force of nature

you can see
the crack in
the ceiling
widening
as the weather
gets colder,
wetter,
as snow
pelts the roof
and the rush
of broken
leaves, twigs
and branches
damn the works.
you can see
the crack spread
and take
its time as it
grows into
a fissure
dividing plaster
and paint
with a determined
force. this is
nature telling
you who
is in control.
not you, it never
was you.

not now

less
of me is
interested
in tomorrow,
or today
than what
I used
to be.
I'm more
fond
of yesterday
and the day
before that.
sometimes
I can turn back
the clock
to twenty
years ago,
a so much better
place to be
than where
I'm at right now,
in line,
awaiting my
number to be
called
at the DMV.

workshop this

for three hundred
and fifty
dollars
you can go down
to the writer's center
for eight consecutive
Saturdays
and have your poetry
read and dissected
by those
that know.
they can tell you
what's wrong
or what is right
with your writing
life, how to use
the knife to cut
and trim, to be on
point. they will
ask about rhyme
and meter, about
metaphors and sound.
you don't think
much of the first
person, do you, they
will say, or punctuation,
or subject matter.
you can't just write
about whatever
crosses your mind,
or tell
stories, another
owl will whisper
from across the round
table of sincere
and anguished poets
in training. it
will be painful, you
imagine.
knitting needles
into your eyes.
and yet, you are tempted.
the instructor
looks sympathetic to
someone of your ilk,
with your plight.
there is something in her
eyes. she is someone
you may write
about on a cold
December night.

pressing the button

i find her sitting
upright in her room,
the channel
permanently on
no channel
because
the batteries
have died
and no one seems
to care
one way or
the other what's
on t.v.
the blurred
static of snow
blows
in a mindless blizzard.
it's not unlike
turning on
the set for the pet
dog, or cat,
to give the animals
noise and company
when you leave
the house.
how much you
miss the movement
of her hand,
the ability to simply
press a button.
that is still
unmeasured. that
grief is in waiting.
as she is
towards death.

the wag and wiggle of you

i can't imagine
a life
without you,
although i have
at times,
without good
reason.
i would miss
your warm
body,
the wag and wiggle
of you,
your smile,
the way you
greet me
at the door when
i arrive home
from work
with a soup
bone from
the butcher.
if only you wouldn't
bark so much.

decorating the tree

it is less
about caring
and more about
pleasing you
by pretending
that I don't
care.
choosing to
sit nearby
as you decorate
the tree,
or ice a cake,
or move a chair
across
the room
into a more
sunny place.
I am all about
the sunny
place, that's
where I want
to be
with you,
without quarrel,
lips sealed
tight into
a stitched
smile.

can't all be winners

you lie
in the warm
water
of the tub
waiting for
the muse to arrive.
you're done
with soap,
with shaving
with washing.
you are just waiting
for inspiration.
a line or
two, a clever
word or thought
to make you
get out and go
to the desk
to type some
brilliant
piece of work,
but no,
the water gets
cold, so this
will have
to do.

never far from home

you are never far
from home.
you can reach
into any given
box and be there,
lifting
a photo into
your hand,
turning it over
for a clue
that's unwritten.
that fence,
that stretch of
lawn, the tilt
of the wet roof,
the window
that wouldn't
open. your brothers
and sisters
in other rooms
inventing their
own lives,
your mother
at the sink,
perpetually washing
dishes
as she cooked,
staring out
beyond the scrub
brushes, the lidless
garbage cans
to the snow
laden street,
waiting for life
to change,
to be made not
good, but
better.

across

the ice box

a light
goes on when
she opens
her mouth.
a breath of
frosty air
floats out.
she keeps
the greens in
her crisper,
the ice cubes
in her head,
the left overs
on the middle
shelf,
wrapped
in foil with
nothing fresh
to share.

the apology

the I'm sorry
line
is over
there.
you've been it
before.
sorry for this,
sorry for
that, sorry for
not understanding
who you are.
please forgive
me and take me
back,
but you are
less sorry these
days, and
you never did
like lines.
it's easier to
walk away
than to stay
and utter an
apology you really
don't mean.
so you go.

the office party

with too
much eggnog
in your body
and brain
you say things
that you wish
you hadn't said.
you make
comments about
someone's shirt,
or pants,
or dress, not
nice things either.
you tell someone
that you don't
love that you love
them dearly.
you shake hands
too long,
and hug people you
just hugged
three minutes ago.
you pet the cat
too hard,
chasing it around
the room,
and eat too many
peanut butter
cookies. you
keep drinking
the egg nog
though, taking
larger sips,
putting a yellowish
rum laced
mustache on
your face,
and when the music
comes on, you
yell out, okay
who wants to dance?

the christmas tree

you ask the man
how much
for that tree.
he looks at your
shoes, then at
the car you just
pulled up in.
I don't know,
he says, scratching
his chin, seventy
five dollars?
but it's only
two feet tall, you
tell him.
I want to put it
on a table.
it's a special tree
he says. it's hard
to get them to
stop growing
and remain small.
it's really a special
tree. he turns his back
and puts his hands
over a barrel of fire
that's near
the trailer where
his office is.
he takes out a bottle,
taking a swig,
then turns back around.
cough syrup, he says.
my doctor says that I
shouldn't be out here,
but my wife is sick
and the kids need
shoes. right you say.
how about ten dollars
for the little tree?
twelve? he says.
sure you say. do you
want me to strap it
on the roof for you?
nah, you say, i'll
put it up front
with me.

and now you

in a large
clear bowl
you add sugar
and
baking powder,
a teaspoon
of vanilla
one egg, some
flour.
you stir and mix,
then place
your hands
into the dough
and knead
it all
together. this
is what she
did, and now
you.

not enough

a man
empties
himself
to his wife.
his work.
his children.
he comes home
from a hard
day
and shows
her his hands
calloused
and bruised,
and says,
this is what
love is.
this is what
I do
for you.
and she says
no,
it isn't, I
need more.

the walk

you find the world
noisy
this morning,
the stones under
foot
as you walk
along the path.
the blue stream
churning where
it needs to go,
the birds
in full chatter,
the runners
going by in
herds, galloping
as they gulp
for breath.
the world is noisy
as you walk
and hear the soft
beating
of your own heart
above your footsteps.

in the bag

there are many
things that I have
that I don't
necessarily want.
some I throw
away
when the truck
comes,
others I bag
and wait upon,
unsure of their
value to me
in this state
of mind.
I change
my mind constantly
on what
has value,
what doesn't.
and you,
so patient.
curled
in a bag
by the door
saying hey, hey,
let me out.

taking pride

the spoon
in your hand
says made in china,
the dish,
the bowl,
the car
you drive.
the computer
you sit
in front of
and type upon,
all
say made in
china. that
tattoo on
your muscle
bound friend's
arm is inked
with Chinese
words.
everything
seems to
be made over
there,
everything but
Chinese food,
we can still
deep fry
vegetables
and duck with
the best of them.
that's something
to be proud of.

coffee talk

wrapping her scarf
around her neck,
she applies her
lipstick, then takes
a sip of her coffee.
people are
friendlier
when the weather
turns cold, she says,
nodding at a
homeless man
shuffling by,
pushing his shopping
cart. there
is a feeling
of niceness in
the world.
perhaps it's the fear
of being abandoned
and left
alone in a snow
bank you say, a
primitive urge to
bond with our
fellow men. no
one wants to be
left out in the cold
with no one
to snuggle up
against. imagine
being left out
here, freezing,
with nothing
in your one mittened
hand, not even
an extra hot pumpkin
spice latte.
I hear that, she
says, taking sip,
leaving a white
foamy mustache on
her lip.

among the scattered clouds

some days the fog
lifts
and you can
see clearer
how things really
are.
the brightness
in color
of what couldn't
be avoided and lies
in the road,
a red hat on
a stranger passing
by.
the sign on
the door saying
open, not
closed.
you can see your
shoes
in a puddle
of last
nights melted snow,
or the reflection
of your aging face
in the dry
cleaners window,
a piece of sun
and blue
sky there too
among the scattered
clouds.

relics

relics
along the river,
stumbling
forward
with cane
and nurses,
heads
bent neither
towards
the sun nor
sand, nor
water, but
to a place
where they once
were,
where they
can't go
back again.
so it's just
this now, this
walk, this
stumbling
forward, being
helped
through another
day, another
hour.

faster

you want
the world to spin
slower
on some days,
just to savor
the sweetness
of life,
an orange
fresh picked
in your hand,
the juice
of love on
your lips.
and other
days, you want
it to go
so fast that
your hat flies
off. a spin
so quick
that you grab
a tree
to hang on to
and wait out
the storm.

sugar cookie

a smile
and sweetness
goes a long
way when
robbing
a bank.
how cheerful
the thief
is with her
ear to
the safe,
turning the dials
click
click click.
how can anyone
think wrongly
of someone
with such
a sugary
disposition.
it's good
to have a judge
in your pocket
though in case
the lights
come on,
as well as
your bed.

the laundry of our minds

wait
ten minutes
more
and everything
you believed
to be true
will
change.
wait longer
and what you
rejected
as truth
will come
back again.
rinse and repeat
it's what
we do with
the laundry
of our minds.
when you put
your ear
to floor
of the sky
you can hear
the thumping
of an unevenly
balanced
load.

my nigerian prince

there are so many
Nigerian princes
having banking issues
in their country
that it's hard sometimes
to know which one
to help when you
get their pleas for
assistance. you are
willing to open up
your bank account
to let them deposit their
tied up millions
of dollars, but which
prince do you choose.
the e mails are so sad
sometimes, that I tear
up, shaking my head
at their situation.
the offer of rewarding
me for my generous
help is really unnecessary.
I would do it for free
because I understand
how ruthless the banks
can be with their
service charges and broken
atm's. the way they tie
up your money in long
term cd's. it's a shame
what they do to us,
keeping our money and
making it so hard
to get back. not to mention
the cheap plastic
pens that aren't worth
stealing anymore. so I
understand the plight
of all these princes
in Nigeria with their
millions stuck in some
bank. at some point though,
I will have to choose.
the last set pf e mails that
they sent said that
there is a deadline
so i must work on it later
today when I get home
from work. right after
I walk the dog
and heat up some soup.

the in between

death is
the parenthesis
that closes
the sentence
of your life,
making clearer
what it was
or wasn't,
going no further
with more
words or
thoughts, or
ideas. the beginning
and end
get carved into
the stone,
not the minutes
in between.
not the love,
the work,
the joy or pain.
and even
those things will
be guessed at
after the seasons
grow upon
the grave, or
cover it in
leaves.

press 9 for operator

you get a long
list, a
menu of numbers
to push
but you wait
for the operator
wanting
to hear a voice instead.
the voice is pleasant
but in a hurry
to get rid of you.
she sends you
to another
number, which leads
to another
recording
that leads
you to push
a number which
you deem
appropriate
for your particular
issue.
this leads
to a dial tone
and then a
disconnect.
this goes on for
an hour
or so, two
cups of coffee,
a toasted
bagel with butter.
you have better
things to do,
but you are not
a quitter,
you will at some
point reach
your destination.
or maybe not.

land ho

someone yells
out land ho,
and someone makes
a joke
of that, saying
finally, rubbing
his beard,
squinting
his eyes across
the endless sea
of water.
what does she
look like
another man
says climbing
the yard arm.
the commotion
makes the captain
come out
of his quarters
with his binoculars
to stare out too.
all hands on
board go to
the edge of the ship,
which now lists
with their longing.

the feral cats

some want to be
rescued
while others
want to roam
free untethered
by life's social
binds. they want
to forage the land
for food, for love,
and affection.
unencumbered by
a warm bed, a bowl
of food on
the floor.
they want to see
the sun rise,
the moon set high
between the trees,
they don't want to
miss any of it.
they don't want to
stare into
the fishbowl of
a screen watching
others lead their
lives while theirs
slip away. some want
to be rescued
but the poets
don't, the men
in the park don't
the women under
the bridge don't.
the feral cats with
arched backs
sitting strong
on the fence don't.

the corner gas station

the shell station
on the corner
sells oil
and gas, tune
ups at a discount
tires
and gum,
cold drinks,
stands decorated
for Christmas,
the trimmed
hedges blink
with blue and silver
lights,
the planted trees
are draped
in garlands
of red tinted
bulbs,
the pumps are
adorned with wreathes
of gold.
on the roof are
reindeers in
mid flight, santa
red cheeked
and laughing.
how sweet and kind
of them
to celebrate
the birth of Christ
and to sell
gas at a special
discounted price.

epiphany of love

the epiphany
of love
for another
becomes a
minute sized
moment
held
in a breath
a memory
etched
in the stone
side of
your mind.
it is never
forgotten
only deepened
with time.

the insurance salesman

a man in a black
suit is at your
door. he knocks
and knocks. it's
a persistent knock,
but polite too.
there is a brief case
in his hand.
what, you say,
edging the door
open. a wet towel
around your waist,
and you are holding a
ham sandwich
you just carefully
put together.
you push your barking
dog back with
your bare foot,
what, you say
again, i'm sort
of busy. I don't
have a fireplace.
no, he says.
it's not about that.
i'm not selling
firewood.
do you have a
few moments.
i'd like to discuss
your future
with you. it's
very important.
not really you say,
licking mustard
from your finger.
my future is rather
personal. I keep
it to myself.
do you have life
insurance, he says.
term, or whole?
I don't think so,
you take a bite of
the sandwich. look,
I have to wash this
down, do you mind, plus
jeopardy is about
to come on.
put your card through
the slot, and i'll
give you a call,
maybe. call me
he says, it's very
important that you
call me. you don't
want to leave
your loved ones left
holding the bag
with nothing.
loved ones? you say,
who might they be.
I see he, says, tipping
his hat, well, good
day then.

martini time

I do this when
i'm upset she says,
getting out of her
chair, going
to the middle
of the room.
when the world
is closing in
on me I get
up and do this.
she begins to
violently shake
her head,
her body
as if she's
doing a dance,
or having
a fit.
her arms
are out like
bird wings,
her legs like
rubber, her
feet tap as if
stamping out a fire.
I do it until
i'm out
of breath, she
says, huffing,
bending over
with a red face,
then I feel
better for having
done so.
and if that doesn't
work you ask.
she smiles,
making a drinking
motion
with her hand.
well then it's
martini time.

falling apart

the rust
is silent
in its ways.
the slow
crawl
of reddish
orange biting
gently, relentless
in its onslaught
against
the iron rail.
it's there
before you know
it, growing,
weakening
what was once
strong
and could hold
your weight.
what else,
you ask yourself,
is escaping
your eyes.
falling apart
before you.

everyone together

someone says
maybe she needs another
blanket.
while someone
else opens
a window.
another
person, crying,
asks
if there is a
place to eat
nearby.
a small boy
plays a trumpet
at the end
of her bed.
someone
opens her drawer
to see what
lies inside.
a ring on her
finger is slipped
off for safe
keeping. a man
opens his check
book to see
what all of this
will cost.
her feet covered
in long
purple socks
dangle over
the bed.
she sits
back and smiles.
finally, everyone
together.

oysters

fry them,
put them on
a sandwich,
pour
hot sauce
or sprinkle
on their
cold bed shell
a zesty seasoning,
eat them raw,
letting them
slide down
the hatch
as your eyes
bug out.
it doesn't
matter,
you've never
spent a waking
moment
of your hungry
life thinking
about them. so
here, have mine.

communication

she says more
when
she whispers
than when
she shouts,
but she's most
listened to
when she goes
quiet and
silent. it's
then that I
disappear,
and at least
for a little
while,
go south.

coconut heads

in the turmoil
and confusion
of your mother dying
you want to take
your two
sister's heads
and clunk them
together like
coconuts, but
that's something
you can't do now.
being the ages
that you are.
but there was a
time, when it
was appropriate
and necessary
to do so. no words
needed to be said,
and even they
knew why you were
clunking their
heads together
like coconuts.
it solved so many
things.

where am I

you awaken
in a strange room.
a woman
beside you
is on one elbow.
she is staring
at you
and smiling.
at the end
of the bed
are people with
clip boards,
they are writing
things down.
in the corner
an artist is
sketching
you in charcoal,
tilting his
head from
side to side
as he brushes
his hand across
the thick paper.
where am I,
you say out loud,
and where are
my pants.
hold still
the artist says.
we're not
done yet.

grocery shopping

you see
the old man
in the long grey
over coat
filling his
pockets
with cans
of food
as he shuffles
through
the store.
the music plays
on, the lights
are bright.
each can,
a shine to it.
but they are
waiting for
him
at the front
of the store,
letting him
load what he
can into his deep
pockets
letting him
believe
how easy this is.
as you leave
with your own
bags
you see him sitting
in a black
car, a small
smile
across his face,
his hand
going up to wave.

a room with light

the window
on the far side
of the room
brings
in light
diluted
by blinds,
a thinly offered
curtain,
a hollow of trees
rising
for no reason
along the wall.
the nurse presents
the light with
a wave of her
short arm.
light, she says.
see how bright
this room is?
everything
has the feel
of being old
and worn,
threads swimming
along
the edges
of blankets.
a single stiff
pillow, a hard pill
on the once
white sheets.
the ghosts of
who died here before
sit upright
in the visiting
chairs, watching,
but not waiting.
they are now patient
in their place,
without pain
their lives, continued,
much easier.

tickets out the window

there are countries
you will
never set foot in.
cities you will
not walk through,
or sleep
in their beds,
this does not
bother you. you've
seen enough of
the world to know
of it. you've
been everywhere.
you've been nowhere.
it's unimportant
to you.
you are neither
amused nor amazed
by what lies
beyond your shores.
there is no
bucket list to
speak of, no wish
list, or well to
throw a coin in.
here and now seems
fine for the time
being. you throw
your tickets out
the window.

girl on a carousel

talking to your
sister
is often like
talking
to someone on
a carousel,
going round
and round.
you keep waiting
for her to circle
back
to the point
of what you
are talking about.
your patience
is thin,
as you feel
the wind of her
spinning mind
go bye.

untrue

if you tell yourself
enough times
that something
is true, then it
will be.
whether love or
hate, your thoughts
will keep
you there, ashore
on the myth
of what you believe.
it will be hard
to leave
that island.
no swimming alone
will get you far,
no ship appearing
in the distance
will rescue you
from yourself,
you will die
with your feet
in the shifting sands
of who you are,
untrue to your
own self.

as she left them

she left
everything behind.
those shoes
beneath her
bed. those rings
on the dresser.
that dress
on a hanger
on the closet door,
all still there
just where
they were left.
the opened book
turned
over at the last
page read.
her glasses
on the night
stand. a glass
of water
that her lips
last touched,
the pillows just
so, where
she rested
her head.

stand firm

unlike
the weather.
you do not
change.
you stand
still
and firm,
unbending
in wind
and rain.
these storms
will pass
they always
do.
let others
flail
madly in
the turmoil
trying to
change what
they cannot.
but not
you. you've
thrown
your anchor
down. you'll
wait it out.

survival

you download
another slice
of pumpkin
pie into
your belly
which is
warmed by
sweat pants
loosely cinched
at the waist.
finishing
off the can
of whipped cream
with a vigorous
shake
you make a mental
note of what
you need at
the grocery store
when you hear
the last gasp
of air
coughing out
of the cold
can. you hate
yourself for eating
so much,
but you love
pie and what if
it gets really cold
out. you'll need
this extra layer
of fat to survive.

gold fish

when the small
table in the corner
breaks, the leg
giving
out under
the weight of
a large bowl
of goldfish,
and everything
goes tumbling
to the floor
in a splash,
you wonder which
fish to save
first, if
any, before
the cat pounces
off the sill,
licking her teeth,
in surprised
wonder and glee.

snow ball

it's okay
if it never snows
again. ever.
except maybe on
Fridays,
or Saturday
if it's a long
weekend.
It can snow
in Montana, fine.
or Alaska,
or upstate
new York, they
don't seem
to mind. but you'd
like to put
your shovel
and salt, scrapers
and boots into
permanent storage.
you've had
your share of snow.
it's a wonderful
thing, but you're
done with it
for now.
the only snow you
want to see
is the snow
in this glass
ball you are shaking
with a tiny
sled and house,
and tree inside,
and a little
kid, frozen,
pulling a sled.

who do you know in India

who do you
know in
india, the postman
says, shaking
the package
with the strange
postmarks
on the front.
what's in the box?
you look
at his name tag,
and say
elmer, that's
a rather
personal question.
but if you
must know,
it's generic
vitamins. oh
he says, well,
I hope those work
out for you,
then winks.
why are you winking,
you ask him,
handing over
the slip
of paper and showing
him your ID.
he leans over
the counter and
whispers, hey buddy.
it's fine, really,
it happens to
the best of us
once in a while.
whatever, you say.
taking the box
and striding out
with proper
indignation.

size doesn't matter

I don't care
she says
on the phone,
size doesn't
matter,
fresh
or frozen,
doesn't matter
either,
as long as
it fits
in the oven,
but
we need to
stuff it
and baste
it, etc.,
she says. so
turn
the oven on,
i'm on my way
over, i'll bring
the sweet potatoes
whipped
cream,
and hot buns.

be good

comb your hair,
son, wipe
your mouth
and brush your
teeth.
pull up
your zipper.
here's your
lunch money,
don't forget
your books,
your homework,
the permission
slip I signed
so that you
can go
to the museum
to see
the dinosaur bones.
now kiss me
and be off
before you
miss the bus.
be good, be good.
be good.

the holiday referee

each holiday
dinner should have
a professional
referee standing
in the corner of
the room, a whistle
in his mouth,
a yellow flag
in his pocket.
one time out per
hour allowed.
ejection for flagrant
fouls
permitted, seating
arrangements
altered when
the game gets
heated. discussion
limited to light
hearted topics,
no reminiscing
about the past,
no old quarrels
brought up, or loud
voices
allowed. cursing
would be punished
by banishment,
as would expelling
food from one's
mouth at another.
the referee would
keep things in order.
make for a pleasant
holiday dinner,
unlike past years.

pill bottles

a row of small
brown jars
plastic
with white
tabs stuck
to the front
neatly wrapped
around
in blue or black
type.
the name
the date
when and where
each
pill was to
be swallowed.
the white
hard lid
screw on tight.
the winged serpent
and sword insignia
stamped
in red to
the right.
all of them lined
up full
of amber
light, awaiting,
like soldiers
the gulp of
water,
then swallow,
the lids going
down
for the night.

the pyramid of bottles

you see a mother
in the liquor store
shaking her slobbering
kid, red cheeked
and blue eyed.
his knees
worn out, his hair
a wired mesh
of blonde curls.
what's wrong with
you, she yells.
don't touch things.
how many times
do I have to tell
you that when we
are in a store.
now look at what you've
done. do you
know how much these
bottles cost?
do you have any
idea how hard I work
to buy things
for you, to take
care of you.
now I'm gong to
have to pay for
all these bottles
that you've broken
and I better have
some money left
for mine. now get
out of that puddle,
your feet
are sloshing in
scotch. good scotch
too.

a line of cars

everyone
is home. the holidays
have begun.
the roads
are less traveled
towards
work,
and now are full
in other
directions.
suitcases
and gifts
wrapped and rattling
in trunks.
the tail lights
glitter
red in a long
snake line
from here to there.
down each
tree of roads,
each thin
vine.

horses in the field

the dead horse
in the field
is found the next
day. the grass
is a blue
frost waiting
for sunlight.
the fence is close
by, the gate
locked. there
is no reason
other than age,
someone says,
shaking her head.
but let's see, we'll

soon know.
a man from behind
the barn brings
out a long green
tarp, dragging
it towards
the still shadow
across the cold
ground.
the other horses
stand far
away.

change the sheets

do I look fat
in this big sheet
I'm wearing with
a hole through
the top, she asks
while pouring gravy
over her mashed
potatoes.
no, not at all.
that sheet looks
good on you.
vera wang? I like
the paisley print
too. hides the cranberry
sauce
and sweet potatoes
that you dripped
on it when you had
your first helping.
I'm gong to change
it later, she says.
I bought a whole
other queen set,
one for dessert.
it's an orange color.
ah ha you say,
getting ready for
pumpkin pie, right?

remembering what it was

you came
upstairs for something.
what was it?
you go
from room to room,
scratching your head,
turning
lights on
then off, you open
up the closet,
close it.
you lie down in
bed and stare at
the ceiling fan,
then lean over
to pick up
a new biography
on salinger.
not the kennedy
salinger, but
the other one.
franny and zooey,
that one.
you look at
the pictures first,
staring at
the transformation
of years, from
youthful, lean
and dashing,
to old codger,
bent with white
hair, still hiding
in the light
of who he was.
then you remember.

i'm over here

the unloved,
the unwanted, the
disenfranchised
souls
that wander
the internet
seeking love,
or like or some
form of
lust. they remind
you of the faux
santas
in front of
k mart, ringing
and ringing
their bells.
you too have
rung that bell,
many times.

a can of soup

there is one can
of soup
in your cupboard
that you may have
had for ten
years or more.
chicken noodle.
there is a picture
on the label
with the steam coming
off the spoon, chunks
of chicken
swimming
in broth,
littered with carrots
and what not.
sometimes you'll
pull the can out,
looking for
something else
and stare at it,
spinning it
around to see
if there might be
an expiration
date on it. you
have no memory
of when or why
you bought it. maybe
you had a cold
one day, or a sore
throat and thought
that it might help.
that can of soup
has been a good
friend throughout
the years,
rain and shine,
pain and joy,
a decade of being
together. always there
when you open
the cupboard, who
or what else can
that be said
about in your life.
no one comes to mind.
you almost hate
to open it
even if you were
starving,
ending
this warm and fuzzy
relationship.
you'll keep it where
it is. safe
and sound
behind the orange
uncle ben's quick
rice box.

stepping on a nail

the nail
in your boot
has not
got in all
the way.
it has
stopped
somehow before
piercing
your skin.
a twist
or turn, one
way or the other
a sudden stamp
of foot
harder, then
things would
have been
different. how
often this
is true.

enjoy the ride

your sister' husband
being
nice and kind,
helpful
to a fault helps
your aunt
board the train
back to philly.
he carries her
luggage
onboard and hugs
her goodbye,
but then the train
leaves
the station
with him on it.
there is nothing
he can do
as he runs to
the door, looks
out the window
at the lights
passing by,
the buildings
increasingly
blur. he's taking
an unexpected
trip, like many
of us, we might as
well sit down,
and enjoy the ride.

waiting for visitors

like birds
on a wire, they
line up
as you get off
the elevator.
silent and unsmiling
in wheel chairs,
abandoned souls
who have
out lived
friends
and enemies,
awaiting reluctant
relatives
bringing little
more
than tired hellos,
and boxes
of unwanted
candy. the world
does not
do the end
very well, the smell
of guilt
and regret
is everywhere.
hanging in the air
like a grey cloud.

I Know You're There!

there are people
and you know who you
are, who don't like
to answer their phones.
these are special people.
so you have to leave
an agonizing voice mail
explaining why you've
called and when they
call back they haven't
listened to what you
said, but have just hit
dial to ring you up.
these people need to
burn in hell. okay, okay.
very much in need
of coffee. but just pick
up the phone when it rings,
I know you're there.

four hundred dollars

there was always
a big gift
for christmas
when your son
was little.
somehow it
always cost 400
hundred dollars
no matter what piece
of junk it was
later to become.
always.
not unlike taking
your dog
to the vet.
four hundred
dollars, blood
work and stool samples
included
despite having
done that the last
visit and the time
before that.
and the car.
never twenty bucks
for just wipers,
no, you need a
new gadget or you
may die in
a crash on the highway.
400 bucks.
the dentist.
the cleaning and those
awful trays
for whitening.
right. 400 hundred.
that seems to be
the dividing point
on what we'll pay.
no more, no less.
400 hundred dollars.

christmas girl

she was a walking
Christmas
tree
the moment she
sat down
for thanksgiving
dinner.
the red reindeer
sweater, the tinsel
earrings,
the broche that
lit up up
and played
music when you
touched it.
the bangles on both
wrists jingling
like santa's sleigh.
it was open season
on cookies
and eggnog,
a mistletoe
head band twirling
above her
frosted hair,
puckering her
candy cane lips
for whoever crossed
her path.

you are up

you miss
those sleepy dog
mornings
of youth.
lying in bed
until noon,
not quite
done with
the eleven hours
of deep sleep
that you
allotted for
your young self.
now the sun
with it's banging
drum of
light
stirs you awake,
no matter how
deep the mattress
how soft
the pillows,
how gentle
and sweet the soul
is beside you
still dreaming,
you are up.

come closer

you like
the curve of her,
the shadowed
moon of who
she is, the rise
and fall
of her body,
from her
lips down
to her toes.
she is pale
in the light
and more
so in the dark,
a sheet of paper
whispering
sweet prose
inviting you to
come here,
come closer to me
and write.

table talk

distant
relatives
are not quite distant
enough.
like a cold
wind
they blow
in for the holidays
bearing
not gifts
or words
of wisdom, but
saying things
like what happened
to your hair,
we thought you'd
do better things
with your life
than this,
pass me the gravy.
you don't dislike
these people,
but you aren't
fond of them
either, and you
wonder if perhaps
you were
adopted and of
no blood relation
whatsoever.

loves compromise

the politics
of a relationship
is full of
taking polls,
registering
emotions,
pulling
levers
each day on
what to eat,
or where to go
whose turn it is
to say yes,
or no.
voting, always
voting
with compromise
in mind.
as long
as there is love
and like
and lust
there is just
one side
not two, but
remove one
and the world
comes down.

a life of birds

for most of her
life
she had a bird
or two
canaries
in a small
cage
hanging
in the kitchen
window.
they'd last
a month or so,
a year,
some longer,
some just a day,
an hour.
some whistled
and sang,
others were
silent, yet
still
beautiful
in their strange
yellows
and greens,
brilliant blues
beneath the spread
of their wings.
she'd talk
sweetly
to them,
feeding them
gently,
filling the dish
of water.
each bird
bringing joy,
each death, tears.

ringing bells

the man
in a red soft
hat
in front of the grocery
store
has bells
in each hand.
all day
he rings them
vigorously
as he greets
the shoppers
coming
and going.
a black kettle
strung
on a chain beside
him fills
up with
coins
and bills.
he couldn't be
nicer
despite the annoying
bells.
you wonder how
long
he can keep this
up with
forty more days
to go until
Christmas.

the bookstore

you peruse
the stacks of books
on the tables
near the front
of the bookstore
with sale stickers
freshly pressed
onto the covers.
fifty things or
places, or food
you need to visit
or eat before you
pass away into
eternity. a new
Lincoln biography,
another shade
of grey. a shelf
just for kennedy
and Oswald.
eat this and live
longer, one book
says, with a bright
red photo of
a radish on
the front. drink
this and be smarter
another says,
a glass of water
gleaming in
a bright light
over someone's
hand. slowly you
wind your way
through the aisles,
past the magazines
and hats, and kindles,
and movies
to finally find
the slender shelf
of poetry hidden
deep within
us all.

the sheriff is coming

the sheriff is coming,
you hear
one sister say
to another, trembling
on the phone.
the sheriff
will be here
today. this means
that your other
sister is flying
into town.
the streets empty,
the foolish ones
scatter and hide
behind their curtains.
there will be hell
to pay when the dust
settles and she sees
what's going on here.
she will take no
prisoners. the sheriff
is coming. there
will be no parade.

how to make gravy

you put on
your pilgrim hat
with the large
buckle around
the brim,
your boots
and blousy
white shirt.
it's turkey
killing time
once again.
bring back a fat
one jonathan
your wife
yells at you
as you grab
your musket
and hatchet.
oh, and knock
on your sister's
thatched hut
door, if you
don't mind, she's
the only one around
this village
that knows
how to make
real gravy. she
can't make
a pumpkin pie worth
a damn, but
she knows her
gravy.
i need the recipe.
and don't tell her
what I said
about her pies.

with open arms

this isn't what
you planned for.
slipping
away into the sea.
ice into water,
melting slowly
into the whole
of what is
and what will be.
the ocean neither
forgives, nor
remembers what
comes to it, but
accepts all
with open
arms and mystery.

chain chain chain

at night
you hear the music
coming from
the house next
door,
chain chain
chain,
chain of fools.
Aretha
belting it out.
you peek
out the window
and see
the old
woman in her
apron, holding
a spatula
to her mouth
like a microphone,
dancing with
her dogs.
she spins around,
as
the dogs leap
and bark
around her feet.
you love her
and want
to marry her.

your room

a place
to be, a room
to call
your own.
it's down to this.
a bed, a blanket,
a pillow
and a tray
of food.
a t.v.
on the wall, a
sheet hung
to divide
the room
in two.
no luggage
at the ready,
no coat
or hat hung
on the door,
no maps to
tell you where
you're going
anymore.
this is it.
a place
to be, a room
to call
your own.

fresh air

driving home
you smell something
strange.
it's the smell
of sickness
the taint
of hospital
gowns and wipes,
hand sanitizers
and shoes
set by the bedside.
life gone
stale is with you.
it's in your hair,
your clothes
on the tips of
your fingers.
you want to take
the top off
of that building
and let the wind
in, let the stars
and moon
rain down
with light. you
want fresh air
to fill their lungs.
you want the birds
to land
on the beds,
you want meteors
to flash
in front of the dying
eyes, to tell
them, that is
everything is fine,
everything will
be alright.

the queen

she's playing
chess
while you play
checkers.
always
a jump or two
ahead of
you.
she takes her
time, staring
long
at the board
while you
tap your foot
and drink
your wine.
she protects
her queen
more than her
king. it's who
she is
and why she
keeps winning,
just
as you want
it to be.

side dishes

you pull your
empty cart up
to the chilled
meat section
to ponder
the frozen turkey
bin, there
are dozens of
white smooth
birds wrapped
in red fish net
stockings.
your mind wanders,
it drifts
to a woman you
used to know.
you need
stuffing,
and potatoes,
don't forget
the gravy,
a side dish
or two,
excuse me someone
says, bumping
into your
cart, but
are you going
to stand there
all day
and stare at
those birds.
the word cranberries
comes out
of your mouth,
for no reason.

dessert

the nurse,
in a maroon
jump suit,
her hair done
in Christmas
curls,
is doing
her nails
next to the heart
machine
that glows
with numbers
in a variety
of colors.
she looks at
her watch,
then peels
back a small
plastic container
of apple sauce,
pushing aside
the untouched
ham
sandwich.
she looks out
the window
as a plane goes
by, low
in the grey clouds.
she dips the
plastic spoon
into the thin
mush
and brings it
to someone's lips,
looking
at a chart
to find her name.

on hold

your feet
are cold.
your hands,
your heart.
there's frost
on the windows.
the paper
is ice cold
as you bend
down with
the door open
to retrieve
it from
the porch.
the news is
cold. the dead
are cold.
the dog
feels the wind
and retreats
back inside.
everything
in this weather
is on hold.

wanting out

we are all
strangers,
out contempt
and love
for one another
often hidden
beneath
the surface
of our days.
unspoken words
fill the room,
darkened
by the shuttered
windows
that keep
the light out.
we hang beauty
on the wall,
line the floors
with bright
woven rugs,
put silver
on the table,
but who we are
lies quiet
in the tightly
locked drawer,
the secrets
whispering
wanting out.

the fallen leaf

you've had
enough sadness
for one day.
you take the next
off.
you don't clock
in.
you stay away
from the phone.
the e mails
and text messages
pile up
with beeps
and flashes
of blue light.
the hollow
knock at
the front door
is ignored.
you sweep
the world into
a corner
and find a chair
to sit in,
you find a
book, a song
to listen to.
a stiff drink
with the bottle
nearby.
out the window
you follow
the air borne
path of a yellow
leaf falling.

sharpening knives

the sisters
are sharpening their
knives.
their eyes
gleaming
in the fire
and pot that
boils in front
of them.
there is cutting
to be done.
soured
on each other's
whims
and quirks,
itching
to get at the fight,
to decide once
and for all
something
indiscernible
not only
to them, but
to all those
around them.

vincent's ear

you sympathize with
Vincent,
his self portrait
with bandage
around his head.
he looks cold
and miserable,
unshaven,
taking great
pains to show
the pain of his
lost love
and ear.
why the ear though?
why not a toe,
or a little
finger,
a tooth perhaps,
a lock of hair?
what significance
was the ear,
was it
the one she whispered
her false love
into, the one
she nibbled
while the fire
roared at their
bare feet, was it
the one she talked
incessantly
into about
her mother
or her knitting
circle
where she was making
his winter
scarf?

fools gold

the talk comes
around to money.
what's left.
who will pay for what.
who will chip
in and help.
is there any
hidden
in a jar, in a hole
dug deep
within the cold
yard.
who has the money.
where is the secret
bank account.
where and when
will the money show.
is it real
money, or loose
change between the
cushions,
fallen coins
with heads or
tails showing up.
some come with shovels
in hand,
others, with
flashlights to scour
the cupboards,
the floor boards
that they pry open
with hopeful tools.
where is the money?

in the window

the dog
sits near
her slippers,
near the window
staring out
waiting
for things to
change,
for a car to
pull up
bringing her
back home,
knowing
and not knowing
how the world
spins
outside of
his own short
life.
there is little
that he needs,
food, water,
affection.
a hand
on his warm
brown. the absence
of her
will fade,
one hopes, but
doubts.

the juggler

with three pins
in the air,
the juggler
asks for more.
tossing
them high
into the clouds,
spinning upwards
into the light.
this can't
last for long
you think,
spotting
the fear in his
eyes, the sweat
on his brow.
it's just a matter
of time,
before life
will come
crashing down.

be still heart

be still
heart.
enough beats
have
drummed
your life
ahead.
rest now
and be free
of what
ails
you. sing
and dance
on the sinking
ship
of your
body.
the party
has just
begun.
drink
the new wine
of
the next life.
eat at
the feast
of forever.

the living dead

a man
with no teeth
yells at you
from across
the street.
his skin
is scorched
like
worn leather,
his bones
tied together
with strings,
perhaps. a
Michael Jordan
hat tilted sideways
on his pharoahed
skull. he yells again
at you, then
stumbles off
the cliff of a curb,
mumbling
something about
money, or God,
the blessed virgin,
or something,
he comes close enough
so that you see
the yellowed
white of his
shuttered eyes,
the crazy in
his pupils,
his parched hand
swings out,
when you don't
respond, but
press on
he yells back at
you, fuck you
faggot,
then turns towards
someone else.
you want to defend
yourself in some
strange way,
tell him that you
are not gay,
but that you just
like to dress neatly,
with matching
or complementing
colors of clothing.
these are not
designer sunglasses,
you want to yell
across the street,
just your
basic ray bans.
but you do nothing
and go get
a cup of coffee
with a splash of
cream, two
sweet and lows.
a small pastry,
heated up, and cut
in half.

the clothes line

the tight
line, from
pole to pole
across
the beaten
lawn, the dirt
row
where the dog
ran back
and forth
barking all
day.
and the basket
at her
feet, pinning
clothes
to the line,
wringing out
the water, snapping
them in
the air before
hanging
them to dry
in the breeze
under the young sun
of her youth.

vanilla pudding

you break off
a piece
of white bread,
a tiny sliver
of grey
hospital turkey,
you move
it towards
her mouth,
she opens.
a bird small
and weak
in the nest
of pillows
and white sheets.
more, you ask,
making her nod
no, no.
but then a spoon
of pudding
touches
her lips
and she smiles,
and nods
yes, opening
as wide
as she can
with laughing
eyes.

day in day out

the cows
in the field
don't care.
they chew
and chew
all day.
lying down
at night
to sleep
and dream of
standing,
of chewing more.
they stare
with wide
brown eyes as
the cars ride
by, children
pointing
with their
short arms. saying
look, cows.
do you see them?
look at
the cows.
and the tails
wag softly
in the summer sun.

gum world

gum stuck
to your shoe.
under
the table,
on the bed post.
gum
in her hair,
on a coat
sleeve, gum
snapped
loudly
in a mouth.
gum, smoothed
out and
blown into
a bubble.
purple gum,
orange gum.
on the bus seat.
gum
on the subway.
wads of gum
turned
grey.
chewed and spat
out,
flicked out
a car window
by the tip
of a finger.
gum stuck to a
moose's head.
put five pieces
in your mouth
and chew. be
a fool,
no one's
looking, why
not.

brushing her hair

even now
at 84, her hair
as thick
and lush
as it was at 30 or
40.
silver and white,
brushed
back by a nurse,
a stranger's
hands,
not unlike
the same hands
that handed
her over
to her mother
so long ago
who then gently
brushed
to the side
the black locks
for the first
time.

borrowing three eggs

there was a time
when your
mother would send
you across
the street to borrow
a cup of sugar,
or three eggs,
from the neighbor
that you knew only
as Lillian.
she was the go to place
for things
that we lacked.
go wash her car,
your mother would
say, cut her lawn,
shovel
her snow. it all
evened out
somehow as you
felt the warm
cup cake in your
mouth, icing on
your chin. happiness
in small crumbs
cascading down
your shirt.

expired meters

the disappointment line
is long,
it winds out the door
and down
the block.
people are standing
in line
with their
papers, their lists
of complaints
and sorrows wanting
to know how
things went wrong,
how they ended up
here, and not there,
despite good intentions.
bad marriages, jobs
gone wrong, kids
set free like balloons
cast into wild
winds. how did
this happen, they
ask when they arrive
at the window.
why me. how could
this have possibly
happened to me. but
there is no answer,
but why not as the
parking meters expire
where they parked
their cars, tickets
slipped under
the wipers.

nice hat

the mail man
is tired of saying
hello.
the leather
satchel
sags on his
back. an eskimo
styled hat is
tilted on
his head
and his gloves
are worn thin.
how are you,
you ask him
as he hands you
your mail.
what are you,
a doctor, he says.
how the hell
do you think I
am? he then
moves on
to the next house,
before you can
even tell him
nice hat.

the lost poem

you can't remember
the poem
you were going
to write, so
you write this
one instead.
it was so full of
metaphor and light,
the words
rolled off your
tongue as you
drove along
the highway.
how could you possibly
forget, but
alas, you did,
so this is all
you get.

this circle

it circles back
this cruel
and beautiful
life.
from child
into child
and the strange
struggle
and joy
of the years
tucked
in between.

no coffee maker

your car
talks to you
now.
giving you
subtle
whispers
informing
you
of the air
pressure
in your tires.
the small yellow
wrench
says i'm
thirsty
in need of oil,
or gas,
and that
beep beep
beep means
you are swerving
out of lane
or you are
too close to
the bumper
in front of you.
the seats
are warm,
the phone is
answered
directions
given, the radio
refreshes
your memory
with commercial
free music
of days long past,
but still no coffee
maker
to be found.

is that all you got?

always the skeptic,
Thomas was known for
saying to Jesus,
is that all you got?
water into fresca,
what's the big whoop.
what about some
pinot noir from down
in the valley?
we're at a wedding here,
not a sock hop.
and that walking on
water thing you're
doing, if i had a pair
of those wide cork
sandals, i'd be skating
across the sea
of galilee too. how
about flying over
the lake, let's see
you do that, mr.
big shot. and raising
lazarus from the dead,
nice, but try getting
Peter to stop snoring
when were camping out
sometimes, now that
would be a miracle
we'd all enjoy. we need
more Jesus if you
want to know the truth,
and yes, yes, I know,
don't tell me again,
the truth will
set us free.

room 206 C

the hospital
is a low block
of bricks
set grey
and brown
next to a gas
station,
and a fried
chicken joint.
you enter
through the emergency
room door,
all doors
looking the same
with very little
signage to
tell you where
to enter.
a small crowded
room
of very sick
and injured
people look up
as the whoosh
of wind and the sliding
door opens.
there is nothing
you can do
to help them
despite the longing
in their eyes.
you push
forward to room
206 C. there
is grieving to
be done
in other places.

three leaves

for hours
you listen to
the heavy drone
of a man
in front
of your house
with a leaf
blower.
he's wearing
a purple hoodie,
and gloves,
sunglasses
and boots.
slowly, inch
by inch he's
moving
across the lawn
of the public
area.
finally you can't
take it anymore
and go outside
to pick up
the three leaves
he is blowing
towards
the truck.
he thanks you,
turning
of his turbine
machine,
and smiles, what
will I do now
he says,
looking at his
watch.

the split seams

the wallpaper
once new
and smooth,
with a glossy sheen
is cracked
and torn,
brittle at the edges.
it can't be
fixed
or repaired.
the steam of
a dozen years
has split
the pattern.
the rose is no
longer a rose
by half.
the stem
and vines are
broken.
where it joined
together
it has fallen
free. so quickly
it seems
that love
falls apart when
once so new
so clean.

temptation

it's tempting,
walking out onto
the frozen pond
to see if you can
get to the other
side without it
cracking and you
falling in.
death is a clear
possibility,
or being up to
your neck in
ice water with no
way out.
but it looks so
easy, the sun
high in the blue
sky reflecting
against the mirror
of ice. how
quickly you could
glide and slide
across it. fun.
gently you tap
the edge with your
boot, wondering,
should I.

it is what it is?

we fall into
a pattern
of having our
own catch phrases,
never original
or new, or
fresh, but
things heard
at some point
and absorbed
through cultural
osmosis.
awesome, she
likes to say
when anything
is agreed upon.
or super,
or perfect
and exactly when
giving
affirmation
to something
said. or loudly,
really,
really? she likes
to express
with eyes wide
open, expressing
disbelief,
repeating oh
really? hands
on her hips
and then it is
what it is
to end the conversation,
closing the door
on any further
discussion.

the plumber

she falls
in love with
a plumber
and makes
the easy jokes
about
laying pipes
and fittings,
plunging
and soldering
joints
together, but
he wearies
of the humor
his hands
cut and dirty
from a days
work.
when he gets
home he wants
to lie
down
in a clean
bed and listen
to music
not the drip
drip drip
of her voice
against
the chrome
drain of his mind.

last words

i'm not really
your mother, i'm your
sister's friend
lily.
I left
all my money
to my cats, sorry,
perhaps if you
had been
a nicer son
and visited once
in a while
things would have
been different.
if you
look into
the safe that's
in the wall
behind the portrait
of your father
you'll find
nothing,
all the jewelry
is at
the pawn shop
except for these
diamonds
on my ears,
and they're going
down with me.
now if you'll
excuse me my shows
are coming
on. i'd like to
see them one more
time before
I expire.

old dogs

the old
dog
stepping gingerly
down
the hard wood
stairs
paws
slipping
under heavy
hips,
the puppy
in him wanting
to be
young again,
to chase
the ball
to run.
to bury
the bone,
to bark and
howl
at every moon
to lie
lazily
once more
in the mid
day sun.

wino world

by the second
or third squared
circle
of wine pourers
you develop
a headache
in the hot
sun. you feel
woozy and beached
by bad wine,
and being
jostled
by eager
and greedy tasters.
all with
red faces,
holding small
gift glasses,
wanting more,
another spoonful
of pinot
or chardonnay,
malbec
or merlot
to swallow
or spit out, nodding
their approval,
saying, yes, ah
yes. I like
that one.
let's try the apricot
dessert
wine now, they
say, elbowing
their way
towards the box
with a spigot.

out of season

a chattering
bird
on the sill
looking
in
with a twig
in her
mouth.
somehow
confused
by the seasons,
looking
to build
a nest
with this
chill
in the air.
can you help
a sparrow
out, she
seems to be
saying,
shaking
her grey head
before
flying off
into
the snow
flurries.

sugar kids

the sugar
filled kids, with
blue eyes
rolling in their
heads
like the wheels
in a slot
machine.
they scurry about
with
sharp teeth,
drooling and
banging the dog's
head like
a drum with sticks
brought in from
the yard.
their red cheeks
puffed out
like apples,
the chilled
wind stuck
in the hollows
of their small
pink lungs.
round and round
they go,
each trip
counted by a scream.
so you wait
before going
back to work
for a door to open
and for them
to fly out.

the number two pencil

the number two
pencil
rules the world.
marking
each test
with curled
nervous hands.
they get
stuck behind
an ear, or nibbled
upon with
chattering teeth as
one ponders
the answer
to a tough question.
long and thin,
school bus yellow,
the number two
is the only
one to use.
too bad for number one
or three, or
four if they
even do exist.
where are they?
stuck in some dusty
boxes in a warehouse?
never being called
upon.
who knows, who
cares about those
loser pencils.
just give me
a number two pencil
with a good
eraser and i'm
good to go.

unkind thoughts

some people are
always late.
tell them, i'll
meet you at five,
and they don't
arrive until
five twenty.
tell them five
twenty, then they
might show
up at six.
it's a constant
being late
with them. a
game they play
pretending to be
busy. who
isn't. they laugh
at their own
lateness. it's
funny to them,
it's who I am,
they say, proud
of making people
wait. you just sigh
and check your
watch, hum
quietly to yourself
and say,
serenity now,
tapping your
fingers on
the table, thinking
unkind thoughts.

the helen keller bistro

it was a dark restaurant.
so dark
that they give you
a seeing eye dog,
a white cane
and a miner's
helmet so that you
can navigate
around the tightly
placed tables.
small candles
are lit on
each table top,
fluttering their
one inch wick
with a wavy yellow
flame.
can you read this
you say to your
friend betty, does
that say, crab soup,
or catsup?
it's blurry, I
can't read it.
I don't know she says,
holding the menu
up to her helmet
light. there's
a picture of a
hamburger I think
on here, or maybe
it's a hat, not sure,
but i'm going to have
that, the hamburger
or the hat, i'll
eat either one, i'm
that hungry.
me too, you say, but
i'll have cheese on
mine, do you see
the word cheese anywhere?
I can't see any prices
either. the print
is so small. can
you see the wine list?
no, she says, but
i'm getting a headache,
it's so dark in here.
I think I just heard
a bat fly over my head.
let's ask the waiter,
here comes one now,
I think, or maybe
it's a customer,
or Dracula coming to
kill us. strike him
with your cane,
and ask him what kind
of wine they have.

hot sauce

nothing lasts forever,
she sighs
wiping a tear
from her eye. she
rubs her finger
where the wedding
band used
to be, and looks
off into the distance
where a dark line
of clouds
has settled in
for the late
afternoon.
what about hot sauce,
you say to her.
I still have the first
bottle of hot
sauce I ever bought
when I got married
in the 70's.
what, she says,
turning to look at
you. did you say
something. no, you
say. nothing.
just mumbling to
myself. go on,
you were saying...

magic time

the world
seems to need
ghosts
and apparitions.
spells
and witches,
big footed
monsters
roaming the woods.
it needs
aliens
in saucers,
loch ness
monsters,
the world needs
mystery
and wonder,
conspiracies
and plots,
it needs
magic, for
without it,
it's nine to five,
and just another
day alive.

empty boxes

a store
selling empty
boxes
and containers,
shelves
and webbed
baskets
has replaced
the book
store.
mark twain is
gone.
Hemmingway
and
plath.
Whitman has
disappeared
into
the leaves
of grass.
holden is lost,
no longer
catching
children
in the rye.

financial advice

you talk with your
financial
advisor, betty,
who has an office
over a Chinese
restaurant
in the city.
she tells you
that according
to what you've
saved and earned
over the past
four decades
that you need
three million
more dollars
in addition to
the three hundred
dollars in your
passbook savings
account to retire
and live a normal
life.
define normal, you
ask betty. she
taps a pencil
on her desk
and shrugs, I don't
know. food, clothing
shelter. that
sort of thing.
hmmm. you say
smelling the Chinese
food frying
in the room
below betty's office,
making you hungry.
how about this she
says, pulling her
chair closer
to the desk. you need
to meet a really
really rich woman
with a heart condition,
marry her, and
voila. she smiles,
her hands out, waiting
for you to laugh
along with her.
how much do I pay you,
betty, you ask
her. nothing, she
tells you, we're
friends remember?
right. lunch?
i'm starving for
some crispy beef
and a few egg rolls.
yeah, she says, a few
mai tais would be
nice too.

the unloved

are the unwashed
and drifting
unloved,
or are they
unloved
because of that.
it's hard to say.
for even
those on a straight
and narrow
with hot water
and soap
seem to be having
a tough go
at love as well.

tea talk

she says,
whispering to me,
leaning over
two cups
of hot tea,
they have everything
but they aren't
happy. everything.
she pours in a dollop
of cream,
sprinkles a packet
of splenda and stirs
her cup.
they both own
bmw's.
she shakes her
head, and lights
a cigarette,
blowing a cloud
of light
blue smoke towards
the ceiling.
you don't mind if
I smoke do you?
she liked to buy
pop art, she says,
smirking. can you
imagine, tomato
cans and what not.
flower pots.
who puts that on
the wall these days.
he cheats on her
to make up for her
bad choices in art,
she says, widening
her eyes, then
begins to laugh,
i'm sorry, she says
picking off
a piece of lint
from her blue
dress.
I just thought of
something funny.
pop art, pop tarts.
it sort of all
makes sense now,
don't you think?

angels with trumpets

a baby crying
catches your ear.
you don't
see the baby,
as you look
around the store,
but you remember
that sound,
coming from
a crib
up the stairs
in a pale
blue room, with
a spinning
mobile of
angels
with gold trumpets
above him.

bossy town

the whole
day, people keep
telling you
to have a good
one. have a nice
day, they say
handing you your
coffee, or bagel
with cream cheese,
all of these people
bossing you around.
the toll booth operator,
the bum on the street
asking for
a quarter.
maybe you don't want
to have a nice
day, did they
ever think that
as they make
their awful demands on
you. sometimes
they tell you what
to wear too, bundle
up before you go
out there, cold out.
or stay dry, it
looks like rain,
better bring an umbrella.
could be a down pour.
shut up.
who are these
bossy people and
what gives them
the right to tell
you how to live your life.
you're not the boss
of me, you want to tell
every one of them
as they smile
cheerfully, trying
to boss you around.

all your friends are there

you hate
facebook, okay hate
may be too strong of a word,
but it's a painful
thing to view
on a day to day basis.
it's not how shallow
and trivial
it is, it's something else.
it's not the pathetic
yearning of those
without real lives,
or the posted
cakes, the photos
of babies,
the vacations out
of state. it's something
else. the nosiness
of it all, perhaps.
the voyeuristic nature
of it all. the baby
bragging, the look at
me, look at me. please
look at me idea
of it all. so
don't poke me,
don't e mail me there,
don't tag me
in a stupid photo. I
still don't want to
go to the high school
reunion, jimmy, whoever
you are,
and no, I don't want
to be your friend
because we know someone
that we used to know.
if we are friends we'll
get together
and have dinner, and we
won't take a photo
of what we are eating,
where we are going,
and what we wore.
we will talk like human
beings, face to face.
remember those days?

lawn competition

you look out your window
and see how
wonderful your neighbor's
lawn looks.
green and lush, a golf
course without
the holes and flags,
the sand traps and rough.
then you look at yours.
at the bramble, the rusted
bikes and tires.
that old dodge dart
with the hood up
on the edge of the
driveway.
but you like your yard.
the weeds and what not.
this is not a competition.
and when you hear his
wife yelling at him for
not pruning the roses
or trimming the tree,
or for using too much
mulch along the path,
you smile and feel good
that you've done things
with your lawn in your
own thoughtful way.

the ding dong day

vote, please
vote, everyone says.
this election
will change everything.
be a good citizen
and vote.
you can't complain
if you don't.
our future is at
stake, our children's
future,
the world will be
a better place,
the sky will become
bluer, the sun
brighter.
vote, please come
down and make your
case. pull the lever,
then proudly wear
that flag sticker around
the whole
ding dong day.

going home

you leave
a trail of bread
crumbs
to find
your way home.
by the end
of the day, half
have been eaten
or tossed
around so that
you are no longer
on track
but lost
and knocking on
a stranger's door,
asking
for directions,
for help
to get you
where you need
to go. but it's
too late in
the day,
you have to start
over. you are
unafraid,
it's what you
do best.

retreating

frost
building his
wall
salinger his fence
still hearing
the mortars
going off,
the silent
monk
climbing
his perch
to hum out
his days,
garbo
without words,
to each
his own
goodbye to a world
gone sour
that must
be lived in,
finding a way
to retreat
and yet not
surrender.

bring lunch

they keep finding
planets
that might hold
life, that we
may be able to survive
on, if we bring
air food and water.
this world is
almost done,
so we'd better
get going, it's
only three thousand
light years
away. we could be
there in three
generations
if we leave now.
start packing,
i'll warm up
the ship. wear
something loose
and comfortable,
it could take awhile,
bring a lunch.

rodeo blues

you don't like
the rodeo. you don't
understand
it. why
the violence,
the tackling
and roping
of animals
for the joy
of others,
their dark eyes
full of fear.
it reminds you
too much of
people caught
and bound by their
own lives.
branded
and bullied into
pens
they want to
flee from.

as you left it

you leave home,
and return.
you leave home
again
the next day,
and once again
you come back
that evening.
this goes on
and on.
everything is always
just as you
left it.
the pillow
with your imprint,
the unlit candle
cold
in the window.
the mail still on
the floor
after falling
through the slot.
it wasn't always
this way though.
it's hard to decide
which is
better.

winter stew

the food cooking
on the stove
fills the room.
the meat
and onions,
potatoes,
carrots all
blending in a cloud
of warmth
and comfort.
it takes less
and less
to make you happy,
to keep
you coming back.
this stew
being one of them,
her arms
around you,
another.

the great wide lawn

with each
pass
of the lawn mower
the man
stops
to wipe his
brow.
the sun
high above
him. he checks
his watch,
the machine
still
on and churning,
then pushes
forward.
all afternoon
he criss crosses
his great
yard,
year into year.
the grass
never ending
it's cycle
of growth. his
wife looks
out the window
to watch
him. they've
always wanted
a lawn
like this,
and now they have
it, and it
them.

ice it down

your knee
makes a noise
when you get up
from reading
the paper,
or a book
for an hour
or so, it's
a slight crackling
sound, like
wood snapping
in a fire.
it hurts a little
at first,
but after a few
steps towards
the kitchen
it feels better.
sometimes you
take an ice cube
and rub it on
the place where it
hurts,
and other times
you put the ice
cube into a small
glass where you
pour vodka
on top of it before
heading back
to the couch.

the pin wheel

spin spin spin
this pin wheel
in a child's
small hand.
the red
thin plastic
whirring
like time itself,
the seconds
going by
turning into years.
spin spin spin
how quickly
this moment will
pass by.

down the road

like air
from a tire
punctured by a
random
nail
on the road
you are losing
air, slowly,
the tread
of you
softening
as you continue
down
the highway,
but you keep
going,
there are no
exits
you want to
take just yet,
maybe around
the next turn,
down the road,
but for now
you keep on
rolling,
you still
have time.

moderation

moderation
in all
things.
food drink
sex
and money.
perhaps.
love being
the exception.
forgiveness
and compassion
being others.
it's hard
being good,
harder still
being
moderate.

loretta's in the pool

a detective comes
to your house, he
has a boxer's nose,
you can see as you both
look through the peep
hole at the same time.
he knocks hard
and decisively, again
and again, on your door,
drowsily, you open it up,
peering out into
the early morning sun.
yes, you say, can I
help you. he holds out his
badge and identification,
i need to ask you a
few questions, he says,
pushing his way in,
sure you say, sure.
what? what questions?
can i sit, he says.
sure, you say, pointing
at the table. sit down.
i'm having coffee, care
for a cup. he takes his
hat off and sits
at the table,
black he says,
pulling out a folder
of photos.
you bring him his coffee
and sit down with him
at the table. what's this
all about, you ask
squinting over
the edge of your hot
cup. he slides the folder
in front of you,
showing you a large
glossy photo of a man
sleeping in a lounge
chair near a pool.
do you recognize this man,
you laugh, sure i do.
that's me. who took
this picture, it's me.
we can't find him, he
says. we've looked everywhere.
you laugh again. i'm him.
you found your man.
that's me in the picture.
we suspect foul play,
he says, so if you have
any information, please
feel free to tell us.
but i'm him, i am the guy
in the photo. don't you
see? we think a woman may
be involved, a brunette
with a scar on her cheek.
a tattoo of a rose on
her ankle. her name might
be loretta.
oh, yeah, i used to date
her. she tried to cut
me once with a steak knife
and once sprinkled rat
poison in my scrambled eggs.
crazy as a loon.
well, she's on the run too.
both of them. they may
have robbed a bank
together. look, you tell
him, that is me, and i'm
alive and i haven't seen
that woman in years. i would
never rob a bank, so let's
just quit this charade and
end this. i must ask you to
leave, I have to go to work.
you have a pool? he asks.
yes, out back. may i take
a look? sure, be my guest,
but then you have to leave,
unless you have a warrant.
I really have to get to work.
he walks over to the sliding
glass door and looks out
at the pool.
who's that floating
in the pool, he says, lighting
a cigarette. you rush over
and pull back the curtain.
i don't know, but it looks
like Loretta. what the hell?
we need to fish her
out, he says. get her
down to the lab.
go ahead son, go about your
day, go to work.
i'll have the boys come
in and comb the place for
prints and evidence. we
know where to find you.
i'm going to leave
a photo of this man
with you, and if you
see him, call me at
my number, here's my
card. the second you see
this man, call me, don't take
any chances, he's very
dangerous. you shake your head.
sure, you say, whatever.

she likes to move

she likes
to move.
packing her bags
and boxes.
marking each one,
kitchen,
or bedroom,
storage,
or attic.
she stands at
the window
and quietly says
goodbye.
every year she
finds a new
place to live.
to sleep
and eat, and
worry.
it keeps her
interested
in the world,
the constant of
change,
of hope that
the next place will
be the one.

accepting rain

you like people
who can ignore
and accept
the rain.
they take no
shelter
as it falls
and soaks
them to the bone.
there is no
hurry in their
footsteps,
no seeking shelter
in front
of a store,
they keep walking,
hands in
their pockets,
to where they need
to be,
rain, shine, it's
all the same
to them. you like
that in a person.

a poem for you

you bite
into my poem
and blood
runs down
the corners
of your mouth.
you toss it
back and forth,
breaking
its will.
shaking the life
out of it.
you want to
know what hides
inside,
is it empty,
or full of more
thoughtless
lies.
you chew the corners
from the page,
tossing
the shreds
up into the air.
you turn my
hurried
art into
confetti, unhappy
with
the words
I slaved over
for three
minutes.

the good book

the thick
book comforts you.
slowly
turning each
page,
not wanting it
to end too
soon.
you want to savor
the middle,
the beginning
and end.
it waits for
you
at the end of
a day.
on the night stand,
next to
the lamp.
in reaching
distance
for your tired
hand.

down goes svetlana

you have no
money, she tells you
in a long
broken English
e mail.
you imagine her
sitting
with a white
poodle in her lap,
staring out
the window
of her country
estate, looking
lovingly
at her black
Mercedes sports
car. you are short
and bald too
and you don't
know how
to please a woman.
I can no
longer see you.
I am, how you
say, breaking up
with you
and your silly
ways. I want a man
in my life,
not a boy
playing boy games.
you are a smart
aleck, is that
the term? and
a child, do not
communicate with me
any further.
goodbye. and one
more thing, you left
your shoes here,
which I will throw
away, since they are
unpolished, cheap
and old like you.

they may have been canadian

they were nice people,
almost too nice.
in fact they may have
been Canadian.
with them they carried
small maple leaf
shaped bottles full
of syrup. have one,
they'd say, pulling
out the amber, thick
glassed bottle
from a suitcase. on
us, have some syrup,
try some on a pancake
today. they were nice
people, tough and
weather worn, but
gentle too.
they may have been
the nicest people
you've ever met
at a train station
in new York city.
they may have been
Canadian. you
hoped that they
wouldn't stay too
long and be ruined
by the likes of you.

good to be home

clinking
keys
in the night,
tossed into
the green
bowl,
the door
lock turned,
the grumble
of the furnace
as its
small fire
bumps on
and roars.
the kettle
boils,
the turn
of a crisp
page
in a new book
you can't
wait to get to.
good to be home.
such as it
is.
without an
unnatural sound.

the easter bunny

once when you were a child,
maybe ten or eleven
years of age, you were
at an easter picnic
with other children
and families. you were
in a park, with trees,
and a wide dark river
nearby. the sky was blue
as skies can be
at the time of year.
it was a pleasant day.
neither cold or hot.
out of nowhere a car
load of young men swung
their car around
the circle and yelled
out to us. The easter bunny
is queer, one man said,
sitting on the edge
of the window. he was
pale with slicked
black hair. a cigarette
was tight in his lips
and you could see a beer
can in his hand.
they circled several times
honking their horn
until several of the fathers
together marched towards
them, rolling up
their sleeves. the young
men drove off, laughing
hysterically. hooligans
your mother said, hands
on her hips, shaking her
starched stiff hair. there was
to be an easter egg
hunt at some point.
a game of tag perhaps,
cake and ice cream.
baskets of candy in
colored celluloid paper.
but you remember most
that day,
hearing those words,
they've never left you.
the easter bunny is queer.
perhaps it wasn't about
sex at all, maybe the young
man meant
that the bunny was odd,
or different. quirky
in some way perhaps.
you knew he didn't
even exist anyway, so why
be bothered, you tried
to reason it all out
with your ten year old
logic. in fact. why did he
exist at all, representing
the resurrection of
the savior of the world
from a horrible death.
how did a rabbit sneaking
into houses leaving candy,
and colored eggs, jelly
beans somehow become part
of this event. and now,
he might be queer,
whatever that meant.
your head rushed with ideas,
confusion, a maelstrom
of insecurity made you
squint your eyes and caused
you to lose interest in
searching through the thick
green grass and in the hollows
of leafless trees,
for hidden eggs.

oh, that's funny

she doesn't laugh
at your lame attempt
at jokes.
instead she says
quietly,
oh, that's funny,
keeping a straight
face. she's a tough
crowd. so,
your goal in life
now is to make
her laugh,
not a guffaw, or
a mere chuckle,
no smirk will do.
you don't want
a giggle either,
or a broad, teeth
baring smile, no.
you want tears
in her eyes, a laugh
from deep within
her, a laugh that
will bend her
over and make milk
squirt out of her
nose, or for food
to leap from her
mouth. you want that
kind of laugh
you've got work to do
with this one.

happy holidays

we are done as friends
she says.
brushing her
hair in the mirror,
applying lipstick.
don't talk to me
anymore. I don't love
you and never have.
I've pretended all
these years. our
marriage is a sham,
a mockery of a sham,
a mistake
that never should have
happened. you make
me ill just looking
at you. what? did
you say something?
have you seen my green
Christmas tie, you
ask, as you rummage
through the closet
on your hands and knees.
I wear it every
year to the party,
but I can't find it.
it's red with little
snowflakes on it.

stretch pants

preparing for the holidays
you go online
to find
the stretch pants
with the elastic
waist band. not
exactly one size
fits all, but
close. some even
have a little draw
string in the front,
while others have
a built in belt
with varying degrees
of notches, all
depending on if you
have that second or
third helping
come thanksgiving.
there are festive
colors too, but
you prefer black
or brown, or
even a rustic
orange color, keeping
the gravy stains
hidden, as well as
the pumpkin pie
filling that
inevitably falls
into your widening
lap.

the last day

the you lick
the last
day of the month
like the corner
of a final
page in a chapter
in a book
that seems
to have
no true reason
to end
or start
again, but it
does go on.
even when you
are asleep
the calendar
turns, the story
moves forward,
for better
or for worse,
and you know
your part so well.

it's all fiction

it's all fiction
every word of it,
the writer claims
as he turns another
page over
to his editor
for publication.
no one in this story
is real, or has
ever said the words
spoken. no love has been
made, no hatred
stirred, the plot
is untrue. the heroine
does not exist.
the hero is a wish,
the villains are all
people that I never
knew. it's all
fiction, every word
of it, i promise,
even what i said
about you.

confetti days

throw
your confetti
into
the air.
despite the rain,
the forecast
of doubt
and undoing.
set
off your
fireworks
and be bold
with
your days,
even more
so with those
fleeting
nights,
don't pass
on
the next chance
at
wonder
or happiness
or love.
blow that horn.
throw your
confetti
into the air
and live.

broken things

the broken
things come
easily.
the bones,
the table
leg,
the faucet
rusted
in your hand,
the broken
belt
of the vacuum,
spinning
madly.
hearts of
course.
the streets
are littered
with those.
promises
and vows,
empty and
limp like
popped balloons.
the cracked
pipe
from
the first
winter freeze.
your tooth on
a candy
apple.

an ordinary life

what simple
task
is last
that we do
before
our lives
slip away.
the paper read
perhaps,
or the trash
set near
the curb.
the dog walked,
the lights
turned
out before
going up
the stairs
and saying
good night
to someone
in another room.
what ordinary
lives
we lead
with ordinary
endings,
we hope.

moon beams in a jar

inventive
and romantic,
the blue eyed
child
holds
the jar up
to the window
as the hunter
moon
beams yellow
across
the patches
of wet fields.
i'm catching
moon beams
she says, so
that I will
have them later,
for whenever
I want,
thinking
that love too
will be
so easy.