stuck inside of ikea

after getting my three hundred dollars
tax return in the mail
i decided i needed a new set of furniture
for my house,
so I went to ikea. unfortunately
I got stuck in there
overnight. i didn't understand
the closing announcement
on the P.A. system
because it was in Swedish.
it was scary. i was by myself
and had no one to lead me around.
I lost my way,
not following the yellow
arrows and got caught inside
when the doors sealed shut,
and the iron gates clanged
together.
I wandered for a while
with my little three inch pencil
and order paper,
smelling candles.
touching the fabrics of itchy
rugs and curtains. saying ooh and ahh
when rubbing the shiny
red kitchen cabinets, seeing
how nicely the drawers
closed by themselves. I couldn't
get over that.
to wile the hours away
I tried to put together
a seventy-nine piece
desk with four drawers
and a foldout table top,
marked genius level
of construction,
but it was missing
several pieces and i lost
my hex wrench
in a barrel of bag clips
sitting nearby.
finally
I got tired as the night
wore on, but
I couldn't find
a bed that didn't collapse
under my own weight,
or a chair to sit on that
didn't wobble, having a screw
or bolt, or caster, or peg
coming loose.
I set my phone and keys
on the shelf of a
Klondike cabinet
and it fell over,
striking me in the forehead,
injuring my knee. I limped on
through the store until
I found meatballs
in the cafeteria, so it
wasn't all lost, mashed potatoes
and a cold tub of mixed
vegetables, all unfrozen
and heated up that week.
I ate my fill,
but I began to neigh
as the night went on,
stampeding across
the floor, galloping from
aisle to aisle
knocking over tens of dollars worth
of lamps and glasses,
ornate mirrors,
trying to get free.

the work dog

you see a dog walking
by, going to work,
a seeing eye dog,
with a brief case
and a newspaper under
his leg.
he's wearing ear muffs
and mittens on his paws.
he tips his hat
and barks hello.
it's cold out, you say
to him, as he gallops
by. have a nice day.
to which he nods a reply,
then runs, zig zagging
across the street
dodging cars.

happy birthday, week

it's her birthday.
not just one day though,
it's birthday week.
flowers and balloons
a small parade
down main street.
women are different
that way.
everyone needs to know
the day of their birth.
they put the word out
on the street.
write it in the sky.
they casually slip it into
every conversation
they have, oh by the way,
today's my birthday.
men don't care.
it's a reminder
of time passing here
on earth. another scratch
on the wall.
a slice of cake,
a nice card will do.
but please, no singing
waiters.

we would be happy

maybe i'll buy ten houses
if I win,
I hear the man say,
zipping up his thin coat,
holding his son's hand.
and three new cars. five, six.
maybe one for every day
of the week. different colors.
big cars for all of us.
every night we could eat
steak, have cake for dessert.
every night? the boy says.
he goes over to throw
rocks into the icy water.
I could have gloves too,
he says. blowing on his hands.
yes. leather gloves.
all different colors
and boots for your feet.
I could buy your sister
a new dress and your mother
a small dog. she always
talks about having pets.
we would be happy then,
wouldn't we,
the boy says. if our ticket wins.
you wouldn't fight and yell
anymore, right dad?
yes. we would be happy.
we would all be happy.

no dessert for me

she never wants dessert, ever.
she shakes her head, and says no
to the waiter, no not me.
i'm fine. please, but you
go right ahead. she pushes
back from the table
as if a radioactive isotope
had just been offered to her.
making a face, squinting
her eyes,
but it doesn't stop her
from eating half of mine
when it arrives, taking
a fork and diving in.

a saucer of milk

the black cat
with green eyes waits for you
now
to come home from work,
lying low
under the car
in front of your house,
tight against a tire.
she cries when she sees you.
you haven't lost
your touch at all you think
and smile
as you pour a saucer
of milk
to set on the stoop
outside, but
you don't dare let her in,
she might get attached.

another shovel

another shovel
of coal goes
into the mouth
of the hungry
furnace,
it belches red
and yellow,
hot smoke and ash fly
in the dank
cellar,
embers spark.
the vents are full
of heat.
another shovel goes
in.
then another from the stack
on the floor.
your hands are black.
your shoes too.
the soot is on your brow.
this should be
enough
to get you through
the night.
keep you warm as you back
up the stairs,
to your life.

kenny and mary

mary is moving to Miami.
she's tapping out.
raising the white flag.
at ninety five, she's
ready to move on. I've known
her for forty years.
all her friends are dead.
her husband long gone.
her blue chairs are worn
and faded.
Hecht's is closed.
so is woodies, and garfinkels.
her white caddy is rusting
in the garage, undriven for
years. it's time, she says.
the building has changed.
I know no one.
I've had enough.
time to move on,
but i'll miss you, and you
must come to visit
once i'm settled in,
once i find my way around.
i'm taking the train, she says.
you know how Kenny and I
loved to ride
the train. I always sat
by the window. he loved me
like that.

jibber jabber

jibber jabber
is all you got sometimes.
a mess of words
strung together,
no reason
no message, no
metaphor, or rhyme.
just a stream of
thoughts,
going nowhere, a
tangled
empty vine.

feels like january

it feels like
January I tell my
dog as he curls in my lap
hoping i'll turn up the heat
and not ask him
if he wants to go for a walk.
he shivers and wipes
his runny eyes with a paw.
he burrows in deep,
cleaning up some cookie
crumbs as he does so.
I guess we can wait
just a little longer I
tell him before we go
outside, which makes him
nod his head and sigh.

the day off

the woman
chases you down the sidewalk,
across
the parking lot,
as you get
into your truck to go home,
she yells
and says, you can't do
this to us,
you can't leave. you
promised you'd hang
this wallpaper today.
now get back here. get
back here right now.
i'm calling your boss
and tell him
that you are a no good
employee.
she bangs on your window.
screaming.
beating the side of
the door with a double
roll of unpasted
flock, twenty seven
inch repeat, untrimmed
designer paper.
get in here now and
put this on our walls.
you roll down the window
and say, i'm sorry, but
as nice as you are,
I have to go.

lunch box

people are confused and saddened
when sharks bite
them
on the arm or leg,
or worse. taking a large
part of them
back into the sea.
what are these sharks doing?
they take it personally.
what did I do wrong, they think.
why are they so
mean to us, lovers
of nature, and yet they keep
going out
to swim where they swim,
thrashing in the water
like baby seals,
or tuna, ready to eat.
lunch is served.

leftovers

there's too much food
on this plate.
enough for two people.
I can't eat it all.
I won't come close to
finishing it
and will take what's
left home
in a styro foam
box. white and softly hard
held closed by tabs.
it will sit on an ice box
shelf
getting cold.
for days.
maybe a week. at some
point i'll forget what's
in the box and look,
say something like, oh,
right.
then throw it away.

the cubist

she wore what we called
earth shoes
back in the nineteen seventies.
grey blocks
of rubberized shoes,
bricks with openings for
one's feet.
she was squared off,
with short cut hair.
straight bangs,
straight shoulders.
no curves to be found.
she'd sit on the radiator
on the side of the classroom
and lecture us
on art history.
her fingers pressing a clicker
for the slides showing
the beauty of paris.
the museums,
the enormous cathedrals
of rome.
there was hardly a painting
or artist that she didn't know.
but it was hard to take
your eyes off her shoes
attached to her thick ankles
folded together
above the floor.

blimey

on occasion she would
talk with a british accent.
cloudy day today, isn't it?
it was adorable
for the first day,
the second and third
day, well, not so much.
i attempted
to respond in like manner
by saying things like,
perhaps we should
stop and get a spot of tea,
or bloody hell,
what do they know about art
or music?
soon though,
i lost interest,
my mind wandered.
i started to look
at and listen to other
women. one's who spoke
my language, not
the king's.
are you day dreaming,
my love, she'd say.
passing a hand
in front of my face.
hello. anyone home?
fish and chips for lunch
today?

kim the barber

i felt bad for mister kim
when I purchased
a pair of men's hair clippers
from walgreens.
but it was more of a financial
decision, not a personal one.
he's a fine man.
although his stories
were boring and he always
asked me the same questions.
if I was married,
had any children,
what did I do for work?
after a few years of going
there, he didn't remember
any of my answers.
I grew weary of his
tobacco breath,
and the garlic from his lunch.
it took him ten minutes to
buzz my thin head of hair.
it takes me the same
amount of time now.
but I don't have to answer
any questions, or sit there
with a sheet tied tight
around my neck. have him
spin the chair around
and ask me how's
it look. it looks like an
apple. a fuzzy peach.
I've become a still life
bowl of fruit in the wall
length mirror.
I still see mister kim
nearly every week though.
he's standing outside smoking
in front of the barbershop.
he's wearing his blue smock
and black shoes.
I used to wave to him
as I went in to get coffee
next door, but now he turns
his back, averts his eyes.
he's done with me. done with
my hair. my life.

maybe i know them

if your father saw
a license plate
from Canada he would stop
the car,
hop out and go shake
their hand.
have a conversation
in the middle of the street
with these
strangers from
nova scotia,
or Ontario.
traffic would back up.
horns would blow.
curses and fingers
would get thrown his way,
he didn't care and waved
the cars to go around.
he lived there
for maybe a year or two
as a child.
now that he no longer drives
and has you to drive him around,
he asks you
to roll down
the window
and question these people,
ask these Canadians
if they've ever been
to Halifax, or Montreal.

winter wonderland

it's the ice
on the window.
the wind breaking
free loose
tiles from the roof.
it's the shiver
of the skinny dog in
the yard. his bark
hardly heard.
it's the woman
crossing the street,
bent over,
clutching her
empty purse,
the man
over the fire barrel
rubbing his
hands.
the ragged souls
huddled
on a steam grate.
the child half submerged
in the split pond
with a red scarf
blowing.
winter is here.

the half moon scar

the kid
who put the firecracker
into the coke
bottle
is a grown man now
but when I
see the half moon scar
on his lip
I can't help
but remember that day
he lit the fuse
and watched
it blow.
the glass shards
raining down
on all of us.
did he lose his courage
from that point
on. is he
different now?
it doesn't matter.
some things you can
never on from.

caged

her feathered wings
are clipped
and now she swings in the cage
not singing, not
flying, but
watching
the world disappear
before her eyes,
the blue sky out the window
no longer
hers.

she's the devil

the cab driver wants to tell
me a story.
a long story, but I don't want
to hear it.
it involves his mother in law
and a dog.
something about barking
and chewing shoes. how she is
meddling in his life.
i nod to him in the mirror,
making facial expressions
to fit the words that spill
out of his mouth.
sometimes he'll hit the dashboard
with his hand
to give an exclamation to a point
he is making.
his dark eyes blink wildly,
then get wider as the story
advances. can you believe it
he says.
she's the devil, the devil.
this is my stop, I tell him.
you can pull over here.
this is good.
I start counting out some bills,
but he doesn't stop. I won't
charge you, he says, turning
off the meter. but I have more
to say, he keeps driving.
you won't believe this next part.
he lifts a bag of chips
to the top of the seat
and asks me if I want some,
then continues talking,
driving madly, beeping his
horn as he barely avoids
collisions.

warnings of impending doom

you were warned
about so many things as a child.
eating
before swimming,
put your coat on you'll
catch your death
of cold,
don't eat
the yellow snow, avoid
those cracks
on the sidewalk, it
could cause
great pain to your mother
if you step on them.
the ladder,
the black cat.
a broken mirror.
bread and butter must
be said
when splitting the pole
as you walk
with a friend.
and lift those feet
when crossing
the railroad track.
be home before dark,
wash your hands.
and yet somehow you've
made it this
far by breaking
every rule.

coat with an ink stain

it's dark when you leave
for work in the morning,
dark when you get home.
it's cold.
it might snow.
you can't live like this
much longer.
you throw the mail
into the trash
and peel
back the plastic off a slice
of low fat American cheese
while standing at
the kitchen sink.
you turn the milk up
to your lips
and drink from the jug.
it's two per cent,
so you feel good about that.
you go into the living room
and turn judge judy on.
you hate her,
but can't stop yourself
from watching.
how will this case end?
this struggle over
a hundred dollar
coat with an ink stain.

the last dog

i can't get another
dog, because i hate when they
die and leave me to
their things.
the leashes and collars
still on the hook
by the door.
the dog dish in the kitchen.
the jackets
that they wore
when it snowed or was cold.
their toys
everywhere,
a bone or two buried
beneath a sock
in the corner.
the brush, the pills,
the bags and cans
of their food.
i can't get another dog,
i don't have
the room for more
sorrow in my life,
but i think about
it often.

was i sleeping

a sip or two of wine
made her amorous,
giving me a wink,
batting her lashes
like a movie queen
from another era,
but more than a drink
would put her asleep
on the couch
with pistachio shells
on her blouse.
her fingers red,
her mouth open and
snoring, the tv on.
i'd take her shoes off,
call the restaurant
to cancel our
reservations, then
put a blanket on her.
i'd sit in the other
chair watching tv,
until she woke
up and said,
was I sleeping?

the teacher i loved

I saw my favorite teacher
in the store once
when I was eleven
or twelve. she was
buying milk, bread,
placing assorted
things in her cart.
a man was with her. he
was smoking
and looking at a magazine.
I had no idea
that teachers would
drink milk too.
she seemed awkwardly
shy
to see me,
saying my full name,
and asking
how I was.
she knew how I was.
she saw me three hours
ago
in her classroom.
I shrugged, I said
I had to go,
which seemed to relieve her
of some sort of hidden pain.
she waved at me,
see you in school tomorrow,
she said.
don't forget to do
your reading.
I couldn't get out of
there fast enough, but
took a look
back at the man.
he was wearing a light blue suit
and had a hat on.
like he was
trying to be someone
that he wasn't.
I wondered what she was
doing with
the likes of him and
never forgave her for that.

school house

it surprises you.
the abandoned building.
the red brick
in tact. windows shattered
by rocks.
the doors chained
shut.
graffiti criss crossed
across
the walls.
you carried
a satchel of books in
there once.
for six years, up
those steps
down the linoleum
halls, the columns
of metal lockers
on each side.
taking your seat
where told.
it seemed as if it would
never end
this torturous teaching,
waiting for those hands
on the clock
to spin,
and then it did,
and now this.
empty and abandoned,
but not you,
not yet.

a days work

when I was twenty
I remember standing
beside
the men
in winter clothes,
boots, shuffling to stay warm,
some with hats.
unshaven.
smoking. hands in their
pockets. tool
bags at their feet.
they were my father's age.
they had
little patience for the world,
but there they
were at seven in the morning
listening
to a man much younger
than them
giving orders for the day
as to who will do
what, where,
and when. he told them
Friday
is payday.
lunch is thirty minutes.
if you're late
in the morning, go home.
the skeleton of the building
groaned with wind and setting
concrete,
the new iron, steel bones
as we climbed
the stairs up twenty floors
to begin doing
what we were told to do.
the slow ones were let go.
as each floor
was finished
even more were given pink slips
and checks.
somehow I made
it to the lobby, then told
to leave.

late night shopping

upon entering the store
at midnight, I stop to
count the bills
in my pocket. a wad of crushed
greens
of varying assorted numbers.
tens and twenties.
I see Lincoln
in the mix and George.
I count them out
as I push
the broken wheel cart
through the grocery
store, down the empty aisles
past the man working,
making a pyramid
out of yellow grapefruits.
I have no clue as to what
to buy, or eat.
so I wander until I do know,
my tipsy brain and grumbling
stomach
leaning towards salt,
towards cake and sweets.

anyone

asleep, they could be anyone's
arms.
anyone's hands,
or hair. or leg lingering
out
from the sheets.
she could be anyone.
anyone
you've loved and lost,
or ran from.
she could be a stranger
fallen from
the sky,
but she isn't. she's there.
she's asleep
beside you
and you don't know
what to make
of it.

the yellow dress

it's not about
her yellow dress, cotton
with white
fringe, caught
on the fence and torn
that this is all about.
the tears
are more than that.
it's all
of the yesterdays
that came before this moment
as she closed the gate
and tried
to run.

strangers on the ground

i'm not sure why,
but the train whistle
sounds mournful
as it crosses
the water, the break
in trees,
the carved out cliff
that straightens the tracks
over the trestle.
there should be no emotion
involved, I try
to reason, but there is.
there is the coming
and going
of those on board,
strangers with destinations
in mind while
those on the ground
look up and wave.

the straight line

I used to think of
this, this life as a circle.
birth and death
joining hands
down the road with
the days you lived
in the middle.
but not anymore.
it's a straight line
that I see now.
a point
where it starts and
another point where it ends.
you can throw eternity
in there if you wish.
salvation,
life after life.
but from where I sit
at the moment.
I can see
the line. the straight line.
not a circle.
a point where it begins,
a point
where it ends.

the other world

tired
of being responsible
and caring,
compassionate and full of
worry
about the state of the world,
wars everywhere, the rising tide,
the economy,
disease and poverty.
you need a mental
break
from your thoughts,
so you call your friend
jimmy
who answers the phone
always by saying
repeatedly yo yo yo.
what's up
my brother?
not much I tell him.
hey!
you need to get down here
and have some
of these chicken wings,
they will blow the top
off your head.
he yells louder
into the phone. hey man,
can you hear that music
playing?
they're about to start
a bikini contest.
don't be a loser,
come on man, get down here.
i'll save you
a seat. i'm right at the bar,
front row.
okay, you tell
him, bending the corner
of a page
of the Philip Larkin
biography you're reading,
see you soon.

what did he look like

she told the police
what he did, how he waited
for her
to open the car door
than he lunged at her,
grabbing her purse.
she told them
how she wouldn't let
go, how he yelled at her
and cursed.
called her old
and stupid, worse.
and what did he look like,
the policewoman
asked, taking notes.
he was very handsome she
said, her eyes
glazing over.
he reminded me of my
husband before he died,
when he was young
when we both were young
he was very strong
and handsome. I have
a picture of him
in my purse if you'd
like to see, she said,
undoing the clasp.

where we are

the misunderstanding
is
apparent.
the silence says more
than
all the words
spoken.
it's cold in here.
maybe
this is not working out.
between you
and me.
the separate rooms,
the different
foods,
the way
you plug in your ear
phones
and leave. we should
talk sometime
when things begin
to thaw.
i'll say all these things
i'm thinking.
i'll guess at
your htoughts.

getting vitamins

when I was your age,
the man tells me as he's standing
in line
to get his prescription
filled
at the drugstore, when I
was your age
we made our own
medicine.
but you look around
my age, I tell him,
twisting my prescription
for rogaine and Viagra
in my hand.
we put mud on our wounds
back then,
drank castor oil.
if I was feeling ill
as a child
my mother put leeches
on my neck.
that's nice I tell him,
trying to ignore
him by
reading the directions
on a hot water
bottle. what are you
getting, he asks me,
tapping my leg with his
cane.
oh nothing. just some
vitamins. sort of low
on vitamin C and D
lately. and you I politely
ask. oh, you don't want
to know, he says.
i'm dying. in fact I
might be dead before
I get to the counter.
if I fall and start turning blue
could you breathe into my
mouth, and pump my heart.
are you serious? yes, he says.
please. promise me.
you know, I'd like to but
I just remembered
that I need some gum
at the front of the store.
i'll be back.

hiking the accotink trail

while hiking in the woods
for three miles
with joan, who carries a knife
on her belt
and speaks fluent apache,
she yells out frantically
and points into the trees,
oh my god, she says.
look at that maple tree.
look at the beauty and splendor
of those leaves.
i catch my breath,
scrapping mud of my
florshiem shoes and say,
which one is that?
that one, the one with the
reddish leaves.
I still don't see it.
between the pines and the oak
trees. i squint into
the direction where she's
pointing. the one with the squirrel
on it or the one with all
those Budweiser cans under it?
no no. neither of those.
over there. right there.
she goes over to the tree
and puts her arms around it.
this one. oh. yeah. nice, I
say. hey watch out, there
might be fire ants or sap
on that tree. she hugs it
even more, closing her eyes
and smiling. maybe you two
should get a room,
or something, I tell her.
suddenly she starts making loud
whooping sounds. whooo whooo,
she yells out, cupping her
hands to her mouth.
what are you doing, I ask
her. you might attract rabid
raccoons to our position.
my obamacare hasn't kicked in
yet. i'm talking to that
owl. see it. it's right
up there on that high branch.
he's watching us. see the way
his head swivels. sure. I tell her.
sure. I give the owl a wave.
hey, by any chance is there
a starbucks nearby,
like maybe on the other
side of that creek?
I could really use a cup of joe,
and a morning bun.

travel light

springtime in paris
would be nice.
or new York,
or rome,
perhaps aruba, anywhere
safe
and warm.
i'd even settle
for the atlantic ocean.
a porch
on the beach, not
too far of a drive,
away from home.
don't bring any children
or pets,
or baggage.
bring skin
and bones.
lips and a smile,
an appetite for food
and drink.
come alone.

the hipster clerk

it shouldn't bother you,
it's none of your business
and you don't want to be
judgmental, and yet, you
want to say out loud, why,
to the middle aged woman
ringing up your groceries
who has a fishing lure
hanging from her lip.
a straight pin through
her eyebrow, and a ring
in her nose like a rodeo
bull. you don't even see
the fresco of tattoos
that ink her body, arms
and legs, her neck.
you ignore the streaks
of blue in her hair.
the hardware glistens
upon her face. she looks
as if she fell into
a tackle box. you want
to ask why, or what were
you thinking. does it hurt?
what happens when you sneeze
or have a cold.
do you ever snag a sweater
when pulling it over
your head?
but you say nothing
as she bags your milk
and bread, your tuna
cans, your bag of red
potatoes.

sex education

there was a kid
in the old neighborhood,
jimmy, that had
red hair that fell
like soft flames
along his brow.
despite being
only a year older
than you at eleven he
knew everything there
was to know about sex.
he was wiry and blued eyed,
animated.
he was a walking
Kinsey report, telling
his gathered group
of striped shirt minions
with cowlicks
the in and outs of
women, of how to please
them. how different
they were. what makes
them tic. what makes
them swoon and want more
love. sometimes
he'd bring chalk and
draw a crude picture
on the side of a wall
or an apartment
laundry room floor where
he held court, out
of earshot from parents
or adults. remember,
he used to say when wrapping
up a seminar
before playing stick
ball behind the bowling
alley. remember.
they like it too, almost
as much as we do.

four out of five doctors

you rub another
miracle cream into your
sore shoulder.
a dollop
for your knee.
your wrist.
it doesn't work.
these pain creams are useless
and now
you smell like
the sap from a pine tree.
those four out
of five doctors
are lying.
you want to hear from
the one
with the no vote.
the one sitting in a bar,
shaking his
head and saying
give me another vodka
tonic
with a twist of lime.
he knows the truth
about pain
and suffering.

the sparrow

you met her at
the Morrison Hotel
so many years ago.
a blind date.
more or less.
one never knows
until it happens,
she landed on a sill
of a window.
this sparrow
of a girl.
starched wings.
brown eyes, black
hair. a suitcase
that weighed more
than she did.
how she could
fly back then.
from Ireland
to Lisbon
to Rome
to me. her feathers
are still
everywhere.

trying to leave

she walks now.
fast
from side to side,
forward.
to a table.
around a chair.
she's a child.
touching everything,
eating
whatever comes into
reach.
her brown eyes
are small
behind her glasses.
her hair,
as white as corn silk,
knotted upon
her head
by her eldest daughter
who calls to her
to come sit.
to be still.
she walks
and walks, going nowhere,
trying so hard
to get
out.

a sparkle of green

it was a sweet
delicate fear that fed you
in church
as a child. hair combed,
a clean shirt,
coins for the basket
rattling in your pocket.
your small hands pressed
and laced together,
with head bowed.
a sweet fear.
it kept you from
being more evil
than you already were.
God had to kill his own son
just to save you,
who does that?
you were that bad
of a boy.
the latin and incense,
the robes and candles.
the stained
glass
and murmuring
as one, repeating
what was spoken, the rap
upon the chest,
standing,
kneeling, genuflecting
on cue.
you would do whatever
it took
to keep you out of hell.
confession, communion,
repentance,
and yet you still couldn't
keep your eyes
off the girl
in front of you with
a sparkle of green in
her eyes. the white
ribbon against her long
dark hair. the paleness
of her arms.

these things

it's different now,
at this ripe
age, the things we
held to heart
when young,
their weight upon us.
how easily the span
of years,
or perhaps hard,
for us to change our
minds
and take a different
course.
retreat, lighten
the load, surrender
what we never could
have imagined
so long ago.

grey matter

i forget to pay
for the newspaper under
my arm
as i get coffee,
i can't find my glasses
even though
i've looked everywhere,
but on my nose.
is it Friday or Monday,
who's to know.
if I told you this
one, stop me,
but this is how it goes.
I can't remember
why I put this string
around my finger.
I wrote a note, but
I can't read it, why
are my keys
in the refrigerator?
meat in the cupboard,
leftovers
in the car.
happy birthday,
whenever it might,
or did occur.

other things

the world
is melting. it's on the news
every night.
a foot a day.
the ice bergs slipping
back into the sea.
you want to worry about it,
but can't
hold onto the thought
for more than
a minute or two.
most of the news is the same.
death, war, disease.
you care,
but you realize that
there is little you can do.
so go on your way
thinking about other things.

taking aim

when I was ten
my friend dexter had a rifle.
he cleaned it every night,
taking it apart
piece by piece.
taking a chamois cloth
and oils to it.
a twenty two
which he slung
over his shoulder
and carried everywhere.
no one seemed to mind.
men would stop
him on the street and say,
son, is that a twenty two.
mind if I take a look.
and the men
would hold
the rifle up, look
through the crooked scope
and say bang,
as if shooting it off, or
nice gun, they'd say
before heading
off to work.
he let me shoot it once.
picking out a squirrel
in a tree.
go ahead he said, line
it up and fire.
but i aimed low,
i grimaced as i squeezed
the tight trigger,
hitting the trunk.
i couldn't imagine killing
anything
so innocent,
so small and defenseless.
he laughed with his wide
freckled face
then aimed and fired,
knocking the squirrel out of
the tree, dead.
i lost track of dexter
as the years went by,
but every now
and then i wonder
what happened to him,
waiting
to see his name in a
news report.

the slow season

with work slowed
down to a trickle of small
change jobs,
low rollers
and indecisive
people
waiting for a tax
return, you stay at home.
you wear out
the clicker,
peruse old books, buy
new books.
say hello to people
you haven't said hello to
since last
year at this time.
you stare out the window
and drink
coffee before going out
for a walk.
the bookstore,
macy's,
bed bath and beyond
to buy more things that
you already have.
you think about lunch.
maybe you'll use
your Christmas gift card
for wegmans. buy
a pot roast.
maybe you'll take a nap.
not working
is exhausting.

bewildered and pleased

you can find
anything or anyone these days.
type in a word,
a name,
a city, a country,
a Shakespearean phrase.
it's all at
your fingertips.
love and death.
you no longer wonder
why your son never had to learn
how to spell
or write legibly.
it's all clear now as you sit
here and click upon
these keys.
bewildered and pleased.

into the blue

there are times
when you feel like your cowboy
days are over.
the horse is old.
the gun rusty,
a bullet or two left.
you couldn't lasso
a hydrant
let alone a steer or
a horse if you tried.
you're tired of the dust
and riding.
the sting of
cactus and bad whiskey.
unfaithful women.
you've pulled out a few
arrows,
bandaged up
the flesh wounds.
stood in the street
and had it out with people
who didn't like you.
you've escaped
the gallows too.
but enough.
time to settle down,
somewhere.
somewhere where you can see
the sun
go all the way down,
to the sea,
take off your hat,
your boots,
wile the hours away,
dip your tired feet
into the blue.

the workshop

how fast
it goes. was it twenty
years
or more
when we sat in a circle
with our sweating
hands
and manuscripts
nervously awaiting
a thumbs up
or down by anyone.
because everyone mattered.
each voice
was heard
and listened to.
the praise was fine, but
the criticism
stuck to your bones,
it was carried to your
bed before sleep that night.
a large
class of writers. some
good, some bad, many struggling
to find a voice
of their own.
and the maestro of it all,
full of himself.
a published
author of some renown
kept it going.
sometimes it was more about him
than us.
but you didn't mind.
in time it was time
for your piece to be read.
perhaps to shine,
or die painfully, but
for the most part, kindly
on the vine.

the fine print of love

love can make you deaf.
you no longer
hear what the other person
is saying
despite seeing a pair of lips
move. it can make you
blind to
appearances.
you may experience bouts of
being nauseous. you may lose
weight if in love.
or gain weight.
it can saddle you with
a broken heart.
an emotional
limp may develop.
you may experience
tremors
and moments of delirious
exultation,
followed
by deep bouts of
sadness
and depression.
love can cure all.
love can
kill you quickly,
or slowly if stuck in close
quarters for an
extended period
of time. you should not
operate farm
machinery if in love,
or drink large amounts
of alcohol
before telling someone
that you love
them. love may cause you
to buy flowers or diamonds.
keep track of your spending
when first in love.
you should not avoid
love, but approach
it cautiously. there is no
cure for love gone wrong,
but new love.

choosing the battle

you see that
he is unarmed so you choose
not to engage
him in a battle
of wits,
instead you smile
politely
and accept
the vague insults
he speaks,
step away
from a worthless
spending of
energy
and call the melee
quits.

i need balloons

you see
a line of shiny cars
on the lot.
each just washed
and polished.
balloons are tethered
to them.
they bounce
brightly in the spring
air.
bouquets of balloons.
red, pink, yellow and blue.
this makes you pull over
and ask
how much.
the salesman says,
for this baby, it's
a steal.
one owner, a
school teacher
who drove it back and forth
to church and
school. no, no.
you tell him. the balloons,
how much for
the balloons?
I don't need a car.
I need balloons.

over easy

over easy
I tell the waitress.
three eggs over easy.
that's how I like them.
not scrambled,
or fried,
or poached.
over easy she repeats
and writes that down.
toast and jam,
some bacon, crispy.
hash browns.
juice and coffee.
go easy on the salt.
okay, she says.
she writes
no salt
with her pen.
will there be anything
else?
a newspaper, todays,
if you have it.
she looks at me
and says,
i'll see what I can do.
over easy, I tell her
again.
over easy, she says,
and walks away
towards the kitchen.

bread crumbs

not unlike
bread crumbs,
her dress
upon the floor, her shoes.
the things
she wore
last night littered
from
the kitchen
up the stairs,
down the hall,
the layers of her
softly
dropped
in darkness as you
were already
there,
waiting.

the ice you see

the ice
you see reminds you of other
ice.
personal ice.
nothing sweet
like ice
cream, but the ice
one feels
when affection ends,
and it's time
to scrape the windows
free,
warm up the car,
and leave.
it reminds you of that
kind of ice,
solid
and cold. unbending
in the low sun
that never quite reaches
above
the trees.

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.