pizza with emily dickinson

there was a light knock on the door
as i settled into my recliner
watching a rerun of the twilight zone.
I was eating an anchovy pizza,
just delivered, still hot
in the box, the steam rising into my eyes.
i looked through the peephole,
squinting one eye.
it was my neighbor from upstairs,
emily. yeah. that emily,
the poet. ms. dickinson herself.
she had her spiral notebook in hand
and a pencil. she loved writing in pencil.
she had her usual violets pinned
to her white dress
and her hair up in a bun.
what, i said. what do you want?
i'm having dinner.
i'm stuck she said, in her high pitched
voice, i need some help with this poem
i'm working on.
geez marie, okay,okay, let me get
some pants on. I put the dog
in the other room, then let her in.
she sat down on the sofa
as i lowered the tv.
let me hear what you have so far.,
I said. sitting back down
is this a new poem, or an old
one? you have a tendency to
over work the old ones.
oh no, no, she said. it's a new one.
well, read it to me, pizza?
I held the box out to her, opening
the lid to show her the slices.
sorry, i'm clean out of carrots and lettuce.
no, she said, i don't eat meat, or
cheese, or anything delivered in a box.
suit yourself, I said. more for me.
okay, go. read.
she started reading her new poem, slowly, as
she liked to do, never looking up,
her fingers tapping her lips nervously,
her high laced boots clicking against
one another.
"because i could not stop for lunch,
i had a cup of tea.
i wore a hat outside today
because of the buzzing bees."
that's all i have so far
she said shyly, shrugging her narrow 

shoulders, and looking at her poem.
i took a sip of my beer and another bite
of pizza. it stinks I said. what kind of
a lame poem is that? it makes me sleepy.
i want to take a nap after hearing a poem
like that. what are the bees all about.
at this point she started to cry,
dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief
she pulled out of her high frilly collar.
come on em, you can do better than that.
i couldn't stop for lunch, what's
that? how about death, i couldn't stop for
death, now that's a poem. death, broken
hearts, love gone awry. that's
the kind of stuff people want to hear.
hmmm, she said. still sobbing a little.
maybe you're right. i'll keep trying.
good i told her. death, immortality,
stuff like that. be puzzling and
convoluted, critics like that too. and
the rhyming, you're hung up on that end
line rhyme, who are you, dr. seuss? tupac?
mix it up a little with some free verse.
just saying. i'm not giving up on you.
you have some talent, you're just a little
uptight. I looked at my watch. look, i
don't mean to run you out, but i'm missing
my show here. okay, she said. okay. i'll
work on it. is it okay if i bring it over
later to show you. sure, i told her, sure.
thanks, she said meekly, you're such
a good friend. but hey, i said, if i
have a red sock wrapped around
the doorknob, you know not to knock,
right? yes. she said. i do know that kind sir.
i will not knock if there is a sock.
whatever em. whatever.

a new language

you learn
another language,
tired of your
own, better
yet, you learn
to speak with
your hands in
getures like
a primate
at the zoo.
hunger,
thirst, love
and anger all
find it's way
into the motion
of your hands,
this annoys
people, but
you don't care.
you are tired
of your own
voice, of being
misunderstood.
you have shortened
conversations
to the basic needs
of your life.
and gives you
more time for
other things,
things yet
undecided.

on the bus

how the miles
unfold below
your seat,
as the wheels
roll hard
and long against
the black
pavement. through
the tunnels,
over bridges,
speeding through
each toll, each
minute tossed
aside as you
stare at a sun
tinted green
and blue settling
towards it's
next tomorrow
and what it may
bring at journey's
end for you.

time's square

as you stand
in time's square
on a warm
november evening
and the neon
obliterates
the darkness while
music plays,
drums are struck
as if some ancient
ritual is in progress
and cops on horses
walk through
the crowd, you
stand and try to
make sense of it all.
the naked cowboy
strumming his
guitar, the corner
vendors with
posters and chestnuts
hot dogs and pretzles.
the bars, the food
the show girls
and billboards,
there is madness
in us all, and this
carnival succeeds
each night in saying
so.

hot pastrami

worried about
the future we both
go down to
see the gypsy
on 42nd street
and lexington.
she's got a room
above a tailor's
shop that makes
clothing for
theater, the clergy
and the dead.
we get the two
for one deal
and she presses
our hands against
the table turning
them over and over
looking at the lines
and creases, but
says nothing.
and finally it's
time for lunch
and she orders
three hot pastrami
sandwiches and smiles.
on rye with mustard
and a pickle she
says looking at
me, smiling. you're
good i say, you
are good and so
we eat, then go
on about our lives.

old spice

when the ticket
taker at the movies
asks you for
id, it's not
because you are too
young, but quite
the opposite
and may qualify
for a discount based
on the fact that
you are probably
closer to the end
than she is. she
means no harm
nor does the boy
who holds the door
or asks you if
you need help
getting your
groceries to
the car. you resent
aarp and their
sunny magazine
with ads for sleep
apnea and
indegestion, and
hearing aids.
to hell with
the clapper and the
big numbered remote,
you shake
your head at
the traffic cop
who looks like
a boy scout.
the train has left
the station
and it's moving fast,
but it ain't over
yet. you've still
got a jump shot
and a bottle
of old spice.

bus to nyc

with ticket
in hand
you stand and
wait in line,
bag at your
feet, to board
the bus
to new york
city. you
have money
in your pocket.
camera.
a change or
two of clothes
and her beside
you to
keep you warm
when the wind
blows cold
across
the hudson.

packing

you begin to
pack your bag
for a two day trip.
you have enough
clothes to get
you through
a week stuffed
into the multi
layered zippered
bulging suitcase,
but you can't
find anything
that you can
eliminate. what
if it turns cold,
or rains, or
the pillow in
the hotel is stiff
and old. and
shoes, brown
and black. walking
shoes, casual
shoes, going to
a show shiny shoes.
somehow you manage
to close it up
and sit on
the porch waiting
for the cab to come.
you almost forget
then run in and
squeeze a few
packs of gum into
the little pocket at
the top, next to
the phone charger,
the battery pack,
the camera, pen
and pad, the map,
the pocket change
left over from the
last two day trip
you took.

full moon

after one
too many
martinis
you slip
on the wet
pavement
and roll
over onto
your back.
you stare up
a the perfect
white plate
of a full moon.
it's unflinching
eye looking
down on the likes
of you, not
trying to get
up, but enjoying
the lunar
moment and
wishing you
had a pillow.

rolling down the hill

there are children
at the top
of the grassy hill,
red cheeked in
hats and gloves,
lying sideways
about to roll down
the steep green slope,
and before they do
they yell out,
watch me mom, watch
me. and as their
mother turns her
head to gasp at what
they are about to
do they all begin
to roll and roll
and roll down
the sweet uncut grass
of their youth.

the toy boat

the small
asian man,
with a cigarette
unlit
in his lips,
stood in the cold
of the sunless
day, with his remote
control box
in his curled hand
near the flat
blue lake,
his black boots
in mud,
he brushed the grey
hair from
his eyes and
laughed while his
toy motor boat
screamed
across the watery
plains in circles,
in zig zags,
in stops
and starts,
whistling as it slid
as far away as
it could go on
it's battery,
then back. and when
he saw me watching
nearby, he smiled
and said, i have
another one
in my car. it's
bigger too.

the road less traveled

you place a book
at the bottom
of the door
to keep it open.
to keep the air
flowing in as
it moves across
the long green
lawn in the form
of wind. it's
a book of poems
by robert frost who
you can only read
in spans of two
minutes or less
without yawning
and going to
the fridge to
make a sandwich.
it's not that it's
bad poetry, or
unreadable poetry,
that would be
heresy, it's just
not my cup of meat,
as dylan would
say. it's tedious
and hard and
immedded with metaphor
and similes,
and mystery that are
all entwined like
thick green ivy
along the stacked
stones and wood
of that good fence.
it not only makes
me a good neighbor
but an indifferent
reader as well.

the story

there is more
to the story. there
is always more.
you can embellish,
make the room
darker, or lighter,
paint the walls
yellow, make
the curtains thin
like rain, green
like apples.
there is always
someone you can
place in a chair
within the room,
and a clock on
the wall that has
stopped. there can
be noise, the choke
of the radiator,
or two people
making love
on the other side,
in another rented
room. there can
be a knock at
the door, that's how
the story can
begin, or the phone
ringing late into
the night and you
pick it up and say
yes. hello.

rented room

you rent the room
above the kitchen.
there is an
ashtray on the table.
a cane left
in the corner.
a plant has survived
and sits green
on the sill
awaiting sunlight.
you sit on the soft
bed, feeling
the springs and hear
the faucet down
the hall dripping.
there is a book,
the secret of gaining
wealth and power
on the nightstand
next to an empty
bottle of gin. you
lie down and turn
off the light.
you close your eyes
and say, it's only
a dream, it's only
a dream.

like a stranger

kiss me like
a stranger
she said to me.
hold me
like there is
no tomorrow.
kiss me
like a stranger,
like it's
the very
first time,
tell me what
i want to hear,
even if it's
a lie. just
kiss me, kiss
me like a
stranger.

instant pudding

the instant
pudding
that you put
before me
needs a dollop
of cream,
whipped and
yes, with
a cherry
on top. i
don't ask
for much,
and if i do
not very often,
but this is
one thing
i draw
the hard line
on. instant
pudding. i'll
wait.

blue monday

the lack
of light
coming through
the blinds
just barely
the color
yellow, slipping
through into
the half lit
room and you,
the full length
of you lingering
on the couch
in a pool of
blue shadows
as if underwater,
awaiting what,
we both aren't
sure of, perhaps
the air
of an idea
to get up for.

cowboy up

you need to cowboy
up she told me
as i was spreading
neosporin onto
a paper cut on my
index finger. ouch,
i said as i applied
the translucent goo
to the quarter inch
long gash along the
tip of my pink digit.
huh, cowboy up, what
do you mean, i said?
you know, she said,
be tougher, be strong,
be brave, take some
chances with your
life. do some
hiking, go riding
along the trail,
cowboy up!
but i'm really afraid
of horses, i said,
and i'm not much one
for camping and eating
beans around the
campfire. at this
point she got up
out of bed and started
doing her morning
routine of push ups
and sit ups. i put
a pillow behind my
head and leaned up,
arm in the air on
account of my paper
cut and watched her.
you know, these
sheets are really soft
i told her as she
grunted out the count
of each push up. what
are they, 600 count,
very nice and soft.
i like em.

carryout

she had one
dish. chicken.
roasted,
baked, barbequed
and sliced
and seasoned
on a pyramid
of rice.
she didn't
want to learn
anything else.
it's enough she
said. and if
your aren't happy
with that, well,
too bad. i
have other
virtues with
which to make
you happy.

the fog of you

the fog
of you never
quite lifts
but lingers
just below
my knees
just above
the tips of
my toes.
it's thick
and mysterious,
every moving
around the
borders of
my otherwise
sunny life.

scratchy on the loose

i was sitting
on my front porch
awaiting the pea
pod truck to arrive
with a quart of
milk and a small
jar of marichino
cherries so that
i could make a
white russian
when my neighbor
gina came over
looking distressed.
she had a slew
of posters in her
hand with a picture
of a wild animal on
the front baring
it's teeth. she
had tears in her
eyes. what, i said,
what's up gina?
scratchy ran away.
your cat? no, and
she showed me the
photo of scratchy
with a reward of
a hundred dollars
printed underneath.
he's a ferret i
adopted from petsmart
and he's never been
out in the wild.
have you seen him,
she sobbed.
nope, i told her.
he has a little bell
collar, so if you
see him, or hear the
bell ringing, don't
try to catch him
with your bare hands,
he bites and scratches
pretty hard. i looked
at the long red
gashes on her arms
and legs. i see, i
said. hmmm. okay.
just throw a blanket
over top of him,
or a net if you have
one and call me. he
really likes peanut
butter, so if you put
some on the end of
a stick you can get
him close to you.
i'm posting a hundred
dollar reward. it's
just breaking my
heart losing him
like this. just
then the peapod truck
pulled up with my
quart of whole milk
and cherries. hey, can
i make you a drink,
a white russian
perhaps, no she said,
wiping her eyes, i'm
heading into the woods
to try and find him
before it gets dark.
well, good luck with
that. i'll let you
know if i see him, or
hear his bell a ringing.
thanks she said, handing
me a poster. she put
on her leather gloves,
grabbed her net,
then headed into
the darkening woods.

the sex talk

as we sit
in the theater
sharing a bag
of buttered
popcorn, before
the movie starts,
she leans over
and out of nowhere
whispers in
my ear. i'm done
with sex she says.
enough is enough.
i'm too old,
too tired, un
interested in that
sort of activity
anymore. i don't
want another man
to touch me as
long as i live.
just the thought
of it repels me
and makes my
skin crawl.
you shake
your head and say
nothing. you
sip your coke,
you eat your pop
corn and try to
answer the trivia
questions on
the big screen.
silence
is the only way to
go with this
conversation. and
as she reiterates
too loudly, no
more sex for me,
you promise
yourself that
never again will
you take your mother
to the movies.

thristy not hungry

the man on
the corner holding
the sign
saying god bless
please help
homeless in neatly
written block
print with a
sharpie wants
nothing to do
with the loaf
of bread i bring
him. it's black
olive
and still warm
from the oven
of the round
the corner bakery.
what do you
want me to do
with this he
says, as he looks
at the rounded
crusty bread
in the crinkled
bag. eat it,
i tell him. you
don't get it,
do you, he
admonishes me.
i'm thirsty, not
hungry.

left as it was

everything left as
it was, the toaster
where bread was
browned, the couch
set just so where
one could sit
and see a television,
a plant upon
the shelf still green,
and books with
pages dog earred
awaiting eyes
to begin again
to read. that purse
left on the table,
open where her
hand had been,
her phone still
blinking, and on
the counter, a
grocery list,
a ring of keys.

stars and sand

you don't need
to be old
to be there,
but it helps
as the brilliant
sun, sparkling
on a golden blue
sea, settles down
nicely for
the day. and you
sink into your
summer chair,
feet curled
in warm sand
and wait for
the stars
to arrive. and
they come and
come, until
there is nothing
but a cluster
of diamonds
that fills your
heart with joy.

the check up

feel my head
she says, i think
i have a fever. my
throat is scratchy
too. you put your
hand across her
mildly warm
brow and say no.
i think you're
just glad to see
me. open your
mouth, you tell
her with your
bedside manner,
let me take a
look at those
tonsils. i don't
have any, she
says, they were
taken out when
i was seven. hmm.
you say. well,
unzip your dress,
let's take a
closer look and
make sure there
are no rashes or
unusual bumps. if
you insists, she
says. you put your
ear against her
chest and say
your heart is
beating a little
fast, but otherwise
you seem to be just
fine. to be on
the safe side,
perhaps we
should stay in
tonight, open up
a bottle of wine.

silently the bus goes by

the deaf man
you see everyday
on the sidewalk
happy with his
friends
frenetically
signing, speaking
in their way,
has missed his
bus. he slaps
his hands against
his legs
and looks up
at the wet sky.
his lips are
moving, and you
beep your horn
to get his attention,
to offer him a
ride, but he
doesn't hear you.
and the car
behind you is
cursing as
the light changes
to red, and no
one has moved.

keeping time

you watch
the clock move,
it's black
hands rising
and falling
with each new
tick of each
second turning
towards
minutes, then
hours. and
the page of
the calendar
across the room
waits patiently
it's turn,
while the trees
outside join in
and let their
leaves drop
in a flurry
of timed color.
your hair too
grows white while
you bend towards
your own
tomorrow.

window washers

as the men
hang from
the side
of the building
and the slight
sway in wind
and shift
of an earth
every spinning
keeps them
fearful of
the fall
the glass
gets clean.
it's no easy
task to see
clearly what
needs to
be seen.

a new day

as you lean
the cold
extension of
the aluminum
ladder up
against the brick
wall in order
to climb onto
the roof
to reach the next
level of peeling
paint, and rotted
wood, and gaps
between
the boards
you see a red
bird sitting on
the roof's edge
watching,
waiting for
you to rise
and begin your
new day.

in the morning

the cracked
vase
on the shelf,
the torn
shoe, the broken
window
and stuck door,
the worn path
in the hall
rug, the stove
that won't
light,
the draft coming
in from
the attic.
none of it
matters when
i see you
in the morning
sleeping next
to me.

shawshank

you manage to wiggle
your way out of
your straight jacket
and saw through
the bars of your
cell before lunch,
but you know it
will be tough
getting over
the barbed wire
and past
the armed guards
posted high above
the wall. you
don't care though.
you will swim
through that
sewage pipe
and get out to
the other side.
it's well worth
the effort to be
finally free and
no longer married.

horizon

you begin
to tell her
how much you
really care,
how much you
truly love
her and want
to make a go
of it, but in
the middle of
voicing your
deep and
earnest affection
the call drops
because you
have a piece
of crap cell
phone and the
service
which ryhmes
with horizon
has monkeys
taking calls
and running ship.

why apples

when you came home
you pulled up
your mask of zorro
from your sweaty
face and spilled
your plastic bag
of candy onto
the floor. slowly
you separated
the gum from
the lollipops
and candy bars
pulling them all
with a sweep of
your small hand
into large stacks
and the sweet tarts,
the mary janes,
the twizzlers and
licorice. gum balls.
the random apples
never stood
a chance, tossed
to roll towards
the other side
of the room clunking
against the wall
like bowling balls,
why you would wonder
out loud with a
laugh, why apples.
what kind of a crazy
person gives out
apples?

the moment gone

your children
are asleep
in the other room
down the hall
past the lamp
the plant, the
dog that lies
blessedly
unknowing.
your children
tomorrow are
gone, fast
in their own
lanes, their own
beds, towards
another life
you'll never
truly know.
the moment savored,
is the moment
gone.

winter sky

you are barely
there. a thin
fog of a man
in thread bare
clothes, gasping,
on grey lungs,
on two old legs
that hardly
move. you are
barely there
amidst the living
shadowing your
day with tattered
dreams, and moth
eaten memories.
you are barely
there as the sun
rises on cold
blue snow easing
just so into
the winter sky
above the park.

cold summer

it's too cold
out for shorts,
but like the fool
you are, you wear
them anyway. you
have a tendency
to hang on to each
glimmer of summer
fading fast. it's
worth the shiver
to pretend that
things aren't the
way they really are.

gypsy queen

with her black
hair like
a gypsy queen
and her
crystal ball
and porcelain
white skin,
she knows
the future,
she knows
in a minute
after stroking
your hand
and one sweet
kiss where
you are going
and where
you will have
been. believe
her.

the land line

she used
to set her
blackberry
on the table
and text
and type
and take messages
as the meal
came and went.
sometimes
she'd look
up at you
and nod politely
as if she
heard what
you were saying.
her fingers
moved rapidly
along
the blinking
keyboard
between
slices of bread,
sips of wine,
strands of pasta
going down. oh
how i missed
when there was
only a land line.

like

it's like
this, i like
really really
like this
cup of coffee
it's like so
likable. don't
you think,
i mean really.
how's your
coffee, are you
like going to
drink it while
it's still,
like so hot?
are you like
too tired
to talk, or are
you like mad
at me for saying
like in every
sentence. an
answer from you
would be like
really nice. don't
you like me
anymore? i would
really like
to know. please,
like just nod
your head, or
like something.

street theater

the dog wearing
antlers
crossing the street
towards
the bulldog
with a string
of christmas
lights blinking
around his
collar. the moon,
a bright
slice of glitter
above it all
as you in a
policewoman's
outfit sucking
on a lollipop
hold the leash
attached to me
dressed as
abe lincoln
going to the
theater.

the birdhouse

your sister,
the one you stay
in contact
with, sends you
a birdhouse
in the mail.
she made it in
her garage last
spring, she
made six of them,
one for each
sibling. it's
a fine bird house
once you put it
together
and paint it.
and if you
were a bird
you could live
there. it
has a round
hole as a door
and slits
for windows.
you peer inside
and imagine
yourself on
the couch reading
a book or
watching tv.
you hang it on
a tree outside
your window,
and you wait
to see who makes
it a home.

her knee

she wants to show
you her scar
so she lifts up
her dress
and points
at the round bend
of her knee.
there is a moon
shaped curve
of healed
skin, a scar as
thick and pink
as a worm.
and then
it's your turn,
but you don't know
where to start, so
you kiss her
and say, let's
change the subject.

dreaming of camels

you have a dream
about camels.
one hump camels,
brown and long
legged. you
want to ask
them how they
can go so long
without water,
months and months
without even
so much as a
sip. but they
don't speak
your language
as they stare
back at you with
large saucer
eyes, blinking
in the desert sun.
this has nothing
to do with
love, of course.

the red sweater

it's a rainy
saturday and cold.
so you decide
to clean out your
closets and drawers.
reassess your
wardrobe. you
take inventory of
thirty seven white
t-shirts, and
six black sweaters.
five pairs of jeans
and nine button
down white shirts
that all need
ironing. you need
something red.
you need something
to jazz up your
combination of black
and white, so you
go to the mall and
buy a bright red
sweater. that night
you put it on to
go meet sally for
drinks. you feel like
a big tomato sitting
there on the bar
stool and she
laughs when she
sees you. what's up
with the sweater
she says. i don't
think we can go
out anymore if you
wear that again.
smartly though, you
haven't taken the
tags off the sleeves
and you still have
the receipt folded
in your pocket.

dinner and a movie

she doesn't love
you anymore,
she says on
the phone that
you are selfish
and self absorbed,
distant and aloof.
she doesn't know
how or why she
ever got involved
with the likes of
you. this goes
on and on so you
set the phone
down next to
the goldfish bowl,
you feel like
these are things
that goldie should
hear, that apply
more to her than
to me and after
you fix a cup of
tea and some toast
you pick the phone
back up and say,
uh uh. are you
listening, she
says, did you even
hear one word
of what i just
said. i finish
chewing my toasted
raisin bread, and
say, yup, i heard
all of it. so what
about friday, there's
a great movie
playing. dinner,
movie, back to my
place for a game
of scrabble?

tomorrow comes

busy in
his old age
with a wrench
tightening
screws. finding
loose bolts
and nuts with
which to turn
and tighten.
there is always
a door ajar,
or window stuck,
there is
the whistle
of wind that
seeps through
the attic
floor. there
is suddenly
everything never
seen when life
held more.

halloween

below the harvest
moon, with orange
licks of
buttered candy
and swooping
trees, where ghosts
and goblins
and bright striped
bees swarm
under chilled
winds, the arms
of parent
with lights in
hand guide
the way, yet only
for awhile,
only for awhile.

better left unsaid

some words
when at last
all who remain
are gathered to
post farewell, why
bother now with
the story told
of what was said,
or unsaid, the
meaness or callous
ways of those
departed, why
spoil what has
gone when there
is no one left
to defend whether
truths or lies
are right, are
wrong. yes, better
left unsaid, when
the handful of dirt
is tossed upon
those descending,
and the final bell
has tolled,
what harm is there
to let him go
as a saint and be
done with it, and
the final tale
untold.

the red bowl

you can't
reach the top
shelf, so you
pull a chair
closer to
the counter
and step up
in your stocking
feet.
it's a bowl
you never use
that you want.
it's glass,
and red. as
red as cherries
on a tree.
it reminds you
of christmas
as you hold
it up to the
window and let
the light
stream through.
and when
you've had
enough you reach
back up
and slide it
into place.

the wedding party

when the wedding
party ends,
and the last
dance is danced,
the cake cut
and eaten, when
the last bottle
of champagne
is popped
and drained of
every pink bubble,
what then, she
thinks, staring
at the bathroom
floor.

when the battery dies

you resort
to pencil and pen,
finding a scratch
pad to make
a list of things
to do, what
to buy at
the grocery store,
who to call
and when.
it's strange to
hold a pen
in your hand
and not a
touch screen
phone where
everything is
kept in a world
you know little
about, or how
it all works,
but strangely
trust, not
unlike your faith
in a higher
power, and prayer.

two pictures

nervous and shy,
she sends you a photo
before meeting. she's
at a church picnic
wearing a checkered
dress with a ribbon
around her waist,
and is holding a plate
of cupcakes with white
and pink icing. it's
a lovely picture,
her long hair
in the sun, the smile
on her face, but i
can't see her eyes
and there is too much
distance from
the camera, so i ask
for another picture,
something more
revealing where i can
see what she really
looks like without
the sunglasses, and so
she does. the next
picture she's wearing
a leather bikini,
holding a bullwhip
in one hand and chewing
wildly on a raw
steak in the other.
behind her there is
lightning in the sky.
better, she says?
you say yes, better.

being there

the graffiti
man, with his
cans of orange
glow and green
as bright as
apples sprays
his name and
sign along
the high water
tower and
beams of bridges
that rise
above the high
way, while
below a stray
flea bitten
dog pees upon
the hydrant.

the upside of losing it

after leaving
the stove on,
she put the milk
into the cupboard,
her keys
in the freezer,
she kissed
the cat goodnight
and told me
that she loved
me and couldn't
live without
me, things
aren't exactly
right, but it
seems there is
an upside to her
losing it.

behind you

you are being
followed.
you can feel
the presence
of someone
behind you.
hear their
shallow breathing,
the low beat
of their heart,
the soft
tip toe
of their shoes
through
the alley,
past the empty
benches
of the park.
you look over
your sholder,
but see no one.
it's always
been this way,
making you walk
faster, pressing
you forward,
to get to where
you're going
sooner.

monkey love

your new pet
monkey, jimmy,
or j j as you
call him,
gets out of his
cage and
uses your
computer while
you're at work.
he loves your
new mac.
the next day
you have a truck
load of
bananas at your
door. you
give him a look
and shake your
finger at him.
he shrugs
his shoulders,
then scratches
his coconut head,
showing
his teeth in
a wide smile.
you notice
that there are
now two monkeys
in the cage
and one is
wearing a short
dress, high heels
and making
noises with
a russian
accent. she's
wearing bright
red lipstick.
you forgive him
though. you can
understand that
kind of lonliness.

crazy girl

if you place
a shallow bowl
or dish of
white vinegar out
it will take
away the smell
of paint, or
other odors
that may offend
you. don't ask
me how, she
says, it just
works. and
the garlic
wreathe upon
the door, what's
with that, i
ask her. that
keeps away
the dead who
want to suck
your blood, she
says and offers
me some candy
from her plastic
pumpkin.

velvet cupcake

you left
your velvet
cupcake
on the sill
of the window
and the birds
have flocked
upon it.
the pink
ribbed paper
is all
that's left
to remind me
of who you
used to be.

the caged tiger

someone begins
to tell you a story.
you are on the bus
going to the zoo, so
you are trapped,
and have to listen.
it's a long story
that makes you
stare out the window
after a while. you
no longer nod, or
say hmm hmm to let
them know you are
listening, the window
is fogged with
your breath as
the person tells
you about their
life, the injustice
of parking tickets,
and spilled milk.
they tap you on
the arm to make a
point, they laugh,
they cough,
there may even be
tears at some point.
it's a long ride
to the zoo and you
can't wait to get
there, to hear
the silence of
the caged bengal
tiger who paces
restlessly
in the long shadows
of his day.

the kindness of others

you make
the mistake
of climbing
the mountain
that you see
outside your
window. you
take a cup
of coffe
and your cell
phone, but
you realize that
halfway up,
it's getting
harder to
breath and it's
cold. a jacket
and gloves, and
a wool hat
would have
helped, as would
rope, and
a pick and axe,
and oxygen
tubes and a
nice relief
map, but you only
have your coffee
and phone.
fortunately you
come to your senses
before you black
out and a bear
eats you,
and go back
down, taking
the path that
others had carved
out, being so
thoughtful
and so kind.

love

what isn't lost
is never
found, it stays
where it always
was, out of sight,
out of mind,
collecting dust,
fading in
the long days
of sun, going
brittle
with winter
and you becoming
one.

what time has done

you google
friends who were
friends, picking
faces from
memory, names
that scratch
the surface of
your mind, you
search
for them on
facebook and
various other
places that they
now reside, not to
talk, or to e mail,
or text or to
friend again,
but to just see
what time has
done to them
whether kind,
or unkind.

what did you do today, dear

in her under
wear she goes to
the window
to wave to
the mailman
as he takes his
time putting
the junk mail
through the slot,
he tips his
hat, his bag
less heavy, and
then the milkman
comes and
puts an extra
bottle of
whole milk
into the silver
box on the porch.
a dozen eggs,
a quart of orange
juice. he waves
and smiles.
the yard workers
take their
time, cutting
the lawn,
trimming
the hedges,
digging weeds
where there are
no weeds.
they climb the trees
to cut the dead
branches, staring
into the window
where she stands
and grins in
her silky shorts,
and then
the boyscouts,
a troop
marching along,
stops to salute
her before
moving on to
camp and tie knots
and to dream of
her while they
toss and turn in
their pup tents,
and finally
her husband arrives
and she greets
him at the door
fully dressed.

i hop

love is
a monkey wrench
you tell
her over
coffee and
cigarettes.
you are dining
late into
the night at
the international
house of
pancakes,
in fact it's
early morning.
three a.m.
you want
the waitress,
brittany,
in her blue
uniform to take
the plates
away of cold
eggs and nibbled
toast, but she's
busy in the kitchen
with juan,
a monkey wrench?
she says, blowing
smoke up
in the air.
it's nineteen
eighty-four,
you could smoke
then. yes,
you tell her
and sip your
black coffee.
it's heavy, it's
awkward, love is
hard to carry
around sometimes
and you don't know
where to put it.
i don't know
what the hell you're
talking about,
she says, but
i think you're
cute anyway. i hear
her heel go
off under the table
and then feel
her foot caress
the inside of my
pant leg. at this
point i try
to stop talking
crazy talk
and leave a
twenty on the table
for brittany.

the number

it's funny
how what you
throw away
is what you
need next.
the thing
that never
got used
in years
is tossed,
and then,
suddenly
you need
that phone
number you
scribbled
on a napkin.

towards land

it's the rowing,
the infinite
number of strokes,
the splash
and pull of oar
in water across
the dark lake
of time. slow
and easy, there
is no downhill,
there is no
path without
a storm, without
wave upon
wave before you.
it's the rowing,
not the land
so far ahead.

new born

a new born
as pink as a
fresh balloon
against an
april sky,
his milky
green eyes
half open
to the light,
his impossibly
small fingers
reaching
for what he
wants, not
what he needs,
and this is
how it starts.

bus stop

standing
alone at
the stop,
you feel
the cold
in your toes
first.
in your hands,
the tip
of your un
covered nose.
a wind rises
up your cuffs
and a shiver
rattles you
from top
to bottom.
this isn't
your bus
to get on
and leave,
but you wish
it was.

six across, the goddess of love

an old man
without his shirt,
back in his
soft chair,
the grey
tuffs of his
chest, tanned
and in the sun
his black
glasses on.
the paper
folded with
an unfinished
puzzle in
his lap as he
dozes with
pen in hand,
and a word he
used to know
left somewhere
on the tip
of his tongue.

it's hardly
rainin

the morning bath

the smell
of morning,
of shaved soap
and water,
the hot rising
steam above
the steel
white tub
with you sub
merged not
unlike
a pale ghostly
dream, your
leg lifted
along the rim,
your eyes
alive with
what will
come, and me
standing there
overwhelmed
with the quiet
of you.

frost bite

baby it's cold
out there,
but not as cold
as it suddenly
got in here, we
really need
to have that
talk, don't we.
i don't know
what you heard
out there on
the street, but
let me put some
gloves on,
a hat and scarf
and overcoat
as well. i
can tell by that
look in your
eye, that it's
going to be a
long cold winter.

bag by the door

the sun
only has five
billion
years left
before it
burns itself
out and
becomes
a red giant
that obliterates
our orbit.
i haven't
made plans
yet, but i
keep a bag
by the door.

politics

you grow
weary listening
to the debate.
words,
grandiose
statements of
change and
jobs, of ending
wars and
poverty and
keeping out
the unwanted.
it's the same
as it always
was for as long
as i can
remember. the
hot air
wafting above
the crumbling
rafters while
rome burns,
and the ashes
blow like
failed
promises across
the scorched
earth.

your basket

your basket
of sorrows
like stale
bread, spoiled
eggs, bad
fruit is in
your arms
again, and
yet again as
you walk
the streets
at night,
everything
you say,
everything
is fine,
your world
is right.

hollow moon

the woods
are not quiet
tonight.
the trees
are haunted
the leaves
are whispering
on the wind.
the stream,
so cold
and clear this
time of year
is speaking
to the stones
it rolls upon.
i won't venture
near, this
late at night,
leaning
out the window
at the hollow
moon.

no pulp welfare

the tired man
on the bench
dressed in rags
yells over to me
for a match to light
his fat cigar.
i tell him that
i don't have one,
that i don't
smoke and he sits
up and says, what's
wrong with people,
what the hell is
wrong with this world
today? do you have
anything to drink,
some scotch and i tell
him i can run up
and make him a quick
apple martini
and bring it down
to him,
and he laughs and
says what are you,
some kind of girl.
what about a sandwich,
do you have any
food up there to
bring down?
sure, i tell him,
ham and cheese okay?
toasted he says,
with mayo and onions,
on rye,
lettuce, but no
tomatoes, i'm
allergic to tomatoes.
and a dill pickle too.
okay, okay i tell
him, i'll be back.
hey he says, i'm
going to be hungry
and thirsty tomorrow
morning too, do you
do breakfast? i
like my orange juice
with no pulp.

the hunt

i could eat meat
she says, buttoning
her coat for the long
walk up the avenue.
charred red meat
and potatoes. throw
in a green bean or
two if you'd like
and a slice of bread,
but for the most part
i'd like a slab
of meat for dinner
tonight, can you do
that for me? i put
my hat on, and gloves,
wrap a scarf around
my neck and say, sure,
let's go. let's beat
the rush, and get
there before it's
all gone.

nothing surprises

nothing surprises
you anymore.
the earth being
round, the sun
being too far
away to ever
visit, and hot,
the moon just
a white ball
of dust and useless
crumbling rock,
nothing causes
alarm anymore,
not the neighbors
who argue through
the walls and then
make love at night,
the phone ringing
at three a.m.
with only bad
news. nothing
that people do
with guns and knives
makes you raise
your eyebrows and
go oh my, anymore.
too much water,
bad water under
all of these bridges.
the evangelist
with a whore,
the politician
stealing petty cash,
the mechanic not
changing your oil,
the one you love,
who slips out
through the open
back door.

sylvia

you get a post
card from
india. i miss
you, it says.
i love
you, signed
sylvia. but
you don't
know anyone
named sylvia.
you write
her back though
and ask her
when she's
coming home,
you tell her
how things are
not the same
without her.
the cat is on
the window sill
waiting
patiently.
you tell
her that you
love her,
that you miss
her, then
you go to
the post office
and tell
them you want
postage to
get it to india
to the woman
that you
now love,
sylvia.

meteor

you lie
in the cold
grass of
october, staring
up into
the clear
starlit sky.
you wait
and wait
for the streak
of light,
the meteor
that shoots
out of nowhere.
so brilliant,
and rare,
and how is
love not like
that, i ask you.

marching

i'm marching
in a circle
for work, more
jobs, to cure
a disease,
to end the war,
i'm up and down
the streets
with every colored
ribbon you can
imagine. my
shoes have
holes in them
from all the
marching i've
done lately.
end this, begin
that, let's
change the system,
make it all
right and we
can do it with
signs and shouts
and ribbons
and by marching
marching and
more marching.
i would march
all night, all
day, through
the snow and rain,
but at some point
i have to go
home and feed
my dog.

with heart in hand

the thought of
you, the storm
of you, the weather
that you bring
when you appear,
is slipping
like a road
covered in
fast falling
snow. i no
longer look
out the window
to see you
coming up
and over
the rising
hill with heart
in hand.

mona lisa

you wake up
in another time,
in another place,
the renaissance
period,
and there is a
knock at your
door, it's da
vinci wanting to
borrow a palette
of magnesium white
paint, and you
tell him no, go
get your own paint,
and he says, hey
but, and you say,
no buts about it,
always running out
of paint, aren't
you, can't you see
i have a guest
here, which is
mona lisa, who's
sitting on
the straw bed
with a smile on
her face and putting
her boots on.

cat bliss

the cat
arches her
back in
the moonlight
upon the sill.
she can
stare for
hours at
what passes
by the window.
bliss
is in not
knowing, not
coming,
not going.

you hear
the horses
late at night
riding into
town,
the rope
going over
the high tree.
you lie
in your cell
unrepentant
and asleep
believing
your guilt
will be worked
out on
the other side.

round and round

in a circle
she goes,
chasing her
tail in
a basket empty
of clothes,
round and
round and
round, there
is no place
left to
go if she
catches it.

a sea of coffee

the world
is a sea of
coffee.
cups are adrift
everywhere
you look.
there goes
one down
the street,
floating in
the gutter
with lipstick
on it's white
hard rim
as the rain
steams down
from espresso
sky, lids like
rafts, white
circular
dots of plastic,
remants from
that morning
cup, that
afternoon
pick me up,
that dessert
after dinner
latte.
the world
is a sea
of coffee, and
i'm in line.

did you find everything you need

is there anything
else i can
help you with, did
you find everything
you need today, the
cashier says, as
she puts your box
of donuts into
a plastic bag, and
you hesitate, but
then begin to
tell her about
all the things on
your list that you
need and want
help with, the line
backs up, and
people are grumbling,
but you begin to
tell her about
the time your
mother forgot your
birthday when you
were twelve, and
go from there.

from corner to
corner, the mad
man in dreadlocks
and baggy pants,
talks to no one
and everyone,
his hands moving
like vipers
in a pit, his arms
going up and
down, sideways.
he is feared, making
others go to
the other side
of the street
while he partols
the world that he
is in.

clown days

you come home
from work,
and take off
your clown
suit, the fat
red nose.
the water
flower from
your lapel.
you wipe the
make up off
your face,
then fling
your floppy
shoes to the
corner and sit
there in your
yellow silk
suit, like
a deflated
banana after
a long hard
day where
no one laughed.
bastards.
you get up and
fix yourself
a drink
pulling off your
orange fright
wig. there has
to be better
way you think
to yourself,
a better way.
coal mining
crosses your mind.

no going back

it turned
cold
suddenly.
blue skies
gave way
to grey.
the clouds
rolled
in thick
and low
across
the tops
of empty
trees.
the earth
thickened
as the wind
blew in
out of
nowhere.
there is no
going back
in weather
like this.

despite being
full, you manage
to eat one more
chocolate covered
donut. what
the hell you say,
winter is on
the way and i need
another layer
of fat to see
me through those
dark snowy nights.
what's one more
donut anyway.

the venus fly trap

someone sends you
a plant
in the mail.
someone
who left her
shoes under your
bed a few times,
not lillies, not
roses, not
flowers of any
friendly sort,
but a venus fly
trap. the note
with it says,
this is you, and
i'm apparently
just a fly in
your life. enjoy.
i find it all
very clever and
creative and so
call her up
to apologize
for everything
i've ever done
to hurt her,
then ask her out
to dinner
on friday night.
she says no, but
i put the plant
on the table
anyway and open
the window
to let new flies
fly in.

the walk

you realize now
looking back
and seeing where
you have come
from and where
you are now,
that you can go
forever, walk
from here
to china
and not get
tired when
there are things
to think about.

how

they scatter
quickly
in the wind.
these years.
these leaves
that turn
on cue
with each new
season,
and you press
them firmly
into the folds
of your memory,
between
the thickend
pages
of now
and youth.

the sea at night

in the night
when you take
the boat out
and strike
the oars let
them rattle hard
in the iron
of their rowlocks
and as you push
them into
the dark sea
pulling towards
the full moon
with a quiet splash
and it's white
embrace, it's
not the journey,
or where to
that's important,
it's more than
that. it's you
being in
the boat, in
the night, in
the sea, alone.

like apples from a tree

she falls in love
easily, men
are like apples
falling from a tree
in the wind.
she can't catch
them fast enough
before they hit
the ground,
or quick enough
before they turn
brown, and the worms
have bitten into
the soft thin skin,
but it's love she
says, true love
for sure this
time as she tosses
another one into
her basket of
shied cores.

these diamonds
on the shore
of night
as the black
sky rolls out
it's gems.

hey where did we go

there is sometimes
something that you
went for and left
without. it was
the one thing that
inspired you to
get up from
the couch and
venture out into
the cold rain to
buy and drive
to the grocery store
glowing like a
beacon in the night.
but you got
distracted by
the lights and
shiny floors, the
rattle of empty
carts, the soothing
music piped in from
the sixties. marvin
gaye cooing as you
leaned over
the tomatoes, the
ripe red delicious
apples. van morrison
happily singing
brown eyed girl,
making love behind
the stadium,
in the tall grass,
while you surveyed
the cookie aisle
then wandered towards
the milk. so many
milks to choose
from. and by
the end of the
temptation's ain't
too proud to beg,
sweet darling, your
cart was full, but
still missing that
one thing that you
should have written
down.

horseback riding

the horse never
throws you, no,
she insists, it's
your fault for
falling off. she
says this from
her hospital bed
where she has
just awakened from
a three day a coma
after hitting
the brick wall
where she rode in
circles her mare.
the white helmet
she was wearing
sits on the bed.
dented and scratched,
bloodied. something
spooked her, she
says. poor baby.

store front vet

and as the doctor
smiles, not with
his eyes, and the
receptionist, red
eyed and bent,
head over her
magazine, quiet
in her professional
way, you
step towards
the small back
room of green
linoleum tiles
and a steel
gurney where
the dog, your
bright lover
of life will
lie, and finally
without command,
stay.

shadow

even your shadow
has forsaken
you, when you turn
around it's gone,
no longer stuck
to the back
of your shoe.
you yell out
for it in vain.
it doesn't like
this dark side,
it wants the sun,
the blue
sky of you.
not this, so
grey and covered
in rain
tattered clouds.

beneath the sink

her father
would hide
his liquor beneath
the kitchen
sink. he'd
tuck a neat
pint or two
of jim beam,
or old crow
safely below,
between the
musty shadows
of wet pipes
and buckets,
grey rags.
and when he
decided to
tip one towards
his dry lips
you knew. he
was either
singing or
there was crying
in the other
room where a
hole was in
the wall.

the bathroom floor

there is no
such thing as sin
she says
while scrubbing
the bathroom
floor with
a toothbrush.
her knees
are rubbed
red and raw,
her hands are
pink and swollen
from the work.
i can't get
these floors
clean, she
says to me and
looks up.
i need help.

the fire

everyone gathers
for a fire
to see the roof
in flames,
the windows
shattered
from the heat.
they stand back
holding their
breath,
shaking their
heads, better
them, than me.

silence

you argue
silently
with the way
the sun
has set,
how the moon
just appears
in the absence
of light.
you bicker
with the wind
and how it
bellows
in the hollow
darkness of
trees.
and when
rain falls
you hold a
grudge against
the cold
puddles,
grumbling
to no one
your feelings.

clarity

i waste no
time on
that one.
a year past.
enough
blue hours
spent. i want
my money
back.
i want a refund
on false
love, on goods
undelivered.
the clarity
of time
and distance
is as clean
and as clear
as a cold
glass of water
on a bright
starlit night.

the gate

the unhinged gate
in disrepair,
leaning
on it's white
trimmed shoulder
with peeling
paint, a rusted
bolt that
neither slides
or closes
one in or out,
and the thick
grass too
has no memory
as to who
has come and gone.
that worn
path no longer
there, the collected
stones, once
playful seats
now cold
and overgrown.

the apple queen

i was getting
dangerously low
on apple butter
so i made the trip
up to berkley
springs west
virginia for the
annual autumn
apple butter
fesitval. i wasn't
disappointed
in the least.
i have enough
apple butter stocked
away in my cupboard
to get me through
the winter and
into spring, and on
the bonus side of
the trip, i fell
in love with the
apple butter festival
queen who was riding
on a float to resemble
a butter knife and
a plate. we fell in
love after the parade
at a local saloon
where they were serving
hard apple cider.
i feel like this time,
this is the real deal.
i just love her apples.
i could bob all night
for apples like hers.

that new car smell

my new car salesman
mohammed,
smiles, adjusts
his tie and says,
i can get you
that car, but black
is hard to find.
you have no idea
how rare a black
car is these days.
i look out the window
of the showroom,
sliding forward
in my plastic chair,
sipping from a styro
foam cup of cold
coffee, and stare out
at the highway
where every other
car is black. you're
going to need wheels
on this car right?
the salesman asks
me, shaking his head
while his hand moves
around his calculator.
i can only give you
twelve dollars for
your old car. sorry,
but it's used, and
i see that someone
sat in the back seat
once and put gum
into the ashtray.
smells like perfume
back there too. he
looks at me and i
shake my head. dunno,
i say. no clue
about that. only
twelve dollars, i ask
him. i can talk to
my manager and see what
we can do if you are
willing to buy today,
he says. do we have
a deal?

park clean up day

it was unfortunate
that the park clean
up day coincided
with the deer management
hunt with cross bows
by local amateur
hunters positioned
high up in the trees,
oh and halloween.
those picking up
the littered
debris of bottles
and bags, cartons
and wrappers should
never have been
wearing their costumes
with antlers and
fuzzy bear suits.

less

you carry less
of yourself
now that there
is grey in your
hair and your
step is slower.
so much that was
so important
is over.
the weight of
future years
is gone. you
think in terms
of the last
time you'll buy
this, or that,
or go here, or
go there. but you
like the feeling
of less. there
is no sadness
in this age.
you are almost
off the ground
with the thought
of it. almost.

still angels

the children
tethered together
by nannies along
the sidewalk at
midday. uniformed
and small, their
legs just touching
the ground, still
angels, still
the best of what
all of us could be
given the chance
to stay so young.

the path

as you roll smoothly
through the darkened
woods, seeing the still
shadows of grey deer
on the unsafe edges,
and swift foxes like
whispers weaving
through the brush, you
remember much of
what you've forgotten.
how things change
and yet remain
the same on this old
path and off it,
with each toss
and turn of a new season.

the winning ticket

you win
the lottery
just ten million.
but you vow
that it won't
change your life.
but it's too
late as you lie
in the doctor's
office getting
botox injections
into the furrows
of your brow
and fat sucked out
of your pendulous
belly. a hair weave
is not out of
the question now.
as is that new
mercedes. baby
seal black
with leather
and all
the trimmings.
maybe a driver
too wearing a cap.
it's only seven
million after taxes,
so you realize
that you need
to go slow,
but you are not
afraid to buy
grey goose by
the gallon now,
or fresh crabs
by the bushel. caviar
by the case.
pfffft, money,
you say to
your new friends,
no problem as you
fly everyone to
vegas for a weekend.
you are stunned
and pleased at how
women have suddenly
recognized your charm
and wit and good
looks, what took
them so long?
you change your
number immediately
because your mother
keeps calling about
something and move
into a condo
overlooking
the city. it has
it's own elevator.
you've always wanted
one of those. you
get unlimited texting
and the last three
remaining channels
on your cable plan
that you don't
yet have. you cancel
your match dot com
subscription
and join millionaire
match. by the end of
the month you think
back on the old you,
the poor you,
working for a living,
an old car, an
old girlfriend,
eating peanut butter
sandwiches while
standing at the sink
late at night,
worn shoes on your
feet and drinking
smirinoff. it's all
good now, but no,
you haven't changed
a bit. you are still
you and you have
plenty of people that
will happily agree
with you. things have
changed, but
you haven't.

rock creek parkway

it winds and dips,
it's rough
and edged deep
with ruts of
whatever they
use to mill
the old pavement.
the construction
goes on forever
with do not
enter signs
and barrel after
orange striped
barrel lining
the beaten path
with nets to keep
the runners
and the bikers
off to the side.
it is a blind
series of
nothing but s's,
moving along
beneath the kennedy
center, along
the sun pink river
and into the park
where a black
canopy of trees
enfolds you
in old arms,
below the stone
bridges,
up, up towards
mass ave,
connecticut ave,
onto the zoo
and beach drive.
out onto calvert
street where
you thank God
once more that
you've made
it out alive.

let's go out instead

your smoke alarm
signals you from
your nap that dinner
is ready. the house
is full of
smoke and your
eyes are watering,
you choke a little
and clear your
throat. you've
been out for over
an hour, after
drinking a half
a bottle of wine,
sleeping
soundly while
the pot roast
simmered and then
caught fire
in the oven. but
you like it that
way, burnt and
crispy. of course
the potatoes
and carrots that
you so carefully
cut up are shriveled
and black. your
date arrives before
you can order chinese
over the phone.
you look through
the peep hole and
admire the little
black dress she is
wearing, and that
her hair is done
up nicely. you tell
her to wait
as you put the fire
out and change from
your pajamas into
something clean
and decent. you yell
through the closed
door. let's go
out to dinner, okay?
she peeks into
the window and nods
yes.

no dinosaurs, please

i wish we
had dinosaurs
she says,
daydreaming
her chin in her
hands staring
out across
the daisy covered
meadow,
into the woods.
how fun would
that be to see
a real t-rex
walking about,
a brontosaurus,
or a pterodactyl
lumbering across
the sky with it's
expansive grey
wings. don't you,
she says, dreamily,
wouldn't dinosaurs
be fun. not
really you tell
her. traffic is
bad enough as
it is already.

asleep

my leg has
fallen asleep.
it tingles and
burns, has no
feeling from
hip to foot.
it sparkles
with an infinite
number of stars
as i try to
stand on it's
numb leaden bone.
thank god
for the remote.

there will be blood

you've had a
bad morning
shaving in the dark.
the power is out
because of the rain,
the wind,
the trees falling
down taking out
the power lines.
you have small pieces
of tissue all over
your face and neck
where the blood
is eeking out due
to the nicks
and cuts. and
when you get on
the train to go
to work, you see
women blotting
their legs and
other men dabbing
at their shaving
wounds. it's
amazing how
connected you feel
to the world at
large during
times like these.

the bank

you go the bank
to make a
large withdrawl.
it's not your
bank and you're
carrying heat
and wearing a
mask. to your
surprise,
there are five
other bank
robbers ahead
of you, standing
in line, sweating
beneath their
masks, holding
their hand written
demands on limp
pieces of paper.
even the tellers
and the bank
manager bent
over his desk
in his glass
enclosed office
is wearing a mask.
on a side table
there is freshly
brewed coffee
and donuts, you
go over and take
a seat, relax
and wait your turn.
there are chocolate
covered glaze,
your favorite. you
look at your watch.
it's almost twelve,
banking hours
are nearly over.

if i can just
get out of this
jam, pay this
bill, meet the
right person,
move into the
right house,
the right
neighborhood,
have that car,
the shirt,
those shoes,
take that trip
to europe, then
i know, i just
know, everything
will be alright.

quitting work

i'm handing in my
resignation
tomorrow i tell
my wife as she
stands at the sink
chopping onions
for the stew she's
making for
dinner in eight
hours. but you
can't resign she
says, wiping
a tear away from
her eye. but it's
the onion making
her teary not
that she's sad
about my decision
to quit work.
and why can't i,
i say, tying my
shoes under the
kitchen table.
because you are self
employed. you own
your own business.
the business is
you and you are
the..., okay, i
get it, i tell her.
it's all very zen
like i know. i'm
just tired of working,
and having the man
keep me down. she
laughs while a tear
runs down her cheek.
she grabs some carrots
to dice and wipes
her eyes. pfff.
you are the man
honey, she says.
how can the man
keep you down,
when you are
the....okay, okay.
so what will you
do when you quit work.
how will we live,
how will we pay
the bills, take a
vacation, how will,
we....what time's
dinner, you ask
shaking your head.
six, don't be late.
see you later.

more scrabble

i have a j
a z, a q without
the u, one o
and two
e's, i'm
doomed. let's
quit now
before you
win.
i can't find
a word
to put me
past you and
isn't that the
way it's
always been?

how it begins

you come home
to find
your door open,
the house
unlocked.
someone has been
inside living
your life
while you were
out. there
is a plate of
bacon and eggs
on the table,
toast with a bite
taken out.
orange juice
and coffee.
the newspaper is
open to the metro
section,
the obituaries.
there is a
picture of
you, but it
can't be you,
you are still here,
you are not
gone. you are
hungry and ready
for more life.
you yell up
the stairs to
see if anyone is
there.
you go from
room room but
there is no
one. this is
how ends, this
is how it
begins.

waiting for the light to change

the politicians,
smiling,
are standing
near the intersection
waving with
their placards
and promises
in hand. waving,
and waving.
the whole day,
out there as you
wait for the
light to change,
and for
the world to
change too, which
never seems
to happen.

and now this

curls of
empty trees
leaning
against each
other
as the wide
stream widens
and rises
at the edge
of where they
stand and
wait it out.
and your hand
against
the window
is cold.
you feel
the bones of
winter rubbing
against
you. it's
always a surprise
when things
don't go
the way you
planned, summer
being summer,
and now this.

not that hungry yet

an angry
woman who
needs her
wallpaper up
tomorrow
calls on
the phone.
she needs
measurements
and advice,
and needs it
done sooner
not later.
kids are
screaming in
the background.
dogs are
barking.
we've never
met and she's
already
yelling at
me, pinning
me down to
a date and
a time that
i can come look
at the job.
it's silk and
she wants
the ceiling done
too and a
guarantee
that it will
never crimp or
fail or fall.
i have a
headache within
two minutes
of our
conversation
with her yelling,
and me listening.
gently i slip
the phone back
into it's
cradle. i'm
not that hungry
yet.

election day

if elected i promise
to give everyone
everything they need
at the expense of no
one. everyone will
be happy. there
will be no more
wars, no one will
be hungry or homeless.
don't pay your taxes,
pffft, no problem.
even the animals
will lie down
and sleep together,
the wolves with
the sheep, the snakes
with the birds.
the cats with the
dogs, the fish with
the, ummm, i'll have
to think about that
one. i mean do fish
sleep? anyway, if
elected, if you vote
for me you'll get
a good night's
sleep and three
square meals a day.
i'll even reduce
the price of
coffee to a mere
one dollar a cup. yes.
i can do that, don't
ask me how, but i
will, i promise. but
first pull that lever,
fill out that ballot,
raise your hand
for me. your new
king and leader.

icebergs

don't tell me
it's october,
she says.
i don't need to
hear that.
nothing good
happens
in october.
we lie in bed,
backs to each
other, cold
and white like
two icebergs
trying to separate
and float their
own way.
what about
halloween,
i ask her, that's
fun. you're
right, she says,
that's when you
put on a mask.
october is not
all bad.

a rainy sunrise

i've got your number
on a book
of matches, i've
got your sister
in the other
room. i've got
a hangover, and
glass of seltzer,
this place could
use a broom.
i've got to get up
and shake of
the cobwebs, put
on some pants
and a pair of
shoes. i've
got no where i
need to be, but
i have to get
there real soon.

chainsaw

you see a madman
walking down
the street with
a chainsaw in
his hands,
it's whirring
loudly and there
is a look of
crazy in his
eyes, so you
cross to the
other side, and
then you see your
soon to be
ex-girlfriend emily
coming up
the sidewalk
heading directly
towards you with
a handful of
emails that you
sent her late last
night while
finishing off
a bottle
of pinot noir,
you quickly run
to the other side
and take your
chances there.

the empty boot

as the fireman
puts his boot out
on the street
corner, and the
man on the stoop
has his hand open
for whatever spare
change you can
spare, and when
the doorbell
buzzes with someone
needing a donation
to keep the march
of dimes marching,
and when
the phone rings
from goodwill,
the good samaritans,
or clothes planet,
the lighthouse
for the blind, or
the purple heart
and what not,
you wonder if there
is room for you
out there on
the line,
when your cup
is empty and needs
to be filled too.

the light

your sunshine
is the light above
your bed,
that swinging
bulb with a long
grey string, where
moths and flies
have gathered
in a choir of
buzzing prayer.
a congregation
of misguided
hope, thinking
wrongly that
light equals
happiness and
when the light
goes out, when
the string is
pulled and nothing,
what then? where
is there to
turn when
faith darkens.

a better place

let's go down
the road. it's a
better life
down there. right
over the hill,
beyond the trees,
across the lake.
come on, let's go.
the sun is shining,
the moon is set
pretty in the night
sky. let's hurry
before we're old,
there's a better
place down the road.

books

i remember the time
i came home from
work and all of my
books were packed
in boxes. salinger,
hemmingway, faulkner,
steinbeck and
o'connor, tucked
and stacked neatly
into cardboard
boxes while my ex
wife wrote with a
magic marker on
the top in bold
black letters.BOOKS.
what the hell, i
said what's going
on here? i'm giving
away your books,
you have too many,
some of these are
thirty years old.
you have hundreds
of them and you've
already read them.
maybe the poor would
like to read them
as well. i needed
more room on
the shelves for
my porcelain
figurines anyway.
apparently she had
never heard of
the public library.
and this was one
of many many clues
as to why we
aren't together now.

tomorrow night

i don't want to
die alone,
she says, i want
to meet someone
and die with
them. oh really,
i say to her.
sounds lovely.
two old skeletons
sitting in the sun
waiting to die.
that's not what
i mean, she says.
i want to live
a full life, but
to share it with
someone who loves
me and i love
them. to live out
our golden years
together. it's a
good goal, i tell
her. good luck
with that. and what
about you, don't
you want to be
in love and to
live out your
final years in a
happy relationship?
sure, i tell her,
but my goals aren't
quite as lofty
as yours.
i'm more worried
about tomorrow
night. if i can get
through that, and
nobody gets hurt,
well, that's
fine with me.

going home

be careful
in the rain,
she used to say.
stay warm,
stay dry.
and then she'd
wait until
the car would
pull away
before flashing
the porch
light and closing
the door with
a final wave.
of course none
this is true,
but wouldn't it
be nice if
it was.

bread money

my grandmother
used to hide
her money,
small bills
mostly,
in coffee cans,
in the sleeves
of old coats
and oven mittens,
a pulled up
floor board in
the basement.
a vent in
the ceiling.
she never believed
in banks,
in stocks and
bonds, any cash
she had, which
wasn't much
was folded
neatly into
squares and tucked
away for a rainy
day that never
came. she swore
she'd never go
hungry again.
and after
she died of old
age weighing
seventy pounds,
we're still
finding it.

this shark
sees a man
swimming, his
arms and legs
thrashing, so
he calls up
his friends
and says, hey,
we're having a
cookout, come
quckly.
and so his
friends arrive
with fins
cutting through
the water,
and then there's
the gnashing
and clawing of
teeth.

don't make
me pull this car
over. if you don't
stop teasing
your sister, you
are going to get
it little mister.
i'm watching you.
get your fingers
out of her
ears and stop
blowing bubbles
in her face. hey,
hey, are you deaf
young fellow.
but she started
it. i don't care.
both of you keep
your hands to
yourself or i'm
not stopping for
icecream. hey,
i see you sticking
your tongues out
at each other,
roll them right back
into your mouths
or i swear no
dairy queen tonight.

at the races

i put almost
everything i had
on one horse.
one race down at
the track. i had a
hunch, a clue,
a tip that just maybe
this horse could
win despite the odds.
she came in last.
and as she staggered
across the finish line,
and i ripped my ticket
in half, tossing it
into the air, another
one caught my eye
on the infield grass.
long and lean,
as tightly wound
and beautiful as any
horse i'd ever seen.
this horse could
be the one i whispered
to no one. she runs
tomorrow. the rest
of what i have will
go on her.

under the hood

she doesn't walk,
she sashays
down the street.
her hair swinging
left then right
pretending that she
doesn't know
how cute she is.
it's not the hips,
or legs that pull
her along and
makes you look
a little too long,
no it's something
else, the engine
perhaps. what's
under the hood.

the dead sea

despite catching
the reflection
of sun and clouds
and an autumn
moon, like love
gone bad,
nothing can
live there,
no fish survive,
no plants
to speak of,
you can float
on your back
with ease, but
don't let it
fool you, it's
the enormous
salinity of
it all keeping
you afloat.
there is no
body of water
that sits
lower than
the dead sea in
it's brackish
depth
with no way
out, no way in.

brown shoes

your brown shoes
still fit.
still shine, await
your feet
if so inclined
to take a walk
or to skp down
the road, or even
dance perhaps if
the chance
arises. but no.
those were
the shoes you wore
with lily.
you can't toss
them out, and you
can't wear them
again. it's funny
how it works
that way.

no singing

it won't stop
raining, each
day is the same.
a grey drizzle,
a downpour, a
deluge. the creek
runs high,
the trees sag
and fall under
their own weight.
lightning creases
the sky
as the thunder
rolls. everything
is wet and full
of mildew and mold.
it's a world
of open umbrellas,
of raincoats
and boots, of
mud. there is no
singing in this
continual rain.
no fools are out
there dancing.

parmesan mashed potatoes

i want this to
last forever, or
at least for a very
very long time,
she says as we're
eating dinner.
and you say, what
are you talking
about, this meal?
whew. i'm already
stuffed,
although i could
use a small slice
of chocolate cake
if you want to
share a piece.
she rolls her eyes,
and takes a long
sip of her wine. she
leans her elbows
onto the table
brushes the hair
away from her face
and makes eye contact.
no, this, us, our
relationship, our
whatever it is that
we have going on here.
how come you
aren't eating
your mashed potatoes,
you say. don't be
so selfish, slide
some over here.
you nudge your plate
towards hers making
them clink romantically
together. she uses
her spoon and shovels
a mound of creamy
parmesan potatoes
onto your plate.
that's good, thanks.
i think we have
a good thing going
here, don't you? she
says. it's so rare
these days that two
people meet and get
along as well as
we do, don't you
think? you nod yes,
hmmm, hmmm. you arch
your eyebrows to
confirm what she's
saying. you start to
eat the potatoes.
still hot, you say.
wow. i can't believe
you don't like these,
good god these are
good. just have a
taste, go on. you
put your fork out to
her but she shakes
her head no. more for
me, then, you tell
her. more for me.
now what were we
talking about?

quaker oats

i was eating a
bowl of catholic
oats the other
morning, that's right,
catholic oats,
not quaker oats.
they take a full
hour to cook
unlike the quaker
variety which take
a whole minute.
the catholic oats
are also full of
sugar and berries,
a variety of nuts.
there are lot's
of calories packed
inside and come
in a stained glass
box. St. Peter
is on the front
wagging his at finger
at you like uncle
sam. i felt guilty
after the first
spoonful, but
kept eating, worried
sick about
purgatory and
hell, limbo
and questioning
if there was
any truth at all
in the food pyramid.
i kept kneeling,
standing, sitting
according to the
instructions on
the side of
the box. by bowl's
end i was full
and yet confused
and burdened with
angst. i may go back
to the simpler oats
at some point.
the quaker oats,
but for now i'm at
the mercy of
St. Peter and
catholic oats.

white birds

like ghosts,
clandestine
white birds
sliding on
dry wings
through
the frost of
trees hung
heavy with
last night's
snow. whose
birds are these
so out of season
one cannot
know, but only
wonder at how
lost even
beauty can be
in winter.

yellow raft

after floating
on a yellow raft
for what seems
like weeks you begin
to hallucinate.
you mend all of
your relationships
as you nibble on
your leather shoes
and sip water
that you've caught
and cupped in
your hands when
the rains came. you
loved the sun
when you were
young, but now
it's just a reminder
of another day
passing as you
drift and drift
across this
great unending sea.
the fish come up
to stare at you
wide eyed and cold
as they swim
like grey feathers
as one. this is
not the life you've
chosen and suddenly
as if a shooting
star, you realize
that neither was
the other one.

we make a good
pair, she says.
me and you as
one. let's move
in together and
make a go of it.
i'm slow
to respond and
she says, did
you hear me.
and you say,
but i like to
take a nap at
five, and sometimes
throw all my
dirty laundry
down the stairs
and leave it there
for days. i am
capable of lots
of dust, of
unswept floors
and dishes in
the sink. sometimes
i am up all
night doing this
and that.

muses

a brilliant word
or two from
you is all i need
to go another
mile. a kiss,
a touch from
your long fingers
upon my soul
will keep
me fueled and
moving down
that mystery
highway where
there is no
setting suns,
just rising, rising
white pendant
moons.

mail day

unopened mail,
on the table,
still cold
and sealed within
their white
beds, can wait.
i'm full of
bad news, of
dire circumstances
told from
afar. yes. we
all need help.
but can't i wait
just another day
to not hear
about your
troubles. i miss
those days when
a card would
come and you'd
shake it out
for money not
sadness.

delivering the post

in the peaceful
warmth of cold
on the corner
of winthrop
and audrey lane
you'd fold
and bend
the post and
slip the news
into plastic
sheaths to
throw onto your
list of porches
that circled
round on your
given route.
and those
mornings of
solitude, with
the dog
so patient
beside you,
the sky full
of half light
and stars
waiting for
the wagon to
roll, your
shoes to move
through the dark
streets
and work, as
much then as
you still do
to this day.

september

summer slips
out the back door
quietly
on soft feet.
she's leaving
a trail
of wet leaves,
of skies
dissolving quickly
under
the apricot sun.
it reminds me
of you, of love
ending.

discipline

i admire
the discipline
of the mountain
climber. going so
far, so high,
pressing on
despite the cold
the thin air
and danger of
it all, falling
into a crevice
to be stuck and
frozen until
the end of time.
and the swimmer
who swims the channel,
the sea, across
the ocean from
cuba to the keys
stroke after
stroke in the choppy
whip of waves
being nudged by
grey nosed
sharks with
lancer teeth. how
brave they are,
how strong minded
and willed. and
i think
about this as
i drive my car,
trying to make
it home, to
traverse the twelve
miles or so
without stopping
for coffee just
once. persevering
towards my
destination without
a grande coffee
in my hand. the
discipline is
elusive, my willpower
weak, not being
able to stop as
each coffee shop
goes by and by.
i'll never make it.

missing person

i saw your
signs
the other
day on
the telephone
poles
all along
the highway.
missing
person with
a small heart.
the paltry
fifty dollar
reward was
embarassing.
it was a picture
of me. i
don't take
to the camera
well and was
disappointed
on the photo
that you chose.
i wasn't feeling
well that day
after eating
a hot dog
at the carnival
and cotton candy.
i am in
the back seat
of a stranger's
car right
now, gagged
and in
a kennel cage.
they are on
their way
to your house.
i hope you're
happy now.

dr. phil

you come
home tired from
a long day
on the job, there
is paint and
dust in your hair,
two of your fingers
are stuck together
with acrylic
caulking. you walk
the dog
to the corner
and back, you
pour some food
into his bowl.
toss him the ball
a few times
then turn on
the t.v. . you
go to the kitchen
and make
a sandwich.
ham on rye
with a squirt
of mustard. you
grab a cold
beer, a handful
of baked chips.
you hate them
but you
don't want to
expand your
waist line
any further
than what it
is. you get
the jar of sweet
gherkins and lay
out a couple of
wet green pickles
onto your paper
plate. you
make the dog
sit and beg
then toss him
a doggy treat
which he swallows
without chewing.
finally you settle
in to watch t.v.
and eat your dinner.
dr. phil is on.
you love dr. phil.
the first words out
of his mouth, which
he says in every
episode are,
"you people need
to stop hurtin one
another. look at me,
not at her. when
she picks up a knife
to stab you, don't
you pick up a knife
to stab her. why
don't you pick
up a fork instead.
and use it to deflect
her stabbing
motion. she loves
you and is only
acting out on her
emotions." this of
course makes everyone
cry before
the commercial break.
you love this show,
it has such a way
of making you
thrilled with your
own life.

falling from the sky

as hundreds
of pounds
of melted metal
cascades from
the sky
in a burning
heap of spent
technology
and we dodge
the rain
of fire
as it burns
brightly
across the blue
curve of
horizon, i
wondered
if maybe we
shouldn't meet
sooner, rather
than later
for that cup
of coffee.

hemmingway's cats

hemmingway,
given a cat named
snowball by
a seafaring captain
in key west
fell in love
with the polydactyl
feline and to
this day, long
after his
departure, they
have multiplied
and still roam
the grounds and
house at sixty
strong,with names
like emily
dickinson,
and thoreau,
hopping walls
and causing
mischief, many
with six toes,
like gloves
or mittens,
ready to pounce
on any clean
well lighted
place and sit
in his ghostly lap.

the narrow path
that leads
down to the water
is overgrown.
it hasn't seen
shoes and boots
in years.
the bramble
rises and wraps
along the trees.
it's where
we used go when
the seasons
changed and
the trees dropped
their leaves,
and the sun set
low along
the horizon.

it's a good world

full of novacaine
after a root canal
and a new crown,
you go for coffee
and a scone.
your white shirt
is quickly streaked
with blotches of wet
brown drips
and crumbs, you
have a crosseyed
look about you
and can only mumble
on the phone. you
realize later
that your zipper
has been down
all day. you are
trying to read
the newspaper
upside down.
a woman comes
over and smiles
at you and puts
a dollar in front
of you and this
repeats itself
until the table
is covered in
money. it warms
your heart to think
about the goodness
in the world,
then you take
your sleeve and
wipe the drool
from the corner
of your mouth.

the party
starts at eight.
bring a friend,
bring a
bottle of your
favorite wine.
wear a dress,
there will be
dancing. it may
go on all
night. don't
worry about
the food, there
will be plenty.
i'm busy right
now wrapping
shrimp in
bacon.

marie

you start with
a small room
over a chinese
restaurant. you
are happy there.
with your table,
your chairs,
your sofa
and tv.
and you love
the smell of
roasted duck
and fried rice
wafting through
the vents as you
lie in bed
and listen to
the traffic
outside your
window. it can't
get much
better than this
you say to
your girlfriend
marie who has
a pillow over
her head and is
trying to sleep.
and years later,
with more rooms,
more furniture
more of everything
that doesn't matter,
you remember marie,
and think about
how right you
were.

unspoken

he remembers a
girl he knew in
school. blue eyes.
a pony tail.
short legs
with skinned knees.
he loved her
as much as he's
ever loved anyone
despite her
never knowing.
which doesn't
matter even now.
so many decades
past. why
change this
pattern, he thinks.
why let anyone
in on such
a thing.

the bank robber

the bank robber
sits drinking coffee.
he's waiting
for the doors to
open. he's
wearing a mask,
and gloves. and
has a briefcase.
he carries no gun,
not believing
in violence.
there is a map
on the table that
he studies.
he talks on the phone
to his wife
and tells her not
to wait up,
to leave
dinner in the fridge
if he isn't home
by six. he looks
at his watch
and sighs.
another day, he
says to himself.
another bank.

she lies down
in a sea of feathers
while the pink
street lights bloom
below her fourth
floor window.
the taxis run
all night.
there's a man
curled on a bench
outside the seven
eleven. a rat
moves easily
across the street.
a siren. something
in the alley.

reach under there,
no right there,
give me your hand.
do you feel that?
it's a small round
lump, the size of
a pea, or a ball
bearing, it's hard
too and it hurts
a little. what is
it, i ask. did
see a doctor. no,
not yet, she says.
i'd rather wait
and not have that
news just yet.
i'd like to go
another day or
so and believe
that all is well.
i understand, i
tell her. bad
news keeps. but
it's probably
nothing. don't
worry about it.