come over

you are surprised
by the rain
this morning, who knew?
an extra hour sleep,
another chapter into
the new book, a cup of
coffee brought up
as you crawl back under
the sheets.
maybe it will rain
all day. how nice
to not have leave
or be anywhere for
once on a long wet
Saturday. only one
thing missing, and that
would be you.
come over. come soon.

emergency religion

being the bad
catholic
that you are you
save
your religion for
dire times.
it is the emergency
handle
on the wall,
when the room catches
fire. it's
the safety rip cord
on the chute
when you leap from
a plane, dropping
into a free fall.
you feel guilty about
this all the time,
but it's good
to have God
in your back pocket
just the same.

chipping away

with a chisel
you carefully break
the ice off of her.
starting from the head
and working down,
going slow, trying
always not to say
the wrong thing
as you chip away, but
your words, it seems
are all the wrong
thing.
sometimes you take
a candle and hold
it near her,
melting away
the cold fear
of love
she has cloaked herself
under. you know she's
in there somewhere
as the rooms fill will
cold puddles of her.

asleep

when she sleeps
she disappears
into the whiteness
of the room,
the soft tangle
of wintered
sheets.
she's away
in her world.
dreaming, dreaming
of things you'll know.
she keeps so much
to herself.
you know her better
when she's like this,
quiet and away
in bed asleep.

your cup

your happiness
is never
complete.
there is always
more room
in the cup.
the second you
become content
and sit back to
relax, to enjoy
the moment
to take a deserved
long sip
there is a dribble,
a leak.
but the cup
keeps being filled
more and more
with time.
rarely has
it been empty.

the flag decal

you see your friend Abdul
putting his new American flag
decal onto his kia window.
what's up brother, you yell
across the lawn.
I am a citizen now, he says,
walking over to have me
shake his hand. excellent
you tell him. great. welcome
aboard, you say, patting
him on his drenched wet back
where the sprinkler
soaked him down.
you don't know why
you say stupid things like
that, but you do. it's America
for crying out loud
home of the brave and free,
yet occasionally stupid
speech. so now what? you
say. I am going to change
my name to Francis Scott
Key Abdul Arizza. Hmm,
you say, putting your hand
on your chin. Are you in love
with that name, because
francis for a man is a little
weird in this country.
what about james, as in
james Madison, or james
stewart, or LeBron james.
ahhh. he says. you are
on to something. then you
can call me jimmy, right?
that's right. you are officially
jimmy, citizen of the usa.
You are so wise, you are my
mentor in this country. I am
grateful to have you as a
neighbor. I read your poetry
blog and use it as my guide
to living here.
ummm, well. it's all fiction,
you tell him, but sure,
there's some good advice in
there if you look hard enough.
okay, then fellow citizen
he says. I must go buy hot
dogs now and fireworks for
the big celebration coming up
for our country. right on
jimmy. right on. watch the
sprinkler on your way back
over. oh my, took a little
fall did you. are you okay?

playing the game

when your son was little,
out of school
for summer
he'd wake up early
and play monopoly by
himself. when you came
home from work,
eight hours later,
he'd still be at it.
dishes and empty
cups around him where
his mother brought
him food and drinks.
his eyes would be dark
and hollow from all
the wheeling and dealing
that he had to do
to own nearly everything
except Baltic
and Marvin Gardens.
the stack of money
was tall beside him.
exhausted he would finally
put the game away,
explaining to you
how it all went, how
he played fairly,
how the dice kept
rolling his way.

air in the tires

your friend sees
you on your bike
and says
as soon as he
gets air into his tires
he'll join on the path
to the lake
for a ride.
he says this every
summer when he sees
you and stops his car
to chat.
he's proud that he
found his bike online
for a hundred dollars.
it's red, he says.
I just need to fix
the chain,
grease it up and add
air. you laugh.
okay, you tell him.
I look forward to it.
next year, perhaps.

the bracelet

she left behind
her religious bracelet.
it's made of a hard
plastic. painted
like stained glass.
all the saints
are there. from peter
to paul,
to st. Christopher.
she took if off
and left it
on the table before
you made love.
sometimes you take
it out of the drawer
and wonder if she
misses it, or even
remembers you.
in time, you'll put
it in a box and
send to her, when
you're done with it,
but not before.

the salesman

you understand
the salesman
on the phone
or with his
foot in the door
with a deal
you won't believe.
his persistence.
you get it.
you understand
the way he thinks
the way he lives
and breathes.
not taking no for
an answer, not even
a maybe later.
you have been
this way with women.
you are his kind.

the new t.v.

on crutches
he comes to the door
out of breath.
the large man
getting larger
every day.
it's my knee he says,
pointing at
the scars,
it's infected
from the operation.
then he makes it
to the couch
where he flops
into the deep
cushions and begins
to tell you about
his new t.v.
I can speak to it
he says. watch.
he yells out a number
and the channel
changes.
he sketches a
number onto the screen
and the channel
flips to that.
I don't even have
to get up,
he smiles. he's
happy as happy can
be with his bad knee,
his new t.v.

bird's nest

you pull
a bird's nest from
the vent.
small pieces of
leaves
and brush, grass.
an assortment
of slender
branches all
carried
by beak and
woven loosely
for the eggs,
all of it
comes softly out.
the blue
eggs, as tiny
as thimbles,
and one pink
bird, smooth
with open mouth.
as pink as a
sunset, that too
to your dismay
comes out.

the future

a kid
untethered by his
mother
begins to grab
your food on
the conveyor belt,
putting bananas
in his mouth.
handling your
bread and cans of
soup.
he rolls your honeydew
melon back at you
laughing like the
devil child he is.
and the mother,
not watching, not caring,
goes on
about her own
groceries.
you see future, and
it's not good.

a new you

tired of being
you, you slip out of
your skin,
and ponder a new
look, a new
thought, a new
and better version
of who you could be.
but it's hopeless.
you can't escape
these arms, or hands,
this face.
you need a vacation
from who you are, but
what to do?
there is no where to
go, but back again.

a small gift

you want to give
her something.
something small,
yet meaningful.
a gift. a present
that will say much
and say little.
perhaps it would
be more about the
box, the smallness
of it. the wrapping
and bow.
that alone should
say something.
what's inside
could be anything.
how do you wrap
infatuation, or
like, or friendship,
these types of gifts
are things you'll
never get right,
or know.

in reverse

you are a better
driver in reverse.
more alert, your arm
against the seat,
your neck turned to
see what's behind
you. you are cautious,
going slow, backing
out, backing away
from what you rushed
into such a short
time ago.

in this world

you bend to
the wishes
of others, hoping
it will make
them happier with
you. you observe
from a distance
what people say
to appear smart,
and remember it when
it's your turn
to say those things.
you mimic the world
with no thought
of your own.
it's how you survive,
going forward
where others have
gone before you.
each foot landing
where another foot
has left its mark.
your clothes were
worn before you,
that hat, those
shoes. the tie
you knot around
your neck, even that
you've seen others
wear. before you
leave, you check
the mirror to see
how you will
be seen.

the clearing

with hard
even strokes you
hack away
at the foliage,
the leaves,
the branches
and trees
that block your
day.
you slice
through the vines,
swinging madly
with loose arms
at the weeds.
this jungle keeps
coming,
never ceasing
to amaze you,
but you get
through it.
you are good with
the sharp blade,
this machine you sit
at, writing
your way into
a clearing.

the young boy

you stare into the eyes
of you as a young
boy.
you are still that
young boy.
you haven't changed.
the world has grown
older, but not
you. you are the same
child,
with the same thoughts,
through each season
you haven't moved
away from the child
within you.
you were born this
way. you will die
this way. this is who
you are and always
have been.

safe in her arms

your new girlfriend
is six feet two inches tall
in her bare feet.
in heels add another
four inches.
your head comes up
to her breasts,
which is both good
and bad depending
on the circumstances.
she says things like
I could eat a plate of
spaghetti off your
head. or here, let
me lift you up
so you can see
the concert too.
let me get that can
of tuna for you on
the top shelf.
the big can or small?
sometimes she puts a
leash around your waist
so that she doesn't
lose you in a crowd.
she whistles for you
to come, pats her leg
and says, here boy,
over here. none of this
bothers you.
you have no ego.
you feel safe in her
arms.

rabbit ears

you care, you really do.
but there is
only so much room for so
much bad
news that you constantly
hear.
your care meter has hit
full. there is nothing
you can do about
wars and disease, death
and destruction.
the ozone layer.
ice bergs melting.
you've done your march
in the streets.
you remember a time
when you could go a whole
day without hearing one
piece of bad news
and that was at six o'clock
on a black and white
tv with five channels
and a set of rabbit ears
wobbling on top.

sisters

you teased
yours sisters without
mercy
when you were a child.
made up songs
about them,
pulled their pony
tails,
and dismembered
their plastic
dolls.
they still
deeply resent it,
you can tell
when they give
you a box of home
made cookies
for Christmas.
stale and unchewable
oatmeal, or peanut
butter, thin
wafers that taste
like air, never
ever chocolate
chip with nuts
which they know
is your favorite.

forgive and almost forget

what you want today
is not always the thing
that you wanted yesterday.
take your ex wife for example.
oh how you wanted
a lightning bolt
to strike her from the sky
as she walked around
with a bag full of clothes
from nordstroms on your
hard earned pay,
but not anymore. you've
changed, you are different
person now. you've grown
up over the past few years
and learned to let go,
to forgive and almost
forget.

skeletons

skeletons
fill
the closet
draped
on wired
hangers.
waiting
in the dust
and dark
to have
their day
in the sun.
to gain
flesh, to
become whole
again,
waiting to
stir up
some long
awaited fun.

artists

the artist
wants
to be known
and yet
left alone.
it's a strange
tug of
war to need
fame
and fortune
then disown
it just
as quickly
as it comes.
the ego is such
a fragile
egg.
easily
toppled
with a shrug,
or by eyes
that turn
away.

the pool

you dive
into the pool
and swim,
arm over arm,
kicking
towards
the far blue
wall.
the water
is june
cold, so you
are alone
in your
journey.
the sun ripples
across
the top
in mirrored
waves,
you could swim
all day
and go nowhere.
such is
the life you
live in.

middle ground

poor people
want the problems
that the rich
have.
single people
want to be married,
and married
people often
want to be dead.
you are hoping that
you have
arrived at some
middle ground
and will cruise at
this level
for as long as
you can.

the take it easy countries

there are some
countries
that just sort
of lay back
and take it easy.
they stay out of trouble.
you hardly ever
hear anything about
them in the news.
finland, france,
Sweden
and Scotland
for example.
they aren't sending
troops around
the world.
they're making
wine and cheese,
beer and sausage.
sitting around cafes
smoking cigarettes
and reciting
poetry, or breaking
out in song.
sometimes they'll
take a nap
whenever they feel
like it.
maybe a six week
vacation at the end
of the summer.
these people aren't
worried about
going to mars,
or back to the moon
again.
no, they're
thinking about a
sandwich they might
have for lunch.
red wine or white?
why can't we be more
like that?

the sex therapist

you have many
patients that want to
tell you in
detail
about their sex lives.
the darkness that lurks
in their hearts
when it comes
to intimacy.
you are paid
to listen, so you
do.
sometimes you cringe.
other times
you smile and bite
on your finger
to keep from laughing
about
the fruits and vegetables
that get involved.
occasionally your glasses
fog up,
and you call for
a time out so that
you can splash cold
water onto your face.
they go on and on
telling you about
things that make your
skin crawl, but
you listen. you are
paid well, and have
been trained to help
people.
you say things, like
go on, don't be
embarrassed, I'm
a therapist, we have
no secrets here.
but by the end
of the day you want
to go home
and take a hot
scalding shower
with a bar of lava
soap. you can hardly
peel a banana anymore.

two drinks

you can't drink
anymore.
those days are gone.
two
martinis and
you're speaking
Spanish,
badly.
three and you're
the French
ambassador
waving to an adoring
chicken eating
crowd.
tossing roses
off the veranda,
making phone calls
to women
you once knew
and almost loved.
now you sip
and keep your mouth
relatively shut,
you hide your phone
from yourself.
you are aware
of the dangers
of speaking
at this stage
of your life.

the artist

you spill
a can of red paint
on the floor.
but you don't
panic
you call it
art.
you let it dry
and work
around it.
a plant
here, a stone
statue
there.
somehow it all
works. when people
come over,
they say,
oh my, can you
come over to my
house and spill
paint?
sure you say,
but it'll cost
you, it'll cost
you big.
I'm an artist.

the third floor

the third floor
is hot.
the middle floor
livable,
the basement
is an ice
box. so why am
I on
the third
floor sweating
like a slave
kid in a sweat
shop
making sneakers?

throw me that snake

throw me
that snake, I
need to pray,
your friend molly
says. I'm in
a religious mood.
what? you say.
you want me to
throw you a snake,
that snake over
there, that
copperhead, or
whatever it is
wiggling in the grass.
yes, she says.
just throw it
over here.
don't be a sissy
fool, just go fetch it.
fetch it? why are
you talking like this.
let me go get a
rake. oh fiddle
dee dee, she
says and goes
over to pick it
up. lord willing
I won't be bitten
she says,
as her eyes roll
back into her head
and her voice goes
hoarse. she begins
to speak in a foreign
language as she dances
around like her
feet are on hot coals.
it says in the bible
that if you have
faith, you
will be able to
handle snakes, she
says in her regular
voice.
whatever you say.
can you please go swing
that snake over
there, he doesn't
look too happy.

becoming

the children
in the playground
are like bees
buzzing,
finding their
place in the sand.
the rattle
of swings and slides,
the chomp
of dirt and grass,
as a ball is struck
by foot and flies.
the hoop
and holler of high
pitched voices,
rising
in the recess sun,
becoming already
who they are about
to become.

hey

old
people
generally like
to wave.
to sit on
their front
porches
and say howdy,
or hey.
they used
to be the ones
walking by,
or driving
down
the boulevard
but that's
all over now,
and it's okay.
so just wave.
don't be afraid,
it's an
old an hand
in the air
saying farewell,
or come
here for a spell
and stay.

happy girl

betty is such
a fun
and positive
person. cheerfully
benign.
always with
a smile,
something nice to say
about everyone.
not a single
dark cloud
hovers
over her head.
she's a delight
to be around
and makes you
think about your
own life
how critical
and insensitive
you can be
when the chips
are down.
but not betty.
she sees the silver
lining.
the pot of gold.
the bright
side of the road.
sometimes you
just want
to slap her silly.

the mountain

you are patient.
what you
are patient for
you're not
sure, but
you can wait
all day,
all month
or year for
whatever that might
be.
you have the
patience
of a mountain.

how's it going

you linger
in the quiet
of morning.
feel the sun
through the twist
of sheers.
you could sit
here for hours,
writing,
if someone brought
you coffee
and came in
to kiss you
on the cheek,
and say, how's it
going, my
dear?

just starting out

you give
a red faced kid
sitting on
the sidewalk
with a misspelled
sign
five dollars.
he's on
the hot
sunny side
of the street.
not on a bench
but on the brick,
he has
no pot, or hat
with which
to accept
donations.
he has so much
to learn if this
is going to be
his chosen
occupation.

two brides

your friends
of the same sex
are getting married.
the laws have changed
so that love
and a contract is allowed
now in certain
states or on
the water
between two borders.
they'll have a cake,
a band,
finger food and
a bouquet or two of
flowers.
the confused parents
will show, but will
shake their heads
with dismay, saying
to themselves
what has the world
come to.
but the ship will
sail on, the world
will change, for
better, or worse.
love will find a way
to be as one
and people will
dance, people will
celebrate, people
will pop champagne
and eat cake.

you're very nice

how easily
they step backwards
and away.
not feeling
the love
and charm
that you possess,
how you imagine
yourself
to be.
gently they close
the door
so as not to
disturb you,
leaving a nice
note on the table
saying nice
things, using
the word nice
until
it's lost its
meaning.

their hand

you have little
to say
about
a lot of things
and yet
then again
you can go on
and on about
nothing.
you keep to
yourself what
you really
think, leaving
them to guess,
or not guess.
the world is
a card game
with few willing
to put it all
on the table,
call and show
their hand.

feeling lonely

your rarely feel
lonely,
but some days
you wish someone you
liked a lot
would show up
and stay the night.
someone who
doesn't talk too
much, with kissing
skills, and knows
her way around
an oven.
someone who doesn't
want to go on and on
about her past,
or future, or how her
pet bird must miss
her and that she has to
get home in order
to feed it pecans
or something.
after a romantic
evening,
in the morning,
but not too early,
you could say
a few things, like
good morning. hello,
how are you today?
coffee, bagel perhaps?
there would be mostly
nodding
smiling. pointing
towards the hall
closet where the towels
are. she would be someone
real easy going, not
grumpy at all,
someone that has to go
home by noon.

the red blemish

I think a bug
bit me
you tell your doctor
as he examines
your arm.
he touches the red
spot and says
oh my, let
me get the nurse
in here. do you
have insurance
or lots of cash
in the bank?
yes and yes, you
say slowly, staring
at his finger
poking the raised
red blemish
on your arm.
I think it's just
a mosquito bite
he says, putting
on a pair of crazy
mad scientist
glasses to look
even closer, but we
need to run some
tests on it just
to make sure.
if you had a hundred
of these all over
your body I'd be
worried, but for right
now, I just see this one.
hold still,
this might hurt
a little.
he scrapes off a
piece of skin
and puts it in a
petri dish.
he hands it to the nurse
who winks at
you and leaves
the room.
we'll get back to
you in a few weeks
with the results
the doctor says.
you can get dressed
now, then he yells out,
Next!

his garden

your father
tells you about his
tomatoes.
his green beans,
how geen they
are, almost ready
to be pulled.
peppers too.
it's another spring
and summer
with his hands
in the earth.
still tilling the soil
planting seeds.
seven children
wasn't quite enough.

confrontation

you don't
like confrontation.
you are apt
to turn the other
cheek
unless imminent
danger
or death is in
front of you
or someone you love
needs help.
the argument
is not a part
of your make up.
it was at one time,
but you've won
the war of who you
are.
if you don't love
me. leave.
if you have an issue
that makes you sad,
please go.
happiness is not a
warm gun.
it's no gun at all.

the wall

your finger
plugs the hole
in the wall
keeping back
the flood water.
it hurts.
sometimes
you quickly pull
it out and slide
another finger
in. some water
trickles
through.
you can feel
the pressure,
the wall
pressing hard
against
your hand, you
lean your body
into the cracks
forming. you hear
the water
on the other side
building,
your finger will
not be enough
to keep things
together, at some
point it's sink
or swim as everything
comes crashing
down.

the angry line

there is an angry
line
at your window.
it's seven a.m.
and already the world
is up in arms
about something
you can't do
anything about.
but you hear their
complaints
one by one, they
want to blame so
much on you.
gently you steer
them towards
the truth
and hold a small
mirror up their
red faces. look,
look, you say.
there is your problem,
not me,
but i'll help you,
once you
calm down, now
go over there
and take a seat.

footprints

weary,
you decide
to go away for awhile.
get out of town.
you start
erasing yourself
piece by piece,
an arm, then legs,
torso,
leaving
the head for
last. slowly
you disappear
into the blue,
even your voice
is gone. soon
there is nothing
left of you
but the footprints
from your
boots,
here and there,
and even they will
soon fade.

the equation of her

she tells
you to do the math.
so you
take out a pad
and pen
and do the math
of you and her.
subtraction
addition, imaginary
numbers
and square roots.
but you are
still perplexed
at the end
of your scribbled
piece of paper.
what did you come
up with she says,
doing her nails
in the sunlight.
I don't know
you tell her.
I've got nothing.
I'm still confused.
which makes
her laugh.

blue moon

your blue
moon
comes.
she swims
in the cloudless
sky
like a polished
silver
dollar
circling
the world
you live
in, just out
of reach.
close enough
to know
she's out there.

if you can't say anything nice

you try to go a whole
day without saying
anything bad about anyone.
you are on your
best behavior.
person tailgating you
on the highway,
no problem,
rude people cutting
in line, pfft, not
an issue. screaming
kids running
about the coffee shop
bumping into everyone,
oh, let them have
their fun. telemarketer
calling at 7 a.m.
to sell you windows,
god bless him. it's
a tough day ahead of
you, you think as s
waiter ignores you,
again and again,
despite waving
your menu like a flag
over your head.

lickable fruit

inspired by
the advent of
electronic
cigarettes
you invent
the electronic
line of fruit
and vegetables.
the banana
that isn't a
banana, but it
looks like one.
you peel it
just like a real
one, but you
don't bite it
you lick it
until all the
flavor is gone.
same goes for
the carrot,
the cucumber,
the tomato
and apple.
all with batteries
included.
no longer do you
have to worry
about what to do
with the pear core
you just ate
in your car,
you lick it dry
of flavor then save
it for a recharge
for later.

crime clothing

it seems strange
that there is
an article
of clothing known
world wide
that represents
violence against
women.
the sleeveless men's
t-shirt, that's
never tucked
in, with a tear
or two perhaps
and a stain of ketchup
or mustard on
the front.
the wife beater.
why not a whole
line of criminal
clothing.
the bank robber's
high laced boots,
the adulteress mini
skirt, black and tight.
the indecent exposure
trench coat, with
a Velcro front.
maybe a jay walker's
jumpsuit in safety
colors of red or
orange. there could
be a whole line
of clothing specifically
for crime in a dark
corner of the basement
store.

the yellow light

rain
against
the window.
a small light
lays
a yellow
band
across
the bed,
the book in
your hand.
how the words
make you
sleepy, but
it's not
the author's
fault, your
mind is on
other things,
other stories
yet to be
written.

the chocolate bar

I can't believe
you are eating chocolate
and didn't offer
me any, she says
to you, throwing a
shoe in your direction.
I thought you were
trying to lose
weight you tell
her, throwing
the shoe back.
are you saying that
I'm fat, that I need
to lose weight?
no, I'm just quoting
what you said the
other day after
you got on the scale.
just one bite, she says.
please. so you
throw her a chunk
of your deep dark
chocolate candy
bar with almonds
which she catches in
her mouth like seal
at the zoo. that's my
last piece ever, she
says. as god is my
witness. which makes
you laugh and take
out the second bar.

the sunrise home for seniors

the fish
in the bowl
don't
know or
care
to know
what goes
on beyond
the glass
anymore.
this water
and greenery
below is
enough
it seems
for this simple
life,
a sprinkle
or two of
food each day
being welcome,
the sunlight
from the window.
your face leaning
in to say
hello, to tap
the glass
and smile
before you go.

ducks crossing route 66

as you drive
down route 66
at 70 miles per
hour, your exit
looms ahead, so
you get into
the right lane,
using your blinker,
and come to a line
of stop and go
traffic advancing
slowly off the road.
the left of you though
is three lanes of
speeding traffic,
rolling fast,
then you see the ducks.
a mother duck,
and six small
brown ducklings
to your right, coming
up through
the grass from
under the guard rail
where a small
pond sits. you move
past them as they step
into the road.
you are sick to see
this, but glad that
you won't see what
happens next.
you'd like to think
that there is some
moral to this story,
like
don't trust your parents,
but there isn't.
it's just nature
doing what nature does.
living, then dying.

boxes

you get a job
folding
boxes. to prove
your worth
you fold three
hundred and seventy
nine boxes
in one day.
your hands bleed,
your shoulders
sag, but your
boss is pleased
with your work.
he slaps you
on the back and
tells you what
a fine job
you've done.
by the end
of two weeks
you have slowed
down, your body
aches, your hands
have calloused
where once they
bled. you have
never hit that
number again.
your boss calls you
in to the office
and tells you
that you need to
improve your output,
you need
to do more, if
you expect to keep
your job.
you quit and go
to another box
making company.
on the first day
you fold three
boxes. they aren't
pleased, but you
tell them you can
do better.

the orange

down to one
orange
you take a knife
and slice it into
quarters.
you place
it on a plate,
bring a napkin
and go
sit by the window.
slowly you
take a piece of orange
to your mouth
and bite in.
the juices
run off your lips
down
your chin.
how wrong you were
about this piece
of fruit,
thinking it was
bitter, or sour,
like the others,
you had no idea
of the sweetness
that was waiting
to begin.

say what?

she had lots
of boyfriends
before you met
her, so you sort
of excused her
when she
sometimes
called you by
the wrong name.
this wasn't a happily
ever after
relationship
to begin with.
frank,
frank hand me
my shoes,
or jimmy, jimmy,
I love you, can
you lend me some
money. once
after a lusty session
of making love
she called you
Jennifer which
made you turn
the light on
and say what?

sinking boat

you see a boat
sinking
out in the bay,
people are
waving towards
shore
with both hands.
they are far away.
you wave back.
how happy
they seem, yelling
something you
can't make out
how cold the water
must be
this early in june.
what nice people
there are on
the water these
days you think
as you walk along
the beach.

the basics

you don't ask for
much.
the basics
will keep you
happy,
shelter, food,
work.
running water,
electricity
and such.
the same going
for love.
no need for constant
attention.
just affection,
a kiss
now and then,
conversation,
trust.

road kill

how the vultures
wait
with patience
learned
through centuries
of waiting
for life
to die
by the side
of the road.
cloaked
in long black
coats,
sharp beaked
and wary.
slow to the feast,
cautious
on yellow claws,
there is no
wisdom, no
judgment, they are
just another
part of what
a dying world
needs.

in the middle

mice
in the cellar
squirrels
in the attic
and me and you
living
some sort of life
in the middle.
such noise we
all make
going about our
days, our nights.

wrinkled sheets

some days your
life
is an unmade
bed with
wrinkled sheets,
the covers
thrown
over the edge.
pillows on
the floor,
a shoe, a book,
scattered
slips of papers
of the notes
you took
with each new
dream.
somehow there
you were asleep
through it
all.

the great outdoors

i want to go camping
she tells you
as you walk along
the trail behind your
house, carefully
avoiding snakes
and droppings from
animals you've never
seen. camping? you
say, with an air
of surprise. why?
i love nature, she
says. the outdoors.
the smell of woods.
but we're in the woods,
you tell her.
look at all these
trees. no we're not.
we're behind your
house and i can see
a 7-11 right between
those houses. i want
to be in the mountains,
in the forest.
we can build a fire,
sleep in a pup tent.
roast marshmallows.
what do you think?
i don't know you tell
her, picking up
a stick and knocking
an empty beer can
towards the creek
that ambles slowly
beside the trail
what about our carbon
footprints? will
there we wi fi?
it'll be fun, don't
worry, i'll start
planning it.

darlene

I need to take
this call
she tells you
on the phone.
can you hold on,
or I can
call you back in
a few days.
maybe Monday
after eight, if
that isn't too late.
but, you say,
before you hear
the click
of the phone
closing your
one minute
conversation.
you write down
Monday at eight.
next to Tuesday
at seven,
sunday at
nine a.m.,
the third Thursday
of july,
at one, Darlene.

best seller

you pick up
where you left off.
having
dog eared the page
with a lick
of thumb
and finger.
you read the next
sentence,
then the next.
you can't pronounce
one name
in the book.
you stare at the cover.
a dragon tattoo.
you look at the last
page
and see what it
has to say.
how does this thing
end?
then you look
at the number of
pages left
to go. you read
all the blurbs in
the front saying how
great the book is.
you sigh,
begin to read
again, then stop.
you throw the book
across
the room
aiming for a bag
of trash that needs
to go out
at the crack of
dawn. the book
lands perfectly
in the opening,
settling it for good.

not funny

no one
is funny anymore.
they are too
tired
to see
the folly of
it all.
wrapped in
the life they
have created.
the world
has gone grey.
each day
slow dying,
waiting for
something, for
anything to
change
for the better.
how can you
laugh at that?

the empty vase

you wonder
where people go.
how the tangled
lines
that crossed your
lives
get snipped
and each goes
a separate way,
your time being
up with each
other. the set
of keys
returned, the shoes
left
under a bed,
the hat
on the hook,
an empty vase
where flowers
one bloomed.

the corner bookstore

there was an old
bookstore
on the corner. if
you sneezed,
you walked past
it, unnoticed.
in the window
seat
was a cat
sleeping
below the tilted
red sign
saying
open.
a bell jingled
when
the creaky
door swung in
and you could
smell
the books,
the hard pages
and covers
not wet, but
heavy with age.
books on steel
mills
and sewing.
great birds
of south America.
mark
twain and Sylvia
plath
leaning on one
another for support.
there was no order
or disguise at order,
just books,
in stacks, on shelves,
in open boxes
waiting for a hand
to get them
out.
somewhere in the fog
of all of it
was a man sitting
near a table
eating a sandwich
sipping
tea, reading,
pointing to where
a new edition
of salinger might be.

the short life

how quickly
the bee
settles
on your arm
coated
with a sheen
of summer
sweat,
then stings.
what tempers
they have,
impatient,
these bees,
so quick
to leave a
mark, then
die.

the open door

in a puddle
of sun
the old dog
circles
three times
then lies
in a lazy
ball
against
the warm rug,
his sigh
is your sigh
as he slips
into sleep.

sex

you confess
to your therapist,
Sheila,
that you think too much
about women
and sex.
you are obsessed
with legs
and arms, curves
and flashing eyes.
it's a curse
you say, since
childhood.
it gets worse not
less as the years
go by. you can see
yourself at ninety,
you tell her,
in the park, staring
madly at the women
going by in their
bright summer
dresses.
she says nothing,
she says hmmm. then
something like.
men. you wait,
continuing to stare
at the polished
black high heel
that she dangles
slightly off the tip
of her long
stockinged foot.
you wait for a response,
as she taps a pen
against her pad,
but she has
none. the clock ticks
on. you want to
avert your eyes,
but can't.

child goes uneaten

the headline
read
child falls
into the lion's
den, but goes uneaten.
and you wonder
what kept
the lion
from devouring
the child
like a zebra
or gazelle
gone astray.
was it the mother
on the other
side
screaming,
was it the sun
that day
looming
through the
dappled trees
of the fake
forest.
was it a lack
of hunger, the prey
too easy,
too small.
had the crown of
the lion
slipped, had he
lost interest
in a world
not his.

freshly baked

she sends you a photo
of a pie,
freshly baked,
still hot.
you can almost see
the steam and feel
the heat rising
off the crust
as it cools
on the short
stretch of counter
beside
the sink.
your mouth waters,
puckers
at the thought
of a blend of
berries both
sweet and tart.
with your hand
you want to dip into
the pie, break
through the crumbly
crust
and carefully taste
what she has
made, and is.

the red hat

you remember her red
hat.
how it stood out
in the crowded
room.
a scarlet light
upon her head.
her face below
the hat,
a secondary
object of desire,
the feather
that bent at an
angle, stuck
hard in the top.
the only woman
in the room with
a hat,
the red hat, saying
loudly,
pick me, I'm
the one.

the operation

under the suns
of unnatural light,
how easily
it all goes, as
the patient succumbs
to not sleep,
but something
akin to sleep,
the mask secured,
the body
wired and tubed,
tight.
the heart and mind
under the draped
white flag
of surrender,
and the surgeon
with his knife
and knowledge entering
the cave
of wonder, hoping
to find, or not
find,
what it is
that is trying to
quiet this life.

one shoe

how strange
it is to see one
shoe lying
in the street.
where is the leg,
the foot that fit
the high heel
or flip flop
that is
being run over
by car after car.
who throws
a shoe out the window,
or walks
across the road
to free themselves
of one shoe,
then hops away,
to leave.

moe

sometimes
you waited for your
dog to finally
speak, not bark.
he seemed so human
at times.
petulant or stubborn.
always at the
t.v. barking,
thrilled by the chase,
the animals
that filled
the screen. how strange
the little beast
was and troubled
by his limitations.
small legs,
long body. always
having to be lifted
to see
what there was
to snarl at, or
eat. untrainable,
you were so much
alike.

one door closes

it's not always
another door that opens
when one
closes,
sometimes
it's a broken
window
in the attic,
a cellar
door with a rusted
lock fallen off.
it might be a tunnel
that someone
dug to get out.
the next way
in is not always easy,
nor do you know
what lies
inside, but go in
you do, the choices
being so few.

the long slow day

the trees
are painted a
thousand
shades
of green,
the sky is
a fixed
orb of blue
over the length
of you
asleep
how long
this day seems.
quiet
with no where
imminent
to be.

let it cool

at seven
she rises to bake
a pie
then put it
on the sill
to cool.
impatient,
you can hardly
wait to
dig in with
a fork, or
spoon.
just a taste
you say,
but no she says,
later,
for now we
have other things
to do.

what's true

sometimes people
will tell you,
don't go into that
room, don't
even turn the knob.
that area is
off limits, but
that's the only
room now that
you want to see.
it may show more
about the person
than all the other
clean and polished
rooms combined.
it's what's in
that room, in that
closet, under
that bed, hidden
safely away that
is the truth.

loving hands

in stride,
you gallop through
another year
through
all kinds of
weather,
with different
jockeys steering
you towards some
imaginary
finish line.
it's no longer
about winning,
the garland
of roses,
the trophy or
the accolades.
no, now it's more
about the oats
in the barn
that await you.
the hot sudsy
bath with a pair
of loving
hands
washing gently
behind your ears.

talents

you have no
musical talent whatsoever.
you can tap
your feet and hands,
perhaps ring
a cow bell
on cue, but that's
about it.
what someone does
with a violin,
or cello, or set
of drums seems like
magic. impossible
to think in that way,
moving your fingers,
forming notes
that are pleasurable
to your ears.
but you have other
talents and one day
you'll find out
what they are.

relationship guru

people often
come to you for advice
on relationships
because you are so
good at them,
having a few dozen
in the last ten years.
they admire you
for your persistence,
sometimes lasting
weeks at a time
with the same love
interest. how do
you do it, they say.
what's your secret?
you are embarrassed
by such questions,
shrugging self
consciously and saying
I don't know. it's
just a talent I guess.
something you are
born with, but enough
about me, tell me
your problem and perhaps
I can help you too.

running free

a dog,
off the leash,
running free
seems happy.
despite the tag
jingling
around his neck
there seems
to be no owner
nearby.
but through
the field
he goes. rambling
with a happy
grin towards
what, he doesn't
know. he pays
no mind to the dark
trees ahead,
for now
this is good.

taffy

sometimes
the world pulls
you like taffy
in all directions.
pieces fall off
that don't grow
back. your arms
are twisted
by love and loss,
your legs bent
towards a direction
you don't
want to go.
you can hardly
move sometimes,
being tugged on
by the life
you've invented
and now live.

your art

you love to paint,
to render
a landscape on a blank
canvas.
your easel set
up in the light.
your palette
dotted with reds
and blue,
a heavy tube
of lithium white.
you wait for
inspiration, staring
out the window
at the fullness
of trees, how
easy it is for them.
but you have no
talent,
your art is laughable
so when you finish,
you let them
dry
and hide the
canvasses behind
a door in
the basement.
this is not what
you were meant
to do, but that
doesn't stop you
from doing another.

the yellow flag

she gives
you the yellow
flag
as you come around
the curve
of her.
lips wet,
eyes flashing
brown.
slow down,
her
language
says as her
body brakes
against you.
slow down,
it's not time
to hit the gas
quite yet.

modern love

I don't want
to get married, you tell
her. we've both
done that already.
why have a legal
contract for an
emotion, right?
I just want to be
in love with you
and go out on
the weekends.
maybe in the middle
of the week,
have dinner,
if our schedules
permit.
we don't need to
live together,
but maybe we can
spend the night
once in awhile as
long as we go home
by noon the next day.
we are both
very busy with our
lives, and neither
one of us wants
to get in the other
person's way.
if you want we
can keep a few bathroom
items at each
other's houses,
but not a lot of
clothes, or things,
because what if
it doesn't work out,
it's so awkward
collecting all that
stuff when it ends.
so, anyway. what do
you think, should
we give it a shot?

you never know

people give
you their business
cards all day long.
here, take my card,
they say happily,
sometimes pulling
one from a special
shiny card case.
plumbers, lawyers,
doctors,
landscapers, cup
cake makers
and magicians.
everyone has a card
with a snazzy
little saying
on the front
telling you what
they do.
you got a card
from an old man
the other day
that had only his name
on it. this is
your favorite
card of all.
the others
have cell phone
numbers, home phone,
fax numbers,
e mail addresses,
mailing addresses
and their names
in colored inks,
and pretty scroll.
they fill up your
wallet, your pockets
and the console
of your car.
by the end of
the month you have
forgotten
every single one
of them and where
you met them,
as you're sure
that they have
forgotten you.
but you keep them
anyway. you never know.

the power of prayer

you have a few
friends that when they
need some sort of
supernatural
or spiritual assistance,
they'll ask you
to pray for them,
they always say
that they don't
believe in God, but
since you do, maybe
you could help out
a little. they seem
desperate so
you take their requests
and send up a
sincere prayer
for whatever it is
they need, but always
explaining that
God is not Santa
Claus or a wishing
well that you toss
a coin into.
whatever they say,
just help me out here,
would you.
sometimes the prayers
are answered yes,
and other times
no. you seem to get
the same results
that they do, which
confuses you to
no end.

the business

the landlord
does not want to
know about
the peeling paint,
or the bugs,
the lack of
hot water, or
the way the light
in the hallway
flickers when
you come down
the stairs.
he doesn't care.
he just wants
the check on time,
or your bed will
be on the curb.
it's business, he
says. just business,

the candle

the candle
of her
love
has melted.
the puddle
of who she was
is hard
on the plate.
done
the wick burned
free.
there is
no light left
in her room
for you.
the candle
of her love
has melted.
it's time for
you to leave.

the circle

you had to learn
how
to walk, at
some point,
rising
from your slow
crawl.
lifting your
heavy
head to see
where you were
going.
how your hands
felt the edges
of tables
and walls,
finding
your balance
as you moved
from room to
room.
careful on your
new legs.
they took you
many places,
then back
to where you
started,
now careful on
your old legs.

the yellow kite

the yellow
kite
high in the air,
held by a
string
in a small
boy's fist,
clenching
at
the pull
of wind.
he doesn't
know it yet,
but this will
be the way
it will
always be,
letting go
and holding
on.

no petunias

I need some help writing
my profile that I'm posting
on get a date dot com,
your friend Jennifer
tells you over the phone.
she's already had at least
two glasses of wine.
tell me how this sounds, she
says. I am fun and smart.
I like to read, and stay fit
by walking or riding my bike.
I have two cats and one dog.
my two kids are no longer
living with me, so I am free
as a bird, but would like
to build a new nest with
someone special. oh, and I
like baseball and football.
also I love to go camping
and fishing. i love to snuggle
in front of a fireplace,
and sleep in late on
sunday mornings, especially
with someone special.
what do you think she says?
that's not too suggestive,
is it? I have two pictures
on there too, my
work photo, which is airbrushed
so that I look perfect
and a bikini photo from
when I went to the beach
last summer. I'm very tanned
and wet coming out of
the ocean. i also have a
picture of the petunias
in my back yard.
soooo, she says?
well. for one thing, men
don't read profiles,
you tell her. men skip
right past all of those
words. men look at three things.
age, weight, location,
then they look at the photos.
so, I could say that I won
the nobel prize, or that
I'm a brain surgeon saving lives
everyday and men won't care.
yup, you tell her.
bikini pic trumps all.
men don't care if you're
working at an I hop
flipping pancakes and
living in a double wide
if you still look hot
in a bikini.
how do you know all of this,
she says, gulping down
her wine. just hearsay, you
tell her, stuff I've heard
at the coffee shop. oh, and
one more thing.
men don't care about
the petunias in your back yard.
get rid of that picture.

jumping out of bed

do you ever have a day
you ask your friend betty,
that when you wake
up, you leap out of
bed like a superhero,
and you can't wait
for the new day to begin,
taking on all challenges?
you just feel really
good about everything
and want to put on your
cape and go flying about.
no, she says, not
looking up from filing
her nails. never.
I've never felt like
that once in my life.
what about after your
spin class? nope.
after my spin class
and I've had something
to eat and a hot shower
I want to relax
and have a glass of
wine. I don't want
any challenges at that
point. I want to
ignore challenges, plus
I don't own a cape.
do you?

bad day

when you have
a bad
day, and there is
no one
at home to yell
at, not even
a dog, you
sit in a chair
and like a balloon
untie
the knot
that is your
head. you slowly
let the air
out.
then it's all
good again.
well, sort of,
tomorrow is just
eight hours
away.

another life

it's interesting
how the conversation
turns, as you
talk about the weather
and the world at
large, casually
shooting the breeze,
when someone
says something like
they believe they
were reincarnated
from a former life,
that they may have
been either an
Egyptian king
or queen. this is when
you stop talking
and stare out
towards the trees
waiting for something
to say that won't
offend your new found
royal majesty.

we have limits

the teller
at the bank is
very nice
to you.
every time you
pull up
to make a deposit
or to take money
out you feel
bad for having
yelled him
a few years ago
on a hot Friday
night.
so unlike
you. but you
did. his English
being poor
the turban
on his head,
asking for two
id's to come
around through
the front door.
you can't take
your money out
at the window,
he said. you're
asking for too much.
we have limits,
he said over the garbled
speaker, we
have limits.
but all is well
now with the both
of you.
he smiles, you
smile. the world
being such a
happy place.

off the chain

the time
it must have taken
to make
that dog sit,
and heel,
roll over and beg.
the treats
involved,
the patience
of the owner
repeating time
and time again
his commands
to fetch, to stop
barking, to
roll over
and play dead.
you've been that
dog before,
but now you
are off the chain,
over the fence,
running free
through the fields,
obedient to no
one anymore.

your puddles

I remember
the wet floor
where your
footsteps hit
as you came from
the shower
to the door,
down the steps
to the kitchen,
leaving small
puddles
of your narrow
foot, size four.
it's fine, in
fact, feel free
to return
and leave some
more.

audrey

in all years
you've known her
you've never seen
her eat anything
but lettuce, or
cheese, or both
together.
it's wine or
water, hardly
a crumb of bread
touches her lips,
desserts are a
foreign land,
but it's working
as she strolls
like a feather
on the wind in
her coco chanel
suit, down
the boulevard.
Audrey Hepburn
has nothing on
this girl.

your people

there are some
people
you can linger with,
talking
about something,
or nothing
for hours on
end. the sun
goes down, but you
don't mind, or
even notice.
you never feel
the urge to leave,
to make an
excuse to get up
and go.
these are your
people
and hopefully you
are theirs.

the cherry sno-cone

as you watch
the mean kid
stealing balloons
out of other kid's
hands, then
rising high into
the sky, screaming,
as he drops
his cherry sno-cone.
you too think about
the idea of
taking too much
on. then you
go and get your
own cherry sno-cone.

betrayed

betrayed,
she turns the bottle
towards
the glass
and pours.
there are no tears,
no notes
to be written,
no big talks
to be had,
she's traveled
this road before.
she's done,
so sits there
staring out
the window
sipping on her
drink.
waiting for
courage to come.

another night

lying
on her side
at night,
with a book
hopelessly
open to a twice
read page,
facing the window.
her hip as pale
as snow.
her reflection
in the glass.
her dark eyes
full of tears
that have no
no where
else to go.
so she stays
another night
another week,
another year.
you feel
her inching
away, fading, soon
to disappear.

your play

this story
that you are in,
playing
the main character,
the good
and evil twin.
never goes in
the direction
that you think
it's headed in.
you are
the protagonist
and hero,
the villain,
and the soldier
without a line.
the mute boy
on the curb.
the stranger in
a diner at
4 a.m. . you are
the victim,
and survivor.
all of this
is you,
on stage, as
the curtain
each day rises.

rice and carrots

you don't know what
to eat anymore.
scared by what's
on the news,
what you've read
about food.
there used to be a
list of ten things
you never left the
grocery store without.
red meat, milk,
potato chips,
ice cream, cake,
lettuce and bread.
chicken, perhaps,
for the grill
and wine. lately
though you've
narrowed it down
to three. although
they vary from
time to time,
depending on where
the buckle is
around your waist
line. but you're
trying, you're
really trying
with the rice
and carrots.

kissing skills

she once told you,
if you kiss me,
just kiss me once,
you'll never want
to leave me or kiss
another woman.
bold words that
needed to be tested.
and she was right
about the kiss,
it was pretty good.
amazing, in fact.
perhaps if you had
had the same set
of kissing skills
she'd still be around,
but maybe not,
there's always a
new contender
waiting to be found.

foot tapping music

you are not a big
fan of country music,
but sometimes you land
on that station
and begin to listen
to the lyrics.
for the most part
it's all very simple
and clear. the melody
is fine. it's a story
that takes you somewhere.
there might be a dog
involved or a big
truck. a girl with
long hair and blue
eyes. someone is in
love, or out of love,
or just standing on
a river bank fishing,
spending time,
remembering days
gone past.
you try to guess how
they are going to
rhyme phrases like,
my daddy once told me,
or I can't win
for losing. you're
sure it's harder than
it looks as you change
the channel
searching for another
song.

leaving her mark

in a moment of
sweaty passion
she bites you
so hard on the neck
that it leaves
a red mark.
it's a suction
splotch the size
of her mouth.
it throbs purple.
you scream and run
to the mirror,
what is wrong with
you, you yell,
have you lost your mind?
are you some kind
of vampire?
this thing will
be on my neck for
a week, at least.
I know, she says.
isn't that a shame.
see you then.

do me a favor

you don't like
to bother
people with
little things. let
them know
your problems,
at least not
the full scope
of them.
you don't like
to borrow
anything.
not money,
not a socket
wrench, not a cup
of sugar
from your neighbor
next door.
you never asked
your parents
for a dime,
or even advice.
you sort of carved
your way through
alone
to where you are,
and even now
you cringe when you
hear the phrase,
can you do me
a really big favor.

the last dance

you remember
a moment
in a smoke
filled room,
shoes sole deep
in spilled
drinks
and ashes.
the music
of sam and dave,
or something
you knew
every word
to, rosalita
by bruce,
or I don't
want to go home,
by the Asbury
Jukes. all
played loudly,
the clock
ticking down,
last call,
a last
chance
at romance,
gathering
the nerve to ask
the girl
across the room
you've been madly
in love with
for the last three
hours for a last
dance.
and if she said
yes. it was very
close to being
in heaven,
being forever
young.

black cherries

there was a cherry
tree
on the corner
of Winthrop
street
and Maury lane
and when
full and ripe,
the owners
gone for the weekend,
we'd raid
it in the middle
of the night
by moonlight.
scrambling
up the thick
branches
eating cherries
by hand
until we were
sick of cherries,
our fingers
red, our t-shirts
soaked with
juice. our small
bellies full.
it was no surprise
when it was
cut down.
everyone had had
enough of a
good thing.

the rising tide

the rising
tide is
because the world
is getting
hot.
hotter with
each day.
each breath
of machinery
filling the air.
how the ice
breaks, the floes
disperse.
how the banks
are filled
with new water,
by inches
and feet each
year.
what is there
to do.
you haven't even
had your
first cup
of coffee yet
so you'll think
more about it
later.

the summer dress

you make a list
of the things
you have
to do today.
it's a long list
of chores you've
ignored, things
you need to get done.
important things.
but then you
come over in your
summer dress
with something on
your mind, so
you fold the list
up for when you
have more time
than this.

the note

the note
you left, wasn't
quite clear.
something about
I won't be
back.
does that mean
for dinner,
or does it
mean for every
dinner until
the end of time.
I wish you'd
communicate
more clearly
how you feel,
although writing
it in bold
capital letters,
I kind of get
a clue as to
what really is
the deal.

loss for words

the right
word isn't always
at the tip
of your tongue
waiting to
reveal itself.
sometimes it's
hidden deep
within the recesses
of your cerebral
cortex, asleep.
buried with
other words
you've learned
and have now
forgotten. you
imagine the day
when you will
forget where you
live and go back
to a place
that your key
no longer fits.

carlos

what are you doing,
you ask,
as you call her on
the phone to say
goodnight
and sweet dreams.
I'm in the middle
of a mud bath,
she says. I'm totally
naked and covered
in a beauty cream
lying on a table.
carlos is smoothing it out
with a spatula.
who the hell is
carlos, you say,
sitting up straight.
my new neighbor. he
knocked on my door
asking if I had
any hot peppers
he could borrow.
my skin feels so
luxurious and soft.
we've been drinking too.
he makes a mean
margarita. quite
a talented man.
I hate him, you say.
maybe I should come
over. oh my, she
says, you sound
jealous. no, no,
I'm not jealous,
just concerned for your
safety. oh, don't
worry, but hey, I
have to go, it's
massage time
and carlos wants me
to put the phone down,
bye honey bun.

being misunderstood

your old friend
Oscar
wilde once said
that he
feared not
being misunderstood.
you think
about having
that tattooed
onto your arm,
but of course you
wouldn't
because you hate
needles
and the idea
of ink being
permanently grooved
into your skin
is horrifying,
not to mention that
there are moments
when you do
want to be
understood,
such as standing
in line now
ordering fried
chicken
from the fast
food restaurant.
dark meat,
spicy, fries
and slaw. got
that?

lights on the water

you tell someone
as you walk
along
the river that
the lights
on the water
make
you think of her.
the missed
chance,
the light
that went out.
the empty
hand.
the shell you
hold to
your ear
and hear the wind
that's been
captured
is like not hearing
her voice again.
then someone
says
there will be
other ships,
other lights,
you'll see,
and you reply
with yes,
there will be,
but not hers.

the girl next door

when you were young
maybe twelve or thirteen
there was a girl
next door you were
madly in love with.
she was your first
kiss, your first set
of butterflies
floating around in
your nervous belly.
she was taller,
stronger, faster
than everyone,
boys or girls.
she was a mythical
legend on the streets
for her athletic prowess.
she had learned
to crack a bullwhip
when she lived in
Hawaii and demonstrated
this skill
by snapping leaves
off a tree,
or a can out of your
trembling hand.
you imagined marrying
her at some point.
you named your children,
you would live on
a house boat.
you would make love,
whatever that was,
for hours on end.
but time went by, she
moved, and when you ran
into her years later
you hugged and kissed,
reminisced,
then she introduced you
to her wife, judy,
who she had just married.

nice try

your poetry
instructor
from years ago.
she must be ninety
now.
wild haired
and beautiful
in her unkempt
clothes.
always with a handbag
on her shoulder
as she stood
in front of the class
and read
her own poems.
how she loved
the written word.
the turned
phrase, or rhyme.
how you differed
on delivery, you
telling stories
with a sprinkling
of hot pepper
and her sticking
to rosemary
and thyme.
you still hold
her critiques
dearly. your poems
folded neatly over
her words,
nice try.

once picked

it's a delicate
thing
this flower,
touching the petals
in your
hand.
smelling
the beauty
of its scent.
please tell me
it's not like love,
once picked,
gone dry
and bent.

in the dark

the news
is the same.
not good.
nothing changes.
the time
the date, the location.
people
can't stop
being people.
doing what they
do to one
another, over love
or hate,
religion
or politics, or
a wire
gone bad.
we are all dodging
bullets
these days,
dancing
in the dark, keeping
the shades
down, the phone
off the hook.

the d m v

you have been
to the abyss,
into the smoldering
ring of fire,
the seventh layer
of hell.
you stood in the line
outside
to get through
the door to the line
inside, in
order to find an
empty plastic red chair
to wait in.
a woman made of stone
handed you a ticket
stub with a number,
and a letter attached
they called out A23,
your number was
R 339 to be exact.
you settled in and
listened to the drone
of the robotic voice
speak each number
three times, then
again. and with the
others you bent over
tossing aside
the spider webs which
grew and stared at the black
inked number
that was your own.
Shirley Jackson
must have been here
at some point in her
life. how could she
not be.
after three hours,
you looked up at the clock
and only ten
minutes had passed.
the seasons changed.
women gave birth,
grown men cried into
their hands.
an ambulance pulled
up to take the dead
and dying quietly away,
moaning,
still clutching their
numbers, as if
they could possibly renew
their registrations.

silver spoon

you had a girlfriend
once, beautiful
and cultured,
an artist,
who call you a non
entity.
you had to look it up
to get the full
meaning of her
gentle insult.
but you thought about
it, and she was
right. she sucked
the life out of you
to the point where
you weren't there,
you were silent,
empty of words.
a body without bones,
in observation
mode, waiting for
the chance to sneak
away in the middle
of the night,
digging a tunnel
with one of her
silver spoons
that you stole

the naked man

what makes the man
take his clothes
off and handcuff himself
to the white house
fence? what has happened
in his life
to bring him to this point
of insanity.
did his wife leave him,
did he lose his job,
his fortune, did he run
out patience with traffic
and the daily pressures
of life, or did he just
take a look in the mirror
one morning and say,
what hell, I need to
change things, I'm
bored, honey where
are the cuffs, I'm
going downtown.

old birds

birds
seldom sit
on the wire
and complain
about how they
are getting old
how they hurt,
and how things
have changed.
you never hear
them say,
my wing, this left
one, I can't
move it up
like I used to.
I have to
throw my weight
to one side
in order to change
direction now.
I think it might
be arthritis,
or something else
they can't find
on the x ray.
and this cough, it's
no ordinary cough.
I could be
dead in a week,
or sooner, if
a cat doesn't
snare me while I'm
trying to pluck
a worm out
of the mud. I've
got no strength
in my neck anymore.
these worms are tough,
wiggling away
so fast.

noon darkness

the silver
hands
of leaves
on the dark
trees upturned
towards rain
about to fall.
how the wind
moves the shadows,
how the lack
of sun makes
everything
seem cold
and distant.
how this noon
darkness makes
the kiss of
a loved one feel
like it never
happened, or will
again.

the fading ink

you remember
the ink
on your fingers
tossing papers
like batons
onto the porches
of your streets.
that netherworld
of time, neither
dark or light,
the squeaking
wheel of your wagon.
your dog
behind you, stopping
when you stop,
walking when
you walk.
the ink was black
and smudged.
the newsprint,
the words
coming off onto
your cold fingers.
sometimes you look
down at your
hands, even now
and expect to see
it again, as you
expect sometimes
to be young
once more as well.

fish on ice

you don't want to read
what others have
written, unless
it's in a book
or a magazine, or
published someplace
you can find it.
you don't want to
hear the words, yes,
I write too, can you
read some of mine.
you know how selfish
that sounds, how
wrong it might be,
but usually
what they've
written stinks
like fish on ice,
you are willing
at some point to be
proven wrong, but
for the moment,
at least, that
hasn't happened.

of good cheer

the world
will go on
without you
when you're gone,
in fact,
sometimes
you feel
that it's going on
without you
while you're here,
so what's
the difference,
don't count
your days left.
be of good
cheer.

all is well

everything is fine,
he says
when you ask him
how things
are going.
all is well, he smiles.
no complaints.
my life is a bed
or roses.
a bowl of cherries,
I'm on cloud nine,
making lemonade
out of lemons.
my world couldn't be
better if I tried,
he says and begins
to whistle a tune.
this is when you
tell him that you're
sorry and when
he's ready, you'll
listen and let him
lean upon
your shoulder.

no time

I have no time
says
the young man
running to catch
a bus,
the woman slipping
into her
shoes,
brushing her
hair,
eating as she
checks her
watch.
the children,
at recess chasing
the red
ball. we have
no time, hurry
they say, before
the bell rings.
be quick.
the old man
on the bench,
I have no time
he says, I need to
go, I need
to be somewhere
else. people are
waiting,
I must hurry.
the dying
in hospitals,
staring out
the sunlit window
dotted with birds.
I have no time
they say. very little
to speak of. finally
the truth.

your house

your house
was built in 1968.
it's neither new
or old
comparatively speaking.
but at some
point during that
year,
someone's hands
placed a brick
on top of another
brick, tapping it
gently into the soft
grey mush of
mortar.
another sawed
a board to fit
where your feet
rest this moment.
someone strung
the wire for light,
connected pipes
for plumbing.
a roofer climbed
onto the slant
beneath the trees
and tacked down
shingles.
all of this went on
while robert kennedy
was shot
that june,
king was
slain, the cities
burned
and Chicago was in
the midst of a
political riot.
it was the year your
father left
your mother.
and yet
during all of this,
somehow that summer,
the house you live
in now was built.

her clam dip

she was proud
of her clam dip.
keeping its recipe
a guarded secret
her entire
adult life.
not even her
husband knew
what went in it.
she would smile
like a cat
as the chips
went in to dip,
mouths
crunching down,
with people saying
oh my, how
marvelous this is,
what's in it.
but she never told
anyone, not
even on her
death bed.
she could keep
a secret, that
witch.

the ham bone

when your mother,
for some unknown
reason, made
an enormous
boiling pot of split
pea soup
everyone groaned.
all seven children
rolled their
eyes as one, but
out of hunger you
sipped it
off a spoon,
grimacing.
there weren't
enough crackers
in the world
to make it
right.
then, of course,
there was the fight
for whatever
meat was left
to be sliced
off the ham
bone.

is that me

you see
a man who looks
like you.
the age,
the face,
the hair.
he must feel
the same
because he stares
back, perhaps
thinking
the same thing.
what an odd
thing it is
to be alive
on this planet
sometimes.

coexist

when the woman
behind you,
an inch away
from striking
your car,
grimaces red faced,
white knuckles
on her steering wheel
cursing because
you are only doing
50 in a 45
lane, you can't
help but wonder
what gives
as she passes you
waving maniacally
with one finger.
and before she
runs the red
light ahead
of you,
you see the blue
and white coexist
sticker on
her bumper, next
to the yellow
ribbon, the pink
ribbon. she's
a friend of the zoo
too. she goes to
obx, and her kids
are smart. all
of them honor
students, playing
lacrosse, baseball,
soccer, involved
in the performing
arts. you imagine
she might be a good
person if not driving,
but then again,
perhaps not.

i got your 4 G

I don't understand
a word
of what you're saying,
she says
over the phone, you
sound like
you are underwater,
gargling, chewing
food.
new phone you yell
out. it's got a security
case so that
if I get it wet
again, it won't
short out like
the last four phones.
it cost a hundred dollars
and I had to
register it on a web
site.
what? what did you
say? it can go down
six feet into a pool
of water you yell
into a part of the phone
that might be the speaker.
no, it's too cold, she
says. too cold for
the pool today.
do you have a land
line, she says. call
me back on that. or
text me later. I'm
driving now. but let's
try to get together
later, okay. what?
you say? gotta go,
another call is coming
through, I think, or
my ear just changed
the settings to airplane
mode, or something.

baked cookies

you like when
she bakes cookies
in her
apron, wearing
only that and a pair
of heels.
the house
fills with the aroma
of hope.
sweet and warm,
nothing better
than a tray of
freshly baked
cookies, well,
not quite.

home improvement

you need one
bolt
to finish your
home improvement
job.
but you don't
know what size
it is. so
after being said
hello to by every
employee in
the store, twice,
you finally
find the bolt
bin. you buy
six, all of
different sizes.
then you buy
some matching nuts
just in case.
a pair of pliers
and a crescent
wrench.
you see a very
nice silvery
tool box, so why
not you think,
and put it in
the cart.
when was the last
time you had
a new set of
screwdrivers,
maybe twenty years
ago when you were
married and it
was Christmas.
so that too goes
into the cart.
finally you make
it to the register,
again saying hello
to every employee
in the store.

she bit me

for some reason
your sister
bit your brother
on the arm
when you were
children.
you can still
remember the imprint
of her teeth
in his boney
forearm.
a perfect ring
of teeth marks
indented white.
you remember
him running
through the house
yelling, look,
look, she bit
me, as if to prove
that she was the
guilty one, not
him.

that scream

when the bell
rings and school
lets out
the children
will scream
with joy.
you understand
that scream
everyday when
the job ends,
when the factory
whistle blows
so you can set
down your hammer
and go home.

self portrait

you set up
your easel in
the light,
near a window.
brushes.
paints, canvas
blank and white
as a snow
filled field
in February.
you put the mirror
in place.
so that you
can see
yourself as
others see you.
not the image
of you that
lives in your
mind's eye.
just you, settled
on your stool.
preparing to do
the impossible,
a self portrait.
blemishes
and all.
the lines of
joy, the furrows
of doubt.
the hope
still in your
eyes.

again

tired,
you sit on
the edge of your
bed,
remove your
shoes, your
shirt, then
pants,
socks. you lie
back onto
the cool
sheets,
the overhead
fan
blowing. your
head sinks
into
the pillow.
how easy sleep
comes
at the end
of a hard day,
how quickly
morning arrives
to begin again.

unwind

unwind
your life,
let the tight
ball
of yarn
that is your
years
fall free.
unloosen
the knots
that keep
you unhappy,
disappointed.
cut the strings
of what
could be, or
should have
been
and blow
gently in
the wind.

salted and shelled

so rare
to see an elephant.
you
have to go
to the zoo
or circus to see
one first hand.
the grey enormity
of the beast.
his gentle
eyes surveying
the crowds.
his long trunk
hauling
hay towards
his mouth.
you might hear
a muffled roar
or two, see him
stamp his
dusty flat
canned feet into
the ground.
perhaps he'll
flap his ears, or
chase the flies
away with his
whip like
tail. he'll amuse
you, as you stand
there sad with
a bag peanuts,
salted and shelled.

it looks fun

when the hot
air balloon,
with it's carnival
colored stripes
and bloom
of air, rising,
strikes
the power lines,
explodes into
flames, flinging
passengers
into the trees
and ground, everyone
seems surprised.
but not you.
and the same goes
for the bungee
cord that breaks,
or the parachute
that won't open.
yes. what a thrill
it is when all
goes well, and yet
what a thrill
it isn't when
they don't.

kiss under moonlight

a crease
of moon, hardly
a sliver
slips
behind a wisp
of broken
clouds. a summer
wind blows
in, warm,
across her
skin.
it's hardly
kiss, she gives
you, but
like the moon,
it's enough
light for
now.

a hairless cat

she owned
a grey hairless
cat.
it looked gothic
with it's large
green eyes
and skin
tightly woven
around it's
small boned frame.
you couldn't
pet
this cat, or think
of it as
warm and fun.
you expected it
to spread wings
at some point
and fly
about the room.
but it wasn't
the cat that
spelled doom
for you and her,
it was something
else, that
you don't quite
remember,
the details
being vague over
time. it's the cat
though, that you
remember well.

the sunday call

on the phone
you could never
tell your mother everything
when she asked
so what's new, how's
it going.
in fact you left out
enormous loads
of detail, tossing out
words like great
and fine, seguing
off into the weather,
or sports, which one
of her fish died.
she'd ask you how
stacy was, a girl
you dated in the 90's.
sometimes she'd tell
you what she ate for
dinner. then you'd
tell her what you ate
for dinner. but
you could no longer
trust her
with important issues.
swearing her to secrecy
with something
about your life,
was like telling
a pilot to write it
in the sky
with the smoky
plume of his plane.
so you kept it simple.
it was a good truce
you both had as the end
approached.

moving day

you see
the truck pull
up.
the ramp go down.
the brakes
set
and the men
disembark
from the tall
cab.
muscled men
with the end
of the day
already in
their sights.
by sundown
the boxes
have been
loaded
the mattresses
tied down.
the china
neatly wrapped
and sealed
away.
you see the
neighbors in
the car.
two kids
at the window
waving
tearfully goodbye
to friends.
the mom and dad
steely eyed
going forward.
to a new place,
the dog, in back
barking happier
than everyone.

explorer

you have
very little lewis
and clark
blood in you.
no Columbus
or Magellan
either. you kind
of like to stay
put, or go
to places
already explored,
with hotels
and room service.
there is no desire
to climb
Mt. Everest,
or see what's happening
at the north pole.
you know what's
happening there.
nothing. and it's
cold.
you would not
have lasted long
crossing the prairies
in a wagon,
all dusty and dirty,
eating cold
beans out of a
can. and those
Indians, what's
with the flaming arrows,
all the yelling
and screaming.
just passing through
brother,
I don't want
your buffalo, or
your land,
or your women.
I just want to get
to san Francisco
and take a hot
bath.

handful of glass

when the gypsy
woman
throws a handful
of broken
glass at your
feet, upset
that your dog
has barked
at her, and says
something in
a strange
language, her
face curled
tight in an angry
fist, you
get the feeling
that she might
not be telling
you to have
a nice day.

the critic

the bee
settles down
so quickly
and efficiently
on your arm,
landing softly
before arching
its body
to sting you
with his
thin black
sword. he gives
no thought
to the consequences,
that his life
will end
as far as you're
concerned,
but he will have
made his
point, left
his mark
upon you.

carnival

as the carnival
goes up
on the bare
parking lot of
the abandoned mall
you see the lights
of the ferris
wheel lit up
in the night.
you smell the cotton
candy.
the pretzels
being baked
under salt. you
hear the steel
wheels grinding
around on rattling
tracks.
there is nothing
that makes you want
to walk over
there and visit.
the sound and
smell and memory
of it all is enough
to satisfy
your interest.

the front stoop

you remember your
grandmother
washing the front stoop.
scrubbing
the marble clean
with a bucket
of sudsy water
and a brush,
bent over
in her black
dress, her nylons
just covering her
fat Italian
calves. it was
more than just
getting the steps
clean, it was
something else
that you didn't
quite understand
as a child,
but do now, as
you scrub yours.

celebrity butts

you pick the short
line, setting your
little hand
carried plastic
basket down. you've
analyzed carefully
what's in
each of the carts
ahead of you.
this should be good.
everyone seems alert
and sober.
it's a self
service line
announcing every
thing you buy
in a robotic voice.
things are going well,
but the gypsy woman two
carts ahead of you
has several strange
vegetables that
will need to be
looked up and weighed.
you didn't even see them.
you mutter
something about
a mother under
your breath and
look at the other
lines, the long
lines. the light is
blinking at one because
someone has a bottle
of wine,
and someone else
has dropped a container
of bleach
at the other, making
everyone run
through the store like
wild animals.
you look down to
where the real live
checkers are,
teenagers in red aprons,
but people's
carts are overflowing
with groceries
down there
like it's thanksgiving.
you want to scream
as the woman
two carts up flips
through page after
page of plants and vegetables
looking for hers,
the ones she's taking
home to use in some
satanic ritual,
but you don't scream,
what's the point.
instead you pick up
a copy of the enquirer
hanging conveniently
on the rack in front
of you
and try to guess
which almost naked
fat butt belongs to
which celebrity.

cry baby

not everyone
cries the same way,
or over
the same things.
you've known women
who cry over
soap commercials,
or on arbor day,
running around
the park hugging trees.
but those are
crazy women on
medication. normal
people usually don't
cry until something
significant happens
either really good
or really bad.
you tend to be more
of a private crier.
holding it all in
until you're in the car,
or in your room
with your head in
a pillow, squelching
the sobs.
but you always feel
good after a good
cry. something
about releasing
the toxins and the
tension bottled up
inside your body.
the last time you
cried was when your
team won the national
championship. they
were happy tears, which
you immediately
doused with a splash
of water in order
to hide them.

do you have windows?

the phone rings.
yes, you say, this
is he, although you
mangled both the first
and last name.
do I need windows?
I have them
right now, why?
why would you ask
me such a thing?
of course I have
windows. what house
doesn't. I don't
live in an igloo.
we'll maybe you need
some new ones,
the man on the line
says. it'll save
you money on
heat and air
conditioning.
they are easy to
close and open.
this month we have
a triple pane
special. tinted
an emerald green
they sound nice you
tell him. very nice.
I like that color
a lot. you look
at he clock on
the wall, you've
only been on the phone
for five minutes,
but your goal is
a solid hour.
tell me more about
the glass, you say,
pulling up a chair
and popping a beer.
is the glass hand
made by artisans
in venice? I have
a dog house in
the back yard. do you
make windows that small?
what about doors?
I have some doors I'd
like to change out too.
I want swinging doors,
like in a saloon. how
cool would that be?