jane

don't call me jane anymore,
jane tells you
while you sit nibbling
on a shared scone
because you both are on
another insane diet
that will last one week.
okay, jane, I mean...
call me alisha, she says,
or maybe allegra, i'm not
sure, it's a work in
progress, but I don't want
to be jane anymore.
i'm so done with jane
and men making fun of me.
telling me they
are tarzan, or adding
plain to the name when
I'm not around.
I want to slap my parents
sometimes.
me too, you tell her,
scooping up scone
crumbs from the top
of the bag that has become
your plate.
i'd like to slap my parents too,
for a lot of things,
but they're in their
80's now, and well, what's
the point.

shoes

you have many shoes.
they are everywhere
in every room, under
the bed, on the stairs.
closets and shelves
are lined with
shoes. brown and black,
boots and loafers.
tennis shoes of all
types and colors.
some you'll never wear
again, some brand
new, not ready for
the rain or slush.
it makes you almost
forget the days when
you had one pair,
with holes in
the bottom, how you
filled the soles
with cardboard
to keep them going
just one more day,
one more run on
the playground.

one potato

down to one potato,
you set it on the counter
after washing
it in cold water.
it's traveled far
to get here and now
it's time.
you take a knife
and slice it down
the middle, then
into quarters.
you boil it in water
until the pieces are soft
and ready to be
mashed with milk
and butter, salt
and pepper. it's your
last potato and
this is how she liked
them cooked. so this what you
do, one last time.

laundry night

the washers and dryers,
the ones that work,
grind away with filthy clothes
and grey water
spilling into a
cast iron tub
from black hoses coated
in grey hair.
it's cold down
there. you need
the right amount
of change.
you need hours
of your life to get
these old
clothes clean.
you sit on a lawn
chair next to the caged
storage bins
full of bikes
and paint cans,
Christmas trees
already decorated
waiting for next year.
you drink
a beer, you flip through
a magazine, you
listen to the rattle
of coins and keys
that have fallen out
of your pockets,
now spinning in the hollow
of drums.

too close to the edge

you step backwards,
too close to
the edge where the trains
roar by.
you feel the wind
of death
on your face
in your hair
along
the rigid bumps
of your spine.
you've heard stories
of people
falling onto the rails
or jumping
into an oncoming car.
you step backwards,
all your life,
you've been careful
of getting too
close to the edge.

these pigeons

these pigeons
like
dark nuns on the steps
of a great
cathedral.
regal
in blue and grey,
the stripes
of feathered
cloth
along their breasts,
their wings.
fat with
what we throw
away.
how easy it is
for them to fly
to rise
above
these palaces where
we kneel
to confess,
where we ask
forgiveness and pray.

the leaving

you see your father
with a glass
of whiskey in his hand.
a cigarette
burning blue in a glass
ashtray.
he's leaving.
there's a suitcase
in the hall.
a suit on a hanger,
a pair of
shoes which he'll
carry out to the car.
he won't be back
this time.
you know that, even
as a child
you can see that he
has other plans.
you'll remember
this moment for the
rest of your life,
and one day,
in fact today you
will write it down.

the shave

you shave your face
slowly in the tub
without a mirror.
the radio is on
the shelf, playing
oldies from
the sixties.
incense peppermint.
you know all the words.
you take
long easy strokes
of the razor,
swiping into the white
foam, warm
and wet.
you know where every
thing is.
you slide your fingers
along your skin
in search of uncut
bristles. under
your nose, around
the ears, your neck,
chin.
it doesn't take long.
you don't need
a mirror anymore,
you know where
everything is.

the picture show

as the camera pulls
away
and the director stands
and yells
cut,
it's a wrap,
the picture fades
to black.
what is done is
done, nothing
more to add or take away,
you set the script aside
and rest.
no more loves
to begin or end,
all the lines have been
spoken, the plots
played out,
the crowds of your
life have left
the theater, there will
be no second show.

so far away

someone like you was
on the street today.
she wore a dress you'd wear,
her hair was braided,
dark and down
her back.
I almost called out your name,
whistled like
I used to do,
but she turned
her head and it wasn't
you. of course it wasn't
you. you being so far away
in so many ways.

your travels

you've haven't seen
the pyramids, at least in
person, but you have
a good idea of what they look like.
or the grand canyon,
the Eiffel tower,
or the great wall of china.
does this bother you,
do you feel slighted, or
uncultured because of this,
no. you don't.
maybe one day, you'll stand
in Yellowstone and stare
at old faithful
spurting hot water
into the air,
and maybe you won't.
but if you do get around to
seeing these sites,
you'll keep it to yourself.
for now you like the path
behind your house,
the one that goes around
the lake for miles and miles
without a soul around.

where do we go from here

can I ask you a question,
your new love
says to you, while stroking
a brush against her hair,
counting to herself,
staring into the dresser mirror.
sure, you say. but nothing
too hard, no math questions,
or chemistry. twenty one,
she says, her hand
moving the brush with
long even strokes.
twenty two, she whispers.
i'm ready, you tell her,
tightening up, getting nervous
as to what she might ask.
do I love her, are we
in a relationship now,
what's next for us?
should I bring some clothes over?
you cringe and put another
pillow behind your head.
twenty seven she says.
then turns around. is there
a good place to get a pizza
around here, i'm starving.

the empty mind

the blank sheet
is white, unlined.
it isn't snow, it isn't
the sky,
or a long layer of ice,
it's more empty
than that.
more empty
than the thoughts
that are
blowing like
smoke
through your hollow
mind.
you have stepped
out on the ledge
of nothing. you'll
try again later
to summon the muse,
to tap into
the walls of your
emptying mine.

no more paper

the salesman, in his fevered
pitch
wants to help you with new
health insurance,
if you are ready today
to sign on and commit
to the policy constructed
just for you, he's ready
to give you a price, but
it's fluctuating, so
you must decide now. slow down,
you tell him, hold on.
I need to see all of this
on paper first before I
agree to anything. this
makes him groan and hang up.
another man calls
a few minutes later,
mispronouncing your name,
and then again all with
the same results.
this goes on the entire
day. they won't bend to
your wishes, obviously
you've gotten old.
it's no longer a paper
world with a line that you
sign with an ink pen.

the child

the child who
stamps his shoes
and gets what he wants,
his face turning red,
will never
change, not spurned.
you them everyday
on the bus,
in restaurants,
on the trains.
they have learned
how to make
their way in the world,
demanding
and getting what
they need and
they prefer.

getting out

all day you hear
this murmur,
these whispered words,
I feel trapped,
then the rest of it.
my job,
my wife, my kids.
no one understands me,
or knows who I
really am.
I don't love him anymore,
or she doesn't
love me,
but I can't leave.
i'm stuck inside of my
life
with no locks, no
bars, no walls,
no key.

the black dot

you are a poor gambler,
better off
piling your hard earned bills
into a pile
and setting them on fire.
you pick the wrong
horse every time.
the wheel spins and lands
on red.
you've picked black.
it's not unluck, but
no luck.
your planets do not align
that way. you pay no
mind to the black cat,
or the ladder
you walk under.
the cracks get stepped
on, and the pennies
you let lie, not
caring. this is the way
it is and you accept
it. you know that if you
were a character in Shirley
jackon's short story,
the lottery, that you
would be the one to pick
the slip of paper
with the black dot.

and others like her

the cat with milky lips
and whiskers.
lean and long, awake
and yawning,
gently rubbing a wet
paw across a green eye
and ear.
she stiffens her back
then curls into a warm
ball of silky indifference.
she cares, but she
doesn't care.
you've made your peace
with this cat
and others like her.

the bonfire

you want a bonfire.
you want sparks and flames
flying off
the pile of driftwood
burning, you want
the sky to light up, to
hear the sizzle, the crackle
of the wood. you want heat,
a blaze, a warmth
so thick and large
that it will consume
you. this is the kind
of love you desire,
not the weak flashlight
ones you've gotten
used to and carried around,
banging the batteries
against your leg to
keep it going.

fading love

this fog
of love, this mist,
this fading light,
you wander
through the woods,
holding a candle,
cupping
the flame
in your hand.
you keep the wind
away,
the rain off its
shine. but
there is not much
further you can go
to keep it alive.
the candle is
getting smaller,
it's almost
done now.

at the diner

your waitress
comes by the table
with the coffee pot
and smiles, she says
can I top that ccup
off for you.
sure you tell her.
you have not known
such kindness
from a woman in so
long that it
frightens you.
you see how easily
it is for you to
fall in love, you
almost reach out to
touch her hand
as she pours, but
you don't. you stir
in the sugar,
you add cream,
you read the paper.

the argument

you begin the day
arguing with the weather.
berating it
for rain and cold,
wagging your finger
at the sky.
but the day says nothing
back.
what is there to say
that hasn't
been said
by the wind and snow.
it's a relationship
you are stuck in
with no way out,
so you bundle up,
put on your boots
and continue on.

the romance cruise

each time you take a cruise
the relationship
ends
not long after.
usually as you sit
at your desk
sending in money to pay
the bill, she's already
gone, already
with someone else,
in bed.
you haven't even
recovered from your sun
burn yet, or
the stomach bug you
picked up in Puerto
rico.
the photos are all you
have left, which you
stare at
trying once more to
analyze what went wrong.

how tall is she?

I have the perfect girl
for you, your friend betty says
on the phone.
she's cute
and smart, she has a job.
her kids are grown,
and her ex husband died
leaving her millions.
she used to be a gourmet
cook and model
part time for Victoria
secret's, when she
wasn't too busy
restoring art in
the Sistine chapel.
she's Italian, did I
tell you that and she's
never had to undergo
shock therapy. do you want
to meet her?
hello, hello, are you
still there?
sorry you tell her,
getting up off the floor.
I'm on my way. how tall
is she?

the ice photo

you see a grown man
bend over the edge
of the frozen lake
to take a picture of ice.
you are certain
that he's seen ice before.
most of us have.
but he has his wife
hold his hat
and coat, his plaid
scarf and gloves as he leans
in the cold
balancing on
the sharp rocks.
he looks up at sun,
squares the point of
where he wants to shoot
with his fingers,
then points and clicks.
you understand though.
having once taken a picture
of a bowl of beef stew.
also not appreciated by
the person you sent it to.

you told her once

you told her once
in a parking lot, shivering
in march.
the wind
finding its way against
your skin.
you told her
that you loved her.
it surprised you
more than it did her,
it may have
been too soon, or
perhaps too late
for anything long lasting
to begin.
but it was said,
it was true, as
true as the sunlight
was on your faces,
but strangely now,
neither of you not knowing
quite what to do.

small things

there was a time
when a good haircut
and shine of your best
shoes made your day.
now you cut your own
hair, and haven't shined a
pair of shoes
since the last funeral
you attended four
years ago.
so you find other small
things to make
you happy.
coffee for one,
the New York Times
on sunday.
a call from a friend who
is packing a suitcase,
soon to be on her way.

enter your amount here

you study the electric bill
as if it might
be a poem you are trying
to dissect,
you turn it over
and over, unfolding the three
sheets of paper
of small print and even
more smaller print
which no one
could possibly read without
a magnifying glass.
you find the box
that says pay this.
tearing at the perforated
line of where to rip. it says
enter your amount, so you
write the numbers in.
it's more than last month.
much more. you get up
and go over to the box to lower
the heat two notches, then
you enclose a check.
you seal the envelope
and smooth a Christmas
stamp onto the right corner.
you place it on the table
near your keys, so you
won't forget, then you
open the next bill, it's
thick with old news too,
marked American express.

sunday morning

glum, under a spell
of unknown
origin, she steps out
onto her porch
and kicks the ice
off the edges
of the stoop.
she sweeps acorns
and needles to
the snowy grass.
she pours a bag of
salt where her
feet will step.
she whistles for
the dog to come in.
a white winter sun
slips a cold light
between grey trees.
she is happy
in her unhappiness,
filled with no one.

what you know

it is in silence
that you find yourself,
walking through the quiet
of woods, along an empty
shoreline. scaling
a peak that has
risen over
the eons
above everything.
it is here that you
let go
and begin again
to get free of what ails
you. you see the madness
in bending to
the will of this world
with its false
loves and desires.
all of this will
pass. you know this,
you always have.

run home children

they told you
to hide under your wooden
desks
as the sirens blared.
they told you to run
home
to your burning
houses, your scorched
lawns,
to your parents now
skeletons
in their chairs.
they told you
to find shelter in a
basement, to not
breathe in
the radiated air,
they told you
to save food and water,
they told you not
to be scared, but
even now after all
these years, you still
are.

nothing less nothing more

this line of laundry,
white, against a blue sky.
the cool grass long from
spring rain.
your mother at thirty,
the basket at her feet,
as happy as she'll ever
be. her hands pin
shirts and dresses, sheets
next to one another.
each child alive and well.
a husband at work,
about to come home.
a cool breeze lifts
her hair from her
shoulders. she wants
for nothing less,
nothing more.

the fever

you wake up in a strange room.
you are a child again.
there is a woman there.
with curlers in her hair,
the way your mother used to do.
she's sitting
up in a chair watching television,
holding a baby.
it's an old show, black and white.
people are laughing too hard
and too long.
the room smells of medicine,
a radiator clunks below a window.
you ask her where you are,
and she smiles, don't worry,
it's all a dream.
everything will be fine.
you'll feel better soon, your
fever is gone.
but i'm here if you need me.
go back to sleep. so you do.

the five and ten

the five and ten
is no longer the five
and ten.
there is no counter
where you can rest
your skinny elbows
on and read comics
while sipping on a
cherry coke and nibbling
at a butter fried
grilled cheese sandwich.
the woman in pink,
with her hair up
in a stiff curl of hat
pays you no mind, she's
elsewhere
in her photoplay magazine,
wiping the counter,
humming a song
she heard on the radio.
you miss the five and ten.
the long summer rains,
hours of lingering,
spinning on and off
the stool,
imagining a different life,
along with the waitress,
just you two.

while fishing

while fishing
she says I want to find someone
I can grow old with.
a true love
to live out my golden
years. to walk hand in hand
towards the end.
what about a cat, you suggest.
casting your line into another
part of the blue pond.

the note farewell

you are not good
at endings. you are awkward
and careless,
you stumble and stammer
with words,
with notes. you want to
wrap things up neatly,
to tie a bow around
the box of sorrow
and call it a day.
part of you wants to leave
the door open,
just in case things could
change.
you are bad at this,
but you keep trying.
keep wrapping, keep finding
a new box to say what
you are unable to say.

the pink baby

the baby, pink as any grape fruit,
listed in her
mother's arms,
her eyes too blue
for this world, sponging
up this new life
now opened
to her view.
no teeth yet, her
arms and legs still
twisted
remembering
the womb. how fragile
we begin,
how mysterious
and unknown so much
is, not unlike
the end.

empty rooms

the empty house,
with empty rooms,
the walls free of pictures,
the nails
still there
where the frames
were removed.
the cupboards bare,
a crumb or two,
a line of sugar,
a dash
of salt.
the closets unburdened
by coats
or shoes.
how sad is to leave,
and start over,
hearing your
voice
echo in these empty
rooms.

the twist

you like to watch
the tap dancers on the hard
floor,
their feet moving
fast, clicking
to a beat. they are happy
with what they do,
their eyes lighting up
the smiles wide
on their faces,
hands out with that hey
look at me, look what
I'm doing pose,
so proud of the sounds
they are creating,
with heel and toe.
if you could be any dancer,
any dancer,
from ballet to the waltz,
from ballroom
to swing, take any off
the list, you'd choose
tap dancing, though sadly
up till this point
you've only mastered one,
the twist.

hard water

the iced sleeve
of an iron
stream rolls ever so
slowly
down the small gulf
of woods
behind your house.
it's hard water now.
the trees sing
with brittleness,
sway with broken limbs,
the sky, so low
you can almost touch
it with your gloved
hand, your red nose.
how winter makes us
beg for being young
again, for the warmth
of an april sun,
a new set of bones,
a heart that leaps
towards love.

these wars

these wars. these men.
these women.
dying.
coming home
limbless. eyeless.
minds torn
in half, never
quite out
of where they've been.
these wars.
that never end,
from the first
sword drawn,
to the last missile
spent. filling
endlessly the flag
draped coffins.
these wars
are with us,
with our parents,
with our children.
these wars.
these women,
these men.

the grain of sand

something off the wind
flies into your eye. a tiny
fleck of sand, maybe.
it makes you tear up,
the tears slide down
your cheek. big tears
making your cheeks wet.
people mistake
you for someone crying,
someone sad and mournful,
tearing up in public
not caring what others think.
how sensitive he must be
they say quietly, how
compassionate and kind
this man is. you blink
and blink trying to get
the grain of sand out
with no luck,
but suddenly not wanting
to, enjoying how wonderful
you have become.

the flute

under her spell, she makes
you pull out your credit
card and buy her a fur
coat, matching shoes,
a watch. a purse and for
some reason, a flute. she
has that kind of power over you.
it's in her kiss,
the way she makes love,
you'd lie down on a bed
nails for her, walk a
path of burning coals she's
a magician like that, she's
got you where she wants
you, this much she knows.

flowers

there was a time when you'd
buy flowers
after a fight, after a
misunderstanding.
you'd stop by the shop
and browse the chilled
roses, daffodils, a mixed
bunch of something
bright and colorful.
always a dozen delivered,
maybe a vase too,
pulling out all the stops,
a little note attached,
with a plea for
forgiveness in hopes
that she would take you
back. but that was then,
now you text her, and say
something along the lines
of hey, what's up?

stuck under a house

you see an old girl
friend on the road,
it's a yellow road,
bricked, in fact.
her shoes stick out
from under a house.
you can see them begin
to curl in her
green striped socks.
you lean over to say
hello, but there is
no answer. she
refuses to take your
calls, or text you
back, and even now,
while stuck under a house,
she's quiet and silent
as a grey church mouse.

apple scrapple

for days all you could
think about was bread,
apple scrapple
to be specific.
warm and wrapped
tight right out of
the oven, sprinkled
in cinnamon, the apples
real and juicy
buried within
the hot dough.
your mouth watered
as you stood in line,
finally making it
to the store.
but there was none
to be found. we'll make
more on Saturday
the girl said, making
a playful frown.
how is it possible,
why even open the doors without
apple scrapple, you
mumbled to yourself,
as you left with a loaf
of wheat and raisons
under your arm.

the ring

you have no rings.
you have fingers, but
they go unadorned
by gold or silver.
you had one once.
it was slipped on with
vows of love
and promise, it was
a bright polished
band, but you tossed
it out the window
when crossing
at the highest point
of the Chesapeake Bridge,
making a different
vow under the glare
of a bright rising sun.

indigo

it's blue
this water where you
wade,
half in half out.
your legs
cold with it.
the night is upon
you. this winter
mood, this
iced world gone
blue.

one quarter

the bed
in the flea bag
motel,
near the airport,
had a metal box
at the top
where you could
insert a quarter
to make it vibrate
and roll
to enhance pleasure,
or so the worn
label
said on the side.
in the drawer
was a very used
Gideon Bible
for later.

the orange

you haven't eaten an
orange in
months.
the last one was neither
sour or sweet,
but bland.
it looked like
an orange full of
orange promise,
but despite the color,
the juice,
the roundedness
of it, it
disappointed you
when the skin was
peeled away,
and first bite played
against your tongue.
you could easily
connect this orange
to beauty
and love, but you
won't it's too easy,
you'll save
that poem for another
day.

the maybe trip

your father wants to take a trip
to nova scotia
in an RV.
wanting to return home
before he dies.
you say something along
the lines of really,
i'm not so sure, maybe.
for Christmas you send him
a calendar of Halifax.
the ocean,
the trees turning color.
it's not the same,
but it's something for him
to look at
and ponder. the buildings,
the churches,
the long lush fields
where he grew up.
maybe you could fly, you
think. maybe.

this you know

you do believe in prayer.
in forgiveness. how could
one live without it.
with no place to go
for fear, or loneliness.
you do have faith.
you have a soul that longs
for blessings in your
life and others.
your imperfections are
many, your sins great
and small, you fall often.
you stray like the prodigal
son, again and again,
but you return once more.
it is the only place
to go, to your knees
in surrender.
you've been everywhere
else, so this you are
certain of, this you know.

the whiskey fall

his face,
bruised from falling on the ice,
purple and blue,
a chipped
tooth, a broken finger
wrapped tight
in his own way of bandaging.
his eyes were
red, his cheeks flush,
as he explained
how it all went down
I was coming out of a
tavern in town
with a girl I knew,
she grabbed my arm
and we fell against
the rail. it happened
so fast.
we both lay there
in the snow and laughed.
I remember how bright
the stars were
as we lay there, still
holding hands,
wondering how we would
get up and go
on to finish the night.
but we did.
we crawled to the car
and got in.

the get well soup

here, she says.
I made you some soup.
it's hot.
she hands you a spoon,
puts a sleeve
of crackers
on the table,
a glass of milk.
always a glass of milk
and slices of
white bread, a knife,
butter.
here, she says.
it's the best I could
do.
let me know if you
want more.
it's on the stove, i'll
be in the other
room. you can't stay
home all week. so eat
your soup,
tomorrow you go
back to school.

the first time

her name was Martha.
she had long hair, it may
have been brown or blonde.
but long. you remember
that, how she had to move
it away from her face
to kiss you.
she was wearing a dress
that fell to her knees.
a light cotton
dress, it may have been
green.
you made love, which
wasn't love at all.
the two of you in the back
seat of a dodge dart
circa 1970.
the windows were down.
the road was dark where
you parked, beneath
the overhang of willow
trees. you remember
a dog barking nearby,
the bones of her back
in your hands
as she arched her body
towards you, you felt
the warm stickiness of
the vinyl seats on your
knees. how quiet you
were. how vocal she was,
as if you were both involved
in two different things.
you remember feeling
the surprise emptiness
of it all
that still lingers
even now, these years
later.

four inches

it isn't pretty, this snow.
already a grey slush, seasoned
with salt and sand.
the black of the road
as slippery as a catfish
in your hand.
this is winter now. how it goes.
no sleigh ride, no snow man.
just sitting in line
behind other cars waiting
for the jack knifed trailer
to be towed.

the toaster

you were married to your first wife
for nearly an hour
before you knew
that it would never work.
her mother lived across
the street and had stretched
a sheet of polyurethane
across her daughter's room
with hope that one day she would
return. she did six months
later leaving a simple note
saying, i'm sorry, but i'm
going home. she withdrew half your
savings, a thousand dollars,
then walked home with
a toaster and a mixer
under her arm. wedding
gifts. she then came back to get her
clothes and framed picture
of Jesus hanging over the bed.
she became catholic the next
month, and you received a
letter from the bishop annulling
your marriage. not long after
that she married the owner
of an Italian restaurant where
her mother was a hostess.
you were happy for her.
you were happy for you.
you missed the toaster though,
it had four slots and could
toast bagels.

cat and dog

people want
to believe that their dog
can talk, can dance,
can read.
they take photos
or videos
of their pets
wearing hats and gloves,
holding diplomas
in their paws.
a scarf around their neck.
they turn on music
to get them
to spin around.
they ask them to count
to ten
by barking, holding
up a wooden treat
to persuade them.
they roll over, they play
dead, they yodel
with their dog voices.
all the while, the cat
in the room
sits on the sill,
half asleep,
half watching, knowing
full well
that the food will
come without the charades.

the way out

you escape with a spoon.
digging, digging.
quietly.
it takes hours,
days, months. longer
sometimes,
depending on how
thick the walls
are. how soft the dirt is.
sometimes
the tunnel collapses
and you start all over,
but you keep at it,
before long
there is light.
there is air. there is
someone else waiting
on the other side.

another land

bent towards
the fallen snow,
with shovel
in gloved hand, the white
crust
that fell overnight
when I was dreaming
of clouds,
and sand,
a stretch of beach,
those palm
trees
swaying as we bathed
in the morning sun,
saying nothing
to one another,
but smiling,
happy to be in another
land.

net worth

your slim
dollar taxed, your
silver
coin
bitten into,
the rose you picked
is missing
petals,
it comes and goes
so fast
this pay
you grind your
wheels for.
hardly
a penny left
to close
your eyes
when they find
you stiff.

black and blue

how black
and blue the sky is
this evening,
a powdered moon
coming through
the curve of glass
as you drive,
not lost, just
moving along without
a care,
or map. you could
die happily
under a moon
like that, its
beauty enough
for one night, one
life, you pull
to the side of the road,
to remember.

i know you

you stare at the back of your hand
after she tells you
I know you like the back of my hand.
you let it rest on the table.
there are ropes of veins,
bluish strands below the skin.
the knuckles red and worn,
dark spots,
the fingers thick from work,
a scar. thin bands of hair,
some grey, some brown.
you know this hand so well,
you don't know anyone quite the same,
it's been with you for as long
as you can remember,
then you stop staring at it, look up,
and wait for whatever else it was
she had to say.

the session

it's been a while
your therapist says to you,
telling you to take a seat
and relax.
coffee, some tea perhaps?
you shake your head no
and sit.
so what brings you here
again, after all these years.
broken heart, death,
illness, or sorrow?
parents didn't love you?
which fun issue has brought
you to my office once again.
all of the above, you tell
him, and I know what you will
say to me to make me feel better,
we've been down these roads before,
but is it okay if we don't talk,
you ask him? can I just take
a nap here? sure, he says.
put your feet up, lie back.
i'll get the light,
leave a check on the table
when you awaken. thanks, you
say, then close your eyes
and gently fall asleep,
letting it all wash away
like a dream.

the apple

she slices
the red apple
at her kitchen table,
the knife
pressing hard
into the core,
carving it
into quarters,
she places the pieces
onto a plate.
there is no rush.
the radio is on low.
small yellow birds are in
the feeder
making it swing
gently
against the window.
the apples are tart
against her tongue.
she's had better
ones before, but these
will do this cold
morning with nowhere
to be, no place to go.

monday

you will go to work
today.
you will, at some point.
but there
is coffee to make,
a bath to take,
a book
you need to read, just
one more page.
you will go to work
you tell yourself
again,
and again, slipping
one sock
slowly, then
the other onto
your cold feet.

checks and balances

you make a checks and balance
list, when it no
longer feels right.
good points
and bad points.
ups and down.
in the beginning. it's
all good.
it always is, but
by the end.
the tide has turned.
the wrong side
out weighs the good.
what was once quirky and fun,
is now annoying
and intolerable.
but, you love her just
the same,
and ignore the list.
you ball it up
and toss it into the fire,
hoping she does
the same with
her list about what's
wrong with you.

these horses

a field of horses
along the road makes you slow
down.
they pay you no mind,
behind the white post fence,
busy
with grass, with each other
under the blue
dome of this day.
the slant of a red stable
is in the distance.
their coats are black or grey,
some a rich
chestnut brown.
if she was with you, she'd tell
you something
you didn't know about these horses.
which one was old,
which one was young and could
still run,
but she's not here, so you drive
on, never knowing what there
is to be known.

to sleep

the rest of the night
you will devote to sleep.
it will be your church,
your pew
of prayer, your
booth of confession.
you will lie down
on the altar of your
bed, in the sanctuary
of your room
and wait for the blessing
of dreams, the forgiveness
of sleep to arrive. you will
rise in the morning
cleansed, ready once
more to start your life.

the climb

at this age,
these steps are narrow
and deep.
you catch your breath
half way up,
resting at the rail,
you look down
from where you
came, then up
to where you need
to go.
there is more behind
you
than ever before,
but you are still
rising, having not
fallen, not yet,
back to from where
you began.

the island of you

an ankle,
an arm, a set of lips
and legs,
the oasis
of your mouth
parted. the white
beaches
of your skin.
you are the island
I have landed
on, swum
to without a map
or compass
to guide me.
I will rest here
until it's time
to move on,
the day will come
before you
know it, it's what
I do best. I dive
back in, and swim.

the flow

like a balloon set
free
from a child's hand
you sail
above the carnival.
you have your sights
on the moon
or stars,
there is no place
below
that you wish to land,
you've seen
everything you've
wanted to see,
been to the places you've
wanted to go,
so it's best now,
to find a strong wind,
a gust,
a current, to exhale,
and sail with
the flow.

dark angel

she has a flare
for madness, a way
of looking at life
strangely. she's an
electric eel, a medusa
riding a winged horse,
a dark angel. she wants
to take you with her,
but you refuse to go.
it might be fun for
an hour, or two,
but then you'll have
to gnaw yourself
free from the leather
straps of love
she ties you to. how
sweetly though, she
sings, this woman,
with dark eyes,
silk skin, stirring
under a full moon
her witches brew.

six months, no less

let's take another look,
the young doctor says, telling
you to lie still
while they take an x-ray of your chest.
what was her name,
he says, staring at the black
and white chalked
negatives. there's
a crack across your heart,
a fissure,
right there, he says
holding the photo up to
the light. the old ones have
healed, but this one looks fresh.
may I suggest, and i know
it will be difficult,
but you need to rest.
be alone for awhile. just you.
six months, no less.

the apparition

silently she leaves
sweet cookies on your doorstep.
a book of poems,
a note of warmth,
almonds
wrapped in dark
chocolate, all
in a red bag,
tied by her hands
with a bow.
she is the ghost
of Christmas
presents,
an apparition
of your past.

the career

her hand
up, holding the strap.
the subway car tumbles
below the city
through a tunnel,
the flickering of lights,
the screech of wheels,
the dulled
eyes of tired
commuters looking
through her, neither
forward or back,
her hand up,
holding the strap.
ten years becomes
twenty oh
so fast.

intruders

her fence, broken on the east
side, the wire
torn from the post,
the grass trampled,
foot prints of winter
deer that passed
through,
the heads of flowers
eaten, the tops
of shrubs shredded,
they find a way in, she thinks,
while pounding a nail
held tightly in her
hand. these intruders,
like the men I don't love,
they find a way in.

around the bend

your indestructible
heart,
part stone, part
rubber, part flesh
and blood,
keeps beating, ignoring
lost love.
gently you pat
it with your hand,
whispering, we'll get
there one day,
keep going, keep
going, I can feel her
right around the bend.

sweet peppers

one ear
stuffed with life, full
of debris,
the roar of the world
is muffled, dulled
for him.
his blue eyes blurred
in color,
squinting,
unable to know
whether red or green,
to stop or go,
which sign
leads where, he presses
the pedal
forward. it doesn't
matter though, for in
the spring, if he has
another, he will
kneel in his small
garden and massage with
old hands
the soil to make sweet peppers
rise
and bloom again.

a different sea

despite the cold,
despite it being the month
of January
you take your shoes off
and walk alone
the empty stretch
of grey sand.
you approach
the wicked roll of ocean,
listen to
the violence
of its surf, pounding,
punching
the earth,
no longer soft
with summer, no longer
a clear green, no longer
holding out its
arms of waves saying
embrace me. the world
has changed,
this is a different sea,
it's not the same,
and neither are you.

monuments

this city, washed
in grey light. no luminous
wings of angels,
no bright swords,
it's the darkness
of rain,
the cloak
of sadness that death
brings,
shadowing the monuments
of war,
the false glory
of victory
that we bathe in.
in stone
we give the dead names,
they give us
the space
they leave behind
to walk in and live
our lives.

the trip

a quick word
before you go.
before you clean
the windshield,
fill the tank with gas.
before you lock
the doors,
check
the stove, the iron,
the phones.
a quick note to self,
that you'll be
back before you know
it, still the same,
but different
somehow from
what lies ahead
on your travel.

the red glove

a dropped glove
on the path has been
stuck on
a branch.
its empty red
fingers
blow in a wave
as you pass by.
small rhinestones
are imbedded
where the hand
would be.
you wave back.
the bare trees may be
grey and cold,
like you,
this time of year.
but they're friendly.

the gift

a package
at your door, cookies,
chocolates.
all wrapped in red,
a white tied bow,
a small
note saying
what it's all
for. merry Christmas.
all soft
kisses on the cheek,
which is fine,
but you wanted
so much more.

toast and tea

sitting at the kitchen
table,
new years eve,
buttering toast,
sipping
green tea, her
reflection staring
back at her
on the side of the toaster.
in the past, there
might be sorrow,
or regret,
a feeling of sadness
at being alone
on such a night,
a night
of joy and resolution,
the beginning of a new year,
but no.
this is exactly where
she wants to be,
and needs to be,
here, eating toast,
and drinking tea.

she knits the world away

she knits and knits,
unspeaking,
resolved to let
the world
go by
without being part
of it.
the yarn
is always with her
in a ball,
fallen
at her feet.
the clink of needles,
the twist
of hand,
and arm,
the eyes on each
new strand
becoming something,
something
only she can
understand.

the same stars

the stars,
the same stars you watched
as a kid
lying on
a picnic table
in the back yard
are there tonight,
unchanged,
as you are
deep within the well
of you.
only the outside
has aged,
the sun and wind,
having its way.
within is the same boy
of hope
and joy,
the child who waits
for love
to happen,
and knows it will.

the white swan

this white swan
gliding across
the winter pond alone,
hardly a ripple
on the watery glass,
stretching her wings,
her elegant neck as she paddles
back and forth,
going nowhere
that you can see.
you could watch
and be with the likes
of her beauty all day,
some days.
but in the end
it's not enough
for what you need,
though for now this swan
will do.

how to die

the old horse
dies.
going out deep into
a field
near the far fence,
at the edge
of someone else's
woods,
where the stream
bends towards the river.
where the grass is lush
and blue,
out of reach
or view,
he lies down
to close his eyes
and let
the life he knew
subside.

a toast

exhausted by the year,
by love
ending. by work and illness
that lingered
on too long.
exhausted by
brothers and sisters
bickering,
aging parents
and friends that have
come and gone,
you savor the last
night of the year
with a plate of Chinese
food, and a glass
of cold champagne, alone.
here's to the new
year. cheers.

the new box

these wires, black
snakes
on the floor, their
squared jaws,
the rounded
plugs
and tails, needing
to bite
and spark
this beast alive,
this metal box of mystery
that has been removed
from its paper crate.
why is there no sound,
why is there a blue
square
around every letter
I pound into this keyboard.
why doesn't that rattling
printer respond,
and print. no ink, no
paper, no
connection, there is a boy
in Pakistan
on the line to help you,
he's taking a break
from milking his goat
to inform you
of which buttons
to push or unpush.
he wants to know your
mother's maiden
name, or the name
of your first pet
to start.
where o where is the old
typewriter, with its bell,
the blue inked ribbon,
the smack of metal
keys against paper,
its sweet cold rhythm,
that was music to my
ears.

indecision

sometimes you are
the squirrel
in the road,
frenetic with
indecision.
not knowing which
way to go,
leaning left,
leaning right,
your feet
pedaling rapidly
in one place,
waiting for the moment
when you know.

the fish

the fish, fattened
with cold, white bones
intact,
resting with flat eyes
gelled
open on the shaved
ice, behind the slant
of glass, marked for
sale by pound, not
beauty.
the glimmer
of rainbow scales,
still awash in
salt, the sway of
a green distant sea,
their lives now
measured against
their will, to what
we want, what we need.

his shoes

your father
would place his shoes
on the stairs,
rising.
black boots,
wing tips, sandals.
so you would
place yours
beside them.
trying for a closeness
that wasn't
there. not then,
not yet.
it took it years
for your feet to grow,
and his heart
to change.

old haunts

there are places
she can't go.
memories
are there. ghosts.
words still
hanging in the air,
faces in the crowd,
strangers that look
familiar.
shadows.
she's haunted
with the past,
the loves that have
come
and gone,
her world
with each new
day getting smaller
and smaller.

sweet cravings

you crave something sweet.
a candy
a slice of dark
chocolate
cake, some sort
of decadent flavor,
sugar spun with cream,
a treat.
you know what I
mean. or in lieu of that,
just bring me you,
sashaying across the room
on high-heeled feet.

sparks

these crossed
wires, spark in the tight
confines
of a box
where the switch
is hit again and again.
in time
it may burn.
but for now,
you let it be.
you let friends be
friends,
and say little,
to do more would
be trouble,
and to what end.

the blue buick

the blue buick on blocks
in the driveway.
tires, bald and stacked,
filled with rain
and leaves.
the raised letters
goodyear, once bright,
now faded grey,
the newness of life
so fragile,
so quickly
leaving, the body
under siege of relentless
rust.
how sweet the engine
purred,
how the radio sang.
the seats
holding you and me,
our new love bringing us
knee to knee,
hand on hand,
as we cruised.

the letter

the letter folded,
pressed between the pages
of a book
you both read,
creased,
the ink soft and blurred
from time
or tears, or both.
you open to read her
words again,
the explained farewell,
the wishes
for the best for you
in finding
true love,
love that is meant
to last. how she
whispered on paper that
it was never meant
to be. each word a bullet
through an arm, a hand,
a leg,
making you bleed,
the last line,
point blank, i love you,
let's stay friends,
dropping you to your
knees.

writing

you can't be bothered
with punctuation
or spelling or in even
getting the facts straight,
sometimes what you write
doesn't even make
sense, making you scratch
your own head, and say
what?
you are runaway train
on this track.
plowing forward
against the steel rails.
making things up as you go
along, taking the clay
of your day, spinning
it on a fast wheel, cooking
it in the kiln of
your over heated mind,
making something out
of nothing, lining
the shelves with simple
ashtrays.

no guilt

you don't separate
plastic
or paper, cans or bottles.
you toss
them all into
the same bag.
you read where the sun
will burn out
at some point.
having exhausted its flame,
turning itself into
a cold
black spot in the sky.
this makes you happy,
eases
the guilt about
the trash you bag,
carry to the curb,
set out.

another new year

you say things like I should go
visit, I don't know how many
more Christmases he has in him.
he can't hear, or see very well.
you sent him a magnifying
glass as a gift. but he still
finds humor in everything,
telling you a blonde joke
on the phone, one he's told
before. he laughs at the end,
waiting for you to join in,
you do. this is how it works
now. you forget all that went
wrong and help him across
the road of another new year.

the guys

these men, friends
gathered without wives
or girlfriends, to eat,
to drink, to sit in a tight
circle and avoid
talking about illness or
death, poverty
of soul or pocket.
it's a life raft with a mission
of keeping the night
afloat, of skipping
over the rough
and laughing, poking
one another, wrestling like
the young puppies
you once were
when you met so long ago.

sweet potatoes

she misbuttons her blouse.
but you say nothing
it's late, it's dark
and cold outside.
you hand her her coat,
helping her arms
into the long sleeves.
thanks for bringing me
those sweet potatoes
and green beans
you tell her. they're
better the next day,
she tells you. just heat
them up. she feels her
ears for her earrings
and says, I think I left
them on the table
so you get them as
she stands in the door
shivering. here, you say,
then she slides them
into the pink skin
of her ears. happy
Christmas she says,
clicking her fob to find
where she parked
her car.

all the buttons

with all the buttons
pushed and lit
in the elevator, you
look at the kid who rides
along with you.
a smirk etched on his
unlined face, happy
with his small prank,
his devilish strike
at a world he's yet to
understand or join.
push the buttons, you
think to yourself, push
them all now, for there
will come a time
when this life of no
hurry and careless ease
will change.

spare change

curled in a ball of rags,
blue eyed
with silk hair,
grey and matted, making
you think of a wet rat,
he lies beside
the Christmas store
with his god bless sign
so neatly marked
in black, a card
board placard,
which can fold
for easy carrying.
he wakes up
begging. he walks
and leans
into the day with
an emptiness to be filled.
he may be crazy, or
sane, who's to know
these days as you drop
your coffee change
into the ding
of his metal cup,
then turn to hurry away.

the heirloom plate

a broken plate, once
considered good china
by your mother,
an heirloom from Woolworth's,
a table centerpiece,
where the turkey would sit
once baked, porcelain
with don't microwave
on the back, hand wash,
has tumbled to the floor.
carefully you collect
the three angled
shards onto the table,
lining a clear ribbon of glue
along the ragged
edges, pressing them
together, but knowing
that the weight
wont hold, that's it
time, all things
and mothers being one,
will one day come apart.

the vault

the vault of memory
that holds
everything,
with its set of numbers
and turns.
the savings of your life.
love and death,
images of what went
went wrong,
what was right,
all stacked within
the shelves of time.
you twist the dial
carefully,
on your knees, trying
to open the door,
to visit her once
more, you listen
to the clicks
with an ear against
the thick cold
metal, then stop.
enough with the past.
the vault. it's
time for someone new,
where love is mutual,
someone you adore.

the swing

how happy the child is
as the swing
lifts him
towards the blue
sky and clouds,
his feet straight
with boots,
his eyes glistening
with winter,
apart from earth,
but not quite,
his hands held tight on
the dark chain
that holds the seat,
the bar above,
higher, higher he shouts,
no fear of anything behind
or in front of him,
not yet.

bird on the sill

it surprises you,
this brown sparrow

who has
found the time
to rest on your window
sill. fat with feathers,
full of himself,
accepting winter,

this chill,

this rain,

wanting for nothing
more than
what he has, showing
you a way.

top of the stairs

even now, at this age,
you cringe at the sound
of arguing
between a man
and a woman,
having sat at the top
of the stairs
listening to the curses
of your mother and father.
their hateful voices
rising like acidic
heat to your small
ears. you hear
the broken dishes,
the glass
against the wall,
the cut cord,
the phone being
thrown.
the knocks at the door,
the screams,
the sirens.
your sister, hardly
born, in her
crib crying
in another room.

two years ago

if it was two years
ago, you'd be waking up beside
her.
you would have made
love by now.
you'd be in each
other's arms.
the shades would be up
as the birds
would gather
at the feeder swinging
from the top
of the window.
if it was two years
ago. you'd want to stay
in bed until noon,
talking about breakfast,
about food,
about where
you would walk that day,
through which woods
or along the water.
if it was two years ago,
she would kiss you
before rising to go shower,
she would whisper to you,
I love you. I love
I love you, and you
would say the same.

his plan

she remembers him
at the sink, at the stove,
barefoot
in the kitchen, shirtless,
the sweat of them
making love still
on the small of his
back.
cracking two eggs
for him
into a pan.
making coffee for one,
toast for one.
staring out the window,
planning
his escape, without
her, his
plan.

strong love

it's early in the morning
when someone
asks you what you want
in this life.
what do you really want.
you say without thinking,
strong coffee,
strong love.
everything else is done.

bread crumbs

she leaves a trail
of personal
bread crumbs
in her wake.
lipstick,
brushes, clothes,
a pen, a ring
on the nightstand,
the wine still
opened
on the counter.
she's gone.
but she knows her
way back,
she's made sure
of that.

go back to bed

how easy it would be
to go back to bed.
to remove your clothes,
take off your shoes,
to stop the day in its tracks.
you could take some books,
get back under
the warm blankets that you
just left.
the pillow still holds
the shape of where
you last were, as if
waiting. why not.
the world can go on
without you for one day,
your quite sure of that.

while scraping ice

as you scrape
a thick layer of ice
from your window,
leaning over
the hood of your
brittle car,
you think about
oranges and sunshine.
long languid beaches.
there's a woman on the veranda,
let's call her Lucinda,
she waves with a mimosa in her
hand, maybe she's
applying lotion
to her long arms
and legs. the sky is blue,
there are tropical
birds in the trees.
maybe there are monkeys,
but not the wild
scary kind. good monkeys.
the kind you can feed
a banana to without
them biting off your
hand. you keep scraping
your windows. your feet
slipping as you move
about the car,
the front, the back,
the sides.

the watches

watches in a drawer,
some yours,
some hers, a few
strays left behind,
all still at it,
busy keeping time,
despite never being worn.
around the hands go,
ignored in their work.
clicking off the hours,
turning them into
days, then months,
no different are you.
or me it seems in
our labor.

the tin of cookies

your father sends you a tin
of Christmas cookies.
it's red with a bow on top.
they are pressed perfectly
into shapes of trees
and ornaments, leaves,
reindeer. round and squared,
nestled in paper cups.
all sweet, too sweet,
and stale. crumbling with
each bite having been made
some other year. strange
raspberry and tangerine
flavored cookies, some
chocolate or hazel nut, but it's
the thought that counts.
the time it took to place
the order, spell your name
right, and find your address.
the bravery of giving his
card over the phone to make
the purchase. true love like
this, the world has rarely
known.

another song

the record, still on
the turntable, skipping, stuck
in a small grooved
scratch, repeating over
and over the same words,
the same few notes,
until you get up
and lift the needle,
setting it on another track.
how easy it is to make
life right sometimes,
when things feel like they
will never change, or
move on to another song.

the spatula

if you had to be
one utensil
it wouldn't be a
knife or fork,
not even a spoon.
no. you'd go into
the larger drawer,
where the random
things lie in wait.
perhaps a bright spatula,
flexible and lean,
the last one out
to clean the bowl
of a batter cake.

in deep water

waving or drowning,
both
are so much
the same.
too far out
to save, these
friends with drama,
so far
away.
you can only shoot
a flare
into the sky,
marking
their position,
as they go
down, or move on
to better days.

she gives us all her love

her voice, a garbled,
smoked etched sound.
even now, after being dead
for forty years,
you can hear
your grandmother's laugh,
her reprimands,
swearing at you
for not praying more,
for watching television
and gazing out the window,
wondering when
she would leave
and go back to boston.
you see her with her toast
and tea,
her number paintings,
the smell of oils
on her hands. you can
feel the stiff bite of
the fruitcake she made
and placed in a tin,
because she loved you,
loved all of you, as
God does,
and to eat none would
be a sin.

going back

these woods, full of rain.
your shoes
smacking against the paved
walk until it turns to
gravel. the woods of no
change, over thirty years
you've come this way
to witness
the sway of birds rising
against the sky, scurrying
from branch to
brush. the pond at the end
black and shallow,
unmoving. the beaten path
is silent.
the cold, the holiday
has saved it just for you.
knowing you'd be back.

coming home

the girl, visiting
for the holiday,
beyond already
in being a girl.
falls asleep
in her mother's bed.
curled beneath
the blankets, the lights
on, the tv
humming, a book
once read to her
as a child,
closed in her
open hand.
the world is right.
the world is good,
her mother sighs,
as she stands
at the door
and cries.

the want

the clenched teeth
of the dog
biting down,
his jaw locked
on what he wants
so desperately,
reminds you of you
sometimes. how hard
it is to let things
go, when the battle
is lost.

the hair cut

just an inch off the top
you'd tell the barber
as you sat in the chair.
a trim, you'd say, just a
trim. sure kid, he'd mumble,
dropping the sheet
around your skinny neck,
pinning it with his stubby
fingers,
his hands smelling of onions
and salami. he turned your head
from the top, like
a child's doll.
you watched your hair
float onto the striped
cape, onto the floor,
there was little you
could do. he might
cut your ear off with
a straight razor if
you moved. how would
you ever make a wave again,
ala elvis, with your little
black comb,
your life as you knew
it was over.
finally, after several
minutes he spun you around,
powdering your bristled
neck. tapping your
cheeks and ears with a blue
liquid from a bottle
he shook. how's that he'd
say looking into the wall
length mirror, his wide
smile exposing his gapped
teeth, proud
of what he had done,
ruining your summer.
how's that my boy. now
go get em.

the christmas ring

you go shopping for a
ring at the mall.
but first you
get a pretzel
and a soda.
that one you say to
the girl, I want to see that
one, pointing
at a diamond ring
under the shiny glass.
what size does she
wear, the girl asks you.
I don't know you
say, brushing gems
of fallen salt
from your coat.
I just her met last week,
but her fingers are slender,
like yours,
not fat at all.
how much is that one?
oh, you say,
as she flips the tag
over and tells you.
do you have
anything cheaper.
something without
the diamonds?
you wipe the mustard
from your lips
as you finish your
pretzel. I just met her
and I'm not sure it's
going to last,
do you have anything
I can return
if it doesn't work
out? sorry, she says,
but no.

the helpful world

at random
someone calls you on the phone.
a heavy accent.
but he knows your name,
your phone number,
he knows that you are having
trouble with your
computer. what doesn't he
know you think.
I can help you he says.
are you at your computer
now. let me help you clean
up the system. make it faster.
I have called to assist
you with your troubles,
please let's begin.
give me your credit card
information for starters.
your birth date, your
social security number
and your bank account.
your heart is warmed at how
helpful the world has
become these days.

two inches to the left

you move the chair
to the other side of the room.
the lamp, two feet to
the left. you unhang the picture
and nail it
to another wall.
the only plant you have
you slide
to the other side
of the window. the vase
made of red glass
you center on the mantle.
then you stand back,
hands on your hips.
shaking your head,
quickly you put it all
back, change is hard
at this age.

the thirst

a thirsty man
is weak and willing
to listen,
to bend for water,
even to the point
of becoming
good.
how well you've known
this thirst.

the broken pot

the fractured pot,
pale blue,
unearthed from deep
within
the dry well,
a fragment of the past
dug up,
brushed clean. but
even now, two hundred
years later, it's still
a broken pot, at
least to you.

on the other side

the stolen spoon you use
to dig
your tunnel bends
in the soft dirt,
relentless is your digging.
there will be light.
you can almost see it.
you will be out soon.
you will crawl
to the other side
and be free.
things will be different
then,
and so will you.

the fruitcake

the carolers,
bunched together with
sheet music,
cold blooms of air
rising
from their o shaped mouths,
shivering in front of your house.
singing,
so hard to block
it out,
the dog howls,
you stand at the kitchen
window
and wave, shirtless,
holding a mug
of iced bourbon.
you wish you could join
them,
to be that selfless
and cheerful,
but you can't, not today.
you set a fruit cake
out on the stoop for them,
as a token of
appreciation,
you yell out, take it.
please, thank you.
it's for you my merry
friends.

the big light

it's more subtraction
these days
than it is
addition.
the list of friends
and lovers
is shrinking
like daylight
finding
the longer days
of winter.
it's okay to fade
away.
to go gently into
that good night.
no whimper, no whining.
just a smile,
a kiss.
a wave farewell,
a flick off
of the big light.

your black hat

a crust of grey snow,
ankle deep,
the froth
of slush
and ice, salt,
the debris of air
and road.
it takes the smile
out of winter,
balancing
one arm
against
a lamp post,
flagging down
the future that awaits
in a yellow cab.
maybe she'll
forgive you for being,
once again,
so late, so wintry
in your dour
demeanor, your
black hat.

so long ago

a vial
of blood is taken from your
arm.
the red soup
of your soul to be
spun
and examined.
they need to know
the things they don't
know.
how quickly this life
fades
you think while staring
at a ceiling
of lights,
on a cold table
bare
as the day you were
born,
so long ago.

the lost war

this disease
is hardly cowardly.
not at all shy, or
reticent. its
courage is mindless.
it races into battle
taking
no prisoners.
it has planted its
victory flag
even as the war has
begun. and yet,
you vow to live,
you say save me
men in white. save
me needles, save
me science. shine
the light of love
on me dear god and
let me live another
day.

the long line

we are born
to wait, to get in line.
from the moment
you can stand
there is a line you
must get into
and wait your turn.
hardly a decision is
made
without a line
involved.
from school to marriage
to the job
you chose, or chooses
you.
even in end, there is
a line stretching
towards the cemetery
with headlights on.

risk and reward

you don't pet
the cross stitched
snake, rising as it rattles,
or stick your head
into a lion's
mouth.
you leave the alligators
alone,
choosing not
to wrestle their rugged
green hides
to the ground, prying
their jaws open.
there is no bungee cord
in your near or distant
future,
or plane
to leap out of
from the clouds above,
no, you live a timid life.
work and love
being enough risk
and reward as it is.

making the grade

you miss the testing
of school days.
multiple choice always
being your favorite,
or the wide open,
in a hundred words
or less essay.
it was so simple then.
showing your work,
filling in the blank,
seeing the red marked paper,
handed back to you,
then a grade inked into
the teacher's ledger.
you knew where you stood
with the world and
others. passing or
failing, moving on
to another level,
or not.

things can change

it's early, too early to be up
on a cold December
morning. even the dog
shakes his head and crawls
back under the blanket.
but you want to see the sun rise.
you want to see the color
of the sky when it changes,
when the blue blackness
of night gives in to
the turning of the earth,
to sunlight. you need to know
that things can change.

the restraining order

it's a narrow
window, but you crawl through.
easing your way
into the house.
there was a time
when you had a key,
or could knock or ring
the bell
to get in, but she's
changed the lock
and refuses to answer
the door.
this is the only way
you have now to regain
her love and affection,
it's only the guard
dog and the alarm
on her bedroom
door that you need
to get past to see
her again. you're
almost home, you
hope she doesn't scream.

fractured ice

the ice

moans and cracks

as it feels the weight
of you
across a pond
holding the peach of
a winter sun going
down.
all things are
possible
with risk,
even now at this age,
getting to
the other side
of where your life
should be.

her smile

prism light
on the skim of puddle.
an oiled rainbow
shaking color
in arced stripes.
beauty was in her smile,
I remember that.

holiday dinner

the old men
in winter plaid
and grey
move slowly along
the brightly lit aisles,
alone,
the squeak of the carts
wheel
a mouse at their feet.
they stand at the cold
bins of fish
reaching in
to pick one package,
blood red or pink,
they study the words,
the price,
turn it over,
then back again.
they set it down
on the iron mesh
next to potatoes,
bread and wine,
a single apricot.
they toss their scarves
over their shoulders,
adjust their hats,
move on.

going home

a stray dog in winter
is in the road
walking.
being dodged
by traffic.
he's narrow minded
in his journey.
uncaring
about what lies ahead.
he smells
home. like him,
you too smell home.
but you can't
get there anymore,
not from here, at least,
despite your wanderings.

the christmas card

her white hair
too long
frames her gaze.
her face
has been smoothed by age.
the worry
lines
taken out
somehow by forgetting
all
that worried
her, all that was
or could be,
she is blind to memory,
knowing
for certain
only what's in her hand.
turning the card
over and over
to say how pretty it is,
again and again.

the bell ringer

the man in the bright red
santa suit
ringing the bell
over a shiny black pot
swinging full
of change
might be a little insane.
his enthusiasm
and repetitive
phrase of have a nice
day is relentless.
from morning until
the store closes, he
is out there
greeting whoever
walks in or leaves.
you drop
a quarter into the pot
which makes him
ring the bell even harder.
he is as constant
as the northern star,
having found his
niche in life, which
is something
not everyone can say.

job interview

where do you want
to be in five years
the interviewer asks you
as he stares at your application
form for a job
you don't even want.
close your eyes, he says.
take your time
before you answer.
relax and think about it.
you close your eyes
and a smile creases your face.
I'd like to be married
to amy adams, you say.
living in Malibu
with maybe a condo
overlooking central
park to visit once
in a while. what?
the interviewer says.
who is amy adams?
she's been in a lot of movies
lately. American
Hustle for one. cute
little perky redhead.
I think I love her.
okay, okay. the interviewer
says. be serious.
do you really want this job
or not?
I'm not sure. I've just
been bored lately
and thought maybe I'd do
something crazy
like get a real job
instead of what I do now.
how's the coffee here?

at night

a warm hand,
a soft kiss, the whispered
words
of good night,
i love you
are blessings in
this world,
helping to ease
the rest of what
we must
endure.

the thinning

the hunters
are quiet in the trees.
they have become
the trees. green
and flowered
brown, stiffly silent
in the dark as
they wait, unmoving,
for the deer.
to step inside
the luminous lens,
their crossbows
taut with
arrows of
sharpened steel.
it's not killing,
or even hunting,
it's thinning
the herd.
keeping the roads
safe for me and you.
it's a cold game.
this man versus
nature.

the wall between you

a card dropped
through the metal mail
slot
of your door
says happy new year.
it's from
a neighbor that you
rarely speak to.
she is quick
to get in and out of
her car,
only stopping to wave
quickly
as she carries
groceries in, or a
brief case
from her work.
maybe nine words have
been exchanged
in a year of living
side by side,
secretly busy in
your own lives.
a mere wall between
you
and yet strangers.

candy cane slippers

don't bring her cookies
anymore,
the woman who unlocks the door
tells you.
no chocolates either.
it's all going straight
through her, she says, making
a quick hand gesture
from her neck to
below her waist to give
you a visual of your
mother's failing digestive
system.
you set the box of Christmas
cookies
on the table in the main
room, where
the others, go at it
like piranhas in
their satin and lace.
you smile, then hand your
mother
her new slippers. purple
with candy canes.
I like them she says,
she likes everything
these days.

just be happy

just be happy.
the book tells you.
perceive happiness and it
will be
so.
it's all in your mind.
you think about throwing
the book
into the fireplace,
but you don't have one.
maybe a doorstop,
or a book to kill
stink bugs
when they invade
your home. you turn another
page.
just be happy it says
again,
like a north Korean
torturer, pounding
the message home,
you are what
you think.
you think about being a
mountain lion and chasing
down a sheep,
or a goat for dinner,
you let out
a roar, you scratch
the floor, arching your
back.
this strangely makes
you happy.

in the morning

you wake
up coughing, deep
lung
bursting coughs.
your ears rattle
like small glass windows
in your skull.
you think of your father
and his
camel cigarettes,
his whiskey,
blowing his nose
as he sits
on the side
of the bed,
black boxer shorts,
black socks,
a new cut on his head.
a train wreck.
and here you are
coughing,
trying hard to clear
the pipes,
no black socks,
or boxers,
no cuts, but
you're no different.

keepsakes

she would save string,
paper clips,
rubber bands, empty
plastic bags,
harper's bazaar magazines
and look.
out of print forever
but stacked
in tilted piles
along
the basement wall. years
of cards received
not in bags or boxes,
but scattered on
the floor like autumn
leaves. love letters.
valentines from the third grade.
the clothes were haystacks
in a corner,
or on hangers swinging on
the door.
they didn't fit, the style
was gone,
but they blew in the wind
of her rooms
when she opened a window.
empty bottles lined
the shelves,
books books books,
buildings of books going
nowhere.
lamps that wouldn't light,
stereos with wires
frayed, stacked
silently together.
and now, the ghost of you
lies in there,
somewhere.

i want that

they began to take
things of hers as she lay
not dying, not quite,
but asleep,
a ring slipped
off her finger,
a watch from her wrist, rosary
beads lying in a small
puddle on the nightstand.
even a tea set from
Russia was lifted from
her cupboard
as she lay
in the hospital,
trying to remember
her own name,
the names of people
in the room,
but these were children
of hers
not thieves,
storing her keepsakes
out of sight
where only they
could see, already picking
at the bones.

out of time

your brother
likes to begin each conversation
with
remember when we
were poor,
remember how our
parents weren't there for us,
how we got no
encouragement
or love
to go on.
usually you say yes,
I do
and go through the list
with him, discussing
shoes
with holes in them,
white
bread and cheese,
powdered milk,
the army barrack beds,
thin mattresses
on springs.
my back still hurts, he
says, letting
out a groan on the phone.
fifty years ago,
you tell him. fifty years.
you keep waiting for him
to see the blessings
in it all,
but he's running out
of time.

rolling the dice

you have never been
good at gambling,
but you keep at it.
despite
the many relationships
you've been in
you keep your unlucky
streak going.
you've rolled
the dice quite a few
times
and have come up
snake eyes nearly every
time.
even with new dice
in your hands,
blowing on them, whispering,
sweet nothings
against their cold
six sides,
you never seem to win.

so true

the moon has always
been with you.
a part of your life.
a childhood
friend
out the window silver
and bright.
even now,
you expect so much from
it.
some mystery solved,
some poem
to arise from
its lunar glow
and pull.
it's hard to imagine
any friend or lover
so constant,
so loyal
so true.

i want to be wooed

i want to be wooed,
she says to you
while kicking off her
shoes
and lighting a cigarette.
can you smell that,
she says, holding
her feet closer to her face.
her flexibility is amazing.
I've been working all day
in these damn platform
shoes and hose. maybe i'll take
a shower. do you have soap?
i feel like burning
these clothes, they are wet
on me.
yes, you tell her.
down the hall. soap,
shampoo, all that kind
of stuff. clean towels too
in the closet.
thanks, she says, blowing
a series of jaw
cracking smoke rings
towards the ceiling.
we women like to be wooed.
i don't know exactly what
that means you tell her,
holding your nose.
women want to be won over,
showed that they are
adored and wanted.
we need a little red
carpet sometimes. do you
know what i mean?
maybe, you tell her, watching
as she drags her nails
along the bristles
of her legs. hey,
i have a razor and
shaving cream in the shower
too, if you need that.
i'll open a bottle of wine
while you bathe.
am i wooing now? it feels
like i am a little.

your ear nose and throat specialist

your doctor
scribbles on a pad
of paper
your three options.
it's chicken scratch,
hardly legible.
what's this word you
ask him
pointing at the first
line.
that's drugs,
see the d and the r...
that little loop is a u.
okay,
you say, and the next
line, what's that.
that says,
injections, see the j,
I know it looks
like a t, but it's
really a j.
I write like that
when in a hurry.
but you're here,
what's the rush.
and the third line?
that says...ummm. I think
I wrote surgery,
I'm not sure, don't
worry about that line,
that's way down the road
if option one and two
don't work.
any more questions?
I'd like to stay and chat,
but I really have to run.
I have a hot pastrami
sandwich in my office
with my name on.
it's no good if it gets
cold. oh, you can
put your shirt back
on now and leave
if you want.

the line thief

you are a line thief.
an idea
burglar, tip
toeing along the
ledge of her
mind. going
through an unlocked
door or window.
everything she says
is ripe
for stealing, gems
tossed into
your little
black bag
and held under
the light,
brought home to
be examined,
priced then sold
in the bargaining
of your own poetic
life.

the ceremony

the clerk wipes his mouth,
after taking a bite
of his sandwich. lunch he
says apologetically,
fifteen dollars,
raise your hands and
repeat after me.
she's in white,
he's in black.
a quick shine on his
shoes, a beauty parlor
stop for her.
she touches the small
raise of her stomach
without looking down.
she says the words
she's supposed to say,
so does he.
there's no rice thrown,
no cake, or band.
sign here, the clerk
says,
they sign the paper.
they leave to start
another day.

dead sea scroll recipes

the new discovery
of recipes
in a cave close to where
they found the dead sea scrolls
has set the culinary
world on fire. for example
here's one
found on a scroll of papyrus
lying in a clay pot
within the caves.
catch fish, build fire,
scratching rocks onto leaves
or driftwood, with cupped
hands blow until
fire is steady. add more wood.
(if there is a burning bush
present, that will do as well)
toss dead
fish, after a nice
coating of olive oil,
onto fire using a metal
pan, or a roman helmet
if one is around, season
with sea salt, honey
and sprinkles
of pepper. flip after three
minutes, do not overcook.
place lemon wedges on the side.
garnish with
parsley. feeds one
or two, depending on if
jesus is around.
he could multiply
that one fish
into five hundred.
serve with a white wine.
stomped grapes, using
clean feet or sandals,
fermented, strained
and bottled.
one bottle for two,
unless of course jesus
is present, if that's the case
there's plenty more to be found.
so drink up.
for dessert there is a nice
selection of grapes,
pomegranates and figs,
and or a nice bread
pudding made with three eggs,
two cups of warm goat milk and honey.
wash out the roman helmet,
or use the breast plate
stolen from a palace guard for
a more fancy presentation,
bake in the desert sun
for two or three hours,
or until firm.
serves two, unless of course,
you know who is around.
Thomas will not believe
how good this tastes.

one empty seat

she asks you where the seats
are.
I hope they aren't in
the middle.
I hate the middle seats.
I can't get out
when I'm in the middle
and it's crowded. please,
please tell me
our seats are on the end,
but in the center
of the auditorium,
not too close, I cant
watch when I'm too close,
my neck hurts,
and not too far back
either. I don't like
to wear my glasses when
I'm too far away.
so I pray that the seats
are down a dozen rows
from the back
and up a dozen from
the front. what do the tickets
say? where are they?
sold out you tell her,
pocketing the tickets,
and shrugging. oh, oh
what a shame she sighs,
I did so want to see
that wonderful play.

fatherhood

when your
son picked up a flat headed
screwdriver
and tried to jam
it into an unprotected
light socket,
you rushed to his side
and smacked him
on his nine pound
wet diaper, which hurt
your hand more than it
did his chapped bottom.
but he cried
as you took the tool
from his hand and warned
him about electricity,
and how the current
would fry his little brain
like an egg on a skillet.
of course he didn't understand
a word you said,
he just wanted to his
screwdriver back
to play.

house for sale

that thunder
that you hear is really
the unbalanced
washer that I
over loaded
with heavy clothes,
no need to worry,
it will settle down
when they all get wet
and go through
a spin cycle,
and that rain, well
it's not rain at
all, but the leaky
toilet off
the bedroom that
keeps refilling and
refilling
because of a small
leak in
the red gasket that
never seals completely
down. oh, and
the vibration
of the floor, ignore
that too, just a minor
thing when the pipes
have a pocket of
air that can't
makes it's way through.
but all in all
it's a good house.
and I'm firm
on the price.
just one more thing,
those cold clouds
of air
in the bedroom, that
give you a chill when
you pass your hand through,
that's nothing,
just an occasional
haunting from all the past
owners who have died
in there.

the different moon

if you can get to the moon,
you will be happy.
your ship
is strong your silver suit
will keep you warm.
you will float in space
being hurled
towards the lifeless
globe before you
there is nothing there,
but it's where you want to be.
it's a reason to live,
a reason to die for.
so different than being
on earth.

the boat wedding

the wedding party
nearly all drunk at the open
bar
lean over
the side of the boat,
green and bleary,
full of champagne
and shrimp wrapped
in soft bacon.
look, someone says,
there goes a fish,
but it's a not a fish,
it's a bottle
of wine floating
along side
the wobbling ship.
the bride throws her bouquet
up into the wind.
the wind catches
it and it sails into the water.
the groom
with cake on his face
loses his balance
and falls
down the winding steps
to where the galley is.
the captain, takes his seat,
steering a mile north
under the bridge
until he circles,
then does it again,
keeping the ship afloat.
this is marriage.

back into the chamber

you can't put the bullet
back into the chamber, the words
back into your mouth,
what's done can't be undone,
you know this as a truth
after pulling the trigger
of your tongue,
and yet you try,
how bitterly you try.

the fisherman

it was always early
morning
when he arose, showered,
grabbed this thermos
full of coffee, his cigarettes.
the worms
in a box, blood worms,
fresh and cold
from the refrigerator
shelf.
the gear was in the car.
the rods
the reels, hooks and sinkers,
a tackle box.
worn and bruised.
a knife on his belt,
the lucky lures, his
homemade mix
of jello and dough,
for the carp and catfish
that twisted thick
and slow, in the low
depths of mud and weed.
the sun, a small plate
of yellow rising
between the trees.
his hip boots on,
as he waded out,
a cigarette lit between
his lips,
casting as he walked
calmly towards the edge
of the water.

some middle ground

I don't like you with that whip
in your hand.
when we first got married
you wore your prairie nightgown
and it was pilgrim
sex. sex for procreation,
there was no joy
in it. god was watching,
as well as your dearly
departed grandparents.
it was missionary,
under the blankets with
the lights off, hardly a sound.
but you've changed.
those thigh high leather
boots, those fish net stockings
glimmering in the light
as you straddle me,
the black mascara and blood
red lips. I'm scared now.
what's with that stun gun?
please, I beg you,
we need to find
some middle ground.

take me back

you have been shallow.
you admit that.
a mere bump or mole,
or sign
of cellulose made you
run for the door.
a pound of misplaced
fat,
or strand of gray hair.
a scar
upon her back,
these things would kill
the moment,
but things have
changed.
you get it now.
the mirror has humbled
you, made
you a better person,
can you forgive,
and take me
back. I like your crooked
tooth. really,
I do.

the snow is deep

cancel
the flight. the snow
is deep.
you can stay here for the night.
put your bag
down.
come and sit
by the fire.
let me pour you another
round.
relax.
the snow is deep.
we can fall asleep in
each other's arms,
pretend
it's not over.
pretend it's not the snow
that's
keeping you around.

the clues

there are clues.
hints.
foot prints,
words said.
motives unhid.
you don't have
to be a detective
to figure this out.
you are sensitive
to a change
in temperature,
the slight
movement of ice
or rise in heat.
no need
to take blood
or break out
the polygraph machine,
the line up
is just one.

christmas card

your Christmas
card list has diminished over
time.
you feel
guilty when
you get one, but
it's nice.
your one box,
the reindeer in the blue
sky is almost
empty.
for three years,
everyone has
received the same.
you need a real list
instead of the envelopes
they sent
with a return
address.
you need a new box
of cards,
some new friends maybe.
and stamps.

done

like a cold
wet rag
you've wrung the most
out of
this relationship
that you could.
small grey drips
hit the ground.
you spin
it in the air,
snap it like
a whip.
yes, it's done.
you set it out
on the sidewalk
to dry
in the sun, let
the wind
take it.

a beginning

the fields are
more full each year,
they have
lived their lives
and now this.
here in the warm
tall grass,
you see their heads
turned towards
the sun,
their hands
touching one another.
they wait for you
to join them.
the sky is a perfect
blue.
the mountains
capped in pristine snow.
there is green
everywhere. it is
a beginning not an
end.

the wait

you enter the room
and wait.
you sit on the edge
of the bed.
she is not there,
you don't expect her
anytime soon.
she's made
that clear.
but it's the same
room you slept in,
made love
in. it's the room
you lay next to one
another
and spoke about
how the leaves
have fallen, how
bright they are this
year.
how soon winter
has come, how quickly
summer has faded.
your life has been
about waiting.
nothing has changed.
everything remains
the same, you sit
in this room,
you wait.

easy like that

these new boots
make you warm and happy.
you are easy
like that.
waterproof
and not too tight.
how nicely
they lace up,
the color just right.
you feel as if you need
to go somewhere
with shoes like these.
you could walk
around the island
of manhattan
in shoes like these,
but for now you'll
just wear
them around the house,
you want to keep
them new for awhile,
at least until
see you see them.

the men

the men, hands folded,
still, quiet stones
in
their seats.
something has robbed
them
of joy.
call it work, or
a loveless marriage,
call it disappointment,
but
they have no
memory of youth.
they are tombstones
tilting
at the party,
long faced like fishermen
with empty nets.
you can almost
read
the etching in marble
of their birth
and death,
almost, not quite
underground.