i'm still here

your friend mary
who retired from
the rail road 40 years
ago turns ninety-five
this year.
she has had nearly
every disease known
to man, but has somehow
survived.
they have found
her passed
out on the floors
of her kitchen
and bathroom
dozens of times,
pushing the doors
open to revive her.
she drives a white
Cadillac and leaves
an I'm sorry note on
the windshields
of cars that she smashes
into in the parking lot.
never a phone number
or name. she adds in.
I'm old.
her wall to wall carpet
is baby blue,
her couch is baby
blue, the curtains
are one shade darker
and there are dried flowers
everywhere.
there is always a
sara leigh
banana cream pie
in the refrigerator
next to a carton
of skim milk.
she's been living in
the same apartment
since 1963.
the year kennedy was
shot, she says, as if
somehow both events
are forever tied together.
nearly all
her friends have died.
and she laughs
not about them, but
about that she's still
here. I'm still
here she says defiantly,
so tell me about you.
seeing anyone?

tough times, buddy

when going through
a tough time
there is always someone
that says
you think you've
got it bad, listen
to this. then
proceeds to tell
you a horror story
about someone they
know that had a snake
bite them on the neck
or how their house
caught fire
when dropping a
frozen turkey into
a deep fryer,
or they say.
count your blessings
buddy. things
could be worse.
you hate being called
buddy.
then they take an
inventory of your
life telling you
that you have
a car, a home,
a job, a loving
wife. none of your
kids are pregnant
or on drugs yet.
none of this talk makes
you feel any better.
but you bite your tongue,
staying quiet,
which is what you
should have done
in the first place.

in the morning

every morning you see them,
a gaggle of strangers
who have become
coffee house friends.
they've pulled
tables
and chairs together to
talk and drink coffee.
the old guy
with the pony tail.
the woman knitting.
the big guy wearing
a hipster hat.
the pregnant woman
with big blonde hair.
a skinny guy with
jimmy on his yellow
member's only jacket.
and the quiet man
with his arms folded
across his chest.
there is no place
they'd rather be than
here with each other
at eight o'clock
in the morning.
it's a lively
conversation.
and as you stand in
line and listen with
one ear, it makes
you strangely happy.
they are birds
of different feathers
that have flocked
together.

hunger

standing at
the open refrigerator
door
in the kitchen
gleam
of white, you
realize
as you put a pickle
into your
mouth that you
are capable of
eating a lot
of crazy things
when you're
hungry. really
hungry.
some old, some
spoiled,
some not quite
ripe. take this
slice of pizza
for example.
curled in silvery
foil.

i'm sorry

I'm sorry for last
night
she says
holding her
head in her hands.
peering
through fingers
to see
if you're buying
it. I was wrong.
I drank too
much. I lost my
way, got angry,
said things I
shouldn't have
said, can you ever
forgive me.
I love you.
you nod.
of course, you
tell her. i'll
forgive you,
but from a distance,
a very far distance.
let's pack your
bags and start
today with my
forgiveness.

a life

does each
life hold a theme,
a plot
a denouement,
a rise and
fall.
is there a climax
to the story
or does it
ramble
on and on
with no
real middle,
just a beginning
and an end,
and lots
and lots of
small talk.

under the weather

you are under
the weather.
snow to be exact.
long pillows
of silvery
white hills.
each roof iced
white,
each tree holding
small candles
full of light.
you are under
the weather
which is where
you like to
be, especially
when you're around.

the kiss

a bee
sting is
like a kiss.
unexpected
and warm
against
your cheek
when what
you wanted
was something
warm
and wet upon
your lips.

pull over

the police
make you nervous.
despite
doing nothing
to warrant
suspicion,
you get itchy when
around them.
you are a good
citizen
for the most
part, although
you rarely vote
in local
elections. well,
maybe never
and sometimes if
no one is looking
you only pretend
to pick up after
your dog,
but the cops
on your tail
makes you slow
down, put
on your signal
early, adjust
your mirror
and sit up
straight. when
they gather
in the coffee
shop, you try
to avoid eye
contact, maybe
they know something.
something,
what, you aren't
sure, but you
don't want to take
any chances.
you would not do
well in prison.

one or two inches of snow

you feel foolish
standing in
line with only
a bottle
of hot sauce
when beside
you are shopping
carts full of
eggs and milk,
bread
and toilet paper.
rib roasts
and whole chickens.
the shelves
are being emptied.
the lines
are long,
there is cursing
and rolling
of eyes
as the lines
move slowly.
the weather
service is calling
for an inch
or two of snow.
you pray that you
can make it
through with only
one bottle
of hot sauce.

onion rings

you try so hard
to live in
the moment, because
that's what you
are supposed to do
these days,
but before long
someone says,
what are you doing
tomorrow,
and that blows
the whole moment
thing. you start
thinking about tomorrow
and what fun
things you might
do then. it
tarnishes the moment
you are in
and you end up
having another drink
and ordering
onion rings.

poetry meet up

bored with yourself,
with the day in
and day out of life.
work, sleep,
eat. the dreadful
pattern
of a human gerbil
on a squeaky wheel,
you google
poetry workshops.
maybe there's
a place you can go
on a cold Tuesday night
to shoot the breeze
with fellow aspiring
writers.
maybe you can read
from your voluminous
collection of poetry
and have them
applaud what
you've written,
praise you as a
genius and worship
the ground you walk
on. they will want
to touch your sleeve,
to share
the air you
breathe. they will be
happy just being
in your presence.
they will bite their
nails and long for
the next meet up
to see what you've
created. basically
you want to find
an all about me work
shop, but sadly,
there doesn't seem
to be any.
at some point you'll
have to read
and comment on what
they too have
written. you'll have
to be constructive
with your criticism,
be polite and nice,
and lie a little.
you'll have to polish
their apples full
of worms while tapping
your foot, waiting
for your next
turn. the horror.

sally freud

she says that you are
detached
and aloof,
distracted and
distant.
probably a result
of being unloved
as a child.
you often answer
her questions
with a what, or
huh?
this doesn't bode
well
in proving her
wrong.
maybe she's right.
maybe you
aren't all
there, but elsewhere
thinking of
thinks to
ponder and write.
maybe you've
put a protective
wall around
to keep people
out. maybe.

cold wave

age arrives
more clearly when
it's cold.
arctic cold.
you feel it
in your knee.
your neck,
your curled hands.
the snow in
your hair
is not snow.
the blur in your
eyes
not wind. but
the memory
of love
keeps you warm,
with that
the movement
of time has not
slowed.

on time

you will be late
for work.
that's okay. coffee
is important.
opening the paper
for the headline.
writing another
poem,
scraping the ice
off your
windshield
needs to be done.
your dog wants
to play
for a few more
minutes before
he hops
onto the bed
awaiting your
return. telling
you in a note
how much
you're loved
and adored
will take just
a second.
you will be late
for work, but
that's okay, you
are on time with
the rest of life.

in the shadows

no moon is bright
enough
to find you
anymore.
the light is
weak
as you hide
among the trees
and brush
of your life.
you don't
want to be seen
or found.
your voice
is a whisper
in the cold shadows.
you've
settled on nothing
and no one.
so why start
now.

bump in the road

every road
has a turn
a bump
a hole
a detour
somewhere along
the way
that throws
you off course
sometimes you
see it
coming, other
times
you hit it
and curse, stop
to get out
and survey
the damage.
now a days,
you just keep
going.
you've been down
most roads
by now
and you're
getting better
and better
seeing what lies
ahead
and avoiding it,
or taking it
all in stride.

the centerfielder

he was a pretty good
center fielder
in high school.
fast, good arm.
great anticipation.
so when you hear
from the grapevine
that he's passed
away after living
in a trailer in florida
for the past
ten years it startles
you.
you don't want it
to end that way.
not just for him,
but for anyone.
you want all of us
to remain healthy
and young
waiting to
snag the next chance
while smacking
our leather glove
in the summer sun.

she loved that song

she loved that song
I left my heart
in san Francisco.
she'd been there once
as a kid and rode
the trolley cars.
it didn't matter
who was singing it,
but tony Bennett was
her favorite.
over and over
again she'd put
the needle down
on the record
and let it play
and play and play.
it reached a point
where you had to hide
the record from
her. which made
her unhappy, which
eventually led
to the break up.
but you didn't care.
you had to have
your sanity back.
sometimes, despite
the decades gone
by you'll put
the 45 back
on the ancient
turntable and remember
her, spinning
slowly around
the room, singing.
at times
you feel bad about
spoiling her happiness
and wish you could
give it back to her
but you can't. that's
just how it goes
sometimes.

standing eight count

there's a little
lazarus in all of us.
down for the count,
but somehow
back from
the dead,
back in the fight.
whether love
gone wrong, or money.
jobs and life,
you wipe
the blood off
one more time,
beating the odds.
having been
given the standing
eight count time
and time again, you
get off your knees
and rise.

the break up line

you remember a break
up line
a girl gave
you a long time
ago.
it stuck with you
like
mud to a shoe,
mustard
on a sweater, well,
you get the idea.
but she said,
I want to see if
I miss you, so let's
not talk for awhile,
or see each other.
let's take a nice
break and see
if that works, see
if I miss you,
she said. let's see
if our love is for real?
but for how long?
you asked, crushed
and hurt by this.
I don't know, she
said, let's just see
what happens when
we don't communicate
for awhile. okay?
you shrugged and cursed
beneath your breath,
but walked away without
a fight, which made
her relieved and
happy. when you
turned back around for
one last look,
she was skipping
merrily
down the sidewalk,
so far she didn't seem
to be missing
you too much.

in the black

there has been
a lot of subtraction
lately
in your life,
you are not down
to minus zero,
but it seems
to be heading
in that direction
with each turn
of the calendar
page.
you need
some addition, some
multiplication,
you need a few
more plus
signs in the column
of your ledger.

$365.14

each year you
sheepishly lug
a pail of coins
to the local
bank and shovel
them into the money
machine that sits
by the window.
people smile
at you as they walk
by. coins, they say?
I need to do that.
it's a noisy
process as you sort
through the peanuts
and paper clips,
the debris of pills
and scrapes of paper
that have to be
sorted out. you
are always amazed
at the final tally,
even after their
three per cent take,
printing off
the receipt to
give to the teller.
you are strangely
proud of your bucket
of coins
and feel as if
it's found money.
you want it in cash,
you tell them.
folding money.

in your head

you understand the news.
you get it.
the idea being
to keep people
watching.
fear does the trick.
the cliff hanger
pronouncements before
a break.
is that ice tea you're
drinking full of
rat poison. stayed
tuned and don't take
another sip until
you hear what our
team of experts
have to say.
does the government
know what you
are thinking?
are they in your head
with drones the size
of bed bugs?
that water, is it
safe enough to bathe
in when it's full
of radiation
and little pieces
of slaughter house
beef. the bay,
is it really safe
to swim in with all
of that fish urine?
how much does each
fish pee in any given
day? all of these
questions will be
answered after this
brief message about
the softest toilet
paper you can ever
buy.

the secret of writing

there was a time
when it was harder
to write.
to express yourself.
the sun had to be just
right in the sky.
the phone needed
to be off,
you needed coffee
on the desk,
a thesaurus and a
dictionary nearby.
there had to be silence.
you worried about
each word
that left your mind,
through your tapping
fingers. agonized
over the whole lot
being read
and liked, praised
or criticized.
now you don't care
and it's made things
a lot easier.
if only you had known
this secret years
ago.

assisted care

the assisted
care living facility
smells
of onions
and old people
asleep.
sound asleep in
the middle of the day
while the television
against the far
wall plays on
and on with live
energetic people.
people with plans,
and hopes.
desires.
and in between
the shows
are commercials
for the things
they all need.
there is no music.
no books.
no pets, no loved
one's hand in reach.
they are immersed
instead with
what doesn't exist,
as they near
that fate too.

the dog door

you hear the dogs
barking
up and down the street.
the rustle
of bushes,
and trash can
lids falling
like cymbals
against each other.
then you see
her, your neighbor,
Irma, home from
drinking and dancing
all night, now
crawling
through
the dog door
on her knees.
your own dog
goes over to her
and lick
her face.
wrong house? she
says. I'm not
sure, you answer,
we'll see.

getting out

you see it
sometimes in the boy
pushing
carts
from the parking
lot.
in his eyes
that flash
of light, the hint
at something
more will
be done
with his life.
or you might see
it in
the waitress
pouring you coffee,
the poetry in
her smile, the way
she moves,
bends, looks at
herself
in the reflection
of a window.
she's left this job.
she's already
gone.
and then there are
those who are
there today
and every tomorrow,
with no way out,
no thought
of clipping
the wires and crawling
under the fence,
accepting
their place in
the world as a final
stop.

brains for sale

driving a giant
truck,
the man who
cuts you off on
the road
is in a hurry.
you are only doing
seventy five
in a sixty five zone.
he needs
to go faster.
apparently
there is a sale
on beef jerky
and brains
up ahead
that he needs
to get to.

i made it from scratch

you make a cake
for someone you care
about
deeply.
they ask you
if it was made
from scratch.
yes, you say.
with the scratch
that I make
daily
at my job,
I went out and
bought a box
of betty crocker's
cake mix,
three eggs,
a third of a cup
of vegetable oil
and mixed it
all up for you.
set the oven
to 325, waited,
thirty five minutes,
stuck a toothpick
into it to see
if it was done,
then iced it
after it cooled.
now eat your damn
cake.
yes. I made
it from scratch.

i got your old age right here punk

someone reminds
you that you are getting
old.
you slap this person
across their young
face
with a glove
and challenge
them to run a race
or to a game
of one on one basketball.
you point
at a bar bell on
the floor that you
have been lifting
since you were
thirteen years old
and say lift
that, loser. you show
them that you
can read the newspaper
without holding
it three feet
away from your
squinting eyes.
you are getting
very sensitive
about your age
these days.

the weight of him

when your son
was little, wearing
his green
and yellow onesie,
you could
hold him
in one hand,
balanced
like a sack of sugar
and float him
around the room
while his mother
would yell to put
him down, you're
going to kill him,
she'd say.
he'd put his
arms and legs out
and make a
whirring noise
with his puffed cheeks
blowing,
as if a plane.
sometimes he'd
tweet like a bird.
you wonder if
he remembers that
as well as you
do, nearly every
day, feeling
the weight of him.

what to bring to mars

we've gone
way beyond tang.
you see wine,
fermented grapes
in a box
at the grocery store
and wonder
what's next.
potato brewed
vodka in a can,
like popeye
and his spinach.
martinis
in a jar with
olives
already added.
freeze dried
beer in a
cellophane
package? we
are preparing for
that voyage
to mars. shaken,
and stirred.

forbidden sausages

you watched
a late night show
about
zeppelins. on
public television,
of course.
it was about
how the giant
floating
warships
bombed London
during world
one
with cow gut
skins
holding
the nitrogen
in.
making sausages
was forbidden
during
the war
in Germany,
because they needed
more
zeppelins in
the air to bomb
the women and
children into
submission.
just taking
sausages
off my plate would
have been
enough for
me to surrender
no matter which
side I was on.

your pyramid

you want to be buried
in a pyramid
built especially
for you
with many chambers,
false doors,
hallways that lead
nowhere.
you want it to be
complex and difficult.
getting lost in
there will be
easy. finding you
in the center
will be hard,
almost impossible.
there will be
darkness and light.
there will be
graffiti on
the walls and
beautiful drawings.
there will be gold,
and tin.
why should death be
any different than life.

double scoop

no one
can be angry
while
licking an
ice cream
cone. no matter
what the flavor.
lime,
or lemon,
cherries jubilee,
or rocky
road. it's hard
to curse
when licking
a double scoop
set high
and sweet
on a sugar cone.

a few happy thoughts

dysfunction
is now
the norm.
like pigeons
we flock
to the neighborhood
pharmacy
and liquor
store to calm
our nerves,
settle
our minds.
there's a long
line
at the therapist's
office.
we buy meaningless
things
to feel good
for a moment.
the new
car, the new
fur, the new
sex partner.
everything is
temporary.
we are the weather.
we are the ocean
with wave
after wave
of days
filling up
nothing. our
food keeps
us hungry.
our sleep
is tumultuous.
something is missing
as we find
everything,
but nothing
to fulfill our
aching souls.

we never go anywhere

we never go anywhere
or do anything,
she says,
heating up a slice
of pizza for
dinner. when was the
last time we
did something fun?
what, you say,
lifting your head
up from the pillow
on the couch
and peering over
the cushions.
how come we don't
travel anywhere.
like france or Italy.
someplace like that?
your friend lulu
just got back from
there with her mother,
didn't she?
yes, she says. and
she said it was
fabulous. they had a
wonderful time,
they bought me this
beret. see?
she spins around with
a red beret tilted
on her head.
maybe instead of
ocean city, we can
go to paris this
year, or rome,
someplace fun with
culture and romance.
you shake your head.
I heard there are
lots of bed bugs
and pick pockets
over there, and they
don't like americans.
who told you that.
I saw it on the travel
food channel.
did you know that we
invented French fries.
how crazy is that?
we invented half of
their culture.
what the hell are you
talking about?
what about florida, you
tell her. we could
go see some minor league
games in the grapefruit
league this spring?
this is when she begins
to cry and takes
her phone into
the other room, the beret
still floating
atop her head. your
dinner is on the table
she yells before
slamming the door.

the years

the children,
apple cheeked
and brazen,
swing and slide
in the saw dust
playground
as the sun goes
down, while
the women
stand with hands
on hips
at the gate,
speaking of things
they don't talk
about with
their husbands.
the men sit inside,
with feet astride
tables, resting
their minds
in front of the blue
glow, that
never fades.
and years like
falling leaves
drift by.

come spring

the woman
next door likes
to garden
in the nude.
sometimes she
wears
a bathing suit
without a top.
she may or may
not know
that you can
see her from your
window.
she doesn't care.
she's more
concerned with
tending to the flowers,
the weeds,
bending wire
to keep
the rabbits out.
it doesn't surprise
you anymore.
it's no longer
about her.
her flowers,
come spring
are beautiful.

when you were here

a golden sun
sets
without you,
as it rose
the days before
you were born.
and when I leave,
it still
goes on.
again and again.
don't try
to understand
what any of it
means. feel
the warmth
while you're here,
as I felt
yours, when you
were here
too.

the missing dress

your friend betty wants
to contact her mother
who has been dead for ten
years. she misses her
dearly and wants
to find out where she
put that one dress
she used to wear
with the lace fringe.
she loves that dress.
so you go to
the local gypsy fortune
teller. it's a cape cod house
on the highway next to
the silver diner. we take
some snacks and drinks
along in case it's a long
wait in contacting her,
it's been a long time
since they buried her,
and she was never one
to answer the door
with one set of knocks
or one pressing of the door
bell. after an exchange of money,
we sit around the table,
putting the chips into
a bowl, and pouring
out some fresca on ice,
her mom's favorite.
the gypsy lady pushes
a few buttons with her
feet, making the music
go on, and some smoke
to rise out of the air
vents. it sputters a little.
I have to get that fixed
she says, do you know
a good hvac man? we both
shake our heads no.
join hands she says and
close your eyes. some music
begins to play. Elton john's
funeral for a friend.
betty opens one eye and
whispers, she hated Elton
john, which makes the gypsy
woman stomp on the floor
and then the music switches
to john Denver. rocky
mountain high. whatever,
betty says.
I see her, the gypsy says.
she's smiling and happy
that you are here.
she's running through a
field of flowers and green
grass. singing. what is she
singing, betty asks.
something about doe a deer
a female deer. ask
her where the dress is,
you say, bored and ready
to get out of there.
the smoke is making your
eyes itch. plus
the fresca is flying
right through you. you have
to pee like seabiscuit before
a race. the dress. oh,
right, the dress, the gypsy
says. she's wearing it.
what the hell, betty says.
we buried her in that
dress? I'm sorry, the gypsy
says. so sorry. but the image
is fading. is there anything
else you want to ask her.
she's waving her hands,
saying goodbye to you...
and something about a blue
denim dress in the bottom
drawer where she kept her
rolled coins.
nah, betty says. denim?
really? we're
done here. thanks.

pink ville

she wants to
paint her bathroom
a hot pink.
a bubble gum,
pepto pink
and then
put up pictures
of poodles on
the walls.
black curly
poodles with
diamond collars
around their
necks.
she wants to
knit a hat
for the toilet
paper roll,
and have a matching
bath mat.
the shower curtain
would be pink
too. with
ribbons and bows,
cotton candy
pink. little girl
pink. frilly
and silly
Shirley temple
pink.
you tell her
no. forget about
it. here's what
I suggest
and hand her
the palette of
off whites.

jail break

the siren
at the local prison
goes off
late into the night.
there's been
a jail
break. someone
has dug a tunnel
or sawed
through the bars.
you wonder if
you've locked the doors
or not.
makes no difference,
you have little
of value
for anyone to steal.
no guns or diamonds.
but you do have
fresh batch of
brownies on
the kitchen table.
better go down
and check.

good intentions

there's a new
sheriff in town.
he thinks he's really
going to clean
this place
up. he has
good intentions
and a star
on his vest, but they
are drawing straws
down at the local
saloon to see
who gets to shoot
him first.

ice cold martini

you see
a crowd of
penguins
marching
across the ice
and snow,
aloof
and carefree
under a blissfully
cold
blue sky.
dressed
in tuxedos
each
and everyone
of them.
martinis
in hand.
they know how
to live,
not a care
or tear
in their eye.

home again

you awaken
in a stranger's house.
the woman
next to you says
good morning honey,
coffee?
she kisses you
on the cheek.
she is no one that
you know.
children run
into the room
and hop onto
the bed. daddy
daddy, they say,
bouncing in
the sunlight as
it streams in
from the window.
a golden dog
leaps into your lap,
licking
at your face.
he barks loudly,
but this still
doesn't awaken
you from
the dream.
you fall back into
the pillows
and close your eyes.
you fall
asleep. you dream
of silence.
the sound of crickets
chirping
in the cellar.
you are home again.

the fat baby

the fat
pink baby
in the chair
at the French
restaurant
is eating
with his hands.
some food
finds his
mouth, other
food finds
his forehead
and ears.
when he's
finished
he begins to
cry, then scream.
his face
is a bright balloon
about to burst.
you no
longer hear
the music.
taste your food.
all eyes
are on the baby.
the mother
keeps eating.
she doesn't
care. determined
to stay
she orders
more wine,
dessert. spooning
chocolate mousse
into
the baby's mouth.
this calms him.
you order
the same. wanting
the same.

still free

in any weather
he'd be standing
at the rivers edge
hip boots
on, his line
slung out
into the blue
flat river.
hours on hours,
he'd fish.
no music, no friend
along
for company.
just the ease
of water
against his body,
the sound
of birds, of
fish in the distance
jumping
in small splashes,
still free,
as he was.

every year

every year
the signs are posted
don't climb
on the rocks,
dangerous currents,
beware,
stay back.
and every year
people climb
and fall, they drown
slipping into
the fast grey
current of
chopped white
water.
there is no hope
for them,
no hand you can
reach down
and pull them back.
they disappear
with hardly
a scream,
swept away in
the cold current
coming out
the other end
in calmer waters
where
their names
are found
to be printed in
tomorrows news.
more signs go up,
nothing changes.

happy nails

you are way overdue
for a pedicure. the last
time you had one
was like, never.
while taking a bath
you stare at those
long string bean
toes of yours
with the gnarly
yellowish nails and
you think, hey, why
not treat yourself to a
nice nail job today?
so you go down
to the happy nail
salon next to dunkin
donuts and make
an appointment. but first you
get a few donuts
to eat while you get
your feet worked on.
two chocolate glazed
and a powdered sugar.
a nice cup of hot coffee too.
mrs. ming bows gracefully
as she directs you
to a giant leather massage
chair. you sink deeply
into it and take a bite
of your sugar donut.
there are red tassels hung
everywhere, you guess
they've all graduated
from many medical schools
teaching them the fine
art of pedicuring.
it's impressive. she shows
you how to turn on
the massage chair which
shakes violently, throwing
powdered sugar everywhere,
so you turn it down some.
mrs. ming then puts on
a mask and lights up
the blue radioactive
water that she forces
your feet into.
from then on, its like
a sushi bar with a set
of surgial instruments
that would make
a brain surgeon envious.
she rubs and squeezes each
toe, trims the nails
with a pair of sheet metal
shears, goes after
those bleeding cuticles
with a razor blade. her
hands are moving so fast
that it's all very scary, so
you look away in your jiggling
chair and notice that it's
pretty much all women here
except for you.
most of them are looking at
your bag of donuts, so you
break off small pieces of
donut and throw them towards
the women, who open
their mouths like seals
at the zoo. making that
same seal noise and clapping
their hands for more.
finally, mrs. ming finishes up.
she's shaking her head and
sweating. you need to come
more she says. more times.
you nails are bad, very bad.
okay, you tell her, handing
her some money.
extra for shine, she says.
you want shine. sure,
why not. she applies
a coat of clear polish on
them which makes you feel
like dancing. you simonized
them, you say, trying
to make some fun chit chat.
but she looks at you with
that quizzical cat look,
and says, no. now you done.
go. go.

the first cup's free

you are not
addicted to coffee
you say to yourself
as you rummage
through the cupboard
looking for one more
sleeve of Italian
roast to make
an instant cup.
you bypass the backup
jar of folgers,
the forgotten
tall jar of Maxwell's
instant, French roast,
hardly.
you dig
deeper into the shelves,
taking out the
instant oats
with that smirking
ben franklin
on the front,
ancient cans of soup.
out goes the tea
bag boxes. green
tea, happy tea,
lemon lime sunshine
tea. sleepy time
tea. where did all
this stupid tea
come from? where's
the coffee? you take
a deep breath and try
to calm yourself down.
you need to get dressed.
you wonder how long
the line will be,
you don't care,
it's snowing, so what.
the streets are
unplowed. doesn't
matter. you need it
now. sweet jesus,
you say towards
the ceiling where
you notice a water
stain resembling spilled
coffee,
get me to a barista
now.

the mystery

as you arrive
home
early
in the morning,
you see
one shoe
in the snow
with no
trail
as to the other.
a mystery
until
you see
the open
window and
your other clothes
come flying out.

born to be mild

you get invited
to a motorcycle
convention, but you
own no leather
pants, or vests.
you have no tattoos
or facial hair,
or shiny brain bucket
helmet.
you've never
been on a motorcycle.
you are scared
of burning your
legs on the exhaust
pipes.
you shake your
head when they
rumble by, revving
their engines
when at a stop
or cruising below
an underpass.
they seem so stoic
on their rides,
straddling
their engines,
the wind in the hair,
bugs in their teeth.
most of them are
stockbrokers, with
kids and dogs,
bleached blonde wives
who hang onto
the back
with dagger red
nails, chewing gum,
wearing expensive
leather jackets that
read live free
or die.

untrainable

your dog
hears when he
wants
to hear,
barks
whenever he feels
like it.
never fetches
the thrown ball,
never heels,
never
rolls over
to play dead,
or sit on
his hind legs
and beg.
untrainable.
always
hungry, always
curious
as to what
lies ahead.
you two are
so much alike,
it's scary.

finding inner peace

fasting
for nearly an
hour,
you get dizzy.
your mind
drifts away
from pure
clean thoughts
of renewal
and enlightenment.
you stare
into the simple
yellow flame
of a candle
that you set on
the floor in front
of you.
deep in meditation
you've emptied
your mind,
for maybe a minute
or two
before you begin
to think about
a girl you met
in high school.
she was captain
of the cheerleaders
with straight
black hair
and lips
as sweet as
cherry wine.
like the tommy
james song.
you begin to hum
the song,
then sing it, tapping
your knees while
in a lotus position.
you're done
with meditation.
you're starving
you call out
for a pizza. extra
cheese.

uncharted stars

uncharted
stars still shine
despite
having no eyes
upon them.
as do
the poets
walking about
in their own
minds
seeing words
in every
stone, in every
face, finding
meaning
in every dog
barking
in a window
without a bone.

you can't go back

you can't go
back.
even the memory
of yesterday
is tarnished
by the machine
of time.
the awful click
of springs
and wheels
in clocks are
constantly
telling you
goodbye.

melting snow

each flake
of snow
drifts slowly
from the opaque
sky. its strange
beauty
melts on
the tip
of your
warm tongue.
small
pleasures
of winter
are few and
far between.

the piano

the piano
won't play itself.
it will
sit there silent
for eternity
until a set
fingers
fall upon
its keys.
there is no
music until
you will the muse
to make it
happen, the same
goes for you
and me.

a road out

sometimes you wake
up and stare out the window
and say
the hell with the farm.
how many springs
can you keep
plowing the field,
tilling the soil
planting a new crop.
wheat, corn, alfalfa.
makes no difference.
you get by, but that's it.
your back hurts no
matter what comes up
out of the ground.
but it's winter now.
the earth is frozen solid
like a block of ice
and you've got two
more months of throwing
logs onto the fire
and trying to figure
out a better way
to live your life,
an escape, a road out.

the sunset

she takes your hand
and says slowly, but
loudly so that you can
hear out of your
good ear, honey, I don't
think this is working
out. you may be
too old for me,
what? you
say. yes, it is cold
out. you tap a young
man in a green apron
going by with
your cane and tell
him to close the door,
what are we living
in a barn here?
she leans over and
wipes your chin
of coffee and brushes
your sweater of scone
crumbs. we are just
in different places
now, she says. look at
you, bald and wrinkly.
you are almost eligible
for social security
and I'm in the prime
of my adult life.
finally, you get
the gist of what she's
trying to tell you.
she's dumping you for
a younger man.
a man with a bright
future, someone that
can give her the business
three times a day
without prescription
drugs. oh well, you say,
checking your pulse
and coughing. are you
okay, she says. I mean
we can still be friends.
I'm fine, I'm fine.
just a head cold,
congestion, it'll clear
up. i'll be fine.
no, she says, are you okay
with what I just told
you, about you and me
not seeing one another
any more? oh that. yeah.
sure, almost forgot.
hey, can you help me
up, there's a matinee
I want to see down at
the bijou. it's an old movie.
I just love that henry
fonda guy.

pass me the butter

like most people
you'd have
a hard time killing
a chicken
or a cow,
or even a fat
pink pig
for dinner,
but for some reason,
pulling a fish
out of the river
and cutting his
head off
then slicing him
open while
he still flops
in your hand
seems perfectly
fine. same
goes for a crab
or a lobster.
you have no sadness
in dropping
them into a boiling
cauldron,
waiting a few
minutes, then
stripping them of
their shells.
there is
no remorse or regret
as you dip
the meat into
butter.

sparrows

you have
a stack of books
that all
say basically
the same thing,
don't worry about
it.
don't look
back, just keep
moving.
you've underlined
passages
in the bible
about sparrows
that say that
too. you've
even written
a few dozen poems
expressing
those exact
sentiments
and you'll write
even more,
but you know that
it's easier
said then done,
like most things
in life.
like lost love
for instance.

the blessing of trouble

none of us
want trouble
and yet it comes.
sometimes
in waves,
tsunamis, other
times in a glass
of water
tossed into
your face.
some trouble
is a consequence
of your own
poor judgement,
dumb things
done or said.
while some trouble
is perhaps
just God,
taking time off,
blessing you
with trouble
by turning his
head.

babble

you say things
you don't mean,
and mean
things you don't
say.
somewhere
in the middle
is all
the other babble
that gets you
from point B
to point A.
and when you
hear a baby
crying in his
crib you
understand
where it all
begins.

on the wagon

so many people you
know are on the wagon.
all the fun
drunks you used to hang
out with, are bone
dry and drinking
club sodas and apple juice.
it's hard to go
out with them anymore.
the guilt you feel
as you order your mai
tais and vodka tonics.
they don't appreciate
how funny and charming
you become as the night
wears on. they don't
chuckle as you drip
food onto your shirt
or insult people by
pointing and making
faces, no
instead they get a napkin
and dip it into their
glasses of ice
water to dab out the
stains. they say, shhhh,
you're yelling. stop
yelling. always telling
you to pull up
your zipper. oh how they
used to get your
jokes and laugh and
laugh all night long
with you, staggering
home together, falling
in the street, tearing
your pants. what fun
you used to have,
finding a bush to
throw up in,
and now they just
wave and pat you
sympathetically on
the back, asking if they
can drive or walk
you home. telling you
to drink water and take
two aspirins. they are just
no fun anymore.

left overs

you can
smell something
rotten
in Denmark.
that cold
place
where you keep
your milk
and eggs,
left overs.
the second
the heavy door
swings open
you are reminded
of what went
into love,
and what never
came out.
you are down
to a paper bag
full of
memories,
not to be touched
again.

men and women

in the winter
you see a lot of
men spitting.
men like to spit a
lot.
they make loud
animal noises
as they clear
their throats.
not so much with
women.
they blow their
noses politely
with pink
tissues they have
in their purses.
letting out little
mouse squeaks.
not men.
men hold their noses
and turn
their heads towards
the curb
and blow like
elephants.
it's horrible.

the retreat

you sign up
for a religious retreat
out in the woods
across three
states. you feel
that it might be
good for you,
get you back on track
with being the person
you really are
deep inside this pair
of leather pants
you are wearing.
already you start
to worry about if
there is a starbucks
nearby.
maybe you shouldn't
do this.
you haven't been to
confession since
you were thirteen,
and virtually
sinless. a lot
has happened since
then. to say the least.
but maybe there will
be some
attractive vulnerable
women there.
crying women, you
think. you are a good
listener. you can
help them.
you can do this. but
maybe you should shave
first, take
a shower.

a many splendored thing

it wasn't the nine
cats
or the three dogs,
or two
ex husbands
that ended your
relationship with
her. nor was
it the fact that
the kitchen was
a foreign
planet to her,
no, it was something
else, something
you can't quite
exlplain. her dissecting
your mail
and doing a forensic
examine on
your computer, that
didn't bother you
too much either.
dusting for
fingerprints
on your bed posts
and silverware,
and tapping your
phone, none of that
had anything
to do with the break
up. you accepted
her long stays in
rehab, ignored
her criminal record,
you were as loving
and compromising
as any man could
be, but then something
just clicked,
maybe there is
someone else out
there better suited
for the likes
of me. maybe.

what's your name?

the physician asks
her
who the president
is
and she responds
with a shrug,
what's your
name, he says,
and she looks
curiously at her
hands.
do you know what
day it is, he prods
gently
getting her to
look up
and stare into his
eyes. she smiles,
then turns her
attention
to a button
on her blouse,
but when you come
in to visit,
she says your
name, and for
now that means
everything.

i hate winter

sometimes
when you go outside
on a cold
January
morning,
the cloud of
heat escaping
from your mouth
and you
stand still
and the wind
has settled,
when there is no
rustle in the trees
from birds
or wild life,
you can hear
the collective
murmuring
of the masses,
cursing as one,
as they scrape
the windshields
of their cars
free of ice,
I hate winter,
I hate winter
I hate winter.

we were so good together

they can't all
be winners
you tell your friend
sally,
as she cries
into the phone
from Alaska
where she went
to escape her
broken heart,
but took it with
her.
you can hear
the sled dogs
barking,
the whoosh of
the snow and ice
as she glides
through the wind
and frozen
snow. but I loved
him, she says,
blubbering
into her cell
phone. we were
so good together.
the karaoke nights,
taking cooking
classes together,
waking up
early to see
the sunrise. maybe
you pushed him
too hard to do
the things you like
to do, you tell
her gently.
I wish he was
here she says,
ignoring that
and cracking her
whip onto
the lead dog's
behind. tomorrow
we are climbing glaciers,
oh, I wish he
was here. he'd
have loved that.

there you go

sometimes you doubt
the veracity
of the bible
despite your faith
and earnest prayers.
so much of it
seems far fetched
like tall tales
told around
a campfire,
but when
the discovery
channel finds
through
thorough research
and excavation
the monogrammed
towels of
adam and eve,
well, you nod
your head and say,
there you go.

you're crazy

you buy a psychology
book because you want to
understand people,
your lunatic family
for instance,
your loved ones, to
understand yourself,
why you need to shut
all the dresser drawers
before you go to sleep
with no clothes
sticking out. you want
to find out what makes
people do what they
do, behave the way
they behave. you
burrow into the writings
of jung and freud,
james and gladwell,
kinsey and skinner,
each having their say.
it's quite depressing
you think, taking a
break and going to
the kitchen to carefully
cut a lime to drop into
your tonic and Tanqueray.
standing over
the kitchen sink,
staring out to
the parking lot you see
the woman next door
cutting a perfect
path around her car
from the snow. sweeping
gently each flake
off the windshield.
you see her lips moving,
counting the strokes,
again and again
as the snow
keeps falling.

in a minute

you succumb
to the cold and go
to the minute clinic
at the local drugstore.
you take a number
and sit next to moses
and Bathsheba,
also both
sniffing and
sneezing with balled
wads of pastel
Kleenex in
their hands and
tucked flowerly
into their shirts,
or blouses.
it has come this.
under the bright flicker
of store lights,
your lungs
and sinuses at
the mercy of medication
dealt casually
from the hands of
a child
behind the glass
who has never heard
of john lennon,
singing about
him and yoko eating
chocolate cake
from a bag over
the muzak system.

the death of spot

we hardly
knew the small
blonde gerbil
bought with
a point of a
child's finger
from pet smart,
named on the spot
as spot.
we heard his or
her
wheel
tumble in its
familiar
squeak
at all hours,
he or she did nothing,
but eat and sniff,
scurry about in
it's gerbil way,
but little did
we know
the grief
we'd feel when
the power lines
went down
and the heat
went off.
the silence was
the clue.
he or she
was not buried
under the sand
or wood chips
in the small
cage, there was no
escape
to lower ground,
away from the tall
dresser
where it lived.
the arms and legs
were straight
up as he or she lay
stiff, having
surrendered it's short
loved life
to the cold.
so to the snow
covered yard we took
him or her in a small
white box.
tossing the hard
earth upon it, saying
things we will one
day say for
each other.

oven head

maybe it's not
just a head cold
like you've claimed
for three weeks.
maybe it's the black
plague.
or the swine flu,
or a flu strain
yet to be named
brought in by monkeys
from Africa.
maybe you could
drill some extra
holes into your head
to completely drain
the unending supply
of liquids that
keep dripping out
of your worn out
red nose.
maybe you could put
your head in an
oven for a few
minutes, turn it
up to broil and see
what that does.
yeah, maybe.

flu shot

as you sit
in a plastic
red chair
at the crowded
drugstore
pharmacy
waiting your turn
for a flu
shot
your mind drifts
as you get sleepy,
falling into an
almost dream like
stupor in the haze
of lights
and piped in music.
you hum
to jim Morrison
singing people are
strange, closing
your eyes, tapping
your snow
boots against
the wet tiled floor.
it feels nice,
despite your
dripping nose
and headache. it's all
good until
the woman sitting
next to you,
who looks like
grandma moses,
taps you with
her cane and says,
hey, you're
touching me. move
over.

change for laundry

the laundry
room has rules.
governed by a strict
policy
posted on a beam
where the light
switch is.
don't leave
your clothes behind.
don't shake
the machines.
don't get in
the dryers.
these are good
solid rules.
rules to be broken
on a daily
basis.

folk music blues

you tune in
to pbs
on a cold
Friday night
to watch
a show on folk music.
after an hour
or so
you want to kill
your self.
the songs are
mostly
about people
on the road
with broken hearts
and broken teeth,
empty pockets,
and the desire
to be free
from whatever bad
hand life has
dealt them.
you get it, you
love bob dylan,
but when joan baez
starts singing
I dreamed I saw
st.augustine,
you can only
take so much
before you get
up to order a pizza
and change the
channel
on the tv.

the rust

your rust
is never at
bay.
never resting.
your bones
need
oil, your
gears
need to be spun
forward
to start your
day.
the rain
stiffens
your back,
the snow,
keeps you inside
on raised
legs,
with hot
tea,
and sighs.

snow poem

unsettled
in your sleep
you listen
to ice
form outside
your window.
the tightening
of natures
screws
against the road,
the trees,
the power
lines.
the sky
shakes free
what's white.
when you awaken
the world
is a beautiful
woman
with a sharpened
knife.

go quickly

go quickly,
don't linger
in this pale
winter light,
the fog
of memory
haunting you.
take your eyes
off your
folded hands
and go quickly
away from
this closing
room, those
grieving
at your bedside.
go quickly
to where you
need to be,
whatever was to
done is finished
here,
go quickly
without regrets
and leave.

the coat you wear

as the earth
is swallowed in
white
and the arms
of trees
sag heavy with
what has fallen,
into your
arms, I find
my warmth
and delight,
slipping easily
into the coat
you wear.

january 2nd

you vow
to eat less cake
this year
you think
as you cut one
more square
of spice cake
with cream cheese
frosting
from the pan.
more fiber too.
you definitely need
to bump up
your intake of fiber.
which would be what?
oat bread?
a hundred
sit ups a day,
you promise yourself,
staring
into the mirror,
tapping your stomach
with the frosted fork.
fifty push ups,
a five mile walk
run
every other day,
and lots of
water.
lots and lots
of water you say
to yourself. nodding.
tomorrow.
definitely tomorrow.

black socks

I'm lonely,
she calls to tell
you on new years eve.
you can hear
her cat purring
in her lap,
the slight slosh
of wine
in her glass
as she tilts
it towards
her lips,
then a sigh.
what are you doing,
she says?
ironing socks,
you tell her.
no really, she says.
why aren't you
out tonight
ringing in
the new year.
going to some wild
party?
I don't like new
years eve, you
tell her,
the confetti,
kissing strangers,
the bad food
and too much drinking.
plus I have
a basket of black
socks to sort
and iron.
we're old aren't
we, she says,
crunching on some
re-gifted
peanut brittle
she got for Christmas
from you.
perhaps, you
say, perhaps.

the odds

your friend
likes to gamble.
everything is
a bet.
will it snow,
will it rain.
will the jets
cover
on sunday.
look at that dog,
he says,
crossing the road,
then gives you
odds on whether
or not he'll
make it.
the green light
turning red,
he bets
that he can
speed through
before it changes
color.
his eyes
flicker like
the wheels
on a one armed
bandit
in old las
vegas. his heart
thumps
with anticipation.
it's a drug
he can't shake,
not ever, you bet.

forget about it

no point
in going backwards,
making
those apologetic
calls.
saying
you're sorry for
a years worth
of miscues
and errant
choices, words
said or not
said that
could have made
a difference.
no use in falling
on your sword
what's the point.
forget about it
and move on.

the dropping ball

new years eve
can
be wonderful
or painful
depending on what
and how much
you drink and
who you kiss,
or who turns
their cold
and reluctant
cheek.
you want to avoid
driving
the porcelain
bus
as the clock
strikes
twelve
and the ball
drops,
or having the party
lights flashing
behind you
in the constable's
car.
you want to wake
up and know
what your name
is and where
your pants are.

the thirst

how delicious
is the kiss
of youth,
quenching
ever so shortly
the unquenchable
thirst for love
and being loved,
the pursuit never
flagging,
or veering from
course, but how
dry and barren
the desert of lips
that elders
bear when love
and life
have failed
and left them
in bittered
sleep.

the printed news

the news
is no longer
on paper, held
in your hands
over morning coffee.
no longer found
in the tomes
of journals
and magazines.
it's here
and there in snippets
online.
blurbs of
wars
buried between
lines of
surgery
on the nose
of the singer
who can't sing,
enlargements
of breasts by
the actress without
a dress.
a cure for cancer,
hidden
in the news about
a diet drink
and electronic
cigarettes.
you miss the ink.
the slow
unfolding
of a story in
your hand.

into glass

near sighted
birds
steering
towards death
into windows
and glass
seeing their
own reflection.
in love with
themselves,
perhaps.

the new hair cut

you want a new
hair style, you've
grown tired
of the eggness
of your head.
you want a full
shock of hair.
something you can
comb back and dye
blue, like elvis,
or a televangelist
screaming for money.
you want a little
black comb in your
back pocket, something
you can pull out
and tidy up the loose
strands as you
look at your reflection
in a toaster or
the window of
a passing car.
you want to have
a woman, a beautiful
woman, get her
hands stuck in
the waves and curls
of its thickness.
you want to fling it
around in slow motion
when its wet
and you climb out
of a deep blue pool.
you want a new
hair style.

sunny days

I'm at the pool
she says
on the phone,
tapping her nails
against the glass
table.
I'm having a drink
and thinking
about
leonard, my
ex husband.
he gets out of
jail next week
and I haven't
done my nails
or hair, or
skimmed the pool
for debris.
he's a minister now
and wants me
to believe,
but I don't care.
I'm having a
drink right now.
the sun is out
and it feels
good on my face
and legs.
what are you doing,
she asks,
are you busy?
no, you tell her.
just walking
the dog in the snow,
shoveling over
what he leaves.

take two of these

take two
of these and
call me
in the morning
your doctor
says
handing you
a bottle of
pills.
but don't call
too early,
or in the afternoon
i'll be golfing
then, or too
late at night.
I like to
watch tv and
my show comes
on at eight.
in fact don't
call me. just
take two of these
and see what
happens.

word for the day

the whole day
she decides to use
the word squishy.
in the rain stepping
into the mud,
squishy, she says,
smiling.
eating a jelly
donut at the local
café, squishy,
she says, as powdered
sugar rings
her smiling
lips.
and when she kisses
you later
your lips touching
wetly
against one another.
squishy she says,
again.
now let's get out
of these wet clothes
and into a dry
martini.
she's nearly done
with that word
for the day.

the blue pencil

with her blue
pencil she liked to
mark up everything
you wrote.
page after page.
spelling, grammar,
punctuation.
her glasses
on the tip of her
pretty nose,
her eyes steady
into the text.
editing like a
madwoman while
you tried so hard
to unzip her dress.

directions

you are never lost
once you get there.
but it's the getting there
part that is sometimes
difficult.
why ask directions
when you are perfectly
capable of reading
the stars,
sniffing the wind,
putting your ear
to the ground like
a wild animal. asking
others for street
signs and markers,
where to turn or turn
around at seems weak
and unmanly. just give
me time. I can find
it, we have a quarter
tank. hold on.

chopping wood

you have a violent
dream of
revenge.
it's one
of righteousness
overcoming
evil. it horrifies
you when you wake up,
making you stare
at your hands,
looking for blood.
you know exactly who
the dream is about
and why you are
dreaming it.
you don't need
dr. freud, or phil,
or laura to
disseminate your
dream.
you get it.
it's swift and fast
and loud,
like chopping wood
for a fire
on a fat stump
in the yard.

the next day

what do you
expect?
gold everyday?
a wise
kernel of truth
in every
sparse poem.
it doesn't work
that way.
sometimes
the well is dry.
you've got
nothing.
the cupboard
is bare expect
for these old
dusty
clichés. sorry
about that,
but sometimes
life gets in
the way. try me
again tomorrow.
or the next
day. maybe then
i'll have something
more to say.
maybe not.
we'll see.

no big deal

the aged
drive slowly
through
the streets.
the hurry
has been taken out
of their lives
by years.
there is no rush
to get there,
they've been there
already
and it was no big
deal.

the apples

someone
has stood
at the pile of
apples
and polished each
one.
someone has
stacked
them into a
pyramid of
red or green,
or yellow.
someone's hands
have been
there, at work,
carefully,
with cloth
in hand
rubbing each
skin towards a
shine.
each life to
his own
pyramid
of apples.

it's easy

easy
to look
the other way.
to turn
one's head
and pretend
that what goes
on is
right,
that there is
no wrong.
easy
to sleep at
night
when your
belly is full,
the lights
are on,
the doors
are locked,
each window
sealed
tight.
it's easy
to stay within
your life
and not listen,
not look
in any direction
just straight
ahead,
never left,
never right.

barely assisted living

your mother lands
in an assisted care
facility.
you sign the sheet
in the grand
living room where
a Christmas tree
blinks wildly
in the corner.
a man, older than
any man should be allowed
to live, jumps
up from the couch
and stumbles towards
you. you remember
the old joke
that he may have gone
to high school
with moses.
he wants to shake
your hand. and shake
your hand. and shake
your hand.
with no room on the couch
you kneel beside
your mother and ask her
how's it going.
she's in a pink robe
and her hair has been
brushed back
like metallic silk.
behind you
a woman is trying
to pull off your boots.
she's in a wheel
chair, so you let her
work on the laces.
it's lunch time
and a tray of bologna
sandwiches
have arrived on
a tray. there is juice.
and one cookie
each for the seven
people in the room.
the man takes three
cookies, stuffing
them into his pants,
then he goes off into
the corner
with his sandwich
leaving a trail of
lettuce behind his Velcro
sandals.

the gift sweater

the striped
sweater
with bold
horizontal
primary colors
would distract
the bulls
if you were
a rodeo clown,
but here you
sit on Christmas
morning, saying,
wow, it's what
I always wanted.
and these socks
too, not to mention
the peanut brittle,
here, have
some, I'm full.

the sparkling wine

the sparkling
wine
has a bite
to it
as you go on
into
the evening
pouring more
into the glasses
around you.
someone says
look how
bright the stars
are in
the winter sky,
beyond the string
of colored
lights
in the window
of the darkened room.
how quickly
the time goes by,
you say,
warming your
hands by the dwindling
fire,
the wine too,
someone says
and laughs,
as you set
the bottle, and
other thoughts
aside.

the missed kick

I believe you,
the detective says.
you don't seem like
the type
of person who would
steal from
the poor.
you have a nice
house, a nice
car. you are
well dressed
and you've decorated
your house
so nicely with
lights. so it
doesn't make
sense, you, a
good man, kicking
over the swinging
pot where
santa rings
his bell
all day and all
night. the money
went everywhere.
coins and bills
flying. why,
the detective says.
why. because,
you say, looking
him in the eye.
because I missed.
I was aiming
for the bell.

the gift pony

your gift
of a pony was
nice.
it woke
me this morning
tied to
a kitchen chair.
braying,
stomping it's
hooves.
the hay
was a nice
touch.
as was the pitch
fork
and shovel.
thank you for
the pony.
i'll get you
next year.
count on that.

already there

where are you,
what steps
have you ascended
or fallen
down upon.
what path have
you taken, what
circle
are you stuck
in. your map
is in the wind.
the isle of
your youth is
gone, out of
sight.
there is something
else approaching.
something
akin to darkness,
but with a strange
embracing
light.
where are you?
does it matter
anymore to answer
that. did it ever?
you have always
been there,
in the place
you've wanted to
go. always.

the cold

how quiet this bug
is, sneaking
into one's life.
no fear of being
found, no prejudice
or slight
in it's choosing.
the high and mighty,
the low and beaten
are both equals
to it's bite.
bringing forth
the sneeze, the drip
and drizzle
of all noses
across this kingdom
whether crown upon
a royal head or
in the field
bent over the stiff
plow, shaded
by a straw hat,
both stopping to
kneel and blow
at it's might.

remember the time

you call your old
friend from back
in the day and
immediately
the conversation
goes to this:
remember the time
we hopped into
that MG at two
in the morning
on Wisconsin
avenue, there was
five of us and we
had just left
Winstons on M
street after meeting
those girls
from Marymount
college, and the cops
pulled us over?
hmmm, vaguely,
you say. Who's MG
was it?
yours, your friend
says, it was yellow
or orange. no,
I never had an MG.
I had a dodge dart,
army green.
well, maybe it was
one of the girl's
cars. cindy's?
the girl with
the big nose? no,
not her the other one,
the blonde
with freckles.
she had a high
pitched laugh.
like a seagull.
yes, you say. I remember
that laugh.
could be hers.
and you broke off
the antennae while
hanging on to
the luggage rack.
oh yeah, now I
remember. I still
have that by the way.
you're kidding.
yes, I am. so what
have you been doing
lately? How you been?

what is to come

I made these
cookies for you,
the old woman
says
as her husband
stands
in the dining room
having risen
from his hospital
bed to pee
into a long glass
tube.
but these cookies
are for you,
she says,
looking into your
eyes. grateful
for having done
the work you've
done,
and for speaking
with her
about other things,
besides
what's happened
to him,
and what is
to come.

a stone in hand

everyone
has a stone
in their
hand. they are not
happy
about something,
or someone.
all day long
they clutch
their stone,
feeling it's cold
hard righteousness,
tossing it from
hand to hand.
ready at a
moments notice
to heave it
at the glass
that isn't their
kind of right.

wishing well

after making
a wish,
you fall
in love,
you fall
in a well
it's the landing
that counts.
a nice
warm
splash
or the cold
hard
bricks
awash on
the grey bottom
where you
try to climb
out.

the 'oh well' stage of life

you don't think
of yourself as being
very smart
or very dumb, you
lie somewhere in
between with
neither parent
possessing an
over abundance
of brain power, but
you get by
just the same.
on occasion you will
do things that
astonish you.
smart things or
horrifically
dumb things.
this continues
every day,
never landing
squarely
on one or the other
foot. but you've
reached the, oh well,
stage of your
life and you rarely
lose sleep
over any of it.
which seems to be
a very smart thing
to do.

fat man

the fat
man, sitting in
a chair
on the corner,
whistles at
the girls going by,
saying my o my.
he's given up
on chasing them
and now is happy
to just watch
them walking by.
you don't
ever want to be
the fat man
in a chair, but
it could happen
given time
and age
and this cinnamon
crusted
blueberry pie.

why don't you shut up

your neighbor
tells you that she
hates the bush
in front of your house,
that it is
the ugliest bush
in the entire
neighborhood.
look at it, she says,
it's overgrown
and in the spring
it's full of bees.
why don't you cut
it down, she says.
I can help you.
why don't you
shut up and mind
your own business
you tell her,
and quit walking
around like you're
the queen of
England. worry about
your own bushes.
this makes her stomp
off shaking her
head.
you love that bush
in front of your house,
and now you
love it even more.

bad news

you weary
of the next call.
the next
death or
announcement
of disease
and dying.
you tire of what
the world
brings
in spades to
your door.
you don't want
to be a part
of it, but
there is no escaping
this life
as your world
ages
and gets smaller
just a little
bit more.

making room

we make room
for one another
in early love.
pushing
things to the corner,
giving up
half the closet
and hangers
for clothes,
and shoes.
we put a chair
in the sunlight
where you like
it.
we clear a shelf
for your books,
for the things more
dear to you
than me.
we make room
for one another
in early love,
but all the while
knowing
that what fills
a space,
can one day
be removed.

anything is possible

anything is possible
the man
says as you sit
side by side
at the neighbor hood
pub. life is at
your fingertips.
just have faith
and believe. we
are all children
of the universe,
flowers just waiting
to bloom.
the whole world
is our playground
to be happy in.
find your inner
child and become one
with everyone.
life is to be
enjoyed, not endured.
you tap the bar
and tell the bartender
that you want what
your new best friend
is having.
a double shot, please.
and some pretzels
too, for the both
of you.

roll on deodarant

in a hurry
you forget to take
the plastic
shield off
the roll on
deodorant and cut
a vein under
your arm.
the blood pools
on the floor
dripping down
the side of
your body.
you grab some
tissue and pat
the gash down,
but it keeps
flowing out.
within minutes
you're weak
and holding
on to the sink
to stand up.
your wife yells
out that she
is going shopping
and will be
back in a few
hours, but you
are too weak
to answer
and slip to
the floor. you
manage to yell
out help, and she
says, no thanks,
I'm fine.
bandage, you say,
loudly. I need
a bandage.
what? no, I can
manage, why are
you being so nice
today? she laughs
and says goodbye,
shutting the front
door behind her.

tis the season

finally,
after hours
of hard shopping,
you are done.
everything on your
list is crossed
off and bought.
you arrive home
right as the snow
begins to fall
and the traffic
thickens.
you put some music
on, a little bing,
a little frank,
some andy williams.
why not,
who would know
that you like
their music. it's
your secret.
you doctor
up in a large tumbler
an eggnog
with some rum,
you put on your
cotton pj's
and slippers,
then let out
a happy but
exhausted sigh.
the gifts
are on the table
ready to be wrapped.
the boxes
are there, the scissors,
the name tags
the ribbons, a few
of those sticky
bows for some,
but, but....
there's no tape.
no freaking scotch
tape. you let
out a primal scream
that makes
your neighbor bang
on the wall
and sends the dog
scurrying under
the bed.

people you hate

we wish you
were here,
the postcard reads.
it's warm
and sunny,
the water is
delightful.
last night we
ate lobsters
and crabs
and drank
tequila until
the sun came
up. we really
wish you
were here
with us. how
is the snow?
we saw on the news
that there
is three
feet and more
to come.
be careful in
those winds.
don't slip and fall.
well, that's it
for now.
we're playing
volleyball
with the women's
Swedish
volley ball
team at noon.
wish us luck.

the morgan

her old horse
comes up lame
in the middle
of a cold
rain soaked night
at the stables.
gingerly,
the morgan
steps out
of the barn
under her lead,
snorting with joy
at her presence.
she takes
him up the road
to where
the soft grass
is, outside
the fence
where the other
horses can't
graze.
rubbing his nose
with the palm
of her hand,
she whispers sweet
nothings
into his brown
silk ears. he limps
along as she
feeds him
carrots.
we should be
so lucky
in our end days.

the green flag

it doesn't take
much
to get her
engine revved
and warm.
her wheels
are ready to spin
at the first
kiss placed
gently upon
her neck.
add wine
to the tank,
and there is smoke
on the soft
track where
she leads you.

cake with candles

there is too much
food
on the plates,
too much
wine poured
too many
forced laughs
and future
plans made
that will never
take place.
the cars are too
large
for the driveway.
the houses
are small hotels.
there is too
much of every
thing these days.
few that you
know are hungry,
expect for
understanding
of why things
are the way
they are,
and what life
could possibly
mean besides this
enormous cake
with candles.

what did you say?

without her
coke bottle glasses
she was legally
blind
in both eyes, which
was to your
benefit.
rarely did
you have to shave
or wash your
face, or wear
clean clothes.
but she had an
extraordinary
sense of smell,
so you had to tidy
up a little
every now and then,
a little
spritz of cologne
in the appropriate
areas. sometimes
you would hide
her glasses,
just for fun,
and sometimes she
would whisper
mean things to you
in your bad ear.
she got even
that way, which made
you like her
even more.

don't tell anyone

don't tell anyone
I told you this,
she tells you
in a conspiratorial
low whisper over
the phone, what i'm
about to tell you
is top secret, only
me, you, and several
other people that i've
called today
know about this. you
must swear on a stack
of Bibles that
you won't say
a word to anyone,
yes, yes,
you tell her, as God
is my witness, on
my honor, I will
never repeat what I'm
about to hear.
Promise?
yes. I Promise!
okay, okay, so what's
the big secret?
so she tells you in
a breathless rush
of words, excitedly,
revealing this gem
of gossip. Can you
believe that,
she says at the end,
exhausted by her
own jabbering.
Isn't that incredible?
yeah, I guess so, but
I heard that already,
about an hour ago.
You're kidding, from
who? Sorry, I can't
tell you. I'm sworn
to secrecy on that.

the white board

you take a white
board
with a sharpie
pen
and make a flow
chart of your family.
you want to understand
once and for all
why there is so
much dysfunction.
it's a wild
diagram of discontent
concerning the ongoing
and never ending
squabbles
between all of
your siblings.
who said what
and never said
they were sorry,
who snubbed who at
last years
birthday party,
what about the time
when I was five
and you pulled my
hair, then there
was the father
who was never there,
the mother trying
her best to get scissors
out of your sister's
hand as she chased
your laughing
brother.
you run out of ink
before you can finish
and it's not
even Christmas.

no rolling pin

not having
a rolling pin,
having searched
high and low
in every corner
of the house,
you realize
that it was
taken by your
ex wife some years
ago in a vicious
struggle
for kitchen items
when the divorce
went down,
so you use
a captain morgan
rum bottle
to roll out
your cookie dough
to make sugar
cookies. it works
just fine,
and as you wait
for the cookies
to rise and bake,
you pour yourself
a nice egg nog
with rum.
you turn up the music
from the under
the counter radio
and dance slowly
around the room
as the Christmas
song comes on.

what can santa do for you

santa comes
nearly every day
to your neighborhood.
he drives
a brown truck
which he double
parks anywhere
he pleases
and walks quickly
in his tan shorts
and boots, his
little military
hat.
he walks
in a gallop
from door
to door with
packages under
his muscled
arms, racing,
with no time
for chimneys,
or cookies set
out on a plate
or for a ho ho ho,
as he drives
off in his belching
squared truck
to deliver more.

the green room

I made cookies
for you boys,
she says,
as you unload the truck
to cover
her furniture
and rugs,
the lamps with
torn shades.
coffee too,
she says,
carrying in a
tarnished silver
tray with
cups, milk
and sugar, small
spoons with which
to stir.
she is happy to
have company,
men, about to paint
away the drabness
of her long
winters day.

a room without light

as she lies
in a stranger's bed,
on one of
the lower levels
of dante's inferno,
in a room
without light,
writhing,
awash in muddled
memory,
staring into her hands
as if they
held stars,
back stage they
quibble over
dollars
and miles
and control
of who will decide
her final
days, the place
she will take
a last breath,
eat her last meal,
sigh her
last sigh,
and hold the sound
of your
own name in
her mouth.

see you at hagan field

don't worry about
the road you're on
dear john,
that's all behind
you now.
the work,
the dust in your
beard,
the smudge on
your glasses.
lover of any
stray cat,
kind to every
soul who crossed
your path.
don't worry about
the road you're
on dear john
that's all behind
you now.
and i'll see you
when I get there,
we'll have a good
time then,
talking old times,
making new
times,
taking to the court
once more
for a shoot around
and a game
of one on one
on the cold hard
court of
hagan field.

king of the world

you can be anything
you want to be
with perseverance
and a positive
attitude the speaker
says, waving his
hands in the air,
stirring up a warm
glow of hope
in the anxious crowd,
but I want to be king
of the world
you yell out, making
everyone laugh.
what about grocery
clerk instead someone
says wearing his
name tag from his
job at the A and P.
you can have my job,
loser. then a fight
breaks out, and someone
yells, I want to
be muhammad ali.
I am going to float
like a butter fly
and sting like a bee.
a woman yells out, I
want to be a kardashian,
and another woman,
says, no I want that.
they begin to pull
each other's hair out,
as the speaker,
takes his satchel
of money and hope
and exits quickly
through the door.

in the morning

the party
begins slowly
but as the night wears
on, and the wine
is poured,
the egg nog
tilted more
towards rum
than nog,
then the party
really begins,
with slips
of tongues
and wandering hands,
bad dancing,
and long
interludes
in the bathroom.
marriages come
close to ending,
and friends reap
benefits they never
saw coming.
in the morning,
everything will
be forgotten, or
glossed over
like the ice
forming on
the lawn. it's better
that way.

just walk on bye

you don't own me,
she says,
I'm not your little toy.
huh, you say
back. what are
you leslie gore now?
who's she,
another one of your
old girlfriends.
no, she sang that song
back in the sixties.
you happen to be
quoting directly from it.
i've never heard of her
and anyway, we're done,
me and you, she
says, and if you
see me walking down
the street
and I start to cry,
well, just
walk on bye. walk on
bye.
you shake your head.
don't think twice,
you tell her.
it's all right.

once upon a time

you told your son
about
santa claus
at an early age,
lighting up his
heart with
hope and joy.
you went on and on
about
the rein deer,
the toys,
the bell jingling
sleigh.
the elves
so busy in their
workshop.
you felt obligated
to keep
the lie going,
as it was told
to you
on your father's
knee.
it seems to have
prepared him
for the future
in many ways.

receipts

the dress
that doesn't fit,
the wrong
color shoes,
the food she
can't eat,
the ring
too shiny,
the lingerie
too risqué,
the hat too
tight,
the candy too
sweet,
these are just
a few of
the reasons
to keep all
of the receipts.

the old bar

you remember
the old haunts
in the city,
before the city
went out
into the strip
malls, replicating
their store fronts
with unlimited
parking.
bartenders knew
you, knew your
drink, a little
bit about your
life and habits,
enough
to strike up
a small conversation
that purposely
went nowhere.
now, the mixologists
are young
and unwrinkled,
they couldn't break
up a wheat cracker
let alone a bar fight.
they are just pups out
of college.
you need to shout
and wave
to get their
attention. they are
in the lab
behind the bar
concentrating on
their spoon and strainers
with precise
measurements. they
have no game, no
chit chat, no bar
rag to wipe
the mahogany wood
where you rest
your elbows
and stare at a euro
fusion menu.
it's tuna samplers,
salmon bites,
spinach and artichoke
dip. where the hell
are the onion rings?
where is the woman
not staring at her phone,
but sipping
on a manhattan,
leaning over to ask
you for a light?

two tragedies

you tell
your long time
faithful friend
about a tragedy
that has happened
in your life,
opening
yourself up
in a rare
moment of
vulnerability.
with a hoarse whisper
you tell
her everything,
holding back
the sobs.
she nods
and listens,
puts her
hand on your
hand as you
wipe
away tears,
sniffling
like a child.
when you're finished,
you manage
a thankful smile,
and say softly,
thanks for listening,
then she says,
I haven't told
anyone this yet,
but I have
a gluten allergy.
I know it's not
the same as what
you are going
through, but can
you believe that?

sex phone operator

she pulls up in
a new red sports
car, parking it
diagonally in the lot
to avoid dings
and scratches.
what's up with that,
you ask her, as she
strolls over? Nice.
I got a part time job
last year, she says,
taking a seat
outside the café.
oh yeah, doing what?
at night i'm a sex
phone operator.
of course you are,
you say, rolling
your eyes.
she is thin
and red haired,
no make up with pale
sad eyes and parted
teeth. lean
over the table,
she says. come
closer. then
she whispers with
a harsh strange voice
into my ear to prove
it. okay, okay.
stop, I tell her
as my ears burn
and I search my
pockets for a set
of rosary beads.
true, she says.
I make more money
doing that than
I do at my
accountant job.
it's all about
keeping them on
the phone once you
get their credit
card numbers. she
shrugs, picks up
the menu,
it's just a job,
she says. Men
are so easy and
predictable.
but where did you learn
to talk like that?
I don't know, guess
it was always in me,
I just needed the motivation.
what about your kids,
I ask,
don't they answer
the phone sometimes?
I have a separate
phone, she says.
a mommy phone with
a special mommy ring.
I take the call in
the bathroom and
then seal the door
with thick towels
to keep the sound
in. then i run
the water in the sink.
everything goes well
until the dog
starts scratching.
interesting, I say.
how many miles per gallon
do you get in
that car? premium gas?

chinese dry cleaners

angry
at the Chinese
laundry
when you get
back your
over starched shirts
with iron
burns on the sleeves
you yell out
with exasperation
My cat could run
this place
better than you
people, which
makes the owner
jump over
the counter with
a broom
to get you out
of the store.
but having watched
many kung fu movies,
you strike
the broom in half
with your stiffened
hand, but
because it's made
of metal you yell
out in pain
and crumble to the floor,
my hand is broken
you say to the man
with the broom.
but he doesn't care,
he curses you in his
own language
pushing you out the door.
the only word you
understand is Cat
as you roll
out into the street,
your burned
shirts thrown
out after you.

troopers

a gaggle of state
troopers
sit in the coffee shop
that you visit
every morning for
your jump start
of caffeine
and stale pastry.
they are dressed
in pressed greys
and blues, with hats
lying on the tables
they have pushed
together.
the older ones are
red faced and full
in the waist,
thick necks
folded over
their tight collars.
you suspect that the
trouble they've seen
has made them eat
badly.
a woman cop
joins them, her hair
pulled back into
a thin blonde pony
tail, she wears glasses,
and nods a lot
while sipping
her cup. when she speaks,
they all agree
with what she says,
they include her as they
laugh and talk shop,
no one speaks to them,
and they offer no
hellos or waves
to anyone, they are
separated by guns
on their belts, crackling
speakers attached
to their shoulders.
you feel a darkness
in their protection,
the blue lights on
their cars, unlit for
the moment under
the falling snow.

to come this far

the grey of
you
is here.
the fog has settled
on the sand.
cold waves
rush
before your
bare feet.
autumn has arrived.
your yesterdays
out weigh
your tomorrows
and you
understand
that letting go
of the hand
you hold
is part of it,
but still that long
sleep
doesn't seem
right, or why
you lived
to come this far,
and end.