the ball rolling

you slip
and fall
on the last
piece of melting
ice and go
head first
down the hill.
you tumble
and roll,
bringing your
arms and legs
together
as if a ball.
faster and
faster you go,
down the great
slope
of street.
people step
out of the
way as you fly
by. rolling
faster
and faster.
dogs bark at
you, but don't
give chase.
their tongues hang
out in wonder.
people point, smiling,
and say oh my.
look at him go.
you begin to enjoy
the rolling once
the dizziness
stops.
perhaps this
is what you
were meant to be.
a ball,
rolling swiftly
down the street
admired by
everyone that sees
you.

discount sermon

the preacher
lets the assistant preacher,
the new deacon,
take over
for a while.
he stumbles at first,
nervous about his
first sermon, he pauses,
flips through
the pages
of his bible,
looking for bookmarked
passages,
things he's
highlighted. let's take
Job for example, he
says loudly,
during the great
flood, what did he
do. did he quit.
no siree bob.
he went out and
made himself a boat
so that all the animals
could climb aboard.
he didn't know the first
thing about ship
building, being
a shepherd by day.
this is when the preacher
says ahem, ahem.
and whispers, noah
to the deacon.
right, the deacon
says. and what about
noah, did he flinch
when the tower
of babel fell down,
or when god appeared
to him in the burning
bush. hell no. he went out
and wrote down
the ten commandments
on a slab of stone.
ahem, the preacher
whispers. don't say
hell. say heck.
right right.
and what about jesus?
heck, my landscaper's
name is jesus.
and he's a good man.
okay, okay. the preacher
says, standing back
up and giving the deacon
the stop motion by
putting a hand to
his neck. let's have
a moment of silent prayer
and give thanks for
the cookies and punch
we are about to eat.

he's got the whole wide world

we try to define
god
in human terms.
an old man with
a white beard,
wise beyond
comprehension, but
he's a jealous god
in a glowing robe
speaking in
a loud booming
voice with
lighting bolts
held high
in each hand.
and yet, we say,
he's a loving god.
he loves
us beyond measure.
he watches over
us, keeps us
from harm.
look at those sunsets,
the blue
sweet cold of
glaciers.
the mountains and
forests
full of life.
look at the way
the ocean keeps at
it, wave after
wave of impossible
beauty.
all of that is good
you think,
but it's the lightning
bolts
that hold your
interest and worries
you.

sunday morning

on sunday morning
two well dressed
young men come to your
door holding
thick biblical books.
white shirts, ties,
black pants,
shined shoes. hair
combed with parts
on the side.
they almost glow
with enthusiasm.
you open the door
just a crack, because
you just woke up.
you have a towel around
you and you're
rubbing sand out
of your blood shot
eyes. what? you say.
I don't want any
more cookies.
which makes them laugh.
no, we aren't
the girl scouts
they say together.
may we come in for
a moment. we are here
to save your soul from
being cast into the eternal
lake of fire. umm, not
a good idea, I have
a guest here, and well
we're sort of naked.
this makes them blink
rapidly and try to peek
inside the door.
who is it, Shirley
yells from the couch.
tell them to go away
and come back over
here big boy. where's
my mimosa?
do you have a
web site or something.
i'll check it out later.
I can give you a donation
if you need some money.
give me a bottle of
holy water or something
and i'll get you
some cash.
hey Shirley, do you
have a five dollar
bill?

gossip

did you hear what happened?
your friend
Karen, pronounced, Car on,
tells you
over the phone.
no you say, flipping
through the paper,
do tell.
I can't, she says,
if you don't know yet,
I don't want to be
the one to let the cat
out of the bag.
Car on, you say, please,
you've released more
cats in your life
than the broadway show
cats. just tell me.
okay, she says, but you
have to swear that you
won't tell a soul,
not one single soul.
crossing my heart,
you tell her, going
to the fridge to see
if there is anything
to snack on. what
happened? well, our
mutual friend suzie, you
know suzie, the hair
dresser. yes, yes,
you say. suzie, botox
suzie. what?
well, she's dating
another woman.
I saw her at the movies
the other night, and
she was holding hands
with a woman. can you
believe it?
pffft, you say, it's kind
of exciting. you peel
a banana and begin to
eat it.
whatever, she says. you
are not even the least
bit shocked? nah.
I think it's fine. whatever
people want to do.
I've got my own life to
worry about, you say,
dipping the banana into
a jar of chocolate.

obey the rules

the prospect
of prison frightens
you. so you obey
the rules.
traffic signals,
for one.
you pay your taxes
on time,
your bills. you
are not acting out
with road rage,
although at
times it seems
to be a reasonable
response.
you are a responsible
person. besides,
you have no widdling
skills
which one needs
in the slammer.
your last fight was
in the ninth grade
and it was with
a girl. you lost.
you are not a great
socializer, so
the yard where they
lift weights and trade
cigarettes for
magazines would
be an awkward
place to be.
you have no tattoos
or gang
affiliations.
you have a library card
and belong to
triple A
and the AARP.
when you look at
a bar of soap, you
don't think about
sex, or a knife,
you think about
soap suds and bubbles,
of being fresh
and clean for
the day ahead of
you. you would not
do well in prison.
so you obey the rules.

the parade continues

the man
on the corner
of the quaint
old town of cobblestoned
streets
and actors being
George
and Martha
asks you for
money.
there is a parade,
with horses,
children with green
balloons, old
men saluting.
shriners in tiny
red cars,
the heavy men
wearing tasseled hats,
zig zagging
along the street,
but the man on
the corner
has his hand out
asking
for money. spare
change, a dollar,
something
to get him
through the day.
you've seen him
a hundred times
before.
sometimes you give
him something,
other times
you keep walking.
when you give him
nothing
he curses you and
always says
the same thing.
fuck you faggot.
the parade continues.

you wake up in jersey

you find yourself
in a motel
room in new jersey.
you were too tired
to drive any further.
it smells like smoke.
bleach.
coffee brewing
in the machine in
the lobby, just down
the hall.
you listen to the couple
next door,
through the thin
walls make love
again. they are insatiable.
the loose headboard
bangs and bangs,
rattling
the painting above
your head of a ship
in a storm.
it's three a.m.
the thick yellowed
curtains are pulled
almost together,
the last inch
is a long bar
of neon light
crossing your bed.
there are trucks coming
and going.
someone is yelling
for ruby,
over and over again.
ruby, I know you're
in there. come out.
you think about turning
on the tv to blot
out the madness,
but this is much better.
you want to see how
things end.

how are you?

what are you doing
way over
here, your mother asks
as you go to visit.
you are carrying
a plant.
candy. your hat
is in your hands.
you had to sit
in your car before
going in and cry
there. she asks
you how you are.
your son. work.
then she stares out
the window
at a robin sitting
on the sill.
look at the bird
she says, smiling.
her hair like
silver silk
has been brushed back
by someone
who has never known
how she wears it.
she turns back to
you. what are you doing
way over here, she
says. when did
you get here?
how are you?

the honey

the children
in the street are
on fire,
excited by everything
and anything,
their desires
not quite set
on any one thing.
they run
from base to base,
up the snowy
slopes, darting
behind trees.
they are brilliant
in their
exuberance,
the energy that
they need to speed
about like
bees, not yet
tasting or knowing
what the honey
is, not yet.
they are still safe
for awhile.

people like you

when you leave
a room
you take everything
with you.
the air
divides as
you walk,
breathing in
what you can
exhaling when
ready.
you make space
for yourself
wherever you travel.
you find a seat
or a place
to stand.
you find and hold
a position
that your feet
can land on.
the world is full
of people
like you.
coming, going,
then leaving for
good.

birds and bees

the birds are ready.
you see them
circling the trees,
lighting down
on branches,
staring into
little mirrors
of ice and snow.
getting ready
for spring. for
romance. some of
the girl birds
are dabbing bits
of sweet wild
berries behind
their ears,
you see the men
birds lifting
large frozen
worms over their
heads, working
on their muscles.
and the bees, oh
the bees. don't
get me started on
the bees.

the new tan

it's hard to be
a rebel
these days.
what can you wear
anymore
that stands out,
half the world
dresses like
circus clowns.
lime green used
to be an outrageous
color, the daring
bold statement
of creativity,
now it's the new
tan. there are no
mothers who say
to their children
are you going
to wear that out
of the house today.
they can't say
it because they
have sewing needles
protruding from
their own lips
and noses and their
hair is painted
with blue
stripes, like
groupers in
the ocean.

employee of the month

your new employee
has no credentials
but he's living,
breathing and sober.
he works hard
without complaint.
so he fits in
perfectly.
he needs a cigarette
every other hour,
but that's fine too.
he likes hard rock
music. aerosmith
and journey, Kansas
ten years after.
led zeppelin.
he plugs the cassettes
into the boom box
in the room that
he's painting.
politely, he keeps
it at a non ear deafening
decibel. he has no
tattoos of satan
or pentagrams,
as far as you know,
so that's a step up
from your last employee.
at lunch he tells you
a story about when he
was in jail for fifteen
days. when he got out
his wife had sold
his double wide trailer,
his Harley, all his
weapons, his clothes
and shoes, and cleaned
out the seven hundred
dollars in their joint
savings account. but he
doesn't seem mad about
it at all as he takes a bite
of some beef jerky.
she made her move, he
says. got to hand it
to her, she made her move
when she could. I
guess I'd have done
the same to her if she'd
been the one in jail.
oh well. beef jerky?
he says, sticking out
a reddish strip of rawhide
jerky. sure, you say,
cutting a piece with a pair
of scissors.
I got a new girlfriend now,
though he says, smiling.
she only charges fifty
dollars. she's twenty four
and she can go
all night. any sisters, you
ask, jokingly, before
getting up to go
back to work.

clean up in aisle six

somehow you get stuck
with the task of picking
up a bag of adult
diapers for your sick
uncle who can't
drive anymore.
you get a grocery cart
and begin to slowly
peruse the aisles,
tossing in aspirin
and gum, vicks vapo
rub, things of that
nature. finally,
exhausted from looking
you ask a clerk who
is more than happy to
answer all your questions
about adult diapers.
adult diapers, he says
loudly, thinking
to himself. hmm.
for a man or a woman,
he asks? man you say,
as he rubs his chin.
fat man, skinny?
umm, about my size I
guess, you say, which
makes him wink at you
and nod, thinking that
they are for you.
are you an astronaut
by any chance he says,
laughing. sorry, just
always loved that story
about the ......
you interrupt him, look
I'm sort of in a hurry,
where are they? he loses the
smile, well, sir, he
says. they may be in
the women's hygiene
section. suddenly you have
to go to the bathroom.
that last cup of coffee
wants out. is there a
bathroom in this store,
you ask him, moving your
feet around and putting
your hands inside your
pockets. he looks at you
jumping around. boy, you do
need those diapers don't
you he says. hold on.
he grabs a microphone
from the shelf and yells
out, would someone please
bring me a bag of men's
diapers to aisle 6.
this is an emergency.
aisle 6, a bag of men's
diapers. bring a mop
too. hurry.

tuna sandwich

while hanging
on to a subway strap
as the car
rumbled along
the knotted rails
heading into
darkness, then
light, you wondered
what you might
have for dinner.
you thought about
the cans of tuna
fish in your cupboard.
what year will
you open those
and mix up the tuna
into a bowl
with mayo and onions,
pepper. maybe
never.

baby powder

when your wife
was pregnant you
were forced
to go to Lamaze
classes
to learn
things that might
help
in the assistance
of the birth.
this horrified
you.
what is the point
of nurses
and doctors and
all that training
if you're
the mix.
breathe in,
breathe out.
let me know when
it's over.
when the baby is
out and freshened
up with some
baby powder. dry and
happy, ready to
throw the ball
around.

you understand

the baby
talking babble
and drooling
being held
in the arms
of the woman
in front
of you
is making
sense.
his blue
eyes, or
hers, catch
yours
so you give
the little
bald headed
creature
a wink
for solidarity.

the white dog

the brittle
boned dog, on
nervous legs, once
leaping
each fence
and blade of
grass with
quiet ease
and grace,
now stumbles
towards the light,
his eyes
opaque, a shade
of fish
blue, cloudy
with the sea
of his long
life. his death
will come with
tears, his decade
plus was
yours as well,
a part of you
feeling the needle
and slowing
of heart until
it beats
no more.

this life

this life
is not your own.
you are borrowing
the air
in your lungs
the food in
your belly.
the bed you lie
on is
yours but for
a few years.
your shoes
are rented.
everything you
own will belong
to someone else
when you are gone.
even now your hair
thins, as
your body shrinks
towards where
it began.
there is nothing
you can do
that will have
significance
in time.
and yet, you go
on as if
none of this
mattered.

the tumble weed boy

when your son
was small
and dirty. a
tumbleweed
of boy, his hands
caked in
mud
you installed
a brown rug
the color of dirt
throughout
the house, you
painted the walls
a deep
tan color, you
set aside
special towels
for him
and the dog.
so now, when
he visits you,
it's so strange
to see him,
neat and
pressed, nails
clipped, hair combed.
careful not spill
a drop
of anything,
it makes you
wonder
where did you
go right.

made in china

everything these days
is made
in china.
my shoes, my
coat,
the leather belt
holding up my pants.
the dish I'm
eating off of,
the sticks I use
to pluck
rice and duck
from my plate.
spring onions.
leeks. those
little plastic
packets
of soy sauce.
the tumbler
of drink that
I raise to my
lips.
even later
as I go
to kiss my girl
friend, I see
a tattoo
on her shoulder
that says
made in china.
or something
like that.
hard to read
those drawings.

tax deductible

a telemarketer calls you
in the middle of the day
and asks for a donation
for the fallen and still
missing soldiers of the civil
war. but, you say, clearing
your throat, wasn't that
over a hundred and fifty
years ago? ummm, let me check
on that with my manager,
says the young woman,
snapping her gum into the phone.
hey Betty, Betty,
she yells out across the room.
this man here has a question.
do you know when the civil
war was? yes, I guess he
means the American civil war.
right sir? she asks.
yes. you say. that would
be the one.
you hear a voice whisper
hmmm, good question,
I'm not sure. I could google
it, then someone says,
in the 60's. yeah, it
has to be in the 60's. I think.
she comes back onto the
phone. sir, I'm doing
the math right now,
and it was only
fifty years ago, so yes
there are some civil war
veterans that need your
help. how much would you
like to donate this year?
oh, and by the way,
it's tax deductible.
we'll also send you a
waterproof flag bumper sticker
as an appreciation
of your donation.
is the bumper sticker
of an American flag? you
ask. hold on one second sir.
Betty, hey Betty, he's got
another question, is
the bumper sticker
American, with the stripes
and stuff?

this movie stinks

the movie stinks.
big noise,
big guns, big
scenes generated
by computers
and what not.
lots of dead
people and blood.
naked robots.
as fake as fake
can be. not even
the wacky 3 D
glasses help,
but there is
the occasional
flash of acting,
tears, and
laughter,
smirks and a
happy ending as
the villain
is blown into
a thousand, no,
make that a million
pieces. your ears
hurt, your
eyes burn, but
your pulse has
flat lined.
the movie stinks,
but the fake
buttery popcorn
is not too shabby.

ice cream therapy

with no
clean dishes
or silver ware
you make due
with a wooden
spoon found nestled
in the knife drawer,
curled carefully
alone in the back.
it fits nicely
into the round
bucket of ice
cream that you've
bought to stave
off winter depression.
ice cream
would brighten
your day, but you
are very impatient
because it is
frozen solid like
a rock. with menace
you strike the top
of the unyielding
surface trying
to gouge out enough
to get you started.
just a small
taste of it deliciously
melting on your
warm tongue would
be heaven. but there
is no god, no mercy.
it's too hard
to break loose.
you don't want to
microwave it,
that might be too
risky, so you
fill the sink
up with warm water
and set the bucket
in. then you pace
the room, and wait.
rubbing your hands
together nervously.
you stare out the window
at the frozen stream
behind your house.
the bare trees, surrendered
grey and lean to winter.
a thought crosses
your mind that maybe
this is the week
to go see a therapist.

old man and the coffee

(apologies to e. h.)

you venture out
into the sea of snow
seeking a grande
coffee. you wish
the boy were with you.
to help you.
to hold your place
in line, while you
fiddled in your
pockets for correct
change, for
crumbled bills.
your hands are cramped.
the wind creases
your face into
a hard squint.
you go with
the current, shuffling
towards the light,
towards the glow
of the sign
through the blowing
snow. you do not
see or care
about the sharks,
the youthful men and
women, beating you
to the door,
you wish the boy were
with you, to
push you along, to
talk to you.
but he is not here.
you have only yourself
to talk with.
you will get this coffee.
you will defeat
this storm. it is
destiny.
your curled hands
will open for what is
rightfully yours.
you wish the boy was
there though in case
you can't.

if king

if king, you would
enjoy saying things like
bring me the head
of so and so.
or, dance for me,
sing and play
the lute, make
me happy, or else.
but as it stands
right now, you can
only demand pizza
over the phone,
and rarely get your
dog to stop
barking or begging
at the table.

when searching

when searching
for the lost key
that's in
your hand, the hat
nowhere to be
found, upon
your head,
the book you
were reading
sitting on
the bed where
you left it
at the page,
turned down,
you wonder, is
this the end of
who I used to be,
or the beginning
of what I will
become, or
something yet
unknown,
not seen.

sweet icing

how lovely is
the wedding coat of
winter.
the bride in her
brilliant gown
of crystal sequins,
the falling
into crisp smooth
hills, covering
all, making
the trees and
hedges bow.
how marriages begin
this way,
but in little time
turns under the daily
wheels of give
and take, the exhaust
of real life
taking over, sweet
icing on the cake,
gone grey.

you are home

the water
can't get hot
enough, but
it will do.
the pipes are
cold.
you slip
into the luke
warm
pond anyway
with a new bar
of soap.
a drink, no
phone.
a book
of poetry that
you'll probably
hate,
a New Yorker,
freshly fallen
through
the door. you
are home.

the plow horse

she leads you
around with a
carrot.
you are her
plow horse,
her stallion,
her mule,
her Clydesdale
pulling
the wagon.
she has you
pinned in a
tight stable
where only
the cold winter
moon shoots
through
the ragged
cracks.

survival kit

food,
water,
meat and potatoes.
check.
batteries
and
vodka.
can you think
of anything
else?
cake
and ice cream.
that should
do it.
oh, and you.

to roll

rolling hills
on rolling road,
cinnamon rolls
at the mall,
rolls of fat.
rolly polly,
the roles we
play. the role
not taken.
roll me over
red rover.
rock and roll.
rolling thunder,
roll tide.
a starring role.
supporting
role,
desolation row.
row row row
your boat.
corn rows. a row
of birds
on the wire.
how the clouds
roll in, roll
out. the ocean
waves. always
with the rolling.

low on ink

your printer
is annoying. always
needing
ink. a spoiled
child.
out of red
and blue, yellow.
empty on black
is a given,
look at that
low level.
how it shakes
and rattles
when turned on
or off.
spitting, grinding
it's machiavellian
wheels,
flashing lights,
speaking in
devilish tongues of
dings and dongs
about what is right
or wrong.
no paper. insert
paper. no paper.
hate is too strong
of a word,
but you are getting
very close to
saying that.

the celery talk

the dalai lama
seems sad, your spiritual
friend
lucy tells you.
doesn't he? look at
that long face,
the forced smile.
it's just my observation
of him,
she says, biting
into a stalk of
celery
filled with hummus.
want some, she says,
offering you
a stalk.
get that away
from me, you tell
her.
look at his photo
she says, holding
up her wallet with
his laminated cat
who ate the canary
face. look into
his eyes. he looks
very sad.
I'd be sad too, you
say, if I was him.
he's wearing women's
clothes. sandals
and he has to always
pretend to be good.
do you think he's
pretending?
no, not all the time.
but hey, he's a man
for god's sake.
men have desires and
needs, if you know
what I mean,
and well it's not
like he can go online
and meet someone
in that get up. he is
stuck. he has to be
the freaking dalai
lama twenty four seven.
who can do that and
be happy?
yeah, maybe you're right.
never thought of him
that way.
sure you don't want
some celery?
positive.

the sword fight

you hear swords
clanging against one
another in the other room.
you rush in to see
what the commotion
is about.
your two sisters
are fighting again,
circling the room,
attempting to once
and for all decide who
is the queen bee
of this family.
one sister jumps
up onto the couch
to get a better angle
with which to swipe
at the other sister's
head, but she sees
it coming and ducks,
pulling a crocheted
afghan blanket out
from under her feet.
in a tumble they both
fall to the floor,
wrestling in their
armor. you don't even
try to break them up.
they will at some
point exhaust themselves
and go back to their
lives, forgetting why
any of this ever
happened.

the grocery list

going through
your box of important
papers
for tax time
you come across a
hand written note
from decades ago.
a grocery list.
it's wrinkled
from being wet
at one time,
but folded neatly
into a square.
milk, eggs, bacon.
chips. wine.
bread and cereal,
it reads.
brownie mix.
at the end of
the list are
a few words
in someone else's
handing writing.
candles it says,
massage oil.
twine.
you smile and say
her name,
then fold
it back up
to stuff neatly
into the bin
of bank statements
and stock reports.

don't leave

she cries
when you arrive,
asks where
have you been,
wilts
in your arms.
gathers herself
as if the
sun was part
of it, then
cries and crumbles
more when you
stand to leave.
when will you come
again, she says.
but what is there
to do, or say,
but come
and go. leaving
her alone
with a promise
of return,
pulling your
hand away.

how quickly

how quickly time
dismisses us.
evidence given
by the shredded carpet
once gold,
now pale as any
yellow moon
from your footsteps
heavy, and
stamped wet
inside the hall.
the curtains hung
together, when
love was in
the room, each holding
up his or her
end, selflessly,
until the hooks
set in.
how quickly time
dismisses us,
the clock now stopped
at one,
fixed once
too many times,
it too has wearied,
it's machinery
forever left
undone.

talk like a pirate

I want you to talk
like a pirate,
she tells you one
morning, as you both
awaken after a night
of very mediocre
love making.
that might help
us get to another
level, she says
in a sexy
whisper. another
level? you ask.
turning your
head to look
at her. go ahead.
try it. say grrrr.
or arrrgh, or
shiver me timbers,
something like
that. arrrgh, you
say deeply.
good, good. nice
start.
should I wear a patch
over one eye, you
ask. yes, yes.
she says. but no
parrot, and you
can't smell like a
pirate either, but
let your beard
grow a little,
so that it's bristly
against my cheeks.
you have to brush
your teeth too.
I could get a sword
and some boots
down at the costume
shop today, you tell
her. maybe find some
sort of lime after
shave. a gold hoop
ear ring, and some
fake scar make up.
you sit up, excited
by the prospect of
becoming a pirate.
ummmm, sure, she says.
okay. you hop out
of bed and practice
a limp, dragging
your wooden leg across
the room.
arrggh, you say,
over and over,
waving an imaginary
saber in the air.
this makes her
sigh deeply
and put a pillow
over her head.

unraveled

at times
you feel
like a ball
of yarn,
unraveled
by the paws
of a mean
yellow cat.
strung out
across
an un sunlit
floor,
waiting for
the bright
clink
of needles
to make use
of you
once more.

not like that at all

how easy it is
to mend
the faults of others
to see clearly
the bumps
and cracks
in their walls.
to fix
the fissures,
seal
the holes
that lets cold
in, or worse,
rain swept
hard by wind.
they are
blind to it all.
no longer aware,
of what is
falling down,
familiarity
breeding
contentment,
you are so glad
that you are not
like that, not
like that
at all.

under the bed

you find a wig,
blonde
and white like
andy
warhol's hair,
a whip,
a fake gun,
leather boots
and a gallon jar
of some
slippery
substance
marked only
by the word
hot.
a polaroid
camera
is nearby. you
get the feeling
there is something
more going on
around here,
than meets
the eye.

her secrets

her secrets
are all over the floor.
she steps
on them, screams,
picks one
up and flings
it at you.
now, she says,
do you understand
where I'm
coming from, who
I really am,
want more?
this is when you
do what you are best
at,
gathering
your few things,
and backing slowly
out the room,
inching
towards
the door.

blue collar

the blood of
the butcher
abstracted
upon his
white smock.
coal dust
under the nails
of striped
miners exiting
darkness
into more
darkness.
the white spray
of paint
on the eye
brows
of men still
bent in that
same way
at the end of
a shift.
welders holding
solder
in their mouths,
taking home
the metal
taste of their
flames
with them.
each to his own
muscle
and brawn, beating
back
fatigue
and want, always
ready
to go on, for
what choice
is there?

closure

the missed
calls pile up.
one by one you call
them back.
window salesmen,
mostly.
collections for
the lost
soldiers
of the Vietnam
war,
cops wanting
dough for a cause
that you
aren't quite
sure of.
do you have any
clothes to donate.
hang ups galore.
women in heat.
some angered by
your absence,
or presence. it
can go either way
these days,
but being
a responsible
person, you dial
each one back to
get to the end
of it. closure
is your middle
name.

how nice it is

how nice
it is that the phone
hasn't
rung
yet.
how sweet
the sound of silence.
to hear
no one's cares
or woes.
to even leave
for one
moment your own
troubles
alone.
how nice it
is to bathe in
the glorious cold
quiet of
this February
day.

no exit

as the man
beside her drools
and twitches
on the leather couch,
and the woman
singing opera
into the corner
raises her arms
to the applause
she hears,
and the woman with
no teeth
crawls towards
the door, hoping
that that is
the way out,
your mother looks
at you with
tears in her eyes
and says, what
am I doing here.
I want to go home.

your own cell

perhaps you turn
the key
deciding each day
where to lay
your head,
what to eat,
what to say
and to whom.
perhaps you are
your own
guard closing
the barred gate,
locking you
in tight for
another restless
tumbling
night. perhaps
you are the judge
and jury
of your own
life, sentencing
yourself to
a long stretch
of ambivalence
and distrust,
rattling your cup
against the bars,
saying you
are innocent, this
is unjust.

what happened

what happened
then
is disclosed
in an angry
barrage
of bitten
words, bloodied
tongues
and shame.
who's
fault it is,
who let him
up the stairs
to touch her
innocence
now has a name.
it's more clear
who owns
this thing so
dark
and vile
and long
ago. it's her
fairy tale,
warped and warmed
in awakened
days
of dream.

tax season

your tax lady
of three decades
works out of a cape
cod house
along route 28, in
a section of Virginia
that still
believes that the south
will rise again.
Dixie flags fly
high and low
on beat up cars
and trucks
across the old
battlefields.
cows loom large,
standing in one's
or two
with weeds
hanging from
their mouths,
and yet she files
electronically.
she's small and
stout, hair curled
wildly on it's
own thin ground,
a character
out of a wrinkle
in time. full of
magic numbers.
she likes
to say things like
I hope they don't
put us in jail
this year, as
she hands you back
your finished return
and points to the line
where you need to
initial, initial,
or sign.

to wait it out

rare to see a lazy
red bird
sitting in
a tree with
the paper,
robe still on
in the middle
of the day,
having coffee.
he doesn't seem
bothered
by the weather
the snow,
or frost
that lingers.
he bathes
in slow crawl
of winter.
he's content
to wait it out.
and wishes you
would too.

the sisters

how vicious
the sisters fight.
claws out,
fangs
armed with venom
full of
spite.
sisters once
sharing a room
as children,
saying
prayers together
to begin
each night.
how strange to
see them this
way.
at odds as
their mother
who once brushed
both their
hair now slips
from her
darkness into
new light.

dear nigerian prince

it bewilders you
that there is
so much royalty
in that country, but
you finally give in
to the frequent
and persistent requests
of so many
Nigerian princes.
they write so neatly
and kindly to you
on a daily basis.
it's almost as if they
know what a good
and decent person
you are.
they have no place
to put their money
because of banking
snafus in their own
country. okay, okay.
you write back. I
will help you.
here's my account
number, deposit all
your millions
there, but you have
to promise that you'll
give me my ten
per cent just like
you said you would.
I'm trusting you with
all my heart, so
please don't let
me down.
I'm giving you my
atm password too, just
in case you need
to draw out some
of your own money to
tide you over until
your banking issues
are resolved. do not
share it with anyone
else, okay? so glad
that I could help you
in your time of need.
your friend, always,
jimmy. god bless.

the factory workers

the shirtwaist
factory workers,
having won
a small raise
in pay, a lessening
of hours, after
bravely striking
for weeks
and weeks.
some imprisoned
or beaten
by police on
the take
go back to work
as almost slaves.
the back door is
locked to keep
thievery at bay,
the small
elevator is
a slow, and impossible
escape.
their fingers
bleed from
the constant
spinning of thread,
in rows at
their machines,
the sharp steel
needles pounding out
a thousand
stitches per
minute, so when
the fire begins
and the smoke rises,
and the hoses don't
reach the sixth
floor, what is
there to say,
as the women float
in their
dresses like
flowers
to the ground,
aflame.

put your boots on

what is this road
less traveled
nonsense.
if you're going
in the wrong
direction,
turn back
around, quit
the road you're
on and find
another one.
if you're
sixty, seventy,
it doesn't matter.
put your boots on
nancy,
and keep walking.

pfffft, the law

when they finally
released
you from prison for
cutting off
all of your mattress
tags, you threw
your hands into
the air, fell
to the ground
and kissed the sweet
green earth.
you were rehabilitated,
a new man
with a fresh
start. never again
would you break
the law you promised
to yourself
as you walked
across the street,
jaywalking.

how much is that puppy

as you fill
out the paperwork
to perhaps
take ownership
of a small dog
asleep
in the store
window
you realize that
it's easier
to get married
and have
a baby than it is
to adopt a cat
or a puppy.
there seems
to be something
wrong with
that.
the world is
upside down.
save the whales,
abort
the babies. not
saying
what is right,
or what is wrong.
to each
his own conscience
and God,
or non-god
whichever case
it may be, but
human life seems to
have decreased in
value over
time.

corns on the cob

we don't like
your kind around here
boy, the man
says at the gas station
somewhere on a dirt
road between nine
corn fields.
we don't cotton
to people like
you. all sissified
with your city
clothes. why you
wearing girl shoes?
huh? you say.
these aren't
girl shoes.
you stare at your lime
green running shoes
and shrug.
I'm just looking
for directions
to get out of this
place.
where am I?
this makes him
laugh and call
his brother out from
the back room
where you hear
a toilet flush.
he don't know where
he is cecil,
he says, barely
containing his joy.
this makes them
both laugh and toss
another hunk
of chewing tobacco
into their
mouths.
well, maybe you can
google
yourself out of
here, they say,
slapping each other
on their backs
with denim
shirts, the sleeves
shredded off.
finally, they wipe
the tears out of
their eyes and spit
a long stream of
brown goo towards
a bucket in
the corner.
you know where the water
tower is boy?
no, you say, looking
out the greasy
window.
I didn't see one
when driving up.
cause there ain't none
they both say
together howling, showing
the five teeth
between them.
okay, okay. i'll find
my way out,
thanks for nothing.
don't get smart with us
boy. you don't want to know
us when we get mean.
then a woman
comes out of the back
buttoning her
long prairie dress
and she says.
leave that man alone.
you boys always messing
with people.
take the road you
came in on and go straight
then make a right
when you start to see
some cows. that'll take
you to the interstate.
sorry about my boys,
they mean well, just
feisty sometimes.
here take some of these
corns on the cob
and you come back
real soon. hear.

if elected

you run for
congress on one
issue.
to eliminate
the month
of February.
that's it. that
would cure
so many of our
ills.
go straight
to march.
no more valentine's
day to deal
with,
no birthday,
no head colds,
no snow.
and if elected,
you might even
decide to
eradicated
January from
the calendar
as well.

what the hell

you like to curse
a lot,
but only
when alone.
you can say the darkest
and most
vulgar things
when cut off
in traffic, or
the barista once
again doesn't get your
coffee just right,
or they're out
of cream.
you are a drunken
sailor
on leave with your
swear words
lashed out in
the privacy of your
home or car
or in the quiet
of your mind,
but when others
are around
you're quite
pleasant and calm.
happily at ease,
peacefully kind.

if only

if only
he says, I'd
taken
the other road
the one
I usually
take
then
this accident
would
not have happened.
if only
I'd been
a minute late
or early
for my
appointment
I would not
be sitting here
in this
ditch with smoke
rising from
the hood of
my car.
if only
I'd married
the other girl,
taken
the other job,
gone to a different
school.
if only I'd
gotten more sleep
more rest,
taken a vacation
or two.
if only
my parents had
never met
and had me.
none of this would
have happened.
if only.

shovel me out

winter won't
go away.
the old man in
his heavy coat
long white
beard
and frosted
hair
wants to stay.
this is my
time, he says.
my hour
of weather.
I want to make
slick your roads
down
your lines,
close
your schools
and work.
I want to linger
just a little
bit longer.
I am old.
but I am strong.
quit whining,
and shovel
me out.

breakfast all day

it's a long
red bricked building
nestled in between
car dealerships
and gas
stations, beaten
paths of shrubs
and splotches
of wild flowers
and brown grass
grow on the median
beside the highway.
it's been
there since
the 1940's.
breakfast all
day
the sign flickers
on the foggy window
shrouded by
thick rubber
curtains.
a placard turned
over on the sill
reads open.
next door is a tattoo
parlor,
on the other
side a Chinese
carryout bustles
with a bell that
rings every time
the door swings
open.
a hub cab store
with baby moons
on display
in the window
has the prime
spot on
the corner. they
open at 11.
but moe's is the
place to go.
limited parking.

the artists

you see the starving
artists
out on the street
corner
with signs
on neatly printed
cardboard
sheets. will write
a poem for food.
will paint
a portrait for
money. will sing
you a song for
applause and
affection, a cold
beer and a
sandwich. there's
hardly room
for you and your
balloons, as you
blow them up
and twist them
into zoo animals.

wedding day

a girl and a  boy,

smoking
outside the courthouse.
goose bumped
with an april chill,

in their borrowed coat

and dress,
leaning
into one another
with scarecrow
faces,
limbs like
crooked branches,
thin and pale
as birch.

dizzy

from pre-celebration

the night before.

in minutes
the clerk will
pronounce them
man and wife,
before sending them
both out
into a new day
of staggering light.

futon

because you snore
she puts
you in the basement
with the horse
hair blanket
and the stiff
slab of a bed
called a futon.
you think of other
words that would
describe it more
clearly, but you
don't even whisper
such things. you say.
fine. this
bed will do.
this itchy blanket,
this straw pillow.
no, it doesn't bother
you at all
to have your feet
hang over the end.
suffering is
what we do for
one another to
make love
stronger.

strike a match

with a match
you turn in anger
and stop, you
strike it
hard against a rock
then set the bridge
on fire.
she's on the other
side and won't
be crossing
over.
you reach the next
bridge and do
the same.
you continue on
throughout the day.
crossing bridges
then setting
them on fire.
by nightfall your
past is in flames.
good riddance you
think, regretting
what you've done
already.

dopey

after a few drinks
you and your friend
gretchen
try to remember
the names of all
seven dwarfs without
googling them
on your phone.
you get six of them
before asking
the bartender if
he knows. within
minutes the question
goes around
the bar and you
get the answer
to the seventh
dwarf, the one you
can't come with.
dopey the crowd
yells out as one.
it's old school
google, is what it
is.

we all love bacon

we love
bacon around here,
the woman
says, as you walk
around her house
giving her an estimate
to paint
and wallpaper.
my kids love
bacon, I love
bacon, my husband
loves bacon.
I do too, you tell
her, measuring
the wall
behind the stove
where bacon
sizzles in a deep
black pan. I don't
believe all that
medical information
about clogging up
your arteries, she
says. nonsense.
we are fit as fiddles
around here.
I could wrap
dog treats in bacon
and my kids would
eat them,
she says, laughing,
then taking
a fork and flipping
over the crackling
strips of bacon.
yup, we sure do
like bacon
around here. I bet
we eat two
pounds a week.
maybe
when you come to
do the work,
i'll make you
a bacon sandwich.
that would be
wonderful you tell
her, rubbing
your greasy hands
together. I can hardly
wait.

go forth and floss

you don't like going
to the dentist.
but you go.
you cringe and accept
the probing
of sharp metal
instruments into your
open mouth.
you close your eyes
when the heavy
lead blanket is
placed over
your vital organs
for the x-ray
then then click.
it's the shine of
the room, the lights,
the soft rock
music, all giving
you a false sense
of comfort, that there
is no pain involved.
you put on the safety
goggles
as the chair goes
back. your blue
bib set loosely
around your neck
and chin.
the hygienist
talks gently to
you as she sprays
water, tells you to
spit, and digs and
scrapes like a miner
in the cavern of
your mouth. have you
been flossing, she
says, her hands
still in your mouth,
you blink twice
for yes. flossing is
vital, she says,
looking into your
watering eyes.
yes, you blink again.
yes, yes.
you have to floss
she says again, taking
her hands out
of your mouth and
giving you a Dixie
cup to spit in. I love
to floss you tell her.
flossing is my
life. good she says.
good.

i found this lump in the shower

what's new
your neighbor asks
as he sees
you getting home
from work
carrying groceries
in. nothing, you tell
him, adjusting
the bags in your arms.
what's new with you.
I'm having a hernia
operation next
week, he says,
grabbing at
his abdomen.
oh, you say, well,
that's too bad.
I hope it goes
okay. yeah, he
says. I found it
the other day
while taking a
shower. it's a big
lump. I called
my wife in to take
a look and she
couldn't believe
the size of it.
hmmm, you say. well,
I've got to get
these bags inside.
eggs and what not,
don't want anything
to spoil. okay, okay.
he says. well, i'll
let you know how
it goes. what?
the operation. I
go under the knife
tomorrow. oh, yeah.
well, keep me up to
date on that.
I will, he says,
limping away towards
someone else
getting of their
car.

we're out of that

I took the last
round of drinks off
your bill
the waitress says
smiling.
I'm sorry that the food
was late,
and cold, and it
wasn't what you
ordered, but we
ran out of risotto
and salmon.
chicken and pasta,
but I hoped you
liked the peanut
butter sandwiches
we were able to
make for the both
of you.
is there anything
else I can get
you, dessert perhaps.
we're out of
everything, but
I think we scan scrape
some ice up
and pour sugar on it.
sorry, no coffee,
but we do
have hot water
and some lemon
wedges.

the plant

you bring your mother
a plant.
a small green
leafy
thing, portable
with soft
loose dirt. you
set a small
plastic
watering can
beside it on
her sill
where the light
streams
down from
the basement
window well. you
sit on her
empty bed
as you wait
for her to finish
what she needs
to do in
the bathroom
where someone
stands beside,
helping. her house
was full
of plants, her
garden. the flowers
in their boxes.
the kitchen.
they were everywhere.
green children,
but now down
to one.

the life raft

an elderly group
of four women
and one man
are discussing egg
whites.
you see them
at a large round table
in the steak house
restaurant
that leans towards
cowboy land
with antlers
and boots
on shelves.
badly painted
prairies with
blue horses
and cows. they
are dressed in
church clothes, two
women in leopard
print shawls,
the man with a clip
on bird blue tie.
their lives have
led them here.
at the same table,
together.
surviving on the raft
given to them
or chosen.
it doesn't matter
which, they are afloat
still after
all these years.

mutual bliss

singular bliss
is a wonderful thing,
but mutual bliss
is what plants
a perpetual
smile
on your face.
how hard can
that be?
nearly impossible
it seems, but
one is
always willing
to try again
and again to
get there, to find
him or her
throwing not just
your head into
the ring, but
your heart as well.

wanda's date

all men think
about is sex, wanda
tells you
on the phone at
seven a.m.
what is with men?
they never want to
do stuff.
all of them talk
about going to the beach
and museums,
and the theater,
blah blah blah,
but after two drinks
they are trying
to unbutton
your blouse, or
look up your
address.
who is this, you
say? looking at
the clock. wanda.
it's me, wanda.
oh, so the date didn't
go well?
hold on, he's in
the bathroom getting
dressed.
I need to pretend
I'm sleeping
again until he leaves.
i'll call you back.

temptation

you go to a meeting
called the prodigal sons
just to observe
and take notes.
you sit in a large
circle of long faces
twitching legs
and tapping fingers.
the confessions are
all the same.
wine, women, sex, booze,
drugs, lying,
cheating, stealing,
porn and potato chips,
basically all of
ten commandments are
represented and then
some. welcome back
the leader says,
smiling as he scratches
his arms and sips
on a diet coke. jimmy
put your phone away
unless it's something
you want to share with
the group.
there is a table of
donuts at the end
of the room
that everyone stares
at. hot coffee.
and candy.
it's a jittery group.
the bible says to
forgive seventy times
seven, the leader
says loudly,
thumping what looks
like a restaurant
menu. so a lot of
you still have a
slim chance
of straightening
up. okay, let's take
a break now, anyone
have a cigarette?

outside

how strange it is
to see someone
on the street
that you only knew
at work,
or in a darkened
bar, or
church. what a
different light
and view
you held them in
apart from now,
the moment you
are in,
and they are
startled too,
both surprised
that each of you
could exist outside
only a place
well known,
who knew?

you miss her

your grandmother
who told everyone
to shut up when
liberace was on tv,
was full of tall tales.
she loved to brag
about her grand children.
if you took a biology
class she told
everyone how
you were in med school
and about to become
a doctor. if you
took a trip abroad,
you were a diplomat,
row a boat out
to go fishing and she
told a story about
your naval ambitions
and how the academy
would welcome you
with open arms.
she used to yell at
you to get away from
the window before
lightning strikes
you, then pull you
over to the tv
and ask you to pray
with her, to put your
hands on the set
as billy graham preached
in some great coliseum.
pray that jesus
will accept you
and that you won't
go to hell like
your catholic mother.
she was fun to
be around, your
grandmother.
you miss her.

adjusted assisted living

you get the call
that they want to move
your mother
from the main floor
where the opera singer
sings, the sleepers
shake and drool
on the long red
leather couch,
and where verne
wanders like a lost
veteran of the civil
war. she's a night
owl, they say.
she needs a tv
and a remote control.
she's up all
night wandering
the halls on her
bad feet, keeping
the others awake.
we are not going to
shackle her, it hasn't
come to that yet,
but we need to do
something to keep
her in one place.
so, she'll be in
the basement from
now on. it's the same
price, except for
cable.

to interrupt

you interrupt,
not out of rudeness,
but of boredom.
you finish
the sentence,
embellish where
it needs to be,
add and subtract
according to what
holds
your interest.
you jump ahead
guessing what
might be said.
you are an annoying
listener, you
know that.
but you can't help
it. it's one of
the many faults you
possess and
are working on.

blue green shutters

it was a small house
ten feet from
the road
with a mud
driveway and a dog
chained to a
mulberry tree
out front.
two blue green
shutters,
the color
of poor, hung
unbalanced in front
of a picture
window
where the curtain
was twisted
from being peeked
out so often
to see who was
at the door.
it was not heart
breaking or sad,
quite the opposite.
it was nostalgic.
you could smell
cabbage
cooking on a stove.

ya'll come back

it surprises you
sometimes, living here
in washinton dc
when you hear a deep
drawl, a southern
accent with flair
and exaggeration.
words suddenly have
extra syllables,
there is a slow
molasses way
of speaking, expressing
oneself. you almost
look out the window
to see if there
is a horse tied up
out front to the
hitching post.
your mind wanders
and thinks about
the civil war. for
the next five hours
you start saying things
like ya'll and
isn't that special,
we'll aren't you just
a peach?
you hug people
a little too long,
and want a piece
of shoo fly pie
with your coffee.

the nail

you drive a nail
into a board.
then pull it out.
you do this over and
over, practicing.
you want to build
something, but you
aren't sure what.
an ark perhaps,
a fence, a wall
between you and
the world. maybe you'll
hang a picture
on the nail at
some point. but it
feels good just
driving the nail.
a common ordinary
nail into a piece
of hard wood.
it keeps you focused.
gives meaning
to an otherwise
quiet day.

staggering home

you aren't sure why.
but you love
zombie movies
and shows.
it's not the blood
and guts,
the amazing make up
that they wear
with rotting
skin and teeth,
or the way they
walk, awkwardly
and slow, never
quite right, wordless
except for grunts
and groans.
but it interests
you, the idea of
the dead coming back
to life and wanting
to eat you.
their appetites
being insatiable,
their quest for human
flesh without
end. they are so
much like us, you
think as you crowd
on to the subway
on your way home.

no fever

you don't have
Olympic fever.
not even a sniffle,
or a runny nose
for the events.
you just don't care
this time around
about who wins
or loses. give them
all medals, who cares.
there are no
losers here. off
they go
slipping and sliding
around in their
day glow outfits.
somehow the games
have lost their charm,
their innocence,
their je ne sais pas.
you switch the channel
on the ski jumps
before they even
land, and the cupcakes
ice skating
are too dramatic
and cold. maybe
it's you though,
maybe it's the snow
outside your window.
you'd like a medal
for making it to
work in that storm.
maybe not gold, but
at least copper, or
tin. something.

birdville

you wonder
if birds gossip
and talk trash
with one another.
do they point
their wings
at other birds
and whisper,
just who does
he thing he is
with those
wings and bright
colors.
he whistled at
me the other
day and I pretended
not to hear.
as if he's
getting any of
this. give me
a bite of that
worm, would you?
and did you hear
that woodpecker
last night,
all night long.
there should be
laws, no pecking
after dark.
I don't know how
long I'm going
to stay in these
woods, things
have changed. the
birds here are different
from where I came
from. less
friendly and apt
to help you with
your nest, or to
point out when a snake
is coming up
the tree to eat
your eggs.
look, here comes
mister show off.
don't look, don't
even...too late.
oh, look, he's got
a cricket in his
mouth. I wonder if
it's for me.

the lunch box

there was something
about the steel
lunch box painted
scotch plaid
or blue
with stars, or
cowboys on horses
riding across its
back. it swung
in your small
hand with purpose
and promise.
the thermos
gave it weight.
a white bread
sandwich wrapped
in cellophane.
was it tuna, or
peanut butter,
or god forbid
egg salad.
three vanilla wafers
neatly bunched
together in a small
clear bag. a green
apple rolling
about, thumping.
there was such promise
in the box, that
almost always
went unfulfilled,
but at least
there were no cut
carrots or celery
stalks.

we can help you get rich

it's rare, but sometimes
you are in an easy mood,
so easy and amenable that
you pick up the phone despite
seeing that it's a private caller.
you are able to listen
to a salesperson who calls
you cold wanting to expand
your business. you fix
some tea and toast
and take a seat at the table.
they talk so fast,
so many in a room,
it reminds you of chickens
clucking in a barn yard.
what's keeping you from moving
forward the saleswoman asks?
I don't know you say. I'm stuck.
sometimes I don't know which
way to go with my life.
to move, or stay put. get married,
stay single. I'm having trouble
sleeping. any advice you have
would be greatly appreciated.
no, no, she says. with us,
what's keeping you from joining
us in expanding your business,
building your brand,
helping you create a web site
that will make you wealthy.
for only four hundred dollars
a month we will make you rich.
you want to be rich, don't you?
not really, you say. I think
I have enough stuff right now.
but she says, we can help you.
you are missing a golden
opportunity. for this month
only we have a special. would
you like to talk to our
specialist. he can assist
you with any questions
you might have.
at this point you sigh, you
have no choice but to slip
the phone back into its
cradle. you stir your tea,
take a knife and smooth out
some blueberry jam in the center
of the browned bread.
you wait for the next
important call.

slow down

you barely see
the woman speeding
in her enormous
suv
through the narrow
streets
with kids
and dogs in tow.
a riot
of sound and music
filling
their sealed
and sailing
metal land
capsule.
you look both
ways at the stop
sign, but she nearly
hits you just
the same.
slamming
on her brakes to
glare at you,
to shake her head
and curse.
to throw her hands
into the air
as if you alone
have created
her world of
frenetic speed
and despair.

to strike

not unlike
the coiled
rattle snake
whose
tail
shakes like
castanets
when preparing
to strike, so
too do I see
the hairs on
your skin rise
up, the blue in
your eyes
go wild,
the venom in
your short
clipped words
drip clear.

go to bed

your mother
who bore seven
children in ten
years
was a machine
with pistons for arms
hanging
wet clothes
to the line on
steel legs,
her laser eyes
could find
anything hidden
or lost.
she could chase
you down
like a fox
on a rabbit.
she knew what
you were thinking
before you
the words
came tumbling
out of your
wise guy mouth.
don't even say
it, she'd say, or
it's the soap.
you remember
asking if you could
feel her muscles,
and she would flex
her arms like
rosie the riveter.
don't mess with me
she'd say,
pick up your clothes,
brush your
teeth go to bed
and pray.

let it happen

you can't worry
about the asteroid
slinging
its hot space
debris
into the planet
causing a cataclysmic
end to life.
you have a book
over due
at the library.
the trash needs
to be set out
by the curb.
your dog needs
a walk.
some things you
can control,
while others
there is nothing
you can do
but let happen.

king no more

they find
the remains,
mostly bones
of king Richard
the third
buried in a store
parking lot.
there is no gold
crown, or jewels
found with him.
he had a bad
back.
curvature of
the spine.
a deformity
that made him
hunch over.
his wounds
were many,
apparently he
was disliked
for being evil,
as it should
be, and tossed
aside once slain,
as if a mongrel
dog. you hear
someone
on tv make
a joke about
whether he
was buried in
a handicap
parking spot.
it's funny, but
it isn't too
funny, for he,
however briefly,
was once king.

the son in law

your ex in-laws
had a way of looking
at you, as if they
were always trying
to determine
if you were
best for their
daughter.
there was that side
ways glance,
the squint of
suspicion. you were
always trying
to keep things on
the up and up,
be polite and
caring. especially
around
the holidays,
you were attentive
to their table talk
about things
you had no interest
in. you smiled
and played along,
but cringed inside
knowing that right
at that moment
there was the biggest
game of the year
going on while
you were chuckling
to a joke about
giblet gravy.
but by the third
year of marriage you
were in the livingroom
with your plate
of food, the game on,
drumstick in
hand, sitting at
a tv tray brought
up from the basement,
while the festivities
went on in the other
room.

i got your bean sprouts

you aren't to be
trusted
with chocolate
in the house.
or ice cream
or chips
or cookies or
anything slightly
resembling
unhealthy food.
you can eat
your way through
a whole cake
or pie in a week.
however put a fresh
bunch of carrots
in the fridge,
some bean sprouts,
or broccoli,
well those things
may be there
until the end
of time.

what's happened to us?

hey, you yell to your
dog who is on
the couch chewing
a rawhide chip
while watching television.
the mail man is coming.
how come you aren't
at the door barking?
he shakes his head.
I'm done with that.
what's the point, it's
not like I ever get
to chase him and bite
his ankles. the other
day I was at the door
barking and scratching
and he dropped
an ikea catalogue
through the slot
onto to my head. I think
I heard him laughing too.
it was the annual sale.
thick as an anvil.
I'm done with mail men.
when are we going for
a walk, he says. making
a sucking sound, trying
to get some bits of
rawhide out of his teeth.
there's absolutely nothing
on t.v. I haven't
rolled in anything dead
in weeks. ever since
you started dating
that prissy girlfriend
of yours I can't
even walk through
a puddle of mud, or
jump into the creek.
hey hey, he says, barking,
are you listening.
are you texting while
I'm talking to you?
I'm tired of being taken
off the bed and put
outside the door like
an animal while you two
are getting busy, or
whatever it is you call it.
I know what's going on
in there, I'm not stupid.
all you do is text her
all day long and send
her cute pictures
of me. no more pictures.
what's happened
to us. you and me? we
used to be so close.

lettuce teeth

why didn't you
tell me
that I had lettuce
in my teeth
you ask her
as you come back
from the rest
room.
because you
have thousand
island dressing
on your shirt
she says,
pointing
with her fork,
and your zipper
is down,
so does it
really matter
at this point?

another candle

you tell no one
that it's your birthday.
men don't believe
in birthdays, so
you obey the rules
of being a man
and stay silent
like a monk.
although, it would
be nice for a slice
of cake, some
candles to blow out,
something to wish
upon, perhaps a pair
of black socks
to join the others
from birthdays past.

the clean canvas

you take a hammer
and strike
the nail. bang,
bang, until it's
in the wall
secured enough
so that it doesn't
wiggle left
or right, or
bend.
then you take
the white canvas
that you bought,
hang it centered
upon the nail
and once more
take your brush,
your paints,
your desires,
to start all over
again.

many interests

she accuses you
of only caring about
one thing.
which isn't true
at all.
there are other
things that hold
your interest.
you have many interests,
it's just that when
she's around
you can't remember
what they are.

inspiration

you dislike
so much poetry.
you shake your head
and curse what
you read.
you use alliteration
and metaphors
to show your disdain
for frost
and Whitman
bukowski and plath.
you read and
read, turning the pages
while soaking
in the tub, lying in
bed, at a red light
in your truck.
how angry you get
at these poems.
what drivel,
what junk, who did
these people sleep
with to get these
poems published?
what devil do you need
to sell your soul
to to get there too.
and yet
how carefully you
put these books back
onto the shelves.
sliding them
safely into places
where they can be
disliked even more,
at a later date when
you need inspiration.

the new dress

she spins around
in her new dress
and new shoes,
holding her chin
up, smiling.
she says,
well, how do you
like it. and you
reply. only you
could get away
with what you're
wearing, only you
possess the charm
and figure to pull
off such an
outfit of color
and style. go wait
in the car, she
says. it will
take me just a
minute to change.

what happened

you want to know
what happened.
you want to turn
to the last
page
and see how
the story ended.
you want the person
speaking
to get to the point
to stop
stopping
to keep going
straight ahead,
to stop meandering
down back roads
through
the brambles
and thickets of
bad story telling.
get to the point,
tell me what
happened,
you want to scream,
but you don't.
you can see how
much pleasure they
are getting by
dragging out.
milking,
massaging, rambling
on to the point
where you
almost don't care.

bending

you bend as
you age.
less bothers you.
you shrug
a lot and say
so what.
it's more about
the nap now
what's for dinner,
the weather
and books,
a matinee movie.
you bend
as you age, and
not just because
your back hurts
and that's how
you walk, you
just don't care
as much as
you used to. you did
most of your
caring when you
were younger
and full of
energy, full of
yourself. but it's
okay now. so much
is okay now.
you offer
no apologies.

babies in hell

are there babies
in hell
you wonder, unbaptized,
unclean
and full of adam's
sin with
no holy water or
blessings upon
their lineless
brows?
are they crawling
through the smoldering
embers
on hands
and knees. who
changes them,
who feeds and reads
to them as they
grow older, forever
unforgiven
in the lake of fire.
is there day
care in hell for
these eternally
dammed babies,
through no fault
of their own,
or do they get a
pass, as you hope
you do, by a loving
and compassionate
god.

ice

you understand ice.
how hard
it can be.
how unforgiving
and cold.
shrunken down
and frigid
in its views
of the world
and love.
you understand
ice, as you
do the warm
hand or heart
that melts it.

the fire

the house around
the corner
catches fire.
you hear the sirens,
smell the smoke.
you take a walk
to go look.
you see the firemen
in their heavy
coats, and helmets,
hoses in hand
spraying great
plumes of water
through the windows.
ladders lean
against the sills,
the crowd murmurs
with wonder, what
happened, how did
it start, is anybody
home, are there pets
inside. but no one
knows anything.
everyone stands there
in the cold,
arms folded, happy
that it isn't
their house.

don't call me that

you wake up, make some
coffee, then go into
the living room where
you hear a loud scratching
noise. hi honey you say.
coffee? you're up awfully
early. whatcha doing?
I don't like it
when you call me names,
she says hunched over
and grinding
a knife into your
coffee table. I am
not a pyscho.
she looks up
with her smeared from
crying raccoon eyes
and waves the pen knife
at you that is attached
to her key chain.
she goes back to etching
what looks like a word
beginning with
an upper case F.
it's no way to have a
relationship by calling
one another names.
that really hurt me last
night when you did that.
you stare at the wood
chips on the floor
below the table. I'm
sorry, you tell her,
taking a sip of your
hot coffee.
you know what, you tell
her gently, you're right.
no more name calling.
I'm sorry. coffee?
I've got some green tea
in there too. English muffin?
did you take your
pills yet? where
are they, in your purse?
let me get them
for you.
oh, and don't worry
about those chips.
i'll get them with
the dust buster.

the investment

you call your stock broker
Elaine to tell her
that you want to make
an investment. you want
to roll the dice
and throw a nice hefty
sum into a product that
you use frequently on a
daily basis. Kleenex you
tell her. put everything
on Kleenex, then you say,
excuse me, put the phone
down and blow your nose
for the tenth time in
an hour. you ball up
the tissue and toss
it into the corner
where the empty boxes
are stacked, rising
to the ceiling.
sure, she says,
anything else? no, you
tell her, that should
do it for now, but i'll
call you back if I
think of anything.

stand up

you read
somewhere
that Hemmingway
liked to write
standing up
at his tall desk.
he tapped away
at his
manual
typewriter,
inserting sheet
after sheet
dispensing
sparse words
and declarative
sentences
onto the crisp
blank pages.
perhaps he had
a bad back
from reeling in
sword fish
off the florida
keys,
or bull fighting
in barcelona
or maybe he wanted
to be ready
and alert
in case he
had to put on
his boxing gloves
and punch
someone for not
being manly enough,
or perhaps one
of his many beloved
cats
was sitting
in his chair,
or his wife
or mistress, or
his twelve gauge
shotgun.

the red cardinal

these red
cardinals against
the white snow,
quirky
in their flight
from limb
to limb.
scarlet against
this wintered
world.
it takes your
mind off of
her, for an instant.
which is
a good thing.

there must be one

someone leaves
a note on your door.
I love you
it says.
you look up and
down the street
seeing no one.
you smell lavender
perfume
on the paper,
you smudge the ink
of the handwritten
words with tears
that fall unexpectedly
from your eyes.
who is this person,
you wonder, you've
always suspected
that there must
be one, but why
does she stay so
hidden, year
after year.

giving joy

you put your
head inside
a lion's mouth,
pressing his jaws
open with all
your strength.
his long sharp
teeth are
glazed with
appetite.
this makes people
happy. they stand
to clap and cheer.
how easy it is
to give joy
you think
in this strange
world.

valentine's day

how well you remember
the fear.
the anxiousness
and trembling
as you arose on that
fateful holiday
rushing to the grocery
store to find
a suitable bundle
of flowers not yet
limp and browned
from winter cutting.
how you worried if
the merry widow
outfit in black
would arrive in time
by UPS,
would she hate you
for that, again
guessing wrongly
at her size.
how you searched
for the right box
of milk chocolates
in a glossy pinkish
hued box shaped
like no one's heart.
how you rummaged
through the card
shelves, searching for
that one card that
said how you truly
felt. your hands
sweating, your
head pounding with pre
pulmonary malfunction.
dearest loved one.
no. to my favorite
wife. no. to my
true love. not even.
only the blank card
red as blood
said what needed
to be said. how
quickly you
scribbled your name
below the word
love, then rushed to
the seafood department
to find two
chicken lobsters
still barely alive,
whispering, help me,
crawling cold at
the bottom of a
sea green
glass box.

nothing happened

nothing unusual or
disturbing happened
today.
it was non eventful
from the moment you
woke up until the moment
you lay your head
on a pillow at
night to go back
to sleep. it was a
perfect day of nothing
happening.
you want more of those
days. a month of them
would be wonderful.

what are you , a doctor?

you like to hear phrases
like, yeah, well people in
hell want ice water, so
suck it up and quit whining.
you try to remember these
things to use them in
daily conversation. you think
it makes you look clever
and smart. yesterday
when someone was defending
your step father, saying
how nice he'd been behaving,
you said loudly, well,
even hitler would pass
you the salt if you asked
him. which made everyone
say, huh. hitler? but you
laughed just the same
and felt good that you
squeezed that nicely
into the conversation.
it was a good day. tomorrow
you're hoping that someone
will ask you, how are you,
so that you can say,
what are you, a doctor?
you can hardly sleep
thinking about this.

uncle johnny won't die

you had an uncle
who wouldn't die.
uncle johnny.
he had been sick for
a long time.
a long list of ailments
could be rattled
off by your aunt
luna, his wife, but
you don't remember
the exact cause
of his death when
it finally came.
sometimes you'd visit
and his eyes would
be closed, the machines
would be beeping,
and humming away,
showing that he was
still alive. his old
feet, like boney fish
would be sticking
out from the sheets
at the end of his bed.
a young doctor would come
in with a chart
and whisper something
like, it's not good.
his circulation worries me.
he's not going to
last through the week.
but then he'd wake
up and say your name, put
his blue veined hand
out to shake your hand.
how are you, he'd
say, how are the mets
doing? then he'd drift
back off to sleep
in mid sentence.
other days, you'd
visit and he'd be
sitting up eating
jello from a plastic
cup, watching television.
I need a haircut he'd
say, holding a spoon
up to see his reflection.
how can I make a move
on these nurses with
my hair like this?
after a few months
of this, he was exhausted.
we were exhausted.
death just would not
come. what's taking it
so long, he said one
day as he was flipping
through the channels
on the tv. why am I still
here. they keep telling
me soon, soon. what the
hell is going on here?
I'm ready for crying out loud.
I'm just laying here.
there's nothing on
tv. three hundred
channels and all I
watch is judge judy.
why is she yelling at
everyone all the time?
what's wrong with her.
she never let's anyone
talk. your aunt would
say calm down johnny,
you're going to have a
stroke. oh really, he'd
say. a stroke, huh?
oh, maybe then I might die.
give me a break. which
is finally to everyone's
relief what happened
three weeks later.

the small print

this pill may
make you dizzy.
you may vomit
and get blurry vision.
your face will
get flush and your
eyes will
turn red.
you might lose
your balance so please
don't operate
farm equipment
if you have any.
if you play the piano
don't. you will
drive yourself mad.
don't cook, don't
clean, don't do anything.
lie on the floor
and be still.
if an erection lasts
longer than
four hours
don't call a physician,
call instead
the rockettes.
here is their one
eight hundred number.
good luck.

the red worm

the fish
aren't biting.
they are nibbling.
ignoring
the plastic
red worm
you've cast
far into
the shallow
pond.
they nudge
it with cold
noses, then
turn to swim
away.
they want
the real thing.

non evloving species

like Darwin
you suspect that things
are evolving
between the two
of you.
what has crawled
from the sea
is walking
on land, and about
to take flight.
but you are fooled
again,
a turtle remains
a turtle, a
fish a fish,
and you, a
simple chimp
are still swinging
alone
in a tree
while the birds
around you fly
out of sight.

the what ifs

the games don't mean
as much as they used
to mean.
win or lose is almost
the same.
the missed shot,
the made shot, makes
no difference in
your day, but it
wasn't always that
way. if your team
lost you wondered
what if. what if
the ball had
gone straighter,
the kick more towards
the center. what
if a pass had been
caught and not dropped.
what if.
not so strangely, this
ambivalence has
entered other areas
of your life as well.
with work. with love.
with roads not taken,
or decisions made.
the what ifs
that used to
keep you awake at
night, turning in
your bed are no more,
and what it means
in the big picture,
you aren't quite
sure.

truth in dating

there comes a moment
in the dating world
when the person
sitting across from
you leans over
and says, before
we go any further,
there's something
I need to tell you.
sometimes it's a
benign confession
of webbed feet,
or the person has
not saved enough
for retirement, or
they have a small
insignificant
tattoo strategically
located south of
the border. these
things you don't care
about. it's just a
date. you are not
going to marry this
person, or have
children with them.
in fact the odds
are that you are never
going to see them
again. but then
there are other
confessions. such as
I'm really a man dressed
as a woman, look, see,
i have an adam's
apple, they say,
pulling down their
pink cashmere turtleneck
sweater. or I'm out
on bail for slashing my
ex husband's tires. he
refuses to move
out of the basement,
or sometimes my dog
tells me to do things
that I regret. when you
hear confessions like
these you tense up a
little and move physically
away, searching
for the bartender to
bring you the check.
you begin to appreciate
alone time.

the end of the world

the scare report,
also
called the nightly
news
says snow
is coming. prepare
for the worst.
six to eight inches
by morning.
stock up.
stay in, pray
or meditate
depending upon
your so called
new age religion.
if you have pets
don't leave them out
at night. fluffy
and fido will
be frozen solid
like popsicles.
wear a hat
if you venture out
for an emergency donut
or pint of vodka
or gin
please, wear gloves
if you have them.
those with
medical conditions
that need attention,
or the elderly,
or those without
cable tv
should just
kill themselves now
by putting their heads
into an oven.
this storm
could last at least
a day or two.
if you have a sled
and a pack of dogs
to pull it,
get them ready.
let's go
to the map now
and see
what Doppler radar
has to say.

game over

you don't want to fight.
so you give in.
let her have her
way. sure, pink walls
are fine.
and no I don't care
if your mother
comes to stay with us
for the summer.
tofu again for dinner,
sure honey, why not.
pass me the hummus.
you don't want to fight.
so you try to be on
time, you don't watch
too many games on
tv when she's around.
you don't try to make
a move on Saturday night
even though it's been
a month since
your last conjugal
visit. you're being
a good boy, walking
the line.
you don't want to fight,
so you take the high
road, being pleasantly
accepting and kind.

singing in the shower

you hear her singing
in the shower.
rap music.
she's making
thump thump noises
with her feet
and hands
as she howls
crazy rhymes
into the hot spray
of water. snoop
dog,ice t, vanilla
ice and
jay z. you only
say those names
because those
are the only
names you know.
hey, you bang on
the door, are
you singing rap
in there, i'll have
none of that in my
house young lady.
do you hear me?
but she can't hear
you, the radio
is up, and she's
saying something
about her mother.

not so eternal

her eternal
flame for you
is apparently not
so eternal.
in fact
it seems to be
out.
your world
together has
gone dark.
you see ashes
in the air.
feel the cold
damp
lumps of coal
that she calls
kisses
upon your cheek.

lost friends

like kites
in the sky, once
bright
and flashing
in the warm
sun, yellows
and blues,
reds. the string
slips
fast from
your fingers
as the wind
pulls them up.
they float away
to their own
lives
to another hand
perhaps,
not yours.

these things

when you moved here
into her house
you didn't know
that you could hear
the stream
that rushes when
it rains
down below, caught
between the sleeve
of sand and rock,
ever changing
its curve.
when you moved
here you didn't know
that you would hear
the trains blowing
their whistles
as they crossed
the trestle beyond
the woods, near
the dam where water
tumbles across
the slant of grey
concrete.
when you moved here
you didn't know that
you could see
the path of planes,
their red taillights
flashing against
the black sky
between the trees.
when you moved here
you didn't know
that you would get
older, and more
grateful for having
known her,
but now you know
these things.

the gold ring

you catch
a large fish
that has
a ring inside.
a gold band,
a wedding ring
perhaps. you
feel bad for
the fish, and less
so for the hand
that took it
off and flung it
into a wide
stretched
sea. how
everything reaches
for what
shines bright.

there are no maps

you can tell
who has traveled
far.
it's in their
eyes, their
voice, the calm
sea of
who they are.
they didn't
get there by
train, or flight,
by walking or
car. their journey
was of a different
sort. one foot
in front
of the other.
one day into
the next.
they've been
there and back.
they carry it with
them. where
they were,
there are no
maps.

ten steps to happiness

you buy a self
help book on how to
be happy.
your friend jimmy
bought it last
week and it seems
to be working.
he had his shirt
tucked in and was
actually smiling
for once.
it's a ten step
sure fire program
to ensure
happiness throughout
the days of
your life.
ten steps. this
alone makes you
unhappy. you want
one step, two
or three at
the most. ten is
just too many.

the baby dog

her dog
is her baby.
she puts him
in a basket
and takes
it everywhere
she goes.
to the store.
on her bike,
to get coffee.
she speaks
baby talk
to the dog,
waiting for it
to answer back
which it does
with a squeak
or squeal,
or a wag of it's
wiry tail.
there is a blue
ribbon around
it's neck,
a jacket for
when it gets cold.
her dog is her
baby, and you
have no
chance here.

in the clearing

the clearing
is beyond the trees,
the scrub brush,
over the meadow.
you can see
the blue velvet
sky settling
with stars.
night slips
softly over
your pale
shoulders
where you wait.
this is
where love is.
in the clearing.

i swear

with arms swinging
wildly and eyes
bugging out
when someone begins
to tell their story by
saying, I swear to god,
this is true,
or I swear on my
children's lives, or
on my grandmother's
grave then you know
you are in for a tall
tale which may or may
not be true. most
likely it involves a deer
with big antlers
crossing the road
in front of their
car, or a raccoon
coming into their yard
to eat an apple, or
two. that's about it.

they can wait

it's easy to put things
off. the dentist, taxes,
taking the dog to the vet.
an oil change, the filter
on the furnace.
visiting the old and sick
at home or infirmary.
but coffee, well, there's
always time to stop
and wait in line for
a cup of coffee. it's so
easy to pull over
and do so. those
other things can wait.
they always do.