hackers

you try to imagine
a proper punishment for
hacking.
getting into your accounts
and being malicious.
perhaps breaking the thumbs
of the guilty,
like in the movie
the hustler,
where they take paul
newman into the back
room and bend his
thumbs backwards
until they break. perhaps.
but you aren't a
violent person, at
least for now.

the lights go out

the power goes out in the storm.
the waiter brings a candle
in a red jar, the light wobbles
across the darkened room.
he sets it on the table
and asks if you'd both like
another drink. this happens
he says, smiling. it will come back.
outside, the wind picks up,
the rain pelts the windows,
now closed. lighting sears
the black horizon. the room
is silent with watching.
everything in your life it
seems, remains unknown.

the light on

the child, afraid of the dark,
crying. says it's the wind,
the thunder, the hidden that
lies outside and inside,
that can't be seen, the unknown,
that stirs his imagination.
you understand his fear.
it never truly leaves,
you want to tell him,
you learn to pretend
to be brave as time moves on.
you say none of this though,
and instead leave the hall light on
for the both of you.

coconut crazy

it's the season of coconuts.
coconut butter
and oil. it's everywhere.
the island trees are stripped
bare of this round
balled fruit, hard as nails.
there is coconut oil in nearly
everything.
these pants i'm wearing,
for instance are made
of coconut bark,
this hat, these shoes.
can you smell the sweet
white meat of coconuts
on me. that's right.
I just rubbed some on
my face after shaving.
tonight i'll fry a chicken
in coconut oil.
i'll have a glass
of coconut juice
with dinner and maybe
a splash of rum.
a big splash.

good luck

each day is a gamble.
a spin of some cosmic
wheel, a roll
of god's dice.
each day you throw
it all in the middle
on the green felt,
searching for
that lucky number,
each day
you choose black or
red, hit me, or i'll
stay. how long can you
play the odds,
keep good luck at bay.

to be boys again

the aging men.
all sizes. all types.
thick with time,
leaning towards the end,
as we run,
and bounce the ball.
the arc of it
falling short, or
long, less and less
into the soft swish
of net.
the sun, like it was
thirty years ago
is where should it should
be, the trees along
the court are gone,
or taller. the brush
thicker, nothing changes,
but us, us men, still coming
in the summer mornings
to be boys again.

bowling shoes

you remember the soft
shoes, the bowling shoes
at the alley
across the highway,
rented for an hour or two
while you rolled balls
down the hardwood floor
to knock down the wooden
pins. you liked
the numbers on the back
and the smell of them,
powdered and sprayed
of lilac and lavender.
two toned, grey and blue.
they were nicer than any
shoes you had owned
up to that point in your
young life and here they
were, hundreds of them
lined on the shelves.
all the sizes of the world,
including yours.

the death of a family member

the sign on the deli door,
hand written in magic marker,
the same pen that writes down
large or small,
mushrooms or olives,
says that the store will be
closed on Monday due to the death
of a family member.
a bell jingles when you push
the glass door open.
you place your order at the counter
and look around to see
who might be missing.
the father and son, are there,
heavy in their white aprons,
stained with red sauce
the mother, in the back
with the salads, adjusting her
black wig,
a cousin at the oven,
a sister on the tables.
there is a quietness as
money changes hands. no
music plays. no small talk.
you leave with a blessing in
some strange way.
this hot meal being part
of the sorrow,
part of the holy ground
that sorrow is.

the feminist blues

there's something I need
to tell you, she says out loud
while you are having dinner
in a fine restaurant.
i'm a feminist, she says.
a what? you say, nibbling on
your trout and sipping
at an apple martini.
a communist? no problem
comrade. i can respect that.
no, no, no.
i'm a feminist, she says
again, taking off a high
heel and banging it on
the table like Nikita
Khrushchev. oh, right,
equal pay, and all that stuff.
yeah me too.
pass me the butter, please,
you ask, pointing at the butter
tin. can't you reach
that she says. I mean I
could get it for you,
but I think you can too.
okay. excuse my reach.
you lather a slice of bread
with some butter
and stare at her. she looks mad.
you try to think what you
might have done wrong today.
you avoided opening any doors
for her. you didn't buy her flowers.
you said nothing about her
not shaving her legs.
you never once said she looked
pretty. you did your best
to treat her like a man.
you let her make every decision
and walked behind her
as she perused the feminine
hygiene aisle. what could you
have done? are you mad at me
you say, finishing off the potatoes.
you seem mad. your face is red.
you want to say like a communist,
but you don't. her feminism
no longer includes a sense
of humor.
yes. i'm mad at you. you're a man,
aren't you. you think you
rule the world. you think women
are weak. you nod your head
in an understanding way,
thinking about dessert.
are we having dessert, you ask
her. may I suggest the flourless
chocolate cake? split it?
can't I have my own dessert?
oh, sure, sure. you slide
the menu over. she gets the key
lime pie and coffee. black.
like how a man drinks his coffee.
you think, but bite your tongue.
you finish in silence.
the waiter brings the bill out
and sets it on the table
between you. you both stare at
if for a moment or two,
and then she says. i'll be back
in a few minutes, I need to
powder my nose.

wedding on the green

the chairs, white and unfolded
sat in long rows facing
the wide blue of a slow river
dotted with sails,
a back drop of curtains was
hammered in, swaying between
the posts. a small wooden
stage barely above the grass
was centered to where the bride
and groom could stand.
the sun was warm, but not
overbearing, no hint of rain,
just a slight breeze,
no clouds, a perfect day
for a wedding on the green.
why you stopped to sit on a
bench and watch, you aren't
sure, but you did, watching
the guests arrive, the flowers,
the minister in his long
bright cloak. the tearful parents,
the small children dressed
as adults. you stayed and
watched. listening from afar
to the vows, the I do's.
the cheer from the crowd
as they rose together to the piped
in music. and as quickly as
it all came to be, it all
went away.

being used

when you were in the circus
you had many jobs
besides taming the lions.
sometimes you'd fill in for
the human cannonball,
or the trapeze artist,
but the broken bones were
piling up.
it was hard to get out
of bed in the morning.
the fat lady would come
and rattle the bell outside
your tent yelling for you
to get up. the lions were
hungry. the knife thrower
needed a target to practice
with. the sword swallower had
a sore throat and you
were to fill in tonight.
you wanted to complain,
but how could you.
it was the circus,
and you were young.

happy gum

it's hard to chew
gum
and be unhappy.
what with the bubbles
you can blow,
the smacking of it
around your mouth,
the sound it makes
as you chew and chew,
the first bite
so full of flavor.
it reminds you of childhood,
when you had so little
to worry about.
your tax lady knows this,
and has a bowl overflowing
with gum
on the counter where
you sign your forms.

settling

something's missing,
you say,
dipping a spoon
into the stew, blowing
on the boil of sauce
and tasting with your tongue
and lips. i'm not
sure what it is, what
to add or subtract,
but nothing is perfect,
we're hungry, so let's
leave it as it is.
set the table and eat.

rehab patty

to get into her car
she had to push a series of numbers
on the pad
near the handle, on the door.
then she had to blow
into a tube
to start the engine.
do it for me, she'd say,
you had less to drink than
I did.
but you wouldn't.
you didn't want her to leave
and die in a fiery
crash along the highway.
later she called you
to thank you for being so
thoughtful and kind.
she was allowed one call a day
from the rehab center,
and she chose you. forty
days later she was out
and back with her husband.
so much for being kind.

it's simple

it's simple
really. this life.
if we could imagine
it stretched out from
beginning to end.
from above and looking
back everything
is understood,
but we worry about
the in between,
with our feet on the ground,
the fat and thin
middle
that we struggle so
hard to make right.

an apple from her hand

her trunk was full
of hay.
I think it was hay.
it looked like straw though.
I really don't know the difference.
she had apples
and bags of carrots too.
they were for her horse.
her old horse
that she couldn't ride
anymore, but would wash
and brush and talk
to like a lover
after making love.
she would take the horse
on long walks
along the canal.
you were jealous
of the horse, you realize
that now.
you too needed grooming,
need tender words
whispered in your ears.
you needed a sweet
apple from her hand.

questions

you don't like waking up
with questions.
you want answers.
why is it raining.
why are you still tired.
is there any food
in this house
that's actually edible.
what's she doing right now,
and is she thinking
of me. not bad thoughts,
but good thoughts,
like the ones she used
to have before
I left her. i wonder
if she'll call me if i
send her flowers
and a note of apology.
probably not.

O negative

how ruby red it is,
this blood
pulled by a syringe
out into small vials
to be spun and stared
into its strange
universe of microbes.
it surprises you,
the color.
deep and rich, a small
river of it
sails under the bridges
of your bones,
seeks to fill
the tributaries reaching
the far ends
of fingers, of toes.
and now a part of it,
this liquid captured
in glass
has left you. marked
with your name
on white tape.

filling the space

with her white baker's cap
pulled down tight over a hair
net and matted black hair,
she sees only the rows
and rows of donuts she must
line up on the slant
of trays behind the glass
she just sprayed and wiped.
her hands are gloved like
a surgeons, pale white hands
at the end of short arms
reaching and moving
the glazed towards the glazed,
the jelly filled to their
own soldier rows.
she neither smiles or
acknowledges your presence
as you take one, placing it
into a bag. she waits
patiently, then opens the door
to fill the space you made.

the blue fly

the blue fly,
fat with spring,
metallic and alien
with its frenetic pulse.
how small
can a heart be, you
wonder.
it buzzes loudly,
who can tell
male or female,
and does it matter
in the long run.
it vibrates
with clear wings
as it walks
caught between glass
and screen, bouncing
again and again,
smart enough to get
in, but not out.
he needs help,
as you do when stuck like
it is, in the middle.

not always bliss

i build a fire for two.
always two.
the wood dry and cut,
the tinder crisp for
burning.
it will keep us warm,
the two of us.
it's not winter, but
we will have winter nights
my love.
my dear. not everyday
can be bliss.
rub your hands over
the fire, if they can't
hold mine.

even without you

even without you,
the weight of you,
the wind moves the swing.
i hear the hinge,
the squeak of chain
and wood, the metal pin.
I can imagine you there,
out there
on the front porch
with the pale blue ceiling,
lying with a book
in hand, eyes closed.
I can see you there
forever, if there is such
a thing as forever.
I could listen all day
to the sound the swing makes,
knowing you are there,
adrift in the gentle sway,
pushing you towards sleep
in the sighs
of summer wind.

the poetry contest

the poetry contest
needs new meat, new words
aligned in a poetic way
to fill their empty pages.
structured and grammar
clean, no misspellings,
or clichés, please.
five or six will do. no
simultaneous submissions.
send them via e mail
or in an enveloped,
with a self addressed
one enclosed. you will
be notified in six to
eight months whether
or not we've accepted your
poems. submission fee
is a flat rate of fifty
dollars. make the check
payable to the magazine
or me, my name is joe
frost, no relation of
course to the other one.
good luck to all.

the keeper

you hold the camera out,
which isn't a camera at all
but a phone,
then click the button.
you stare at the picture.
how can that be you,
this old. you try again.
moving your head towards
light to erase the wrinkles.
you suck in your chest,
pucker a little to draw
your face, but not too much
like the fish face photos
the kids do. you click
the button again. then again,
once more to the left,
the right. you stare
at the gallery of self
shot pictures of your face
while sitting in your car.
it's not good. you pull
over at a diner and buy lunch.
you take a picture of that.
a burger, fries, a pickle
on the side. a large coke.
a bottle of ketchup too.
click. it's a keeper.

say ahh

how easy these nurses are
with needles.
so deft at sticking one into
a vein, a tube of air
down the throat, massaging
a leg laced with blue
filled lanes. how fast
the doctors are to come in
and look, and poke, and peer
into eyes and mouth,
listening to the mines
of your body,
their questions seem so calm
and indifferent. how are you.
how was your day, then just
as quickly in bright white coats,
they've gone away.
and everyone writing something
down that you'll never see.
your life is an open book
to them, one they won't
let you read.

move on

it's easy to question
the wrong or right turn
after the turn has been made.
the words said, or left
unsaid, the cheek kissed,
or lips unkissed.
decisions that steer a life,
are easy to see with distance,
with narrowed hindsight.
it's best to leave those
thoughts alone, and move on.

cold water

with good intentions
you drew the bath an hour
ago. the steam rose
and clouded the mirror.
you closed door,
letting the hot water
stand. you'll be right in,
you told yourself, but
then you answered the phone.
you made a sandwich.
you looked out the window
for a while, admiring
the full stream
and fallen trees.
the water went cold
as love sometimes does
when left unattended.
but you'll try again,
not today perhaps,
but soon.

fresh fish

you appreciate the neon sign
at the roadside restaurant
blinking brightly in red
proclaiming fresh fish.
how kind of them to serve
fresh fish, as opposed to
old fish, fish gone bad,
rotten and nibbled on by
time and mice, stray cats.
you imagine they have fresh
bread too, not stale.
and milk straight from
the cow, not soured in
the sun, or left out.

the polished shoes

in an era
of less political correctness
someone would murmur
that this courthouse
is full of low lifes and losers.
everyone here seems to know
their way around a gun
or knife, or stolen car,
or beaten wife,
the dark alleys of the world
might be safe right now,
but you are here
among them with your suit
on, your polished shoes,
hoping they make a difference
for your unpaid parking tickets.

the awkward question

she has a question for you.
she says.
saying no more.
only that it's an awkward
question.
this gives you a chill.
puts beads of warm
sweat on your brow.
already, in your mind,
you are packing
and notifying the post
office of your leaving town.
you try to imagine which
city you'll be happy
in, knowing no one.
you prefer the beach,
the long warm line of a
coast, but in the city
you can get lost easier.
just one of millions,
lost in the crowd,
who have also moved
when a woman has an
awkward question to ask.

the lost doll

you see the doll
floating aimlessly
in the brown muck
of the lake, too dismal to capture
the whiteness of any clouds,
or blue. it sways among
the cans, and cigarettes,
the tennis balls. oil slicks,
and gin bottles.
the eyes of the baby,
belly up as smooth as a pink
bean, are impossible
turquoise. inhumanly
beautiful.
one arm is to the side,
unswimming, one missing.
the legs are bent towards
one another with fat
disjointed knees. the hair,
which is not hair at all,
is blonde like thin rope,
stretched out as if by
electricity.
who knows when the doll
was tossed in, discarded,
or whether the doll was
loved and held in the arms
of some small child
who is now searching
everywhere for her.
the doll is not human,
but you know so many like her.

sweet peppers

sweet peppers off
the vine.
up from seed, from
soil turned
with old hands
and spade.
another season under
his guide
remembering
the first sweet rise
below suns
in nova scotia.
how many more
such springs to come,
then harvest
is unsure.

the bridge

this bridge, going both ways,
narrow and steep with its steel arch
is where people come to jump
when they've had enough.
leaving their cars at the peak
before they leap. keys still
in the running car.
drinking is usually involved.
a marital dispute, back taxes.
an x-ray, or a blood test
can seal the deal.
the traffic tie ups afterwards
are horrendous. sometimes they
hit the rocks, sometimes they
snag a shoe, or a pant leg,
and swing and sway for awhile
before they drop. some do
wonderful swan dives, or back
flips into the stone blue bay.
it takes some time, hours, or
even a day, but the bodies
are found, washed up on shore
or floating with gulls riding
them like California surfers
across the waves.

the figurines

her figurines, from the 5th century,
or was it the 7th, who knows,
are lined up like Chinese soldiers
in her glass box. she has a hundred of them
carved from bones. painted in detail,
black eyes and silver swords.
she thinks they may be carved from
whale bones, or camel bones.
she's not sure, but she doesn't
want you to touch them, or hold
them. they are priceless she says.
we traveled all the way to Richmond
Virginia to buy these at a flea
market. my husband found a used
mower too. A toro, no less.

another day

your friend, eaten with
cancer, now burdened with
an experimental battery pack
of thirty pounds,
the wires attached
to his shaved skull
by wide strips of adhesive,
is still alive.
still with bite in his
talk. still funny. still winking
at the pretty girl,
eating the second slice of cake,
shaking his head, bemused
with this world,
he's heroic in his want
to continue.

melt away

you could lie on the beach
all day and eat fruit.
mangoes and oranges,
bananas and kiwi.
you could sip on a nice
tropical drink,
just me and you wearing
next to nothing, but our smiles,
remembering distant memories
of work and winter,
letting the palm trees
sway, the sand get hotter,
and the days and days
just melt away.

graduation notices

in june they come.
the notices in the mail
for graduation.
your brother's and sister's
daughters and sons.
most of whom you haven't
seen since they were
two or three.
but now, the years have
passed and they want
you to come or at least
send a check to be placed
within the self addressed
return envelope.
how much is up to you,
what is the right and proper
sum. you lean towards none,
but you wish them well.

the tide of you

how close
the sun is. positioned
in the sky
just so.
just right, to keep
us warm,
keep us alive.
and the moon, so
kind of it to pull
the oceans from
side to side.
at times it almost
seems like
it was planned that
way, as I feel
about meeting you.

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?