february frost

she doesn't write,
she doesn't call.
no postcards
in the mail.
nothing but cold
silence. she is
february through
and through.
you shiver in
your bare feet,
staring down
the empty ice
covered street, but
still no sign
or word from her.
how you long for
a change in seasons,
the warm
hands of april.

going under

listing to the left
taking
on water,
the ship begins
to slip gently
into the bay.
seeking
the bottom
where it can rest
from all
this sailing
endlessly from
port to port
without even an
inkling of where
to anchor and stay.

i think your phone is ringing

your future is not
what it used
to be, oh my, the gypsy
says, wiping her
brow with her
sleeve. i can see
coffee though, today,
a large coffee,
black? no, you say.
cream and sugar.
right, she says,
i can see it clearly
now. two sweet
and lows. i see you
in line, staring
at your phone,
reading who e mailed
or texted since
you last looked two
minutes ago.
they know your name
these coffee servers,
they write it on
the side of your
cup don't they?
yes, you say.
amazing what you are
able to see. but
what about the
bigger picture, my
future. what about
what happens next?
i'm sorry she says.
the crystal ball has
gone dark. you'll
have to come back later.
i think your phone
is ringing, or
is that mine?

just a small one will do

you'd like
a burning bush
some days
when stuck
in traffic
with things not
going your way,
with a voice
coming out
of it, telling
you which way
to turn. perhaps
a river opening
wide to cross
so that
you don't have
to take
the congested bridge.
you'd like
to see some
walking on
water, or
water turned
into wine when
the last drop
is gone from
your pinot noir.
your blurry
vision cleared
up, your
sprained
ankle healed.
some days you
need a miracle
to keep you going
in the right
direction. just
a small one will
work fine.

the small print

you never see
the small print
on anyone.
you see the large
letters
the obvious
statement
of who they are,
or want
to be.
the details
are carefully
hidden
in tiny printed
words,
dense, compact,
safely
tucked away
on the bottom
of the back
last page
and it's
not always
a pleasant
surprise what
you find
there, in
the end.

deal breaker

she was a brilliant
woman
who worked for
the state department.
she traveled
over seas on important
missions.
she was well educated
and cultured.
blue blood
off the mayflower.
small and petite,
but strong
and bold. so when
you finally met
her after so many
e mails you were
shocked by
the minnie mouse
tone of her voice,
that squeaked
in a high pitched
squeal, as if she
had inhaled
a balloon of helium.
how could you
live with that?

beating the rug

you watch
the woman beat
the rug
as it hangs
over the clothes
line. she takes
a broom
and slams it
against the thick
matted wool.
dust rises
in a grey cloud
around her.
you see
her arms rise
and go again
and again against
the rug.
her hair in her
face. sweat
on her brow.
as you watch
the anger in her
swings,
the fury,
you understand
that there is more
to this story
than just
a rug
needing to be
cleaned.

will work for money

out of work,
the cupboards nearly
bare of
the basic
necessities
you try to think of
things that you could
do for a living.
something
you might be good at
to make some money
and continue
to survive in this
high end lifestyle
you've become
accustomed to.
nothing comes
to mind.
you can do this,
typing, word after
word,
all day long, but
no one seems to notice
or wants to pay
you for your efforts
or clever charm.

her mail still comes

you spend your
days
on the front
porch.
waving at strangers.
your dog
is beside you.
sleeping.
curled on a blue
rug.
the mailman
says hello
and stops to talk
for a moment
or two, about
the weather,
about the game.
about the blisters
on his feet
from his new
shoes.
you sort through
the mail
seeing her name
still on a few
bills,
inquiries
for insurance
or newspapers.
letters you'll
throw away,
unopened.
to what point?
you imagine
that one day,
someone will get
your mail
as well,
read the name
and wonder who.

flesh wound

you try to ignore
your cut finger,
it's just the tip,
but it keeps
bleeding, cut from
when you bent
over to pick up
the broken glass
from a lightbulb
you twisted off
too fast in the
hall ceiling.
you wash it out,
wrap it in tissue.
the blood keeps
coming. there is a
trail of crimson
drips along
the floor, from
the stairs to
the kitchen.
it has no
door to close,
this cut, no
window to put down.
you believe that
this is how things
will end. even
a small hole,
can sink a ship.

fifty shades of horror

you stop by
to see your mother on
sunday for a nice
meatball and spaghetti
dinner. the usual,
but when you show
up no one answers
the locked door,
you knock and knock,
you ring the bell.
no one answers, but
the lights are all on.
you move a trashcan
around to the window,
between the hedges
and stand on it. you
take a peek inside.
you see your mother
tied up, and bound
like a rodeo steer.
she's wearing
a blindfold. standing
over her is your
stepfather with a lit
candle dripping wax
onto her belly,
the terry cloth robe
you got her for
christmas is balled
up on the floor
beside her chained
ankles. you bang
on the window, hey,
hey, you yell, what
the hell is going on
in there. then you
see the open book on
the table, and even
greyer fifty shades
of grey. oh brother.

cash only

seeking wisdom
you climb
a moutain where
a wise man
sits in his
diaper like
clothing.
his white beard
is long.
his shoulders
narrow,
his thin arms
and legs are
folded together
like a bug
might do
when it's about
to die.
finally you
reach him,
and out of breath,
you say oh wise
man, what is
the secret
of life.
he stares at you
and laughs,
then says,
how would i know.
i came
up here for
the fresh air
and to avoid
the likes of you.
but for your trouble
i give you two
words to live your
life by. follow
them and you'll
find happiness
all the days of
your life.
cash only.

nicotine fit

you see
the smokers
huddled outside
the hollows
of buildings
like
drug addicts.
cupping
their cigs
in their hands,
stamping
their feet in
the cold.
another drag,
another
puff, quickly,
it's starting
to rain. then
back to work
and biting
their nails.

over the fence

you can hear
the dogs
chasing you, as
you run
through the woods,
fighting
through the bramble
and thorns,
dragging
a broken chain
around
your ankle.
you hear them
yelling,
blowing whistles,
the bullhorn
calling
you out,
telling you
to stop running
and you won't
be harmed.
but you keep
going, you've
tasted
life on the other
side,
and you won't
be going back,
dead
or alive
to that married
life.

almost you

i met someone
the other day, just
like you.
except that she was
tall and had
green eyes, not
brown. and she was
left handed,
not right.
but otherwise
she was very much
like you,
although she
liked every shade
of red, not blue.
her hair was blonde
with curls,
while yours is
straight
and long, but she
had a way of
speaking, a tone
to her voice,
that reminded me
of yours, when
you were sick
and had the flu.
she could have
easily been
you. one more drink
and i would have
been certain
that it truly
was almost you.

the bones of others

she liked to save
things. old
calendars
for instance,
scraps of paper.
inkless pens,
empty tomato
cans, magazines
no longer in
existence,
old shoes
without laces,
worn soles.
she liked to stack
up
the books
along the wall,
the dresses
she wore when
she was young
hung in the closet,
below a shelf
of dusty hats.
it made
you wonder where
you fit in,
and where
the bones of others
were hidden.

somebody else

come here
and kiss
me she says
sleepily
on the phone.
drive, get in the car
and come
see me.
i miss you, i want
you. i'll leave
the door unlocked,
bring nothing
but your lips
and arms to hold
me. come here
and kiss me,
she says, come now
before i change
my mind
and call somebody
else.

not a parade person

you've never been
in a parade
or even stood still
long enough
to watch one.
you don't like
being stared at.
you've come to realize
over time that you
are not
a parade person.
you find no thrill
in the floats,
you don't like waving,
or smiling,
or marching
in a band wearing
a glittering
costume.
you own nothing
that glitters,
and you have no horn
to blow. you just
aren't a parade
person.

babies with the bathwater

you see
on any given
day, from
windows
high and low,
the babies
being thrown
out with
the bathwater.
their pink
round souls,
like balloons
of hope,
floating
in the air.
you can't
save them
all. you've
done you're
share of tossing
too, so
you understand
the emotion.

cold creek

you miss the burn
of your
lungs
the heaviness
of your legs
and arms
after a long
winters run.
you're down
to walking now,
deep into
the furrowed
brow
of brown woods,
finding
the sleeve
of a cold
creek to ponder.

how things change

the sky,
blue hinged
along
the flat land
is
the color
of sadness.
the metal
grey of an
old man's
hair
and the blue
of once
sterling
eyes full
of hope and desire
wanting
tomorrow,
more than
today. how
things
change with
age.

under water

you see a turtle
lifting
his head in the shallow
water.
his ancient
blinking eyes
sees you, but
he feels safe
and paddles
about, his
neck straining
to see
around him,
his shoulders,
are mud
brown, hunched
below. it's
a long day
for the turtle,
his life
half under water,
and even a longer
one for you,
watching him
from above.

her list

when she
died you found
her list
of all the men
she ever made
love to.
she put stars
next
those that
she deemed worthy
of having stars.
somewhere down,
near the end
of the list,
there was two
more after you,
you see
your name.
there is no
star beside
it, there is
the curl
of a frown,
with tears.

what you can't have

you want what
you can't have.
you have what
you don't care about.
you are still
an infant
in a man's body.
what comes
and goes is just
out of your
reach.
just when you
think love is
near, it slips
out of
your hand
like a ball,
and your eyes
watch it as it
rolls
down across
the room
bouncing
down the steps
through
the hall
and out the door.

disappearing

one day
you are sitting in
the sun
and you notice
that a finger
is slowly
disappearing,
it continues up
to your hand,
your legs too
are slipping
away
in the sunlight.
your waist,
your chest,
before long
there is
nothing left
of you sitting
in the chair,
you are gone
but you are still
there. this is
the way
things end,
as they began,
something from
nothing,
then into thin
air.

the screaming baby

there's a screaming
baby in the store
and because it's not
your screaming baby
it's very annoying
and you want it to
stop soon. it's
giving you a headache,
and maybe a rash.
quickly you rush
through the store,
passing by completely
the diaper, wipes,
baby food in little
jar aisle, remembering
the ancient past.

the green witch

she arches
her back cat like
in the morning
and squints
at you, her catholic
school girl
glasses are
still on the night
stand, so
she can hardly see.
i had a dream
last night,
she says. i dreamed
that the nuns
were beating
me for something
i did wrong.
i have that same
dream all the time,
you tell her,
was one of them
tall
and looked like
the green witch
in the wizard
of oz. yup, she
says. exactly.
i hate her, you
say. she's
despicable.

paper boy

when you were a paper
boy, you saw the news
first, before most others.
you'd cut the metal
ribbon holding the bundle
together, in the dark
of morning and stare
at the front page
as the snow fell, or
the rain, or the wind
seeped into your jacket.
you can still smell
the ink and crisp
paper straight from
the presses, rolled
to you on trucks
driven by gruff cigar
smoking men, who
waved with stained
fingers, coughing,
as they watched you
in their rear view
mirrors, having been
there too.

for now

your maid
can't reach
the dust on the top
shelf
of the book case.
but you
forgive her
as you wish
to be forgiven
for the things
you don't
or won't do.
the floors
shine, the bathrooms
sparkle.
even the forty
year old
stove
has a glow to it.
and she's
pleasant
and doesn't steal.
the dust
she leaves behind,
is fine
with you,
for now.

slowly around the world

you take the boat
out, securing
the oars,
you push off
from the muddy
shore
and head towards
open water.
it's quiet.
even the geese
are moving slowly
this early sunday
morning.
the smooth glass
plain of water
makes you believe
that nothing
bad ever happens.
your plan is to
row around
the world. slowly.
you have
the time, and
the proper
delusionary frame
of mind.

the big squeeze

my divorce will
be final
in a few years
he says, sipping
on his scotch,
eating pretzels
at the bar.
we are just ironing
out the details now.
i notice a hole
in his shoe
as he crosses
his legs,
the elbows of
his jacket
are worn thin.
he hasn't had
a haircut in weeks.
as soon as my
lawyer gets
back from his vacation
in france
he's going to
wrap this all up
and get us
a court date,
i think i can take
out an equity
loan for that.
i sold my car
the other day to
take care of his
investigative work.
he found out she's
been cheating
on me for years.
can you believe
that?

he's not there

a man
on the corner
with a ruddy
face,
chopped
blonde
hair, like
wheat,
has a sign
and a red can.
everyday
he's out
there on
the median
silently
pacing back
and forth
towards
the nod and
open windows.
his head is
bowed, his
bristled
chin nearly
touching
his chest.
a dollar here,
some change.
all in a days
work.
then he disappears.
you feel better
for some reason
when he's
not there.

the hat

you see a man
running
down
the street,
flushed,
chasing his
wind blown hat.
the hat
seems more
important than
losing his
life
in traffic.
you too have
wrongly
chased
things down
a street,
not counting
the price
it may cost
you.

the new condo

your friend
elaine
excitedly
moves into
a new condo
on the second
floor
of a four
story building
with
sparkling
appliances,
a sunken tub,
maple floors
against wide
white trim
and crown molding.
the sunken
jacuzzi tub
smiles at her
as she opens
the door, pulls
up the blinds.
it's perfect.
when she
moves her
dishes in on
saturday,
the first
day of her
arrival she hears
chanting
in the unit
above her.
a family chanting
loudly
in a strange language
their prayers.
and so the war
begins.

no parking

you try to think
if you
have ever driven
into the city
of washington
dc, and not gotten
a parking ticket.
maybe never.
unreadable meters,
and ambiguous
signs are
everywhere.
the government
that runs
the city, from
the mayor
on down to the
dog catcher
is third world
at best, nepotism
and corruption
runs wild, but
the parking
enforcement
department
is a state of
the art,
ruthless
and efficient
facist force
to be reckoned
with.

imaginary girlfriends

you are amazed
that everyone
is so upset
by the football player
having an imaginary
girlfriend.
like who doesn't?
your girlfriend's
name is sheila.
she's beautiful,
and very quiet.
not an unkind word
ever comes out of her
sweet pouty lips.
you even have
an imaginary dog
named rex
that you don't have
to walk or pick
up after,
and a friend named jimmy
that you blame
everything on
when things go wrong.
you mean to tell me
that there is
lying on the internet?
horrifying! pffft. hardly.
you once pretended
to be an astronaut
for a week,
who went to the moon.
before long you were
invited to high brow affairs
and parties to discuss
your amazing adventures.
the beauty of
the imaginary girlfriend
is that you don't
have to buy her
stuff, or meet her
parents, or eat
the tofu that she
shapes into a turkey
on thanksgiving.
long live sheila
and all the other
wonderful imaginary
people online,
like you and me.

teachers and students

like a chant
they whisper
in unison
as the day
goes on,
more snow,
more cold.
more ice
and frozen
roads.
the kids
and teachers
keep looking
out the window
up at the
grey sky,
finally
both agreeing
on the same
exact
thing.

the end

feeling tubby,
you go on
a crash
diet. no more
chips
or soda,
no more
donuts or
bread lathered
with butter.
no
white russians
before bed.
no more
candy from
a jar
that glistens
on top
of the fridge.
easy on
the pasta, red
sauce only,
the red meat
must go as well.
creme brulee
is a distant
memory,
as is the banana
split.
just shoot
me now.

grudges

you can hold a grudge
pretty well,
but not as well as
most members
of your family.
you have a tendency
to break around
the holidays, being
the sentimental
fool that you are.
your two uncles
on your mother's side
are the masters. they
haven't spoken to
one another for over
thirty years.
maybe longer.
in their eighties now,
they stand quietly
near one another
at funerals, then
go their separate ways.
no can remember what
exactly happened
to cause this rift,
but who cares.
your mother and brother
are doing a nice
job too holding onto
the silence between
them, it's a race
to the death, it
seems. your sisters
are good as well,
two of them haven't
spoken to you in years,
and they won't return
your calls. something
you said perhaps
about a burned pot roast.
as far as your father
goes, no one talks
to him, but you. you'd
like to hold a grudge
against him, but you
just can't bring
yourself to it.
the ex wife, well,
that's a given.
there's enough there
for her to hold two
lifetimes of grudges,
she remains
mute as a melon,
but in time, you
hope they will all let
go of whatever is
bothering them,
and become more
forgiving.

a new team

with your girlfriend
busy with her own life
you feel lonely
on a friday night, so
you go through
your list of possible
people to call
and do something with.
just to shoot the
breeze, grab a drink.
nothing more, nothing
less. betty, nope, in rehab.
shirley, married,
again. cathy, hates
you. regina. hates you
even more than cathy does.
jimmy, doing time.
jeff, working on
his novel about
ben franklin. yawn.
crazy bill, number
disconnected.
frank, boring, puts
you to sleep in ten
minutes when he starts
talking about his
golf game. linda,
doesn't drive
at night anymore.
ellen, nope, this is
knitting night.
kim, in the hospital
for more cosmetic
surgery.
lisa, likes girls
now and wants nothing
to do with a dog
man like you.
esther, moved to colorado
to be closer
to her pyschiatrist.
karen, hmmm. she doesn't
want to leave her
dog alone on a windy
night. pat, nope, he/she
is still healing
from his sex
change operation.
you really do
need a new team.

jersey girl

i'm from
jersey, she said.
you got a problem
with that?
no. you said.
no problem
none whatsoever.
i think we should
dance, she
said,
then took my
hand.
but, no buts,
she said,
dragging me out
into the flickering
mayhem
of a dance floor.
the room pulsed
with
black lights
and strobes.
do you have a
knife she yelled
as she gyrated
her arms
and legs
like a tornado.
the black dog
collar
around her neck
spun like
a carnival ride.
no, you yelled
back. well,
that's okay, she
said, i have extra
one in my boot
in case there's
trouble. thanks
you said and proceeded
to try to duplicate
her dance
as best you could.

king no more

when you were
king
you had things in
order.
there was prosperity
and happiness
as far across
the room
as you could see.
but now,
your robe is in
tatters,
your staff broken
and bent.
the people
have lost
hope in you
and said no
more. your wife
has packed her
bags and left
without a word.
your son has
disappeared.
even your
dog no longer
obeys your command
to sit
and heel.
he laughs at
you and chews
on your fallen
crown.

illness

when her hair
fell out
in clumps.
leaving strands
along the tub
and sink.
she thought,
what else.
an arm
left here,
a leg there.
an ear,
my nose, my
eyes.
slowly
becoming what
i once was,
nothing
and no one,
about to
disappear,
never to be
seen
whole again.

leave it alone

you can't unstick
the rusted
pipe,
no wrench will
do, it may
break before
it turns.
but at least
it's not
leaking,
for now, so
leave it as
it is, old
and worn,
things
could get worse.

the first mile

the first mile
is a warm up,
stretching,
going slow,
getting
the kinks
out of the knees
and ankles,
your spine.
the ligaments
loosening as
your body heats
up. not unlike
the first
kiss.

clean your room

your mother would
often say
things like, why
don't you pick up
your clothes and put
them in the closet
or the dresser drawers.
why do you throw
everything on the floor?
i'm not a maid
for you boys. you
live like pigs
in a barnyard.
and sometimes you'd
look up, or down
from your bunkbed,
depending on where
you were located,
taking your eyes
off the marvel comic
book you were
reading, just slightly
and say, okay. okay.
i just want
to finish this.
ten minutes and then
i'll pick up my stuff.
she'd leave the room
at some point, giving
up, but opening
a window before she
left and saying
it smells bad in
here. wash your hands
before dinner.

peace out

you hear
the children
saying
'peace out'
these days
when they leave
the room,
and want to say
plainly, 'goodbye',
but it's too mundane
and boring
to just say that.
not cool. adios
is fine, or just
'later' has a nice
breezy flair.
short and
sweet. we would just
say 'peace', or
'right on'
or perhaps, 'be cool'
'take it easy' at that
age, adding brother
or sister at the end,
depending on
the gender of
the person who
you were saying
farewell to, or
the politics of the moment.
flashing
the v, two fingers
spread apart,
not in that crazy
star trek way,
but well, you
know what i mean.
and the secret
handshake,
we had that too,
with the shoulder
bump and nod,
the clasp, the grip,
the slide
out of palms.
these days, at
least for me,
it's see ya,
and the regular
old handshake thing,
but not too
long, that's weird.
just shake and let go.

funny bone

the doctor comes out
of the room, holding
several x-rays in his
hand, he sees you pacing
nervously, and asks you
to sit down. it's not
all bad news, he says,
your wife...which you
quickly correct him,
friend, you say, okay,
he says, your friend,
as you can see in this
x-ray has broken her
funny bone. when you hold
it up to the light,
you can clearly see that
it was small to begin
with, hereditary, perhaps,
environmental, strict
education, who knows,
was she a vegetarian?
yup. carrot eater.
religion? was she catholic.
yes, but fallen away.
he nods, thought so.
but it is clearly broken.
so you are going to have
to be patient with her
and explain a lot
of your jokes, and
smart alecky remarks.
in fact, maybe hold off
on joking around for awhile.
no puns, or clever
observations. stay away
from metaphors too.
they can be funny sometimes.
he holds the x-ray up.
as you can see, the irony
bone and the wish bone
are all still there
and fine. we're going
to put her on a donor
list, and hopefully when
some comedian dies we
can transplant their funny
bone into her. risky, yes.
but it's worth a try.
anyone but gallagher,
you tell him, and he
writes that down.

google ernie

you wonder, as you
presume others
do of you, what
happened
to so and so.
like ernie,
the strange kid down
the block who had
his own in house
zoo, of lizards
and snakes, a pet
rat and hairless
cat. what part in
the world's play
do these people
assume, or are they
still under the
stage, howling
at just a quarter
of the moon.

family

your family,
such as it is.
extendend
and related
through blood
or marriage
is not odd, or
different
than most.
divorces and
children, litter
the room,
as does
a minister,
a sailor, a salesman
and a laborer,
and someone
accused of murder,
although
in self defense,
the whispered
story goes.
together, though,
in some
strange way.
they are all of
different breeds
and species.
cats and dogs.
birds and fish.
with their own
language
to be misunderstood
in.