spare love

the spare
tire will get
you home
if home isn't
too far
down the road.
a stranger's
kiss will
keep you warm
if only for
a night,
when the one
you love
has left for
the unknown.

the mint

finding
a single
sweet mint
in your pocket
that you forgot
was there
makes
you think
there is more
good in
the world
than you
realized.
the pin
in your shoe,
well,
that's a different
story.

they were having the talk

you see a couple
in a restaurant
having the talk.
you're waiting for
your friend to
arrive who is
always late,
but that's another
story.
they are talking
loudly. the couple,
not caring who
hears or doesn't
hear. you check
for rings, interested
in your nosy way
for details.
she's wearing hers.
his fingers are empty.
he strikes the table
with his hand.
he wants it to
keep going, she
wants it to end.
the lunch they ordered
arrives, but
they don't touch
their food,
their glasses
of wine sit warming
in the sun.
he's angry, she's
sad. he leans
towards her, pleading
something in a
harsh whisper, she
straightens her
back and looks away.
you want to plug
your ears with
the bread sticks
on the table, but
you don't. it might
draw attention
to yourself and
stop them from
talking. you want
to see where this
goes, as if you
didn't know.

yellow fever

you wake up early
covered in a silky
sheet of yellow
dust. you shower
then go
outside to shovel
the pollen off
your sidewalk.
you hose it off
the black car,
that you swore you'd
never get again.
people are bent
over sneezing, coughing,
gagging. they are
wearing surgical
masks, their red
eyes tearing
down their cheeks.
birds over head
are flying by,
clearing their throats.
you spit and wave
to your neighbor,
saying good morning
in a gravelly voice.
off to the drugstore,
she asks, scratching
her neck, rubbing
her eyeballs
with her fists?
yes, you say.
pick you up
anything, and she
hands you a twenty
and a list.

through the trees

you'd like
to believe
that you have
evolved
over the years,
filled your
mind with
reason
and compassion,
but there are
days when
you are still
swinging through
the trees,
taking care
of only your
basic needs.
all the art
and literature,
the learning
has been pushed
aside for food
and clothing,
for unquenched
desires, you
have forgotten
for a moment how
to walk
upright. you
are once again,
who used to be.

the new grill

from your window
you see
the new neighbors
putting
a grill together.
he has laid
all the parts
on a blue rubber
mat. the directions
are flattened out
on a table,
pinned at the corners
by small stones
from the yard.
when he
says flat head,
his wife
hands him that particular
screw driver, when
he says hammer.
in comes the hammer.
tap, tap, tap.
crescent wrench,
he whispers. she
hands it to him.
w-2 oil, he says.
a squirt there,
where the lid
hinges, he says,
pointing with his
gloved hands. she
squirts.
an hour later they
are eating
grilled chicken
and corn on the cob,
which makes you
very hungry
as you move away
from the window.

fire or ice

is god mad
at us, or just a little
ticked off
you ask
the minister
when you see
him in the grocery
store
buying beer.
he pulls on
his white color
and smiles.
probably a little
of both, young man.
why don't you
come to church
on sunday, and
we'll talk about it.
we'd love to have
a new parishioner.
but seriously,
you ask him,
staring at his
six pack of
summer ale
and bag of corn
chips.
is god about to
crush us like
ants under his
sandaled feet,
flood the whole
place again,
because of how
we behave. what will
it be, pastor?
fire or ice, this
time around?
he's sweating, a little,
no longer
smiling. see you
on sunday, he says,
giving you
a friendly tap
on the shoulder,
brushing by you.
fire or ice, you yell
to him, as he
checks out, then sprints
towards the door.
fire or ice?
oh, let him go,
an old woman standing
besides you says,
listening to the whole
conversation.
what does he know.
he's a corporate man,
a yes man.

please sign our petition

you spot them
from afar, between
you and the coffee
shop is a swarm
of do gooders
patrolling the sidewalks.
they are
a hive of waspy
young people in
yellow shirts and
hats with clipboards,
armed with righteousness
and a few years
of misguided higher
education.
they are energized.
there is a buzz about
them.
it's about the water,
the climate,
baby squirrels, an
innocent insect
has lost his way,
or something
that needs to be
saved that you haven't
thought of
because you've been
too busy working.
but you need
your morning cup
of coffee, so you
play dumb, deaf.
you pull your shirt
out and screw a
puzzled look on
your face. you
let a little drool
curl out from
the corner of your
mouth. you blink
your eyes like
morse code.
this makes
them back off
and smile, pat you
on the pack. they allow
you to go on your way
without signing
their petitions.
you get your
morning coffee,
then slip out the back
door.

it hurts

it's too painful
to fall in love, she
says. lying there in a
pool of communal sweat.
let's just like
each other a lot.
if we fall in love
and it ends, it
hurts, really hurts
and I don't want
to go through that
ever again. ever.
okay? she says, tapping
you on your bare
chest with her
cherry red finger nails.
sure. but, how do
we keep love at bay?
I mean obviously we
like each other a
lot from what just
happened, but how do
we keep love from
creeping in and making
a mess of things.
we'll have to be
observant she says.
strong willed. we can
never say those
words, or sign a card
using that word.
the L word.
we can't say sweet
dreams, or miss you.
or any other sugary
loving kind of stuff
on the phone, in person,
or on a card. okay?
sure, you say.
I'm in. let's shake
on it, which makes
her wiggle from head
to toe, beside you.
this makes you laugh.
it's already too late.
you love her.

rewards card

every store
has a discount card.
a bonus
card, a club
card, a membership
card.
a rewards card.
a contractor card,
or a vip
card. you have
cards stuffed
in your wallet
making it fat like
a plastic
burrito
ready to burst.
just give me
the crummy discount
and don't make
me look
for the card.
trust me, I have
it. somewhere.
thank you.

a beach read

some stories
are over
before they begin.
you see
the whole thing.
from start
to finish.
who wins in
the end.
who gets the girl,
who dies,
who lives. the plot
never thickens,
the characters
are never
fleshed out.
you don't care
or like any of them.
it's a good beach
read, if only
you were on
the beach and
distracted by
a hundred other
things, but you
aren't.
so you throw
the book across
the room, causing
the dog
to bark.

every year

while standing
in line
with twelve
other men,
at the grocery
store
with your
sappy hallmark card
and bouquet of flowers,
your heart
shaped box
of chocolates,
you wonder
how much of
the world's economy
depends
on guilt
purchases that
never come
close to hitting
the mark.

face book photos

this is the cake
I baked
this morning. this
is my son
and daughter.
these are the plants
I watered.
that cup in my
hand I bought
in florida.
I just had my
hair done, my
nails too.
look closely at
the photo,
you can see it's
a different shade
than it was
in previous pictures.
these other photos
are old ones
from when I
was in high school.
look how skinny I was.
see my braces?
these pictures
here are of my
son and daughter
and our dog.
I have ten more
of the dog.
that one there, I
took last night.
it's my husband
sleeping with a
pillow over his
head. he's camera
shy.

bowl of cherries

to some,
it appears from
a bird's
eye view,
that life
is truly a bowl
of cherries.
but don't
be fooled,
fly closer,
swoop down
and take a
closer look,
listen and
observe,
then
know the truth.

a new point of view

you don't
feel sorry for fish.
swimming
about
all day,
avoiding capture
or being
devoured
by larger fish,
or snagged
by a bear
claw swooping
down out
of nowhere.
fish never tire
of being fish.
as far as you know.
but not you,
sometimes you
grow weary
of being who you
are.you
wonder what it's
like to walk
in another
person's shoes,
have a
different face.
a new
point of view.

someone unlike you

I need to move
on,
she says.
I'm tired.
I'm lonely,
I'm exhausted
by ambivalence.
of empty
nights
and cold
mornings. I
need to move
on and find
someone
different,
someone
unlike you,
someone here,
someone I can
wake up with,
someone new.

spinning tops

your sisters
are two tops
spinning
across the room.
bouncing
spinning,
spinning. you
can't stop
them once they
start, you
just have to
let them go
and wait for
them to get
exhausted,
then wobble
to a stop.

they are missed

we each value
different
things,
differently
a shell found
on the beach,
a gem,
a photo,
an old hat,
a lost
friend. they
lie
in the closets
of our lives,
left
unattended
until missing.
then suddenly
they are
missed.

like love

when you fell
off the roof,
for an instance
you thought about
death. that this
could be it
as you spun
in the air,
the blue sky above
you, hitting
the ground with
a thud,
and when you
stood up, caught
your breath, you
grimaced at
the pain. but you
weren't dead
yet. you went home
and washed away
the blood.
you took some pills,
you drank
some water. you
went back to work.
climbed back
up on the ladder.
how like love this
is, you thought,
this fall.

white wedding cake

you remember
the toaster you got
as a wedding
gift. four slots.
the blender,
the mixer
the juicer and
the foot massager.
a crystal bowl
to put in the center
of a table
you were yet to have.
it was Christmas
in june.
how nice to have
these things.
these shiny things.
how happy everyone
was. even you.
and the cake,
the marvelous
nine tiered cake,
white vanilla,
as sweet as any
cake can be. you
can still taste it
on your tongue.
feel the soft icing
on your lips.
how could you
possibly know that
this was as
good as it would
get.

work awaits

dulled
by sleep
you wander
towards
the day
adrift
on dreams
you'd
like to keep.
but you
must put
them aside,
you are late,
and work
awaits.

shrimp shells

why do I keep
meeting men that are
commitment phobic,
phoebe tells
you on the phone.
every single one
of them, wants
their cake and eat
it too. they
come and go like
I'm a human turnstile.
what is it with
men these days?
they don't listen
to a word I say, or
pay attention when
I'm upset.
I don't know, you
say. are you showering,
using soap?
I'm not sure what to
tell you, phoebe.
should I play hard
to get? should I
just sleep around
like a human trampoline
and not care?
I still have some
dignity.
at some point I'd
like to find my
soul mate, my one
true love, someone
that I can grow old
with. don't you
feel that way too,
she asks?
I'm sorry, what did
you say. I had to
take the trash out,
I heard the truck
coming up the street
and had a bag
of shrimp shells
that were stinking
up the house, so
what did you say?
the last word I heard
was trampoline.

tax wizard

your tax lady,
the wizard
of manassas,
laughs in the face
of IRS
communications.
she waves the document
in her hand,
scoffing at it.
it's early in
the morning and she's
still in her
pajamas.
she lives upstairs
above her office.
they have no
clue she says
as she takes a
bite of her
cheese sandwich
at her desk.
why don't they
just leave us
alone?
this sort of
worries you, and
yet strangely instills
confidence as
well. don't worry
about a thing,
she says, I don't
think we're going
to jail on this one.
I read my horoscope
this morning and it said
that things will
go smoothly.
a cat jumps
into her lap
trying to get some
of her sandwich. i'll file
an amended return
for you. easy peasy.
don't you worry
about a thing.
I got it, honey.

minor surgery

we need to do some
minor surgery
on your mother
the doctor says.
he's staring at
your sister's
cleavage while he
talks, he's tall.
very tall, and
she wears her
blouses a little
on the risqué
side, so he gets
a good view.
just some minor
vascular adjustments
he says. wiping
the steam from
his glasses.
a snip here a snip
there. we'll
get the old blood
going again.
it will be no
problem. but she's
85 you say, won't
that be a tad risky,
putting her under
and cutting into
her? he still
doesn't look at you,
but he mouths the word
tad, having not
heard that in a while.
she's Italian, isn't
she, he says, still
staring at your sisters
breasts.
I saw a photo of
her on her nightstand,
she looked like
Sophia loren a little.
didn't she?

fashion plate

she had a tendency
to over dress.
big ear rings.
too much make up.
she was a four
cylinder car
with fins and flashy
wheels. flames
painted on the sides.
she wore leopard
print pants,
as tight as the skin
on an apple.
her stiletto heels
were long
and pointed, weapons
if need be.
she had to duck
going into doorways,
her loaf of hair
was that tall.
you wanted to tell
her to tone it down
a touch for
the easter sunday picnic,
but who are you
to judge in your
khaki shorts
and rolling stone
tongue t-shirt.

abandoned poetry

you see
a man standing
at the poetry shelf
in the bookstore.
he has a pen out
and is methodically
going through
the several
copies of a book
by the same
author.
he crosses out
one word on one
page, the same
page. then writes
in another word
with his ink pen.
you recognize him.
his face
his on the back
of the book, he's
the author.
can't let them go
can you, you
say. never, he
says, smiling.
I sleep with all
of them once
they're gone
and have to fix
things.

the pot of gold

so hard
they worked
together.
both with good jobs,
the endless
pressure.
the infidelities
and remorse,
the moving on.
the kids
came and went.
the pets,
the years.
the house got
larger,
the dust collected,
the paint
peeled.
the rugs wore
out. pictures
on the wall
yellowed.
in the end,
gray,
and bent
with their pot
of gold in hand,
hard won,
they shook
their heads and
looked at one
another, and said,
what was that
all about?

the square root of anything

of all the math
classes you took in
school, from calculus,
to analysis, to
trigonometry,
and algebra II,
you can't think
of any that did
you any real good.
you can't remember
the last time you
had to do a quadratic
equation, or find
the sine or cosine
of anything.
you've never had to
find the area of
a trapezoid, or of
a cone, or use Pi
in any calculations.
you have never
had to figure out
the square root of
anything.
the basic
addition, subtraction
and multiplication
that you learned
in the third grade
has served you well.
sometimes you use
your old slide rule
to stir buckets
of paint.

smoke crazy

there was a time
when nearly everyone
smoked cigarettes.
men and women,
gloomy children
on the street corner,
cats and dogs,
even birds were flying
around with a Virginia
Slim hanging out
of their beaks.
it was okay to smoke
in restaurants,
in the office, at
your desk. on the train,
the bus, church.
at the ball game.
the priest had an ashtray
on the altar.
the nuns were all
lighting up as they
sashayed around
in their hooded get
ups. you couldn't
get away from the smoke.
the smell, the sticky
residue of nicotine.
it was cool. it was
smart. it was fun
to be out on the water
on skis, a Winston
in one hand, waving
to the camera.

so, how you doing?

he answers the door
on crutches,
but is cheerfully
medicated.
come on in he says.
let me show you
my scar, which he
does without
hesitation.
there is a long
pink worm from his thigh
through the knee
down below
the knee.
staff infection,
he says, right now
I have no knee.
a germ got in somehow
when they operated.
they took the ball
bearing out.
he opens up his phone
and shows you the photos
of the stages
of the operation,
the x rays, what
they will put in next.
he shows you the iv
in his arm to
stave off any further
infection.
he laughs, wiping his
mouth on his sleeve
and playfully taps
his cat with the rubber
tip of one crutch.
so how you doing, he
says? everything okay?

giddy up

when you were
a kid, with your toy
pearled pistols,
holstered in
your black
embroidered pants
you killed a lot
of bad guys,
some Indians too
along the trail.
in the darkened
room
you took your
white hat off
to wipe your brow
with a red
bandana, saying
giddy up to
your palomino
horse. you squinted
in the dust and sun,
licked your lips
in the dry wind.
you were almost always
in the middle
of something,
saving the girl,
catching
the hombres
when the knock
came on the door.
hey, what are you
doing in there?
what's all
that screaming.
dinner time, go wash
up.

a few moments alone

it only takes
a small sharp pebble
in your shoe,
or black
star like splinter
in the tip
of your finger
to get your
full attention.
the rest is white
noise around
you, as you sit
on the curb
to shake the stone
free, or pick
the slender shard
from your skin.
when you see me
sitting there like
that, leave
me alone.
i'll be fine, just
need a few moments
alone
to get things out
of my mind.

the giddy women

you overhear
the women talking
in the coffee shop
as you grab a cup
on your way to work.
they are in sweat
clothes, eating Danish,
sipping foamy
big drinks, whiling
the morning away,
with all the time
in the world.
some are knitting,
others are staring at
their phones as
they talk.
they are giddy
in their conversation.
making lunch
plans, movie plans.
where should we
take a walk today
plans. you want to ask
them, how they reached
this point in life
where there was
not much to do, but
come here everyday
and do nothing, but
you can't. you're
already late
for work and time
is money, or so it
used to be.

she was a nice person

you remember her
for her pancakes.
how she happily stood
at the counter,
hands deep into a bowl
stirring.
how bad they were.
how you threw
them off the deck
of the beach house
you were staying at.
how you tossed pieces
of them into the sky
to feed to the seagulls
when she wasn't looking,
how the seagulls
spit them out,
shaking their
collective heads.
smacking their beaks
together.
how could someone
ruin pancakes, you often
wondered. who is she
making them for now?
will anybody ever tell
her? she was such
a nice person.

the itch

there is an
itch that you can't
reach.
isn't that
always the way
it is.
the girl,
the job, the car,
the house,
the thing you think
you need, just
out of reach.
and as you
find a stick
to put down your shirt
to scratch
the itch away
you forget about
these things and
go merrily on
your way.

throw the hood up

cells divide
and conquer. you
don't feel
right.
the blood you give
is full
of yesterdays.
the wrong
food you ate,
the air you inhaled.
the worries
that you strapped
and carried on
your back
for decades. how
you loved
the sun, and lived
to bask
in its radiant
glow. this cough
is nothing, but
it might be
time
for a tune up. to
rotate your
tires,
and throw the hood
up
for a look see.
maybe tomorrow if
things don't take
a turn for
the better.
we'll see.

hovering

your friend
can't shake himself
from
his problems.
he needs
new problems.
the wife, the step
son, the bad
boss complaints
have gotten
old and stale.
you can almost
finish his rants
for him.
this doesn't
stop him
from going on
and on. you listen
but you
don't listen.
instead you leave
your body
and hover
over the table.
circling
separated from
space and time.

these people

the cleanest people.
the neatest
and most
particular people,
the anal retentive
people,
the no dust
under the bed
people.
the alphabetized
bookshelf
people.
the dust buster
people. the white
glove people.
the sparkling
kitchen sink
people,
these people
you don't usually
like too much.

angry carrots

the vegetables
are angry
tonight.
you are cutting
them, jabbing knives
into the their
stalks,
slicing
the tomatoes.
peeling
the potatoes.
chopping
off the heads
of broccoli,
those orange
carrots,
then
boiling
and boiling
them into softness.
but they are good
for you, so
you don't mind
the torture
that you put
them through.
and after enough
salt and pepper,
and melted
butter,
they are ready,
so are you.

the best of times

it's hard to tell
your son how poor you
were as a kid. but you
try. you think it
might give him some
perspective on
his own life.
he's sitting there
on his phone, on
his computer,
watching tv
and playing a
video game while
reading a book. his
hundred and twenty
dollar tennis
shoes rest casually
on the coffee table.
it's like talking
about the great
depression to him.
you are Charles Dickens
making up a long winded
story of the worst
of times.
he shrugs it off,
and says, sure dad,
sure. you tell
him about the holes
in your shoes,
putting slices
of cardboard
in the soles
to make them
last another day.
the church
leaving baskets of food
on the front porch.
the shared beds
and rooms of all
seven kids. the electricity
going off.
not having a car,
but walking everywhere.
cutting grass for money.
the paper routes,
collecting bottles
for two cents a piece.
the welfare department
stopping by to see
where they should
take and put everyone.
all of this makes
him yawn and say,
dad, are we cooking out
on the grill tonight,
I haven't had lobster
and a nice sirloin
in a while. maybe you
can pick up a nice
Malbec too.

bibb lettuce

you try
to grow some
bibb lettuce
in your backyard,
but it draws
in the rabbits.
you don't
particularly
like rabbit stew
so you
build a fence
to keep
the rabbits out.
but the raccoons
have human
hands, almost,
and they can get
into
anything.
after awhile
you give up
on keeping
the animals away.
you plant carrots
and beets,
bell peppers
and tomatoes.
even a few stalks
of corn.
you leave your
gate open
and put out
a bowl or two
of water.
have at it, you
say to the woods,
leaving
the light on
as you go back
in to bed.

excuse me

when you pull
up to the 7-11
to grab
a paper
and a cup of
stale coffee
there is a man
standing on
the steps
peeing. he arcs
the strong
yellow stream
towards
the brick wall,
close to where
the payphone used
to be
and the sign
that says no
loitering.
carefully he
steps away
from the growing
puddle, keeping
his torn
boots dry,
as well as the
cuffs of his
grey dungarees.
he says hey,
as you walk
around and say,
excuse me.

brown loafers

people are happy
with new shoes.
they feel good
on your feet.
make you optimistic
about the future.
women like to snap
the heels
against the pavement
as they walk
in new shoes. men
rise up on
their toes, testing
out the comfort
and strength
of their new shoes.
people are happy
with a new
pair of shoes.
sometimes it doesn't
take much.
and other times
it takes
the world.

the blue parakeet

your mother
used to sweat when she
cooked. there was
a blue parakeet
in a cage
hanging near
the unopened kitchen
window.
why don't you open
a window,
you'd say, it's hot
in here.
I don't want
the bird to catch
cold, she'd say.
they don't last
long, these
birds are fragile.
not like the old
birds in the old
days. this one
looks like the last
one, you tell
her, leaning over
a boiling pot
of pasta and meatballs.
this one has
a little green
in it's feathers,
she says,
stirring the pot.
how come you don't
visit more, she says.
you never come over
anymore. no one does.
I'm here now, you
tell her. she wipes
her brow with a
dish towel, tears
or sweat are rolling
down her cheeks.
what's the name of
your bird, you ask,
changing the subject.
I don't give them
names anymore, she
says. they don't stay
around long enough
to have names. I hope
your hungry. I made
a lot.

chance meeting

behind you,
in the convenience
store,
a woman
leans into your
shoulder, touching
you. she whispers,
don't eat that.
it's bad for you.
and that water,
look at the bottom,
do you see those
numbers, the little
triangle, it's
telling you to be
careful after
a certain date.
thanks, you say,
looking back.
her face is a detailed
road map of
her life with
lots of detours
and dead ends,
crashes,
but her lips are
cherry red. like waxed
lips bought as a
kid for Halloween.
when she opens her
mouth, her teeth are
little yellowed
tombstones.
she follows you out,
and hands you a card.
we should get together,
she says. I do
legal services, so if
you're ever in trouble
I can help you.
I also do dog walking.
you look at the card
and nod, thanks.
she follows you to
your car. what's your
name? do you have a
card too, we could do
business together.
maybe we could have a
drink. I don't have any
more cards you tell her.
but here's my number.
you write down a fake
number, a fake name.
and hand it to her.
I can feel something
between us she says,
reaching out her hand
to shake yours, don't
you feel it too?
yeah, I guess, sort of
you say, but I have
to go now, and drive
away.

put her on a boat

she shows you a photo
of her on
a boat.
wind in her hair,
sunglasses on.
staring off into
the distance,
there are blue
skies and white
clouds. a flag
waves in the breeze
at the end of
the boat as it speeds
along the bay.
it hits you
that everyone looks
good on a boat.
judge judy looks hot
on a boat
for god's sake. okay,
I exaggerate, but
you could put gandhi
on a boat
and he'd look suave
and debonair.
you've seen her on
dry land, this girl
in the photo, but she's
not the same person,
put her on a boat
and well, she's
glamorous, almost
perfect.

double secret probation

can I speak to you
in my office
your boss says to you
as you make
another cup of coffee
while in your
underwear and socks.
sure you say to
yourself, because
you are your boss.
what's on your mind?
the office is your
kitchen, where the
floor needs sweeping,
the trash needs to
go out and there
are dishes in the sink.
look at this place,
you say to yourself.
what's going on here.
is it a woman?
this makes you laugh.
a woman, you say
out loud. right, wishing
it was that simple.
you really need to get
a grip, get hold of
yourself and clean
this mess up. take
your work more seriously,
make something of
yourself, time is
running out. this makes
you cringe and you
want to say something
like, look, you're
not the boss of me,
but you are. i'll try
to do better, you say.
I'll be more sincere
and conscientious
about everything and
everyone. I just need
some down time, some
time to clear my head.
okay, okay. your
boss says, but I'm
putting you on probation.
we'll see how it goes.
but I'm already on
probabtion. well, well,
don't get smart with me
mister. you are now on
double secret probation.

the shell

the mute
button is your
new
best friend.
you point
it at
the world
and it goes
silent.
how sweet it
is
to hear
nothing.
to listen
to no one,
to have only
a shell
pressed upon
your ear
to listen to.

the apartment building

your neighbor
in the apartment
building
is cooking
goat
and cabbage
for dinner. yesterday
you heard the goat
baying. today
you don't. they
season it all
with fish oil
and the squeezings
of an old boot.
your eyes burn
from
the stench clouding
the hallway.
sometimes
they play
bongos
late at night
in celebration
of the quarter
moon,
or rain, or
wind. something
that gets them
excited, like
sunlight.
despite all of
that, they are
good neighbors.
they bow when
they see you
in the laundry room,
in their colorful
princely robes
and jewels.
they call you mister
and invite you
over for the super
bowl. sometimes
you'll offer them
a stick of gum,
which they'll take
gratefully, both
of you chewing
and smiling
as the elevator
descends
to the lobby.

beware

beware of those
who are always happy.
the winners.
their false bliss
makes the world
a dangerous place
to live in.
beware of those
who welcome you with
open arms,
who flatter you
with praise
and admiration.
there is always a
knife hidden in
their shoe.
beware of the educated.
those with
degrees posted
on their walls
to remind them of
how smart they are.
they rarely give in
to changing
their minds, even
when wrong. beware
of the sleeping dog,
the scorned woman.
the unpaid worker.
they will rise up
and show you
what pain is.
beware of politicians,
and salesman. neither
will give you what
they promise.
beware of the complainers
and depressed,
they will take you down
with them. tying
the stone
of themselves
to your soul. beware
of children,
they see you for what
you really are.

sugar

to prove
wealth and stature
peasants
would paint
their teeth black
during Shakespeare's
day
to show that
they possessed
enough wealth
and position in
life
to eat sugar
on a regular basis.
human nature
has not varied a
single bit
you think, as you
sit behind a
behemoth SUV,
stuck
in traffic.

don't talk to me

some days, like
today, you
just don't want
to talk
to anyone.
you let the phone
ring,
the e mails
go unanswered.
you leave text messages
hanging on
the vine.
you don't want to
discuss
the weather, or
sports, or politics.
you don't have a clever
or nice
thing to say
to anyone.
you avoid eye
contact, moving quickly
through the avenues
of your day.
you have become
sick of people,
not just the ones
you know, but the
ones you don't know
too. you have a problem
with all of them,
except for your dog,
who sits in
the window waiting
loyally the whole
day.
you give him a few
barks, a whistle,
some baby talk
and love.
he's okay.

brown eggs

after keying
in your special
bonus card
membership digits,
which happens
to be your phone
number,
the clerk tells
you that
today you saved
sixy-four
dollars
and seventy-nine cents
and have
earned three hundred
and forty one
gas points. he circles
this number
on the receipt
with a yellow
magic marker.
he asks you
with a weariness
not unlike a long
distance runner,
with shoulders
slumped, and miles to
go before the finish
line, if
there is anything
else he can do
for you.
did you find
everything you were
looking for?
it's a painful
experience these
days, trying
to buy a loaf of
bread, a gallon
of milk, a
dozen large
brown eggs.

true love

you didn't mind,
as a kid, banging
erasers
against the back
wall of the school.
inhaling the toxic
white dust into
your fresh pink lungs.
it wasn't punishment
at all. in fact, you
frequently offered your
services to miss Copeland
the sixth
grade teacher.
you would have done
anything for
her. you would have
laid down your
twelve year old
life for her, taking
a bullet in her
path, pushing
her safely off
the tracks
as a train sped by.
she was probably
the most beautiful
woman on the planet
at the time.
you thought of her
as an angel
dropped out of
the sky and into
your classroom. she
smelled like
a flower and had skin
so pale, you wondered
of it had ever been
touched by sunlight.
her eyes were green
like the glass of
a 7 up bottle.
sometimes you would
use an entire sheet
of construction paper
writing her
name attached to
yours, as it would be
one day when you got
married. on Fridays,
as a treat, she'd read
to the class, from
one of her favorite
authors, madeline l'engle,
dimming the lights,
and waiting for us
to settle down.
you'd place your head
on your folded arms
and sighed, listening
to her sweet voice,
wondering, wondering
if she'd wait for you
to grow up.

it's Car On, not karen

my name
is Karen she says,
as you well know,
but for now on
I want it to be
pronounced
Car On.
it's the Danish
pronunciation, she says.
I'm part Danish by
the way. which makes
you immediately
think of all the Danish
she loves to eat with
her coffee.
I'm going with that
now. so try to remember.
Car On. let's do
a test run, say it out
loud.
you say it silently
to your self several
times. you know that
this will not go well.
already, she's set the bar
too high for your
once budding relationship.
the lactose thing,
the gluten issue,
no meat, all the chick
flicks you are forced
to see, and her white
poodle, fluffy
with the runny
eyes.
so you tell her.
Car On, I don't think
this is working out
anymore. how was that?
did I nail it?

ti's windy

at some point
you stop listening.
you day dream
in the middle of a
conversation
about weather
and traffic, etc. etc.
off you go like
an untethered
balloon, sailing
away from the voice
that has trapped
you in the corner
of the crowded room.

the lost key

you lose a key.
it goes from pocket
to invisible
in a matter of seconds.
you spend much
of the morning
searching for it,
even looking in
places you haven't
been.
one key. slender
and brown. it fits
so easily into
the lock
for the front door.
how the gods
show their humor,
you can almost here
them muffling their
laughter, and saying,
with conspiratorial
grins, watch this.

who she is

ashen. she unravels
under heat, she
shows
her true
colors. removes
her clothes, her
armor
of schools
and work, of make
up and perfume.
stripped down
to bone, she is
who she is,
an entity,
up until now,
unknown.

an orange book

it's fine book,
this book on oranges.
a good read,
culled from
the new Yorker
magazine.
how they came from
asia, across
the great sea.
how Columbus
brought them to
the new world.
every fact
and nuance
of what makes an
orange and orange
is in there.
page after page.
the trees,
the fields, the story
of orange concentrate.
how the seeds
of a citrus fruit
are perverse, in
choosing what
they'll be.
a grapefruit, a lemon,
or an orange,
nothing is for
certain as the dirt
covers up any type
of seed.
blood red, Valencia.
pulp or
no pulp. it makes
you want a glass
by books end.
cold and on ice.
but with a healthy
splash of
vodka, to help
you sleep.

the lovers

the lovers
don't ignore you
along the park,
beside
the blue river
with the sun high,
the trees
full of what
spring brings.
no, the lovers
don't ignore you,
as they hold
one another and kiss.
they have no clue
that you or anyone
else exists.
they have traveled
to a place far
away, to a land
you once lived,
briefly,
and hope once
more to visit.

human kindness

how kind she
is to the bird
that's fallen,
the swallow
whose wing has
broken
and needs mending.
the lost
cat or dog,
will not stray
long upon her
finding it beside
any road
she's on.
but you and me,
are of a different
sort, her bite
is hard
into our skin,
she has no need
for human kindness,
that will never
be a part of her
to win.

do the twist

when you were in
grade school
your teacher who
was probably all
of twenty five
thought it might
be a good idea
to get some
exercise during
class. to do something
to stir up our sleepy
souls. so she
brought in a record
player and a few
45's. chubby checker
was her man of choice.
she dropped the needle
down on the scratchy
vinyl and said
with her hands raised
high in the air,
alright class, she said,
let's do the twist.
and twist we did,
shaking beside our desks,
like little tornados.

the ice cream cone

you see
the child
with an ice cream
cone.
it's larger
than her
small hand,
the weight
of it,
wobbling
with her wrist,
but keeps
finding her
open mouth,
her eager tongue
and lips.
she is in a
small
heaven. not
a bad
place to be
at any age.

you being here

the dead
are piling up.
the bones,
the hair,
the eyes and ears
of the once
living
are rising,
becoming mountains
before your
eyes.
the hands
you held. the lips
you kissed.
the voices
you heard.
the skin you
touched.
all of them, now
ghosts caught
somewhere between
here
and there.
you being here.
still.

the small print

the small print
needs
to be larger.
those are the words
i need to know.
the details,
please, of you.
I see the packaging,
I see
the shine, I
hear the music
and smell the flowers,
but what's
inside, that's what
I need to know.
tell me before
we go any further,
if any of this
is true.

taffy

pulled
like taffy
in either direction,
the hot
sun making you
soft to
the bone,
you stretch
and stretch
yourelf
trying to
make everyone
happy, but
no one is.
especially not
you.

cracker crumb blues

even your dreams
are stale
right now.
you yawn as you
sleep, then awaken
and think, is
that it, that's
all you got?
the world is an
uncrisp
cracker.
unsalted. it's
hard to chew
and swallow,
the crumbs fall onto
your shirt
and you don't even
bother to
brush them away.
people point
at them and say,
you have cracker
crumbs on you,
and you say,
yeah, I know.
so what.

at 3 a.m.

you fall in love
with a waitress
at I hop.
she's short and brunette
with pale skin
and blue eyes.
she reminds
you of a baby
seal, out of water.
but you've been
drinking, so
your thoughts
are blurred. you get
the feeling
though that she likes
you.
that she just isn't
topping off your
coffee because it's
her job, no
it really does seem
like she's into
you. she puts her
name with a little
smiley face
on the check.
this makes your heart
beat a little faster,
but you know
you only have
a few minutes to
make your move,
because your girlfriend
is in the bathroom
freshening up,
waiting for you to
pay and leave
the tip,
so before she
clears the plate
you make your phone
number out of little
pieces of egg
and pancake, sausage
links, and toast.
you make an arrow
with some tooth picks
so she'll see. when
your girlfriend
gets back, you get
up, and whisper
to the waitress as
you pass her by.
look at my plate,
look at my plate.
which makes your girlfriend
smack you on
the side of the head
and say. leave her
alone, she's old
enough to be
our daughter.

dashboard lights

your car
is talking to you.
the yellow
light
is on, you're
low on gas,
the amber
light is telling
you that your
tires
need air,
your engine light
now red,
wants
oil. your blinker
as shown
on the dashboard
has failed.
if only everyone
let us
know what they needed
this way,
how smoothly
life would run,
without
the guess work.

sign here

we want
you to join our
club.
sign here,
don't be a dope,
pay
this amount
and forever you
will get
our discounts,
our deals,
our prices
slashed.
sign here.
be a member,
don't be left
out. don't be
a loser.
a low life
bum.
we'll send you
a membership
card in the mail
that you can
yearly
renew.
don't be left
behind.
take this pen,
press
against this form,
and sign.
forever and after
you die,
you will get our
weekly
notifications of
what's on sale,
what's new,
all the things you'll
ever need
and want until
the end of time.

rain some more

this rain,
this wind which
fills
the trees
with a loud
cool voice,
keeps you inside.
laying low.
way low.
glad the week
is done,
let it rain,
then rain some
more.
this too shall
pass.

stay clear

sometimes you can
see the aura, feel
the black
cloud around
a person's
soul.
evil being heavy.
a stone
rolled before
the cave.
each word full
of ashes.
each glare, full
of fire.
they don't
want anything
less than revenge.
two eyes for
an eye. a heart
for a paper cut.
their nails
grow long before
you, their teeth
are wet with blood,
wanting more.
stay clear.

indelible ink

you drop
your phone into
a puddle.
it shorts out.
you lose everyhing.
every contact
you ever had is
dissolved in a two
inch divot of
rainwater.
for the next three
days you are texting
into your phone.
who is this?
your new phone has
a lifetime
guarantee. the waterproof
cover cost a hundred
dollars alone
and must be
registered online,
like a gun, or a car,
or your political
affiliation.
it's the size
of a small book.
a phone book.
it makes you miss
phone books.
or a little black
book with indelible
ink.

look ,balloons, pull over

balloons seem to be
a way
to get people to buy
things.
tie a balloon to a
dented car
and you can't help
but pull over
and see what all
the fuss is about.
maybe I need a car.
I can't resist
these balloons that
are tethered to
the windshield wipers.
red, blue, white.
I want that car.
I don't care how
old and beaten
it is. the balloons
have convinced me.
can I keep
the balloons too?
the same goes with
selling a house,
tie a balloon
to the sign.
who can resist that?
a house with all
of those balloons
hovering in
the dirt yard
is a sold house.

doing nothing

you think about
doing nothing
for awhile.
nothing.
quitting work,
calling it a life.
you ponder being done
with it all.
you have enough
to cruise on,
so why not.
you've piled up
a nice
heap of dough.
why put up with
the day in and day
out of work
with all its worries
and problems.
when people
ask you, what are you
up to, you'll smile
and say,
absolutely nothing.
sleeping, eating.
resting. reading.
having a drink
with someone. I'm
catching rays
at the beach.
how are you?

the high wire

everyday
you put on
your tights,
grab your
balance bar,
powder your hands,
slip into your
slippers, then
go out the window
to walk the high
wire. it could
go either way.
depending on
the wind,
the weather.
who cheers you
on, or heckles you
from below.
everything is up
for chance,
as you inch along
the outstretched
wire
of your day.

easy rider

this scar here, above
my knee, was
when I hit an oil
slick on the beltway
she says, flexing
her leg, pointing
at the imbedded worm
like scar above
her red knee cap.
I went under a guard
rail and rolled
down an embankment.
this scar over here,
she says, lifting
up her sleeve, is
when a car didn't
see me and hit me
broadside. I went
flying over her car
and landed on
the back window
shattering
the glass. they had
to take out the shards
with tweezers.
oh, and this scar
here, above my eyebrow
is when a bird hit
me in the face.
right under the lip
of my helmet. but I
love to ride. just
love it. hop on back
and let's go for a spin.

you can't undo

you can't undo
what's done.
the milk won't
go back into
the carton,
the words won't
retreat back
into the mouth.
a left turn,
doesn't become
a right turn.
so, own it,
and move on.
do better
the next time,
think it
through and
beyond.

travel bug

your neighbor
likes to tell you
where she's going.
and when she
gets back likes
to tell you where
she's been.
she puts stickers
on her
luggage.
st. Thomas,
st. Croix,
Bermuda,
California,
Italy.
she's always on
the move.
a taxi pulls up
every weekend
to take her to
the airport.
sometimes she'll
wave to you in your
backyard, as you
lie in the baby pool
you just filled
up, reading
the paper. I just
got back from
spain, she'll say.
how are you?
fine, you'll yell
back. just fine.

chickens

as you take
a bite of barbeque
chicken,
you watch
from the window
the chickens penned
in the yard
scratching
at the dirt.
all day
long. doing nothing,
but laying
an occasional
egg, pecking
at the ground
and scratching
at the dirt.
unlike us, they
don't seem
to care too much
for tomorrow.
what a blessing
that must be.

i don't drink anymore

I don't drink, she tells
you on the phone,
I'm in AA now.
I hope that doesn't
bother you. I mean if
you don't want to go
out with me, i'll
completely understand.
you stare at the picture
that she just sent
of herself
standing on the shore
in a bikini,
with a big trout
in her hand. she's
wearing shorts and her
long legs are tanned.
no problem, you tell her.
I want to meet you.
so you meet at a local
Chinese restaurant.
both of you order
too much food. she tells
you again that she doesn't
drink, but go ahead
and have whatever your
having, I won't mind.
so you order a mai tai,
your usual drink.
sickly sweet and thick
with rum. slices
of fruits dangle under
a little pink umbrella.
it goes down easy, as you
talk and eat. she can't
take her eyes off the drink
though, let me smell
it she says, I don't want
even a sip, I just want
to smell it. sure you
tell her, and hold it
up to her nose. whew.
she says. it makes me
nervous. none for you, you
say teasingly, finishing
it off as you take a bite
of crispy beef and rice.
she drinks her water and
eats. she gets quiet.
too quiet. she's stopped
talking about her life.
everything is on hold as
you order another mai tai.
you don't mind do, you ask,
as the waitress brings
it to the table.
no, not at all she says,
twisting in her seat. fiddling
with her chopsticks.
you eat and drink. she says
nothing. finally, you ask her
if she's okay. no, she says.
I'm not. I think I need to go
to a meeting. I want you to
come with me. but why, you
ask, sucking down more
rum with a straw. I don't have
a drinking problem. but I
do, she says. I'm too tempted.
there is a meeting around
the corner around here.
come with me. you say no.
it's not for you. she says
they have great desserts.
cake and cookies, delicious
pies and pastries.
you shake your head. that's
my downfall. i'll be lying
in the gutter with chocolate
on my face if I go there.
so she gives up on the meeting
and comes back to your house.
compromising. both of you
having what you probably
shouldn't have.

getting out of the rain

caught in the rain.
you find
a storefront
to stand under
and wait it out.
but it doesn't
stop, the hours
go by. the day
turns into night.
a week later,
you are still
there, under
the overhang,
keeping dry.
before long a
year has passed
and you've stood
there, waiting,
waiting for the rain
to stop.
for conditions
to be just right
in your life
to make your move,
and now it's almost
over.

space cadet

you once pretended
to be an astronaut
online and got invited
to a very prestigious
party where the hostess
collected interesting
and diverse people
to fill her room.
you told her how
you walked
on the moon, in space,
how you enjoyed
the stars and scenery
from above the earth
floating in your silvery
spacesuit. come and
regal us with your
tales of space travel,
she said.
we all want to bask
in the glory that
is you. what a wonderful
addition you will
be. she wasn't
happy, when she found
out the truth,
that you painted
houses for a living
and so disinvited you,
which was fine, you
never wanted to be her
pet monkey anyway,
although the party
would have been fun.

in the red

you see a note
on the table.
food, rent, car,
gas, electric,
insurance, phone,
miscellaneous
all with a dollar
number attached
at the end.
it's all added
up and subtracted
from what's
coming in, leaving
very little,
but enough.
you wrote
the note forty
years ago.
nothing changes
too much, but you've
added alimony
and child support
along the way,
lawyers, the blood
you bled.
putting you very
close to breaking
even, or
slipping into red.

three a.m.

it's a smoke
filled room,
this life.
a bar full of
intoxicated strangers.
bumping elbows
and hips
with the unrich
and infamous.
there's music
from a jukebox,
the news
from a black
and white t.v.
hung precariously
in the corner
above the bottles.
there's a fat
man wiping
the wood in a red
vest
pushing bowls
of pretzels
against the ashtrays.
he shakes your hand
with a wet fist,
smiles and gets
you a drink.
you know everyone
here, you know
no one.
it's home, it's a
place to be
that isn't home.
it closes at three.
you can make it
until then.

saved by war

the old man
on the bench
sighs and says
that the world
will be saved
by war,
taking it to
its knees.
erasing
history
and leaving
fresh ground
to plow.
what was will
no longer
be, what's
to come is
unknown,
but the world
will be saved
by war,
by being
undone from
what it has
become.

the puzzle pieces

the puzzle
seems close to
being solved
but there are
pieces missing.
and the ones
left on the table
don't fit
no matter how
hard you try
to squeeze them
in, bending them
to the form
they need to be.
that never works,
it doesn't
feel right.
how simple a
lesson this is
for you.

quiet

a quiet
night,
a small meal.
a quiet
bed.
a book to read.
a good dream.
little
does
such good as
quiet.

smart turtles

you feel
as if turtles
are
heavy thinkers.
spending so much
time
alone in their
shells.
their slow plodding
seems to indicate
deep thought.
to hurry
is to be a fool,
for the most
part.
maybe they have
books
in there, beneath
their patterned
hoods,
a little light
above
their bed
with which to
read emerson
and Thoreau.
peruse the novels
of bellow
and updike.
they look old and
wise, even
when born,
you hope they
are. it would
make you happy.

busy bees

your neighbor
a few
doors up, on
the short stretch
of townhomes,
wants you
to cut down
the bush in front
of your house.
every spring,
she pesters you
on the sidewalk,
going on and on
about bees,
and how big the bush
has grown.
but it's not in
front of her
house, it's in front
of yours, and
you happen to like
bees, you like honey,
you like the whole
notion of
pollination.
what you don't like
is someone
telling you what
to do.
so bush will stay.

retirement party

she sends
you a retirement
photo.
a cake.
a crowd
of people gathered
around
a table, there
are balloons
and cards,
a bottle of
uncorked
champagne.
it looks like
a happy time,
but it's not.
she knows that,
she wants
to be twenty again,
to do it all
over. she'd
change nothing,
except perhaps
to see you more
on
the layovers.

a knock at the door

the knock
at the door at
this early
can only mean one
thing.
Mormons.
you yell out
the window,
that you already
have what
they're
selling, but
they don't take
no for an
answer, so you
go down in your
bathrobe
and crack
the door open
to shoo them
away with a ten
dollar bill.
it's cold,
and the young
men in coats
and ties,
hair parted
and shiny,
are shivering.
no sir, we don't
want your money,
we want to help
save you.
really, you say,
I'm good, I'm fine.
take the money,
go get yourselves
some coffee and
a couple of donuts
on me.
in fact bring me
back a half
dozen, mixed,
but they don't
take it,
instead they hand
you a few pamphlets
and wish you
a good day, then
off they go on
their bikes.

pointless celery

sometimes
you look
at a person
and think of food.
chicken legs
for instance,
hot off the grill,
spicy
and barbequed,
or a fat ham
ready to be sliced,
with pineapple
rings
draped across
it's pink belly,
or perhaps,
a bean stalk,
or a stalk of
pointless celery.
giblets and gravy
often come
to mind,
when seeing someone
walk away,
two scoops
of vanilla
ice cream too.
usually
when you're hungry,
this happens.

holy water

on easter, the local
church. st. Bernadette's,
is full.
packed to the brim
with repentant souls,
guilt ridden members,
who haven't been
since Christmas.
they are neat
and clean decked out in
spring splendor.
the polished shoes,
the hats, and gloves.
the pretty dresses,
like flowers caught
in the breeze.
the traffic is horrendous.
two cops
in squad cars with
their party lights
on, direct the cars
in and out with
the pinkish bloom
of flares.
they run out of holy
water by the third mass
and so the priest,
fast thinking brings around
the lawn hose, blesses
it and puts it on
spray, giving the crowd
a happy loving dose.

strange treasures

you save
things, a stretch
of string,
a chipped
cup, a marble
with a cat's eye,
more blue, than green,
an old
class ring
that isn't yours,
a silver
baby spoon,
a pair
of brown shoes
with the soles
worn smooth.
they find themselves
into boxes,
strange gold
nuggets
that you haven't
quite figured
out why
they are worth
keeping, but
you do.

cleopatra lite

she arches her back
like a cat
and lets out
a yawn, followed
by, I'm hungry.
feed me, slave boy.
which makes you
throw a black grape
across the room
towards her open
mouth. it misses,
hitting her eye.
which makes
her scream, ouch.
splattering juice
down her cheek.
it's going to
be a long night
with Cleopatra
lite.

plums

you want
to pick the plums
now.
the fattest
and sweetest
of fruit on the vine,
or tree.
you are tired
of finding
what's fallen
to the ground,
what's been
stepped upon
or frozen.
wormed to the core.
you have the patience
now to wait,
to pick the plums,
to sink your
teeth into only
what's best
for you.

always late

he's always late.
ten
minutes, or twenty,
an hour,
maybe longer.
it's how he lives,
being late, it's
how he gets everyone
to say hey, where
is he.
and when he arrives,
it's all
about him.
where've you
been, we missed you.
what took you
so long,
what happened,
and with a big
sheepish smile,
he soaks
it all in.

down they go

the world
is full of wind
toppling
trees,
trees that have
been there
for what seems
like forever.
but down
they go.
down they go.
these friends
too.
down they go.

the black credit card

you find a black
credit card lying on
the floor
of the coffee shop,
so you tap
the shoulder of the woman
in front of you
to ask her if it's
hers, no she says,
but grabs the card
anyway and proceeds
to run around the store
yelling out the name
on the card. is there
a carol jones here,
a carol t. jones.
did you drop this credit
card. hello, anyone
here lose a black
credit card? she waves
the card around
the store, shouting,
looking back at you,
as if you are both a
team now, hunting
down this person.
you can't make your
body shrink any smaller,
as you inch towards
the line to get your
coffee. next time
you won't say word.
you'll just use the card
and take a trip,
flying first class
to a tropical island

let's eat out tonight

it's not
good when you have
someone over
for dinner
and they
immediately say
what's that smell?
did you burn
dinner last night.
what died.
smells like mold,
or rotting
cabbage?
have you ever
had your vents
cleaned, how old
is that rug.
when was the last
time you
you cleaned your
bathroom
or took the trash
out.
open a window
for god's sake.
don't you smell it?

once upon a time

you know you are
getting old when you
begin
talking by saying,
let me tell you a
little story about me.
here, gather around,
you little ones,
hop up on my knee.
then you settle back,
stroking your
pretend beard
and begin to regal
your captured company
with some wildly
untrue and embellished
tale of when you
were young and free.

beep

for weeks
there has been
a beeping sound in
your house.
you can't find it.
smoke
alarm, check.
stove timer,
check.
microwave oven check.
three alarm
clocks
check. check
check. your
two computers,
check.
the carbon
and monoxide
alarm, check.
the charger
for your dirt devil,
power drill,
weed whacker,
kindle, notepad,
I phone
and land line
check.
what the hell.
there it goes
again. beep.

the ones

the ones
who go to church
on a regular
basis are the first
ones
to ask you
if you've been
to mass,
waving their batons
of crisp
new programs
from the pew.
the ones eating fruits
and vegetables
keep an eye on
what you're eating,
shaking
their collective
heads
at red meat
and cake, as
they bite into
a shiny red apple.
cans and plastic,
bottles, when
they separate
theirs for the big
blue bin,
they ask where
your bin is,
where is your
recyclable trash,
your empty liquor
bottles,
my friend.
don't you care about
your planet,
are you a heathen
full
of cholesterol
and gin?

the cleaning ladies

you see
the cleaning women
when
the owners
of the house leave,
relax.
they flop
onto the couch
with a sandwich.
and start talking
on their cell
phones
in Spanish.
laughing
and laughing.
they turn
the t.v. on
and put their feet
up on the coffee
table.
the cleaning will
only take
an hour, but
they've been paid
for six, so they
have to stretch
it out.

i got your small stuff right here

you go to a seminar
to help you
get in touch with
your inner self.
teaching you
how to relax
and leave the small
irritations
of life behind.
but the people
there only add to
your misery.
they are
pretending so hard
to be happy, looking
deeply into
your eyes and giving
you that extra
hippy like warm
handshake that
you want to
smack them with
your expensive
work book that
they gave you when
you signed up,
and crack the plastic
umbrella
that says don't
sweat the small
stuff along
the top against
their knees. you
want your money
back.

easter egg hunt

there was always
a mean
kid
that found
the most easter
eggs
on a cold
sunday morning.
you remember
his face
being red
and flulshed in
the breeze. his little
teeth like
tiny tombstones
chattering
as he breathed
hard,
running around
from tree
to rock under
a cruel blue
of an april sky.
his fat fingers
reaching into
your basket
to take your
eggs
if no one was
watching.
even now,
there is a mean
kid, who has
grownup into
a mean person,
trying to
take more than
he should have,
reaching
into other's
baskets.

like me

you are late
for everything these
days.
not on purpose,
but because you've
been spending
so much time on
your facebook
page liking things.
you like those
cute cat pictures
and videos.
that monkey in
a banana tree.
that cake someone
baked.
the cast on their
arm. you can never
get enough of those
sunsets. you like
like like those a lot.
that snow that fell
and gathered into
a measly one
inch along the sidewalk.
it seems that everyone
wants to be
liked now. from
gum to cars,
to shoe shine polish.
even this can of
tuna fish that
you're eating, standing
over the kitchen
sink, calling
it dinner, wants
to be liked.

april hail

everyone was
all excited about
the blood red moon.
how wonderful
and rare it was.
orange and red
like a mixed drink
needing a spoon.
but you are more
excited about
the lemon meringue
sun. how warm
it's going to
be when the wind
stops blowing,
and the hail
stops pelting
your head.

yo, what's up?

your friend
who is as white
as wonder bread,
turned sixty
the other day.
he says things like
yo, I'm chillaxing
on the couch.
sipping on a cold
brew.
I got my new lime
green track
shoes on, and my
cap on sideways,
what's up my
brother?
nothing you say,
just checking
to see if you
wanted to go
see that new
woody allen movie,
there's a senior
discount
at the afternoon
matinee, and
a sunset special
on Salisbury steak
and mashed potatoes
around the corner
afterwards.
I'm all in homes.
gots to go pee
first, i'll stop
and pick up some
junior mints on
the way, do they
validate parking?
don't be late, yo.

the office party

when the boss
comes around,
there is
a nervous buzz.
he's here,
or she's here.
look,
over there,
he's coming
this way.
the bees
settle down,
lower their
voices, stand
straighter
and think good
thoughts
causing smiles
to creep
upon their lips,
they sip
their drinks,
and wipe
the crumbs
from their
shirts.
here he comes.
don't say anything
stupid,
for once
in your life.

my seer sucker suit

you're thinking about
taking some clothes
to the dry cleaners.
you haven't done that
in nearly twenty years.
you want to get
back into the game,
get a little more
spiffy than the khaki
shorts and t-shirts
you've been wearing
day in and day out.
maybe you'll ask for
extra starch, or hold
the msg. have some cuffs
hemmed since you've
probably gotten a
bit shorter since then.
you miss the smell
of the dry cleaners,
that sickly sweet
cleaning product
that hovers in the air
like formaldehyde.
you want to wave to
the people in back,
sweating profusely,
ignoring the child
labor laws as they
steam and press
the giant heaps
of clothes.
you want to hear
the grrrr
of the automatic
hanger as it spins
around at the push of
a button, bringing
you your nice clean
seer sucker baby
blue suit wrapped
in a clingy plastic sheet.
it's time. you are
long overdue
to get back in the game.

grist for the mill

never sit
in the front row
of a comedy club.
it seems
like a good idea
at the time, being
close, in order
to hear and see
the action, but
soon, that shirt
you're wearing,
the woman you are
with, your shoes,
and hair,
the essence of
who you are,
your dna will
all be grist for
the mill. it won't
be funny.

don't call registry

you register into
the do not call
registry
but the calls
keep coming.
mostly from Sylvia,
who you knew
in the eighties.
she's never gotten
over things
despite your
numerous attempts
at almost
sincere apologies.
sometimes she pretends
to be selling
things, like
mortgages, or
land, or products
for men to assist
them in their amorous
pursuits. she
finds that to be
funny. Sylvia.
calling from a pay
phone.

the mirage motel

if I wasn't married,
she says, sighing,
twisting the stuck
ring on her finger,
we'd have a life
together.
we wouldn't have
to sneak around like
this, meeting
in out of the way
motels, using foreign
names to check into
our room.
parking our cars
around back. beneath
the willow trees,
that blow and bloom.
if it wasn't for
my husband, my kids,
and parents,
and money, we'd
be together now,
we'd have a life
of our own. we'd be
happy, happy in our
own home sweet home.

in the shuffle

there is no
getting lost
in the shuffle
at this point.
it is all a
shuffle now.
the patient holding
a metal staff
of life,
a plastic
bag, waving
like the flag
of surrender
at his shoulder,
the slip and slide
of slippered
feet
going towards
the ding
of an elevator
going down, no
one going up.
it's all down
from here, here
in the shuffle.

prom night

you see on a warm
spring night,
the young boys
and girls
out, dressed
formally in gowns
and ill fitting
suits that will
never be worn again.
the girls are
women. the boys
still boys.
needing each other.
still afraid
of the unknown
world that women
already seem
to understand.
they are so far
behind, and you know,
will never catch up.

enough said

sometimes
one piece of clothing
defines
the person,
opens up
the window and
shines a light
on who
they really
are. take those
leather,
leopard print
skin tight
pants she's
wearing.
enough said.

i'm alone now

she wants
the bird bath painted
white.
the back fence
too.
that post,
that bench
where he used to
sit and throw
seeds
down for the birds.
can you do
anything
about the bees,
she says.
so many bees
in the wood,
making home for
more bees.
and the lawn
furniture,
why is green now?
is there anything
that can
be done about
that?
will you stay
and have lunch?
there is so much
to be done,
and I'm alone now.

you've changed

tell me I have
silky smooth skin,
like milk, she says,
lying in the sun
like a long
lithe cat, purring.
you have skin
like milk, you
tell her. but
that's not enough.
she wants more.
why don't you ever
tell me things
like that on
your own? I just said
you have skin like
milk, what else
do you want?
tell me about my
eyes. how beautiful
my hair is.
you have two
of them, you tell
her. nice, nice
eyes. your hair
is wonderful.
you used to
be so romantic,
she says, letting
out an exasperated
sigh. we just met
last night honey,
you tell her,
looking for
your shoes.
things were
different then.

what are the odds

your horse
doesn't come in.
he doesn't even
finish, he comes
up lame
around the first
turn.
there isn't a
single number on
your ticket
that's picked
in the lottery.
not one. your
numbers aren't even
close. you can't
even come up
with two pairs
in a game
of poker,
and your high
card is a seven
of clubs, so
you wonder, when
you meet her
and she says,
I do, what the odds
are of this
working out.

on the ledge

your friend
liked to laugh loudly
and long
at anything
you said, or happened
in the course
of a normal day.
it was a boisterous
and bellowing
laugh.
his eyes watered
as he found the humor
in everything.
it was embarrassing
to be with him
in public. you
loved him,
and will miss him,
wishing he hadn't
leaped from
the ledge of
the tallest building
he could find.

down to one

one glove,
one boot, one
sock.
one button
missing,
one pillowcase
one
fork, one
spoon, one knife.
one cup,
one toothbrush
in the holder.
you are
down to
the bare
minimum
of things needed
to survive.
what happened
to the others,
making a pair
is beyond you,
but you have
a clue
who's to blame.

a spoonful

you like
food
to surprise you
when it hits
your taste buds.
you want to shake
your head and
go, oh my,
that's good,
give me some more.
a kiss is
the same way.
one spoonful
of kissing leading
to another,
and another
until you can't
take it
anymore, but
you indulge
yourself anyway.

frozen food

the meat,
wrapped in freezer
paper,
marked meat,
with a pen,
pulled
out in a starvation
mode,
is burned
with a hoary
frost after
months,
maybe years
of being
stuck tight
and heavy in
the ice box with
no light,
or love.
you can't win
everyone,
save everything,
although sometimes
you are optimistic
and believe
that you
can.

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.