no spring chicken

be careful, she says,
as you tie your shoes
to go for a run.
it's cold out and
windy, wear your
windbreaker and gloves.
you're no spring
chicken, she says,
handing you a scarf
and some ear muffs.
I'd appreciate it
if you didn't
compare me to farm
yard poultry, you
tell her, shaking
your head no, to
the gloves, the scarf,
the earmuffs.
we'll it's true, she
says. you aren't
a spring chicken.
do I have feathers,
do I have a beak,
and go clucking around,
pecking at the dirt?
someone's a little
grouchy today aren't
they? I just don't
like being called old,
you tell her. okay?
okay, she says, I'm
sorry, see you in about
fifteen minutes or
so. maybe less you
tell her, it's
starting to rain,
hand me that umbrella.

when things fall apart

let's just be friends
your wife
tells you one night
as she makes
you a peanut butter
sandwich, setting
it on the table
with a glass of milk
and a pickle.
what? you say, taking
a bite of your
sandwich. do we have
any chips? she reaches
on top of the refrigerator,
sets the bag
of chips on the table.
so, she says, standing
there with her hands on
her aproned hips,
weary from fixing dinner.
let's just be friends
from now on, okay?
the neighbors across
the street are doing
it. who, you say.
jim and mary? yes,
she says. and it's working
out just great.
you sleep in one
room, I can sleep
in the other. but we
need to have rules.
no bringing dates home
unless one of us is
out of town.
how long have you felt
this way, you ask,
taking a long sip of
milk. god I love cold
milk you say, wiping
your lips with your sleeve.
maybe ten years, she says,
maybe longer.
so, that's it then, you
say. we're sort of over
but we're not over?
yes. she says, we can
pretend to be married,
but you can keep working
and paying the bills
while I do what I do.
which is what? you
say, finishing off
the pickle.

the garbage disposal

you hate
when your garbage
disposal
gets clogged up
and won't turn.
it has that low
buzzing noise
that makes you
curse
out loud.
you'd rather
lose a small
toe than
have to push that
little red button,
fish your
hand into that
dark slimy hole
to clean out
whatever nasty
debris won't allow
it to spin.
it's either glass,
or rubbery
calamari,
or something
you inadvertently
flushed down
like a set of
keys.
your trusty long
wooden
spoon is the only
thing that seems
to work short of
calling crazy mike,
your plumber.
you grind the spoon
around like
a butter churn.
again and again.
sometimes the end
of the world
can't come soon
enough.

doing the conga

she asks you to go
dancing,
which makes
you groan and bend
over as
if you suddenly
had a stomach
virus brought on
by a piece of bad
fish.
dancing, you
mumble, as you
try to catch your
breath. why?
you say. what for?
you are staring,
bent over, gazing
at the sidewalk,
at a line
of black ants
seemingly
doing the conga,
carrying
bread crumbs
over their heads
between your
two left feet.

just friends

you miss the old
days when you knew nothing
about people
and what you did
know, if it was juicy,
was passed over
the fence in the backyard
or overheard
in a local bar.
now, the second anyone
takes a step,
you know. they post
their troubles and ills
online, for
everyone to follow.
they cut a vein
and dip their pens
in red ink
to put it all on
their poetry blog,
like me.
you liked people better
back then, not
knowing everything
they were thinking,
their personal lives,
when you were just
casual, almost
mysterious friends.

fresh bread

hardly anything
beats warm
soft bread
freshly baked
with a crust
in making you happy.
of course
there's love,
but love
is elusive, hard
to come by.
fresh bread
is down the street.

the world has changed

a large tree
falls
in the night.
when you get
up the next
morning, you
look out the window
and see
that the world
has changed.
sometimes, you
hear it, or
see it coming
but most times.
it's a quiet
subtle move
behind
closed doors.

watch your step

each day
you're slipping.
your feet
find moss
on the slate
pathway,
darkened
wet with rain.
only one word
spoken
into your ear
will do this.
like a tight
rope walker
you throw
your arms out
to wobble back
towards
balance,
steady and safe
on solid
ground. at
least for now.
but
watch your
step.

i'll pray for you

so much can go
wrong
with the human body.
the mind,
the heart,
each limb
so fragile, so
quick
to break, or
bend in a way
that hurts.
and yet, you want
me to go
sky diving with
you.
I scream and curse
like a drunken
fool
when I stub my
toe, what makes
you think that
I'd possibly want
to leap
from a plane so
high in the sky
and have
the chute possibly
not open.
I see no fun
in dying that way.
take pictures, i'll
pray for you.

another side of her

she breaks a heel
in a steam
grate and screams
out a word
you've never heard
her say before.
she repeats it
again, as she pulls
her shoe
from the metal
grid imbedded
in the sidewalk.
those were my
favorite shoes, she
says. i'll never
find another pair
of heels like that.
no problem you say,
hop on board.
you give her a piggy
back to the theatre.
I've never seen
that side of you,
you say, as you
bounce along
the sidewalk.
drop me, she says,
and you'll see
even more.

the estimate

come in, sit down,
the man says.
can I fix you some
tea, perhaps a cold
glass of water
with lemon.
he states the obvious
that he is from
india, folding
his brown hands
across the white
linen table cloth.
I am happy, he says,
that you have taken
the time to come
and see me.
we are not poor,
but we are not rich
either, he says.
this house, this land
was worked for.
nothing was given
to us. I know
you will be fair
with what business
we do together.
tell me, how much.
no, don't tell me.
write it down
and I will look at
it later. I'm sure
it will be a favorable
estimate for the both
of us. I look
forward to your
services in our home.
we are not poor, but
we are not rich
either. please,
remember that
when you add and
subtract the numbers
towards your fee.

once more

help me up,
don't leave,
are phrases
that you've
heard before,
familiar
words
that you once
said,
when you were
three
or four,
reaching
up to take
your mother's
hand, but now,
it's her turn
to say what needs
to said
and heard
once more.

the lab report

the mechanic,
comes to you with
head down,
staring at his clipboard
like a doctor
who has seen
the x-rays and
the lab report.
he shakes his head,
holding bad news.
you put down
the good housekeeping
magazine dated
1994 with betty white
on the cover when
she was only 60
and listen
as he takes
a seat next to
you. you need oil,
he says, good oil,
maybe a synthetic
blend, and your filter,
he says, holding
it out to you
like a burned
out liver, look at
it. I suggest
you let us install
a new one.
you are choking
the life out of
your engine, it
can't get air. if
I put this oily rag
over you mouth
and nose, cutting
off your oxygen supply,
what would happen
he says sincerely.
I'd die? you say,
inching backwards
in your slippery chair.
right he says.
so new filter? yes, you
say. do what you have
to do. transmission
fluid? yes, you say.
new windshield wipers?
other than oil, wipers
are the most
important part of
your automobile.
what about tires,
you ask. they sort
of seem important too.
we don't do tires, he says,
but we can rotate them
for you. okay, you say,
sure. rotate them.
good he says,
now sign right here.
there's coffee over there,
it's fresh,
we made it last
month, but it's hot,
so be careful.
and I just want to
tell you sir, you are
making the right
decisions here today
at Lube Job.

marking time

on the wall
a white plate
of hours
ticks
above the calendar,
each marking
time in their
own way,
the seasons
out the window
too.
that mirror,
hanging in
the hall
holding an
image me,
of you.

the cool puddle

there may be
ghosts, you've felt
the cool
puddle of
air floating
near the ceiling
where the dog
barks,pointing
with his bare
tooth muzzle.
there may be
apparitions
floating
between life
and death making
the floor creak,
the pipes bend,
chains rattle
in the attic.
but what difference
does it make
to us, you think,
as you mutually
agree to leave
each other alone.

the future

you're tired
of hearing that
the children
are our future.
they know
nothing, not
yet at least.
leave them
to their toys,
to their playgrounds
and dreams.
let them be
children, let
them for now
believe that
everything is
what it seems.

the crooner

in a blue
orb of light
the old singer
on stage
is weary yet
smiling, still
able
to sing
the songs he
sang thirty
years ago, but
someone behind
him will
hit the high
notes, the low
notes.
he rows
sleepily
down
the middle of
the song,
taking you with
him
as you rise
to sing
along.

the yellow bikini

when young,
she says, which bikini
should I bring
to the beach.
this one,
the yellow,
or the black one,
or maybe this hot
red one.
or maybe i'll
pack them all
and see what
mood I'm in
when we get there.
but this will change
given time.
one day she'll
stand there
in her dress like
bathing suit
that covers ninety
per cent of her skin
and ask you, is
there anything
you can see in
the front,
how about from
behind?

cold showers

she'll throw
you bone
every now and
then. a peck
on the cheek.
a nuzzle
at your neck,
an unexpected
peek when a
warm wind
blows, but that's
as far it goes
until you drop
to a knee
with a ring
and a date.
other than that,
it's you and
a bar of soap
taking lots
of cold showers.

all in the game

the teacher
always wanted you
to show your work.
they wanted to see
what you knew
or didn't know,
if you leaned
across your
desk to peer
at another's
test, if you cheated
in order to get
the right answer.
it's one of the few
times in life
you needed to be
transparent,
after that, it's
all in the game.

victory

you know people
who count
the years until work
ends.
when they can
collect what's due
to them, when
they can finally
spend
what pennies they
have saved.
go fishing.
buy a boat, sail
off into some
mythical sunset, done
with the traffic,
the boss,
the tethered lines
of phones
and computers
telling them what
to do, where to
be. no more they say
hands held
high in
victory, limping
off towards
the oars and pole
to catch
a sunfish in the green
deep sea.

the wobbly table

the waiter
with furrowed brow,
sweating,
short of help,
mixes up the orders,
brings you
fish when you wanted
something
else.
the drinks are
not cold,
the salads
weak and limp
from sitting
in the window.
the bread could
hammer nails, but
so what.
the sun is shining
and there is nowhere
else you'd rather be
then with her.
her long leg
tapping yours
beneath
the wobbly table.

a new bone

sometimes you
half listen, you half
speak,
you half care.
rare are the times
when you are whole
and completely
there, but
you are not alone,
for either
are they
fully in
the moment, like
dogs
distracted with
a new bone.

third one's the charm

the first wedding
is usually the big one.
thick hand printed
invites go out.
the five tiered
vanilla cake,
the band, the white
dress, two
hundred people
under a tent,
some of which you
know, or have known.
steak and lobster
around.
it's an event.
the second wedding,
not so much,
you pare it down
to those you are
close to, a beige
dress will do
this time around.
a dj playing your
favorite songs. no
open bar this time.
a small but nice
two tiered cake.
water chestnuts
wrapped in bacon.
the third wedding,
you invite ten people
and have
it in your living
room. you make
drinks in a blender
for the seven people
who show,
some are neighbors
that you just met.
you have the tv
on. you are wearing
shorts and a t shirt,
she's in yoga pants
with flip flops.
you text people
trying to get more
people to come.
there is a lot of
pizza and cold beer.
third one's the charm.

trash on thursdays

lock up
before you leave,
turn the lights
off.
put a bowl
of water out
for the dog.
some food
on the counter
for the cat.
put the frozen
chicken
in the sink.
water
the plants,
set the alarm.
this is the note
I would have
left you
had you told
me you were
leaving, but
you didn't,
instead,
as always,
you left
everything
as it is, except
for taking
the trash out.
thanks, but
who leaves someone
on a Thursday?

the race

in the early morning
as you get
your coffee, you see
the gaggle of
women waiting for
the bridal shop
to open. like horses
at the starting gate,
but eating like
jockeys before the race
to fit into
their colors of choice.
old and young.
the buzz of it all,
the track they've
never run,
set before them,
like silk, or mud,
who's to know.
they are jumpy
in their stalls,
rattling in their
cages at the start,
waiting for the gun,
or wedding bells
to sound. and
the mothers, who've
seen both ends
of the race, are
nervous as they place
their bets
at the window, hoping
for a winner
this time around.

girl in the well

they find
a girl in a well.
which is now
a cave,
a thousand feet
deep full
of fish
and water,
the bones
of an elephant,
a saber tooth
tiger.
it's just her
arm,
a piece of chalk
colored
leg, her
small skull,
the rest of her
is gone.
they give her a
name, they make
up a story as
to how she ended
there.
they write a
book, and spin
another web on
the evolutionary
trail. but you
think of her,
as just a girl
who lost
her way,
then fell into
a very deep well.

food poems

you write too much
about food
she tells you, why
is that?
are you obsessed
with food?
what would you
rather I write
about you ask her
as she scratches
a bug bite
on her long pale
leg. I don't know
she says. but
I'm always hungry
when I read
your poems about
food. ah ha, you
say, perhaps,
sex, then, instead?

the seeds

with her knees
in the soil
up to her wrists
in weeds
and worms, she
toils
in the mid day
sun.
the trees
sighing with
spring air,
summer
still to come.
from seed
the green will
rise, and she
will stand
on her porch,
happy with the
children
she has planted
once more,
another time.

good to go

you are technology
inept.
but you have a son,
so that
helps.
he pushes you
out of the way
and plugs
everything in,
does what he has
to do, shoving
aside boxes
and directions,
warnings,
and assorted clues.
finally, after
twenty seconds
of moving his fingers
along a tiny
keyboard
he hands you your
phone and pats
you on the back.
you're good to go
dad, he says.
try not to pocket
dial me
for a few days,
okay? and be careful
with those
pictures.

let's make the end a good time too

a song comes
on the radio,
let's make the end
a good time
too.
it's a slow
syrupy song
with acoustic
guitars
and violins.
you can almost
see the dude
with his cowboy
hat, shading
his blue
eyes, as he
sits on a porch
with a piece
of straw between
his lips.
as he sings, he
stares off
into the field,
where a woman
rides a horse,
unsmiling,
her bare shoulders
brown in
the sun
as she rides
further and further
away
in a cloud of dust.
let's make the end
a good time
too, he sings.
making you laugh,
knowing how impossible
such a thing is.

undressed

still
undressed,
you move about
the house
unseen,
as nature
made you, except
for your
socks and
shoes, all is
well
until you
approach
the stove
and pour
your coffee
feeling
a stinging
spritz of steam.

closing out the light

no one showed
you how
to throw a ball.
how to grip it,
or where to put
your arm.
you just
went out into
the street
and did so.
for hours, for
months, for
endless summers.
and now,
with your son
across
an ocean of land,
in his world,
you remember
those days with
him, closing
out the light
with another spiral
falling
from the stars.

burly man

your burly man friend
is always
building something.
a house at the beach,
a cabin
in the mountains,
a fence made of stone.
he has a deer
mounted in his truck,
live salmon
in a cooler with his beer.
he carries a shovel
like a toothpick.
laughs at a broken
pipe, or downed wire.
he shakes his head at
weaker men, like
yourself who stand
back with white gloves,
sipping a vanilla
latte, keeping clear
as he pulls a tree out
by its roots to save
a cat.

the written word

you fall
in love not too
easily.
but words
have a way of
making you crawl
quickly
towards
the light of
someone who
can write.
the heart
and brain leading
the hand
towards a swirl
of sensual
ink.
you can almost
hear her
breathing.
feel the touch
of her punctuation,
how she dots
her i's,
crosses her t's,
turns
the pages of
her day.

who left the milk out

the bread
is stale, hard
and crusty
in the unsealed
bag.
the plastic
twist lies on
the floor.
you have no
one to blame
but yourself.
same goes
for the milk
you left out
last night,
now warm
and jelled,
as sour as a
a farewell kiss
forever.
the uncorked
wine has lost it's
luster too,
dry and harsh,
making your
whole mouth
squeeze and pucker,
with only a
half of glass
poured.
you need someone
to yell at
you all day, it
seems, to keep
this place in order.

the food pyramid

you scratch your head
trying to remember
the longest stretch
you've ever gone without
eating meat
and not fainting,
but you can't, your
thoughts are fuzzy.
they are fuzzy because
you haven't had any
meat today. you understand
that meat is now
bad for you, every day
there is some skinny
pale, wobbly person,
leaning on a table
eating sunflower seeds
telling you that meat
is from satan,
and those pork sausages
nestled between
that buttery bun with
eggs and cheese
will kill you. this makes
you reply with something
smart like, so what. or
you're not the boss of
me, skinny minny.
you remember the food
pyramid as a kid.
how you needed nine
glasses of milk,
a pork chop,
a slice of cake,
six eggs and a tomato,
or banana to keep things
going. how things have
changed, you think. as
you sneak into a dark
alley, loosening your
belt to quietly eat a
burger from five guys.

puzzled

you love doing
the cross word puzzles
when you are bored
out of your mind
and they are
easy, when you have
no trouble
with the long
words going down
or across. once
you figure those
out, it's a piece
of cake, a slice
of pie, easy
street. but sometimes
you don't know
who that fourth
Baldwin brother is,
or who is a charter
member of OPEC.
it's impossible,
and you realize how
limited your education
is, how small
your world is.
how devious these
puzzle makers are.
you can hardly wait
for the paper the next
day to see where
you went wrong.

the plant

you had a plant
once, let's call it
green.
yes. with leaves.
you found it
in the trash room
and rescued
it from doom.
it was a large
pot, the grey dirt
dry as a
bone, but you put
down a towel,
dragged it into
your apartment.
you set it by a
window, pulled off
the papery brown
leaves, spun it
around, giving it
a nice cool shower
from a coffee
mug of water.
it was never love
at first sight,
nothing like that
at all, it was
just nice to have
something to take
care of, all
the while knowing
what you would
do with it once
it was your time
to move, and leave.

make amends

the sun burns
bright
and yellow.
for now.
but
its future
is dim.
even this
will come to
an end.
the embers
dying,
slowly
to a soft
red, spent.
this is why,
among
many reasons,
that we
must
make amends.

the party lights

a string
of lights
around the wooden
fence
that borders
the slab
of patio
red, yellow
green
and blue
sad party lights
aglow,
but she turns
them on
each night,
in remembrance
of what used
to be,
the long wild
forays into
the warm
summer evenings
when everyone
was younger.
how the music
played,
how the people
danced, how
sweet the colored
lights did
glow upon
their faces.

jelly fish dinner

despite
how soft and harmless
they look
you can't stand
the sight of
jelly fish
on the beach.
those shiny
globs of stinging
goo. where's
the head,
where's the bottom,
where are the
arms and legs
on this thing?
what the hell
is this?
how many more are
in there? we
need to clean this
beach up,
someone get a shovel
and a net.
can you fry them up
and slap some old
bay on em?
maybe some hot sauce.

cry for help?

is the woman
with the blue hair
giving
the world a cry
for help.
the pierced
nose and ear,
the stud
secured
in a cheek.
what about the ink
on half
a face,
the tattoos
of knives
and guns
along the neck.
what's the message
here?
what's yours?
in your khaki pants
and white
pressed shirt
with your
hair combed to
the side.

empty bottles

you wonder why
you only left a half
a glass
of milk
in the carton,
why didn't you
finish it?
how can you eat
cookies without
a full glass
of cold milk.
you sigh and shake
your head,
staring at
the vodka bottle,
which always
has an extra shot
or two
in reserve.
that would be
criminal to have
saved just a drop
at the bottom
of an otherwise
empty bottle.

change of plans

the plans
are made to go out.
the destination
mapped
and known,
tickets in hand,
keys,
all set and ready
to go.
one last look
into the mirror,
but then you kiss
me
before we
leave, and
things change,
the floor is
littered
with clothes,
the wine gets
opened, the door
stays closed.
was it Hamlet
you were going to
see or
Macbeth, it doesn't
matter anymore,
as you write
your own
story, playing
out each scene
once more.

the loose hinge

you a buy
book because
everyone says how
wonderful
it is.
how it's changed
their lives,
their way of
thinking about
the world at large.
they are better
people because
of that book,
but you hate
it. you've read
the first ten
pages
three times and
still don't get
it. you can't
pronounce a single
name of any
character,
but it's a thick
book, one that
you will lend
freely if asked,
for now though it
holds the door
open, the one with
the loose hinge,
in the den.

public office

you may be forced
to run
for president
of your condo
board and have
public hangings
on Saturday
mornings. the current
board members
have voted
and installed
new speed bumps
into the community
which consists
of a mere
hundred houses on
three small cul
de sacs.
there are seven
speed bumps,
speed hills, speed
tables.
you can drive
at the most fifty
feet before
driving over one
at two miles per
hour.
they give nose
bleeds they are so
high.
the car rolls
to the top
then goes down
the other side
almost scraping
bottom.
they are painted
safety yellow.
insanity
breeds contempt,
which will be your
bumper sticker.
you will run on
the platform of no
more fools in office.

out of my way

it's hard to drive
one mile
without being
tail gated
by an angry man
or child,
a soccer mom
in a van full
of women going
to get yarn.
the world is in
a hurry up
state of mind.
to get through
the light, get
around the bend,
get to where
they are going,
as if ten seconds
mattered. you
don't quite
understand
what the rush is,
as you hug
the right lane,
sipping
your coffee
and listening
to Sinatra sing
the summer wind.

ragweed

I think I have
the flu
she says.
coughing into
the phone.
my bones ache, my
eyes itch.
I'm tired
as all get out.
my brain
is scrambled
like a pair
of eggs
on a skillet.
she sneezes,
then blows her
nose.
it sounds like
a small train
in a tunnel,
blowing its
horn.
ragweed, you
tell her. pollen.
junk the air.
then you both
sneeze at the same
time.
it's been awhile
since you
felt this close
to her.

being chased by a bear

you dream
a bear is chasing you.
you can
barely keep
out of it's fanged
paws reach.
his teeth are
enormous, gnashing
wet
as he chases you
with
salmon breath.
you know it's just
a dream,
but you don't
care, you
don't want to be
eaten by a bear,
not even
while you are
sleeping. when
you wake up
you'll try to figure
out what the dream
means. you'll
get out your dream
book and search
for the page that
says, bear chasing
man, but right
now you are on
the run, searching
for higher ground.
looking for a place
to hide.

sweet caroline

you know you are
getting old,
you accept it. you
surrender, as if there
was some choice, but
sometimes you
look exactly as
you did when you
woke up. this annoys you
and makes you buy
women's creams
to rub into your face.
despite the price,
they don't work, no
matter how hard you
lather them on.
the wrinkles just
won't settle
down and go away.
your knees creak,
hour hands
stiffen, even your
voice is getting
gravely, like
how your grandmother's
was when she used
to curse out
president kennedy
in front of the tv.
how well you
remember that,
another clue
to how old you have
become. how you loved
that little caroline.

what's yours is mine

when her mother died
she inherited everything.
every book,
every cup and plate,
every piece of clothing,
pictures,
tables and chairs,
cats and dogs,
even the frozen food
in her freezer.
twelve T-bone steaks.
she kept it all. found
room somehow in her
own crowded house.
but now it was cluttered
times two. which made her
daughter nervous.
making her say,
what's wrong with you?
are you mental?
when you die, I'm selling
it all. everything.
or i'll burn it in
a big bonfire, everything,
except maybe that dress,
those shoes,
that stack of books,
your collection of
vinyl albums and your
jewels. well, maybe
some other things too.
i'll make a list.

i need some space

out of the blue
she blurts out,
I think I need some
space. she leaves out
the word honey on
the end of her sentence,
so you know
something is up.
huh, you say. oh,
sorry, am I too
close to you?
the chairs here are
a little tight.
you slide your
chair away
from hers. no, she
says. space, I need
space in our
relationship.
really? you say.
seeing each other
twice a week is
too much? twice
a week? really?
okay. well, how
about we just try
Saturday night.
one night a week?
will that be better?
no, she says.
I need space, real
space. I need
distance to think
things over.
to think about what,
you ask, scratching
your head. work?
life? us, she says,
shaking her head.
I need some space
and some time to think
about us, where this
relationship is going.
where do you want it
to go, you ask.
marriage, moving in
together?
can't you just do
it now? think about
us now. put on your
thinking cap and think
about us now.
look, you stupid idiot,
I'm trying to break up
with you in a nice
and gentle way, but
you are to block
headed to understand.
I need space away
from you! get it?
wait a minute. are you
saying you don't love
me anymore, and that
you want to break
up? yes, yes, yes.
oh, okay, I get it now.
why didn't you just
say that. I've been
feeling the same
way, but didn't know
how to say it either.
we can still have lunch
together though, right?

olga from the ukraine

your new girl friend,
olga, from
the Ukraine wants
to arm wrestle.
come on, she says.
don't be a sissy
man. show me your
strength. put your
hand into mine.
she clears the plates
away where you
just had dinner,
rolls up her sleeve
showing a tattoo
of a cow.
I will not hurt
you, she says,
squinting her Russian
blue eyes like
glints of steel.
no, you say. I won't.
pffft, she snorts.
we will not make
love tonight until
you arm wrestle me.
your choice.
you close your eyes
and shake your head.
you think about fifi,
the French girl
you used to date,
how soft and sweet
she was. how she
smelled like pastry
fresh from the oven
in the morning.
come on, sissy man,
let's go. so you put
your hand into Olga's
tight fist and let
her slam your arm
down into the table.
she helps you get
the fork out of
your forearm, then
you go home to make
farm factory love.
it's such a small
world now.

sweet and low

some people
like to doctor
their coffee.
it takes a half
an hour at least
while they stand
at the counter
pouring, stirring,
adding
sugar, powdered
chocolate,
cinnamon and cream
into their
cup.
then they take a
small test
sip, to see if it
is drinkable, not
quite.
they start again
until finally
it is right.
they always leave
with a handful
of sweet and low
stuffing the pink
envelopes into
their pockets,
for later. they're
free, right?

the jester

you are from
drama
royalty.
the queen of
course, rules,
but
the princess's
and princes'
hold up their own
with the slightest
bit of
gossip
or trouble
brewing into
a violent storm.
a paper cut
needs surgery,
a fender
bender is a collision
where lives
were barely
saved.
a puddle is a flood.
a snow flake
a blizzard.
you try to keep quiet,
but sometimes
you can't help
yourself,
and pile on,
mocking the ballooned
misery
which makes you
the court jester,
you suppose.

the clock

your grandmother
loved
her broken clock.
it stood
like a soldier
squared
in the foyer
silently
keeping time
at bay.
the numbers
were letters
the face
yellowed
with age,
the weight
behind the glass
was still.
but the bird
was out
of it's little
window
sitting on
it's perch,
quiet now.
but you remember
as child
how it had
so much to say.

hands on the plow

lean
years. dust
years.
no crops.
no rain
to speak of.
a hard wind
blows
brown.
there is no
fat of
the land
nothing green
is anywhere.
but you
don't leave,
you don't quit.
you keep
your hands
on the plow
and wait.

press on

further, further
you drive.
keep going.
around the next
bend,
over the next
bridge,
keep going.
drive on.
further.
don't stop.
follow
the detour
signs, now
keep straight
that's right.
further. keep
going. we are
all in
this together.
not really,
but it sounds
good to say
as you press
onward through
the darkness.

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.