a blonde strand of hair

whose hair
is this she says
holding up
a long blonde strand
that she pulled
from the bathroom
sink. I have no
idea, you tell her.
could have
been there for
decades, maybe it's
yours. look at my
hair, she says,
waving the strand
in front of your
eyes. what color
is my hair. ummm,
black, you say,
sheepishly. with a few
white strands.
what, she says,
looking in
the mirror. I have
never had blonde hair.
never. now are
you going to tell
me what's going on,
or should I just
pack my bags,
put fluffy in the car
and leave?
okay, okay, you tell
her. I have a
confession, hold on
a second. i'll
be right back.
where are you going,
get back in here
and face the music.
hold on.
when you come back
into the bathroom
a few minutes later
you are wearing a
blonde wig, a dress
and heels. you
have a matching hand
bag under your
arm. oh my, she says.
I had no idea.
yeah, you tell her,
I've been meaning to
tell you, but couldn't
find the right moment.
well, she says
I guess that explains
the blonde hair.
by the way, where'd
you get those shoes.
I just love em. turn
around. nice.

you don't want to know

the news man
starts off his broadcast
talking about
a nine car accident
in the fog off route
fifty, but then shakes
his head as he
reads the copy and
looks up into the camera.
i'd continue, he says,
but you don't want to
know. seems there was
a spill too. oil truck,
and then a fire,
which caught to an
orphanage nearby,
and well, ummm, you
don't want to know.
how about some weather,
bill, when's this
sun ever going to come
out. you don't want
to know, the weatherman
says, as he stands
there with an umbrella
and slick yellow boots.
seems like forty days
and forty nights
might be in order.
start building an ark.
not to mention the flooding,
well, I should stop
right there. you
don't want to know.
let's go to the sports.
Jeannie, how'd all
our local teams do
today. oh, she says.
you don't want to know.

barbed wire

how come we never
go dancing anymore
she says, punching
you in the arm
while you peel
an orange
on the front
porch. we never
do anything fun
anymore. where's
this going, you
say to her.
you know I don't
dance since
my tractor
injury. let me
take my boot off
and show you how
mangled my foot
is. don't, she
says, looking
off into the distance
at a brown
cow. I've seen
your foot a thousand
times, but I think
that you could slow
dance if you wanted to.
maybe, you tell her,
maybe, holding
out a a wedge of orange.
let's go into town
tonight, she says,
get all dressed up
and go to that hoe
down. the Dixie
dudes are playing
tonight. I love them.
maybe you tell her,
maybe. first I have
to go get that cow.
looks like she might
have gotten herself
caught on some
barbed wire.

you knew her when

she is a cat
with only one life
remaining, the other
eight being
spent foolishly
during her
younger years
of wild
abandon. but this
one life, in this
final life,
she has come
around. no longer
on the ledge
reaching
for that sparrow,
no longer
on the counter
searching for
spoiled milk
or fish. let
the mice run free.
she's a wise
cat now. fat
and serene
on the sill. but
oh, how you knew
her when.

To Yaw

an intransitive
verb meaning
to swerve off
course
temporarily, to
veer right
or left
with no
vertical axis,
adrift if you
must, under
your own power.
how well
you know this
word
as the years
tumble forward.

the speech

and let me say
this about that
the politician
says, as he stands
at the podium
wiping his vast
pink brow,
pounding his
fist. as I've
stated many times
before, I am
working in
the best interest
of my constituents
I will not
let them down
no matter how
many false
accusations are
made about me
and my private
business dealings.
what I do in my
private life is
between me and my
wife, and she has
forgiven me
time and time again
for my many discretions.
if re elected
after being acquitted
of all these
fabricated charges
I will once
again prove to them
how much I care
and love each
and every one
of them and with an
open heart graciously
accept their
generous prayers
and cash contributions.

the older brother

you were always
jealous of your older
brother. so smart
without studying,
so confident.
always with the straight
A's while you
struggled with
B's and C's.
so you began
to lift weights
to strengthen
your body until
finally the day
came when you put
him into a head lock
and said, where's
your quadratic
equations now, smart
boy?

styling

in 1976
you once owned
a pair
of purple pants
that flared
at the bottom.
you had a white
plastic
belt to hold
them up.
you tucked in
a blousy silver
shirt
with galleons
sailing
across all
sides and combed
your hair
into a massive
bulb
that fell below
your ears. it
was all befitting
the insanity of
the times, plus
the fact that
you were still
young and
finding yourself,
although hardly
an excuse.

the woodshed

your father
never took you
out to the proverbial
woodshed
to beat the sarcasm
and teasing nature
out of you, so it
still continues
to this day,
but you wonder
sometimes
how it would have
affected your
life, if he had
had the time
or inclination
to do so,
but you're glad
that he didn't,
strangely happy
that he was hardly
ever home,
out doing
what pleased him,
his children a
vague mystery.

the field

without hardly
a wink
a building
rises
on the gravel
laden lot
of
broken glass
and
fly balls,
bases made
of flattened
boxes,
a place where
in darkness
on july nights
sometimes
virginity
was lost. we
called it the
field, but it
wasn't really.
it was
nothing, a
barren stretch
of unshaded
pavement, with
weeds fighting
through the cracks,
but for a few
short
summers it was
everything,
a place to run,
to and invent your
life
before it began.

how easy

how easy it
is to go
into the night,
between
the shadows,
moving
quickly past
others
without a word
of farewell,
for all the words
have been said,
stepping
fast
through moonlight,
the puddles of street
lamps,
past the fountains
that still sing,
how easy it is
to live
a life and have
it casually go
away, like a
candle, blown out,
or are we like
the stars, still
there, just
unseen.

upon a last breath

into the mouth
of trees
blackened by
shade
with the moon
settled
opaque
on the other
side
in the violent
blue sky.
we tumble
towards it,
arms and
legs, with
no thought
of what to hold
onto, or
feel. nothing
like this has
come before
us, or will
again. the
mystery of an
airless life
takes us whole.
leaves
nothing.

wedding bliss

the blushing
bride kissing
sweetly
the awkward
groom, both
so young
and shy,
how quickly
they become
what we've
become,
quiet in our
separate
rooms, passing
each other
in the hall
with hardly
a word between
us, but
i'm going out,
i'll see you
soon.

against your will

the tread
of your life
wears
quickly
over time.
on the hard
road,
the soft
path,
on the easy
mud
and dirt
of the detours
you've
taken.
but most of
the wear
is from
the highway
at great speeds
and
sharp turns,
dodging
disaster
at each bend.
wearing thin
your
very soul,
but rolling still,
somehow
until
it all decides
against your
will, to end.

the parking ticket

if god truly
loves us she says
while painting
her toe nails
a bright red,
than why
do so many people
die in such
horrible
painful ways.
why are there
earthquakes
swallowing up
cities, and volcanoes
and tsunamis,
not too mention
your tornados
and hurricanes
washing away
entire beach towns.
what's up with
that? she says.
yesterday I got
a parking ticket!
I don't know, you
tell her.
staring at her
little cherry toe
nails drying
in the sunlight.
maybe he's mad
at us for something?
hmm, she says.
could be. but what
did I do, I
didn't do anything
wrong, did I?

he loves me

you make a pros
and cons
balance sheet
for your dog,
trying to determine
if you should
get rid of
him and sell
him on e bay.
it's fairly even,
the barking
versus affection.
the chewing
of shoes
held up against
the playful
chasing of a ball.
fleas against
tail wagging.
begging versus
licking your face
when you come
home. it's pretty
even across
the board,
the likes against
the dislikes until
you find his list.
which isn't too
flattering about
you. stingy with
the table food,
short walks through
the park. that
constant yelling
to heel, the leash,
the collar,
leaving him at
home all day. it
goes on and on
until the end where
it says in a muddy
paw scrawl. he
loves me.

the clean shirt

as you iron
and starch
your shirt late
into the evening
you stare
down at your
name in red
thread, scrolled
and embroidered
across the pocket.
you remember
reading once
that if your name
was on a building
you were
considered rich,
and if it
was on your
desk you were
middle class,
but if your name
was on your shirt,
well, you were
deemed poor. so
be it. it's a clean
shirt.

in the future

in the future
you hear the man
say
in line, as you
wait for
your ladle
of soup
and crust of
bread,
we won't be
in this situation.
everyman
will be a king,
there will be
a chicken
in every pot.
the sun will
rise and set
equally on all
no matter the color
of their
skin, their
religion
or who their
parents were
or were not.
you'll see, he says,
taking
his tin cup
and holding it
out for coffee.
you'll see.

the fortune cookie

you have dinner
with your friend betty.
you order the crispy
shredded beef
and she has the shrimp
with hot peppers.
after pushing away
your plates and
wiping your mouths and
hands with hot
steamy towels
she unfolds
her fortune first.
she breaks open
the dry cookie
with a twist of
her fingers, nibbling
on the sweet shards
of the pale cookie.
what does it say,
you ask her,
while biting open
the plastic around
yours.
it says, she says
with wide eyes,
that I will find
the love of my life
soon, and that he will fit
my hand like a glove.
it will be a life long
love affair that
will be the envy
of others. she unravels
the fortune, which is
like a small scroll
falling down into
her lap.
there's more, she
says. this love will
be unlike any other.
poets will write
poems about it.
artists will try to
capture its beauty,
but won't come close.
musicians will write songs
and sing about this
love. wow, you say.
some fortune. what does
yours say, she says,
beaming. you snap
open your cookie and
look at the little sliver
of white paper. you squint
and read the small
print. it says,
be careful around shellfish.

unlovable

in cutting
the fruit
carefully into
slices
your mouth waters
and imagines
sweetness
and a cool
wetness upon
your tongue
and lips, so it
is with no
mild surprise
when it's luke
warm and bitter,
finding her
unlovable
down to the rind.

a good thing

the woman sweeps
all day.
starting in the back
room
working her way
towards
the front of the house,
pushing out
the cobwebs,
brushing
the dirt and dust
into a pan,
her arms move
from side
to side, lifting
her hand
to wipe her brow.
it helps her think,
this sweeping, to
remember things
about her life, how
fast it's gone,
how love has won
and broken her heart.
but there is no
end to this, this
sweeping, she thinks.
and that's a good
thing.

more of the same

your shirt gets stuck
in the revolving
door, so you go around
and around
for hours and hours.
at first you're dizzy
and disoriented, but
as time goes by
you adjust to
the circular motion
of your new world.
you say hello to people
coming in, and as
they leave, you say
goodbye, asking them
what they bought.
it's strange what one
gets used to when
there is no way out.

browsing

you get into a
conversation
at the appliance
store with a woman
who is shopping
for a new stove.
you both stand
beside one another
looking at a new
GE model with
a flat shiny
top and a wide
door. it's black
and sleek like
an onyx stone
found along
the beach, with
more buttons and
computer
capabilities
than Apollo
13. nice, she says.
I like it.
yes, you say. very
nice. are you buying
it, she asks, no
you say. I have a
stove. it's circa
1967. oh my she
says, that old.
and it still works.
yes, you tell her.
one burner doesn't
work, and the oven
is small, but gets
me where I want to
go, which isn't too
far with my culinary
skills. I see she
says. so why are you
here looking at
stoves. I don't know,
you tell her,
sometimes I wonder
what a new stove
would be like,
and I just browse
and imagine.

you got nothing

her tale of woes
are better
than your tale
of woes.
she's got
bankruptcy on
her side, a kid
in jail, a dog
that got hit by a car
and an ex husband
living in
the cellar.
she's recently
developed
the jimmy leg,
or restless leg
syndrome
for those not
familiar with
that ailment.
you've got
a leaky toilet
that runs
because the flapper
valve won't
set right
when it flops
over after flushing,
and a mailman
that sometimes
puts your neighbor's
mail into your
slot.
so you do most
of the listening
while her leg
rattles against
the bar stool.
you try to think
of something to
top her or at
least come close.
but you got
nothing.

private number

the phone rings
so you pick it up
and say hello. you
can see the caller id
which reads, private
number.
hello the woman says,
her voice is husky,
sultry like lauren
Bacall's used to
be for those that
remember her.
what are you doing,
she asks. nothing, you
tell her. i'm answering
the phone. what are you
wearing? she says,
breathing heavily
into the phone.
a towel, you say, I just
now hopped out of the
tub. me too, she says,
i'm all wet and
dripping onto
the floor. there's
a short pause
and you can hear
the shuffling
of papers.
do you need new
windows, she says.
you pause for a second
then say, as a matter
of fact, I do.
well, that's too bad
she says. i'm not selling
windows. do you have
anything to set out
for the purple heart
this Tuesday? she asks.
no, you tell her. are you
with them? they wish,
she says, but no,
I was just wondering.
have you refinanced
lately? the rates
are at historic lows.
I did, you tell
her and got a very nice
rate, under three
per cent for fifteen
years. well, I'm happy
for you. maybe we should
have a cocktail sometime,
she says. you can hear
her lighting a cigarette
and sipping on a drink,
the ice cubes clinking
against a glass.
that would be nice, you
tell her. I like
your voice, how about
tonight? no, she says.
I'm busy tonight. my
husband keeps me on
a short leash,
but perhaps some other
time. okay, you tell her,
well, thanks for calling.
I love you, she says.
which makes you stare
at the receiver and
shrug, drying your ears
with the towel. ummm,
I love you too, goodbye.

down the stretch

in your dream
you are a small
slender man
on a horse,
a jockey in
the Kentucky derby.
you have a riding crop
and large clear
goggles like
Elton john.
your colors
are pink and
yellow, with
dashes of
tangerine
dots, like
a tropical fish,
but you know it's
just a dream
so you don't squirm
too much about
that.
your horse is
called tossing
and turning, which
is what you
are doing through
out the dream.
your horse
has no chance
of winning, it's
a plow horse in
a race
with thoroughbreds,
but the crowd is
cheering you on,
they want you
to win, to succeed,
most of them, although
you see a face
or two who aren't
on your side
ripping up their
tickets, shaking
their heads with dismay
at your performance.
such is the world
of horse racing.

the medicine cabinet

after dinner
you go into the
bathroom to freshen
up. nervously, you
take a chance
and ease open
her medicine
cabinet. you want
to get to the bottom
of what makes her
so happy all
the time. it can't
be just you
and your delightful
nature.
you keep the water
running, and
flush the toilet.
quickly you scan
the shelves,
turning the labels
of brown plastic
bottles around.
the words are
unpronounceable.
you've never seen
such prescription
medicine in one
place. it's a virtual
one woman pharmacy.
but hey, it's working,
you've never met
such a wonderfully
together person
in your life. slowly
you click
the mirrored door
shut and check
your teeth for
spinach.

not so wise guys

you make a mistake
and do
business with vinny
and moe
down at
the bada bing
retirement home.
you borrow five
bucks, two
fifty from
each of them
to get into a gin
rummy game, which
you forget to pay,
and the interest
on the principle
doubles
with each passing
day.
but they're old
now, and they
forget things.
you see them at
the crafts room
widdling wooden
knives, making
weapons out
of soap on a string.
when they see you
at the shuffle
board game, they
whisper to one
another about you,
and say to you,
hey don't you owe
us some money.
which you respond,
I paid you already.
this makes them shake
their heads and
twist their lips,
right they say, but
if we remember
different, it's cement
shoes for you buddy.

flower to flower

these
birds, these
bees.
this thing
called
spring, how
it affects
us all,
but mostly
the young.
the way they
take flight
from
flower to
flower with
no thought
of wrong
or right. in
time though
the seasons
will change
and their wings
will tire,
but the memories
of this sweet
time will always
burn bright.

still life

spoiled milk
on the grated
shelf, fruit
gone bad,
bananas black
and curled
on a table.
the soft
brown dent
in an apple.
pears in a bowl,
softened
by time and light,
a fly
already pinching
at the yellowed
skin.
the bread
unsheltered
crusted hard
on the counter.
gone stale.
everything
that lives
heads in
this direction,
but you can't
think
about that,
can you, for
what point then
would tomorrow
be.

young love

nothing is what
it seems
at any age.
the love of your
life
is really
just a day, a
passing ship
which docks
for a night.
she betrays you
by kissing another,
but she was
never yours,
to begin with,
as you were never
hers.
nothing is
what it seems
at any age,
remember this
that there will
be more, and that
your tomorrows,
at least for now
out weigh
your yesterdays.

life on mars

stretched out like
a rag doll on
the cool tiles
of the kitchen floor,
after making love
for a miraculous
third time in an
hour you feel dizzy,
but pleased
with your sudden
burst of energy,
not to mention
how happy you are
with modern day medicine.
however you feel
a little faint
and your mind
wanders into space.
literally into space.
you begin to think
about mars and how
there is no life
there, but that they
keep saying that it
looks like
Arizona, without
life, of course,
which seems strangely
ironic or paradoxical.
is there really
life in arizona, you
blurt out to your
new friend from france,
clarissa? who lies
beside you still panting
like a cat. not speaking
the same language
as you, she leans up
and stares into your
eyes and says, pardon?
what are you speaking
dear boy, she eeks out
with her adorable
accent. me, are you
thinking of me, of
me and you forever in
this place you call
arizona?
oui, you say, oui,
but don't touch me
right now, okay?
i'm sort of done here.

let's take a walk

let's go for a walk
she suggests
after dinner, but
in separate
directions and take
your suitcase
with you. I packed
it for you.
it's by the door
with your smelly
shoes and hat.
are we breaking up,
you ask her, and
she says, no, no
not at all. let's
just call it taking
a walk. but one
of us, meaning
you, is not coming
back. seems
nicer, doesn't it?

vanity hair

until he let
it go white,
finally at fifty
coming to his
senses,
and cut it short,
for years
his hair was oiled
down and black.
like an exxon
ship run aground
across
his scalp.
sometimes you'd
see the little
black tears
of dye
dripping down
his temples,
around his ears.
it wasn't a good
look up
close, but from
a distance it
shaved off,
at least
half a year.

dinner for eight, i mean seven

in the news
as they dig up
the remains
of settlers in Jamestown
you see where
the first thanksgiving
wasn't necessarily
pass me the potatoes
and gravy,
and string beans.
there was no butternut
squash to be found.
no pumpkin pies
on the shelf, or
Indians sharing
their secret recipes
for grilled
corn on the cob
with a touch of honey.
no, if you had
legs and arms, you
had better latch
the door and gnaw
on the shoe leather
that was on your
feet, it was a long
cold winter back
in 1608.

to be loved

unloved
the man lies
in bed
at night
and feels
the moon slip
through
the slats
of his blinds.
he sees
the empty
space
of his bed
and sighs.
he wishes only
to be loved
and then
he will be
happy,
not knowing
that this is
why he isn't.

a different route

unlike other
days.
you take
a different
route to go
get coffee
and a paper.
it's a pleasant
day, warmed
with sunlight.
why not explore
and be different
for once,
but you
get lost
along the way,
cutting
through
an alley,
a side street.
you look
up at the sky
to see where
the sun is,
but it's overcast
and the buildings
are too tall
to let in
any light.
you ask a stranger
where you
are, and he shrugs
before asking
you for
money.
you hear sirens,
and dogs
wailing.
a baby crying
in a window.
two lovers fighting
over love
gone wrong.
a crowd of young
men are blocking
the sidewalk
so you go to
the other side,
you keep walking,
as they laugh
you pull up
your collar,
feeling the sudden
rain
upon your hatless
head. the wind
cuts you
to the bone, making
you shiver.
this is a lesson,
you say to yourself
quickening your pace.

going it alone

you have a hard
time
borrowing anything
from anyone.
whether
flour or a cup
of olive oil.
sugar and salt.
nothing seems
urgent enough
to go knock on
a neighbor's door
and ask.
you'd rather do
without.
or venture into
the snow driven
night. it's a flaw
of some sort,
you understand
that. but
you don't want
to owe anyone
anything, it would
defeat your
purpose in going
it alone.

slicing pears

you think about
the generals
drinking
tea and cutting
apples
into quarters,
brushing flies
away while
slicing carefully
into
the white meat
of green
laced pears.
discussing where
to drop
the bombs, on
what city
and at what
time would seem
appropriate.
with casual
indifference
drawing up their
plans
of destruction,
asking
one another
how their golf
game goes,
if they've
conquered that
slice that
drives the ball
so infuriatingly
into the woods.

luck

people ask
are you having any
luck.
they ask it
about love
or work, or
your writing.
or perhaps
in finding
a new place
to live. they
ask as if the world
is a slot machine
or a card game,
where you
suddenly draw
three kings
or pull the arm
and all the coins
come falling out.

the e mail

in a moment of
frustration and anger
with someone
you know so well
and have tolerated
for decades,
you send off an e mail
telling them,
not all, but just a few
of things that
are on your mind.
it's not a good
idea. you should
have burned it, deleted
it, never clicked
on the send button.
but they've had it
coming for so long.
their lies and ego
running rampant over
the lives of you and
others. but it's written
more for you
than it is for them.
for they respond
in the only way
they know how, with
a vow and a pledge
to never see or talk
with again. as you knew
they would with
calculated anger.

the holiday

you invent a holiday
out of thin air.
it's a day without
obligations.
a day without
greeting each
person with merry this
or happy that.
no hallmark cards
are bought with
sentimental prose
and signed with
vague words of love
or affection.
there are no
thoughtful gifts
to buy for
people who don't
need them. there
is no stringing of
the lights on this
day, or costumes
to be worn. no animals
are slaughtered
for the feast,
there are no
children singing.
no vows,
no toasts are
sent up at the dinner
table, no
resolutions set down.
there is no guilt
or wringing of
the hands.
it's day of nothing.
a wonderful day.

unearthly girl

how unearthly
she is at times.
cool
and distant,
aloof as any
celestial object
that shines
but can't be
reached, although
none of that
keeps you from
trying. each day
you build on
the ship that might
take you
there. the wrinkled
plans of
your desire laid
out on the table
with coffee
stains, and the sweat
of your
anxious hands.

hair

even though
you've seen it
so many times
through the years,
of punk and
new wave, of post
modern, a
streak of blue
in a teen's hair,
or orange locks,
sprung wildly
out like
rusted bed
bed springs. or
the violet shades
in rain bowed
lanes in
a girl's
once wheat blonde
strands. it's not
shocking
anymore, but it
turns your
head to look.
as perhaps your
brylcremed wave
did when you were
young, but you
doubt it.

dust to dust

as you drag
your finger along
the ledge of
your bookcase
you see that
there seems to be
enough dust
in the world for
everyone.
it is something
to be relied upon.
not love
or wealth. it
is a constant
in our lives
that will continue
even when we
are gone,
covering all that
we hold dear.
everything
that we once
thought was
so important
and eternal will
succumb
to it in time.

animal instincts

your animal
instincts are not
what they used to be.
the tiger
in you has
become a tame
tabby with a
mute meow.
the eagle that
once soared
is a blue bird
pecking at the feeder.
your lone wolf
behavior has long
since gone,
and now you
wish for the company
of strangers
or even family,
although only
for a short while.

unread poems

unread poems
are like
unkissed lips.
awaiting
love
they sit upon
the cold
white sheets
listening
for footsteps,
hoping for eyes
to find
them delightful
and fun
and then
showered
with kisses
until the next
one comes.

the poetry reading

the church is full
when you arrive.
having found parking
at the last moment,
hurriedly
fast walking
through alleys,
and side streets.
it's a well groomed
crowd, well mannered.
quiet as if
a church service
might take place
after all.
without knowing,
you can sense
education. that
many are well read,
well versed,
the glasses on noses,
the hair pulled
back, the neatness
of their clothes
and shoes. fingers
to pursed lips.
the poet, finally,
after introductions
and announcements,
adjustments
to the sound system,
and his microphone
clipped to his lapel,
he begins to read
his poetry.
it is clear and concise.
no thesaurus
is needed, no
dictionary or knowledge
of greek mythology.
there is no bite taken
when you look at one
another and say,
what's this?
with purpose, it seems,
he stays away
from angst. he keeps
it light, rewarding you
for coming so far,
in the rain to hear
him. the banter
and preview of each
piece is amusing. the night
is neither too long
or too short. it's
enough to make
you say, oh, how nice.

storms

when people
are cross with
you
for various
reasons, some
right,
some wrong,
you try to think
of something
in nature
that it compares
to.
a storm,
a strong wind
that knocks
over
the fence, peels
the roof
of tiles.
a hard rain
perhaps, but nothing
comes close.
it's
deeper, more
shallow than
that.

in the mood

the rain
brings her in
holding
the hem
of her long
dress, wet
and darkened.
it's
raining she
says.
not smiling,
but feeling fine
with that.
the cold
gloom of the day
puts her
in a mood.
see you after
my shower
she says.
and you go into
the bedroom,
lie on the bed
and listen
to the rain
against
the window.
you smile
and wait.

the block party

you see in
the annual e mail
that the neighborhood
block party
association has
decided that this year
they want to have
a nude party.
that's right.
one with no clothes
on. adults only
of course, and
no pets for
obvious reasons.
big jim, or king
james, as he is
called by
his wife,
and a few women
in their book club,
has decided
to have it at
his house, because
he has a fenced
in yard and a large
heated pool.
you laugh and show
the e mail
to your wife, who
strangely says,
you know what, it
might be fun,
liven things
up a little
around here. i'm in.
aren't you?
you shake your
head no, and put on your
hat and gloves.
i'm going for a walk
you tell her. a
long walk through
the woods.
the world has gone
terribly wrong.

ice fishing

your friend in Alaska
says
hello, attaching
a photo of her
in a parka
drinking from
a flask of bourbon.
she's rubbed
her face in what
looks like Vaseline
to protect from
the wind and cold.
i'm going ice
fishing today
she says, I wish
you were here
with me. we could
catch a big
sturgeon and fry
it up for dinner
with some small
potatoes and biscuits.
sounds delish,
you tell her,
wish I could be
there too, but of
course you don't,
as you slip into
your shorts and flip
flops and head
out for some
ice cream.

club card

everyone
wants you to join
their club.
asking you,
do you have
your club
card with
you.
and you shake
your head
and say no.
I don't want
to join.
i'm a loner in
this consumer
driven world.
I don't want
to go online
and tell you
how well you're
doing, or
receive your
updates on sales
in an e mail.
I prefer to go
it alone.
spend the extra
nine cents
for my next
self help book,
or tomato.

winning

you buy three one
dollar mega million
lottery tickets from
the local
seven eleven. the man
behind the counter
in his striped
orange and red
shirt says, good
luck to you mister.
you begin to imagine
winning a hundred million,
cashing out
for a mere 60 million.
you think of all
the people you will
help, all the people
you will snub
but let know in a
grandiose way of your
great luck
and now superior
change in social status.
your imagination
runs wild with what
you will purchase.
the cars, the boats,
the houses. you've always
wanted a hot tub
full of bikini clad
run way models. already,
you see the problem
with this money, how
it's changed you.
you are embarrassed for
your Caligula like
tendencies after winning
so much.
so when the numbers
come out on Tuesday
night, as you stand
in the kitchen in
your underwear while
making a tuna sandwich,
you are relieved
and happy that not
a single number on
your slip of paper
is called.

light weight

red eyed
and heavy from
drink
from the night
before,
you dizzily
rise out
of bed and
like the old
man you are
slowly becoming
you stagger
to the bathroom
sink. you
turn on the cold
water and lean
towards
it splashing
the chill
onto your face.
you can't drink
anymore you
realize, and
the next time
it will only
be one, not two
vodka tonics
with a twist
of lime.

saturday at the park

the man made
lake,
wide and shallow,
maybe two feet deep
at best
and five miles
around
is beautiful
in the sunlight.
a united nations
of picnickers
come and light
the grills,
turning up
their music.
after a hard
rain the cans
and tires, float
off to one corner
of the kidney
shaped lake,
the plastic
bags and empty
wine bottles,
the syringes
and spent condoms
all gather,
as if cornered
and caught near
the metal dock
where the kayaks
and canoes
disembark. sometimes
small children
avoiding
the broken glass
and debris
step into the water
with their
pants rolled up
and chase
with glee
the ducks who lean
in with long necks
and fierce black eyes
for food.

best seller

you buy the latest
best seller
that anyone
with eyes
is reading.
the secret lives
of da vinci
bees with tattoos,
or something
like that.
and it's embarrassing
to say that you
can't get through
the first ten
pages without
throwing it across
the room, so you
smile and say that
you don't want to
ruin the movie
by reading it
and creating in
your mind the plot
and characters,
the fine points
of the story,
you'd rather someone
else do it
for you and enjoy
it that way.

every other weekend

on the weekends,
when it's their
turn,
you see
the fathers, divorced,
with kid
or kids in tow,
still too young
to protest,
too young to be
off on
their own.
you see them in
line at the ice
cream shops,
at the toy stores,
at the park
kicking balls, or
flying kites.
everyone trying
so hard
to have fun, to
make a difference
and show love
despite the drama
of their
lives. assuaging
the guilt
and sadness
as best as they
know how
before driving
them home for
the drop off.

little leagues

there are four fields.
all neatly
groomed and swept.
the dirt
as fine as silt,
the grass
as green and lush
as a golf
course at the country
club. white lines
perfectly drawn
for the day,
and each field has
a game. small children
with orioles
and reds, and nationals
for names.
and the p.a. announcer
calls each
child as he comes
to bat
and swings. sometimes
the ball
reaches the plate
other times
it's over the back
stop, or strikes
a child harmlessly
in the back. every
now and then the ball
will hit the bat and
they run like small
pinwheels, their
hats flying, their
faces red in the sun.
happy no matter what
the outcome.
in the outfield
some are picking
daisies, others
blowing bubbles and
singing to themselves,
staring numbly into
the clouds,
and the parents on
the sideline, deeply
invested in
cleats and gloves,
in drinks and food,
trophies for those that
win, or tie, or don't
finish at all and lose.
they yell out, swing
swing, swing batter
swing, keep your
eye on the ball.
catch with two hands,
remember what I told
you, what we practiced.
now run, go, run now.

open mike

you listen
to her sing,
and she
has the voice
of an angel.
an angel gargling
broken
glass and whiskey.
she has blue
eyes. cat eyes.
and heavy hands on
her guitar
strings. spanking
out the chords,
plucking notes
painfully,
one after another.
grimacing as she does.
her feet move like
chickens on a june
bug, tapping
in every which
direction, out of
sync, out
of time, completely
out of her
musical mind.
and when it's over
you stand and applause,
everyone does,
those that haven't
left. happy
that it's over.

out of work

you've been
in the bread lines,
the soup
kitchens of America.
you've washed
your clothes in
streams
waiting, longing
for work.
you've stamped your
boots in the rain,
on the street
corners with your
homemade signs
and stared
glum eyed into
the eyes of drivers
on their way
to work, as
embarrassed
as you are.
you've mended
fences in Colorado,
stood
in the mud
digging trenches
for pipe in Alaska,
you've felt the steam
and fire of the steel
mills before
they went down
and became great
empty cold
mouths of defeat
in Pittsburgh
and ohio.
your arms have
felt the burn
and fatigue of lifting
nets of grey fish
over the sides
of wooden boats
in the chesapeake.
you've heard the words
we don't need you
anymore, and felt
the hard tap
of a hand on
your dusted laden
fired back.
you've known hunger
and thirst. you've only
want love and respect
and a good days
wage, but it's hard
to come by, no matter
what the president
or congress or
the paper has to say.

romancing the tree

when the old
tree
dies and the last
leaf has
fallen,
when
the workers
come
to cut the limbs
and branches
away.
when they pull
the trunk out
by its roots,
you'll forget
the endless
raking,
the power lines
it invaded,
the roof
that limbs crashed
upon,
and just remember
it's golden
autumn leaves
and shade.

zoo blues

you take a walk
through the zoo,
but are quickly bored.
the monkeys are
shaking limbs
and screaming
in the trees,
snakes are
coiled in
glass boxes
with no
one to strike.
a slender necked
giraffe still gums
the same
high tree.
the lions hardly
move, sitting
back on their
haunches
waiting for a dinner
they didn't choose.
it's over for
these beasts, no
longer doing with
their lives what
they were meant
to do. still young,
some, not
old like me,
like you.

a can of soup

you pull a can
of soup
from the cupboard.
chicken
and broth,
noodles. it's
a strange can.
you have no clue
as to how
it got there
and you have
no intention
of ever cutting
through the lid
to boil
its contents.
you turn the can
around
looking for an
expiration
date, but there
is none, so
you gently slide
it back
onto the shelf
and give it another
day. you would
hope that someone
would do
the same for you
when it came
time.

the gardener

she could
dig in the dirt
all day.
knees
sunk into the cold
wet ground.
weeding.
planting, moving
a bush
to another
spot where
the sun is more
generous
with its light.
she is at home
mending
the soil of
her yard
tending to
the children
she never had,
but wanted.

moonlight

in the victorious
moonlight
asleep
on the soft ice
of sheets
with the windows
clean
and clear letting
the heavens
in. you stared
at her
face, the curve
of her
shoulder,
the way her
hand and arm
folded like
a swan gone
sideways
in the blueness
of water
and shadows.
you wanted to
touch her, to
kiss her, but
you let her alone,
allowing her to
go further
into the dream
that was putting
a smile
upon her lips.

chewing gum

all day
there is something
stuck
to your shoe.
you feel
it pull
against the street,
going up
the stairs
and on the rug.
you lift
your foot
when you finally
get a chance
and see
a pink wad
of gum
going grey
imbedded in
the sole.
you take a pen
from your pocket
and dig it
out flicking
it towards
the street.
where a bird
flies by and takes
it with
her, chewing
as she sings
and catches wind
under
her wings. there
is little one can
make of this,
as you can see.

her fast ball

you haven't
seen my
fastball yet,
she says brushing
the hair out
of her eyes
and going into
a wind up
with an imaginary
ball.
she checks
the runners
at
first and second,
takes the sign
then throws
her pitch.
you laugh.
I've seen your
curves and your
slider, you tell
her and perhaps your
sinker
too, come to think
of it, but you're
right, I've
never seen your
fast ball.
well maybe tonight
you will, she says.
now leave me
alone I need to
get this batter
out.

skipping

the kid
with blonde hair
and a striped
shirt,
skipping
down
the sidewalk
is free
of his tomorrows,
untethered
by a past.
there is only
the moment of
skipping
gaily, still
unaware about
stepping on
the cracks.

then go

any minute now,
you are really
going to work.
just a few more
things. a few more
words to say.
but you need coffee.
there are places
that you have to be.
a schedule to keep.
already you're
thinking about lunch,
about how bad
the traffic is.
it takes a handful
of sun
to come through
the window, to get
you up and going.
throw on some clothes.
stretch your
arms, then go.

the new dress

I made this,
she says,
spinning around
in her summer dress
full of flowers
and bright light.
nice, you say.
beautiful in fact,
like you.
is there a snap
or a clasp
in the back.
I can hang it on
the door
where it won't
get wrinkled or
stepped upon
while it's lying
on the floor.

cutting ties

you cut
your ties with
those
who
never did
quite
care, or was
concerned
for your
welfare.
but you played
along, as
if they did.
their three
act constant
state of drama
wore you
down. you no
longer clapped
and applauded
their success,
or held
them on your
shoulders,
pretending to
believe their lies,
defending their
boorish
behavior.
the weight of
them has finally
taken it's
toll, and you
let them go
to find
someone else
to listen to their
woes.

clearing the room

there comes a point
when you have to clear
the room,
throw away what's
bothering you.
that chair for
instance. springs
out, tufts of sponge
padding revealed,
the broken
lamp that won't
light has
to go as well.
the clock stuck on
eleven thirty-five
almost always
in a lie,
the thin
bare rug once thick
and bought in
more prosperous
times. coffee
stained, and torn
where the dog
worked out his angst
about you not
being there.
a fresh coat of paint
might help as well.
throw the windows
open and let in some
clean fresh air.

the drowning man

the drowning man
doesn't
want a rope,
or a floating
device
thrown his way.
he doesn't want
advice on how
to move his arms
and kick
his legs
he doesn't want
to hear,
breath and relax,
don't worry,
help is on
the way.
he wants you
to jump in
and try to save
him. kicking
and screaming
as you both go
down.

pills from the sky

pills
are falling
from the sky.
and the mouths
of pedestrians
are wide
open as
they look up
and take them
in. swallowing
then moving on.
the government
health care
system
has taken to
the air
with crop
dusters, trying
to keep
the insanity
at a manageable
level.
it's not working.

the angry man

some people
are always right.
they need to be.
there is no give
no take.
they'd rather
run, than stand
and listen to
both sides
of a story.
they need to be
angry, to shout,
to slam their fists
into the table.
hide the truth with
their fury.
there is no
middle ground
with them. no
apology, or
forgiveness in
their hearts.
they live a cold
and lonely life,
putting money to
the flames to keep
them warm.
saying everyone
is wrong, but
them. it's sad
especially when
you love them
despite everything.

the simple things

you come
home from work
and there's
bread
in the oven.
flowers on
the table
in a crystal
vase.
curtains
are hung over
the windows
and there
are vanilla candles
burning.
you see a strange
purse on
on the counter.
a pink umbrella,
a hat,
shoes, and
a dress
on the floor
leading up
the stairs.
there is a drink
poured.
Tanqueray
and tonic
with a slice
of lime. suddenly
music
begins to play
it's the summer
wind
by frank.
you begin to
worry and take
your pulse,
there is none.
heaven is
apparently in
the simple things.

in the sun

you see
a dead bird
on the ground,
a robin.
orange breasted
and grey.
it's claws
still
soft. it's body
a puff
of life
extinguished.
you move it
with a stick.
nothing.
you wonder
what killed it.
and what
to do as it lies
in the april sun
on the grass
below a shrub.
you ponder
for a brief
moment why death
is so strange
despite being
so common.

sweet gherkin

i'm leaving you,
she says dramatically
throwing her long
black hair back
over her shoulders,
i'm leaving you
for another country.
I have other lovers
that are waiting
for me. they are
not like you. they
know how to cook
and bake in Italy.
they are chefs, born
with olive oil
on their skin.
they make
love with a spatula.
you have skills,
my friend
but they aren't in
the kitchen. hmmm.
you say, okay,
that's cool. you
continue spreading
peanut butter, crunchy
onto a slice
of wonder bread
and then the grape
jelly. you cut it
neatly
from one corner
to the next pressing
gently on the center.
so when are you
coming back?
you set the sandwich
in front of her with
a handful of potato
chips. you pour her
a coke on ice in a plastic
tumbler. so how long
will you be gone?
do you want a pickle
with that sandwich.
sweet gherkin?

no surrender

you start
a new job
in a new suit,
with a spanking
brand new pair
of shoes.
your tie is neatly
aligned
with your
crisp white shirt.
you go in
and sit at your
desk and begin
the tasks
that they've given
you.
but within an
hour you are staring
out the window
at a man cutting
grass.
another man painting
lines onto
the parking lot.
someone
reading on a bench.
then your boss
looks in
and says how's it
going. can you have
that file ready
for me
by lunch.
you tell him that no,
it won't be
ready, you have to
go. there is
still no surrender
in you.

the honeymoon

the honeymoon
is over.
the seat is up.
the dishes
in the sink.
shoes
are everywhere.
her long
hair
is clogging
the drain.
a stale half
sandwich
of tuna
is on the counter
being eaten
by the cat.
you remember so
long go, what
was it.
three weeks,
when there was bliss,
and now
we leave and say
things like
see you
when I see you,
without so
much as a hug,
or a kiss.

it gets better

your son
calls you with
sad news.
he's broken
up with his
girlfriend in
California. the poet,
the actress.
the whirlwind
of spice
and hair.
you have little
advice to give
him,
but to stay
calm, cry if you
must.
write a farewell,
remember the good,
and move on
to higher ground.
don't forget to eat
and breathe.
it's taken you
many years
to do the same.
it gets better.

tell me why you love me

convince me
of your love
you tell
your girlfriend
of seven years.
i'm still
here, she says.
isn't that
enough proof.
no, you tell her,
it tells me
nothing, perhaps
you don't want
to be lonely,
or are too
lazy to go
find someone new.
oh, you know me
so well, she
says, and that's
why I love you so.

election day

the politicians
are waving.
it's election
day. and they stand
out in the cold
in the median
with their
hair cuts
and coats, waving.
waving.
the women with
big hair,
smiling at
each car. you don't
necessarily hate
them, but you'd
wish they'd
go away and take
their signs,
their platitudes
and ambitions.
you wish
there was something
they could
really do
to help your life.
like widen the roads,
give everyone
a cookie, a glass
of milk and a check
for ten thousand
dollars.

birds on tv

you know
the day before
you
when the lace
snaps,
the coffee spills.
the train
is missed
and it's raining.
best go
back home
and go to bed.
but it could
be worse,
you could be
there all
day with no
where to be
or go, or see,
staring at
the ceiling
in your tattered
pajamas,
watching
the cat as
he paws at
the screen of
birds on the tv.

the jester

the king's
crown
has slipped
and sits
awkwardly
on his head.
the queen is
long gone,
run off with
the jester.
the castle
has been stormed.
the knights
are slain,
anyone
that cares
is bleeding,
or nearly
dead.
but sit, and
sit he
will upon
the throne
until they
come to take
him,
and relieve
him of his land,
of all that he
surveys,
and his once held
high
imperious head.

we'll talk soon

the busy
people tell you
that they are
very very busy.
they have windows
of time. just
minutes to spare.
they are doing
things in
a new York minute,
and saying
things like, be
quick I have
to catch a bus,
a plane, or a
train. can we
do this later.
they have
very little time
these busy people.
they tap their
feet with
impatience, push
on their horns in
traffic. they are
bees in a hive struck
with a bat.
they'll call you
when they can, they
yell, exiting
the room, I have
to go now, i'm in
a hurry, let's
catch up later.
leave a message.
we'll talk soon.

how it begins

you
remember her
foot.
pale
and narrow,
one
shoe removed
as she
bent it
in the light
of morning.
and you
on the bed
watching
her.
her hand
twisting
at the heel,
saying,
I don't know
what's wrong.
but my foot
hurts. i'm
not sure
if I can put
any weight on
it. I might
have to stay.
that's what
you remember.

the artist

they interview
the artist on public
radio.
the soft music,
the rustling
background noise
of birds
on the sill, brushes
and canvasses
being handled
and set up
on the easel.
you hear the sipping
of hot
coffee,
the settling of
things as the interviewer
moves in
and gently asks
the first question,
knowing the artist's
penchant for being
grumpy
and abrasive. so,
she says, if I may
ask, and please stop
me if you want, but
tell me about
your blue period.
the time in your
life when all you
painted with was
various shades and
tones of blue.
your wife was ill
then, wasn't she,
your dog died, you
had a nervous breakdown,
is this why
the blues, the constant
use of blues?
he shakes his head
and scoffs.
no, he says.
I was poor and it
was the only color I
had to work with.
now go away.

the toast

drinking
with friends leads
to talk
of women
and wives,
and ex wives,
girls we've known
and have
slipped
away.
someone says
that the cure for
divorce
is to never get
married,
which brings everyone's
glasses
together.
they clink
loudly against
one another,
but the eyes betray
and say something
different.

swimming lessons

your father
threw
you off the boat
in the middle
of the green
bay
and told you
to swim.
and swim you did.
you took your
son
to the pool
and put
flippers
on his feet,
water wings
on his arms
and stood
next to him,
within reach.
he too learned
how to swim,
but it took
longer, much
longer,
not just in
swimming, but
in all things.

the white rabbit

you see
a white rabbit
in
the backyard
but
no alice.
just
the rabbit
eating
a light
green stalk
of celery.
going
at it slowly
with
deliberation,
he sees
you in
the window
and waves
a paw.
you need an
alice.
this won't do
for much
longer.

scratching

you miss
having your back
scratched
you tell your friend
linda when discussing
your long ago
marriage.
it died on
the vine,
as they say.
never really coming
into fruition.
that's it, she says.
from twelve years
of marriage
you only miss having
your back scratched.
yes, you say, sipping
your coffee.
she had nice long
nails and was patient
in finding
the right spot.
I admired that
in her.
twelve years? she says,
shaking her head.
twelve, you nod,
sipping on your drink,
your eyes widening
with disbelief too.

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.