new parts

the day may come
when you need a new arm
you get one.
a new leg,
a new heart.
it's already here,
these replacement parts.
all things gone
old,
made new again.
why are you looking
so happily at
me?

the dull knife

what good is a knife
that won't cut anymore,
dull
and cold
in the drawer. unused,
but kept,
as if it might
come back to life,
return as if magic,
sharpened
steel
once more. strange
how hard it is
to let go of
old friends, friends
you no longer
know.

out of work

out of work
he
makes
dinner,
does the laundry,
walks
the dogs.
but something
is missing.
love making
is less sweet,
talk is reserved
and short.
the conversations
have no
meat.
out of work,
he's someone
else,
unsure of who is,
the days linger,
the sunlight bleeds.
he needs an axe
in his hand,
he needs
to take down
trees.

the smart brother

your brother
was too smart. never
studying
a book,
never doing homework
or failing
to get an A on any test.
how hard he was
to live up to.
each teacher scolding
your B's and C's
thinking you were lazy
or dumb, so unlike
the first son.
it was this
that drove you
to beating
the tar out of him
with a pair of
boxing gloves
in the back yard one
sunny day.
but it didn't matter,
he's still smart
and you have no
desire to spar anymore
as you lug a lunch
box, wearing your work
boots
out the door.

flowers needing rain

her wrists were bruised.
rope marks.
a red welt on her neck.
she was
going places
I hadn't been.
wounded
and stretched.
the dark circles under her
eyes
look sinful
and empty,
unsatisfied.
a black spider
with no web left to weave.
she leaned on me
for something that
resembled loved,
but was darker
than that.
she needed pain,
unkindness, like
flowers needing
rain.

underwater

sore, from
a days work. I sink
into the tub.
hot as it can be.
lie in the soapy mix
of water
and bubbles.
the light off.
too tired
to read the wrinkled
new Yorker,
or the post.
too sleepy to bring
the phone in
to talk,
or email.
just lie back,
in the sudsy quiet
and soak,
a short, but sweet
reprieve.

thanks but no thanks

there are a lot of things
you'd rather not
do, it's taken this long
in your life
to finally say no
to many of them,
meeting parents or children,
holding a purse
while she tries on a dress
in the dressing room.
dancing,
going to a winery,
or the gold cup. charades,
just to name a few.
no to
the lifetime channel.
you'd rather not meet all
of her friends,
or sleep over, or eat
kale or carob. no thanks
to the camping trip,
or fishing, or hunting,
or spelunking.
go hop in the hot air balloon,
but not me.
it's taken a while, but
it's so easy to say
thanks, but no thanks, now.

unearthed

unearthed, this
cracked plate, this jagged
piece of blue china,
mud caked,
time worn, dimpled with
bites of winter
and sun,
has a story.
as does your own life,
chipped and used,
faded,
but kept clean
and ready,
stacked in the cupboard,
waiting for
someone with careful hands

to use, perhaps by
someone like you.

an almost full moon

she slips away
to Baltimore. a slow drive,
her hands
on the wheel,
sunglasses perched,
prim and proper
as always, her map
leading her
down 95. after window
shopping, and lunch,
she finds the time
for church.
for kneeling,
and prayer, offering one
for you. bundled
tight
she walks alone
past the moored ships,
the cobbled stone,
feeling the glow
of an almost full moon
bright as silver
in the cold harbor air.

morning coffee

the child
with a crayon
pressed hard
in her pink hand, her hair
a tangle
of blonde,
her small blue eyes
against pale skin are
gems in the light
of this morning.
her mother
beside her, not crying,
but anguished,
talking on the phone,
the girl
writing on the table,
her ears open,
her heart
closing.
you finish your coffee
and wander off
to your own life,
calling your
son as you head home.

the quiet dead

like grey sand
the snow
is there in smooth piles,
unvanquished
by sun
and a light breeze that
moves
thin branches
of ancient trees,
wet flags
nearly dried and hanging
at the gate
to the cemetery.
the dead are quiet today.
much of what was
known of them is unknown.
we walk the muddied
trail around.
reading the headstones,
saying the names
out loud.
there are no benches,
no places with which to stop
and rest.
we trudge forward,
around the curve,
past the limestone,
the marble,
the rocks, back to the iron
gate
that shows us a way
out, for now.

peanut soup

you regret
the peanut soup,
so filling.
light brown and savory,
you dip in to
capture a thick
dollop
that is hot
on the spoon.
down it goes, the clink
of metal and porcelain
telling you sadly
you are at the end.
it's unpolite to lick
so you don't,
you set aside the cup,
making room
for the fried chicken
and potatoes as
a strong waitress
arrives,
you loosen your belt,
exhale,
go at it again.

be a sport

the stink of money
is upon them.
it's stuck to the bottom
of polished
black riding boots,
on the wheels
of their
fine cars.
it's in the sneer
of them,
the lineless tanned faces,
the straight noses.
it's between their teeth,
sharpened
with coin, white
as tusk.
it's green, this money.
lush and plentiful,
it grows on their
limbs
like new planted trees.
they never glance
about the room,
there is nowhere left that
they need to be,
they are already there.
arrived.
you, young man, be a sport.
bring me tea.

the massage

the woman
who you don't know by name,
has her hands
on you.
it's nearly dark in the room.
incense burns.
music, just a flute
sifts from a ceiling
vent.
she pours oil
and digs into your soul
with her palms,
her steel fingers.
you lay
naked under a thin
warm sheet.
slowly she kneads
the muscled
dough of you,
down to the softening bones.
tell me if it hurts, she says.
to which you
smile and whisper as
if to a lover, no,
go on.

at the inn

if you go there,
if you stumble
upon
the red fox inn,
down the road,
through the arches
of tree lined hills,
past the snow,
the stone fences
the burned out
mills
and homes,
if you go there,
where horses are in
the field,
where cattle graze,
where history began
and ended, where
the tombstones
smoothed by time
tilt above the dried bones
of revolutionary soldiers
just below
the ground,
if you're hungry
and need a place to rest,
to stay for
the night,
a place where soldiers
slept,
where lanterns swung
on chains, a day on horse
from the city,
if you drive and drive
down fifty,
you can stop there
and eat, put your boots up,
they'll take your coat,
your hat, then
drink, feast.

using the broom

the smoke alarm
tells you that dinner is ready.
you open a window,
turn on the fan,
crack the front door, and take
a dish towel to wave
the smoke out.
it takes awhile
for the nagging scream
to stop.
the thought crosses
your mind of hitting it with
a broom.
it's the same thought
you have when someone
you know
harshly reads
and criticizes
one of your perfectly written
poems.

the puzzle

this crossword puzzle
is hard,
I want to cheat
and look things up.
but the catholic
guilt in me would
be too much
to bear, so I press
on and scratch out,
erase and try
again. I plug
in words I don't even
know how to spell.
they almost fit.
i need one more word
to finish.
how can i not think
of a four letter word
meaning deep
affection, starting
with the letter
l and ending in e.
sometimes you have
to set it down
and wait until
tomorrow's paper
to get all the answers.

protection

at the end of the day
you take
off your armor,
heavy as it is,
set the helmet on a table,
the breast plate,
the shin guards,
the chain of metal
that drapes
your body.
you sit down
and rest. you have
survived another day.
but it's hard
carrying such weight.
maybe tomorrow
you'll go out
with nothing to
protect you, but fate.

slow horses

slow horses,
no gallop, no rider,
no whip
or circle to speed
around
those days of color
and sound
are gone
they graze in the field,
there is nowhere
they need to go.
these slow horses,
along the fence,
never looking up
to see who passes by,
they've seen enough.

troubles

this trouble
you bring with you.
I can see it in your hands.
in your eyes.
hardly a day
do you pick up that
weight
and lug it around
to show,
and parade.
no need to speak.
it's clear
where you've been
and where you plan
to stay.

reflex

reflex brings
the foot
up as the knee
is struck
by a mallet
just softly touched.
not unlike
how a kiss,
just one placed
softly upon
my lips gives rise
to passion.

it all falls away

it all falls away.
the tidy room, this house,
neat
and clean
shiny with wax and polish.
painted Parisian blue.
one child
and the curtains
matter less.
that tear in the wallpaper,
who cares now?
the tiles can stay
mud caked
for more than a day.
the shelves
can lose their order.
the phone can
ring.
one child changes
everything.

speaking of michelangelo

what women
were speaking of Michelangelo?
where did they go,
coming in and
out of the room.
what was in their hands.
were they
allowed to stop
and eat.
to rest.
did they know how they would
become
fixtures in
a famous poem,
were they dressed for the night,
or ready for
sleep, or better yet,
parading by
in less and less, tempting
the poet
to end
the writing and to go
upstairs
for the night.

her ironing room

a smudge of sun
is on the window.
the window
that faces
the woods. the window
in the room
where her ironing
board stood, her basket
of clothes.
her photos
still in the envelopes.
just a yellow
smudge of sunlight.
winter sun,
pale as lemon juice,
bright
as fog.
hardly any light at all,
as you stand in
the same room,
pressing a palm
against the pane
to feel how cold
you really are.

the learning

how smart you were
when young.
a thimble of thoughts
in your new
head.
an answer to every question.
a quick reply
and shrug.
how easy it was to
know nothing then.
how hard
to know so much now.

separate rooms

we don't talk now.
we pass each other
in the hall
on the way to the kitchen
or the bathroom.
we're polite
without kindness.
our feet are cold
on leaving.
we stay in
separate rooms.
the quiet meals alone,
the shared paper
left folded on
the table for when one
who hasn't read it
gets home.

the quiet day

you make no mark
on the calendar, no cake.
how could
a cake hold this many
candles. no reason
to take stock
of where you've been,
where you have
left to go.
no need
for song, or clapping.
no reason
to send a card,
or gift, just let it
pass
and be thankful
for a quiet day at last.

could be nothing

could be wind,
could be nothing up there,
rattling
on soft
feet. an animal
in from the cold,
a ghost or something
I ate.
I could be dreaming,
or awake,
the water of sleep
is like
that sometimes.
you here beside me,
rowing along
in your own darkness.

a new season

a blade of grass
would be nice to see.
a green leaf,
a flower
breaking free from
the rock
hard earth.
even a squirrel
in shades,
a panama hat, anything
to let me
know that a new
season
is on the way.

in the jump seat

when she flew
in, riding the jump seat,
her suitcase
for the weekend,
rolled behind her,
fifty pounds, at least.
how could
lingerie
and heels weigh so much.
you could barely
get it in or out of the trunk.
what's in here,
you asked,
what's making it so
heavy.
just my stuff, she said.
my things.
all the things you like.

the daily prayer

I hurt myself praying
the other day
for a husband
your friend linda tells you,
holding up her
arm, wrapped in a white
cast.
I was praying, kneeling
in St. Mary's
and fell asleep.
I hit my head on the pew
and rolled
onto the floor.
I twisted my arm
when it caught the shelf
where they keep
the hymnals and bibles.
an altar boy revived
me with a chalice of wine.
I can only pray now
with one hand up.
the other
is at my side on account
of the nerve damage.
still the same prayer?
yes, she says,
but i'm worried now,
with only one arm in use.

dime store

the dime store
had yellow tiled floors,
stairs with iron rails
going down.
a counter for grilled
cheese sandwiches
and shakes.
behind it a long mirror
where you could watch
yourself on a stool
spin around.
everything
anyone ever needed
in their life
was there. just ask,
and you'd be
led to the shelf
where it waited for
you to purchase and carry
it home in a brown
paper bag.

transport

as she lay
somewhere in the dark
basement corridor
of the hospital
beneath a cold sheet,
you sat upstairs with
her brother and sister
to iron out
the details of her
next move.
a truck would transport
her body to new Hampshire.
the grief counselor
said a few words.
nothing memorable.
cautious about bringing
God into this
whole thing.
what was there to say
anyways. but you remember
her using the word
transport, that stuck
with you
even through all
the grief.

suspect

half a cake
is gone. you go around
the room
to question
the suspects.
but it's only you.
you go to the mirror.
there are smears of icing
on your chin.
the belly
protrudes from
the layers of shirts
and sweaters.
there is a trail
of crumbs
from the kitchen
to the couch.
a fork, a spoon,
dishes, all with the hard
remains
of what was done.
empty glasses of milk
with your prints upon them.
you've narrowed it
down to one.

a slow walk

you see a bus
stop at the corner.
the word nowhere is
in the revolving
window of destinations.
it's a crowded bus.
people are standing,
hanging onto
the straps.
heaving to and fro
as the bus churns
forward, the air brakes
hiss and cough
as it comes to
a stop.
the driver motions
to you, asking if
you want to climb
aboard, but you shake
your head no.
you'd rather walk.

gym class

how hard
did they try to kill
children in junior high school,
very hard
is the answer.
take the pummel horse
for instance,
what child has run full
speed and leaped
over or onto one before,
who has climbed
a thirty foot rope
to the ceiling
of a gymnasium above
a hard wood floor
and nothing else, but
other skinny kids
who would run if you fell.
the parallel bars,
the trampoline,
the endless runs
around the back stops
and back,
the push ups,
the sit ups. murder
ball.
the crease marks on
your swollen face
as you showered
with the other flies
before English class,
knees bleeding,
still sweating, smelling
of cheap soap
and stale towels.

last stop

when mary
left that sort of ended
things
of a certain era.
you could always
ride by and see her curtains
pulled open.
the blue couch
the blue rug,
the cabinet tv,
besides
the curio.
the two candles
in the window.
you can't imagine
a world
without her being nearby.
but at ninety five
she had to
go.
Miami, she said.
taking the train,
the slow train with
two suit cases,
that's all.
I hate to fly.

the city rooster

across
the dirt yard,
your sister's rooster
would sit
atop
the corner of the chain
link fence,
near the plywood
club house
we built with nails
and cinder blocks,
and crow
as the sun came up.
people behind us
would yell out their
windows.
the police
would come
and ask about the rooster,
the chicken,
the dogs
and cats,
ignoring us,
the seven range free
children
roaming the house,
there was nothing to ask.

still alive

despite
the cigars and cheap beer.
even cheaper
wine.
the white bread
and cheese,
pepper and mayo,
not even
cancer can kill him.
he shrugs it
off,
lowers the heat,
burns the one bulb
over his
money,
never weeps.
everyone whispers
how is he,
still alive?
yes, you say.
permanently alive.

the color turquoise

your father buys
a turquoise Chevrolet
in ninety-fifty nine.
who buys that color
in any age?
it's the same year,
the same summer
that he rows his five
children
across an inlet
in Cape Cod Bay.
all of us in a leaky wooden
rowboat that he borrowed
without asking
from a neighbor
still in Boston.
Let's go get ice cream
he said.
and on we went, no life
jackets.
nothing to save us if
we tipped
or went down.
the photo of that day
has his car
in the background,
just washed and waxed.
not a dent, yet.
he looked sober
and shaven that morning
as he rowed us in his
white t shirt,
his shorts, he blue eyes
gleaming, his navy muscles
proving strong.
no one drowned.
the ice cream was cold
and sweet.
everything
there was to know
about him
was in that one photo.

a plea to God

it's not enough
to just hate snow, to curse
and moan
about the ice,
the shoveling,
the wind
the cold.
you have to go out into
it and throw
your arms into
the sky
and make a plea
to God to free you
from this madness.
you have to agree to
change your life,
and be a new person.
for what kind of a loving
deity allows
this to happen
again and again
to his faithful flock,
making us clean
the store shelves,
of milk and bread,
toilet paper, donuts,
both powdered
and chocolate.

fat moe

your little dog
thought he was
a big dog, his bark
sounded big,
his attitude,
the way he strutted about
the neighborhood,
fearless
and nosy.
he was a small
round tube of flesh
and bones, teeth
and tongue.
a crazy smart
low to the ground
megaphone barking
hound.
he had nine
lives and lived
them all,
shortening your one
by years.

love is funny like that

you throw it
into reverse,
then first,
you spin
your tires going
nowhere, you hit
the gas,
you rock it,
you curse.
again, from
first to reverse,
finally you catch
pavement
and off you two
go.
love is funny
like that.

valentine fear

someone carves
a heart into your front door
with a hatchet.
scratches out with a fork
I love you, not,
into the hood of your car.
there are so
many suspects
that you don't know where
to start.
you hide under
your bed.
there is still
another ten hours
left in the day.
not a flower bought,
a card sent,
not one solitary
piece of chocolate
delivered.
death awaits.

the senior home

they raise the rent on
your mother.
bump up
the fee another three
hundred large.
she's getting out
of control, they say.
walking and walking
all day and night
long.
she's got the energy
of a baby
squirrel.
darting from window
to door,
throughout the house,
entering
and leaving each room.
yesterday she picked up
a knife
in the kitchen.
we need more
help to keep an eye
on her.
three hundred a month
should take care
of it.

the short list

the plane
is delayed. so she gets
a pretzel,
a soda.
a sandwich. bored,
she writes a list
of things to do
when she gets home.
how to improve
her life,
herself. how to
enjoy and relax
and be a better person.
but she gets stuck
on the first
item,
break up with jimmy.
that will
improve everything.
nothing she can
think of
comes after that.

optimism

despite the splattering
of red sauce
on your white shirt
you still feel
dapper,
the tissue paper on
your shoe,
the spilled glass of
wine
across the table,
dripping onto her
new shoes,
the calling of your date
by the wrong name,
no problem,
you're still in
the game.
even when the credit
card comes back
as full,
and she has to pay.
you still got a shot
at wonderful end
to a valentine's day.
you're nothing if not
a positive
thinker.

her addiction

my name is Susie,
she says in the circle
of other women, some men.
I can't stop knitting.
all day long
i'm knitting, crocheting,
sewing something
together.
I think about knitting
all day.
I dream about it.
I see a pair of chopsticks
and my mouth waters
for yarn.
even sitting in this circle
makes me long
for the clinking
of needles,
the tri colored afghan
unfolding as I
knit one, pearl two.
I have a mountain of
scarves in my closet.
I hide mittens under
my bed. hats and pot
holders of all colors,
all stripes of the rainbow
litter my house.
I can't stop knitting.
my fingers are raw, look
at them. calloused
and curled.
my name is Susie
I need help.
please help me, thank you.

melons

wanting fresh fruit
in the dead of winter,
longing
for something sweet
and juicy,
you type the word melons
into your computer.
it's not the kind of melons
you expected though
that appear upon the screen.
there are no green
striped melons.
no cantaloupes
or seedless. not
a honey dew or
canary melon in sight.
after an hour or so
of searching.
you've forgotten about
fresh fruit, red and sweet,
ripe. you've fallen
into the rabbit hole
of this cyber life.

pull

as you feel
the whip hit your back
opening up old wounds
making new ones,
you pull the oar
towards you,
then away. the others
do the same.
all in a row,
shackled to their fate.
the ship moves on.
it's what we do,
to keep the world going
as it is.
we know no better way.
pull, the master
says. pull.

the winter games

a stick of
ice
falls from the stone
like tree,
a javelin of
frozen
water.
you see a squirrel
pick it up
and hurl it
through
the blue wintry
sky.
another uses
a pair of acorns
to shoot
down a slope
and rise as if on skis,
a third
holds a lit tossed
Winston, like
a torch into
the air. you can
almost hear
the cheers.

while waiting for carry out

she asks you to dance,
taking your hand
to move around the room.
from the white
speakers in the ceiling
a garbled Sinatra
dribbles out over plates
of spaghetti and glasses
of red wine.
slowly you move between
the tables,
inching your way
past waiters carrying
garden salads
and bread sticks.
you realize that she
is completely out of
her mind as she rests
her head on your shoulder
and calls you by
an unknown name.
you wonder
what hers is,
as the cashier
snaps his fingers to
tell you that your
order is ready.

baby in orange

the inmate, a women garbed
in an orange
maternity jump suit
comes in to the hospital.
three guards beside her.
guns on their hips.
she's in labor.
the water has broken.
they take her to a birthing
room, and she delivers
a ten pound baby
girl. the baby screams.
already angry.
the guards put her in
cuffs. wrap her in an
orange blanket.
read her her rights.
it will be a life long
sentence.

who we really are

she removes her blue
wig, sets it
on the mannequin head
beside the others,
takes her teeth out and lets
them drop into
a bubbling glass
of polident.
she unhinges a girdle,
peels off the stockings,
scrubs clean
an inch
of make up, using a small
trowel
and a green liquid gel.
then crawls into bed
and says hi sweetie.
love has a way
of accepting who we
really are.

another eight

you take a wrench
and tighten up
the screws on your legs.
your arms,
the giant bolt that sticks
out of your neck.
you stand and start with
the oil can,
each joint getting a full
squirt of black juice.
then the battery
charger, you swing open
the rust hatch
and hook up
the negative and positive
cables
to your heart,
it zaps you running.
you're good to go
for another eight.

the next flood

there is no talk
of sin,
no one says a word
about right
or wrong,
confession or
penance.
everything goes.
it's best to tie your
tongue
into a tight
knot
and nod, accepting
what we've
become, awaiting
the next flood
holding hands
as one.

the jellybean jar

she once
guessed exactly how many jelly
beans were in a jar.
she's told you about it
at least three times.
her life is divided
into two.
before the jar,
and after.
the wonder of it all
has not escaped her.
nor you.

the new pastor

pot bellied
with pie
and roast, the new pastor
greets each
member of his
flock at the door,
taking into his
hands
the offerings
of love
and taste.
he leans
onto the podium
and recites his practiced
sermon.
wondering less
about
redemption and sin,
and more about
tomorrow,
the roads untaken,
what life could have
been.

the offering

it's a dead
mouse, grey and soft,
a pelt
of ears
and bead eyes,
whiskers, thin black
lines,
the cat
drops him on your porch
at your feet.
a gift,
an offering.
we've come so far,
and yet we are still
untamed.
what I offer you
is no less
than this, but with
equal
meaning.

into the woods

the ice
holds my weight as I push
through
the brush and fallen
trees, broken branches,
the wintery dry stalks,
brown and blonde debris.
scattered birds
rise
as stumble forward.
off the path,
ignoring the signs.
I see a red fox lying low.
the park is not that big
and it's early still,
plenty of sun
and light
to keep me from getting
too lost
despite trying hard
to do so.

the big night

you make yourself a white
Russian
and put on your silk robe.
you are living large
as you slip into your slippers
and find your pipe.
you don't smoke, but you
like pretending that you do
on nights like this.
you go to the window
and see the lady next door
walking her dog.
you wave, she walks faster
and shakes her head.
it's Friday.
maybe something is on tv.
something that you
haven't seen.
you count out some bills
for the Chinese delivery guy.
no msg you told them on
the phone. spring rolls,
two tonight and some
duck. it's a that kind of
night. a night to splurge
and go wild. extra pancakes
and plum sauce, please.
you drop a cherry into
your drink, and laugh.
you sit back on your leather
sectional couch
and find the remote.
it's a wonderful life.

dizzy

I can hardly look at a ferris
wheel these days
without getting dizzy
and holding on
to the top of some nearby kid
licking a cone
of cotton candy.
this makes him scream,
and I stumble towards
the railing
to keep my balance.
the world is getting
harder and harder
to stand on, as old
age approaches. sometimes
the moon looks like
it might fly off it's hinges
and strike me.

becoming a saint

the ice keeps
you in. the forecast
of snow
and wind.
keeps you safe
and
alone,
a drink in hand,
a pizza
to be delivered later,
but virtually
without sin.
the weather has a way
of keeping
us good.
making us saints.

unpaid loans

you still have
the wooden box that you kept
your paper route
money in when you were a kid,
fifty years ago.
in ink
you've written all the loans
that you made to your family.
your mother still owes
you forty dollars,
your brother ten,
your sister fifteen.
no one has paid you back
and probably never will.
but you don't hold it
against them
despite opening the box
every now and then
and seeing your child
like hand writing
engrained forever
in the wood.

the end is near

you seem distant and aloof
lately, I tell my true love
as she applies a line
of mascara over and under
her green eyes. powdering
her nose
oh, she says. turning on
the sink water to muffle
whatever else I might
I have to say
about the state of our
relationship.
as I approach the bathroom,
with one bare foot, she
eases the door closed,
letting her dog in first,
i'm in here, she says.
a little privacy, please.
i'll be out in twenty
minutes. go read, or
something.

the worst of roads

it's a step forward,
a stumble
backwards for your lost friend
flush with money,
new shoes,
a pint of rail gin.
his bundled clothes
found the next morning
at his locked shelter door,
ignoring curfew
and sleeping
in a ten dollar bed
with a woman
he met on the street
and gave a light.
the rest was negotiable.
on the sauce
once more, he calls
and laughs. out of work again.
tragedy and comedy
so closely linked
as he struggles in the wind,
always
taking the easiest
and worst of roads.

a place to stop

a broken
string of pearls,
fallen from your hand,
sends each
smooth gem
off
to roll onto the floor,
finding a low
spot
with which to land
and roll no
more.
how we too,
are looking for
that place
to stop.

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.