a
sip. but they
don't speak
your language
as they stare
back at you with
large saucer
eyes, blinking
in the desert sun.
this has nothing
to do with
love, of course.

the red sweater

it's a rainy
saturday and cold.
so you decide
to clean out your
closets and drawers.
reassess your
wardrobe. you
take inventory of
thirty seven white
t-shirts, and
six black sweaters.
five pairs of jeans
and nine button
down white shirts
that all need
ironing. you need
something red.
you need something
to jazz up your
combination of black
and white, so you
go to the mall and
buy a bright red
sweater. that night
you put it on to
go meet sally for
drinks. you feel like
a big tomato sitting
there on the bar
stool and she
laughs when she
sees you. what's up
with the sweater
she says. i don't
think we can go
out anymore if you
wear that again.
smartly though, you
haven't taken the
tags off the sleeves
and you still have
the receipt folded
in your pocket.

dinner and a movie

she doesn't love
you anymore,
she says on
the phone that
you are selfish
and self absorbed,
distant and aloof.
she doesn't know
how or why she
ever got involved
with the likes of
you. this goes
on and on so you
set the phone
down next to
the goldfish bowl,
you feel like
these are things
that goldie should
hear, that apply
more to her than
to me and after
you fix a cup of
tea and some toast
you pick the phone
back up and say,
uh uh. are you
listening, she
says, did you even
hear one word
of what i just
said. i finish
chewing my toasted
raisin bread, and
say, yup, i heard
all of it. so what
about friday, there's
a great movie
playing. dinner,
movie, back to my
place for a game
of scrabble?

tomorrow comes

busy in
his old age
with a wrench
tightening
screws. finding
loose bolts
and nuts with
which to turn
and tighten.
there is always
a door ajar,
or window stuck,
there is
the whistle
of wind that
seeps through
the attic
floor. there
is suddenly
everything never
seen when life
held more.

halloween

below the harvest
moon, with orange
licks of
buttered candy
and swooping
trees, where ghosts
and goblins
and bright striped
bees swarm
under chilled
winds, the arms
of parent
with lights in
hand guide
the way, yet only
for awhile,
only for awhile.

better left unsaid

some words
when at last
all who remain
are gathered to
post farewell, why
bother now with
the story told
of what was said,
or unsaid, the
meaness or callous
ways of those
departed, why
spoil what has
gone when there
is no one left
to defend whether
truths or lies
are right, are
wrong. yes, better
left unsaid, when
the handful of dirt
is tossed upon
those descending,
and the final bell
has tolled,
what harm is there
to let him go
as a saint and be
done with it, and
the final tale
untold.

the red bowl

you can't
reach the top
shelf, so you
pull a chair
closer to
the counter
and step up
in your stocking
feet.
it's a bowl
you never use
that you want.
it's glass,
and red. as
red as cherries
on a tree.
it reminds you
of christmas
as you hold
it up to the
window and let
the light
stream through.
and when
you've had
enough you reach
back up
and slide it
into place.

the wedding party

when the wedding
party ends,
and the last
dance is danced,
the cake cut
and eaten, when
the last bottle
of champagne
is popped
and drained of
every pink bubble,
what then, she
thinks, staring
at the bathroom
floor.

when the battery dies

you resort
to pencil and pen,
finding a scratch
pad to make
a list of things
to do, what
to buy at
the grocery store,
who to call
and when.
it's strange to
hold a pen
in your hand
and not a
touch screen
phone where
everything is
kept in a world
you know little
about, or how
it all works,
but strangely
trust, not
unlike your faith
in a higher
power, and prayer.

two pictures

nervous and shy,
she sends you a photo
before meeting. she's
at a church picnic
wearing a checkered
dress with a ribbon
around her waist,
and is holding a plate
of cupcakes with white
and pink icing. it's
a lovely picture,
her long hair
in the sun, the smile
on her face, but i
can't see her eyes
and there is too much
distance from
the camera, so i ask
for another picture,
something more
revealing where i can
see what she really
looks like without
the sunglasses, and so
she does. the next
picture she's wearing
a leather bikini,
holding a bullwhip
in one hand and chewing
wildly on a raw
steak in the other.
behind her there is
lightning in the sky.
better, she says?
you say yes, better.

being there

the graffiti
man, with his
cans of orange
glow and green
as bright as
apples sprays
his name and
sign along
the high water
tower and
beams of bridges
that rise
above the high
way, while
below a stray
flea bitten
dog pees upon
the hydrant.

the upside of losing it

after leaving
the stove on,
she put the milk
into the cupboard,
her keys
in the freezer,
she kissed
the cat goodnight
and told me
that she loved
me and couldn't
live without
me, things
aren't exactly
right, but it
seems there is
an upside to her
losing it.

behind you

you are being
followed.
you can feel
the presence
of someone
behind you.
hear their
shallow breathing,
the low beat
of their heart,
the soft
tip toe
of their shoes
through
the alley,
past the empty
benches
of the park.
you look over
your sholder,
but see no one.
it's always
been this way,
making you walk
faster, pressing
you forward,
to get to where
you're going
sooner.

monkey love

your new pet
monkey, jimmy,
or j j as you
call him,
gets out of his
cage and
uses your
computer while
you're at work.
he loves your
new mac.
the next day
you have a truck
load of
bananas at your
door. you
give him a look
and shake your
finger at him.
he shrugs
his shoulders,
then scratches
his coconut head,
showing
his teeth in
a wide smile.
you notice
that there are
now two monkeys
in the cage
and one is
wearing a short
dress, high heels
and making
noises with
a russian
accent. she's
wearing bright
red lipstick.
you forgive him
though. you can
understand that
kind of lonliness.

crazy girl

if you place
a shallow bowl
or dish of
white vinegar out
it will take
away the smell
of paint, or
other odors
that may offend
you. don't ask
me how, she
says, it just
works. and
the garlic
wreathe upon
the door, what's
with that, i
ask her. that
keeps away
the dead who
want to suck
your blood, she
says and offers
me some candy
from her plastic
pumpkin.

velvet cupcake

you left
your velvet
cupcake
on the sill
of the window
and the birds
have flocked
upon it.
the pink
ribbed paper
is all
that's left
to remind me
of who you
used to be.

the caged tiger

someone begins
to tell you a story.
you are on the bus
going to the zoo, so
you are trapped,
and have to listen.
it's a long story
that makes you
stare out the window
after a while. you
no longer nod, or
say hmm hmm to let
them know you are
listening, the window
is fogged with
your breath as
the person tells
you about their
life, the injustice
of parking tickets,
and spilled milk.
they tap you on
the arm to make a
point, they laugh,
they cough,
there may even be
tears at some point.
it's a long ride
to the zoo and you
can't wait to get
there, to hear
the silence of
the caged bengal
tiger who paces
restlessly
in the long shadows
of his day.

the kindness of others

you make
the mistake
of climbing
the mountain
that you see
outside your
window. you
take a cup
of coffe
and your cell
phone, but
you realize that
halfway up,
it's getting
harder to
breath and it's
cold. a jacket
and gloves, and
a wool hat
would have
helped, as would
rope, and
a pick and axe,
and oxygen
tubes and a
nice relief
map, but you only
have your coffee
and phone.
fortunately you
come to your senses
before you black
out and a bear
eats you,
and go back
down, taking
the path that
others had carved
out, being so
thoughtful
and so kind.

love

what isn't lost
is never
found, it stays
where it always
was, out of sight,
out of mind,
collecting dust,
fading in
the long days
of sun, going
brittle
with winter
and you becoming
one.

what time has done

you google
friends who were
friends, picking
faces from
memory, names
that scratch
the surface of
your mind, you
search
for them on
facebook and
various other
places that they
now reside, not to
talk, or to e mail,
or text or to
friend again,
but to just see
what time has
done to them
whether kind,
or unkind.

what did you do today, dear

in her under
wear she goes to
the window
to wave to
the mailman
as he takes his
time putting
the junk mail
through the slot,
he tips his
hat, his bag
less heavy, and
then the milkman
comes and
puts an extra
bottle of
whole milk
into the silver
box on the porch.
a dozen eggs,
a quart of orange
juice. he waves
and smiles.
the yard workers
take their
time, cutting
the lawn,
trimming
the hedges,
digging weeds
where there are
no weeds.
they climb the trees
to cut the dead
branches, staring
into the window
where she stands
and grins in
her silky shorts,
and then
the boyscouts,
a troop
marching along,
stops to salute
her before
moving on to
camp and tie knots
and to dream of
her while they
toss and turn in
their pup tents,
and finally
her husband arrives
and she greets
him at the door
fully dressed.

i hop

love is
a monkey wrench
you tell
her over
coffee and
cigarettes.
you are dining
late into
the night at
the international
house of
pancakes,
in fact it's
early morning.
three a.m.
you want
the waitress,
brittany,
in her blue
uniform to take
the plates
away of cold
eggs and nibbled
toast, but she's
busy in the kitchen
with juan,
a monkey wrench?
she says, blowing
smoke up
in the air.
it's nineteen
eighty-four,
you could smoke
then. yes,
you tell her
and sip your
black coffee.
it's heavy, it's
awkward, love is
hard to carry
around sometimes
and you don't know
where to put it.
i don't know
what the hell you're
talking about,
she says, but
i think you're
cute anyway. i hear
her heel go
off under the table
and then feel
her foot caress
the inside of my
pant leg. at this
point i try
to stop talking
crazy talk
and leave a
twenty on the table
for brittany.

the number

it's funny
how what you
throw away
is what you
need next.
the thing
that never
got used
in years
is tossed,
and then,
suddenly
you need
that phone
number you
scribbled
on a napkin.

towards land

it's the rowing,
the infinite
number of strokes,
the splash
and pull of oar
in water across
the dark lake
of time. slow
and easy, there
is no downhill,
there is no
path without
a storm, without
wave upon
wave before you.
it's the rowing,
not the land
so far ahead.

new born

a new born
as pink as a
fresh balloon
against an
april sky,
his milky
green eyes
half open
to the light,
his impossibly
small fingers
reaching
for what he
wants, not
what he needs,
and this is
how it starts.

bus stop

standing
alone at
the stop,
you feel
the cold
in your toes
first.
in your hands,
the tip
of your un
covered nose.
a wind rises
up your cuffs
and a shiver
rattles you
from top
to bottom.
this isn't
your bus
to get on
and leave,
but you wish
it was.

six across, the goddess of love

an old man
without his shirt,
back in his
soft chair,
the grey
tuffs of his
chest, tanned
and in the sun
his black
glasses on.
the paper
folded with
an unfinished
puzzle in
his lap as he
dozes with
pen in hand,
and a word he
used to know
left somewhere
on the tip
of his tongue.

it's hardly
rainin

the morning bath

the smell
of morning,
of shaved soap
and water,
the hot rising
steam above
the steel
white tub
with you sub
merged not
unlike
a pale ghostly
dream, your
leg lifted
along the rim,
your eyes
alive with
what will
come, and me
standing there
overwhelmed
with the quiet
of you.

frost bite

baby it's cold
out there,
but not as cold
as it suddenly
got in here, we
really need
to have that
talk, don't we.
i don't know
what you heard
out there on
the street, but
let me put some
gloves on,
a hat and scarf
and overcoat
as well. i
can tell by that
look in your
eye, that it's
going to be a
long cold winter.

bag by the door

the sun
only has five
billion
years left
before it
burns itself
out and
becomes
a red giant
that obliterates
our orbit.
i haven't
made plans
yet, but i
keep a bag
by the door.

politics

you grow
weary listening
to the debate.
words,
grandiose
statements of
change and
jobs, of ending
wars and
poverty and
keeping out
the unwanted.
it's the same
as it always
was for as long
as i can
remember. the
hot air
wafting above
the crumbling
rafters while
rome burns,
and the ashes
blow like
failed
promises across
the scorched
earth.

your basket

your basket
of sorrows
like stale
bread, spoiled
eggs, bad
fruit is in
your arms
again, and
yet again as
you walk
the streets
at night,
everything
you say,
everything
is fine,
your world
is right.

hollow moon

the woods
are not quiet
tonight.
the trees
are haunted
the leaves
are whispering
on the wind.
the stream,
so cold
and clear this
time of year
is speaking
to the stones
it rolls upon.
i won't venture
near, this
late at night,
leaning
out the window
at the hollow
moon.

no pulp welfare

the tired man
on the bench
dressed in rags
yells over to me
for a match to light
his fat cigar.
i tell him that
i don't have one,
that i don't
smoke and he sits
up and says, what's
wrong with people,
what the hell is
wrong with this world
today? do you have
anything to drink,
some scotch and i tell
him i can run up
and make him a quick
apple martini
and bring it down
to him,
and he laughs and
says what are you,
some kind of girl.
what about a sandwich,
do you have any
food up there to
bring down?
sure, i tell him,
ham and cheese okay?
toasted he says,
with mayo and onions,
on rye,
lettuce, but no
tomatoes, i'm
allergic to tomatoes.
and a dill pickle too.
okay, okay i tell
him, i'll be back.
hey he says, i'm
going to be hungry
and thirsty tomorrow
morning too, do you
do breakfast? i
like my orange juice
with no pulp.

the hunt

i could eat meat
she says, buttoning
her coat for the long
walk up the avenue.
charred red meat
and potatoes. throw
in a green bean or
two if you'd like
and a slice of bread,
but for the most part
i'd like a slab
of meat for dinner
tonight, can you do
that for me? i put
my hat on, and gloves,
wrap a scarf around
my neck and say, sure,
let's go. let's beat
the rush, and get
there before it's
all gone.

nothing surprises

nothing surprises
you anymore.
the earth being
round, the sun
being too far
away to ever
visit, and hot,
the moon just
a white ball
of dust and useless
crumbling rock,
nothing causes
alarm anymore,
not the neighbors
who argue through
the walls and then
make love at night,
the phone ringing
at three a.m.
with only bad
news. nothing
that people do
with guns and knives
makes you raise
your eyebrows and
go oh my, anymore.
too much water,
bad water under
all of these bridges.
the evangelist
with a whore,
the politician
stealing petty cash,
the mechanic not
changing your oil,
the one you love,
who slips out
through the open
back door.

sylvia

you get a post
card from
india. i miss
you, it says.
i love
you, signed
sylvia. but
you don't
know anyone
named sylvia.
you write
her back though
and ask her
when she's
coming home,
you tell her
how things are
not the same
without her.
the cat is on
the window sill
waiting
patiently.
you tell
her that you
love her,
that you miss
her, then
you go to
the post office
and tell
them you want
postage to
get it to india
to the woman
that you
now love,
sylvia.

meteor

you lie
in the cold
grass of
october, staring
up into
the clear
starlit sky.
you wait
and wait
for the streak
of light,
the meteor
that shoots
out of nowhere.
so brilliant,
and rare,
and how is
love not like
that, i ask you.

marching

i'm marching
in a circle
for work, more
jobs, to cure
a disease,
to end the war,
i'm up and down
the streets
with every colored
ribbon you can
imagine. my
shoes have
holes in them
from all the
marching i've
done lately.
end this, begin
that, let's
change the system,
make it all
right and we
can do it with
signs and shouts
and ribbons
and by marching
marching and
more marching.
i would march
all night, all
day, through
the snow and rain,
but at some point
i have to go
home and feed
my dog.

with heart in hand

the thought of
you, the storm
of you, the weather
that you bring
when you appear,
is slipping
like a road
covered in
fast falling
snow. i no
longer look
out the window
to see you
coming up
and over
the rising
hill with heart
in hand.

mona lisa

you wake up
in another time,
in another place,
the renaissance
period,
and there is a
knock at your
door, it's da
vinci wanting to
borrow a palette
of magnesium white
paint, and you
tell him no, go
get your own paint,
and he says, hey
but, and you say,
no buts about it,
always running out
of paint, aren't
you, can't you see
i have a guest
here, which is
mona lisa, who's
sitting on
the straw bed
with a smile on
her face and putting
her boots on.

cat bliss

the cat
arches her
back in
the moonlight
upon the sill.
she can
stare for
hours at
what passes
by the window.
bliss
is in not
knowing, not
coming,
not going.

you hear
the horses
late at night
riding into
town,
the rope
going over
the high tree.
you lie
in your cell
unrepentant
and asleep
believing
your guilt
will be worked
out on
the other side.

round and round

in a circle
she goes,
chasing her
tail in
a basket empty
of clothes,
round and
round and
round, there
is no place
left to
go if she
catches it.

a sea of coffee

the world
is a sea of
coffee.
cups are adrift
everywhere
you look.
there goes
one down
the street,
floating in
the gutter
with lipstick
on it's white
hard rim
as the rain
steams down
from espresso
sky, lids like
rafts, white
circular
dots of plastic,
remants from
that morning
cup, that
afternoon
pick me up,
that dessert
after dinner
latte.
the world
is a sea
of coffee, and
i'm in line.

did you find everything you need

is there anything
else i can
help you with, did
you find everything
you need today, the
cashier says, as
she puts your box
of donuts into
a plastic bag, and
you hesitate, but
then begin to
tell her about
all the things on
your list that you
need and want
help with, the line
backs up, and
people are grumbling,
but you begin to
tell her about
the time your
mother forgot your
birthday when you
were twelve, and
go from there.

from corner to
corner, the mad
man in dreadlocks
and baggy pants,
talks to no one
and everyone,
his hands moving
like vipers
in a pit, his arms
going up and
down, sideways.
he is feared, making
others go to
the other side
of the street
while he partols
the world that he
is in.

clown days

you come home
from work,
and take off
your clown
suit, the fat
red nose.
the water
flower from
your lapel.
you wipe the
make up off
your face,
then fling
your floppy
shoes to the
corner and sit
there in your
yellow silk
suit, like
a deflated
banana after
a long hard
day where
no one laughed.
bastards.
you get up and
fix yourself
a drink
pulling off your
orange fright
wig. there has
to be better
way you think
to yourself,
a better way.
coal mining
crosses your mind.

no going back

it turned
cold
suddenly.
blue skies
gave way
to grey.
the clouds
rolled
in thick
and low
across
the tops
of empty
trees.
the earth
thickened
as the wind
blew in
out of
nowhere.
there is no
going back
in weather
like this.

despite being
full, you manage
to eat one more
chocolate covered
donut. what
the hell you say,
winter is on
the way and i need
another layer
of fat to see
me through those
dark snowy nights.
what's one more
donut anyway.

the venus fly trap

someone sends you
a plant
in the mail.
someone
who left her
shoes under your
bed a few times,
not lillies, not
roses, not
flowers of any
friendly sort,
but a venus fly
trap. the note
with it says,
this is you, and
i'm apparently
just a fly in
your life. enjoy.
i find it all
very clever and
creative and so
call her up
to apologize
for everything
i've ever done
to hurt her,
then ask her out
to dinner
on friday night.
she says no, but
i put the plant
on the table
anyway and open
the window
to let new flies
fly in.

the walk

you realize now
looking back
and seeing where
you have come
from and where
you are now,
that you can go
forever, walk
from here
to china
and not get
tired when
there are things
to think about.

how

they scatter
quickly
in the wind.
these years.
these leaves
that turn
on cue
with each new
season,
and you press
them firmly
into the folds
of your memory,
between
the thickend
pages
of now
and youth.

the sea at night

in the night
when you take
the boat out
and strike
the oars let
them rattle hard
in the iron
of their rowlocks
and as you push
them into
the dark sea
pulling towards
the full moon
with a quiet splash
and it's white
embrace, it's
not the journey,
or where to
that's important,
it's more than
that. it's you
being in
the boat, in
the night, in
the sea, alone.

like apples from a tree

she falls in love
easily, men
are like apples
falling from a tree
in the wind.
she can't catch
them fast enough
before they hit
the ground,
or quick enough
before they turn
brown, and the worms
have bitten into
the soft thin skin,
but it's love she
says, true love
for sure this
time as she tosses
another one into
her basket of
shied cores.

these diamonds
on the shore
of night
as the black
sky rolls out
it's gems.

hey where did we go

there is sometimes
something that you
went for and left
without. it was
the one thing that
inspired you to
get up from
the couch and
venture out into
the cold rain to
buy and drive
to the grocery store
glowing like a
beacon in the night.
but you got
distracted by
the lights and
shiny floors, the
rattle of empty
carts, the soothing
music piped in from
the sixties. marvin
gaye cooing as you
leaned over
the tomatoes, the
ripe red delicious
apples. van morrison
happily singing
brown eyed girl,
making love behind
the stadium,
in the tall grass,
while you surveyed
the cookie aisle
then wandered towards
the milk. so many
milks to choose
from. and by
the end of the
temptation's ain't
too proud to beg,
sweet darling, your
cart was full, but
still missing that
one thing that you
should have written
down.

horseback riding

the horse never
throws you, no,
she insists, it's
your fault for
falling off. she
says this from
her hospital bed
where she has
just awakened from
a three day a coma
after hitting
the brick wall
where she rode in
circles her mare.
the white helmet
she was wearing
sits on the bed.
dented and scratched,
bloodied. something
spooked her, she
says. poor baby.

store front vet

and as the doctor
smiles, not with
his eyes, and the
receptionist, red
eyed and bent,
head over her
magazine, quiet
in her professional
way, you
step towards
the small back
room of green
linoleum tiles
and a steel
gurney where
the dog, your
bright lover
of life will
lie, and finally
without command,
stay.

shadow

even your shadow
has forsaken
you, when you turn
around it's gone,
no longer stuck
to the back
of your shoe.
you yell out
for it in vain.
it doesn't like
this dark side,
it wants the sun,
the blue
sky of you.
not this, so
grey and covered
in rain
tattered clouds.

beneath the sink

her father
would hide
his liquor beneath
the kitchen
sink. he'd
tuck a neat
pint or two
of jim beam,
or old crow
safely below,
between the
musty shadows
of wet pipes
and buckets,
grey rags.
and when he
decided to
tip one towards
his dry lips
you knew. he
was either
singing or
there was crying
in the other
room where a
hole was in
the wall.

the bathroom floor

there is no
such thing as sin
she says
while scrubbing
the bathroom
floor with
a toothbrush.
her knees
are rubbed
red and raw,
her hands are
pink and swollen
from the work.
i can't get
these floors
clean, she
says to me and
looks up.
i need help.

the fire

everyone gathers
for a fire
to see the roof
in flames,
the windows
shattered
from the heat.
they stand back
holding their
breath,
shaking their
heads, better
them, than me.

silence

you argue
silently
with the way
the sun
has set,
how the moon
just appears
in the absence
of light.
you bicker
with the wind
and how it
bellows
in the hollow
darkness of
trees.
and when
rain falls
you hold a
grudge against
the cold
puddles,
grumbling
to no one
your feelings.

clarity

i waste no
time on
that one.
a year past.
enough
blue hours
spent. i want
my money
back.
i want a refund
on false
love, on goods
undelivered.
the clarity
of time
and distance
is as clean
and as clear
as a cold
glass of water
on a bright
starlit night.

the gate

the unhinged gate
in disrepair,
leaning
on it's white
trimmed shoulder
with peeling
paint, a rusted
bolt that
neither slides
or closes
one in or out,
and the thick
grass too
has no memory
as to who
has come and gone.
that worn
path no longer
there, the collected
stones, once
playful seats
now cold
and overgrown.

the apple queen

i was getting
dangerously low
on apple butter
so i made the trip
up to berkley
springs west
virginia for the
annual autumn
apple butter
fesitval. i wasn't
disappointed
in the least.
i have enough
apple butter stocked
away in my cupboard
to get me through
the winter and
into spring, and on
the bonus side of
the trip, i fell
in love with the
apple butter festival
queen who was riding
on a float to resemble
a butter knife and
a plate. we fell in
love after the parade
at a local saloon
where they were serving
hard apple cider.
i feel like this time,
this is the real deal.
i just love her apples.
i could bob all night
for apples like hers.

that new car smell

my new car salesman
mohammed,
smiles, adjusts
his tie and says,
i can get you
that car, but black
is hard to find.
you have no idea
how rare a black
car is these days.
i look out the window
of the showroom,
sliding forward
in my plastic chair,
sipping from a styro
foam cup of cold
coffee, and stare out
at the highway
where every other
car is black. you're
going to need wheels
on this car right?
the salesman asks
me, shaking his head
while his hand moves
around his calculator.
i can only give you
twelve dollars for
your old car. sorry,
but it's used, and
i see that someone
sat in the back seat
once and put gum
into the ashtray.
smells like perfume
back there too. he
looks at me and i
shake my head. dunno,
i say. no clue
about that. only
twelve dollars, i ask
him. i can talk to
my manager and see what
we can do if you are
willing to buy today,
he says. do we have
a deal?

park clean up day

it was unfortunate
that the park clean
up day coincided
with the deer management
hunt with cross bows
by local amateur
hunters positioned
high up in the trees,
oh and halloween.
those picking up
the littered
debris of bottles
and bags, cartons
and wrappers should
never have been
wearing their costumes
with antlers and
fuzzy bear suits.

less

you carry less
of yourself
now that there
is grey in your
hair and your
step is slower.
so much that was
so important
is over.
the weight of
future years
is gone. you
think in terms
of the last
time you'll buy
this, or that,
or go here, or
go there. but you
like the feeling
of less. there
is no sadness
in this age.
you are almost
off the ground
with the thought
of it. almost.

still angels

the children
tethered together
by nannies along
the sidewalk at
midday. uniformed
and small, their
legs just touching
the ground, still
angels, still
the best of what
all of us could be
given the chance
to stay so young.

the path

as you roll smoothly
through the darkened
woods, seeing the still
shadows of grey deer
on the unsafe edges,
and swift foxes like
whispers weaving
through the brush, you
remember much of
what you've forgotten.
how things change
and yet remain
the same on this old
path and off it,
with each toss
and turn of a new season.

the winning ticket

you win
the lottery
just ten million.
but you vow
that it won't
change your life.
but it's too
late as you lie
in the doctor's
office getting
botox injections
into the furrows
of your brow
and fat sucked out
of your pendulous
belly. a hair weave
is not out of
the question now.
as is that new
mercedes. baby
seal black
with leather
and all
the trimmings.
maybe a driver
too wearing a cap.
it's only seven
million after taxes,
so you realize
that you need
to go slow,
but you are not
afraid to buy
grey goose by
the gallon now,
or fresh crabs
by the bushel. caviar
by the case.
pfffft, money,
you say to
your new friends,
no problem as you
fly everyone to
vegas for a weekend.
you are stunned
and pleased at how
women have suddenly
recognized your charm
and wit and good
looks, what took
them so long?
you change your
number immediately
because your mother
keeps calling about
something and move
into a condo
overlooking
the city. it has
it's own elevator.
you've always wanted
one of those. you
get unlimited texting
and the last three
remaining channels
on your cable plan
that you don't
yet have. you cancel
your match dot com
subscription
and join millionaire
match. by the end of
the month you think
back on the old you,
the poor you,
working for a living,
an old car, an
old girlfriend,
eating peanut butter
sandwiches while
standing at the sink
late at night,
worn shoes on your
feet and drinking
smirinoff. it's all
good now, but no,
you haven't changed
a bit. you are still
you and you have
plenty of people that
will happily agree
with you. things have
changed, but
you haven't.

rock creek parkway

it winds and dips,
it's rough
and edged deep
with ruts of
whatever they
use to mill
the old pavement.
the construction
goes on forever
with do not
enter signs
and barrel after
orange striped
barrel lining
the beaten path
with nets to keep
the runners
and the bikers
off to the side.
it is a blind
series of
nothing but s's,
moving along
beneath the kennedy
center, along
the sun pink river
and into the park
where a black
canopy of trees
enfolds you
in old arms,
below the stone
bridges,
up, up towards
mass ave,
connecticut ave,
onto the zoo
and beach drive.
out onto calvert
street where
you thank God
once more that
you've made
it out alive.

let's go out instead

your smoke alarm
signals you from
your nap that dinner
is ready. the house
is full of
smoke and your
eyes are watering,
you choke a little
and clear your
throat. you've
been out for over
an hour, after
drinking a half
a bottle of wine,
sleeping
soundly while
the pot roast
simmered and then
caught fire
in the oven. but
you like it that
way, burnt and
crispy. of course
the potatoes
and carrots that
you so carefully
cut up are shriveled
and black. your
date arrives before
you can order chinese
over the phone.
you look through
the peep hole and
admire the little
black dress she is
wearing, and that
her hair is done
up nicely. you tell
her to wait
as you put the fire
out and change from
your pajamas into
something clean
and decent. you yell
through the closed
door. let's go
out to dinner, okay?
she peeks into
the window and nods
yes.

no dinosaurs, please

i wish we
had dinosaurs
she says,
daydreaming
her chin in her
hands staring
out across
the daisy covered
meadow,
into the woods.
how fun would
that be to see
a real t-rex
walking about,
a brontosaurus,
or a pterodactyl
lumbering across
the sky with it's
expansive grey
wings. don't you,
she says, dreamily,
wouldn't dinosaurs
be fun. not
really you tell
her. traffic is
bad enough as
it is already.

asleep

my leg has
fallen asleep.
it tingles and
burns, has no
feeling from
hip to foot.
it sparkles
with an infinite
number of stars
as i try to
stand on it's
numb leaden bone.
thank god
for the remote.

there will be blood

you've had a
bad morning
shaving in the dark.
the power is out
because of the rain,
the wind,
the trees falling
down taking out
the power lines.
you have small pieces
of tissue all over
your face and neck
where the blood
is eeking out due
to the nicks
and cuts. and
when you get on
the train to go
to work, you see
women blotting
their legs and
other men dabbing
at their shaving
wounds. it's
amazing how
connected you feel
to the world at
large during
times like these.

the bank

you go the bank
to make a
large withdrawl.
it's not your
bank and you're
carrying heat
and wearing a
mask. to your
surprise,
there are five
other bank
robbers ahead
of you, standing
in line, sweating
beneath their
masks, holding
their hand written
demands on limp
pieces of paper.
even the tellers
and the bank
manager bent
over his desk
in his glass
enclosed office
is wearing a mask.
on a side table
there is freshly
brewed coffee
and donuts, you
go over and take
a seat, relax
and wait your turn.
there are chocolate
covered glaze,
your favorite. you
look at your watch.
it's almost twelve,
banking hours
are nearly over.

if i can just
get out of this
jam, pay this
bill, meet the
right person,
move into the
right house,
the right
neighborhood,
have that car,
the shirt,
those shoes,
take that trip
to europe, then
i know, i just
know, everything
will be alright.

quitting work

i'm handing in my
resignation
tomorrow i tell
my wife as she
stands at the sink
chopping onions
for the stew she's
making for
dinner in eight
hours. but you
can't resign she
says, wiping
a tear away from
her eye. but it's
the onion making
her teary not
that she's sad
about my decision
to quit work.
and why can't i,
i say, tying my
shoes under the
kitchen table.
because you are self
employed. you own
your own business.
the business is
you and you are
the..., okay, i
get it, i tell her.
it's all very zen
like i know. i'm
just tired of working,
and having the man
keep me down. she
laughs while a tear
runs down her cheek.
she grabs some carrots
to dice and wipes
her eyes. pfff.
you are the man
honey, she says.
how can the man
keep you down,
when you are
the....okay, okay.
so what will you
do when you quit work.
how will we live,
how will we pay
the bills, take a
vacation, how will,
we....what time's
dinner, you ask
shaking your head.
six, don't be late.
see you later.

more scrabble

i have a j
a z, a q without
the u, one o
and two
e's, i'm
doomed. let's
quit now
before you
win.
i can't find
a word
to put me
past you and
isn't that the
way it's
always been?

how it begins

you come home
to find
your door open,
the house
unlocked.
someone has been
inside living
your life
while you were
out. there
is a plate of
bacon and eggs
on the table,
toast with a bite
taken out.
orange juice
and coffee.
the newspaper is
open to the metro
section,
the obituaries.
there is a
picture of
you, but it
can't be you,
you are still here,
you are not
gone. you are
hungry and ready
for more life.
you yell up
the stairs to
see if anyone is
there.
you go from
room room but
there is no
one. this is
how ends, this
is how it
begins.

waiting for the light to change

the politicians,
smiling,
are standing
near the intersection
waving with
their placards
and promises
in hand. waving,
and waving.
the whole day,
out there as you
wait for the
light to change,
and for
the world to
change too, which
never seems
to happen.

and now this

curls of
empty trees
leaning
against each
other
as the wide
stream widens
and rises
at the edge
of where they
stand and
wait it out.
and your hand
against
the window
is cold.
you feel
the bones of
winter rubbing
against
you. it's
always a surprise
when things
don't go
the way you
planned, summer
being summer,
and now this.

not that hungry yet

an angry
woman who
needs her
wallpaper up
tomorrow
calls on
the phone.
she needs
measurements
and advice,
and needs it
done sooner
not later.
kids are
screaming in
the background.
dogs are
barking.
we've never
met and she's
already
yelling at
me, pinning
me down to
a date and
a time that
i can come look
at the job.
it's silk and
she wants
the ceiling done
too and a
guarantee
that it will
never crimp or
fail or fall.
i have a
headache within
two minutes
of our
conversation
with her yelling,
and me listening.
gently i slip
the phone back
into it's
cradle. i'm
not that hungry
yet.

election day

if elected i promise
to give everyone
everything they need
at the expense of no
one. everyone will
be happy. there
will be no more
wars, no one will
be hungry or homeless.
don't pay your taxes,
pffft, no problem.
even the animals
will lie down
and sleep together,
the wolves with
the sheep, the snakes
with the birds.
the cats with the
dogs, the fish with
the, ummm, i'll have
to think about that
one. i mean do fish
sleep? anyway, if
elected, if you vote
for me you'll get
a good night's
sleep and three
square meals a day.
i'll even reduce
the price of
coffee to a mere
one dollar a cup. yes.
i can do that, don't
ask me how, but i
will, i promise. but
first pull that lever,
fill out that ballot,
raise your hand
for me. your new
king and leader.

icebergs

don't tell me
it's october,
she says.
i don't need to
hear that.
nothing good
happens
in october.
we lie in bed,
backs to each
other, cold
and white like
two icebergs
trying to separate
and float their
own way.
what about
halloween,
i ask her, that's
fun. you're
right, she says,
that's when you
put on a mask.
october is not
all bad.

a rainy sunrise

i've got your number
on a book
of matches, i've
got your sister
in the other
room. i've got
a hangover, and
glass of seltzer,
this place could
use a broom.
i've got to get up
and shake of
the cobwebs, put
on some pants
and a pair of
shoes. i've
got no where i
need to be, but
i have to get
there real soon.

chainsaw

you see a madman
walking down
the street with
a chainsaw in
his hands,
it's whirring
loudly and there
is a look of
crazy in his
eyes, so you
cross to the
other side, and
then you see your
soon to be
ex-girlfriend emily
coming up
the sidewalk
heading directly
towards you with
a handful of
emails that you
sent her late last
night while
finishing off
a bottle
of pinot noir,
you quickly run
to the other side
and take your
chances there.

the empty boot

as the fireman
puts his boot out
on the street
corner, and the
man on the stoop
has his hand open
for whatever spare
change you can
spare, and when
the doorbell
buzzes with someone
needing a donation
to keep the march
of dimes marching,
and when
the phone rings
from goodwill,
the good samaritans,
or clothes planet,
the lighthouse
for the blind, or
the purple heart
and what not,
you wonder if there
is room for you
out there on
the line,
when your cup
is empty and needs
to be filled too.

the light

your sunshine
is the light above
your bed,
that swinging
bulb with a long
grey string, where
moths and flies
have gathered
in a choir of
buzzing prayer.
a congregation
of misguided
hope, thinking
wrongly that
light equals
happiness and
when the light
goes out, when
the string is
pulled and nothing,
what then? where
is there to
turn when
faith darkens.

a better place

let's go down
the road. it's a
better life
down there. right
over the hill,
beyond the trees,
across the lake.
come on, let's go.
the sun is shining,
the moon is set
pretty in the night
sky. let's hurry
before we're old,
there's a better
place down the road.

books

i remember the time
i came home from
work and all of my
books were packed
in boxes. salinger,
hemmingway, faulkner,
steinbeck and
o'connor, tucked
and stacked neatly
into cardboard
boxes while my ex
wife wrote with a
magic marker on
the top in bold
black letters.BOOKS.
what the hell, i
said what's going
on here? i'm giving
away your books,
you have too many,
some of these are
thirty years old.
you have hundreds
of them and you've
already read them.
maybe the poor would
like to read them
as well. i needed
more room on
the shelves for
my porcelain
figurines anyway.
apparently she had
never heard of
the public library.
and this was one
of many many clues
as to why we
aren't together now.

tomorrow night

i don't want to
die alone,
she says, i want
to meet someone
and die with
them. oh really,
i say to her.
sounds lovely.
two old skeletons
sitting in the sun
waiting to die.
that's not what
i mean, she says.
i want to live
a full life, but
to share it with
someone who loves
me and i love
them. to live out
our golden years
together. it's a
good goal, i tell
her. good luck
with that. and what
about you, don't
you want to be
in love and to
live out your
final years in a
happy relationship?
sure, i tell her,
but my goals aren't
quite as lofty
as yours.
i'm more worried
about tomorrow
night. if i can get
through that, and
nobody gets hurt,
well, that's
fine with me.

going home

be careful
in the rain,
she used to say.
stay warm,
stay dry.
and then she'd
wait until
the car would
pull away
before flashing
the porch
light and closing
the door with
a final wave.
of course none
this is true,
but wouldn't it
be nice if
it was.

bread money

my grandmother
used to hide
her money,
small bills
mostly,
in coffee cans,
in the sleeves
of old coats
and oven mittens,
a pulled up
floor board in
the basement.
a vent in
the ceiling.
she never believed
in banks,
in stocks and
bonds, any cash
she had, which
wasn't much
was folded
neatly into
squares and tucked
away for a rainy
day that never
came. she swore
she'd never go
hungry again.
and after
she died of old
age weighing
seventy pounds,
we're still
finding it.

this shark
sees a man
swimming, his
arms and legs
thrashing, so
he calls up
his friends
and says, hey,
we're having a
cookout, come
quckly.
and so his
friends arrive
with fins
cutting through
the water,
and then there's
the gnashing
and clawing of
teeth.

don't make
me pull this car
over. if you don't
stop teasing
your sister, you
are going to get
it little mister.
i'm watching you.
get your fingers
out of her
ears and stop
blowing bubbles
in her face. hey,
hey, are you deaf
young fellow.
but she started
it. i don't care.
both of you keep
your hands to
yourself or i'm
not stopping for
icecream. hey,
i see you sticking
your tongues out
at each other,
roll them right back
into your mouths
or i swear no
dairy queen tonight.

at the races

i put almost
everything i had
on one horse.
one race down at
the track. i had a
hunch, a clue,
a tip that just maybe
this horse could
win despite the odds.
she came in last.
and as she staggered
across the finish line,
and i ripped my ticket
in half, tossing it
into the air, another
one caught my eye
on the infield grass.
long and lean,
as tightly wound
and beautiful as any
horse i'd ever seen.
this horse could
be the one i whispered
to no one. she runs
tomorrow. the rest
of what i have will
go on her.

under the hood

she doesn't walk,
she sashays
down the street.
her hair swinging
left then right
pretending that she
doesn't know
how cute she is.
it's not the hips,
or legs that pull
her along and
makes you look
a little too long,
no it's something
else, the engine
perhaps. what's
under the hood.

the dead sea

despite catching
the reflection
of sun and clouds
and an autumn
moon, like love
gone bad,
nothing can
live there,
no fish survive,
no plants
to speak of,
you can float
on your back
with ease, but
don't let it
fool you, it's
the enormous
salinity of
it all keeping
you afloat.
there is no
body of water
that sits
lower than
the dead sea in
it's brackish
depth
with no way
out, no way in.

brown shoes

your brown shoes
still fit.
still shine, await
your feet
if so inclined
to take a walk
or to skp down
the road, or even
dance perhaps if
the chance
arises. but no.
those were
the shoes you wore
with lily.
you can't toss
them out, and you
can't wear them
again. it's funny
how it works
that way.

no singing

it won't stop
raining, each
day is the same.
a grey drizzle,
a downpour, a
deluge. the creek
runs high,
the trees sag
and fall under
their own weight.
lightning creases
the sky
as the thunder
rolls. everything
is wet and full
of mildew and mold.
it's a world
of open umbrellas,
of raincoats
and boots, of
mud. there is no
singing in this
continual rain.
no fools are out
there dancing.

parmesan mashed potatoes

i want this to
last forever, or
at least for a very
very long time,
she says as we're
eating dinner.
and you say, what
are you talking
about, this meal?
whew. i'm already
stuffed,
although i could
use a small slice
of chocolate cake
if you want to
share a piece.
she rolls her eyes,
and takes a long
sip of her wine. she
leans her elbows
onto the table
brushes the hair
away from her face
and makes eye contact.
no, this, us, our
relationship, our
whatever it is that
we have going on here.
how come you
aren't eating
your mashed potatoes,
you say. don't be
so selfish, slide
some over here.
you nudge your plate
towards hers making
them clink romantically
together. she uses
her spoon and shovels
a mound of creamy
parmesan potatoes
onto your plate.
that's good, thanks.
i think we have
a good thing going
here, don't you? she
says. it's so rare
these days that two
people meet and get
along as well as
we do, don't you
think? you nod yes,
hmmm, hmmm. you arch
your eyebrows to
confirm what she's
saying. you start to
eat the potatoes.
still hot, you say.
wow. i can't believe
you don't like these,
good god these are
good. just have a
taste, go on. you
put your fork out to
her but she shakes
her head no. more for
me, then, you tell
her. more for me.
now what were we
talking about?

quaker oats

i was eating a
bowl of catholic
oats the other
morning, that's right,
catholic oats,
not quaker oats.
they take a full
hour to cook
unlike the quaker
variety which take
a whole minute.
the catholic oats
are also full of
sugar and berries,
a variety of nuts.
there are lot's
of calories packed
inside and come
in a stained glass
box. St. Peter
is on the front
wagging his at finger
at you like uncle
sam. i felt guilty
after the first
spoonful, but
kept eating, worried
sick about
purgatory and
hell, limbo
and questioning
if there was
any truth at all
in the food pyramid.
i kept kneeling,
standing, sitting
according to the
instructions on
the side of
the box. by bowl's
end i was full
and yet confused
and burdened with
angst. i may go back
to the simpler oats
at some point.
the quaker oats,
but for now i'm at
the mercy of
St. Peter and
catholic oats.

white birds

like ghosts,
clandestine
white birds
sliding on
dry wings
through
the frost of
trees hung
heavy with
last night's
snow. whose
birds are these
so out of season
one cannot
know, but only
wonder at how
lost even
beauty can be
in winter.

yellow raft

after floating
on a yellow raft
for what seems
like weeks you begin
to hallucinate.
you mend all of
your relationships
as you nibble on
your leather shoes
and sip water
that you've caught
and cupped in
your hands when
the rains came. you
loved the sun
when you were
young, but now
it's just a reminder
of another day
passing as you
drift and drift
across this
great unending sea.
the fish come up
to stare at you
wide eyed and cold
as they swim
like grey feathers
as one. this is
not the life you've
chosen and suddenly
as if a shooting
star, you realize
that neither was
the other one.

we make a good
pair, she says.
me and you as
one. let's move
in together and
make a go of it.
i'm slow
to respond and
she says, did
you hear me.
and you say,
but i like to
take a nap at
five, and sometimes
throw all my
dirty laundry
down the stairs
and leave it there
for days. i am
capable of lots
of dust, of
unswept floors
and dishes in
the sink. sometimes
i am up all
night doing this
and that.

muses

a brilliant word
or two from
you is all i need
to go another
mile. a kiss,
a touch from
your long fingers
upon my soul
will keep
me fueled and
moving down
that mystery
highway where
there is no
setting suns,
just rising, rising
white pendant
moons.

mail day

unopened mail,
on the table,
still cold
and sealed within
their white
beds, can wait.
i'm full of
bad news, of
dire circumstances
told from
afar. yes. we
all need help.
but can't i wait
just another day
to not hear
about your
troubles. i miss
those days when
a card would
come and you'd
shake it out
for money not
sadness.

delivering the post

in the peaceful
warmth of cold
on the corner
of winthrop
and audrey lane
you'd fold
and bend
the post and
slip the news
into plastic
sheaths to
throw onto your
list of porches
that circled
round on your
given route.
and those
mornings of
solitude, with
the dog
so patient
beside you,
the sky full
of half light
and stars
waiting for
the wagon to
roll, your
shoes to move
through the dark
streets
and work, as
much then as
you still do
to this day.

september

summer slips
out the back door
quietly
on soft feet.
she's leaving
a trail
of wet leaves,
of skies
dissolving quickly
under
the apricot sun.
it reminds me
of you, of love
ending.

discipline

i admire
the discipline
of the mountain
climber. going so
far, so high,
pressing on
despite the cold
the thin air
and danger of
it all, falling
into a crevice
to be stuck and
frozen until
the end of time.
and the swimmer
who swims the channel,
the sea, across
the ocean from
cuba to the keys
stroke after
stroke in the choppy
whip of waves
being nudged by
grey nosed
sharks with
lancer teeth. how
brave they are,
how strong minded
and willed. and
i think
about this as
i drive my car,
trying to make
it home, to
traverse the twelve
miles or so
without stopping
for coffee just
once. persevering
towards my
destination without
a grande coffee
in my hand. the
discipline is
elusive, my willpower
weak, not being
able to stop as
each coffee shop
goes by and by.
i'll never make it.

missing person

i saw your
signs
the other
day on
the telephone
poles
all along
the highway.
missing
person with
a small heart.
the paltry
fifty dollar
reward was
embarassing.
it was a picture
of me. i
don't take
to the camera
well and was
disappointed
on the photo
that you chose.
i wasn't feeling
well that day
after eating
a hot dog
at the carnival
and cotton candy.
i am in
the back seat
of a stranger's
car right
now, gagged
and in
a kennel cage.
they are on
their way
to your house.
i hope you're
happy now.

dr. phil

you come
home tired from
a long day
on the job, there
is paint and
dust in your hair,
two of your fingers
are stuck together
with acrylic
caulking. you walk
the dog
to the corner
and back, you
pour some food
into his bowl.
toss him the ball
a few times
then turn on
the t.v. . you
go to the kitchen
and make
a sandwich.
ham on rye
with a squirt
of mustard. you
grab a cold
beer, a handful
of baked chips.
you hate them
but you
don't want to
expand your
waist line
any further
than what it
is. you get
the jar of sweet
gherkins and lay
out a couple of
wet green pickles
onto your paper
plate. you
make the dog
sit and beg
then toss him
a doggy treat
which he swallows
without chewing.
finally you settle
in to watch t.v.
and eat your dinner.
dr. phil is on.
you love dr. phil.
the first words out
of his mouth, which
he says in every
episode are,
"you people need
to stop hurtin one
another. look at me,
not at her. when
she picks up a knife
to stab you, don't
you pick up a knife
to stab her. why
don't you pick
up a fork instead.
and use it to deflect
her stabbing
motion. she loves
you and is only
acting out on her
emotions." this of
course makes everyone
cry before
the commercial break.
you love this show,
it has such a way
of making you
thrilled with your
own life.

falling from the sky

as hundreds
of pounds
of melted metal
cascades from
the sky
in a burning
heap of spent
technology
and we dodge
the rain
of fire
as it burns
brightly
across the blue
curve of
horizon, i
wondered
if maybe we
shouldn't meet
sooner, rather
than later
for that cup
of coffee.

hemmingway's cats

hemmingway,
given a cat named
snowball by
a seafaring captain
in key west
fell in love
with the polydactyl
feline and to
this day, long
after his
departure, they
have multiplied
and still roam
the grounds and
house at sixty
strong,with names
like emily
dickinson,
and thoreau,
hopping walls
and causing
mischief, many
with six toes,
like gloves
or mittens,
ready to pounce
on any clean
well lighted
place and sit
in his ghostly lap.

the narrow path
that leads
down to the water
is overgrown.
it hasn't seen
shoes and boots
in years.
the bramble
rises and wraps
along the trees.
it's where
we used go when
the seasons
changed and
the trees dropped
their leaves,
and the sun set
low along
the horizon.

it's a good world

full of novacaine
after a root canal
and a new crown,
you go for coffee
and a scone.
your white shirt
is quickly streaked
with blotches of wet
brown drips
and crumbs, you
have a crosseyed
look about you
and can only mumble
on the phone. you
realize later
that your zipper
has been down
all day. you are
trying to read
the newspaper
upside down.
a woman comes
over and smiles
at you and puts
a dollar in front
of you and this
repeats itself
until the table
is covered in
money. it warms
your heart to think
about the goodness
in the world,
then you take
your sleeve and
wipe the drool
from the corner
of your mouth.

the party
starts at eight.
bring a friend,
bring a
bottle of your
favorite wine.
wear a dress,
there will be
dancing. it may
go on all
night. don't
worry about
the food, there
will be plenty.
i'm busy right
now wrapping
shrimp in
bacon.

marie

you start with
a small room
over a chinese
restaurant. you
are happy there.
with your table,
your chairs,
your sofa
and tv.
and you love
the smell of
roasted duck
and fried rice
wafting through
the vents as you
lie in bed
and listen to
the traffic
outside your
window. it can't
get much
better than this
you say to
your girlfriend
marie who has
a pillow over
her head and is
trying to sleep.
and years later,
with more rooms,
more furniture
more of everything
that doesn't matter,
you remember marie,
and think about
how right you
were.

unspoken

he remembers a
girl he knew in
school. blue eyes.
a pony tail.
short legs
with skinned knees.
he loved her
as much as he's
ever loved anyone
despite her
never knowing.
which doesn't
matter even now.
so many decades
past. why
change this
pattern, he thinks.
why let anyone
in on such
a thing.

the bank robber

the bank robber
sits drinking coffee.
he's waiting
for the doors to
open. he's
wearing a mask,
and gloves. and
has a briefcase.
he carries no gun,
not believing
in violence.
there is a map
on the table that
he studies.
he talks on the phone
to his wife
and tells her not
to wait up,
to leave
dinner in the fridge
if he isn't home
by six. he looks
at his watch
and sighs.
another day, he
says to himself.
another bank.

she lies down
in a sea of feathers
while the pink
street lights bloom
below her fourth
floor window.
the taxis run
all night.
there's a man
curled on a bench
outside the seven
eleven. a rat
moves easily
across the street.
a siren. something
in the alley.

reach under there,
no right there,
give me your hand.
do you feel that?
it's a small round
lump, the size of
a pea, or a ball
bearing, it's hard
too and it hurts
a little. what is
it, i ask. did
see a doctor. no,
not yet, she says.
i'd rather wait
and not have that
news just yet.
i'd like to go
another day or
so and believe
that all is well.
i understand, i
tell her. bad
news keeps. but
it's probably
nothing. don't
worry about it.

fish sticks

i was making dinner
the other night,
fish sticks
and broccoli when
the phone rang.
it was a salesman
asking me if i
was interested in
buying some
generic drugs at
a discount price.
he was working out
of india,
but could have them
shipped within
three working days.
i told him i was
fine and really
didn't need anything
at the moment.
no aches, no pains?
he said in his
indian accent.
ummm, well now that
you mentioned it.
yeah, my achilles and
my knee have been
acting up a little with
this cool rainy
weather we're having,
and i've had a headache
ever since my mother
stopped by on sunday.
oh, and i've got some
sneezing going on
with the fall pollen.
oh my goodness, he
said. it is a good thing
that i called you. yes?
i can send you
the multi-pack
perscription that will
cover all of that
and itching too.
itching? sure why not,
i'm always scratching
something. no
indigestion, he said
inquisitively?
i looked at my
fish sticks spinning
in the glow of
the microwave oven.
yeah. that's coming
too. might as well
include that in the
package. i will send
them out immediately.
just read me the numbers
off your card and we
can help you out.
bless you, i said.
bless you. let me
get my wallet.

no parking

the policewoman
who used her bull
horn and flashing
lights, telling
me to move on
from the spot where
i was idling,
because there
was both a hydrant
and a handicap
sign ten feet
beyond that,
looked twelve years
old in her blue
uniform and
cap. she may
have been wearing
braces and had
a pony tail.
the windows
in my car
were steamed
as i was trying
to convince my
date to extend
the evening further
at my place and
when i rolled
the window down
to show the police
woman my driver's
license and she got
a look at me and
my date and how
old we were,
she began to laugh
with her bullhorn
still turned on.
i'm sorry, she said,
as if speaking to
her parents, but
ummm, you can't
park here. i can
still hear her
laughter echoing
down mt. vernon
avenue. the story
she will tell.

the mayo clinic

you go an entire
hour or so without
thinking about
women and sex. you've
been concentrating
on work and other
assorted things.
this shocks you though.
this sudden change
in your thought
process so you go to
the doctor and ask
him what's wrong,
am i losing my libido.
has my testosterone
abandoned me. are
there pills i can
take to get back this
formerly irrepressible
drive? a whole hour,
the doctor asks. how
many days in a row.
just one, i tell him.
and at your age, he
says. oh my,
lie down on the table
for awhile. this
could be serious. i'm
making an appointment
for you at the mayo
clinic. we'll get
to the bottom of this,
don't worry. it could
be nothing, perhaps
something you ate,
lack of sleep. i'm
sending in the nurse
to hold your hand
for awhile. thanks
you tell him, thanks,
that would be helpful.

mind reading

i know what you're
thinking she
says to me walking
across the room
in her little
black dress,
swinging her hips
like a pocket
watch. i know
exactly what's
going on in that
brain of yours
right now. oh
really i say back.
and just what is
it exactly that is
on my mind. let
me whisper it
into your ear,
she says and smiles
and does so.
you should put
on a turban
and have a booth
at a carnival,
i tell her.

thirty seven minutes

your subscription
has run out.
you've let your
membership expire.
the light on
your dashboard
blinks yellow.
you've decided to
no longer water
the flowers, they
are on their
own, just like you.
even the milk
has gone sour.
the bread is green.
the apple soft
and brown upon
it's flattened
side. the bananas
are black and
the clock though
ticking is off
by thirty seven
minutes. everything
is normal.

re-enactments

you join a group,
a meet up group
that does re-enactments.
this week it's
the civil war, but
you hate the civil
war. next week it's
the great depression.
you sign up for that,
to be a newsboy
who stands on
the corner with
an arm full of
newspapers and
a cap yelling out
the headlines,
that dillinger
is dead. next you'll
huddle around
a barrel of fire
that licks the cold
night air. you'll
stamp your feet
into the ground
and say things
like, i wish i had
a bowl of soup,
or a t-bone steak
and a garden salad.
then later, after
the re-enactment
is over, you'll go
get what you've been
talking about.
the next month they
are re-enacting
the black plague.
you can hardly wait.

the great hill

on the great hill
we would sled
in january
with socks on our
hands for mittens.
our shoes soaked
through and red
with numbness.
and despite the
wind and cold no
one wanted to go
in. i still remember
the streetlights
going on, as the
sun disappeared
into the bleak sky.
and everything
dark seemed
permanent, and
everything good,
like the snow
seemed short
and soon to melt.

waiting for a bus

despite having
nothing to say
you say something
against your
better judgement
just to make
small talk
while you both
wait for the bus,
and of course
it turns out
wrong. have you
gained weight,
for instance, or
are you okay,
you look very
tired today?
have you ever
thought of not
wearing a red
hat with a yellow
coat? just
asking. where
the hell is that
bus?

the soft
yellow cat
who thinks
he's a dog
rolls over
on the rug
paws up
and mouth open.
his green
eyes looking
over.

that last slice of cake

it wasn't so much
that she stole
the blankets, or her
light snoring or
the fact that she
may run off to
guatemala with
an ophthamalogist
who has a small
piper plane and a
ranch in montana,
no, it was that
at all, it was
that she ate
the last slice
of chocolate cake
left on the dish.

bread truck

you've been driving
a bread truck
for a few years
now. wonder bread.
debbie cakes.
donuts.
short bread and
the occasional
loaf of french
bread in the open
ended bag.
you used to like
the smell of hot
bread fresh out
of the oven.
that soft warm
dough simmering
on the racks in
back of the truck,
but not anymore.
at this point
you couldn't put
a slice of
wheat toast in
your mouth to save
your life. you
think about
other trucks you
might switch too.
ice cream maybe,
but that would
break your heart
to give that up,
just as it would
if you were
riding in back too.

the old ride

you'd like to
roll back
the odometer.
correct
the steering,
realign the wheels,
and get a new
paint job.
the engine could
use some new
plugs, the oil
changed. you
definitely could
use some tlc
on this aging
ride of yours.
you both could.

september snow

you wake up
and look out
the window.
there's a foot
of snow on
the ground and
it's only
september.
your neigbor
has already
shoveled out
her car three
times and has
been up to the store
for groceries.
she sees you
looking out
the window, still
lying in bed
and throws a
snowball at you.
she's smiling
brightly like
it's christmas.
you shake
your head and
almost flip her
off, but don't.
instead you wave
and fall back
into bed and
mutter that it's
only a dream,
it's only a
dream, which
is broken off
when you hear the
snow plows coming
up the street.

marking time

with a pencil
i stand straight
up against
the door jamb
and make a mark.
when i was a
kid my mother
did that to see
how tall we
were, the
progression of
our growth,
but now i'm
doing it for other
reasons.

the round bed

she says i want
a round bed
that way i can
never wake up on
the wrong side
of the bed.
very wise i tell
her, very smart.
maybe it could rotate
too, i said.
not fast, because
then you'd be
dizzy all the time,
but a slow rotation.
put a sky light
in the ceiling
for some planetary
viewing.
yes, she said,
how cool would that
be. very cool, i
said. okay, let's
do it. let's
find me a round
bed. what about
sheets though,
i said. where are
we going to buy
round sheets.
hmmm. no problem.
i have scissors.
will it vibrate too,
i said. nah, she
said. we don't
need that.

the commune

i joined a commune
after losing my job.
it seemed like a good
idea. save money.
conserve energy,
be a part of a
progressive and
eclectic community
of new age souls.
the no clothes thing
however wasn't working
for me. i opted
instead for the loin
cloth and was
immediately
ostracized and forced
to clean up the
chicken house
and collect the honey
from the bee hives.
i'm saving up now
for some neosporin
and sunscreen. we get
paid thirty three
cents a day from
selling eggs and jars
of honey on the side
of the road. starburst,
formerly known as
shelly, is the unofficial
leader of the commune.
she's got it in for
me though because i wear
a watch and still have
my cell phone. i
don't see myself
lasting too long
here though. i haven't
had a martini in weeks
and they don't have
cable tv, they don't
even have electricity,
like what's up
with that. commune,
pfft.

due to the economic
climate after the big
change as a result
of the last election
i joined a commune.
it seemed like a good
idea at the time. a
way to save money,
conserve energy and
be a part of a well
meaning and progressive
group of wonderfully
eclectic people.
the clothes optional
suggetion did take
me by surprise though.
i decided to go for
the loin cloth look
instead of the in
the buff state that
most everyone else
chose. my job at
the commune was to
keep the wild animals
and birds out of
the vegetable garden
that starburst,
formerly jane, had
planted. needless
to say it didn't
strain my intelligence
too much.

directions to lucy's house

lost again, you
pull over to ask
directions from
a man sitting on
an orange crate
selling flowers
at the corner.
he's smoking a
cigarette and
cleaning out his
nails with a
pocketknife. you
roll your window
down and ask him
if he knows where
vine street is
and he says yes,
i do. he smiles
and pulls his hat
back. who you going
to see on vine street
he asks, and grins.
you ain't going
to see miss lucy
are you. how'd you
know that, i say.
cause i see those flowers
on the front seat
of your car
and you look like
the kind of guy
lucy has come over
to pay her a visit.
oh really, you say.
and just how often
are you giving
directions to lucy's
house. third one
this week, he says.
do you still want to
go. i don't know,
you tell him, is it
worth it? i couldn't
tell you that mister.
okay, okay, how do
i get there. well,
do you know where
the water tower is?
make a left there.
you can't miss it, she
spray painted her
name on it one
summer when she had
too much to drink.
she's the only house
at the end of that
dirt road. follow
the broken hearts,
he says and laughs.
she doesn't like roses
by the way, she's
more of a daffodil
kind of girl. three
dollars a bunch.
i can make change.

felix

you see a cat
crossing the street
with an empty
jar of crunchy
peanut butter
stuck on his head.
it's a tabby cat.
he crosses in a zig
zag fashion, partly
blinded, trying
to shake free
the jar that he
stuck his head
into to get that
last lick of
peanut butter,
but it won't budge.
you pull over and
give chase, but
the cat is too quick
even in this condition,
you decide to yell
out a few cat names,
hoping to land on one
he might listen too.
but felix is the only
one you can think
of at the moment,
so you yell out,
here kitty, here kitty.
but no luck and off
he goes through
the alley and into
the woods. you walk
away, go back to
your car. you can't
stop thinking
about a peanut butter
sandwich.

mercury

if you could visit
any planet, go to
any of them with
the snap of your
fingers and be
there, which one
would you go to,
she says. i don't
know i tell her.
maybe mercury,
but i'd need an
abestos space
suit, and food
pellets and a lot
of water, maybe
a pair of really
good sunglasses
too on account
of the sun being
so close. a nice
pair of reflective
ray bans would
work she says.
don't you already
have a pair of
them. the blue
ones? yes, i tell
her, i'm halfway
to mercury already.

the butterfly

i see that you
borrowed my car
again. how could
you tell, she
says looking
in the other
direction. oh,
look, there's
a buttefly out
side the window.
i can tell by
the new dent in
the door. how
many times have
i told you not
to drive my
car while
you're drinking.
do you see
that butterfly,
she says. i want
to go out and
catch him. can
we talk about
this later?

trouble

whenever there was
trouble in
the house, when
my father was
away, my
mother would bake.
if the money
ran low and there
was little or
no food in
cupboards, she'd
find a way to
bake a cake,
a dozen or so
cupcakes, or a
sheet of cookies.
she'd let them
cool on the counter
and allow
the smallest
of kids to drip
white icing onto
the tops. i
remember this
now as i stare
through the window
of the oven door
at a square
of rising batter.

test drive

while test
driving the new car
with the salesman
in the passenger
seat pointing
in which direction
to go while
he speaks rapidly
on his cell phone,
in korean, he
whispers to you,
international
call, you
wonder if it
will rain soon
as the clouds
drop low and blue
across the horizon,
and if so, will
you be able
to find the button
to switch
on the wipers.

so tell me about yourself

let's really
get to know one
another, she
says over a mojito.
her third. she's
happy in a
drunk sort of way.
i want to know
what makes you tick.
who are you really?
the waiter brings
over a large plate
of fried calamari.
you don't want
to know, you say,
rubbing your forehead
as if trying to
remove a stubborn
smudge. oh come
on, she says.
tell me about your
family, your friends,
what's your true
passion in life?
who do you want
to be when you grow
up? she's really
tipsy now.
okay. you say and
finish your gin
and tonic in one
large gulp.
i was raised by
wolves basically
and my passion is
pretty much
survival, keeping
a roof over my
head and having
something to eat
and drink. sleep
and other assorted
sensual pleasures
such as romance fall
into the mix somewhere
too. her eyes get
wide as she sips
hard on her straw.
oh my, she says. but
you say you write
poetry too, right?
i'd love to read it
sometime. can you
recite me some poems
right now. i'd love to
hear them. no. you
tell her. i'm a writer
not a circus
clown. oh, she says,
sensitive type,
aren't we?
so do you consider
yourself to be a
lone wolf, she asks,
tossing a large
rubbery ring of
calamari into
her open seal like
mouth. yup, you
say, i suppose i
do and more so
by the minute.

sweet tooth

you've always had
a sweet tooth,
just ask your
dentist. stand
back and admire
her new mercedes.
you have been
crowned more times
than the royal
families of europe.
but you've learned
to cut back.
you might only
eat one cake a
month now. one
gallon of chocolate
chip mint ice
cream. perhaps
a dozen cookies
or so and a small
bag of jordan
almonds that you
keep in the car
for an emergency.
but other than that,
you are sweet free.
you have taken
great strides with
your dietary needs.

must be a girl

it's not like
you to sleep in
like you have
these past few days.
what gives. is
it the rain,
the changing
of the seasons,
or something more,
something deeper.
your aging bones
perhaps, your
sore leg,
one too many
martinis last night.
what gives with
this eleven a.m.
wake up and
crawl from bed
to the bath
and back again.
it must be a girl
again, it's always
a girl, isn't it?

good talk

we need talk
more, she says,
discus things,
don't leave
so much on the
table before
we go to bed.
what, he says.
did you say
something?
she turns on
the light
and taps him
on the shoulder.
are you going deaf,
you didn't hear
what i just said,
no, he says,
you were
practically
whispering. you
know i like to
sleep with a pillow
on my head. what
did you say? he
rolls over to
see her staring
at the ceiling
with tears in her
eyes. what, he
says? what now?
what did i do?
we don't talk, she
says, sobbing.
we never discuss
things anymore
like we did when
we first got
married. he sighs,
and shakes his
head. honey,
that was thirty-
five years ago. i
think we've covered
everything by now.
was there something
in particular you'd
like to talk
about, i'm listening.
you have my
undivided attention.
he looks at the clock.
not really, she
says. i mean i
can't think of
anything at the
moment, i was just
speaking in general.
that our communication
should be better,
that's all. okay,
okay, he says.
let's work on it.
maybe you should keep
a notepad and
write down some
things you want to
talk about and
we can discuss it
at dinner, but it's
really late now.
can we turn the light
off and get some
sleep. i've got
golf in the morning.
sure she says. but
i'm glad we had this
talk. yes, he says.
good talk, good talk.
goodnight.