a new room

you decide
to paint
the room blue.
a soft silvery
blue. white
curtains.
a white blanket.
a fresh
clean look.
you hang a
cezanne print
on one wall.
you center a lamp,
you move
the bed to
the other side.
you place
flowers on
the dresser.
everything
means something.

olives

after a wonderful
evening, of
dinner and
conversation, you
walk her home
and she says,
i'd ask you in,
putting
her key into
the slot
and turning
the knob, but
i hardly know
you. what's
to know you say,
and turn to
walk away,
but wait she
says. you look
like you have
very strong
hands. do you
mind helping me
with one little
chore. sure,
you say, i'd be
glad to help
you out. fine
then, come in.
then she hands
you a jar of olives.
can you open
this for me, i
can't make us
a martini
without olives,
now, can i?

the reminder

you are running
low on disk
space,
the little
yellow box
at the bottom
of the right
hand corner
of your
computer
screen says
repeatedly.
it's a soft
but cruel
reminder, a
whisper of sorts
that time
and space
is limited. life
is short.

the beehive

the man
in the white
shirt gets
out of his
car and goes
over to
the black
car where a
woman sits
with the windows
rolled up.
it's a warm
day. he
approaches
her, looks
around, then
leans in
to kiss her
when she rolls
her window
down. she is
blonde and
is wearing
sunglasses.
they both look
around from
side to
side then
kiss again, he
says something
to her
then reaches
through the window
to hug her.
he looks like
a bear
reaching
with his claws
for honey
from a beehive.

gazing at the moon

looking up
you say
the moon
is a shaved
pear set
on a black
bowl of
space
with a
zillion
stars
behind it,
around it,
below it.
and luscious
you
in your
black dress
and
barefeet
on the wet
grass,
pointing up,
pointing
up, but
i don't
look,
instead,
my eyes are
fixed on
you.

in everyone

there is
genius in
the clerk
behind the
counter,
the waitress
bent over
with a pot
of coffee,
there is brilliance
in the street
cleaner,
the garbage
collector
and beat cop
with his stick.
there is
glory in
the homeless,
the bum,
the drunk, the
drug slouched
soul,
in the shadow
of an alley.
there is
imagination
in the sick
and dying,
there is
god in everyone,
and everyone
a god, or so,
you'd like
to believe
and hope.

peace love and understanding

why are you driving
so fast and so
close to the car
in front of us
you ask her. and
she says, why isn't
this traffic moving,
can you see anything
up ahead. is there
an accident? there'd
better be a truck
hauling chickens
turned over up
ahead for this kind
of back up. do
you see anything? no,
but there will be
an accident
if you don't
stop swerving from
lane to lane and
tailgating. slow
down. but this is
our only chance to
see the dalai lama,
he might not come
here ever again, and
i love that dude.
i want to see the
whole show.
he's so in touch
with who he is. peace
love and understanding.
if only the world
behaved like he does.
i cringe and put my
hands on the dashboard.
watch out for that
truck, it's moving
over. oh, no he's
not, that bastard
isn't getting
in front of me. she
rolls the window
down and hits the horn,
hey, hey, i'm
driving here. what
am i invisible?
stop with the horn,
he sees you, he
sees you. what time
is it, if i can
shoot the gap of
this line of cars
and that school bus,
we're home sweet
home. two minutes
from my man, the lama.

sand castles

it's too easy
to say
that so much
is like
the sand castle
that you
built in
the sand on
a warm summer's
day, as
the ocean
rolled easily
upon your legs
and the hours
were not
hours but
days upon
days, it's
easy to say
that youth
is built
upon such things,
and that
growing old is
trying to hold
on, to keep
the cold
autumn waves
at bay.

chinese take out

your mother
calls and says
what are you doing
at home? why aren't
you working, it's
the middle of the day
for god's sake.
and you say,
how'd you know i
was home? oh,
i was taking
something back
to target and saw
your car in
the driveway.
and so you tell her
that you got
laid off from your
job at the ball
bearing factory,
and now you're
collecting
unemployment for
a while. like
maybe twenty six
weeks. i'm watching
as the world turn
in my underwear
eating some
leftover chinese
food from the night
before, you tell
her. kung pao
chicken and some
fried rice. i've
got an egg roll
in the microwave.
your underwear?
i don't want
to know, she
says. it's the
chinese, you tell
her, they can do
the work we do,
at half the price
and are happy to do
it. damn them. so
i got canned.
and so why are you
supporting them by
eating their food?
it only encourages
them even further
to take us over, she
says. umm, yeah.
good point mom.
hey, look, i have
to go, there's
a big plot
twist happening
on my show and i
don't want to miss
it, it's really
hard to follow,
plus my egg roll
is ready, hear
that beep?

adam and eve

and adam says
to eve, so what
are we doing
tonight. movie,
dinner, and eve
says we need
to shake it up
a little, do
something different,
our relationship
is starting to
go stale, don't
you think. it's
always the same old,
the same old. let's
get dressed up
and go out dancing.
go a little crazy,
do some tequila
shots in a dive
bar, but you know
i don't like to
dance and drink
too much. plus
we have church
in the morning. yeah,
i know, she says.
mr. boring, aren't
you. tell you what,
have a bite of
this and maybe
things will change
a little.
let's get this
party started.

the budget

when you
were younger
you made
a list
on the back
of an envelope
and added
things up.
the electric
bill, cable
tv, gas, water,
food, a car
payment,
insurance
of various kinds.
and then
at the bottom
you scribbled
the word
miscellaneous.
that was
the wild car
that always
broke
the bank.
and now, there
is no list.
it just comes,
it just goes.
why bother
with a list?

the locksmith

each day
a door, a
new key,
a desperate
plea, a
different lock.
you keep
them on a ring,
on a chain
that hangs
from your belt.
it's heavy
and swings
left and right
as you walk.
people hear
you coming,
and smile.
you know how
to get in
and that's
why they call
you. it makes
people happy
that you have
keys. it's good
to be loved.

shore drive

driving hard
on the wet road,
shore drive, where
it bends and
winds from
side to side, tree
lined, so many
white crosses
leaning in the sand
where others
have lost control
and died. no lights,
no signs, or
markers, the sky
covered by a canopy
of ancient trees.
the ocean is
through the woods,
and the animals
with soft lit
eyes, yellowed
and gold, stand
ready on either
side to test
the long wide road.

lightning

don't stand
by the window
your grandmother
warned,
lighting will
come in
and get you.
i can still
see her
on the couch
knitting
in the dark
with the power
out, as
we laughed
and then ran
out into the rain,
defying
lightning,
barefoot on
the hot wet
grass, dancing.
go ahead she
said, don't
say i didn't
warn you. i'll
pray for you
in here.

the dmv

your turn in line
finally comes
at the dmv. you
stand up and brush
away the cobwebs,
you turn the month
on your calendar.
your legs hurt
from sitting. your
hair has gone
grey, your teeth
ache from age.
your vision has
blurred. it's
time for a new
picture, you've
changed. you have
watched the seasons
roll by the windows,
babies have been
born. weddings
and funerals have
taken place while
you watched,
patiently waiting
your turn. you
move towards
the counter, your
number has come up.

love is like that

it circles
and rises, and
falls, and orbits,
gets covered
in clouds
and disappears
then shines
again, so brightly
you can hardly
stare into it
for more than a
second or two.
everything grows
because of it.
it puts a sparkle
onto the ocean
it shimmers
summer onto the black
streets. look
at it blend a
rainbow below
the pale new moon.
love is like
that.

up early

she loved
to get up early.
before the sun
rose. i'd hear
her get out
of bed, gently,
so as not to
wake me, but it
did just the same,
and i watched
her as she
moved from
the bed to
the shower,
stretching
like a lean
dark cat. i'd
hear the water
run, see
the thin strand
of yellow light
coming from
the almost closed
door. i listen
to her brush
her teeth,
then her hair,
and then hit
the light switch
and come back
to bed with a white
towel wrapped
around her.
did i wake
you, she'd say,
then kiss me
on the lips before
i could answer.

the dime store

we called it
a dime store.
a place where
they had everything.
from cans of paint
to gallons
of milk, from
hair brushes
to donuts, to
brooms and
shampoo. on one
side was a counter
next to the magazine
and comic book
rack. a long shiny
slab of formica
with red swivel
stools set high,
menus were on a rack
next to a bottle
of ketchup, a jar
of mustard and
salt and pepper
shakers. there
was a full mirror
along the back
wall where you could
see yourself and
the rest of the store.
the woman behind
the counter
wore a hair net
and a pink blouse
with her name
pinned to it. she was
almost always, very
short and round,
and wore lipstick
and powdered cheeks.
she'd pour the cherry
juice into
a glass of a fountain
coke and then
grill you up a
cheese sandwich right
on the buttery
griddle. the dime store,
where a quarter
went a long ways.

ballad of a thin man

worn weary
with a lifetime
on the road,
and cigarettes
and red wine,
his throat
warbles and croaks
as he sings
in the bright
light that still
shines on
his music.
a wide brimmed
hat, white like
a halo pulled
down and broken
upon his wiry
hair, sheilds
his blue eyes
as he stands
at the organ,
bending only
to the beat,
not time. his
feet move below
his red striped
pants. shoes
tapping
against yet
another stage.
he is at seventy
still defiant
still elusive.
still dylan.

lunch date

bored out of our
minds, driving
in the car towards
the grand canyon
she said, okay, i'm
sick of the license
plate game, we'll
never see an alaska
plate anyway, so
here's a question
for you. if you could
have a lunch date
with anyone in
the world, dead
or alive, excluding
relatives and me,
who would you have
lunch with. so i
thought for a minute,
tapping my hand
against the steering
wheel, then said,
well, you mean
excluding the obivous
choices of Jesus,
and elizabeth hurley,
right? huh, she said.
elizabeth hurley?
yeah, i said, i
like her. great
actress. whatever,
she said and rolled
her eyes. how about
hitler, i suggested.
i could drop some
poison pellets into
his cold beet soup?
nah, or, stephen
hawkings, hmmm. nope.
that robotic voice
thing would drive
me up a wall. einstein,
hmmm. nah, what's
he know about babes
and football. nada.
man, this is harder
than it looks, i looked
over at her, how
about you, i said.
who would be your
lunch date, but
she was sound asleep
as a car with an
alaska plate rolled by.

dog therapist

i decided to
put my dog
into therapy
last week. he
was acting very
passive agressive.
turning his back
on me when i
stayed out too
late, or if the
walks were too
short he'd
sleep at the end
of the bed instead
of curled up
beside me.
sometimes he'd
chew up someone's
clothes if they
spent the night.
the therapist noted
that he was
still having
trouble with separation
anxiety from when
he was a pup, being
taken off the farm
from his mother
and father and other
siblings. his constant
barking was a cry
for attention, as
was his tearing up
the trash and
chewing the furniture
and clothing. you
need to show him
more love and affection.
do fun things with
him. throw him a ball
once in a while.
teach him some tricks.
maybe take him to doggy
day spa where they
can do his nails
and give him a nice
warm bath.
i suggested that
maybe he was
only a dog and he
needed to get over
himself, and this
was how dogs
behaved, he likes
to jump in the creek
and chase squirrels
and then roll in
dead animal carcasses,
i told her. can't
i just hit him with
a belt or something.
oh no, she said
loudly and quickly
quoted jung
and freud and asked
me to put my dog
into a group program
with other dogs
and if that didn't
work perhaps a mild
dose of puppy valium
and some shock
therapy. acupuncture
is very effective too,
she said. i asked her
what this was going
to cost to get my dog
back on track,
healthy and well behaved
again, and she smiled
and said how much is
this dog worth to you?
you love him don't you?

factory parts

he confessed
in his e mail
that he was
really a man.
don't let the
pictures fool
you. i really
want to be
a woman, i'm
a woman inside,
he wrote.
don't call
me jim, but jill.
the outside
is a sham,
a lie, a mockery,
a mistake of
the cruelest
kind and when
i get my
operation, well
then things
will be fine.
and i said,
ummm, i don't
think so. i'm
sort of looking
for someone
with factory
parts, but i
wish you
the best with
your new life jim,
i mean jill.

please hold

and an operator
will be with
you shortly.
meanwhile,
press one
for english
press two
for spanish
press three
for more options.
if you are
calling from
your home
phone press
the numbers
that coordinate
with the letters
in the word yes
then push
the pound button.
if you are calling
about your overdue
account press
nine and then
enter your
ten digit
account number
followed by
the pound sign
or asterik if you
are a new customer.
then press in
the words i am
sorry and won't
do it again.
when you hear
a series of
faint beeps
that remind you
of sheep being
sheared, key in
your mother's
maiden name or
the hyphenated
name that she
included in her
new name because
she couldn't give
it up because she
was afraid she
couldn't be found
on facebook or other
social networks.
if you don't know
it key in
your favorite
color followed
by the city you
were born in.
if you are unable
to hear the beeps,
have your ears
checked as soon
as possible, or
see a doctor
about a possible
serious illness.
at this point,
if you are
still connected
take a small
break, stretch
and walk around
a little. get
a sandwich,
and or a cold
drink, coffee
if you prefer.
press one
for regular,
press two for
decaf, press
three for a tuna
sandwich, four
for ham and
cheese. for
other options
press nine. if
you need to go
to the rest room
at any point,
press either
one or two
appropriately,
when you come
back, after
washing your hands,
press any button
to return to
the menu, then
please hold, an
operator will
be with you
shortly. thank
you for being a
valued customer.

the deal

you need
to sign here,
and here,
and there,
oh, right here
too, and intial
that line.
she flips
the page. okay,
here and here
and here,
almost done,
right there
too, sign
there. and
one more page.
sign there,
initial here.
and finally,
just one
more. sign there
and we are
done.
now we just
need a check.

the mower

are you happy
she says while
staring out
the window
from my kitchen
table
at the man
trimming
the grass along
the curb
with a noisy
machine.
and you say
i was for
a moment, but
who can be happy
with this noise.

starting over

she sits
alone
on a sunlit
hill in
a white
dress.
she is
neither
waiting to
leave or
waiting
to arrive.
she just
is. and
that is the
best place
to start
the beginning
of her
new born
life.

the last leg

you decide
to let your
best friend
emily drive
the last leg
to the beach.
she's been
begging you
to drive.
she talks with
her hands
and her cell
phone is
on the dash
board. there
is a diet coke
between her
knees and
the music is
up. she says
which way,
quite often,
what's the
speed limit
around here
anyway, and do
we have anymore
chips back
there, where
you sit curled
up saying
the rosary.

the clean white shell

you take
some of the ocean
home with
you. some
sand in
your shoes, some
salt water
taffy, a wet
bathing suit,
a small
bottle of
shampoo from
the hotel,
skin lotion,
mango.
a towel or
two, pictures
of you taken
by a woman
from indiana
eating an
icecream cone.
a clean
white shell
that means
nothing now,
but could later.

dancing in the dark

she dances
in the dark
below the stars,
along the shore,
her hands
held high
around the fire,
her friends
all naked
and singing.
crazy in
their middle
age with love
and with
saving not
just the world
but every
lost soul
upon it. it's
a summer
ritual that
still holds
the promise
of hope and
they'll return
next year, and
the next.

the world

there is
the murmuring
whisper
of the world
that nothing
is fair. that
no one gets
a fair shake,
and if this
or that were
true, or
happened, how
much better
things would
turn towards
the good,
how wonderful
life could be.

telstar

you are not
the satellite
falling
slowly out
of orbit, losing
it's signal
with a
gradual fall
towards earth,
once vibrant,
and sparkling
in the twilight
of morning sun,
no longer of
any use, coming
undone. you
are not like
that at all,
but sometimes,
you feel
like it.

it's not unsual

it's not
unusual to be
loved by
anyone you
begin to sing
in the shower
in your
vague impression
of tom jones.
you drop your
voice as low as
you can go,
using your bar
of dove as a
microphone,
but those are
the only words
you know for
sure, so you
make it an
instrumental
the rest of the way
through as you
suds up, you make
guitar riffs
and drums,
and an occasional
horn. you let the hot
water cascade
against your skin,
steaming the room
up. it's not
unusual to be
loved by anyone
you sing again
at the appropriate
points of the song.
it's a good
song. a nice song
to sing in
the shower and when
you get out
you'll google
the lyrics to
learn more. this
is how you
educate yourself
now. you google
everything. you
google tom jones.

off to mars

you decide to
join the space
program again, not
because you want
to go anywhere, but
to test a
relationship
that you are
insecure about.
they need men
who want to go
to mars, and you
don't have anything
going on this week
or the next.
you're on
vacation. so you
train hard
squinting into
the sun, learning
which buttons
to push to lift
off and to settle
down into the soft
red dust.
you bring some
magazines along,
some gum, some
nuts, a diet soda.
you get a pet
sitter for your dog,
and tell the postman
to not deliver
anything for awhile.
you tell your
girlfriend not to
wait, if she
doesn't want to.
these trips can
be dangerous and
one never knows if
you'll return, but
if she wants to
wait and be faithful,
well, that's good.
she doesn't realize
that this is all
a test,
and she says, okay,
but in a maybe
kind of way, and
you nod, whatever.
and as the space
ship takes
off towards mars,
you look back
and see her wave
while she talks on
her cell phone.
it looks like she's
wearing a new
dress, and shoes.
she's wearing lipstick
too. you were right
about her all
along, she wasn't
to be trusted.
but now you can
relax and enjoy
the trip, done with
that worry.

shifting sand

come up for air
from the clouds
of water, from
the green soft
depths that you'll
never quite under
stand. come up
and breathe in
the sunlight
of where you are.
where you are
meant to be, at
least for now
in the ever
shifting sand.

a fresh start

while floating
on my raft
in the center
of the pool,
a drink balanced
carefully
upon my lap,
half of a tuna
sandwich nestled
nearby, with
chips and
a cookie,
i dropped
my cell phone
into the deep
end while i
was texting you
and sending
you a photo
of what i was
doing in my
new bathing
suit. i can
see it
glistening on
the bottom
next to a penny.
everything,
and everyone on
it washed away.

finding gum

the spent
wad of gum
you step into
on this hot
scorching
day, and sticks
to your shoe
dragging
and pullling
its pink grey
goo along
is not a portent
of things to
come, or your
life taking
a bad turn, but
just hot sticky
gum, that's all.

at least for the moment

i don't believe
in ufo's, or
life on other
planets larger
than a germ.
i don't believe
in big foot,
or the loch
ness
monster, or
ghosts, or
witches, or
things that
go bump in
the night,
although i pray
a lot and avoid
walking under
ladders.
i don't
believe
in conspiracies
of all kinds.
i don't believe
in evolution,
i prefer
the magic
wand
of God instead.
i don't believe
in commercials
no matter how
shiny
the product or
pretty
the person holding
it. i don't
believe in
warranties,
or the stock
market, despite
putting all
of my money
there on a yearly
basis. i don't
believe that
one size fits
all. i don't
believe in anyone
that starts off
a speech with
the words, and if
i'm elected.
i don't believe
in country clubs,
or canadian club,
but i love a club
sandwich with chips
and a dill pickle.
i don't believe
in organized
religion, or even
disorganized
religions. i don't
believe in marriage
or divorce, but
hold out for love.
i don't
believe in the past
or the future,
but only the now.
at least for
the moment.

rest your head

rest your head
here on the wide
soft sand.
stretch your limbs
and feel the wind
unfold across
the terrain
of your tired soul.
rest your head
here beside
the rolling ocean,
it's blue lips
kissing the shore
with each new wave.
listen to it's
whisper, it's
gentle roar.
rest your head
here, right next
to mine and be
done with what
you left behind,
at least for awhile,
at least for
awhile.

the blueberry pie

she says
proudly over
the phone
i've baked you
a pie and i'm
bringing it
over while
it's still hot.
are you alone?
umm, no, not
exactly. who's
with you.
my mother, i tell
her, and she
laughs, no really?
just a friend,
just a friend,
what kind of pie
is it, i ask her
and go to the fridge
to check on milk.
none. it's
a blueberry
crumb pie, she says,
but i'm not so
sure i want to
bring it over if
someone is there.
can you bring it
over and set it
on the porch, just
ring the bell so
i know it's there.
oh, and can
you pick me up
a quart of two
percent milk?
i hate you, she
says. i know i tell
her. you're not
seeing that crazy
prison guard helga
again, are you.
pffft. no way.
twenty minutes?
okay. twenty
minutes, i'll ring
the bell.

the fitted sheet

i hate folding
the fitted
sheet, i thought
to myself
as i tried
to touch corner
to corner,
fighting
the elasticity
of it's edges,
but there was
no hope, no easy
way to make
a square. the best
i could do
was fold it
over into a
ball and stuff
it into the closet
with the other
sheets, trying
to get it under
control and
then i thought,
i have a few
friends like
that, people you
can't fold
up nice and neat
when you want
them to, but
when it's time
they fit just
right, tight
and stretched
smooth throughout
the roughest of
nights.

pleasure world

there is a place
where the speed
limit is 25 everywhere,
where the guy at
the gate just waves
you in, too hot to
open the little
glass window,
and where the fields
are cut tight and short
and deer dip their
angelic heads out of
the woods waiting for
the sun to set, a
place where all
the tags on the
cars read florida,
and where a basket
of lost inhalers sits
near the mailboxes,
the canes, and
umbrellas too. it's
a place where you
can smell cakes
baking, eeking out
from under the wreathe
laden doors, and a pot
roast too, and where
you can hear tony
bennett being played
on the stereos.
sinatra, peggy lee
singing is that all
there is. dean martin.
there is a place
with a nurse on
call, and an ambulance
circling the golf
course. it's not
the end, but it's
very very close. it's
called pleasure world.

the exit plan

every man has an
exit plan, or at least
ponders the possibility
of how they might
escape from a burning
building or a plane
going down, or a
roof collapsing in
a movie theater when
it's been snowing.
really? she says. what
are you talking about?
it's like what if
a grizzly bear shows
up in the woods
while you're taking
a hike, you have to
figure out how
to get away before
he gets his claws
on you. even in
relationships,
men think about how
they can get out of it
when it starts to sour,
go bad and, they look
for the back door,
the escape hatch,
the sliding bookcase
with the secret panel
leading to a set
of steps that tunnel
out. men are crazy,
she says, shaking her
head. no, not at all
you tell her. it's
survival, it's what
men do. so you're
comparing relationships
to grizzly bears
attacking you. hmmm.
and so what
is your escape plan for
us, she says, hands
on her hips, tilting
her head with her
flashing brown eyes.
none at the moment
dear, i'm too busy
thinking of entry plans
to even consider that.

basketball

having tripped
after a shot
sailed in
to end a game,
and fallen down
on the hot asphalt
while playing
basketball on a
saturday morning
for the millionth
time in my life,
it felt good
to lie there
for a moment,
to see the sun
and sky above me,
to feel the scrape
upon my knee,
the sweat rolling
down my face.
with the heat of
the ground
rising through me,
where else would you
rather be, but
there.

the monkey cages

when you threw
that plate of linguini
across the table
and hit me square
in the face, i suddenly
realized that you
must have seen me
kissing lullabelle
the other day
near the monkey cages
at the zoo.
the monkey cages
was our place, our
special spot, and
that's what bothered
you most.

the other shoe

these egg shells,
the ones beneath
my bare feet,
that i walk upon,
and that clock
ticking, listening
for that other
shoe to drop,
it's what i do
best when things
are going well.
holding on,
holding my breath.

the whirlwind

staring with
child's eyes
at a small
tight circle
of paper
and new fallen
leaves
on the concrete
playground
swirling
with all the hint
of what ifs,
what nature
can be, if
she chooses.
it moves
it's whirlwind
self
across the stiff
crumble
of grey ground,
as you sit high
on a tall
steel slide,
cold already
with autumn,
deciding when
or if you
might come down.

sunfish

taking one
step too far,
the water
rose as i
sank, and my feet
clenched at
the soft
dark sand off
shore, my nose
filling with
chilled
night water,
with everyone who
could save me
asleep, and me
unable, too
young to swim,
but i could see
the morning sun
rising,
as i set under,
and a sunfish,
like a supple
gold coin
wagging it's fins
nearby and i
suppose i
did likewise,
but without
memory of how
i got to higher
ground, or how i
survived. how
little has
changed.

webs

with a swipe
of your hand,
annoyed,
you brush away
and through
the myriad of webs
constructed
like magic
between the shrubs
that line
the sidewalk
by spiders while
you slept soundly
in your bed.
the silk lines
so soft and clear,
a beautiful trap,
awaiting flies, or
other misguided
winged insects that
hover nearby, but
it's you instead
that has laid
all good plans
aside.

pink lights

these pink
streetlights
of summer
folding over
like umbrellas
onto the wet
empty streets
of town, are
like angels
without
wings, memories
without count
or sting
of so many
years gone by
without you.

the photo album

we had reached
the point where we
could lie in bed
and talk about
anything without
any awkwardness
whatsoever. we were
that far along into
it. and so she
felt comfortable
in asking me if i
wanted to see her
family album. sure
i said. i'd love
to see your photos.
and so she walked
across the room
and picked up a
leather bound book,
and brought it back
to bed. here it is
she said and opened
it up. but there
were no photos.
there were only
x-rays. medical
x-rays of broken
bones, legs, hearts
with dye coursing
through the vessels,
a sonogram or two,
an mri of her brain
before and after
the fall. and slowly
as she flipped through
each page, and described
the circumstances
of each x-ray, i
realized how
wonderfully strange
she was and that
gave me a feeling
of something like hope
for the world
at large.

Rx

she had no
beside manner
whatsoever
despite her
excellent
credentials.
she always left
you wanting more
and in pain.
the pain was
more emotional
than physical, but
occasionally
there'd be a bite
mark or two,
and some scratches
here and there
on your back
that need some
medical attention.
sometimes
she'd just leave
with the door wide
open, the sink
clogged with her
long black hair,
the stove on.
sometimes she'd
shake you awake
and say something
like, hey, i'm leaving,
don't call me for
awhile, i need
to be alone to
take care of some
things. and you'd
nod your head with
your eyes half open,
too exhausted
to get up or to
say okay.

the girl we called mother

there was a girl
in my french
class back in
highschool
that we called
mother. she was
tall and broad
shouldered,
with short brown
hair and eyes
the color of
fizzy root beer,
there may have
been a handful
of freckles across
her nose and
cheeks as well,
but it didn't make
her cute like it
would most girls
her age, instead
it seemed strange.
she was already
too old for freckles.
but she would scold
us on a daily basis,
sit up, stop talking,
you need a haircut,
are you chewing
gum? quit kicking
my seat. are you two
boys looking at
each other's test
papers? you boys
never have a pencil
do you? she'd
shake her head,
roll her eyes,
and make a clucking
noise with her
tongue. mother
is what we called
her. we're facebook
friends now, and
nothing much has
changed, she posts
me on a daily basis.
capitalize stephen,
she writes, capitalize.

settling

i like you
better without
the hat,
she says, you're
not so bad,
but i wish
you were taller
and younger
and had more
money, a beach
house and a
nicer car
wouldn't hurt
things either.
it would be
nice if you
lived closer
too, but i
guess you will
do for now as
i wait for
my real ship
to come sailing
in. and i say,
you are so right.
ten miles closer
ten years younger
and ten pounds
lighter, and
we'd be perfect.

the yellow line

if we had
the transportation
of the future,
i'd be there
next to you
right this second.
if we had
jet packs, or
tubes to send
us flying, or
beams
to send us
in a sparkling
swift wave of
molecules
through air,
i'd be there.
but no, so instead
we'll have
to wait, and wait
as i ride
the yellow line
all day.

melt

you melt
not like
italian ice
on a summer's
day, with
the stain
of cherry red
on your lips,
or snow
when
the sun
rises
and the air
lifts
above
freezing
no, it's a
different
kind of melt
altogether,
and it starts
somewhere
near your hips.

night train

she is a night
train in her sleep.
full of wild dreams.
she is going hard
down those tracks,
tossing and turning,
hear her whistle,
hear the roar
of her engine,
the churning of her
wheels on silver
rails. she is
a night train
in her sleep, but
when she gets there
in the morning
and she comes
to a stop and
the doors
of her eyes
all open, i'm
there ready, with
bag in hand,
to board and see
where else she
wants to go.

the wheel

when you were
younger you put
it all on red.
everything.
and gave the wheel
a hard spin. and it's
still going round,
and round.
you hear the click
click click
all day as you work,
you hear it
at night as you
lie in bed.
you still don't
know for sure how
it will turn out,
but you can see
that the wheel
is slowing down,
and you are soon,
too soon perhaps,
to find out.

the long way home

you take the long
way home,
through the park,
near the water,
up across
the boulevard.
there is no rush,
nothing urgent
pressing you
to get through
the door and throw
your keys down
and say i'm home,
no dinner
in the stove,
no dog to walk,
no boy waiting
in the window.
just mail on
the floor, fallen
through the slot.
you take the long
way home, as
the days get
shorter and the
nights get longer.

the yellow cake

you take out
the big blue bowl,
three large eggs
from the fridge,
a spoon, a spatula,
some vanilla cake mix,
water and oil.
a measuring cup.
you set the oven
at 325, let
it warm up.
you grease
a pan, get out
the mixer,
let the icing
soften, you
write out, i
love you on
a generic card
with a picture
of a dog on
the front chasing
a red ball.
you put a gift
certificate
into the card.
a hundred bucks
to a local restaurant.
you make the cake,
mixing it slowly
in the bowl,
following directions,
looking at the clock
from time to time.
with a wooden spoon
you slide it all
into your nine
by twelve pan,
and lick the spoon
clean after setting
the pan onto the top
rack in the oven. you
open the kitchen
window and see
a blue stack
of clouds rising
in the distance,
a cool breeze blows
in, but no rain
comes down.
you stick
a tooth pick into
the top of the risen
cake after thirty five
minutes, then take
it out. the toothpick
is clean. after
letting it cool,
you frost
the golden top
with a spatula.
lathering a
thick layer
of chocolate with short
broad strokes,
you then spell
out happy birthday
in fancy script
with a squeeze
tube of white
icing. you look in
the kitchen drawer
for candles, but there
are none. it doesn't
matter. you carry
the cake into
the other room
and place it on
the center of the table,
next to the vase
of yellow flowers,
and the clean white
card without a name
tilted against
the crystal vase.
then you go sit down
with a book,
and wait. it must
be someone's birthday
somewhere, you imagine,
and you are ready.

night

let's have
another
cup of coffee
before we go.
put your leg
up. reach
across the table
with your hand
and find mine.
let's linger.
let's not talk
but listen
to the night
growing
quiet as
the stars come
out of hiding,
and everyone
finds their way
towards sleep,
towards dreams,
like us
and what we
have, still to
yet be defined.

we dance as good as we want

we not only
sing, but we
dance as good
as we want,
we're archie
bell and
the drells,
and we're
from houston
texas and we
started
a new dance
called the tighten
up, now
tighten up
on that organ,
on those drums,
on that guitar,
okay, now make
it mellow. oh
yeah, ah, yeah.
let's do it now.
to the left,
now to the right,
do the tighten up.
let's do
the tighten up.

not a pilgrim

i could never have
come over on the mayflower,
she tells me while
having dinner one
night on the balcony
of her high rise
apartment. i mean
i'm all for religious
freedom and all that,
but i can barely
stand to share a cab
with a stranger.
i mean, eating lard
and pototoes and fish
for ninety days. i
can't even eat a piece
of salmon but once a
month. i mean where
would we go to the bath
room. i just can't go
when other people are
around, it just doesn't
work that way. i need
to shut the door and
turn the water on. yeah,
i tell her, i agree, i
can barely get on
a bus, or a metro train
without going stir crazy.
did they even have deodorant
back then? have you
ever been in a seven-
eleven on a hot summer's
day when the workers
come in for hotdogs,
whew. imagine being on
the mayflower for months,
bobbing like a cork
on the ocean. we're
just not pilgrims are
we, she says, and raises
her glass to make a toast.
what about a pioneer,
i ask her, could you
be a pioneer? nope, she
says, no wagon train
for me either. indians
shooting arrows at us,
rattlesnakes, baked
beans 24-7, just shoot me.

lobster fest

all the lobsters
you can eat,
the sign
said. and corn,
and potatoes,
corn bread and slices
of peach cobbler
pie for dessert,
and tubs of butter
to dip the lobster
tails into. one
after another
being chewed and
washed down with
beer after cold
beer, all for sixty
nine, ninety nine,
tip not included.
it was a feeding
frenzy of pendulous
bellies and sunburned
faces swallowing
hard, hitting their
chests with their
fists to restart
their gorged hearts
when they stalled.
just one more, just
one more, just one more,
and then unsnapping
their jeans, before
slipping into
their polished cars
and driving off into
the american sunset.

not really

you don't know who
to vote for
as you stand in line
at the middle school
with your pamphlets
in hand. the economy
still stinks, business
is sporadic, and you
haven't had a vacation
in years. do you stick
with the current regime,
the guy who has rolled
up his sleeves and
goes to work everyday,
or go with the woman
in glasses from alaska
who has never read a
book, or has no clue
how to even run a pta
meeting let alone a country,
but she's cute and has
a nice smile and probably
makes a mean apple pie.
it's a tough tough decision.
not really.

rorshach testing

okay, now tell
me the first thing
that comes into your
mind when you look at
this ink splotch.
it looks like a giant
black spider's web
with a little
helpless fly stuck
in the middle, but i
don't say that, instead
i say, do you mind
if i go to the bathroom
first, i had a grande
coffee about an
hour ago, and i really
really have to go.
but we are in the middle
of this experiment,
your therapy depends
upon the outcome
of your responses
to these selected series
of ink splotches,
and you've already
seen the first one
and you haven't told
me what you think.
okay, okay, the first
thing that comes
into my mind when
i look at this crazy
abstract ink spill,
is, umm, my mother
calling me on the phone.
can i go to the bathroom
now. sure, go ahead.

sparrows

no sparrow
really cares, at
least it seems
from here, is
there joy
or even sadness
in their hearts,
at each worm
or insect
they discover.
do you hear
praise ever leave
their sharpened
beaks at
midnight, or
thanskgiving in
the glossy dew
of morning, not
for my ears,
there is only
the constant
tweet for more.

on my way

i'm on my way,
i'll be right
there, just
a minute,
another second
or two and i'll
be out the door,
off the phone
and in the car
heading towards
you. i just need
to make one stop,
make that two,
for gas, for
something else
that i just forgot,
at the farmer's
market before it
closes,
the list is on
the table, so i
need to go back
in, run up the stairs,
but then i
truly am on
the way, did you
start dinner, is
it cold, are you
mad, should i
turn back around
and just go
home, are you
there, hello?

different directions

it is an uneasy
thought, let alone
the task of telling
someone you've known
for so many years
that you have to move
on, get past the past.
friendships, once
strong and gold, have
rusted. have crumbled,
have been bent with
time and age. when
young we see so little,
blinded by our own
intentions, our light.
but with time, that
light dims, and you
can see more clearly
who someone really is,
and they you. and it's
not always pretty or
easy, but the road
is still wide enough
for both of you to
go in separate
directions with memories
still in tact.

in the sun

you lie down
in the tall grass
on a hill
as far up
as you can go
with the time you
have. you find
the sun and turn
your face that way.
you've done
this all your life,
and you wonder
sometimes which
climb will be
the last, to lie
down and let
the sun do what
the sun does
best and even
that dark thought
doesn't keep for
long, you let
it slip, you let
it pass.

the go to

where are you every
tuesday night, i ask
my friend jeannie. i
text, i call, i leave
a voice mail to see
what's up and you
aren't at home.
then i never hear back
until the next morning.
oh, she says, pushing her
frizzy hair out of
her eyes. this humidity
is destroying my
hair, she says. i'm
a fright, keep the
children away, i might
scare the bejeebies
out of them. i stare
at her, so, i say.
tuesday nights?
oh, yeah, tuesday nights.
that's when i see my
go to. your what? my
go to, everyone has
a go to, she says.
what's that?
i don't even know what
that is. she rolls her
eyes. you are so lame
sometimes, she says.
it's someone,
that, well, you know,
there's ummm, no strings
attached and you go
have a little fun
visit with them and
mix it up. mix it up,
really? you mean like get
busy? do the wild thing
with them? i say. that's
right jimmy einstein.
you go meet them somewhere
and get busy and do
the wild thing,
that's what a go to is.
it's just fun, easy, no
questions, no problems,
none of that relationship
crapola. hmmm, you say.
and no money is exchanged?
you're an idiot, she says.
hey, look at my hair,
does it look really wild.
should i have it
straightened or what?
why ask me, why don't you
ask your go to next
tuesday, or is that too
serious of a question
for you two to discuss?

writing instructions

it's like this,
you have a shopping
cart, and it's
empty of course
as you meander
down the first aisle
of memory.
you have no set
meal in mind, no
preconceived idea
of what might
become of this trip
but you are hungry
and that's a good
thing. so in they go,
an apple, an orange,
grapes, milk
and bread. a t-bone
steak. maybe you
see a bright
yellow box of
nabisco wafers
that strikes your
fancy, you'll
put it in the basket
too, but then
quickly take it
out. just the
thought of eating
one of those makes
your mouth dry,
causes your tongue
to stick to the
roof of your mouth.
but on you go
through the store
and finally to
check out, and hopefully
by the time you
get home. you
have something
and it will taste
good, if not to you,
at least to someone
who might come
across it when they
are hungry and
need a little snack.

duck hunting

my friend just
bought a brand new
shotgun. it's black
with a long
shiny barrel
and a maple stock.
he clicks it open
and says, wow,
isn't she a beauty.
please, i tell
him, don't point
that thing at me,
but it's not
loaded and it
can't go off
like this anyway.
whatever i tell him.
what do you plan
to do with that gun,
i ask him. hunt, he
says. ducks mostly.
i didn't know you
liked to eat ducks.
are we talking peking
ducks here, with
plum sauce and
those little pancakes?
he laughs, no, it's
just for sport.
we hide in the duck
blinds out near
the water, blow
the duck whistles
and up they go
into the air, then
we pop up and
shoot the bastards.
the bastards? yeah,
the ducks. sounds
like fun and very
fair too, hiding
like that and tricking
them to come out.
so tell me, where
is the sport in
that? he shrugs,
it's not easy
crouching in those
blinds, waiting
and waiting like
that. sometimes it's
cold out too
and we run out
of beer and cigarettes.

picnic

these sandwiches
that you've
made for our
picnic, here
near the river
beneath the shade
of willows, on
the slope where
we can see
the cool blue
sway of water,
stink. what's
in them? egg
salad, are you
kidding me.
how long have
they been in
the car. i swallowed
a little and i
may now have
salmonella and if
i do, my lawyer
will be in contact.
what else is
in that basket?
cookies, please
tell me you put
nuts in them,
i only like them
with nuts.
what about bug
spray, did you
bring some ant
repellant. look
at them marching
towards us. hey,
hey, where are
you going, is that
a gala apple in
your hand that you
are about to
throw at me?

spice it up a little

i was reading the paper
the other day, drinking
a cold beer with
the ball game on when
my wife came into the room.
hey, she said, what do
you think of this outfit.
i lowered the paper, took
a look and said, i didn't
know clam digger pants
came back in style.
tan, nice, they go good
with that pink blouse
and those ankle breaker
shoes your wearing, what
is that, some sort of woven
wheat they hold them
together with? they're
capri pants for your
information. oh, okay.
where you going in that
outfit, church? i went
back to the paper. nordstroms,
she says, for lunch with
the girls. oh yeah. since
when did they start serving
food? pick me up a ham
and swiss, while you're over
there. she was still standing
there, staring at me.
what? i said. what?
in the old days you'd
be up out of that chair
when i had on a outfit
like this and trying to
wrestle me upstairs. i've
been working out, she
says and spins around
to give me a rear view.
hmmm. nice, tight. i'm
loving those clam diggers,
i tell her. capris, she says.
ummm, honey, move a little
to the left, there's two
men on and it's the bottom
of the ninth. you're sort
of blocking the screen.
you know, we haven't fooled
around in months, she says
to me. i take a swig
of beer. here we go,
i say to myself. what's up
with that, she says,
aren't you interested in
me anymore. i am, i tell
her, i am, i'm just waiting
for you to give me
the green light. and
since when did you ever need
the green light. you've
run so many red lights you
should be in traffic school.
maybe we should go see
a therapist, see what our
problem is, she says.
hey, we're just tired.
the kids, our jobs, the lawn.
the kids are in college dear
and we have a lawn service.
oh right. well, i don't know,
we're just in a lull.
maybe we should mix it up
or something. hey, do we
have any more chips. someone
forgot to put the clip
back on this bag, they're
stale as hell. are
you listening to me. we
have no sex life. none,
zip. zero. it's not right.
my friend ellen said that it's
a sign you might be having
an affair. pffft. ellen.
what does she know. where'd
she get that, from that
know it all oprah? that oprah
is getting on my last nerve.
you don't care about me
anymore do you? she says,
but avoiding tears because
she just put on all this
makeup to go out with the girls.
okay, okay, i tell her. maybe
we could spice things up
a little, rent a dirty movie
or something. but with a story,
no close ups or anything.
no, she says. i hate that stuff.
okay, okay. go pick up an
outfit at victoria
secrets, or somewhere. maybe
we could do some role
playing. we could play
good cop bad cop, i tell her.
what, she says. what? or i could be
the milkman and you could
be the woman at home waiting
for the milk and i could
make a delivery and you'd
answer the door in your
underwear or something, or,
or, i could be a fireman
coming to rescue you, but
it's only the smoke alarm,
and you are helpless, like
a little kitten up a tree.
stop, she says, you know what,
just forget it. i have to go,
the girls are waiting. hey,
i tried, i tell her.
tell the dude making sandwiches
at nordstroms to go easy on
the mayo. i'm working
out too you know. and
throw some peppers on
there too, spice it up
a little.

bus stop

on the bench
in the glass opened
booth at
the bus depot
waiting for
the A-9. long
bearded, white
with a hooked
brown cane, glass
eyed, and blue
like old an fish
without fins,
a plastic bag
in hand. a skeleton
in shoes, then
rising as
the wind changes
and the bus
arrives, the thump
and whistle
of brakes, and
doors unfolding,
and gone
as if never here.

the changing lights

in traffic
as the church
erupts and the doors
swing wide
and the wedding
party falls out
and out and out
onto the sidewalk
and streets
and the flowers
and pictures
being taken and
everyone bloomed
in wide smiled
happiness for the couple
that finally emerges
into this june
sunlight, you sit
and wait, your
day stalled as light
after light
changes, you
waiting for all
of it to slide
from view this
parade of promise,
this life. how hard
it is to not
remember.

brighter shores

you aren't lost
but you feel lost,
you feel as if
you've taken a wrong
somewhere, so you
google yourself
to see where you are.
to see what others
may have written
about you. perhaps
get a clue as to
your location,
but there isn't
much there. your
credentials are weak.
you are in an ocean
of mischief it seems
and forever swimming
towards a brighter
shore.

empty shelves

you survey
the contents
of your refrigerator.
it's a lean
sparse place
at the moment
with a cold
bright light
on the racks
that need cleaning.
who spills
are these, i
don't know, there
hasn't been
anyone around
to make this mess
but me. and i ponder
the idea of
filling it up
with stage
props, a plastic
head of lettuce
that will never
brown, an empty
carton of milk. a
gleaming green
stalk of celery,
some eggs that
aren't eggs at all.
perhaps a pot
roast, the kind
they use to stage
homes for
selling. and the
more i think about
it, i could fill
my life with
such things, new
friends that are
quiet and content
in their blissful
silence and yet
beautiful
and sublime,
hanging out
in the livingroom
with so much to
say, so much on
their manequin
minds, and yet
polite enough
to be mum when
i'm about and
rummaging for
something to eat.

the florist

the bloom
is off
the rose
she says, and i
say not so fast,
perhaps not.
it just needs
a little sunlight,
some water, a
kind word or two,
and watch, she'll
spring right back
to life. trust
me on this, i
know my way
around flowers.
and she says,
why do you call
it a she,
and i say,
because those
roses seem so
much like you,
sad and wilted.

waiting

in knowing
that you can't
do anything
about much,
but sit and
wait, be
patient, relaxes
you. frees
you. the train
will come,
the rain will
stop. and
maybe, just
maybe she will
arrive and
kiss you
once again.

shades of blue

your discussion
of the color
blue, more
specifically
indigo and cobalt
results in you
holding up
that sparkling bottle
of water, it's color
is the exact shade
you are talking
about and you both
agree that it is
a nice color.
and you know that
the conversation is
really about sex
at this point,
everything
you talk about
has been shaded in
some degree or
another about sex,
holding each other
up to the light,
and smiling and
saying, yes.

remember

she has a small
case of amnesia,
sometimes she forgets
things, like where
she is, what she
was doing, or where
her car might be. i
tell her not to
worry though, this
is just temporary
and once the tornado
of stress subsides,
it will pass. but for
now this could be
a good thing, you
can use this to your
advantage in
forgetting dates you
don't want to go
on, family dinners,
annoying clients, or
on the positive side,
thinking that my
door is your door
in the middle of
a hot summer night.
you could forget that
you just kissed me,
and now want to do
it again. this could
be a good thing.

war protest

a long time
ago, or perhaps
you prefer once
upon a time, when
i was younger,
much younger than
i pretend to
be right now, we,
and by we, i mean
my friends and i
would go downtown
to protest the war.
we were skinny
and had long hair,
and we were very
underage and drinking,
all of us with illegal
smiles on our lineless
faces, and there
was music, always
concerts on
the mall, ragged
loud music rattling
in the shadows of
the white house,
the capitol dome
and the monuments.
and there was
the reflection pool
long and black,
shallow, full of similar
minded young people,
shirtless, braless,
some with signs,
some singing, some
chanting things
like hell no, we
won't go, or one two
three four, we don't
want your f....king
war. quite clever
we were, and then we'd
run as the cops would
chase us out on
horseback, tear gas
filling the grey air,
and we were laughing
still, trying to avoid
capture. some things
have changed, some
haven't. some never will.

bowling attire

you don't like
to bowl, not
duck pins, or
even ten, but
you like to wear
those yellow silk
shirts with your
name embossed
in fancy red
script, and those
tan gabardine
pants with pleats
in the front,
so 40's, and
the soft shoes
that makes you
feel like a cat,
with your size
ten number,
circled on back.
you enjoy those
vinyl chairs,
the french fries
that they sell,
and the ice cold
budweiser beer
in a brown
bottle. you could
stay there
all day in that
cool hum of a
building, listening
to the crash of
wooden pins
tumbling, tumbling,
then swept away.
this is the look
you were born
into. this
will be your
attire from
here on out.

fortune telling

you move in with
a gypsy woman
who goes by
the name of miranda,
she's got a crystal
ball and wears
a red scarf
around her head.
there is a large
neon sign flickering
and attracting every
known species of
flying insects right
to us on the front
porch as we sit
outside drinking
mohitos. it's too hot
to be inside.
there is no
air conditioning.
her business has
been slow. and as
you sit with her,
being quiet
in the awful
heat, she looks at
you and says,
i predict big things
for you, billy. i predict
that you will
suddenly get ambition
and go out and make
us lots of money
with your new
found spirit. you
don't even look at her
as you swat away
a black fly, and a
mosquito competing
to bite your sweaty
face and
you say, shut up
with your stupid
predictions. why
don't you go down
to the race track,
or take a trip up
to atlantic city and
put your so called
fortune telling skills
to good use.
she begins to cry,
sipping on her
mohito, sucking on
the sugar cane.
i believe that you
will leave me one
day, she sobs. i not
only believe it, but
i predict it. could
happen you say,
and finally swat
the fly with your
winless racing
form. could happen.

the potted plant

you try
so hard to
keep that plant
alive. with water
and turning
it towards
an unseen sun
in the too low
windowed sky.
that gift from
nearly a year
ago, so vibrant
and strong,
but wilting now,
bent brown.
it lingers in
perpetual silence
with soft
green eyes.
we have no
small talk
between us
when passing by,
with me doing
things that need
to be done,
and that perhaps,
in my way
of thinking,
is partly, if
not all,
the reason why.

the red brick building

the building
on connecticut
avenue is shadowed
and small as
far as buildings
go, but rises
seven stories tall
in brushed red brick,
heavy stone
and casement
windows, stiff
and black, and
the air conditioning
units hanging
like tongues
from several edges
of warped sills,
beat out a constant
summer hum. it all seems
to have grown
there with trees,
some evolutionary
feat of melancholy,
and the bones
are all there, as is
the watery memory
of you on
the flat roof
where you found your
way up through
the narrow stairs,
and turned the latch
to crawl onto
the cool pebbled
surface in your bare
feet. were you
only trying to get
closer to the stars?

the condo board

your car
will be towed
the red note
says on your
windsheild.
the condo board
has a new president
and now
work vehicles
are not permitted
to park on the court
in our pleasant
tree lined
cul de sac. you
have twenty four
hours to relocate
your truck, or
else it will
be towed to
jimmy's wrecking
lot on the corner
of tenth and vine
the red note
says. and your
dog, it's been
barking loudly
when you aren't
at home, and sometimes
when you are
at home, and we've
seen you put your
trash out before
the sun has set,
and we saw you throw
an apple core
into the woods
the other day.
we've seen you
shake your head
and roll your eyes
at us when we patrol
the grounds with
our clipboard.
you are on notice.
we have you
in our sights.

the betty davis dream

you have
a dream that
you are married
to betty davis
and the world
is in black
and white and
she isn't happy
with you, with
the way things
are going in
your life, and
she calls you
mister, mister
this and mister
that, hey mister
look at me when
i'm talking to
you. you don't
trust her around
the knife drawer
in the kitchen,
and you watch
her at the table
when you eat, making
sure that she
isn't dropping
anything into
your wine glass.
she casts a long
shadow against
the wall as she
leans over
your plate to spoon
some gravy. it's
a horrible, horrible
dream, and you
wonder why you
can't dream of
donna reed, or
what the hell,
elizabeth hurley,
or someone like
that.

up a tree

she is a cat
up in the tree
with no way
down. clueless
as to how she
got there
and which way
to turn.
the dog that
chased her
nipping at
her tail is
nearly forgotten
as she shivers
her claws dug
in on a shaky
limb with
nowhere to fold
herself into
a ball and rest
and figure
out a plan.

the small stuff

you wake up one
morning and there are
bluebirds singing
outside your window.
you wave your fingers
at them as they sit
on the sill, perky
and looking in at you.
the sun is up,
and there is a pleasant
breeze in the air
pushing soft white
clouds gently across
a pristine blue sky.
you decide in that
moment that you are
going to turn over
a new leaf, stop being
such a whining baby,
and complaining about
things. you are
going to be a better
person in all ways.
you are going to not
sweat the small stuff.
this lasts
about ten minutes,
when you are standing
in the shower with shampoo
in your eyes and
there is no hot
water because some
selfish inconsiderate
person that you are
related to through
marriage has used it
all.

not one of the guys

you are not one
of the guys.
you've known this
all of your life.
you don't play
cards or hunt, or
camp, or fish. you
don't see yourself
in a cabin in
the woods with five
guys shooting the breeze,
drinking all night,
talking endlessly
about the glory years
and the local
teams and what ifs.
you don't need
a sports car, or
a pool, or a house
overlooking
the ocean. you don't
need to ride your
bike in a costume
with six other similarly
dressed guys. you
like to play
sports and then
go home and after
a shower, a
sandwich and a
nap, go out with
a strong, long
legged woman
who doesn't mind
wearing lipstick
and a short dress
and is happy to see you.
you are not one
of the guys, and
never will be.

see you in september

is that your
sweat puddle
or mine i ask her
as she rolls
over like a big
dog across
the bed. it's
so freaking hot
out that i've lost
the will to live,
and for you to live
too, she says.
leave me out of this,
i tell her. i love
this heat. give
me ninety to a
hundred degrees
any day over
below freezing
and snow.
you're ill, she
says, you must have
heat stroke. come
here and kiss me
you tell her
blowing a cool
breath of ice tea
flavored air into
her red ear
and she says get away
from me, don't touch
me. i'm melting.
see you in september
maybe, if you're lucky.

the card game

kings and queens
and jacks
of hearts,
a small pot
scattered in
the middle.
the ten of diamonds,
the ace of
spades, the
royal flush,
a straight, a
deuce or two
to make the house
full. and
the rum is warm,
there is no
ice, and the
game drags on
and on into
the safe embrace
of morning
light while
old friends
have gotten
older as each
hand was played,
and memories
laid out,
embellished
and sweetly frayed.
so few days
left ahead,
like these,
and fewer nights

i love lorrie moore

you fall madly
in love with
the writer lorrie
moore. she is so
brilliant and clever
and you've read all
of her short stories,
but you admit that
you've only skimmed
her novels. you have
a short attention
span, one that you are
sure she would appreciate.
witty people like
you and her are like
that. you get bored
easily with tedious
projects. you google
her, you download
her, you print off
the pictures of her
with her sly smile
and dark, poetic hair.
you don't know why
it seems poetic, but
you want to impress her
with this description
instead of saying
her long black hair.
anyone can write that.
you believe that she
is someone you could
almost be monogamous with.
you put her pictures
all over your house
and reduce one to
laminate and put into
your wallet next to
your library card.
you try to remember
funny and insightful
things she has written
in her books, books
such as Like Life
and then repeat them
during the day at
appropriate moments,
but this is much more
difficult to do than
you first believed.
so instead
you think of writing
her a fan letter, and
then a real letter,
or an e-mail,
or something to show
how much you worship
the ground she walks
on. you wish you could
text her right now.
you'd say, hey girl,
what up?
you think about
sky writing, getting
a crop plane to make
a giant smokey heart
with your name and hers
in the middle or maybe
just your initials
depending on how
much the plane rental
costs. you wonder why
she lives in wisconsin.
does she like cheese
and other dairy products
that much. you could
send her some cheese
maybe. a big cheese
wheel from trader joe's.
maybe a wide selection
of cheeses, both
domestic and international.
you think about hopping
on a freight train a la
boy dylan paying homage
to woody guthrie.
you'd sing songs along
the way with a harmonica
you found in an alley
and then sterilized.
you'd change the lyrics
so that every other
line rhymed with lorrie,
or moore, or both
together. you go to
sleep at night and hope
that she reads this
one day, and calls you
and says yes, i feel
the same way. please,
please come and eat
some cheese with me
in wisconsin, the future
is us.

pointing things out

it's a day
of people pointing
at your tire
as you slow
down at the light,
or the cop
hiding in the bushes
with his motorcycle
stepping out
and pointing
with his finger
and pad in his
leather gloved
hand.
or on the subway
at that little
smudge of mustard
from a week ago
on your white
dress shirt,
or the shaving
cream still
in your ear like
a wet cotton ball.
they point,
and smile, and nod
it seems they've
had their day
too of being
pointed at, and
when you get
in line at the store,
thinking that
it's the front,
they all point
and gesture
towards the distant
end where you
need to go,
to move.

eight ball

you break, she
says, chalking her
stick, standing clear.
go ahead. you
start and so i
do. hitting
the tightly racked
pyramid of colored
balls right down
the center. they
scatter quickly,
with a bang,
rolling in every
direction, but into
a pocket. and she
smiles when
the mayhem stops,
lowers her gaze
at the sweet cherry
pickings i have
left her, but i
don't care. i'm
thinking of other
things, another
game altogether
as she leans against
the rail.

chardonay

when was the last time
you had your blood pressure
checked, she asks me
while removing a tick
from the back of my leg.
did you get it, i ask.
burn it off, or pour
some alcohol on it,
there's a wine
glass over there with
some chardonay in it.
trader joe's. that should
kill it. god
i hate ticks. i was
in the grocery store
a few weeks ago and i
had my pressure checked
at the little machine
in the back where you
can get perscriptions
filled, plus i go on
web md a lot whenever
i feel sick or some
strange rash appears
on the side of my neck.
but i think that's
from the cologne i've
been splashing on.
plus i pick up quite
a bit of medical
knowledge from watching
House on t.v. .
cholestreol? she says
with her mom voice.
ummm, i think i'm good
there too, i feel fine,
and i've cut back on sweets.
you know, you aren't
a young pup anymore,
she says, as i feel
the tweezers pinch my
skin. i think i got
it all, she says. you
are tick free until
your next bike ride,
but you really should
have a doctor and go
get a physical. i will
i tell her, i will.
next year, promise.

the long walk

it's a long
walk from
where we are
to the pier.
but the sun is
low on the bay
side and the ocean
is a subtle
shade of grey
and green,
still warm
this late in
the day. and
we walk, letting
the waves roll
up and over
our feet, shoes
in our hands.
it's a long
walk from where
we are to
the pier, but
we are willing
to at least
try, to see
how far we make it.

eating crabs with michelle

with a cigarette
clenched in the corner
of her mouth, she
says, i went to
my gyspy friend
rosa the other day
and she suggested
that maybe i should
change my name, which
in turn would change
my karma, my luck.
so i did it, she tells
me. she sets her
cigarette down, blows
out some smoke then
carefully,
like a surgeon,
pulls out a thick
strand of white meat
from a crab leg.
i went down to
the courthouse,
filled out all
the papers and voila,
changed my name,
but just my first
name. i like my last
name, smith. so i
kept that. i wipe
some butter off of my
face, and lick
the orange tips
of my fingers.
so, what is it,
i ask her, did you
go for brittany,
or sasha or some
other stripper
name like kendra.
i smack my wooden
mallet down hard
against the back
of another crab,
sending shell
fragments flying
everywhere.
my fingers are
bleeding
and i think may have
cut my lip, the bay
seasoning is making
it burn. i'm
starving and
nearly drunk off
of one beer sitting
in the boiling sun,
at a picnic table
in ruth's, back yard.
i haven't had any
luck with my
old name, she says,
three marriages,
the bankruptcy, i
even had shingles
last year. i had
two flat tires in
two weeks, that never
happens. i just needed
a change, like
my gypsy friend
told me. ruth is just
not the name
that defines me so
i changed it to
michelle. it's sexy
and classy. i've
never known a michelle
that didn't have
her act together.
michelle, my belle,
i say to her, biting
down on a razor
sharp shell, trying to
suck out a tiny
sliver of crab meat
from a half broken
claw. hey, ruth,
michelle, she
corrects me. right,
michelle, do you have
any sheet metal tools,
or some real food in
the kitchen and some
bandaids? i'm thinking
that maybe we can
call in a pizza.
what do you think?

the intervention

when you come
home from work,
throw your keys
onto the table,
set your briefcase
down, the lights go
on and there they are,
waiting for you.
a dozen or so friends
and relatives, gathered
in a circle
with an empty chair
in the middle. someone
has made a pot of coffee,
someone has brought
crumb cake. they calmly
tell you, that everything
is fine, just sit,
please take a seat,
we care about you,
we love you, we
want to help you.
please sit. please,
don't be alarmed.
you look around
the room and then
make a mad dash for
the front door, but
your mother trips
you with her cane
and you go tumbling
to the floor.
they drag you to
the center of the room
by your feet and prop
you up. your dog
breaks through
the circle of chairs
and jumps into your
lap and licks
your face. stay put
someone says. please.
we want to help you.
this is all for your
own good. we do this
out of love, not
judgement. everyone
smiles and nods their
collective heads while
sipping coffee,
and then someone
begins to talk, standing.
it's a priest from
the nearby church
with his dark black
shirt and pants, and
stiff white collar,
and he says, we're
worried about you, all
of us gathered here
tonight. we only want
the best for you, to
get you well, you are
a single man, living
alone, so please tell us,
tell us why are you
so happy and content.
it's just not right.
what's wrong with you?

the misdirected text

i'd like
to be that
person that you
accidentally
texted last
night and
attached a
photo of you
wearing only
a smile. i'd
like to get
those words,
i miss you,
i love you
sweetie, i
can't wait
to see you again.
i'd like
to see that
little green light
flash and to
hear that beep
and to see all
those words
that i see
right now in
front of me.
that would
be a wonderful
thing and make
me feel warm
and fuzzy. just
the opposite
of what i'm
feeling now,
you tramp.

ice cream

when you want
ice cream, you want
a double scoop.
don't be stingy,
dig deep into
that frozen vat
and come out with
a real scoop.
no low fat,
no yogurt, no
soy, no lactose
free, no low
fat milk or
sugar free,
no sherbert or
sorbet, please.
just give me a fat
rounded cone
of pure ice
cream, something
that will make
a tear roll
down my cheek
with happiness.
a cone that will
make my heart
shiver with fear.
and that
goes as well
for a kiss.
please don't
give me a low fat
kiss on the
cheek and think
that it means
anything.

gettysburg redux

i've been practicing
dying, no, it's not
what you think, i've
signed up to be a
civil war re-enactor
with my friend jimmy.
he shows me how he
might take a bullet
to the chest, gasping
for air and grabbing
at his heart before
falling dramatically
backwards. i tell
him good, very good,
but perhaps you should
grimace more, show more
agony in your face.
more terror and fear,
it looks like you're
smiling, wipe that
smile off your face,
you goof, i tell him.
he says, okay and
rebuttons his thick
blue coat full of
shiny buttons. then
it's my turn and i show
him my death scene,
although i'm leaning
more towards a flesh
wound. and so i show
him how i get hit in
the arm and it makes
me spin around from
the velocity of
the bullet or
cannonball that
hits me and i fall
into a ravine full
of mud. but you're
supposed to die he
says, while he spit
shines his boots. nah,
i don't want to die
on the battle field,
i want to go to
the field hospital
and meet some cute nurse,
then she mends me
back to health and
i'm okay. then we both
go off together
to my farm, have a
family and grow corn
and stuff. pffft, jimmy
shakes his head at
me. nah, i'm dying
when i get my shot,
then he shows me his
death scene again, but
this time with more
agony on his unshaven
face.

hot air balloon

you have been
talked into getting
onto a hot air balloon.
come on, she says,
it will be fun, it's
an adventure. you
aren't scared are
you? and you stand
back and survey
the giant balloon
with red and gold
stripes, green
bands of color. what
could possibly happen
to something that
looks like a
cartoon. and as you
climb aboard, and
it rises, and your
knees buckle and you
turn pale, soaked
in your own fearful
sweat, you can't
help but yell out
every now to the so
called captain, hey,
what the hell, look
out for those trees,
look out for those
power lines. cell
phone tower dead
ahead. it's a fun
ride for everyone.

he wants to talk

you get a call
from your old customer.
he wants to talk,
he wants you to stop
by. he's lonely.
he's slipping.
he doesn't need
work done, his house
is fine. it's been
repainted over and
over again, by you,
a dozen times.
but he wants you to
come by and take
a look, see if there
is anything that
needs painting and there
is nothing, as you
both stand back and look
from the perfect lawn,
in the pristine
driveway, or around
back close to
the glistening pool,
there is nothing
that needs one stroke
of a brush. so
you go inside and
he hands you a
bag of lightbulbs, a
cold beer and says
apologetically,
i have ladder,
can you change these
for me, please,
pointing at the dim
fixture, high on
the kitchen ceiling.
and so you do,
because you know that
one day, your time
will come along too.

the sounds of silence

i was singing in
the shower the other
day, doing elvis,
love me tender,
and hound dog, but
occasionally breaking
into some james
brown, i feel good,
then b.b. king,
the thrill is gone,
and singing it all
in pretty good
form, with a little
air guitar going
on with my back
scrubber, when i hear
a loud knock at
the front door.
it's my neighbor,
that nosy glenda
and her stupid poodle,
Felicity, with
the police,
i crack open the
door and say, what?
what's up? thinking
that something
horrible has happened
out in the street,
and the cop says,
is everything okay
in there buddy?
your window was open
and it sounded like
someone was being
murdered. and i
say, no, that was
just me singing,
and the cop says, well,
try to keep it down,
you might be breaking
some sort of noise
ordinance or something.
i shake my head
and give glenda
the evil eye before
closing the door.
i go back up
to the shower,
turn the water on,
and climb back in.
i grab the soap,
and begin to softly
sing, hello darkness
my old friend, i've
come to talk with
you again....

the broken dish

it's just a plate,
but as it slips
from her hand
and in slow motion
tumbles over and
over in mid air,
from blue to white
then blue again,
before it strikes
the floor into
a hundred pieces,
there is a moment
of wonder in how
quickly things
turn and fall from
our grasps, take
love for instance.

feeding frenzy

i saw my friend
jimmy the other day
working part time
at starbucks. he's
a stock broker
during the day,
and sells real estate
on the side. what's
up, i asked him,
why are you working
here, what about your
other jobs, oh, and
leave me some room
for cream in that cup
of coffee, thanks.
jimmy shook his head,
and laughed, i've
been dating a lot,
he said, i'm on the
internet, doing the
online dating thing
ever since the wife
and i broke up. and how's
that going, i asked him,
oh, it's fun, big fun
he said, and gave me
a wink, but it's costing
me a mint. i'm broke
all the time, these
women eat and drink
for free, none of them
offer to pay or pick
up a tab, and if they
do, it's so rare, that
i'm embarrased by it.
as soon as they see
that check coming
they run to the bathroom,
or go outside to wait.
i mean what the hell
was all the equal rights
marching and bra burning
about all those years.
there's not a rosy
the riveter in the bunch.
sorry, i'm a little
worked up about this, but
do you know what four
drinks, a salad and a plate
full of calamari costs
these days, he handed
me my drink, it's hot
be careful, he said.
no, i said, what.
it's seventy-five bucks
with tip, and god
forbid they want a
full meal. multiply that
at four times a week.
not to mention the driving
and gas. last week
i circled the beltway
three times. whew.
i had to cut back on
my son's tuition,
pulled him out of
the university and put
him into the community
college. sold my car.
that's my vespa out
there in the parking lot.
i can't even
afford to take my
dog to the vet lately
and he's full of fleas,
scratching a hole
in his belly,
but hey, he said, i'm
having a lot of fun.
some really cute women
out there in the mix.
he made his eyebrows
jump up and down, but
they were twitching
out of sync.
i looked at him, he
was drawn and pale,
there was a hole
in his shirt and it
looked like he hadn't
shaved in a few days.
circles were under his
eyes. he leaned over
and wiped the counter
with a rag. i've got a
date when i get out
of here he said, she
wants to meet at
mortons. she wants
me to cowboy up and
buy her a steak, that's
what she told me.
what time do you have,
he asked. i had to
sell my watch.
tomorrow night
i'm meeting this nurse
from baltimore at
cafe milano's. he rolled
his eyes. stick with your
wife, he whispered,
between you and me,
it's tough out there,
i tell you, it's no
picnic, at least not
for us men. i nodded,
then stuffed a five into
the tip jar near the
register. see ya jimmy,
i said. take it easy.
i couldn't wait to
get home to hug my wife.

dishes

you remember
watching
your mother
over the sink
washing
another dish,
another pan,
rinsing out
a cup, a pot,
a baby bottle.
placing
everything to
the side on
a cloth towel
to dry,
her hands
red from the hot
water, wiping
the tears
away and
her smiling,
saying go
to bed, go to
bed it's late.
i'm fine, okay,
then looking back
out the small
window for
your father, for
his car to arrive,
which never did.

the rockette

can you do
this, she says,
and kicks her leg
high over her
head like a
rockette in
the christmas
show at radio city,
she does
it again, and
again. her long
legs, one
at a time extended
and kicking
freely into
the air. she
is red faced
and sweating,
come on, she says,
you try it. you
can do it. i
don't think
we're a match,
you tell her,
cringing as you
bend over to pick
up a shiny quarter
you see lying on
the sidewalk.
i have to go home
now.

world hunger

you buy a bag
of cookies,
you are starving,
not literally,
it's not like
your tongue has
turned black, but
you are extremely
hungry and you
understand that
there may really be
people starving in
the world, which
makes you feel bad,
but it sounds good
to say you're
starving, and it's
a good excuse to buy
a family sized bag of
chocolate chip cookies.
you are on a mission
to stop world
hunger, starting with
yourself. and what
about world thirst.
isn't that a problem
too, but it's a secret
problem i think, one
that no one talks
about, so you buy
some two percent milk
to help erradicate
that problem too.
you pour yourself
a cool tall glass,
and you snap open
the bag of cookies
with your teeth,
you take a drink,
you put a whole
cookie into your
mouth. world hunger,
world thirst. it's
a fine start.
what's next?

pull over

your creative license
has been revoked.
you've been pulled
over one too many
times under the influence
of women with bad
intentions. you've
been speeding,
gone off the road,
there is lipstick
on your breath, perfume
on your shirt. you're
being sent back
to relationship school,
with no contact
with the outside world
or pen to write with.
women are off limits
for thirty days. you
stand up and state
your name, step one,
you are no longer
in the game.

the bridge

you wake up in
the morning, pack
a bag and start
driving. your life
is in front of you.
your life is behind
you. there is nothing
to stop you from
taking any road,
to go anywhere,
and yet, you only
get as far the bridge.
what's keeping you
here, what's
keeping you from
somewhere else? you
don't know, it's
so hard to understand
what lies we tell
ourselves to play
it safe, to keep
us from crossing
over to where we
need to be.

appointment south of the border

i'm going to
the doctor, she says,
the you know what
doctor, in the morning.
i have an appointment,
it's about, but you
stop her right there
and raise
your hand and say
loudly, la la la, la.
i don't want to know,
but it concerns you
too, she says,
and you say, i don't
really want to know,
and she says, but
it's about the problem
i was having with...
and once again you say,
no, please, stop,
and begin to whistle
loudly, watering
the plants about
the house.