the old broom

she likes
the old broom.
the bent
and worn out
witches broom
that she
keeps on the front
porch.
hardly a straight
piece of straw
sticks out
at the bend.
where's the broom
I bought you
for Christmas, you
ask her, shaking
your head.
I'm saving it,
she says, for when
this broom
comes to an end.
then she hops aboard
and flies off
in search of
dirt to sweep.

hot and black

some people
make a project
out of their
cup of coffee,
snapping sugars,
stirring,
pouring,
adding this
and that.
they sip and taste
after each
additional
sprinkle
of something
sweet. more
this, more
that. closing
their eyes,
trying
hard to get it
just right.
how jealous
they are of those
who leave
so quickly,
with just hot
and black.

a new earth

staring into
their telescopes
the astronomers want
so badly
to find a livable
planet.
this one having
lost its charm
and use.
there has to be
just one. they say
to each other as
they scan the skies
swinging
the long lenses
from star to star.
look over there,
one of them says,
pointing,
have we looked there
yet?

it's not me

a man
who looks like
you
stares back
from
the mirror.
but it's not
you.
you are younger,
and taller,
you have
more hair,
less wrinkles.
you don't look
anything like
that.
you try to
ignore this
stranger,
but he refuses
to look or
go away. you
have no choice
but to live
with him,
and him with you,
whoever that
might be
today.

don't go in there

don't go
in there.
that closet is
off limits.
it's where
I keep
the skeletons,
the secrets.
the poems
that never
get read,
the things
i'll never say
or do.
don't go in
there.
the light is
dark.
there are
things in there
that will
cut and harm
you.
leave that knob
unturned.
don't go
in there.

traveling

part of traveling
is telling people
weeks in advance
that you will be
traveling,
whether to Istanbul,
Australia,
or perhaps even
France.
you will tell them
when your flight
leaves, or when
the ship sets sail.
you'll tell them
what you've eaten,
how well you slept.
you'll inform them
of Tuscany and how
you could live there
for the rest of
your life. how the air
is different, a
strange hue of blue.
how the next time,
you must come too
and stay in a villa
where you could
both learn how to
really cook pasta,
and you could sit
by the window and
stare at the olive
trees and write.
part of traveling
is coming home.
telling someone when
to pick you up.
letting them know
how much fun it was
and you can't
wait to go back.
part of traveling is
showing everyone alive
that you know
the pictures of your
trip, the vase you
bought, pointing
at a thin, hardly
noticeable hairline
crack and saying.
it's still beautiful.

the manager

the old
lady, pushing her
steel cart,
waiting
in the sun
for the bus
to arrive,
says hello
to you.
you say hello
back.
she tells you
that she used
to work at
Garfinkle's
downtown when
she was younger.
I was the manager,
she says.
her blue eyes
catching sunlight.
they are as blue
as melting ice.
the bus arrives.
she gets on
and leaves
without saying
a word more.

frozen chicken

you could just
throw the chicken away
when you
buy it. toss it into
the trash can
as you leave the store,
but no.
you prefer to take it
home, let it sit around
in the refrigerator
for a few days, then
not cook it. right
before it goes bad
you'll wrap it then put
it in the freezer
with the other
chicken legs, thighs,
wings and breasts
you've saved over
the years.
sometimes you'll
open the freezer door
for ice, and stare
at the wrapped packages
trying to remember
what it is,
then say, oh, right.
chicken.

mismatched hell

she tells
you all about
her digestive
system, what she
can eat
and what she
can't.
you sip your drink,
and nod
politely.
a minute
has become an
hour.
you are thirty
feet from
the door, but
you don't know
how to get
there
without her
seeing you leave.
I can't eat
peanut butter
she says,
sipping her club
soda.
or red meat.
or anything with
oils
in it.
goes right through
me.
I ate some pizza
the other day
and spent ten hours
in the bathroom.
you cringe
and rub your forehead,
you are in
mismatched hell.

the different girl

she writes
with an ink pen,
dipping
it into her ink
well, writing
slowly
in script across
the paper.
she has an oil
lamp,
a butter
churn and a horse
in the yard.
she keeps
her prairie dress
pulled up tight
around her
neck, falling
to the floor
to cover her
black boots.
when she's hungry
she milks her
cow, gathers
eggs,
and pulls
a potato from
the ground.
she laughs when you
ask her where
the tv is so
that you can
watch the game.
she's different
like that. it's
going to be a long
winter.

the small fire

no matter
how small
or large the fire,
the firemen
turn on
the siren full
blast,
they run the screaming
red truck
up the highway
at full throttle,
hanging on to
the back with one
hand. bravely
going into
the flames.
most of the time
it's
nothing more
than a pile
of leaves
in a barrel
burning, but it
doesn't matter.
nothing is taken
lightly
when it comes to
fire.

the salesman

mistakes are made.
things are said
that you wish you
could take back.
white lies, black
lies. you evade
the truth, embrace
the shadow world.
you go door to
door with your
satchel of goods.
ringing the bell
with a smile.
trying to get
your foot into
the door, but
keeping your eye
on the back door
for a quick exit.

going viral

your look familiar
the woman
behind the counter
says.
were you ever in any
movies?
are you an actor,
you look sooo familiar.
you look away
blushing,
and say quietly,
well, perhaps a few.
but they were home
movies that somehow
went viral on
the internet.
yes, yes. she says,
as she bags your
groceries. I knew
it was you. make
that dolphin noise
for me, would you.
I just love it when you
do that in the clip.
please, please. I can't
wait to tell all my
friends that I met
you. do the dolphin
noise. so you do it
for her as best
you can in your high
pitched dolphin voice.

blending in

starving
for attention you
put on your lime
green work out
shirt with white
polka dots
and your orange
running shoes.
you put on
a purple hat
just to add
a splash of color.
years ago,
you might look
like a circus
clown walking down
the street,
but these days
you blend in like
a grey flannel suit.

giddy up

while
smoking an electronic
cigarette,
blowing blue
vapors into
the sky and
riding a plastic
horse
on the carousel
you tip
your hat to a lady
walking by
and say,
howdy ma'am.
you ain't from
around here,
are you?
you slap your
palomino steed
hard on the side,
almost
hurting your hand,
and say
giddy up.
about thirty
seconds later,
you come back
around and smile
as the same
woman takes
your picture
with her phone
and winks at you.
you should have been
a cowboy
a long time ago.

the express line

bananas.
help
is required for
this item.
bread.
help is required
for this item
milk.
help is required
for this item.
eggs.
help is required
for this
item.
gala apples.
help is required
for this item.
detergent.
help is required
for this item.
wine.
help is required
for this item.
please remove
all items from
the belt and start
again.
help is on the way.
cash only.

a story

sometimes
the story
has a happy ending.
sometimes not.
there is usually
a hero
and a villain,
a damsel
in distress,
which would be
you.
I haven't quite
decided who
I am yet.
but it's more
complicated
than that
and too soon
to tell
if the tale
will be memorable
or easy
to forget.

the cool sea

a languid orange
sun
freshly
squeezed
along
the horizon
slips
slowly into
the arms
of a cool
sea.
just how I
like to end
the day with
you.

who pays

she's interested
in dating,
finally, she says,
she's ready to
go online
to find her match.
the first question
she asks,
is who pays,
who pays for dinner
and drinks.
and you tell
her that most women
run to the bathroom
when the check
arrives,
they carry no
cash, or leave
their credit
cards in the car.
as soon as the waiter
carries that
little black
book to the table
they get up
and run
towards the rest room
whether they
have to go or not.
she writes this down.
do I let him
open the door
for me?
sure, you say,
why not?

down sizing

nervous now
after divorce
and
without
the enormous
house
and yard,
the blue pool.
the country club
gate
now locked
tight.
sitting in
her condo
with the large
tv
against the wall,
the dried flowers
bunched
together in a
vase,
watching
the view,
she selects
wallpaper
for a powder
room where you
have
to muscle
the door open
because
the frame
is bent
and you must turn
the knob
hard to the left,
then right.

ships coming in

the harbor
is full ships.
tall white
sails angled
just so
to let the wind
bring them in.
on the shore
people
wait, some
with open arms,
others in
prayer. whether
for love
or fortune,
hoping that one
of these
ships is theirs.

the phone

some people
are always
on the phone.
staring at the phone,
pressing
buttons.
at dinner
with friends,
in the bathroom.
driving.
walking,
drinking.
the phone is
the most interesting
thing in
their lives.
how it glows.
how it makes
noise. how it
sparkles
in the light.
it is what
the plastic mobile is
to an infant,
hanging over
the crib, an
endless source
of meaningless
delight.

the big rug

you take
the big area rug
out back
and throw
it against
the fence.
then you take
a broom
and beat it
senseless
separating
the dust and dirt
in a cloud
of grey.
you take an extra
whack or
two, maybe three
even after
it's clean.
you aren't sure
why. but it
feels good.

no laughing matter

it's hard
to imagine
a world without
laughter.
without
a sense
of wicked
humor, or sly
double entendres.
a world
lacking in
smirks
and silly
nonsense.
a punless place.
a bed
without soft
sarcasm
or rolling
of eyes,
a world
without a
punch line, but
she manages
to live there
just fine.

with each passing day

you know
less
with each
passing day.
with each
page
turned
in a book
or calendar.
your knowledge
is fading
of what
this world
means, not
just to you,
but others
as well,
and those
soon to be
caught up
in the clouds,
afraid
to let go.

minnie mouse

why do
you grab my ears
when we
make love, she
asks. when
we're in the throes
of love
making you
suddenly
grab
my ear lobes
and tug on
them.
I don't know why,
you say in
your high pitched
voice.
I guess
because they
are there
and accessible.
right where
my little white
gloved hands are at.

it's easy

what spurs
many writers on
is when they read
something,
whether fiction
or poetry
and say loudly,
I could do that.
it's simple,
it's easy. just
put down in words
how you feel
and let it go
at that.
it's how you got
started.
thinking that
this was easy,
and yes, sometimes
it is, and other
times you have no
idea who you are
or where you're at.

monkey business

someone says
to you
that a monkey
could do your job.
you can be
replaced
in a heartbeat,
and you
agree,
grabbing a
banana and swinging
from a low
branch on
the tree.

look, cows...

sometimes
you feel as if
you are studying
for an exam
when you are around
her. ready
to be quizzed on
what she just said
as you stare out
the car window
at cows
in a field
over yonder.
are you even listening
to me, she'll
say.
to which you'll
respond. I like
cows.
how peaceful they
seem to be
standing out there
chewing
grass all day.
what a nice life
they have.
to which she'll
respond, I don't even
know why I try to hold
a conversation
with you,
to which you reply.
me either, should
we stop and get
some lunch?

with pen in hand

I was writing a letter
the other day,
but forgot how to form
words using
a pen with my hand
moving it across
the paper. despite
all of my catholic
school upbringing
in penmanship, with
my knuckles being
bloodied
by the penguin nuns,
now it looked
like chicken scratch.
my right hand and left
hand had found
equality. neither
having the skill
to make a legible
sentence.
but the person I
was writing to
had no computer,
and they didn't text.
so the only way to
communicate was by
scribbling this note
by hand and dropping it
into a mail box.
the end must be near.

musical notes

banjo music
just doesn't melt
your butter,
nor does the harpsichord
or someone playing
a washboard
or a pair of
spoons, banging
them against
their hands or
legs. bagpipes.
shoot me.
you don't like
instruments made
from things
rusting in
the garage.
like bedsprings
from grannie's
old mattress,
or things like
empty bottles.
that guy in old
town playing
the crystal glasses
full of water,
rubbing his
fingers around
the rims, playing
beethoven
you want to knock
the table over.
not really, but it
might cross
your mind.

hot sauce girl

she liked
to put hot sauce
on everything.
potatoes,
eggs,
chicken
and fish.
she carried
a bottle of
tabasco
in her purse
in case
the restaurant
didn't have
any.
sometimes when
you kissed
her your lips
and tongue
would feel like
they were on
fire, but
you didn't
mind.
you didn't mind
at all as
long as you
had some ice
water near by.

anxious for nothing

be anxious
for nothing
St. Paul
proposes
time and time
again.
be still
and wait, be
thankful,
be grateful.
he obviously
never had to have
his plates
renewed
at the dmv.

the summer trees

how lush
the trees are
this time of year.
thick
with green,
as ripe
and mature in
leaves
as they can
be. not one
leaf turned,
not one branch
tired
of holding up
what summer
brings. but
how quickly it
can change,
this thing
called love
when a chill
sets in.

sugar

a line
of ants have
discovered
the spilled
sugar.
one by one
in their
shiny
black armor
they carry
a boulder
of the white
grain
back to where
they came
from.
they are
tirelessly
in their
task.
it's good to
have work,
to have sugar.

thin ice

the boy
who fell through
the ice
wasn't
you.
you talked
yourself
out of sliding
across
the blue white
sheet
of glazed
water
and instead
tossed
the largest
rock you could
find
to see if it
would break
through and sink.
it did.
you keeping
throwing rocks
even now
having learned
the lesson well.

egg shells

the stain
won't rub out
of the white
rug.
it might be
wine,
or berries
or even
blood, now
that would
be a more
interesting story.
a mystery
to be solved. but
by living alone
you've
eliminated
such mysteries.
you know
every spill,
every dust ball
that rolls
beneath your bed.
you know
why the sink
needs soap
or the tub needs
a scrub.
there's an
eggshell too,
that you'll
eventually get
to on the kitchen
counter.

stray dogs

stray dogs
keep
moving, keep
at it
without love.
from street
to street,
no leash
no collar, no
bowl with
a name
on it or someone
to rub
their bellies
by a fire.
no shots, no
standing
on a scale,
no pills stuffed
into a spoon
full of peanut
butter.
stray dogs
don't need
anyone, they
just keep
moving, dodging
the cars,
dodging
the net,
howling at
the moon,
more alive
than you'll
ever be.

living large

you lived
on crackers and cheese,
bologna
cut into thick
slices
and laid
down on a bed
of white
bread with a squirt
of mustard
as a kid.
whole milk
and oreo cookies
when you
could get them.
on thanksgiving
the church
left a basket of
food
on the porch.
a twenty pound
turkey. all of
which made your
mother cry
as she turned
on the oven
and boiled potatoes.
you may have been
six feet tall
had you eaten one
nutritious meal
between the ages
of ten
and fifteen.
but you survived.
there were
always an apple
or cherry tree
nearby, or
an unattended
tray
of pastries
at the local
drugstore with
which to raid.

the red ball

a kid
out in front
of the house
is trying to set
a record
for bouncing
a ball in one
place.
you look out
the window
and see him
staring
at the sidewalk
and the red
ball
hitting
his hand
and bouncing
down
then back up
again. he is
in a trance.
his ten short
years being
punctuated by this
task
of bouncing
the ball
until finally
a woman's voice
screams
out of a window.
jack, stop
bouncing that
ball and come
in for dinner.
which he does
after kicking
the ball
down the street
with his short
fat leg.

poetry and legs

she wants to show
you her poetry.
you want to see
her legs.
but you can't
tell her
that, so you
tell her that
yes, you'd love
to see what
she's written.
and the more
you think about it,
the more
you'd like to
see both legs
and a poem
or two, if she
cares to share.

the lemon sun

the earth
is flat.
the moon
is blue
cheese
unwrapped.
the sun
is a lemon
wanting to
be squeezed.
me too.

the diamond stars

there is a point
to all
of this.
i refuse to
not believe that.
i just haven't
placed
a finger
on what it is exactly.
so mean time,
during my
existential
confusion why don't
you come
over
and play scrabble,
eat pizza,
lounge around
on the couch.
watch tv
until the wee
hours of the morning.
drink martinis
and stare
out the window
at the diamond
stars.

one summer night

a moon
swims by
and takes you
with it.
grabbing
your heart.
it's more
white than silver.
more full
of romance
than any novel
or poem could
ever hope to hold.
the moon
is all you need
in a lover
or friend.
its shine is
enormous.
it waters your eyes.
fills your
lungs with
its soft milky light.
the moon is
everything.
at least for now,
for this one
summer night.

change of seasons

the slightest
chill
in the air
brings out the coats
and gloves
in some people.
they rub
their hands
together
when the temperature
hits
50.
some shiver,
some start stacking
wood.
but you on
the other hand
take your shirt
off and go lie
in the grass,
extending
the season.
it's not over yet.

making a list

when the list
gets
too long. when
too much
thought
goes into writing
down all the things
that have
fallen apart
and gone wrong.
it's best
to not make a
list, or just
write it out,
then toss it into
a nice
raging fire,
never to be seen,
or read
by anyone,
especially her.

letting her sleep

the angle
of
the sun
is such that
it carves
a white path
across the bed
where she sleeps.
you don't
want to wake
her, so you
pack your bags
quietly,
grab your shoes,
your coat
and hat,
you tip toe
down the steps.
when you get
out to the car
you unfold
a map, close
your eyes
and point
to a random
spot you've
never been to.
you drive away.
you let her sleep.

the big climb

walking down
the street with
your groceries
you see
a flight of stairs,
maybe twenty
concrete
steps leading
up to the doors
of a grey
concrete
building.
you decide
to climb them.
for no other reason
than because
they are there.
you see a young
man
coming up the street,
wearing a turban,
and holding
a goat by a rope.
politely you ask
him, holding out
a dollar bill
if he could
carry your bags
up, to essentially
be your Sherpa.
he nods yes.
and up you both go.
the goat too.
him first with
your bags
of milk and eggs.
when he reaches
the top he pulls
you up the final
steps
and you give him
another dollar.
the goat lets out
a mild baying noise.
you have reached
the summit.

congrats

her pet
phrase was
congrats,
she said that
to everything
you ever said
or wrote to her.
I stared at
the super moon
last night,
you told her,
and she answered
with congrats.
I worked,
I went out,
I went to the beach.
congrats,
she'd say.
after a while
you stopped
talking to her.
you were too
annoyed
and she was too
in love with
saying that one
word.

just words

some words
hurt
the one
you aim
them towards.
small
arrows
striking
the soft
flesh,
piercing
the skin
letting love
blood
come out
and stain
the floor,
the rug,
the rest of
the relationship
you struggle
with.

the ferris wheel

when you stare
at the slow
spin of the vibrant
lights of
the ferris wheel
you get a queasy
feeling in your stomach.
it towers
over the dock, over
the river.
it's white metal frame,
new and enticing
but you don't want to
get on.
you have no bone
in your body
that wishes to be
seated in a capsule
and be spun
like a rotisserie
chicken around
and around.
this makes others
sad, and they call
you no fun. you are
no fun at all.
which is fine.
you've been called
worse things
and you have made
many other people sad
too. so this is nothing
new.

the long way home

you know the way home.
the straight
way. but you prefer
the scenic route.
you want to delay
your arrival. it's
more about who you
are with though.
you want the conversation
to continue, her presence
to be longer. sometimes
you'll drive in a
circle, listening
to her talk. nodding
your head like a bobble
doll, agreeing
with everything she
says, even when she
talks about cats
and how wonderful
they are.

room service

you are at the age
where
a massage is
almost as good
as sex.
not quite,
but getting close.
combining the two
would be a
wonderful thing.
and room
service.
and a do not
disturb
sign on the door.

whiskey legs

one woman
had much too much
to drink
in celebrating
the wedding.
she may have been
an aunt,
or cousin,
or a relative
of some
degree.
she found a nice
spot
at the open
bar, near
a port hole
where she could
watch
the slow
movement of the
shore as the sun
upon it.
she found it necessary
to kiss anyone
who said hello
and to tell them how
much she loved them.
drink after drink.
her legs filled
with whiskey
she was unable
to walk
off the boat
when it finally docked
and had to be
strapped to a dining
room chair
where she was
carried off and set
free on the dock
to find her
way home.

dancing shoes

there might be
dancing
at this wedding
you have committed
to attend,
so you start
drinking early.
you put on
your old dancing
shoes
from back in
the eighties,
finding them
in the closet
with a dried up
tube of your
ancient
new wave
hair gel. you
shine them
up to a nice
glossy raw
umber, then
do a few moves
in the floor
length mirror.
you still got it.
you do a moon
walk and go
ooh ooh.
some people
are born to dance,
and you,
my man, are one
of them.
where's that drink?

cupcake temptation

feel
my muscles
she says, then
flexes her legs.
you say
something like
wow,
jump back jack.
they are like
steel vises.
you are afraid.
very afraid.
don't be she says.
I can bake
too, here I
made you some
cupcakes.
you are suspicious
of her
offerings, but
tempted
non the less.

she sighs

she sighs.
she
puts her hand
to her chin.
the yard
is green
and lush,
her life
is brown and
dry.
there must
be more.
something
out there
waiting to lift
me
past myself,
someone.
the afternoon
is long
and hot,
the night
even longer.
tomorrow,
she says out
loud to no one,
tomorrow.

cops

you get nervous
around cops.
it's not that you
are breaking the law,
or even thinking
of anything illegal,
but they just
make you itchy
with their guns
and hats, those
badges and big
belts full of
gizmos. always talking
in cop speak
with their
no ma'ams and yes
sirs. saying words
like the perpetrator,
that's a ten four.
your stomach jumps
when you see those
party lights go on
behind you. red and
blue, that crazy
siren. that megaphone
bossing everyone
around. cops.
pfft. where are they
when you need em?

wedding wear

the wedding
invitation says
casual dress
but with a nautical
theme.
the wedding will
take place
on a boat
on the river
in the middle of
the day.
you scratch your
head.
casual clothes
you have. in fact
it's all you wear
anymore.
but nautical,
that's a problem.
you think flip
flops, a little
sailor's cap,
maybe a blue blazer.
you could sew
an anchor onto
the pocket.
something white
with big blue buttons.
bell bottoms,
you used to have
plenty, but they went
out in the 70's.
some clam digger
pants, perhaps.
maybe you can go
with the shipwrecked
look, torn shirt,
ripped pants,
shoes with no laces.
you get out your scissors
and get to work.

the board leaders

the community
leaders,
serious with their
clipboards
walk slowly
nodding and
murmuring to
each other, taking
notes. staring
at your house,
your yard,
that tire
leaning
against your
boxwood bush.
they point
in unison at that
rusted washing
machine
that you haven't
had time to get
out of the yard.
they write,
and make check marks
on their pads.
shaking their
heads. you see
the older man,
the president
of the board
tear a red sticker
off his roll
of stickers
and then
smooth it out
on the windshield
of your car.
then they see you
in the window,
and scurry off not
knowing if you
have a weapon of
any kind.

making changes

you think about
giving up
up coffee
one day.
and martinis.
and seeing ginger
on Tuesdays
for a mid
afternoon rendezvous
in her
father's garage.
red meat too.
maybe you'll cut
down on
sweets, cookies
and ice cream.
toss that bag
of chips.
television, do you
really need it?
maybe read more,
and stop
watching dancing
with the fading
stars.
when it's sunny
out, maybe you won't
lie down
in the yard
and let the sun
wash over
your face.
maybe you'll get
up at six
and be at work
by seven.
maybe, but it's
doubtful you'll
make any of these
changes. you kind
of like the way
things are.

gum on your shoe

sometimes
you get gum on
your shoe
and it sticks with
you the whole
day. you have
clients
like that.
who keep spitting
out gum,
and letting you
step on it.
you stop, and scrape,
you take
your shoe off
and do everything
humanly possible
to get it off,
but more gum
keeps coming.
they keep chewing
and spitting.
you can't make
them happy enough
to stop.

organized madness

nothing gets
thrown away. instead
she pushes
things into separate
piles.
books in one,
clothes in another.
shoes too.
some doors are blocked,
windows
shaded by stacks
of coats. there
are areas that are
off limits.
in the yard, the
same goes
on. a pile of dirt
here, a stack
of bricks over
there. rotted wood
and dead leaves
have their own
pile too.
rakes, shovels
and brooms together
against
the rusted shed.
her life is full
of little pathways,
narrow corridors
that few can
fit through.
it makes you understand
her so much
better when
you stand back and
take a look, seeing
the organized madness
that she is.

she still goes on

your mother
is still standing
in the yard
hanging sheets
across the line.
she's still
in the kitchen
stirring
a boiling pot
of red sauce.
she's knitting
yet another set
of booties
for another
child born.
she's wrapping
Christmas gifts
in july. making
a dozen loaves
of bread with her
new bread machine.
she's staring out
the window
waiting for your
father to come home.
she's wiping
the laminated
list of numbers
that hangs
on the wall
near the parrot
cage. she's
waiting for
the phone to ring,
she's doing a crossword
puzzle with
the dictionary
in her lap.
she's not old.
she's not.
she still goes
on.

out of luck

she tells you
that she is tombstone
shopping, that
she needs
to go to north
Carolina
and look at few
that are on
sale, some already
inscribed
with names
and dates, but
those can be
ground down smooth
again,
and his name put
on. do you think
it's bad luck she
says. using another
person's tombstone?
no, you tell
her. the luck has
run out. it shouldn't
matter.

the wire fence

the wire
fence stretched
taut
between
old posts
is bent.
at night the deer
jump
in and eat
the flowers.
you can here
them
rustling
about, sipping
water
where there is
water.
listening
in case
they need to
scurry
and jump
back out.

the clearing

they've cleared
the trees,
altered
the curve
of the stream,
paved
a road in
between the new
freshly
built homes.
the trucks
pull up
and empty all
the things
that people
own, children
are born.
the elderly die.
in time
the town grows
and changes,
some survive.
they've cleared
the trees.

who?

people
disappear.
sometimes before
your eyes.
you see
them fading
from your life.
their voices
drifting off
into whispers.
before long
you've forgotten
their names.
you stare into
your phone
and wonder, who?

traveling to the moon

as we
travel to
the moon
we sleep
in each other's
arms
anxious
to arrive.
having waited
so long
to find one
another.
but it's
happened, and
now the moon
awaits
us.
the shine
of its
face
waiting to
embrace the love
we've found.

the bent nail

despite
the angle
and the damage
done
there is hope
for the bent
nail
that wiggles
half spiked
into the plaster
wall.
you can pull
it out
and pound it
straight or
take a chance
and strike it
hard
hoping that it
finds a solid
place with
which to hang
your tomorrows.

a box of yesterdays

each yesterday
keeps piling up.
you save
them
in a box, by
the window
where you can
take each one
out and remember
it.
some are blank.
some are full
of hope
and love. in
others, there
is distress
and worry,
but for the most
part it's
a box full of
good stuff,
like
your son,
and friends
your pets,
lovers, and very
few regrets.

stolen fruit

with your knuckles
you tap
the side of the large
striped
green watermelon.
you are a watermelon
expert.
you used to steal
watermelons as a kid
from St. Elizabeth's
farm near the river,
where you'd fish with
the other boys. in
the summer heat you
were barely strong enough
to run with one
cradled in your arms,
dashing through
the furrows of
the thick field.
and now
as you stand
in the grocery store,
tapping this melon,
the memory of those
days comes back
as sweet and luscious
as the bites were
from that stolen fruit
so long ago.

skipping rope

as the children
skip rope
out on the sidewalk
you hear them
sing like high
pitched birds
the rhymes their
mothers taught
them. the rope
snapping against
the pavement,
the shoes scuffing
against the walk.
how short, and brief
these summer
days are, when skipping
rope is all
that matters.

e mail from God

so much
is unclear.
God being
the mystery that
he or she
is.
but you'd like
a few answers
on occasion
explaining
a variety of
things
that confuse
you.
sure, there
are scholars
and priests,
gurus and
yogis.
there are plenty
of spiritual
people
who can hand
you a road map
to show you where
you might
be going, or
where you've been.
but all the maps
seem to be
different.
you'd just like
to get a phone call,
a message
in a bottle, or
an e mail from
God, giving you
a thumbs up, or
one of those little
smiley faces,
something to brighten
up the day.

the girl in the grocery store

you miss her.
you aren't sure why.
you hardly
know her.
in fact you've
only seen her
a few times coming
and going
out of the grocery
store.
but you've created
a life for
the both of you.
she just doesn't
know it yet.
and if you ever
see her again,
you might
try to get in
the same checkout
line with your
cart as she is in.
maybe make eye
contact and tell
her that you like
lettuce too,
staring at her
romaine stalks
next to her soy milk.
you hope she
doesn't pepper
spray you, but it's
worth a shot.

the apology

it's silly to fight
like this, she says.
coming into the room
with a tray full of
tea and toast. eggs
over easy. I'm sorry
that I called you
a stupid idiot
last night,
a moron and a fool
I was wrong to question
your intelligence,
sexuality and lack
of ambition. let's
make peace, okay?
you scratch your head
and fold your arms.
so, you're apologizing?
yes, she says, have
some breakfast you
big lunk head. I made
the eggs just the
way you like them.
but I like scrambled
eggs. you forgot
already didn't you?

he knows

he knows a little
bit about
everything.
ask him anything.
anything.
hot air balloons,
hunting,
the moon,
where Columbus
really
landed, any
animal in the zoo.
he's very smart.
well read,
eager to let you
in on a secret
or a fact of life
that you may or
may not know.
ask about
van Gogh's ear.
he knows and given
the chance,
will let you
know.

the endings

many stories
don't get finished.
the words
are all there
inside you
but they lay
scattered on
the floor
waiting to be
arranged
and set down
in print.
but you have
no ending, no
middle. you just
have a beginning.
you are good
with beginnings,
always,
but the endings
elude you.

it goes on

mark twain
pinned notes
to the tree
outside
his home
asking the birds
not to sing.
not now, not
with his
true love
away from
him.
but the birds
did not
listen.
like so much
of the world,
they went on
chirping
as if there
was no
grief or
sadness felt.

a small rain

a small
rain
would be nice.
maybe an hour
or so from
now while
I'm napping
in the cool
room, below
the fan
after a hot
bath
and a drink.
a small
rain would be
a sweet way
to end the day.
maybe some thunder.
lighting
in the distance.
nothing
too wild.
just a breeze
that goes in
the front window,
across my tired
body then out
the back.
a small rain
would be nice,
and the trees,
with leaves
upturned like
small green hands
would like
it too.

pink flip flops

your former soul, betty,
before your current soul
mate, calls and asks
if she
left her flip flops
at your house.
they're pink with little
rhinestones on the front.
you hold the phone
in between your shoulder
and chin
and start to search.
look under the kitchen
table, she says.
nope, not there.
on the back porch?
you open the door
and look out, nope.
living room couch.
nada.
hmmm. she says. what
were we doing when I
came over last week.
then you both say at
the same time, right.
okay, i'll go look
under the bed. hold
on, going up the stairs.
got em.

the metaphor

not everything
is a metaphor
of sorts, although
you find it almost
impossible not
to think in those
terms. occasionally
you'd like a mountain
to be just that.
a mountain,
for rain to
represent nothing
more than rain
watering the earth.
you'd like to look
at a fallen grey
tree along
the stream and for
once not think of
your own mortality.

the fourth martini

you can't be
more charming and clever
after one
strong martini,
stirred, not
shaken. ice cold
with an
olive perched on
a toothpick.
by the second one,
you are reciting poetry,
giving details
of why clouds
are clouds,
how it takes a
lot to laugh but
a train to cry.
at the end of a
third martini you
are on your knees
professing your love
and devotion
to someone who you
cant remember
exactly what
her name is.
you can't recall
the fourth or anything
that followed.
but there is a lingering
feeling of
regret as you
search for your
keys, your wallet
and pants as the sun
rises painfully
through a crack
in the blinds.

the wishing well

standing by
the fountain you see
people with
their eyes closed,
mumbling something
to themselves before
tossing in a coin
they've dug out
of their pocket or
purse. they are
sending wishes
up to some invisible
money grubbing
deity who may or
may not grant the wish.
at night, the custodian
drains the pool,
gathers the coins
and then refills it.
throwing in his own
coin for his own wish.
which is for more
people to want
things they'll never
have.

cat and mouse

you forget
sometimes
who is the cat
and who is the mouse.
you like
the chase,
the narrow
escape,
the adrenaline
rush of hiding,
but
the catching part
is fun too.

the baby powder solution

you call
the community hot
line
to find out how
to keep
wild animals
out of your trash.
you go on and on
leaving
a long detailed
message
about possum
and squirrels,
deer
and skunks.
all tilting
the lids off your
cans and eating
what you
didn't finish.
finally a woman
breaks
through the line
and says,
baby powder.
sprinkle it all
over your trash
and you're good to go.
plus it will
smell sweet.

in the middle

you lean
neither left or right.
you can
make a case for
both
given the time,
yes
the whales
need to be saved,
the guns
melted
into plowshares,
but things
sometimes swing
too far to one
side or the other.
there is no
middle politician,
you cant win
that way so you
close your eyes,
pinch your nose
and pull
the lever.

mean streak

the mean streak
doesn't show
itself right away.
it needs to
be teased out,
prodded from its
hiding place.
but it's there,
waiting
with dark eyes
and sharp teeth
to bite the one
who happens
to be near.

the woman with blue gloves

in her bee
bonnet
and father's
large
pants held
up by twine, goggles
wrapped around
her eyes,
and boots
up to her
knees she comes
out
of her dark
locked house
and says hello.
she's wearing
blue rubber gloves
that come
up to her
elbows. you try
hard not to stare.
turning your attention
to the work
at hand.
how's it going,
she says.
are you getting
the job done.
yes you say.
I'm fine.
great she says
then grabs
and axe with which
to chop a tree
down beside
the house.

your aura

I can see your
aura
your new friend
gypsy rose lee
tells you
over clam
chowder
and crackers.
oh really now
you say, sipping
soup from
a hot spoon.
blowing away a
cloud of fishy
steam.
your aura
is blue, she says.
you're a water
guy. she puts her hands
into the air
like she might
take flight.
you are a blue, and deep
person.
compassionate
and kind. I see
lots of blue
around you.
you look over
your shoulder
to see who she
might be talking
about.
and what about me,
she asks you.
can you see
my aura.
is there a light
above my head.
I don't know,
you tell her.
I'm not into that
stuff. plus
it's kind of dark
in here.
I wish your head
was glowing
though, then maybe
I could read
the entrees on this
menu.

wait

methodical
people drive you
insane, a short
drive perhaps,
but just the
same. you
cringe at
how rational
and slow
they are to
move, to act.
even a simple
task is made
hard by
overthinking.
you want to
plow forward.
hit the pedal,
and see
how far you've
gone. but no.
they need
a plan
of attack.
don't move,
don't touch,
wait, just wait
and it will
all be done
in good time.
meanwhile
the leaves fall,
the seasons
change, you age.

it's close enough

it's close
enough she says.
we get along.
it's fine.
he has a sense
of humor.
he treats me
well. he's
loyal
and kind.
it's close
enough, i'll
stay as
long as I can.
no need to
tell him
what's really
on my mind.

up on the hill

you see them,
the young men,
so early in
their lives,
up on the hill playing
some sort of
toss ring.
you stand at your
kitchen
sink, peering
out the blinds.
the men
and women are happy
to be on the hill
in the sunlight
tossing these
toy rings,
beers in hand,
a grill smoking
nearby where the women
holding pink babies,
like new balloons
stir the embers,
quietly talking
amongst themselves.

relatives

on the street,
there are those
that you avoid,
averting your eyes
crossing the street,
dipping into an alley
to not get into
a conversation with
them. some of these
people are relatives.
which makes it even
more strange.

a different world

to avoid
the wagon full
of bearded men
and women
in long dresses
with bonnets
and muddied boots
you slow almost
to a stop
in your car.
you turn off
the gps, lower
the radio,
stop talking
on your phone
and push the button
to let the window
go down.
you hear
the snap of the slender
whip,
the horses hooves
on the pavement.
the quick roll
of the wheels,
the silence
of the passengers
straight backed
in their seats,
in no hurry,
to let your
world go by.

the senses

each
sense keeping
him
tethered
to the world.
but
then
he didn't smell
the cats.
or hear
the birds
building a
nest in
the attic,
he no longer
could see
the mail
on the floor
coming
through the slot,
or taste
the tea
he boiled
on the stove.
there was no one
there to touch,
so that was
gone too.
and madness
ensued.

the black snake

there are
birds
in the vent.
small birds
breaking through
the fragile
skin shells
of eggs.
you can hear
them chirp,
their tiny
wings
featherless
trying
to flap.
they don't know
quite
yet what awaits
on the outside,
the black snake
coiled
nearby, ready
to snap.

try try again

it's another marriage.
another handful
of rice
thrown in the air,
another promise
of love,
another set of vows,
another
dress, another cake,
another honeymoon.
it's another marriage,
but maybe this time,
this will be the one
that takes.

former friends

as the boat
speeds through
the harbor, people
on other boats
like to wave.
so you wave back
to your new friends
sailing
on the bay.
but on land,
later, they pretend
not even know you.
turning their
heads away,
no longer as
friendly like
they were with so
much water
between you,
going speedily
the other way.

checking twice

routine
makes us safe.
or at least feel safe.
getting out
of bed
on the right side.
coffee.
two creams, two
sugars.
left shoe
first, pants
and shirt
one following
the other.
a hundred
brushes of hair.
checking
the stove,
touching the spigot
on the sink
to make the drip
stop.
circling
the room before
you leave.
checking twice
the lock.

not easy wearing green

what makes
you decide to wear
an outlandish
color
like bright
green, lime
leaning towards
apple.
what possessed
you to leave
the house
like a beaming
light
in the fog
of blues and grey.
what insanity
has been passed
down through
your strand of
dna, your flawed
genes to make
you even think
for a second that
you could wear
such a color as
green?
quickly you search
for a barrel
of fire to toss
it in.

old age

old age
does not sneak
up on you.
or whisper
in your ear.
it doesn't
hide
in the closet
or under the bed.
no.
it takes
your hand
your arm, your
leg and leads
you
into tomorrow
with a firm
grip.

sea glass

a piece
of blue sea glass
among
the broken
shells.
how can you not
bend over
and pick it up.
how can anyone
walk
past and let
beauty lie
alone
along the shore.

tell me something about you

tell me something I
don't know about you,
she says. something
new and interesting.
she bugs her eyes
out with enthusiasm.
having fun with her
own question.
you scratch your head.
ummm. I take a hot
bath everyday. what?
she says. you do?
yes. I do. sometimes
I read in the tub.
other times I turn
the light off and
just soak, letting
the phone ring.
I might stay in
there for three minutes
and other times until
the water gets cold.
once in a while
i'll fold the newspaper
into a handy square
and do that days
crossword puzzle,
trying not to get
the paper wet. sometimes
i'll stare at my feet
as they rest on the end
of the tub under
the faucet and wonder
if I should get a
pedicure. okay, okay,
she says. you can stop
now. in fact, you know
what. it's getting
kind of late. no need
to walk me to my car.
bye. take care.

look at my salad

you are so proud
of the salad
you just made
that you have to
take a photo of
it and send it out
to your vegetarian
friends. it is
a green pyramid
of health.
abundant in
lettuce and blue
cheese, croutons
and cranberries.
some eggs. they
are not impressed
though. what, no
kale they say.
where's the broccoli,
the spinach,
the chick peas,
and red onions.
you write back,
I don't know.
what they don't
see is the cheese
burger and plate
of fries, just
out of the picture
frame. lettuce
tomato and onion
adorn the soft
roll. just a dab
of ketchup. a man's
gotta eat.

a day on the boat

there are boat people.
but you are not
one of them.
noah was a boat person.
Ahab and Columbus,
were boat people.
Jonah had some trouble
with the boat
he was on.
some like
the tilt of the sail,
the hum
of the engine
leaving a wide
froth of wake
behind it.
it's nice, sure.
but you bore easily.
you think about
how far to shore
you'd have to swim
should an iceberg
be struck,
or a rock hidden
below the murky
surface. a beer
or two helps. a
sandwich. it's a
long day out on
the boat. oh look,
a light house.

finger food

you tire
of hors d'oeuvres,
finger
food and such.
crackers
with a tiny
morsel of crab
meat hanging
on for dear
life.
the bacon
wrapped
water chestnut,
the sliver
of calamari,
a stuffed olive
with cream
cheese. enough.
give me a plate
of real
food please.
a kiss, not a peck,
a long
warm hug, not
a pat on
the shoulder
farewell.
a night, not
an hour.

stuck jars

when you were younger
you thought you
needed muscles popping
out of your head,
your arms, your neck
and legs.
to have your shirts
tight with the proof
of your manly ambition
to be in shape
like a character
in a comic book.
but after awhile,
you realized that maybe
that's not the way
to get the girl.
most just want someone
who would listen
to them, not change
a tire, or open a stuck
jar of olives, although
those things are
helpful too.

too good

she tells you that
she needs
to be bad once
in awhile, that she's
too good, too
well behaved,
too catholic
and selective in who
she decides to let
kiss her.
you sigh. agreeing
wholeheartedly.

what's remembered

you remember
everything
and forget everything.
the smallest
of moments
are etched into
your brain
like oil paintings
on the vast
long walls
of your consciousness.
and yet,
your wallet
and keys are nowhere
to be found.
cell phone, you
have no clue
where you left it
or set it down.
but an unkind
word, or kind
word spoken
in casual conversation,
that is saved
and centered
on the front wall,
never to be
forgotten.

her stinky shoes

she leaves
her wet
shoes on the porch
after running.
they stink to high
heaven, whatever
that phrase might mean.
flies come a buzzing,
mushrooms
pop up from the souls.
you leave
a message on her
voice mail telling
her about
the garden that
is her shoes.
it's been weeks,
but she doesn't
care.
she apparently
has new shoes.
a new boyfriend.
she's still running,
but not towards
you anymore.

staying in

sometimes
the man
will peer out
the window
pulling
back a taped
yellow curtain
just enough
so that you see
his grey
blue eyes,
watered
and blinking.
he hasn't been
out for awhile.
maybe years.
someone, that
might be his
daughter
leaves food
on the back
porch. she probably
pays his bills
and keeps
things going.
there is nothing
wrong with
him, people
say. he's just
had enough
of the world
and wants to
be left alone.
you've had days
like that, but
never years, at
least not yet.

the anything closet

one closet
you have to open
gingerly,
just slightly
pulling on the knob
with your
knee braced
against
the center
of the door.
it's the end
of the road closet.
the big fat
t.v. that you'll
never ever use
again, and that
no one wants sits
there.
three old
comforters that
smell strangely
like an ocean.
assorted
shoes, and beach
chairs.
half broken
lamps with torn
shades. stacked
boxes of checks when
checks were
sent back for
your files.
this closet being
your file. nothing
worth keeping
and yet, you can't
find the time or
ambition
to haul it all out
to the curb. with all
your strength, after
throwing in a pair
of high heels,
you close it back
up. tightly.

if it rains

you can
see that it might
rain.
this is a good
thing.
not just for
the earth, but
more importantly
for you.
you can crawl
back into bed
and resume your
favorite dream
if sleep lets you,
or start a new
one from scratch.

the bee hive woman

you had to raise
your hand
like a child in school
to get her to stop
talking
and take a turn.
she had a lot to say
about a lot
of things.
each thought
disconnected.
her head was like
a bee hive
struck with a stick.
the words,
or bees flying out
of her mouth
in all directions.
meandering to a different
flower or tree,
or patch of skin
to land upon.
luckily you had
on your bee suit,
safe and protected
from her
stings. when it was
over you clumsily
walked away
and wondered what
that was all about.

the abstract painting

it's a boat,
no,
wait, it might
be a
shark
but it's swimming
above
the water.
if you turn
it up side
down, or
sideways it's
someone smiling
in a chaotic
soup
of blue and white
strokes
of paint.
from a distance
it's
a metaphor for
life.
maybe it should
be hung in the basement
in the back
room light.
or maybe you'll
just wait
before hanging
it. setting it
in the closet
with the others,
them too waiting
to find a spot
that's just right.

a little white pill

is anyone
not
on a pill.
head
in the clouds.
on a island
of their
own
called
almost
happy. raise
your hand,
if you can.
who isn't taking
a tiny
white dot
of chemical
chalk
prescribed
for three
times a day
after eating?
no driving
of farm
machinery
or climbing
onto rooftops,
or drinking
a gin and tonic.
it's bliss
as your life
slides seamlessly
away with
no music made,
no books written,
no art
coming from your
limp hand.

your concierge

sometimes
the spigot
of your faith
runs dry,
or just a drop
or two
drains out
despite how
hard you
turn the handle
in prayer.
you want a loved
one to be
healed,
or for patience
to arrive
or for your keys
to be found.
you even once
prayed for
traffic to dissolve
before your
eyes.
you have your
God on a leash,
asking
for him to sit
and heal.
he is your concierge
in the sky.

sweet tea

her hand
touches mine
as she pours
the tea
into delicate
cups.
sugar and cream?
yes, I tell her
and ask, toast?
sure, she answers,
blueberry
jam? why yes,
please.
and this is
how early love
goes.
no quarrel
with the tea.

the complaint booth

you get a job
at the complaint
department.
taking on
the grumpy,
the tired, the poor
and weary,
the disenfranchised,
the sore losers.
angry drivers,
bitter travelers.
they all have
something to say.
so you listen
and listen,
sometimes you give
them a dollar
or a piece of
chocolate
and tell them to
go away. others
you smile at, and
tell them a joke
about the pope,
a nun and
a fishing boat.
it's a long day,
but you aren't
complaining.
seeing how miserable
so many people
are makes your
life seem swell.

standing in the shadow of love

you aren't
as good looking as
you think you are,
she tells you in an
e mail writing
in dark blood.
you can almost feel
the force of her
fingers striking
the keys.
just because I'm
a large woman you've
rejected me.
I was once a trophy
wife, a catch.
and when I lose
this weight i'll
be back turning
heads, ignoring you.
you are no
George Clooney.
you aren't even
bozo the clown
though you made me laugh.
you're a step below
a cave man.
you may have been
a pretty boy once,
but you've aged
and now you are just
an old man with
wrinkles, bald.
shallow and mean.
I'm okay with being,
okay, i'll come out
and say it. fat, but you
will never change.
go look in the mirror
loser man and weep,
but don't cry for
me, cause I'm bigger
than that.

pancakes

the stack of pancakes
makes your
eyes widen.
golden soft pages
of fried batter.
the skinny waitress,
sunburned
and blonde, wobbles
as she carries
the heavy plate
to your table,
batting her blue
eyes and smiling.
there is a clunk when
the dish is set down.
they have been
buttered before
they arrive.
you pour a stream
of amber
syrup on the top.
whipped cream, she
asks, pulling out a can
from her deep
apron pocket.
you shake your head.
it's more than you
need, more than you
can eat, but
the the first soft
bite that lingers
in your mouth makes
you think, maybe,
you can do it, you
think about
the starving people
in india that your
mother seemed to
know so much about
despite only reading
photoplay magazine
for her weekly news.
you dig in. the day is
long. you're on vacation.

go on

you are the chained
dog
barking,
the lion pacing
behind
the bars,
you are the fish
at the end
of a silver
hook,
the bird with
a clipped wing
flying
in circles,
you are the sky
full
of rain,
the earth cracked
wide
and open.
you are the wound
that won't
heal,
the fever that
won't cool.
you are the lover
unquenched,
the son,
unloved.
the moon, the stars,
everything
below
and above, all
of which too
go on about their day.

children on the shore

with strawed drinks
at their pursed
lips
the mothers,
from chairs sunk
deep into the sand,
umbrella made
shade holding them
in place, like
mushrooms
planted,
bark instructions
to the children
of what to do, what
not to do
as they run
towards the open
arms of crashing
waves. throwing
themselves at
the perilous
world of an ocean
not yet stepped
into. already
knowing that
that world may be
better than the one
that sits behind them.

the bones

I have a bone
to pick
with you, she says.
but before
she begins.
you imagine
a plate of fish,
it's smooth
feather like
flesh
removed.
it's open mouth,
wordless
without
the sea.
it's button
eyes flattened
still
reflecting
you now.
and the bones, white
slender
sticks
that held
it all together.
what bones, you
say, finally.
what bone
is there to pick.

into the cold

how timid
are the first steps
into
chilled water.
each wave
splashing higher
onto the sun
baked
skin.
waiting for that
moment to give
up and just
dive in.
feeling the rough
sand,
the soft roll
of rocks
beneath your
feet. seeing the silver
crests, lapping,
the greens
all changing
and shifting below
the clouds.
finding the right
moment
the right height
of wave
and throwing your
arms forward,
head first
into the cold.

the lovers

you see the men
at the bar
without women.
without wives,
ruddy faced
from the beach
and waves,
perhaps eighteen
holes of
golf where no
one wins or
loses, but now
in untucked
shirts
and baggy pants,
bellies
unabashedly
hanging out,
beers in hand.
these men leaning
into one another,
hands over
shoulders,
cheek and against
rough cheek.
each talking more
loudly
than the other,
praising and
chiding
with aged joy.
lovers, more intimate
with one
another than
many true lovers
could ever be.

sand man

you have sand
in your shorts,
in your shoes,
your ears
and hair.
there is sand
in your suitcase,
in the floor
board of your car.
there is sand
in the creases
of your hand.
there is sand
in your eyebrows,
in the corner
of your mouth.
you are an hour
glass spilling
sand out. you
wonder if you left
any of it behind.

look, a dolphin

bored with
dolphins jumping
like black
parenthesis in
the blue sea,
you want a whale
or two
to appear, to
blow some steam,
perhaps a shark
to bare it's
sharpened teeth,
to make
the children scream,
or an octopus
with it's tentacles
holding
a surfer or three
in it's grasp.
where are the giant
squid,
the sting rays
and barracuda.
enough with the dolphins
and their
pretty little
grey snouts
honking like flipper.

the open ear

grief,
like happiness,
is best
shared.
both wanting
to be heard,
to be known
and have others
made aware.
sometimes it's
your turn
to be silent
and lend
the open ear.

what we know

people in love
know everything there
is about love.
they'll tell you
what you need to do
in order to find
love, how to grow
love, how to mend
the love you wound.
they are the wisest
souls in the world
when it comes to love.
and you in turn, can tell
them about the twenty
minute nap, everything
they need to know
about that.

the web

bitter
words fall
like stones
from her mouth.
the past
is in her pocket
weighing
her down.
tomorrow is
a fire to go
through,
sleep is a bed
of nails.
she wants to
shake free
of the web she's
caught in,
but the spiders
in her mind
keeps weaving
more.

beyond reach

the life guard
blows his whistle
and waves
from his chair
for you to come in.
you've gone too
far, you are too
deep, too distant
to be rescued.
you are beyond
saving at this point.
it's up to you
to swim in or
keep going.
the people lying
on the beach stand
up to watch, to
see what you will
do, wanting to
go further in their
own lives, but
also afraid, not
unlike you.

silver fish

you can see
the silver
wave of fish
in quick schools
paddling
their fins
as one.
you almost feel
as if you could
reach down
and hold one
in your hand.
but nothing in
life is so
easy.

the merry go round

when she flies by
on the merry go round.
with the music playing,
riding a white horse
with a silver mane,
waving like a happy child,
all smiles and hair,
the glow of her
spinning by, you
suddenly realize
the nature
of your relationship,
and despite wanting
more, for now,
it's fine.

over packed

with each folded
shirt
and pair of pants
you stuff
into the bag,
how many will
you actually wear
when you arrive.
not many.
but you never know,
your life
is all about
being prepared.
why bring one
pair of shoes,
when three or
four will fit
into the trunk
of your car.
three books, sure,
you'll open
each and every one
of them
and get to page
two before dozing
off in the summer
sun.

the cure

I've got the fever
and you've
got the cure,
is a line from a
rascals song, that
you are now stealing
and putting into
this poem.
put your hand
on my forehead,
take my
temperature,
investigate my
vital signs.
just one dose of
you, should get
me back on
my feet again, or
off, depending
on the cure.

cat on a sill

she sits,
this cat, on
a new
sill.
having moved
again,
then again.
but adjusting
to each
new window,
each new corner,
or vent
or door
leading where?
it's all
about finding
the sun.
finding
a peaceful place
to rest
your busy
heart.

in the sand

you sink into
the chair
that you've aligned
on the shore
facing the roll of
a soft blue
ocean. your feet
touching each
new wave
of august water,
warm and perfect
as any wave
can be. it's too
short of a visit.
too long between
coming and going.
but you're here
and the sun feels
good upon your
face. how sweet
it would be to
your chair and you
beside me.

the fling

like a bottle
of champagne,
things can be
bubbly and
sparkly at first,
letting the cold
wet effervescence
of her kiss
linger on your
lips,
but after a while
the open
bottle grows
warm, goes
stale, losing its
pop and fizz,
you no longer
want to drink
from the flute
of who she is.

your new girlfriend

you like that new
car smell.
those tires
thick with tread
with no mileage
to speak of.
the gleam
and shine of
the bumpers, how
those headlights
glow. you love
the leather
seats, all plush
and warm
ready for
you to sit in.
so many new buttons
asking to be pushed.
how smooth it
rides. the windshield
clean, no squeaks
or rattles. full
of fuel and oil.
road ready, wanting
to be loved.

tequila

she likes tequila.
she says
things like
tequila makes
my clothes come
off. it makes
me crazy.
which sounds
like fun
at the beginning
of the night.
but at three
in the morning
when she's riding
on the hood
of your car
and singing
cowboy songs,
you no longer
have an interest
in continuing
this relationship,
such as it is.

the mountain

despite pointing
out
their tragic flaws,
you can't change
people,
they can't change you.
it would be
easier to move
that mountain
that lies
in distance.
it took a millennium
to get
there,
and there is nothing
anyone can
do but wish it
well
and hope, as you
have forgiven them,
that they forgive
you too.

the lemon day

the whole world
seems to be
sucking
on a lemon
some days.
spitting
the seeds at
one another.
throwing the hard
yellow rinds
at each other's
heads.
it's usually
Monday.
Fridays are for
sweet black
cherries.
but there are
still
those seeds
to contend with.

peanut brittle

on those rare
occasions
when you have peanut
brittle
you don't like
to share it
with anyone.
you like to eat
it all yourself.
snapping it off
in chunks, wiping
the sticky
crumbs off your shirt
and chin. but
most people,
women especially,
don't want peanuts
between their
teeth, or have
peanut breath.
nobody wants to kiss
someone with
peanut brittle
breath. but if
you both eat some,
well, there
you go, here, have
a bite.

short declarative sentences

there is always
more
to the story,
more detail, more
to the plot,
more to the other characters
that drift
in an out
of scenes, but
sometimes a thin,
clean, well
written story,
ala Hemmingway
is enough.
it was cold out.
the light
was harsh. I loved
her more
than fishing.
stuff like that,
he'd say.
and you got it.
you understood, there
was no need to go
back and scratch your
head trying to figure
out what was going
on, or looking up
names to find out how
to pronounce them.
he was fond of her.
she was not fond of
him, just yet.
tomorrow would come.
today would go.

a cup of crazy

we have a long
drive tomorrow
the woman tells you
as she stops her story
about the most recent
visit to her doctor.
you welcome the change
of topics, no longer
wanting to hear
about her bunions,
ulcers, and rashes.
where are you going,
you ask her quickly
before she rolls up
her purple pant leg
to show you a vein.
me and Charles, my
husband, he's in the
other room watching
another show about
world war two, but
we are going to west
Virginia. oh, how nice
you say. backing slowly
to the door. relatives?
friends up there?
oh no. we're going up
to visit the insane
asylum, it's been shut
down for years, but
you can take a tour
through the building.
they show you where
the lobotomies took
place and the electro
shock treatments.
sometimes they put the crazies
into a tub of ice water.
you can even get in them.
can you imagine that?
when you stand in the cells
and spread your arms,
you can almost touch
each wall. sounds like
fun, you say. do they
have any souvenirs, stuff
you can buy in the gift
store. yeah, yeah, she
says. they have some old
straight jackets,
and things like that,
manacles, and guard
hats, or batons.
we bought two coffee
cups last year that have
a picture of the building
and name under it.
they're in the kitchen if
you want me to go get
them, won't take just
a second. oh, no please.
I should be going.
have a great trip tomorrow.

a real poem tomorrow

tomorrow you will
write a real poem.
something with substance,

enough fooling around.

perhaps a sonnet

or two.

something serious

with metaphors.

maybe the topic of love

will be mentioned,
most certainly
old age and death.
traditional themes.
perhaps some darker
topics will be
touched on as well.
it will not be a fun
poem. no one will
laugh, instead they
will shake their
heads and say, poor
fellow, what he must
be going through.

career change

your career
as an astronaut
did not take off.
being afraid
of heights
and easily made
dizzy did not
bode well for you
going into space,
or just circling
the earth.
you don't enjoy
cramped quarters
either, not
to mention
the bad food,
and sleeping while
sitting up.
you can barely
stand to drive
to the beach, let
alone fly
to the moon, plus
you'd miss her
kisses,
and bags of homemade
cookies,
that's the big reason
why you
aren't an astronaut.

what i learned today

if your cell
phone
falls
into a puddle,
or you drop it
by accident
into the sink
or toilet,
or spill a glass
of beer
onto it's
gleaming case,
no worries.
turn it off,
remove the back,
dry it off
then set it all
in a plastic
bag full of white
rice.
wait two days.
you're back in
business.

sticky and loud

you don't like
children.
sticky and loud.
running
here and there,
like bees
from a hive
struck with a bat.
they have no
manners,
no clue. they
just need and want.
they remind you
so much of me
and you.

circus girl

you fall
in love with
the woman who
eats fire
at the circus.
you're afraid
to kiss her.
which makes her
laugh.
I won't hurt
you she says,
but you don't
believe her
and you show
her the scars
from the lion
tamers whip.

at last

you are
most happy
when you
are warm
from a bath,
and ready for
bed.
a book in hand.
one light on
the night
stand
glowing.
the phone
away, the doors
locked.
you can almost
hear the world
sigh,
the work day
over,
approaching
sleep
at last

airborne candy

then there was
the time
you threw
a silver
wrapped
frozen
peppermint
patty
across
the room
and it hit
your wife
in the eye.
it was early
in the summer,
early
in the marriage,
but there
was an early
frost
that year.
a portent
of seasons
to come.

don't tell me anything

your secrets are not
safe with me.
they will spring
from my lips at
any given moment
after I've crossed
my heart and hope
to die swearing
them to eternal safe
keeping. but I can't
help myself.
they are like flames
that I need to
expel, put out,
the heat of them
too much to hold
inside. so be warned,
don't tell me any
more of your deceits
and lies.
the world will know
in short time.

the quiet man

the man talking
to himself
on the street
is wide eyed
and wild.
gesturing with
his hands.
speaking to an
invisible
companion about
politics and
religion,
the world
economy and
how unfair
the government
is. he rants
and raves, full
of venom.
he reminds you
of some friends
that you have.
you too have been
that invisible,
quiet man.

waiting on a train

you find
yourself on the platform
waiting
for a train
with other people.
strangers.
a line
of plump grey
pigeons
sit on the wire,
clucking
gently in the early
morning hours.
it might rain.
the sky
is a flat gun
metal grey.
the rails
gleam in no light.
they come
they go.
you do the same.

paper cut

the paper
cut
is a reminder
of how
fragile
you are.
that little
bubble
of blood
at the tip
of your pink
finger
shows you
that
you are not
going
to live
forever, or
go unscathed.
such a horrible
thought
to think
as you write
checks
at 7 in
the morning,
counting
the money you've
spent
or saved.

shades of green

how much easier
the world would
be if everything
was black
or white. no
shades of grey
to muddle up
the rights
or wrongs,
no reds or blues,
or confusing greens,
nothing in
between.
every one saying
exactly how
they feel,
speaking what
they mean.
how boring too.

the meaning of life

seeking
enlightenment
you climb
a mountain
to find
the wisest
man in the world
sitting
in a cave
overlooking
the world.
you ask him
what is the
meaning of life.
can you give
me a clue,
some direction
to live by.
you see
in his curled
old hand
a small green
tube. it looks
like a tube
of prell
shampoo.
he's
clutching it
tightly.
you say huh,
which makes
him nod
and smile,
he unfolds
his palm and
he points to
three words
on the back
of the tube.
there it is, he
says. it's
all you need to
know.
rinse and repeat.

what i want

while eating
a peanut butter
sandwich one
night in
the kitchen
i start
to think about
the things
i want
in life.
so i make
a list,
writing it all
down on the back
of an envelope.
I want
a butler
and a maid.
I want a
chauffer
and a masseuse
to rub
me down
at night
after a hard
day at work.
I want
a chef in
the kitchen
and someone
to walk my
dog.
I want my own
reality t.v.
show
and a pool
in the back
yard.
I want a
fireplace
in the bathroom
with gold
spigots
on the sink.
I want
a big thick
robe
with my initials
on it
to wear
as I stand
with my hands
on my hips
and stare out
the window
of my vast
estate. I want
a girlfriend
who has a twin
sister
named tiffany.
I want
to sail on
my yacht to
france.
I want, I want
a new pen.
out of ink.

early to rise

when you were young
you could sleep
until noon.
but now
you wake up at
the first sliver
of light
eeking through
the blinds, into
the room.
you close your eyes
trying to go
back to sleep,
but it's
impossible.
you are wide awake
and it's
barely six
a.m.
your dog rolls
over and stares
you, shaking his
head, he looks
at the clock
on the dresser,
wraps his
paw around
the meaty bone
treat he saved
from yesterday,
then burrows deeper
into the blankets.

bursting the bubble

she used
to chew gum when
you made
love.
a big wad of double
bubble.
sometimes
she'd blow
a pink bubble
near your ear
in the midst
of oohs and
ahhs,
popping it at
appropriate
moments.
at first it
didn't bother
you, you thought
it was quirky
and funny,
sort of cute.
but over time
the gum chewing
drove
you crazy
and you asked
her to please
stop.
this made her
cry
and take out
her gum
sticking it
to the headboard.
things
were never the same
after that.

being catholic

having lost
something
and searched
everywhere,
turning the house
upside down. you turn
to prayer, starting
off first with
a short
but very descriptive
prayer to St. Anthony,
the saint of lost
stuff. but
nothing turns
up, and now you feel
guilty about having
used an intercessory
to reach your goal
of finding an object
that you've
lost, misplaced
or thrown away.
you pray for forgiveness,
but still slip
in that you'd like
to find
what you are looking
for, then
you feel guilty
wasting your prayers
on something
that can easily be
replaced when you should
be praying for
the poor, the sick,
and lost souls
of the world.
so you manage to say
a prayer for those
things, as you pull
the couch out,
shaking the cushions.

yoga class

sitting almost
in a lotus
position.
your legs don't
bend like that
anymore
unless you've
had three
martinis, you
stare at the
imaginary flame
of an imaginary
lit candle,
emptying
your mind,
which takes all
of three
seconds, except
for that continuing
thought about
ginger
in her leopard
print bikini.
you breathe out,
you breathe in,
you mutter
something like
ohmmmm, or ouch
as your
leg begins
to fall asleep
under your stiff
butt.
to clear your
mind of ginger
you think about
levitating,
about rising off
this yoga mat
and zipping over to
that fountain
to get a drink of
water. you
are really thirsty
it's hot
in here. why is it
so damn hot in here?
maybe it's because
there's so many people
in here humming like
a bunch of cicadas.
why doesn't
miss smarty pants,
yoga master
in her pink supergirl
outfit
open a window?
what's she doing.
how in god's name
did she get
her leg
over her head like
that. again
you think of jojo

paper airplanes

some poetry
you read is difficult,
without mentioning
any names.
you can tell
that it's been
painfully
constructed,
carved in stone.
the language,
the references
to greek
mythology,
the puzzle
of it all. you
need a dictionary
on hand
to figure out
what half
the words mean.
by the time you
get to the middle
you're ready
to fold the poem
into a paper
airplane
and float it across
the room.

a plane flies by

she begins
each conversation by
saying
I'm retired now
and waits
for a reaction.
she smiles, holding
her black
and white dog
by the leash.
I don't miss it
one bit, she says.
staring upwards
as a plane
flies by.
well, some of it
I do.
some people, then
she begins to
cry.

far across the sea

you peel
away another layer
of you,
more onion
than
snake, or at
least you'd
like to think that
way, though
others may
disagree, especially
shauna
with the light
brown hair
who lives in
a shanty far
across
the sea.

a photo

it's just
a picture. a flat
one dimensional
snap shot
of you
with the light
and
view coming
only once
forever from
that angle.
we are older
by minutes,
seconds
before
it's done.
changed, different.
how elusive
we are
even when
hand in hand.

feel my muscle

go ahead, you tell her,
flexing your arm.
feel that.
feel that bicep,
you curl your arm
and move it closer
to where she's sitting.
you put some butter
on the hard ball
of tightened tendons
to make it glisten.
like a rock you say
proudly, steadying
your shaking fist.
no, she says. I don't
want to feel it.
I don't like muscles.
I'm against
muscles. but if you've
read a good book
lately, tell me all
about it.

letting go

how strange
to let go of everything.
to loosen
your grip
on the cliff
of life.
letting yourself
fall,
tumble towards
a world free
of possessions,
letting love
fill the void
of want, of need,
of ego.
letting
compassion give
you wings to fly
past your heavy
self
and live forever
beyond this
which is all
temporary to begin
with. how strange
to let illness
win the battle
for your body,
knowing that there
is no sting
in death.

places to go

there are few
places
that you wake up and
think
I'd love to go there
one day.
but there are
friends
you wish you'd
see more of.
that you could
press a button
and be with them.
sharing a drink
a bite,
a laugh or two.
the islands
are fine,
the alps, the seine,
paris
and rome.
but give me an old
friend on a bench
near the water
over those places
any day.

marie

her feet,
still swollen, are
propped up on a stool
by one of the nurses,
they are wrapped
in striped Christmas
socks despite
it being mid july.
her blue slacks,
and flowered blouse,
misbuttoned, hangs
loosely on
her ever aging body.
the venom is
out of her tongue,
the fight is out of
her bones. the lines
of worry have slipped
almost all away.
there is the sweet
gentle smile of a child,
returning your
smile as they like to do.
the workers
call her marie, come here
Marie, let me
tie your shoes,
eat your vegetables,
chew your food.

just one flaw

you'd like
her to have one flaw.
something
to make
you feel more at ease.
if she would
only say something
dumb,
like asking you
if the earth is
larger than
the sun, something
along those lines.
if she wasn't so
smooth and fashionable,
the hair just
right,
the lips and legs
unbearably nice,
if only she would
trip on a chair,
or curb
once in awhile,
or dribble
some blue cheese
dressing onto her
perfect blouse.
something, anything
to give you
an edge.

being naked

it's awkward
being naked
in front of people
especially
the first time
you are about to
make love.
you prefer
dim lighting,
maybe an overhead
fan for some
sort of wind
distraction.
liquor should
be involved
and lots of pillows.
it wasn't always
that way,
when you were
eighteen
and had the body
of a greek
god you'd do
jumping in jacks
in front
of your new love,
then ask her
to do a few too.

the broken nail

when women
break a nail
on the car door,
or on a dish
being set into
the sink, or
somewhere,
it's a big deal.
they show it
to you, saying
look, I broke
a nail, we
men have nothing
to compare it
to. they always
have someplace
to go where
having a broken
nail seems
to matter.
can you believe it,
they say,
I have a party
to go to next
week and I
broke a nail.
we stare
at the short
nail, rounded
at the tip
of the finger
and shrug,
saying something
like, hmmm.
it'll grow back,
right?

i don't

you are so glad
to have
bought this portable
personal
time machine.
just strap
the gizmo
to your head
and you can go
back into time.
no more stupid
things coming
out of your mouth,
just go back
and nod, or stay
silent, or better
yet, bring
back a witty quote
from Oscar wilde.
no more ordering
the wrong thing
off the menu,
marriages
and relationships
gone awry, no
problem, just
set dial to a
minute before
you said I do,
hit the button,
go back
and say, I don't.

the gypsy reading

the gypsy
slowly, dramatically
unwraps her
crystal ball from its
red velvet
cover, then sets
it aside.
she picks up her
lap top computer
from the floor,
sets it on
the table,
dims the lights
then says,
spell your name,
last name first,
middle initial
too. let's
get started.
let's see where you've
been, where you
might be headed.
are you on facebook?

try it on

when she died
she left all of her
clothes to be
sorted through
by her friends.
old clothes.
new clothes.
shoes not worn,
dresses
wrapped in cellophane.
some with tags
still on.
hats and gloves.
underwear.
slowly the women,
her still
alive friends
went through the mountain
of clothes on hangers,
folded in drawers,
picking out the plums.
trying them on,
standing in
the mirror where
she once stood
to see what fit.