culinary differences

no eggs for her.
no meat, or fish, no
animal by products whatsoever.
nothing with
a face
goes into her mouth.
no lobster screaming
in a pot
while you melt a small
bowl of butter
for the claws.
i'm free of meat
she says, trembling,
eating slowly
a slice of vegan cheesecake.
interesting you say, as
you cut into
your prime rib
with horse radish on
the side.

on the shelf

don't close the book
on us, quite yet.
there are more pages
to be read,
more lines to be lifted
and savored.
I've dog eared
the page where we last
left.
don't put us on
the shelf with the others.
not yet.
the story is not over.

the wait

the wired trees, a brown
grey mesh
of tumbleweed
cords and cable, bunched
together, huddled
in winter, the thick
trunks heavy
and still.
waiting. always waiting
for that warm
day to get dressed again
in green.

the unborn

the unborn are
unlearned, unloved,
unburdened
by what we go through.
their unnamed
lives
are cut short,
inconvenient to the living.
but still
their angelic souls
find a way
towards the end,
the end we will one day
see as well. perhaps
we will be
more tired, more
worn, but no less wise
than these unborn.

the new baby

the women
stop on the sidewalk
to lean over into
a shaded stroller
and say my oh my.
they squeeze
the feet and cheeks
of the new born baby
sounding like seagulls
at a fish fry.
it's what women do.
men on the other hand
wait for a new car
to appear on the block
then stroll over
to look under hood,
sit in the seats,
check out the front,
then the rear,
and then say my
oh my.

riding alone

you prefer not to
join
the fitness club,
the health club,
the book club
or the writer's meet up
on Thursday nights.
not to mention
all the other clubs
and groups you get invited to.
you won't even touch
a club sandwich.
you like to ride
the open range on your
horse alone
with bullets in
your gun,
a canteen of water
and a broad hat to shade
your squinting
eyes from
the harsh desert sun.

the truth

the rain
never lies to you.
it comes.
it falls.
it does what
it's supposed to do.
you get wet.
the rivers
rise, the streams
overflow.
the oceans fill
again
and again.
how simple life
is when
the truth is told.

hard candy

hard candy stuck
in a bowl. red squares
and green, white
stars. ribbons
and bows.
Christmas
candy
left over from
two
months ago.
all stuck
together in
clumps
of hardened sugar.
unbreakable
from one another.
hardly a day
goes by without you
thinking of
throwing it all away.

the open door

a bruise,
a blue mouse under
your eye
where the door swung
open
and hit you.
that's the story
that you tell all day
and into tomorrow
as the swelling
and color subsides.
a lie being
easier than
the truth when it
comes to explaining
what happens between
you and I.

not snow

a handful
of snow falls from
your eyes.
not rain,
or tears, but a frozen
mix
of cold regret
and sorrow
that has finally
found it's
way out
of your weather
congested
heart. it's closer
to sleet
than snow.
snow is too soft
too sentimental
of a word,
too easy to mistake
what we thought was love
for this poem.

coffee and donuts

the contest requires
one poem.
single spaced.
there is no limitation
on subject matter.
you must not be
a member
of this organization
or related
in any way to anyone
involved
in judging
of the work submitted.
deadline is tomorrow.
e mail
submissions are
preferred, but will
accept poems
sent via mail
if they arrive before
the deadline
of 3 p.m. eastern
standard time,
tomorrow.
they must be no longer
than twenty one
lines, and must not
contain bad language
or material unsuited
for publication in our
yearly compiled book
that can be found
at the front of
the building.
first prize is five
hundred dollars
and a free
workshop class starting
in the fall.
second prize is two
hundred and fifty
dollars. third prize
is a hundred dollars
and for poets that have
not won there will
be coffee and donuts
in the lobby after
the winners are announced.

coming apart

a small crack
of the ice catches
your ear.
you are past the middle
too far
out to run back,
or swim if
it comes apart that fast.
carefully you step
forward to the other
side, inch by
inch, not ready yet
go under into the cold
depths of forever.

indian head highway

it used to be a two
lane highway with double
yellow lines
striped down the middle
of its long black tongue.
it unraveled north and south
starting at the d.c. line.
the head on collisions
were horrific,
always in the newspapers,
the black and white
photos of cars locked into
one another from high speeds.
the sheeted bodies
lying on the ground.
drinking, careless
teenagers, someone falling asleep.
but the road was straight
and barren as it moved on.
ripe for drag racing
as it reached farther
into southern Maryland,
past the clumps of low rises,
apartment buildings built
in what seemed like days.
clapboard shacks,
some pink, or a dingy shade
of green or blue.
the road sped past
the dairy queen and driving
range, past the drive in theaters
set back in a cove
of trees on graded gravel,
the superchief and abc,
where you desperately
steamed up windows, professing
your love to someone
whose name you've long
forgotten.
it was a long road.
a road you hitch hiked on,
a road where you drove
old cars, new cars, going
nowhere, just wanting
to be seen. it was
the road where you went
to school, where it veered
off towards the river
and fished away summers with friends.
it was the road that held the bars
and package stores
where you had your first drink.
it was a road of work, of love,
of mischief and mystery.
a road of growing up.
a dangerous road.
two lanes that went on
and on forever and still do.

her purse, your hat

the guard at the museum
lazily searches
your hat, her purse,
then waves you on
with sleepy eyes
towards
the long marbled
hall, down the stairs
into a gallery of
art. rembrant, degas,
whistler too.
things you've known
but never seen, or
stood next to.
but it's the guard
you remember most.
his blue uniform
nearly black, his
tiredness, so much
of his life
behind him, his
delicate brown
hands pushing forward
her purse,
your hat.

without tears

a crowd gathers
around you as you fall
in the street
clutching your heart.
you stare
up to the sky.
you see past the faces,
beyond their frantic
voices,
you see birds afloat
on slow wings,
you see the blueness
behind
the clouds, you smell
the oil
of the street,
the grime
you rest in.
you are alive, more
alive than you have
been in years as
you lay dying, suddenly
awake in strange
joy, without tears.

the rake

the rake
against the shed.
sitting in the snow.
the wooden
handle
splintered
and worn,
shaped smooth
where your hands
would go,
unsharp
and rusted,
but still a rake.
still wanting
to be what it
was meant to be,
nothing less,
nothing more.

your shadow

a still photo
of pears
and apples
in a white bowl
centered on
a wood table,
with the sunlight
behind you
only your shadow
shows your presence
as you focus
and push
the button to save
this moment.
now I hold it in my
hand
and try to remember
who you
were in my life.

state of me

the president,
your leader,
is sincere with his words,
smart and charismatic
in delivery.
they clap
they clamor, they rise
in respect, smiling
with approval.
it goes on and on.
a wash of promises
to come, polishing
the apples of
wishes fulfilled.
you can't find the remote
fast enough,
even though you voted
for him twice.
you just want
to go to work
and to be left alone.
to be free
and for the most
part safe and secure,
with a moderate
amount of happiness
sprinkled about
the remaining years
of your life.

what's coming

the belt, having been
buckled
so many times, uncountable
times
around your waist,
years of sliding it
through the loops,
and finding the clasp
has finally broken.
which surprises you.
everything
that ends surprises
you, despite knowing
what's coming.

waiting for the train

I haven't found my soul
mate yet, betty tells you.
she's holding an umbrella while
we both stand in the rain
waiting for the eight
o'clock train.
i'm sick of love, she says.
rubbing out a cigarette
with her red shoes.
weak love, fake love.
love disguised as sex,
sex disguised as love.
i'm tired of the game,
I want out.
you nod, staring up at
the long grey line of rails.

the scholar

the dancer
in her tights, and heels,
light on her
feet, persuades
you with hips
and lips
towards
something like love,
but less.
she spins
in the colored
lights, arms
over her head,
draped in dollar
bills, losing herself
in the bright
shadows of the room.
i'm working
my way through med
school, she says,
a scholar.
it's enough to weaken
your knees
to put the key under
the flower pot
in case she decides
to change her mind
and come over.

musings

a thought comes
into your mind.
something you might want
to write about
when you get home tonight.
it's a clear
clean line
of poetic musing.
no need to write it
down, it's unforgettable.
an hour later
it's gone.
a feather in the wind,
unborn.

blue pills

take some these, she says.
these pills. they are
wonderful. organic, natural
and full of health.
they'll make you feel better
about the world,
about yourself.
take two a day for
a few weeks, maybe a
month or two. you'll
be off the ledge,
you'll be happier
less willing to jump,
less blue. here,
open your hand, i'll
take some too.

messages

you stand by the ocean
collecting
bottles
corked with notes
rolled
into scrolls.
love notes.
save me notes, farewell
notes.
there are so many
afloat on the wide sea
washing up
onto the shore.
but none from her,
not yet, but
it's early.

our blue

my red
is not your red.
we're different
that way,
preferring
slightly different
shades.
but we find a
middle ground
with blue,
lying between blue
sheets
all day.

unread poems

in the quiet
of night you read the book
of poems
she left behind.
some are better than others,
some you
skim, some you pass by,
they are not unlike our lives,
often open ended,
unrhymed, many unread
and also left behind.

elixir

she can't be trusted,
this reed
of a woman, with grey
blue eyes
and a burning mind.
she says enough, but
it's not true,
as her hands
lace into yours
and she moves her
cat like body against
you. she isn't
done, she's never
done with you.
she's an elixir
in the bend of
a silver spoon.

the yellow kitchen

his face
is sallow as he sits
pushing
a cigarette
out in a blue ashtray
that rests
on the kitchen
counter.
he lights another one.
he thinks
that yellow, the yellow
of his walls
needs to be changed.
the thought of blue
crosses his mind
as he blows smoke
towards the ceiling.
maybe, he says out loud,
maybe blue,
then he leaves
the room.

departing

with planes in the air,
on the ground
turning, arriving,
leaving.
the runways long and grey,
the terminals
full, like hives
of hurried souls,
that spill and spill.
we hug
in the low light
of a January sun and say
warm farewells,
we make promises to see
each other soon again.
but our worlds move
with or without one
another.
with planes in the air,
on the ground
turning, arriving,
leaving.

before it rains

the parade
is slow and long.
the high school band
wears green and gold
with tall white hats.
they hold tubas
and flutes, drumming
while marching
in quick step.
young girls
throw up their silver
batons.
there are no floats
or beauty queens in
open cars,
no clowns, or celebrities.
just the mayor
and his wife,
someone else.
it's a sad parade,
but the children
lick their cones,
and wave from the curb,
the parents, stare past
it all
thinking of tomorrow,
of work,
of life, of how quickly
we march
to the grave, hoping
to get home
before it rains.

the broken arm

her broken arm
in a white
cast,
will heal.
it waves like
a white
flag as she speaks,
prompting the question
of how,
or what,
does it hurt still?
but her broken
heart
is different.
no one seems to know
or care.
it stays hidden,
healing
on a different path.

the last oyster

the last
oyster on the cold plate,
sits
in its stone
shell, rugged still
from the sea,
the salted
tongue of it
waiting to be held
and tilted
with a dash of
spice, swallowed
whole.
but not this last
one,
no takers at the table
to finish
what was left
for you and me.

old clothes

the edges are frayed.
the fabric
weary from wear,
unravelling
at the seams,
buttons loose
and hanging in
the air, ready
to quit
and fall onto
the ground.
everything can't
be new
all the time,
sometimes you need
to take
what's on the shelf,
what's
hanging on the pole,
what rests waiting
in a drawer.

the muddied path

the unblue wash
of sky has fallen
into the cold stream.
we walk along
the muddied path,
glove in glove
hurrying to be home
by dark, to fix
a meal, to sink
into the comfort
of a couch before
a fire, to talk
long into the winter
night
about everything,
everything but love.

the pearl earring

you lift the covers,
shaking the blanket. you
turn the sheets over, the pillows
get fluffed and tossed.
on hands and knees
you both
look under the bed,
crawling from
spot to spot on the rug.
it's white, she says,
hands moving slowly across
the floor.
a pearl,
like this one, pulling
back her hair
and pointing at an ear.
maybe it's in the other room,
or on the couch,
or on the stairs,
you say, the bathroom,
did we do anything
in there?

the abstract

you stare into the wild
random strokes of paint that is
jackon Pollock
hanging on the wall at
the national gallery of art.
it's wide and long.
it's everything a painting
should be
and nothing.
you laugh and think how easily
it is to do.
to straddle a canvas flat
on the floor and sling
and dribble, splash
house paint
against the white stretched
cloth.
insanely simple, and genius.
beyond you,
and it is you.

the red chair

the red chair has been
there for years, maybe ten
years. it's more
for show than sitting,
but it's bright
and bold, unhidden,
so it surprises you when your
unshoed foot
collides against
the metal leg.
you yell out and bounce
around on
your one good foot.
you let out a stream
of obscenities.
the toe is blue and red
already,
throbbing like a toothache.
it's not the chairs fault.
it's you, the path
you've chosen so many
times
to have this happen.

no eel

there is confusion
at the sushi bar.
the lists are long,
the blue marker in your hand
is cautious as
you read down the columns,
trying to understand
what fish is what,
what's cooked, what's raw,
what might
kill you. where is
eel, you don't want eel.
you used to catch eels
in the river
and cut the line, to let
them go. you can still
see them snapping away
in the water
like black whips.
the waitress is bored
and tired of explaining
the spicy, the sweet,
she doesn't understand what
you want,
and neither do you.
so you hand the menu
across the table and sigh,
please, just order for.
no eel.

house guests

the guests, having arrived
by taxi, hands full of luggage,
heavy in their hands,
other bags looped
around shoulders,
the wear of travel
in their smiling faces.
happy to be here, happy
to be away, but already
thinking of the flight home
and sleep,
of their own beds,
their own books, their
routine ways.

these gulls

these gulls
on the black pavement,
some hovering
some in huddled groups,
white and gray splotched,
black eyed
with bird musings,
having landed
in this pond
of concrete, having
wandered far into land,
they are unafraid
of you, hardly
moving a wing
as you drive slowly
around their winter
gathering.
how long can they stay
where they shouldn't
be, is what we all
think
on given days.

a third wind

you are past your second
wind.
you might be on your third
or fourth wind.
but you have wind.
there is time
to climb another hill,
to scamper through
the woods,
to run
another mile,
to open your heart
for another lap
around love.

another place

you put your ear
to ground, but you don't hear
her coming.
no footsteps,
no clicking of heels,
no noise
no sound.
she's gone in another
direction.
where you are
is not the place
where she will be
found.

the essence

it's not just
his memory,
or the way
his muscles
don't respond, or
the thinning of hair,
or trembling in
his hands.
it's not the failing
of vision,
or slowness
in speaking.
it's none of that
that matters now.
you see past it to
the essence
of his life as it
was and always
will be in
your heart.

two spoons of sugar

two spoons of sugar
are too much.
one is just enough.
save the other
spoon for later dear.
i'm not as young
as I used
to be. but no
worries, we'll
have another cup.

the chamois cloth

you could spend
hours, washing and waxing
your car
when you were younger,
buffing out
the shine with a chamois
cloth
on a sunny Saturday,
the radio on.
the wheels,
the bumpers,
the wind shield, all feeling
the turn and pressure
of your hand.
changing he oil,
adjusting
a belt, or screw.
these cars lasted
forever
with your tender care,
and all the while,
she said that you never
had this kind of love
within you.

the puzzles

for hours, into days
your mother would sit and
piece a giant puzzle
together at the dining
room table. eventually,
it would be done.
next she would laminate
it with glue, or paste,
then hang it on the wall
in her crafts room,
above the doll houses,
the balls of yarn,
the sewing machine
with patterns spread
across the floor. you
wonder if she remembers
any of it, as she sits
now and contemplates
her quietly folded
hands.

cat in a tree

as the fire truck,
aglow in red,
sirens blaring,
its lights lit up
and spinning
careens through
the intersection
the cars pile
against one another.
bumper into bumper,
door into door.
heads flung forward
into glass. more trucks
will arrive
and stretchers.
meanwhile the first
truck raises
its ladder to get
the cat out of the tree.

the salt in the sky

like sprinkled salt
the stars are out.
they are everywhere
in clusters,
the shaker has spilled
and emptied.
you feel as if you
could reach
up and grab a
crisp handful to
bring them down.
the heavens seem
so close
when health is good,
when bills are paid,
when love, even
if it's an illusion,
abounds.

it's in the room

you keep her around
because you are afraid
of what comes next.
she does the same.
you don't talk about it.
but it's in
the room, it's in the
light, in the dark,
it's in
the silence you converse
in.
it's in the loveless
nights
in bed with each
other, alone.

the lint

in
a box,
a barrel a bowl.
a shed,
an attic,
the lint of your
life
finds a way
to stay
and keep you
strangely
whole.

the chase

she takes a needle,
the sharp point
of steel, as thin
as gossamer
and sticks it into
a vein pouring a
liquid heaven
into her heart,
into her brain.
she lies back and
swims in the
euphoric seas
of her awakened
dreams. she'll never
again get there,
to this impossible
height,
the chase is on
until the end.

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.