letting go

the boy could not believe how hard
the fish pulled at his
bending rod, stretching
the clear line to a point
that he thought it might break.
he braced his soggy sneaker
against a rock and held his
ground. no one else was there.
it was early morning and he
he had wandered away from the cottage
with his tackle box, his rod, his
small jar of worms.
patiently he cast
into the calm bay his hook
and sinker with bait attached.
he wanted to yell for help
as the fish yanked twisting
his slender wrists, but
they'd be sleeping. they might
think that he was in trouble,
perhaps drowning, wading out
into the water as he had done
the summer before, nearly
disappearing as a gold flat
sunfish swam casually before
his panicked eyes. no, he'd
bring this fish in. he'd
catch it and take the hook out
on his own, put the fish into
a bucket then carry it to the house.
but the fish pulled again and again,
fighting hard to go deeper
and farther out into the blue
stretch of water.
already the story was forming
in his mind, the tale
he'd tell around the table,
how large the fish was
if it got away, how it
sparkled in the sunlight
as it rose and jumped
snapping clean the line, but
it wasn't over yet. he pulled
and reeled in some line,
more line, more. it was still
fighting but it seemed
to tire, this fish he had
caught. it wearied and now as
it came towards shore as if giving
up the boy almost felt sorry for
it, seeing the ripple of its fins
swirling, breaking the surface.
slowly it swam in to the rocks,
the fish in the cool air as the boy
lifted the line,
holding the heavy fish up and free
from the water.
it was magnificent. he had never
seen a fish quite so beautiful.
he readied the bucket to drop
him into, but then thought
differently and slid the hook
out from the hardened lip.
he grasped the thick wet fish
in his small hands, then
he let it go. let the fish,
glimmering silver and white,
flecks of blue and green tinsel
along it's scales, slip back
into the early morning water. he
would never speak of it again.
saving this moment his whole life.
remembering this fish and how he
let it go.

my mayan ruins

the jungle encroaches.
I can't stop it.
I see the vines
and wild flowers, the trees
and bushes
sprouting madly in the small
postage stamp
of a yard.
it will soon engulf
my house not unlike
the mayan ruins.
I suspect the neighbors on
either side
are not thrilled with
my jungle, barbequing
with their propane fires,
out on their bricked
patios and pristine
decks, but what do they
know about temples,
about the nature
that I embrace. one day
they will uncover
my humble abode and wonder
what was going on here
and who was sacrificed
at the altar of my
weber grille.

invention

i'm tired of working for the man
you tell your friend Lydia.
me too, she says, maybe
if we invent something
we can be rich. she throws
a crouton at a small
gathering of sparrows
at a table outside of Balducci's.
like what you say,
biting into your twelve dollar
chicken sandwich.
oh, I don't know.
something easy, something fun,
something everyone will say
oh wow, that's cool,
I want one.
you know, like a pet rock,
or a slinky. the hula hoop.
hmm. okay. let's brain storm
then, and get rich.
a few minutes pass as she eats
her enormous salad
and you bite into your sandwich.
more birds gather.
i'm getting a head ache
you tell her. I think they put
too much salt in this chicken.
I got nothing, she says.
me either you say
and open the sandwich to take
a look at what you're eating.

i'm listening

I can't talk now.
it's very late, i'm very tired.
i'm beat
exhausted by the week.
but i'll listen
if you want to ramble
and fill my ear
with words.
I might not remember
anything you say, but go
ahead and tell me,
tell me anything,
tell me all the things
you need for me to hear,
just don't expect
a reply, or little more
than a yes or no.
go ahead, i'm here,
go fast, go slow.
i'm listening, my dear.

to be found

these missing things
are where you left them,
to be found
when you aren't looking.
a key, a ring,
a phone,
your copy of a book
she gave to you.
and her too,
now lost somewhere in
a dark room.
not hiding, not visible,
but there
awaiting your hand
to find her, not later,
but soon.

it's kind of late

at first I resisted taking
her recipe for squirrel stew,
thinking when am I ever going
to make such a dish, but
then she said that you can
substitute possum, or road
kill, raccoon and deer meat.
so, I said why not, and read
through the hand written
smudged paper. you have to
slow cook it, she said, slow
real slow, baby, you can't
rush this recipe and don't
over season this dish,
too much salt will kill
the flavor, lots of them
squirrels are pretty salty
anyway. so i made a note
of that at the bottom of
the paper to go easy on
the salt. I have some squirrels
now wrapped and skinned
in my fridge if you want
to come on over for a
cocktail on the front porch
swing. it's kind of late,
I said, but hey, rain check?

deep in the heart of texas

it was hard to get the texas
out of her.
the white cowgirl hat,
the rope
she used to throw around
my dog, hog tying him
to the ground, throwing
her arms up and yelling
time?
yippie kie ay
she'd yell out
when it was a romantic
evening with just the two
of you, the candles
lit, a bottle of chardonnay.
i'll go fire up the grille,
she'd say with
her jeans painted on,
those pointed boots,
that stack of tall blonde hair.
she had that twang in her voice
that made everyone ask,
where you from exactly lady,
to which she'd answer
Texas, proudly,
then display her texas
flag tattooed on her long
tanned leg.

the important list

I make a list
of things to do,
places to be,
etc. etc. etc.
it's a long list.
already crumpled
and coffee stained.
folded and placed
next to my keys. i'll
slide it into a back
pocket though
and forget it about
for most of the day.
when work is over
and the debris
of change and dollars,
keys and crumbs
and emptied i'll
see the list and read
it, then once more
set it in a place
where I won't
forget it tomorrow.

three squares

mostly, he talked about the food
at the shelter, not
the noise, or danger. nor
the top bunk where he slept.
he talked about
the three squares per day.
his eyes, as blue and murky
as any low water
along the river, darted as
he said the words
Salisbury steak, potatoes,
green beans, and pie,
rhubarb pie for dessert
with vanilla ice cream.
he couldn't wait for the day
to end to get to the table
where he was served and
waited upon as if he was
a king, not a man with
one suitcase and all he
owned inside.

on planet earth

she was a mathematician
by trade. you met her on
the plaza by the big fountain,
throwing bread
to pigeons.
she seemed distant and aloof,
quiet in her thoughts
as you walked by.
you said hello,
having seen each other before.
she mumbled something
about how far
the moon was away
from the earth,
the orbit of the sun.
it was as if she was solving
an equation of time
and space,
distance and the speed
of light, all at once.
hello, she finally said,
as you were almost out
of range to hear her
voice. how are you?
sometimes love occurs
when there is nothing in
common but being alive
and breathing the same
air, at the same time
on planet earth.

let's begin

the analyst likes to start
with your mother,
that witch, you mumble,
your father, loser, you whisper,
your childhood, those formative
years that have gotten
where you are today.
afraid of one day
living in a card board box
behind the liquor store.
she digs deep
into your angst, using
the sharp blade of her
educated knowledge.
she wants to fix you.
repair the flat tire of
your soul. weld the broken
metal pieces of your bones.
she wants to shave your
head and cut open
your skull, get into
that soft bubble of grey matter
and poke around, see what
the problem is.
she hands you a box of
tissues, but you push it
away and ask for a beach
towel.

the clean house

when the house is clean
after a team
of uniformed maids
has swept through,
shining each knob
and window.
all counters wiped,
all shelves dusted,
steps
and floors vacuumed.
when the air has that
springtime
scent of Lysol in it,
and the beds are made,
the pillows fluffed,
the dishes put away,
the laundry done,
you tip toe through it
for a few days,
and try not to go back
to your carefree ways.

the six week plan

it takes a long time,
she tells you
to get over a broken heart.
years, in fact.
it's been nine years
since I've gone out
on another date.
I have my dog, my cat,
my knitting
and my friends.
we watch tv together
and heal
our wounds, we talk it over.
what went wrong.
but I think i'm ready now
to get back out there
and find my next
soul mate. and you,
she says, how long does
it take you to recover
and be whole again.
six weeks you tell her,
give or take a week or two.

everything the same

having not seen one another
for years.
you both catch up.
the illnesses, the past
loves, work
and more work. getting
the small talk
out of the way about
children and pets.
moving and staying put.
she points at her scar,
a small ragged line
on her neck. you pull
up your pant leg
and show her
where a dog bit you.
she laughs, you drink.
you go back to her small
apartment, everything looks
the same. you make
love then leave
before the morning comes.
nothing has really
changed.

lighter than air

your thinness
over grief attracted stares.
people that knew you
asked if you were okay.
you had lost your appetite
for nearly everything.
water seemed to fill you up.
a piece of fruit
being enough.
you gulped air,
exhaled and went on,
finding a new loop
in your belt to buckle.
gazing at the low sky.
walking dazed,
lighter than air
in the absence of her love.

the expatriate

if I see another tortilla,
she writes
in her sauce smudged
postcard,
I might cut my wrists
with a taco shell
or dip my head into
the largest glass
of margarita I can find.
i'm sort of done
with south of the border.
yesterday there was
a traffic jam
of a truck carrying
chickens and a wagon
full of limes
going to market.
I had to wait over
a minute to cross the road
to the cantina
for a teacher's meeting.
i'm no longer wearing
clothes,
I just get up and put
a poncho over my
body and go to work.
I miss soap and water,
my bed. I wonder how my
plants are doing
on the balcony,
and my cat. my little
black gato sitting
on the sill wondering
when i'll come back.

a new dog

she ponders a new dog.
a replacement
dog.
but how do you replace
those years
that are missing too.
what dog
can do that. maybe
two.
two might fill the house
with new barking,
new fur
shedded everywhere,
but still
it might not be enough.
she might
have to live in quiet
and grieve
a little longer.
as she once did for
love.

table for one

you wake up wanting
eggs.
bacon. potatoes.
she's left you
strangely hungry
for a meal.
toast and jam.
juice and coffee.
it's still dark out,
just past
the hour of five.
you think about finding
a diner on the side
of the road
to work.
or maybe you'll skip
work and drive
somewhere you haven't
been in awhile,
Baltimore,
or ocean city,
or south to Richmond.
any place will do.
no need to pack a bag,
just go.
follow some empty road,
then eat,
table for one, not two.

it's raining here

she sends you a short note
via the phone.
you hear the bell
ring at four a.m.
down in the kitchen
where it sits.
I have an itch
that needs scratching,
she writes,
but she's there,
and you're here,
so there is little
you can do to help
her.
you say me too.
in a week, she might
write back,
and say that it's
raining here, or
something along the lines
of, I miss you.

the yellow mg

his mg,
bug yellow,
was often at the end
of a tow trucks hook,
being pulled
off a highway, or back
road to any garage
that could work
on such a beast.
he was tall, so he folded
himself into
the leather seats
to shift and speed
along, a cap upon his
head, the wind
buffering against
the sides of the tight
british boat.
the top always down.
it was always a gamble
taking a ride.
you knew it was going
to be short,
not sweet and that you'd
be walking
and walking at some
point when once again
the engine died.

things to use

this was something he could use.
the man falling on his steps
now shipwrecked in his own body
unable to move. the woman
with packing boxes, writing
kitchen, bedroom, basement
on the soft tops after taping
them closed. the boy sleeping
in his mother's arms, his mouth
open, as the bus stopped
and went along the route.
her leg, white and shapely
outside the boundary of a
blanket and sheet, her arms
above her head, as if captured
in some dream, unmoved.
the three lights above
the mirror, holding his image,
one burned out, the other
two showing the absence
of his youth.

the dancer

he stumbled
with words, awkward
in dress, not handsome
by a worlds view,
his hair a bush
full of wind
uncombed,
the stubbled chin,
two old brown shoes,
but when
the music started
he was suave
and debonair
as his two feet danced
with style,
swift and smooth.

becoming we

she liked to eat
dessert in bed afterwards.
ice cream
usually, with cherries
and whipped
cream, hot fudge sauce
and pecans
a cold pyramid
of sweets
a bowl for her
a bowl for me
two spoons agreeing
to live
side by side,
becoming we.

inside the stone

inside the stone
a man is chipped
into view.
smoothed
and rounded, sharp
and muscled where
he needs to be,
posed and poised
on a pedestal
for any passerby
to see.
how life
and the world sculpts
us into being,
whereas as the inside
is left up to something
else entirely.

the break out

the tunnel
is nice. paved and lighted.
fresh air blown in.
there is a coffee
kiosk at
each half mile,
a rest stop with a massage
chair to take a break
from breaking
out of a Mexican prison.
at the end
of the tunnel a car
awaits,
and a bouquet of flowers,
a small band
and a parade
with a banner saying
welcome home.
we missed you.

the new map

the new map
is different.
new roads, new ways
to get from here to there.
it's freshly printed
as if it happened over night.
you can't take the old
ways, through the woods,
around,
the new map shows
how things have
changed.
how life will never
be the same.

section eight

the cracked door,
where a fist, or boot may
have struck it,
the steps, broken, a dark
hole in the concrete
where it sags. a paper cup
full of cigarette butts
on the ledge.
the jammed lock with half
a key. the unchained dog
scratching at the door.
the pots and pans
on the stove, each stuck
with food
from some morning or
night, cooked then
left to stand.
the debris of paper,
unopened bills,
boxes. the smell of sinks
overflowing, something
wet and slippery
on the matted rug,
once red, now a faded
pinkish color. coral
under a green sea.
everything is sticky.
the heavy curtains keep
the light out,
the darkness in.
and on the wall a plaque
reads home sweet home.
blessed be this house
we dwell in.

no parking between 7 a.m and 9 p.m.

how lonely the meter
maid is
in her small truck like
car, an upright box
painted white and blue
with flashing lights.
not quite the police
not quite in charge
of anything, but this,
her yellow pad and pen,
writing tickets
and sticking them under
the wipers of cars
who have stayed too long
again. how strong she
must be to be disliked,
and yelled at,
abused by those who
don't understand her
job, they don't know
that she really is a nice
person beneath the badge
the blue shirt
and black hat.
she's sorry to be writing
you a ticket. deep inside
she's sorry despite ignoring
your pleas for forgiveness.

there was a time

there was time in your life
when you would wash
and wax your car
on a Saturday afternoon,
lift the hood, change
the oil, clean the windows
until they sparkled.
rub each bumper with
a chamois cloth until
they mirrored the sun
and blue sky. there was a
time when you put a shine
on your car, tenderly
cleaning, wiping,
getting the air pressure
right, opening the doors,
the trunk, getting ready
to pick her up for a drive
on a moon lit night.
there was a time.

are we almost home?

i could see it in the road
up ahead on shore drive
along the coast, between
the alley of dark trees
and sand. the road curved
at certain points, bent
in the lightless night.
the possum was in
the middle, hardly moving,
he seemed to sway,
teetering on his clawed feet,
his red eyes in the headlights.
it happened so quickly,
the thump of his body
beneath the carriage
of the car, the feel
of his roll beneath my
feet. i looked in the rear
view mirror to see what
was left of him, but
it was too dark to see
anything behind me.
i shook my friend awake
and said hey, i think
we hit something in the
road, maybe a possum,
to which he replied.
I'm hungry. are we almost
home?

the special

it's the special
at twenty seven fifty,
the bow tie pasta
the red sauce ground beef.
some spice,
all in an oversized bowl,
with bread
and olive oil.
not so special
though. you could make
it in twenty minutes,
the same meal
at a tenth of the cost.
but you have paper
napkins
and the ambiance
is lacking.
the tv is on and the dog
is begging.
the phone rings
and there is no one to pour
the wine but you.

the living room

it's a lawn of blue carpet.
a sturdy couch, blue too,
but darker,
penny's perhaps, those
drapes, flowered
and pulled back
to greet the morning
off the apartment patio.
the t.v. where it should
be, front and center
against the wide wall.
a table to either side
with a jar lamp
to hold the electric light.
pictures of grandchildren,
who haven't been that
small in years.
the coffee table, for
legs, for cups,
for a flowered center
piece that will never
die. it is the way
they like it, Francine
and Wallace,
and will be this way
when ten years
or more go by.

be done with her

it's best to disregard
the dream,
the uneasy nightmare
that haunts
your bed, your tired
mind.
the dark of her,
the gloom
of love, the bloom
off the rose,
the petals
black
and fallen
in bare grass,
now mud. it's best
to not linger
at the point
of departure, not
stay
against the knife
of words, but
leave the night for
sleeping, be done
with her.

your shadow

your shadow,
tired in the heat,
takes a break,
you look back and see
it on a bench, resting,
leaning the way shadows do
angular and bent, almost
the shape of you.
you wave it on, say, hey
let's go, we have places
to be, but it doesn't budge,
it stays put, stays quiet
under the dappled light
of a summer sun dancing
through the trees.

the first time

it's not the first time,
though you clearly remember
firsts so well.
it's not about
the first kiss, or car,
or house,
or love, was it love?
it made you sick,
the butterflies, the wind
in and out of your sails
on a daily basis. so maybe
it was love.
okay. let's call it love
and move on.
but it's not about
the first time of anything.
no matter how stitched
it is into the fabric
of your memory
and life.
no, it's the next one,
or the one you're in now
that counts.

page ten

I struggle with this new book.
this biography.
it's thick
and full of words.
very detailed.
it takes an hour to get
someone across
the room. he ate only
hard boiled eggs.
he wore brown shoes.
death is a relief
for some of these characters
getting them out of the story.
I look at the page
number, then turn to the back.
only three hundred
and seventy-nine more
pages to go.
I flip through the book
looking for pictures.
where are the pictures?
the boy in his youth.
his middle years.
his dog, something, even
a map will do,
something to break up
the monotony of this man's
life that is now part
of mine.

what's fifteen per cent

the doorman
needs a dollar or two.
a small tip to see him
through the next ten minutes
before he has
to open the door for
someone else.
the cab driver,
pulling your bags from
the trunk,
the skycap getting
you from the curb to
a counter.
there's a man in the bathroom
handing you a paper
towel to dry your hands.
what's the proper tip
for that.
and the bartender,
the waiter,
the bell hop
the maid.
even your son, your wife,
as you travel,
have a hand out,
waiting to be paid.

alone star state

it's not her home,
her town,
not even her state.
but she settles in with
a gin and tonic,
her feet up
on the apartment balcony
railing. she stares out
across the cactus
laden land, wipes the sweat
from her brow.
somewhere she hears a cow
mooing,
she hears a cowboy
saying something to his horse,
chickens clucking.
it might be time
to get out
the blonde hair dye,
puff the locks up to the ceiling,
put on the denim and
make the most
of this erroneous move.

her new house

she can see herself
in the new house. where the bookcase
will go,
the long soft couch.
a tv for the corner.
a green plant, tall and wide
near the window.
she can feel her feet
upon the floors, long planks of
wood, buffed and oiled clean.
she smells the food she will
cook at the new stove,
the sink where her dishes
will go, she can hear
the swing of the cabinet
doors
as she shops and fills
each one up.
she sees her bed in the large
room with windows.
the spin of the fan
on hot summer nights,
the light coming in
as she wakes up early
before her run.
she sees a long string of
tomorrows in this new house.
it's been too long
to have waited for change.

yellow bird

the tiny bird,
strangely yellow.
as bright as any bird
has a right to be,
the size of
nothing,
round as a cotton
ball on
jetted wings. how
unusual and hopeful
to see
such a bird
among the brown
and green.

teacher on a burro

she sends me a picture
of her on a burro, it's a brown
beast, stocky
and low, a thick tail,
its ears up, plowing along.
she's on her notepad
typing, grading papers, while the burro
slowly moves across the dusty
ridge overlooking
the mountains.
she's wearing a poncho
striped yellow and red,
a thin line
of jagged green diamonds.
her sombrero blocks the sun.
you imagine that
the burro smells like coffee.
the ground smells
like coffee. those green mountains
also, smell like fresh beans
of coffee.
she gives the animal
a firm strike from her
booted heel, but it goes
no quicker down the hill.

just a taste

the boy, still a boy,
leaning back, half asleep,
the needle still in his hand,
nearby the rubber wrap
untied, snaked
beside his crumpled
legs, his bare feet.
a dot of blood where the point
went into his arm
stretched out.
the smile of sleep
is on his lips, the face
lineless and serene.
his veins are full
for now of heaven,
hell will come tomorrow.

basting in the sun

the colors fade
from the fabric over time.
the angle of the sun
coming through
the windows.
the carpet too,
the reds and blues,
losing their vibrant hues.
the sun does
many things you wish
it wouldn't do.
take a look at us,
on this beach,
basking in the yellow
blaze
of summer, aging us
before we're due.
here, take this oil
and rub some more on me,
then i'll do you.

the fallen man

there is an orange red
iodine drool on his chin
his lips,
across his shirt.
he's leaning on the front
stoop, the bare concrete steps,
holding his knee
where his tube socks
rise tightly over the blue
roped veins.
his daughter, something
from the golden age,
right off the set
of whatever happened
to baby jane,
says, can you help us
get him in.
he needs to go upstairs.
her head is wrapped in a peacock
blue scarf,
her robe is open,
showing her pale skin,
a rash.
you turn away, not so much
from the smell, but you don't
want this memory etched
into your mind.
with the help of a passing
neighbor, everyone
tries to lift the old man.
but to no avail.
his blue eyes wander
fearfully, his white hair
are feathers under his soiled
cap.
someone calls 911.
a team of men come, they
put him on a stretcher and
drive him off.
his daughter, hand over mouth
keeps saying,
what now, what now.
her arms out stretched
to hot july sun.

tell me about your mother

she listens all day
to their problems.
their issues their unresolved
childhood angsts.
unloved by parents,
small slights by peers that still
bleed after decades
have passed bye.
the wounds are deep, but
to others they seem like mere
scratches,
tiny pricks of skin.
it's a long day of listening
and listening,
never quite getting
to a solution, to an
end.
the cure is had to come by.
only breathing, the stopping
of it, takes
it all away.

to each his art

each to his own
piece of art. the cubist
leaning
awkwardly against
the triangle of a bull's
set of horns,
love hurts.
the abstract
splatter of Pollack
is me
some nights, some long
nights, either out
or alone.
the bend of time,
clocks dripping with hours
along the bare branches of Dali's
trees.
hooper's diner, who hasn't
had their elbows
up on a long
counter sipping coffee
after a night of revelry
at 3.
and wharol's silly cans
of soup,
who doesn't want
to kick them all down
a long deserted street.
but give me black and white.
give me
the bloodless image
of a camera held still
on a building,
an empty boulevard, on
a lover asleep on white
sheets throughout
a winters night.

the torture chamber

you feared your dentist.
dr. deklebaum.
the navy corpsman
with fat sausage fingers
delving into your
tiny mouth on a hunt
for cavities.
his clumsy way with
the needle and drill,
the silvery sharp
weapons,
your legs trembling as
his large head
with black glasses
loomed in with a gap
toothed smile, mumbling
something, about
staying still,
pulling the overhead
heat lamp closer,
grabbing your chin
to steady you as you
grimaced at the smell
of onions and garlic
that he just had
for lunch.

run boys run

i remember the man
in the field with a shotgun.
the workers
in overalls, orange
and dirty
all of them bending
as one, picking melons
along the ripe
rows. handing them
in a line to one another
then onto a flat bed
truck.
i remember as we, the three
friends
each twisting one off
the vine, running.
laughing.
waiting to hear or feel
the blast of
the guard's gun.
he wouldn't shoot
mere children stealing
watermelons from the prison
farm, would he?
and today, i can still
hear the prisoners
yelling out,
run boys, run.

whiskey sour

your father
liked to drink.
brown whiskey for the most
part.
tumblers of whiskey
sours, manhattans,
scotch on the rocks,
that sort of thing.
he worked part time as
a bartender, which didn't
help matters
for his wife and seven
children.
you could smell the sour
breeze of cigarettes
and booze on his
stiff bearded cheeks.
the whiskey making him
either happy
or angry, depending on
which way
the wind blew
in his life that day.
but now, so many years
of being dry
later.
you see something else
in him.
regret, perhaps, remorse,
even compassion, a rare
event. but
forgiveness is a difficult
thing in life.
forgiving oneself
being the hardest.

the land line

they call and ask
politely for money.
they are the only calls you
get now on your land line.
firemen
policemen
hospitals and shelters,
good causes,
shady causes, dialing
you up for dollars,
donations of clothing,
cars
and anything else you
don't need or want
anymore. they ask if they
can verify your google
listing, which
confuses you to no end.
or to refinance,
or for prescription
drugs that you can buy
without a prescription.
you always say, thank you
for calling,
but not today, not tomorrow
either, but it doesn't
matter. they'll call
again in about an hour.

until next year

the table is covered in newspapers.
mallets and pliers. tools that appear
to be dental tools are scattered about.
there are small ponds of melted
butter in shallow plastic
cups aligned next to tin shakers
of seasonings
of an orange color,
jars of vinegar are clear
enough to see straight through.
in the middle of the table
are dozens of reddish freshly
steamed crabs, once blue, dead now
from the boil of water
and steam. they are crusted
with a brown salted sand
of herbs and spices. the mound
is a foot or two high.
a secret mix someone says
as he brings out a plate
of corn on the cob
and sets the wobbling dish to
the side.
there is beer too. tall
pitchers of yellow beer
being poured into red cups.
suddenly everyone is seated
and together, like machines,
with quick fingers,
the experts dig, pound, and suck
the sweet white meat out of claws
and shells. at some point
the sun goes down. the crabs
disappear. what's left of
the beer goes warm and is tossed
out into the lawn. the newspapers
are folded together with the empty
shells. the cars drive away. the red
tail lights disappear
down the winding road until next year.

her horse

you couldn't fall in love
with her horse,
her old sagging horse.
so that became a problem.
an unspoken issue.
you could never mention
the flies
that would sting.
the barn cat, fur matted
rubbing against your
bare leg. the smell.
the smell.
the smell of horses
and everything.
you could stand outside
the door and watch her
as she washed the horse
down. a brush, a hose,
feeding it carrots
by hand. talking sweetly
into his enormous
brown eyes. her hands
smoothed his thinning
coat, lovingly she nuzzled
her cheek against him.
you wanted to be
that horse.

her red hair

she has red hair now.
which is fine.
but not rust red, or
cherry red, or even
candy apple red.
it's not orange either.
it's more of a deep
burgundy.
she tosses it around,
holding her shoulders
back. it's nice
you tell her. I think
you should keep it
for awhile.
I wish I could do
something with mine
you say, feeling the
stiff grey stubbles
that stand on the widening
field of your head.

do you know a welder?

the note asks
if you know of a welder
nearby, perhaps a friend,
or someone
in your line of work
who does welding on
the side. she has a lamp
that needs to be fixed.
a pipe that covers the wire
has broken. it's a small
job, the note says.
very small, perhaps
a five or ten minute
job if you know what you're
doing and have
a welding torch
and the tools needed
to complete the job.
you write her back
and slip the note
under her door.
is this really about
the broken lamp, you ask,
or is it something else
you want to talk about?

frozen peas

you place a bag
of frozen peas under your right
eye where an errant
elbow struck you in a game
of pick up
hoops at your neighborhood
black top court.
it's a nice little mouse,
blue and grey,
fat on the cheek bone.
no blood, no splitting of skin,
no broken bones,
just a welt, a friendly
reminder of how
fragile we are, win or lose.
you embellish the story,
say how high you were
in the air,
going up to snatch a ball
or throw it down
into the chained rim
with a resounding growl,
you make up a story saying how
someone swung and missed
the ball striking you.
when the peas get warm,
you grab the carrots,
and place that bag firmly
upon your face. the Asian
medley is next.

the insurance man

the insurance man wore a grey suit
with a white shirt pressed from the dry
cleaners. it held that processed smell
which made his nose itch. a blue tie
dotted with anchors along its wide
fabric was knotted around his thick
neck. he carried a brown briefcase
in his left hand while he rang the door
bell with his right hand, a finger pressing
on the warm dot of white light.
he then knocked, but there was no answer.
he looked at the card he kept in the pocket
of his suit coat, and read the name
and the address to himself.
it wasn't a cold call, the woman had called
him, inquiring about life insurance.
term life to be exact.
he knocked again and leaned off the porch
to peek into the living room.
the curtain was pulled back just
enough that he could see inside.
the lights were off now, which weren't
when he pulled up in his car.
he knocked again, then looked once
more inside. he saw a woman
crawling on her hands and knees,
away from the window, across
the floor and out of sight, heading
towards what he thought might be
the kitchen. she seemed to be wearing
a costume of some sort. black,
with a cape. boots. he couldn't quite
make the rest of it out.
it began to rain. it was the end of
the month and he wanted this sale.
it would round out nicely his paycheck.
he put his hand up to shield his
eyes, and stared up into the sky.
the rain came down harder. he thought
about waiting in his car,
or going around back to knock on
the kitchen door. he paused, tapping
his brown shoes against the concrete
porch, then rang the door bell once
more. he called out her name. miss
taylor, he said. Deena Taylor? it's me,
the insurance man.
you called me about insurance.
then he heard a door close from the back
of the house. a dog barked
and he heard the rattle of a chain link fence.
he went down the steps and looked
towards the alley that ran dark
and long beside the clapboard houses.
he could see the woman in the black
cape and boots, running away in the rain.

the collection

after years and years of searching
and finding, he was proud of his collection
of coins and stamps. displaying
them in glass cases, taking them out
for visitors to see. everyone
had seen them all many times
and heard each story that
he was quick to tell of how they
were found, and what they meant, but
each time, they feigned surprise
and joy with their appearance.
so when they were stolen by a
burglar who blew into town, then
out after a string of robberies,
the man became glum, despondent
and quiet. his wife tried to console
him with words, with meals
and fresh baked pies that he
adored, but his appetite was gone.
for food, for life, for the day
he lived in. how could someone
do that, he's say, sitting on the front
porch of his house. why would someone
steal my stamps and coins.
I never believed in capital punishment
before, he said, but now I do.
sometimes he waited until deep
into the night, when the stars
sparkled and filled the sky,
thinking maybe he would see the robber
again going down the dark road
with a sack over his shoulder. he'd
question him as to why, why would
you take what was rightfully mine,
then plead for him to bring them back
with no questions asked.
but the man came never came,
and he lived out the rest of his
life in sadness. the stars meant
nothing.

the quiet before

i'd rather shoot myself, she said, than
live here, whispering at the young couple
who had just moved in and now stood
behind their new home, staring at the stream
that moved a stones throw away.
they think it's Shangri la, she said.
here happened to be your house,
your neighborhood, but she didn't
understand or think that such words
could sting, or hurt someone. I wanted
to say, I feel the same way about where
you live, in a run down patch
of houses, deep in the woods, snakes,
rusted washing machines in every other yard,
the ancient cars on blocks,
not even a paved road, the falling
trees every time it rained or the wind blew.
driving ten miles to get a quart
of milk, or a cup of coffee. you bit
your bloodied tongue and moved on.
silence seemed to be the best
choice of communication between you two.
nothing was ever discussed. not the issues
with sex, or money, tomorrow, if there
was to be a tomorrow.
less communication was the glue that
stuck you both together, a quiet
before a storm that never quite arrived.

the morning

she didn't want to stir him
as he slept. his arms long
and hairy across the white sheets.
his dark hair a tangle
on the pillow. she didn't
want to awaken him so she slipped
carefully out of bed,
and crept down the stairs,
putting on her robe as she tip toed
towards the kitchen.
she put coffee on, poured a bowl
of milk for the cat
who was already on the counter
waiting. she rinsed a cup
in the sink, then stared out the window
at the thin layer of snow
that had fallen while they slept.
she remembered her mother standing
at the sink when she was a child.
always washing a dish, a glass,
something for someone that needed it.
but here she was, alone,
unmarried, no children, a man
in her bed she hardly knew.
nothing seemed to have gone wrong.
the choices were all the right
choices, she believed, but
it was hard to catch her breath
at moments like these, wondering
what was next. she wanted him to sleep,
to sleep, and be gone
without a word. she wanted her
life to begin again, start over.
she set the two cups, two spoons,
to dry on the counter,
beside one another and quietly waited
for the water to boil.

mirrors

it was a short walk for the old man,
leaving his three story walk up not
far from the park. his bench, the bench
he thought of as his, was near the lake,
which wasn't much of a lake at all.
the water poured in from the overflows
of neighborhood drains that lay just beyond
the thin barrier of trees, pines
and oaks, scrub brush and chain link
fences if you looked hard enough, or
it was winter, and the trees bare of leaves.
but it was a short walk with his cane,
down the steps, down the slope of sidewalk,
his bag of bread in one hand, his hat
tight, the brim pulled down, his overcoat
loose, but the collar up now
that he felt the wind.
the spring was still cold enough to keep
people away, especially in the early
morning, having it all to himself,
to walk the gravel sand, to throw bread
to the gathering geese, the stray gulls
who had wandered far from the bay,
or sea, he had this shallow pond to himself,
to remember the loves of his life,
those women, that loved him, those
that had passed on, those that
he let slip through his hands.
but he had forgiven himself, as one must
do with age, not staying in the nether
world of what ifs, not wondering
what could have been. it was good enough
now to be alive, to be here, to be
tossing bread into the air, gone before
hitting the mirrored circle of water.

two small boys

the sky sure looks religious today,
the boy said to his mother
as she drove the yellow ford pick up
down the narrow band of dirt road
between high corn on both sides.
I can almost see angels he said,
leaning his bony elbow on
the window. can you see what
I see, momma, he said, pushing
up in his seat, craning his skinny
neck out as the car bounced along
towards the church
at the bend of the road where
the field flattened without crop
this season. don't fall out,
she said. we don't need two dead
boys on our hands today, now do we?
she adjusted her sunday crown
of dark blue ribbons and pointed
to her handbag on the floor
where the boy's polished
buster browns almost
touched the rubber mat. hand
me a cigarette, she said.
then pushed the metal lighter
into the dashboard. sit down son
and be still. tuck your shirt in
and say a prayer,
or better yet, sing me a song.
sing me any old song. it'll make
the day seem brighter. so the boy,
in his high pitched voice,
sang a song he learned in school
all the way
to the other boy's funeral.

the egg

the egg is perfect,
so neatly lined
in rows in the cardboard
box, each one oblong
and wobbly
hard enough to roll
and not break
full of unformed
life, now cold,
soon to be scrambled
or fried,
over easy, perhaps
boiled hard,
or poached,
white or brown,
the shell holding
in its sheen
the soft kitchen light.

the other side

the woman told me
on the phone that she could
channel the dead.
have a word or two
with the dearly departed.
I said, how much,
is it a long distance
call, or will
you Skype, or text,
perhaps e mail
your beloved friend.
she said I have my ways.
credit card number
and expiration date?
your friend is fine,
she said. we just had a nice
long chat.
she says hello and that
it's wonderful up here.
I miss you and don't worry.
what else?
that's about it, she
said. oh, and she said
that you need to get some
food in your refrigerator.
really, she said that.
no, she laughed.
I just made that part
up. she can't really see
you or anything.
it's not like they have
a glass floor up there.
let me know if you want to
talk to her again though.
we're open all night
and day.

the new born

the groundskeeper
who lived
with his family below
your house
in spain
was tall and lean,
polite,
a beret, black and soft
upon his head.
one by one
he'd bend over and snatch
each new born
kitten from the box
where his cat
would lie and place
them into a burlap
bag, he'd then walk
to the sea
as green as glass
to drown them.

the roman candle

your roman candle
is wet.
it won't fire, bring flames
and sparkles
high into the air.
it's soggy
and cold, sitting out
in the yard
awaiting a match
to bring it back
to life.
its reluctance to be
happy is a curious thing,
but will pass
in time. not every day
or night
can be a holiday.

cleaning out

the hired men come
in a box truck. white
but beaten
and dirty.
they come to haul away
the things
that have gathered
in your basement
your garage,
up the fold out steps
to your attic.
the tread mill, a zebra rug
rolled and standing,
the old TV's now
useless and too large
for anywhere. snow tires.
golf clubs and skis,
fishing rods,
all things you've used
throughout
your life, collecting
dust, leaning against
the walls, encyclopedias
stacked and forgotten.
you want to say no,
leave this or that,
but resist, letting go.
that thing in life
that is so hard to do
with all things,
even you.

finding gold

the years you spent
panning for gold,
sifting through the cold
water
as it rolled off
the mountain,
the melting of snow.
your eyes searching
for that one smooth
nugget, the one that
will get you home,
the one that will
end this madness,
this waiting with arms
stretched
into the water
that moves faster
than time, as you bend
and grow old.

bacon lust

I can smell
bacon cooking somewhere
in my zip code.
it's been so long since
I've had any.
my mouth waters
and I want some. I
want six or seven strips.
I don't care
how fatty and full
of nitrates
it is. I want some
bacon and I want it
now. who's cooking
it, in what pan is it
sizzling
in its own grease?
where can I get some
bacon. thick long
strips fried and fatty
plucked from a gurgling
black pan.
who opens their kitchen
window and cooks bacon,
what kind of a world
are we living in now?

the new you

the new sixty
is fifty,
the new red is orange,
the new beef
is buffalo.
the new shirt is
a poncho.
the new way of thinking
is the old way
with a twist.
the new kiss is a bite.
an hour is now a minute.
a day a week.
a year, forever.
the new shoe is a loafer.
the new breakfast
is eggs with turkey
bacon.
the new you is an old you,
with a limp
and without hair.

the glue factory

I know I shouldn't have said
that, as soon as the words left my
mouth, I wanted to grab
each word, and stuff
them back into my slightly
inebriated mind, but
it was too late,
the comment about, have
you gained weight, or sorry
about your son's
incarceration, but I bet
he looks good in stripes.
so what do you have now, three
cats, or four. don't they
make your house smell.
and so how is the old horse.
time for the glue factory, or
what?

an above average phone

if you were a phone,
not necessarily
a new
smart phone, but perhaps
an above average phone,
you'd roll over in the morning
and plug yourself
into a wall,
recharge those tired bones,
those weary muscles.
you'd scroll your list
of things to do today,
your calendar of
where to go, who to see.
with your eyes
you'd take a picture
of the sky about to rain.
if you were a phone
this morning, you'd
stare at the list of
contacts, some new, some
old, some never to used again,
and delete her name.

late night snack

she calls from Guatemala
at two in the morning eastern
standard time
forgetting that you are not
on the same clock.
what are you doing
she says, making a crunching
noise over the phone line.
i'm eating a corn
tortilla with cheese
and hot tamale sauce, she says.
and having a margarita,
salted.
you'd love it. I have a blender
in my room
hooked up the generator
out by the chicken coop.
were you sleeping?
yes, you tell her. but I am
hungry and wish I was
there with you.
I could use a margarita
and a tortilla right about now.

water to boil

not unlike waiting
for water to boil
that never does,
you stand
in the reflection
of your own life,
and wait for things
to get done,
to be just right.

barking

I think about a new dog.
then think about
picking up after him
in the rain, the heat,
snow, sleet. him wandering
about for an hour
looking for the one
perfect spot, as i beg
him to go. I think about
the plastic bag,
the bending over, then
think no. maybe i'm
not ready quite yet
for the barking and chewing
of shoes and furniture.
of fleas and shedding,
of vet bills, of his short
life, then dying.
I think about his barking,
I may have just mentioned that.
I think about a new dog,
for a moment or two,
but quickly let it pass.

the hot dog contest

you decide not to enter
the hot dog eating contest this year
at the company picnic.
the long night
at the hospital last 4th of july,
has cured you of that idea.
sure, it made you a star
in the office,
how the women swooned
at the sight of your enormous
pale belly, gurgling
with beef franks, hardly
chewed. your star spangled
shirt pulled up, stretched
to its polyester limit.
how they pointed at the pictures
on the bulletin board that monday
of you in your mustard
and relish covered
t-shirt. a piece of art
that would make Jackson Pollock
proud. you on the gurney being
rolled away into
the ambulance, your hand
up giving the victory sign with
a smile creased across
your bloated face.
a piece of bun stuck
to your cheek.

the red dress

they steal her car,
the white BMW that she left
running in front of
a 7-11 as she ran in to get coffee
and a Danish before work.
they use her car
to rob a bank and be chased
throughout the day,
being shot at and cornered
outside of town where
the woods meet the river.
she hears it all on the radio,
calling her sister
to tell her that her car
is in a high speed chase
with bank robbers at the wheel.
I have my favorite dress
in the back seat, she says.
the red one that I love.
I just picked it up from
the dry cleaners.
the robbers are never found,
but her car is. the engine
still running, not worse
for wear, no bullet holes,
no signs of who was there.
only the dress is gone, these
two men, these bank robbers
have decided that perhaps one
of their wives or girfriends
might look nice in a red
dress like the one
they found.

king's highway

he tells you, embarrassed,
but not too much.
about the three meals,
the chores.
the room he shares
with a stranger, both
trying hard to find
a way out, and back into
the world of commerce
and independence.
it's a bus stop,
a shelter for ninety days.
walking the straight
and narrow line of sobriety.
he tells you, with a whisper,
about being strong,
being still a man, but
losing, losing so much,
so often to bad luck,
bad turns,
decision made too often
with no lessons learned.
he takes his bag,
and wanders back into his
own life. a pocket full
of cash, a slow gait
up king's highway.

an old love

the necks turned upwards
to the settled
sky of receding light.
the wait, the wait.
the dogs on short leashes,
the children on
tired shoulders.
then the spark and spring
of booms,
of colored light
in star flowered
blues and reds,
pinks and whites.
the spray of patterns
across the darkening sky.
each year, since childhood,
you've stood
and watched with someone.
your son, your wife,
a new love, an old love
who has returned,
for just one night.

what distant planet

i smell chicken on the grille.
seasoned just right,
filling the summer air
with burnt meat.
my quiet neighbors
are standing together,
holding hands, like no one does.
the baby is on the picnic
table, her pink arms wiggle
in the smoke, but happy
in her portable crib.
they love to cook out.
they love
to stand over the fire
and watch the coals grow hot
and white. they poke at the chicken
legs and wings,
the breasts, turning them
together.
hardly a word passes between
them. the baby never cries.
i wonder sometimes where they
might be from,
what distant planet.

salad dressings

the condiments, of which you have
dozens, are taking over
the shelves,
the bins, the places
where real food and drinks
should go.
how many ketchup bottles,
salad dressings, and oils
do I need. three mustards,
wasabi and mayonnaise.
hot sauce, two different kinds.
texas pete being one,
tabasco the other.
my son used to count them,
to mock me in the way he learned
so well.
thirty six, he'd say, shaking
his tangled head of hair.
it's time to purge. it's always
a good time to purge
for just about anything.

the west coast

you almost made it
to California.
she was waiting for you
at Huntington beach,
come, come soon, bring
nothing, just you.
she was the sun,
she was the ocean, she
was everything
you heard in a song.
all you had to do was get there.
but you never made it.
the car broke down
ten miles outside of town.
you almost made
it to California,
it would have changed everything.
almost,
but in some dreams you did,
and have never left.

frozen pizza

i'm not sure how long
that frozen pizza
has been in the freezer.
maybe a month, maybe
longer. I remember
placing it into the shopping
cart along with
eggs and bread,
potatoes, and apples,
thinking that it might
come in handy one
hungry night. a last resort.
but that night hasn't
come. a lot of nights haven't
come. but there is
always hope. always pizza,
frozen and waiting.

against your will

born into this,
you push on, your day
is your day
then onto the next
and further
into your life
calendar. each page
not torn away,
but slowly peeled
and sent off,
released into the wind
of each new season.
you are born into this,
against your will,
as you will die
at your appointed time,
also, against your will.

old phones

why I don't throw away
the old phones,
the dozen or so dead
phones in the kitchen
drawer, I don't know.
perhaps, there is a part
of me that believes
that nothing truly ends.
that love is forever.
that voices once heard
will be heard from again.

the early ocean

the ocean is too cold.
you can't
enjoy the water.
the heaving of salted waves.
the glass green
of the shallows.
you can hardly touch it
with your feet.
it's too early for this visit.
for remembering
the past, for making
new memories, captured
now in a cradled
phone.
it's too early in the day,
in the summer
for this ocean.
you'll have to come back.

she waits

in a blue dress
the color of cold,
with dark eyes,
her lips striped red,
her legs a color
not unlike
the color white.
unhurried, she waits
for you
at the platform
and smiles.
fresh off a plane.
a black bag
of small things
at her feet.
you can hardly breathe
this close
to her. it's more
than just a kiss,
more than an embrace.
it's something else,
something beyond words,
beyond friendship
and for now it fills
an empty shared
space.

her velvet rope

her life
was bordered by a velvet
rope.
you could look in,
stand at the edge
of her grand room
and see
the chandelier,
the long sofa, the side
chair,
a mirror, a vase of fresh
flowers, a table with
eight chairs.
the thick carpet
and oil paintings
centered and lit.
but you were never getting
in, never going past
her velvet rope to know
how she really lived.

the biography

a new book about
a writer you adored
when you were younger
is in your hands.
it's thick and hard covered.
he was famous for drinking
and short stories.
his smoking.
his life was shorter
than the tales he carved
out with a small
sharp knife.
and now you read another
biography of his.
detailed and full
of every misstep he ever
made. his wives.
his booze. his wandering,
trying to find his way.
but always writing, always
writing, trying to make
sense of it all.
the dead is an industry
all its own these days.
shining up those
that have come and gone,
or turning on the light
so bright, that you
have to turn away.

pieces of herself

i'm tired of leaving pieces
of myself
all over town. there's
more to me than this,
she says,
standing in the night
light, her pale skin aglow.
these men,
these men, she sobs,
they want just one thing.
why can't they get
to know me,
leave that part of me
alone. what's wrong
with people these days,
she says, as she gets
dressed at the side
of the bed,
putting her clothes
on.

a small thing

a inch left or right
can make
all the difference,
the turn,
the decision to go
or not go.
to call
or leave it alone
and move on. each day
there is something
small done,
that changes everything
at some point
along the way.

that's nothing

cancer you tell your friend,
as you sit in the late
afternoon sun sipping vodka
tonics.
cancer, the worst kind.
inoperable, there is nothing
anyone can do. she won't make
it through the year.
oh, that's nothing suzie
says, shaking her head.
my cousin lucy had cancer
and she was blind.
she had a seeing eye dog
and a white cane to find
her way around.
not only that, her husband
left her for another man.
oh, you say. that must have
been horrible.
tell me about, she says.
a nightmare, and then she
died.

someone's knocking

you hear someone knocking at
your door,
but you're upstairs
and don't feel like going down.
it's never good
when someone knocks at your
door these days.
they want something,
your time, your money,
or they want to tell you about
God, as they believe in
God. but you're upstairs
in your underwear,
drawing a bath, almost
ready to sink into the water
with a new issue of
the new Yorker.
you could go to the window
and peer out, but they
might see you and knock even
harder. if it was someone
who knew you, wouldn't
they call first?

sushi order

they are intense, these
men behind the counter in white
uniforms,
red bandanas wrapped around
their spiked black hair.
they look more ready for war
than making sushi.
you can't see their hands,
but their shoulders
and arms keep moving from
side to side, angry it seems
at these fish, these shrimp
and avocados,
cutting, dicing, rolling
seaweed and rice.
you don't even know what
you ordered, but made a point
to say no eel.
something spicy would be nice,
you told the waitress,
something no longer
wiggling with life.

a little hungry

there is always
the threat of sharks
at the beach.
grey skinned, smooth
and wet, the dorsal
fin cutting quickly
through the blue swim
of water, hungry
with rows of sharpened,
eon aged teeth.
they mean no harm.
they are just being who
they are. for what else can
they be but sharks,
and aren't we all
a little bit hungry.

the waiter

the waiter is too happy.
too nice,
too friendly. too chatty
and present.
he brings you more
water, always with the pouring
of water.
butter, bread.
how's the bread, he asks.
isn't it good.
we make it here.
he gives you his suggestions,
and says that whatever
you have chosen
is his favorite.
he's a nice person.
he's trying so hard
as he interrupts your
conversation, your mouths
full of food.
there is nothing he won't
do for your table,
except leave you alone.
you understand though.
you've been that young
and eager. you like him
and know that he will learn.

a kind word

a kind word
is all it takes sometimes
to change
things.
a light touch,
a gentle tug
at the heart.
an apology, or even
silent listening
can put the fire
out,
melt the trouble
and restart,
but not always.

the girl in her

she is an easy bake
oven.
she's a Barbie doll.
she's a small
red car. a bike
with training wheels
and streamers
flying from
the handle bars.
she's a girl, still,
at this age, in pink,
in ribbons and bows,
not a sign of grey.
she'll never ever,
she promises, grow old.
so you hold her to it,
and say I do.

paying bills

you settle in
at the big table.
the bills, the check book.
a pen,
stamps, envelopes.
it's a small stack
of correspondence
not quite over due
but leaning in that direction.
you make coffee.
you turn on the light,
you sit
in the quiet of your
house and do
this simple thing, this
ritual
of life, listening
to rain, your heart
beat.
the pen across paper,
sending them out
like crisp
paper kites.

other things to do

you don't mind the rain.
the rain
gives you other plans.
it's okay
for a day or two
to go without sunshine,
or blue
skies. you need the grey.
the cool dampness
of a long
wet storm.
you make other plans.
you make
room for other things
to do.

the consequence

there is a price.
but it's unmarked. no
tag,
no stamp or bar code.
there is no way
of telling
what any of this costs.
but you press on regardless,
fulfilling your needs.
perhaps you'll
find out
in the end,
as you leave the store
holding on
to what you think
is worth
the consequence.

just listed

your real estate agent
shows you a house. you can
hardly hear her because
of the dogs barking next door,
but she points out
the new kitchen stove.
they replaced everything
after the fire,
the counters,
the linoleum floor.
she shows you the bathroom
on every level,
flushing each toilet
behind her.
look, she says, surprise,
another bathroom.
she opens a closet door,
then steps inside.
it's a walk in, she says
loudly, spinning
around, her head
almost hitting the light.
check this out, she says,
pulling up the blinds
in the master
bedroom with its view
of the street, a tree
in bloom, a dunkin donuts
sign blinking in the near distance.
I hope you like donuts
she says. I sure do.
I hear a target is going
up soon.
she takes you to the basement
with the unfinished walls
and slab floor, she points at the hot
water heater. next to the chalk
mark outline of a body.
that's the hot water heater
she says.
then smiles and says,
isn't this a great room.
the possibilities
are endless.

bring a dish

someone bring potato salad
in a big yellow bowl.
someone brings
cold chicken
on a cold plate.
there's one shrimp left
on another table, the red
shell still in tact.
there's coleslaw
and small crispy things,
wraps of some sort,
might be carrots inside,
leeks?
another person brings
more potato salad
covered in foil.
a woman carries in a tray
of deviled eggs
sprinkled with paprika.
there's a tossed salad
on the table
with two giant wooden
spoons stuck into the leafs.
in comes a tray of pasta
salad, a home made
recipe, her arms buckle
with the weight.
finally a man carries in
a bucket of
potato salad and sets
it on the floor
next to a cooler of beer.
you wander with your clear
plastic fork,
searching, searching
for something to eat.

suitable for framing

you need to write
a sweet and sappy poem
she says.
something without a bit
of cynicism
or sarcasm, one
that doesn't criticize
or complain.
you need to write something
light, something
kind and thoughtful,
from the heart
with compassion, something
I can print off
and frame. you can do this,
she says,
think of me,
just think of me, then write.

the distant shore

the fast day
swallows you whole.
into the whirlpool
of hours.
hardly a moment
to ponder or stare
into your navel.
just the labor of your job.
which is a good thing.
no mirror to look
into. no guilt
or sorrow, no
remorse, no regret.
just the deep swim
of work work work.
the churning of arms,
the legs kicking
to get to the other side
of the day.
that distant shore.
and now, finally
you are home.
closing your eyes
to everything, to rest.

the body shop

they're giving out
new hips
and knee caps
down the block.
tendons, and metal
plates
for the heads
that need them.
it's a body shop.
all sizes, all ages.
hearts and livers,
kidneys, first come
first serve.
take a number,
have a seat, put
your feet up
and get your paperwork
ready. we can sand
off those worry lines,
fatten up those lips,
we can shave off those
unsightly blemishes,
narrow the focus
of your vision,
lop off a few pounds
around
the waist.
have you every thought
of having that turkey
neck taken
care of. well here's
the place.
take a number, have
a seat, we'll be with
you before the sun
goes down.

no one's to blame

I see no point
in blaming anyone for what has
happened.
there is no reason
to point fingers
or thumbs,
or give anyone
a swift kick
out the door. it's no
one's fault here.
it's just
the way the earth
has turned,
the orbit, its rotation,
the revolution
around an
ambivalent sun.

the loan officer

so, you want to finance your new
vehicle for 72 months, right.
no. 36, like I told you, like
I wrote it down on that slip
of paper and put it in front of
you, that paper, the piece of
paper under your hand. okay, okay.
and you don't want to put anything,
down, right, and you
have no trade in, is this
correct? no, I traded in
my other vehicle and the dealer,
the dealer that you work for
gave me five thousand dollars
for it. and i'm putting another
eight thousand down. just like
it says on that piece of
paper you just rolled up into
a ball and tossed in the trash can.
okay. I see. and so, let me
figure up your monthly payments
after fees. interest, no down payment,
no trade in and for 72 months.
let's see your monthly payments
will be 879 dollars per month
due on the 15th.
no, no no. why aren't you
listening to me. this is not
the deal we agreed upon.
thank you for coming in
and doing business with us.
we are so happy to help you.
have a nice summer, we hope
to see you again when you
purchase another new vehicle.

party animal

in woods behind your house,
before it rained
there seemed to be an animal
party going on.
music and dancing.
drinking to excess.
you could see the red fox
darting nervously about
from one spot to another,
the deer, languid
and quiet, drinking
martinis. the chatter
of raccoons, bossy in their
striped suits.
the fat owl in the tree,
shaking it's head.
it was a long night
of chatter, and rustling
in the bushes.
it seemed to be a fun
party despite the occasional
scream of what
kind of an osprey do you
think I am, take
your paws off of me.

out of context

you clean up well,
she says,
running into one of
your clients in
a bar, she looks
you over from
shoe to head.
she has never seen you
without a bucket
and brush, a pole,
a spackling knife
in your hand.
caulking stuck to
your arm, your pants.
your face speckled
with fresh white
paint. she hardly knows
what to say,
thinking he might
actually be human.

shoes

you have too many shoes.
brown, black,
loafers, tie ups,
and wing tips.
tennis shoes, basketball
shoes.
some new, some old,
some never worn
the soles still
clean, hardly out
of the box. dress shoes
for a wedding
or funeral.
you understand this shoe
thing.
even the sandals,
even the slippers.
you can't have enough
shoes, remembering those
early years
of patching the one
pair that you owned,
slipping cardboard
into the bottom where
the round hole grew.

the wide blue sky

there were the family
vacations.
your family. your wife,
your son.
the dog put in the kennel.
the week long
stay at an ocean side
hotel.
the umbrellas and blankets,
towels,
and toys.
the setting up of camp
near the shore.
sandwiches made,
cold drinks in the cooler.
the digging in.
the lotions spread.
everyone happy
and warm in their
unfolded chairs beside
the ocean roar.
a book in each lap,
read slowly, ever so
slowly as a plane pulled
a banner
across the wide blue sky.

we're friends, right?

you can't make the party,
so she unfriends you.
you don't take a call,
busy with work,
so they unfriend you.
you fail to like or comment
on a cake they baked
and posted, so you get
unfriended.
someone moves, someone
dies. someone forgets why
you're friends in the first
place, they all unfriend
you. you are losing ground
with your social network.
you need a new team of
people you don't really
know, or care too much about.

survival

the power goes
out in the middle
of roasting a chicken.
so you go to survival
food.
pouring milk
before it spoils.
spreading
a knife full of peanut
butter onto
a small dinner roll.
you take out
the jelly too, you
hope it's jelly,
you hold the label
to the light your
phone provides.
yes. it's jelly.

the rules committee

they keep the grass
cut. the leaves blown
and bagged,
the dead branches
tied and towed away.
they trim
the hedges.
plant the flowers
at the entrance.
they give the road
a washing.
they make it seem
quite wonderful
to live there
as the president
of the board in her
hip boots,
with her clip board
marches
towards you house.
quickly you try
to muzzle your barking
dog and plead for him
to be quiet.

the enduring silence

you never had the talk
with her.
the relationship talk.
that anxiety ridden discussion
where you both
ask each other
painful questions about
where this is going.
she never wanted
to discuss things, put
the cards on the table.
she liked the quiet of it all.
not knowing, or perhaps
not caring
how it ended or moved forward.
which made it odd
when it did end.
not having raised a voice,
or thrown a book,
no slamming of a door.
or keys tossed down.
there was just the gentle
roll of tires
as she pulled away,
and the enduring silence
from that point on.

the man in the grey car

you say hello
to the old man who sleeps
in his car
outside his house,
you pass him everyday
going home.
the window half cranked
down.
you see the sweat on his
dark brow
as his bald head leans
against the window.
the radio on.
he nods and holds
up a hand,
he seems to be hardly
breathing in his sweat
box of a car.
you want to ask him why,
why are you sitting in
your car alone
on such a hot day. at
least turn the engine on
and let the ac blow.
but you say nothing.
he says nothing.
you leave each other
alone, which is really
what you both want.

the single woman

the lighter shade
is better, you tell her
as she hold it up to a window,
casting more
sun onto the swatch
which overlays
the fabric and the paper
she wants
pasted to the walls.
but what about this one,
or this one here,
she says, dancing around
with her palette of colors,
going from
shadow to light
changing everything with
motion.
can you do each wall slightly
less dark
than the adjoining wall
she asks,
her eyes flickering
with a crazed look of
home decorating without a
husband
to make her compromise.

the slow snake

you barely avoid
the long slow snake.
a copper head
as you ride
your bike along the path.
the rain has
brought him out
from hiding.
he hardly moves
across the paved
trail,
his perfectly
stitched and diamonded
back.
brown and beige,
soft in the late
afternoon light.
he's in no hurry,
it seems.
one side of the woods
being no
different from
the other. he'll
there when he gets
there.

bird in a cage

she has a bird
that talks.
repeats everything
it hears. he's so sweet
and smart, she tells you.
it says hello. says goodbye.
says curse words
when you least
expect them.
it's grey and red,
a rainbow
of feathers, yellow
and green.
it will bite your thumb
off if you
stick it between the bars,
she warns you,
but it's too late,
you need something now
to stop
the bleeding.

keepting it afloat

everyone you know
is tired.
the long hours,
the kids,
the bills, the car
and house
all needing attention.
they are worn
to the bone with life.
they can barely
speak
of fun, or relaxation.
their eyes are flat
and red,
thinking forward
about what's to be
done next
to keep the whole
thing afloat.
wine helps. sleep, when
it comes helps too.
but they see no escape,
no way out,
it's just another day
with no beginning,
no end.

side of the road

the flat tire gives you
a lonely feeling.
a feeling of regret
and remorse, what for
you have no idea. you can
only sit on the side of the road
waiting for
a good Samaritan or
truck
who might help you out,
or give
you a tow. your triple
A card expired
just yesterday.
your cell phone is dead.
it's hot. blistering
in the sun.
but you sit and wait
against your metal car,
your punctured tire,
sunglasses, and hat
screwed on. sometimes
the world
takes a turn you don't
see, making you stop
everything along
some desolate road,
a deserted highway.
it's just you and a small
lizard that keeps
popping his head
out from under a nearby
rock, his shadowed home.

the half marathon

when she ran,
it was a slow plod,
shoulders rounded,
hands in front, limp
and open fisted.
her focus was narrow,
a small point
in front of her,
where the next foot
might go.
with her number
pinned to her jersey,
her long dark hair
behind her,
she ran, she ran
through the march wind,
the march cold.
along the coast,
never stopping, never
wavering.
the same pace, the even
breaths.
and this is how
she lived, always
going forward, never
stopping or looking back
to see where you
might be.

these angels

you try to keep
your religious beliefs
and faith
to yourself most times.
not mentioning
certain impossible
to understand
occurrences that
have taken place
over your life time.
no need to mention
angels, or narrow
escapes of death
or injury. who would
believe such things.
coincidence or luck
most people would say.
it's better to keep
such tales
of that other world
to your self, to be quiet
about your visits
to the holy ground of sorrow.
best to save
those tales until
someone needs them,
and they will.

the dark spot

it's a small spot
on your white shirt.
it's a smudge, dark
and dry to the touch.
you have no idea how
it got there, but
it won't come out.
the shirt is fine
otherwise.
all the buttons work,
no tears, or rips,
no thread unraveled.
it's just a spot, a
dark spot
that won't come out.
sometimes that's all it
takes to find a new
one.

when she whistled

the girl kid
in the old neighborhood.
part girl
part boy.
pony tail with muscles.
legs of steel,
could whistle.
two fingers
in her mouth and she'd
let out a shriek
across the hot
summer street where
our Olympic games would
begin. kick ball
stick ball.
football, hide and
seek.
sometimes we'd
hide together and never
be found.

not on the same page

we're not on the same
page she tells you tersely.
were not in the same book
on the same shelf.
we're not even in the same
library or bookstore,
not even in same kindle.
in fact we're not even
in the same pyramind
inscribing hieroglyphics
on the walls.
not even in the same cave
scratching bison
and wolves onto stone.
okay, okay, you tell her.
I get it, i'm going,
but love how
you've thought this out.

maybe you

something new
is needed.
you aren't sure what.
a lamp,
a painting, a rug.
something fresh
and different
to adorn
the room.
a vase full of flowers,
a new table,
round
with chairs
all shades of blue.
something new
is needed.
maybe you.

more now than then

the dead are with you.
awake
while you're asleep.
they keep moving
staying alive
in dreams,
walking through
the quiet halls
on soft shoeless
feet. they are not
ghostly, not wan
or pale
no skeleton souls
without skin,
they are more than
me or you, they have
lived and have
come back
more real now
than then.

the last train

the train you were waiting
for has already come and gone.
you missed it.
the platform is empty.
your bag sits beside you.
you turn up your collar,
button your long
coat and look up the bend
of the empty rails
that disappear
into the woods.
the morning is quiet
and cold.
you stamp your feet
you look up to the white
winter sun that is hardly
a sun a all, just a pale
wafer, a reminder
of time gone by.
you could walk home
from here, but you'll
stay a little longer,
why not pretend, and wait
some more.

from the same tree

how different each child is.
the same blood,
the same father
the same mother. but as
different as the seasons
are, running hot or cold.
each blowing
in different directions.
each finding, or not
finding a way to live
to make life
easier on them and others
around them.
how different each child
is. each sister,
each brother.
all from the same tree,
the same ground.

the broken wrist

when pulling her up
from the chair where she's
been for hours.
after breakfast
then lunch, then sleeping
with the circle
of others
in front of the loud
tv, her wrist breaks.
she's heavy, she's a lead
weight for the women
that work there,
trying to get her to a
bathroom.
they know her scream.
they've heard this cry before.
so the women, now
two or three, get her
to her feet and call
the first number on the list,
her husband, and then
of children
that must come and take
her to the emergency
room.
the cast is new, white,
molded hard around her thumb.
it wraps around
her sting of purple veins.
the old tendons,
the brittle bones
that served her well
through all these years,
but now fail, having lost
the memory
of what needs to be done.

undone

she spills
sometimes. the tears.
the words.
the glass of her tilts
and out she comes.
all wet and soft,
unglued, undone.
wondering as everyone
does at some point,
what went wrong,
but it passes
and before long she's
back to being
an angel in white.
with wings.
flying strong.

summer plans

when I get back from china,
she says,
maybe we could have dinner
and catch up.
i'll be travelling all
summer through asia,
then japan, and maybe
a brief stop in Australia.
I should be gone for
several months.
then i'll be in cuba
for awhile. just to visit.
a short stop in
brazil and Venezuela.
but then i'll be back.
and you, what summer
plans do you have?
the beach you say. just
got a new suit and a new
chair, a new umbrella, last
years blew away.
might stay three nights.
love those boardwalk fries.

the baby garden

the garden
is behind a long glass
window.
this is where the babies
are.
growing in small boxes.
all colors
and sizes. quiet and loud.
a chorus of
squeaks and squeals.
eyes finding light,
fingers and arms
twirling, sprouting
free.
one by one they
come in, they leave
into the hands
of perplexed owners
wondering, what have
we done.

commerce

it's the push and shove
of the world
from door to door,
day until night
that keeps us moving.
the business of living,
the commerce
of life.
each sun
each moon a small mark
of a day gone by,
of a dollar earned
a dollar spent.
somewhere in between
there is more.
so you've heard.

God's Will

under the bridge
you see them. canvas
stretches out
in make shift tents.
a small
fire, a gathering
of grey wool,
bundles of belongings.
a dog or two.
they rise
in the morning
and take their signs
and cups
to the road where
the traffic stops.
it's another world,
so different from me,
from you,
but not so far
that you couldn't join
them one day
God's will or not
set upon you.

fast forward

it is an instant
world
these days.
the express line,
the quick
mart,
the one stop
shop,
no delay.
instagram,
instant coffee,
instant love online,
no looking back,
no regrets,
no pondering the past.
it's all about
the now
and tomorrow.
we are trains
speeding along
on one way tracks.
we need to be places
in a hurry.
we have no time
to spare or lose.
the clock keeps
ticking.
our bags are forever
packed.

just one oyster

the last time
you ate a raw oyster,
just one slippery
inch long oyster
with lemon,
letting it slide
so easily down
your throat
you were in the intensive
care section
of your tiled
black and white
bathroom floor.
you made yourself
comfy, with towels
and water,
keeping the light off
while you whimpered
at the cold seat,
hugging it weakly,
making vows to God to never
eat anything like
that again.

remember

you remember
that there is something
you need to remember.
but what is it?
work, house, car,
someone you're supposed
to meet
at 7 or was it 8.
a list would be nice.
maybe that's what
you forget, you forget
to write a list
of things not to forget.
you tie a string
around your finger
maybe that will help.
but you doubt it.

the dark skies

the children
in the rain, shoeless,
their skinny
arms
waving to the sky,
running
through the steam
of the street
onto the green
lawn. how happy
they are being soaked
to their
young bones.
how breathless they
become
under the thunder,
part scared
part full of youthful
wonder,
but almost happy
to be called
in by parents who stare
differently
at the dark skies.

red wine

someone begins to talk
about wine.
red wine specifically.
the grapes,
the vines, the wineries
from here to napa county.
he pushes his glasses
up on his nose,
inhales his chest then
begins to teach.
you start to doze,
your mind wanders,
you stare at a lamb chop
on a plate
with other lamb chops
across the room.
you wonder if it's
better warm
or cold. is there
mint jelly?
how can you become
invisible
and move towards the food.

the party lights

in the almost dark,
the lights out,
candles are lit
and we move gently
through the house,
holding drinks and plates.
the blue darkness
of night
is illuminated
in the bloom
of lightning
crooked and silver
across the sky.
there is no hurry
for power to go on,
there is soft
resistance to it all,
making the night
easier adding
mysterious wonder
to the party
of poetry and prose.

the parking prayer

you pray for work.
for love.
for wisdom.
you pray for others.
health
and wealth,
you ask for forgiveness,
you pray for mercy.
you pray for your child,
the children
of others.
your prayers are thoughts
flying up
out of your imagination.
so many prayers
are given.
some answered, some ignored.
but right now you pray
for a parking
spot so that you don't
have to walk
ten blocks to where
you're going.

in her lemon dress

in her lemon shoes
and matching
handbag,
her summer dress
aglow
ripples in
the breeze, that yellow
too.
she is a citrus
drink but sweetened,
stirred pretty,
a clear glass of cool.

a better idea

the tilt a whirl
goes round and round
with screaming
children,
i can hardly look at it
without getting
dizzy and feeling grey
butterflies in my stomach
wanting to fly out.
the same goes for the ferris
wheel, the roller coaster
and scrambler.
all rides i wore out
when young
and more adventurous.
but now, i like to stare
at the ocean. both feet
planted firmly in the sand.
that's enough
excitement and motion
for the most part
that i need, unless
you have a better idea.

shining shoes

you haven't shined
a shoe
in ages, although you used to.
taking the little
leather bag out
with polish, a brush
and rag going at it
hard and long
holding the shoe up to
the light
to see how well
you've done.
you don't shine shoes
anymore.
one of many things on your
growing list
of things you no
longer do, such as chase
and worry,
wonder what's become
of you.

baker park

she lived
in old baker park.
where the church bells
on sunday morning would wake
us up. loud clangs of metal
echoing through
the square,
one after the other.
they'd rattle the windows,
vibrating
the old house.
shaking plaster free
from the ceiling.
stirring
us both towards each
other, to a different
kind of music.

sleeping in

how quickly morning comes.
the birds outside
the window
noisy in their winged way.
busy already
with what they need to do
with their
unscheduled day.
how nice it is to lie
here and do nothing, but
lie here.
staring at the circle
the ceiling fan takes.
letting the light rise
and come through the blinds,
the parted curtain.

some books

some books you can't put down,
savoring each word,
each turn of plot. you don't
want them to end.
others, no matter what the high
praise blurbs read
you can hardly hold
them in your hand, drag your
eyes across another line.
these books are quicksand.
heavy and thick, good for one
thing, holding the door open
when the wind picks up
and swings.

the italian vase

when the vase hits the floor,
after moving the wobbled leg
of its stand, it misses
the corner of the thick
oriental rug and strikes
the floor with a thud.
it doesn't crack into pieces,
no shards, no corners or curves,
instead, it turns to dust.
a cloud rises like a small
bomb of ancient clay
in the dining room.
this makes her laugh and say
don't worry about it.
i'm going to Italy next month.
i'll get another one.

saying goodbye

I want to go home,
she cries, gripping your arm.
I've been here
too long.
how long though, she doesn't
really know.
each day has melted
into the next,
weeks becoming months.
her body has curled into
the chair she sits on.
she can't remember much.
your name, her name,
but very little more.
you lie to her when you leave.
you tell her that you'll
work on getting her
back home, back to her
kitchen, her yard,
her blue parakeets
in their cage.
you tell her you'll be
right back. right back,
you say, then kiss
her on the cheek and leave
turning around once more,
to see her wave.

a throw away poem

you sign up for Uber
wanting to make a few extra
bucks to keep
a roof over your head
and the fridge stocked
with potato vodka
and limes.
but your car is old,
so you suggest
using your pick up
truck with an empty
space in the back
where you carry hay
and alfalfa for
your horses. i can fit
fifteen riders back there,
you tell them. sure they
say, then give
you the instructions
of what to do.
you call your eight
year old son on his
cell phone to help you
with the app, or is it
ap. who knows.
there is only one
restriction the Uber
folks tell you. you can't
call yourself an Uber
taxi. because you
have a flat bed truck
you have to call yourself
goober.

riding away

you dream about her horse.
you are riding it
despite having no riding
skills whatsoever.
she's surprised when she
sees you coming up the path.
her hair is pulled down
and flows around
her shoulders, black
and shiny in the sunlight.
her face is smooth
and young, her eyes clear.
you offer her a kiss as
you dismount and hand
her the reins, to which she
replies no, then slides
onto the horse, and rides
slowly away. it's a bittersweet
dream, one you'll think about
all day.