you understand

just a little cream,
she says. just a little sugar.
please heat
the biscuit up,
a pad of butter,
a dab of jam.
you can use the small
plates on the shelf.
can you get the paper
too. be a dear.
you're so good to me.
kiss me on the cheek.
I love how you know me,
and understand.

payday

when they find out you have money,
they come, they drop from the sky

from planes. they bake a cake,
ask if you've lost weight.

they call from distant lands,
they inquire about your health,

your future plans.
they tell you that florida

is a bad idea, stay close,
stay near, they say.

they smell a payday.
it's just a matter of time

they whisper
when you're in the other room

when they can cash in
on being almost friends.

nine lives

she's blue again.
a darker shade of ocean.
there are no bootstraps
to pull up
no third gear to get
going.
she's made bad choices,
all the leaves
have been turned over
again and again.
the cat is running out
of lives to break
then mend.

morning coffee

less of you is here this morning
having left so much
in dreams, at the table of sleep.
you rise and dress
go out into the rain, let
the water come and go like soft
kisses against your weary cheek.
it's nice to be nowhere
in a hurry, to linger with
coffee through a window
on the barren street.

the pink eye blues

I have pink eye
she says mournfully on the phone.
i'm at the doctor's office now.
oh, you say, conjunctivitis,
I had that once when I was twelve.
it's very contagious, so I guess
I won't be seeing you tonight,
or tomorrow.
I suppose so, she says.
i'm sorry, but maybe next weekend.
so what will you do
without me. i'm not sure,
you say, plan b, or c,
I guess. Loretta has
the whooping cough,
and mary had a migraine last month,
but I think she's feeling okay.
then there's diane, if
her plantar fasciitis
isn't flaring up or linda
if she's healed
from her hysterectomy.

into the wind

the world is full
of wind. small cups
of air, moving
into the absence
of someone
you loved, you cared
about.
the vacuum of souls,
the hollows
of porch swings,
chairs in the kitchen.
beds. the wooded cove.
you see the breeze
of her against the water,
smell her hair upon
your clothes. all
blowing away.

don't point at me

I don't want people
to point at me, at my shoe
for instance, dragging
a ribbon
of toilet paper
down the street, or
at the wheel of my
car, where someone rolls
down their window
to shout. it's flat,
your tire is flat, or
gesturing to the dollop
of shaving cream
in my ear.
leave me alone
with the spinach in
my teeth, the drool
on my chin, the missed
buttons, or zipper
down. i'll get to it.
I know these things,
I wasn't born yesterday.
i'm not, despite what
you think, a circus clown.

the plaid shirt

you return the shirt
you bought just yesterday.
you tried it on
and stood in front of the mirror.
it's plaid.
green, reds, white.
it's thick, with black buttons.
you think lumberjack
when you look at it,
you are only missing an axe
and a wool hat,
a stout woman beside
you holding a bottle of syrup
and a possum by it's nap,
but you have the receipt
so you careful fold
it back into the wrapper,
place it into
the bag, take it back.

another book of poems

she writes another book
of poems. they are okay.
just okay. some better than
others. the ones in
the front. some fillers,
some clunkers,
some written in her head
while in the shower,
some half done.
the reviews are mixed
but lean towards, don't bother,
not as good
as the others,
but it's a book, a short
book of poems, a follow
up book for her followers.
you won't find it in
any bookstore,
but it's available
at a discount
on amazon.

blood line

the line to the blood
bank is long.
you rub your arm
where the needle will
go.
you could use a few bucks,
having written
the last alimony check
and bought
a cup of coffee to go.
so you get in line.
blood you have,
a nice supply that seems
to keep coming,
at least for now.

politics

the politics
of the woods
are simple.
stronger, larger,
more swift eat
the lesser beasts.
even the worms
are in on it
to some degree.

the reformatory

they've turned the old prison
into an art gallery,
a place for artists to paint
and carve, to sculpt out
of stone what pleases them,
to spin on a wheel red clay
into a jar.
the guards are gone.
no one is in the gun tower.
the electric fence is numb
with current.
the barbed wired torn
down. posters adorn
the high walls in spring colors
of green and gold,
blues and soft hues of brown.
hardly a thought goes
into thinking what went on
here before. at the gate
you get a map, a list
of the artists, prices
in a folded brochure.

the scratch

when you hear the song,
you remember the scratch
that caught the needle
and held the record in place,
repeating the words
again and again.
it might have been thirty
years ago when you got
up from the couch or
floor, or bed, or asked
in a smoky haze for
someone to bump the needle
just so, but now
the song moves along.
strangely though,
it's not the same.
you miss the scratch.

the gas can

out of gas, you sit for a moment
and rest your hands upon the wheel
of your stalled car.
the rush and roar of traffic
goes by. in the distance you see
the melt of sun, you see
the rise of mountains
that take away the light.
an epiphany would be nice
right now. but none comes
to mind. you get the can out
of the trunk and walk
towards the exxon sign a few
miles up the road.

this alone

the bats, nestled figs
behind the pulled shutter
surprise you as they spring
out on jagged velvet
wings. they brush
against your face
in quiet flight,
like soft strange hands
as they fly
off into the blinding
light of day.
one is holding the body
of a dead grey mouse,
this alone makes me
call you.

twenty four seven

love takes a break
and you find yourself floating
in the sea of lukewarm water
called like.
you want to change her,
but just a little,
perhaps make a slight adjustment
in the way she wears
her hair, sleeps diagonally
in the queen sized bed,
and she wants to change you,
perhaps in the way you chew
with your mouth open,
and stare when a pretty
girl walks by.
it's annoying being together
twenty four seven, what
were we thinking,
but we're almost old,
so perhaps it's time to settle
and pretend that we just
don't care about snoring,
and seats up,
a the sink full of hair.

the black coat

your favorite coat,
is still in the closet,
the black one with the torn
pockets where
the keys and cough drops
slip out.
the one with the stain
which might be coffee,
might be tea,
or chocolate. the zipper
hardly zips, but
it's a perfect coat,
a jacket really,
for spring. it fits.
easy to drive in.
you like to flip the collar
up when a breeze hits.
you try it on and feel
through the pockets.
there are ticket stubs from
last april.
you said you hated the movie,
which made her turn
her head so that you couldn't
see that she had
cried all the way through.
you remember how her arm
was in yours
next to the coat
and then it wasn't.

daffodils

after too much brandy,
meaning
half a bottle,
your father slips in the bathroom,
crushing his ribs
against the steel tub,
ripping down the shower
curtain of anchors and
starfish, blue and white,
he calls you from bed
and says, I think I did
it this time.
you ask him if he's seen
a doctor, if he can
get up to eat,
to go to the bathroom,
to which he answers
in all the ways he knows
you want to hear.
i'll be alright he says,
just a little too much
to drink, too much
Christmas cheer.
outside his window
the daffodils are blooming,
he tells you.
the ones he planted
on his old knees last year.

together

as if tied together
in grey blue clumps
of thick overcoats,
woolen hats of stripes
and colors like stuck
Christmas candies,
they gather,
they stroll
through the park,
emptying the senior
buses as one, they
move towards the lake
tethered by invisible
strands of time,
avoiding the iced
puddles, patches of snow,
holding loaves of stale
bread for the birds.
somewhere within they'd
rather be alone,
or at least not
with strangers, but with
someone they loved
so long ago, someone
who would remember those days
when they weren't so old.

over the trestle

it's the deep wail
of the train whistle,
through the woods,
that wakes you as it crosses
the trestle. you know exactly
where it is.
you can see the long silver
cars, hear the rumble
of wheels thumping against
the rails.
you can see the people
sleeping, the reflection
of trees and sky
in the windows they no
longer look out.
three pulls of the whistle
and it's gone, you fall
back to sleep, hardly dawn,
the world pink with light.

the lost day

you drift dreamily through
the morning,
careful on the ice,
buying coffee that you could
just as easily make at home.
going somewhere, going nowhere.
there is milk to buy.
bills in a snow pile
on the table
next to the folded towels.
you ease your way through
the hours, you graze the dry
pages of paper,
stare at a book, not letting
the words take hold.
you wander through the woods,
your feet hardly
touching the ground.
someone walks by and doesn't
say hello.
it's a lost day
and it's only three p.m., so
much more to go.

the girl in the photo

there was a time
when a man could spend
an afternoon alone
polishing his car.
the hood up, doors open,
the music on.
parked in the shade.
maybe the car is
turquoise or a pearl
grey.
maybe he has a cold
beer in his hand.
maybe he's your father
and he's day dreaming
about his summers
growing up
in nova scotia,
or of a girl
he used to know, her photo
the one you've seen
on his desk,
faded and old.
maybe you watch him from
the window,
elbows on the sill,
admiring him, his car,
the way his blue eyes
twinkle in the autumn
of his youth.

who is this?

she sends you a text message
saying, there's fifty one days
of school left, then i'm
selling everything
and heading to texas,
the gulf coast.
i'm flying solo.
who is this, you say,
staring at the phone.
michelle. she says, don't
you remember me?
oh, you say, of course.
of course I do. have we ever
met? you teach math in
Richmond. right? blonde?
no, brunette and I
teach English
in manassas. and no we've
never met. you were always
too busy. why texas,
you ask. why not, she says.
i'm tired of work, of men
and love. i'm tired of
this stinking weather.
I need a break.
we all do, you say.
send me a post card
when you get there, take
a picture. let me know
how it goes. maybe i'll
come out and visit.
i'm saving you in my phone.

when wisdom intervenes

could you love someone like that,
with her prairie dresses, and black
floppy hats, you thought, as you shivered
in the basement on the hard futon

of her guest room, that wasn't
a guest room, but a storage bin
of old clothes, diaries stuffed
under the bed, and magazines

from the nineteen eighties,
that wobbled in small towers.
your head seemed to be lower
than your body in this bed.

your stomach the peak, your legs
from the hips down, tilted
towards the floor as if in a dentist's
chair, prone and ready for the needle.

could you love this person,
in the room above you, asleep,
perhaps, as the moon shot through
the window with a surreal

vibrancy. this woman who never
seemed to let wisdom intervene
in her choices of life.
the farmer in Kansas with bad teeth,

the obese man, she called the pornographer
with his labeled movies.
threesomes, foursomes, whips
and chains. blondes and redheads.

and now you, how did you fit in.
could you love this woman
who chased intruders in the dead
of night in her pajamas,

running after them in her
bare feet with only her screams
of anger to defend her. somehow
the answer was yes.

the irish in her. the steely
eyes, neither blue or green.
the dark hair that curled around
her impish ears. how she read

and read. no radio, no t.v.
you were in a time portal.
but you knew it was short lived.
at some point you had to return

to your own century.

the other life

you used to sleep walk.
get dressed in the middle of the night
and go to a different job,
a different home,
a different set of children
a different wife.
they adored you.
how kind you were in your dreamy
trance. you gave them
all the love you were unable
to give when you were awake.
in the morning, you went home.
went back to bed and waited
for the alarm to go off
to start this other life,
the one you couldn't
escape from, except at night.

the safe heart

her heart was a steel safe.
you clicked and clicked,
turning the knob,
ear to the hard wall
trying to find
the right numbers, her
elusive combination
to open her door.
but it never swung
open, you never got
to see what was in there,
if anything at all.

tazmanian maids

you see the maids
come out of the car like
circus clowns in pink,
one by one, more than
you thought were in there.
each with a bucket,
a mop a broom.
they descend upon your
house like tazmanian devils.
the dirt and grime
being spun away into a nice
polish and shine.
no more dust, no more
stockings hanging
from the fan.
no shoes on the stove,
heels on the stairs,
pants on the floor.
the bags of trash go out
to the curb.
they make your bed,
scour the sinks, the tubs,
the toilets,
brush out the cobwebs,
pick up the wedges of lime.
they rake into a nice
pile, the watches
and ear rings, wine glasses
and bracelets from
under the bed, which you
tell them to help themselves,
take it all, none of it
is mine.

black licorice

having no bills, or change
to give to the man at the corner
with his cardboard sign
and timberland boots,
you hand him a piece of licorice.
he takes a bite as you wait
at the light, then spits it out.
what's this he says.
did they change the formula.
this isn't switzer's.
this isn't the licorice I grew
up with.
yes it is you tell him.
holding up the bag to show
him the label.
I can't eat this, he says,
it's horrible, here, take
it back. this tastes like
sugary wax. it's horrible.
please, don't be handing that
out. it's criminal.
by the way, the light
changed, you can go now.

waiting for rescue

you live on a island,
but there are no palm trees,
no coconuts
or white beaches with
warmed sand.
there is no water
surrounding you.
no boats docked
near your door. but it's
an island just the same.
one of snow
and ice, people
paddling with shovels
to get from
here to there.
tired of it all, waiting
rescue, you write
a note and curl it into
an empty bottle
of vodka and toss
it out into a snow bank.
you peel a banana and wait.

nothing left to do

you wait for rain.
the earth waits too.

it's furrowed brow
of land, dry and dry,

nearly dust.
no green, no roots,

the seeds blown
up into the sun.

you wait for rain.
you've plowed,

you've prayed,
there's nothing left

to do.

love sick

sick of love,
tired of caring.
of saying yes when you
want to say no.
tired of being where
you don't want to be.
saying things
you don't want to say.
sick of love,
sick of who it makes
you be.
eating what you don't
want to eat.
sleeping when you don't
want to sleep.
sick of love
and all it's supposed
to be.

across the fields

the world has a way
of taking you out back
to the shed
and whipping you.
taking the raw green
branch and giving
you what for.
telling you who's in
charge, who sets the rules.
then you limp back,
pretending to be shamed
and repentant, but you're
not. you'll get out
of this somehow, get
over the fence
and run across the wide
green fields, unbroken.

slower, she says, go slower

she sits in a chair beside
you at the pool. do you mind?
is anyone sitting here?
you open your eyes,
half blind from the sun
and say, no. it's fine.
I like the way you swim,
she says, her hair, black
as any raven's, oily and thick,
wrapped now in a coned towel.
she lights a cigarette
and leans back in the yellow
lawn chair, blowing smoke
to the side.
I watch you from my window.
I can see the pool from fifteen
floors up. I see you
dive in. I watch as your arms
and legs spread and pull you
along. you are a wonderful
swimmer. how quickly you move
from side to side. where did
you learn to swim like that?
you lean over. she's your mother's
age, maybe older. you're seventeen.
she's liz taylor from the golden age.
a cluster of rings on her hand.
a necklace dripping against
her browned chest. can you put
some lotion on me, she says,
twisting her cigarette out
into the hot concrete.
would you be a dear. I won't
bite. i'm harmless she says,
dropping her sunglass down
just enough to give you a wink.
my back and legs, she says,
rolling over, pulling the straps
down on her bathing suit.
she hands you the tube of lotion.
you look around the pool to see
if anyone is watching,
then squirt a dollop into
your hand, carefully you
smooth it onto her alligator
skin. slower, she says.
go slower.

the green tiled hallway

there was a certain shine
he was after
on the green linoleum tiles
in the long hallway
that led to the pool.
he'd lean his head to the side,
take off his cap
and say, look, see that,
there's a dull spot
down there. it needs
a splash of more wax,
then i'll buff it down.
every day, every week
for years,
his hands on the machine
as it vibrated smoothly from
side to side, the shifting
of his weight easing it
along. sometimes he'd
sing, sometimes he'd
smoke, cupping the ashes
in his dark hand.
he almost seemed happy
at times, it was strange
to hear that he had died.

you remember him

you remember his face
flushed
with a bong hit, his eyes
rolling back
into his deep lined smile
framed in black hair.
the beauty of his youth
fading as the needle
found a friendly vein,
you remember his arm
tied and him sinking back
into music, giving in
to the sweet crushing wave
of no pain.
you remember him beyond that
though, on the playground.
on the fields of youth,
his hat and glove,
how gracefully he ran
under a struck fly ball
that seemed to never
come down. the sun on
all of us.

snow birds

you see a blue bird
flying into the woods.
he's carrying a suitcase.
a small overnight bag
full of twigs and worms.
there's an FLA.
sticker on the side.
key west, and cuba.
he's wearing sunglasses,
his claws are welled tanned.
this makes you smile
as you sweep away
the ice and snow,
the salt and sand.

there's a spot

it's hard to parallel park
in the snow.
the tires slipping,
the wheels
grinding hot against
a spot of dry
asphalt, but she tries
anyway.
the cars backing up
behind her
to the light and beyond.
this is who she is.
determined,
unflinching in adversity,
why she's with
the likes of you.

see you soon

i''m tired she says, sipping
her pinot noir, I wanted to earlier,
but I'm not feeling it now.
I mean we can if you want to,
I'm not against it, I won't say
no. but it's late, I have to
work tomorrow, i have to leave
early. i have a meeting
in the morning.
so, is that okay with you?
we did it last week, I think,
didn't we. is that okay?
sure, you say, the remote in
your hand, flipping through
channels. checking scores
in your flannel pajamas. I'm
kind of tired too, maybe
tomorrow. my allergies are
acting up anyway.
let's schedule it in.
see what we can do.
okay, she says. see you
when you come to bed.
I'm going up. oh, and can
you put the dishes in the sink?
good night. see you soon..

the next parade

the stamp collection
in the attic.
the books, the postcards.
the photographs,
medals, and letters.
all the confetti of his
decorated life
that rained down
over the years.
now trash.
now forgotten, pulled
out in bags
by strangers, trying
to clean, to paint,
to make the house right
for the next parade.
of life.

everyone got out

it's not your house anymore,
but you stare in,
standing in the rain.
face pressed against the window.
the house is dark, hollowed.
the door is locked.
there is no mail in the metal box.
weeds are growing through
cracks in the sidewalk.
the yard is dirt.
the trashcans are empty with rust.
a broken car is on blocks.
the blue plastic pool out front
is collapsed,
the algae has turned into
something else.
there were children once
in this house.
there were parent making love
then bleeding, taken away
in handcuffs.
there was laughter on tv,
and crying behind closed doors.
there were unpaid bills,
and empty cupboards,
somehow though,
you found a way out.

what's your sign

what's your sign
she asks as you sip on a tall
glass of vodka and tonic,
a slice of lime.
i'm on the cusp, you tell
her. pisces and aquarius.
I was born late at night.
so I pick and choose whatever
horoscope suits me for that
day. you can't do that she
says. you have to pick
one or the other.
i'm a scorpio, she says,
smiling grimly. you flinch,
remembering that your ex-wife
was a scorpio.
you prepare yourself to be
slapped, ready to block
anything she throws at
you. i'm very passionate
she say, taking your hand
in hers and pulling on a
finger until the knuckle
cracks. you say ouch,
then pull your hand away.
scorpio?
yes. do you have a problem
with that?
no, not at all. I can do a
chart for you, she says.
I can tell you who you are,
everything about your past
your future and it will
be exact. the planets are
in a good place for us
this time of the year,
this time of the millennium.
cool, you say. very cool. look,
I have to go use the bathroom,
but i'll be right back,
you tell her, getting up,
grabbing your keys,
your phone, your hat.
you finish your drink
in one long gulp. be right back.
carefully you push a trashcan
up to the window in the bathroom
and crawl out,
but there she is waiting for you,
laughing under the full moon.
did you think you were going
to leave me without a kiss
she says. not a chance.

the rose wallpaper

the man asks his wife
if she remembers when he was
in korea, during the war,
and how he wrote
her letters. love letters
you think, it's his wife, you're not
sure, but there you are
listening, not seeing a ring
on any hand,
not knowing who's crazy
or isn't. she smiles
and nods. none of this has
anything to do with why
you are there, but he goes on
and on about this war.
he brushes back his thick
grey eyebrows with a finger
as he talks more about
these letters, then stops.
no one says anything.
you go back to work.
she goes down the stairs.
he says something to you
about a dog he once had
when he was a child. he asks
if you have a dog, you say no,
as you begin to smooth out
the long sheet of roses
onto the wall,
pushing the air from
side to side. easing
the wrinkles away.

she's not there

the sun goes down.
the lights go out.
you smooth the pillow,
and lie against the bed,
you close your eyes,
but you're still awake.
you listen
to the house breathe.
the heat finding its
way through the vents.
the leaks of air,
small winds.
you hear the ice
dripping cold
outside the window.
you reach over
to touch her. to tell
her something you've
been thinking about,
this woman you love
and hold dear,
but she's not there.
you forget how easily
things change.

future plans

you scribble on the back of an envelope
your bills.
what you need to survive on.
it might be cheaper in florida.
but you don't like snakes
or lizards, or oatmeal.
you still have teeth and can walk.
you could live out your final days
in a nice hotel perhaps.
four star with room service.
cable tv and a pool. a pool
would be nice. people would know
you at the bar, in the lobby.
they'd tip their hats at you,
calling you by name
as you slipped a dollar or two
into their outstretched hands.
or maybe a cruise ship, sail on
until the end. point out at the sun
setting, the sun rising,
look up every night into
the cluster of stars,
the unencumbered moon. or perhaps
you could buy a Winnebago
and drive across country,
eat food in every small
town you stumble upon, telling
people who are and where you
are from. you could learn
their customs, use words
like howdy when you needed to.
or maybe you could stay put
and shovel snow, stay close to you.

the slow read

you fall in love with a librarian.
always pressing a finger
to her soft lips,
whispering for you to be quiet,
tying a knot in her pulled
back hair.
you can smell the books on her,
the dry pages of
mark twain, Flaubert,
the poetry of Whitman
and Hardy, Upton Sinclair.
she bleeds the dewy decimal system,
you can hardly hear her
moving about, sliding books
onto shelves, smiling as she
counts the days of late fees,
makes lists of what is
or isn't there. she is a book
herself, a mystery, a thin novel
of love and despair. a slow read
that you can't put down.

the dark boys

the dark boy, brooding
in shadows,
leaning into the red brick,
bookless,
his fangs holding
a cigarette, his pants
unbuckled waiting
for prey. he's dangerous
and ugly in
a beautiful way. how kind
the girls are to him,
he's misunderstood, they say.
his heart is sweet,
he's really gentle, if given
a chance I can show
him another way.

take my hand

I want to grow old
with someone, she says.
you tell her it's too late.
you're already there.
we both are. but take my
hand, sweet friend.
let's take a stroll.
let's feed the ducks
at the lake.
bring bread, bring your
cane, bring a camera,
after this day, we'll
never look the same.

breakfast in bed

for breakfast you eat
her leg, it's long
and pale, she won't
keep it still. you
swallow her fingers,
nibble at her foot,
chew on her arm, you
work your way around.
tasting the curves of her.
you linger at her neck
saving her
mouth for dessert.
you devour her eyes,
her heart is warm
and sweet,
a pastry of love.
you drink the champagne
of her laughter dry.

get serious

they strangle youth
out of you.
it starts early.
never ends.
behave. don't chew gum,
sit up straight.
dot your i's, cross
your t's.
get a job, save money.
do something with your life.
don't be late.
don't waste it
on foolish things.
study study study,
play between the lines
and everything
will be fine.
punch the clock. eat carrots.
make your bed.
pray pray pray
and shovel your walk.
throw salt down.
you can do this, we're
proud of you.
we love you, we want
your life to be serious,
like we are, and shine.

priorities

don't roll your window down,
she says, sipping on her skim
soy, extra hot three pump latte.
I don't want to give that man
any money. wait, here, give him
this people magazine,
i'm done with it.
i'm tired of these bums
at every corner
on every block, why don't
they get a job.
I hardly have enough money
for my plastic surgeon. do
they have any idea what
fillers and botox costs?

fifty shades of boredom

some books bore you by line ten
no matter what the flattering blurbs
have to say, or what seductive photo
is splashed on the cover,
so you quickly skim through it,
fanning the pages, then turn to the end
to see exactly where this
thing is going. you only have so
many hours on the clock to read,
and the movie about the book
is already on cable tv.
sometimes you go and other times,
the book becomes a door stop,
or a gets shelved never
to be touched again
except when you need paper
for the bottom of your bird cage.

red candy

the woman, dragging her child
by his small hand
across the tiled floor of the giant
department store, him screaming,
her screaming,
not blood, but a red candy
stolen from a low shelf,
dripping from his mouth.
his eyes awash in tears,
heels dragging,
his life, just beginning.
his life, just ending.

your fun and mine

your idea of fun
differs from mine.
the roller coaster is
in my rear view mirror.
the fun house, the circus.
roller blading
down the boulevard.
go ahead and fly your
kite, sail across the sky
in a hot air balloon,
jump from a bridge, or
plane. go and deep
sea dive. i'm fine
with all of that.
i'll be back at the lodge
sipping on an ice cold
drink, awaiting your
return, if there is one.

an idea

an idea comes to you.
it's a fresh air kind of a
thought.
one of spring, one of love
and renewal.
maybe it's the coffee,
maybe it's the way
your jeans buckled up,
your shoes slid on.
maybe it's the way
you look okay in the mirror
this morning.
maybe it's a true feeling
uninfected by age
or time, or what lies ahead
for all of us. maybe.

the deepening snow

you want to call her.
to hear her voice, to say
hello. nothing more,
nothing less.
no discussion is needed.
just a few words
about the weather, about
work. about people
that you both know.
you want to call her,
to dial her number,
to hear her voice
and say hello.
but you don't, it's
better this way, letting
the silence
lay over our past life
together
like a deepening snow.

the loud dog

the wash, heavy in her raw
hands. each sheet, each towel
stuck with pins
onto the low slung wire.
march is wind, march is
hope, but it doesn't feel
that way, not now with
this wet basket of clothes.
with cold in the air,
with a loud dog barking
three fences away.

the missionary position

no black pepper
grounded from the twist
capped bottle. no salt,
sea or land.
no oregano or garlic.
no all spice,
or crushed red pepper
flakes. no butter,
or olive oil, no seasoning
sprinkled on any
meal she cooked went
into any plate or pan.
nothing went on or in
to jazz up any meal.
just bland,
and in the bedroom
things were no different.

falling down

he tells you a story
about falling on the ice,
his face knotted red,
bluish bruises over
and under his eyes.
his arm is in a sling.
his leg is bent as he
rests against the wall
holding a paint brush
and can, smoking.
a tooth is broken,
you can see that when
he laughs. I fell on
the ice, he says,
then down the stairs
in front of my apartment.
it was dark, I was drinking.
they never salted the steps.
it's all a lie of course,
you know that, and he
knows that you suspect
something different. but
he tells the story so well,
you almost don't want to
know the truth. the truth
too hard to hear.
the next day, he tells you
what really happened.
about the men who broke
in and beat him, taking
all the money he had
saved in his coffee tin.

you start to cry

it starts to snow.
you start to cry.
you slip on your boots,
your gloves
your hat, you grip
your worn
metal shovel, dented
from the ice
of this long winter,
you go outside.

more than enough

there is more than enough to go around.
you watch them carry their trays,
their loaded plates crammed
with what they found at the buffet.
it overflows with chops and legs
of lamb, potatoes creamed
in oversized bowls.
there is bread, hard rolls and soft,
there are chickens roasted.
slabs of pink meat, stacked like thin
bricks from the stove. there is plenty
to go around, more food than you can carry
on one plate, but we do, they do.
everyone can't get enough.
there is more if you need more.
corn and carrots, a school of fish
fried in a metal tray, resting
in a soup of yellow oils. a jumbled
pile of crabs, their red broken legs,
there is a salad, lettuce overflowing
from a bowl you could swim in,
there is fruit and desserts.
cakes, puddings, bars of sweets.
there is more than enough to go around.
this is America, this is everyday,
every month and year of our lives.
this food, this food we waste,
we eat, we throw away, tray after tray.

in a grey suit

you see a man following you
as you get off the bus.
he's careful not to get too close.
he looks like you, a briefcase
in his hand, his hair
combed, his suit grey,
the same as yours.
he has a blue tie like
you, you turn back to watch
him as he stops and waits
for you to go on. you want
to shout out and ask him
who he is, but you don't.
you continue home.
he follows you, he comes in
and does what you do.
he kisses your wife.
he hugs your children.
he sits at the table
and eats with you.
he's just like you.
you have forgotten who
you were after all
these years.
you have become this stranger
in a grey suit.

the cavalier pool

you remember her in the old
pool painted an aqua green
with the lion heads
shooting water into the low
end. you have a photo
of her somewhere, floating
in the middle with a flower
petal cap, smiling
and waving like a child.
the glass roof arched
above the water,
curving sunlight down,
the clouds, the blue
swim of sky above her,
she waved you in
to catch her, to kiss her
wet lips,
to hold her and be afloat
with her on this summer
day in june. she wanted
you with joyful tears
to swim with her
in this boxed sea, to be
as close to love
as you could get without
drowning.

tacking tiles

the roofers, hurrying
before the rain comes,
before the sunlight fades.
walking unafraid
across the slant
of steep roofs,
tacking each tile into place.
no ropes, no life lines,
they keep at it, up
and down the ladders.
carrying a new box up.
throwing the old
down. it's a day
of work they savor,
the hard pay,
ignoring the edge,
the fall, the ground
which will catch them
and snatch their
life away.

the weekend visit

her suitcase
weighs a thousand pounds.
you can barely get it into
the trunk of your car
as you pick her up
at the airport.
what's in here, you ask,
grunting as you swing it
onto the bumper,
then slide it in.
just some shoes,
and pants, she says,
a skirt, a blouse,
makeup, some books,
a photo album or two,
my pillow and some papers
I need to grade.
oh and my pills, my pajamas,
a camera, my wedding
dress, and a book on world
cruises for when we take
our honeymoon.

gas money

the woman approaches you
in the lot. it's cold.
it's dark. nearly eleven
o'clock. you've eaten
and a had a drink, quietly
she walks up on soft shoes
and explains
her lack of money,
the jam she's in, she
points out towards
the cars at the far end,
tells you her daughter,
who is two is in the car,
waiting. she just needs
a few dollars for gas, maybe
a little more for food.
her hand is out, her eyes
are dark with begging,
and lying, her face
is as pale and lost as any
face you've seen under
a stark winter moon.
how you can't give her
money, you aren't sure,
but you don't. you go home
and write about her.

our winter

the winter is long
and difficult.
cold and despairingly grey.
the trees still
absent
of green, cabled stalks
of bark, leaning,
waiting patiently
for spring. this weather,
this consistent
tunnel of wind
and rain. the unending
frost. this winter
it reminds me of you.
of us stuck
in whatever it was
we had, not a single
sky, or bird,
or eye with a hopeful
shade of blue.

these things change

it's nice to be alone.
to be quiet
on the couch, no
one near that needs
a drink,
or something to eat.
no one asking what
shall we do now. it's nice
to do nothing,
but look out at the rain,
at the woods,
the sweeping silver
of the stream.
it's nice to be home
in the quiet, alone,
at least for now,
but these things
have a tendency to change.

your favorite drawer

the drawer is full
of all the things that
you don't have a place for.
no separate draw
for rubber bands,
or safety pins, needle
and thread,
scotch tape. it's
a jumbled mess of sharp
and dull. razor blades
and matches from
the restaurant down
the street next to
free rolling batteries
all double A.
there's white glue and white
out. there's nails
and screws,
spare keys, spare change,
loose ends of so
many things you may
never use. it's your
favorite drawer
in the house.

the snake

you saw the snake
in front of you
crossing the paved
path. the slow
heavy drag
of a roped life,
stitched in a quilt
of browns and black,
it's tongue slipping
in and out of its
pointed face
when it stopped
to see who made
this shadow across his
back. you stood
still and let it go,
disappearing into
the brush,
but having touched
your day enough to wonder
what others things
are crawling
in the shadows of
your life.

the waitress

there was no room for more,
and yet more there was.
bunk beds in every room.
the basement too.
the one bathroom
suffering with overuse,
the hot water soon gone,
a tired line of small
children
out the door.
and the mother,
still in uniform,
on the sagging blue
couch, with cushions
and a dog
at her feet
sleeping next to a
filled ashtray,
a stack of coins
milk money,
she neatly made
when getting home
at three.

it's late

it's the tangle of black
wires, telephone
and power, these cables
stretched like webs from
pole to pole you see first,
and then the low bricked
buildings, flat roofed
and trimmed in the color
of the poor, pale green
and peeling. these homes,
edged by weeds, the struggle
of leafless trees,
the neighborhood of youth,
where you chalked the street
for games, where you ran
until dusk, until your
mother, out an open
cranked window, called
each name. come in. come
in. come in. it's late.
dinner is on the table.

the ordinary day

it's the ordinary day
you'll miss.
the day at home.
your own bed left unmade,
the open book you leave
to come back to.
the boredom of folding
clothes.
the bills at your desk.
you'll miss the shovel
that moves the snow.
the broom across
the kitchen floor.
the tea pots whistle,
the neighbor's voice
next door. these things,
these simple things
of your ordinary day
you'll miss, when told
it's not your home anymore.

traffic cop

the policeman in his winter
blues, his helmet
white as ice,
his white gloves
whirling
as he directs traffic
in the middle
of the road, his whistle
stuck in
his pursed lips,
the red cheeks blowing
out, barking
orders, to go go go.
or stop. his waving
hand so helpful,
forceful.
his life so simple.
getting everyone
through unharmed,
uncluttered by
indecision, what's right
or wrong.

leaving home

leaving the old house.
the steps that creak
as your foot hits
the loose board,
that faucet drip
in the far sink,
the bones of wood
that shiver and groan
in the cold. a shutter
loose, the untight
windows singing
their songs.
what love you made
in these rooms,
what voices raised
in anger, or whispers
in kindness,
the meals made,
the phone that would
ring upon the wall.
what is this place
you leave, these rooms,
this empty tomb,
as you find the key
to forever lock
the door.

just a five

you find a five dollar
bill
in the pocket of your pants.
not much, but still.
fresh out of the wash,
then dryer.
warm and slightly tight
as you slide your legs
into them.
but this bill, this
forgotten fold
of cash
is nice, a sweet surprise,
a playful kiss.

finding a new path

it's unclear,
where this is going.
the roads are muddled
with detour, the trees
have taken down
the wires, bridges have
been washed away. what lies
ahead is uncertain.
even the sky smudged
with an angry
cold sun seems different
today.
it's hard to imagine
a new path when the world
is like this.

closed

you peer with hands cupped
to the window,
looking in, disbelieving
in the sign that reads
closed. how could
this be. you've traveled
so far to get here.
but the lights are dark,
the door locked
despite your shaking it.
you can taste the bread
in your mouth,
smell the warmth of
the ovens, the cinnamon
and sugars, the dough
rising. who closes
the door on love, at
such a time, in such a
season as this.

fallen apples

the limp, the stutter
or stammer,
the lazy eye,
or ear turned that
still can't hear,
give us all away
as weak, and human,
unsteady on our legs
in this wind
of time.
each year, dissolving
into less
and less, but still
rising,
still polishing
the fallen apple
of our lives.

stray dogs

a stray dog comes
into your life.
usually it's been
the other way around.
you, straggling in from
the cold, into the comfort
of a stranger's home,
no collar, no leash,
no tag to let them know
who you are or where
you've been. they feed you
and brush your tangled
hair, give you water.
they talk nicely to you,
as if you too could speak
their language.
but you don't stay long.
the road is your true
home. the wandering
is who you are,
but now this stray
enters into your life,
what is there to do,
but the same,
knowing that she too will
one day go.

the public library

there was a time
when your ex-wife packed
all of your books
into boxes. labeling
the sides with a black
magic marker. books.
your catcher in the rye,
with its worn red cover,
your mark twain. your
sexton and plath.
updike and cheever,
even your world according
to garp in paperback.
the boxes were stacked
by the door ready for pick
up by the purple heart,
or goodwill, somebody
that was going to take
them away, and when you
asked why she was doing
this, she said. the poor
need to read too, plus
you've already read these
books, some twice or
three times. not to
mention I need room on
the shelves for my
knick knacks and the baskets
that i'm weaving.

a very busy girl

do you have a card,
she says, after
meeting over drinks
and calamari.
give me your card,
your business card.
you're nice. I like you.
maybe we can do business
together sometime.
so you hand her your
card, she pulls out
a stack of other cards
from her purse and
removes the rubber band.
she slips your card
into the stack.
thanks, she says.
thanks for giving
me your card, here's
mine. then looks
at her watch
and says, oh my
look at the time.
she's a very busy
girl.

without mystery

not unlike Oscar wilde
you fear not being
misunderstood, of being plain
and simple, the point
of you, dull and
unsharpened,
straight forward and to
the point.
you worry that people
might see you
as you really are
and not who you pretend
to be. then what?
what fun is that,
with everything known,
living a life without
mystery.

the pink gun

after showing you her new
pink lady gun tucked neatly
in her purse,
she talks about not wounding,
but killing an intruder
if he breaks into her home.
she uses her hand, as if the
gun, and says bang, bang.
I wouldn't wound him. i'd
try to kill him. self defense.
she blows at the tip of her
finger as if it was emitting
gunsmoke. I wouldn't feel
bad about it either, she
says. i'm going to the range
today to practice. come
with me. let me show you
how it's done.

church fashion

you wear your new shirt
to church.
it's canary yellow with white
buttons down the front.
short sleeved.
you leave it untucked.
it's a florida shirt
minus the palm
trees and coconuts.
it looks nice against
your khaki pants,
and brown shoes.
you feel comfortable
praying in this shirt,
kneeing in the pews,
taking communion
and singing along
with the choir.
you feel forgiven and
holy in this yellow
shirt. people stop
to touch it and ask you,
is that a new shirt.
which pleases you to no end.
it's your sunday
shirt from here on out.

under water

you are a ship
at the bottom of a sea.
listing, rusting slowly,
under the salt
and weight of water
over time.
no sailor on deck
pointing to the north
star, no land
in sight, no letters
from afar.
in the black deep
the blind fish swim
through your portholes,
the leviathans
bump up against your hull
mistaking you for them.
you are docked forever
in one place,
anchored to where you
rest, unmoving,
unable to sail where
you want to be.

anew

with a broom, you sweep
the lint of her, the hair,
the shoe, the sock left
behind, a photo torn in half
of her and you.
slowly you move what's
left to the center
of the room. the backing
of an earring,
a brush, shampoo, a bottle
of perfume. into the dust
pan two years go,
into the bag, out to curb,
then you slap your hands
against one another.
you start anew.

ice world

you cringe and lean
into the wind.
you throw your fist
at the weak melt of sun
and curse it.
you spit meanly at the ice
under your feet.
you are not a cold
weather person.
or even a hot weather person.
you prefer the middle
these days. balmy.
a slight breeze, with
a chance of a mixed
tropical drink at five.

stolen cans

you see them in the grocery store,
the frail and bent,
moving slowly down
the fluorescent aisles,
a bundle of coupons
in hand, their great long
coats sagging with stolen cans
of tuna, or cat food.
let them go, you think,
let them be, but no, the store
shakes them down before
they have a chance to leave.
they're scolded like children
then sent back out into
the cold wind. the end of life
without love or money
being sorrow ten fold.

the power line

the boy with one arm
in the neighborhood could
do everything you could,
and better, with his
baseball glove and bat,
but you still stared,
all the other kids
stared. you wondered
what it felt like.
the pink roundness
of his forearm,
the absence of a hand
with which to rely on.
you wondered how he
buttered bread, or combed
his hair,
or did a number of
mundane things you did.
you wondered how your
life would have
changed had it been you
to have grabbed the downed
power line.
he was different,
having been somewhere
we might never go.
in a place already beyond
the childhood we lived in.

first kiss

you remember the girl next door.
Karen was her name.
her father was in the navy.
they were here now,
having traveled from Hawaii.
she was tall and lean
at thirteen
and had a bullwhip where she
would snap crabapples
out of your hand.
sometimes she would demand
that you kiss her.
which you would, pecking badly
at lips until she calmed
you down and showed you how.
she knew so much.
she told you about pineapples
on the island.
sugar cane.
she knew the stars,
pointing them out at night
as you both lay on
a picnic table in the back
yard. she made you sweat
made you made you crazy with
young love and passion.
you would never have
her. she would move again
by September,
disappearing into the world
but never far from your mind,
that summer etched
in memory.

setting goals

adrift on a sea of snow
and ice,
your boots crunch only inches in,
your legs tire from
the methodical stomp
of toe to heel,
the slipping
and awkward spread of arms
to keep your
precarious balance.
you're sweating under the wraps
of cotton and polyester,
the hoods, and gloves,
the scarf that swings
in the wind.
you just want to get coffee
and yet
the world is so difficult
sometimes. you have all day
though, you'll get there
by noon, it's good to
have goals in life.

in the trunk

you find yourself in the trunk
of a car. gagged and tied, but
alive. you can hear a man
singing to the radio
in the front seat. billy joel,
this is my life. it's muffled
though from the trunk where
it smells like gas and oil,
rubber. a cold tire is pressed
against you. a wrench, a loose flare,
an empty beer can or two roll
about. the red roses you bought
to ask her to forgive you
are scattered everywhere.
your life has come to this.
you had no idea what kind
of man her father was.
but now you know.

where you used to be

you see her in the morning.
stretching, sitting at the edge
of her blue bed.
the blinds open. the yard
full of snow. you see her
stand up and look out.
her long hair behind her.
her feet cold against the floor.
her dog wanting to go out.
you see her, making tea,
making toast, pouring seed
into the bird feeder
against the window.
you see her going back to
bed, staring at the place
where you used to be.

every six months

you tell the dental hygienist
to skip the x rays this visit.
skip the cancer screening
with the blue light, skip
the thorough search for lumps
and lesions. shorten
the lecture on flossing,
on grinding, on snoring
and brushing. give me the express
cleaning, please. just polish
them up. I only brought
three hundred dollars
with me this time, so make
it snappy.

greetings from L.A.

your son, in California.
tanned and blonde streaked,
lean and relaxed sends you
a photo of him
and his dog
walking the beach,
his girlfriend too, hand
in hand. he's eating an orange,
pointing at the sea.
you're happy that he's
happy.
you send him a picture
of a snow shovel,
your boots in the grey
salted slush
pushing out your car,
sucking on a cough drop,
your cheeks flushed with
February, the soft smudge
of a low sun on
the horizon.

how do you want your eggs

you ask her if she'd
like an egg for breakfast.
she nods yes from the couch,
texting on her phone
to someone you don't know.
maybe her sister in Dayton.
how would you like them,
you yell out across the room.
this question makes
her shrug her shoulders.
over easy, scrambled?
she keeps texting and says,
do you have any mushrooms?
to which you say, no.
she laughs at her phone.
something is funny.
hey, you say again.
no mushrooms. how do you
want your eggs.
you pick up a brown egg
from the carton
and crack it in the pan
of melting butter.
hey, you say again.
i'm making eggs, do you
want some?
do you have any toast?
she says, but laughing harder
at her phone.
just toast. and coffee
she manages to yell out,
brewed, not instant.
she sinks further into
the couch. you only
see the top of her head.
you stare out the window
as the eggs crackle
against one another.
you see a bird
flying twigs into a nest
high in a tree.
you see another bird
bringing a worm.
it seems so simple from
the outside looking in.

when the sun dies out

sometimes, it seems ridiculous
to separate the paper
and the plastic, putting the cans
and glass in separate piles,
bins and bags,
especially after reading that at
some point the sun
will burn out and the earth
will be a frozen solid
chunk of ice with no life
left to even pick up
the trash.
you just wonder sometimes, why
bother with these little
things and feel guilty
all the time.

every crooked tree

when you read the news,
you think at times

that the world is a well
full of poison apples.

the water dark and tainted,
while we drink and sip

getting sick on the evil
that persists,

growing new and more fierce
on every crooked tree.

how quickly

how quickly these kittens
full of new life,
wrapped as one rolling
and leaping on the floor
to the couch, to the table.
nothing unreachable,
everything a toy,
how quickly they become
the cat in the window,
half asleep, wisely staring
at the birds they'll
never catch,
watching and waiting,
done with joy.

a starting point

it was a small speck
at first, but she went at it,
scrubbing with the pad,
around and around the sink.
her hands red and raw.
her wrists bent so.
she couldn't get it out.
she cried over it,
telling her husband look,
don't you see it, then
tried again. in time
she forgot where
she lived, her name.
everything that mattered
in her life soon vanished.
but not the spot.
it never came out.

tequila island

tequila is the devil,
be careful you tell her
as she laughs and tilts
the golden bottle to her pink lips.
she says something like, pffft.
in an hour she's speaking
in a foreign tongue
unknown on this planet
or any other.
some of her clothes are still
on while others are in her hand
waving like slender white
flags out the car window.
her feet are on the dashboard
as she turns the music up.
go faster, go faster, lets
see what this tercel can do.
come on, don't be a girl
hit the pedal, then she whispers,
from a dark place deep inside
of her, I love, I think I really
do love you. we should get
married, there's a church,
stop the car. quickly you
grab the bottle, enough is enough.

the new you

you see the light.
you turn over a new leaf.
you are reborn,
renewed. optimistic.
you have a different
point of view.
you blame it on
too much sleep
and home cooked meals,
but you aren't worried.
you'll be back to
your old self again once
work gets busy,
you're stuck in traffic,
and no longer
in a good mood.

human children

she wasn't crazy,
but with a dozen cats,
three dogs,
a sheep and a goat,
a pet raccoon
you could make a case
for that.
she liked to gather
them as close together
as she could to talk
with them.
give them a state of the yard
address.
some would listen
others would
talk among themselves.
they were her children
now that her real
children, the human
ones, were gone.
why they never called
her, or came to visit,
she didn't know.
but this was okay.
this yard full of animals.
they needed her,
and she needed them,
even the ones that
refused to obey, at
least they were here
and didn't run away.

the protest march

the protest march was thin.
a dozen, maybe less, women with
placards, bundled up so
tight, they may have been
men. it was hard to hear what
they were saying, chanting,
going on about, because
of the wind. some seemed
mad about something, others
just seemed cold,
then it started
to sleet, and the small
band of them dispersed.
they didn't make the news,
no interviews.
no police came to calm
them down, they just left
peacefully,
then gathered at
the coffee shop to plan
a new march in spring.

your blue

you paint your walls blue.
not a bird's egg
blue, but a grey blue.
a Russian blue.
a blue not unlike
the sea before a storm
arrives. a blue
like me.
it may take several coats
to cover
the white. but you have
all day, and into
the night. you find solace
in a blue like this.
a blue you can live with.

no mail today

no real mail today.
no letters from overseas.
no postcard
from france,
nothing from California.
no word from fox island
in Washington state,
or santa fe.
just a flyer from
safeway.
the large jumbo olives
are on sale, two cans for
the price of one, but
just for tomorrow,
it starts today.

boys wil be girls

you read where the famous athlete
wants to become a woman.
he used to be an Olympian,
on the cover of the Wheatie's box.
bronzed and muscled.
what happened?
now you see him with his long
hair, his earrings and lipstick.
a purse with shoes to match.
they follow him everywhere
to get a glimpse of what's next.
the adam apple shaved,
the penis wacked?
a pair of breasts to fill out
the evening dress?
do we need to know so much
these days. let the boys be
girls, the girls be boys
and give it all a rest.

knitting a scarf

often you would ask her a question
about where you were
in your relationship.
she wouldn't answer. she'd sigh
then look away, or down,
or start knitting a scarf.
always a scarf. multi-colored.
you have nine of them now.
she talked with her knitting needles
and they were telling you
to stop asking questions, to
be quiet and enjoy this vacuum
of silence, the squeak of
her rocking chair. sometimes
you hardly know she's gone.

love me as i am

my cheeks are too low
she says, I'm becoming
old. I look like my
mother did at this age.
men have it easy, but
we need to keep it up.
to stay young and beautiful.
it's an unfair world.
so hit me up doc
a little botox here.
a lift there, some
filler everywhere.
pull it all back tighter.
I want to be young
again, just for a
few more years, then
the hell with it.
love me as I am.

the cold stone

you stay in the car while
she walks to her father's grave.
it's raining.
it's cold.
you see her touch
the stone. say something,
then stare silently
at the snow covered tomb.
the conversation is one way.
as it always was
between them.

the train will come

there is a long wait.
very long.
but you are patient.
you are a man of great
patience.
you can sit for hours
and not be bored.
you are not worried,
not pacing.
there is no where but
here to be right now.
you can sit in
the stillness of this
moment and be happy.
the train will come.
it always does.

an oval moon

the spill of you,
all long and lean,
out of your white dress
into skin, bathing
in the pooled light
of an oval moon.
it's hard to be blue
with you around, it
reminds me of a thing
called love.

equality

these ants. how small they are.
how brave and industrious
in their march towards
the spilled pyramid of sugar
that lies on the counter.
there seems to be no one
in charge, no one standing by
with a megaphone shouting
out orders. everyone
seems to be carrying their
own load equally
without complaint.
what a nice world
that would be you think
as you get the vacuum out.

there is no next time

you like to say things like
why have a business contract
for an emotion, that emotion
being love, which implies
you're not the marrying kind.
there is no for better or
for worse in your near
or distant future. no
till death do we part
vow with our ankles
shackled together. you'll
roll your dice in another
direction. there isn't enough
time, or energy to go
through that again.
to have the judge take
his chainsaw and split
all of your worldly goods
into two. no, you'll take
another road. a handshake.
a promise, a kiss on the lips.
how about a toast to love
and exclusivity the next time,
that will have to do.

apartment 1021

following the building
manager in, he with his master
key. tipped off and suspecting
illness or foul play, yells
out her name.
you are wide eyed,
the woman is not,
lying there stiff, arms crossed
on her bare chest.
her legs impossibly white
and straight
in a pink slip, her hair
down, still wet.
there is an ironing board
nearby holding a black
dress. work, perhaps.
she is a wax figure, yellowed
in the sunlight
coming through her
metal apartment blinds.
the police will come soon
and they will ask you questions.
you being a witness,
the second to see her,
with something like a smile
or grin, on her lips,
strangely sublime. her
cat green eyes staring off
into some distant place
beyond the wall.

dog bites man

the dog, not knowing you at all,
off his leash, running free,
bites your leg as you stroll
by enjoying the morning sun.
just one bite, a growl, a snarl,
then the vise of his jaw
upon your calf.
it almost tears your pants,
but doesn't.
still there is a bruise,
no blood, just a purple
line of teeth imbedded,
in your skin.
was he hungry, angry at you?
did he disagree with your beliefs?
it's hard to know what
anyone is thinking
these days, people or dogs.

you want her near

forced to tell the truth
under duress. the torture of her
blue eyes glaring
into yours,
the bite of her teeth
on the blooms of sharp cold air,
you spill it all. you tell her
what she wants to hear.
yes. you miss her dearly
and want her near.

this fading light

at twenty you hardly had room
for another friend, straddling
childhood and manhood,
the cupboard filled. the shelves
overflowing with everyone
you knew from the beginning
of when you tied your first shoe.
then the thirties and forties
brought marriage and children.
the wheel of work.
a different crowd, the old
one fading away into their
own lives. who had the time.
and now, past the middle years,
you go to the shelves again
and see that death is a
clearing house, a broom
that sweeps away both
the present and the past
of friends. it saddens you,
this life. these empty
shelves. this fading light.

theology in the morning

she says that jesus
had some good ideas,
that he knocked it out
of the park
with that sermon on the mount.
but I prefer
Buddha, she says. it fits better
into my yoga classes
for meditative purposes.
i'd like to believe
that each time we live
and die, we come back
at a higher level
and not necessarily in
human form.
maybe we come back
as a grasshopper. but
I think I may have been
a queen, like Cleopatra
one time, she says,
turning to look at herself
in the mirror.
I have dreams about pyramids
and banana trees all the time.
do these yoga pants look
okay on me?
I should have worn
the black ones. my butt
looks too big in these.

the lost book

you can't find the book
you want to read.
you search the shelves.
the tables,
behind the couch, between
the cushions,
underneath. where could
it have gone.
perhaps angry at you
for being ignored
so long, it left.
it grew wings
and flew off. or maybe
you lent it out
to someone who now calls it
their own.
it's a sad to lose a friend,
a lover, but a book
unlike them, is rare to
turn up again.

on bald tires

on bald tires
the car spins and spins
on the cake of street,
white iced and unsalted,
no sand truck
in sight. how ambitious
to go out
into this frozen world.
what reason is good enough
to take your own life,
to venture out
on bald tires
into this unfit
for beast or human
cold night.

angel wings

you step carefully up
the stairs, snow covered,
ice under that.
you grab the rail,
once black, now coated
translucent, an icicle
in your hand. carefully
you move your boots.
no longer are you dashing
through the snow
in leaps and bounds.
those days are gone.
instead, when you reach
the top, you stop and catch
your breath. you take
a picture to remember
where you've been.
the children on the hill
sliding along
in sleds, red cheeked
with joy, angels
making wings.

let it snow

she's amorous when it snows.
the second a flake
falls from the clouds,
she rises like a cat
from whatever she's doing
and moves towards you, her
back arched, her lips
in a pout, her meow
and purr as loud
as it ever gets. there
is no digging out.
you're in for the night.

you might have bread

you skip a stone across
the blue
mirrored pond.
this makes the ducks, fat
and black
in their slow swim
to rise
and flutter harshly
their lazy wings.
they look at you,
measuring you up,
then swim towards where
you are standing.
they paddle quickly their
orange webbed feet, beaks
honking. they think you
might have bread.
it reminds of you of
how the phone rings
everyday at six p.m.
they too thinking
you might have bread.

your mother, marie

it looks like it wants to rain,
she says, lying in bed,
her gray hair against a pale
blue pillow. she points past
the curtains, out the window.
you look. the sky is low and grey.
I feel it in my bones, she says.
when the leaves lift up
like they do,
and cup themselves
it's a sign,
you can feel the breeze
as the front passes through.
I remember before
your father died, the time
we got caught in a storm.
you were a baby,
I held you in my arms.
it rained and rained
that whole week.
we couldn't go anywhere,
the roads were flooded.
the power out.
he loved me then. she turns
her head to look at you.
did I tell you this story,
she says. no, you say.
you get up to open
the window and pull back
the curtain. it's raining
now, you tell her, go on.
I want to hear more.

slightly off

some days there is a feeling,
a vague notion
that something is off,
slightly wrong, the way your shoe
feels when you slip
into it before work.
the sock not right,
a small stone.
the shirt with its loose
button. was the door
locked before you drove
away? and the stove,
is the burner now an
orange red about to set
the house on fire.
there are the bills you
stamped and set on the table
ready for the mail.
they sit there all day.
it's a day of uncrossed
t's, undotted i's.
of saying things you almost
mean, but don't.

black and white

late into the night,
when nothing else was on,
she'd lie next to you on the couch
and watch an old movie,
black and white.
the films were classic,
full of people who always
dressed properly and were
polite. they had manners
and seemed more civilized
than we are.
the men wore hats, the women
wore gloves. they were always
on a train with nice luggage.
you knew who the villain was,
the hero, the heroine.
the love interest, the scorned,
the lost and trapped.
sometimes she'd fall asleep
with her head against your chest.
you'd let her sleep as
the movie played on.
the obvious plot, the music
too strong and leading,
the one or two cameras
that kept the shots concise
and clean. the endings were
satisfying, as they were with
her. always good and wanting more,
wanting to see her again
when the time was right.

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.