maybe

maybe you'll
go down to the local
watering
hole on M street
and see
what's going on.
see if dixie
is still behind
the bar.
see if
the dj
is still playing
Alison
by Elvis Costello.
maybe the girl
whose name you never
knew is
sitting there
still nursing
that cosmo.
sitting there with
a pack of
cigarettes,
blowing smoke
into the dark
ceiling, giving
you a wave
as you take off
your leather coat.
maybe you'll
throw your coat
around a bar stool
the one you
always sat at
dave on the left,
josh on the right
delman out
on the dance floor.
Dixie will have
a cold miller
light, in a bottle,
the top
off, waiting
for you as if
thirty years had
never gone by.
maybe.

fun too

the car
won't start.
it might be
out of gas.
or perhaps
something in
the engine
has broken.
nothing last
forever you
say to yourself
as you open
the hood.
stare into
the black
grey grimy
block
of metal.
this is beyond
you.
past your
knowledge
and abilities.
if you were
stronger, you'd
release
the brake
and push it
into river.
it was a good
car. she was
a good girl.
fun too.
things just
don't last.

you reach a point

you reach a point
where
you tire
of love.
of relationships,
of meeting new people
and waiting to
see what happens
next.
you understand now
why people stay
married forever
and a day despite
the fact they
despise each other
and haven't had
sex since Ronald
Reagan was in
office.
but you get it.
a bird in the hand,
etc.
this is when you
sigh, and exhale.
stare out the window,
then stop
typing, because
you don't know what
else to say.

bug free

you ask her about
her tattoos, if they
hurt when she got them.
the butterfly
on her breast,
the cricket on her
foot. the bumble
bee buzzing very
close to the curve
of her white bottom.
there's even a lady
bug, orange with
black dots,
on her neck.
yes, she says.
they all hurt, but I
love them and might
get more. I'm expressing
who I am, and what
about you, she says.
do you have any?
no, you tell her.
I'm afraid of needles.
and I'd like to leave,
the way I came in.

uncle phil

your uncle phil
finally comes out
of the closet.
at least he believes
so.
as if no one
ever knew.
as if the bette midler
records
and his gourmet
cook ware
weren't enough
clues.
not to mention
his penchant
for art and decorating,
his trimmed
nails, and hair,
his exquisite
wardrobe
and trips to fire
island.
everyone shrugs
as he introduces
you to lou, his friend,
his very close
friend, who may
take a trip with
him, a cruise
in fact, to
Katmandu.

the make up

you kiss
and make up.
both of you say
i'm sorry,
it was my
fault.
you take her
hand. she puts
her head
on your shoulder.
she wipes
a tear a way
and smiles.
you look out
the window,
it begins to
rain. you know
that in the long
run, this
will never work,
so does
she, but for
now, you've
got each other,
and that seems
to be enough.

how young you were

your son,
going through
the photo
album
with you,
says,
dad, look how
young you were.
ignoring
the diapers
he had on.
the bottle
in his mouth,
the wisps
of blonde
hair
stirred
softly on
his pink head.
you say
nothing, but
smile
and turn
the page. it's
nice
to have another
page to fill,
and to
become even
older, still.

the dust

this dust,
this never ending
layer
of grey white
dust,
soft as a mouse,
as
quiet too.
a snow
more silent
than any snow.
covering everything,
including
me and you.
there is no end
to it.
no stopping
it from
it's insidious
flight and fall.
it's the world,
being
born, the world
dying.
it's all right
there in the dust.

Go Hornets

the reunion
has been cancelled,
the note
says.
ernie, not his
real name,
has come
down with shingles.
he was
organizing
the music
and the food,
and was providing
the space
in his backyard.
unfortunately
there is no
one else
to take his place.
in fact,
out of four hundred
and thirty seven
invites, only
six responded,
two of which said,
maybe.
so, with our
regrets,
I am Ernie's wife,
linda,
we hope to see
you in five
years, at the next
reunion.
go Hornets.

weekend in new york

with the Met
in mind,
from
the Roosevelt hotel
you walked
what seemed
to be a thousand
miles
up 5th avenue,
through central
park,
and beyond.
dismissing
cabs
along the way.
breathing
in the cold
air
that swept
in from three
sides
of the island.
and half the way
you held
hands, you
touched
one another,
stopping to kiss,
to hand your
camera to a stranger
to take
your picture.
how long ago
it must have been.
how sweet
it is to still
be friends.

she was beautiful

how easy it is
for a boy
or man
to fall in love
with a woman
or girl
across from
them on
the train,
or bus, or
subway crawling
slowly
beneath the ground.
how easy it
is to plan
a life together,
with this
unknown beauty
unaware of
those around her,
lost
in her world,
her phone or
magazine, or
thoughtlessly
staring out
the window.
how men decide
so easily on what
is right
for them,
and how wrong
they often are.

grain of salt

perception
is
often skewed
by
mood, or
drink.
fatigue or
euphoric
feelings of
wellness.
the words you
collect
in your ears
play out
differently
depending
on so much.
so you try,
as much as
possible to
take it all
with a grain
of salt.

one copy

she asked
you if you wanted
tea.
a cookie
or two, perhaps
a pastry
warmed
in her oven.
she was old.
alone.
a long driveway
took you
to her home.
she slid
her book in
front of you.
I want you to
read this,
she said. tell
me what you think.
the papers,
unbound,
were yellowed
and frayed.
editing marks
in red
ink littered
the sheets
like drops
of blood.
take it home with
you, she said.
but be careful
with it. it's
my only copy.
it was her life.
you loved it.

keep hope alive

gambling
is coming to your
town.
the hungry,
the poor
the disenfranchised
can't wait
to cash their
social security
checks
and bus on over
to the bright
lights
and bells
that jingle jangle
all night long.
cheap food
and drinks.
why not.
what are we
living for if
we can't die
on our own terms,
making
others rich
as the coins drop
into the wishing
wells.
at least we have
hope now
that the stars
will align for us
this time. we must
keep hope alive.

baking new love

new love
is fragile
as it bakes.
you touch
it carefully
as it warms.
prodding it
with a
fork to see
if it's done.
if it's
ready
to actually
be called love
at all,
too soon
and it falls
apart, too
late
and it's burned
and thrown
away.

helping hands

there is quicksand
in life.
giant puddles
of soft wet sand
that you don't
see until
it's too late.
sometimes there
is a vine
nearby that you
can use to pull
yourself out,
other times
a friend or lover
might be in
the near vicinity
to give you a
helping hand.
maybe a brother
or sister is
strolling about,
but don't
count on it,
they're very busy
with their
own lives
and sinking sand.

always raining

she had no
funny bone.
no grin,
or sarcastic
take
on anything.
her laughter
was rationed off
in small
bits.
saved for a pet
perhaps.
the world
to her was black
and white,
leaning
mostly towards
black.
it always seemed
to be raining
when you
were with her.
which you ignored,
but it was
a clue, a cold
wet clue
that chilled
you in the end.

the conversation

the conversation
over coffee
leads to
aches and pains,
hay fever
remedies,
stiff joints
and bones.
you speak of
someone
you knew, younger
in fact,
who woke up
with a bruise
on their arm
and was dead in
a month.
you both shake your
heads, sip
your drink
and say you never
know, do you?
it's less about
the news now,
less about the world
outside your
worlds.
you've both
narrowed it
down to a tidy
circle of land.
the kids, and gardens,
pets,
and yes, Tylenol
pm.

continuing your lifestyle

you're going to need
this much
in order to retire
at the age
of 66 your financial
broker says.
is the decimal
point in the right
place, you say,
squinting at
the spread sheet
in front of you.
there is an up and
down red lined graph.
yes, she says.
and puts her hand
on her chin.
you notice that
her hand is tan,
so is her arm,
and her neck
and shoulders.
she looks good.
like she's had some
work done.
and that dress she's
wearing. it's not
just off the rack.
she taps her
finger on the spreadsheet
again, to get
your attention.
you'll need this much
in order to live
at the lifestyle
you are currently
living at until
the day you pass on.
pass on, you say,
to yourself.
so, you say, looking
at her. what do you
want me to do?
so, you need
to save more
money. invest more.
in fact, I have a
list of five blue
chip stocks that I
think you can do well
with. write me
a check right now
and let's get
started.
you're listening
to her, but your mind
is wandering,
thinking exactly what
is this lifestyle
that you are living
and must continue.

cat and mouse

it's a strange
game
this thing we
play at.
this cat and
mouse
chase,
never knowing
exactly who
is what.
it's a circle
without,
an end, no start,
no middle.
it just goes
on, until
one or the other,
decides it must
stop.
and the fun
is over.
then you never
hear from
that person
again.

nice and easy

you see
it in their eyes.
niceness
being mistaken
for weakness.
it's okay.
let them believe
what they want,
but don't
awaken
the beast within,
you don't want
to go down
that road.
and neither
do I.

forever young together

you think a lot
about your friend
john, who died
last year after
a ten month battle
with cancer. it
wasn't much of a
battle, really.
he was hairless
in a month from
chemo and radiation.
weak, bone thin.
but on the phone
he was who he
was. funny,
optimistic.
intelligent and
quick. you miss
him. you miss his
presence in your life.
the connection
of forty years
of phone calls,
and basketball
games, drinking,
wedding and divorces,
kids being born.
through it all, you
were there for each
other. you think
about him now.
his guitar
in his hand, his
blue fiat. his
beret, his scraggly
beard and laugh.
in your mind,
he's forever young.
you both are
forever young
together.

spilled coffee

the morning starts
out
with a woman
spilling a hot
cup of
coffee on your leg
as you stand
at the counter
waiting for
someone to bring
another container
full
of cold half
and half cream.
she pushes the top
down too
hard
and the cup
collapses, splashing
your shorts,
your shirt,
your leg, filling
up your shoe
with hot
black coffee.
she says, ooops,
my bad, are
you okay.
I'm good, you say.
the sting is already
going down
as you splash
skim milk onto
the blistering skin
and blot it
with a handful
of recycleable
napkins.

uncle buddy

she tells you about
her uncle buddy.
which may or may not
be his real name.
he's a problem solver
in new jersey. she's serious,
but laughs about a
mysterious body
found in a swamp
a long time ago.
I don't know anything
about it, she says,
taking a bite
of her lobster roll.
this makes you take
your hand off her
arm, and slide
your chair slightly
away. she's nice
and attractive, but
this buddy guy has
you looking over your
shoulder as you nurse
your drink and nibble
on another pretzel.

the first cup is free

you decide to skip
the coffee
shop and go straight to
work, but
you begin to shake
on the freeway.
your eyes begin
to twitch, your
hands tremble on
the steering wheel.
you are sleepy,
grumpy and weaving
in and out of traffic
like a madman.
you can't focus.
you rub your face
with your hands,
you scratch your head.
you let out a sigh
and find a map
with another shop
nearby. you see
the long line, but
you don't care. you
pull over and stagger
over to huddle with the
others, money in hand
waiting for your fix
of crushed beans
and hot water.

a trail of her

there's sand
on the floor, a trail
of wet
footprints,
sand
in the kitchen,
in the bathroom
where a wet towel lies.
granules
going everywhere,
up the stairs,
into the bedroom.
the sand
is all over the place.
she brought
the beach into
the house.
there she is lying
in bed.
sunburned and still
wet from
the ocean. I got
sand in
your bed, she says,
smiling.
are you mad at me?

follow me, it's easy

I can do a dance
for you,
she says,
bouncing around
in her yoga
pants.
I've been taking
pole dancing
at the studio
where I work.
it's a great work
out. feel my
leg. that's muscle
baby.
put some music
on, let me show
you. sure,
you tell her,
hold on a second,
let me get
my glasses
and a flashlight,
you dig through
your drawer
full of music
and find what you
are looking for.
you pop in a cd,
Sinatra's,
the summer wind.
it begins gently,
the summer wind came
rolling in
from across the sky.
I can't dance
to that she
says ,hands on
her hips, pony
tail waving behind
her. sure
you can you tell
her, come here,
take my
hand, put your
head on my
shoulder
and listen to
the words.
let your feet
move, follow me.
it's easy.

reflection

you take a moment
to compose
yourself.
ponder the day,
yesterday. you
try not to think
too hard
about tomorrow.
you think
about killing
the computer for
awhile.
unplugging
the beast that sucks
up the air
you breathe,
get off altogether.
stop
the continuous writing,
the browsing,
the amazon late
night shopping.
maybe you should
shut it all
down. take a
deep breath and
exhale. let
the creative
energies rebuild,
refocus, get renewed
in the silence
of meditation and
reflection.
that was an hour
ago.
enough of that.

naked and afraid in springfield

you wake
up naked and afraid.
your
survival mission
is the rest
of your life.
you need
water, you need
fire and food.
you need
conversation
and affection.
you look out
the window and
see the brutal
environment of
the suburbs.
the shrubbery
and parked
cars, trees
bending in the sun.
dogs barking,
kids in strollers.
kids going to
the bus stop.
mothers
and fathers
driving off to
work.
you hear
the squirrels
scampering
against the roof,
grabbing
acorns from
the gutter.
it's man against
nature, but first
you need a shower
and a cup
of coffee
before you face
this cruel and
unforgiving world.

her unromantic way

you see her on
the street
with someone new.
someone the complete
opposite of you.
she's happy now
with her new beau,
or so it seems,
except when he goes
to take her hand,
put his arm around her,
and she moves away.
she hasn't changed
in that unromantic way.

the admiral

the admiral,
aged now,
without his fleet,
his captains
at the wheel of
ships
at sea,
the man without
a uniform,
shuffling about
with no hat,
no medals or
ensignia
to tell you who
he is and
where he's been,
is beside you
at the produce
aisle, sorting
through
tomatoes, radishes
in the bin,
he's picking up
stalks of corn,
and putting
them back.

betty's baby

women have been having
babies for years,
as long as you can
remember, but it always
surprises you when
someone you know is
having one. especially
if they aren't married
and they are close
to sixty years old.
betty, you exclaim,
seeing her in
the whole foods market
buying a gourmet chicken,
how are you? ummm,
what's going on here?
what happened?
you gently poke her
large extended belly.
boy or a girl?
she smiles broadly,
I'm great. just great.
don't mean to be rude,
betty dear, but are
you having yourself
a baby, or have you been
eating too many donuts?
she leans in and says,
shhh, then whispers,
it's a pillow. I
have a pillow from my
couch stuck under my dress.
you can't believe the
treatment I get
when I wear this
maternity dress. parking
spots, people get up
on the metro and give
me their seats. it's
wonderful. I'm being
treated like a human
being for the first time
in a long time. I don't
even have to stand in
line anymore, I just
start gasping for air,
and I'm moved to the front.
no one wants to see a
baby splashing out onto
the floor, so I'm in
and out of stores in
a jiffy.
sweet, you say sweet.
hey, let's go out for drinks
one night and catch up.
but ditch the pillow okay.
no way, she says.
I'm going to be with
child for a long long
time.

free shuttle

the mechanic
shakes his head.
holding
a greasy metal
part
of your engine.
he mournfully
carries
it in to the waiting
room where you
sit
looking at magazines
with liz
taylor on the cover.
it's not good
he says. I'm sorry,
but it's not good.
how much, you
say, what's this
going to cost me?
I don't know,
he mumbles,
still staring
at the black oil
leaking between
his fingers, holding
the still pulsing
gear
in his hand. it
could be hundreds,
thousands, we
won't know until
tomorrow, can you
wait, or do you need
jimmy to drive
you home?
it's a free shuttle.

side by side

we were
two spoons
side
by side
in the drawer,
in love.
knowing not
that one
day we would
be different
somehow, having
drifted
apart to
become a fork,
a knife.

the desert days

your desert days
are over.
your wandering across
the sand
in the hot
sun. from here
on out, you'll
take
the high road,
the wet
green roads,
the cool and shady
side of
the street.
wisdom comes
from the burns
and blisters on
your heart,
your soul,
the bare
skin
of your feet.

the new hazmat daywear

it takes a while
to get used
to your new hazmat
suit. but you like
it. it's a good fit.
snug but not too
tight. the oxygen
tank is fairly
light and the green
visor is a nice
touch to go along
with the germ
proof white polyester
fabric.
the matching
boots remind you
of men landing on
the moon, so when
you walk around you
say things like,
one small step
for man, one giant
leap, etc.. or
does this suit make
me look fat?
the speaker phone
on the collar
lets your voice
have some crackle
to it. which is fun.
sometimes you'll
put your arms out
and move in slow
motion as if you
are underwater, or
in outer space.
you love your new
hazmat day wear,
and are hoping that
the new spring collection
will offer a wide
variety of fresh
colors.

the trampoline boy

the strange boy
down
the street
jumps up and down
all day
on his trampoline.
his blue
eyes staring
into the trees.
wordless
and white as
flour, his arms
flap
like wings.
no one calls
him in, there are
no friends.
but you see his
mother
at the window
with her own
set of terrible
blue eyes,
tugging at her
hair, saying
something to
no one, watching
the boy jump
time and time
again.

locked in at two point seven five

you've known
for a long time
that the house
is haunted.
ghosts rattle
chains
all through
the night.
bats fly about,
on sharpened
wings,
the corners
are full of webs
and spiders.
mice
peer from
their holes
twitching
their
noses.
the rocking chair
creaks
with no one in
it.
the doors swing
open, knobs
turn
without a hand.
the windows
go up with a rush
of cold air,
the shutters bang.
you swear you hear
the cackle of witches
in the cellar,
standing
around a boiling
pot,
stirring up
potions to cast
their spells.
but you can't move.
you can't pack up
and leave.
you just refinanced
at two point seven five
per cent for
fifteen years, no
points. you're here
for a while.

the letter

a letter
arrives in the mail
with no forwarding
address.
it's hand
written. you don't
recognize the handwriting,
but how could you?
it's addressed to you.
you shake your
head and hold
it up
to the light. you
flip it over, then
over again, studying
it's contents.
it's a letter,
oh my god,
you say to yourself.
who would write
a letter, using
a pen and ink
with words and full
sentences written
down with
their own hand?
you don't know
what to do with it.
you want to read
it, but you
don't want to
rip the envelope
or unfold the mystery
of what it
could say.
you grab a plastic
bag out
of the kitchen
and place
the letter inside.
you smooth it
down and stare at
it. you want
to call and tell
people about this,
but you don't.
you smile and savor
this precious moment.
you have a letter,
a hand written letter
from someone you may
or may not know. it's
right here in your hand.

self help

the self help
book,
the video
the seminar on
building
your confidence
and becoming
a leader
not a follower,
the twelve
step manual
to stepping
outside
yourself
and achieving
what you were
meant to
achieve in
this brief life,
not dying
with your music
or art
still locked
within you.
bores you
to no end.
we have too much
time on
our hands, it
seems.

one yellow leaf

the man
with the leaf
blower
and ear muffs,
boots and gloves
outside
your window
chasing
one yellow
leaf down
the street
and back up
again.
you wonder
if the leaf is
something else
to him.
love or
ambition, work
or something
in his life
missing
that he just
can't get
his hands
on.

i got ants in my pants

the ants
are steady at their
job.
each lifting
ten times their
weight
over their heads
carrying
out the sugar
that you
spilled.
they march
wordlessly
in a long line,
ignoring your
giant presence.
they seem fatalistic
these ants.
they have no
defense against
you stepping
on them, or pulling
out the bug
spray from under
the sink.
they don't care.
go ahead, we'll
make more ants.
it's all about
getting these sugar
granules off
the floor and out
the tiny little
hole they came in.
you put some
music on for them.
james brown singing
his classic
I got ants in my pants.
a wild and crazy
song he put
out in the early
60's.
the ants don't seem
to care at all
about this either.
you see no jiggling
in their hind parts,
no wiggling
of their antennae.
james brown means
nothing to them.
you get the broom.

a nun walks into a bar

you see a nun
crying
in a bar.
she has a tumbler
of scotch
in front of her.
she blows her nose
then takes
a gulp
of the amber
liquid, squinting
and saying,
mother of mary
as she swallows
it down.
her rosary beads
are on
the counter
along
with a small
black book.
a dented wooden
ruler
is there too.
she's wearing
the old fashioned
sister outfit.
the flying
nun look that was
once so popular
in the 60's,
not the pedestrian
blue smock
and dark
dress, with
black earth shoes
that is in vogue
now.
you take a seat
beside her and ask,
are you okay sister.
which makes
her smack your knuckles
with her ruler.
I'm not your sister,
she says
then bangs on the bar
for another
drink. you've had
no luck at all with
women lately.

condo angst

your new neighbor,
Vincent,
introduces
himself
in a formal
and quiet way.
he bows politely
and says,
it's a pleasure
to meet you,
putting his
paint stained hand
how to shake.
he has a bandage
wrapped
around a bloodied
ear, and is
carrying
a satchel of
brushes and palettes
of paint.
you see him making
a square with
his fingers and squinting
at the trees
and hills beyond
the dumpster
and playground.
he moves his
easel in later
from his horse
and carriage
that he's double
parked in
the lot.
already someone
is beeping
because he's blocked
their spot.
you're going to
need to put your
parking pass
on that carriage you
tell him,
and I'm not sure
about the horse.
the condo board
is pretty strict
around here about
animals being off
their leash.
by the end of the day.
you see that
he's wrapped another
bandage around
the other ear,
it too is bloody.

these things

there are some
things in life that
you can't get rid of.
take all of that frozen
food in the freezer
for example.
what is it,
how long it's been
there is anyone's
guess.
and that spare
closet full of clothes
and shoes, shirts
and ties
that will never get
worn again,
they collect dust
on the hangers.
the chair in the basement.
the sofa with
the ink stains,
the dog stains,
the chewed cushions.
the fat t.v.
that you rolled down
the stairs,
you can't even lift it.
no one wants it.
it's best just to
turn your head, and
ignore their existence,
as they do yours.

the doctor

your best friend
in high school,
the one
who borrowed
your homework
and copied your
French translation
word for word.
the boy who
whispered
behind you
asking what
the answers were
on the analysis
test. the chemistry
test,
the physics test.
the one who never
did any lab
work, or read
a book,
and relied
on your for
the final
results and a
synopsis of
catcher in the rye,
yes, that
boy. he's a
doctor now
with his own
practice.
you'd like to a
little thanks at
some point.

flagging down a taxi

you stand
on the curb
and try to wave
a taxi
down.
it's raining.
your shoes
are wet,
you are cold
and shivering.
you have
to get somewhere
and already
you're late.
she never
waits, she'll
never forgive
you for being
late
again.
she'll make you
pay for this
injustice.
she'll ignore
how cold
you are, how
soaked to the
bones you are.
it's not about you.
it never has
been.
you lower your hand,
and decide
to go
in a different
direction.
but first you
need coffee
and a warm heart
to tell your story
to.

the red rose

it's often
the single
woman in
a crimson
dress, that
stands out
like a rose,
is the one
person who
is bothered
most
by the wedding
and feels
exposed.

so little time

I can see clearly
now with these
new glasses.
so I take them
off and set
them aside.
I'm happier
in the blur
of my own
green eyes,
better to be
slightly in
the dark,
slightly blind,
than to know
there's
so little time.

safety in numbers

you see
a string of children
tied
together at the waist
in the city.
a teacher
in front, a teacher
in back.
a small herd
of human cattle
stretching
along the sidewalk
in their
bright clothes
and hats.
how safe they
are, for now.
how safe we all would
be if
strung along
like that.

a falling star

how quiet
the streets are at
night.
the liquid
darkness
before dawn.
that violet haze
of light
rising
beyond
the curve
of land
and trees,
past the city.
past everything.
a nice
cool moment
to lie
in and find
a falling
star.

what religion is this

what religion
kills
the innocent.
beheads
the bound
captive,
on their
knees.
what god
encourages
death to all
that don't
have
the same
beliefs.
what world has
this become
that
blood runs
in
the streets
at the hands
of masked
men.
these cowards
who fear
to be seen.
what religion
is this, that
isn't a religion
but seems more
like a disease.

when the sun comes out

you go backwards
with your thinking.
speaking, letting
the words
and memory of what
happened
combine into
what you now
perceive the truth
to be, but
in the middle
of infatuation
and kissing, you
are helpless
in the fog
of new love. you
can't see a foot
in front
of you. you can
only feel your way
through, until
the sun comes out.

it's coming

with an ear
to the ground
you hear the rumble
of what's
coming.
a thousand
horses, a train,
a thundering
crowd.
it's tomorrow,
or the next day,
but
it's coming.
you see it in
the ripple of water,
the way
the trees lean
with cupped
leaves,
the way the animals
run for
shelter.
it's coming. there's
nothing you
can about
that.

the blue cup

you buy
a card. not a sentimental
card.
but a plain
and simple card
with a blue
teacup
on the front
sitting on a kitchen
table.
it's artsy
but blue
too,
a sad
tone of blue.
you sign it under
the words
I miss you.
love, and your name.
you seal
the envelope
put a stamp in
the corner, press
a pen against the front
and write
her name
and address.
you set it on
the counter, where
it will
stay
for a long time,
perhaps,
never to be sent.

the thin books

her poetry
thick with black
ink and heavy hand.
foreboding with each
lovely stroke
of metaphor and image.
how well you know
the ending of her,
the middle too.
how strange to see
her photo, so
pretty in form,
her hair, the smile.
the dress a flower
in bloom. the genius
of her brief
and tragic life
captured on these
pages that you read
and reread in your
own dark night.
you want more of her,
but can't imagine
why, or if it was
even possible
to burn so brightly
any longer than
what she did.

a tree goes down

as the tree
goes down, being
cut
slowly from the top
one limb
at a time.
the workers
tied to the trunk,
tethered
with orange
and black
safety
lines, in hard
hats.
with leather
gloves,
wipe sweat from
their brows,
their sunburned
faces.
worried
with falls,
and wires,
the buzz of saws
heavy
in their hands.
there is no room
for error,
no place in their
minds
to sort out
love, or life,
what tomorrow
might bring
every step
is in the moment
of this tree
that took so long to
grow, now
going down.

the convertible

I need a faster
car,
she says.
a convertible.
I want the top
down so
that my hair
blows in the wind.
I want
to be seen
and admired.
I want men to
beep at me, or
whistle.
maybe i'll
wear sunglass
and a scarf
around my neck.
I want it to be red.
or black.
maybe white.
but it has to
be fast.
very fast.
I'm divorced
now, and I can
do this.

get in line

the line
is long. it wraps
around
the building.
you get in
at the end,
and tap
the person
on the shoulder
in front of
you, asking
what is this
line for,
but he doesn't
know. he
shrugs.
it seems
important,
he says.
there are so many
people here.
I guess we'll
find out when
we get there.

in a dream

a bittersweet
dream
rises in you
while
you sleep.
she's new
and young again
and so are
you.
it's
the beginning
not
the end.
even the air
is fresh
the sky
a bluebird
blue,
the clouds
whiter
than you can
imagine.

the wrong size

you learned
a long time ago
to keep
the receipts
of everything you
buy.
shirts, shoes,
bikes,
a pair of gloves,
that
were
the wrong size.
but you can't
do that with
love, when
you get it home
and try it
on. sometimes
it doesn't fit,
but you
press on,
awkwardly hoping
for the best.

no dessert tonight

she says
no dessert tonight.
we're skipping
that.
and she doesn't
mean
chocolate mousse,
or
cake or pie, or
ice cream,
or berries
soaked
in a sugary syrup
and spilled
across a sponge
cake.
you know exactly
what she means
by no
dessert tonight.
you'll be home
early, with the moon
still up, not
your usual,
sunrise.

what's this?

you have
to season things.
whether
it be dashes
of salt
or pepper, or
something spicy
like
your wasabi
kisses.
throw
in an onion
sliced
or a jalapeno
pepper,
even garlic
if you have some
too.
you need some
sting,
some edge
on your tongue,
a little
sweat on
your brow.
a little worry
about
what's this?
bring it hot
or don't bring
it at all.

the penny

the shiny
penny has no
chance
when lying
on the floor
next to a dime,
even less
of a shot
at being
picked up
when a quarter
arrives.
it will
lie there
until
the shine
is gone
and swept
aside.
don't be a
penny
seems to be
the lesson here.

in search of...

you don't ask
for much in a relationship.
a human
head is a good start.
affection, okay
i'll say it. she
occasionally likes
to have sex.
but not necessarily
the wild fifty shades of
grey variety.
just your basic stuff.
no whips, or chains
or cuffs.
having girl parts would
be nice too,
don't make me
draw a picture.
it goes without
saying, but
bathing is very important.
hopefully she is
someone that can
speak my language,
which is English,
and hold a conversation,
but knows when to stop
talking about
her mother
or her cat, or what
her gynecologist said.
she'll ask me how my day
was once in a while
and not say maybe you
should just quit
that stupid job when
you complain.
she stays in relatively
good shape and is smart,
not Einstein smart,
but smart enough
to turn on your t.v.
or read a book.
she must be fun
too, but doesn't
like to go up in
hot air balloons,
do renaissance
festivals, or
karaoke.
oh, and silly. she
can laugh at herself,
or at me, but not too
much at me. that's
about it.

the wayward child

in high school
they took a few classes
down to the jail house
for a leisurely
tour. to show them
how the criminals
were treated, how
they were locked up
behind bars
like animals in
cages. maybe it was
supposed to be
a deterrent
of sorts, to keep
some wayward child
from going that
way. maybe.
but when a kid
tossed peanuts
through the bars
and onto the floors
of a few cells,
a riot nearly
broke out and that
ended the tour
for that day.

menial sins

you believe
in a compassionate
God.
a forgiving
God.
he'll have to be
because no
one is completely
innocent, no one
exists
without some small
sin on their plate.
even you, as hard
as it is to
believe, has sinned.
how often do you
neglect to
separate the plastic
and paper,
the glass
and the cans.
how lazy you are,
just tossing them
all together
ignoring
the eventual
collapse of
civilization because
of your indifference.

the round red ball

the round
red ball,
struck hard
by the child's
fierce boot
goes bounding
across
the yard,
over the fence
and into the street.
it strikes
a car
and keeps
going, onto
the freeway
where you imagine
it's still rolling
and rolling.
no one likes
to be kicked
like that.

the dark shadow

your
step father,
who you hate adding
the word
father when
in speaking
in reference
to him, was often
called Himmler
or Hitler
when growing
up.
if you stayed
too long
in the shower,
the hot
water was turned
off.
if you forgot
to set the trash
out by
curb,
the bags would
be opened
and poured
onto your bed.
leave a light
on and the bulb
would be broken
with a broom handle
for you to step
on in your bare feet.
he gave
away your dog,
charged you rent
at the age
of thirteen,
and threated your
mother to send
her and her seven
children back
to the ghetto
from where you
came.
so when you see
him now,
staggering about,
alone, estranged
from everyone he's
ever known,
red faced
and sick, it's
easy to just walk
by and not say
hello.

forgiveness

you are good
at forgiveness,
letting time
soothe your
hurt feelings,
your disappointment
and distress,
but your memory
of the moment
is gum
stuck forever
to the soul
of your dancing
shoes.

the clearing

uncertain
of the future
you make no plans.
you stay put
and go quiet.
you lean into
your self
and rest. you
listen to your
own heart beat,
ignore
the rattle of
the world
outside
your window.
like water, you
settle,
letting
the ripples
subside
and wait for
the clearing.
then you'll know.

sneezing

it's the pollen
or maybe
a cold,
or maybe it's
that new shag
rug made of wool.
it's the leaves
falling
the cut grass,
the change
of seasons.
it's something
in the air.
something you ate
or drank.
maybe it's your
lipstick
on my lips
that keeps me
sneezing.
that would be
bad, the worst
of all reasons.

at the airport

when
two women
who know you, that
you've dated
meet at the airport.
it's over
for you. you are
toast as far
as each one goes.
they share
everything about you
despite
being strangers,
having never met.
they divulge all
the details to
one another,
bonding in that
strange way
that women do.
the impossible
coincidence of
it all has to be
an act of God,
it can't be explained
any other way.
some things are just
not meant to be,
you think as you're
sure they hugged,
and exchanged
phone numbers and
e mails, then
boarded their
separate planes
to fly away.

the bee

the bee,
drained from a hard
day
of being bossed
around by
the queen, loses
interest
in the whole
hive
thing. the community
effort.
wasting his
life on
one single
sting, for
the good of all.
what about me.
so he decides
to fly
south,
or west, it
doesn't matter.
he packs
a small bag
full of honey
and tells no one.
leaves no
note, no hint
that he is
flying away.
there are so many
other flowers
in the world
that can make
me happy,
he thinks, so many
pretty petals
with which
to land on.

my nigerian prince

the Nigerian
prince sends you an
e mail. the fourth
one this week.
he needs your account
information
to park his millions
in your bank.
god bless you, he says.
I will give you
twenty per cent
of my deposit, just
for letting me
use your account for
a day and a night.
the lord will rain
many blessing down
upon you, he writes.
you write back, how
do I know this isn't
one of those internet
scams that I've heard
so much about?
to which he replies,
god bless for being
my friend and helping
me. please send your
information along
and the money will
be transferred.
but, you write back
how do I know you aren't
some pimply teenager
in your mother's
basement sending these
e mails out to
thousands of people,
tricking them?
god bless you and your
family, he writes back.
the lord works
in mysterious ways
and he has led me to
you. your kindness
and friendship will not
go unrewarded.
account number, please,
kind sir, or ma'am.

you have mustrard on your shirt

you have
mustard on your shirt
a kid
points out
as you sit
on the front porch
eating
a hot dog.
so what, you
tell him.
you have sweet
potatoes
in your ears
and a raccoon
is going to
come and eat
them out.
this makes
him run away,
crying down
the street,
to his mother
who shakes her
head and scolds
the child.
I told you to stay
away from
that man, she says,
wagging
her finger
at you.

owing nothing

it's not
the ladder you're
climbing.
or the heat,
the slant
of the roof.
the clouds above
you,
the bees
below.
it's not your
feet on
the rungs,
your hands
unshackled
from where
you came from,
or the bucket
and brush you
carry.
it's more than
than any
of that.
it's how
well you sleep
at the end
of a hard day
owing nothing
to anyone.

the hood

the neighborhood
is falling
apart.
people are planting
roses
in their yards.
scrubbing
their porches,
painting their
fences. yesterday
you saw
a pie cooling on
a window sill.
petunias are springing
up in
flowers boxes.
classical music
is flowing out
of open
windows.
someone said hello
the other day.
a complete stranger
waved to you
and tipped his hat.
a kid asked if he
could wash your car
for free, and walk
your dog.
you shake your head
and pinch
yourself.
you decide not
to throw your
empty beer can into
the parking lot,
but recycle it
in the blue bin
that your neighbor
set out.
this nightmare
has to stop.

the new maid

your new maid,
lucy,
is from Russia.
you suspect that
it might not
be her real name.
she's tall and lean,
blonde hair,
with blue cat
eyes. she refuses
to wear the outfit
that you bought for
her to clean in.
the leather makes
her sweat, she says.
these heels are too
tight, I can't
vacuum the steps
in these.
I can't wear them.
she yells at
you when you
leave a mess.
a spoon on the counter,
a dish
in the sink.
what is wrong
with you men,
she says.
you American men.
your bathroom
is a pigsty.
in Russia we
would shoot you
or put you in
the gulag if you
left towels
on the floor.
you try to laugh
it off, but
she says no.
go to work, get
out of this house
now. you are
a filthy man,
no wonder you have
no wife.
no one to sleep
with you.
go, go, she yells.
I have work
to do. then she
slams the door.
she's wonderful,
this lucy.

out of the woods

the animals
are getting bolder,
coming out
of the woods
as civilization
encroaches
on their land.
the other day
you saw a group
of them,
raccoons and foxes,
squirrels
and skunks,
all gathered
together smoking
cigars in lawn
chairs eating
the trash that
was set out the night
before.
sometimes a card
game
is going on.
you keep your distance,
as they dine
on what you threw
away,
sometimes they make
screeching
noises, or blow
bubbles
with their saliva
pretending
to be rabid.
that always gets
a laugh out
of the chipmunks.

practice

they took
the cat
and put it in
a shoe box.
it was a small
cat.
black and white.
the father
took a shovel
and together
with his children
and wife
they went
to the edge
of the yard
where the old
trees were
full and thick.
they said
a few words.
they buried
the cat, throwing
dirt onto
the box.
no one cried.
there would be
burials to come
for that.

on the high wire

your life
as a trapeze
artist is coming
to an end.
you've aged.
your balance
is not what it
used to be.
you wobble
on the high wire,
you can barely
climb
the rope ladder
to begin your
act.
they wait for
you to fall.
they stand
and gasp as you
begin your
walk on bended
knees.
you know it's
time to quit,
but it's what
you do. what
gives you joy,
it's impossible
to stop. so out
you go, one bare
foot in front
of the other,
between heaven and
earth is where
you live.

one more kiss

an extra
pillow can mean
everything
to a good's night
sleep,
as an extra kiss
can mean
so much at the start
of a day.
just one more
please, before
you leave.

the beginning

i see by
those dark circles
under your eyes,
that you are tired,
that you haven't
slept well
lately.
you seem to be under
a lot of stress.
the work load
you've taken on
is tremendous.
you have to pace
your self.
meditate, breathe.
keep the little
child alive in
you and you'll
be okay. okay?
i have to warn
you though, once
you get out of
kindergarten it
gets even worse.
now strap your back
pack on, and run.
you're going to
miss the bus.

the double session

I understand now,
you tell
your therapist as he
rings up
the cash register
and slams
the drawer shut.
you don't want
me to get better
do you. you just
want my money to
buy things with.
what progress have
we made.
we're still talking
about the time my
mother forgot
my birthday.
no one ever gets
better. you just
drain us dry
until we never
come back or
get better insurance.
now, now, he says.
calm down,
here sit back down.
let me get you
a tissue. water?
double sessions
are half off this
week. so when is
your birthday?

sticky

why is everything
so sticky.
my shoes
make a sucking
noise
when walking
across
the floor.
the windows
are stuck, swollen
with this
heat and rain.
I've got a penny
and a nickel
clinging
to my leg.
one eye lid
won't shut.
that spoon
won't leave
the counter, like
a bad sculpture
on
the streets
of Arlington.
even the animals
in the woods
are
plodding
through the muck.

almost perfect

you'll have
to meet her, your friend
says.
she's perfect for you.
you two are so
much alike,
so different
and so right for
one another.
she likes to read.
she likes to write.
she likes
the beach,
she hates to hike.
she's got legs up
to here, he says,
holding his
hand at his shoulder.
she once ate an
entire box
of cookies
in the middle
of the night.
lovely you say.
chocolate chip?
no, I think they
were oatmeal,
he says.
forget it, you
say, who else
you got.

blue bird

the parakeet
falls
off the swing
with hardly a sigh.
she's a glistening
blue
chalk of feathers.
black
peppered eyes.
she never
did sing,
she never did
fly.
but she was
pretty
in her cage,
upon the swing
pecking
at her own
image in the
small mirror
hitched inside.

panning for gold

on your knees
you kneel
by the stream
that rolls
down
the mountain.
your hands
hold the pan
as it sifts
what comes.
you grow
old on
the mountain
with
only flecks
of gold
to show for
your patience.
the big nugget
never comes.
just like they
told you,
when you were
cheerful,
when you
were young.

inbetween love

between
love, you drift.
your boat
slips
out without
oar
or motor,
no sail aloft
to let
the wind take
you.
there is no
map, no
sextant
to guide you.
the water
carries you
where it wants
to go.
there is nothing
you can do,
but enjoy
the scenery,
and rest.

sweet and sour

she was
the poster
child
for grape fruit.
not the sweet
kind,
but the sour
ones,
that made your
mouth twist
into the shape
of a knotted
rope.
one bite, with
or without
seed
made you cringe,
and spit.
begging
for someone
sweet to kiss.

the snow prayer

as a child
you believed
in snow.
its whiteness,
its crystalline
cold.
its ability
to cover
without
a thought
everything it
touched.
though some
spots were
reluctant
to let it be
so, in time
though
even they gave in
to its persistent
falling,
and brought
the world to
a stop under
its wintry
glow. you believed
in snow.
you still do.

going on

how easy
kindness cuts
through
the shadow
on your heart.
a word
or two
spoken
softly,
a hand laid
gently
on your arm,
a small
light goes
on,
when knowing
you don't
go on alone.

the thirst

the camel
goes long and far
without
a drink.
without so much
as a sip
of water.
trudging
down the slopes
of sand
under the white
sun.
across
the dunes,
down the flat
plains,
patient with his
dry mouth.
knowing
where the well
is, where
the water lies.
our thirsts are
so different.

the end

you knew
the second that you
criticized
this person,
that they would go
dark
and cold. silent.
you knew that when you
turned the light
on them,
speaking the truth,
that they were gone.
you knew that it
would be the end
of your time
together. you knew
for so long
that it would go
this way.
it was a matter
of time before you
could no longer
hold your tongue.
you knew how it would
go, how it
would end and so it did.

soft landing

that yellow
leaf
is about to fall.
it's tender
veins,
thin
on the tip
of a branch.
everything
will
sooner or later
go down.
you can
only hope for
a soft landing.

what to do

you could
do a lot with your
free time
this afternoon.
those books that sit
on the counter,
the words
you need to write.
there are things
that need cleaning.
the yard, always
the yard, could
use a shearing down
of it's out
of control blight.
there are lots
of things you
could do with this
free time.
but only the nap
on this cloudy
afternoon
seems right.

the move

the for sale
sign
planted
in the yard
gives
notice
that you are
leaving.
you have already
wrapped
the china
in paper,
marked the open
boxes.
kitchen,
bedroom, cellar.
you've thrown
away
everything you
don't want
to take with you.
the washer
and dryer
will convey,
as will you,
if you decide
to not come with
me, and stay.

the light

the light flickers
on and off,
but you don't
take it as
a portent
of things to come.
darkness has
its own
schedule. there
is little
you can do, but
accept it when
it arrives
wrapping it's
large cold arms
around you.
it's just
a loose wire,
the light is fine,
you hope.

winter blues

winter,
by month three,
deep into
the dark throes
of February
bores you.
enough you scream.
all the books
have been read,
the movies watched.
the stews
eaten. even
the Christmas candy
is gone.
the shovel
sits in
the hall next
to the bag of
salt.
your spot in
the lot has been
carved out
a dozen times.
the thrill
is gone.
let march arrive
with her
howling winds
and pretend
spring. you
cheer each flower
that opens
it's pretty
face.

the well is dry

the well
is dry.
the bucket
drops
down the cylinder
of bricks
and echoes
at the bottom
when striking
rock.
there is no
more
water.
the land is
dry.
you wipe
your mouth with
your sleeve
and look upwards
to an empty
blue sunned
sky.
it's time
for church you
tell
your wife.
get the kids
in the wagon.

chicken dinner

your mother knew how
to cook
a chicken.
feeding seven
kids
with one chicken
was a testament
to her culinary skills.
roasted, stuffed.
baked, grilled,
barbequed
and shredded
into a casserole.
not to mention
soup. add some
noodles, some
carrots. a loaf
of wonder bread
and you'd be filled.
that chicken would
be cleaned
down to the bone,
and she'd be
sitting there sweating,
thinking about
tomorrows dinner.

organic annie

do you have
any distilled water,
bottled and cold
from a
mountain spring,
annie asks, as she
lies on the couch
like Cleopatra
in running shorts.
no. you say, but
if you go over
to the sink
and turn the faucet
to the left,
you'll have water.
what about an
organic piece of
fruit, an apple,
or a banana,
something scrubbed
clean, and local?
you throw her a
head of iceberg
lettuce from
guatemala, and say,
this will have
to hold you
until we go
to lunch.

pay the man

you are not
good around plumbing,
or wires,
a flood
occurs
or you get shocked
at some point,
touching a loose
hot wire,
unscrewing
a pipe that
should have
been left alone.
you know your
limitations.
you can't live
without water, or
light.
it's better to
pay the man.
a lesson learned
more than
twice,
the hard way.

the window seat

someone
who looks like
someone
you used to know
sits
beside you
on the train.
do I know you,
you ask her,
folding
your newspaper
up to see
her face.
yes, she says.
we were married
once in
the eighties.
oh, right you
say, right.
I remember now.
we had a house
and a cat.
whatever happened
to that cat.
dead, she says.
liver disease.
oh that's too bad.
she was old,
she says, she had
a good run.
like us? you say.
not really she
says. do you mind
if I change
seats with you,
and move
over there,
by the window.
please. go right
ahead, you say.
you've changed
she says. you've
changed.

i do

I do
the bride
says on opening
day.
as the rice
gets tossed,
the cake
cut and the music
plays.
I do. I do.
I do.
spin forward
a few years
or so,
maybe a decade.
and then
it's all
I don't, I
don't, I don't,
much to his
dismay.

tree hugging

the tree
hugger in the red
wood forest
was having
a problem
with the eighty
five foot
around
sequoia, so
you opened
your arms
to her and said,
what about
me, to which
she said,
brushing you
aside for
a maple. no
thanks,
you're not a
tree.

the pretty flowers

she makes
you cry.
your eyes water.
you sneeze,
you sob.
you itch.
you can barely
breathe.
how can such
a pretty flower
like this
bring you
to your knees,
oh, the pretty
flowers
you have seen.

more careful

you are more
careful now.
down the steps
in the dark.
when it's wet
outside.
you watch your
step.
you grab
the rail. you
are not old
you tell
yourself.
just wiser,
more careful
with your bones.

the good days

you savor
the good days.
the good sleep.
the welcome
arms of a lover
who believes
in you.
and you in her.
it's the simple
touch of
hand on hand.
the kiss goodbye,
the kiss
hello.
you savor these
simple things.
the quiet
of life when in
love.

unopened

you bought a gift
for her
birthday.
a wonderful gift,
wrapped in
silver paper,
a red ribbon
around the box.
you wanted to see
the look in
her ireland eyes
when she opened
it, unable to
say a word,
speechless at how
nice a gift it
was. but she'll
never know.
she's moved on
to another
point of view,
someone
with a different
gift, not
the one from you.

the anger

it's sad
the anger someone
holds,
whether sibling
or friend.
unable to forgive
and move on.
holding the grudge
like a hot
a coal
to their chest
unable
to let go.
but it's not
you who's
in pain by
their absence,
but them,
determined
to keep it
all to themselves.

the game

it's a mix
of old
and young men
on the court
under
the haze of
sun, or cold.
the fifty degree
rule in effect
until ice
comes.
the decades
pass.
the shots fall
or clank
against the old
orange rims.
it's hard
to imagine
a Saturday
morning without
it, without
them,
or you being
present.
no calls are made,
no e mails
sent.
everyone
knows the time,
everyone knows
when
there is a game,
and so it goes.

a good witch

witches don't
scare
you anymore.
not the green kind,
or the pale
white ones
either.
you've seen them
all by now.
in their black
floppy hats,
on their brooms.
at their pots
boiling
up a brew.
you've handled
all their
curses and spells.
there's nothing
they can throw
at you now,
that will harm
you, or change
your mood from
well to ill.
you're done with
the wicked
witches, you need
a good one
now. for once.

the no answer

you remember
the dust bowl years.
how your farm
dried up
into silt and sand.
the horses
dead on their feet.
the tumbleweed
of souls
heading west.
hats tilted to
block the sun
and dirt winds.
you remember waiting
for rain.
waiting
for the skies to close
and break
with a storm.
you remember
seeing the land
go flat and grey.
your children's eyes
growing large
as their bodies
shrank. staring
at that last can
of peaches.
you remember
being on your knees
and praying
for an answer
and that answer
being no, again
and again.

mountain texting

the woman
who fell off the mountain
while on
her fifty mile
run
was not missed
for several hours.
everyone being so
exhausted, but
plowing upward
with their heads down,
but when they did
a head count
at the top of
peak, she didn't
answer. there was no
Susie.
everyone looked
around for her.
Susie, they yelled
out. Susie.
on the way down
they searched the shrubs,
the gullies
and crevices,
still no sign of her
until they reached
the narrow ledge where
they had to go one
by one
around the rocky
bend. there she is,
someone shouted.
I can see her yellow
hat, and matching
yellow shirt
and shoes.
and I'm pretty sure
that's her phone in
her hand. it's blinking,
I think she's
got a message.

the test

I want you to take
this test to find out
what your personality
is, she says, pushing
a pile of papers
in front of you with
a sharpened number two
pencil. go ahead.
i'll give you some time.
it will help us
understand one another
better, so that we
can have a more
fulfilling and lasting
relationship.
think through your
answers and be honest.
no, you tell her,
pushing the papers
back, but keeping
the pencil. you like
new sharpened pencils
and put it behind
your ear in a scholarly
manner.
I have the kind of
personality that doesn't
like to take these
kind of phony baloney
tests. you tell her.
you know who
I am, so forget about
it. let's go get
some ice cream.
the flavor you pick
will tell me who you are.

the postcard

the postcard
is from france
you see by the stamp
on the back.
on the front
is a Picasso
painting.
trombones
and cellos,
squared women
naked
with detached
elbows. muted
greens,
bottle blues.
it says, are we still
friends. B.
no love,
no I miss you
sweet prince.
no tender thoughts
of any sort.
just a question,
are we still
friends.
you turn the card
over, then again.
it makes
you smile and nod
yes towards
the sea.

the dead mouse

the cat
brings the dead
mouse,
hanging limp
between her teeth
and sets it
on the porch
at your feet.
she looks at you
for a second,
then lies
down in the sun,
happy perhaps,
that the day
of killing
is done.

when ill

nothing is
important
when you're ill.
when
you are sick
and can't do more
than raise
your head to take
a pill, or
gulp
down a drink of
water.
you have resigned
yourself
to the kindness
of those
you know, or don't
know.
strangers taking
turns,
keeping you
alive.
the world falls
away so easily
at times like this,
what mattered
so dearly for so
long,
means nothing now.

oh, that's funny

she never
laughed. not really.
instead
she'd say, a second
or two
too late, oh
that's funny,
and would let out
a cross grin
across her face.
it was hard
to know when she
was angry, or
just tired, or perhaps
wanting to be
alone.
she never told
you in words anything
about what
she was feeling.
except when
you made a
valiant stab
at humor and she'd
say, oh
that's funny.

the rusted bike

in a bad section
of town,
at a yard sale,
you see
a rusted bicycle
leaning
against
the tree, the chain
off,
the tires
flat,
the streamers
sticking
out of
handle bars,
are still
like wet confetti.
there is a hand
painted sign
taped to it,
ten dollars.
it was a good bike
for some kid,
some kid
now grown,
having forgotten
perhaps
the shine of something
new,
something that
could have taken
him away from here.

the colored wheel

the ferris wheel,
so high,
with colored lights.
the spokes
circling
in blues and reds.
purples
and green.
it throws a
prism of candied
light
upon the water,
upon the faces
looking up.
around it goes.
around we go.
sometimes it's
okay to pretend
to be happy.

what you know

generous
with her kisses,
for a while.
a season
passes. she grows
cold.
the leaves
fall, your heart
sinks.
you can feel
a wind
rising, you fear
what you
already know.

pass me the eel

the thought of raw
fish
does not appeal
to you, but she
insists
on sushi. eel
salmon, strange
fish
you've never
heard of.
the living goo
of the ocean
all stuffed between
the walls
of rolled rice,
seaweed paper
as black as night.
hand me the wasabi,
the soy
sauce, the ginger
and saki, give me
room before
I blow up
and fall to the floor
with chopsticks
in my eyes.

simple joy

with the light
off, and the low
blue
buzz of the television
on.
a hot plate
of food
before you.
you are wrapped
up
in the cocoon
of fall.
daylight already
gone,
the game on,
the phone off,
your fingers tickling
the keyboard
to find
words
to express this
simple joy.

the happy rain

how happy
the rain is
being rain.
being wet, being
a part
of what grows.
necessary
in the scheme
of things.
how it fills
the streams
that empty into
the gulf,
down to where
the wide
arms of a forever
deep ocean
waits.
how happy the rain
is being rain.
making the world
the world green,
staving off
our constant
thirst.

sweet whispers

you fill
the child's ears
with nursery rhymes,
sweet
nothings, gentle
promises
of love
and affection.
it's what a child
needs.
it gives it reason
to feel safe,
to believe in
the beauty
of life,
of living.
even now you long
for such
whispers, so long
removed
from your parents
hands.

a different road

she stretches
her arm out with
open hand.
she wants
you to take it.
together, you
can join
forces, take
a stand
towards something,
something akin
to love,
although friendship
might be a
better word.
and that's okay,
too.
not all roads
go in the same
direction.

what love is

there is no
such thing as love at
first sight.
lust perhaps,
or deep endearing
like,
but love, that's
another thing
altogether.
love takes a year
of seasons.
a long stretch
of mornings
and nights.
love needs the search
light
beaming bright
upon every dark
corner, and then saying,
well. alright.
then if one or
the other hasn't
run from fright,
it might be okay,
to call it love.

pip pip ole chum

to break up
the day, you walk
about speaking
in a british accent,
turning each
statement into a
question.
having a nice day,
are we, eh?
you say to the toll
booth operator,
who ignores you,
handing you change,
pointing
in the direction that
he wants you to move
your vehicle.
cheerio, you yell
out as you pull
away in your motor
car.
I say, dear woman,
do you have the time?
you say to the barista
behind the counter
in her green smock.
I believe I need
a cup of tea
about now, perhaps
a butter pie, would
be nice as well, eh?
what are you, a limey,
she says.
you don't look like
a limey. in fact
you've been coming
in here for years
ordering coffee.
usual?
why yes, my lovely lass.
top of the morning
to you.
make it a double with
a splash of cream,
if you could be
so kind. don't forget
that butter pie. warm
it up in the fire,
eh? I shall be back
momentarily as I need
to visit the loo.

setting sail

you untie
the ropes from the pier.
you set
a course.
you see that the sun
is yellow.
the river wide
and still.
soon
there will be stars.
soon
you will be back
in the ocean
from where you came.
the sails go up.
you stand,
legs locked
behind the wheel.
you can do this.

cobwebs

you have an epiphany.
maybe you
need a maid to come
in once in a while
to dust and clean.
bathrooms and kitchen.
get the tumble weeds
out from under
the bed.
vacuum the rugs, sweep.
that sort of thing.
she wouldn't even
have to be a French
maid, with the uniform
and heels, although,
when you hear
the word maid,
that does come to mind.
maybe you'll google
that, see what the prices
are. you've been saving,
and have plenty,
you think, as you look
over to the cobwebbed
corner,
at the coin jar.

the open road

the clutter,
the piles of clothes
and books
everywhere,
making
it hard to walk
three feet
in any direction.
the vines
blocking
the sidewalk,
the overhang
of the tree,
the fence that
wouldn't open so
that you could
get into
the driveway.
the shoes on the
steps,
the bed stacked
with laundry.
the dying battery
of her phone.
everything a roadblock
to her psyche,
to her soul,
to her body.
these were
things you chose
to ignore,
but now are as
clear as the open
road.

snooze alarm

people that rise
early
like to tell you
that they rise
early.
five o'clock
they say. or earlier.
no traffic,
they nod and smile.
no one's on
the road at
that time.
I'm up and out
by six.
I've got the whole
road
practically to myself.
what time
do you get up,
they ask,
yawning at four
in the afternoon?

body language

your body speaks
to you.
it has it's own way
of talking.
a language
all it's own.
it tells you in
small
whispers
what's wrong
with you, which
muscle, which
limb,
which bone
needs
caring for.
it tells you to
take a day
off. to rest.
to go away and sink
your feet
into sand,
drop your self
into a warm ocean.
take your
hand off the wheel.
how long you have
ignored
the whispers in
your fading ears,
but now, you're
ready for that talk.

a new frying pan

your new frying
pan
is a wonderful thing.
it has a shiny
blue bottom, so
hip and clean.
not a single
egg
has been cracked upon
it's non stick
surface. it's eco
friendly you tell
your dog who shakes
his head
at his dish of
dried food.
it took an hour
of research
and shopping
to find the one
that wasn't going
to poison you.
you take a picture
of it. you hold it
up to the light.
you give it
a kiss and gently
set it on
the counter
along with it's
new friend
a blue rubber
spatula before
turning off
the light and saying
goodnight.
maybe tomorrow you'll
give it a test run.

the whole world

the list of places
not to go
in the world
is getting longer
and longer.
they hate us.
we hate them.
he's got the whole
world in his
hands, is a song
that seems untrue
at the moment.
another set of hands
seems to be
winning out,
shaking free whatever
goodness might
remain.

the blueberry pie

someone leaves
a blueberry pie on
your porch.
it's hot and steaming,
the crust
still warm.
there is cinnamon
too sprinkled
about.
you look up and down
the street to
see who might have
left it.
there is no note.
no clue.
but you see no milk
either
to go with it,
no carton, no
cold bottle,
not even a glass
half filled
sitting on the porch
beside it.
how thoughtless
and mean people
can be sometimes.

the obvious

you are good
at stating the obvious.
it might
rain, you offer
as the leaves
turn up
and the wind blows.
a lighting
bolt flashes
across the sky.
it's getting cold
too, you say.
rubbing your hands
together,
putting another
long onto the fire,
closing windows,
and turning
the furnace on.
you don't love me
anymore, I can tell
you say, as she moves
her pillow
to the living room
couch
and calls her mother
to whisper something
into the phone
about a lawyer.

anticipation

when she shaved
her legs on saturday,
it was a good
sign. you just
had to walk
the line, not
say anything
that might upset
her. you might
even have
a pleasant conversation
at some point,
telling her how
nice she looked.
you might even
make her breakfast
and go shopping
with her,
holding her purse
as she tried on
dresses at the mall.

the apartment

the first apartment
you lived in
was on the bottom floor,
garden style, with a wide
glass sliding
door, and all
the amenities a
modern man could
want. the stove
and fridge were
olive green.
the stacked washer
and dryer
in the kitchen
a harvest gold.
the trash
room was not far,
a mere three steps
in the hall.
the rent was two
hundred and thirty
five dollars
a month, including
utilities.
the walls were thin,
and you had to
place broom sticks
in the windows
so that the burglars
and thieves
could not break
in, but it was a good
place to start
with your plaid
couch and dried flowers.
your stereo playing
margaritaville,
the galleon ships
sailing on the yellow
painting above
it all.

ticket to heaven

the friendly
teenager approaches
you on the boardwalk,
glistening with sun
and youth, a bundle
of pamphlets under
his arm. he wants to
explain Jesus to
you, his birth,
his death, his
message
and resurrection.
he wants to
give you hope,
save you, give you
a ticket to heaven.
he has all the answers.
you nod, and smile.
you listen. he is
the puppy off a leash,
having yet to
know a single flea.

no one there

there is no one
there.
the rooms are empty.
the lights
don't work.
no water runs
through
the cold pipes.
the floor boards
creak as you step
across them.
what were you
looking for in her?
how could you have
lived there?
she's not
there. she never was.
you imagined
her. perhaps,
she imagined you.

out of sight

your mother would
stand at the door
as you'd leave.
watching you get into
the car, making
the u turn
out of the driveway,
she'd blink
the porch light
and wave, never
closing the door
until you were
down the road, out
of sight.
now she watches you
from the couch
in the nursing home,
with tears in her
eyes, waving,
with your gift cookies
in her lap,
watching again,
until you are out
the door, out
of sight.

for the good of all

you can only
bite your tongue
so long,
swallowing your pride
and blood.
keep silent
in the midst of
fools, even fools
that are loved
ones. given
time, each to his
own breaking
point and point
of departure,
for the good of
all.

another way

if the new
born
never learn
history. never see
a gun
or bomb,
or weapon
of mass or
singular destruction,
will it
find a way
to kill, or maim.
will it raise
it's hand in anger,
or strike
a loved one?
if the child
never knows of war,
will it
learn to be
like us, or
go another way?

i miss you too

fearing being alone
again
for the holidays,
not having that special
someone to share
the joy of Christmas
with. someone
to ring in the new
year with, she joined
six online dating
sites. cupid, fish,
match, harmony
and chemistry,
elder dot com.
the same faces were
on all of them,
but it didn't deter
her. luke warm meeting
after meeting went on.
the awkward and boring
conversations
about cats
and baseball.
healthcare.
men pointed at
sores on their arms,
asking, does that look
infected to you.
they combed the long seven
hairs over their heads
with wishful thinking.
how she dodged the kisses,
avoiding
the wet lips and
darting tongues of
trolls and frogs
in that strange
parking lot farewell.
a hug, a peck on the cheek,
a pat on the back,
sending them on
their bewildered ways.
she deemed it the march
of the penguins.
the poor, the lonely,
the limping sick,
the desperate,
the still secretly
married men. soon, after
a week, she grew
weary of it all. young girls
do grow weary, though
she was hardly young,
in fact she fudged
her age and settled
on forty nine. close enough,
she thought.
it's the internet,
who cares?
after a month
she quit everything
and called up her old
boyfriend, frank,
and asked him to forgive
her for calling him
the worst human being
to have ever drawn a
breath on the face
of the earth. he said.
okay. I miss you too.
let's go away for Christmas
though, so we don't have
to be around your family.
she gave him socks.
he gave her a gift
certificate to target.
good enough.

the fever

when you were nine
or ten
you developed a fever
for the girl
next door.
she was a year
a older than
you, but
way beyond what
you could imagine.
you gave her a ring.
a ring that you
found lying
in the street,
you shined it
up with ivory
liquid in the kitchen
sink. it was the
only period of time
in your life
when you were not
afraid to give
a girl a ring.
but you were young
then, maybe nine,
maybe ten
and you had a fever
for her. you are
still waiting for
that fever to appear
again.

how's your love life?

your neighbor,
in her bathrobe,
her lips around an
almost empty
bottle of
pinot noir
knocks at your door
and asks you
if she could borrow
some clam
dip.
she's having a guest
over soon,
and doesn't have
time to go to the
store.
you tell her to hold
on. you open
the refrigerator
and scan the shelves.
no clam dip, you
tell her.
this makes her cry.
she sits
down on the porch.
do you mind if I smoke,
she asks,
taking out a pack
of cigarettes.
I don't even like clam
dip, she tells you
blowing smoke
into the darkening
sky. I don't know
why I told him I
would make it. he loves
clam dip.
what kind of man
makes that kind of
a request to a woman?
I don't think I can
date men anymore, she
says, wiping her
eyes with her terry
cloth sleeve.
what about you, she
says. how's your love
life?

no time

the three minute
egg.
the five minute
conversation,
the give me a second,
I'm almost
ready.
do you have a
minute?
I need a second
of your time.
wait a minute.
this will only take
a minute. i'll
be there
in a new York minute.
we're late.
you have no time
for me.
your time is almost
up.

the black suit

your friend
buys a new suit.
black.
a nice suit.
stylish.
it's on a hanger
waiting.
it's a funeral
suit.
the shoes too.
black
as stones.
the reflection
of his
hand
upon them as
he sets them
in the closet.
waiting.
it's his last
suit.
it fits
perfectly.
sometimes he
tries it on
and thinks of
the words
he'll say,
when the day comes
to put it on.
practicing
the eulogy.

she's done

you can't
make her speak.
or explain,
you can't put
her hand
to paper
and pen,
you can't hold
her mouth
to the phone
and get words
out.
she's mute,
she's mum on
the subject of
you and her.
she's done.

the maroon camaro

the memory
of that rusted car.
its
baby moons,
and torn seats,
the eight cylinders
of which only
five seemed to working.
the billow
of black smoke,
the belch of
white smoke,
the smell of engine
oil, the puddles
of its
fluids
always leaving a
trail.
but what a car
it was. your car.
the car you washed
on Saturday morning,
waxed it to a shiny
sheen.
the car
you drove to be
seen in, perfect
as it sat under
the bright parking
lot lights
at the hot shoppes,
the radio
playing.

if she were bread

if she was
bread,
she'd be a warm
and toasty
baguette,
right out of
the oven.
awaiting you
to break her
gently in
your hands to
be nibbled
on as the steam
rises into
your grateful
lips.

kill me a cow, please

on a fish diet
for two days, you are
sick of fish.
the way it smells.
its pale
meat. it's flavorless
ways. you dream
of steaks on the grill.
bloody and rare.
seared with flames.
salted and covered
in mushrooms, but
no. you fork
the feathered flesh
of cod into your
mouth, getting
hungrier with each
weightless bite, not
even those stalks
of broccoli are
getting the job done.

at the end of the day

you see
the man who drives
the mr. softee truck
at the liquor store.
he's wearing
his white
pants and white
t-shirt,
greyed by the summer
heat.
you see the strawberry
stains.
the chocolate
and nuts
on the edge of
his pants,
his cuffs.
he doesn't see you
as he puts
on the counter
a pile of nickels
and quarters
to get his
pint of bourbon.
it's better for
the both of you to
not say hello.

self help

more food,
more wine, more
useless purchases
of things you
already possess
in duplicates,
more sex,
more fun, more
whipped cream
on the desserts
of life.
more exercise.
all of it, a
deeper issue
being medicated,
so what else is
new?

the sunfish

the lure
of a yellowed
sunfish,
flat
as
the sun itself
over
cape cod
bay
pulls your
small body
into the soft
still
water.
your hand
reaches out
to touch it,
and it does
as your feet
sink
into a hole.
with frantic
pause
your eyes and
nose
fill with the cold
bay, early
in the morning
where there is
no one up
or around
to save you,
but somehow,
you are saved
though unsure
why,
even until this
day.

human touch

how relieved
she must be to be
done
with men.
men, of all sorts,
men
like me.
wanting love
and affection.
the nerve,
the audacity
to want such
far fetched things,
such things
as conversation,
a hand on
a shoulder,
the simple touch
of a knee.

the arrest

because she had
a badge
and a whistle,
a uniform
with a smart
hat, you let her
have your
way with you
in the back seat
of her squad
car.
she turned
the lights on
and with her
foot was able
to hit the siren
at the appropriate
moment.
she was rough,
but never broke
the law
or crossed the line
with her baton,
or cuffs,
always reading
you your rights
before making
an arrest
and taking you
into custody.

his garden

your father
and his tomatoes.
the brown paper bag
stuffed full.
how can you say
no to what he's
grown.
some peppers too.
an ear or three
of corn.
he's been growing
them all his
life, better
in the garden
than he's been
with children, or
wife.

tomorrow

you drive all
night
to get there,
to see the sun rise
over the north
atlantic
ocean.
you dig your
feet in the sand,
and let the water
wash cold
around your
ankles.
it's here where
you go to start
anew, give
birth to tomorrow.

the gunfight

you are called
out at high noon
to have a gun fight
in the middle
of a dirt street
that runs through
the center of town.
but you don't even
own a gun and have
to borrow one
from your girlfriend
lily. it's pink.
hardly a gun at all,
in fact. it's more of
a derringer that she
pulls out of her
enormous bra.
you're not even sure
if the bullet
will reach the man
who stands on
the other side,
laughing and twisting
his black mustache.
so, you yell out
to him, hey I'm sorry
I called you a cheating
no good nitwit.
let me buy you a drink
okay. we good?
to which he says,
okay.

red lights all the way home

red lights
keep
you from moving
forward.
there's a string
of them
down route one,
route five,
route four.
the exits
are blocked,
the clover leafs
are vines
tangled.
you can only wait
for her
to give you
the green light
to move on
the straight
and narrow path
you seek.

the young

they are bees,
these children
lost in their game.
tossing balls,
and rings, jumping
as if jumping
and singing as
one was not insane.
how free they are
from us, still fresh,
without our
ways of thinking,
may the long
summer of their
youth keep them
there.

happy poem

forced, or challenged
to write a happy
poem, you lie down
on the floor and let
the dog lick your
face where you just
ate a chocolate
donut. the dog
is happy, you're
happy. maybe now,
she's happy too
and you can get
back to dipping your
pen into the ink
of angst
and blood, sweat
and tears.
the deep well of
memory as it surges
forward as your
day grows dark.

pollen blues

the world
wakes up sneezing
and blowing
it's nose,
coughing
and clearing
their throats.
there is a line
at the drug store,
of stuffy
heads.
people are
turning their
red eyes
upward to put
drops in.
Kleenex flies
in the wind.
god bless you
echoes through
the valley.

apple tree

you shake
the day clean of yesterday.
the sun
is up. the air
is cool
and sweet like
a new apple
in your hand.
it has a crunch to
it as you
take a bite.
how nice to have
the sour
apples gone,
the crab
apples, the ones
full of worms
that lie
on the ground
trying to trip you
up.

the heart grows fonder

abstinence does
make the heart grow
fonder,
as does a hot
cooked meal,
and being left
alone
to do the things
you like
to do. marriage
is best
in separate houses,
different states,
large, enormous
beds,
with escape clauses
and trap
doors when
the fight begins.
quiet children
too, make life easier,
as does those
who have their
own, god bless
that child.