beauty

the child was not
exactly ugly.
how could any child
be called that.
it was no fault
of his own, but
through an unfortunate
combination
of parental
genetics the boy
was different.
perhaps he'll grow
out of those ears,
people would
quietly whisper.
and that nose.
a rudder
on such a flat
board face.
those teeth can
be fixed.
he was a head turner
and suffered greatly
under the teasing
of other children.
but because of this.
he became beautiful
within.
he glowed with
words and wisdom,
consuming books,
and pondering the world
from his window.
being alone so much
will do that
in the end. how
few truly beautiful
people there are
in the world anymore.

ship ahoy

fearing failure
you once pondered joining
the navy.
but you didn't like
the hats,
the bellbottoms.
the yes sir, no sir
nonsense that went
with it.
you didn't think you
could kill anyone
either.
but being on a ship
had it's appeal.
the open seas,
blue skies, the fun
of it all.
but you didn't want
to cut your hair,
which took so
long to get it
down to your shoulders.
what girl in
the seventies would
want a man with
a crew cut?
so you didn't join
and look at you
now, typing this
while planning a cruise
to the south seas.

dripping mustard

at lunch,
your friend
tells you
that his wife
has gotten fat.
you remember the day
that he gave her
an ultimatum to
marry him, or else
go their separate
ways. ten, twelve
years ago.
she used to be
so attractive he
says, taking out a
photo of her
when she was twenty.
look at her,
she was beautiful,
but now she doesn't
care. she's lazy
and indifferent, she
won't do anything
fun with me anymore.
we have no sex
life. we hate each
other for so many
reasons. he finishes
his hot dog,
as mustard drips
onto his shirt.
I don't know what
to do, he says.
I can't leave her.
especially since
I lost my job.
he seems perplexed
by marriage, as he
orders another
half smoke
with all the works.

not just another day

you see a man
in his underwear on
the street.
he's carrying a
briefcase.
he might be fifty,
or older,
it's difficult
to tell.
but there is the
look of worry
on his face.
a woman may or
may not be involved,
but you suspect
that to be so.
he's in a hurry,
srtipped of everything
but shoes
and black socks.
his briefcase
swinging
madly in his
hand. it's not
just another day.
this one won't
be soon forgotten.

black birds on a wire

what birds
are these
with oiled wings
papered
and locked
together.
what's with these
black eyes,
unnerving in
their stare,
and curled
yellowed claws
on the wire.
what sinister
things
are they up to.
are they dreaming
of us, as we do
of them. hoping
it's not
a portent of death,
or worse,
betrayal.
what message
do they carry
in their stillness,
in their
awful squawk.
I don't want
to know.

love and affection

you take
the flat head
screw driver
out of your
three year
old's hand.
keeping him
from sticking
it into
the electrical
socket.
this makes him
cry and scream,
bellow as if
it was the end
of his life.
which it could
have been.
this goes on
for years,
until it's his
turn to do
the same for you.

14th street

in the mid
sixties
you remember
seeing the
subdued
women, with
cigarettes
and lipstick.
dolls eyes,
circling
the mayflower
hotel.
heels and nylons.
hair teased
high
and stiff
in the street
lamps pink
glow.
bending
towards the car
windows
as husbands
out for milk
and bread
shopped for what
they weren't
getting at home.
and you,
caught between
man and boy,
cruising
in a parent's car
with your friends,
staring
out the rolled
up windows,
sealed still
in innocence,
but breathing
fog onto
the glass.

poetry workshop

you cringe
at the thought
of another workshop.
of reading other's
works, other's poems
being kind without
malice. you feel
exposed. naked
in your seat
reading your own.
unable to breathe.
judged and skewered.
you don't care
who sees or reads
what you write.
this is often
good enough. to be
in the darkness,
with all this light.

almost

almost loved
he sits
in his room
with the memory
of her.
she was almost
his,
almost in
his arms.
despite
the years gone
by,
the memory of
what almost
was is still
strong.
and as he rocks
towards
the window.
hands
in his lap,
the empty trees
remind him
that it's
almost over.

little you can do

she cries
in her hands.
you see her
irish eyes
between
her fingers.
it's a mask
of sorts.
pink flesh
guarding
the soul
and losing.
she cries
in her hands.
there is little
you can do,
but wait.

i'm hopeful

you try to avoid
saying things
like, I feel great,
work is good,
i'm in love,
and all is well
with the world.
before the words
leave your mouth
you can hear
the train veering
off the track,
the sound of steel
bending amid
the screams,
the imminent crash.
so instead, you say
things like.
i'm good. everything
is okay, for now.
but it could be
better. i'm
hopeful, but not
doing cartwheels
down the street.

together

somehow,
occasionally it
works.
you being
a man,
her a woman.
despite
the differences
from head
to toe
and within.
you find a
middle ground
to declare
peace
and together
carry
a flag towards
a country
that you
hope to win.

she unsays

she unsays
what she said
not with words
but with her eyes.
sorry for being true.
you swallow
and hide your
heart. go
someplace where
the sun won't
set, but only
rise. accepting,
but not
forgetting,
hoping that
the truth is
just a lie.

start to finish

blindfolded
and marched
to the far wall.
the last
sound of your
boots
upon the ground
in your ears.
the dust
in your mouth.
you hear
the click of
rifles, shouldered
and aiming.
the sun is on
your face.
a wide yellow
sun against the blue.
it's always
been this
way, from the start
to the finish.

each day

undressed
in the mirror.
who are you.
what have years
done.
changed you,
from the child
you were,
into this.
greying and
holding hard to
every meal
consumed.
the hair, a
thin grey field,
the bend
of life,
the gravity of
time
curving you
towards the grave
as all
must go
eventually.
don't dim
the light, hold
true.
be bold in
your demise.
each day
conquered not
survived.

what roses?

your imagination
is slipping
as you work
too hard, and
sleep too little.
you see grey
and white, the black
sky, with needle
pricks of stars.
your eyes burn.
your legs and arms
heavy from work.
when you were
young you could
spend hours lying
on the picnic
table in the back
yard staring
upwards, waiting
for a comet
to flash by.
but who has the time
these days.
what roses?

pink scarf

you hear
the clinking of
knitting needles
as your girlfriend
wiles away
the time while
you watch football
on tv.
who's winning,
she says, looking
up from a frilly
pink scarf
that's half done
in her lap.
the team with the
most points, you
reply back.
that scarf isn't
for me, is it, you
say. I don't look
good in pink.
nah, she says, it's
for me.
when is this game
over. three
hours, you say.
good, she says
and continues
knitting.

the birthday gift

you lend
your neighbor
a hundred
dollars so
that he can get
his wife
a birthday
present.
but then you
see him
carrying in a
case of vodka
from the liquor
store
while you are
out front
trimming
your hedges.
what did you
get mildred
for her birthday,
you ask,
taking off your
goggles,
turning off
the trimmer.
oh, she left me,
met someone
on the internet.
he says. so I
got me something.
oh, I see, you
say. interesting.
don't worry,
he says. i'll pay
you back, honest
I will, just as
soon as I get
a job. later.

it wasn't carlos, was it?

we haven't
seen you in a while
the bartender
says, mixing you
a green martini
before you can
say apple.
where you been,
he says.
here and there,
you say. mostly
there.
must be in love,
he says,
pushing a basket
of pretzels
towards you.
love, lust, like.
all of the above
you say, pulling
out your phone
to show him her
photo.
nice, he says. I
think she was
in here last night
with some guy.
with who, you say,
shaking your head,
your eyes bulging.
it wasn't carlos,
was it? which makes
him laugh. I was
just kidding, he
says. just joking with
you. I've never
seen her in here,
unless she's been
with you. damn that
carlos you say,
taking a swig
of your apple
martini.

baking a cake

when baking
a cake
with your son
it was all
about who got
to lick
the spatula
and then
the big flat
knife
that smoothed
the icing.
the cake itself
was secondary.
taking an
eternity
to cook,
then cool.
you can
still see his
round face, nose
and lips,
covered
in chocolate.
his eyes lit
up, happy as a
monkey in a
banana tree.

cyber friends

it's hard
to believe
that there
is lying
and deceit on
the internet.
ages, weight
height
and marital
status.
shocking.
it's almost
like the real
world at times,
but moving
much faster
and more polite
and friendly.
it's so surprising
that I have
so many friends
in Nigeria
wanting to give
me money.
how kind
the world has
become.

christmas cards

you go through
your Christmas card list
early this year.
it's still summer, but
you don't want to be
caught in the xmas
rush like last year.
you grab the box of
cards you received
back in december and begin
to write down all of
these special people.
AAA sent a nice
thick card with snow
and a string of lights
hung on a house
in the woods.
inside is a stamped
name, jimmy, your
regional rep.
DSW was kind enough
to send a bright
blue generic card
with a picture of
wing tips on the front,
wishing you happy
holidays. then there
was the card from
firestone where you
bought tires,
and the paint store
where you buy paint,
the liquor store,
where you have become
fab friends with
Syrah. not to mention
safeway and giant,
both with wonderful
cards made out of
recycled trash. being
a club member has it's perks.
oh, and then there's
mom's. a snowflake
on the front of a small
red card, the ten
dollar bill still
tucked inside. and her
smudged inked
greeting. merry Christmas.
love, mom.
the rest are on e-mail.

the summer wind

at the long
red light
the car next to you
vibrates
with sound. thump
thump thump.
it rattles your
spine. obliterates
the sinatra
tune you are
singing to. you see
the young
men with the windows
down
enjoying their music.
knowing every word
of dr. seuss on
crack, making
nursery rhymes.

floral patterns

no longer
dressing
to kill.
she dresses now
to disappear.
with floral
patterns and wide
flowing
fabrics.
squared shoes
and hats
with brims
to keep the sun
and eyes
away.

winter people

you can see those
who want winter
to come.
at the first
slight hint
of a lowering
sun, and cool
breeze their hats
go on,
their long coats
and sweaters
too. even
boots are laced
high with hopeful
anticipation
of what's to arrive.
they are anxious
for snow,
for comfort food
and fires
full of fallen
leaves.

the devil's music

you call
the 800 number
to contact
the IRS
about an
erroneous late
fee they are charging
you for
an extension
which you
filed back in
February.
they have threatened
to garnish
your wages,
come and take
vials of blood
out of you,
cut off your hands
and feet
in order
to get their
391 dollar penalty.
you sort through
the seven pages
of drivel
and duplicates,
all
incomprehensible.
you realize how much
our educational system
has failed us
with spelling
and grammar, clarity
of thought.
after pressing an
assortment of numbers
to select your menu,
you are put on hold,
the seventh circle
of phone hell,
for sixty six minutes
you listen mindlessly
to a loop of music
you've never heard
before.
xylophones
and bell chimes.
the devil's
music, you presume.
a pitchfork
being dragged across
a blackboard.

the pressure

it starts, perhaps,
when an adult asks you
as a child, so what
do you want to be
when you grow up.
the pressure begins
to mount in your five
year old head
and you respond, i'm
not sure, thinking
madly about what it
is that you could
do to make it in
this world.
suddenly the crayons
in your hand,
the ball and glove
on the floor,
that swing set out
the window
has gone sour.

canned beans

your gun toting
friend
with his canned
beans
stored in the basement
and filtered
water,
and bullets
is sad because
he's been ready
for so long
and the sun is
still shining,
there is no chaos
in the streets,
just yet.
he can hardly
wait for the end
of world
as we know it.

waiting for things to change

you insert
the key
and turn
but it sticks.
the lock
is frozen
your key stuck
in the slot.
you are left
outside
in the rain
with the barking
dogs
and the meter
on the street
expired.
there is nothing
you can do
but wait.
the secret
to most of life.

it's your fault

a long
line of unsatisfied
customers
forms at
the complaint
window.
I thought my
life would
be better
says the first
woman in line.
I was young once,
smart and thin,
everyone loved
me. i'm unhappy
with what has
happened. things
have not turned
out the way
I thought they
would.
too bad,
says the clerk.
but it's mostly
your fault.
now please move
on. next.

your own speed

the slow
turtle
speeds
by the snail
in his
plodding
march
across
the street.
to each
his own speed
in getting
to where
he needs
to go.
no better,
or no worse.
the destination
being
the same,
with the end
being
always near.

sweet time

you are not
ready to go.
your shoes are
untied.
the dog needs
to be walked.
the windows
need to be
shut in case
it rains.
you are taking
your sweet time.
and isn't that
what time
is, sweetness.
you are not
ready to
go to, as it
should be
especially
when in love.

girl with snake

the skinny
little girl
with
the brown snake
in her
hand,
brushing
the hair out
of her eyes,
runs wild
in the street
showing everyone
what she's
found.
this boldness
will
be her doom
or her path
towards
a wonderous
life.

indifference

your indifference
is showing
on your sleeve.
how casual
it is for you to
say little, to be
distracted
and bored, to
get up without
a word, not
so much as
a wave,
and leave.
you've learned
these things
well from me.

the next step forward

the further we
go
the less we
look back.
the familiar
being too far
in the fog
and trees
behind us.
only the next
step
forward
seems to matter
now, at least
until
we get to
higher ground
where we
can see it all.

the next kiss

your last
kiss
missed.
struck me
on the cheek.
was that
by choice,
or chance.
I can't sleep
until
I know, until
the next
kiss comes
to see if
your aim
is true,
or not.

pajama world

it's a flip
flop and
pajama world now.
casual
is the dress
code.
church or school
it doesn't matter.
where once
it was only
the beach
or if you were
a hospital
patient
you were allowed
such
an easy going
fashion
manner. but
things have changed.
and not
for the better.
a country of clowns
in green
shoes
and polka dotted
satin
bloomers
rule the day.

wedding preparations

as they prepare
for the wedding,
shining shoes,
painting the front
door,
grooming the dog.
polishing the silver.
all things
that have been
put aside for
years, they wonder
what else
can they do to
show a side
that they really
don't have.

the leaves

the wind
will lift
and stir
the leaves
as they fall
reminding you
of someone
you once loved
and lost.

gravity

without
so much gravity
we'd float
a little
above the earth
untethered
by the science
of
the lunar pull
and air,
and things you
hardly
understand
but obey
without choice.
but what
about
the other gravity
the one that
holds you in a
job you hate,
or puts you in
places you don't
belong.
with people
you don't love,
or who don't
love you.
how strong
and persistent
that gravity
is as well.

going green

feeling that you deserve
a special treat
because you have been
such a wonderful
person lately, throwing
your empty plastic
bottles into the right
hole of trashcans,
tipping your hat
to complete strangers,
startling them.
giving your change
to barristas, all ninety
three cents of it
when they hold it in
their palm for that extra
hopeful second, you
buy yourself some lobsters
at the local grocery
store. two to be exact.
you love lobsters.
just the tails. they are
frozen solid but still
a nice greyish
red from being steamed
a few weeks ago.
you disregard the black
magic marker numbers
crossed out several times
over. you can see
the original sticker that says,
twenty one dollars, so at
four dollars and
seventy nine cents,
in addition to your club
card, you know you are
getting quite a deal, and well,
you deserve it. don't
you? you put both tails
into the micro wave
and bring them to a nice
steamy finish. the butter
melts quickly as you
lather it on the cracked
shells. the first one goes
down easily with quick
lusty bites, dripping
juices onto your shirt.
the second one,
you decide to savor,
you are a little surprised
that it still tastes
like lobster, making
you smile. you pick
it up, like a banana
and nibble at the end
working your way down
as you dip it into more
butter. you don't even
care about your shirt
anymore as you devour
it. you wash it down
with a bottle of beer
and sit back, satisfied.
after about an hour
you are lying on
the cold bathroom floor,
staring at the tiles,
one hand on the toilet
trying to pull yourself
up. you cry a little,
and moan, you whimper
for your mother.
you can see your reflection
in the white porcelain
bowl. you are a shimmering shade
of sea green. green like
the ocean from where the
lobsters came from.
you were such a good
person today. why this?

joining a band

bored with
your life,
you decide
to join
a band. hit
the road
and meet some
groupies
who are hopefully
healthy
and don't
want to hurt you.
you have no
musical
talent, but
you were once
able to keep
a nice beat on
the dashboard
with two hands
when inna god
da vida came
on the radio.
you can whistle
a little too,
and sing
in the shower,
you've been
practicing
for years,
as your dog and
your neighbors
well know.
it should be fun,
travelling
the eastern
seaboard, finding
dive bars
to ply your
new trade.

lunch with birds

the bird,
a swallow,
a sparrow, who
knows, not you,
rises in the air
with the garlic
basted
crouton you
lovingly
tossed towards
him onto
the brick patio
in order to scoot
him away from
your salad.
birds on
the table while
eating
is not a good thing.
but in mid flight
you see
him spit it
out and wing
back in a large
swooping
arc,
diving towards
your head.
he seems unhappy
with
your crouton.

i've got a guy

if you need a guy
I have a guy,
she says,
picking at
a swollen bug
bite on her leg.
plumbing, pipes
clogged,
no problem.
gutters cleaned?
he does that too.
need a roof
fixed. loose shingle?
he's on it.
he'll walk
your dog, take
in your mail,
put your trash
out while you're
on vacation.
he paints too.
no spills or splatters.
i'm telling you,
whatever it
is you need my guy
will do it. let me
give you his number.
here, write
this down,
or put it into
your phone.
he does massage
therapy
too, not to mention
catering.
party food, shrimp
on a cracker
with bacon
and a little
water chestnut?
he does that.
he's coming over
later tonight
to take a look at
this bug bite on
my leg.
he knows bug
bites. he can tell
you everything
about insects,
this guy.
my guy. how long
have you had that
mole on your forehead.
let him take
a look at it.
he can be your
guy too.

sweet lisp

she had a slight
lisp
that made
her sexy and kind
in a subtle way.
it kept
her honest
and compassionate.
neither a
thorn in her
side or a
pebble in her
shoe. it was a
sweet lisp
and over time,
one you grew
used to.

ripened tomatoes

slightly green
tomatoes
not quite
ripe
off the vine
sit in a white
bowl
on the table.
you'll probably
never eat them
as they fade
into yellow
and red,
but for awhile
you'll let
them sit,
unbothered.
we all like
to be
unbothered
at times.

i'll send a postcard

some people like
to tell you
where they've been,
where they are going,
when and how
they will travel.
they want you to
be envious of their
stamped passports,
their tagged
luggage saying
Italy or france,
new Zealand
and Africa. they
tell you that they
will send you
a postcard when
they get there.
but you don't care.
you are happy
on the front porch
watching
the slow trains
roll by. ice tea
in your hand,
a cat in your lap.

have cake, need icing

you used to believe
that a slice
of cake and a cold
glass of milk
could solve nearly
everything.
especially with icing.
how can you be
angry eating
cake, or sad, or
lonely, or heartbroken.
licking the fork
clean of frosting
was a pleasurable
moment of a long
hard day.
but you don't
think that way anymore.
cake and icing
are in the rearview
mirror
and it's not a
pretty sight.

the stew

his face
pink as a balloon
in may
surrounded
by a yellowing
white
beard,
he stirs
the stew of
his life
and tells another
story
letting the broth
rise, a carrot
of memory
surfacing,
the soft potatoes
rolling
against
the pot. his
children,
his first,
and second wife,
the meat of youth,
all seasoned
with a dose
of pepper
and salt.
and as he speaks
he stirs,
closing his
eyes, inhaling
the steam
of the stew
that was
his life.

unfinished

words are left
on the table
or go swallowed
unsaid.
a bite
of food on
the plate,
the poem, half
written,
thoughts, like
church bells
ringing
in the distance.
even love
can go unfinished
as does
the book
unread, or
the painting left
to dry
in mid stroke
between clouds
of blue, or
white.

flickering pixels

point and click
for love
for lust, for
directions
home, for
hotels
and movies.
for food and shelter.
cars
and products
to wash your
dog with.
don't make me
get out of this
chair
to walk around
the block.
keep the power
on and I have
everything I need.
i'm nothing
without
this mouse,
without this
screen. you've
become a distant
memory.
a flickering of
pixels
and light,
dissolving into
blues and greens.

the nut of the matter

your mother calls
beating around
the bush. angling
for something. you
can just sense it.
you go through
the litany of gossip
and illnesses.
which flowers are
blooming, which aren't.
deaths and misfortunes
of all that she
knows, or proposes
to know. she throws
in that sometimes
she feels like she only
has a week to live
at best, then you
get to the nut
of the matter.
sunday dinner. can
you come, I made
beef stew. and oh
by the way. can you
help move the freezer
from the basement
out to the driveway,
where we can load
it into your truck
and then drive
it to your sister's
house, the one you
don't get along with,
in waldorf Maryland?
the line suddenly
goes garbled.

stray cats

this cat
keeps showing
up on your front
porch
so you open
a can of tuna
in spring
water and set
it out.
she snubs
it with a sniff
and half
lick. she wants
something
else,
meowing as she
paws at
the storm door
peering in.
but you've
drawn the line
with her,
you can't
let it in.
you are too weak
and giving
to the needy.
twenty minutes
could
eventually
be twenty years.
and you don't
have that kind
of time to spare.

high expectations

your new girlfriend
gina
has a headache.
and you are the cause
of it.
you left
your shoes
in the hall
for her to trip on,
wet clothes in
the dryer,
the seat up
in all three
bathrooms.
you forgot to sweep
away the crumbs
from the kitchen
counter.
not to mention
you failed to
put gas in her
car when
you borrowed it
to go get pizza,
beer and lotto
tickets.
she has set
the bar so high
that
it's difficult
to live up to her
expectations.
sometimes you almost
feel like
she's withholding
affection
when she sleeps
in the other
room. you aren't
sure, but it's
a feeling.

the wrong side of the bed

you wake up
one morning and your
shoes
no longer fit,
they are one
size too small.
your pants are
too short, your
shirts too tight.
you put your hat
on, and it
barely goes
goes onto
your head. snug
around your
ears.
your dog growls
at you,
your wife sneers
and avoids
your good bye
kiss. your children
lock
their doors
and say, what do
you want.
you are no longer
who you thought
you were
and you don't know
how to turn
back the clock.
the world
has become
the wrong side of
the bed.

the massage

so, we have you down
for a deep tissue massage
at four, is that right?
right, you say over the phone.
deep tissue. i'm really sore
and need a great massage.
good, she says. well, we
have corky and Amanda.
both are available
at four o'clock.
Amanda, you say quickly.
okay, but corky is really
good at deep tissue.
he really knows how
to get into those knots.
Amanda, you say again
without hesitation. sure,
she says. see you at four.
Amanda leads you into
the darkened room full
of incense and music.
bongos beat gently like
rain drops in a tropical
forest, and mandolins strum
softly in the shadowy enclave.
you strip down
into your bvds, tossing
your clothes on the floor.
she comes back in, rubbing oils
into her hands. smiling
blissfully as you lie
there beneath the cool sheets.
she is slight and angular,
hardly any weight to her
at all. harder you say,
as she kneads her tiny
hands into your shoulders
and back. harder? she says.
yes. I can hardly feel
it. okay, she says, leaning
up onto the table,
pushing her elbows into
your neck. harder? yes, please
you say. okay, she says,
jumping onto the table,
rubbing her heels into
your spine, how's that.
ummm. okay, I guess. I still
have a really sore spot
that you aren't reaching.
she hops down and grabs
a small baseball bat
from under the table
then hops back up.
she begins to strike you
with the bat,
how's that she says.
perfect you say, and
slowly slip into a daze
as she pounds out the
muscles. pffft. who
needs corky.

the end of the world

the end of the world
will hurt me
more than it will
you, she says,
putting her make up
on. men always have
it easy. you'd find
a way to survive
with your guns and
knives, your know
how will pull you
through. this makes you
laugh. I have no guns,
you tell her, and
the only knives I
have are in the kitchen
drawer waiting to
butter toast
or to cut a slice
of turkey. and as far
as my know how goes.
without google these
days, i'm lost.
whatever she says,
can you zip me
up, i'm almost ready.

the short list

you hold
the door for
the limping
bent over man.
he says thank
you, as you
let him in
with his cart
and bag, his
hat securely
on his head.
his hair
as white as
snow. his eyes
twinkling
blue like old
stars with
life still in
them. you watch
him as he
pulls out his
list. shorter
today, perhaps,
than yesterday.

a place where people say hi

you wrestle with
the idea of moving
to a better climate.
one with sunshine
and low humidity,
no earthquakes
to speak of, or flash
floods, or wild
fires. little or
no snow would be
nice, occasional
rain is fine. a
place where the
people are nice
and friendly, where
they don't mind
saying hello when
you pass them bye
and they don't
avert their eyes.
a place like that
you could get used
to. if you know of
any, call me up,
or drop me a line.

dinner for one

a table
for one is not
so bad.
you order when
you're ready.
no fussing over
the wine
list or holding
a candle
to the menu.
you know what
you want, and
how you want it
before you
arrive.
you can eat all
the bread
with honey butter.
no eyes there
to scold you.
there is no
one there to
pick at your
plate or to ask
you to taste
their asparagus
or cold beet soup.
there is no
extra spoon
dipping into
the chocolate mousse
as it comes
with a swirl
of whipped
cream riding high
on top.
there is no
styro-foam box
to go, to carry
through
the restaurant,
out to the car.
but then there's
later, it's then
that you'll
truly miss her.

uncovered

uncovered
shards
of earthen
ware,
bent
silver
spoons, and forks.
broken
glasses
where lips
once met,
bottles,
whole
but empty
of wine,
or milk,
hollow bowls
for broth
now stitched
with worms
and mites.
the earth finds
a way
to take back
what it has
given.
in time,
all things
falling to
their grave.

the spoiled child

you see
the spoiled
child
later in life
with greying
temples,
red faced,
still unhappy
at the long
line,
grumbling
at poor service,
twisting
his or
her hands
in the rain.
given so much
for so long
at such
a young age
has made
life a hard
road to travel.
things never
coming quite as
easy,
as they once
came.

bring two

the waiter
is surprisingly
judgmental
with your choice
of tile fish
for dinner.
and you not
knowing what
tile fish is,
or wreck fish,
you ask him.
he says, they
are not
unlike flounder.
then why
not flounder?
you think to yourself
while eating
a fried potato ball
jumbled in
a red netted basket.
why these fish
and not
the ones you
know?
have the crab
cakes, he says,
pushing
his blonde
pirate hair
off his
sunburned brow.
the crab cakes
are really
good tonight,
he says. his smile
is white and wide,
and you get the feeling
that he does
well with the girls
on the beach,
and you trust
him, strangely.
why would he steer
you wrong.
crab cakes you
say, smiling,
bring two.

missing you

under water
you open your eyes
to the soft green
depths
of ocean, to
the shadows of fish
and legs
the shells
and sea glass
all rolling
contentedly
on the cool sand
bottom
where your feet
bounce
as you come
up for air
and sun, and blue.
the ocean
pulls you to its
center
as if wanting
you, wanting
your essence,
to hold
you in its
dangerous arms
awhile longer,
missing
you more each
time.

tomatoes

each year
your father bends
into his garden
to grow
tomatoes.
he picks them
the morning
before you
arrive
then places
them into
a plastic bag.
he has struggled
hard
with showing
love
and affection,
but somehow
these red plump
and sun
soaked
tomatoes have
helped him
reach your heart.

the summer parade

the wash of
rain
kisses your
face
as you turn
your eyes
upwards
to see
the clouds
move in
the sun
in its yellow
wonder
retreat.
the summer
parade
moves on
as you do,
holding close
the memory
of this
moment
in your bare
feet.

at the beach

going away
to the beach
leaves you wordless
for awhile.
your fingers itching
to get back
to work,
to the keyboard,
to get the sand
out of your shorts
and ears,
to ease the burn
of once white
skin.
enough fish
enough kites,
enough waiters
pouring you
coffee. you are
refreshed
and renewed
enough
to begin the next
week, to reboot
your life
again.

misunderstood

you fear
not being
misunderstood.
as Oscar
wilde once
said.
you don't want
to lose
the edge,
the sword
of metaphor
and mystery.
you don't want
the full bright
light to shine
on everything,
you'd like a corner
or two
to be bathed
in shadows
and darkness,
what joy is there
in being
known, completely?

the embrace of water

the ocean
has no arms
and yet it
pulls you
in with it's endless
blue, the white
lace
of waves caressing
your life.
whispering
that everything
will be fine,
everything will
be alright, just
dive in. let it
wash over you,
and let go.
what you leave
behind will
wait for you, but
for now,
this is
the embrace
that you need.

the horses

she puts her
ear
to the ground
and says
listen.
do you ear
what I hear,
the beating
of hooves,
the stampede
of horses
coming to
rescue us.
to take us away
from
where we are,
where we
have been
stuck for
so many dry
and thirsty
days. but you
hear nothing.
your canteen
is full,
and you sit in
the shade
reading. not
needing to be
rescued at all.

the unfair advantage

as Shakespeare
wrote,
we could have
a battle of
wits, but I see
that you are
unarmed.

s

small
but fierce
she brings
fury to the fight.
despite
her weight
and lack of
muscle
or height.
be wary
of her, don't
let
those green
eyes of
emerald fool
you into
thinking she
is soft
and not a
worthy
opponent.

the loose thread

the single
thread, so thin
and fragile,
tossed
in the wind
like the smallest
of tails,
when pulled
can bring the
whole house
down
leaving you
naked
in the cold,
showing
the world who
you really
are.

flowers

somehow,
undeservingly,
there are flowers
in your
yard.
you know nothing
about flowers
or how they
possibly
could have
grown there. but
it's a nice
surprise
they make
you strangely
happy inside.
I feel that
way about you.

knitting needles

you like to say things
like i'd rather
put knitting needles
in my eyes
than go to my mother's
house for Christmas.
but you go anyway,
and have a pleasant
time despite it being
two hundred degrees in
there because there are
no windows open
and dogs running
around everywhere,
licking plates and
forks, with the tv
on and people that
you are related to
through no fault of
your own are screaming
at the top of their
lungs about how their
gingerbread house
broke when they slipped
in the driveway.
but you are glad that
you didn't put
knitting needles in
your eyes, at least
for today.

the girl with the pony tail

the girl
in school you
fell in
love with,
the memory
has never faded
with time.
you can still
see her shimmering
long hair
in a pony
tail, the ribbon
holding it
in place.
you can still
hear her
sweet melodious
voice,
as she turned
around
with steel braces
around her teeth,
telling you
to quit kicking
her chair
or she was going
to tell
the teacher.

in our hands

someone you
know
has died.
it's been a while
since you last
saw or talked
to him.
but at one point
in your life
you were day
in day out
kind of friends.
you get the word
third hand,
a friend
telling a friend,
passed down
and told to you
while in line
at the store
for milk and bread.
you are stunned
as well you
should be.
there is guilt,
sadness,
you shake your
head, then go
on and pay for
what is in your
hands. there being
so little
of the world
that we can carry.

bumper stickers

my son
is an honor
student at Pillsbury
high
the bumper
sticker says.
and then there
are stickers
of hockey sticks
and baseballs,
tennis rackets
and basketballs.
little silhouettes
of a family
holding hands.
boy girl mom
dad, dog.
there's a Harvard
sticker too,
and a few ribbons,
yellow and pink
for the troops
and cancer.
they have been to
the grand canyon,
and Disney world,
not to mention,
OBX and Canada.
they have covered
all of their
accomplishments
and virtues smartly
on the bumper
of their
car. they are good
people, well read,
well traveled, but you
kind of hate them
anyway.

mood swings

your mood swings
accordingly
to the weather
and what the last
person texted
you.
or maybe it's
the traffic
or a disgruntled
client
who is feeling blue
because, well,
he is blue.
you've lost
the gandhi in
you for the moment
and perhaps
the foreseeable
future, if there
is such a thing.
you need to get
back to your happy
place, where
life rolls off
you, unabsorbed,
content with all
things
good or bad, each
having its place
in your life.

the internet date

will you visit me
in prison
she says to you
on the first
date slash meeting.
why? are you
going to jail, you ask,
dipping a rubbery piece
of fried calamari
into the red sauce.
you name it she says,
scratching at her arm
that seems to have a rash
where a tattoo may
have been.
do tell, you say, crunching
down on the calamari.
tax evasion, she says,
for one. then there's the
time I slashed my
ex husband's tires on
his pick up truck.
plus I left my kids
alone and they set
the apartment building
on fire while I was
out on a date. I told
them no cooking
while I was gone.
how old are they.
four and five.
the youngest can really
make some good
scrambled eggs if you
pull a chair up
to the stove.
there's some other stuff
too, she says, reaching
into the basket for
some food, but I'd
rather not tell you.
you might not like me
then. you laugh, or visit
you in prison?
right she says, so tell
me about you. enough
about me.
what do you like to do
for fun? she says.
you seem like a fun guy.

one cloud

there's just one
cloud
blocking the sun,
but that's all
it takes, one grumpy
soul in the boat,
one angry
man in the crowd.
one fly in
the ointment,
a small bug
in the glass of
ice tea
that almost
touches your lips,
just one small
thing can change
everything.

the portly mugger

a man approaches
you on the street
with a gun and says
give me all your money.
you pull out your
pockets to show
him that you have
none. sorry, you say,
you're too late.
I was robbed at
the last corner.
then take off your
shoes, he says,
what size are they.
ten you tell him.
never mind he says.
what about my shirt,
you ask, do you
want that? turn around
he says, taking a
look. no he says,
I don't look good
in aqua. well, you
tell him, i'm sorry.
and I'm sure my pants
don't fit, you look
a lot bigger than
me. are you saying
I look fat, he says.
looking at his waist
dropping the gun
down. no you say.
you might be a little
portly, or big boned.
but definitely not fat.
I should lose about
ten, he says. well,
you can go. sorry that
you have nothing.
it's okay, he says.
but I don't look fat,
do I, are you sure.
i'm certain you say.
far from it. in stripes
you'll be fine.

dining alone

you see a man
in the corner dining
alone,
his glasses on,
reading the paper.
his plate in front
of him, a napkin
in his lap, almost
as if he was in
his kitchen at home.
there is no
rush in his eating.
no hurry to his
hands.
he nods when the waitress
fills his cup
with coffee, then
moves away, she seems
to know him, his
routine. it's good
to have someone, when
alone, that seems
to understand.

happy hour

you were happy today
between the hour
of nine a.m.
and ten a.m.
maybe it was the easy
drive in
and the coffee.
maybe it was because
your phone
was turned off
and it wasn't raining.
whatever
the cause of it.
it was a good hour
to start the day with.
a nice happy
hour.

salesmen

you don't
pet snakes, or
lizards.
or crocodiles.
they seem the kind
of creatures
that won't cuddle
up to you
at night without
first taking
a bite. there's
no smile
in their eyes,
no gentle purr
or play
in their soul.
it's not what they
are about.
it's just the dotted
line with
them. cold blooded
and true
to who they are.

other nails

your hand
doesn't see the nail
but feels
it as you rub
against the wall.
your flesh
rips easily,
bleeds quickly.
it's bright
red, as it tear drops
down the fat
of your thumb.
next to the other
scars, from
other nails,
hammered into
other walls.
not unlike your
heart as you've
bump into other
loves.

the pinch

she was so
sweet
your teeth hurt.
polite
and perfect
in her manners.
never knowing
much of pain
or death,
you wanted to pinch
her on the arm
just to hear
her swear
and curse.
but no,
you couldn't
break her spell
that the world
was full of good,
that all things
end well
to those who
are true and kind.
so you let
her go on her
way. not being
the one
to tell her
how things really
were.

go and sin no more

the faith
healer comes to town
in a white suit
and bright lights.
he fills
the room with
broken hearts
and limbs,
lazy eyes,
and kidney stones.
he has his work
cut out for
him with only
a ten gallon
drum of holy water.
some feel better
at the end of
the night, some
feel worse.
but all leave
with one thing in
common, their purses
and wallets feeling
thin, relieved
and light.

too much rest

you have gotten
too much rest.
so much so that
you are wobbly
on your legs, your
eyes are blurry
from sleep
and slumber on
the couch.
you've watched
the trees outside
your window
sway with their
green leaves,
catching rain,
and drying in
the sunlight.
you've lost
the weekend with
too much of nothing.
too much
reading, too much
phone.

early american

standing
on the street
corner
in a mink stole
trying to decide
which way
to go, you could
see that she was
an early
American
antique with
spindly legs
and blue eyes.
nails polished,
well
appointed with
old
jewelry, and
a pill box hat
worthy of
Jackie o.
she had her day.
but where oh
where
does the time
go.

let's sleep in

at seven
in the morning
she wakes
you up, shaking your
shoulder, hey, she
says, hey, let's sleep
in today.
I was sleeping, you
tell her. well go
back to sleep, i'll
go make some coffee
and get the paper
off the porch.
you turn over with
your grumpy face,
still swollen
with sleep, misshapened
by dreams
and slumber. that's
not sleeping in,
you tell her,
reaching for the pillow
to put over your head.
that's lying in bed
awake. whatever, she
says. hungry?
I could make some
pancakes too.

another shot

her room is full
of bags.
new crisp bags
with handles.
bags from
macy's and nordstroms,
neiman marcus
and stores
you've never
heard of.
you ask her
if she had fun,
did she find anything
new and nice
that she loves.
no, she says,
taking off her shoes.
I couldn't find
anything,
maybe we could
go back later. it
was too crowded
to do any serious
shopping. i'm
not happy
with my purchases.
I need another shot.

busy with things

you hear
your neighbor
cutting his grass
at eight a.m.
on a sunday
morning. you
look out the window
and see him
sweating in
the early sun.
wiping his brow
with a rag.
later he'll wash
his car
and cut branches
down from
his trees.
sometimes he'll
haul bags
to the curb.
this goes on
until sunset.
he's busy with
his weekend,
filling up
the above ground
pool.
sometimes you'll
see his wife
and son looking
out their
window, blinking
their eyes.

tipping point

the pregnant
woman, licking
a double scoop
of ice cream is
almost to the tipping
point
of falling
face forward.
her face
is red and round
in the heat.
you pray that
she doesn't
pass out or go
into labor
while you both
stand in line
at the grocery
store. you just
want to get your
milk and bread
and get out.
she's holding
diapers and
baby oil under
her free arm.
you want
to ask her
how this happened.
or why isn't
she sitting
someplace in a cool
room waiting
for the baby
to arrive, licking
her ice cream
there.
why is she out
in this heat?

the tenants

the tenants
don't care. look at
the front lawn.
those oil cans
in the driveway.
listen to that dog
bark from the window.
laundry on
the line showing
the wear and tear
of someone else's
clothes.
they seemed nice
at first. scrubbed
and polished
for the signing.
but soon, the checks
stopped coming.
and the ones
that did, bounced
like balls against
the floor.
it's hard to get
them out.
they are weeds in
the field.
your field, your
house. you hate being
a landlord.
but they don't seem
to mind
being who they are,
renters
staying put,
keeping warm
in the heated air.

the peach

your yesterdays
outweigh
your tomorrows.
but so what.
who cares.
today is a peach.
it runs down
your chin, makes
you smile in
the summer sun.
it won't last,
but that's fine
too.
every tree will
bloom
and blossom
and have its day,
then die.
so will you.

walls

some people
build walls their
entire lives.
brick after brick
onto one another
in the stiffening
grey mortar
of their thinking.
keeping everyone
out and away,
to the point of
having no one at
the end to say hello
or farewell to.

hot or cold

when the first
splash
of water
hits your hand,
your mind and skin
are at odds
as to which it is.
hot or cold.
it takes some time
to decide
which knob to turn
further, which
faucet will fill
the basin.
so it is
with the first
kiss too.

ten things

ten things you
hope you'll never have
to do
begins with standing
on a street corner
with a bucket
and a sign,
eating lima beans,
or going up in
a hot air balloon.
and then there's being
a greeter
at the front door
of a big
chain store, or
listening to opera
on a nice
sunny day.
picking up a snake
is one of them too,
as well as a rat,
a lizard
or slurping pea soup.
deep sea diving
doesn't melt your
butter, nor does
knocking on a door
to sell windows
or books,
or delivering a
letter. i'm not sure
if that's ten
or not, but there's
more. a whole lot
more. I have to go
work now and hang
wallpaper, which is
also on the list.

road trip

you take a road trip
with your parents.
they are both in their
eighties. so it's
a long ride to Philadelphia
where their parents
are buried, and where
they grew up and went
to school a thousand
years ago in south philly.
you suggest,
after a hundred miles
or so and three stops
for coffee and the bathroom,
singing as your father
drives his chevy impala,
but he cant remember
the words to any songs
and begins to make them
up. fly me to the moon
becomes, fly me to that
white globe in the sky.
after about three attempts
at Sinatra and dean martin's
mambo italiano, your
mother puts her hands
over her ears and screams
I have to pee again. now.
I have to pee now. I
may have peed a little
when you hit that last
bump. why are there so
many bumps, it seems like
you are purposely trying
to hit them. which makes
your father shake his
head and say something
in Italian that you don't
understand. after stopping
and getting back into
the car, you suggest
playing the license
plate game, but they don't
want to. your father
keeps asking you if
the traffic lights
are red or green
as he speeds through them,
and your mother says
she has a headache on
account of the fumes
from the trucks going
by twice as fast as we
are. it's a long trip.
but nobody dies and
everyone is happy in a
strange blissful way.

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.