your dead aunt

your aunt in a casket,
is finally quiet,
still as a single pale
pear in an otherwise
empty bowl. she's dressed
in what looks like
a lace shawl over
a black pilgrim's dress.
you question her religion,
if she had one.
her eyes are closed. thank god.
her hands are folded
on her chest. you see a green
stone ring on her finger.
someone has pressed a few
stems of flowers into the nook
of her fists. she may rise
and put them in a vase
any minute now.
she looks baked.
white, with powdery skin,
a pastry display item
in a store window.
no one is crying. she's ninety,
so anyone that would have
cried is dead too.
there is small talk that she
may have had an affair
with john kennedy which someone
quickly corrects and whispers,
joe. she was a looker in her day.
but you can't remember
any of those days, she's
always looked like this
to you. her face pinched
with lemon.
always sweeping her stoop
with a straw broom
and yelling out curses
in Italian. sometimes she'd
throw candy into the street
to make the kids go away.
some would, some wouldn't.

the blonde joke

you tell your father a blonde joke
on the phone. he says, wait. I need to
write this one down, hold on.
you hear him getting his magnifying
glass, his pad of paper, his pen.
then settling back into his chair,
okay, he says i'm ready. go.
okay you say, speaking slowly
into the phone, his hearing
nearly as bad as his vision.
what do you call a blonde standing
on her head, you ask him.
there is a pause, as you hear
him write it down, then
he laughs, and laughs,
and laughs. he doesn't even care
about he punch line. the question
is good enough. that's good, he says.
got anymore?

skeletons

you clean out the closet
one skeleton at a time.
you put them all on the couch
together. their bones are
bleached white and dusty,
brittle with age. maybe
they aren't skeletons at all
anymore. maybe they are just
reminders of a life lived,
for better or for worse.
it's not like you're running
for congress anytime soon.
maybe it's time to bag them,
and toss them to the curb
for Thursdays pick up.
it's time. it's way over due.

i want you to meet joyce

your friend wants you to meet joyce.
but you don't want to meet
joyce. you are tired of women.
of love and affection,
of pain and distraction. but,
he says, she loves all the things
that you do. books, and movies,
poetry and art. she has red hair.
cake? you say, does she love cake?
can she bake me a cake and jump
out of it in her skimpy underwear.
if she can do that, I'll meet her,
otherwise, I don't want to meet joyce.
i'll ask her, he says. i'll see
what she says and get back to you.
do that and let me know.

under the ice

the boy is under the ice.
he's gone.
they can't find him.
he's under there somewhere
blue as blue can be.
his eyes are open.
as if still looking
for air. the cold
has crept into his bones,
the weight of his filled
lungs sending him
to the bottom,
no longer
laughing like he did
while he skipped
across the deep pond
for others to see.
his fingers bled,
they will say later
this spring,
as he scratched at
crystal roof of white
trying to get out,
trying to get back
his life. people will
come back in time, lean
against the new fence
and point, and say
there.

a yellow moon

walking below the yellow moon.
the autumn is warm.
no longer hand in hand,
she is ahead of you
in leaving. her dog,
blonde as brush in summer
on the edge of woods
looking back.
it is too dark to go
further, she waits for
us to catch up, you
not far behind. how love
ends so gently, sometimes.

drinking with strangers

you didn't get a cake
this year for your birthday,
nor did you make one.
you've lost count of
the candles needed anyway.
maybe tomorrow, you'll
find a bowl, some eggs,
a boxed mix to swirl
together and bake one,
paste on a sweet icing
with a spatula.
give yourself a party.
some balloons perhaps.
maybe you'll sing
then blow out
whatever candles you
can find, or maybe you'll
go around the corner
and have drink or two
with strangers,
think about better times.

good morning

you try to force your neighbor to say hello
after six months of him ignoring
your existence. his wife being even
worse, never stepping out the door
when you or anyone else is around.
good morning you say cheerfully
as he scrapes ice off the windshield
of his car. he stares down at the white
glass chipping away and nods. sure is
cold out, you say, giving a vocal
shiver and stamping your boots
on the sidewalk. he nods some more,
almost looking at you, but doesn't.
he goes to the back of the car
to work on that window. have a great
day you say, as you walk away to your
truck, whistling on the salted street.
he has no idea what he's up against.
you will be friendly and neighborly
despite him, until the day he moves.

the work poem

your raw hands, your bent
back, the dirt, the paint,
the dust in your hair,
your eyebrows singed
with white soot, you can
taste the day on
your tongue, in the tissue
of your lungs. your money
comes from the muscle
of your arms and legs,
your hands still curled
at night from the brush
or tool you pushed all day.
you are old and weary,
but you press on you
press on like a character
in a Philip Levine poem.

the empty beach

this stretch of winter sand.
roughed with shards
of shells, the bones
of fish, the dark gravel
the sea gives up when no one
is around. you walk this
land, changing with each wave
that falls upon itself,
then again. it's an
empty beach, the beach
where you once had her heart,
held her hand.

your kind of love

her birthday slips your mind.
the day goes by.
no gift or card was bought.
no flowers.
the calendar page turned.
you gave her no whisper,
no cake for that day,
no extra kiss on the lips
or hugs, but she forgives you.
she's beyond your kind
of love.

nothing to laugh about

no circus ever made you laugh.
no clown. no elephant in a dress,
or midget on a unicycle.
you get no joy
from the fat lady, or the monkey
with the organ.
the man on stilts does nothing
for you, or the human
cannonball flying through
the air. yawn.
your laughter comes from
a darker place, let's start
with a woman scorned.

winter love

when the snow melts.
the ice recedes, when the sun
is higher in the sky.
when the trees begin
to fill once more
with green, then i'll
begin to plow the field
and plant once more.
but for now. you'll do.
stay put and keep
me warm.

the silver tongue

he bends words
with his silver tongue,
evades, slips in and out
of a conversation
never quite there,
never answering
or giving a hint
as to who he is,
what he's all about.
always selling something
or himself,
but you love
him just the same,
this friend of yours,
who can't find
his way through one
talk without a sprinkling
of white lies,
or deception. it's a
constant game. you've
learned to keep
your distance, staying
away at arms length out.

we'll see

someone you used to know
and love
is at the door. you can see
the top of her head
through the peep hole.
you see nothing in her
hands, no plate of cookies,
no gun. so you open
the door and say
hi, what are you doing
here. I've come to make
amends, she says,
may I come in. sure,
sure, you say. come in.
an hour later, after making
love in the bedroom, she
says. I better leave
now. I just had to know
for sure, if we should
truly end things, or
begin again. you say, and?
i'm not sure she says.
we'll see. we'll see.

enjoy today

the gypsy waves you in.
come, come she says.
you look troubled.
let me take your coat,
get you a cup
of tea.
what do you need to know.
your future?
not really, you say.
but go ahead, make
something up, I could
use a lift, two sweet
and lows and half
and half, please.
give me your hand, she
says, unfolding it in
hers. she traces the lines,
nodding, smiling,
her eyes light up, brown
and bright.
I see good things, she says.
good things for you
in the days to come.
drink your tea, relax.
this one's on me.
and what about tomorrow,
you ask, as you sip
your tea. tell me.
no, she says, you
don't want to know.
enjoy today.

adventure

a crust of snow
across the arc of a cold
earth, you travel
uneasily on the unmarked
road, your tires
spinning slow.
your wipers slapping
in a smear
the melt of the salt
the sand
that cakes your car.
you need nothing of importance,
you just want to see
how far you can go
to get coffee, a sandwich,
a newspaper with day
old news. everything
you have at home.

monday

at the sink,
standing in her work
clothes, with shoes
off, she takes her meal
from the microwave,
a bowl of soup, too hot
to hold, she spoons it
into her mouth. blowing
on the steam. it's dark
already. she pours
a glass of wine.
goes through her mail.
the day is done,
a bath, a book,
the dog goes out,
comes back in.
the television goes
on, then off.
she does a load
of laundry, carries
a basket up the stairs.
she sits on the couch
and folds. there was
something on her mind,
something she wanted
to say to someone,
but it's too late now,
nearly ten, it's lost.

nearly home

as he tumbles
into the snow
after a few drinks,
of old scotch
poured friendly from
the tilted bottle,
he finds a soft spot
on the street
to lie on, a pillowed
drift to rest his
head upon, to look
up at the cluster
of stars under
the pink of a lamp
lights glow,
he's nearly home.

across the bay

the time your father
rowed his children, all five
across cape cod bay
in the leaky wooden
rowboat, with no life
jackets, comes to mind.
the grey rough water,
the sunless day, the power
of his arms pulling
pulling, as you hung on,
unaware of drowning,
or what might lie
below. was he proving
something to himself,
was he crazy, who's
to know. but he did row,
he did get to
the other shore then
back again. no one died,
and when you see him now,
at eighty-six, he fondly
remembers that, smiling.

small candles

they are candles.
low lights in the window.
in the shade.
burning away what wax
is left
in a strange place,
not home. they are
gathered like
a flock of wingless
birds together,
around the shimmering
pool or squared light,
the sound up, the channel
never changed,
the lunch being cooked
in the other room,
the few visitors,
looking at their watches
after signing in.
a flicker of eyes when
the doorbell rings.

polite applause

after the play
the applause is soft
and polite as the actors come
out to take a bow.
they stand together
and hold hands,
genuflecting as they do
to the already
departing crowd, slipping
into coats, and hats,
scarves and gloves.
you know that feeling,
that lukewarm
acceptance. you've been
on that stage, bowing
before, knowing
that things are just
not right, but you move on,
you care, but you don't
care. there is always
another show to prepare for
tomorrow night.

quail eggs

if starving, you could eat quail eggs.
but you aren't starving. you are barely
hungry and these poached quail eggs
sitting on top of sushi rolls of rice
look like easter caps, so you try
the next Peruvian fusion of Chinese
snacks and find that the eel shredded
with chicken breasts and hot sauce
is not going to work either. how
you long for a simple burger
with cheddar cheese and fries
at this hipster restaurant near
the theater. but for now the m
and m's you snuck into the show
will have to do.

going somewhere

the wind takes you,
sends you spinning
in the air.
rolling down
the sidewalk.
you are a human tumble
weed, floating
and falling, caught
up in the gusts,
rising and dropping,
going somewhere
you hadn't planned,
once more.

say that again

you can stop now, she says.
you can stop writing.
you've said everything
there is to say
about everything, twice
now. you are becoming
repetitious and boring.
put the pen down, turn
the machine off, go out
and get some fresh air.
have a drink, have a good
meal, fall in love.
take a trip, but get out
of the house and do
something different
for a change.
slow down, you tell her,
repeat that last part,
word for word, i'm typing
as fast as i can.
I like how it sounds.

insured

you are insured for
fire, and theft,
auto and life.
your electronics too.
all are under
some umbrella policy.
if a flood should rise
and soak
your world, it's fine,
if the wind should
blow a tree upon
your roof, it's okay.
everything is safe,
and easily replaced,
well almost everything,
of course there is you.

the ghost of her

she is a ghost.
the woman who emptied her soul
with children.
this mother of yours.
this brown eyed girl
with black hair.
this muscled woman
of laundry and meals,
of scrubbing floors.
she is pale and weak.
marbled
in her chair, half
awake, half asleep.
hardly breathing as you
approach her and say
your name.
she is a sheet of paper
about to fly away
and disappear, her blood
no longer red,
now clear.

how we felt

your sister once chased
your brother around
the living room
with a carving knife.
would she have stabbed him
and cut him up, fileted him
like a sea bass, who's to know
these things. but whenever
you are in the same room
together with them, you
think back on those days,
how things were more clear
and defined about how we
felt about one another,
not like today.

you wait for rain

the bucket falls to the bottom.
there is no splash.
there is the sound of metal
against bricks
against the soft mud
at the end, a cold
slap. this love has dried
up. there is not a cup
left, not even a teaspoon
of affection to bring
up, and sip from. you wait
for rain. you are always
looking up at the sky
and waiting for more rain.

her list of lovers

she made a list of all her
lovers. numbering them on a sheet
of white paper.
grading them with one
or four stars.
you find your name
somewhere near the middle.
two stars, beside it.
this disappoints you,
and if she were still alive
you'd ask for a second chance,
a third chance, a way
to improve your
mediocre rating. maybe you
were having a bad day,
a bad year or two. but no,
there is nothing you can do
now, she's gone. you'll
burn the list, and move
on, try to do better,
try for once in your life
to not make everything
about you.

eggs are okay

you read where you can eat
eggs now. the surgeon general
is on tv eating three boiled
extra large free range brown
ones. he puts a whole one
into his mouth. eggs are okay.
coffee too, apparently.
you break three or four eggs
into a bowl, scramble
them up with cheese.
you light a cigarette
and throw a half a pound
of bacon into the pan.
you are getting ahead
of the curve, a trail blazer
of good health.

recess

these children, in colored
duffle bags of clothing
spinning like pool balls
across the field
after the table is broken.
winter means nothing to them,
as they enjoy their recess.
they are getting the most
out of the most important
years of their lives,
being children, something
that will soon fade
into sweet memory.

one more thing

the were other things to say.
there always are,
perfect words or phrases
that come to you as you
drive away, but it's too far
to turn your car around,
to go back. too late
in the game. what you said
was enough, what she didn't
say or do to keep you there
was plenty, nothing
would change.

that mountain over there

you could, you could if
you wanted to. climb that mountain
over there. the one
in the distance, the one
snow capped and treeless
once it rises into
the clouds. you could,
you could easily get up
off this couch and put
your boots on, buy
a burrow and some climbing
gear and go up
that mountain, scale
the rocky peak, but you
are a wiser man now, so
you'll leave it alone.
venture out,
get coffee, something
to eat.

run away bride

in her gown,
crying, she ran out of her
own wedding
down the middle of king
street,
her white dress flowing
behind her.
she was chased
by her friends her
mother, even the priest
took chase.
only the groom stayed
behind, standing
at the altar,
giddy and relieved,
the look of reprieve
on his smiling face.

she changed her mind

they find her
in the white tub,
water cresting at the top,
now cold.
her body pale and limp,
nearly grey,
her arms draped
over the sides.
the blood from her wrists
has turned the water
pink, in taffy swirls,
it has pooled
in one puddle on the black
and white tile.
there is no note.
nothing can be found.
there is food in the oven,
still warm. the table set,
the t.v. on.
her clothes are on the bed
ready to be worn.
she seems to have just
changed her mind,
about many things
and moved on.

cold snap

with your blue lips
and shiver,
your body curled
onto itself,
you stand on the corner
and wait for the bus
to arrive. it's late.
the world is a white
ball of frost.
there must be a better
way to make
a dollar or two, to
keep the home
fire burning
and the cupboards full.

we're moving

after the divorce
she moves again.
she has a system.
boxes marked.
clothes in the car.
what goes first,
what leaves last.
the post office is
notified.
the water off,
the doors locked
the floors
swept one last time.
she moves again.
the kids in the car,
the dog, the cat,
the last look back.
everyone waves,
then sinks into their
seats looking
glumly forward,
to what's next
in this merry go round
life they lead.
she no longer
tells everyone
this will be fun or
it's the last time.
because she knows it's
not.

the heart shaped box

at twelve,
the heart shaped box
you gave her
with nothing in it
but the poem
you wrote.
your mother
still has it somewhere,
she reads it out loud
every year on the phone,
it makes her cry.
your valentine.

fair and unfair

this hawk, wide winged
and swift, swoops
down, his open claws
as sharp as nails,
snatches the life
of a grey mouse from
the ground.
hardly a sound, just
the wings in air.
the quiet movement
of life and death
doing what it does
through the ages,
neither fair
or unfair.

the key

the key sticks in the door,
it won't come out.
you pull, you twist,
but it doesn't turn.
no gentle persuasion
will help.
it wants to be where
it wants to be.
you know how that goes,
being stuck so often
yourself.

yard work

give her a ball of yarn,
her needles, a bottle
of white wine,
her cat, the big chair by
the window
where the bird feeder
would swing in a gaiety
of yellow finches,
blue birds, cardinals,
some sparrows,
browned, their black eyes
pellets in the sun,
give her all that
and you were just a man
in her yard moving dirt,
fixing the fence,
moving bricks from
the front of the driveway
to the yard,
that she would one day
move back.

the weather report

you turn the sound down.
the weather, as you can see
by the map is blue and white,
is cold, and wet.
no need to hear him say it
with his sympathetic
words, his plea for you
to stay warm, to be careful
on the roads. to bring the cat in.
you are wise enough now
to wear a coat,
to drive slower,
to look into the sky
and know what's coming.
no need to hear his
apologies for the storm
about to come.
you wish you could tell
him, it's fine, everything
will be okay. don't worry.

your valentine

she was your valentine.
wasn't she?
didn't you give her
roses from
safeway, the last dozen
in a vase,
a card signed love
with your name below
the hallmark script.
not a cheap card either.
it made music
when opened.
and what about the broche,
that silver sea horse
with ruby like pieces
of glass imbedded
in its curves. what about
the milk chocolates?
wasn't that enough for
another year,
to express your vague
and fading love?

keeping things

there is something to be
said kindly
about hoarders, those who keep
and keep
what comes into their
hands, their lives,
forever. they have feelings
for that plastic bag
holding more bags,
that chair with the stuffing
out, that ski pole, bent in two.
each piece an orphan,
unglued unused.
they need to be saved,
we all do.

fenders

the crash is a small one.
fenders mostly, a dent.
a scrape of paint
off the side.
no one is hurt. nothing
to write home about,
as they say.
in the rain, they stand
huddled, while the blue
light of a police car
spins and spins.
it's early. everyone is
late. it's a small accident,
and everyone will
go on with their
day. no friends are made.
no one's fault,
no epiphanies other than
wishing one had left
earlier, or later, or
gone a different way.

miscellaneous

you see the note
on the table. bread, milk,
butter.
then lower, in a column
with numbers.
gas, electric. insurance.
rent. phone
and miscellaneous.
even now, at this age,
past work, sleeping in,
the count goes on.
and at night, on his
balcony, with or without
the stars or moon,
he drinks and pours
from a bottle of gin
miscellaneous.

nothing more to be said

how different it is
now that we have
gone away from one another.
how strange the light
is, the empty chair,
your pillow, the bed sheets
unrumpled. how quiet
the world is, your hairbrush
on the sink,
your shoes on the steps.
a ring, a pair of eyeglasses
that were left,
the book turned over,
half read.
how strange the world
is, with us apart, with
nothing more to be said.

confession

your confession is weak,
half lies
half truth, on reluctant
knees.
but you belly up
to the bar of God and say
your piece, explaining
in vague details.
the whys and hows
of how things got to be.
just silence.
just silence.
which you will accept
as forgiveness,
the other option
too hard to bear.

the empty shelves

your brother would take
his turn,

then each skinny sister,
then you,

all going to the kitchen
to open

the refrigerator door
to see what wasn't there.

an hour later,
quietly in the cold light,

you tried again,
hoping with hunger

that something was missed,
or would eventually appear.

twice around

-
it hurts, this rub, this pulled
tag of skin
on your heel. you've
walked too far
in these new shoes,
tied tight and hard.
it stings, this pink
blister burst
and bloodied on your sock.
but you had to get around
the lake, once more,
to do less would mean
age is winning, so
you had to walk.
a price paid,
and will be paid again,
once healed.

picking berries

you knew better, eating those
berries in the field
as you wandered alone
near the woods, near the water,
not far from home.
plucking them off the tangled vines.
you knew it might be a bad
idea. you weren't even
hungry. but the berries
were red, some blue. they
seemed to be bright with
sweetness, happy in their
own fat way to be picked.
you knew, and you still do,
but you keep eating them,
despite what comes next.

letting go

when it was time
for your dog to be put down.
to be let go,
put asleep, are there
any words or phrases
that lessen
the loss? none come
to mind. but how you held
him in your arms
as the needle was gently
slipped into a vein
of his grey paw,
how you found his
heart beat with your
hand upon his warm chest,
how he stared at you,
remembering, being sad,
being mournful, probably not.
but for you, yes.
a thousand times yes.

it's her life

it's her life, this life,
this one she's had, now in
a crinkled bag
of skin and bones,
brown eyes, and smiles
that are safety nets
to let others in.
she remembers nothing
of what you said
ten minutes ago, or what'll
say ten minutes from
now, again.
the moments slip out
of her hands like fish
caught, then let go.
but it's fine. fine for
now. she's here, she's
alive, she's clean
and in the hands of others
more skilled than you
at keeping her death at bay.

behind the walls

your fence is now a wall.
the wall
a house, a building.
your windows are shuttered.
the doors
of steel locked tight.
there is no way in,
no way out.
only the smoke from
the chimney of your
mind lets me know you
might still be alive,
the grey swirl
of your burn disappearing
into the rain bent sky.

our moon

there are moons
yet to appear in the sky
for your eyes
and hers.
celestial objects
for you to share,
balloons of silver
and white,
moons to be stared at,
to you make you call
her late into the night
and ask, can you
see that. can you see
our moon, how bright.

warm bread

she bakes
you bread. it's warm
when she hands it to you.
a plate, a gift,
something she took
the time to make.
just bread,
but so much more.
already
she knows what
you adore.

a place for you

a place for everything.
a shelf,
a closet, a box
or bowl.
an attic,
a basement or a
shed out in the cold.
an empty space
to put things
you no longer want,
to hold,
finding that place
for you
has been harder
than I thought.

seven children

her children,
of every age
are weeds growing
awkwardly out of the ground.
patches of them
in the yard,
under the sun and rain,
in another room,
on the streets.
so many kids,
so many weeds.
she can't pull them
out and rake them away,
they're her own,
but how she longs
sometimes for a green
freshly mowed,
trimmed wide lawn.

the dark ages

the power goes out.
you find a candle.
the matches.
a flashlight.
you open a bottle
of wine.
you find two glasses
on the shelf.
there is nothing
blinking, no beeps,
no stove,
no television.
it's the dark ages.
the age of talking
and making love,
without an
interruption.

in your hand

in asking Chekov
where he got his ideas
for short stories,
the story goes
that he picked up
an ashtray, held
it in the air,
then said, here,
here is a story.
what i hold in my
hand is a tale
waiting to be told.
so it goes with us,
as i take your hand.

in all good time

with only one wing
working, the bird spins
in the grass,
unable to fly.
the snakes
approach, an owl
with his wings
wide, casting a band
of shadow, circles
down,
a cat is hunched
nearby ready to pounce.
a dog too,
in the window
waits his chance.
vultures are in the trees.
the world doing what
it does in all
good time.

the burn

you burn your fingers
on the hot stove
of her heart.
blisters form.
no matter how hard
you blow on them,
it still hurts,
not even dropping
your hands into
a bucket of ice
water can relieve
the pain, but it
doesn't stop you
from going back
for more of her,
again and again.

the whisper

you thought you heard
her whisper kindly
to you in your sleep,
but it was the wind
coming through
a crease in the old
wooden windows.
but it was good
enough to get you
through the night.
you'll listen again,
and wait patiently
for another whisper
or two when you
lie back down
at the end of light.

green sea

this sea, this green
swaying
drink of memory
and shipwrecks,
of waves and fish that
will never be seen,
dark in their brooding
caves, not tinseled
or golden, but the color
of rust, the color of
beams held
in the grip of salt
and sand, lying on the mud
floor with bleached bones
where the earth ends.
so much of what we don't
know, we can't see,
or ever will.
this sea is where we
come to drown,
to renew, a place to
fall in love or accept
loves end, a place
to sail upon and pretend
to escape
from where we've been.

breaking the chain

you don't know what hard
times are, you tell your
son, as your father once
told you. you don't know what
hunger is, what being cold is,
what being afraid and lonely
is. you don't know what
it's like to be unloved,
to work as hard as I do,
every day, every year,
to fall into bed after a days
job and have your bones ache.
you don't know what's it
like you tell him
to hold onto the wall
as you go down the stairs
in the morning.
he agrees, smiling,
wondering what he'll say
to his son, when
the time is right.

the animal kingdom

your seeing eye dog
is here with you,
along with your hearing
cat, and your whistling
bird. these animals
do for you what
you can no longer do
for yourself. the chimp
cooks for you in the kitchen,
a banana in every dish,
and the fish,
how they swim and dance,
like you used to,
the lion with his roar,
how loud you once
could roar.
and the rabbits, in their cage,
doing what rabbits do.

a new sorrow

you have a new sorrow.
it's fresh
and dark, a wound so deep
that you can see the bone.
the blood runs
cold onto the street,
it pools around your shoes.
it makes you sit
down on the curb
and exhale, pondering
your next move,
if there is one.
you have a new sorrow.
you gather yourself
and limp home. you'll put
it with the others
that wait for you
when you get there.

her name

a small man in a black cap
is standing alone
at the edge of the river.
the river is green,
the sky is grey.
he is in no hurry to leave,
or go back
to from where he came.
he taps his cane against
the walkway sending
gulls into the air.
he leans with elbows resting
on the rail.
he has all day, all
the rest of his life
to come here, to remember
her and to say
quietly her name.

don't lose my number

she writes you a note
and tells you, I've found
someone new
so I can't come over
anymore and be your
part time lover.
he's rich, not that it
matters, and please
don't take this the wrong
way, but you aren't
and never will be.
I need to eat something
other than pizza, and
drink beer with you
while we watch the game.
I wish you all the best
though, i'm sure you'll
find the love of your life
at some point. i'm just
not her. but don't lose my
number, who knows how
long these things last.

the scrub bush

there is a bush beside
your porch that you hate.
if one can hate a bush.
it's a scrub brush,
green, the kind of plant
you see in the woods.
it makes you sneeze
just to look at it.
why it was planted
there, you don't know.
tonight you will
pull it out by it's roots
and toss it over
the fence. you're in
that kind of a mood,
with people and bushes.

maybe

it looks like rain.
maybe,
maybe later in the day.
maybe it will
pass and the sun will
come out before it sets.
who's to know.
maybe a lot of things.
like us, for example.
maybe we'll fall in love,
real love, the kind
that lasts forever.
the kind you read about
in the paper when they
die. how they were
together for so long,
in love.
It looks like rain,
maybe. maybe later
in the day.

she's the one

a woman in a red
hat passes by your window.
she's not afraid
to wear red.
she's very strong
in her stride, her shoes
clicking on the sidewalk
as she hurries
towards her job.
she's a beauty, but
tight lipped with chin up.
she is a red person,
you think to yourself,
watching her disappear
around the block
to where the trains
are. she seems
ambitious and strong,
you imagine she'd
be very hard to live
with. you see a
woman in a blue hat
approaching, she's
talking to herself,
maybe she's reciting
poetry she knows by heart,
she's stopping
to pet a dog. she sees
a hopscotch pattern
chalked in the sidewalk
and beings to hop
her way through
the numbers. she's the one.

sharing the moment

the car won't start.
so you can't get the frost off
the windows.
not even the radio
will turn on.
the battery, the alternator,
who the hell knows.
you sit there for a few
moments, breathing
in the cold air.
tapping the steering wheel.
it's been a long day,
you think, staring at your watch.
8 a.m. already.
it's very quiet, kind of nice
in a strange igloo
kind of way. the light
coming in pleasantly,
blue gray through
the sealed windows.
you wish there was someone
there to join you,
to share this moment
in the car that won't start.
maybe you could make love
and melt the windows
clean. maybe after a while,
with the sun coming
up and the heat from
your bodies the car would
start. maybe. you turn
the key again. nothing.

questions and answers

tell me your story, she asks.
who are you.
family, life, work?
are you happy?
where is your faith?
do you pray, do you floss.
do you dye your hair,
do you separate
the plastic from the paper
and glass?
what is your five year
plan. your goals.
where do you see yourself
living when you retire.
how come you never visit?
I don't know mom, you
tell her. I don't know.

cellophane

the cellophane
of life is ripped
and torn. crumbled
on the lawn, blowing
madly in the wind.
the wrapping is off.
the shine is dulled.
sometimes you find
out early that things
aren't what they seem,
sometimes
you never find out
at all.

into the dryer

deep into the night,
into the call,
the discussion goes to God,
what do you believe,
is there life
after death, life
after living
this life.
you say, I hope so.
i'm planning on it,
but I haven't packed
any bags yet.
maybe it's like sleep,
she says.
we drift off into a black
void of nothing.
or maybe it's the most
amazing colorful
and joyful place you
can imagine, you suggest.
then you look at your
watch and tell her
you have to hang up
now. you have a load
of wet clothes in
the washer that need
to go into the dryer.
okay, she says. goodnight.

queen of the diner

in a fur coat,
white as snow, with pearls
around her thick neck,
the woman eats at the bar.
drinking a mimosa,
her white Cadillac
out front.
a stack of real estate
cards next to her
pack of cigarettes.
she is the queen
of the breakfast buffet,
mixing business
with pleasure, saying
hello, good morning,
how are you to anyone
that passes her way.

love like that

they are a married couple.
these two women.
strong willed
and in love.
sitting side by
side in the booth
as you sit across
from them. they eat
off each other's plate.
are you going to eat
that bacon,
one says to the other,
it's yours, the other
answers. take it.
have my potato and eggs
too. toast? here,
let me pour you more
coffee. how you long
for love like that.

the mirror

the mirror
shows her face.
aging,
growing older as
we all do
if lucky enough
to live that long,
but her poems
show her soul,
as young and vibrant
as the day
she first put pen
to paper.

so are you

the baby next door,
crying. you hear the man
go in. saying something.
he sings sweetly to the child,
you hear the chimes
of the mobile
over the crib.
the baby stops crying
while the father
keeps singing. he has
a beautiful voice.
it surprises you.
you lie in your bed
against the shared wall
and listen.
the baby is now quiet.
so are you.

spin the wheel

you could cash it all in.
take all your money
out of the banck,
put it all in a bag
and fly to vegas. you could
throw it all down on black,
or red. let the wheel
spin and spin.
why not, you trust in
God. why wouldn't God
want you to double
your money?
He likes you, in fact,
people keep telling you
that he loves you.
This will give him
a chance to prove it
once and for all.

the cost of things

it was three point four miles
to the liquor store.
he told you that while
sipping on a can of red
white and blue beer.
I can be at the senior home
in fifteen minutes
where they keep your mother.
there's hardly any traffic
if I leave at ten
and get home by noon.
you nod, you acknowledge
his calculations and say,
that's good.
a mouse runs across the room
in front of the television,
then another,
then three more.
you stand up and point
them out as they scurry
behind the couch.
I know, I know he says.
I caught seven yesterday,
thirteen last week.
I don't want to put any
poison down, because of
the dog. do you know what
milk costs these days,
he asks, shaking his head,
his eyebrows covering
his eyes.

waiting for the light

in the crowd you are no one.
another face,

another man making his
way from point A to B.

living in your head.
walking, walking, waiting

for the light to change.
you are an army of men

and women. you obey the world,
and do what it takes

to stay alive.
in the crowd you are no

one, another face, waiting,
waiting for your life to change,

vanilla cake

she is a fine vanilla cake.
three tiered,
with white icing
dripping down the sides.
full of candles
burning on the sweet lake.
you can hear her whisper
deep inside.
take a knife and cut
into me, she says. i'm ready.
don't let another year go by.

stolen lines

you borrow lines
that you read, that you come
across in an old
book, plath or bishop,
strand or frost,
it doesn't matter.
it just takes a word
or a thought,
to light your little
fire, to get your fingers
moving again
across this worn
and fading keyboard.
you imagine they don't
mind, having stolen
from others, themselves.
making the pilfered
lines their own.

the antique

with a collar of fur
around her small shoulders,
a necklace of pearls,
against the ruffled blouse,
rings, a cluster of stars
on her married hand,
she eats a spoon
of scrambled eggs,
careful not to spill
as a child would.
sitting as still as a
powdered pastry in a window.
her face is lineless,
her eyes cat blue.
there is no frown or
smile upon her as she
eats, slowly. her
man, her help, leans
over and whispers
in her ear. she nods
yes. he pours her coffee,
adjusts her wheelchair
moving it closer
to the tables edge.
she stares at you across
the room, as you stare
at her. she is an antique
clock, still ticking.

the old foot bridge

the foot bridge across
the Occoquan is splintered
and rebuilt. a sign tells you
how it was used during
the civil war.
the rush of water
is strong
after so much rain and snow
up north.
you see the new wood
over the old wood.
you see the new nails.
new screws.
the mesh fence where
it's shiny now
next to the rusted
fence.
you are new to this path
too. finding it
in this winter, of walking.
you could easily
climb over the short
wall and be in the water.
swept away. forgotten.
but you don't. you just bought
this five dollar cup
of coffee and it looks
cold down there.
you keep walking.

hold on

hold on to your hat,
grab a pole,
lean forward with your
weight into this wind.
it wants to pick you
up and take you
high into the air.
it wants to show
you how small you really are.
how light and fragile
your life is.
hold on to something,
or someone. the short
meaning of a good life.

marching orders

her pills.
bottles lined up
in the medicine cabinet.
little soldiers
with white caps
and brown suits
awaiting their marching
orders
to go forth and make
the world right.
each stamped
and dated, ready
and willing to win
the day, to bring on
the night.

wrestling bears

you wrestle bears for a living.
but it's not fair.
they are fat and full
of fish and steak,
declawed. in fact,
they like you. at night
in their cages you'll
sit next to them
and scratch their bellies.
you'll read to them as if they
were children, and could
understand every word
you are saying.
they are old bears,
they have no growl or malice
in them. they pretend
and you pretend, sometimes
they'll even let you win.
you could do worse than
friends like them.

i understand

I understand. I do.
I really do get it.
but i'll play it out just
the same
as if I don't know. i'll dumb
myself down
and forget everything I've
ever learned about heartache.
i'll act as if this
is the first time.
i'll stop eating, i'll
toss in my sleep.
i'll stare endlessly
into the woods as I walk
with my grief.
i'll send random cards
and leave messages on
her phone. i'll do all of
this, as I've done since
day one.
I understand. I do.
just let me get on with it.

he's not there

it's not the news
you seek, not the headline
or scores.
no weather is of interest.
it's the obituaries
you turn to. the thin
pages at the back
of the D section
where the black and white
photos stare out
into the living world.
it's here you find his name.
your friend.
a photo of his face, unsmiling,
his beard, his nose.
his pensive lips,
hardly him at all.
an etching of his life.
his children, his brothers,
his wife.
but what is there to say.
is there mention of how
he sang, or played
his guitar. the beret
set just so, tilted on
his head. is there mention of his
fiat that he was always
under with a wrench,
hands in grease,
or the way he took a shot,
smooth and silky
from the top of the key.
is there the nod
of laughter,
the gentle handshake,
the love he had for
any stray crossing any street.
there is no mention
of the music he loved,
of lennon or cat stevens,
the women he loved,
the way he went on for hours
on the phone,
the two of you beyond
sleep. none of that is there.
that you carry with you,
until it's your turn.

tireless

unlike you,
the fish are tireless.
their lives
know nothing of sleep,
of closing their
eyes, there is no
blink in them.
no nap under a dark
set rock in the weeds.
they must keep going,
they know no other
way. they are awake
and moving always.

mary at ninety two

she said when she fell
in the garage
that she was too weak
to pull herself
up to walk out, so she
lay there. then managed
to sit up against
the tire of her car
in the cold. in the dirt.
but she had a bag
of groceries, so she
opened up a box of cookies
and ate one, then two. she knew
that someone would be
along eventually.
there was nothing to worry
about. then she made
a sandwich of lunch meat
and bread, spreading mustard
from a small jar
with her fingers.
she drank some milk from
the quart jug.
this was fine, she thought
to herself. this is fine.
she stared at her shoes,
she could use a new pair
she thought, then
she took out her magazine
and read the gossip news.

the black coat

she leaves a coat behind.
a small black coat
that wouldn't keep a cat
warm. it's that small
and thin. you hold it up
and stretch the arms out.
pull off some lint.
you straighten the collar
then fold it neatly,
setting it on the stool
where she left it.
she might be back again.

afternoon coffee

the waitress seems
especially kind to you,
almost sympathetic.
smiling with daughter
like eyes.
she's so young.
and you, eating alone
in the late afternoon,
with your paper,
your open phone
next to the salt
and pepper, a tin
of napkins. sugar.
she has made a
story for you. she's
put you in a place
as she leans over to pour
more coffee.
she has said to herself
where you have come from
to get here this day.
she's at least half right.

don't leave

these legs of yours.
so long
and lean, against mine
as we lie
here in the summer heat.
we are in the white
of everything.
the sunlight,
the sheets, our skin.
there is no where to
go because we are there
already, the place
we want to be. let's
stay a little longer
in love, don't leave.

the same place

it's all connected.
these words,
this feeling of despair,
the clap of joy.
the love you find
and lose.
it's all part of it.
you are never
lost, all the roads
lead to the same place.
you just haven't
realized it yet.
you will though.
you will.

what i know

i know you.
i know the likes of you.
i know who are
when it's dark and raining.
i know who you are when
things are good
with the sun out and bright.
i know what you eat,
and wear. i know the color
of your eyes,
how you like to stand
and brush your hair.
i know what you want when
we make love.
i know when you want to be alone.
i know that look on your face.
i know everything there is
to know about you, but i don't
know if it's love. do you?

a new day

I need a new way of thinking.
a new face, a new body.
I want my voice
to sound different when
I speak. i want a new name.
I want new clothes,
new shoes.
give me a new set of hands
to work with.
a new job.
a new family, a new dog,
i want a new house to live in.
I want a new everything.
well almost. I still want you.

stop the car

I know it's raining, but
you can drop me off here.
this corner is good.
I don't live far,
I can walk from this point
on. really, it's not a
problem. you go on.
go on with your life.
go on without me. I can
walk from here. I
can walk even farther
if I had to. I'm used
to walking. this is good.
stop the car.
don't say a word.
I like the rain. I like
how this is ending.

the empty wind

there is no one home.
the lights are off.
no candles in the window.
no dog barking.
no car in the driveway.
she's gone.
you can see the tracks
of the truck
that took her and everything
away.
she's gone back to Kansas
you imagine.
that's where her heart
has always been, back to
the farm. the wheat,
the endless fields below
a flat blue sky.
the empty wind.

the whistle

the water boils
making the pot whistle.
this is how
you feel
when you see her
coming towards you
on a Saturday night.

wonderful

this scrap of paper
circling above
the cracked cement
of the playground,
twirling, rising
in a small
cyclone of wind.
this tells
you something
about the world.
something strange
and dark,
and possibly
wonderful.

help is on the way

the belt won't move.
the machine won't take the cash.
the salad won't weigh
and the tuna cans won't scan.
the help light blinks and the robotic
voice says someone is on
the way to help you.
every time you go it's the same.
you expect it now, you wait
to wait, it's the way things
are. no easy pass
with machines in our way.
how you miss the sullen
clerk with his tired eyes
the droop in his seventies
mustache.

a candy moon

beautiful moon.
cut clean and hung
against a black sky,
candied white,
as pure and round
as it can be.
this night is ours.
this moon
is ours. i'll watch
it from the window
with you, as we
make love, then fall
into sleep.

she could dance

she loved to dance.
your old girlfriend.
she would put on boots
up to her knees
and turn the stereo on.
she'd give you
a show. twisting her hips,
gyrating and prancing
across the floor.
drinking was involved.
she could dance though,
before the second
or third drink
went down.
after that, it was
madness and you had
to slow her down
by joining in.

cut grass

cut grass
reminds you of your
summers,
your heavy push
mower, with thick
unsharpened blades,
you could hardly shove
it through
the tangle of
tall grass.
five dollars a yard.
raking too.
the wheels would flatten
out the tall field,
hardly anything
cut.
you'd see the man
in the window
shaking his head.
offering nothing,
not even a glass
of water, as you
gave up on the mower
and used your hand
clippers
to cut what you could.
you could almost
feel the five dollars
in your hand.
even today.

luxury seats

you sink into the deep
seats of the movie theater.
they let you bring
in drinks now, and food.
there is a tray
to put your dishes on,
and silverware.
the leather recliners
lean back into a lying
position. you could
almost fall asleep
there, or make love,
if the movie was bad.
the seats are reserved.
it says so on your ticket.
no need to rush in, no need
to hurry. your seats
are ready and empty
awaiting your body. so you
sit, you sip your martini
and await for the film
to start. Aliens six,
or seven, you aren't quite
sure.

let's go

reverse is a gear
you're not fond of.
the rear view mirror
is smudged
and blurred, unused.
you aren't going
that way anymore.
your foot is on the gas.
forward is your
permanent direction.
get in or get out,
let's go.

in the wind

the answer is not
blowing in the wind.
that's silly.
unless the pages of
a complete set of encyclopedias
and the bible were
thrown out of a plane,
then maybe you
can say that, or sing
that, and blow on
your harmonica, but
still you
worship the ground
he staggers on
at this late stage.

the net of crazy love

persuade me,
you whisper into
her mouth,
tell me
what I need to know,
what I want to hear.
find me,
don't lose me.
capture me in the net
of crazy
love.
kill me in my day sleep
and waken
me to what's real,
what the world could be
with you.

the owl

the owl
with a grey mouse caught in his
claws
swung down
with broad brown wings.
it soared
without trying.
the tilt of his shadow
casting an omen
upon you and this thing
you assumed
was love.
but it wasn't love.
and it wasn't an omen.
it was just a bird
eating
what he could.

the cellar bed

you slept, or rather you
dozed on the cold slab
of a futon
in the cellar of her
split level home.
it was deep in the woods.
but not deep enough
to not see the rusted stove
and washing machine
in the neighbor's yard.
sometimes a dog would
bark, sometimes a dog
would shriek in pain
after barking.
but you lay there in
the cold night,
a numbed fish on ice,
head tilted on the hard rock
bed beside the saddle
and hair blanket, the stacks
of discarded clothes
and magazines.
you shivered in your aloneness.
far from home, as far
from love and affection
as you had ever been.
and in the morning you would
see the red balloon
face of the boy next door
jumping madly on
his trampoline, staring
with crazed blue eyes
and tombstone teeth
into the room
where you could never sleep.

road kill

how many vultures are there now.
they are thick
in the sky,
floating in their strange
slow way, circling
the death that lies
along the highway. they are
bunched up at the side of the road
like judges in black
robes and dark eyes.
hunched in quiet
deliberation, yellowed
claws flecked with
yesterdays meal of blood
and gore. how many vultures are
there.
plenty it seems, enough
to go around.
enough for you and me.

taking a walk

you carve your initials into the tree
along the path where you walk
to get away from people.
although occasionally people
will pass by. but it's okay,
they never wave, or say hello,
or try to talk. they are from
around here, and so it's impolite
to be friendly around these
parts. if they were from the south,
or west, well, that's a
different story. you'd be standing
there all day talking
about the weather and God.
so, you carve your initials into a tree
with a swiss army knife
someone gave you for Christmas.
you put a plus sign under the letters.
then stop. you don't put the date.
the rest will come later.
everything is still undecided.
everything. you continue on your walk.

down to the lake

you are reminded of the time
you went down the hill to the lake.
how still it was.
how cold and close to ice
the water was.
you remember how the sand
took your shoe,
making it sink deep into the muck
leaving an imprint of where
you stood.
you were there. do you remember?
do you remember
the white of the day.
the vagueness of our
relationship. the awkwardness
of holding hands.
how hard it was to get back
up the hill to where the car
was parked, slipping,
and slipping. not a single
laugh to be found.

together

the wind picks up.
the cans
in the alley fly against
one another.
shutters bang.
hats go off like pinwheels
into the sky.
everyone holds on,
the tiles on the roof
come unhinged.
I grab a hold of you,
together,
anchored we can survive.

under water

you hear the phone ring
as you lie
as best can in your small tub,
the hot water
emptied into the basin
where your naked body
rests, bent knees, and
neck against a washcloth.
a stack of books
and magazines, you won't
get to nearby. teetering
on falling in.
but the phone downstairs
keeps ringing. is death
calling. is trouble on
the other end. your son,
a far away love, a needy
and forgotten friend?
or someone selling windows?
you let it ring, and ring.
you need to stay here a little
while longer.
in the quiet, in the silence
of water and steam,
that's most important now.

love and milk

like human loaves
of old bread,
staled by time and age,
they lie on the grates
across the city, huddled
together. day or night
makes no difference,
the steam rising into
the crust of torn blankets.
seeping into
the soles of boots,
keeping the dying
alive through another
February night. they
are impossibly removed
from the cribs they once
slept in, the babies
they once were, held close
to their mother's breast
for love and milk.

the long form

you itemize
your taxes. food clothing shelter.
martinis.
you have property too.
most of it is at
your old girlfriend's
house though.
a pair of pants,
dress shoes. maybe a brown
leather belt.
you throw another handful
of change into the bowl,
your retirement donation,
and mark that
down on the form.
you claim several
dependents. your brother
for one, who you listen
to on the phone
complain and complain.
what would he do without you.
you figure there
might be children
out there too, somewhere.
so you take a wild
guess and round off to
eight. close enough.
you sign the paper,
you put it an envelope,
you hope to get a refund
again this year, you could
use it, but all you
can do is sit by the
window and wait.

just a head cold

it's just a head cold
you say, shaking your head,
bending over
to cough out a lung.
i'm fine. I have some lemon
and tea, cinnamon toast
i'm going to make later.
I just need to mop
up this blood
and crawl over to
the bed to get back in
for a few minutes.
no need to worry.
really, i'm fine. I've
been worse than this.
if I pass out for a while,
don't panic,
it happens all the time,
just clear my
mouth with a spoon,
and prop my feet up.
just in case I don't
wake up, there's
a will I drew up last
night and signed.
it's in the top drawer
next to a bottle
of boones farm apple wine.
I left you the dog.
I know how much you love
him, he's in the yard,
outside.

almost you

someone steals
your wife. he drives
your kids to school.
takes your watch too.
he shows up at your
job
and takes your desk.
he's wearing
your coat and tie,
your shoes.
he walks your dog.
he has become almost
you.
he's doing a fine
job though, better
than you ever could.
this makes you happy
being relieved
of the life you
led,
free at last to become
the person
who you were supposed
to be.

shipped out

all day she yells at you.
get a job.
get a life.
pick up your pants
and shoes.
walk the dog, go to
the store,
we're out of milk
and cheese,
booze.
but you no longer hear
her.
you have shipped out.
you are far away.
you are on an island
with
palm trees and women
wearing
coconuts for lingerie.

transistor radio

late at night,
with the world asleep,
even your brother in the bunk
below you, your sisters
in another room,
your mother and father
on an island of their own,
you hold the radio
in your hand, pressing
the bee hived speaker
to your ear, searching
for strange and exotic
stations far away.
you listen for a lone voice
on the plains
of Kansas, or texas, tangier,
the garbled static of music
you've never heard before.
all of it fades in and out,
as you spin the dial softly
like a safe cracker
under the tented sheets
of your bed, lulling
you to sleep
with possibility.

happy together

as her beauty faded
and she let her hair
turn grey,
he fell into
disinterest about
his eyebrows and ears,
the size of his waist,
wearing pajama pants all day,
she learned how to bake.
they no longer made
love
the way they did
when they were younger,
if at all
but they were full
and happy together,
kissing now with closed lips,
tapping their bellies
while staring into
a roaring fire.

the fire fly boy

when you were a fire fly
of a boy. your feet were
fast. your body a wiggle
worm of glory, untouchable
in tag, or any other game
the street made up.
your hips slid left
or right, your ankles
would bend like rubber,
your arms were loose
and free, hardly attached,
almost wind mills
as you ducked and dashed.

the corn beef sandwich

you must try the corn beef
the man says
sitting next to you at the counter.
you put the menu down to look at him.
there is mustard in his mustache.
bread in his teeth.
he sips his beer and smiles.
it's the best around.
you won't be sorry he says,
putting money on the counter
and slapping you on the back
in a friendly way.
you watch him zipper up
his jacket, tight around
his belly. he puts his
hat on, a scarf
around his thick neck, then
slips his hands into his
gloves. try the corn beef
he says. if my wife
had made it like they do
here, I'd be home now,
still married, and happy.

the open gate

paw prints in the snow.
near the window,
onto the porch, to the door.
an animal
of some sort has walked
here at night
while you slept safe
in your home.
it peered in the window
sniffed at the locks,
the open gate,
then left.
the world outside,
the one you can't see
is a dangerous one
at times

the matchbook

the young waiter slides
a match book under
the one short leg of the table,
then tries to rock it
back and forth.
there, he says. better?
perfect, you say.
he smiles. he's happy
having done one small
thing to right the world
today.

made in china

she returns from Istanbul
with her
passport stamped
and a strange rash on
her neck.
something I ate, I think,
she says.
I touched a camel
hair rug in Iraq.
that might have caused
it too.
you wouldn't believe
the coffee there,
she says. holding out
her wrist to show me
a silver bracelet
with the price tag still
attached.
what a deal she says
holding it out
for me to see.
made in china, you read.
no she says. really?

i hate men

you tell her to step inside
your office and take a seat.
but you have no office.
you are just saying it in
a metaphorical way to get
her to loosen up and relax,
to tell you once again
why she hates men
and will never date again.
she says, I might even
switch to the other side
meaning becoming a full
fledged lesbian. you don't
question her. you listen
and nod. it's what you do
for her. sometimes she'll
walk your dog when you
are away, so you're even
in that regard.
you lean back, put your
hands behind your head,
you are a coffee shop
Sigmund Freud, a veritable
Jung in tennis shoes
and shorts. You put your
finger to your chin
and you say words like
interesting and I see,
pulling at a non existent
beard. you are such a
good listener she says
after exhausting herself
telling you why she hates
men. I could talk all day
with you, but I can't. I
have to go, I have a lunch
date with a man
I met online. he has a boat,
so we might sail
this afternoon. he said
to bring a bikini. do you
think that's a red flag?

these flowers

these flowers,
these children.
racing into form,
rising from the earth.
stretching legs and arms
in our sun,
becoming one of us.
replacing us in time,
sleeping where we do,
working and living
as we did.
they fill the fields
where we will
fall and die.
these flowers
these children will
rise.

your hands

the grime on your hands
is from work.
years of it.
decades. imbedded
in your skin,
mixed with blood
and callouses.
there is no soap,
no lye, no brush
to scrub any of
it away. you are
the farmer, the miner.
the steel worker.
you build bridges
and pave the roads.
you bend to the earth,
rising each morning
to do it again
and again. it's
all you know.

at work

so high, so far up,
almost to the very end
of the bald tree.
just below the stratus clouds.
this woodpecker machine guns
his pointed beak.
pounding a hole
for shelter or food,
who's to know.
you stand and watch, he
looks down. quiet
for a minute, waiting
for you to move on.
so you do.

the parking garage

you can't remember where you parked.
every level looks the same.
you repeated blue seventeen
over and over again as you left
for the store. but maybe it was
green. maybe the number was eleven.
it's cold as you search.
up the ramps, down the ramps.
you wave to the others, also
lost, that you have come
to know.

he was after me

you remember the time
your friend doris
tried to stab you with a knife
in her sleep.
she had a bad dream.
you asked her later
why she slept with a knife
in her hand. it's a habit
she said. i'm sorry.
I thought you were my father.
he was after me.

the kitchen floor

you'll clean the puddle
of milk later.
you like the way it looks
for now.
a small shallow
lake on the dark floor.
you think of ice
fishing in Minnesota
when you stare at it.
it's just milk though.
not a frozen lake
covered in snow. but
with more milk you can
make more lakes.
you can make a river
of milk from one
door to the next.
maybe you need some land.
you find the flour
and the brown sugar
and begin. stalks of celery
for trees.
you are essentially God
at this point
creating a new world.
you take two eggs
out of the carton
and place them on the beach,
uncracked
adam and eve
you call them.
it's a busy afternoon,
then the phone rings.

boredom is upon us

boredom is upon us.
no books of interest.
no new art.
no movie to sit and watch
that stirs our heart.
nothing new under the sun.
each note has been heard.
each love old and lost.
boredom is upon us.
the centuries of beauty
and genius that have
come before us
have screeched to a halt.

the peach house

the clapboard was peach,
but worn near white.
bleached by the unblocked
sun. not a tree around.
a straight dirt path
of rising dust
where the chained dog
ran and ran.
there was a metal rooster
at the peak which spun
with the awful wind
telling you of the places
you couldn't be. north
or south, west,
or east. it was a house
full and empty
at the same time.
each room a sanctuary,
each bed, at night, a place
with which to leave.
sometimes when you drive
by you can still see
your face in the corner
of a window.

blue wings

we are like
the buzz of flies
against the screen,
fluttering blue wings,
wanting to get out
after trying so hard
to get in, searching
for the small gap
or rip in the wire
mesh that keeps us
unfree.

she is

she is a ferris wheel
spinning with colored
lights ablaze,
a kaliedoscope of music
playing, she is
a coaster screaming along
the narrow rails in
the blue madness
of hot summer.
she is lip gloss,
and heels, she is a
dress flying in the air.
she is the fun house
with bent mirrors,
and trap doors.
she is a dream, a cold
glass of water thrown
against your face, she is
cotton candy on your lips,
sticky and sweet,
she is too far gone,
and you want more tickets
to go there.

stale bread

yesterdays bread,
already stale on the counter,
wrapped in a long paper sleeve,
the crust hard, there is
nothing you can do about that.
maybe the birds will
enjoy it, breaking it down
into small white pieces,
tossing them towards the woods
from your open window.
but there are no birds.
it's too cold for birds.
too cold to go out and get
more bread. you need
more of everything it seems,
as you go back upstairs to read,
staring at your empty bed.

dogs and cats

they get sick and old,
they die and leave us alone.
these cats and dogs.
these furry beasts
we own.
we give them names.
we take pictures, we love
them dearly
and they love us back,
or so it seems, perhaps
it's much simpler,
more primal than that.
food and shelter,
sweet words of affection,
just habit, that keeps them
in our lap.

the second month

with one kick of your boot
you swing
and knock January out
the door
of this new year.
February,
with your wind
and snow, your ice.
it's fine.
I can do 28 more days
of this lack of love
and sunshine standing
on my head. but
there is always a birthday
to be had, so grim,
and that awful day
called valentine.

out of season

like love,
it's best to buy fruit
in season,
this orange proves my point.
it looks ready and ripe,
the skin peels off
as it should,
easy with your fingers,
hardly needing the help
of a knife. it's colorful
and bright, full of juice,
this quartered fruit.
but the taste is sour,
it isn't right.

your teacher

she is a walking
Webster's dictionary.

a human volume
of strunk and white.

she carries a ruler
to smack your knuckles

for misspelled words,
or grammar not quite right.

she's a teacher through
and through, with her glasses

and black sweaters,
long dresses, hair pulled

into a bun,
neat and tight.

you fear the wrath of her,
as you hunch over your desk

composing each new poem,
cowering in the dark of night.

the life you've chosen

this dry farm,
a thousand parched acres
of brown burden
curled in a flat sea
of dust and dirt,
it lies before you
every morning when
you wake up.
you've prayed for rain,
you've asked for forgiveness
for your sins,
you've cried and begged
for mercy, but it never ends,
this farm.
this life you've chosen.
in the next world
you will fish.
you will sail the high seas,
throwing your net
over the side and be free.

the nectarine sun

the sun,
a nectarine
falling
slowly
across the horizon,
beyond
where we sit
and sip
our drinks in
happy silence.
love being
settled.
life
exhaled and resting.
hand in
hand,
a good way
to go out
from this peaceful
day.

the rich uncle

the uncle, your uncle,
your mother's
brother, one of two,
with the white Cadillac
and toupee,
the uncle
with the house
and pool in florida,
the wife
who posed for
playboy, yes, that
uncle, the one from
philly with a roll
of cash in the pocket
of his white suit.
the uncle with
the white shoes,
the whispered
connections
to the underworld, he
sends you a check
for five dollars
for your birthday
and says, hey kid,
what's new.

the big game

you loved her
for many reasons, none
of which were less
important than
her making of potato
skins
for the big game
on sunday.
baked and crisp,
loaded with sour cream
and bacon bits,
peppers and sliced
barbeque chicken.
sometimes she'd sit
and watch part
of the game
with you and your friends
as you devoured her
tray of food,
asking questions such
as
why are there lines on
the field
and who are those men
in striped shirts.
they seem bossy
with those whistles.
are we going to take a walk
at halftime?
you'd say shhhh, honey,
please, the game
is on
which would make her
shrug and leave
to go check on the brownies.

the wallpaper estimate

the religious artifacts
fill the wall,
crosses and pictures
of the bishop
and pope.
palm leaves tacked
above the statue
of the virgin mary.
and the bowl
of holy water with which
to tap
wet against your brow,
and genuflect as you
enter the front
door.
a glow in the dark
statue of Christ,
five inches
tall greets you in
the bathroom.
you almost expect
an organ to begin to playing
when you walk in,
to the left is confession,
then communion, if it's
going to be a longer
stay.
you take out your measuring
tape, then tell
her six rolls of
wallpaper should do
the job.

faces on a train

these faces on the train,
as the dark cars roll by
under the shade of clouds,
like cotton
on this summer
day. too hot to move,
or speak,
hardly a thing
is in motion, but
this train.
these faces, you'll never
know, or see again,
tired and longing
to be back
from where they came.

howling at the moon

not unlike
a dog, i beg at the table
of your love.
wanting just a small
tid bit
of food from your
loving hand. I
howl at the moon,
scratch at
the floor, circling
three times
before i curl into
a pathetic ball.
what's more loyal
than a dog, I ask you,
hopping on your
leg when you get home.
licking your
face, barking loudly
our favorite song.

new ideas

like Edison
you are nearly
out of brilliant ideas
after
the light bulb
lit up the world,
but it doesn't
stop you from trying
to invent a new way
to get her back,
a time machine, perhaps,
cards and flowers,
poetry
and begging doesn't
seem to work.

in the woods

she likes to keep
to herself.
quiet and alone.
distant.
the phone off the hook,
aloof in the woods
with her pets,
her books, her
shovel
and rake.
it's safer this
way, keeping
a closed heart
and locked gate.

winter fish

the fish, silver
bends of light
twisting together in
cold water,
winter thin,
swimming low
among the weeds,
moving slow
below the coat
of ice, but living,
still living,
and you above
walking near the edge
where it's hard
and thick, happy
not be to hungry,
or too cold,
or alone, like them.

darkness

blind in your own way,
with your white
cane and dog you move
slowly through the dark
world, this cave
of no light
you live in.
everyone wants to help
you. the braille
of faces
tells you they are sad.
I'm fine you say,
don't worry. this too
shall pass. I just
need to get through
February.

the black and white cat

how do you kill
a cat
who loves you,
who sits
by the window all
day and waits
for you to come home.
who presses his
paws against
you in the morning
licking the side
of your nose.
how do kill a cat
who knows
you. whose head
rises
when the door opens,
the collar
jingling as he
runs, tail up
to shimmy his warm
body against
your cold legs.
how do you kill a
cat
who once was a kitten
twenty years
ago,
before he went
blind, before
he lost control
of his bladder, before
he cried all
night in pain.
how do you kill a cat
who is older
than your children,
and sits now in your lap,
shivering
half asleep.
how?

on her own terms

the note is not good.
she's dying.
cancer. or so they say,
or think. what do doctors
know anyway.
it's not for sure, but
she leans
towards the darkness
even on a sunny day,
so her money is on
death.
you half believe her,
but she's too strong
and stubborn to go out
that way. the earth needs
to circle the sun
a few more years,
and decades before
she let's go for good,
leaving the room
and you on her own terms.

among the stars

how wonderful it would be
for us, together,

to be paddling in a canoe
to the moon.

our oars in the deep
blue of sky, rowing

among the stars. what
memories we would have,

making our love unbreakable,
just you and I.

a good crowd

nervous with her one poem,
the single
sheet of paper
in her hand, she steps
into the light,
to the microphone
and says her name.
there is no crowd,
there are couples,
there a few singles drinking
tea. other poets
who have read their
epic poems
about aliens and dragons.
there is a drunk in the corner
half asleep, his head
resting on rimbaud.
she clears her throat
and reads.
it's about her mother,
it's about love.
it's about
death and dying.
when she's done,
she looks out
to the one woman clapping.
her daughter
in the back, with tears
in her eyes, smiling
from the shadows.

my blue

my blue
is not like your blue.
we're different like that.
but I still
love you
just the same.
it makes no
difference to me
what color
you prefer, deep
and azure,
or slightly green
like the Mediterranean.
I don't
really care
as long as you
stay close
and never leave.

pralines and cream

she calls you lazy
and without ambition.
so you call
her fat and old.
she ups the ante
and says
you're without talent,
you have no ability
to write a letter
let alone a poem.
you laugh and say,
oh yeah, well you
make love like a dead
person, they should
call you the dead
sea scrolls. not a wave or
anything living
down below.
this makes her throw
a spoon at you that
she was eating a carton
of ice cream with,
and say. I hate you.
I hate you. I hate
you. you pick up
the spoon up and lick
it. pralines
and cream you ask
her. do we have anymore?
none for you shorty,
she says laughing,
and you say, okay.
okay. it's not over yet.
here we go.

take the tree down

it's time to take
the tree down.
remove the lights,
the ornaments, strip
off the silvery tinsel.
pluck the star
from her pointed top.
the limbs are dry,
with needles on the floor,
not one green, all brown.
it was a good run with
this tree. how beautiful
and fun she was
glowing in the window
with presents all around.
two months these days,
is a long time
for anything or anyone
you love to stay.

blizzard conditions

she was a blizzard
of love
and affection, a white
storm of desire
ready
to cave the roof
in with snow
and hot ice.
she was the wind,
she was
the fire, she
was the flame of
your undivided attention.
she was
the low pressure
system
that kept you inside,
bundled up, exhausted,
tongue tied.

camels

camels
on the desert,
those
humps, and noses,
long legged
and brown.
across the sand,
the dunes,
searching
for an oasis
to drink,
to lie down.
and us, here,
at the bar,
with glasses
in our hand
toasting
a new year,
a new day,
wandering too
through our own
stretches
of hot barren
sand.

the bite

it's not
the bite, or the blood,
the sharp
pain
rising from
your arm
to your
unsuspecting brain,
it's none
of that.
it's the surprise
of how
someone that you
loved
so dearly
could close
her teeth on you.

you are home

you have no where
to go
because you are already
there.
you have arrived
at the place
you were always meant
to be.
you have discarded
your clothes
and your religion,
you have set
aside the lovers
you have known,
your friends
and children.
you are seated in
the room
where there are windows.
you've always
wanted
a room
with a view.
you have that now.
this where you are.
you are home.

what lies below

the snow is cruel
in its white
frosting.
pretending to be
sweet
and kind,
beautiful as it
covers
the road, the trees.
but you know
better about
beauty.
you know what lies
beneath,
below and in
the mind.

the fitted sheet

you could no longer
stand
how unorganized your linen
closet was,
so in a furious
fit of emptying
you pulled out every
sheet and pillow
case, towel
and wash cloth,
blanket and old sham
down off
the shelves.
you would start over,
tossing the old
and worn, neatly folding
whatever would be
kept.
someone once told
you how to fold
a fitted sheet, you
think, as you start
with a blue one.
the tight rumpled
corners with minds
of their own crimping
together.
she even showed
you how, smiling as she
demonstrated her technique,
folding from left to right,
how efficient and neat
she was and strange,
you don't forget that,
but you miss her
just the same and her
folding of
your fitted sheets.

the coin flip

you flip a coin
to decide
what's next
in your life.
it's a big
decision that you
can't go back on.
you call heads,
it comes
up tails.
two out of three
you say to
yourself, flipping
it again.
okay, three out
of five, you say
a little louder.
then five
out of seven
to yell to the coin
flipping gods.
by now it's decided.

all we do is fight

let's be friends
from now on,
your wife
says to you one morning
waking up in bed. let's just be
friends with each
other, instead of
this other thing we
got ourselves
into. why pretend
any longer. all we do is fight.
the kids know, our
friends know,
the neighbors, our
relatives. our therapists
know. so what's the point
in pretending.
sure, you tell her.
maybe do a movie,
one night, something like
that. okay, she
says. but let's take
it slow and easy
at first, see how it goes.

after you

from here to there
is a place
I want to be.
some distance would
be nice
between us.
I can't wake up
beside you anymore,
or listen
to your voice,
or the sound you make
when you
snore.
your relatives
from jersey are
crowding our lives
with their pet snakes
and pen knives,
filling up the room,
your dog
and cat,
give me watery
eyes.
the roses are dead,
baby, the violets
are too, as tom waits
sang so succinctly,
i'm sick and tired
of picking up
after you.

tea kettles

these tea kettles
were everything to her,
from Russia, from Spain,
porcelain white and blue
with matching cups
and saucers. they lined
the wide sills of her
windows, in plain view
for anyone to see.
how kind she was
with her cloth and time,
polishing against the curve
of glass making each shine,
so how strange it was to see
them on the street, broken,
lying in pieces with other
things less loved,
the week she died.

the baked farewell

a spoon of regret,
a pinch of
sorrow. one half
cup of tears,
a farewell note
or two of fond
memories, for
good measure.
some salt for the
wounds, but no.
all baked for a week
or three then,
sprinkled
with sugar,
just in case she
gets a late night
craving and wants more
of you later.

untired

unable to sleep,
you rise from your bed
and peer out
at the darkened streets,
the empty sky
of trees.
the rounded backs
of cars catching
the wash of pink
lamplights
near the woods.
nothing stirs,
but you. wondering
in the shadows,
unclothed, untired,
what's to become
of everything.

the rewrite

the movie of you,
starring you in
the lead role
has hit a slow
part in the plot.
you seem to be stuck
in an entire reel
of filler, loops of boring
dialogue, players
acting badly
in bit parts. it
seems to be going
nowhere. you want to yell
out, cut. stop, bring me
the script,
we need to rewrite
nearly all of this.

her whistle

she would whistle
from the top of the porch
stairs
to bring you in.
dinner's on the table.
exhausted, but not quite
ready, you'd circle once
more the street
the poles and cars
where the games would
start
and end.
now, she'd say louder,
everyone, let's go,
then whistle once more.
dinner's getting cold,
as she held the screen
door to let you,
one by one, file in.

in Puget Sound

she can't fly
anymore. her wings are bent
and heavy.
they stand dusty in
the closet.
she's in a cage
now in Puget sound.
a dog, a dozen cats,
a path of flowers
along the way.
he watches her from
the window,
from the door,
he sees every step
she takes.
this time, she stays,
he won't let her
get away.

we move on

the penny
that you let lie
on the sidewalk
is still there,
no one bends over
to pick up a penny
these days.
that's the kind of world
we live in now.
small things
hardly matter,
a wave hello,
a word of praise,
a thank you, are all
left lying, where
they'll stay.
we move on.

phone photos

you are officially
in the fifth grade once more.
your cell phone
has allowed you to regress
back to the boy
in you who pulled pig tails,
and counted freckles
on penny karr's face.
you used to call her nickel
truck, with your rapier
wit and quick
feet, at the age of twelve.
you take pictures now of
food, cones of stacked
scoops of
ice cream.
slices of cake.
pot roast and martinis
you are about to drink.
you take photos of
the Washington monument
and add captions such
as, thinking of you.
this phone has not made you
a fool, it came too late
for that,
but perhaps it confirms
that general notion
of what others think of you.

the bible salesman

the salesman,
weary, but still enthusiastic
and polite with his boxed
briefcase
full of bibles and holy water,
knocks on your door.
you tell him you already
have a bible,
but he insists,
not like this one,
can I come in.
he's selling God
how can you say no to
that.
before long you are
pouring him
a cup of coffee and telling
the dog to get off
his leg.
he doesn't mind.
you put a slice of pastry
on his plate,
a fork and knife.
he opens his brief case
and shows you the bible
as cecil b d'mille
pictured it, bold and glossy
with colors
nothing black and white.
he looks around
and asks if the missus
is home, you say no,
she hasn't been here for
awhile.
I see he says. well, makes
no difference you seem
like a religious man.
I am, you say, I am,
tossing a left red slip
lying on the chair
into the other room, but I
don't have much time.
how much for the bible
and a flask of holy water?
you both turn your head
to a voice coming from up
the stairs, honey, who's down
there, are you coming back
up. i'm lonely.
he points at a number on
a brochure. checks only
or cash he says. hold on you
tell him, let me get
my wallet.

other blue skies

the yesterdays
collected neatly in albums
under the coffee
table
in front of the tv
are there
for you to see,
to pick up
on a rainy night
and say out loud
things like,
how young we were once.
how much fun
we had.
look at the smiles,
remember how cold the ocean
was that day.
you looked happy
then, I remember that book
in your hand.
I still have it
somewhere on the shelf
behind me.
we were young then.
skinny
and long, unknowing
about so much
of what was to come.
I say these things alone,
though.
you are off and married
again.
the child we had is grown.
the dogs
have come and gone.
our lives, like balloons
have veered off
into other blue skies.

the blue scarf

nothing prepares
you for death and dying.
each one
unique in its quick or slow
way
of disappearing
from your life,
becoming shadows,
leaving remnants behind.
take
this scarf for example
that hangs in
the closet as if she might
return one day
to throw it around
her neck, soft and warm,
a sea blue,
as bright and
sparkling,
as who she was
the moment she was born.

already

already
the young girls that
were younger last year
in the field of pavement
before the row of houses
where you live,
have slowed
into themselves,
no longer scattered
and yelling
across the lot, with
no difference between
boys or girls,
kicking a red ball,
hiding
and seeking, marking
their world
in colored chalk.
no longer
are they in the mix
of the other children
rising,
they have moved on to
another side
of life, already.

becoming one of them

they fit you early
for the collar, the clasps,
the irons
around your ankles.

cuff links and ties.
the ball and chain.
they ease
them on each year,
tightening
the screws, turning
the key just a touch
more to the right,
adding more weight
as you grow.

they put a briefcase

in your hand,

slip a ring onto your

finger,
before long
you forget that they are
there. this is how
you lose your childhood,
and become one of
them.

without the sun

without the sun
you are flour, a white page
of paper with two
eyes and teeth, a pair
of thin lips and ears.
you are an egg
without the sun,
wanting to be boiled,
to be poached
or fried.
you are cold without
the sun.
you shiver as you stand
on a corner in
the snow, shuffling
your wet feet in the gloom
of near darkness.
you are lost without
the sun.
sometimes you stop
people on the street
and ask them,
do you remember,
do you remember that
thing that used
to be in the sky.
you take your hand
and point upwards.

the unknown

you can't begin
to know her.
impossible despite
years
of trying.
no bed can bridge
the gap,
no meal
sitting side
by side,
no hand in hand
walk
along the beach
or through
town.
no talk can peel
back
the layers
of her skin.
she isn't there,
she won't let you in.
she's always just
slightly
out of reach,
which she knows,
and keeps
coming back.

for two seconds

this arc of birds
curves through the windy sky
as one
going from
phone line
to phone line stretched
across
the poles.
they rest for a moment
then go again,
into the wind
their soft flutter of
wings,
muted claps of feathers
making
you stop to watch and
listen.
your day being less
important for two seconds.