in with the new

you had a sweet tooth for her.
she was a semi-sweet bar
of deep dark chocolate,
full of almonds and caramel.
your teeth hurt every time
you kissed her.
you couldn't get enough of
her, at first, but in time.
you grew tired of the same bar,
the same wrapper, the heat
of her melting in your open
hand. you needed something
different. something just as
sweet, but less sticky.
maybe a cone of custard.
maybe you could put her
on ice for awhile, the old
candy bar.

biding time

she was biding time.
everything was temporary.
this house,
this boyfriend she was seeing,
this car, even this broken
watch on her wrist
was something soon
to be tossed aside.
the ten pounds she
gained over winter
would soon melt away when
she got around to it.
she could almost see
over that hill
she was constantly climbing.
she just had to get through
this rough spot,
these rough waters
and come out the other
side. but for now,
just for now, she
was biding time.

fun guy

remember the time
he walked into a plate glass window
someone says.
he was so drunk that night.
he was in the emergency
room for three hours
as they picked the glass
out of his legs. then we
went dancing.
fun times, someone says. fun times.
we'll miss him. and the time
he jumped from the balcony
into the pool, four floors up,
almost killing himself.
crazy. he was crazy
and so much fun. if you needed
drugs he had them, always
a drink in his hand,
and when he jumped
the white house fence
with no clothes on. what
a mad man he was. laughing
as they tazed him.
we'll miss him now that
he's gone, someone says,
but he still owes me money.

tomorrow you walk

there comes a point
when you can't run anymore.
when you put the shoes
on, the shorts, and layered
shirts, when you check
your watch, stretch,
then head out into
the wind and cold and cringe.
after a mile you ask yourself
why. what am I doing
this for. you count up
the injuries, to foot
and knee, to hip
and back. you're no longer
twenty or even fifty
and yet you persist, not to
turn back a clock, but
to keep it still,
keep it from ticking
forward. tomorrow you walk.

limping towards paradise

limping towards paradise.
dragging
the bad foot behind you,
you head towards
the gate. up the hills.
so many friends
have already checked
in, some are close
to going, their bags
packed having tied up
the loose ends.
you'll see them when
you see them, not a
second too late or too
soon. what a fine time
you'll have then
behind those pearly gates,
and mended.

you need air to breathe

without air
it's very hard to breathe.
you find this out
early when a fat kid
punches you in
the gut on the playground,
calling you a dweeb.
you stare up into the blue
sky, with bulging eyes,
as birds fly over,
as the red faced kid comes closer
before a teacher yanks
him by his ear.
later, it's love
that knocks the air
out of you.
similar in many ways,
but different.

from start to end

there are no straight lines.
everything is curved.
broken, or bent
in small ways that you can't
imagine.
there is no linear
path to success or love,
or even death.
you get there as best
you can, taking short
cuts, going around
the detours, fast or slow,
finding a way from start
to the end.

over easy

she cracks an egg
into the skillet, black
and thick,
already hot from
the bacon.
one or two she yells
up the stairs.
toast?
yes and yes, you yell
down, still
in bed.
it's the sweet spot
of a new relationship.
the sleepy and kind point
that makes
you believe in
love again.
over easy, you yell
down,
the covers up to your
chin,
thinking of another
round.

the wine stain

red wine spilled
will come out.
some effort will be involved
on hands and knees
a cold cloth,
club soda,
that squirt bottle
of remover
you got for Christmas
five years
ago.
the wine will disappear,
be gone
from memory, but
not your scream and anger
towards me.
that will stain for a very
long time
and might
be permanent.

the new house

the new house
is new. not new with loving
care.
it's more practical
than that.
the new floors
and tiles. the sink
that gleams,
the chandelier
lit up.
the windows that slide
and keep
the heat in,
the cold out.
that rug that matches
the walls.
it even smells new,
crisp like a lemon.
nothing used.
there's not a memory
to be found.

the jewel box

she keeps her kisses
in a box. a jewel box
on her dresser, if you're
careful not to undo things,
you might get
one or two tonight.
we'll see how it goes.
anything could happen.
even love, or something
close to that, I suppose.

the spinning ball

with one hand
you could lift the world
and spin it like a ball,
when young.
in time it took two hands,
two arms
and sturdy legs
to keep it aloft.
now you've set it in
the corner, and let it
rest with the other
toys you've
discarded.

be kind

the blister will heal
in time. give it time. be
gentle with your wounds.
be kind
to one another, and self.
go easy in the new shoe,
walk carefully,
give it time.
be gentle with your wounds,
be kind.

a different sea

how different the sea is
without you.
how indifferent the waves
are.
paying no mind
to your absence, when once
they were full
of joy at seeing you,
seeing you with me,
embracing you
with their long soft
arms. whispering in
that way they do.
how different the sea is
without you,
just me collecting shells
that i have no
reason to keep.

apple pie

sure, you could easily
slip to the floor, on that soft
shag carpet and knock
off a hundred sit ups,
or you could go the kitchen
and cut a slice of apple
pie, heat it up in the oven,
then put a scoop of vanilla
ice cream on top of it.
the choices in your life
get easier and easier
over time.

silver honda

the man who changes your oil
looks sad as he stands at the door
holding your greasy filter
in his hands.
he shakes his head and calls
out your last name, then the year
and make of your car.
you approach him, put your hand
on the shoulder of his pin striped
overalls, and say it's okay.
please, change it.
you're making the right decision,
he says, looking into your
eyes, oh and by the way.
your wipers are frayed.
they're old. i'm very sorry,
but they should also
should be replaced. how much?
you say.

the same

she says she wishes
that she believed
in god,
as she cries
on the phone,
telling you
that her brother
has died.
I wish I had faith
and wasn't such an atheist,
she says.
maybe I wouldn't
feel so bad.
not true you tell her.
it would be the same.

billable hours

the lawyers in the park
are litigating while
they eat their sandwiches,
drink their cups of coffee.
phones pressed to their
ears as they bill even
for this hour.
it never stops while
the pigeons stroll around
in their own grey blue suits
that fit perfectly,
twitching, as you do
around lawyers,
waiting for a crumb of
good news to drop.

her reading voice

she could read a grocery list
and make it sound
like poetry.
pausing just so between
lettuce and tomato. or
a menu from a Chinese
restaurant, or a laundry
list of weekend chores,
you are wary of her
voice making what you
written seem poetic and
forever engraved in stone.
you could listen
all night, all day
when she chooses a few
of what you've written
and reads them perfectly
over the long distance
of a phone.

the renters

the renters don't care
too much, if the spigot drips,
the door is hard
to latch, or the heat
is weak in winter,
they manage, staying
low under
the radar to keep
the rent down.
they can forgo the peeling
paint, and rusted
knob, the loose tile
on the kitchen floor.
the groan of pipes,
they are only adamant on
one thing from
the absent landlord,
to not let the cat out
when coming in the door
to set mice traps down.

save and be saved

you pin your hopes
on money.
it's a green balloon afloat
in a magical sky
of numbers.
work, work, work.
save
and be saved.
have enough to eat,
to keep you warm,
to keep you in good health
on wobbled bones
until it's time to
lay you into
the well dug grave.

building a wall

in the morning, as you drive by,
you see the wall go
up, the bricklayers
moving their arms, from side
to side, in silence,
the mortar iced
into place, each bricked tapped
level. it takes all day,
sometimes a lifetime to build
a wall as strong as what
we've done.

desire

the field, long and wide,
with stakes gummed
with tar,
the birds are called
in with a siren whistle.
an enticing melody of mating.
hurriedly they break
off from the flock
and swoop down,
their claws landing
and sticking on each post,
unable to fly away.
delicacies for the chefs
who wait nearby
with forks and knives.
what trouble unbridled
desires can bring us.

useless and pointless knowledge

does it matter
that the earth is round,
that we orbit the sun,
that we know why an apple
falls to the ground.
does it make a difference,
this math, this science,
the knowledge of the sea,
the stars
telling us which way
to go.
is there a point to any
of it
when you have a broken
heart.

tie a knot

i don't beg,
or roll over and play dead.
i don't heel,
or jump or fetch.
i don't bark on
command, or
stay in the yard
when off the leash.
there are no tricks,
new or old
that I can learn.
I am untrainable,
just telling you
this now,
so you know before
we tie a knot.

shrimp shells

these dirty dishes in the sink,
this bag of trash
that smells of shrimp shells,
this table full of unpaid
bills. all of it means nothing
under the burned out light bulbs
in every room.
it's not a sign of laziness
or disrepair. not at all.
you'll pick up the laundry too.
you're just taking a break
until Saturday nights date
comes over. you have three
days and nights to make it right.
to make it all look like new.

you miss her

you miss her sometimes,
her anger. her riding her broom,
writing your name across the sky,
and over that the word
surrender. you can almost hear
her high pitched cackle.
she was fun in that way.
leaving no question about
her true feelings.
honest to the bone
about you.

when stress arrives

the wall, holding up other
walls, floors
and ceilings, the weight
of people
and beds, dogs,
is cracked. a lone
fissure runs from one corner
to the next.
it's a stress fracture
i say, trying to explain
to the owner of the house,
and it will come
back again no matter
how much plaster I smooth
in the crevice.
you could move, i tell her,
you could quit
this house, this neighborhood.
it's what i do
when stress arrives
and cant' be fixed.

the gourmet market

they've installed benches
and floor lamps
in the new gourmet market
down the street
to accommodate the readers
of labels.
unclogging the aisles for
the likes of you,
who just want a head
of lettuce, a block of
cheddar cheese, a half pound
of genoa salami and
a loaf of wonder bread.
you don't need the story
of meat, the sodium content,
or how much sugar is imbedded
in its swirl of fat.
you prefer not to read
the tale of the free
range chicken, his long
journey from the egg to death,
the Charles dickens like saga
that reveals the care
and tenderness
that went into growing
those hot house tomatoes.
you don't want a happy
checker either in a flowery shirt,
a big ginsberg beard,
winking and asking if you are
going to make a sandwich
later for dinner. you just want
out of their as soon as you can,
as soon as you locate
the pickles, finding
the sweet gherkins among
the other nineteen brands.

the early call

your sister calls.
you see her name
on the phone. it can't be good.
nine a.m.,
you let it ring
in a long played out
passive aggressive move
you both have mastered.
finally, you pick it up
and say hello.
it isn't good, nothing
over the years,
has changed for
either of you.

your heart

your heart is not made
of rubber, or plastic,
or some sort of silicon space
age material,
and yet, it seems to do
fine after all these years
of broken hearts,
hash browns and bacon.
of course you say this now,
but one more fried egg,
or a girl with long legs
and kissing skills
could put you on a slab
in no time.

day laborer

he tells you that
he had a good day today.
his probation officer said
he only had three more
months left
and then he was free to roam
the earth in any direction
he wanted to.
you're afraid to ask
what the charge was, but
you do anyway.
I stabbed someone he says,
they were trying to rob
me coming out of a bar,
so I put a knife in him.
did eleven months on that,
in county jail.
malicious wounding.
you take a deep breath
and exhale. you don't know
what to say.
so how was your easter,
you ask him.
ham, potatoes? go anywhere?
do anything fun?

brown bagged

she used to pack her clothes
in a brown
grocery bag.
shoes, a skirt,
socks, maybe a light
jacket. a hat.
a book of poems.
luggage was too serious
for her,
too permanent a gesture.
a bag, a used bag
at that,
seemed more appropriate
for a one night
sleep over, easy to
discard, or fold
neatly away, to be
used again when
she left and went back.

after dinner walk

you used to see him,
the old man up the street,
walking, hands behind him,
as if cuffed,
a slow gait
to the end of the corner,
then back again.
his glasses,
wire rimmed and round,
his brown bald
head shining
in the dusky sunlight.
he seemed to be thinking
of something.
the past, the future,
but still nodding hello,
breaking the trance
that he was in.
he never stopped to chat,
you never knew his name.
but you missed him
when he no longer
passed by your window.

the swim

she likes to swim.
slowly dipping her big toe
into the cool
still water
of the pool. slipping
a leg down, then the other,
finally all of her
is in.
from there she aligns
herself
on the side before
launching
into a free style stroke,
arm over arm,
feet splashing as
she kicks them again,
and again.
she's more at home, more
herself,
when she's swimming.
breathing
large gulps of air
as her head turns.
no words going out,
no words
coming in.

the new art center

driving by the prison
you see the men
staring out through mesh wire,
iron bars, a fence
electrified. the guards
are in the tower. this is what
you imagine, but now
it's an art center,
where gum drop shaped ladies
in large flowing dresses
carry their baskets,
and canvases, pallets
of paint into the empty
cells to paint pictures
of flowers, not unlike
the ones that are growing
strangely out of
the concrete patios
where hangings took place.

beyond that

all day, sunday, easter sunday,
the man next door
bangs his hammer. nail after nail
into wood. you have no clue
as to what he's doing, building.
no idea what makes him work
from sunrise until dinner
in his house. it's beyond reason
for you, as you listen to each
nail get driven hard, as if
with an angry arm, down into
the wood. it's more than building,
it goes beyond that.

the deep blue

not everyone can be helped.
not every
hand can be held,
every stray led by leash
to a shelter.
there is only so much
time in a life
to save
everyone you meet.
and you, as well, must
swim alone, find shore,
sometimes when cast
aside into the deep blue.

who's next

the wide wings
of a fluid owl, whip
against the air.
he sees what can't be
seen from the ground,
the scurry of a grey
field mouse.
death comes naturally
and quickly
as he dives down.
no tears shed, no
remorse. just life
devouring life.
who's next?

i'm here

you never come by anymore,
your mother says
on easter, handing you a chocolate
egg with a card scotch taped
to it, with your name.
no flowers? she says.
shaking her head.
no one buys flowers anymore.
you boys know better, I didn't
raise you like that.
happy easter, you say to her
handing her a card
you bought on the way over.
she reads it out loud so
that everyone can hear, then
cries and hugs you.
why don't you come more often,
she says, sobbing. it's not
that far a drive.
you shake your head,
you hold her. you say.
i'm here. i'm here.

time to eat

your appetite for scalloped potatoes
and spiral ham
has not diminished over the years
you think while holding the paper
plate which bends as you add
a scoop of pureed squash
and green beans.
you find a chair and slowly
carve with the clear plastic
fork and knife into the pink
slabs of meat.
one of the four dogs that roam
the house approaches you with
a wagging tail and grin
on his drooling open mouth.
someone drags him away by his
collar, out the door.
you hear it slam, then dig in.
no grace, no togetherness
or toast, no nothing, but the food,
and let's eat. you turn towards
the television for company,
sinking back into the lawn chair
brought in for an extra seat.

the void

the mattress in the dead
child's room
has been stripped of sheets
and pillows, it sits bare
on the iron railed frame,
hardly used, it seems.
the toy box with a name
engraved is closed.
a ball, a bat lie
in the corner, a small
hat. the sister tells you
that her brother is
fifteen years old now
in heaven,
then shrugs, and says,
it's partly the reason
we have to move.

your island

you don't want much.
a place to sleep
a modicum of money.
affection.
a light with which
to read
and write.
paper, pen,
coffee, a plate
of hours with which
to wile away.
a warm sun.
you make your own
island
with sand and palm
trees to survive on
and hide in
when help comes.

for sale sign

the for sale sign is there
when you wake up.
a wooden post hammered
squarely on the fringe
of your yard.
you heard the truck
and the man mumbling
numbers into his phone
early this morning,
before digging the hole.
apparently you are moving.
this is news to you.
you just now have felt at
home. felt at ease with
the way the sun
swings around in the afternoon
no longer blocked
by a cloud of trees.
you like how the pipes
exhale, the way
the attic breathes,
the floors at certain points
creak. the house next door is empty.
perhaps you could move
there. so close.
a fresh start. maybe
the neighbors will stop
by to welcome you,
bring a casserole, or two.

that one

the children,
happy in their childhood,
with reddened cheeks,
full, and fat, words
tumbling from their mouths
of spaced teeth,
fingers touching
the glass windows,
squared off for
cats and dogs, rabbits even.
that one the little girl
says. pulling on a strand
of pink gum from her
mouth. that one.
with the long ears.
the white tail. I want him.
how nice to have a living,
toy to play with.
unknowing of what
lies ahead. the shoebox
and the shovel.
the shallow hole dug
deep at the far end
of the yard
under a shady tree.

holiday

what isn't seen or said
is often the most truthful
thing or thought
in the stuffy room,
overcast with a cloud
of murmur,
about to rain.
politeness takes over,
as it often does
at the long dinner table.
so you ask to please
pass this or that
or say things like
how lovely these
peas and carrots are.
those flowers in the vase,
Conklyn's?
your fingers touching
the petals
to see if they are real.
there are no questions about,
when did he or she
escape, or be released,
and did everyone take
their happy pills today.
the lost job, the failed
marriage, the unexpected
pregnancy, are words
unsaid on the bitten tongue.
at some point you rise
to go open a window
to let in the cold,
let out the heat.

wait wait don't bore me

when you were young, much younger
than you are now,
the idea of listening to car talk,
or the prairie home
companion, or wait wait don't bore
me, was impossible.
npr, in general with its quiet
subversive ways bothered you.
how quickly you changed the channel
to find led zeppelin, or
bruce, or Dylan, or Costello,
but now, these are the things
you search for. taking notes
as the splendid table host
tells you how to cook the perfect
pot roast, make a cake from scratch.

the new leaf again

you make a conscious effort
to be good.
to be the boy your mother
always wanted you to be,
to turn over that proverbial
new leaf, but
it's harder than it looks.
the opportunities
to be bad keep showing up,
and you have the willpower
of a small child.
you can resist everything
except temptation, as
Oscar wilde once said.
you'll try again tomorrow.

the corner house

when the house burned down
everyone gathered
at the corner, held back
by police tape.
with hands on their mouths
they watched as the bodies
were brought out.
they thought about their own
house. the greased stove,
the frayed wires.
the gasoline can
in the basement. was every
cigarette stamped out.
they wanted to know why.
how could this happen
on such a nice night, with
the moon so full.
spring filling the trees
with green buds, soon
to be leaves.

in line

it's hard to not stare
at a person crying.
you want to place a hand
on their shoulder.
not to say anything dumb,
like it will be okay,
because you don't know that.
you've been there, on
both sides. breaking down
in tears while standing
in line for groceries.
it's hard to stop once
you start. it's not just
minor weeping either.
it's bone rattling.
wrenching. a shiver of
a cry. in time though,
over weeks, or months,
you can get back in line,
dry eyed, not fine,
but having survived.

like they used to

they don't make licorice like
they used to, she says, gnawing off
a black twirl of plastic
looking candy. I can't even chew it,
she says, spitting some out
into the air. this is junk.
I want the licorice from my
childhood, not this stuff,
then she points at her shoes.
look at these shoes. how
worn they are after a week.
when I was a kid shoes lasted
months, maybe a year. but not
anymore. men, she then says.
don't get me started on men.

the kind thief

the thief was kind.
she told the police.
putting a bowl of milk down
for the cat.
resetting the clocks
for when the time
changed, careful
as he filled
with silver and rings,
phones and cash into
his leather sack.
how nice he was to set
the plate
into the sink after
having a slice of lemon
cake she made
for tomorrows dessert.
the glass too from which
he drank. red wine,
uncorked with
a slight of hand.
so quiet was he,
hardly a sound he made
with his gloved fingers,
his soft shoed feet.
she wondered what he looked
like this gentle
thief, hoping perhaps
one day he might return
to steal her away,
as well.

number seventeen, no msg

at 3 p.m. the china kitchen
is empty.
it's just you and the woman sitting
near the front folding
menus. she's wearing a red
kimono and nike tennis shoes.
there is a fish tank with one
white fish swimming
in a green broth of bubbling water.
he comes to the glass
to look at you. you take out
your phone and take his picture.
there is no reason
for doing so, but it's something
that you do anyway.
he turns to the side like a
soft hand, swimming away,
which is only a foot
in either direction.
the woman tells you
the specials, while you point
at number seventeen
and say no msg.
she nods and shuffles
towards the kitchen.
it's just you and the fish now,
your lives are so alike.

fifty-five and over

it's a gated community.
nine buildings, all twenty stories
high. a light tanned colored
brick. to each a balcony
facing the north side.
in the distance there is water.
beyond that the scattering
of light telling of commerce.
below are walking paths,
a putting green.
a tennis court with a board
to sign your name.
a pool, kidney shaped
without a diving board.
they are not tombstones,
these buildings, so much
as pyramids with the dead
still living inside.
it's not over, but it's close.

one brother died

the girl, maybe nine or ten,
says easily without
looking away that she has
two brothers and one sister
although one brother died.
then her phone rings
and she tells you that she
has to take this call.
she turns her back
in her green pajamas,
whispering into her pink phone.
when she hangs up she says.
they want me to go out
and play now, so i'll see
you later if you're still
here working.

someone like you

there is someone like you
out there.
not exactly, of course.
maybe kinder
with long dark hair.
someone
who wears a ribbon like
you used to do
to hold it back.
someone with green eyes
and freckles
along her nose and cheeks.
someone with your
style, and panache,
the way you walked,
the way you held your head
up high in the summer
air. someone like that,
but different.
someone who cares.

a basket of candy

you try to connect
the dots between jelly beans
and rabbits.
baskets full of candy,
and the resurrection.
but you can't.
you like dark chocolate,
which your mother never
seem to remember as she
made your basket sealed
in blue plastic,
a cellophane tent.
you think about this now
as you watch the lot fill
across the street.
there are extra cops
on duty at st. Bernadette's
for the overflow
of sinners and the saved,
as they dress in their
easter best to kneel,
confess and repent.
you ponder getting dressed.
finding a pew to sit in.

i didn't even like him

you ask your friend missy
how the date went.
she shrugs and sighs.
okay, she says. but
he didn't even try to kiss
me. he didn't make
one move on me, not
even a hand on my knee,
a kiss on the cheek.
nothing, but a warm
hug and a handshake
goodbye. did you want
him to, you ask her,
not really, she says.
I don't even like him,
not even sure why I agreed
to go out with him,
but it would have been
nice if he had tried
something, anything.

unwised

age does not beget wisdom,
there are plenty
of unwise old people walking
around. they have been
that way for most
of their lives.
unaware, unquestioning
of how they speak, how
they drive, how they
hate anyone different,
whether, skin, or
religion, the shape of
one's eyes. sometimes
age just means you are
getting old and decrepit
without having learned anything
worth knowing before you die.

i'll be back in a week

he shows her how to feed
the fish.
how many sprinkles of this
and that.
how to net the dead
ones out, god forbid.
each has a name.
they like music, he says.
but low.
he gives her a list.
which plant needs light,
which needs water.
don't worry about the cat,
he says.
a small bowl
of food, water.
i'll be back in a week.
meanwhile the cat
stares into
the glass box of fish
and licks
his lips.

something in the air

with her pink eye healed,
she schedules a date
and buys a new dress,
a new pair shoes to match.
it's been awhile, but
it's springtime,
there is pollen
in the air.
she glides a tube of
lipstick across her lips.
she feels giddy about
something. something she
can't quite remember,
or forget.

the future

a singing girl
no larger than a sparrow,
with pink wings
and ballet shoes
is skittering up
the grassy hill
with a basket of plastic
eggs she found
tucked in the knobs
of trees,
under rocks on
the ground.
her mother is pleased
and clapping,
her father, broods,
worries about
her future, how
to keep her safe
from this world.

this makes you smile

they love each other.
the new lovers.
they tell you this over
and over.
looking into each other's eyes,
then at you,
they seemed surprised,
each a gold coin
they've stumbled upon,
taking it out
of their pocket to hold
it, feel and stare
at its brightness,
making sure it's still
there. hardly a day
goes by
without them telling you
and others
how lucky they are
to have found one another,
how they never fight.
this makes you smile.

the traveler

you like to see people
at the train station going
home. the heavy bag
pulled behind them
on wheels, a satchel
in hand. the weariness
of travel on them.
the spark of arrival
dimmed, the visit over,
the memory not yet warmed
or sunk in.
the window seat will
be a good place
to sleep and ponder
if one can do this again.

the blue building

the glass building
with its deep blue panes,
holding images of
clouds and sun,
does not break
as each bird, sees
himself
and wings into
the glass.
in the morning they
sweep the lives
away, was it love,
or something else
that steered them
into themselves.

the new orange

despite how bright
and round
and freshly picked
the orange is
that you hold,
from seed to ground,
to tree, to truck,
then you,
finding its way into
your hand, you still
don't know if it's
sour or sweet until
it's peeled
and you a take a bite.

when the music's over

you cringe
as they romanticize
the sixties
in books and movies,
make it all fun and happy.
peace and love.
hardly.
you remember dead boys,
boys chopped
in two.
the sharp swords
of needles slipping
into veins.
the acid trips
making birds out of children
as they dropped from the tops
of buildings.
you watched your father
leave.
your mother, with a broken arm
taken against her will
to Saint E's.
and yet you learned all
the music, what else
was there to do?

finding the middle

he likes to talk politics
having listened
to the radio all day,
with the dial turned
to the right.
he doesn't read books
or magazines, or
newspapers. he doesn't
need to, he just listens
and agrees and now
he wants you
to join his side,
to march for his cause,
to see the light.
but you are not amused,
straddling the middle,
believing neither
left or right.

a new friend

you hear the helicopters
above the tree line
searching for the madman
who escaped from the mental
hospital. he got loose
and ran in his blue
pajamas, a name and number
around his wrist.
how far could he run
in bare feet, looking like
this. hiding in the woods,
crawling through
the trenches until he
found a house with the door
open. you ask him, as
he sits there on your couch
if he'd like a cup of tea
perhaps a cinnamon roll,
surely he must he hungry.
being mad and on the run.
thank you, he says, thank you.
so what do you do, you ask
him politely, when not
incarcerated. not much,
he says. I'm misunderstood.
I write poetry.

the stranger

now that she's a stranger,
you understand her better.
the core of her is gone,
but it's more clear now
than ever, of who your
mother was, at this age,
or when you were young.
she is without bitterness,
or sorrow. she just is.
soft in body and mind,
with a heart
finding time to keep
beating until it gives.
if you could, you'd give
her back her memories.
salvage something of her
life to make her smile
and say your name,
to know your face,
your voice.

the next time

the bride will be unhappy
later. they always are
in the new white dress,
the first time around.
something was cold.
the cake, too soft,
too sweet or hard,
the drunk uncle who stumbled
and fell on
the dance floor.
the husband she would later
scold.
the blurred photo,
the ones who never showed,
so much food
and drink, not gone to waste,
but eaten.
the music, how the band
forgot the words to the song
she picked.
a windy toast that went
on and on.
but it's just a wedding,
the first of several, yet
to come. she'll remember this
practice session and try
to do better the next time.

the english teacher

at first it appears to be a bird,
a swallow, or sparrow,
a small dove
with frenetic wings,
caught inside your house,
searching for a way out.
but it's darker than that,
you can see the spiked
thin canvas wings,
of a blackened bat.
hardly the weight of a mouse,
it crouches in
the folds of the hemmed
curtains, hiding, biding
time, perhaps. thinking
its way through this trap
he's flown into.
with all the doors
and windows open,
you find the long broom
and tease him violently
out into the air, into
the light. you will later,
think of this and connect
your days, and what you
do for a living, teaching,
as not so undifferent.

the oil rainbow

the oil in the water is lovely
on this sun filled day,
a greased pool of colors.

an amoeba of a rainbow,
caught in the swells of lake.
a discharge perhaps from a boat

passing by, or a can
of ten w thirty tossed in,
to float like a gold lily pad

on its side. the fish are less
amused, you assume. floating below,
unable, without arms or legs

to pull themselves to shore,
evolution, unlike us,
having left them far behind.

the end is near

clearly the store, the franchise,
the business had to go under.
how could it survive.
but it was where your mother
took you to buy
the yellow shirt for easter.
brown shoes.
your father went there
for tires and tools, topsoil,
lawnmowers and rakes.
another hammer to hang beside
the ones he never used.
but these were new,
different in some way,
marked down, improved.
a couch was bought there,
plaid like a lumberjack's
shirt. a coffee table
that Martha Washington
would have loved to put
her boots upon.
but here you are, decades later,
standing in line to return
a microwave oven that never
once worked. never blinked
never offered up a cough
of radiant heat. you carried
it from the store
to your kitchen and back again.
all within an hours time,
and as the clerk,
with his plain, unlived face,
politely asks you if you
wanted to have it repaired,
not exchanged, you understood
that yes. the business
had to end.

the good suit

he tries on the black suit.
it still fits.
inside is the program from
the funeral he went to
last spring, and next to
that is the wedding invitation
in june.
there are tickets too
to the theater.
guys and dolls, the wild duck.
king lear.
he stuffs all of them back
into the pocket, it's a good suit.
he straightens the collar
in the mirror, turns
around and checks
for lint and wrinkles.
it looks good for
another year.

the horse

you're afraid of horses.
they are too big. too mysterious
with those eyes
black and brown.
those whip tails, the hooves,
stomping the ground. all that hay.
all that noise and breathing.
snorting.
the fear of being kicked
makes you nervous which
in turn makes the horse nervous.
together you do a dance
of fear as you move around
the stable, looking for
a safe place to stand.
meanwhile, she calmly
brushes his mane, feeding
him carrots and cubes
of sugar from her open hand.

broken glass

as the window breaks
in your hand, held over
your head, the shards showering
down upon you.
the glass a melodic tinkling
of crisp broken
pieces, hitting brick,
then ground. you look for blood,
but there is none.
you've lived through it
somehow. again.

at the counter

it's the light and the dark
of the hopper
painting. the starkness
of the diner, the nighthawk.
the coffee poured.
the whispered words between
the man and woman.
the counter man
silent as he goes about
his work.
and the stranger.
which one are you,
you think, as you place
yourself inside the room.
which will you
be tomorrow, or the next
day.

your pill box hat

why do you write about cold
hearted women
with guns in their
hands. knives in their
brassieres.
stiletto heels and cherry
red lips.
don't you know any good
women. women who
bake you muffins, make
the bed, and scratch
your back while singing
you lullabyes to sleep?
yes, you tell her,
but those women seem
more interesting, than
you, as calm and normal
as you can be in your
leopard skin pill box hat.

on your knees

you try a new product to rid
your self of that awful
bathtub ring.
the soap build up
around the faucets,
the sink.
it's humbling being
on your knees, being
the scholar and poet
that you are
scrubbing the tiles,
spraying bleach.
you understand the need
for prayer
when on your knees.
the world is dirty
and you seem to make
your share.

the third planet

all these planets,
and just us.
hard to imagine,
but it seems so.
which is fine,
good to be alone
cozy and neat
just the right
distance from the sun.
we've got a moon
to play with.
animals and plants.
it's not so bad.
except for the people.

the stones

she took the diamonds
out of her engagement ring
when he left
for his younger cliché love,
and made earrings out of them.
they sit like fat stars
on the lobes of her pink
fleshy ears.
she often touches them,
feeling the cold stones,
checking to be sure
they are still snug
and in place, still there.

the queen of fox island

she lives with seven cats
three dogs,
a goat, a chicken
and a rooster.
but claims that all the birds
in the trees,
the gulls and ospreys
are hers too.
not to mention the fish.
the sturgeon
and whales, the bottle
nose dolphins.
it's her kingdom and she's
the queen
of fox island.
each mouse and lion
bowing to her.
how she longs sometimes
that her king was gone though,
and that she was alone
awaiting your return
with sword in hand.

something called life

she loves the zombie show
on tv. calls you when a character
she likes gets eaten
and dies. you talk about them
as if they are real people.
sometimes she'll come over
and bring a pizza
and a bottle of wine.
together you talk about what
you would do
to live in a world full
of zombies and survive.
what would be your weapon
of choice,
the gun, the stick, a knife.
in the morning, you both get
up early to go to work.
driving numbly to your jobs,
unbitten, but infected
with something called life.

date night

she set a glass of water
on the table
beside where you slept.
ice and a wedge of lemon.
she had a light
plugged in on the nightstand.
a stack of magazines,
books, such as
old man and the sea
were set at arms length
on the floor.
it was eight p.m.
on a saturday
and she was soon fast
asleep.

new york yellow cab

you ask the cab driver
going eighty miles an hour
down broadway how
many people has he killed today.
he stops eating his lamb
kabob, and laughs,
spitting green onions
and sour cream
onto his windshield.
never, he says, I've never
killed anyone in my cab
before. he wipes his mouth
with his long sleeved
pajama top and goes back
to eating. no, you say.
not passengers, but pedestrians,
oh, he says, that's
different. he takes a sip
of his goat milk from
a thermos and starts
counting in farsi
with his fingers.

the living will

my living will is vague.
don't pull the plug
if some parts of me are working
and I might miraculously
recover.
this to be determined
by an objective person
with a rational mind
and a cold and yet compassionate
heart.
two of my sisters will not
be involved in this decision.
a stranger perhaps
might work better.
even though i'm completely
frozen in a semi-conscious
state, don't give up
on me. there's no rush.
I might just be visiting heaven
accumulating evidence
and information for a book
or more poems. so, what i'm
saying is that if i'm
lying there in a vegetative
state, say that of
an eggplant, be cautious,
be patient, there might be
a glimmer of hope that
i'll come around.

the early days

the gentle pull of her hand
taking you into the antique store
to buy something
you don't want or understand
is fine.
you've been led astray before.
and now, you'll buy a vase,
an ashtray, a painting, something
for your house that she
adores. it's the early phase
of possible love, and you
do crazy things like this.
even eating Ethiopian food
at her request, going to the opera.
and for her, you even open doors.

ice water

you see the angry brother
on the street, he turns his back.
you wave before he turns,
honk the horn, but to no avail.
blood is not thicker than
water. blood is just a liquid
passing through your veins
keeping you alive. his has
turned to ice.

the lunar pull

sometimes the lunar pull
is such that you can't get out
of bed.
the gravity of your life
making your feet
and arms feel like lead.
sure it's Monday. sure it's cold
and rainy
and the accounts are low,
but it's more than that.
your way of thinking has to change.
you have to let her go.

knowing when

the cat, tail up,
perched and walking
softly along the top
of the narrow fence
is not fearless,
just confident in what
he can and cannot do.
the dog barking is ignored,
the thunder in
the sky. he knows when
to leap towards the soft grass,
when to flee and not die.

no lesson here

you look for a moral,
a lesson, something to learn
from what's happened.
but there is none.
you could make something up
to ease the pain.
to lighten the moment
with understanding, but
you can't. you just have
to walk away.
let the fog drift and lift
and forget about it.

the unfilling

the dead horse in the field,
well loved, a history of love
behind him,
out by the fence,
grey and white, leaning
heavy on the soft
wet earth. unsaddled and
silent as the birds
in the trees still
clatter. as the wind
keeps moving, swirling,
unfilling the empty
spaces of your life.

the human touch

there was no public
display of affection.

no private display either,
so how was one to know

what went through her
mind other than the wind

from ear to ear,
the human touch being

essential when it comes
to love.

come home

the woman at the bridge
who held a sign
is gone now.
for years she stood
wrapped in blankets,
holding the large lettered
piece of cardboard,
pointing it to the cars
going by.
she was a mystery.
unknown. she was waiting
for someone to return,
perhaps.
for someone to come home.
maybe he did.
maybe she died.
maybe she changed her mind.

for granted

you assume there is water
before you turn the knob,
light, before you hit
the switch.
you take for granted
that there will be food,
and shelter,
clothes and shoes.
that the roof will keep
out the rain.
the lock on the door
will keep
strangers at bay.
you assume that when
finding love, and falling
hard, that it will be
mutual, the feelings
will be the same.
the mistakes you make
are constant. some things
never change.

there is trouble

there is trouble.
the girl with bleeding arms.
the boy, dark
eyed and leaning
on the bridge spitting
into the water
down below.
there is trouble.
the man holding
a sign, talking madly
to someone
who isn't there.
there is trouble.
the hand on a gun.
the knife.
the pen about to sign
someone's life
away.
there is trouble.
the dog barking,
pulling at his chain.

in the room

every morning. she pulls
the blinds open
to let the sun in.
she makes her bed.
she folds her clothes.
each into a drawer,
or on a hanger,
arranged neatly, just so.
she pours water into the plant
on the sill. starts coffee
in the kitchen. it's Saturday
and the world is moving
along slowly. there is a book
to get to, calls to make.
lunch at some point, but her
mind is on someone she used
to know. the quiet of her
life puts him in the room.

saturday at the circus

you sat a few rows behind
them at the old Washington Coliseum.
Jackie and Carolyn,
john john.
the circus was in town.
barnum and bailey.
nearby stood the dark men
in glasses.
stiff and alert, looking
everywhere, but at
the elephants, the trapeze
artists, the clowns.
the big tent which wasn't a tent
was filled with cigar
smoke and beer.
the joyful stares of children
gazing across the sawdust.
this was before everything.
before dallas, before
the world changed to never
to get back to where
it was.
your life would change too,
in so many ways.
for better and worse,
different than theirs
and yet the same.

mimi and jimmy

she writes to you that she
can't talk on the phone.
her name is mimi.
she might be from Croatia,
but she hasn't asked
you for money yet.
she just had a benign tumor
removed from her throat
and it might give you
the wrong impression.
but she sends you photos
of her, lying on the beach
in Miami, dripping wet,
sunglasses on. a hat the size
of cuba covering her
bleached hair.
you don't know what to make
of her. she asks you if
you want to Skype.
to meet that way.
she says that her boyfriend
jimmy wants to be there
too. you close the file
on mimi.
click repeatedly on delete
and block.
you fill the tub
up with hot water, you
take a new bar of soap
and try to scrub yourself
whole again.

black eels

as a kid you used to pull
the slimy whip like
eels out of the Potomac
river at the end of your
fishing line. how strong
they were, bending the pole.
stretching the filament
to the point of breaking.
a lean muscle of dark
black struggling to return
to the muddy bottom.
you were hoping for perch,
or a rockfish, carp,
or even a catfish,
with whiskers, soft
and without scales.
a ring of teeth in it's
clutching mouth.
even that would be better
than an eel. there was
nothing else you could
do, but cut the line
and start again. what
lies beneath is not always
what you want.

the urge

a simple cup of hot
coffee
is enough
sitting here on this
cold morning
to still
the urge to run
over that hill,
through the blue green
field of tall grass
and find her
once again.

namaste

you see them
on Saturday,
angry with their pastel
colored
yoga mats, marching
like penguins
towards the studio,
lithe soldiers of the morning
in tight pants,
the hair pulled back.
going to stretch
and let out a week
of angst.
breathing in and
breathing out, unable
to lose the world
that grips them.

she wore black

she wore black,
not because she was sad
or going
to a funeral, but because
she liked
the absence of color.
the quiet of no one
around,
the darkness
of night, her favorite
time of day
when no one needed
her to speak, to be touched,
to be listened to,
her life was better
this way,
in black, always.

let me in

she questions your
sad poems, your dark
musings, the lightless
tunnel of your
words. another one,
she says, while peeling
an orange
at her kitchen
table in florida.
the sun rising just
over a bed of white
sand.
come here, and let me
soothe your dark soul.
your bruised heart.
let me rub oil
into your pale white
skin. let me understand
who you are. what's
wrong, what's right.
let me in.

room number five

the boarding house
with its five rooms
each locked with its own key,
each with a bed
a dresser, a set of blinds
broken and pulled tight,
the shared toilet
and shower down the hall.
this is where your lost
brother stayed.
unbusy in the fog of his
crumbled life.
the woman who owned
the house, peered out
her window, suspicious,
reluctant to answer
the big door to let
anyone inside. protective
of her tenant's rights,
finally coming to answer
the knock in curlers,
a toothbrush scrubbing
at her teeth. a blue robe
the color of an april sky,
half untied.
what, she'd say, can
I help you. inching
the door open just enough
so that you could smell cabbage,
or a cat box,
the fumes of cigarettes,
or bread burning in a
toaster. I haven't seen him,
she'd say, but I assume
he's still alive.
he got his mail yesterday.
try again tomorrow.
i'll let him know you
stopped by.

the search

she was always searching,
opening drawers to find
what she was looking for.
and what that was, she
wasn't sure. sometimes
you'd come home early from
work and find her
at your desk pulling
the drawers open,
lifting papers, sifting
through the piles
of your own debris,
moving things aside,
and you'd ask her if
she'd found it yet,
whatever it was she was
searching for, and she'd
look at you and say
without smiling,
no, not yet. but I will
one day. you wonder,
these years later,
as she kisses her new husband
goodbye, as he goes
off to work, if she's
doing the same now.
pulling at the handles
of drawers, searching
for something she isn't
sure of.

big numbers

stiffly you rise.
knees locked.
shoulders hunched.
a stitch
in your side.
you've finally
become your age,
maybe more, you think,
as you browse ads
in the aarp magazine
for big numbered
phones, or a glass
to magnify.

the rain

there is madness
in this rain.
the harsh ping of its
soft lips
on the roof.
the frantic rush
of water collected
in the gutters,
the downspouts.
puddling back into
the earth of mud
and green.
the table rising,
the overflow
of streams.
you can't reason
with nature, talk it out
of anything.

paper sails

you see each other in the street.
you hug, you smile,
you exchange looks and hellos.
your lives in brief.
the sun is in her eyes.
she tells you about her last
boyfriend. you tell her about
your last love as well.
you say with a kiss
on each cheek, goodbye
for now. you are not ships
passing, but more like corks
in the sea bobbing along
with paper sails.

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.