the long shade

the living are unsure
as to what to do
with their lives.
whereas the dead
have no such problem.
their days and nights are over
such as we know them.
no questions
about where to eat, or what
to do, who to see.
no gripes, no worries,
no should I order fish,
or just a salad,
should I order meat.
the dead are happy in
their own quiet way. content
to be stuck in one place,
finally free of the clock,
some in the sun, some
under trees, cool in
the long shade.

the crying

at one end of the train
a baby is crying.
there is nothing
the mother can do
to make it stop.
it's late at night.
anyone asleep is now
awake, the car is
nearly dark as it rolls
in its seesaw motion
down the tracks. outside
the lights of the world
flash by in white streaks,
the red and yellow
dots of signs, the blue
smudges of commerce.
the low rises of houses
bunched in rows,
the beaten fields of
cars abandoned. stray dogs.
you want to think
the baby is crying for
a reason, but how
would he, or she,
at this young age know.

crescent moon

the crescent moon.
a finger nail clipping
of white
stuck to the glue
of the blackboard
night.
there are no stars
to wish upon,
no pointing out of
distant
constellations.
it's just a sliver
of rock,
holding sunlight.
not a romantic
notion in mind
as you pull gently
at the string,
closing the blinds.

no salt

no salt, no pepper,
no spice at all goes into the dish.
no cheese
or onion. no melted
pad of butter.
no pinch of that, or this.
it's plain. as plain
as her face.
unhappy, at fixing dinner
once again.

over board

the boat can no longer
hold the two of us.
someone has
to swim to shore.
there are no volunteers.
the water is cold.
there may be sharks
lingering for legs
and arms to appear.
no one wants things
to end this way.
no one wants to jump
into the high swells
of high tide and chop
their way towards land.
but someone has to go
when love ends, so you
stand on the bow
and jack knife in.

the shamrock run

you see her pictures
on the race website,
in green, green windbreaker,
green socks,
a green shamrock sticker
on her cheek.
her black irish hair
pulled back, arms
raised as she crosses
the finish line, happy
to be done with the half
marathon. smiling
in the march wind and sun.
she looks well. strong
and as beautiful as
the day you met her,
before your feet and hers
went in different
directions.

the edges

somehow your spam box
has become more interesting
than your mailbox.
the junk mail
more intriguing than
the bills, the occasional
hallmark card,
signed love, or like,
or get well soon.
the edges of your life
are more rich
than the center.
you chew around each
chocolate never getting
to the nut lying
hard in the middle, or
the sweet goo
of some berry going
untouched, or bitten
into.

black cherries

that cherry tree,
full of sweet black cherries
and flies, and children
scrambling like monkeys
when no one was home
to strip it bare, and fill
their pained stomach
with stolen fruit is gone
now. the man took an axe
one morning, and in heavy
swings chopped at its trunk
until it tilted and fell.
you can still see,
decades later,
the rot of its stump
in the squared green yard.
he's been dead for years,
the joy of his tree
also long gone.

the quiet bird

the bird stops singing
one morning.
he's quiet on the branch
outside your window.
something has happened,
gone wrong.
there is no happy chirp,
no sweet song.
he stares in, you stare
out. you understand
his silence as you rise
to face the day.

the dry land

the farmer prays for rain.
down on his denim knees.
his hands crumbled
in one another, the callouses
going soft.
it's a selfish prayer
involving money
and what he needs,
but so what, what's the point
of god, if you
can't beg and plead
when the farm is dry
and barren.

the long drive home

there was no pillow talk
after sex,
there was no sex,
there was lazy motion
against one another,
then a shower, but that's it.
there was no breakfast
conversation.
no honey, i'm making
coffee, do you want some.
no discussion of the news,
sharing the sunday post.
those happy days were gone.
she couldn't wait
for you to leave,
and you couldn't wait
to pull your car out
of the driveway
and drive home.

it goes fast

there is no
worry in the age you've
become.
no sadness, or sorrow.
no regrets.
the memories are still
fresh.
the friends you made
them with are for the most
part alive
and well.
and when together, new
sets of memories
expand the life
you live in.
the world spins fast.
this you know.
this you know so well.

i'm depressed

i'm depressed, she says.
men have it easy.
no one cares what they look
like. but look at me,
i'm fat and old. my fortieth
high school reunion is
coming up and I don't have
the money for botox or fillers.
I've got varicose
veins, and liver spots.
just take me out back
like and old cow and shoot me.
what? you say, flipping
through an enquirer
magazine with an anonymous
large butt on the front.
who does this look
like? you ask her, turning
the photo to her. I don't know.
me? she says, it looks
like me.
oh stop, you look great.
we all could use
to lose a few pounds here
and there.
she takes a bite of
her scone, brushing the crumbs
off her green
reflective running vest.
even this stupid vest is tight.
it's chaffing my breasts.
I need to join a gym
maybe. start doing some
hot yoga, get someone to hold
my feet while I do some crunches.
she sets her scone down,
then picks it up again.
here, she says, do you
want this, sure you say.
grabbing it from
her hand. cinnamon?

two for one, half price

everyone is selling something.
the minister,
the thief, each
has a bag
of tricks. a box of fresh
fruit,
or fish, an engine rebuilt,
something up
their sleeve, property
on the ocean.
salvation.
a house in the burbs
with
willow trees.
even she, with her leg
stuck out
in stockings, band aids
on her knees,
has a price
to go with the pleasure
of knowing her.

piano legs

her mother
told her at a young age,
that she had piano legs.
this did not sit well.
she carried it with everywhere
she went, like
a note pinned to her blouse.
but she was beautiful.
her dark eyes
matching her hair.
the lean lines of her face,
the twist and turn
of her dance.
a life of joy in spite
of what her mother said
about her legs,
still those words sat
in her ears.
even standing at her mother's
grave having finally
died, they were there,
whispering
that she wasn't quite
good enough.

the barrel of fire

the gathering of
wood, dead branches,
sticks, and sleeves
of dry paper
all tossed into the barrel
by his children,
your father, blue eyed
and uniformed, home on leave,
unangry for the moment. he
would drop a match
into the cylinder
of leaves, sending flames
into the air.
you can smell it burning
now if you close your eyes,
feel the shimmer of heat
off the metal can
as you place your hands
as close to it
and him as possible.

the money gone

the money gone.
even the trees know,
climbing into the wires,
the shrubs, the flowers
now bedded with weeds
and long grass.
the peeling paint,
the unhinged shutter,
the broken pane all speak
of its absence.
the money gone.
you hear it in the voices,
at the table,
sharing thin meals,
of rail booze
and fish.
the sigh before sleep.
the alarm clock unset,
with nowhere to go.
the money gone.
even love is thinned,
with lips unkissed.
it too knows.

the boy next door

the father, who looked like a man who was perpetually
about to go hunting, bearded and tattooed,
did what he could for the boy. building a tree house
in the wedge of pines along the yard.
the trampoline tethered and staked
so as not to move, the above ground pool,
three feet deep, up to the boy's chin,
the blue plastic crimped and full, always
having the near appearance of bursting.
he did what he could for the boy
before leaving in his truck with a cross
bow or a slew of fishing rods and coolers.
the boy seemed neither grateful or ungrateful
for his father's efforts, swimming quietly
alone or bouncing, his fiery blue eyes unblinking,
on the black tight pond of the trampoline.
from the window, you could see him staring
at you, steady in his pogo bounce, his arms
stuck to his side like a toy soldier,
occasionally doing a flip to amuse not
him, but you, perhaps. so when cats and dogs
began to go missing in the neighborhood
he was not a suspect at first, but in time,
the small mounds of dirt and tied crosses
that laid in rows along the chicken wire fence,
that separated you from him, made people wonder.

the closing books

the bell above the door jingles
when you enter.
books are everywhere. paperbacks
and hard backs stacked in tilted
fragile towers.
pamphlets and magazines.
most old, most worn
and read over and again,
now here in limbo
awaiting another set
of eyes and hands. everything
marked down. there is the faint
odor of dried leaves
in the air, glue for binding.
there is no rhyme or reason to order,
no attempt in putting
the mysteries here,
the slim volumes of poetry
over there. the shop keeper
at his desk in the corner no longer
looks up to wave and ask
if he can help you,
no longer talks about politics
or weather, he's outlived
the neighborhood as well.
the children are all grown,
vague with their parents faces,
the readers he used to know,
who would come in and point
to a shelf where the new Cheever
or Ludlum might go.

the show

the woman behind
your house in the eighties,
busty with long legs,
her hair in a towel,
would shower and dry herself
in the window, slowly
with the blinds open, bending
to and fro,
the shades up, lights
on. you often wondered
if she cared or even knew
who was watching her,
going to their own windows
at exactly six forty
five each day.

her cigarettes

the cigarette was a prop
in her hand, as it was for
movie stars in old movies,
a way of dismissing
someone,
or in making a point.
gesturing with the burning
white stick,
blowing smoke,
tapping an ash off into
the air. having one
after breakfast or dinner.
bending towards a lit match
from a stranger
or friend, standing outside
of bars, with others,
like orphans in the wind.
outcasts now in this day.
she didn't like smoking,
she would say to herself
in a rare moment
of self awareness
and honesty, the taste,
the stain of it on fingers
and clothes,
but what else was there to do
with her hands,
and everyone else she knew
and loved smoked too.
no one she had ever known
had died of cancer,
except for one or two,
or any of the other awful
diseases printed now
so clearly on the side
of each package. besides she
smoked menthols and what do
they know anyway.
one day milk is healthy for
you the next day it's not.
smoking made her feel good.
the rise of its blue haze
twisting into her eyes.
the tap tap of a new package
against a table.
the tear of the cellophane.
the draw of the first
hot breath of nicotine, giving
her that warm familiar buzz.
why stop now, at this age.

home

it's the vase
in its place on the mantle,
the lamp
in the corner,
the plant on the sill,
the pictures
centered and hung
just so.
the carpet stretched
even across the floor.
it's here that you
come and go
each day, to return,
with nothing
having changed, but
you.

point b to point a

you list and lean
hand
against the wall,
a cut of wind
up your pant leg
a slice
of cold between
the buttons
of your shirt
and coat.
the bus is on
the way.
you pray, looking
up and down
the empty boulevard.
your life seems at
times to be a series
of getting from
point b, to point a,
staying warm,
arriving safely
into someone's arms.

call that love

her word, her handshake,
her diploma of affection
nailed to the wall,
a certificate blessed
by law and god,
the ring on her finger,
scripted vows,
all of it, or any of it
means next to nothing
in the long haul.
sit and watch and care
for the dying. find a vein,
spoon a lick of food
between parched lips.
take a sponge and clean,
then call it what you
will, but stay forever
before you call that love.

the weathered man

the weathered man,
sits on the bench, facing
more sun,
unafraid of dying, living
haven taken that fear away.
his mapped face neither scowled
or bitter, just soft
in ravines of resignation.
which seems fine, as he moves
his lips
to move his teeth
to allow a smile
to crease open.
there is no end to life,
you hope, for him,
and you, just new beginnings,
as one turns off this light.

farm girl

the picture shows her with
hands on her aproned waist,
elbows out, squared against
her lean body,
she's wearing boots.
high laced and brown
nearly reaching her
knobby knees
where the white apron
hangs down. beside her is
the tractor, red as
an apple, it sits above
the ridge, before the field
that will be plowed.
she is all sunshine
and blue eyes, gleaming
in her sturdy youth,
so many seasons within
her, yet to see harvest.

the polished car

the man waxing his car,
bent over in the sun,

polishing each inch
with something akin to love,

or worship.
made her think from

the window, watching him,
how kind he could be

with metal, with leather,
the panes of glass,

giving even the tires
a sheen of gloss.

this strangely,
gave her hope.

letting it go

she could sit there for awhile
and say nothing.
let the silence, which wasn't silence
at all, fill the air.
there was the clock,
its ominous tick. water boiling
on the stove about to become
a whistle, there was
the wag of trees against
the window, growing soft
in anticipation of
spring. her heart,
his breathing.
but why fight, why on
this glorious Saturday
without snow falling find
umbrage with what he said.
he's said meaner
and more thoughtless
things. perhaps she'll
book mark this page,
set it aside, let it rest
until a colder, more grey
day arrived.

the black dog

you see the dog,
black and heavy, maybe old,
but still
wanting to chase the ball,
fall through
the wafer of ice.
the ball skimming
too far out to the center
of the pond.
he can't climb back
on, it's too thin
to hold him,
the ball too far away,
but he tries, he wants to
please his owner
who waits at the waters
edge, clapping his hands.
dry.

taking suggestions

it's a good day for a hot bowl
of soup,
the woman says, sitting near
you at the counter.
i'm having clam
chowder. you nod and say,
nice. I love clam chowder.
is it good here.
it's not bad, she says.
not like at home, but it's
okay. I suggest you try it.
so you do.
you order a bowl of clam
chowder. it warms you
to think how easily
things can go when you
listen to the wisdom
of others. taking
their suggestions,
but it's cold, and it's
too thin, hardly any clams
can be found with your
searching spoon. she looks over
at you and smiles, says
good isn't it, add some
crackers, I like mine
with crackers.

i'm over him

he lied, he cheated, he had a second
wife and family, one that no one knew
about, and of course not me. but i'm
over that, over him. over that life
we had, such as it was. she tapped
the bar and another drink arrived.
she clinked your glass with hers,
sipped, then nodded her head, yes.
i'm over him. it's been twelve years.
twelve years and two months,
thirteen days. I hardly ever think
about him. she drank some more.
still nodding. you have to move on,
she says. you can't let the past
weigh you down. what people do to you.
I can forgive, but i'll never forget.
I don't want to make the mistake
I made before. but i'm over him.
that bastard. did I tell you about
the time he forgot my birthday,
or the time he called me by another name?

the longing

why is it so hard to throw
these things away, he thought,
counting the twenty seven long
sleeved white t-shirts,
stacking them like thin worn
cakes of cotton on the bed.
people, lovers, seem to be more
easily disposed of than
these shirts, those brown shoes.
a dozen pairs, all alike,
all worn in the same way,
along the edges
from the way that you walk.
the new Yorker magazines, crumpled
from being wet in the tub,
as you read and read,
skipping the parts you never
read, here they are.
a year's worth in a soft pile
expanding on the end table.
the socks, the belts, all beyond
their use, and yet
in drawers or hanging, with
neck ties, never to be
worn on a wheel in the closet.
nothing would be missed if they
were all gone when you came home.
there would be no longing,
at all, not like there is for you.

around the lake

the walk around the lake was a mere five miles,
but she often thought of it as a mirror
to her own life, the optimism of the first
mile, the quick strides and arms
in that held fashion to signal exercise
beyond just walking. it didn't matter if the sun
was out, or if it was a grey day, the sky
solid above the harsh blue lake.
as long as the path wasn't too muddy,
or the wind blowing so hard that it
tilted trees, making them groan
like old men and women at the end
of the long corridors of the senior
home where she had just put her mother.
the walk was brisk at first, her new
balance shoes, striking heel and toe
against the dirt, then gravel, then
paved path. at some point, she tired though,
nearing the middle, the sudden curve
of hills, sweat beading on her brow.
her sunglasses fogging with her own heat.
it was then she thought about her own life.
the mid life struggles. the sad
epiphanies, like the sour clichés
of peggy lee's old song. she rolled
the failed marriage around in her head
and mouth like a small stone that she
could never spit out. she pondered,
for the infinite time what was said, what
wasn't. eleven years gone by and still
she was sorting through the detailed
debris of that shipwreck, as if it
could be refloated and sailed once again.
past the mid point of the walk,
her arms would drop, and she
would slow her gait, observing more
of the woods, the woodpeckers banging
relentlessly high above on some tree.
she would pick up a stick and use it
to strike rocks, or trees along the way.
her mind would drift and she would look
across the lake to the boathouse, showing
that she was now halfway. she was halfway,
she thought, even more than that.
the more tired she became the more she
thought about her childhood, her parents.
the work she had chosen. it made her think
that if she ever walked counter clockwise,
that perhaps she could reverse this way
of thinking. that she could somehow
think and walk herself young again.
at the two thirds mark, the path was more
crowded. there was a separate entrance
here, where bikers would join the circle,
more walkers, lovers hand in hand,
almost adrift in the shuffle of their
walk, talking and holding onto to one
another, as new lovers do.
the old men with white hair in shiny
running suits would join too, jogging
nearly as slow as she walked. happy
to smile and wave with gentle curled hands.
when the trees cleared there was a damn
to cross, a hard path of stones, that
kept the lake from flooding the woods
and lots of houses that sat below the hill.
from here she could see nearly the full
expanse of the lake, how blue and deep
it seemed, how it stretched and curved
as it had for hundreds of years.
and would continue long after she was gone.
from here it was only mile to the lot
where she left her car. her knees could
feel the cold now, the tendons in
her legs felt tight, she was tired,
and listened to her heavy breathing.
she wondered if she looked old, moving
no longer straight up, but bent
as if the wind was pushing her. how many
more walks did she have in her.
this was when she thought about love.
how nice it would be to find a man
who loved her and only her. who welcomed
her in his arms everyday after work.
who ate with her, who discussed the news
and lingered on the sofa as they drank
tea and read the new York times.
making love, when the moment was right,
or wasn't. how hard it had been to find
this man. someone to walk around this lake
with, this lake of life.
finally, she saw her car. small and blue,
and shiny, like a Christmas ornament.
it beeped as she pushed the fob,
the lights flashing as if it was
happy to see her. she sighed removing
her wool hat, then went home.

lemonade

don't tell me
about how to make lemonade
out of lemons or
to put my best foot
forward,
don't tell me that
the glass is half full.
don't tell me
that the sun will come
out tomorrow or that there
is a silver lining
in each dark cloud, or
that there's light at the end
of the tunnel.
stuff it. stick it in your ear.
let me suffer for a day
or two. sink
into the black hole of despair
and then come up and join
the rest of the world,
and you.

the dance

you once danced with a girl
in high school,
slow danced in her basement
while her parents smoked cigarettes
and watched art linkletter
upstairs. slowly the album
spun around on the turn table
at 33 rpm. over and over
the same songs, again and again.
other young couples were
there, you could hear
the smacking of lips,
the huffing of young lust
searching for buttons
and clips, clasps that
wouldn't come undone.
and you, chewing a wad
of pink bubble gum, dropping
it into her long black hair.
trying to get it out
with your guppy mouth,
her screaming, the lights
going on, the parents
rushing down. everyone staring
at you, asking you,
what have you done.
when you saw her on Monday
in school, her hair was short,
all the gum gone.
as well as you.

listen to me

sometimes you listen
to a story, even when it holds
no interest, you might be quizzed
later. so, you tune in
to get the vague details,
ready for when she says,
remember when I told you about
so and so, how she rammed her
car into the bank
and stole a million dollars,
and you'll say yes.
of course I do. what happened
to her. and she'll say,
you don't even listen to me.
I just made that up.
you never do. why do I
even talk to you.

the postcard

you miss the postcard,
with art on front.
a carousel, or bird in flight,
the letter, with words formed
in ink by your own hand.
the blotted spots
of blue as you dotted an I,
or swung a comma around
to continue on another line.
the crossed out words,
what were they, now
darkened in tight squares.
the postage stamp licked
and pressed to the corner.
the salutation, farewell,
or love, in script before
you signed your name.
such love and intent went
into it, not like this
cold keyed email, or text
we casually send.

let it roll

the pearl
in the oyster.
the diamond found
among stones,
the shooting star,
the unexpected kiss
and fall
into something very
close to being love.
three numbers matching
on the ticket,
three cherries
on the spin
of the one armed bandit.
it's your day
to play and be paid.
let it roll.

for the children

it wasn't necessarily a break up,
she said to her friends. we more or less
dissolved our relationship.
melted it if you will, which would
have been apt, had you been there
to hear the discussion.
you would not have disagreed.
but how strange it was to be over,
and yet, still be there,
sleeping in the same house,
taking bread from the same loaf,
unspeaking, and saying more in
the cold silence than words could
ever do. it's only ten thousand
dollars more, plus the alimony, the child
support and half your retirement
and savings, equity in the house,
the lawyer would say.
the owl in her black suit, behind
her too large desk. smiling benignly
as if to say, everything will be
fine. let's end this today. strike
the deal for the children.
you corrected her and said,
but we only have one child,
unless you count her,
the ex in the other room as two,
crying falsely like a spigot
that no one can turn off.

no children, no pets, no guns

i put a help wanted sign
in the window.
cooking, cleaning, occasional
reading me to sleep.
back scratching is essential
as are kissing skills.
prefer someone who is kind
and compassionate.
willing to grow old with me,
but not too old.
someone in shape, who can
stand on her toes in a pair
of red high heels
and get the cobwebs
in the corner,
dust the shelves. shake
the rugs off the back porch.
she must know how to fold
fitted sheets, and bake
cookies on cold winter days.
English does not have to be
her first language, in fact,
a minimalist in the talking
department would be okay.
the hours would be flexible,
as I hope she would be too.
the pay, not much, but it could
be fun. no children, no pets.
no guns.

the kitchen knife

you never trusted her
with a kitchen knife.
it wasn't that she showed any
signs of insanity, or violence,
but there was a hint
of crazy in her eyes.
sometimes when she talked
she went in circles,
like a dog chasing her
tail. sometimes she stopped
and said I don't even know
what i'm talking about,
do you? this made you
tell her to sit down and
relax. i'll get dinner ready.
hand me the knife.

those vampire nights

the vampires, that you see,
out late at night,
pale, almost unseen,
are not unkind, or different
than you or me.
they are fighting the light
of youth fading.
there was a time
when you were one of them.
hair spiked and green,
drinking and dancing until
the sun came up.
wanting not only the clock
to stop, but the world too.
it was fun biting into
the perfumed necks of strangers,
women that you danced with
in the smoke filled rooms,
woke up beside,
neither knowing who was who.

the last lap

despite hearing the bell
for the last lap,
you don't sprint,
you don't beat the horse
you are on with a whip,
or pick up the pace,
in fact, you do the opposite.
you relax as you make
the turn towards home,
skipping in lollygag fashion
down the long stretch
to the finish line.

leave the table

when they stop serving
what you want, meat and potatoes
fresh greens,
when the bread is stale,
when they stop
pouring martinis, and bringing
out a tray of sweet
desserts, when the service
breaks down, gets rude
when they don't care anymore
if you're around,
you don't go back.
this holds true for you
as well.

the opium sky

the opium sky,
this white field of clouds
stuck motionless
before you
as drive and drive
along the blue ribbon
of road.
you could drive forever
going nowhere,
or somewhere, it
wouldn't matter
with this view.
how kind the world
seems with a sky
like this.

the white dress

the whole pig, on the spit,
no longer pink, but a soft
crusted brown
was cooked too long, the sun
was out.
flies were everywhere.
the wedding cake and desserts
were under a tent,
melting, getting soft
and runny, like broken eggs.
the salads, warming
in bowls, were sealed with plastic wrap,
ladles stuck inside.
the bride and groom were happy though,
glimmering with hope,
despite their ages,
their children from other marriages
rolling their dark eyes.
the sun was too high.
they couldn't get the music to play.
the cord too short from the house.
people were drinking too fast,
refilling their glasses
with wine and gin. shooing flies
with napkins
and rolled up programs from the church.
you wanted it to rain,
you wanted it too pour
in biblical proportions,
but there was nothing but blue
in the sky, expect for
the white sun beaming down
on the white tent,
the dried out pig, spinning slowly
over a wood fire, which
everyone, hungry now,
had gathered around, and
the white dress of the bride.

drugstore breakfast

he's in uniform, a white cap
of some sort with a black brim,
hard to tell if he's a captain
in the navy, or working the door
at the plaza hotel.
there are gold buttons down
his black jacket,
a rope brocade, also gold,
draped fancily
around his shoulder.
his shirt is white,
the cuffs sticking out
of his arms.
he's wearing boots. slick
and shiny. he's sitting next
to you at the drugstore
counter. he asks you if
you could pass the ketchup,
while he strokes his dark goatee.
he takes the bottle from you,
then pours it on his eggs.
all over them
in a crisscross pattern.
you try to ignore this,
but you can't, disgusted,
you push your plate aside,
finish your coffee, then pay.
you can't believe what
he's done to his eggs.

what if it rained

when she threw herself off
the bridge,
in midflight, she thought
about the note she forgot
to write, saying goodbye
to those she loved, and
those who loved her.
she wondered if the dog
would be okay,
who would feed her tomorrow
when she didn't come home,
or tonight. and as the wind
lifted her dress that she
had pressed over
her eyes, her hair,
and the wind rushed into her ears,
before her body
struck the rocks,
she thought about the wash
left in the dryer,
her bed unmade, what would
they think? did she leave
a window open,
what if it rained.

try again next year

it's a kind note
you receive, open and unfold
beneath the desk lamp.
your poem has not been selected
as a finalist,
we're sorry, but please try
again. next year there will
be new judges who
might deem you worthy, as
opposed to the ones we
have now, who have thrown
you to the curb.
fret not my poetic friend,
keep at it and one day,
maybe you too will be allowed
in this unreadable magazine,
join us in a class,
in a reading, or send a donation
or two. let's get to know
you and then, maybe then
we'll let you in.

compromise

let's rearrange this furniture,
paint the walls neutral,
change the color of the carpet.
set a vase by the window.
hang a picture
over the mantle, a mirror
too. let's make it ours not
yours, not mine,
let's compromise
and die to ourselves in love.
let's see how long
it lasts being here,
being blue.

the deli dream

you dream about a sandwich.
it's wrapped in wax paper.
there might be cheese on it.
a pickle too.
ham, a variety of deli meats.
lettuce and a sliced tomato.
they have a name for the sandwich.
which you call out
to the woman behind the counter.
she yells it out to someone
else. it takes a long time
to come. too long.
you ask where is your sandwich.
no one seems to know.
you're hungry. it's crowded
and hot in the small room.
no one seems to be leaving,
the bell above the door
jingles as more people come
in. you are pressed against
the counter. the crowd moving
as one from side to side.
you realize that it's only a dream,
but you are hungry.
you can taste the bite of bread
and meat in your open mouth.
it's a long night. you want
a different dream. one about
love perhaps, you want
to wake up, but you are
patient, you are not leaving
without your sandwich.

slow sand

it's not quick
this sand. this day
you choose to live in.
quite the opposite.
it's slow and deliberate,
letting you slide
almost pleasantly down.
it takes your feet,
before you know it
your knees and legs
are gone. each day
you slip down
a little deeper,
each breath gets a little
harder to take as your
lungs get pressed,
your heart squeezed
tight within your chest,
but you can't get out.
the world as it is,
offers no helping hand.

the drowning

you can hear the rain
falling on some people.
see the blue bruise
of clouds over their
downcast heads.
you can smell defeat,
the mold of giving
up. the dampness
of worry. they try
to pull you into
their weather pattern.
grabbing at your
heart, clutching
your hand. you have
to run from these
people. you have to
sprint in another
direction as fast
as you can. there is
nothing you can do,
but drown with them
if you stay.

the same old

her old boyfriend
wants back
in. he wants sex
and affection.
but doesn't care
to hear about
the bills, the sick
cat, the tuition, or
where she's been.
he wants sex. then he
wants to leave,
and in a week or two,
or three, maybe
sooner if his girlfriend
is out of town,
come back again.
it was this way
thirty years ago,
and nothing has changed.

two women

are you asleep
she says, tapping
your shoulder,
whispering into your ear.
I hear someone downstairs
in the kitchen.
it's fine, you say
the house is haunted,
the last two
tenants died in this
house, in fact in
this room, right here.
sometimes
they get up in the middle
the night for a bite
to eat, a snack.
I hear them talking
at the table.
but they clean up,
leaving hardly a crumb
or dish in the sink.
it's fine. they're
very nice and polite,
it's really okay.
go back to sleep.

the hawk

tumbling down the steps,
slipping on ice,
you see the sky, the cloud
of trees,
you see a hawk with a grey
mouse struggling
still alive
in the clutch of a sharp
beak.
you tumble some more,
reaching the bottom.
nothing seems broken,
you stand up and shake off
the dust, the debris.
you look back up into the sky.
the hawk is gone.
you go home, thinking of
dinner.

are the tomatoes local?

she can't decide
on fish, or chicken.
vinaigrette or French
dressing.
bread or no bread,
water with lemon,
or tea unsweetened.
maybe an appetizer
of crab dip, or cheese,
what do you have
farm fresh,
free range and gluten free,
she asks,
are the tomatoes local?
meanwhile you finish
your steak and order
another drink, ask for
the dessert menu.

be the lion

the mouse under hypnosis,
his eyes half mast
as the clock ticks and swings
before his eyes,
believes that he was a cat
in another life.
the bird, a snake
stealing eggs from a soft
nest. the small fish a shark.
the ant a fly.
the slave a king.
only the lion refuses
to believe he was something
else in a life
before this one.

hope to see you there

the woman down the street,
let's call her becky,
squared shoulders,
with small tombstone teeth,
doesn't like you.
she looks at you
with evil old eyes
and is quick to reprimand
you for putting the trash
out too early,
or not picking up
after your dog, or for
driving too fast
in the cul de sac.
your parking pass needs
to hang from your mirror
she would often tell you,
shaking her head
of bristled grey hair.
so it surprises you when
you read the note she
slipped under your door
inviting you for an afternoon
of yoga, tea and cookies.
this sunday.
Namaste, hope to see
you there.

you miss her

sometimes you miss how she used
to yell at you,
the crumbs on your shirt.
the dirty bathroom, with
the seat up,
the laundry on the floor.
she said, what's that smell,
nearly every day.
or you are the epitome
of laziness. I've never
known a man with such a lack
of ambition than you.
those were the good days,
the days of wine
and stuffy noses.
blow your nose, she'd say,
offering you
a box of Kleenex.
where's the cork screw.
I need a drink. oh, how
you miss her and wonder
what she's up to.

contagious

carefully, the girl with the pink eye,
stares up into the bathroom light
and squeezes the prescription bottle
of medicine into her eyes. she blinks
and blinks as if crying. then she
stares into the mirror to see if it's
any better than before. she marks
her calendar with a big x, then makes
herself a cup of tea. I wonder, she
thinks, if wait he'll until
I'm no longer contagious,
to go out with me.

nothing said

as a child
you saw your grandmother,
lina, wring a chicken's neck
in the bricked yard
behind her row house
in south philly.
it happened so quickly
and with such ease
that it startled you,
standing there with
a handful of seed
to give the noisy bird,
clucking and running
fat and white a few seconds
before its death.
later that night. you
ate the chicken with
small potatoes,
and greens. nothing ever
said.

his grief

after the man's wife passed
away from complications
on the operating table
he made a sign
and stood outside on the street
near the hospital.
in bold black letters
on a white board it read
this hospital killed my wife,
the love of my life.
he held the sign up
wit his shorts arms
in his worn brown suit
as the cars drove by.
day after day.
month into month. in time
the sign faded, the board
crumpled in the rain
and finally he was no longer
there with his grief.

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.