waiting on the train

I could go south.
hop a train,
one bag of clothes.
some money
in my pocket.
lock the door
behind me and just
leave for a while.
ride the rails.
take the blue
highways.
see what hasn't
been seen.
I think this while
sitting watching
a train roll past
the line of cars.
the ding of the bell.
the striped post
keeping us
from crossing.
then the last car
swings by
and the thought
disappears, as does
the train.
its lights fading
in the fog.

the butcher

the butcher who insists
he nows you,
comes out from behind
the counter
wiping his hands on his
blood stained
apron.
he shakes your hand,
gripping your wrist with
his other hand.
his hand is cold
and curled still
from the knife he uses
all day.
let me bring you out
a good cut, he says.
smiling.
wait, don't leave, i'll
wrap it for you.
rib eye? he says, or
sirloin. no, he says,
both i'll bring both.
it's so nice to see
you after so long.
I rarely see my old
friends. he brings you
the meat wrapped in white
paper with red tape.
you go home and cook
the steaks, you cut each
sweet tender morsel
and chew. you try to
remember his name,
the butcher, where you
might know him from.

pretty blue wishes

her pretty blue
wishes
don't all come true.
most don't.
and yet she holds
them
to her heart
folds them like
petals
into a book.
keeps a box on her
dresser
where her dreams
have lived
without air
for too long.
her grey wings
won't
keep her in the air
much longer.

the music

it's uncertain,
the music
of your life.
this.
that. tomorrow.
today.
hard to get a handle
on what's ahead.
you cant hear
the song being sung.
it's
even harder still
to strike
the keys of
what's gone
away.
but you try
to make sense of it
all.
find rhythm to
your life.
to hit the right notes
and make
a melody
of sorts.

blue skies

he tells you
about the beans and rice
in jail.
how he shared a cell,
his bunk
just below
another bunk.
a toilet and a basin
in the corner.
a steel shaved mirror.
his roommate serving
twenty seven years,
and he just
ninety days.
but together,
they live, play
cards in the cinder
block room.
telling lies to one
another, staring
at the bluest
of skies
outside the barred window
as if never having seen one
before.

a small bite

a flea comes
into your life and bites
your thigh
right above
the knee.
a small flea, a small
bite,
but the itch is
enormous.
you pinch the life out
of him, then
you scratch and scratch
until the red
hill bleeds.
you hold no grudge
though.
we all do what we need
to do.

that's it

when it ends,
with gallantry and compassion,
let's stay in touch,
you both say, meaning farewell
pretty much
forever.
the bittersweet hug,
a gentle
kiss upon the cheek.
a long last look,
a glance
over the shoulder
as you walk away,
that's it.

unfinished work

the fence needs
work. a coat of stain before
the cold sets
in. the trees are already
bare.
how quickly it comes.
the frost.
the shiver of north winds.
the low sky of a puddled
sun. but the fence,
both sides.
wooden and pale,
half done,
stretches along
the cornered yard.
time has passed
too quickly to finish it.
the buckets sit nearby.
untouched. a stiff brush,
tossed down.
it's dark
before you want it to be dark.

the first born

the first baby, so loved
and wooed over,
cradled
and rocked. the room painted
a sweet hue
of blue or pink
to get the show started.
the mobile
hanging from the ceiling
above the crib
swinging gently to a
music box.
already books
are stacked for reading.
stuffed animals await.
the center of the universe
is here.
but the second child,
or third,
or even fourth will get
a different deal,
and be better for it.

the patients

how patient these patients
are.
sitting side by side
with their coughs and fevers.
things that itch.
their canes
beside them.
they read
the magazines on the table.
popular mechanics,
people, and sports.
some stare into their phones,
or out the window
where the sun
has crawled away.
they have finished their forms
and wait.
there is no hello.
no eyes meet eyes.
no introductions, no explanations
as to why anyone
is there.
it's a guessing game
as each name is called,
and they are taken
behind
closed doors.

the way it is

the city stretches
her arms
turning on the lights
in the fog
of early morning.
you see it awaken
slowly.
the movement of life.
cars
and people walking
leaving
to go where they need
to be.
you see them waving,
kissing
someone goodbye.
exiting the warmth of home.
they quicken their
pace, looking
at their watches.
grasping their briefcases,
holding onto
their hats.
the commerce of the world
is loud
and numbing.
only thirty more years
to go.

the hunted

with a large branch
you scratch away your tracks
behind you.
step into the stream
and go down.
crossing over
on the rocks.
you look back. they're
still there, not
far behind.
they have dogs.
you hear them barking.
you hear the rattle of
the chains
they carry to put on
your wrists and legs
again. they want to bring
you back to reality.
no one gets to live
outside the laws of
love and life.
you are hunted. you are
alone. you won't
be caught again.
not alive.

not taking new patients

the doctor you want is no
longer taking new patients.
you stare at her photo. her long
red hair cascading down
her starched
white coat. a stethoscope
hanging around
her neck.
she seems smart and kind,
you gather this from her eyes,
her bright smile.
the way her hand leans
against her desk.
she seems relaxed and ready
to help you.
specifically you.
behind her is wall of awards
and degrees.
you wonder why she is not
made queen of medicine, but
no, she's too busy to help you.
instead, you get
Sharma. a man, a former goat
herder,
who looks confused, as if
he smells something burning
that he left
in the oven too long.
he has the hands of a meat
cutter, thick and gnarled like
a butcher in hells kitchen,
there is a stain on his white
coat. blood?
gravy? maybe. he wants to be
paid in flour
and milk. blankets.
balls of string.

dust laden

you find the broom
in the closet where you last left
it some months ago,
was it spring?
and begin to sweep.
whose dust is this?
these tumble weeds
under each bed, how come?
how has this happened.
each sill,
each shelf a martian layer
of fine silt.
the threads of clothes.
long strands of hairs,
not yours.
you feel like giving up.
giving in
to the world, but you have
this broom,
this cloth, this vacuum
with it's meager power
sucking
the debris that has gathered
around you.
one room after another.
you go, making things
presentable, at least
when the sun goes down.

four pears in a bowl

four green
pears, ripe and pear
shaped
as pears often are,
settle in a crystal
bowl on a silver
plate,
on a sheet of white
linen, a tablecloth
new, and unstretched.
the light
shines down from above.
the paint feels
wet, undried, her hand
not far from the canvas,
perhaps,
standing back,
just slightly tilting,
her eyes, wondering
if it's finished.
if anything in life
can be walked away from
with the word done,
firmly spoken.

mentholated

you smell like a jar of mentholated
heat rub because you've been
rubbing it onto your body
for a week.
people look at you when you
stand in line for coffee
and rub their noses.
you pretend not to notice,
avoiding eye contact.
when you get home you rub
more on. it gives you a rash,
and it burns the top layer
of your skin, making it feel
like it's on fire,
but it says it's
highly recommended by
four out of five doctors for
relieving muscle soreness.
you believe this,
you believe a lot of crazy things
you see on late night tv,
so you keep lathering it
onto your shoulders, your knees,
your elbow and feet,
smelling like a eucalyptus
tree.

marital bliss

your fourth wife
was your favorite and she
was fond of you
as well.
it was her mother that
gave you trouble.
living
in the other room
with her cats,
always around, sniffing
into your business
and barking
her remarks like
when are you going to get
a job,
or do you think
that bathrobe might need
to be washed.
you've worn it nine
straight days.
if not for her you would
still be married
to the fourth wife,
living in marital
bliss. well, something
like that.

surviving

all day you hunt.
hiding in the brush,
moving quietly through
the woods
with your arrows.
leaning into trees,
peering
through the shadows
of brush and leaves,
searching for prey.
it's how you survive,
eating off the land.
crawling in the dirt,
burrowing, becoming
one with the forest.
being hungry drives you.
your ambition is to stay
alive, food and shelter.
you see no other way,
having tried
so many
in your coat and tie.
this makes the most
sense.

old apart

you put
out the olive
branch.
wave the white flag.
you
are too tired to fight.
to go on
with this silly
disagreement.
after all you are related
by blood.
so senseless
to hold a grudge for so long.
the energy it
takes to be
angry and resentful
burns
more of you
than love ever will.
it's all you can do
to put out
your hand,
and let it go.
the days grow shorter
and the nights
longer
as we grow old
apart.

cat and dog

the dog
barking, pawing at
the ground,
showing his teeth
to the cat,
a mere calico
on the sill
licking one paw
after another
having a bath.
she hardly moves
an inch
as the dog barks louder
and lurches forward.
the cat yawns,
stretches, then folds
herself
into a soft
ball, closing
her eyes to sleep.
it's fun to be a cat
behind the window,
aloof,
and on the sill,
fed and warm.

far away

how round
and yellow the moon
is,
a far away sweet orb
swinging
in the sky overhead.
larger
than it's been
in months.
the earth being where
it is,
the sun too.
what a lovely sight
the moon is
from this point on the ground
where we fill
our lungs
with air.
our hearts with hope,
our voices
with sound.

let live

dizzy
with joy, you spin
like
a top
through the day.
the news
is great.
the headlines
read
we won, you win,
we all win.
evil has been
defeated.
the angry and mean
have given
up.
they've decided to
live
a different way.
to live
and let live
like
the rest of us.

unscared

the scarecrow
full of birds,
stretched out along
the post,
dug in the middle
of the field
is tired.
sagging in his
ragged clothes.
not lifting a straw
finger
to keep
the seeds in the plowed
ground.
he fools no one,
with his silent gaze,
his stitched
eyes,
the bent mouth
that stays silent
and never yells out,
and yet he goes
about his day as if
he mattered.

once there

it's hard to leave
the battlefield
once there,
once having seen
what there is to be seen.
you never
get the blood out.
the sound
from your ears.
lucky to be alive,
some lucky
to be dead.
others, walking the earth
in a trance
trying to make
sense of it all,
hiding the fear.

let's do something fun

she asks you to do something
fun
over the weekend.
let's do something fun,
she says.
throwing her hands up into
the air
to demonstrate
what fun might look like.
her eyes get large,
her mouth is wide
and open. tell me what you
think of this she says,
jumping into the air
and spinning around like a
leaf tumbling from a tree.
let's go for a ride in
a hot air balloon.
yes? what do you think?
come on. come on it will be
fun.
you say hmmm. which settles
her down a little.
what? she says. it's so
nice out, the leaves
are changing. we can
drive out to Orange County
today and be up in the air
by this afternoon.
we can pick up some apple
cider too and maybe a few
pies from a roadside stand.
hmmm. you say again.
what about power lines?
and fire. those balloons explode
when they hit the power lines.
people fall out of those
things all the time and die
in a fiery crash. no one survives
when they go down.
you open your phone to show
her a photo you've saved
of a hot air balloon on fire
with people in mid air
falling to the ground.
you enlarge the picture
with your thumb and forefinger.
oh my, she says. when did that
happen? an hour ago, you say,
crossing your fingers.
well. that's terrible. well.
how about some cider
and some pie? we can do that,
can't we? take a nice
ride through the country.
i'm in you say, putting your
phone away and grabbing your
car keys.

the white cadillac

as you sit at the light
waiting for red
to turn green
the man in the white
Eldorado
Cadillac rolls
down his window
to throw trash
out.
wrappers and cans,
paper
bags, things that
get caught in the wind
and fly over your
car, into the woods.
he empties his ashtray
by opening the door
and tilting
the ashes and butts
onto the road.
he looks into his mirror
to see if you've seen
what he's done.
but he doesn't care,
he's eating
something, drinking.
singing. you can hear
the loud music
seep out of his car.
he's happy.
he's in a white Cadillac.

the black cat

the black cat
wants milk. she's been here
before.
long haired,
green eyed.
friendly and loud.
a sultry purr
as she paws
and peers into
your open door.
her back arched,
her tail up
and waving
in the night air.
the black cat
wants in.
she knows you.
she knows how easy you
are when
it comes to affection.
she's been here before.
without hesitation
you get the milk,
the bowl.
you pour.

the high rise

it's a secure building.
you have to sign in.
write on a ledger
your name,
your car, the plates,
the year
the color, who you might
be visiting.
the time.
the day. your mother's
maiden name.
people stare at you
as you wait
for someone to leave,
or go in with bags
of groceries,
then you grab the door
and enter. the buttons
don't work.
no one is at the desk.
there's a sign
reading pick up after
your pets.
someone has a couch
for sale.
it's on the board, next
to the board meeting notice
about mice. the couch
is plaid circa 1979
with someone
lying on top of it
asleep, his mullet hanging
over the side.
it's a high rise
with washers and dryers
in the basement.
a loading dock.
a cement pond out back
surrounded by barbed wire.
it smells like cabbage
in the windowless halls,
it smells
like shoes on the balcony.
wet towels
and cats.
the rugs, wet spotted,
are gold and patterned
with hexagons in red.
the walls are the color
of sand, the texture
is sand too.
it's hard to get in
this building, there's
a waiting list and harder
still to get out
once you've signed
a lease.

her boots

she wants to show you her boots.
see, she says,
opening one closet
after another,
pulling the string
to the bulb above.
she waves her hand across
the boots lined on the shelves,
on the floor,
some still in boxes.
see how many I have.
every color.
but mostly black and brown.
but wait,
there's more.
she opens another door,
and shows you more.
I love my boots,
she says.
I know they all look the same,
but they're different
if you look closely
at them. some are pointed
while others are flat toed.
I have different brands.
different leather.
made in different countries.
she smiles, and turns
the light off. closes the door.
I love boots, she says,
smiling as brightly as
any child could do.

some get lost

some get lost,
get angry and confused,
they fall through the cracks.
you can't keep everyone
happy.
you only have so much
to give, your heart
having given
so much in the past.
you bend only so far.
in time, a week or two,
or less, you'll forget
who they are,
as they do you.

burning leaves

the afternoon
spent in the cold,
in the wind,
as the trees empty.
raking with gloved hands
what falls
at your feet,
tossing them in armfuls
into
a barrel of fire
and letting them burn,
letting the ashes
and smoke rise
and blow into the bluest
of skies,
warming your
hands over
the debris of branches,
timber
having fallen.
the churning,
of dead leaves,
no longer green.
this act brings
you a sweet
autumn peace.
a distant memory
that fills you with a joy,
only this season
can possess.

a shoe box photo

the photo, yellowed at the edges,
along with others
in the shoebox
under the steps,
is in your hand.
you haven't seen that person
in some time
now. troubled in
black and white,
the edges scalloped
by your mother's sewing
scissors.
they weren't happier
times. not at all,
or simpler. you can't
gloss over
those times,
because you were there,
you were in the photo,
you were younger then,
but not nearly
as young as you are now.

who isn't busy?

who isn't busy
these days?
raise your hand.
only the dead
it seems. besides them
everyone else
has a schedule to keep.
hardly a soul
can meet you for dinner
a drink,
a cup of coffee
on the spur of the moment.
no one owns
their life.
it belongs to the world
that spins
increasingly
faster under their feet.
who isn't busy
these days?
only the dead,
it seems,
but they don't
return your calls either.

the news boy

when you were a boy,
you left the house before
dawn.
the dog with you.
a wagon
creakily being towed
by your thick coated
arms
and gloves.
the papers were on the corner
six blocks away.
no cars.
no noise, no sound at all.
just you
breathing. the bright
stars
more brilliant than you've
ever seen before or
since then.
for an hour you'd circle
the neighborhood
and throw the folded
batons
of news to each porch.
the dog
moving beside you. knowing
when to stop
when to go.
not a soul around.
the bloom of your breath
a cloud
in your eyes.
it was dream like, this work.
this silent
walk through a different time.

civilized

insulted
and bruised, the old you
would attack
with arrows of poison
truth.
killing with words,
with daggers
of sarcasm. but not anymore
you let her live.
you let
what she says roll off you.
there was a time
when you could remove her heart
with a few surgically
chosen lines,
and show it to her
before eating it.
but you're more civilized
now. you've grown up,
or maybe you've gotten
old and soft, tired,
believing that
her own life is enough
suffering, why point it out.

time to heal

it will take time to heal
the doctor says to you
as you sit in a paper gown
in her office.
she taps here and there
as you sit
atop the paper sheeted
platform, a thick green leather
seat, for sitting or lying.
your feet dangle a foot from
the floor.
the room is full of
instruments gleaming in
jars,
machines, waist high
pushed into corners.
boxes and tins
of things
she needs to make someone well,
but not you.
not this time.
it will take months, she says,
months of rest
and therapy.
of careful use.
she speaks Hindu too.
you saw that in her profile
before you came in for your
appointment.
but her English is fine, clear,
with a hint
of London in her lilt.
ice, she says. lots of ice.
now off with you.
be careful. cheerio.
see you in a few weeks.

the boy and his kite

the boy efforts
along the open field.
a stretch of
green before the woods
of falling
leaves, with
a long white string
attached to a kite
above him,
the spindle curled
in his small hand.
it lifts, this yellow kite,
with a sheet tail,
cut and tied
a the end.
it rises above him
as he runs, and runs.
he knows little
about life, at this age,
but this helps.
to win
to fail.

a gallon of rum

the first time you hear Christmas music
this season, it surprises you.
you are still in shorts and a t shirt,
flip flops, but you easily
join in to help sing white Christmas
with Bing, while you push your grocery
cart through the store.
you jingle your keys
to the beat. nodding your head
from side to side as you grab a
quart of milk from behind the glass
doors. maybe you should get some eggnog too,
you think. maybe some candy
canes and some pies.
what about lights. do you have
enough lights and candles this year.
last year you ran out of peanut
brittle and fruit cake
before December. better
stock up. oh, and batteries.
first the rum though, for that
eggnog. a gallon should do it.

the road crew

the men
in green bright vests
reflective
and shiny in the headlights,
gather around the hole
they have
dug in the center lane
of the highway.
they've been there
since dawn.
eating sandwiches,
drinking coffee,
talking on their phones
and looking into the hole.
some lean on shovels,
while others
tap the mud off their boots
with iron pipes.
sometimes a head
will pop out of the hole
and say something
then go back down the ladder
into the darkness
below the street.
the seven or eight men,
move from side to side
as the day goes on.
some take
off their helmets
and wipe their faces
with red bandanas.
at three, they fill the hole
up, gather their
lunch boxes, put a steel
plate over their work
then go home. tomorrow
they'll be back.

the mirror

you stare at yourself in the mirror.
you no longer
have any brown hair.
it's white, silvery.
you are frosted with white hair.
you've gained weight.
there is at least ten pounds
you'd like to get rid of.
but it's hanging on
to your belly
like a baby in it's first
trimester.
what about sit ups,
what about a complete
dipping into
some hair dye.
you don't like getting old.
you lie about your age,
but your aches and pains
give you away.
people ask you if you'd
like the senior discount
on meals
and movie tickets.
everyone calls you sir.
you see your mother in
the mirror, your father.
you are getting shorter
by the day. you want to
shoot a gallon of botox
into your bald head and get
rid of these deep
crevices that have formed
seemingly overnight.
but you do nothing.
you shower, you get dressed.
you go to work.
you have surrendered to life
and try to be happy
in the crumbling shell
you've been blessed with.

what day is this?

you scratch out
another line on the concrete
wall
of your cell.
but it's not a cell
it's your work
cubicle and you've
just scratched
the faux carpet
that is stuck to the
temporary wall that
encloses you. it's
a diagonal mark
scratching out
another week of lines.
you bang your coffee
cup against your desk
and yell out,
guard, guard,
but no one comes.
the prisoner next to
you stands up and looks
over.
you okay? he says.
yes. yes. you say,
settling back down.
what day is this.
who am I?

buying the new car

what can I do to get you
to buy this car today, buddy,
the salesman says,
walking across the gravel lot
in his alligator shoes.
he leans into you with his kung pao
chicken lunch breath,
putting a greasy
paw around your shoulders.
you married, buddy?
no? single.
perfect. this car will
have women all over you.
but it's a minivan.
he winks at you and chuckles.
travel with me, he says,
stretching his arm,
pointing his ringed fingers
out towards
the setting sun
that melts over the interstate.
travel with me to the 60's.
tell me what you see.
I dunno. well,
I see a lava lamp in this van.
I see romance.
we gut this baby,
we rip out the seats and put
a thick postropedic mattress
in the back on top of some
maroon shag carpet.
maybe a black light
with day glow posters
taped to the walls.
hang some straps from the ceiling
to hold onto
in case things get crazy.
I see a quadraphonic
sound system, and a wet bar.
maybe some flowered curtains.
who likes curtains?
that's right buddy,
chicks do. and you know what
else they like,
candles and wine.
we can have candle holders
in each corner,
and an ice cooler for your
adult beverages.
are you with me?
can you feel it?
you my brother will be the man.
what say we go in and do
the paperwork on this baby.
he slaps you hard on the back,
curling his arm around you.
you a veteran?

the gift

you see a horse tied
up outside
your house. it's white
with a dark brown saddle.
no rider.
you peek out the door.
there's a note
attached to the reins.
I bought you this horse.
I hope you enjoy it.
love S.
you bring the horse in,
put down a bowl of water,
make some oatmeal.
you grab a carrot or two
out of the fridge
and feed the horse.
you try to get it to lie
down. but it won't.
it's too large.
it steps through your coffee
table.
it's tail knocks over
a lamp.
you get a scrub brush from
under the sink
and brush it down.
it's hair is like stiff wires.
it looks at you, you look
at him. his eyes
are enormous
and hold the reflection of
your face.
you have so many things
to do, but now you have
this horse. this changes
everything.

keep this version

she waves
from the train,
wiping her eyes.
blowing kisses.
this is how you choose
to remember her.
leaving because
of war,
because of hard times.
she had no choice
but to leave.
you've rewritten
the story again and again,
but this version suits you
best.
the fog
the rain, the black
and white air,
her waving from
a window on
the slowly departing
train.

what's wrong, honey?

what are you thinking about,
she asks me,
you've been quiet all night,
I haven't seen you
in such a blue
and quiet mood for sometime.
she reaches over and touches
my knee as I drive the car.
is it me, us, what's
bothering you?
it's nothing, I tell her.
i'm fine.
really. i'm just thinking,
that's all.
about what. please tell me,
honey,
you can tell me anything.
we'll, you begin.
I'm thinking
about bacon. all day long
I've wanted to eat
some bacon, but I heard
on the radio
that it's really really
bad for you.
she shakes her head,
and stares out the car
window. it's raining harder now.
bacon, she says? really.
you've been moping around
all day because of bacon.
pfff. you need some serious
mental help.
I think I need a cigarette.
and a drink, she says,
rolling down the window a little.
you're upset about bacon?
it's grizzled fat. how can
it not be bad for you.
this is what you're worried about?
but, I tell her, staring
at the rain as the wipers
flop back and forth across
the windshield.
I just bought some the other
day and a tube of jimmy
dean sage sausage.
I want to eat it but I don't
want to die, either.
she continues to shake her
head.
what's wrong, I ask her.
are you upset? is it me?

I'm watching you

sometimes
the prayers are answered
with a maybe shrug,
we'll see
how it goes.
ask me again next year,
and i'll see what
I can do.
hey, it's a mystery,
don't try to understand.
who are you
to even begin to know
what I know,
what I've been through,
but thanks for asking,
i'll be in touch.
and remember i'm watching
everything you do.

standardized testing

they blur the naked
man's private parts on the news
as he runs
across the white house lawn,
not unlike the proverbial
chicken missing it's head.
dogs chase him,
as a swat team moves in with
weapons and a net.
you find out later
he's a disgruntled teacher
from ohio,
tired of standardized testing
and trying to make
his point. point made.

recess at St. Thomas More

when they were nuns,
real
nuns, black penguins
with wooden
crosses hanging
down the front of their
gowns,
they stood like guards
posted
at the playground.
stern with hands folded
in front of them.
they watched your every move.
knowing your
sins before you did.
not afraid to rap your
knuckles or pull
a red ear brittled
from the cold wind
that swirled
in the paved lot
of St. Thomas More.
they made you realize
that fun must be had
in secret.

kitchen ballet

you know it's home
when you can click on the burner
of the stove.
crack an egg in the pan,
open the fridge door,
then close,
run the water
in the sink with your left elbow,
kick the dishwasher
door shut with
the back of your foot, toss
the shells
to a can in the corner,
and all the while
be talking on the phone.

untetthered

you wonder where they are,
these people,
friends.
school and beyond, work
related
relations
never meant to extend
beyond the arm
of a clock on some office wall.
we fly away. we do.
untethered in this world,
like balloons,
where too much is unglued.
flying to different places,
almost always taking
no one,
just you.

her new lover

sitting outside
drinking coffee
she wants to tell you about her new
lover. Pablo.
a man she met working for Uber
and drove
her to nordstroms
the other day for a shoe sale.
his dream is to open
a restaurant
that serves only
breakfast
with free range chicken
eggs
and turkey sausage.
it would be gluten free
with flourless waffles and toast.
juices without pulp.
I think I love Pablo,
she says.
his eyes are brown
as any coffee bean,
his hair, thick and black
like a wild animal in the jungle.
he is a storm
of a man, always wanting,
always
grabbing me and pulling
me into a dark
corner to make love
and whisper in his language,
a language I don't
understand
but sort of get the gist of.
okay, okay.
spare me the details,
you tell her.
I really don't want to hear
about Pablo anymore.
are we getting another cup
of coffee, or what?

the land line

it doesn't matter,
this no call list. they still
call.
deep voiced men
collecting for a police fund,
firefighters,
the hawkers of light bulbs
for the blind,
the pick ups
on Wednesday for the purple
heart,
Thursday for
the united way, Friday
for goodwill,
and the rest. the machine delay,
that three seconds
of silence
before
someone mispronounces your name
and asks you if you're
having a good day.
you curse your land line,
that kitchen phone on
the wall with the twenty
foot black cord,
hardly a real
soul calls that number
anymore,
but what if, what if.

in the attic

there's
something in the attic.
the pitter pat
of small paws
in the rafters, or is
it the rattle of wings
you hear, the tiny
scratching
claws of leathered
bats.
squirrels perhaps
with their riot minds,
a raccoon who has gnawed
his way in
to burrow for the night
in pink insulation.
but it's late,
you don't want to drag
the ladder down
and climb
up to see.
shining your light
into their yellow eyes,
swiping at the webs,
let them
have their night of fun,
whoever they are, go
back to sleep,
let them be.

a new name

she changed her name
from your name
back to her mother's name
after the divorce.
which wasn't her
name at all, but the one
she took
when she got married.
she was making a statement
of some sort. you guess.
it's all confusing.
and now, remarried, she
has another name to remember.
a new one.
but who doesn't
want to change
their name at some point
and go undercover,
become someone
different
than what they started
as.

the milk man

you miss the milk
man.
his truck
with cold milk.
bottles
ice cold in the hand.
his pastries
and eggs.
sausage and bacon.
all placed
neatly into the silver
box
on your stoop.
his
engine blowing blue
smoke
out the back
as he rumbled
through the early
morning streets.
you miss the milk man
and everything those years
appeared to be
but weren't.

tomorrow is close by

there was a time
when
there was time
to do
the things you were meant
to do.
plenty of hours
on the clock.
pages on the calendar.
no matter how
swiftly the seasons
went by, there was still
time.
still enough days
ahead of you
to do all of those
things
you wanted to.
tomorrow was always
close by,
just around the corner,
almost
in reach, almost
there, before you die.

champagne love

it was a champagne love.
the bubbles,
the fizz, the pop
of the cork.
the cold bottle
keeping them
warm
throughout the night.
glass after glass,
kiss following kiss,
it was impossible
to understand how in
time, things would go
flat.

together

they speak
without words, this couple
on the train, a nudge,
a wink
a nod. a slight touch
of hand.
so many words
lie behind them.
no longer needing
these things to be said.
the years have
gathered in their faces,
in their hands
that join
as one, still together
despite
the world they have
lived in.

she can help you

her blue hair
stacked high, a cyclone
of hair,
unbending
in the wind,
a tower
of blue, a fashion
statement
to go along
with that leopard
print dress
and matching shoes.
the blue eye shadow
and cherry lips,
she's in sales.
she can help you.
here, have a brochure.

her secret world

her secret world
is dark and
hidden
behind the curtain
of her day.
when the shades
are pulled
the lights dimmed.
it's a world you
don't want to know.
she tells no one
about the hours
that she toils at her
craft, her fingers
curled, rocking
back and forth
in the corner chair,
neither good nor evil,
but mysterious
and so like her,
not wanting to seem old,
so strange,
how the needles click,
the yarn
unravels as she makes
another afghan
for someone
for Christmas.

nothing has changed

nothing has changed.
you are still the same boy,
the same person
you were
when born.
the shape and age
of you has
altered, but the bones
and soul
are yours. still yours
after all
these years.
you think and believe
no differently
than when a child.
what was
in the beginning is
clearer now, but
nothing has changed.

things have changed

on your honeymoon
in Bermuda, both of you
stretched out on the hotel
bed overlooking the languid
blue sea, your new wife
said she had a headache.
you had barely
cleaned the thrown rice out
of your hair.
maybe later, she said
when i'm feeling better.
we're married now, we have
all the time in the world
to do that. okay?
can you turn the light off,
I want to rest now.

stepping up

your tv works perfectly fine,
this black and white
with rabbit ears,
once the horizontal lines settle down.
but wouldn't it be nice to have
a new t.v.,
a bigger one, a fifty five inch
4K,
a smart one with a
curved screen, three D,
with all the bells and whistles.
a t.v. you could be
proud of.
a t.v. you could text on,
answer e mails on,
and play games.
so clear and wonderful.
a t.v. that you could almost
jump into
and be a part of the show.
but your son lives in California
and how would
you ever figure it out.
which button to push,
which dial to turn. how do I change
the channel?
maybe you'll wait, maybe after
the holidays
they'll be cheaper and you
could find a local
kid to help you.

we sold the last bottle

you ask
the clerk, who is on
his knees, grumpily filling
the shelves with new
product
where the castor oil
is.
he arches his eyebrows
and says
with a smirk,
we sold the last bottle
about fifty years
ago.
he might be thirty
at the most
so you know he's lying.
messing with you mind.
he's holding out
on the castor oil,
oh really, you reply.
we'll see about that,
and begin to search
the shelves anyway.

grapefruit moon

you steer her towards
some tom waits,
singing about a grapefruit moon,
or a 29 dollar
alligator purse. but she'll have
none of it.
i'd rather put knitting needles
into my ears
than listen to that.
that, that. she can't find the words
to describe how
much she hates his music.
which is fine.
just fine.
You don't like Abba, which
is what she sings to and plays
incessantly all day long.
you're different, the two of you.
the distant between
you growing with each
painful conversation.

a woman's touch

i need to help him decorate
she says.
he has no sense of style. he's
a man.
she laughs. brown and black.
leather. bulky lamps.
a can of peanuts
near the big tv.
a table where his feet go.
nothing matches.
no curtains, no art, nothing
to reflect
his inner soul, though it is
quite dark.
but i can help him.
he needs a woman's touch.
some light handed splashes to
bring life to the place.
some flowers, new sheets, blue
perhaps.
a shower curtain that isn't torn.
a rug
that isn't worn.
i can make it nicer here, at least
if not for him,
for me,
when i'm passing through
or leaving in the early
morn.

fixing the broken lamp

you set the old lamp
with it's dangling
wires, and shade,
bulb removed, the cord
a tail lagging behind
onto the counter.
I can fix that, the woman
says, taking hold
of the lamp
leaning it towards
the light.
can you wait for it?
she asks.
it won't take long.
she pulls the wires out
and cuts them clean,
skimming off the casing
with a pair
of wire cutters.
she opens a drawer,
then another drawer,
she yells to someone in
the back room,
then she leans down into
a drawer you can't
see and pulls out a part
that looks like the broken part
where the bulb goes in.
she threads the wires
where they need to go,
then pushes and pulls,
until everything is in place.
talking all the while about
how nice this lamp is,
do I have a matching one?
she screws in a bulb,
plugs in the cord then turns
it on. it lights up.
I am happy that you didn't
throw it away, she says,
smiling, finished with her
work. the light
cascading off her face.
so much of life is retrievable
when broken,
we just don't know, until
we try, now do we.

the old lamp

the lamp,
shorts out. the room goes black.
wires have
been frayed
and crossed after
so many twists and turns.
it's an old lamp.
not as old as you, but old
still.
you understand
though, how things
go awry
after so much time.
being turned on
and off.
giving light, embracing
the dark.
it had a good run,
this lamp.\
it helped you find
your shoes,
your clothes. helped
you read a book
before turning in.
it showed you what she
looked like
as she lay there sleeping
beside you.

a drop in temperature

instead of one pie
you buy
two.
what if you someone comes
over
and wants a slice.
that way there will be
enough.
is two cans of whipped cream
enough
you ask yourself.
and what about
ice cream. who doesn't like
a scoop or two
of ice cream with their pie.
one or two,
that's the question.
it's getting cold
out and you need a nice layer
of fat
to make it through
the harsh winter
months that lie ahead.
you opt for two
cans of whipped cream.
seems prudent.

i'm in a hurry

she shrugs her shoulders
at another speeding ticket.
running a red,
reckless driving, ignoring
signs,
and postings.
she laughs in the face
of the county law.
she doesn't even try to explain
why she broke the limit.
why she ran the stop
sign.
it's how she rolls,
fast and hard, no one gets
in her way.
she smirks, flips her hair
back and says,
so what. it's not like I
robbed a bank or killed anyone.
I just like to drive
fast.
i'm in a hurry. so write me
a ticket and let
me be on my way.

you are here

you are here
the map says, as I stand
in the rain
outside the train station
with an umbrella
sipping tea.
I am not good at maps,
or directions
or in remembering names
so I ask someone
where I am.
they look at me strangely
then point at the map.
you are here
he says, pointing at the red
x on the map.
tapping his finger several
times against the glass.
I see that I tell him,
asking him his name.
bill, he says.
I have to go now,
but you are here. right here.
thank you joe, I tell him
and begin to walk,
hopefully in the right
direction.

unlike the heart

almost everything,
but the heart
takes longer to heal these days.
whether ankle
knee or shoulder.
a sore wrist from work,
a back from
lifting.
everything needs ice,
a rub,
a tiger balm or
heat.
you lie in the hot water
of your tub
and think about this.
what little
you can do about it, unlike
the heart
the body now
needs rest, needs sleep.

a seventies place

the furniture was dated.
early seventies,
every piece
Spanish roped
of faux wood,
too large
for the apartment,
but crammed in and neat.
the plastic
tree
with a vine of white lights,
plugged in all year,
the patterned spread
on the four post queen sized bed,
the thick
tv in the corner,
rabbit ears with a dial,
a line of framed photos
now yellowed behind the glass.
a hammock
to rest your feet
as you sunk back into
the plaid cushions.
two matching end tables
and jar lamps
salmon colored
with pleated shades.
you remember this place,
you lived there once,
a long time ago, with
the magazines
lined on the table.
people, us, a playboy,
and newsweek.

zoo boy

your son could make every noise
that any farm
animal could make
when he was three,
and would tell you so,
going through
the cow, the chicken, the rooster,
the goat
and horse.
sometimes he'd make noises
like a monkey all
day, or at least until
you told him
to stop.
coming home from the zoo,
he'd bring
the zoo back with you
on the train,
entertaining
the passengers
with his noises.
you tried to pretend
you weren't with him,
but he looked too much
like you
and from that point
on you felt and knew
for certain
that his life was
a direct result
of yours.

new love

it surprised you
when she rolled her down
and spit.
then rolled it back up
and looked at you
and said what?
girls can't spit
once in a while?
to which you replied.
sure, why not.
girls can do a lot
of things.
then you rolled your
window down
and spit.
which made her smile
and take your hand.

two old men

he never reached
the age
where you both planned
to be
in central park,
on a bench
reciting verse,
remembering remembering
everything
that still seemed so
fresh
and new. him with his
beret,
tilted sideways,
strumming
his old guitar,
you breaking bread
for the ducks
before walking to the lake
to feed them.
so now you go alone,
and pretend.
you and him. two
old men.

still life

as an artist
she was adept
at still life and faces
printed in
the obituaries.
portraits.
pears in bowls
and people now
deceased.
she filled her walls
with them.
displayed them
in local
restaurants
where people came
to look
and eat. she painted
apples
grapes.
a woman who lived
a long life,
a boy
who died too soon,
a man
who looked asleep.

where to now

no one goes to the moon
anymore.
they've seen enough.
littered it with
left overs
from the so called
space age.
planted a flag, made
some footprints,
carried home some rocks,
but
pretty much discovered
nothing.
the dark side no
different from the light
side.
no green cheese.
no ghosts, no air to
breathe.
some excursions are
like that.
getting there being
all the fun, then when
arriving, looking around
and saying,
where to now.

you'll be fine

the doctor puts his cold
stethoscope
on my chest and listens.
does it hurt when I do this,
he says, pulling my arm
into the air. yes. I say.
it hurts.
everything hurts.
he nods.
he looks at his watch.
he listens some more,
he taps me on the back,
on the knee, on the elbow,
with a rubber arrow
instrument then says
inhale, exhale.
is anything bothering you,
he says.
yes. I tell him
as he straps a black
band around my arm.
a lot of things.
sometimes I can't sleep,
sometimes I sleep too much.
he takes the reading and writes
it down.
he looks into my mouth
with a flashlight,
my nose and ears. strangely,
he asks me how long since
i last
made love to a woman.
i ask him what time is it,
which makes him laugh.
we're done here, he says.
get dressed. you'll be fine,
you'll live.

chicken

you'd like to eat
chicken
tonight, but that would mean
getting dressed
and driving up
to the store
and buying one. cooking
one is out
of the question
right now, because
you are starving, well
not starving
in the medical sense
of the word.
your tongue has not turned
black yet.
which your grandmother once
told you was a sign
starvation and impending death.
you're happy
though that there are
cooked chickens out there,
ready to be eaten
with side orders.
the idea of having to wring
one's neck,
pluck it clean of feathers,
then cook it,
seems insanely hard.
where are the car keys?

another world

your father's whiskey
breath
and stubble cheeks
are with you still,
his mighty arms,
holding you up towards
the ceiling
like a stuffed animal.
saying something with
his soft
blue eyes, that are crying?
he sees what
he's become, what
he's always been,
afraid
of the choice he's about
to make
upon leaving
your mother for another
woman.
somehow this life
he's in is not enough, not
right.
his cowardice
and courage joining hands
to help him
leap into another
world.

shouldn't we discuss this

I can't see you
anymore she says, but she doesn't
really say it.
she just sort of disappears
as people are prone
to do in this fast
age we live in.
gone.
a neat magic
trick.
poof.
but, I stammer,
but wait a minute, shouldn't
we discuss this,
it's too late though,
I'm talking to myself,
searching
the rooms, under the beds,
in the closet
to where she may have
gone.

her candle

her candle
is burning, but it's running
low on wax.
the flame
is still high and hot,
and she gives
off enough light
to attract
the bugs and moths,
but it's waning.
there is only so much
wick and wax
to go on in one lifetime,
so much has
puddled hard and cold
at her feet.

the new you

the new you is going to be wonderful.
he will be caring
and no longer be dismissive
of annoying people, he will
feel compassion for the lazy
and loud. he will not honk
and curse at bad drivers
but will wave politely with all
his fingers, not just one.
he will be patient
when standing in line for coffee,
and will not roll
his eyes as the person in front
of him tries to make up their mind
about what kind of latte
they want. the new you will
not screen calls, or hang up
by slamming the phone down
and cursing when a telemarketer
phones him. the new you will
be different in so many ways.
he will not look at his cell
phone every ten seconds.
he will no longer pretend to pick
up after his dog, but actually
reach down
and put something in a baggy
besides mulch.
yes, the new you will be something.
he will answer the door after
peeking out the window
to see that it's a neighbor
or Mormons or a relative
holding a pillow and a suitcase.
he will not be sarcastic even
when drinking and at the beach
watching people waddle down
the boardwalk eating a tub
of French fries. the new you
will spread joy and cheer.
he may even put a candle in the window
at Christmas. he will
keep a wad of dollars in his
pocket to put into every hat
of every person standing at a
corner begging.
he will even put money into
the fireman's boot and not question
where his tax dollars are
really going.
the new you will say hi to everyone.
striking up meaningless conversations
about the weather
and sports, asking
how's your health, the kids, the new wife?
he will say things like
we could sure use come rain, then shake
his head in a worried way.
he will say god bless you
when someone sneezes
and not hold his breath until
he's able to get away from
where that person was standing.
he will not complain about people
taking his jobs and food out of his mouth,
or say things like politics
are a joke. nothing changes.
the new you will be optimistic
and believe everything
each candidate says, believing that
they are honest and have your best
interest in mind. the new you
might have to sleep on that one,
but he will love all people, all races,
creeds and colors.
he will even, on occasion, keep
in touch with members of his
own family. he will vote, he will
recycle, he will eat more fiber.
the new you will embrace humanity
and give it a big giant hug.

keepsakes

he had a photo
of dom deluise on his mantle
and a story, a long,
a very long story
to go with it.
there was ruby and jim
and dom in a golf cap
smiling broadly
and comically as he was
prone to do. the three of them
on a cruise thirty years
ago.
the one photo became the focus
of the livingroom,
the chance meeting
in line at a dessert
bar on a ship going to
the Bahamas,
and having a photo
shot, each holding their
enormous plates
of boston cream pie.
the picture is in a steel
frame under glass.
it's the largest
picture in the room
except for the one
on the side wall
of a horse.
roy roger's horse. trigger.
signed at the bottom
by both dale and roy.

getting limber

you sign up for a yoga
class that's being held
next to the donut shop
because you can no longer
touch your toes
or put your arm
behind you to get that itch
in the middle of your back.
plus you are having a hard
time breathing.
maybe they can help with that
too.
you go out and buy some tight
fitting
yoga pants, a manly lime color
and a matching t-shirt.
a nice purple mat that you can
roll up like a sleeping bag
and carry around.
you also buy a tube of extra
strength ben gay
to rub on your sore muscles
later.
you are nothing if not prepared.
it surprises you that you
are the only man in the class,
but it doesn't make you unhappy
either.

did you like that?

she sends you a photo
of herself
in her underwear.
a pink frilly thing
showing nothing really.
suggestive, but not
revealing.
she's had a few
to drink.
and she's listening
to music. it's raining out.
did you like that, she writes.
I hope so.
the phone is a dangerous
thing
around a bottle of
chardonnay and a lonely
night at home alone.

the fading light

you meet your friend
at the prison
gate
as he leaves, his time
served.
he has one suitcase
in his hand.
the clothes he wore
when they
cuffed him and tossed
him into a cell.
he tells you about
Jesus.
and how he's seen the light
and will be walking
the straight and narrow
path.
he's been on his road to
Damascus.
you nod and smile,
knowing
where this is going,
you know how short and fading
this light
will be.
just bright enough
to get him out
and on the streets.

beyond you

your feet
are cold. the night is long.
you pull the blanket
tight,
turn the pillow over.
someone out the window
is drunk
and singing.
you peer through blinds
and see him
staggering towards
a house
down the street.
there are owls in trees,
blue eyed
foxes on the edge
of woods.
possum laying low.
another world
beyond you
continues to live.

the black cat

the black cat
comes to your window.
sniffs
at the door.
you pour a saucer
of milk
set it out on the porch.
she moves
in closer as the door
closes.
her green eyes
as bright as emeralds
in the sunlight.
her pink tongue
laps
against the white
plate.
her whiskers wet
with milk.
no words are spoken
as she drinks
her fill and moves on.
it will come
back to you, in time.

flowers in a vase

she stays
because she has no choice.
this is good enough.
my life is good
enough.
who needs love.
who needs affection.
I have a home,
a place to live,
sleep and eat.
I could do worse.
life is good, she concedes,
nodding quietly
in the empty room,
watering
flowers in a vase.
my life is full.
it hasn't
been a waste.

the distant lives

the last step,
painted from a can
of throwaway green,
slick oil
on rotted wood.
watch the last step
you'd hear people say
as they exited
the screen door,
going down the unsteady
porch,
a panel
ripped open where
the dogs
slid out, barking,
into the dirt yard,
and the laundry
hung heavy and wet all
day across the line.
the chain link
fence separating long
linear
lanes of broken dreams,
settled
disputes,
children unclaimed.
how the wind did blow
on young cheeks,
harshly through holes
of old coats,
hand me downs.
wool sweaters, dungarees,
how quickly
it came and went.
all of us moving to the sides
of our own
distant lives as each sunday
we marched
to church, listening to the bells
that would ring and ring
and ring.

fly away

some birds
have wings and can fly.
some can't
and stay flat footed
on the earth,
most of those
we eat
on a regular basis
or at thanksgiving.
it's our physical
limitations
that keep us grounded
sometimes
no matter
how hard we try
to fly away.

let's get married

we should get married,
she whispers to you
as you pretend to be asleep
or dead,
you haven't decided which
exactly quite yet.
let's get married, she
says, as she slowly
scratches your back
in a circular motion,
continually missing
the itchy spot that you have.
let's move in together,
maybe buy a house,
get a cat, a dog,
a picket fence.
you like to barbeque
don't you? we could grill
out at night,
have the neighbors over
for cocktails
and dinner.
a house with a pool and a shed,
a big shed
where you could
keep the lawn mower
and weed whacker.
you blink your eyes into
the pillow
and run the words weed
whacker through your brain.
you pretend to snore,
burrowing your head
deeper and deeper
into the pillow almost
losing consciousness from
the lack of air.

panning for gold

your dentist
removes your gold tooth
from the back
of your mouth.
tired of looking like a pirate
you have her
put a white tooth in.
porcelain white,
shiny like a sink.
she gives
you an envelope
with which to send the removed
gold tooth
to and have them weigh it,
determine what it's worth.
a few weeks go
by, and you're anticipating
all the fun
things you will do with
this found money.
a trip to Italy perhaps,
a new car.
that full length fur
coat you've always
wanted,
then the check comes.
eight dollars and nineteen
cents.
just barely enough
for two grande carmel
machiatos.

down in the lab

you wake up, stretch,
look out the window, then
put on your white smock,
your name tag, you fix yourself
a cup of black coffee,
heat up a cinnamon bun, then
go down to your science
lab in the cellar.
you have a few beakers
boiling with a blue
liquid
over the Bunsen burner.
there are white mice in cages
a few rabbits
in a box with carrots.
the periodic table
is scotched tapped to the wall.
your old copies of the new England
journal of medicine
are scattered about,
earmarked and underlined.
you put your goggles
on and get to it.
clapping your yellow rubber
gloves together.
you are determined to find
a cure
for something. what exactly
that is, you aren't sure of.
but time is of the essence.
you aren't getting any younger.

the unliving

the unliving
are among us, you see
them everywhere,
young and old,
zombie like
in deep concentration
staring
into their phones,
mindlessly
walking,
crossing streets,
neither talking,
or observing,
but hypnotized by
the light
and words that scroll
across their
hand held screens.
they see nothing beyond
their hands.
trapped inside
a world
beyond this one,
staggering thoughtlessly
through
a strange and distant
land.

the online date

I had a date last night, she tells
me on the phone. i'm apparently
her mentor now.
he was nice, okay looking,
no spark.
no chemistry, but he bought
me dinner
and drinks,
we even had dessert
and an after dinner drink.
I remember the advice you gave
me before I went
out and ran to the bathroom
when the check
came. as soon as the waiter
started for our table with the bill
I got up and scurried away.
of course he paid, he was
too embarrassed
not to. being a man, and all.
but then he tried
to kiss me
in the parking lot,
can you believe that? he
grabbed my shoulders
and pulled me in.
it scared me so, like you told me to,
I used my key to jab him in the eye,
then pepper sprayed
him. thanks for
giving me that for Christmas.
he yelled at me and called
me a name.
well, a lot of names.
names I can't even repeat,
but one of them rhymes
with stitch,
and no one calls me that,
so I kicked him really hard,
you know, right there,
with my high heel.
he fell over after that,
and lay in the parking lot.
I felt bad, but he deserved it,
right? I zig zagged all the way
home in case he was trying
to follow me.
anyway. it was an okay date
up to that point.
i'm meeting a doctor
tomorrow night. but not a real
doctor. he has a phd in
medieval literature. he said
he wants me to wear a black dress.
is that weird? anyway,
I loved the salmon at that
restaurant, so I might meet
him there.

on hold

as you sit
at your desk on hold.
the music
of your youth
plays
on. squeezed clean
of vocals,
it's just strings now,
harmless with
soft drums.
a song you drank to,
danced to
flirted in the midnight
hour to
is now muzak
pumped into your ear
from
the dmv.
it makes you sad.
makes you want to cry.
makes
you want to hang up
and find
the vinyl record and play
it, but you don't
because if you did
you'd have to start
all over again,
and wait once more
on hold.

some people

some people you miss
when they're gone.
while others,
just fade
and disappear.
some are in the coffee
you drink.
in the water
that cascades
down as you shower.
some are in
the car you drive
to work.
with you as you lie
in bed
trying to fall asleep.
some people never
leave,
while others
you can barely remember
their names,
holding no fond
memory, or grief.

flying away

you see the children
in the air.
flying away.
almost grown now,
their small hands gripping
balloon strings as
they sail
into the blue, towards
their own lives.
below their parents
watch in wonder,
uncertain about what to
do. confused by their absence.
these children,
no longer needing
or wanting too much
of the love
you gave them, at least
for now, until they
need to come
down.

by chance

by chance
you see her on the street
in passing.
you almost
stop and speak, but
don't.
why bother
to do something
you wouldn't even
do when
together.
speechless in what
she deemed
as love. silence
being
her way of showing
nothing.
showing
everything.
leaving you in perpetual
wonder.
you keep walking.

the rising leaves

the swirl of leaves,
a tumble
of orange
and yellow rising
on the playground
empty
and cold
beside the brick school,
the light now less,
everyone is home,
or going
there. how kind
the world
is
to have the children
young.
to have the parents
at the stove,
at the table,
near enough to hold.

the peach walls

it was obvious
to anyone with eyes
that they were a couple,
in love, still,
the years no longer years,
but a swift blend
of time gone by,
with no markings left
to show where or when
things
started or might come
to an end.
he stroked a soft
grey mouse of a
moustache lying above his
lips, once black
as oil you imagined, and her taller
now than him.
had it always been this way?
his marine
hard body, now soft,
and frail, as age will do,
as injury and disease
will conquer all
that we view.
and she, in command,
holding out a scarf,
peach color,
no longer a reluctant
chief,
but kind and compassionate,
letting him
have his say, letting his
confused words
be spoken
before her decisions
were made. we want to go
with this color
she said.
and that was it.

chicken pot pie

it's an attractive
book
with an attractive man
smiling
on the front. he has
a phd in psychology.
blue and white.
a soft covered book.
easy
to read, light.
it hasn't found its way
onto the dog pile stack
at the front of the book store.
it's a book you
can pick up and put
down with regularity.
perhaps underlining
in yellow
passages that appeal
to you. such as.
imagine that you
have more money.
imagine that you have
met the love of
your life.
imagine that all your
wishes and dreams
have come true.
you like that.
the simplicity of just
thinking your self good.
hypnotizing yourself into making
your crummy world into
the way you've always
wanted it to be.
but then the smoke alarm
goes off
and you realize that while
you've been engrossed
in reading about how to be
a better person
your chicken pot pie has
caught fire in
the stove.

her old shoes

her shoe
unglued, the small nails
bitten
flat
by walking,
the top a scuffed brown
no longer
holding polish.
the toe
flapped.
my favorite shoes,
she said,
as you looked down
at the noise
they were making.
we might need
to stop for more tape
or glue.
I've had these
for years
and just can't give
them up.
they're so comfortable,
not unlike
me being
with you.

i'll get the next time

he was
infamous for being frugal,
never having
money,
no wallet or credit card,
always depending
on others
for a cup of coffee a drink,
a sandwich.
it got old
very fast, but there was
nothing anyone could
do. he had money.
plenty of money,
but he'd rather spend yours.
than his.
let me take you out for your
birthday, he'd say.
bring a date.
it's on me. then you'd hear
oops, as he reached
into his pocket
or coat
when the check came.
can you get this?
i'll get the next time,
promise,
but there was never
a next time.

leaving home

I slip
out in the early
in the morning before
the sun rises.
shirt and pants on.
shoes
tied
tight. hat, and phone
in hand.
keys.
I give the dog a pat
on the head
as he looks up
at me.
I take one last look
around
knowing i'll never be
back.
then go.
leaving no note, no
explanation.
this is how I go to work
each day.
then come home.
the dog, not amused,
shaking
his head
as he drops his leash
at my feet.

the best teachers

the hardest
and best teachers
are the ones you remember most.
the strict
ones. the demanding
unrelenting,
without compromise
professors.
they held you to the fire.
beat you
around the head and
shoulders
with their quizzes
and tests,
assignments
and reprimands.
how they wagged their fingers,
how their glasses fogged.
you wondered if they
had ever been
kissed or made love,
ever had any kind of joy
in their grey
dull lives.
it was always strange
and surreal
to see them years later
at a store
buying milk
and you going down another
aisle
to not get yelled at
once more.

the first true love

there was always
his car
on cinder blocks
in the grassy driveway.
a rotted
tarp
no longer stretched
but hanging
like a scarf
upon the canary hood.
the wheels were off
and stacked to the side,
rust could be seen on the panels.
he was always
waiting on
a part or two, or to have
the time to get it back
on the road again.
strangers
would sometimes stop
and ask
if it was for sale,
to which he'd smile,
and say.
no way, I could never
let my baby go.
it's my first car,
he'd say.
my first true love.

thin lizzie

she made herself
skinny.
the school yard
name still ringing in her ears.
she made herself
bone thin, ribs showing.
angular
to the point of hips
being sharp
objects.
her eyes got bigger.
her hands and
feet became fins.
when she wasn't eating
she was
running. running. running.
or looking
into a mirror
to figure out how
to lose more,
to thin the bones,
to remove
that excess skin.
to disappear
and still be here.

smoke rings

she used
to hide her cigarettes
in the house,
Virginia slims,
perhaps a borrowed Lucky
Strike,
or two. you'd
find them in cracks
along the floor board,
tucked
away in cabinets.
under the bed.
over a door jamb.
even now
you find them, ten
years later.
crisp white sticks
of tobacco that she
was forbidden
to smoke, but did
anyway.
they didn't kill her
something else
did.
you imagine her smiling
now,
as you light one
up
and blow smoke rings
to the sky.

four out of five docotors

your doctor
is the one who doesn't agree.
four out of five
do,
but not your doctor.
he thinks
differently. he
believes that red meat
is good for you.
the more burnt the better.
whole
milk, eggs.
anything processed
is on his list as okay.
at the top of his food
pyramid
is a chocolate glazed
donut.
and below that is a bag
of potato chips,
but with sea salt,
not that awful
iodized salt.
there is a fresh bowl
of pork rinds
in his office and a cooler
full of cola.
he's the one, the one for
me. the one who
disagrees with the other
four.

blue chip nancy

you have a pleasant
conversation with nancy,
the telemarketer
who calls early
in the morning asking
you about
your investments. you try
to change
the subject.
asking about her health
and children, if she has any,
did she get a nice
vacation this year.
she's very polite and happy
that you haven't slammed
the phone down in her ear
like so many others
who are called at seven
in the morning.
but you like the sound of her
voice.
you imagine how beautiful
she must be.
how soothing the words
are that fall out of her mouth.
the way she says
blue chip and four o one k.
tell me about your portfolio
she asks you
and waits.
tell me about yours, you
say, with a wink in your voice.
she is so patient with me.
laughing.
she could be my soul mate.

seeing the light

I remember coming home
from work
one afternoon
and seeing the boxes stacked
in the living room
full of books.
my books. the books i'd be
buying since I was
a teenager.
hundreds of books.
Chekov and Hemmingway,
Plath and Bukowski.
Frost and Salinger.
what's going on I asked my
new wife.
i'm giving them away, these books,
they're old and dusty, plus
you've already read
them. they're taking up
room on the shelves.
maybe other people would like
to read them.
I need space for my knick
knacks and tea cups.
at that moment
a small light went on in my
head.
a light that would become
painfully
brighter and brighter.

the snake

the snake
in your shed coiled
pink
and brown
on the shelf that you
thought was
rope
did not like being
touched
or poked.
but what did you know.
why would you
possibly think
that a snake would
slither
up the wood
and find a damp
dark
corner with which
to call home.
how it rose and hissed,
ready to strike,
you falling back
and out. letting out a yell.
the neighbor
on the other side of
the fence,
peering over, then
coming into your yard
with a sharp hoe
and rake
to take care of business.
she was without
mercy.
taking of the head,
then flinging it's
lifeless body into the woods.

the message

I found your message.
the one
you wrote and placed in a bottle,
then threw it out
to sea.
it ended up
in my blue recycling bin.
I pulled
the note out. it was a typical
note
that one folds and curls,
stuffing it into
a bottle.
it talked about love
and rescue,
missing one another.
it sounded desperate
and sad.
I hate notes like that.
you know that
and yet, i'm on my way.
I see
where you've marked an
x on the map
you drew on the back.
i'll find you, don't leave,
not yet.

the violence of men

there are violent women
but most
of the violence
of the world comes
at the hands of men.
angry men. religious men.
strong or weak.
blame it on their fathers.
their loveless
mothers.
blame it on
the lack of education or
money.
blame it on a thousand
things.
it doesn't matter.
in the hands of men,
there is always war
and crime
somewhere. men
wanting what they don't have,
trying to erase
those who don't believe
what they do.

less of everything

the daylight
decreases.
there is less of
everything.
less
time, less leaves
on the trees.
less
warmth in the air.
less
sleep, less money.
less
talking.
less making love,
less
listening. there is less
touching
one another.
less embracing,
kissing.
thee is less of everything
these days.
less of me,
less of you.

unfriended

you lose a face book friend.
the number
has gone down.
it's embarrassing to be rejected
like this,
but you can't figure out who
it is.
who has unfriended
you.
this bothers you
for almost a minute.
where has this person gone.
maybe you should have
written
more to them.
asked them how things were.
if it's cold
where they live?
posted more photos
of something, anything.
maybe you should have
liked that funny
cat video
where it's chasing
a bird. but you didn't.
perhaps they posted that
video and you
ignored it.
it's time to start liking
things, perhaps.
we are nothing without
our friends.

early morning meeting

you get the memo.
meeting at nine a.m.
you wrote it to yourself.
but can't remember
why.
it's a board meeting.
all the principals
will be there.
which means you.
only you.
you set out a plate,
a pitcher of water,
coffee. donuts.
you prop the white
board up at the end
of your kitchen table,
against the toaster.
you have a red and black
marker
at the ready.
you hate meetings,
they seem to be a waste
of time,
but it's been so long
since you had a talk
with yourself.
you'll keep it short.
you tap the table
and stand,
good morning you say
to no one,
then begin.

the curtain opens

everyone is singing today.
each to his
or her own
part in this Monday
morning
musical.
some are dancing,
throwing their
arms into the air,
swinging their briefcases,
twirling
purses,
their feet
tapping
and moving in rhythm
to the band.
hands are slapping,
knees
bending, the lights
are up,
the energy is high.
it's a synchronized chorus
of joyous
delirium. confetti
falls from the sky.
the audience
is on their feet,
applauding, but you aren't
ready.
you need coffee.
who are these people?

is it cold where you are?

her long distance
love
affair
was dwindling.
the messages were no longer
sweet nothings,
expressions of affection,
but updates
on the weather.
or questions like,
did you see the game last night.
she wanted
to hear
I miss you. I need you.
I want you.
she wanted to hear longing
in his voice.
it's raining, he'd say.
we've had so much
rain lately. is it cold
where you are?

playing cards

we played long games
of rummy
as it rained. the cottage
grey white
beyond the sand
beyond the sea oats
and shrubs, high
enough on the dunes
to see the ocean.
we played
as it rained, nothing
else to do.
the trip to the store
done.
breakfast.
making love, then more
coffee.
we played cards.
her keeping score
on a long pad.
a radio on
in the kitchen, we
sighed
as the day went on,
a long day,
the last time we were
together
at the beach, both feeling
that we
were alone.

adam and eve

I wonder about adam
and eve.
did they fight and argue,
being together
so much.
did she say to him
are you going to wear those
leaves again.
you wear the same plants
everyday.
did he pout,
brood silently
and leave. go to his nook
outside the garden,
just recently called
a cave?

tell me if you've heard this one

your father
at the bank
where we've waited
for hours, shivers in his
thin blue shirt.
buttoned down,
short sleeved. his khaki
slacks,
darkened where he could
no longer
hold the coffee he'd
been drinking
all morning.
nothing is said. the papers
are signed.
you tell him how much
he is loved
and admired.
then you drive him home
where he changes
in the back room,
showers then comes back
out and says,
tell me if you've heard
this one.

ten a.m. eggs

the breakfast order
is wrong in the busy
roadside diner,
a steel shell made
to look like how diners
used look before now.
but it's okay.
you say nothing
to Pam,
your waitress in a yellow
dress.
white apron,
her hair pulled back
by a strand of pink ribbon.
you are in a say nothing mood.
over easy
is now scrambled.
sausage in lieu
of bacon, but
i'll let it pass.
who cares.
tea
instead of coffee,
whole wheat
instead of rye.
no juice.
it's early though.
who doesn't
make a mistake
or two
at this hour of the day.
why it's almost
ten a.m. . i'm as guilty
as she is,
or you.

leaving port

the ships are more lovely
leaving
than they are arriving into
port. with anchors up,
the white sails tall
and full
as they blow and pull
the vessel
away from land,
finding the deep center
of the river
which leads
out into the open arms
of the bay.
I watch them as they depart,
at the colored flags
fluttering.
the sailors at work
in bright white
coats and stiff hats,
their muscled arms
working the ropes,
becoming memories
to the loved ones left
behind in tears.

go out

go out.
why stay in on a Saturday.
maybe the old guys have
gathered up
at the basketball
court
filled to the brim
with ibuprofen
and heating pads
stuck to their knees
and thighs.
surely
there are clothes
you need to buy.
and the big screen
television
store
has a sale on.
there must be one room
in your house that
doesn't have a tv
in it yet.
what are you working for
if not
to spend money.
and what a perfect day
to do it in.
cloudy and cold, not unlike
your ex wife.
kidding kidding.
please.
what about a cake?
maybe some kosher beef
stew chunks
from trader joe's.
a bag of potatoes,
red onion.
carrots. a sweet potato
pie. go out.
don't be such a loser
and stay in
on the couch.

stay in

it's a wet day.
a damp cold day of grey
skies.
and sagging
leaves.
cloaked in colors
that
have lost their glow.
patches of orange
browns and yellow.
it's almost cheerful
in a depressing sort of way.
a day
to stay in
and eat a heavy meal,
crack
a book of poems
open, stretch out on the couch,
think about
going someplace
but don't.

the resume

you hand the man
your resume.
he reads it. taking all
of twenty seconds
and says, that's it?
that's all you've got?
it says here you like to
take afternoon naps.
we work until six here everyday.
there's no time for naps.
you put your arm out
and say, feel that.
I've been working, at real jobs,
not sitting at a desk
shuffling papers all my
life.
we don't have paper
anymore, sir, he says.
I don't know if we can
use a man like you who
has no experience in anything
that I can see.
what about those boxes,
you tell him.
is there anyone here who
can lift them
and put them on that top
shelf?
he looks over his shoulder,
and says no, not really.
we contract that out.
well, i'm here.
I can do that for you.
I see. I see.
well. i'll have to pass
this resume on to my bosses
and we will give you
a call
when we have more boxes.
but before you leave, would
you mind putting them up there?
shove them to the left
if you could. top shelf.

the low bark of high heeled girls

the puppy girl,
bright and smart, with more
degrees
than a thermometer
wants to tell you
all she knows
about life and politics,
but the thimble
you hold that she tries
to fill
never over flows.
you want to tell her about
tear gas.
about levitating
the pentagon,
about long hair, and
music,
love and peace,
as pretend as it all was,
poverty and pollution.
but she can't keep still
as she barks,
her tail wagging furiously,
her ears and eyes
filled with the shallow
reflections
of herself and those
inside her phone.

the yellow bird

the bright yellow bird
looks out of place
in these grey woods,
darting about with the lowly
sparrow,
the nervous fidget
of cardinals
and blackbirds
slow to move, greased
dark, asleep
on any wire.
but these yellow
birds, exotic in color,
puffs of
feathery confection.
quick winged
and barely still long
enough for you
to fathom
holding one in your
hand for even a second.
and yet you are attracted
to such beauty,
as most
men are.

a small bruise

it's a small bruise.
blue
black. a faded yellow.
a reminder
of something
or someone.
but it's small,
hardly
any pain, a bang
against
an arm or leg.
a door,
a corner, a punch
from a fist
curled and struck
against me.
it's a small bruise,
though,
blue,
black, a faded yellow.
i'll get over it.
will you?

dinner at eight

i'm slicing up some cold cuts
right now,
she tells me
on the phone, do you like yellow
or white
American cheese. get down cats.
sorry, some of my cats were on the counter
pawing at the meat.
is French's mustard okay?
and I only have saltine
crackers, no bread, hope that's okay.
i'm watching my gluten intake.
my metabolism is out of wack these
days. my doctor says that it's mostly
water weight, but I may need my
meds adjusted.
i haven't gone to the bathroom
in weeks. well, anyhoo,
bring an appetite,
oh and i have pickles too.
do you prefer sweet gherkins,
or dill, I may have
some butter dills
in there as well.
and what would you like to drink?
I have water. I have pabst
blue ribbon
beer and tequila that someone
gave me a few years ago
when they went to mexico,
or was it new mexico.
I have a box of wine
on the balcony where we can sit
and eat, talk. get to know one
another. oh and
for dessert, I have Halloween
candy. I figured you might
have a sweet tooth, just
a hunch. your choice.
almond joys, or reese's peanut
butter cups.
the small fun size of course,
like me. lol.

three leaves

I was worried about the man
with the leaf blower.
all day outside
pushing leaves off the sidewalks
into the street
and up
to where the large truck
with a vacuum tube
sucked in
the debris of leaves
and branches.
I could see that the poor
man,
in his do rag and ear phones
and purple
company sweatshirt
only had nine more gallons
of gasoline left,
and yet there were three
leaves that wouldn't
budge,
stuck wet to the pavement
I watched him at the window
as he turned
the blower up high, then
higher
standing over the three
leaves.
the other men waved
him back, but he refused
he was determined to blow
these remaining leaves
into the truck.
finally, at dusk,
as the motor was dying on
his machine, the leaves
dried and became free
and he blew them
to where the men
applauded and cheered,
it was a successful day.

how are you?

how are you,
the barista chirps happily
to the old
man
struggling
to get change out for his
coffee.
what, he says.
leaning his body towards
the counter
so that his good ear
is closer. what did you
say,
I said, how are you today?
what, are you a doctor.
i'm old, he says.
that's how I am today.
and don't give me
that stale coffee.
is it a fresh pot?
I only want a fresh cup.
yesterday I got a bad
cup.
I don't like that.

but i gave them everything

some children
won't leave, won't work
won't listen.
yet they were so
pliable and sweet
when very young.
you gave them everything.
all their wishes,
fulfilling each daily
need
and desire,
dropping everything
to please and comfort them.
stay home, you told them.
no need to go
to school today.
be with me.
the world was theirs
to hold
in their
tiny hands. and now
they lock the door
to their room.
they grunt and moan on cue.
they are gone, but they
are here, unmoved
anymore
by your strangling
love.

some distant moon

she uses a hammer
of words
to try and make me see
the light.
vote the way
she wants me to vote.
she points and wags
her finger at me.
poking me in the chest.
your beliefs
are no longer valid
in this world.
she says.
my candidate is smart
smarter than the rest.
you have to vote for her.
you have no
other choice.
don't be a fool with your
vote.
it's a right, a privilege.
don't waste it
on the wrong person.
this goes on and on
throughout the night.
i listen, i smile,
i nod. i drink.
i order
another drink.
at some point i leave
my body
and float high above
the din of the table.
i swim around the room,
light as feather.
unattached,
not listening
but flying flying
towards some distant moon.

a dozen red roses

they knew me,
the florists down the street
from my one bedroom
apartment
on Brinkley road.
they knew my name,
the name
of the hurt party
that I was intending
to make
amends with by buying
a dozen roses
with babys breath
and a heartfelt
angst written note
always ending with
the words. I love you.
they could see the weariness
in me,
with my one credit
card, my weakened state,
unable to eat. my darkened eyes.
the last notch of my
belt holding up my jeans.
did they take pity
and sit me down and say give
up on this girl, no.
they never did.
they arranged the flowers.
they wrote the note.
they delivered them
then waited
for the next time.

the slow carousel

it's not like you
to brood
to ponder too long
in a stare
of blue.
to unwant the things
you always want.
it's unlike you to sleep
in,
to stay in.
to not answer when
the phone rings.
to find no joy in the taste
of food
or a planted kiss
upon your lips.
the news bores you.
politicians
annoy you. the books and movies
seem stale
and uninviting.
the world is a slow
moving carousel
that you want
to get off. not forever,
just for a short while.
nothing drastic
like moving to Alaska,
settling
into a nice
round house of ice.

the hard road

you see his rap
sheet online.
the twenty eight county crimes,
the city
list is a mere seven.
out of state, who knows.
drinking
and women seem to be involved
in most of the charges.
cars.
hit and runs.
one malicious wounding.
stolen property
and a hate crime thrown
in for fun.
it's a long list.
years
of misdemeanors
felonies, adventures
on the outside.
you want to think that he's
lost his way, but no.
at fifty five, he's found
his way
and is sticking to
that hard gravel road.

monday morning

the rattle
of the snake before it strikes
is fierce.
the coiled muscle
of his twined
knit body
ready to snap and bite,
the fangs exposed
wet
with venom,
staring at your leg,
and this is just
in the morning, before coffee
as you sit
at your desk
taking the first call
from an angry client.

he lied

her heart is broken.
he wasn't who she thought he was.
this knight
on a white horse.
this hero
with a sword gleaming
in moonlight.
hardly.
he creaked with rust,
with
false word, limped
with an old man's heart.
she put all her eggs
into
that soft
wet basket of hope
and out they fell.
the whites,
the runny
yolks.