driven

behind the wheel
she's a dictator
in a foreign
country with no
red lights, all
lights mean go.
as her white
knuckles wrap
around the wheel.
these cars in
front of her,
or to the side
are her minions
that better heed
her horn and voice,
the gesture that
she waves while
on the way to
whole foods
to get some hummus
and organic
apples.

a feeling

you've left
something behind
or have
forgotten
something. an
iron on,
or light,
or the burner
on the stove.
perhaps the door
is unlocked
or a window
unlatched.
milk left on
the counter.
it's just a
feeling, like
the one i have
when you leave
without a kiss
goodbye.

notes on the door

where is this
relationship going
the note on
the door says. it's
stuck there by
a pen knife
right next to
the peep hole
which you looked
out of before
retrieving it
in your slippers
and pajama bottoms.
there's actually
several notes.
one from your
mother about
sunday dinner,
another from
your neighbor
about picking
up after your
dog, and one
from your son
who wants to know
your atm pin
number just
for emergencies
while in LA.
what's up with
all these hand
written notes, you
wonder out loud
to your dog.
doesn't anyone
text anymore,
e mail? we both
shrug simultaneously
then go fix
breakfast.

ch ch ch changes...

i admit, i'm slow
to change, if i
change at all.
reading a book
on an electronic
tablet, or having
all my music
plugged into my
ear at one time,
doesn't melt
my butter.
and speaking of
butter, it was very
hard to give
up my butter churn,
not to mention,
my wind up watch
and stereo with
speakers in
the corner.
the horse, had
to go, obviously,
it was too hard
on him as well
as me, living in
a highrise.
i no longer hunt
or fish, or trap
though. ever
since safeway
began carrying
fish and meats
i put away the bow
and arrow,
the fishing rods
and lobster pots.
so that's good.
i am evolving.

shopping for jeans

you need a new
pair of jeans, so
you go shopping.
you want something
stylish and hip,
but not too hip.
after all you
just hit your
fiftieth birthday
for the eighth
year in a row.
the ones you have
are baggy in
the butt, but
tight everywhere
else from eating
too much christmas
pie. they are
getting thread
bare from a
thousand washes.
you like the new
skinny jeans, but
they are so tight
that parts of
you turn blue,
you can't even
button them despite
the tag saying
that they are
your size. they
squeeze your kidneys
so much that you
suddenly have to
run to the store bathroom.
that done, you
go to the next pile
and find the ones
with embroidery
on the back pockets.
fancy stitching
in various colors.
you think that maybe
you have stumbled
into the teenage girl
department, but no.
they are for men,
but perhaps not
so manly men. there's
another stack where
it looks like
someone has taken
a cheese shredder
to the fabric, you
look for a sales
person to report
this vandalism, but
there's no one around.
then there's the
dirty jeans and the ones
that are faded, as if
bleach had been added
to the mix. where
are the lee's,
the wranglers, the
levis...oh, there
they are, where
those farmers and
heavy machine
operators are
flipping through
the stacks. it's
really over, you
think to yourself
it truly is.

new ice

it starts with
a blink,
a forgotten
name or place
you've been to.
the lost key,
the parked
car. the missed
appointment.
the place you
were to meet
your friend, what's
her name?
a meal you
had just
yesterday. what
was it?
steak or fish.
linguini?
your feet
have suddenly
found a thin
coat of ice
beneath them,
as you hold
on and try
to remember
dry land
in spring.

bug world

you read about
a bug in national
geographic
that is going
extinct. there
might be one or
two left in
the entire world.
both were last
seen in africa,
somewhere along
the ivory coast.
so you decide to
go there, to save
these bugs. put
them into an empty
jar with holes
in the lid so
they can breathe.
you will keep
them alive until
they breed more
bugs. you will
be the one to keep
the species
going. you google
africa on
your computer as
a stink bug crawls
across the screen.
he's very very slow.
with his grey
medallion back,
and long spindly
legs. his friend
is hanging onto
the curtain where
you flicked him ten
minutes ago. moving
along at a snails
pace. you knock
the one on your screen
in the same direction
but he hits the wall
with a muted thud.
this doesn't seem
to injure him at all
as he shakes his
head, rolls over,
and begins his long
trek back up the leg
of your desk.
at this point you've
lost interest in
the bugs about to
go extinct. you're
thinking that maybe
it's okay. maybe they
had a good trillion
year run, and that's
good enough. you
see how far away
africa is and realize
that's it's way
too far to go anyway
and you don't really
have that kind
of time, or luggage.

Portland

she pokes her
head
outside
the box
and stares
at me,
sitting
on the couch
across
the room.
what are you
doing, i ask
her. she's
cut a hole
into the top
with which
her head
protrudes.
i'm thinking
she says.
i'm
thinking.
you've changed
margaret, i
tell her.
somehow since
your trip to
portland,
you've changed.

part time

i look out my
office window
and see a man
walking down
the street
wearing my clothes,
he's hand in
hand with my
wife and children.
my dog is on
a leash in his
other hand.
he's wearing
my hat too,
and shoes.
the watch i got
for christmas
is on his wrist.
he looks just
like me, but not
so tired
and worn. i cross
the street
to ask him
how he does it,
how does he
manage to live
so stress free
with my family
when i'm not
around. he
laughs and pats
me on the back,
it's only
part time, he says.
just part time.
i'm just filling
in until you
get home.

the dark side of the moon

i'd like to see
more love
and affection
in your poems
she says to me.
a fluid stream
of happy thoughts
and good karma.
i'd like to see
some sweetness
come from your
pen. show me
your heart, not
always the dark
side of the moon.

the story

let's say the story
has two lovers
young lovers
who meet on a train
on their way
home from work.
they can't take
their eyes off
of one another.
they've seen each
other for weeks,
and finally by
luck or fate end
up beside each
other. let's say
that both are single,
neither with a
man or woman at
home waiting for
their return.
no husband, no wife.
let's pretend that
to be true.
so many others do.
why should this
story be different.

how it starts

this moon,
etched silver
high above
the lake.
as still, as
clean and placid
as a dime
against
the black
sky, it
throws
light onto
our legs
and arms,
our faces,
both too shy
to look anywhere
but away. our
feet causing
the only ripple.
it always starts
this way.

relationships

i abandon ship
quickly,
more quickly
than an italian
captain at the helm
of a cruise ship
negotiating
the narrow straits
off tuscany.
i'm diving in and
swimming fast
away, arm over
arm, at the first
sight and sound
of land, of
the hull being
sheared by striking
shallow rock
that lurks below
in an unforgiving
sea.

the donut mantra

i meet my friend
sunshine, formerly
sheila, for coffee
the other morning
and right away she
starts in.
i am at peace with
the world, i fear
nothing, no man,
no circumstance can
upset the inner
joy and love i
feel for the world
she tells me over
the pink plastic
table at mr. donut.
i can help you, she
says, gently touching
the top of my hand.
you seem a little tense.
knotted up. she smiles,
but wrinkles her brow
with serious concern.
i'm having
a bavarian cream
filled donut and black
coffee and she's
dipping a plain
cake donut into
her tea with lemon.
yeah, i have been
tense lately.
i've been stripping
wallpaper all week
and it's not coming
down. it must have
been put up there with
gorrila glue. it's
killing me. well,
she says softly.
i can teach you,
give you a mantra
that you can chant
while you work. it
will be bring you
peace despite
your circumstances.
but then i'll miss
the sports talk show
on the radio if i'm
chanting all day.
she laughs, and says,
so what is more
important, your
inner soul and
finding contement,
or worrying about how
the redskins will do
against dallas? good
point sheila, i mean
sunshine, good point.
they stink anyway.
hey, is that your
prius out there.
they seem to be
towing it. i think
you may have parked
in a handicap spot.
she stands up and
throws her donut
against the plate
glass window. stop,
she screams.
those stupid bastards,
she says, my sticker
is right there on
the dashboard. i'm
going to sue them
if they damage my
car. hey sheila,
i call after her.
i'll be right out,
i'm going to get a
dozen to go.

the line

the line
of old friends
thins
this year
again. and rumors
of who has
come and gone
spreads
even slower
with less voices
to pass the news
along, but
still,
the line
presses on.

all your days

it surprises you,
this breeze
that slips
between
the crack
of your window
frame. and you
place your
hand upon it
as if a blessing,
as if a kiss.
as if a clue
to things you
need to know
before all
your days
are night.

waxing the car

while you stand
in the sun
with your shirt
off, bent over
and rubbing
wax into
the hood
of your car,
you pause for
a moment and
think about
that first car.
you wonder what
has changed,
what has filled
the years between
then and now.
and this makes
you hurry back
to the cloth,
the wax, the
gleaming hood.

heaven

sit up straight.
eat your vegetables.
watch your punctuation,
your caps, your
commas, your lack
of grammatical
correctness.
be polite, and
wait your turn.
wait until you're
called upon.
and those run
on sentences, stop
it. why are you
going this way,
when you know
the other way
is faster. let me
finish my
sentence before
you begin to talk.
you're hogging
the bed, you're
snoring, why is
that window open.
please, let me
finish first, okay.
now it's your turn.
wasn't that fun.
i'm so glad we
met. a match made
in heaven. yes?

Occupiers

jimmy calls me up on
his cell phone
late one night.
i haven't heard from
him in awhile. the last
time we spoke he
was selling hyundais
down on route one
and making a bundle.
hey, he says, what up?
not much, i tell him.
what are you doing?
still selling cars?
pffft. he says, no
way. i'm tired of the
game. tired
of the corporate man
keeping me down.
i only made
ninety thousand last
year. i can't live
off of that. you know
how much a dry martini
is these days? so what
are you doing? i asked
him. i'm down at
mcpherson square.
i'm an occupier. you
should come on down.
we're having a blast
chanting, singing,
waving our signs
around and what not.
it's cold as hell
out here, but
there's some pretty
hot babes in the pup
tent next to mine.
i think they used
to be flight attendants,
or nurses. not sure.
but they are
smoking hot. i went
over to their tent
the other night to
borrow some butter
for the popcorn i was
popping on my hibatchi
and ended up staying
half the night.
they had a chilled
bottle of pinot noir
they brought from their
wine cellar in middleburg.
sounds great. let
me take a shower
and put on some clean
clothes. no man, no
don't do that. in fact
go out into the front
yard and roll around
in the mud so that
you look like one
of us. don't brush
your teeth either.
it wouldn't hurt
to take a bite
off a red onion.
but hey, bring an extra
blanket or two, and
maybe pick up some
finger foods. a wedge
of roquefort cheese
and some waterford
crackers would
be nice. something
to gnosh on while
we go visit the girls
and talk strategy
on how to bring
the system down.
okay, okay, i tell him.
anything else?
nothing i can think of.
oh wait, bring some
flea powder, i've
been itching like crazy
this whole week. oh,
and a black magic
marker. the ink on
my sign ran all over
the place when it
rained the other day.

the owl

in the woods
grey with winter
your eyes
catch the wide
spread wings
of an owl.
swooping low
between the trees.
his shadow
selling fear
to those
small mice
that scatter
on soft hooves
to burrow under,
some don't make
it, but others
do, enough to
start again
tomorrow.

morning coffee

despite
wearing the coat,
the scarf
and gloves, still
all buttoned up
inside, the light
that angles
sharply
through the large
plate glass window
is not enough to
warm you,
and you feel in
your bones your
true age as you
sip your coffee
and peruse
the hymnal
of the post,
the thin news
in the thin paper
resting in your
hands, and you can't
help but wonder
as you turn
the pages, half
reading, how deep
into winter you are
and will spring,
if it arrives,
change your way
of thinking.

attention wal-mart shoppers

the voice you
hear, no, not
the little voice
in your head,
saying run,
forrest run,
but the bigger
voice, the one
booming over
the P.A. system
saying that there
is a special going
on at the moment
for twenty pound
bags of marshmallow
circus peanuts
and spandex pants
in aisle six,
makes you head for
the doors, flying
past the geriatric
greeter in a red
smock causing his
toupee to spin,
leaving without
your AA
batteries, snow
tires and carton
of twinkies. what
were you thinking?

Omar

after watching
for the third
time all the episodes
for the five
seasons of the wire,
the HBO series
on the drugs
and gangs, and
the pOlice,
in baltimore
i begin to talk
a little like Omar,
saying things
like sho nuff.
or do you feel
me? or just plain,
yo, what up dog?
but i'm normally
walking my little
dacshund, moe,
when i do,
and he looks up
at me, as if to
say, as if fool,
as if.

buddha banana

i'm leaning
towards buddhism
these days
she tells me
while peeling
a banana.
they have some
really good
stuff when
you read about
it. she
throws the
peel into
the street
without thinking.
hey, hey,
what's that all
about, i ask her.
i'm thinkng
about buddhism,
i didn't say
i'd become one
yet, she says,
and munches
down on her fruit.

the butter poem

you never write
a poem
about butter, she
says, sitting at
the kitchen table
buttering an
english muffin
fresh from
the toaster.
i look at her,
as i stand in
my terry cloth
bathrobe waiting
for the water
to boil to make
a cup of tea and
say, what about
margarine, or
butter spread, or
some other yellow
fat product that
feels and tastes,
and slides
along a piece of
toast just like
butter. no, she
says, taking a
bite of her
buttered toast.
i want a poem about
butter, straight
from cow milk
dammit.
okay, okay, i
say. i'll put it
on the list and
take it under
consideration.
geeze marie, what's
wrong with you
this morning?

all about you

as she stares
dreamily out
the back window,
lying on the couch
while a breeze
makes the trees
dance in their
april green dresses
she says, how come
you never write
a poem about me.
and i answer by
saying, but they're
all about you.

the clock

you take out your
tools, the small
pliers, the thin
flat ended
screwdriver, the
phillips head,
tiny enough to
fit those silver
minute screws
that hold the case
together,
and then you set
the clock in
front of you
and open it up
while it's still
ticking,
finally after
many parts have
been removed,
the glass front
out, you put
your finger on
the long black
hand, tightly,
and say, okay
now. please stop.

hipster cats

you see three
cats with suitcases
crossing the street
with hipster hats,
plaid and all three
wearing dark
rimmed glasses
and sideburns. a
tabby, a calico
and a maine coon
cat who has a case
for his bass guitar.
you stare, but say
nothing. it's a
different world
and you're not
getting in, dad.

the errant toss

stumbled upon,
the written
note that says,
i'm leaving,
not sent
or posted
on the door,
or left to see
upon the table
where you set
your keys
and wallet,
it's crumbled
ball having
missed the can
that sits in
the corner
of the kitchen.
and so it's
in your hand
these words,
smoothed out
in the morning
light. and
at least for
now, the errant
toss has changed
the course of us.

the salad bar

normally i am not
an impatient man,
i can sit in traffic
for hours on end
and it won't bother
me in the least.
the bank, pffft,
the line moves slowly,
but what's the rush,
however when it comes
to the salad bar
at the grocery store,
i need my salad now.
i want to yell out
to the two women
in front of me
talking about
whatever to move on.
take your finger
off your indecisive
chin and decide.
pick a shred
of lettuce, romaine
or iceberg, those
are your choices.
pick one.
you can actually
grab more than one
leaf at a time too.
this tin you carry
is not for show
and tell, nobody's
putting it on display.
oprah is not going
to suddenly appear
and put your salad
on her show. those
chick peas are not
diamond earrings,
ladle on a few
and giddyup.
select your mini
mutant corn and get
going. those beets,
don't roll them all
around, they are
all the same. spear
one out of that soupy
red goop and plop in
the mix. same goes
for those eggs,
digging to the bottom
is not going to
get you a better one.
and yes, if you
turn the bottle of
honey mustard dressing
upside down, and tap
it, eventually it
will come out, no
need to go get
the manager. no, don't
stop, keep moving.
bacon bits, shake it
out baby, shake it.
don't forget your sporks.

summer

a pale unbrella
of sweet blue
moonlight
holds us together
in this summer
embrace, the
shine on wet
grass, our feet
cool and wet
in the under
lying mud. but
it doesn't matter
as we climb
the hill
hand in hand
where we can't
be seen. both
too young
to realize
what's to come,
how nothing yet
has come to pass.
perhaps this
kiss, this nervous
touch of lips
will be a start.
and the fireflies,
the smell of
summer, the soft
wind bending
light in the hollow
of trees below,
somehow all of this
will be remembered
when we are both
apart, somewhere,
and old.

gin and tonic

while you drop
an ice cube
into your glass
and pour upon it
some gin, then
tonic and cut
a small wedge
of lime to enhance
the look and
taste, you stop
for a moment and
look outside
the window where
a woman is
chasing her husband
down the street
in her bathrobe.
she is holding
a gleaming samurai
sword high above
her head. a dog
is running beside
her barking happily.

she's going away

standing drunk
and naked outside
my house
with your hands
behind your
back, handcuffed,
while the blue
lights of
a state trooper's
squad car
casts a holiday
palor upon you,
i wonder if
you'll be out
by spring, so
that we can take
that trip
we've talked
about so often.
i'll try to wait,
but i can't make
any promises.

zoo talk

the monkeys at
the zoo
are smarter than
they look, sure
they jump around
and make strange
howling noises
in their cages,
swinging from
branch to vine,
it seems at time
they don't
have a brain in
their heads,
but when you
aren't looking,
peering into their
world of bananas
and scratching,
picking fleas
off of one another,
they are much more
literate and
sublime. reading
books, writing
poetry, in deep
meditation on
a world gone wrong,
so when you see
them, think
of me, and change
your mind.

namaste

if everything
goes right,
the car starts,
the rain stops,
the work
comes in. if
everything
remains calm
and stable, if
the phone
doesn't ring
with bad news,
and the x-rays
are negative,
if everything
is sunny
and there are
bluebirds
chirping
at the window,
then, and only
then does all
that mastery
of meditation
pay off. god
forbid a fly
gets in
the ointment.

to vanish

words of
invisible ink
fading
before your
eyes on
white paper.
faces in
the window
on a train
going by, voices
that become
whispers
then nothing
in your ear.
the last heart
beat that your
hand feels
before you
pull it away.
the final thought
before sleep
and the board
is cleared.
people and things
have a tendency
to vanish
these days.

bird hitting the windsheild

a bird hits
your windshield.
a black bird
with a yellow
beak. his wings
are wide open
in a slow glide
as if perfectly
timed for him
to strike
the glass. his
whole life
coming to this,
through childhood,
after so much
work, so many
nests and lovers,
so many trees
and streams
to glide upon.
and now this. you
keep driving
trying not to
think if this too
is a portent.

the dancer

sometimes you see
her dancing
in the window.
the blinds
open, the curtains
drawn back.
she is wearing
black and has
her hair up on
top of her head.
people come from
all around
to stand there
on the sidewalk
at night
and watch her
dance. she is
always alone,
and there is no
music that you
can hear from
the street below,
but you can see
her arms go
round, her hips
sway, her
back bend, you
can see the smile
on her face
as she dances
about the room.
she seems to remember
something or
someone that
has made her happy
in the past
and you think how
lucky she is.

the baby seal jacket

one thing you need
to know about me
she says, before
we go any further,
is that
i'm an extremely
strident
green person.
she takes a sip
of her hot water
with a slice
of lemon and stares
at me. but
you look fine i
tell her. even
without makeup. your
skin is very nice.
no, she says. what
i mean is that
i recycle
religiously. i
have my own burlap
bag for whole foods,
it was my mother's.
and i drive a prius.
or walk, or bike
everywhere.
i love nature
and all of God's
living creatures
and will do
everything
in my power
to preserve mother
earth. no red meat
or even fish for
me. i can accept
that i say, sipping
my martini and cutting
into my rib eye
steak, but you
know this coat
i'm wearing? yes,
she says, well,
it's made out of
baby seals. i hope
you don't mind.
she looks at the coat
and feels the softness
of the fabric, then
dips her pita
bread into her hummus,
let me think about
it, she says.

the mailman

your mailman
died last week.
you saw him for
the last time
on thursday. he
handed you
the circulars
from the grocery
store and the gas
bill, and the
insurance notice.
years ago,
he brought you
letters and post
cards from
afar. from places
like italy,
and mexico.
things have changed.
he took no pleasure
in his work
anymore and you
in turn, took
no pleasure in
picking up
the mail.

you try to follow

her through
the winding
dark streets
down the boulevard,
you try to follow,
but there's traffic,
the light's changing
red, and people
walking in front
of you, you try
to follow but
there are obstacles,
a police car with
his blue lights
playing silent night
against the darkness.
there are turns you
don't know, new
corners, new streets.
you have no
clue as to where
you are or where
you are going, you
try to follow, but
she's gone and so
you stop and go home.

but her legs are fine

she sends me a photo
of her car being towed,
the once new shiny
set of wheels
now on the back of
a flatbed truck.
she tells me that
they'll know better
when they put it on
life support
and get the full
report from the mother
ship computer back
at the dealer. she's
without wheels now.
but her legs are fine
she says, and
she sends me a photo
of those too.

the goldfish

it's enough
sometimes to wait.
to swim in
the small bowl
circling
the shallow depth
between
the green
spears of leaves
and small
grey castle with
a hole to go
from side
to side. it's
enough sometimes
to just wait,
to listen to
the click
of the door, to
hear the vibration
of the floor
and see the hand
above dropping
bits and bits
of crumbs that
you pretend
is love. nothing
less, nothing
more.

what's on your mind

across from
me, at the table,
as you with
unusual purpose
smooth butter
onto your toast,
your tea still
hot. i feel
your bare
foot on the
side of my leg
and know clearly
what's on
your mind,
and what's not.

the roman empire

the roman
empire, as if
your mind was
such a place,
keeps ending
and beginning,
lost in the
mythology of
dead historians
and men with
small shovels
turning over
dirt. you have
rebuilt many
times over
the earth you
once lived upon.
constructed new
heights, new
lows, lovers
that aren't
lovers anymore,
those that have
lost their vote
with your heart
and your vote
with them.
another flag
another temple
will rise and
fall.

embrace

at days end
with tired legs
and arms,
weary from what
work had to
be done, you
slip into
the warm bath
and sink towards
the soft
world of water.
and with her
in the other
room, waiting
with patient eyes
and lips
you arise
and find
in her embrace,
without words,
what really
matters most.

balancing the checkbook

of course we didn't
agree on everything.
the new bride and i.
what fun would that
be. i leaned left,
she leaned right.
i held onto the faith
of my childhood,
she thought buddha
was a fine way
to go. she preferred
winter and i
summer. it was tea
for her and coffee
for me. she slept
on her back and i
on my side. but when
i said that we
needed to balance
the check book
to keep a budget
of sorts,
and she stood still
and set the book
on top of her head until
the wobble stopped,
i knew then how deeply
the trouble i was in.

playing the numbers

i'm not afraid
of dying, he says to
me after cashing
in his social
security check
and buying
twenty dollars
worth of lottery
tickets from
the 7-11. but i
am afraid of pain
and dying slowly.
i couldn't live
with that.

blue jay

at seven
in the morning,
while chipping
ice away from your
windshield with a
metal spatula
from the kitchen
drawer, unable
to start the car,
because the doors
are frozen shut
from the sleet last
night, you ponder
the blue jay staring
at you in the tree
across the lawn,
ruffling his wings,
and wonder how
he does it.

first day in yoga class

for an hour
you stare at a
candle, the flame
steady and bright
before you.
you are in a lotus
position, sitting
in your boxer
shorts. you are
trying to empty
your mind of
everything, to
still the waters
of the pool that
is within you, but
the opposite seems
to be happening.
your mind is
a banana tree full
of monkeys jumping
from branch
to branch.
you breathe in
you breathe out.
this makes you very
thirsty though.
the candle, the pose,
the hot room
on a sticky mat
with all of these
chanting strangers.
fortunately you
thought ahead and
have an ice cold
bottle of beer
within reach.

a tuna christmas

you buy your wife
a beaded seat for her
car. she's a cab
driver and sits all
day behind the wheel.
thank you, she says.
and comes over to
the couch to hug
you around the neck.
and here's your gift.
you unwrap the large
box with a bow.
it's a black leather
briefcase. someone
left in the back
of my cab, she says.
there's no name
on it. no one came
to claim it in over
two weeks. you have
to pry it open
though, it's locked.
you take a butterknife
and break it open.
it's full of magazines
a newspaper. and a stale
lunch in a brown bag.
tuna fish on rye,
with a dill pickle.
a small bag of chips
is in there too.
thank you, you tell
her. i have everything
i'll ever need now.
merry christmas.

get your cat and leave

a man comes to your
house and knocks
on the door. he
asks you if amy
is there. his wife.
you tell him no.
you tell him that
you have never
known anyone by
that name. he asks
if he can come in
and look around.
but you say no,
the house is a mess
and you are in no
mood for company.
i know she's here
he says, but it
doesn't matter. i
don't love her
anyway. you can
have her, she's all
yours. good luck
with her. you
scratch your head
and shrug your
shoulders. you say
you wish there was
something you could
do to help and
he turns and says,
there is, keep her,
i'll send her things
over. you close
the door and go back
inside. a woman
peers out from
behind the couch.
who was that, she
says. it was your
husband and now you
have to go. i'm sorry,
but get your cat
and leave.

florida calling

your sister
calls with news.
but she gets
the weather out
of the way first.
it's ninety degrees
with a blue sky.
her red tomatoes
have ripened
in her garden,
and there is
a bird, yellow
and small with
a black beak,
sitting at
the edge of her
sill. she's well.
she's fine,
she's busy, and
then finally she
tells you,
while sipping
and stirring
her iced tea,
what is on her mind.

the unknown

all day they can
sit and stare out
at the open sea
that rarely changes
but in color
and perhaps
in the movement
of a grey ship
passing by, rising
and falling
in the distance.
so unlike
the variance
of land where
everything seems
known and yet is
of less interest
never causing them
to turn around
and stare in
that way.

water dream

your legs
in shallow water,
your feet
on the sand lit
bottom, the sky
is not blue.
there are no
stars, no
sun or moon.
there is you
in shallow water
crossing
to the other
side. it's
another dream
you'll sleep
with and pass
through.

mayan calendar

you stick your
new magnetic mayan
calendar,
sent to you from
your local real
estate team
bill and sally,
onto your fridge
door and circle
the twenty first
of december.
the calendar
ends there, no
overlap into
the year 2013,
no christmas, no
day after christmas.
it just says,
the end.
you flip it over
though and see
the regular
calendar. it says,
in case the other
one is wrong
use this one.
thanks, bill
and sally, your
neighborhood
agents. you admire
their attention
to detail not to
mention their shiny
faces and very
nice smiles and
if the world
doesn't end, you
may consider using
them for your
next real estate
transaction.

getting ready

and if she said
i'm taking a shower
now, and i'm
going to wash
my hair. you knew
you had some
free time on your
hand to walk
the dog, write
another poem,
go to the store,
maybe rake
the leaves in
the yard, and when
you heard the hair
dryer click off,
finally, you
knew now that
you could take
your shower,
get dressed
and be ready
in about five
minutes and be
in the car
waiting for her
to come out
the door
the second time,
because she went
back in,
forgetting
something.

the missing Gospels

why are there no
mention of cats
and dogs in
the bible, she
says to me while
we're having
new year's day
breakfast at i hop.
i'm having
flap jacks with maple
syrup and bacon,
two eggs over
easy on the side
and she's having
a bowl of oatmeal.
cats and dogs?
i say, in the bible?
what are you talking
about? she points
to my chin where
syrup is running
down and hands
me a napkin. well,
she says, spooning
some oatmeal into her
mouth. Jesus must have
had a dog, he seems
like a pet kind of
guy, you know.
i shake my head. sounds
wacky to me, i tell her,
what kind of a dog?
i don't know, she
says, maybe a little
daschund or a beagle,
something he could
pick up and carry
through the crowds
or hightail it if
he had to when
the romans were
chasing him. but i
could see him with
a cat too, maybe
a siamese cat
on his shoulder,
something exotic.
i think he'd just
have a regular cat,
i tell her. an alley
cat. something beat
up, with scars
and a chopped off
tail where someone
threw a spear at him.
you know how He was
about taking in
the ragmuffins and
all that. true,
she says true. hey,
can i have a piece
of your bacon? what
about mary magdalene?
what kind of pet
would she have?
toy poodle, i tell
her, definitely
a toy poodle. john
the baptist? water
spaniel. yup, she
says, finishing
her oatmeal, clanging
her spoon against
the bowl. i'm thinking
that maybe at
the last supper,
His dog skippy, or
whatever his name is,
is under the table,
begging for scraps,
you know? maybe, i
tell her, maybe.
sneaking him a little
bread, a piece
of whitefish. hmm,
i dunno, my dog moe
never liked fish.
hey, have you
seen a waitress, i
could use some
more coffee.

the new leaf

you wake up
and say something
like, what day
is this? where
am i, who are you?
who's that in
the bathroom? what's
burning and why
are all the
windows open?
but you get no
answers. thankfully
you fall back
asleep until noon
when everyone
has left.
and then you get
up and find
aspirin, water,
and a bag of
ice to put on
the back of your
head. you tell
yourself that next
year you will
turn over that
new leaf.

down broadway

the ink hardly
dry on the form
where you both
signed, standing
in front of
a justice
of the peace
at city hall, her
in a new off white
dress, you in
the suit you
bought for your
uncle's funeral,
she says, lunch
at the ritz?
and you say, umm,
i'm sort of in
the mood for
deli. and so it
begins, kissing
goodbye, in two
cabs, going
in two directions
down broadway.

the orchard

you have reached
as high as you can
with feet
firmly on the ground.
your arms
stretching upwards
in all weather
to take the apples
into your open hand.
and you've filled
your basket for
one more year.
and this feat gives
you pleasure, of
having done so
well, and yet looking
down the hill
towards the fence
you see the few
trees that are left
to harvest in
your orchard, and this
thought gives you
something else
with which to ponder
your time and measure.

the blue house

you buy ten gallons
of paint
and roll it onto
your house. even
the windows.
the roof, everything
gets painted
blue. it's a nice
blue. indigo.
dark and leaning
towards a shade
of violet and black.
not eggplant, but
more lively. it's
a religious blue
if such a thing
can be said. a deep
mysterious color
evoking both
sadness and a sublime
sense of wisdom.
it's your blue.
the blue of your
dreams, the blue of
your tomorrows.
the neighbors are not
happy with what
you've done, but
you are. and you take
a chair from the house
and sit in the yard
and you watch as
the sun sets down
behind your house
illuminating the
blueness of it all.

tv glue

you send away
for the glue you see
on tv. it's three a.m.
and the dog is
on your lap making
it hard to get your
credit card out
of your wallet, but
you do. a man has
glued his helmet
to a beam and is
holding on to it
with his hands
ten feet above
the ground. you need
this glue. there
is so much that you
need to fix. so
many cracks, and
holes, and broken
pieces of whatnot.
you buy a case,
express shipping.
you feel that you are
finally making an
effort to get your
life back on track.
your ex wife would
be proud.

speaking french

your memory
is sharpened
with one drink.
the color of
her eyes,
the way her lips
moved when
speaking,
and diamond like
with two, every
word she said,
so clear, but
under three
short drinks,
the clouds
draw in and shade
the details.
you aren't even
sure if she ever
loved you, or
for the reasons
that she isn't here.
and at four,
you look across
the room, the last
love gone, and now
attempting to speak
french, you look
for more.

new sixty

she was always
surprised
in her later days.
the arched
eyebrows made
sure of that.
and the skin as
taut and tight
as a snare drum.
hardly a wrinkle.
the lips improved
just slightly, not
bulbous like
some, but curved
and round, like
ripe cut plums.
and her dresses
clung just so,
with the pointed
bags of
silicone to hold
the fabric firm,
she was a sight
to see at seventy,
trying hard
to smile not
grimmace at
the rim of a
chilled martini.

the darkness

it wasn't much
at first.
a paper or two
of old news,
a magazine
and then another,
unopened mail.
but soon even
an empty carton
of milk had
value and she
found a space
for that. it
seemed fine to
keep the things
once tossed away
since the divorce
was final, and
the boy moved out,
and the neighbors
changed. and
then there were
the cats, one
two and three
quickly became
four five and six
all finding homes
between boxes
unboxed
and uncurbed trash.
somehow the light
threw nothing
onto it all.

going west

the hand
you held slips
west, off
to the side
of his own life
as it should
be, out of
the nest
and on wings
towards skies
you haven't
seen, but
have heard of.
it's no
small thing
this courage is
to leave
and find his
own way. there
is no more
packing of a
lunch, tucking
in a shirt,
or tossing
a ball in
the yard while
a summer sun
lingers. his
time has
come and your
hand opens
to let him go.

the memory of birds

you wonder about
the memory of birds,
is their regret
in the way
they sit upon
the wire, or
how they stroke
their wings
across the sky.
do they ponder
the year's end,
another one
gone by. do they
think of things
undone, of places
yet to go, of
loves lost,
loves won, or are
they more like me,
content in the moment,
and ready to move on.

ring ding juniors

dad, hey dad,
my son says while
i'm carefully
putting a stack
of lp records onto
the turntable.
i have a bunch
of 45's ready
to go too, with
the little plastic
adjustemnt ring
inserted in
the holes. what
are you doing, he
says to me. an
ipod wire is hanging
out of his ear,
while he texts
his girlfriend
what a dinosaur
dope i am. do you
know what century
this is, he says.
a hi fi system,
really dad. you
need to step it up
this year. it's
embarassing.
it's quadraphonic
i tell him.
see those four
three foot high
speakers in the corners.
state of the art.
i give up, he says.
whatever.
is there anything
to drink and eat
in this house.
yes, i tell
him, there's some
tab, next to
the tang in the
icebox and a box
of ring ding juniors
on the counter.
help yourself.

a christmas miracle

you remember
last year's debacle
while drinking rum
and eggnog,
with the wrapping
paper, scotch
tape and scissors.
how you cut your
thumb, bleeding
everywhere
as you tied it off
with a dishtowel,
but pressed on.
that last minute
rush to stuff
and wrap each
gift into the easy
tear reindeer
print blue paper
as thin as your
patience is at eight
in the morning
without coffee.
ah, the tree of
gift cards at
the grocery store.
how you stood there
for a glorious
a moment as
the store's
overhead music
pounded out another
white christmas.
it was an angel
of light
illuminating your
shopping spirit.
there they were,
all the stores that
you needed to shop
at, target and bed
bath and beyond,
victoria secret's
and subway, macy's
and spencers. it
was a wonderful
thing, these gift
cards. a christmas
miracle
in the making.

fredericksburg

across the lawn
from the college
and the grey
statue of a soldier
from the civil
war, the old house
made of white
clapboards
and tin roof, sags
with the weight
of time and rusted
nails. there is
not enough love,
or paint and
varnish to bring
it all the way
back, but the workers
climb on it like
bees to honey.
and someone, even
with the cracked
window, the leaking
pipe and the smell
of mildew someone
will buy it
and call it home.

lecture 101

ah, yes, she says
in her best
professorial tone,
about your so called
poetry. the loose
ends, the stream
of consciousness,
the random punctuation,
and lack of
capitalization,
the repetitive topics
of love and death,
women and women.
you need to tighten
it up mister, branch
out, stop looking
at your navel and
see the bigger
picture. there is
more to the world
than your small
myopic outlook.
hey, are you
listening to me,
hello, is there anyone
home. but i'm already
out the window
with hat in hand,
before she's done,
down the road
and she's talking
to pillows beneath
the blanket.
there's a poem
in there somewhere.

traveling home for the holidays

the christmas lights
which aren't
christmas lights
at all, but the red
blinking tail lights
of a million cars
on the road. like
rats on crack, they
are traveling home.
smelling that holiday
cheese, grinding
their sharp little teeth
to get there. from lane
to lane, hands white
knuckled on the wheel,
and on their foreheads
that thick long
purple vein, like
tinsel, that's
about to burst if
they don't get out
of the slowest lane
and begin to move.

the pebble

nothing matters
at the moment
but this pebble
in my shoe.
the sharp pinch
between sock
and sole with each
step taken. i'll
need to stop at
some point,
untie the laces
and shake it free,
but not right now.
it's keeping me
from thinking about
other things, like
you, and me.

the grey cat

you dress
for rain, a cold
rain and wind.
it's time
you say for gloves
and hat,
the umbrella,
boots from
deep inside
the closet.
and as the grey
cat sits and
watches you
at the end of
the hall,
summer seems
so infintely far
away.

the wall

on a bad day,
you start with a single
brick pressed firmly
in the ground, you tap
it clean, and set
the level down. and
the bubble, green,
says go, another one
beside it, another on top
between the wet
mortar and before
noon, before the sun
is fully overhead
the wall is there.
and your message has
been made. it's clear.

waiting in the window

you set out a glass,
a christmas tumbler,
a quart of egg nog
and some rum
on the table. you cut
a slice of pie,
and place it on
a good plate, with
a fork and knife.
you leave the tree
lights on so that
he won't trip and
fall when stumbling
home, if he comes
home at all. you
place his gift
where he can find
it. it's the least
you can do for
your father
on Christmas morn.

sanding down

the wood floor
sanded down, buffed
clean of fillers
and shine,
decades of thick
sheen. now just wood,
flat and plain
as the day it
was hammered down.
back to who it
was before others
insisted it
be different, we
could all use that
sanding from time
to time.

each child

all the same,
all different, she
sees her
children
in the yard. she
wants to hold
them in place.
right where they
are before love
finds them,
before death,
before tomorrow
slips past today.
each a cloud,
a jewel, a snowflake
in her hand.

bukowski once more

you peruse
the book store
for something
of interest, down
the lanes of
fiction and poetry,
self-help
and sexuality.
war after war.
a three hundred
page biography
of a twelve year
old actor.
cookbooks and travel
guides. so much
to read in one's
lifetime, who
has that kind
of time to turn
each page
of mediocrity.
and the dollar books
seem so sad, out
front. thief proof,
set out by the doors
where they sit
and sit and sit
as you leave
with cheever or
updike, or
bellow, or bukowski,
once more.

the small hole

no matter how
sturdy the vessel,
the number
of hulls,
the thickness
of the deck
or the count
of lifeboats
on board. it takes
a just a small
hole to bring it
to the bottom
and send
the passengers
over the side
and into the cold
deep waters
clinging to
what they thought
was love.

waiting on winter

you prepare
for winter this
way. with bags
of salt. with a
good shovel.
gloves of course.
and a coat
that will keep
the wind out.
a hat, a scarf.
boots. you
chop wood
and set it in
the shed to keep
it dry. and then
you wait
and watch
the clouds,
the moon,
the leaves that
fall, the leaves
that rise. it's
the waiting
that's hard,
as you well know.

one of those

when the nurse
comes down the hall
in her soft
white shoes, you
scream out,
nurse, please
nurse, more morphine,
i need morphine,
which makes her
stop and peek her
head into your
room. morphine?
she says. what's
wrong with you,
and you point
at your toe
where there's
a small splinter
below the skin.
i see she says.
you're one of
those, aren't you?

the whirlwind

you chase fame
and fortune
like a dog
after his tail.
it never
comes, never,
but it doesn't
stop you from
trying,
from circling
and nipping
at your own
impossible
heels. and
when you look
across
the crowded
room, you see
the whirlwind
of others, not
unlike yourself
with their tail
just out of
reach.

remember when

remember when
he says, that day,
that year that game.
remember the time
we did this,
then that, and
what you said,
and how we laughed.
remember, he
says, over and over,
each time we meet.
remember, he says,
as if there is
no now, there is no
future, there
is only the dust
covered past.

apricot sun

the distance
of time, like
the smell
of memory are
there, but not
there, in your
hand, though
empty with
palm up.
the beginning
and not
yet the end,
though coming
is all in
front of you.
complete
like the apricot
sun that
you drive into
on your way home
from where
you were.

but it hurts

as i wiped
away with
the back of
my hand
the drops
of blood
on my pulsating
lip, i looked
at her and said,
why did you
bite me like that.
she smiled
and said because
i'm marking my
spot, my
territory
and then she
kicked me
in the leg.

Baby Jesus

how could something
so small weigh
so much, you think
as you steal
the baby jesus
from the nativity
scene at the exxon
station. you carry
it across the greasy
parking lot, trying to
avoid looking into
the painted blue eyes
and place him into
the back of your honda
civic, moving last
year's easter bunny
out of the way.
you like the snoopy
dog too that floats
above the gas pumps,
but it's too large
and would look suspicious
floating over your house.
the front of the car rises
as the weight
settles into the trunk.
they've drilled a hole
in his belly button
and filled
it with cement this
year, with the hope
that something like
this wouldn't happen.
there is a chain
around his head, too,
attaching him
to the stack of all
weather radial tires
nearby, but you need
the baby jesus, you
love the baby jesus.
so after a few snips
of your chain cutter
it's yours. now it's
just a short trip
to the liquor store
some photos of you
and jesus and then
posting them onto
your facebook wall
so that everyone can
enjoy the moment.

pumping iron

you decide to lift
weights, to chisel
your pasty white
dough boy body
into a statue
worthy of a roman
god. you envision
your bulging
biceps and thick
shoulders and pecs.
you see yourself
on the beach holding
up two bikini babes,
one on each flexed arm,
high into the air.
but first you need a
bucket of crispy fried
chicken, some fries
and a slice
of cake before
you get the weights
out of the trunk
of your car. you
eat your lunch on
the step, slurping
on a coke and wait
patiently for someone
to come home from work
to help you get the
box of dumbells
into your house.
you are happy with
yourself. it's a new
you. a new day.

the day's end

it's the twinkle
of star
left over
for the morning.
the blink
of an eye, it's
the unopened
mail, the drink
left on
a bar. it's a
man next door
making love
to his wife,
it's the dog
howling at
the thin moon.
it's someone
saying no. someone
saying yes.
it's a crowded
freeway,
an unwed mother
on the side of
the road,
it's the torn
shirt, the ticket
stubs,
the jealousy
of others.
it's the gift
you never bought.
the lips
you never kissed.
it's the cancelled
plan, the hot
bath you crawl
into with
the lights off.
it's the end
of your day.

the letter

i received your
letter in the mail
the other day.
it fell through
the slot in
the door.
not really.
nobody sends
letters anymore.
but i imagined
it just the same.
the paper that
you wrote upon,
the sealed envelope
and stamp fixed
firmly in
the corner.
the edges
crisp and white,
the paper folded
neatly into threes.
full of words
i longed to hear.
all of it in your
brisk, clean
style of writing
with pen and ink.
thank you.
yours will be
forthcoming, i'm
writing it now.

faith healing

at three
a.m. unable
to sleep
because shelia
won't leave
you alone
with her phone
calls and
text messages,
you flip
through the channels
on the tv.
your feet are
up on a taped
box of shelia's
belongings. things
that she's left
behind over the last
month of your
prolonged relationship.
clothes, shoes,
hairbrushes,
magazines and
her yoga mat, which
is rolled and folded
over, stuffed
within, but trying
to get out.
you flp through
the late night
debris of shows
until you come across
a faith healer
who is tapping
people on their heads
making them fall
backwards, cured
of their lumbago,
their itches
and limps, their
blurry vision
and hiccups. it's
amazing, as they
fling their crutches
away and start dancing.
it almost makes
you stop thinking
of shelia, until
the phone rings
again. there is
no cure for her,
but you take down
the number on the
screen, just in case.

italian mice

hungry for
italian,
you put a large
pot of water
on the stove
and turn the heat
up, then
you reach
up into the top
shelf of
the cupboard
for a box of
linguini and
take it out.
it's empty, hollow.
not a single
strand of pasta
left. the edges
and plastic
have been eaten
away. you look
up again
and see a few
fat mice
sititng there
at a table
with a very
small bottle
of red wine.
they look at you
and in unison,
and say, what?
you got
a problem?

politics

the man
down the street,
the unofficial mayor
of the court
wants me to vote
for him
in the coming
condo board elections.
he's running
for vice president
on a platform
of earlier trash
pick ups
and doggy scoopers
for all residents.
if elected, he
said, i'll make
sure the trash
and poop are gone
from our sidewalks
and lawns.
what more could
we ask for, i said.
what more?

you're fired

mopping floors
washing dishes
a paper route,
cutting lawns
with a dull blade,
painting houses,
stuffing insulation
into walls,
pushing a wheel
barrow of bricks,
digging ditches,
pushing buttons
on a machine, these
are just some
of the jobs i've
been let go from,
and with their
absence i was
left feeling calm
and serene.

the gift

a tin of cookies
arrives in the mail.
wrapped and marked
merry christmas.
but you don't wait
for christmas
who would? such
patience is unheard
of.

Daisy

as the dog
lies down
and turns
her belly up
to you with
blinking brown
eyes and a
large pink
tongue wagging
wet across
her teeth.
you understand
such love,
of needing
affection,
and so kneel
to scratch
and pat the soft
belly of her
soul, doing
you more good
than her.

not the only one

all the appliances
break down
at once. the stove
as you bake
a cake, the washer
as you spin
a load of whites,
the furnance
as the temperature
drops to freezing.
you laugh though
and shrug it
off when you stare
out the window
and see a rabbit on
crutches limping,
you're not
the only one.

the hidden key

you place
a spare key,
silvery and new
beneath a grey
round stone
in the yard.
you deem it her
key and tell
her to please
disregard all
the other
keys that may
still be out
there under
a brick, or
a potted plant,
or behind
the down spout
in a magnetic
box. those
other keys are
ancient history
you tell her. i
had the locks
changed and
this key fits.

marilyn

you wake
up in the arms
of marilyn
monroe, but
you aren't happy,
you know it's just
a dream, that
you are sleeping
and that the woman
beside you
in real life
is not her either.
but it's okay,
you're not much to
write home about
yourself these
days. you make
the most of the dream
though, you kiss
her neck and whisper
into her ear,
saying things like
i love you, i wish
you were really
here. but you don't
realize that you
are actually saying
these things out
loud until you
feel a slap against
your face, waking
you up. who the hell
is marilyn, your
wife says to you,
lifting off her eye
mask and taking
out her mouth guard
so that she doesn't
grind her teeth at
night. who is marilyn?
marilyn monroe,
you tell her, i was
having a dream. she
lets out a long
sigh, then turns
the light off,
putting her eye mask
on and her mouth guard
back in. now where
was i, you say
to yourself and
close your eyes.

in passing

you hear third
hand of a childhood
friend passing.
a small blurb
on a message board
as you stroll
through
the internet's
tangled web of
past and present.
it's chilling
this note of a man
as young as you,
as old as you,
as bright and
strong as you
now gone. you
remember well,
the long thin
scar on his face.
his smoothed
black hair,
the grin,
him holding a
frank zappa album
up to you
and pointing
at the cartoon
cover which says
weasel ripped
my flesh.

a state of mind

as you stand
in the bathroom
wiping away
the steam from
the mirror with
the ball of your
hand, you lean
onto the sink
and gaze inward.
the phrase
age is just a
state of mind,
wanders into
your soggy brain
and you laugh.

i got the blues

i could have
been a singer, she
tells you one
night while you're
lying in bed, i could
have been a star.
then she starts
to sing. quietly
at first, but
louder as she
hits her stride,
sitting up in the bed.
before long there
are cats at
the window dogs
scratching at the door.
the neighbor up
above is banging
his cane against
the floor. i've seen
some hard times, she
says, between songs,
making her voice
deep and gravelly,
i've been down
a hard road, been
busted and broken,
my heart, my heart,
she begins to wail.
at this point you
throw a pillow at
her and say,
what's wrong with you?
we just made love
for ten, almost eleven
whole minutes.
aren't you tired?
i mean, it's really
late and i like
your singing, but
look at the time,
i have to go to
work tomorrow.
this is what i'm
talking about, she
says, settling
back onto the bed,
lying down. but
she keeps singing.
this love, this love
of ours, is not working
out, i got the blues,
i got the blues,
the she lifts some of
the pillows off your
head and whispers
into your ear one
last time,
i got the blues
and then some sort
of guitar noise.

lovers in the trees

etched into the grey
trunks of trees
are lover's words
intitials and names,
such as linda
loves steve, or d
plus j forever.
but the lovers are
gone now. off to
their own lives, so
different than the days
when they had time
to go to the creek
and stand with sharp
stones and carve
letters into the soft
green wood. their
lives are up the hill
in houses, full
of babies and bills
and televisions
that never turn off.
those trees are
forgotten now, those
words, those loves.
those dreams.

the meal

there is a point,
where you can,
at a table
sit without words,
or very few,
the bread is fresh
and warm,
the tomatoes
are sweet this year,
when little
needs to be said,
when so many
words have gone
before this meal,
more, she may say
and you nod. more
would be nice.
nothing left
unsaid, or said.
at this point
silence will
suffice.

xmas list

i like
diamonds,
she says
throwing her
hair back
over her shoulder
and leaning
towards you
in that way
she does when
she wants
to look sexy
and open
to suggestions.
diamonds, yes,
she says again.
you put your pen
down, and
say, what else
is on your list?
what's the tenth
thing that you
had in mind.
let's start there.

one winter

the sharper shovel
digs best in the cold,
when the earth
is frozen, your
boot striking
the stiff metal
edge to push the silver
curve into
mud thickened
ground. nine feet
deep, twelve
feet wide, three
feet across to
get to the crack
on the basement wall.
and at nineteen
you could dig all
day and loved it.
your new bones,
muscled and lean,
and freshly carved
face sweating below
a sun that hardly
knew you.

more windows

we need more
books, more
windows, more
light. we need
another opening
to let in
the sun,
to let
out the darkness
that we learned
so well
when we were
young.

things to count on

her roof was leaking.
so there were pots
and pans scattered
about catching rain
drops as they slowly
made their way
through the shingles,
the wood, the drywall.
it was a symphony
of pings and drips
as she sat there
in her red boots
with a glass of wine
staring out the grey
seamless window
of river and sky.
the rain would stop.
the wine would run
out and things would
dry. these things
she could count on.

the metric system

what's that on your
wrist, that plastic
band, i asked her
as she was baking
a cake, the blender
was going strong
as the batter
spun in a large
glass bowl. it's my
conversion chart,
she said, cheerfully.
conversion for what?
i'm using the metric
system these days.
oh, really? yes,
it's eventually
going to be the only
form of measurement
used. hmm, yeah,
right i heard that
in the fourth grade
about a hundred years
ago. could you move
that cook book
a few centimeters
closer to me, i can't
see it, thanks.
oh, and get a gram
of butter out of the
fridge. oh, and can
you pull your car up
a few meters, my
new best friend
gina from germany
is on her way over.
where did you put
the vodka, i asked
her. i think i'm
going to need a drink.
check the freezer,
she said,
i think there's a
liter bottle in there.

cold coffee

he was a stubborn
child. no, was a
word he used quite
often. never, was
another, folding
his short thick
arms across his
little barreled
chest. and when his
breath was held,
and made his skin
a shade of bruised
blue, he'd get his way,
whatever he thought
best for him, never
for you. i see him
every morning these
days, his hands tight
and red on the wheel,
cursing the traffic,
or stamping his
feet when the train
is late, or the coffee
cold, and weak.

it looks like rain

the unspoken
words are
usually
the ones
that need
to be said.
funny how that
is. how we
avoid the truth,
how we keep
each other
in the dark,
including
ourselves. so
much easier
to say, it's
cold out,
it looks
like rain.
take your
overcoat, please,
don't be late
again.

for roland flint

and when the poet,
dead now,
came to read at
the community college
carrying a briefcase
from his work
at georgetown,
the late night class
sat impatiently
with their own poems
and stories waiting
to be read. and
as the bearded man
took off his coat,
adjusted his glasses
and tiredly read
the one about chopping
wood and aging,
and then the one about
a son who dies young
and a daughter
who still mourned
the loss, the thought
of us going after him
seemed impossible,
and so as one,
the class went out
to feed him, and pour
drinks down his
tired and wisened
soul, and to give him
another night, perhaps,
to write about.

the ink cards

okay, she says,
now i want you to say
the first thing
that comes into your
mind when i hold
up this card. don't
hesitate, just stare
at the image and
say a word that
you think of.
so she holds up
the first card.
spilled ink you say
right away.
she turns it over
and says, okay,
the next one.
more spilled ink
you say. no, she says,
you don't get it
do you? say something
else other than
spilled ink. but it's
what i'm thinking
of when i see
the card. aaargh, she
says, say spider,
or elephant, or
your mother, something
like that. but why.
wouldn't i be
doing that to please
you? you just don't
get it do you? she
says, can't you play
along? no, you say.
that's why i'm here.

the land of her

your hands move
slowly down
the length of her,
feeling each
crevice, each soft
turn of hip
and breast.
the wetness of her
lips, the lobe
of her ear. your
hands move
across the land
of her, the closed
mystery of who
she is beside you
and where she
comes from.
your hands move
across the bridge
of her nose,
the velvet arc
of her eyebrow,
the rise of her
neck, the small
island of her soul.
your hands move
trying to learn
all of the things
you'll never
quite know.

the empty jar

you put an empty
jar upon the stoop
in front of your
house. it has no
lid. when it rains
the rain gets in,
when it snows, like
wise, and then
the sun and wind
blow it dry and
clear again. and
people ask when
they come to visit,
time and time again
about the jar. but
you don't feel a
need to explain.
it's beyond words,
you tell them and no,
it has nothing
to do with love or
the lack thereof.

white christmas

you decide to get
into the christmas
spirit, so you buy
some eggnog and a bottle
of rum from the local
liquor store.
the clerks are all
wearing reindeer
antlers on their
heads and christmas
music is cascading
down through the well
lit aisles as you make
your purchase. on the way
out you drop some
change into the salvation
army bucket as a santa
rings the bell. you go
home and fix yourself
a nice holiday drink
while pulling out
the box from
the hall closet full
of lights and stockings,
old greeting cards,
candles and ornaments.
you ponder getting
a real tree this year
and so pull out
the string of lights
first. somehow they
are all wrapped in a
large ball, entangled.
you stand back, looking
at the mess, sipping
your drink. you put
on some christmas music.
lining up a stack of albums
onto the stereo.
the scratches are hardly
noticeable as the needle
slides along. sinatra,
the bingster, andy
williams, madonna,
then you attempt
to unravel the lights.
you plug them in
and they all light up.
some of the strings
are blinking.
but you can't
find the end, the middle
or the beginning.
at this point it's
time for for another drink.
you put a candle in
the kitchen window, then
fix a tall eggnog, sprinkling
a dash of nutmeg on top
like you see them do
on the cooking channel
then go back
to the lights. in
the bottom of the xmas
box you discover beneath
a book about the rockettes an
unopened tin of cookies
from swiss colony. you
can't read the smudged
name on the tag, but it
looks something like
love, mom, or close
to that. they are wafers
mostly, but still fresh
and crisp as you begin
to eat them.
the lights are impossible
to unravel, but they are
a brightly lit and colorful
tumbleweed of wires,
which is kind of nice
in it's own way. you roll
the ball of lights
into the corner where
the tree was going to go.
you decide to take a rest
and lie down on the couch,
turning the lights
off except for your
ball of lights. you
finish off your second
drink, and some cookies
while the dog jumps
onto your chest to
get the crumbs off.
before you know it
you are sound asleep with
the lights blinking
in the corner,
and the record stuck
and skipping on
white christmas. i'm
dreaming, i'm dreaming,
i'm dreaming, bing
says long into the night.

a can of soup

hungry,
you reach up into
the cupboard
to pull out a
can of soup,
and you stare
at your arm,
stopping for an
instant to gaze
at the grey
hair, the thin
long bone
and flesh of
you. it's just
a can of soup,
but you see
the years gone by,
the meals that
are yet to come.

the night

you twist
beneath the sheets
as the old
radiator clangs
throughout
the night. your
bed is cold
despite the cat
beside you.
the moon, hangs
in the window,
within a scarf
of clouds, it says
nothing, it says
everything. and
morning seems
so far away.

visualization

she wanted
new shoes, so
she visualized
a pair of dark blue
heels and she
found them in a store
the next day.
and then there
was the dress
to go with it.
silky and sequined,
something for
a party, and she
saw it in the window
of neiman marcus.
and of course
the handbag. all
visualized and soon
purchased at
nordstorm's rack.
then she thought
long and hard,
visualizing a man
to fall in love
with who would
go to a party
with her, someone
to fit her every need,
and then i showed up.
i guess it doesn't
always work, she
thought.

leftovers

a man on the street
sees you carrying
a box of food,
leftovers from
the meal you just
ate in a restaurant,
and without
hesitation or shame,
says, are you going
to eat that.
he's wearing shorts
in thirty degree
weather, a headband,
red white and blue.
there is a backpack
heavy on his
back. wild eyed
and bearded, he stands
and waits for an
answer. you hand
him the styrofoam
box and he begins to
walk with you.
thank you, he says.
and then begins to
tell you a brief tale
of his life story.
you nod politely,
but try to get away,
he asks you how we
should solve
the illegal
immigration problem.
you tell
him you don't know,
then move quickly
to the other side
of the street.
he stops, and when
you look back,
he's sitting on
the curb, eating
pizza. talking
to strangers about
the end of the world.

the hot sign

you want a donut
badly. all day
and all night
for a week you've
been thinking about
nothing but
donuts. chocolate
covered, glazed.
jelly filled,
long delicate
eclairs and
cinammon donuts
fresh from a hot
oven. your lust
for donuts
has taken over
your mind. you go
online and browse
pastry sites.
clicking on each
image wishing it
was yours to bite
into. your mouth
hangs open like
a madman, drooling
onto your desk.
your stomach
gurgles at the photos
of donuts all in a
row, in neatly
packed boxes.
some sitting alone
on white plates,
with a cup of coffee
beside them. long
ones, short ones,
fat ones without
holes, which aren't
called donuts, but
something else. oh,
how you wish you
had a donut. you put
your hand on the phone
to call your sponser,
but you don't call.
the tempatation is
too great, you've lost
all willpower and
finally you give in.
you put on your loose
fitting pants
and take a drive.
it's time, you
can't hold out any
longer and you go
downtown, and slowly
roll by the donut
shop, staring into
the window, you see
a waitress gently
putting her hands
onto the racks,
dropping
donuts, sometimes
two at a time into
boxes and bags,
but you can
wait a little longer,
and you circle
the block. you are
waiting for
the hot sign
to flash on.

new friends

a dog follows
me home one night.
he has a friend
with him. a black
and white cat.
neither have
collars or tags,
or leashes. when
i turn around
to look at them,
ten yards behind
me, they stop
and talk to one
another, pretend
indifference.
the cat rubs her
back up against
a streetlamp,
while the dog
absently chews
on a stick, pretending
indifference. so
i keep walking
until i get
to my house. they
are still there
behind me,
but closer now.
i turn around to
face them, and say
what's up. why
are you following
me. the dog
is sitting
on his hind legs
with his tongue out
and shrugs his
shoulders, while
the cat is rolled
over on her back
purring, tossing
up a ball of yarn
she had with her,
okay, okay, i say
to the both of them.
come in. let's see
what we can do.

yoga class

in an effort to get
in touch with my inner
being and get more healthy
i decided to take a
yoga class. i went
out and bought some
blue tights, and a yoga
mat that rolled up
nice and neat under
my arm. the first
session, there were
only eight people,
all women except for
me and a guy in wheel
chair who was smoking
a cigarette that
the instructor
made him put out.
we did breathing
exercises first, which
i aced. i got the
breathing down really
fast, although i did
almost black out at
one point, breathing
a little bit too
enthusiastically.
i was a little self
conscious, so i lined
up in the back row.
i'm not normally walking
around in blue tights
looking like one
of the sugarplum
fairies in
the nutcracker suite.
then we started doing
some more complicated
poses, which i failed
at. my legs wouldn't
bend much, or go behind
my ears. the praying
mantis, forget about
it. the instructor
finally came over
and tried to help
me cross my legs, but
i think i injured my
knee as she pressed
one leg beneath the
other. i let out a loud
scream, which sort of
broke the medatative
mood of the place.
i told her that i'm
usually a lot looser
after a few drinks,
but she said no drinking
during class. so i
asked her what she was
doing later. if she'd
like to grab a drink
downstairs at the hunan
kitchen right below
the studio. she was
really cute and was
able to stand on her
head, and do the splits
without tumbling over.
i really really
liked that. no, she
said emphatically. no.
in fact, i think you
should roll up your
mat and just leave.
and take your friend
in the wheel chair too.
but we just paid ten
dollars i said and we
really want to learn.
she gave me a twenty
and pointed at the
door while the rest
of the class, very
unyogi like clapped
like seals.
so we left and went
downstairs for some
noodles and a mai tai.

what love is

she loved to
paint all day.
standing by
the window
with her canvas,
her pallet
of paints
and brushes.
but her horses
looked like
cows, her vases
looked like
jars. the colors
were wrong,
and the faces
unrecognizable.
so when she asked
how do you like
it, what
i've done today.
there was no other
answer, but to
say, i love it.
i love it as
i love you.

the penny

the penny that
you drop
that rolls
and spins
to a sudden
stop flat
upon it's
lincoln
face will
lie there
for a long
long time.
a season or
two, or three
until someone
bends with
luck in mind
to pick it
up and see,
just see
perhaps, if
things will
start to
look up without
a thought
to lincoln's
own misfortune
and obvious
lack of luck.

from russia, with love

my friend olga,
from moscow,
and i were
making some stew
the other night.
a cold front had
moved in and
the weather made
one crave for
comfort food.
i will bring
the meat and the
potatoes she said
over the phone.
you bring vodka.
yes? she isn't
exactly a petite
woman, so i pretty
much listen
to whatever she says.
she likes to cook
with her hair in
a net, stirring
the broth with a long
wooden spoon. i asked
her what kind of meat
she was slicing
and dicing,
dropping into
the boiling cauldron
of potatoes and carrots.
don't worry about it
my little friend,
she said. fix me
a drink. meat is meat.
in russia, it is
impolite to ask what
kind of meat it is,
you are cooking.
you are spoiled and
soft here with your
free range chickens
and angus beef.
just eat it. she
turned and smiled
at me showing her
eastern bloc gold
teeth. the lipstick
didn't help much.
her cheeks were
rosy from the heat
of the stew and her
sleeves were rolled
up above the elbows.
she had the window
open as snow
began to fall
and blow in, melting
against her face.
where is my drink,
she said. i took
a sip of mine and
handed her a glass
of vodka on the rocks.
what are you drinking?
what is that green
drink you are sipping
like a girl? it's
an apple martini, olga.
you aren't a sissy man
are you, she said,
throwing down her drink
in one gulp.
no, i'm not, i said,
and dropped the red
cherry into my mouth.
i beg to differ.

what was her name?

as your cell
phone sinks slowly
to the bottom
of the tub,
having slipped
out of your soapy
hand, and you
listen to the gurgling
voice of the person
you were just
talking to just
before it shorts
out, and the phone
goes dark,
you close your
eyes and try
to remember a girl
you knew in school,
how you talked for
hours on the black
kitchen phone,
it's curly stretched
cord reaching the
top of the baseent
stairs, the wire
running below a
closed door. what
was her name?

wish list

you make a list
of things you want
not things you
necessarily need,
but want, a wish
list, if you
must. a new kitchen
would be nice.
a new stove,
a white glass
floor, candy apple
red cabinet doors.
a new car. a real
vacation. not those
two or three days
away, but two
weeks where you can
loosen up, feel
the sun get into
your bones and make
you forget where
you came from.
it wouldn't be
a long list,
and of course
you'd be on
that list too.

the well

some mornings
you drop
your bucket
down into
the well, but
there is nothing.
just the hollow
sound of metal
hitting bottom.
no water comes
up. but if
you're lucky,
if you're blessed
someone comes
over with a tall
glass of water
to get you through
the day.

in reverse

the car, old,
with rust, a pale
blue, now almost
grey like
that of a poet's
lock whose
time has come and
gone and isn't
read or understood
anymore.
it only moved
in reverse now,
going backwards
over all the roads
it took before.
like memory,
unwinding
at life's end,
as that curtain
drops and
there is no more.

photograph

though fine,
the photograph
of you
is who you were
a few minutes ago,
not who you are
now, or who you
will be tomorrow.
but it will
suffice and get
me through
another day,
then night.
i'll keep it close
beside me,
not far from
my pillow,
not far from
the windowed
light.

the seven date rule

i have a seven
date rule, she
says. so keep
your paws to
yourself. thus
the cobwebs about
you, i answer.
the rust, the dust.
you'll get nowhere
with that attitude
buddy, she replies.
nowhere is where
i am right now. so
what's the difference.
charmer, aren't
you, she says. not
really. just
annoyed. eat your
calamari, i have
to go in seven
minutes. my rule.

into the blue

in the air,
off the board
sprung high
into the blue
and white
sky of youth
you arrow up
then bend and
knife with
little splash
into the pool.
and only
by touching
bottom, your
knee, an elbow
perhaps,
with a scrape,
a strawberry,
will you see
some future,
some hint or clue
as to what
is ahead of you.

a cloud, the moon and blood

while you listen
to the poet,
who read her
work with
firey passion,
explain her
words, answer
questions
as to what
a cloud means,
or the moon,
or a drop
of blood,
you can
see her feet
tap below
the desk
her soul
inching out
the door like
smoke, wanting
to vent and be
done.

the chase

when the dog
got loose
to chase a cat
and ran and ran
until he couldn't
run no more, you
watched him
from the porch
as he disappeared
into the woods.
you stood there
with your cup
of coffee and
waited. he'd
be back before
dark. tired
and yet happy
to be free.
he reminded
you so much
of who you were.

lessened

a few degrees
less and there
will be frost
on the cars
a clean sheet
of ice to tend
with when
stepping out into
your day.
the world will
shrink in
slight defensive
ways, protecting
itself from what
goes on and what
is yet to come
under the lessened
light and sun.

toy shrek story tron transporter

while the movie
fades and the credits
roll and the music
sinks in as the lights
go up over
the rows and rows
of emptying seats,
she asks me if i liked
it, and i say, of
course. it was grande,
sublime, i love
the way they animate
things these days,
who doesn't like
a good cartoon?
it'll change my life
in time. okay, she
says, then you pick
the next one. oh, i
will, i say, i will.

pie girl

there is
no pie
like her pie.
the crust
is soft and
crumbly.
the apples
baked just
right, not
too sweet,
not too hard
or light.
and the
cinammon she
sprinkles
on the top
is just
enough to make
you smile
and bend
and sniff
and stop
and cut a
slice for
now, and one
to take away.
i think i'll
see her again,
some day.

girl with the orange mohawk

the girl
with the orange
mohawk
and a silver
stick pin
through her
lip, a pearl
in her tongue,
asked me with
a slight slur
and drool,
if i had
found everything
that i wanted
as my groceries
rolled along
on the belt.
yes. i said,
but if i think
of anything else
i'll be sure to
come back in after
unloading these
groceries into
the trunk of
my car. she wiped
her mouth
with the store
smock, and smiled,
and without saying
anything, said,
whatever,
grandpa.

good talk

what exactly are
you looking for
the therapist says
while you lie
prone on her couch
staring at the water
stain on her
white tiled
ceiling. i don't
know, you say,
glancing
around the room,
there are diplomas
in black frames
behind glass, and
some dried fake
flowers in a vase
on the sill.
an air freshener
is stuck to the
rattling radiator.
something
real, you blurt out,
someone simple
and yet complicated.
but with nice
legs. i really like
legs. nice legs,
she says. isn't
that a little
shallow. hey, you
say, leaning your
head up, aren't you
supposed to be helping
me, not judging me?
oh, right she says.
so we have a few
minutes left, let's
talk about your
desire to meet
someone with nice
legs. is she tall,
short, describe
her for me. is she
funny, smart too?
of course you say.
pffft. what am i some
kind of dope? okay,
okay, she says, so
tell me, did your
mother have nice
legs? you sit up
and stare at her,
what kind of a sick
question is that,
why are you bringing
my mother into this.
geez marie. she
scribbles a little
note onto her pad
then says, well
looks like our time
is up for today, good
talk good talk. i
think we're getting
some where.

free falling

in a moment of
insanity you decide
to jump out of a plane
over orange county.
you are in a rattling
small prop plane
with a boney old man
in a mustache at
the controls.
you have a silk
parachute attached
to your back. you've
been versed in the
act of jumping, of
floating, of pulling
the string, the backup
string, the emergency
string. you've said
your prayers and left
a note on the kitchen
counter. to whom it
may concern, it says.
take care of my cat
and split up the rest.
and as you float
serenely over
the quilted landscape,
of green plotted
land, of low trees
and sparse farms,
you turn to the pilot
and ask him if he
would kindly just
push you out with his
boot, you are not
the kind who jumps.
and so he does,
and away you go.

the swim

in the end
you slip quietly
into the sea,
back from where
you started.
the earth being
so much water,
as you are.
rising and falling
on some unseen
cue. and it's
just a short
visit that we
stand, and walk
about, before
the next swim
begins again.

in flight

there are birds
in the air.
scattered like
marks against paper.
blue birds
and starlings,
doves and blackbirds.
there's a cardinal
on the fence.
there are
sparrows perched
on the well.
the world is in
flight, or
waiting to be
and you want your
wings now,
it's time.

the weight

she no longer
counted her poems,
numbering them
on the far
right corner
with a black pen.
instead, she
weighed them
on a scale,
stacking the pages
and pages of
poetry like berries,
like meat,
like fish from
the market. and in
this way, she
measured out her
love, her memories
her losses
and years. that
relationship, she'd
say was two
pounds worth
of writing, or
that death, or parent
still gaining,
another page or
two, add more.

the broken plate

she holds the broken
fragment of a porcelain
dish up to the sunlight,
her hands full of mud.
she turns it over
and over, carefully
wiping away the dirt
to see the detail
and color of this dish
tossed away a hundred
years ago, or more
and she wonders how
it fell, or was it
thrown, or just slipped
out of someone's
hand when the news
came that she couldn't
believe, or begin
to understand.