rating gas station bathrooms

i get a new

job

reviewing gas station rest rooms.

they give

me a hazmat

suit,

long rubber boots

and gloves,

and an oxygen mask

to breathe with.

there's always a key attached

to a long

paddle

or wrench

that you use to

unlock the doors

if there is a door still on

rusted hinges.

i score them

on a scale of one to ten,

most

are zero.

although the graffiti

i find

fascinating,

the crude sketches of body

parts, hillbilly

hieroglyphics,

with names and phone numbers

beneath

them.

sometimes there are coins

stuck to the tiles

or seats of the toilet,

if there is one.

the sinks are generally

yellow

or brown,

with a weak drip of water.

no paper towels.

nothing flushes anymore,

and the mirror

is a dull sheet

of aluminum, the glass gone.

but there's a mottled window,

cracked open,

where a sparrow

has made

a twig and grass home,

so i give this one, one star.

some days are like this

as i swing

out here in the yard,

on the

hammock strung from tree

to tree,

the cat

and dog want to join

me.

they jump up

and away

we go,

back and forth

swaying

gently

under the swift clouds

and blue

sky.

some days are like this.

perfect,

without complaint.

mid morning lunch

this

plastic piece of cheese,

in the fridge,

petrifying

since the last marriage,

back behind

the jar of French's

mustard,

with

hard rigid

edges,

what is it?

muenster, Swiss,

mozzarella,

or plain old American

formed

in a factory

by metal

hands and knives,

never to have known a drop

of milk

from a cow's teat,

cut

square

so that you can stack

it high,

once peeled,

on a slice of Wonder

bread and bologna.

i can't seem to open

the mustard

jar,

hand me the pliers.

perusing the galaxies

knowing my fascination

with exploring

outer space,

she gave

me a telescope for Christmas

so that i could

gaze

at the stars,

the moon in all it's shapes

and sizes,

colors.

i could see far off into

the galaxy

at the twinkle of a billion

stars.

and then i noticed

in a window, in the high-rise

across the street,

a tall brunette

doing exercises in her

living room.

i was

amazed at how she could

touch her toes

the way she did.

which was much more

interesting than any

asteroid flying overhead.

pretty much how it is

there

has to be more to life

than this

the young man

says

as he slaves away on his

first job,

his second

and third

job.

is this all there is?

work,

eat, sleep,

occasional play.

repeat and rinse until

i've worn

my fingers to the bone,

and my hair

has thinned

and gone grey.

pretty much,

the old man tells him.

with a thin smile across

his tired face.

the condo fees

every year,

without fail, the homeowners

condo

fee increases

by another

5 per cent.

at some point it will be higher

than what

most people pay

for their

monthly mortgage.

then i read

in the local news that the accountant

who collects

and counts and audits the books

for our community,

the president of the board,

is in the slammer.

he's been dipping into the pot

for decades.

has a house on the beach

drives

a Mercedes

and all his kids go to private schools.

there's a thick

gold chain around

his neck as they cuff him and take

him to the pokey.

he'll be out on bail

next week though, just

in time for the monthly

condo board meeting.

a horror movie

it was a horror movie.

the man

and wife, high school

sweethearts, 

marrying young,

the honeymoon in Paris,

the kids and dog.

the house

with the picket fence.

a life of

working in an office

nine to five,

taking the train

downtown.

the retirement watch.

a life of picnics

and swimming pools,

country clubs

and horses.

birthday parties with balloons.

sitting on the porch

as the sun went down.

it was a life where nothing

ever went wrong

until she found

out what really was going on.

Midge and Harry

she drank,

so he drank, he ate whatever

was in front

of him,

so she did the same,

whatever he

did,

she did and vice versa.

she loved to crack crabs

open

down at the bay,

so did he.

they both liked to fish

off the pier

and take the boat out.

he'd start

a story and she'd finish it.

they began

to look alike, talk alike,

take on the same

mannerisms

and shape.

their faces held the same

sunburn, the same

wrinkles

and laugh lines.

they were mirror images

of each other.

by the thirtieth year

of marriage.

it was hard

to tell who was who, but

it was a wonderful

life all the same.

reminiscing about those school days

i bump

into an old high school friend

that i haven't

seen

in over fifty years.

he asks

me if i'm still drinking

Southern Comfort,

which i used

to sip on

under the grandstand

at football games,

stuffing a pint bottle

in the deep pocket

of my Navy pea coat.

i tell him no.

but how about you,

are you still dating Joann,

the girl who

used to sit behind me

in driver's ed,

her braces full of rubber

bands?

grateful for the little hands that made it

grateful

for the button, all of them

that holds

this shirt together,

i give

thanks

to the little hands

that made

the collar, the sleeve

and the rest of it

in woven

cotton, sewed together

in some far away

Eastern land.

i'll hang

it in the closet with the others,

and maybe

one day

i'll choose to wear

it once more,

if the mood strikes

me for green

again.

the bleeding hearts of print

i cancel

the Times, the Post,

the New Yorker, The Atlantic.

disappointed

in their left wing

propaganda.

they are the bleeding hearts

of print.

i get my news

from AARP

now

and Consumer Reports.

Bon Appetit,

that's all

i need.

every breath you take

i keep

waiting for you to say something

that i can

believe,

just a word or two

that isn't a lie,

isn't a non-truth,

isn't meant to deceive,

but nothing

comes out like that.

just more of the same.

each breath

you take, each word i hear,

makes me grieve.

the morning swim

i dive into the cold

blue

water

of the outdoor pool,

between the striped ropes,

twisted

in red

and blue,

and do my laps.

the sun barely up over

the trees.

i imagine i'd be off

the coast

of France by now, if

i counted the miles

over the years,

and heading back

to where my towel awaits,

but i'm in no

hurry as i kick and throw

my arms

forward,

stroke after stroke,

touching the far end

wall,

turning

then kicking off.

i have many more laps

to go.

today, tomorrow, for as

long

good health

allows me.

we're adults now, sadly so

we'll get dressed

and go

despite not wanting to go.

we'll stare

at the invite

and sigh.

tonight's the night.

it's what we do as adults.

we'll do the proper thing

and behave.

be nice,

polite.

we'll bring a gift and will

stay as long

as the host likes.

we're adults now,

sadly so.

at this age, it's only

right.

the blue eyed cat

the cat,

blue eyed, 

and grey, a silky 

goddess on the sill

bathing in

the sun,

thinking nothing

about anything,

cares

little about

you

and your

ways.

she's alone and likes

it that way.

unlike the dog,

who's in your lap

and licking

your plate.

one or two scoops?

i see old Sleepy Joe,

the ex pres,

at Baskin

and Robbins, not as a customer,

but now he's

working full

time behind the counter.

he's unburdened by

what has been.

he has on his brown

beanie and

a pink smock

covered in melted ice cream,

drippings of chocolate

sauce.

in one hand

he's holding a scooper,

while in the other hand

he's holding

a sugar cone with three

free

scoops of

butter brickle on top.

no joke. not kidding man.

the safest place in the house

the cupboards

above

the refrigerator

are unreachable without

a chair,

or ladder.

it's the safest place

in the entire house,

so that's

where i plan to keep my jewelry,

my Rolex watch,

my gold chains and other

assorted bling,

i'll tuck 

my checks and

stock reports

deep into the cave

of the box,

my will and tax returns too,

my Morgan Stanely

retirement report,

and a stack of cash.

no one would ever look

there.

maybe it's time

i opened those doors up.

you'll never find another love like mine

she used to tell me,

you'll see,

just wait,

you'll find out how much

you're going to miss

me when i'm gone.

i can't remember her name

but she kept telling me,

that she could jump off a bridge

tomorrow and ruin my

life with sadness and sorrow.

you'll never find another

love like mine, she'd say,

standing in the doorway

with a rolling pin

as i watched tv, feet on

the coffee table.

it'll be like that Lou Rawls

song, she said,

you're gonna miss when

i'm gone.

just wait, mister. 

either you straighten up

and fly right or

you'll see.

we just don't get along

some wars

go on forever, they were going

on before

you were

born, and will

continue on long after you're

gone.

it's the nature

of mankind,

since Adam and 
Eve,

some people just

can't get along,

which brings up the topic

of my

neighbors

and their delinquent children,

their dog,

and the rusted

washing machine

in their driveway full

of old clothes.

ghosts of stores past

banded together

by a thick

rubber band i find

a handful

of old check registers

in the creaky file cabinet

in the basement.

carefully, like finding

the dead sea scrolls,

i turn the yellow pages.

it was before a house,

before money

was plentiful, before

marriages

and children, before 

nearly everything i have.

there's an entry for nine

dollars and

ninety-five cents at

the A and P,

a check for three bags of groceries,

another for books at

Borders,

a wrench from Hechinger's.

gallons of paint,

and assorted brushes, 

sandpaper.

there's record of a check

for my mother, for mother's day.

ten dollars.

a check for Britches of Georgetown

for pants

and shirts,

another for Lord and 
Taylors,

one made out to Sears for

snow tires,

a black and white tv

from Circuit City,

dress shoes from Kinney's.

and a large check for twenty-seven

dollars

to Tower Records

with Bob Dylan in the memo.

finding the VHS tapes

i find a dozen

or so VHS tapes in a bin

tucked far away

on a shelf

in the basement.

each marked with a year.

85, 86, 91 2000 and beyond.

beach trips are on there,

holidays,

and birthdays,

family when we were all

young.

my son is on there in diapers.

two ex-wives.

but i think the mice have been here.

some moisture,

some mildew,

cobwebs and assorted smells

are stuck

to the bin.

bravely i pull

it off the shelf

and take out the tapes.

God knows what's on them.

but i want to bring them

back to life

into this somewhat new century

we find ourselves in.

do i risk

everything by sending them

off to be transferred

to another visual form?

DVD, digital perhaps to be

watched on my

smart tv. my phone?

is Gloria on there, Amber,

and Joan?

Trixie and Chrissy.

those were some wild nights

being single again.

will my dog

be there, chewing nervously

on his bone.

there is a God, after all

i take

the barrel of change to the bank

and pour

it slowly

into the counting machine.

it painfully

grinds away

and counts my money for me.

noisily drawing

eyes

from all the tellers

and customers in line.

i give them a smile

and a happy wave.

no longer

do i have to individually

fill the red

and green,

the brown sleeves with

the coins i've saved.

there is a 
God, after all.

some friend you are

he was angry at me

because

i didn't know that his dog died,

and that he

got a new job

and a new wife, and was

now the owner of a Dunkin

donuts franchise.

he had moved into a new

house, bought a new

car, got a new dog.

what? he says to me on the phone.

are you kidding me?

i just posted ten pictures of my

vacation in Italy.

haven't you been following

me on Instagram?

i post everything on there.

my whole life is on there.

the least you could do is

google me sometime.

some friend you are.

what about me?

okay, okay

i tell the large black fly

hitting his

head into

the screen trying to get

back outside.

flapping his

iridescent wings.

give me one more

minute

and i'll open the window.

have a little patience

please,

the world doesn't exactly

revolve around you.

i have a life too,

you know, despite what

it seems.

New Moscow

New York city,

i mean

New Moscow

is about to change.

free stuff,

but long lines.

frozen rents, and surgeries

on the tax

payer dime

for the mentally deranged

wanting to

change

from Jim to Jane.

come one come all

to our

sanctuary city with

government run stores.

think Aldi's with less food

on the shelves.

everyone

will get theirs.

a chicken in every pot.

give me your tired, your dumb,

your sick

and weak,

your criminals.

no police to speak of anymore

keeping us

in place

and the rich will pay

for it all,

before they leave for Florida.

it will be 1984

once more.

the enormous playground

the hours

we would spend with dirt

and sticks,

a fallen tree,

the stream overflowing

with a hard

rain.

the frogs and turtles,

the storm

drain.

tomato cans lined up

for target 

practice

with our BB gun.

a snake under a rock,

the discarded

corpses of washing

machines,

refrigerators with the doors

torn off.

broken mason

jars,

the jelled bottoms gone

to rot.

the playground

was endless in those woods.

the early role model

i think back

and try to think if i had a rational

wise adult

in my life

when growing up.

a mother or father,

an uncle,

an aunt, a teacher in school.

someone polite

and smart, conversational.

classy

and curious about the world

at large.

parents were too busy

back then.

so it's not their fault, having

kids like litters

of kittens.

working their fingers to the bone.

the only person i admired

and looked

up to

was Rodney Dangerfield

on the Tonight Show.

there was no need to be afraid

we prepared

for nuclear war by hiding under

our wooden

desks

in the third grade.

what we didn't know was

that

they were fireproof

and would

protect us from radioactive

waves.

the desk had a secret drawer

full of food

and water,

things we would need to 

survive for thirty days.

there was a plastic hazmat

suit tucked

inside

the little cubby hole where

we kept our 

pens and erasers.

there was nothing at all to

worry about

when the sirens blared

and the big one fell on our

elementary school.

there was no need to be afraid.

our messy house

this fascination

with

going to the moon, or mars,

or elsewhere

is 

baffling.

colonizing

the milky way, really?

do we really want to bring

what we have

here,

there?

do we really want to infect

the stars

with our

troubling ways?

maybe we should fix our own house

before

we make a mess of theirs.

suspicious eyes

there's

a slippery greenish

blue

chameleon

crawling up the metal

strip

on the door.

he's fast as he scurries

along to where

chameleons go when

they don't

want to be seen anymore.

but he takes

a split

second to stop

and look at me

suspiciously,

and me at him.

it's no different than being

in the city,

i do believe.

the vibrating bed

we were tired from the long

drive,

still days ahead

of us

before reaching home

when

we spotted a roadside motel

near the railroad

tracks.

it was raining, past midnight.

so we got a room.

thin curtains, thin mattress,

the smell of smoke

and onions

in the air.

two lamps on two

identical dressers. a picture

of a Spanish galleon

on the wall.

free wi-fi and color tv

free, the sign read, but we

didn't turn it on.

however we did put quarters

into the machine that made

the bed vibrate,

so all wasn't lost.

the welfare state

these crazy

birds

on the fence, 

all sizes and colors,

waiting for me

to fill

the bird feeder.

the squirrels

too,

rubbing their paws together

waiting

for me to pour

the seed

into the green metal

house

hanging in the yard.

why work

for worms

and berries

and whatever else they eat,

why forage the woods,

burrow

and dig, fly all over town,

when here,

the food is free.

just another day

there's a communal

sigh

and shrug

as the next mass shooting comes

on the news.

you barely watch

as you shake

your head.

how many

this time?

another one, so soon?

man, woman,

black, white, brown?

what does it matter,

mental illness

is in every city, state

and town.

there is no cure.

just more innocent

people

going underground.

the serious morning talk

we have

a serious talk.

it's morning before work.

she's wrapped

in a white robe,

hair wet

from the shower.

i'm ready to head out the door.

she says

i won't be here

when you get home tonight.

i tell her, okay.

that's fine with me.

leave the key

under the mat. it's been

nice knowing you.

she says, what?

what do you mean, i just

have to take some

clothes to

the laundry mat

and pick up dinner.

oh, okay.

see you when you get home

then.

i don't want to go home

i take the broom

out

and begin to sweep up the broken

glass.

the bottle slipped

so easily

off the tray

as i carried it to the table.

two long stem

glasses fell too.

the room

smells like

wine, as the rug soaks it up.

it reminds me

of the bars

i used to hang out at,

when younger, when my sowing 

my oats.

i collect the broken

glass and get out the wet vacuum,

all i need is

some cigarette smoke in the air,

and you

in your little black dress,

to set the scene,

and Southside Johnny

singing,

that he doesn't want to go home.

another quarter for another ten minutes

with a pocket full

of change

i'd go up to the Rexall store

and sit inside

the phone booth,

closing

the bi-fold doors,

then call her,

Emily,

my girl, on summer vacation

with her family,

up north.

i prayed her father wouldn't

answer the phone.

he didn't like me.

he didn't trust me.

he knew my intentions

were wrong.

but not all of them.

i truly loved her at the time.

and all this change

splayed

out across the counter

of the booth,

an hours worth of long

distance calls should

prove that.

the back of the metro section

when

you read about the death of someone

in the paper, a celebrity,

or singer,

an actor of some sort,

or maybe

a fallen or rising star, 

or maybe a local bumpkin

that you sort of know,

all you pretty much

want to know is why,

how exactly did he or she die.

how old.

were they married,

children,

rich or poor,

what did they leave behind.

smart and funny,

was he liked,

or despised.

you pretty much want the full

story

on this individual.

you read the obit, over

and over and listen

to the news,

but no.

you have to dig

for that sort of information.

did she really choke on a ham

sandwich,

did he die

by pills or by the rope,

was there foul play involved,

an ex-lover perhaps,

a disgruntled employee, a sibling,

or stranger.

was there a note?

you have to ask around,

call up

your busy body friends,

the know it alls that you know,

you have

to forage through the brush

of the internet,

the high weeds,

to find what you're looking for.

but in the end you really don't care,

but it would

be nice to know,

before you move on to the weather

and then sports.

a work of art

it's a work

of art

this peanut butter sandwich,

the strawberry

jam

lathered

over the slice of white bread.

the brown

sweet crunch of nuts

crushed,

now smooth.

i place one slice on top

of the other,

gently. pressing so.

then cut down the middle.

half for me,

half for you.

is the milk cold?

the short end of the stick

the first baby

was adored,

so was the second and the third,

they enjoyed

all the fresh love

and care,

but by

the fourth

my mother

had had enough, the fifth

and sixth,

then seventh 

got lost in the mix,

they got

the short end of the stick.

the discount burial

there's

no stone, no marker,

no

bench to come sit

and remember

her by. there's

no indication as to where

she's buried.

it's just a rolling field

of grass.

even the cemetery

is a place

she's never

been to, nor any of her

children or

friends.

but someone found a coupon

and got

a deal

on the site.

i can her my mother

laughing

at it all, shaking her head

with delight.

the street artist's sketch

we stop

to let the street artist

sketch

us, together,

sitting down.

she's fast,

the rendering of us

comes quickly

to her

on the pad.

her hands

stained with colored

chalk,

there you go she says,

smiling,

but it's not us, it's

not close.

she's got it all wrong.

we look

happy,

not sad.

green sneakers

all summer

we pushed our mower

up the street

cutting lawns.

our sneakers turned green

from the cut

wet grass,

our skin

bronze, our hair blonde.

by the end of summer

we each had

nearly

a hundred dollars.

rich beyond belief.

it occurred to me, 

as i put the money away

in my wooden

box that working hard

had results,

but the days would be

long

and the years would

stretch out,

go on and on. it didn't

matter though,

i could do it and so could

John.

there's a dog barking in the distance

i slip into my soft

comfy

grey loafers

with the suede finish.

it's that kind of day already.

i sashay

over to the window

with my

cup of coffee in hand,

and see what the weather

is like.

it's grey too.

which is fine.

if i had a velvet robe

i'd put that on,

then fill up my pipe

and smoke it

in the easy chair by the fire.

i hear a dog

barking somewhere

and the sound of a baby

crying.

online dating

do you zoom,

she asks me, skype,

or 

do face time?

do you have WhatsApp?

how about

a Facebook

page?

no,

no and no.

but i can meet you tomorrow

at 8,

in person

if you'd like,

i tell her.

no, she says. that won't

work.

i prefer

not to meet in person.

i'd have

to get dressed

and do my hair,

take a shower, brush my

teeth.

plus there's parking

to deal with,

traffic.

not to mention that it might

rain.

who is this by the way,

Jimmy,

from Sperryville?

the crossword puzzle, four across

baffled

by four across, a word

that starts

with

L

and ends with E.

a

feeling of great

emotion,

the clue reads.

i scratch my head,

tap

my fingers,

my feet.

i have no idea what

the word

could be.

i'll set this puzzle

aside

for now.

maybe it will come to

me

after a long

nights sleep.

apologies to Paul Newman

finally.

i find a few free hours to get rid

of all the old

salad dressings

in the refrigerator.

i count ten.

some i use a spackling

knife

to pry them

off the shelves.

i pull the trash can

closer

and get on my knees.

i begin.

thousand island,

blue cheese,

bacon ranch and sweet basil.

sorry Paul

Newman,

oil and balsamic vinegar,

five years old, you too

have to leave.

a broom stick cut in threes

they were heavy

wooden windows, i used

a broom handle

cut into threes

to prop

them up.

they had

four over four

sashes with ancient

glass,

the glazing grey,

but the screens had holes,

there were

small

bullet shots in the panes

from

the woods, hunters

hunting

for squirrels, or deer,

or each

other.

they let

out the air,

let in the warm, let in

the winter.

strange how i miss them

now.

how they rattled and whistled.

they spoke to me.

so many broken things

like this

and people

in my life i've tried to

get rid of,

but they've have taken hold.

how to be a writer

start with dirt under your nails,

then read, read, read,

and read some more

until the bindings break.

accumulate ripples of scars,

pink like, some healed, some that will

never heal.

break a bone or two.

lose some hair.

acquire a drinking problem that you solve

and unsolve,

depending on the time of year.

some blood along the way would help.

get fired, get hired, get fired,

repeat until you realize that there is

nothing in this world

you are truly good at.

fall in and out of love like birds do.

stare long and hard into the mirror

until you no longer care.

you're almost ready to begin.

a hard desk will do,

a ream of paper,

a good writing pen,

dispel all notions of fame and fortune.

get away from people

for as long as you can, but remember

you'll need them

later

when the well runs dry.

okay, begin.

Wrong Number

The phone rings

at three a.m. I let it go

five, six, seven times

then pick it up on eight.

It's the wrong number, again.

Someone wants Sylvia.

They want her to come to the phone.

Every night it's the same.

I tell them she's in the shower,

she's on the toilet,

she's taking a goddamn cake

out of the oven,

she's crocheting me a sweater.

I yell out her name

in the darkness of my apartment,

Sylvia, oh Sylvia,

but she's always busy

when they call.

I make sure of that.

She's making a good home here

for the both of us.

I want them to know that.

It seems important.

Takes the edge off.

there's nothing to fear here

the lights are soft

in the waiting room, there's a picture

on the wall

of a family smiling,

their teeth straight

and white,

there's a faux fireplace burning,

despite it being July.

is the wood mahogany?

everything

seems to say all is well,

you'll be fine.

there's no pain here to be found.

there's nothing to fear.

relax,

enjoy our periodicals

before we perform a root canal

on your back

molar.

and then a pleasant child like

woman

appears, dressed in baby blue,

a carnation behind

her ear,

who says your name.

she holds the door

for you as

you follow her into brighter lights

and a long

black chair.

the kitchen phone circa 1968

no one

calls my landline, except for 

telemarketers.

my mother used to,

mostly on Sunday

to ask if i'm still coming over,

but

she's no longer with us.

that would

be a very

long distance call, if she did.

and yet

i keep the black

phone on the kitchen wall,

the long fusilli cord

hanging down,

almost to the floor.

Jane didn't come back

a fun

group of neighbors decide

to go

jump out of a plane

over Orange County.

they've

been practicing for almost

fifteen

minutes at the little airport

near

the produce stand.

most of them

come back, thrilled with it all,

but not Jane,

where's Jane, i ask.

they shrug, and look sad.

chute didn't open,

they say.

it was bad.

but we're going next week again,

are you in.

we have room now

for one more.

roll away the rock

i roll

the big rock in the yard

away from

the fence,

something i imagine

from

the paleolithic age,

the soft black soil

where it sat

is full

of worms,

a garden snake,

a field mouse,

things with a hundred

thin

legs.

there's so much going

on

we don't know

about,

or want to know.

let's go back inside now.

the anatomical weather report

my body

gives me the weather report.

there's

no need for Bill

on channel four,

or Marsha on nine,

or even

the cutie pie Sarah

on five.

my knee tells all,

my sinus

informs me of the rise

and fall

of the barometric pressure.

every joint

in my body tells me

about the storm,

the snow

or rain.

my big toe shouts to

me in pain.

grab your umbrella,

it's about to rain.

there was a cake too

it was

blistering hot day,

a wedding in a field

with a white tent

and an enormous pig

roasting over an open

fire,

on a skew.

slowly

it turned from pink

to a golden

brownish

hue. the meat went grey

and hard.

but there was cake too.

which

saved the day.

a paragraph in a dress

i admire how

everything you need to say

goes unsaid

and yet i hear it

loud and clear,

the quiet

as a mouse attitude

works for you.

the eyes,

rolled,

the brow furrowed,

the twist of your lips.

you're a sentence,

a paragraph or two

in a dress,

a volume

of discourse with just

a simple look.

there's nothing to guess.

filling the void with grey

so much

is vague, a fog clearing

and then

filling the void

with grey again.

our hands

swimming

forward searching

for light.

so much

is unknown, undecided.

and yet,

not so fearlessly

we press on.

the swinging of the legs

i notice lately

that when i'm sitting in a chair

with my feet

not reaching the floor

that i swing my legs

back and forth.

it sort of feels good.

i look down and wonder

what that is about,

my fingers are tapping

the top of the table too

as if i'm playing

an invisible piano.

apparently i'm soothing myself

to ease whatever

current trouble

is bothering me.

i take my phone out,

thankfully, i have my therapist

on speed dial.

in his car eating icecream

i see kale

in his grocery cart,

as he goes through

the list

his wife made for him.

lettuce,

three kinds,

apples and oranges,

pears

and grapes,

organic wine.

plant based meat.

wild salmon

in a can,

and at the bottom

of the pile,

hidden

is his favorite treat.

a tub of Ben and Jerry's

double

chocolate fudge with

nuts,

and one tub

of butter pecan.

i notice the spoon in

his back pocket.

he looks at me

hoping that i didn't see.

i smile, and wink.

it'll be our little secret.

the apology bouquet

i can't decide

on which

bouquet of flowers to buy,

to set

things right.

the apology flowers.

what

merits the occasion.

what

flower will do the trick

and put me

back into her good graces?

will it be roses

again,

a dozen red or white?

daffodils,

perhaps an orchid with

its long

slender stem.

how about a blend.

mix it up with sunflowers,

lilies,

etc., whatever might be

their flower

names.

something potted perhaps,

that will

last a long time,

that she'll have to water

daily,

a reminder of me, that i'm

nice and kind.

the old men sigh when she walks by

she's 69, but can't

give

up her ripped jeans,

her flat

tanned

belly revealed with

the blouse

up high.

the blonde hair

and skinny

thighs.

she's still young and pretty,

at least

from behind.

still making the old

men sigh

when she strolls by.

slip sliding away

we pretend

that so much matters.

that

what we say

and do will continue on

after the grave.

our legacy

will 

survive,

and yet, so far a 

hundred per cent

of people

eventually die,

and everything they did

fades

over time.

they've killed aunt jemima

they've killed

aunt Jemima.

the mighty sword of woke

has

put Uncle Ben in back

of the bus

again,

they've put the Indians

and Redskins

back onto

the reservation,

Pocahontas can no longer

sell butter with

her picture on

the box,

and no longer will we

lick an Eskimo Pie

when the weather gets hot,

or drink

Dixie Beer.

poor Sweeny in her eagle

jeans,

she's about to get her

life ripped

up.

there is no straight line

we yield to the sign,

we go

around, 

we slow down,

we take another route,

the man

with the flare

waves

us by.

the yellow

lights blink.

the detour deters us.

there is no

straight line forward.

good luck out there, young man

are you

insured, the boy asks me,

standing at

the door in

his first suit, brochures

in hand.

hair

parted like the Fuller Brush man

used to do

when he came to the door

with his memorized

spiel

and a vacuum cleaner.

i am, i tell him.

i am insured.

life, health, car and home?

he asks.

yes,

i believe i have all those bases

covered.

but thank you for stopping

by.

good luck with your next

sixty years,

or more.

be careful out there,

life can be hard.

here,

you can keep your card.

less sentimental now

less

sentimental than i use

to be,

though one would think

it would be

the other way around.

but i'm younger now,

less inclined

to save

mementoes,

to preserve memories,

pressing petals

between pages.

less is more these days.

so many

boxes have been emptied,

so much

has been burned

and like ashes, blown

away.

help wanted

when i see

a help wanted sign in a store,

or business,

or at a construction site,

i almost

go in, like i used to do

with peach

fuzz on

my cheeks,

above my lips,

sprouting on my chin.

i was always willing to work,

no matter the hours,

or how hard it was.

the night shift

was fine with me.

i was never a fan of hunger,

or living on

the street.

i liked clothes and books,

the finer things

in life,

and of course, my

Achille's heel,

crazy women.

it hurt, still does

as i stand

here

at the stove, staring

into

the black pot

of clear

boiling water, as if

in a trance,

i remember things

i haven't thought of

in years.

words, an argument

we had.

it was something

that you said.

it hurt.

still does.

don't leave me out here, please

before the Sunday hike,

i load

up my backpack with bug

spray,

bear repellant,

snake

repellant

two cell phones,

fully charged,

a gallon

of water, calamine

lotion,

protein bars,

Neosporin,

a flashlight,

matches,

a map, flares,

a magnifying glass,

binoculars,

a compass, a Swiss army knife,

a 2 pound bag

of bread crumbs to disperse

behind me

as i walk and climb

and

two packs of gum, with a 

Saint Christopher medal

around my neck.

if i'm not back to my car

in two hours,

send help.

on the short list for a Norwegian blonde

as i dislike

people

more and more, finding

faults

in them

that seem irreparable,

i'm all in

on the next phase

of civilization.

robots. androids.

i'm on the short list,

for a Norwegian

blonde

with long legs,

and cooking skills,

sharp

when it comes to

doing taxes

and laundry.

the little fish in my ears

my loss

of hearing, is mostly to my

benefit.

not everything said

is meant to be

heard.

i catch words

in small

numbers,

like dipping a net

into a pond

of little fish.

they wiggle around in

the net

of my ear,

and try to make a meal

of them.

try to make

some sort of edible sense.

they dying of the light windows 8

i find

the old 14 inch laptop

collecting

dust on

the back shelf of the closet.

windows 8.

i scrape

the jelly

jam

and peanut butter off

the keyboard,

stick the cord

in and wait.

a loud siren of continuous

beeps go off.

i give it a good

shake.

either

bombs are about to be

dropped

over the city

or this

thing is dead and needs

to be replaced.

if i were to invent a religion

if i were

to

invent a religion

there would be no more

preachers

with leer jets

and mansions, no toll free

number

to fill their coffers,

no gold chalices

and art from

the Renaissance age,

no hysterical nonsense

with gyrating

bodies

and tossing of snakes,

no robes,

no gowns, no smoke

and mirrors.

it would be exactly

like the Sermon on

the Mount.

sticking the landing in bed

i used to do a back

flip

off the diving board

at the public pool when i was

a boney kid,

waiting for

the girl i had my eye on

to see me

before i made my daring dive.

i'd spring with my

young legs

and spin

into the air, 

heels over head, landing

feet first into blue water

of the pool.

i think

about that dive done

decades ago

as i flop

down on my queen sized bed 

backwards,

jumping from

the floor,

nearly hitting

my head

on the headboard.

okay, okay,

i say to myelf, maybe

i'm not as flexible

as i used to be.

so i try it again, and once

more

until i land it perfectly,

my head hitting the pillows,

my body

landing into the mattress. 

receiving a solid ten

from all the judges,

except East Germany

who gives me a 7.

putting the house up for sale

my new neighbor

is a communist slash

socialist

ala

the squad in congress

and the democratic nominee

in NYC

for mayor.

he's wearing an old

army

uniform

a red beret,

and has a long Castro

like beard.

he's scary

looking, but friendly.

i take him

over a tuna casserole

to welcome

him to the neighborhood,

knocking

on his door.

he answers me with

a bandolero

around his chest

and tells me that he's running

for president

of the condo

board,

and that if he wins there'll

be no more

parking spaces,

no more yellow lines,

no more condo fees,

no restrictions on colors

of paints,

no locks on the doors,

and dogs will be allowed

to roam

free.

anyone can come into

your house

to eat and sleep.

are you with me, comrade?

he says.

ummm, let me run this by

my wife,

i tell him.

we'll see.

the all important third date preparation

i slip

the frozen Swanson

tv dinner

into the oven,

turkey and mashed

potatoes,

gravy

and peas, apple sauce

then turn the knob

to 350

and wait

40 minutes. i

then pull back the foil

to see how

she's doing.

it almost smells like

real food.

my date should be

arriving soon,

so i clear

the coffee table off

and set out some cutlery

and plates.

paper cups

and a box of red wine.

a roll

of paper towels.

i get out

a fat red candle, made

for Christmas

and light the wick,

then draw the shade.

it's the third date after all.

heavy breathing on the phone

i got ninety-two

phone calls yesterday, eighty-nine

of them

were potential

spam

that were actually spam.

funeral insurance,

social security,

Medicare, home improvement,

Lottery scams,

car insurance,

pharmaceuticals,

fake police and firemen

wanting

money.

phony

charity organizations,

most of the calls are from

Jamaica, Nigeria,

Mexico,

Pakistan, and India.

except for the ones from

Annadale, Virginia.

one ex-wife in particular

can't seem to let it go

and move on with her life,

i still recognize

her heavy breathing.

the day the music died

when Elvis

died,

i thought that might be a good

excuse

to call up Kathy

to see if we could reconcile,

maybe weave in

a little sympathetic

small talk.

can you

believe it, i said on the kitchen

phone.

the king is dead.

who?

she said.

the king of England?

no, no.

Elvis,

you know.

you ain't nothing but a hound

dog,

hunka hunka burning

love.

don't step on my blue suede

shoes?

Elvis.

oh, yeah, sure, i remember

him.

you had some of his records.

that's too bad.

maybe he ate too many banana

and peanut

butter sandwiches.

oh well.

i have to go now, there's

another

call coming in

and i have to go iron

some clothes.

the dog adoption process

i take a look

at dog prices. a thousand

bucks,

two thousand,

twenty thousand

clams

for a Dacshund in New Jersey

we used

to pick up pups at the pound

for ten dollars,

or find one

roaming the street without

a collar

for free.

now it's like adopting a kid

from China.

you need papers

and shots,

the dog's next of kin,

an inspection of your house,

a psychological

report. they question

you about

the hours that you keep.

where would the dog eat,

sleep,

pee?

do you know how to trim

his nails,

brush his teeth,

give him heartworm pills

and bathe him?

show us his leash and where

you plan to chain

him to a tree.

wake me when it's over

it's the first

cup

of coffee, the first opening

of the door,

the windows.

letting the dog out.

two eggs

in the pan,

two slices of toast

in the toaster.

the paper

off the porch.

same old same old,

i think i did this all yesterday

and the day

before.

wake me when it's over.

not all of them had red hair

you could

almost

point at the children you

grew up

with

and knew where they were

headed.

not all of them had red hair.

there was something

wild

in their eyes,

a rebellious nature

about them.

something inside

was broken.

they were the boys

and girls who

threw

things out the window

of the school bus.

rarely where you wrong,

and as the years went by

you read

their stories in

the daily

news and saw their 

mugshots

on the post office wall.

the hole in the screen door

the screen

door was never fixed.

i can still hear that violent

slam.

for eleven years,

the dog's

nose and paws,

struck shoes

and boots

pushed

into the wire

mesh

ripping it away from

the wood

frame.

the flies came in.

a feral cat,

a squirrel

or two,

mice crawled through 

the hole

and sparrows flew in.

it made life interesting

at dinner time.

killing us softly

i can still

taste

the strange bitter

after

taste of a cold Tab

soda

in a bottle.

the drink that was

going to

save the world, and keep

fat off our

hips.

make everyone beach

ready

with it's Frankenstein

concoction

of chemicals.

but it was not nearly

as disgusting

as low fat

baked

potato chips

or my mother's menthol

cigarettes.

it's different without her around

i step over

the pair of pants i've left on

the floor,

ignore

the cups

and saucers, three days

old.

i move the books

off the couch and a fishing rod

to sit down

then draw

a smiley face into the dust

on the table.

it's different without

her around.

three saved messages

the instructive

voice

on the phone tells me i have

three old

messages

waiting,

before they're banished

into the ether.

one from an insurance

agent,

selling a bundle,

car, life and home,

another from the Publishers

Clearinghouse,

telling

me about the millions that

i've won,

and the other

from my mother,

inquiring if i'll be over

for dinner

when

Sunday comes.

from the same mother

there's sober

Mark,

and drunk Mark, two people

in the same

body,

sharing the same mouth

and eyes,

teeth,

heart

and soul.

each fighting for the floor

in their own

strange way,

opposites

from the same mother.

one happy,

one sad,

one buying a round for everyone

before

he goes out the door.

three eggs cracked

three

eggs cracked into

the cup

stirred

and she's in her element.

the pan

growing hot,

with sweet cream butter

gurgling,

her ambitious herbs

on

the sill,

in white pots,

the kitchen rug, saying

home,

beneath

her slippered feet,

it's a picture

in the making.

one i'll keep.

invasion of the body snatchers

i call up my old friend Joe to see

if he wants

to go to the park to throw

the old pigskin

around.

football season is about to begin.

he's been married

for a year now.

he hesitates, and cups his phone,

then whispers,

i'm not sure if i can go, he says,

Melinda wants me to vacuum

and iron

some clothes, then help her

make a loaf of sourdough bread,

we just got a batch of starter yeast

in the mail

from Oregon.

i have to help her make some signs

too, for the anti-tariff and No Kings march

on Saturday,

plus it's muddy out and i don't

want to upset her

by tracking mud into the house.

and by the way, call me Evan now.

Melinda said,

that i should use

my middle name from now on.

it's more poetic and kind,

less aggressive than Joe.

Joe is too masculine.

dude, Joe is your father's name,

Joe is your grandfather's name.

i know, i know, but

she's helping me get in touch

with my feminine side.

we do yoga and breathing exercises

together every morning.

what the hell are you talking about?

i ask him.

do you want to throw the ball around,

or not?

it's going to be a great season,

this year.

we finally have a QB that can sling it.

we can grab a beer and a burger

over at Mike's afterwards.

please, don't raise your voice like

that, he says.

you're speaking at a very low vibration 

and it's affecting my

emotional state.

i've evolved. i'm a better man now.

we go to couples counseling,

sometimes i go alone to talk about

my childhood

and my feelings.

Melinda and i like to sit out back

as the sun goes down,

drinking our organic wine,

and listen to

Dan Fogelberg music and Bread

while we read Mary Oliver

poems together.

Good God, i yell into the phone,

snap out of it dude,

snap out of it.

she's got you by the you know what,

you are totally whipped now,

aren't you?

wake up, come to your senses.

you are so freaking whipped.

oh my God, she's coming, i have

to hang up now, he says.

please don't tell her that we talked

if you ever run into her. okay?

it'll be no sex for a month.

i still have her snow shovel

there's

mint growing on the side

of the stoop.

Annie

planted it back in

1998,

before she moved

and got

married.

i think of her in

the spring,

after the snow melts,

when the air is full

of sweet mint.

i still have her snow

shovel, 

it's in the hall

where i walk by it

every day.

i've never recycled, so shoot me

i probably

drink

too much coffee,

eat too

much fatty

food

and pastry,

drink

too much gin and smoke

too many

cigarettes

and have flings with

crazy women

i meet in

bars.

i rarely

exercise and never

back up

my computer, or

make my bed.

i'm careless with my money,

irresponsible

and never recycle,

or vote,

but hey.

i'm trying to be a better

person.

once vice

at a time.

actually only the recycling

part is true.

how dare you wave your hand like that and own a dog

how dare

you own a dog, do you know

who else

had a dog,

Hitler had a dog, so did

Mussolini,

and Pol Pot.

Chairman Mao

used to eat dogs for

breakfast.

and those jeans you're

wearing, 

do you want to know who

else wore blue

jeans and had blue

eyes and blonde hair,

Ma Barker did,

the gun moll from the 30's.

do you know that Eva Braun

had blonde hair?

that's right,

the Fuhrer's girlfriend.

and don't get me going

about all those pretty 

princesses on parade floats

waving their hands.

you know who else use to wave

their hands like that,

in that kind of salute,

sticking their arms straight out?

take a guess.

go on.

take a guess.

how dare they wave their

hands like that.

a heartfelt apology

i'm sorry, 

i truly am,

my hand is on

my heart with regret,

i sincerely apologize

if i haven't 

offended you yet.

but the day is young.

i'll dig deep.

i promise to try harder

to find something

to write about

that triggers you.

please be patient,

i'm working on it.

no worries,

i'm sitting here now

doing my tik tok research.

there's always something

crazy on the left

to make fun of.

lunch in the dying light

it was a ridiculous lunch.

vanilla wafers,

popcorn,

cut up peaches and apples,

lemonade

and crackers with

Philadelphia

cream cheese.

there was a shotgun

leaning in

the corner

next to a rusted typewriter.

a copy of Ariel

was on the table.

the Diary of Anne Frank.

i didn't know where to start

while i sat there,

elbows

on the vinyl tablecloth,

a picture of Ernest Hemmingway

staring down at me

in the dying light.

despite the score

we'll do the best

we can,

we'll make

the most of it, she tells me.

sure we're poor now,

but give it time,

we'll be fine.

you used

to be a cheerleader

in high school,

didn't you? i ask her.

how did you

know?

i knew because even when

your team is losing

you see

the silver lining.

phased out of the family

i see

my wife at the store,

she's with

another man,

my daughter is there,

my son too.

my dog is in his car.

i watch them

as they go down the aisles

buying

the food

that i like.

he reads to her a note,

a list

that he's written down

in a black leather bound

book.

the man

is tall.

taller than me,

he has more hair, he's

younger,

he seems to have money,

in his grey

suit.

wearing a Harvard ring

on his hand.

there's an expensive

watch on his wrist, when

he laughs,

which he laughs a lot,

i can see his perfect

teeth.

he's a handsome man,

a clever man.

he has my family now.

strangely,

i understand.

i put back my can of spam

and leave.

genie in a bottle

i rub

the bottle that i find

lying on the beach.

maybe,

there's a genie

inside,

agreeing to give me

a few wishes.

so i rub it hard, but

nothing,

no beauty comes out

calling me

master,

agreeing to make my life

better.

just a tiny crab,

that scurries asway when

i pour him out.

three feet of snow

it was a blinding snow

as we trudged

up the highest hill in town,

deep

snow,

icing the streets,

making the power lines

sag,

but we didn't care, what was

there to worry about?

we had

our sleds,

we had our plastic boots

with metal

snaps,

our snug hats and gloves

made from

socks.

we had the promise

of no

school tomorrow.

maybe two days if the

the blizzard would last.

one home to go home to

the distance

between

rooms, between beds,

between

chairs

at the small table

in the dining room,

the sofa,

the picnic table in the yard

wasn't much.

there was little

elbow

room, brother against

brother,

sisters, knee against

knee.

we were close and yet

sadly not so close

anymore,

the miles and time,

a myriad of differences

have

pushed us away

from one another.

without a mother 

to put her

arms around us,

there

no longer is one home

to go home to.

baby formula on the stove

there was always

a pot

of baby formula on the stove

while

we ate at the small

Formica

table with

our tuna sandwiches

and potato chips,

drinking

our cokes.

there was a radio on,

always,

with my mother

holding a baby,

singing

Tony Bennett songs.

three quarters then home

three quarters

took you a long way back

then,

the ten cent

call, the nickel ice-cream,

a dime

for a bus ride

across town.

but still enough to watch

the black and white

peep show

on 9th street,

then a flick at the bijou,

a burger

on the way home,

a coke

from the red machine,

before walking

home.

the community college writer's workshop on Tuesday night

Lisa,

in her tin foil hat,

was working on a script for Star Trek,

Joe

was deep into his fictionalized

auto-biography

of Thomas Jefferson

and his slave

girlfriends,

Tammy, in her short dress

and heels,

was writing poetry

for the Mahogany Label

at Hallmark.

Marcus, was working on

a three act play about coffee

beans

in Columbia.

the cojoined twins,

Bobby and Louise

were tackling a joint venture,

an expose

on overfishing for sturgeon

in the Black Sea.

whereas i turned in a short

story

about my third wife.

a Shakespearean comedy.

the all-saints bracelet

before

we fooled around,

she took

off her all-saints bracelet

and set

it on the nightstand.

she left it there.

i called and told her

that i had it.

she said no worries,

i have another.

keep it.

it's yours.

eventually it broke

apart,

St. Christopher

and Stephen, Paul,

and Mary,

like shiny little candies

they dance around

whenever

i pull out the drawer.

no green thumb

when i look

at the back yard, 

i see the overgrown weeds,

the indefinable

bushes,

plants, baby trees.

vines and thickets.

i see no hope in this yard,

i have no

vision of what it all

could be.

i need to meet someone

with hope,

someone with a dream.

Ernie in his compression socks

i visit

the old man in his compression socks.

his black

beret tilted on

his head,

his aviator sunglasses

snug around his ears.

the television is on

but he's busy

with a Rubik's cube.

make yourself a drink, he says.

so i do,

then sit across from him.

are you good?

he asks.

everything okay?

i know my daughter is a strange

one to say the least

and is on 

a fast road to hell,

but hang in there. it'll end

soon. try not to worry.

be well.

this too shall pass

you have

to quit, give up,

surrender

in order to have peace

at times

throw

up the white flag

of discontent

and accept people for who

they are,

surrender to

the situation you are in.

you can't change

them.

it's all temporary.

be still,

be quiet, breathe,

be free again.

the summer home run

you

knew

the second the ball hit the bat

that it was a good

swing,

a solid strike

wood against ball and that

over the fence it

would go

in a fine arc

over the fence into

the deep

woods

of summer

while you, in a slow

gait,

savored the moment,

rounding the bases,

aglow.

the summer lights

it was so easy to cup

fireflies

in our hands

as children

on the summer lawn.

racing in

our bare feet.

the fading light,

fading

faster as our mother called

us in.

and here we were,

with mason

jars full

of miracles, 

with slow flickering

amber tails,

trapped for our own

strange pleasure.

lids pierced

so that they could breathe.

even now it feels like sin,

their beauty being

so brief.

the critic you have to sleep with

i need a new title

for this

poem,

help me, i ask her,

as she

reads it for the fourth

time,

her glasses on the tip of

her nose.

it's not good, she says,

rattling the poem

in the air.

please tell me it's

not finished, right?

i think you need to work

on it some more.

it's a draft, correct?

hello, i'm talking to you.

no, i tell her,

taking the page from her hand

and balling it up.

i toss it across the room,

where the dog

chases it and eats it slowly.

words, dripping

from his mouth.

never mind.

i don't know why

i let you read my poems.

me either,

she says.

they stink. when i read a poem

i want

to be moved,

enlightened.

your stuff just doesn't do

it for me.

sorry. i know the truth hurts,

but so be it.

anyway, i'm starving.

have you thought about dinner

tonight?

Chinese? i'll get the menu

off the fridge.

forget Ozempic, here's how you do it

i blame

it on emotional eating,

actually

not eating

in how i got back to the weight

i weighed

in high school.

after the heart breaking

break up,

i could see my abs again,

i could almost

touch the rim,

run faster,

i was a fish in water when

i had to swim.

food just wouldn't go in.

i fit into all my favorite

clothes again.

i tried to call her to thank her.

but she wouldn't

pick up the phone,

then blocked me,

five more pounds were lost

by the weekend.

drugs, sex and crime

i can see her now,

Mrs. Barclay

in her chair,

afloat in a yellow

flowered

dress. her spoon

lightly

tapping

the China cup,

dropping more sugar in

and spilling

cream

into the steam.

how wonderful she was.

almost

too polite

and shy.

too kind with her words.

her voice

a whisper.

so it surprised me

when she asked me to read

her new novel,

about drugs, and sex

and crime.

cry me a river

there was

money left over,

not a large amount,

not life

changing,

but enough

to buy a new car, a new

boat,

some cosmetic surgery

and enhancements,

a long cruse

to Europe

or Asia,

so the sisters, though estranged

and angry

with their father,

came running

in their long coats, with

lawyers in

tow.

but the will was set.

set in stone.

cold clear water

is there

anything better than cold

water,

clear cold

water from a mountain

stream,

when

the throat is parched,

the mind

dazed,

when

thirst has brought

you to your knees?

faith is like that.

i know it's summer and yet

i stick

a leg out the door

and it

begins to drizzle

in sweat.

the sun has apparently

moved closer

to the earth

or vice versa.

it feels hot,

hotter than normal.

it smells hot.

everyone

is squinting and crying

out to God.

what's up?

what's next, locust

and pestilence?

the weight we carry

with each step

i removed

something from my body,

something

that weighed me down.

a book of poems,

my phone,

my hat

and gloves,

my coat,

my vest, my shirt,

my pants,

my socks.

i set my glasses on the curb,

removed my

watch,

then pressed on.

i was ready to start again

without you.

the black negligee

pulling a chair up,

i find

things i've forgotten about

on the top

shelf

of the deep closet.

do these things remember me?

the baseball

glove,

the shirts i never wore.

shoes,

and hats, a red radio,

a negligee,

silky and black,

left behind

by someone i used to see.

the waitress with pink nails

i'll have two

eggs

over easy, hash browns,

bacon,

wheat toast

and orange juice, i

tell the waitress.

so you want the number

one, she says,

pointing at the menu

with a long

pink finger nail.

oh, and coffee, i tell her.

okay, she says,

so now

you want the number two.

umm.

i guess so,

oh and if you could put

a few pancakes

on the side as well.

angrily,

she crosses out what she's

written on her pad.

are you sure?

is that all you want?

yes, i tell, her, yes.

okay, she says.

one number four coming up.

the passing of ships

you wonder

from

this beach chair, how it is

possible

in the far

distance

that the ship can ever get

anywhere

at such

a slow pace.

crawling across the curve

of the earth.

the length of it,

the rusted

rig,

the iron of it all, plowing

forward

to some distant port.

so you close your eyes,

tip your hat

down

and wait.

before long it's gone.

i can't think of the word

it's

a slow change,

the

forgetting of words,

mispronouncing them,

leaving

things behind,

appointments

made

and not kept.

the water left on,

the door open

with the keys still

in the lock.

it's a slow

change

with so much

falling through the cracks,

getting lost.

the unexpected visitor

there's a frog

at the front door, a toad perhaps,

i'm unsure,

but i call him

Bud,

he looks like a Bud,

serious

and quiet,

sitting there staring up at me,

wordless

in his reptilian ways.

no wife with him,

no children,

no luggage at his side.

but stout,

and wide. he' wearing

a sad grey green

skin

with bumps.

a Stetson hat would look nice.

what is there to say

to a frog

who comes to visit?

i don't know what to tell him

before i close the door,

but i turn the light

on just the same

in case he chooses

to leave

and go down the steps

back home.

what i'll never know

no longer

in full throttle,

running

towards the arms

of waves

offered by the green sea

that roars

romantically,

i gently step into

what's old, ancient

and endless.

ankles to knees

then further

on we go. hips embracing

cold,

stepping gently into

things

i won't ever truly know.

from the ground up

i believe

our argument

continues

after we leave the room,

the fumes

of disagreement

lingering.

we get nowhere.

and yet,

tomorrow will be the same,

and the next

day too.

love is a strange beast

when it eats you

from the ground

up.

the front row seat of my own life

peace

is here, but not to stay

i'm afraid

to say.

it's a temporary fix

on

curtains rising,

and curtains falling,

of actors

appearing

and leaving on this 

old wooden

stage.

more tragedy

and comedy are yet to come.

am i part of it, or just an

observer

in the front row,

the ticket bent in my

sweaty hand.

never standing up to applaud,

never rising

to echo

bravo.

what is it, i wonder

what is it,

i wonder, that ticking clock,

these

wet streets under

the laundry

of clouds,

what is it that makes

us walk

towards or away

from

what needs to be done,

in constant

need

of love,

the shelter of a loved one.

what are the hours about,

the hands

intent

on circling the cold

plate. have we gone

wrong

in how we live our lives,

or is this the only way.

believing strangely that

tomorrow

could be better.

the maddening crowd

i see a line

growing outside the red

door

of the white walled building,

it's a crowd

of anxious souls,

so i get in line.

i have to find

out what's going on.

i'm a sucker

for such things.

wanting to know what

i don't know.

i don't want to be left

out, hung out to dry,

as they say.

on the outside looking in.

i tap the man in front

of me on the shoulder

and ask him where

this is all going,

he shrugs and says,

he has no clue.

but fine. i want in.

i look behind me,

happy that the line has grown

longer.

i'm way ahead of them.

her lavender soap

it's important

to smell

good, in fact more important

than being

good.

you can fool the world

with the right

perfume

or lotion,

and a hot sudsy bath

with lavender

soap.

what makes a good neighbor

good floors,

good walls, good ceilings

make good

neighbors

in the tall apartment

building.

keeping the music

down and

not cooking

goat

and cabbage, helps too.

preparing for winter

it's a cold

night.

the first snow

has fallen.

these thin summer sheets

won't do,

so i get the enormous

thick

blanket

from the top shelf of the closet

and spread

it over

the bed.

if you were here, i wouldn't

have to do this.

all that unhappy ice cream

she seems lost

and permanently unhappy,

so i take

her out for ice cream.

but still no

smile,

no laughter.

i tell her she looks wonderful

since she broke up

with her boyfriend, Igor.

she's back

to her old self.

i mention the sealed border,

as i lick

my cone of rocky road,

the trade deals,

boys out of women sports,

the lowering

of inflation,

no tax on tips,

or social security,

things are finally looking up.

the stock market is booming.

gas prices falling,

wars winding down,

then she pulls

out a knife,

although it's just a butter knife,

and tells me that if i get

any closer

she's going to

inflict harm onto me.

she's been this way since

the election,

to which i tell her it's only

for another

forty-two more months,

enjoy the ride.

here's a napkin, you've got

a dollop

of butter brickle on your chin.

and why are you

carrying a butter knife

around?

she shows me the buttermilk

biscuits

in her purse. oh.

the best advice i can give

i won't bother you.

no worries dear.

no calls

will come,

no messages, no inquiries

as to your

health

or work.

your

so often

tragic

relationships.

sleep well on my silence,

it's the best

advice

i can give.

the diary of a fly

does

the fly keep time,

have a map,

a diary

of where he's been,

where's

he landed?

or is it all kept

in his

little blue head?

i'll ask him,

if he ever flies by

again.

his heart in snow

the dog

you knew, yes, that one,

the one

in the picture

in your wallet, your

first son,

is now

in snow.

blue eyed,

blurred.

the fetch was such

a long

time ago.

so you hold him.

you hold

him close,

as his heart,

no longer determined,

slows.

how about we slow cook us

it's all about slow

cooking,

about taking

our time

and not rushing things,

and i'm not talking about

just food,

ribs

or chicken,

pot roasts or stew,

i'm talking

about love

too.

the end of the world hot dog

i guess i could, i think,

while staring

at the greasy 

brownish hot dogs

spinning sadly

on the grill at 7-11,

i guess i could eat one,

if it was the end of the world,

if i was really hungry

and close to dying.

but it would take a lot

of mustard and onions,

relish and a hefty bun

to facilitate the first bite

and then a lot of cold water

to wash the regret down.

the Yellow cab down Broadway

as we

speed down Broadway,

the driver

yammering

on his phone in a strange language,

while eating a kabob,

his turban

tilted

and grey,

we strap

ourselves in

while the meter clicks

in rapid

numbers.

his horn

is a constant.

if we don't make it,

i tell her,

taking her white knuckled

hand in mine, it's been

nice knowing

you.

i thought i knew you

i used

to know you. or at least i thought

i did.

i believed in

you,

that you were smart and sweet,

kind.

funny

and bright. but

how things have

changed.

how quickly

your bitterness

has grown.

i was completely

fooled by you.

i've changed my mind.

i don't know you

at all.

red ballerinas

i admire

her

line of flowers, red

ballerinas

aligned

before the bushes.

dancing in

sunlight

with slender green arms,

welcoming

each visitor

who comes along.

the sprained ankle

as i drive

her to the hospital

with her twisted ankle,

she's grateful.

thank you, she says, thank you.

you are so kind

and caring.

we should get married

someday,

okay?

let's not ruin things, i tell her.

let me get the door

and carry you in,

get you out of this rain.

not to worry dear,

i'm sure it's only a sprain.

the Sunday Edition

it's a hard

rain

falling as i leave the grocery

store.

pelting

the black hot street,

so i put my 8 dollar

Sunday

edition of the newspaper

over my head

and shoulders,

thin as it is

and dash to the car.

for once

it's a worthwhile

purchase.

the soggy sandwich

there

was the kid 

in school with cut

carrots

in his lunch box.

sometimes cucumbers

too in

a plastic bag,

shaved of skin, cut

into hexagons.

he had an

egg salad

sandwich with the crust

gone,

the bread

sliced in even

diagonal strokes.

home made

cookies, still warm,

a thermos of chocolate

milk,

and a note,

saying

be a good boy,

love Mom and Dad.

see you when you get home.

i'd stare

at my soggy paper

bag,

with a bad apple

and a baloney sandwich,

and say to myself,

i bet this kid

can't do

five pushups, half

of what i can.

with blood dripping

a spot

of blood on the chin,

clotted

by the white tear

of a tissue,

is just the beginning

of the day.

no fear though.

a small

cut is child's play

these days.

my life without you begins now

my life without you

begins

now,

she tells me in a long white

letter

left on my pillow.

we are done.

finished.

what was will never be again.

the love

i once had for

you

i no longer have. we're

different 

people than who we thought

we were

in the beginning, five

years ago.

so my life without you

begins now,

by the way, i have

some of your things, so i'll

stop by

tomorrow

to drop them off

and perhaps we can talk.

i still have your

mother's ring, your key

and your

dog.

there's also a pot roast

i made

for you on the stove.

just set the temp for 350

and warm it up for twenty

minutes or so.

there's a salad in the fridge.

but remember, my life

without you

begins now.

i'll come by at noon.

let me know if you need anything

at the store.

taking the A-9 Benning Road

the second,

i saw the man fall down

in the street,

being chased

in the rain, 

clubbed for a watch

or wallet

i suppose, 

it was then that i knew i had

the beginning

of a poem,

maybe two or three.

i observed

his face, the fear in his

old eyes,

the way his hat flew off,

his thrown cane. 

i took note of how

no one moved

from their seats

to help him.

then

the scramble of police,

the twirl of their blue

lights,

the siren scream

as the assailants ran

down the dark tunnel

of an alley.

and then quite calmly,

the bus driver

announcing, next stop,

Pennsylvania Avenue,

Archives.

a minor domestic altercation

the morning after,

there was

blood

on the rug, broken glass,

a hole

the size of a man's fist

in the wall.

the phone cord was cut,

the door

broken

open, the knob and latch

on the floor.

a whiskey bottle

turned over,

still dripping tears

of amber.

my mother,

back from the emergency

room

with her glasses held

together

with medical tape,

five months

pregnant,

held her arm out with

a new

cast on, which we all stood

in line to sign.

old men talking about women

we start talking about women

one morning

at our coffee get together

in the breeze way

of the strip mall.

Joe blurts out, when a young

woman walks by, 

that breasts are overrated.

it's all about legs, he says,

or what's behind.

nothing melts my butter more

than a long pair

of legs in fishnet stockings.

i don't know, Zimmy says.

i kind of like breasts. they can

be fun, but not too big.

you don't want a woman with

back problems.

i'm more of a C cup guy says

Charlie. normal, not too little,

not too big,

but sort of bite sized.

what's your take on Yoga 

pants, Bill asks me.

i like them, i say. in fact

whoever invented them

should win the Nobel Prize.

i like how they come in all

colors now too.

our heads turns sideways

as a sweaty yoga class walks by.

 

it's not dark yet

everyone

is scaling down their lives,

downsizing,

selling their

lifelong homes.

the pets gone, the children

grown.

well,

not everyone, but nearly everyone

of a certain age.

they're selling furniture

and moving

into a smaller place.

somewhere

closer to town, with a pool,

a gym,

a lounge.

a man at the door who

tips his hat.

maybe a third-floor condo

with a view

of trees,

the man-made pond.

no more yard work,

no more

painting,

no more stairs to climb.

it's not dark yet, as Dylan says,

but it's getting there.

what is that, a triple A?

there are at least

fifty

or more

batteries in my battery bag

that i keep under

the sink.

every size,

every type, every strange

shape.

and yet,

never can i find the right

one

when the remote

dies.

the red Speedo in July

at ninety-five

my father was still lathering

his leathery

face

with creams.

lotions,

chock full of collagen

and vitamins.

he'd lie out in the sun

for hours

and listen to his radio,

plugged in

by a twenty-foot extension

cord

from the house.

he made a protein

shake

every morning,

fruit and avocados.

he did sit ups, push-ups

in his living room,

stretching his arms high

into the air.

he colored his hair

blonde the way it was when

he was twenty

and sailing the seven seas.

he often bragged that he never

needed a blue pill

when Esther came over

for an afternoon

visit, him

with his red Speedo still on.

the bumpy ride

forget

perfection, forget the idea

of life

being fair,

of things

always going your way.

forget

the fairy tale nonsense

of your childhood,

the Easter bunny

and Santa.

buckle up

butter cup

it's going to be a bumpy

ride.

the hospital visit

i visit my friend Jimmy

in the hospital.

his room is full of flowers

and gift baskets

stuffed with fruit

and candy,

the flies and bees are everywhere.

hey,

he says, as i come in and

give him

a pack of cigarettes and a pint

of whiskey.

when are you getting out

of here? i'm tired of picking

up your mail

and walking your dog.

i don't know. they still can't

figure out what's

wrong with me.

he winks and whispers,

cupping his hand,

i'm fine,

just indigestion from the Mexican

food i had last week,

but i think

i'm in love with the night

nurse, so i'm faking it,

dragging it out until

my insurance man comes by

to investigate.

dude, he says, you have to

check yourself in here.

pull that curtain back,

that bed is empty now, you

can probably take it.

the guy who was in there

was wheeled out yesterday.

this place is a gold mine for babes.

here comes one now with my

lunch.

hello, Vanessa, he says,

this is my friend. he's single

and drives a Lexus. 

she smiles at me and sashays

out of the room.

the Salisbury steak isn't too bad,

but if you want

you can have my Jello.

go ahead dig in, here use

this spork.

will work for food

there is nothing

above,

or below us that we

won't

do

when the stomach growls

the mouth

goes dry

when we feel the bones

beneath

our clothes.

i've lifted many

of shovels,

painted many

rooms

for my crust of bread,

even Pulitzer Prize winner

Maya Angelou

wrote for

Hallmark Cards

for a spell to pay the bills.

the carry on

when i escape,

i travel

light, i'm all about the carry on,

the small

bag,

the short

suitcase

with wheels, i can stuff

my life

easily into such a thing

and shove

it into the overhead.

there's hardly

room for a single memory

when i take a flight

or bus,

or train of here.

she tied me to the bedposts

eventually,

i'll untie this knot, 

this wretched

tangle

of rope

that's holding me

to the bed posts.

arms above me,

legs spread apart.

i'll find her

one day

and get my wallet back,

my watch,

my best suit,

and phone. my hat

and favorite pair of gloves.

it's so disappointing

what Amber has done,

for in the hour that i knew her,

i thought it might be

the beginning

of lasting love.