the weather

it's hard to believe
but people
have grown weary
of talking about
the weather.
they have run out
of things to
say.
instead they ball
themselves up,
with scarves
and coats, thick
sweaters
and curse to
themselves as
the burrow through
the wind,
hoping to find
one spring day,
followed by more.

the empty rooms

the empty
rooms, hollowed
out of
things
less important
now,
now that walking
is difficult
as is
keeping track
of what day
it might be.
the movers, young
and strong
with muscled
backs, sweat
on their brows
made quick work
of the things
you owned,
but never owned,
just leased.
the chair you sat
on. the lamp
that shone
upon the pages
of your favorite
book.
how you wish your
hands
were on that book
once more,
as new.
as new as you
were when you read
it and couldn't
put it down.

spinach dip

you are not
particularly
fond of spinach,
but given a tub
of spinach dip
and some decent salty
crackers,
you'll dig your
way through to
the bottom
if distracted
enough. this worries
you.
your lack of
self awareness
and acceptance
of things you don't
even like or
care about.
how you fill your
belly with the mischief
of the world
and spinach.
you need a mirror
in front of
you at all times
to stay under
control.

spinach teeth

she doesn't tell
you when
you come back
from the bathroom
that your
zipper is down,
or that you are
dragging toilet
paper on
your shoe,
and when you
sit, you fail to
mention
that there is
spinach in her
teeth, or that
one of her earrings
has just fallen
into a bowl
of soup.
you have gone
in different directions,
and it's not
the road
of ever lasting
love.

the good luck cat

there is a cat
on your car in
the morning.
black and white
with green eyes
like broken glass.
a red collar
with a bell
around his fluffy
neck.
he is stretched
out on the hood
of your car.
lying in the sun.
you take this as
a message
to you. whether
good luck
or bad you are
unsure, but you
like the idea that
this cat has
chosen your car
to lie on.
your lives are
intertwined,
but you with just
one, and him
with nine.

fenced in

a fence means
nothing to a dog.
it means
nothing to
me either.
we both can leap
or gnaw our
way out if
need be.
the fence is
nothing but a
boundary set
with good intentions,
but it's useless
when one decides
to leave.

old ears

when you had ears
you would listen
to what others
had to tell you
in their tears.
you were younger
and no less
compassionate than
now, but you
had an appetite
for such talk.
you'd take on all
words. for hours
you would allow
anyone to speak
and fill you with
their grief,
their troubles.
but that was when
you had ears.
you are older now,
and your
ears are turned
off.

this is not my life

this is not my
life.
I am not the one
you see
moving
through
the shadows
of the day.
these are not
my hands
lying quiet
in the sun
across the table
from you.
my patience has
turned into sorrow.
I am no longer
who I used
to be. I have
moved on
without me.
I leave nothing
behind.
I take nothing
with me.
this is not
my life.

how it begins

I want what
I don't have.
I have what I
don't care about.
I dream of
being in places
that I'm not.
I'm an infant
in a crib
staring up
at a mobile
that's making
a lot of noise.
I can't reach
it with my foot
to stop it
and if I did
I have no muscles
yet, or
coordination.
I feel wet
and hungry, I
am going to lie
here and cry
until things
change for my
betterment.

the greeter

you get a job as a greeter
at a large chain store.
you wear a red vest
and stand near the front
as people come
through the doors.
after a while you
tire of saying hello
and smiling.
instead you begin to give
advice. quit smoking
you tell the woman with
a pack of camels in
her hand. your teeth are
brown, and you smell
bad. eat less, you tell
the big men who enter
chomping on sandwiches,
eating chips. your
heart is going to explode.
you yell at the little brats,
no running, you tell
them, no yelling, no
crying. if you do I'm
coming to get you.
hey you, you yell to
the teenagers staring
into their phones, ever
read a book?
hey lady, don't you
have a light on in
your house, or a mirror.
I can't believe you're
out walking around
in that dress.
by the end of the day
you have a black eye
and a broken nose. you
lose your job. honesty
is not the best policy.

nothing to wear

pulling things out
of your third closet.
emptying the fourth
dresser
found in the spare
room, you declare
with a shriek
I have nothing to
wear? this is when
she turns to you
and says, what's
the matter with you?
wear what you have
on. it worked our
last nine dates in
a row. black sweater
and jeans. it's you,
now let's go.

your place

you find your
own space
in life.
the place
where
you stand or
sit,
eat, or sleep.
it's taken
time, trial
and error, but
you've managed
to finally get
where it feels
right.
not even love
could make you
budge an
inch in either
direction,
but you've been
wrong before.

snakes under rocks

you watch
the ranger on
t.v.
in his khaki
shorts and shirt
turning over
rocks
in calvert county
searching
for snakes.
when he finds
one he picks
it up like a
harmless ribbon
and holds it to camera.
he talk about
it's stripes,
it's fangs
and habits,
discuses what it
might eat,
or when it might
strike.
he's easy and casual
with these snakes.
turning over rocks
and picking
them up.
snake after snake
all day until
the sun starts to
go down.
then finally one
bites him on the arm.
strangely
this makes you
happy.

what's up?

you start to write
a letter,
a real letter,
not an e mail
or a bunch of
abbreviated
and truncated
words punched
into a phone
keyboard.
no, it's a real
letter on a sheet
of white
paper, with lines.
you have an ink
pen in your hand.
your mind is full
of wonderful things
to say,
and ways to say
them. you want to
have flourish
and embellishments.
your thoughts
are seeds turned
into flowers
ready to blossom.
it's hard
though.
there's the address,
an envelope,
you need a stamp,
a mailbox. you don't
even know
her zip code.
not to mention how
rusty your handwriting
probably is.
you grab your phone.
hey, you type.
what's up?

a new location

you are neither
grumpy
or necessarily
happy
when you awaken
in the morning.
but
sometimes you are
surprised
and curious as
to this new location,
groggy and dry
mouthed.
it takes
a few minutes
to figure out
where you are.
in those situations
it's best
to just get
dressed and leave
quietly,
find coffee and
hit the gps
with your own
address.

come soon

she plays
it safe
and runs with
a dull
pair of scissors.
but run
she does, to
where, she's
not sure, but
when she gets
there she'll
let you know.
usually it's a bar
on the south
side of town
where she'll
call and say
that everyone here
is older
than my mother
and father.
the dead sea
was still alive
when these people
were born,
you'll fit right
in, come soon.

the dress

do you like my
new dress,
she says,
swirling around
the room before
you go out to dinner.
I spent all
day shopping for it.
I love your dress,
you tell her.
it brings out the color
in your eyes.
but my eyes are
blue, she says.
the dress is green.
still, you say,
green is a very
close cousin to
blue, and yes, I
love the dress. you
look wonderful
in it. go
wait in the car,
she says. I need
to change.

office man

you scribble notes
on the back
of receipts,
on envelopes
unopened. on
your hand.
names and numbers,
places you
need to be
the time with
which to be
there.
you were never
an office
man. this hasn't
changed.

the grey

the world
would be easier
if things
were black
and white
with no greys
to deal with.
but it's not that
way.
there is very
little that we can
be sure of.
take love
for example.

your train

you missed
your train.
you were too busy
staring
at the tracks
behind you,
where you just
arrived from.
you were lost
in the sun
rising, at
the possibilities
of spring.
you missed
your train,
but there will
be more
coming.
be patient.
be ready.

let my people go

you part
the red sea
of your yard
with a broom.
it's the outdoors
broom, so
it's okay.
with sweeping
motions of your
arms you
roll back the great
puddles of water.
snow, and ice,
now rain,
all melting into
a still sea.
you open
the gate and push
the water
towards
the woods, down
the slope
to a waiting
full stream.
you are a beardless
moses in
your terry cloth
bathrobe and nike
sandals. you
are letting your
people go,
and by people you
mean your short
legged dog
moe.

because it's there

just because
it's there is
not a good enough
reason to hear
anymore
when you
see the climber
hauling
gear, rope
on his shoulder,
spikes
in his shoes
towards the cliff
and snow covered
peak.
what's missing
inside
of you, that you
are trying
to fill?
how high do you
need to go,
or drop to feel
alive?
how close to death
do you need
to be to have
your itch
scratched
sufficiently?
you ask all of this
as you look
both ways before
crossing
and stepping
gingerly off
the curb.

don't ever change

don't ever
change the inscription
says in
your high school
year book,
scribbled
hurriedly
on the last page
within a heart
with an arrow
through it.
remember
the time, remember
when this
happened.
don't ever change,
stay
the same,
let's keep
in touch through
the summer.
you are my best.
friend
forever even though
you are quiet
and I don't know
you that well.
you are
the most fantabulous
guy I've
ever known.
don't ever change.
don't ever change.
but you did being
barely a seed
below the ground.

but you are here

nothing changes,
nothing stays
the same.
these words
you speak
are echoes of
what others have
said
in different ways.
your arms
and legs repeat
the motions
of what they've
done before.
you dial his number
but there's
no one there.
there is nowhere
else to be, but
here. the future
is not what
it used to be,
the yesterdays
once full of people
that you knew
are slowly
emptying.

committment phobia

he's so mr. non
committal,
she tells me
with exasperation
over a hot bowl
of clam chowder
at the fish market.
i watch her break
crackers into her steamy
white bowl of chowder.
we've been going out
two weeks now
and I've never
been to his house,
or met his kids, or
even his dog.
he can't even say
I love you
after I say it first.
well, I say,
cautiously, maybe
he's, you know,
just not into you.
that's crazy, she
says. we had sex
five times last weekend.
he told me I had
beautiful eyes.
he is into me.
does he spend
the night, or go home.
I ask, peeling a
shrimp then dipping
it into cocktail
sauce. he has to go
home because of the dog,
she says,
blowing on her spoon
of soup before
slurping it down.
do you think you might
be rushing things
a little. love takes
time. I mean you just
broke up with jimmy
three weeks ago
and you said the same
things about him.
I don't know she says,
men are all alike,
they all have commitment
phobia and want just
one thing. can I
have one of your shrimp,
she asks, reaching
over to take one
off my plate.

undettered

after you would
tease
your sisters
without mercy,
as boys
are prone to do
on hot summer days
without school,
your mother would
chase you, but you
were fast.
too fast.
think grey hound,
or field mouse
perhaps.
or a puma cat.
she would reach
out
with a broom
handle,
or a mop,
or a belt, but
it was unfair,
she had no chance.
she could only
sting you with words,
and threats,
but even those
fell flat
against your
ears. how well
those summers
have prepared you
for life.

what you need

the firemen
like fires.
they need them
to be who
they are.
as the doctors
need ailments,
and the lawyers
trouble.
the chefs
need hunger,
and the garbage
men
need trash.
and you,
how you wish
for the rain
to peel away
a thousand
houses
located nearby,
against
rush hour
traffic.

libido

red
tomatoes
on the vine
catch
your eye, so
you push
your cart
towards
them,
they are so
red, so
plump,
you almost
can taste
the juices
upon your
tongue.
with care
you pick one
off and
bounce it
in your palm.
so many
tomatoes,
so little time.

their separate ways

the priest
exhausted by his
day
loosens his
collar
and sits on
the steps of
the rectory
after everyone
has gone.
a stray
dog wanders by
and sees
him, approaches
the slouching
father
and lets out
a small
yet pitiful
bark.
there is no
wag in his
tail, his tongue
hangs heavy,
his eyes are
sick and yellow
with fever.
he has no collar,
his paws
are raw from
roads traveled.
he curls
beside the priest's
shoes,
and sighs.
together they sit
as the evening
sky grows
dark, a chill
sets in the air.
then they both
rise and
go their separate
ways.

keep the receipt

having half a day
off is dangerous.
money leaves your pocket
in a hurry
as you carry
home the hand painted
oil
painting, which says
on the tag
hand painted,
you wonder which wall
will you hammer
a nail into
to hang it.
will you even like it?
it looked so
wonderful in the store,
under the bright
flickering lights,
abstract, but
not abstract.
maybe that's an
ocean, maybe that's
blood, or the sun
setting. maybe it's
a forest gone empty
from acid rain.
who knows. who cares.
you like it, at
least you did as you
slid it into your truck
to take it home.

long distance runners

with your
hands deep into
the pockets
of your shorts,
you shiver
bare legged
near
the finish line
of the half
marathon race,
watching
with flushed
cheeks as the
runners stagger
in. they are of
all sizes and
ages, their
numbered and named
bibs, green
and billowing
in the wind
upon their
heaving chests.
you used to run,
but you're
older now.
wiser, with bad
knees. you
don't miss it.
your races are
different now.

breakfast all day

the road not taken
is plural.
roads, there never
was just one
road.
two roads have
never diverged
either.
the wheel, though
in your hand
was not,
not really.
there are no maps.
no directions
to and fro,
no gps
to plot your
joy, your sorrow.
you just keep
driving, and driving.
hoping that maybe
there's a diner
up ahead
with breakfast
all day, strong
coffee and a waitress
that calls you
hon.

the closet

you go to clean
a closet
to relieve
the house of weight
it's been
carrying for
years now.
old musty sweaters,
board games
unused since
the boy grew up
and moved to L.A. .
it's not as
easy as it looks.
each toy,
each deck of cards
each broken
lace to shoes
once worn
have meaning.
are gold in some
divine way.
you remember
that ball cap on
his head
standing in the sun,
slapping
his glove,
forever young.
perhaps tomorrow
you'll try again.

mistakes

there are no
mistakes miles
davis
once said, though
you tend
to disagree.
and with jazz
how would you know?
you can think
of hundreds
of mistakes
you've made
in a matter of
minutes.
take this fish
for example
that you just ordered
with beans
and small
potatoes
still cold
and salted like
the sea.

pink boy

you see a loud boy
outside the window
sledding
on the hill without
his shirt.
his skin is pink,
glowing
towards red.
he is the only
boy there,
the rest are young
girls his age
bundled tightly
in striped
scarves and coats,
wool hats pulled
down over their
ears. he has decided
that this is
the way to win
them over.
to be fearless
to show them
courage in
the face of wind
and falling
snow. it will
be a long life
beyond this day
for pink boy.

non profit

you want
to become a non
profit
fundraiser.
but first you
need a cause,
a religion
to stand by.
a set of rules
and laws
by which to
govern your
newly created
world.
the money will
be used to raise
more money,
and that money
will be used to
take you to where
the money is.
you'll need
stationary to start
with and a plea
that they will
believe and give
and give.
you promise to only
use to this money
to further your
cause, which
is to make more
money.

persevere

the sea is grey
and cold
yet the white
birds
settle down
like cut flowers
upon the rough
wash beyond
the shore.
we can't understand
how they
persevere through
weather
like this,
how they go
with the wind
and rain,
as you don't
understand
me, and how
I go on despite
you.

six white horses

you can't get
a song out of your
head.
it was the last
song you
heard before you
turned the television
off last night.
an old cowboy movie
with guitars
and horses,
and singing around
the campfire.
she'll be coming
round the mountain
when she comes, when
she comes.
you try to analyze
the words to the song,
break it down
into something
meaningful, but
it's hopeless.
she'll be riding six
white horses when
she comes, when she
comes.
what does this mean.
it's going to be
a long day.

six thousand miles

when you were
younger
you changed
your own oil.
five cans of ten
w thirty. quaker state
in the white
green striped cans.
lying on the street
you shimmied
under the car
on the gravelly
pavement, or
a flat bed of
grass to turn
that one nut
to let the black
warm goo spill
out into a
bucket that you
positioned under
the hole. you watched
as it drained
out, then
you turned
the thread of the
nut back in, if
you could find it.
you climbed out
from under,
then poured the fresh
honey colored oil
back into the
engine. you started
the car up
watching the oil
light blink red,
then go dark
you stood there
wiping your
hands with a soft
rag in the sunlight.
you felt that
your life was good
for another six
thousand miles.

making the rounds

you decide to pay
a visit
to your aging father
of 85
hard won
years.
it's too early
for a bag of tomatoes,
but he'll
have a book
for you waiting.
maybe
a sandwich
and a slice of
pie.
he knows how
to make you happy.
as you do
him. you bring
nothing
but love
and affection.
conversation.
a few jokes he can
use as
he makes his rounds
on Monday
from the gym
to the krispy crème,
to the commissary,
then home.

a dangerous world

it's a dangerous
world.
read
the papers,
catch the blurbs
on line.
listen to a snippet
of the news
on the radio.
see
the bullets
fly on t.v.
things blowing
up.
it's a dangerous
world.
you are so
glad to have
a bed
with which to
hide under.
won't you come
and join me.
let's be safe
together.
but first I have
to pat you
down.

lint

lint reminds
you of how out
of control
the world is.
your black sweater
is covered
with lint.
no matter
how many times
you roll that sticky
wheel brush over
the arms and back,
down the front.
lint keeps
coming, it
never sleeps,
never takes a day
off. lint owns
you. it's just
the way things are.

stick our tongue out like miley

why does she keep
sticking her
tongue out whenever
someone takes her
picture you ask
your friend gina
as you flip
through a people
magazine at the coffee
shop. she looks
twelve years old.
I don't know she
says. it's a long
tongue though.
I think it touches
her chin. it might
be a message, she
says. some sort
of sex message
to the teen world.
do you know
her music, is it
any good? who
cares, stick your
tongue out and let
me see how long
it is. no, you say.
I won't do that.
oh, do it for me.
please, i'll give
you a bite of my
blueberry scone.
okay, okay, you say
and stick your
tongue out.
it goes out maybe an
inch or two.
come on she says,
you're obviously holding
back. stick it out
baby. let's see what you
got. you extend
your tongue, but you
can only do it for
a few seconds because
it hurts. you reel
it back in. okay,
give me a bite of
your scone now.

the dashboard drum

you knew most
of the words by heart.
nearly every
song
of the sixties
and seventies.
the words
you didn't know
you filled in
with words of
your own.
you pounded
the dashboard
riding shotgun
in many of beat
up cars, dodge darts,
and mustangs,
impalas and
bugs, a cold
can of beer
between your
legs, a few friends
shaking their
long hair
and a token
blonde, someone's
sister who you never
had a shot with.
but you knew
the songs. you
had that going
for you. still do.

cut a vein

be serious for once.
write something
extraordinary.
be bold, brazen,
be open and honest
pull the curtain back.
don't be the old
man oz, shivering
behind the thin
veil of your humor.
cut a vein and
dip your wicked
pen into that. show
me what you've got.
write me a line
of gold, unfold
the hidden fabric
of your soul.
be serious for once.

we can be friends

small butter
soft
drops
of rain,
which may
not be rain
roll off your
face into
the puddle
which holds
only part of you.
love ends
love
begins, again
and again,
until
it stops
and you are
slow to
realize
that you were
meant to be
just friends.

gilrs night out

sometimes she comes
home late
from her book club
and smells
of old spice
after shave
and rum.
her dress will
be on backwards
and her lipstick
will be smudged
to one side
of her flush
cheeks. you suspect
something
may be going on,
and ask her,
so how was the book
club tonight.
fine, she'll answer.
what was the book,
you'll ask gently,
watching her undress,
getting the tangles
out of her
hair with a brush.
oh, ummm, it's a book
about the civil
war.
you want to ask her
what book. to
be specific about
Lincoln
and Gettysburg.
tell me about
the soliers dying
at Antietam, you say,
oh it's too horrible
to discuss, really.
it will give me
nightmares. next week
we are meeting
two nights. we will
be reading war and
peace. it's very
long book, so we might
need a sleep
over for that one.
so don't wait up.

lunch time with your therapist

instead of whining
like a baby every time
you come in here,
why don't you just
do something
about your problem
your therapist
tells you as she
takes a bite of
her Italian combo
sub sandwich.
you raise your head
from the long
couch you're lying on.
you look at her chewing
loudly, her mouth open,
with lettuce
between her teeth.
isn't it a little
rude to be eating
during our session,
you tell her, raising
your voice
to what she would
call an interesting level.
she wipes some
mayonnaise from
her mouth. don't get
snippy with me
she says. I have
a tight schedule.
go look out in
the hall I've got
more nuts than you
to deal with today.
now what were you whining
about again.
some girlfriend, wife.
your mother. I've
lost track.
tell me again, but
condense it a little.
don't be dragging
the story out.
you're on the clock.
before you start,
I don't want
my pickle. you can
have it if you want
it, here. she tosses
the pickle to you.
I think it's dill.
you take a bite,
then start telling
her about the time
your mother forgot
your birthday.

giddy up little doggies

when you were a cowboy
riding the range
you weren't a very good
cowboy.
for one thing
you disliked beans.
not to mention being
afraid of horses
and cattle
with their runny
black eyes always
giving you a strange
look.
you liked the hat
and the chaps,
spurs. you've always
been a big
fan of spurs ever
since you met
rosey at the cantina
but the boots
crimped your
toes and gave you
blisters.
they wouldn't let
you wear your loafers
or tennis shoes
while rustling
the cattle.
sometimes you didn't
want to sing
those cowboy songs
around the campfire
so you would put cotton
in your ears
and hum your own
songs which didn't bode
well with your
fellow cowboys
when Indians attacked.
you were slow
to circle the wagons.
sometimes you
wistfully hoped
that you could be an
indian. shirt off
getting a tan,
and making those
whooping noises.
living off the lay
of the land. you liked
their back to nature
style. at heart you were
an indian.

any old ear

distracted,
you put the milk
into cupboard,
your hat
in the ice box.
you lock
the cat into
the closet
and let your
dog run free.
this is what
love
will do to you,
if you allow
it to happen.
so be careful
out there
with your kisses.
be cautious
with
those sweet
nothings. don't
be whispering into
any old ear.

we need more

it's not enough.
more,
she says.
I need more.
we need more room.
more space.
more
things.
our happiness
depends on it.
work harder.
we can't stay here
forever
living this way.
our car is old.
my clothes are worn.
I want a Viking stove.
we need more.
we need to rise
above where we've
come from.
we need to
spread our wings
and fly.
so go back to
work,
we need more,
tell me when
we've arrived,
but be quiet when
you come home.
I like to take a
nap then.

full service booth

you make
friends with a toll
booth operator.
you see her
nearly everyday
as you hand her
a dollar to break
down into quarters.
it's so obvious
that you like each
other. you can
feel that unspoken
vibe. there's
chemistry, for sure.
you get goose bumps
when her hand
touches yours as
she drops the coins
into your palm.
on occasion
you'll linger
a little, to look
into her eyes,
tea brown with
little flecks
of gold. you
stare at her
grey bib
that covers up
her civilian
clothes, trying
to figure out
what kind of shape
she's in.
you wonder what
hair looks like
down, blonde
beneath that webbed
net. you
hate to pull
away some mornings,
but there is
always a car
behind you,
laying on his horn.
there is tomorrow
though. you'll never
get an e z pass. your
love is that strong.

ice berg lettuce

you went through a phase
in your life
where you bad mouthed
ice berg lettuce,
not because you didn't
like it, but because
other people were
dissing it.
those big light green
balls of leaves.
sure they were crunchy
and easy to roll
into the fridge, but
as far as lettuce went
ice berg was
pedestrian at best
to these people.
you may have even been
mocked by a variety of
dates you cooked for
who sniffed haughtily.
is that ice berg in
my salad. to which you
responded, yes I'm
sorry. then you went
to romaine and even
spinach leafs. arugula
found it's way
in to your house
as well as oak leaf
lettuce and boston.
you lost your mind
a little.
who were these people
telling you no more ice
berg lettuce.
but you have found
your way home again,
and it's ice berg.

a morning person

i'm not a morning
person, not usually.
but I have made
exceptions, adjusted
over time to changes
that are beyond
my control. so morning
is just fine.
but so is midnight,
or mid-afternoon if
you have anything
in particular of a
romantic nature,
in mind. i'm
flexible to a fault.
make note of that.

hello darkness, my old friend

you are no fun
to be with anymore.
you are going
through a phase
of complaining
about the weather,
ignoring people,
of thinking everyone
else is an idiot.
you can hear
yourself mumbling
things like
why is she driving
like that, or
I can't believe
the bartender
is so slow, or
why doesn't that
person take a shower
so that they don't
smell. one more snow
storm and I'm going
to kill myself.
what's with this stupid
time change?
you know
it's a temporary
state of mind, but
you worry sometimes
that it might
be permanent.

draw me a picture

your therapist says
draw me a picture
of what you think your
life looks like.
he hands you a pad
of paper and a pencil.
you stare at the blank
sheet for a moment
then say,
I need paint.
gallons and
gallons of paint.
I need walls,
a ceiling, doors
and windows.
I need a good
brush. I need a
cup of coffee too
before I start.
this makes him sit
back into his chair,
and go hmmmm.
what would it cost
for this room
and the receptionist
area?
ballpark?

the soliloquy

her green eyes
like bits
of broken
bottle glass
glimmer
in the sunlight
as she quotes
from Shakespeare.
to be or not to be.
and it's not
the words that
hold you still.
it is something
more to do with
how she looks,
alive and full
of self, her
heart beating
sometimes just
for you.

her hands

her hands are of
great importance now.
she stares into
them for hours.
folding them over
into themselves.
lacing the fingers,
rubbing out
the bones.
these hands she
used to wash and hang
clothes,
stirred pots
of food, and ironed.
cut roses from
her yard.
these hands that
smoothed out the
hair upon your
head, stretched
bandages upon
your wounds. these
hands that once held
yours. they are
alone now as you
leave her in
the empty crowded
room.

i love you, sometimes

you open
the card and it
reads.
I love you
sometimes.
not all
the time, like
last week
when you forgot
to take
the trash out,
or forgot to
pick me up
at the train
station and left
me standing
in the cold.
but sometimes
I do love you.
I'm not sure why.
it's hard to put
into words. it's
easier to tell
you why I don't
love you,
than why I
do. I'm not sure
what that means,
but well, this
was the only card
I could find
that says what
I want to say.
I love you,
sometimes.

short clock

you don't believe
in space
travel.
you think that
everyone should stay
put. solve
the problems here.
why take them
with you, to the moon
or mars, or some
more forgiving star
with a blue
planet.
so much to do
in the here
and now,
on this short clock.

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.