for john

he sleeps
and dreams
in his
sick bed.
his wife
is in the other room.
she is lying
still so as to hear
his voice
if he should need
anything.
air, or water
brought to his lips,
or a kiss.
he sleeps
and dreams while
the days of his
life are peeled
off like soft
autumn leaves.

flesh wounds

you don't bleed
for long.
they are just flesh
wounds.
you pull
up your shirt
to show her.
is that you all
got you say.
i've been through
worse,
but you don't
eat when it
ends. you don't
sleep well.
you limp around
like a wounded
bear for a week
or two. you find
solace
in nothing, in
no one else.
at least for now.

march wind

business men
in suits
are chasing
their hats.
the wind
has put
curses
in their mouths
as they run
frantically,
bending over
to retrieve
what's blown
away.

meteorite

you are in the middle
of asking
your sweetheart
to marry you. finally,
she says with tears
in her eyes.
so after being pressed
and cajoled
by her and her
gun toting family
of wheat farmers
you shrug and give
in. you are
on your knees,
in the ice,
the white capped
ural mountains
behind her,
the blue velvet
box opened.
the ring glimmers
in the light,
but it's a cloudy
day.
it's even snowing
a little, what
light could that be?
and then she's gone.

but it's not me

there was a time
when you
had to wait for
an answer
to arrive
in the mail.
a week might go
by with you
looking up
the street for
the mailman
and his leather
pouch holding
the answer to
your future with
this girl
you've fallen
madly in love with.
but not anymore.
you wake up
and open your
phone to see the
hurried, mispelled
words.
sorry. i'm not
feeling it. but
good luck. i'm
sure there is
someone out there
just right
for you. but it's
not me. ciao!

go home now

there will be
long arduous delays
and detours
the sign reads
flashing yellow
along the highway.
take another route
losers
says the overhead
sign near the bridge.
what are you doing
out in this
weather, you
morons, says a placard
being held
by a traffic cop
in winter
gloves and hats.
go home, go home
says a man
on a hill with a
megaphone. get your
milk and toilet paper,
your bags of
potato chips
and go home. what's
wrong with you people
says the banner
being dragged
by a choking
piper plane in
the snowy sky.
even the deer on
the side of the road
with squirrels
and snow covered
rabbits are laughing
pointing with
their furry
paws as the cars
spin and spin
on the black ice.

simply this

when she says
i made you
breakfast
two eggs over
easy with toast,
and coffee.
the paper
is on the table.
it's ready
when you are,
but i have to
go, kiss me
before i leave,
you realize what
love can be.

turning home

on aging knees,
and worn
heels now,
you miss running.
the burn,
the sweat, the feel
of cold
air in your lungs.
the strain of muscles
on the hill.
the fatigue
and challenge
of going an
extra mile, then
turning home.
you miss turning
home
most of all.

idle hands

the world
is getting
smaller.
shrinking
like a child's
balloon
losing air,
seeping slowly.
you can hardly
catch
your breath
at times.
too many
people
in one place.
too many gods
with too many
demands. too
much free time
for idle
hands.

rosie next door

the woman who lives
beside you might be
a robot. one of those
androids you see
in the movies all
the time,
although you see
her sitting on
her patio
sometimes smoking
cigarettes and
drinking beer.
but she's very
mechanical in how
she talks.
good morning
good evening.
have a nice day.
she walks stiffly
too, in that robotic
kind of way.
she's neither
nice, nor not nice.
she's just, how
shall i say,
non emotional,
like your father.
you keep waiting
for her batteries
to die in mid
sentence, or for a
spring to pop loose
from her head.
you've never seen
her out in
the rain or snow.
so you imagine she
must be afraid
of short circuiting.
you can't stop
thinking about her.
sometimes late at night
you put a glass
to the wall and try to
listen to what she's
doing, but the tv is
too loud. one kiss
is all you need, you
believe to get to
the bottom of this.

the judge

the judge
when he
gets home
is tired.
exhausted from
deciding the fate
of so many.
he kisses his
wife hello
then takes
off his black robe
sets down
his gavel
and sits back
in his
favorite chair
away
from the window.
he doesn't
want to see
people for
a while.
they are all
guilty of something,
even me
he says to his
wife. they just
haven't been
caught yet.

in this line

you've been here
before.
in this line.
behind this person.
hands
in your pockets
with too much
time.
you've seen this
play before.
you know all
the actors, the lines,
the scenery
and score.
you've said these
things again
and again.
years ago,
nothing has changed.
everything
is fresh
in your mind.
you've been here
before. behind
this person. in
this line.

february

i'm sick
of february.
valentine's
day. birthday.
snow day.
short days
dark and cold.
slow work
days.
the shortest
month is the
longest month
of all.
i want to crack
the ice
on this month
and get the hell
out. hand
me that hammer,
i'm going
to florida.

the axe

there was woman
in your office. sawed
off at the knees.
squared.
a bull dog with
short hair. she wore
charcoal grey
suits. black shoes.
thick and hard
against
the hallway floor.
the hair between
her eye brows
was plucked clean.
you never saw her
teeth
but you imagined
blood on
them. a meat eater.
raw. her victims
still alive.
when she knocked
on your cubicle.
that was it. you
gathered up your
things as she spoke
in a monotone
voice, telling
you that the end
was here. a guard
will escort you out.
good luck, she said,
but she didn't
mean it, in fact
you could almost see
a smile crawl
across her tight
thin lips.

so you hope

you've lost
your edge,
your mojo.
your confidence
has slipped away.
even your shadow
shakes his head
when you enter
a room.
your shoulders
slope, you avert
your eyes
from others
thinking they
too might know.
you spend a sunny
inside.
only when it rains
do you feel
good enough
to go outside,
feeling deserving
of the wet
cold and wind
that lashes against
you. you've lost
your edge, but
this too shall
pass, or so
you hope.

return to sender

a birthday
gift arrives
on your porch.
a large box
with airholes
in the top.
you look down both
sides of the street.
the truck is gone.
hey, hey let
me out of here
the woman's
voice says from
inside. i'm
cramping up.
you look at the stamp
on top.
new jersey. what's
your name?
charlene, she says.
now open me up.
i'm your birthday
girl for the weekend.
i don't know, you
say. what do
you look like?
i'm beautiful
and very cultured
too. you lean down
towards the holes
and try to look inside.
a horrible smell
is seeping out.
you're gonna love
me, honest. you
won't be disappointed.
hey, i'm hungry
and thirsty in here.
open me up. hold on
you tell her and go
get a bag of m and m's.
you drop in the green
ones. thanks,
she says. you slide
a long straw
through a hole and
let her sip on a soda.
thanks, now let me
out. she's banging on
the sides, cursing.
i've got a cousin in
jersey who's going to
break your legs if you
don't let me out of here
on the count of three.
you think about it for
awhile, then call
the truck back
to haul her away.
you don't need this
kind of trouble.

the dog walker

the man who walks
the dogs
keeps his head down.
his lips tightly
closed.
holding six leashes
with both hands.
you can tell
he's gentle
and kind, but there
may be something
wrong with him.
something not
exactly right. you
can see it
in his darkened
eyes.
but the dogs
don't mind.
they don't
pay attention to
what's missing, or
unsettling to us.
they are kind like
that and we less so,
at times.

a gift she'll love

she hates
the jewelry
that you've bought
in the past.
the blue ring was
too blue,
too big, too much
like the one
her ex boyfriend
gave her.
the sweater
was red and thick.
real wool. yesterday
you saw it in her
trunk holding
oil cans from
rolling around.
it was your gift
for xmas.
you've bought her
shoes
and lingerie.
wrong sizes
both. it made her
cry and go on a two
week crash diet.
so this valentine's
day, you
played it
safe with an
eight speed
electric mixer
from kitchenaide.
white
with a whisk
attachment.

another country

you make a mistake
and go into the local
big store
where they sell
everything from
underwear to tires.
cheap perfume
and paint.
it's crowded.
it stinks.
everyone is talking
loudly under the flickering
flourescent lights.
there's a leak
in the ceiling,
the drips being caught
in buckets with
orange cones
around them.
a man in a blue
smock keeps saying
hello to you.
hello, hello. hello.
he's older than
your father.
it's the kind of store
that makes you think
of other countries
you could live in.

red roses

there was a time
when you left
roses
for her.
at her work, at
home.
you were always
apologizing for
something you
did, or didn't do.
flowers
seemed the way
to go
at that young age.
the florist knew
you by name,
smiling and shaking
her head
as you came
through the door,
looking glum
as you took out
your credit card.
same address, she'd
say. roses?
and you'd nod.
same note?
same girl?
yup, you'd say.
you had to marry
her to finally
end things.

what day is this?

she is a devil
in her vinyl
red cat of nine
tails
her mask
and hood,
her pitch fork
made of
wood.
she sizzles
as she gets near
you
slinking across
the room with
her tongue
out, her
lips wet
and red with
lipstick.
you see her
coming as you
sit in the
big chair holding
the remote,
flipping through
the channels,
comfy in
your striped
flannel
pajamas. ah oh,
you say.
did i forget
something?

your server tonight

your new best
friend, your waiter,
erik, with a k,
will be serving
you tonight.
he's very happy
to see you and wants
to chit chat
about the weather
and traffic
and that new movie
that's out.
he might forget
the bread
and the silverware,
the napkins
and water, but
he's all over
the friendliness
thing. he highly
recommends
the grilled salmon
and asparagus,
his personal
healthy choice,
and the chocolate
decadent cake
is his absolute
favorite. in fact
they have to hide
it from him
when he goes into
the kitchen, he
says patting his
flat stomach.
he'll be by every
five minutes when you
are chewing a
mouthful of food,
or deep in a
conversation to
make sure everything
is still okay.
i'm eric, he says,
beaming, with a k,
i'll be your server
tonight.

skinny jeans

you buy a new pair
of jeans.
your size. the size
you've been wearing for
twenty years.
you take them home
and try to get them
on, but they won't
budge past your thighs.
what the hell
you say, hopping over
to the mirror
to look at your self.
you check the tag
again to make
sure they are the right
size. they are.
the same brand as
always too.
maybe they're girl
jeans, but no.
then you see the tag.
skinny jeans, it says.
you roll to the floor
and try to get them
off, but you can't.
slowly you crawl
and worm your way to
the closet to find
a pair of scissors.
you cut them off
releasing your red
swollen legs.
when you return them
to the store, the clerk
says throw them over
there into that pile
with the other
pairs of cut up jeans.
loose fit are to
your left.

gumption

i like a man
with a fast car,
she says. and muscles.
i like my man
to be able to protect
me. to swat away
the losers
like flies.
i want a man with
a big
bank account
and good teeth.
teeth like a wolf
to bite into me.
someone who will
slap me around
a little if i
speak out of turn.
a man
with gumption
and fortitude.
a man that will last
all night.
i want a man
with ambition with
a full head of
hair like samson.
i want....
hold on you say to
her, what's gumption
all about?

retirement

you see the former
pope
at the coffee shop
after his retirement.
he's wearing jeans
and a sweatshirt
saying notre dame.
a pair of silk
bedroom slippers.
he seems relaxed
and at ease without
the robes and hat,
that heavy staff
they made him carry
everywhere.
he's sipping from
his own cup, white
with a red cross
along the side
as he dispenses
crumbs from his
bagel to the flock
of sparrows at his
feet. he nods
politely as people
do a double take
at him sitting there
drinking coffee.
it was a good run.

for the birds

after several
minor accidents
and one large one
involving
a horse trailer
that ended tragically
for several
horses,
they took her keys
away.
she can no longer
drive to
the dollar store
to get her
yarn,
her skim milk
at the grocery.
her lotto ticket.
she no longer makes
her rounds
from betty
to linda, to her
daughter's house
in upper marlboro.
it was never her
fault she
says, that
car or bus, or
truck came out
of nowhere.
i'm done with driving.
but i'm happy
let them come to
me now. driving is
for the birds.

cathedral

the tree
rotted at the bottom.
a cathedral
of leaves,
of birds
to flock to,
now toppling
under it's own
weight,
full of heavy
rains,
dark needs.
so beautiful
to look at in full
bloom.
but there is
mischief
in the roots.
deception
in the limbs.
all the gold and
silver
won't keep it up
for long,
the trunk
is hollow,
the truth will
set it free
from the ground
it clings to.

a little more

a little piece
breaks
off
the rock
as the water
rushes against
it, a
silver sleeve
in the sunlight
against
the blue stone.
a small sliver
crumbles
and gets carried
away
each day, each
new rain.
down the stream
it goes,
a little more
a little more
until
you're gone
to stay.

sex change

your friend lenny tells
you that he needs to have
a serious talk, that
he wants to confide in
you something that you will
be sworn to secrecy with,
which surprises you, him
knowing what a blabber
mouth you are.
what is it, you ask as you
sit at the coffee shop.
i think i might really
be a woman inside, he
says. i don't feel like
a man anymore. a tear
rolls down his cheek.
you gag a little on your
dried out scone. i took
up knitting, he whispers,
leaning over the wobbly
table. i'm a knitter now.
look at my outfit, my shoes
match my sweater. feel my
hand, see how soft the skin
is. i'm taking baths
with grapefruit body lotions.
yesterday i baked a quiche
with little broccoli heads
in it. hey, hey. you
tell him. you're not
a woman, you're a man
of the, of the...
whatever this decade is
that we're in.
you still like women don't
you, sexually i mean,
you ask, reaching
over to pat his hand.
but you stop when you
see the charm bracelet
around his wrist with
little monopoly pieces.
yes. i like women, i love
women, he says, sobbing,
but maybe i'm a lesbian
woman inside a man's body.
he pulls a tissue out
from the top
of his lime green sweater
and dabs his eyes. i don't
want to get the operation, i
just don't want to do that.
calm down calm down you
tell him, you're not getting
anything cut off.
you're just becoming more
sensitive. you are growing
as a person. really? he says.
do you think that's all it is?
sure you tell him. the other
day in the dentist office i
flipped through an entire
copy of ladies home journal.
i feel better, he says.
whew. i've been so worried.
thank you for listening.
pffft, you say,
no problem buddy.
hey, he says, what are
you doing today,
do you want to go see Les
Miz. there's a matinee show
starting soon. umm.
you know what, i would, but
i have a yoga class in an hour.
rain check?

dance class

bored with winter
you take a free dance
class
at the local
YMCA. you stand
on the sidelines
limbering up, watching
your instructor,
kia, who dances like
a gazelle.
let's see what you've
got she says,
taking your hand
leading you out
onto the dance
floor. have you ever
danced before, she
asks you. do you
know any dances.
sure, you tell her.
i used to do the twist
and the swim,
the mashed potatoes.
in junior high i
mastered a dance
called the fly. in
fact i could probably
teach that if any
of your students want
a lesson or two.
i tried learning
the latin hustle
back in the early
eighties but i injured
my hip. so what dances
will we be doing
here, you ask her?
but she doesn't answer
as she spins away
to the music to grab
another student.

tax season

you hand your tax
lady
your accounting
books for last year.
your w-2's, your
interest numbers,
gains and losses
of your stocks,
you give her your
mileage driven
to get work done,
stubs and receipts,
you bake her
an apple pie and give
her a gallon
of french vanilla
ice cream.
you tell her how
nice she looks.
that she's getting
younger looking
every time you
see her. don't
make me laugh,
she says and i'll
try and keep us
both of jail
one more year.

don't tell anyone

holding a secret,
a bit of hot
gossip
for almost
an hour, the
loose words
slip
out from the mind
onto
the tongue
into the air.
you regret
them before they
reach an
ear. but it's
too late, so
the rest comes
out as well.

superstitions

as a kid
you watched
the ladders,
the black cat,
the crack
on the sidewalk.
you made
a wish
on the falling
star,
or made three
with a coin
tossed
in the well.
you had a rabbit
foot for a
key ring.
your catholic
childhood
didn't keep
you from
superstitions
if anything
it made it worse
as you lift
your feet
while driving
across the railroad
tracks.

inebriated wisdom

abstinence
makes
the heart grow
fonder.
look both
ways
before crossing.
a penny saved
is a waste
of time.
a hard
man is good
to find.
you only live
once
unless
of course
you're
of the hindu
faith
and if that's
the case
go on
and don't worry
about it,
have some fun.

i need some parts

there once
were clock makers.
fixers
of machines.
televisions pulled
out from
cowebbed walls
and the backs
removed
to find the blown
tube or frayed wire.
they were odd
men in greasy
clothes, with
dust in their
mustaches,
their glasses
slipping down
the slopes of their
long noses.
they'd mumble things
like, i think
i see the problem,
as they turned
the washing machine
on it's back,
the wires splayed
open, red and black
electrical
strings. i'll be
back tomorrow,
they'd say,
don't touch anything,
i need some
parts.

two for a dollar

two for a dollar.
one size
fits all.
no salesman will
visit your home.
it cleans
and shines, polishes
with no
waxy buildup.
it's the only
product you
will ever need
and is guaranteed
for a lifetime
or a full refund
will be given.
it will
make you smarter,
taller, skinnier,
more fun
to be around.
it gets rid
of unwanted
moles
or freckles,
unruly hair.
it puts a spring
in your step,
and keeps
the bugs away.
it's not sold
in any store, but
if you call this
toll free number
we can deliver it
by tomorrow. just
two for a dollar.
two for a dollar.

his blue fiat

your friend
is dying.
withered down
to nothing.
bones
and sinew.
eyes and ears.
his teeth
rattle
when he speaks.
you love
him and the history
that you
both hold of
being young
once, so long
ago.
in your dreams
you see
him with a dark
beard,
laughing.
tinkering always
on his broken
blue fiat.

the whistle

she used to whistle
when she
spoke or laughed,
the small gap
between her front
teeth
tossing a spray
of spittle
your way. but
you didn't mind
because she was
so cute and fun,
pleasant to be
around. you miss
her a lot, but
not the extra
wash you had
to do.

out there

on earth
we tend to think
differently
than those out there.
we await
their arrival
in fear of
the impending doom
of their
advanced
knowledge.
how they lust
after our
resources, our
women, our
coffee. but they
don't come.
and they
don't worry so
much about us
going there. they
seem to be so
much smarter
than us, or maybe
even dumber and
don't know we're
here.

smart girl

but you could have
any man in the world
with your beauty
you say to her as she
purrs like a kitten
beside you. so true.
she says. but i used
to have a mercedes benz.
i loved that car
and it was stolen.
i lived in a beautiful
home along the shore
and it was broken into
and everything
was gone. in manhattan
my gold watch was
ripped from my arm
as i walked on 5th avenue.
i was married
to the most virile
and handsome man
in hollywood a long
time ago, and he cheated
on me every chance
he could. so with you
i figure, you'll
be around for awhile.

we're so different

we are so different
she tells you
while driving in
the car. i like
soup and a salad.
you don't. it's
meat and potatoes
for you.
i prefer the beach
you like the city.
you vote red
and i vote blue.
i don't know
how we even
get along.
even the radio
is set differently
to play our
songs. we are so
different in so
many ways, she says.
i can't believe
we've been married
this long.
are you listening
to me? i just
saw you roll your
eyes again
and yawn.

the feeder of pigeons

you carry
a loaf
of bread
around with you
to feed
the pigeons
wherever
you go.
they eat it up
like puffs
of flattery.
it makes
you happy
to make them
happy, whatever
bird happiness
is, or isn't.
it's not
your job
to know. you
are just
the feeder
of pigeons.
no more, no
less.

the social network

the man
with a white
beard
and flushed face,
holding a sign
on the corner
with a red cup
full of change
and crumpled
dollars
has added
another sign
taped to the
bottom.
friend me on
facebook it says.
donations
can be made
there as well.
god bless.

a patch of ice

the foot finding
the patch
of ice
feels quickly
what is
about to happen.
and as the sky
turns
over, your
arms flinging
helplessly
towards
the clouds,
you think about
another
path you could
have taken.

the pin

the pin you
drop
into the thick
dark rug,
that you
can't find,
even on
your hands
and knees,
will
find you
in all
good time.
walk gently
through
the pin filled
world.

temporary fillings

this is all temporary
she says. i'll be moving
out of here soon.
i'm just renting
for the moment
until the rates
go down,
but i'm about
to buy, maybe
something in
the country, or
a condo in the city.
i can't decide.
that car
outside
in the lot. zip
car. i'll be getting
a real one
this spring.
these clothes i'm
wearing i'll
be donating to
the salvation army.
i'm just wearing them
until
i get some new
ones. i can lose
this weight. do you
see all this extra
weight i'm carrying.
holiday pounds, she says.
i am resculpting
my body. what you
see now is going
to be gone
in six weeks, so
take a long look.
i'm about to change.
i even have
a temporary filling,
look, see, she
says opening her
mouth wide.
it's not a real
tooth. but i'm
getting a real tooth
soon. i'm in transition
she says.
everything is about
to change.

salesman

the salesman
has his hand deep
into your pocket
as he asks
you how the family
is, your dog.
you look great
he says, did you
lose weight.
you don't look
nearly your
age, has anyone
told you that?
well, anyway.
we have a contract
drawn up
and all you
need to do is
sign here on
the dotted line,
and here and here,
and once more here.
he puts his
hand on your
back, well, he
says, go ahead,
what are you waiting
for. it's a once
in a life time
deal. you won't
regret it. i promise
you that, he
smiles, trying
to hold back
his split tongue.

i want my future now

the future is not
what it used to be.
we were promised so
much as children.
jet packs.
bullet trains
and time travel.
we should be living
on mars by now.
having interplanetary
relations
with green skinned
women. okay,
maybe we have that.
but most of the future
has not been
fulfilled.
we had train and cars,
even planes in the early
1900's.
nothing's changed,
but our telephones
which change and get
more advanced
every three months.
put those geniuses
to work on other
things, for a while.

call me when you break up with him

my new boyfriend,
she says
excitedly,
is taking me to a
play on saturday.
shakespeare.
then we're
going to dinner
in chinatown
for some crispy beef,
and in the morning
brunch
at la escargot.
that afternoon,
if it's not raining
we'll take
a long walk
around the zoo.
hand in hand.
he calls me sugarplum
and i call him
stud muffin.
we do ice skating
on tuesday and
play scrabble
until midnight
on thursday.
and just about
every day and night
that we're together
we have
lot and lots
of wild sex.
sometimes we dress
up like roman
gods and goddesses
pretending to....
okay, okay,
you tell her putting
your hand up. stop.
stop talking.
i hate the both
of you.
i have to go home
now to walk
my dog. call me
when you break up.

how you doing

you have a neighbor
who looks
like he used to break
legs for a living.
he drives an old
white caddy
with baby moon hub
caps.
what's left of his
hair is black,
and slicked like
a seal
straight back.
he waves to you
with his
thick gnarled
hand, fingers
like pipes
going in every
direction. his
wife does
all the shopping.
you see her come
and go in her
heels and tight
pants, chewing
gum. he's
a good neighbor
though. he doesn't
want to know
anything about you,
and you feel
likewise.