reading for pleasure

do you read for pleasure
she asks
throwing you a tom
robbins book from a long
time ago,
paperback and worn,
the cover
once wet, wrinkled
and torn.
even cowgirls get the blues.
of course,
I tell her.
what other reason would
there be to read
unless you're studying
for a test in
school.
isn't all reading
supposed to be pleasurable,
as is eating,
or making love,
or sleeping.
i'll read it, I tell her,
and see where
it goes,
but if I don't like it,
duck,
i'll throw it across
the room.

savor the moment

how soft
the pillow is when life
is right.
how sweet sleep
comes
as you lie down
and count your blessings.
happy for those
that are here,
those that are gone.
at times like these
the fog
has lifted, the road
is clear.
you savor
the moment knowing how
quickly
things can change,
how the world
without notice
can turn upon its ear.

the lost and unfound

the box of glasses
under
the counter of the lost
and found
is full.
all frames, all lenses
of any
and every size,
all left behind
under seats
in the dark
as the movie patron
stretched
to rise,
not hearing in the clamor
of the closing
music, the shuffling
of shoes
and coats,
their specs hitting
the slanted
rugged floor.
now they sit entangled
with the others,
everyone's remedy
for blurred vision,
but not yours.

less by the son

the child wants to ride
on his father's back
and cries
to do so.
the man leans down
and the boy, heavy
as a wet stone leaps
on. around they go,
red faced father,
his tie undone,
his shirt with mud
from a swinging shoe.
out of breath,
down the slope
of green and up again.
together as one.
such short lived mirth
will be remembered,
but more by the father,
less by the son.

the quiet muse

no drum
or flute, no violin
or guitar,
no piano being struck,
no harpsichord
no lyre,
or tuba,
no music could be heard
at all.
not a single note is sung,
not one word
of a poem
recited, it's
just the wind
whistling
through stones,
tilted and etched
along
the treeless park.
the names
of the dead say nothing.
an entry number
an exit.
but once, yes once
there was music
in all
of them.

zoo girl

how do you like your new place,
I ask my friend cathy
on the phone.
she's moved to the burbs,
beyond the beltway,
up the pike to where the new
town center has
grown from a patch
of weeds. the clean new
buildings have risen where
an old bowling alley once stood.
I miss my old place,
she says.
there is sadness in her voice.
she lived across
from the zoo.
over the zoo bar.
places to go in walking
distance
in either direction.
the Avalon. the glorious
Avalon.
I miss hearing the monkeys
at night,
she says. I miss
the clanking of my old
radiator.
the smells in the hallway
of people
cooking. I miss the broken
elevator
and the dark stairwells.
I miss no parking,
and the sound of traffic
out my window. the choking
of buses as they rolled
up connecticut avenue,
the sirens,
the arguments
on the sidewalk at three
a.m..
it'll be fine, I tell her.
you'll get used to the new
place. maybe, she says.
maybe. but not once has
the power gone out.

where's your iron

they've made life
so much easier for men
with permanent press
pants and shirts.
I haven't touched an iron
in decades.
where is your iron
women often ask when waking
up in the morning.
I don't know.
somewhere in the basement.
near the ironing board,
maybe in the shed.
I think I dropped
it on my foot the last
time I used it.
I was always turning around
to go back home
to see if I left it on.
most times I didn't,
but it was still plugged in,
so you never knew
if it had the capabilities
of restarting itself
and burning the house down.
now I can throw a shirt
on the floor
and leave it there
for weeks on end.
never having the time
to put it on a hanger.
but it's fine.
the creases down the sleeve
are still there.
the collar stiff,
the fabric wrinkle free.
i button up, tuck it in
and go.

sincerely, me

you remember letters.
folding them when finished.
creased and slid
into the envelope
for the postman to gather.
a stamp affixed in one
corner.
hand written
pages of cursive ink,
black or blue,
the mistakes and miscues
crossed out,
or blotted.
the stream of thought,
the random rolling
report of life
and love.
loss. dated at the top.
the salutation at the end.
see you soon.
love you, miss you.
sincerely me.

sasha the escort

my friend nancy
decides after years and years
of online dating
to become an escort
for an escort service.
she calls herself sasha
now, when she's working,
and has learned to speak
with a Russian accent.
lots of lipstick and rouge
and slinky
dresses.
i'm fed up with men. why
not. why not make some
money off of these
dopey desperate men,
she told me.
all i'm getting now
is dinner
and drunken slobber
all over me
in the parking lot.
not to mention having to listen
to them whine about
their wives and children.
I have a bite mark on my neck
from the last guy.
he was a mild mannered
accountant until he had
three martinis
then he attacked me like
frank Sinatra in a saloon.
I've given up on the soul
mate thing.
the love thing. to hell
with that notion.
i'd like to retire some
day, and it would be
nice to have some extra
cash on hand.
you're crazy, I tell her.
what about disease,
what about violence
and trouble, and what
if they fall in love with
you and stalk you?
always a Debbie downer,
aren't you, my cynical
friend. and here I've
already bought my
pepper spray and whips.
i'll be selective, choosey
with my clients.
and i'll set my own rates,
if they mention one time
their ex wife the price is
doubled.
great idea, I tell her.
great idea.

do you have an appointment

the cupcake
behind the fake oak counter
at the dental
office
beams with her smile.
you shield
your eyes from the laser
light off her teeth
as you come in.
her voice is high pitched,
helium high
and she's wearing
a bright blue button
that says, smile.
there's a pink bow in her
hair despite the fact
that might be fifty years old.
you tell her that you're
here to measure
the waiting room
for wallpaper. oh,
she says, her hand ready
to ink me in for a cleaning,
a filling, or worse.
well, she chirps, let
me get the doctor.
the doctor comes out,
takes off his thin plastic
gloves and shakes
your hand. his hand is strong.
he lets you know this.
you can't help but notice
the fresh spray of blood
on his smock
as he tells you where
the paper will start
and then end. you take notes.
it's the blood you'll remember
later, not the cupcake
behind the counter,
not the job.

climbing ashore

when you climb ashore
from the cold sea,
shivering and pale,
your hands gripping
at the sharp rocks,
your feet slipping
in the sand,
the waves
churning blue and purple
upon you,
you can't help but wonder
if it was a good idea
leaving home,
swimming
across the channel
for the sake of love.
is love
worth this? again.

is sally home?

when it gets cold
my skin dries up and needs
scratching.
I can feel the flakes
of old me
curling at the edges.
perhaps not poetic material
here, but
so what.
my back itches.
I can't find my
long wooden scratcher
that my son gave
me for Christmas one year,
unwrapped,
and my wooden soup spoon broke
when I tried to unclog
the garbage disposal
after a turkey
bone got stuck.
so i'm down to door edges,
rolling on the floor
with my dog,
trying to get him
to hop on my back
and scratch.
I search the attic of
my mind to try and remember
who is it that I know
who has the longest
set of nails.
betty, no,
Yolanda, maybe, sally.
yes. it's sally.
here's hoping she's home.

the hidden life

the biography digs deep
with sharp nails
into the life
of one of your favorite
poets.
he's crushed by many as
aloof and cold,
fussy. a man who preferred
to live his life
as a recluse, choosing love
as he would
a plum from any given tree
when the mood struck.
the author explores
the beauty of his words,
then tears down
the wall.
casting stone after stone
upon his worshipped grave.
his sex life, how he paid
his bills,
how he shunned friends
who betrayed him.
you find out things you
wished you'd never known.
it changes everything,
but nothing.
you separate the two,
the man and his words and
move on.

no water

when your son
was little, he ran to you
with fear
and cried out dad, dad,
we have no water.
there's no water.
you imagined a burst pipe,
the ceiling fallen
down from the frozen
ground outside,
you tried the kitchen
then the bathroom,
water, both hot and cold
poured out.
he stood beside you,
tears in his eyes,
then he held up
an empty plastic bottle
shaking it frantically
in front of you
and saying,
we have no water
to drink. mom drank
the last bottle, what
are we going to do?

not just water

how blue the lake is
this January day.
the sun
white and low in the bare
trees.
full and cold,
the water sways from
each curved shore,
moving the few
boats
that are out there.
you walk around its
five mile path.
the lake always beside you.
it's just water, but it's
more than that.
somehow much more.

the circle of praise

hardly an unkind word
is spoken
in the writers workshop.
everyone is talented
and smart,
creative.
each poem just needing a tweak
here and there,
a new word,
an omission, an addition.
a cleaning up
of spelling
and punctuation.
each story just a stamp
away
from being accepted
in the New Yorker
or Vanity Faire.
everyone means well
doling out the feint praise,
but no one learns
a thing.

no reservations

you make reservations
at four in the afternoon,
but when you arrive they don't
have your name.
you ask why.
you tell them when you called,
who you talked to,
how you gave them
the time, the date,
your name, the place.
sorry they say we have no
record of any of that
and we have a two hour
wait for a table. you can
go to the bar if you'd like.
there is nothing you can do.
you feign anger, but
you really don't care
that much about it.
you're just hungry
and want a place
to sit down and eat a bowl
of pasta with red sauce,
have a glass of wine,
some bread
and salad. but not tonight.
you have no reservations.
so it's out into the cold
you go.

too long into the night

you stay too long.
too deep
into the night in a place
you don't want
to be.
it's not the food,
the drinks,
the music or light,
the people you are with.
it's just
you being you, wanting
to leave.
sometimes you want to just
pick up and go,
no goodbyes,
no farewell hugs,
handshakes or kisses
on the cheek.
you want to grab your
coat, throw
down your money and walk,
but you don't.
you stay too long
too deep into the night
in a place
you don't want to be.

what if

they found a shadow
on an x-ray
of my mother's chest
once.
probably nothing
the doctor said. come
back in a week or two.
we'll see then.
when she got home
she pulled the laminated
list of phone
numbers off the wall
in the kitchen
and called everyone
she ever knew.
I might be dying, she
told them. this could be it.
and when it was
nothing, nothing but
a shadow.
I called her
to say good,
but she cried and cried,
I asked her why
and she said but what if.
what if.

inches

much of life
is about inches.
close calls,
near misses.
timing not being everything,
but the only
thing
keeping us alive,
or not
alive.
hardly a day passes
without
an almost
disaster occurring,
best we not know
when the guillotine
comes down,
or otherwise
we'd never leave
the house,
keeping the door locked.
keeping us inside,
safe and sound.

her stress

she used to point
at a spot near her forehead
where she claimed
she was losing hair.
look, look she'd say
pulling back her long dark
mane of irish locks.
the stress is giving me
a bald spot.
look, it's the size
of a quarter now,
last week it was
the size of a dime.
i'm losing my hair.
this makes you laugh
and rub your scalp.
don't worry about it,
you tell her. maybe you
can wear a cap
like I do on cold days
or when the sun
comes out.

the great beyond

this wealth
accumulated over so much
work.
so much desire
and need.
all the right reasons,
all the wrong
reasons too.
here it is, sitting
in a pile
at the end of your life.
this wealth.
what can be said of it,
be done with it.
so much left
for those left behind.
none taken
with you to the great
beyond.
a phrase you've always
liked using,
the great beyond.
but for now
you rest, knowing that
that part
of life is over.
you wonder,
you wander, you stroll
the empty beaches.
you understand everything.
you understand nothing.
you eat, you sleep, you write.
you rise again.
and do it once more.

the last thing said

my editor, diane in ohio, says
you need to drop the last line.
and she's right,
she's nearly always right.
the last line
is a wrap up, a nice and tidy
string of words
summing up
the content of the poem
or story.
unnecessary, unneeded.
I see and feel it
as I write
the last line, but can't
stop myself.
it's like when we have an
argument.
the last things we say to
one another shouldn't
be said, but
we do. always, nearly
always getting the last word
in and regretting it.

duck parade

it's a parade of
browned ducks, fat
and featherless
ready to be skinned
and deboned
sliced onto white plates
with plum
sauce and onions.
bedded into the soft folds
of pancakes.
a hundred
in a day, maybe more,
they keep coming, dish
after dish, duck
after duck.
no end to this
duck parade.

the least of us

the least
of us, are still here.
pushing
carts
in the parking lot.
shoveling,
cutting
grass, or throwing
bags
into the back
of wide mouthed trucks.
the shadow
workers, sweeping,
in the buildings
at night.
we too are full of art,
poetry,
music
and light.
the least of us,
are still here.
you just don't see us,
but we are.

possession

what is
or isn't spam
is getting harder
and harder
to know.
becoming more
and more like
real life,
real people
you want to avoid,
before this,
before these
machines took over,
took possession
of our souls.

saved

in Barcelona 1958
the gypsies came in wagons
pulled by
worn horses,
tethered loosely.
the women garbed in black
would hold their
naked babies in the air,
brown and slick
with oils, raising them up
to the sky,
and wail, they spoke in
Spanish. pleading.
you watched from the window
crouching down,
fearing some barter
was taking place, you for
them.
they came to the fence,
to the gate as your mother
went out to wave them away.
finally giving them
money.
American dollars.
you listened and watched
as the tall dark men
in black caps
took the reins and moved
the wagons down
the road. the hooves
clicking against the pavement.
somehow
you were saved.

get well

I prefer a moon with color.
give
me an autumn burst
of yellow
or orange, a blue
moon. a silver
orb, or best yet
a pure white wafer
being offered
for the sins of the world.
everyone take a piece
and eat,
bite down,
then drink the rivers
of wine.
get well.

fortune cookie

fate and karma
confuses me. fortune cookies
are lame
now.
what will be will be,
sang doris
day.
obviously doris,
thanks sweetheart for
telling me something I don't
know.
tell me the future doris,
stale
fortune cookie,
gyspy with a ball.
give me
something to go by.
a path to follow.
bread crumbs
to lead the way out,
or in. we all get what's
coming to us.
maybe.

being a bear

the bear gets loose
at the zoo
and kills a man. a baby.
mauls
an old woman.
they kill the bear.
two shots, a third
to make sure.
it's not the bear's
fault, everyone says.
staring at the blood,
the cotton candy.
an empty stroller on its
side.
the woman's purse
spilled upon the narrow
path next to a sign that
point towards the reptile
cage.
they reason that once
they taste
blood, humans will be
all they want to eat.
perhaps. you doubt it.
it's just us being us
and them, them being
the bears, being them.

the last dance

I would love to go dancing with
you one night, she tells me,
as a song comes on the radio
that she likes.
she moves her feet,
taps her fingers against
the dashboard, sways as
best she can with the seat belt
wrapped around her in
the passenger seat.
no you wouldn't, I tell her.
I don't dance anymore,
and when I did, when I was
younger, it was more about
getting the girl and drinking.
but I have you now and I don't
drink much anymore, so that
leaves dancing out for me.
this makes her shake her head
and say, well maybe i'll have
to find a man that wants to
dance with me.
to which I reply. go ahead.
do what you need to do.
but I don't mean it, and she
knows that as she reaches
over to place her tapping
fingers against my knee.

keeping your cards close

you almost say the things
you want to say, but you stop
yourself.
what good will that do.
you'll be forced
from that point on to be open
and honest.
it's an exhausting
way to live a life,
having no secret feelings,
no desires
hidden. every thought
a sheet of glass to look
through to the other side.
it's best to keep
quiet. let things figure
themselves out
on their own time.
no need to speed the clock
forward with an open heart,
and open wound.

who are you

she doesn't wake
up for weeks
after falling into a
coma, striking
her head
against the curb
when the car hit her.
she doesn't know
who she is.
where she is, what
happened.
she's groggy.
her hair is grey.
almost white.
her make up is gone.
tubes
are in her arm.
machines, blink and
beep
beside her.
people she doesn't
know have gathered
around her
happy that she is
suddenly awake.
they clap and smile
calling out her name.
a name she doesn't recognize.
she doesn't know them.
at least she
pretends that she doesn't.
she understands that this
might be her only
chance to get her
life back
and start fresh
without them being
involved.

starvation ends

if you were starving, your
mother used to say,
your tongue would turn black.
you stick your tongue
out and look into
the side of a toaster
oven, it's not black.
but still, you say to no
one, but the dog, who
apparently is also starving,
that you are starving.
you see a carton of
eggs in the fridge.
there's peanut butter
and jelly, but you have
no bread.
oatmeal. no.
there's a bag of peas
in the freezer.
a can of amy's chili
that might be ten years
old in the cupboard.
the word botulism comes
to mind. you check the can
for dents and to see
if it feels swollen. it sort
of does.
pizza, Chinese.
kung pao you say
out loud. spare ribs
and kung pao.
the dog wags his tail.
he barks.
starvation is about to end
in give or take
forty five minutes.

viva barcelona

you throw Santiago
a roll of blue
tape.
it hits the back of his
hands,
then caroms off
his forehead
before rolling back
down the steps
to where you stand.
you try again
with the same
results.
it's almost as if
he's never
used his hands for
catching anything.
you throw him an apple.
it bounces off his chest
and falls
to he floor.
soccer? you say.
yes. he says.
viva Barcelona.

on the job

the workers
in their hard hats,
day glow
green vests
are walking about in
the rain
talking
to one another
on phones.
going from one
new patch
of laid sod
to another.
staring up
at brick and mortar.
measuring.
they stamp their
mud caked boots
against the new curbs.
one has a shovel,
one a rake,
another
is holding a cup
of coffee.
all day
they criss cross
the street,
walking to and fro
as if working.

i feel faint

i feel like i'm going to faint
she says to you
as you both hang onto the straps
on the subway
as it wobbles through
a tunnel, the lights going
on and off.
me too, I tell her.
i think my sugar levels
are too high,
or maybe too low.
all i had to eat today
was a scone and a cup
of coffee.
i had some yogurt this
morning, she says, and some
peanut butter crackers at my
desk for lunch with a
celery stalk.
someone brought in their
left over Halloween
candy and i think i ate
about five candy bars,
I tell her. feigning
throwing up, pointing
my finger towards my mouth.
do you have any with you?
yeah, a couple,
give me one. butterfingers?
yeah, i think so. might
have a chunky too.
I might even have a candy
apple if you want some fruit.

his ship has come in

you have to come out on
my boat one day, he says to you,
freshly retired and flush
with money. he's
wearing his new
captains hat
that he bought at the mall.
two anchors crossing one
another, sky blue.
nice hat, you tell him.
I have some work to do on it,
but by next weekend
I think i'll have it ship shape,
so if you want to take a ride,
come on out.
you'll love my boat.
we can fish off it.
it's big, it's fun, it's
fast once you get the sails
up. there's even a bathroom
on board, and a bedroom
in case you need to take
a nap. I can fix us sandwiches
down in the kitchen,
you mean the galley, you
tell him. right he says,
the galley. and the bathroom
is the head.
I know, he says. I have
a book, so I need to learn
the terminology.
but it has sails and an
anchor too. bow, stern,
forward and aft. i'm learning
everything there is to know.
right now it's not in the water
I have someone patching
up a hole in the bottom
when it sank last year, but
once that's done, we're
ready to roll. wear something
nautical. you know how
to swim, right?

early rising

if you leave now
you can beat the traffic.
no one is up
at this hour.
well, some are, but
this is what they do.
they rise,
they can't sleep,
there are things on
their mind like work
and love,
money and old age.
it used to be the milk truck,
or the van
dropping papers on
a corner.
so why you?
what brings you to
the road
at this early hour.
starting the car up
and driving
towards work, alone
on the highway, well,
almost.

everyone suddenly got old

you call your old friends

to ask them out to dinner,

people you've known for years.

you hear a chorus of 'I don't know,'

it's kind of late and it's so far to drive,
it might rain, it's windy.
it's cold. I don't drive well in the dark

with these eyes.

what about black ice?

do they have valet parking,

would you mind picking me up?
is it gluten free. i have special

dietary needs now.
is it noisy in there?
I can't go if it's too noisy.

I want to sit at a table, not

a booth, but not near the kitchen,
I can't slide in and out
of a booth anymore, especially
if I have to go to the bathroom

and you know about my knee.

do they have an early bird special?
who else is going, do I know them?
I don't like to meet new people. 

and I can't go if betty is going.
I still hate her. if I have to sit next 

to a republican i'll never forgive you.

what should I wear,
is it casual? if it's not casual

I have nothing to wear.

my cardigan is in the cleaners.
I have to find a sitter for my cats. 

they don't do well 

if i'm gone too long.

do you think we'll be done by nine,
my show comes on at nine,
plus I have to take my pills
at that time. put me down
for a maybe. can i let you

know tomorrow? call me,

don't text.i have to go, someone

is trying to reach me

on the other line.

speechless love

without talking
we say so much. we say
everything
we've meant to say.
our eyes linger
on one another. we smile
and blush, our hands
touch.
we can talk the night away
without saying
a single word. a nod,
a wink, an eyebrow raised.
it's nice
getting old with someone
when you know each
other so well and can
talk this way.

your music

your music
is different than my music.
I like
the crooners,
you don't even know
what the word
crooner means.
I want the summer wind,
you want
something that's never
been inside
a record sleeve.
we're not the same
when it comes
to rhythm and blues,
jazz
or country.
I can't listen to a banjo
a washboard,
a bagpipe, or spoons.
while you on
the other hand
can't listen to dean,
or frank,
or any of tom wait's
tunes.
but it's okay.
we agree on other things.
and make our own
kind of music
when we're in the mood.

cold water

you embrace
the ocean on this winter day.
empty.
littered with shells
unfound.
each with a story,
each
with a whisper
a tale to tell.
the others who pass by
nod hello.
they too
are here seeking answers,
remembering
what has come
and gone.
no need to take off
your shoes
to walk in the water,
to see how cold.
you know.

each house

the nails
find a way back out
no matter how
hard the hammer struck
the head
pounding
it down. securing one
board into
another.
the vibrations of the world
make them slip
and turn.
all houses fall
down in time.
some sooner than others.

a long ways off

a row of roses
once
red, yellow, the yellow
young girls prefer,
are rusting
along the side
of the house.
a thin metal fence
neither guards
or adorns
it just sits
imbedded in the ground,
round shouldered
and white,
put there by hands
that touch the window,
fingers that
bled on thorns.
she looks out,
at the sky,
the tattered swirl
of grey
clouds, the possibility
of rain,
first snow.
tomorrow seems a long
ways off.

have fun

i'm better off without
these thoughts,
but they come.
the idea that none of this
matters.
what's written,
the art,
the music. the love
given.
that one day
the sun will melt out
and the earth
will lie like
a cold stone in the black
sky. that there
will be
no remembrance of what
went on here, for
better or worse.
best have fun.

sail on

there are days
when I have no bend in me.
no letting
others be
who they were meant to be.
I want
them to change, be
different.
fly right.
behave in a way more
liking
to my ways.
those days are short
though.
for the most part, I can
let it go,
let them be.
right my own ship
and sail on without them.

her poetry reading

her blue stone
poetry, wrapped in a hard
book. signed inside

to me,

sits worn in my hands.
she loved to read from it 

her favorite poems.
i'm eighty-six she told

me one night 

after a reading
in a quiet library room.
a coffee pot

on a table with
a paper plate of cookies

beside it.

there was a broken clock

on the far wall.

six people showed, all
of whom she knew

by name.
it didn't matter.
she read as if there were
a hundred people listening.
she read with the same
wonder and joy

as the first time,

hardly needing to look

at the words anymore.

Momma's Squirrel Stew

you find a recipe
folded in your cookbook.
evelyn gave it to you a long time
ago. it's for squirrel
stew. at the top in dark ink
is scrawled, Mommas Squirrel Stew.
you remember her showing
you the skinned
squirrels in her freezer.
the limp
pale bodies, bloodless,
furless, without
tails. lifeless, no longer
confused, darting
back and forth across
a road, now
marinating
in a red sauce.
it's hand written. she said
it was her
grandmother's recipe
that was used for generations
in the mountains
of Pennsylvania.
it's not much different
than any other meat,
she said, wearing her plaid
long dress,
bringing a pot over
to your house one night.
potatoes, carrots.
a little gamey,
but salt it down and add
some hot sauce.
you won't be disappointed.
you don't know what happened
to evelyn, there was a rumor
about a hunting accident,
but you aren't sure.
you fold the recipe
up and carefully place
it back into
your betty crocker cook book.

nest egg

you stare at your nest egg,
the numbers all aligned
in a neat printed row.
you cradle it in
your arms. hold it up to the light.
rock it, sing a lullabye
to it.
it's sleeping,
waiting to be awakened,
waiting for the day
when you can
take it out
and play with it.
some days it's smaller
than other days.
one year you couldn't
find it.
it was just a speck
on a piece of paper.
you want to wait until
it's fat and healthy,
you want to wait until it's
time, and you're
ready and you have no choice
but to spend it
because you're so old
and feeble. then and only
then can you do something
ridiculous like spend it
on a little red sports car,
a speed boat,
get another dog.

the cleaning

maybe you wouldn't grind your teeth
so much
if we snap a pair of metallic
braces on you
and give you a plastic
mouth guard
with which to sleep with.
does your neck hurt?
your jaw. I hear a clicking
noise. a popping noise.
do you get a lot of headaches?
how often do you floss?
we have a power toothbrush
we want you to use,
ginny will show it to you
when you pay at the desk.
when I poke around your gums
with this razor sharp steel
ice pick you seem to bleed a lot.
go ahead and spit into this cup.
look at all that blood.
if you feel like you're going
to faint, just
let your head fall backwards
and let it hit the chair.
those gums look a little red,
inflamed. are you brushing
way back there. hold your tongue
way back. left. now right.
do a swirl like your tying a cherry
stem into a knot.
that laser blue light won't hurt you.
but don't look directly into
the light. could cause temporary
blindness.
okay. I need to stick this
cardboard jigsaw puzzle
into your mouth for some
x-rays. open wide, don't blink
and don't move.
i'll be behind the leaded
curtain in another room
with the door closed.
here put this ten pound lead
bag on your crotch.
we don't want to sterilize
you now, do we? just six
more x-rays. don't move.
don't move. how often do
you floss. you really should
floss more. did I tell you
that already? don't mean to
be a nag, but flossing
is important. how was your
Christmas?

instead

instead is nearly always
the better idea.
let's stay home instead
of the movie,
or dinner,
let's not
go out into the cold.
let's build a fire,
cook,
relax and snuggle on
the couch.
quench our unending
desires. let's do that
instead.

hit and run

she gets hit by a car
and goes
into the air,
twirls
and spins off the ground.
it happens so fast.
no color,
no brand, no clue
as to who or what car
collided against her
leg,
breaking it in two.
she's dazed.
the stars are misaligned
above
her as she lies on
the street
still holding a bag
with a box of shoes.
she feels fine
she says as she tries
to stand up,
as she sits on the edge
of the curb.
in her ear
there is the low buzz
of nothing.
the blur
of time.
a siren. the sound
of weeping
nearby as to what could
have been.

no comb

you should not be working
on Saturday.
the day after Christmas.
and you're late
already
to the empty house that
wants paint,
wants paper,
wants color and life
instilled into its new
cold bones.
you'll get there when
you get there. soon.
first
there's coffee, there's
a shower,
the brushing of teeth,
a comb.
no. no comb. the time
you've saved there is
enormous.

biting the dog

with a preemptive strike
in mind
you bite the dog
as it growls
and approaches you
from beneath the table,
wanting that rib
bone in your hand.
this confuses the dog.
and sends him
out the door
into the street,
spreading the word with
loud barks
that you are not to be
reasoned with.

high noon

you no longer
stand in the street
facing off with adversity
with the hot
sun overhead
at high noon,
hands held inches
away from the gun
around your waist.
you've put the gun down.
taken the bullets out.
walked away.
found a better
way to live your life
without killing
or being killed.
life is too short,
increasingly so.

something must be open

something must be open.
this Christmas morning.
somewhere.
coffee.
a donut, a paper.
a few scratch off lottery
tickets.
there has to be a 7 11
nearby
this town.
this Midwest town
in the middle
of nowhere.
I give my horse a carrot,
a pat on the rump
and say giddyup.
let's go.
then off we go,
galloping through
the long frozen fields,
the plains of
rolling snow.

moving the world an inch

you tire
of Syria. the middle east.
in general.
climate warming,
the ozone
layer.
the homeless,
death disease and abuse.
racism. terrorism.
all different
causes
and problems, but you
feel overwhelmed at times,
seeing there is little
you can do or
say to change anything.
to move the world
an inch in the right direction
seems impossible.
so what do you do.
you go to prayer.
go to your own life, and
do the best you can
to be good
and to not hurt anyone,
what else
is there to do.

the next morning

the detective comes to your
door to question you.
it's early morning
with a thin layer of snow
on the ground. he
ask if you saw anything,
remember any details about
the crime that happened
on the corner last night.
the mugging.
you are still groggy from
the eggnog, spiked with rum.
still in your red slippers,
your robe, your night cap,
with the fuzzy ball
on the end flopping over.
I peeked out the window,
it was around midnight
and me and jezebelle were
about to go to sleep,
you tell the cop.
she grabbed the baseball bat
from under the bed that we keep
there in case of break ins.
and I saw a crowd
of elves beating the tar
out of a very
large man wearing a velvet
red suit. something about
low wages, harsh factory
conditions. I heard one
small fellow yell out in
a high squeaky voice,
you're not the boss of me
anymore, fat man.
it all happened very fast,
you might say in the twinkling
of an eye.
I see, the cop says, writing
it all down. anything else?
I think drinking might have
been involved. i saw a bunch
of those little airplane
vodka bottles all over
the sidewalk. then they all
untied these deer from
a large sleigh and each one
flew off with an elf on its back,
not to mention a bunch of gift
wrapped boxes that were in a sack.
what about the man, the man
they beat up.
oh, he knocked on the door
last night, wouldn't stop.
but I don't let
strangers in. jezebelle threw a cup
of hot water out the window
on him. then he was up
on the roof for awhile trying
to get down the chimney, as if.
but I sent my dogs out to chase
him away.
last I saw of him, he
was wobbling down the street,
with his suit all torn
and his nightshirt hanging
out the back.
this neighborhood is falling
apart officer.

a plate of cookies

they stopped giving
out turkeys, and bonus hams
at the office.
no longer was there a little
something extra
in the envelope
for a job well done, for
being a loyal and a dedicated
worker.
there were no more parties
with liquor and sumptuous food,
held in banquet rooms,
waiters
marching around with roasts
on silver platters.
those days are gone.
a pat on the back, a shake
of the hand, a candy cane
is what you get now. maybe
someone will bring in a plate
of cookie. be
thankful you still have a
cubicle to go to.

warming up

it takes awhile to wake up.
to stretch, unstiffen
the bones, the muscles that
have shortened
during sleep.
it takes some time
to shake the cobwebs loose,
to get the down the hall,
the steps,
holding onto the rail,
watching carefully
where your next foot goes.
it takes awhile to
warm up to the phone,
to answer calls, to make
calls, to say the things
we need to say
on Christmas day. another
hour, another cup
of coffee, after the paper
the news, a walk,
then i'll be up to it.

everything is forgotten

a fish in a bowl,
maybe it has a name,
swims from side
to glass side,
golden
a leaf laced
castle
on the blue graveled
bottom
that he can float
through.
the water is cold.
the surface
speckled
with a sprinkling
of food.
it's a short life.
it's not
long before
the bowl is empty.
the child
is grown and moved
on to bigger grief.
everything is
forgotten.

a little off the top

an inch or two
more
off the top
you tell the barber
as he spins you
in the big leather
chair
holding your skinny
legs
your weightless frame.
he clips away
as you stare into the wall
length mirror.
the striped
pole spinning slowly
beside the blue
jars filled with
combs and scissors,
the feathered hair
floating across the black
and white tiled
floor. how many years
has it been
since the child came
in with two dollars
and sat,
saying always just a little
more of the sides,
off the top.

one more day

she sends a photo of her feet
in white sand,
a drink with an umbrella
in her hand.
you can see the blue soft
roll of water
edging towards her.
she's in no hurry to leave,
to go home, to winter,
to cold, to snow
on Christmas eve, so she'll stay
a little longer.
play a little longer,
lie in the warm sun
and be home when she's
good and ready. just one
more day.

the piano

you measure the door,
count the steps,
the narrow hallway up,
and down
the hall.
you tell the man
where the piano will
go.
he takes off his hat,
wipes his brow
with a white rag
from his pocket.
okay, he says. okay.
we'll see.
he yells to his men
to get out of the truck
and bring it in.
do you play, he says.
not really, you tell him,
but I like pianos,
I like how they look
in a room.
this makes him shake
his head,
then remove the hinges
from the door.

just begun

the unwashed child
on the stoop,
one broken shoe. a sleeve
torn.
mud, or blood
caked
on a chin, an arm.
somewhere
inside is someone
that told her to go
outside. go play
in the rain,
go play in the sun.
her life
of leaving
and being wanted has
just begun.

i want that

we want the things
we need
or think we need.
it's what pushes us through
the rain.
digs us
out of the snow.
shower and shave, put
on clean
clothes. we pursue
each day of our lives
what's missing
and when it's done,
when the end
looms large like a boiled
sun on the horizon
we wonder
what now, what next.
what else could I have
done rather than chase
these things that I
thought I needed,
fought for and won.

your skills

tell me your skills
the interviewer asks me
as I sit in my new suit
across the desk from him.
I don't have any, I tell
him, straightening my
new tie. blue with white
stripes. small red
martini glasses stitched
down the front.
the collar itches my
neck, so I pull on that.
accounting? he says.
no, you say.
computers? no.
any business skills whatsoever,
he asks?
not really, I tell him.
so, why would we hire
you? you have nothing
to offer this company.
please explain why you're here.
i'm good with organizing
happy hours, company
picnics and parties,
I tell him. birthdays, anniversaries,
retirements.
i'm good at Wednesday night
volley ball.
beach trips for company
morale. I like to tell
jokes at the coffee machine.
I can bring in donuts.
pastries in the morning.
I can rub shoulders, listen
to people's problems.
i'm a very good listener.
they can cry and sob all day
to me and i'll empathize
with their plight.
excellent, he says, reaching
across the desk to shake
my hand. when can you start.
how about Tuesday, say
ten a.m., you say,
great he says, i'll see
you then.

tired

tired
but a good tired, as people like
to say
with a tired smile
on their faces.
I like to work.
I like
to feel tired, I sleep well.
I eat well.
I ache, sure, but it's
worth it.
it's a good tired.
i'm glad
to be doing what I do,
for a living.
did I tell you that I sleep
well.
I know it's only nine
o'clock,
but i'm tired. I need to
go to bed.
I get up at six.
goodnight.

the woman in the window

you lived in a townhouse once
where the woman
across the small fenced
yard
would undress, shower,
return
and towel herself down
with the blinds open.
you had the feeling she knew
she was putting on a show
for the line of houses
behind hers.
you didn't want to watch.
you wanted to watch.
you told your roommate
Sheila, who pulled a chair
in each night
to watch with you.
this led to nothing.
there was no talk,
other than to say, surely
she must know
that people can see her.
one day the woman moved,
and not long after that Sheila
got a boyfriend
and was gone too.
you shut blinds, all the blinds
in your house, strangely
blue.

pink balloon babies

pink balloon babies
float
by your window
in a silky dream.
they shine like candy
across the blue acres
of sky.
what does it mean?
does it mean
you want another baby?
doubtful,
not at this age
as you are becoming
one.
gingerly down the steps
you go,
holding onto
the rail in your slippers,
sipping warm milk before
bed and being
read to by the machine
as you click
it on and turn off the lights.
if only there was
someone here to tuck
you in, say goodnight.
kiss you on the cheek.
but back to the babies,
the pink balloon babies
floating by
the window. who knows?
it doesn't matter,
you're sleeping and that's
always a nice
place to be.

the stamp book

he spent much of his free
time collecting stamps
from all over the world.
ancient stamps
once licked
by people long gone.
once attached to letters
sent during wars
long since fought,
lost or won.
he put them in a book
with black
soft pages.
making a note beside
each.
the date, the country,
the places
they were sent or not
sent at all.
you find the book
at a flea market,
a neighborhood sale,
where people sit in lawn
chairs
drinking beer and smoking.
beside the stamps
there are paintings,
water colors, finger paintings.
each a dollar.
lamps without shades,
pots without plants,
rakes
and tools, empty boxes
crates holding nothing,
marked down to two dollars
or best offer.
you buy the stamp book,
fifty cents.
once priceless to someone.
now rescued.

hello, is there a doctor in the house

my doctor, or rather former doctor
Seema Chandra
suggests that I take my
blood pressure
and keep track of it.
we want to get to the bottom
of what's ailing you.
we need to see if there is
a pattern here.
but it's my shoulder, I tell
her, pointing at my shoulder.
see, I can't lift it any
higher than this.
I move my arm up and out to
the side grimacing
from the pain. see, can you see
what i'm talking about.
it's killing me.
perhaps you have white coat
syndrome, and therefore
your blood pressure is reading
a little bit high right now.
she unstraps the Velcro band
from around my arm.
it's getting higher, I tell
her. yoo hoo. my shoulder,
can you look at my shoulder.
that's why i'm here.
I clap my hands together
trying to get her attention.
she stands back staring
at her chart. making notes.
do you smoke, she asks.
do drink a lot. no, I tell her.
but I could use a drink
right now.
any rubbing alcohol you got
will do.

colored lights

sometimes the fog
doesn't lift.
the sun doesn't arrive
and melt
it away.
sometimes the whole
day
is a grey mist
making you doubt
everything you've ever
believed.
and it's so close
to Christmas.
maybe these colored lights
will help.
you plug them in.
no, they don't.

not my size

you search the stack
of clothes
looking for your size.
but your size is the only
size
they don't have.
you could quickly
gain weight, lose weight.
but that never
works.
you ask the clerk,
a child who wanders out
from the back
after smoking a cigarette
and ask him
if he has your size
in the stock room.
no, he says.
adjusting his store
badge, and zipper.
can you look? no. I was
just back there, and
everything you see on the floor
is all we have.
if I give you twenty
dollars cash, will you
go look for me?
he scratches his head,
looks around and says,
if you give me the money first,
i'll go look.
you hand him the money.
he comes back a minute
later
and says, sorry, nope.

acclimation

you call up your ex wife
in texas
to see why you haven't heard
from your son
who lives in
Los Angeles.
howdy, she says when she
answers the phone.
you say, Howdy?
what's up, she says, with
a discernable twang
in her voice.
she's lived there for
a month now, moving
from the east coast
to Houston.
what's up partner, she
says. I can't reach our
son, I tell her.
what's going on.
His dang phone is plumb
broken, she says.
I can hear her scraping
a spatula across her barbeque
grill.
there are chickens clucking
in the background,
horses.
goats. it sounds like
a pick up
truck grumbling along
the road.
that boy done dropped
his phone into the well
and he's awaiting on a new
one.
are you drinking? I ask her.
you sound different,
funny. is everything okay.
everything is hunky dorey.
but listen, I gots to giddy up
now. I've got a couple of steer
that are trying
to get over
the dang fence and onto
the highway. adios amigo.
that boy will call you when
he gets himself a new phone.
keep your hat on cowboy.

the fruitcake gift

you think about regifting
the fruit cake
you got in the mail
last christmas. it's still
in its red tin, unbitten.
the seal broken only
to see what it looks like.
but what will you use
as a door stop
if you give it to someone
else.
what will you do when you
can't find
a hammer, or a weight to
lift and exercise with
if the fruitcake is no longer
yours?
how will you hold up
your old car
in the driveway if you
give the fruitcake away?

cats and people

when I set the bowl
of milk out
on the stoop for the stray
black cat
I realize
I don't care anymore
about
things I used to care about.
this gives me so much more
free time,
I sleep better,
enjoy the day better.
I can let things go now.
let
it rain, sleet, or snow.
let love
in the door and let it
out again
when it's time to go.
I don't care much
anymore for the things
I used to care about.
i'll still set the bowl
of milk
out, but then shut
the door when the sun
goes down.
cats and people
are on their own from
this point forward.

the short life

hard
women, hard men.
they didn't live long then,
pushing plows,
building fires,
but it's an even
a shorter life
now. hardly a moment to
oneself.
the world is a flock
of birds
frenetically flapping
black wings.
scratching
at the roof,
building nests in your
hair.
hard women, hard men,
they didn't last
long then.
but our lives
are even shorter now.

hints

there are signs
from God, warnings.
portents of things to come.
hints.
little whispers
into your warm
ear.
don't do this, do that.
go here,
don't go there.
stay away from him,
or her,
especially her. but
do you listen.
rarely. you think
sometimes that you know
yourself better
than He does.

stolen fruits

i'm a thief.
I admit it.
any word or sentence,
paragraph,
or phrase said out loud
or read
is stolen,
scrubbed clean
of ownership and made
my own.
my fingerprints are
all over
each swiped story,
each
chiseled poem.
i'm a thief
in broad daylight.
test me.
say something funny,
something smart
something sad, almost
anything. i'll
find a way
to use
and make it mine,
take it home.

the first kiss

it's the first kiss
that makes your knees shake a little
your heart
beat a little faster,
your head spin.
there is movement in the body
above and below
that surprises you
in a happy way.
it's the first kiss
you remember and take with
you to all the other kisses
you'll have
with her, tomorrow
and hopefully
for the rest of your
days.

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.