the kimono robe

on father's day
the packages begin
to arrive
from all over
the world.
you were a sailor
once,
traveling on
ships from one
port to another.
a kimono
comes from
japan, a bottle
of wine from
france,
Italian shoes
from
Florence, all
signed, love
you dad whoever
you are.
you especially
like the kimono,
robe,
and will wear it
all day with
the black socks
your son sent you
from L.A.

making your move

she had a long
deep scar on her leg
that you point to
and say, what's that?
shark bite?
motorcycle
accident? what
happened? but she
says that she
doesn't want to
talk about it.
looking away,
the memory obviously
still haunting her.
does it hurt, you
ask, can I touch
it? which she thinks
is strange, but
laughs and says, okay.
go ahead, touch
it. so you do. you
gently, with your
fingers,
feel the hard
ridge, the gully
of the peach
colored scar that
runs up the side
of her otherwise
wonderful leg.
after a minute or
two, you ask, can
I touch the other leg
now, I want to
compare and contrast.

welcome to the neighborhood

you keep moving
into new houses
because
people feel
obligated
to bring you
food, large pans
and trays of
home cooked meals,
welcoming
you into your
new humble abode,
but they seem
to be getting annoyed
when you ask
them to go easy
on the salt with
the lasagna this
time around,
and if they
could wrap that
stew up nice and
tight for
freezing. you only
have so many
moves left in you,
you know that, so
you want to prepare
for when
that day arrives.

our sky too

they go out
to gaze
at the stars
taking
with them
a map.
nothing seems
to change
out there,
they say
to one another
as they lie
on a hill
away from city
lights, it's
the same sky
that galileo
saw, she says,
the same sky
of shakespeare
and van
gogh. our
father's
and mother's
sky. and now
he says, taking
her hand, it's
our sky too.

use soap

use soap
you used to tell
your
son as he'd
climb
into the tub,
covered
from a day
of play
in mud. and
at five,
his reply would
be, with
a wink, even
then,
what's soap
dad. i've never
heard
of soap.

enough

you are late in
arriving. early
in leaving.
you are
going places
that you don't
want to be.
your life is
full of compromise
and adjustments,
uneasy in
the chair you
are forced to
sit in. at what
age, can you say
no, i can't
do this anymore?
at what point
do you say
enough, i don't
want to, but
thanks just
the same, no
more.

fix it now

every time we
have a hard rain
the water
rushes down
the sides
where both roofs
converge
and then overflows
into that small
stretch
of gutter, there.
and what
doesn't
go down
the spout finds
it's way into
the house,
saturating
the ceiling until
it finds a low
spot to drip
out.
how much, she says,
taking
out her check book
to make this
right.
i'm willing to pay
almost anything
to get my life
back to normal and
not have the ceiling
come crashing down.
five thousand
dollars,
the contractor
says. it will take
at least a week
or two, depending
on the weather.
and I can't guarantee
that it won't
happen again. plus
i'm about six weeks
booked up. this makes
the woman pull
out a gun
and says fix it now.
get your ladder
off the truck
and go to work.
the first shot is just
a warning.

no, not you

the photo
has aged, but
not you.
it's wrinkled
and yellow.
the corners
frayed.
everyone in
it is older
now,
but not you.
the color
has faded,
the surface
blurred,
you can hardly
tell just
who is who,
but no,
not you.
you are still
the same boy
on the stoop,
smiling in
sunlight.

the shopping cart

unlike others,
because you are such
a good person.
you push the shopping
cart from your
car, after unloading
groceries
into the trunk,
back to the store.
you don't leave
it in the lot for
others to avoid,
letting the wind push
it about denting
doors. no. you
are better than that.
instead you take it
back. so it surprises
you when you leave
it on the sidewalk,
not pushing into
the stack of others
lined up, that a
woman yells at you
wagging her finger
and says, if that
isn't the height
of laziness.

peeling apples

as you peeled
an apple
as a young child
your mother
would say
the curl of skin
would be the first
letter of name
of the girl
you'd marry.
which made no
sense at all, leaving
out the letter
D and R and an
assortment of
others, but you
liked the idea.
even then amazed
that someone could
love you enough
to marry you,
no matter what
the name. love
it seemed
was as easy
as peeling
the skin off an
apple.

eggshells

stop waling on eggshells
you want to tell
her as she steps
gingerly across
the room speaking
nervously of the man
she's in love with.
the eggs are broken.
they are on your fork,
in your mouth.
they are yours to season
and cook which
ever way you desire.
worry about what's
in hand, not underfoot
and enjoy the meal.

too much

instantly
you have light,
water,
cold milk.
with the turn
of a dial
you have
the news.
the weather,
a thousand movies
to peruse,
and click on.
pizza, a phone
call away,
peking duck
too.
a masseuse can
come to call
to rub the hard life
you lead
out of your
neck and back.
you have books,
every book
ever written at
your fingertips.
you have
all your friends
in line,
and organized.
so why, oh why
are you bored.

the shadowed one

you have reached
an age
where death is
coming down
the hall. knocking
on a few
doors, taking
what it wants,
with a random
point of the finger,
or so it
seems.
it's hard to figure
out, who
comes, who goes,
who gets to stay
a little while
longer
before it's
their turn to pack
up and leave.
it makes you want
get a guard
dog and chain
him out front to
keep the shadowed
one away.

gracefully

to finally
be old, to have
earned
your sighs,
your long walks,
taking
your time.
to linger now,
over tea,
with no hurry
in your bones,
no phones to answer
quickly or
appointments
to keep.
how nice
to sit and watch
the snow
fall and know
that tomorrow is
a place
you don't have
to be.

inbetween love

she was always
in between love,
on the cusp of someone
new.
in a place
where two seasons
meet, still
undecided on which
way the wind
should blow.
she liked being
there.
her indecision
being her safe place,
a sargasso sea
of sorts,
deep blue
with clarity,
her heart still intact,
calm and open
to love, or something
that resembles
what love
could be.

I'm Fine

when someone
says, i'm fine,
don't worry about
me. i'll be okay.
you know
differently,
because you do
the same
with health or
heartache
not wanting to
disturb the ones
whose turn it
is not yet. let
them have
these days, how
short they are.

the plant in the corner

you remember
the last plant you had
when you lived
in a ground floor
one bedroom
apartment in Maryland.
it was a leafy green
thing in the corner
on a wobbly
table, so old,
that you didn't
mind the overflow
when watering
said plant
with a glass from
the kitchen.
you weren't in
love with it, but
it was always there
when you came
home. dusty and weak,
leaning a little
more towards the
light of the half
drawn shades.
you'd turn it around
sometimes
for balance, one
side growing
differently than
the other, picking
out the cigarette
stubs from your smoking
friends who
couldn't find an ashtray.
sometimes
a wad of gum would
be in the dirt as
well. but it was a good
plant. hardy, surviving
your continual lack
of attention. there
was guilt involved
during your entire
relationship with
this plant, still
felt today, when you
set it in the trash room
on moving day.

the english teacher

you had an english
teacher once
who was as close
to evil
as one could get
without horns
and a tail.
she made you read
poetry aloud
in class,
standing at
your wooden desk,
memorizing lines
of Whitman,
Shakespeare,
Hardy, and god
forbid, Emily
Dickinson as well.
and now, so many
years later, you
wish that you
could find her with
her chalk white
hands, that netted
bun on her head,
to kiss her on
the lips, hug
her forcefully,
and tell her
that all is well.

fatherly advice

you try to explain
to your son,
as he suffers
a failed relationship,
writhing in
the heart ache
of it all,
that it will
diminish in time.
that she will be
like a ship
in the night sailing
away, her light
getting smaller
and smaller
as she drifts farther
away. you gently weave
this metaphor
around his anguish,
as he holds his
head in his hands,
not moving,
sobbing quietly.
then you realize
when you've
finished talking,
and he says,
what, what did you
say. that it's time
to let him heal
as best he can
on his own,
not just this time,
but for others too.

the big fight

the fight
is over something
small,
you can't even
remember what
it was,
but it's a
spark, a flicker
of flame
that's enough
to set
the moment
on fire.
she calls you
a name,
it might be lazy
and you return
the jab
by calling
her stupid.
she calls you fat
and dim witted,
and you ask
her to go
look into the mirror
at her
wrinkles, which
makes her
throw
a book a you.
why don't you read
something
instead of watching
tv, she says.
which makes
you turn on
the tv, and
smile. you know
that the first
one to smile
has won, and so
does she,
as she slams
the bathroom
door, taking in
her face cream.

between rounds

between
crises, small
calamities,
quiet
days and nights
arrive
like soft
beds to lie
on.
enjoy them,
you say
to yourself.
sink deeply into
the easy
sway
of nothing gone
wrong,
rest up for
the bell
ring again.

feeding the ducks

ignoring the posted
sign saying
don't feed
the wildlife,
the woman
and her
older daughter
open a plastic bag
of sliced
white bread.
they whistle
and call to the ducks,
tossing
shreds of crust
towards them.
come here duckies,
they say
together. toes
touching
the brown water,
flip flops
dug into the wet
sand. they are
smoking cigarettes,
and carrying
cans of beer.
the ducks come,
not flying,
but swimming
gently, their black
feathers,
grey with green,
folded
in layers. their
long necks draped
in white peering
elegantly
towards shore.

still life

you place an apple
onto the table
next to a green
pear and a banana
that has almost
gone bad. you
stand back
at your easel
with brush
in hand. there
are flies
in the room.
there is a cat
on the table watching
what you are doing.
she licks
a paw then rubs
the back of ear.
she has all
day to do this,
but chooses now
while you are
in the middle of
something important
to take a bath.
the cat has no
real affection
for still life.
she needs a mouse
to chase,
as do you.

mixing paints

the man in the paint
store tells me
that his wife is bored
with her job.
it is too hard
and monotonous
for her, he says.
she comes home
angry all the time.
he leans over
the counter
to grab a gallon
of paint
and begins to add
tint to make it
the color that I want.
she wants to get
another degree,
he says, go back
to school, then find
another job
that she won't be
bored at.
he hammers the lid
onto the can,
smoothing a squared
sticker onto
the side,
then puts the can
into the shaker.
my wife is very unhappy,
he says, wiping
his hands
with a rag.
we both unconsciously
listen to the rattle
and hum of the shaker.
I don't know what
to do, he says,
looking past
the shelves of cans
to the street
beyond the window.

the land of cream pie

this poem
means nothing.
there is no
hidden meaning,
there is no need
to figure out
who when or why.
no need to strangle
it with your
hands, your
probing eyes.
just as this orange
shirt I wear
means nothing.
I am not
alerting anyone
of danger or
wearing it for
crowd control.
I just put it on
and left the house.
it reminds me
of a time on
a cruise when a man
beside me ordered
another slice
of boston cream pie.
and the waiter,
from another land
asked if he was
from boston, and
the man replied,
rubbing his belly,
no young man,
i'm not from boston.
I am from
cream pie.

sleeping in

no reason
to sleep in.
you aren't tired.
or sad.
but you like
the feel of this
bed.
the sheets against
your skin,
the pillow below
your head.
you could stay
here for hours
and not feel an
ounce of guilt.
you've done
what you could
with your week,
and this rest
is good.
this peace is fine.

another shore

the fading light
in a sea
of gray fog
slips easily
across the bay.
the churn
of soft waves,
the memory
of her
comes back to you,
rolls over
your cold bare
feet
as the boat
moves towards
another shore,
where it
should be.

to work

you listen
to the ice maker
churn
out chunks
of frozen
water, ornaments
of ice.
it keeps
working, never
stops.
there is no
rest for what is
has to do.
its single purpose
in life
being fulfilled
day in,
day out,
never complaining,
or murmuring
when you step
out of the room.
how virtuous
it is.

toaster ovens

you are
not good with
gifts.
either giving
or receiving.
you always choose
the wrong size,
or color,
or something that
they already have.
you'd rather give,
than get,
but someone always
wants
to wrap and tie
a bow around a pair
of socks
for you come
father's day.
you have socks.
lots of socks.
what you need can't
be boxed
or wrapped, and
the same goes for
them.
who doesn't yet
have a toaster
oven.

the red ink

you cut
a vein and dip
your pen
into the red ink
of you.
this is how
you write.
this is your
life that eeks
out in
small bits
and pieces. like
shards
of a broken
mirror catching
just a jagged
glimpse of
who you are
today..

we're different

there is no
one like
you, you say,
seeking the right
word
or phrase
with which to
praise
and not criticize.
you are unique,
you try again.
they broke the
mold when you
were born.
I've never
met anyone quite
like you.
no sir. you are
one and only.
but still, I'm not
sure if we
can be friends, i'm
sorry but
we're just so
different.

it's late

someone
is following
you home.
you hear his
footsteps behind
you, the clicking
of his heels
on the wet street.
you are alone.
the sky is beyond
the buildings.
somewhere there
are stars.
perhaps a moon.
you turn another
corner, then look
back at the person
who has also
stopped. you yell
out, asking what
he wants. there is
no answer.
you keep walking
going in a different
direction
until finally
you are lost.
you stop
and yell back to
the person who
is following, where
are we, you say.
your voice echoes
in the dark,
the man shrugs,
putting up his
hands. I don't know
he says, but it's
late, i'm going
home, then turns
and walks away.

eat fish, live longer

live longer,
eat
fish,
the man holding
a stack
of menus
on the street
says as he
attempts
to steer
you into
the restaurant.
and when
you say
no thanks,
and walk
away, he
says, fine
then, have it
your way.

moon pies

your friend is adamant
about life on other planets.
why are we so egotistical,
he says, to think that only
earth holds life and the rest
of what's out there is barren,
cold, lifeless, or it's so
blazing hot that even lava is
considered a refreshing
cold beverage.
you begin to express your
point of view that this is
all there is, and even if
there was life out there,
who cares. why spend
the money. why bother them.
do you know how annoying
it is when a neighbor
knocks on your door
early in the morning?
which makes him angry,
pointing at the sky,
demanding that we
build more rockets and go
explore the universe
find these creatures,
so you give up
and ask him, when was
the last time you had a
moon pie with a nice
glass of cold milk, which
makes him smile
and calm down, saying,
do you have any?

finding the right word

you can't find
the right word
to express what
you want to say,
it's in there
somewhere you
think, tapping
your forehead,
but it won't come
out. you fear
the early onset
of some
mental illness
which makes
you put your shoes
in the icebox,
and the milk
in the stove.
finally, while
standing in
the shower, you
remember what
the word is
and feel relieved,
safe for
another year
or two.

the pool opens

surrounded by a high
chain link fence,
topped off with
barbed wire
your pool opens
to the sound
of screaming
children
dropping like
rocks into
the cold june
water and the sound
of the guard's
whistle, as he
yells, no running,
no diving,
get out of the deep
end, kid.
you are stretched
out on a scrubbed
lawn chair, with a
new towel, a new
lime green set of
trunks, that you
aren't sure about
rereading the
Great Gatsby, after
seeing the not
so great movie.
because of the trees,
throwing a canopy
of shade onto
half the area,
everyone wants a chair
in the circle of
sunlight, so you
are bunched together
inches from one
another listening
to their intimate
conversations.
pointing at parts
of their legs,
asking each
other if something
looks infected.
you don't go near
the water, ever,
but the showers are
nice and chilly.

name that cat

you get an e mail
from marsha, someone
that you haven't
seen or talked to
in over a year.
I am stuck in costa rica
it says.
someone has stolen
my phone, my purse,
my money.
you are the only
person I could contact.
can you please wire
me a few thousand
dollars to this account.
I will pay you back
as soon as I return.
I am stranded and broke.
I am at the end
of my rope. please help
me. you are the only
one who seems to give
a damn about me.
okay. you say,
writing back. sure,
but first tell me
the name of my cat.
she must have made it
home, because you
never heard from her
after that.

changes

no more
licking
of stamps
and pressing
them with your
thumb to a corner,
or dragging
your wet tongue
across the flaps
of envelopes,
or
finding zip
codes
for the right
address.
no more
paper
cuts
in this almost
paper
less
world.
rare that
any mail
of substance
comes in,
or goes out
for that matter.
but it makes
you uneasy,
these changes.

the firewood man

in june
a flat bed
truck rolls
around, and a
man in a checkered
black and red
hat
runs from
door to door
asking anyone
if they need
firewood.
he's sweating
from the heat,
scratching
at the bee
stings on
his neck. he
talks in a strange
way, hiding
his mouth
with his hand.
he could be thirty
or sixty,
who knows.
you tell him
that you don't
have a fireplace,
and then say
that it's summer.
this doesn't
faze him
as he moves
to the next
house, pulling up
his pants,
as he gallops
away.

one yellow sock

you like
clean clothes, but
you hate
folding laundry.
you'll do anything
to put that
off, letting
it pile up
and up
near the dryer,
like
a small white
mountain
dashed with
a little color
here and there.
the blue
shirt, the green
pillow
case, the lavender
sheets
and one yellow
sock. where did
that come
from?

the crying baby

the mother,
eating and talking
with a man,
she may or
may not know,
ignores her
baby crying
in the restaurant
as everyone
whispers
and shakes their
head, wondering
what a baby
is doing here
on a Saturday
night
in a high
chair next
to the white
linen table
where a bottle
of wine sits.
where there
are flowers,
and a lit candle.
soft music
can almost be
heard
if that baby
wasn't crying.
it all means
something, but you
aren't sure what.

turtle

the turtle
his etched
diamond back
so brittle
and hard,
golden brown,
his ancient
head,
and yellow
beak, twisting
in the morning
sun. moving
ever slowly
towards
water where
he can be
free of himself
and move
without
the restraints
of gravity
and mud.
untouched by
those
who want to see
what he is
all about,
picking him
up, turning
him sideways.
knocking on
the shell.
we all want to
be in water.

searching for land

sometimes
you feel like
a sailor
on a ship
asking Columbus
where
we are
and where
are we going.
we're low
on chick peas
and we're tired
of cod fish.
we haven't seen
a lick
of land in
months and everyone
is sea sick,
home sick,
and sick of
the scent of
brine.
maybe the map
is upside down.
maybe the stars
have shifted.
I need land soon
Columbus, or
else.

the angry line

I want to give you a
piece of my mind
the woman says, hands
on her hips. I've
got a lot to say
about what a horrible
person you are.
hold on you say, you'll
get your turn.
but the angry line
is over there.
against the wall,
you see those other
women, well, get at
the end of the line
and i'll listen to
your grievances
when it's your turn.
there's a fresh pot
of coffee in the back
and some bagels.
help your self. try
to be concise and clear
when it's your turn.
keep your voice down
and try not to spit
when you talk.
okay. off you go.
next.

lila in alaska

your friend lila
in Alaska
sends you a photo
of a sturgeon
she pulled out of
the river
after carving a
hole in the ice.
she's very happy
with her catch,
as she swings it
towards the camera
in the dim mid
day light
of anchorage.
i'll salt and dry
some for you, she
writes. enjoy.
there's not a sweeter
girl around,
then lila.

listening to rain

I know that she
loves this weather.
and that
she is in her room,
darkened by
the sky with her
cats and the radio
on. a book by
her side.
I can see the wry
thin smile of her
mona lisa face
listening to the patter
of falling rain.
sublime.

donut day

you see online
that there is
a new diet
that involves
stapling
your lips shut
for three months.
they leave
only enough room
for a thin
straw with which
you can suck
soup out of.
or slip in a
bird seed or two.
it's guaranteed
to make you
lose thirty pounds
in ninety days
or your
lips and money
back.
interesting you
say, to no one,
as you eat another
chocolate covered
glazed donut
on national donut
day.

mission statement

what is your mission
statement
the man says on
the phone, questioning
your business
and what it does.
mission statement
you say? hmmm.
I guess it's
to make money
and feed myself
and to not fall
off any ladders
or burn down
any houses in
the process
of painting them.
that's it, he says,
sounding surprised.
what about mankind?
no virtuous endeavors
of making the world
a better place to
live in? beautifying
the world, one house
at a time. not really,
you say. I just
want to pay my
bills, help my
son out when I can,
and live a peaceful
life. are you a
green company, he
asks, sounding
exasperated and tired
from doing this
all day. Green, sure,
i'll paint with any
color my clients want.
green, red, purple.
by the end of the day
I can have green
all over me. so, yes.
put me down as a
green company.

bleed em dry

the lawyers
with blood
on their teeth
are having lunch
together after
a break in
the lengthy
contentious
divorce trial.
well, should we
both give in
and let them go.
i'm tired of these
people.
not yet the other
one says.
they both have
more money in their
accounts. let's
keep it going
for awhile.
did you see the photos
she sent of
him sneaking around,
yeah, great.
and he's been bugging
her phone.
they both laugh
and shake their
heads.
where should we
vacation this year.
i'm thinking of taking
the boat out
to key west, care
to join us?
count me in, he says.
okay. let's get
back to the courthouse
and make some
money.

finding the right stick

you find yourself in
an antique shop
in a sketchy part of town.
an ancient
old man is behind
the counter
working
on the guts of
a clock.
there are silent
stuffed owls
on the walls
and the place smells
like moth
balls and wet shoes.
you see a basket of
long veneered sticks.
you pick one up
and wave it around.
what are these for you
ask the man as he
tinkers in the darkness.
divining rods, he
says. be careful with
that one. that one
is for love.
carry it around
and you'll find the
love of your life.
what are the other
sticks for, you ask
him, holding on tightly
to the one you
picked. water, he
says, gold. happiness.
peace of mind.
but won't love
bring you happiness,
peace of mind?
how old are you he asks,
you haven't learned
anything, have you.

a good catholic girl

she was an outlaw,
a rebel,
a wild child
for the ages,
running
red lights,
and stop signs,
with metallic
or styxx
blasting
in her trans am,
and the t-top
out, she
ignored
toll booths,
rolling through
without her
e z pass.
she paid
her taxes late,
and almost
never paid
her parking
fines,
or read the labels
on prescription
pills.
she drank too
much, chain
smoked her cigarettes,
and cursed anyone
that wasn't born
in this country.
but she went
to mass every
single sunday,
taking communion,
no matter what her
condition,
or who she woke
up with. she was
the dark side of
mother Theresa
with one hand on
the wheel and the other
saluting the car
that just cut
her off.

exploding cup

when your
coffee cup explodes
in your hand
after microwaving
it for three
minutes, pouring
in some milk
and sugar,
you don't say
praise the lord,
but you say something
else as you
feel the sting
and heat of a
boiling twelve
ounces of
coffee on your
chest. it's
not a very creative
expression,
but it fits
the moment.

pot hole lament

seventeen
men
in orange vests
and hard hats
gather
around
the pot hole
after lining
up a mile
or so of plastic
barrels
and signs
saying detour,
merge
right.
it's a small
hole in
the road,
nearly the size
of a man hole
cover, a half
a foot deep.
there's
a back hoe,
a steam
roller,
a dump truck
and the men
with shovels
and brooms, talking
on phones,
sipping
on 7-11 coffee.
it's bumper
to bumper traffic
as rush hour begins
and lasts
all day.

texas chainsaw

a skeleton
with blonde
hair and blue
eyes with a texas
twang
and dull
mind rides
into town
proclaiming
that she's here.
someone give
me a protein
shake,
and a dumbbell
she says,
flexing her
wrinkled
skin in the full
length mirror.
three men
approach her.
and she says,
please, one
dumbbell at a
time.

the extra key

hardly
a peep comes
out
of the neighbor's
house.
though
she's pleasant
on her way
in or
out from
work or play.
it's a cautious
choice
of words
you both
use, not wanting
to intrude
or be impolite,
avoiding
any personal
questions in order
to keep
it just this
way. you haven't
reached a point
of exchanging
keys, just
in case
of some calamity.
for now the key
stays neat
and safe
inside the stone
turtle
with the slide
out bottom
near the dogwood.

early risers

no longer needing
beauty sleep
older people
get up early.
they even brag
to everyone about
how early it is
when they get up.
I get up at five,
they say,
and another will
top that with
four thirty, I get
up every morning
at four thirty
before the paper
even arrives,
before the moon
is out of the sky,
before almost
everyone, they'll
say, then sit back
smugly, yawning
with a coffee
in their hand
at ten a.m.

the harvest

the farmer
prays for rain.
then he prays
for the rain to
stop, for
the sun to come
out. he's never
happy
with the weather,
blaming
the crops on
good luck
or misfortune,
or a sin unconfessed.
each seed
holding a wish,
or a prayer,
each harvest,
an answer.

the blue balloon

a blue balloon
comes
sailing across
the horizon,
floating with
a thin
long string attached
to a small
child's hand.
the boy is smiling
with joy.
together
they have found
tomorrow,
and all the things
that life
can be.

who she wants to be

she brings
her sorrow with her.
yesterday.
a year ago,
ten years
or more, perhaps
at birth
it started. this
anger, this
sadness
with which she
holds the world
responsible.
it's a cold
wet sweater
across her shoulders.
her feet,
bogged down
in what will
never be.
you want to take
her hand
and show
her where the fire
is, but
she's gone, she's
too far away
from being who she
wants to be.

the yellow light

your father
finally
succumbs
to new glasses
after 84 years
of buying them
off the rack
at the drugstore,
his vision
blurred
to the point
of disaster
behind the wheel
of his impala.
is it green,
or is it red,
he'd ask at
sixty miles an
hour, speeding
along the coastal
highway
with a coffee
in his hand
and you bracing
yourself
for an intersection
full
of unseen
traffic. yellow,
you'd say. think
of the lights
as always
yellow.

new leaf

how joyful
you
are in spring.
a new
leaf turned.
your hands
steady
catching
rain.
your mouth wide
open
for what
the day may
bring.
no fear in
what could go
wrong.
no sorrow
in what has
happened in
the past.
it's spring.
screaming
softly to let
the old
go. let new
things begin.

shaved moon

shaved moon
half
bitten
and solid
hanging
on by pale
fingers
in the black
blue
sky.
how little it
knows of
love, or
life, and
yet listens
with the patience
of a thousand
wise
men
to your tales.
no words come
back,
no gentle whispers
of wisdom.
just the cold
hard
stare of what
it is.
the moon, nothing
more, nothing
less.
and that's enough
to get you
to tomorrow.

mistaken identity

how strange it
is to be mistaken
for another.
when a person
thinks that it's
you and it's
not. how odd
it is to defend
your identity.
to be backed up
against a wall
and feel guilty
for having done
nothing.
the misplaced anger
is sad, showing
you more about
that person
than a thousand
words ever could.
you can only shake
your head and move
on. hoping the best
for them
and their lonely
ways, wishing
they could find
a mirror and stare
deeply into it,
to solve
their problems.

one less egg to fry

your stupid, but
lovable
stove has died.
it just stopped
working. it was only
forty six
years old, but
you depended on
it. day and night.
it was the sun
rising,
the moon in
the sky. always
there for you.
finally
it cooked
its last meal.
fried its last
egg. made
the tea pot
whistle one
final time.
you loved that
stove, with its
modern
push buttons,
with all the numbers
worn off.
the creaky door
on loose hinges,
with that space age
window, not unlike
the one on
the Gemini capsule.
you'll miss
how sometimes
the coils
would catch fire
and you'd have
to blast it
with the fire
extinguisher, or
dampen the flames
with a wet dish towel.
how many chickens
you baked,
pans of brownies,
and that one
time you
cooked an oven
mitt to a nice
charred crispy
finish. you are
going to miss your
old ge 27 inch
drop in electric
stove. white with
silver trim. god bless
you little old
machine.

beautiful when angry

she's beautiful
when she's
angry.
so she's
quite gorgeous
most of the time.
her eyes
flashing,
those lips
quivering,
the way she
takes a stand
and waves her finger
in the air.
she's a sight
to see
when she's mad
and has a cause
to fight for.
quite lovely.
I must say.
I can't imagine
her any other
way, or have seen
her differently
for that matter.

what, i can't hear you

why do they play
the music
so loud
in this restaurant,
you ask
your friend
betty. what?
she says,
moving her hair
back and
pointing
at her ear.
I can't hear you,
she says. talk
louder.
so you scream,
why do they play
the music so loud
in this place?
I know, she yells,
back, the chicken
is undercooked.
I agree.
and it needs more
salt.

together

her sister
is older
but only by
a year, still,
she rules
the roost, as
they like
to say.
determining
where lunch
will be, and
how long
they will stay.
she feels
smarter and
more worldly
than her little
sister, despite
their experiences
being virtually
the same and
they never
disagree, at
least not to
one another,
or openly, although,
little things
do come up,
like the men
they wanted
to marry
but didn't,
always afraid
to lose one
another, remember
him, they'd
laugh over tea,
such a fool, he
was, as together
they battle
age and memory.

local calamari

you don't seem like
the marrying type
she says to you on
your first date.
why do you say that,
you ask, sorting
through a soggy
plate of calamari
looking for one
crispy one to dip
into a red sauce
neatly spooned into
a paper cup.
oh, you just seem
determined to remain
a bachelor. I wonder
if this is local
calamari, you say,
hoping she gets
the joke. she doesn't.
would you ever want
to meet my parents, she
says, now squinting
painfully at you
over the edge of her
wine glass.
you still have parents?
you say, motioning
to the waiter
for another napkin,
having dripped
red sauce onto your
rumpled shirt that
you didn't have time
to iron.
yes, she says. both
my parents are still
alive and doing quite
well. they live
in florida.
and you? your parents?
I don't know, you say.
I was raised by
wolves, so I've lost
contact with them
once I wandered out
of the woods.
you know what, she
says. I don't think
this is going to work
out between us. perhaps
I should go.
okay, you say. stay
in the left lane
out to the highway,
it's a sharp turn,
and it's easy to miss,
then you'll be heading
south, you don't want
that to happen.
it's been a pleasure
to meet you
finally.

cold feet

why are your feet
so cold
she says as you
both lie in
bed, waiting for
the other one
to make some sort
of romantic move,
a gesture that
may head towards
sex. poor circulation,
you say.
my mother has the
same condition.
cold feet runs
in my family.
why bring up her,
she says, folding
her arms and staring
at a spider
hanging from
the ceiling fan.
you asked me about
my cold feet, so
I told you. oh,
she says. do you
see that spider
spinning his web?
shouldn't you get
it and flush it
down the toilet?
what, get up and
break the mood?

the corner store

going out
of business.
everything
must go.
prices slashed
in half,
into quarters,
some things are
free for you
to carry out.
we will not be
undersold,
bargains, we've
got bargains.
there is no middle
man anymore.
there will be no
more thanks,
no more how's
the weather out
there, no need
anymore for
chit chat.
there will
be no reopening,
no new management.
take it all away
as it is.
no haggling, all
prices are final.
everything must go.
no refunds.
no returns. don't
come back,
close the door
on your way out.
we will
not be undersold.
we're going out of
business, but
look for us online.
we'll be open
there.

the need to read

it's rare
these days
that someone says
pop the hood
let's take a look
at the engine.
instead
they want to see
what's inside
the car, play
with the lights
and the bells,
the whistles.
they want to
breathe in that new
car smell.
hear what comes
out of the speakers,
touch the leather
and the knobs
that shine
like ornaments
on a tree.
the motor is less
important, or
so it seems.
which makes you
understand a little
why so many
beautiful people
don't feel
the need to read.

on the field

how fast you were
when the ball
touched your hands,
the exhilarating
burst of speed,
as you darted across
the field like
a small gazelle,
darting in ways
that were least
expected. how sweet
it was to burn your
lungs with winter
air, and feel the tug
of the earth
beneath your cleats.
how those memories
stay fresh
within you after
all these years,
is not a mystery
at all.
joy never is.

the thirst

just a touch,
a hand,
a slight
bend of arm
around your
waist, or
kiss upon
your parched
lips
will do
sometimes.
a word of sweetness
whispered,
not much more
is needed. just
a simple
sign of
love would
be nice to quench
that ever
present thirst.

fat moe

your dog
was in a constant
state of hunger
as he got
fatter
and fatter.
once sleek
and fast as any
mouse or
cat, now he
lumbered
towards the woods,
squirrels
shaking
with laughter
as his slowness.
what was there
to do.
he loved to eat,
and had figured
out how to drag
his bag of dried
dog food
to his dish
when you weren't
home. but
not having thumbs
posed a problem.
and the frustration
showed
by the frown
on his little
greying face.

winter moon

unable to sleep
you stare
at the moon
that lingers
in the corner
of your window.
white like chalk,
as round
as any ball can
be. lifeless
and cold
and yet it comforts
you, this moon,
these nights
that keep coming
one after the other
like quiet
footsteps in the snow,
in the winter
of your life.

rolling the dice

Einstein
proclaimed once
that he doubted
that god played
dice
with the universe
but he
never mentioned
the roulette
wheel, or
five card stud,
or rummy, or
even rock
paper, scissors.

one sting per bee

is it worth
the one
sting
for the bee
to die
for all
in protecting
the hive.
mindless
in the consequence
of his
duty. has
the bee thought
this through,
like
soldiers
on the field
of battle
holding
a flag
high, or is
it something
else?

a wonderful marriage

the bartender
nods
as you come
in
and pours your
drink
without a
word being
spoken.
down goes
a coaster,
and tumbler
of vodka tonic,
small twist
of lime.
you nod back
and take
a long sip.
he slips
a menu
onto the bar
which you
push away.
and he
says, the usual.
and you say,
yes. but
easy on
the onions.
it's a wonderful
marriage,
you and pete.

yoga girl

watch how
high I can kick
my leg
up, she says
in her ballet
slippers.
and her leg
does go up,
the toes
above her head.
it's a wonderful
sight to
see, her so limber
in her pink
tights,
tiara on her
head, eyes
bright and
beautiful. now
you try it,
she says.
and you say not
now.
perhaps later, but
please,
continue.

old sweater

you know that
if you pull at
the slender blue
thread, giving
it a tug,
you will unwind
the old sweater.
but maybe it's
time.
it's given
you warmth,
and a strange
sense of
familiar
comfort
throughout
the winters.
but this
thread, this
wild
strand of
fabric that's
in your hand
will end it all.
one long pull
and the rest will
unravel.
no. maybe next
year. maybe never.
just clip it
clean, and go on.

what you know best

there is more
to be
written
about, than
you. but it's
what you know
best and even
that is a mystery
at times.
surprising
yourself
with what you
say and do.
you stand
back and shake
your head
in wonder,
observing
the earthly
person that
you are.

impatient fruit

unripe fruit
is hard
to pull
from the tree,
the stem
the branch
together
holding on,
telling you
not yet,
not now.
love
can be that
way too,
when not
ready
to bloom,
to blossom,
to be taken
a bite
out of.

finding the time

you have
wandered into
the age
of insanity.
of bombs and poison
letters.
acts of terror.
don't these
people have
jobs, have children
to take
to school,
laundry to fold,
bills to pay.
dogs to walk.
where does
evil find the time
when there is
so many other
things
to fill the day.
trash to
take out, Christmas
lights to
take down. I
guess not.

the next train

the next train
is yours
so you pick up
your bag,
adjust your
tie, and move
towards
the platform.
you are alone.
there are no
crowds, no
friends, no
family, only
the conductor
leaning out
as the train
slows down,
and says all
aboard. you
take a seat
by the window,
and hand
the man your
ticket. the one
you've been
holding since
you were born.
you think about
where you
have been, where
you have lived
your life
and with whom.
you wonder where
this train
will take you
as you enter
the tunnel towards
light.

whoops, tweets the pope

you get a tweet
from the pope
altering
your life
long views
on how to get to
heaven.
seems you only
need to be a
good person
and the gate
swings wide open
to all comers.
later he tweets
whoops, my
bad, I forgot
about the other
thousand year
set of rules
and regulations
for which one
must pass
in order to get
into the pearly
gates.
it's hard, the first
few weeks
on the job
to get used to
all that good
wine.

your move

you listen
to his story as
he moves
checkers across
the board
in Washington
square.
he takes out
a white
handkerchief,
neatly
folded and ironed
and wipes his
brow. there was
this one time,
he says,
as he double
jumps
your kings, when
I was
married to velma.
a girl
from the Bronx,
and she hit
me with an
umbrella
right across
my head, here
look at the scar
if you don't
believe me,
and when you
look, he puts
another
checker onto
the board. why,
you ask, why
did she hit you.
I don't remember,
he says. who knows.
your move.

cheese plate

sometimes
you're
the cat
and she's
the mouse,
other times
it's reversed,
with her
purring,
and you
darting in
and out,
except when
cheese is
around.
when that
happens.
she's both.

towards shore

it's a long
swim home
when the ship
goes down.
but you can make
it with
even strokes,
calm kicks
in the blue
froth of waves,
breath
and pull your
life to shore.
you can almost
see the white
sand,
you leaning
towards the water
with your
soft strong
hand.

a cherry snow cone

your friend jasmine,
holding bags
of new clothes
and hats, shoes,
informs you
of her summer plans.
first venice
she says,
then rome, maybe
a stop in
Brussels.
perhaps a day trip
to paris before
going
back to Italy
to stay in a little
cottage
and eat
the local fare
of Tuscany.
before I leave
though, I thought
i'd go to Greece
and buy
some jewelry
in santorini.
and you
she says.
what are your plans
this summer.
I need new flip
flops for the beach,
you tell her,
and a new
towel, something nice
and fluffy,
wave,
if you see me
from across
the atlantic, I
might have a snow
cone in my hand too.
cherry.

out of ink

out of ink.
again.
and again.
what is up with
these ink
cartridges
ten pages
and the low sign
is blinking.
you've
bought enough
ink
to float a boat,
to have purchased
a new
printer and
a room full of
pens
and paper.
now there's a
thought.

boiling it down

you try to boil
everything
down
to what
it really is.
you let the water
bubble
with heat.
rise over
the lip of the pot.
the flame
is high.
you drop
the carcass in
and let
the meat slide
off the bones
as they
get soft
and fall away
from one
another. you
add some salt
and pepper to taste,
but that's all.
the essence
of what it is
and was
is all that's
left after
an hour goes
by. the pure
broth of who
we are.
i'm not suggesting
boiling
me or you, but
just a chicken
or a spent turkey
for now.

remove all items from the belt

you move
your gala apples
to the belt
after
the scale
weighs them
and then
a women
politely
in that disembodied
voice
tells you
to do so.
but the asparagus
won't
go. please
wait for help
the voice says,
remove all items
from the belt.
the light
blinks, the line
backs up.
people are
cursing in several
languages.
you want to tell
them that it's
not your fault
that it wasn't
your idea to
buy asparagus in
the first place. you
don't even like
asparagus,
but to no avail.
as you wait for help,
you begin to sweat
you look at what
else in in your cart
that could be trouble.
are those seedless
grapes, or globes
with seeds.
are they organic
bananas or
your run of the mill
antibiotic
injected ones?
what about that lettuce,
romaine?

summer days

in the summer
as you came home from
work,
covered in debris
and dirt,
paint and dust,
your son would be
waiting on the steps
for you to arrive.
a glove in
his hand, a ball,
a bat, and your
glove too.
and off you'd go
to the field
you called the pit,
because it
was always swampy
and filled with
rocks
and shrubs, dogs
running free.
you can still
see the motion of
his long skinny arms
swinging
the bat, tossing
the ball, the smack
of it hard
into your glove.
how blue the sky
was then,
how endless and
joyful those summer
days.

did you hear about

you are hearing
too often
the phrase, remember
so and so,
well, he's dead
now.
cancer, heart
attack,
stroke. that girl
you dated
in high school,
what's her
name, well, she
drove her car off
a bridge.
they never found
her.
just once, you'd
like to hear
someone tell you,
remember
jimmy, who sat
behind you in
algebra one,
always cheating off
your test,
well, he's a
billionaire now
and he's looking
for you to
give you some
money. here's his
number.

hope

as a child
hope
was a roasted
chicken
in the middle
of the table,
a mixing
bowl of
potatoes
and a stack
of white
bread
on a plate,
a stick of
hard yellow
butter
beside it.
seven
children
waiting for
your mother
to sit down
to say grace.
hope came easy
then.

i love those shoes

if i find
a man
she says
to her friend,
a man that loves
me for who i
am, then
my life
will be complete.
i will
have happiness
at last.
and the woman
listening to her
replies,
if i can only get
free from
the one i have,
then i will
be happy too,
free and content
to live
as i want to live
with no
compromise.
this ends
the conversation
about that,
and they turn
the talk to shoes.

the war is over

an old
man
pulls at your
sleeve
as you stand
in line for coffee,
you turn
around to see
that he is old,
but smiling,
with brilliant
blue eyes
that almost
frighten
you.
yes, you say.
what? did you
hear, he says,
no, you reply,
what, did i
hear what?
the war is over
he says.
it's over,
the boys are coming
home. the war
is over.
this makes
you smile and
buy him
his coffee to
celebrate
the news.

the hot sign is on

you
marry her
for her
hot cinammon
donuts.
that's not
the only reason.
but it's one,
an important
one.
a woman that
knows her
way
around the kitchen
knows the other
rooms
as well, not
always
of course, but
quite often
you have
found that to
be true,
as you perused
the attic,
the cellar,
and the porch
with a glass
of milk
and donut in
hand.

the world is smaller now

the world
is smaller now.
smaller
than it was
just yesterday,
even
an hour ago.
you squeeze
between
the people
as they shuffle
from job
to home, doing
what they
can to get by.
they need to stand
where you
are standing.
people live
above
you, below
you. the babies
keep coming.
the world
is smaller,
even now as
you put a period
at the end
of this sentence
another soul
is born.

celestial objects

space
does not interest
you
like a woman's
leg
does.
or the curve
of her
hip,
the shape
of her breasts,
the parting
of her lips.
nothing out
there
has any significance
compared
to a woman
that you
adore,
and have fallen
like a star
for.

the painter next door

van gogh
moves in next
door to you
one day.
he's very moody,
his ear is
bandaged and
there is dried
blood
on his cheek.
you say hello,
but he ignores
you.
you see him
carrying in
his paints
and brushes
into the house,
easels, worn
and splattered,
the small
wooden chair
he sits on
when he paints.
as he carries
in his cat
he stops to take
notice
of your yard,
shaking his
head with dismay.
you try to break
the ice by saying
hey, i guess
i should grow
some lillies
or something,
which makes him
curse and touch
his wounded ear.
but you don't give
up and point
at your chin where
you cut your
chin shaving
this morning after
having a fight
with your girlfriend.
women, you say,
what are you gonna
do?
this makes him
spit and go inside,
slamming the door.

happy nails

as you sit
in the baby blue
massage chair,
with your bare
feet soaking in a
tumble of warm
pink water, you
listen
to the woman
speaking in a strange
language
to others who
are working too.
you watch as she
pulls on her
mask
and takes your
foot into her
hand pressing it
against
the foot rest on
a white towel.
methodically she cuts
and sands,
rubs and pulls
at your toes
and feet.
now the other
she says in English,
and you obey
like a small
child, happy
to be cared for.

the ten year itch

she has an
itch
to move on,
scratching
at the tingle
of a new
road,
a clean slate,
a different
lover
to sleep in
her bed.
but how to let
go of
the one that's
there,
is hard.
saying or not
saying,
makes no
difference,
he knows
and can't figure
it out
either.

small boats

it is
a postcard
view
from the porch
of
a restaurant
along
the inlet
where you
sit and wait
for food
to arrive.
and the calm
roll of
violet waves
and blue
catching
just a wand
of pink
from a sun quite
gone
is enough
to still your
thoughts
of other things,
matters
that seem
less important
with each
small boat
that sails by.

children

how silent
the room is without
children
or men
and women who
still are.
they want
to be heard, to
be known
and taken
care of promptly.
with loud
unearthly voices
they neither
sing nor
whisper what
they need,
instead
they howl until
it comes.
until they are
pleased.

on blue wings

you observe
and listen
the blue
winged fly
buzzing hard
against
the screen,
wanting
badly
to get
outside
the trap that
he has
put himself
into. so you
lift
the window
up
and off he
goes. a part
of you,
flying with him.

pain

pain by injury,
the twist
or turn
of a leg
or back
or knee,
the deep bruise
or nerve pinch
delivers you
into a
different
world. one
you aren't
too familiar
with, it's dark
and cold.
you've been
there before
but in short
reluctant stints.
this visit is
different though,
it's longer.
it's the mother
and law
of all visits.
you can only
lock the door,
find a soft
warm spot to lie
in and lick
your wounds
without a sound.

no words

at a loss
for words
you sigh,
you gasp, you
clear your
throat
and swallow.
what can be
said
to a loved
one dying
that isn't already
known
and true
within both
of you.
only the touch
of your
hand on his,
the gaze
of life
and love,
of memory
into
one another's
eyes. it's
enough.
it's all that's
needed
to be said.

fizz

there are souls
who have
demeanors
not unlike
a clear cool
glass of water.
unrippled
and still
almost always
calm
and reasonable,
but she was
a gin fizz
shaken, bubbly
to the point
of bursting.
the bubbles
rising over
the edge
with a furious
crackle
and pop. which
was fun for
awhile,
but a very
short while.

the post modern cubist

the waiter
unfamiliar with
Picasso's penchant
for paying for
meals by sketching
little pictures
onto napkins
said, and what's
this, a bull
with a woman's head
and a bird
with the eyes
of a child.
where's your money?
and this other
napkin, ice cubes
with legs?
a woman's breast
on a chicken.
cash only, buster.
my little sister
can make these
drawings, now let's
see some dough.

all shoes half price

you go in
to see your therapist
about this problem
you are having
with buying
too many clothes.
especially socks
and shoes. expensive
fancy shoes.
but she's crying.
what's wrong you ask
her as you lie
down
on the leather
couch after
fixing yourself a
cup of hot tea
with lemon. why
are you crying, what's
up. I've never seen
you like this before.
her face is streaked with
make up, her eyes
red and swollen.
what happened you
say, finding some
sugar cookies
on the coffee table,
nibbling on one,
catching the crumbs
in your hand.
there was a sale on
yesterday, at Nordstrom's.
shoes were half price.
every shoe in the store
was half off
and I missed it.
I missed it, she says,
weeping.
what? you say, spitting
out a mouthful
of tea. are you kidding
me, half price?
then you too begin
to cry.

buying local

your milk
is from local
cows,
squeezed out
fresh
just this morning.
so is your
goat cheese
from
neighborhood
goats.
that lettuce
was grown
by the woman
up
the street
who also churns
butter
and provides
the community
with local jams
and jellies
straight from
her garden.
the bread is
from
the local bakery.
that fish,
is right out of
the stream that
runs through
the woods
behind the hen
house where
you get your
local eggs.
you are a very local
person,
except for
the vodka. sweden
seems to take
care of that
just fine.

what you know

you don't measure,
instead
you pour
and spoon
to taste.
a sprinkle here,
a dash there.
you are at that
point in
your life
where the dishes
that you like
are the ones
you know.
your hands
move
from bowl to
bowl, pot
to pan, fork
to mouth.
you know what you
like and
stick with it,
doing differently
has always
led to trouble.
take sheila
for example.

old men in the park

old men
don't care
that they are old.
they disregard
the limp,
the thin wash
of silver
hair upon
their heads,
sitting
in the park
they still believe
that the pretty
girls
in their summer
dresses
are still a shot
away
from knowing
their charms,
seeing the smile
on their handsome
face. always,
always,
there seems
to be chance, a ray
of hope
to win the girl.
it's what men do
from grade one,
until it's done.

the ride

what a thrill
it was
to be pinned
back
into your seat,
as the rumbling
car
of the roller
coaster
sent you
high, then low,
curling around
the steel
track.
holding on,
white knuckled,
in a scream
of fear and joy.
death never
crossing your
mind, as it
often does now.
your heart raced
as the clang
of chain
and wheels pulled
the car
slowly, slowly
up to a peak,
then falling,
dropping down
like a stone.
let's do it again,
you'd say
to your friends,
the second it
slowed to a stop.
let's ride it
all day. but no
more.

steer clear

you see
the boat being
pushed
by the wind.
the wind is grey
and white
with water
and sky.
shoving the hull
against
the rocks.
the crew long
gone and rowing
to shore.
it will take some
time, but
soon,
the boat will
succumb
and sink into
the cold blue.
you take
note, and vow
to navigate your
days
and nights
in a better way.

in time

you realize
at a certain age
how little
you know. despite
the books
you've consumed,
the classes
you've taken,
the degrees upon
your walls.
on a pin head
is gathered
your knowledge
of this world
and the next.
but strangely, it
is enough
to keep you
going, to keep you
hungry for more
and for that
you are grateful,
knowing
that later, all
of it will be
known.

tribute band

you go to see
a beatles
tribute band.
they look like
john paul George
and ringo, with
their hair
and all of their
mannerisms.
each song is
a virtual duplicate
of all those songs
you heard as
a kid. you know
every word
by heart.
and it doesn't
bother you
when the wig
on paul slips off
in the middle
of yeah yeah yeah.
he picks it
up at the end
of the song
and casually slips
it back onto
his bald head
then says in his
faux british accent,
I hope no one saw
that, laughing.
where the hell
did the time go
you think, flagging
down a waitress to
order
another stiff
drink.

waiting not listening

but there's more
to the story
you tell her, as
she tries to begin
her story.
you place your hand
on her hand
to stop her lips
from moving,
oh, she says, I
thought you were
finished, no, you
say, you always
start talking before
I finish, it's what
you do. you don't
listen, you wait,
and you are not
very patient when
others are talking.
oh my, she says,
leaning back,
and making her eyes
wide and big.
she puts her hand
over her mouth
and says, do I do
that, really,
because there was
this one time
when I was taking
to someone and...
see, you tell her,
you're doing it
again. you can't help
yourself. you really
don't care what
my story is, do you?
i'm leaving, she
says. you're right.
I don't care. in
fact, your stories
are boring, unless
it involves me. let's
not talk for awhile,
she says, gathering
her things to leave.
what, you say.
I didn't hear you.

promoting licorice

you get a phone call
to tell you that you've
been named the poet
laureate of
the nation.
you say thanks. but
what happened to
the other guy? he
had his turn and now
it's yours.
that's wonderful,
you say, as you make
a peanut butter
sandwich while standing
in the kitchen.
do I get a check, or
something. I could
use a little
dough right about
now.
yes, she says, you'll
get a small check.
great, you tell the nice
woman on the phone,
make it out to me
so that I can cash
it, okay? I've got
a few bar tabs that need
to be taken care of
before they cut me off.
sure she says politely.
but we want you to
come downtown
and accept your award
at the library of congress,
give a speech
and respond to questions.
do I have to wear a suit?
ummm, sure, dress nice.
you'll be asked to
travel the country
speaking on behalf
of poetry to children
and adults too.
you can read your poetry
on npr. sell some books.
poetry is our national
treasure and it's good
to have a spokesman
such as yourself.
i'm not good at speaking
in public you tell her,
blowing your nose
from all the pollen
that's fallen lately,
or at reading my poetry.
oh, you'll be fine.
but people hate poetry,
or they're ambivalent
about it, it will be
like promoting black
licorice. that's funny
she says, snorting into
the phone.
you'll do fine. okay, okay,
you tell her, but look,
I have to go, I was
in the middle of something.
i was writing a poem about
my dog who
just got into the trash
again. maybe i'll
read that poem for you.
oh and don't forget to make
the check out to me,
okay? or just bring cash.
either way is fine.
thanks again. gotta go.

snake girl

a little girl
in the neighborhood
runs around
wildly
through the yards
crossing
the street, yelling,
I found a snake,
I found
a snake.
you see it in her
hand, held
tightly
trying to unwind
itself from
the small fisted
grasp of the excited
girl.
it's green, the color
of spring leaves
and grass.
I don't think it's
poisonous she says,
it hasn't tried
to strike me.
she shows it to her
mother, who is
sitting on the porch
smoking,
rubbing her leg.
she looks at it and
says, it's not a
copperhead dear, like
the one that bit me
last week.
you can keep it
if you want.

the night out

she pulls
the one flap
of your collar
down
then brushes
lint and
crumbs from
the front
and back of
your shirt.
tuck it in she
says, you're
not nineteen,
and those
shoes, put
some polish
on them, and
change your
belt, black
would be better
with those
pants. did
you brush your
teeth?
oh and honey,
maybe do a little
quick nip
with the scissors
around those
ears and nose.
do you have
the tickets?
i'll be in
the car waiting.

second place

does every horse
have to win
the race,
will his life
be diminished
without
the prize,
the garland
of roses draped
around his neck.
does he
have to cross
the finish line
first
in order to get
oats, and a warm
bath,
a brushing down,
or love?
is it enough
to have run,
and tried, to have
joy
in the gallop,
in the moment, in
the sweet
beauty of each
one's unique
and beautiful
stride.

the good of all

the nail
plots not against
you,
but the world
of wood,
resisting
where it needs
to go.
bending at
the near miss,
slpping from hand,
the head
needs a heavy
hammer
at times, to
keep it straight
and true,
driven
to where it
needs go, for
the good of all,
for the good
of you.

be still

bewildered
birds
caught
in the wind.
steering
wildly
unhinged under
tumbled
clouds
of grey
and coal
charred scars,
what world
is this
that holds
them against
their
will
and nature,
won't let them
be what
they were
meant to be.
fair warning
to all, when storms
arise.
be still.

that new car smell

you buy
a new car
and swear to never
eat a scone
in it,
letting the crumbly
pieces of
pastry
tumble onto
the seats
and floor. no
coffee either.
no hot dogs,
with mustard
dripping,
relish
finding its
sneaky way
onto the console.
the last car
looked like
the floor
of a food
court in
springfield mall
at the end
of a Saturday
before Christmas.
we'll see.

what kind of tree is that

someone asks you
what kind
of tree
that is in
your back yard.
shady, and thick,
healthy with
green, and you
say hmmm, not
knowing, but
start throwing
out all the names
of trees
that you do
know. birch,
a maple perhaps,
oak, or
pine, but you
know it's none
of those,
it's a different
kind of tree,
no, not even
a weeping willow,
you say, perplexed,
taking out
your phone camera,
murmuring hold on,
let me google
it.

the ice cream truck

as a kid
you had no patience
for stamp
collecting,
or in collecting
coins
and slipping them
into
the appropriate
slots of a fold up
blue book.
that ambitious
hobby
lasted a month
or two,
nickels and dimes,
quarters,
even half
dollars with
Kennedy's profile
shiny
on the front
with his
hair combed as you
tried to do,
but then the ice
cream truck would
roll slowly
through the neighborhood,
the music,
a sweet siren,
its tinny,
xylophone ping
echoing around
the hot summer streets,
how quickly
you would spend
the mercury dimes,
the buffalo
nickels, the john
kennedy half dollar,
stately
in his slot,
all for the sake of
a nutty buddy.

dessert

something
sweet would be
nice.
a little tart,
a little
different,
upon the lips
and tongue,
you tell her.
something pretty
in the dish,
lovely on
the spoon.
a dessert
that leaves
you smiling,
satisfied
and not caring
about the calorie
count.
who cares about
such things,
so she kisses
you and says, how's
that for
starters.

at the same place

how the stream
rises
under heavy rains
with muscular
arms
over the banks
taking with it
the weak
trunks of old
trees,
the loose
rocks and debris.
sweeping its
power wide
and hard, telling
you something.
perhaps that
all things
will eventually
meet at
the same place.

lazy slumber

you awaken
early
then doze
back to sleep
to sound of birds
and rain,
the chatter
of each
upon branches
fresh with new
leaves. doors
open and close
as the neighbors
that go to church
go religiously
each sunday,
you hear the clicking
of their church
shoes
along the sidewalk,
quiet
in their hurry
to get to mass,
while you, peeking
through the blind
will keep yours here,
between the sheets,
in a lazy
grateful slumber.

at any age

at forty, she used
to say, women become
invisible.
the men look past
me and my
friends to the young
girls walking by
in their summer
dresses, hardly
paying us any mind.
not true,
you tell her.
not true at all.
women are never
invisible at any
age, perhaps more
vocal, but certainly
not invisible.

nellie

your grandmother
who smoked
three packs of lucky
strikes a day
and gargled with
bourbon when
she wasn't feeling
right stood
square at about
four foot eleven.
she carried her
shih Tzu under her
arm everywhere
she went. she said
things like
excuse my French
when describing a
cab that drove
like a bat out hell
from penn station.
she had a fox stole
with the head still
on, eyes beaded
black, and mouth
open to show
the needle sharp
teeth, still ready
to bite. she liked
to wear it for
special occasions,
like dinner out.
she told you and
your sisters to come
over to the television
when billy graham
was on, and kneel
by the screen putting
your hands onto
the black and white
curved glass.
do it she'd say,
repent of your sins
and accept Jesus
into you life, or all
of you are going
to burn in hell.
we were only seven and
couldn't imagine what
sins we'd have committed
at this point
in our lives to be
punished in such a
way. but we did as
we were told,
and sometimes a few
of us still do.

tossing the dice

there are puzzles,
then there
is life.
which is much
more confusing
and complex
than any board
game, or rubik's
cube you can
hold in your
hand. there is
more logic
and reason in
a roulette
wheel or a toss
of the dice,
than what happens
in the course
of day to day
living where
you don't play
to win, but just
to survive.

the idea

you come up with
a brilliant idea
in the middle
of the night.
an idea
so original
and clever that
there is no way
you could ever forget
such a thought, so
you don't turn
on the light and
write it down.
instead you fall
back to sleep,
and it's gone.

tea time

would you like
some tea,
she says, perhaps
some cookies
too. sugar
cookies, I
baked them
fresh this morning
just for you.
so what will
it be, earl
grey, or lipton
with a slice
of lemon,
perhaps some
ginseng, or
raspberry with
a hint of walnuts.
I have black
tea as well
she says holding
the box out
as proof.
and red tea,
and green tea...
and. stop. you say.
please stop,
you know that it's
just coffee
for me.
i'm sorry she
says. i'm all out.

perfectly imperfect

you cringed
when she
put ketchup
onto the hot
dog. mustard
on her potatoes.
dipped shrimp
into vinegar.
dancing
was not her
strong suit,
nor was getting
dressed,
a lime green hat
with an orange
vest
was normal fare.
the dogs howled
when she sang
with the windows
open,
but none of
that mattered,
when she made
love and
kissed you,
she was in her
element.
perfect in her
imperfections.

into the fog

where are all these
people you
used to know.
what roads have
they gone down
and not returned.
once so close,
within reach
by voice or mail,
or even touch,
but no more.
they've gone into
the fog that
thickens with each
passing year.

cutlery road

there are
forks in the road,
with confusing
directions on
which way to go,
and spoons
too. a knife
a spatual
and even a cheese
grater
sharp and gritty
against
your knuckles.
so much
cutlery to go
around,
the detours
are strange and
unknown, sharp
and bruising,
but you find a
way. you always
do.

not your day to die

things
change so quickly
one second
you are on a roof
on a ladder
and within
a blink or
two you
have pinwheeled
into the air,
the brilliant
blue eyed
sky and sun
above you,
a victim
of gravity
and carelessness.
you land flat
on your back.
and when you
stand to check
your extremities
for movement
and blood, or
broken bones,
and find none,
you can only
think that this
day was not
your day
to die.

night fright

at ten you
were finally
convinced that
there were no
monsters
under the bed,
no ghosts
flying about,
or bloody ghouls
hiding
in the closet,
there were
no chained
lost souls
rattling in
the attic dragging
bones across
the floor boards,
but there was
your little brother,
grinding his
teeth in
the bed next
to you
and that was
scary enough.

hooray!

on a grey cold
day in may,
in pouring rain
you go to the party
store and buy
confetti, boxes of
it. it's on sale
because it's seven
months away from
new years eve.
but you never know
when unexpected
happiness may occur,
and you like to
be prepared. you
even have champagne
in a bucket of ice,
and noise makers
close at hand,
you have a glittered
hat, ready to
be put on,
that says hooray!
despite everything
and the rain you
are optimistic
about a change.

snap shot

the subtle
curve
of her
lying down
against
the afternoon
light
makes you stop
in the air
borne dust
of day
and say nothing.
holding
the moment of
her pale
figure
like a snap
shot
from an old
camera,
whirring
in your mind.

to always be right

what is it like
to be always right
and perfect,
to win every argument
and fight,
to be so sure
of your self
that every misstep
is a step
in the right direction.
what must it
be like to look into
the mirror and
see an image
that only you
perceive.
how strange it is
to have no friends,
because of this,
but being always
right, seems to
blanket that too.

your garden

you rake away
the fallen apples,
worm filled
and bitten
by black winged
birds, you
pull the intrusive
vines
and weeds away
from the garden
and house,
their tendrils
biting into
the red brick.
you cut the wild
branch down, keeping
it from
the roof and wires
where it may
fall when laden
with snow.
if only it was
so easy
with so called
friends and relatives
to rid them
from your otherwise
peaceful
garden.

the massage

with her small
hands, the masseuse
kneads
her tightly
balled fist into
the nape of
your neck.
you are stretched
out naked
expect for a white
terry cloth
towel across
your backside.
your muscles are
tight, she says,
in good English.
you are knotted up
right here, she
whispers, as if it's
a secret. she crawls
onto the table
with her tiny body
to pound out
the lump of
muscle and sinew
that she has
found. why so much,
tension, she
says, digging
deep into the area
of concern
with her thumb.
it's my mother,
you tell her. that
one there is my
mother, the other
knot on the other
side is my ex,
and at the top
of my neck
and shoulders
is work. I understand,
she says.
I used to have
those lumps too.
but no more. I get
a massage all the time
and takes it away.
good, you tell her,
groaning a little
as she jams an elbow into
your shoulders.
can I walk on your back,
she says. i am light.
I can get deeper
that way.
sure, you tell her,
why not. join
the club.

up side down

one day you
awaken
and the sky is
green.
the grass is
blue,
the sun is where
the moon
should be,
and the cats
are barking,
fish are flying
across
the wide
lagoon.
the world
is suddenly up
side down.
you're even
smiling.

over the wall

you often made
the comparison of prison
with a bad
marriage.
always planning an
escape as you
tossed in your bed
with her beside
you, one eye open.
but it wasn't that
bad, when it was
good. once it soured
though, there
was no barbed wire,
or guards, or
walls that you
couldn't get passed
to get to the other
side and freedom.
some people do well
in confinement,
but you weren't
one of them.

she, the jury

she liked to be
dramatic
tossing her long
red hair back
and say things like
it's curtains
for you buddy,
if you don't
straighten up
and fly right.
i'm drawing the line
in the sand
right here. she'd
say, pointing at
her flip flopped
feet, a cigarette
dangling from
her pouty
lips. don't
cross it again or
you'll be pushing
up daisies. of course,
this would make
you laugh
and shake your head.
she loved mickey
spillane and couldn't
put his books
down once she got
into them.

test of wills

my long departed
dog
moe
would find
a rock
in his wanderings
and bring
it home
to lick
then hide
in the corner
of the room.
i'd find
it at some point
and toss it
back out into
the yard,
of course,
annoyed at me,
he'd bring it
back in
an hour later
and search for
a more secretive
spot.
was it the rock,
its salty
flavor,
or was it a
test of wills,
i'm not
sure, but he
was strange
like that.

a fresh start

you give the
f.b.i.
a call and ask them
if they can put
you into a witness
protection
program.
you've committed
no crime, have
been a stellar
citizen,
you even recycle
when you think of
it, but you are just
tired of being
who you are.
you want a new life,
a new name. you
want to move
to a new neighborhood
where no one
knows you. someplace
with a warmer
climate, perhaps.
just a fresh start.
but they say no.
you have to be
in danger of some
group or organization
like the mob,
they tell you, plus
you have to give us
reliable information
which leads to
the conviction
of these people.
what about
the woman who doesn't
pick up after her
dog, you tell them.
I can give you everything
on her. I hate her.
the whole neighbor
hood despises her.
she's such a gossip
too. I see her
looking into my
windows when she
passes by with that dog.
everyday it does
it's business in my yard
and she leaves it there
for me to step in.
i'll even take pictures,
you tell them, but
no, they say. not
good enough.

no musical skills

I am a pumice
stone,
I am
a peninsula
you sing
to yourself
in trying to write
a song
like I am
a Rock
by paul
simon. but
the words
don't ring
true, plus
your musical
abilities span
the instruments
of tapping
the dashboard
and whistling,
badly.
occasionally
you can find
the beat with
a wooden spoon
when you are
in the kitchen,
listening
to the radio,
but it's
more of an accident.

the dinner theater

it was a fine attempt
to stage the west side
story
at the strip mall dinner
theater
off route 236.
the music was loud,
the dancers and singers
were expressive
and enthusiastic
when they took to
the stage after serving
meals and drinks
to an audience of mostly
octogenarians
who had arrived on
buses from as far
away as new jersey.
the jets versus
the sharks. but there
was a little too much
swish in their hips,
sweetness in their
threats and limp in
their wrists as they
jabbed words and rubber
knives
at one another.
and you remember
during the tender moment
of the song
maria, as the lights
grew blue and soft
and the young actor
sang with his hands
clenched to his heart,
how an old man
in the audience
at his round table of
clinking glasses
and spoons
and coffee cups,
stood up and yelled,
I can't eat this meat,
look it's stringy,
dangling his grey
strip steak
and gristle out to his
waiter who was singing.

on the roof

the roof
is hot
under your shoes
as you
negotiate
the angle
and gritty surface
of the old
tiles.
on the ground
those two boards
could be painted
in five
minutes,
but this will
take an hour.
you slide a little
then steady
yourself,
using your weight,
leaning
towards the center.
holding a brush,
and a bucket
out like a wire
walker.
there is
nothing to hang
onto, but
air
and your faith
and up here,
surfing
this house
it doesn't seem
quite
enough sometimes.

how she takes a bath

when she takes
a bath
it's a cosmic
journey.
candles are lit,
the lights
are dimmed,
music is played.
a glass of
wine is poured
as the bubbles
rise
in the steamy
tub. a book
of poetry or two
are brought
in, a romantic
novel. clean towels
are fluffed
and folded
nearby. a pumice
stone, a razor
and a small
mirror sits
on the porcelain
edge. fragrant
soaps and lotions.
lemons
and limes abound.
vanilla too.
then the door
closes
and she's gone
for hours
at a time.

slightly off

only when
the pen
rolls
slowly off
the desk
do you notice
how slightly
crooked
the whole world
is, just
as you suspected
all along.

the mechanic

he loved cars.
the older
and more work
they needed
the better. a little
rust was good.
scratches and split
upholstery was
welcomed.
an engine
missing a beat,
a starter
the whirred
incessantly or
an axle out
of sync made
him smile. he swooned
over
the puzzle of
a sticky valve,
lifting the hood
with an oily
wrench in hand.
so when he married
again
for the third
time, a troubled
and broken down
woman, you could
see the pattern
of his life
more clearly.

friend me, please

you log onto your
facebook
account, such as it
is, after months
of neglect.
the cobwebs
are everywhere,
dust balls
roll beneath
the old pictures
and lame postings
about some picnic
you were
forced to go to
last easter
and stand
for a group picture.
you've lost friends
as well.
they've given up
on you, whoever
they were.
a few relatives
too have disappeared
from your meager
friend count.
you haven't offically
hit the like
button for anything
for over a year,
and that
historic moment
was for jelly donuts,
which everyone
but your mother
ignored. she liked
it too, but
sympathetically.
you observe
some of your more active
friends. they seem
so happy, with so
many things to do,
events to attend.
they have a thousand
friends, many
of them close.
they are sharing laughs
and hugs,
cyber kisses and words
of encouragement.
some are holding up fish
that they caught,
others are eating pancakes
with big smiles
on their syrupy faces.
they show their cookies
that they baked
and their dogs
jumping for a Frisbee.
I feel sad when I
look at their profiles.
they are having
so much fun without me.
I rub my hands by the
screen and sigh, warming
myself with
their happiness.

at the end

things you won't
say
on your death bed:
I wish
I had worked longer
hours, weekends
too. i wish i
had watched
more t.v., read
more books like
the da vinci code
and james joyce.
I wish that I had
eaten more hummus
and carob. drank
more soy milk.
I wish
that i'd joined
the army
and fought in a
war or been a cop
on the beat giving
out wood shampoos.
I wished I had
seven children,
and three wives,
two being quite
enough. I wish i'd
seen the norh pole,
or been inside
a salt mine, or
lived with nine
other people in
an igloo.
I wish I had become
a used car
salesman, or a circus
clown or a greeter
in a store. I wish
I had been anyone else
but me.

done with luck

what good
is the lucky
rabbit's foot
to a rabbit.
not so much
luck
there despite
four
of them.
i'd rather not
count on
the randomness
of so called
luck
and just plow
ahead
hoping for
the best. don't
give me
some curly
cue bald head
to rub, or an
alladin's lamp
don't point
out a twinkling
star a trillion
miles from
here to wish
upon. those lucky
numbers,
that lucky unwashed
hat. go ahead
and throw it
on the bed. no
worries. i'm done
with luck.
there is no such
thing.