the artists

she says
i'm a hair artist.
an artiste, if you may,
not a hair
dresser
or cutter, or stylist.
but an artist.
I make house calls.
I understand, I tell her.
I too am
an artist.
each day
I cover a wall
in paint.
leaving the detail up
to your own
imagination.
the ceilings are white.
the walls
linen.
the doors and trim
shine
with gloss.
close your eyes and imagine
why lies
beneath.

shadows and light

the world is full
of shadows
and light.
what's true, what's
a lie,
what's in between
changes
from day to day,
hour to hour.
you can't figure it out.
best to keep
going and not dwell
too long on
any of it.
tomorrow things will
be different,
or they won't.

happiness

i remember my son
telling me about the house
down the street,
across the tracks,
the mini mansion
with a fountain out front,
how wonderful
it was there, how they
had a pool
and pinball machines.
video games.
cold sodas
on ice. sandwiches on trays
brought out by a housekeeper
who spoke French.
there was
a leather couch with a tv
as large
as a wall.
it sounded wonderful
the way
he painted the picture
of this paradise.
maybe you could go live
there i told him.
maybe they have room
for you.
they could adopt you.
we could still stay in touch,
if you'd like,
or maybe i could spray
you with the hose
in the back yard and later
we could play catch.
but you decide.
i don't want to stand
in the way of your
happiness.

both ends

I can see mailman
with a dog
attached to his grey
pant leg,
he's dragging it along,
it's a small
dog, his teeth
are sharp
and won't let go.
the mailman pulls it
along his route,
the dog's eyes,
bug out
brown and watery.
he's unsure what to do
now.
his weary snarl growing weaker,
getting what he wanted
finally.
now what?
i understand both,
the dog
and the mailman
as the pile of junk mail
hits the floor
falling through the slot.
I've been on
both ends
of the bite.

turning the heat on

how nice
it is to have heat.
the turn
of the dial
sending a wave of warm
air through
the vents
defrosting my toes
and nose,
my arms and legs.
how nice
to hear the click
of the furnace go on,
the gentle roar
of the fire
as it burns
and blows.
how nice to be home,
to stay inside
and be done
with the world
out there, the life
we lead,
the cold.

maintenance

I am going to get my hair
colored
later today,
she tells you
via text. maybe red,
or auburn, for the fall,
what do you think?
I can't believe the grey
that has over
taken my roots. I hate
getting old.
i'm way behind
and late on botox too,
i'm so wrinkled.
I need a book marker to find
my mouth,
not to mention
my lipo appointment,
I was a little
bad last week on desserts
and fried
food. I need a peddy
and a manny as well.
right now I'm heading to
the tanning booth,
then to the gym,
maybe later we can get
together. I need someone
to hold my ankles
when I do my crunches.
and what about you?
what are you doing to stay
young?
haven't thought about it
too much, I tell her.
I guess I should though.
just feeling kind of lazy
lately.
maybe i'll just buy
bigger clothes
and stay home.

a change of color

the cold air
seeps through the open
window.
cranked just slightly
with a gap
that allows
the swift breeze
to swim in.
you see the thin
cake of first frost
on the hoods
of cars.
now the leaves will
change.
they have no choice,
likes us
who have no
choice in so many things.

the memory of food

despite not knowing what day
or month it is
my mother
has never lost her appetite
for food
and drink.
the divining rod
of hunger
leads her to the table.
her dish gets filled
and you place
a fork into her
hand after helping her
into a sturdy chair.
you give her a napkin,
placing it on her lap
then move the plate
closer to where
her arms, and long
veined hands can reach.
perhaps the memory of food
is serving her
well, keeping here
for another year.

these old men

the old men
at the park, gathered
in clusters
of grey
and white sit on
the benches,
some with books
they brought to read,
pages earmarked
with photographs,
others leaning on
canes, pointing
towards something in the distance.
the sun is low, almost
under the skyline, but
the pristine blue
of the sky
is harsh
through the winter trees.
painted too blue
perhaps. sparkling
too bright for these men
who remember
everything so differently.

the bell ringer

the man in front of the grocery
store
has returned with his
bell.
his black pot
secured and swinging on
a tripod
of metal poles.
he greets everyone with have
a nice
day.
his right hand rings
a loud bell
hour upon hour. he has a wool
hat on
with the flaps pulled down
to cover his ears, a dark blue
pea coat is buttoned
up to his plaid scarf.
he paces in place,
as if doing a dance
and waiting for instructions
as to what to do next
with his booted
feet.
it's fifty degrees out. you
look into his eyes to
try and determine if he might
be touched, as they used to say,
a little crazy.
but you see no sign of that.
he seems happy, standing there
year after year, ringing
his bell
and saying have a nice day.

the other hand

give me your hand,
the gypsy tells me
after she pulls my American
express card
through the machine on her
table. it sits next
to a crystal ball
and a boiling cauldron
of bat's wings.
relax. stretch out your arm.
just relax, my dear.
open your palm.
yes. she says. yes.
it's all very clear.
she takes a sip of her starbucks
latte. wiping her mouth
with a black cat
that was sitting on her lap.
I see it now.
that line is a line
of longevity,
but those other lines,
those deep
crevices that cross your life line,
those mean trouble.
what do you mean by trouble,
I ask her.
each small line is someone
you've loved
or will love
and they will cause you great
pain and grief
until the day
you die, which is a long
ways off.
oh. I say. shaking my
head.
what about the other hand?
any better?

sunday afternoon

who could be knocking at my door
at this hour.
the sun already down,
me, half asleep
in the sweet comfort of
an afternoon nap.
what manner of man
or woman,
keeps banging their fist
against the door.
persistent and hard.
are they selling wood.
magazines,
or cookies.
do they want money for the poor,
the blind,
the incontinent.
is it a fireman with boot
holding the dark
hollow out
for change? or a neighbor
perhaps,
desperate for a bowl of sugar.
you don't ask for much
from the world,
but being left alone
on a cold sunday afternoon
is one of them.

a line of black birds

a line
of black birds
sit
with tightened wings
on the wire.
imperious
winged
creatures,
staring in
the same direction.
wind
hardly ruffling
their dark knit feathers.
neither omen,
or portents
do they hold. no measure
of doom
can you discern,
but still it rattles
you,
to see them.
so still, so aligned
in defiance
of this world, of light.
waiting with strange
patience
when to leave,
to take flight.

distant relatives

relatives
are hard to get along with.
not all,
but some.
the brother. distant and aloof,
paranoid
under his blanket of money.
one day it's here,
the next day
he's on your couch seeking
a place to stay.
the sister
with her tea parties,
and small cakes
on Russian
plates, the tea served
in delicate
cups
with horses
and chateaus, a trellis
of grapes. smiling
while her sharp
knife draws blood into
those
who couldn't make it,
or may be arriving late.

picking pumpkins

they study
the pumpkins. white sweaters
around
their waists.
him in a creased plaid shirt,
her in a cream
pair of slacks.
a starch white blouse.
his hair is dark with flecks
of silver.
hers is blonde and hangs
straight on her shoulders.
the door of their SUV
is open.
you see a crate
of wine on the tan leather seats.
a dog sitting properly
at attention.
long haired
and red,
well bred, perhaps
even well read.
the couple, discuss
the pumpkins
picking up each,
holding the orange globes
up to the fading light,
setting them down. they take
pictures of them with their phones.
asking the owner, who
comes out from
under a porch with a cane,
and a pipe
curling smoke into the air
to ask where and when
these pumpkins were
picked.
and the gourds, them
too. how much?
is your apple cider sweet
is it hard? will you carve
the pumpkins for us
if we give you
the diagrams? we need them
by Friday.
do you take an American
express card.

the baby factory

she works in the hospital,
in the baby mill
where the babies keep coming
day in day out.
they are stacked up
in the hallway
like cords of pink and dark
wood.
they are all crying,
or sleeping,
being fed. some in trays of blankets
being held
together by string
and tape.
there's no stopping these
babies, she says.
filling out the forms
with new names. boy or girl.
they keep coming.
keep taking up the space
that we leave behind.
twelve today, and more coming,
she says
wiping her brow, and smiling.

the ice trays

I crack another tray
of ice
out into the ice box holder.
just one tray.
the other three trays
stay inside, those
small water rocks
can wait their turn, though
it never comes.
only the top tray
gets used and refilled.
why. I don't know.
it's just the way it is
with these trays, stacked
onto to one another.
it's not a metaphor
of life
by any stretch.
it's just ice.

the love affair

they cross paths
two strangers
meeting for the first
time.
knowing nothing about one
another,
but that one has
the seat next to the other.
the train begins to move.
the passengers settle in.
they say hello and smile.
they fall madly in love
with one another
in the silence
of the quiet car.
only the wheels below
them rattle.
the steel rails singing
that train song.
in the hours that pass
they live their
lives together.
get married, raise children.
make love
under a glorious moon.
they grow old and sit
for hours in the park
holding hands watching
young lovers walk by,
remembering when they too
were young.
when they met on that train
so long ago
as strangers.
when the trains slows to a stop,
arriving
where it needs to arrive.
they rise and say goodbye.
this love affair
now over.

soccer mom

she dribbles the ball
from left foot to right,
surprising you with
her dexterity. just
try and take it from me she says.
so you reach down
and pick the ball up. nooo
you can't use your hands.
that's cheating.
I get a free kick now.
why can't you use your hands,
I ask.
what kind of game is that.
she shakes her head and laughs.
go stand by the goal. i'm going to
kick it into the net.
you be the goalie and try
to stop me.
what do I get if I do. I ask
her.
a kiss. i'll give you a kiss.
okay. we're on.
she moves the ball slowly towards
me as I get in my stance,
arms out, legs spread wide.
then she swings her leg,
striking the ball with the inside
of her foot. in a soft slow arc
it lands gently in my arms.
she comes over and kisses me.
I think I like this game,
I tell her.
let's do it again.

taking the back roads

my father
grips the wheel
of his ancient chevy impala,
white knuckled,
squinting into the light.
is it green or red he says
speeding up.
rubbing his eyes as if to clear
salt water from them.
green, I tell him.
good he says. good.
that was a close one.
should we take the freeway home?
no. I tell him.
let's take the back roads
today.

dreaming

before he died
people whispered
and made note of the fact that
he was pale with a greyish pallor.
there was no
color in his face,
and he
gripped the rail, saying,
it's something I ate.
three days later he was dead.
days after his
new years eve party.
a week after his son was born.
a year after
his wedding and the purchase
of an enormous house
in the woods.
they found him at the bottom
of the stairs.
a cup of coffee spilled beside him.
he looked asleep
on the thick plush rug,
curled as if in a dream,
which it all may be anyway.

going to the well

you wring out the same
wet towel
each morning, dipping your
pen into a well
of dark ink.
you write another half poem,
half story
about a well
worn subject. but why not.
there are only
so many things to talk about.
love,
the end of love.
sex, death,
work. nature. getting old.
being young.
children.
pets. health and money,
or the lack thereof.
food.
coffee.
I guess houses too.
places you've lived in,
places you've yet to go.
what about a poem about the moon.
yeah.
a thousand of those, oh and
did I mention love
or the end of love.

your doctor

your doctor. mister
web md.
is very kind and gentle.
he has an old school
bedside manner.
expansive in his answers.
easy to access.
makes house calls. he's
at the touch of your fingers.
there he is helping me with
the tingling in my foot.
the twitch in my
eye. my lungs wheezing.
my lack of desire for betty.
just about any
ailment that I have
is there for the fixing.
and if medications are needed,
no prescription
is necessary. you just go to India
or Canada,
or Turkey. they don't bother
with paper work, or notes
from a doctor.
takes six weeks, so if it's
not a fatal disease,
you're good.

we needed that rain

more rain is expected.
but you have an umbrella.
you have boots.
you have long pants.
a hat. you have windshield
wipers if you need to drive
some where.
you don't worry about rain too much.
but you always wonder
why so many people say
we need the rain.
maybe they're farmers and their
crops are dry.
but they live next door to you.
they don't even have
a tomato growing in their
back yard.
we needed that rain,
they say, nodding their heads
with knowledge
of the earth that somehow
has escaped you.
are they measuring it.
testing the soil.
making studies of the annual
rainfall? you don't know.
sometimes you'll ask them why.
why did we need so much rain,
which usually ends
the conversation as they raise
their hand to say goodbye.

on the side of the road

you need a vacation
she tells me as I sit
on the ground
changing a flat
tire.
the lug nuts
are hard to turn. the pavement
is cold
and wet. I can see
the short nail
imbedded in a groove
of the black rubber tread.
a vacation, I say to myself.
what would that be like.
who would I go with.
you need to get away, she says.
standing over
me, her shadow on top
of my hands as I jack
the car up higher
and pull the tire off.
you never take a vacation,
she says.
work work work.
she lights a cigarette
and puts one hand on her hip.
she's wearing a pencil
skirt and black heels.
I got to get out of here
too, she says.
look at us.
on the side of the road
changing a tire.
she leans against the car.
don't lean on the car,
I tell her.
which makes her sigh
and pace in the gravel.
how long is this going to take?
don't you have triple
A. who doesn't have
triple A?
what are we doing here?
I should be in Rome,
or Paris, anywhere but here.
i'm not the kind of person
who should be standing
on the side of the road
with a flat tire.
I think about all the things
I could say to her,
but I don't.
I change the tire, put the flat
in the trunk, then we
drive away.

carolina christmas

we rode the bikes.
mine without brakes, hers newer.
each with rust,
found leaning against
the wall in the beach house
garage.
we rolled on
that Christmas eve, before
dark.
along the coastal highway.
a paved
path, hardly a soul
around.
houses shuttered,
a string of lights above
a gas station, blinking.
the wind rose. the ocean lay
grey and wild
past the sand dunes.
we pedaled, her in front,
me dragging my feet at each
corner.
her cheeks were red. hair free
and black
in the wind.
the taste of salt on our tongues.
we pedaled on and on.
there seemed no end to this ride.
only stopping at a bookstore
about to close.
for coffee and warmth,
for a book
I have yet to read,
but sill keep close.

the dog

the dumb dog
is sweet, brown eyed
and loping
along, listening
with it's eyes,
pleasant in it's stupor.
so willing to obey
and please.
hardly a bark
to give,
a child's dog.
everyone's friend,
a big boned blonde
of warmth, curled
loyally at
your feet.

two lights

you read about Ted and Sylvia.
her affairs,
his.
him making love
to one of his many adoring
fans
while she died,
her head in an oven,
finally succeeding
to snuff the light
that burned
within her.
does it mean
their poetry is bad.
hardly.
they were just one of us,
but with golden
words to bare witness
to their pain.

keeping score

there is no score
that matters.
no points.
no tally of numbers
to prove
who has won
who has lost.
it's the pleasure
of the game.
the roar of the crowd.
the applause.
you lie like this
quite often,
trying to believe
what you don't believe.

getting ready

it's dark when you leave.
dark when you get home.
people are dressed
like eskimos, but it's
only fifty out
with a chance of rain.
scarves and hats,
even gloves are on.
we are already there
in our heads, in the thick
of it, a winter storm.
there's a man over there
with a snow shovel
looking up
at the sky. a woman
throwing salt down.

these pictures

these pictures.
these constant images clicked
on.
a face, a leg, an arm,
a plate
of food.
look there's a bird.
a dog.
a cow.
the full, the half, the quarter
moon.
and where are they now.
these pictures.
no paper.
no album, no box full of photos.
they're in your pocket,
on the screen.
nothing saved.
nothing gained.

you have a visitor

you have a visitor
the guard tells you, rattling
his club
against your cell bars.
get up.
let's go, put your hands
behind you.
we need to cuff you.
you shuffle
down to the plexi-glass
window
with a small confessional
styled screen that
separates you
and your mother.
I made you a cake, she
says, but they won't
let me give it to you.
I saw a guard helping himself
to a slice.
they're checking it for
weapons and saws.
no sweat mom, you say.
it's cool.
are you going to visit
me when you get out, she
says.
yes. you tell her.
sunday. because i'm making
a pot roast on sunday.
will you be out by then?
maybe, we'll see.
you never visited me
before. your sisters, yes.
but you, no.
okay, okay, when I get out.
sunday. set a plate
for me.
I told you not to cut
off the those mattress
labels, but no, you don't listen.
and those parking tickets.
you should have paid
them.
you don't listen to your
mother. do you?
okay, okay. I have to go
now mom. we have to lift weights.
and get some more
tattoos.
tattoos, oh my. just break
my heart some more, would you.
gotta go now mom,
I have to go...there's a fight
in cell block C
that i'm invited to.
sunday, she says, pleading
as she bangs on the glass.
sunday. you promised.
sunday you tell her, then
shuffle back to your cell.

the boys and girls

the boys
and girls, jump roping,
playing
on the street,
singing,
and running like bees
without a hive
to settle in,
are wild with unbridled
energy
trying to beat
a setting sun, or a
mother calling them in.
you understand and applaud
with your heart, for
even us, now,
at this age,
we are trying to hold
back the night.

fading away

you wished,
despite how miserable
they would be, that
your parents would reunite
at some point.
put the guns
and knives away.
take the arrows out
their hands
and unstring the taut
bows about
to fire.
you wished they'd make
love.
and laugh again.
hold hands,
be friends once more,
raising their
children
together.
hanging lights on
Christmas trees. it would
have made life
easier for everyone,
especially now,
as they slip slowly away,
alone within
themselves.

sleeping together

all night she wiggles
beside you with
a slight snore,
her warm body curled
against your curl.
you can feel
her dream as she
trembles, then relaxes,
almost a smile
on her face, eyes
closed tight.
as deep in sleep
as sleep
can be.
if only she was this
sweet all the time,
not barking
and licking
your face
when the sun comes up,
pawing your chest
to go out.

the unwed

they find me
asleep
on the side of the road.
the car
still running.
the radio on.
the window down,
a flask of jack daniels in
my hand.
there is a road map
with an x
in the middle
in red ink.
i'm wearing a tuxedo
with shiny shoes.
there is a carnation
in my lapel.
they shake me awake
and say hey,
hey.
you're going to be late.
get going,
go now.
you can make it.
she's standing there
at the altar.
she seems mad,
everyone seems angry.
they can't believe you're
not there by now.
so i drive off
making a u turn
and thank
them.

a life for a life

the hot ropes
in the gallows
are still swinging, stretched
fast and tight,
the hinges of the trap door
creaks.
shoes shuffle,
hardly a soul
is breathing.
no one is happy
about the killing,
revenge being
neither sweet
or bitter sweet, but
cold
and without satisfaction.
it seems like
the right thing to do.
a life
for a life.
and yet somehow something
isn't right.
we'll dwell on it
until we too die.
at some point eating
our own last meal,
saying our own last words,
giving our own
confession
before falling
through and through
a door with no bottom
in sight.

abnormal

you were unhappy
traveling with the circus.
you had no high wire skills,
afraid of heights.
no ability to tame
a lion
or make an elephant rise
up and roar.
the fat lady
mocked you, tossing
half eaten chicken legs
at your feet
when you passed by.
the Siamese twins
whispered to each other,
giggling
when they saw you
looking at them, stuck
together as they were.
the elastic man made
faces
at you as he stretched
his arms and legs
into a pretzel.
the midgets would laugh
and throw
pebbles at you when your
back was turned.
they knew you didn't belong
on the road with
any of them.
in the big top.
you were a different kind
of freak.
too normal, with your
hair combed and teeth.

deer crossing

the deer is fast
bolting across the road.
as large as a horse.
grey with a massive rack
of antlers.
you have time
to hit the brakes,
but it's close.
you're glad you missed
it.
the bones and blood,
the dented car,
the broken windshield.
the life of you,
or it
eeking out into the cold
morning air.
you just got a fresh
cup of hot
coffee too,
it would have been a
bad way to start
the morning
for the both you.

the routine

she counts
the steps in.
touches the rail exactly
seven times.
turns on the same light.
puts the mail
in a perfect stack
in the same spot
where it always goes.
steps out of her clothes
and leaves them
in a pile. next to other
piles, pillars of clothes,
of books, of papers.
shoes go there.
no lights go on.
she waits until
five thirty
to put tea on.
she drinks her tea,
attaches the leash to her
dog,
and walks the circle
going counter clockwise.
she eats.
sitting in the same spot
where she always eats.
foot tapping
against the leg of
her chair.
soon it's time to sleep.
she brushes her hair,
brushes her teeth.
gargles, spits. flushes.
folds a towel
over the bar.
then crawls into bed
at exactly nine pm.
how I ever thought that there'd
be room and time
for the likes of me,
I have no idea.

a day off

you never
think about Columbus.
not even
on his day.
his cork like ships
bobbing
in the ocean.
the sailors
grim and tired
searching their
eyes
for any sort of land,
settling on
the west indies,
but today you do
think of him.
the mattress sales
are everywhere.
TV's, washers and dryers.
it's nice to have
a day off though,
no matter what the reason.
there should be
more holidays
that we don't really
care about.
no cards to buy,
no gifts to purchase.
no big meals to cook.
no greeting people
with happy
Columbus Day.

more salt

it needs more salt,
you say, leaning over the bubble
of sauce.
tell me what you think.
you hold the spoon
out for her to taste.
less, she says.
too much salt.
more pepper though,
and a shake
of all spice, or
oregano.
no, you say. I think it's
fine.
turning a light
sprinkle of salt into
the mix.
she shakes her head and says
okay, have it your way,
then goes into the other room
to read.
it's the beginning
of meals to come.

cold night

the ping of rain
on the slant
of metal
that covers
the shed roof.
it rattles throughout
the night.
the cold
front settling in
fat
and heavy.
it should be easy
to sleep,
but you don't,
things are on
your mind, your heart.
changes
must be made,
but you're unsure
where to start.

sunday at the bay

the incline
is such that you lean into
the cool air.
eyes down.
a slight wind curling
around
your wrists.
you wipe your brow
at the top of hill
where you can see the bay,
the ships sway gently
on a deep blue pasture
of waves
the white sails
full
forcing the hulls
to move away from
shore, from side to side
between the arms
of sandy hills, but
going nowhere really.
it's sunday.
you won't go further
than this, not today.
it would remind you too
much of other days,
other sundays
when you lifted, with her,
the cupped shells,
white and brown
along the shore and held
them to your ears.

the new horse

the girl with the new horse
is happy.
she sits straight up
in the saddle,
her new boots on.
her helmet
snug around her chin.
she's high on the horse.
the fields
are wide.
the color of lions.
there is no yesterday
today.
there is this horse,
this field.
blue skies.

limping forward

everyone is limping
into
the future. slouched
victims
of something.
disease, divorce,
diminishing returns on
blue chip stocks,
asking for spare change,
directions to places
they don't even want
to go.
everyone is looking
into everyone else's
eyes
for compassion, a little
kindness.
something not for sale,
anything
you can't buy.
they want to tell you
how they got there,
how they got the limp,
look at my leg, they say.
just look at it
and cry with me,
but you only half
listen
as you lean against
the wall, your own leg
throbbing.
the less you tell me,
the more
i'll like you, is my
only reply.

mrs. barrett

in her bee bonnet
mrs. barrett
leaned between her rose bushes
and trimmed
out the weeds.
a web of black net covered
her thin face.
her leather gloves
once white
were dirt brown.
she sweated beneath the light
cone shaped
hat, but didn't mind.
she thought about the ice tea
in a pitcher
which waited in the old
ice box, its rounded shoulders
sweating
in the kitchen.
her knees sunk into cool
mud, still soft from last
nights rain.
she had no need to look
when a car approached,
rolling slowly
up her gravel driveway,
the cinders crunching beneath
the weight of the car.
she knew who it was
by the motors sound.
or the light tap of a horn.
two beeps were Martha,
three were joe.
but she knew
whether postal, or milk
or a child returning
with news about their lives,
all of which lay
beyond the long limbed
fence, broken in places
she'd eventually get to.

stop talking

you take a needle
and a spool of thread
and you begin the process
of sewing your mouth shut.
you've said
enough words for one life.
some good,
some bad.
you need a break from hearing
yourself speak.
a rest.
a verbal nap, if you will.
you'll get back
to speaking at some point.
but for now,
silence seems like a
wonderful way to go.
having no answers to give.
no replies, no offering
of opinions.
you'll almost, which is
hard to believe,
appear to be wise.

what are you doing

you call your friend ginger
to see what she's doing today.
nothing, she says.
i'm lying in my hammock in
the backyard, sipping on
a glass of ice tea,
reading about eighteenth
century furniture.
sounds like fun, you tell her,
clipping your nails
with a steel clipper
and staring out he window
at a cardinal
nervously flying from one
branch to another.
it's nice out, you say.
yes. it is, she says,
turning a page after
licking her thumb and finger.

the wishing well

while holding
her hand in yours
she tosses a penny
into the well
and whispers
if I can get a man
to marry me.
to love me
unconditionally,
to be loyal
and kind,
to always be sweet
and never
change his mind,
then I will truly
be happy.
here, you tell her.
try a quarter.
it's a big wish.

look, there's a farm

you have no
farm skills. you have
no agricultural knowledge,
no idea
what to do with a
cow or chicken.
you've only seen them
piecemeal
at the grocery store,
marked up or down
depending upon
the date they were
packaged and sealed.
your peas and carrots are in
frozen bags in the freezer.
you couldn't grow a beet
if your life depended on it.
but you like farms just
the same. it's nice to see
the farmers up on their tractors
with their straw hats on,
plowing, or something.
you like to ride by them
in your car, yelling
out the window to the horses.
hey horse. giddy up.
maybe give them a wave.
you like a red barn too,
a silo
gleaming as the sun rises.
you like the sound
of a rooster crowing,
and goats.
who doesn't like
the baying of goats.
or the sound of that metal triangle
thing on the front porch
when ma hits it with a spoon
calling everyone in for supper.
you like that noise.
it makes you wistful for
a simpler time.
a time you know nothing
about.

eco friendly

your new car
is green.
not in color, the color
is blue.
but it's eco friendly.
it runs on
vegetables,
carrots and potatoes
mostly,
diced and peeled,
but it's not out the question
to use turnips
as well as kale.
but the kale
has to be steamed
thoroughly or
the engine runs a little
rough going up hills.

warning label

internal bleeding
may result
in the use of the prescription
drug.
vomiting, blurred
vision or blindness.
an inability
to stand, or sleep,
or speak may occur.
loss of memory,
loss of appetite
and losing the will to live
is not unusual
when taking a daily
dose
of this medicine.
nose bleeds,
as well as itching,
open sores
and sexual malfunction
may also occur.
hallucinations are not
uncommon.
imagining you are
royalty,
such as the king
or queen of England
has been reported, but
only in a small
percentage of users.
most believe
that they can fly though,
so it's advisable
to handcuff yourself
to your bed
before taking a pill.
after two weeks,
if you are still alive,
your poison oak should
have disappeared, if not
please see
your physician for an
adjustment to your prescription.

renewal

marooned
without food or drink.
nowhere to
charge your phone.
chained
to a government chair
slippery and hard
an orange peel
of plastic,
waiting
your turn for your
number to be called.
you feel older.
your beard
has grown, you are less
tall
than when you came in.
you fidget
and stare at the floor.
the room
is still. your leg has
fallen asleep.
something like a human
is behind the long counter.
you see her mouth
move, finally,
before you die, calling
out the number
to the ticket you tightly
hold.

she likes to drink alone

she likes to drink alone.
winter is best
when the leaves have
unclothed
the trees.
when the moon is ice.
when the soles
of her feet are cold
against
the floor.
she likes to drink alone.
her hand
curled around
the stem of a glass,
the light dim
in the window.
the sting and comfort
of it going down.
it helps ease the pain
of yesterday of
today, the slow crawl
of tomorrows
yet to come.
she likes to drink alone.
so you let her.

the ride by

the yard, what was a yard,
is brown.
a dust layer of dirt,
some weeds
survive. a rusted push mower
leans against a pile
of cinderblocks.
the thorny spine of a rose
bush bends
towards the low sun.
the chain link gate
is unlocked.
somewhere a dog is barking.
a siren
circles and circles.
the steps you once bounced
a ball against
for hours
is still there.
the sidewalk
leading to the curb,
the street, that hasn't
changed.
a kid's face in the window,
peering from
behind a thin sheet
is round and pale
as any moon could be.
a mother's hand
pulls him away and you see
her too.
her eyes say nothing.
say everything.
you leave, as you always
do.

her new shoes

do you like my
shoes, she asks you,
as she lifts her leg into
the air, slightly
bending her knee. she
shows you a pair of
red heels.
first the left foot,
then the right.
she turns around
in a small circle as
if on a pedestal.
they were on sale.
I bought a dress too,
should I put it on
and show you. no,
why bother,
who needs a dress
with those heels.

the moment has passed

you forget what you were
going to say, having
thought about it all day.
it was there, ready to be said,
but somehow slipped
away. you had the perfect
answer for her, for them,
for everyone,
but it's gone.
tonight, while lying
in bed, you'll remember
this gem of
insight, but what
good will it do you now.
the moment has passed.
you need to start writing
these things down.

works in progress

we are all works
in progress.
though not all are
Rembrandts
or Da Vinci's.
some are just tin
with string,
or spilled paint
along
the floor.
some are not Rodin's,
but mud
piles, sloshed
and formed together,
wishing
we were more.

the hot tub

the hot tub salesman
comes to your house to measure
your patio to see what fits
and nail down the sale.
is this hot tub for pleasure
or for work,
he asks.
mostly pleasure, you tell
him. but once in a while
I might bring my lap top
in to iron out some
work issues.
two people, four, or eight?
he stares at you,
waiting for an answer.
eight seems too many.
plus, I don't want to be
sitting in there and have
other people touching me,
unless it's someone i'm
romantically involved with.
okay, he says, making
a check on his clipboard.
do you want cup holders.
a stereo system?
both, you tell him. I want
the deluxe. cedar siding?
of course, with steps.
I like extra jets too
that will hit my body
at all angles.
he winks at me. gotcha, he says.
and of course you'll need
a nice canvas top to keep
it sealed and safe.
yes. okay. may I suggest
the turbo super deluxe
self cleaning, three
person, hot tub. we call it
the menage a trois.
that sounds sort of suggestive,
but I like it.
when can I have it installed?
just sign here, here
and here.
and give me your credit
card. you'll have it by
Christmas.

thin disguise

what are you going to be
for Halloween
someone asks you as they
try on their fake
fangs with dripping blood.
I don't know yet.
I reply.
everyday seems like
Halloween, the costumes,
everyone pretending
to be something that
they aren't.
maybe i'll be you and
you be me.
don't say that, you're
scaring me.
just pick a costume
and put it on.
here. try this. you'd
make a good zombie.

i'm in training

i feel embarrassed these days.
so many people are in training
for marathons half marathons
triatholons biatholons.
10 k s 20 k s 5 k s.
they're doing lunges
and working on their abs.
I saw my grandmother
swimming across the bay
the other day with
grease paint on her forehead.
number eighty-four smeared
above her salt encrusted
bloodshot eyes.
she wants to be the first woman
her age
to not drown during the race.
just last week
the road was closed off
for three hours as
the one k baby crawl took place.
the bloody knees were horrifying.
everyone is training. lifting,
biking running. taking their pulses
eating carbs and fiber.
staring at their watches
hoping for a better time.
everyone but me.
I am in training for nothing.
I take a nap everyday, that's it.
that's my strict regimen.
i have no t-shirts to
show off from the shamrock
or cherry blossom runs.
no medallions to hang around my neck.
no photos of me staggering
across the finish line. I have
no stickers to smooth proudly
onto the back of my car.
maybe I'm in training to sleep longer
at night.
I might enter a sleepathon.
my goal i tell everyone
is twelve hours like when I was
a teenager. getting up
at noon. I've already designed
the sticker. a pillow with
the number 12 on it.
I'm sorry I tell people now.
I can't meet you for lunch today,
I have to go home and take a nap.
I'm in training.

the same

a limp, an ache,
a blur
of sight or memory
takes place.
you think differently
about tomorrow,
dwell
sadly or fondly
upon the past.
your parents are shells
with no
answers. whispering,
when held to your ear.
they have
whitened like
bones on a beach.
you move forward though,
without them soon.
nothing has changed,
everything
has changed.
it's the same beach,
you are the same
person
you were when they were
young, when
you were young,
when they held your
hand
as you waded forward
into the first bright
wave.

the blue coat

it's early but you take
out your heavy coat
and lay it on the table.
it's dark blue.
you pick off some lint,
smoothing the crease
in a sleeve.
you try it on.
it still fits.
you walk around
and pretend to shiver.
buttoning it up,
turning up the collar.
you go to the window.
it's nice out.
sunny, warm.
there are bees in the bushes.
a cat
stretched out on the stoop.
the mailman wipes his brow
as he drops
junk mail through the slot.
he sees you in the window
and stares for a second
before moving on.
you take the coat off
and put it back
in the closet.
it's not time yet.
but soon.

not about you

she's angry
almost all the time
about something.
most things
there is little she
can do about it.
the light turning
red.
the weather,
snow falling.
the car not starting.
she curses
the clouds as they
swim in front
of the super moon,
unable to see it clearly.
the world,
and even the heavens,
she believes is
conspiring
to make her unhappy.
you can do nothing
to change
her point of view,
but listen
and shake your head
in sympathy, thinking
all along,
that everything is not
about you.

the pull

gravity
makes me happy.
being heavy
a foot
on the earth, not
worrying about
things floating away,
especially me,
or bouncing
up
to the roof, out
of reach.
we need gravity,
it's pull
keeping us grounded
tethered
to the lives
we've chosen
to lead.

loose knob

the loose knob
that falls
unscrewed from the cupboard
door
rolls
across the floor.
you chase it down,
find another
screw, longer
fatter to see if
that works.
it doesn't.
not all things work
again,
but it had a good
run of being pushed
and pulled
at my whim.

chicken noodle

the sodium
is too high on this can
of soup.
but why not.
you've made
it this far eating
everything from
pork rinds
to chocolate strawberries,
to bacon and eggs
and ice cream,
what's a can
of chicken noodle soup
going to do to you
at this point.
plus it's cold and rainy
out.
if only there was some
white bread
and butter to go
with it.

the doorman

the doorman
who has been there forever
in his red suit,
is crying. someone has died.
the ambulance just left
with the siren off,
the lights swirling
softly in the rain.
someone
he knew.
but he knows everyone.
you wonder
if he'll cry
for you
when the time comes.
for Christmas this year
you'll get him
something nice,
maybe a silk scarf or
a pair of leather gloves
from
Madison avenue,
perhaps then.

when the rain stops

the basement
is leaking. a small dark
puddle
of rain
has seeped in from
the incessant downpour
of four days
and nights.
it's a growing shadow
of wetness
against the concrete.
there is nothing you can
do, but
let it come, let it roll
and puddle.
the rain will stop.
the sun
will come out.
the floor will dry.
your life will go on
until it doesn't anymore.
sleep on it. it's true.

love of your life

a clean break is good.
the band aid
ripped
off with a violent
twist and tug
from the heart.
sure, it will hurt,
you'll scream
a little,
some tears may actually
fall down
your pretty cheeks,
but you'll thank me in
the long run
and move on to the next
temporary
love of your life.

high wire

how different
is she from the wire walker,
balancing
on a tight rope
across
the abyss. alone
in mid air,
wobbled by wine,
holding on
to nothing but the pole
in her hand.
there is no difference,
both wanting
to reach the other
side
before falling.

umbrella day

an umbrella day,
chilled
grey. a wind strong
enough
to wet
my face as i
bend
towards
the corner, stepping
in and out
of puddles, lost
in thought,
thinking more of other
things, like you,
not this weather,
on this fall day.

seeking closure

you hear the word
closure
all day long, into the night.
everyone seeking
closure, whining about love gone wrong.
I use it all
the time too, but for more
than just a failed relationship,
this morning I had closure
on a pot roast I made
last week,
I couldn't look at it
any longer
and tossed it out.
it sat in a big dish
on a refrigerator shelf,
cold and mocking me
each time I opened the door,
a week of eating roast beef
was more than I could stand.
I had to move on.
I found closure, dropping
it into a large
green bag for the curb.

waiting for the train

as you wait for the morning
train
in the rain.
the sky a sheet metal
landscape
full of low clouds
and despair,
you wonder
about tomorrow, and the next
day.
how easily you bought
into this.
with your rain coat
and hat,
your briefcase, your
dreams
a distant memory,
a light fading away.

what baby?

women love babies.
men
not so much.
a woman will stop a stroller
just to look
in and stare
at the round small face,
the eyes
searching
everywhere in this strange
new world.
can I hold your baby
women will ask,
how old is your baby?
is it your only child?
what his name, oh,
it's a girl?
men will stare at the mother,
admiring,
and wonder
how she got back
into shape so quickly.
what baby?

the police dog

the cop with the dog
is running,
going from yard to yard,
the dog is on
the trail
of something, or someone.
you can hear the crackle
of the cop's
radio as he sweats
and struggles to keep
up with the frantic dog,
he digs his long nose
into every corner,
bush and rock.
it doesn't seem
like a high crime area,
you think as you eat
your lunch
on the porch, turning your
head towards a warm sun.

medicine in a brown bottle

the medicine
in an old brown bottle
on the glass shelf
is half empty. it sits
next to the tooth paste,
between bars
of soap and deodorant.
where it came from,
who bought it or drank
it half full, I don't
know.
but it's there, with
my name on it. I think
it's my name.
maybe if I took a sip
i'd remember.
the date is faded.
the name is smudged.
maybe i'll take a sniff
then a swallow.
it can't hurt, why not.
it's medicine and I could
use a shot of something
to jump start the morning.

if only

if only you
had made a left turn
and not a right,
or gotten
up an hour earlier,
or wore
a blue shirt
instead of white.
if only
you'd have waited
and not called,
or not said what
you said,
maybe then things would
be different,
the world would be right.
but you doubt it.

playground politics

the boy
in the striped shirt,
with the broken tooth
is in
charge of the playground.
he demands
a line
to form
behind him.
because he's bigger
and louder
than everyone else,
the children listen.
you can see him one day
on the side
of the road
waving and smiling
holding a placard
asking you
to vote for him
in this coming election,
but you won't.

resistance

it's the pull
the push
the struggle of moving
in one
direction
when life
is taking you in another
that confuses you.
it's exhausting
trying to be what you're
not meant to be.
resistance
is futile.
letting
the flow take you
where it needs
to go
is the only solution.
relax,
lean back, float
towards
the destination
you were meant for.

her kind

you couldn't take her
home
to visit your mother,
as the rick james
song goes.
it might cause
a ruckus
at the thanksgiving
dinner table.
you might as well light
a flare
and set it on a chair.
with her stiletto heels,
and low
cut sweater.
you had to keep her
under wraps,
away from
anyone you might know,
especially men.
but she was fun,
as long as you
kept her away
from sharp objects
and your
credit cards.

where you stand

the need
to climb that peak,
that tall
impossibly large
mountain
in the distance
is not
in me,
nor is the desire
to descend
into a cave
that twists and turns
to the center
of the earth.
mars is too far away.
the moon, just
leave it alone
for now.
i'm happy and content
with where
I stand, or fall,
preferring
air
and a tree
to lean upon.

desserts

it's an urge
that suddenly comes over
me,
a desire
that needs
to be quenched,
an appetite for something
sweet.
something sugary.
perhaps
cold and soft,
flaky to the touch
and layered, but
something
that will melt in my mouth
once bitten
or licked.
it could
be chocolate or vanilla,
the pinkest of strawberry,
even praline,
it could be you
coming across the room
covered
in whipped cream.

i bequeath

in his mind,
it's not money,
cash or coin, check
or a solid
brick of gold,
he's leaving none of
that to begin with.
it's that mug
he bought when he
was in france
for an hour,
or the stool he sat
on when he milked
a cow
in nova scotia.
it's a magnifying
glass
on his desk. his
favorite pen, dried
of ink,
his collector's
half dollar
of jfk
in a commemorative
tin. it's the radio
in the corner
that you gave him
and he never used.
it's his broken watch,
fogged and cracked.
the hands
forever
stuck on two.

before rising

he said,
I feel like i'm underwater.
this was
before
he truly was.
gripping your hand,
half
smiling. inching
towards
the bottom, before
rising
again.

cropping photos

some people that you
know, you send
them photos of sunsets,
the woods around the lake,
nature,
while for others
you take a picture
of a donut you
might be eating.
or crab cake
with hot sauce.
your dog sleeping is
always good,
or a ladybug that landed
on your hand.
some need a joke,
or a line of wisdom.
some spiritual cliché,
while others just
need a photo of you,
only you,
getting out of the shower,
but just a bare arm
or bare leg.

her other boyfriend

her other boyfriend,
not you,
but the one
she keeps hidden,
is suspicious
of her absence
on Saturday nights.
she's juggled him
into Tuesday,
or Thursday,
an occasional sunday,
or Friday night,
but rarely
Saturday. which is in
your favor.
sometimes though
you wonder, when
staring at her neck
and shoulder,
how bad it hurts
when he bites.

keys

a drawer full
of keys.
large, small, thin,
to mail boxes,
and locks
to doors you know
longer
care to get into.
car keys.
bike chains.
some on clasps,
or tied together
with string.
metal rings.
silver and bronze,
burnished
with time, the turn
of a hand.
all keys eventually
come here
to rest.
in this drawer,
no longer needed,
no longer
wanted, just left
to sit. abandoned.

dog free

it's hard to get another dog.
they get sick and die.
not to mention
taking them for walks
in the rain and cold.
leaving them at home.
the guilt.
the shedding, the barking.
putting the trash
bag in the closet
to keep them out of it.
every visit to the vet
is four hundred
dollars.
you're too selfish now,
too happy and free
to have a dog, maybe next
year if things take
a turn for the worse.

olive bread

the man who drops
your loaf
of thick crusted olive
bread
thinks that you
don't see him
when it slips out
of his gloved hands onto
the floor.
you see it roll
behind the counter,
his foot kicking
it even farther.
finally, picking
it up and sliding it
into a brown bag.
he hands it to you,
but you say no,
is it okay if I have
a loaf
that wasn't on the floor?
to which he says,
okay, without blinking,
then rings you up,
taking another loaf
from the rack.

lost and late

lost and late,
you keep driving.
you circle, you check
the map,
turning on the over head
light.
you look at the sky,
where the sun is.
you find north,
south,
you wet your finger
and stick it out
the window.
you think about turning
on your gps,
or stopping to ask
someone where you are,
that farmer on his tractor
for instance,
but you don't,
you're a man, you'll
find a way out
of this without anyone
else's help,
ignoring the laughter
in your head
that she would provide
at this point.

straight jacket day

I don't know what day it is
your client tells
you on the phone.
I don't have a calendar
near me.
or my phone.
my brain may have
fallen out of my head
too, you say to yourself,
but keep quiet.
isn't today
the day you start work
on my house. I bought six
gallons of paint
for the kitchen. will
that be enough.
I hope so.
are you coming?
yes. you tell her.
yes. i'll be there in
five minutes.
what day is this, she asks
again.
Monday, you tell her.
it's 8 30
and it's Monday morning,
the 28th of September.
okay. see you soon,
i'll be waiting for you.
and if you see my cat
out wandering around, would
you mind picking her
up and bringing her
with you. she has half
a tail and she's
sort of grey color.
her name is Sylvia, but
she won't answer
to that, she might try
to bite you if you pick
her up, so be careful.
okay. will do.
see you shortly.

i like your pie

your first
girl friend from the fifth
grade
finds you,
and now
wants to friend
you on face book.
you say okay and
hit the confirm button.
within minutes
you wish you hadn't.
there was a reason
you hadn't talked to her
in 50 years.
now there are more
reasons.
but you click on the like
button because
you don't want her
to think that you've
become a bad person.
you tell her yes,
you do like
that apple
pie she just baked,
hmm. hmmm.
not to mention
the red pot holders
she's been crocheting
for the holidays.
how do you catch up
on 50 years?
you don't. you just say
I like your pie
and move on.

tap water and bread

that's my favorite
the waitress says, pointing
at the crab cake
selection
on the menu, but we're
out of that.
plum empty on crab cakes. sorry.
what about the soup,
I ask, the clam chowder,
to die for she says,
but sadly we ladled out
the last drop
an hour ago.
okay, I say, what about
this,
this rib eye steak.
oh my.
I almost pass out when I eat
that.
wish you had been
here yesterday
we sold out
then. it was a two
for one steak night.
okay.
bread. do you have bread.
I just love the bread here
she says.
I could make a meal
out of bread and butter.
i'll bring you out a basket.
i'll try not eat
any on the way over.
she laughs.
water too? sparkling
or tap.
tap.
if you have it.

someone like you

someone like you
was
in the bank,
on the street, getting
coffee.
the same height,
the same hair.
someone
exactly like you was
in a car
going in
the opposite direction.
she was wearing
your glasses
and had your hands
around the wheel.
at the airport
waving, was you.
luggage at your feet.
your feet.
on a bike
along the path
beside the river, you
were pedaling.
staring straight ahead,
smiling with your smile,
going forward
without me.
someone like you seems
to be everywhere.

just you

it's not the chair
that
wounds you.
the metal leg
slanted
black against
the white rug.
it's not that it's
in the center of
the room and has been
there for years
unmoved.
it's not the chairs
fault
that your foot
strikes
it, bending the toe
red
and bruised.
it's you.
as it is with most
careless
mistakes
you've made in your life.
just you.

the whistle

she tried you show me
how to whistle.
not the lips
together, bird like
pucker
of a whistle, but the kind
where you place two fingers
of one hand
into your half
gaped mouth kind of whistle.
I failed.
she could do it. loudly.
a high pitched
screech of a whistle.
over and over again.
dogs came running.
but I had nothing.
nothing but my lips pursed
in a small circle, a
bing Crosby
kind of whistle.
it wasn't meant to be,
me and her.
the whistle.

the recliner out front

the chair appears one
morning, out near the hydrant
where the morning trash
goes for pick up.
it has been secretly dragged
out of someone's house
in the dark.
it's mauve and soft,
a recliner of some sort
with cup holders
and a tray that swings
to and fro.
the pressed shape
of a large body is still
imbedded in the seat
and back. you can see where
an elbow bent and leaned,
changing channels
perhaps.
there are crumbs and spills
staining
the faded fabric.
it's mechanical arm
is broken, the lever and buttons
unwired, sticking out
like horse hairs.
the chair is there for a week.
everyone sees it, but what is
there to do. it goes
unclaimed, too large
to toss in the back of
a truck.
too awkward to be carried
or disposed of.
then one day, it's gone.

don't judge me

it seems like you might
be judging me,
I tell her
as she slams a gavel
on the kitchen table,
rattling my plate
of scramble eggs.
she's wearing a black robe
and a white rolled
wig. you're out of order,
she says.
slamming the gavel
down again, almost
spilling my coffee.
i'll tell you when to talk,
she says.
now be quiet while I read
this list of charges.
I butter my toast
and slowly eat my breakfast
while I listen,
rolling my eyes
at each blown up charge.
when she's done, she asks
me how I plead.
to which i say, do we
have any tabasco sauce
your honor?

another land

strangely,
you think fondly of her now.
the water of time
having risen and blurred
what was once
safe, dry land.
your feet hardly touch
the bottom
of what it was.
you swim freely,
one arm over the other,
in clean smooth strokes,
to another shore,
to another place
to stand.

we want

we want
the gift unwrapped.
the new
day. the sun to rise.
the water
to boil.
we are an impatient lot.
like babies
in a crib,
crying
for comfort,
wanting what we want,
now.
nothing changes
much.
we might be less loud,
at this age,
grumbling beneath
our breath,
but no less
annoyed at how slow
the world moves
for us.

when love turns

when he wanted it,
she didn't.
she put on an old rag
t-shirt,
and climbed into bed
before
being tired, before being
able to sleep
and turned
her back,
staring at the luminous
hands
of a clock
that seemed not to move.
it was less about a mood,
and more
about the nature
of their love,
that had turned.
she cringed at his hand
on her shoulder
and his whispers,
stating his desires.
soon, he'd be coming home
late.
and later,
then not at all,
business would suddenly
be taking
up all his time.

the long day

with the bagged bottle,
the amber liquid glassed
in the chip
of sunlight
that creases
between
buildings, near
the fountain where he sits,
he raises it
to his lips,
accepting communion,
closing his eyes with
the harsh swallow.
does he remember
childhood.
does he
include anyone in his
despair
to sort out
how it's come to this.
a long
day waiting for
the sun to climb higher
to warm him
in his stitched again
clothes, another
change of season
pulling at his beard.
it's easy for anyone
to give him money,
how can they pass and not,
believing it could
be them, not him,
one day.

breaking even

it's an empty
vault with
the door open wide.
dust
and cob webs
hang in the corners,
the trace
of mice
who have come and gone,
their small
footprints
in the silken sand
of time.
a life
flickering, with nothing
to show
of value.
not a dime. no policy,
no hidden
treasure, no map
to where it might
all be buried.
breaking even at the end,
is possible,
though you suspect
you may have to chip in
for
the funeral.

the horse

the horse, clueless
about his
soon unwilled departure
from this good
earth.
wagged his
broom stiff tail
and munched
carefully on a final
carrot.
an apple waited too
when he finished that.
his sloped back
was a burden to both
ends of him.
he surrendered
to the flies, and to
the ignorant
stable boy
who never got his name
right.
maybe he knew, sensed
some sort of end,
perhaps. but like most
anyone of long
years, he dreamed of
blue skies.
of love.
of running across
lush green fields,
he dreamed of the past.

when to ask for money

when thinking,
pondering the world,
where he went wrong
with his children,
he liked to stare out into
the distance
at the ceaseless crawl
of ocean and waves,
and stroke his greying beard.
his children left
him alone
when he did this.
they stood on the screen
porch drinking
manhattans, eating
olives from toothpicks,
and whispered to themselves,
don't bother
him now, he's thinking.
we can ask him
later, when he's not.

to be amused

the bee was not
amused
by the bouquet of
plastic flowers
the woman set out
on the lawn
to brighten up
the otherwise dismal
effort
she had made
to grow daffodils
and what not,
but it was a bee,
so in truth
being amused or not
amused
was irrelevant.
perhaps it was surprised
as it landed
on an stiff open petal
and confused, but
nonetheless hardly
amused.

making do

you make a quick list
of what hurts.
the left shoulder.
the left knee.
a stitch in the side
below the rib cage.
the right wrist.
some blurred vision
close up in
one eye.
then there's the ear.
the dull one,
the one
that can't hear
too well. but you
make do
with ice and ibuprofen,
elevation
and hot baths.
closed caption,
vodka
with a splash of
tonic, a slice of lime,
the occasional visit
from you.

foot prints

the footprints
are everywhere.
those that were here
and left.
it seems forever,
it seems like just
yesterday
when
you first set eyes
upon them,
fell in love,
or met.
they go in all
directions.
yours too. still
searching
for a pair that will
stay,
and fit.

down the hall

someone is cooking
meatloaf down the hall.
onions. carrots.
perhaps string beans.
maybe they have a boiling
pot of water
on the stove too.
the potatoes sliced
and ready.
salt and pepper might
be involved.
butter. cream.
you pass your door
and lean into the smell
of meatloaf
that's flowing in the air.
you remember it when you
were a child.
you inhale
and put your nose against
the door. maybe your mother
is in there.
at the stove. her red and white
checked apron tied around her.
maybe your brothers and sisters
are gathered
in their chairs.
there is cold milk in every glass.
you want to knock.
you want to go in and sit
down at the table.
take a knife and butter
a flat piece of
white bread while dinner
is served.

visitors parking

there is no parking
in the neighborhood,
but there are seven empty
visitor spaces
available in front
of the 23 story building.
you go to the desk and beg
on bended knee for an hours
worth of time.
just one hour
to park, then you'll
be on your way.
no. the man behind the
desk says.
a woman beside you
getting her mail, wearing
a mink stole and
holding a poodle
agrees. we have rules
here. there are rules
everywhere. that's the way
it is, she says,
she plays with a string of
pearls around her long
old neck then kisses her
pink nosed dog
with runny eyes.
just one hour, you plead.
i'll give blood, you can have
one of my kidneys.
here's a hundred dollars,
you say, counting out
the cash on the counter.
I just need to go up
the elevator, visit someone
then come back down.
it will take me
no time at all, I promise.
no, they both say
in unison. no.
we're calling a tow truck
in one minute, so you'd better
move your car. we think
you'd better leave.

unsaid

best left unsaid
some words.
swallowed whole,
unspoken thoughts
that do nothing
but cause
pain.
the bitten tongue
is a better
path to choose
than truth, though
easy it would
be to let it go,
to let it rain.

good times

the high school reunion
is approaching.
again. damn these people.
they remind you everyday.
they won't leave you alone.
they want you to rat
out your friends, tell
them where they live,
their addresses
and phone numbers, e mails.
but you don't give in.
it's a joint venture.
of three classes, not just
the one you graduated
from.
the herd is thinning, it
seems. so many have died
and passed on, they need
three this time around
to make a full house.
you hated high school.
so why would you go,
especially now. you don't
want to reminisce and eat greasy
chicken with complete
strangers you once took
showers with when you were
sixteen. there is no one
there that you want to see
again and the feeling is
probably like wise.
those that plan it year
after year are the ones
that loved high school.
the ones who ran the school
and peaked there.
you were invisible, trying
hard to make the clock
move faster.

the wine festival

after three stingily poured sips
of the medicine sized paper
cups
full of warm wine
were swallowed
I got a headache, felt dizzy
and swooned
under the partial
shade of a white tent.
how was that one? the man behind
the counter asked?
it was made yesterday in my
basement.
my entire head throbbed
like a flickering light bulb.
my date said are you alright,
as I leaned
out of the sun, staring
at the field
of wobbling patrons,
jolly and rushing to the next
table of pinot noirs, merlots,
and chardonnays.
at the far end, where the tents
ended and the hot dogs
were sold
a small stage was set up
for a band, which played
loudly songs you thought
you'd never hear again.
the music echoed up the slope
of fresh cut grass.
some people were dancing, or
were they having strange
neurological episodes?
where are the bathrooms, I asked
her, bent and rubbing
my forehead. wiping
sweat with a napkin
I found on the ground, rubbing
an ice cube along
the base of my neck.
over there she said, pointing
at a line of blue plastic
out houses in a neat row.
they're over there, she
said, i'm going over to the dessert
wine table, i'll
meet you there when you
get back. okay? should I buy
a bottle. no, I said, then
gave a wave and staggered
towards the blue dots
in the distance, thinking fondly
of death.

a slice of cake

once the thought of cake
hits my mind.
i'm doomed.
I have to have a slice.
chocolate is preferred
but will
succumb to vanilla
or lemon
or even a spice cake
if need be.
the same holds true
for you
when you cross my mind.
I want you now,
and hopefully you're
nearby
so I won't have to settle
on a lesser
slice of cake
I might find.

found happiness

her new husband
is not like the old husband, who
would be me.
he holds her close,
laughs at all
her jokes, asks her
if she needs anything.
champagne coffee tea.
his arm stays around
her, keeping her
tightly held
waist to waist. his eyes
smiling
with this new found love.
she tells him
to do a dance, to sing.
to jump up and down. to bring
her some polish
for her rings.
I am happy
for him. for her,
and especially
for me.

under the radar

you are under the radar,
out of sight,
incognito, lurking
in the shadows
of your own curious
and vague life.
you walk on cats feet
from one place
to another, whispering
known secrets
to anyone who will
listen. you are cautious
with love, with
affection. taking
it slow, spooning it
down like cold medicine.
you tilt your hat
even on a cloudy day,
wear your black shades.
your coat is long,
your shoes walk softly
down the narrow streets
and alleyways.
you go about this world
happily quiet and alone.
gently you slip the key
into the lock
of your own front door
and turn.

best offer

her house,
with the for sale sign
planted
loosely
in the sandy dirt
is rusting.
the price too high
perhaps
for these parts.
too far from the interstate,
the gravel
road,
the schools and coffee
shops
a twenty minute ride
away,
but she doesn't care.
she likes it here.
she likes
lying in the sun
on her patio,
finished for the day,
retired at last,
in no hurry to go or stay,
not ready to take
the best offer.

running free

the young dog
is a blur of blonde
brown
hair, rushing
across the sand, unleased
in late September
along the shore.
tongue
hanging out happily
as it chases
gulls
and waves that crash
like long wet smiles
across
the sea.
it's hard to not
love
a dog like that, or
a person.

breakfast all day

the line outside
the Pocahontas restaurant
is long
in the warm morning sun.
beyond the street
is beach.
couples and
families, peer
impatiently into the window
which is stenciled with
Indians, old fort fences,
wild horses and pilgrims.
there is the foggy glaze
of grease on the other side.
breakfast all day
says the faded yellow
lettering, a foot high
quoted by hatchets.
from what you know of Pocahontas,
you don't remember
her being a breakfast
person.
there seems to be no mention
of scrambled eggs, bacon
and hash browns,
with unlimited coffee
in her wikepedia bio,
but she's getting it done
still, to this day.
children under twelve
eat free.

knowing what you want

he wants the original brand
of hot sauce,
but he can't read, even
with his over sized
thick black framed
glasses on. you reach up
on the shelf, bring it to
his eyes, then and put the bottle
into his cart. is that
the original, he asks.
yes you tell him,
then move on to the shredded
wheat.
the big biscuits,
without a sugar frosting,
they too original.
saying so right on
the box. he pushes the cart
along, saying
the words cherry pie.
little Debbie, he says.
I like those the best.

the nature of luck

the good luck
runs out
and a string of bad
luck
moves in
to take its place.
suddenly
jobs fall through.
flat tires appear
you sprain a knee,
someone you love
tells you
it's over.
but it's okay.
you understand the nature
of luck,
the nature of cars,
of work,
of love.
things will change,
they always do.

the naked lady

she likes
to undress and sun bathe
in her back
yard.
people think she might
be crazy.
she doesn't care.
she doesn't care
who sees or doesn't see
as she lies
on her lawn
chair stretched out
like a cat, taking
phone calls and sipping
beer. smoking cigarettes
and blowing smoke
into the air.
everyone
knows when she's out
there.
bringing husbands
and teenage boys
to the window
to watch, then be shooed
away by wives
and mothers alike,
who shake their heads
after
looking themselves
and admiring her.

the salad bar

talking to yourself
at the salad bar, but loud
enough to be heard
by the rotund
man beside you who
is delicately building
his salad, spooning
peas and celery
onto his lettuce leaves,
a sprinkle of
bacon bits and croutons,
you say to no one
in particular as you make
your own
green salad, you say,
well, I guess we can't
eat pizza everyday.
this gets nothing, not a stare,
not a laugh,
not a head nod.
but the next day, you see
the same man,
making the same salad,
and just barely, you hear
him say to the woman
beside him,
I guess we can't eat pizza
everyday. this makes
her laugh and laugh,
jumbling her
kale and beets out of
her plastic container
and onto the floor. you say
nothing, but
this makes you happy.

fish party

it's a wild
party
these fish are having.
stirring up the sea.
gathered close
enough that
you can see them jumping
out of the water
into the air,
their white
bellies,
their silver
fins.
the black eyes.
they are alive
and frenetic, hearing
some music
you imagine.
perhaps a wedding
is taking place below
the cool green surface,
or a birthday
celebration, someone
has miraculously made
it all the way
to the age of three.

tomorrow is here

the girl with the chipped
tooth
and scar on her chin, unrelated
you wonder,
doesn't listen
as you ask for one scoop
of coffee ice cream,
one scoop of mint.
she gives you two
of each in a cup,
not the sugar cone
you asked for. she takes
your money
with the hand
that has a dagger tattooed
on her wrist.
she doesn't look at you,
she's looking
elsewhere,
to a place in her
life she's left behind,
not tomorrow.
tomorrow is here.

the ocean wins

you wrestle with the ocean.
the ocean
wins, you limp out of the waves
towards your towel
which has baked
itself flat
across the sand.
you stare at your knee,
salted
and swollen, stiff as
you walk carefully
around the cascade
of dunes
and families, couples
lying together in
the autumn sun. it's the last
day, so limping
is fine.
you can make it to
your room, you can order
in. you can get a bucket
of ice
and let the swelling
go down before the drive
home tomorrow.
still, you love the ocean,
you harbor no resentment
for mysterious
things.

the love you take

together
the three of you. your
sister
and father
sit down to move line by line
across the pages
of his last will and testament.
asking
for names, asking who gets
what,
and when.
which bank. which trust.
we tie a bow around his life
putting everything
but him into a box.
your sister reads out loud
the legal rendering
as his blue eyes
look but do not see
what is written.
he's punitive towards some,
and generous
to others. no explanations
are needed,
or asked for.
the love given or not
given
during his life is
tallied in the final count.
someone turns a radio on
and we listen
to music, drinking ice
tea in the sun
as the ink dries.

a fine day

what weather is this?
sunny and full of gloom.
blue skies
and tears.
what wind carries
mourning on such a sweet
breeze across
the fields of flowers.
how deep is the ache
of this world
on such a fine day.
how can we live in a world
so beautiful
and so tragic
and move on into
the next day as if nothing
at all changes.

beach landing

when I get there
i'll stretch out in the warm
sand
and think of you.
each wave
I hear
will be a reminder
of what
comes and goes
so quickly.
i'll close my eyes
in the sun, smile,
and bathe in the hope
of tomorrow,
the joy
of memory, the sweet
the embrace of time
gone by.

the cat's paws

the cat's paw
prints
after stepping into
the tray
of white paint
are everywhere.
across the carpet,
onto the piano,
on the counter,
the stove,
and into the bathroom.
the petals of her
feet are white.
her nose
too, thinking
hopefully
perhaps of milk,
not paint.
behind her you trace
her trail, and with
a damp cloth,
you wipe.

the visit

you take your mother
out
for a walk, her in her
wheel chair,
you pushing
from behind.
where to you ask her.
leaning over
to see which
way her eyes point.
over there.
I want to see those
flowers
in that yard.
so there you go.
up the street, farther,
she says,
after reviewing
the daffodils,
to the end where
the road stops, she
says, pointing.
so you wheel her there,
to the stop sign.
okay. you tell her.
let's go back now.
she starts to cry.
I don't want to go back,
she says.
let's go around again.
a few more times.
can I see the flowers again?
she's a good crier.
you tip the chair back
and put on some speed.
slow, she says. slow down
you're going to fast.
are you trying to kill me?
i'm your mother don't you
want to stay
longer?

the big store

how full the shelves
are.
every need
and want, what is
desired
is found.
the music of your youth
plays from
high above.
the bright lights
radiate the big
store with hope, with
fullness.
from top to bottom,
so much
to choose from,
so many things
to buy
and yet the dark
face
of the clerk says
something different
to you.

not found

slowly a man
with his metal detector
scans the beach,
the plowed smooth sand.
reaching
in to pull out a can,
or ring,
or watch. a set of keys.
anything of value goes
into his pouch
around his waist.
beyond him is
the ocean.
golden in the sunset.
the water
cool in its loud
wash upon his
bare feet.
nothing is truly lost,
he thinks.
it's just not found.

silver fish

you see the boy
in the creek,
knee deep in the swirl
of blue
sky water.
he reaches in to catch
the silver
fish, but to no
avail.
he's learning early
about love
and happiness.
he can see it,
almost have it in his
hand,
but it's rarely
there.

the ice maker

the copper line
to the double door
ice making
freezer is leaking.
they all leak.
a puddle forms
at your feet as you
grind a handful
of cubes into your
empty glass.
nothing is easy.
not even ice
in this world
of loose connections.

green stamps

with so many green stamps
stuck into
the book, you can get
a new toaster
or a Gillette razor.
maybe a coffee
maker, or a clock with a
rooster head
to hang in the kitchen.
such wonderful
gifts to one's self
for doing nothing,
but collecting
green stamps, year in,
year out, staring
at the empty pages
yet to be filled,
the promise of things
to come.

go away

your relatives are exhausting.
with a sharp
pair of scissors you try
to cut the ties
that bind you, but to
no avail.
the blood and history
is thick
keeping you in the mix
of drama after drama.
you circle the wagons,
and wait it out.
dodging flaming arrows.
hoping they'll go away.
leave you alone
to forge or perish on
your own chosen trail.

there's still time

the emerald trees,
gulping
this morning rain
are still. their shoulders
sag with
a year of being
green
and full. only a few
spots
of papery yellow
appear.
there's time left,
isn't that what we
all want to believe.

the new church

this church is full of light.
the modern
arches sailing upward,
wires holding canisters
of bright beams, hung down
from the white ceilings.
the floors are slate,
the pews long and clean
the color of sandalwood.
a stone bowl of holy water
sits glassy as you enter,
rippling as fingers
reach to touch its surface.
the new Christ is shaven,
young, fit and gleaming
on the cross above
the open altar. he appears
to be Danish now. an Olympian
at rest.
His muscular arms
are stretched out, wrists
nailed to the white
boards. no blood. no crown
of thorns. he's immaculate
in death. it's all well and good,
but you miss the dark tombs
of your youth.
the incense and latin.
the rugged cross, the stained
glass, the hard pews.
nuns and priests, in black.
you miss the ambiance of mystery
and guilt, your knees
bent, aching while your small hands
stayed folded in prayer.

the truce

the swords are put away.
the murmurs cease.
the dead have a way
of quieting things,
at least for now.
there will be more time
later
to continue
the war between
families.
but what a nice
reprieve to see it
end for just a moment.
everyone standing and singing
along with the priest,
having sandwiches
and cake in the hall
outside the church,
a short walk
down the street.

the wallpaper

in the bathrooms
across the land
it splits
it peels, the edges
go brittle
and fall apart.
the corners aren't plum,
the ceiling slants,
the floor board
is jagged.
it's hard to get
an even cut, to get
one rose to match and yet
it goes up.
the put a check in your
bloody hand, but
it's not over,
it's never over, for
until the end of time
the calls
come in. please come
back
and fix these seams,
these bubbles,
the roses that don't
match, please bring
your tools, your ladders,
your paste,
and come, come back
once again.

black shoes

these shoes could use
a shine.
a nice polish and buff.
the top
the sides, a new set
of laces
wouldn't hurt either.
wedding shoes.
funeral shoes.
the left one goes
on first, then the right.
they still fit,
and will fit again
one day,
one night.

to each hs own

each to his own grief,
his own
way of remembering
and unraveling what
a life
passed has meant
to them.
sorrow being holy
ground, you give
room to everyone,
to their own way
of sighing
and moving on.
yours too, is different.

belated wishes

the birthday comes,
it goes.
there was a time though
when you baked
her a cake,
frosted it, stuck
a candle in
the middle. you
carried it to her door.
you bought her
flowers, a gift
or two.
small, but thoughtful
things that
she could use.
you signed the card
with love,
underlining the word
love a few times
for proper emphasis.
but not this year.
it took a week or so
to pass
then it crossed
your mind that it came
and went without you.

the high rise

the electrical fire
knocks out the power in the building.
the water too.
the elevators
don't work, no air conditioning.
slowly the angry
mob of tenants gather
in the lobby
with their dogs
having walked down eighteen
flights of stairs.
people are holding candles
to light the darkened
hallways. flashlights
are pointed at faces.
someone brings down a bottle
of booze, another
a cake
with paper plates and forks.
a card game breaks out.
a little girl in pigtails
has a hoola hoop,
which she swings around her
tiny body again and again.
a man brings his banjo down
and starts playing.
he's quickly asked to stop.

your poetry stinks

you're poetry stinks,
she says to you.
what's with all the typos.
the grammar
mistakes, misspellings?
it's a self absorbed
mess. who are you kidding.
you ain't no
Robert frost. you ain't
even Charles
bukowski.
why don't you give it
up and stop.
do the world a favor.
no one wants to hear about
your sad sack love
life, or silly problems.
she's angry when she drinks.
so I take all of it in
with a grain of salt.
this will make a great
subject to write about,
I think, staring
at my half eaten lobster
roll and sipping on
my Tanqueray and tonic.
go on, I tell her.
keep talking.

going forward

you no longer
look into the rear view mirror.
you just left there.
left that.
left trouble.
left, period.
you're focused on
what lies ahead.
that big rest stop
along
the road.
the point where land
ends
and the ocean begins.
what's done is done.
no going back.
no big circle,
no make up sex
with the world you've
left behind.
no late night call to
yesterday
after a drink or two.
you have no reverse
in this car.
it's going in one
direction, forward.
maybe i'll drop you a
postcard
when I get there.
maybe not.

the overflow

you need someone to come
and haul away
the junk that has accumulated
in your house.
the fat tvs that sit
in the basement.
the pool table you
never use
since your son went
to California.
the clothes hanging in
the closet. out of style
and somehow shrunken
to the point of being
too tight.
shoes, lots of shoes.
a hundred t shirts, all white.
who has a hundred
t-shirts. you do.
toaster ovens, that you've
kept after buying new
ones. blenders. waffle makers.
telephones.
dishes, where have these
dishes come from.
what's wrong with you,
still adding on so much,
when there is no room,
no point.

asleep

her one leg,
long
and pale, as white
as the sheet
she lies under
is still.
a porcelain curve
of flesh,
asleep.
you could wake her,
but you don't.
you could lean
over and kiss
her, but that would
spoil
everything,
take away the dream
that so blissfully
glides
across her face.

it's something else

not tonight, she says.
i'm not feeling it.
I'm not in the mood.
head ache, again, you ask
her scratching at
your toes
covered by black socks.
yawing and stretching
as you flip through
the channels on the tv.
no, she says,
staring at your feet,
your white spindly legs
that run up
to your striped boxer
shorts. no,
it's not a head ache,
she says.
it's something else.

shaved ice

it doesn't seem that long
ago, but it is,
when the small man
with the push cart
came up the street with
a hand held
bell
and shaved ice into a
paper cone
for all the children
that came running
with coins
in their hand.
strawberry, lime,
orange and vanilla,
root beer,
were just a few of the flavors
he carried in
tall cold bottles.
they rattled against
one another
as the wooden wheeled
cart pressed on.
then one day he was gone
and so were you.

let me know

call me if there's a change
in plans.
don't leave me
hanging
at the door, in the lobby,
on a bench
staring out
into the rain.
drop me a note, or
give me a call.
something. even a carrier
pigeon will do.
I just need to know.
i'm anxious
to see you, and sad if
it doesn't happen.
this is the same
note I wrote the last time,
last year and the year
before that.
sorry if you've seen
it before.
maybe laminate it
and string it around
your wrist to read
whenever you tell me
that you might be in town.

a days work

his hallway
kept him busy all day.
stripping the green linoleum.
then washing,
then waxing. steadying
the heavy buffer
with two hands, the long
cord plugged in
at the far end.
it was his hallway.
and at four o'clock
he'd be finished.
the sun would shine
through and he would
lower his gaze,
turning his head just so,
to witness the shine,
the polished gleam
of the long
stretch of hall,
a days work, now done.