going to the vet

you take your dog
in for shots.
for teeth cleaning.
for nail clipping,
and to be weighed,
prodded and poked.
it's the jiffy lube
vet visit where at
some point someone will
come out with a chart
and say, you know,
we really should get
him a new kidney.
he's trembling in
your arms, too scared
to even bark, so
you put him down next
to his life long
nemesis, a cat.
he looks at you
with those enormous
brown eyes, saying
why would you do
this to me. i thought
we loved each other.
how could you?
and then the little girl
in pigtails comes out,
the doctor
in a pink baggy
jumpsuit, she smiles
and snaps a leash
around his neck
to lead him off
into the back rooms,
cooing his name, as if
they are developing
a friendship. i
see him making himself
weigh a hundred
pounds, turning himself
into lead, not moving
his feet, being
dragged on his paws
across the tiled floor.
and as he looks back
over his shoulder, he
shakes his head at
me and sighs, i
can see his lips
moving, saying, really,
like what the hell?

in the air

when you were
twelve you believed
that it was
possible to fly.
you read superman
comics religiously.
all you had
to do was suspend
disbelief and then
you would be up
in the air.
there couldn't be
even an ounce
of doubt within you.
you took small
practice leaps from
the picnic table
in the back yard,
you ran as fast as
you could on the lawn,
you put your arms
straight out,
locked your feet with
your keds tight
together, you
took larger jumps
off the front porch
and you waited for
the air to catch
under you and sweep
you upwards, past
the rooftops, the
trees and into
the clouds, free
from this world,
this gravity stricken
world, and so when
you did take off
it was no suprise,
none whatsover, but
what did cause
wonder was that you
have never landed
on solid ground
ever again. you
are still in the air
where you always
believed you
should be.

that was close

on my way out
of dairy queen,
licking the little
pink spoon from
my oreo blizzard
i see irma
my old girlfriend
on the street
carrying a wedding
dress. it's
under a cellophane
wrap, and is
white as white
can be. it's almost
silver it's
so shiny
and glimmering.
and we talk for
a few minutes
on the sidewalk,
how are you, i'm
fine, that sort
of thing. how
about this weather?
we don't talk about
the dress though
as she moves it
from shoulder
to shoulder. you
look good, she
says. so do you,
i say, lose weight?
yup, she says.
ten pounds. do
you want a lick,
i ask her and she
says tempting but
no way. and when
we part we kiss each
other on the cheek
and say, see ya.
her going one way
with her dress,
me going the other
way with my blizzard.

don't tell anyone i told you, but

if you call
up linda, she'll
tell you everything
about everyone.
she's the daily
news, the internet,
the backyard fence.
the hot line,
the grapevine, she's
got the inside
scoop on it all.
and of course,
she'll swear you
to secrecy on
your mother's life
that not a word
can be ever repeated,
and that you didn't
hear it from her.
sometimes i'll make
up things about
myself and tell
her just to see
how far and wide
it goes.

i'm on vacation

she says,
i'm on vacation.
she throws her
long arms up
into the air,
letting her
hair blow in
the summer wind.
i'm doing nothing.
not one thing, she
says. zippo. i
might open this
book, but that's it.
and then she
laughs and laughs,
puts her feet up,
turns her face
to the sun
and closes her
brown yes. oh, can
you move a little
to the left,
she says, you're
casting a shadow
over me and shouldn't
you be at work?
she wiggles her
toes, the nails
painted red
like strawberries.
did i tell you.
i'm on vacation.
it's true, she
says. it's true.

stay a little longer

stay a little longer,
it's raining out.
no need to travel
in the rain. just
lie there if you like,
i'll get us coffee
and toast, the paper.
the trains run all
day, all year, but
we might only have
this moment before
the rain stops,
before the day
begins and the skies
clear.

sheep herding

as the children
pour out
from the wide open
doors of the tired
schoolhouse
when the final
bell rings at
session's end,
the parents with
arms folded
wait on the walk,
at their cars and
vans, their stances
and faces showing
less of joy
and jubiliation,
and more of concern,
not unlike sheep
herders about to
to try for another
summer to corral them
and pen them in.

is it raining

the round stone
whiteness of your
shoulders, cool
as spring ice
as you throw back
your black hair
and lean out
to see if there
is rain and you
see the blotched
road, the slight
silver trickle
against the light.
like slivers of stars
from last night
falling. yes you
say. stay put, no
need to get up,
it's raining.

let the phone ring

she leans
not lightly
on the small
pill, her lips
and wrists
now stitched
like the bedazzled
smile of an unwed
witch. she lies
in her lithium
bed and rises
and falls like
steam from an
unshaken
lake below
moonlight.
and she rattles
the small
brown jar, white
capped with
hope and balance
her name smudged
ink from
her fisted hand.
don't run out of
air, don't go
broke, don't
leap from the bridge
just yet. she is
wired, she is wide
black eyed
and bent like
a hanger, dulled
and stiff in
the closet. there
is no way out,
no way in. let
the phone ring.

the future is not what it used to be

okay. i'm done
with traffic.
with road rage
and angry drivers
and riding bumpers
an inch away
at seventy miles
an hour. the bug
like progression
of cars moving
from lane to
lane. insanity.
i want my transportation
of the future. i
want my future now,
dammit. give me my
rocket pack, my
flying car, my
beam me anywhere
transporter. why
did they trick
us like that. it's
so so depressing.
this horse and buggy
world of four
wheels spinning,
grinding to a daily
gridlock hell.

the dancer

as she comes
on stage
all legs
and hair,
and grabs
the glimmering
pole like
a cat in heat,
and the music
starts,
and the blue
light
shadows her
enough to hide
whatever
imperfections
may be there,
she slowly
unzips, unbuttons
a blouse a skirt
and lets
it all drop
to floor,
and the lights
go round
and round, and
the music gets
louder and the
men inch up
further into their
seats, elbows on
the table
wiping away
the beer on their
lips, their mouths
open, ready to
devour her
before the next
one does
the same. it isn't
money, or adoration,
or love that
keeps her dancing,
keeps them coming
to see more. it's
more pure than that,
more true.

running

you see them run
in the morning,
at night with
glow stripes on
their shirts that
shine in the head
lights of cars
trying not to
hit them. they sag
and move under
the heat of summer.
these runners.
pounding their
feet into the black
streets, along
the roads, mile
after mile. they
are gaunt and tired
looking. worn
out from years
and years of this.
what are they
running from,
running towards.
the glazed look in
their eyes tell
you nothing. reveal
nothing, just a
hint of dread
about the next mile.

leftovers

when there is
nothing left
in the house
to eat and it's
two a.m., you
open the freezer
door and take
out lumps of
frozen boxes
of enchilladas,
a bag of biscuits,
and something
unmarked but wrapped
in foil. you
look at the micro
wave, you look at
the clock.
there is a full
moon in the window
when an hour
ago it was raining.
you turn on
the spigot and have
glass of water.
you toss everything
frozen away that
was frozen.
then go upstairs
to bed. you need
to make some changes.

erotic photos

you've made
some bad mistakes
before, but by
sending out those
tequila induced
photo session
snapshots of
yourself out to
your peeps and
new girlfriend, via
text and e mail
you may have
gone too far. but
you won't resign
from your job
at kfc. you refuse.
you know this job
inside and out.
you are the best
at dropping frozen
chicken legs into
a boiling vat
of oil and pulling
them out right when
they get crispy.
you tell your boss
that even abe
lincoln must have
been tracing out
a charcoal sketch
of himself and
sending it on
horseback to
crazy old mary
todd lincoln when
he was away at
the war. the history
books don't say it,
but she was crazy in
a good way, if you
catch my drift. all
the kids are doing
it, you tell
your manager, but
he says no. it's
a gots to go
situation. you're
a grown man for God's
sake, i'm sorry,
but you can't
be frying up
chicken wings and have
those photos of
you floating around
town. i'm sorry.
but you must resign.
hand me your apron
and hat, you can
have a coke on the
way out, if you'd like.

guilt gnocchi

your mother
calls and says
it's raining. is
it raining there?
i've never seen
such rain before.
i had to close all
the windows.
and you say yes.
i'm five miles
away, it's raining
here too mom.
i'm having lunch,
she says. i heated
up some gnocchi
and sausage
from last night.
i froze the rest
in case you come by
this year, or
the next year. i
hope i'm still alive
to see you enjoy
them. what are you
doing sunday? or
are you still busy,
with whatever it is
that you do with
your life? i made
some pizzels too,
but you have to eat
them before they
go stale. sunday?
five o'clock? i'll
put a plate out.

Peapod

they'd know
within an hour,
she says, nodding,
sipping her tea,
wetting her finger
to lift the last
crumb of toasted
bread from her
china dish, her long
hands are strung with
purple veins, like
vines below the flesh.
i wouldn't die like
that, she says. i
wouldn't lie there,
like she did, unfound
for a week. i have
people. i have
friends. neighbors
who look out for
me and i look out
for them too. my mail
man would know. my cat
would cry. she looks
up from her plate
smiling but with
glassed tears
on her blue eyes. i
have a son in
california. she pauses
and sighs, but isn't
that what this all
about she says.
being loved? i don't
know i tell her.
sign here. i'm just
working for peapod.

blue shoes

you see your
blue shoes
under the bed.
they haven't been
worn in quite
awhile. they
are dusty and
laced with the thin
threads of
cob webs. the spiders
have a home.
but there was a
day, a month, a
season where
all you did was
wear those shoes.
blue shoes. in
the rain when there
wasn't rain. in
the cold of summer.
you were wet to
the bone with her.
so nice now to
toss them into
the bag, and leave
them at the curb.
no more blue shoes.

bad medicine

she shares her
darkness with a small
spoon. a dose
of doom or two a
day, if you will.
and we all have
our bottle of bad
medicine sitting
on a shelf
somewhere. it's
hard to crack
open, take a
sniff, and pour
it out for others
let alone yourself.
it's ancient
history.
you'd like to
be done with that
sickness and
relish in the scars
that show how
far you've gone,
how much you've
healed.

traffic

how slow the traffic
moves and snakes like
a white light beneath
the full summer moon.
it's midnight, too
late for so many cars
to be out driving.
but there you are.
inching forward.
neither leaving, nor
arriving, just sitting,
waiting for things
to break, for the roads
to clear and to get
home, to a place where
you have always
wanted to be.

boy in the window

you like
the neighborhoods
that have
abandoned cars
on blocks
in the driveway.
the broken
screen doors
tilted on hinges.
the dogs
barking behind
chain link
fences. carboard
taped to
broken windows.
you ride slow
through these streets.
very slow and
easy. it's nearly
the same as
when you lived
here and you can
almost see your
young face staring
out of that
casement window
with a cowlick
and comic book
rolled in
your hand.

happiness

is there
anyone happier
than a child
licking an
icecream cone
on the first
day of summer
with no school
tomorrow, or for
months to come.
perhaps not, but
i come close
to that,
very close,
when i know
that tonight
i'll be
seeing you.

this old house

the floor
is tilted,
the window
frames
skewed. the door
doesn't close
all the way,
and there
are shingles
missing
from the roof.
the yard is
full of crab
grass
and the fig
tree is no
longer bearing
fruit. this
marriage
won't last
another storm,
let's both agree
that it's time
to pack,
to leave
separately,
to move.

don't say a word

go easy,
we've all been
there,
done that,
made the same
mistakes
over and over
again. just
relax. let it
go. forgive
and move on.
exhale, let
the sun find
your face,
close your eyes,
don't say a
word. be still.

going out for milk

my friend gina calls
me, she's gushing on
the phone. i'm in
love, i'm in love
i'm in love she
sings. it sounds as
if she's dancing around
the room. that's great,
i tell her. i'm so happy
for you. he just left
and we had the most
romantic time ever.
where are you gina?
i can hear airplanes.
i'm off the interstate
near the airport, motel
six. go on, i tell
her. well, she says,
we have so much in
common, we met at
the coffee shop in
the building where we
both work. now get
this, she says, he
orders a skim non fat
soy latte with no whip.
yes. so. that's my
drink, she screams.
we drink the same
drink, how cool is that.
and his kids all play
soccer. my kids did
too when they were
little. there is one
small problem though,
she says. what, i say.
he's sort of married.
i didn't know that
at first because he
doesn't wear a wedding
ring, he exercises
alot and he says it
pinches his finger.
he told me that he
hasn't had sex
with his wife in ages,
which confuses me because
of the baby seat in
the back of his car, but
they really really hate
each other and are just
staying together because
of the kids, their parents,
their dog, and for financial
reasons. right now i
can only see him every
other tuesday. what
about holidays, i ask
her, will you ever
share a holiday or
anything like that. of
course, she says, in fact
we plan to meet on
flag day and i did see
him on the chinese new
year. we had a blast
ordering in chow mein
and cripsy beef. veteran's
day is a possibility too.
he can be a little
spontaneous though,
he'll text me late at
night and say
something silly like
i'm going out for milk,
care to join me. which
is our code for, well
you know. it's all so
romantic and exciting,
my head is spinning, i
can hardly breathe. so,
so, what do you think.
isn't this wonderful?
yes, gina. it sounds
like fun. but be careful.
keep me posted when
you need that shoulder
to cry on. thanks sweetie,
you're the bestest.

the peace corps

tired of working
for a living
you go down to
the peace corps
office and tell them
that you'd like to
join, that you'd
like to offer
your services to
help the world
be a better place.
and they ask you
what you can do,
what are your life
skills, your talents
with which you'd
like to share. and
you aren't prepared
for such questioning.
but you need an
answer, something,
anything, so you tell
them about your
scrambled eggs, how
good they are, with
cheese, and onions,
little bits of
green pepper, and
you tell them that you
are a god with
a frying pan and
a pair of eggs, but
it has no effect on
them. they tell you
to fill out a form
and go home and wait.
they'll let you know
if they need you.
and you walk away
dejectedly. you feel
that it is the world's
loss to not taste
your scrambled eggs,
the happiness it
could bring to others.

wallpaper

there were layers
upon layers of thin
patterned paper,
like skin woven
upon itself, clouds
and wagons, steeples,
cows bent in pastures
over sunlit still
horizons. everything
a wet grey blue. paper
without memory, now
coming undone, under
my hand, moving
the stiff blade across
and down, tearing
at yesterdays, at
someone's long pondered
idea for bedroom
walls, where they
would lie against
a pillow with someone
they loved or didn't
love, and wonder
if their choices
had been otherwise.

small fry

you catch
the smallest fish
in the ocean.
it's the color
of a dull jefferson
nickel and has
small flat
eyes that are black
and tilt with
the soft light
of a cloudy day.
there is no
weight to this
fish, it lies
in the palm
of your hand
and vigorously
flips about,
stunned by
the recent
events of him
biting into
that silver hook
with a piece
of worm you tricked
him with. and
you stand there
for awhile, pondering
what to do,
what vegetables to
buy, to broil
or pan fry.

the dangers of smoking

she asks me
if i have any
cigarettes. just
one will do,
she says. i need
just a few drags
off of any old
cigarette and i'm
good to go. sorry, i
tell her, i don't,
but there's a gas
station across
the street, run
over there and get
a pack, i'll sit
here and wait for you.
unfortunately she gets
struck by a car on
the way back when
she doesn't look
both ways before
crossing, the
fundamental rule
in crossing any
street. but i get
to her before she
passes out, or dies,
and i light a cigarette
for her, putting it
to her lips, she
smiles and takes a
deep drag, then
blows out a few
smoke rings while
an ambulance screams
on the way. i'm
going to be okay
aren't i, she says,
between puffs,
sure i tell her,
you're gonna be just
fine, here hold
your head up
a little, there's
some more left.
thanks, can you do
me a little favor
if i pass out, what
i tell her, anything.
can you put a mint
in my mouth if i lose
consciousness?
sure, i tell her.
not a problem.

career move

you start a new
career selling
life insurance.
but nobody wants
to buy, or else
they already have
life insurance.
and you plead
with them, use
guilt and tragedy
as ploys, like
your mother often
did to you for
various reasons,
but still no one
wants to sign
on the dotted line.
you tell them that
if they loved
their children,
their pets, their
relatives, that
they should buy at
least a term policy,
it's so cheap, it's
silly not to buy it,
do you really want
a pine box coffin,
some shabby way to
go out, i must say.
but they slam the
door in your face,
they pull the shades
and duck down onto
the floor until you
stop ringing the
doorbell and leave.
by the end of your
first day on the job
you decide to quit.
you throw your brief
case off the bridge
and accidentally
hit someone about to
jump, making him
teeter, and then
slip into the river
a thousand feet below.
he could have been
your first customer,
but it's too late
now. you shrug and
walk away. you need
a sandwich and to
rethink your next
career move.

flowers

i didn't plant
those flowers that
bloom in my
backyard, nor did
i water them
when they came
up so bright and
colorful, out
of nowhere, no
pruning or trimming
away the weeds
or vines.
i did nothing
to cause them to
grow, and be there,
and yet there
they are.
and here you
are too.

delayed

on your way into
town on a steamy
night, before
the sun settled
and cooled the streets
into darkness,
the traffic suddenly
thickened, and the roads
were blocked up
ahead. so you made
a turn, and another
turn, going in a
circle of sorts,
but deeper into
the mix of whatever
was holding things
up. there seemed
to be no easy way out
and finally you
reached a street
where a few cops stood
casually by, leaning
on a barricade
and you could go no
further. and then
the parade began.
it was gay pride day
in dc and you had
a front row seat in
your car as the
flat bed trucks rolled
by full of shirtless men
in wedding gowns
and high heels,
and hardhats, rodeo
cowboys with boots
and chaps, and
whips and chains,
and motorcyle leather.
it was smorgasbord
of sexuality on
wild display with
floats and balloons,
flags and horns
blaring. and on
the sidewalks were
families eating
sandwiches, children
licking icecream
cones, all who had
come to watch, both
straight and gay
couples, laughing,
kissing in the sultry
night air, while
the band played
on somewhere,
somewhere and i sat
in my car, with the engine
off eating marshmallow
circus peanuts that
i had strangely bought
at a gas station two
hours ago when i
started out.

the graduate

dad, he says.
you have no food.
how can you have
absolutely no food.
you have seven bottles
of different salad
dressings and a
bottle of vodka,
a cut lime and
yet no real food.
he's standing at
the refrigerator
door in his cap
and gown, a freshly
printed degree
rolled in his hand.
the ink still wet.
he has no job,
no money, no idea
yet as to what
tomorrow will bring,
and yet he's hungry.
you have nothing
to eat here dad.
i'm going to mom's
house. she's having
pot roast tonight
and potatoes. and
she made a boston
cream pie for
dessert. hold on
i tell him, let me
get my coat. i'm
going with you.

venus

she leans on
the sill
and points upwards
with certainty
and says, that
right there,
the tiny blink
of bluish light
is venus. and i
choose to believe
her, i know so
little about
the stars
and planets, or
love for that
matter here on
earth. i could
maybe fill a thimble
with what i know for
sure about women,
or stars, but i've
always been willing
to learn,
and to believe
everything at first
blush, even a
tiny sparkle of
light in the sky
being venus, or you.

Helga and Her Friends

there used to be
a drive-in
movie theater
on central avenue
where we would
go as teenagers
to watch such movies
as Helga Goes to
Summer Camp, which
showed a middle
aged german woman,
named helga and her
pasty white
friends playing
volley ball with
their blouses off. it
did put a damper on
things when someone
would mention that helga
looked exactly like
jimmy's mom. but they
seemed to be
having the time of
their lives as they
jumped and jiggled
in the austrian
sunshine. it was not
a pretty sight, but
we were young and
desperate and had
maybe three dollars
in our pockets.
the sound was garbled,
as if we were underwater,
and the heavy metal
speaker crackled in
our ears as we dined
on shrimp rolls and
hot dogs from
the concession
stand. sometimes
there would be a dawn
to dusk night, and
at the end of the
five or six horrible
B movies, you got
free coffee and donuts.
but we never made
it to that point.
we'd had enough of
Helga and her friends
and after two or three
subtitled movies
we rolled out across
the hilly gravel lot
and headed home.
still hungry.

chain letter

the letter says
that God will
bless you and great
things will
happen in your life
and in the lives
of your loved
ones if, and only
if, you immediately
send this letter out
to twenty people
within ten minutes
of reading this.
i shrug and disobey
the order, and mumble
something like, God
i hate this kind
of e mail crap, but
immediately i grab
my rabbit's foot
that's on my key
chain and begin
to rub it's velvety
soft fur.

cat's feet

some of us
have disappeared.
not lost,
but chosen
to go under
and away. to
slip into the fog
of time never
to be heard
from again. it's
a strange thing,
this shadow
and memory of those
who chose
to leave without
a word, or
sound on small
cat's feet.

the milk carton

when i
went to pour
the last few
drops of milk
onto my cereal
and saw your
smiling face
on the carton,
even though
you had just
left ten minutes
ago. i knew
i was in
trouble. i was
not only
out of milk.
i was apparently
out of you.

one foot in

it's clear
this pool
of water that
is you. i
can't see
quite to
the bottom
just yet,
but i like
and feel
what i see
so far
with one
foot in. a
younger
man would
have plunged
head first
by now.

nabokov and texting

in a letter to his
wife vera, while
on a book tour
through the united
states, vladimir nabokov
wrote, if it weren't
for you, i would have
gone to Morocco as
a soldier, and as i
read, and pause
and stare out the window
i can't help but wonder
if the romance of
our day can stand
up to the romance
and sweetness of the past.
and so i look at my
cell phone, at my
last text message to my
new girlfriend natasha
in moscow, and it says,
yo, what up girlfriend,
what are you wearing?
and i know that things
haven't changed too much.
well, okay. maybe
just a little.

these clouds

these clouds,
these hills
laid out
across the low
sky, so blue
and full of rain
and thunder.
they look as
if they have
always been
there and will
never leave,
these monuements
of pain,
but trust me.
they will, just
let it rain
for awhile, let
it rain and rain
and rain, let
the sadness
soak you to
the bone. and
in time, not
yours, you'll
come out
the other side.

be careful

careful not
to spill
that wine
on the white
rug. it's
the only
bottle i
have, and i'm
out of stain
remover. in
fact i'm
running low
on lots of
things these
days, patience
being one,
money being
the other.
affection is
on that list
too. so be
careful with
the wine, i'm
not in the mood
for spills.

travelling man

it started by accident.
i was taking some old
luggage out to the trash,
rolling it towards
the dumpster,
when my neighbor spotted
me, and asked me where
i was going, vacation,
a trip somewhere exotic,
where to buddy? and i
hesitated, thought for
a moment, and then told
him the fiji islands
for some needed R and R.
he smiled, and said wow.
how cool is that? take
a bunch of pictures,
don't forget sunscreen.
wow, i am so jealous.
and when he walked away,
smiling, i thought
to myself. hmmm,
and kept going pulling
the suitcase
past the trash pile
on the curb for thursday
pick up. instead i went
around the corner, to
the coffee shop, and
the same conversation
ensued, and i told
everyone bermuda, or
paris, or china. i told
them how i was traveling
the world these days,
exploring, expanding
my horizons.
everyone was so happy
for me, so thrilled to
see me going somewhere.
so now the suitcase
is covered in stickers
of the places i've never
been to, and everyday
i wheel it out the door,
no matter where i'm
going. sometimes i'll
make a lunch and put
it inside. it makes me
happy to make others
so happy.

book by it's cover

she says that
you're too good
looking to have
any depth. it's
a contradiction.
life doesn't work
like that.
i see you as
a shallow, on
the surface kind
of guy. and i
tell her, thanks
for the observation,
but no.
i'm not that good
looking, in fact
i'm quite ordinary
without the botox
and eye tucks,
but you pretty much
have the other
stuff right.

fashionista

these new shoes
i'm wearing
i bought because
of you. they
are italian.
go ahead touch
them, feel that
buttery soft
leather. it
feels like a
piece of veal.
i could eat
these shoes if
i got hungry
enough. but like
i said, i bought
them because of
you, so i won't
eat them. you
dress so nicely
all the time,
i just wanted to
step it up a
little and show
you that i care.
i figured that
you wouldn't
keep seeing me
if i kept showing
up in flip flops
and shorts. i really
hope you like them,
next week, long
pants.

there's something i need to tell you

she reaches across
the table and looks
into my eyes, takes
my hand and says,
there's something
i need to tell you
before we go
any further with
this relationship.
i sigh and take a
deep breath. i've
been down this road
before, with the
married women, the
woman with seven
kids, the woman who
who worked as a sex
phone operator,
the stripper, the
woman who wasn't a
woman, or maybe
there is a disease
lurking or money
problems, kid issues,
a prison record,
a jimmy leg, or
something, etc. etc.
and so i take a sip
of my drink, smile,
and say, so what is
it. and she says,
well, i'm a Quaker.
i thought you needed
to know, which makes me
stand up on my stool,
throw my arms into
the air, and yell out
to the bartender, drinks
for everyone, on me.
keep em coming.

the book club

okay, let's begin,
does everyone have a
drink, some cookies.
there's coffee brewing.
who wants to start.
ginny, yes? i'm sorry,
but what book
were we supposed to read?
breakfast at tiffany's,
by truman capote, oh,
right, i loved that movie.
george peppard, and ummm,
what's her name, the skinny
brunette with big eyes.
wonderful actress.
yes, linda, go ahead.
i didn't have time to read
the whole thing, i had
to take the kids to
swimming lessons all week,
but what i skimmed in
the van seemed
great, the imagery and
dialogue was outstanding.
wasn't he gay, cathy says,
that truman capote. he
had a really squeaky voice.
donna goes to the kitchen
and gets some coffee,
you know, she says,
my sister told me on the phone
the other day, speaking of
gay, that her son is gay,
or maybe he's just
experimenting, but she saw him
kissing the gardener,
carlos out by the pool
the other day.
chelsea chimes in, is he
any good, laughter ensues.
no, i mean as a gardener,
my hydrangeas are dying,
i don't know if it's
the heat or the insects
that are killing them.
so, anyway, about the
book, did anyone here
read it. silence. okay,
who saw the movie,
everyone nods and says
yes. loved the movie,
and that song, moon river.
you can't get that song
out of your head once
you hear it. audrey hepburn
was her name, betty says.
remember the part where
the little kitty runs
out of the cab in the rain,
oh, i cry everytime
i see that part. i loved her.
she's dead now, cancer,
yes, big smoker, like
jackie O. oh, really,
i didn't know jackie
smoked, yup. two packs
a day, every day. that's
how she stayed so skinny.
oh, the tragedy of her
life. can you imagine.
linda crosses herself,
God forbid, then takes
another cookie from
the plate on the table.
what kind of cookies are
these, they are so yummy!
i must get the recipe.
so what are we reading
next week?

pull the shades

just let me sleep
for awhile, okay.
i'm tired, i'm
beat, yes i miss
you too, but
pull the shades
get the fan going,
dim the lights.
you can lie here
next to me, but
no talking, or
reading or moving
around and no making
any moves under
the sheets, i know
your style. just
let me sleep, let
me sleep for
awhile, pull those
shades and come here.

i'm not that lonely

i was feeling lonely
the other day, for
about an hour or so,
and had a mild case
of the blues.
it was raining and
cold, and the power
was out, but there
was nothing on
tv anyway, and
the internet was down,
so i went out and
bought a cat at
the cat store. i got
a box too, and some
sand, a collar
that jingled a little
and some flea powder.
she's in the bathroom
now with the door
closed. i think it's
a she, she's got alot
of hair, one of those
mountain cats that
don't meow but howl.
she's not scratching
at the door but
banging her head. as soon
as the power goes back
on i'm taking her
back. i'm not as lonely
as i thought i was,
i guess.

Mall Surgery

i was at the mall
the other day
eating a cinnabon,
waiting in line
for some liposuction
work around my
hips and thighs
and from that little
pocket of jelly
under my chin
when i spotted
my old boss from
the IT office, he
had a mop and a
broom and was pushing
his janitor cart
towards the food
court for a clean
up. we both nodded
hello, but said
nothing. then i
licked the icing
off of my wrapper,
balled it up and
sent it sailing
towards the trash
can he was pushing,
it went in dead
center and he
turned around and
gave me a thumbs
up for affirmation.

natasha

she finds me
on a dating site.
she's from russia
and sends me photos
of herself in a dress,
in a long coat,
in shorts and a
sleeveless blouse,
and then finally
with nothing on.
she's young, she's
lean and blonde
and beautiful. she
was raised on a farm
milking cows
in the ukraine. she
tells me that her skin
is like butter,
and not the hard
stick butter either,
but the kind in a
little tub
that's always soft.
she says that she's
in love with me.
that she has told
her family about me,
and that they are all
so happy for the both
of us. she sends me
a photo of her
passport and tells
me when she will be
arriving. she is all
packed, her family
is driving her
through the cold
wind swept fields
and snow of russia
to the airport. she
only needs one thing
and then she will be
mine and we will live
happily ever after
despite our thirty
five years in age
difference. she only
needs nine hundred and
eighty five dollars
sent electronically
to her bank account
in moscow. i am so
conflicted standing
here at the bank waiting
for the doors to open.

seven ten split

kissing you
would be a
ball thrown
right down the center
lane, a strike,
knocking all the
pins over in a wood
knocking crash,
but anything
more than that
is a seven
ten split, and
you know how hard
that is, don't
you.

nature

i was working
in my yard
the other day.
likely story, i
know, but i was
thinking about it,
which is very much
like doing it.
sometimes i get
callouses on my
hands with just
pondering a rake
or hoe, or shovel
and what must be
done. i try not
to look out
the window just
to avoid these
very thoughts. i
believe in nature
taking it's
course, sort of
like us. but we
both see where that
leads and it's
not a pretty sight.

saturday at the lake

you see a kid
with a few balloons.
they are pink
like his belly
which sticks out
like a melon
from under his
striped shirt of
red, yellow, blue.
his face is smeared
with some sort of
candy, or icing, you
can't be sure, but
he has these balloons
while his mother
stands behind him
in her white shorts
scraping something
off her shoe with a
stick she found in
the woods, and the lake
is there, and ducks,
and people throwing
pieces of bread from
their hot dog buns
into the water. up
on the hill the band
begins to play something
by john philip sousa,
and the kid lets
go of his balloons,
and screams, and the
ducks take off, splashing
the water, and the mother
keeps scraping her shoe
while talking on
her cell phone, and
in the trees the deer
wait patiently for
nightfall.

request list

my neighbor loves
to sing. she can
sing anything, anything.
from a broadway
show to opera. from
pop to classic rock.
i hear her in the
shower, in the back
yard, walking her
dog, constantly
humming or singing
a tune. it's beautiful
but i wish
she'd mix it up a
little, she seems
to be stuck on just
a few songs, and it's
mostly elton john,
not that there's
anything wrong with
that. but tomorrow
i'm slipping a list
of requests under
her front door and
hope she gets the
message.

shake and bake

standing there
in the kitchen
beating egg
whites
and sugar, butter
and salt in your
white apron
and little else,
reminds me of
why we fell in
love. or at least
one good reason.

what are you doing tuesday night?

she says, i don't
want to be your
B side girl, your
go to last minute
replacement because
your date coudn't
make it on friday
night. i don't want
that late hour
text, or call to
see if i'm available.
i don't want to be
on your back shelf,
on the bench waiting
for a time at bat,
circling in the air
like a plane that
has to wait for
the runway to clear,
i don't want to be
leftovers wrapped
in the freezer waiting
to be warmed up
when nothing else
appeals to you,
are you getting this
message, and no
i'm not available
tuesday! it's
saturday night, and
tell me by wednesday
or lose this number.

the gentle thief

time is
a thief,
a gentle
but cruel
cat burglar
who works
not only
the night
shift, but
the day
shift too,
and he works
quietly,
cutting
the glass,
turning
the screws,
eating
the bread
upon your table.

working at the zoo

i see you at
the zoo with your
new man, sheldon,
i believe his
name is. you are
both standing
by the elephant
cages eating cotton
candy, the pink
kind. and you
know how i feel
about cotton
candy. i think
of awful things
to say to you, such
as your new boyfriend
looks like he
should be on the
the other side
of the bars
eating peanuts,
but i don't. i just
keep sweeping up
shells on the sidewalk.
working here at
the zoo has changed
me. i'm a nicer,
better person.
i now see the animal
in all of us.

love minus one

your year
of twister
like emotions,
now bottled
up and safe
within, with
no poems
of love, or
loss leaking
out ever, not
ever again,
you feel safe
in your next
day, your
love minus
one routine.

run boy run

your dog is off
his leash.
i saw him running
across the road
towards the woods,
his blonde coat
glistening in the sun.
he was smiling,
his tail was
wagging, his leash
was dragging
beside him, his
collar was loose
around neck,
he had broken free
from your yard, from
your instructions
to sit and beg,
to roll over and
play dead. your
little treats
couldn't keep
him there, nor
could the punishment
of sting from
the electric fence.
he's galloping now,
he's gone, he has
that sweet taste
of freedom in his
mouth and he won't
be coming back.
i am that dog.

the long day

how slow
the sun goes
down, it's nearly
nine, and
the dry wind
is soft as it
circles our
skin. the light
appears not
to be coming
from anywhere,
it's just there
and we wish for
nothing at this
moment, there
is no place
we need to be,
and there is
no rush to see
this moment
end, for darkness
to settle in.

off the list

she's taken me
off her christmas
card list.
her party list,
her go to list
for saturday night.
she's made a
little box
of things i left
behind, a watch,
a book, a coat.
and all of this
will be returned
not soon, but
when the season
of summer deepens,
all in good time.

on the train

as she tunnels
home, over bridges
and water, through
the underground
carved out below
the trees, and land,
and the flicker
of sun, rains
into the empty cars
where she leans
on the warm seat,
she dreams of sleep,
of love, of
mornings, when she
isn't on the train
with a roll of wheels
below her, the steel
rails glistening
with sparks and shine
and heated bends
towards home.

vancouver

she told me, while
we sat out on the lawn
and the summer
stretched green
and warm before us,
and the stars were out,
she told me about
riding horses into
the ocean, when she
was a girl in
canada, galloping
on the sand, then
into the blue bright
waves, and how the
horses didn't struggle
but listened and went
in, their heads held
high, their legs
strong against the
current, and then how
suddenly, the horses
were swimming and
you couldn't hold on
to the reins, how
you slipped off,
you floated and
separated from your
horse as he swam
beside you, unafraid.
she told me all of
this, then began to cry.
we were girls then,
she said, we were
still just girls.

the gift

i thought that
by buying her a
pony, that i'd
be in. i'd have
sealed the deal
with our fragile
relationship, but
instead she got
on the pony and
rode away with
a cowboy. no more
ponies for me.
it's back to
kitchen gear from
now on. a blender,
or a set of steak
knives, no, forget
about the knives.

skinny minny

she says does it
bother you that i only
weigh eighty-four
pounds, and i say no.
not at all, i admire
someone who watches
their weight and
tries to stay in
shape. in fact,
it makes your eyes
look bigger, more
expressive. you have
very lovely bones,
but i sort of look
like a boy with my
shirt off, she says.
and i say, well, so do
i, so in some crazy
way, we break even
on that point. i bet
you're a great body
surfer, here,
hold my hand and have
a bite of my sandwich,
the wind is picking up.

i don't get it

does that hurt,
that stick pin
in your eyebrow,
and that safety
pin needle thing
in your tongue,
does it make
you drool and spray
or slur your words,
here's a napkin,
you got a little
spittle at
the corner of your
mouth. i'm just asking.
and that hole in
your ear, the size
of a half dollar,
does it hurt, i
can see the clock
on the other wall
right through it.
but it looks infected,
or red with pain,
i'm just trying to
understand. and
that tattoo of your
mother, or grand
mother, and that
lobster on your hind
parts, or scorpion
will that wash off,
or is it there forever.
i don't mean
to be judgemental
or intrusive, i'm
just trying to
figure it all out
and understand why.
by the way, that hook
in your belly button
seems to have snagged
my belt, hold on,
i can shake it loose.

in the navy

you decide
to join the navy.
you like
their uniforms,
and the ocean.
you envision
being a sailor
on the seven
seas, although
it seems there
are more seas than
that, but who
cares. you want
to meet women
in tahiti,
toss coconuts around,
and peel bananas
with some
costa rican beauty.
but you don't
want to really
do anything on
the ship. you want
to be a look
out maybe, and
say things like
ahoy, or land ho
or iceberg dead
ahead. you could
work on your tan,
do push ups on
the deck under
the sweet blue
mediterrean skies
before you go
to port in venice
and meet someone
with a name like
marisa.

in the park

while lovers
linger on the park
benches, arm
in arm, faces
flushed with
something like
hope, their legs
touching, their
world confined
to this moment
in time, when
all things have
stopped, you can't
help but stare
and stop reading
your book. this
unknown drama
before you is
so much more
endearing and of
interest to
your heart and you
want to place
the bookmark here.
right here on
this bench, for
this moment in
the park.

just a slow leak

while the plumber
leans over
the pipes and whistles
while his wrench
turns a bolt, or
two, and he slips
in a gasket, then
writes up his
bill for five
hundred dollars
for an hour's work
you stare at all
of your degrees
up on the wall,
and wonder if
perhaps you've
made a mistake
with the choices
in your life, you
aren't sure, but
when you talk to
your therapist
at noon about this
very thing, you'll
more than likely
think the same
things about her too.

before you leave

come here
and kiss me.
don't worry.
i'm not contagious
or sick,
or in love
with you. what
we have is
something less,
and yet, good.
and sometimes
good is all we
have to go on.

where are you

there is no
you, not really,
there is someone
that wakes up in
your bed, but it
isn't you. you are
much younger, the
years have not gone
by. there is more
in front of you
than behind. time
is on your side.
and yet, your bones
ache, as you slowly
move to the edge
of the bed, and
rise with caution.
you find your
glasses, your
slippers, your robe.
you turn on the news.
you wait for water
to boil to make
your tea, but this
is not you, you are
already, out the door,
your hair drying
in the summer sun,
your feet taking
you on a run through
the thickness of
green woods.

she wants me back

she's got a new
boyfriend, i've
seen her walking
hand in hand
with him around
town and he
looks alot like
me, but with more
hair, and he's
taller and ten
years younger,
thinner and more
manly and muscular,
and drives a
mercedes, but other
than those minor
things, he looks
exactly like me,
as if i don't know
what she's up to.
she wants me back.
it's so so obvious.

theology

when i'm not
on the phone
talking with
friends, i like
to talk to
God, she tells
me hurriedly. oh
really, i say,
and what's that
like, i ask
her. what do
you and God
discuss? and
she says, well,
he's pretty
much quiet,
because i am
so gabby, even
my friends say
that i should
come up for
air sometimes.
i can be pushy
on the phone,
it's the way i
am. i just have
alot to say about
alot of things,
you know? but God
is very patient
with me, he lets
me go on and on
and on about
just about
anything that
comes into my
mind. for instance
my sick cat who
has a liver
problem, or if
i lose my car
keys again.
God can be very
helpful that way.
He's very
understanding,
God is, but
you sound nice
too. maybe we
should meet
for coffee sometime
and discuss
God further. I
think he can
help you too.

membership

there is nothing
that i feel
the need to join.
no book club,
or gym, or group
of travelers
on a bus. no
religion, or camp,
or reunion. i cringe
at the thought
of belonging
to something that
has membership.
i can't show
you my savings
card, or stamp
on the back of my
hand that lets me
in. i prefer
to get out of
line and go around,
or not go
at all. don't
follow me, and
i won't follow
you. it's best
that way.

kiss

these lips
have no
memory of a
first kiss.
only the last
one, seems
to linger
and want more.
and what that
says about
love, i don't
know. but
it's part of it,
i think.

these clouds

unsettled, these clouds
are. undecided, like
lovers, bruised with
a first fight, on
which way to go. the
tumble of blue and violet
and white, braided
into loaves that lie
there, awaiting not
night, but morning
and the fresh start
of daylight.

the new dog

the new dog
does not remind
me of the old
dog. the new
one doesn't
bark, or whine,
or beg while
i eat, or drag
his bag of food
to his bowl
across the kitchen
floor.
the new dog
doesn't hog
the bed, lying
sideways, or
howl at the moon,
or chase cats.
he isn't in middle
of us, as i
make a move on
a saturday
night trying
to unzip
your complicated
dress. no.
the new dog is
no fun like
the old dog was.

i'm in

she says with
a sigh, brushing
the hair
from her eyes,
fanning herself
with an open book
of love poems by
t.s. eliot.
i don't like
this game, this
dating, there are
so many lost
and wanting
souls out there,
but like them,
i'm too lonely
not to toss
the dice.

the secret

although i wish
you hadn't told
me. your secret
won't get out.
i promise.
it's here to
stay. right
here, you tell
her pointing
at where your
heart used
to be. i'll
never tell a soul
about the mischief
you've been up
to. no one
needs to know
what you've
done. not even
your husband.
but you should
come clean at
some point,
and leave me
out of this.

a new day

the car won't
start, the milk
is sour. the egg
you cracked open
is green. there's
no hot water
for the shower.
that rash on
your leg looks
like poison ivy.
it itches beyond
belief. there's
a salesman at
the door and your
ex wife is on
the phone with a
list of things
you need to do
and where to send
the checks. quickly
you take off
all your clothes
and climb back
into bed. you stare
at the ceiling,
at a bee circling,
circling, waiting
his turn.

saving the world

she loved
to march.
save the whales.
abort
the babies.
stop cancer
now. peace.
no war.
free speech,
equal rights
for straights
and gays.
she had all
the ribbons,
all the t-shirts.
animal rights,
oil soaked
penquins,
the elephants
and hummingbirds
and she marched
for everything
and everyone.
mile after mile,
disease
after disease.
her children
and her husband
gave up
eventually
on where
she was on
any given day.
she was saving
the world, but
had no world of
her own.

go to work

i have to go
to work now.
no, seriously,
i have this job
where i get up
and go and make
money. i know,
i know, sometimes
it seems that
i'm just goofing
around most of the
time, and well,
sometimes i am,
but on occasion
i have to get out
and make some dough
rey me in order
to continue on
with this so called
life i've gotten
myself into. so
please, i have to
go now. there's
a ladder i need
to climb. text me
later, call me,
something, something.

estee lauder

late at night
while walking home
from elaine's
apartment in
the city,
under the summer
moon with a spring
in my step,
whistling a tune,
tucking my shirt
in, i stumbled
and fell after
being struck
from behind
by someone
demanding my wallet,
my money, my
phone and keys.
i recognized
the perfume she
was wearing, in
fact i had bought
it for her.
she screamed at me
as i rolled over,
holding my head,
how could you do
this to me, she
bellowed, how,
how, how. she
looked beautiful
in the moonlight.
there was passion
in her eyes.
i loved that
perfume on her,
she looked lovely,
despite the fact
that she was now
poking me with
the steel tip
of her umbrella.

marie

my friend marie
wants to get
married. again.
those twenty three
loveless years
with her husband
and traumatic end
has put her in
a romantic mood.
or so it seems.
let's do it
again she says.
let's walk on
fire, let's dive
into the deep
end without
so much as testing
the depth, the
rocks below,
the temperature,
the sharks that
circle with those
dull grey fins.
i know i can make
it work this time
she sings. i
have the dress,
we just need a
place and a cake.

black dress

please, don't
wear that black
dress. i'm in
a fragile
state of mind
and might say
things i don't
normally say,
i might even
confess things
that only a priest
should hear, so
don't wear
the black dress.
it could be
dangerous.

going downstream

an inkling
of interest,
just a small
rain drop
of a kiss,
can lead
to a deluge
of affection
and put you into
the deep pool
of adoration
which pushes you
down the stream
of lust and desire,
and that in turn
over time, can
take you on
a journey into
the ocean of love.

Hazel

you reach into
the drawer
for a spoon, but
there is none,
a dish, no luck.
a glass, or
clean cup, still
nothing, all
is in the sink,
dirty with a
week of cooking.
and the mop,
dried and hard
with no chance
of soaking up
the suds and dirt
along the floor,
no bags for
the vacuum, or
rags to wipe
the dust, where
is this dust coming
from? and laundry,
that too, piled up
like mt. vesuvius
on the basement
floor awaiting
wash and folding.
where o where is
my hazel to do all
of these mundane
chores.

how dare they

i understand
your anger
in being criticized,
our skin
being as
soft and fragile
as a butterfly's
wings.
how easily we
bristle at
the unkind word,
or finger
pointed at some
blemish. our
babies are
our words, our
songs, and art,
how dare anyone
come and say no,
please stop.

over writing

you've lost
the beauty
of your room
once so clean
and sparse,
by hanging so
many pictures
on the walls,
why ships, why
moutains, why photos
of lost loves
and dogs. clean
and bright has
become chaotic
and dull
by placing too
many pillows
on the bed, too
many layers of
curtains and sheers,
of chairs, and
mirrors. what was
the room you
so loved. where
is it now, buried
within somewhere,
behind the plants,
and three colors
of paint and
a border of
daffodils.

supermarket

you see them
lean towards
the store,
on canes, bent
with years.
exiting the white
bus with the wide
doors and
hatch that
let's out the
wheeled ones.
silvered and
whitened, along
the coasts of
their bodies.
clutching cupons
and purses, hats
and gloves,
quietly moving
towards and
into, finally,
the market where
the gloom
and cool of neon
scares them
even further.
there is no comfort
here, but just
reminders of
what is being
left behind.

ten nine...etc.

let's pretend
it's new year's
eve. here, put
on this hat. take
this horn and
blow it. let's
start the countdown,
i'll get
the champange
and the paper
and pen with which
we can write down
our resolutions
again, but let's
make them easier
this time,
nothing about
weight loss, or
being on time,
or making more
money, or being
polite to strangers.
no promises we
can't keep to
one another. make
them easy and fun.
more cake, more
sleep, more love,
less boredom.

waiting

low clouds
move over the green
fields.
no cows are moving,
no wind
is turning
the leaves
or lifting up
a flag, or
clothes hung
to dry,
life is motionless
without a breeze.
your feet
are in the pond
as you wait
for her arrival.
you could
wait all day
for her, and
you usually do.

your news

you read
about war,
but you don't
know what
it is, not
really having
ever been
in one. someone
tells you
about the burn
on their arm,
but still
you don't
know the pain.
it's theirs,
and the same
goes for
heartache,
for death
and dying. it
can't reach
you. words, or
songs, or
poems are
nearly unfelt.
it has to be
your news for
it to truly
arrive home.

glass of water

the only
lights
are those
on the street,
with a pink
bloom
coming in
like flowers
through
the blinds
upon her
white skin.
there is
no music,
no television,
just a cat
on the sill,
the light
rumble of
holiday traffic
on the street
below.
and a glass
of water
in her
hand, pushed
towards me.

let's stay home

it's too
hot to think.
to argue,
to eat or
even cook
a hot meal.
let's lie
in bed,
with the fan
overhead
and make slow
soft love
in the watery
shadows
of late
afternoon.
pull back
the cool sheets
and let's
swim for
awhile, and
then fall
asleep in each
other's arms,
there's no
need to go out.

her gloves

you know these
things about her,
before you know
who she is.
she will leave
her gloves on
your table, like
unspoken words.
she will sigh
like a wind
being cupped
in the arms
of summer trees,
she will assume
it's love, and
be disappointed
and bitter, when
once again it's
just a season,
she will
come, she will
depart, she
will leave her
gloves on your
table and forget
about them,
but you will not,
you will place
them in a box
with the others.

lost confetti

at night
while sleeping
the streets
were cleaned.
washed and swept.
the debris
of the parade is
absent when
you awaken
the next morning.
how quickly
we dispose
of each other.
the once bright
confetti of
affection has
disappeared
in the strange
silence of
another day.

blue pools

you submerge
yourself into
the blue pond
of affection.
you are in over
your head.
you let yourself
sink into
these dark depths
of wonder. there
is nothing
to hold onto,
no ladder to
escape with. you
will drown
but not die
if it fails
you tell yourself.
as you've
proven again
and again.

smokes

you read
someplace, such
as in the new
england
journal of
medicine that
over six hundred
thousand
people die
in this country
alone each and
every year,
as a direct
result of
cigarette smoking
and you can't
help but wonder
what if milk
did that, or
bread, or
apples, would
they still be on
the market. what
if terrorism
did that? am
i missing
something here?
and you get it.
taxes and money,
jobs, free will,
and our own
basic human rights
to do as we
please, to kill
ourselves slowly
through whatever
addictions that
please us and
yet something is
wrong with
this picture, or
so it seems.

ducks or ten pin

she thinks she's
so funny, when
i suggest an
afternoon of bowling.
she'll say things
like, and then
can we go to walmart,
or, the trailer
park called, and
they want their
mullet back. but
you ignore her
as you lace up
your bowling shoes,
put on your shiny
jacket with
the green dragon
on the back. so what,
will it be, you
ask her as you
grab a six pack
of bud from the fridge,
ducks, or ten pins?

rainy day

you sink deep
into a good
solid book
on this rainy
day. the couch
holding it's
soft arms
around you
in the shadowed
light. you
could lie
here forever
in your fiction,
wrapping the warm
love of others
around your
chilled skin.
reading, watching
the water
fall from the sky
clinging
to the panes
of glass.

clean sweep

you have
decided to
clean
the cupboards
of your life.
sweep away
the friends
that aren't
truly friends,
and only want
their needs
fulfilled,
the lovers, who
don't love,
but want to leave
in the middle
of the night after
their heartbeats
have returned
to normal, and
the sweat has
dried, why
are they so
much like you.
and then
there are
the parents
who base their
affection
on guilt, who
wait to be
called. what
to do with
them. perhaps
another day,
you'll do
the cleaning,
it's too nice
out to start all
over again.

the days

the burial
of time,
the days
that slip
by, with no
fanfare,
no announce-
ment telling
you of their
demise,
is constant,
for what other
choice does
one have
but to ignore
the obvious
and smile
towards
tomorrow, with
hope that
there is one.

staying hip

you've resisted
for so long,
growing up. it's
been a daily
struggle of
holding back
the hands of time.
of bouncing the ball.
of keeping
fit, and in
fashion. knowing
what's in, what's
out. the music
has passed you
by at warp speed.
sushi and thai
food, sure, why
not. where
the hell is my
nehru jacket?
i-pad, i-pod,
i surrender.
it's so hard
being hip
when your hip
hurts.

a woman's purse

a women's purse
is a lifeboat,
a bounty of
things to keep
you going, to
save you, a lesson
in survival.
the flare,
the mirror,
the flashlight,
three sticks of gum,
a tube of neosporin.
the odd stray
packets of ancient
condoms. you
could live inside
a women's purse
for a week
and never go
hungry, so many
mints, the occasional
cracker. a
small bottle
of water. pens
and paper.
a map of nyc's
subway system.
coupons to macy's.
of course
the pepperspray
and handcuffs
i don't understand.

that summer dress

when the
sweet red
melon cut
and shiny red
in the june
sun drips
down
your chin,
on your cheek,
and i see
you in that
white dress,
i know that
summer is
officially
on.

fishing trip

it's so nice out
honey, it's a
beautiful sunny
day. let's go
fishing, she says.
with glee and
does a little
happy hop
in the middle of
the livingroom.
let's make a day
of it, take a drive
out to the lake.
i'd like to catch
a fish and fry
it up on a black
skillet on a
campfire we made
oursleves. i'll
make some potato
salad and we can
bring a few ears
of corn too. it
will be so much
fun. i haven't
been fishing since
i was a little
girl. let's go.
come on, get up
off the couch
and let's pack
the car and roll.
i look up over
the edge of
my newspaper,
mute the tv, as
the game is about
to start and say,
you do know that
safeway sells fish
now, don't you? oh,
yeah. flounder
and everything.

calligraphy 101

my son's handwriting
is horrible. it has
not improved since
the age of three.
it's like a chicken
stepped into a
puddle of ink
and walked across
the paper. sixteen
years of education
and he can't decide
if he's writing in
cursive or printing.
each word, each
letter is an adventure
in spelling and
style. of course i
love him beyond
everything and anyone,
but i just
wish that his
handwriting was nicer,
like mine is when
i send him a check.

june bugs

i'm done with
the month of may.
i'm ready for june.
the marrying month.
work is sluggish.
it's hot as hell
already, and i
need new windows
to keep the ac
in. i need a dog
to be barking
somewhere in the
house. i need
someone to yell
at for rearranging
the furniture and
scratching my third
copy of highway
61 cd. someone
to ask me what i
want for dinner,
or why am i still
in bed at ten a.m.
i want to find
nylons hanging from
the shower rod,
to be out of hot
water, no milk
in the fridge. i
want someone to
ask me where the hell
have i been all
night, and why
don't you answer
the phone when you're
out with your so
called friends. ahh,
but here comes june,
yes. the marrying month.

turning over a new leaf

she says, i'm turning
over a new leaf. i sigh.
i let out a small,
but audible laugh. again,
i say. yes, she says.
i'm serious about this.
this time i really am
going to change. i'm
going to resculpture
my body, i'm going
to get smarter with
books, with food.
i'm going to meditate.
i will explore and
understand the nature
of who i really am.
moderation in all things,
don't sweat the small
stuff, eat, pray love.
are you in with me,
she says and stands up
with her yoga mat
rolled up under her arm,
care to take this journey
together. no, i tell
her. i'm good, but
have fun. i think we're
out of martini olives
by the way.

adaptation

i dreamed
that the earth
hit a bump
and was thrown
off course,
just slightly
though. suddenly
there was snow
in july, and to
me, you were
that bump that
i hit, but i'm
fine now.
the weather has
changed, but
i've adapted
and now look
for bumps before
i hit them. hand
me that snow
shovel, please.

early in the game

if you only
knew what i know
and if i only
knew what
you know, we'd
have a chance
at meeting
someplace in
the middle. but
we are holding
our cards tightly,
aren't we. tell
you what. i'll
put a card
down, if you
will, and let
that be a start,
i'd hate to fold
and cash out
this early in
the game.

the fried chicken prayer

she was hungry
and we were on
a road trip from
cape may to ocean
city via the ferry
across a purple
ocean roiling
in a christmas
wake. she was sick.
but still, she
was hungry. she
was a year away
from death, from
dying in her sleep,
the best way
to go, so soft,
slipping under,
as if the world
was water. but she
was hungry, and
i said anywhere
is good for me.
chicken she said
loudly. fried
chicken and she
closed her eyes
and said a prayer
that we would find
an open stop along
way, the day after
christmas. and
we did. we found
her fried chicken.
i've never seen a
girl eat so much
and be so happy.

keep your eyes
on the road, she
tells you, and
your hands upon
the wheel, there
will be enough
time later for
that, that is
if we ever get
there. go faster
please, she
implores.

the color blue

you prefer blue,
radiant shades
and dull dark
hues that hold
no light. you
prefer the cool
shadows of color
underwater.
the soft kiss
of blue that
is the night.
it's a place
you can go to
and sleep, and
breathe and
forget for awhile
what shines
so harshly
in the light.

can i offer
you a drink.
please, come
in, sit down.
it's so nice
of you to visit.
i love that
dress you
are wearing,
saks fifth
avenue? no,
it's off the
rack from
loehmans, but
thanks just
the same. you're
welcome. so, i
just have a few
questions
to ask before
you commit
and take on
this job. sure,
she says. fire
away. well,
actually there's
only one
question. i think
all of the others
have been answered
by what i see
and hear. so,
will you break
my heart and leave
if i fall in
love with you.
oh, here's your
ice tea. lemon
and sugar
are on the table.
thank you.
only time will
tell, she says,
and stirs her
tea.

dust bowl

my stanley
morgan broker
just called
and said,
don't quit
your day
job, or that
part time
night job,
or the extra
work you do
on the side,
or stop
collecting
coins you find
in the street.
make amends
with any old
rich relatives
you might have.
patch up
that beaten
sweater, sew
the hole
in those jeans.
get another
year out of
that old coat,
throw that
hat into
the wash, times
aren't getting
hard, they
are hard and
i feel the hot
dust rising
on the plains.

as she opens
the mail,
and the bills
keep coming
making her
more aware of
what little
she has to
pay them, she
closes her
eyes and
takes a deep
breath.

less of religion

the angle
of light from
the sun upon
the water
as it rises at
early morning
speaks less
of religion
and more of
things that men
can't get
their hands
and make their
own.

go to sleep now

you can go
to sleep now.
the day
is done.
it's finished.
you can stop
the worry,
stop the work,
stop moving
and waiting
for the next
call. you
can go to sleep
now. pretend
your father's
hand is upon
your brow,
as he tells you
that he loves
you, that
everything will
be just fine,
all things in
time will work
out.

this crowd
of trees
where poets
come to sleep,
to eat,
and sometimes
read their work
out loud to
anyone that will
listen, pay
no mind to such
things.
they grow and
drop their leaves
when the time
is right, they
move in quiet
secrecy towards
a place that holds
neither darkness
or light.

the hunger

the news print
on your fingers
reminds you of
a time when you
awoke at five a.m.
in the cold
and went out
to cut the strings
on the two
bundles of
the daily post
that awaited you
on the corner
and after folding
each paper,
carried them
to porches along
your route.
the moon was still,
your breath a fresh
bloom of youth,
hungry, almost as
hungry as you
are now forty
years later.

the light

there is no
future in this,
she tells me.
there is no hope
or money
in poetry. you
can write all
you want, but
the world will
not care.
write a novel,
or a screenplay,
write something
with meat
on it's bones.
something visual
that can be
bought and sold.
therein lies
your gold,
your salvation,
your way out.
move over i tell
her, you're
blocking my
light.

in the middle

you have seen
men grow old
with tears
in their eyes
still longing
for young women,
still wanting
to work, to be
a part of this
world they are
about leave.
you have seen
young men without
care, living
their lives
with ease, with
out a sense of
what tomorrow
could bring. you
find yourself
someplace in
the middle.

get in the car

she pulls up
to the corner
in a black mercedes.
the window goes
down and she whispers
come here. so you
stop eating
your hot dog, wipe
the mustard off
of your lips
and go to her.
get in, she says.
me? you respond back.
come around and
get in, she says
again. so you take
a swig of your soda
from the straw,
finish your dog.
you try to get
the mustard stain
off of your shirt,
but it's hopeless.
well, she says.
i'm waiting.
so you go around
and get in.
you put on
your seatbelt
and stare at her,
she is everyone,
she is no one.
do i know you?
where are
we going? she tips
her sunglasses down
and smiles with
her bright brown eyes.
does it matter, she
says. has it ever
mattered to you?

these hearts

how they go
away, what shall
i compare them
to. leaves falling,
no, too cliche
and boring, waves
that wash upon
the shore then subside
when the tide
goes out, no. that
doesn't work either,
how about flames
that flicker and
fade, the ember
going black when it
once burned bright,
or fruit that
dies upon the vine
before being tasted,
we're getting closer
now. it's complex.
like all of nature.
like dreams.
what you see
is never really
what you get.

hello, are you still there?

she says don't
you remember me.
we talked sometime
before. i believe
your phone died
though in the middle
of our conversation.
you had just gotten
that new droid phone
and you weren't
used to the sensitve
touch screen, remember?
i was telling you
about my lawsuit
against the doctor
who botched my
boob job. the infection
was horrible.
i was in bed for
weeks, and there was
leakage and i got
a fever. they were both
supposed to be 36 D's
but one was bigger
than the other
and now i'm lopsided.
i can hardly walk
straight. my back hurts,
and i can't find
a bra that fits
properly. i can no
longer wear my
sweaters or anything
that shows cleavage.
you should see the scars.
i'm suing for a million
dollars. my breasts
mean alot to me, and
now, well, if you ever
want to see them, i'll
show them to you, and
you'll see what i'm
talking about.
what are you doing
this friday? my soon
to be ex husband has
the kids that night,
hello, hello, are
you still there?

tourist

i'm a tourist
in my own city.
there are lots
of pigeons
and squirrels.
everyone is in
a hurry.
i walk around
with a camera
and stare upwards.
i keep getting into
lines to look
at something.
i ask cops
for directions
and ask questions
like where's
the mall at?
i buy a hot dog
from the corner
vendor and a t-shirt
stating where
i am. i have
a map open in my
hands, with points
of interest circled.
i have on comfortable
shoes, a hat,
and am carrying
an unmbrella. i am
not used to being
out and about
during the daylight
hours. my visitations
in the past have
been primarily
nocturnal and
involved drinking,
carousing, as
they used say.

the nuns next door

a group of
nuns move
in next door
to you. there is
a catholic
church just
around the corner
so it's a convenient
place for them
to live,
but there's
four of them,
or five, it's
hard to tell
the way they
come and go
like penquins.
and you would
think that this
is a good thing,
that they aren't
a bunch of stews
from pan am,
or eastern,
with loud music
and commotion,
and pilots and
stray cat men
coming and going,
but it's not
good. the nuns
are almost too
quiet. i almost
feel like they
have their ears
with cups
to the wall.
listening to my
every unchurch
like move, i'm
trying so hard
to be on my best
behavior, but
failing badly.
i saw one wheeling
in a barrel of
holy water just
the other day.
this is not good.

the green fat pickle

please don't
eat
that green
fat pickle
afloat,
prodded
and poked
and stabbed
out with a fork
by the grisly
man with skinny
arms, from
the jar
of yellow
sea water.
i could never
kiss
you again
if it touches
your lips,
which makes
you laugh
and say
you don't know
the half of
it buddy, then
bite it in half
as the seeds
and juice cascade
down your
chin.

mirrors

i can live
without
mirrors.
i've seen
enough.
i'm tired
of looking
in. figuring
things out.
i can do
without
my own
reflection
whether
inner or
outer, makes
no difference.
i've stared
at my own
navel long
enough, it's
time to
give yours
a look.

water and words

don't read
this and think
that it means
anything of
consequence.
don't analyze
or ponder these
words. go
stare at the
stream outside
the window and
watch the water
rush towards a
place it needs
to go. this is
the same. no
different.

the blackbird

your cup is cold
in your hand
as you sit at
the table with
the open window,
there are no
children in the yard,
it's the middle
of day and everyone
is at school or
at work. the tea
is pale and weak,
without taste.
there are no lemons,
no spoons of sugar
near, the newspaper
spread out before
you is stale, as is
the new book of
poetry you bought
with some hope
and promise. your
cup is cold in
your hand and
the blackbird peering
in from the tree
says nothing with
his blackness, but
i assume if he could
that he would agree.

towards the end

we've reached
the point, at
this stage and
depth of our
relationship that
we no longer
need words
to communicate,
our thoughts
and desires are
unspoken and
silent, instead
we speak in
code. we nod,
we make a slight
gesture with
our hands, we
shake our
heads, or wink.
we push a plate
of a half eaten
piece of toast
towards one another,
and then the
jam.

the easy way

i believe
everything you
tell me even
though i know
half of it is
a pack of lies,
but i go along
with it just
the same. why
make waves,
when we both
know what the
truth really is,
and when it
ends, blows up
as it will,
we both know
that there will
be no one to
point a finger
at and blame,
so i believe
everything you
say, it's so much
easier than
arguing, this
way.

squirrel stew

i met a woman
once, online,
where else, who
had three dead
squirrels
in her icebox.
they were in
sealed
plastic bags
with their heads
cut off,
and on the counter
was a yellowed
recipe passed
down apparently
through the years
by her family
for squirrel
stew. she was
chopping up
potatoes and
carrots, onions
and celery,
boiling water,
when i suddenly
realized
what we were
having for
dinner. and we
had been getting
along so well
before that too.

direction

my left
hand has
informed my
right hand
what it is
doing, but
they aren't
talking.
they aren't
speaking
to one another
at the moment.
they are
as divided
as my legs
and feet are
as to which
way to go.
i have worn
a circled path
out in my front
lawn.

you have
the ability
to play checkers
all night long.
you don't
mind driving,
you can dust
and clean with
the best of
them. your
knitting needles
are the divining
rods of your
happy place.
you can talk
on the phone all
day, while
the sun is
shining outside,
and not be
bothered.

the unknown

it's not
the sound of
your voice
that intriques
me, nor
the length
of your legs
or pucker
of your lips,
it's not
the softness
of your skin,
or touch
of your hand,
no, it's none
of that although
all of it
amazes me. it's
something else.
something
i can't
define, or
put a finger
on. maybe i
don't want to
know.

the party

we were having
an end of
the world party.
balloons,
noise makers,
cow bells,
someone brought
a drum and a
golden trumpet.
there was
champagne and
wine, not the
boxed kind
either, but
those bottles
with corks.
yes, nothing but
the best, and
shrimp cocktail
and lobsters,
never frozen,
but flown in
fresh from maine.
someone made a
fabulous eight layer
mexican dip,
with tortilla chips.
and we were up
all night,
singing, dancing,
some of us
drifting off into
other rooms
and coming back
out again. we stared
at the stars,
waiting, waiting,
until morning came
and nothing
happened, and as
everyone grabbed
their coats
to leave, we all
agreed that we
should live
our lives like
this all the time,
as if it could
happen, the end
of the world thing.

slide rule

she writes
to me in a
hurried text.
are you good
at math, can
you help me
measure this
room. plus
i'm having
guests and need
to figure out
what pound
turkey to cook,
what size
pan of butternut
squash to whip
up, twelve
people are coming
and three have
special dietary
needs. hold on
i tell her,
i'm getting my
slide rule.

your single
red glove
lying
on the sidewalk
outside your
door tells you
just about
everything.

stained glass

you visit
your church, well
it's not your
church exactly.
you barely
touch base on
the holy days.
but you want it
to be more,
to be something
than what it has
become. it's
a sleepwalk, an
ambien laced
kneel down
of prayer. they've
cleaned it up
so nicely. you
miss the blood
of Christ,
the fire and
brimstone, the
hot coals,
the vague smoke
and mirrors
of fear. it's
a drive thru
now, fast food,
quick and easy.
nobody gets hurt.
and the light
coming in through
the stained glass,
rarely gets out.

road rage

you fear
the open road.
the tail
gaters, and
angered
red faces
pushing, pushing
towards
someplace they
need to be.
over the limit,
cursing,
pressing forward,
sneering as
they pass.
inches from death
with each
hit of the pedal,
swerving,
wandering through
the lanes, not
allowing to
fall back, but
only to pass
and pass and pass.
who are they,
where do they need
to be. are they
that cluesless
to what death
on the highway
could be.

the quiet meal

you smell
something
wonderful cooking
down the hall.
a roast perhaps,
potatoes,
carrots and onions.
there is garlic
in the air,
and yet still you
hear the argument
go on. things
break, doors
slam. curses
are made. it goes
on and on. night
and day. and only
when they sit
down to eat
their meal is
there silence.

the decorator

my friend
patrick used
to wear a full
length black
bear fur coat
at the first
hint of winter,
before ice,
before snow.
he didn't really
care what you
thought about
that either.
he had an
earring in one
ear and one eye
had a mind of
it's own and
would wander on
occasion, a lisp
allowed
only certain
words to be
spoken clearly,
always followed
by a high pitched
laugh and sneer.
he would show
you his two
nubbed fingers
sawed off one summer
making a valance
while drinking
sangria. he was in
the marines once,
received a purple
for a wound he
would show by pulling
up his shirt and
pointing at a
scalloped moon
scar. married three
times and had
more male lovers
than you could count
most dead before
their time. he loved
and hated you
within minutes
of each other.
he was the weather
on a tropical
isle. he was
the artic circle
when things didn't
go his way.
when he wasn't
picking a pastel
color or silk
fabric for someone's
boudoir he was
lifting weights
and tanning his
short squat body.
he's been sixty-four
for about twenty
years now.

hot air balloon

i see her
in the hot air
balloon, waving.
she is always
smiling,
especially when
she's leaving.
i worry about
the power lines,
and trees, and
all of the what
ifs that could
occur to send
the balloon so
happily striped
and pear shaped
tumbling to
the earth. she
keeps waving, i
keep waving. we
both want the same
things, but
have different
points of view.

the home stretch

you put all
of your money
on the wrong
horse. number
seven. she
died on the home
stretch despite
the jockey
whipping her
hindquarters
frantically.
you feel
the same way
sometimes with
the job you're
on with no
finish line
in sight.

punctuation

your feet
are cold
beside me
curled and
otherwise
warm. we
are two
commas,
on a plain
white sheet.
inked in
for the
night. there
may be more
punctuation
before
the sun
comes up,
another
paragraph
to type.

too much

you give me
too much food,
there is too
much on my plate.
i could never
eat all of this,
despite how
good it tastes.
it's overwhelming.
i can hardly
breathe.
and the same
goes for you,
there is too much
of you, and not
enough me for
me to stay, to
sit, to savor,
to share and eat,
but i'll have
a bite or two,
just the same,
and then
be on my way.

fearlessly

she liked to paddle
down strange rivers,
where snakes would
hang from trees
and hiss like hoses
sprung a leak,
while in the distance
there was always
the faint soft thunder
of drums, the rattle
of spears or sabers
in the bush,
she liked to hike each
cliff, each icy slope,
ski from the highest
peak, jump from
planes and float
fearlessly into
an unknown sea, or
pit, peer into
the edge of a
volcano. she'd run
towards lightning,
towards a twister,
the lions were her
friends, how she
would fit her head
right into their
mighty jaws and
teeth, oh my, she
was quite
the adventurer,
may all the pieces
of her, the ones
they can find, rest
in peace.

night fever

you dream one
night that you
are back in the
seventies. you are
wearing your purple
bell bottoms and
your womanly silk
button down blouse
with galleon ships
in full sail.
you have a white
belt and boots,
and hair that you
blow dry for an hour
or so in the mirror
before you go out
dancing under the
glow of a spinning
ball and drinking
rum and cokes with
a wedge of lime.
it's not a good dream,
and you can smell
the canoe cologne
aftershave on your
mustachioed face when
you awaken trembling
with a match book
in your hand and a
smudged phone number
written on the back
cover in blue ink.
ginger it says.