what the....

when the hammer
misses
the nail
and strikes
your thumb you
say words
that you don't
normally say
out loud, words
you usually
mumble while
stuck in traffic
or waiting
in line
while someone
fumbles
at the register.
but the words
seem
appropriate
in the moment.
you don't feel
bad about it
at all despite
what your
catholic
upbringing did
to you.

freckles

she had
red hair.
very very curly
red hair.
and freckles.
lots and lots
of freckles.
a universe
of dots.
and her skin
was pale white,
almost translucent
behind
the freckles.
or burned
from a minute
in the sunlight.
but she
was fun,
and smiled big
and hard
showing her
pinkish
wide gums.
when she laughed
it sounded
like
seals clapping
for fish.
her head thrown
back
to see her tonsils
and molars.
but she was fun,
lots
of fun. did
I mention she had
freckles?

black and white trees

the photo
of trees
in black and white
is coming down.
you're done with
it. the lacquered
frame still
shines, but
the top is layered
with dust.
you remember
when you fell
in love
with it.
the way the shadows
fell.
the striking
silver of sunlight
along
a stream. you
knew exactly
where it belonged
in your room.
measuring, then
hammering
a nail into
the wall, in
a perfect spot.
but it's coming
down. things have
changed.
you've changed.
it's going
to the basement
where other pictures
have also
worn out
their welcome.

no title

i have no

title for this wordless poem.

i have nothing to say.

not a word.

there's no meat on this bone.

so move

on.

you're good at that,

aren't you?

sun bathing

almost naked
in the sun.
she has no
blush in her.
no sign
of embarrassment
of her
skin revealed.
her wings
spread wide.
why not.
she is far from
old,
being so young.
closer
to birth
than death.
if not now,
then when, she
thinks,
when can I
flaunt
what soon will
be gone.
the lines will
come,
the wrinkles,
the shedding
of youth,
like
feathers
will fall
and fly away,
and i'll be done.

work to be done

you feel
the warm pulse
of skin
on your gloveless
hands
burning
under the weight
and tug
of shovel
and rake.
the blisters
are rising.
but you still
plow away,
the sun not
yet down,
the moon
not up.
there is work
to be done.
blisters, or
no blisters.
you go on.
it's your way.

much to say

nothing
said, says
enough
sometimes.
silence
is plenty
of information
with which
to understand
where
you stand,
or lie,
or sit
in the cool
shadows
of your room.
you don't
need
a single word
to say
what you have
to say.
this quiet
says it all.

the artists

you see them
in the back rooms,
behind the counters,
the artists, who
aren't artists at all,
throwing eggs
onto the fry pan
slinging
hash browns,
dropping dollops
of batter
onto the griddle.
artists
with a flair.
wiping their
brows, adjusting
their hair nets
and soft hats.
their backs hurting
from the long
day of bending over.
artists staring
at their canvas,
working
swiftly at
their craft.
never finding a
museum wall.
but still a glorious
creation
on one plate after
another. and for them.
it's enough.
it's enough.

post modern

what period
of time we're in
is
vague.
with art,
with music, with
literature.
it's everything
and nothing.
copies
of what has been
done already,
it seems.
although
brilliant at times.
you don't
stand there
and say,
it's genius.
perhaps in time
you will,
or the world will,
but doubtful.

the righteous ones

those that
think they know
and
have become saintly
in
their lives
cause the most
damage
to the world.
unforgiving
and accusing.
wanting everyone
now to be like them.
holding the light,
forgetting
their past lives.
born anew.
those most certain
of who
they are and
what they believe
are the ones
to careful with.
those are the ones
that start
the wars.

wisdom

together,
the rake,
the shovel
the wheel
barrow,
all new,
await
your hands.
the yard
though,
wise with years,
with weeds
and brush,
knows better,
knows that
you won't
be coming
soon.

misery

a man with a broken
leg
standing in line
for top
soil
at the local
hardware store,
looks at you
and says
do you want to
know how
I broke my leg?
you tell him
no. you'd rather
keep it a
mystery, which makes
him angry,
picking up
his crutch to
swing at you.
you are not good
company for
misery.

cough drops

your dog
would sniff out
and find
a cherry cough
drop in the pocket
of your jeans
that you dropped
to the floor
before climbing
into bed
the night before.
he'd drag
them off somewhere
private
and proceed to chew
and lick
the denim
until he
got to small
oval candy
lozenge. when
you wore the jeans
again and went to
put change or
your keys into
the pocket
everything
would fall
loosely through
the hole,
rolling
and clanging
around the room.
you'd shake your
head and curse
the little beast,
but what was there
to do. and from
what you remember
he never had a cough.

saving money

in a growing effort
to save money
you decide to
cut your own hair.
you buy a pair of
electric clippers
and give it a shot
looking into
the mirror.
slowly you move
the blade over
your balding
scalp, not unlike
shearing a sheep.
around the ears,
down the back
of the neck. over
the top. sideways
then back again
long ways. getting
all those little
stubborn strands
that flatten out
and bend.
it takes about
forty five seconds
and you've saved
twelve dollars, plus
two bucks for
a tip. now you just
need to find
an old towel to
mop up the blood,
and apply some
Neosporin to the
oozing wounds.

the mechanic

the mechanic
opens the door as you
sit in the waiting room
reading a five year old
people magazine.
he calls out your name,
and says in a deep
voice, will you come with me.
you grab your keys,
your wallet, your phone
and your Dixie cup
of coffee and follow him
out to the garage.
we have a problem,
he says. it's not
just the wipers making
that noise, we need
to overhaul the entire
engine. seems you've
been driving way to slow.
do you stop for red
lights, stop signs?
slow down on exit ramps?
he shakes his
head. do you do less
than ninety on the belt
way? you sheepishly nod
yes. I obey
the laws of the road,
well, i'm sorry, he
says, but it's going
to cost you. these cars
are made for speed.
your engine is choking
on itself with carbon
buildup. I see
no wear on your tires.
you are going to have to
step it up. it's
a roman chariot race out
there, join in. push it.
your car wants you to.
do you want to wait for it,
or can I have someone
drive you home?

sierra madre

you question
your illegal
friends how they
get across
the border going
back and forth
each year
with no documents,
and they throw
their heads
back in unison
and say, documents.
we don't need
no stinking
documents.
and then you all
have a drink
together, talking
about the desert,
the banditos
and the gold
that will slip
through all our
hands.

just around the corner

he thinks
if I can
sell my house
i'll be happy.
if I can get the girl.
get the car.
i'll be happy then
too.
if I can
get the deal
signed and delivered
putting
the money in
the bank, well
that too will
add to
my growing
happiness.
if I can lose
ten pounds,
buy a new suit.
take a vacation,
I will
be on my way.
happiness
is just around
the corner.

dandelion

you find a piece
of you
that you thought
you lost.
it's the weather,
the cut
spring grass,
a wave
of yellow pollen
in the air,
the rain.
but it's a memory
floating
unattached,
rising as clear
as when it
happened. you
take in
your hand and
remember before
blowing it away
into the breeze.

act now

don't be a loser,
refinance with us
now. rates
will never be this
low again. don't
take one dollar out
of your pocket,
let us do that for
you. we will roll
over all the costs
of closing, appraisals,
origination fees,
lender fees, bug
inspection, home
inspection, points
and whatever other
fees we can think up
between now and the
almost guaranteed
percentage rate
that you will be
borrowing at if done
by midnight tonight.
you will save at
least seventy-nine
dollars a month
over a thirty year
fixed rate, or take
the even lower
rate for fifteen
years and save an
extra ten bucks.
don't be a fool. just
call us now.
have a job, have some
money in the bank,
don't be in debt,
have alimony, child
support, or have a loaf
of stale bread on
the counter. these things
could affect your
rate. but act now.
don't hesitate. these
rates are only good
until midnight.
don't be a loser,
a chump, don't be
caught with your drawers
down. act now.

pacifist

I don't believe
in the death penalty
she says,
unless of course
someone killed my
parents or daughter,
or brothers, or nieces
or nephews.
if that happened,
then i'd
like to personally
drown and electrocute
them slowly over
a long period of
time. taking
breaks for lunch.

cheap and on sale

your rooms
are full of things
you don't
need.
or want, but
you have
because they were
cheap
and on sale
and it seemed like
a good idea
at the time.
and now those
very words
come back to haunt
me, as you
put me out
on the curb
with a bent
lamp, a bag
of old clothes
and my suitcase.

the world

the world
finds a way
somehow
to go forward
despite
the evil
and darkness
that rises
every day,
with child
like thinking
you wish that
everyone
could live
in peace
and die only
in their old
age.

washboard abs

you have fond
memories of your abs.
those venetian
blind
washboard muscles
that made
your torso
ripple in
the golden sun
of your youth.
they are still
in there, but now
you choose to
protect them with
a safe layer of
soft skin
and tissue. it
took a while,
choosing the right
ice cream
and cake, but
you've done a
great job of
preserving those
muscles for
future use, when
you might need them
to strut along
the beach
gleaming like steel.

gluten free

it seems that
everyone has an
allergy of some
sort these days,
and it's not
just the pollen
count that
has them sneezing
and rubbing
their eyes,
many are
lactose
intolerant,
or bug eyed about
gluten, wheat
or nuts,
even chocolate
is causing
hives and rashes.
that can of paint
is green now.
safe to inhale
it's masked fumes.
but the Kleenex
business
is booming, as is
everything with
a little green
leaf on it, is
there a connection.
i'm not sure,
but it should
be looked into.

who are you

you think
one way about someone
for years
and then
they surprise
you by saying
or doing
something different
that you
didn't know was
in them.
the dog that
suddenly
bites,
the horse that
kicks, the cat
that scratches
you as you
walk by
in your bare
feet.

traffic cop

cheerfully
the cop in blue
directs
traffic in and
out of the church
parking lot,
pumping his
arms with
enthused waves
of his gloved
hands. go left,
go right, go
straight,
now stop.
behave with
your cars good
people, go
slow. go slow.
he is a minister
of the streets
directing
his flock.

small things

reaching
into the pocket
of your
favorite jeans
you find
a piece
of candy that
you'd
forgotten
that you had.
it is even
sweeter on
the tongue.
and this
simple thing,
of something
that was always
there
makes you
wonder
what other
small good
things
you are over
looking
and unaware.

the cartwheel

she beams
like a full moon
when you see her
on the street.
her head held
high, a smile
unconsciously
etched
into her soft
face. before she
can say the words,
you say them
for her.
you're in love
aren't you,
you tell her,
and she laughs
and throws
her hands up
to the sky.
yes, she says.
yes, I am.
it's wonderful,
she sings,
then does a cartwheel
down the street,
waving
farewell.

moving the bed

you cringe
and move your bed
to the side.
wanting a change
of scenery.
dust.
debris.
socks. things
you thought
lost
and then forgot
about.
whose ring,
or heel, or
hat, you have no
idea.
a book half read,
spread open
to the last
page you
fell asleep on.
the months
have turned into
years.
you could blame
the dog,
but he's gone too.
despite
his bone being
safely buried
in a lace
bitten brown shoe.

going home

at the basketball
court
your French friend
sammi,
is nearly
in tears
as he tells
you, I must go
back to Paris, my wife
no longer loves
me. I think
she is cheating, but
I don't know for
sure.
tonight I go out
for beers,
everyone comes
and says goodbye
to sammi, okay?
will you be
there? sure you
tell him. sure.
for what else is
there to do.
and then he throws
the ball in
to start the game
and runs and runs
and runs.

fresh bread

you can't
help but put your
hand on the end
of a loaf
of bread
and squeeze to
see how stale
it is, or soft
and warm. so rare.
how difficult
it is to stay this way,
as you well know.
we were all
fresh from the oven
at one point.

the book

you slow down
near the end
of a good book
not wanting to finish.
you've fallen
in love
with the heroine,
the way she has
risen to the top,
the way she
conquers her fears
and delivers
her love to you.
you embrace
the unraveling
of her mystery,
savor the beauty
of the plot. you ration
off a page a day,
one at night, before
you go to sleep,
holding the book
sideways before
you put it down,
measuring what's
left, another kiss,
another kiss,
not wanting it
to end, not just
yet.

utensils

I was a fork
and she was a spoon.
we had
different views
of the world
and how to
go about feeding
ourselves.
but we slept
together in
the same drawer,
showered and
clean, separated
only slightly by
a plastic wall,
a tidy little room.
we lay there
and shared
the stories
of what plates
we'd been to,
what food and mouths
we'd seen.
the times we were
dropped and licked
by the dog
before being
retrieved,
but it was never
meant to be,
especially
with the knives
so close by,
sharper and more
clever than we'd
ever be,
always listening
and plotting
against us.

the conspiracy

you want to laugh
when your friend,
who once did hard
time in Jessup, tells
you in all earnestness
that Lincoln
was in on it too.
how the conspiracy
goes back into
the time of the pharaohs.
but you don't laugh
as he tells
you what books to read,
what websites to
visit to bring
you up to date
on who really runs
this world. he looks
from side to side
with his dark eyes
and whispers in
confidence,
this is serious, he
says. this is
no lie. you nod,
and nod some more,
keeping quiet,
wondering what else
he learned in prison.

cold glass of milk

your love
for milk is
undiminished over
time.
even now
as you pour
it cold into
a clear glass
you like
the sound
of it filling
that space.
the coolness
of it
in your hand
as you bring
it to your lips
after taking
a fork full of
your mother's
cake. time
has erased
many things,
but not that.

stewed tomatoes

there was a kid
in the ninth grade,
a large
freckled boy
with red
hair and fat hands
who would
poke a finger into
your jello or
stewed tomatoes
and say, are you
going to eat that?
holding it there
until you looked
up and answered,
no, go ahead,
it's yours, you'd
say in a high
pitched voice.
you weren't fond
of getting black
eyes or
ears reddened
and nearly torn
from your skull.
plus, you never did
care much
for stewed tomatoes.
still don't.
but the jello,
well that's a
different story.

getting busy

the dripping
faucet,
drumming
a beat,
the shutter
loose and banging
against
the house.
the mailman
sticking
mail through
the slot,
the ants
crawling
carrying
boulders
of sugar away.
even the bees
are in
the hedges
getting
busy.
everyone's at
work,
but you.

euology for ladyinred

what is there to say
about your friend
who is no more,
who has died suddenly
and passed away.
she disappeared
into thin air as
if she never was.
you wished that you
had met her though
and not just been her
close friend on facebook
linkedin, myspace
and match dot com
she was the ladyinred123
for all those years,
too geographically
far away, living
in reistertown
to ever meet,
but you enjoyed
the updates on her
kids getting braces,
her dog getting
fleas, her grandmother
getting a new hip
and a titanium knee.
you couldn't get enough
of her petunia pictures,
or the time she caught
that twenty pound catfish.
those angels in the snow
were priceless.
there were so many birthday
party pictures posted
that you felt as if you
were really there
eating that coconut cake
she made from scratch.
she was always quick
to send a joke or a youtube
video she thought was
clever and funny,
and it made you laugh
despite having already
seen it fifteen times
before noon. crazy kids
with those milk cartons!
you're going to miss
her, hearing that little
beep when she would
send you an important
text in the middle of
the night, like 'wasup?'
or an email to your phone.
may she rest in peace.
ladyinred123. you're
going to miss her,
sort of, in a strange
cyber vacuum kind of way.

happy rain

when it begins
to rain
you see the smile
on her face.
she's happy
in the puddles
in the darkness
of mid
afternoon as
the wind
lifts
and shifts
making the hollows
of her walk
wet
and cool.

eulogy

he knew
how to make
life miserable
for everyone.
he was
a genius in
his own way.
keeping
his family
on edge,
uncomfortable
during holidays.
and when he
died and it was
time to throw
the dirt
on his box
there wasn't
much to say,
although some
tried
in an awkwardly
brief way.

group therapy

you go into group
therapy
to get some feed
back on your issues
with serial dating
as recommended
by your therapist,
doctor Jane Woodall,
not the monkey one,
but someone else.
as expected,
you hate almost
everyone in the room.
they make you
sit in a large circle
in wooden chairs,
then when it's your
turn to speak
you stand up,
give your name
and a brief history
of your misery
and woes. some take
longer than others
even though
their problems
seem quite lame
and trivial compared
to yours. pffft, come on.
get over yourself,
you want to shout out
but don't. amazingly
you stick with it
and hide how you
despise everyone,
tapping your foot
and biting your nails
down to their
bloody nubs.
everyone seems to have
a serious problem
with their mothers.
some their fathers.
others are just complete
lunatics with
no chance of leading
a normal life.
those are the people
you actually like
and can relate to.
you see an attractive
woman across the circle
from you, she's wearing
a pair of black
high heels, she stands
up when it's her turn
and says she has a problem
with making bad decisions
with men. you give
her a smile and a big
wink when she sits down
then motion
to your watch and
make a drinking motion
with your hand,
like Koko the gorilla,
mouthing the word,
LATER. she smiles back
and nods yes.
this could be good
after all.

can i have your kidney

if I needed
a kidney would
you give me
yours, she says to
you as she
licks a cone
of vanilla ice
cream
while sitting
on a park bench.
no. you tell
her. I don't think
that I would.
we aren't that
close.
but if we got
close, say we fell
in love,
true love, then
would you give
me a kidney. what
if i was going to
die without
it? maybe, you
tell her. maybe.
I mean if it was
true love, I guess
i'd consider it.
hey, can I have
a lick of that cone?
no, she says,
I don't know
you well enough.

photo op

the shelf
finally, loose
for so many years,
comes down.
you hear
the crash from
upstairs.
the screws
are out, the nails
bent,
the plank
of wood splintered,
hangs
onto one small
brace.
all purpose
flour,
granulated
sugar,
brown sugar
and spices
are scattered
about
like a wintry
mix
on the tiled
floor. you go for
the broom
and dust pan, but
then have a better
idea.
you take a picture.
it will be more
interesting when
you tell
story later.

defrosting

in the old days
you set aside
a weekend
to defrost
the ice box.
you opened
it up and took
out the box
of frozen peas.
the left
over pork
chops wrapped
in paper
and a slice
of wedding cake
from your
second marriage.
it was time
you thought
as you put down
the old towels,
stood on
a chair and went
at the squared
north pole
with a butter
knife
and glee.

the tags still on

she has a hard
time throwing
old clothes
away.
even new ones with
the tags
still on have
a memory.
a good sale,
the right coupon
the synchronicity
of that shopping
spree, unconscious
as she picked
up that lime
green sweater
with matching
shoes.
dresses hang
empty without arms
or legs,
bodies to
fill them and
never will, but
they look good
stuffed beside
one another, almost
like paintings
on hangers.
and then the shoes.
don't even
look. it's shocking.

on the ground

in the pool
she is a baby seal.
sliding,
gliding across
and under
the clear
blue water.
her eyes
sparkle
in the sunlight
her dark
hair, wet
around her
shoulders.
you can't catch
her when
she's swimming
like this,
but on the ground
it's different
story.

tiny strings

don't pull
the tiny string
of that
sweater
or the whole
thing may
unravel.
clip it clean
and don't
worry about
it, we all
have our faults
and it's best
to look the other
way sometimes,
having too
many sleeveless
ones myself.

the accordian

god help us
you say out loud
to no one
as a large nordic
looking woman
in pig tails
picks up an accordion
to play.
there is no
getting out.
the exits are
all in the back
and your chair
is in the middle
of the room.
a dozen people
would have
to stand in order
for you to leave.
so the music begins
and the woman
happily, with
an insane
blue eyed stare
swings her accordion
with her broad
shoulders
giving it all she
has. squeezing
a whining music
out of the glittering
box with her
sausage fingers.
sometimes you believe
that hell is a place
with many rooms.

you hear
the ho

awakened
by sunlight.
the long hard
fingers
of morning
scratch your
eyes, making
you say something
like, what
the hell, it's
Monday again.
you are sick
of work.
of making money
to survive
in this world.
you want to win
the lottery,
marry a sugar
momma,
maybe your son
could strike it
rich and have mercy
on you,
helping you
get up from
the floor
where the days
hands have you
around the throat.

for what ails you

take a sip
of this your doctor
tells you
while he
sits smoking a
big
Sigmund freud
cigar.
what is it?
don't worry about
it he says,
just take a sip.
it's scotch,
good scotch.
you'll forget
all about what's
her name.
you rub your
arm where her
name is tattooed
in red
floral script.
larissa, it
says. oh don't
worry about that,
I've got a guy who
can laser that off
in know time. cost
you less
than a thousand
bucks. hell of a lot
cheaper than
trying to win
her back
with diamonds
and flowers.
lean your glass
over here, you'll
need more
than that.
this could take
a whole bottle.

the morning stroll

a man
on the inside
part
of the freeway
walks slowly
along the jersey
wall
with a cell
phone pressed
to his
ear. he's
wearing a
black suit
and nice
shoes polished
to a high
shine in
the early morning
light.
there is no
sign of
his car, no
reason for
him to be
where he is
with traffic
roaring by at
racetrack speeds,
but his casual
stroll,
the nonchalance
of him
makes you believe
that despite
what's put him there
he's in a good place
with the rest
of his life.

the sign on hooes road

along the elbow
of a steep
grade
of ribboned road
called
hooes in Lorton
Virginia
is a planted
wooden
sign made
of torn plywood,
with ragged
edges,
splintered
where harshly
cut.
the placard
reads in black
paint, stroked
boldly, as if by
a child,
rabbits for sale,
plus
hubcaps and
beneath that in red,
as if an
afterthought
or maybe a
marketing ploy
it reads
Jesus is Lord.

unclogging the drain

you resist
thinking that
the clogged
drain is not
a metaphor for
your life.
you are not stuck
in one
place, stagnated
like the water
and debris
that sits still
in the sink.
but with plunger
in hand,
and chemicals
poured
with a skull
and cross boned
warning on the side
you do your
best to get
things moving once
again.

abstinence makes the heart...

is it absence
or abstinence that
makes the heart
grow fonder.
do we romanticize
what came
before and left
forgetting
why it ended, or
are we completely
out of our minds
sometimes about
all of this mystery,
the answer is
of course, a
resounding yes.

you decide

her feng shui
was telling her
to move
the bed three inches
further
to the center
of the room
while mine
told me no,
it has to go
closer to the window
and be completely
turned around
the other way.
then we had
the issue
with the forks
and spoons,
she wanted them
on linen napkins,
while
I pulled paper
towels off
the roll.
her potatoes couldn't
touch her peas,
while mine
didn't care and
carelessly
slid into one
another.
her feng shui
told her blue, while
mine was a
lighter shade of
grey. we were so
different in so many
ways, and yet
the same
because of them.

the daily news

feeling unloved
she sips
her tea
in the sunlight.
a slice
of lemon
on the white
plate,
a cat
at her bare feet.
the news
paper
is crisp
in her hand,
as she turns
without
thought
from page to page.
she knows
that was has
already
happened
will
happen again.

the new ice box

before the new
one arrives
you unload
the contents
of your old
ice box. there
is an inch of
red ketchup
in several
bottles.
more salad
dressings than
you can count.
the tops firmly
glued stuck.
pickles floating
for years
ignored.
frost covered
food
you've lost
track of.
hard bread
stuffed in
a corner.
stray strands
of salad,
still somehow
green. one
egg without
a friend to
be fried with.
it's a mess
and you promise
the next time,
you'll do better
as you pull
off the sticky
magnets of places
that you've
been.

where she visits

she packs
her bags
slowly.
folding
the black
skirt. the white
blouse,
shoes. she's
leaving
again, or is
it coming.
there seems
to be no
difference
sometimes.
home is a
place
she visits.

swords

when the conversation
begins,
my lawyer says,
you immediately
cringe, and internally
shake your head.
you know
that the world
needs
lawyers
and the world
needs swords, but
you do your best
to avoid both,
hoping that injustice
does not
visit upon you
so that you
will need neither.

maple syrup

your friend from
Canada,
can't stop talking
about Canada.
how beautiful it
is there.
the maple syrup,
the mountains,
the wonderful
woods and streams.
she loves
everything about
Canada.
the mounties
in red on their
horses,
hockey and ice
fishing.
after awhile though,
you want her to
go back. go home
and put her
snow skis on,
take her weird
holidays with her
as well. Canada.
pfff.

the gum incident

when you were in
high school
slow dancing one
summer evening
to sergeant pepper's
lonely hearts
club band,
in Vivian's basement,
who happened
to be captain of
the cheerleaders
and had beautiful
long black
hair, you accidentally
let the enormous pink
wad of baseball
card gum fall
out of your
mouth and into her over
flowing locks.
did I mention
how lovely and beautiful
her hair was? halfway
down her back.
well, it's true.
I tried to get it
out with my teeth
and lips at first,
but it got worse,
spreading deep into
her hair. finally,
she stopped dancing
and said, what are
you doing. which you
replied nothing.
she felt her hair,
and screamed, pushing
you away. the lights
went up and all
the other kids stopped
making out on the
couches and ran to
her aid. the other
girls screamed like it
was the end of the world.
you were done
the next day she told
you to come over and get
your sunglasses which
you had left. her hair
was short as if they
had taken a salad
bowl and chopped away
at it, getting rid
of your gum. by the end
of the summer she was
dating a new guy whose
name was cricket and
played on the football
team. you didn't care
though, not really.
and you kept up with
the gum. you liked gum
and blowing bubbles.

late night call

you get the drunken
midnight
call from
an old girlfriend
in California.
whatcha doing,
she says sweetly, pushing
other buttons
with her chin.
sleeping you tell
her. it's four
a.m. here.
oh, she says,
did I wake you?
what's up, you
sound wasted.
she starts to hiccup,
I miss you,
she says and begins
to sob.
I miss you too,
you tell her, but I
thought you got
back with your
husband. I hate him
she says. he's
sleeping
on the couch, we
had a fight. he
forgot that it was
our anniversary,
the one where
we took our vows
again. again?
that's the third
time you've done that.
who can remember stuff
like that.
you hear the glass
clink against the phone.
are you taking his side?
bastard.
you men all stick
together. I hate
all men.
maybe you should
stop drinking, take
a shower and have
cup of tea or something.
maybe, she sobs. maybe
I will, but
I want to lie here
on the couch for a while
and read this new self
help book I bought, but
my eyes are too blurry
and the room is spinning.
oh, you say. well.
what's it called.
your new book?
men, she says. men,
who needs them?
oh, great title.
but then in small print
it says, we all do.
okay. well, I have to
go back to sleep now.
sure, leave me. go ahead.
you are so selfish, so
mean to me...sooo. my
battery is dying, you tell
her...
your breaking up, I
can't hear you...

spring cleaning

on Saturday you
hear your neighbor's
vacuum
running across
her floors.
the smack of her
stiff broom
on the hardwood
steps.
she opens the windows
and reaches
out with
paper towels
wiping.
you get the feeling
that this is
nothing new with
her, that she's
done this many times
before
and watched her
mother do the same.
spring cleaning.
but there's something
else going
on. something
you are unsure of,
something more.

broken glass

when the window
breaks
and the cold
air
sweeps in,
everything
changes.
jagged pieces
of broken
glass
are on the floor,
you never
get it all
up. there will
be cuts
long after
the glass is new
and clean
again.
not unlike
the broken heart.

carnival ride

when you
hand your kid
to the carnival
worker
whose smile
could open
a can of
tuna fish,
and
you see that
he has satan
tattooed
along
his neck
and chest,
you realize how
little
control you have
on
your children
as they want to
ride
the rides
and feel
the alluring
spin
of life.

my fault

she cuts
her wrist and
bleeds
into a paper
cup. she hands
it to you
and says, see
what you
made me do.
my life is
all your fault.

she arrives

she arrives
with three pieces
of luggage
two dogs, a cat
and her
mother in tow.
you weren't
expecting her
mother
who feels guilty
for coming,
but quickly makes
herself at home
in the kitchen
and tells
you to go get
a broom
and her flip
flops from the car.
I will make
lunch for all of
us, she says,
shooing you
out of the way.
go to the store,
we need eggs.

she leaves

she leaves
no fingerprints,
no
shoe behind,
no tube
of lipstick
in
the bathroom.
she disappears
like
dreams do,
out the door,
out of sight,
out of mind.
even
the air is
clear
of her given
an open
window,
and time.

it's only monday

there are people
in the street running.
mobs
of people.
a crowd of frantic
souls
holding their
babies, running
with a look
of fear on their
faces. in a stampede
they run
knocking over
one another. pushing
the slow
and old out of
the way.
the sick and lame
have no chance.
all day and
all night they keep
coming, running.
running.
and it's only Monday.

letting it go

she lets her hair
go
one winter.
allowing it
to be white
and grey like
ash being
swept up
into the blue
sky. she feels
relieved.
finally
letting
her wrinkles
show, her weariness
become full
and whole.
she's earned
this raise
of consciousness.
she likes
what she sees
now. after all
these years of
keeping
the years at bay.

clean windows

a small
yellow bird goes
limping by
on the street.
a crutch
of twigs
under his wing.
his head
is wrapped
in a white
bandage,
and there is
a slight
twist in
his beak. don't
even ask
he says
when he
sees you
looking at him.
don't even
ask.

sounds of summer

you fall asleep
to the sound of
a cracked bat
and the announcer
saying there goes
another fly ball.
you doze off
for an hour
and awaken to
find yourself still
in the same
inning with a
new pitcher,
a lefty,
spitting and
scratching, adjusting
his glove, his
pants, his shirt,
his hat.
one hundred and
fifty-eight more
games to go,
so many more
sweet naps.

screaming baby

the young couple
holding
the screaming baby
are perplexed
as to why
and what to do.
they hand the baby
back and forth
between
one another,
taking turns
googling their
phones to
find a viable
solution, and soon.

submission

there was a time
when women
hid their
legs beneath
dresses that
resembled drapes,
and their
intelligence
too was muted
by men who wanted
quiet
in their little
imagined kingdoms.
desire and lust
were in
the closet, safely
held secrets
in the dark.
ambition dulled
with a wooden
spoon
and a crying baby.
even their names
had to be
changed in order
to show
submission, to
erase where they
had come from.
how little room
there would have
been for the likes
of you.

don't i know you

I know you, don't
I, the grocery store
clerk says
as he rings
up your items
from the moving
black belt.
you used to be somebody,
didn't you.
weren't you on
tv back in the eighties?
you look like
that cop, that
cop who's always
getting into
trouble, but finds
his way out
at the last second
using a bobby pin,
or a wad of gum.
but he had lots of hair
and you don't.
at least not now.
not me you say,
watching as he
pushes your potatoes
and toilet
paper to the bagging
area. sorry, not
me. I see you're
buying a lot of
generic brands, he
smirks, holding
a can of tuna up
to the light
looking for the bar
code. so what, you
tell him. mind
your own business
and ring me up, I
have to get out of
here. lots of pills
and vitamins, he says,
hmm. hmm.
moving the over 50 multi
vitamins through
the red light.
kid, see my hand
in my jacket, well
it's not just my hand
okay? now shut up and
ring me up. I don't
want to hurt you.
oh my, all you old
guys are testy today.
okay, okay. 79.24.
do you have any coupons?
club card perhaps?

easter church

a cheap blue
suit on a cold
day
in april
hangs on your
dry bones,
with your
toupee floating
loose
in the wind.
last years
program still
in the coat
pocket,
a hole
in your best
brown
wing tips,
going to
confession
so that you can
get the wafer
and the wine,
it's come
to this,
being good
one day a year.
but it's
a start.

road kill

doing sixty
on the dark
unlit road called
shore drive
between
acres of woods
a fat grey possum
walks slowly in
front of
your car,
the headlights
shine in
his black eyes,
he is numb with
bad luck,
and you can neither
slam on
your brakes
or swerve to
avoid him, or
her, who's
to know. there
is little you
can do, but
cringe
as you hear
the thumping sound
of it beneath
the carriage
of your car.
there is no stopping
to get out to check
on him, no
911 call for
help. it's just
strangely odd, and
weirdly sad
for the both
of you. there is
nothing you
can do but go
on with your life,
having this
to add to it.

a dozen eggs

you see
a group of kids
throwing
eggs at cars
along the stretch
of woods
that borders
the road
in your neighbor
hood,
they see you
coming up
the walk,
in the dark,
and begin to
run, leaving
a dozen or so
raw eggs behind
in the carton.
you know
the kids and where
they live,
you see them
in the morning
waiting for
the school bus,
with their books.
there is nothing
you will say
to them, or
do, all of this will
pass with time
as it did
once, a very long
time ago,
for your friends,
now old,
and you.

the entire book

this story
has a different
ending.
you don't
know what happens
like you
usually do.
you can't turn
to the last
page and see how
it goes.
you're going
to have to read
the entire book
of her
this time around
to see
how the plot
enfolds.
it's not
a page turner,
by any stretch,
but it's a tale
well told,
and each
chapter ends
with you wanting
more.
you book mark
where you leave
off with a parting
kiss and a wave
farewell.

the north end coffee shop

at the hipster
coffee shop
they are adjusting
their black framed
glasses
on their noses while
they say things
like. I know
exactly what you
mean. they sip beet
soup, and nibble
on seaweed cookies
staring deeply
into one another's
I pads and phones.
the women are free
from animal
tested make up
and the men have never
heard of an unplaid
shirt or comb.
there's music coming
from upstairs, indie
music with a throbbing
beat and a mournful
wail of a woman
singing about the
injustices of the world,
and it's diminishing
whale population.
but the coffee is hot,
and it's cold
outside, so you stay
awhile and watch.

chemistry

I've been married
five times, she says,
and i'm not afraid
of doing it again.
one was a writer,
a very
good writer,
he kept me entertained
and smiling,
another knew
how to cook a soufflé,
the things he could
do in the kitchen
would amaze you,
in fact it's how
I gained all this weight.
another was
a wonderful
lover, he wore me out
with his lovemaking,
i'd pretend to be sleeping
or sick, just to
push him away, while the
fourth
had a winning
personality and
a trust fund.
what about the fifth
one, you ask, she
sighs, looks off
into the distance and says,
I loved him the most,
but he was good for
nothing. he had no
skills, never read
a book, was selfish
and sad, but he was just
like me in so many ways,
we had chemistry.
he was the one that
got away.

lemon meringue pie

you divide
your life into
segments.
like a pie
perhaps.
slices of sleep.
of work,
the large
meaty portions
of relationships
and family,
there is
a piece of
being responsible,
the ring of
crust holding
it all together,
then the meringue
covering it all,
fluffy and frivolous,
the nonsense
of you
which is sometimes
all that
people see
or think you are.

street juggler

a man on
the street is
juggling
bowling pins
and
flaming torches,
he puts a knife
into the mix
and
throws them all
into the air
at once,
catching them,
from hand
to hand.
his legs spread
wide for
balance,
his eyes
looking upward
with a
crooked smile,
you know this
kind of life
all too well.

the wind

the wind
approaches you
with brusque
arms, a cold
attitude.
a chill laced
breeze
with
debris from
the street
of twirling
paper, crumbled
leaves.
you don't believe
the wind,
what it's telling
you,
how it loudly
speaks
into your ear.
these things
you don't believe
you don't
want to hear.
you prefer
the sweet whisper
of may.
the gentle stroke
her hand
against your
aging face. the
kiss of sunlight
when you awake.

comes and goes

tearing down
the old shed takes
all day.
removing the cans
of paint,
the debris of broken
rakes and
hoes, never used.
flower pots
and seed.
the aluminum
is rusted and the
boards
along the bottom
rotted.
rabbits
have come and gone,
snakes,
perhaps once curled
beside
the lawn ornaments
that seemed perfect
in their sunny
way.
and when it's
cleared it's almost
hard to remember
it was even
there, like so
much of life
that comes
and goes.

the pebble

like a small
pebble
in my shoe,
i felt
you there
all day,
allowing you
to stay
for just
a little while
longer,
and then
sitting on
the side of
the bed,
to shake you
free
at last.

genius at work

your genius
goes unrecognized
for most
of your life, but
some suspect
there may be
something
going on.
thye see that
there is something
unusual about you.
they can't put
their finger
quite on it, but
they sense
a spark of
uniqueness that
they know is in
no other. this
is a good thing
though, keeping
your humility
in tact.
to be walking
unknown among
the crowd, or so
you tell yourself
sadly.

deviled eggs

you bring a cherry
cheese cake,
because the sight
of a cheese cake
makes everyone
happy,
your sister
brings the scalloped
potatoes,
your brother
a liter bottle
of coke,
your mother puts
out a spiral
ham and a plate
of mixed olives,
while your
other sister,
the one who doesn't
talk to you
makes deviled
eggs. appropriate.

lap dog

you become
her lap dog.
her toy
poodle that she
can call
when she needs
to pet
someone or
something.
you sit and bark,
beg
on command, you
heel and
fetch.
your eyes are
bright and your tail
wags when
you see her.
she has you
on a short
tight leash,
but before
long your eyes
will wander
and you'll break
free
leaping with
great joy
over the electric
fence.

steal this

she used
to put cookies out
for her burglar.
a glass of milk
too.
sometimes, she
leave him
a note asking
him, on the way
out, to please
set a bag of trash
by the curb
for pick up in
the morning.
he didn't steal
much, sometimes
a ring, a bracelet,
cash if it was
on the counter,
but then he'd
feel guilty
and put it back
the next time he
was in the neighbor
hood.
sometimes she'd
wait for
him at the top
of stairs
as he came through
the kitchen
door using the key
she'd leave under
the mat that said
wipe your feet.
he ease himself in
with his bag,
and black mask
pulled down.
she often wondered
what he looked like,
how handsome he
must be. he loved
stealing from her,
and she loved
being stolen
from. they
were perfect
for one another.

someplace warm

i'm retiring next
year your neighbor tells
you one day as
you both are gathering
mail
from the mail box
out front.
i'm going somewhere
warm and pleasant
where I can fish all
day or do nothing if
i so choose.
his eyes look far away
as he speaks,
they glaze over with
the thought of
doing nothing.
somewhere warm he repeats
smiling. I want
to do nothing all
day he says. nothing.
he looks at you
and you see the sadness
in his eyes,
having wasted so much
of his life with work
and little else.

easter egg hunt

you remember
the competitive violence
of the Easter egg
hunt out in the cold
blue grass
of someone's
scrub brush front yard.
the plastic eggs
holding quarters
or nickels,
tucked in the arms
of bare trees,
pathetic pennies
in a pink egg
hidden in a downspout.
it was the red faced
race of children
hopped up on
marshmallow chicks
hardened under
sugar, their
teeth stained with
the bitten ears
of milk chocolate
bunnies running,
scurrying, bumping into
one another
for those bright
blue and yellow eggs
clinking with
change.

a language of her own

she had a way
of saying everything
by saying
nothing.
a look would do,
the casual blinking
of lashes,
a sigh,
a brushing of
the hair off her
shoulders.
the slight buzz
of hmmm from
her lips
was a novel
of opinion, which
you absorbed
and understood
the second the sound
touched your ear.
the tapping of
her finger was an
alarm
going off.
she had a language
of her own,
that needed
no words.

who you are

tired of who are,
who you've become
or imagine yourself
to be, you try
to think yourself
different. but you
can't. you are stuck
in the glue of
what you've made
your self to be.
you grow weary of how
you speak, the way
you walk,
how you do things
in your life. but
for better or worse
you are who you
are. of course
small adjustments
can be made. perhaps
a new shirt, or
new shoes. but that's
about it.

on the street

when you see
an old
friend
on the street
you both stop
and greet one another
then begin
the usual set
of questions about
what happened
to so and so.
where's he or
she now. but more
and more
the answers are
no so good,
the illnesses,
the divorces,
the lost jobs,
and wanderings
of so many.
and then you shake
hands, and say
well, you look
good, nice to see
you again, then
go on your way
feeling better
somehow about your
own life.

fighting tactics

let's not fight
anymore
you once told your
ex while
she held
a butcher knife
in the air
and a trash can
lid in the other.
let's put aside
our differences
and fall in love
again. this made
her laugh and stop
for a moment,
giving you time
to throw a dinner
roll at her
then escape
out the front door.

cinammon rolls

you have
a weakness
for flour
and sugar, eggs,
all
mixed and
baked
until the point
of warm
and rising.
add cinnamon
and your done,
giving up
all your deepest
and darkest
secrets.
with you, it's
just your lips,
and legs,
and hips to
get my confession.

the incubators

at the hospital
you see the babies
in their incubators
pink like balloons
brown like beans.
twisting in their
new lives, outside
the womb, where it's
cold and dry.
and this is just
the beginning, you
want to tell them.
there's more to come,
but all in good time.

it's complicated

it's complicated
she says,
rubbing lotion
into her hands.
i'm perplexed by
how I feel
about you. a
part of me loves
you and another
part doesn't
really care if I
ever see you
again. i'm
confused and
don't know what
to do. and my hands
are so dry.
are yours?
it's the cold
air isn't it?
here, open your
hands, let me
squirt some lotion
into them.
it's aloe. so what
do you think?

the wrecking ball

against the walls
of the apartment
building,
you see the wrecking
ball swing
in the early morning
light, as men in
yellow hardhats stand
nearby, watching
from across the road.
bricks and mortar,
wood, glass and
shingles all come
tumbling down after
each wide arc strike.
the dust of decades
rises in a small
cloud, carried away
swiftly by the march
wind. if you had
lived there at one
time, this would mean
something to you.
at least more
than it does now,
but you didn't and
you can keep going
without it resting
upon your shoulders.

the runner

you see the man
from up the street
in his shorts
running. you've
seen him for years
along the sides
of roads, through
the woods, the
park and around
the track at the
high school. running
with long loping
strides, his face
grimacing and red.
sometimes a new
wife beside him
or a dog.
through the seasons
you've seen him
fighting through
the snow and heat,
one foot after
the other, his arms
clanking awkwardly
at his side.
he stares as his watch,
always searching
for time. then
one day you see him
walking. slowly,
and easily, no
longer with a limp,
his face calm,
no longer straining
along the earth,
having finally
found his stride.

the landscaper

the landscaper
spends his day
in the sun.
his gloved hands
at the wheels
and tools
of his trade,
clipping, clipping
the green,
the dead branches
away. happy in
his labor, not
caring for the easy
way out. the desk
job, moving numbers,
tapping keys.
having to speak
and say so many
things he doesn't
mean.

the happy ending

some stories have
a happy ending.
the boy
gets the girl.
the dog finds
his way home.
the fortune lost
is found
again. it happens
this way
sometimes. so you've
heard. so
you've heard.

her own rain

she's happiest
when she's
unhappy.
when she has
a broken
nail or a
stubbed toe.
it gives her
a reason
to keep
believing that
when it rains,
it rains on
her alone.

in the woods

unworldly
sounds
are coming
from the woods,
fox
or badgers,
or witches
stirring brew
who's to know.
you stare out
the window
and see nothing
and no one.
some things
are best left
alone. no
need to find
out, to know.

a bar of soap

the bar
of soap
does not
represent
your life
although
the thought
does cross
your mind as
it slips out
of your hand
once more
in the shower,
slowly
getting smaller
and smaller
with each
new day.

land line

the land line
has
lost its
way.
no one calls
anymore
but strangers
selling
things you neither
want
or need.
and yet
a part of
you, can't
surrender
the phone on
the kitchen wall.
it's where
you talked
for hours
to your first
girlfriend, where
you made
prank calls
to your neighbor.
it's the only
number
your mother has
for you.
people can find
you
with this number.
it's in
the book and
that's something.

things to come

ungrateful
children, red
faced
and spoiled,
scream
loudly in the store.
their pink
lungs
exposed as
their parents
drag them with
clenched
fists across
the linoleum
floors.
and you wonder,
if it's just
a phase
or a portent
of things
to come.

bread

when the church
delivered
a basket
and box of food,
canned goods
and a turkey
on your porch
in 1968
you rejoiced,
your mother cried
while she cooked.
you ate
until you
and all seven
of your
sibling's stomachs
were full
and round
and your waning
faith, for
awhile
was healed.
staying hungry
has a way
of moving you
closer to God.

good to go

you try not leave
things
at your new love's
house.
you've lost too
many pairs
of shoes
and nice coats
that way. books
too that you wanted
to share
during those
honeymoon days.
you don't mind
losing a toothbrush
or two,
your shaving
cream and razor,
a hat perhaps,
a pair of socks,
but that's about it.
best to pack light,
and travel
fast, for when you
get the call,
the nod, the hint
that things aren't
going to last,
you're good to go.

frozen meatballs

alarmed
at the furniture
store for selling
bags of frozen
meatballs
made with horsemeat
you decide
to not shop there
anymore for food.
from now on you are
only going to buy
shelves and desks,
chairs and beds
that take three hours
to put together
with sketchy directions
and can't be moved
because they are too
fragile and weak.
you have to draw
the line somewhere.

cold eggs

it's snowing
in april.
the birds are
in the trees,
in their
new nests,
trembling
in the wind
trying to keep
their eggs
warm. it's
confusing
at best. and
you too,
in your shorts
and t shirt,
shivering
on your walk.

in disguise

you don't know me,
she says.
you've never known me.
who I am, what
I think, what makes
me tick. i'm
not who you
think I am.
deep inside i'm
a very sensitive
and loving
person. my bad
behavior is just
a charade, a
disguise. i'm
really good
and fun, i'm not
mean at all like
you've surmised.
I act this way
to protect myself
from love, from
affection. from getting
too close
to someone and then
breaking their
hearts when I leave.
give me time
and you'll know what
i'm talking about.
you'll see.
you'll see.

row boat

she wants to
row in one
direction
and you want
to row
in another.
there is no
shore we can
get to with a
mindset like
that.
one or the other
needs to let
the other
one lead. at
least for now
until the arms
get too tired
or the boat goes
down.

the black and white cat

she finds her way
home.
finally.
at an age
where her feet
are tired,
her bones heavy
from
the journey.
enough
is enough she
thinks while
petting gently
the black and white
head of her
oldest
rescued cat.
i'm home she
thinks, at last.
in a place
where I belong.
no need to
stray
any longer.

life on mars

they find life
on mars.
but it's different
than
life here.
they live underground
on account
of the weather
and radiation
from the sun.
but they are just
like us
in many ways.
they worry about
everything.
eat and drink too
much.
have their ups
and downs. but
they are an
optimistic
bunch, like we are
and can easily
forget the mistakes
they've made
and move on.

the gift

you gave her a watch
one Christmas
which she destroyed
with a hammer
on valentine's day.
it was a nice watch
too. but she said that
she took great joy
in smashing it against
the pavement, sending
pieces flying into
the air. she's been
really hard to buy
gifts for since then.

the after glow

lying there in bed
we both sigh and say
almost at the same time,
whew, that was good.
our heads are against the
pillows with beads of sweat
on our foreheads.
she lights up her
electronic cigarette,
hands me one and says,
I hate to admit it but
sometimes when we make
love, I drift a little,
I think about different things.
oh, really you say. like
what. well, don't get
mad, but I think about
Julio, that landscaper
who does our lawn.
sometimes I see him
looking into the windows.
with his big brown eyes.
you mean the one with all
the tattoos? no, she
says, not that one,
the one with the earrings,
and the broad shoulders.
that's Pablo. oh, she says.
well, I think about him.
but sometimes i'll
think about shopping
too, or what I might
do later with mindy.
what about you, does your
mind wander when we're
having sex. you put
your cigarette down and
fold your arms across
your chest, pulling
up the sheet. yeah, I
guess so. like what?
she says. do you think
about beyonce? or someone
like that. nah, you say.
maybe someone I saw
at the grocery store
in the produce department.
but sometimes i'll think
about baseball, or food.
like just now,
I was wondering if we
had anymore of that easter
ham left. i'd love
to make a sandwich for
lunch. yeah, she says,
there's some in there,
and some scalloped potatoes
too. well, i'm getting
up you tell her.
there's a game on in
a little while. what
time are you and mindy
going shopping?
in a bit, in a bit.
I just want to lie here
for a little while longer
in the after glow.

balloon ride

on the way
home
you see a hot
air balloon
snagged in
the power lines.
the wires
sparkle with
electricity.
it's full
of tourists
with cameras
and maps.
they are shouting
down to send
help, help us
we're stuck.
but there's
nothing you can
do, so you wave
and wish them
well.
you speed up
so that they don't
come tumbling
down upon you.

the good son

you look like someone
I used
to know, your mother
says to you
as you stop by to check
on the mice
problem.
so do you, you tell
her, handing her
a new bag of
traps and a pound of
uncut cheddar cheese.
you don't come around
much anymore
she says, trying to break
out into
tears, but can't seem
to muster the negative
energy to do so.
what's up with the mice,
you ask her, zipping your
coat up tight
around your chin.
what mice she says,
chasing one with
a broom as it prances
by with a few small
friends. I don't know
what you're talking
about. are you staying
for dinner, she says,
taking the traps
and cheese into
the kitchen. you watch
her cut the cheese
into small bits,
loading them onto
the traps, pulling
back the springs.
no thanks
you tell her, I've to get
going. heading over
to dad's house,
he's got a snake
problem in
the basement, bats
in the attic.

looks like rain

someone says
it looks like rain
as she sits
staring out the window.
you don't know
her but you
admire her ability
to predict
the weather.
you nod and say
something like yup,
sure does.
it's cold and windy
too. blustery
for this time of
year. which makes
her smile
and move closer
to you. tapping
her paper
coffee cup against
yours. it might
freeze tonight,
she says. you should
take your plants
in if you have
any. or wrap them.
I don't have any
you tell her. I don't
like plants.
all that responsibility.
this makes
her button her
coat, and stand up
to leave. nice
chatting she says,
and goes out into
wind.

lost numbers

you have a drawer
in the kitchen
full of dead phones.
dropped
phones, phones that
got wet
and shorted out
in your showered
hand, wiring gone bad,
buttons stuck
on a single letter
forever, phones
with batteries that
died in the heat
of declaring love,
or saying don't ever
call me again.
and now this phone.
this fragile
mirror in your hand.
a thin line
of communication. it
too, has expired.
taking with it all
the numbers that you
never knew by heart.
and you are left to
say embarrassingly
when people call,
who is this? who
am I talking to.

too tired

too tired and
weary in the bones
to sit still
to write a poem
you start over
and over again
deleting each
horrible try.
you have nothing
of value to say
this late at night,
but you go on
just the same.
they can't all
be gems. just as
every kiss can't
mean love.

you come around
with your pink lips
and grin
your red hair
all a frizz
your powdered
sugar skin
and carolina blue
eyes. an angel
in high heels,
a devil
in disguise.
a dream in
the mist
of my hungry eyes.

work

to each his
own way
into
the world
finding work
for his hands.
but going
forward
it is less
about survival
and more about
dignity
and respect.

the empty hand

a man
comes up to you
in the street
he is
your father
your brother
your son.
he's a stranger
to you
he's everyone.
his empty hand
is your hand
his open
mouth holds your
teeth
your tongue.
he wears
your shoes,
your hat.
he finds a way
inside you
with his
lonliness, his
lack of
love, his
freedom from
possessions.
you could give
him everything,
or nothing
and it wouldn't
matter
he would find
a way back to
being where
he is.

gamble

your friend
loves to gamble.
you can see it in
his eyes.
it's sex,
it's a drug
to him.
poker,
the slots, horses
at the track
all is fair game.
even with
food he'll say
things like
I bet I can eat
thirty raw
oysters and not
have a heart
attack.
and someone will
put down
the money and watch
as his eyes
and stomach
grow larger
and larger, a
little horse radish,
some tabasco,
a bet is a bet.

the burglar

the burglar
enters
the back door
quietly with his
soft
bag
and tools
his mask
and gloves.
he tip toes
across
the darkened
room
wanting what
is yours.
before you
know it
everything of
value
is gone
while you sleep
and he leaves
the way he came
quietly
in the night
leaving you,
as lovers often
do, never quite
the same.

mouse traps

you hear
from an older
brother
that there is mice
in your mother's house.
and her husband,
herr goering,
decides to become
the great white hunter
and he himself
take them all out
with small traps
and squares of
yellow cheese.
one day he caught twenty.
keeping count
and telling everyone
within earshot
what a good day
it's been.
by the end of the week
the world
knows about these
mice, uncles
and aunts, friends
and family. all
diving in with money
and suggestions,
wanting to help to
solve the mice problem.
but the great white
hunter, says
no. he and he
alone will take
care of things.

two people in one

when she's happy
she's wild
and carefree
all sunshine
and full of sugar,
she's doing
cartwheels
like a child
across the lawn,
but when the clouds
appear
and the rain
falls, beware.
the knives
come out sharpened
and gleaming
in the dull
damp basement
of her broken
mind.

discount doc

the doctor
in his white coat
with
a mustard
stain
on the collar
comes in
eating a long
wet
pickle
staring at your
chart.
everything is
fine, he says,
crunching
down. you can
go home now.
we made a mistake
after all.
you're going
to live.
seems that shadow
we saw
on your lung
was my thumb.
our bad. pickle?

almost here

she is the tide
coming
in
the sun
lifting light
over
the horizon
warm
bread rising
in the oven.
she's
the open window.
the cool
sheets
on the bed.
the taste
of honey
melting on
your tongue.
she's the long
deep
sleep, the lingering
kiss.
the whisper
in your ear.
she's on her way.
she's
almost here.

first lunch

you see a man
on a ledge
eating
a sandwich
seventeen floors
up.
people
gather on the street
waiting
for something
to take
place.
but he's in no
hurry.
someone yells
up, what are eating
and says,
don't worry about
it, you'll
know soon enough.

motion detector

the motion
detector
gone awry
is set off
by you
moving from
one point to
the other.
then it says
the back door
is ajar
unlocked.
then the window
too,
as you raise
it from the sill.
the disembodied
voice
tells everyone
and no one
how unsafe
the house has
become
with the dog
going up the stairs,
the cat
on the counter
pawing
at the milk,
you opening
the fridge
for ice cream.
small bowl, it
says, small
bowl.

twilight

with increasing
speed
the pages
of the calendar
twist
and turn
in the wind.
ripping off
days
and months
into a whirling
cyclone
of time.
by days end
it's everything
that was your
life,
all things
somehow in
the twilight air,
entwined.

the open safe

you bend down
rubbing your
cold hands together
and put your ear
to the safe.
you twist
slowly the dial
listening
for the empty
space that tells
you to go
the other way
then back again,
it clicks
gently along
until finally
the door swings
open. if only
hearts were
so easy.

the rattle

in the hospital
she holds
her grandchild up
like
a baked
ham towards
the light.
smiles as someone
takes another
picture.
it all comes
and goes
so fast
with these
babies. you can
still hear
the ancient
rattle in
your own son's
hand, before
you kissed
him and said
goodnight.

out of the rain

the rich are seldom
seen
in suits or furs
with pearls
and heels, shined
shoes, standing
in line for lottery
tickets at the 7-11,
they are more discreet
with their need for more.
shuffling in
at late hours in
sheep's clothing.
whereas as the poor
have no shame
with their rumpled
bills, their saved
coins and lists of
numbers that are
perceved as lucky,
all day they stand
in line, coming in
out of the rain.

wanting more

many are patient,
and some not,
waiting for
their ship or train
to arrive
at dock
or station
bringing fame
or fortune
into their working
hands.
for what else is
there to do, but
to wait and work,
staying true
and hopeful.
to do nothing would
be foolish, admitting
failure
in this world
of luck
and hard knock.
but if it doesn't
come, as it won't
for most,
what then is there
to say
about a life
of want and not
accepting one's
given lot.

the contractor

you call a contractor
in to measure
your counters, ponder
your appliances
and floor. you want
to move a wall perhaps,
change the lighting.
he doesn't write anything
down though. instead,
he keeps talking.
pulling on his
short grey beard
telling you stories
about when he was
a child in pakistan.
you see the gold
in his teeth and a farway
look in his milky
blue eyes.
he tells you about
his goats, his six
children and how
he lost part of his
little finger in
a power saw accident.
holding up the rounded
nub of it for
you to see. it still
works, he says
wiogling it around.
he finally stops and
throws his head
back to laugh
and you say gently,
touching his arm, how much.
please. how much to
do all of this and when.
he nods seriously,
rubbing his dark hands
together. ahhh. he
says. the work. always
the work, isn't it?
i don't know.
but i will call you,
i will call you soon.
give me your number
again.

ticking quietly

you understand
many things,
or at least you
think you do.
how things work
or why
they don't, but
the human mind
is more difficult
to deal with.
the nuts and bolts
the springs
and wheels
of it all are
maddening
sometimes and
yet magnificient
at others, like
now, with
you beside me,
asleep, ticking
quietly away
in a dream.

exploding tires

you hear a loud
bang in your parking
lot and look out
the window.
people are standing
around your neighbor's
car. hands on
their hips, eyes
wide open.
you go out to see
what's up. the front
tire of her
car has exploded
and ripped
the metal off
the car itself
as a small bomb would
do. the car was
at a standstill.
no one was in it,
or around it.
it just exploded.
no one knows what
to say, as the woman
curses, cries
and searches for
meaning, when there
is none.

mice

mice
want no
trouble.
they just want
food
and shelter
like
you do.
a warm place
to sleep
and breed
and live
in peace.
they don't
understand
the traps
and cheese
involved in
doing so.
no different
than you
or me.

fly me to the moon

after your traumatic
divorce a month ago
from your wife of ten years
you decide to never
drink alone.
well, hardly ever.
but sometimes
though, on a cold windy,
rainy, beast of a night
you put on your black silk
pajamas, mix up
a white russian
and turn the stereo on.
that's right. the stereo.
leave me alone
with your i pod
mp3 whatever junk.
you've got two big
stereo speakers
in the corner and
a stack of pioneer
recievers. you drop
the needle down on sinatra,
the capitol years.
you dim the lights
and settle into
the big leather chair
in the corner, the one
you fought for in
the settlement,
then you pull out
your little black
book of old girlfriends.
trying to see who
might be free and
willing to drive
in the storm to come
visit. it's a little dusty
and sticky, but
you manage to
open to the B page.
you try betty
first, but she's
crying when she picks
up, so you quickly
say oops, wrong number.
next is lulu. lulu
is a girl who knows
how to have fun.
she answers with a
cheery hello, which is
a good sign. hey baby,
you say, sipping on
your drink, what's
happening. long time.
i just got out of rehab
she says. oh really,
you say, flipping to
the next page. what for?
oh, for sex, drugs and alcohol,
she says, so i'm sorry,
but i can't see you, plus i have
my knitting circle tonight.
okay. you say, make me
a pot holder or something.
bye. next you try gloria,
g l o r i a, you sing
out loud. this makes
the dog sleeping in
the corner lift his head
and squint his eyes
at you. hey gloria,
it's me. jimmy. jimmy.
from the club. we met
one night.... hello.
hello. dial tone.
you vaguely remember
sneaking out of her house
one night and borrowing
some money that you may
or may not have paid back.
okay, you say, clinking
the ice around in your drink.
no problem, let's see here.
shelia. good old sheila.
red wine sheila.
big lips covered in
cherry red lipstick
sheila. you dial her
up and nod yes to yourself,
why didn't you call
her first. of course.
she's gold. a man
answers the phone.
hello, you say, is ummmm
sheila there. yeah, buddy,
she's here. who's this?
you're speaking to
her husband. who is this?
you hang up and sigh.
what the hell, you think.
what happened to everyone.

retail therapy

you need some
new stuff.
you don't even know
what you
need, but you
need to go
shopping.
you have
shopping needs.
you'll know
it when you see
it. you grab
a handful
of coupons from
the trash
and find your
wallet.
buying things
will make you
feel better, you
can feel the surge
of energy
and excitement
already just
thinking
about walking
through
the stores
touching, feeling
picking
things up.
you have a good
vibe about
this trip.
you may actually
end up with
something
you can use
at some point.

exits

you can
only stay so
long
in one place
without
staring
out a window,
getting up
to walk
around. you
see the windows
and doors
as ways out
not in.
you do leaving
much better
than entering,
that much
you know
is true, about
who you
are, but not
why.

surrender

the trees
surrender
each
fall its
leaves,
the cloud
its snow
and rain.
everything
knows when
to let go
but us,
that we must
learn
over and
over again.

a symphony

you hear
your neighbors
through
the wall arguing
again.
it's never an
intellectual fight
over art
or music, politics
or religion.
it's mostly about
spilled milk
burned toast,
a seat left up
in the bathroom,
always ending
with who can yell
the loudest
and throw
the most dishes.
even the dog
is barking.
but before
the night ends
you hear them in
bed, making love.
passionate love
saying things that
burn into your soul.
it's a symphony
amidst the train
wreck of their lives.

the unwritten note

you slip
a note under
her door.
it says nothing.
there are
no words
to express how
you feel.
words seem
small
and insignificant
when
you're in love.
a silent
quiet note
full of
nothing and
everything seems
to say it all.

it's all about me

embarrassed
for being unable
to pronounce
or spell
the word narcissistic
which she
just called you,
you hang up
the phone on somebody
that you hardly
know or care about
even though
you had sex last
night and look
the word up online.
you practice
saying it over
and over again,
looking in
the mirror
flexing
your muscles,
staring at your
handsome face
until someone
knocks
at the door
which makes you
very angry
and petulant.
they don't know
how busy you
are, what important
things you have
to do. let them
wait for
awhile.you repeat
the word again
and again until
you've got it.

look at that

she was from jersey
and the first thing she
showed you
was a molar
in back of
her mouth that was
turned completely
around.
she'd open her
mouth up wide
on the first
date and said,
look at that.
this worried
you more
for some reason
than the lizard
tattoo on her
ankle, or the gun
in her purse, or
the baby sleeping
upstairs
behind a closed door.

this ain't a library

when you were
thirteen
you'd go down
to the rexall
drug store
and peruse the rack
of comic
books,
selecting
the ones you'd
bring to the booth
to read
as you
ate a grilled
cheese sandwich,
with a pickle,
chips and a
cherry coke.
you'd sit there
for hours
until
your leg fell
asleep, or
the manager with
a black skinny tie
and white
short sleeved
shirt
tapped you
on the shoulder
and said, hey kid,
this ain't
a library, buy
em or get out.

they slip away

they slip away
into the fog,
those
you knew,
in younger
days,
those on the fringes
of your
life.
they slip away
into
the haze
of morning,
the mystery
of night,
like shadows
of memory,
never to be heard
from
or seen
again.

Habemus Papam

the new pope, who's real name
is jimmy. listens to the throngs
outside the vatican chambers
as he sits back, bobbing his head.
oh, yeah, he says to no one
in particular, who's your daddy
now? that's what i'm talking about.
then the door swings open and
he quickly goes silent, folding
his hands together in prayer.
his assistant, jeremy, comes over
and tells him, okay. it's official.
you are the man. he says. now
stand up, we need to get some
measurements for your new clothes.
turn your head this way, i think
red is your color, but today, we'll
do a bright white. can i wear
red shoes, the new pope asks,
kicking off his grey sketchers.
ummm, well. sure, how about
some nice red slippers though.
they are in that closet over there.
slippers, stockings and evening
gowns. your head wear.
big hats, the little hats,
and a baseball cap that
the old pope left behind
are in that armoire from the
thirteenth century. but today
is a big hat day. okay, now we
need to practice your wave.
let's see what you've got. no.
no. no. you are NOT in a parade,
or miss america. when you wave
it's sort of like this. he raises
his arm and slowly turns his
body around. like that, move
your body, not your arm. now you
try it. good good. like a statue.
be a statue. okay. now
this is important, so pay attention.
look at me, hey, look at me.
he points his fingers at his eyes.
the crowd adores you, but sometimes
there are some nuts out there
who might throw a tomato or two
at you, or worse, so we
need to practice ducking. i'm
going to throw this communion
wafer at you, and you try to duck.
the wafer hits the new pope in
the head. okay. bad. very bad.
didn't you play soccer or anything.
never mind. he writes a note.
we'll practice later.
okay, before you get dressed
and go out to the balcony
to wave and say a few words,
we need to talk about
your big hat. if it's a very
windy day, hold on tight,
because you'll be flying away
across vatican square and then we
are going to have to do this
all over again with those grumpy
cardinals and the white smoke.
so hold on to your hat. okay,
the second thing is that if
you have to go to the bathroom
do it now. once we start
putting on all of these layers
of clothes, well, it's going
to be tough to go, so if you
have to go, go now. no?
okay, good, now here, drink
this. i got you this red
bull just to get your energy
up a little and to put
a twinkle in your eye.
open your mouth, wider.
you have some spinach between
your teeth. did you have a
calzone for breakfast
from the deli down by the
coliseum, thought so. i
can smell the garlic. they
really load it on there.
well, your breath is going
to kill an altar boy, so we
definitely don't want
that, why don't we go
brush up and gargle
before we get started.
chop chop, the world awaits!

perhaps

she points at
a spot on her neck
and says
i like it when you
bite right there.
not too hard.
don't make a mark
or break
the skin. no bruises
please, just
a nibble, a small
bite will
do the trick.
pull my hair
back a little
and move in gently.
hmmm. you
say, writing it
all down.
making a sketch of
her neck on
a pad of paper.
got it, you say.
perhaps i can come
over on saturday
and practice.
perhaps, she says.
perhaps.

give me some time

you hate when
people tell you to
count your
blessings when
you've had a bad
day, or something
has gone terribly
awry. and you too
have said those
thoughtess words.
trying hard
to console someone
who has fallen.
what you really
want to do is cry
your eyes out
for awhile, feel
sorry for yourself,
go into a dark
room, mope and sleep,
overeat and have
a few drinks. but
that's it. then when
the sun comes back
up in a few days,
you'll count your
blessings. but all
in good time.

i like where i am

don't you want
to be in a nice home
with nice
people,
playing rummy
and shuffle board.
maybe soak
in the community
indoor pool.
you'll have fun
making new friends,
sharing stories
and recipes, photos
of grandchildren
almost grown.
don't you want
a room of your own,
with a view
of the lake,
the trees,
the geese
as they float
down from the sky
in june.
don't you want
to be happy, you ask
your mother,
holding her
hand, as she cries.
no, she says,
not like that,
i like where i am,
and you say, well.
i suppose
neither would i.

the bee hive

when she opens
her mouth
bees
fly out.
her head a
buzzing
hive
of ideas
and notions
of what to
do, where to
live, who
to be with.
when and where
are wishes
on the wind
changing
everyday
like
the flag
on a flag pole
fluttering
to be set
free.

fireflies

your mother
sits
still
in her chair.
her ears
catching
words
like
fireflies
in her
hand.
the meaning
of it all
flickers
though
despite her
smile and nod.
the jar
never completely
glows
and brings her
light
anymore.

going away

you go away
for awhile.
you leave yourself
alone.
settle into
quiet.
not caring, not
wondering
about what you
did,
or should do
next.
you give yourself
a rest.
ease down into
a hot bath.
turn off
the phone.
you close your
eyes
and fill your
mind with
nothing. you
exhale
the person
that you try
so hard to be.

twenty seven inch drop in stove

your stove dies
in the middle
of cooking
dinner.
the chicken is raw
the potatoes
hard
and unboiled
in the pot.
it was a good stove
circa
1968. hard
to complain. it
lasted that
long. how many
meals it cooked
through
the holidays,
through
the winters
and storms,
how many hands
have pulled out
a pan
or dish, or fried
an egg
with its heat.
state of the art
for that
era,
push buttons,
the red lit light
when on.
the clock
that stopped
behind
the yellowed
glass.
the sound it made
when warmed.

just a word

you fall in love.
you fall
out of love.
you stumble
into love, you
trip and crash
against
love. you find
love in
the strangest
places, you love
everyone.
you love
no one. you hate
the word love.
you are sick
of love.
you make a pledge
to never use
the word love
again, or tell
anyone that you
love them even
if you do.
you don't have
a clue about love.
you probably
never have,
and never will.

starting tomorrow

you've eaten
way too much chicken
and lie
there in front
of the tv
staring at
your swollen belly.
it resembles
a woman in
her second tri-mester.
you are suddenly
happy that you
aren't a woman.
you can work this
off come spring.
you loosen
your belt
and push your self
up off
the couch, bracing
yourself on
the coffee table
that shakes under
your weight.
you waddle over
to the fridge
for some ice cream.
it's too late
to turn back now.
spring is on
the way, you say
to yourself. starting
tomorrow a hundred
sit ups. where's
the chocolate?

kindness

nothing
surprises
you
too much
anymore,
but
kindness.

waiting for an answer

she stares
at her phone
then puts it down.
three minutes
later
she picks it
up again.
hits a button
or two,
shakes her
head, then closes
it once
more. she puts
it in her
purse, snapping
it shut.
goes to the
bathroom
comes back
in five minutes
and opens
the purse back
up to look at her
phone again.
nothing.
no one.
she shakes
the phone, tapping
it on the side.
checks
the weather
and the time.
stares at it
until it goes
black. she sets
it down
and looks out
the window.
she sees other
people staring at
their phones.
she bites her lip,
sighs.