good manners

you leave early
because
you can't stand the
people you are talking
to. you might say
something you'll
regret as you sit
around the coffee
shop discussing
politics
and sports. your
mind wanders
and wants to say
something along
the lines of
you're a big fat
stupid idiot for
saying that, but
you don't, you are
more civilized than
that, you are
well read, educated
and have manners.
so instead you say
something like,
if you gentlemen
and ladies will excuse
me, i must depart.
i have another
appointment pending.
our discussion
today has been quite
enlightening.

give me the old nurses

the nurse comes into
your room,
she might be all
of nineteen,
she is wearing
a flowered baggy
shirt and loose
fitting pants,
tied at the waist.
this does nothing
for you.
this silly flowered
get up.
it neither makes
you happy
or feel better, in
fact you may
feel a little
worse because of her
outfit. your
fever spikes a
few notches
and you groan with
pain. where are
the nurses from
your youth, from
the old movies,
real women
in white, with hats,
and polished nails.
heels and little
red crosses
strategically placed.
you could get
well soon with
medical help like
that, but these new
nurses are for
the birds.

chicken wing

you slip
on a chicken wing
you cooked the other
day, or
rather barbequed.
somehow it
must have dropped
to the floor
as you transported
the greasy
red dish
to the kitchen.
oh, how you
miss your little
vacuum cleaner
of a dog,
moe.

god bless you

how many boxes
of kleenex
in the world
are there, you ask
hypothetically,
lying in bed
reaching for a tissue,
not enough
is your answer
as you sneeze
and cough
blowing your red
nose for
the millionth
time in an hour.

vacation blues

at the airport
a line of grey
travelers,
burned from
the sun
lean
towards home.
they are asleep
inside
their bodies,
still woozy
from the food
and drink
fatigue
has wet them
to the bone.
luggage
at their feet,
hats and gloves
pulled on.
going from island
hot expecting
cold,
less happy now
in the return
trip home.

keep moving

after her third
divorce, she calls you
and says, can you
help me move, again.
i'm not going far
this time,
just around the corner
to a smaller apartment.
i've already
packed the boxes,
the linens, my
clothes are in
the car. i just need
help with the big
stuff. i'll even
pay you this time.
no problem you tell
her, let me get dressed,
find my shoes,
all of my boxes
are still in the hallway
from when i moved.

black bart

your rodeo skills
are rusty
to say the least,
you haven't
roped a cow,
or busted a bronco
in some time
now. you haven't
been on the range
herding cattle
or steering sheep
since god knows
when. your saddle
sores have even
healed.
you put your leather
chaps on
and your hat,
your bolo tie
and wooly vest,
yank on your boots
and whistle
for your horse,
but you don't have
a horse. you never
did. you do have
a dog though,
a small fat daschund,
and he comes into
the room to stare
at you, looking
in the mirror
at your cowboy self,
pretending to
outdraw the bad guys.

towards morning

the night
slips into her
room
with the cats.
the radiator
clunks and clangs,
hisses
like a cranky
man.
she stretches
and looks
at the clock.
it's a long
journey
until morning,
but she feels
that she can
get there, she
always does,
despite
everything.

the game is on

spending the cold
autumn day
immersed in
games you once played
with fervor,
young muscle
and speed
on the old grassy
fields
of your youth.
now you watch
on t.v.,
you remember,
you can still taste
the blood
in your mouth,
the sore
bones, the aches
that made you
limp and heavy
for a week. sweetly
exhausted in
loss or victory,
now, you reach
for the remote,
groan as
you get up
from the deep
recesses of your
couch, dodging
the dog
and go the kitchen
for one
more sandwich
and beer.

in good time

like a bar
of soap
in your hands,
a rubber tire
on the hot
road,
a cone
of ice cream
being worked
on by
a child's
swift tongue,
it all
melts away
in good time.
the candle
burns bright
for only so
many days.

addiction

there is always
a quiet
monkey ready
to hop aboard.
sex,
opium or gin.
love.
throwing dice
down,
the horses.
cake.
there slways
a sweet
but bitter
joy in life
to taste if
you don't walk
on the other
side of
that thin
invisible line,
if you don't
listen to
the siren's
song of pleasure.

where you were

a glass
of cold water,
but warm now,
with your
lips
still imprinted
on the edge
in red.
a scarf
a heel, a
bar of lavender
soap
you brought
just for
you to use.
the scent of
you, still
in the air.
at some point
i need to get up
and going,
get out, get some
fresh air,
but i like
being here,
exactly where
you were,
so near.

lewis and clark

she wants to
go camping.
go off into
the woods with a tent
and a can
of unopened beans.
she wants to hike
that mountain over
there, the one in
the distance, the one
with a snow
covered top like
an ice cream cone.
come on, she says,
pulling on your ear.
it'll be fun.
it'll be an adventure.
we can spend a
night or two
in the great
outdoors. we can be
like lewis
and clark, canoeing
down the river.
you put the paper
down and stop
reading the story
about how a bear
ate a woman
for dinner just last
week on
sugar mountain.
hmmm. you say.
maybe, but what about
a cruise? no bears,
no beans, no snakes
to snap at our
ankles?

still drawing blood

my mother told me,
she says,
while gently shaving
her slender white
legs, resting an
arched foot
on the white
porcelain
edge of a still
warm bathtub,
she told
me that i had
piano legs.
she says, raising
her eyebrows
in disbelief,
can you believe
she had the nerve
to say something
like that to her
only daughter,
she looks at me
turning her head,
and nicks herself,
drawing blood
in the process. oh
damn, she says.

you miss

you miss
black and white.
elvis
and sinatra.
mcqueen and loren.
you miss mom
and pop
everything.
real diners
with greasy
eggs and waitresses
in pink
uniforms.
a stack of wax
on the stereo.
you miss
a dog
barking.
cats in the alley
knocking
over metal
trashcans.
you miss ink on
your hands
from the sunday
paper, the sound
of it
hitting the stoop.
you miss
milk and butter,
eggs
and bacon
in the box outside
your door.
the mail
twice a day.
you miss licking
stamps.
the sound of
your grandmother's
voice cursing
politicians,
especially john
kennedy.
you miss the sound
of your brother's
and sister's
voices
filling every
room of the small
house.
you miss seeing
your father's shoes
on the steps,
your mother at
the stove always.

bavarian creams

it's three a.m.
when a policeman
pulls you over
and asks you to step
out of the car.
license, registration.
where are you
going at this hour
of the night?
7-11 you tell him.
you're out of donuts.
i understand, he says.
have you been
drinking. no you tell
him as he shines
a flashlight into
your eyes. i had
some nyquil earlier,
maybe two of those
little platic
cups, but that's it.
honest. okay, okay.
you have to watch that
stuff, it's addictive,
he says. you're telling
me, you tell him.
i'm shaking now,
wanting another cup.
well, maybe
you shouldn't be
out driving around
in your bathrobe
and slippers, what if
you get a flat
tire or something.
you nod, you're right
you say. i won't do it
again officer. okay.
well, have a good night.
and try those bavarian
creams. i just had
two when they came in.
will do, you tell him.
i will.

they fall away

you went down
to the stream
once, when you
were madly in
love and carved
her name into
a tree
next to your name.
it took an hour, at
least, the sharp rock
in your hand, the cold
air, your feet slipping
in the soft sand.
the name was long
with many vowels
and consonants.
she may have been
italian, or polish,
it's all blurry,
but you see the tree
has toppled in
the wind now, lying
in the water,
uprooted by time
and weather. staring
ou the window,
you vow to only
fall in love
with women with
shorter names now,
or to maybe just
carve their initials
and be done with it.

the blue earrings

an elderly woman
in central park
is reading
a book, alone
on a bench.
there is scattered
snow around, but
she is warm
in her black coat
and grey scarf.
her silver hair
is pulled up
tight
behind her ears,
he liked it that
way, said it
made her look
elegant. her
earrings are blue.
a small dog
is on a leash
at her side.
patient and still
as the world
slowly goes by.

the devil gets out

being mean,
and harsh,
perhaps even cruel,
you say some bad
things to someone
who has insulted you
for no reason.
and for you
it's easy to use
words to burn
down her house,
to throw a thousand
arrows through
her heart.
you'd like to think
you were beyond
such behavior,
more spiritual
and compassionate
towards others, but
no. as in all of
us, the devil sometimes
has a room
deep in cellar
of your soul,
and gets out
from time to time.

no terror quite like

no terror
is quite like
the banality
of life.
of living
without color
or spikes
in the heart
out of passion.
no slow death
is quite
like the marriage
of two
with no love
or way out.
saving the children
who know
already
what is true,
what isn't.
saving money
which is less
precious than
time will ever be.
there is no
terror quite
like that,
and it keeps
the priests
and doctors running.

the blue jar

slips of paper
in a blue jar,
receipts
from stores
where things
you needed
or not,
were purchased.
with ticket
stubs and coins,
matches and pens,
your pockets
fill the jar
at the end
of each day.
a trail, a
hint of what
you've done,
or where you've
been.
and yet somehow
it's never
full.

sylvia

write a funny
poem
sylvia says to me
as she wrings
her hands
and stares
out into the roiling
purple sea.
write me out
of this glum
dark mood i've
settled in. save
me from myself
with one of your
silly puns
or jokes, the ink
is black,
my heart is
even blacker she
whispers
moving across
the kitchen
towards the sink
to set an
empty teacup
in. tell me
a story with a
happy ending,
before i leave.

the gate

the gate, when new
would swing easily
letting you in or out
for years, you pulled
the latch and
pushed. you came
and went as you
pleased, but
enough winters have
passed that the hinge
has rusted, the wood
has grown soft and
rotted at the bottom
where the ice
and snow rose.
it hardly closes
now, with loose
pins and screws,
it needs a push as
it squeaks, rattles
against itself,
not unlike you.

not one of us

you're not
who you think are
says the fish
to the tad pole
swimming
along side
his golden
stripes. you're
not really one
of us at all.
you'll see
one day how
you don't fit
in, and the tad
pole, happy
with the thought
of that
swims off
and waits
patiently for
his time to
walk away.

brushing her hair

you hear singing
when you
awaken in
the morning,
your neighbor
likes to
sing as she
brushes her
hair in
the mirror
that hangs against
your shared
wall.
she sings
beautifully
songs you've never
heard before.
when she leaves
the house
you see her
walking happily
to her car,
her hair bright
and shiny
in the sun.
this makes you
go to your mirror,
but your
singing is off
key and there is
very little
left to brush.
still, you too
are happy in your
own diminished
way.

breaking easy

captured by enemy spies
you are taken
to a dark cellar
and strapped to a chair,
when they remove your
hood, you see a man
holding a dental drill
and a wet needle
in front of you.
he's wearing a welder's
mask and rubber boots.
we have some questions
that we want you
to answer, he says,
moving in closer.
whoa, whoa, buddy.
you've got me. i surrender.
no problem, i'll tell
you everything. and by
the way, i just went
to the dentist last
week and had them cleaned
and x-rayed, so you
can put down the drill.
okay, where do you want
me to start. when i
was five, and my
mother hid a box of cookies
on the top shelf,
well, i found them...

enough rope

as friends in school
when she didn't
do her homework
or study for an exam
you let her look
over your shoulder
and see your answers.
she was your friend
after all.
then when older
and the ice
cracked and she fell
through while
boldly walking across
the thin blue
pond gleaming
in the afternoon
light, you ran
to the shed
and threw
her a rope.
when she
was short of cash
to pay her bills
and the electric
company threatened
to turn off her power,
well, you chipped in
to keep her going
for another month or
two. and then
there was the flat
tire, and the running
out of gas
in the middle of
the night. then
finally homeless
and living in your
basement. but what are
friends to do.

save the children

you start a foundation
to save the children.
you've become acutely aware
of a serious health issue
for some time now,
and you feel it in your heart
to step up and take action.
so you create a non-profit
organization to help with the
awareness of children who
drink carbonated soft
drinks too quickly
and then, yes, sadly so,
get a bad case of the hiccups.
when they have this condition
it's possible that they
could fall off a skateboard,
or be hit in the face during
gym class as an errant
ball comes hurtling
towards their precious little
heads. even voraciously
eating gummy bears could
create a choking situation
if hiccuping begins.
your goal, and yes
it is a lofty one,
is to get them to drink
more slowly, perhaps to
sip gently out of a straw
as they sit still and not
jump around like monkeys
on amphetamines.
it will save their parents
and teachers that annoying
loud frog like hiccup
noise as they bug their
eyes out, and stick out
their tongues. sometimes
drooling in the process.
you feel that, if you can
raise awareness and a
mere million dollars,
or even two millions dollars
the first year, then perhaps
you can, through this
non-profit foundation,
help these poor innocent
hiccuping, herky jerky
kids. you've got the bumper
stickers ready, the ribbons
which are the color of
rootbeer and cherry soda
and t-shirts, one size fits
all. volunteers will be needed
of course, so see it in your
heart to sign up and make
a contribution of no less
than 200 dollars. let's
save the children from
this awful condition. if you
truly loved them, as i do,
you would reach into you
wallet or purse and help.
let's stop the hiccupping
together. won't you join me
at our first 3k run/walk/limp
this saturday?
make checks payable to me,
but cash is good too.

she's not afraid

she's not
afraid
of the dark.
or of ghosts
or of things that
rattle
in the night,
like chains
or heavy
boots coming
up the alley.
no wolves howling
in the woods
bother her,
nothing scares
her. mice
or snakes, no
problem.
bats swinging
down to land
in her hair,
or to take a
bite of her pale
sweet neck,
she doesn't even
flinch, but
god forbid let her
green beans
touch her mashed
potatoes
on her plate
and she screams
bloody murder.

expiration

you turn around
and the one
you thought you
knew, a friend
of many years,
has changed,
is gone.
she isn't who
she used to be
and neither
are you. it's
fine though, things
move.
a world spins,
even cans
on the shelf
expire.

watercolors

the white stick
legs
of heron,
thin shadows
in the cold
reeds
along the sound
stand
still, awaiting
what comes
towards them
in the lush
wash
of water
along the high
grass.
a sun without
heat moves
slowly,
a white yellow
melt,
drawing blue
shadows
upon you.
the world paints
itself
by numbers,
more than you
can count.

taffy park

pushed
and pulled,
the world
has made taffy
out of you.
your legs
go one way, your
arms the other.
your heart
is a violin
with broken
strings. you
melt in the
mid day sun,
grow stiff in
the wind
that brushes
up against
the snow.
your sweetness
has soured,
you've become
sticky,
mishapened,
weathered
and old.

the old out of olive oil trick

you wrap
a towel around you
as you hop
out of the shower
and go to answer
the persistent
ring of the doorbell.
quickly you slip
and slide down
the steps, cursing
to yourself,
who and what, and
why at this ungodly
hour is someone
at your door?
you peep through
the tiny peep hole
turning on
the porch light
and see that it is
your neighbor
jezebel with an
empty cup in her
hand. you crack
the door open. oh,
she says, did i get
you out of the tub.
sorry. my bad.
you tighten the towel
around you, what,
what is it jezebel
you say. i'm sorry,
but i needed
a cup of olive oil.
you do have olive
oil, don't you?
sure, you tell her,
wait here. i'll get
you the bottle, keep
it this time, so
you don't have to
ask me every week.
she blinks her long
lashes at this, and shyly
smiles. putting her
hand over her
pouty red lips.
is this really about
the olive oil, you
ask her. or something
else?f which makes
her giggle. hmmm. you
say, laughing. using
the old olive oil
trick are we?

moses in the parking lot

you can't remember
where you parked
your car,
or her name, linda?
melinda, kendra?
who sits and waits
inside as you
run in to buy
a heating pad for
your bad knee
and a pack of
cigarettes
and breath mints
for her,
menthol lights,
or was it camels?
is it spring, or
fall, so hard to tell
with the way
the weather is
these days. lot B,
or was it C.
you wander for a while,
with the other elderly
people who are
also wandering.
there is no sign
of moses, although
it wouldn't surprise
you to see him with a
robe and cane
and wintery beard
searching for his oxen
and cart. you nod and
tip your hat as
you pass the others,
their eyes glazed
over and they say hello
in return, nice day
isn't it? nice day to
be lost. oh there she is,
you finally say loudly
to know onem,
as you look
over towards the car
with a blaring horn.
the others follow you
like mice to cheese,
hoping, mistakenly,
that it might be
their car too.

turtles

like old vicars
stepping out onto
the church steps
to feel the sun,
the turtles
with their
plaid backs
of green and black
and yellows
lie pleasantly
on the stones.
their ancient
faces lean out
with hollowed
eyes, blinking
at a world
that goes faster
and faster
without them,
as always
rushing by.

term life

a man has
his hand
in your pocket.
he is singing
into your ear
about tomorrow.
his breath
is sunshine,
his words are liquid
and clean
with hope.
he sweats with
charity for others.
he takes what he
can. the bills
the coins,
a check
and leaves you
with an insurance
policy
that will come
into fruition
at your death.
untimely or not.

old, or unold

in the mirror,
squinting
at the silvery
coiled wires
she pulls
at each one
cursing,
but for every
strand removed
another seems to
move forward
like weeds
unwanted
in the garden
of her dark
and luscious
black hair.
but you love her
just the same,
you tell her,
old, or unold.

the alimony blues

crying, her sharp
elbows on the table,
her stiff face
wet with tears, i
approach her and
ask her what's
wrong, why so glum,
sweet dear. and she
says i'm in love,
so deeply in love,
but i can't get
married again. i would
lose my alimony and
i worked so hard
for so long to
get that life long
check. those were
the best eight years
of my life. i can't get
married and lose
that fat egg,
from the golden goose,
my ex, that drops
into my account
each month
on the first. that
means that i would have
to get a job
and work like everyone
else. she sobs into
her hands as it
begins to rain,
and you tell her
kindly, poor girl,
it seems that the
heavens are joining
in with your pain.

bored with winter

bored with winter.
with sneezing
and wrapping a scarf
around your hot
itchy head.
you think about
taking a greyhound bus
to florida.
you want to sink
your teeth into a
fat juicy orange,
lie on the beach
all pasty white in
your underwear
and sip on a coconut
drink with rum
and a little blue
umberella sticking
out of the top.
you won't bring any
books or phones
or computers with you.
you want to lie
there and look at the
women in their
bikinis sashaying
along the white sands.
you might strike up
a conversation
with one, and say
hey, what's up, or
something like that.
you are bored with winter.
scraping ice
off the windsheild
of your car,
of nodding at your
barista as you get your
daily cup of coffee,
you are tired
of trying to scratch
an itch in the middle
of your back
that you can't reach.
maybe in florida
someone could do that
for you. maybe not.

club free

the mail you get lately
all wants you to join
or rejoin some
club or organization
that you once belonged
to. they want you
to be a part of their
team again. they want
to help you network
and build your business,
increase your love
life, heal your heart
and give back to the world.
they can help you
get rid of that unwanted
fat and see your abs
again. the letters are well
written and tell
you how missed you are
how wonderful
it would be to have
you back in the fold.
for a hundred and
nineteen dollars a
month you can once again
recieve their magazine
and put a sticker on
your car. you can get
monthly updates on what
they are all up to, how
they are going to serve
and protect your life
and your family. but no.
you have made a resolution
this year to be club free.

you don't confirm

an old highschool
classmate
finds you on facebook
and wants you to be
her friend again.
she was captain
of the pom pom squad
and the valedictorian
of your class.
you had an enormous
crush on her,
and could barely
speak in her presence,
you being just
a skinny boy with
with hair in your eyes
and her being
the queen of the school.
you remember
almost bowing when
she entered a room
and asking her if
you could get her a
soft drink or candy
bar if she was feeling
faint. you often
imagined standing on
a pile of thick
text books and kissing
her. she towered
over you, and her blue
eyes almost hurt when
she looked at you
by accident. but that was
forty odd years
ago. her photo now shows
her walking the beach
alone with a metal
detector, barely being
able to bend over
to scoop up a lost ring
or watch. she's no
longer blonde, but grey
like you are, older,
thicker, time seems
to have evened the playing
field, but you don't
confirm.

heading south

a bent wing
of birds heading
south
rises and falls
on course
towards
warmer shores.
no words
are necessary
for this
change of climate,
they just know
when it's time
to stay, or to take
flight and go,
as you do, cold
being not
your place to be.

blue collar

a rented
mule pulls
the load
uphill
with no response,
it's expected
and so it's
done
for food
for shelter, for
a kind
word whispered
into his
grey ears.
he knows no
different way
to live.
this is who he
his, who he
has become.

her name

her mail
kept coming
for years
through the slot
onto the floor.
some bills
and orders for
papers
and magazines.
every day
you'd pick up
the white
enevelopes
as she did
and see her name.
sometimes
you'd say it
out loud, to
yourself
in the empty
house. and when
they stopped
you missed
the mail, her
mail. you missed
saying her name

the earthly things

she believes
in angels.
of spirits soft
and full
of light
that protect
and serve,
that swim
the silent seas
of the unseen
world. she
believes in
the after life,
the life
that exists
beyond day
beyond night.
she believes
in love, in love
ever lasting.
she glows
with her open
mind and heart.
but that's not
why you like
her as you do,
it's something
more. her cooking,
her long legs
her lips
that move slowly
onto yours.
it's the earthly
things
you long for
in her.

the science of love

the study
of love
is not in test
tubes,
or charts,
or equations,
the periodic
table holds no
clue to the chemistry
of me
and you.
it's not science
or biology, nothing
in the stars
either,
no astronomy
can map
how our planets
align.
it's the first
kiss,
the fear of losing,
the longing
to see again.
there is no text
book for
any of this.

the low bar

the world
sits
glum
on a new day.
surprised
that nothing
has changed
with the flip
of a number
on a calendar
page.
rebrith, fresh
starts,
a pound or
two
sweated away,
such unloftly
goals
and resolutions.
no wonder
everythings stays
the same.
the bar
set so low.

you wait

you wait
and wait. you
are as patient
as the grass
is for rain.
your thirst
is unquenched,
the dry
desert of
your journey
is wide
and long, your
footprints
of where you've
come and gone
are blown
away. you wait,
what else
is there to do.