the imprint of her lips

she used to
kiss her lips
upon
a sheet of clean
white paper,
leaving the imprint
of lipstick
with her name,
and the word
love above
it.
that's how she would
leave
your house,
going home.
that's what
you remember
most, little else
remains.
not a shoe, or
stitch,
or brush left
on the counter,
not even
a picture of
you and her
together, just
the imprint of
her lips.

praying

your prayers,
though
weak at times,
thin broth offerings,
and selfish
are sincere.
you do want blessing
poured upon
others,
yourself included.
but now
you lie in bed
waiting on sleep,
not kneeling
in a pew,
or at the foot
of an iron
bed.
you feel that god
has allowed you,
with all
these years of
faith and fear,
to be still, to pray
in comfort
with a pillow
behind
your grateful head.

the river

the river,
dappled
in pink and blue
spills
of sun
and sky,
what lies below
is green,
its numbed
light
rising
to the surface.
how it moves
towards larger
water,
a finished end,
unfinished.
streams
with lives
of their own
adding along
the way, and our
feet
hung off
the pier,
we
too are heading
somewhere
where we all
must flow one day.

a bag of grapes

you buy a bag
of grapes. sweet purplish
grapes, seedless,
mind you. maybe globes?
a pound or two, who
knows, who weighs
their grapes?
but they sit chilled
in the ice box, on
the silver grate
that holds
cookies, and other
more tempting things.
you just can't find
it in you to take
the grapes out,
give them a rinse
of cold water,
pouring them into
a bowl and
start eating them.
they tasted so good
in the store, when
you were starving
and walking around
with the open bag,
tossing them into
your mouth like a
circus seal, but now,
the thrill is gone.
sigh.

lose my number

lose my number,
she writes
in capital letters.
delete it from your
list
of women.
forget you ever met
me. I am not
here to play games,
to be a pawn
on the checker board
of your life.
so erase me from
your mind, your phone.
cancel any plans you
may have been
thinking of, or not,
while last night, by
the window, with
my cat,
I sat at home alone.

grammar police

the grammar
police, of which she is
one, is
on the street with a stiff
wooden
ruler, smacking
knuckles for the misuse
of words,
the confusion of
there and their,
I before e and all
of that good stuff,
like who's and whose.
take out your strunk
and white and
listen to me she
says, standing straight
at the chalk board,
hair pinned
tightly on her head,
diagram this sentence,
or die, a slow
and painful death.

the ashes of you

your eyes burn
from
the fire.
the ashes
fall like dark
angels
that melt dry
in your open
hands.
what was here
is gone.
what you miss is
nothing
like what
it was.
in loss, you
romanticize the past,
absorb the pain,
which is
the price of love's
admission.
the final cost.

in the clouds

look at the cloud
over there,
the child exclaims
as she rides
in the back
seat of her father's
car.
it looks like
a castle.
and the boy beside
her, says,
and that one,
that one over there.
it's a cowboy
riding a horse.
and the father, driving,
looks up,
and worries
about rain.

moving dirt

on a nice day
some people like
to kneel
in their yards,
gloves on, boots,
the old jeans,
a hat, a spade,
a rake, and move
dirt.
they use their
wheel barrow too,
to move it around.
this makes them
happy.
makes them fulfilled.
but you prefer to leave
the dirt alone,
or to others.
you are different
from the dirt
movers, not good,
not bad,
just different.
you don't like dirt.

what she wants

she wants a happy
poem.
one without barbs
or thorns,
or dark clouds
looming
full of cold rain.
she wants
sunshine and
butterflies,
whimsical words
and thoughts
that bounce
along like bubbles
on the wind.
she wants another
glass of wine.
she wants a lot
of things
that she'll never
get, but why tell
her that and ruin
the moment.

why me

why me, he says.
what have I done
to have all of these
horrible things
happen to me.
what kind of god
is he to
punish us time
and time
again. look at
me, I'm all wet
from the rain.
I don't have my
umbrella, I left
my wallet at home.
I've missed
the last train.

the moth

when you met her
you didn't see
the bottle
of chardonnay
hooked up to an iv
sticking in her
arm, nor the tattoo
that read bite me
on her shoulder.
no, you missed all
of that. you saw
a princess, a beauty,
a tinker belle full
of fluffy fun
with batting
lashes and teeth
as bright
and white as any
distant sun. what
a moth to the flame
you are.
singed again
and again.

plant life

seeking love
and life long
companionship, a
new soul mate
if you will,
you purchase a
leafy green house
plant
and set it near
a window. you water
it faithfully,
turning it towards
the light on
the sill.
you speak kind
words to your plant,
you have a nice,
though quiet,
conversation,
and take
the slight turn
of leaves when
the wind blows in
as a sign of
approval, of
mutual affection.
by weeks end
you believe you
are ready
for the real thing.

the light

finally
you see the light.
there it is.
the truth
of the matter.
it's a tiny
flame
flickering
in the dark,
but it's there.
you get it,
you get her.
you understand
the world
as it is,
and can move
on.

the satellite

you think of her
as a satellite
in space, circling
the earth with
a dead battery.
no longer able
to communicate,
but still out there,
slowly rounding
the globe of you
without so much
as a beep beep.
there was a time
when all you heard
was the constant
chattering
and beeping until
it was time to
hang up the phone
and go to sleep.
now she just circles.
quietly losing
her orbit before
slipping into
the atmosphere,
bursting into
flames, no longer
in view, a distant
memory, a forgotten
name.

the stardust alley

the bowling alley
was at one point
in your young
and restless life
the center
of your universe.
the pin ball machines
banging brightly
in the arcade,
the constant roll of
balls colliding with
pins, both duck and ten.
the smell of limp
shoes with sizes in
large numbers on
the back, being sprayed
with lilac.
the juke box in
the lounge playing
dusty springfield
and smokey robiinson.
there was a barber
shop too, with liquid
blue jars full
of long black combs,
big leather seats
and wall length mirrors
where you could watch
the clipping go on,
and white sheets
to catch the brown
cut hair across
your brylcremed brow.
it was noisy and loud,
cigarette smoke
filled the cavernous
hall. the smell of beer
and French fries.
the bowling shirts
and gloves, the bags
with names inscripted
on, buddy, or lucy.
the king, or ike,
sometimes a fight would
break out,
taking it outside
where the moon gave light
to the parking lot
brawl, then back inside,
back to the music,
back to the wonder
of a long good night.

the new home

the new house
smells
like wood.
fresh cut and
hammered level.
stains and paint.
there is brown
paper
stretched
across the halls
and stairways.
every room
has an echo
of the white poodle
that is caged
in the bathroom.
the new sink
glistens with a
touch
sensor, the hum
of the air
conditioner
is like that
of a ship about
to sail.
even the yard
is new.
a green carpet
not unlike
the eighteenth
hole
at augustus.
the wallpaper is
expensive,
with gold flecks
dotting
the chevrons
and diamonds.
you can hardly wait
to get home
to breathe
again.

cloak and dagger

she's become
the mati hari,
lying low
in the shadows
sending you
cryptic notes
via untraceable
accounts.
she's writing
in invisible ink,
calling from
burners,
pay phones.
she has a can
and a string
strung over
your back fence
whispering sweet
nothings into
an empty can
of sweet corn.
she's cloak and
dagger nails in her
trench coat, standing
in the rain,
waiting to make
her move
with nothing on.

golden

a little
sun
on your face
goes a long
way
towards feeling
peaceful
and free
from a world
gone mad.
a simple ten
minutes
alone,
stretched out
in the September
sun,
is golden.

short answers

some days you
are in the mood
to give only short
answers
when people ask
you questions like,
how are you?
good.
looks like rain,
don't you think?
yup.
we're supposed to
get a lot
of snow this winter,
the farmer's
almanac is predicting
some big storms,
are you ready
for that?
nope.
what do you think
about this new development
in the middle east,
there might
be another war?
shocking.
what's your take on
ebola?
scary.
hey, what happened
to that girl you were
seeing for the last
three years.
haven't seen you
with her in awhile,
where'd she
go?
got me.

outer space

you're are on a mission
to mars
when you are awakened
by a phone call
from your ex wife.
she wants to know
if you still have
the extra keys to
the house. the house that
she kept after the divorce.
what, what do you want?
I was sleeping, you
tell her. you sound
grumpy, as usual, she
says. well, do you
have the keys or not.
I'm seeing someone
now and I just don't
want you barging
in on us. he's coming
over for dinner tonight
and I'm cooking
salmon and lima beans,
and making a nice hummus dip,
which you always hated,
but he loves.
you let a moment
of silence pass.
I'm actually
in a spaceship
going to mars, you
yell into the phone,
so don't worry, I
won't be barging in on
you and your new
boyfriend while you eat
lima beans and that
ridiculous hummus dip.
there is silence,
some crackling
along the line. well,
if you find the keys,
just throw them
out a porthole,
or send them to
me when you get back
from mars, or Jupiter,
wherever you claim to
be going. you sigh
deeply, whatever,
you say, rubbing
your eyes, looking out
the window at complete
darkness dotted
with stars. so who is
this guy? someone I
know? please don't tell
me it's jimmy from down
the street. wouldn't
you like to know, mr.
I'm in outerspace man.
look, I really don't
care, I have things to
do now, okay. this is
an important mission,
so please
don't call me on this
line anymore, I'm
supposed to be working.
you were taking a nap,
is that what they're paying
you for. you're lucky
I don't call NASA right
now and tell them
you're sound asleep
like a baby.
look, please hang up.
tell the kids I love them.
oh, the kids, you finally
remembered them.
okay. I have to go, the line
is full of static,
I can hardly make out
what you're nagging me
about. I think the ship
is passing through
the van allen belt or
something.....I really have
to go now.
don't hang up on me, she
says. I've got a bone
to pick with you about
the dog, who is supposed
to be your dog, the other day
he got into a bag of trash,
and it cost four hundred
dollars to have his
stomach pumped, I feel
that because he's
your dog too, it's
your responsibility to
pay for..
click.

the funeral

it's a long
funeral.
the cars are in an
endless
line. headlights
lit
moving slowly
towards the green
pasture beyond
the black
iron fence.
the white headstones
are no longer
white, but grey
and mildewed
they tilt with the names
and dates
of whoever lies
below
their parcel
of land.
there is no welcoming
committee, no
hellos, no
greeting.
there is the sorrow
of the living
as they
say farewell, casting
loved ones
into the long
good night.

beauty queen

she tells you that
when she goes to the wal
mart in
waldorf Maryland
she feels like miss
America. sometimes
she goes there just
to walk around and
feel good about herself,
not buying the giant
bags of marshmallow
peanuts, or barrels
of cracker jacks,
or snow tires for
her RV. no, she just
strolls around and does
a little wave,
people staring
and whispering oh my.
who is that lovely
creature. I want
some of that.

nudist camp

you get tricked into
going to a nudist camp for
the weekend.
you are horrified
at all the skin
laid bare to the elements.
where's the bar,
you ask someone who
looks like human lava.
she points an arm
that shakes for about
thirty seconds,
and says over there,
next to the hot
dog stand, then looks
down at you and smirks.
you say, it's cold
out, very cold. really
really cold.

it's a job

the ticket taker.
dead eyed
in his old shiny
suit, smiles
a coroner's smile
and takes
your ticket, tears
it in half,
and says enjoy
the show.
you move on to
your seat
as the curtain
rises.
later, you see him
outside
smoking a cigarette,
huddled under
an awning as
it begins to rain.
he nods to
you as if he knows,
what you
are thinking.
his smile is different
this time.

going down

gravity is no
one's friend.
we are all bound
by it's invisible
tether. pulling
us back towards
from where we
came. no matter
how high you
jump, or fly,
or sail across
the sky, at some
you're going down
again.

hot air balloon

you see
the hot air balloon
striped
in primary colors
of red and blue.
brilliantly
floating across
the sky
when it hits
the power lines
and explodes.
sparks and flames
shoot high
into the sky
as it sinks
to the ground,
deflated.
you can almost
hear the screams
from this far away.
quickly you take
out your notepad.
you decide not
to ever do that,
adding it to your
increasingly long
list of things
that you have
no interest in
ever doing, starting
with Indian food.

crickets

you see two
crickets stopped
on the sidewalk
conversing
in their top
hats and coats.
their legs
twitch with wanting
to leap
forward and go,
but they don't.
they are polite
and nice to one
another, despite
having places
to be.
they rub their
spindly legs
together and make
their noises,
chirping happily
until they see
the shadow of you,
and leave.

before you get there

between
the pages
you see where she's
left
her mark.
a leaf,
a piece of silk
fabric,
a twig,
something that
looks like
bark.
so many pages
dog eared
for later
reading, perhaps,
or she's
just letting
you know where
you've been
before you get
there.

parking violation

the meter maid.
blue shirted,
fat and short
like a blueberry,
wrapped
in belts
and whistles,
phones, and what
not,
stands round
in the street,
her big metal
ticket pad in hand.
she is the hand
of god. no mercy.
the parking god
and once the ink
hits the paper
there is no
forgiveness. she
shakes her head
like a kewpie doll
and says,
sorry, but
the meter is empty,
then rips
off the ticket
to stick under your
wiper
before moving on
to the next violation.

no schedule

the train
full of faces
in the windows. sleepy
with time
on their
hands.
papers folded in
their laps,
off to work
on this Monday
morning.
you see them stare
at you
as the train
crosses the trestle
and blows
it's horn.
you don't wave,
though some wave
to you.
you let the sun
fall onto your face.
you have no
trains to catch
today. your day
is yours.

before they're hatched

you read where Oscar
wilde said
that it's best
to count your chickens
before they're
hatched, not after,
commenting
on how hard they
are to count
once born, and
running wild around
the barn yard.
so, I'm taking
the liberty of counting
you.

the card game

life is a card
game
she tells you while
dealing
out the cards
for a game
of rummy.
maybe, you say,
staring at your
cards,
aligning the clubs
with other clubs,
hearts with
hearts.
sometimes it's
hard to find a king
and queen
together
of the same kind,
she continues on,
taking
a card off the top
of the deck,
discarding one,
then slamming
her whole hand down
yelling out
rummy.
whatever, you tell
her. I suspect
you're cheating
on me.

her gifts

no matter what
gift you bought her.
it wasn't good enough.
despite your
intense analyzing
of the jewelry
she wore,
the coats and scarves,
the shoes
and gloves.
what lay in her
kitchen drawers.
nothing you ever
gave her was ever used
or liked.
not a spatula, not
the red sheer
stockings,
not the pill box
hat, or big blue
ring the size
of a walnut.
not even the Christmas
welcome mat.
all you got was a
mumbled thank you,
her trying hard so
hard to be
grateful and polite.

when love ends

when slipping
on the ice,
or when love ends,
if you don't
hit your head
and go unconscious
or break an
arm or leg,
it's all about
the getting up
part. be casual,
be dignified,
be happy and smile,
nodding yes,
I'm just fine,
thank you,
then go on about
your way as if nothing
had ever happened.
cry alone,
it's better that way.

red stars

there was the time
you were madly infatuated
with a woman.
hard to believe,
but it's true.
you put on a brand
new white button
down starched white
shirt and went out
to eat Italian food.
by the end of the night
with fork and spoon
spinning as you talked
her ears off with
your impressive
knowledge of a variety
of topics, you had
a constellation, no
a galaxy of red dots
all over the front
of your shirt.
she liked you because
of that, not anything
else.

the invite

the same person
who used to pester you
in high school a million
years ago, has found you,
and is now pestering you
again.
another high school
reunion is coming up.
he wants you to attend.
they come so quickly these
days. you try to think
if there is anyone you
still know from school.
not one name
comes to mind. what
would be said. hello.
how are you. I hate French
class. still.
this chicken is delicious.
not like that cafeteria
chicken. hey, do you
remember so and so, dead.
he's dead too?
oh that's too bad.
you click maybe on the invite.

kiss me

I'd like a kiss
you tell her, as she
gets ready for work.
you still lying in bed,
taking the day off.
I'd like a kiss,
you say again, puckering
your lips, your
head against the pillow.
she stops brushing her
hair and says well
people in hell want
ice water.
are you going to get
up today? or just lie
there like a king.
lie here like a king,
you tell here.
now kiss me before you go.

new town

where there used
to be massage parlors
with women in lingerie
lounging on
the wide porches
smoking cigarettes
there are now
candle shops,
and antique stores.
there's a cup
cake store, full
of sweets and treats.
things have changed
in old town.
not a sailor on leave
thrashing about looking
for love.
not a dog without a
leash, not a cop to
be seen, with his club,
walking his beat.

these oranges are sweet

here, have an orange.
I peeled it for you.
they're really really
sweet. like me.
but I don't want an
orange. I'm not in
the mood for an orange.
just have a little
wedge, one piece.
you'll see how sweet
they are. here, here.
no. no thanks. please.
get that orange
away from me. why
are you always forcing
things that you like
upon me.
oh, I see, I see how
this day is going
to go. are you going
to run off and be silent
now, go to your man
cave and pout because
of this orange thing.
this orange thing? okay.
give me a whole
freaking orange, don't
even peel it. I
am going to eat it
whole. I am going
to devour that orange.
give me the whole bag.
okay, okay. calm
down, mr. angry man.
that's it.
I'm going to my mother's
for the weekend.
you are impossible.
enjoy those oranges.
alone.

it's so hot here

everyone you know
in florida says it's
hot.
it's so hot here.
you answer by saying.
really?
what about the lizards
and alligators,
the swarms of bugs,
the rain, then sun.
repeat and rinse
all year long.
you'd like to visit,
but it sounds so hot.
so very hot, and you
don't own a mosquito
net that is fashionable.

on strike

the cost of living
has risen
but you haven't
given me a bump
in pay,
a raise in affection.
each day gets
harder, but
where's the love,
where's the showering
of kisses
and hugs?
my union will hear
about this.
I may go on strike,
picket your
bedroom, stand
outside your window
with my sign,
demanding my
relationship rights.

this fish

she sends a photo
of her holding
a catfish
dangling from a hook
at the end of
a line, and rod.
it's a sad fat
fish. grey and
slimy, as catfish
are, without scales.
two hard black
whiskers jutting
from it's cheeks.
grimacing with a
set jaw of teeth
like grandma's when
she'd take them out
and soak them in
a small tumbler
of polident on her
night stand.
but this fish,
has brought her joy,
look at her smile,
this horrible fish,
has made her happy.
which is something
you could never do.

circling

a trip is needed.
you pack
a bag.
you put some cash
in your pocket.
you fill your tank
with gas.
at this point
in the year
you could go anywhere.
the weather having
not quite turned
just yet.
but where?
you want to go where
no one
knows you,
where there is no
one waiting
with open
arms. maybe betty
could go with you
if she isn't too
busy. but she's
always busy busy
busy.
you start your car,
you wipe a bug off
the windshield with
your wipers.
you squirt some more
blue fluid onto
the glass.
it's taking a lot
of wiping.
it was a big bug.
finally you leave.
you circle the beltway,
pondering.

the ice cream cone

stop licking
your ice cream
cone like
that you
tell your friend
betty.
it's annoying.
you're bringing
attention
to yourself.
now they're looking
at me.
but she keeps
at it, winking,
licking and licking,
until finally she
gets to the hard
cone and takes
a crunchy bite.
that part scares
you.

candles in the wind

she loved
candles.
she could not
enter
a room without
lighting
one.
so you weren't
surprised
when her house
burned down
as she fell
asleep with a
bottle of
chardonnay
by her side.
but she survived.
which is a good
thing.
you wish no
ill will on anyone,
especially
someone that you
loved so
dearly.

one good trick

like a magician
I can saw
you in half,
I can show you
the card
you chose, if
I've bent the corner
enough.
I can pull not
just one
rabbit,
but a chicken,
a goose,
a pig and a
rabbit out
of a hat, but
it's a mess.
there might be
blood
and the smell
is horrendous.
however when it
comes to
disappearing,
I'm amazing at
that.

cake

your love
for milk and
cake
has gone
undiminished
through
the years.
the small plate
the fork
and glass before
you.
how simple
the pleasures
of life
can be.
the sweet kiss
upon
your lips.
the touch of
a hand.
the taste of
cake
in your mouth.

below ground

the dead
are not knowledgeable.
they
know nothing,
ask them.
silence is
what you get.
so I wonder,
if there a heart
in you.
a voice.
a movement
of blood coursing
through
your veins, or
have you decided
to lay
low, go cold.
be stiff below
the ground
of us.

the cage

the horse resents
the whip,
the dog
the paper wrapped
into
a stick.
the bird
can't stand
the cage.
do you see where
I'm going
here?

why me

you see her coming
up the street
with her wheel barrow
full of
problems.
you cross over
and walk
hurriedly along
the other side,
but she sees you
and calls out your
name.
you wave and keep
going, but
she comes over.
she chases you
and makes you stop.
look, look here,
she says, tilting
the wheel barrow
towards you, look
at my life, let me
tell you about
all these things
I've got.
why me, says.
why me.

delivering the news

when
you delivered
papers as a boy,
your dog
beside you,
the wobbly wheeled
wagon
squeaking
under star light,
you plowed
through
the still mornings
tossing
the batons
of news onto
slab porches
and stairs,
counting on how
these dollars
and tips
would get you
through, and to
this day.
still do.

breakfast is ready

it's been so long
since you've heard
the words
called up to you,
honey, breakfast
is ready, that you
wonder if you've
ever heard them at
all. so sometimes
when you scramble
up a pair of eggs,
fry a few strips
of bacon, some
hash browns and toast
you'll yell out
as you carry the plate
to the table
in front of the tv.
honey, breakfast
is ready. it's hot.
get down here now.
then take a sip
of coffee and listen
for footsteps.

beautiful people

you don't
want beautiful people
to be smart
too.
you want them dumb,
unable
to function
in a complex
world.
it isn't fair
to have both.
you are never surprised
when they
can't spell
or put a thought
together
or make change
at a cash
register.
you want them
working the night
shift,
bringing coffee
to your table.
you want to nod
in agreement with
your average looking
friends and say,
she or he never had
to learn anything,
just look at them,
how beautiful they are.
let's hate them
together.

almost full

the sky
is a poppy field
of clouds
scattered
across
the blue,
dotting
last nights
moon, still pale
and wanting
to shine
through.
a moon you pointed
to
and said look.
it's nearly
full and you
answered I
know. I can
feel it too.

thin ice

when you step
gingerly
across the frozen
pond,
blue as the sky
above,
no deeper than
a man, you stop
and listen
to the strain
of your own weight
against the watered
glass,
you wait before
taking the next
step back.
this is how you
measure your words
too,
when around her.

your father

your father
would
pretend to spank
you
to satisfy your
mother who
sat in the other
room, frustrated
by the boys
and girls
at one another
all day.
he'd slap his
hands together
and you'd howl
and howl
until she came
running in.
how strange and sad
with so
much joy
that they didn't
last together.

the first one

you can't
tell her how lovely
her poem is.
how small and delicate
the bones
of it are.
how subtle
and sexy the words
flow
like a whisper
into my ear.
you can't tell
her any of that,
but you can tell
her to take out one
word or two.
then move on
to the next one,
always keeping
the first
one near.

the fireplace

she wanted
a fireplace
in her house before
she died.
so together you
sat on the floor
after making
love and flipped
through
the sear's
catalogue,
turning over
the flimsy pages
by candle light
until she showed
you the fireplace
that she wanted.
it was circled
in red.
the price underlined.
free delivery
by Christmas,
which never came.

on stage

her disguise
is her work.
her mask,
the dress she
puts on
is a costume
to get her
across
the hard stage.
in the evening
when the grease
paint
is peeled
off, when the hair
is let down,
the curtain closed,
she's unsure
of everything
and everyone.
she doesn't know
what her next
line should be.

dry land

if it rains
come over.
pack light.
bring lips.
bring your warm
side.
i'll leave
the door open.
you'll know where
i'll be.
duck out from
under the clouds,
avoid
the lightning,
be careful
in the wind.
i'll be
waiting for you
on an island
of dry land.

elephants

there are so
many elephants
in the room
that it's
hard to
find a seat to sit
and have this talk
with you.
but squeeze
in here
and let's begin.

start with zero

having nothing at
one point
in your childhood,
being hungry
and cold
with holes
in your shoes
makes the rest
of life so much
easier.
everyone should
start
with zero.
even when it comes
to love,
when or if It arrives
you will feel rich
beyond measure.

what fish want

it's hard to
imagine
what fish want.
they swim so
fluidly and free below
the line
of air,
but you can guess
that being tricked onto
a steel hook
is not high
on their list
of fun things to
do today.

over due bills

the world is full
of ultimatums.
each bill with a date
on it.
the water
will be turned off,
the power doused,
your television
and phone will go
silent. even you,
now, have put a stamp
of expiration on
us if love isn't
received on time.

she calls to you

as you lie
on your bed near
death
you hear someone
calling
you in.
saying your name.
standing
at a door way
in an apron.
she's young again
and you
are even younger.
is this
how it goes.
is this the place
you'll
be, or is it
what you remember
most
about her
as you prepare
join her in
forever.

the fog

the world grows
white as
a fog seeps over
the hills,
caresses the trees,
arrives
at your door
step. you go out
into
the morning.
your skin is white,
the bones
of you, your eyes
are white.
you cannot move
the fog with your
hands, or
blow it away.
there is nothing
that can be
done about this
even if you wanted
to.
so much of life
is like this.

marrying for money

the next time I
marry it will be
strictly for money,
you tell
your friend betty,
who throws back her
head and laughs,
almost losing her
wig in the wind.
ha, she says.
money. what about sex?
what about love?
how about a nice
pool? you answer.
a mansion in the country,
a condo
in the city, a beach
house, at the beach she
says, finishing
your sentence.
fine, she says, fine,
but be careful
what you wish for.
tonight I'm going
to pray for you.
you have me
worried.

a bar of soap

like
a bar of soap
parts
of you
are disappearing
slowly
down
the drain,
but you
stay smooth,
and you smell
nice most
of the time,
so that must
mean something
to you,
doesn't it?

awake

right about now
you are usually sleeping.
sound
asleep in the middle
of a dream.
you might toss and turn
a little, or
wake up and take
a sip of the water
that sits
in a glass on
the end table
beside the red numbered
clock.
right about now,
you are usually under
the covers, head
on a pillow, done
for the night.
but not tonight.
something is bothering
you that's keeping
you here, awake.

give me time

i'll get
back to you, she says,
on that love thing.
give me
some time to find
the right words
to say no.
to let you down
gently.
I need a phrase
a statement,
a sincere regret
to be your parachute,
dropping you
safely back
to earth without
me by your
side.

forging love

you need to cross
over
at some, get past
your fear.
dispose of doubt
and disguise.
just leap,
jump forward
and let
the wind, the earth,
the moon
and stars
decide.

forgetting your pants

sometimes
you are in such a hurry
that you forget
to wear pants.
all day you walk
about in your calvin
klein black
boxer briefs
until a cop on
horseback sidles
up to you and says,
what the hell
do you think you're
doing?
luckily, you are quick
on your feet
and dash off into
the park, zig sagging
between the trees
as the cop and his
horse try to chase
you. but because
of your speed
and agility, they
can't catch you.
you make a mental note
of what just happened.
pants.
how could you
possibly forget pants?

the stand off

the ticket
that you insert
into the metal box
that holds
the cross bar
that sits in front
of your car
preventing you
from leaving
won't work.
it keeps spitting
the ticket back
out into your hand.
someone comes over
and tells you
that you have
to pay for a new one,
which you refuse
to do, making
the line of cars
behind you angry.
the entire underground
garage is a cacophony
of horns being
pressed on.
you are willing
to wait until hell
freezes over.
you have already paid
once.
five dollars being
five dollars.
it is literally a
Mexican stand off.
finally,
someone with a fist
full of keys
comes over and opens
the gate.
it swings up as you
smile and wave farewell.
the night is off
to a good start.

that special feeling

you make it clear
that in the morning
you have to get up
early and go.
you have a very
busy day ahead of you.
no monkeying around.
maybe a short
little embrace, but
that's it. okay?
no time for coffee
breakfast or small talk.
shower, get dressed
and adios.
sure, she says.
you're making me
feel so special.
should I go now,
so that I don't
delay you?

piano legs

her mother
who died recently
at the age of ninety
seven
used to tell her that she
had piano legs.
she never forgot that,
even thinking about it
as the coffin was
lowered into
the grave.
piano legs, she said
to herself.
her whole life
is over
and I stand here
thinking this.
how strong words are
when they ring
true.

voice mail

a fender
bender on the side
of the road
slows
traffic
almost to a stop,
which
gives me
a chance
to call you
and ask how you
are.
but the voice
mail comes
on.
and I hesitate,
unable to
find the words.
so I say
nothing.
leaving an
empty space,
a void
for you to fill
when you get this.

every man

with men
there is no hierarchy.
every man
a king,
a warrior,
a knight without
a horse.
the woman walking
down the street
in her summer
dress
knows that.
even without a shot,
they whistle,
they
shake their heads
and howl
at the mid day sun.
the men
no matter what
their status all
have exactly
the same thought.

the white flag

you surrender.
raise the white flag,
put your
hands into the air
and step
out of the trenches.
the long week
has beaten
you. take me
anywhere, you
yell out, anywhere
but here.
I am your prisoner
to with what
you want.
but be gentle,
I'm feeling fragile
at the moment.
a cold refreshment
would be a good
start.

the workers

the workers,
emptying
out of dark
white vans
start early with
their hammers.
tapping away,
you hear
the slam
of metal ladders
against
the houses.
the gutters
are being replaced.
tiles are
patched on the roof
tops.
they are not tired
yet,
stoked on coffee
and
egg muffins.
their radios
blaring salsa,
still a spring in
their booted
steps, the sun
not quite high
enough to make
them sweat.

where's your betty crocker

no one cooks
anymore.
they heat things
up.
order in, order
out.
they make call
ahead calls,
reservations.
they'd rather
stand in line
for a salty
sandwich then
boil a pot of
water at home.
grandmothers
are rolling in
their cold recipe
graves, shaking
their collective
heads as
they thumb through
a well worn
betty crocker
cookbook
that keeps them
warm.

bargain hunters

the sales weasels
all want
a deal, a special
friendship price.
a lowering
of the bill, just
because.
give me a break,
they say, let
me have it for
a little less
and you'll never
go hungry in this
city again. so
you give in and knock
off a few bucks,
which makes them
happy, as they
wave rolling away
in their black
Mercedes suv.

tossed aside

early in
the morning
the street
cleaners
come out
into the city
to sweep up
the broken
hearts.
the glass is
everywhere.
shards, like
diamonds in
the rising sun,
torn tickets to
flights
that won't be
used,
luggage discarded
on the curb.
cheap bundles
of flowers tossed
onto
the road, never
thanked for,
never held
with a smile,
or brought up to
a nose.

the legal system

you show
ginger your speeding
ticket, shaking
your head.
can you believe it?
a hundred dollars,
and points.
ha, she says.
I've never gotten
a ticket
she sticks one
of her long
legs out from
under the table
to show you why,
then proudly
pushes her
chest out
almost busting
a button on her
flimsy blouse.
these here are
ticket busters, she
says, trying
to shake them
like moroccos
and laughing.
whatever, you tell
her. the legal
system in this
country is so unfair.

joining the band

politely,
you go next door and
ask your neighbor
to please stop
playing
his banjo.
he has his whole
band over
every night practicing.
sorry, he says.
it's okay you tell
him, I'm just trying
to sleep, that's
all.
you look around the
room and see
someone on a washboard,
a skinny man
with no teeth
mouthing a harmonica.
a fat woman
blowing on a half
empty brown jug.
you wouldn't happen
to play spoons, would
ya, he asks.
spoons. nope.
we'll we need a spoon
player if you want
to try. taint that hard.
but I'm in my pajamas.
no problem, he says,
here, have some chew
and some pork rinds
and sit over there
next to maybeline.
jethro, hand my good
neighbor some of them
spoons and let's make
some music. pass him
a sip of that white
lightning to loosen
up him up. he seems kind
tightly wound.

blue skies

the sky is a blue
bottle
of sun
and clouds, a wishing
well of
good feelings.
even the birds,
with wiggling
worms dangling
from their
beaks seem to
have a spring
in their wings as
they fly about,
not quite ready
to fly south.

the contract

she gives you
the silent treatment.
the cold
shoulder,
the no eye contact
I'm pretending
you aren't
here stare, it's
hard to believe
you ever had
a fun moment
when she goes dark
like this.
and people wonder
why you're
cautious
about love
and marriage,
about
signing a business
contract
that says til death
do you part.

the slowing

the young,
with their life
in front of them,
run and run,
everything must be
done now, in
a hurry. they have
little patience for
this world they
were born into,
while the old,
have slowed down.
in speaking, in
eating, in driving
and arriving
at a destination
that gets closer
with each day.

and what else?

to punish you,
she stops reading what
you write.
she throws her hands
up dismissively
and says,
I can't read it anymore,
it's all the same.
about this girl
and that girl or some
trivial complaint
about something
ridiculously small.
no one cares about
this stuff, but
you. pffft, she says.
keep talking you
tell her, furiously
taking notes.
go on, go on,
and what else?

song and dance man

you are amazed
at how many words you
know
to so many songs,
and how well you sing
when alone
in the car, or
shower.
it doesn't bother
you that it
makes your dog
howl, putting his
paws over his floppy
brown ears, you
like to sing,
you are a song and
dance man, okay,
maybe not so much
the dancing, but
with a bar of soap
in hand you
are on stage at
Carnegie hall.

pain and pleasure

what pleases you
goes quickly,
the long
kiss, the summer,
a beach
visit, the book
in your
hand.
a night full
of stars.
pleasure is
fleeting, while
pain
tends to hang
around.

a bag of chips

it's hard
to believe, but
sometimes
you tire of eating
potato chips.
your hand
grows weary
of placing it
into the bag
and pulling
one out and
letting it crunch
into your salt
starved mouth.
how many can you
eat in one sitting.
how many stars
are in the sky?

her ankle

just a glimpse of
her ankle
made you weak
in the knees,
your heart
skipped a beat
when she raised
her leg
and placed it
next to yours.
what next?
god forbid
she kissed you.
how could live
with that?

he had no ears

he had no ears
she said.
he was born that
way, but
they were able
to take some skin
from some part
of his body
and make an ear,
sort of.
but he could
hear really well,
better than
you, as a matter
of fact.
are you listening
to me.
hey, hey. you have
two ears,
but what's the point
of me telling
you this story,
if you don't listen.
I'm listening, you
tell her. I'm
listening. what about
a nose, did he
have a nose?

my love for you

my love
for you is
a tsunami.
a tidal wave.
okay.
I exaggerate.
perhaps a small
wave,
a crest, a lapping
of water
upon
the shore, or
maybe just the wake
of a passing
boat.
or better yet,
a cool glass
of water,
half full,
that I sip on
when I'm thirsty.
that's it, my
love for you
is a glass of
water,
half full
with crushed ice
and a slice
of lemon.

three hail marys

sometimes your sarcasm
gets the best of you.
after telling the priest
for over an hour
all of your sins, he
whispers through the
meshed screen,
say three hail marys
and go and sin no more.
what?
you say, what?
you think that will
do it. three hail marys?
were you even
listening to me,
hello. you rap
on the window
with your knuckles.
god will forgive me
with that? geez,
I didn't know it was
so easy. did you even
hear half of the stuff
I've done, what I've
been thinking lately
about the rockettes?
but he doesn't answer
back. there is stone
silence. yo, you
still in there father
o malley? yeah, I'm
here. I'm waiting for
you to go away.

the double burger with fries

did you see my
picture on face book
your friend wanda
asks you, as she takes
another selfie,
of herself drinking
coffee.
no, which one, you
say. the one where
I'm eating a hamburger
at five guys.
the sunset was coming
over route one,
and the sky was
so pink and fabulous.
no, i'll have to log on
later and check it out.
I had the double
bacon burger
with fries. I got
that picture on there
too before I took
a bite.
wow. i'll have to go
look. take a close
look at the melted
cheese on the burger.
sounds crazy, but it
looks like the last
supper by da vinci.
squint a little.
you'll see. okay,okay.
will do.

rodeo clown

your days
on the rodeo circuit
were long
and hard.
busting broncos,
lassoing
wild cows
and branding
bulls.
when the ring
clown
got sick, who
stepped in to
to fill his floppy
orange shoes,
you did.
sometimes the smell
hardly bothered
you as long
as you had
three handkerchiefs
tied about
your mouth
and nose.
you never did
get those rattlesnake
boots clean,
so you tossed
them into a can,
like the midnight
cowboy going
to florida
on the greyhound
bus. do you miss it,
no, and the broken
hip has
almost healed.
but you do miss
the cowgirls, tipping
your hat and saying
things like,
howdy.

the rain

the rain
is shaking
the leaves
out of the trees,
as you have
shaken
the joy
out of me.
stop it.

the lemon pie

innocent,
despite all
the evidence wrongly
arranged
to convict you,
you stand
on the gallows
awaiting
your fate.
but that's not
what truly
bothers you,
in the audience
you spot
your aunt Helen
holding a lemon
pie, she baked
just for you,
but she came too
late.
you smile
as your mouth
puckers
and the trap
door swings open,
oh well.

the last act

there is no
curtain call, no last
bow
upon the stage.
there is no rise
in the audience
hollering
for the players
to return
just one more time.
no shouts of
bravo, or author.
the last note
has been played,
the final word
spoken in the last
act. the theater
is dark, the lights
gone, the seats
empty.
it's best to go
too, take your
broken heart and don't
look back.

conception

it is easier
working
with your hands.
the mind
free
of inconsequential
things,
free from
the small
details of
the world
that make it
devilish
and hard to
comprehend.
a poet without
a job
or money
is rich beyond
belief.
lacking love
is even better.
it's the hunger,
the struggle,
that allows
a poem
to be conceived.

some spice

a roll
of undeveloped
film sits in your drawer.
you have no
idea when the pictures
were taken.
or who took them.
what year, what
decade is
uncertain.
you like the mystery
of that roll.
it's good to have
some mystery in one's
life.
some strangeness.
some weird people
too,
some spice.

a fresh bandage

you seem
jaded sometimes,
she says,
almost cynical
in your ideas
about love,
marriage, dating
in general.
it's almost like
you've been
wounded,
and the wounds
have never healed.
what's up
with that?
you smile and nod,
perhaps, you
say.
could you please
help me
with this bandage
around my heart,
it's time to unwrap
and put a fresh
one on.

no up or down

abstract art
appeals to you
in so many ways.
the spilled
paint,
the loaded
red lacquered brush
slung across
a white
canvass board.
the mad randomness
of it all.
drinking helps,
as does a sense
of humor
and a lack
of sleep. there is
no right or wrong,
no up or down.
museums
are full of such
pieces. give me
ten minutes let
me make you one.

she isn't here

you don't hear
from her for weeks
on end.
the phone has gone
silent.
she could be sick
or dead,
or on a trip
to Europe, or
florida.
who knows.
maybe she's on
her horse
galloping across
a field.
you can only guess
where she might be,
but one thing you
know for sure,
after checking
the closets
and under the bed,
she isn't here.

the factory

it's no longer
a factory
now. the workers
are
no longer in
overalls
and hats,
boots and gloves,
no longer
a leathered
life of
grease
and dirt,
other countries
can do
that for us.
the factory
line
now involves
sitting
in a cube
with a coat
and tie,
shined shoes,
fingers on a
keyboard,
a small leafed
plant
reminding
you of a world
you can't
see
as the years
pass by.

the light on

she keeps
the light on,
just
in case
he arrives,
comes home.
all night
it glows.
all her life
she stands
in the mirror
brushing
her hair,
waiting
for someone
she'll never
know.

things have changed

politics
make you sleepy.
when you were younger
there might
have been anger,
or elation
at one
politician or
another.
each stirring
your blood
with whatever it
was they stood
for. you
pulled the lever
with conviction,
wanting
change,
wanting the world
to be better,
but it never
did. so now, you
yawn in the face
of each new
face. each promise
proclaimed
under the waving
flag.
you really used
to care,
but things have
changed.

the fork in the road

you look
on the map
and see her
name in bold
black letters.
she is
the fork
in the road
where two
streets converge.
you need to go
in one
direction
with her, or
travel in another
alone,
there is no
other way
to go.

the patient mouse

the mouse
is patient.
waiting
in the shadow
of the hole
for the cat
to sleep,
for the house
to settle,
for the moon
to rise
and shine
across the floor,
stepping
quietly out
towards
the yellow
gold.

blue laws

there was a day when
the state of Maryland
had blue
laws.
no stores were open.
there was no way
to get a can of beer
or a gallon of milk.
even a pack of gum
was hard to come by,
which made you resort
to old gum stuck
to your headboard.
only the churches were
open. so you just had
to suck it up
and go pray.
get your wafer and wine
that way.
you had to do your shopping
on Saturday.
but now, there are
no blue laws, no real
holidays that close
everything.
there is no storm either
that will shut down
a 7 11, no nuclear
warhead that will
stop the chili dispenser
from working,
or keep those
hot dogs from spinning
greasy on the grey
grill.
we are godless
and living in Shangri la.

delete, block, report

because she has
become increasingly
caustic
and needs an
adjustment with
her crazy meds,
you have to block
her.
delete her.
eliminate her
from your life.
you do a full
electronic
sweep of all
the sites you
share.
your phone, your
e mail,
your ridiculous
face book
friends. click,
click click
making her
disappear.
in the old days,
you just hung up
the phone
and that was
the end of that,
but times have
changed.

home movies

you love
scary movies.
horror movies.
movies that make
you twitch and squirm,
sometimes even
scream.
when you were
a child your
parents called
them home movies
and would
project them
onto the wall,
on a white sheet
that was used
as a screen.

your destiny

it's been said
that
there are no
mistakes.
no errors,
no wrong turns,
no wiggle room
in the hands
of fate.
it's already
been planned out,
your joy,
and sorrow. your
destiny has
been decided.
so relax and enjoy,
or bear the moment
as best you can.
it'll all be over
soon, some say
in the blink
of an eye,
although you
prefer not to go
along with that,
and believe
otherwise.

romance saturday

the couch needs
to go three inches more
to the left,
then back about
a foot.
easy, go easy on
those hardwood
floors,
good, now let's roll
this rug up
and take it upstairs
to the bedroom
where I want to move
the bed down
into the basement.
once that it is
done, do you see that
tree out there,
I want to cut it
down, pull
the trunk out with
your truck and plant
some flowers
there. oh,
and the shutters
did you bring your
paint brush, i'd like
us to put a fresh
coat of paint
on them. okay. let's
get going, we
don't have all day
and it might rain.
why are you frowning,
don't you love me?

not enough

you see your doctor
getting out
of his Mercedes
and going into
the local
porn emporium
along the seedy
section
of low rent
strip malls
featuring
nail shops,
tattoo parlors
and all
you can eat
kabob delis.
it gives you
the willies, your
doctor, your
physician, your
wise old
healer needing to
see more
naked bodies.
wasn't today enough,
but you know
that's not what
it's about,
it's something
else.
you need a new
health plan perhaps.

she screamed

there was the time
when you
were in high school,
slow dancing
to a day in the life
by the beatles
with Vivian
the captain of
the cheerleaders
in her parents
dimmed rec
room and a wad
of gum fell out
of your mouth
and into her long
black hair
with a ribbon
in it.
the music kept
playing as you
tried to bite
the gum back into
your lips,
but that made it
worse, as the wad,
pink and sticky,
maybe three pieces
in all got further
and further
into the nest of
her beautiful well
brushed and shiny
hair.
at some point
she screamed,
making her
parents come down
to chase you out
like a dog. the next
time you saw her
in the high school
hall, her hair looked
like it had
been cut short
with a soup bowl
which made her look
funny because of her
really large nose that
you never noticed before.

a new leaf

she gets religion
and stops
drinking,
she stops staying
out late
at night
with the likes
of me
and others
of similar mischievous
ilk.
she stops
swearing like
a drunken sailor
on a sinking
ship.
she won't even
kiss
anymore unless
there's a future,
a destination,
a ring
and a date.
things were going
so well
until
God got in the way.

the empty chair

you enter a room
and find
a chair,
it may not be
the chair you
wanted, but it's
the one available,
so you sit.
it's the chair
you return to
everyday.
in time it's
where others
expect to find you.
they know where
you are,
who you are,
your life is
defined by where
you have chosen
to sit.
when it's empty,
as all chairs
will be, they
will try to remember
your name,
they will ask,
who was it that
sat there. who
was in that
empty chair.

the dead

the dead
stick with you.
sometimes
staying quiet
in the attic
of your mind,
then there are
moments when
they sing,
and give you
joy, remembering
a day
you shared.
but it rains
too, their missing
hands on
your shoulders,
the feeling of love
not lessened
by a ruthless clock
that brings all
together
in time.

what's missing

without legs
life
finds a way
to swim
with fins
or fly on wings,
or slide about
as snakes
upon a rounded
earth,
what are you
missing
that makes you
who you
are?

the light within

they tyranny
of life
is neither work
nor love,
or poverty.
it's less
about who governs
you,
who decides
your fate,
whether wrong
or right.
the tyranny begins
within, it's
you who hold the
key, the
candle of your
soul, it's
you must choose
to live
in darkness,
or live in light.

when the cows come home

there's something I need
to tell you,
she says, whispering
across the table
with a flickering
candle between you.
she takes your hand
to ease the moment,
what you say, what,
thinking the worst.
you take a sip of
your drink, then
another.
you've heard it all.
I'm sick and dying,
I'm married, I'm
really a man wearing
a woman's dress.
I'm not fifty, I'm
seventy one.
my left leg is made
of wood.
what is it you say,
please tell me.
I'm, I'm a knitter
she says,lowering
her eyes. I love
to make quilts
and cross stitch.
it's what I do.
I love to rock
on the porch and knit
until the cows come
home. pffft, you say,
knitting. not a problem,
but cows? you say.
you have cows?

the bus stop

you see
a group of children
twitching
nervously
at the bus stop
on the first day
of school.
they are bent over
with their full
back packs.
they look like
Himalayan
hikers about to
climb the summit.
their hair is
brushed or combed
in place.
their skinny arms
and legs are still
bare in the summer
heat, they stare
down the empty
road waiting for that
awful orange bus
while the parents
with arms folded
and tears
in their worried
eyes stand close
to one another,
waiting too.

every man a king

because we are
a country without
royalty
every man must
find a way to
be his own royal
highness, have
his own palace
his own carriage
with which to travel
about and survey
his own imaginary
land. our royalty is
found in our mattresses
now,
the king size bed,
the queen,
the twin, the standard,
the thin and hard
proletariat.
or in the food, we eat
with king sized portions
at burger king,
or things that
we buy like
the princess phone.
every man a king,
says huey long.

our days are numbered

the measuring
begins at birth.
how long is
that baby, how many
pounds, the date
the time,
the age of parents.
from there it gets
even more
complicated.
you might be the second
son of a family
of five,
walking at three,
talking at four,
stand still,
let me measure
your height, stand
by the door.
and then it's grades.
it's sat's,
how many years of
school. how long
have you worked here.
it's how much you
weigh, how tall you
are, how old
you are.
everyone needs a
number to let them know
who you are.
how long married,
how many times.
how long divorced,
how many children,
how long have
you lived here. how
much money do you
make, and finally
how long have you
had this illness.
when you die,
all they numbers are
added up
and carved into the
tombstone.
from start to finish,
solid proof
that you were once
alive.

my oh yeah guy

while squinting
at her watch,
looking for an early exit,
she sips her tumbler
of rum and coke, and says,
I'm looking for
my oh yeah guy.
which means
soul mate, cell mate,
the one and only love
of my life that adores
me, and will never
leave me for the rest
of my years. it's
the same sad dream
women have from the first
time they've seen
snow white as a little
girl.
men shrug at such talk
and shake their heads.
relax, they say.
enjoy the moment,
the night. have another
drink. at this age
honey prince charming
ain't riding in on
a white horse, and
if he is, he's strapped
to that horse so he
doesn't fall off.

negative nine

I've got your number
she says with a smirk,
meaning, I know you.
I know who you are and
what you are up to
buddy boy.
but what is that number?
which number are you
exactly. is there
a Chinese menu
of numbers describing
that person, a
category numbered
telling everyone
exactly who you are?
are you a number
25 or 11, or 58, but
at least she didn't
say zero. she didn't
call you zero, or
worse yet a negative
nine.

the blood moon river

your grandmother
who smoked Taryeton
cigarettes
was about five
feet tall
with fierce blue
eyes.
her mouth was
a scythe cutting
down
whoever was
in her path.
her hands were
like crocodile
paws,
against the white
and black
keyboard,
with blood red
nails.
but when she played
the piano, usually
moon river, she
was a different
person.
she almost forgot
who she was,
and became nice,
only occasionally
stopping to stomp
her feet
if you weren't
paying attention.

fear

we are all
afraid.
afraid to fail,
afraid
to succeed,
afraid of love,
the choices
that we make.
we are afraid
of growing old,
getting sick,
being poor.
fear is in
the news.
it's in the sky.
the bible
is full of fear.
the ocean too,
who knows
what lies
below.
fear is everywhere,
almost,
because I have
to see it
in you.

over looking the racetrack

you and Sheila
used to climb the steep
grassy hill
that overlooked
the racetrack.
the glow of the lights
far enough away
to keep you hidden.
she'd bring a blanket
some wine,
you'd lie upon
the hill and stare
up at the stars
in the summer heat,
you listened to the call
of the races.
between the beating
of your own hearts
against one another.
you heard
the thunder of the hooves
as the horses
rounded the hard
dirt track.
you knew that what
you had wouldn't last
forever, but it
didn't matter.
it was just a race
when you were young
and strong,
able to run and run
with the wind.

what's his name

she calls you
by your first name
when you meet,
then sweetums
throughout
the seasons of
the first year.
honey bunch
is popular
the second year.
sweetheart is
spoken
the third year
in addition with
my love, my life,
my one only
soul mate.
but in
the fourth year
she begins
to call you
by your name
again.
by year five,
you are
the defendant
on a sheet of
paper, by
year six, you
are referred
to with rolled
eyes as my ex.
in year seven you
have become,
what's his
name.

marching onward

a line
of pale soldiers
marching
going
forward
to the front
lines.
weapons
in hand, boots
tight.
the helmets
strapped
strong
against their
brows.
all hell is
about
to break loose.
they know that
but keep
marching
keep marching
into death,
into blood,
into bones
exposed,
into a limbless
limbo,
obeying the orders
of those
back home,
those safe
and warm, cozy
in their
protected
wombs.

the cake

today
you will make a cake.
a layer cake.
a yellow cake with
vanilla
frosting. you will
sprinkle the top
with
multi colored
candy sprinkles.
you will let the cake
cool on
the window sill.
you will ask the kids
to not touch it.
to keep
their fingers out
of the icing.
later you will
cut a slice out
of the cake,
sit by the window
with a glass of milk
and think of your
mother.

do you smell gas?

we need to talk
your lover says, we
need to discuss
a few things about
where this relationship
is going, we
need to define
what exactly we're
doing here, with
one another. are
you listening?
sorry, did you say,
something, I had
my head in
the oven trying
to find out where
this gas smell
is coming from.
forget the oven,
she says and look at
me. striking at match
at this point
seems to be the better
option, but you don't.
you take a seat
and say, okay. what?

flight

she used to fly
from coast to coast.
across
the ocean.
coffee, tea,
perhaps a cocktail
or two
to get you
through
the turbulence.
no more.
now she kneels
in her yard,
bending to her
garden,
hands deep into
the rich soil, her
dog
and cats
beside her.

your mail man

your mail man
is neither friendly
or unfriendly.
he's focused
with his bag
his handful
of mail.
the numbers
rattling through
his head.
he nods a lot.
never mentions
the weather, or
sports, or
anything.
he's like a
fish in water,
moving, moving,
folding
the magazines
in his hand,
gripping
the envelopes,
stashing them
into the slot.
perhaps he's
thinking about
the end of the day
when he can
take off his
shoes and read
his own mail.

the sick fox

the sick
fox
comes out
of the woods
still
and red
a phantom
with wet
eyes.
his mouth
dropped
open.
he neither
charges
to bite, or
runs
back into
the brush, he
just stands,
brazen
in the daylight
dazed by whatever
runs through
his broken
veins.
the world
is full
of such
confusion.

cup half full

your friend,
Sheila,
is a cup half
full kind of girl.
which
makes her angry
when she
sees other
women with implants
and surgical
enhancements.
no one cares,
you tell her,
trying not to look
at her
as she tries to
brush
away a few
scone crumbs
that have already
rolled easily
down the front
of her blouse.

the pebbles

all day
you carry a sharp
pebble
in your shoe.
not having
the time to stop
and take
it out.
your life is full
of sharp
pebbles you think
as you finally
find
a bench to sit
on and empty
it out.
perhaps it's time
to shake
the rest out too.

cold water

like a fish
she takes the hook
out of your mouth,
gives you the once
over, then tosses
you back into
the stream.
this is how love
ends. in cold
water, one of you
swimming away
in whatever
direction
the current takes
you.

bernice

your friend
ernie, who sometimes
likes to be
called Bernice,
fancies
women's clothes.
it's all very strange,
but you like
him, and there's
no funny business
going on.
but sometimes
it's weird
when he watches
football with you
in his stockings
and dress,
his white pumps,
lipstick
and all the rest.
when a team scores
he jumps up
and down,
waving his purse
about.
then you have to help
him find
the backing to an
ear ring that
inevitably falls
out.

she could run

she could
run
forever,
plodding along
through
the ice and snow.
one foot following
the other.
on sand,
through
the woods, ongravel
at the side
of the road,
her face reddened
by the cold
or heat,
her hair pulled
back
beneath her cap.
she would run
and run,
alone,
while you stood
at the window
and waited
for her
to return.

friends with benefits

on their
way to jail
you see the governor
and his
wife smiling,
surrounded by
the sharks.
they look shiny
like coins in
the sun.
it was fun
while it lasted.
but they don't
seem bothered
by the verdict,
by the prospect of
trading in their
Gucci clothes
for cotton stripes.
they look into
the cameras
and give a wide
broad smile
as if they are still
in office,
welcoming any gift
you can give
them out of the goodness
of your heart.

they know everything

some people
know everything
and its hard for
them to be quiet
about it.
they know art
and music.
they know what
every celebrity
is up to.
they want to help
you with
your taxes, your
car,
your relationships.
that mole
on your face,
they've got a
guy for that.
lickety split
that say, he takes
a scalpel
and voila, it's
gone.
they speak French
like that
sometimes,
and you want to hit
them over their
head with
a baguette.

some down time

the world
needs a day off.
a day of complete
rest.
no arguing,
killing,
no murder, rape,
pillaging,
no fighting
in general. a
time out, if you
will.
the world needs
some quiet time.
down time,
to exhale and find
its inner child.
just for a day,
then it can go back
to its mayhem.

no fish

I can't eat
fish,
you tell her, so
please, no tuna,
no salmon,
no cod filet.
but, she says,
you haven't had
my fish. I grill
it and ladle on
this sauce
I've made.
it's all about
the sauce.
I can't eat fish,
you tell her
again.
no swordfish,
no catfish, no
trout, nothing
that has ever
been swimming in
water.
what about shrimp.
I make this
wonderful shrimp
and pasta dish?
no fish, you say
again, what about
pizza. okay, okay.
I get it, no fish.
what about anchovies
on our pizza. will
that be okay?

first day at work

it's hot
in this coal mine.
you tell
your work mate
jimbo, on your
first day
on the job. it's
hot as hell in here,
you say, taking
out a grey
handkerchief
to blow your nose.
jimbo looks at you
as your head lamp
hits him
in the face.
hold still you
tell him, hold still,
you have a smudge
on your face,
it's black,
it might be coal
or something.
you wipe his
face and pick up
your shovel.
why is it so hot
in here, you
ask him,
as he swings his
pick axe
at a wall.
wouldn't it be
cool if we found
some diamonds in
here. he stops
whacking at the wall
to look at you.
let's make a pact,
you tell him,
if either one of
us finds some diamonds,
we won't tell
anyone and split
the money? okay?
jimbo shakes his head,
and goes back
to hitting the wall,
but harder now,
like he's mad at
the world.
jim, jimbo. yo,
my man, what time you
got. I'm starving.
isn't it close
to lunch time?

your life back

someone hacks
into your life
and becomes
you. he uses
your name,
your credit.
he calls all
your friends
to hang out with
them.
he goes to your
work and does your
job.
he takes your
dog on a walk.
he sleeps in your
bed and drinks
from your
milk carton.
he calls your
girlfriend
and takes her out
on a date
or two.
a week goes
by and he knocks
on your motel
door where you
now live.
he returns
you to yourself
and apologizes.
I had no idea,
he says. I'm so
sorry, I hope
things turn out
better for you.

a spoonful

a spoonful
of your
sugar
goes a long
way
when stirred
into my
day.
it sweetens
the brew,
keeps me
close,
wanting
never to
stray.

the same

her new
house is similar
to her old
house.
her new boyfriend
looks a lot
like the old
boyfriend.
her dog that died
has been
replaced by another
dog of the same
breed.
she eats
the same food,
buys the same clothes.
she says
the same prayer
before she goes
to sleep,
but nothing ever
changes.

what is it?

you leave
the house and try
to think
what you might
be leaving
behind.
you don't want
to get out on
the road
and have to turn
around and come
back.
what is it?
your book, your
phone,
money. you tap
at your pockets
for anything,
but nothing
comes to mind,
not even the hot
cup of
coffee that sits
upon your roof.

thirty square feet

you prefer
not to disturb
the dirt
and weeds in
your yard.
you choose
to let things
grow, as they should
and want.
god is your
gardener and
you are not
one to criticize,
but from appearances
he seems to
be lying down
on the job at times.

beware

beware
of the do gooders.
the righteous
ones
who keep attendance
and mark
down
when you are
absent.
the ones that give
and give,
and tell everyone.
beware of the well
read,
well schooled,
well bred
and mannered,
you will never
be equal
to them.
you will remain
a step below.
beware of those who
rise early
and go to bed
early, they are usually
mean, and tired,
they can't enjoy
their lives.
beware of those always
in a hurry
they will never be
on time.
beware of those
who have a lot
to say, they will
never hear a word
you say.
beware of those who
save and save,
keep everything
of no value.
they are holding
onto the world
as if it was a cliff
they might fall off.

family intervention

she's got her
whole family
involved now
in your business.
her sister, her
mother, her brother
and father,
her uncle
and her grandmother.
one by one they
call you up and ask
what your problem
is? you think you're
some sort of romeo?
you think you can
do better than my
daughter? you must
be out of your mind.
now get over here
right now and
apologize to her.

wrong delivery

your mail order
bride
from Russia finally
arrives,
but she's not
exactly what
you ordered.
you let her out
of the perforated
box and ask
her to turn
around a few
times. nope, she's
definitely
not what you
ordered.
hello, she says.
shaking
the packing
peanuts off of
her. I'm hungry
she says.
you rub your forehead,
looking at
the order form.
she's not a red
head, she's not
tall, she's got
short legs
and is kind of
on the boney side.
I'm really hungry,
she says, in perfect
English.
are you from Russia,
you ask her,
handing her a half
of the sandwich you
were eating when
the package arrived.
no, she says, wolfing
down the burger.
ohio. I'm from ohio.
close to Cleveland.
anything to drink?
this burger is like
really really
salty?

the flower

a delicate
flower
hardly,
the thorns
say
otherwise.

your best clothes

your best
clothes are the ones
well worn.
you treat
them kindly.
folding them
right out of
the dryer, or
onto a hanger
they go.
comfort clothes.
clothes
you feel good in.
feel like
you in.
it's heartbreaking
to see a tear,
a rip,
a button gone
or a zipper
that will no longer
zip.
like a good
friend, these clothes
you want
to keep forever.
they are
hard to replace,
hard to imagine
your life without
them.

carry out

you over hear
the argument
at the table beside
you.
a man and a woman,
middle aged
and well dressed.
the man
is angry.
his fists are
clenched on
the table, his
face his ruddy.
their food sits
there going
cold.
the ice melts
in their drink.
you hear her say,
I can't do this
anymore,
but I love you,
he says.
you're married,
she says. you'll
never leave her.
he reaches
for her hand,
but she pulls away
knocking
a glass
over.
I have to go, she
says. I'm done.
finished.
he starts to get
up, then puts some
money on the table.
he stands and watches
her leave,
walking quickly across
the street.
he pulls out his phone,
hi honey, he says.
i'll be home early
tonight.
are you hungry?
i'll pick something
up.
the waiter comes
and brings two boxes
for the food on
the table.
he never looks over
at me, nor I at him
as he walks
away with his carry out.

staying warm

I rub my
hands over the barrel
fire
on the gravel
lot at the edge
of the woods.
others come
around and share
the heat.
shoulder to shoulder,
together with
our hands
in and out of
the flames
we stay warm.
it's all that
matters sometimes.
staying warm.

asking for little

you don't ask
for much
from anyone.
being left alone
from time to time
is high on
the list.
love and affection.
a few laughs
every now
and then.
but no grief.
no trouble.
pack lightly.
leave your worries
at home
when you visit.
relax, take your
shoes off.
let your hair
down.
it's not the end
of the world,
it's not the end
of anything,
it's just a place
to be quiet
and still.

the hot trap door

a room
full of strangers
wait in hard
back plastic chairs
to be called in
to see
if they are
approved
for heaven.
some have long
lists of thing
they've
accomplished.
awards
and diplomas.
photo albums.
attendance
records for church.
some are nervous
unsure
if they'll make
it. while others
are confident,
and smile
sitting there
unworried, believing
they have done
enough to
warrant entry.
one by one they
go up to the front
desk
as their name is
called.
some glide into
the white cloud
room
while others fall
abruptly through
the hot
trap door.

looks like rain

looks like rain.
she points
to the roll of
violet clouds
gaining
ground on the
horizon.
it's coming.
her arm is white
raised
into the sky.
she knows so
much about
the weather
and nothing about
me.

green pastures

the sign
reads retirement
community, fifty
five and over.
there is a picket
fence
around the guard
house
that has no one
in it.
there are flowers
and pruned
bushes.
a speed table
greets you at
the front. it
slows you down
as it does
the ambulances
that visit every
curb over time.
from a distance,
the land looks
like a cemetery
freshly groomed,
lush green with low
square houses,
tombstones
without inscriptions,
all with the same
shadows, bending
away from
the sun.

no rust

you are made
of steel.
there is no rust
in your bones.
this is what
you tell yourself
as you build
your life.
each day a brick,
laid upon
another.
shielding yourself
from storm
from rain,
inclement weather.
inclement
people.
up goes
the building
of you.
the glass windows
of you.
the lightning
rod on top
so that when
it hits, nothing
is ruined. you
are made of steel.
there is no
rust in your bones.

the mask

the mask of
false love.
the mask
of confusion
and ill will.
the mask
of compassion,
of lying,
of leaving.
the mask
of staying put.
or giving
up.
the mask of hope,
of joy,
of surrender.
the mask
of sorrow when
things
don't turn
out right.
how you long for
sleep
to remove
them all and put
on the mask
of dreams.

cats and dogs

cats cannot
be dogs.
you can't make
them beg
or fetch,
or stand on their
hind legs, or
play dead.
they go their
own way
in time.
I can't make
you love me
either.
that's just
the way it is.

down the road

I've been down this
road before,
so don't worry
about me.
in fact I've improved
this road,
widened it,
leveled it off
and took the divots
out. I put guard rails
up and signs
telling you were
the curves are,
where the road
veers off. i've
installed lights.
you see that water
fountain over there?
I put that in.
those benches
where you can sit
and enjoy the sunset,
those too
are my idea.
so don't worry about
me going down
this road again,
I could walk it
blindfolded, in my
sleep. alone, that's
the best way to go
down this road.

the symphony

through your
wall
the adjoining
one
to your neighbor's
house,
bedroom
against bedroom
you hear
her making
love
with her new
boyfriend.
there is a violence
to it that
makes you worry
about how
it might turn
out. it's
a symphony of highs
and lows.
drums
and violins,
trombones,
and a cymbal
crashing in the end.
you are as
exhausted as they
must be
when it's over.
at this point
you'd get up
and light a cigarette
if you smoked,
instead you lay
there, listen
to her front door
close and for
his car to start,
then pull away
in the dead of night.

the slamming door

the woman's son keeps
slamming the door
as she tells you what
needs to be painted.
over and over again,
he slams the closet
door. she ignores him,
saying nothing
in the empty room.
you keep saying what
to her. you can see
the future of people
sometimes,
like in this moment.
and it's not good.

get up and go

you repeat to yourself
you will not be late
for work, you will not
be late for work,
you will not be late
for work. this doesn't
help because you are
still sitting there
listening to the radio
and waiting for the mood
to strike to get up
and go. soon, very soon.

meeting mindy

starving for love
and affection
you make small talk
with the waitress
at I hop.
she calls you sugar,
you call her
mindy, because
that's her name, at
least on the tag
embroidered in her
pink uniform.
more coffee, mindy,
asks, bending over
just enough
to give you a glimpse
of her suntan.
sure, you say,
keep it coming.
let me tell you
about the specials
she says, which makes
you say. no need.
I can see what's
special from here.
this leads to the
manager coming out,
and telling you
to wise up.
you now have a new
waitress, or rather
waiter. Jerome.
he tells you the
specials and tops
off your coffee.
you try to hand him
a napkin with your
phone number on it
to give to mindy,
but he says no.

the long boat

your friend lives
on a boat.
a sail
boat. narrow and long.
the cabin
is small. he hits
his head
on the rafters,
bending
over
all day to go
from side to side,
front to back.
it wobbles in
the harbor, swaying
to the waves and wash
of other boats
as they go by.
he knows
his ship terminology,
fore and aft,
bow and stern.
the main sail,
the jib.
the anchor.
he has a sextant
too.
let me go down
to the galley he
says and make you
a sandwich,
or the head is
over there if you
have to go.
he doesn't take it
out much,
with gas prices
being what they are,
but he likes
telling everyone
that he lives
on his boat.
he carries a picture
in his wallet
of his boat
when he took it
under the bay bridge,
there are photos in
his phone too.
the boat is his girlfriend.
he wants you to come
out and spend a weekend.
plenty of room
he says, sleeps five.
come on, it'll be fun.

bittersweet

some fruit
is bitter sweet
to the taste
and left
alone
after one
bite,
thrown
to the ground,
and so you search,
hoping
that there
there might
be sweeter
fruit
around.

bad luck

you have no
use
for superstition.
no black
cat, or ladder
opened
on the sidewalk.
you have no
rabbit's foot
to rub,
how lucky was
that rabbit
anyway.
broken mirrors
don't bother
you, nor does stepping
on a crack.
the only one you
truly
believe in is
throwing onto
a bed, a hat.
if done it's a
promise
of bad news.

the canary

in the morning
you hear her singing
brightly.
she's a yellow
canary
in the shower.
you see the steam
floating
out at
the bottom of
the closed door.
how sweet love
is when one sings
and the other
listens.

beauty wins

how happy
she is in her
new coat
in her new car
with her
new boy friend.
how happy
she is with
her pearls
and rings,
her blue pool
that sits
in the far
corner of
the long green
yard.
how happy she
is with life,
having won
the prize,
and never once
having to put
up a struggle,
a fight.

no room for words

a blank page
speaks volumes.
silence
even more
so.
it's an uneasy,
but
deep conversation,
saying
nothing.
speaking
is unnecessary,
the empty heart
has no room
for words.

small drips

you can only
watch
a small drip
from
the faucet
for so long
trying to fill
a tub.
at some point
you want
to reach over
and turn
the knob,
see the stream
of hot
water
fill the basin
with a rush.
you are running
out of time
for drips
and drops,
listing on
a chrome edge.

vultures

how quickly
the vultures gather
around
the side
of the road,
a beast of some
size
meeting an untimely
demise.
how black
and slick they are,
tall
in their small
bird way.
sharp clawed
and beaks
curved
for eating,
as it is
nature's cruel
but kind
way to keep
things going
in the right
direction.

un kissed

to be
unloved
while loving
is crushing
to the soul.
to be untouched,
un kissed,
unwelcome.
you can hardly
stand
to sit
and wait,
and wait for
anything to
change, for
tenderness
to rearrange
your thinking,
for love
to somehow bloom,
for that seed
to fight
it's way
to the top
and grow.

the pool

the sun
is a blistering
white
ball of heat
making
the lawns shimmer.
the water
shine
with the last
days
of summer.
hardly a splash
is made.
you can barely
move out
of the shade
to dive into
the warm blue
pool,
where even
the lifeguard
in his chair is
weary of his whistle,
his skin melting
brown in the thick
September
air.