circling a date

you circle a date
on your calendar.
the big calendar,
the one the real estate
agent, that you don't
know, sends every
christmas. there are
two magnets on the
back that keep it snug
on the door. you've
cut off the faces of
bill and marge, the
smiling team of agents
who are smiling so
brightly with such
white teeth that it hurts
your retinas. they
don't annoy you anymore
though because you've
scissored them away.
but you randomly make
a big circle around
a day with your sharpie
pen in black.
no reason. not a
wedding, or funeral
to go to. no dinner
no date, nothing
really planned for
that particular day.
but you just want
to see what happens
just the same.

regrets

she asks me
with her pencil in
hand, notebook
on her lap, glasses
on the tip of her
long educated nose
if i have any
regrets. she taps
her pencil,
eraser end down,
and waits patiently
for an answer, i'm
almost asleep
on the couch, my
feet are up. i can
hear traffic
out on the street.
i see an ordinary
pigeon on the sill,
and the ghost of
him in the reflection.
his rainbow neck
of color bobs
nervously. regrets,
i say out loud.
none, actually. not
a single one.
and she says, hmm,
i think we're on
to something.

into the jungle

the blue sunny
skies of
your desire
outweighs your
intellect at times
and takes you
off track, off
the well worn
and straight and
narrow path
and into the blue
thick jungle
of mistaken
love and lust,
inappropriate
decisions that you
will regret later
and blame on
wine, or the full
moon, or your mother
who didn't love
you quite enough.
hacking your way
out is hard, but you
will find a way.
this nothing new.

children

she moves
the plant
from one window
to the next.
out of the shadow,
into the sun.
raises the sash.
she pours water
into the dark
soft dirt,
straightens
out the leaves
with her hands.
spins the pot
just so. she
thinks about her
children,
now gone,
now grown.

raspberry hair

i like what
you've done to
your hair.
what color would
you call that?
raspberry?
and how did it
get so tall,
and stay there?
anyway, it's
wonderful, you
stand out in a
crowd. in fact
the crowd parts
for you whenever
you're around
with me in tow.

the grocery cart

you've picked
the wrong shopping
cart again,
the one with
the wobbly wheel
that sticks and
spins, but you
push on because
you already have
milk and bread
in the cart, and
a bottle of wine,
you have a
committment with
this cart. and
you remember someone
telling you recently
like last night,
that you have
a phobia about
committment,
so you feel that
you have something
to prove. but
the cart wants
to veer left
no matter how hard
or how much you pull
and straighten
it out. it squeaks
loudly. but you stick
with it, and try
try to deny the thought
that this cart
is a portent of
some significance.
you push on. you
are not afraid.

the game

you draw a hot
bath, as soon
as you get home
from playing
basketball, you
make the water
as boiling
hot as you can
stand it, you take
off all of your
clothes, let them
drop heavy to
the floor,
cloaked in sweat,
and slide in,
you let the heat
sink into your
skin, permeate
your aging bones,
until you are done,
cooked and loose,
able to walk
again with only
a slight limp.
you have twenty
hours or so to
recover and
get back on
the court again.
ibuprofen helps
too, as does a
few martinis
before bedtime.

graffiti dog

as my dog raises
his leg up to
the fire hydrant
and lets loose
a solid stream,
i can't help but
wonder what makes
the arm with can
in hand, at three
a.m. spray paint
a wall, a fence,
an overpass along
the highway with
large cartoonish
names and words
that hardly make
any sense to almost
everyone, except
a few. green and
gold, bright reds
and oranges. so
bold and bright in
their dark, late
night art. and
somehow my dog
still has something
left in his tank,
as he finds another
post to raise his
leg to, he seems
to understand.

the last meal

thanks for
sleeping over,
but before you go,
are you hungry?
i could fix us
something, if you'd
like. i know my
way around a
kitchen. hmmm.
okay, we seem
to have only three
slices of bread
left in the bag,
and all are
nearly hard,
stale, and have
that questionable
yeast like smell,
but i don't see
that green tinge of
mold quite yet,
so i figure if
we toast them
up, we'll be
good to go, sort
of. we are out
of peanut butter,
out of eggs,
out of tuna.
how about a little
sprinkle of
cinnamon, well
actually it's
nutmeg and butter.
will that do for
our last meal?

she's come undone

she calls me from
rehab, somewhere
in florida, or
texas, she's
in a building
with beds, and
bars, and men in
white suits
keeping guard
on who gets in
and gets out.
it's a serious
business. this is
not oprah land
or dr. phil
with a quick easy
bake solution.
what once was having
fun is no longer
a viable option.
it seems that
this time, she's
really gone over
the edge, she's
on the sill looking
down. she's come
undone.

call me, okay

i wrote a message to
you the other day
on a small piece
of paper, rolled it
up nice and neat,
tucked it in a bottle
then tossed it
into the creek.
i'm hoping that
eventually you'll get
it. the creek goes
to the stream, to
the river, to the
bay, etc. look at
a map, you'll
see exactly what
i'm talking about.
it should enter
the atlantic ocean
sometime this summer.
keep your eyes peeled.
by the time you get
it though, my
feelings may have
changed, and i might
not be so crazy about
you anymore. i could
have met someone new
by then, and so could
you, but i hope not,
because i felt that we
really hit it off the
other night. i put it
in the top three first
dates of all time. i
mean that sincerely.
anyway, so text me when
it arrives and we can
discuss this further.
i guess i could call you
on the phone, and i
appreciate you giving
me your number the
other night, but
hey, i'm a man and
this is how we roll.

Gina's got a gun

i asked my new
girlfriend
gina for a stick
of gum the other
day, and she said
well la de da, i
think i do, just
hold on mister.
i stared at all
the junk in her
giant purse as
she shuffled things
around. keys,
kleenex, a cork
screw, some peanut
butter crackers,
perfume and lipstick,
finally she pulled
out a stick
of spearmint in a
foil wrapper and
handed it to me.
then i saw the gun.
whoa, i said. is
that a gun. yikes,
i'm afraid of
women with guns,
i told her. she
laughed like she
does, like a baby
seal on an ice floe,
throwing her wild
red hair back.
she looked around,
then pulled out
the pink pistol
loaded with bullets
and i cringed.
do you want to hold
it. no thanks, i
said. i felt myself
moving away from
her, and not just
in a metaphorical
sense. what's up
with the pistol,
i asked her. it
was pink and shiny
and she fondled
it in her hand,
caressing the
trigger. she smiled
and said pow, pow.
i need it for
protection, baby.
i'm a manager in
a liquor store on
the weekends, and
sometimes i close
up late at night.
hey, maybe we can go
shooting one night.
wouldn't that be fun,
down by the river,
she said excitedly,
shoot up some bottles
and cans, maybe
kill some rats or
something. i chewed
my gum slowly,
thinking it all
through. there are
rats down by the river?
just who are you,
i asked her. i'm
gina she said,
and smiled.

computer virus

the other day
i accidentally typed
in the words
'women with long legs
wearing nylons
and stilleto heels'
into my computer
and caught a trojan
virus. i was doing
serious reseach
for my anatomy 101
night class at
the local community
college and have a
paper due this friday.
i probably should have
left out the words
'women, heels and nylons,'
but it's too late now.
i immediately dialed
the 1-800 number
the second the screen
went wild and they have
assured me in very calm
and perfect english that
i am in good hands.
jimmy, the lead technician
and his family in india
and i have been on
the phone for four hours.
they have me on speaker
phone as they walk me
through the steps to rid
my pc of this awful
contamination.
every now and then i'll
hear a small child yell
out in the room, hold
control c button,
or delete temporary files,
or i'll hear the word
reboot, reboot in a high
pitched voice, i
don't think that it's
going well though.
suddenly my computer
started to shake after,
out of frustration,
i smacked it on the side
with my hand, and
the monitor spun
around and around and
actually rose a foot or
two above my desk. jimmy,
on the other end said,
ah oh, and there was a
long pause. what, i said,
what. ah oh, what?
and he said that
i may have contracted
the deadly 'linda blair'
virus. what the hell,
i said, and he said,
exactly. what do i do
now jimmy, what do i do.
and he said, you have
two options, what,
i said what. i grabbed
a pen and a piece
of paper, go ahead.
i'm ready, well, he
said. you can either
call a priest to come
for a computer exorcism,
you'll need holy water and
permission from the pope
in rome, which may take
months, or you can throw
it away and buy a mac.
you have no other options.
i am so sorry my friend.
is there anything else
i can help you with?

french toast

you decide to get
married again. you
don't know exactly
to who just yet. but
at least you've got
that decision under
your belt. okay, you
think. good. i feel
good about this, now
what. what's the plan
to find this woman
you are going to marry.
but you have none at
the moment. you are
clueless as to where
to start. it hasn't
been processed quite
yet, because you just
thought of it when
you woke up alone
this morning with
your dog snoring
in your ear. the plan
will come to you
in finding this woman,
you'll find a way,
you just need a little
time, maybe some
breakfast first. perhaps
french toast with
some canadian maple
syrup. some canadian
bacon, maybe a canadian
woman will be the one.
perhaps toronto will
be your starting point.

seeking something,

a little bit stressed
and lost with your
life, such as it is,
you go outside
with the full
moon, all silver
and fat and round,
plump and poetic
going nowhere for
awhile in a black
plum sky. and you
think it has
answers, that somehow
staring up,
and deep and feeling
some sense of longing,
that you'll suddenly
have an epiphany of
sorts about where
you are, where you
need to be, but no.
nothing comes to
mind, it's just you
and this round
rock reflecting
sunlight.

vodka and lime

you embellish
the truth, exaggerate
the lie, blow
up a balloon
of myth and wonder
to create a new
you. it's what
you do to survive.
your resume is full
of jobs you never
had, schools you
never went to, things
you'll never do,
but it doesn't mean
that you wouldn't
if you could,
you just couldn't
find the money, or
the time, you were
too busy with bread
and rent, vodka on
the rocks and lime.

i see the light on

you don't come
around much
anymore, do you.
you get your
coffee elsewhere
in the morning,
do your shopping
on the other side
of town.
sometimes when
i walk my dog
we'll go down
your street and
see the light on,
but i don't
knock. he doesn't
even bark for you
anymore. it's
better this way.
silence. i suppose.

a little more

a nice word
or two, will
do, or
the hint of
affection in
a smile. and
sometimes
the slight
touch, or kiss
is all you need
or want to get
you through
the day, but
at night you'd
like a little
more. just
saying.

that breeze

what isn't green
is blue, across
the flat plain of sea,
rising and falling
with a non chalant
moon. the world moves
slow without love.
we need wind to get
it moving. to break
those placid waves.
i'm looking
for that breeze.

drunk texting

broken hearted
and alone after a
night out with your
best friend ramone,
you had one drink
too many and texted
your ex girlfriend
betty, and worse
sent her a picture or
two of a bowl of fruit,
with your phone,
saying that, yeah,
baby, that's me and
you. which didn't
translate well because
you had a bunch of
bad bananas and
grapes in the bowl
and a pear with a
brown dent in the side,
and an orange or two.
she never responded, but
just as well, because
you didn't have a
clue either.

i'm there for you

as you have your nervous
breakdown and your fingers
dig into the edge
of the window sill outside,
sinking your long red nails
into the old soft
wood and your shoes have
found the brick lip to put
some weight onto, i hear a
baby crying in the other room,
not mine, but yours, and
i hear the shrill whistle
of water boiling in an old
tea kettle, and the tv on
as always to dr. phil.
and you want to let go,
but at the same time you
want to climb back in,
you have a book club meeting
tomorrow and you had some
very interesting things
to say about that new larson
book, the girl with the runny
tattoo. and as a crowd gathers
below you wish you hadn't
worn a dress, and perhaps had
on a nicer pair of underwear
and matching shoes, but i try
to cajol you back in with sweet
talk, while i stare at the fine
line of grey that's in your
black parted hair. a little
overdue with the dye job at
the hair cuttery, hon.
oh well. i hold out a bar
of godiva chocolate,
i show you a picture of a diamond
necklace from the sears catalogue.
i tell you that things will
get better, although i don't
believe that either.
i understand your plight.
your decision to hang out
the window trying to
decide which way to go.
the wind blows your hair,
and brushes up against
your skin beneath your
blouse, and you say, ahhh,
that feels good. pigeons
land on the sill to watch
while we wait for
the firemen to arrive
with a hook and ladder truck.
it still could go either
way. i make coffee
for everyone, regardless.

zombie world

i can't stop looking
at my phone,
i can't stop looking
at my phone,
i can't stop looking
at my phone,
no matter if i'm
with my peeps or
all alone. whether
i'm on the street
or walking down
the beach, i can't
stop looking at my
phone. i'm like
a freaking zombie
in a bad movie
with my head bent
down, my thumbs
twitching, my brain
in a strange
strange zone with
all these new apps.
i can't stop looking
at my phone.

scrabble night

we love board
games, my new girl
friend and i. we like
to order chinese food
and open a bottle
of red wine, it
brings us so close
together sometimes
but last night,
the scrabble game
broke out into a
terrible fight,
she wanted to use
pronouns, and
actual names of
real people, words
i've never heard
of and don't believe
are real words in
the english language,
she stood up and
cursed me as i delivered
the word zag, using
z, my final tile,
on a triple letter
and double word score,
crushing her spirit.
she wanted to use
the dictionary to
look it up and i
said go ahead, loser,
something like that
which made her throw
a cold chinese egg roll,
hitting me in the
face, almost taking
an eye out, and then
the board flipped over,
upside down, the pieces
went flying, i told
her that i had won,
and she says, no way
jose, that it didn't
count because she
suddenly and strangely
found a stray h on
the floor and all
the pieces weren't
used and it's too late
now because the board
was scrambled. and
then i told her
that i hated her,
and she said i hate
you more. you cheater.
and i can't stand how
you snore at night too.

franklin roosevelt

my great great
uncle was franklin
delano roosevelt she
says to me while
lighting a cigarette
and blowing smoke
towards the ceiling
fan in the hot room.
the sheets are pulled
back and there is a
plate of chocloate
candies between us.
shame about those legs,
i tell her, polio,
and poor elanore, with
that lucy mercer lurking
in the background.
yes. she says, and
eats another chocolate
candy, nibbling at
the edges as it melts
on her fingers. a shame
he couldn't walk.
she holds one of her
long pale legs up
into the air, like
a candle, how are mine
she says, my legs?
and i say, just fine
just fine.

wedding dresses

she had three
weddings, none
of which worked
for various reasons,
such as lying,
and cheating and
just a general
feeling of malaise
and boredom, but
she loved getting
married, the frills,
the party of it
all. the tall tiered
cake, the music,
the dancing, and
as she carried
all three dresses,
each once worn,
as clean and sparkling
as hope itself,
wrapped in clear
preserving plastic,
to the consignment
shop, she said,
i would do it
all again and again
just as soon as my
lawyer tells me
that the paperwork
has cleared on
the last one.

swan dive

near the zoo, uptown,
off connecticut
avenue, there is a
a bridge where many
souls have lost
and found their way
to the other side
of what lies beyond
this life, so many
took their lives
that they put up a
net, a place to catch
them when they leaped,
or fell, letting
the weight of who
they were carry them
to the ground, but no
more. no more. and
you can't help but
wonder if they went
somewhere else, to
another bridge to
leap, and if they
did, had they passed
the word around.

soft summer peach

this ripe soft
peach rests
in your hand,
with one small
bite taken,
a fallen summer
moon, as sweet
as any love, as
warm as any kiss
you've ever had,
but one, just one,
and in trying to
explain, you realize
that she'd never
understand, so
why try. and you
take another
bite and pretend
that it's enough.
isn't that what
we all do from
time to time.

parking ticket

i have no
coins for the meter.
that metal
pole with it's
blinking red face,
expired.
it says dimes
and quarters only
monday through
friday, and saturday
too. and it's
wednesday.
but i'm out of
the correct change
and have
only cup full
of pennies, and
a handful of
jefferson nickels
that are of no
use. but i have
tape, lots of tape,
so i tape
all of this change
to the meter with
a note that says,
take it all,
and i'll be right
back. sorry but
i hope that
this will do.

dog world

i can't sleep
this way. not with
this dog in my
bed. his tail
wagging in dream
against my face
tapping my head.
his snoring,
his dog like smell.
his barking
when a stray dog
passes by, to
look up and wonder
why he's on the
out and not in bed,
like him, my dog.

timbuktu

you pack light.
you have a ticket
for the seven a.m.
train. you are
going to timbuktu.
you don't know
where that is, or
even if you are
spelling it
correctly, but
you've heard about
it all your life.
you are tired
of the rigamarol,
another word you
don't know how to
spell, you don't even
care where timbuktu
is, or what language
they speak there,
it's where you want
to go. you are going
alone, you haven't
told anyone, not
even your son, or
wife, or girlfriend.
not even your mother
has a clue, but you
are waiting at
the station to go
and see what's new.

warm muffins

over drinks in
a crowded bar,
talking to a woman
you just met, her
name is amelia, or
emily, you aren't
sure, it's so loud
in there, but you tell
her that you have
decided to become
a doctor, hoping
that this will make
her like you more.
you look good
in white, you tell
her. maybe a chef,
or baker,or perhaps
an ice dancer
with sequins.
you could throw
up a ninety pound
girl and catch
her easily as she
twirled in the air.
you flex your arm to
show how strong you
are. you could do
that, but you
can't skate. so
you go back to
the doctor idea.
you could examine
hearts from
the outside
looking in, you are
a very perceptive
person and are quite
familiar with
heartache. you
could ask a a series
of questions that have
no answers. you
could put old
magazines in the
waiting room,
and a water cooler.
then you think
about the baker
idea, you love cakes,
bread. you can
think of nothing finer
than waking up
to a warm muffin
on a cold morning.
you are on to
something now, she
decides you are
ambitious and worthy
and goes home with you,
amelia, or emily, you
still aren't sure,
and you begin your
studies immediately.

as you sink

downward in
this marriage,
you take turns
breathing under water.
feeling the cold,
the pressure as
you sink further
into the debt of
love and air. you
didn't see this end
coming, and still
don't. you are
optimistic by nature,
and still, despite
seeing the darkness
of the bottom, you
find light at the
top, and you know
that to survive
you have to let
go. to unravel
hands and spring
upwards without fear.

the north of you

it is the northern
hemisphere of you
that interests me
most, not those
southern shores
where your pale
beaches, and warm
coasts await my
hands, the sunshine
of my eyes, the
shadows of my
arms. it's else
where that holds me,
keeps me coming
back for more.
that song you sing
without singing,
even the silence
of you, this is
why i travel north.
it's that place
i want, it's there
that i adore.

gone fishing

my friend jimmy
loves to fish, he'll
spend hours and
hours at the edge
of a lake or river
standing in the muck
in his converse
chuck taylor
black high tops
with a rod and reel,
a pack of smokes
in his shirt pocket
and a chinese white
box full of blood
worms. he asks
me to go with him
all the time, but
i tell him no, despite
how much fun it looks
i don't want to,
and don't see
the point, ever since
the grocery store
started carrying fish,
and putting it on
ice with the bones
removed and the
heads cut off, well,
i'm sort of done with
the sport of fishing.
and then he tells me
about the fight this
two pound catfish put
up the other day.
he weighs 195 lbs.
some fight, i tell
him. especially with
that hook in his lower
lip. he laughs as
he loads up his cooler
with beer and worms,
and some three pronged
snag hooks just in case
the herring are running.

chicken breast with wine sauce

i watch you walk
away, in your tall
fur lined boots,
snapping through
the parking lot
after our dinner date.
you are on your phone
already, carrying
in the other hand
a styro-foam container
full of your left
over dinner, a
chicken breast with
wine sauce and
some asparagus stalks,
salted and buttered,
and i see you step
into a pot hole,
buckling your knee,
which will never
be the same, and go
down, rolling over
in the street, the
chicken breast
and asparagus,
and phone flying
in the air,
sliding beneath an
oncoming car, it's
highbeams flashing
in your pretty face,
now caught in a frozen
grimace. and i can't
help but wonder if
things would have
been different if
we had liked each
other, and stayed at
the table a little
longer, held hands,
had coffee and dessert.

a bowl of soup

you sit at
the table with
your hot bowl
of soup. spoon
in hand. you've
opened the window,
but it's not quite
spring, not yet,
and a chilled
breeze fills
the air. and
the heat from
the soup rises
into your face,
and you remember
soup like this,
when you were young,
the smell of celery
and onion fills
the room, and
you remember
when you only
had soup to eat.
a stack of white
bread, thinly slicd
with butter in front
of you on a small
plate. things have
changed, things
haven't changed.

under the weather

uncertain of
the weather, you
prepare for
anything, whether
wind, or snow,
or heat, you
pack back a bag
with hats and
gloves and a
bathing suit,
you are ready
for whatever
the day serves
up. you no longer
trust the
weatherman, who
seems to work
without a window,
with his ever
changing forecast,
his fickle
fronts, his rising
and setting sun,
you are supicious
now of everyone.

we're out of roses

i used to send
flowers, bouquets
of flowers, roses
mostly, crimson
red with a little
note attached saying
something like, i'm so
sorry, or i love you,
please take me
back, i can't live
without you, things
like that. sometimes
i'd ask the girl
at the flower shop
to come up with
something special,
something another
girl would like
to hear. but now
i just send
e mails or texts,
short and simple,
it's much quicker,
more efficient
and leaves me with
alot more cash.

the diagram

no matter what
i say, you don't
understand, do you,
she asks me.
and i nod no, not
really, so
she takes a pen
and a clean sheet
of paper and draws
a circle. she puts
a dot in the middle
and one on the
outside, then says,
the circle is my
life, guess which
dot you are.

good night

it's been a long
hard day,
go to sleep
now. exhale
and relax. it's
over. stretch
your arms
and legs, say
a prayer, give
thanks, find
the cool side
of a pillow
and sink in.
don't let
that dripping
faucet against
the sink
bother you, okay,
okay, get up
and turn the
handle tight,
shut the door
too because you
can hear it all
the ways down
the hall if it
starts up again,
okay, now you are
really ready,
go to sleep.
but wait, help
the dog up, or
otherwise he's
going to be
scratching
the whole night
long to get
on the bed. let
him under, but pull
up the blanket so
his nose can
stick out
and breathe. okay.
okay, now you
are really ready.
but just one
more thing,
throw a shirt onto
the blinking
red numbers of
the digital clock,
where's that
little bottle
of pills.

icecream

she's been trying
so hard to get
the word love out
of me. she'll say
i love you at the
dinner table, or in
bed after making
love and wait, then
roll her pretty brown
eyes, or are they blue,
and sigh, while
i rapidly blink
my eyes. i give her
like, and yes, i
luv you, i will even
throw in the occasional
i most certainly
adore you and of
course i care about
you, why would we
go out if i didn't,
things like that,
but i struggle
with the L word.
it's so so difficult
to say i love you
to someone, even if
you really mean it,
and yet i have no
trouble with saying
it when it comes
to chocolate chip
mint icecream. i
truly do love a
double scoop of that.
i would marry that
cone, in fact.

hannibal the french poodle

you adopt a dog
from the pet store
and take him home.
it warms your heart
to rescue him. you
have bought him
a rubber ball.
he bites you.
he bites everyone
in the back of the
leg when they walk
away. he nips at
your hand when you
try to feed him,
he growls and bares
his sharpened teeth
at everyone, he
chases children,
and old people
down the street.
he has chewed
the wires to your
computer in half.
you call him hannibal
as you drive him
back to the pet
store with the rubber
ball stuffed in
his mouth, and
his wiry body
tied securely to
the roof of your car.
they have a no
return policy, but
you don't care.

said the spider to the fly

don't move an
inch, don't
rattle a bone,
or flinch,
or blink,
or sigh,
or call for
help. don't
struggle to
free yourself
from this web
of mine,
i will
not hurt you,
at least not
much. said
the spider
to the fly as
he opened up
another bottle
of french
red wine.

the bricklayer

he lifts each
brick, his thick
fingers cut raw
but the callous
claw of hand
keeps going, one
after the other
smoothing the mortar
until there is
a wall. then
the scaffold is
moved to the other
side and another
day begins. and in
this way his life
moves on, from
season to season,
taking what he
earns home, to feed
his family, to keep
things going,
each house a testament
of will, a symbol
perhaps not so
much of love, or
joy, but survival.

this wind

if i were to
set sail on a
ship with sails
and needed to
get away fast
in the other
direction i would
choose the month
of march to do
it in. this wind,
what the hell.

the container store

we were walking
down the boulevard
in arlington,
not hand in hand,
because well, we
we weren't quite
a hand in hand kind
of couple just yet,
we were in relationship
limbo, both trying
to decide what we would
be, if anything at all.
we were more a shoulder
to shoulder couple
at this point, with an
occasional bump to let
each other know
we were there, she was
still buying her own
coffee, and splitting
the bill at five guys,
but as i said we were
walking late one
night, almost nine,
and she let out a
shriek that curdled
my blood, and popped
the drum in my left ear.
and i said what, what
is it. and she screamed
a CONTAINER STORE,
i can't believe it,
right here, a CONTAINER
STORE. can we go in,
can we please? why,
i said. it's just boxes,
and clothes hangers,
and stuff like that,
and she said, oh no,
oh my, you have no idea
how wonderful this store
is. come on, please,
let's go in she pleaded.
quickly, it's going
to close. she was jumping
up and down and her face
was flushed with joy,
and so i said, sure,
okay and shrugged, why
not, let's go, and then
she took my hand and
kissed me like she
never had before. things
were about to change
i thought as i pulled out
my american express card.

black fly

without friend,
or anyone
it seems, to join
him on his flight,
with veined webbed
wings in a constant
state of confusion
and buzz, getting
in and getting out,
of spaces narrow,
wide or tight.
going where, it
appears, even he
doesn't know, or
why, or have even
the slightest clue
to the meaning
of his life, and
this despite his
strange all seeing
eyes. he has no
visible virtues
that i can see,
but his persistence
for survival has
a certain charm,
and at least
for now will keep
him alive, as you
open a window and
swat him towards
another place,
another light,
whether wrong or
right, who knows.

later that night

after slipping back
into her dress,
she says, while
applying another
coat of paint
upon her lips,
and dusting her
cheeks, tapping
gently on
the bottom of
a black bottle
of perfume,
touching a delicate
tear drop
behind each ear,
i'm not your cup
of tea, am i,
not really, she
says, before i
can think to
answer, and
that's fine,
and neither
are you mine,
but yes, we can
have a very good
time together, now
can't we.

more candy

it seems as if
some candy is
unloved, and will
sit and sit
upon the shelf
going hard
and stale. soon
to be tossed out,
while others move
briskly from
the opened box,
from hand to
mouth. those
leave you wanting
more even before
the last piece
has melted.

board games

as you toss
the dice and move
your piece, the little
silver race car, across
the board, ignoring
all the rules of strategy,
and never buying
a single piece
of property, not
st. charles place,
or boardwalk, or
lincoln avenue, not
even lousy baltic st.,
never renting, or
owning, or putting up
a house. you just keep
rolling and rolling,
clicking those dice,
passing go, passing
me never taking
a chance, never
settling down and
i realize that's
just the way you are
with us, exactly, the way
things will always be.

sweetened tea

as the month
bends towards a
fat summer of
heat and swelter,
of hot streets,
of loose tar, and
birds resting,
filling the trees
with quiet wings,
and quiet voices,
i'll wait for you
to come around.
to bring me tea,
with lemons and
ice, sweetened.
and this is how
we'll make it
through the long
hot dry spell.
below the whispering
fan, upon the cool
long sheeted couch.

into the night

as the dog runs
like a wild brush fire
contained on blonde
legs in the lightless
night, but for a slight
uncertain moon, i see
you standing at the door,
long and lean, with
arms folded, your
bright smile
and the warmth
of your house behind
you, waiting, watching
as i drive off into
the night.

the talk

better left unsaid,
to let those words
lie upon the table.
not unlike flowers
without water, soon
to fade and fall,
to lose their color,
and will to go on.
why discuss anything
that is already
known, what point
is there in that
and yet, we do, we
sit, we face one
another, and go at
it. proving the point
once more of why
this will never work.

ready again

you study your wounds
in the light. early
morning is best, with
coffee, you pull your
shirt up if you have
already put one on
and turn towards
a window, where the
sun is coming through,
if there is one, and
you look at where the
incision was made, that
crease of skin, hard
and thin, a small
line, a river without
a start or end. and
you touch it, feel
the thick roll
of healed tissue,
and you place
your hand over it,
to feel the beat of
your life, and yes,
there is one. you take
a sip of coffee,
convinced of something,
and you say, okay,
let's go, i'm ready
once again.

in her wedding dress

i see her in the field,
without shoes, wearing

her wedding dress
that is white and wet

with rain, she is plowing
the earth, struggling

to change the land, to make
it green again, to furrow

the hard, wet soil
and plant seed, but

it's hard, it's impossible
almost to do it alone,

and she is nearly ready
to stop, to lie down,

to let go and let the rain
fill her, to drink

the world dead, to concede.

hang on

you have been here
before, and you will
go there again. you
are no longer
counting days, or
weeks, or even years.
everything is joined
at the hip, the knees,
the spine. the world
is one, as is each
memory gone and yet
to come. this small
room, this house,
this country where
you live is just a
stop along the way,
of waking up, of
sleeping. a port
of quiet in a larger
storm. hang on.

where's my ring?

a long time ago
in a land far far
away, in the eighth
grade, i went steady
with a girl for
the first time
and gave her a ring.
she went by the name
of mouse, because
she was tiny in stature
and had ears like,
well, exactly like
a mouse, and little
teeth in the front
that were good
for nibbling
carrots and celery
in the cafeteria
while i ate my
peanutbutter sandwich.
but she never gave
me that ring back
after we broke up.
it cost me nearly
two dollars
from G.C. Murphy's.
it was alot less
than most of the rings
i've never gotten
back, but for some
reason, that one
has stuck in my mind.

give till it hurts

you gave at
the office, you
dropped a buck
into the hat
of the guy on
the corner,
with a red nose
and a bottle
of rum tucked
inside his pea coat.
another ten bucks
to the boy
scout troup
who washed your
car, and then
the purple heart
came and took
away a bag of
clothes, and
the church knocked
on your door
to help the
lost souls in
el salvador, and
pbs put a hand
or two into
the trough to
take a few
dollars to keep
the show on,
and the president
needs some dough
to run for
office one more
time, and green
peace has a whale
standed on a
beach that they
need your help
with, and there's
still oil lapping
on the shore
in the gulf,
firemen are walking
the street with
upside down boots
dipping them into
your car window.
there's a cop
on the phone who
needs money
for something or
other, but you
never find out
what because you've
hung up the phone.
sometimes you need
your own tin can.

waking up

when you arise
in the middle of
the night to go
to the bathroom
again, because you
are old and must
dispose of that
one ounce of liquid
that needs to leave
your body, and you
feel the cold floor
on your feet,
and your bones
sway and creak, and
the dog looks up
and shakes his
head at you in
the shadow of the room,
you can't help but
wonder, how much
longer you have.

locked out

after ringing
the doorbell
and knocking i
realized that
my key doesn't
fit anymore.
does it?
you must have
heard me try
late last night
to get in.
first the front
and then the
back door.
didn't you hear
me get the ladder
out and put
it against your
window, but
that was latched
shut too. and
then i tried
the sky light,
the basement
windows, but no.
it's almost like
you are trying to
tell me something.

she's in love again

she's in love again,
you can see it
in her face, that
sparkle, her
eyes aglow, that
smile, her rosy skin,
that spring in her step
as if she's walking
on sunshine, her heart
is renewed, aflutter
with thoughts of me,
the ship that she
thought had forever
sailed has finally
returned home again.
she's in love and
this time it will
last until the end
of time, it will never
fail, but wait,
where's she going,
why is she running
so fast, sprinting
in the other direction,
oh my, i've been
mistaken, it seems
that it's just that
nordstrom is having
another end of season
sale.

jello days

these shoes are
tight. i'll give
them another day,
just one more day,
that's all. i have
a blister on my
heel, one starting
on my big toe.
it's red, it burns.
i think one foot
is larger than
the other. i'm
changing, my body
is going to hell
these days. i itch
all over. where's
my lotion. i
need to buy shorter
pants. i've lost
an inch in my spine
apparently. and
these shirts are
tight around my
belly. when did
i get a belly. has
anyone seen my abs?
who are you anyway,
where is my wife,
my mother, my dog?
enough with the jello.

go see what she wants

go see what she
wants. yell up
the stairs. just
ask her. she might
surprise you
with her answer.
you never know
until you do, now
do you. better
to hear a no now,
then to always
wonder if it could
have been yes. go
see what she wants.

slow dying

it's too long, this
life, sometimes, this
world, when things
don't go the way
you want them to,
or follow according
to what you planned,
when pain and sorrow
hits there are
too many hours in
a day, too many
minutes on the clock.
life is slow dying.
and then again,
when my lips met
yours i wanted time
to stop. i wanted
today to be yesterday
and for what we had
to never end.

the first date

be on time,
be funny,
don't be sick
or coughing,
or too tired,
be in reasonable
shape, be clean,
use soap, brush,
gargle,
don't smoke,
don't bring
a friend, or
your sister,
don't wear
a sweatshirt
or flip flops,
leave your
cat at home,
your dog too,
have something
to say and not
just about the
weather,
and actually have
some money or
a card to give
the impression
that you might
help pay, don't
go powder your
nose when the
check comes,
and bring a
mint, just in
case.

white gulls

in a white
wave
of wings.
the gulls, slender
with yellow
feet take off
into the wind,
almost as one.
falling,
falling, then
rising once again,
almost invisible
against the mid
day sun. so
much like you,
so much like me.

flushed

when the toilet
leaks and breaks
and the bobber no
longer bobs, and
you hear the squeak
and the drip drip
ping of tank water
puddling onto
the floor, you see
the fragility in
us all, how such
a small thing
becomes a big
thing, like that
mole upon your
cheek, or the way
you spit when
pronouncing words
such as
relationships
when you look
away and attempt
to speak.

word up

why are you
writing so many
words. i can't
follow this.
my eyes are blurry
and my head hurts.
what are you talking
about. keep it
simple. keep it
short. tighten
up and get to
the point. this
so called poetry
of yours is really
starting to stink.
i want the old stuff.
old school. dr.
seuss for example.

writing workshop

she wants me
to read her script,
her new screen play
about love and life
and death. that about
covers it all, i
say. how many pages
is it, and she says
alot. i've been
working on it for
years and years. i
don't know i say,
and yawn, and stretch
and go stand by
the window with
a persian cat in
my arms. i'm bored
with everything you
say, so why will
this be anything
different. but it's
my masterpiece, she
says. please, won't
you read it and tell
me what you think.
i read everything of
yours, everything. i
comment and praise
the brilliance of
your poetry and prose
on a daily basis.
understandable, i say.
okay. just leave it
on the table. i'll
think about it. now
please go. i'm thinking
about something
which doesn't involve
you and you're
distracting me from
my creative process.

sliders

a short poem
for a short
girl, with
a short fuse,
and hair without
curls. here it
is. take a bite
and run. a
slider poem,
like those
little burgers
at harry's
tap room.

michelle

over breakfast, with
scrambled eggs and pork
link sausages, hash
browns and coffee
my friend linda tells
me that she has
a friend mike who wants
to be a girl. he'd like
to go by the name
michelle once the
transformation takes
place. he likes
to wear make up
and dresses and a nice
pair of heels and walk
around town like he's a
woman. she says that
he can pretty much
get away with it,
except for the adam's
apple which bobs
in his long abe lincoln
neck. i tell her it seems
strange, but i don't
care, this is america,
dammit. whatever melts
his or her butter is fine
with me, let him do what
he wants to do. but then
she says that he wants
to have an operation
to sort of rearrange
things down there, below
the equator, so to speak,
do some slicing
and dicing, make him
appear more woman like
and then get some
injections to create
a more bosomy mike,
i mean michelle.
what size, i ask her,
she shrugs, i don't know.
maybe 36 D's, who knows.
but he has a strong back
from being a carpenter,
so he could handle some
big ones. it's all very
complicated, she says.
very complicated.
i shake my head and take
a sip of coffee and move
around nervously in
my seat. could be a bad
idea i tell her, i mean
there's no turning back.
no epoxy is going to fix
that if he changes his
mind. i take a knife to
cut my pork link sausage
that lies helplessly in my
plate, but i can't do it.
it just doesn't seem right.

your kids are swell

your children bug
me. they aren't mine,
so it's okay. i mean
i'm glad that i met
them, that you
brought them over
to meet me and all.
don't get me wrong,
i love kids, i have
one of my own. he
has a job though and
lives in new york city.
we even talk on
the phone once in
awhile. but it's great
that you have some
too. what are they
six, and eight? i
really do enjoy their
company, they just
seem sticky and loud
and annoying all
the time. no reflection
on you, i'm sure you've
done the best that
you can do. but they keep
backing up the toilets
and spilling things
on my rug, and pulling
the dog's tail. why
does that one have
a knife? and the other
one is writing on
my wall, could you
please put them
into your mini-van
and drive them away
now. thanks. dinner
on saturday, alone?
just me and you? okay.
bring the stain remover.

slam dunk

when i was married
i used to dream alot
about basketball,
at the time i was
playing five days
a week, and weekends
too, which would
make seven days.
if there were eight
days in a week,
i would have been
playing eight days,
but no such luck,
but sometimes, in my
dreams, in a deep
slumber, with my
wife, well ex wife
now, next to me, i'd
grab the top of her
head like it was a
basketball, palming it
in a tight grip, and
before she'd wake
up screaming and
punching at me, i'd
be flying through
the air, going up
for a slam dunk, which
of course i never
could do in real
life, but in my dreams,
i was air jordan,
up up and away.

dip it in the sauce first

she tells me
over drinks, red wine,
and calamari sizzling
fresh out of the deep
fry pan back
in the kitchen,
that she is spiritual
but not religious. and
i tell her that i'm
the opposite.
i like the rituals,
the up and down rythmn
of the old church, when
it was in latin,
the singing, the repetitive
prayers and numbing chants.
the scary incense burning
and the stained glass.
i tell her that i don't
like to think too much
about God though when i'm
out on a date, i try to
keep those thoughts on
the back burner. if God
truly knows everything
i'm thinking about and what
i'm up to, i'm in deep
trouble. she orders
more wine at this point
and pops another fried
ring of squid, a calamari
halo, into her mouth.
like a seal at the zoo.
ouch, hot, she says.
and i tell her yup,
that's why i dip them
in the sauce first.

things are getting tight

i have a garden
hose in the back
yard. it's much
cheaper than an
inground pool,
or even a blow up
pool, auqua blue,
with yellow ducks
painted on the side.
i'm downsizing,
cutting back these
days on account of
the economy, business
is not what it used
to be, meaning
you too will be
affected. we can
no longer go out
to swanky restaurants,
like denny's or hunan
west, but instead
we'll be eating
burgers and dogs
off the grill,
on the patio, next
to the pool, or hose,
(i haven't decided yet)
where i can squirt
you down in that
bikini you bought
in bermuda five
years ago when money
wasn't so tight, and
neither was the suit.

flesh wound

you cut yourself
shaving. it's a
slight wound, but
the blood won't
stop. there is
not enough tissue
in the house to
blot it up.
you imagine
yourself dying
this way. slowly
losing all of
your blood over
a simple flesh
wound. you feel
weak, and dizzy,
you take a seat
at your desk
and you begin
to type out
your farewell
to the world, your
friends, your
son, your parents,
ex-girlfriends
starting alpha
betically, but
your printer runs
out of ink while
you hold a washcloth
to the still bleeding
wound. you find
some paper and start
all over with a
pen. but you are
getting weaker and
weaker, the world
is going black and you
are only on the C's,
catherine, cat,
claudia, clara, christy,
and then you slide
from your chair and
fall to the floor.
your dog comes over
to lick your face.
it's nearly over,
as you try to remember
if it was corrine,
or colleen before
moving onto the D's.

you welcome her

you have no enemies.
your heart is open.
and she sits. she smiles.
there are no tears.
the wind is calm.
there is nothing to say.
there is everything
to say. but not now.
it's fine, it's spring.
it's nice to be at
peace. easy to be kind.
she lets you take her
hand. you want to kiss
her. but don't. that's
not the way this story
can end. you feel
the sun on your face.
you are young, you are
alone, her memory, will
come again. this you
know and it's fine.
and then she's gone.

highrise

she lives in
a highrise,
with garage parking,
six levels of it,
next to the other
highrise,
the cement smells
musty and new
as does the paint,
a calming shade
of robin's egg
blue. they are all
adjacent
to a mud caked
park, with three
green benches
and seven saplings
which will one
day be trees.
and a hole
in the ground
that will one
day be a pond,
with a fountain.
maybe birds, maybe
bees. she has a one
year lease so she
may never get to
enjoy these
inclusive ammenties,
but the seven eleven
at the bottom
of the building
keeps her in wine
and beer, and donuts
and batteries
for when the lights
flicker and go
out in a storm.

the weak link

as rain
fell for days
and slipped
in through
the attic vent
unsealed, and
gathered onto
the soft wood
floor seeking
and finding
the lowest
point with
which to break
through the plaster
ceiling, causing
it to fall and
when the sink
cracked
and the pipe
broke and
the porcelain
weight
of everything
came crashing
to the tiled
floor, you
could see
the weak link
in everything
and wondered what
was next as you
tiptoed through
the day.

queen for a day

everyone knows
her, and loves
her, and she
wishes she could
return the favor,
but she can't.
she is sly though
with the kiss,
the embrace.
her hand is in your
pocket, and with
each smile
comes a twist
and a cut
to take part
of you away.
and in her own
mind she is queen
for a day in her
slow small town
parade. her crown
tilted, her world
a sad and lonely
masquerade.

pears

you enjoy
the shape of
a pear, it's
light green
color is pleasing
to the eye,
it's subtle curve,
and the taste
is fine, is fair,
but it's rare
that you buy
this fruit
by the bag, or
even more than
three, one
or two seems
to suffice until
the next year. i
feel that way
about you, too.

peaches

where does this road go,
you ask the woman
on the side of
the road selling
peaches from a wooden
crate, you pull over
almost out of gas,
your car is old,
your maps even
older, and the person
you are with is hungry
and angry with you for
getting lost again,
so she is no help either
as she eats another mint
from a bag she won't
share with you. and the woman
on the side of the road
selling peaches tells you
which way to go. she says,
go straight, then left,
then left then left again.
but i say, then i'll be
right back here to where
i started, and she says yes
you will won't you. peaches?

plums

plum days
will follow.
this is certain.
don't eat
what lies
upon the ground.
wait for
the fruit to
ripen, let it
choose you.
filled with light
and love,
then pluck it
firm and
sound.

keep dancing

it's okay to get
up and dance. you
aren't too old,
not yet. feel
free. there is
nothing here to
stop you. the music
is less within
your ears, and
more of a heartfelt
thing. feel free
to move your feet,
to tap your shoes,
to hum, to sing,
to find the rythmn
once again. that
beat. it's okay
to join in, in
fact, you've never
left the floor.

even the trees

even the trees
have fallen asleep
after last night,
with the wind
and rain of you.
look how they
lean onto one
another, their
arms embracing,
lost in dreams,
of being in spring,
of being young
once more, so
full in bloom.

snoop dog

she hires
a private eye
to have you followed.
she has your
number, your id
your credit card,
she has attached
a james bond
gizzmo to the bottom
of your car,
she knows exactly
where you are going,
what time and with
whom. she is on
the steps listening
to you on the phone,
she's in the trees
with a pair
of binoculars, she's
into everything,
digging through
the trash, sorting
through the mail,
the bills, the
dishwasher, looking
for lipstick on
a glass. she is
in your bed,
below, into the closet,
she has infected
your dreams, your
coffee has her
finger in it,
stirring, searching
for a clue. and you
wonder how bad
it would be if
she lived closer
and wasn't married
herself.

winter fruit

this winter
fruit stinks.
no sweetness in
it's kiss,
the bright orange
skin is a failure
within. bitter
and harsh to
the tongue. it's
all good
under the lights,
in the store,
with music. but
get it home,
slice it open
and it's tossed
into the bin.

trip to the dentist

i'm making a cake,
she says, triple
chocolate. it's
a chocolate cake.
i hear her crack
an egg on the side
of a bowl, then
another and
begin to beat
the yolks. chocolate
she repeats. a
chocolate cake.
it's clear what
kind of cake it
is now, and if she
hadn't of said
it the fourth
time i wouldn't
have known. but please,
she stresses, i'm
no suzie homemaker.
so don't get the
wrong impression about
me. i haven't heard
that phrase in
awhile and cringe
with a slight heart
break, the kind you
get when there's
no more half and half
in the silver cannister
at the coffee shop
and you have to ask.
plus i don't drive
at night, or go
into town, or
ever stay out after
nine, and on weekends
i like to play with
my cats and knit.
oh, and i don't drink
or like to kiss until
i get to know someone
really well.
but sure, let's meet.
let's have tea some
afternoon. get to know
one another. it will
be fun. i hear her
mixer go on, rattling
metal against
the glass bowl. i
think about a root
canal i once had.
suddenly my battery
dies, strange how
that happens, and
it's time to go.

the lake runner

her feet hardly
touch the ground
when she runs. she
is meringue in
tennis shoes, with
her crimson hair
waving like soft
weeds below
the sea. she is
wound tight in
black, with her
large dog beside
her. and she says,
without a huff,
without missing
a stride or beat,
i can't stop to
talk, i'm sorry.
and i say. i know.
i know. we've been
down this path
before.

pork chop

she tells me
that i can't have
a pork chop
for breakfast.
and why not i
say. why the hell
not? i dice
up some onions
and mushrooms
and throw them
into a black pan
with a puddle of
italian olive oil,
i introduce some
finely minced
hot pepper into
the mix then
lay down a pink
slab of bone in
chop onto the sizzle.
she stands with
her hands on her
hips, it's not
breakfast food
she says. she
lights another
cigarette, taking
a toothpick out
of her mouth
and scratches
the tattoo of God
on her arm.
make us some
eggs, sweetie pie,
she says. bacon
too. hashbrowns?
no. i tell her
waving my silver
spatula in her
direction. we're
having pork chops.
now if you don't
mind, i'm cooking
here. go smoke
that coffin nail
in the other room.

duckpins

she loves to bowl
at the local alley,
duck pins mostly.
she moves like
a cat down the lane
in her tight
jeans and buttoned
down blouse, those
black shoes
with stars all
around with
the number 9 on
the back. she likes
the sound of
the small heavy
ball rumbling
down the sheen
of wooden lanes,
between the painted
arrows, and
the smell of beer
and onion rings
hanging in the
air. she loves
her team with
everyone having
a nickname,
one leg charlie
has the highest
average at one
twelve, and sue,
is called big sue,
well, because, she's
a big girl. and
then there's jack
and jill whose
real names are
ernie and maude,
but hey. who cares,
it's emblazoned
on their yellow
team shirts, the
dragons. she loves
to bowl and throw
up her arms in
victory and yell
strike! as all
the stubby
white pins go
tumbling down.

five to ten

you plead
from behind
the steel bars,
let's pretend
that none of this
every happened.
turn the clocks
back, the calendar
pages. put things
back the way
they were before you
robbed the liquor
store, before
the cops came
and handcuffed you
and sent you to
prison. but no,
i can't date
someone in jail.
i can't bake a cake
with a file in
it anymore. i'm
not good with
waiting. five to
ten is just too
long a stay this
time. i have to
move on with
my life. sorry.
have fun in there.

the orange grove

when i told you
that you could borrow
my car, i didn't
mean that you
could drive it to
california with
your new boyfriend
jimmy, and then send
me a postcard from
an orange grove,
with your lipstick
lips kissing
the back of it.
that was mean, but
it's who you are.
i both hate you
and forgive you.
come back soon, i
need to go to work
on monday. bring
back my car. pick me
up some oranges too.
leave the boyfriend
there. he's no
good for you.

wake up

your crack of dawn
is different than
mine. you don't mind
getting up before
the sun rises,
i'd rather wait,
have things warm up,
put some light on
the world, the new
day, before climbing
out of a dream, out
of bed, into clothes
and the harsh cold
light. your diving
into that pool with
such recklessness
amazes me. causes
me dismay.

where'd you go

it's surprising
coming down
the steps
at six a.m.
to make coffee
to see the debris
of last night's
'party' still
there. no.
the maid didn't
show up. she left
everything for
me to clean. why
so many glasses
on every table,
how do i get
teriyaki sauce
out of that white
rug, there's
a whole eclair
on the couch.
a trail of crumbs
and clothes
from here to
there, up the
stairs, everything
is everywhere, one
black stocking
hanging from
the chandelier,
everything but
you, where'd
you go.

life's first essential lessons

comb your
hair, brush
your teeth.
wash behind
those ears.
use soap.
stand
up straight,
spit out
your gum.
eat your
vegetables.
quit teasing
your sister.
button
your shirt,
pull up
your zipper.
go pee
before we
leave. get
your hands
out of your
pockets. turn
the lights
off when you
go. quit
daydreaming.

the second date

sour cream
poured from the
bright yellowed
box, cold
and just bought,
lies unsettled
on the surface.
it won't sink
and mix, or
blend, into
the fresh cup
of coffee.
it's bitter
and strange
to the taste
and surprises
you so much
on the first sip
that you take
another, just to
make sure. there
was such promise
in the packaging,
the way it looked
on the shelf.

bad seeds

you have fallen
in love with
the wrong person,
again, what are
the odds of that,
what moons
and stars
had to align
in order for this
to occur. not once,
not twice, but
every other
year, like planting
a bad seed in a field,
the crop keeps
changing, but
the harvest has
stayed the same.

her one act play

to hear her
voice on the phone
is hard.
she makes tennessee
williams
seem dull and
grey, boring.
she plays all
the parts, both
misery
and company,
taking the stage
with her broken
heart, her seven
cats and silver
pill box. everyone
mistreats her,
takes advantage
of her beauty,
everyone is a liar
with an exclamation
point. it's a
wonderful performance.
but it's the
same play, day
after day,
each night, and
then again tomorrow.
the matinee.
she depends on
the unkindness
of strangers and
friends alike
to keep it going,
to keep the lights
on. the marquee up.
the seats filled.

hot pepper

this green
jalapeno
pepper reminds
me of someone
i used to know
as it burns like
a red light on
the roof of
my mouth
and gives me
indigestion.
it sneaks up
on you, hidden
in the fold
of something
warm and spicy.
it's so good
going down,
but ahhh,
the price you
pay for a little
bit of fun.
it makes me
sweat just
thinking about
her devious
delicious ways.

stepping out

you suspect
that your dog
has been cheating
on you. stepping
out, getting walks
and treats from
strangers. there
is a glow in her
eyes, her nose
is cold, her bark
perky and bold.
who gave her that
bright pink collar
with rhinestones?
even her coat
has a summer
glow about it.
she's lost weight
in the right
places. her step
is quick and fun
when we walk
about the park.
everyone seems
to know her,
she has so many
calls and texts
on her new phone.
i'm worried.

unavailable men

he's unavailable,
she says to me
while sipping coffee
and eating a slice
of cake, her third
piece. emotionally
he's not there, not
capable of loving,
not just me, but
anyone. he's closed
off, shut down, he's
made of ice and
steel and no one can
get in. that heart
is locked tight.
i don't know if it's
his ex wife, his
kids, his job, or
what, but he won't
even kiss me anymore,
or hold my hand,
or get the paper
off the lawn, or open
a door. he's indifferent
to my charms. why,
she asks, am i always
attracted to unavailble
men? i don't know,
i tell her. it's a
mystery to me. are
you going to finish
the rest of that cake
on your plate, if not
can i have it? i'm
available to eat it.

the plumber

he carries in
his heavy satchel
of tools,
rounded and dark
instruments, well
worn and used,
the long lengths
of pipes and fittings,
on his shoulders,
his clothes stricken
with grease, his
face not unhappy,
or sad, but resigned
to his day, to coffee
and driving, to
finding leaks,
the broken valves
that sing to him
softly with a hiss,
or the coughing
of the stuffed throats
of drains, the slosh
of small waves, too late
to save. and if he's
thinking of his wife,
or lover, or famine
in the world, or how
unkind the world
can be, as his thick
hands curl and twist
with wrenches,
you wouldn't know,
and you wouldn't ask.

the color green

the light from
the slight yellow
sun, so tired,
resting on the hand
of a long almost
blue cloud, lies
down easy this late
in the day on
grass that's never
seemed so green.
before the first
cut. you can't take
your eyes off it.
you know well
this feeling. this
color. it scares
you with hope,
with imagining a
love that's come
out of nowhere,
before, so unseen.

the sigh

her sigh is not
so much one
of exasperation,
as we hold one
another, almost
like lovers,
than it is of
simply letting
air go. no
emotion is
attached to
what you just
heard she says
in a whisper,
in the shadow
of where we stop
while walking home.
i disregard her
words though, and
believe that
the sigh means
something more,
and in fact believe
that it tells me
everything i
need to know.

beneath the water

you float
as if a flower,
detached,
below,
conscious
of the absence
of air. away
from sunlight,
away from me,
but there is
nothing
you can do
to change that.
you are beneath
the surface. you
are awake, you
are asleep.
you are at
the beginning
of your life,
you are at the
end.

art

you string a line
of rope, taut
and white,
from one end of
the yard to the other,
you wash your clothes
then go out to
hang them in
the stiff wind.
sheets of color,
black socks,
blue shirts like
flags, that dress
you left last summer,
or fall, so hard
to remember.
people come for
miles to see this.
they stand behind
the chain link fence
and smoke cigarettes.
they call it art, you
call it something else.

honeybee

your honey
bee approach
to life has not
been going well,
so you are
pondering other
insects of
the world with
which to imitate.
a black
widow comes to
mind, or
scorpion, or
tarantula, so
furry and black
and scary. just
let me know
before you do
so that i can
get the proper
repellant to
keep your buzz
and sting away.

blind date

after his
first internet
date, being
back on
the market,
his wounds
still fresh
from divorce,
he said about
his date that
she looked
exactly like
her photo
except the
person in
the picture
had a human
head on it.
it didn't go
well, he said
one drink and
out. oh my.

a good fall

your left hand
catches your
weight and
snaps but
doesn't break
in the fall
when your feet
slip out
from under
you on the black
ice that
appeared over
night, with
a light rain
and sleet
and the cold
front that
brought it all
together
neat and nice.
and as you
lie there on
the cold ground
looking up
at stars that
have appeared
as the clouds
moved generously
away you
wish you had
a pillow
and a blanket
and someone to
join you, and
who could help
you up, when
the time came.

stuffed animals

i knew i was
in trouble, in
over my head,
when i saw all
of your stuffed
animals from
childhood and
beyond, lined up
and awaiting you
to return home,
sitting upright
with stitched
smiles, and
buttoned eyes,
upon your bed.
i knew then that
i wasn't fuzzy
and warm enough
for you, and
never would be.

something missing

it's not the way
you dress, or think
or speak, or how
you wear your
hair, or how
you walk slowly
across the street
without looking,
or giving care
to what's coming,
it's not the way
you stare out
the window when
we are together
with your hands
folded, nodding,
as if listening.
it's not the way
you kiss, or don't,
it's none of that.
it's something
more, something
less. it's unclear,
what's missing.

old friends

in the spring,
as the dog
digs out
in the yard
for a bone
he buried
in the fall
before snow,
before wind
and ice
covered it
he does
not think
of the time
elapsed, or
if it's
still there.
he knows
and will
find it again,
as i will
you.

falling apart

you pull open
a drawer for
a spoon,
and the knob
comes off in
your hand.
the hinges
are loose too.
on the cabinets,
the magnet
won't catch,
misaligned.
the doors are
slipping.
there is a lean
to everything,
each shelf
tilted.
the world is
falling gently
apart, not all
at once, but
with a screw
here, a nail,
the softened glue,
a drawer that
won't close.

beneath the bed

on your knees
you look under
the bed for your
lost set of keys,
your phone too.
things are
disappearing.
and you find
the woman you used
to love beneath
there. lying
with stray shoes,
a scale, a sock
or two, she says
it's dusty here.
don't you ever
clean. and you
ask her, have you
seen my keys. she
says no, but
here's your phone,
and i tell her,
i think it's
time for you to
go, it's time,
so please, when i
come home, don't
be here. please
leave. she smiles
and says, but you
still love me,
and says, we'll
see.

her white watch

she shows me her
badge, i show her
my membership card
to a bulk store
where i can buy tires
and get eye
surgery within
an hour, with little
or no wait. she
shows me a choke
hold, playfully,
putting her
arms around my
neck with her knee
positioned in
the small of my back.
and i show her my
tap dance shuffle
that i learned when
i was sent away
upstate for borrowing
cars without returning
them. we are a
good match i think
as i drive away
her kiss still fresh
upon my lips, her
white watch once
on her wrist now
ticking in my pocket.

brush fire

while the brush
fire rages
in the wind,
carrying flames
in red licks
onto the soft
dry trees pre
spring, i
sit here in
traffic, as it
crawls north to
where it snows,
to where there
is no fire,
but where you
await, hoping
with your own
soft limbs
to cause one.

last word

your books, warm
against the sun
as it aims hard
and hits the night
stand through
the blinds and
parted curtain,
your page,
earmarked,
folded tight at
a corner where
the last word
of that book
left your lips,
and entered your
mind. i've done
the same with you.

the broken latch

as you stand in
the back yard,
after the funeral,
short and unattended
but by a few,
you notice
this broken latch,
the metal smooth
and worn, cold
iron having given
way after so long
in use, unrusted,
but not new. how
many times her
hand must have
pulled it up
and over to keep
a dog in, the geese
from the far blue
pond out when
they wandered up
on black webbed
heels to get into
the garden. what
darkness there
is in that house
now, empty,
waiting to exhale
all that it holds.
letting go, as
the gate has done.
sighing enough,
enough of keeping
things in,
things out.

raised by wolves

i've often wondered
what it must be like
to have real parents
and not to have been
raised by wolves, to
have been left alone
in a basket on
the edge town,
in the woods. but it
was not so bad. we
had alot of fun.
squirrels don't taste
as funny as they look.
communication was
awkward at times, but
there was a strong
sense of family,
the comfort and warmth
of the den is memorable.
my circling three times
before lying down to
go to sleep and my
occasional howling
at the moon is natural
for me, so don't let it
bother you. i promise
not to bite. i haven't
bitten anyone in years,
at least not too hard.
i'm more of a nibbler now.

lack of ambition

once again,
after reading
your note
when you left
this morning,
i see that you've
underestimated
my virtues, my
strengths, my
power and intellect.
my je ne sais
quois. mon petite
fleur. just because
i've lost my
keys, my car,
burned the toast
and left the oven
on all night, you
take me for a
fool, for just
a common man with
pedestrian values
and insights.
your comment about
my lack of ambition
almost makes me
want to get a job
and to stop drinking.
but no. i must be
doing something
right or why would
we keep having
this date every
single saturday night.

candy in a bowl

you can't
have candy
in a bowl
around here
anymore.
the more
you pour
the bag,
the more you
want. it's
impossible.
it's like
having you
around all
day in heels
and a dress.
one thing
leads
to another.

springhill romance

you left your teeth
on the nightstand
last night, in a glass
tumbler that i use
for scotch and soda,
smudged with your
lipstick and finger
prints. how are you
getting through
the day without them,
those teeth?
breakfast was easy,
with oatmeal and juice,
but we're having corn
on the cob today
in the cafeteria
and burgers on a hard
roll with onion
rings. i must say,
it surprised me when
you took them out.
they looked so real
when you smiled. i
didn't see that coming.
and i apologize for
screaming like i did.
and by the way,
i can't find my hair
piece, my brown
toupee, did you happen
to take it with you?
i won't leave my room
without it.

the greyhound bus station

on the bathroom
wall, or rather on
the old metal stall
partition at the grey
hound station, where
cleanliness and God
have not been for
some time, you see
a familiar phone number
scrawled in
smudged blue ink. it's
your ex wife's old
number, so you call
and ask her how things
are going with the
new husband, the new
house, the vacation
they took to spain
and morocco. she says
fine. that's her word.
i'm fine, everything
is fine. we are all
just fine. and by
the way, you still owe
me one check. you
don't answer to that
though, you tell her
you have to go, it's
been nice chatting,
and you're very happy
that she's fine, but
you really have to go,
you're late, and you
have a bus to catch.

leg falling asleep

sandbag heavy
and tingling
from knee to hip
with pinpoint
jabs of stars,
twitching with
movement not
of your own,
your leg,
just one not
two, is asleep,
unresponsive,
and can't feel
a thing. it
reminds you
so much of
a girl you
used to date.

work

this ivory billed
woodpecker
at my window,
with a feather
duster head,
a plume of bright
red, bangs fiercely
on a tree. every
now and then
he'll stop to bend
his stiff neck
and take a look
at me sitting
at my desk.
we nod at one
another with
deep understanding,
then get back
to it.

making soup

unstirred at
the bottom,
the heat makes
you hard,
you've lost
flavor, unable
to become who
you really are,
unstirred, you'll
singe and burn,
you won't be fun,
or wanted.
all of it needs
to be mixed.
let the salt
season you, let
this spoon stir
you through
and through. and
even you will
taste better
the day after.

getting unlost

there is no
error, no mis
calculation of
numbers, or
confusion about
where we are. we've
followed all
directions carefully.
that wrinkled map
is reliable, i've
used it many
times before to
get unlost. but as
usual, i like
to wait until i am
in the thick of
trees, or at the
bottom of some
city where you
can't see the sky,
where it's hard
to breathe before
seeking help. but
for now, i think
i can figure this
out, figure you
out and escape
to where i need
to be. and after
this trip, the map
goes out the window,
my travels over.

the new roads

the new roads,
paved hot and thick
with tar and steel
and jersey walls
will improve
the traffic
flow. i read it
on the news. they will
untie the jams,
gridlock, when rush
hours linger longer
than they should.
snow and rain will
not be a problem
anymore when the
cloverleafs appear,
the double road arises
from the debris,
the triple lanes,
the extra exit.
the wide sweet ramp
to heaven will
save us time, get
us home. we will
be happy then, we
will finally have
arrived.

winter coat

your cold lips
on mine, withdraw
quicker with each
day we are
together. love has
shed it's coat,
and now that winter
is here, we will
freeze, we will
die in the snow
of a loveless
night. it's obvious
that your fire
is found elsewhere,
so don't let
me hold you here.
please go.

knitting away the men

she knits
and knits
and knits,
until the room
is full
of sweaters
and blankets.
she no longer
has any
interest
in men.
give her
a ball of yarn
two needles
and a chair
by the fire,
a glass of wine,
and she'll
forget all
about them.
the only thing
she fears
is running out
of yarn,
for what then.

wash me

i see him
every bright
sunny saturday
washing his
black car
with the sleeves
of his white T
rolled up,
a bucket full
of soap and suds
at his feet.
he moves around
like a cat
with her kitten
getting behind
each ear,
and by the time
he's done
it sparkles in
the sun like
a jewel, even
the tires
shine. you
can smell
the windex from
here. it glistens
as he rides
slowly by with
the windows
down, the music
up, his shades
on. he's clean,
he's smooth,
he's trying
so hard to be
just like me
i tell my girl
friend lucinda.
and she laughs
and laughs
while she takes
her finger
and writes
wash me on
the dented hood
of my ten year
old car.

forever

you read
the cursive
folds
of letters,
graffiti,
initials only,
encased in
an awkward
heart
pledging love
forever, of
course. it
never says
for only now,
or just this
week, or until
it ends. but
this sweet candy
apple red
spray paint
proclaims
forever. as it
should be.

late night movie

and the theater
so late, the last
show, before
it closes,
the popcorn stale,
the drinks
too large,
and the movie
long and long,
without much end,
much middle,
the music louder
than it needs
to be, and none
of it matters,
no plot no story,
all on the screen
pales to what
we bring.

what you leave

you like
to leave
small things
to remind
me that you
were here
and have
left. a ring,
a shoe,
a sock,
perhaps
a dress
tucked neatly
beneath the bed.
a strand
of hair left
to curl
in the sink,
or tub, my
book of
poems,
turned down,
unread.

the journey

you begin
to collect things.
stamps at first,
then coins,
then postcards
antique and hand
painted
found at flea
markets. but you
have no patience
for this slow
process.
it takes so long
to find that mercury
dime, that one
cent stamp from
the civil war.
a bent and frayed
postcard from
paris or brussels.
you have lost
your mind.
but your therapist
has told you to
get a hobby. to
find something new
to occupy your
long winter days.
you say that you
have one. and
she says that
dating is not
a hobby it's
an obsession bent
on self destruction.
careful you tell
her. i'm paying
for these sessions,
go easy on the truth.
looking for love
is not a hobby
at all. it's a journey.
whatever she says.
a check will be fine.

slow dry

this coat
of paint
still wet
with the shine
of new. this
early in
the morning,
still cold
and winter like
despite
a brief
warm breath
of spring.
things dry
slow this time
of year, but
i can wait.

at the end of the tunnel

my vacation
is stalled.
i can't leave,
can't board
a plane,
i can't depart
on time, or
speed away
to where i'm
meant to be. it's
not a wonderful
life. my
destiny is
here, working,
working to make
ends meet.
to see the boy
through. but
i'm not
complaining, call
it a happy
whine, and i
do see that light.

small bites

you are deliberate
in how you cut
that meat upon
your plate, a
slow slice into
the pink center,
like a surgeon
with a sparkling
knife. and how
you take just
a small safe bite,
into your parted
lips. you are
sublime in
your torture of
me.

small print

i can't read
the small print,
but i don't want
to, not really.
it's never good,
the tiny ant
like words so
tight and framed
in dark black
ink at the bottom
of the contract
page, warnings,
liability,
instructions and
800 numbers to call
when it all goes
awry. we all have
our own small
print somewhere,
but rarely is
it read.

frangelico

the empty
ice box speaks
more of what
was there
than what will
be on the shelves
tomorrow.
so easy to toss
your frangelico,
those jams,
those jars of
spreads
that have never
been opened. all
that was spicy
and sweet
sail with ease
towards the open
can. i don't
want what i
can't have.

arm beneath your arm

you've plugged
everything in,
your phones
your i pads, i
pods your lap
top, your toaster
and your
coffee maker.
electricty
and batteries
are the blood
of your new life.
it used to be
love, not long
ago. when a
simple look
or book, or
arm beneath your
arm would do.

not quite love

on valentine's day
you see them
in the grocery
stores, picking
up roses bunched
tight in plastic,
a dozen for
a dollar each.
perhaps those
carnations will do.
they're red after all.
but they gather
confused,
crowding the aisle,
thumbing through
the cards that
say just enough,
but not quite
enough to chase
him or her away,
or give the
wrong impression
that love and life
everlasting is
in the near future.
funny feels safe.
the box of chocolates,
heart shaped,
the wine, the dinner
reservation. my
place or yours,
where are the kids
tonight? a necklace,
a ring, a bracelet,
i don't know.
it's a hard
holiday for most,
including me,
hibernation seems
the right way to go.

cold feet

on time
as usual, you
wait. you
are alone.
you pace
the room,
adjust your tie.
you find
a mirror
on the wall
and check your
teeth your
smile,
the collar
of your
pressed shirt.
you want
this job.
you put a
flower in
your lapel,
check the shine
on your new
shoes.
the room smells
like a church.
you've been
here before.
it is a church.
sweat grows
beneath your arms.
the doors swing
open and the music
begins to play,
your feet
are suddenly
cold.

when there was two

she gave me
a list of things
to do on
saturday.
the house was
falling down
around us,
she held
out the paper
with her handwritten
list. she pointed
at the tool
box that she
got from the garage.
the ladder was
there too. fix
everything she
said. i'm going
out for awhile.
love was so much
easier when there
was two.

not dark yet

no slowing this
pace, is there.
no putting on
the brake, or
dragging your
feet, the home
stretch is
ahead of you.
the day you
couldn't wait
for, has come,
and gone. and
the tomorrow
that you fear is
almost here.
sun up, sun
down. no other
way, is there.

your floor

when you were
young, you
reached up
and pushed all
the buttons
on the elevator,
lit them all up,
letting the doors
slide open
to each and every
floor. it made
no difference.
you were in no
hurry to be
anywhere, not
up, not down.
you were careless
and having fun,
but things have
changed and now
you push only
the button of
the floor you
need and want
to be at. i'm
pushing yours.

oasis

you are an oasis,
a handful of
palm trees
and a cool
pool pond of
blue in the middle
of a scorched
white earth
of sand. let me
rest below
your calm swaying
leaves and
sweet soft breath,
let me linger
in the waters
that are you. put
your lips right
here, and revive me.

she can drive

each field
rushes by with
your arm
out the window
on the sunny
side of the car
as you let
her drive.
the tall grass
and corn bend
in the soft breeze.
her driving scares
you. she likes
to talk with
her hands. she
likes to look
at the horses
in the field,
the soft large
cows, staring
with gentle
brown eyes,
while they
stand immobile
and chew. she
drives fast and
hard, and points
at the clouds,
asking what
i think they
look like. i love
her being this
crazy. this wild.
i could let her
drive the whole
way if she
wanted to.

vines

the vine
surprises
you on the first
day of warm
spring, how
far it's gone
up and over
the fence, onto
the brick
towards the
window, crowding
the downspout,
over the door.
it seems to
want all of
you. as she
does in her
silent way.

the gift

that diamond
on your finger
is bigger than
your brain
and far more
larger than
your heart.
but i hope you
like it just
the same and
let me kiss
you later in
the light, or
in the dark.

seven is fine

your nap
beneath
the shady tree,
in the park
where the benches
green, on iron
feet circle
the square of
grass and elms,
was short.
but your sleep
in a curled white
bed of flowers,
with just
a teasing taste
of dream refreshes
you, makes
you call me
when you get back
to the office. yes.
seven is fine.

beauty

beauty is everything
you believe when
you are young
and unblemished,
as she is.
it is the clean
line, the breath
of clouds and sun
that draw you in.
the eyes have it
the lips do too,
the curve of her
in moonlight.
but things change.
decades of living
erase this thought
and it's no longer
beauty that brings
you home. it's
better, something
far better.