i prefer not to

you have
reached
a point of not
doing things
you don't want
to do. not
attending,
not belonging,
not following
what you don't
believe.
there are few
lines you
want to get into
anymore. fewer
still the
conversations
that stir
your soul.
it took
awhile, but you
are there.
and yet you
are not removed
completely,
not quite free.
that will
come later.

sweet talk

the cop
in her black
leather coat
and fuzzy cap,
with boots
like a soldier
waves me down with
her radar gun
and asks me,
leaning into
my half unrolled
window if i have
any idea how
fast i was going.
and i tell her, no
i don't have
a clue, but i
do tell her
that she is very
attractive
for a policewoman
and that her
skin is radiant
that she should
have been a movie
star if not for
a few twists of
fate that brought
her out here
on this cold
febraury day with
a badge and a gun
some pepper spray
and a billy club
strapped to her
slender waist.
she smiles. her
teeth are as
white as ivory
behind her red
lipsticked lips,
really? she says.
yes. really, i
say. you should
move to the west
coast. not later,
but like right now.
i make a square
with my fingers
and thumbs, putting
her into the frame.
wow. i say. whew.
she folds up her
ticket book, looks
both ways down
the street and
says, no fine
sweetie, here's my
card call me.
let's do lunch.
great, i say. feel
free to bring
those cuffs too,
i tell her, then
hit the gas and go.

how it begins

the sun,
like kindness
comes out
and puts her
hand upon
your shoulders
lightly
touches your
face with
her soft
and warm
fingers, she
kisses
you with
the hope of
a new season.
this is how
love begins
how it all starts.

husband

go lie
down. take
a pill and rest.
i'll check
on you in
a little
while, you work
too hard, you
worry, you
do your best,
but it's
just not good
enough, is it.
we all get
sick. it's no
one's fault.
i can handle
things. keep
this ship afloat.
i'll take things
over from here.
but first,
how do i turn
on the stove.

mid winter blue

no colors,
no spark or shine
presents itself
as you swim
in noon light.
mid winter blue.
unaware of time.
you set no clock
or watch to go
by. you are in
a different place.
on an uncharted
island. you have
too much of
you to handle.
the earth is
white, the sky
is too. no middle
no end. you are
vanilla, without
claws, or tooth.
the unworked day
is strangely
absent, vague
and bland.

the long bath

you have been
underwater for
so long, that your
skin is dimpled
from head to toe.
it is soft
and rumpled, smooth
like pebbles at
the bottom of
a brook after
the winter snow
has melted and
rushed forward
towards where it
needs to go. and
as you lie here
next to me,
shivering from
the cold, i'll
do my best to
keep you warm,
keep you from
going back under,
from getting dressed
and going home.

the new girl

i woke up
with blood
on my pillow
two puncture
wounds in
my neck
and you beside
me with a smile
on your face,
a few drops of
red dripping
from your
lip. is there
something you
need to tell
me before
the sun comes
up.

the old gate

the gate,
off it's
hinge, swings
and creaks
throughout
the long night.
the wind moves
the old wood
back and forth,
without closing.
tomorrow
you will get
your tools
from the shed
and set it
right. but
not now,
you want to
listen for
awhile. it
reminds you
of someone you
used to love.

chit chat with God

your conversation
with God does not
go well this
morning. your needs
out weigh your
thank you's and you
can hear the audible
sigh from the clouds.
the angels are shaking
their collective
heads like rag dolls.
you haven't had
your first cup of
coffee and the headline
news is as usual
death and destruction.
disease and three inches
of black ice on the road.
you are tired of
the mystery of it all.
love life, etc. etc.
it's so hard talking
to someone that is
virtually silent,
it reminds me of my
ex wife a little,
but without the throwing
of dishes and the
lawyers getting involved.
and yes, i love those
beautiful sunsets,
the masterpieces of
nature and all of that,
but hey, i need the
phone to ring to get
back to work and how
about putting the word
in for me with that
cute little blonde who
lives down the hall.
sorry, i'm cranky, like
i said i haven't had
my first cup of coffee.

just one bite

you take
one bite
out of each
apple
and leave it
on the table,
the counter,
the step.
you never
finish
anything, and
you have no
regret.
i'm not
amused. i'm not
impressed

postcard

i have
to go
now. my
train
has arrived.
write, won't
you.
drop me
a postcard
from the other
side of
love. a
stamp these
days is
almost
nothing.
here's a
dollar,
write two,
write
small, don't
cry.
ink smudges.

enough green lights

as i wait
for you, as
i have for
others, to
come around,
to give me
that green
light to
allow me to
move on with
what we are
to be, i see
how wrong,
as usual,
my thinking
has become
in letting
you, not me,
decide what
road we are
to take,
and what
we are
to become.

the vase

the unearthed
vase from
the yard split
open by workers
in the spring
sun, standing
back, before
one picks it
up and brings
it in. it's
perfect in shape
and form,
not a chip
or hairline crack
to be found.
the color is white
like new eggs,
flowered in
wedgewood blue,
that becomes clear
as you wipe
it down beneath
warm water
in the sink
and you wonder who
and why this
vase was buried
so deep
within the yard,
so long ago.
such secrets do
we hold.

more light

more light
comes in
through
the window,
now that the trees
have fallen.
the room shows
dust and clutter.
what was hidden
is in plain
view. things
you never knew
about me are
suddenly clear.
i may have
to move.

the hot sign

i see you
trying to lose
weight
again. i know
i know.
it's hard at
this ripe age,
with our
slowed down
metabolisms.
it's tough
to get even an
ounce off of
these sweat pant
clad legs
and waist.
and when you see
the hot sign
flash on
at the krispy
kreme as you
cruise up route
one, it's
so hard to not
stop and get
a half dozen
or so, sticky
and warm in that
green and white
box. okay. let's
both start tomorrow.
pull over. i
could use some
coffee too, but
with sweet and low,
hold the sugar.

marie B

she doesn't
remember
the last thing
she said
so she says
it again and
her questions
are soft
balls you
can swing at
with your eyes
closed. no
more probing
with a sharp
hot knife
about your
life and those
around you.
the game
is over.
she's slipping
into the ozone,
into orbit.
at eighty-three
she is a
mere shadow
of her dragon
self, coughing
up smoke,
dust, embers
cold, and ashes.
her finger is
still on speed
dial, but she
can't remember why.

the roofer

is the roofer
fearless, or
just a fool
the way he bends
and turns without
paying much mind
to gravity or
height. the wind
blows his shirt
open. and the sun
colors him
deeper with a
hammer in his hand.
how money and work
puts us so close
to death, and
perhaps he has just
chosen a quicker
path, one no
different than
you or i, but
less slow than
sitting at a desk.

burglar in the house

when you
dream that
someone is
in the house
rummaging
through
your life
throwing
valuables
into a bag,
do you get
up and turn
the light on
and go down
to see what
can be done
to stop this,
or let them
go about their
business
knowing that
they can't
take what's
already gone.

doctor patient relationship

the doctor
lies down beside
me on the examining
table. he says move
over. i'm tired.
i'm sick and tired.
and i look at
him, turning my
head and say,
but what about me,
i'm the patient
here. and he sighs.
i don't care about
you anymore. there
is nothing really
wrong with you
anyway. you're wasting
your money and time
by being here. all
tests are negative.
broken hearts are
a dime a dozen. go
find someone new and
stop whining. you'll
live to be a hundred
if you're unlucky. so
i get up and get
dressed and tell
him thank you. and
what's wrong with
you i ask him before
leaving. and he says
none of your business,
now please turn
the light off before
you leave, i want
to lie here in
the darkness
for awhile.

black bird

these bread crumbs
i am tossing
behind me are not
for the birds,
but for you to
find me when you
gather up your
strength and nerve
to come and visit
again. so far
i've laid down
three loaves
of wonder bread
and hope that this
will work, and not
just keep the sparrows,
and starlings,
the cardinals fed.

don't be alarmed

this is just
a test. just a
warning signal,
if you were truly
in danger of dying,
of being vaporized
in a mushroom
cloud of fission
you'd be dead
already. so relax.
you still have
time to get a cup
of coffee and
check your e mails.

undressed

at the bitter
end of marriage,
before the trucks
pulled up
to empty half
the house, my
ex wife would
get undressed
and dressed
in the closet.
suddenly after
fourteen years
of being together
she could no
longer be
naked in front
of me. and i
was strangely
glad that she
was now so shy.

your arm

has fallen asleep
beneath her.
but you don't
move, because
she might awaken
and see
the clock
upon the dresser.
she might see
how late it is
and want to
leave. so you
stay still,
it's better
this way, to
keep her in
the dark,
unknowing
of the time
and many things.
and by being
still and quiet
this way,
she stays.

taps

when
she stops
dancing,
moving her
feet and goes
home to
where it's
raining
all day
all night
all week,
it's then,
in her bare
feet without
her tap
shoes on,
when she
goes blue
and can't
decide
which way
to turn,
or towards
whom.

fitting in

below me
the neighbor
cooks
cabbage and
ham every week,
it fills
the hall,
above me,
a man in his
sixties lifts
weights
and drops
his barbell to
the floor
and grunts.
across the hall
a young
couple
makes love
all weekend
long
and forgets
to close
the door. i
need something
to fit in,
i'm just
not sure what
it is quite
yet.

the fish

it is the shape
of the fish
that keeps
him in water,
his mindset,
where he needs
to be, his form,
his opaque eyes
flat and set
just right to
navigate the depths,
his sleek coat
of bright new foil
like a rainbow
in spilled oil
is slippery in
sunlight, or
in the hand
that wants to
change him.
everything moves
him back towards
the sea, into
the watery air
he breathes, out
of his world,
not unlike us,
he cannot imagine
a different
life to lead.

the broken lace

your broken
lace, thinned
smooth and brown
by time
and age, dangles
short of
being useful
anymore.
the string
snapped clean,
is not long
enough to be
knotted
to the side
that's free.
no compromise
is left. and
perhaps it says
less about
the shoe, or
the lace and
more about things
that break
with no chance
of mending.

t-rex on route seven

with every
new bone found
beneath the sand,
below the sea,
so much time
and energy
is spent
on wondering
and worrying why
the dinosaurs
are no longer
with us,
was it ice, or
flood, the sun
hidden by
volcanic ash,
who cares.
just be happy
that they are
no longer here
roaming the earth,
imagine
the traffic jam
then, on route
seven.

the pony tail

i've always
had that urge
to pull
the pony tail
on the girl
who sat in
front of me
in class,
and sometimes
did, just a
short tug,
a quick pull
of that long
blonde hair
so neatly
banded and perky
against her
neck and back,
and as i sit
here in the movie
theater putting
on my glasses
to see the screen
i want to pull
again that pony
tail of the girl
who sits
in front of me,
but somehow
resist. there
is just no
going back.

the kitten in her

within this
column of pale
wintered
sunlight
your ancient
cat slips
like a striped
shadow
through
the room, a
slow blur
of life un
winding, still
soft, but eyes
no longer blue,
melting
towards an end.
and with her
goes your memory
of how long
it's been
when the kitten
in her was
also in you.

that well is dry

there is no moon
for her anymore.
no stars, no rising
sun, or blue ocean
kissing my feet.
there are no
flowers in bloom,
no sleeve of stream
ruffled silver
and rising
pushing towards
the sea. i feel
nothing and have
no more ink for her.
that well is dry.

delete button

when i got
the tweet
and the facebook
update
that you were
in the grocery
store and then
how later you
were on
the road going
for coffee
and still later
that same afternoon
you were
stopping at
your friend's
house to drop
off a book
before going
to work out at
the gym, and
then taking
your cat to
the vet, before
picking up
your son at
school, well,
i knew then
exactly what
i had to do.

a new man

walking hurriedly
down the empty
street, and worried
about my future,
about the past,
i find an
umbrella on
the sidewalk, it's
black with
a tortoise shell
handle. smart.
and beside it
a pair of gloves,
black leather,
and a hat. further
down the block
i see an overcoat,
it's long and dark,
with deep pockets,
and put that
on. then a pair
of shoes that fit
just right. wing
tips shined
and holding the
new day's light.
size ten.
the pants are
snug, as is the
white shirt that
lies beside them,
the bright blue
tie is perfect
though and i
remove the clothes
i'm wearing
and put them on.
by the end
of the corner
i am a new man
without a care
in the world.

nice to see you go

without you
the stars have
come out.
the dreams
have been sweet,
and deep
and long into
the peaceful
sleep of night.
i'm hungry again.
the lines
on my face
have softened.
i have more
bars on
my phone.
it's so nice
to see you go.

sunday dinner

bent over
the red sauce
in the tall
black scorched
pot, as it bubbles
and boils
the light
rain of splatter
on her blouse
and counter
the wood
spoon, long
bleached of
color, stirring
the past,
she waits
for her children
to arrive
with their
children.

pet smart

you still love
and miss your
old dog, moe,
so you go out
and get another
dog. it's time.
you are way overdue
in the i need
to care and think
about something
other than me
department. so
you get another
red daschund,
short haired,
and brown eyed,
he's as lively
as a hot wire
fallen in a wind
storm. you
put him in your
lap as you drive
home from pet
smart and he curls
up and begins to
chew a hole in
your new leather
coat. he licks
the rim of your
coffee cup.
he is excited
to be with you,
to be anywhere
but in a cage,
and he pees all
over your leg.
you make a sudden
u-turn and go
back. you're not
quite ready for
this kind of
love again.

the rent is overdue

tomorrow you
need to move out,
the landlord says.
your rent is way
overdue, and i
don't like the
company you've
been keeping lately.
i can smell
the smoke all
over the building,
and what's that
cooking?
he says this
through the thin
wood door as
he rattles the old
knob and knocks
hard with his
fist. i want you
out, do you hear me
and your girlfriend
too. she's nothing
but trouble. and you
yell back, she's
not my girlfriend,
she's my friend
who happens to be
a girl. which
doesn't go over
well with gina
who's lying there
smoking a cigarette
in her underwear,
and shaking her head
of long black hair
like amy winehouse.

springtime in paris

i see you standing
outside the liquor
store with a cigarette
in hand, waiting for
it to open. and you
yell out to me as i
cross the street to
avoid you, you say
loudly, stepping
to the edge of
the curb, i don't have
a drinking problem,
my problem is with
you. and you wave
a finger at me and
curse. you'd better
walk away, you yell.
you'd better keep
walking buddy. it
seems like just
yesterday when we
were in paris,
holding hands and
staring into one
another's eyes
at a small cafe,
with the april sun
warm upon our faces.

naked love

the trees have
undressed themselves
of leaves
and shiver in
the blue twilight
of dawn, they
hardly sway with
their bare branches,
thickened with
nothing on.
they have no place
to hide, and neither
do i in my naked
love for you.

crack in the ceiling

there is work
to be done, paper
work mostly
that sits and sits
on the diningroom
table, the calculator
plugged in,
the coffee on,
pencils sharpened,
the ledger open
and waiting, as
blank now as a
white winter sky
at dawn. but you put
it off as you do
the call you need
to make, the talk
you need to have.
that crack that runs
across the ceiling
that you've been
staring at for months.

do not wander far

do not wander
far you tell
your children
playing in
the yard,
stay where i
can see you,
from the window,
in a place
safe where i can
call you in,
and it's not
long before
the years go by
that they will
say to you what
you have said
to them.

your guilt

your folded
hands
and silence
tells me more
than all you've
ever said
or done. no
defense, no
up in arms
to explain,
just the broad
clean stroke
of guilt
and quiet
remains,
which i will
remember and
have only that
to take away.

add love

inside, deep
within the cupboard
in the far
corner of the top
shelf you find
a recipe, hand
written by the previous
tenant, not the one
you loved, but
the other one, who
died alone and widowed
in the room
you now sleep in.
and it's a recipe
for a cake. flour,
sugar, eggs, salt, etc.
but at the bottom
it says, with a small
drawn smile etched
at the end of
ingredients. add
love, it says. at
least a pinch or two
add love.

before painting lemons

before she
paints,
she studies
lemons
in the early
light of
morning. bold
odd shaped
lemons with
pointed tips,
of cruel
hard yellow,
in a white
bowl.
and her lips
pucker with
the memory
of one cut,
the sting
of him still
fresh, before
the brush moves
in her hand,
the wet blot
of yellow
waiting to be
touched.

to clean

the small
church where
you like to
go and hit
your knees
to confess
or send up
a prayer,
or plea,
is quiet on
this february
morning,
just the cleaning
lady with her
bucket and rags,
the cross
on the wall,
some candles
lit, and me.

empty pockets

you don't
believe in
wallets, or
man purses,
you just can't
go there, so
your pockets
are full of
loose change,
some bills,
keys, and mints,
some napkin
numbers smudged,
a chinese
menu, assorted
pens and lint,
one last
photo of me
and you,
you can't wait
to get home
to empty them.

delivery

up too late
you rise
out of bed
and find your
pants, your
shoes, someone
is at the door,
mostly likely
with bad news.
it's only seven,
who or what
and why would
they be
knocking so
frantically long
and hard this
early in the morning
you go down
the stairs,
stumbling, still
woozy from
the night before.
and you open
the door to a
blustery wind,
and it's the little
girl from down
the block with
two boxes under
her arms. she says
your cookies are
here, your thin
mints have come in.

understanding

in the morning
it's a clear
glass of water
on the nightstand
with the imprint
of your lipstick
still on the rim
that makes me
get up and finally
pour it out and
place it in
the kitchen sink.
never again.

chinese?

for once in
your frivolous
life could you
please
get serious
she says. tell
me and don't
clown around,
tell me true, do
you or do you
not love me,
i need an
answer or i'm
gone, i'm out
of here on
the first train,
the last bus,
the fastest plane,
i'm going
back to my
husband, if he
even knows i'm
gone. i grimmace,
i scratch at
the grey stubble
on my face, my
hair. i'm really
reallly
hungry i tell
her, chinese?

your empty shoes

i see your shoes
in the hallway,
on the mat in
front of your
door, sitting
side by side
without you in
them, they are
black and not
quite new,
perhaps your
favorites now
to walk you
through the day.
i see your
shoes in
the hallway
and remember when
mine were
there too.

house for sale

after the divorce
and the sign is
planted in the yard
clanging in
the march wind,
the agent
wants to change
everything around.
move the couch
to the window
the wing chair
to a corner. she
wants the walls
painted white,
the photos taken
down and boxed.
the trash and
debris, the beer
cans and pizza
crusts cleared
from the counter,
she wants a benign
and safe place
for the new owner
to feel at home
and not be a part
of your crumbling
world.

just one will do

sometimes you
need a piece
of hard candy,
something sweet
for the taste,
something with
flavor, to rest upon
your tongue,
to savor

its slow melt

between your lips
and gums. some
times you need
some candy to
get you through
the night. not
a bagful,  

or box, not a
handful, just one.

the old client

the house smells
of alcohol and
medicine, ashes,
dishes in the sink,
from last night,
last week?
brown bottled pills
dot the shelves,
line up like
stout soldiers
awaiting their orders.
and he sits in his
formed chair,
waiting, but not
for me, he has
forgotten about
the work, but he
smiles and reaches
back as far as
he can, to try
and remember, but
he can't and says,
my shoulder hurts,
i think i did it
playing golf and
his stare follows
the mailman's truck
as it rolls slowly
through the snow
beyond the window.

city lights

your kiss will
get me home
in the rain,
under the pink
glow of city
lights.
the soft shower
is warm on
this february
night, with
so far to
go, so many
miles to
travel before
i find sleep,
before my head
hits the pillow
and i begin
to think more
of you and dream.

date night

i'm out of
z bags
for the hoover
and i really
need to
vacuum before
you come
over, so if
you don't
mind, when
you buy the
wine, stepping
into target
for a bunch
of z bags, oh
and some lemon
pledge too.
the table
you like to
put your boots
on needs
a shine.

belly dancing

she takes a belly
dance class
on wednesday
at the rec center,
although
strangely she
has none. her
tummy is as flat
as a board, she is
mary martin on
a vine, swinging
across the stage,
and yes, i know
with that random
observation, that
i'm most likely
showing
my advanced age,
but this belly
dancing class
warms her blood,
and gets her crazed
with the drumbeat
and flute, making
her shake and shimmy,
gyrate like a blender
on puree, she knows
how to get that
cobra to rise
out of the basket
in the corner, i'm
all for this belly
dancing, it beats
the knitting class
she took before.

what the gypsy says

you will prosper
and be rich, but
there are times
when you will be
poor too, so save
your money. your
heart will be broken
but then healed
again and again
as you find new
love. you are
resilient and
strong that way.
your children
will not listen
when they are
young, but they
will understand
as they get older
and love you all
the more. you will
have sadness in
your life as
loved ones die,
and as people fail
you, but joy too,
as you make new
friends. and how do
you know all of this,
i ask her. and she
smiles, i tell
everyone exactly
the same thing. oh,
and by the way,
be careful out there,
when you leave.
the traffic is
bad crossing the road.

till death do us part

don't tell
me what i already
know. the soup
is cold, and bland.
what else is new.
sex is not so
hot, in fact, not
so grand at all.
there's dust
on everything.
what happened
to us. where
did we go wrong.
i don't have a single
clue, but perhaps
it started when
we both stood there
in church and said
those fateful words,
till death do
us part, i do.

metal detectors

i bought
a machine, not
unlike the metal
detectors that
one might see
on the beach
when summer's over
and everyone
has gone home
leaving watches
and keys and rings
behind, below
the cool sand.
but my machine
is different, it's
searching for
one good heart,
a true and kind
soul. no beeps,
just yet, but
the winter is
long and the beach
is wide, there's
still time.

expiration date

expired tags,
the meter gone
red and the ticket
on the windshield
like a white
tongue waving,
sticking out at
you, the can on
the shelf, no
longer good, check
the date on
the bag of bread,
the box of cereal,
the pills in
the bottle, all
done, expired.
the world is
trying to tell
you something
as your birthday
approaches and your
last girlfriend
has hit the road
with irwin.

girlfriend

there is nothing
quite like
the feeling of
leaving that old
car for the last
time, that broken
down heap that
let you down
and lied to you
with it's shiny
exterior, leaving
you on the side
of love's road
so many times,
stranded, shaking
your head
with a thumb out
to hitch a ride
home. you tried
so hard to keep
it going, keep it
on the street, but
oh, the flat
tires, the oil
fumes, the bumpy
ride down that
turnpike. so many
dents and scratches
and burned out fuses.
and now it's in
the lot awaiting
the next hopeful guy
to get in and go
for a ride, if he
only knew. the things
i could tell him,
the grief i could
save him from.
sweet jesus, how
wonderful to be
rid of the old
and start fresh
with a new set
of wheels.

unanswered prayers

on certain nights
when the air
is clear you
can see them
rising like white
balloons released
from hands,
from upper windows,
the prayers,
going up and up
into the stars,
to somewhere,
bumping softly into
one another. rising,
gaining height,
slipping away.
waiting for some
hand to take hold.
to hear them and
perhaps decide.

soft landing

when you leap from
the plane into
the wind filled
air, the patterned
earth below, and
you pull the string,
making the parachute
open in full
white bloom,
the skirt of silk
spread like a white
flower against
the blue, everything
you feared
and worried about
is now happily untrue,
and the landing, as
she promised,
is soft and easy.

thumbs down

we are living
in a world of
delete and
move on. no
strings, no
attachments.
just press
the button
and block or
hide. it's
clean and
easy this
way. to dispose
of those
who no longer
matter. click
on the picture
and poof it's
gone, the emails,
the texts,
the so called
facebook friend
all disappear
as if they were
never there.
like roman
emperors
we give
the thumbs up
or down and
signal to let
let live, or
set the lions
loose, and let die.

breakfast out

the waiter
brings you coffee,
you have
your paper.
you order two
eggs over easy,
sausage and home
fries, wheat
toast with
blueberry jam
on the side.
you are in no
rush this morning.
work is slow.
the weather will
keep you inside.
your phone sits
blinking beside
you, you watch
the lunch traffic
on the sidewalk
trying to decide
which way to
go. something
you figured out
just yesterday.

once pretty

peel back
those layers,
strip that wall,
soak it down
and see what
lies below
the surface,
what once was
pretty and bright
has seen
better days
and now in
this harsh
light of
january when
you truly
open your
eyes and scrape
hard, you see
what and who
you are really
dealing with.

idling

lie down with
me for awhile.
just for a moment,
rest and let's
not talk. hold
my hand if you'd
like. breathe
in, exhale. let's
pretend that
all is well and
that your car
is not idling
in the driveway
with your suitcase
in the trunk.

it's sunday

with a cup
of coffee in
hand, you feel
your feet sink
into the wet snow,
you are sick
of snow, january
feels like a
hundred days long.
shoeless you
have strayed off
the porch to
get the newspaper
full of news
you don't care
about anymore.
when isn't there
a war? the weather
report is all
the news you need
these days.
you'll be done
with the it in
ten minutes, no
less, no more,
and your socks
now soggy
are flung down
the basement stairs
in the direction
of other clothes
to be washed.
to be dried. you'll
get to it. you
stare at your pink
feet, wet and
cold. you find
dry socks.
it's sunday.

the itch

i need another
hand. my skin
is dry, in spots
unreachable
at the center
of my back. i need
some nails, they
don't have to be
red and polished,
a soft touch will
do to scratch
and find the sweet
spots that itch in
this humidless
air of winter,
with the heat
on and the cold
outside trying to
get in. i need
another hand to
scratch my soul.

angels in america

you find
the cold annoying
as you walk
the streets in
richmond searching
for your car.
clicking your
key to see a
light go on,
and the streets
are empty except
for students
wandering home,
alone, or with
arms around each
other, in new love.
and your son, in
his group of
friends and comrades
gathered in front
of the small
theater in victory,
the performance as
fresh as the sweat
still on their
brows, their lineless
faces and cheeks
red with joy, these
angels on this january
night. all as one, in
a tight group above
the ground,
living in the beauty
of now, their
lives with so
much to be done
while i walk, and
walk to find my
car in the bitter
cold, to find
my way home.

last house

it was a large
room darkened by
furniture made almost
of wood, the cushions
plaid and stuffed
with foam that eeked
out in mustard clumps,
the television on
in the corner
out of focus, rabbit
ears from another
era on top, with foil
on the tips, and
the blinds, ragged
and bent, tilted
off center down,
each chair a life,
in half slumber,
ancient turtle eyes
staring, a plastic
cup in hand of
grape juice, the taste
of some bitter pill
still on their tongues.
no window to open
to let the smell out.
and the visitors,
in horror at the
doorway, in tears,
shaking their heads at
what life has
become near the end
in this last house.

happy poem

she wants a happy
poem. something funny.
something light
and upbeat, something
she can laugh at. can you
do that for me again? you
did once before. enough
with death and heartache,
trouble and dark skies
full of cold rain. make
it light and breezy, baby.
can you that for me?
and make the lines rhyme.
all of them. i don't want
to be thinking too much
about what i'm reading.
so often poetry gives me
a headache. and you know
what doesn't happen when
i get a headache. so please,
for my sake, and
especially yours. give
me that happy poem. okay?

night walk

the night moves
slowly across
the field, the long
trees sway for
the wind along
the edges of town.
most lights are
dark, nothing moves
at this hour as
i walk home from
your house, i
leave nothing
behind, this
break is clean
and final. with
you in the window
the pale light on
until i am finally
over the hill
and gone.

everything changes

you know that
for a fact, by
the mood you
are in, the
weather, your
face in the mirror.
everything ages,
and there is no
turning back
the clock, no
retreat, no
reliving the past
or making lost
love new again.
that tree will
lose it's leaves,
the stream will
rise and fall to
dry stones,
the fix is in, this
is how it starts
and ends with
everything
in flux in
constant change,
take us for example.

fresh air

you move everything
around, rearrange
the furniture, find
a new color paint
to roll upon the walls,
you put up new drapes,
new lights overhead.
you buy some plants
and find a corner with
good light, you lay
down some rugs, you
need a change of
scenery in so many
ways, and just getting
out of town won't
do it. you buy new
clothes, new shoes,
you get a massage,
let your hair grow
out instead of that
prison look you've
been holding onto
for years. you open
the windows and let
in fresh air. and this
is just a start.
it's time, you are
way overdue.

what you miss

it's funny
the things you
miss, never
the big things,
never the events,
never the dinners
out, or nights
on the town, no,
it's that look,
that simple kiss.
the scent of your
hair, your perfume,
the embrace of
hello, or farewell.
the voice on
the phone, the text
the e mail. it's
the simple things
you miss.

the tomato

here you go, i say,
and hand you the knife
to slice a fat
red tomato
that sits round
and plump on
the counter, but
you don't cut,
you don't take
the blade and
slowly carve it in
two, you just take
a juicy bite,
and let it run
down your chin,
onto your sweet open
lips and crazy grin,
i like how you
never take advice
or listen. it's
what i like most
about you.

leave it at home

your new hat
bothers me.
it's not the hat
i see you in,
it's not you at all.
it's too bold,
too brash, too
red. it's
going to attract
attention
to the other
parts of you.
and you know
how that makes
me feel, being
such a jealous
fellow.

burial for a friend

every watch
has stopped as
you put on your
black suit
and go to see
him buried. too
young, who's
to know that.
but his life,
lived next to
yours seems short,
you have continued
with your world,
of work, and food
of finding love
and doing all
the things that
he once did, but
now it's only you,
and those he knew
as the line of
cars together
in a trail of lights
gently roll
through the fallen
snow, the quiet
hush of gloom.

dessert

she promised me
dessert, something
sweet and tart,
something that would
make my mouth water,
but she forgot. she
was nervous and
busy with the meal
and tending to the
oven, the wine,
the cool air and
snow that slipped
beneath the window
sill. and soon i
had forgotten too.

the bridge

my bridge over
the stream is narrow,
weak with logs
and branches
that have fallen
under snow. it's
fragile, and sways
in the wind.
i can barely
walk from here
to there across
the cold water, to
keep my balance
so high in
the air without
slipping as i
have done before,
but i'll try
if it gets me
back to you,
and where you
wait, reaching
out your ungloved
hand.

the happy divorce

this is yours
this is mine.
i'll take the
salt shaker, you
can have the pepper,
and the all spice
too. you have
the mini-van, i have
the volvo. my couch,
your table.
i only need one
fork, one plate,
one cup. you can
have the rest.
i know how you
like to entertain.
put all the money
into a pile in
the middle of
the oriental rug,
which is mine, you
have the shag in
the bedroom and count
it out. one third
for me, one third
for you and the other
third for the attorneys.
you can have the picture
over the mantle by
the way. i've always
hated family portraits.
i can admit that
now. what does it
matter. and the kids.
i'll have tuesdays,
you have wednesday,
and we'll split
the rest, we'll
figure it out, or
our lawyers will after
they drain our account.
the dog, the cat,
we can shuffle them
too from house to
house. isn't it nice
that we can be so
peaceful now. divorce
has finally brought
us together, the way
it used to be when
we had nothing.

morning coffee

my desire
for coffee does
not outweigh my
love and affection
for you, although
it may seem they
way as i get
dressed to go
out onto the snow
filled roads to
get some, leaving
you stranded here
in bed, waiting
my return.

letting go

you let yourself go,
you stop exercising,
watching what you
eat. you gain weight,
the grey grows through
your thin hair and
you let it fall
madly upon your head.
you have become the
woods outside your
window. letting
nature decide it's
shape and form. your
beard is wild.
you are fearless in
your quest to be
at peace with who
you are. even your
nails grow long.
people avoid you in
lines, they want
you to move away
and not to speak to
them. they ignore
how wise you have
become in letting
yourself go. they
liked you better
when you were
someone else.

vinyl records

these scratched
vinyl discs, with
their hard black
shine, like
liquorice rounded
and flattened,
still spin. thinly
grooved with skips
and bends in tact.
carried in boxes
from move to
move, a new love
causing another
address to be
written and
remembered. and
they still play
after the decades
have gone bye.
as we once
did, dancing in
the dark, blissfully
unaware of years,
or time.

the first dance

there is no
music except for
what we hear
between us, and
now we dance,
once more, around
the room, in
the empty bar
where the waiter
waits in his
white apron, at
the door, and
the chef too,
with his hat in
hand, and they
watch us dance,
and dance, as
the lights go
dim, and you kiss
me again, then
again, as we
try to make this
memory last. it
might be the only
one we have, but
it's good start
and leaves me
wanting more.

they only listen

these woods,
deepened quiet
in snow,
hold no secrets,
they listen
but quickly
forget that you
were there.
the steps you
take will
soon be gone.
your dark hours
are the same
to them as your
walks in calm
and flowers.
these winter
trees, they only
listen, then let
you go. it's
perfect that way,
as you walk
far into the woods
on that path
you have so
often followed.

you find a way

her language
is not your
language, her
thoughts not
yours,
but you find
a way to
understand,
you adapt and
listen, you
watch the movement
of her lips,
her hands her
hips, and it's
all about finding
a way. you
adjust, as you
would for weather.
staying warm or
dry, or cool,
in rain or wind,
or snow,
you see and
feel what needs
to be done, or
undone to find
a way. just as it
is with her.

love

you try to remember
the last time that
you told someone
that you really loved
them. unconditional
love, not infatuation,
or that sultry steamed
filled room of lust
kind of love,
but love. love from
the heart. true love
that the poets write
about. the kind
that makes you giddy.
nervous with
anticipation. love
that makes you feel
the way the dog
feels when he hears
you opening up a
can of food. that
kind of love. when
was that.

a bouquet of roses

i'd buy you flowers,
but it's the kiss
of death. a bouquet
of red roses
brought to you
by delivery or my
hand makes no
difference, especially
if there is a note
expressing love,
daffodils, petunias,
or orchids,
it doesn't matter.
you've shown your
cards, you've opened
your heart and now
you're doomed.

blabby mom

forgetting how
she spreads personal
information on her
speed dial like
a california wild
fire. you get
amnesia, and
you decide to
give your mother
a second chance,
make that a second
hundred chances
to make amends, to
promise to keep
this thing you are
about to tell her
to herself. and
suddenly she begins
to cry on the phone.
it's her go to
move. weeping, tears,
deep sobbing,
blowing her nose.
telling you to hold
on a minute, she
needs a box of tissues.
she should have gone
to hollywood when
she was young. she
would have been
a star. i wait as
she continues. i have
no idea if it's
a happy cry or a
sad cry, and i'm
quite certan that
she's not sure either.

this world

this world of glass
and water that you've
created, with neon
fish, and gold, black
guppies, the silver
slender darting ones,
those who dip and hide
behind the stones,
angel fish in slow
swim between
the tender plants
of green, that
sway upon the bottom.
they see you coming,
these fish and rise
to the top, in
prayerful congregation,
your hand, their
god, their daily
bread, sprinkling
down from above.
you bring the night,
you bring the dawn.
you don't judge them
for the lives they
lead, you just love
them all and let
them be, unsafe
within their world.

parallel parking

you see a spot
far up ahead, on
the right. so you
move in as the car
other exits, you
put your signal
on, you advance,
you measure with
your eyes, you
back up, arm
over the seat,
turning
the wheel just
slightly, then
adjusting for
the distance and
size of the spot
and your car.
you even
it up next
to the curb.
and you, next
to me, sitting
there quietly
in your
seat, putting
lipstick on
in the mirror,
unaware of
how i always do
this for you,
careful in what
i say, in what
i do, not wanting
to bend or break
the fender, or
grille, or lights
of what we have.

dog, cat and me

your dog
and cat,
in the window
together,
watching me
and you come
up the walk,
somehow
have made
a silent pact
between them
selves, that
in order to
get the most
out of you,
they need to
get along, to
behave, and
thus get more
love and
affection,
i want in on
that.

chemistry

fools you into
thinking that
everything is
fine. the fun,
the kiss,
the steamy
exercise, those
crazy butterflies.
it creates
a fog, blots
out reality.
there is nothing
quite like it,
as good, or
as dangerous
as that strange
and rare sweet
chemistry. and
at some point
i fear that
it may become
the life or
death of me.

pain and pleasure

while sitting
in the dentist's
chair, my mouth
held open by
a gentle hand
and listening
to the drill go
round and round
and round, rapidly
grinding down
the dark spot in
my sweet tooth,
feeling the numbness
of the needle, i
think of what other
confections in my
life can i
eliminate so that
i don't have to go
through this ever
again, and of course
you come to mind,
but i don't have
that kind of will
power, to not bite
into the sweetness
of you, despite
quite often,
the pain not being
worth the pleasure.

potluck dinner

your sister called
me the other day,
she wanted to know
why i was so mean
to you. i immediately
hung up and then
your mother called,
asking me why, why,
why. she too got
the slam down on
the phone, and then
your dad rung me
up coming in from
cutting the grass,
then your aunt,
then uncle in cleveland,
then your brother in
the navy. all of them
with the same complaint.
why am i so mean to
you. i had no answer
to give them, so
i hung up. thanksgiving
with your family will
be really tough this
year, should i bring a
dish? will it be potluck?

i'd marry you if only

i'd marry you,
if only, if only this
if only that. the list
is too long to
put down on paper.
but we have issues.
so many red flags,
so many road
blocks and deterrents,
bumps in that
proverbial road to
marital bliss. yes,
i'd marry you,
in a heart beat
if not for all that
but i can't. however
i don't mind if
you spend the night
once in a while.

sweeping up

afterwards, sweeping
up the glass
of you, the broken
pieces of us,
the splinters
and shards of me
on the floor. pushing
it all with a
soft broom towards
the center of
the room, and sliding
me and you into
the pan, letting
it all fall into
the bin, dropping
memory to the bottom,
pressing open and
then close with a
reluctant foot
upon the pedal.

the horror

you buy a new
house in a new
neighborhood.
it has saplings
for trees, bent
and strapped
to stakes. the
pavement is still
black and fresh,
you can smell
the rise in the
summer heat.
the playground
monkey bars still
have a shine,
unused. the wood
chips to catch
the fallen children,
below is white.
there are new
families, with
new kids, fresh
faces, they like
to wave alot
and say hello. they
beep their horns
in their new
cars. there is a
new school
down the block,
still graffitless
and clean, it's
fields are brown,
with new dirt and
freshly laden sod
not yet taken.
everything is
new here. a new
shopping center
is going up before
your eyes. you see
a blue bird in
a tree with her
new nest full
of blue eggs, fresh
twigs and leaves,
and you wonder
why you have
moved to such a
place as this.

childless

your long life,
unwed, is not futile
at least not
as much as you
once thought it
would be. and
your empty mantle
of childless photos,
with no swings,
or ponies, or
parties with colored
cakes and balloons
rarely bothers
you in your sleep.
you've chosen well,
and wisely you
tell yourself, with
a glass of wine,
alone on the porch,
leaning towards
tomorrow. and yet
you can't help but
stare and linger
for a brief second
or two, at a ballpark,
or stand near
a playground, or
walk through a zoo
thinking what if.
or watching the
mother with child
in hand, how it never
will be you.

books are better

you keep buying books,
you refuse to give
in to the current
trend of electronic
everything. you like
the smell of a dusty
book, the torn page,
the dog earred corner
where you underlined
a word, a sentence,
an amazingly perfect
phrase. you like
the way they line
up on the shelves,
how you can reach and
grab one at any minute.
no wires, no batteries,
no plugs, nothing
but the written page
between two covers,
hard or soft. keep
printing, keep
making books. don't
stop. books are better.

one more chance

if you gave me
one more chance.
when i get out
of jail, i'll make
it up to you. i can
change i've done
it before, many
times. ask around
i can be good
when i want to,
when i need to be.
and with you, this
time i want to.
cross my heart.
i've got religion,
i've got buddha,
i've got the dalai
lama on my side,
i'm on step twelve.
just spring me
free, set the bail,
i've learned my
lesson the hard way,
breaking large
rocks in the sun
into small ones.

rainy friday night

it was friday.
you were alone
with a bottle
of red wine and
a fully charged
cell phone. yes.
a very bad
combination. add
in a rainy night,
toss in some
ice, some bad
karma, old stale
crackers, bad
advice and away
you go. you speed
dial your old
flame, your new
friend from italy,
gina, from spain.
you figure out
the camera function.
it's not good.
it's a train
wreck and you're
at the wheel.
and by evening's
end it's a call
for a mop up
in every aisle.

what is a secret

in a small cup,
a white shell, i
hold a few secrets.
and even holding
them to your ear
i will not let you
hear them, they
will not fall to
the sand, or spill.
to be carried off
for others. they
stay put where
they belong. for
what is a secret,
if not unknown.

how are we so different

take the landscape
of the moon, for
instance. how nothing
is permitted to grow
there. it's barren,
it's airless, floating
luminously through
space, little altered
with time. it is less
about imagination,
or from lack of
trying. it's just so.
it can't be what
it isn't. it can't
be mercury, or mars.
how are we so
different. so set
in our orbit, within
our small window of
mankind, unable to
be stars.

less of this

less wind
would be nice.
less cold.
less snow
and ice would
be fine. less
clothing on
our bones.
if this winter
went away,
and stayed just
another week
or so, that
would suffice.
or we could
board a plane
and take our
pale winter
bodies to some
island, where
coconuts grow,
and monkeys swing
from trees,
a tropical
paradise. let's
go, but you
decide, and
quickly. my
bags are packed
and waiting.

you wait

you wait
and wait and
wait. you are
in line. you
are in traffic,
you are in
and out of
love. you wait
for the egg
to hatch,
the water to
to boil,
the coffee
to brew, the
toast to brown,
the elevator to
move, you wait
for the call,
the text,
the message,
the elusive muse.
you wait. and
there is nothing
you can do.

the landing

these wings
of this too large
plane, tilt
and wobble just
slightly
with the sun
suddenly in and
out of your eyes
as it rolls and
drifts in a semi-
circle, slides forward
to it's destination
below the clouds,
and you see
the curve of the earth,
with blue rivers and
trees move
closer, everything
getting larger,
and the engines
roar is lessened,
pulled back into
your seat with
strange gravity,
and as if in slow
motion, in a dream
you approach
the runway, faster
and faster to
the solid ground,
the zip and sting
of tires onto the
tarmac, and you
have somehow lived
and survived this
flight, to write
this down.

she used me

she used me
for my muscle,
to open jars.
to lift luggage
from the curb to
the car, to
change a tire.
with my long reach,
she had me putting
boxes onto the
top shelf, moving
chairs into
the attic, changing
lightbulbs in
the ceiling. my legs
would push the
mower to cut her
lawn. my vision
would thread a needle.
my voice would call
the dog to come in.
she used me night
and day for my
attributes, but i'm
not complaining.
the feeling was
mutual in so many
wonderful ways.
take her lips
for example.

the guilty nun

constantly, without fail,
you misplace the name
with the face, confused
with who, or what or
where anyone might be.
you would convict
the wrong person every
time in a police line
up. you are the worst
witness in the world
despite being such an
astute observer of
the moment. you would
point to a nun, staring
at her face and say
yes, absolutely your
honor she's guilty
of that crime. murder
one. just look at her,
without a doubt,
without that habit,
she's definitely
the perpetrator,
she's the one.

the unwritten note

i was sweeping
the floor of your
things the other day,
in daylight, when
the dirt and grime
is more visible,
and leftover articles
of clothing, and
unsaid words have
fallen beneath
the bed, or table.
i found the note
you never wrote before
you left telling
me how much fun
i was, how much you
cared and loved
being with me and
that you were getting
close to being
in love with me. i
found that unwritten
note on the floor,
and i reread it
again and again as
i stood by the window
facing out, waiting
for darkness once more.

animal talk

out the window
i saw a few fidgety
squirrels and moles
having a lively
discussion with a
red winged blackbird,
their paws and
claws were flying
all about, and their
eyebrows were
arched, those that
had them,
and there was a
red fox there too,
and a deer, and they
were all together
talking with one
another about
the weather, and
how there was
nothing, nothing
they could do
about it, but it
was a heated
discussion about
snow coming in.
the wind and trees
going down,
how cold it was,
about the stream
being frozen, how
the nuts were
too deep under
the rock hard
ground. even the
trash, the raccoon
chimed in was
frozen solid in
those bags and
tightly bound.

finding time for you

i found an hour
between the cushions
of my couch, a
few spare minutes
were lying beneath
the table, and
on the dresser there
was a moment or
two to spare that
i had completely
forgotten about.
there was even
a second, just
a split second all
alone on the kitchen
counter, that had
slipped my mind.
i'm boxing all
these precious
ticks of time up
for free
and sending them
to you, because i
know you are so
busy and have
no time for me.

theological discussion

we don't
know until we
die, she says,
eating her cold
mussels and
garlic bread.
drinking deeply
from her pinot
noir. know what
i ask, the truth,
she says. about
God, and life,
and religion,
heaven and hell.
that sort of
thing. we just
need to be good
and see what
happens. so how
are those mussels,
i ask. they
are cold, she
says. very cold.
like i imagine
hell would be,
if there is one.
i need to send
them back, but
i'm too hungry
to wait.

the weatherman's wife

she married a
weatherman, and at
first it seemed
like a good idea.
she always knew
in advance
what to wear
according to his
forecasts, but then
he began to drink,
and question his
abilities with
middle age,
and his predictions
floundered. when
he said rain, it
was sunny, when
he pointed to his
map at a cold
front, there would
be a heat wave.
and she fell out
of love with him,
because of this
and moved on to
the sportscaster,
who told her which
teams to bet on,
where to place her
money, on the horses,
the boxers in
the ring. he was
dependable and
strong, and now
she's happy, at
least for awhile.

candle lit dinner for two

this overhead light
gives me the wrong
impression of you.
is it okay
if we dim it down,
or turn it off
completely. i don't
want to be reminded
of my own years
by staring into
yours. let's do
away with lights
for good, why
bother. i'm in
the candlelight
phase of dating
and now that we've
met in person, i
see that it works
as well for you.

find the time

those mountains, so
far away, so far
down the line,
rounded out and
blue, and blue
again with black
as that sun falls.
those moutains,
unclimbed, just
wished upon, and
seen from this
window, perhaps
this year, i'll
find the time.

cooking

she was never
more herself than
when she was in
the kitchen, standing
at the stove,
stirring up something,
hot and boiling,
while i stood and
watched her in
the doorway. admiring
her skills, her
talents. her cat
like smile making
me shake my head.
she was never more
herself, when causing
trouble like that.

the home run

i hit the ball
solid, it cracked
hard right off
the bat, and sailed.
and as i was tagging
first, heading
for second base,
watching the ball
fly towards the
fence, not knowing
for sure if it
would go over, i
dug my cleats into
the turf and ran
harder, rounding
second, and as i
looked over my
shoulder to see
the ball rolling
towards the far
corner, into
the deep shadow
of the park,
i knew i had
a chance,
so i turned
my shoulders
towards third, and
at that point
she was breathing
heavily, and was
frantically
waving me in with
her arms held high
in the air,
her legs off
the ground. so i
went for home
as fast as i could,
sliding in safe
and sound.

epiphany

i was having
breakfast in
a diner the other
night. alone.
alicia had to go
home to feed her
cats. we'd been
out dancing all
night, and my
shirt was still
soaked with sweat.
i love to dance.
she has three
siamese cats
and they'd starve
without her
feeding them.
so i was
sitting there on
my torn red
leather stool
at the waffle shop,
sipping on
my third cup of
coffee, eating
two eggs over easy,
a handful of scrapple
and some wheat toast,
and a small glass
of oj when i had
an epiphany.

spring

the blue walls
just pale enough
to catch
the color in
sunlight or
a thinly
shaded lamp
upon the dresser.
a blue, not
unlike what
lies within
the nest,
outside your
upper room
the window
finally open
on a warm day.
the clouds so
still, at rest.
and you standing
in the doorway,
with that
smile confirms
the color
and other things
i can't quite
say.

hot soup

this bowl
of chowder,
bubbling hot
and thick
with all
the things
i like in
you. a spoon
ful goes
a long way.
why don't
we make
another pot
and you plan
to stay
another
day. no need
to venture
out into
the snow, into
the wind,
into
tomorrow.

joyful ride

in the glimmering
sweet snow of last
night and morning,
you pull the sled
on it's loose rope
up the steep hill.
you've done this
before. and the sun
is high, as high
is it can be for
a winter's day.
and the path is
wide and white, and
inviting. at the top
you see tomorrow,
you see today. and
it's a wonderful
ride as you run and
hop upon this new
fast sleigh.

flat tire

you stand and stare
at your flat tire.
you see the screw
embedded in the side.
a dog walks by. he sniffs
and wags his tail. a
child in her mother's
hand passes too. they smile,
and say hello. they
don't know the trouble
you have seen. and you
say hello back and
pretend that everything
is just fine. you get
the tire iron out,
the spare, the pump,
the jack.

dating at fifty

when she looks
into the mirror,
before going out,
before a date with
a relative stranger
from the internet,
with an e mail or two
exchanged, one
awkward phone call,
a text deciding
time and place.
she winces, dims
the light,
then pauses and
puts her hands on
her hips, and thinks
not bad, not bad
at all at fifty,
but what about next
year and then the
next. how much longer
do i have to
do this. she brushes
her hair one more
time. some lipstick,
some perfume, spins
and turns, looks
at the clock and
thinks about changing
her dress, but then
says, oh what the hell,
i'll probably never
see him again anyway.

when the carnival comes to town

and when the
carnival comes
to town i'll be
leaving with it.
i have talents
i've kept hidden
from you, just
as you have
hidden things
from me. but it
doesn't matter
anymore, what's
done is done,
as they like to
say in those old
westerns, late
at night, in
black and grainy
white, but
i will be on the
road, like
kerouac, i'll be one
of them in grease
paint and balloons.
sawdust on my
furrowed brow.
i don't need to
be a star,
i just want to
be an attraction.
one man, on
the side with
his own decorative
boxcar, painted
blue, reading
poetry for
the masses. i don't
need to be loved, i
learned that lesson
well, a long time
ago, from you.

your lip is bleeding

your lip is bleeding.
i'm sorry, did i bite
you too hard when
we were kissing?
come here, let me
dab it with this
napkin. closer.
look into the light.
it's just a small
cut, but it's bleeding.
almost like a
crimson tear.
i can take care of
it for you. i know
what to do. i have
had alot of experience
with cuts much deeper.
don't worry, you
are in good hands.

the grey suit

your old grey
suit was new once.
neatly cut
with style and
class. a perfect
fit. but it hangs
on the rack now.
in the deepest part
of the closet.
where the old
shoes lie below,
the tie rack too,
unspun for so
many years like
an exotic bird,
full of stilled
color. you
have no use for
suits anymore or
ties around your
neck, or tight
wing tips, narrow
in the toes.
that train left
the station a
long time ago
with no tears shed.

blue stone

you find a blue
stone along the
stream. it's smooth
and dull in color,
wet with sunlight
and water.
it's neither a gem
or that beautiful,
but it's fine. it
feels good in your
hand. you like
the weight of it,
it's shy and subtle
shine. you decide
to keep it in your
pocket and carry it
with you everywhere
you go and before
you fall asleep at
night, you set it on
the dresser beside
the light, and
in the morning,
it is still there,
patiently waiting
for you to take it
somewhere. you have
fallen in love with
this stone and feel
that it will never
leave you. it's
just a common stone,
and yet that rare.

trees

i know nothing
about trees
and have no
desire to learn
anymore than
what i see.
from green to
gold, to bare,
then back again.
that's all i
need to know.
and because of
this, our love
won't last
a season.

the woman with a small dog

your imagination
runs dry at some
point, you've said
everything you
needed to say, and
have said it twice,
at least. so you
get up, finally,
from your chair
and stretch. your
back is stiff,
your eyes are red
and burn. your mouth
is dry from silence.
you go the window
and look down onto
the city street. you
see a woman in a
yellow dress,
the color of
sunflowers. she has
red hair. she's
wearing sunglasses
and holding a small
dog in her arms.
you go back to your
chair. you realize
that there
is so much more
to write about.

it was yesterday

when you saw
three dogs
off their leashes
run free
through the snow,
barking in
the cold, rolling
wildly into
one another.
not quite puppies,
and not yet
old. you
remember well
those days, those
years of wrestling
with your
brothers and
friends in
the white of pure
fallen snow. it
seems like
yesterday too.

two boxes of thin mints

the little girl
scout two doors down
comes knocking with
her dad. she has
a sash around
her white starched
shirt and green
uniform. her shoes
are black and
scuffed from
the snow and
walking. two boxes
of thin mints i
say before a word
comes out of her
mouth, she smiles.
that will be
eight bucks, please,
she says, and her
dad winks at her.
i go and get the
cash. i shake her
father's hand
and then hers.
it's small and
light. she is
angelic as she
counts the money.
thank you she says,
life is wonderful
and simple like
that sometimes.

not about oranges

you fall in
love with oranges.
squeezed, or
peeled, it doesn't
matter. but you love
to have the citrus
juices roll down
your chin, sweet
and sticky.
you carefully break
one apart and hold
the clear bright
wedges up to the
light. you
want to marry an
orange tree, no,
an orange grove.
you want to wake
up every morning
with a cold
glass of orange
juice beside you.
you decide to move
to florida where
the oranges are
plentiful, you
are a simple man.
and this will
make you happy.

the fall of rome

your layer cake
means nothing
to me. this cake
won't do. it's
shallow nine
by twelve inch pan
of sugar and
flour and eggs
is just a pale
reminder of how
this relationship
has fizzled.
it used to be
a three tiered
cake, with
arches and
columns, a creamy
wave of icing,
with expressions
of love squeezed
out in cursive
writing, it
was a monument
of love and
confection,
it was a tower
the romans
would be proud
of. but now,
this sad flat
shallow cake
is all we have.
truly rome has
fallen, just
bring me
the knife,
please and cut
me a bitter
slice.

instant coffee

she laughs
at my instant
coffee. really,
she says, that's
all you have.
no bags of
exotic beans
and blends
from columbia,
or brazil, or
someplace else
where the earth
is hot and
begins to
bend. no fancy
machine for
espresso, no
percolating here
for me. nope, i
tell her, that's
it. you could
always get dressd
and go get us
some. but it's
pretty cold
out there
this time of
night. so
how would you
like it dear.
she thinks for
a second then
says, i like
instant too.
no sugar and
just a little
cream, please.

come on in

your key
fits my door.
try it,
turn the lock,
slip it in
and watch it
turn easily.
no need to
ring the bell
or knock
anymore, i'm
yours,
can't you tell
by they way
i kiss you.
i'm inside
waiting,
open the door
and come on in.
we've waited
much too long
for this.

your children

your world, having
gone so small, and
cornered by life's
rules. now you must
bend and lift them
the whole day and into
night. children define
us. and sometimes
the moon and stars
become meaningless
with them in the
room. they are your
orbit for a very
long time. and your
hand will or will
not guide them, you
have no choice in
the matter, and they
know that too, and
will hold you
accountable
by the things they
say, the things they
will and will not do
when it's their time.
you will never
completely leave
their room.

the mouse

this hawk, it's
feathers burnt
brown and blonde
in muted color,
with yellowed claws,
swings down in
a muffled rush at
what burrows in
the thickened winter
tangle, the ruffled
ground that lies
above the stream.
she swoops in with
a blur of wings
and a sharp
beak aimed at it's
prey, a field mouse
that hides
it's small grey
life, hardly a palm
full, and it's
heart beats with joy
and fear, not unlike
us, having escaped
another day.

the long black coat

you can borrow
my coat, if you'd
like. it's cold
out, and it might
snow. it's my
favorite coat,
the long black
one, with deep
pockets, but you
have to bring it
back. i need that
coat, there's
a number in the
pocket that i
can't throw away,
at least not yet.
she wrote it down
one night, the
night we met,
folded it neatly
and placed it
in my pocket, where
my hand was.
so please bring back
my coat, it's my
favorite. don't
forget. okay?

breakfast

she moves the eggs
around on her plate,
like ideas, soft
and yellowed, now
cold. they are suddenly
tasteless. she gives
up and sets
her fork down. i
listen to her silence
and stare out across
the boardwalk, the
wide flat sand, empty
of everyone. i sip
my coffee. it's
january and the gulls
are as white as
empty shells with
wings. there is nothing
left to say.

the endless road

she reminds you
of a country
that you need
to visit. a far
away place, not
even on the map,
at least not yet.
her legs are roads
that will lead
you there,
her arms are trees
that will embrace
you and hold you
so that you will
never leave,
her smile is
her religion,
a sun that
will keep you warm.
her lips the fruit
that will satisfy
your hunger to
stay on the road
to visit other
lands, countries
that you've never
seen. you will
unpack your bags
for her, and stay
for a long time,
she is the place you
want to be. you will
move everything to
this foreign land,
and she will end
this endless travel.

moving violation

if i was
a cop,
and i'm
not, i'd
pull you
over in that
dress, that
short
and silky
black thing
that tosses
in the wind,
causing a
back up in
the intersection,
i'd pull
you over,
take you aside
and arrest
you for
a moving
violation.

the wedding

and the wedding
went on into the
night, and the lights
went up, and the
band kept playing,
and everyone danced,
everyone drank too
much, they ate cake,
they sang, they
stumbled happily about.
and the wedding went
on, and on. it seemed
as if it would never
end, and i held
your hand beneath
the table covered
in white linen and
flowers. and
the children fell
asleep in their chairs,
and we watched a
sad moon slip over
the full bloom of
summer trees and we
gently kissed,
we waited, we waited,
and the wedding went
on and on, forever.
and everyone danced,
while the bride and
groom got lost in
the long night, her
white gown trailing
behind her on the
wet lawn and everyone
tried to say something
with meaning, tilting
and spilling their
glasses, trying to
say something wise,
and lasting. and
the ember tails
of fireflies
suddenly lit up and
were everywhere,
and we waited, me
and you together,
unsure about everything,
so much unsaid.
and we held hands,
we waited as the
wedding went on forever.

what true love is

your melancholy
moods are tedious
at times, she
muses. she likes
to muse and i
like it too.
i like the way
she puts her
hand beneath her
chin and shifts
her soft brown eyes
from side to side,
between thoughts.
your writing is
so so sad at times,
she says,
are you okay? do
you still love
her, that summer
girl? and i
laugh and smile,
my fingers on
the keyboard. i'm
done, i'm fine.
truly, i really
am okay. for love to
be true, it has
to be both ways.
this is the last
poem you will ever
see about her.
and she laughs.

the fallen gowns of angels

while we
parked on
the darkest
part of the
dead end lane,
under the blue
hand of trees,
the pale fog
moved across
the roads,
and fields,
settling
like hems
on the fallen
gowns
of angels.
and then
you leaned
over to kiss
me. i remember
our lips
touching for
the first time,
it wasn't
heaven,
it wasn't
close, but
it wasn't
worldy
either. do
you remember
too?

don't take my advice

don't listen
to me. i
know nothing.
i have no advice,
no ideas about
love, and affection,
on how to
make it last,
how to make
grow, i just have
alot of experience
on how to make
it end. on that
i'm quite
an expert, that
is one thing i
really, sincerely
know.

the empty cup

unloved, she
comes to the door,
in her robe
and slippers.
she has an
empty cup in
her long slender
hand. what, i ask,
what is it
this time.
sugar, salt,
olive oil again?
and she says.
i don't know.
i'm not sure what
i need this
time. what
do you have
that i want.
i don't know
either, i tell
her, but come in,
come in, let's
look around
and see.

the red ball

as the small
bright
ball rolls
gently from
your hand, almost
carelessly,
slipping from
your grasp,
and it goes
towards the
door and
down the steps
bouncing in easy
hops out to
where the road is,
and it picks up
speed, faster
and faster,
beyond your
reach until
it is a small
red dot on
the horizon
of your life,
you stand
at the door
and look out,
and try to
understand
the meaning of
life and love.
but you
have nothing
and so you close
the door and
go on about
your day.

tweet

these birds
outside my
window. filling
the tree, so full
of themselves,
small round
puffs of feathers
that neither sing,
nor speak
with relative
meaning, but
just tweet in
random short
bursts of noise
about this
and that. nothing
really, not
unlike you
do from time
to time, when
you have nothing
really good
to say, but can't
help yourself,
as you stand alone
with your phone
in the rain.

painting

you've used
up all your
colors. the palette
is dry. the pigments
lie like frozen
tears, unclear,
and falsely colored.
each brush is stiff
and still, out
of hand, against
the unused
canvas, as white
as pebbled sand.
nothing, but her
comes to mind,
that you need or
want to paint. no
face, or mountain
makes you
rise to this
occasion. it's over.
how can you possibly
move your hands
and eyes to
recreate your life.

your zipper's down

she says
to me while
we're standing
at the bar
waiting for
a table, and
you've misbuttoned
your shirt, she
points with a
red nailed
finger, you
started one
hole too soon,
go ahead and
look, plus there's
a coffee stain
on your jacket.
and your chin
is still bleeding
from nicking
yourself with the
razor, oh, and
more thing, there's
toilet paper
stuck to your
shoe. anything else,
i ask her, sipping
my martini, yes,
she says, there's
a little piece
of green olive
stuck between
your two front
teeth now. we're
not having sex later,
are we, i ask her,
taking another gulp
of my stiff drink,
i don't know, she
says. we'll see.
you've got alot
of work to do.

quiet man from idaho

you hear the neighbor,
lenore, through
the wall.
there are noises
like cats with their
tails stuck in doors,
a symphony of bed
springs and head
boards bang
furiously against
the thin barrier
between us. she
screams like someone
has just put a knife
in her, but he is
very quiet. almost
silent as he goes
about his passion
for her. she is
making love
to someone you've
never seen before,
but he drives a red
truck with out of
state plates, idaho,
you think, the potato
state, there is a box
of tools in the back,
and whenever you see
it in the lot, parked
sideways, so as not
to get scratched,
you know it's
business time next
door and you can't
help but listen as
they go at it, the
potato man and lenore.

one more cup of coffee

you buy another
cup of coffee.
you flip through
the paper in
record time.
the paper is weak
with news. nothing
grabs your
interest, makes
you turn the page.
it's what you
do when you're
not working and
you're waiting
for the phone to
ring with another
job. you browse
the book stores,
walk through
the woods and
check your phone
for messages.
the woods are
the same every
winter. you are
bored with the
woods and their
bare trees and
frozen shallow
ponds. you can
find no worthwhile
metaphors in
this maudlin
meadow you slog
through, even
the squirrels
are starting to
annoy you with
their fidgety
ways of jumping
around when you
walk by. you
randomly
text and message
your so called
peeps as you walk,
but they
are all working,
they actually have
real jobs,
and can't play
for long, they send
you a bone or
two to make
you smile, and you
start thinking
about coffee again.
lunch perhaps,
if you were even
hungry.

below the surface

your shyness
betrays you.
that still water
above your soul
is just on
the surface,
placid and
careful
not to go
too far
away from
shore, but
underneath i
believe i know,
what really lies
below. the
current is
strong and wild
and wants to
take me with
it. i like it,
i love the way
it flows.

finding milk

i live
for milk.
it is all
i need.
i have forsaken
love
and work.
friendships
have fallen
away,
for a glass
of cold
milk. it
is all i
need. it
will see
me through
my years of
growing old,
of this
middle age
where i am
beginning
to disappear.
it is milk
that will
sustain me
when all
else fails.
keep me here
for a little
while longer.
i hold it
to the light.
i will leave
none of it
behind for
others.

let the horses go

go untie the horses.
let them all go,
set them loose
into the moonless
night. let them
stampede beyond
the open gates,
be shadows
rumbling with hooves
against the desert
floor, towards
the hills, the thick
cave of green woods.
lost without caring.
let the horses go,
let them know what
it feels like to
be me without you.

it's not dark yet

you swim
with him, his
music and
odd devil
way of seeking
and not
exactly finding
God, but
coming close.
of dissecting
love, and
leaving it on
the road, and
finding once
more on a
another road.
dylan
and his rasp,
his fingers
strumming,
behind blue
eyes and ravaged
face holding
a thousand
years of songs.
and you don't
buy into all
of them, but
there are just
enough to help
you get along.

van gogh

i'm unsettled
with a van
gogh blue
mood of cold
and want. my
sky is swirled
with blurred
stars. i feel
like something
is just out
of reach. beyond
the french
doors, past the
uncut lawn
bandaged loosely
with ragged snow.
past the bent
strands of oat
and pussywillow,
i'm too serious
and baffled by
this quiet bed
without flowers,
the bland clouds
of no new ideas,
there is no one
with a spark
to push me where
i need to be
pushed. i'd like
to say that this
too will all pass,
but i'm getting
worried about
losing one good ear.

blue heron

they stand
still in
the thin pool
of grey water,
the inlet
a distant sea,
ruffling their
soft armor,
the heron
on stick legs,
and narrowed
beaks, angled
like swords,
they look
over at me.
but we are worlds
apart, with
different cares
and worries,
on this
pink rosed morning,
our feet
submerged in
the shallow
depths of
warm louisiana
water.

subway

i go down
the steps
into the subway
of new york
city. i get on
the train
and ride all
night. from
the bronx to
queens up
to harlem,
mid town and
back again.
no borough left
untouched.
i've got all
night, it's
where i want
to be, with
the hum and
rattle of the
old wheels,
the clumsy
cars, the
flickering of
lights. i
like it here,
beneath the
city. below
the streets
of stone,
until i'm ready
and willing
to rise and
move on.

death by diet

i blame it
on tomatoes
and lettuce,
romanine,
never iceberg,
carob, beans
and rice,
soy milk,
no meat, nothing
with a face
will be
consumed or
will suffice,
it must be
raw, uncooked,
unsalted
or unseasoned,
never packaged
or processed, she
has made her
life miserable
with her bland
and tiring
dietary decision.
and she watches
me as i wolf
down a burger
so rare, sizzled
and fried,
the blood dripping
onto the shoe string
rings and fries,
her face frozen into
a horrfying pale
stare. but i'll
help her limp
to her car, if
she can remember
which one it is,
and where.

it's funny, but

you remind me of
someone, someone
i used to know
back in the eighties,
she says, touching
her fingers along my
face. something
in your eyes, that
blue green, the
way you speak,
the way press your
lips to mine.
maybe it was
me, i say, maybe
i'm that person.
no, she says. he
died a long time
ago, so it can't be
you. i take her
hand and put it
against my chest.
i don't feel
anything she
says. there is
no heartbeat.
and she smiles
then cries, i can't
believe it, it
really is you.

lighting a match

casually
you light a
match and hold
it in the air,
cupping your hand
to try and keep
the flame alive,
but the wind
immediately
blows it out.
you try another,
and another,
and just as
quickly the
cold winter
breeze douses
the short hot
lick of fire
before
it can touch
your finger.
before you can
light the way.
something has
to give, something
has to change.

cradle to the grave

a baby in his
crib learns
quickly how
the game is
fixed, is rigged.
cry and squirm
and make a face,
turn red and
close your eyes
in a plea for
what you want
or think you need,
and you will
get what you have
quickly learned
comes to those
that came before
you. they will
pick you up
and hold you,
feed you.
this is the way
it so often
works. from
the cradle to
the grave.

the kind bartender

and the bartender,
olive skinned with hair
as black and shiny
as a wet cat at midnight,
smiles grimly as he pours
another shot, and i
look at my watch, he's
almost a doctor
with his care and
concern. it's not my
health, but my heart
that worries
him most, and he leans
over and says in his
barside manner, go home
man, she's not coming,
just go home. maybe she'll
call tomorrow. maybe
she won't. not to
worry, more fish in
the sea, and i throw
down the medicine, and
say, ahh, but you don't
know her, you can't
imagine how wonderful
this fish can be. go
home he says again, as
the lights go on, and
the barstools go up
onto the tables, the
music dies, and he
stands, his tie undone,
at the door,
holding it open,
waiting, waiting
for me to finish, to
leave. we fish more
tomorrow, yes, he says,
patting me on the back.
tomorrow we will go
together and stand
by the sea.

tree house

climb up here.
i built this
house up in
the sky just
for us. we can
see the city
through
the leaves, see
the traffic
roll by. we
never have to
get down. we can
stay as long
as we want to.
which is maybe
at the most
an hour or so.
after that i
have to go
to work, use
the bathroom,
get coffee and
make a sandwich.
i know that you
have things to
do too,
but for a little
while, let's just
stay put, okay.
nothing can
change when we're
in our tree house,
we can even
hold hands if
you'd like and kiss.

on the road

this road i'm
on, this long stretch
of highway, where
i've driven for
so long. wearies
me to the bone. being
this far away home
from who i know, from
my son, my dog, and
going it alone,
but i'll be
back again, i just
need to drive a little
further. get to the
coast, to the ocean
where the sun sets
deep into the soft
curl and curve of
blue water. i'll
be back. wait for me.
stay where you are.
i'll be back.

romance is dead

my hand in
the empty
mail box,
is cold and
feels the
harsh wind
kissed metal,
and gropes
around at
nothing. no
letters. but
i'm not
surprised.
no one writes
anymore,
they log
on, they log
off. we
fall in love
with abbreviated
strokes of
words and letters
on our phones.
we end it that
way too. no
tears on each
other's shoulders,
no scenes to
be had. no
notes of
affection are
in the mail
these days
with a smudge
of a kiss,
and a dab
of perfume.
or a lock
of hair folded
within. romance
is dead
i tell you and
maybe it's
better that way.