bird boy

there was a time

when he was small,

barely a life, 

but still one, 

with his flashing brown eyes

and pink cheeks, 

when i could 

hold him up

with a single hand 

and fly him 

about the room.

around we would go,

across imaginary

miles

with his pea green 

pajama clad arms 

straight out 

like the wings 

of a smooth and strong 

jet liner, 

which is what he is now.

cleaning house

i am going
room to room
with a sponge,
a bucket of hot
water, a mop, a duster,
cleanser, windex
and a broom.
i am removing
years of dirt,
dust and debris
from under the bed,
in the closets,
wiping clean
the hand and heart
prints of time
and weather,
where the outside
has gotten in
through the crevices
of windows and
doors. slowly,
but with force
i am scrubbing
the walls, the
ceilings, each
and every floor
i walk on. it's time,
in fact way over
due. and this has
nothing to do with
us, as you well know.

time

i've lost my watch,
again, somewhere it ticks
below a bed, on
a bike path, in the
woods, or in some car,
but not for me.
slowly the second hand
swims around the deep
blue face of time,
with it's shiny glass,
and silver band of stain
less steel, perhaps.
it may go on forever,
keeping the hours and
minutes straight, with
no memory of me, my wrist,
the extension of my arm.
even the days will click
by into months, without my
knowing. i've lost
my watch again, but
strangely or not, i'm
already past it with
this new one.

the earth let's out
a sigh, and the wind
blows across the wide
dry plains, and oceans
full of unaware whales
and seamen who long
for shore and wives,
or women they've left
behind. the wind is a hand, not
of God, or some plan,
it's just wind. so let
it blow, and stand
firm, this too will pass.

no title

the ghost
of winter
trails off,
slips quietly
away like life
itself, once
here, now gone,
and little
to remember
it by. under
a new sun
the world
finds a way
to heal itself,
as we do,
or sink slowly
into the darkness
of despair.

there is too much
eating going on.
look in the mirror
if you need proof.
i'm guilty too, i'm
not leaving myself
out of this one. i love
the cake, the pie,
the pot roast, and
don't even put a bag
of chips in front of
me. there is too much,
and it's too easy
to get. there's no
more churning butter,
or milking cows,
or shucking corn,
no more waiting for
the wheat to grow,
or plucking of chickens.
when i go to sleep
at night i can see
the neon glow of a
donut sign shimmering
down the block. yes.
moderation in
everthing, but french
toast and bacon, and
a fat eclair.

the rain

she loves
the rain, cold
or warm, it
doesn't matter.
she just does.
the percussion
of it against
the window,
the sweet ping
upon the roof,
into puddles
on the ground,
it has formed.
she loves it so.
it's a safe
harbor for her,
where nothing
comes and
nothing much,
especially me,
can go.

lost buttons

these eyelids
are heavy, not
with sadness
or sorrow, but
from the fatigue
of the days
and nights running
into one another
without order
or remembrance,
and much of what
has transpired
is best left
unremembered, but
it will come
back in some form,
a receipt, a
charge, a torn
shirt, stained,
with what,
i'm not sure,
or a lost button
that i heard rattle
away, hitting
the floor with that
distinctive button
sound, rolling
beneath a chair,
a table, never,
like these hours,
to be found.

opening day

we're waiting for the bus
to take us downtown, the
green and dull grey
A-9 to the national archives,
fifty cents in hand,
where we will transfer onto
the dc transit to dc stadium
which sits like a strange
cement circle
next to the dc prison,
we will watch the senators play
the new york yankees.
another fifty cents to get in.
mickey will be there, and mel
and pepitone. i can still name
the entire starting line up
of the washington team.
epstein, howard, brinkman,
cassanova at catcher, and
they stunk the joint up then
just as they do now but with
a different name and in a
different park.
but i'm waiting for the bus,
i'm thirteen or fourteen,
skipping school with my brother
who will one day preach the
gospel and this may be the
worst thing he's ever done
in his entire life, which
wouldn't be true for me, but
together, off we go with just
enough money for a dog
and a coke and bus fare home,
and a ticket into the bleachers
in deep right field,
into the chill of april in our
short sleeved shirts and jeans,
our ball caps and gloves,
with the cherry blossoms
in bloom aong the way.
it's opening day.

this home

it's not the place
you want to be, but

here you are. with
your warm blankets,

your books, your thin
new friend gisele,

and your flat t.v.,
and things you value.

the photos, the poems,
the stories you have

written and have left
stacked up like piles

of snow on the floor
of every room.

everything in a spot
you think it needs

to be, you've
counted out the days

behind you, the possible
days ahead, and added

up the money it will
take to keep things

exactly the way they
are. in food and drink,

and comfort, there's
no luck involved here,

perhaps quite the opposite.

sail on

my father, pushing
eighty and beyond, loves
to lie in the sun, lift
weights, dye his full
head of curly hair
blonde and firt with
the bikini girls at
the pool who are sixty
years his junior. but so
what. he's alive with
what's left of the body
he was given.
there's no sense
of regret or guilt, or
of hanging on for dear
life. he quit smoking
at fifty, quit drinking
at sixy and i don't want
to know the rest. there's
not a prayer in him. he's
on cruise control just
as he was at twenty,
making kids, making love,
sailing the high seas
in his navy whites.
his blue eyes shining
across the savage ocean
of time.

kenmore

she glows
in the dark,
against
the white sheets,
her stainless steel
heart without a
fingerprint
on it. she keeps me
and many others
on a dark shelf,
deep and on ice,
with her snug doors
out of reach,
shut tight.
it would be easier
breaking into
fort knox then
it would be getting
a midnight snack
out of her. it's
getting chilly in here
and i'm hungry,
very hungry.

i wake up and find
the remnants of you
everywhere, but you
aren't there. there's
a kleenex, a bottle
of perfume, a torn
stocking, your hair
brush and hair in
the sink, but you're
not there. you've
taken just about all
of your things, but
a few. your footprints
are still in
the carpet, wet
indents from the
shower. i can even
hear the door shut
behind you, and the
car start as you leave,
i go down the steps,
quickly with every intent
of stopping you, of
saying wait, but i don't
i go back into the
kitchen, unclothed, tired
from the fight, maybe
this is it. i see your
hand prints on the cool
stainless steel door
of the fridge. i take
a rag to wipe them
away, but i can't, i have
to leave them there.

upstream, i swim
arm over arm,
kicking my legs
in the cold water.
upstream, against
the moonless tide,
the rocks below
me, as my body
cuts through the clear
mountain stream.
there is no other
side, there is
just forward, back
to where it all
began. i've been
at the other end,
and i can't back there
so it's
upstream for me,
arm over arm, my
legs kicking.

sometimes

the blank page,
the snow white
sheet of paper,
patient and quiet,
without a word
on it, is a most
beautiful thing.
empty and holding
the promise of
a tale not yet
told. every word
written, every poem
or play, book
or script has to
deal with the beauty
and wonder,
and yes, fear
of the blank page.
it's a glorious
thing to have
nothing there
and then have it
magically appear
as if out of thin
sweet air. if only
it was that easy.

no fishing

i can't fish anymore.
ever since the grocery
stores starting selling
fish, putting them on ice
in neat little rows
behind the glass.
i just can't stand on
the side of a river bank,
or on the back of a boat,
named Charlie, or something,
and throw the line out
to reel in a trout, or
sea bass, or marlin, or
whatever fish i can trick
into biting what's on the
end of my line. nah. i'm
done with fishing, and i
guess hunting too. i like
the way the meat is all
packaged and ready for
grilling, red, cleaned,
no skinning the cow
anymore, whew. i'd be
a vegetarian if that wasn't
so. i guess i'm getting
lazy, but no less hungry.

fresh season

a warm spell has
moved in between
us, a high pressure
system of blue skies,
sunny days and low
winds. somehow we
made it through the
winter with our love
in tact. it's time
to sweat now, to
open the window, to
let the sun in, the
cold out. it's a good
season to be in and
out with you.

shades of blue

don't rearrange
your furniture on
account of me,
don't move a chair,
a plate, or pot
of flowers to make
me feel good. no.
i'm just passing
through. i'm going
to another place,
maybe texas, maybe
venice. i need
another point of
view, one that doesn't
include you
and your color palette,
your fabrics, your
cold shade of violet
and heart, your sad
grey soul, so blue.

slow fire

it's a slow
fire,
the soft burn
of wood and twigs,
all that we
have gathered
and placed
into a pile
to stay warm.
that
keeps us going,
keeps
us alive
and gets us
through the night.
your kisses
are like
that too. it's time
for more.

no flowers, please

don't fall
in love
with me,
she whispers,
kissing my neck,
unbuttoning
my shirt like
a surgeon about
to cut into
a live one. who
needs a heart.
just because
of this, don't
call me every
hour of the
day, don't text
me, telling me
about how
much you care
and want us to
be couple. no
flowers, no
chocoate. i
don't say
a word. my mind
is working
in a different
sort of way,
there is no
logic in the
moment. okay,
i tell her.
no problem.

she tells me

"i can't drink
anymore, at least
not like i used to."
she lifts her
beer bottle to her
lips and turns it
up to the ceiling,
closing her eyes
until she gets the
last drop out.
"another?" she asks.
sure, why not, i tell
her it's only tuesday.
the week is young,
and we aren't. she
smiles at that, showing
me her cracked front
tooth. she taps her pack
of cigarettes on the
bar, but there's
no smoking now, and
she keeps looking
towards the door,
to see if the rain has
stopped so that she
can go out into the
night and grab a smoke.
"let's get some calamari,"
she says, "with hot
sauce. want to split
a dish of calamari
with me?" sure, i tell
her, why not and put
the order in with
the bartender."what
did you say your name
was?" she asks me,
sipping her new cold
beer. the foam dribbles
down her chin, which
she wipes off with
the back of her hand.
jimmy, i tell her. "don't
go anywhere jimmy, i
like you. you're cute.
i'll be right back,
hold onto my seat. i
need a smoke."
she slides down off
her barstool and puts
on her pink windbreaker
which has the word PINK
written in darker pink
across the back, and
lifts the hood over
her thin thatch of blonde
hair, she goes out into
the rain. i see her
standing against the wall,
cupping the cigarette in
her hand while she
stamps her feet and
shivers in the alley. i
can't help but wonder
at what the hell has
happened with my life,
and i whisper to the
bartender, asking if
the kitchen has a back door.

pot holes

my car is a divining
rod for pot holes.
each tire a magnet
for a dark deep ditch
that lies like an open
wound on every road.
the clunk, the bang,
the rattle of car
bones and the strange
clink of something left
behind. the curse.
i am amazed at the words
that come out of my
filthy mouth. it's
almost like a song,
this road trip,
a calypso beat of drums,
but no one is dancing,
no one is happy. no one
but jimmy, the mechanic
at the garage.

Eden

i avoid the windows
in the back of the house,
they're large and old,
wide, made of wood with
sashes and heavy locks.
but it's not the windows
themselves that bother me,
but what lies beyond them,
my yard. mother nature
and her siblings, cousins,
and eccentric friends
have gone wild with it.
things are growing that
were never planted, and
what was there have
twisted and turned upon
one another. it has taken
on a jungle feel, all
green, and yellow, some
flowers, from somewhere,
rising up to bloom whenever
they feel like it. even
the birds won't fly in
to bathe in the bird
bath that stands in the
center of it all. they are
fearful of what they see.
i don't have a clue as to
what to do. i'm hoping
to find someone soon though,
that does. yesterday i
saw a racoon trying to
get in, so there must
be some fruit or vegetables
growing out there too.
and snakes. i can't go
out there with snakes.

a new deck

deal from
the new deck,
don't draw me
five from
that tattered
and torn handful
of old cards
we've played
with before,
a thousand times
over. i want
to hear and see
the fresh
snap of a new
pack, vegas style.
slap em down
hard, throw me
a full house,
four of a kind,
let me see some
aces, some kings,
a pair of queens.
i'm ready for
a winning hand, i'm
way overdue.
shuffle and cut,
deal em. i've
got alot riding
on this.

a summer treat

the way
you lick
that cold scoop
of icecream,
on this
sweltering
summer's day,
your tongue
gently easing
across the sweet
chilled curve
of melting sugar
and cream,
a smile on
your face,
and the way
you hold
the wafer cone
in the palm
of your tanned
tight hand,
reminds me of why
i still like
you and don't
mind that you
are as crazy
in a good way,
as the summer
day is long.

i call out

your name, but
i've lost you
in the dark,
on this road
we've taken
through the black
forest that not
even stars can
get through.
there is no light
to go by, no
fire, no lamps,
just the sound
of our bare
feet on the rough
terrain we've
chosen. i've lost
you. i call out
your name again in
the shallow waters
of dream, in
the thick brush
of night. but
you are gone.
you are out, and
beyond the clearing
without even a
whisper or a wave,
your feet have
hit the highway
and left me to
wander on my own.
just as you
had found me.

Moe

the last dog
beat me down
with his barking,
at the television,
the door, a fly
circling the room.
he spent his life
with his incessant,
and indiscriminate
chewing of everything
not his. sometimes
he would have the torn
half of a twenty
dollar bill hanging
from his mouth, or
a pair of someone's
underwear, sometimes
a shoe strap, or
a pair of sunglases
that he found on
the dining room table.
he couldn't drink
milk, it might
as well of been
tequila and he would
be bent over the rug
tossing his cookies,
trying to shake the
cobwebs out of his
little daschund mind.
wild and crazy moe,
yeah, i miss him.

the apology

i only have a minute,
so speak quickly
into the phone. clearly.
state your case, ask
me anything, well,
almost anything, some
things as you know
remain off limits, but
give it a shot, i
have a minute, and the
clock is ticking. please,
start talking, now
would be good, time
is slipping, it's your
last chance, ten, nine,
eight...etc. okay,
i'll give you another
minute, but this is
your last chance to say
what you need to say.
i don't have all day
to play this game
with you. i can hear
you breathing on the
other end, i can hear
you. why did you call
if you don't want to talk,
what's the point of
this. okay, okay, you
win. i love you, is
that what you want to
hear. i love you.
okay, i really have
to go now. let's talk
again tomorrow. okay?
i'm sorry too, but
really, i must hang up.
are you there?

the window

i see you lean
on the sill
outside your window
as i walk up
the street in my
new shoes, a bundle
of fresh cut
flowers in hand,
a bottle of pinot
noir in the other.
you are wearing
white, and your long
hair is in the
breeze, the sun
is on your face.
i'm not the only
one who sees you,
and wishes to be
with you, and
feel the touch
of your lips,
but at least for
now, for this
moment, the window
is open just for me.

spring

the pollen
is thick,
and yellow,
a warm
silk blanket
upon the cars
and road,
the surface
of just about
everything.
you can't help
but sneeze.
it's so deep,
you could write
your name in
it if you
weren't so busy
with your own
complex world
of birds
and bees.

the sunday call

i gave my mother
the sunday call
today, being sunday
after all, it's what
a good son does,
although i hardly
put myself into
such a category.
my questions are
often steeped in
selfish motive,
digging for some
truth, something
beyond the weather,
or the game, or
her garden, or work.
i can't help but
put her in a corner
for something, i want
her to put her fists
up and fight, to
show me a spark
of life i used to
know in her so
long ago.

white nurse shoes

i've developed
a fever
for you, i am
infected with your
smile, your
point of view
with it's jagged
edges and bright
lit wit, owned
by so few.
i am in
the infirmary
of love, or lust
or let's just
call it what it
is, infatuation
to the nth
degree. my
thermometer
has burst it's
bubble and there
is mercury
everywhere it
shouldn't be.
i need a cold
compress, an
x-ray of you,
i need to see
your papers, your
ID, or perhaps
your long legs
in a pair of
white nurse
shoes.

swan dive

we spring from
the board,
but it isn't
always a swan
dive, or a
brilliant flip,
or jack knife,
or a one and
a half or two
piroutte
of body slicing
into the deep blue
pool of day.
sometimes it's
just a hard splash,
a tumble or fall
onto the water
and a slow silent
swim to the side
and climb up
the ladder to
try it all again
the next day
and the next
and the next.

i like

the sublime
irony
of the penny,
it's nearly
worthless
value, a
thin coin
of copper
holding the
image of
dear saint
abe.

notes to myself

the numbers,
and there are
many, are written
onto napkins
and receipts,
torn envelopes.
they get scribbled
in haste while a
phone is pressed
between shoulder
and ear, the blog
sites, web sites,
the e mail
addresses, phone
numbers. places,
assorted souls
you've met or
may meet along
the way, but
already they have
become vague
within an hour.
is that an eight
or a six, the letter
z or perhaps,
who knows.
like confetti
they fall down
around you,
thin sheets
of dry, melting
snow, out of
pockets, from hand
or purse, wallets,
from the pages
of books you may
never read, to
the floor, from
the clouds of your
soft memory.

these fish
that i can
almost grab
in the green
swirl of ocean,
they look cold
in the cold water.
moving in two's
and three's, so
near me,
and my legs
and feet are too
white against
the emerald
depth. i shift
and shiver
in the sand
and let
each new wave
rise and crest
over me.
i feel the salt
in my eyes, taste
the brine in my
mouth. i don't
worry so much about
the fish, and
they in turn don't
pay me much mind
either.
it's too early
in the season
to be out
in the ocean, it's
hardly may.

red white and very blue

it's not my alligator shoes
that makes me proud, nor my
shark skin suit, or snake
skin belt and elephant tusk
buckle. no. i love all animals.
God put them here for three
reasons, to eat, to wear,
to ride them from one place
or another. where would we
be without the burger,
without the omelette, the
baby back ribs, or virginia
trout? we'd be pale, and weak,
from eating vegetables all
day, everyday. we'd still
be british citizens, never
having the strength and
courage from the protein
in red meat to send them
on their way. God gave
America enough cattle to
keep us fighting not only
our own wars, but other
people's wars until the end
of time. start the grill.
i'm hungry. there's a world
out there that needs us.

newly weds

the newly weds
have photos
everywhere.
the wedding,
the party,
the reception,
the trip
to bermuda,
the honeymoon.
some are framed
and some are still
out on the table,
being sorted
through.
proof of love.
and the joy
of the day they
shared. they are
fit and healthy,
the smiles are
white and broad,
the wet gleam
of the hour
is in their
youthful eyes.
you can smell
the hope,
the tomorrow's
lining up.
there is not
a single dark
cloud over
their new roof.
and i like it
this way. i want
their love
to be preserved,
safe and fresh,
crisp and clean
underglass,
like a wedding cake
yet to be cut
deeply with
a sharp
gleaming knife.

a wrinkle in time

she reads
to the children
in a soft gentle
voice, a mother's
voice that almost
puts them to sleep,
with their heads on
their folded arms,
upon the hard
desks with the books
tucked away,
but the story
is too good
for them to doze
off, too well written.
the lights are down
and the windows
are open just enough
to let april in.
quietly, so that
they will listen,
she reads and reads,
never looking up
from the book,
the dog eared pages
that she turns with
a ringless hand. she
imagines her own child
one day. she dreams of
being in love, but
she keeps reading, and
she knows that these
moments will not be
forgotten by these
children, and especially
not by me.

doubt

she doesn't believe
in God, not exactly,
and asks the usual
questions about where,
and why, and how could
he allow children to
perish, or anyone to
suffer in a painful way.
what morality is there
in that, especially from
God. i shrug, i take
a sip of my coffee and
stare out the window at
the immense bay,
the bruised blue water,
holding the dark sky,
jagged with white breaking
waves. the sailboats
are racing home.
i don't know, i tell her,
but i do believe.
i believe it all.
i know that the water
will be calm again, but
i have my doubts too.

one morning

i woke up to the sound of her
voice saying, clearly, you don't
know me, she said. you don't have
a clue as to who i am. she was
in the white terry cloth robe
that i gave her for christmas six
years ago. it was torn and grey
now, there wasn't enough bleach
in the world to make it white
again. apparently she had been
talking for sometime, but i missed
most of it because i was still
asleep. are you going to lie
there in bed all day, it's
eleven o'clock. who's going to
cut the grass and take the dog
to the vet to see what that
rash is. you need to pull
your car out of the driveway now
so that i can go shopping and
get little jimmy to his game.
she had opened the curtains,
and raised the blinds so that
the sun poured in like
radiation. i put my hand
up to my forehead to block
the light. what, i said. it's
saturday. what's the rush?
how many drinks did you have
last night, she said. four,
five martinis, and i saw you
talking to sally perkins, i saw
you touch her arm and wink at
her. don't think i don't know
what you're up to pal. you two
were pretty cozy in that kitchen,
weren't you? her hands were on
her hips, but i couldn't really
see her on account of the sunlight
streaming in. she was more
of a dark silhouette, her head
bobbed and i could see her
stance stiffen like a general
overseeing a battlefield of
dead soldiers, if i ever catch
you with that sally i'll take
you for every penny you have,
which isn't much. do you hear me?
i shook my head to get the cobwebs
out. my mouth was dry and i felt
like i couldn't get my lips
to part, as if they were stuck
together. she was finally
getting to the point of why
she was mad, why she wanted
me up. pfffft. sally. as if.
i mumbled. what, what did you say?
okay. i said, in mild surrender.
i'm up. i just need to take
a shower. she turned her
back and went down the hall.
five minutes, i heard her
yell. you've got five minutes.
i stood up and looked out the
window as i pulled the blinds
back down to give the room
a break, i could see sally
out in her yard, digging weeds
in her white capri pants,
and tight blouse knotted in
the front, she had her
hair pulled back into a pony
tail like a teenager. whew.
she looked up and over her
shoulder, with a hand full
of weeds and saw me standing
there in my underwear, she gave
me a wave and a big smile,
and with my fingers only i
gave her a nice friendly
wave in return.

she used to be an
actress of some note.
and could be found
on the stage in new
york, off broadway,
but the star slipped,
and age crept in like
water on a rising
river. everyone was
suddenly younger,
prettier, more versed
in books and lines,
and life. there was
never time for love,
for children, for
what the other's had,
what she would see
out there when the
lights went down and
she took her spot.

no exit

as i sit in traffic,
coffee in it's holder,
the steam once rising,
is long gone by now,
a thin newspaper full
of old news, unread,
but unfolded on the seat
beside me, i am inching
further up the road
with others, heading
towards a place where
money can be made, where
my life can be extended,
such as it is, you need
to feed the furnace
of existence, but the
slow crawl is slower
than ever, and you can
see the grey, long faces
already, at 8 a.m.
pushing at buttons to
change the station
on their radios, craning
their necks to see a
break, something, talking
on their phones,
smoking, tapping the
wheel, cursing. it's
more like slow dying,
not living, at this pace.

the purse

i remember this girl
from years ago, when
i lived in a three
story walk up in
the bronx. emily
was her name. she lived
across the east river
in queens wtih three
other women. but the
things was, that
she left her purse
on the floor. who leaves
a purse? who walks out
the door with keys in
hand, shoes and clothes
on just as she had when
she arrived, but no
purse, and to a woman
her purse is everything.
a woman could survive
an earthquake or a flood
with what lies deep
within that bag. food,
clothing, knives and
forks, mints, a toothbrush,
an extra pair of glasses,
a nail file, a whistle,
makeup, pills, a notepad
with everything on it.
so much, and yet she
left it. so i wrapped
it and took it to the
post office and sent it
back to her. i couldn't
date a woman who leaves
her purse. i just couldn't
and probably still can't.
it doesn't seem right.

i believe that

every girl wants
a pony. every boy
a truck, every man
a woman, and every
woman a diamond,
a fur coat, a bank
account, a beach
house, a country
estate, a farm,
a silver setting,
pearls, art, a
masseuse, perfume,
a black jaguar,
room service, a maid,
oh, and one more thing.
a healthy man on call.
with a little bell
to retrieve or dismiss
him as she so desires.

the bread line

the angry line grows
long. it's like soviet
russia. it's windy,
it's cold and there
is potato vodka tucked
in everyone's pocket.
they want so much,
they have needs
and desires. they want
the poster, the happy
vacation family
boasting tans
and health. they have
believed in the plan,
but there is no
sunshine, or banquets
to be found, not
really. just handouts,
mere morsels of affection.
it's all i can do
for the moment.

the last page first

let's not kiss,
not go there. let's
keep it on page one.
the exploratory
stage of plot and theme,
of character development.
let's find out what
season it is, the hour
of the day, or night
that we find ourselves
in. let's discover what
the conflict is and the
slow rise and fall of
denouement. no let's not
kiss, just yet, let's
turn the page and let
the story unfold in
it's own good time, just
as it should. although
there is a part of me,
i must confess,
that wants to read
the last page first.

death of a friend

she is a shadow,
a lean piece
of wind lying still
on white sheets.
she is less
of who she was,
but her memory
stings like a wet
hand on a cut wire.
i am awakened
without her
being near.
her voice
in a vague whisper
calling me to come
closer. to take
her lifeless
hand and rise
up, as she did
into a bright
unknown.

charge it

it's the plastic card,
that thin slice of credit
that so easily appears
when something you want,
not necessarily need,
whispers buy me,
buy me now, into your ear.
and it's hard to resist.
you walk away, but circle
back, like a lion around
it's wounded prey, you touch
the fabric, the leather
shoe, the coat that
than seems perfect, the color
being so you. so you give
in. it's just one thing,
and you deserve it, you need
it, you can't live without
it. why not, life is so short
as it is. oh, just charge
it. he'll never see the bill.

assorted fruits

there is a shine
on the gala apples,
the red delicious too,
catching the sunshine
of flourescent lights,
and so many others, like
fuji, or a rome beauty,
too many really
to mention, but they
have the smile of
someone's hand polishing
them before purchase,
and the plums are lined
up just right, the
way they sit with their
soft weight just so.
patient like old people
at the park, on a hard
bench with no where else
to go. the green grapes,
the quiet reds, purple, and
dark blue are bagged, not to
be trusted, to be left
out alone with the others.
so easy to fall and roll
alone across the floor,
stranded. the bananas
are wildly yellow,
broken off into odd
bunches, part green,
some already turning the
brown that promises that
they won't be bought. i feel
bad for them, so many of
them as i pass by with my
empty rattling cart.
i can see that
day coming way too soon.