mayor for life

you see the mayor
on tv
in handcuffs,
unhumbled in his
pin striped suit
with Italian
shoes. still
dashing and well
groomed with
money and crack
cocaine falling
from his pockets
as they whisk
him off to the police
van. he's smiling
for the camera
still running for
office.
taking this little
bump in the road
as an opportunity
to campaign,
showing that he
truly is a man
of the people.
in November, he shouts
out as they dip
his head into
the van, vote for
me. i'll be back.

house in the woods

she moves to the woods
to be in
nature.
trees, a stream
down below the hill.
the brilliant
shine of stars
against the black
sky at night.
an orchestra
of crickets filling
the silence with
the neighbors
far enough away
to see just a glimmer
of their light.
but then the deer
want in,
jumping the fence
to eat her new flowers.
a possum crawls
into the chimera
to sleep,
a black snake winds
itself up a tree
for robin's eggs.
a band of yellow
striped bees
are in the clover,
even a small black
bear stops by
to open
the front gate
to eat from the compost
pile
and say howdy.

your new friend

the waiter
introduces himself
as Charlie with an
ie, not a y.
he's all teeth
and enthusiasm.
answering and asking
questions
about you and
the weather before
you speak.
you don't want
or have room in
your life for
a new friend, but
apparently you
have one.
he tells you
the specials,
the appetizer that
he absolutely
loves, and his
favorite entrée,
the drunken rib eye.
this makes him wink
for some reason.
you nod and nod
some more
staring into
the dark menu
waiting for Charlie
to stop talking, but
he needs to tell
you about the desserts
first.
they are all amazing
he explains tapping
his flat twenty three
year old boys belly.
finally he puts his
hands on his hips
and says, so what'll
it be my friend.
vodka you say.
a tall vodka with
tonic, and a wedge
of lime.
pour with a heavy hand.

at sea too long

you drop
anchor
in a new port
called
Shirley.
she's open
all night.
breakfast in
the morning.
she tells you to
wash the salt
and brine
off of you
before coming
to bed.
you do what
she tells you.
she isn't pretty,
or very smart,
but
you've been at
sea too long.
you need a place
to rest,
and this port,
though not on
a map, is as
good as any.

the mother of invention

you wonder sometimes
why very few new things are
being invented, but
then you think about ben
franklin, and how he had
so much time on his hands
going back and forth
to france meeting new
babes all over the new
world and the old world.
he was doing a lot of
lounging around, or flying
kites at the request,
probably, of his wife
back in Philadelphia.
after plumbing, electricity,
the cotton gin, and
supermarkets, cars
and computers, that's
pretty much all you
need. why wrack your brains
trying to figure out
something you don't need.
ben needed a lot of stuff
back then when it was
lights out at eight.
we don't, except for a
new cell phone every
few months.

a new world

two very quiet
and nice
Asian women knock on
your door, politely
asking if you are the owner
of this house.
yes, you say. we are
not asking for donations
the taller one says,
but if you'd like to,
we will accept one from you.
tax deductible, the other
one says.
they hand you a brochure
about the new world
coming.
a one world government
that will bring
peace and prosperity
to everyone.
they are wearing light
blue dresses
with thick nun like shoes.
each has a satchel
of brochures. you notice
a pack of mints
in one of the satchels.
you ask if you can have
a mint, they look at
one another, surprised,
then back at you.
no, they say. those are
our mints. but what
about this new world.
won't everyone get a mint?
no, you have to get
your own mints.
so this world will be a
selfish world, you say,
hands on your hips. a world
where there is no charity
or compassion.
you broaden your shoulders
and stand straight up.
they look at one another.
okay, okay, they say.
you can have one mint,
but don't tell anyone.
the smaller one digs into
the bag and places
a small wrapped mint
into your outstretched
hand. happy, she says?

the wedding dress

after this ice cream
cone, she tells
you licking it as it
melts in her hand,
I'm going on a strict
diet. lettuce
only, lots of water,
and maybe some
tofu, or soy beans.
something like that.
I have one week to
fit into my wedding dress
and twenty pounds to
lose. I didn't know
you were getting married,
you say to her,
biting on the bottom
of your sugar cone.
I'm not she says,
but there's this dress
I saw in a window
the other day and I just
have to have it.

candy land

mary, your
ninety year
old
best friend
likes to keep
a bowl of candy
on the white
table that sits
on the baby blue
just vacuumed carpet.
mints and wrapped
assorted flavors
of hard
candy.
lemon and lime,
strawberry,
pineapple. she is
never without
candy. whenever
you visit,
she points
at the bowl
and says,
candy? you take
one. unwrap it
and slowly
let it melt into
your mouth.
the sour apple
flavor
making you pucker
and blink
your eyes as you
listen to her story
of how she crashed
her Cadillac
again at the grocery
store.

the golfer

your friend carl
loves
to talk about his
game.
the science of golf.
the swing,
the putt, the roll
of the ball
down a fairway
onto the soft
Bermuda green.
each stroke can
be recounted,
the adversity of
it all, the sun,
wind, the slow
party of four
ahead of him.
he shakes his
head at the bogey
on hole
nine, laughs
at the near miss
on twelve.
talks about the splash
into the pond
on thirteen,
and the sand trap
that ate
his ball on three.
he can remember
every strike
of the ball he took.
how his wrists came
unglued
and how he took his
eye of the ball
with
his feet not far
enough apart.
you need to come out
and play
sometime, he says
grimacing as he takes
off his cleats.
I bought some new
clubs, you can have
my old ones.
they're in the trunk.
come see.

roll em

Einstein said that
god does
not roll dice
with the universe.
you hope he's
right, because if
not, we are in
a world of trouble,
although, we may
be anyway.
so roll em
just the same, let's
see what happens
at the end of this
crazy game.

yard sale

it's hard
to throw things away.
to toss
them into the trash
into
oblivion never to
be seen again.
the bad paintings
of snow or sea, that
vase full of dried
flowers. the old coat
you never wore.
but worse still
is to sit in your yard
on a Saturday
and have people touch
the things you
don't want, priced
for pennies,
then walking away,
confirming what you
already know.

the firefly

there is a lot
of waiting
going on.
in lines,
in traffic.
in the waiting
rooms, for
the oil to be
changed,
for the nurse
to call you in.
waiting for
phone reception.
waiting for
the rain to stop.
for people
to change,
for love
or a cup of coffee.
for the cold
to subside.
we are all waiting
for something.
or someone
to leave,
or arrive. we are
waiting for the moon
to come out
and shine.
waiting on
the firefly to glow
again.
waiting.

the quiet car

let's take
the quiet car
in the train she
says. no cell phones,
no lap tops pinging,
no talking.
just us together
with a good book
and holding hands.
but as soon as you settle
into your seats
and the train begins to
move she whispers.
it's so quiet in here,
isn't it? don't you
love this, you nod yes.
I can't believe it.
no one is talking,
all these people and
no one saying a single
word. look around,
not one person is
jabbering. can you
believe this. where
on earth can you go
where no one is talking.
it's like we are in
a monastery. I'm so happy
to be in the quiet
car with you. I love
you pooksie. you look at her
and put your fingers
to your lips. shhhh.
you say. but I just
said that I love you.
don't you have a response
for that?
a green tennis
ball comes flying
from the back of the car
and hits her on the head.
momentarily you are
saved, but the car
will no longer be
quiet for the rest
of the trip.

they are blood

your siblings are
troubled.
some with drink and
women, or married men,
others
with religion
tying them into
happy knots.
giddy to the point
of being oblivious
to the real world.
money comes and goes
so easily.
they reach out with
forks and knives.
giving little jabs
when the moment
arrives.
you feel adopted
at times, or found
in a basket on the porch.
you all look somewhat
alike, but you
don't fit. you
don't get the things
they do.
the deviousness,
the greed,
the anger and petty
quarrels.
you always finish
talking about them
by saying, but
hey they're my brothers
and sisters.
they are blood.
I love them, which
makes you question
exactly what love is.

it was okay

when you dated
lucy you used to
meet her exclusively
at a restaurant
called
the rusted fork,
it was mostly an
egg and bacon
joint with juke
boxes on the table
where the faux
leather seats
rounded out like
tractor trailer
bench seats. it was
usually after midnight
when she could get free.
free from what, you
never knew.
cheeseburgers, loaded,
with fries were
on the menu too.
the waitresses wore
pink uniforms and had
to be over sixty
to qualify
to work there. legs
like spindles
on a staircase.
lots of lipstick
and rouge, and tissues
stuck into the tops
of their boney cleavage.
the restaurant
was located
on 301 out near
waldorf, heading towards
north beach,
and the weather
was usually bad.
rain or snow.
ice.
the lights would flicker
on and off
sometimes,
elvis on the juke
singing teddy bear
sounded like he was
under water.
sometimes after eating
she wanted to go make out
in the car, usually hers.
she had to push a basket
of laundry
out of the way,
or cans of motor oil,
her jane fonda exercise
book.
both of you smelled of
onions by that point,
but it didn't matter.
it wasn't going anywhere.
you accepted that.
and when she disappeared
without a word,
you knew that was coming.
it was okay.
everything about her
was okay.

the mice

the mice
are everywhere.
they are winning.
boldly they come
out at night
and sit in front of
you, begging to
be chased, knowing
how slow and old
you are.
the mice are
winning.
they work all day
at letting more
mice in.
unlatching doors,
making holes
in the walls.
soon, they will ask
you to leave,
or drag you out by
your feet.
your life is always
changing at
the wishes of smaller
things.

what she wrote

it wasn't her
legs,
lean and tanned,
long as a summer day.
or her eyes,
tea brown.
it had nothing to
do with
the way her lips
formed when
she smiled.
no.
it wasn't how
her hair looked
in the sunlight,
or
the way her
hands lay
upon the table
folded
onto themselves,
softly.
it was none of
that. it was something
else.
it was the one
poem she wrote,
then said,
that's me.

spicy meatloaf

let me tell you about
my family she says,
rolling her eyes
as far back into her
head as they will go.
everyone of them is
messed up in the head.
drugs, drinking,
smoking, jail time,
divorces and tattoos
covering their bodies.
my sister has a fishhook
sticking out of her
lip and two razor
blades hanging from
her ear lobes,
but she says, clearing
her throat, they are
all college educated
and well read,
so it's not like
you can't have a decent
conversation with them.
so what do you think,
dinner at my mom's house
on sunday?
she makes an amazing
spicy meatloaf.

some thoughts

some thoughts
linger
from early morning,
until the end
of day
when you swing
your feet back
onto to the bed
for sleep.
you've done nothing
to address these
thoughts,
they are just with
you, as you go
about your business.
they stay
close by,
as if whispers
sitting in your ear,
things you need to
know for a reason
you aren't quite
sure of, yet.

cloud burst

the rain
forces you inside,
beneath an
overhang of
a store
closed for sunday.
the wind
turns each green
leaf
over into a silver
palm along
the boulevard.
the heat
rises on the pavement.
thunder
is nearby.
a broken arrow
of lightning
strikes in the distance.
you could stay in
this moment for a long
time,
before you go on
your way.

the mechanic

the mechanic
wants you to commit
to the repair.
he pleads
over the counter
saying that you
can't go another
day without
air conditioning.
for a mere two
thousand dollars
he will fix
your ten year
old work truck
and have you back
in the cool breeze
of freon once
again. if
he didn't have
mayonnaise in his
beard from the tuna
sandwich he's
eating while
talking to
you, you'd have
a lot more confidence
in what he's saying.
let me think about,
it you tell him.

shoot the ball

you remember
when your son, at
age ten,
played soccer
on a frozen field
an hour
away from
where you lived
a 7 a.m.
on a Saturday
morning.
the parents
holding cups
of coffee close
to their faces
to warm
their blue lips.
the maniacal
coaches screaming
as if it was
the world cup.
you don't miss that.
no.
but when you see
a soccer
game now it takes
a while
to not turn it
off and cringe.

the loose thread

the thread
you pull is best
left
untouched, better
not to know
where things
are going.
easier to snip
if off
and let things
remain as they
are,
don't pull
the thread
to see what
lies beneath
the cloth.

my lost love

you fall in love
with a movie
star.
greta garbo
in black and white.
her skin as pale
and soft
as a fish filet.
but she's dead
now so you've
got no shot at a
romance, and if
she was alive
she'd be way
over a hundred,
just slightly out
of your normal
dating range.
you adored that crazy
hat she used to wear,
pulled down
snug over her dark hair,
and how she smoked
a cigarette
as if annoyed
or disgusted with
the human race,
especially men.
you admired her aloofness,
wanting to be
alone. you get that.
you really really
get that.
plus, she didn't
say much.
bonus points for
that. you'd be
worried though
about all that make
up smearing all over
your pillow cases
when she began to cry,
as you imagine she would
at some point.
her eyebrows were
black as if drawn
on by a grease pen,
perfect arcs
above her bedroom
eyes. you say
bedroom only because
kitchen eyes,
or basement eyes
would sound silly
and god forbid that
you'd ever let yourself
sound silly.

taxi ninety-one

while sitting in
the back seat
of his monte carlo
yellow and black
taxi, number ninety-one,
you strike up
a conversation
with the cab driver
about indian food.
you tell him that
it goes right
through you
like motor oil,
which makes him
laugh and stroke
his thick mustache.
he says something
along the lines
of, do you like
lamb, to which
you reply, I don't
know. maybe. the poem
mary had a little lamb
suddenly runs through
your head
repeatedly, so
to stop this train
of thought you
tell him that his cab
is very clean.
you almost tell him
that it doesn't
smell bad, but
you bite your lip
and begin to whistle.
what is that you are
whistling, he asks,
peering at you
in the mirror with his
giant black eyes.
nothing you say,
just something I'm
making up as I blow
out air. nothing.

you imagine

she slips
on the floor and falls
into your
arms.
you kiss her.
she kisses you.
you forget what
time it is.
what day it is.
your name
is questionable
too.
it's not love
exactly,
but something akin
to being
an animal,
but with music
playing, perhaps
Sinatra's
summer wind.

reward card

you have
nine reward cards.
one for books,
another for shoes,
one for coffee
and another for
sandwiches.
the big chain
stores, and little
boutiques too.
your wallet
is fat with shiny
plastic
cards offering
a discount
and reward
for being such a
frequent and loyal
customer, so it's
no surprise
when you hand
me one too.

take my picture

I don't understand people,
margo says to you
while clipping her toe
nails at the pool.
damn it's hot out, I
could use another high ball,
why don't they have waiters here?
people are in such a rush
these days, always in
a hurry to go somewhere.
she turns her glass
letting a piece of ice
fall into her mouth.
and what's with this face
book thing. are you on
there? I hate it. I was
on there for two weeks
and began to despise
all my friends. I don't give a
flying fig about what they
had for dinner, or
where they took a vacation.
give me a break. hey, hey,
are you listening.
sorry, you tell her,
I dosed off for a minute,
you said something about
it being hot out. could
you do me a favor
and take a picture of me
with my phone, I need
to post it later.

without you

someone
just like you
finds your wallet
on the street.
your keys too.
when you go home
that night he is
in your favorite
chair eating
a sandwich,
the dog is at his
feet, sleeping.
your wife is on
the couch
reading a magazine
and your kids
are on the floor
playing a game.
the door is locked
so you peer
through the window,
standing in
the bushes that you
pruned last weekend.
you press your face
against a cool pane,
looking in,
they seem so happy,
your family,
without you.

she loves me

you buy a dozen
flowers
for your sweetheart
lulu.
black eyed susans.
but on the way over
to her house
you begin to pick off
each petal, saying,
she loves me, she loves
me not, she loves
me she loves me
not, by the time you
get to her house
you are down to stems
holding a dark
puffy ball at the top,
which makes her laugh
and say, well,
which was it?

a planet just like ours

they find another planet
just like ours,
a safe haven perhaps
when doomsday arrives,
but the astronomer
chooses to keep it quiet.
he looks at his check
list of desirable places.
this one is exactly like
ours. yes. water, air,
your basic elements
that make life survivable
but it too has immovable
traffic, fast food restaurants
and over crowded beaches.
he scratches his head
as he peers through
the telescope. what's
with all the salt water
taffy at the beach, he
wonders. next.

i'm thirsty

you pick her up
from rehab after a six
week stay
to dry out
and sober up.
she looks fresh
and clean,
relaxed in her
favorite dress.
the one with flowers,
a summery
flimsy thing,
that hangs on
her body just so.
she looks hopeful
standing there
waiting for you
to drive up.
but you know things
could go either
way when she
gets in the car
and says,
I'm thirsty,
aren't you?

the closed door

the closed door
is the one
you want to go
through.
the sealed
letter is the one
you want to read.
the turned lips
are the ones
you want to kiss.
the road not taken,
the life
not led.
how strange
life turns on wanting
what we don't
have.

there is no hat

there is no
hat,
no rabbit,
no sawing
anyone
in half. there
is no slight
of hand,
setting a white
dove free.
no hypnotist
or mind
reader
who can help
you to understand.
there is
no magic
that exists
that explains
what any
of this is.

the book

she is a book
you can't
stop reading.
savoring
each page
wanting to know
and not
know
the ending.
looking forward
to the moment
you can pick
it up again
and unfold
her heart into
your loving
hands.

of course, me too

she informs
you, with a chilled
kiss on the cheek
and a sisterly
hug that she just
wants to be friends.
your heart is broken
along
a familiar fault line.
you were thinking
a mad passionate love
affair. dimmed lights
with candles and music,
champagne. an open
window where you could
hear and smell
the rolling sea.
but so it goes, and you
can only reply to her
feelings of friendship
by saying, of course,
me too.

underwater call

you are skeptical
when she tells you that
she dropped her
phone into
the ocean while
water skiing or
scuba diving,
or hunting a great
white shark
with a spear gun.
you doubt the veracity
of her story,
thinking that she just
didn't feel like
talking. but then
you get a call
and you can hear
a large grouper
on the other end,
making fish noises.
you hear the bubble
of surf and sand,
the crashing of
waves. fins folding
as the grouper swims
and attempts
to say your name.

a scenic view

nervous,
you bite your
lip,
rattle your legs
beneath
the table.
sweat
grows under
your arms.
a bead or two
rolls
down
your forehead.
she's just a girl.
okay.
a woman.
you've been down
this road
before.
yes. but not with
this kind
of scenic view.
you need another
drink,
or two.

her name

the sill
with white dust
heavy
on the wood,
when was the last
time you
wiped
it clean.
no matter.
it's as good
a place as any
to write her
name.

scheduling work

the widow, Helen,
smoothed down
by the years, now
a small rounded ball
of humanity with
oiled black
hair, and eyes
that dart about
like bee bees
rattling in a cage
says,
come tomorrow.
no wait. I have
a hair appointment
at ten.
the next day might
be better.
but call me before
you come.
people are dying
in north Carolina,
and I might have
to go there to
pick out a grave
stone, bring a cake
or a pie.
but I do want the work
done, I really do.
just call me
in the morning before
you come.

whose woods are these

you read what a cranky,
nasty old man
Robert frost could
be. it's not pretty.
but you give him
some room. who hasn't
been that way from
time to time.
you haven't walked
in his boots, or
stopped by his woods.
or gone deep into
them on a snowy night.
you have no clue
to who his neighbors
were, or how strong
those fences were
to keep the adoring
fans away. it doesn't
matter as he rises
every day, brilliantly
sad on another page.

the tide rolls in

you were never
one to carve your name
into a tree
with the girl
you were in love
with, or write
her name over and over
on a pad of paper
adding your
last name to hers.
you never thought
of getting a
tattoo with lucy,
or ginger
singed in blue ink
into your arm. no.
you sought out
areas less permanent
to show your
affection, like
the sand at the beach
as the tide
rolled in.

a missed opportunity

she used the phrase
it's a missed opportunity,
when critiquing
your story in a writer's
workshop
a dozen years ago.
it lacks ambition.
she wished that the author
had taken more
time to develop
the characters, perhaps
thought the plot out
more clearly before
handing it in for reading.
so it's no surprise
to you, when you see her
in a drugstore all
these years later
studying bottles of
lotion, that you ignore
her and keep walking.
another missed
opportunity.

warmer states

it shouldn't,
but sometimes kindness
surprises you
in this world.
the car that lets
you in,
the held door.
a shoveled walkway
without asking.
a simple thank
you for a job
well done.
manners in general
seem to have slipped
away with
an older generation
now dying
and moving
to warmer states.

making love to music

you had a girlfriend
named Dixie, once.
it was a long time ago.
the vinyl age,
not far removed from
the paleolithic age.
she liked to make
love
to music,
but the record would
skip
and she'd have
to stop
get up and walk
naked
across the room
in her roman sandals
to drop the needle
to another nearby
groove. or she'd
tire of what was
on, and get up
to sort through her
albums
to find something
else that might
put her in the mood.
meanwhile you waited,
whistling Dixie,
as she kneeled
on her shag rug,
saying nope, nope,
nope, maybe.

before the show

you walk down
to where the circus
is setting up.
the big tents are in
place.
the elephants
grey and large
are being hosed down
in the shade.
the place
smells of straw
and cigars.
cotton candy and dung.
you see the workers
sitting half
dressed. half clowns,
half lion tamers,
ballerinas
slipping into gowns,
smoking cigarettes.
they are neither happy
or sad
as they sit in the sun
in their bare feet.
waiting for
the day to move into
night where they will
become who
they are paid to be.

it's a living

he made
his money slipping
on the slight
puddled
spills in grocery
stores.
hitting
the wet spot
just right to send
him flying
upright,
hitting the floor
with a loud scream
and thud,
his milk and cookies,
eggs
and butter
strewn everywhere.
the store always
settled
and he was back on
his feet before
long, out of
the neck brace,
no longer with
the crutches, searching
for a new place
to fall.

the perscription

stung by a wasp
on her ankle
she breaks out into oozing
hives.
no one wants to be
near her
on the bus, the train
or standing in
line.
she cancels her date.
she scratches
at the sores,
while making an appointment
with her
doctor.
what is it, she says.
it's hard enough
to find love with smooth
skin, and now
this. how will I ever
find a man in this
condition?
he gives her a bottle
of pills.
take these, he says,
and your skin will be
back to normal
in time. but meanwhile
read more, have fun,
get out
and enjoy your life.
quit being such a whiner.
no one wants to be with
someone like that.
perhaps work on
the inside for once.

a bowl of milk

a small
stray cat comes
into your life.
she's grey
and white, with
half a tail.
her green eyes
are slivers
of broken
bottle glass.
her purr is strong.
as she rubs
stiffly and soft
between
your ankles.
how can you
resist that.
sometimes love is
meant to be,
you have no choice
in the matter
but to put open
the door and set
down a bowl
of milk.

she says more

she says more
to you asleep, then
she does
awake.
her body, curved
against the white
sheets
whispers to you.
her breathing,
the soft tug of
her dream
making her sigh.
the one foot out,
white
as snow
as her leg
unfolds.
her hair is
black and
everywhere against
the pillow.
you can see
that she loves you
when she's asleep,
but it seems less
so when
the sun comes up
to wake her.

your music stinks

you tell her that there is
no more good music
to listen to.
it was all about
the sixties
and seventies, perhaps
some of the eighties,
but since then
it's drivel, you say.
unlistenable banging
of drums and nursery
rhymes. dr. sues
on crack talking about
his mother.
you are so old, she says.
that's what old people
say. let me get a shovel
and start on your next
home. rap music has soul,
has meaning, it
represents. you laugh.
no you tell her.
james brown had soul.
the drifters had soul.
the temptations and the
four tops had soul.
crazy d rhyming words
with fire truck is not
soul. it's giving up.

my guy

I have a guy
she says,
my mechanic.
he knows everything
there is to
know about my
car. if a strange
light goes on,
or I hear
a whirring noise,
he knows what
to do.
he's my guy,
my car go to guy.
behind the greasy
overalls,
and the bloodshot
eyes, the tattooed
neck
and cigarette
breath, he is
a saint inside.
he's my miracle man,
my mechanic,
my guy.

monday

there is no
spring in your step
today.
no sparkle in your
eye.
you are not
doing a cartwheel
out the door
this morning. you
have no smile,
no joke
no kind words
to share with anyone
just yet.
you are one of
them, going into
the direction that
life has chosen
for you.

table with a view

she always needed
a table by a window.
the corner wouldn't
work, middle of the room,
forget it. the hard booth
near the kitchen
was an absolute no.
the window, with
a view she'd say
as they steered her
through the maze
of tables and chairs
out of the darkness
and into the light
where she could see
the road going in either
direction, or a
sleeve of grey
water cascading
by after it rained
all night.

suddenly quiet

when your neighbor,
jimbo,
who fights loudly
with his wife,
or girlfriend, or
someone
of the opposite sex
on a nightly basis,
comes over
and asks you if
he can borrow a
chainsaw, or an
axe if you have one,
this worries you
things have
gotten really
quiet over there
in the last week
or so. there hasn't
been a peep
of discontent or
argument for some
time now.

she's coming

you knew when
her mother was coming
because she had
the good china
out on the table,
being hand washed.
dusted and wiped
to a high sheen.
there would be a
gourmet meal to come,
a fine wine.
a fancy dessert
that you couldn't
pronounce involving
oranges and deep
dark chocolate.
she would tell you
to wear something nice,
for once,
a clean shirt, a
pressed pair
of pants.
the house would
fill with the scent
of roasted meats,
and flowers,
bread baked fresh
in the oven.
and when the dog
was put into the back
yard, you knew for
sure that her mother
was on the way.

unloved

the child
goes his whole life
thinking wrongly
that his parents
never loved him,
believing that he's
unloved.
this darkens
every day he lives
in.
it's a shield,
a barrier of trust,
of letting others
in.
he paints in blues
and browns,
blacks.
the rain falls because
of it.
the bad turn,
the falls all because
of what he believes.
always without love,
never giving
an inch
to let love
happen.

sales weasels

the salesman
uses his trick
of dropping his pen
into
the lap of the old
man
or woman,
wavering on whether
or not
to sign on the dotted
line
for windows,
a car,
a new slab of
vinyl siding on
their house,
or a time share
closer to ohio
than
france.
sometimes it works.
the pen
feeling nice
in the curled
palm, and they
sign, but other
times they take it
and
like a knife
and jab it
into the salesman's
hand.

poetry within

there is poetry
in
the clerk
who rings up
your groceries
despite
the tired eyes,
the listless
look
of fatigue on
his grey
face.
the rounded
shoulders
holding up a white
shirt
and blue tie.
there is poetry
in his heart.
the music of words
and love,
joy and hope.
it's in there.
like a small
bird.
fluttering
it's wings
trying to get
out, but can't
and never will.

the cool bed

you lie
down in your cool
bed.
thankful.
thankful for the roof
above
you, the food
in your stomach.
the fan
that spins
above your head.
you are grateful
for work,
for your son
who loves you
and you in return
love him
without compromise.
the list is long
and you'll be
fast asleep
before you get
to end of friends
that are
bookends
to your life.

the victims

not everyone
wants to be helped.
they like
being miserable
and sad,
lonely and disappointed
at the cards
the world has
dealt them.
everything is a
tragedy, a misstep,
in the wrong
direction.
victims of parents
that didn't love
them, colleges
they couldn't go to.
husbands and wives
that betrayed them.
they start each
sentence with,
you will not believe
what happened
to me.
this never ends.
the only thing that stops
it is when
you stop
listening
and even then they'll
find another set
of ears to confide
in.

strange country

everyone
dies
at some point.
one hundred
per cent
so far.
and yet
we never
see it coming
or get used
to it.
despite
religion
and books,
intelligence
and
intuition
death is a strange
and mysterious
country we
all are heading
towards
with bags
not packed.

alone again

another
sock, alone
in the cave
of the steel
bin
of
your dryer.
a single black
sock
with a red stripe
down the toes.
it's lost
it's way.
it's other half
gone on alone,
never to be
seen again.

the siren of more

it's hard
as americans
to surrender. to give
up. to let the ego
go. self surrender.
but it's the only
way
to peace
and happiness.
let go of things,
of love,
of hate, of anything
that wants to
own you.
it's hard
when everything
screams
buy me or love me,
always
the siren of more
kissing you
on the face.

new lovers

new lovers
can't keep their hands
off one another.
they can't get
close enough,
sitting almost
in each other's laps.
the finish each other's
thoughts,
share food from
the same fork.
this is before
the first fight,
the first fall out.
the first drink
that spills, or
lie that's told,
or sign of fatigue
that appears, and
inevitably shows.

the spot

there is a spot
on your favorite
blue button down
dress shirt.
you don't notice
it until you
are in the car
away from home,
away from another
shirt, pressed
and clean
hanging in
the closet.
so you go on.
you spend the whole
night
blocking the spot
on your shirt
with your hand, or
a drink, a plate.
something.
how aware we are
of our faults, hoping
to find spots
in others, or to
hide them, to ease
our own.

bring burgers too

you get angry
at a pile of crabs.
you want to smash them
into a million pieces
with the wooden mallet
you've been provided
along with a pair
of pliers and a monkey
wrench,
but you can't.
there is always someone
nearby saying,
no no, let me show
you how, then comes
over with a sharp
clam knife to split
the seasoned slippery
crab down the middle
releasing a glob of
yellow slime, then
snapping off the claws
and yanking out a sliver
of white meat.
there you go, they
say. now you know how.
only ten more to go.
you may starve first.

pool party

you fear small children
in the pool.
that far away look
in their eyes
as the cold water
envelops them.
how still they are,
with their water
wings holding
them upright,
full of soda
and milk,
water and sweet
tea. as soon as
you jump in to
swim, and you see
them bobbing around,
there is only
one thing to do,
and that is flee.

baby world

the woman
with her new baby
freshly baked
and delivered last
weekend
likes to stroll
along the sidewalk
in front of
the houses
and cradle it in
her arms.
she stares into
the baby's face.
her own face
smiling like
the mona lisa.
there is no other
world now,
there is only
the baby.

no speedo

you decide to make
a lemon
cake and bring it to
the party.
vanilla icing
and some colorful
sprinkles
to jazz it up.
it occurs to you
that in doing this
people may quietly
question your
sexuality, but
you don't care.
you like lemon
cake with icing,
that's how you roll.
you may even
wear a pink shirt
because you
like that color
too. but no, you will
not wear a speedo,
that's out of
the question.

sore loser

she looks up a word
on her phone
unable to use the z
the q
and a slew of
a's and o's
on her scrabble
collection of tiles.
that's cheating you
say, raising
your eyebrows
while eyeing the score.
it's close.
very close, so close
that it may come
down to the last
letter, or
word or what's
subtracted that can't
be used.
hey, hey you say,
trying to take
the phone out of her
hand.
it's just a game,
she says, calm down.
why are you so afraid
of losing, she
smirks.
cheaters are losers,
you say in high pitched
voice, which
surprises both you
and her.
I see where this is
going, she says,
and tips the board
over. I'm done with
this game. I'm going
to bed.
hmmmm. you say.
looking at the scorepad,
you are in the lead
by six points.
quietly you pick up
the scattered tiles,
fold the board up
into its box, then
stand up and do a silent
dance of victory about
the room, pumping
your fists into
the air with glee.

your famous potato salad

are you bringing
your famous potato
salad to the party,
she asks you while
shaving her legs on
the phone.
sure, you say. sure.
your mind drifts off
and you think about
how famous your potato
salad is. the time
it was on the cover
of people magazine.
your giant blue bowl
full of potatoes,
glistening
in the staged lighting.
then there was the time
when regis and Kathy
interviewed you
trying to get you to
reveal your secret
ingredients. the time
the astronauts ate
it in outer space.
holding up a spoonful
in the grainy video.
you remember the lines
outside your
potato salad store,
selling small cups
to the craving public.
even the president
mentioned it in his state
of the union address.
this potato salad
will bring peace to
the world, he said,
holding a fork full
to his mouth.
hello, hello, are
you still there?
oh, yes. you say.
I'm boiling potatoes
as we speak.

the reply

her silence
is deafening.
she doesn't
write,
or call,
there is no text,
no email.
you look up into
the sky
for smoke signals,
but the sky is
blue and clear.
sometimes no answer
is the answer,
the reply.

walking the dog

you see the moving
van out front.
the boxes
and furniture
being rolled out
into the dark
cave of the long
truck.
in ten years,
you've hardly
spoken to this
neighbor, or him
to you, although
he warned you once
about picking up
after your dog.
so you never liked
him much after
that.
he comes over to
you to say goodbye,
to tell you where
he's going,
and why. he shakes
your hand. he seems
sad, as if he's
going to miss you.
as if he's doing
the wrong thing,
moving. but you
feel relieved, as
does your dog as
you walk him down
the sidewalk.

waiting in the window

even now
you can feel
your father's whiskers
against your
soft cheek.
smell the bourbon
on his breath.
the sparkle of blue
in his eyes, dulled,
shining less,
tired with the day
he's chosen to live.
he lifts you away
from the window
where you waited.
there is tenderness
in his strong hands
and in his words,
though mumbled, as he
carries you to bed.
he will forget
this moment
so quickly, but you,
you will never forget.

to rise

it's gravity
that keeps you here.
holds your feet
to the ground.
you have no choice
in the matter.
it's the way things
work.
and yet somehow
you find a way
to float above
it all, to fly,
to rise.

no one's watching

she likes to say
things
like dance
like no one
is watching.
but
you haven't seen
me dance,
you tell her.
it's horrifying.
someone barefooted
on a bed
of coals has
more rhythm
and style.
I'm afraid
of being judged,
of being laughed
at. I prefer
to sleep
like no one's
watching,
you tell her.
I'm much better
at that.

yes, i'll be there

your neighbor
loves the fourth of july.
he's already sewing
together
the shirt and pants
he will wear,
sewn from a large
flag of stars and stripes.
the grill will go.
he'll have rockets
and firecrackers,
sparklers and roman
candles.
band aids and Neosporin
at the ready.
a bucket of water,
leaves of aloe.
he'll stack beer on ice.
blow music from the window,
the speakers
turned out for all
to enjoy.
he asks you six or seven
times if you will go.
and you say yes each time.
you wouldn't miss it
for the world.

dishes in the sink

the dishes in
the sink remind you
of her.
the spilled drink
left to harden
on the floor,
the crumbs that
lie unswept.
the pyramid of dirty
clothes
at the bottom
of the steps.
she was never hazel
when it came to
being tidy
around the house,
but give her a
bank account and
she could in
a heartbeat,
clean that out.

icebergs

the small
print should be
larger.
the hidden
thoughts and
true feelings
spoken
out loud.
what lies below
is what
should be
seen, or
the ship may sink
if not
careful.

cat and mouse

it's unnerving
when someone calls
you at home and
asks, by name,
if this is your
name, and you say
yes. yes it is.
how can I help you
deep voiced mysterious
person?
then they hang up.
you try to call back,
but the line is dead,
the number disconnected.
it's a strange world
of cat and mouse
we are living in.
it's so hard to know
which one you are
sometimes.

i'm in san juan

you don't like it
when people call you
or text you
when they are having
fun. when they
are at the pool
or on a cruise,
or lying on some
golden beach
in san juan.
I'm having an ice
cold pina
colada they say.
or I just ate
some crabs,
or lobster.
I dripped butter
on my tanned
skin. i'll send
you a pic.
you don't want their
ship to sink
or for a shark
to take off a leg
or an arm.
but if they have
sand in their bed
at night, well,
that's a good thing
to know.

snow shovel

you want your snow
shovel
back.
but your neighbor
thinks it's his now.
he's had it that long.
he has your
cat too.
and your
wife. your children
go over there
for dinner
and he helps
them with their
homework.
sometimes you put
a glass to the wall
and listen
to their
laughter, you
listen to
the fun they are
all having
without you.

the lemon girl

every morning
she cuts a lemon
in half
takes it to her
mouth and bites.
this is how
she leaves the house.
goes about
her day.
it keeps her
from being frivolous,
keeps her
from not being
taken seriously.
there are no mistaken
smiles, or
smirks, or laughs.
the lemon, she
thinks, makes
her strong
it's good for
business.
it's good for
being alone, too.

the round table

it's not exactly
the Algonquin round table.
you and betty,
jimmy, gina
and omar.
but you do have
lively discussions
as you sit
around a square
table at
the chic filet
eating food blessed
by god
and served by clean cut
very polite people.
you discuss authors
and books,
politics and prose.
food and sex.
love and death.
sometimes no one has
anything to say,
so you sit there
and stare at your
phones until your
done with your lunch,
then you say goodbye,
go on your way,
with a wave.

sweeping up

you take
the broom,
the mental broom
and begin
to sweep.
you start at
the back of your
mind, and
dig into the
corners for
webs and spiders,
small dust
balls
that have gathered.
you sweep forward,
clearing out
the debris
of your life.
the angry
people, the sad
ones, the ones
who never call
and don't really
care. you sweep
away the bad thoughts.
imagined slights.
you open the front
door of your
mind, letting
in the sun and
blue sky, then you
push the pile
out into the wind.
out of your mind.

my people

she tells you that
she is a
direct descendant
from the mayflower,
landing at Plymouth rock.
she can look at
the passenger
list and point
to who her great
great great
relatives were.
she's very proud
of something she
had nothing to do
with, which makes you
smile.
what about you, she
says, who are you're
people.
I'm not sure, you say.
but there has been
mention of roswell
at the family
gatherings.

let's have some fun

let's do something fun
today, she says,
as she scrambles up some
eggs in a pan.
let's go somewhere,
get out and about,
do a day trip.
game? you peer over
the top of the newspaper,
trying hard not
to sigh. sure you
say, then go back to
checking the box score
of the game
from yesterday.
like what, you say.
go where?
oh, I don't know.
maybe hike up old rag
mountain, or to great
falls, or maybe head
out to a winery.
something fun, we could
take a picnic basket.
sure, you say, but it's
getting kind of late
isn't it. it's almost
noon. it's not too late.
after we eat, let's
shower, get dressed and
hit the road.
sure, you say again.
rubbing your forehead.
hey, can you throw some
cheese on those eggs.
do we have any bacon?
I like bacon.

the loose ends

pounds of
paper have piled
up
at your desk.
scribbled notes
and numbers,
reminders
of things you'll
soon forget.
you already have.
appointments to
be kept.
calls to be made.
your method
of keeping track
of things
is frighteningly
bad, but
somehow you
manage to get
it all done
without late fees,
or too much
anger and resentment
coming from
a loose end
job, or friend.

deer hunt

the woods are full
of deer
so you know the signs
are going up soon
to warn the walkers
and joggers,
the bikers that
a hunt will be
in progress,
throughout the month
of june
and maybe into
September, depending
on how many
deer there are
to kill, keeping
them off the road
and off the hood of
your car.
the world is getting
smaller, the herds
are thinning.

the platform

if elected.
no more guns.
no more cigarettes.
no more
dinner theaters.
no more
fast food
restaurants.
no more rude
people.
no more
walking around
looking at
your cell phone
when with other
people.
there is so much
more, but
you need more sleep.
more sleep
is on the list
too.

i just met a girl named maria

you go to a dinner
theater to see the
west side story.
large buses are unloading
out front
full of seniors
from new jersey
and beyond.
the food is horrible.
left overs
from an airline, or
worse.
the play is light
and breezy. the jets
versus the sharks.
but there is very
little swagger in
the actors, there is
more swish and winks,
still doing guys and dolls
or aux cage de folles
in their heads.
you never expect anyone
to stab anyone else
as you eat
your dark food,
gnawing at whatever
it might be.
the jello is
the highlight of the meal.
it's wonderful when
an old man in the middle
of the song maria
stands up with his
dripping
steak in hand
and yells out,
I can't eat this meat,
it's like rubber.

repent

you miss the old
protester
with a sandwich
board, yelling
at people passing
by, saying
the world is
going to end.
repent now.
he's wearing
burlap, of course,
and sandals.
his beard his
grey and there
is a look of
madness in his eyes.
but he keeps
a large can
nearby for donations,
just in case
the world doesn't
end right away,
and he needs
lunch, or a cold
drink.

namaste

you find out who
people are
when things go wrong.
when
the car gets hit,
the drink
spills, the dog
runs away.
the curtain is
pulled back,
and you see who
is at the switch.
who is really
in control. it's
not a pretty
site, despite
all the yoga
and meditation
they do.

the card reader

all day you see
her.
the woman who will
read your cards,
tell you
your future
and enlighten you
to the road ahead,
you see her
sitting on her
front porch with
a glass of ice tea.
her eyes are dark,
her skin
olive and wet.
she sips slowly
in the summer
heat, waving
a piece of cardboard
at her face.
she looks anxious,
waiting
for customers.
but no one
stops by.
the future seems
known these days,
or no one
wants to know
what tomorrow
brings.

small world

the world is getting
smaller,
just yesterday
you were in france
picking up
some cheese
and a fresh
baguette
from the local
market.
after visiting
the Louvre
you rode back
to your hostel
on your
rented bike
with a beret on
your head,
whistling.
next week you'll
be back
in springfield
eating a rotisserie
chicken
at the coffee table,
sipping on
a can of cold
beer
and watching
reruns of andy
Griffith.

party on the 4th

can you bring
your potato salad
to the pool party,
betty asks you
on the phone.
sure, you say.
why not.
what are you bringing.
I'm bringing
beer, she says.
i'll stop by the 7-11
on the way over
and pick up
a couple of six
packs, and some
aloe and
neosporin
for the burns.
I was in north Carolina
the other
day and picked
up some illegal
cherry bombs and
rockets.
should be fun.
I'm setting one off
now just so you can
hear how loud
they are.

the shoe

the shoe
no longer fits
and yet you force
it onto
your foot
to walk all day
reminded
of it's tight
tight laces
and narrow
toe.
your foot can
hardly breath
as you move
about your life
unknowing
of
your pain.

punishment

when the nuns,
those maniacal
penguins
in black
garb and cowls
beat your knuckles
with a ruler
for cursing
on the black
top playground,
did they think
that would solve
the problem?
hardly, in fact
it made it
a hell of a lot
worse, as you
can see.

her poem

you could write
a poem about her.
a nice sweet poem
absent of irony
or cynicism. it
would be a nice
poem, with some
of the lines
ending in rhyme,
like those two.
it would be a poem
she could read
and read again,
folding it over
into her scrap book
if she had one.
or maybe she could
just ball it up
and toss it into
the waste bin.
either way, you'd
have said, what
you wanted to say.
that you love her
dearly and can't
imagine your life
without her.

taking the fall

the sick
find God more
accessible than those
not ill.
humbled
by pain, we
find our knees
more readily.
sending prayers
upwards or into
any direction
that will get
the job done.
how needy we are
as humans.
thinking all along
that nothing bad
could ever happen.
that life
will go on as is
and that others
will take the fall.

the job

you take your work
home with you.
brushes
and rollers
to be cleaned.
the debris of paint
and caulking
on your hands.
face.
and areas in
between.
you take the sun
home too.
baked into your skin.
the weight
of your wet shirt
clinging
to your tired
limbs.
you think about
what tomorrow brings.
which ladder
to climb,
which roof to scale,
which side
will be in the shade
as you move
like a clock
about the house.

daredevil not

you have no desire
to get into a hot air
balloon
and sail across
the land. you don't want
to jump out of a plane
with a parachute,
there is not a bone
in your body that
wants to wrestle
a bear, or stick
your head into a
crocodile's mouth.
you will not strap
a bungee cord to your
torso and leap
from any tall bridge.
climbing Mt. Everest
is doubtful, as
is swimming the English
Chanel. the closest
you come to being
adventurous is tasting
and unknown dish
of Indian food.
the risk is enormous.

seasonal change

you decide
after it hits
ninety-five
degrees
that it's time
to move the snow
shovel and the twenty
five pound bag
of road salts
down to the basement.
you change
your drawers
and closets over
to summer
clothes. this takes
three minutes
and involves
a hat, a pair
of leather gloves,
and a heavy
pair of water
proof duck boots.
once these are
tucked away.
you're done. it's
summertime.

the flower poem

she sends you a poem
that she
wrote on the back
of her grocery list.
it's about flowers.
how fragrant they are.
the colors.
how they grow and
grow.
she talks about
the bees too, and what
they do with
flowers.
she mentions a lawn
mower that ran over
a flower bed
after they had all
bloomed.
you turn the poem
over. this is much
better. more
interesting.
milk, cereal,
detergent.
chicken breasts.
marshmallows
and bread.

insurance blues

you have insurance.
car
and house.
health
and work.
even for your
phone which
you break and submerge
in water every
other month.
so many things
you are insured
for.
and the money
keeps
pouring out.
each month
each year hoping
to never
have to use
this safety net.
you'd be rich
and done
if not for that
bill
that protects so
much of
what you deem
precious.
and god forbid
that you do use
it, the rings of fire
that you must
jump through,
the maze of forms
and numbers that must
be issued.
you sigh as you stare
at the cracked
screen of your
one month old
cell phone.

thank you

sometimes
you think about
going out
to the side
of the road
with a sign
saying, need
a hot well cooked
gourmet meal
with all the trimmings,
plus
coffee and desert.
a fine chilled wine
would be nice too.
will provide kitchen,
cutlery, plates and
glasses. thank
you and god bless.

the bouncing ball

the kids
out front are bouncing
a ball.
incessantly.
boys and girls.
they aren't
playing a game.
as far as you
can tell.
no one is counting,
or screaming.
there are no
bases.
no goal lines
or baskets
with which to
shoot the ball in.
they are just
content to
chat amongst
themselves and bounce
the ball.
kids have changed
it seems,
or they have grown
beyond
their years,
passing you by
completely.

rotisserie chickens

what is up with
these rotisserie
chickens.
all tied up.
strings going
every which way.
what have they been
up to?
the wings and
legs all tied
together, buttered
up and cooked
to a steamy
slippery glow.
oh, the stories
they could tell
if they were still
alive and had
heads.

baby crazy

once women stop
having babies they love
babies.
they can't get enough
of them.
they stop strangers
on the street and pinch
babies on the cheek.
they want to hold them,
snuggle with them,
smell that powdery
baby smell.
have their picture
taken with them. they
smile as if they are
the happiest people
in the world with that
baby in their lap, petting
their bald little
heads. talking baby
talk to them, pulling
on their little
sausage fingers, and
touching their wiggly
toes.
men don't do this.

nothing to say

a line
of birds
on the wire.
black
silent
ravens
with curled
claws
orange against
the electric
vine.
they say nothing
to one another.
what there
is there to say
that hasn't
been said?

does this dress make me look fat

women are mysterious
creatures,
but there are
a few things you
have learned about
them over the years.
when the check comes,
they need to go
to the bathroom,
immediately. it's
a given fact that
the sight of a waiter
carrying over a
bill to the table
causes an instant
reflex to their
kidneys, making
them jump up and
dash off to the nearest
bathroom.
another thing you've
learned is that if
you forget their
birthday or anniversary,
or you've purchased
a stupid useless
gift, that this causes
them to have a severe
headache making them
incapable of any kind
of romantic activities.
this may last one night,
or a month.
another thing you've
learned is never ever
be truthful when asked
a question about
their weight. never.
this could be fatal.

the ball game

in the middle of the third
inning
after the seventh foul
ball back into
the seats,
and the pitcher adjusts
his cap, his
zipper, his sleeve,
you fall asleep
on the couch
with the dog in your
lap, the t.v.
on mute.
an hour later,
when you awaken,
it's the bottom of
the third
inning, no score,
so you go into the kitchen
to put a turkey
in the oven,
three hours
later, as you carve
it up for
a sandwich it's
the seventh inning.
so you stretch
and go for a walk
with your dog, you
talk to a few neighbors
about the game.
as the sun goes down
you sit back on
the couch and watch
the final inning,
as you put your pajamas
on before bed time.
you almost make
it to the last out,
but it's late,
you're tired, you
can read about it all
in the paper tomorrow.

punctuation

the last you heard
from her
was a brief message
on your phone.
a cryptic note, saying.
yes or no. it was more
of a question
than a statement,
but without
the question mark.
it made you realize
how important
punctuation is,
and how our school
systems have
possibly failed
us. so it's hard
know what she meant,
or where she's
going to, or
went. you could write
back and ask
for an explanation,
but why? the mystery
of her is what
attracted you to her
in the first place.

the magician

he was not a good
magician.
he lost three assistants
one summer
sawing them
in half.
the blood was
everywhere. but by
the fall.
he had it down
and was pulling rabbits
out of hats
with the word presto
and a wave of
his magic cane
and shiny black
top hat.

the sun was warmer

she was more optimistic
about
her past
than her future.
they were wonderful
times, she'd say.
you should have been
there.
what fun we had back
then.
then she'd close
her eyes and turn
her face
towards the sun.
the children were small
then, she'd say,
just barely moving
her lips.
the sun was warmer
too.
you should have seen
the sun, back then.
now that was something.

the longest stretch

she wants to talk
about sex.
her favorite subject.
you cringe as you sit
down outside
the café and order
fried calamari, her
favorite seafood.
you think
of it as rubber gaskets
deep fried and wonder
why it isn't free.
so what is the longest
stretch of time
you've ever gone
without sex, she asks
you, dipping a rubber
band of calamari into
some red sauce.
the longest stretch of
time without any kind
of sex? yes, she
says, and I don't mean
alone. with another
person. you look around
to see if anyone
is listening. keep your
voice down, you whisper,
for god's sake,
there's a pack of nuns
sitting over there.
so, she says, smacking
her lips with another
bite. how long.
hmmm. you say, finger
to your chin, when I was
married there was this
one year where she was
always mad at me for
something, and we may
have gone six months
or so, but you tell
her, I've been in relationships
too that have fallen
apart and there is no
sex ever. ever? she says,
well, it's not really sex.
it's more like, okay, go
ahead, and let me
know when it's over.
I see she says. so it's not
really sex. its more
like a favor. yeah. I guess
so. a perk, I guess
to keep me around.
interesting she says.
and you, what's your
longest stretch.
a week, she says, when
I came down with the flu
last winter. she smiles
and pushes the dish
of calamari towards you,
but you shake your head
and say. nah.

look who it is

when you first
became famous, it was
fun.
everyone pointing at you
and waving,
saying hello, hey
look who it is, it's
him. but by the third
or fourth day,
you had to put on a disguise,
sun glasses, a wig
a hat, a long coat.
you hunched over as
you climbed into
the back of limos,
being protected by
your handlers and
friends, who weren't
really friends at all
but parasites sucking
the blood and money
out of you.
what were you thinking
becoming famous like
you did. how crazy was
that. now you just
want to slip back into
the shadows of life
were most of the world
shuffles about, unknown,
not loved by the masses
and worshiped like
gods. well, maybe in
a few more weeks.

the life vest

when i first met her,
she was fresh out
of the institution.
she wore
an orange life
vest.
everyday she strapped
it on, snug
around her waist
and breasts.
notched and belted
tightly around
her back.
this worried me, but
you I got used to it.
i would say things to
her like,
I love that dress you're
wearing, I wish
I could see more of
it, shame that life
vest is blocking my view.
but she would dismiss
my suggestion and bat
her eye lashes, saying
shyly say, why thank.
you are so kind and
generous with your
words. after awhile
I went out and bought
a life vest too.
I'm wearing it now.
it makes sense if you
think about it.

the next move

when you move
you sit on the steps
or floor, or
lean against
a kitchen counter
and say a small
good bye to the house
you've lived in.
you've done it
in every house, or
apartment
no matter how long
or short the stay
has been.
it's where you slept
and ate,
fell in love, fell
out of love.
raised a son
who became a man.
took care of a dog
from birth to death.
stepping stones, all
of them, to where
you are now.

hey

she used to have
special
endearing names
for you.
sweetums, sugar
bear,
babycakes
and such.
but now she just
says hey.
hey, lower
the t.v.
what are you deaf?
hey did you drink
all the beer.
hey, I'm going
out, don't wait
up.
things have
changed around
here.

at the nighthawk

the late night
stops
at dives
in the middle
of nowhere.
3 a.m.
coffee and eggs.
a few strips
of bacon.
hash browns
and toast
with butter and
jam. more
coffee.
a lingering rain.
a waitress who has
seen everything,
and knows you
inside out.
she leaves you
to yourself,
filling
your cup with each
nod of your head.
you're a figure
in a hopper
painting,
a cliché. a
silhouette
in the window.
a shadow
moving through
the night.
your epiphany
is that the future
is not what
it used to be.

scheduling in the moon

you don't spend
enough
time gazing
at the moon.
you might spot
it out of the corner
of your eye
and take quick
look, but you don't
stop very long.
so you schedule
it in one
night late in
the spring
in early june.
you put it in
ink on your
calendar.
go outside
and lie
on your back
in the tall grass
and gaze
at the moon.
see where that
takes you.

the summer wedding

the wedding was long.
three people
fainted, hitting their
heads
on the wooden pews
in front of them.
the bride and groom
read their own hand
written vows,
to love and to cherish.
to never lie
or cheat, or hide
the remote, to always
be nice and available
for romance.
to turn off their cell
phones at dinner time.
they brought their dogs,
and assorted
children from other
marriages.
people sang, there was
a juggler.
a magician.
a tent was pitched outside
where a pig turned
slowly on a spit.
someone's aunt
made melon balls.
the vows went on and on.
till death do we part,
or sooner if it doesn't work
out. children cried.
children were born.
old people grew older
in their seats
sagging in the summer
heat like wilted flowers
in their new
dresses.
finally, the couple said I do,
rings were slid onto fingers.
there was applause and deep
sighs of relief.
the lime green bridesmaids,
blushing with rouge
and grooms in ill fitted
suits wiped their brows
with rented sleeves.
the music played on and on
as they left in a shower
of brown rice and bird
seed. then finally
you went out to get your
black and decker toaster oven
from the car
to put it in the tent
with the other gifts
stacked high.

what to do

you go in for a face
lift
a tummy tuck
and a hair weave.
a rich aunt has passed
away and left
you with a boat
load of money.
this makes the doctor
happy.
he has visions of a
new speed boat
when he takes a look
at you.
he almost jumps
for joy, but restrains
himself
as he yells for the nurse
to scrub up
and get a scalpel
quick. stat!

tipping point

her house was crawling
with cats,
but you hadn't determined
her sanity, or
lack thereof
quite yet.
it took a little more.
like the gun
under her pillow.
the whips and chains
beneath her bed.
her fascination with
hitler and Mussolini.
but she was a
vegetarian and cursed
you up and down if
you didn't recycle
your paper and plastic.
that was the tipping point.

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.