both ends

to burn a candle
at both
ends, you have
to turn
it on its side
and pull
the wick
out of the bottom
then carefully
light both
with a struck
match.
a nearly
impossible task,
and yet
you keep trying.

fresh art

there is only
so much
room
in this house
for another
chair,
or table, or
picture
to hang on
the walls
that are
no longer bare
and asking
for art.
there is only
so much room
in our lives,
for another
love to move
in within
our healing
hearts, but
it doesn't stop
you from
getting
the hammer out,
the nail,
and centering
someone new
against the wall,
always willing
to bend towards
another
fresh start.

a better person

you're a better
person
rested.
with a full
stomach
and the bills
paid, a few
dollars
extra
in your pocket.
you're a better
person,
when you
aren't sick,
or out of work,
or when
the roof
doesn't leak.
you're a better
person
with a new
pair of shoes
to walk in,
when the sun is out,
when you're
around to
hold me when
I fall asleep.

i'm not doing that anymore

you've reached
a point in your life
where you have
stopped doing things
that you don't want to do.
like meeting her parents,
her children,
her relatives across town.
no longer will you
taste food you can't
spell, or never heard
of. if you haven't eaten
it by now, you don't care.
no lima beans, or liver,
no carob, or hummus.
no deer, snake, or turtle
meat. get that soy milk
away from me.
you won't get on a ride
at the carnival,
not even the scrambler,
or go to another wine
festival and sip bad
wine in the hot sun
until your brain almost
bursts with a head ache.
you won't go to the opera,
or listen to banjo music,
or accordion music,
or the boston pops. stop.
no more chick flicks,
or chick books, or
holding a chick's purse
while she tries
on clothes at the mall.
you're done with food
courts too, and camping.
add fishing to the list,
or going up in a hot
air balloon to get fried
and die against
the high voltage power
lines. there are more
things, so many more
things you won't ever
do again, but your fingers
are tired from typing.
so you'll stop now.

honest, i'm not angry

whenever anyone
says, I'm not angry,
I'm not upset.
honest, truly,
I'm just trying
to understand you.
run.
run fast and far.
you are about to
feel the unleashed
fury of a woman
scorned.

freezer burn

her fingers
were frosted
with cold.
her breath blew
out a bloom
of winter.
her heart,
a deep
freezer with
wrapped
meat in
brown paper.
her toes
were icicles.
her eyes steel
blue,
deep and dark
as the north
atlantic.
you needed
a blow torch
to get anywhere
with here.

start anew

the rough
bruised hue
of waves
against
the browned
pylons,
thickened
by winters
cold hand.
how horrible
a death
it would be
to sink
into that blue.
it makes
you wonder
why they
choose the
highest point
of the bridge
to end
things. so
many easier
ways to get
out of
the world,
to shake free,
start anew.

the ants

how quickly
a line of ants
form
once word gets
out about
spilled
sugar, piled
free on
the linoleum floor.
it's what
you think of
when
walking through
the gourmet
grocery store
on a Saturday,
when
the shrimp
and scallops
wrapped
in bacon
are sizzled
by the kid in
a chef's hat
near the automatic
front
doors.

the serum

milking
the poisonous snake
of venom
then diluting
it before
injecting it
into a sheep or
horse. then
removing
the anti bodies,
creating a serum,
this is how
you save a life
from a snake
bite. who knew.
you always thought,
you sucked it
out and spit,
rubbing mud
into the wound.
the world
is fortunate
to be without
your medical
services.

the placid sea

you've reached
a point in life where
you want
it to be drama free.
no crying.
no wild emotions
tossed about
like wind emptying
the trees.
you want the placid
sea.
the clear sky.
the soft white sand
to lie upon,
and dream.
why is this so
hard?

the yellow mg

your friend
had a yellow mg,
like a small
fragile bird,
in the early
eighties.
how many times you
helped her
push it
down the late
night streets
of dc, through
Georgetown,
you lost
count.
parking on a
hill was key
to jump starting
the car
towards home.
hanging on for
dear
life with the top
down, the music
up, the stars
all around, her
hair
in the wind
forever young.

what's that?

there was no
word for volcano
in latin,
which added
to the confusion
as rocks
and ash
rained down
trapping
them forever
in poses
under lava. mouths
open
trying to find
the right
description,
the right word
to say
what they wanted
to say
as a nameless
mountain exploded
laying waste
to the city
of Pompeii.

black and white

in the photo
you see
a box of
crayons
melting
in the sun.
the pale
leg of a child
beside it.
a rusted bike,
a broken
swing, unmoving,
with no one
seated.
a pool,
the fencing
down, sagged
in algae
and blue.
a dog,
the subject
of the photo,
his tongue out,
seems to be
smiling.
what happened
here one
summer day
is gone,
though someone
had the dark
artistic
humor
to photograph
the bones.

the left hand

your left
hand is your favorite
hand.
so often
unchosen throughout
the day.
an under used
hand, the fingers
hardly
used
to open a jar,
or can. it
hardly ever waves,
or shakes
another hand.
it's not as strong
as the right one,
but still
able, and
quietly ready,
if called
upon.
you like that
in a hand.

the wishing well

the coins
had stacked so
high,
dulled pennies
and nickels
no
longer with
a shine,
wishes made
on each
coin, as if
someone was
listening,
then tossed
into the well.
who would possibly
grant a wish
for a mere,
a penny, or
a nickel?
who would grant
love,
or riches,
or health to
someone giving
up such a small
unmissed
fee?

so you sleep

you can barely
their
soft
bodies
and arrowed
paws
digging,
these moles
with black
buttoned eyes,
like thieves
in dirt
burrowing
towards
sweet roots
to eat, while
behind
your locked
door
you dream,
you believe
that you've done
everything
you could
to make your
world a safer
place, untouched
by the gnawing
of the world
outside.
so you sleep.

so how about his weather

because she only
had two toes
on one foot, she
rarely wore
sandals, the other
foot being normal,
she was
self conscious
of her missing
little piggies.
three had gone
to the market
and not come back
is what she told
you, laughingly,
making light
of her uncommon
non-conformity.
but they were
beautiful toes, as
you could see as
her feet swung
along the pier,
the nails painted
strawberry red.
the foot tanned
from the beach.
did you know,
you tell her,
trying to relieve
the tension of
the moment, that
Marilyn Monroe
had six toes on
both feet and they
cut the extra ones
off. true story.
she had two extra
little toes.
there is a long
pause, almost a dead
silence at this point.
she doesn't respond
to this information,
but looks away.
in fact she shakes
her head and stares
at a ship
in the distance,
mumbling something
about wishing she
was on it. so how about
this weather, you
say.

yoga pants

you were sitting out
in the sun today,
on a park bench with
your friend jimmy.
it was lunch break
and everyone and his
sister was out there
walking about
eating egg salad
sandwiches and carrots.
because we were both
on diets, we split
a granola bar
and had a bottle
of water. but we
were distracted
from our usual
reminiscing. so tell
me, jimmy said,
what's your take on
yoga pants? what do
you mean. you know
he says, look around,
yoga pants. like that
woman who just
walked by and
that one over there
jogging, and that
one talking on her
phone and that one.
pushing that stroller.
ooh, look, she's wearing
a red pair. like
a superhero. i like
the red ones. all
the women are wearing
them these days, no
matter what shape
they are in. so what
do you think, he asks,
as you both gaze
around the park at
all the women wearing
yoga pants. you take
a nibble of your granola
bar. I think I may have
an unhealthy love
for them, you finally
say, staring
at a woman standing
on her head against
an oak tree.
it's a good time
to be alive, jimmy.
amen brother.
amen.

the poetry reading

your poetry
instructor from years ago
still reads
the same poems
he wrote
before you knew him.
every poetry reading,
you hear
the one about his son
dying.
the one about
his son, as a child
in school,
the one about his
son, the day he was
born.
he can't stop with
these poems, each year
at the podium,
clearing his throat
before he begins,
as if reading them
for the first time,
trying so hard
to bring him back
to life.

the black car

you keep washing
your black
car. it keeps raining.
the roads
are filthy, which
makes the car
dirty again.
it's a simple
thing that you
completely understand.
leaving you with
the thought that
you'll never ever
again buy a black
car, but you will.
you always do.
it's so hard
to change, and
to stop complaining.
ask anyone.

another life

in another life
no one
was ever
a grease monkey
changing
oil at
a gas station
on the new jersey
turnpike,
or a slave
being whipped
in back of a vessel
while rowing
with a splintered
oar.
no, most people
were kings and queens,
nobility of sorts.
rulers of
long forgotten worlds
perched upon
gold thrones.
which perhaps
gives reason to the
way they behave
now, expecting
so much for doing
so little.

small talk

will work
for money and
small
talk.
bend my ear
i'll listen
i'll
ask questions,
i'll add
in a few
personal side
notes of
my own.
it's a long
day, but
it's work
and pays the bills.
the small
talk
helps
to move
the clock along.
feel free
to pull up a
chair.
I'm open all
day.

whole wheat

the winter
has turned you
white. more
white than usual
think
egg white.
or white bread.
the first burn
will
be a pinkish
burn. an itch
will follow.
by august
though you'll
be a nice
slice of
toast, whole
wheat lathered
with cocoa
butter.

chicken dinner

you don't like
to hear your mother
talk about
how her mother
and grandmother
used to grab
a chicken from
the back yard
and ring it's neck
for supper.
you remember
those fat white
harmless
chickens when
you were a kid.
you used to chase
them around
the bricked
in yard nestled
on a narrow
street in Italian
south philly.
you are glad that
you never had to
witness
the ringing of
a chicken's neck.
it might have changed
you somehow,
and not for
the better.

let's fool around

everyone
is dying.
has something
that is
taking them
to the grave.
inch
by inch
the ground
is dug.
one less
breath, one
less step.
we're all
heading there
eventually
some sooner
than others.
so, anyway.
I think we should
fool around.
time is of
the essence,
why wait?

everything is new

the treeless
boulevard
now new, once
a forest
full of green,
a meadow,
a barn with
rotted beams,
a red roof
caved in.
the boxed houses
rise
one per day
along black
pavement,
white
sidewalks
and gas lights.
a hose fills
up the lake nearby,
almost full.
the new trees
will
be ribbed
in burlap
to save them
from the cold,
held upright
by wires, against
the walking path,
but for now
the road is.
naked
and nude,
a world
scraped clean
but tethered
to balloons,
floating high
against
the blue.

grudges

chilled
rocks along
the stream.
holding cold
as if in
some sort
of angered state.
not letting
go of
winters ice
and snow.
reluctant still
to set free
what has come
and gone.

cherry pie

I like the photo
of the pie
you posted on face
book.
but who are you
anyway.
I know more
about that pie
than I do about
you.
you call yourself
a friend, but
where were
you when I had
the flu,
or that flat
tire and needed
a ride. yeah. I
see your pie.
so what.
I don't see a
slice of it
on my table and
that says more
about where we
stand,
than any cherry
pie.

beneath the surface

beneath
the surface
is where
she likes
to lie.
a foot below
the air
where water
begins
and she can
still see each
sunset,
sunrise.
it's neither
cold
or warm
where she resides.
she can
be reached,
but it takes
some effort
some time,
and the tide
has to be just
right.

selective hearing

you have
developed selective
hearing
over time,
listening
to only what
you want, or
need to hear.
slowly you are
working on selective
vision as well,
and selective
feeling.
choosing carefully
what is
felt or not felt
according to
your mood or
wishes. this
seems to make
the day much easier
to deal with.

the hunger

I set
a dish out
for the cat.
a shallow
saucer of milk
for her
midnight snack.
but she
wanted nothing
to do with
it. so I opened
up a tin
of sardines
and set one beside
the bowl,
this too, was
of interest
to her.
I tried, chicken
and tuna,
no response.
she only wanted
one thing,
and that was
out the door
where she moaned
in ecstasy
to be released
to find love
out on the streets.
a hunger
of a different
sort.

tossing the ball around

why do women
cry so much, your
son asks you
as you toss
the ball
across the yard.
good question,
you say. if you
find out, let
me know, I've
been longing
to know the answer
to that for
a long time.
I guess we
just don't
understand women.
and they
don't understand
us, he says,
stepping back
to catch the ball
falling
out of the sun
and into his glove.
right? right,
you say. right.

until now

helen, short with
a black head
of hair,
a shiny helmet
pulled down tight
around
her small ears,
she's empty and
full of hope
and fear.
alone at last
with sam
gone and what
to do
at breakfast,
as dinner
slowly nears.
no more paper
together, or
clink of cup
and spoon, or
small words
about the new
neighbor,
or the dog that
barks
at night towards
a soft yellowed
moon,
keeping them both
awake
almost until
light
falls across
their carved
bed, where each
has slept
forever.
making children,
being silent, or
angry, but always
finding
a way out, to
stay together,
until now.

a mind of it's own

why does my phone
keep doing
things that I don't
want it to do.
on it's own
it changes my settings,
rearranges my
icons,
deletes things.
where are my contacts?
it makes my ex
wife look like a
princess. a princess
phone.
I hate my phone.
it's in my
pocket calling
someone right this
second. it tells
me in a human
sort of voice
when someone texts,
me, when I get
an e mail. it
won't leave
me alone, all day
long. it's controlling
my life. I want
to throw it
into the river,
but I'm going to
fast, and the window
is up.

she listens

your therapist
is a loser,
but she listens.
you pay
her well to listen,
so, it's
all good.
she has no
advice on what
you can do to
get it together,
it being
your life,
but she listens,
and nods,
smiles and
nods some more.
you tell her that people
are continually
walking all
over you, taking
advantage of your
good nature.
this makes her smile
and nod,
causes her to write
something into
her green velvet
notebook.
you have great
rapport
with her.
sometimes she'll
give you
a recipe at the end
of the session
to try out,
or tell you about
a new movie
she just saw.
she's almost
like a long term
girlfriend,
but you have
to pay her.
occasionally she'll
ask you to help
her install new
windshield
wipers on her
car when you both
leave together,
or to put on some
snow tires,
which is probably
crossing some sort
of patient doctor
line, but she
listens. so you
don't care.

the malt liquor massacre

you remember
the time
your criminally
insane friend
jimmy poured
a beer
into his girlfriend's
fish tank.
it was swarming
with happy tropical
fish, swimming
easily through
the little castle
at the bottom
and hiding between
the green flow
of fake leaves.
he was surprised
at how they suddenly
stiffened and shook
like vibrating
little lights,
then turned sideways
before floating
to the top.
each fish had a name,
he found out
later, little fish
names. wiggly,
and chester, jenny
and jill.
Cinderella.
there was even a jack.
your friend
replaced them all,
but his relationship
with this person
was never the same
after murdering her
fish with a sixteen
ounce can
of malt liquor
beer.

the hard sell

a new
barista is giving
you the hard
sell on coffee.
it's 7 a.m.
she asks you
if you drink coffee
at home, you nod
sullenly,
you are half asleep,
vulnerable in
a weakened
decaffeinated way.
yes, you say.
I do.
well, how about buying
five pounds
of French roast
to take home.
it's on sale.
we've taken off ten
cents a pound.
what, you say,
staring into
the shiny window
of pastries.
her voice is like
that of a
squirrel scampering
in your attic.
you hear her,
and yet don't want
to hear her.
she reaches across
the counter with a
surprisingly long
ethiopian arm
and shakes you,
hey, hey, she says.
do you want
the coffee or not.
I'm talking to you
mister. you can't ignore
me, where's your
car. I'm going
to wheel it out for
you. give me your
credit card.

save us

a year or
two goes by and
you get the call.
that wallpaper you hung
is splitting
at the seams, she
says, nearly
in tears,
you promised
that it would last
forever and ever.
that nothing
would ever change.
we trust you'll
come back and make
amends.
we are counting on
you to make
it right.
to make our lives
right. to fix
the ruin of what
we've become.
save us, and fix
the paper, please.
we are depending on
you. we will be
waiting, and this
time bring
extra strong
glue. my husband,
my children, my friends
are all counting
and depending
upon you. come soon
and save us.

spare parts

spare parts
are everywhere.
a screw,
a gasket, a piece
of metal
pipe, an axel,
a gear,
a washer. not
unlike you,
things are
spread apart,
held
loosely
together by
a vanquished
notion
of self.
what used to
run
smoothly is
burning
oil, grinding
down
tomorrows road
at a
snail's pace.
you need a tune
up
in the worst
of ways.

I Got This

occasionally
you wouldn't mind seeing
a miracle
or two
to increase
your faith, give
you a better
feeling about
the world
at large.
and you don't mean
a miracle
like a butterfly
floating around,
or an apple
growing on a tree.
you'd like to
see something big
like the red
sea parting,
or moses coming
down the mountain
with freshly printed
set of instructions
carved in stone.
a burning bush
would be nice too.
just something to
say, yo, hey, I'm
still here, don't
worry, I got this.

name, rank serial number

people are always
trying to trip you up
by asking
trick questions
like
how are you,
how's work,
what have you been
up to lately.
what's new, are
you still dating
so and so.
but you don't break
under pressure
easily. you are
made of steel
and they can't get
through. you don't
surrender personal
information
at the drop
of a hat. who do
they think they are
delving into me.
you shrug instead
and say, something like,
it's all good.
same old, or something
to that effect,
this makes them stop
and go away.
once again you
haven't buckled
under their prying
pressure, trying to
get into your
most secret self.

heat on

the brightness
of a yellow
sun makes
you turn
the heat off.
you are optimistic.
but by morning,
you shiver
in your bare
feet, go down
the wood steps
and turn it
back on.
you look out
the window.
there is ice
on your car.
you shake your
head.
it's april
for god's sake.
enough.

after ten

the late
night ring,
or the knock
on the door
gives you chills.
you look
at the name,
or number,
you stare
through the peep
hole.
after ten you
want to be
left alone
with your favorite
company,
yourself.

melted chocolate

the melted
chocolate in
your pocket
saved for a rainy
sweet
starved day
has melted.
it's not the end
of any world,
but it is
a disappointment
no different
as you saying,
sorry, but I
have to go.
can't stay.

dr. cole dieter

dr. cole dieter e mails
you in broken english
and wrecked grammar
and says that he needs
work done on
one of his many properties.
you've never heard
of him, but you are
sympathetic with his
plight, his lung
cancer and inability
to talk on the phone.
he is barely hanging
onto to his fragile life.
please, he pleads can
you help me, my friend.
he wants to send money,
but he needs your
account number to
deposit his thousand
dollars. he needs your credit
card information,
your full name and
address, then you'll
get the keys to the house,
the down payment. you
will have work to fill
your month of labor.
he may be Russian,
or Nigerian, or he may
really live in
west springfield
Virginia, but it all smells
like rotten cabbage
at the bottom of a can,
so you tell him your
name is George, that your
real name is George
Washington and to send
further communications
and the check, or cash
and keys to Pennsylvania
Avenue, 1400. Washington
D. C. this seems
to end the brewing
relationship. you hope
he recovers and lives a
long happy life though.
no one should have to suffer
like that. not even
dr. cole dieter.

trash truck

you hear
the trash truck
in front
the house,
turning around
it's behemoth
body
grinding garbage
into its dark
metaled mouth.
the orange men
flipping bags
and boxes into
the loud vortex
of crushed
everything.
and here you sit.
with a bag
of shrimp shells
and fish
sitting by the door
downstairs
stinking up
the house.
you can't count
the times
this happens.
why do they come
so early?
what's wrong with
these people.

an inch given

an inch
given, a mile
taken.
some people
can't put enough
food on
their plate,
or money
in their pocket.
there is never
enough love
to go around.
their mouth
is always dry
in need of
a drink.
a day is long,
the night
longer when
nothing seems
to satisfy.

the whistle

the dentist whistles.
perhaps he
thinks it calms
you, telling you that
everything is just
fine, but it's not
a good sign.
it means he's about
to insert
a needle
into your pink
gums,
or turn on
a drill to begin
to mine
a tooth that's
been giving
you trouble.
it's not a song
that he whistles,
no tune
that you know,
it's just a
thoughtless whistle,
like a bird,
like wind perhaps
through
a window
partly rolled.

you run

in your dream
you run
you run, your legs
are strong.
the world
is blue
under the sky.
the sun
is new.
you have no
scars.
no ache yet
of what's to
come. it's a
fine dream. a dream
you'll go
back to
again and again.
you'll get it
right
at some point.

noah's cruise ship

you try to imagine
noah
with the snakes,
the rats, the porcupines,
the skunks
and alligators,
two by two
in their grumpy
angered ways boarding
ship. the lizards
asking for an upgrade
on their steerage
suites.
how the lunch
buffet must have
gone. the lions
wanting red meat,
the elephants
and giraffes
tall trees.
the swimming
pool a fiasco,
with the monkeys
acting wild,
the shuffle board
court a zoo. why
do the cute animals
have verandas,
the hyenas ask.
what about the pandas
and their very
private room?

apply ice

like newton
you discover things
by accident.
things hit
you on the head.
fall
upon you,
like a rain storm
of apples.
but you don't make
a big deal
of it.
you don't form
a thesis, or
write a paper,
or give an interview
to the local
channel.
no. you just rub
the lump
on your head,
apply ice
and move on.

what to be

grown ups
ask the children,
so, so what do you
want to be
when you grow up.
and it's always
something dangerous,
or glamorous,
or interesting.
they never say
that they want to
carry a sack of
mail from door to
door until they
get old and grey,
and yet, some will.

hanging pictures

the new neighbors
in the empty house
have a hammer.
it's seven a.m.
and pictures must be
hung.
you hear their shoes
going
from room
to hollow room.
then the tapping
of a nail
or screw. they are
a family
of woodpeckers
who love art. this
could go
either way, as
you place a pillow
over your
good ear.

self help

you have
been pieced back
together
by your own hands.
stitched
your mind
in a workable
fashion.
you've
studied
the masters
of sadness
and sorrow.
lifted up
the skirts of
temporary
joy. you've peeled
the onion of
your psyche
to find
another onion
waiting.
this life thing
never
ends, unless
it ends.

the yellow snake

you hardly
notice
the snake
that has crawled
and wrapped
it's yellow
rope
of body
around
the handles
of your bike.
the black
stripes
are as shiny
as wet
tar.
somehow it
has come home
with you. it
has found a
warm
place in which
live.
it's frightening
sometimes
what goes
on without
knowing.

friday night

you keep
the telemarketer
selling
windows and vinyl
siding
on the phone
because you like
the sound of her voice.
she sounds
attractive, cute
and nice.
of course she
might be ninety,
but you don't care.
it's Friday night,
you're a bit
lonely and restless
sitting
there with your
cat, sylvia, widdling
a flute out of a
fallen branch with a
steak knife.

crazy as a bed bug

it's painful
to watch old people
dancing,
despite
the friendly lighting
and vast amount
of alcohol
consumed, the
thump of music,
the hesitant
arms akimbo
moving awkwardly
about
as if swimming
in a terrible current.
you have to turn
your head
and refuse.
it's not
normal to be out
there shaking
your aged booty
to any old or new
tune. no.
stop the madness.
it's over, unless
it's slow,
unless it's Sinatra,
unless it's
a wedding, or
you're madly in love,
or crazy as
a bedbug in june.

saturn's moon

there might be water
under
the rocky airless
surface
of a moon circling
Saturn.
you know. the planet
with all
those radiated
and colorful rings.
you mull this over
as you
search for a parking
spot in the city,
hoping
to find one before
happy hour ends
so that you can get
a cold drink.
not water, although
ice might
be involved
among other liquid
type things.

finding a trashcan

there are so many
trashcans now a days.
it's confusing
as to which one to
throw your trash in.
it's just a cup,
a newspaper and a
plastic container
that held your salad,
but you can't find
the right can,
the blue one, the
green one, the brown
one. you walk up
and down the boulevard
searching for a place
to dispose of your
trash. after an
hour, frustration
sets in and you want
to just toss it into
the street and let
nature take it's course,
but people are
around and they
might think that you
don't care about
the earth. but you
do. you love your
planet. it's one of
your favorite planets
after venus. you miss
the old days when you
threw everything
into a big rusty barrel,
plastic, paper, cans,
bottles, shoes
and old clothes,
something kids would
set fire to after
drinking on Saturday
night at the park.

losing friends

you lost a few
friends
last week.
they disappeared
from sight
with the click
of a button.
you were so close
to them,
sharing the cake
you baked,
the flowers
in your yard,
their children making
funny faces.
how you loved
their updates
and silly jokes,
their concern
for politics
and keeping the earth
afloat.
you felt that you
too were on vacation
with them in aruba,
and spain,
Italy and Daytona,
but you lost them,
and now you may
never see them again,
how quickly face
book brings one joy,
and then such sad
and unexpected
misery.

new strategy

you have a new strategy
when it comes to age.

you begin to tell everyone
that you are 70 years old.

this makes them go no way.
dude, you don't look it.

it's freaking amazing
the shape you are in.

how do you do it? you should
write a book, or be on

t.v. 70, they say, standing
back with their hands on

their hips, eyes bugging
out. yup, you say. 70,

but gotta go now, I'm
doing a 5k next weekend,

have to get my miles in.

fat and still hungry

I keep trying to lose
the same
ten pounds every spring,
she says to you,
grabbing a rubbery
roll of blubber
around her yoga pants.
yup, you say, me too.
I'm still carrying
thanksgiving dinner
in here. you tap
your gut like a watermelon
ripened and ready
to burst.
what do we do? she says.
just what will we do?
I don't know, but
are you going to finish
that éclair, I'm
still hungry.

store flowers

a line
of flowers
weeping
bent
over
in the big
store.
tended to
by careless
hands,
part time
help.
orphaned lilies,
ignored
roses.
begging with
unwatered
leaves
won't you please
take me
with you.

your corner store

she is
the corner
store.
fresh
and open for
business.
you see the light
on in her eyes,
blinking.
you know where
everything is.
each shelf
laid out neatly
and clean,
no dust or
spoils here.
she's wrapped
and ready
to go, deliveries
for special
orders only.
you get what
you pay for,
no discounts
or coupons
accepted.
one customer
at a time. she's
your corner store.

something different

every night
it's chicken.
fried or baked,
barbequed
and grilled.
can't we have
something other
than chicken
one night, you
plead to your
wife as you
scour the cupboard
for food. surprise
me one night.
like what
she says?
you hate fish,
and you can't
eat red meat
anymore on
account of what
the new England
journal of
medicine says.
so that leaves
you with chicken,
or pasta, which
you hate.
what about cereal,
you say.
I love cereal.
sure, she says.
sugar pops,
or frosted flakes?
go crazy,
mix them together.

the open door

unhinged,
a door
leans
unlocked,
ajar
to air
and light,
for anyone
with a
notion
to come in.
some doors
are
sealed tight
while others
wait
for the moment
when you
should enter,
to go
forward
and begin.

cows

you spot
from the car
window
black
and white cows
with mouths
moving
full of broken
grass,
still beneath
the blue sky
above
them,
the world is
miraculous
in its
strange beauty.

safe in the fog

you don't want
to know
what's hidden.
it's better
sometimes to stay
in the dark,
stay clueless
about what is
true, or false.
it's easier to see
the world
through prisms,
through the rose
colored
spectacles that
we all put on.
life is more
palpable by
what we
don't know.
keeping the truth
at arms length
allows us
to sleep well,
safe in the fog.

strategiclly located butterfly

everyone
has a tattoo these
days.
the middle age
grocery
clerk's arms
are full of them.
although
they are a little
runny now.
the blue
is green, the
reds are
violet, seeping
into
the fleshy skin.
your barista
has a nice barbed
wire
around his
biceps. black
and jagged,
scary, and the day
care center
lady has a rose
on her breast, or
at least the part
of her breast that
she chooses
to show you
with her low
cut yellow
sweater.
it used to be
sailors, or
sinister people
who rode bikes
and killed cats
for fun,
prisoners, and
carnival folk who
were adorned
with ink, but not
anymore, the
times they are
a changing.

the dinner party

you know you are going
to have a big
fight with Irma
the second you come
home from work
and there's six
other people
sitting at the dinner
table, finishing up
what looks like
a plate of chicken
and potatoes.
string beans and
corn bread. home
made. ah oh, escapes
from your lips
as she rises to
begin crying
and berating you in
front of your
forgotten guests.
am I late, you say.
give me a hint here,
birthday, anniversary,
something, right?
you mumble something
about the train,
the weather,
work, failing to
mention happy hour
where the time just
plum got away
from you.

the weather girl

you like
the weather girl.
the fact
that she's only
half right
all the time,
half wrong
the rest of
time.
it's pleasing
to know
that some women
can't be all right
all the time.
how rare
that is.

we're so alike

one minute she's in
hong kong,
meditating in a lush
green garden,
her legs
set in a lotus
position,
the next day
she's in paris
floating
on a barge down
the seine.
sipping red wine,
eating
bleu cheese,
and saying things
in a low voice
that are sublime.
you scratch your
neck
where it itches,
reading her e mail,
and think about
what to do next.
maybe
later you could
go up to target
to buy some kitty
litter. you're
almost out.

term life policy

you slam
the door on the insurance
man's foot, trying
to get rid
of him, but he's
wearing steel toed
boots.
his brief case
is wedged between
the storm
door
and the knob, it's
a struggle
between you
and him.
he has a pen in
his mouth,
and a term life
policy under
his double chin.
just sign it, he
says with his
onion breath.
sign it and
i'll leave you
alone forever.
don't you love
your kid,
don't you have a shred
of human
decency in you?
do you want him to
be poor and homeless
if you should
perish in a non
suicidal manner?
you are walking
around with
no life insurance.
what's wrong
with you man? just sign
the document
and i'll go.

the ; ) personals

your new girlfriend
that you met on the Gregg's
list personals,
madame x, wants to tie
you up and tickle
you with a feather.
drop hot wax from
burning candles onto
your skin. hit you
with a barbed whip.
but you don't
want to. you hardly
know her, and don't
exactly trust
her because you've
never seen her
without her leather
mask before.
she's nice,
and friendly, which
is basically
the same thing, but
she's personable
and a great
conversationalist,
which is important in
this day and age.
it's hard to explain
the attraction,
but she is a good
cook, her lasagna
is out of this world.
you just wonder
sometimes what she
really looks like
without the spandex
and leather, the thigh
high boots and like
I said, the mask.

to be a bird

birds
have no feelings,
at least
none that
they show.
they don't have
the time
or the inclination
to be
happy, or sad,
joyous or
full of woe.
they just
fly away from
trouble or
love,
with everywhere
being somewhere
next to
go. how nice,
at times
to be a bird.

the job review

we want more
out of you.
don't take this
the wrong
way, but
we know you are
capable of doing
great things
here at the company.
we believe in
you despite
the numbers you've
shown over
the last few days.
we think that
there is a future
for you here over
the next thirty years.
we see you in
the corner office.
we see you
running the show
at some point.
but we just need
you to buck up,
to care a little
more. to apply
yourself. to stop
day dreaming and
staring out the window.
we know it's only
been a week, but
we more out of
you. okay?

seven seas

in every sea
your father has
dipped
his feet, floated
under suns
a half world
away.
he can point
to any blue
on the spinning
globe
and say, there,
I've been
there to swim,
to float upon
the salts and touch
the sand
of that sea.
his eye grow
soft,
as he remembers
as yours will
when you remember
this.

to clean

it's good to clean.
good
for the soul.
the dust and grime
under hand
and brush, broom
and mop.
each corner,
under each bed.
it's good
to clean. good for
the soul.
good for the head.

pot holes

pot holes
equal
hell.
the devil's
hands
are digging
deep
within
the streets.
making
wells
for you to
fall in.
to clunk
your wheels
within,
to trip
and fall,
and fall,
never to be
seen again.

retreat

retreat
is fine. two
steps back
beyond the fray
behind
the trenches,
the line
of fire.
retreat.
not surrender,
but
retreat
behind the walls,
the wire.
fall back,
regroup.
retreat.

if you don't die first

you want to sign
up for the new health
care
web site, but
you don't have
nine hours of sitting
there to spare.
over and over
the screen blinks
busy. wait, or call,
be patient, send
us your e mail
address and we'll
let you know
when we're ready
to answer the question
of whether or
not you qualify
for help,
the answer already
being no.
you persist though.
over and over
you plug in your age,
your state,
your county,
your income, hit
enter, only to say,
so sorry, try again.
try again.
try again, if you
don't die first, please
try again.

failing the test

when your son was little,
in the three to five range
of age, the trend
was to take children,
for their birthdays,
to chuckee cheese's. a place
you remember as a living
hell, with mechanical
rats singing non stop
on a revolving platform.
there was a coat of kid
goo on every chair. every
table, every knob, or
spoon, or cup. they
all wanted pizza and cokes.
sugar and cardboard
with tomato sauce
ladled onto the round
stiff pies. the place
was a slime festival
of noise. sometimes you'd
stay for more than five
minutes, but rarely more
than that. you'd leave
him with your wife, your
ex-wife. maybe leaving
had something to do with
that. but a man has to
know his limitations.
and singing rats, and
a room full of screaming
children put you to the
test. a test you failed.
sometimes you'd go out
to your car and cry.
putting your head on
the steering wheel
weeping, praying that he'd
get past this age.

your prom date

the girl
you took to the prom
is in prison
now.
you saw her picture
in the metro
section of
the newspaper.
she robbed a bank
and kidnapped
a teller, holding
him for ransom,
until
they shot tear
gas into her motel
room, taking her into
custody.
she looks nice
in her picture.
same dark eyes, and
dark curly hair.
she's gained
a little weight,
but you remember
what a nice time
you had at the prom.
how you almost
got to second
base. how you bought
her a flower
and pinned it onto
her dress, trying
hard not to puncture
her flesh. you always
wondered what happened
to her, searching
for her name
on facebook, but
now you know.
maybe you'll pay
her a visit when
she gets settled
into her new home
behind bars. might still
be a little connection
there.

a big white horse

you have no horse,
but if you had
a horse, it would
be a large white
horse. you would
say things like
giddy up or whoa.
you'd wave your
hat into the air
and say hi ho.
people would wave
at you. they'd
cheer as you rode
by for no good
reason, they would
like the idea
of someone on a
big white horse
riding heroically
down main street.
sometimes it seems
that it's all
about making a
good impression,
not substance.
it took a few years
to learn this,
but you've got it
down now. now that you
have a horse.
a big white horse.

lost button

a broken
lace
a lost button
a missed
call,
a flat tire.
things
add up
before you
know it.
you either
laugh with
the day
or choose
to start
drinking, or
both.
but don't
get angry
that just
involves
bringing in
other people
who have nothing
to do with it.

things are growing

you see her
in the front yard.
bent in the grass
digging. weeding.
planting.
hosing down what
grows.
tools beside
her sandaled feet.
a steel shovel,
a rake,
shears, all shiny
and new.
a large straw
flops down to
her shoulders.
she's wearing next to
nothing. working
on her tan
in a white string bikini.
out on the street
old men hit the curbs
and mailboxes
with their cars
as they slowly roll
past her yard
on their way
to church with their
wives.
it's spring time
once again they whisper
to themselves,
thank god.

woman with a small dog

when the dog
lurches
at you, biting
your hand
because you
have a sandwich
in it,
leaving a neat
band
of teeth marks
imprinted into
your skin,
you stare at
the owner as
if it was she
who latched her
teeth upon
you. but she
shrugs and says,
oh my, I'm oh so
sorry. fluffy
has never done
such a thing.
she didn't break
the skin did
she. she squints
at your red
hand, looking
for blood. nope,
don't see any,
she says.
I didn't know fluffy
could jump that
high. good jump
girl. well
have a nice
day. maybe we've
learned a lesson
about walking around
with a sandwich,
haven't we. bye.

lemon pie

the senior citizen
nursing home
smells like a wet
diaper
and boiling cabbage.
it seeps into
your skin
and clothes. hours
later, you can still
smell it on you.
the fan in the bathroom
never stops
running. ever.
your mother is
looking a good house
keeping magazine
when you come in,
but it's upside down.
the tulips on
the front dangle
pink and red
cups to the ground.
she doesn't know
what day it is.
what season,
what year, or who
the president is.
none of that really
matters at this point.
they feed her well.
she has on clean
clothes.
her hair is brushed.
her glasses are
on. she is a shade
greyer than the last
visit, but she smiles
and says your name
when you arrive.
she puts her hand out
and says, what's that.
dessert? then you
hand her a slice of
lemon pie, her favorite,
with a small
white plastic fork.

I'm not sally

you don't even know
who I am,
she tells you in a slow
burn, a simmer
that could easily
burst into flames.
you don't know me.
not really.
what color are my
eyes, what's
my middle name.
half the time you call
me sally, and
I'm not even sally.
where did I go to
school?
when is my birthday?
this rattles you
and you say something
smart like what is
this, the Spanish
inquisition?
you are happy that
this conversation is
taking place over
the phone and not in
person. you are not
good with conflict
or confrontation.
you are basically
Switzerland in a human
body. you rarely
send a dish back,
even if it's cold,
or not what you ordered
you are amenable
to world's small
mistakes. so this line
of questioning bothers
you deeply, but
you'll get over it.
but first you try to guess
her eyes.
blue? bluish green?
how about brown with
specks of gold?
let's go with that.

a new cold war

she threatens
with a vow to never read
another word
of what you scribble
if you don't stop writing
about things she doesn't
care about.
she has become
the soviet union
of the cold war,
she is stalin with a wig.
khrushchev with a scowl,
not pleading for you
to obey, but ordering.
she begins to throw
bricks up between
you and her,
building a wall.
she slams her shoe
upon the desk and
says, i'll ignore you.
which is the worst
a reader such as her
can do. too bad.

give your love

if you give your love
to your children
they'll give it back
in full, maybe not
now, but eventually
if you live long
enough.
if you give your
love to food, it
will give you larger
clothes and
you won't be
able to see your
shoes, if you give
your love to your dog
or cat, you'll get
heart break in return
as they come and go
too fast. if you give
your love to rosemary,
well, be very careful
with that, you'll
spend all your money
at the infirmary
and never get love
back.

let's stop along the way

let's stop
at the next rest stop.
get out.
stretch our
legs.
use the bathroom
make some
calls
then have a sandwich.
let's
figure out where
we are,
how far we have
to go.
let's not drive
straight
through this time,
speeding
down the road
like maniacs.
let's stop
at the next rest
stop.
we're not in a race.
the beach
will be there when
we get there.
hey, are
you listening,
honey?
what?

so anyway

there are long gaps
in the conversation.
that cliché
cricket sound
chirps
in your ear.
tumble weeds roll
along the dry
corridors of your
mind. a dusty
breeze can be
heard rattling
the trees.
you can't always
be fun and clever.
alert and wise.
sometimes you've
got nothing more
to give, the tank
is dry. so you both
listen to the sound
of breathing.
waiting, waiting
for this ghost town
to resurrect.

guilt free

you like
ice cream, but
you can't have
it every day.
same goes for cake.
and a nice
mixed drink
when the sun
goes down.
fried foods, sure,
with a big
scoop
of mashed buttery
potatoes.
love it, but
moderation is
the key.
or so they keep
saying.
there must be
something we can
do all the time
guilt free.
I'm open for
suggestions,
are you listening?

intuition

something
is afoot.
s feeling in
the air.
your spider sense
has been
activated.
and it's not
just the smoke
alarm
going off
in your kitchen,
no, it's
something else
entirely.
your always
wrong intuition
is telling
you to beware.
be cautious
with strangers.
don't answer
that door
even if they do
look like
neighbors.

i take my bra off first

the first thing I do
when I get home
from a long day at work,
betty says while you
sit at happy
hour eating
fried calamari and
sucking down
vodka tonics, is
take off my bra.
as soon as I get
through the door,
before I even
say hi to my cat
I unsnap it with a quick
reach around under
my blouse, yank
it out from
the top then fling
that sucker across
the room. you have
no idea how great that
feels to get that
bra off.
hmm. you say, sipping
deeply into your
drink. there are so
many new things
I learn about you
all the time.

reflection

the puddle,
the glass, a pond.
a window,
a tea spoon
or a flask.
the mirror.
all
have you in
them.
but like others
they capture
you in a way
that you
truly aren't
at all.

have a nice day

you don't like wine.
it gives you a headache
and it doesn't
quench
your thirst.
but you find yourself
sniffing
at it when
it's forced upon you,
drinking slowly
in small
practice sips,
swishing it around
your mouth
before nodding
how wonderful it is.
agreeing that it
is acceptable
to drink. please,
pour me a glass.
your life is full
of phony moments
like this, but
you're working on
them daily
to be rid of them.
tomorrow you will
stop saying have a nice
day.

house on the corner

the boards
against the old
house
are peeling
of paint.
a layer of blue,
is showing pink.
the nails, heads
rusted,
are sliding
out
from where they
were pounded in
years ago.
wood twisting
towards the sun.
the gaps
between windows
let
the air in,
the air out.
some panes are cracked
or with
holes showing
the dark within.
a brick is missing
from
the chimney
where birds
have nested,
squirrels
have made a home.
how the roof sags,
tired
from snows.
exhausted by wind.
shutters bang,
hung loosely by
one screw.
it's not your
house, but at times
you've felt
like you've lived
there time and
time again.

have some cheese

women love
cheese.
they know all about it.
when you visit
them, they
have a variety
of cheeses sliced
and ready
on a plate.
the thought of cheese
hasn't crossed
your mind in
months. you know
American
cheese and blue.
that's it. but blue
is spelled
differently because
it's cheese.
there are crackers
on the plate too.
not lame white saltines,
but fancy
crackers from
other countries.
they are hard and
tasteless, but
crunchy.
sometimes there
are olives
too. olives
like you've never
seen before. all
shades of green,
black, different
sizes of olives,
but the cheeses
are fascinating.
arranged neatly
in rows.
soft and hard.
hot and cold.
you don't know where
to start as you
hold the tiny rounded
knife in your
trembling hand.
have some cheese
she yells from
the bathroom before
shutting the door.
i'll be right out.

semi rich

your semi rich
friend likes to buy
rounds of drinks
for everyone to let
them know that he
is semi rich.
this semi bores you.
the more complicated
the drink
the more he orders,
the more he makes
sure that everyone
knows he is buying.
his big truck is out
front. he has a big
house that he rents
at the shore.
his wife has big
appendages that aren't
original parts.
he has a black
amex card and waves
it around as if it
was his, his, well,
you get the picture.

one tree falls

one tree
falls
into another.
more go
down,
trunks heavy
with water
sink
and slide.
the earth
moves
under their
feet.
uprooting
years of life.
one day here.
one day
gone.
nothing
stays
the same,
not us,
for sure.

the evil twin

someone
who looks like
you is
ruining your reputation.
he's being
nice
and kind,
helpful and
considerate
of other's feelings.
he's buying
flowers and writing
love poems.
he's open
and honest, he
listens when others
talk.
he's compassionate.
who is this
person
and why is he
behaving this way.
you don't
want to be
thought of as
the evil twin,
but so it goes.

before it gets dark

I want to find
someone to grow old
with, you tell your
son, who laughs at
you as he puts a bar
bell over his head.
it's too late dad,
you're already old.
but it would be nice,
he says, setting
the bar bell down
and sipping on a
vanilla power shake.
cause I'm not
changing your diapers,
or feeding you
baby food with a
spoon, I love you dad,
but I didn't sign
up for that.
why don't you go down
to the lake with
a loaf of bread
to feed the ducks,
I saw a lot of old
ladies down there,
some cute ones too
with teeth, speaking
English, some
without canes or
walkers. which lake
you ask him, can
you drive me there
before it gets dark?

and one other thing

you say things
that you'd like to
take back.
mean spirited
things aimed for
the heart and head
of your target.
words spewed
out in anger
like lava
from a hot mountain
giving in
to the pressure.
but you can't
take them back.
they are stuck
hot and red in place,
flaming arrows
buried deep
in where you sent
them.
so you try
to salvage things
by being
quiet for awhile,
slipping slowly
into the background
and tip toeing
away as if nothing
really happened.
humming to yourself,
singing la de da.
la de da.

pancakes

what do you think of my
legs, she asks you,
sticking them both
straight up in the air
as she lies on the bed.
which one, you ask.
the one with varicose
veins or the one with
the scars from your
motorcycle accident?
either, she says, or
both. I work out now.
I walk two miles a day
and I do this thing
with a rubber ball
and a stretch band.
I saw it on tv one night
and couldn't sleep
so I ordered it.
I've been doing it for
a week now. do you
notice the difference?
pretty shapely, you say.
not too shabby.
I'm getting the ab
stretch band ball
thing next week.
it only takes nine
minutes a day.
this tire around my
gut will be gone in
no time, she says,
grabbing a roll around
her white fleshy
stomach. you'll see.
can't wait, you say.
now let's go eat some
breakfast. pancakes?
she says excitedly,
yes, you say.
pancakes!

more

you run out
of room.
in your closets.
packed
solid with boxes
and books,
shirts and shoes.
coats
you'll never
wear again.
you slide
things under the bed.
you drag plastic
bins to the attic,
the basement,
the wet shed.
all the drawers
are stuffed.
socks and underwear,
more socks.
shorts. t shirts
with holes in
them. sweaters
with bold
horizontal stripes
that a plane
could see
from miles away
if you were stranded
on a desert island.
gifts you'll never
wear.
you can almost feel
the house tilt
with too much.
the walls bulging
as if one bite
of food too many.
about to burst.
and yet, you got
shopping for more.

big jo from texas

did I tell you I'm
from texas
big Jo tells you
as she puts a shine
on her white
boots. sure am, she
says. I was junior
miss texas once.
a long time ago.
I set the record
for twelve year
olds at the rodeo.
she looks out
the window, longingly
as if staring
at a sheep.
have I ever shown
you that picture
of me lassoing a sheep.
no, you say.
please, I'd love to
see it after
we're done eating
this fine barbeque
you cooked. oh, I
didn't cook it. i got
it from the place
up the street. I
don't cook anymore.
my husband got all
the cook ware when
we split up.
he got the horses too
and the grill.
I loved that grill.
let me get that
photo album for
you. enjoy that barbeque
while i look for it.
I'm so glad you came
over. we have so much
in common.

sugar cookies for the house

you bring cookies.
a plastic
box of sugar
cookies
for the house.
they are sprinkled
with colored
sugar for easter.
yellow and blue.
green.
it's not against
the rules.
you don't think,
but you pass
them around just
the same.
some take them
and begin to
eat, nibbling at
the edges, letting
the crumbs falls
to the floor
or couch.
others put them
in their pockets
or throw them
across the room.
one woman takes
a bite sets it
down, then begins
to tear strips
off the magazine
it sits upon,
and eats that.
your mother has two.
these are good, she
says. did you bake
them yourself?
of course you say.
of course.

the worst has happeed

lucy calls you
at eight a.m.
you can hear the clink
of a martini
glass against the phone.
she's crying.
what else is new.
what, you say.
what's wrong?
everything, she says,
sobbing.
everything is wrong.
my life is in
ruins.
are you drinking
already. it's only
eight.
I've been up all night,
she says.
I have circles
under my eyes.
I can't believe what
happened.
what, what, you say.
tell me.
the Nordstrom shoe
sale is over.
I missed it, I can't
believe I missed
it. it's the spring
extravaganza and
I missed it.
you can hear her shaking
the newspaper pages
in her hand.
okay, okay. calm down.
i'll be over later.
we can get through this
together.
take the day off
put a warm wash rag
on your forehead.
take two aspirins and
i'll call you later.
okay. okay, she sobs.
thank you,
you are the best.
thank you.

a little while longer

you could go to work
right now.
throw on some clothes,
go get coffee,
go out into
the ice and cold,
begin your day
of labor,
but you'll wait
a little while longer.
your ambition
to be self employed
has served
you well at times
like this.

mint chocolate chip

you can't hurry
a broken heart
along.
ice cream helps.
the cold spoon
digging deep
into the frozen
sweet.
the quantity is
different for
everyone, the days
alone, and
pints
in hand find
their own
measure of relief.

filet o fish

you've always
wondered about the
filet o fish
sandwich.
why the o between
the two words?
where are the bones?
what kind
of fish is this
on this soft
mushy bun
lathered with
a white sauce.
covered by a melted
blanket of
yellowed cheese.
what ocean did
this fish swim
in? what net or
hook reeled it to
our shores.
the stoners back
in the day used
to call it brain food,
but even now you
wonder if it's even
fish, to this
day you still
aren't sure.

the note

she leaves
you a note
on the kitchen table.
you hate when
they leave
you a note.
it's a long note.
a well
written note.
they all say
the same thing.
the promise of love
gone wrong.
tears are involved.
you can see
the rain
drop stains
smudging
the ink.
you unfold
the note, you
read the first
line, then
the second line.
there are
a hundred more
lines to go.
you stop, you've
read this note
before, you have
it memorized.
there is no need
to on.
you place it
in the box
with other
the notes.
they will keep
you warm when
winter comes,
helping to
start the fire.

water my flowers

they take
your neighbor away
in a squad
car, hands
behind his back,
cuffed.
cops are removing
boxes
and bags
from the premises.
guns
and knives,
they are digging
in the back yard,
dragging
the pond beside
his house.
dogs are sniffing
around
the fence
where roses grow
in thorny bushes,
but before they
push his
head down and into
the car to
drive him away,
he yells to you,
I'm innocent,
water my flowers
while I'm gone.
which makes you
wave and say okay.

lunch is served

as if
starving,
the well kept
men
and women
with Gucci
bags
stand in line
for a
shrimp
on a cracker
with
red sauce,
at the local
gourmet store,
then circle
the room for
one
or two more,
filling
up
on free,
sipping the wine
from
Dixie cups,
not one, not
two,
but three.

what's lost

you can understand
how things get lost,
how they fall
between the cushions
of your day.
keys and coins,
numbers scribbled
in haste.
you get the cloud
about you
that hides the land,
washes away
the sea and sky.
disregarding the wink
or nod, or slight
that's said
off hand. so much
is lost that we
don't know, so much
left behind that
we don't go
back for.

move your gala apples to the belt

please move
your gala apples
to the belt.
please remove all
items and start again.
move your gala
apples to the belt.
you need assistance
with this item.
help is on the way.
you may continue
checking out, or
wait until help
arrives. please move
your green leaf
lettuce about to turn
brown to the scale.
place dying lettuce
on the belt.
please remove all
items and start
again. you can try
your gala apples
again, or wait until
help arrives.
please do not cry.
help is on the way.

one fried chicken leg

you want
a piece of fried
chicken.
but it's late.
you can't sleep
with chicken
inside of you.
so you settle
for a banana.
this does nothing
but make you
unhappy.
tomorrow
you will eat
chicken you
promise yourself,
speaking to
your stomach
as if it was
a petulant child.
it's what you do
in order to
get some sleep.

the view

in the high
rise building
you see people
in the windows
staring out
with binoculars
to the lit
windows
of other buildings.
their lives
are made whole
by seeing glimpses
of what
are others
are up to,
despite seeing
nothing new, it's
more interesting
to them
when it's not
them they see,
but you.

at night

the ocean
comes home with
you.
the pull
off waves,
the strength
and power
of depth.
your blood
still rolls
with the tide,
as you lie in bed.
your head swims
with each
swell
and rise of
blue water.
your legs
feel
the chill
where your toes
curled
in the shifting
sand.

you unwind

you unwind.
you are a clock
ticking
down,
the wheels
clicking
slower,
gears churning
quiet,
you are low
on time.
your days
and hours
slip through
the sleeve
of glass,
the grains of
sand
piling up
against your
will.
you unwind.

the bartender tells you

to save nothing,
spend it all.
break even is
the goal
in this life.
animals have no
pockets,
to speak of,
they eat and
carry what's
in their mouths.
no retirement
plan, no
401 k,
or SEP.
no bank account
with which
to write
a check.
they prepare
only for each
season,
forget the rest.
you go out the way
you came
in, empty handed
and crying.
but I don't live
in the woods
or have feathers,
you tell him
which makes him
shrug and say
you could
though. another
round?

happy birthday

you hate birthdays.
it's just
another notch
on the bars of
your life,
telling you another
year
has passed, one
less year
to enjoy, or endure
depending on
how love
or the market does.
you try to think of
what would make
your birthday
more exciting,
and something
that you would look
forward to.
perhaps a bikini
clad woman jumping
out of a cake,
that would help,
for starters.
she could have sparklers
in her hand,
a tiara on her head.
when she opened
her mouth confetti
would fly about.

did you find everything you want?

people are not
shopping at the trader
joe's store,
no, they are studying
the packages.
taking their time,
reading the calorie
count, where
that chicken was
raised, the salt
within the nuts.
how long will this
bread need to bake.
the aisles are clogged
with men and women
in clogs. hand
printed
lists in their hands,
proud of their grey
locks, pony tailed
and serious about
their food.
it's a stress filled
cheerful place, with
bells ringing,
the help almost
humming, or singing
to the music
that's playing
your song. someday
you'll figure
out how to check
out, where to push
your cart, where
does the line
begin, or end.

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.