we did exist

I spend a few hours sifting
through
a box of photos.
old photos.
some yellowed at the corners.
the ones your mother
scissored, making a scalloped
design
along the edges.
were we ever that young?
ever that poor,
and happy
at the same time.
it's a dipping of my hand
into a soft
edged world of images,
moments captured
that seemed unimportant
when the camera
clicked but now feel like
gold,
gems, sharp diamonds
proving
that we did exist.

celery, who needs it

the recipe calls for celery.
how often do you purchase
those slender green
nearly translucent vegetables,
not often, maybe once
a year when you're making
beef stew.
you avoid it at a party no matter
how much cheese dip
is stuffed between the narrow
alley. with reluctance
you accept it in a bloody
mary, but don't see the point.
moving the stalk to the side
so that you don't poke
an eye out.
you resist
the package of three stalks
and go to the salad
bar for the chopped up
pieces.
celery has never been your
thing, even in stew, but
you're able to ignore it
as it floats among the other
ingredients, like meat and potatoes,
carrots and onions. real food.
celery, who needs it, except
at a time like this
when dutifully following
a betty crocker
recipe for beef stew.

the mall cheese

you're inventive
if nothing else.
you devise a water cannon
to put in
the front of your car.
fresh water,
not too hot or too cold.
but it emits a solid
stream of water,
a blast when you hit
the red button.
it caroms, knocking
them off the road,
the offensive holiday drivers
who have become rats
that can sniff
the mall cheese.

the girl with glasses

she can't read without
her glasses,
red framed and stylish,
or drive, or read a recipe,
watch tv,
no book is close
enough to see without
her specs,
forget the newspaper,
or anything
online,
stop signs are a blur,
but when we make love,
she takes them off,
which makes me wonder
how she really feels
about me.

the same boy

I am the same boy
my mother
bent over
and whispered a song
to as
best she could.
these same ears listened
to the stories
she read from worn books,
the same mouth
that opened for a spoon
as she
fed me.
I am the same boy,
that was held in her arms
when I cried,
ran from as she chased
me with
a paddle.
laughing together,
uncatchable, always.
now she
doesn't remember
any of it, but that
takes nothing
away from the wonder
of her life.

a simple truth

the simple truth
is easiest found
in the eyes. no need
to travel any
further.
no need to wait
for words,
to confirm or deny,
no use in wondering
any longer
what is or isn't
so. you've counted
the votes. you know
now what is
the simple truth,
you know from the eyes
whether to stay,
whether to pack the bags
and go.

no leftovers

your mother never had to tell
you and your brothers
and sisters
to eat everything, that
there are starving children
around the world
who would love to have
your meal.
we cleaned our plates.
drank every drop of milk.
ate every slice of white
bread slathered in
butter.
it wasn't a race, but it
felt like it at times.
each standing in line
at the one bathroom door
to wash our hands, our
faces before dinner.
we ate with big eyes,
fast hands,
negotiating for what
the others didn't want.
there were no leftovers.
we made sure of that.

new money

the inheritance ruined them.
she made sandwiches
and he pumped gas
for a living.
you'd see them at the dog
park,
your dogs would play
together.
but the money, oh the money.
fifty million
changed everything.
soon it was a new house.
new cars.
a maid,
a person for the yard.
three children from
three continents were
adopted and taken to Disney
world.
what couldn't be bought?
she was suddenly
surgically slender.
he got a hair cut. his teeth
fixed.
new clothes, new shoes.
you hardly recognized them
anymore.
they forgot your name,
they had new
friends with other names.
oh, hello, she said on the street.
almost stopping
to talk,
but pressing forward
to the car
where someone held the door
for her.
in the window the dog
barked,
it was wearing a scarf
with a collar of Christmas
lights
around it's coiffed
neck. it look at you,
happily barking and wagging
his tail
he remembered.

the invisible car

it's only a twenty dollar
bill that you
find on the coffee shop
floor, but still,
someone lost it and left
it lying there.
you pick it up
and tap the man on the stool
beside it
if it's his. no, he says,
checking his wallet.
a woman at a table,
looks at you, so you wave
the bill in her direction,
she checks her purse.
she wants to say yes,
but shakes her head no,
and says, you are so honest.
the place is nearly
empty.
you can't just toss it
back onto the floor
and hope whoever lost it
will come back.
that would be crazy.
so instead you get the most
expensive drink on
the board menu,
and leave a nice holiday
tip. the rest you give
to the woman
who trolls the sidewalk
out front
asking for money to buy
gas for her invisible car.

noel or noah

she was noel,
but now she's noah.
I can see that by her name
tag
on her apron.
today her hair is white.
it's been blue before,
green,
red, raspberry striped.
it's a nice head of
hair.
a style a woman
might wear,
but now I see a small
thin
bouquet of whiskers
growing under her chin.
thin feathery strands
of a new beard.
i'm confused.
I use to say, thanks
noel. now I say, thanks
noah, when handed
my coffee, but i'm
hesitant. thanks is
good enough.

I'm on the board

i'm on the board
she tells me, as I unload
a loud clanging set
of extension ladders
from my truck.
where are you working
today?
i'm on the board and I need
to know
whose house
are you working on.
I live here, I tell her.
she's hanging red felt
ribbons for the holidays
around the gas lamp
poles, tying them with
plastic snaps,
that she herself thought
of and bought
at her own expense. they wanted
me to do it with string,
but that doesn't work.
there are ninety-seven such
poles throughout the small
neighbor hood.
her hands are red
and already blistered.
she's not merry one bit.
you live here? she says
again, climbing up
the step ladder
and tying another ribbon
into place.
how come I've never seen
you before?
I don't know I tell her,
carrying each ladder around
back to my gated yard.
I hope you're putting those in
your yard and not on
community property. right?
she stares at me, waiting
for an answer. I carry
the ladders around. each one
longer and more heavier
than the other.
she waits for me. are they in
the yard, she asks. yes.
I tell her. yes.
oh, and by the way, are you
the fellow who keeps putting
his trash out early?
we've had several complaints
from Becky, your neighbor.
We have rules here.
there are things I want to say
to her. mean things,
unholiday type things, but
I decide to just smile, go
home, close the door.
it's been a long day.

the holiday carving

she takes the carving knife
from her husband, saying
let me do this, sit down,
and thinks for a second
of stabbing him
with it, cutting right through
the red flannel shirt
he's wearing to his inept
heart, but
instead shakes her head disdainfully
and slices off
the white meet
in thin perfect slices.
she places them next to the wounded
lumps that he
carved, and the broken
bone of a drumstick
that you once had your eye
on.

where's the dog

it's the iron
of the sun. not yellow, or
soft
as butter,
but a cold metal of white,
like the snow
that has fallen
heavy
on the low
slung houses,
with hearts beating somewhere
inside.
where's the snow shovel
dear.
my gloves. one's missing.
and my boots.
are they in the attic,
or the basement.
I can't remember which.
where's the dog?
did we leave him out
last night.

it's a nice poem

her poetry is wonderful.
all sixty two lines of it,
centered and aligned in a
symmetrical
fashion upon the page.
a delight for the eyes.
there may even be a hint
of perfume in the ink.
printed on pink paper.
it is light as a feather,
whimsical and flowing.
clearly a master of calligraphy.
a slight breeze would
blow it out of my hands
and into the sky
if it I didn't hold on
to it tightly. whoops.
there it goes, as I
wave goodbye.

christmas shopping

you go shopping
on amazon and after buying everything
in sight
for yourself,
you figure maybe
you should get things for other
people too.
you type in the words
gift suggestions.
this steers you towards gifts
you used to see and buy
in the dollar store.
you're almost home.

the new rug

I never know if you're joking
when you say something,
she says to you,
as you nod and say something
cryptic like,
what is this, the Spanish
inquisition?
or can you imagine a world
without the color blue.
just say what you mean,
she says
quit being you.
be me for once and tell
me how you really feel.
you're asking for trouble,
you tell her,
smoothing down your
shag rug with your socked
foot.
I hate this rug, you tell
her. i'm getting a new one
tomorrow.
i'll never see it she says.
i'm not coming back.
but just out of curiosity,
what color?
blue, you tell her. blue,
which is how i'll feel when
you leave.

to be finished

the machine is strong.
serves you well.
relentless.
the arms and legs,
the heart.
they move and move,
you are a shark
in water, endlessly
swimming
through your work.
you ignore the lights
blinking,
the siren,
the slow
dull beep of an ache.
a knee,
a joint, the pounding
of veins.
the machine keeps going.
you throw coal
into the fire.
you roar through
the hours.
through the months,
the years.
the machine sees no end.
no gold watch,
no beach house,
no white sand.
the machine knows better.
the work,
the doing means everything.
everything.
to stop is to be finished.

in bed by ten

this year you plan
on staying up past ten on new
years eve.
you make a vow
to stay awake, drink plenty
of coffee, extra
strong, black and hot.
you make your house cold
opening the front and back
windows.
this year you will join in
the excitement of the countdown.
you have a horn,
and one of those whistle things
that extend when you blow it,
tinsel swirling at the end.
you turn the tv on
and wait for dick clark
and his gala from times square.
how does he stay so young looking?
bastard.
you pop a bottle of champagne
and let the dog
up on the bed. but where's
dick. what?
he's dead?
how did you miss knowing that?

the drive thru visit

you like a short
visit for the holidays.
you there, her here.
an overnight thing, then
see you later.
the family in for a weekend.
that's almost too
much to handle,
who's in the bathroom
now.
what's for dinner.
is there enough for everyone,
or should we go out.
why do people bring their dogs?
the drive thru visit
would be nice.
hello, how are you. let
me take a picture
as you pass through, pass
by the window.
here, have a cookie.
a paper cup of milk for
your ride home.
so nice to see you again,
drive safely.
come again, real soon.

her garden

in her garden,
her swollen knees deep
into the cold
dirt.
digging weeds.
pulling vines. stones
from the ground.
all the flowers and
vegetable long gone.
her gloves on.
her spade beside her.
a small rake.
her hair is tied back.
thick and grey.
only so many more days
at this.
so many more years.
then the steps are too hard
to go down,
to go back up
again. then what?
then the yard wins, she
thinks and shakes her head.
thank God,
i'll done with this,
she says
to no one.

can't sleep at night

despite
your good deeds.
the volunteer work you do
down at the shelter,
the giving of blood,
recycling,
and adopting a nearby
road as yours
to keep clean, you can't
sleep at night.
somehow not eating meat
became
a religious quest,
making you preach that
good news.
the garden,
all green, organic.
soy milk and hummus,
carob. kale and beans.
at some point you felt
better
about yourself. voting
at every election.
putting stickers
on your car
for the k's you ran.
it's a hard life
to live up to. worrying about
the whales,
the snails,
the unadopted kittens
in a cage on tv.
maybe some of it is
part of the reason
why you can't
sleep at night.

at the gate

the angle of sun
at this hour of morning is stiff
with a white
glare.
a steel warmth upon
us as we wait
at the factory gate,
lunch boxes in hand,
our shoulders already
into the positions
we will hold
all day, at
the wheel, the saw,
the drill.
but it's work, it's pay.
there is nobility
in standing
on your feet, using
your hands. providing.
and yet still, we can't
help
but look up at the narrow
windows,
high above the shadows
of dust
and silt that fill the air.
there is a feeling in
all of us,
that there should be more.
there has to be.

the intervention

someone suggests
maybe an intervention would help
with your sibling,
a gathering of loved
ones, trapping him
in a circle
and questioning his
nefarious deeds
and desires.
you suggest leaving him
alone.
at almost sixty it's a done
deal with
most of us.
we have decided on the roads
taken
and will rarely
veer off
and choose
a different path.
becoming good
is a decision made
alone, a group
suggestion will only
make matters worse.

it's a slow day

it's a slow day.
traffic.
people.
the lines.
the computer. everything
is taking longer
than
expected.
I googled Elizabeth
Hurley three minutes ago,
where is she.
what's taking so long.
the barista making
coffee,
why did he run into the back
of the store?
my mother on the phone
finally getting to the point
of why she really called.
it wasn't really about
her making meat loaf after all.
that cloud
in the sky, will it ever
pass over the sun
or just sit there,
fat and grey like a,
like a, well, like
a cloud?

does this look infected

does this look infected
the woman next
to you on the plane asks,
rolling up her sleeve
to show you an open wound.
she holds her arm up
closer to you as you hit
the panic button
calling in a gaggle
of flight attendants.
they take the woman away
and put her in a box
beneath the plane.
you look out the window
and see the box floating
back to earth
on the strings of a
large parachute.
calmly you go back to
reading your magazine
about infectious
diseases and how the world
will end.

dreams

morning comes too soon.
you've left
so many dreams on the table.
abruptly
leaving one or two
in the muddled middle.
maybe you can pick up
where you left off when
get home tonight
and go to bed.
but you doubt it.
dreams don't work that
way, do they?

being followed

the man that follows me home
is not good at following, I see
him every step of the way.
we make eye contact.
I drop my umbrella and he picks
it up, calls me by name.
says excuse me, but I believe
this is yours.
he waits for me to get off the train
first, then he steps into the shadows
across the street
as if he can't be seen.
I stop for ice cream, trying
to get him off my tail, but he
comes in too. he asks me if
my cone of pistachio is any good.
I nod yes. so he orders the same
thing. again I leave, he waits,
then follows me, staying a half
a block behind. I can hear
his shoes click against
the pavement. when I go up the steps
and turn the key to my door, I look
behind me. there he is.
he stands at the end of the sidewalk.
he tips his hat as I tell him
goodnight. see you tomorrow?
I ask him. maybe he says. maybe.

scrambled

I count
my chickens.
all of them have hatched
so i'm any
breaking
and clichéd tenets
of any sort.
the chickens are running
around the yard crazily,
but their
heads have not been cut off.
I have a pot
for each them
in all good time.
sometimes,
I am chicken, less brave
I mean
about many things in life.
like
telling the truth
when it's so much easier
to tell a lie.
sometimes I think I believe
that the egg
did come first.
but this changes day
to day.
I like my eggs scrambled
by the way, if you're
paying attention,
keeping notes.

the lecture

the lecture bores you.
stone tools
found
in a trench.
half man half monkey
beating
sticks into weapons,
making large
rocks into small rocks
with which to throw
and kill.
women gathering wood,
making nests, coming
down from the trees.
the man in front
of you is taking notes.
his shoulders
are round,
he has a wide forehead.
he turns around
and stares at you meanly,
asks you
to stop kicking his
chair.

first blush

she blushed when you took
her hand, leaned
towards her and kissed
her gently on the mouth.
she almost
purred and curled into you
like a cat warming itself.
then she whispered
something unexpected
into your ear.
which made you blush,
wave down the waiter,
and quickly pay
the check.

water from the well

the turn
of wheel wakes me,
its squeak and grind
as it cranks
down towards water
into the mouth of
circled bricks and stone.

along the marsh
the fog sits
fat
and white, grey.
unmoved
by you, at the well
bringing up
cold water
in your night dress.

the birds whistle
in the vague brush.
time
neither moves
or goes forward.

the moment is captured
in my mind.
as I peer from
the upper window.
loving you more
than
yesterday. my thirst
for you unquenched

the pear tree

in nineteen seventy eight
john and I were
working in a yard
bordered by a brick wall
on three
sides.
a wooden gate
with a black iron latch
led out to the street,
Jefferson davis highway.
perched on ladders,
we leaned
into the house and moved
our brushes
onto windows,
boards,
soffits, trim.
clean even strokes
as one hand gripped
the rung
of the aluminum ladders.
beside us, between
us was a pear tree
in full bloom, pears as
ripe and green as
pears could be.
we grabbed one,
and ate, then another.
take all you want, the owner
said. he was
done with pears, done
with these trees,
the fruit that would fall
and rot on his bricked patio.
we ate our fill, john
and I.
last year john died,
but I remember him
with every pear I've ever
seen since then, every bite
reminding me
of us together
being young and strong,
our friendship
never waning.

good enough

the muscled
arm, curled and veined,
bulging
at the bicep
out of the shorn shirt.
ripped
and bronzed.
he's holding
a vanilla latte
outside the coffee shop.
there's a tattoo of
a mouse
in a cape, a yellow
suit.
mighty mouse, you
remember from
childhood.
he's coming to save
the day.
the muscle flexes,
he looks around to see
if anyone is watching,
then wipes
a line of foam
from his lips.
as you drive home,
you feel your own arm.
you flex.
it's okay. you can still
open jars
and bottles.
small cans of spinach.
good enough.

already dark

i see him
limping in the parking lot.
he lifts a hand
to give a weary wave,
says hello.
he shuffles towards
me as i carry
bags of trash to the curb.
hey, he says. hey, i say back.
we talk about the game
that just ended.
retirement.
moving. the wife, his wife.
he whispers,
I don't know about twenty four
seven.
i'll keep working.
why not.
i'm at a desk now.
it's getting dark out.
it's warm for winter.
kids are still in the street
racing around.
I still have two bags
of trash
in my hands.
good to see you, he says,
his wife is at the door,
calling him in.
good to see you too,
I tell him
and go the edge of the curb,
near the woods
where it's already
dark.

finding home

unsettled
land lies before us.
a stretch
of green pastures.
let's build a house.
put a fence around it.
call it home.
make a stand.
there is so much time
left
in our lives.
these are the things
we used to say
when we were young,
and willing
to settle,
to compromise.
give me sand now.
the shifting tides.
a balloon to rise in
the air
and carry us
anywhere. give me
a bed
in any port and it
will fine.

she must be dead

you don't hear from her for awhile.
she could be sick,
or dead.
in jail, or on the street,
homeless.
you think the worst things
when
someone disappears.
maybe she just fell in love,
fell into
happiness
and no longer
needs the likes of you
bothering her.
but I doubt that.
seems impossible.

instinct

the best throw,
a spiral from your hand, your
arm extended,
your feet firmly
planted in the turf
goes where you want it to
go. no thought
to it, just your body
making a move.
instincts taking over.
reaction,
no pressing, no thinking
involved.
and so it goes
for much of life.
the written word,
the painting. a heartfelt
kiss.
less thought, more
instinct, makes
it work.

the dark side of her moon

what can loosen
this sadness
that holds you down.
pins you to the floor.
how can we
stop the tears,
the angst and sorrow
that you hold
so dear.
a pill perhaps, a drug,
a bottle of
good wine, or maybe
a night of frenetic sex
with a stranger, no
strings attached. what
elixir can free you
from the dark side
of yourself, in
the shadows of a cold
moon.
what brought you here?
all of the above, perhaps,
but i'm lost as to what to
do for you.

slippery

the first time my friend
dave
went skiing he fell
as he jumped off the lift,
slipping on the hard slope,
dislocating
his shoulder.
he never skied and inch
down the hill.
a helicopter came up
to carry him
to a hospital.
the shoulder was never
the same.
I've been trying to figure
out if there
is a moral to this story
for decades, but
can't come up with one.
although I've never gone
skiing.

let's do something fun for the holidays

let's do something different
for the holidays my new girlfriend Sylvia
says to me
as I make pancakes in the morning.
she's sitting at the table wearing
one of my t shirts
and little else.
I stir, then pour the batter into
the frying pan, starting with a small one.
like what, i ask her.
let's go to a nudist colony
or something fun like that, she says.
what?
are you kidding me.
I flip the pancake over
just in time before the edges
burn.
yeah, come on it might be fun.
I saw this place on a tv show. warm
beaches, volleyball, everyone
naked walking around having drinks.
everyone is free and happy.
where's this coming from?
who are you?
I slide the pancake out of the pan
and put it on her plate, then
move the butter and syrup
bottle closer to her. silver ware
is in the drawer I tell her, pointing
at the drawer.
we don't even walk around the house
naked in front of each other,
so why would we do that around
complete strangers?
we could get back to nature.
God made us naked, so let's explore
that.
I don't know, sounds insane if you
ask me.
well, what do you want to do then?
same old boring stuff.
dinner with family, open the gifts
under the tree, watch it's a wonderful
life for the millioneth time?
ummm, yeah. that's exactly what
I want to do.
you used to be fun, what happened?
I shake my head and flip another
pancake over. I used to be fun?
we've only been going out for a week.

the left turn

if you hadn't made
that left
turn, things would be different.
your whole life
would be changed,
be something else
you wouldn't recognize.
the history of
you would be altered.
you wouldn't be sitting here
now, like this,
waiting
for the phone to ring.
waiting for the fog
to lift.
waiting for a letter
in the mail
that never comes. if only
you had turned
the other way, things
would be fine.

the water of time

a drink or two
in the crowded bar
with
an old friend who nurses
a jack daniels
and you with your gin
and tonic, mostly tonic.
the pours are stingy here.
not like the old
days when they knew
your name.
everyone is thirty or
younger.
the both of you old
enough to be
fathers of most,
grandfathers to some,
lean into one another to
hear what the other one
has said.
something about his knees,
something
about your eyes.
strange music, music
you've never heard before
rattles and booms
from above.
the girls are all the same.
they've never changed.
still young, still
bright like flowers on
the water of time.

have a good one

often, throughout the day
you are ordered by nice well
meaning people to take care,
have a nice day.
be safe. drive careful.
it might rain, stay dry.
have a good one. button up.
it's cold.
usually they are wearing
aprons, or giving you change,
or standing over a barrel
ringing a bell.
you hate telling people
what to do, so you don't
and hope they catch on.
but you're feeling grumpy
today and so
you may feel different
about all of this tomorrow.

pop goes the weasel

why is it so
scandalous, the minister
in the airport
hotel,
slipping quarters
into the vibrating bed
while his
date
counts out cold cash
from the basket.
how can you live up to being
good.
being perfect, being
inhuman.
at some point pop goes
the weasel,
if you crank the good box
long enough.

throw them a bone

you see a gaggle
of men
and women in nice pressed
suits
chasing
the siren down the street.
an ambulance in full bloom.
like mad dogs with bared
teeth gnashing,
they run with their ties
in the air,
their hard shoes
pounding the pavement
as they gallop
towards
the injured, the dying,
the unfortunate
victims.
their brief cases
swing wildly,
as their tongues hang out,
their brows furrowed
and dripping
with sweat. they can
almost taste a payday,
just a bone, even a small
bone will do.

a simple moon

a splendid moon
makes
you forget about the day.
your mind wanders
to other things.
how quickly
you can erase what troubles
may have landed
at your feet.
how swift
the healing of burns
and bruises.
you have learned well
the beauty
of moving on.
just a simple moon
sitting
on a patch of clouds
brightens
even your darkest mood.

what about alaska?

she wants the house
warm
you want it cold,
not freezing, but a little
cool.
you sleep better that way,
you tell her.
she turns
the electric blanket
on and
allows her dog
to lie across her sideways.
you wake up
in a sweat and go
to the kitchen where you put
your head
into the refrigerator
and pretend you
live in Greenland.
you grab a bucket of
ice and rub
your neck with cubes.
the house is so hot
there are mushrooms growing
on the carpet.
you open a window
and let the winter air
flow in.
she yells down the steps,
shut that window
and come back to bed
i'm freezing.
her teeth are chattering
when you get back into bed.
her feet are brittle
with cold.
I've been thinking she says.
we should take a vacation
next year to
the islands, or Morocco.
you sigh and say, what
about Alaska.

liquidation

each winter you see
in big white washed letters
on the plate glass window
these words,
going out of business.
everything must go.
holiday sale.
fifty per cent off.
give us your best offer,
we will match any deal
you bring in.
open all day. all night.
we will not be
undersold. all sales are
final. but they never
close. they never go
out of business.
they open up another
store across town
and do the same thing.

it's all about me

your impatience
surprises you.
the anxiousness of standing
in line,
waiting for coffee
or for a clerk
to ring you up.
the slow traffic,
a yellow light gone red.
what is it that you
need to get to
so quickly that you can't
wait a few moments.
and it's not just you,
it's the world,
shuffling, tapping
their feet,
honking their horns,
rolling their eyes
and sighing.
waiting uneasily
for their turn.

being replaced

I've been lonely and sad
without you in my
life, she writes, so
I got a new dog. I call
him dusty. he's from texas.
a cowboy dog. like you.
but that wasn't enough.
so I have two birds now,
they sing in a cage
on my porch,
seven fish in a bowl.
a horse, three cats,
and a llama that has no
name. I still miss you
though, but these animals
keep me busy, so less so.

there he is...look

when your niece was
little
you pointed out the window
on Christmas
eve and said look, do you
see him.
there he is,
the sled, the reindeer,
the boxes
stacked tall in the back.
listen you can
almost hear
the jingle, hear him
at the reins
flying from the north pole.
and she looked
and looked at where you
were pointing with a finger
on the cold window
pane, until finally,
she screamed yes, I do.
I see him.
how kind she was to you,
even at that young age.

the undertow

the undertow
is pulling us out to sea.
the surge of
water, the lunar tides,
the deep
yanking us off our feet.
it wants us back.
we've been away
too long having crawled
out from
the earthly womb.
the open arms
beckon us to come back,
luring us home
with a siren's call,
a lullabye, a sweet
whispered song.

suspicion

you spend the day
reporting suspicious people.
packages
left unattended.
cars slowing down
under bridges,
so called tourists aiming
their cameras
at the monuments.
then there's the women
wrapped
in long dark scarves
hiding their faces, and men
with sunglasses
and hoodies.
everyone looks like they
have an agenda,
like there's something
sinister they might
be up to.
that woman over there
in the corner knitting,
the things she could do
with those needles.
even the cats and dogs,
walking around
without leashes,
or collars, what are
they doing, I mean
really doing?

poetry by the fire

you can't improve
on t.s. Elliot, you can only
read
the lines and try
to understand
what the hell he was
talking about.
same goes for Yeats,
Ezra Pound,
and much of Frost.
you settle in with a dictionary
a thesaurus,
a book on mythology
and a set
of encyclopedia
britannicas,
then begin a pleasant
evening of
reading poetry by the fire,
trying so hard
not to toss any books in.

almost fried

like the beautiful fish
speckled in gold,
pulled out of the silky
sea, reeled into your
loving hands she slips out
and falls back into
the water. it's a gentle
splash. you see her swim
away, gracefully moving
from side to side, going
deeper and deeper
away from you. but you had
her once, she was in
your hand. almost fileted
almost fried.

be prepared

i'm prepared for when the power
goes down.
a flashlight in every room.
extra batteries, candles
set out. matches in little boxes.
jugs of water wait
in the basement.
canned goods.
granola bars and power drinks.
i'm ready for
the next thing. I might last
a day or two, possibly
a week if a bad storm hits
or if worst comes to worst
and some country lobs a hydrogen
bomb across the sea
to wipe us out.
I've been preparing for this
day since the fifth grade
when they told us
to get under our wooden
desks when the sirens blared.
i'm ready now. i'm prepared.

the good china

wanting to make a good
impression
you set out the fine china,
yes you have
good china.
it's a little dusty having
been stored in a box
from having moved
three times in five years
after the divorce,
but it's nice china.
dainty with fine printed
leaves or something.
there's a gold band running
along the outer edge of the plate.
very fancy.
you can't even put it in
the dishwasher, it's that
nice.
so you set out the plates,
the tea cups with their
little saucers, soup bowls,
the dessert plates
and a large oval serving dish.
then you wait for her
to arrive, your date,
and for the door to ring
with your delivery of
kung pao chicken, and
crispy beef.

the girl on the twentieth floor

if she didn't live
on the twentieth floor
i might have married her.
i just couldn't see
carrying groceries
up in the elevator,
talking to people,
having to answer questions
about what i bought,
listening to what they think
about iodized versus
sea salt.
petting their dogs,
talking about
the weather.
if she had lived on
the first floor,
with a sliding glass
balcony door,
we'd be on our honeymoon
by now,
madly in love
forever and ever.

light bulbs

i take the call.
it's ten p.m. so it must
be important
for the phone to ring at
this late hour.
i pick up and say hello.
the delay
tells me before the voice
speaks
what i'm in for.
politely i listen.
it's a woman's voice,
mispronouncing my name,
but close enough.
i haven't won anything,
no trips,
no land or cars.
instead they want a donation.
a small donation.
they will send me a pack
of 75 watt light bulbs
for a twenty dollar
donation.
all the money goes towards
taking care of the blind.
i don't ask
about the strange irony
of the blind selling
what they themselves
don't need., but i resist
and smile, say thanks,
but no thanks
before hanging up and
going back to the tv,
dimming the lights
as i return
to my show.

the hot soup

it's more like a soup
than a stew
you say, dipping the ladle
into the brown
broth, pulling out
a shiny bean
with it.
the steam rises into
your nose
your eyes, you can
taste it before
you taste it.
but it's fine you say,
smiling, sipping
and blowing on the spoon.
just fine.
I can't complain about
a hot soup
on such a winters
day. I think it's ready,
let's eat.

the nightly news

they try to jazz up the news
cast by putting two
attractive women
in tight pencil skirts
on. each appearing to be ready
to go out clubbing
in new York. one blonde,
the other a red head.
the news is the same,
death, chaos, disease and war.
that hasn't changed.
but the two slinky babes,
one in pink and the other
in a salmon colored dress
somehow ease the pain
of what's being said.
the wink a lot and push
back their hair as if
there's wind in the studio.
they nod, and grin with
inside jokes. they're having
fun telling you about
who's missing, who died,
how the stock market just
plunged. but they wrap
it up nicely with a cat
in a tree story,
saved by courageous
firemen. you watch
the whole news cast
hoping at some point
they'll start dancing.

tuna sandwich cat

the cat who keeps showing
up at your door
no longer wants just a simple
bowl of milk.
he insists on a tuna
sandwich lately, with
the crust off.
cut diagonally.
so you accommodate
the stray cat.
he seems to like you,
arching his back
as he runs to rub up
against your legs.
there may be a relationship
developing
if he doesn't get run
over in the parking
lot as he waits
under the cars for you
to come home.

think positive

as the robber
holds what might be a gun
against you,
backing you into a dark
alley to relieve
you of your wallet,
your keys, your phone,
he says,
think positive
believe in yourself
and all your wishes and dreams
will come true.
negative thinking will
hold you back,
he says to you, as he
counts the money
in your wallet.
five dollars, you only have
five dollars?
and what's this, a library
card?
where's your credit cards?
I don't see any car
keys here either,
you don't have a car?
I ride a bike.
you really need to get
with the program,
he says, handing you
back your things, your
five dollars, in ones.
you need to think positive
and do something
with your life. i'm very
disappointed in you.

the green ceiling

she wanted the ceiling green.
you don't
care too much for green
but you say if it was me,
i'd go with white.
you buy a gallon of pea
soup green paint
and apply it twice upon
the ceiling.
i'll have to get used to
it, she says later
that night on the phone.
I didn't think it would
look like this,
so green. maybe I should
have taken
your advice and gone
white.

candy girl

she always had
candy with her. jelly beans.
a clark bar
or two.
good and plenty,
gum,
with which to blow
bubbles
and chew.
a lollipop
was always in her hand,
a licorice stick
too.
ask for a gum drop
and out
one would pop.
chocolate covered
raisons when the weather
wasn't too
hot.
she was the candy girl
in the old
hood.
always with a treat,
always
staying out late
when she should be at home,
being bad
when all the other girls
were good.

don't go there

there is no room
in space.
it's full.
the planets are where they
should be.
each star to its
own galaxy.
we have enough moons,
and asteroids, nebulas
and
black holes, enough
to call it a day.
take a peek through
your telescope
and tell me what you see
in the airless air.
rocks and fire.
darkness.
everything is telling
us to not go there,
stay away. so
let's forget about that
for awhile,
concentrate on what's
left here.

cooking together

when you cooked together
you never stabbed
one another in the neck
with a potato peeler,
but came close.
there was much eye rolling
when the other person wasn't
looking,
and saying things
like. I think that's enough
salt.
or please, no more butter.
I think we've
already put in a half
cup of olive oil. did you stir
this. could you please
get out of the way,
it's your turn to peel the shrimp.
are we even following the recipe or
winging it now?
there was a lot of ordering
in those days. and thankfully
Hunan West
was a mere ten minutes
away.

road side service

no charge
the man says smiling,
as he cranks
up the side
of your car
to remove your
flat tire and put on
the flimsy donut one
from the trunk.
this service is free.
he wipes his mouth
and spits
a chaw of tobacco
in the direction of the curb.
you've been a member
since nineteen seventy three,
he says, looking
at his notepad clipboard.
yes, you answer. i
feel so lucky to finally
after all these
years get a tire
changed, and for free
no less.
after 42 years of membership
fees.
which adds up to a few
thousand dollars.
what a treat, thank you
kind sir.
thank you, you say again
as he puts out his
hand for a tip.

cards on the table

i put my cards down
on the table.
this is my hand, i say.
pushing all
my money forward
into the middle.
i don't want another
card, another hit.
i need no aces,
my hand is
what it is, laid
out for all to see.
i'm ready now to
see yours. please.

the owl

I see the owl, his wide
wings, brown and
stretched, his small head
dipping forward
shadowing overhead
as I walk.
a live squirrel,
grey and white
is held by the owl's
talons.
he doesn't struggle,
or make a sound.
he seems relaxed
flying through the air
so high above the ground,
between the trees.
maybe an agreement
will be reached,
and no one will get
eaten, but i'm sure that
it doesn't work that way
this deep into
fall, days before winter
and snow.

the lie detector

they strap a lie detector
to your arm
and begin to question about
where you were
last night, the night
before.
a year ago.
were you ever
in love. when was the last
time
you ate red meat.
have you ever lied about
your age
your weight, your sincerity.
do you recycle,
separating paper and plastic.
you answer as best you can.
the machine
smokes and catches
fire, so they bring in
a new one
and say give me your
other arm.

not funny

nothing would make
her laugh.
not even a smile would
cross her
terse lips.
unwrinkled
she was with emotion.
a flat
field of pale
skin.
hardly a line across
her brow,
her dimpled cheeks
around her
irish eyes, her
chin. her light was
low.
you had no chance
staying, or
visiting, of getting
in.

the short talk

let's not argue.
talk politics
or god.
let's leave Jesus
out of the conversation
for now
and freud
and Darwin.
Einstein.
let's not discuss
the war, if it's okay
with you, or refugees,
the economy,
or the news, or
gossip about anyone we
know or once knew.
let's keep the conversation
civil and light.
no relationships
need to become topics.
or our health.
I prefer not to know
what that is on your arm.
and don't get me started
on my shoulder.
I think that leaves
us with the weather.
cold out today, wssn't it?

enough friends

you have enough friends,
although they are dying rapidly.
suddenly disappearing
with their lives.
there are more and more
empty horses
on your carousel, but the music
keeps playing.
the ocean is there too.
the sand.
salt is in the air.
you have enough friends
for one lifetime you believe,
but new ones on occasion
slip in through
the back door
and you can hardly say no
to strays that
wander in.

let's call it later

you hate surprise parties.
birthday
surprises. you don't want
waiters
to sing,
for a parade of people
to dance around
and make
you the center of attention.
you want none of that.
a simple card will do.
no songs, no gifts, no
jumping out of closets
or cakes
with candles lit.
you have no age.
there is no number anymore.
let's just call it
later, not in the middle
anymore, but
later.

he's not there

my son's toys
are still in the attic.
the ball and glove,
the wind up
toys, the electronic
boxes
that hypnotized long
hours of his
youth.
the figures, plastic
superheroes he
worshiped
and lost himself in.
his small clothes
and shoes.
so much of
him is in the attic,
just steps away,
up the stairs, where I
could pull
the string and light
it up
anytime I desire.
but he's not there.

the hour that you're in

the days slide into
nights.
you hardly remember what
last week
was like. where it went.
where it all
went so quickly.
photos
are strange reminders.
flat
and easy to hold, but
surreal too.
you are a day older
than you were
the day before.
stopping the clock is
impossible,
embracing it even harder.
it's all you can do
to press on
and be grateful for the hour
that you're in.

decorating for the holidays

you have trouble with the lights
on your Christmas tree.
you've taken it off
the shelf and carried it all
the ways up from the basement
to set on the side table.
it's a white and shiny tree
with a string of lights
and bulbs you've carefully
arranged for a semblance of balance.
the tree is maybe two feet tall.
you've place three brand new
double AA batteries
into the little black box and pushed
the button.
nothing happens. then it blinks,
then it stops. you wonder
why you go through so much
trouble to decorate each holiday season.
you give up on the lights,
hoping later to get it working.
you take the snow globe out from
under the shelf where
it's been for three hundred
and forty one days. you shake
it and turn the metal knob
on the bottom. the music begins
to play. I'm Dreaming of a White
Christmas pings out in a slow
motion melody. you push aside
a pizza box from last night
and set it next to the tree.
you almost forget the wreath
for the door.
you find it under the bed
in the guest room. you blow
the dust off it and give it a shake.
the plastic cranberries roll
across the floor and hall as
you hang it on the nail you've never
removed. you find the candy canes
from last year in the card
box and scatter them about.
you strip the plastic off
one of them and suck on the gooey
stale cane. you're done
except for maybe setting out a bowl
of fancy nuts, or something.

nothing you can do

when death occurs
the world continues as if it
didn't matter.
this bothers you
when it's your turn to grieve.
why don't they know,
why don't they understand
how short, how bitter sweet
this life can be.
then the feeling fades and you
ignore the deaths of
others, those you don't know.
you shake your head
with empathy,
but move on, continue
with your life
as if it didn't matter,
for what else is there
to do.

when will we get there

we row and row.
someone says how much farther
before we're there.
there is no answer.
we keep at it.
from left to right our
oars enter the water
and pull us forward.
the stars come out as the sun
goes away.
you can hear but you cannot
see the ocean.
you can taste it though.
feel the wash of cold
upon your hands,
your knees. the water slaps
against the side
of your small boat.
we row and row.
people longer ask when will
we get there.
we already are.

bad news

the mailman is weeping.
he sits on your step.
I have bad news he says.
holding out a letter addressed
to you.
he's opened it and holds
it in his curled hand.
i'm sorry he says
to bring this to you.
I felt it might be bad news,
so I opened it and read it
and read it again.
you comfort him, you bring
him tea. you tell him it's okay.
you offer him a blanket
and a pillow so that he might
lie down on
your porch and rest.
it's okay, you tell him.
bad news as they say will
keep. don't give it to me
if it bothers you so much.
i'll find out eventually.
this makes him smile.
thank you he says. thank
you. he folds the letter
back into the envelope
then puts it into his
stachel. he waves to you
and says thank you once
more before going down
the sidewalk to the next
door.

chicken dinner

how many chickens
there must be in the world.
how many eggs,
you can almost hear the roar
of clucking,
the scratching,
free ranged or caged,
the roosters crowing.
eggs rolling
and breaking open
with more.
we are living in a deep
fried world
of chickens.
hens, roasters, pieces.
you can hardly drive a mile
without putting your
hands on
a chicken leg
or wing.
dark or white meat.
oven baked or grilled,
barbequed.
buffaloed and blue cheesed.
chickens are falling from
the sky.
they are filling the warehouses
of the world
with their fat
white feathered bodies.
they are marching in numb
lockstep towards
the ovens.
hardly a day goes
by when you aren't offered
a chicken dinner
and an order
of fries.

i want to stay home

there is no where
you need to go.
no one you need to see.
clapping
for others is not your thing.
you like music
you like the theater, but
you have no desire
anymore to stand
in line, to find a seat
and wait
to be entertained.
the coliseum holds no
interest.
the crowds,
the weather.
there are dozens of reasons
that will keep
you home. you like
people, but too many
in one place
distresses you.
it's okay to say no now.
it took a long
time. but you're there.

i can't read this

some books you can't read.
it's a long list actually
starting with anything with
the word dragon
in the title.
Ulysses is another. a
sleeper, a heavy book
best used for a door stop,
as is War and Peace.
any shade of grey
will make you gag
and throw it across
the room towards the fire
place.
Michener bothers you
as well. dry as a bone
history lessons that make
you yawn.
you try so hard to plow
through Harding
or the Russian writers
that are worshiped as literary
gods, but you can't.
you can't get past
the names, the multiple
plots, the endless
pages of descriptions
of snow. Chekov is fine
though. he keeps it short
and sweet.
as is carver and
Hemmingway. toss salinger
into the salad
along with flannery,
lorrie moore. season it
with some poets.
which is most of them,
except Mckuen.

where do you live

it's a short drive
from here to there.
easy.
a few left turns, a right.
straight down
the freeway,
an exit on
the cloverleaf,
then you're almost
there.
you could drive there
in your sleep,
you could leave
from there and be home
in less than
an hour.
you know the back roads
when the traffic is
bad.
which route to take
when there's weather.
it's a short drive from me
to you. we've done
it a thousand times,
remember?

i can see

I can see by your face
that you are unhappy.
again, the clouds have arrived
above you.
I hear thunder
on the horizon, above
the gloom of trees
folding
themselves into black.
I know the reasons,
but I've stopped
caring why.
your unhappiness is
your own choice
as is standing in the rain
growing cold.
I am free from this.
I am beyond the reach
of your minds arm
and fist.

these hunters

these hunters.
cowardly
men, some women. seeking
their
own demise
as well as others.
they live in darkness.
their minds
already gone, twisted.
once children,
once babies
in some mother's arms.
all sense of good erased.
now this.
the horror of blind
faith. no heaven awaits,
even hell
might be too good
of a place for them
to land.

what's your sign

he reads his horoscope
religiously.
bending to it's suggestions
of what the day
might bring.
waiting for things
to happen that never
will.
the planets are aligned
today.
I feel a good vibe
as to where the sun
and moon are.
something good is about
to happen, he says.
i'm virgo, what are you?
catholic, you tell him,
lapsed, but still carrying
the guilt
and shame
of my early years, and
unlike you I don't
expect things to
change much
in the future.

almost like home kennels

in a weakened state your dog
can barely wag
his tail.
his eyes are bloodshot.
his tongue and
nose warm. he's shedding.
he hasn't done well
at the almost like home
kennels
along the highway,
exit 50 west.
we had to feed him
pieces of hot dogs
for the whole week
the young girl tells you
when you arrive to pick him up.
he seemed depressed.
sad and lonely in his little
cage. he wouldn't even
watch tv or play
with the other
dogs, so we left him
alone. is he always this
way?
he's been on an IV for
a few days,
so your bill might be
slightly higher than what
we had planned on.
he ate seven packages
of all beef dogs too, so
that's on there as well.

the leak

it's hard to find
a leak,
the point at which the water
comes in.
a small hole
will do.
will sink a ship,
sink me and you,
will bring the ceiling
down.
it finds
it's way to the lowest
point
than pools and puddles
heavy, until it breaks
your heart,
the dry land that you
found.

red stockings

you find a new pair
of red
stockings, still in the plastic
package
that you bought for her.
they were playful
times.
hot and erotic
adventures with dancing.
with wine.
you were younger then,
she too.
her black hair
unfurled,
her lips red and wet
with anticipation.
why you never gave them to
her, you aren't sure.
would it have
made a difference, of
course not.
but still they belong
to her,
so you slide them into
a drawer and close
it, as you've done
with others.

the last horse

you like the last horse
who settled in and galloped
at his own pace.
the last one
in. wet with sweat
and mud.
the unwhipped horse
who had no chance,
but finished just
the same. feeling none
the worse
for losing, for is it
losing if you've
done your best, does
the carrot
or sugar cube
taste less sweet?

the pink gun

from her open
purse you see the debris
and necessities
of her existence.
the usual.
make up. lipstick,
a hair brush,
compact. tissues,
and something pink.
what's that you say,
pointing with a careful
finger into
the deep abyss of
her personal belongings.
it's a gun she
says, reaching in
to put her small hand on
the barrel, the handle,
gently a finger
on the trigger.
for protection she says,
smiling.
then closing the purse,
the clasp
snapping loudly
and clear.

please be quiet

please be quiet
the new mother says,
harried
and tired, a finger
to her lips,
the baby
is asleep, walk gently
across the floor,
up the stairs, go
lightly
don't let the floor boards
creak.
whisper when you
speak.
the baby is asleep,
let's keep it that way
for while.
just a few more minutes
please, of peace.

let them fly

hard to let go
of children
so they must let go of
you.
but they circle back
in time
and land again,
be patient, let
them fly. it's what
the world
must do.

empty sugar bowl

strangely, the ink
runs out when needed.
no milk
to pour into your coffee,
a mere drop or two
remains,
the sugar bowl
is dry and hard.
it's always a surprise
when love
ends too.
finding someone
gone
as you reach over
to kiss, to make love,
to spoon.

igloo life

you can go days
without shaving or speaking
to anyone.
you are an eskimo
in an igloo.
you have chopped
and stacked
blocks of ice from the nearby
pond,
put a rug down
a lamp,
a chair
and settled in for
the winter months ahead.
when hungry you carve
a hole
in the floor and catch
cold fish
unaware of your intentions.
you can go days
without many things,
months even as you wait
for the thaw,
but a visit from you
might be nice on occasion.

unturned calendar

the months
fall
over one another
towards
another end.
another
year unhinged
from the paper calendar
on
the yellow kitchen wall.
each birthday
marked in ink by her
spotted hand,
reminders
of visits to the doctor,
places to be, birthdays,
cards and notes to
send.
it stays hooked
and unturned though,
stuck in may,
the bird cage
empty beside it,
the potted plants,
brown and flat.
there is no need for
calendars
or reminders anymore.
not where
she is at.

your health care form is incomplete

send us more
information. your w-2, your
ten forty.
send us a vial of blood,
a toe,
a strand of hair
removed.
we need proof of
your income, your total
household income.
are you selling strawberries
on the street,
collecting cans
and bottles.
who lives with you.
who's in the attic,
in the cellar,
do you have
a Winnebago in the driveway
full of children
who might be yours.
tell us about your
dependents.
cats or dogs?
we want you to have
this healthcare,
but we need to water
board you first.
tie electric
clips to your fingers
and get to the truth of you.
make an appointment
and come in soon.
you have until December
15th or call
operators are standing by.

doing time

stretched thin
by the last one. beaten
with the ball
peen hammer
of her
mouth,
the torture
chamber of her house,
deprived
of news and weather
from afar,
untouched by hands,
affection
off limits.
fed
unsalted food,
unbuttered
whole
wheat bread,
not a starch in miles
around, you crawl
home
and sink into your own
bed, linger
in the cold
light of your own ice
box
pondering what
to fry next.

beached

beached, washed up onto shore.
thread bare
in clothes,
no shoes, no phone,
no luggage
in tow.
just you and white sand,
a crystal
pool of blue.
some palm trees
along the cove.
no sign of life.
a native girl
with a coconut walks by.
it's good
to be alive.

where are you from

where are you from,
she asks
setting out two cups of tea
at the table.
come sit, sit down
and take a break,
sit here, next to me.
I made these, she says,
and pushes a plate
of muffins
towards you.
you have an accent, but
I can't tell where it's
from.
where? she says, stirring
nothing in
her tea.
from here, you say.
most of my life has been
around here.
no, she says. I don't think
so.
you're from somewhere
else.
new York perhaps,
sugar? cream?
please eat.
my husband was from there.
have I told you that?
we met
on the subway. have
I told you this story?
I know you have to get back
to work, but
listen, hear me out.
drink your tea.

summoned

what brings you here,
again,
crazed loon
unraveled in the rising sun.
pants
around your ankles
arcing
your morning beer
from the steps of the courthouse
fountain.
what brings you here,
with
the wrinkled
paper of your summons
held tightly
in one hand.
a cold cot, a hot meal,
and a jail
safe cell
seems paradise for you.
home sweet home
you think as you button
up and head in.

brown bag

happiness
in a bottle, ambered
bug juice,
gold and brusque down
the flesh
pipe
the tongue stung
with the sluice
of liquor,
the mouth
alive with a burst
of something
not unlike pain
or pleasure
but mischief uncapped.
happiness
in a bottle, bagged
brown and kept
snug
in the thick overcoat.
hidden from judges eyes,
sipped on
in a shadow, under a bridge
on the roof
where the pigeons
in cages, unlike you
wait to go home,
and fly.

the prison farm

the striped melons
green skinned and flesh
toned
those bouldered fruits
carried in our skinny arms
through
the rivulets
of mud
and field,
no stopping our theft
now once
broken off the vine,
even with that long
and short gun,
despite the weight
and fog
of early morning,
the shouts to stop,
we run, we run, and the
captured
stay behind
unchained in orange
suits
cheering us on, cheering
us on.

separate ways

it's blood,
but it's not blood. not
that river
of sameness
that travels within
the body
that makes
the bond, it's something
else.
in the heart, the mind.
a seeing
things together, agreeing
on what is right,
what is wrong.
family
has no say in this.
it's something else,
undefined, unsettled
until
later when one goes
forward
the other stays behind.

the new born

pink fruit,
or black,
or blossoms off color
and browned,
a sage
or yellowed
hue, bundles of
life,
wrapped and waiting
to be taken
home.
out from under
the glass, freed
from
a mother's womb.
reaching
and crying already
for things
they can't have,
trying to do
what they can't do.

the last thing seen

the bruised bones
of ships asleep on the bottom
of a green
eyed sea
sway
in salted rot,
key holes
for fish, for wandering
shells,
seaweed, mermaids
imagined.
how the shadows fold
from light to dark,
under silvered stars
light years away
already dead and gone,
as are the sailors
who sailed
and drowned,
the water as they
sank
the last thing seen.

so easy

unburdened by us,
by moral
or civil laws
these animals neither
care
nor wonder
what might be right,
what might
be wrong.
they just are. just
are.
how hard it is to be
what
you are meant
to be, a struggle,
and yet for them,
so easy.

saucer of milk

with green
glassed eyes
on black paws,
a wind of hair,
teeth like fangs
white and sharp.
she licks
the saucer clean of
milk. her pink pebbled
tongue
shining clean the dish,
then she peers at you
before turning away
to seek
another porch,
another
two legged fish.

put the good word in

an unpraying person,
she still puts
her hands
together and sends up something
like a wish,
as if a penny
tossed into a well.
maybe your God
will hear me, she says,
always referring to God
as your God.
as if he's a personal
savior of yours.
ring the bell and he appears.
put the good word in
for me, she'll ask, when
down
and out, but not quite
far enough down
to be on her knees.
I've been good lately,
don't you think?
maybe with your help,
he'll hear me.

the former better half

your former better half
is asleep,
she is sound asleep
in another state,
in another place,
in the woods
beside a frozen lake.
her mattress is on
a wooden floor.
her clothes
are without hangers.
her life
is in stacks,
pyramids of things to
get to, tomorrow never
arriving.
your better half,
is asleep.
but not you, you are
busy
with everything
you've invented
and must do. it's easy
now
to see the difference.

coming undone

unfearing is hard,
as is
undoing,
untying the knot
of love.
stringing
together days
without what has become
habit
and forming.
the inertia of two
as one, undone,
is unnerving,
unstoppable
when the time has
come.

why are you here

here, fill out this form,
you are told
by the nurse, is she a nurse,
or just someone
wearing green scrubs
to look like one. but she has
a chart,
a pen, a tag, and something
around her waist
that has buttons.
you are told, to keep
your questions down to one.
the doctor is very busy.
and yes, we know it's your
first visit, but
there is so little time.
so please, ask only one question
concerning your health.
you sigh. you take the clipboard
and the pen
and go sit down.
you close your eyes
and imagine a different world.
a world of
love and compassion, of
unhurried concern.
of a tender hand on your
shoulder and a thank
you for choosing us to take
care of you.
you try to think of what
to write in the open white
space asking
why are you here. finally
you write the word.
sadness.

her casserole

the aunt
carries in her casserole of
corn pudding
with two hands, her
piston arms
carrying the glassed weight
in front of her.
where, she says with puffed
cheeks, where
should I set it
down.
it's still hot.
be careful.
someone get this dog out
from under me
before I trip
and fall.
she'll tell you later
how it was made,
how she was up
all night and early
in the morning at the foot
of her old oven.
you feel unworthy
with what she's brought
and wish you had a better
seat to sit her
in, not the one by
the kitchen door.

the watchman

the watchman in his chair,
not asleep
but not awake, his flask
half full, thrice sipped,
stuck in the pocket of his
heavy coat.
the tilt of his cap
upon his thick brow,
furrowed with something
along dumbness
and youth. a job, he says.
a job to pay the bills,
to keep one in food,
and shoes. flickering his
flashlight at a black cat
who arches in the alley,
waiting behind a can
for prey, for rats.
he pares an apple with
his dull knife, letting
the skin fall
to the pavement, tossing
the core down the alley.
it's a long night,
this graveyard
shift, this rising of stars
and setting of moons,
this day within a night
for the watchman,
his ambitions, his dreams,
on hold.

old school

the teachers
miss being able to pick a child
up by the shirt collar
and smacking his bottom
with a ruler.
rapping knuckles,
sending them out into the cold
to bang erasers
against the wall,
or into a corner
with a dunce hat on his
head or
sticking a wad of chewed
gum on the offenders nose.
teachers miss being able
to threaten the children
with punishing quizzes
and tests. detention.
casting spells
upon their pointed heads
and fearing eyes.

the fiance

have you met my fiancé
she says, pointing at him as
he stands silently beside her,
grimacing.
no, I say, sticking my hand
out to shake.
you wonder if he knows.
if he cares
that you two were once lovers.
as she was with so many before you.
that she once
had big plans for the both of you.
but you escaped.
nice to meet you, he says,
letting go quickly my hand.
likewise, I say.
you will be coming to the wedding,
she says,
I sent you an email.
of course, I say.
the fiancé turns his head
and looks off into the distance.
into some future life
he's about to live in.

early morning

a staggered light
appears,
not pink, not orange
but a murky purple bruise,
a coat of early dew
frosted
along the curves
of cars, chimneyed
angled roofs.
the noteless lines
of wires,
holding only
birds, not music,
stretch
haphazardly along
the streets. dogs bark
at the end
of chains.
doors open
for papers and milk,
to stick a finger in the wind.
everything is exactly as
it was when you
were children, not
much has changed, not
even you
in your plaid cuffed
jeans, mittens.

the actor

the actor leans
into his lines. his dialect
practiced
in the dark
in the light
anywhere
that his feet can find
a spot.
to be. it's hard
being who you aren't
under the lights,
in front
of eyes that don't
know who you are,
even non actors
know this, but find
a way,
to act, to play
the role,
to disappear inside
the part.

one lie

one lie
leads to another.
the pretense of self
folding
over and over
until the layers make
truth
unrecognizable.
nothing gets in
or out
that touches the soul.
what difference does it
make.
you can only listen
and nod,
smile agreeably,
pretend that you hold
no doubt.

turbulent seas

to weather the storm
the ship
lightens its load.
tossing overboard anything
not worth dying
for.
and so should you,
as you
toss and turn
on turbulent seas.
sending sailors
and cargo
unworthy
over the side, setting
yourself
free.

what are you thankful for

then the really painful part
of the holiday dinner begins.
each person having their turn
at saying what they are thankful
for.
you hate this tradition.
you squirm in your seat,
and look towards the door.
they are only halfway around
the table, you could easily
dash to the bathroom, or suddenly
get a phone call
on your turned off phone.
i'm thankful for everyone here
someone says, and begins
to name every one, pointing
at the person and describing how
wonderful each one is.
i'm thankful for the abundance
of things we have
another says, smiling broadly,
proud of her originality.
world peace, someone shouts
out. which is more like a wish,
than something to be thankful for.
but you don't blurt that out.
you are still trying to figure
out how to escape.
vodka, your drunk uncle
mumbles when it's his turn,
spilling his drink
onto his shirt already spotted
with cranberry sauce. i'm thankful
for separate bedrooms
his wife says.
then the children begin. they
are thankful for their playstation.
for ice cream and cake.
for their pets
and for being off school.
they are thankful that this dinner
thing is almost over.
they are the most honest.

and gravy please

having starved yourself for
three days
you're ready for thanksgiving.
you've done two hundred sit ups
walked approximately
nine miles, did a hundred jumping jacks.
you've biked and lifted weights.
you drank water
and then more water.
you ate a black olive, but spit
it out before swallowing.
you've taken deep breaths
raising your arms skyward.
doing circular motions.
you aren't sure why you are doing
this, but you do it anyway.
you feel prepared.
your belt is on a different
notch. you feel weak and close
to fainting so carefully
you inch your chair towards the table.
you are wearing your red
holiday sweater with reindeer
embroidered on it.
as if down a long dark hallway
you hear someone saying a prayer.
dizzy, you try to keep your head
from falling forward
and hitting your empty plate.
you can see your face
in the shiny white dish.
your eyes are dark and hollow.
you say a prayer that the long
winded prayer you are hearing
will end soon.
you place a napkin into
your lap and whisper amen, finally.
trembling you reach for a fork.
dark or white meat someone
says to you from far away
across the table.
both you say. and gravy too,
please.

frozen shoulder

you fly into Toronto
to get your frozen shoulder
unfrozen.
it's a mysterious
process that you found
while grazing for
cures
to alleviate the pain
from your injury.
you know nothing
about Canada. nothing.
except that it's north
and it's colder
than it is here most
of the time. they have mounties,
and love hockey.
the guess who is from there.
you've watched the videos
online
of how pleased
people are after the doctor
does his magic.
there are tears in their
eyes.
you want this kind of
happiness. you want to be
able to throw your arm
straight into
the air, or to put your
arm behind you
and tuck in your shirt.
that's all you ask for.
how much does it cost?
you have no idea.
so you bring a lot of money.
pain and pleasure
are worth spending on.
maybe you'll see a moose while
there.

a non-profit company

so explain to me exactly what
you do everyday, I ask my friend Lola
as we sit at a coffee shop
shooting the breeze.
I work for a non profit company, she says.
I love it. I love my work.
I am sooo so lucky.
okay. I say. and....what do you do?
I do work for them.
like what? like conversing on
the phone, talking to clients.
sending e mails and text messages.
we use twitter now too.
and? well,
we have meetings and strategize
about what we are going to do
next. do next about what?
about whatever we're doing
that particular week or month.
our goals are quite clear.
we're a green company too, did I tell
you that?
and you get paid for this. yes.
everyone has a salary.
but it's a non profit? right.
the company doesn't make any money.
the money goes to our offices,
the expenses
and the employees.
for doing what?
I just told you. we organize
and plan events, network with
other non profits. we have
several ongoing think tanks
with some very smart people.
sometimes we'll hold banquets
or destination meetings to gather
and disseminate information
what we've learned.
destinations?
to where. somewhere nice,
the islands, or vegas. places
like that. people get more done
when they are relaxed.
and when you get
there, you do what? well, that's
the fun part.
we talk about our plans for
the new year, how we can perform
better, increase our productivity
and make our company grow even larger.
but, doing what?
what does your company do?
oh, you just don't get it do you?

marriage therapy

mere months away from retiring,
your marriage counselor reluctantly
agrees to take you and your wife on.
she was old. old school. there was old
furniture in her room. faux paintings
of real paintings. you remember the scream
being one. how perfect, you thought.,
as you sat and waited for the door to open
and for her to ask the three of you to step in.
your son, was in tow, talking on his
phone, which wasn't a phone at all but
a rock he had found outside in the parking lot.
what seems to be the problem, she said,
smiling broadly with betty davis red lips
and a set of owl glasses halfway down
her short pug nose.
your wife jumped in first. I hate him, she said.
he's evil and mean and I want out.
she wrote this down, or something along
those lines. your son laughed and said,
mom you so funny. then he set a bowl
of fake fruit on his head, balancing it
with his short arms stuck out like a wire
walker. time me dad.
see if I can do three minutes.
I checked my watched and told him, go.
yes. the therapist said, and what do you
have to say about things? me, you ask,
pointing at your chest. yes, she said,
you. which sounded incriminating.
she's cheating on me, you tell the therapist.
she's a liar, a cheat, she doesn't work,
she's lazy, doesn't cook or clean
and our sex life stinks.
how much time, your son asks, still
balancing the bowl. almost two minutes
you tell him. the pears and apples
wobble in the plate.
I see, the therapist says. well, let's
do a test now. both of you stand up.
now you sir, stand there, close your eyes.
your wife will stand behind you.
let's see if you trust one another
enough to continue on and save this marriage.
bored, your son takes the plate off his
head and pretends once more to talk on
his phone, which is really a rock.
the therapist gives him a sheet of paper
and asks him to make a drawing of
what he thinks his family looks like.
okay, he says and goes to the table.
your wife moves behind, as you shake your
head. now fall back, the therapist says.
let her catch you. trust her.
trust your wife, the love of you life.
but she doesn't catch you, you drop to
the floor, hitting your head on a potted
plant. your son laughs and comes
over to look at you on the floor. dad,
he says. what are you crazy, mom would
never catch you. why did you do that.
he hands the paper to the therapist.
it's a picture of a tornado, black
and swirly with all four of us up in
the air. that's you,
he says to the therapist, pointing
at something that looks like a cow
with glasses on.

the swing

of course
your son wanted you to push him
harder and harder
faster and higher
on the play ground swing,
while from the window
his mother
said stop, what are you
doing,
are you crazy, you're
going to kill
him.
and now, as he rounds
his life
into thirty,
not much has changed
in what you both want
for him.

milk carton photo

you see your face
on the side of a milk carton.
one side is
when you were young,
the other is a projection
of what you might
look like in
thirty years from then.
they aren't even close.
how will they ever find
you.
you want to call the milk
company to
update your photo,
but then they'll know
where you are,
which would ruin
everything you've
done to stay hidden,
private and quiet
in the life you've
chosen.

hold on

how long can I stay on hold?
apparently
all afternoon.
I don't mind Christmas
music,
but after an hour or so
on the speaker
my thoughts wander
and I need to let
out a scream
or stab a piece of meat
with a sharp knife.
but this does no good.
this makes my blood pressure
go up.
my head throbs and my neck
hurts. I take out a bag
of frozen peas
and press it against the nape
of my neck.
I like the word
nape and rarely get to use it.
so this pleases me a little,
but not so much
that it eases the anger,
or stops my ulcer
from flaring up.
finally someone arrives
and asks me
if i have an order number.
I unravel the receipt which
is three feet long
and look.
there are numbers all
over the place.
can't you look up my
name. I ask politely, still
searching the lightly printed
piece of paper and its
endless array
of numbers and words.
what if I gave you
my phone number, my
social security number,
my mother's maiden name.
my first dog's name, or
the city I was born in?
would that help?
hold on, she says.
I have to take this other
call.

eating out

what do you want me to bring
for dinner
I ask her
pondering the holiday
and staring at frozen
butter ball
turkeys in the grocery
store.
there are so many.
white and goose
pimpled
under factory sealed
wrap. I plop one into
my cart
making the front wheel
of the cart go wobbly.
i'm in the grocery store
right now,
I tell her,
with two packages of
gravy
in my hand. how about a pie
or two?
I push the broken cart
around, stopping to touch
boxes of stuffing,
shaking them.
pick me up a cook book
she says.
I've never cooked dinner
before,
how about you? I've heated
things up before,
I tell her.
maybe we can go online
and figure this out.
it can't be that hard.
i'll get three or
four potatoes
to start. I think
we need a turkey baster
maybe for something.
I'll get one
of those too.
how do you feel about
Chinese, she asks.

the wounded bird

a clipped wing
keeps
the red bird
close and
flying
in circles,
but he's still happy
to have flight,
having adjusted
and found peace
to his new
and simpler
life.

make her happy

flowers make her happy.
so you buy her
flowers.
you buy a vase with which
to place them in.
crystal and heavy.
you write a note.
you buy a box of dark
chocolates too
just to make sure
your point is being
made. then
you go to the jewelers
and pick out a
strand of pearls.
you have them gift wrapped.
yes, the red
ribbon, please.
that should do it.
you think. you hope.

holiday bridge jumping

you see them lining up
at the bridge for
the holidays.
three days early,
finding a spot
that's suitable for
jumping.
some have written notes
saying farewell,
explaining
why they're leaping
into the great abyss,
others have left
voice mails,
or texted goodbye,
but most have said
the hell with it,
why bother, they
don't care about me
anyway,
and maybe this will
teach them a lesson.
it doesn't.

i get it

no need to shout,
or say it three times,
I can hear you.
I get it.
I understand.
no need to send me
a message
in capital letters,
or write across
the sky how
you feel. i'm
very observant and
astute when it comes
to catching
your drift.
by changing the lock
on the door and
putting my clothes
out in a paper bag, well,
that sort of said
it all.

the dream farewell

in your dream
your mother is lying on
a table.
unclothed.
stretched upon a white
linen sheet,
a burial shroud,
you imagine.
you approach her
to grieve, to say
farewell. you lean
in to kiss her when
she opens her eyes.
her hair is black
and full.
her eyes are a rich
brown.
her teeth are perfect,
her face lineless.
she smiles
and says I came
back to say goodbye
to you.
then closes her eyes
to leave once more.

miscues

it's a day of missed
buttons,
laces
that have a knot,
catching every red light,
at every
corner
making you stop.
a day of leaving home
with shaving
cream in one ear.
it's a day
of spilled coffee
on a white shirt,
of dragging tissue
around on
one shoe.
a day of saying the wrong
thing
at the wrong time,
being perpetually
misunderstood.
a day of choosing
the longest
and slowest of every line
you get into.
it's a a day
full of errant
choices, miscues.

in the end

nary a soul
while lying prone
on his death bed
has said that he wished
he'd worked
just one more hour,
straight through
a weekend
instead
of doing other things
that brought him joy,
if only I had made
more money,
had bought a bigger
home,
just more car,
if only I had stared into
the woods, embraced
the ocean,
the rising sun,
and not looked
continually at my
phone.

free range

we were free range children.
allowed
to go out and wander
leaving the borders of
our fenced yards.
a summers day could take us
miles
into the woods,
across the highway
that led us across
a stream, behind
the stores,
up trees.
there was no limits,
no strings,
no leash attached.
an alley was as pleasant
as any meadow.
no eyes
to follow us to save
us if
need be.
we wandered and wandered
until hungry and then came
home. not unlike
today.

the weight lifter

the weight lifter
needs mirrors, for how
else would
he know where his days
have gone.
each muscle an hour,
each bead
of sweat drained
into gallons.
but is he no different
in lifting bar bells
than we are with our books,
lining them on
shelves
to be dusted and seen
below picture framed
degrees.

true feelings

there's more
to everything
you surmise,
the tip
of the ice berg, the sly
glance,
the mumbled words.
so much is unsaid,
or hidden.
true feelings
disguised
in a smile.
it's better to be polite,
or remise
and say little
of what is right,
or how you truly
feel.

strangers

upon the first hour
of the first meeting
she took your hand
and said
stand up. I love this song
so you stood
and turned your head upward
to listen
to the overhead
music
in the pizza joint
off the pike.
slowly she led you around
the black and white tiled
floor
slippery with pizzas
being bricked oven
cooked in the back.
she sang into your ear,
strangers in
the night she cooed.
it was getting
stranger alright.

a new religion

the new religion
will have
only a few rules.
be kind
is one,
the rest will follow
and be
unwritten.
no one will keep
score.
everything but love
will be
forbidden.

you miss running

you miss running.
being one of them. in all
weather.
rain or ice.
snow. no problem.
wind.
strapping on the shoes.
the windbreaker.
the hat and gloves.
checking your watch.
stretching
then off you'd go.
you miss the burn of lungs,
the heavy sweat
on your clothes,
the looseness of
bones and muscles
as you hit your stride.
you could run all
day, into night.
you miss running.
the sweet high of
exhaustion. happy to be
tired and sore.
an unquenched addiction.
you miss running.

almost edible

no matter what you do to it,
slice, or dice,
fry or put it between
to pieces of bread,
lather mustard,
or mayo across its
glistening back,
it's still spam. a mutant
meat of sorts
swept up from some floor
you don't want to
know about. mysteriously
pink and gnarled,
canned, how else could
it be sold.
never hanging in the butcher's
window.
never under a plastic
wrap staggered
nicely in rows with real
meat.
spam is the end game.
when the cupboard is bare,
when the apocalypse
is in full bloom.
it's the last thing
to be eaten, well almost
the last, there's
always me, or you.

wine and politics

your friend suggests
over dinner,
nuking them, them being everyone
but us.
building a barb wired fence
that straddles
the coastline, the deserts,
hills and mountains.
it's not ellis island
anymore, she says. we can't
let everyone in.
they didn't then and why should
we now.
she pours another glass
of wine for herself,
tilting the bottle
until the last drop drips
into the red
sea of her glass.

save the planet

the young man, at the door
wants to talk
about the environment. he's neat
and clean
in a plaid shirt, a beard
just born.

he could almost pass

as a mormon.
he holds a packet of information,
a phone,
something else.
a pen is in his pocket.
his enthusiasm
throws light into the room.
he wants to talk
rivers and streams,
pollution, what you can do
to bring things
back to they way they were.
you do too.
but you're in the middle of
eating dinner
and you don't have time
right now to talk about

bottles and cans,

plastic bags and farm raised

salmon, so you hand him
ten dollars and send

him on his way.

happy that someone is working

on things.

making repairs

the old shed,
with the door hanging
on rusted hinges,
some screws have
fallen out,
letting the door
sag at one corner.
the bottom wood
rotted from ice and snow
of winters past.
the roof letting light
in. an afternoon
would take care of it.
a hammer, new
wood, nails, and screws.
a few tiles tacked on.
just one afternoon,
then paint.
but like many things,
what's stopping
you. like much in life,
leaving it unfixed,
is comfort
of some sort.

they want in

they want in, they want out,
who isn't
a refugee
trying to flee
the horrors of life.
ducking
the swings, absorbing
the blows
that strike.
gathering all that you
own
and fleeing,
seeking a soft place
to land,
an asylum
to wait out the night.

the writing life

the key to good writing is rewriting
your professor tells
the class as she stand in front of the room
holding a book.
strunk and white.
spelling, grammar, punctuation.
show don't tell.
write what you know.
write every day.
don't wait on the muse.
but how can you at such an age.
hardly enough beard to shave,
unwrinkled, having never lost love,
untouched by death.
what is there to know, or say.
give it time. give it time,
she says. be patient.
there'll be more than enough.
just wait.

saved newspapers

old papers
stored away in an older box.
no lock
no key with which to turn,
black and soft
the sides are.
news headlines.
tall blocked letters
in black.
a war is over, a president
shot dead.
a man is on
the moon.
such news it was.
life changing
swiftly
before your young eyes,
strangely unstopped
by any headline.