out in the country

a glint
a gleam
a sliver
of light
coming
through
the window,
the shades,
the blinds,
the torn
screen.
the bark
of a bird
on the feeder
awakens you.
a cow moos
on a distant
field.
it's hard
to sleep soundly
out here
in the country,
but you
try.

here, have some cornbread

she was so
proud of her corn
bread.
carrying it out
from the kitchen,
fresh and hot
from the stove,
it gleamed with
melted butter
as she set it on
the table.
try some corn
bread, she'd say.
I just made it,
from scratch.
and you'd say,
no thanks, I don't
like corn bread.
but I just made
it. it goes great
with chicken.
no thanks, you'd
tell her. just
taste it, have one
nibble, i'm
sure you'll love it.
nah, i'll pass, but
I will have some
more chicken if you
don't mind
passing me the plate.
you won't have
one bite, she asked,
chewing her
cornbread and smiling
sweetly.
nope. no cornbread
for me. it was an
early night as she
claimed to get
a headache.
things never were
the same after that.

jimmy legs

there was a kid,
jimmy southall,
who used to sit behind
you in social studies,
in the seventh grade
who couldn't stop
kicking your chair.
he was small, slight,
with beady eyes,
and long dirty
finger nails.
you'd slide your desk
forward, and so
would he.
for the entire
forty seven minutes
he would drum
his hard shoe against
your chair.
giving him an
evil look,
or threatening him
with death didn't
seem to bother
him. sometimes you'd
go sit at another
empty desk, but
the teacher would
force you back into
your alphabetical
alignment. for
weeks and weeks
it went on, until
one day he wasn't
there. days went by,
no kicking, no jimmy.
it was quiet, normal.
almost eerie. you
missed him. you heard
later that he was
sent away to a mental
institution, which
made you feel bad
for telling him you
were going to break
his legs if he
didn't stop kicking
your chair.

the clean kitchen

women don't cook
anymore.
most don't. they
are not of your parent's
generation
with the spice
racks
and colanders,
dutch ovens
and meat thermometers.
no.
they like to go
out to eat
and keep those
gourmet kitchens
clean.
the granite shines,
the polished
blenders
and food processors
are silent. sure
there are plenty
of cook books
on the shelf,
but the oven stays
cold, the fridge
holds the bare
necessities
of yogurt and hummus.
cheese and wine.
it's a clean
well lighted room,
spotless,
with the carryout
menu posted
near the phone.

amorous rex

don't mind my dog,
she says,
trying to hold the little
beast back.
you like dogs
don't you, she
says? the dog
wraps his front
paws around
your ankles
and tries to
romance your leg.
yes. you say,
dragging the dog
along the floor,
wincing
at his gnarly
nibbles.
down rex, down,
she yells
as he continues
to make love
against your shoe
and sock.
finally she yanks
him away and shows
you the room
she needs
painted. as you
leave, you see
rex in the corner,
sleepy eyed,
smoking a camel
and giving you a
smirking wink.

the fall shoe sale

she's angry.
her face crimson,
her stance
wide
and strong,
no wind or flood
could
knock her
down, even in
those flimsy
flip flops.
she holds
the newspaper
up to you,
rattling it in
your pale face.
how could you,
she says,
seething, how
could you tell
not tell me
about the fall
shoe sale
at Nordstrom
again, this year.

up for grabs

the story
can go either way,
good
over evil, or
evil
coming out
in the end.
you've seen it
happen
time and time
again,
where the unexpected
wins.
there are no
white hats,
no
black hats,
no priest's
collar, or flag
pin on the lapel
that indicates
who's
the trusted
and loyal
one.
the world is
up for grabs,
who has the drop
on who.

your masterpiece

you paint
your masterpiece.
it's taken
years of trial
and error,
of wrong turns,
wrong colors
and subjects.
finding the right
light, with
the right brush,
to be in
the moment of
your art, but then
it comes
and all else
fades away.
it's there, as
clean and true
as anything you've
ever done.
nothing else
compares.
now what?

clown break

the clown
taking a smoke
outside the circus
tent, is talking
on his cell
phone, cursing
at the woman
on the other
end. his yellow
billowing
silk pants
flutter in
the breeze. his
blue floppy
shoes are
tapping with
annoyance. he
looks no one
in the eye, as
he tugs on
his orange wig.
he's on his break.
you can't be
funny all the time,
as you well
know.

the muic within

fear likes
to stay crouched
in the corner,
or perched
on a ledge
in the darkest
room, whispering
it's taunts,
ready to make
you tremble,
ready to
unsteady your
nerves, to
quiet the music
that is in
you.

corn bread muffins

crazy words
tumble
from her
parted lips.
she's a dark
witch on
a crooked stick
flying across
the violet sky.
she's full
of curses
and potions,
she knows
the future,
she twists
the past.
but you love
her just
the same for
her pot roast
and corn
bread muffins.

go buy a lamp

you buy a new
pair of shoes and
feel good for about an
hour.
then you go back out
and get yourself
some new pants
and a snazzy shirt
to go with them.
that makes you feel
good too, but it fades
before you know it.
how about a new car,
you think, and go
test drive a few,
deciding on a shiny
red one, with halogen
lights. this makes
you smile and smile
for a few days.
content, but then it
rains, the car
gets dirty, your shoes
have mud on them.
your pants are a little
tight. how about
redecorating the house.
that couch is three
years old after all.
you pick out a sweet
leather sectional,
smart and contemporary,
like you are.
but that rug
doesn't match, so you
go online and order
up a wild circular
rug. when it comes
you are happy. very
happy, but not quite
satisfied. hmmm,
you think, you look
over at your wife, who
is calmly reading
a book on psychiatric
illnesses, and you pick
a fight with her.
telling her that she
is smudging the coffee
table with her
big fat feet. so what,
she says.
go buy a lamp, i'm
not going anywhere.

the old church

the new church
is different
with its open
armed acceptance
of everyone, no
matter what the sin,
or how often
it's committed.
it almost seems
to embrace now
what jesus taught.
it's not
the same as when
you were a child.
kneeling
at high mass
on hard pews.
candles lit,
latin being mumbled
from the altar
by a man in a
golden frock.
the nuns like black
birds
on a wire in
the front row.
you miss
the stained glass,
the fear
of god's fury
for even the most
menial of sins,
the mystery of it
all.
the sliding
webbed door of
the confessional,
the smell
of old wood, of
ammonia on
the hard tiles.
the sound
the doors made
when they squeaked
open with
sunlight, or
darkness.
the wafer of life
in your mouth,
the blood of
Christ on your
lips.

winners and losers

everyone is
challenged
in some dreadful
way,
or deemed
special
despite falling
short.
everyone wins
a prize,
a trophy,
a plaque saying
that you
are a winner
these days,
despite
finishing last.
there are no
losers anymore,
but you know
better, they
know better.
everyone
knows the truth,
but pretends
not to.

senior discount

the young man
at the window asks
you if you
want a senior discount
for your movie
ticket, which makes
you look over
your shoulder
to find the old
person he is talking
to. but there is
no one there.
me, you say, pointing
at your chest,
smirking. you think
i'm old? i'll have
you know that I
jogged three miles
over here, and this
morning I swam
a mile at the gym,
not to mention
biking the Appalachian
trail last weekend.
me, senior citizen?
surely you jest,
my young man.
yes or no, he says,
dead panned.
what's the difference
in price you ask,
which he tells you.
sure you say,
then slide the money
through the window.

the mayor of the court

out the window
you see
the mayor of the court
holding council.
occasionally
he will point
in the direction
of your house.
you don't like
him, and so you
purposely don't
wave to him
each of six times
you see him during
the day.
he walks his
dog while searching
for violations,
such as early
trash going out
to the corner,
or a dog not
being picked up
for, or parking sticker
not being
displayed properly.
the vice mayor,
his wife, feels
free to direct
traffic, offer
advice
on gardening,
and tells you where
to put the snow
when it does snow.
they are harmless
for the most part,
but you could easily
see them as guards
in a prison camp.

the child you are

you're in the mood
for love.
she's in the mood
for sleep
and ignoring
your hands
and legs encroaching
on her curled
position
deep within
the pillows
and blankets,
burrowed beneath
the sheets
protected. are
you awake, you
say, nuzzling
your chin
with bristles
sexily along her
back. you hands
sliding along
the smooth curves
of her. no, she
says, again. stop.
i'm sleeping,
which makes
you sigh loudly,
defeated,
and roll over,
sulking
like the child
you are.

no surrender

you see
in his eyes,
the old man
leaning on his cane
that there is still
life there.
still a soul
inside.
his body has
failed him,
but not
his grin, or
blue lakes
of fire
that still sees
and takes all
of it in.
no retreat,
nor surrender.
another day
gone by.

don't bogart that joint

several of your old
buddies
from back in the day,
back in the old
chain link
hood you grew
up in, still smoke
dope.
they say huh a lot.
or what, I don't
remember that.
they have families,
and some sort
of jobs that provide
enough income to
survive on, but they
still love getting high
as if it was
nineteen sixty nine,
listening to music
and zoning out.
they don't reminisce
much, because so
many brain cells
have died in the onslaught
of bong hits, joints,
and pipes full
of hashish. they like
to sit around,
red eyed, hungry
and laughing, paranoid
about everything,
weaving another plot
of world wide
corporate conspiracy,
the man still
keeping them down.

wrinkle free

your friend gina
wants you to join
a nudist colony with
her. but you say
no. you refuse to
get naked in front
of a bunch of strangers.
you even cover up
with your dog around.
you are just shy
that way, plus you
don't want a certain
part of your body
to be wrinkled
forever, like the rest
of you. your backside
is like a smooth
cool moon of supple
white skin. you'd
like to keep it that
way, untouched by
the sun, or sand,
or creatures that might
want to bite or
nip at it.

cold hand

her cold
hand
is on your
shoulder.
it surprises
you, this
icy palm,
the frigid
fingers.
how does a
hand get
this cold.
it lies
there,
without nails,
without
tenderness.
cold
and detached.
but it's better
than no
hand you tell
yourself,
pulling up
the blankets
with a shiver.

your friends

sometimes
your friends bore you.
but they
are still friends, so
you listen.
you listen again
to the same story
of woe, you
listen until
it's your turn,
which they don't like
to hear.
no one wants advice.
they want
tea and sympathy.
they want ears
to listen to them speak.
no more, no less.
nothing changes,
everything stays the same.

the laughing dog

you see
the dog run across
the street
without
his leash,
the owner
lumbering far
behind
with a plastic
bag
and a small
red shovel.
she is too slow
to catch
the sprinting
beast,
he knows that
and makes a game
of it.
you park your
car
and go in
as she whistles
for the dog,
bending over,
clapping her hands.
and the dog
laughing
upon the hill.

sleep

you savor
the nights when
sleep
is the only
answer for fatigue.
sinking deeply
into the bed,
your head
upon the pillow.
somehow the world
is more clear
the next day.
the troubles
you wrung your
hands over
have eased,
slipping back into
the sea.

to disappear

things
begin to disappear.
the girl
you love,
a shoe,
a coat, a book
you read.
some money.
small things
that you
haven't paid
attention to.
one day
an arm is gone,
a foot,
an ear.
you've let
yourself go,
slowly,
nearly
vanishing into
thin air.

pumpkin head

you have no use
for pumpkins.
you want your pumpkin
sweetened
in a pie,
or in a cake,
or perhaps even in
a latte, but
you don't want
to carve one out,
digging out the mush
of meat and seeds,
hauling it
home, to roll
around in the trunk.
you don't want
to set it on
the porch with a
candle in it.
it's angled
teeth and hollowed
eyes staring
at you everyday
as you come home
from work.
you've been down
that road before.
no more pumpkins.

text message

a button
snaps off, your fly
is down.
a coffee
stain
has shadowed
your white shirt.
a shoe lace
breaks
as it begins
to rain, and
the trains are
all late.
it's Monday,
as you
pick your
phone up
out of
a deep puddle
as you read
her text
telling you
farewell.

shades of blue

sometimes you lose
interest
in the things
you love.
that cup
of coffee
in the morning.
the ocean
and it's endless
roll of waves.
how blue
the sky is
when fall arrives.
today
and tomorrow have
all blend into
one.
you have turned
several
shades of blue,
which
makes sleep
easier
without you.

the rake

the rake
against
the fence,
leaning,
waiting
patiently
for hands to
curl around it
and pull it
across
the fallen
leaves.
it's been awhile.
it's still
there though.
it's spine
still straight
and strong.
like you,
nothing much
has changed,
at least what
can be seen.

leaving it behind

the axe
in his hands
swung
over his
shoulders
in the mid
day sun
struck
the wood
splitting
it violently
into cords.
all day,
bang, bang
against
the stump.
bang bang
against what
an unjust
world had
dealt him.
it felt
good to take
out his
anger
without
remorse or
reluctance.
and when
the day was
over, he smiled
and kissed
her gently
on the lips,
helping
her
in the kitchen.

let the car in

let
the car
in
before you.
hold the door.
say
thank
you.
smile
and say
hello.
look into
someone's
eyes
and nod
yes.
simple
things
forgotten
as we
stare
into our
phones.

the wheel barrow of love

enough
is all you
need to get
by. more
than that
just goes to
waste.
enough
food, enough
to drink,
enough
money to
buy you things.
any more
than what
you need causes
problems.
except for
love.
you can never
have enough
of that.
bring the wheel
barrow.
fill it up.

knock on wood

you carry a piece of
hardwood around
with you. a chunk
that fits into
your pocket.
and when people
say how are you,
you say great, then
take out the wood
and knock on it
a few times.
how are things going,
wonderful, you
answer, rapping
on the wood.
your son, your family,
your work. all is
well, you say,
knuckles drumming
the piece of wood.
your girlfriend,
oh great, just great,
you smile, things
couldn't be better.
for this you use
both hands to knock
hard against the wood.
by the end of the day,
your knuckles are
raw and bleeding,
but you feel covered,
you feel content
with how nicely
this is working out.

the grey squirrel

nothing is funny
about pain.
no jokes,
no smiles, no
laughing
can soothe
the ache and
scream of nerves
unhinged.
so you reach
for the good stuff.
the hard
pills with all
the warnings
and pop a few
down, then you
sit in the easy
chair
by the window
and watch the grey
squirrels
race effortlessly
around.
you were a grey
squirrel once.

hands

your hands
stay curled.
covered
in the days
debris.
even in hot
water
they want
to stay put,
ready for work.
it's what
they do.
calloused
and thick,
keeping
the lights on,
the food
on the shelves.
the water
hot, open
as always
for yours.

father and son

the wall,
covered in ivy,
once strong,
but being fragile
now with loose
bricks
and aged
beams holding
it all in place
tumbles
when the earth
moves with
a sudden
jarring shake.
in an instant,
you see
what's behind,
and what's
behind
sees you.
it took years,
and an act
of god,
but now you
finally have a
true glimpse
of one another
and that's a start
despite being
so close to the end.

what is to come

you didn't ask
for this life.
you were born into
it. the wheels
were already
in motion before
you existed.
every word you've
spoken was
in your mouth
before it came
out, your hands
have only done what
they were meant
to do, your
legs have taken
you where you
were supposed to go.
tomorrow is
written just as
surely as the past
has been read,
there is little
you can do to alter
what is to come.

the rules of war

apparently it's
okay
to kill with bombs
and bullets
and napalm, knives
and swords, etc.
but god forbid
that gas is used.
we need to teach
these heathens a
lesson or two,
teach them
how to kill
the american way.
how dare they kill
in ways that don't
meet our approval.
we need a few
surgical strikes
to show them how
it's done.
how to play within
the rules of
murder
and destruction,
then perhaps
they'll come to
their senses and kill
the way we want
them to.

eco system

she is global
warming,
a storm
on the rise.
you being
the planet she's
heating up.
your ice
caps have melted
under her
toxic touch.
you are flooded
with desire,
you are just
an island
by the time
she's done
with you. wet
and exhausted
in the wind
of her leaving.

fattening up

the first bite
of cool
air across
your face
makes you smile
and think
of food.
it's okay
to eat now.
we must fatten
ourselves
for winter,
if there is one.
better to be
prepared and start
making that
pie, stirring
the stew, stacking
those eggs,
better to get
ready now, then
have to go out
later into
the icy storm.

swimmers

sailors
without a ship
are swimmers.
so what
does that make
you, when
what has carried
you all along,
sinks into
the sea.
survivors,
looking for shore.

new religion

you invent
a new religion,
one that lets
everyone in.
there are no robes.
no candles
or statues.
no stained glass.
you can attend
anywhere,
everywhere
by closing your
eyes.
there is no
hat to pass
around, no guilt
or shame.
no pot luck dinners.
all is forgiven.
you confess
and receive
communion by
breathing. by
letting things go
and by letting
in good.
it's that simple.
no getting up
early anymore
and shining
your shoes for God.
the subway
is your cathedral,
the forest,
the tub,
the front porch,
the line
for coffee.

the table

the table
that wobbles,
one leg slightly
shorter than
the other,
undermines everything.
no matter how
good the food
tastes, or
the company is,
or how well
the conversation
flows, it's
the table that
keeps tilting
that steals
the show.
and the waiter
with his match
book cover
sliding it awkwardly
under knows
about the table,
but doesn't seem
to care
that much, it's
not his day
job, not his
worry, this one
short leg, this
wobbly table
where the drinks
slide side to side.

short cuts

you don't like
to follow or read
directions. what do
they know?
but this makes
it hard to get anywhere
on time.
and cooking
can be a disaster,
you like to throw
in an extra pinch
or spoon of that.
you like butter, more
butter seems
like a good idea.
you like the idea
of a short cut.
life is tailor
made for short cuts.
that desk you put
together, the drawers
stick and the legs
are uneven, but
it's your desk.
it tells the world
who you really are.
different by design.

snapping turtle

like a turtle,
you have a shell
that you duck
into from time
to time. pulling
in your head,
your arms, your
legs and tail.
pretending
not to be home
no matter who
knocks or turns
you over in the sun,
or who calls you
on the phone.
sometimes you
need this time
alone, to be left
where you are,
hopefully right
side up.

witch hazel

she comes
to life
at Halloween.
dressed
in black
with nails
painted red,
her pointed
hat and broom,
finally
a day where
she doesn't
feel out of place,
happy to be
spreading her
curses and spells,
bringing
with a grin
her gloom.

the yard

in the mud
on your knees
kneading the warm
earth.
the tangle
of vines,
and leaves,
the scramble
of rocks and scrub
brush.
trying to bring
a few flowers up.
all of it out
of your control.
the yard
is yours, but
it's not yours.
it seems
to decide what
comes and goes,
lives and dies.
not unlike
so much else
in your life.

taking the bite

the fish,
embarrassed by
biting
the plastic
worm, gives
up and lets
the line pull
him in.
no longer
tugging, swimming
side to side
with all his
might. his world
as he knows
it has ended.
how foolish it
was to take
that bite. now
the warm
sun is on his
rainbow scales,
his lungs
full of air,
drowning
in light.

another year

short
days make
long nights.
the sun
going down
so early,
the moon
sitting high
in the trees.
you push
the window
open and listen
to the heart
of a world
changing, not
unlike
another year
of you.

romance

it would have worked
out if she hadn't
adopted those
three children
when she turned fifty
from all over the world.
besides those
kids crying in three
different languages
and the commotion
that four year olds
can bring, we would
have stayed together
forever and ever, well
maybe for more than
just the weekend.
and it had little to
do with kids, it
was something else.
something you can't
put your finger on.
maybe it was the falling
down the stairs
after tripping on
a plastic toy truck.

your legs

you have
no desire to learn
more about wine
other than
what taste good.
what won't give
you a headache
after two glasses.
you don't care
what vineyard
it came from,
what country,
what hand
plucked the grapes
and when, it's
all meaningless
details.
you don't want to
sniff
the bouquet,
gargle with a gulp,
look to see
if it's got legs.
you have legs.
you just want a
a cold glass
of chianti
with a bowl
of pasta and let's
talk about
something else.
like us,
for instance,
your legs.

i don't want to go home

you can remember
exactly
the words that
someone spoke
one night in
a bar at three
in the morning
a.m. in nineteen
eighty seven.
down to the pause
the inflection,
and your reply
as you took a sip
of beer from
a miller lite
bottle.
you can still
hear the music
playing, south side
johnny and the Asbury
jukes, i don't
want to go home,
you remember
the girl in the blue
dress that you
were staring
at for most
of the night,
trying to get
your nerve up
to say something
intriguing to her
like hello, you
remember the shoes
you were wearing.
the torn jeans,
the button down
shirt, missing
buttons. you
can remember so
much,
but you can't
find your car
keys that you set
down an hour
ago.

pre cooked chicken

she was not
a good cook.
and would
occasionally
slip a store
bought rotisserie
chicken onto
the table
forgetting to hide
the hot plastic
bubble it came
in. but you
didn't care.
it was the thought
that counted,
you were
glad she kept
away from the stove
and saved her
energy for other
things.

the plan

you have a phone
plan, two
years that you
can't get out of.
a plan for
your retirement,
which makes
you laugh.
a plan
for paying your
bills on time.
a vacation
planned for
summer. you plan
to read a
book or two,
to lose a few
pounds, eat
healthy.
you have a plan
for your
dog's heartworm
pills. a plan
to visit
your friends,
to call those
you haven't called.
you have a plan
of attack
for all of these
things, but you
just don't have
the time. you need
a plan
to figure out
the time that
keeps racing by.

peace rally on the mall

when you were
young, too young
to go fight,
you went into
the city anyway
to chant and protest
the war.
there was music,
and dope in the air,
then tear gas,
and screaming
as everyone ran
to avoid being
clubbed like
baby seals. you
were there mostly
for the girls though,
who also seemed
to be upset by
the war. you had
that in common,
that and being young
and foolish.
uncertain about
nearly everything.

something has to change

stubbing the toe
on the edge
of the bed post
is a weekly
thing, it makes
you curse
and limp down
the hallway
towards the bathroom
but then you
forget about
it, until
the next time
you get up
in the middle
of the night.
something has to
change, you
think, as you do
about many things
like that.

unraveled

you catch
your sweater on
a nail
and it begins
to unravel.
it's how
the day will go.
slowly
taking away
your clothes,
until you
are naked
with nowhere
to hide, responsible
for who
you are, and
what you have
become.

new neighbors

when the new neighbors
move into the court
you can see the heads
bobbing in their
kitchen windows, wide
eyed at the kids,
the dog, the cars,
the furniture being
carried in. who are these
people, and why don't
they stop that dog
from barking. but by
the end of the month
enough greetings
will have taken place
about the parking,
the schools, the gossip.
and they will be one
of them too, sitting
near one another
at the fenced in
pool, discussing
their personal lives,
the daily news.

strangers

your father
did better with
strangers.
chatting it up
in line
about the game,
the weather,
the price
of eggs, potatoes
or fish. if
he saw a license
plate where
he grew up
he'd stop
the car and have
a friendly
talk about where
they both were
from. but at home
he was quiet,
silent in his
chair, with his
paper, his tv.
his drink
with a slice
of lime.

brand new bag

sometimes
on a Friday, when
the day is done,
you break out into
a cold sweat
and turn
james brown up
on the radio.
you know all
the words, as
you spin around,
gyrating,
holding the imaginary
microphone
in your hand.
papa's go a
brand new bag
you sing, as the birds
in the tress
stop what they
are doing,
even the worm
half down,
takes a look.

no epiphany

one friend,
poor, but rich
in family
and spirit is
dying gracefully
while the other
friend who has
more money
than he can
count is not.
you love them
both. they've
always been
exactly this way
and will now
leave the world
without changing
who they are.
neither having
an epiphany.

stolen

someone
steals your wallet,
becomes you
for a day or two.
enjoys the weekend
on your dime.
another person
steals
your parking spot
even though
you were waiting
patiently
with your blinker
on. another person
takes your
place in line
when you turn
your head away.
another steals your
heart, although
it was always
there to begin with,
waiting to be given
away.

food infusion

what are you doing
in the kitchen
she says from
the couch as she
separates her
toes with cotton
before painting
each toenail
a strawberry
red. i'm infusing
salt and pepper
into the scrambled
eggs. do some
cheese infusion
too, she says.
sharp cheddar
if you have any.
will do you say,
adjusting your chef's
hat and peeling
off the plastic
from the cheese.

the well is dry

the well
is dry. you
hear the stone
echo as it
strikes
the bottom
after a long
fast fall.
there is no
water.
no more words
to eek
out when
sleep won't
come.
your muse
has deserted
you for another.
the pages will
be dry
and barren
like dust
blown fields
until she comes
again.

harvest

are we all
not farmers wanting
rain
then wanting
rain
to stop.
needing sunlight,
but not
a drought,
are we all standing
with hoe
and rake
in hand on a field,
waiting for
crops to rise
and feed us.
praying for a good
harvest.

license and registration

you make a wrong turn
and an unmarked car
with a uniformed
policeman
at the wheel
hits his siren,
locks on
his spinning
blue lights.
he points
to the side
of the road
you pull over.
it's just his job.
whether wrong
or right.
do you know why
I pulled you
over he says,
and you nod
and say but...
tell it to a judge
or pay
the fine, he says.
license and registration.
then he disappears
into his
car, you wait.
wipers slapping slowly
against the window.
sign here, he
says, weary already
at nine in the morning,
standing in the rain,
he pushes the clip
board to you.
drive safely.
have a nice day.

high school reunion

another
high school reunion
is coming.
you've received
the emails, every day.
joe somebody
is running
the show.
it's at a crab house
on the eastern
shore.
a place with picnic
tables
and newspapers,
butter and hammers.
a place to be fat
and sloppy, which
many of us are at
this ripe age.
the formal dinners
are done.
the ones still alive,
for the most part
are undecided if
they will come.
lots of maybes,
ten said yes, out
of four hundred
and seventy three.
you have no real desire
to see any of these
people, and
they probably feel
the same way about you,
therefore the lack
of contact all these
long years.
you don't like crabs
anyway. the bleeding
fingers, the tugging
for tiny morsels
of meat. they should
be free, crabs.
we don't milk cows
for a glass of milk,
do we?
or squeeze an egg
out of a chicken.
okay, okay. so I digress.
i'm not going
to the reunion,
again.

late

some days
you are late, but
you don't care.
let them, or
her, or whoever
it is wait.
but you hate
people that
are never on
time, so you
rush to get ready.
shirt on
backwards,
pants in a bind.
phone left
on the counter
with your
money, your book,
your peace
of mind.

tea

where did all
these boxes of tea
come from.
ginseng
and lemon.
teas to make you
sleep. teas
to make you
think more clearly.
you could use
a box of that.
plain old
lipton too
next to
the earl grey.
who put these
boxes of tea
in the cupboard,
someone you
used to know
perhaps.

you're old

you don't
quite understand
the fish
hooks
in the lips,
the pins
and needles
stuck
through eyebrows
and noses.
the ink
on the legs,
giant murals
of people
and places
across breasts
and necks.
you don't quite
get the look
of someone who
appears to have
fallen into
a tackle box,
covered in trashy
tattoos.
it all seems
painful,
and injurious.
you've spent so
much time
in your life
avoiding pain
and injury,
this all seems
crazy.
but what do you
know. you're
old.

this is it

there are no
ghosts,
no aliens
circling.
no second
or even third
gunman.
there is no
secret corporate
world
running
the show.
there is nothing
in the water,
no
magic, or
loch ness
monster. no big
foot
hiding in the woods.
there is no
conspiracy,
no life
on other planets.
this is it.
so get used to
it.

kindness

your favorite
aunt
has died leaving
you a fortune.
only you,
not your six
brothers and sisters.
they want
some, but they
never liked her.
never visited her.
never gave
her that call
on her birthday
or for Christmas.
they called her
mean and cold,
but now
they want to divide
it up evenly,
this small
fortune. most of
it in cash
and gold, jewelry
and stocks
and bonds. how
nice they would
have been in knowing
what she had.
how kind the world
becomes when
there's something
to be gained.

complaint window

the complaint
department
has a long line.
so long,
that there is
another window
just to complain
about that.
few seem content
and happy
with their
lot in life.
the trains are
never on time.
the bad boss,
the soured marriage,
the bills,
the service,
the food is cold.
there are few
moments
of serenity.
even in their
sleep they turn
in their beds
with the choices
they've made,
the mattress being
too hard.

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.