unspent

unspent money,
the coin and paper saved.
scraps
of a life worked,
now turned
over to lawyers,
siblings,
a child,
as you slip into
the cold dug
dirt, a grave.
how carefully you kept
the balance
to the penny.
knowing how long it
would last, but in
the end
you take with you
what you started with,
which is
nothing, the time
has moved so fast.

unspent

unspent money,
the coin and paper saved.
scraps
of a life worked,
now turned
over to lawyers,
siblings,
a child,
as you slip into
the cold dug
dirt, a grave.
how carefully you kept
the balance
to the penny.
knowing how long it
would last, but in
the end
you take with you
what you started with,
which is
nothing, the time
has moved so fast.

proper english

it's hard to keep up
with the vernacular of our
time.
I just started using
off the chain
in regular conversation,
when I hear someone
say that they're living
off the grid. what's a grid?
I wonder.
I write this down in
a little notebook.
next to, she's so random,
and peace out.
it is what is is, I respond,
but that's old now.
hardly ever used
anymore, because it's
an empty string of meaningless
words.
people look at me,
shake their heads and walk
away.
I need to find a young
hipster to bring me
up to speed.

the morning

you're not a shallow person
in the morning.
you have lowered
your expectations not just
for her,
but you too.
it takes a while to regroup
after a night
of sleep
and extracurricular
activities.
cold water helps.
both drinking and a
shower.
coffee. silence is welcome.
it takes about two hours
before you
expect either one of you
to look human
again. unlike the rest
of the day,
you're not a shallow
person,
in the morning.

the morning

you're not a shallow person
in the morning.
you have lowered
your expectations not just
for her,
but you too.
it takes a while to regroup
after a night
of sleep
and extracurricular
activities.
cold water helps.
both drinking and a
shower.
coffee. silence is welcome.
it takes about two hours
before you
expect either one of you
to look human
again. unlike the rest
of the day,
you're not a shallow
person,
in the morning.

party time

the invitation
on a thick rich card
with raised letters in
gold ink,
expects a response.
one or two
guests?
any special food
requirements,
will you be staying
in town
overnight.
formal wear.
gowns and tuxes are required.
open bar,
sit down dinner.
the gift registry is
online.
crystal or silver
is preferred.
this makes you think about
your own cookout
on Saturday.
texting everyone with
a yo, come on
over, bring a dish
and a fork.
ribs and chicken,
brownies for dessert.
a keg and boxed wine.

party time

the invitation
on a thick rich card
with raised letters in
gold ink,
expects a response.
one or two
guests?
any special food
requirements,
will you be staying
in town
overnight.
formal wear.
gowns and tuxes are required.
open bar,
sit down dinner.
the gift registry is
online.
crystal or silver
is preferred.
this makes you think about
your own cookout
on Saturday.
texting everyone with
a yo, come on
over, bring a dish
and a fork.
ribs and chicken,
brownies for dessert.
a keg and boxed wine.

a light on

sleep comes easy.
it's the other hours of the day
that you find
hard.
the conversations,
the work
the needs you've decided upon.
sleep is a blessing.
a kind relief
from being who you
need to be
to keep things going,
food and shelter,
a light on
in the hall.

a light on

sleep comes easy.
it's the other hours of the day
that you find
hard.
the conversations,
the work
the needs you've decided upon.
sleep is a blessing.
a kind relief
from being who you
need to be
to keep things going,
food and shelter,
a light on
in the hall.

a place unlived in

how different is a house
unloved,
unkept, no curtains hung,
no paint
of any color
but white.
no rug spread below
the feet of chairs,
a table.
a simple sofa
beside the window.
how unlived in is the place
without
a kind hand
to hammer a nail
and center a picture
over the mantle.
winslow would do, or
just a vase
with fresh flowers.
at night without lights
you would think
it makes no difference,
but it does,
more so as you find
your way up
the dusty staircase.

not always

part indian,
part spanish, part horseradish,
part mustard.
german, I see that too
in her.
she's a club
sandwich.
a zesty treat of a girl.
this sparrow
sized siren who lies
between
the sheets,
the rye bread of my
bed.
dressed in the translucent
leafs of lettuce.
the indigestion later
is worth it,
but not always.

not always

part indian,
part spanish, part horseradish,
part mustard.
german, I see that too
in her.
she's a club
sandwich.
a zesty treat of a girl.
this sparrow
sized siren who lies
between
the sheets,
the rye bread of my
bed.
dressed in the translucent
leafs of lettuce.
the indigestion later
is worth it,
but not always.

buying fish

so many fish
so many fish, their cold
grey bodies, still
limp from the sea,
with flat eyes
in tact, unseeing
the ice
they lie in.
trout and cod,
rockfish, mackerel.
laid out in lines
with their own kind,
marked up or down
per size
and weight, freshness,
perhaps. you hope.
the date of capture a small
ink smudge on
a sticky tab.
you choose none of that
and buy
the clean cut of pink
salmon, palm sized,
farm or wild, matters little
to you.
you like to buy
food without eyes,
or heads
or the things within
them, still in place,
but now unused.

to skin a cat

while stroking his beard
he tells you with a wink,
a grin,
a grizzled smile, showing
his bad teeth,
his grey tongue
that there is more
than one way to skin a cat.
you want to ask him
why would anyone
even want to skin a cat.
for what reason?
but you don't say that,
he's invited himself
to sit next
to you outside
in the arcade and drink
his black coffee with you,
a familiar face.
what are you drinking?
he asks. not one of those
girly drinks
all sugary and pink
with sprinkles, is it?
he laughs, throwing his
head back. what looks
like ashes comes out
of his mouth, his eyes
water, then he starts coughing,
really coughing.
the kind of coughing that
might result in 911 being
called, but he stops.
finally.
he points at your drink
with a long yellow nail,
and says, do you mind if I
have sip of yours,
got a frog in my throat.
you look at him, and say no.

clothes make the man

if clothes make the man
I am a fourteen year old boy
leaving the house
in khaki shorts
and a white or blue t-shirt nearly
every morning.
sneakers too, but expensive sneakers,
pumas, not those ankle
breaking chuck taylor
high tops that give you no
support.
I might have a marble
in my pocket, a rabbit's
foot attached to my keys.
life saver candies stuck together
from when the pants were washed,
gum, real gum. not the thin
fruity kind, but
the thick pink kind you
can blow a bubble
the size of a child's head
if need be and pop it
with a loud bang,
making grown ups
shake their heads.
i'll be wearing white socks.
no belt.
no briefcase.
maybe a baseball cap,
dirty with sweat rings
and a rip where my dog
chewed off the top button.

clothes make the man

if clothes make the man
I am a fourteen year old boy
leaving the house
in khaki shorts
and a white or blue t-shirt nearly
every morning.
sneakers too, but expensive sneakers,
pumas, not those ankle
breaking chuck taylor
high tops that give you no
support.
I might have a marble
in my pocket, a rabbit's
foot attached to my keys.
life saver candies stuck together
from when the pants were washed,
gum, real gum. not the thin
fruity kind, but
the thick pink kind you
can blow a bubble
the size of a child's head
if need be and pop it
with a loud bang,
making grown ups
shake their heads.
i'll be wearing white socks.
no belt.
no briefcase.
maybe a baseball cap,
dirty with sweat rings
and a rip where my dog
chewed off the top button.

home cooking

I miss my mother's cooking.
her heavy handed
seasoning, salt and butter,
sugar when needed.
whole milk.
the red sauce with meat
on her spaghetti.
everything tasted fine.
you never left the table hungry,
despite there being seven
of you, that makes fourteen
hands and arms
reaching for what
was placed in the center.
I remember the sweat on her
brow as she sat at the head
of table,
saying grace with a smile.

a list of lovers

you make a list
of lovers that you've had
throughout your
life.
so far it's been Russian
roulette
and you've walked
away from
the table, so to speak,
unscathed. perhaps
poorer and weaker
in the knees,
heart broken, or not,
but you've survived.
whether it's a long list
or not, doesn't matter,
who hasn't made
their own list
then tore it up before
anyone with prying eyes
could find it.
quickly you light the match,
and let it go,
as many did to you.

a list of lovers

you make a list
of lovers that you've had
throughout your
life.
so far it's been Russian
roulette
and you've walked
away from
the table, so to speak,
unscathed. perhaps
poorer and weaker
in the knees,
heart broken, or not,
but you've survived.
whether it's a long list
or not, doesn't matter,
who hasn't made
their own list
then tore it up before
anyone with prying eyes
could find it.
quickly you light the match,
and let it go,
as many did to you.

plumbing issues

i'm bothered by how
the pipes
in my house are making noise.
a thump,
a burp, a loud rattle
and shimmy
of the old bones.
will it all explode?
will the joints spring a leak,
and send the floors
crashing into one
another like a soft cake?
gently I slip into
the steamy bath, just big
enough for two,
being careful not make
any sudden moves.
this could affect Saturday
nights date plan.

plumbing issues

i'm bothered by how
the pipes
in my house are making noise.
a thump,
a burp, a loud rattle
and shimmy
of the old bones.
will it all explode?
will the joints spring a leak,
and send the floors
crashing into one
another like a soft cake?
gently I slip into
the steamy bath, just big
enough for two,
being careful not make
any sudden moves.
this could affect Saturday
nights date plan.

new in town

you're new in town.
which is good.
nobody knows you
and you don't know them.
it's good for everyone
all around.
perhaps you'll turn
over a new leaf,
be a better person
with a change of scenery.
maybe not.
it might take a week or
two before
they find you out,
and you them,
but it could be a nice
week of ignorant bliss.

new in town

you're new in town.
which is good.
nobody knows you
and you don't know them.
it's good for everyone
all around.
perhaps you'll turn
over a new leaf,
be a better person
with a change of scenery.
maybe not.
it might take a week or
two before
they find you out,
and you them,
but it could be a nice
week of ignorant bliss.

almost there

the teacher stares
at her calendar,
her mind wandering towards
wine
and beaches,
the finish line is so close.
just months away.
the children
look out the windows
with glazed eyes
on this early
warm morning.
hard to crack a book
and recite poetry
when the cherry blossoms
are in bloom,
the trees becoming green,
and full,
or learn
why a frog lays eggs,
difficult to
concentrate
on an obtuse angle,
an equation
waiting to be solved.
there is so much more
to learn
outside these walls,
if they'd let us.

almost there

the teacher stares
at her calendar,
her mind wandering towards
wine
and beaches,
the finish line is so close.
just months away.
the children
look out the windows
with glazed eyes
on this early
warm morning.
hard to crack a book
and recite poetry
when the cherry blossoms
are in bloom,
the trees becoming green,
and full,
or learn
why a frog lays eggs,
difficult to
concentrate
on an obtuse angle,
an equation
waiting to be solved.
there is so much more
to learn
outside these walls,
if they'd let us.

upside down

seeing a car upside down
on the side
of the road always surprises you.
you slow down
to see the chaos.
the firemen are there,
blocking
as much of the road as
possible
with their long truck.
an ambulance spins
its lights, the back doors
open and ready
for business,
a stretcher is out
rolled towards the motionless
car, the turtle
on it's back.
someone is tossing sand
onto the pavement.
another man is holding a flare
and telling you to go
around, go right.
keep it moving. but you have
to look.
the car is upside down.

half wrong

they don't know,
these weather men
weather women.
half wrong, half right.
telling you
what the next day
will bring.
pointing at radar
and charts,
the numbers in a windowless
room.
but you listen.
you pack your picnic
lunch for tomorrow,
knowing better,
but leaving
an umbrella behind.

the grudge

some can, some are able
to hold
onto the anger, embrace
the grudge
for years on end.
they feel safe
in darkness, the terror
of forgiveness
or love
is too much to bear.
it's easier to dig
the trench,
hide behind the barbed
wire of their life,
lay low never thinking
of repair.

the darkness within

you knew boys
who would put a dead cat
on the railroad tracks.
hunt frogs
with bleached needles
on the end
of long sticks.
they were bad boys.
lighting on fire
Halloween bags of candy
as children screamed,
slashing tires
on the school buses.
peeking into windows
late at night,
throwing rocks
at cars. crank calls
on the phone
feigning death of sons
or daughters.
you knew them by name.
they knew you.
you were there for some
of these things.
stunned and amazed
at the cruelty within
them. how easy it was to go
another way.
never to cross
paths with them again,
yet you know they're
out there, somewhere.
a part of this world,
as you are.

the darkness within

you knew boys
who would put a dead cat
on the railroad tracks.
hunt frogs
with bleached needles
on the end
of long sticks.
they were bad boys.
lighting on fire
Halloween bags of candy
as children screamed,
slashing tires
on the school buses.
peeking into windows
late at night,
throwing rocks
at cars. crank calls
on the phone
feigning death of sons
or daughters.
you knew them by name.
they knew you.
you were there for some
of these things.
stunned and amazed
at the cruelty within
them. how easy it was to go
another way.
never to cross
paths with them again,
yet you know they're
out there, somewhere.
a part of this world,
as you are.

the new friend

he helps her move.
you see him
in the yard
taping boxes, marking
on each
the next room
where it will go.
he's new,
a friend, she says,
unable to say the word
boyfriend, quite yet.
you see him with a rake,
a broom.
the trunk of his car
open
and full of all the things
she owns,
and seldom used.
he carries out the heavy
things
to the rented truck,
chairs and tables,
boxes of books,
while
she's more concerned
with clothes
and shoes. put that
in the back, she says,
no further, all the way
to the end.
there you go. you're
so helpful.
thank you.

the new friend

he helps her move.
you see him
in the yard
taping boxes, marking
on each
the next room
where it will go.
he's new,
a friend, she says,
unable to say the word
boyfriend, quite yet.
you see him with a rake,
a broom.
the trunk of his car
open
and full of all the things
she owns,
and seldom used.
he carries out the heavy
things
to the rented truck,
chairs and tables,
boxes of books,
while
she's more concerned
with clothes
and shoes. put that
in the back, she says,
no further, all the way
to the end.
there you go. you're
so helpful.
thank you.

boiling water

boiling water,
the steam rising
from the deep
pot.
the gas turned
high.
how quickly
things change
under pressure
and flame.
how soon
what we hold dear
evaporates
from sight.

boiling water

boiling water,
the steam rising
from the deep
pot.
the gas turned
high.
how quickly
things change
under pressure
and flame.
how soon
what we hold dear
evaporates
from sight.

first stop

your first rented
apartment
was on the ground floor,
two thirty five per month
including utilities.
it backed up
to the woods, beyond
the woods was a racetrack.
you stuck
a stick in the door
to keep intruders out,
the sliding
window too.
sometimes at night,
you'd open the window
or sit out on the slab
of patio and drink a beer,
swat the bugs away
with a newspaper.
you'd listen
to the races being called.
you could see
the light glowing beyond
the trees, smell the barns,
the grass,
hear the stomping of
hooves and the muffled
roar of a crowd
winning next to nothing.
you didn't know where you
were headed next,
but it wouldn't be hard
to top this.

the new beard

he grew a beard,
a thick grizzly mush of
hair.
dark and wooly,
around his chin
and lips,
up to his ears.
he felt more
manly
with his new look.
more rugged,
more wild
and virile, but
she didn't like it,
so he shaved it
off.

whose coat is this

I don't know the coat
that hangs
in the hall closet.
it's not mine.
it doesn't belong to me.
there is nothing
in the pockets.
no name, no tag, no clue
as to who may have
worn it last.
yet it hangs there
against my coats,
between summer and winter.
rain and wind,
each season to its own
cloth and form.
i'll keep it for now,
perhaps the hands
that own it
will return one day,
maybe not, but I have
time to wait.

whose coat is this

I don't know the coat
that hangs
in the hall closet.
it's not mine.
it doesn't belong to me.
there is nothing
in the pockets.
no name, no tag, no clue
as to who may have
worn it last.
yet it hangs there
against my coats,
between summer and winter.
rain and wind,
each season to its own
cloth and form.
i'll keep it for now,
perhaps the hands
that own it
will return one day,
maybe not, but I have
time to wait.

the slow meal

I wonder if a spoon
fed
love is better than a feast.
a table
where you
pull up and go at it,
both having your
fill, or
does small portions
work better,
better for the long run,
slow indulgence,
the light kiss, the touch
of hands being
the wiser road,
fast food
not making a meal.

i'll send you some of mine

i'll send you one of mine
she says,
maybe two or three,
i'll put them in the mail.
look for them
when they arrive,
I've worked so hard
to get them right,
be kind
in your response,
I trust your gentle hand,
your
careful eye.
but they don't come.
and you wonder
was it weather, or work,
a new love,
an old love
blocking her words,
you wonder
why.

i'll send you some of mine

i'll send you one of mine
she says,
maybe two or three,
i'll put them in the mail.
look for them
when they arrive,
I've worked so hard
to get them right,
be kind
in your response,
I trust your gentle hand,
your
careful eye.
but they don't come.
and you wonder
was it weather, or work,
a new love,
an old love
blocking her words,
you wonder
why.

the sigh

a breath,
a simple sigh of air,
taken in
and let out.
a short form of
despair.
it will pass, this thought
of discontent,
it will go
away.
as does much of what
brings you
disappointment
in nearly each
and every day.

the sigh

a breath,
a simple sigh of air,
taken in
and let out.
a short form of
despair.
it will pass, this thought
of discontent,
it will go
away.
as does much of what
brings you
disappointment
in nearly each
and every day.

garage sale

these instruments
left behind. the tuba
no longer
blown. its brass
gone green,
the violin with strings
detached,
a drum
now numb and flat,
the broken sticks beside it.
the music
has ended, but what
glory
there was in sound,
as fingers
and hearts
moved fast along
the scales, feet tapped,
raising hope, fielding
pleasure,
putting something akin
to love into
the air.

garage sale

these instruments
left behind. the tuba
no longer
blown. its brass
gone green,
the violin with strings
detached,
a drum
now numb and flat,
the broken sticks beside it.
the music
has ended, but what
glory
there was in sound,
as fingers
and hearts
moved fast along
the scales, feet tapped,
raising hope, fielding
pleasure,
putting something akin
to love into
the air.

the winter birds

the winter birds
have no worry in their
black wings,
curved beaks,
finding enough
to keep going, months
moving
neither fast or slow,
but as they
should.
they find enough in
trees, along the scrub
brush,
the melted snow,
patches of grass, weed.
the winter birds
are calm
in flight, in life,
always having, finding
what they need.

the winter birds

the winter birds
have no worry in their
black wings,
curved beaks,
finding enough
to keep going, months
moving
neither fast or slow,
but as they
should.
they find enough in
trees, along the scrub
brush,
the melted snow,
patches of grass, weed.
the winter birds
are calm
in flight, in life,
always having, finding
what they need.

leave it alone

you see the mountain.
it's peak.
the bluish ragged
line of cliffs and hills.
the snow cap,
white in the sun.
it's there.
do you want to go and climb
it.
no.
not really.
the ropes and tools,
the special boots,
and dried
food. a lumberjack
shirt. red plaid, perhaps.
lugging water and maps
up the side.
the rescue helicopter
whirring
above you as you
teeter on an edge crying,
calling for
your mother.
your fingernails dug
into a hunk
of shale.
you want to leave
the mountain alone,
it's not bothering anyone.
you want to enjoy it from
a distance
like so many other things
in life.

marie is in love

marie is in love,
much to your disappointment.
she's off
the grid,
the map, the autodial.
she's found
someone, someone not like
you.
but someone geographically
closer,
someone with
a real job and available
on holidays
to do the things
you don't want to do.
someone not allergic
to children
or cats. marie is in love,
but not with you.

marie is in love

marie is in love,
much to your disappointment.
she's off
the grid,
the map, the autodial.
she's found
someone, someone not like
you.
but someone geographically
closer,
someone with
a real job and available
on holidays
to do the things
you don't want to do.
someone not allergic
to children
or cats. marie is in love,
but not with you.

the tunnel life

it's a tunneled life.
a life
underground.
digging.
burrowing, going deep
and dark
into the soft
soil
making holes
where there were none
in the shadowed light.
the front
paws scratching
at the earth, the teeth
gnawing
at what's in the way.
the need to go under,
the desire
to be below
ground, hidden
with only those of
like ilk.

the tunnel life

it's a tunneled life.
a life
underground.
digging.
burrowing, going deep
and dark
into the soft
soil
making holes
where there were none
in the shadowed light.
the front
paws scratching
at the earth, the teeth
gnawing
at what's in the way.
the need to go under,
the desire
to be below
ground, hidden
with only those of
like ilk.

cat love

sometimes, when
she hasn't called for
a few days
you think
your cat no longer loves you.
that she uses you
for food and shelter. she's
no longer interested
in the soft grey mouse
on a string
wriggled from a stick.
no longer caring
about the ball
that rolls across the floor.
never curling
in your lap when you come
home from work. she just
sits on the sill,
curled in the sun,
waiting to hear your
hand in a drawer,
a can cut open.
but the ringing phone
changes everything.

cat love

sometimes, when
she hasn't called for
a few days
you think
your cat no longer loves you.
that she uses you
for food and shelter. she's
no longer interested
in the soft grey mouse
on a string
wriggled from a stick.
no longer caring
about the ball
that rolls across the floor.
never curling
in your lap when you come
home from work. she just
sits on the sill,
curled in the sun,
waiting to hear your
hand in a drawer,
a can cut open.
but the ringing phone
changes everything.

missing things

the movers
have stolen her new
underwear.
they were tucked neatly
in a dresser
drawer as the men carried
each out
the door, to the elevator
then truck.
she's unsure as
to how to approach
these young men
from the eastern bloc,
and ask them if they know
the whereabouts
of each
still packaged pair.
would she describe them
in detail,
the frills, the transparency,
the ones
with Friday in script
across the front.
or Tuesday in red?
best let it go,
and try not think about
it anymore.

missing things

the movers
have stolen her new
underwear.
they were tucked neatly
in a dresser
drawer as the men carried
each out
the door, to the elevator
then truck.
she's unsure as
to how to approach
these young men
from the eastern bloc,
and ask them if they know
the whereabouts
of each
still packaged pair.
would she describe them
in detail,
the frills, the transparency,
the ones
with Friday in script
across the front.
or Tuesday in red?
best let it go,
and try not think about
it anymore.

double scoop

the warm day
excuses your desire for
ice cream.
all winter
you've restrained yourself
from butter brickle,
or rocky road.
or even a single scoop
on a sugar
cone of mint chip.
but not today.
near seventy degrees
sweating under
a high march sun,
gives you
reason
to buy and savor
an ice cream,
and nibble
like a king on the bottom
of a dripping
cone.

each to his own grieving

her brother did not seem
upset when she
died.
you were embarrassed by your tears,
your loud
crying.
you wanted to stop,
be stoic
be strong and unemotional,
but that wasn't to be.
you melted in grief,
in weight,
in humor. each day
was another breath taken
out of you.
it took months to be well
again.
for the sting
of death to wear thin,
while her brother,
in time
was worse than you'd ever
been.

each to his own grieving

her brother did not seem
upset when she
died.
you were embarrassed by your tears,
your loud
crying.
you wanted to stop,
be stoic
be strong and unemotional,
but that wasn't to be.
you melted in grief,
in weight,
in humor. each day
was another breath taken
out of you.
it took months to be well
again.
for the sting
of death to wear thin,
while her brother,
in time
was worse than you'd ever
been.

what's left behind

people would leave
things in your cab.
you had a box in your trunk
to put them.
the rings
and watches, discarded
clothes,
hats and gloves mostly,
but sometimes a dress
slipped
off, or more.
briefcases
and books, phones,
laptops
and money.
sunglasses, glasses.
a small dog once.
sometimes they'd
find you again,
calling the dispatcher
to retrieve
what belonged to them,
and other times,
over time these things
became yours.
vague memories of each
street you visited
or were hailed down
with a whistle or yell.

what's left behind

people would leave
things in your cab.
you had a box in your trunk
to put them.
the rings
and watches, discarded
clothes,
hats and gloves mostly,
but sometimes a dress
slipped
off, or more.
briefcases
and books, phones,
laptops
and money.
sunglasses, glasses.
a small dog once.
sometimes they'd
find you again,
calling the dispatcher
to retrieve
what belonged to them,
and other times,
over time these things
became yours.
vague memories of each
street you visited
or were hailed down
with a whistle or yell.

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.