having a baby

she calls you on the phone
and screams,
we're not pregnant.
we're not going to have
a baby. did you hear
what i just said.
you are in the middle
of attaching a mobile
above the crib
in the freshly painted
mint green room
that used to be your
wine cellar.
oh, you say, trying not
to sound too
disappointed. i guess
that's good. you
stare at the box
of toys and the car
seat, all still in
their boxes on the floor.
the baby monitor is hooked
up to the kitchen
and out to the deck
where your hot tub is.
bottles and diapers
are stacked in piles
along with blankets
and dr. suess books.
what's wrong, she says,
you sound sad. no, not
really, you tell her.
i just wanted to be the first
eighty year old man
to attend his daughter's
highschool graduation.

this is why we drink

i don't smoke
or drink, she tells
me. or eat red meat,
or anything that comes
in a box, nothing
packaged.
no salt or sugar
either. and as far
as the sun goes,
i don't allow
it to  touch my skin.
it's clear, spring
water, filtered
for me. and well
washed lettuce
with maybe a little
piece of wild
salmon. and as
far as sex goes.
i need to see some
blood work
on your before we
even kiss. so keep
your distance.

it's not about sex

you toss and turn
all night. someone
is on your mind.
and it doesn't relate
to sex, well, at least
not for the past
five minutes.
the dog is frustrated
with your movements
and growls at
you. you shake your
head and try
to move his long
heavy body out of the way.
who sleeps diagonally.
another growl.
you look at the clock.
4 thirty. only three
more hours of not
sleepling before you
have to get up
and go to work.
you wonder if she's
up yet and can't sleep
either, because of you.

large pizza for delivery

you go to the fridge
and look in.
top shelf, middle,
bottom.
there's very little
to eat. pickles.
tabasco sauce.
something wrapped
in foil in the shape
of an isosceles
triangle. it might
be pizza. it is pizza.
hard as stone.
you pull
the drawer
on the crispers.
one is stuck so you
can't open it,
the other has lettuce
and a  white onion
rolling around.
the orange ball
might be an orange.
one side is soft
and green, like a
sweater your mom
gave you for christmas
one year and never
wore. the pizza
gives you an idea.
you grab the phone.

cosmo girl

you see
in the news
that helen
gurley brown
has died. the cosmo
woman. famous
for her twenty ways
to sexually please
a man. i can only
think of three.
you always
thought it ironic
how the magazines
cover girls were
big bosomy women
who could barely
contain their breasts
from popping
out of their tight
fitting blouses
or dress. while helen.
well, helen could use
a sandwich or two.

wrestling gators

out of work
you get a job wrestling
alligators down
at the local
swamp farm.
people pay
two dollars to come
in and see you
grapple with the long
green beasts
with rows and rows
of razor sharp
teeth. sometimes
when you pry open
their mouths
you stick your head
in and let the kids
take pictures of
you. everyone oohs
and ahhs
and clap happily
when you let them
go and the gators
long  mouths
snap shut.
you like that.
everyone needs
a little appreciation
in their life.

her perfume

when she died
you saved a clipping
of her hair.
a scarf, a sweater,
the socks she used
to wear
in winter. there
was a small bottle
of perfume too.
white linen.
and as the weeks
went on after her
death, you'd
lean into and
let a slight spray
fill the hollow of
your hand, your
heart. then you
stopped
and let her go
to where she needed
to go. keeping
only the empty
bottle.

failure to communicate

so many ways
to say
hey. the string
and tin
cans tied
together.
smoke signals.
the phone,
the text,
the mail,
the shout
across the fence,
semaphore,
the telegraph,
or morse code,
just tap tap
tap and say hey.
a letter
an e mail.
or tweet
and twitter,
so many ways
to get your point
across,
so why throw
a rock through
my window
with a  note
attached?

first day of school

you remember
the first day of school
the chill and dark sadness
of summer coming
to a close.
your new hard shoes,
and clean, unblemished
clothes. a sturdy
notebook, white from
start finish, still
doodle free, still
waiting for the first
girl's name you fall
for ending with yours.
the neat rooms,
teacher's as starched
and fresh as can
be. new books,
a new coat of paint,
the smell still hanging
in the air covering
last year's graffiti
and crude drawing
of the principal, pants
down, and bare.

quick sand

the quicksand
you are in, is not
a metaphor for life.
nor a reason
to believe that you
need to be
more careful
about where
you step,
where you go
at night. it's just
a sinking hole
of wet sand that
you've blundered
into. now throw
me a rope, and save
me the lecture.

the blind cat

the blind cat,
whiskered
and blue eyed
finds his way
easily
through the maze
of tall tree
legs, throw rugs,
wall edges,
vases
and a coat
rack in the hall.
the slow
soft step of his
feet and nose
against the world
now dark
is good enough
to find food,
to find water,
to find love
and the warm
lap of me.

one of them

you don't mind so much
limping after another
injury from playing a sport
you should one day quit,
but you do mind
the others that are limping
beside you. much
older people leaning
on canes and crutches,
grabbing the motorized
carts as they negotiate
the grocery lanes. am i
one of them, already,
you think, cringing,
as you lift a box
of wheat thins into
your basket already
full of grapes
and figs, soft cheese.

jury duty

summoned for jury duty
you put on your white shirt
and tie. blue, conservative
and safe. then go down
to plead your case. you feel
that everyone is guilty
of something, but they
haven't yet been caught.
you tell this to the judge
who you hope will free
you from your civic duty
and let you go back home.
instead he laughs, and puts
you in handcuffs.
take him and find out what
he know, he says to the
bailiff. spare no pain.
confession is good for
the soul, he says, then
hammers his gavel down.

water and sand

someone said something
about how the ocean
never stops, but repeats
itself even when we are
asleep, how blue it is
and isn't each moment
of the day.
and then no one said anything
for awhile, we stood
there on the porch
against the sand, before
the brush and sea oats,
the line of weeds, and we
listened to the sigh of
water against the earth.
as well as our own.

holding on

you  sit and ponder
the day. a plate of full
hours lie before
you, untouched.
already it's ten,
and coffee has not
been made. you fold
the paper over,
hiding the headlines,
the weather, the gossip
the news that is thin
with importance.
the trees are holding
onto green. the clouds
holding onto rain.
and you, what are you
holding onto,
this day.

the hot iron

the iron
being hot
sizzles
to the touch,
steams out
the wrinkles
of us. smooths
the creases
and rumpled
nature of who
we are.
slow and hot
with the deep
sigh of it's
casing, is how
we need to keep
things, starched
and ready.

jump up.
step into it
and rise. get
off the ground.
see how high
you can go.
elevate
your bad self
and go
airborne.
come on
grandma, put
the knitting
needles down
and let's see
what you've
got.

the bee hive

after you've rattled
the bee hive
with a wrong step
through the ivy
thick on the ground
you take off running,
you can't help but think
of how you feel
when strangers, or
salesmen
knock at the door,
and allow all these
stings to be forgiven.

the quilt

she said i'd love
to show you my quilt
sometime. i'm almost
finished. two years in
the making. you yawn
when you realize
that she really is
talking about a quilt,
and say okay. wake
me when it's done,
or better yet, stretch it
out across me when
i'm old and the cold
winds come.

repetition

sometimes this life
reminds you of other
lives. other journeys
you have taken,
other places that you've
lived. sometimes
the people you know
remind you of friends
from the past, lovers
long gone. relatives
departed. sometimes
this life repeats itself,
like lines in a poem,
said again and again
to comfort you towards
the next place you'll be.

so few dragons

so few dragons
to slay these days.
instead of the sword
and the armor
glistening upon your
chest, or
the white steed
galloping off
carrying you
to some crusade or
to save a true love
in danger, your
hand instead
grips the strap
of a subway
car, the other holding
a briefcase
while you lean and
sway between
the light and
dark tunnels of
your day, not unlike
the days before it.

the retreat

you arrive late
for the poetry reading
and find a seat
in back. there are
a hundred women
there holding notebooks
and pads, big purses
and fancy
eyewear with red
frames, or electric
blue. like chameleons
stilled on their
faces. there is one
man from india
who introduces them
and another man with
a beard and blushed
face who seems
important. ten women
will read a poem they wrote
about the writing center,
the retreat where
they retreat from house
and home, siblings
and husbands who
are like vague
stalks of brush,
children too,
in the wind. there is
a poem about a fox.
one about the snow.
another about a child
lost. all good poems.
all well read, performed.
you sigh, and sink
a little into your seat.
unsure of why this is
so disheartening.

your passing life

the black pool
of soft water,
unable to edge out
from it's circle
of trees and brush,
dull moss, is a mirror
of the sky. absorbing
each cloud, each line
of sunlight
that finds its way
through the high
pines. how many times
have you circled,
when running,
and  marveled
at it's darkness,
the cold ebony eye
of what you precieve
it to know about you
and your passing life.

buttocks

in a rare moment of
feeling old and unloved
you throw all of your books
away and you begin
to go to the gym.
your arms get large,
your biceps bulge
with giant scoops of muscle.
you rip off all of your
shirts at the shoulder
to reveal the new you.
you have three protein
shakes a day.
you go to a tanning booth
to bronze the statue
that you have become.
you put a full length mirror
over your bed. in the morning
you flex your muscles
and hold your breath,
pulling your stomach in.
your goal today is abs.
wednesday is for calves.
thursday is for buttocks.
which is what she
called you to get this
whole thing started.

the ice cream cone

deserving as you
are from a long
hard day of work
and sweat
you throw
calories to
the wind and
buy a double
scoop of ice cream.
almond fudge
and mint chip
on a sugar cone.
you lick it
slowly, thinking
of cooler days,
and that dress
she wore the last
time you saw
her. other things
you feel you've
earned.

she was kind like that

she leaves
in the middle
of the night
with one suitcase,
the old car,
her cat. she leaves
the dog,
and leftovers
in the fridge.
she was always kind
like that.
she even put
a pot of coffee
on for the morning
so that i could
sit there and
read the note
she wrote
about sorry, but
i'm never coming
back. she was
kind like that.

the king of ponchos

tired of today's fashions
you decide to make your own
clothes. something smart
and cool, not tight, not
loose, but just right.
you make a list of what you
will need to begin your
fashion design and production.
needle, thread, fabric.
scissors. maybe a large
flat table to spread out
your design. a table lamp.
coffee. you'll need lots
of coffee. you'll start with
shirts, they seem easy
enough. buttons, sleeves.
maybe some pants next.
or shorts. yeah shorts.
with buttons, not zippers.
maybe velcro. maybe you'll
make some clothes for
your dog too. maybe you'll
get some runway models
to prance around in your
clothes. perhaps a poncho.
one for you and one for
your girlfriend wilma.
maybe wilma could model
them. strut down the cat
walk. how hard can it be to make
a poncho. ten feet of
fabric, punch a hole in
the middle and slip it on.
you could be the king of ponchos
in the fashion world.
from paris to new york.
your mind runs through
the possibilities, but it makes
you very sleepy, and so
you take a nap dreaming
of clothes you'll never make.

fifty meets thirty

i see by your horoscope
that you like to live on the edge.
is that true, she asks.
are you a rebel.
so true, you tell her.
in fact i am on the edge
of town, near the railroad
tracks. i'm quite edgy
that way. my middle
name is james dean.
quite rebellious. who is
that. is he a neighbor
of yours. yes, you tell
her., crossing your eyes.
and pointing your body
towards the door.
he died at an early age.
oh, that's so sad. it must
have been hard for you.
was he a close friend.
did you friend him on
facebook. no, you tell her.
he was too much of a rebel.
he would never have
joined such a silly site.
wow, that is edgy, she says.
well. hey. i gotta go.
see you around. i have
to go get a tatto today. oh,
me too, she says, can we
go together. no, you
tell her. i need to be alone.
which makes her swoon.

go to sleep

go to sleep
and think no longer
about the day.
or the next one
yet to come.
let the stars
fall where they may,
the clouds
move where they
must go. there is
no stopping
the rain. go to
sleep. go to sleep.

your hands

your hands
are getting old.
you see them
in the light
on a book,  reaching
for a knife
or fork.
they are thick
with years,
calloused and
veined.  soft spots,
brown, lie along
the thumbs. they
are the hands you've
held other hands
with, hands that
gripped tools.
the waving
of hello or
farewell, all a
part of them.
these are the hands
that were young
and traced lines
against a cold
winter window.
they have been empty,
they have been
full. they are
your hands. no
one else's.

blue is not blue

blue is not always blue.
nor red red.
your eyes see
a different color
than mine. the words
spoken or written
are not the ones
we share and hear.
there is
a misunderstanding
that is impossible
to sort out. feelings
are hurt. grudges
kept. the lines of
communication have
been crossed and tied
hard into knots. not
even time can assure
them falling apart.
no pulling can
free what's lost.

no renoir

they went to mars,
not anyone, but a robotic
machine with which
to traverse the hot
red soil so far away.
seven months in space
and then a soft, gentle
landing. things beeped
and took pictures.
wheels moved, and
gears set free, unwound.
it scooped up samples.
nothing. dirt. rocks.
sand, gravel, no air
to speak of, no renoir
either, or van gogh.
no sound, no brahms
playing, no choirs
singing. nothing.
no angular lines
like frank lloyd wright
might do, or
pyramids, or castles.
not a single book turned
to page one. these
were the best of times.
nothing. why
didn't they know.
but now they do.

the notebook

the little girl
next door, with glasses.
sits in the chair
her mother sits
in all day, and
her grandmother too.
smoking cigarettes
talking on their
phones. but the girl
is alone. the screen
door hardly blocking
the agruments from within.
she scribbles
absently in her
notebook, staring up
at the old trees,
heated and dry
from the long summer.
she follows the path
of a bird as it floats
by with barely a
movement of wing.
she is quiet, this girl,
shy and small.
but you can tell
that she has found
a place to go to,
to be safe in.

the third act

when the curtain
rises and the first actor
speaks, you sit back
and listen.
the music is eerily
reminiscent
to what you listened
to this morning.
a woman comes
onto the stage
and says things
that you've heard
before, details
about your life.
mistakes were made,
loves were lost.
things that only one
person could know.
before the act
is over you realize
that this is story
of your life.
and as the third
and final curtain
rises, you get
up to leave.
you'd rather not
know how it ends.

the few escape

the world
keeps us here
in our homes
our jobs
our loveless
marriages.
keeps us unread
unmoved
by great art
or science.
the world keeps
us down
and out, unable
to crawl from
the cave
we live in.
stuck in our
cars for hours
going from one
place to another.
no one seems
to mind,
it just continues
this way.
maybe the lucky
get out, the insane.
the oscar
wilde's of the world.
maybe they can
get free, but
not many. not many.

i want ten million dollars,God

you're out of work
so you say a small
prayer of petition
to  your higher power, no
not your town mayor,
or state senator,
but higher than that. you ask
for more, not a winning
lottery ticket, that
would be greedy.
although the good you
could do with millions
would benefit so many
others, you could mend
the fences with your
disgruntled family.
giving them small
sums of money, not enough
to make them like you
more, but just a taste.
sticking with your passive
aggressive behavior
towards them. so,
yes, maybe you should
shoot higher. instead of
praying for more work,
why not pray for ten million
dollars tax free.
why not. it would save
God from the whining
you have to do every time work
gets slow. it would leave Him
to do more important things
with the weather and what not.
football season is starting,
so he'll have His hands full
with all those prayerful
coaches and players needing
a touchdown or a fieldgoal.
you're just trying to help out.

you purse your lips
and arch your
eye brows
in paranthetical
twitches. you
have become
william f.
buckley. you start
throwing around
five dollar words
like paranthetical.
you place a finger
on your jutting chin,
and let the bemused
look on your face
turn into a toothy
grin, then laughter.
you are floating
in a wide shoulder
suit with a thin
black tie.

we could get married

we could get married,
yes. we could adopt
children, house trained
children with spellable
names. we could
go to some far away
land to find a child
almost grown,
because we are too old
now to have babies. at
least i am. okay, forget
the kids. we could
get a house near the river.
a picket fence would
be optional. i prefer
no fence. but a dog would
be nice. maybe some
chickens and a rooster.
scratch that. maybe
a cat to keep the mice
away. you could have
a garden to work in,
i could have a hammock
to lie in and watch you
dig and plant,
while swinging sleepily
between two
great oak trees.
our neighbors would envy
us, and wish that
they were us,
had our bliss.
we could get
married. rent a hall,
send out invitations
to all of our friends
not on facebook. you
could wear white,
a long dress with flowers
behind your ears.
i could too, a t shirt
with flip flops and a
ball cap. we  could keep
it simple. hot dogs on
the grill, cold beer,
maybe shrimp on a skewer
for those with special
dietary needs. hummus,
if you insist.
wine in a box. someone
could sing, someone
could play an instrument,
anything but the bag
pipes, or the harpsicord.
no banjos either.
someone could make a
speech telling us
how wonderful
we are. everyone would
applaud with great
enthusiasm and wide smiles.
there could be dancing
too. we could get married.
throw all of our
belongings and  money
into one communal
pile and call it love. we
could live happily ever after.
we could, we really could.
but why, when it's so good
the way it is.

let it rain

don't let the rain
bother you.
absorb
the cold, the wetness
that life
brings when
the clouds arrive
and the sunny
side is no longer
warming
your face and hands.
curl into
the big chair,
bring the window
closer.
let the sky
have it's different
way today
with you.

the gravity of lust

she is the moon
lunar
and white
silk upon bone.
gathering
a distant
reflective
light from
a star far away.
i orbit her
searching for
a landing point.
letting the gravity
of lust
pull me in
and take me
to her dark side.

give till it hurts

the cadillac,
pink and gleaming
in the stone driveway
next to the gabled
mansion that rises
over the green slope
of grass to the river
where a long boat
sits lanquidly, like
a woman floating
on the water. god's
money has been
good to me,  he
thinks as he pens
his next sermon in
the window. tapping
his gold ring into
the next thought.
give till it hurts
he writes,
give more and god
will love more.

the unshakened tree

the unshakened
tree keeps
some of what's
gone bad,
sour or bittered
in your yard.
keeps you
awake at night.
it takes a sunny
day and a cold
heart to go
out and remove
what's no longer
good for
your life. so shake
hard, from
the bottom up,
and let things
fall where they
may.

the gift shop

the clerk says hello
when the bell
jingles with the door.
are you local
she says, adjusting
a seashell lamp
from china
above the books
of bad poetry by
mrs. lindbergh.
no, you say, and smell
a bar of soap.
rose petals.
you set it down and
smell the cinnamon
soap shaped
like a tiny
loaf of bread.
you sneeze then
pick up an empty
blue bowl.
you hold it to the light
with two hands.
sea glass,
she says. it's  made
of sea glass. careful.
you set it down.
moving towards
a barrel
of small sea monkeys
made of lava stone.
she has nothing
to say about those,
they are only ten dollars
a piece.
you almost buy
one, but don't. you're
hungry and don't want
to be burdened with a
a bag. you ask her
where might you find
a nice sandwich.
she shrugs and says.
beats me. the bell jingles
again as you leave.

it's monday

you draw a circle
at your feet
with a thin stroke
of black paint.
you put a line through
it. you add another
circle, a square.
another line, a solid
dot. you make
a swirling motion
with your brush,
dipping it into red
paint. slashing at
the canvas.
you stand back,
hands on your hip.
shake your head
and turn it
over. it's monday.

therapy paint

the customer you
can't please
is at your door.
he wants remorse
from you.
something like sorrow
and confession.
with penance
to follow.
his happiness goes
beyond
the wallpaper,
beyond the paint,
beyond
the nail hammered,
or plaster
smoothed. his pain
started elsewhere
but he wants it to
magically end
with you.

the worn trail

the worn trail
beaten down to dirt
and stone
the grass feathered
away, the wash
of rain
and ice, the snow
melting, has deepened
the rut,
the way
to the stream.
you follow it down,
into the years,
into the bends
and folds
of your own legs.
leaning on
new trees
and old. you'll
continue to go
as long as you can,
habit being what it
is.

without words

speaking with their hands
only, deaf
to our world, but not
theirs, subtle
gestures are made, with palms
and fingers, like
small birds
wrestling in the air,
saying everything
that needs to be said.
the eyes and mouth
repeating,
the nod of head,
the smile or grimmace.
all perfectly dancing
in this silent
ballet.

the shyness of skin

the shapes we end
up in, are not always
expected.
the body moving
with the wind
of time, the burden
of food into
directions that don't
exactly flatter.
but at the beach there
is no shame
for what has been
done, or not
done. for there is
the ocean, the wind
and sky, the sun.
there is the promise
of starting tomorrow
to change,
that eases
the care and shyness
of skin.

the peppers

your father gives
you a bag full of ripe
tomatoes.
fat and red.
at least a dozen.
off the vine
from his small squared
garden next
to the air conditioner
unit, and long hoe
that leans
with the handle
worn from
a summers work.
you see where his
hands have found
the sweet spot
along the wood.
the peppers aren't
quite ready, he says.
so come back
soon for them.

what you take home

you take the  beach home
with you
in the wet clothes
rolled
and bagged,
stuffed into the trunk
of your car,
the shoes full
of sand. the salt water
taffy
stuck together,
never to be eaten
in this lifetime, by
you or whoever
finds it.
you take home
the receipts
for salmon, for rockfish,
for oysters
on a half shell
with a squeeze
of lemon and a dash
of hot sauce.
you take home
the blurred photos
of sunsets and black
commas dashing across
the far horizon.
porpoises.
you take home
the smell of the ocean
of oils, of the deep
fried boardwalk,
the sweat, the burn,
the memory,
always sweet
when fall begins
and wind
chills.

each to their own

the trees are full
of birds.
bark brown, or
yellow,
some red,
others black
as stones,
whistling, each
to their own
song, their own
nest, their own
way of living.
all different
and yet the same.
as the summer
ends,  winter
comes for all.

new shoes

for over an hour,
waiting at the bar.
hair done. new dress.
lipstick on.
staring at her watch
her phone. she
sags, wilted.
no ring, no text,
no nothing. stood up.
she sips her drink
and looks around
the room. everyone
is talking, eating.
smiling. she is adrift
as she puts down
her money, makes
her way slowly
to her car. she feels
the straps of her
new shoes cut into
her feet. it doesn't
matter.

to unsee

sometimes you wish
you could unsee
what you have seen,
unhear what you've
heard, unsay what
you shouldn't have
said. but there is no
soap for that. no
magic eraser for life.
which steers you
towards more selective
choices of your
fragile senses, most
of the time.

lunch money

you see the slip
of paper on the table
in bold black ink.
mortgage, water,
food, gas, insurance.
miscellaneous.
and there are numbers
besides each word.
down to the penny.
all of it totalled
then subtracted from
a number that's under
the heading
income. you feel
guilty and invasive
for taking a peek
at this note left out
in the open. it
makes you cringe,
that even at seventy
the count still goes on.
you put your hand
into your pocket,
feeling the bills.
lunch.

one out of three

do you have
any books with
pictures, she asks,
tippy toeing in
her high heels,
staring at your den
filled with shelves
of dusty books
collected through
the years. yes, you
tell her and hand
her a book on
pastas in twenty
minutes, then point
towards the kitchen.
but i don't cook,
she says, and i don't
read. well, you tell
her, i guess we'll
have to make do
with one out of three.

telling the story

a story is sometimes
just that, a story told
over and over again
until there are only
embellishments, not
facts. it's better that
way, to spice it up,
to make the plot
juicy, the theme eternal,
to make the hero more
heroic, the villian
more evil, the love
interest more loving.
and finally to make
the dog, less barking
and smart enough
to go get help.

the big hat

she likes to wear
hats. big hats
with wide brims
that lift and sag
in the wind.
sometimes she'll
be lifted off
the ground
and take flight.
i'll see her out
the window.
with purse in
hand like mary
poppins, smiling,
and waving to me.
i want a big hat
too.

freedom

off his chain
the dog runs and runs
towards
the hill, the sweep
of plains.
his tongue out,
his eyes bright
with the fire
of his freedom.
when he reaches
the point of no
return, he stops
and looks back,
he wants you to
come with him.
it's one thing to be
free, and another
being alone.

roasted potatoes

you fell in love
with roasted potatoes
somewhere along the way.
it may have been
a moonless winter
night. you can still
see them shimmering
crisp in light olive
oil on the counter
in the big pan. how
perfectly seasoned they
were, peppers and salts,
sprigs of parsley,
some carrots were
in there too, but more
for color and decoration.
you remember how her
hand ladled them onto
your plate, gently
as it they would break.
and as you closed your
eyes to the first bite
you said to yourself
quietly, this is what
love must be like.
and she said what are
you mumbling about?

the golf game

jerry likes to golf.
he has new clubs.
new shoes.
he wears
his golf pants
and golf shirt
and talks the golf
game. swing, stroke,
trap, wedge,
shank and putt.
hand me my five
iron he'll say, or
the greens
are fast today,
the fairway long
and tight.
he likes to go
with friends
and bet on holes,
while they drink
between the pines.
sometimes
his wifes comes
along, but he'd
rather she didn't
it cramps his style
and he has to stop
saying the F word
after each hit
of the ball.

my ear hurts

she's bitter
like an almond
gone bad.
soured like fruit
left in a bowl
for weeks.
burnt toast.
she's got
blisters
on her heartstrings.
callouses
on the soft soles
of her soul.
a dark road
this divorce is.
a dark
and dangerous
road. give her
a second on
the phone
and she'll
rant for
an hour. twenty
years of marriage
gone up
in flames
and she wants to
tell you all about it
from the first
lie to
the last. no stone
unturned without
a host of snakes
and worms
crawling out.

day off

you lean over
the sink and stare
into the  mirror.
you stick your tongue
out, check for
something that your
aren't sure of.
you throw some cold
water onto your face
and brush your teeth.
you spit in the sink
then look at the top
of your head. a few hairs
are growing faster
than some of the others
so you get the clippers
and buzz them off.
you pinch the sides
of your hips to see
if you can afford a
scone this morning.
nope. but you do
need coffee. what
time is it anyway.

e mail editing

i'm angry with you
i write in the e mail.
i don't feel like
things are right with us.
i can't believe the mean
things you said to me
last night. horrible things.
then backspace it all
and start again, i'm
unhappy with the way
things are going, i say.
i wish that....
nope, not that either,
more backspacing. i wish
that your love for me
was more apparent,
pffft, too weak. okay,
delete, delete, delete. i
look forward to seeing
you tonight sugarplum
perfect. click.send.

the oatmeal years

what isn't falling
out, or failing
is growing on
you in strange places.
take hair for
example,
why do the insides
of your ears suddenly
need hair
at this point
in your life,
or those lumps,
where did they come
from, when
did they arrive.
you are becoming
oatmeal with each
passing year.

on the ledge

i noticed
the other night
that there was a
man on the ledge
of my window
thirty floors up
from 5th avenue.
i opened it and asked
him if i could
help in any way.
i'm hungry, he said,
and it's raining.
a snack would be
nice, and an umbrella.
would you like
to come in, i asked.
sit by the fire.
i'll fix you something
to eat. no, he said.
i'm out here for a reason.
i'm proving a point
about  my life.
i understand
completely, i told
him. i was out there
myself last week.

your story

you begin to write your
own story,
your autobiography,
but it's terminally
boring, so you start
to make things up. shake
it up a little.
you throw in the lion
hunting and the war
correspondent tale.
you begin to date princess
and have affairs
with movie starlets.
you win the lottery
and give it all to charity.
you invent a new
fuel made out of
ordinary sand.
you tell about your
lavish parties for the rich
and famous
and how they adore you.
it's a great book
and it makes you happy
when it's finished.
to celebrate you go
to the kitchen
and have a beer and a
tuna sandwich.
you put a handful
of chips onto your plate
and a sweet pickle.
you look at
your watch. it's late,
ten thirty, time for bed.
five o'clock comes early
when you have to be at
the post office
to load letters
and packages onto
your truck.

summer olympics

after watching
one hundred and
thirty seven consectutive
hours of the olympics
i changed.
i became a different
person. i found myself
crying over the smallest
of stumbles
as i bent over to tie
my shoes, losing
my balance. when
i swam across
the community pool
and tried to hold my
breath the entire way,
but couldn't reach
the other side
because a  kid
was in the way
i broke down and threw
my hands skyward
with sorrow.
i sobbed over
being unable to reach
a box of rice
on the top shelf with
one quick jumping movement.
i hugged my mailman
when he threw me a package
and caught it. i hugged
the clerk at the 7 11
after using the counter as
a pommel horse.
i high fived everyone at
the metro stop. everyone,
when the train was on time.
i even hugged
my neighbor who
doesn't like me, but
it was a cold hug, like
the gymnasts do.
if i ran and missed the bus,
i bent over
and shook my head,
holding my hands
over my face, heaving
with despair thinking about
how disappointed my
parents must be,
whoever they are. but
there was glory too.
if i found my missing
car keys, or opened
the mail without a papercut,
or pulled the cupcakes
out of the oven
just in time, i jumped
for joy, pounding my
chest, smiling so
hard my teeth
were bursting like
chiclets from my mouth.

colored lights

you remember
your mother
filling jars
with colored water
and placing them
in the window
so that the light
would shine through.
a ray of blue,
a stream of red or
green. a bold
arc of yellow,
like small
rainbows
of hope,
eeking into
the house where
the couch had
sprung springs.

don't say a word

don't say
your sorry
if you aren't.
or that you love
me, if you don't.
don't tell me
to have a nice
day, if you really
don't care, or even
know me.
don't say a word,
it's better,
sometimes,
that way.

behind the curtain

for lunch
you stop by
the grocery store
and fill up
a styro foam tray
full of chicken
and mashed potatoes.
green beans
floating in a tin
trough.
the woman behind
the other side
of the steam curtain
is wearing a hair
net and a red blotched
apron.
she is neither smiling,
or non smiling
at you, as you ladle
what you want
into your box.
she only wants to
know how much more
she needs to
cook.

uphill

your engine
squeaks
and rumbles.
sputters
as your feet
hit the floor.
your eyes are
wipers
pushing away
the slumber,
the vague rain
of sleep
and dreams.
you could use
an oil change,
a tune up.
a push from
behind
to get the wheels
rolling, but
you are going
uphill, not down,
and it's going
to take more.

cable company

it took a while
but i finally figured out
what the cable company
reminds me of.
strippers in a bar.
for a few dollars
extra
tucked into their
garter belts, they'll
show you more.
they'll shake their
channels and bend
over, letting you look
up their late night programs.
if you want the bundle
and the premium
package, everything,
well they get off
at midnight
and will meet you
out back. bring cash.

the retreat of summer

you cling
to the notion
of your youth
still blooming
towards a sunny
sky. the surf
and sand.
the frolic
of a wave breaking
blue and white
against you.
but things have
changed. how
you relish now
the turning leaves
the first
breath of cold
air. an open
window.
the retreat of
summer.

from this point forward

a woman
lies in the street
on the center line.
she's wearing
nice shoes, pink,
and a hat
to match
her handbag.
cars stop,
or go  around
her, but no one
gets out
to help her up.
they yell at
her to get out
of the way,
but she doesn't
budge.
her hands
are folded
on her chest,
her eyes are
open. she has
reached a stage
in life
where everything
from this point
forward will
be different.

train coming

your ear
to the rails
you hear
a train coming.
the hum
and rattle
of the wheels.
the gravel
shakes,
the trees
tremble.
you see a bird
fly off
into the blue
as you
rise and move
to the other
side.

the mountain

the mountain
comes to you
sometimes.
cold and dark.
frightening
in its size
and weight.
you wake up
to it, in its
shadow, not
seeing beyond
the peak,
only locked
inside the crevices,
holding on
with a rope
between your
chattering teeth.

making friends

you can see through
the peep hole
that it's a salesman
knocking,
but you open
the door anyway.
you've been a little
lonely lately since
your bird died
in his cage from cooking
with pots and pans
from china. the fumes.
you just read an article
in newsweek about it too.
yes, you say to the young
man. what are you
selling, you ask him.
nothing, he says. i
just wanted to say that
i backed into your car
when i was leaving
and i was going to leave
a note, but didn't
have a pen. so i thought
i'd tell you. you look
out into the parking
lot. which car, you ask.
that one, he says, pointing,
at a blue prius. you
shake your head, not
mine, that's tina's, next
door. but hey, stop for
stopping by.
nice to meet you.

you want more

you want more
than what is given.
whether
it's in the burrito line
as they spoon
your allotment
of chicken out,
or the unemployment
line, you want
more. one kiss
is not enough,
one night of making
love leaves
you wanting. you want
more. more money
for the work
you do,
more love from
those you love.
you want more
from the music you
hear, the books you read,
the movies
you see.
you want what's
missing. it's always
that way, and at
the end it would be
nice to have another
hour, another
second to gaze out
the window,
another day. you
want more.

cold feet

your white feet
on the cold stones
in the stream
behind your
house
are in a different
place
than you are.
the rest of you
is wet with heat,
burdened
with tomorrow
but not your
feet. they are on
vacation.

the juicer

your sister sends you
a postcard
from hawaii. she's
on her honeymoon
after getting married
for the second time.
you didn't know,
this is all news
to you, but
you feel like
you should send her
a gift, so you go onto
amazon and order
her up a juicer. she
lives in florida, so you
figure she has access
to lots of fresh fruit
and vegetables.
you order one for
yourself too. she's given
you some ideas, not
about the marrying
thing, god no, but about
moving south
to finish off the final
string of years.

bobcat

you over hear
the woman in front
of you,
talking to the wide
eyed clerk,
telling her story of being
attacked by a bobcat
while jogging
in the woods
in fredericksburg
virginia. out of
nowhere, she said,
excitedly, this
bobcat leaped
and knocked me
down, taking a
small bite
out of my leg.
i was on my phone
at the time, but luckily
he didn't get that too.
she pointed at
the bandage wrapped
around her skinny
leg. too skinny,
i thought,
hardly enough to
make a meal.

what's ahead

looks like rain
you say
staring up into
the sky
at the blue
knuckles
of clouds
gathering
overhead.
there is nothing
to be done about
it, but you feel
better
now knowing
what's up ahead.

licking envelopes

you find paying
bills tedious
as you sit on
the living room
floor, with pen
and stamps, and
two check books
with which to decide
how to pay
for this and that.
but you don't trust
online banking.
you'd rather sort
through the pile
than lose everthing
in the careless click
of a number on a
keyboard, so
you write out
the amount and place
of destination.
which stub goes
into which
envelope.
the long one, or
the short one.
the window needing
to match. the lick
of the envelope
and the return
address, now
stamped. onto
the table.
into the slot they'll
stick out
waiting for the  mail
man. his
leather pouch.

the lava lamp

i'm getting
too old for this
she says
rattling
the handcuffs
against
the bedposts.
nonsense
you say
turning off
the lights,
clicking on
the purple lava
lamp.

my life coach

your life coach
calls you on the phone,
she's drunk
and crying.
you can tell she's in
a bar from the noise,
the music and
clinking of bottles.
i'm not going to
charge you for this
session, she says.
but i thought you
seemed depressed
the last time we met.
you mean when you
came over to help
me organize my sock
drawers, yes, she
says, beginning to
hiccup. i think you
should have a separate
drawer for the tan
colored socks, they
should have their
own space. why are
you crying, you ask
her. i'm not sure she
says. someone called
me bossy the other day.
but i have to go
now. see you next week.
we're doing shirts.
so do some laundry.
hiccup. ouch, someone
just stepped on my
foot. bye.

kenny

he wore
a yellow sweater.
button down.
tan slacks,
and brown loafers.
his hair was cut
neat and short
once a week.
a pack of cigarettes
and a stainless
steel lighter
was always within
reach .a whiskey
sour too. a tumbler
brown and cold
on ice. he was
different, he was
like so many others
of that world war
two generation.
most are gone, or on
the train leaving,
and the things they
knew.

her footprints

she leaves the imprint
of her lipstick
on the mirror.
on a note
on a pad by the door.
one shoe
under the bed.
a slip, a stocking,
a brush
for rouge. an
earring lying
on the floor. foot
prints are
everywhere,
even in the fridge
where she carved
out with a fork
just a dollop of
of cheesecake,
no more.

but i wasn't ready

she says, let's arm wrestle
and puts her hand up.
i want to see how
strong you are. see
if you're man enough
for a woman like me.
she spits into the palm
of her hand then slides
war and peace
beneath her elbow
to make it even.
she grips your hand,
her palm disappearing
into yours. go she
says loudly and slams
your hand down
against a plate of
linguini. winner, she
shouts, winner. i'm
stronger than you.
your turn will come.

the yellow duck

my feet hurt
from standing,
from
walking
and running.
from climbing
on ladders
then inching along
a hot pitched
roof.
fifty odd years
with the same
feet. but
i'm not complaining
just whining
a little
as i let the hot
water fill
the tub
and i  slide
the yellow duck
into the steam
who never makes
a peep.

the queen of spades

you flip
the card over
two on an eight.
hit me you
say. another card
comes. a red
three, a heart.
hit me again,
you say.
the next is
a four. one more
you say, squinting
knowing that this
could hurt.
another four,
the spade
card arrives.
you need a three,
so throw caution
to the wind, and
say again.
hit me.

talking with god

the tequila
didn't set well
with the chinese
noodles dripping
in sweet sauce.
and that hot pepper
that you accidentally
ate mistaking
it for beef
is still glowing
someplace deep
inside you. it was
a  mistake trying
to douse that flame
with three mai tai's.
it will be a
day of reckoning,
a day of examining
the tiles
of your bathroom floor
and asking
god for forgiveness,
and of making vows
that you can't
possibly keep.

pants on the floor

let's not
fight today
you tell
your friend
lilly mae
as she shakes
her head
at you. but
you see that
it's too late
as she kicks
your pants
that lie
on the floor
across the room.

seeing eye dog

the opthamologist
can't see.
he confuses
you with another
patient.
calls you back
in for a second
examination
as you sit there
waiting to pay
for the first one.
did i examine
you, he says.
you look familiar.
ten minutes ago
you tell him. i
read the chart and
you blew air
into my eyes.
okay, how about you?
he squints and
says to the dog
sitting beside me.
the dog barks
and goes in.

simplicity

she likes
the garlic press.
the blender,
the juicer
and the food
processor.
everything
in sight is from
williams
and sonoma.
while i prefer
to keep it
simple
with a spoon
and a bowl,
a cutting board,
a knife.

being read to

you loved
as child when
someone would read
to you. your mother,
a teacher. to put
your head down
and let the words
pour into your ears
and form an image
in the soft sweet
memory of your mind.
how those stories
lingered and warmed
you, kept you still
where you were, calm
and listening, wanting
only more words,
more stories, for
the night to stretch
into morning.

photo of a girl

the photo
is one of her standing
by a gravestone.
a white cross.
there is no smile
or frown
upon her face.
the sky behind her
is blue
without a cloud.
there is a tree to
her right.a scrub pine.
she is wearing
a red sweater.
it might be early
spring, the grass
is a thick cold green.
her hands are at
her side, her hair
cut short, but around
her ears finds
and blocks her
eyes. you can't see
her eyes. the story
lies there.

the wall paper

the wallpaper
like scales of ancient
fish, too weak to
swim fast or far,
comes down slowly.
the ripples
of pale brown
skin peeling
uneasily
in the soft sunlight
eeking in
from the alley way.
what year it went
up, you aren't sure.
but up it is and good.
stuck with clay
paste and smoothed
down tight
by hands that
are probably gone
by now, but
the paper is
unbudging through
the decades.

magic

slight of hand
the rabbit comes
out of the hat
but he's not a happy
rabbit. he's
tired and ruffled
from beng stuffed
so deep into
the fabric of this
silly hat.
magic, he thinks,
and shakes his
white furry head.
magic my sweet
bunny tail.

brown eyes

on the far side
of fifty,
your sister
has new eyes.
they took the old
lenses off
and replaced
them with
new ones.
no more coke
bottle glasses.
no more four
eyes, or kids
like me saying
horrible things
about boys
making passes.
but they are still
brown
like tea, dark
tea with a glimmer
of sweetness
in the twinkle.

pfffft, men!

so how did your week
go, your therapist
asks as you lie
on the couch
staring up
at her diplomas
and dried
bunches of flowers
arranged and held
together with
small strips of
blue ribbon.
not good, you tell
her. everyone
is mad at me.
everyone she says?
yes, everyone.
i hear her take
out a ball of yarn
from somewhere
and start clinking
her knitting needles
together. do tell,
she says. well, you
say, it just seems that
i keep saying the
wrong things at the
wrong time and they
get upset. what do you
mean by they. the women,
the women in my
life. so you have a thing
against women, is that
what i'm hearing.
i hear the needles
clinking harder and
faster together and her
feet  bang against
the floor.. no, i like women,
i really like  most of
them. them, she says,
do you see how you
objectify women, you
treat them horribly and
expect love in return. no
wonder they all hate you.
i didn't say hate, i said
that they are mad and angry
at me. you know what,
she says, i think we're done
here. i've heard enough of
your women talk. don't
call me for two weeks.
now get up and leave.
put the check on the desk
on your way out. pffft,
men, she says.

old phones

the closet
is full of wires
old phones
and computers.
dust bins.
firewood that
won't burn.
your words
and ears
captured somewhere
within, not
to get out
again. batteries
burned
out. hard drives
driven too
fast and far.
screens no longer
in view, but
black and blue
and gone.

the sea at rest

tired
with itself
the sea
stops
for a while.
no waves
rushing
towards
the shore
or away.
disregarding
the white
pull of
the moon.
leaving
it all for
once, to chance.
letting go
of it's salt
and weeds
and mythology
of who
it thinks
it is. take heart
to what
the sea does.

mirage

she feeds
you grapes, fans
you in the heat
while wearing
next to nothing.
she's your
cleopatra, your
queen, your
delilah.
she wants only
for you to be
happy
and loved.
it's not when,
but how often.
she leans down
to kiss you on
the lips
delivering
a red cherry
from hers,
slightly bitten
and dripping
red,
but then the phone
rings, waking
you up. it's your
ex asking where
her check is.

the red ball

you drop
a ball
and give
chase. it rolls
out of your
hand
onto the
floor, down
the steps
through
the livingroom
and out the door.
you go after
it. watching
it's red
spin along
the road.
you sweat,
and make no
gain on it.
it's rolling
and rolling away
so you stop.
you think to
yourself, why
am i doing this.
there are other
red balls.

music

you turn
and turn the dial.
searching
for one song
that holds your interest.
one tune,
one melody you
can hum
and remember
and want to hear
again
and again, until
you buy it.
is it your age
finally catching up
to you, or has
the music really
died.

springfield

each fall there
is a parade
in town
that involves
apples.
apple sauce,
apple pies.
apple butter.
the homecoming
queen is
atop
a white convertible
waving numbly,
a red delicious
in hand.
there are dogs.
kids pulling
wagons. old
soldiers from
the legion post
wearing boots
laced high.
the mayor
comes out and says
something
about how wonderful
it all is.
and to pick up
your trash before
you leave.
you wait in
your car for it all
to pass by. you
think about how
the leaves have
turned, fallen,
how the streams
now run cold.

kenny picasso

out of the blue
the woman
checking your
groceries says that
you look like an older
kenny chesney.
i'm sorry, you say,
but who's he?
a cowboy singer,
she says, smiling,
showing her teeth.
you take it
for a compliment
dip your hat
and say, why thank
you ma'am.
then you get home
set the bags
onto the kitchen
table, and your wife
takes a long look
at you and tells
you that more
and more
each day you look
like pablo picasso
near the end of
his life. it hasn't
been a good day.

baby bones

there are over
three hundred
bones in a baby.
i read that today
on a sheet of
fun news and trivia
while waiting for
my car to be fixed.
i may never forget
that useless
information.
it will stick with
me until the day
i die, while the car
finds a dump to
rust in, the tires
flatten. the seats
spring holes. i'll
always have those
tiny, bleached white
baby bones
to ponder.

i never knew

at the end
of each life
someone finds
the box
that tells more
than you want
or need to know.
it's never out
in the open,
or under the bed
or in the closet,
deep. it's
in a darker place.
the far corner
of the attic,
the wet cellar.
nearly forgotten
but almost always
found and opened
with a gasp
and the words,
oh my,
i never knew.

the skier

do you ski, she asks
with a toothy smile
her hair pulled back
against the awful
blue sky.
she is an olympian.
her face flush with
sunlight, her bones
strong, holding her
in solid stance with
a pole dug in,
skis sunk into the ice
and snow. no, you
tell, much too my
sorrow, i'm more
of a sledder, then
watch her in a blow
of white wind, go
down the hill
without you.

back in her arms

fresh
as fresh can
be. you
spring out
of bed
with a happy
dream
that involved
sex
and food.
ice cream.
you can't
wait to
get tired
and home
again
to slip  back
into her arms
for more.

the dust

you don't like dust
but apparently
it likes you.
no matter how
many times you
vacuum and wipe
it away, it returns
as if you never
said farewell.
it makes you
strangely happy
to have something
or someone that
feels so strongly
about you, no
matter how crazy
that thought
might be.

the apple

you see them in the grocery
store, stopping their carts
to study apples.to
hold a tomato in their
hands as if shopping
not for food, but for art
to be placed somewhere
in their home where
everyone can see.
they tap on the melons,
turning them to the side
almost waiting for
a cough. and the corn,
how they shred the stalk
and peer into the hidden
layers to see if there
is gold, or subtle signs
of rot. how they
smell the basil, the parsley,
closing their eyes
being transported to a
place you want to go.
the grapes and cherries
lifted into the light.
such scrunity. and you
wonder if their life
is like this all the time.
as you take the first apple
from the pile
and  take a bite.

fashionista

you've lost
your fashion
way. no longer
sure what to
wear at this
late stage,
this age.
still in shorts
and t shirts
as you were at
twenty
then thirty.
your life is
done with coats
and ties.
pleated gabardines
and italian knits.
hard polished
shoes that catch
the sunlight. those
are reserved for
more somber
moments now,
the weddings
and funerals
of others. hung
deep into the far
closet. you'll
say no to both,
pulling down
your  ball cap as you
ride your bike,
pedaling quickly
to pass them by.

pepper mill

the waiters
glide through
the room
with their pepper
mills, two feet
long and wooden.
pepper, they say,
politely pausing
at your table.
yes, okay then,
just tell me when
to stop. they seem
very pleased
about grinding
black pepper
onto your plate.
it's as if they
are sprinkling
happiness into your
life with each
twist of the mill.

two for one burial plots

while sititng in the doctor's
office waiting to have
a suspicious mole removed
you see a two for one
ad in a magazine for burial
plots and cut it out with
a pair of scissors you borrow
from the receptionist. you fight
off the thought that you
have become your mother
and read the small print
with a magnifying glass.
it's not a bad deal. the grounds
look lovely. rose bushes
dot the land, oak trees
shade the rows and rows
of very nice white and
grey headstones. there's
some sort of thick green
hedge that hides the surrounding
chain link fence. you could
see being buried there until
someone puts a condo up. not
a bad deal this two for one.
but what would you do
with the extra grave?
you could call your ex wife
but then she'd think you
were up to something
devious,so that's out. you
could give it to someone
for their birthday or
christmas, but it might seem
odd and tasteless. and then
you think, why not
use both for yourself.
have a little extra room,
stretch out, like you do in
bed. maybe diagonally
arms over your head,
legs akimbo.

bug bites

you are running out
of things to say
aren't you, she says,
smirking in that way
that makes you shake
your head and let
out a  growl.
your fingers rest
upon the keyboard
awaiting any new
idea that might arise.
but nothing comes to mind.
what's the matter she says.
i don't hear any clicking.
oh it's not over, you tell her,
was it over when the titantic
hit an iceberg, yes,
she says. it was over.
well. that's not the right
analogy then is it.
are we having a little
spat, she says while rubbing
ointment onto a line
of mosquito bites
along her leg. maybe i'll write
something about
bug bites, you tell her, staring
at the red bumps. yeah,
she says, who wouldn't
want to read about that.

the barking dog

i used to ask
my dog
how can you bark
all day
sitting on
the bed, looking
out the window.
a cat, the mailman,
the neighbor
washing his car.
the woman
across the court
with curlers in her hair.
you bark and growl
at everyone.
what good is
it for you to bark
and bark
like you do. people
are complaining.
but he shrugs
his little shoulders
and smiles.
everything i've
learned, he says,
i've learned
from you.

someone like you

your skin
is tough
hardened with
love gone wrong.
rising and setting
suns. winter
days that rattle
your bones.
but every now
and then a soft
spot is found
and someone,
like you, gets in.

the survey

a man you see
nearly every day is on
the corner with his
sign and red plastic
bucket. he's bearded
and disheveled.
but today he's wearing
a bright red tie
on his plaid shirt
argyled with various
stains from assorted
meals. you say hey.
drop a dollar into
the green salad of bills
and rattling coins.
but today he hands
you a card before
you can walk away
and says, please go
to my website and fill
out this survey, let me
know how i'm doing.
thanks, have a nice day.

jars

you make
a living opening
stuck jars.
you've found
a true skill
that you can
market.
olive jars,
pickle jars.
small white
onions under
thick glass.
you go from
door to door.
opening jars.
your life
has meaning.

sleep

sleep sleep
sleep. soft pillows
under head.
a prayer
whispered
half spoken
hanging in
the air.
hands and arms
uncurled
no longer holding
the day
or thoughts
that chased you.
sleep sleep
sleep. life's
sweet elixir.

mustard

she's in love
with mustard.
on her potatoes
fried
her eggs
and tomatoes.
brown mustard
spicy and wild,
yellow
and bright.
give her mustard
and she's happy
with delight.
throw in a pickle
and she's yours
for the  night.

a romantic night

you have a romantic
evening alone at home.
you position yourself
in front of the tv
with a plate of scrambled
eggs and bacon
on the coffee table. you've
added cheddar cheese because
after all it's friday night.
you have orange juice
too. the kind with pulp.
you like pulp.
a baseball game is on,
but you have it on mute.
the announcers
annoy you. instead you
have al green on the stereo.
that's right. the stereo. no
no lousy new age gizmo
for me. i'm tired of being
alone al sings in that
sweet soulful wail. you
turn off the lights and
put a couple of candles
out, but you can still see
the pile of laundry in
the middle of the floor
that you might fold.
you take a bite of toast
then get up and dance
to the kitchen. maybe
you need just a shot of
vodka in that oj.

diving for pearls

diving for pearls
you leap
off the edge
of the cliff
into clear
deep water
your body cuts
through the surface
as you hold air
tightly in your warm
lungs. the bottom
is full of oysters
scattered like stones
in the ancient sand.
each one holding
some form of hope.
it takes a day,
a week, a month,
sometimes even a
lifetime to find
just one.

lost and found

this drawer full
of ticking watches
and things left
and lost, rings
and bracelets,
combs and brushes.
dead phones
and batteries.
a number on a
note. a pair of
black shoelaces.
scissors and screws.
a ball of string.
none of it abandoned
but just waiting
as we all are
to be found again.

go slow

go slow with
this boat
row easy
let it float
and carry us
to the other
shore. there's
no hurry,
no struggle
in the pull
of arms and oar.
go slow,
we'll get there
when we
get there.

rhymes with hell

i hate using this computer
but i have to use it.
it's the only one
i have because the last one
made by a company that rhymes
with hell died again. i could
go use the desk tops down
at the local library, but
then i'd have to stand in
line with a bunch of six
graders who don't have
computers at home and are
trying to write a paper
on huckleberry finn,
or george washington.
every four or five years like
clockwork, the screen flickers
and goes black then blue with
a system dump of nonsense
shimmering on the failed screen.
it's fried like the eggs
i had this morning. i remember
a time when twelve hundred
dollars bought you a week
at the ocean in a swank hotel
with breakfast every morning
and dinner every night
and someone to secure an
umbrella in the sand for
you as you sat drinking
pina coladas until the sun
went down. times have
changed i realize as i  sit
here on hold with someone
one from hell.

communication

i need a man
that can communicate
with me, tell
me his deepest thoughts
and understand
mine, someone who
loves me for who i
am despite my many
faults. someone who
will listen to me when
i come home from a long
hard day at word
and comfort me
with kind words of
compassion
and understanding.
do you hear what i'm
saying honey, are
you listening to me?
hold on, they're going
to show this play in slow
motion again, take a
look, tell me if this is
not a fumble.
it should be our ball,
but no, i can't believe
the refs blew this one.
geeeze marie. okay.
i'm sorry, let me
mute this, what did
you say? you want
to call in a pizza or
something? i'm starving.

a good day

you brush up
against a good day,
a day of no
sorrow, or sadness.
it has it's fill
of things gone
wrong, but they
don't bother you as
they once did at
thirty or even
forty. you see
the long shadow
of your life, and
accept the cold
and warmth
with an equal
embrace.

the blue miles

the sudden beauty
of a bird
as it suddenly
appears as if
from nowhere
keeps me in
wonder. it's
as magical
as you are across
the blue miles.

meade's liquor store

there's a drive-thru
liquor store
in oxon hill maryland
across from eastover
shopping  center
that's been there
since i was in the fourth
grade, a thousand
years ago. we'd
stand waiting for
the bus and watch
the line of men and
women in their cars
pass through at eight
a.m., taking hold of
the bottles and cans
in paper bags as they
came through the window.
teachers and lawyers,
construction workers,
men and women with
nothing to do, nowhere
to go. most of what was there
in the neighborhood
as a kids is gone,
the bowling alley
the drugstore, the motel,
all boarded up.
barbed wire wrapped
around the premises.
the ball field
is a parking lot full
of broken glass, but
the liquor store
is gold, still thriving.
still passing the bags
through the window
to the human souls
unchanging.

green eyed

a very tall man moves
into the neighborhood,
his name is willis.
some call him handsome,
but i don't quite get that.
he's very popular
with the single women
and married ones as
well. please, willis, help me
get my cat out of the
tree they say, or can
you come over, i can't
reach that bag of sugar
on the top shelf.
annoyed by him,
i kick a ball
onto the roof,
and he comes over,
trying to be nice, and
says, i can get that for
you shorty.

the lethal bug

you read where
mosquitoes
have killed off
half of humanity
down through
the ages, malaria
yellow fever
and countless
other transported
diseases
by wing and blood
but you guessed
religion, or
love and
were wrong
although relieved.

lovers in their cars

the deer
are large and fat
this summer.
the herd was
thinned over
the warm
winter months.
but now
they are back.
standing near
the path
in the parking lot
as darkness
settles in,
watching you
watching them.
you want to yell
out, keep
the population
down, but they'd
turn a deaf
ear to that,
as would the lovers
in their cars under
the shady trees.

the baby

when the nurse
hands you a baby,
your baby.
it stuns you.
where are
the directions,
the manual,
who are they to
trust you with
another life,
one so small
and fragile.
but you make due.
you gate
the steps,
plug the sockets.
keep the dog
at bay and sweep
the floor for
pennies. it gets
harder from
there.

seeing red

like lady
macbeth entering
the room where
blood
has spilled
in murder, you
too say
to the tipped
bucket of red
paint, a little
water clears us
of this deed,
and how wrong
you both are.

birthday boy

small finger prints
on the glass
the smudges
two feet up
along the stairs,
the toys
still unwinding
with music.
another ball
lost beneath
the sofa, a plastic
bat on the table.
crayons spilled
like a broken
rainbow
on the floor.
how quickly
twenty three years
go by.

sugar free candies

you dread
the dentist,
the needle
the drill
the scraping
and probing.
those brilliant lights
overhead,
the smell,
those instruments
on the tray
gleaming.
the flossing
inquisition.
oh, and then
the bill
as you stand
there numb
and drooling.
but you like
the little
blue sugar free
candies
they give you
in the end.
they'll hold you
until you get
the real stuff.

just saying

you trip over
the tray of words
carried by
your loose tongue.
sometimes
your mind
has a mind of
it's own.
words, like
delinquents out
late, looking
for trouble
skip out into
the world, causing
damage, mostly
of the misdemeanor
kind, but there
is always
an apology
forthcoming,
explaining to be
done when
you reel them
in and stop.

a must win

she brings me tea,
an orange
and sits beside me
on the rug.
let's not talk, she
says. let's close
our eyes and listen
to our hearts,
listen to our
breathing,  feel
the wind of life
in our bodies. okay,
you tell her,
but there's a game
on at one, will we
be done by then.
skins and cowboys,
it's a must win.

don't leave a light on

don't leave
a light on
i'm gone for good.
don't wait up
by the window,
this time i won't
be coming back.
take everything i've
left and throw it
in the lake,
don't leave
the light on,
for until
the next time,
i've made my
last mistake.

things you learn along the way

eat italian food
in an italian restaurant.
greek in a greek.
don't date women
with handguns
in their purse, or
women with husbands
still living
in the basement.
don't tell your
mother any secrets
that you don't want
the world to know.
never ask how old
someone is, or how
much they weigh
especially around
the holidays.
no, sometimes, really
means no. say nothing
when you know
nothing. avoid
eye contact with
strangers who approach
you on the street
with a clipboard.
don't sky dive,
bungee jump, or
pick up a snake.

raking the lawn

raking
the yard
on the end
of a summers
day
reminds you
of when you
were thirteen
and cut
lawns with
a push mower
that weighed
more than you
did. the blades
dull and thick
near rust,
pressing
the long grass
down, with
very little cut.
hours later,
towards dark
the man would
come out
after watching
you in the window
and hand you
five dollars.
you can rake it
tomorrow, he'd
say, go home,
it's getting late.

the wrong answer

sometimes you
ask a question you
don't want the answer
to, but you need
to ask, it's an itch
that must be scratched.
so you do, then
you sleep on it
for a few nights
in the unsettled waters
of your sleep
and ask yourself why.
you promise
to stitch your mouth
closed tomorrow.

the clouds

don't the clouds
look religious today
the woman says to her
child as they ride
along the highway.
but he's busy with
his ice cream
licking and gnawing
at the bottom of the cone
where it drips out
in dark drops. he's
strapped into the back
seat. his nose
sticky and full of
chocolate. look at those
clouds, she says
again to him, finding
his eyes in the rear
view mirror. you can
almost see the angels
up there, can't you?
that's the difference
between me and your
father, she says. i
appreciate beauty. i see
how wonderful things are
when you take time
to notice. look at those
clouds, she says.
her hands red and tight
around the wheel.
oh my. oh my.

fast food

i don't understand
you, you yell towards
the metal box
painted a high
gloss yellow. what?
you say again,
and what comes back
crackled and high
pitched.
the sound is like
that of a gemini
space capsule,
garbled and full
of static, yet
the person speaking
to you is
is nine feet away
at the window.
you can see her
with her headphones
and wires, scratching
a bump on her head
in the rounded
mirror that reveals
what's just around
the corner of this
luge like drive thru.
spicy, you articulate,
crispy too.
rice, not beans,
fries. no slaw.
dark meat. you
want a number
four then, the voice
says. but it's too late
you've moved past
the colorful photo
totem pole of food.
sure, you say. why
not. something
else is said, but now
you are on the far side
of the moon at the money
window. you pay,
then go to the next
window where they
give you napkins
and a straw and make
one more pitch
to sell you a batch
of home made
cookies, then you
drive another two
feet and a bag
is handed to you.
your drink too.
as you drive away.
and eat your filet of
fish that you didn't
order, you sigh
and vow to make
your own lunch
tomorrow.

the ballet

on her tip toes
around
the room
in her pink
dress
she bends
and moves
like a flower
about
to bloom,
and you, well
you are
the bee
in waiting.

the door

the door
is stuck,
where once
it swung freely
to open and close
and lock
behind you as
need be, is now
tight and sealed.
the wood has
warped along
the frame,
the heat and cold,
the snow and rain,
the change
that comes with
time,
have all taken
their toll. there
is no way
back to the other
side.

the big store

walking through
the big store
that has everything
you could ever
need for your house
you get depressed
and sad. you want
a new kitchen, a
red kitchen with
shiny marble counters
and drawers
that close on their
own. a stove
with all the buttons
smiling at you.
deep and wide
that you could fit
a pizza box into.
that rug over
there would look
good in the hall.
that chair, though useless,
would brighten up
the livingroom.
lamps are everywhere
illuminating your
pain and woe.
how wonderful your
life could be
if you had those boxes
over there, and those
black and white
oversized photos
of bees. but you buy
nothing, only
a candle on the way
out, vanilla scented
and then some
swedish meatballs
at the store cafeteria.

the days of wine and creamed filled donuts

addicted
to cake
you find yourself
in an alley
one morning,
lying along
a curb
with icing on
your face.
empty boxes
of pastries
beside you.
a dog
is licking your
chin and
several cats
are eyeing
you from
afar. you pull
yourself togther
and stand up,
wobbly,
and weak,
trembling from
low blood sugar.
you brush
the crumbs from
your shirt
and go forward,
one step, one
day at a time.

folding sheets

folding white
sheets at midnight
in the pale light
of a soft moon.
no music.
no tv. no noise.
just the stirring
of memories
and the sound
of your hands
moving
old linen to
be carried up
and put away.

page one

on the last page
the last line
of the notebook.
six months
in the making
of numbers
and names, of
places to be and
go. times
and dates.
coffee stained,
with drips
of paint. smudges
of ink.
unreadable at
times, caught
in the rain. dropped
in snow.
you turn it over
and mark the year
in bold numbers.
then open a new one,
page one.

the last mussel

go ahead,
she said.
you take it.
have the last
one, the last mussel
on the plate.
so with a squirt
of lemon, you
suck it clean from
the cold grey shell
and down it goes
slipping into
your own gulf stream.
an hour later, you
are on your knees
asking god to deliver
you, or to take you
home, sweet
jesus, please.

on capitol hill

strollers,
the one man
says.
hands on his
hips.
women pushing
strollers.
can you imagine.
he puts his
arm out to show
a long scar.
mugging in
71 he says.
across the street
in the park.
his partner lifts his
pant leg to show
another scar
from a dog's
bite.
pit bull, he says.
in 87. they had
a ring, and fights
on friday night,
down where
the yogurt shop is.
they smile
at one another,
then take each
other's hand.
we were here
first. they say together,
but strollers now,
can you imagine.

the lost shirt

you take out
the wash and see
that your favorite
shirt is torn.
shredded in
the tumble of
spin and suds,
the collision
of pants and socks.
it's over for
this shirt. it's no
small tragedy,
losing this shirt.
the memories
that it holds.
thank god you
have five more
exactly like it.

sleepless

bothered
by the light.
you throw a shirt
over the clock,
you pull
the blinds tight
and slide
the curtains over.
you close the door,
put a pillow
over your head.
finally it's pitch
black, but
still you can't
sleep. you know
now, that it
has nothing to
do with the light.

relationships

you try hard
to swim, having gone
out beyond
the break of
waves, to where
the cold water
embraces your feet,
you look
towards shore
and it feels as if
you haven't moved
at all, arm over
arm, kicking,
your head down
in the green salty
water. you laugh.
then let go, and
lie on your back,
staying afloat,
you let the ocean
carry you, take
you where you
need, or not need
to go.

bending

having eaten
too much
the night before,
you take one
hand and stretch
reaching down
to find your toes,
the floor, then
the other, you
repeat this over
and over until
the backs of your
legs are loose
and limber. you
do this for a few
minutes, then
stare out window
at the trees that
bend so easily
in the wind.
tomorrow you
will do more,
but for now
it's enough.

up on a roof

you find your way
to the roof,
forty feet up
and climb aboard.
the pitch is steep,
bends your ankles
against the black
shingles. the heat
seeps through your
shoes, shoots into
your angled knees.
you find a chimney
to hold on to,
a vent, a board
to balance yourself
as you move slowly
along the incline,
a brush in one
hand, a bucket
in the other.
it's a circus move,
a tightrope walk
along the peak.
your life is fragile,
you believe, as
a bird swings by
with a worm.

hear me roar

she slapped
me when i opened
the door for her.
i'm not weak,
she said.
i can open my
own door.
i have a job,
a life, i don't
need a man
to keep me,
i have a phd.
but when the check
came, she had
to go powder
her nose. some
instincts never
fade.

rainbow

the lanes
of rainbows
go from one
point to another.
it's a fast
lane, a thin
lane full
of color.
pick one
and i'll meet
you there
at the other
side, when
the rain
stops and
the sun
slips
out of sight.