what say

what say we
go out on the boat
today,
she tells
you from
the porch swing
sipping on a half
mix lemon
and ice tea ade.
what say?
you say. what kind
of language
is that?
I don't think
that's proper grammar.
what say you
just button up
your hatch
and get your boat
shoes on
and sally
forth to the docks
where we can
set sail
on our ship
d'jour.
ship d'jour?
give me a sip
of that drink, you
tell her. how
much vodka did you
put in there?

dog love

you place a bag
of ice
on your
swollen ankle,
raising it up
high
on a tier of
pillows,
perched
on the coffee
table.
the dog comes
over
to lick the
drippings off
your purple
bruise,
and up
the calf
of your leg.
such love
you've never
known before,
but it still
feels weird.

mums the word

your brother
smuggles
bibles into china
and tells
everyone
on face book
and twitter
and instagram
not to breathe
a word
of it to anyone.
this secret
must not leak
out. it's
highly illegal
and he and his
band of merry
evangelists would
spend some time
in a dungeon
eating bugs
somewhere near
the great wall.
so, that said,
mums the word.

three ice cream sandwiches

you don't intend
to eat
three ice cream
sandwiches
in one short sitting,
round on a cookie
bed,
but one sort of
leads to the other,
tasting so good,
which brings me
back to you.
the same holds true.

the idea

it comes to you
while driving.
this idea,
this magical thought
that you will put
down in writing.
it's so strong
and wonderful
that you don't
bother to pull over
and scribble it down
in a note. how could
you forget such a
brilliant thought,
but you do, in
just an hour later,
you sit there,
staring at your fingers,
waiting. your
brain as blank
as a cold sheet
of paper.

green eyed

you've had
the disease of
jealousy.
that sickness
that owns
you. keeps
you on your knees.
wondering
what she's up
to, and with who.
it's a horrible
thing this
illness.
this worry,
this wonder.
you can almost
feel your
soul burning
like a barrel
of leaves.
it's not love,
it's a sickness.
a strange and
powerful disease.

my girl

till this day,
you could,
if pressed, sing
nearly every song
the temptations
ever had a hit with.
you could
swing your
hips around
and clap to
that gospel beat,
snapping
your fingers,
tapping
your hard shoes
against a wet
and deserted street.
things were
different then
on the corner
with your
slicked back
hair
and crooner
friends, singing
under the lamp
posts in
the summer heat.

in the cold

a new lock
on the door
does not accept
your key.
no one answers
when you knock.
no one
peeks
out the curtain
to answer
the bell,
or to see
who stands
there in the cold.
it used
to be so easy
to come and
go, but this
is now
and that was
yesterday,
so long
ago.

the yellow leaf

the first leaf
that falls
is yellow.
you see it tumbling
earthward.
it had a good
run,
from spring
to late august.
it looks almost
happy
in its slow
dance towards
the ground.
if we could be
that graceful
in our own
change of season.

when dogs ran free

so many dogs
on leashes.
when you were a
kid
dogs ran free.
no collars,
no tags,
no shots, just
happy
dogs dodging
cars
and the wagon
that wanted to
take them
away to put
them to sleep.
no one
picked up
their business
with a plastic
bag,
or carried them
around in
baskets
with ribbons
or scarves around
their necks.
no one sent them
to schools
to learn how to
heel, or beg,
or to have their
hair groomed.
dogs were cowboys
riding
the range.
loyal and lean,
often limping
back in the day
when dogs
ran free.

this radio

your new
clock
has a radio
within.
am
fm.
so many buttons
to figure
out
and push.
the numbers
are red
and brighten
up
the room.
you just
want
to be awakened
by someone
singing
gently
in your ear.
not too much to
ask. but
since
you refuse
to that,
this radio
will have to
do.

in their summer dresses

even now,
at this age
it's hard to turn
your head
away
from a pretty
girl walking
down the street.
but it's
admiration
of an art form
now.
not pursuit
or lust, or
desire. it's
something different.
something
that surprises
you
every time
you look, it took
some time
to get there,
but you've arrived.

grinding on

so many
in bed by 8,
up by 5.
the machinery
of their
lives
grinding on
and on
through the years
of grey
skies.
they live
underwater
swimming
perhaps,
free from it all,
within
their dreams.

it's that simple

where are you going
with all of
this, she asks
you politely.
all this stuff,
you keep writing
about, repeating
yourself. what
are you doing
with your life,
where are you
going?
how do you answer
a question
like that.
you just want to
wake up the next
day and do it all
over again.
stay healthy,
stay fit,
have some money
in your pocket.
find some love
along the way.
some satisfaction
in a job well,
a poem well
written.
you don't want
to hurt anyone
or be hurt by
anyone, you want
a good nights sleep.
what else does
she want to hear?
it's really that
simple.

the weather

the weather girl
is energetic.
her maps
are colorful.
the numbers are
everywhere.
barometric pressures,
and cloud
covers
fronts moving in
showers
and winds.
the land is carved
out in green
and blues
the grid of
latitude
and longitude.
there is everything
you'll ever
need to know about
the weather,
now and tomorrow
they have everything,
but an open window,
and so get
it half right,
most of the time.

adam and eve

eve
and her apple,
shiny and red,
picked
fresh from
the tree
of knowledge.
adam
with his
hand out.
each hungry.
it's hard
to place
blame
when both
are naked
and drinking
tequila.

the island

a soft
place to land,
she is.
an island
of blue skies
and white
sand.
her arms are
warm as they
hold
you. she
is the sunshine
you adore.
the ocean that
rolls up
gently upon
your shore.

hard boiled

these days
she boils
faster
than an egg
in hot water.
that fast
she hardens
and loses
her cool
and cracks.
but
when you
first met
her she
was over easy.
a little
salty,
but nice.

another glass

another glass
of wine.
another
sip, another
cork popped,
a label
wet, a label
ripped. another
glass
of wine and
the world
seems better.
another sip,
another gulp
and the sun slips
away
like a yellow
feather.

charity

you stop
your car and give
a homeless
man a loaf of olive
bread, still warm
from the oven
from the bakery
on the corner.
what's this, he
says. I don't want
this. he seems angry.
which startles you.
of course not
you think, staring
at his large belly,
his full red face.
his dirty hands
trembling
at his side.

the singing bird

a singing bird,
flies
into the window.
seeing what?
himself.
you?
bread on
the table?
his beak cracks
the pane
as he tumbles
to the ground.
you look
out and see him,
woozy, lying there,
trying to get up.
finally he comes
around and flutters
his wings.
rights himself.
he takes a few
hops,
flies off, but
he's no longer
singing.

the car

the first car.
the maroon Camaro.
with baby
moons. six cylinders
of which
maybe four worked.
the radio turned high
as smoke billowed
out of its
rusted tail pipe.
the car that filled
up with water
when it rained.
gallons would slosh
around the trunk.
you drilled a hole
in the bottom,
for a drain.
the car you lost
your virginity in,
the car you
took to the drive-in,
hoping for another
chance, the windows
sweating, her feet
on the dashboard.
the car you drove
to college,
the unbalanced
wheels rattling
your young bones,
your long hair
cascading out the window.
the car you drove
to the ocean city
on your honeymoon,
then drove to the courthouse
six months later
to get the divorce
decree.
the car you brought
your new born son home
in with the car seat,
the stroller, a box
of toys.
the car you picked
up your mother in,
to take her to hospital
and to the senior home
where she waters a plant
in the window,
watching you drive away.
the car you are driving
now. telling you
when to turn,
giving you all the music
that was in the other
cars throughout
the years. the new car
with that new car smell.
heated seats.
hop in let's go
for a spin.

saving the world

the world
needs more children
skipping
and playing
in the sunshine.
staying out
as late
as they can
to be called
in by loving
parents
when dinner is
ready.
that would solve
so much
of the world's
problems.

the wet cat

you let
a cat in from
the rain.
she's white
and grey.
her fur is
raised
with wetness.
she purrs sweetly,
gratefully
moving her
body against
your leg.
you set a bowl
of milk with a
beaten egg
on the kitchen
floor.
it's what
you would want
if you were
a stray cat
coming out
of the rain
and into
a stranger's door.

rain day

some days you need
to be alone.
you need the rain,
you need a reason
to stay in,
stay under cover,
stay home.
you unplug everything.
you get the books
out, the magazines
you've lagged
behind in reading.
you get out
the dog eared
books of poetry,
knowing that you can
best most,
but not all.
there are kings
and queens you'll
bow to, never
approaching
their grandeur,
wisdom
and panache. some
days you need to be
alone and get busy
with what you do
best.

an art form

the dog
is sad when
you're about to leave.
you see it in
his eyes.
he climbs
into your
suitcase,
curling up
against your
beach clothes.
it's just a week
you tell
him, which makes
him roll over
so that you
can scratch
where he likes
to be scratched.
he wags his
tail, letting
his tongue
drop out
into a dog
smile.
he knows
the drill, your
dog.
having trained
him well
in the art of
guilt.

still water

still water
does not always
run deep.
take this tub
I'm about to sink
into. it's only
a foot of warm
clear water, give
or take an inch
or two.
but it's enough.
and the same
goes for you.
not everyone needs
to be well read,
well coiffed,
polished and
certified with
a diploma.
you know when to
be quiet, something
I haven't learned
to do quite yet.
teach me.

what you do best

your shirt
clings to your wet
skin.
the day is long.
the clock
hardly moves.
you turn down
the radio
and listen to
the quiet
of yourself.
your heart
at work, at home
within,
doing
what you do
best, sweating.

the silver fork

the silver
fork
she carries in
her purse
is a reminder
of another time
and age
when
silver was
everything.
she keeps a
plastic fork now
beside it,
to remind her
of today.

stretched thin

you are stretched thin
like taffy.
pulled in seven
different directions
by seven different
hands and agendas.
you are thin with
being yanked and tugged
upon.
you see others on the street
in a similar situation.
you nod to one another
with your almost
translucent body, saying
hey. yup. me too.

the ride

you need both
hands on the wheel
of her
or off the road
she goes
taking you with
her into a tree
a ditch,
off a cliff
or sideways into
a mountain.
she can't be
trusted with this
car. she's a menace
to herself
and to society.
but it's always
exciting when she
takes you for
a ride.

no news

having lost
track of days
and nights,
busy with work
and what not,
not having seen
the news
local or otherwise
for an entire
week you almost
feel relieved
for not having
seen what took
place around
the world, or
down the street.
no news, being
good news, maybe
you'll try it
again next week
too.

tramps like us

escargot?
she says.
no, you reply.
I prefer
fast food.
what's wrong
with you,
she says.
nothing you
say.
tramps like
us, baby we
were born
to pun.

the tide

there are
things, like
the moon,
full and bright
that pull
you towards it.
it's a subtle
tug, a lunar
tide, but it's
not unlike
you, always
on my mind.

ripping off the bandaid

people
don't normally
come right out
and say, I'm sorry
but I don't love you
anymore.
it's easier
to just find a
box to pack
all of your
loose belongings
in and carry
it to the car,
then say something
like, i'll
get the rest
of my stuff
later, maybe
this weekend when
you aren't around.
to which she'll
say, okay.

no thanks

someone dies
and you are offered
a horse.
you don't want
a horse.
where would you put
it?
then there's
the vet bills,
the oats.
the walking
and riding,
the hosing it down
from flies.
what if it
kicks you when
you walk
behind it.
when you see
a horse you want
to be behind
a fence
maybe a hundred
yards a way
with a gas mask
on.
you don't want
a horse, and so
you say thanks for
the offer, but
no.

phone call

she's angry.
you can
smell it through
the phone.
it may be you,
it may
her neighbor
it might be something
to do with
her car or
work, or perhaps
just the inclement
weather,
but it's you
she's talking to,
you're
in the line of
fire,
cringing on
the other end,
carefully choosing
your words,
and hiding
your sighs.

black and white tv

your grandmother,
while
smoking a
cigarette
and drinking
her tea, biting
into her
cinnamon toast,
with her
false teeth
would watch
liberace
at seven o'clock
in the morning.
she'd shush
you
and the other
kids to
be quiet.
the tv was
black and white
but that didn't
stop the glitter
of the frothy
man to come
through.
even then at
seven
you stood there
with your hands
on your hips,
guns holstered
hat on, you
waited
patiently for
your turn at the
dial
and roy rogers,
or sky king, or
my friend flicka
to come on.

the only date

you have
coconut cake
icing on your face,
but she says
nothing.
all night you
sit there
with a glob
of white
fluffy icing
attached to
your cheek.
you see it when
you get home
and look in
the mirror.
this makes you
smile,
as does the tissue
paper that
was stuck to her
heel
as you walked
about, at arms
length, to
her car.

the talk

a word or two,
please,
she'd say,
touching
your hand,
politely.
if you have
the time.
smiling,
feathering
the nest of
your talk
as to what's
gone wrong.

the opera singer

she got a job
singing opera
in an Italian
restaurant.
she was loud
and expressive.
waving her arms
about, throwing
herself
into the song.
but the second
you took a bite
of your angel
hair pasta,
there she was,
standing
at your table,
belting out
a shivering note,
making
red sauce
spritz across
your white shirt.

the broken shovel

it was cold
that morning.
the blade
of the shovel
broke
as it hit
the ground
under your boot.
there would
be no digging
that day,
which made
you happy,
despite the lack
of pay.

from the sky

from the sky
your house is
a speck.
a mere
puddle
of brick
and wood
stacked
neatly beside
other homes.
there is
a tangle of
grass and
weeds.
a bush that
has a name
you'll
never know.
a roof,
a chimney.
a single chair
in the stamp
of yard
where you read.
people come
and go.
some stay longer
than others.
from the sky
everything
looks
fine.

the message

a dark cloud
of arrows
fill
the sky.
they arc
above you,
pointed
in your
direction.
someone is
sending you
a message.

the lightning

you almost
call her.
almost.
instead
you go to
the window
to watch
the lighting.
how
it snaps
a brilliant
white
against
the darkening
sky.
then the rain
comes.
this too will
pass.

the epiphany

let's stop
and get some donuts
she says to you,
chewing on a wad
of pink gum
and turning
the radio up.
turn that down,
you tell her.
I hate that song.
no, she says.
I love Madonna.
whatever happened to
her. is she dead?
hey, she screams.
look, over there.
a donut shop,
make a u turn.
come on.
let's get a dozen.
the hot sign
is on.
she claps her
hands together
like a seal
as you pull over
and make
a u turn.
it's time maybe
to skew older
you think, as you
drive into
the parking lot
of donut king.

starvation

starving,
you devour
food
in your refrigerator
that normally
you wouldn't touch
with a long
grilling fork.
but, it's been
a long day
and in order
to not faint
and pass out
on the kitchen floor
you eat a cold
slice of
week old
pizza.
you wash it down
with milk,
turned upright
from the plastic
jug, poured
generously into
your dry and
still chewing
mouth.
you've staved
off starvation
for another day.
you'll live.

the storm

the sky
being a bowl
of
thunder
lighting and
rain,
stirred
loudly,
makes our
affection
for one
another
come to life,
keeps us
inside
where our own
storm will
reside.

have a nice day

mistaking
niceness for weakness.
the customer
refuses
to pay you.
so you put a lien
on their house.
you line up
a date
for small claims
court.
it becomes a stone
in your shoe,
this seventeen hundred
and seventy
nine dollars
that they owe you.
there are thieves
who hide
in the shadows,
and there are thieves
who wave
to you and say,
smiling, have
a nice day.

rehab patti

you get into
a slap fight with a
bumble bee.
it won't
leave you alone.
her name
is patti
and ever since
she got out
of rehab,
she has all this
new found
energy.
you're happy
for her, but
now what,
as you dance
like your feet
are on fire
to keep her
at bay.

maybe blue

maybe blue,
she says.
peacock blue,
or azure,
do you know that
color.
or pink.
I can't decide.
but I need
it done
yesterday.
can you start
now.
i'll make
coffee.

around the block

you want
to drive her car.
not literally.
but if her
hands
were the wheel,
her lips
the gas,
the legs
her tires,
and her body
the leather
seats,
well.
around the block
just wouldn't
be enough.

the meal

when your mother
cooked
she
groaned,
she sighed,
each meal
giving birth
again
to her seven
chidren.
she stood at
the stove,
sweat on her
brow.
happy
in her exhaustion,
waiting
for the food
to disappear
before
she sat down.

the lie

you slow
down
almost to a stop.
your heart
beats
gently
in your chest.
you have
no where to
go
or be, there
is no clock
telling
you that you're
late
or early.
you have
reached
a point
of
bliss.
it has nothing
to do with
you, your absence.
in fact
you are hardly
missed.

food for love

you read where
food has become the new
sex.
a substitute for
love
and affection.
the éclair,
the lobster in
butter,
the chocolate
mousse,
the fish blackened,
the steak
rare.
it's safer
than
being in love.
no one leaves.
no one breaks your
heart.
room service for
one, perhaps
bread
for a start.

her hair

I let my hair
go, she says
turning towards
the light.
I used to be blonde,
platinum, it
fell down
to my waist,
then I went
red. crimson
with curls.
I could turn
any head.
but I tired of
being young,
so this is where I
make my stand.
take me
or leave me,
love or hate me,
but this is
who I am,
every silver strand.

yard work

whenever you talk
to Kimberly
in florida
she's in the yard
sweating out
last night's
tequila,
cutting the grass
under a blazing sun.
you hear the mower
rumbling
beside her.
I'm almost finished
she says,
i'll call you in
a bit. first
I've have to go
remow what I've
already done.
I think it's grown
back.

the peach

if she was
a peach.
she wouldn't
be in
the bowl
for very long.
I tell you
that.

i'm not in

when you were young
and the phone
would ring,
your father would
say, if that's
the president,
tell him I'm not
in. it was old
before it was
old, but how nice
it would be to
hear the phone ring,
and have him say
once again.

victim status

when
your ex wife
filed
for official
victim status
from the U. N.,
seeking help
for all her
troubles
and woes,
it didn't
surprise you
one bit.
nor did
the phone call
at three a.m.
when she bumped
into a bar bell
you left
behind nine years
ago, breaking
her toe.
how could you
do this to me,
she said.
it never ends
with you, does it?

he's sleeping

he may be
dead inside.
it's hard to tell.
you get no scent
of a body
decaying, so
you hope he's
on ice,
or covered in
lime, or
locked tight
inside a freezer.
she closes
the door so
quickly
and so tight,
not a hint
or whiff
escapes.
each window
is sealed
shut, the curtains
taped
together.
you get not even
a glimpse
of what goes on
in that darkened
home.
but she says,
be quiet he's
sleeping.
don't knock or
disturb him.
he's not feeling
well.
his truck never
moves,
and she seems to
be wearing
his clothes,
his gloves
and boots
as the mail man
hands her
another envelope
with is
name on it.

two ships

when are you
coming to bed
she says to you
on the phone.
she's upstairs,
while you are
in the basement
watching television.
this is how
you talk now.
ships passing.
sending signals
by wire, so
close, so far
away.
soon, you tell
her. why?
just wondering
she, says.
that's all.
goodnight.

the third glass

one glass
of wine makes
her happy.
sexy.
fun and lively.
full of
wit charm.
the second
brings a little
rancor
to the table,
some whispered
words of
gossip.
the third glass
brings the house
down.
her irish up
and running.
the room
as well.

the extra key

you keep
a spare key
under a rock
in the front yard,
some use
a plant
pot, or magnet
stuck
behind
a downspout
or under
a metal awning.
we all need
another way
to get in.
I'm searching
now for
the extra key
that fits you,
having
lost the one
you gave me.

the spitting poem

you find it
strange when women
spit. we
men do it all
the time. while
playing sports,
just walking around,
strolling the beach,
or street. when
standing on a balcony
spitting
becomes a contest.
men feel the necessity
to spit. it's some
sort of primitive
instinct passed
down through the eons.
we need to spit,
to find
a curb, a gutter,
a barrel
a sink, or
a urinal.
we just need
to get that extra
saliva out
of our mouths
and into the world.
it's very disgusting.
in fact,
just writing about
it makes me
cringe, but I'm happy
that women rarely
spit.
thank you women,
you non spitters,
and I'm sorry
you had to read
this poem about
spitting.

by leaving

you enter a room
by leaving
another.
this is where
life
takes you.
the coming and
going
is it how works.
you cannot stay
put. the inertia
of the world
makes
you move, on
and on.
when you
leave, others
will take your place,
others will
fill
the void where
you once stood.
you enter a room
by leaving
another.

she's crying again

she's crying again.
you see her
in the kitchen
with her elbows
on the table.
you've learned
the hard way
to leave her alone
when she's like
this. her head
is in her hands,
her face is red,
the part that isn't
covered by her
fingers.
the sobs are deep
and long.
you hope it has
something to do
with her cat
again, or a recipe
gone awry and not you.
but just to be safe,
you quietly
slip out the back
door and go
for a bike ride.

the cannoli

standing at
the kitchen sink,
naked.
the blinds drawn
tight,
you casually eat
a cold cannoli,
one small bite
after another.
a tumbler of milk
in your other
hand. you've been
thinking about
this all day.
you waited
for work to end, then
for the long hot
bath.
drying yourself,
then going down
the steps to
remove the cannoli from
the fridge where
it sat all night
on a small
white plate.
being naked has
very little to do
with any of this,
but you were,
and so you added
it in because
it's what happened.

chickens

your friend
luther worked in a
chicken
slaughterhouse
one summer.
he talked about
the electricity
that stunned
them silent,
the cutting
of the juggler
while the bird
still trembled
half alive,
hanging upside
down on a
wire.
the blood draining
in rivers
along the steel
gutters.
he talked about
how lunch was
free. chicken
all day,
anyway you liked
it. he dwelled
more on this,
than what happened
before and
after lunch,
staring into
his hands,
wondering if they
would ever
feel clean.

dog eat dog

they tell her
to be stronger, be
tough,
be harder.
it's a dog eat
dog world out there.
and she says
I've never seen
a dog eating
a dog, what does
that mean.
and they tell her
it's just an
expression.
it's a way of saying
that life
is hard, be
ready.
the world takes
no prisoners,
and to this she
sighs,
and laughs,
fixes herself some
tea,
then flips
through a magazine
on fashion
and fine cuisine.

his jump shot

before he died,
before they found
what they found
in him,
before
his body
gave way,
before his
eyes closed,
his arms
and legs
withered.
before the pain,
the agony,
before he knew
it was coming
to an end,
he had the
sweetest
jump shot
this side
of any court
you ever played
on with him.

this flower

she smells
like a flower,
because she is one.
she bends
towards the sun
as you tilt
her with a soft
touch
on the sill.
carefully you
spill some water
where she
needs it.
you touch her
leaves, her
petals.
you hate to leave
her alone,
but she'll be
waiting,
always faithful.
this flower,
for you to come
home.

keep singing

please go on,
you tell the birds
outside
your window.
please, keep
singing.
and you dogs
in the park, it's
fine. keep
barking.
keep filling
my ears
with sounds
I understand.
go on, for I
have tired
of words
that I don't.

the thirst

she doesn't quench
your thirst.
you suspect that
love
will have to do
that. you need
more than a gallon
of affection,
more than
a pound
of flesh. it has
to be more
than that.
something that
can't be weighed
or measured,
or counted.

fish on ice

your son, at five,
points to a chilled
glass box of fish
on ice
at the back
of store. are
they sleeping,
he asks. pointing
his pink finger
at the row
of still soft
shad and trout,
the whiskered
slick cats.
like soldiers
coming home.
it's a very
long sleep you
tell him,
and let it pass
at that.

your demise

you are alone
in this
despite everything
and everyone.
the road is more
narrow
than you'll ever
know.
the night is
darker.
the water more
cold as you go
down.
but be of good
cheer.
all of this comes
tomorrow,
always tomorrow.

changing

in time
things will change.
take those
trees for example
out the window.
full of green.
in a few months
they will change
colors.
they will empty
and be bare, but
still
beautiful in their
grey way.
but we are
different.
we never change.
not really,
despite our own leaves
falling.

saturday pancakes

when you were
married
you were forced
by your wife
at sexual gun point
to join her church.
so you did.
you stood in front
of the congregation
and accepted
the key to the front
door of the church.
it may have been
a symbolic key,
you were never sure,
having not tried to slip
it in and turn
the lock.
the church wanted
you to volunteer.
to sign a sheet a
paper making a commitment
to do things
like make pancakes
at seven o'clock
on a Saturday
morning. to run
a donation bag,
called a saddle bag,
from door to door
all over town.
pestering the flock
for more money.
they wanted you to
paint the church.
wash cars.
sing in the choir.
play softball.
things did not go
well with you and
the church, or you
and her.
both being demanding
and you not liking
pancakes whatsoever.

the balloon

sometimes
the air
leaves the balloon
in a hurry,
preceded
by a loud
popping sound
which can be
you slamming
the door,
other
times, its a slow
bleeding
of air, with
both of us
awake
and turned
the other way.

the glow

she glowed
at night,
a lamp
lying there
in white.
asleep.
the shine
of her
keeping you
awake
with wonder
and worry.

fruit doctor

the doctor says
that you must have picked
up a bug
somewhere along
the way.
you roll your eyes.
and say, really?
I'm giving you three
hundred
dollars for that
diagnosis. you're
basically fine, he says.
you just need to
get some sleep, drink
fluids, and eat
some fruit. eat
lots of fruit.
as a matter of fact,
we have a nice selection
in the refrigerated
section of the office.
it's on your way
out as you pay your bill
mangos are delicious
this year. so are
oranges and gala apples.
oh, and try the seedless
red grapes.
sweetest ever.

the night shift

the woman next
door comes home
in leather clothing.
thigh high boots.
a black vest.
studded long gloves.
sometimes
she looks tired
from whatever she is
doing in that leather
clothing.
she's wearing
a wig, and make up.
occasionally
she has a small
bag in her hand
with what looks like
a whip or a riding
crop
in the other.
sometimes she'll
wave to you with
said whip, if she sees
you in the window.
she keeps crazy hours,
but she's a good
neighbor.
hardly ever a peep
out of her.
the peeping, you
sort of understand,
is done elsewhere.

the echo

it's too nice
out to stay in,
your mother says.
you kids get out
of the house and go
play. stop watching
that tv
and bickering.
go, go, pick up
your lazy selves
and get out
there.

the poet

you are not from here.
that's obvious.
you are from a place
that others
aren't. you are unique
in your birthplace.
it's a land you can't
go back to. it's not on
any map. you speak
differently. you talk
of strange things.
you remember what
has no point in being
remembered and forget
what should be known.
you are a stranger
from a strange land
and yet you walk
among the natives,
hardly noticed,
you go about your day
amused. you don't
strive for understanding,
instead you observe
and take notes.
this what you are
for here. nothing more,
nothing less.

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.