doctor visit

your doctor calls you
in for an appointment.
just come in, he says
on the phone. we need
to talk. so you go in
and strangely don't
have to wait.
a nurse leads you back
into an examining
room, and points
her finger, he's in
there, she says,
shaking her head
and snapping her gum.
you go in and and jump
up onto the steel
cold gurney and take
your shirt off. suddenly
you see him.
he's sitting in a chair
in the corner
smoking a cigarette
and drinking
a manhattan. keep your
shirt on, he says.
this is about me,
not you. in fact, here's
a hundred bucks for
coming, he throws a wad
of bills at you, go
ahead and count it, if
i'm short, you can
take home some cotton
balls or something.
so what's wrong, you ask
him, crossing your legs
and buttoning your
shirt back up. i'm sick
of sick people, he
says. i'm tired of
the insurance squabbles
and the mean nurses
and receptionists
that i hire. i want
out of this business.
my wife hates me, my
kids are all spoiled rotten
from giving them too
much, and my pool is
full of leaves.
so what's that got to
do with me, you ask.
well, he says,
rubbing his cigarette
out with his wing tips,
i think i'd like to learn
a trade, maybe house
painting, like you do.
hanging wallpaper.
something like that.
i thought i could work
for you, if that's okay.
like an intern, you don't
even have to pay me
for a few years.
and once i learn the
trade i'll go out on
my own. what do you think?
i don't know you say.
i'm kind of slow right
now. sure, he says, sure.
but maybe when it picks up
a little. his beeper
goes off and he looks
at the message. geez.
i almost forgot, i have
to go take out mrs.
rinaldi's gall bladder.
i have to get going,
wash my hands and stuff.
but think about it, okay,
he says. i want out.

nine lives

nervous
about the needle
going into her breast
to search
for
cells
that could mean
either life
or death, she sighs.
and sets
her mind
to it.
she has fallen out
of many
buildings
before,
and cat like
has landed
firmly on her
feet. as i'm sure
she will,
once more.

you go out
early in the morning
to fetch
some brown eggs
from the chicken
coop
and milk the cow.
the cow
wags her tail
as if she's glad
to see you.
and who wouldn't
be at that
hour
of the day
on a cold farm.
the welcome
the warm hands
and pull.
you walk by the pigs
and throw
them some scraps
of food from
last nights dinner.
they snort and
bounce around off
of one another
rolling in
the mud, as they
like to do.
you've got fences
to fix,
horses to shoe.

who i am

she used to cry
a lot, using
a bucket
near her
bed to catch
the tears.
by the end of
the week it would
be full
of her sorrows
and cares.
she would carry
it around
with her
and people would
stop
to tell her
how sorry they
were for her
troubles,
her sadness.
they'd offer to
empty it for her
or to it
carry down
the street, but
she refused.
how would they
know about me,
she'd say,
who i am?
if my bucket
was empty.

i could use a drink

she comes out
of rehab a new woman.
she's almost
shines in
the sunlight as
you pick her
up at the station.
so how'd it go,
you ask her,
staring at her clear
eyes and placid
face. i'm
good she says,
smiling. good.
it went well. i
think i got to
the bottom
of my addictions.
of my past mistakes
and wrong
turns. it was
tough. a lot of
crying and soul
baring. i've heard
stories that i
will carry to
my grave. but
everyone was so
kind and thoughtful,
understanding.
she wipes a tear
from her cheek.
sorry, she says.
so how are you.
how are things in
your world.
i could use a drink,
you tell her.

what's coming

in the past
you heard only
your own
footsteps,
but now
your ear
is to the ground
you want
to hear
what's coming.
whether
good or bad.
the horses.
the next train.
footsteps.
you listen
hard for tomorrow,
narrowing
your eyes
holding your
hand up, saying
shhh. listen,
i want to hear.

becoming you

there is less
of you
as the years
increase.
less hair,
less
bones,
less tolerance
of fools
or clowns,
how quickly
now you'll turn
the set off
or put a bad
book down.
your vision
too
grows weak,
as your
voice changes
and your
gums
recede. it's
not a pretty
sight,
but beautiful
to become
who you were
meant to be.

clear water

you wake one
morning, later in
life than you wish
and suddenly realize
that you don't care
what other people
think of you.
this revelation
is like a clear
cold glass
of ice water
on a summer day.
relieved you drink
it down and laugh
at how you used
to be.

pink sheets

you have pink
sheets now
that once
were white.
one small red
shirt
thrown into
the wash
has changed
everything
about how she
thinks of
you.

gold watch

your gold
watch stopped
ticking
many years
ago, but you
still wear it
as if it
keeps time.
you slip it
onto your wrist
each morning
out of habit
despite the
tarnish,
the lack
of shine
just as you
still
kiss your wife
goodbye
before leaving
to work,
as if everything
was fine.

what they used to be

things aren't what
they used
to be the old man
says
from the stoop
a bagged bottle
of wine
between his thin
legs.
he stamps his brown
shoes at a line
of ants
going by.
things are different
now, he says.
lighting a cigarette
watching a girl
walk by across
the street.
sure, he says.
the girls are still
pretty and men still
need to work
but it ain't like
it used to be.
it's hard to
explain he says.
but you have trust
me when i say,
that things are
what they used
to be. i was young
once too, he says.
you'll see, you'll
see.

the drowning

i am a bad swimmer
she says,
wading cautiously
out beyond
the shore,
but the sea
doesn't seem
to mind.
it gathers me
in it's cool
hands
and pulls me
towards
the center. i wish
love was like
that, she smiles.
deep
and mysterious.
dangerous
and alive.
the relentless
new waves
washing against
me with
affection.
why can't love
be like that,
but it is you tell
her, watching
as she
goes under.

don't take her home

she had a shady
past.
an emerald ring
on her little
toe.
a small tattoo
of a bleeding
rose
on her breast.
she sighed
alot,
and looked
off into the distance
as if
waiting for
a ship arrive,
to come sailing
over
the horizon.
she might have been
indian,
or mexican,
or from the middle
east, who knows
for sure, but
she had an incurable
disease
and a habit
of twrirling
her hair
and calling
you chief.
it was just a week,
but she
made a lasting
impression.
you still have
the scar on your
shoulder
where she
bit you one
night in
the heat of passion.
it was only
a week, but
it seemed longer,
alot longer.

fried chicken to go

an angry man pulls
a gun
in the fast food
store,
coming back
in from his car
and demands
that they get his
order right.
i said crispy,
he screams,
spicy and dark
meat only.
and i want
fries with that
not beans.
he waves the gun
around
in the flourescent
lights
jumping onto
the counter,
i want a biscuit
too, not a hard
sweet roll,
now take this
bag of plain chicken
breasts and make
it right
he yells, do it
now or someone
is going to
get hurt. i'm
hungry dammit.

the snooze

they garnish
your wages
for back taxes
and missed
child support.
someone steals
your newspaper
from your front
porch.
the milk you
just bought has
been opened
already with a sip
or two
missing.
there is horse
meat
in the meatballs
you bought from
the furniture
store
according
to the nightly
news.
but nothing stops
you,
as you look
out the window
at the pink
parking ticket
flapping
under your
wiper blade against
the windshield.
you make a sandwich,
you drink
the milk
you send a check.
you take a mid
afternoon
snooze.

journal entry

i know
he doesn't love me,
she writes
onto a crisp
yellow page
in her
bedside journal.
i know
he's seeing other
women,
secretly
when we aren't
together.
i feel it
in my bones,
down
to the bottom
of my
cold feet.
i know what
the truth is,
but it doesn't
matter, not
really,
i don't love
him either
and i'd rather
this
than be alone.

the wind

the wind
is reassuring
in it's
voice.
the blow
of march
dusting
the trees,
scattering
what's
left of winter
towards
the ground
into the cold
new water
of streams.
the wind must
come first
in all our lives
in order
to move
forward,
towards another
spring.

it's so nice out

you look out
the window and wish
it was raining.
but it's not.
it's sunny out.
blindingly sunny
with a bright
blue egg sky.
you tell yourself
that you will
take a long
hard walk through
the woods, work
up a sweat, but
it's hard to get out
there. it seems
kind of windy,
and it might be
muddy from the rain
yesterday.
you see a bird
fly up to the window
batting his yellow
wings. you should
go out. it's so
nice. you shouldn't
waste this beautiful
afternoon inside.
you can tell
everyone how you
took advantage of
the day, the weather.
but it's getting
kind of dark
out now. better not.
there was a report
on the news about
marauding gangs of
miscreants. right.
it's almost dark now.
maybe you should just
get a bowl of
ice cream
and stay put.
whew. what's on
tv.

but...

the speaker
is alive with words
and charm.
his pockets full
of checks marked
twenty-nine,
ninety-five.
he glows
with inspiration.
freshly tanned
from a
caribbean
vacation.
anything
is possible
he says with open
arms
and wide blue
eyes.
everyone here is
special, he says,
even you, pointing
at a man in
a plaid shirt
cleaning his teeth
with a toothpick.
everyone
has a hidden talent
deep
inside. deep inside,
he repeats, pounding
on his chest.
don't be afraid
of tomorrow,
or today,
but live
your quiet lives
aloud. leave your
sordid worthless
pasts behind, be who
you were
meant to be, not
the do nothing
loser
that you have become.

who he is

he re-invents
himself each new
day.
erasing
the person
that came before
him. his
sins
fall like
scales
from his eyes.
he inflates
the air that
has seeped
out by those who
prodded
and pricked
his enormous
pride.
by noon he is
in full form.
filling
room
the with who he
thinks he is
once more.

thirst

as someone
said
if thirst is
the purest proof
that there is
evidence of water,
and if there
is hunger
then there must
be food,
then what
can be said
of faith
and the longing
for salvation.

the pope vs. mother theresa

you hear a story about
the pope and mother
theresa coming to blows
one night while in monte
carlo on vacation.
the argument was about
who was doing the most
to help the poor,
the sick, the homeless.
mother theresa, tired
of the pope's whining
and rolling of his eyes,
and on a short fuse after
leaving the leper
colony in calcutta
put her glass of wine
down, called the pope
a pansie and took a swing
across the table at
him, but he ducked.
she knocked his hat
off, and spilled
wine all over his white
robe laced in gold
trim, which angered
him to no end.
then all hell broke
loose as they wrestled
to the floor. being
wirey she managed to get
the pope into a headlock,
and bit his ear,
telling him to say
that she was a saint
who did the most ever
to help the needy
in the world,
not paul, not peter,
not oprah, or
joel osteen, but her.
the pope was strong
though. he had a daily
regimine of lifting
the king james bible
over his head a hundred
times every day, so
he was able to flip
mother theresa into the air
and off of him. they
boxed for awhile,
moving around the room.
mother theresa was
light on her feet and
had a wicked jab.
she blackened the pope's
eye with a sweet left
hook, but he countered
cutting her pointy chin
with his diamond studded
pope ring.
at this point she picked
up a salad fork
from the citrus salad
they just had, and
he found a tiramisu spoon
on the floor
which made her laugh
in that high pitched
voice of hers.
they circled one another,
looking for an opening,
cursing in latin,
but then the hotel
security rushed in
and broke them up,
separating them. of course
all of this was kept
out of the papers,
but the damage was done
and they never spoke
to one another again
except for an occasional
terse text around lent.

better days

better days
are ahead you hear
the old man say
as he leans
on a cane
in the snow,
tugging at your arm.
you'll see, he
says. don't worry
about any
of this. i've
seen death on
a great scale.
poverty
and pain. this is
nothing.
better days
are coming he
says, wiping his
mouth with
his sleeve
and taking a long
drink
from a flask
he pulls from
deep within his
grey coat.
better days are
coming, he says,
but can you spare
me a few dollars
until they do?

boy or girl?

she sends a photo
of her
daughter's unborn
baby still
snug in the womb.
but you can see it's
face.
it's closed
eyes and pug nose.
the comma
curve of it's
body, arms and
soft boned
legs balled
tight.
it's gooey
and eerie on
many levels, but
you say something
like, oh my,
how cute. you sort
of miss
the old days
when someone took
a picture
after they'd been
scrubbed clean
and wrapped in a
pink or blue blanket
with their
thin black hair
combed neatly
to the side.

you read where
mother theresa might
not be all she was
cracked up to be.
seems she only changed
the bandages on
a few thousand
lepers, not a million.
she only helped
and inspired
a few dozen countries
but not all
of them. what was
she doing with all
that down time. lazy
bum, that she was.

mustard girl

she likes
mustard.
spicy brown,
or tingly yellow.
squeezed fast
and
straight from
a bottle
or lathered
on with a broad
knife
dipped into
a squat plum
jar. onto
bread and potatoes
it goes.
meat.
she's a mustard
kind of
girl. not like
the others
and their
predictable
ketchup bottles
slow
on the pour
with
the tap tap tap.

water and wine

you read
the babble
of the interview
of a rock
star
god you've bought
into.
every jingle
jangle
of his music
is in
some small part
of your
mind.
but you laugh
at what he says,
never
giving up
on being
misunderstood,
ridiculous,
and sublime.
on the road
until the end
of time,
for what else
is there
to do, but
keep going,
turning water
into wine.

her work husband

you run into your friend
betty at the grocery store.
she's putting a bag
of frozen peas into her
cart while you're
eyeballing the carrots.
hey she says, hey you,
you say back. what's up?
long time no see.
i don't know, she says,
suddenly tearing up. i'm
not getting along with
my work husband. huh,
you say, grabbing a bag
of the asian medley
vegetables and placing
them in the child seat portion
of your cart, where you
like to jam everything.
your work husband? what's
that? that's the man
at work that i confide
in, share all my secrets
with and problems and
he does the same with me.
are you having sex with
him? no, she says, no
way. oh, just like a real
husband you say, winking.
she doesn't laugh.
we're just really
really close. but lately
he's been real chummy
with a new woman in
the cubicle next to him.
yesterday they went to
lunch at chili's and sat
in the booth on
the parkway side
where we used to sit. i'm
so upset about this. he
tries to hide his feelings
for her, but they sit
next to each other at all
the work meetings now,
and she laughs at all his
stupid jokes. hmmm, you
say, squishing your
pork chops next to the
milk, making room for
a loaf of wonder bread.
i don't know what to say,
you tell her, shuffling
your feet and scratching
your head. i know, i know,
she says, i shouldn't have
said anything. it will work
it's way out. i have an
appointment with my therapist
this week to help me
get over this. she sighs.
and stares off into
the distance. well, good
luck you say. she nods,
wiping her eyes
and pushes her cart off
towards the perscription
counter.

gone stale

you bite down
into
the bread roll
but it's
stale. hard
and crusted.
no heat
will bring it
back to
the doughy
softness it
was born with,
no amount
of butter or
jam upon
its stiffend
skin will
make it
good enough
to eat again.
you remember
how it came out
from the oven.
warm and inviting.
the sweet smell
of love
in the air, but
it's stale now.
like you
and me.

snow day

hypnotized
looking out
the windows
the children
scream
from
their school
room
desks
as the snow
begins to
fall.
the teachers
do
too.
it's a happy
day
to be away
from one
another
so unexpectedly.

ruby oh ruby

while making love
to your girlfriend
you accidentally call
her by the wrong
name. you call her
ruby. which stops
everything. it's like
a train suddenly
going off the tracks.
who the hell is ruby,
she says, inching
away from you,
as if you were suddenly
a leper,
and covering herself
up with sheets
and blankets. i
don't know, you say.
i don't even know
a ruby. i'm not sure
where that came
from. geez. sorry
honeybun. it
surprises me too.
now where were we?

monday morning at the dmv

there is no
hell, the wild eyed
man says
while waiting in line
at the dmv.
but this is close
to it, he screams,
minus
the lake of fire
and demons
jabbing us with
pitchforks.
he's standing on
a chair
at this point, yelling.
these people are
all minions
of the devil,
they want to punish
us for our sins,
our driving transgressions.
we thirst, we
hunger and there is
no end in sight.
our salvation is lost.
right on brother, someone
says. right on brother,
waving
his paperwork for
an out of state
vehicle ownership
transfer.
the security team
arrives and wrestles
the wild man
to the ground
they give him a nice
calming burst of tazer
electricity,
then drag him off.
number three hundred
and seventy three
a disembodied
voice says over
the loud speaker,
and everyone
moves up a foot, or so.

ground pepper

if only, she
says, if only
he'd come back
and love me the way
he used to, then
every thing
would be fine.
i'd be happy once
again.
you smile at her
and nod,
and say that your
happiness is
less ambitious,
you just wish
the waiter would
pass by again
so that you could
get some ground
pepper
on your salad.

counter clockwise

at the party,
with the third
bottle of wine
being drained as
it's passed around,
someone says
something
about he was
reading that
the galaxies
spin
both clockwise
and counter clockwise
and know one
knows exactly
why.
and another
person
says, who cares
we're all going
to die regardless.
this gets a laugh.
which makes
you realize how even
death can be
funny sometimes
when it isn't close
at hand.

tight pants

the dry cleaners
has shrunken
all your clothes.
you put them
on and walk
into the store
showing them
how tight
your pants are,
the buttons
on your shirt
about to pop.
they don't seem
to care.
and laugh, saying
you've gained
weight.
you must not
eat as much.
they suggest a
restaurant
down the street
owned by
their cousin.
it's healthy
place to eat they
say. you will
lose weight there.
go now. try it.

despite it all

the lake
is wind swept
to one
corner.
and the debris
of not
just leaves
has settled
near the dock.
every can
and plastic
cup
sways with
the light tide.
pens
and books
without their
covers.
wine bottles
and
shoes. spent
condoms
and clothes
float like
fallen angels.
and geese
pay no mind
to any of it,
the green etched
turtles
climb across,
their heads
moving side to side.
a fish in
the distant center
leaps,
glimmering in
a soft winter sun.

there is work to be done

how there is
work to be done
in this world
as seen by
the hurried
hands
of butchers
at
the bloodied
block.
each clean
knife, not
clean for long.
the shoe shine
boy
his hands
darkened
with the soft
paste
of shine after
shine.
the dullness
of each day
comes back again
and again.
he depends
upon it.
the policemen
loading
their guns to
stop
the criminals
who are loading
theirs, always,
always, in the world
there is
work to be
done.

another day

she wears a coat
not unlike
virginia woolf
might
with a fur
collar, sand
brown and long,
three
black buttons,
to below
her knees
where her laced
boots rise
against the skeletons
of winter
leaves.
she's prone to sighing
on cold
days such as this.
impatient with
the weather,
with me and where
our love might go,
or not go.
but she'll see it
through
another day, why
not. why not, she
says to no one,
waiting for the train,
a stone
in the deep of
her pocket.

the fly

a fly
stuck between
window
and screen
keeps
trying
to find the way
out.
neither here
nor there,
he flutters
his blue green
wings.
he sizzles
against
the wire mesh.
unwanted
in either
direction, you
think that you
too have been
there before,
but you haven't.
not really.
it was just a bad
day.
that's all.

it comes around

there used to be
a kid, a big
red haired kid,
on the bus
who on the coldest
day of winter,
would sit behind you
and snap his
finger against
your frozen
red ear, then
howl.
he was hated
by every small
kid in the school
that he
picked on
relentlessly.
so when you see
him on the news
years later,
being handcuffed
and taken from
his senatorial
office you are more
than just
a little pleased.
smiling as you
touch gently your
warm ear.

woman in a cake

you strangely turn
a hundred and
your friends, mostly
new ones, because
the old ones are
dead, throw you
a party. there is
a defibrillator
nearby next to a
gurney and a
muscular
registered nurse
named renaldo.
a blonde haired
buxom woman leaps out
of the enormous cake,
which makes you smile
and clap your soft
old hands together.
you've always wanted
a woman to jump
out of a cake
on your birthday, but
you sort of wish
that she was a
brunette, not a blonde
and that she had
nicer legs.
maybe the cake could
have been chocolate too.
it's been a long
life. you still
aren't exactly happy,
but like always,
you play along.

down 301

three eggs
over easy, hash browns
and coffee
buttered
toast and jam,
three links
of jimmy dean's
sausage.
and the girl
in pink
a year out
of highschool
hair pinned
above
her ears, blue
eye shadow
and a tight pink
dress
showing cleavage
sounds fifty
already
as she swings
by the cluttered
slick table
to say, hey
hon, everything okay
here?

marching onward

you see
the admirals
and captains,
the generals,
the retired soldiers
at the grocery
store, pushing
their carts
or riding
the electric ones.
the wars
are over for
them. slowly
they roll up
the aisles
in baggy clothes,
some with flag
pins,
putting carrots
in the basket,
potatoes
and corn.
milk and bread.
eggs.

money

money
is hot in some
hands.
cold
in others.
some bury it
in a can
in the yard
while others
play the market.
live large
like kings without
countries.
money makes
you sleep well,
or lose sleep.
money
corrupts, or
makes you a
saint.
money doesn't
grow on
trees your
mother used
to say,
sitting at
the table cutting
coupons
for lemonade.
some have their
first nickel,
while others
have a plan
to get yours
out of your tight
gripped hand.

near the roses

you remember
moving three times
in five years
when the hammer
fell. an apartment,
a condo, a house.
but they were
happy moves
involving fresh
paint, new linens,
a new mattress,
a new phone number.
a new
address. sometimes
you woke up
and wondered where
you were.
it was confusing
giving directions
to your house,
telling people
where to park, which
bell to ring.
but that was ten
years ago.
and you have no itch
left to scratch
when it comes
to moving again.
you're fine right where
you are, and you say
things like
when it's over, just
bury me out back.
near the roses
i might plant this spring.

a little blue

feeling a little
blue you look
around and see that
all the glasses
are dirty
and in the sink.
the spoons
and forks too.
the dishes
are stacked
and sticky with
this weeks
now mysterious
food. coffee
cups sit
with puddles
of that last
cold sip not
taken. pizza
boxes lie
on the counter
with mouths ajar
next to chinese
boxes white
and red, left
unopened, dried
solid like
glue. this is
what happens when
she doesn't call
and you're
feeling a little
blue.

clues

the yellowed
spot
on the ceiling
is a clue,
like how i
don't hear
from you on a
saturday night.
there is water
leaking
slowly
somewhere above
you.
it could be rain,
it could be
a pipe.
it could be
the grout
or caulking
around the
tub or tiles,
but something isn't
right.
you'll get to
it eventually,
but not right
now, not
tonight, you're busy
waiting
by the phone.

heads or tails

you decide to
make all your big
decisions in life
with the toss
of a coin. you carry
a half dollar
around with you
just for this
purpose.
heads or tails.
why not, your intuition
and smarts
are not what they
used to be.
you like
the decisiveness
of a coin flipping
through the air
deciding your
destiny. what could
go wrong,
that hasn't already.

centerfield

your sister's ex
husband is
in the hospital.
he's on a list
for a new kidney.
he wore the last
one out.
drugs and drinking.
cigarettes.
he's only sixty
but has the body
of an eighty five
year old man.
he was the best
centerfielder
you ever saw.
he could run, catch
and throw
like a young
mickey mantle.
he even wore number
seven. but that was
a long time
ago when time stood
still and the grass
was green, with
most of our lives
before us.

night out with the boys

let's go out drinking
tonight, your friend
howard says on
the phone. let's round
up the guys. i feel like
getting out there.
i'm stuck here in
the hinter lands with
the wife and kids. i need
a night out with the guys.
like the old days.
sure you say. see you at
eight. Harry's? by the way,
what are you wearing,
he asks. casual
you say. is there parking?
yeah. garage, next door. you
tell him. what if it rains,
are you still going?
do they validate parking?
sure. i have an umbrella.
how's the food there?
bar food, you say, staring
at the phone and rolling
your eyes.
do they have the sunset
special if we get there
before six? ummm. eight
you say again, see you
at eight. are jeans okay.
are you wearing a button
down shirt or a sweater.
i might wear both, is
that okay? what are people
wearing these days?
will there be babes
there? like our age?

raccoon

you see a fat
raccoon
in the trash
at the end
of the cul
de sac.
she rises
with an apple
in her hand.
eating.
she bares her
teeth and
gives you a
hiss. it reminds
you a of a girl
you used
to be related
to by marriage.
slowly, you back
away just like
you used to do
back in the day.

the primal scream

when the hot air
balloon goes
tumbling
to the ground
in flames
you don't smugly
say, i told
you so, but you
could, if you
wanted. and the
same goes for
bungee cords breaking,
para sails falling
like rocks
into the shark
infested sea,
and those zip
lines in costa
rica hurtling
you into a snake
filled banana tree.
go right ahead, you
say, sipping
on your rum
infused drink
with a bright orange
wedge dangling
delicately
on the rim. go
right ahead,
have fun.
i'll be here
awaiting your return,
i mean
if there is one.

above water

you want
the stream,
like a sleeve
of ice,
to freeze over
so that you
can slide
across it
in your slippery
shoes
and get to the
other side,
twisting
and turning,
pirouetting like
a happy child
in the last
cold gasps
of winter.
being above water
for a change.

can you fix this

you follow
her up the stairs
as she eats
from a bag of oreos,
averting your eyes
from the obvious.
you are there
to look at the bathroom
and it's peeling
paper, not her,
the dog comes up
behind you. picking
up the cookie
crumbs
that drop from
the woman's
hand. you see
the husband lying
in bed as you pass
by a room.
he's smoking
and watching tv
from beneath the sheets.
he waves, you
wave. in these
moments you think
how small the world
is. how strange.

your shadow

your shadow
is taking the day
off.
it's raining,
so he won't be
needed.
you let him
sleep in.
his head on
the pillow where
you were
last night.
but he can't sleep
and soon
finds you sitting
outside
under an umbrella.
what if the
sun comes out,
he says. attaching
himself
back to your foot.
you'll need
me. you'll always
need me.

flossing is important

your dental
hygienist
kelly
is too happy
for her own
good. considering
the tasks
of her trade
scraping sharp
metal
tools with hooks
against teeth
and gums, removing
the stains
of lifes
culinary debris.
not flossing a
lot, are we, she
says, while
jamming
a water pipe, then
an air tube
into your mouth,
close and suck,
she says
behind her cotton
mask and
plastic goggles.
flossing is important,
she sings
in a high pitched
voice, not unlike
julie andrews
in the sound of
music, but
you ignore her
as you stare at a
poster of decaying
teeth and purple
gums beside
the chair.

keep your distance

you hate taking
the bus
or the subway
and having people
fall asleep
against your shoulder,
drooling.
it's not that
you don't like
people, you just
don't like being
stuck in tight
places with
them, with no way
out. they talk
and make noises.
they smell badly
sometimes.
elevators
are difficult.
the stops and starts.
more get on
as some get off.
the sneezing
and coughing.
the shuffling
of feet for an inch
of space.
touching the buttons
that they just
touched.
you could never
be an astronaut.
it would be too
difficult, especially
the bathroom
part of the trip.
the snoring.
but you like people,
you really do.
just from a distance
though, of
at least ten feet.

the test drive

you take
a test drive
with an anxiously
happy
salesman named
cliff.
it's winter
after all
and it's beginning
to snow.
kids?
he says, putting
on his seatbelt.
a few, i guess,
you answer,
shifting gears
and climbing
the ramp
towards
the interstate.
if i could get you
the right price,
a sweet deal and
have my manager
approve it,
would you buy this
car today,
he asks, tappping
his fingers
along the dashboard.
i'm capable of
anything at this point
in my life,
you tell
him, hitting eighty
in sixth gear,
turning the radio
up to block
out what he might
say next.

a rose

every rose
in its garden
has
a thorn
to prick your
thumb
when least
expected.
and the blood
is a reminder
of how
difficult love
can be.
like the rose,
or any of
the lesser
flowers
that you've
known.

a cold world

she steals
the blanket
in the middle
of the night
leaving you naked
and shivering.
it's all
about her, it
seems
as you fight
to get it back.
but she's strong
in her sleep
and won't release
even an inch
of the thick
wool blanket.
it's a cold
world
when she's around,
but even colder
when she's not.

the baker

the baker
rises before
the sun.
his hands in
the white
silk
sand of flour
and
eggs. sugar
in bags
by the door.
on the long
metal
table, he rolls
the dough for
cookies,
beating the batter
of cakes.
he's an
artist with peaches
and apples.
there is no
smile he can't
bring to a child
with chocolate,
or a woman
wanting cinammon
scones
with her tea.

a brunette moment

she likes to
tell you
things
like i'm having a
brunette moment
when she
says something
smart or clever,
or intuitive.
which happens
a lot
on her watch.
she is the sharpest
girl
in the drawer,
but you'd
like her better
if she'd
stop cutting
into you and just
be quiet
for a while
and play dumb.

forward we go

an inch
a foot, a yard.
a mile.
a long
stretch
on the hot road.
one foot
in front of
the other.
not so much
a turtle
as a hopping
green toad.

a good flood

you don't know how
high
the river will
rise
with this storm.
but you know
how to swim
if it comes
to that.
and on occasion
it has taken
everything you
thought you needed
to get by.
your world needs
a good flood
every now and
then
to straighten
things out.

birthday month

my birthday
is next month
she tells me,
while casually
while walking past
a diamond
store.
the whole month,
or are you
just going to do
one day, this year?
you ask her.
i might do
a week, this time
around, she says.
all my friends
are taking me out.
one at time.
lunch, dinners, we
might even get
massages together,
or go shopping.
so when is your
birthday, she asks.
never.
you tell her, i'm
done with that.

sailing on

your mother
was pregnant nine
times.
like a cat in heat
every time
your father came
into port
on leave.
being italian
and catholic there
were rules
for your mother,
but not for him,
so the babies
kept coming
and your father
kept leaving
until that ship
sailed for good.

a bag of nickels

he looked
like someone had
beaten him
with a bag of nickels,
we used
to say
as kids about
the bum
in an alley
sleeping with
a brown
bagged bottle
between
his wet trousers,
and he probably
had been.
his pockets hung
inside out.
his jacket torn.
but he seemed
happy in
his blissful state,
with nothing being
worse
than this.

folding laundry

you could never
quite figure
why your mother
seemed to like
hanging
laundry on
the line, standing
in the april
sun. you watched
her from the window
going out
with a basket
to fold
the crisp white
sheets, the towels,
dried in the breeze.
her children's
shirts and pants.
your sister's
dresses.
she seemed to lose
herself,
become calm and distant.
alone
in her thoughts
despite the chaos
around her.
and now as you
stand in your own
laundry room,
taking warm clothes
from the dryer,
folding them one
after another.
placing them into
a basket,
you understand.

the king

another year
goes by and you
haven't won an oscar,
or an emmy,
no pulitzer
prize is in your
hands.
even the golden
globes
don't call your
name to step
forward and be
honored by
your peers.
no nobel prize,
no grants awarded
by any think
tanks. no bollinger,
or poet laureate
nomination
has come your way.
but you were once
elected king
of the ninth
grade prom,
a glorious moment
in your life,
and they can't
take that
away.

a purse

you find
a woman's purse
on the street.
you pick it up
and look both ways.
there is no one around.
it's a nice purse.
a shoulder purse
perhaps. black,
leather like,
with a gold
clasp. you open
it and peek
inside. looking
once again
down the sidewalk
to see if anyone
is around.
you go to a park
bench and slowly
take your time.
a gentle archaeological
dig to find
whose it is.
lipstick, three tubes.
perfume, a watch
stuck on one time.
a ticket stub
to Lincoln, torn
in half. a police whistle.
kleenex and gum,
a hairbrush full
of black hair,
a compact,
a pen, a note pad
with a name
but no number written
on it. some coins.
a set of keys.
a laminated photo
of a bulldog
on his back.
saltine crackers.
a nail file, nail clippers.
lotions. hand, face,
body. small
hotel tubes.
a bar of soap still
wrapped.
there are m and m's
all about as well.
but no wallet, no id.
you close the purse
back up
and take it to where
you found it. you
hang it on a branch
on a sturdy tree.
what a nice purse
you think putting
your hands into your
almost empty pockets.

bye bye

you
are afraid of flying.
the shudder
of the plane
at take off
and the swift
rise that leaves
your stomach
slightly
behind.
the shimmy and shake
of metal
and plastic
the roar
of jet engines
on those fragile
wings
outside
the thick port
holes. the speed
as it plows
upwards and upwards
before leveling
off between
clouds. the soft
drinks
and crackers
are not enough
to soothe you.
the calm voices of
flight attendants
don't work.
the drinks not
stiff enough.
only two things can
happen when in
the air like that,
you either
get there or
you die.
you hate flying.

chocolate cake

her seven
cats
and three dogs,
three lovers
in three
different cities
did not
distract you
from liking her.
it was her strange
inventive
energy
that kept you
on your toes
and off
your feet,
but there was
a dark side
too, that involved
chocolate
cake after three
lusty
sessions of
making love.
you can still see
her lips lined
with cake crumbs
and icing
as she leaned back
and sighed,
fork in hand.

thirty days to live

you find out you
have a month
to live.
you've picked up
a rare disease
having been bitten
by a mosquito
while visiting
mozambique for
a summer vacation.
so you plan to go
out with a bang
and ring your credit
cards up to the max.
you cash in your
savings, your
retirement, your
hidden cash reserves.
you take all your coin
jars to the bank
and pour them into
the cash back machine.
you sell your house
and start
buying new cars for
all your friends,
the ones you really like,
not just pretend,
and boats, fur
coats and diamond
rings. you eat
and party, drink,
throw caution
to the wind with
unprotected sex.
you have become a wild
man again like you were
a few years ago
when you turned
fifty. you spend the days
and nights in silk
pajamas, dancing
and singing.
but a month goes
by and you don't die.
you don't even feel
sick. in fact you
have never felt better
in your life with
all the pressures
off. and then your
doctor calls, seems
there was a mix
up at the lab.
my bad, he says.
you'll be fine.

the violet room

your client
can't find the right
color
for her room.
she wants grey, but
it's violet now.
the color
a young girl
would choose, snapping
gum, and playing
with her curls
as she sets her
dolls on the night
stand,
and tapes posters
of justin
beiber
onto the walls.
it's a sweet color.
but you can't
go back
again, at least
not that far.
you suggest grey
like the streak
along her
bangs.

33rd st. north

you hear
the stories
of dogs
getting lost
and finding their
way home
from hundreds of
miles away.
with no
map, no phone.
they just know.
and you,
you can't find
your way out
arlington
and it's devilish
maze of broken
roads.

already gone

you miss
the way she
laughed
at you,
the way
she shook her
head,
throwing back
her hair.
the sound of
her voice,
the scent of her
perfume,
you long for
the curve
of her hips,
the touch
of her hand,
her lips
on yours. you
miss all
of that, but
she's been gone
a long time,
although she's
still sitting
right there.

the woodpecker

the red hooded
wood pecker
knows what to do
and so
goes at it without
a hint
of worry
or concern that
he should be
doing other
things. again
and again
at the side
of the tall hard
tree. doing what
he knows
is right, his
sharp beak working
rapidly through
sunlight, and you
wonder,
why not you.

the sunfish

before everyone
awakened
you ate nearly
every donut
in the box
at your grandmother's
cottage
in cape cod.
then you took
a stroll
out into the warm
bay water.
walking slowly
as it rose
up
to your neck.
you remember
seeing the wide
gold bend
of a sunfish
as you stepped
into a hole
and went
under.
flailing your
five year
old arms you
managed to go
backwards
to find air
and live. going
back inside
with tears
in your eyes
you heard your
grandmother's angry
voice, scolding
you, but things
had changed
and it didn't
matter.

without conditions

the dog
sheds a blonde
brush
of hair
on the black
couch.
her eyes
weep
along the sides
of her nose.
she limps
and falls,
she can't go
as fast as she
wants to go.
the front
paw trembles.
how quickly
the seasons
change
when someone
is loved
without
condition.

i know another way

she thinks that
you've come around
to a different way
of thinking.
it took awhile.
with you taking
the back roads.
not the smartest
thing to do.
the brambles,
the thorns,
swamp water
up to your knees,
the rabid
raccoons.
but you'll heal
in time.
and now finally,
you'll listen
to reason, she
believes,
stay on
the main roads,
follow
the signs.
hardly.

denial

the rooster
crowed
three times
before peter's
shame
set in.
fear
causing denial
of what one
knows is
true.
how many more
times
must it
crow for
you.

to a better place

in the glimmer
of abundant shine
and lights you
see
the plain
clothes men
going through
the deep pockets
of an old
woman's coat.
they take out
a can of
tuna. a jar
of beets.
a small box of
uncle ben's
wild
rice. she's
resisting,
trying to run,
but they have
her by
the collar. i
used to
work for
roosevelt, she
says.
i know people.
you can't do this
to me.
but off she
goes.
you see her in
the back of a squad
car.
and when she looks
at you, passing
by with your
groceries, she
smiles
and winks.

church time

let's go to church
she says one morning.
putting on a nice
flowery dress
and hat. you look
at her from the pillow
where you spilled
a drink last night
you feel something
stuck to the side
of your face.
it's a lime
wedge. church? you
say, startled. yes,
she says. if i'm
going to date you,
i need some balance
in my life. get
dressed it'll do
you good and you
don't disagree. but
one thing first, you
tell her, could
you find the key
and uncuff me.

the watch and the ring

in the grand tradition
of breaking
up she throws the ring
back at you.
it hits you in
the head and bounces
off into a storm
drain. three thousand
dollars flash
through your mind
as you watch
the rainwater carry
its pear shaped twinkle
someplace where you'll
never find it again.
angry, you take off
the nineteen dollar
swatch watch that she
bought you for your
birthday and throw
it at her, which she
catches and straps
to her wrist before
walking away.

something fishy

you come to realize
that you don't trust
most animals.
goats and horses.
lizards
or snakes.
even birds seem
to have a hidden
agenda.
always flocking
together.
planning something.
cats are the sneakiest.
aloof
and alone all
day. doing what?
those schools of
fish moving
about as one
without even a word
between them.
they seem know
something that we
don't know.

the stopped clock

you watch
the crane
swing the wrecking
ball
into the side
of a tenement
building,
a low stretch
of red bricked
walls with windows
laced in black
iron.
striped
and stained
mattresses
fall out like
tongues.
chairs drop
empty into the rubble,
lamps, unlit
with yellowed
shades break noisily
into the heap.
petals of clothes
drift softly
down.
everything within
had a hand on
it once.
the nail to the wall
to hold
a picture,
a head on a pillow.
that stopped
clock.

doctor

you see your doctor
at the bookstore,
but he doesn't see
you. he is browsing
a book in the summer
sale section,
doctoring for
dummies. his glasses
are on the tip
of his nose, as
he's prone to do
when examining you.
his fingers are
on his goateed chin.
slowly he turns
the pages, saying,
to himself,
hmmm hmmm. nodding
thoughtfully.
suddenly you don't
feel so well.

where do babies come from

as your son
peppers you with
questions
you
carefully consider
your answers.
shaping
them into half
truths, myths
and
bent tales of
what could or
could not be.
how can you tell
him
at a young age
where babies
come from.
you could say
they come from love.
but not
really. from affection
perhaps.
there is truth in
that, but not always.
they come
from your mother's
belly, you could
tell him, and
that you had a hand
in it too.
but even that,
these days is, or
can be
a half truth.

patty o

you have too many
friends
named patty.
you want a few
mildreds thrown
into the mix.
a madge,
a violet, or
maybe a gertrude.
gretchen might
be nice as
well.
but patty o,
patti g, patti
rehab
and patty cake
gets old
after awhile.
but they say the
same thing about
me. steve one
two and three.

the bowling alley barber

i like to part it
on the side
you said as a kid
to the barber,
nervously
eyeing the leather
strap
where he was
sharpeneing
a razor.
with a little
wave in the front,
you say, i use
brylcreme. sure kid,
he says. sure.
he clips and cuts,
jazzes it up
with some spritz.
snipping away
at the thick tops
and sides
with a pair
of long scissors,
then combs it
all into place.
five minutes later
he spins you
around in
the chair, so
that you can
see yourself
in the wall long
mirror. how's
that, he says,
with his lunch
of an italian sub
still on his breath.
he taps
your cheeks
with some blue
scented water,
then dusts around
your ears and neck
with a soft
brush of powder.
undoing the pin he
then snaps
the striped sheet off
and away from
you. there you go
handsome, he
says. just
like new. now go
get em tiger.

what's your name

i haven't had
my coffee,
she says
holding her
head in her hands
at the kitchen
table.
her hair is a tangled
bush.
i drank too much
last night.
don't look at
me. i'm never
drinking again.
ever.
i will never
raise another
drink to my
lips i can promise
you that.
i smell like
a brewery.
there's coffee
on the counter,
you tell her. can
you get it for me.
i don't think i can
walk that far.
sure you tell her
and pour her
a cup. black, she
says. black.
she takes the cup
with a trembling
hand. thanks, she
says. what did you
say you name was?

knowing

a woman
stops you on your walk
along the lake,
she's crying.
upset and trembling.
i've lost my
key she says. i
can't get home.
my phone is dead.
i don't know
what to do. it's
black and
red, she sobs. if
you see it can
you pick it up
and bring it to me.
i'm circling
back around, she
says. i have
to find it.
the paths are wet
and full of leaves.
it's a five mile
walk around,
with many paths
and diverging trails
to take. it seems
impossible, but
as you walk you feel
as if you'll
find her key.
and you do.
it nearly jumps
into your hand
as you knew it would,
lying there
in the gravel
and sand.

medium rare

hungry, you go to
the restaurant around
the corner that blows
the scent of charred
red meat and fish
into the air. you know
what you want before
you even get there.
and the same goes
for her, when you smell
the subtle wave
of her perfume. it's a
different kind of
hunger though, but
you know what you want
before you even get there.

this might hurt a little

you open up a new
business.
tattoo removals.
by the end of the week
you have a line
going out
the door. steadying
your hand
with a blue light
laser
you slowly
remove the inhebriated
inspired artwork
from
arms and legs,
breasts
and buttocks.
the butterflies,
the snakes,
the barbed wire
arms, the roses
and scorpions and
all the other youthful
and sometimes
middle aged
mistakes. by the end
of the month
you have three chairs
and three
assistants, you
can smell
the burning flesh
from here to
the harley bar up
the block.

veggie plate

she was
down to eating
lettuce,
carrots,
beets and bell
peppers.
no meat
or pasta touched
her quivering
lips.
she was as white
and thin
as typing
paper. it
became hard to
go out to a
restaurant with
her.
there was little
on the menu
that she wanted.
sometimes she'd
ask me if she
could just smell
the meat
on my sandwich
lifting up
the bun with delicate
fingers
and leaning her
head down
with closed eyes
to inhale the aroma
of charred beef.
sometimes she'd faint
and fall
into her plate
of washed lettuce
leaves, or
water chestnuts.
after she'd awakenen
you helped her
to her car, if she
could remember
where she put it.

nine inch fry pan

you read an expose
on cheaply
made pots
and pans
that are coming
out of
pakistan
via black market
traders
in uruguay.
the toxic fumes
will kill
parakeets
in their cage,
making them
fall in mid
whistle
and dull the minds
of other pets
and the aged
as they sit
without an open
window
in their homes
all day.
thus the phone call
to your mother
questioning
the label
on her
nine inch fry pan.

self reliance

self
reliance is
all
you can truly
count
on
when the ship
goes
aground
on sharp
edged
shores.
but i don't
believe
that anymore.
i welcome
the hand that
lifts
me to my
feet,
as they would
mine
in troubled
times.

in a jersey motel

you have a dream
where you wake up in
a strange room, a motel
room in new jersey.
you are on a mattress
on the floor with
no sheets. it's cold
because the sliding
glass door is ajar.
your clothes are gone.
your phone, your keys,
your pants, all gone.
you only have your underwear
on. which makes you
happy. you go to the door
and pull the heavy
vinyl curtain to the side.
there is a highway
with the morning traffic.
a sidewalk lined with
scrub bushes and cold
green grass, overgrown,
sloping down to the road.
someone must have come
in while you were sleeping
and took everything. but
while in the dream you
realize that it is a
dream, and feel relieved,
strangely though, you
still want to figure out
what to do, how to get out
of this mess. you are
annoyed that you didn't
lock the door before
going to sleep. that won't
happen again.

don't take your love to town

bored silly
you decide to grow
a mustache
like the one you had
in the seventies.
it was a nice
furry strip of
soft blondish
hair that gave
you a kind and yet
rakish look.
sometimes you'd
stroke the sides of
it while waiting
in line for a
hamburger and fries
a the local malt
shop. pondering cheese
or no cheese.
you buy some
boots too, like
you used to own.
cowboy boots with
a snakeskin pattern.
they makes you look
like you have something
going on. the new
mustache comes out
grey and white though,
like kenny rodgers,
who you never liked
except when he was
in a band called
the third edition.
you still remember the
words. ruby,
don't take your love
to town, and now you
can't get the song out
of your head. you get
the razor out and shave
off the mustache.
you don't want to
look like kenny.

jimmy lincoln

a lot of people know
a lot of things about
abe lincoln
but few know much about
his younger
brother jimmy
a real estate
agent in peoria, illinois.
abe of course never
told a lie
while jimmy never told
the truth.
abe had a tall black
hat, while jimmy
kept his hair combed
back ala early
elvis. they both
had log cabins, but jimmy
put one on top
of the other creating
the first condominium
development
which unfortunately was
on indian burial grounds.
abe abolished slavery
while jimmy
invented the apple
martini. in some ways
they were alike though.
they both loved
the theater, had wacky
wives, and liked to
wrestle in the mud.

queen bees

there is a queen
bee
in every pack
of young girls.
you see them
out
and about
in stores or
coffee shops,
the pecking order
is a fine
line
of cool
and not cool.
pretty and plain.
they are
in or they are out,
subtly ranked
among one
another.
it doesn't
end there.
the order stays
put
for most of their
lives,
through the work
years,
and marriage,
raising children.
and even in
the nursing home
you can still see
who is
the queen bee
and that
her stinger
is alive and well.

next up

at the reflection
pool
you see on
the news
the line
of politicians
with their apologies
in hand
approaching
the podium.
their heads are
down, chins
against their
chests. some
have managed to
conjure
up tears.
i'm sorry they
all say. but i've
learned a lot
from this unfortunate
turn of events.
from this day
forward
i'm done with
cheating
and lying,
not paying my taxes.
the prostitutes
and drugs,
the drinking are
all in my past now.
getting caught
doing all these
things will
make me a better
person, a
better husband,
a better
father, a better
man to serve you
my loyal
and trustworthy
constituents.
forgive me and
let's get past this now
and move on.

oh really now

lilly half listens
to your windy
wild gossipy
story that you've
been saving
like a nugget of
gold for lunchtime
today.
you heard it from
your neighbor
who got it straight
from her
hairdresser's
mouth. so you
know it has to
be true. but
lilly waits
for you to finish,
she stares
at her nails,
and goes
hmm hmmm. hmm
hmmm. oh my.
shocking, she
says opening
her eyes as wide
as she can.
finally she puts
her hand
up to stop what
you're saying,
blinking her
eyes.
she can't take it
anymore and puts
her fingers
to your lips
and says shhh.
i heard this story
last week. but
you think that's
something, well
listen to this.
you're not going
to believe what
i have to tell
you.

directions

you can't
get there
from here
the old woman
says
leaning into
the cracked
window
of your car.
you're lost for
good, she
says, cackling,
and squinting
her pea
green eyes like
a witch
called away
from her boiling
cauldron
and splintered
broom. go
back to from
you're from,
we don't
like your kind
around here.

early words

you remember
your grandfather's
words of worn
wisdom
when you were
a small boy,
red faced
in overalls,
standing numbly
in the cold
on his beaten rock
strewn
farm. the trees
were blue,
the sky grey,
pitched
over with smudges
of black clouds.
don't make
friends
with these animals,
they are not pets.
they are food,
he said,
then raised
the long barrel
of his rifle
towards
a sullen pink
hog pulled from
the pen.

the argument

the turned over
bucket
of red paint
is in
no rush to puddle
across
the floor,
slowly
taking it's
time to seep
between the cracks,
into rug,
and against
your shoes.
there is no
hurry
in paint spilled
at this
point.
the damage
of angry words
takes time
to clean up.

your crops will rise

turning the dial
on your
old car radio
you come across
the scratchy voice
of preaching.
you can almost hear
the wind
whistling
through the creases
of a thin
boarded church.
salvation
is at hand.
your crops will
rise
again,
your family will
forgive
you.
it's not your
money, it's God's
send it
back to me
and make things
right in
your broken world.
i'll be sure
that God
gets it.

atkins bread

you remember the time
your friend janie
made three loaves
of atkins diet bread
that no one would eat
because they tasted
so horrible. and how
she stood on the deck
at the beach house
throwing pieces of
them up into the air
for the seagulls, and
how the seagulls
would flap their
wings a few times
then spit the bread
out into the ocean
where even the fish
would turn their
cold noses.

small things

he has a short
tale
of woe, but repeats
it every
day, every
chance he can
on the phone.
small things,
small irritants
in the corner of
his eye.
the stubbed
toe,
the cold coffee,
the traffic
jam
on route fifty.
you listen
and listen and
listen,
saying things
like that's a
shame,
too bad. but
he goes on
about how they
bagged
his groceries
wrong. who puts
bananas in with
the bleach?

sales pitch

there was a time
when the door bell
rang all the time.
salesmen mostly.
persistent
and polished
wearing suits
and shined shoes.
the sold
encyclopedias,
telling you not
to let those
children fall behind.
our company sold
the einstein
family it's first
book on mathematics,
and bibles
for the unsaved,
or wavering
and unsure souls.
you want to go to
heaven, don't you?
there were salesmen
for meat. by the whole
or half cow.
don't go hungry
if the cold war
gets hot.
but now it's
just mormons, polite
to a fault
and girl scouts
with chocolate mint
cookies, how can
you resist and
the occasional
truck full of men
from front royal
virginia,
chewing
tobacco and selling
firewood.

blind date

if you could be any
tree in the whole
universe,
or at least on
the planets
that can grow
trees,
she asks you
while drinking her
third glass
of wine, what kind
of tree would
you be. it takes you
a minute or so to
try and decide if
you should even
answer her, or just
pay the bill
and go. you stare
at the exit
sign near
the bathrooms,
but you play
along, because it's
cold out, and
you don't want to
go home just yet,
and there's nothing
good on tv.
oh, i don't know you
say. maybe a weeping
willow, a great big
weeping willow. you throw
your hands into the air
as if you were one.
oh, oh, she sighs,
batting her eyelids.
me too, me too.
that would be my answer
as well. i love
the weeping willows.
i just knew we were
going to get along.
i just knew it.
okay, now what if you
were a bird, she says,
calling the waiter over
for more wine. what kind
of bird...

rhymes with ibleeda

there is a diagram
on a folded
sheet of white paper,
instructions on
how to put this
desk together. the
words
in swedish.
the double consonants
are piled up against
each other.
arrows point
in which
direction to go
next.
thirty-eight
screws, nineteen
plugs.
twenty-four washers
to be turned
counter
clockwise
at some point
along the way,
but not too soon,
or too late.
a heavy stack of
flimsy pressed
wood boards
full of random holes
pinch your fingers
as you set them down.
a picture of a hammer,
a screw driver,
flat head
and a phillips
are on the page
too. tools you will
need.
all of this best
done in a sound
proof room.
they've left out
the liter of vodka
lime and tonic
water. ice cubes

the bar of soap

your hands
move
against the white
bar of soap
under
the cold water
which
takes a while
to warm
from this
faucet in
the house, but
the dirt
does come
off. you see
it in the sink
swirling along
the white porcelain.
you are happy
for such a simple
thing
making not
life perhaps,
but at
least your hands
right
with the world
for now.

pointed out

someone points
at the spot on
your shirt.
a coffee stain.
from the window
of his car
another points
at your tire
and mouths the words,
almost flat
as he speeds away.
a person puts
his finger in his
ear on the subway
to tell you
about the shaving
cream that's still
in your ear.
the toilet paper
stuck to
your shoe is studied
by a woman
sitting across
the asile
from you.
the lint on
your shoulder
is noticed too, an old
woman takes the time
to brush it away
with her hand.
and you say thank you.

on her time

i'll see you
tomorrow, she says.
or the next day,
or the day
after that.
and you listen,
you smile
and say that will
be fine.
whenever you can,
i'll be here.
at least for now
i am on your time.

waiting for you

the bus driver
waits for you.
late again.
he sees you in
the mirror
running
in your heels,
your hair still
wet. buttoning
as you go.
he nods his head,
raising his
hand so that
you can see he's
waiting.
he knows you.
as i do, and wait
as well.

his blue eyes

his blue eyes
are smaller now.
no less
mischievous
at eighty three
then they were
at twenty
four.
sapphire gems
twinkling
in the furrows
of his
sea washed
face.
the sun has found
a way
to map
the water he's
sailed upon,
the oceans
and the stars
he's seen.

the sun

turn away
from the sun
and it's still
there.
it doesn't care
that you
don't care.
it doesn't worry.
it stays
where it is.
allowing
you to come back
when
you're cold
in the dark
and ready.

few, if any

after the day
is finished,
the horses put
away.
the shades drawn,
the dog curled
by a fire.
you think of
what more
you could have
done.
and so it is
with love
when it begins
to fade.
what words
would have changed
the way
the sun goes
down. few,
if any.

for john

he sleeps
and dreams
in his
sick bed.
his wife
is in the other room.
she is lying
still so as to hear
his voice
if he should need
anything.
air, or water
brought to his lips,
or a kiss.
he sleeps
and dreams while
the days of his
life are peeled
off like soft
autumn leaves.

flesh wounds

you don't bleed
for long.
they are just flesh
wounds.
you pull
up your shirt
to show her.
is that you all
got you say.
i've been through
worse,
but you don't
eat when it
ends. you don't
sleep well.
you limp around
like a wounded
bear for a week
or two. you find
solace
in nothing, in
no one else.
at least for now.

march wind

business men
in suits
are chasing
their hats.
the wind
has put
curses
in their mouths
as they run
frantically,
bending over
to retrieve
what's blown
away.

meteorite

you are in the middle
of asking
your sweetheart
to marry you. finally,
she says with tears
in her eyes.
so after being pressed
and cajoled
by her and her
gun toting family
of wheat farmers
you shrug and give
in. you are
on your knees,
in the ice,
the white capped
ural mountains
behind her,
the blue velvet
box opened.
the ring glimmers
in the light,
but it's a cloudy
day.
it's even snowing
a little, what
light could that be?
and then she's gone.

but it's not me

there was a time
when you
had to wait for
an answer
to arrive
in the mail.
a week might go
by with you
looking up
the street for
the mailman
and his leather
pouch holding
the answer to
your future with
this girl
you've fallen
madly in love with.
but not anymore.
you wake up
and open your
phone to see the
hurried, mispelled
words.
sorry. i'm not
feeling it. but
good luck. i'm
sure there is
someone out there
just right
for you. but it's
not me. ciao!

go home now

there will be
long arduous delays
and detours
the sign reads
flashing yellow
along the highway.
take another route
losers
says the overhead
sign near the bridge.
what are you doing
out in this
weather, you
morons, says a placard
being held
by a traffic cop
in winter
gloves and hats.
go home, go home
says a man
on a hill with a
megaphone. get your
milk and toilet paper,
your bags of
potato chips
and go home. what's
wrong with you people
says the banner
being dragged
by a choking
piper plane in
the snowy sky.
even the deer on
the side of the road
with squirrels
and snow covered
rabbits are laughing
pointing with
their furry
paws as the cars
spin and spin
on the black ice.

simply this

when she says
i made you
breakfast
two eggs over
easy with toast,
and coffee.
the paper
is on the table.
it's ready
when you are,
but i have to
go, kiss me
before i leave,
you realize what
love can be.

turning home

on aging knees,
and worn
heels now,
you miss running.
the burn,
the sweat, the feel
of cold
air in your lungs.
the strain of muscles
on the hill.
the fatigue
and challenge
of going an
extra mile, then
turning home.
you miss turning
home
most of all.

idle hands

the world
is getting
smaller.
shrinking
like a child's
balloon
losing air,
seeping slowly.
you can hardly
catch
your breath
at times.
too many
people
in one place.
too many gods
with too many
demands. too
much free time
for idle
hands.

rosie next door

the woman who lives
beside you might be
a robot. one of those
androids you see
in the movies all
the time,
although you see
her sitting on
her patio
sometimes smoking
cigarettes and
drinking beer.
but she's very
mechanical in how
she talks.
good morning
good evening.
have a nice day.
she walks stiffly
too, in that robotic
kind of way.
she's neither
nice, nor not nice.
she's just, how
shall i say,
non emotional,
like your father.
you keep waiting
for her batteries
to die in mid
sentence, or for a
spring to pop loose
from her head.
you've never seen
her out in
the rain or snow.
so you imagine she
must be afraid
of short circuiting.
you can't stop
thinking about her.
sometimes late at night
you put a glass
to the wall and try to
listen to what she's
doing, but the tv is
too loud. one kiss
is all you need, you
believe to get to
the bottom of this.

the judge

the judge
when he
gets home
is tired.
exhausted from
deciding the fate
of so many.
he kisses his
wife hello
then takes
off his black robe
sets down
his gavel
and sits back
in his
favorite chair
away
from the window.
he doesn't
want to see
people for
a while.
they are all
guilty of something,
even me
he says to his
wife. they just
haven't been
caught yet.

in this line

you've been here
before.
in this line.
behind this person.
hands
in your pockets
with too much
time.
you've seen this
play before.
you know all
the actors, the lines,
the scenery
and score.
you've said these
things again
and again.
years ago,
nothing has changed.
everything
is fresh
in your mind.
you've been here
before. behind
this person. in
this line.

february

i'm sick
of february.
valentine's
day. birthday.
snow day.
short days
dark and cold.
slow work
days.
the shortest
month is the
longest month
of all.
i want to crack
the ice
on this month
and get the hell
out. hand
me that hammer,
i'm going
to florida.

the axe

there was woman
in your office. sawed
off at the knees.
squared.
a bull dog with
short hair. she wore
charcoal grey
suits. black shoes.
thick and hard
against
the hallway floor.
the hair between
her eye brows
was plucked clean.
you never saw her
teeth
but you imagined
blood on
them. a meat eater.
raw. her victims
still alive.
when she knocked
on your cubicle.
that was it. you
gathered up your
things as she spoke
in a monotone
voice, telling
you that the end
was here. a guard
will escort you out.
good luck, she said,
but she didn't
mean it, in fact
you could almost see
a smile crawl
across her tight
thin lips.

so you hope

you've lost
your edge,
your mojo.
your confidence
has slipped away.
even your shadow
shakes his head
when you enter
a room.
your shoulders
slope, you avert
your eyes
from others
thinking they
too might know.
you spend a sunny
inside.
only when it rains
do you feel
good enough
to go outside,
feeling deserving
of the wet
cold and wind
that lashes against
you. you've lost
your edge, but
this too shall
pass, or so
you hope.

return to sender

a birthday
gift arrives
on your porch.
a large box
with airholes
in the top.
you look down both
sides of the street.
the truck is gone.
hey, hey let
me out of here
the woman's
voice says from
inside. i'm
cramping up.
you look at the stamp
on top.
new jersey. what's
your name?
charlene, she says.
now open me up.
i'm your birthday
girl for the weekend.
i don't know, you
say. what do
you look like?
i'm beautiful
and very cultured
too. you lean down
towards the holes
and try to look inside.
a horrible smell
is seeping out.
you're gonna love
me, honest. you
won't be disappointed.
hey, i'm hungry
and thirsty in here.
open me up. hold on
you tell her and go
get a bag of m and m's.
you drop in the green
ones. thanks,
she says. you slide
a long straw
through a hole and
let her sip on a soda.
thanks, now let me
out. she's banging on
the sides, cursing.
i've got a cousin in
jersey who's going to
break your legs if you
don't let me out of here
on the count of three.
you think about it for
awhile, then call
the truck back
to haul her away.
you don't need this
kind of trouble.

the dog walker

the man who walks
the dogs
keeps his head down.
his lips tightly
closed.
holding six leashes
with both hands.
you can tell
he's gentle
and kind, but there
may be something
wrong with him.
something not
exactly right. you
can see it
in his darkened
eyes.
but the dogs
don't mind.
they don't
pay attention to
what's missing, or
unsettling to us.
they are kind like
that and we less so,
at times.

a gift she'll love

she hates
the jewelry
that you've bought
in the past.
the blue ring was
too blue,
too big, too much
like the one
her ex boyfriend
gave her.
the sweater
was red and thick.
real wool. yesterday
you saw it in her
trunk holding
oil cans from
rolling around.
it was your gift
for xmas.
you've bought her
shoes
and lingerie.
wrong sizes
both. it made her
cry and go on a two
week crash diet.
so this valentine's
day, you
played it
safe with an
eight speed
electric mixer
from kitchenaide.
white
with a whisk
attachment.

another country

you make a mistake
and go into the local
big store
where they sell
everything from
underwear to tires.
cheap perfume
and paint.
it's crowded.
it stinks.
everyone is talking
loudly under the flickering
flourescent lights.
there's a leak
in the ceiling,
the drips being caught
in buckets with
orange cones
around them.
a man in a blue
smock keeps saying
hello to you.
hello, hello. hello.
he's older than
your father.
it's the kind of store
that makes you think
of other countries
you could live in.

red roses

there was a time
when you left
roses
for her.
at her work, at
home.
you were always
apologizing for
something you
did, or didn't do.
flowers
seemed the way
to go
at that young age.
the florist knew
you by name,
smiling and shaking
her head
as you came
through the door,
looking glum
as you took out
your credit card.
same address, she'd
say. roses?
and you'd nod.
same note?
same girl?
yup, you'd say.
you had to marry
her to finally
end things.

what day is this?

she is a devil
in her vinyl
red cat of nine
tails
her mask
and hood,
her pitch fork
made of
wood.
she sizzles
as she gets near
you
slinking across
the room with
her tongue
out, her
lips wet
and red with
lipstick.
you see her
coming as you
sit in the
big chair holding
the remote,
flipping through
the channels,
comfy in
your striped
flannel
pajamas. ah oh,
you say.
did i forget
something?

your server tonight

your new best
friend, your waiter,
erik, with a k,
will be serving
you tonight.
he's very happy
to see you and wants
to chit chat
about the weather
and traffic
and that new movie
that's out.
he might forget
the bread
and the silverware,
the napkins
and water, but
he's all over
the friendliness
thing. he highly
recommends
the grilled salmon
and asparagus,
his personal
healthy choice,
and the chocolate
decadent cake
is his absolute
favorite. in fact
they have to hide
it from him
when he goes into
the kitchen, he
says patting his
flat stomach.
he'll be by every
five minutes when you
are chewing a
mouthful of food,
or deep in a
conversation to
make sure everything
is still okay.
i'm eric, he says,
beaming, with a k,
i'll be your server
tonight.

skinny jeans

you buy a new pair
of jeans.
your size. the size
you've been wearing for
twenty years.
you take them home
and try to get them
on, but they won't
budge past your thighs.
what the hell
you say, hopping over
to the mirror
to look at your self.
you check the tag
again to make
sure they are the right
size. they are.
the same brand as
always too.
maybe they're girl
jeans, but no.
then you see the tag.
skinny jeans, it says.
you roll to the floor
and try to get them
off, but you can't.
slowly you crawl
and worm your way to
the closet to find
a pair of scissors.
you cut them off
releasing your red
swollen legs.
when you return them
to the store, the clerk
says throw them over
there into that pile
with the other
pairs of cut up jeans.
loose fit are to
your left.

gumption

i like a man
with a fast car,
she says. and muscles.
i like my man
to be able to protect
me. to swat away
the losers
like flies.
i want a man with
a big
bank account
and good teeth.
teeth like a wolf
to bite into me.
someone who will
slap me around
a little if i
speak out of turn.
a man
with gumption
and fortitude.
a man that will last
all night.
i want a man
with ambition with
a full head of
hair like samson.
i want....
hold on you say to
her, what's gumption
all about?

retirement

you see the former
pope
at the coffee shop
after his retirement.
he's wearing jeans
and a sweatshirt
saying notre dame.
a pair of silk
bedroom slippers.
he seems relaxed
and at ease without
the robes and hat,
that heavy staff
they made him carry
everywhere.
he's sipping from
his own cup, white
with a red cross
along the side
as he dispenses
crumbs from his
bagel to the flock
of sparrows at his
feet. he nods
politely as people
do a double take
at him sitting there
drinking coffee.
it was a good run.

for the birds

after several
minor accidents
and one large one
involving
a horse trailer
that ended tragically
for several
horses,
they took her keys
away.
she can no longer
drive to
the dollar store
to get her
yarn,
her skim milk
at the grocery.
her lotto ticket.
she no longer makes
her rounds
from betty
to linda, to her
daughter's house
in upper marlboro.
it was never her
fault she
says, that
car or bus, or
truck came out
of nowhere.
i'm done with driving.
but i'm happy
let them come to
me now. driving is
for the birds.

cathedral

the tree
rotted at the bottom.
a cathedral
of leaves,
of birds
to flock to,
now toppling
under it's own
weight,
full of heavy
rains,
dark needs.
so beautiful
to look at in full
bloom.
but there is
mischief
in the roots.
deception
in the limbs.
all the gold and
silver
won't keep it up
for long,
the trunk
is hollow,
the truth will
set it free
from the ground
it clings to.

a little more

a little piece
breaks
off
the rock
as the water
rushes against
it, a
silver sleeve
in the sunlight
against
the blue stone.
a small sliver
crumbles
and gets carried
away
each day, each
new rain.
down the stream
it goes,
a little more
a little more
until
you're gone
to stay.

sex change

your friend lenny tells
you that he needs to have
a serious talk, that
he wants to confide in
you something that you will
be sworn to secrecy with,
which surprises you, him
knowing what a blabber
mouth you are.
what is it, you ask as you
sit at the coffee shop.
i think i might really
be a woman inside, he
says. i don't feel like
a man anymore. a tear
rolls down his cheek.
you gag a little on your
dried out scone. i took
up knitting, he whispers,
leaning over the wobbly
table. i'm a knitter now.
look at my outfit, my shoes
match my sweater. feel my
hand, see how soft the skin
is. i'm taking baths
with grapefruit body lotions.
yesterday i baked a quiche
with little broccoli heads
in it. hey, hey. you
tell him. you're not
a woman, you're a man
of the, of the...
whatever this decade is
that we're in.
you still like women don't
you, sexually i mean,
you ask, reaching
over to pat his hand.
but you stop when you
see the charm bracelet
around his wrist with
little monopoly pieces.
yes. i like women, i love
women, he says, sobbing,
but maybe i'm a lesbian
woman inside a man's body.
he pulls a tissue out
from the top
of his lime green sweater
and dabs his eyes. i don't
want to get the operation, i
just don't want to do that.
calm down calm down you
tell him, you're not getting
anything cut off.
you're just becoming more
sensitive. you are growing
as a person. really? he says.
do you think that's all it is?
sure you tell him. the other
day in the dentist office i
flipped through an entire
copy of ladies home journal.
i feel better, he says.
whew. i've been so worried.
thank you for listening.
pffft, you say,
no problem buddy.
hey, he says, what are
you doing today,
do you want to go see Les
Miz. there's a matinee show
starting soon. umm.
you know what, i would, but
i have a yoga class in an hour.
rain check?

dance class

bored with winter
you take a free dance
class
at the local
YMCA. you stand
on the sidelines
limbering up, watching
your instructor,
kia, who dances like
a gazelle.
let's see what you've
got she says,
taking your hand
leading you out
onto the dance
floor. have you ever
danced before, she
asks you. do you
know any dances.
sure, you tell her.
i used to do the twist
and the swim,
the mashed potatoes.
in junior high i
mastered a dance
called the fly. in
fact i could probably
teach that if any
of your students want
a lesson or two.
i tried learning
the latin hustle
back in the early
eighties but i injured
my hip. so what dances
will we be doing
here, you ask her?
but she doesn't answer
as she spins away
to the music to grab
another student.

tax season

you hand your tax
lady
your accounting
books for last year.
your w-2's, your
interest numbers,
gains and losses
of your stocks,
you give her your
mileage driven
to get work done,
stubs and receipts,
you bake her
an apple pie and give
her a gallon
of french vanilla
ice cream.
you tell her how
nice she looks.
that she's getting
younger looking
every time you
see her. don't
make me laugh,
she says and i'll
try and keep us
both of jail
one more year.

don't tell anyone

holding a secret,
a bit of hot
gossip
for almost
an hour, the
loose words
slip
out from the mind
onto
the tongue
into the air.
you regret
them before they
reach an
ear. but it's
too late, so
the rest comes
out as well.

superstitions

as a kid
you watched
the ladders,
the black cat,
the crack
on the sidewalk.
you made
a wish
on the falling
star,
or made three
with a coin
tossed
in the well.
you had a rabbit
foot for a
key ring.
your catholic
childhood
didn't keep
you from
superstitions
if anything
it made it worse
as you lift
your feet
while driving
across the railroad
tracks.

inebriated wisdom

abstinence
makes
the heart grow
fonder.
look both
ways
before crossing.
a penny saved
is a waste
of time.
a hard
man is good
to find.
you only live
once
unless
of course
you're
of the hindu
faith
and if that's
the case
go on
and don't worry
about it,
have some fun.

i need some parts

there once
were clock makers.
fixers
of machines.
televisions pulled
out from
cowebbed walls
and the backs
removed
to find the blown
tube or frayed wire.
they were odd
men in greasy
clothes, with
dust in their
mustaches,
their glasses
slipping down
the slopes of their
long noses.
they'd mumble things
like, i think
i see the problem,
as they turned
the washing machine
on it's back,
the wires splayed
open, red and black
electrical
strings. i'll be
back tomorrow,
they'd say,
don't touch anything,
i need some
parts.