fish sticks

i was making dinner
the other night,
fish sticks
and broccoli when
the phone rang.
it was a salesman
asking me if i
was interested in
buying some
generic drugs at
a discount price.
he was working out
of india,
but could have them
shipped within
three working days.
i told him i was
fine and really
didn't need anything
at the moment.
no aches, no pains?
he said in his
indian accent.
ummm, well now that
you mentioned it.
yeah, my achilles and
my knee have been
acting up a little with
this cool rainy
weather we're having,
and i've had a headache
ever since my mother
stopped by on sunday.
oh, and i've got some
sneezing going on
with the fall pollen.
oh my goodness, he
said. it is a good thing
that i called you. yes?
i can send you
the multi-pack
perscription that will
cover all of that
and itching too.
itching? sure why not,
i'm always scratching
something. no
indigestion, he said
inquisitively?
i looked at my
fish sticks spinning
in the glow of
the microwave oven.
yeah. that's coming
too. might as well
include that in the
package. i will send
them out immediately.
just read me the numbers
off your card and we
can help you out.
bless you, i said.
bless you. let me
get my wallet.

no parking

the policewoman
who used her bull
horn and flashing
lights, telling
me to move on
from the spot where
i was idling,
because there
was both a hydrant
and a handicap
sign ten feet
beyond that,
looked twelve years
old in her blue
uniform and
cap. she may
have been wearing
braces and had
a pony tail.
the windows
in my car
were steamed
as i was trying
to convince my
date to extend
the evening further
at my place and
when i rolled
the window down
to show the police
woman my driver's
license and she got
a look at me and
my date and how
old we were,
she began to laugh
with her bullhorn
still turned on.
i'm sorry, she said,
as if speaking to
her parents, but
ummm, you can't
park here. i can
still hear her
laughter echoing
down mt. vernon
avenue. the story
she will tell.

the mayo clinic

you go an entire
hour or so without
thinking about
women and sex. you've
been concentrating
on work and other
assorted things.
this shocks you though.
this sudden change
in your thought
process so you go to
the doctor and ask
him what's wrong,
am i losing my libido.
has my testosterone
abandoned me. are
there pills i can
take to get back this
formerly irrepressible
drive? a whole hour,
the doctor asks. how
many days in a row.
just one, i tell him.
and at your age, he
says. oh my,
lie down on the table
for awhile. this
could be serious. i'm
making an appointment
for you at the mayo
clinic. we'll get
to the bottom of this,
don't worry. it could
be nothing, perhaps
something you ate,
lack of sleep. i'm
sending in the nurse
to hold your hand
for awhile. thanks
you tell him, thanks,
that would be helpful.

mind reading

i know what you're
thinking she
says to me walking
across the room
in her little
black dress,
swinging her hips
like a pocket
watch. i know
exactly what's
going on in that
brain of yours
right now. oh
really i say back.
and just what is
it exactly that is
on my mind. let
me whisper it
into your ear,
she says and smiles
and does so.
you should put
on a turban
and have a booth
at a carnival,
i tell her.

thirty seven minutes

your subscription
has run out.
you've let your
membership expire.
the light on
your dashboard
blinks yellow.
you've decided to
no longer water
the flowers, they
are on their
own, just like you.
even the milk
has gone sour.
the bread is green.
the apple soft
and brown upon
it's flattened
side. the bananas
are black and
the clock though
ticking is off
by thirty seven
minutes. everything
is normal.

re-enactments

you join a group,
a meet up group
that does re-enactments.
this week it's
the civil war, but
you hate the civil
war. next week it's
the great depression.
you sign up for that,
to be a newsboy
who stands on
the corner with
an arm full of
newspapers and
a cap yelling out
the headlines,
that dillinger
is dead. next you'll
huddle around
a barrel of fire
that licks the cold
night air. you'll
stamp your feet
into the ground
and say things
like, i wish i had
a bowl of soup,
or a t-bone steak
and a garden salad.
then later, after
the re-enactment
is over, you'll go
get what you've been
talking about.
the next month they
are re-enacting
the black plague.
you can hardly wait.

the great hill

on the great hill
we would sled
in january
with socks on our
hands for mittens.
our shoes soaked
through and red
with numbness.
and despite the
wind and cold no
one wanted to go
in. i still remember
the streetlights
going on, as the
sun disappeared
into the bleak sky.
and everything
dark seemed
permanent, and
everything good,
like the snow
seemed short
and soon to melt.

waiting for a bus

despite having
nothing to say
you say something
against your
better judgement
just to make
small talk
while you both
wait for the bus,
and of course
it turns out
wrong. have you
gained weight,
for instance, or
are you okay,
you look very
tired today?
have you ever
thought of not
wearing a red
hat with a yellow
coat? just
asking. where
the hell is that
bus?

the soft
yellow cat
who thinks
he's a dog
rolls over
on the rug
paws up
and mouth open.
his green
eyes looking
over.

that last slice of cake

it wasn't so much
that she stole
the blankets, or her
light snoring or
the fact that she
may run off to
guatemala with
an ophthamalogist
who has a small
piper plane and a
ranch in montana,
no, it was that
at all, it was
that she ate
the last slice
of chocolate cake
left on the dish.

bread truck

you've been driving
a bread truck
for a few years
now. wonder bread.
debbie cakes.
donuts.
short bread and
the occasional
loaf of french
bread in the open
ended bag.
you used to like
the smell of hot
bread fresh out
of the oven.
that soft warm
dough simmering
on the racks in
back of the truck,
but not anymore.
at this point
you couldn't put
a slice of
wheat toast in
your mouth to save
your life. you
think about
other trucks you
might switch too.
ice cream maybe,
but that would
break your heart
to give that up,
just as it would
if you were
riding in back too.

the old ride

you'd like to
roll back
the odometer.
correct
the steering,
realign the wheels,
and get a new
paint job.
the engine could
use some new
plugs, the oil
changed. you
definitely could
use some tlc
on this aging
ride of yours.
you both could.

september snow

you wake up
and look out
the window.
there's a foot
of snow on
the ground and
it's only
september.
your neigbor
has already
shoveled out
her car three
times and has
been up to the store
for groceries.
she sees you
looking out
the window, still
lying in bed
and throws a
snowball at you.
she's smiling
brightly like
it's christmas.
you shake
your head and
almost flip her
off, but don't.
instead you wave
and fall back
into bed and
mutter that it's
only a dream,
it's only a
dream, which
is broken off
when you hear the
snow plows coming
up the street.

marking time

with a pencil
i stand straight
up against
the door jamb
and make a mark.
when i was a
kid my mother
did that to see
how tall we
were, the
progression of
our growth,
but now i'm
doing it for other
reasons.

the round bed

she says i want
a round bed
that way i can
never wake up on
the wrong side
of the bed.
very wise i tell
her, very smart.
maybe it could rotate
too, i said.
not fast, because
then you'd be
dizzy all the time,
but a slow rotation.
put a sky light
in the ceiling
for some planetary
viewing.
yes, she said,
how cool would that
be. very cool, i
said. okay, let's
do it. let's
find me a round
bed. what about
sheets though,
i said. where are
we going to buy
round sheets.
hmmm. no problem.
i have scissors.
will it vibrate too,
i said. nah, she
said. we don't
need that.

the commune

i joined a commune
after losing my job.
it seemed like a good
idea. save money.
conserve energy,
be a part of a
progressive and
eclectic community
of new age souls.
the no clothes thing
however wasn't working
for me. i opted
instead for the loin
cloth and was
immediately
ostracized and forced
to clean up the
chicken house
and collect the honey
from the bee hives.
i'm saving up now
for some neosporin
and sunscreen. we get
paid thirty three
cents a day from
selling eggs and jars
of honey on the side
of the road. starburst,
formerly known as
shelly, is the unofficial
leader of the commune.
she's got it in for
me though because i wear
a watch and still have
my cell phone. i
don't see myself
lasting too long
here though. i haven't
had a martini in weeks
and they don't have
cable tv, they don't
even have electricity,
like what's up
with that. commune,
pfft.

due to the economic
climate after the big
change as a result
of the last election
i joined a commune.
it seemed like a good
idea at the time. a
way to save money,
conserve energy and
be a part of a well
meaning and progressive
group of wonderfully
eclectic people.
the clothes optional
suggetion did take
me by surprise though.
i decided to go for
the loin cloth look
instead of the in
the buff state that
most everyone else
chose. my job at
the commune was to
keep the wild animals
and birds out of
the vegetable garden
that starburst,
formerly jane, had
planted. needless
to say it didn't
strain my intelligence
too much.

directions to lucy's house

lost again, you
pull over to ask
directions from
a man sitting on
an orange crate
selling flowers
at the corner.
he's smoking a
cigarette and
cleaning out his
nails with a
pocketknife. you
roll your window
down and ask him
if he knows where
vine street is
and he says yes,
i do. he smiles
and pulls his hat
back. who you going
to see on vine street
he asks, and grins.
you ain't going
to see miss lucy
are you. how'd you
know that, i say.
cause i see those flowers
on the front seat
of your car
and you look like
the kind of guy
lucy has come over
to pay her a visit.
oh really, you say.
and just how often
are you giving
directions to lucy's
house. third one
this week, he says.
do you still want to
go. i don't know,
you tell him, is it
worth it? i couldn't
tell you that mister.
okay, okay, how do
i get there. well,
do you know where
the water tower is?
make a left there.
you can't miss it, she
spray painted her
name on it one
summer when she had
too much to drink.
she's the only house
at the end of that
dirt road. follow
the broken hearts,
he says and laughs.
she doesn't like roses
by the way, she's
more of a daffodil
kind of girl. three
dollars a bunch.
i can make change.

felix

you see a cat
crossing the street
with an empty
jar of crunchy
peanut butter
stuck on his head.
it's a tabby cat.
he crosses in a zig
zag fashion, partly
blinded, trying
to shake free
the jar that he
stuck his head
into to get that
last lick of
peanut butter,
but it won't budge.
you pull over and
give chase, but
the cat is too quick
even in this condition,
you decide to yell
out a few cat names,
hoping to land on one
he might listen too.
but felix is the only
one you can think
of at the moment,
so you yell out,
here kitty, here kitty.
but no luck and off
he goes through
the alley and into
the woods. you walk
away, go back to
your car. you can't
stop thinking
about a peanut butter
sandwich.

mercury

if you could visit
any planet, go to
any of them with
the snap of your
fingers and be
there, which one
would you go to,
she says. i don't
know i tell her.
maybe mercury,
but i'd need an
abestos space
suit, and food
pellets and a lot
of water, maybe
a pair of really
good sunglasses
too on account
of the sun being
so close. a nice
pair of reflective
ray bans would
work she says.
don't you already
have a pair of
them. the blue
ones? yes, i tell
her, i'm halfway
to mercury already.

the butterfly

i see that you
borrowed my car
again. how could
you tell, she
says looking
in the other
direction. oh,
look, there's
a buttefly out
side the window.
i can tell by
the new dent in
the door. how
many times have
i told you not
to drive my
car while
you're drinking.
do you see
that butterfly,
she says. i want
to go out and
catch him. can
we talk about
this later?

trouble

whenever there was
trouble in
the house, when
my father was
away, my
mother would bake.
if the money
ran low and there
was little or
no food in
cupboards, she'd
find a way to
bake a cake,
a dozen or so
cupcakes, or a
sheet of cookies.
she'd let them
cool on the counter
and allow
the smallest
of kids to drip
white icing onto
the tops. i
remember this
now as i stare
through the window
of the oven door
at a square
of rising batter.

test drive

while test
driving the new car
with the salesman
in the passenger
seat pointing
in which direction
to go while
he speaks rapidly
on his cell phone,
in korean, he
whispers to you,
international
call, you
wonder if it
will rain soon
as the clouds
drop low and blue
across the horizon,
and if so, will
you be able
to find the button
to switch
on the wipers.

so tell me about yourself

let's really
get to know one
another, she
says over a mojito.
her third. she's
happy in a
drunk sort of way.
i want to know
what makes you tick.
who are you really?
the waiter brings
over a large plate
of fried calamari.
you don't want
to know, you say,
rubbing your forehead
as if trying to
remove a stubborn
smudge. oh come
on, she says.
tell me about your
family, your friends,
what's your true
passion in life?
who do you want
to be when you grow
up? she's really
tipsy now.
okay. you say and
finish your gin
and tonic in one
large gulp.
i was raised by
wolves basically
and my passion is
pretty much
survival, keeping
a roof over my
head and having
something to eat
and drink. sleep
and other assorted
sensual pleasures
such as romance fall
into the mix somewhere
too. her eyes get
wide as she sips
hard on her straw.
oh my, she says. but
you say you write
poetry too, right?
i'd love to read it
sometime. can you
recite me some poems
right now. i'd love to
hear them. no. you
tell her. i'm a writer
not a circus
clown. oh, she says,
sensitive type,
aren't we?
so do you consider
yourself to be a
lone wolf, she asks,
tossing a large
rubbery ring of
calamari into
her open seal like
mouth. yup, you
say, i suppose i
do and more so
by the minute.

sweet tooth

you've always had
a sweet tooth,
just ask your
dentist. stand
back and admire
her new mercedes.
you have been
crowned more times
than the royal
families of europe.
but you've learned
to cut back.
you might only
eat one cake a
month now. one
gallon of chocolate
chip mint ice
cream. perhaps
a dozen cookies
or so and a small
bag of jordan
almonds that you
keep in the car
for an emergency.
but other than that,
you are sweet free.
you have taken
great strides with
your dietary needs.

must be a girl

it's not like
you to sleep in
like you have
these past few days.
what gives. is
it the rain,
the changing
of the seasons,
or something more,
something deeper.
your aging bones
perhaps, your
sore leg,
one too many
martinis last night.
what gives with
this eleven a.m.
wake up and
crawl from bed
to the bath
and back again.
it must be a girl
again, it's always
a girl, isn't it?

good talk

we need talk
more, she says,
discus things,
don't leave
so much on the
table before
we go to bed.
what, he says.
did you say
something?
she turns on
the light
and taps him
on the shoulder.
are you going deaf,
you didn't hear
what i just said,
no, he says,
you were
practically
whispering. you
know i like to
sleep with a pillow
on my head. what
did you say? he
rolls over to
see her staring
at the ceiling
with tears in her
eyes. what, he
says? what now?
what did i do?
we don't talk, she
says, sobbing.
we never discuss
things anymore
like we did when
we first got
married. he sighs,
and shakes his
head. honey,
that was thirty-
five years ago. i
think we've covered
everything by now.
was there something
in particular you'd
like to talk
about, i'm listening.
you have my
undivided attention.
he looks at the clock.
not really, she
says. i mean i
can't think of
anything at the
moment, i was just
speaking in general.
that our communication
should be better,
that's all. okay,
okay, he says.
let's work on it.
maybe you should keep
a notepad and
write down some
things you want to
talk about and
we can discuss it
at dinner, but it's
really late now.
can we turn the light
off and get some
sleep. i've got
golf in the morning.
sure she says. but
i'm glad we had this
talk. yes, he says.
good talk, good talk.
goodnight.

the corner store

the corner spot
that seems like
an ideal locaation
and can't hold
a restaurant
for more than a
few months is
once again dark.
chinese, italian,
a greek deli,
a thai surprise
carryout, a
vitamin store,
campaign heaquarters
for someone who's
bound to lose
have all been there.
a mattress store
with bright yellow
posters saying
going out of
business, posted
on day one. but
it's never empty
for long,
and bums find a
way to sit out on
the front steps
drinking from a bags
with pigeons
and stray dogs
at their feet.
they seem to know.
and there's no
rhyme or reason
to what comes or
goes, the effort
is surely there
to make it work,
not unlike us,
and yet.

choices

your life is
not your own,
you've sold out.
let them have
their way with
you. money was
pretty much
the culprit,
needing food
and clothing,
shelter, that
sort of thing.
a line formed
and you got in
it. what were
the other options.
starve for your
art. no. instead
you took the coward's
way out and worked
for forty years
to then finally
lie down and say,
that's it,
i'm done.

the A-9 archive

even now,
with fifty years
gone by,
the hiss of air
brakes and
and folding
and closing of
the doors is
familiar to
your ears.
and the exhaust
as the bus
crawls to a stop,
is old news,
as is the ding
of the pulled string
along the sides
above the worn
vinyl seats.
holding on,
staring out
the emerald
windows that were
always stuck
shut.
you could be
blind and ninety
and still know
where the dc
transit A-9
archive will pick
you up
and drop you off
downtown in
the middle of
a school day, with
a pocket full
of quarters.

moe and a bag of trash

after eating a
bag of trash
that i had forgotten
to set out on
trash day
my dog would often
hide in the basement
before i got
home from work,
tight behind
the big couch
against the wall.
he'd lie there
quietly,
holding his
breath, his belly
full of chicken
bones and scraps
from the the week
gone by. usually
there was a trail
of cans, and
wrappers, milk
cartons and
licked cores
of apples that led
me to him. and
when i'd find him
wedged between
the wall and
the couch i'd drag
him out and give
him a stern
lecture on eating
trash, the dangers
of those sharp
chicken bones, but
he never seemed
to pay my warnings
any mind. the bag
to him, left
unattended was
fair game, what
if i never came
home, then what?
and i sort of
understood that,
and respected his
position on
the issue.

travel teams

i remember looking
out the window
where i used to
live, when i was
married and there
were roses in
the yard, and
the fence was
painted white and
seeing soccer
fields as far as
the eye could see.
but these were
not the fields
where my son
would play, no,
god forbid we
would walk out
the back yard and
play a game, no.
instead we would
drive fifty miles
or so to somewhere
off the map,
following a
caravan of cars
and vans, and sleepy
children with
shiny uniforms
clinging to their
already tired
and sweaty backs.

say what

you are adept
at making something
out of nothing.
taking a word
or a glance, or
gesture and
weaving it into
some wild
imaginary drama
inside your
head. you've
learned this
over the years
from your parents,
one parent in
particular who
will go unnamed,
but she knows
who she is.

dancing fools

beware of women
who love
to dance. they
are not to be
trusted. you will
bore them with
your clumsy feet
in short time
no matter how
skilled you are
in making love.
dancing is
their religion
and if you don't
become a member
of their congregation
you will not
go to heaven
but will linger
in relationship
limbo. doing
the twist and
the mashed potatoes
and the watusi,
will not get it
done anymore.
she will laugh at
you as jose
pulls her out
to the dance floor
and throws her
over his head
with a smirk
on his dancing
fool face.

a new day

you wake up in
a strange motel
with someone
named bella. she's
sleeping beside
you and the only
reason you know her
name is by a tag
on her luggage
sitting by the
door next to a
small lap dog
who stares at you
with bulging eyes
and a tongue
dripping onto
the floor. you
pinch yourself
hoping that this
is a dream, but
it isn't as she
wakes up and calls
you honeybun.
can you go get us
some coffee,
honeybun and take
the dog for a walk?
who are you,
you say to her,
and she laughs, i'm
your wife, she
says, don't you
remember picking
me up in the rain,
hitch hiking?
the dog jumps onto
the bed and licks
your face. it weighs
maybe three pounds
at the most.
you hate small
dogs and their
small barks.
this is not a
good start to a
new day.

sprained tendons

you ice it
down, give it
heat, a massage
you swallow
down some pills,
you stare at it as
if you had x-ray
vision. you move
it around, left
then right, you
strap on a
tight bandage.
a few days go
by and the limp
subsides to where
you are no
longer walking
around like grampa
coming out
of the vitamin
store. a week
passes and
by friday you
feel okay. not
perfect, but
on a scale of
ten, maybe a
seven and you
say to yourself,
not anyone else
because they'll
just roll their
eyes and shake
their head,
i'm ready to
play again.
and so you do
and on sunday night
your leg is propped
up on the coffee
table and it's back
to the ice pack
and a stiff drink.
do not go gently
into that good night.
no, you're not.

today

these words have
traveled further
than the ones
that came before
them. are they
less or more
compassionate,
perhaps,
or just more
wary of the
stupidity and
violence of
the world.
i'm not sure at
times. only
today, and the
next day, what
those words will
bring can tell.

the zoo

after the young
lion escaped
from the zoo
and ate a few
tourists
things changed
around here.
it's a different
zoo now.
the animals almost
seem happy.

the call

she hands you
the phone,
it's for you
she says. who
is it, you
ask. does
it matter,
she says. i'm
leaving now.
the cab is
here. i'm
packed. i'll
see you
around. it
was fun. you
nod, and
wave, then
take the call.

she gets blue

she gets blue
when the sky is
grey and full
of soon to fall
clear rain.
the chill she
feels as
september rolls
across her
skin at night
makes her sleep
a different kind
of sleep. uneasy
about what has
passed and what
may come
to light.

white water rafting

while i was
white water rafting
to work
the other day
on account of
another hurricane
swamping
the area with a
deluge of rain
and winds
and downed power
lines, i paddled
over to my local
coffee shop. it
was still open,
sandbags out front
and a team of
green aproned
baristas hand pumping
water away from
the doors. thankfully
they have their
own generator,
so it's business
as usual. i set
anchor, tied
up my raft
then went in. they
were quite
happy to see me
and helped to
wipe down my
bright yellow
l.l. bean windbreaker
slash raincoat
with bar mops.
jimmy behind
the counter was
already working
on my usual grande
non-fat skim extra
hot vanilla latte
with a sprinkle
of chocolate
and an extra shot
of espresso. i bought
a cinammon scone too
and one of those
nice pre-packaged
healthy salads that
i see skinny people
eating all the time,
i was already
hungry and knew
that i'd need the calories
with all of this
rowing i'd be doing.
after hugging everyone
goodbye, i climbed back
aboard my raft
with coffee in hand
and set sail towards
the city. there were
cows on rooftops,
and little
dashchunds and poodles
swimming beside me
as i tossed
them pieces of my
scone. traffic was
easy peasy, no
lights, no stop
signs, no gridlock.
the usual back up
at the bridge was
gone too, pffft, what
bridge? tomorrow
i'm thinking of bringing
my fishing rod along
to maybe catch a
few fresh trout for
dinner. oh, and
a dry pair of
shoes too, maybe i'll
get a pair of those
nice duck shoes if
the mall is open.

cooking show

it looked so
easy on the show
in high
definition. to
make the souffle,
the perfect sauce,
that tender
pork loin,
the just right
dessert called
cherry delight.
you just needed
an oven, a bowl,
a spoon or
two, a knife
a fork and seventeen
exotic ingredients
or so.
there was music,
and laughter as
the wine was
poured, and easy
to follow
instructions. i've
already run out
of wine.
what happened,
i don't know,
but go ahead, be
my guest, you
take the first
bite.

the new tv

there are wires,
a tangle of
black and white,
orange and red
plug ins and
screw ons, cable
connections,
strung out tight
and long,
loose and
wandering from
the wall and
where they
need to be.
it's a dark
hollow behind
the set, in a
jumble of cobwebs.
don't even try.
just make
the call.

the wind

the rain
is wind in
your ears,
silence
is the room
where you
sleep.
you eat dreams
all night
long and
relish another
uneventful
day full
of light.
but it's
the wind you
don't soon
forget.

broken

not everything
is broken,
despite
the flat tire,
the leaky
faucet, the
washer hose,
the lint
liner on
the dryer.
that letter
from you
in the mailbox.
and just
because the key
just
broke in
the lock.
and your cell
got wet
in the rain,
it's not
the end
of any world,
but it feels
that way
at times.

religion

that weak
tea that you
pour and
hand to me
on this
cold day
is not what
i want, or
need.
something
stronger would
be in order.
something
that hits
bottom and
warms
the soul.
saves me
in this deep
ice and snow.
pour me
that drink.

underfoot

underfoot,
this shadow
of you,
that i keep
tripping
over, unseen
and low,
almost
hiding in
the dark
corners where
old memories
seem to go.
i need to
pick up my
feet and
get past you.

hands

your hands on
the table
are not yours.
they might
be your father's
or your
grandfather's
but surely
they do not
belong to you.
you are still
young, and you
imagine
that one day,
your son
will think
the same.

that much you know

thinking about
how little you
truly know, you
have strayed
too far and too
late into the woods,
taking one
misstep after
another while
a pale
sun melts
into the trees.
your breath is
a warm cloud
in front of you.
you are lost,
but pleasantly
so. you await
the transparent
moon to become
full, to lead
you. you can hear
the stream against
the rocks.
you can always
find your way
home through
water. that much
you know.

roses

as
the rose
bush,
so deftly
hides
it's thorns
amid
beauty
and bloom,
so is it
that you
too
hide yours.

the dark house

it isn't so much
the drafty
windows where
the air seeps
in with cold
blue fingers
and finds it's
way up your sleeve
or leg.
nor is it the lack
of light, as the
low sun falls
too quickly
into darkness,
drawing shadows
across the room.
no. this house
is just turned
the wrong way.

women's lib

you see a woman
in the safeway
putting cans
of tuna into her
purse and cans of
beans into the pockets
of her long coat. she
makes eye contact
with you and puts
her fingers to
her lips. shhh,
she says. i'm old,
please don't tell
anyone. i can't
go to jail,
my grandchildren
would be horrified.
i wouldn't do
well in prison.
i offer her some
money and she
laughs.
you don't understand,
she says, it's
not about the
money. i have
plenty of money.
i bought this fur
coat at nordstroms
this morning,
it's more about
the system, i'm
tired of the man
keeping me down.
and you say, what
man. and she says.
all men. i hate
men. they control
the world
and all of us
women. and you
mention gloria
steinham, and
cher, hillary
clinton. what about
madonna. and she
says, don't bring
up the bible to me
sonny boy. a bunch
of lousy men wrote
that too and then
steps on my foot
with the heel of her
boot. you yell out,
what the hell lady.
and you're glad
that you have a
whistle on your key
ring. you begin
to blow it and yell
out thief, thief,
as she scampers down
the aisle knocking
over a pyramid of
grapefruit.

a man with
a brief case
boards the train
and sits
across from you.
he looks
vaguely familiar,
in fact he
looks just
like you, but
happy. he
takes off
his hat
and settles
in with a news
paper in his
lap. he looks
at his watch,
at his phone,
then stares out
the window.

they said

she was from
a good home,
a loving
family, a good
school
with talents
you wouldn't
believe,
you would get
no trouble out
of this one.
finely groomed
with strong
white teeth
and a great
tail that wagged
when she walked.
they broke
the mold with
this one, they
said. and oh
how those bright
eyes would light
up when you
came into the room.
no fleas, no
no biting, no
howling at the moon.
as loyal and loving
as the day
was long is
what they said.
so what choice
did you have
but to marry her.
and it wasn't
long before she
hopped the fence
and went running
down the street,
knocking over
trash cans.

a new mattress

you feel a sharp sting
against your leg
in the middle of
the night so you turn
the light on to
find a mattress
spring sprung from
it's web of mattress
mayhem. it's time
for a new mattress.
you've flipped
it so many times,
bought so many mattress
covers, you've taken
it out back and beat it
with a broom. you
vacuumed it down.
there are coffee
spills, martini stains
and other assorted
spots and smudges
that you'd rather not
think about. there's
also a single rut
in the center
where you've slept
the years away,
and a small diagonal
slot where the dog
used to sleep. so
you wait until president's
day, which is tomorrow
and go down
to mattress kingdom to
buy a new one. a
new queen mattress
with a pillow top
and handles on the side
for easier flipping
you tell jimmy
the manager on the
floor. he's wearing
a wig, like george
washington, a red vest
and boots and has
several cherry pies
sitting on the table
out front with coffee.
what can i do to get
you to buy a mattress
today, he says slapping
you on the back.
i don't know,
you say and begin
to lie down on the
fifty or so mattresses
that line both walls
of the store. other
people are in front
of you, behind you,
families, young
couples holding hands,
old people giving each
other a boost up,
a dog is loose and
jumping from
bed to bed barking
with someone's shoe
in his mouth.
you finally find the one
you like. not too
firm, not too soft,
not too expensive,
or cheap, so you find
jimmy and he wants
to cut you a deal,
but first there's
the warranty, the delivery,
the removal of the old
mattress. then there's
taxes. the price has
suddenly doubled. so
you shake your head
and say no and begin
to walk out. but he
stops you and says,
hey. i can let you use
my family and friends
coupon. and you say,
nah, i'm going elsewhere,
and then he says, how
about if i cut the price
by a third, you hesitate,
looking towards the door,
and he says, how about
half? he's sweating
beneath his wig and he's
popped a few buttons
on his too tight vest.
okay, okay, you say,
agreeing to the half price,
free delivery and
free removal of the old
one. great he says,
just great and you shake
hands with him,
then go for a nice
big slice of cherry pie,
but change your mind on
the slice and take
take a whole pie with
you instead. you can't
wait to get it home to
eat on top of your
new mattress.

guilty

you get called up
for jury duty and
take the day off
from work and go
down to the courthouse
in a black suit.
you go through
the process of
being qualified
and you tell the man
that you think
everyone is guilty
of something, if not
the crime they are
being tried for,
then something else.
it's just a matter
of time before everyone
finds out what you've
done or haven't done.
you haven't spoken
to my ex-wife, have
you? you blurt out.
you are sweating,
and so you loosen
the tie around your
neck, your shirt is
soaked. you tap your
fingers fidgeting,
you can't keep your
feet still. we're
just seeing if you
qualify to be a juror,
you're not on trial
here mister, the
man says. good, you
say, and finally make
eye contact with him.
you were almost
ready to confess
everything,
to throw yourself onto
the mercy of the
courty. you wipe
your brow, and
nervously step down.
don't worry, he
says, we won't be
calling you anytime
soon. whew, you say.
that was a close call.

wants

the rich have
the problems
that the poor
wish they had.
married men
want to be single,
single women
want to be
married. the sick
want health,
the tired want
sleep. the child
wants everything.
there is this
strange push
to want what you
don't have, and
solving that
will bring a
peace beyond
understanding.

stopping the leaks

it's the small
drip into
the chrome
drain
of the down
the hallway
sink that
awakens you,
gets you up
at four a.m.
to twist
and turn
hard against
the knob to
make it stop,
at least for
awhile, and
you wish
that somehow
the days were
that easy.

holding light

your cup has
always been full
even when it
was empty.
you have seen
the other side,
before you've
travelled there.
unraveled the knots
that bound
you before you
knew you could.
it's always
been this way.
holding light
when there isn't
any to be seen.

towards hunger

the earth inches
it's way towards
winter, the trees
undressing, what
was green has softly
folded into gold
and brown, the
buttered yellows
of autumn. and
the ground gets
heavy with the new
cold, the wet
soil, everything
digging in, burying
towards a hunger
what they'll need
when the winds
blow, the snow
falls, the moon
sharpened white
against the frigid
black night.

monkey legs

when she stopped
shaving her legs
i noticed right away.
they were making
my legs itch
like crazy
and she said so
what. i'm rebelling
against the system.
the system of what
i said. grooming
your self? it's
natural, she said
rubbing her hand
along the bristling
brown hairs. well,
i can't date a
monkey, i told her.
i'm not a fan of
the monkey look
or how it feels.
so this is how it
ends then, she said.
yes. i said, holding
the razor up, shave
or go home and take
your bananas too.

do not disturb

you take
the do not disturb
sign off
the door of the hotel
room and
tape it to your shirt.
your wife wakes
up and points at
it and says, what's
up with that.
and you make a
motion of sealing
your lips with
your fingers and
then point at the
sign. do not disturb,
she says, rolling
her eyes. yeah,
like whatever,
what's wrong with
you? you really
are disturbed,
now go get us some
coffee harpo
and a paper.

the dylan t shirt

you're afraid
of committment
aren't you, she
says, over breakfast.
she's wearing
your black t-shirt
that you got
a hundred years ago
at a dylan concert.
his smirking
face is faded from
the wear and tear.
the words don't
look back, still
visible. you continue
to butter your toast
and lather on
a nice blueberry
jam as well
before taking
a bite. why do
you say that, you
say, still chewing.
you are just
very evasive,
elusive
with your words.
and you say
something like,
pffff, words.
who needs them.
it's what you do,
not what you say
that counts. are
you going to eat
the rest of
your bacon? you
grab a slice
off of her plate.
hey, be careful
with getting
jam on my shirt,
okay?

trash pickup

you are sound
asleep
when you hear
the trash truck
back up
with the gears
grinding,
the impatient
and serious
beeping that they
do as they
roll slowly
backwards
towards the corner
where all
the bags have been
gathered according
to condo rules
and regulations.
you hear
the clanging
of the wide
heavy door
rotating down,
it's shiny pistons
pushing with
a groan as men in
orange jumpsuits
covered in
spills and sweat,
with once white
gloves throw
bag after bag
in the dark mouth,
and you lie there
and think about
your own three bags
in the hallway,
neatly tied with
everything you want
to dispose of,
sitting there,
missing once
again, the pickup.

star gazing

you have been following
the constellations
late at night with
your new telescope,
the movement of the
planets, the stars
as they align into
the big and small
dipper. there's
cupid, there's
mars, and then you
see your neighbor
on the tenth floor
of the highrise up
the street. she's
on her balcony,
in a white bath towel,
brushing her long
brown hair, her
legs are long
and as white as
the surface of
the moon. and you
have suddenly
lost interest in
the galaxies above,
who cares anymore
about pluto, or
shooting stars.

your neighbor
puts out a plastic
pink flamingo
in her yard.
she loves
the color pink.
her nails
are pink, her
lipstick is
pink, she has
pink ribbons
in her hair.
she sees you
staring at it as
you pull up
in your car. so,
she says, what do
you think?
and you tell
her that you think
she is crazy,
but still fun
just the same.

super size that would ya?

a dangerous
place to be is
to come home
to an empty
fridge and you're
starving.
fried chicken
immediately pops
into your head,
as does pizza
or a cheeseburger
with all the
trimmings and fries.
a good meal
would take
too long to cook,
slugging down
the aisle at
the grocery store,
and why wait
when you can
drive up to
speaker box and
yell out your
deep fried feast.

what children say

my son
when he was
six or seven
said a few
extraordinary
things such as
it seems that
women are trying
to trick men
by wearing
makeup and
to that he
added, you can
say beaver
dam, but you
can't say
damn beaver.
then there was
the one about
the trees that
looked
like they
were dancing
when the high
winds blew. and
then there was
the time he
said, with
him in my arms,
crying after
not giving him
what he wanted,
i still love you
dad, i'm just mad
at you.

the next entry

you devour
a good book,
a well crafted poem,
a perfectly told
tale, but
throw without
mercy across
the room
anything that
doesn't
hold your
interest within
the first ten
pages, or
five lines.
and that's
the beauty of
writing on this
machine. they
can't throw
it across
the room as
you would when
clicking on
the next entry.

things

so much of early
life was spent
in gathering,
collecting all
of the things
that you thought
would give you
pleasure, give
comfort to a
world you were
creating. this
table for instance,
these dishes,
that bed, and
gold watch. there
is art in
the basement that
you had to have,
now stacked
side by side, no
longer hung
on any wall. you
see it all
leaving, being
passed on to
others who will be
taking that same
journey. there is
nothing you will
take with you.

the other room

you go
to the other
room to sleep.
the room that
was once yellow,
but is now blue.
you take
your pillow
and your
book, a glass
of water.
the dog is unsure
of this turn
of events
and waits it
out, but when
some time goes
by he barks,
then finally
gives in. you
hear the thump
of his four paws
hitting
the floor and
then his nails
clicking
against the wood.
he finds
his way in, hops
onto the bed
and lays his
head against
your chest.
he's worried,
as you are, but
for different
reasons.

leaving town

you tell no one
that you are leaving
the country.
you've packed a
small bag of
personal belongings,
and a picture
of your dog. you've
had enough, you're
done with
everyone. they
don't care or
love you anyway, but
you feel the need
to text them
as the train pulls
out of the station.
hey, you write,
can you water my
plants and take
in my mail while
i'm gone? plus,
there's some left
over chocolate
cake left in the
fridge, help yourself.
i'm going to canada,
you tell them,
who wants syrup?
and as your
fingers tire, telling
everyone that you
are leaving town,
your battery goes
dead, and so you
stop and close
your eyes. you stare
out the window
as the train rolls
slowly by some
cows out in a field.
there's a weathervane
on top of a barn,
rusted and bent.
you can't wait
to get home.

grudges

her family,
could hold grudges
for decades.
they would go
stone cold
towards one another
despite living
in the same
neighborhoods,
attending
the same churches
and schools,
the aunts and
uncles would
find ways to avoid
one another.
funerals, weddings,
birthdays
were neutral grounds,
but the art of
ignorning one
another never
stopped. sisters
against sisters,
brother versus
brother. the point
of disagreement
long since lost
in the falling
leaves of months
and years. only
death seemed to
warm things up
once again, but just
ever so slightly.

relationship scratching

i used to be
able to talk
her into scratching
my back for
hours at a time
by saying things
like, you have
a gift for
scratching. you
should be in the
back scratching
hall of fame.
sometimes i'd
doze off as her
long nails
slowly etched
out circles
and swirls
around the wide
plains
of my back
and when she tired,
and stopped
she always planted
a kiss, like
a period onto
my shoulder,
and i'd say, why'd
you stop so
soon, but not any
more. i might get
five minutes
of cursory
scratching and
then, hey, it's
my turn. things
have changed.

love is like a pot roast

you don't
fall in love
easily.
it takes time,
like beef
stew, or
a big fat
turkey, or
a pot roast,
or, okay, okay.
love is not
the same as
cooking food,
but once in
awhile you
do need a
quick fix
of microwaved
love. okay,
not exactly
love, but you
know what i
mean, something
very hot,
and quick.

the swimmer

you remember
the boy, donny,
may have been his
name, jumping feet
first into
the pool and sinking
quickly
to the bottom
of the deep end
while you treaded
water right
above him. he couldn't
swim, but he
didn't care, or
so it seemed.
and when they pulled
him up, blue
as the june sky,
his freckles
dulled by near
death, they
laid him on the side
and pumped
the water from
his pale body.
and when he awoke
he looked over
at you, with his
gap toothed smile
and said, i told
i you i could swim.

keys

this key fits
and turns
the lock. it
has the shine
of being new.
the other keys
i don't know
for sure where
they have
come from, or
to which door
they belong.
but still,
despite not
using them
for so long,
i can't
throw them
into a drawer,
just yet.

when you leave
the closet doors
wide open, you dream
that it is a room
you are being
led into against
your will. it's
not unlike
the first kiss,
or making love,
the unknown quantity
of what it could
be or how bad
it could hurt if
it ends haunts
you throughout
the day.

black boot of night

the black blue
boot of night
falls down
around you.
all singing
stops. even
the woods feel
the sound

of darkness,

and stills itself
in thoughtless
pose,
the animals have
long since
learned to
stay hidden.

they know.

forever young

these lines
cross stitched
across your brow
and finely
creased around
your lips
and eyes mean
nothing.
that ceaseless
turn of
the clock
and turning
of calendar
pages have
no hold on you.
you have long ago
found the age
that you will
always be, and
no dimming
light will
discourage
you from thinking
anything
different.

hurricane sandwich

you call
your father who
is eighty-three
and who sailed
the north
atlantic
for thirty odd
years. you can
see on tv
that the hurricane
is centered now
over where he
lives, and he
answers the phone
with a bouyant
hello, how the hell
are you. he has
no power and
is sitting
in the dark
eating a sandwich
by flashlight, he's
perusing the tv
guide to see
what's on when
the power returns.
the wind is
shaking the house
and slapping
the trees against
his windows. rain
is pummeling
the roof. i've
seen worse he
says, a lot
worse, so what's
the weather like
up there?

sixty watts

as you
turn the bulb
in place
bringing
a hundred
watts of
light to
the room
and mirror
on the far
wall, you
see quickly
the error
of your ways,
and turn in
a sixty
before
the other
one gets
too hot.

the cracker jack prize

i hope this
diamond is big
enough. i've
been saving for
years to give
it to someone
just like you.
if you hold it
up to the sun
it sparkles,
i know it's only
the size of a
grain of sand,
but hey, i don't
make much and
it's the thought
that counts. right?
the real fat
diamonds i gave
away when i was
younger
are out of my
price range now,
but it's not
a reflection on
my affection
towards you. so
i guess what i'm
saying is, will
you marry me.
what? you don't
even want to
try it on? it looks
like a prize from
a cracker jack
box? you are so
cruel, so cruel.
i'm glad that i
found out now
who you really are.
next.

birds in the park

there are free
cookies
at the front
of the store.
stale sugar
cookies, one
per customer,
but most are taking
two or three,
some four and
one for their
purse or
pocket. then
they hit the
cheese samples,
then off to the bread
plate, the meat,
a chunk or two
of melon,
some pineapple too.
all free, with
little toothpicks
stuck into
the chopped slices
of whatever
is given away.
they move easily
down the aisles
putting little
into their carts,
then circling
back for seconds,
or thirds,
like birds hovering
near park
benches awaiting
the tossed crumbs.

speechless

having lost your voice
from singing too
long and hard
in the shower each
day, you gesture now
and write notes.
it's not such a
bad thing after all.
you've found a way
to avoid boring
conversations, and
meaningless chit
chat. you make a
hundred small cards
with the words,
i can't talk, on
them, and hand them
out like candy.
people are quite
nice and sympathetic
but quickly exhausted
with trying to
communicate with you.
you smile a lot
and nod as they
speak loudly to you,
thinking that you
are not only
speechless but
suddenly deaf
and stupid too. but
that's okay, you
understand, and
play along.

in the window

i see you in
the window,
without clothes
waving to me
standing
in the snow,
awaiting
the late train.
your skin is
porcelain
with black hair.
and flushed
cheeks.
you are not shy
about anything,
are you?

holidays

the bags
of halloween
candy
are out on
the shelves.
next to
the christmas
lights,
and easter
bunnies,
and flags for
the fourth
of july.
it has all
run together
now like
an aisle
spilled
holidays.
turkeys
and fireworks,
togther,
why wait.

the ghost

the spirit
that lives in
your house
and walks
about at night,
has become
annoying.
waking you up
at all hours,
rattling about
in her chains,
singing, and
whispering
into your ear
certain things
you'd rather
not know, prefer
not to hear.
she floats
just above
the floor in
white,
neither angel
or demon,
but something
else,
someone dead
and gone,
and now trying
to set things
right.

what isn't

as the baby
cries
and the mother
holds
him tight,
her eyes
fixed on
a point unseen,
and the train
sways
along the track
while daylight
recedes
with winter
coming on,
and everyone
holding tight
to the overhead
straps, all is
never what
it seems, no
matter how
hard you try
to make sense
of it all.

ice cream truck

as the ice
cream truck rolls
slowly
down the hot
street,
playing music
with a single
simple
bell, and
the children
scampering
down
the sidewalk
with dollar bills
in small clenched
fists, where as
last year
they were numb
in their strollers,
and now waiting
for the truck to
stop, for
the window
to slide open,
you see how quickly
the summer
passes.

the red hat

i see your hat
fly loose
on the wind, a
red blot against
a grey sky,
sailing towards
a roiling sea.
it rises and falls
like a stringless
kite, while
your arm, still
extended, is
hoping for some
other fate than
what will come.

the pear tree

under the forgotten
pear tree
that sits shadowed
in the far corner
of the bricked
yard. tired of
pears. done with
the fruit it
bears year in
year out, without
fail, but still
you go to sit
there to read,
setting pears
aside with a new
book, another
life unfolding
as yours keeps
onward as it is.
the same fruit,
neither too bitter
nor too sweet.

secret stones

each day
the dog
would find
a stone,
small, or large
and carry
it into
the house
in it's mouth.
his eyes
shifting from
side to side,
as if he
a secret.
he'd bury
it in a corner,
beneath a
pillow on
the couch,
or in a closet
tucked deep
behind old
shoes. he
loved old
stones.
full of mud
and salt,
whether smooth
or rough, it
made no
difference.
and in doing
so i learned
how much
alike we were.

hurricane survival list

grey goose,
two martini
glasses,
crumbled ice,
silver shaker,
apple schnapps,
small sliced
wedges of one
ripened
green apple,
cinammon sugar
to dip glass
rims into.
books,
magazines.
bread, milk,
butter,
blueberries.
large chocolate
cake.
batteries,
popcorn,
water,
gum.
flashlights.
canoe.
paddles.
fishing rod.
worms.
flippers,
air tanks.
stilts.
speargun.
megaphone.
candles
and matches.
premade
sub sandwiches
on italian
rolls, but
hold the mayo.
chips with
a bag clip.
transistor
radio.
butterknife,
spoon, fork.
hot coffee
in a thermos.
half and half.
packets of
splenda.
neosporin.
cowbell.

blue monday

blue monday
is followed quickly
by tantalizing
tuesday
and wicked
wednesday. that's
when you
come over. and
then there's
tease thursday
because you
are waiting on
frantic friday,
and sizzling
saturday,
sunday is saved
for reptenance,
which once again
is followed
by blue monday.

icecream makes everything better

you seem angry,
you've been very
quiet, lately. is
there something
wrong? no, nothing.
i'm not angry,
i'm just cold
and aloof, there's
a difference. so
this is more of
a passive aggressive
stance you are taking,
yes? well, sort of.
it's easier this
way. i don't like
to rant and rave
anymore and throw
dishes. it takes
too much energy
to yell and scream.
yes, i've
noticed that we
have more dishes
on the shelf these
days. so what are
you angry, i mean,
cold and aloof
about? is it
something i did,
or didn't do, did
i forget your
birthday, our
anniversary? please,
tell me. it
doesn't matter. if
i have to tell
you, it shows
that you aren't in
touch with our
relationship and
that maybe we
shouldn't even be
together. hmmm. okay.
well, listen, i'm
going out for some
icecream, care
to go, or i could
pick something up
for you. well, i
guess i could go with
you, but don't talk
to me, okay. sure.
it's a deal. how long
will you be doing
this? i'm not sure,
maybe a few days,
maybe just today.
can we go to dairy
queen. sure. why not?

i live to dance

dancing is my
life, she says,
with expressive eyes,
and open arms,
i live to dance.
to move my feet,
to hear the music
and let my body
find it's poetic
self in the beauty
of movement. and
you, what about
you, she asks me,
her face aglow,
her arms and
shoulders swaying
while she thinks
about dancing. me,
i say, i like
a nice slice of
cake, and then
a long long nap.

that's the story

there is no
such thing as
santa claus
your mother tells
you on the phone
during your sunday
call. this comes
out of nowhere.
she has been
slowly losing
her mind for
sometime now.
there is no easter
bunny, she continues,
there is no pot
of gold at the end
of any rainbow. no
tooth fairy, or
wishes that will
come true when
you find a shooting
star or blow
out your birthday
candles,
there is no
magic wand, no
angels coming
to save you
gathered on
the head of a pin.
there's no bad
luck, there is
no good luck,
so straighten
up sonny boy.
there's hard
work, and maybe
a long life
followed by death.
that's it, that's
the whole story.

off the chain

as the dog
breaks
free and runs
from it's
cruel master,
his chain
behind him,
over the fence
the wall,
through
the open streets
until he
hits the field
where no
one will catch
him, you
ponder, how
long will
you too,
stay put.

it's neither

it's neither
fair, or
unfair, how
the earth
cracks, or
the wave sweeps
in with
two arms
to take
everything
in it's path.
or how love
comes,
and goes
in the middle
of the night,
it's just
that way,
no reason,
it's neither
wrong, or
right.

fried chicken

yes, i'll have
a number three.
spicy, all
dark meat, please.
extra crispy.
fries
and slaw, a coke.
to go.
no white meat,
yes, fries,
no, a coke,
yes, with ice,
spicy, yes. no,
all dark meat.
yes, crispy. no
tray, thank you.
to go. i want
to take this
all away
in a bag.
to go. a coke.
right. no
beans, no rice,
slaw, and fries.
yes. but only
dark meat, no
wings, no
breasts. just dark
meat. please.
to go. i'm
very hungry,
i don't care
anymore, just
put something into
the bag and take
my money before
i pass out.
adios.

bird flying into window

this bird
upon the pavement
outside
my window.
quiet
and bloodless,
but still
and showing
a softness
that only death
can bring.
and the pane
cracked, with
a small
bullet like hole,
where the beak
struck. what
moral, what
lesson
in such things,
i'm not sure,
but give me
time, let me
fix a stiff drink,
get the broom
and a dustpan,
and i'll think
of one.

to the left
a hand
is out, a boot,
a bucket,
a bag. money,
food, clothing,
things you
now have,
but once
didn't. in
the mail
the asking goes
on, and on,
for the church,
the blind,
the orphans,
all good causes.
it's no longer
just the march
of dimes, it's
dollars, and
checks,
and credit
cards. it never
ends, and
one day
you may sit
on the other side
again, with
hand out. it's
all good,
but frustrating
when those
that can
work don't
want to.

tunnel of sleep

done with
what the day
has brought you,
without clothes
you fall
towards the bed,
into the tunnel
of white sheets
and sleep,
down to
center of dreams
that aren't
dreams at all,
but the life
you lead,
when not awake.
sometimes the lines
of both are
blurred.

the daily news

because i stopped
listening
to the news,
buying newspapers,
and calling my
mother on
sundays, i
missed the last
five world
catastrophes
and stock
market collapses.
but saved a lot
of cash on
heart burn pills
and aspirin.
what hurricane?

simplify

i've simplified
my life.
sold my car.
threw my
phone into
the river.
dropped my
computer out
the window.
but now i
don't go any
where, and
can't call out
for pizza. or
have ginger
come over
to scratch
my back. i
miss my
complicated
life.

post card from south beach

she moved
to florida
because it was
too cold here.
the snow
and ice in
february was
too much for
her to take.
she gave
me her snow
shovel and
her bag of
salt before
she left.
it had
nothing to
do with me.
honest. i got
a postcard
from her
just the other
day. she's
living with
raul in
south beach,
but she's
worried now
about hurricane
irene and
wondering if
maybe she should
come back
and live with
me again.
no.

earthquake

did you feel
that, she says,
tapping me on
the shoulder, no,
what, why are
you waking me
up? i was taking
a nap and was in
the middle of
a wonderful dream.
we just had
an earthquake,
five point nine
on the richter
scale. end of
the world? no,
she says, throwing
a pillow at me,
but there could
be aftershocks.
i was in the middle
of shaving my legs
and nicked myself.
see. i look at
the trickle of blood.
people are in
the streets,
evacuating
the buildings,
coming home early
from work. it's
a small panic,
but nothing
seems to be
damaged too badly.
okay, thanks for
the report. are
we still going
out to dinner
tonight, or
is everything
closed?
i don't know,
she says, the cell
phones aren't
working. how about
the diary queen,
is it still
standing?
i could use
a blizzard
later on. i'll
check the news
she says, i'm sure
it'll be at the top
of the damage list.

olive jars

you tell her,
look at these hands,
trying hard
to impress her
on your first date,
so that she will
fall in love
with you and want
to give you
babies despite
that fact that
you are both in
your fifties, you
show her your
hands. look at
these hands you
say again,
holding them
up into
the shadowy
light of the coffee
shop. i can open up
virtually any olive
jar with hands
like these.
sauces, mustard
jars, no problem.
and she can't help
but sigh, and
say, i love you.
i love you.
i have so many
jars for you
to open. let us
go and begin what's
left of our lives
together.

cherry sno-cone

when my former
wife, lucinda,
who i wasn't
getting along
with anyway
because she was
out and about
all night
with her neer
do well friend
violet, fell out
of the ferris
wheel, that i
refused to ride
because it made
me queasy,
i stood
there watching
as she tumbled
down, hitting
each seat, each
pole and stanchion
along the way,
i kept licking
my sno-cone,
cherry flavored,
and wondered
what i could
do to save her.
but there was
nothing i could
do but just stand
aside and say oh
my. and as
sad as that event
was, i now own
the carnival and
have installed
safety measures
so that accidents
like that won't
happen again. if
you look hard enough
you can find good
in everything.

clearing land

your yard so
long ignored,
is square, not
large, but
filled with
weeds and bushes,
a tree
half dead
and bent from
thirst and age,
and other
things you have
no knowledge of.
you suspect
that there are
snakes, and
rodents in
the tall grass.
you can feel their
presence, afraid
of you, as you
are afraid
of them.
but you have
an axe, a saw,
a rake, a
hoe, and you are
determined
this time
that things will
change
for the better.
you clear
the land, pulling
with two
hands at the vines
that climb
the walls
and this is just
a start.

picking apples

after picking
apples all
day in the field,
going from tree
to tree,
filling my basket
with as many
as i could carry,
at night i'd
go home to a good
meal, a warm
bed, and a woman
who loved me.
and my only worry,
when i closed
my eyes to
sleep, my body bent
and aching
from the work
i'd chosen,
was that one
day there would
be no more apples.

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.