zookeeper

the zoo keeper,
on his daily walk
down through the zoo
gives the chimp a wink
throws him
a banana.
he's got a few
goldfish
in his pocket for
the seals,
some bird seed
for the birds.
he feels sorry
for all these animals
locked up
behind bars, no
crime committed
other than being rare
or cute. adorable
and different.
how sad to be confined
for life in a cell
because of such
sweet attributes,
but the snakes, he
has nothing for,
taking a wide path
around their hissing
mouths.

martinis and brunettes

you make the mistake
of opening
a sixteen ounce
bag of salted
and shelled
pistachio nuts
at your desk.
it isn't long
before the pile
of shells
grows to the left
of the keyboard.
a crumbly hill
of pale debris.
what demons
these nuts are
going from hand
to mouth after
nibbling at
the stubborn
shell, biting
the green bean
clean of it's
snug little house.
you can't eat them
fast enough.
you'll never buy
another bag and
do this again.
but you say that
about everything
you indulge yourself
in. from martinis
to brunettes,
and now this.

driven

the bees are in
the wood
burrowing
frenetically
in perfect
circles.
it takes them
very little time
to carve
through one
side to the other.
there seems to be
no discussion
as to what they
are doing,
they just do it.
all of them
agreed upon this
one task.
and when
the woodpeckers
arrive
to take them
out, you understand
the progression
of things
though you ponder
your own
place in life.

here, hold my baby

it occurs to you
at some point
in your life
that women love babies.
they adore babies.
even when they are
virtually children
themselves,
they want plastic
baby dolls that cry
and pee. they want
to hold them,
play with them,
pretend that they
are theirs. they love
their own babies,
their neighbor's babies.
babies on the bus,
babies being pushed
in carriages,
and even more so
the grandbabies.
they can't stop talking
about them, touching
them, showing
you photos, posting
pictures and videos
on facebook
of all the babies
in their life. and you
can't tell one from
the other. all bald
and wiggly with food
on their faces.
put a baby in a room
full of women
and it's like a flock
of seagulls
around an open loaf
of wonder bread
on the beach.
they always want you
to hold a baby, pushing
the baby towards you
like drunken
sailors trying to buy
you another shot
of tequila.
here, just take it.
go on, go ahead. hold
my baby. look how cute
he is. put your hand
behind his head.
there you go. now rock
him. oh, now he's crying,
what have you done?
you are filled
with information about
everyone's babies.
which one pooped,
which one is talking,
which one is walking,
which one put his finger
in a light socket.
which one has a new tooth.
women love babies.
and you? well, they're
okay, but you're sort
of done with babies.

he won't say he loves me

worried sick about
how her relationship
is going,
she calls you, and
asks for advice. I
think he's seeing other
women, she says.
you can almost hear
her wringing her hands
on the other end.
pulling at strands
of hair on her head.
what makes you think
that, you ask. I don't
know, she says.
we spend four days
and nights a week
together, but I don't
know what he does
the other three.
plus, he has never
said that he loves me.
yesterday he bought
me flowers and I started
crying. no one
buys flowers unless
they feel guilty about
doing something.
so true, you say.
so true. maybe I should
break up with him
she says, end it to stop
this pain. or maybe
I should wait until
after my birthday,
and that trip we have
planned to Europe.
tough call you tell her.
tough call.

large head

the kid
with no social
filters
stares at you
across the dining
room table
then with a mouthful
of mashed potatoes
says.
you have a big
head mister.
it's like a
helmet. shiny
and large.
do people call
you pumpkin head?
you'd laugh,
but instead you
look into the reflection
of your spoon
and think, maybe
I do. what can
be done about that?
a striped
hat perhaps.

Plan B

plan b
goes into effect
tomorrow.
plan a,
had its chance.
there is no
plan c
to speak of,
but it could
happen as well
if plan b fails
and there is
no other
plan
to fall back
on. it's
the way of war,
of love,
of economics.
trying another
option
until there
are no more.

electricity

you go through
a flurry
of mechanical
break downs.
the washer
not washing,
the dryer
not hot,
the air conditioning
unit, whirring to
an ominous clunk
of a stop.
the smell of
burning peels,
in the disposal,
that too, silent
like a well.
even the lights
flicker,
for some unknown
reason
as you hit the switch
and turn
it off.
on cat's feet you walk
the house, avoiding
electricity.
candle in hand
like ben
franklin
in his long robe
thinking about
kites
and lightning.

the gardener

her arms
against the white
table cloth,
the veins
open in harsh
sunlight,
strings of blue
and violet,
with blotches
of brown,
like fallen
leaves,
roads she's
taken,
and left
behind.
the gardens
that she's tilled,
the loves
she's nourished
and set
free.
her life was
always in her
hands.
turning the earth
over each
spring to see
what might
come up, what
might survive
and be taken
within.

the sub plot

sometimes
the story goes
in a direction
that you never thought
it would.
you didn't see
it coming,
that stroke of luck.
how she came
through the door
when you did.
was it meant to be,
was it always
in the cards, or
was it something else.
a distracting plot
line, keeping you
from the heart
of where the story
is going?

the rose bushes

with spite
she burns
the toast,
puts the coffee out
cold.
denies him
affection.
he lets the lawn
go.
the weeds
rising higher
than the thorny
rose
bushes
they bought
together some
sunny spring
when
things were
looking up,
not down.
he keeps his
words
to himself.
she keeps herself
to herself.
everyone knows
but doesn't know
that it's over.
her mother says
leave, her sister
agrees. her father
can't stand him
to begin with.
but there's the dog,
the money.
the kids.
the vacation house
in the florida
keys.
let's get another
rose bush, he says,
breaking
the ice.
okay, she says.
let's. and so it
goes.

the old broom

she can't let
go
of her old
broom.
curled at the end
the bristles
hard
and broken,
the handle
chipped.
it sits like
a witches ride
in the nook
of a kitchen
cupboard.
new brooms are
cheap,
but not so much
the memories
of what she
had to clean
and sweep
to get her life
right again.

how different love is

how different
love is
each time
it begins
and yet
how much
the same
it is
when it ends.

but to go on

the patient
rises
holds onto
the bed
and sits up.
the sun
as always
is in the window.
the radio
is on.
a plant leans
on the sill
towards
the light.
the faucet drips.
the cat
meows.
everything seems
to ignore
his dying.
what choice
does the world
have, but
to go on.

life for some

life
for some
is slow dying.
work
fills
the day.
joy is a dish
washing
liquid
that sits
on the edge
of a sink.
love is a word
on a
hallmark
card, with
a cartoon
heart.
dreams are
pillows
stuffed with
feathers.
life for
some, but not
all,
is slow
dying.

in the future

in the future we
will all get along.
technology will give us
more time to be
with one another.
we won't be obsessed
with money and work.
religions and race
won't matter.
even old people won't
be dismissed
as meaningless.
we will have more
time to read books,
make love, write
poetry and songs.
in the future
we won't need cars,
we will fly about
like birds.
no one will go hungry.
there will be no
need for guns
or lawyers in
the future. peace
and understanding
will flourish
and blossom with our
advanced way of
thinking. the future
will be promises
fulfilled. it will
be the good road
taken. we will all
wear white robes
in the future to show
how good we have
become. how kind
and compassionate
we have made our new
world.

in your good time

I can see
people on the other
side.
she whispers
lying in
bed,
the rain coming
down outside
her window.
I see my mother
and father,
my sister
who took her own
life, she says,
reaching
a hand out as if
to touch someone.
it's all so
clear, she says,
smiling. it's all
so good.
I'm glad to be
going, don't weep
for me. i'll
see when you
arrive in your
good time.
in your good time.

a little bit more

your neighbor
starts his own church
one day.
it's an obvious tax
dodge, but who cares.
he's doing good work.
he asked for a donation
the other day,
but you refused, not
knowing exactly where
the money might be
going. you see a
lot of empty vodka
bottles in his yellow
recycling bin every
Thursday morning.
last week he put a sign
up on his roof
in red fluorescent
lights. The Church
of Jimmy it blinks.
he emptied
his living room
and put pews in,
facing the flat screen
tv at the far end
of the room. sometimes
you hear him
practicing his sermons,
while pacing the room,
yelling about how
the crops will come
in if you put
in the basket just
a little more,
a little bit more.

love, sylvia

i'm no longer
in a mental
institution
she writes to you
via e mail from an
address you don't
recognize.
I've escaped.
right now i'm in a
library using one
of their computers
while a line of kids
waiting to their
book reports
stand behind me.
i'm going to be in
your town, next week,
if I can steal a car
and rob a store
without getting caught.
if you aren't seeing
anyone, or in a
relationship, perhaps
I could come over
and we could snuggle
on the couch, get
some Chinese carryout
like the old days.
maybe you could make
us up some mai tais
and we could play
scrabble. I've learned
a lot of new words
since I've been
institutionalized.
write back soon, got
to go, the security
guard is coming for
me. bye.
love, Sylvia.

you work

you work
for money to
buy you things.
like food.
and clothes.
gas for the car.
a martini or
two and a steak
when needed.
it's a selfish
life
with the boy
in California,
the ex wife
remarried,
the dog
in dog heaven.
but you feel no
guilt.
you sleep well
under the stars,
under
the roof that
you pay
for with work.
you have your
books. your
poetry.
your hands, your
eyes.
your memories
still in tact,
and tomorrow, at
least you hope
you do.

your receding gums

your dentist
comes into the room
as you lie back
in the chair
listening to the doors
greatest hits in muzak
form. she's holding
a computer print
out, x-rays
and pushing an
empty wheelbarrow.
you know the news
can't be good.
i'm very sorry to have
to tell you this,
she says, but
your gums are receding.
I measured them
last year and like
the shoreline
along our coasts,
there is less land
than there used
to be. no kidding,
you say. but isn't that
just the inevitability
of aging
and eventual death.
true she ways, but
we can do something
about that now
with our new gum implants.
we'll take the tissue
from another part
of your body and
surgical stitch it into
the places where
your gums have receded.
but maybe I like
the vampire look, you
tell her. it's kind
of a hip cool style
to have long teeth
in this day and age.
perhaps when all
the vampire movies
and shows go out
of fashion, i'll
consider it.
well, don't wait too
long, she says. right
now, the cost is only
one wheel barrow full
of money, next year it
could be two. well, i'm
willing to take my
chances, you tell her.
say, when does
that new technician come
in? the pale one with
dark eyes and red lips.
she's kind of cute.

the church parking lot

at the light,
as you wait
for it to turn
green
you see a fight
break out
in the church
parking lot.
it doesn't
seem to be a
religious discussion,
but one more
of who
scratched whose
door
when getting out
or getting in.
it's a heated
discussion
as each
parishioner points
his church
bulletin at
the other one's
chest. you wish
that you could
see how it
turns out.
but the light
changes.
it's a busy church,
you think as
you drive away.
maybe valet parking
is the answer.

unplayed

the black piano
in the window
sits
unplayed.
collecting
dust, a photograph
or two sits
nearby and
the petals
of flowers
from a tall
glass vase.
it shines
brightly
in the sun
for everyone
on the street
to see.
there may not
be music
coming out,
but it
looks good,
and who's
to know of
the silence
that lies within.

remember when

he starts off
each conversation
by saying
when I was younger.
he's been doing this
for years.
never enjoying
the moment that
he's in. my wife
was pretty and
slender, he says.
you should have
seen her then,
you should have
seen me. we
had so much fun
back then.
life was good.
then he stares
out the window,
avoiding his
own reflection
in the glass, not
wanting to see
what the dead
look like.

the queen of ice cream

she was the queen
of ice cream.
slender and pale,
wanting a
soft or hard
dessert.
sugar cone, or
cake. no matter
the season, you
rarely saw her
without a cone
in her hand,
and a chocolate
or strawberry
smear on her chin.
you wondered
why she didn't
weigh three hundred
pounds, but she was
shy and slim,
always with the mona
lisa smile
and grin. a coupon
to dairy queen
in her purse
waiting to be
cashed in.

doctor cupcake

when she was
a young scientist
she had no idea that
she would be
baking cupcakes
in her golden years.
from test tubes,
to eggs and butter
in a bowl.
but she kept her
white smock,
with the doctor
script on the pocket
and smiles now
instead of frowns
when the oven bell
rings that they're
ready.

how love ends

the story is the same.
you've heard it
over and over
again. the characters
change.
the location and
seasons
may be different.
but everything else
repeats
and repeats itself.
a familiar pattern
with similar results
on how love ends.
you know it before
the first word
is spoken, but you
sit and listen
anyway, hoping for
something new.

the boxer

the boxer,
cut and bleeding
in his corner
as the card
girl walks
slowly by
with the round
number.
the crowd
on edge, he spits
into the bucket.
someone wipes
his brow.
he sees double
and his
head and muscles
ache
and pound from
not just this fight
but the ones
that came before
it. there is
only the next
payday now.
the notion of
being champ, long
gone.
the bell rings
and he gets up
to go to work
again. as do you.

the whistle

the man
in the ditch,
with a shovel
in hand,
whistles at the woman
walking by,
spirited
in her summer
dress, her head
held high.
she doesn't
turn to look,
nor does the man
expect her to do
so. the whistle
for both of
them is a good
thing, that's
all it is
and nothing more.
neither wanting
that desire
to ever stop.

the song bird

she had no singing
voice what so ever
but she loved
to sing, for you
and strangers.
pulling her hair
back over her
shoulders and smiling
brightly as she
she began. her
guitar playing was
even worse, but it
didn't stop her,
as she sang and played
the night away
to anyone who would
listen. you never
had the heart
to tell her how
badly it all was.
she was too nice
a person, but it didn't
matter. your bags
were never unpacked
to begin with. your
shoes never left
beneath her bed.

as it should be

how fast
they leave,
the children
once under
foot, and on
the swing.
how quickly
they move to
the side of their
own lives,
making room
for their dreams,
leaving you
behind,
as it should
be.

the unseen

there's always
more
to what meets
the eye.
take that tree
for example.
or the ocean,
or you
and me.
what lies
below doesn't
always come
up in conversation
or confession,
sometimes
it's left alone,
as it should be,
to always
be unseen.

the falling star

in a wide field
away from
city lights
someone points
to a falling star
and says, look,
make a wish.
some do. some don't.
some are
done with wishes
and want to be
left alone
in their own
happiness,
savoring the quiet
and peace
they have created.
but you remember
wishing too.
many times.

modern lust

she runs with scissors,
talks with her
mouth full.
never looks you in
the eye, or say what
she means, or
means what she says.
but she has other
attributes
that make up for
so much of what she
lacks in manners
and education.
after all it's not
a forever thing,
and you'll never
tell her exactly where
you live, or
what your real name
is. it's not modern
love, but something
akin to modern lust
and loneliness
bumping into one
another.

fix the pipes

you call
your landlord
to complain
about the clanking
pipes.
the radiator
banging
loudly
throughout
the night.
it's affecting
my relationship
you tell him.
no one wants
to spend
the night with
that noise going
on.
i'll lower the
rent, he says,
how's that.
no. you say.
i'll let you have
a dog, a cat
too, he bargains.
no, you say.
I want it fixed.
I want the pipes
to stop making
noise.
how about I repaint
the apartment
for free, he
says. no, you
tell him. no, no
no. you must really
like this one
a lot he says.
she must be special.
you ignore the sarcasm
in his voice.
fix it, please,
you tell him.
okay, okay, he
says. i'll send
a plumber over
tonight. i'll come
with him too.
I've got to see
this girl.

the weight lifter

you see the body
builder
outside the gym.
sitting on a curb,
crying.
his muscles, and veins
shake
as he sobs
into his large
tanned hands.
his shirt is too
tight for
him, the muscles
rippling
along his shoulders.
his neck is a
tree trunk,
his arms
are the size of
your legs.
even the curb he
sits upon seems
to buckle beneath
his massive weight.
what's wrong, you
ask, as you stop
before him.
it's my cat he says.
I had to put
fluffy to sleep
this morning. I
loved that cat.
you put out your hand
to try to help
him up.

be still

the world could
use a time out.
a quiet nap.
just a few hours
or so. to slow
down to a stop.
no talking, no
fighting
no arguing,
no debates or
discussion. just
everyone
shut up for awhile
and be still.
see how that goes.

standing on her head

she likes
to stand on her head
and make
a small
humming noise.
she's in her
yoga
pants, against
the wall
while you
are on the couch
eating
potato chips.
your eyes
move back and
forth
from the tv
to her, her
legs, her hips,
the way
her hair hangs
upside down.
you see her
ears get red
as the blood rushes
to her
head. and her
arms begin to tremble
from the weight.
you ask her
if she needs
any help. she says
no but
tells you not
to eat all the chips,
to save her
some. even upside
downm, she has
her eyes on you.

lane change

the lanes
have changed.
where once
you swerved left.
you now
go right.
the exit
isn't where
it used
to be
and it takes
some time
getting used
to.
as all things
do
when life
changes
your lanes.

breaking news

she loves
the news.
the gossipy
juicy news of
who killed
who. who's
cheating and lying.
and corrupting
our youth.
the tv is on
all day.
with Jessica,
the view,
oprah, paula
and oj.
a bag of chips
is near
the remote,
the cell phone
too.
just in case
between storms
and new
revelations
there is breaking
news
with the jury's
verdict,
or a slimy new
clue.

saying no

it's hard to say
no
sometimes, so
you say okay,
maybe i'll
come, but don't
count on
me. there may
be traffic,
the weather, I
have to walk
my dog.
but I really
do want to come.
so, i'm saying
yes, but
with an asterisk.
maybe.
okay? which makes
them smile
and say.
perhaps next time,
to which you say
yes. okay.
i'll be there,
but you never
show.

abandoned tub

the rusted
tub
in the woods
once held
a tired naked
body
in warm
water.
perhaps,
they brought
a book
in to read,
or lit
a candle,
maybe there was
a glass of
wine sitting
on the porcelain
edge,
but now
it sits
empty, some weeds
coming through
the drain
around the pipes,
a home
for frogs,
and birds,
things
that need
shelter.
they don't seem
to find it
unusual
to find a tub
abandoned deep
into the woods.
but you
do.

i never meet men with money

I never seem to meet any
men who have money, she
says, sitting at the kitchen
table while flipping through
a copy of Vanity Fair.
I thought we had some saltine
crackers, you say out loud,
rummaging through the cupboards.
Ate em, she says. You have
ants, by the way,
not looking up as she
licks her thumb before
turning a page. You shrug
and take a butter knife
to skim out the last of
the peanut butter from a jar.
All the men I meet are just
average joes, punching
the clock, driving old
beat up cars. No offense,
she says. None taken, you
say, licking the end
of the knife.
She flips another page
and stares at a David Yurman
bracelet, holding it
up to the light.
Maybe it's your kung fu.
What? You know, your feng shui,
your karma. You're attracting
men like me because of your
negative attitude.
Whatever, she says. I want
to go places. We never go
anywhere. What are you talking
about. We went to that Batman
movie last week. That was
a forty dollar night out,
because you had to super
size everything. Speaking of
which do you still have that
box of junior mints in your
purse. Yup, she says, but
they're probably melted by
now because it's so hot in
here. Why don't you turn on
the air conditioning? It is
on. I set it at 74. she
says something under her
breath about your mother,
then flips another page.
Are we or are we not
eating out tonight?
she asks. I'm starving.
those three crackers are not
going to hold me.
You look at your watch.
Well, there's going to be
a long line at Chipotles
at this hour. How about I
scramble up some eggs. do you
have any cheese? she asks.
Got some American slices.
Mushrooms, chives? she says.
Nope, you say, staring into
the bare abyss of the
refrigerator.
Figures, she says.

bonjourno

when they return
from Italy
they are smitten
with it's beauty
and culture.
suddenly they are
driving up
to the mall in
their mini vans
to buy paint the color
of golden
apples in sunlight,
gallons of
browns and muted
yellows, shades
of tuscany.
they find
in stacks the machine
painted pictures
of grapes
that linger on
the vine. chefs
in large white
hats. they
buy venetian plaster,
reading quickly
the easy three step
directions
and smear it on
their walls,
they buy scarfs
to throw across
their shoulders.
red wine by the box.
with coupons they pick
up a pasta machine,
and wide brimmed
hats for working
in their townhouse
yards.
they flip through
the photos
for anyone they see,
regaling a story,
each a priceless
tale, a work
of art, an Aesop's
fable. they show
you the one of
a peasant sweeping
dirt in a store
front, which is
your favorite.

lucky penny

your lucky
penny
has expired.
you can tell
by the expression
her face,
the way she
limply hugs you.
it's dull now
where once
it shined
happy in your
hand.
you need a new
lucky penny.
a horseshoe
and a rabbit's
foot as well.
a lucky star
to wish upon
to bring back
what was.
put the Jeannie
back into
the bottle.

night crawlers

they come
out at night
their eyes
aglow
their bodies
warm
venturing
into places
that they never
would
in light
these are not
the people
you invite
over for
Christmas
dinner, or
any holiday
for that matter.
there is blood
on their
teeth, and
mischief on
their minds.

one loose thread

she stitched
her life together
so carefully
by hand, by book,
by manners
and beauty. never
noticing
the thread she
left unhooked,
needing only
one hard pull
to unravel
everything.

the apartment

as he packs
each box
marking the room
where it
will end.
he begins to
write, anywhere,
or who
cares
with a dark
ink pen.
it's come to
this.
a marriage dissolved,
children
grown and blown
to their own
lives,
now finding
two bedrooms
down from five
in a three story
walk up
with a view
of the pool.
another start
all over again.

the long hour

the bloom
of red
and blue loud
blossoms
in the sky
are nice
to look at
as the rockets
sail with
a whirl
upwards towards
the stars.
they repeat
themselves
over and over
across
the safety of
water, on
a distant dark barge.
after two or
three though
you've seen them
all and what
joy was found so
quickly
fades in the summer
wind.

the spill

teetering
in heels, she
nearly
spills out
of her dress,
the words falling
easily to the floor
from the brim
of her open
mouth.
she needs
something or someone
to lean on.
perhaps we all do,
some glasses
being neither
half empty or
half full, but just
dripping always
over the edge.

animals

what we want
gets harder and harder
to say.
so much of what
you desired
when young is
now in the attic,
the garage,
someplace
where you don't
remember.
it goes to back
to food
and drink,
sex and love,
respect, whatever
that might
mean,
in no particular
order.
sleep and shelter.
animals till
the very end.

no charge

you see your therapist
at the local
bar, in a dark corner
by herself. she's sobbing
into her hands.
you go up to her and
ask her what's wrong.
everything she says,
not startled by seeing
a patient outside
the office. she's drinking
scotch on the rocks.
a pack of cigarettes
is on the bar,
next to her cell phone.
she's taken off her
wedding band too,
which sits beside her
drink, wet in an
icy puddle. I know
you she says, don't
I. you're a patient
of mine, are you the one
scared of the dark,
or is it bridges.
you laugh, no you say.
i'm the one who whines
about his ex wife
and his mother. oh, right,
she says, you never
felt loved. yeah.
that's me. Tuesdays
at 7, right she says,
taking a gulp of her
drink. yeah, you say.
well, get over it, quit
being a baby, man
up and move on with your
life. she wipes
a tear out of her eye.
come back to me when you
have a real problem,
okay? okay. you tell
her. I will. in fact
that's the best advice
you've given me in months.
no charge she says.
now leave me alone.
I've got problems too.

small change

as you reach
into your pockets
to pull
out the spare
change from a day
of spending
you listen to it
hit the bowl
and rattle
against yesterdays
still nickels
and dimes
quarters, resting
their heads
against one another.
at some point
you'll haul them
to the bank and pour
them slowly into
the machine, minus
the banks cut,
then start all over
again
with fresh bills.
such is life.
repeating itself
in small things.

the new dress

I bought a new dress
she says, spinning around
in the living room.
do you like it?
you look up from
applying calamine
lotion to your leg,
and say. hmmm. looks
like all the other
ones. no, she says.
this one is green
and blue, the other
one was blue and
green. oh, you say.
this itching is
killing me. are those
new shoes too.
no, she says, but
I think I need some
to go with the new
dress. okay, you say,
pick me up some
gauze and more lotion
while your out.

the worry

as she lies
sick and dying
in her bed,
nearing the end
of her life
she wonders why
she spent
so much time
worrying
over men.
how to get them,
how to keep
them, how to
get rid of
them when it
didn't work out.
why couldn't
she have been
happy
alone. now
in drawing
her last breath
she whispers
to herself,
wringing her
boney hands,
which ones
will arrive
to see her
off at death.

cast all your cares upon me

feeling blue,
actually purple and
bruised
emotionally, you
dust off your shelf
of self help
religious books
and start browsing
through. looking
lazily for a phrase,
a proverb, a line
of wisdom to get
you through the day.
fortunately you've
underlined in black
marker many of the books
when the chips were
down, so it's
easy to fetch some
quick and easy help.
cast all your cares
upon me, is the one
you grab hold of
and leave the house
with today. you're
running late, so
it will have to do.

santa in shorts

I miss Christmas
she says, tapping her
foot and eating jello
on the front porch.
I miss the carols,
the lights, the smell
of the tree.
we should have two
Christmas's she says.
one in july,
one in December.
don't you think it
would be fun, she
says, scooping out
the skin of stuck jello
from her bowl. it could
work you say.
I can see santa in shorts
right now, like
the mail man
coming up the street.

within and without

you've painted a thousand
houses, at least.
inside and out.
most were pleased, but
some expected
the yellow to brighten
their mood,
the blue to raise
their spirits.
a red to throw color
into their mundane
lives. and when nothing
happened, sometimes
they took it out on you.
the slight crookedness
from the line of your brush,
as your hand moved,
the small splatter
at the edge of the room.
the curtain rehung
not quite right. still
unhappy, within
and now, without.

the cold sun

the writing professors,
full to the brim
with Faulkner,and
henry james, salinger
and joyce carol
oates, are writing
children's books.
it seems easier,
to go the dr.
seuss route than
to involve one's
mind into
the love and pain
of day to day
existence. enough
of that. but they
stumble on the art
work, and so the pile
of awkward words
sits dust laden
in the corner
near where the old
dog lies in
the cold sun.

strange cat

a strange cat
is on your porch when
you arrive home.
a striped grey
tabby with a white
chin. it meows
and rubs her body
and head against
your leg as you bend
down to pet it.
she wants in, but you
aren't so sure.
there is no collar,
no sign of anyone
down the sidewalk.
she stares up into
your eyes, hers are
nearly as green
as yours are.
but you don't let
her enter. you set
out a bowl of milk,
which she ignores,
shrugs, then walks
away. it wasn't
love at first site,
but she almost fooled
you.

the future

the future never
arrived.
the promises of
youth
dashed and faded
in comic
books
and fiction.
movies of what
could be, that never
was.
everything was
to be silver
and smart.
the pain all gone.
famines
erased.
cold water
and blue seas
for everyone.
blood seeped
no more
into foreign
soil.
how little has
changed
that we can see.
the future not
being what it
used to be.

how thirsty they were

the summer heat
slowed everyone
down to nearly
a stop,
standing at the waters
edge
as if waiting
for their lives
to start
again.
even the trees
sighed in the warm
air.
women's dresses
clung to their
waists, men
wiped the sweat
from their brows
and necks.
the red faced children
looked tired
and angry,
sitting on
the rocks, throwing
sticks into
the slight ripple
of brown water.
later they would
all talk about how
hot is was, even
near the river, how
the boats had no
wind in their sails.
how long summer
had become, how
thirsty they were.

beach diet

get that egg
away from me, you
tell her. pushing
away the plate.
no bacon either.
or potatoes.
i'm on a diet.
getting beach
ready. but we only
have a week
before it's surf's
up, she says,
you'll never see
your abs before
then, which makes
you laugh and say
you're right, where's
the toast
and butter?

on bald tires

on bald tires,
and bad
brakes, one
wiper flopping
like a lazy
eye, red from
weeping.
a tail light
out, one
headlight
pointing not
to the road
but to a tree
in the woods
where a lone
deer waits
for the belching
of exhaust to
clear so that
he can pass,
in her rumble
seat,
she rolls and
rolls.
and it's not
the journey she
savors,
but the destination,
safe,
and home at last.

apart

apart, you think
more of her,
the appeal
increasing
with distance.
you forget
the rain, like trees
do, staying
full and green,
with what fell
before. you dismiss
the lightning,
the flood of
discontent
and cold.
that wind is a
distant memory.
you like her
more, from here,
across the miles,
behind the storm.

together

without so much
as a single word
the old couple
get on and off
the bus. decide on
where to eat
lunch, and discuss
the weather.
there came a time
in sharing the air
so long, that
the words had all
been said, and now
just a nod, a smile,
a narrowing of eyes,
is all they need
instead.

the sunfish

you feel compassion
for the sunfish
as you reel it in
on a thin filament
line. his life was
so sweet and easy,
sublime, below
the surface of the
water, his sunlit
body at ease
in the currents.
his sheen a yellow
shellac of flowers.
and now this.
this steel barb
caught on his lip.
tugging him to place
he has no business
being in.

the wait

I've gained
twenty pounds,
she says
on the phone
as she crunches
down on a
potato chip,
and not
in good places,
so I won't
be able
to see you again
until I lose
the weight.
can you wait
for me?
can you resist
your tom cat ways
and be patient
as I push
away that second
slice of pie,
hold off on
the pasta and
bread,
the chocolate
mousse
and crème
brulee?
are you still
there?

summer ice

shaved ice
with cherry
syrup
in a small
paper cup.
dribbling
down your
hand. to
be licked
and remembered
even now
after all
these years,
still
longing for
the same

less saucers

there are less
saucers
in the sky now.
less sightings
of monsters
in the swamp,
ghosts
rattling chains
in the attic,
ships lost at
sea, and aliens
with elongated
heads and bodies
abducting
your crazy
aunt bee.
ever since phones
can record
each waking
moment, the world
has become
less interesting,
more sane,
well, sort of.

two vultures on the side of the road

you over hear two vultures
talking to one another
on the side of the road.
they sit in the shade,
waiting, waiting, as
they do, with the patience
of Job. I don't know
Henry, the wife says.
the boy just isn't eating
right. he hates red meat.
it's this younger
generation, Martha, he
says. they all want
to eat vegetables,
soy, hummus and what not.
they are so health conscious.
that whole save the world
thing, he says,
shooing a fly away
from his beak with a
black oily wing.
but this is what we do,
she says, exasperated,
watching the cars roll
by. we are the original
recyclers, we are the leave
nothing to waste kings
and queens of nature.
I know, Henry says, what
are you gonna do? we
are living compost piles,
and we have a son
that wants to eat
carrots and string beans.
it's a shame, especially
with the volume of
cars out here now in
the middle of nowhere.
I think I've gained
five pounds this week alone
from so much eating.
he doesn't look good,
Martha says, staring at
her claws, sharpening them
against a rock. he can
barely fly sometimes, he's
so weak. Henry shakes
his head, then points,
across the road. look
do you see that? a possum,
looks like he's going to
make a go for it across
the highway. get ready.
i'm ready Henry, i'm always
ready, you know that, she
says winking. maybe we
can wrap some up and make
a stew for the boy,
tonight, Martha says,
stretching her legs.
i'll throw in some turnips
and onions. good idea,
Henry says. maybe go online
find a recipe. half meat,
half veggies.

go away, i'm making a sandwich

you pretend that
no one is home, as
a stranger knocks
at your door with a
box of something
and a serious looking
clipboard in his hand.
you crane your neck
over the sink
to look at him.
he sees you in the
kitchen, half naked,
as you make a sandwich
at the counter.
I can see you,
the man says. but
you don't answer.
you put two slices
of toasted rye
bread down
and lay on some
ham and cheese in
even amounts,
delicately. your
sandwiches are works
of art.
on goes the lettuce
as the doorbell
rings again
and again. a little
mayo, some onions.
roasted tomatoes.
you slice the sandwich
in half, carefully
pressing down so
as not to topple
the whole thing over.
hey, the voice says
as you pop a beer
and throw some
chips and a pickle
onto the plate.
are you going to answer
your door, or what?
you wonder what he's
holding in that box
beneath his arm.
but not enough to
find out, plus you
are hungry and the
sandwich is ready.

sun rays

you like the sun
although you realize
that it's bad
for you and will
eventually
turn you into a
prune of sorts. but
you embrace that
youthful feel
of warmth
on your face.
the same as it was
when you were
young. the summer
seemingly
endless and sweet.

the flowered dress

when she hangs
her flowery
summer dress
in the closet
against your
clothes,
you can almost
hear the pants
and shirts,
unironed,
straightening
up, getting
nervous. not
knowing quite
what to say, as
if all of this
was suddenly new.

the bee sting

bees don't
care
who they sting.
there is no
measure
in their
bite, they find
a small
place
to land
and let it
go. such are
the words
you fling
at those you
know
and don't
know.

saturday night?

mistakes were
made along the way.
words said
that shouldn't have
been said.
but we're only
human, or at least
some of us are.
we make
missteps, we make
bad choices.
everyone that is,
except you. yes
you. you know who
you are, and you
probably think
this poem is about
you, but it's not.
it's about me,
or who I used to
be. I've changed.
since 9 a.m.
this morning i'm
a different person.
more forgiving,
more kind to the unkind.
more tolerant
of the intolerant.
it's the coffee.
that second cup
of the morning that
puts a halo on me.
i'm turning over
not just a new leaf.
but uprooting the
entire tree. you'll
see. you'll coming
running back
begging for my
love and affection.
or maybe not
and if that's not
the case may you burn
in hell. I mean.
i'm sorry, I didn't
mean to say that.
really, I've changed.
Saturday night?

farewell

she buys
you a map for
your birthday.
what's this for
you ask.
it's a map she
says.
you're lost
and drifting.
you need some
direction in your
life. here, she
says. it's a
compass
and a sexton
with which you
can navigate
by the stars.
and what about
you, you ask
are you coming
along. no she
says. I know
where I am, and
where I'm going.
but I wish
you all the best
on your journey.
farewell.

the mayor of the court

the mayor of the court
with his war
wound limp
and purple heart
from nam
likes to post himself
on his porch
to have a better view
of the trash going
out early,
or the double parked
cars, or dogs
without leashes.
he's quick to yell
out instructions when
shoveling snow
from your walk, or
trimming that tree.
at night he wears a
coal miner's hat, with
a light so that he can
take even more notes
of disobeying
tenants, and to better
see. you wish
him no harm, but
laryngitis, or that
someone find him
a hobby, or to please
give him a thick summer
book to read.

life is enough

why aren't
the animals bored
with their lives
the child says,
staring out
the window. all
day long they
look for food,
build nests,
eat and sleep.
they have no books
to read, no
television to
entertain them.
it's the same
thing, day and night.
night and day.
how do they live
without phones
and computers?
they are more
advanced than we
are, you tell
him. they don't
need distractions,
life is enough.

power lines gone down

the power lines
are down
in the rain
snapping like
black snakes
along the road.
sparks lighting
up
the darkness
of the storm.
so much goes
on below
the wires,
that the storm
brings out.
like you.
placid and calm,
until lightning
strikes.

they don't like you enough

I keep meeting men
who are unavailable
she says to me
while knitting another
sweater.
the ball of yarn
is on the floor
as the needles
clink against one
another. well, maybe
they just don't like
you enough to commit
to you, you tell
her, squinting as
if about to be jabbed
in the leg
with a needle.
hmmm, she says,
stopping her knitting
for a moment to
stare out at the setting
sun. maybe you're
right, she says.
I never thought that
it could be me, I
always blamed it
on them, men being
men. but it's me
isn't it? nice sweater
you say. can't wait
to see it when it's
finished.

cold feet

your feet
and legs are boot
deep
in a snow drift
in your dream.
the white shroud
of the storm
covers
everything you
see.
there is no
light ahead
to get to, no
fence, or gate
to go over or
push through.
it's just
white and it
keeps coming.
snow on top of
snow, the cold
wind pushing it
against your face.
stiffening your
fingers,
turning your
lips blue, you
can't wait for
morning and this
to be over with.

two oars

with one oar
in the water,
you don't move very
fast or
far in the strong
currents.
so you ask her
to climb aboard,
grab and oar,
take a seat,
the front or back
will work just fine.
row as you please.
this makes
all things so much
easier, until
she points to
a distant shore,
where you don't
want to go.

two sets of feet

without even
putting a glass
to the wall
with your ear,
you hear
the footsteps
of the woman
next door as she
gets ready for work.
the heels on
as she goes down
the steps
to her door,
then car.
sometimes there
are two sets of
feet, heavier
than hers,
but you never
see whose, you
not being too nosey
as to peek out
the window
and be rude.

in the dark

how odd it is
to pick up a pair
of pants
that don't fit,
getting dressed
in the dark,
and say these must
be yours
because I can
only get them
around my legs.
and she swims
inside your shirt,
pulling it over
her long
hair,
saying, I like
this shirt, can
I have it?

pink

pink with too
much sun,
she undoes her
blouse
and sets it on
the bed.
you see the pattern
of her
clothes
against her
skin, the hot
singed glow,
the straps,
the folds,
the too short
shorts,
the burn rising
up along
her legs.
and you smile
as she says what,
while you stare,
and you say
something like
that's going
to hurt
in the morning.

filling and unfilling

the policeman
with his whistle
and dark hat,
his sunglasses
tight around
his eyes, the
uniform belted
and starched,
waves into
the parking lot
anxious parishoners
bent on not finding
god, necessarily,
but in
punching that
guilt clock.
the cars come
nearly all days,
filling and unfilling
the large
striped lot,
no different
than you or I
perhaps, with
what we believe,
or not.

summer

there is less
light
as the year moves
on,
but for now
the trees are
full of who they
are.
like children
out of school,
free
beneath the blue
skies,
the warm
night of stars.
the rain soaked
grass,
the bare feet
of youth,
sinking into
summer, not
peeking towards
the dimming
light.

new hair day

painless
and prompt, the ad
says.
these are not your
grandfather's hair
plugs. no way.
these are state
of the art hair
replacements done
by men and women wearing
white smocks.
you'll have a full
head of hair in
one hour or your
money back.
but where are you
going to get all
this hair you
ask, sitting at
your consultation.
whose hair is going
onto my head?
who cares, the doctor
says. you'll
be washing, combing
and styling
your way back to
a youthful appearance
in no time.
then you hear the barking
in the back
and see the shaved
daschunds jumping
about.

burrito assembly line

going through
the burrito assembly
line at the local
fast food
establishment, feeling
really hungry,
you are frustrated
with how little
chicken they
put on that giant
spoon, how
small the portion
of guacamole
and cheese is.
what's the point
of having a big
spoon if you aren't
going to use it
you want to say
out loud, but the
man in front of you
knows how it works,
asking, pleading
for extra with each
turn of the spoon.
so you do the same.
hot sauce, yes, please
extra.
cheese, yes, extra.
more sour cream.
oh yes, you say,
don't be stingy
with that ladle.
come on give it to
me baby. give me them
black beans girl.

the job interview

where do you
want to be in five
years, the interviewer
says to you, as
you sit across
the desk from him.
i'd like to be in
an exclusive
relationship with
Elizabeth Hurley,
you tell him,
straight faced.
he looks at you
and writes something
down. so what are your
salary requirements,
he asks. not missing
a beat.
you tell him that
you'd liked to be
paid in cash at
the end of every week.
small bills placed
into a brown bag.
hmmm, he says.
making a small note
of that.
and what do you feel
like you will bring
to this company,
what skills do you
have to help this
company grow and
become more profitable.
I can't tell you that
right now, you
say, staring out
the window towards a
set of new trees
that line the acres
of freshly paved
parking lots. but I
do have a question
for you.
do these windows open
you ask him? why, he
says. well, I liked to
be able to leap out
of one if this job
doesn't work out.

satisfaction

you aren't quite
as old as the band,
but not far behind.
even so, you feel like
you might have more
tread left on your
tire than they do.
they look like broken
sticks, glued back
together again.
strumming hard at
their guitars, pursing
their lips,
the blue spotlights
hitting their
shadowed eyes,
neither smiling, nor
grimacing, but more
stone faced
and resolved to this
life that has chosen
them since that first
big hit. satisfaction.

the bank teller

you keep all your
money in
the bank.
but the red headed
manager
with a stern face
and buttoned vest
makes it hard for
you each time you
want to take some
out. three Id. s
a thumbprint
your mother's maiden
name, and
your account
number please, he
says, while smirking
below
the portrait of his
grandfather
who started the bank.
it would be easier,
putting on a mask
and holding up
a rubber gun
to get your hard
earned cash, than
it is this way,
in line at the teller.

get used to it

the world
shakes loose
the dead, making
room for more.
more of me
more of you,
more of them.
a tree shedding
leaves,
the crops
being mowed
down, harvested
and plowed
over.
even the memory
of who are
in time fades
gets swept away
with more. it's
the way it is,
get to used
to it, it's what
we came
here for.

renters

the renters don't
care.
they leave
the water running.
the lights on,
the doors
unlocked.
cats and dogs
run free
throughout
the house,
flies are buzzing
in the kitchen
sitting
in spilled
syrup, while
a line of ants
carry away
sugar from
the counter.
the owners live
in another state,
so there is no
law.
and the cars
out front pile
up and rust
in the driveway
the music stays loud.
the parties
last until sunrise.
and the neighbors
hate them all.

dominatrix next door

the dominatrix
next door
is in her yard
tending to her
garden.
she's still
wearing her leather
thigh high boots
from the night
before,
and a bathrobe
that's seen better
days.
she sees you in
the window and waves.
so you yell
out, hey do my yard
when you're done
with yours, which
makes her smile
and say behave, don't
make me come
over there and whip
you with a belt,
which she really
means.

storm warnings

the radio
broadcasts its
warning.
the familiar
buzzing noise
three or four
times before
a voice comes
on to tell
you in somber
tones, take
cover. seek
shelter, a storm
is on the move
coming
to a roof near
you. how nice
it would be to
have warnings for
all such
things in life,
like
the measles,
heart failure,
the flu, or love
going south
when you don't
have a clue.

the electric man

the electrician
arrives
with a pony
tail and earring
dangling
in one ear.
a dead head
sticker on his
van. a lightning
bolt tattooed
on his hand.
he's mellow now
in his sixties.
cool and easy
as he goes about
the wires,
humming to himself
a song
he's known
since 1968.
it doesn't take
him long to get
you up and running
again.
he high fives you,
gives
you a brotherly
handshake. and when
you ask him how
much for his services,
he smiles
and shakes his
head, I don't know
man. you tell me.
what's good for
you?

sweet tooth

you long for something
sweet, just a
small piece
of candy.
it doesn't even
have to be
chocolate.
just something
to lie on your
tongue and melt
as you stretch
out under the fan
in this summer heat.
but a kiss
from you will
do instead, if
you're interested
that is.

woman in a catsuit

you come home
from work
and your ex-wife's
best friend
Lucinda, who lives
next door, is in your
house. she's wearing
a black leather
cat suit and lying
on the couch.
she's holding a whip
in one hand
and a martini
in the other.
oh hey, you say,
carrying your
bag of groceries
into the kitchen.
what are you doing
here? my ex is long
gone. she's not
here anymore.
and how did you get
in here? I don't care
about her she says,
letting out a growly
purr. I need some
milk, she says,
I need some attention.
come over here
and pet me.
sorry, you tell her.
I didn't buy
any milk or cat
food, perhaps it's
best that you leave.
aren't you hot in that
suit? oh, and do
me a favor, set
this bag of trash
by the curb on your
way out. thanks.

out of the jump

you've
worked on jobs
with men
who have
killed other men
and have no remorse
for what they've
done. they feel
badly only because
they got caught.
they have that
sharpened look in
their eyes,
one turn of the phrase
or stare
too long, could
bring the whole
house of cards
quickly down.
the job means nothing.
to them. they could
go back into
the jump without
a problem.
only getting
respect keeps them
sane, and even then
you never know.

good to hear from you

your poetry is better
she says
when something tragic
happens to you.
when you fall off
a roof, or get
bit by a snake,
or get a flat tire.
when you are fat
and happy, content
like a cat on the sill
watching birds
in the trees.
your stuff stinks.
it's dry and empty,
boring and lifeless.
I need to put a mirror
over some of them
to see if there is
any life in there,
she says.
it's good to here
from you too, you
write back. it reminds
me of why we
aren't together,
although the poetry
was much better
when you were
around, i'll give
you that.

buttered blisters

the children
run screaming through
the neighborhood
with burns
on their arms and legs.
roman candles
gone askew,
turned over
and shooting molten
flames on
everyone. sparklers,
the colors burned
out, now red hot
sticks to poke
one another.
and the parents
already full
and stewed from
a day of in
the sun drinking,
tired of spitting
watermelon
seeds into
the yard
and grilling, aren't
sure what to do.
so they grab the garden
hose, and water
them down,
butter up
the blisters
with butter that
sits nearby
in a melting tub.
it's the fourth
of july.

after all these years

she's out
before the sun
comes up.
with her one small
suitcase
and cat.
her hats and gloves.
that Tupperware
dish
that you finally
washed.
no note on the fridge.
no kiss
farewell on
the cheek.
she hardly
made a sound,
slipping
out the back door
to get into her
beat up old
chevy
with baby moons,
and an end the war
sticker
on her bumper
that still, after
these years,
holds true.

the dark room

unsure
of where you
are in the dark
room,
in a strange
hotel, you feel
your way about.
a chair,
a nightstand,
the edge of
the bed.
then you feel
a hand,
an arm, a
leg. who are
these people
in this room
with you.
no one seems
to mind
being lost,
and confused.
each going about
his business,
finding a way
to the bathroom.

beauty

the butterfly
seems
happy
and carefree
with her
light thin
wings
of butter
yellow.
but you don't
know
what's going
on inside
her head
as she flutters
her wings
in no
rush to go
anywhere.
yet you
wonder
how anything
so soft
and beautiful
could have
a problem.

she's in

someone has found
their way
into your life
again.
she's found
the key
under the mat,
or was it
the open
window, or
the door with
the broken
latch. somehow
she's slipped
into your bed
with hardly
a sound,
and now you
can't imagine
your life
without her.

new socks

how many pairs
of socks can you own.
apparently
not enough
you think as you
carry a basketful
of them upstairs
to be dumped,
unsorted, into
drawers. it's just
nice to have
new things
to wear. although
it goes deeper
than that,
as you remember
stitching
together holes
and slipping
cardboard into your
shoes when you
were twelve.

happy feet

when the music
starts at weddings
and the open bar
has been open for
hours,
and the dancing
begins,
it's painful
to watch,
nails on a chalkboard
painful.
aunts and uncles,
parents,
grandparents
shaking their
booty. getting down.
getting dirty.
throwing their
arms up into the air
in celebration.
you make yourself
made of lead
gripping the table
because you know
you are going to
be dragged out into
the spasmodic
mayhem at some point.

alignment

the planets align
and you have
a good day.
a day
of nothing to upset
you.
no urgency is in
the clouds,
no hurry in the sun.
the world spins a
little slower
as you sink back
in your couch
of contentment,
savoring the moment,
before
anything changes,
as it will.

wedding bells

the laws change
and lovers
now can marry
one another
no mather
what gender they
they may be.
boys with boys,
girls with girls.
there is celebration
in the streets
and the divorce
lawyers raise
their glasses
in toasts
to the ruling,
knowing human
nature, and that
their business
will increase.

chimp with a set of keys

the zoo animals
are escaping
one by one.
a chimp
with a set of keys
is slowly letting
out the others
for nightly
excursions in
the city.
it's only right.
I saw a walrus
the other day
sitting in a bar
with a cold beer
and a platter of
shrimp.
he was keeping
beat with one
flipper
to the jazz band
near the window.

i remember now

there was something
I was going to tell you,
but I've forgotten
what it was.
oh well. it must not
have been very
important. maybe
i'll remember it later.
I think it had
something to do
though with the way
you leave the house
without kissing
me goodbye, or calling
me during the day
to see how i'm doing.
plus, I've been wondering
why are your clothes
gone, all your
girl stuff is out
of the bathroom. are
you trying to tell me
something? oh, now
I remember what I was
going to say. happy
anniversary, what's
it been now, three
years, four?

reverse luck

you have
reverse luck.
picking only
the numbers that never
come up.
the horse that never
wins, the
milk that isn't fresh,
the line or lane
where nothing
moves.
it's a comfort
though to know
how right you are
in being wrong.

waiting out the rain

open
umbrellas
pass by,
black
blooms
of vinyl
letting the rain
roll off
in soft
percussion
as we wait
patiently
together
under the store
front, waiting
for a break
in the down
pour, standing
close
enough to kiss
one another,
like we
used to do.

the hour glass

when she dropped
the hour
glass, shattering
it on the floor
and the sand
poured out
she didn't think
that it was a portent
to what what
her life could
be, childless,
and living alone
at this age, still.
she didn't think
if only there was
someone here, this
might not have happened.
she thought none
of that, as she
took the broom
from the closet
and swept neatly
the grains of sand
into the dust pan.

a foreign land

when I met her
she was Bermuda
with long white
beaches
of sugar sand.
fountain blue
waters, with pink
coral, and wisps
of cotton filled
clouds, but now
if she was a country
i'd say
she was a northern
land, Siberia,
or north
Korea, or perhaps
Antarctica,
or Greenland.
someplace
where the days
are short,
the nights are
cold and long, a
place where
a harsh wind
whistles constantly
in your red
ears.

weeping willow lane

you hear the plow
out beyond
the trees.
the bucket
carving out dirt
and rock
making way for
new dreams
with streets
freshly named
like elm
and oak, birch
and redwood.
there's rarely
a weeping willow,
although there
should be.

let's go wild

put some clothes on
she tells
you, twirling into
the room
wearing a new dress.
let's go out
and get wild,
have some fun.
you grimace
behind the newspaper,
then yawn.
what? you say, go
wild?
yes. let's have some
fun and do something
crazy.
like what you say?
folding the newspaper
over, checking
the obituaries
on the back page
of the metro section.
go wild? you say
again. give me an
example of what that
might entail.
I don't know, she
says, drink some
tequila, drive
to the beach. meet
up with some fun
people. stuff like
that. okay, sure, you
say. but I need a nap
first. what time
to you want to start
and have you
seen my Hawaiian
shirt?

the white hospital

you remember
the cart
overturned,
the old horse
on it's side,
the crack
of a pistol
shot
from a policemen's
gun,
and the blood
of the man
driving
the car that
hit the horse
and the cart
in the busy
intersection.
you remember
staring at
the injured
man as he spoke
in a different
language,
lying on
the back seat
of your father's
turquoise impala,
while he drove
to a white
hospital gleaming
in the sun near
Barcelona.

expiration date

it wasn't
the burnt toast,
or
the lack
of sex,
my snoring,
or inability
to remember
important dates,
or the way
she spent money
like
a drunken sailor
on liberty,
no, it
was something
deeper, much
more than that
that did
us in.
our shelf life
had expired.

the fat robin

a fat robin
rattles
against the window
taking
his time,
bogarting the bird
feeder, while
smaller birds
flutter about,
arguing
and complaining
about how
there won't be
any left for
them. but the big
bird pays
them no mind
and eats
and eats and eats,
his feelings
unhurt by the names
they call him.

hairless

your friends
that are on
chemo, have lost
all their hair.
even their eyebrows
are gone.
and yet, still
they laugh,
the spirit that
you loved in them
is still
in tact. you
wonder how strong
your own
faith is, in seeing
lives, like
theirs end
too soon.

the box marked kitchen

she's moving.
her divorce is final
and now
she can leave
and start over
again.
but she needs to
stay in the school
district
for her two kids
who are still
in middle school,
the move will be
temporary, until
they finish.
so it's a three
floor walk up
for now. a place
that takes pets,
and where the hallway
smells like cabbage
cooking all day.
she has a view
of the front where
there is reserved
parking,
and a brown
dumpster where she
can deposit her
trash daily.
it's not the green
lawn that she
will miss,
or the pool, or
the garden and flowers
that she kneeled
to and raised
from seed.
it's more than that.
it's the years
of being young
and hopeful that weighs
on her now
as she climbs
the steps with
the first box marked
kitchen.

wheels

you are burning
oil
and not getting
the gas mileage
that you used
to when
the metal had
a shine on it
and the tires
weren't so bald.
there's a small
crack
in the windshield
that is
growing with
each day.
the seats are
torn, the orange
padding
poking out
with springs.
every turn of the
earth seems to add
to the diminishing
value
of what you once
loved
and cruised in,
speeding down
fifty to the eastern
shore, as
if that was
mecca itself.

the cookie fortune

disappointed
at the little slip
of paper
in your fortune
cookie
that reads,
tomorrow is
another day,
eat well, you
open up another
that says,
avoid the kung
pao chicken,
and the crispy
beef proper.
it's bad for
your heart
sometimes they
drop
the peking
ducks onto
the dirty floor
and kick
them towards
the oven.
another one reads
eat at joe's
around the corner.
sunset specials.
you look around
the room
and see
a busboy
smiling, his
pockets full
of fortunes,
his small revenge
accomplished.

christmas eyes

she had christmas
eyes, always
bright and
surprised
at seeing
you,
happy
with the unwrapped
gift
that you
could be,
but it was
the halloween
mind
that made you
run, those bats,
those
witches's brews,
that cackling
throughout the night
with or without
a full moon.

the house we build

if the eyes
are truly
the windows
to your soul
then is it possible
that your ears
are the vents to
the attic of your
mind, are your
hands the instruments
of good
and evil, your feet
the vehicles with
which to run away
from, or towards
the life your mouth
creates.

the blue notes

blue notes
float
free
from
the saxaphone
as the man
sits
on his wooden
seat
in the old
bar,
with the old
brick of
crumbling
walls,
the floor
boards
creaking where
he taps
his boot.
where once,
when he was young,
he only sang
about what
tomorrow
could bring,
now finally
he sings
what it
did.

the playground

the empty
playgrouund of
your childhood
still stands.
the iron
bars
surviving
the worlds
turn. the sand
blown
free from
the banded pit.
the see
saw in half.
swings without
seats,
the rusted chains
creaking
in the wind.
but it still
remains, the bones
of your
memory,
the small thrill
of your
short youth.

red kites

the small
fists
of children
with strings
in their
hand, holding
kites
aloft
over the blue
trees
of summer,
their grips
are tight,
holding on
holding on.
a lesson not
undone
by more years
more summers,
more kites
held high
above them
in precarious
winds.

the blue room

it's
a big
moon
in the window.
white
cold eye
between
the trees.
it fills
the blue
painted walls
with light.
not day,
not night, but
another realm
altgether.
a place
you don't mind
being
with her
in your arms,
asleep.
the trees
glistening
silver.

staying young

i can't be blonde
anymore
she tells you
staring at the roots
in her scalp
where she parts her
thinning hair.
i'm done with dye
and keeping
the grey out.
i'm going to let
my age show.
rebel against
the culture
of youth. these
wrinkiles,
these furrows
in my brow, i've
earned. the stiffness
in my back,
the bags
under my eyes.
all of it is who
i am, who i've
become and was meant
to be.
love me this way,
or go. it's time
be free from this
madness of staying
young.

the rooster

old people
which you are quickly
becoming
one of
like to brag
about how early
they get up.
I got up at five
one man
says, while the
other shakes his
head and
says, that's nothing
I get up
every morning
at four thirty
and do
five leg lifts
before putting in
my teeth.
i'm up before
the rooster crows
he says
sticking his
chest out,
and coughing.

half a worm

in eating
an apple
you don't
want to find
just half
a worm,
a whole one
would do
just fine.

cracked eggs

you buy a dozen
eggs
without
opening
the box.
three are cracked,
the clear
gel
of what makes
them an
egg
seeping out.
there is so
much openly
hidden in
the world.
what else
don't you
know about
people.

the red scarf

she keeps
to herself these days.
bitten
by love, and still
healing.
nursing
her wound.
I've lost
my faith in humanity,
she smiles
sadly.
all men are alike,
they only
want one thing,
and then they're gone.
why is that?
she says, knitting
a red scarf
for winter
in front of the coffee
shop.
why are men
so unavailable
and selfish.
beats me you say,
sipping on your
drink, staring at
three women crossing
the street in
their summer dresses.

tell us how we're doing

at the local
big box hardware store
you wander the store
seeking help. but
the clerks in their
orange smocks are
avoiding you
as if you were a leper,
nearly running
when your mouth
opens to ask a question.
finally you corner one
in the light bulb section
and ask him
where you might find
a flat head screw
driver. what is that?
he says. and you make
a motion with your hand
as if you are turning
a screw. hmm, he
says, I'm not
sure, but I can call
the front and see
if we can get a map
of the store to locate
one. how many do you
need, he says, talking
into his phone.
just one you say. one
will be fine.
you are in luck, he
smiles. we have a box
of them coming in
next week. we can call
you at home if you'd
like, or e mail you
when they arrive.
before you leave, if
you don't mind, can
you fill out a survey
to tell us how we're
doing?

off his game

the magician
is tired,
off his game
tonight,
instead of a
rabbit he
pulls out a chicken
from his black
top hat.
he doesn't
come close
to guess
anyone's
age or weight.
he's been
drinking beer
all night,
eating nachos
from the bar.
there is cheese
on his lapel.
guacamole on
his once
white shirt.
he taps his wand
against
the box, but
it's empty when it
flies open.
no doves, nothing.
only one handkerchief
comes out of his
sleeve. it's a long
night and even
longer still
when he saws
his assistant in
half and blood
pools on the stage.

did you vote today

she loves
politics, could talk
all day
about the deficit
and immigration.
she knows
her swing states,
her blue
and red ones
too. there is
no topic left
unturned that she
can't offer an
opinion on.
she's tuned in
to who leans left
who leans
right. she's
in the choir
listening to the
preacher on
talk radio.
collecting information
to rattle off
later, to prove her
points, pointing
her finger at
you for being
on the fence
with so many issues.
did you vote, she
says to you
and everyone
she meets, here's
a button. go
vote. go vote.
go vote. sigh, how
you miss her, or
who she used to be.

a different education

you would
skip school with
five dollars
in your pocket, half
of it change, and take
the A-9 bus
to the national
archive building
downtown
d.c.
and begin there,
with your other
truant
friends,
a jaunt about
town. to the capitol
to sit in
on a session
in the second floor
gallery, then
to the cafeteria
for bean soup.
then to the museums,
moving
so quickly as
to hardly pay any
mind to Renoir,
or rembrant,
or winslow homer.
you had to get down
to ninth
street to play
the pinball machines
for a nickel,
working up a sweat
banging on
those machines with
skinny arms,
and hair falling
into your eyes,
then it
was off to the four
seasons diner
for burgers and fries,
milkshakes,
down the street from
the old fbi building,
always leaving
before
the check came,
running wildly
down the street
until reaching
the blue mirror
strip club, where you'd
peek
inside, hands cupped
to the windows to
catch a glimpse
of blaze starr
and her bouncing
betties. before dark
you were back on
the bus, homeward
bound before anyone
even missed you.

room for rent

the rental
room
is clean
but smells
of must
and
people
that have come
and gone,
none
that have
stayed
beyond
their welcome.
the made
bed. the thin
curtains
that fall short
of the sill,
and bent blinds.
the dried
flowers
in a plain
white vase
does nothing
but extend
the loneliness
of what it is
and what it
isn't.
a book of poems
by
Robert frost
is on the night
stand.
a crimped
page
ear marked
on the road
not taken.

the fire truck

the fire truck
comes screaming down
the highway
horn blasting
at each intersection
and you see
the men inside,
quiet and calm
talking to one
another, as
if it's just
another day.
they know fires,
they know trouble
they are used
to we aren't used
to, sometimes
you feel that way
about broken hearts.

she couldn't sleep

you remember
how light she was
on her feet.
especially at night
when she tried
hard not to wake
you, going to
the bathroom
for water
and to sit on
the edge of the tub
to read,
or cry.
but it always woke
you up.
her soft feet
on the floor,
a yellowed
wedge of light
coming down
the hall
from an open
door.

no tears shed

they are taking down
the shopping
mall, one brick
at a time.
ripping out the thread
bare
carpet holding
a thousand spilled
orange Julius's
in it's weave.
you can hear
the quick footsteps
of shoppers past
browsing, stealing
using coupons
and cash.
the clothes once
bought in nineteen
seventy five are long
gone, as are the shoes
and boots,
those leather vests
and hats
that no one wears
anymore.
soon, there are just
the steel bones,
without music
piped in from above.
only the grind
and pull of machines,
erasing decades
of nylon and polyester
dreams.

the nudist camp next door

a nudist
camp goes up
in your neighbor
hood, but they install
a large wooden
fence so that
you can't see
what's going on
over there.
they can only see
each other,
naked with all their
bumps
and bruises,
their earthly
imperfections,
defined by gravity,
out in the open,
and what is there
to see,
that hasn't been
seen. why are there
such places,
why are there
fences, what's going
on here?

will power

there are times,
like right now
when you need
something
sweet.
not a stack
of cookies,
or a bowl
of ice cream,
just one bite
will do
of something
bad for you,
but the search
is futile
in your kitchen.
nothing
behind the quaker
oats box,
or the soup
cans, or in
the fridge,
not even
a frozen candy
bar from
halloween exists,
not a single
sweet treat to
be found.
your will power
is that of
a child you
think as you drive
to the 7-11.

ducks in a row

undone
she goes
and leaves
you
standing with
hands in
pockets
near the river
bank
where a family
of ducks
march in single
file
barking.
this warms
you in
the cold spring.
seeing that
love is
possible.

when you get there

like you,
the sky
isn't sure what
to do
with itself.
which
cloud to open
which one
to close.
how much sun
to shine
down, or
to keep it
all hidden
behind
a grey shroud.
turn left,
turn right, keep
going
straight.
maybe you'll know
when you
get there.

no matter

no matter
how suave
and sophisticated
you think you
are, or how many
degrees you've
accumulated, no
matter how
hard you've
worked to stay
fit and young,
no matter the clothes
you wear,
how expensive they
are or what kind
of car
you drive, no
matter how many
books you've
read, or places
you've traveled
to, there
will always be
a moment in your
life when
a piece of toilet
paper will be
stuck to your shoe
and dragged about
for half a day
without a clue.

go, be happy

no funny
bones are found
in the x rays.
just brittle
sticks
pretending to be
bones,
that hold
you upright, so
that you
don't slide
into a human
puddle to be
washed away by
the next hard rain
that falls.
take this your
doctor says, handing
you a bottle of pills
to make you happy.
this will restore
your sense of
humor, make
you not care
about what goes
on before you.
you'll be laughing
in an hour, by
night time
you'll be telling
jokes
and being your
old sarcastic
self. just one a
day, he says.
go, be happy.

in her summer dress

you drift off to sleep
in her arms,
but when you awaken you
are older now.
your hair has grown
white, your teeth are
loose. your bones
ache with more years
on them. you are wearing
the coat of an old man.
your eyes, once sharp,
are blurred as
you look up at the clock.
she is still asleep
beside you, but she
hasn't aged. she is
the same girl you knew
when you fell in love
with her so many years ago
as she walked beside
you on a new York street
in her summer dress,
her hair and eyes aglow
with so many tomorrows
yet to unfold.

party balloon

what doesn't
last
are stoves
and cars,
machines.
the blender on
its last
stir, the ice
box fizzling
into a wet
drip upon
the linoleum.
that light bulb
popping
black as you
twist it's
knob to go
on. even memories
have a way
of seeping
out like air
from a party balloon,
the music
over, the cake
gone, the pictures
faded yellow
and curled
in a box on
the floor.

the sled ride

did it happen
were you a child
once
in the snow.
throwing your sled
onto the ice
covered road
going downhill
the spray of snow
in your red
face. your black
rubber boots
stretched out
on the wooden
sled with iron
rails. was that
you on your way
down the rise
of dorchester street,
faster, faster,
around the bend
in the moon lit night,
beating back
tomorrow, before
the plows, before
the snow
was gone, before
youth had
melted away.

clipped roses

her sadness
is a wet
grey
coat that
she puts on
everyday no
matter what
the weather,
no matter how
hard the sun
shines.
she's resistant
to blue
skies, to
the full green
trees
that fill
the streets.
a rose means
nothing her.
something clipped,
that will
die in a cold
vase.

three witches

three
witches
around a pot
boiling,
stirring
with long
wooden spoons.
laughing
with green
teeth.
they chant
a spell
or two
together,
putting a curse
on someone,
then taste
the brew
they boil.
looking at one
another
each nods,
than one says,
more salt?
just a little
the other
says, while
the third
one sets the
table. putting
out some
bread and
butter.

pennies

you see
coins all day
as you
walk along.
the world being
generous
in small ways.
pennies mostly
but nickels
and dimes too.
hardly ever
a quarter
or a half dollar.
no one
cares about the
penny it seems,
but you
feel guilty in
not picking it
up. so you do.
and it will
find it's way
home with you,
deep in your pocket
to be turned
out at some
point and thrown
into a blue
jar on the counter
and from
there, who knows.

the tuna sandwich robbery

while eating
at an outdoor
café, a man approaches
you and asks
for money. you say
that you have
none, not exactly
telling the truth,
you could write
him a check or spare
a few bucks, but
you do have this
sandwich to pay for,
plus tip, and maybe
one more beer before
heading home.
so you say, i'm
sorry, but I don't
have any money to
give you. this makes
him lift his shirt
up to show you his
enormous belly,
and a gun tucked
neatly under it,
on the edge of his
pants and underwear.
oh, you say, startled both
by the stomach and
the gun which
reminds you of something
like a curled
snake. you try to remember
that he's wearing light
blue boxer shorts with
little turtles on them,
a detail for the police,
give me your sandwich he
says fiercely, as you continue
chewing. half? you
say, I kind of
started the other
half. I mean it's got my
germs all over it. what kind
of a sandwich is it,
he asks, his gun still
hanging out of his pants.
tuna, you say, hot peppers,
what the hell, he says.
who eats tuna at a restaurant,
okay, take out the
peppers and wrap it
in that napkin. give me that
damn pickle too.
he takes it and walks
away, pulling his shirt
down. you hear him
mumbling about tuna,
and what the world
has come to.

carnivorous cathy

why are you biting
me you ask
your new girlfriend
Catherine,
as she nearly draws
blood from your shoulder.
you turn your head
and observe the teeth
marks indented in
your once smooth skin.
what's with the biting,
you ask, breaking
the amorous moment
in two. oh, she says,
i'm so sorry. did I
hurt you. you can
bite me too if you
want, or pinch me real
hard anywhere.
I won't mind. honest.

stray dogs

when you were
a kid.
a very long time ago.
there were
srtay dogs and feral
cats
everywhere
it seemed.
there was no
going down to
the pound or local
pet store
to adopt one,
to sign papers
and get shots,
to be interviewed
to see if you
and your
home was worthy
of having a cat
or dog.
you just set out
a bowl of milk
or water, or
a rib bone on
the front stoop
and the animal was
yours by dark
sleeping
beside you on
the floor with his
or her new name.

the last slice

you are not
alone
but sometimes
you feel
alone.
like the last
piece of
bread left
in the plastic
bag
with no friend
to lie down
with between
a bed of
ham and cheese.
no lettuce
to cool
your nerves as
you both
talk about past
lives,
what could
have been, what
will be.
even fed to
the ducks
would be more
welcome
than this hot
sticky
bag, waiting
for a hand
to pull you free.

a window with a view

you want to look
out the window
and see water.
a blue spread
of sea with the waves
breaking
against white sand.
you want to look
out the window
and see ships
in the distant
horizon, sailboats
with grand white
sails full of wind.
you want to look
out and see the curve
of the earth,
gently disappearing
as far as the eye
can see.
you don't want to
see red bricks
divided by grey mortar
as you do now
from your apartment
in 3 G.

no pulp, please

you are not
a fan
of camping in
the woods.
a fire,
a tent, a
can of pork
and beans
with which to
soothe your
appetite.
then there's
the mosquitoes,
the wild boar,
and bear.
the cold stream
to bathe in.
no. give me
the Marriott
or Hilton,
with room
service and those
mints on
the pillow.
set the ac high
and climb in
between those
freshly washed
and ironed
600 count sheets.
tell the desk
you want a wake
up call
at nine a.m.
and bring up
some eggs and bacon.
coffee and a Danish.
a glass of cold
juice, no pulp,
please.

all the kids are doing it

what I have
to say
can't be texted
or e mailed
she says.
what I need to
say to you
needs to said
on the phone
so that I can
slam the phone
down when
i'm finished
and have
that noise
ringing in
your ear all
day,
or in person,
so that I can
slap you
across the nose.
which makes
you cringe and
say, but
texting is
the way these
days. all
the kids
are doing it.

fly me to the moon

your dentist
likes to whistle
Sinatra tunes
when he's
about to
pop a syringe
full of novacaine
into your
front gums
between
two teeth
where a snickers
bar
got stuck
last October.
you like candy
he says,
whistling
in between
sentences, making
you feel
guilty
and squirm.
don't move
he says, this is
going to really
hurt like hell.
then starts to
whistle once
again, as he
slides the point
of the needle
deep into
the pink hard
flesh of your
mouth.