child proof cap

could you
help me open this bottle,
she asks,
struggling
to turn the white cap
on the child
proof brown bottle.
I can't get it open.
she's using pliers
and a screw
driver, banging it
against
the side of the bathroom
sink.
the pills, rattle
in their red jackets.
do we have a saw,
or gunpowder?
push and twist I tell
her.
she curses and begins
to cry.
I need these pills in
me, now. if I don't
take two of these
in the next few minutes
i'm going to go
crazy.
you won't like me if
i'm crazy.
here, throw me the bottle
quick.

penmanship

she writes the check
while leaning
against
her new Mercedes
in front of the fountain
along the cobblestone
circular
driveway
in front of her hundred
year old
mansion.
it bounces.
so much of what seems
real.
isn't, but her
penmanship is
stellar.

penmanship

she writes the check
while leaning
against
her new Mercedes
in front of the fountain
along the cobblestone
circular
driveway
in front of her hundred
year old
mansion.
it bounces.
so much of what seems
real.
isn't, but her
penmanship is
stellar.

unlost

surprised
by finding the book

I thought I'd lost,
I hold it in my hand

and turn to the page
I've bookmarked.

the words are still true,
still make me smile.

old friends are like that
when they turn up again.

unlost

surprised
by finding the book

I thought I'd lost,
I hold it in my hand

and turn to the page
I've bookmarked.

the words are still true,
still make me smile.

old friends are like that
when they turn up again.

the office job

you never made
the corner office.
you either quit or got fired
again
before you left
the maze of
mice cubicles.
there was very little cheese
to chase,
hard to break
the shackles
around your ankle.
you parked your car in the far
end of the football sized
lot, near
the trees.
not a window opened.
everyone was sick with something.
mostly fear.
but there was coffee,
there was happy hour,
the company picnic.
the new secretary at the front
desk,
who winked whenever
you passed her by.
the walls were painted a muted
mauve.
it kept us calm, I suppose,
not ever throwing
a chair
or a boss out the window.
we were sedated
by keyboards and tight shirts
with ties. by the quiet rugs,
the hum of the ac,
donuts on the counter
brought in by bill, or marge.
company spies.

the office job

you never made
the corner office.
you either quit or got fired
again
before you left
the maze of
mice cubicles.
there was very little cheese
to chase,
hard to break
the shackles
around your ankle.
you parked your car in the far
end of the football sized
lot, near
the trees.
not a window opened.
everyone was sick with something.
mostly fear.
but there was coffee,
there was happy hour,
the company picnic.
the new secretary at the front
desk,
who winked whenever
you passed her by.
the walls were painted a muted
mauve.
it kept us calm, I suppose,
not ever throwing
a chair
or a boss out the window.
we were sedated
by keyboards and tight shirts
with ties. by the quiet rugs,
the hum of the ac,
donuts on the counter
brought in by bill, or marge.
company spies.

the grandparents

the children in his
and her lap
are punctuation
points, fat pink faces,
full of new life,
balloons ready to take
flight.
the pictures, the pictures.
so many, on the left
knee,
now on the right.
there is closure to this
life.
fat babies
help to ease one into
that good
night.

down to the marrow

hardly a day
passes without unburying
the bone
and chewing it
again.
she too, will find
hers
and go at it.
it's hard to leave it
alone,
under the dirt
of love,
the ground of time
and effort
to rid yourself
of resentment
and anger.
together, in separate
rooms,
in chairs
that face the window,
because outside
is the unknown, which
for the moment
seems better
than this, you both
sit
and chew, down to
the marrow.

keep moving

I understand
now,
the rotation of the earth,
the spin
on its axis.
how the sun moves,
the moon
in orbit.
us revolving, never
stopping.
how even the galaxies
are twisting
in the black sky.
this tells me
something.
motion is the key.
keep moving.

keep moving

I understand
now,
the rotation of the earth,
the spin
on its axis.
how the sun moves,
the moon
in orbit.
us revolving, never
stopping.
how even the galaxies
are twisting
in the black sky.
this tells me
something.
motion is the key.
keep moving.

going home

make a left
at the light you're told,
as you fall
into something like sleep,
but different,
then go about a mile,
turn right.
from there it's just
a short
half block
to where she lives.
she's waiting.
she'll be on the porch,
with her dog,
she'll be wearing shorts
and sneakers.
when you get there,
you will too.
the sun will be shining.
the street will
be full of all
the children that you've
known. stop there.
you're home.

going home

make a left
at the light you're told,
as you fall
into something like sleep,
but different,
then go about a mile,
turn right.
from there it's just
a short
half block
to where she lives.
she's waiting.
she'll be on the porch,
with her dog,
she'll be wearing shorts
and sneakers.
when you get there,
you will too.
the sun will be shining.
the street will
be full of all
the children that you've
known. stop there.
you're home.

marital discord

you've locked your keys
inside the car so you stand
outside in the rain
and wind with a bent clothes hanger
trying to get in.
you explain to everyone
who passes by what happened.
my keys, you say, they're in there.
i'm locked out.
your wife, sitting inside,
talking on her phone,
keeps knocking
the loop off the lock
just as you lasso it,
keeping you from
opening the door.
apparently, she's mad again,
about something.

marital discord

you've locked your keys
inside the car so you stand
outside in the rain
and wind with a bent clothes hanger
trying to get in.
you explain to everyone
who passes by what happened.
my keys, you say, they're in there.
i'm locked out.
your wife, sitting inside,
talking on her phone,
keeps knocking
the loop off the lock
just as you lasso it,
keeping you from
opening the door.
apparently, she's mad again,
about something.

less in love

her beauty is
less important now.
the spark
of love
having waned, almost
gone out.
those green soft eyes,
the dark hair.
the freckles
of her youth still
there
means nothing,
not anymore,
the distance
of miles and time
have filled the space
that was there.

less in love

her beauty is
less important now.
the spark
of love
having waned, almost
gone out.
those green soft eyes,
the dark hair.
the freckles
of her youth still
there
means nothing,
not anymore,
the distance
of miles and time
have filled the space
that was there.

fat mice

the mice are into
the grain.
your grain.
the oats you keep
in the upper
bin, the one minute
quick cook
quaker oats
that pulled you through
the long winter.
they are quiet
and kind mice.
taking only what
they need.
which is everything
apparently.
how fat they must be,
almost unable,
once it's all gone,
to find the hole
and leave.

fat mice

the mice are into
the grain.
your grain.
the oats you keep
in the upper
bin, the one minute
quick cook
quaker oats
that pulled you through
the long winter.
they are quiet
and kind mice.
taking only what
they need.
which is everything
apparently.
how fat they must be,
almost unable,
once it's all gone,
to find the hole
and leave.

the green parade

the st. patty's day
parade
winds noisily down
the street,
drums and drinking,
the wheezing honk of
bagpipes.
plaid skirts and kilts,
green beer
already
on the lips of red
faced
burly men
and irish girls
who want to be kissed.
the drug stores
are nearly
out of aspirin
and it has just begun.

the green parade

the st. patty's day
parade
winds noisily down
the street,
drums and drinking,
the wheezing honk of
bagpipes.
plaid skirts and kilts,
green beer
already
on the lips of red
faced
burly men
and irish girls
who want to be kissed.
the drug stores
are nearly
out of aspirin
and it has just begun.

make love not war

you missed
going to war. it was close.
but the war
was ending
and you were hardly qualified
with your long
hair, your white coat
hypertension
and trick knee.
not to mention your penchant
for wine
and weed, as well as
your pathological
fear of dying
or being maimed in a jungle
by sharp objects.
you were only nineteen,
but hardly a good match,
the army and you.
green is not your color
to begin with.
you'd be a general by now,
you imagine, or
an admiral with your own
fleet of ships,
which might have been fun,
traveling the world,
still wearing your bell
bottoms and getting
a nice tan up
on deck with mary lou
a second lieutenant.

being liked

light on your feet,
you do a little tap dance.
she likes it. she claps
her hands
and lets out a squeal.
she's easily
amused by your
foolishness.
you tell a few jokes,
make some balloon
animals.
you sing a song
while strumming
a ukulele.
she's giddy with joy
over your talents.
how easy
three year olds are
to like you.

being liked

light on your feet,
you do a little tap dance.
she likes it. she claps
her hands
and lets out a squeal.
she's easily
amused by your
foolishness.
you tell a few jokes,
make some balloon
animals.
you sing a song
while strumming
a ukulele.
she's giddy with joy
over your talents.
how easy
three year olds are
to like you.

the badger 9000

you purchase
the badger 9000 garbage
disposal.
it's big, it's strong,
it's a woman
from the Ukraine.
it has the ability
and horsepower
to pull
a water skier across
the Chesapeake bay.
it can chew up
chicken bones,
turkey legs, wedding rings,
metal spoons, even
your neighbor's tray
of tuna surprise,
including the aluminum
pan
she carried it
over in.
you love your badger
9000, you are no longer worried
about the celery
you chopped up for your dinner
party,
clogging up the works,
stopping the whole thing,
making you find and push
that little red button
on the bottom
to reboot itself.
you may even take a picture
of it with
your phone and post it
on facebook.
she's wonderful.

all of that

there is plenty of time
to do all
the things you need to do.
why worry.
why make lists,
tie strings around
your fingers to remind
you of what's next.
set the book aside.
the dusting,
the work call.
the hand written reply.
there is tomorrow
and all the days that
follow that.
relax. take it easy.
you have time, time
to do nothing
and when you get to it,
all of that.

all of that

there is plenty of time
to do all
the things you need to do.
why worry.
why make lists,
tie strings around
your fingers to remind
you of what's next.
set the book aside.
the dusting,
the work call.
the hand written reply.
there is tomorrow
and all the days that
follow that.
relax. take it easy.
you have time, time
to do nothing
and when you get to it,
all of that.

your wounds

it's a small
cut. an insult
better left
alone.
a slight wound that
drips
blood,
leaves a dotted
path
left by your
hand.
on the floor,
the steps,
to the sheets.
you take your wounds
with you.
even into
sleep.

your wounds

it's a small
cut. an insult
better left
alone.
a slight wound that
drips
blood,
leaves a dotted
path
left by your
hand.
on the floor,
the steps,
to the sheets.
you take your wounds
with you.
even into
sleep.

bone white

the bones
of trees are embraced
by ice
turned
white. the world
is a glass
ball you want to
shake
warm
and dry, bring
a yellow
sun
to it.

bone white

the bones
of trees are embraced
by ice
turned
white. the world
is a glass
ball you want to
shake
warm
and dry, bring
a yellow
sun
to it.

what did i do?

you don't know why
the Indians
are chasing you. hollering,
whooping it up, shooting
arrows. some with
flames as you ride
at full gallop towards
town.
you did nothing to harm
them.
never once said a bad
word
about any of them. and yet
here you are with
an arrow
sticking out of your arm.
dodging tommy hawks.
it hurts.
there's blood. you can
barely look at the arrow,
though
the end of the arrow
is very pretty.
it looks like
they used bird feathers
to make it, very detailed
construction.
but,
why are they so angry
and taking it out
on you.
you're just a cowboy
on the range eating beef
jerky and minding your
own business,
doing the cowboy things
you do.

the empty glass

the blues
coming out of the zoo
bar
are for the zoo girl
who lived
in the apartment above
for many years.
she packed her
bags and left.
listen to the sax,
that tells
the whole story.
the soft tap of the snare
drum,
the deep pluck
of bass strings.
the stool with her name
on it
spins empty.
the glass she drank
from
too.
her lovers are gone
as well,
each to some other place,
taking
so much of her
with them, but the blues
in her sanctuary
play on.

the empty glass

the blues
coming out of the zoo
bar
are for the zoo girl
who lived
in the apartment above
for many years.
she packed her
bags and left.
listen to the sax,
that tells
the whole story.
the soft tap of the snare
drum,
the deep pluck
of bass strings.
the stool with her name
on it
spins empty.
the glass she drank
from
too.
her lovers are gone
as well,
each to some other place,
taking
so much of her
with them, but the blues
in her sanctuary
play on.

the new man

the new door man
is different. sure, he's
wearing the same suit,
a deep red,
the brocade of gold
braids
looping across his shoulders,
the glimmer of brass buttons
adorning his long coat.
he tilts his hat,
its shiny black brim
with a similar
motion, but he's not
the old door man,
he's not the guy who
said hello
using your name, telling
you the weather
as you left the building
each morning.
he's short and squat,
unlike
the other man, having
already forgotten his name.
but he was tall
and slender.
dapper in his boots.
quick to smile, always knowing
what or what not
to say.
there is no news on what
happened, why
the change. was it death
or illness,
perhaps he's working
somewhere else, or bored
from the task
at hand.
how fast things change
when we get
used to them, nothing
ever staying the same.

she's a green girl

green is her color.
apple
green.
leaf or grass.
the green
the sea is in the summer.
algae or
seaweed,
tinted green
like bottled glass.
her eyes are green.
she's green
with envy.
jealous. full of a
deep dark delicious
green.
spinach green.
celery.
she's all greens
in one.
rising from the earth
watered
and basking
in a glorious
morning sun.

she's a green girl

green is her color.
apple
green.
leaf or grass.
the green
the sea is in the summer.
algae or
seaweed,
tinted green
like bottled glass.
her eyes are green.
she's green
with envy.
jealous. full of a
deep dark delicious
green.
spinach green.
celery.
she's all greens
in one.
rising from the earth
watered
and basking
in a glorious
morning sun.

the old paper

in short wet strips
the wallpaper slowly comes down
under the weight of
a broad knife
and my arm and wrist
that push it away from
the wall. red and blue
paper with small white anchors
wraps around the room.
a nautical theme prevails.
thus the stuffed fish
on the mantle,
the oak steering wheel
hanging over the window.
a good idea at the time,
in nineteen eighty four.
how quickly the bags fill.
the walls turning a milky
white, ready for what's
next.

the old paper

in short wet strips
the wallpaper slowly comes down
under the weight of
a broad knife
and my arm and wrist
that push it away from
the wall. red and blue
paper with small white anchors
wraps around the room.
a nautical theme prevails.
thus the stuffed fish
on the mantle,
the oak steering wheel
hanging over the window.
a good idea at the time,
in nineteen eighty four.
how quickly the bags fill.
the walls turning a milky
white, ready for what's
next.

the dog pile

it's hard to throw things away.
take this
book I've never read,
the one about
the girl and dragon or
some such thing,
or the shades of grey
trilogy
sitting on the shelf
next to dantes
inferno, Hemmingway's
moveable feast.
I could start my own
bonfire,
starting with the da
vinci code,
or any number of sequels
about sharks,
about celebrities
who've already
told their life stories
at the age of 30.
how I came to own
these books and place
them on the shelf is
beyond me. gifts?
perhaps, or a weak moment
while going through
the dog pile at the front
of the book store.

the dog pile

it's hard to throw things away.
take this
book I've never read,
the one about
the girl and dragon or
some such thing,
or the shades of grey
trilogy
sitting on the shelf
next to dantes
inferno, Hemmingway's
moveable feast.
I could start my own
bonfire,
starting with the da
vinci code,
or any number of sequels
about sharks,
about celebrities
who've already
told their life stories
at the age of 30.
how I came to own
these books and place
them on the shelf is
beyond me. gifts?
perhaps, or a weak moment
while going through
the dog pile at the front
of the book store.

the debate

the debate tells
you something. tells you
a lot about where we are
as a civilization.
it's an epiphany of
sorts.
we are lost
and dumb. we are helplessly
wandering
this land
of consumption
and entertainment.
we've lost our way
and we want these leaders
that reflect the whole,
to lead us
around the desert
that we've made. vote
left. vote right.
it doesn't matter.
everything will not stay
the same,
but become worse.

the debate

the debate tells
you something. tells you
a lot about where we are
as a civilization.
it's an epiphany of
sorts.
we are lost
and dumb. we are helplessly
wandering
this land
of consumption
and entertainment.
we've lost our way
and we want these leaders
that reflect the whole,
to lead us
around the desert
that we've made. vote
left. vote right.
it doesn't matter.
everything will not stay
the same,
but become worse.

the honeysuckle path

it's the vague sweet
smell of honey suckle
that grew wild
in the tangled path
that separated duplexes
from apartments
that takes
you there again,
how you pulled off the slender
white stem
and sucked the nectar
from the yellow flower.
you are still a boy.
still running
through the path
as night falls,
scared of where your
feet might fall,
afraid of what might
be on the other side,
but taking time still
for honeysuckle,
to taste and ease
your mind.

the honeysuckle path

it's the vague sweet
smell of honey suckle
that grew wild
in the tangled path
that separated duplexes
from apartments
that takes
you there again,
how you pulled off the slender
white stem
and sucked the nectar
from the yellow flower.
you are still a boy.
still running
through the path
as night falls,
scared of where your
feet might fall,
afraid of what might
be on the other side,
but taking time still
for honeysuckle,
to taste and ease
your mind.

closing in

the circle
of your mother's life
is getting smaller,
her mind
as soft as the dough
she used to roll
and cut
to make gnocchi.
no longer in her kitchen,
at the red sauce,
no parakeet
green and blue
in the cage whistling
to her whistle,
the laminated list
of numbers hung by the phone,
going unused. how quickly
all her needs
are met now.
a window
a stool, a plate
of food.

small things

you hardly notice,
but you hear the click.
it's just a small leak.
a drip
from an old pipe,
curved and rusted
at the bottom.
the water
falls softly into
the pan
you've set there
overnight.
in the morning it's full.
the drips
have added up.
this tells you something
about small things.

meeting mr. zimmerman

you run into
bod Dylan on the street.
he's
not looking into anyone's
eyes. he seems to be
on his own,
a guitar on his back,
a tambourine in hand.
you stop him
and say hello.
he laughs and says do
I know you?
he acts like he doesn't
care much anymore,
as if things have changed.
it begins to rain,
a hard rain,
you offer him
your umbrella, but he says
no.
he prefers
to go inside when seeking
shelter
from a storm.
he rambles on, as he's
prone to do.
you can hardly understand
him, until you realize
he's singing
blowing in the wind.
you nod
as he pulls out his
harmonica
and begins to play,
he segues into Maggie's
farm
then rainy day woman,
after an hour or so, you
tell him you have to go,
he nods knowingly
and smiles
as you walk away.
you don't look back.

the white dust

the grammar police
are at your door, knocking
with a nightstick.
they have a list
of grievances.
your apostrophes with
it's, is listed,
misspellings abound.
who and whom are on there
too. your punctuation
is atrocious they say.
you peek out in your
tattered bathrobe,
pleading typos and drinking
for the cause
of them, but they'll have
none of that,
they come in and cuff you.
make you spit out your gum.
they take you down
to the old school house
where they punish you.
you bang erasers all day
against the wall
out by the dumpster,
choking on the white dust
of education.

the white dust

the grammar police
are at your door, knocking
with a nightstick.
they have a list
of grievances.
your apostrophes with
it's, is listed,
misspellings abound.
who and whom are on there
too. your punctuation
is atrocious they say.
you peek out in your
tattered bathrobe,
pleading typos and drinking
for the cause
of them, but they'll have
none of that,
they come in and cuff you.
make you spit out your gum.
they take you down
to the old school house
where they punish you.
you bang erasers all day
against the wall
out by the dumpster,
choking on the white dust
of education.

the game show

when jeopardy is on
you scream out the answers
before the other
nervously twitching
people do, sometimes
you get it right and other
times you have no
clue. but when you do
get an answer right
you dance around
the room crazily, making
your dog bark.
you mock the other contestants
and taunt them,
pointing at them
calling them out by
their names. take that
Sandra from Arkansas, or
eat dirt Joey
from West Virginia.
if it's a repeat, you
usually can do quite
well.

the bliss

the meaning of life
is that there may or may
not be
any meaning to it,
she says
in her most philosophical
voice.
you reply by saying.
hmmm.
did you know, she says,
tapping my arm
with her spoon that Abraham
Lincoln was probably
gay.
this surprises you, so you
say. really?
he was rather thin and dapper,
and liked the theater, so I
guess I can believe
that. he did spend a lot
of time around DuPont
circle once his wife's meds
kicked in and she went
to bed.
she continues.
there isn't just one God
but many.
she stirs her green tea
and throws back her
hair. do they know each other?
I ask.
do they get together
on Friday nights
and play poker? perhaps,
she says.
there is so much that we
don't know about everything.
I know, I tell her. I know.

to those in need

because you've worked
your entire life from the age
of twelve,
cutting grass, delivering
newspapers, collecting
bottles
for pennies and nickels
in return,
shoveling snow,
you have little
sympathy for those
who refuse
to work.
not the lame, the crippled
or insane
or otherwise
impossibly inept at making
their own way,
but those who can,
those who know how to read
and write,
who can do the simple math
of life.
work equals pay.
it's hard to get the call
from those you know
for money, for hand outs
to pay a bill overdue,
for gifts that you've struggled
so hard to obtain.
and yet the endless
enabling goes on.
so you write the check and send it.
guilt is a powerful thing
even when it's wrong.

equal wonder

in my mind
she's black and white,
the girl
who lived next door.
there is no
color to her face,
no green in the trees
of our childhood
together
sharing the same wall
from other sides.
how first love
never leaves you.
a still photo etched
in stone. it
stays with you from
first inhale
of wonder,
until the last breath
of equal
wonder.

the miracle of unbelief

his hands
still find their way
through the soft dirt,
still wet
and cold from old snow
finally
gone.
the seeds are the same
seeds he's felt
in his hand
since being a child
in nova scotia.
pushing them into the soil,
though no longer
seeing them.
the sun feels warm.
it's time to plant
his body says,
the blur of the world
is just a nuisance
to the task
at hand.
as the months go on,
he'll kneel
and feel the growth
of each new plant,
touching peppers
and tomatoes,
but still not believing
in God,
despite these miracles.

the break up

I can no longer be your friend,
she tells you
in a text message.
it happens every now and then.
you say okay, fine.
I completely understand.
i'll miss you.
i'll miss breaking up with
you in this strange
unworded way every six months
or so.
I wish you all the best
you type and she writes
the same thing back to you.

now you know

you see your old marriage
counselor
in the drug store. it's been nearly
twenty years
since she tried to save
your marriage.
it was not unlike calling
the fire department though
after the house
had burned down
to ashes. but she tried.
she tried and tried
until no one had the energy
to go on. you always felt
that she sided with your ex wife.
but you see her in the store
in line ahead of you.
you see her slip a pack of
gum into her pocket.
you see her stealing
this dollar thing. unflinching.
this makes you happy, knowing
who she really is.
and how it wasn't your fault
after all.

the land lord

if you had a land lord,
which you don't
you would give him hell
about the hot water.
how quickly it runs out.
the leak
beneath the sink, that
water stain
on the dining room ceiling.
you'd give him a call
in the early morning
and ask about the neighbor's
dog, is there a way
to muzzle the loud beast.
the tree in the yard,
over grown, the falling
of leaves.
if you had a land lord,
you'd complain about
the rent, the fees,
the way the key sticks
in the lock when the weather
changes. you'd be on him
to straighten things out,
to give you a better parking
spot. if you had a land lord.

her song

she could sing the kings
of England. and would proudly
do so, without being asked.
a song she learned in school
some eighty years ago.
off she'd go,
using her hands
as wands to stir her memory.
there was a rhyme to each
name, leading to
the next. her hand trembling
against the tea cup
still warm as you sat
across the table listening.
thinking of what you might
have for lunch.

diving for pennies

diving for pennies
all day
at the pool
is what you did
when young, when strong
and limber,
the chlorine turning your
eyes red,
your hair blonde.
the long
bones of you
going down, time and
time again
for a penny.
deeper
and deeper to where
the drain
looms against
the rough bottom,
painted sky
blue. how quiet and alone
you were
as your fingers
gripped the coin.
the chase is still on.

both small and fierce

on the way to see King Lear
she wore the tightest
of shoes.
white heels, if I remember
correctly, so tight
that they hurt me just to
look at her wounded
captured feet.
finally, walking down
the sidewalk through
the city, her long dress
hitting each curb,
she took the shoes off
and walked barefoot.
a braver soul than me, she was,
both small and fierce.

the cool down

no matter the chaos
and destruction he caused,
I could hardly chase
then strike
my dog with a rolled
up newspaper, though it was
hard to get him
out from behind the basement
couch to do so.
with the trash bag
in the kitchen
spread out all over the house,
my hat and sunglasses chewed
down to nothing,
he knew I needed
an hour to cool
down and then he'd slouch
up the stairs,
hop into my lap,
give me a lick
and smile.

what came before

each bite of food
reminds you of a past
bite,
each swallow, the same.
each kiss brings
a memory
in comparison to
a past kiss,
a past part or piece
of your life.
a love, or friend
gone away.
we judge today
on what happened
yesterday.
for better or worse,
we are made
of what came before.

stopping the game

I recall
how hot is was. august.
wild
kids roaming sticky
tarred streets.
bare fields of dust and weeds,
stick ball,
the cardboard bases,
flat leather gloves,
baseballs losing
their stitches,
and the white long
Cadillac ambulance
slowing at the house
nearby.
we stopped play to run to it.
there was a woman white as the sheets
that covered her being rolled
into the long car,
her red hair
even more red
in the high sun.
her legs up, knees
in the air.
men in white uniforms
doing something
behind the dark glass windows.
the whispers of adults
about a baby.
it was horrifying.
as young boys,
standing, staring.
aghast. we couldn't run
back to the field
fast enough
when the screaming stopped
and the low murmur of a baby's
cry came out.

unsolved

the puzzle
of you is less crossword
and more
rubically cubed.
hard
to align
the colors all on
one side,
to see the true
shade of you.
I spin and spin
with
no end. no clue.
but you
like it that way,
keeping me
confused, off balance,
seeking
always to solve
the mystery of you.

and if elected

what's the point
of the do not call list
if they keep calling,
no matter how many
times you register your numbers,
again and again,
they keep calling,
asking if you have any
clothes.
do you need to refinance,
do you need
a walk in tub,
a catheter,
a walker, new windows,
your carpet cleaned?
do you need a tooth implant,
do you have
a car to give away?
can you give a donation
to the policeman's fund,
the firemen,
the veterans of
the last nine wars?
just a dime a day
will keep
this weepy eyed child
in diapers
and creamed
spinach. who would you
vote for
right now, today?
the answer being not a
verbal no one,
but a slamming down
of the phone, no one does
anything they promise
or say.

the roadside church

the church
with a modest steeple,
high enough to be reached,
is bordered
neatly by a milk white fence,
the old clapboards
tightened by
fresh nails,
holding things together
for another meeting.
spring daffodils
in bloom
planted in straight rows,
by one or two of the more
faithful
in the flock
are admired and praised
in the sunday
morning bulletin.
if you come early
enough you can have pancakes
and prayer, hot coffee,
fellowship with those
who are just like you.
the church stands
next to a hillside
cemetery that rolls
like new carpet out to
where the trees line
the road. it holds those
who've come and gone,
who once sat,
or slept soundly through
stale sermons
in the pews. the graves
are well kept,
both trimmed
and swept
of what the wind
brings forth.
it's a good church,
a pale mint green paint
adorning the walls,
the simple cross hanging
without blood
or Christ, or thorns.
no angry words
just the sweet sound
of a choir comes out
in the early morning.
it's a pleasant place to go
and worship,
to be saved,
to be found,
then go home.

the hard day

a hard day
finally wipes that smile
off her face.
don't talk to me, she says,
a deep frown
deepening with each word.
I've had a tough
day. you don't know
the trouble I've seen.
what I've been through today.
she's not amused when
you take out your violin
settle in a chair,
and begin to play.

the pressure

the grapes
pressed hard into wine.
the coal
after a millennium
squeezed
into diamonds,
the hand of God,
into you,
not all things
work
according
to science,
or religion,
occasionally things
go askew.

new light

the moon unravels
its silver
thread along the ruffled
edges
of trees
finding their new
way
becoming
their other selves
bleeding into green.
hard to imagine
a world
without hope or love
with a moon
like that
laying light upon
the land below.

the weather

you see the headline
of another mass shooting,
six dead,
twenty one wounded,
killer on the loose.
you turn the page towards
the weather.
sunny and bright,
an early spring day.
what is there to do,
but go out
and feel the sun upon
your face.

throwing a shoe

her life bed
is now
her death bed.
the ones who loved
her have gathered
around,
the ones who didn't
care so much,
are there too.
everyone takes a hand,
lays a kiss
upon her cheeks,
says a word or two
awkwardly about something,
making it brief.
she knows all of this,
and sees it taking place,
but can't say or do anything
about it
which at the moment
is the most
frustrating thing for
her, not the dying
part,
the phony sadness
part. if I only had
the strength to throw
something, like a shoe,
she thinks,
waiting for the end.

our faults

it's the broken
board at the bottom,
the one that creaks,
and cracks
as you step on it
each morning,
that you get used to.
what's wrong has
become normal
and natural. as
the screws loosen
the wood bends,
the slight gap between wall
and board
extends, you no longer
even think to make
right, you let
this little
thing go on.
not everything
in life
needs fixing.

that was quick

she tells you
she was stoned out of her mind
on her wedding day.
both her and the groom.
doing bong
hits in back of the limo.
their children
from other marriages trailing
behind in a mini van
driven
by a grandmother.
it was the best party ever,
she says. the band, the food,
the open bar.
we both got tattoos
pledging our love, she says,
pointing at a red
oozing wound on her arm.
it was going to be forever,
but once he lost
his job and cheated on me
with one of the bridesmaids,
it wasn't going
to work out.
I still have the wedding
cake in the freezer.
she rubs her arm
and looks into
the distance, at nothing
in particular. I think
he still has his, she says,
still rubbing
the wound.

how it's done

you jiggle the watch
to get the hands
spinning,
smack
the tv on the side
with a shoe
to stop
the horizontal lines
from moving. you
kick start
the stove
with a well aimed
foot,
bang on the window
to get it to rise,
let the car roll
down a hill to get it
started, pressing
the clutch, then gas.
to close the door
you slam, then push.
old technology
is the best.

on call

she says she is the cure
for your fever,
your sickness.
her bedside
manner will help you
through the night,
her whispered
words
of advice.
her hands are soft
as she explores
your ailments,
your wounds, your tired
bones,
your dry cough.
she's on duty,
twenty four seven,
an unregistered nurse
in white.

precious metals

the gold
you have is in your teeth,
in a small
band
you no longer wear.
silver too.
sprinkles of it
might be
in the metals
that you've kept
in drawers, small boxes,
keepsakes
that you've
forgotten about
or misplaced.
you are not panning
for gold
at this stage of life.
no kneeling
at the rivers edge
for something
shiny, someone bright.

the mermaid

it's unusual these days
to meet a mermaid.
but it happens.
I was fishing on the banks
of the river
the other day
when I snagged one
on the tail,
she swam in closer.
crying, shaking her wet
head of hair.
do you mind, she said,
could you get this
hook out of me.
you leaned over and cut
the line, then wiggled
the hook, with the worm
still in tact, out
of her scaly long
fish leg. sorry you said.
you had brought
a lunch, so you offered
her a tuna sandwich
and a pickle.
which she loved, perching
herself against some rocks.
you poured her a glass
of chardonnay from your
picnic basket and lingered,
talking until nearly dark.
you talked about what's it
like to be a fish,
a mermaid, half woman,
half flounder.
she opened your eyes to
a new world, an underwater
world that you
never knew about.
oh, the stories i could tell
she said, laughing
in a dolphin sort of sound.
she helped herself to
a bag of cookies that I
brought along then said,
I really must go. her long
green gold tail glimmered
in the vanishing sunlight
as she finally swam away,
but you are
optimistic for a second date.

your friend mr. lincoln

you reach into your pocket
and pull
out a five dollar bill.
the line is long,
out the door with
their breakfast
coupons. you
need to sit down
and eat,
have some juice,
you introduce your friend
mr. Lincoln to
the young girl
maître di,
waving the bill in front
of her. she arches
her eyebrows,
that are painted
on her face
like a kabuki doll.
she laughs and
looks around the room,
winks
and says booth
or bar.

could be worse

the bank wants your house.
your car
is on the back of a tow
truck
repossessed.
your ex wife
is going to the papers
with her memoir.
your dog has run away
without a note.
your son
and daughter have changed
their names.
it's been a bad week,
but there is always hope.
you have your
health, a suitcase
full of clothes,
and a stray cat
who loves you.

waiting for spring

a cup
of hot soup. chicken
noodle.
crackers crunched
and set
sail on a steamy
top.
how easy it is to
sit here
and not
want for anything,
but for spring
to come.

a thread

one thread, a thin
long piece
of fabric
pulled
and pulled
can bring the whole thing
apart.
best snip it,
or leave it
alone,
why cause trouble
with
the pulling
and wondering where
it ends.

the light bulb

I just need a package
of light bulbs, I tell the clerk,
who tries to run in the opposite
direction when he sees
me coming. he scratches his head
through his hat
and looks upwards
to where the lights flicker
in the big store.
fluorescent? he says,
three way? halogen?
what wattage are we looking
for sir. neon?
just a pack of light bulbs
for my lamp
at home I tell him.
it's a reading lamp.
LED? no.
I shape a box with my
empty hands, you know,
the waffle box that holds
two or four. i try to draw
in the air the curve
of what a light bulb looks like.
the screw in type? he says,
or the kind you plug
in? some save energy
and some don't he says. I
recommend those, I mean
if you care about the
environment at all.
I don't, I tell him.
I don't want the squiggly
kind either,
made of hard glass,
the kind that you can't throw
away in the regular trash.
or the kind that delays
in getting bright.
but they last for
five years, he says. no, I
just want a light bulb,
a regular light bulb,
a hundred watt light bulb,
i'll even settle
for sixty watts, or one
like Edison made. please,
just tell me where they are.
the clerk looks at his watch
and suddenly unties his orange
smock, i'm on break now,
my man, my shift
just ended, but
let me see if I can get
someone over here to help you.
don't move, I think jimmy
might be on the loading dock.

the chalk

you see a chalk outline
from last nights
crime on the street.
the soft lights
and squad cars
doing nothing
to calm
the self employed.
all the bullets casings
have been swept up.
the blood mopped.
bodies
taken where the bodies go.
it's just
the chalk now that remains.
white dust
blowing, waiting
for rain.

too pink

the pink kitchen
glows
like a sunrise,
a flower
in bloom, stings
your retinas.
it's a shiny
jelly bean of a room.
too bright, she says.
should we tone
it down
a tad,
let me show a chart
of whites
I offer,
putting on my
sunglasses
and dipping my hat.

breakfast

you don't normally eat
breakfast,
the most important meal
of the day,
but this morning you look
in the mirror
and surprisingly
appear a little slim.
you pinch your hips
and say hey,
how about some bacon
and eggs,
maybe a flap jack or two,
a pan of hash browns,
but you have none
of that
in the fridge.
perhaps one of those stale
scones
at the coffee shop
on the way in might do.
or a bagel with a smear
of cream cheese,
your stomach grumbles with
hunger, and then
you remember
that you still have that
bag of gummy
bears in the glove
compartment. fruit flavored.
so it's good.

every breath she takes

suspicious of her,
he keeps an ankle
bracelet on his wife.
tracks her every move,
every typed word
on every device
is his to examine
and peruse. he owns her
by money.
by house and home.
it's a tight leash.
no escape
from this love nest
of continuing gloom.

home movies

you like scary movies.
the ones
where a door knob
turns
and you whisper
to yourself don't go
in there.
the ones with
footsteps
in the attic,
the crazed child
of questionable
lineage sitting mute
in the cold tub,
you like the way
the sky grows
dark, the rain falls,
how doors close
and get locked on
their own. you feel
comfort in the fear
and turmoil of a dark
house full of moans
and cries.
branches scratching
at the window.
you like to be scared.
you called them
home movies,
as a child.

these moments

she lifts her dress
over her head.
the light is low,
a small lamp
in the hallway.
she is a shadow against
the wall,
the bed.
your shirt comes off.
your shoes
and pants,
you will make love
to her,
and she will
hold you in her arms
and say the things
you need to hear.
all of life
leads to these moments.
the rest lies
inbetween.

the future comes to you

the future comes to you,
as it often does
in small glimpses,
teaspoons of truth
telling you what's to be.
a harsh medicine
to swallow, but you
do. again and again.
you accept the illness
that life is, ever slipping
away, dying, despite
all efforts to detain it.
the future comes to you
as it often does
in small glimpses,
the difference now,
at this age, is that you
drink it gladly
with no remorse.

not a member

i don't like to join
anything.
don't even use the word join
around me.
i have never been a member
of the communist party,
or any other
political party,
especially these days.
i have burned my members only
polyester jacket
with snap buttons
on the shoulders.
don't say, can i join
you for coffee
tomorrow,
on Saturday. don't do that.
just say,
meet me for coffee.
i don't want to join hands
and sing
around the campfire.
i have renounced
all my membership cards,
from triple A,
to Costco,
to barnes and noble.
if i belonged to the springfield
country club,
i'd quit that too,
not that they would have
me.
my wallet is full
of membership cards.
every time i buy a slice
of bread
or a light bulb
from wegmans or
walgreens, they want to know
if i'm a member.
giant and safeway,
even balducci's with their
over priced
salad bar
want to see my card.
i renounce them all
from this day forward,
except the card to Regal
Cinema. i like movies.

the tax lady

my tax lady, Betty B.
likes to joke
around and say things like
I hope they don't
throw us in jail this year.
I laugh with clenched teeth,
having heard the joke
for twenty years now.
a calico cat is lying on the counter,
fat with kittens,
another is between my ankles,
rubbing it's arched
back, purring, pawing
at my shoelaces.
the place
smells of cat litter
and lysol.
there's a pot of folger's
brewing, a tower of white
paper cups beside it.
stirrers and sugar,
powdered cream. there's
a box of donuts on
the radiator. an empty water
cooler sits in the corner
with phone books on top of it.
the shades are down,
and the cubicles
are duct taped together
while tax preparers hunch
over calculators, smoking
cigarettes.
there's an old
water stain in the ceiling
from hurricane Hester.
you didn't get married again,
did you she asks,
looking over your books,
your receipts and paperwork.
nah, not this year, I tell
her. okay, she says, so I
assume that there are no
new dependents. not that I
know of I tell her.
it's all there, I say, pointing
at my year's worth of
paper. okay, she says.
see you in two weeks.
the cowbell over the door
clangs as I leave.

the wine expert

she sniffs the cork,
closing her eyes,
then takes a mouthful
of the small pour
the waiter has so carefully
measured out
in a tall glass, she
gargles the dollop
of wine,
sloshes it around
her tongue,
between her teeth,
makes a clucking noise,
sucking in her cheeks,
then spits it all out.
I love it she says,
leave the bottle.
you look at your white
shirt, speckled with
red wine.
it's all about her
these days.

bumble bee boy

when you teased
your sisters without mercy
at the age
of ten, there
so much to tease about,
the missing tooth,
the pig tails,
the chocolate
on their chin,
your mother couldn't
catch you
to beat you.
you were a bumble bee
of energy,
uncatchable.
she'd end up throwing
things at you.
a shoe,
a book, a rolling pin,
but it didn't slow
you down. under and over
the furniture
you'd go.
knowing you were safe
until your
father, if he decided
to, came home.

the land line

bored at times,
alone at home, nothing
on tv.
already in pajamas at
seven o'clock.
the web has been browsed,
nothing left
on amazon
that I need to buy.
friends, out of reach.
lovers not feeling
it tonight,
I take the call
on the landline
and strike up a conversation
with the window
man, the refinance
lady,
the chattering
children in india
selling prescription
drugs without
a prescription.
some don't mind the
talk. i ask them about
the products, then
veer off and ask
about politics, or
what their favorite
food might be.
did they see that new
movie by cohen brothers.
how's the family,
I ask. everyone good?

the revolving door

as a kid
you loved the revolving
door.
admired its
crazy
wedge of space,
turning heavily
as you pushed,
locked inside
the glass
cage.
how you could spin
and spin
around all
day
until your mother
grabbed
you by the ear
and yanked you
out. you loved
the revolving door,
but enough is
enough today.

the end of life as we know it

the flash flood
warning
beeps
on your phone.
the condo board
sends out a notice
to be careful
to stay inside,
if you have
plants or pets,
or an old person
living with you,
bring them in.
the weather girl
on tv
is running around
as if
her hair is on
fire. she's excited,
almost tripping in
her high heels.
the newsmen's
eyes
are wide open,
their mouths
unhinged with
impending doom.
the map of nine states
is colored
red. crimson. the color
of blood.
it's rain. it's wind.
exhale.
this too
shall pass.

monkey time

you never liked
monkeys in general.
or flying monkeys,
like the green witch had
and sent out
for nefarious purposes.
even the caged monkeys
didn't melt your
butter, the ones
in a zoo, given
free rein to do what
monkeys
and chimps do.
the screaming
and scratching, those
big brown eyes,
trying so hard
to be human,
but missing
that little smidgen
of chromosome or
something in the dna
chain
of goo. putting
them in a dress or
a pair of overalls,
says more about how
dumb we are,
less human
than we hoped to be.

tornado love

the tornado lifts your house
into the sky.
the green black jazz
of wispy clouds,
warm and full
of circular
violent wind.
is this how it ends,
you think
staring out the window
as your ex wife
rides past
on her bike, your dog
in a basket
in the back.
there goes a horse,
a cow, a crate of chickens.
it's a lovely ride,
fast and furious
as it takes you
higher and higher,
the lighting crashes
beside you.
the funnel of darkness
sucking up
all that you hold dear.
it could be dream,
it could be real.
you lean on the window
sill
and see a friend flying
by, you grab her hand
and pull her in.
you make a drink,
a bite to eat,
you kiss and fall in love.
you wait it out, hoping
to land
in a better
neighborhood from you started.

i want my money

your bank
refuses to give you
some of your money.
just fifty dollars.
the atm is jammed
with a screw driver.
the office is closed.
your account has been
frozen because of a clerical
error.
you think about
robbing it,
using a banana
under your shirt,
sticking the joint
up, just to get
a few dollars
to take your new
girl friend out on
the town. buy her a sandwich.
you plead with
the teller, but
he, in his giant
turban and long white
robes refuses,
he says no no.
you curse him through
the thick window,
yelling into
the vent. you tell him
it's your money,
that you've been banking
there for thirty years,
and you want some now.
he curses back
throwing his hands
into the air
and says something
about a goat.

things keep changing

things keep changing.
it's hard to keep up.
the new phone,
the smart tv.
the zip lock bag.
oatmeal in a minute?
windows ten, what happened
to eight and nine?
I need to write things down.
keep a list
on how to start my car,
synchronize
just about everything
I've plugged in.
what do I do with all my old
records?
how do I put my music
on a pod, or is it a pad.
I don't know.
these new bags
of beans,
upside down in the microwave,
three minutes,
but it blows the
fuse, I mean
the circuit breaker.
you see what I mean.
i'm dizzy from it all,
I can hardly
get the child proof
cap off a plastic
bottle of extra strength
Tylenol. where's my
son when I need him,
even he has changed.

what are you doing?

you see a plane
in the sky, circling.
writing letters with white
smoke. it's directly over
your house.
hey, it says. what
are you doing?
you quickly gather some
leaves
and branches, sticks,
gravel
and stones and write
out the words, not much,
you?

slim shoes

the new shoes
give me a blister
on my heel,
my big toe is smashed
tight
in the narrow
point.
slim shoes, who knew.
I hate these shoes
that I bought
online.
i'd like to send them
back,
but I already
threw the box out.
maybe I can leave
them on the front porch
and someone
will take them,
someone with smaller
feet,
a smaller big toe.

her tiara

i can't sleep, she says,
elbowing me in the middle
of the night.
is there any cake left?
she shakes my shoulder
and stares at me until i
open my eyes.
what, i mumble. what?
cake?
what time is it?
i was sleeping.
i'm going down to the kitchen
she says
putting on her
leopard print robe.
her tiara is tilted
on her head,
snagged in her hair.
can i get you anything?
no, i'm good.
but close the door
on your way down
and save me a piece.
and get that thing out
of your hair.

soon

better days
are coming. put your finger
to the wind,
your head to the ground,
the horses
of good news are coming.
no need to worry
anymore
about tomorrow.
it's coming, it's coming
fast and soon.
hear the thunder
of hooves,
the slashing of wind
as they cut
through air, galloping
across the great field.
better days are coming.
I promise you.

the things they know

why do they send
you these ads
for unasked products.
pills to sleep
pills to wake up, pills
to keep it up.
a cream to rid you
of liver spots.
places to retire
and die
in peace.
a phone with big numbers.
how do they know
these things
about you.
it's almost as if they're
peeking through
the window
as you go about your
life,
icing a knee,
struggling to open
a can of black beans.

the aging rose

the broken
neck of a long stemmed
rose, its petals
rusting,
sits awkwardly
in the drinking
glass
set near the window,
the weight of
beauty being too much
to bear
as it grew old.

the pack

there comes a time
when you leave the pack,
go off
on your own,
find your own way,
no longer led
down the same
path as all the others.
there is no
comfort in following,
in playing it
safe, being one of many
going over
the cliff of life.

the good bartender

I haven't seen you in a while
the bartender says,
setting a glass of gin
and tonic with a slice of
lime on the bar,
pushing it slowly in
your direction.
he throws a clear swizzle
stick in, against the jeweled
ice, tucks a napkin
under the wet glass.
where you been? he says,
throwing a bar rag over his
shoulder, leaning with
both hands against the polished
mahogany. you take a sip
and shake your head, thanks,
you tell him. he walks away.
he knows everything there is
to know, no need to say it.
he gives you a menu,
leaves you alone.

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?