the gift

they want you to take
your shoes off
before entering the house.
three dogs,
two cats and a white rabbit roam freely.
you sit at the bottom
of their stairs
and untie your shoes.
your clean shoes.
your new shoes.
you set them in the row
next to their shoes.
they stare at your socks
and look at one another
before saying as one,
come in.
it's okay to come in now.
the rug is old,
the color of oatmeal
sprinkled with brown sugar.
strands of it dangle
in the air like weeds.
you are confused,
but accepting of crazy people.
it's a gift you have.

tell me about it

if you talk to enough
people
long enough and give them
a drink or two,
or three,
you'll see they are no
different
than you, or anyone else.
the problems are all the same.
the anxiety and angst
not original.
friends and work,
money,
illness, parents and children.
siblings.
it's an easy list
of troubles.
live long enough and you're
on it,
or living with it, telling
someone about it.

between the lines

it's the wrist
against the car, polishing,
giving shine,
the broom
pulled against
the floor
corralling dirt,
it's the brush against
a wall,
being pulled down
then up,
applying paint.
it's the motion of an arm
reaching out
to take a dollar
to give a ticket,
it's the wave of the ocean,
persistent,
doing what it was born to do.
it's the mundane
that fills
the world, the rest,
love and death, art,
falls between the lines.

between the lines

it's the wrist
against the car, polishing,
giving shine,
the broom
pulled against
the floor
corralling dirt,
it's the brush against
a wall,
being pulled down
then up,
applying paint.
it's the motion of an arm
reaching out
to take a dollar
to give a ticket,
it's the wave of the ocean,
persistent,
doing what it was born to do.
it's the mundane
that fills
the world, the rest,
love and death, art,
falls between the lines.

old boots

i'm done with these boots.
but not done.
not completely.
they sit on the bottom step,
the laces knotted,
the soles muddy,
dried and grey.
the fabric worn,
a tear where
my leg would slide
into the bottom, my foot
snug and warm.
i'm done with them,
but not completely.
i'll let them sit for awhile
where they are.
it's something I do with
everything,
everyone.

old boots

i'm done with these boots.
but not done.
not completely.
they sit on the bottom step,
the laces knotted,
the soles muddy,
dried and grey.
the fabric worn,
a tear where
my leg would slide
into the bottom, my foot
snug and warm.
i'm done with them,
but not completely.
i'll let them sit for awhile
where they are.
it's something I do with
everything,
everyone.

going home

it takes time
to drive home, the curve
of mountains,
the slice of road through rocks.
a coined moon,
as silver and polished
white
as any moon seen.
it takes time to get home,
to find my way
through
tunnels, over the rattled bridges,
past the farm yards,
the lights already
out as everyone but you
is asleep.
it takes time to get home,
to travel alone,
the miles clicking past,
as you wait
by the window,
patiently for me.

the baker

it's less
about the kneading of dough,
the rolling
and cutting
into stars
and flowers, it's not
about the baking,
the rising,
the sweets of it all,
the icing.
it's beyond that now,
beyond
the pleasure of smiles
as they bite
into each new pastry,
nodding yes.
it's something else. it's
a way of life,
a way of living
without being told to stay
or go home.

the baker

it's less
about the kneading of dough,
the rolling
and cutting
into stars
and flowers, it's not
about the baking,
the rising,
the sweets of it all,
the icing.
it's beyond that now,
beyond
the pleasure of smiles
as they bite
into each new pastry,
nodding yes.
it's something else. it's
a way of life,
a way of living
without being told to stay
or go home.

they yellow plague

the yellow
dusting of spring
across
the cars, the sills,
puddling
in dry pools upon
each street.
the tentacles
of pollen
making your eyes
water,
making
you sneeze, cough
as you breathe.
it makes
you want the ocean.
the deep blue
cold.
the comfort of waves
embracing
you
bringing you back
to life.

the marriage begins

in the new house
he measures
from top to bottom.
carefully,
side to side.
presses
tape into an x
where he decides to
hang
the picture,
as discussed.
he takes the nail
that waits
between his clenched
teeth
then drives it with
a hammer
into the wall.
the picture goes up,
balanced on a stiff wire.
he stands back.
she comes into the room
and says no.
we need to move it three
inches to the left.
the marriage begins.

running to the bank

some how you finish
the job
you're on
and get paid. having gone through
the myriad of
touch ups,
lines more accurately drawn.
filled in holes, again,
sanded, smoothed
the walls
and doors, beyond
reason.
somehow you've answered
every torn piece of blue
tape
the owner stuck
on each spot that concerned
him.
hundreds of torn strips,
some made into arrows,
pointing at the ceiling.
shadows that come and go.
a flurry of blue,
is that pin sized drip from
me or you?
he politely asks,
while you scrub
at an invisible spot
on the floor.

running to the bank

some how you finish
the job
you're on
and get paid. having gone through
the myriad of
touch ups,
lines more accurately drawn.
filled in holes, again,
sanded, smoothed
the walls
and doors, beyond
reason.
somehow you've answered
every torn piece of blue
tape
the owner stuck
on each spot that concerned
him.
hundreds of torn strips,
some made into arrows,
pointing at the ceiling.
shadows that come and go.
a flurry of blue,
is that pin sized drip from
me or you?
he politely asks,
while you scrub
at an invisible spot
on the floor.

the art of art

I've tried
art.
mangled a few dozen
canvases
with landscapes, sea
scapes
of roiling waves,
gulls,
a cove, out of focus
sail boats,
and blotted
swimmers. I've tried
to go the Hopper
route,
simple and sparse.
a story
between the lines of
nothing.
but failed.
Jackson Pollock is
more my speed, my
cup of tea,
spilling,
tossing paint, straddling
the white board,
splattering
is all
about me.

not knowing

it's the unknown
that's
unsettling, what lies
beneath
the sea,
the still lake,
what's beyond our sight
or reach.
so much
is unknowable.
the dark side of the moon,
the stars
already gone.
so much unlearned
or seen
until it happens
or you arrive.

not knowing

it's the unknown
that's
unsettling, what lies
beneath
the sea,
the still lake,
what's beyond our sight
or reach.
so much
is unknowable.
the dark side of the moon,
the stars
already gone.
so much unlearned
or seen
until it happens
or you arrive.

the apple

each apple
to its own destiny.
its own
way of life.
being picked or
chosen
to go on, or left
to ripen
on the tree
then falling to
the ground unused.
sometimes it seems
less a choice
and more
of what's written
before you
were born.

the apple

each apple
to its own destiny.
its own
way of life.
being picked or
chosen
to go on, or left
to ripen
on the tree
then falling to
the ground unused.
sometimes it seems
less a choice
and more
of what's written
before you
were born.

forgiveness

the man
who parked his car
in the center lane
then threw himself off
the bridge
left a note
apologizing for backing
up traffic.
it was a list of
apologies.
sorry to his wife,
his children,
his parents, everyone
he had let down
in his life.
he was sorry for disappointing
anyone since birth.
but he lived
and everyone in time
forgave him,
everyone
but those stuck in
traffic
on the bridge for
five hours.

how's the weather

despite your mother's
life long fascination
with the weather,
the weather channel
being her source
as well as the window
out to her backyard
where snow would rise,
rain would puddle,
winds would bend her trees,
it is the inside weather
that concerns her now.
the heat
within, or cold. that breeze
from an open door or fan
above the table.
the thermostat raised
or lowered
by a strange hand, someone
she sees everyday,
and yet still
doesn't know. how you miss
her asking,
from seven miles away,
is it snowing
there too?

how's the weather

despite your mother's
life long fascination
with the weather,
the weather channel
being her source
as well as the window
out to her backyard
where snow would rise,
rain would puddle,
winds would bend her trees,
it is the inside weather
that concerns her now.
the heat
within, or cold. that breeze
from an open door or fan
above the table.
the thermostat raised
or lowered
by a strange hand, someone
she sees everyday,
and yet still
doesn't know. how you miss
her asking,
from seven miles away,
is it snowing
there too?

the old police car

a car, a former
police car with large wheels,
black
and dull,
the searchlight still
on the door.
decals removed.
baby moons. an elderly couple
inside.
the man at the wheel
swings it into
a spot beside you.
fast and smooth.
when he gets out you see
that he no arms.
he's wearing slippers,
not shoes.
into Walgreens they go.
the same as anyone
in an old p0lice car
going down the road.

nothing

the televangelist
tells the audience to put
their hands
on the television.
to reach out
and surrender, to ask
that their
bursitis be gone.
get out your checkbooks.
I know it's you, he says,
eyes popping out,
a band of sweat
across his tanned brow.
there is someone
out there with a hurt knee,
he must come
forward
and kneel and touch
the screen.
I feel another man with
blurred vision,
come, come closer, believe
and see more clearly.
there is music
and speaking in tongues.
there is chaos.
you don't want to get up,
but you put your
slice of pizza
and beer down and go
to the tv. you touch
to top of it,
concentrating on your shoulder.
nothing.

nothing

the televangelist
tells the audience to put
their hands
on the television.
to reach out
and surrender, to ask
that their
bursitis be gone.
get out your checkbooks.
I know it's you, he says,
eyes popping out,
a band of sweat
across his tanned brow.
there is someone
out there with a hurt knee,
he must come
forward
and kneel and touch
the screen.
I feel another man with
blurred vision,
come, come closer, believe
and see more clearly.
there is music
and speaking in tongues.
there is chaos.
you don't want to get up,
but you put your
slice of pizza
and beer down and go
to the tv. you touch
to top of it,
concentrating on your shoulder.
nothing.

the healing

healing takes time.
more time
now than it did when you
were twenty
or even thirty.
the pain lingers,
the joints and tissues
taking their
time to mend, to send
the blood through,
to heal.
not so the heart though,
acceptance
works wonders
when moving on.
the heart has a memory
of how it's done,
becoming more
efficient with each love
gone.

the healing

healing takes time.
more time
now than it did when you
were twenty
or even thirty.
the pain lingers,
the joints and tissues
taking their
time to mend, to send
the blood through,
to heal.
not so the heart though,
acceptance
works wonders
when moving on.
the heart has a memory
of how it's done,
becoming more
efficient with each love
gone.

stick or snake

discerning stick from snake
is not an
easy thing to do when
riding fast
on your bike
down the wooded path.
it's not unlike
the day, the business
of the day,
discerning who will
bite, and be poisonous
and who
will be easy, making you
unafraid.

stick or snake

discerning stick from snake
is not an
easy thing to do when
riding fast
on your bike
down the wooded path.
it's not unlike
the day, the business
of the day,
discerning who will
bite, and be poisonous
and who
will be easy, making you
unafraid.

getting saved

on sundays,
after your older brother
found God,
was saved, after he
applied the stickers to his
car,
He is risen, said one,
all will kneel
said another,
on sundays, in his new
suit,
his bow tie,
he'd pull back the sheets
and covers
from your tired
body
and say, get up, we're
all going to
church.
he'd go from room to room,
waking everyone.
his new Bible under his arm,
the gleam
in his eye boring through
you,
as you lay still,
hungover
from last night,
the scent of sarah
still
on your mind.

the open sea

tired of the painting
of the open sea
on your wall
you take it down, remove
the nail.
fill it
and move on.
you carry the painting
down
to the basement,
to the laundry room
where you hang
it over
the washer and dryer,
it's where
all the old paintings
go.
in the room
with laundry, bins
of papers,
of photographs,
of things you don't want
to see anymore.
you remember the day you
bought it,
how wonderful it was.
the colors, the white sails
of the distant
ships,
the roll of waves.
not summer, but after.

the open sea

tired of the painting
of the open sea
on your wall
you take it down, remove
the nail.
fill it
and move on.
you carry the painting
down
to the basement,
to the laundry room
where you hang
it over
the washer and dryer,
it's where
all the old paintings
go.
in the room
with laundry, bins
of papers,
of photographs,
of things you don't want
to see anymore.
you remember the day you
bought it,
how wonderful it was.
the colors, the white sails
of the distant
ships,
the roll of waves.
not summer, but after.

this perfect day

it's perfect.
the memorial service.
the memories shared by sons
and daughters.
the colleagues.
her former students coming
back to sing
her praises.
the day is perfect.
the sky blue,
the trees blooming with
spring.
the cathedral tall and forever
there
beside the small
sanctuary.
a woman sings a Scottish
song,
or two.
forgetting the words
in mid stream,
but recovers.
that too is perfect.
everything, but us, about
this day,
this dying, this remembering,
this memorial is perfect.

this perfect day

it's perfect.
the memorial service.
the memories shared by sons
and daughters.
the colleagues.
her former students coming
back to sing
her praises.
the day is perfect.
the sky blue,
the trees blooming with
spring.
the cathedral tall and forever
there
beside the small
sanctuary.
a woman sings a Scottish
song,
or two.
forgetting the words
in mid stream,
but recovers.
that too is perfect.
everything, but us, about
this day,
this dying, this remembering,
this memorial is perfect.

are you driving?

you ask her about
the monkeys, the flying monkeys
sitting about her
cold castle, they are
wearing what looks
like doorman clothes,
gold braided jackets,
little hats,
gloves
curled pointed boots.
they are picking fleas off one
another's wings.
she dismisses your inquiry
by saying,
oh them.
they work for me.
it takes a while for her
to get ready.
the green pallor of her long
face needing
attention. she irons her
black cape.
uses a lint roller to get the
monkey hair off.
her nails, dagger sharp,
have to be painted red.
she has to boil
something in a cauldron
before we go and asks you to stir
with a long black spoon
while
she goes to the bathroom
to powder her nose.
read this curse out loud,
she says while you stir,
handing you a laminated card
with four lines of rhyming words.
when she comes out
of the bathroom
she asks if you're driving
or should we take
her broom,
to which you say, i'll
drive.

the smooth road

the road pavers,
weary in the afternoon sun.
the steam
of black
tar filling the air,
browned ribbons of heat
seeping into
their eyes
their lungs.
everyone wants to get home
the line
of cars
stretch backwards
for miles,
easing through
a narrow one lane
of orange cones.
to make the road smooth,
any road,
there must
be pain and sacrifice.

the smooth road

the road pavers,
weary in the afternoon sun.
the steam
of black
tar filling the air,
browned ribbons of heat
seeping into
their eyes
their lungs.
everyone wants to get home
the line
of cars
stretch backwards
for miles,
easing through
a narrow one lane
of orange cones.
to make the road smooth,
any road,
there must
be pain and sacrifice.

into sleep

on these things
you think of,
memories, kind
and sweet.
the friends who have
washed away
on some distant
wave.
the bustle of time,
of youth
spent.
the blessings of people,
who come,
who leave.
on these things,
you take
to bed, to the pillow,
the sheets.
to the dark
room
that holds you as
slip into a welcoming
sleep.

into sleep

on these things
you think of,
memories, kind
and sweet.
the friends who have
washed away
on some distant
wave.
the bustle of time,
of youth
spent.
the blessings of people,
who come,
who leave.
on these things,
you take
to bed, to the pillow,
the sheets.
to the dark
room
that holds you as
slip into a welcoming
sleep.

small things

the world
will surprise you.
small things mostly.
the blue
bird on the sill.
the handwritten note
from a loved one
almost
lost.
there are days when
the sun
and clouds are magical
together.
when the moon is a moon
first seen
as a child
from
his bed, gazing out
the window
not far from sleep.
the world will surprise
you
with the kiss of a fall
breeze.
the smell of grass
freshly cut,
cinnamon,
coffee, the touch of her
hand
upon your shoulder.

friday cookout

it's Friday,
that means your neighbor
will be firing up his complicated
grill
and charring
meat out on his patio.
he'll put on his tall
white hat,
his apron, bring out
his long utensils,
the knife and fork,
a bottle of some secret
sauce. a slab of meat
lying on an enormous plate.
the smell and smoke
finds its way
through the creases
of your window
making your stomach
growl with hunger.
you shoveled their walk
this winter.
cleared it of snow,
and yet still no invite.

friday cookout

it's Friday,
that means your neighbor
will be firing up his complicated
grill
and charring
meat out on his patio.
he'll put on his tall
white hat,
his apron, bring out
his long utensils,
the knife and fork,
a bottle of some secret
sauce. a slab of meat
lying on an enormous plate.
the smell and smoke
finds its way
through the creases
of your window
making your stomach
growl with hunger.
you shoveled their walk
this winter.
cleared it of snow,
and yet still no invite.

we remember

so many
of the animals in the woods
die in relative
silence.
there is no
parade, or party, no
outpouring of grief.
no funeral. there are
no animals of the same
ilk
lining up
and giving speeches,
saying things
like remember
that time he found
a giant nut
and shared it with all
of us?

get a job

the united nations
denied your ex wife's
plea
and application to become
designated
as a world victim.
get a job, they said in
unison, in forty seven
languages,
all as one banging their
shoes and heels
against their school
like desks. get a job
and stop whining
about how meager
your alimony is.

get a job

the united nations
denied your ex wife's
plea
and application to become
designated
as a world victim.
get a job, they said in
unison, in forty seven
languages,
all as one banging their
shoes and heels
against their school
like desks. get a job
and stop whining
about how meager
your alimony is.

the saddest sound

is there any sadder sound
in the universe
than the sound of a can
of whipped cream
sputtering at its end
as you shake it,
pressing futilely at
the nozzle
trying to top off a bowl
of strawberry jello,
chilled and ready for
your spoon.
if there is such a sound,
one sadder, I know not
what it is.

the saddest sound

is there any sadder sound
in the universe
than the sound of a can
of whipped cream
sputtering at its end
as you shake it,
pressing futilely at
the nozzle
trying to top off a bowl
of strawberry jello,
chilled and ready for
your spoon.
if there is such a sound,
one sadder, I know not
what it is.

in training

while training for an upcoming
3 k race
to cure
sleep apnea
I stop in the park and
rest for awhile.
I've already run a half
a k,
so I deserve it.
I lie down on a bench
with my leggings
and orange running shoes,
my head band
and wrist monitor
that informs me of my
progress.
I see people eating their
lunches. sandwiches and apples.
a woman over there
in yoga pants is licking
an ice cream cone.
although it might be frozen
yogurt.
this makes me think of the food
that I will reward
myself with after this workout.
I love running, so much.
but I like
lying on a bench
in the sun even more.

the apple pie

just because she sends
me a photo
of the apple pie she made
in her brick oven
doesn't necessarily mean
that she wants
to be more than friends.
apple pie is not a metaphor
in any sense of the words.
or is it.
and in questioning if there will
be a scoop
of vanilla ice cream
going with that hot slice
of pie
would that
be asking for trouble?

the apple pie

just because she sends
me a photo
of the apple pie she made
in her brick oven
doesn't necessarily mean
that she wants
to be more than friends.
apple pie is not a metaphor
in any sense of the words.
or is it.
and in questioning if there will
be a scoop
of vanilla ice cream
going with that hot slice
of pie
would that
be asking for trouble?

the sanctuary

the interior of your car
is a sanctuary to which you can
yell out any word in the English
language without repercussions.
there's no parent, or child around,
no one of any consequence to your
life is within earshot.
you ask many questions along the way
to work, driving in insane traffic,
dodging defensively the wild ones.
usually you begin each sentence
with the words
what the ...
it feels good to curse.
sometimes you say it a few times,
and answer your own questions.
you discuss the traffic with yourself.
it's a relief in some strange way
to let the obscenities roll off
your tongue like linda blair
in the exorcist with her head
spinning around like a top, and no
one the wiser.

the sanctuary

the interior of your car
is a sanctuary to which you can
yell out any word in the English
language without repercussions.
there's no parent, or child around,
no one of any consequence to your
life is within earshot.
you ask many questions along the way
to work, driving in insane traffic,
dodging defensively the wild ones.
usually you begin each sentence
with the words
what the ...
it feels good to curse.
sometimes you say it a few times,
and answer your own questions.
you discuss the traffic with yourself.
it's a relief in some strange way
to let the obscenities roll off
your tongue like linda blair
in the exorcist with her head
spinning around like a top, and no
one the wiser.

the court date

for his court date
he decides to cut off his pony
tail
and comb whatever hair
remains
to the side.
parting it like a five
year old boy
standing in front
of the mirror before school,
his mother's large
hand holding his head still
for the task. he shaves then
buttons up a clean white shirt.
new pants.
steps into
the slippery new shoes.
perhaps this will persuade
the judge of his
innocence, or desire to turn
over a new leaf
and stop
the things he keeps doing.

the lonely

when the house
was completely painted
and finished,
the canvas cloths put away.
the brushes cleaned,
the cans tossed,
or marked
to which room each belonged,
when she put the check
in your hand,
and said thank you,
it was then that she looked
around the room
and said aloud,
I think the color needs
to be just a little
lighter, don't you?
when can you return
and do it once more?
to which you replied,
in the spring. let's do it
again
in the spring.

the lonely

when the house
was completely painted
and finished,
the canvas cloths put away.
the brushes cleaned,
the cans tossed,
or marked
to which room each belonged,
when she put the check
in your hand,
and said thank you,
it was then that she looked
around the room
and said aloud,
I think the color needs
to be just a little
lighter, don't you?
when can you return
and do it once more?
to which you replied,
in the spring. let's do it
again
in the spring.

the reconciliation

because you didn't attend
the viewing,
the party before,
the party after, the funeral,
nor did you send
flowers or a card
he may not talk to you for
a few years,
but in time someone
else you both
know may pass away,
you can reconcile
then.
catch up, plan
lunch when time
and death permits.

the long nights

he used to wait
until the sun went down
before pouring his first drink.
then he thought,
why bother, why
wait. i'll pull the shades,
and get to it.
once settled in
with his cut lime, his tonic
water, his cubes of
ice in a tumbler,
then gin,
he'd sit by the window
and take out his phone.
he'd begin to call
each person he knew that would
listen to his long
list of grievances,
always adding how much
he loved
the person before beginning.
soon it was dark,
he opened
the curtains, the blinds,
to see
just a plain moon
blinking through
the soft clouds to which
he toasted
before staggering to bed.

the vacancy

the vacancy sign
is on,
so you pull in for the night.
it's a small place,
a spot outside
the door
you check in. one bag,
one night.
you sit on the bed
and take
your shoes off.
hit the tv on.
you lie back on the flowered
bedspread.
on the stiff mattress,
thin and worn.
you listen
to your neighbors next
door talking
about the grand canyon.
there's a picture of it on your
wall.
then nothing
for awhile.
you turn the light off,
undress.
turn off the tv.
you get a glass of water
setting it next
to the phone,
next to the heavy lamp
screwed in
to the wall.
you hear the couple
next door say goodnight
to one another.
you say it too.

the quiet

it's noisy
in here. everyone talking
at the same
time.
the clink of glasses,
the cutting
of knives,
the wandering
eyes.
you can't wait to get
out and go
home. lie in the silence
of your room.
put the phone on mute,
let the door
bell ring.
leave the world
alone.

the quiet

it's noisy
in here. everyone talking
at the same
time.
the clink of glasses,
the cutting
of knives,
the wandering
eyes.
you can't wait to get
out and go
home. lie in the silence
of your room.
put the phone on mute,
let the door
bell ring.
leave the world
alone.

don't tell anyone

don't tell anyone
I told you,
she says, then proceeds
to say a name,
a sin,
another name,
she mentions a motel
at the edge of town,
and asks
if I've ever been
to the diner
next to it,
or if I know a waitress
who works
there named Tammy.
skinny redhead?
she used to be a teacher,
but lost her job,
because of something
that I can't really talk about.
she's breathless
with not telling me
everything
she wants to tell me.
I nod no to everything,
please, go on, I say,
although
I already know
the whole story. why
stop her now though
and spoil her fun.

the pull out bed

there was the night
you spent
on the pull out bed,
which during
the day
doubled as a couch.
bars and springs
at your back like a medieval
torture device.
no angle, no position
brought you
relief.
you slept no hours,
no minutes.
you could hear the soft
snore
of her
coming from the other
room.
her in her bed,
her queen sized bed.
her pillows,
her water.
her dog curled at her
feet.
it wasn't the only reason
you stopped seeing her,
but was on
the list.

gift card

I didn't really need
another pair of black shoes.
so what.
I have them now.
the birthday
gift card of ten dollars
off from dsw
spurred me on.
at night i set the new pair
with the other pairs
of black shoes,
all in a row.
they seem happy together.
it's good to
have new friends.

gift card

I didn't really need
another pair of black shoes.
so what.
I have them now.
the birthday
gift card of ten dollars
off from dsw
spurred me on.
at night i set the new pair
with the other pairs
of black shoes,
all in a row.
they seem happy together.
it's good to
have new friends.

the building

i regret moving
into the Roosevelt apartment
building.
although the lobby
has been upgraded.
new plants. paint.
a new black and white tiled
floor.
but the hallways are
long dark tunnels
that lead to Moscow.
cabbage boiling.
goats,
chickens. children
moaning.
there's a blood stain
outside
the elevator
on my floor.
someone put sand on it.
someone broke into my cage
in the basement
and took all my Christmas
decorations and photo
albums.
it's best to avoid
eye contact
in the elevator
and to hold your breath.
they're pulling
possum out
of the pool to have it
ready by
memorial day.
i can hardly wait.

whistling

I associate
whistling with pain
or craziness.
the dentist with needle
in hand,
whistling,
the crazy person on
the street,
whistling.
the ex wife
twiddling her thumbs,
pondering her next
move,
whistling.
the tax lady,
her fingers clicking
on the adding
machine.
whistling.

the island diet

let's go on a diet together,
she says to you,
as you dig out
the last spoon of ice
cream from the small tub
of ben and jerry's
chunky monkey.
do we have any whipped cream
left, you ask. needing one
squirt to top it off.
nope. I used it all on
the jello we had yesterday.
so what kind of diet are
we talking about?
no bread, no pasta, just cardboard
tasting food?
no, not at all. it's the new
island diet.
fruits and vegetables, fish.
natural things.
pineapples and coconuts.
what about wild boar?
boars are natural and run
wild all over many islands.
maybe in limited amounts.
we need to get ready for
our cruise this summer.
I tried on my tent dress
the other day and it was kind
of tight.
okay. let's do it, but first
it might be a good idea
to finish off that bacon
in the fridge. why waste
it and it will go bad in
a few weeks if we don't
eat it. right? right, she says.
scramble up some eggs
too, toast?
whole wheat for me, you tell her.
one pad of butter.

three hail marys

her knees
are calloused from prayer.
she is so
good.
an angel.
so you wonder why she prays
so hard,
so often,
always at church.
always
at confession.
what sins could she possibly
be confessing.
it must
be because of you,
no other reason comes to
mind.

three hail marys

her knees
are calloused from prayer.
she is so
good.
an angel.
so you wonder why she prays
so hard,
so often,
always at church.
always
at confession.
what sins could she possibly
be confessing.
it must
be because of you,
no other reason comes to
mind.

pbj

as I spread
the peanut butter across an
open potato
roll
with the wide knife,
the only knife
I use for this particular
task,
then the grape jelly,
some hitting the floor,
I think of
an island
where I could go.
white sand, blue water,
palm trees,
music in the background,
from the south pacific.
plenty of bikinis
to go around.
a cold drink in hand.
shades on. stretched out
covered in coconut oil.
snapping my
fingers for another pina
colada,
another sandwich
without the crust,
salmon, perhaps, or shrimp.
anything
but peanut butter.

marriage proposal

you decide to marry her
based solely
on her pot roast
and mashed potatoes.
mushroom gravy.
green beans, and sour
dough bread,
crusty, right from
the oven, warm.
there's a few other things
too, that
have won you over,
but mostly it's
the pot roast.
in a few years you might
regret it,
but for now, you're
hungry.

whole lotta love

the scratched record,
led
zeppelin,
a whole lotta love,
skips
at a certain point
and you have
to get up
to lift the needle
to push it
forward.
your mother stamps
on the floor, yells
through the vent to
turn it down.
the room is full of smoke,
a casement window
cracked open,
beer cans,
shoes are off,
everyone is in state of
utter disarray,
and comfort.
there is no tomorrow.
not for perry, or axe,
or jim,
or henry, or
dana. this is the life
they will stay in.
somehow you
escaped.
you still have the album
pinned to your
wall, but they're
gone.

whole lotta love

the scratched record,
led
zeppelin,
a whole lotta love,
skips
at a certain point
and you have
to get up
to lift the needle
to push it
forward.
your mother stamps
on the floor, yells
through the vent to
turn it down.
the room is full of smoke,
a casement window
cracked open,
beer cans,
shoes are off,
everyone is in state of
utter disarray,
and comfort.
there is no tomorrow.
not for perry, or axe,
or jim,
or henry, or
dana. this is the life
they will stay in.
somehow you
escaped.
you still have the album
pinned to your
wall, but they're
gone.

the unloved

the unloved
are no different than
the loved.
although
they seem to be more
happy,
more inclined
to give up their
seat on the bus,
hold a door,
say good morning.
how you long to be
this kind.
one of them, more
alive.

the unloved

the unloved
are no different than
the loved.
although
they seem to be more
happy,
more inclined
to give up their
seat on the bus,
hold a door,
say good morning.
how you long to be
this kind.
one of them, more
alive.

day labor

he says, i'm not afraid
of hard work.
I like to work. i'll get
down on my knees
and do what needs to be done.
but once paid,
he changes his point of view,
finds a cheap
wine, a woman, a place
to rest,
a place to be rich with
what little he's made,
a place
to take off his worn clothes,
his shoes.

in the bite

there are so many
apples
to choose from,
grapes, pears,
peaches.
how neatly they lie
in their beds
with the same,
the shine of the stores
light
upon them.
the glossy skins,
or felt
sides. you decide
in time
which,
but it's only in
the bite
that you return again
for more.

in the bite

there are so many
apples
to choose from,
grapes, pears,
peaches.
how neatly they lie
in their beds
with the same,
the shine of the stores
light
upon them.
the glossy skins,
or felt
sides. you decide
in time
which,
but it's only in
the bite
that you return again
for more.

sugar maple

in the light,
in the fall, the one tree.
a blood tree
full
of red leaves
shines bright in the narrow
lane of sun.
each day
you pass it, stopping
at the light,
waiting your turn
to go home.
each year it blooms,
it dies,
it returns.
so do you. so do you.

animal instinct

you need to put
your dog on a leash
the woman tells you early
in the morning
as you walk your dog
behind the houses,
near the woods.
do you have a plastic
bag?
has he had his shots?
there are rules, she says,
what's your name.
the dog growls,
you growl.
you bare your teeth.
the world is civilized,
but the primitive
animal in you
still comes out.

open house

young
couples holding printed
sheets
of paper,
the house, the price
the number of rooms,
park sideways
in the lot.
they look in every
direction like new borns,
at the trees, others walking
by. birds in flight.
they smell the air.
walk through
the open door
to the open house, past
the swing
of the yellow sign.
the staged furniture
stiff
and bright against the freshly
painted walls,
the buffed floors,
holding its new shine.
someone has put a candle
on the counter
filling the rooms with
the sweet scent of cinnamon.
up then down the stairs,
a moment to pause and stare
out the back window
at the woods.
whispers.
she opens the oven door.
he touches
the stain on the ceiling,
rises and falls
on his heels to listen
more intently to the squeak
in the floor.

piano legs

her mother
told her she had piano legs.
at ten that was
hard to overcome no matter
how many men tried.
the meanness was
a yellow breath
coming out of her. she wouldn't
die.
hanging on
to life with sharp nails
at ninety five.
why mothers hate
their daughters is a mystery.
and yet,
beneath it all
there was always hope
that she'd
see things
differently, in time.

piano legs

her mother
told her she had piano legs.
at ten that was
hard to overcome no matter
how many men tried.
the meanness was
a yellow breath
coming out of her. she wouldn't
die.
hanging on
to life with sharp nails
at ninety five.
why mothers hate
their daughters is a mystery.
and yet,
beneath it all
there was always hope
that she'd
see things
differently, in time.

the sweater

the seams
have split, the buttons
dangle
from the old sweater,
oatmeal in color,
a braided thing
with coffee
stains,
moth
bitten,
stretched out of shape
from being hung
on a cold black hanger
in the closet.
still,
you try it on,
button it up.
in the pocket is his
lighter. silver,
a blue flame when struck.
a pack of lucky strikes.
a ticket torn
in half, another
bet lost.

the sweater

the seams
have split, the buttons
dangle
from the old sweater,
oatmeal in color,
a braided thing
with coffee
stains,
moth
bitten,
stretched out of shape
from being hung
on a cold black hanger
in the closet.
still,
you try it on,
button it up.
in the pocket is his
lighter. silver,
a blue flame when struck.
a pack of lucky strikes.
a ticket torn
in half, another
bet lost.

his happiness

you want to tell
your father, that it's over
for white
shoes
and a matching white
belt.
sky blue pants.
you want to carefully nudge him,
saying
that he doesn't need to dye
his hair anymore
at eighty-five.
forget the vitamin C
wrinkle cream too.
you want to tell him
about
cell phones and the new
tvs
that aren't in a set
of dresser drawers.
there's
music other than Sinatra too,
benny goodman,
but you don't.
his happiness is his.
not yours.

his happiness

you want to tell
your father, that it's over
for white
shoes
and a matching white
belt.
sky blue pants.
you want to carefully nudge him,
saying
that he doesn't need to dye
his hair anymore
at eighty-five.
forget the vitamin C
wrinkle cream too.
you want to tell him
about
cell phones and the new
tvs
that aren't in a set
of dresser drawers.
there's
music other than Sinatra too,
benny goodman,
but you don't.
his happiness is his.
not yours.

the fiesta

the police
do nothing about the noise.
the music
blasting through the walls,
shaking
your dishes,
your teeth, your porcelain
collection
of Baywatch dolls.
the police want no part
of it.
they ask you to record
or film
the drug use, the seven families
that come
and go. the pit bulls,
and other assorted dogs.
they want you to help
them get to the bottom
of your noisy neighbors.
provide evidence
that you can't sleep, or
live this way.
the neighbors laugh
when they see you, raising their
beer cans mockingly
in jest. they wave
and nod their heads,
pushing back their hats.
they know
there is nothing that can
be done by you or anyone.

love finds a way

she once threatened to boil
your dog
in a pot on the stove.
how she would find
a pot that large to hold
his enormously fat
body, might be a problem.
but you got the message,
and made amends
for telling her this
will never work out.
love finds a way.

love finds a way

she once threatened to boil
your dog
in a pot on the stove.
how she would find
a pot that large to hold
his enormously fat
body, might be a problem.
but you got the message,
and made amends
for telling her this
will never work out.
love finds a way.

they'll be missed

these are all good
things to say.
she was a good woman,
a good man,
you were lucky to have such
a friend,
a mother, or
father.
you were blessed by them.
they will be missed.
but you don't really know
these strangers
who barely walked
in the peripherally
edges
of your sight.
the words come out as
stale clichés.
a handshake or hug
might be involved,
but you don't know, not
really what
kind of people they were.
the murderous intent
they may have held,
the mayhem
of their minds.
good or bad, whose to know
these things, only those
that were held or held them
in the cross hairs
can do that.

warm toast

she stays in bed
long past the hour.
long past you
who is in the kitchen.
she lies
under the blankets. warmed.
a slice
of browned toast
not wanting to budge,
but wanting butter.
a slice
of you to melt upon
her.
coffee would be nice
too, she says
from her chambers.

warm toast

she stays in bed
long past the hour.
long past you
who is in the kitchen.
she lies
under the blankets. warmed.
a slice
of browned toast
not wanting to budge,
but wanting butter.
a slice
of you to melt upon
her.
coffee would be nice
too, she says
from her chambers.

the grey day

it's plain,
without salt, without
seasoning.
not quite without
taste,
but just barely.
it's that kind of day.
non eventful,
a yawn,
a stretch, a peek
out the window
at the shadowed
sky filled with rain.
it's a book you've
read,
a movie seen.
it's the museum of weather
where nothing
has changed.

the grey day

it's plain,
without salt, without
seasoning.
not quite without
taste,
but just barely.
it's that kind of day.
non eventful,
a yawn,
a stretch, a peek
out the window
at the shadowed
sky filled with rain.
it's a book you've
read,
a movie seen.
it's the museum of weather
where nothing
has changed.

turtle sunrise

a flat black
turtle,
the pentagon of his shell
unsheened
in the dull
light of an april
morning. it hardly
moves in the wash
of cans
and wrappers, cigarette
butts. lime colored
tennis balls.
the neck out, a green
tube of
flesh.
he's quiet
and calm, floating
with the debris
on a slimy log.
a smaller turtle is
beside him.
junior perhaps,
or just a little fellow
also resting,
saying little,
taking a nap. it's all
fine until a man walks by,
on his phone,
and spits in the water,
trying to get them to
move.
they don't. I do.

she's in town

he tells
me about the coffin that his
mother will reside
in for eternity.
the lining, the plush
thick padding.
the ruffled edges.
the polished hardwood,
marine varnished,
with brass plated
hinges
and locks.
no cremation for her,
he says.
she'll be in town,
in a rare exclusive spot
where anyone can visit,
have a word
or two with her.
sit on a stone bench
nearby and enjoy
the scenery.
the river, the woods,
the small pond with ducks.
the planes
from the airport
in the sky.

infection

the man,
sneezing,
with bleary eyes,
red rimmed, nose inflamed,
coughing,
offers his hand to shake.
you stare
at the hand and wince.
but you shake.
when you leave
you immediately wipe
the hand
in the wet green grass outside
his house.
hoping that it's not
too late.

infection

the man,
sneezing,
with bleary eyes,
red rimmed, nose inflamed,
coughing,
offers his hand to shake.
you stare
at the hand and wince.
but you shake.
when you leave
you immediately wipe
the hand
in the wet green grass outside
his house.
hoping that it's not
too late.

the motel fire

the old motel
near where the interstate
connects to
roads heading south,
roads heading
north, and east,
an easy jump to
the airport,
is on fire.
it's late,
and the patrons hardly
have time to grab
their clothes
to run outside in the cold
to watch it burn.
most are hourly patrons
wearing
leather, or stiletto heels,
some with whips
still in their hands.
the men
in black socks,
hold their briefcases,
bare skin
pinked by
the frosty air.
there is sadness all
around,
as unfinished business
stays unfinished,
and the cars drive slowly
away, back
to wherever they live,
in whatever town.

cargo shorts joe grocery store

I can't shop there anymore.
they are too friendly
in their cargo shorts
and Hawaiian shirts.
some with hats, others with
large island
necklaces dangling from
their necks.
they are hip and cool.
serving wine and small crackers
with bits of cheese
on them. they are
talkative.
they are all over the store
being helpful.
saying clever things.
so it looks like you're
going to make a sandwich
tonight with that meat,
eh?
the teller says, tossing
it into a bag.
I love sandwiches too.
that meat is out of this
world. I had some last week.
I bet you might slice up
those tomatoes too, right?
some cheese, some lettuce?
yeah, I thought so.
and pickles, who doesn't like
a pickle with their
sandwich, raise their
hand?
got a date?, he says, winking.
bottle of five buck wine,
some candles,
and our special non allergy
massage oil. oh, and a five pound
almond chocolate bar.
he rings a bell, and all
the other clerks start clapping.
you the man,
he says, as I cringe and leave
the store.

cargo shorts joe grocery store

I can't shop there anymore.
they are too friendly
in their cargo shorts
and Hawaiian shirts.
some with hats, others with
large island
necklaces dangling from
their necks.
they are hip and cool.
serving wine and small crackers
with bits of cheese
on them. they are
talkative.
they are all over the store
being helpful.
saying clever things.
so it looks like you're
going to make a sandwich
tonight with that meat,
eh?
the teller says, tossing
it into a bag.
I love sandwiches too.
that meat is out of this
world. I had some last week.
I bet you might slice up
those tomatoes too, right?
some cheese, some lettuce?
yeah, I thought so.
and pickles, who doesn't like
a pickle with their
sandwich, raise their
hand?
got a date?, he says, winking.
bottle of five buck wine,
some candles,
and our special non allergy
massage oil. oh, and a five pound
almond chocolate bar.
he rings a bell, and all
the other clerks start clapping.
you the man,
he says, as I cringe and leave
the store.

smells okay

the bells go
off in my head to not
buy the crab
meat stuffed into
a plastic tub with an
orange marked down
price
sticker on the lid.
I pick up the tub
an spin it around
for a thorough
examination. sell
by Friday, which was
yesterday.
I give it a smell
and shake it.
a pound of lump
crab meat from somewhere.
it's hard to read
where,
the print is too small.
how can you go wrong
at four dollars
and ninety seven
cents for a pound
of lump crab meat?
but you go down
the pharmaceutical
aisle to pick up
a few
gastronomical aids
just in case.

not quite the end

there is the funeral,
the wake,
the viewing, the small
gathering
three days before, pot luck.
the larger gathering
the day after.
the speeches,
the eulogy, the photos
displayed.
i'm running out of
things to wear,
and gaining weight.
the invitations keep
coming for the deceased.
a social butterfly
until the end,
which isn't really
the end.
the year later memorial
date has been circled
on the calendar
as well.

not quite the end

there is the funeral,
the wake,
the viewing, the small
gathering
three days before, pot luck.
the larger gathering
the day after.
the speeches,
the eulogy, the photos
displayed.
i'm running out of
things to wear,
and gaining weight.
the invitations keep
coming for the deceased.
a social butterfly
until the end,
which isn't really
the end.
the year later memorial
date has been circled
on the calendar
as well.

thinking about it

the black cat
and you have grown apart.
she's afraid
to approach you, though
she cautiously moves
sideways
as cats do, getting closer.
her green eyes are sharp
in the morning light.
you talk to her,
saying ridiculous things
like,
hey kitty, want some milk,
come here, come here
sweetie. where have you been?
but she's not a dog.
she's not a horse, or a cow.
she's not anything
you're familiar
with.
she's a cat.
you set the saucer of milk
on the stoop.
rattling the dish against
the cement.
she peers at you from behind
the tire
of your car.
she's thinking about it.
pondering her next move.
so are you.
we're all thinking about
something.

how late we working?

there are gaps
in his life,
dark holes of memory,
where he lived,
what happened, when,
there is
a blank spot on his brain
where nothing
is remembered.
some teeth are missing.
there's a scar
on his arm,
the smudge of a tattoo
blue
green on his neck.
a girl's name.
he says he's turning over
a new leaf
though,
getting things together,
he says this while
taking out a cigarette
and lighting it,
letting the smoke flow
through his nose
like an old dragon.
he sits down on the stoop.
says, how
late we working today.
I have a court date at 3.
he unties the rubber band
that holds back his
hair,
then ties it again,
letting the pony tail
fall to his shoulders.

the fridge

do you smell mold in
there,
the condo board
leader, with a clipboard
and pen
says, stopping by
to see what you boys are
up to in there.
there was a man
dressed in white who
left a refrigerator
out on the lawn
the other day.
do either of you know
anything about that?
he was about your height,
your age,
your weight.
we gave the police a
description of the man,
they're looking
for him right now.
so if you have any information
about this refrigerator,
it's best that you tell
me now.
she puts her pen to the
paper, and waits.
nope. I say. I don't know
anything about it.
well, if you do. here's my
card and number.
by the way, no putting
trash in the dumpsters,
those are for tenants only.
you are forewarned.
are you sure you don't smell
mold in there?

the fridge

do you smell mold in
there,
the condo board
leader, with a clipboard
and pen
says, stopping by
to see what you boys are
up to in there.
there was a man
dressed in white who
left a refrigerator
out on the lawn
the other day.
do either of you know
anything about that?
he was about your height,
your age,
your weight.
we gave the police a
description of the man,
they're looking
for him right now.
so if you have any information
about this refrigerator,
it's best that you tell
me now.
she puts her pen to the
paper, and waits.
nope. I say. I don't know
anything about it.
well, if you do. here's my
card and number.
by the way, no putting
trash in the dumpsters,
those are for tenants only.
you are forewarned.
are you sure you don't smell
mold in there?

tomorrow land

I am disappointed
by the future that was promised
to us
as children.
time travel,
the jet packs.
living on the moon,
our minds enlightened,
no longer bothered
by race
or creed, polyester
or wool.
each to his own
way of thinking, dressing
the same in silver suits,
all equals
in the eye of God,
or whatever machine
deemed worthy to pick
our fate. it's basically
the same, we eat, we drink,
we work,
make love and sleep.
little has changed,
which in a strange
way, for the most part,
is good.

the bridal shop

in the morning,
on Saturday, near the coffee
shop where I go
for a cup espresso,
a paper and a scone,
I see them.
the women, young girls,
excited
and exhausted by what
will be. waiting
outside the bridal
shop.
there are no men or boys
to be seen
as the women gather
in the parking lot.
gulls landed
on fluttering wings.
all sizes, all shapes
and colors.
they are in a quiet frenzy,
hugging, talking,
beaming. they are three inches
off the ground,
standing at the door,
waiting for someone
to open and turn the key.

the bridal shop

in the morning,
on Saturday, near the coffee
shop where I go
for a cup espresso,
a paper and a scone,
I see them.
the women, young girls,
excited
and exhausted by what
will be. waiting
outside the bridal
shop.
there are no men or boys
to be seen
as the women gather
in the parking lot.
gulls landed
on fluttering wings.
all sizes, all shapes
and colors.
they are in a quiet frenzy,
hugging, talking,
beaming. they are three inches
off the ground,
standing at the door,
waiting for someone
to open and turn the key.

you go, i'll wait here

it's on my list, she says,
flipping through
a travel guide
to Indonesia. I want
to go there.
I want to live there
for a week or
two, not stay in a hotel
and be a tourist.
I hate that. I want to eat
their food,
listen to their music.
be enchanted by
their culture
and ways of life.
I want to be one with
them. those Indonesians.
doesn't that sound like fun,
she says.
me and you, in another
country,
expatriates for a week
or two?
some questions don't
deserve an answer.

three bikes

your new bike is nice.
a hybrid.
black, two wheels,
pedals.
spokes. the rest.
now you have three bikes.
two too many.
you think of selling
the other two
on craig's list,
but you won't. you
don't want strangers
coming to your house
to look or test ride
your old bikes. complaining
about something
to bring the price down.
they might rob
and kill you too,
so why bother.
so the old bikes will sit
with their airless tires,
leaning against
the pool table
that you also never
use.

incorrect, try again

it's nearly impossible
to keep up with your growing
list of passwords.
numbers and names,
obscure places you've
been. people
that you've known,
alive and deceased.
some are so clever
you can't even remember
them ten minutes after
typing them in.
some are the same,
each account, each site,
each bank being opened
by your birth date,
or age attached
to your dog's name. you write
them down.
but in weeks or months
you forget where they are
and have to start all again.

incorrect, try again

it's nearly impossible
to keep up with your growing
list of passwords.
numbers and names,
obscure places you've
been. people
that you've known,
alive and deceased.
some are so clever
you can't even remember
them ten minutes after
typing them in.
some are the same,
each account, each site,
each bank being opened
by your birth date,
or age attached
to your dog's name. you write
them down.
but in weeks or months
you forget where they are
and have to start all again.

black ink

you could
if you wanted,
make everything wonderful.
people,
the world.
work and all that it
holds.
you could paint
all of it a sky blue,
the color of happy.
delve in
bright primary
colors,
of red or yellow.
this is what you could do,
if you wanted
to.
but no.
it's easier
to tell the story
with
the scrawl of black ink.
the hard truth,
the hard pavement with
just a flower
or two
emerging.
soft blades of grass
somehow finding their
way through
this madness we call
life.

black ink

you could
if you wanted,
make everything wonderful.
people,
the world.
work and all that it
holds.
you could paint
all of it a sky blue,
the color of happy.
delve in
bright primary
colors,
of red or yellow.
this is what you could do,
if you wanted
to.
but no.
it's easier
to tell the story
with
the scrawl of black ink.
the hard truth,
the hard pavement with
just a flower
or two
emerging.
soft blades of grass
somehow finding their
way through
this madness we call
life.

the fire

I remember
my mother standing in the street,
smoke in the air,
firetrucks
around the corner,
crying
about the baby
that died in the fire.
she had seven
children at the time,
one in her arms,
the rest scattered,
two at her feet.
I remember watching her
bend
with heartache
not knowing who these people
were, and yet
broken as if the child
was one
of her own.
it almost made me understand
why she had
so many.

the fire

I remember
my mother standing in the street,
smoke in the air,
firetrucks
around the corner,
crying
about the baby
that died in the fire.
she had seven
children at the time,
one in her arms,
the rest scattered,
two at her feet.
I remember watching her
bend
with heartache
not knowing who these people
were, and yet
broken as if the child
was one
of her own.
it almost made me understand
why she had
so many.

what i want

impatient
for many things,
spring, for one.
warm weather,
a pizza to arrive,
a call.
a hand written
postcard from afar,
a heartfelt
letter.
fruit in season.
a shoe
sale at nordstroms,
okay, not that, I was
thinking of someone else
and got distracted.
but some things.
some
things i'd like right
now.

the lightning bolt

she believes
in God, practices
her faith
religiously,
but has an issue with
the sex
part of the rules,
sex outside
of marriage to be exact.
who gets married anymore,
she wonders
out loud,
but I feel guilty
afterwards.
and you?
all the time,
I say,
but it doesn't seem
to stop me,
if things go that way.
i'm thankful though
for a forgiving
and compassionate
God and hope that His
patience
will not end,
that He will not angrily
throw a lightning bolt
my way.

rosa's maid service

i prefer
to get home late,
when it's nearly dark.
the house looks much
cleaner then.
the dust and shoe marks
on the floor,
less obvious.
the unwiped counter,
the dishes
scattered on each table,
in twilight
the mess is somehow less
annoying and less
a pointed finger
at my laziness with
cleaning.
i stare at the coupon
that was slipped
under my door,
Rosa's Maid Service,
ten dollars off
the first visit.
perhaps, tomorrow,
when the sun comes up
and i feel
i need it more.

rosa's maid service

i prefer
to get home late,
when it's nearly dark.
the house looks much
cleaner then.
the dust and shoe marks
on the floor,
less obvious.
the unwiped counter,
the dishes
scattered on each table,
in twilight
the mess is somehow less
annoying and less
a pointed finger
at my laziness with
cleaning.
i stare at the coupon
that was slipped
under my door,
Rosa's Maid Service,
ten dollars off
the first visit.
perhaps, tomorrow,
when the sun comes up
and i feel
i need it more.

what love is

the cat shows her love
and appreciation
for all that you do
by dropping
a dead mouse at
your feet
as you sit on the couch
watching television.
no words are said.
no exchange
of pleasantries.
just thank you, you say.
how nice,
as you go into the kitchen
for a dust pan
and a broom, setting
out cheese
and traps for other mice
that might be
running loose.

what love is

the cat shows her love
and appreciation
for all that you do
by dropping
a dead mouse at
your feet
as you sit on the couch
watching television.
no words are said.
no exchange
of pleasantries.
just thank you, you say.
how nice,
as you go into the kitchen
for a dust pan
and a broom, setting
out cheese
and traps for other mice
that might be
running loose.

the armed guard

the armed guard
lugging warily the white burlap
bags of cash
and coin, lumbers
from the block
truck, metal white,
meshed
and thickened
by fear of robbery. he
looks each
way before entering
the bank.
one hand
near a gun, a radio on
his shoulder.
all day, he does the same.
fearing life,
fearing death,
keeping his job
by protecting what isn't
his.
no different from me,
or others walking by,
I guess.

the armed guard

the armed guard
lugging warily the white burlap
bags of cash
and coin, lumbers
from the block
truck, metal white,
meshed
and thickened
by fear of robbery. he
looks each
way before entering
the bank.
one hand
near a gun, a radio on
his shoulder.
all day, he does the same.
fearing life,
fearing death,
keeping his job
by protecting what isn't
his.
no different from me,
or others walking by,
I guess.

leave it at that

it's too easy to take
a dream and pick it apart.
unpuzzle the pieces
of its vague
heart, make something
of it, write about
what it means,
paste it in a poem
call it
inspirational, or
revealing. it's just a dream
brought on
by too much drink,
bad food,
the window being open,
the cold air
against your bare feet.
an angry word or thought
left hanging
in the air.
I like dreaming.
I like the color, the escape,
the unreal realness
of it all, but I want
to leave it at that,
don't drag it into the light
of day,
pretend it's
something that it isn't,
something akin to
poetry.

leave it at that

it's too easy to take
a dream and pick it apart.
unpuzzle the pieces
of its vague
heart, make something
of it, write about
what it means,
paste it in a poem
call it
inspirational, or
revealing. it's just a dream
brought on
by too much drink,
bad food,
the window being open,
the cold air
against your bare feet.
an angry word or thought
left hanging
in the air.
I like dreaming.
I like the color, the escape,
the unreal realness
of it all, but I want
to leave it at that,
don't drag it into the light
of day,
pretend it's
something that it isn't,
something akin to
poetry.

vacancy

the empty apartment
has much to say. these floors,
hardwood, both blonde and brown,
scratched, corners
webbed in grey.
the avocado refrigerator
round shouldered
and stocky
like a Russian aunt.
your steps echo
against the thin walls
as you listen to
the clunk of the radiator,
hearing the whistle of
the broken window.
the toilet that never
stops running. there is
the rust ring in the tub,
a drip of soft
brown water clicking.
how many have
come and gone
from here, have jiggled the key
to turn the lock,
have rested
their heads on
striped pillows.
sat on a chair in front
of the window
and ate, watching who
came and went in the courtyard.

listening

it's a day of listening.
the cab driver
with his radical world views.
the butcher
as he slices a few rib eyes
and wraps them,
expanding on his
take of love and death.
his hands and apron bloody.
the barista, with her
weather report
and knowledge of the amazon
jungles. the woe is
me diatribe of
the young that the world
is spinning too fast
towards an end.
the bartender. wiping his
clean cloth across the thick
polished bar.
pouring a gin and tonic,
talking wistfully about
remember when.
before the highway cut
the town in half. how the trolleys
ran. how people came in
here and talked, not
stared at their phones
or the television.
there' a part of you that wants
to join in,
but not today, today,
you take the time,
and listen.

listening

it's a day of listening.
the cab driver
with his radical world views.
the butcher
as he slices a few rib eyes
and wraps them,
expanding on his
take of love and death.
his hands and apron bloody.
the barista, with her
weather report
and knowledge of the amazon
jungles. the woe is
me diatribe of
the young that the world
is spinning too fast
towards an end.
the bartender. wiping his
clean cloth across the thick
polished bar.
pouring a gin and tonic,
talking wistfully about
remember when.
before the highway cut
the town in half. how the trolleys
ran. how people came in
here and talked, not
stared at their phones
or the television.
there' a part of you that wants
to join in,
but not today, today,
you take the time,
and listen.

calling rhonda

the angel on your shoulder
is tired.
tired of debating
the good and bad things
that you do, or don't do.
he wants a break,
a vacation, but he worries
you'll go completely
to the other side.
you worry about this too
as you feel
the pinch of the pitchfork
on your other shoulder,
hearing the whisper for you
to call Rhonda,
the alley cat,
to see what she's up to.

donations

someone tells you
that they saw you the other day
on the street.
you tell them it wasn't you.
it was someone that
looked exactly
like me.
but it wasn't me.
no, they said, i'm sure
it was you.
you were standing at
the corner with a red
can, a sign, you
were reaching
into the windows of stopped
cars for donations
to your own personal fund.
impossible, you tell
them. it couldn't have
been me, I never work
that corner.
I prefer the intersection
of union and king.

donations

someone tells you
that they saw you the other day
on the street.
you tell them it wasn't you.
it was someone that
looked exactly
like me.
but it wasn't me.
no, they said, i'm sure
it was you.
you were standing at
the corner with a red
can, a sign, you
were reaching
into the windows of stopped
cars for donations
to your own personal fund.
impossible, you tell
them. it couldn't have
been me, I never work
that corner.
I prefer the intersection
of union and king.

the things she needs

you send the steak
back.
so tough, too thick
and browned
to cut.
you try. taking the sharp
knife and press
down.
not a drop of blood,
or juice.
it's leather.
the waitress sees
you struggling to chew
the piece you finally
convince to break
free,
but she says nothing.
the whole room
is gnawing
at this beef. the Thursday
special
with cold vegetables,
bread,
a glass of wine, tea.
she worries about the bill,
the tip.
the things
she needs.

the things she needs

you send the steak
back.
so tough, too thick
and browned
to cut.
you try. taking the sharp
knife and press
down.
not a drop of blood,
or juice.
it's leather.
the waitress sees
you struggling to chew
the piece you finally
convince to break
free,
but she says nothing.
the whole room
is gnawing
at this beef. the Thursday
special
with cold vegetables,
bread,
a glass of wine, tea.
she worries about the bill,
the tip.
the things
she needs.

her safe

while asleep
I find the dial to her
heart
and put my
ear to her chest,
slowly turning,
listening to the clicks,
trying to open
the door
to who she really is.
to understand
the beauty or darkness
that lies within.
she may be sleeping,
or awake,
it doesn't matter,
she's knows I
can't get in until
she says so.

her safe

while asleep
I find the dial to her
heart
and put my
ear to her chest,
slowly turning,
listening to the clicks,
trying to open
the door
to who she really is.
to understand
the beauty or darkness
that lies within.
she may be sleeping,
or awake,
it doesn't matter,
she's knows I
can't get in until
she says so.

wild flowers

on a whim
I purchased then
tossed the seeds of wild
flowers
in the yard
of dirt and ivy.
weeds.
two or three envelopes.
the photo on
the front showed
purple and pink,
passionate colors, bright
and glorious
in whatever sun
they grew under. blue and
yellow stars.
nothing came.
winter iced the yard.
the rains.
the stamping of my feet
coming and going.
then it happened.
there they were.
the flowers were everywhere.
delicate petals
defying everything,
including me.

wild flowers

on a whim
I purchased then
tossed the seeds of wild
flowers
in the yard
of dirt and ivy.
weeds.
two or three envelopes.
the photo on
the front showed
purple and pink,
passionate colors, bright
and glorious
in whatever sun
they grew under. blue and
yellow stars.
nothing came.
winter iced the yard.
the rains.
the stamping of my feet
coming and going.
then it happened.
there they were.
the flowers were everywhere.
delicate petals
defying everything,
including me.

in the woods

let's meet in the woods
she tells
you cryptically.
on neutral ground.
behind the oaks,
the maples,
the pines.
our feet ankle high
in leaves,
in soil,
ivy and twine.
let's go where it's dark
and quiet.
let's strip off our clothes,
leave our books,
our lies,
our families behind.
let's see who
we really are.
let's meet in the woods.
bring your heart,
i'll bring mine.

another day

your factory work ethic
contributes
much
to how sore you are in
the morning.
the ache
of yesterday still lingering
in each stride,
each reach of an
arm over your head
to open
a can of something
to eat.
you see a line of smoke
stacks
on the horizon
fuming blue
and grey and feel good
about that.
there is work to be done,
to be had.
this will keep you
going. keep the dog's
tail wagging,
a roof over your head,
the dream of love
within reach
for another day.

another day

your factory work ethic
contributes
much
to how sore you are in
the morning.
the ache
of yesterday still lingering
in each stride,
each reach of an
arm over your head
to open
a can of something
to eat.
you see a line of smoke
stacks
on the horizon
fuming blue
and grey and feel good
about that.
there is work to be done,
to be had.
this will keep you
going. keep the dog's
tail wagging,
a roof over your head,
the dream of love
within reach
for another day.

the poetry class

when she taught poetry
she'd stand
in front of the class and pace
back and forth.
staring at the ceiling,
reciting poems she'd memorized.
sometimes she'd forget
to set her purse down,
keeping it strapped
around shoulder.
if she saw something out
the window, she'd stop
and say, oh look at that.
a firetruck is going by.
there were times you felt
that you learned nothing from her,
and then other times,
like today, you realize
how much you did.

the poetry class

when she taught poetry
she'd stand
in front of the class and pace
back and forth.
staring at the ceiling,
reciting poems she'd memorized.
sometimes she'd forget
to set her purse down,
keeping it strapped
around shoulder.
if she saw something out
the window, she'd stop
and say, oh look at that.
a firetruck is going by.
there were times you felt
that you learned nothing from her,
and then other times,
like today, you realize
how much you did.

the twenty minute visit

it comes down to this.
the group house.
the name tags smoothed
against
the dresser drawers in
the living room.
wide spaces for walkers
and wheel chairs.
something
steaming on the stove,
a vegetable unsalted.
the tv on.
the tv always on.
as if silence would seal
the deal.
be a sign of surrender
to this earth
that calls for you to
quit, to lie down
and exhale what's left.
the tired visitor
on the couch,
saying things that you
say to babies
when they are born.
twenty minutes is
a lifetime.

the twenty minute visit

it comes down to this.
the group house.
the name tags smoothed
against
the dresser drawers in
the living room.
wide spaces for walkers
and wheel chairs.
something
steaming on the stove,
a vegetable unsalted.
the tv on.
the tv always on.
as if silence would seal
the deal.
be a sign of surrender
to this earth
that calls for you to
quit, to lie down
and exhale what's left.
the tired visitor
on the couch,
saying things that you
say to babies
when they are born.
twenty minutes is
a lifetime.

red underwear

some mornings you can't decide
what color underwear
to wear.
you spread them out on the bed
to help you make
your selection.
grey, blue, black, white.
red.
it surprises you that you have
a pair of red
underwear.
a valentine's gift
from someone.
they are silky with little
white hearts on them.
buttons too.
they have the faint scent of
cinnamon on them
for some reason.
no.
maybe black today.

red underwear

some mornings you can't decide
what color underwear
to wear.
you spread them out on the bed
to help you make
your selection.
grey, blue, black, white.
red.
it surprises you that you have
a pair of red
underwear.
a valentine's gift
from someone.
they are silky with little
white hearts on them.
buttons too.
they have the faint scent of
cinnamon on them
for some reason.
no.
maybe black today.

the fish tank

the police fund calls
you.
a serious man
on the other end of the line
with a deep voice.
you begin
to pace the kitchen,
eating rapidly
whatever snacks you can
find.
what does he know?
how could he know
the things you've done.
just a small donation, he
says,
and you'll get a sticker
saying that
you've contributed.
a police sticker for your
bumper.
you look out the window,
but don't see
any squad cars, no cop
walking the beat
swinging his club and whistling
Dixie.
maybe there's a way
out of this.
sure, you say. can I send
five dollars.
or can I just set it out
on the porch,
under the mat?
leave the sticker there.
you hang up and draw the shades.
you crawl over
to the fish tank,
and stare at the fish for
awhile to wait it out.

the fish tank

the police fund calls
you.
a serious man
on the other end of the line
with a deep voice.
you begin
to pace the kitchen,
eating rapidly
whatever snacks you can
find.
what does he know?
how could he know
the things you've done.
just a small donation, he
says,
and you'll get a sticker
saying that
you've contributed.
a police sticker for your
bumper.
you look out the window,
but don't see
any squad cars, no cop
walking the beat
swinging his club and whistling
Dixie.
maybe there's a way
out of this.
sure, you say. can I send
five dollars.
or can I just set it out
on the porch,
under the mat?
leave the sticker there.
you hang up and draw the shades.
you crawl over
to the fish tank,
and stare at the fish for
awhile to wait it out.

to a point

the dog is in the paint.
his paws
smudge
and imprint the floor,
the rug,
the brown couch,
all spotted now with white.
you could kill
the dog, but that wouldn't
help things.
so you take a sponge,
a spray
and go about
the job of cleaning up
what the former love
of your life
has done. we accept mistakes
so easily,
when love
is involved,
to a point.

to a point

the dog is in the paint.
his paws
smudge
and imprint the floor,
the rug,
the brown couch,
all spotted now with white.
you could kill
the dog, but that wouldn't
help things.
so you take a sponge,
a spray
and go about
the job of cleaning up
what the former love
of your life
has done. we accept mistakes
so easily,
when love
is involved,
to a point.

this side up

the letters are upside
down on the box
delivered.
this side up it says.
too late for that.
whatever it is,
too bad.
sometimes I need arrows
on myself
to remain upright.
close to teetering over
from the spin
of the world.
i'll open it tomorrow,
bad news
will last. I need
to lie down. I hope
it's not a cake.

this side up

the letters are upside
down on the box
delivered.
this side up it says.
too late for that.
whatever it is,
too bad.
sometimes I need arrows
on myself
to remain upright.
close to teetering over
from the spin
of the world.
i'll open it tomorrow,
bad news
will last. I need
to lie down. I hope
it's not a cake.

one good thing

the day escapes
from your hands. there was a book
you were reading earlier.
it's somewhere,
then the phone rang,
someone was at the door.
mail cascaded
through the slot.
there was beeping coming
from the clock
that fell,
the dryer signaling
done. hard to imagine
where it went.
what was accomplished
along the way, I did think
of you though.
that's something.
a good thing, i'm saved
and filled by that.

one good thing

the day escapes
from your hands. there was a book
you were reading earlier.
it's somewhere,
then the phone rang,
someone was at the door.
mail cascaded
through the slot.
there was beeping coming
from the clock
that fell,
the dryer signaling
done. hard to imagine
where it went.
what was accomplished
along the way, I did think
of you though.
that's something.
a good thing, i'm saved
and filled by that.

a cold whine

stop your whining
she says.
If you want clouds
and despair,
rain,
a cold wind off the sound,
come here.
come here and stand
with me
in seattle.
stare up at the snow
capped mountains,
look north
to the border.
even the salmon are
shivering
as they swim upstream
grabbed
by the fat paws of brown
bears.
stop your whining
she says.
put on your waist high
boots,
your mountain hat,
your mohair sweater
and come here.
we can whine together.

a cold whine

stop your whining
she says.
If you want clouds
and despair,
rain,
a cold wind off the sound,
come here.
come here and stand
with me
in seattle.
stare up at the snow
capped mountains,
look north
to the border.
even the salmon are
shivering
as they swim upstream
grabbed
by the fat paws of brown
bears.
stop your whining
she says.
put on your waist high
boots,
your mountain hat,
your mohair sweater
and come here.
we can whine together.

the examination

like an old horse
you stand
unsaddled, unbridled,
legs
bent, rising from
the tiled floor.
a steel light overhead.
the doctor, a she,
stands back, a measured
distance,
glasses perched
solidly on an educated
nose.
turn around, she says.
look up.
look down. her hand
reaches for your chin,
two fingers pressing
you to move left,
then right.
she pulls on an arm,
then listens to the cave
of your heart,
your pickled lungs,
both front
and back.
open your mouth, she
says.
stick out your tongue.
what hurts,
she finally asks. why
are you here.
what's taken you so long
to realize
you're no longer
young?

donuts and rocket ships

i'm not charging you
today,
my therapist tells me.
I think you've done more to help
me than
I've helped you.
you are so wise and insightful.
why thanks, I tell her.
you're such a good listener.
hey, I know,
let's switch, i tell
her. i'll sit there
and you sit or lie down
here on this chaise
lounge.
okay, she says, handing me
her pad. I tell her to take
her shoes off
and relax.
I look at her spiral notebook.
it's doodles mostly.
hearts with arrows through them.
I thought
she was taking notes.
there are
poorly drawn cats and dogs.
there are some
things drawn that appear to
be rather sexual.
donuts, and rocket ships.
oh my, I say out loud,
flipping the page over.
so tell me about your mother
I ask her.
remember, no
judgement here. we are here
to discover and heal.

nine feet down

the worst job
you ever had was digging ditches.
slapping tar
onto the side of new houses
that were cracked
from the footer up,
allowing water to seep into
the basements.
nine feet down, a long narrow
ditch, two feet wide,
in the clay and mud.
hammering boards
to keep it from collapsing
and crushing your
lungs before they could
dig you out. a knotted rope
was lowered for escape.
in the winter.
the shovels broke when stamped
into the ground.
the metal, frozen
and cracked. the axes would
bounce and nearly
strike you.
sometimes you'd stand with
the lucky others,
a cup of 7-11
coffee, around a barrel
of fire, rubbing your hands
together, shivering,
waiting for the sun to
get higher.
you're still waiting.

tv land

you fall into the habit
of tuning on the television
when you get home,
bone weary from work.
a sandwich, a glass of milk.
you take your shoes
off and sit on the couch
feet up.
you watch an entire episode
of Gunsmoke,
a show you never watched
when it was really on.
but now you're engaged.
the horses, the dust and
hills. the moral mini
drama unfolding slowly
before your eyes. it's not
Shakespeare or Mamet,
or Eugene O'Neil, but
it has its place.
sometimes you fall asleep
before it's over.
someone gets shot,
Matt gets his man, Kitty
blinks her blue eyes
and smiles, no one important
dies,
and Festus says something
clever in the end.

tv land

you fall into the habit
of tuning on the television
when you get home,
bone weary from work.
a sandwich, a glass of milk.
you take your shoes
off and sit on the couch
feet up.
you watch an entire episode
of Gunsmoke,
a show you never watched
when it was really on.
but now you're engaged.
the horses, the dust and
hills. the moral mini
drama unfolding slowly
before your eyes. it's not
Shakespeare or Mamet,
or Eugene O'Neil, but
it has its place.
sometimes you fall asleep
before it's over.
someone gets shot,
Matt gets his man, Kitty
blinks her blue eyes
and smiles, no one important
dies,
and Festus says something
clever in the end.

unchained

sometimes the noose
around your neck was tight,
other days
loose, almost to the point where
you felt you could slip
out of it.
it's not that you didn't
like the married life.
but there were days,
when you wanted to run
free, like a wild
dog, over the fence,
off the chain, chasing
something you've seen
in the woods.
how times have changed.
it's all you do now, is run,
and chase, the noose untied
and gone.

the good china

it's rare that I put out
the good china
anymore.
why bother with Chinese
delivery.
the box works fine.
I used to though,
when married, or rather
she did.
the bone white china
with little gold
emblems all around.
shiny in the overhead light.
not dishwasher safe,
so you knew it
was good.
it sits out of sight,
unused, collecting
dust behind
the closet door.
maybe in the fall i'll
find a recipe
that deserves such a dish.
bring out the tea cups
too and the gravy
boat, the butter
tray, the dessert plates,
smaller than the rest.

the good china

it's rare that I put out
the good china
anymore.
why bother with Chinese
delivery.
the box works fine.
I used to though,
when married, or rather
she did.
the bone white china
with little gold
emblems all around.
shiny in the overhead light.
not dishwasher safe,
so you knew it
was good.
it sits out of sight,
unused, collecting
dust behind
the closet door.
maybe in the fall i'll
find a recipe
that deserves such a dish.
bring out the tea cups
too and the gravy
boat, the butter
tray, the dessert plates,
smaller than the rest.

taxed

my tax lady
betty is dragging her feet
on having my
taxes done. she's been sitting
on my paperwork since
late February.
it must mean I owe,
she's delaying the inevitable
phone call
to tell me so.
I hope we both don't go
to jail
this year, she'll say.
but you owe.
this for fed
and this for state.
I assume you are putting
your usual pitiful
amount into your four oh
one K.
but they're ready now.
all you need is to come
down and sign
before the fifteenth.

it's about me

strange that you see your
doctor, your lawyer
and your tax accountant all
having lunch together
at the same
table.
hmmm. you say. what is
going on here?
you walk over to them,
which makes the conversation
suddenly end.
then you see your mother
coming over,
out of the restroom,
taking a seat at the table
too.
you say hello, she says hello
back. then tells you.
nice to see you, we'd ask
you to join, but it's
a business meeting.
oh, you say, okay. we'll
goodbye, have a nice day.
you try to shake it off,
but you have this funny feeling
all day that they might
be talking about you.