making the world a better place

i'm trying to make the world
a better place
she says, as she puts a batch
of cookies into
the oven.
yesterday I picked up trash
all day along
the interstate.
and today i'm starting a herb
garden.
you are too wonderful, I tell
her, already smelling
the cookies baking.
I sent in twenty dollars
to those kids with the big eyes
on tv
and twenty more to those
poor mangy dogs
floating on rafts
and stuck in cages.
mother Theresa aren't you?
we all need to chip in
and do things to make the world
better,
don't you agree.
of course. of course.
i'm thinking about eating some
of your cookies so
that you don't eat them all.
when will they be ready?

show and tell

she tells me that she's
from new jersey
as she pours another shot
of scotch on the rocks
into my glass.
i don't hold it
against her,
i tell her that we
have no control of what
our parents did to us.
let it go.
she shows me a molar
in back of her mouth.
it's twisted around
the wrong way.
strange you tell her,
as she pulls her mouth
open with her fingers.
I had appendicitis
when I was a kid, I offer,
pulling the top of my
pants down just enough
to show her a rubbery
pale scar.
more scotch, she says,
pouring as she asks.
sure I tell her.
why not? i'm trying to
stop smoking, she says,
lighting a cigarette
and blowing a smoke ring
into the dull
yellow light of her house.
i'm thinking about
starting I tell her.
she laughs. we have so much
in common.
we do, I tell her,
taking her hand
from across the table
and feeling a finger that
is crooked and bent.
got it caught in a door
when I was kid, she says.
to which I say. nice.
I like it.

private caller

the private caller
won't leave
a number, or a name.
he or she just lets it
ring
and ring.
all hours, any hour,
they call me up
to listen to me
breathe, to listen
to me say hello,
and hello again
before hanging up.
we're in a relationship
me and this
private caller.
it might last forever,
or until the next
call.
i'm waitng by the phone.
it's a been awhile.
I miss the silence
of someone
i'll never know.

a thousand years

it's not
the ice on the windshield,
or the wind
or the lifeless
leafless
trees shivering
arthritically
in the woods,
nor is it
these gloves or boots,
or wrapped
scarf around
my neck.
it's more than that,
this February
morning that makes me
want to pack it in,
head south,
toss the old clothes
into a waste basket
not unlike
the midnight cowboy
and lie
in the sunshine
for a thousand
years.

four drinks

after one drink,
how charming you are,
polite and at ease,
each word carefully spoken
to praise and please,
after two,
your intellect spills
onto the bar, you may
even stand to offer
an opinion on
anything and everything
near or far.
after three drinks,
your eye finds the button
on her blouse, how lovely
she has become.
you notice how rosy
her cheeks are,
the way those lips form
her mouth,
after four drinks,
wobbling on your feet,
your are asked to leave,
but not before taking
an ink pen
and writing your number
upon her sleeve.

without pen or paper

if you had a pen,
or a pencil you'd
leave a note
telling her how much
you love and adore her,
you'd tape it to the door,
or put it
on the table,
or on the bathroom
counter,
or on the floor
so she finds it when
she comes home.
but you don't.
you don't even have
an envelope
to write on
the back.
what's become of this
world, inkless,
without paper?

that one

bad art,
or music,
books, or poems,
it's okay
that they're wrong
for you,
not all is gold.
not every kiss
a gem,
every love
engraved
in stone. it makes
the one that
rings true
more beautiful
when it happens.

six weeks

it hurts here,
she tells the doctor,
raising her arm
up to the shaky light.
when I breathe,
or cough
I can feel a stitch.
a quick flash
of pain. I can't eat
or sleep.
is it my heart?
she asks.
I was in love but
it didn't work out.
I think I might have
a broken heart.
we'll see, he says.
we'll see.
we'll take some pictures
and do some tests.
six weeks is the usual
healing time
for a broken heart.
come back and see
me then, we'll know
for sure.

the grey and blue

he holds the crimped
thick shell
of a bullet
once shot during
the civil war
in his palm and says
look. he's wide
eyed and happy
with his find. this is
one of ours, he says.
whether it killed
or maimed,
or the stuck
the side of the barn
who's to know.
you hold it in your
hand, feeling
the weight
of the old bullet,
feeling both
metallic
and ceramic at
the same time.
you could see how easily
it could penetrate
the skin
and lodge itself
within the human body
never to be removed.
he brings out a buckle,
a bowl of buttons
from both sides,
then a porcelain broken
dish, white and blue.
a tin of nothing.
we didn't lose every
battle he says,
we won some too.

the formative years

remember the sixties,
you say to the whipper
snapper who doesn't
even remember
the eighties,
the early sixties
before all hell broke loose
when Dylan went electric.
no, grand pop, they
say. tell me about them.
hop on my knee you
say, tapping your good knee,
and let me tell
you about it. you rock
back in your chair
and stare off into
the distance
past the cell phone tower
and a drone hovering
carrying a package
or a bomb, who knows.
there was black
and white tv, you say,
with three or four channels
that you had to get up to change,
no internet, one
phone on the kitchen
wall, black with a twenty
foot cord.
the mail came twice a day.
you went to the movies
for entertainment.
milk and bacon and eggs
were good for you.
a man in a uniform,
driving a truck would leave
them on your porch
in the morning.
you could smoke everywhere,
all the time
even if you were having
a baby. babies even smoked
back then.
doctors drank like fishes.
you went to the bookstore
to buy books,
the record shop
for records. you spent
hours at
the arcade playing
pin ball machines
that only cost a nickel.
only sailors and convicts
had tattoos.
dogs ran around without
leashes. it was okay to shoot
birds and squirrels out
of trees with your
bee bee gun.
movie stars were movie
stars. people wore real
clothes, dresses,
coats and ties, polished shoes,
not pajamas all day,
or sweat pants with flip flops.
you read the newspaper or time
magazine, for the news or
turned on the tv at
six o'clock for all you
needed to know about a world
that was more interesting
than dangerous.
okay, okay, there's more,
but my knee hurts, hop
off and run along and play
now. I need a nap and a
sedative.

the king of shark's teeth

on the way
to Solomon's island
in Maryland
there is a truck that
sits by the side
of the road selling
shark's teeth.
there's a fat man
under the trees in a lawn
chair and a pitcher
of ice tea.
the sign is crudely
painted in red
letters, perhaps
by a child, or
a drunk hand. bright
red, as if
written in blood.
shark teeth it reads.
the mouth of a shark
opened wide
is drawn too.
the over sized
teeth white and pointed
awaiting a leg
or arm. he is the king
of shark's teeth
you think to yourself
as you speed by,
never stopping to take
a closer look,
or buy one.

the invisible woman

she used to say
women, at forty, become invisible.
men stop
staring
and look at the younger
girls.
to which i'd laugh
and say you
have no idea
how endless it is for
men.
go to the park someday
and see
the bones of white
haired men on
the benches.
they can hardly
keep their eyes off
any woman passing
their way.

fashion statement

it's hard to leave
the house
sometimes. you keep
changing
your mind on
what to wear.
the black t shirt
or the white.
the button
down jeans, or
the ones that zip
and fit a little
bit too tight.
all those shoes to
choose from.
which brown pair
today. high boots.
low boots.
maybe those duck boots
in case
of inclement weather.
and the jackets.
everyone of them alike.
black, more black,
deep black, all to
the waist.
you have nothing to
wear, it's all
the same.

the city girl next door

a witch moves in next door.
you see her in a black
long cape, her tilted
pointed hat,
her gaggle of bats
swirling like dark
wind around her.
you watch out the window
as she drags in her
cauldron, her stack
of brooms,
her box of poison apples,
a large of book
on curses and potions.
she waggles a long thin
hand at the movers
as to where she wants
the hourglass.
but she's cute
in a strange New York City
kind of way.
you shouldn't be so
judgmental.
maybe later you can
bring her a plate
of home made
lasagna with a garden
salad.

soured milk

I pour the half
quart
of bad milk down
the drain.
soured yellow,
one sniff
and the silky
film
gives it all away.
how quickly
things turn
when unused.
look at you, look
at me.

the enhancement

her sister,
thin
and small, petite
would be the word
most dress makers would
use,
decides
to enhance her profile.
it's a simple
procedure
she declares
at the dinner table,
i'm tired
of not getting stares,
especially now
at this age,
approaching
fifty years. hardly
a stitch
can be found, she says,
they look and feel
as natural
as can be.
no one says a word.
although
everyone to themselves,
thinks,
how big,
as they pass
the string beans around.

the fudge

nothing adds up,
no matter how many times
I press
the buttons
and let the total
come forth
the numbers are wrong.
just off
enough to skew
the ledger,
undo the balance,
but there's time
still,
another three weeks
under
the dining room
light,
the pot of coffee,
a tin of pie,
receipts
and forms,
these paper planets
will align, or
not,
an eraser might do
the trick
once more.

the sale price

in a slight mumble
the man
stares at his receipt
that dangles
from his curled hand
and points
at a line of numbers
printed in purple
faded ink.
that's not right
he says,
the line behind him
growing longer.
his wife with hands
on the cart
shows no
sign of impatience.
whether love
or life together it
makes no
difference, she stands
and waits beside him.
that's not the sale price,
he tells the clerk
who shakes her
head and pushes the button
for help.
the line sags,
help comes.
they give him what
he want, together they
push the cart out
and move on.

on another day

on another day
you'd stop
in mid walk
and say hello, you'd
talk about
the weather,
the ice, again
impending snow.
on another day
you'd be
more kind, more
quick to see
her eye to eye,
ask if the mail
had come,
if she had
time later,
it might be nice
to come on by,
but not today.
there are other things
more pressing
upon your mind.

tying the laces

you can still
feel
your mother's fingers
on
the laces
of your brown shoes
before school
showing you
how to tie and bow
the string.
over and over,
under, then pull
she says sweetly,
make a loop,
there you've got it
now. be good,
then a kiss upon
the cheek.

wanting to be bluer

the house, too large now
with him gone,
the children grown,
the pets
as old and tired
as she is,
she goes out to the yard
on bended knee
for one
last round of planting,
digging
weeds, filling the basin
of a bird
bath.
how quickly this spring
comes, before
the sign hangs on the post,
the shadows of grey
snow still near.
a blue sky wanting to be
bluer.

then and now

it used to be location.
a view,
water perhaps nearby,
a blue pool
of bliss catching
an april sky,
an easy
walk past trees
for a tumbler or two,
a bite, coffee,
the latest flick
playing
at the eclectic
bijou. that was then.
now it's
a warm bed, a helping
lift,
a nurse in sparkling white
who comes
at buttons push
into your
room to still
the pain, ease you
into sleep.
awakens you with a small
cup of juice,
an egg
over easy, a gentle
touch from
her strange young hand
as she whispers
like a lover
that you look fine.

riding in the quiet car

she prefers the quiet
car on the train.
no noise, no
talking. just quiet reading
and pointing,
making silent gestures
about hunger
and thirst.
you become koko
the monkey
in the quiet car.
you whisper to her
saying how quiet it is
in here,
which makes her put
her fingers
to her lips
and say shhh.
well, it is, you insist.
raising your
voice slightly as you
open up a bag
of potato chips.
this makes several
people stand up
and wag their fingers
at you, shaking
their heads, with thick
unreadable books
in their hands,
glasses on
their noses. they mouth
the word quiet car,
which is hard to
understand, not being
a lip reader, so
you yell out, what?
I don't know what you're
saying.
they all seem very angry,
so as a peace offering
you stand up and say,
chips anyone?
to which you get
no reply.

what's left

the books that you sent
him are there
when you go to box
all that needs
taking.
he read them all.
you see the turned
pages, the coffee spills,
the worn covers.
there isn't much
that he's left for you
or anyone.
all things of value
lie on his desk,
what was written by
an ink pen, cards
he meant to send.
photos of you and him,
now and then.

three sticks of gum

she liked to chew gum
while making love.
snapping it in your ears
between amorous words
and phrases.
three sticks
of Wrigley's spearmint,
hardly ever the double
bubble, though you
feel that it has
more stretchability
and is more suited
for the large bubbles
that when popped
make an explosive
annoying sound, but she
preferred stick gum
which she gnawed on
not unlike a farm animal
grazing in a pasture.
sometimes she'd ask
what's wrong, when
you lay there like a
dead person, and you'd
say. it's the gum, can
you please get rid
of the gum for a few
minutes. brother,
she'd say, then stick it
on the nightstand.
the wad hardening as you
went back to making love.

be ready

the loose change
of words
that rattle in your mouth
fall out
into slots
of ears
ringing up discontent
and anger
for those who stand
near.
best to be quiet
when in a slow line of
pondering
patrons
not ready to make a
purchase, but chatting
aimlessly
about nothing on
their phones.
you hold your
won ground
and let the evil
eyes pour
past you.

her scar

there is a scar
on her belly that she points
to. scratches.
touches, rubs a finger
against the smooth
pink raise
of a wound long ago
healed.
it's a memory she
goes back to. telling
you the story
of when. how she almost
died.
how she stopped
breathing
and was brought back
to life again.
it's a long story
to which you say nothing
but it must have
hurt.
she ignores that
and continues.

distant trains

the whistle
of a distant train
lingers
in the lilting light
of early morning.
it awakens you,
as a kiss
would, whether
moving forward,
or leaving. each
with its
reward. it makes
you still,
keeps you where you
are a moment
longer,
until it's no longer
heard, or felt.

the bible salesman

how easy it was
for your mother to let in
a salesman.
your father on some ship
for months.
the fuller brush man,
encyclopedia Britannica,
how open she was to any man
stepping inside
the crowded house,
children knee high,
one in her arm,
the others fighting
in the yard. dogs barking.
come in she'd say.
coffee? and set out
a plate of something
as they unfolded their
wares on the table.
she'd put the child down
and brush back her hair,
smooth lipstick on
and listen to
the bible salesman,
slick as a seal and handsome,
a black suit, white
shirt, a thin blue tie.
how many bibles did
your mother need
for him to keep
returning, he hardly
knocked anymore as he
pet your dog,
learning all your names,
around so often
until your father
returned home from the sea.

a tree has fallen

you feel as if there is
something missing.
something gone.
a void
of sorts, somewhere.
somehow, but what?
you reach into
your pocket
and fumble with the change.
your glasses are
on your head, keys
on the table.
the phone is being charged
on the kitchen counter.
you look out the window
your car is there,
you go to the back
and stare into
the woods. there it is,
a tree has fallen.

the opera singer

her face,
expressive and bright
under
the lights
of Lincoln center. her voice
a melodic shout
and scream
as she sings in
Italian
the death of love.
she falls into whisper,
her arms
reach out,
her lips bemoan
the loss
she must endure. how
beautiful
she is in front
of strings, and flutes,
drums.
engulfed in betrayal.
you believe her,
and want
what she had so many
songs ago.

the split earth

is it His
hand
that makes the earth
tremble
opens the clouds
splits
the ground
in two.
is it His will
that tumbles
the building,
slays
the child,
sets afire
the cells in you,
or is it
something different,
something beyond
our black and white
point of view.
hard to know
these things while
still
breathing, still
trying to fathom,
the will or non will
of an invisible God,
to get a clue.

no flowers

flowers sent, or
given are the kiss
of death.
it took awhile to learn
this lesson.
a marriage or
two.
long stretches
of love waning, love
new. apologies
too late in arriving,
but you learned.
whether daffodils
or roses,
orchids, or anything
long stemmed,
don't send.

red

it has to be red.
crimson and bright.
what other color could
it be
for eyes to see
when the drip
hits the open
snow,
the white sheet.
you don't
even know how you cut
yourself
but the trail of
what courses within you
bleeds out.
it has to be red,
no other color
could alarm you
as it does now,
searching
for the wound.

help is on the way

please remove everything
from the belt
the disembodied voice
says and begin again.
the light blinks
above you, but no one
sees it, no one comes
with their special badge
to swipe
and make the world right again.
you start over, scanning
each item.
finding the bar code,
unwrinkling each package,
making the ant like
lines straight.
you search the screens for
gala apples,
then peppers, not bell,
not red, not green,
but jalapeno. not under j,
that would be too easy.
the belt rolls them back
towards you, past
the red lasered
line. everything you just
scanned returns to
the starting point.
an id is necessary for
this item, the voice says,
please wait, help is on
the way,
but it's ice berg
lettuce you yell back
at the top of your lungs.
you open up a bottle of wine
as you stand there
waiting, turning the bottle
up to your lips,
watching birds
fly around the store.

already gone

she talks about her four
ex husbands
with a smile on her face.
one dead,
one not dead but might as
well be,
the one she still talks
to because of the kid,
although he's way behind on
support,
and the one
that disappeared.
he might be in texas,
or Riker's Island,
who's to know.
I loved them all equally
she says.
each one loved me back.
she rolls up her leopard
print blouse
and shows me the intials
of each one on her
white arm. room for more,
she winks.
i'd marry again too, in a
heart beat if the right man
comes along.
you don't hear the rest of
what she says,
because you're already
gone.

a stack of wax

I ask my father
if he remembers bringing home
the discarded 45's from
the club.
woolly bully,
sonny and cher, singing
I got you babe,
standing in the shadow
of love, louie louie.
he does.
he remembers how i stacked
them on
the turn table
and played them until
the grooves wore
smooth, scratched
and skipping,
tapping the needle forward,
learning every nonsensical
word, moving my
young floppy head
of hair
to the beat
and dancing as if there
was a land
of a thousand dances.

january people

you don't mind
saying goodbye to some people.
they are January
souls.
windy and cold.
full of ice.
three feet
of featherless snow.
no need to kiss them goodbye,
a wave from
the frosted window
will do
as they trudge up
the path
with a sled full of
complaints,
slipping as they go.

the carving begins

the lawyer has one
question
to ask, as you carry your heart
in your hands,
bleeding,
hardly beat left
in its muscle.
broken and disheveled
with betrayal.
how much do you make,
your annual income,
what exactly is it
in a normal year?
hers?
that settled,
the carving begins.

early wake up

you can't be late
every day, although you seem
to accomplish
that on a regular basis.
you have at least six or
seven clocks all
glowing and ticking
in your house. not to mention
an alarm clock you've never
learned how to use,
because the print is too
small and it's
in Swedish.
you wake up when you wake
up. maybe it's the rain
outside, or the trash
truck, or the neighbors
making love early
in the morning, like
now. they need to do
something about those springs,
that headboard
hitting our shared wall,
her cat like screaming.

the professional woman

she says she's very down
to earth, which is good,
seeing that you live on earth.
any other place
might be difficult
what with the lack of air
and water, food,
and coffee. she also lives
one day at a time,
also a good thing,
living two days at a time
or more, might
be hard without some sort
of time machine, or really
fast jet that could
take you backwards or forward
depending on which
day you needed to be in
at the moment. i'm a professional
woman she tells you.
which makes you ponder
the alternative,
a novice woman, perhaps?

it's enough

after three
children, she has given up
on the walls and rug.
on broken plates
and cups,
in yelling
to close the door,
to wipe your feet,
wash your hands,
put the seat down,
and brush.
she goes through
the motions now.
still caring, but too
tired to be
the new mother she once
was. if all are safe
and sound. until tomorrow,
it's enough.

his things

they go to clean
out the remains of his things.
the pots
on the stove,
the silverware, the dishes
in the sink.
the clothes,
still hanging in the dark
closets.
no will has mentioned
what to do with
any of this.
who would wear his
shoes, his watch,
his ring. who will
pick up the book he
earmarked
and turned over for later
when there would be more time
to read.

the road once taken

you take your grandmother
on the road with you.
she sits in the back
seat with her small dog
in a basket. she's
smoking a cigarette
and has a can of beer
between her legs. her dress
is red and purple
with swirls of bright pink.
she tie dyed it herself.
she says she slept
with jack Kerouac once,
and he was no writer,
or lover just a mixed
up booze hound. you're
driving too slow she
says, as you hug the right
lane. hit the gas sonny.
let's see what this
jalopy can do.
let's go to California
she says. let's take
the blue roads, like
I used to do with your
grandfather. we'd score
dope the whole way to
san Francisco, picking
up hitchhikers, singing.
sleeping out under the stars.
you look into the rear view
mirror and see her blowing
smoke rings out the window.
we need some mushrooms, she
says. and tequila.
finally you arrive at
the drugstore and take her
prescription into
the pharmacist. don't forget
my magazines, she says,
yelling out the window.

my shadow

you can borrow my cane,
but bring it back
when you're done.
same goes
for my overcoat
and hat,
my boots and umbrella,
my Robert Frost
anthology, my unread
War and Peace.
but bring everything
back,
everything when you
step out
into the night,
pretending to be me.

the sleeping dog

the world
keeps teaching you
old lessons.
ones you know
and have learned
before.
you have the whip
marks
to prove,
the bites along
your ankle.
but you can't resist
what's in front
of you.
testing the waters,
walking out
on thin ice,
waking
the sleeping dog.

the shine

all day,
on his knees at the station.
he rubs
the polish into
shoes.
boots. pressing
in a circle
the paste onto leather,
buffing it in,
putting a shine on
for those who come
and go.
at night, he puts
the money
on table,
and tells his wife
he loves her,
to which she says,
with a hand on
his shoulder,
I know.

which clown

it might be hard
to pull
the lever
when the time comes
to vote.
which circus
clown
is best to be
commander and chief.
who makes
you laugh or cry
the most, whether
they lean
left or right,
does it matter,
nothing changes,
so why not a clown,
any clown,
just hold your nose
and pick one
as they hop
out of the little red
car, a bouquet
of plastic flowers
up their sleeve.

the rest will follow

the rest will follow.
open your eyes,
get out of bed.
shake of the webbed
dreams.
shower and shave.
brush, take a look
and go.
find clothes.
keys, a phone.
some money, cash
and coins
from the green bowl.
the fog is lifting.
the rest will follow.

possessions

your dog
would find a rock
and bring it home.
bury it in a corner
as best he could
with fuzz
from the new carpet.
his rock.
his thing, his possession.
if you threw it back
out into the yard
he'd bring it back
in again
then look at you
as if asking why, why
would you do
that with all of this
you own.
these things,
you think are yours.

still life in a bowl

she painted pears,
beautiful
green pale pears aligned
in a bowl.
oils mostly.
the light just so.
the gleam
of shine on each.
still life
intrigued her, but
not you. it was
hard to live
like that, untouched,
unbitten,
unused.

we need rain

from his window.
hands on hips, he sees the field.
the dry earth.
browned furrows of dust
awaiting wind.
the cows, ribbed
like ships aground,
still
against the sand.
his wife
goes into the other room.
she doesn't want
to hear
or feel what he has to say,
we need rain.
we need rain, he says,
as he says
everyday.

why bother

why bother
speaking when she doesn't stop.
why listen
when it doesn't matter
what you say
in response. what's the point
of the call
when you can't
even say a word,
or make a point, or engage
your thoughts
into the conversation.
why take the call
when someone doesn't
care enough to stop
and say how are you,
how was your day,
hello. better to just
let it ring and ring
and ring.
it makes no difference,
you're just a set
of ears to listen,
to sit silently and let
her talk and talk
and talk.

mr. positive

not everyone
is kind, like me. sweet
and thoughtful.
always happy
and positive.
always a ray of sunshine
in everyone's life.
not everyone can
be me, so helpful
in so many ways,
compassionate
and wonderful. not
a cynical bone
in my body.
mr. positive.
thinking the best
of everyone.
always a kind word
to each person
I meet.
pour me another bar
keep, i'm on a roll.

the nuisance

she is the clipped
nail, bitten too far
now inflamed, sore.
she's the stubbed toe
in the night
against the steel frame
of the bed.
she's the finger
caught in the car door,
the piece of glass
stepped on
in the bathroom from
a broken jar.
she's the phone
call at night when
you're fast asleep.
the telemarketer at dinner time.
the noise in the attic
with scampering feet.
the shoe full of water
as you step off
a mound of snow
into the street.

the in laws visit

the in-laws
come and stay too long.
the snow has kept
them here.
kept them
in a room on the second floor,
with a dresser,
a small tv,
a mirror. they are
trying hard
to not be in the way.
to not correct
the children
as they misbehave.
they want to leave though.
back to the beach.
back on the road
to Delaware.
they've packed and set
their suitcases
by the door, they've sat
in the big chair,
built a fire,
and waited for everyone to
come home to say goodbye,
they pass the new book
by harper lee
back and forth neither unable
to get past a dozen
pages.
the grandfather goes
to the window
to stare out into the vast
yard. he says nothing,
having said so
much for so long and
been unlistened to.

the accident

you see the upside down
car
on the side of the road
the paramedics
heavy in dark gear,
striped
in neon green.
the lights flashing,
as they slide
someone out from
the broken windshield.
a cell phone
still clutched in
her hand.
she's still pressing
the letters.
i'm going to be late,
she types in,
then takes a photo
of her bloody leg
to send later
when she awakens
on the gurney.

survival

in a cage
in the other room
on a table
is a yellow red
blue green
bird
with velvet feathers
and a curved
steel beak.
it's forty years old
give or take
a decade.
it squawks and says
hello in a high
pitched odd voice
coming somewhere
half way down
it's short
thick throat.
on the sill the cat
sits with all the inbred
patience of
centuries.
waiting.
waiting for the open
swing of
the cage door.

are you listening

her midnight call
stirs you.
keeps you awake for hours.
her voice shrill
and drunk,
drugged.
her wrist awaiting another cut.
her skinny limbs
crossed
and bare,
white bones against
white bones.
a match could set
her on fire.
she talks about love,
betrayal,
about the window across
the room,
open and holding a breeze.
how inviting
flight is.
how quickly it would be
to hit bottom,
real bottom this time.
don't hang up,
are you there, are you
listening.

that's gone too

no one cares.
no one
will read what you've written.
the sun
will swallow
the world whole.
the flash of flames
will engulf
everything you hold
dear,
even this poem.
let it go. let it all
go.
surrender and be free
of all
that seems real or
holds meaning.
open your eyes and point.
that's gone
too.

dead or alive

I could take the street to get home
as the sky grew darker.
I could stick to the sidewalks
like my mother said, take
the curbs edged with grass
and dirt. I could walk the center
line until the cars honked
and cursed. but I preferred
the alley, the tunneled path through
the mangle of briars and vines.
stepping through the minefields
of broken glass, trash,
over the fences of yards,
hopping the chained linked
gardens and small plots
of nothing, nothing
but grass biding time.
I wanted to be scared, to be
awake and alive, speeding along
with a bag of groceries,
high tops on. I was being
chased, being hunted, wanted
dead or alive. this was a better
way to live. another world
within the real one, a better life,

was the one inside.

drinking and cooking

you pour too much wine
into the pot roast stew.
you sip and stir, taste,
add another carrot,
some salt. by five you're
drunk out
of your mind, you begin
to text
women you used to know.
hey baby, want some pot roast.
they immediately
block and delete you.
telling you to never contact
them again.
you pour a glass of
wine, what's left of the pinot,
and add another onion
to the mix. chopping
quickly,
dicing the onion like you
see them do on tv,
cutting your finger only
a little bit. you seal
the cut with butter.
you lean over and inhale
the aroma of potatoes
and meat, carrots
and onions all coming
to a nice boil.
it's so wonderful you almost
begin to weep.
you wipe the hot splatters
off your face, hoping
there won't be any scars
and take a picture of
the stew as you ladle it
into a bowl. you butter
a half a loaf of french bread
and set it on the table.
you send
the picture to everyone
you know.

the end is near

in the middle of the blizzard
your battery dies
on the side of the road.
you have no cables
and no desire
to get out and sort through
the trunk
to find any, even if you did
have an old rusted pair
passed down through
the century and never
used.
fortunately you've invested
thousands of monthly
fees into triple A for forty years.
you call them with your last
bar of charge and beg for help.
you wait.
you wait some more.
you sing the entire beatle's
catalogue, surprisingly well
too despite everything.
you lose feeling in your feet,
your arms.
your fingers begin
to tingle with warmth.
your cheeks are red. a bloom
of air exits from your shivering
body.
you take out your phone,
it's dead now too.
you find a hamburger wrapper
on the floor and a pen. first you
eat the cold white French fry
lying next to it. slowly,
you begin to write out
your last will
and testament.
my son, you write, my only son
who I love more than
almost anything,
it's all yours, live wisely,
don't do drugs
or get anyone pregnant before
you're married. don't forget
to turn the stove off when
you leave the house.
you feel dizzy, the pen
is frozen, you touch the end
with your tongue
to get it going again. you spit
the blue ink onto the windshield
where it immediately freezes.
to ginger. i'm sorry for
everything, for not
paying attention to you when
you talked about your cat. I hope
he or she is well.
lucy, what can I say.
I didn't mean to get gum
in your hair when we were
dancing that night, and you can
have my watch. I think
it may have rolled under your bed.
it has luminous dials, so it
should be easy to spot.
Karen, I hope it wasn't me
that made you a lesbian.
suddenly there's a knock at
the window.
a bearded man with a pair
of jumper cables. it's a burly
angel from the Ozarks.
quickly you ball the note
up and put it in your mouth
to swallow it. triple A you
mouth to the man as your teeth
chatter.

future world leaders

she takes her students
on the bus
to the debate. they are all
smart children,
born smart. wiry and fat,
all sizes.
bespectacled.
their parents go too.
larger sizes of them.
there is lots of twitching,
and nervous
toying with hair,
lips bitten, teeth
grinded.
braces snapped together
like tambourines.
their lunch
money is taken
before they're born,
bruised and pummeled
before stepping
into the sandbox.
they perform well though
under pressure, our
future world leaders.

enough

you try so hard
to understand people.
people you know and love,
even the ones
you don't really like too much.
you try to imagine
their lives,
their problems, their
troubles.
but you can only go so far
before the door
closes.
before they push it
shut and say enough,
no more.

just business

in time, you get used
to hearing
the voice on the phone,
the complaint, the yell,
the cursing.
a fist banging against
a desk.
it's just business.
it's what's done to grease
the wheels,
fill the pockets
of old and new men
in this crooked world
of shady deals.

the flow

water
finds a low spot,
gravity
pulling it towards
the easiest
of all
directions,
it bends and folds
and fits
into any
hole it finds, it hardly
matters
where. it just does so
without
complaint. moving
along
to where it needs to be.
let's be water,
for once,
and stop thinking of
a better way to go.

untrained

like you,
your dog refused to learn
tricks,
to roll over,
play dead. beg
or bark on cue.
like you,
he didn't heel,
or stay out of the street,
he wouldn't
chase the ball
or behave in school.
like you he made life
harder
on the both of you.

the food critic

your son
at three, strapped
into a child's seat
at the table,
after taking a bite,
picked up his six dollar
hot dog
covered in sauerkraut
and mustard
and threw it like a missile
across the room
striking a waiter
in the head.
a food critic
was born.

raising the flag

these troops arrive
in castelldefels,
black booted, their uniforms
starched
army green.
weapons
on their belts in leather
pouches.
mustached men.
lean and brown eyed
Spaniards.
Franco's men.
your mother listened to them
as they pointed
at the flag your
father had
raised on the pole
outside, near the fountain.
waving red white and blue
with fifty stars,
as if he had conquered
this mall patch of land
for himself
and country.
they were not amused.

found money

in Barcelona
the help, how could she know,
bundled quickly
the money from our game
thinking it real
and quit, running home
with her small fortune,
her life
now beginning. how her
heart must have
sped, her dreams, whatever
dreams there were
at the end of the road
where she lived,
were possible now.
this money. these stacks
of yellow and green,
gold, blue money.
children's money. they
would never miss it,
but they did.
and told their mother,
who laughed
and found the young lady,
bringing her back,
her arm around her shoulder,
walking her to our home
to sweep and dust,
to boil water
and pour milk into our
bowls.

wanting more

you've seen it before.
seen on the wry
faces
of children
along the shore,
touching the endless
sea with
white toes.
their voices high pitched
across
an unknown gift of years
they've yet to
know.
you've seen it
in lovers
hand in hand,
caressing one another,
together
on blankets that cover
squares
of warm sand.
it's there. you know it
is.
this ephemeral
feeling
of joy, of happiness
subdued. unhidden,
impossibly found
but wanting
more.

new sod

it's new money.
you can tell. the faux columns.
the freshly laid sod.
the slate roof,
the three car
garage.
she can hardly stop talking about
the sub zero,
the Viking
stove,
the marble counter.

the rooms echo with our
footsteps.
no dog. no child.
no plant.
no anything that needs
attention.
don't step on that rug,
it's new she says.
all the way from
Istanbul.
I bought it online.

this is me time, she says
to you.
and him too. he's at work,
he works a lot
these days.
maybe you'll meet him
some day.

held captive

at first you don't feel
the thin tethers
that hold you, bind you.
the new roots, growing,
thickening with years.
how hard it is to move now,
to leave this place.
you weren't born here.
no blood shed
for any of it.
no family land, no reason
to stay at this or any age,
and yet, you can barely
lift a leg in another
direction. the vines
have twisted around your
wrists, your ankles.
strangely, even your heart.
it would take a cataclysmic
event, like love,
to move you now.

the fourteenth of february

you spot them in the store
as you fill your cart
with a meal for one, you see
the young men, some old,
some as old as you are. they
wander with a glazed look,
sheep to the slaughter,
a bunch of store flowers
banded in their fists.
the thin plastic wrinkling
as they move.
a heart shaped box of milk
chocolates under their arms.
they step lightly towards
the row of cards.
the pinks and reds,
the cupids with arrows
pointing, bloodied.
they move and read from
card to card, trying to decide
whether to go funny,
or sweet, serious, or
deadly serious with words
like adore and love, or
forever written inside.

uber doctor

stuck in traffic for so long
you decide to take classes online,
pulling out your lap top.
the hours and hours go by,
weeks, into months. the traffic
is so slow, the lights,
the accidents, the detours
and ice, the piles of unplowed
snow. by the end of the
year you are graduating
from med school. by spring
you've become a doctor.
you carry a black bag now
with a white cross on the side.
you put a sign on top
of your car, a small blinking
light. the doctor is in
open for new patients,
come on inside.
it isn't long before you
are delivering curbside babies,
performing appendectomies,
shooting botox into the crows
feet of women wearing leopard
print pants.

your uncle

your uncle.
the one in the white suit,
the white
caddy, the one in florida
who lives
on the golf course,
the one with
the boat, the who has
someone peel his
oranges for him. the one with
hair plugs, the cane,
the one
with the gold ring,
the young wife,
that uncle. the rich
uncle. he dies
and leaves you nothing.
he leaves everybody
nothing,
which is what he took
with him,
in the end. everyone
getting the same.

the passing train

the boy
with one arm is pointed
at
by children, by adults
passing by,
new to town.
asking
what happened, why,
he's so young.
but he seems fine,
seems well
adjusted they say,
holding their groceries
watching him
on the playground.
you'd almost think he
was whole,
they say.
as if nothing every happened.
but when a train
screams by
on the nearby track,
everyone, but him,
stops to look.

ice cream love

I can't marry you,
she tells me.
i'm sorry, but it just
wouldn't work.
I love you, but
i love ice cream
I just can't eat it everyday.
in time I would
no longer like ice cream,
do you here what
i'm saying?
so the wedding is off.
but we can have a scoop
every now and then,
if that's okay
with you?

the boarder

you can't make these things up,
no one would believe you, if they
weren't true. if you didn't swear to
them. they wouldn't believe the woman
you talk about. how round shouldered
and large she was. the size of a man.
a steel worker, or longshoreman.
the blue smoke
of her cigarette, her bad teeth
and cursing. how she came to live
in your house, handing your mother
forty dollars at the end of
the month for rent. finding her
asleep on the couch. the blue
couch where no one could sit
anymore and watch television.
no one would believe you,
how she belittled your brothers
and sisters, how small she made
small children feel. how she
demanded pancakes out of you
in the kitchen. round, not
like you were making them, standing
on a stool to see the pan
as you poured the yellow
batter into the black face
of heat. no one could imagine
a life like that. where were your
parents, what street were they on,
what city had they left to, escaped
to, separately and alone, leaving
you with this woman. this strange
rust haired woman with a thick
smear of pond's cream
on her moon face, as if anything
could help.

like you

a tangerine of a moon
appears
over the white caked
earth.
a strange candied orb
floating
without a string to hold
it in place.
the clouds rub against it
as the night moves on,
the earth spins
just so, making it go
away.
fading from black
to blue.
like all fun things,
abstract and odd,
like you.

fox island

she lives on an island
with her dogs,
her cats,
her garden,
the sky above her is blue.
the pacific
is not far
away, a days row
through the channel.
it rains.
it rains.
it rains.
she sits in her chair
where the dozen shades
of green
comes in,
where she can see
the sky,
the blue. see the life
before
and behind her,
thinking, what next.

come to florida

come to florida
the magazine ad says
in bold blue letters
over white.
in the picture there are oranges.
rows and rows
of oranges in a green grove.
there are long white
beaches with
tanned fit bodies frolicking
in the water. tossing
striped beach balls to one another.
women in bikinis,
wearing sunglasses
drinking tropical
fruit drinks waving to
the camera.
come to florida,
the ad says.
fly or take the train.
drive.
leave your troubles behind.
leave the snow and ice behind you.
leave now.
you run upstairs and put
on your lime green bathing suit.
a white t shirt
and a straw hat. you slip
into your flip flops, then
you go the kitchen
for your green bowl
full of loose change.
you set a towel down
on the dining room table
and pour it all out.
you begin to count.
stacking quarters against
quarters, dime againt dimes.
this could happen. you can
do this.

sauces

your mother was all over
the sauces.
red sauce, white sauce.
you name it sauce.
gravy too.
she'd make it in gallons.
working for days,
standing over the stove
with a wooden spoon,
stirring, sweating,
talking on the phone
telling every one she was
making sauce for
the holidays. she'd tape
and write the date
and what it was on the top
of each container.
this was in august.
she couldn't stop making
sauces and talking about
what work it was.
happy and proud with what
she was doing.
so when the power went out
she couldn't understand
why the insurance company
wouldn't cover
the loss of all her
hard work, gone bad in
the defrosted ice box.

sweet potato

she likes
to square dance.
you don't.
two step, that line
dancing thing.
she wears a cowgirl
hat
and a big dress
with roses embroidered
into the denim
fabric. white boots.
pointed, up to her calves.
she works for IBM
and is originally from
new jersey,
but at night she's
patsy cline risen
from the grave.
when she sees you
she gives you a big hug,
plants a lipsticked
kiss onto your cheek
and says,
how we all doing tonight, honey.
you respond by saying,
I reckon just fine my
little sweet potato.

primitive instinct

it's less about grey
matter, or reason,
and more
about instinct, a million
odd
years of
procreation.
the necessity of keeping
the species going.
the primitive need
for survival.
I blame
that buried inner
desire
on nothing more than
that.
the dna within
wanting out. it's not
the smell of you, those lips,
those legs,
those eyes,
although they all
seem to help.

the king of snowballs

knee deep in
this snow, this snow
turned
sour and grey,
a salted sludge of misery.
i can hear
the tires spin a mile
away, smell
the rubbery smoke
in the air as tires
churn against
one foot of crumbling
concrete.
a kid throws a snowball
at me
as i scrape my window.
i catch it with
one hand, grab
more wet snow to pack
it solid, then
throw it back,
knocking him over
as hits his forehead.
he doesn't know
who he's dealing with.
i am the king
of snowballs.

she orders lamb

excuse my French,
my grandmother says,
but that cab driver was driving
that cab
like a bat out of hell.
I look at my sister
and say, which word is French?
she shrugs,
she's sucking on a lollipop
and playing with a band aid
on her knee as we sit in the back
seat of my father's Chevrolet.
the trunk is full of luggage.
she's left boston to stay
with us for a week, or more.
she leans over the seat
and ask us if we've been good
girls and boys,
if we've been praying, if we've
been asking God to save us
from that bastard john kennedy.
we both nod yes.
your father, driving, looks
at you in the rear view mirror
and smiles.
let's stop for lunch he says.
your grandmother orders lamb
with mint jelly.

the dog eared page

nose deep into
your business, she says,
i'll find it.
i'll find
what i'm looking for, just
you wait and see.
she digs
into your paperwork,
goes
through your files,
circles the balance
on your bank statements.
she downloads
your documents.
lifts the mattress
to see what's underneath.
she shakes each book
on the shelf,
not once stopping
on a dog eared
page to read. not
knowing, that there lies
a clue to me.

across the line

there was a time,
not too long ago,
when there were boiled
eggs,
pigs feet,
in grim pink water
floating
in a jar
on the counter.
girly magazines, and
cigarettes
just a quarter
on a rack,
everything in reach.
gas twenty-nine cents.
directions
free, a fold out map.
a big key attached
to a paddle
for the bathroom,
black and white tile,
a broken mirror,
a busted seat,
nothing ever cleaned.
writing on the wall,
numbers and names pressed
neat.
it was just a mile across
the city line, you could
see the monument from there,
but another world,
another language,
a different time.

the red umbrella

out of the rain,
she shakes her coat,
her red umbrella.
she looks
up into the sky.
she has time
to wait it out.
you can see that in her face,
in her eyes.
you give her room,
spare her
a hello, no need to talk,
two strangers
in a doorway
waiting for the rain
to stop.
something about the red
umbrella
keeps you quiet,
wishing it
was blue.

the eight count

I see the error of my ways.
I don't need you
to tell me
what I've already told
myself, but you
go on, don't you. I can't
stop you
from saying what you're
saying.
take a swing. and another.
pummel me in the corner.
I can take a punch.
I can get up before
the bell rings, before
the count is ten.
but there won't be a
rematch. this is it,
take your turn,
your swings.

like christmas

she smelled like Christmas
when I met her.
lit up with
gin and tonic
on her tongue, a cut
lime,
sharpened
words, her green eyes
sparkling
like roadside
glass.
how underwater
she was with drink.
how malleable
and kind, soft in
my hands.
ready for any direction
the road
might lead
that night. how
the road veered off
in time.

i need a knife

don't bother me
with your Harvard poets,
your degreed
and learned
sages
writing illegible words
in rhyme and meter.
I need a knife
to cut through
to find the blood,
the gristle
of meaning. the bone
within
the meat.
where is the heart,
the dirt
under the nails,
the ache of love
and dying. a fresh wound,
an unhealed scar.
why do they
make it so hard,
for me to read.

petty thieves

I send the widow
the photos that I promised
of me
and her husband
drinking,
carousing. dancing
and posing.
petty thieves
of hearts, our unlined
faces
and cheap clothes,
soft caps
and gloves
as we trolled for
affection
through the cobbled
streets of Georgetown.
I imagine
she cried when getting
them,
as I did in sending.

each seed

each seed
thumbed down into
the soil.
watered
and worried over.
a peek at the sun,
its glare
not yet full
as it flares through
spring trees.
each seed
from your hand has
a chance
at rising,
being green,
this makes you happy
and feeling
old
at the same time.

what's unknown

I know nothing
about you
unless you want it to be
known,
and likewise
I too
will hold a card or
two
to my chest, out
of view.
it's how we play,
how we
lie and hide
the truths that are
known
to just a chosen few.

sick with something

sick with something,
the man in front of you
sneezes
into his coat sleeve.
he turns around
and says i'm sorry.
something's going around
he says
and I think I caught it.
I threw up this morning
and I have a fever.
he shakes his head
then puts his bananas
onto the counter,
his milk.
his cough syrup.
his wine.
a valentine card.
you nod, and try to
hold your breath, then
turn to breathe in
air from another direction.
you remove your gloves
and touch your forehead,
still cool.
you're good for awhile.

pink mittens

I don't know the young
woman
who knocks persistently
on the door,
but she's been shoveling
snow all day
for the company
she works for.
her hair is black,
down to her shoulders,
her eyes large
and wide, black too.
she wants to use
the bathroom. come in
I tell her, sure.
she's in there for
a half an hour,
I knock and ask if
she's okay.
si, she says. si.
I hear the spigot running
for a long time.
finally she comes out
looking relieved
and happy.
I give her a bottle
of water
and a donut
in a napkin and say,
thanks for shoveling today,
goodbye, but then I
see her pink mitten
like gloves
on the sink, they look
like children's gloves.
I look out the door
to yell for her,
but she's gone
behind a snow bank
somewhere, so I leave
them on the porch.
she'll be back, i'm sure.

check on my cats

the ambulance arrives
with the quiet spin of
many red lights, the siren
off. the men with all
their heavy gear
go into the house
and pull her out.
an older woman in a blue
bathrobe.
she's awake on the stretcher,
her face grey and tight,
she waves to you
as you watch
them push her down the sidewalk
to the waiting truck.
she yells out, check
on my cats.
don't let them take them.
you look behind you,
hoping there are other
people she's talking to,
but no. it's you.
you don't even know her
name, she lives
three doors down
and has never said a
word to anyone.
you wave back and say
okay. this can't be good.

this change

things change.
not always for the good,
or bad,
they just do.
the light, the mood,
the way
you feel. it's part
of it.
this change,
hard to understand
the whys,
the how, it just
does
and there's little
one can do.

day four

after four days
of being stuck inside
she calls happily on the phone,
we are having so much fun,
she says, talking loudly
over the din,
the kids are home, we're snowed in.
the neighbors are here
with their dogs
and children,
we're playing board
games and charades,
making brownies, and hot
chocolate. (i'm having gin)
it's wonderful, you should
come over.
then she slips into the kitchen
and whispers. help me,
please, come and rescue me.
help me. i'm going crazy.
I might kill someone
if they don't plow our
street soon.

enough

you still have
enough
to shovel out.
to scrape
and roll the car,
to defrost
and dig
and dig, and shovel
some more.
you still have
enough
to walk a few
miles
for breakfast.
coffee,
a paper.
to sit in the empty
diner
and inhale
the food before you.
you still have
enough
to make it home
under the blue soft
light
of a setting
sun.

the red bird

cane deep
in snow, she opens her door.
peers out. closes her
robe.
a red cardinal
is on a branch.
crimson and still
against the white.
it makes her morning.
she closes
the door
to call someone, to
tell them about
the bird. how red it
was
against the snow.

the tax man cometh

I wonder
about Obama care.
the ins and outs
of corporate filing,
how will it affect my taxes.
is my preparer bright enough
to get it done,
to keep me out of prison
like al capone.
she still uses a pen
and paper form, a calculator
and ruler to read
my ledger, by candle light
I might add.
I keep no receipts.
to hell with that.
I need gas, I buy gas.
i'm not buying anyone
a business lunch,
or writing off the shirt
and shoes, or boxer
shorts
I have on.
my itemized deductions
are low,
so leave me alone
mr. revenue man.
give me a few bucks in
return.

remember the sun

low on cake
you decide to venture out
into the white
wilderness
that is the world now.
coffee would be nice too.
not the kind you make
at home,
but from a barista
who will tell you
to be safe,
stay warm.
you haven't seen a human
in almost forty eight hours,
which is okay,
you can live with that,
but a newspaper
would be a welcome relief
from the babbling
news heads and looped traffic
jams and wrecks.
you need to get out.
to tramp through
the drifts to a place
that is open,
a place where the haughty
and proud four wheel
drive men and women
stand around and laugh,
to hear a voice, to
see if anyone out there
is still alive.
the sun is out. you
remember the sun,
don't you?

into the sea

in spite of
everything you find a way
to love
her. to adore her from a distance.
what else is there
to do, but
fade into the fog,
slip
under the rain of days
that make
up your life,
be washed into
the sea
with others.

waiting for spring

the ground was too hard
to dig
so they set her in
the mausoleum
next to the others.
all boxed
and ready
to be buried come spring.
still
they had the funeral.
words were said
that should be said.
tears, laughter,
all of that.
and yet she was still
above ground,
above the ice
and snow.
above the living,
stored neatly in
the cemetery shed.

through the white

the sheen
and bloom of the red
fox
on the path,
still,
and nervous
as you walk towards
it,
far enough away
to keep you
both out of danger.
what brings you
out into the snow
he must think,
this day is his, free
to roam,
no bike or stroller
no runners
to make him
hide, to burrow
between tree and stone.
just you,
knee deep, walking
through the white,
traveling alone.

i hate snow

i hate snow.
i hate when people say how
lovely it is. look
how wonderful
the trees are when they are
covered, dappled
in white frosting.
look over there,
that smooth blanket, cresting
over that hill,
which happens to be
my car.
I don't want to ski
on it,
trudge through it, or
shovel.
I don't want to spread
salt, and sweep, defrost
the windows.
I don't want to talk with
the neighbors
about the snow.
pushing each other's cars
out as the tires spin
on sheets of ice.
I don't want to ask
how the roads are,
when it will stop
or start again.
I want it to go away, now.
my dog agrees.

the doctor is in

you have all the symptoms
of a dozen diseases.
dry mouth, thirst,
frequent urination,
sweating and blurred vision.
your feet tingle.
you might have a week or
less to live.
you've verified each ailment
on a variety of
websites.
each one more frightening
and believable than
the next.
you buy a blood pressure
machine for your wrist,
and pray for low numbers,
a tester
for blood to prick your
skin, you put
a thermometer into
your mouth and count your
heart beats, listening
for a murmur
with a stethoscope,
the doctor is in, and you
are him. it's not good
you tell yourself.
but it's been a good run.

men, she sighs

men, she sighs.
then curses. I hate them.
they leave
me stranded
in bed, at the side of
the road,
no pleasure, it's all
about them.
i'm done with them, she says.
I may switch to the other side.
cross over
and never come back.
i'm bored with men.
even you, she says,
are with fault.
lying there, asleep,
ten seconds after it's over,
snoring
on your back.

the sand

how long you shoveled
sand, digging
the hole for your son,
him saying deeper
dad, deeper, unsatisfied
with what you've done.
more sand by shovel
and bucket tossed
to side, before hitting
pools of water,
small crusted things
with life, that would
dig faster than you
could go, disappearing
like meteors from sight.
deeper dad,
he said. go deeper.
and so you did.
and so you will
for all your life.

what ticks within

what others think as true
is not always so,
no more than staring at
a watch and
declaring the time,
with no knowledge of what
ticks within,
what wheels spin,
or grind to move
those hands, to set it
right, punctual
and perfect,
or stopping
when it's time to die.

doing the math

I can't meet you for coffee
today, she tells me
on the street, while eating
a celery stalk.
i'm in training for a five k.
and after that, if I don't get injured
and I have the entry fee money,
a ten k. she's jumping in place,
stretching in her purple tights.
her new orange running shoes
squeak against the sidewalk.
what's a k, I ask her.
what happened to miles?
are we a metric country now?
when did that happen?
I don't know what you're talking
about, she says, taking
a gulp of water from
a bottle attached to her
utility belt. she's sweating
and nearly out of breath.
I might enter the half
marathon in the spring, she says,
jumping up and down,
reaching her arms over
her head and swaying
them back and forth.
how many k's is that, I ask.
I don't know. maybe
12? i'm not sure, i'll
have to do the conversion
math. i'm getting a headache,
I tell her, do you have
any aspirin. she takes
out two white pills
from a pouch on her belt
and hands them to me.
how many milligrams is this,
I ask.
I don't know she says, taking
her pulse with two fingers
on her wrist, but
I have to go now. bye.

in with the old

tired of old music.
you know every word. you could
have been in
the band.
sung each song, knowing
when to stop
then start again.
but the new music stinks.
it's not on the radio.
it's nowhere to
be found.
you are unplugged at
this age.
stuck with the old,
repeating for eternity
the same known sounds.

the last loaf

before the storm hits
you don't mean to knock
over the old woman in the store,
or pin her long
coat down with a boot
as you reach for
the last loaf of bread
on the shelf, but she was
in the way.
and besides it was gluten
free bread
made from wood chips
and hay,
embedded with cherry pits,
she'd never get it through
her system.
you are doing her a favor.

quiet time

her weapon
is silence. deadly
cold
dark silence.
it says everything there is
to say.
you have no
defense for it,
no way to block
or dodge
its fury. you
can't even surrender,
for there is no one
to surrender
to.
not a single syllable
falls from
her sweet lips.
how clever she is
in being quiet
this way.

new and improved

new and improved,
you step out in clothes
just bought,
a pound
less weight
than the last day of the year.
sleep gained
to ease
the worry,
a book on the nightstand
to be read
in due time.
polished to a nice
glow
with over the counter
soaps,
a shave, a few muscled
tones
by lifting repeatedly
a weight or two.
you step out
into sun, that sweet
scent in the air is you.
the cologne
still on your cheeks
and chin. where is she,
where are they,
why aren't they running
towards you.

which cake to buy

it's hard to decide
on which cake
mix to buy for the big storm
coming.
which frosting.
double layer, or triple?
fudge or spice?
maybe brownies,
that I can neatly bake,
cut into even
squares, each one,
two maybe three
small bites.
maybe a box of donuts
already made.
the kind with the window
on the box
so you know how many
are left
without opening it.
and milk. must have milk,
or it could be a long
two days
stuck inside.

travel

she flies to LA
like it's nothing. nothing
to get on a plane
and settle in her
seat with a cold drink
and a magazine.
high above the clouds,
closer to he moon
than i'll ever be.
a day or two, then she's
back, as if she never
left.
I can hardly travel to the beach,
three hours
away, without it being
a life changing event.
looking at the world with
new eyes,
coming home with sand
in my shoes.
a burn on my head,
a bag full of salt water
taffy that
i'll never eat.

the new cutting board

my new cutting board,
sitting close to my sink,
but not too close
because I don't want to get
water on it,
is beautiful.
sheesham wood, stained
and glossy.
it had a nice tag on it
telling me where it was made
and how it didn't hurt
the amazon jungle one bit
when it was carved
out of a thirty foot tree.
I can't possibly cut
a piece of cold
chicken on it let alone
dice a stalk of celery,
not that I eat
celery, but it's a
beautiful piece of wood.
it's heavy and thick.
I think about it
all the time when I leave
the house
wondering if it's too
close to the window,
the sun making it fade
in color or shine.
what if someone looks
in and wants to steal
it, what then? maybe I
should get two,
one for safe storage.
I have fallen in love with
my indian rosewood
cutting board.

cold feet

you have cold feet.
you can't sign on the dotted
line,
jump out of a plane,
decide
on what to wear,
what to eat,
say I do.
it's a lifelong
ailment, that bothers
others
more than it bothers
you.
you can't just blink
and go with
the first thought that
crosses your mind,
you'd rather wait,
see how it goes,
give it time.

soup bone

you could save
more money.
cut out coupons.
you could be more frugal,
make your clothes
last longer. patch a hole,
thread a seam,
turn the heat down.
eat what's in
cupboard. make soup
out of that bone.
you could, but you'd
rather not.
you'd rather go to a restaurant
with a new suit
on
order a steak.
have a few drinks,
maybe dessert.
what's the point of it all
if you can't
do this. come let's go
together, we don't
have long.

miss texas

she has no shovel.
no gloves.
no ice scrapper, or
winter hat.
she's in a dress
as the snow begins
to fall. heels
and lipstick,
a bottle of wine
in a brown bag.
she doesn't care.
she's beyond the weather,
beyond
shoveling and scraping,
she wont give
in to this minor
inconvenience of three
feet of snow.
she'll press on
and let others dig her
out, push her forward,
put a warm drink
in her hand
while they clean her
windshield,
and absorb
her winning smile.

guilty

your finger prints are
everywhere.
on the glass,
the door knob,
her legs
and arms. a loose
a strand of hair
sits upon
your sleeve.
footprints are in
the tangled sheets,
you may have bitten
her neck
at some point,
left teeth marks,
ripped her blouse,
whispered
feelings into her ear.
you're guilty.
guilty. guilty.
but willing to do the time,
if she agrees,
perhaps a long stretch
of happy years.

the sleeping

when the pet
rabbit passes, she ponders
a shoe box,
a nice spot
in the yard, near the trees
on the other side
of the fence,
a deep place
in the soft dirt where the dogs
can't get to it.
play funeral for awhile,
but no, she folds a paper
around it's limp body
and quietly goes out
to where the cans
sit, waiting for the truck.
the child is crying.
calling out
the pet's name, asking
why it won't wake up.
why is he still sleeping?
what is there to say,
but lie, for now
say yes, he's sleeping,
he's in a better place,
but we'll get another,
then another,
until you've had your fill.

land things

they wave from the boats.
they feel the need
to throw up their arms,
their hands
and smile to those on shore,
shout greetings you
can't hear. maybe ahoy,
or something like
that. it's what people
do when sailing
on the river, or bay
in their shiny crafts,
they are cheerfully
at ease, holding drinks,
lying on their sides
in the sun, wearing sailor
caps and boat shoes.
bikinis.
a stripe of white
across their noses.
sometimes you wave back.
sometimes you don't,
you keep walking,
thinking of land things.

in crowds

another cancer
comes
and takes
the life of one you
love.
the sorrow is different now.
the adding
of dark
water to the pond
where once
there was none.
you heard of death,
read about it,
saw it on the big screen,
when you were young,
but not once
did that shadow
cross your path,
that hoarse
whisper find your ear,
like it does now,
in crowds.

so much news

so much
is hearsay, half thoughts,
murmurs collected
from vague sources,
masquerading as
news. the weeds that grow
under us, neither
false or true,
but wonderings, low
shouts from
the woods.
it's hard to believe
anything you hear these days,
harder not
to believe them
either.

the market

you ignore
the stock market, give
it the cold shoulder,
avoid it
like a troublesome
old friend
who needs a loan.
you turn
the other way,
skim the paper,
read the comics,
the horoscope.
you cross the street
and don't look back.
there is no need
to know how far it's
tumbled once again.
you go visit your
therapist and best
friend, joe, you
tap the bar
and say,
leave the bottle.

apple pie

you liked the world
when you were younger,
when it moved more slowly.
simply.
when there were
nine planets in the sky,
before the moon
got closer.
each show on tv
neatly planned on three
or four
channels. bonanza at nine.
the radio held all
your music.
you had a room, a bed.
dinner at the table
after being called in
from playing
in the street with everyone
you knew.
school in the morning.
the world seemed
safer.
people stayed together,
worked at the same
place
until they stopped
and became old.
the food pyramid had
eggs and bacon on
it. whole milk, and pie.
okay, maybe an apple too.
of course it was all
a charade, a
Disney world of make
believe.
but still you miss it.

singing solo

I can sing
in the shower, keep
a beat
on the tiles
and tap
my feet, but that is
the sum
total of all
my musical abilities.
I won't be going
on tour
anytime soon.
which is fine,
because I have severe
stage fright,
which makes me sweat
and tremble
with just the thought
of being
in a spotlight.
i'm quite content
to croon until
the hot water
runs cold,
the soap microphone
runs out.

the ice box

tomorrow you'll
get on your knees and empty
the ice
box.
clean the shelves
of lettuce leaves,
cocktail sauce
in hardened spills,
ancient tangerines,
skin like tissue
gone green.
you don't really need
six bottles
of dressing,
Italian, vinaigrette,
blue cheese.
those frozen meats,
what are they?
who put them there?
how long can they last,
those white
boxes of Chinese?
Halloween candy,
bite sized,
like rocks
beside the ice trays.
a hardened bag
of green beans.

no salt no sugar

your idea of dinner
differs
from hers.
undust it of seasoning,
serve it
bland
and raw
is her way to go.
boil or broil,
a celery stalk would
make a meal.
a carob cake
to top
things off.
no bread, no butter.
no sugar.
fish fish fish
all year long.
she may live to be
a hundred
but what a slow
ungodly crawl.

faint praise

arrows,
sharp and pointed,
raining from the bent
bow of critics,
you can live with.
a sword swung
in full view, aiming
for your head,
is fine.
it's the dull
short knife
of faint praise
that finds
its mark and brings
you to your knees,
nothing said
would be better,
more kind.

moon pie?

do you mind if I vape,
she says
after making love,
what, I say. what are you
talking about?
I see the blue
light
of her electronic
cigarette
go on, a puff of air
rise.
she puts one hand
behind her head
and sighs.
care for one, she asks.
no, I tell her,
pulling out a box
from the dresser drawer,
ripping a wrapper,
moon pie?

out of reach

her sofa,
wrapped tightly in a plastic
sheet,
the velvet rope,
the keepsakes
on the mantle, a clock
without a tick,
a vase, an oil portrait
of someone
who looked almost
like her, everything
worth breaking, just inches
out of reach.
no fun to wander
her house.
the borders closed
from step to door,
no where to roam.
to stamp our feet,
or throw a ball,
and the tea, the stale
cookies,
her proper way of talking.
all of it,
to us children,
a deathly bore.

the large pill

the pill,
too large to swallow
no matter how much
water
or wine
you use to flush it down
remains on
the tongue,
gone bitter as its
shell
dissolves into
your mouth.
so you spit it free
into sink.
you're not good with
pills or
listening to others
complain.

tuesday night

too much light,
sitting near the door where
a wind
swirls in.
the food
is cold. the drinks come
slow.
the television behind
the bar,
too loud.
a Tuesday night,
the second shift
is listless,
everyone is watching
the clock, staring
into their phones,
even you, at this point,
want to go home.

the best she could

from the window
you see
the rusted bike. the swing
with a broken chain
on one side.
the collapse of a blue
plastic
pool, once two feet high,
now slick with algae.
the yard
is worn by dogs.
the clothes line stretched
with wet
dungarees and shirts,
girls dresses. baby clothes
of blue and pink,
carnations stiff in
the cold wind.
a pair of chuck
taylors with the laces
tied, hung like weights
over the vine,
never to dry.
the long chain
link fence has a hole in
it where
we took wire clippers
to escape,
then come back. she did
the best she could.

the middle years

you fondly remember
the middle years,
those fat and happy
years of contentment.
a wife, the picket
fence, the child
in school, the dog on
a leash.
how nice it was
to know where and when
dinner was served,
when to rise,
or sleep.
the kiss goodnight.
it's different now.
each day a spin of the wheel.
each day
a toss of the dice.

stepping out

stepping out into
the morning glare,
a thick coat
is not enough, a scarf
and hat,
gloves, and boots.
still not enough
to keep the wind at bay,
the cold
from entering your bones
and making you
shout out a word
that you don't want
children to hear
what you say.

the end

i'm surprised to find
her living in a senior home.
I can still remember her long
legs
unfolding out of a chair.
the way she kissed
and cursed.
are we that old?
it has a ramp, she says
on the phone.
bingo on Wednesday.
the food is great and I've
made so many new
friends.
you should come and play
cards one night.
we have an indoor pool.
you like to swim, don't you?
i'll leave your name at
the gate
to get you in.

wait until spring

we need to talk, she says to you,
while lying in bed staring
at the motionless fan.
we need to have a serious talk.
you shake your head
and say, again.
what, what now? it's us, she says.
it's not working.
your heart sinks.
you know what it's about.
it's always about the same thing.
the falling out of love,
the moving on.
there's someone else better
out there for both of us,
she says smiling, reaching over
to touch your hand.
all givens. all true.
but you're willing to live in
this kind misery for a little while
longer.
it's too cold out to call it quits,
you say out loud.
spring is a better season
for this, trust me. I know.

remember when

her memory had been
fogged
by innumerous bong hits over
the decades.
not a dead head,
following jerry and the boys
around the world,
but someone who liked to sleep
and eat
and make love in the cloud
of a happy drug.
it made her laugh and sway
to the music,
but sometimes she went to the window
to see if
the sirens she heard wailing
were for her,
stuffing her stash
under a sofa pillow.
sometimes she heard things that
weren't said.
she locked the doors
and checked them again.
it was difficult to join
in when someone said
remember when. the remember
when part of her brain was gone.
long gone, erased gently
away with smoke,
but she was happy, a creased
smile crossed her face
as she rolled another joint
sealing it with a long
expert lick.

flowers and a card

you get the call
that an elderly aunt has died.
the aunt no one really knew.
was she in philly still,
or jersey.
a decision
has to be made
do you go to the funeral
or stay home.
we toss it around.
say things like who really
knew her. when did she ever
call or send a card.
isn't she married now?
have kids of her own.
did she work?
we know nothing about her.
as she knew nothing
about us. it's been decades
since you've seen her,
but still,
this card in hand, this
notice of death asks
for something to be done.
flowers? you suggest.
yes. she says, flowers.
and a card. roses?

bring the truck

it's the click click
click
of the dead battery
in the cold morning,
that makes you think
of other things besides
love
and desire.
you try again, hitting
the pedal
for gas, but nothing.
a whir then silence.
you sit there.
the frost is etched
across the window.
a bloom of your
breath opens an oval view
of street
and bare trees,
the lines of black wire.
you wait, as if waiting
is the cure
for all things
mechanical.
you turn the key, still
nothing.
you've done all you can
do but make
the call, to bring a truck
to save you.

it's going to rain

it's going to rain.
look at the sky, how low
and grey it is.
the wind
has picked up, the leaves
have curled.
take this umbrella
with you. these boots,
they'll fit.
put them on.
call me when you get home.
hurry.
before it starts
to pour.
I made you a dish too.
take it.
it's still warm, you
can eat when you
get home. but wait,
you're forgetting something,
kiss me
before you go.

apartness

how easily
she sleeps. unburdened
by love.
distant and aloof
in her dreams,
not unlike when she's
awake
and kneeling in her
garden.
she tells you to dig
a long carved
row
for her French drain.
push the wheel
barrow full of stones
to the top
and pour.
she leaves you alone
at night.
it confuses her, this thing
she's stuck in.
keeping a pen
and paper nearby on
the nightstand,
for things
to do to keep us
apart and tired, to
keep us unglued.

it starts now

no, I say. no.
I don't want to download
your poetry
your photos of you,
your dog
and your children.
I don't want to meet
them either.
spare me the politeness
I must show
to be in this
relationship with you.
don't send me
your wishes, your favorites,
your likes.
just come as you are.
bring no one.
I have no desire to know
the history of you.
ours begins now, day one,
year one.
the world we're in
starts now.

waiting on tomorrow

someone
asks you about tomorrow.
but tomorrow seems so far off.
so far away,
you wonder if it will
even get here.
you're non committal
about the next day.
you say, let's see,
let's wait
before we decide on
tomorrow. we have time.
let's decide when
it gets here, if it ever
does.

gambling fever

you slowly tear up
the five dollars worth of lottery
tickets that you purchased
for the big drawing
and toss the scraps into
the fire.
your luck has not run dry,
it's never even trickled
to begin with.
you didn't have one single
number that matched any
of the numbers chosen.
this tells you something.
gambling isn't in your blood.
you've always been cautious
with even buying things
from a vending machine.
you wish you had the five dollars
back. the things you could
do with that money.
a grande gingerbread latte,
for example, with whipped cream.

another sister

a stranger who claims
to be another daughter from
your father
wants to friend you.
she looks like no one you know.
a different color,
a different race,
a different height and weight.
you see no resemblance
or dna connection with
anyone you are related to.
so you delete the request.
he did sail all seven seas,
so you do wonder if it's possible.
but life is stressful
enough with the siblings
you already have, why add another
to the mix.

shopped out

you feel like buying something.
but you don't know what.
there is nothing that you need.
and yet the urge to splurge
and purchase some useless thing
comes over you.
so you walk the stores with
a pocket full money hoping
against hope that you will
find something you can't live
without. but it's useless.
you go home and get online.
amazon, you browse for hours.
still nothing. you look at
red chairs. blue chairs.
pants, shoes, another tv.
but there is nothing you can
buy that you don't already have
in twos or threes. it's the end
of your shopping life
as you know it.

notes revisited

no sooner than you start
to clean out the desk,
the cluttered drawers of papers,
photos
postcards, loose ends,
you stop to read
a note once sent to you.
it's folded and placed
with value in a tin.
handwritten.
the ink still clean
and legible.
everything that is said
of importance is between
the lines.
why you didn't see it back
then, you aren't sure.
but you were blind to much
of life those days.
quick to turn the page,
move on to the next whim,
but now you see
her love for you,
her willingness
to let you be you,
go past the point of just
being friends. it's so clear
now what you didn't
see then.

press on

it's disturbing
this
thing called death
and dying.
ignored for as long
as possibly,
it suddenly
is in the room, taking
the busy hands
of others
that you've known
and loved
and walking off with
them.
there is less than
little
you can do, but press
on in the quiet
of your day,
pretend to imagine
that it could never
happen to you.

without words

without words
what are you, a bird without
wings,
a fish
on land.
a night of sleep
without a dream.
you need these words.
these seeds
of thought, but more
than that
you need the rain
of others
to bring them through
the hard earth,
to make them
rise up.

so it goes

what little chance there is
in changing things,
the room arranged
and left as desired.
a place for everything
and everything in its
place as is often said.
the colors chosen took time.
it would be strange
to move that chair
into the light or to
hang the black
and white photo on
a different wall.
things have landed where
they should be, or where
life feels right.
so it goes.

the meeting

your boss, who is you,
gives you the day off on Friday.
take a day off
you tell yourself
when you sit down at your desk.
these meetings worry
you. you never know when
the axe might fall.
go ahead, you deserve it,
you tell yourself.
go to a movie, sleep late.
you've had a good year.
you've worked so hard,
but, you say, maybe not.
maybe I need to go in.
I have bills to pay.
who will feed me, take care
of me. I need to press on,
I need to stay ahead
of things. I can't let
this all slip away
and end up in a box behind
the liquor store.
i'll rest on sunday, but
thanks just the same.

upstream

the limp of almost love
comes to her
every now and then.
she swims upstream
kicking her small feet,
one arm over the other
while he waits on the shore
for her with a cold drink
in hand, a blanket to
keep her warm. trying
still to win her over
with what he thinks she
needs. trying to say
the right things, but
knowing all along.
it won't last. the only
mystery being would be
the first to leave.

both small and fierce

her shoes were so tight
that she took
them off n the way to see
king lear.
the pavement was hot,
broken glass
and cigarettes still
burning were in her path,
she dodged them
in her dress with short
hop scotch hops.
dangling her dainty
heels in one hand.
you didn't know what to
make of her. both small
and fierce
as Shakespeare liked
to say.

four men

four boys,
four men. four of them.
neatly
tied to your own
life, now
gone. just the memory
of who they were
to you remains, how could
you know otherwise.
it's all you have to go
on.
you feel the space
where they once stood,
hear the silence
of their voices.
you can see them,
no need name their
names. they know.
you know. your world
without them
can't be the same.

the other side

you've done so
while driving,
at work.
standing in line.
in bed.
on the phone, walking
through
the woods.
the sand. rarely
in the presence
of others. what shame
there would be
in showing that.
broken and awash
in tears. but
how sweet it is to
finally break
and cry, to get
to that other
side.