three dinks

without a glass
of wine
in her hand she was
helpless,
quiet, almost sad.
it was hard to move
about the room
until
the light went
on, the drink
went down and absorbed
some of the darkness
that she
stumbled through.
by drink three
a smile
broke out,
the charm and wit
rose like thin pink
balloons,
the eyes even sparkled
when she winked
and took your
hand, suddenly
realizing
that you were even
there beside her.

her back pages

a notebook
found under the front
seat of her car.
wired, sticky,
bent. lying warped
on the wet carpet,
the shell of
a lipstick tube
beside it.
strands of her
long hair.
a small part of you
wants
to leave it there,
to not see
what is written.
but the larger
part of you opens
it to read,
peeling the pages
carefully apart.
you are in there,
the harsh words of
love scorned.
others too.
an honest sketch
of why love failed,
why love
grew at all.
the pages are darkened
with thick
blots of ink, coffee
rings cover the sketches
of birds,
buildings. empty
hearts with
cracks down the middle.
lighting bolts going
nowhere.
some lines
go unfinished, half
thoughts, written murmurs
of distress,
crumbs left behind
of what was in
her mind. carefully
you close it.
you've seen enough.
you it slip back
to where it was.

how quickly

how quickly we forget the dead,
setting them aside,
their lives receding
not unlike each low tide,
the weight of grief
too much to bear for long.
there are bills to be paid,
work done, the dog must
be walked. there is food
on the stove, still warm.
we must sit down to eat,
turn the page of
the news, move on.

you'll be fine

the nurse wants to help
you as she stares into her
lap top asking questions,
never once looking up
to see the hives on your
face, the bleeding from
your nose, the twitching
legs and arms. the doctor
will be in shortly she
says, keeping her distance.
the doctor arrives, staring
into his laptop, says open
wide, then sticks a padded
stick onto your tongue,
say ahhh, then
peeks into each ear,
your nose, shines a light
into your bloodshot eyes.
no worries, he says.
you have three options,
pills or surgery or wait
one day until you die,
exit to your left,
pay the nurse,
you'll be fine.

to mute

with your magical
new power
you can walk about
the world
and mute whomever
is annoying
you.
one push of an
imaginary button
silences
your critics,
the nags, the angry,
the verbose
and bellicose
those who
don't agree with
anything you've
said. the whole day
long.
mute mute mute.
the lips keep moving
but there is
nothing but the sweet
sound
of quiet coming out.

dancing alone

dancing alone
makes
one appear to be
crazy, not
quite all there,
but add in one
or two, or a large
group
of people
gyrating about
the floor
and everything is
okay. it's
sad how you
love to dance
alone
and not be accepted.

the christmas break up

you sadly
break up a month before
Christmas.
you grieve
over a gallon of rocky
road
ice cream, with oreos
crunched and crumbled
into the bowl.
but you are sort
of relieved too, despite
sobbing into
the giant bowl while
shooting another stream
of whipped cream
into the mix.
no shopping this year
for girl stuff.
no calendars with horses
running across
a field,
no baubles, or lingerie,
no books
or massage oils, no
robes that don't
fit, no bottles of bubble
bath that smell like
lemons,
or the ocean.
no emergency kit for
her car, or home,
no gift certificates
to happy nails, or stay fit,
no walking around
Victoria secrets
inspecting the merchandise
that she might
look good in.
okay. some things you
will miss.

she's got abs

she shows you her muscles.
lifts her
shirt,
and says, knocking
on the rippled
abs,
rock hard,
I do
four hundred sit ups
a day.
I run ten miles,
swim five,
bike fifty.
I'm on my second
protein shake,
coconut and lamb's
blood, garlic
and kale,
some dirt for texture.
nice, you say,
handing her a book
she might like
to read.
what's this
she says?
a book you tell her.
oh,
can you sum it up
for me,
I really don't
have the time.

the fall

if love
is a white bird
flying
in the sky,
each of us
on either side
keeping
us aloft,
what is
a bird with one
wing
but a body
falling,
spiraling
crashing
to the ground.

the lion

even caged,
declawed
and fed
live prey
behind the bars,
beyond
the moat,
the electric fence
barb wired,
the jagged stones,
the lion
is patient,
waiting for
the moment
to take
back what he has
lost.

she can't give

a cold
hand is still a hand.
as
is the heart
iced
over
still a heart.
but you
need more,
not a hollow love,
a shallow
pool
of affection.
you need
more,
you need all
the things
that she can't
give.

not a word

not a word,
a peep, a whisper,
or a note
slid under
your bolted
door.
no graffiti
on the bridge,
no editorial
in the paper,
nothing to let
you know
where you stand,
whether to stay
or leave.
your life
is in limbo.

a bowl of soup

the warm
slice of bread
she hands
you, the bowl
of soup,
the spoon on
a tray,
a folded linen
napkin,
it's enough love
shown
for
one day,
for the both of
you,
at least for
today.

the black box

the phone
on your mother's kitchen
wall.
a black box
with a numbered wheel
to hook
your fingers in,
the licorice tangled
line
that reached
the basement stairs,
stretching on
forever. it
held whispered
voices in
thin wire
where you told
Julie, the love
of your short life
how much you
really cared
how you hoped that this
weekend
she wouldn't be
so shy,
so scared.

the cardinal

the cardinal,
red
as a drop
of blood, spread
wings,
startles
the grey block
of whitened trees,
the ash bleak
landscape
of winter.
this tells you
something
about the world.
this slash
of color
when all seems
lost.

the birthday

drunk out of your mind
on egg nog
and rum
you string a thousand
lights along
the roofline
of your house.
you blow up a giant
balloon sized
snow man,
tethering him into
the ground.
the electric reindeer
and santa
wobble back and forth
as the music
blares from
the loudspeakers.
you attach a lit candle
to the dog's head.
you paint your body
like a candy
cane and run about
naked in the snow
and ice.
only ten more days
till Christmas,
the birth
of Christ.

the find

the leg, part of a leg,
the ankle
black hoof,
a sharp
ebony stone,
still intact,
the blood fresh
the white bone sheared
of skin, the string
of muscle,
of fur.
just these
remains you find
as you walk
through the woods,
walking stick in
hand
nearly stumbling
upon
your find. you look
around and can't
help
wondering if you
are next, if it's
your turn
now.

the next great flood

is anything scandalous
anymore.
the priest,
the teacher, the doctor.
the rabbi
with a peep
hole carved into
a bathroom door.
the president,
the mayor too,
interns on their knees,
or swinging
from chandeliers,
policemen
with their selective
brooms,
does anyone walk
the straight and narrow
line
these days.
or has it reached
the point where
the earth is ready
for the next
great flood.

the un naming

i have other things
to do.
places to be.
the schedule is full,
but i'd rather just sit
here for now.
the woods are so interesting,
more so
without her
pointing things
out, naming each
bird, or flower, or tree.
I'd rather not
know these things,
I'm happy and content
to just sit with elbows
on the sill
un naming everything
that lies about.

in the wind

you see pieces of her
floating in the air
like ash
across the brown meadow.
that dress she wore,
a smile,
a shoe,
a golden clasp.
the brush she held
in her hand,
counting.
the wind disperses
her.
tears gently at the memory
of who
you thought she
was, not the truth.

the furnace

all day you stand
at the furnace, shoveling
coal,
questioning your life.
your face is black.
your arms stained.
you cough and wipe
your eyes with a grey
rag.
the fire burns inside
the squared mouth.
it roars,
telling you something
in a language all
its own. you bend
and lift another shovel
full of coal,
throwing it in,
making the fire grow.
there are no answers
to anything,
there is just this that
needs to be done.

no need to call

it's just a flesh wound.
this will heal.
see, it only bleeds a little.
I can stitch it up
myself,
wipe it clean,
there's hardly any blood
at all.
although I feel weak.
I think i'll stop and rest here.
tell her, if you see her,
that it didn't hurt
at all, my heart is fine,
just a flesh
wound. tell her I'm okay
and moving on,
no need to worry,
no need to call.

loose ends

the loose ends
need to be tied.
the laundry
folded, the dishes
put away.
bills paid.
calls to be returned.
there are floors
that need
sweeping, beds made.
necessary things to
be done,
to keep
the ship afloat
and sailing onward,
or is it drifting,
into each
new day,
each rising sun.

boy in the car

the boy's face against the window.
pressed
into a ghoulish mask,
a childish whim,
his tongue out,
his fingers in his ears.
his teeth like little tombstones
grinding at the glass.
he will live his life
then die, possibly forgotten,
but the picture of him
will last forever.
that's the world we're
living in now.

intentional heartache

it's a sterile room.
of greens and blue,
nothing too bold
to frighten you.
the machines hum
gently, like wired
angels with lights
for eyes. buttons
for noses, gauges
for mouths.
the doctor will be
with you shortly.
put this on, no,
the other way,
now lean back
and breathe deeply.
give me your finger.
raise your arm.
have you traveled outside
the country lately,
are you on any
medications, drugs
or alcohol. have
you thought of hurting
yourself. no, you
say to all of it.
hurting myself?
not intentionally.
but there is pain
over one person in
particular. I may be
to blame for that.

the cold war

your edge has softened.
your gums hurt.
you have no time to argue
politics
with the boys
outside the coffee shop.
it's cold out, too
cold to sit there
with your knees,
and listen.
you wished you had worn
a sweater under
this thin coat.
what about global
warming
a woman yells out
from behind her
latte mustache, pulling
up a chair with
her shivering poodle.
yes, you mumble,
feeling a breeze blow up
your pant leg, where
is it?

the long day

the men in the park,
part of the benches, part
of the wood, in
their overcoats,
the long grey limbs
hold each
other up, listen
without hearing,
see without eyes.
the lives they lead
are never over, just
reinvented, going on
and on, to those who
have time to listen,
sometimes a swan
across the pond
will do, or a flock of
pigeons at their boots,
close by.

the vulture called time

be strong, he says.
when you fall
and linger on the ground.
too tired to start again.
get up
and go. come on.
take my hand.
let me help you.
so you do rise.
you do get up and go
on.
what else is there
to do, but lie
there for the hungry dogs
and the vulture
called time.

faith

the boy who dies
and comes back with story
of visiting heaven
is an interesting tale.
you'd like to believe it.
how he had conversations
with st. peter
and jesus, mary and joseph.
his sister that died
at birth. you want to believe
in the angels that he saw,
the beauty and endless
glory of what heaven is
supposed to be.
you'd like to believe the boy,
the book, the movie,
the celebrity that he has
become. but like Thomas
you need to put your fingers
into the wounds
where nails stretched out
His arms and wrists as
he was hung.

let's go for a ride

your girlfriend
from ohio shows up
at your house in a stolen
car.
she beeps the horn
as she yells, hurry up,
hop in, they're after me.
you can hear the sirens
approaching.
you grab your coat
and hat and dive into
the front seat,
hey nice ride, hot?
it is she says, the
cops have been chasing me
through five states.
hungry? sure, you say,
there's a drive thru
burger place up the street,
you tell her, make a left.
perfect she says,
shifting into gear
and laying rubber on
the road. so what next, you
ask, grabbing the dashboard
and buckling your belt.
I don't know. she says,
grinning, rob a bank,
maybe?

the race horse

the race horse wet
with sweat and mud from
the circle of fire that he
sprinted on
lumbers in a hard limp
to the barn,
a last race to be won,
or lost. the gamblers
in the stand tear
their ticket stubs in half,
waving with both hands
at the track.
green fields await,
perhaps, if he heals,
if there is money to see
him through
those golden years, those
mythical foggy
days ahead.

flee

the snake
rattles before
it strikes,
the bangles
on her wrist
jingling
as she rises
in a tight curl.
baring
her shiny fangs
wet
with unspoken
poison.
there is no
reasoning with her,
no apologies
for bothering
her world.
miss manners
or dear abby,
have no say
in this matter.
no sage advice.
it's time
to run.

change of scenery

a change of scenery
would be nice.
we don't need to go far.
a different couch to
sit on, a new bed
to lie upon.
a different table
to spoon cereal into
my mouth. different
spoons.
a new window to stand
next to and stare
out at the stars,
as planes fly by.
a new house
with a different yard.
a new shade tree. different
fallen leaves.
new people to talk to.
it would be nice to
change everything,
everything that is,
but you. don't change.

the daughter

your daughter,
the one you never had
is still with you.
somewhere in your heart
she exists.
a strange notion
for a man to have,
now unmarried,
your son grown
and well on his way
to his own life,
but you can feel the
phantom kiss
upon your cheek
from her lips,
you can hear
the talks you would
have had, the joy
of seeing her become
a woman, teaching
you things in your old
age that men
never understand.

me and you

there are happy endings.
you've read about them
in books. fables, myths,
romance novels to name
a few. but real life
seems to come up short.
you aren't sure why,
or how things fall apart,
but they do. for example
take us, me and you.

song and dance men

you remember child hood
friends
that were already song
and dance men,
dapper happy go lucky fellows,
skipping through
the halls of school
and life, with a casual
merriment.
always with the girl,
the best and brightest,
the shiny apple of each class,
or so it seemed.
and even now, decades later
when you see them
on the street,
they still want to tap
their shoes,
sing a happy tune,
give you an all
is well wink and slap on
the back, although
by now, you both know
better.

come on nancy

one job you had
at eighteen was pushing
a wheelbarrow
full of wet concrete
to the bricklayers
along the rising red
stiff wall.
a yellow sun hung
like an egg on the edge.
they cursed you,
laughing at how you
struggled to keep
the hair out of your
eyes, your skinny arms
balancing the sloshing
weight, as you
angled the trough
along a zigzagged line
of boards
towards the waiting
men. come on nancy,
ain't got all day,
sweetheart,
they bellowed
their thick hands
holding cigarettes
and coffee, at seven
a.m.. you worked two
days, then came back
on the third to get
your check of fifty-six
dollar and thirty
three cents, net.

everyone

the world keeps wanting
to bury you.
to find a way
to take you down,
gravity is always
tugging at your coat
under the pull
of a cold moon,
holding you to the ground.
the smallest of microbes
leach on for the ride
and burrow into
the soft pink skin that
keeps you whole.
you can hear the shovels
working at night, digging
holes in the hard earth,
getting ready for
everyone, not just you.

one more week

you don't understand
the gravity of the situation
she tells you,
shoulders squared her
green eyes hauntingly
beautiful in anger.
you have to change your
ways or we're done.
you ponder in silence
her ultimatum.
she might as well be
asking that tree out
the window to not be
a tree. but you tell
her yes, of course you
will. you'll change.
you'll make this work.
I'm gong to start right
now, you tell her.
you figure you have at
least week before this
happens again. dinner?
you ask her.

new laces

your shoelace
breaks
early in the morning.
too short
to tie now,
or knot, it
surprises you,
this failure
of things, of
people.
but you move on.
new laces
new shoes.
new loves.

savings

short on cash
you put your hand
in between the cushion
of your couch.
you find thirty
seven cents.
you put it back.
the day is not lost.

eighty eight

in her white
blood smeared smock.
her hair matted down by
a black net, the short
boned woman
calls your number.
thin or regular she asks
of your ham
in her rough voice,
taste, do you want
a taste, she says
holding out a sliver
of pink marbled
meat over the counter
that she can barely
reach. you take
it from her plastic
gloved hand and eat
it. pound,
she says, did you say
a pound, nodding
as you nod yes.
cheese? provolone?
swiss? provolone
is on sale.
give me a half you
tell her. she weighs
your slices then wraps
and stamps, folds.
she slides the packages
into your
hand. enjoy she says.
eighty-nine she yells
out, then eighty-nine
again.

the surgeon

the surgeon
is in the business
of removing
things.
taking out what
ails you,
whether heart or
liver,
stones,
or kidney,
but he can't take
everything.
at some point
he has to pull
his bloodied hands
away from
your body and say
enough.
knowing when to
say enough
is crucial.
not unlike a love
gone wrong.

the last twinkie

after eating
the last twinkie from
a box
of thirty six, you
decide to eat
natural.
you stare at the trees
that stand
in the woods beyond
your yard.
yum, you say
to yourself.
tree bark.
god help me.

the wounded

the wounded
animal,
his prints of blood
leading
the dogs
to him,
shivers in
the white drift
of snow.
he waits, as
born,
alone.
life being
short.
death
being slow.

come with me

she bumps you in
the street,
spinning with words,
pulling her
hair. her shoes
are worn,
her coat is unbuttoned
in hurry.
her eyes glow wild,
witch like
and black.
you ask her, why,
where are you going
in such a state.
frenzied like wind
encircling the papers
and leaves
upon the ground.
she grinds her teeth
and whispers,
I'm running out of
time, we all are.
run with me, be
scared. we must find
it soon, or else.
please, help me.
we can search together
for the truth.
for love.
we are near the edge,
ready to tumble over.
come with me, there is
so little time.

last will and testament

your mouth is dry
from medication.
your heart races.
you feel dizzy so
you grab a pen
and a piece of paper
and begin to write
your will.
to whom it may concern
you begin.
you scratch that out.
last will and testament
you write in
script at the top.
you ball that up
and start once more.
my will, you write.
to my son, he gets
everything
except for a few
close friends who
get small cash awards
for being lovers
or just friends you
liked to be with,
or talk to. you start
with twenty thousand
dollars to divide up.
one sister gets a
thousand dollars,
you like her a lot,
while another gets
just one dollar. too snarky
and gossipy. once
having made you a
batch of cookies,
but let her daughter
take all the chocolate
morsels out.
your poetry friend
in ohio with nice
legs gets five
hundred, while a woman
in seattle gets
three hundred and fifty, which
could increase at some
point.
your buddy down
the street gets
a hundred dollars,
sometimes he's not real
friendly and he still
has your snow shovel, but
you liked talking sports
with him.
the phone rings, it's
your mother asking how
you are, you put
her down for a thousand.
you dog comes up to
you and sits in your
lap, licking your chin
as you talk on the phone.
you put him down
for a thousand too.

a slow dance

it's a slow
dance
you are having
with this love of
yours.
avoiding her feet,
so has to not
injure them.
she keeps a small
distance
between you.
safe and telling.
it's hard to know
who's leading,
who's following,
but for now
you both hear
the same music.

the cleansing

you start with
a glass of water
and air.
you stand naked
in the sun
and begin again.
you set aside
your knowledge,
your wisdom
your angst.
you let fear
slip away,
your ambitions
melt.
you breathe in
you breathe out.
you start here
to rid yourself
of this world.
you begin
to rebuild.

the seal girl

she is a seal
in the water.
sleek
and slippery
in her rubber
hat, her rounded
shoulders,
her muscular
legs, the feet
kicking in a
rapid splash.
she is happy
swimming free
style, arm
over arm,
lap after lap.
if only with
her feet on
the ground,
could she always
be like that.

nothing new

you are tired
of naked people
on t.v.
the movies too.
the internet.
why aren't we
used to this
by now.
we have mirrors.
we have wives,
or girlfriends.
we've seen every
shape and form.
we know what
women look like
and they know
what we look like
too.
what's all fuss about,
please, put
on your robe,
it's nothing new.

the kindness of others

how kind
people are when you
are sick.
under
the weather.
coughing.
how sweet of them
to bring you
soups
and tea,
how thoughtful
they can be
to give advice
and leave you alone
to suffer
with your runny
nose,
and itchy eyes.
the world needs
ill people
to soften the hearts
of those
not so.

your flat world

your world is flat.
no exploration
is needed. no ships
need to set
sail under
your flag.
you are safe
with where you are.
in this language,
under this sun,
set
in your ways.
you don't care what
lies beyond the edge.
you have
no interest in
what they do, or
say. this is enough,
this flat world,
it's where you want
to stay.

the mentor

her halo,
has slipped and fallen
to the ground.
you pick
it up and ask her,
is this yours.
she says, it used
to be.
but not anymore.
I'm tired
of being good,
exhausted by living
the me
that they think I
am.
I want to be more
like you,
carefree and selfish,
full of sin.
happy with where
i'm going,
where i've been,
teach me how,
show me
where to begin.

the stopped watch

when love stops
you pocket heartache
easily.
slipping it
into a vest pocket
like a watch
that no longer ticks
time.
you carry it all
day, feeling the weight
of it
against your own
heart. when people
stop to ask you
how your love is
you take the watch out,
cupping it in
your hand
and smile, saying
she's fine.
just fine.

on your knees

these empty
rooms,
bare walls.
cold blue,
and soft greys match
the wintry
feeling you have
sunk into.
you get dressed
and leave.
you walk,
hands in your
pockets.
finally
the trees have
exhaled themselves
of leaves.
a silvery
stream runs
along
the woods where
you walk.
you want to be
left alone,
which is fine
for now,
internally
on your knees.

trust me

you don't trust
online
banking, or ordering
products
on the phone,
you aren't even
fond of valet
parking,
or giving
the house key
to your neighbor
when you go on
vacation,
in case something
goes horribly
wrong.
you are not a
trusting person
by nature,
having learned
the hard way
since the day
you were born.

the hallmark card

as a child
your Christmas list
used to be long.
a pop gun,
a jack in
the box. a horse
on springs
to ride,
a hat,
some boots,
a ball,
a fort of toy
soldiers,
candy and gum.
simple things,
that made your eyes
light up
like lights
on the tree.
easy at that age
to be made
content,
happy.
now the list
is just
one thing,
nothing that can
be bought
in a store, just
you being here
with me.

the ping

no one is left
alone
for too long.
it's all
about the phone.
everything
and everyone
keeps prodding
you to look
and look
to see what
the ping is all
about.
the buzz.
the vibration
in your coat
hanging on
your belt.
you miss silence
and yet it's
hard to
turn it off.

last resorts

the top
shelf has all
the things you'll
never use.
cans of rice
and chicken,
strange stews.
boxes of dried
goods.
powdered this
and that.
pasta in open
boxes
stale beyond
repair.
it's the end
of the world
food,
last resorts
when
the snow is deep,
the floods
rise,
or the earth
opens to swallow
us whole.

come soon

come soon.
fly in. fly east.
fly south.
use the stars
the moon.
spread your wings
and float
down
to where I am.
come soon.
the weather
outside is cold,
but no worries,
don't be concerned,
a fire
burns bright
inside my heart,
come soon.

she's sick of love

she's sick of
love.
she's tired of
the aches,
the pains
the rattle of her
rib cage
when the heart
breaks.
there is no
prescription,
not even rest
or sleep,
or time.
the doctor has
no cure
for this in his
black bag.
she's sick of
love.
and for you
and your plans,
it's bad timing.
it's too bad.

your cold heart

your silence
is deafening. the way
you move
through
your day
without a word
to say
or write, or
send across
some electronic
device.
you're empty,
a barrel
without an echo,
I can't even
hear your cold
heart beating
when you get like
this, not a
breath will
fog the mirror.

mother nature

there is a part of you
who likes
to shovel snow.
even now, at this age.
the challenge
of clearing a path
and the car,
the filled road
makes you happy.
you like the bright
sun against
the white of drifts.
the sweat inside
your coat and clothes.
the dig and lift
of your arms, your
back, your boots
gripping, then sliding
on the cold ground.
it's a primitive
thing, defeating nature.
making it submit to
your will.
yes. you are victorious.
now you can go out
for coffee instead
of making it
yourself.

not about you

she's crying.
so you ask her why.
this is a mistake.
this makes her
cry even harder.
tissue? you say,
grabbing
the emergency box
from the closet.
she shakes her
head no.
wiping her
eyes with the sleeve
of her sweater.
leave me alone,
she says,
sobbing
in her tearful voice.
did I do something,
you ask,
bending over
to touch her shoulder.
can we talk about
this. no. what do
you care anyway?
okay, okay. you
say, backing away.
I'm going out for
milk and bread,
which makes her yell
out, two per cent,
and pick up
some detergent,
but not the scented
kind, oh
and don't buy any
more cat food.
which makes her start
crying again.
okay, you say,
relieved this is
not about you,
but fluffy who has
escaped
once again.

the squirrels know

you stick a toe
out the door
to test the weather.
you don't
need any Doppler
radar
or barometer
or wind
chimes even
to tell you what's
up.
your toe is
your indicator
of hot or cold.
rain or snow.
that and the squirrels
across the
street in their
hats and gloves,
red Christmas
vests, holding small
shovels.
they seem to
have a clue,
they seem to know.

ground love

sometimes you
are razor sharp in your
perception
of people's feelings
and emotions.
you can sense
the rise, or drag
of the balloon
of love.
but with her it
was different.
she never floated more
than a foot off
the ground,
she could climb in
or climb out
at will,
as you often did
as well.
it was not a soaring
love,
a love meant
for the stars, no,
it was earth bound.
barely above
the grind of
the world, just
slightly above
the ground.

raising the dead

you bring
the dead alive
in dreams.
you put flesh back
on their bones.
eyes where
they need to be.
you hang a hat
on their head,
stuff them
into overcoats
and shoes,
you make them
whole again.
you cry for them
and they
seem sympathetic
to your plight,
your settled sorrow,
having to miss
those you've loved
and doing this
night after
night after night.

lost and found

nothing is
truly lost.
not the watch,
or ring,
or keys.
everything is
somewhere
waiting to be
found.
same goes
for you
and for me.

in the mud

the mud
wants your shoe.
how it sticks
and pulls,
your foot nearly
slipping
from the boot
as you lift
and tug
your weight forward.
there is always
something
or someone trying
to hold you
back, it seems,
though it was
you who stepped there
to begin with.

the cure

they can
build you a new
leg.
save you from
disease.
plug in
a new heart,
you can hear birds
in the trees
with your
fresh ears,
or even
see for the first
time
the woman you
hold dear,
but these miracles
pale greatly
to the cure
for evil
that lives in
a man's mind.

one minute clinic

next to you
in the waiting room
is a man
the color
of beets. he's moaning
while he prays
with his rosary beads.
to the left
of him is
a woman
wearing a surgical
mask
and tapping
her swollen
hand
against her seat.
behind you
is a small boy
cover in pox,
he's sweating,
breathing heavily
in his father's lap.
across from you
an old woman is curled
up in a fetus
position
by the water fountain.
her eyes are
red and she may
have wet herself.
finally a nurse
comes into the room
and calls out your name,
followed by
hayfever?
which gets everyone
to stare and point
at you,
and laugh.

i'm italian

sorry, she says,
after slapping
you hard across the face.
I tend to talk with my hands.
you rub your cheek
where her hand has
struck solid, leaving
a red sting.
then she punches
you in the stomach,
with a curled
left hook,
knocking the breath
out of you.
you didn't even see
it coming.
oopsie, she says,
doing the ali shuffle
in her stiletto heels.
she peppers you with
series of jabs
and right crosses
before you go down.
so sorry. there I go again.
by the way,
I'm Italian
did I tell you that?
you have to watch
what you say to me.
i sort of figured as much,
you mumble, rolling
on your side
to protect your ribs
and take an eight count.

along the highway

the light is low
along the blue ache
of row houses,
battered and sagging,

like shoulders
gone old under the weight
of an unfair world.
a bent chain link fence

connects the next fence
to the next, bordering
a square of dirt and weeds.
flat tar roofs, boarded

windows. the iron rail is
rusted along the scrub
brush against the stoop.
the steel chain where the dog

would bark, is curled heavy
and empty under an ashen tree.
someone's name in red is
sprayed onto the brick,

a body part crudely etched
beside it. how this place
reminds you of where
you've been and how hard

you try to not go back.

afterwards

she thinks
about food. about
cream
and sauces,
bread
and wine.
the menu
for the evening.
what dishes
to use,
what silverware
and
flowers to set
down,
while you ponder
her legs
her arms, the curve
of her as she
moves about,
anxious for
the moment when
the guests
have filed out.

aligments

the world
doesn't always align
to your
way of thinking.
your design,
your measurements
come up short
sometimes,
in love or friends.
your planets orbit
out of sync.
an inch here,
an inch there is
just enough wrong
to make
a conversation
spin awkwardly
like a carnival ride
you're about
to fall off.

a lesson

the faucet
drips and drips.
it's a small
bell against the chrome
drain.
it never stops
ringing.
you could change
a washer,
call a plumber,
tighten
the knobs,
but you like
how persistent it
is, wanting
to come out
and fill the basin.
it's dripping
for you.
letting you know
it's there
when needed.
a lesson perhaps
for me
but more for
you.

dead or alive

you can waste
a day
without even trying.
get up
late
and roll over
go back to bed,
look out the window.
make coffee.
read the paper,
it's lunch time.
why bother
going out, the day
is half
over,
hardly time to take
a shower and shave,
or clean
the oven, or
put the trash out.
and with this winter
light,
it's dark
by five, you haven't
even put
your shoes on
to check the mail.
does anyone even
know if you're dead
or alive,
apparently your neighbor
does, who shouts,
don't you work
anymore, must be
nice. I like
your pajamas.

the prism

there's more to it.
there
always is.
each story
a prism with nine
sides
nine points of view.
so hard
to know what is
or isn't true.
so easy
to cast a vote
guilty
or not guilty
depending on what
it means
to you.

what?

with all
the texting nonsense
that you do, you
think that maybe you could
have become
a doctor or scientist
or lawyer, if
hadn't wasted
so much time typing
lol, what up yo,
and u know gf
how much I truly
luv u.

the visitor from afar

like santa
on his sleigh
and his eight reindeer,
she visits once
a year.
clearing her
calendar for you,
and you alone,
bringing the gift
of love
and Christmas cheer,
well, let's call
it unbridled
affection for
the sake of those
innocent readers
reading here.

the unknown

at ten
what grief
lies within a child
to take his
own life.
a boy, just
partly grown.
what tragic
set of circumstances
has
set him
on his way
to toss and tie
a rope
over
the pipes to
hold his weight.
where has he learned
a noose.
was is play
or fear of his tomorrow,
or yesterday,
so few spent,
no answers gained,
just this,
how little we know
of a god
who lets us die,
or continue
to exist.

nostalgic

there are less
stoves
in the woods these
days.
not as many
olive
green refrigerators
with doors
half off their hinges,
or rust stained
bathtubs
sitting
there amongst
the leaves
and squirrels,
raccoons making
homes.
there is less junk
tossed down
the hill,
televisions with
rabbit ears,
paint cans and debris,
cars rolled on
flat tires
into
the streams.
less oil rainbows
in the pond.
things aren't what
the used
to be.

change it up

you need to write
a poem with longer lines
she tells you
from her car
phone, while grading
high school English
papers.
I'm tired of these
short little blips
of words.
strung out like
wet clothes on a line.
do some stanzas. go
look at frost
or Whitman, even
crazy Ginsberg
for god's sake.
change it up, you're
stuck in a poetic
mud with sameness.
step out of yourself
and be bold, be
different, don't
be afraid to change
it up.

domestic silence

she says let's make
it a non cut weekend.
no bloodied noses,
or bruises, no wrists
bent and tied,
burnt by being
strung against
the iron bed post.
no cops at the window,
no black eyes.
no harsh words, or
sighs. let's get
along for once
and have the night
end with smiles,
sweet kisses,
not cold silence,
or the slamming
of a door, cursing
as one of us leaves
the room to cry.

almost you

someone just like
you
passed by,
so I took a second
look,
then a longer
stare as she
crossed the street,
her hair was just like
yours, her
walk, the way
she moved.
I wanted to
follow her
and tell her that
I'm sorry
for the way things
turned out,
to suggest we
try again,
but it wasn't you,
so it saved
me from
going into rain,
getting wet,
and saying things
that an hour later
I know I would
regret.

rewriting

you beat
the poem into submission.
over and over
you tear it apart
and rebuild,
finally it
is unrecognizable.
you have
forgotten why
you even wrote it.
there is no flow.
no connecting dots
of thought.
no middle or
end, just a stew
of random
musings, lines
that have
become muddled and
lost.

i can save him

she says to herself
while lying in
bed, hands folded
against her body,
as if in prayer,
I can change him.
I can get out my
womanly bag of tools
and snip and mend,
turn screws.
take the emery
cloth and polish
out his uncouth ways.
take the edge off
his ragged corners.
I can fix the leaks
of his mouth,
turn ambivalence
into adoration
with a mere
stroke of paint
across my lips.
I can sweeten
the sour out of him.
I can save him
from the scrap heap
where the others
have been tossed away,
then call him
my own.

christmas miracle

you remember
asking your mother when
you were eleven
or twelve
if your father
was coming home for
Christmas.
maybe, she'd say.
we'll see.
but you knew
he was living with
his girlfriend
doris, the avon
lady, at the time,
raising a new
family in a new
house three hundred
miles away.
you were pretty sure
the odds
were against
him coming down
the chimney
any time soon.
but your mother
would still
put a glass milk out
and a plate of
cookies on the table,
his favorites,
just in case things
miraculously
changed.

bottom feeding

how much to paper
this room
the man says on the phone.
you can hear him
going through
his list of names,
writing on
a pad.
you tell
him, roughly,
what it would cost.
can you do it for
less he says.
I have bids
for less.
no, you tell him.
but, he says, it's
a small room.
only four walls,
a sink,
a door a window.
a shower.
hardly any walls
at all.
can you do it cheaper.
the others say
they can do it
for so much less.
no, you tell
him.
okay, he says.
i'll call you back.
which he never does.

the thief

the thief
only thinks about what
to steal
next, love
is not
on his mind, or
death, or work.
what lies
on a porch,
on a sill, behind
a door,
a secret drawer
in a desk
is of more importance.
what pocket needs
to be picked,
what camera
snatched off
a table, or ring
and watch
set on a sink.
it's not easy
being a thief,
so much to steal,
even a horse
can be taken
from an unlocked
stable.

birds and goldfish

your mother
had a bird
in a cage
and a goldfish
in a bowl.
often forgetting
their names.
they were new,
always new,
none of them,
only her,
ever growing
old.
she grieved
easily
their lives.
filling the yard
with small
graves
dug with a
kitchen spoon.

forward

we lean
forward when we
walk.
another door
to go into.
another
job
or heart
next to yours.
we need
to keep going
into
the wind.
into storms
always with
the thought of
warm white sands
and blue
water
on the other
side
of it all.

the collector

piles of books
magazines,
hats and clothes.
circular
mounds of old cards,
notes
papers.
there was no clear
path to walk
through her house.
powers tools
mingled with lingerie
and shoes.
oil cans,
and bags of potatoes
side by side.
photo albums
with broken jars,
melted candles,
bags
of nails
and screws.
a hammer lying
on its side,
a broken mirror
leaing
against a trash
can, unused.

the waiting room

the room
is too hot.
the windows
won't budge.
there is no air
coming from
the vents.
it's crowded.
we are shoulder
to shoulder.
leg against leg
in these hard backed
chairs.
your shoes sweat.
your brow.
you wipe your
eyes.
it's hot in here.
why doesn't
someone
open a window
a door.
the magazines
are old.
the smell of the
rug.
the dead plant
in the corner.
mold.
the light overhead
flickers.
you are waiting.
you don't know
what for.
not yet.
but it's hot in here.
you loosen your
collar.
you wait for
your name to be
called.

iron my sheets

you can't write
a poem about abortion
she tells
you with hands on
her wide
hips.
making a stand
in the doorway
as she stops folding
clothes
to scold you.
you're a man.
you can't have
babies, so what
do you know about
it?
just leave that topic
alone
and go write
about man stuff.
like war,
and crime.
money and power.
sorry to interrupt
you, you tell her
but did you use
that non scented
detergent on those
clothes, the other
one is too strong
and makes me
itch, and I like
my sheets ironed
if you don't mind

brown lettuce

you throw away
more food than you eat.
sometimes
you toss
a head of lettuce
into the trash
as you leave
the store.
already brown
behind its plastic
wrap.
you pour milk down
the sink,
a half of jug
gone sour. you
place stale bread
into the can.
even the dozen eggs
you left on
the counter are
cracked
with little beaks
being born.
the numbers for pizza
or chinese
delivery,
on your phone
are fading
and worn. even
that will be half
tossed
before long.

it is a nice day

your radar
detector is broken.
you
misjudge your speed.
your foot
is heavy
against the pedal
as you
drive fast
along the clear
highway.
you don't see
the trooper in
his shades his
serious mask of duty
pinned to
his heard it all
face.
I'm sorry, you say.
as you roll down
the window
and hand him your
license and
registration. it
was such a nice day.
wait in the car
he says,
then comes back with
a warning.
be careful he says,
like your father
might, but he's young,
much younger
than him, much
younger than you,
much kinder too,
it is a nice day.

street protest

you decide to lie
in the street
and block
traffic
to protest
the price of milk
and eggs,
gas
and vodka.
your taxes just
went up.
retirement
seems impossible.
all day you
work, hardly
ever taking a
day off or a vacation,
maybe if you lie
in the street
people will take notice
and change the world
to your liking.
it's worth a shot.
why not.
you bring a pillow
and a blanket
because the street
is hard.
the street is cold.

her fun gun

she buys a gun.
for fun.
to shoot at targets
at the gun
range.
the slips of
body sketches
come back
with holes
in their heads
their abdomens,
their hearts.
it has nothing to
do with
my ex husband
she says.
I just like
the sound
of bullets
when my finger
pulls
the trigger.

relax and breathe

it's late.
it's here.
alive.
unnamed and growing
within me.
it wants
out.
it wants to be
someone.
not no one.
unborn
against its
will,
death
seems the only
option.
relax, she says,
this nurse,
this stranger
with a mask.
lean back, she
says. lift
your legs
and breathe,
this will only
hurt forever.

m. strand

another poet
dies.
he leaves behind
pages
of his words
left
in lines over
lines.
it surprises you,
his death.
how often you
read his poems
and wanted to make
them your
own. trying
to copy his sense
of life,
his heart,
and soul,
his subtle hand
his
tender mind.

night time

she tells you, with
a sigh that there is not
enough time
in the day
to do the things
she wants to do,
but you disagree,
and say
there is too much
time in the day
and not enough time
at night.

the green bowl

your ticket
stubs lie
in the green bowl,
with lint,
and buttons,
old keys,
tossed coins.
a cough drop.
the remnants
of pockets
turned out
when you get
home. threads
of your life,
resting
together,
numbers on
slips of
paper,
uncalled.
how many stories
fade like
ink in the wash,
don't get
told?

the shovel awaits

you could sleep
another hour,
easily
this Monday morning.
you could
linger
here, in the hot
bath,
the paper
and coffee,
the phone off
and blinking.
you could stay home
and read,
or write, you
could stare
out the window
as others shave
the ice
from their cars
and drive
away.
you could do
that, but you wont.
the furnace of
your life needs
more coal
and the shovel
awaits.

your path

no one
tells you exactly
how it all goes down.
from birth
to death,
from school
to work to marriage.
much of what
is ahead of you
is a mystery.
each a day
a question mark.
the ones that
think they know,
feel smart
and confident
in their walk,
those are the ones
you shouldn't listen
to. they don't know
either and will only
make it more
confusing.

twisted ankle

you twist an ankle
on the curb.
the rest of
the day you favor
it and lean left.
you begin to walk
in a circle,
never reaching
where you need to be,
until you twist
the other one,
and the ship
is righted,
you get there,
but slowly now
with more than enough
learned humility.

not surprised

nothing changes.
everything
remains the same.
the weather is
always a surprise.
love fails
and ends.
love begins again.
the flowers
rise, the trees
lose their
leaves
then bloom once
again in spring.
how do we not get
used to
what happens
so often.

the mayor

the magician
with his hat
and rabbit,
his cape and cane,
the tricks
he's practiced
in a mirror,
stands
with a deck
of cards, a pigeon
up his sleeve,
a saw with which
cut his assistant
in half,
before you.
sometimes he can
throw his voice
to make it seem
like what he says
is coming from
another mouth,
not his. how
can you not vote,
for someone
like this.

what's left

when she left
she took everything,
everything that was hers,
almost.
her make up,
her contact lens
solution,
her slippers
and hair brush,
her copy of king lear,
her sleeping mask,
but she left her
back scratcher.
a long wooden stick
thing with a hand
like claw at the end.
you are using it
now, finding that sweet
spot at the center
of your back that you
could never quite
reach. you should
probably call her
and give it back,
but it feels so good.
you think you'll keep
it for awhile.
maybe she won't miss
it, like she doesn't
miss you.

it's or its

she lectures you
on the phone
about using an apostrophe
after
t and before the s.
being an English teacher
she is always on the job,
patrolling
the grammar streets,
the punctuation
beat of your mind.
you can't assign
passiveness to an object
she says,
trembling with concern.
you should know that by now.
sit down and write
twenty times I will
not use it's, when it's
supposed to be its.
use it in a sentence.
show your work and double space.
I want this done by
the end of class.
and would it kill you
to use a capital letter
once in a while, mr.
e.e. Cummings want to be.

the brussel sprout dilemma

you take a risk
by putting the trash out
early.
becky,
your neighbor
has her eyes on you.
she's in her bedroom
staring out
with her binoculars.
but they stink, these
bags of garbage that
sit in your kitchen.
you double
bag everything and
spray them
with bleach
to keep the raccoons
and squirrels,
foxes
and deer out of
the debris.
then you drag them
all to the curb
full of
stuffing and
turkey bones.
foil and wrappers.
disgusting soggy
food that you aren't
sure how you ever
ate any of it.
a brussel sprout
escapes
at one point, the pavement
causing a hole
in the bottom of a bag,
before long
brussel sprouts
are rolling all over
the parking
lot, from your
door, to the curb
to the fire hydrant
where the trash is
left for pick up. one
by one you go back and
quickly kick
each sprout
down the street before
becky comes out
with her camera.
you don't want to touoh
them. you don't
even like brussel
sprouts, they are
ridiculous vegetables.
you want to pick them up
and throw them at
becky's window, but
you don't. it is the
holiday season after all.

the blank page

you ponder the blank page.
the open
day.
the clear blue sky
before you.
with no where to be,
no love
in town,
you've got a plate of
hours
to fill with whatever
comes your way.
no list of chores,
no bills
to pay,
no where to be seen
or heard from.
perhaps you'll sit
here and let your
fingers dance across
the key board
and fill these open
spaces,
fill the ominous
blank page.

black friday sales

you make the mistake
of buying
a horse.
it's too big for one
thing.
hardly fits into your squared
town house
yard.
it needs attention.
water,
oats. a brushing down.
there's no
place to ride him
either.
he makes a lot of
noise too.
all that naying.
maybe you should
let him
loose so he can go
back to
the barn where his
friends are.
perhaps it was a bad
idea,
but he was so cheap,
on sale, marked down
forty per cent
for black Friday.
how could you resist.

do we stay

your past is of no interest
to me.
somehow
whatever has transpired
in your life
has left you
with limbs in tact.
just the present
is needed.
the future
is too far away.
let's talk about now,
what we have here,
across the table.
do we go.
do we stay.

where you are

the road unwinds behind
you. the trees finally
free, like you, of the burden
of leaves, stand grey
and naked on either side.
you can't go back,
you can't forward.
you'll be here for awhile,
in this place you call
home. maybe forever. maybe
this will be your last
stop. don't count on it.

i am the sun

the world
does not revolve around
you,
people like to say.
but in a way
it does.
who feeds me,
who clothes me,
who gets up
to go to work,
provides my every need.
me.
that's who.
so yes. I am
the center of my
universe.
I am the sun.
get used
to it.

wanda

you force
yourself to call
wanda
to say
happy holidays.
she scolds you
for ten minutes
as she's prone
to do when drinking
then says
happy holidays
to you too.
you know you
could visit
once in awhile,
I'm only
a plane flight
away. at this
point you turn
the dishwasher on
and hold
phone close
to the racket of
pots and pans
being pummeled
by water
and detergent.
bad connection,
you tell her.
i'll you back.
I can't hear you.
happy holidays,
wanda.

you wanted more

she was not enough.
you wanted more.
more of what
you aren't sure
exactly, perhaps
a teaspoon of spice
to heat things up,
a level
half cup
of more love,
powdered affection.
you wanted more,
more icing
to sweeten her,
more salt to bring
her back down
to earth.
you wanted more.
more colored sprinkles
to float
down upon your
lives together,
more mirth.
you wanted more.

one red one white

you have zero
interest
in driving a hundred
miles
to eat
at your aunt
June's
house for thanksgiving.
you feign
sickness
over the phone.
coughing
like a camel smoker.
she
begins to cry.
I haven't
seen you in so
long.
I might be dead
by the end
of the year
in case you haven't
heard.
they found
something
on my leg.
it's a lump
the size of a pea.
but you never know.
there is a long
pause.
i'll bring wine,
you finally say.
one red one white,
she says back,
then hangs up.

nothing to waste

she likes
leftovers. loves
them.
but she likes
wrapping
left overs
and neatly placing
them all into
plastic tubs
and containers
even more.
she likes
writing with
a magic maker
what they are,
despite
being see through.
on goes the date
too
in bold black
letters.
gravy.
stuffing, potatoes.
turkey.
sweet potatoes.
this makes her
happy.
nothing gone to
waste.
she slaps her
hands
together when she's
done, then stands
at the kitchen door
and yells,
anyone for dessert?
those containers
wait on the counter,
empty as well.

your new life

you wake up
in the wrong house.
the shoes
don't fit.
the clothes
are too large.
the walls are blue
not green.
there is a stranger
sleeping
beside you.
even the dog
who hops
on the bed
and barks is
different.
the children
in the other room
are laughing.
they sound happy.
you don't recognize
their voices.
your new wife
rolls over and
smiles at you.
she says
good morning
sweetheart.
then with her finger
on her lips,
she whispers,
go lock the door.
you like
this new life
you've stumbled
into.

a different life

easy
and bored,
itching to live
a different life,
it was rumored
that he
died
in a car crash
in mexico.
that's all you ever
heard.
but you've
imagined
often
that road,
unpaved,
the stars out
in the black Mexican
sky,
tequila in
hand, a girl
at his side,
both singing
poorly to a song
on the radio,
her dark eyes
smiling, not
understanding
anything
as they crossed
the center
line, too late
to turn,
too late
to change this end,
to live a
different life.

turkey dog

how happy
the dog is
with all this food
being cooked.
he can hardly
contain
his joy, his
tongue out
his tail wagging
as he circles
the kitchen
going from
table to table,
room to room,
impatient
as a child.
you open
the oven to show
him the turkey
as you
baste it
with its own
juices, this
makes him stand
on his hind
legs
and clap his paws
together.
he can hardly wait.

alone

you feel weathered
and heavy.
a ship
on the rocks
beaten by
relentless waves.
caught in a storm.
you don't even
bother yelling
abandon ship,
they've already
gone and swum
to shore.
the rain pelts
your face.
there is no escape.
this ship
will sink
by morning. you
will die as
you lived,
alone.

sugar plum

you've never
had visions
of sugar plums
dancing in
your head, but there
was this one girl,
lucy, that you used
to date.
sometimes
you'd dream about
her in a plaid
skirt with
patent leather shoes.
you did call
her sugarplum at
times, so I guess
that counts.

the left turn

in the clearing
you
see the angels
gathering
together,
waiting for you,
so you take a
left turn,
you aren't ready
to be taken
away. you zig
zag through
the trees.
there are things
left to done
which makes
them laugh and run
to catch up
with you, taking
your hand
and whisking
you away on
white spread wings.

why pretend

let's not
do new year's eve
your friend tells you
over the phone.
we might feel
forced to kiss,
or sleep together.
it would ruin
us, don't you agree?
it's such a hard
holiday,
one of regrets
and promises,
vows we'll
never keep.
let's not do either
for once, but
keep our heads
about us, okay?
we'll have an early
dinner, turn in
at ten,
separate checks,
and rooms.
why pretend?

this affair

as she lay
in his bed, across
the room
she could see
his wife's hair
brush, still
with long black
strands
from when she last
used it.
her perfume,
on the dresser,
a pink bottle
on a mirrored
pond
where a ring
and a watch sat
as well,
in reflection.
how unkind we are,
she thought,
how lost this
is.

the staiwell

when they made love
it wasn't making
love at all
it was something else,
she would
tell the police,
how yellow
the walls were she
told them, the exit
sign in red
over the closed door,
the cracked ceiling
where rust
leaked out
and him on her,
pressing his body
as a stranger would.
his face
rough against hers,
his hot breath.
she leaned
on the steps
her hand
finding a broken
shard of glass,
the bottom
of a bottle.
the pain mixed
with odd pleasure,
the blood warm down
her arm while
she listened
for footsteps
coming to save
her, those sounds
that could
save her, those
sounds that
never came.

broken glass

a stone
thrown at your
window
begins
a small crack
in the large
pane.
it doesn't
shatter, but
moves like
a lighting strike
across
the glass.
inching
towards
each side
in a zig zag
pattern.
by morning it
will
be finished.
you will replace
it
and start anew.
these things you
are good
at.

let's go

let's go drinking
your friend
says.
let's go downtown
and find
two empty
stools and fill
them with us.
let's roll to where
we used to go.
to the green pastures
of women
who still are young.
let's revel
in the past
when nothing
was feared
when we
were lions
on the prowl.
let's tie one
on. let's remember
who we were
before time
brought us down.

a house unfinished

you make an
error in judgment.
you are
an inch
short on
this lumber,
in making
the cut.
how careless
you are in building
this house.
how twisted
and bent the nails
are.
unbalanced
are the floors,
the ceilings
sag.
the windows don't
close.
even the land
is uneven
as you stand at
the door.
the pasture
of weeds and rocks
saying
it all.

the fire

she burned from
the bottom up,
her wires singed
and sparked,
the tinder of her
bones,
set ablaze,
the feathers of
her heart
the frame of her
soul, paper thin,
too hot,
too far gone
to be put out.
even his axe
against
the doors,
the windows, could
not save her.
the ladder of his
love
empty, swaying
in the night.
she would be ashes
before dawn,
left cold and
wet
in the debris
of what she didn't
see coming.
her misplaced love.

your jersey girl

thin
and pale
your long hair
tight
beneath your cap.
a thumb
out on the grey
stretch
of highway
heading east.
you had a chance
in 72
of being
picked up
and taken to
the shore,
where things
would be better.
you had
gas money
to share.
you had ideas.
you were thin
and worn,
but happy to
be leaving
where you were
and going
to see her, your
jersey girl.

the forecast

the sky
cannot decide
what to do.
rain or snow.
stop for awhile,
be loud and
be windy.
be silent
and cold.
except for
when the sun
comes out
and spreads
warmly
across my brow,
it reminds me
so much
of you.

liquid love

it's liquid
this love.
how it moves
and fills
the cracks,
slides easily
into the gaps
and holes
of me.
it doesn't
make me
whole,
but for now
it spills
over the edge
of my once
half empty
cup.

the throw away poem

so many throw away
poems.
poems without a soul,
just words
you are throwing
at the wall
to see what sticks.
the fire burns low
at the moment.
call it fatigue,
sadness, the rain.
the cheerfulness
of the holidays
taking it's grim
toll.
but this too shall
pass you think
as you put the parade
on the tv. how happy
everyone is to see
a parade, so you
sit back and wait
for it to happen
to you.

the red sweater

she puts
on her red sweater.
the one
with snowflakes
and reindeer.
the holiday sweater.
she decides
to be happy today.
she makes
her cheeks red.
she smiles
in the mirror.
takes three pills
then
gulps down
some water.
she stiffens her
back
and shakes her hair.
time to put that
turkey
in the oven.
but first open
the wine,
a starter glass
before anyone gets
here.

one light on

you ride
by the house where
your mother lived.
it's empty and dark.
her husband
of forty years,
not your father,
is in there under the one
twenty five watt
bulb
counting pills.
sewing a hole
in a sweater.
with a pencil
he adds up what's left
on the back
of an envelope.
how quickly it all goes
despite
how hard one saves
and mends
counts
slices of bread
on fingers,
cold toes.

happy endings

some jobs
you left willingly
but most,
they told you,
your services
will no longer
be of use to us,
but in shorter
terms
such as
you're fired.
get your hat
and go.
these jobs
when they ended
were the ones
once over
put a spring in
your step.
made you happy
to be gone.
thrilled to be
free and penniless
again.
you saw the end
in the beginning.
sort of like
how it is with me
and you,
right now.

not surprised

the essence
of her
has slipped out
of the house.
slid
like a soft
vapor
under the crack
of the door,
the window
ajar
unclosed.
out the vents,
the chimney.
she's gone.
not thing remains.
not a shoe,
or stocking,
no brush
or comb.
no lipstick
left on the sink.
no note
to say farewell.
nothing
surprises you
anymore.

across the bay

your father
with his thick hands
around the oars
rowed the small
planked
boat across the bay.
the waves splashed
against
and over
the sides, wetting
your shoes.
your sunburned face.
no life
jackets on
you and your brothers
your sisters.
five of you,
under the age
of ten,
sailing
under the power
of his mighty
arms.
going for ice
cream. your love
for ice cream
has never diminished
nor your love
for him,
although his
reckless life
and way of thinking
has not eluded
you either.

your restless leg

your restless
leg
is circling
like
a small
propeller
without
a boat to
push.
it clicks
against the table,
again
and again,
sometimes
at night
it churns
away putting
the blankets
and sheets
into a spin.
it's just
a small thing,
but it could
be the beginning
of the end.

the year done

the bird
a puff of grey
brown
feathers
sits
on the sill
looking
in, neither
warm
or cold.
not searching,
not a worm
or stick
in it's yellow
beak.
calm,
and collected.
just sitting there.
her year
done.
how nice to find
that peace
and rest.

special delivery

I need sex
she
says, breathing
heavily into
the phone.
I need it bad.
I'm in
a vulnerable
place
right now.
I need a fix
of hot lusty
uninhibited
sex.
a romp in
the hay if you
will.
my loins
are on fire
with desire.
I'm not sure
what I will
do
if the postman
comes by.
join the club
you tell her,
now you know
how men feel
almost all
the time.

he'll be gone

her blue
period has lasted
for months.
she can hardly
rake a leaf
or dig
in her yard that
rolls down
to the broken
fence.
even the sky,
it's awful
blue, seems
tilted, slanted
towards
yesterday.
what could have
been said,
or done differently
doesn't matter
now.
the blue period
will
go on
through Christmas
and new
year's.
maybe by spring.
he'll be gone.

another room

your
mother is getting
younger.
the lines
of worry on her
face
have turned
to soft flour.
her brown eyes
are even
browner in
this November
light.
she sits at the bare
table
and smiles,
laughs as a child
would and asks
so how are you.
you try not to cry.
try not to show
how sad
you are at her
being old,
her becoming a
child again.
she doesn't want
you to go and takes
your hand.
don't leave
me here, she says.
you wish there
was a way to tell
her that
you are always
together.
that you aren't leaving,
but just moving
to another room.

turkey cannonball

careful
not to over cook
the turkey
you set it on low.
way low.
too low maybe
it's four o'clock
and you are
still
seeing pink.
you decide to
deep fry
it at the last
minute
and drop it into
a bucket
of hot oil.
the turkey
shoots through
the roof
like a cannonball,
exploding,
but the wings
and legs
get stuck
in the rafters
so you have
some dark meat.
you call everyone
out from under
the table and say
grace.
you eat.

burn baby burn

the jury
doesn't go your way.
so you
fill up a bottle
with gasoline
and throw it at
a cop
car, or a building.
you break
the big store window
and put a flat
screen tv
on your shoulders.
55 inch.
you run through
the streets
yelling no justice
no peace.
you are a revolutionary,
a veritable tom paine
with a hoodie.
there is a riot
in all of us,
just waiting to
explode,
waiting to implode.
waiting
for a reason, this
violence should make
it all better.
once home,
you set the tv up,
then go back for
an I phone.

taste like chicken

in hell
things won't
be so nice.
everything will
taste like
chicken.
there will be fire,
there will
be ice.
you'll have a scratch
you can't itch.
your mother in
law will be there
with a rolling pin,
and the coffee
will be cold,
the biscuits stale,
your shoes
won't fit right,
nor your clothes,
not to mention
that the overhead
music will be
a steady stream
of either rap,
or disco,
or barry manilow.

eggs over easy

I feel like I'm coming
out of my shell
after breaking up with
Charlie, she tells
you getting out of
the shower. you hand
her a towel and a cup
of coffee.
Charlie kept me from
being myself, she
says, drying herself
with the towel.
we never laughed at
the same things, never
were on the same page,
you know what I mean.
it was always awkward.
you nod, as you brush
your teeth in
the shared mirror.
you know how I like my
coffee, she says sipping,
perfect. why can't
I fall in love with
a man like you?
someone who can fix
me coffee?
you shrug your shoulders
and spit into the sink,
dunno, you say,
then take the bottle
of Listerine to gargle.
it burns your throat
and eyes, then you spit
that out too.
I miss him, though,
she says. in some weird
way we were a couple.
you try not to roll
your eyes as you
check your teeth out
in the mirror. he's
texting me right now,
she says lifting her
phone off the toilet.
should I call him?
sure, you say, maybe
you can work things out.
I'm going down to fix
breakfast...over easy,
toast? yes, she says,
you are the best. then
she dials up Charlie.

cinammon buns

in heaven
things will be better.
everyone
is young,
no need for crutches
or glasses.
no waiting
in lines,
no traffic or snow
storms.
no snakes
creeping along
the yard.
in heaven things
will be better.
no pain,
no sorrow,
no death or disease.
it will be
fun,
hot coffee
and warmed cinnamon
buns for everyone.

lights off

he pinched
the Lincoln penny so
hard that
it turned into
a string of copper
wire.
no light
left on, or drizzle
from a spigot.
string
and boxes all saved
for that
rainy day.
and now, old,
as he sits, staring
out the cold
window
in the same
shoes, the same
chair, alone,
he stares
at his thread
worn
pants, he thinks
about spoiled milk,
he wonders
if he can sew
that tear.

a good start

it
trickles
down
this icicle
hanging
like
a clear
spike
from the
guttered roof.
trickles
down
and leaks
its watery
blood
upon me.
but it doesn't
fall.
it stays
there, stays
put.
doesn't
make me duck
and dodge
to save
my life.
a good start
to another
day.

the haircut

you don't need
a barber
any more
but you go
just the same.
you sit in the high
leather chair
that swings easily
around to see
your thinning
hair, your
aging face, your
shoulders
beneath
the white, pin
striped cape.
it's what men do.
they say nothing
to one another
that isn't already
known.
they nod, the barber
turns your face
with thick fingers
to the side
for the razor,
leans you forward
for the comb.
there is the gentle
slap
of cologne upon
your cheeks and neck,
the dusting
of powder, the
spin once more around
for your approval.
it's fine, you
say. it's fine, then
the cape removed
and payment made.

as time slips by

some need money
stacked
high in order to sleep
well
at night, while
others
need love
and affection,
fame, a warm body
beside them
as the stars
appear
in the sky.
still others
are content to wander
the earth with
neither catching
a few winks here
and there,
as time slips by.

the hand that grieves you

you bite the hand
that grieves you.
she hardly notices.
you bite again,
harder this time.
she wipes
away the blood.
and sneers at your
attempts at anger.
so you try a different,
approach, one
of remorse and regret,
contrition,
but this too,
means nothing to
her. it's too
late, whatever love
you once had, has
long ago left.

too early

I bought this pie
too early
you think to yourself
as you cut another
slice and slide
it onto your plate.
you should have
waited a few more
days. been more
patient, but what
if they were all
gone, then what?
you get
the whipped cream
out and give the
pie a healthy spray.
oh well, you shrug,
and settle into
the big chair,
a week away from
the holiday.

a warm spot

there is a warm
spot
in your heart
somewhere.
you've located it
before,
a while back
perhaps.
but you know it's
there, so does
she, which
keeps her
around, at least
for now.

the teacher's conference

the harbor
is a buzz with English
teachers
here for
the national conference.
you see
them with their
books and pads,
their studied
gazes behind thick
glasses
and overcoats
that are too thin
to keep
them warm
in this frosty air.
you hear them
talk of failure
and passing,
of discipline and
homework.
they are so intent
on taking
home with them what
they've absorbed
in the endless
seminars, by nights
end though,
they are sloshed
and quoting
Shakespeare,
on the street,
yelling things like
my kingdom for a horse.
you love
teachers.

waiting for word

a line
of black birds
against
a smooth canvas
of grey
clouds.
it's freezing,
but they don't
seem to mind
in their
tight black
jackets,
stiff beaks,
that neither
grimace
or smile.
they seem to be
waiting,
waiting for
a word
on where to fly
next.
how often you too
have waited
for those
words
to be heard
as you sit
on a black line
against
the wintry sky.

first date

can I sing you a song
she says,
I want to be a
singer. I brought
my guitar along
just in case you did.
sure, you say, why
not and sip
a spoon of clam
chowder into your
mouth.
I wrote this song,
she says, as
if introducing
herself at the
birchmere, when i
was a young girl
back in Chantilly
virginia, but it's
just you and
her in a restaurant.
it's called,
sugar sugar.
oh, I know that song,
you tell her,
the archie's sang
it, 1968.
no, she says, it's
not that song.
this one is different.
but can you sing
that song too, I
mean when you're
finished with this
sugar sugar?
maybe she says,
throwing her hair
back and tuning
the strings.
you call the waitress
over for more
crackers for your soup.

sugarplum fairy

the wreathe
on the door makes
you think
of her in
a softer light.
the fire
in the fireplace,
the cookies
in the oven.
you forget
how cold she was
when leaving
and slamming
the door.
how she threw
your clothes
into the yard
and let your dog
run free, how
she took a steak
knife and cut
your charger
cord,
but it's the holidays
and for some
reason, you
miss her. you miss
your little
sugarplum fairy.

she's right, finally

your shoe
breaks down on
you,
the sole
separating from
the man made
leather portion
that rises
above it in a
stylish fashion.
it flops
as you walk along
with your date,
who is laughing.
but you have glue,
or more exactly,
rubber cement
in a brown bottle
with a small brush
for easy application.
your mother
always told you
to be prepared,
and glue
was just one of
many things she
suggested you carry
with you when
leaving the house,
not just clean
underwear. now
finally. after all
these years,
she is right
about something.

hour into hour

not every one
is your cup
of tea.
or you theirs.
it's known
right away
as you lift
the cup
to your lips.
too bitter, too
sweet,
too tepid,
or sour, no
matter the reason,
neither
of you will
drink
the drink,
but be civil and
let the time
pass on,
hour into hour.

the mystery

you can't connect
all the dots
as hard as you try.
not everything
makes sense.
the broken hearts,
the broken
locks, the lost key,
the spilled
milk, or dents
in the car.
no one seems to
owe you
an answer why.
no rhyme, no reason.
no clarity
from above,
it's a mystery they
like to tell you,
you'll never
understand
until later,
but what good will
that do you now,
as you stand
outside the door,
locked out, wondering
what exactly
is later.

under the tree

you make a list.
a Christmas list.
a wish list.
it's gotten shorter
over the years.
with death and distance
becoming a purchasing
factor.
especially this year.
which is a big
relief in some ways.
you are bad with
gifts and cards.
trying so hard
as you stare numbly
walking
through the mall,
clicking through
web sites for
jewels and lingerie,
things that you
hope she'll want, but
never will,
always getting the size
wrong. you
dig through
last year's envelopes
to find the addresses
of those you owe
a note this year.
did I send the red
card with the tree
last time,
or the blue one
with snow and stars.
so hard to remember.

boo boo

she used to lather
your ego
with little phrases,
terms
of sweet endearment
like
buttercup,
or sweetie pie,
mr. wonderful,
and boo boo.
but now she says
hey, hey, what are you
deaf,
put the seat down.
how many times do
I have to tell you that,
and don't leave
your socks and underwear
on the stairs,
what are you twelve?
it always
begins by using your full
first name.

the rusty chain

it's like riding a bike
you tell her,
dating again
after such a long
dry spell,
that self imposed
sabbatical.
but not exactly.
there are those pot
holes in the road,
to be wary of,
the weather,
wind and rain,
the curves and detours
along the way,
not to mention
those barking dogs
giving chase,
and please
let's not forget
that rusty chain.

these woods are deep

Thomas hardy
bores you to tears.
he's near
the top of the list
of sleeping
pill books.
tess of the d'aubervilles
brings you
to your knees
like mustard
gas during world
war one.
but you've promised
that you'll
read it.
so you plow through.
each page
a lead weight
taking all your strength
turn it.
for years you've
held this book in
your hands,
starting over and over
again.
but these woods are
deep. and there are
miles and miles
to go before you sleep.

lost

you've lost your
way.
you tack posters
of your face
along the boulevard,
on trees
and poles,
store windows.
you ask if anyone
has seen you.
you leave a number
and a card,
you offer a reward
if found,
but you are
lost. you are no longer
the person
you thought you
were. you've
changed. you've
lost your way.
no one seems to know
you, not even
your friends
or family
has seen anyone
the likes of
you around.

how the pears do glow

early
in the morning she
stands
in her apron,
tied neatly in
a bow
around her waist,
polishing
apples.
then moving on
to a pyramid
of green pears,
to the grapes
next.
the bags all
in rows.
soon, the sun
comes through
the window
and her work
is done. if
she thinks about
love, it doesn't
show.
but oh how
the apples shine.
how the pears
do glow.

left behind

your footsteps
leave
you, they
stay behind.
the words you
spoke
hang in the air
before falling
quietly
to the ground.
the cloud
of you,
the breath
you exhale,
that too can't
come with you
everything is left,
even you,
yes even you
must be left
behind.

his life

it's your
father's problem.
this past
he's created over
the life
he's lived.
it's not yours
to own,
not your potion
to swallow
or rub, like
oil
into your bones.
it's his to deal
with.
his life,
you just happen
to be along
for part of the
ride. but
when that
ride's about
to end you'll
be there to set
down his reins.

all about me

you tell her
that you'll call
at five,
but it's more
like five thirty before
you are in your
car and able
to dial her number.
you let the minutes
turn into hours,
slowing down the world
to a pleasant crawl.
you refuse to be
rushed, to be in a
line, to be anywhere
you don't want to be.
you haven't gone
cranky or crazy in
your fading youth,
but have settled nicely
into a place where's
it pretty much
all about me.

pay for parking

as you stand
at the machine
placing your ticket
in to cover
parking for
two hours,
then your money,
you wait.
hands in your
pockets
in the darkness
of night.
a wind
creeping up
your sleeves.
in front of
you is the river.
behind you the glitter
of buildings
gone dim.
you are the last
car out
after being
the first car
in. the ticket
frees you once
again. the bridge
is without traffic.

the shore of you

her feet
have left deep
imprints
in the sand
of you.
your shore
is littered
with her love.
the sunrise
of her smile.
the shells that
hold her whispers,
the perfume of
her sea.
you can hardly
wake up
at times
without
feeling the pull
of her
warm body,
the tide having
gone out
forever.

squirrels on crack

there are days
when
the traffic is full
of squirrels
on crack.
no one knows what
lane they want
to be in,
running red lights,
tail gating,
swearing
as they swerve
with phone and coffee
in hand.
they need to get
ahead of the next
car, they
need to make that
light before
it turns red,
they need to get
across the tracks
before the cross bars
go down.
it's a chariot
race,
a rat race,
they can smell
the cheese, but they
don't know exactly
where it is.

one more for the road

one for my baby,
one more for the road
Sinatra
sings
on the old vinyl,
in your big
speaker
pioneer stereo.
it crackles
along the grooves,
almost sticking
on a word or
two.
but around it goes
at 33 rpm,
reminding you
of things in the past,
the near
and far past.
each love different,
each loss new.
so you play it
again, lifting
the needle to where
it begins, letting
Sinatra croon it,
one for my baby,
and one more for
the road.

half in

there is a spring
in her step, but
in only one foot.
the other can't rise
to the occasion,
so it looks like
she's limping, but
she's not.
she's only in it
halfway. half love,
a half cup
of maybe, maybe
not. she sips
and sips waiting
for it to get better,
warmer, spicier,
something
that it's not.
so the spring remains
only in one shoe.
at least for now
that's all she's got.

a patch of ice

you're slipping.
there's ice
on the curb
on the corner,
the puddles
are frozen solid
into slick
traps awaiting
your quick
shoes and
careless walking
about.
the world is like
that
if you don't
pay attention.
you are always
one patch
of ice from
falling on your
face, humbling
you, daring you
to get back
up and go on.

don't worry

if I leave before
you waken
don't worry.
if I leave without
a note
slipping on my shoes
so as not
to disturb you,
don't worry, don't
think twice
about us.
it's too early
in the morning,
too early for us
to be thinking like
that.
if I leave without
a sound
without kissing you
goodbye
it means nothing.
I just want you to sleep.
i'll be back.
I promise you,
i'll be back.

embellish

you embellish
the world with
hyperbole
and exaggeration.
the world
needs a new coat
of paint, a dusting.
there are cobwebs
in every corner.
it's more fun to
blow it up into what
it isn't.
splash some color
onto this dull grey
wintered world.
have some fun,
for god's sake.
Oscar wilde might
be proud.

the train whistle

when you hear
the train crossing
the trestle,
blowing it's
whistle three times
through
the deep woods
you think
about the passengers
asleep
at the windows,
warm as they world
rolls by
under the closing
skies. who's waiting
for them at the station,
who have they left
behind.
the lives they lead
so unlike yours,
sitting here,
at your own window,
thinking about who
has departed and
who might arrive.