the mirage

this desert
has me crawling. tongue
dragging with thirst,
burned brown
under a white sun.
vultures, black stripes
in the sky,
circle slowly.
the mirage of you
is over the next dune.
a cold glass of water
in your hand,
under a cool
umbrella of tall palms.
I always knew
that you, or someone
like you, would save me.

the mirage

this desert
has me crawling. tongue
dragging with thirst,
burned brown
under a white sun.
vultures, black stripes
in the sky,
circle slowly.
the mirage of you
is over the next dune.
a cold glass of water
in your hand,
under a cool
umbrella of tall palms.
I always knew
that you, or someone
like you, would save me.

hold my handbag honey

i no longer want to hold
a hand bag
while she changes into a new
dress
in the dressing room.
waiting outside
with the other stiffs,
bored silly,
shaking our collective
heads, wondering
how we got talked into this.
of course i'm all
smiles when she comes
out and spins,
pirouettes and says,
what do you think of this
one. she looks into the mirror,
dipping her head,
moving her hair,
too loud, too short?
this is a maybe,
i have five more to go,
i'll hand this one out
to you
when i change. don't lose it.
it's one thing if it's
Victoria Secrets, but another
if it's Macy's summer sale
on floral
peasant dresses.

comfort over style

there was a time
when I preferred shiny
and new.
clean and polished.
something fresh, right
off the shelf.
no more.
give me the worn pair
of shoes,
the tattered jeans,
the shirt
with a tear and button
missing.
give me comfort over style.
I say the same
things about you.

comfort over style

there was a time
when I preferred shiny
and new.
clean and polished.
something fresh, right
off the shelf.
no more.
give me the worn pair
of shoes,
the tattered jeans,
the shirt
with a tear and button
missing.
give me comfort over style.
I say the same
things about you.

be done with it

the car
rusts in the garage,
propped up
on four cinder blocks,
the wheels
taken off,
the hood up,
wires stiffly rising
like medusa's
hair.
seats are rotted,
the yellowed foam
billowing out.
he leans with flashlight
and book,
studying what needs
to be done next
to get it back on the road,
restored
to new.
you want to say tow
it to the dump and be done
with it.
but you say that
about every failed
love affair,
so you don't.

be done with it

the car
rusts in the garage,
propped up
on four cinder blocks,
the wheels
taken off,
the hood up,
wires stiffly rising
like medusa's
hair.
seats are rotted,
the yellowed foam
billowing out.
he leans with flashlight
and book,
studying what needs
to be done next
to get it back on the road,
restored
to new.
you want to say tow
it to the dump and be done
with it.
but you say that
about every failed
love affair,
so you don't.

the empty house

the house, once pickle green,
has faded.
boards are screwed tight
onto frames
where faces once
looked out.
the doors are nailed shut.
signs posted.
this property condemned.
the chain link
fence wraps
bent around the scrub brush,
the overgrown
thickets,
ivy scrolls along
the chimney,
tightening its grip
on crumbling brick.
the living have left,
the dead too.
maybe there was love in
this house
at one time.
maybe there were children
in the windows.
maybe someone came home
from work,
ate dinner, watched tv,
then kissed his wife
goodnight.
maybe.

the empty house

the house, once pickle green,
has faded.
boards are screwed tight
onto frames
where faces once
looked out.
the doors are nailed shut.
signs posted.
this property condemned.
the chain link
fence wraps
bent around the scrub brush,
the overgrown
thickets,
ivy scrolls along
the chimney,
tightening its grip
on crumbling brick.
the living have left,
the dead too.
maybe there was love in
this house
at one time.
maybe there were children
in the windows.
maybe someone came home
from work,
ate dinner, watched tv,
then kissed his wife
goodnight.
maybe.

the rest of the world

some are always looking
for another way,
a different way,
not settling for the nine
to five,
the time clock,
the shallow grave of work.
the mill,
the cubicle,
the rake. they see outside
the lines.
crossing over,
it's not courage,
not bravery it's fear
that keeps them from joining
the rest of the world.

the rest of the world

some are always looking
for another way,
a different way,
not settling for the nine
to five,
the time clock,
the shallow grave of work.
the mill,
the cubicle,
the rake. they see outside
the lines.
crossing over,
it's not courage,
not bravery it's fear
that keeps them from joining
the rest of the world.

grooms that will never come

it's house full of dolls.
eight hundred
and thirty seven to be exact,
the round
short woman says with a lipsticked
smile.
then she begins
to tell the story of the dolls.
where and when
they were bought or
bargained for.
heartless and wide eyed
they stare with a muted gleam,
made of porcelain
and silk,
each in a dress
or costume. all girls.
some stand, some sit, some are
on the dining room table
in wedding dresses,
pointed to the door,
awaiting grooms
that will never come.

churning

I remember
how her leg kept shaking
all night.
a slight tremble,
shuffling
the sheets, the blanket.
it churned.
that one leg
stirring in the dark room.
if the bed was milk
we'd have butter
in the morning.

turn off the lights

strange, isn't it,
the way the days

keep turning

into nights.

the way we sleep it off,
engage,
disappear, eventually

from sight.

how hard it is to be left
behind, to be
the last one standing,

to turn
off the lights.

the sweet middle

the middle
is sweet. those years between
the cradle
and grave.
the wisdom
gathered, the bones
still
strong, the eyes
unblurred.
these are the golden
years, where
both the beginning
and end
seem so far off.
such are the illusions
we live with.

they are with you

there is no grave
to visit.
no need to kneel on cold
ground,
at the stone
above turned dirt.
there is no
need to be where others
aren't.
below the earth, beyond.
they are with you,
always.
in the pocket
of your soul.

they are with you

there is no grave
to visit.
no need to kneel on cold
ground,
at the stone
above turned dirt.
there is no
need to be where others
aren't.
below the earth, beyond.
they are with you,
always.
in the pocket
of your soul.

black ants

the landlord wants
his rent,
disregards the mice,
the ceiling crack,
the weak air
seeping through dust
filled vents.
the landlord sleeps
on feathered beds
of soft money,
easy money,
not spent on the upkeep
of paint,
or trembling stoves
melting ice, strings
of black ants.
the landlord wants
his rent.

black ants

the landlord wants
his rent,
disregards the mice,
the ceiling crack,
the weak air
seeping through dust
filled vents.
the landlord sleeps
on feathered beds
of soft money,
easy money,
not spent on the upkeep
of paint,
or trembling stoves
melting ice, strings
of black ants.
the landlord wants
his rent.

the line

I see my mother
at the line.
the frozen rope stiff
from one pole to the other.
sheets, blankets, clothes,
all
heavy against the sky.
there may be snow on the ground.
she's in her boots,
a thin coat on.
the sun will come out
and it might hit fifty by three
o'clock in the day.
at five
as the sky darkens,
she takes a basket out,
removing each pin one by one.
folding
and carrying it all in,
smiling with red cheeks
to me in the window.

the line

I see my mother
at the line.
the frozen rope stiff
from one pole to the other.
sheets, blankets, clothes,
all
heavy against the sky.
there may be snow on the ground.
she's in her boots,
a thin coat on.
the sun will come out
and it might hit fifty by three
o'clock in the day.
at five
as the sky darkens,
she takes a basket out,
removing each pin one by one.
folding
and carrying it all in,
smiling with red cheeks
to me in the window.

the rare gem

even with six or seven
years
of schooling
after high school, you still
don't know enough
about anything.
but you know this.
pressing keys with your rapid
fingers,
making something
out of nothing,
hoping for luck, for a meteor,
that rare gem
to hit.

the rare gem

even with six or seven
years
of schooling
after high school, you still
don't know enough
about anything.
but you know this.
pressing keys with your rapid
fingers,
making something
out of nothing,
hoping for luck, for a meteor,
that rare gem
to hit.

hot and spicy

the wasabi burns
your nose,
makes your eyes bleed
with tears,
places a puddle of sweat
on top of your smooth head.
it takes a minute
to speak,
your throat frozen
from the spice and heat.
someone says, good?
and you nod yes,
reaching for water
and more
trouble with another
fork full
of meat.

hot and spicy

the wasabi burns
your nose,
makes your eyes bleed
with tears,
places a puddle of sweat
on top of your smooth head.
it takes a minute
to speak,
your throat frozen
from the spice and heat.
someone says, good?
and you nod yes,
reaching for water
and more
trouble with another
fork full
of meat.

going under

when they rescue her
from the water, from
the churn, the chaotic
swirl
of converging streams
that pulled her under,
when they pull
her up
blue skinned
and gasping, eyes wide
in the west
Virginia sun we head
down stream,
being more careful
and fearful
as our paddles slip
under
the cold rocked river
that cradles us.

going under

when they rescue her
from the water, from
the churn, the chaotic
swirl
of converging streams
that pulled her under,
when they pull
her up
blue skinned
and gasping, eyes wide
in the west
Virginia sun we head
down stream,
being more careful
and fearful
as our paddles slip
under
the cold rocked river
that cradles us.

the imperfect life

an imperfect life
is every
life.
a crack in each
mirror,
a pebble in every
shoe.
don't let the bling
and smile
fool you.
be kind
to those that limp,
your day
will come
too.

filling the jar

how quickly
the penny jar fills.
it sings
with coins as you toss
them in
at the end of each day,
along with
nails and pins,
screws.
odds and ends
from your work pockets.
money, like love
can grow,
be spent,
fill the jar of you,
which one can you live
without,
is unsure.

filling the jar

how quickly
the penny jar fills.
it sings
with coins as you toss
them in
at the end of each day,
along with
nails and pins,
screws.
odds and ends
from your work pockets.
money, like love
can grow,
be spent,
fill the jar of you,
which one can you live
without,
is unsure.

one child

your second child
never came.
one was all you
received
for this lifetime.
but enough.
three would have been fine,
no more,
no less than that.
a girl in
the mix would have been
welcome.
old age
reaps
the love they have
for you and women seem
to do that
better.

one child

your second child
never came.
one was all you
received
for this lifetime.
but enough.
three would have been fine,
no more,
no less than that.
a girl in
the mix would have been
welcome.
old age
reaps
the love they have
for you and women seem
to do that
better.

clean

not a crumb
is found along her counters.
no spills.
all
has a place, and put
away.
a bottle of spray
and a white cloth folded
sits
near the sink.
ready.
no dish unclean,
no pot
or pan awaiting scrub.
each fork
and knife nestled in shine
in a closed drawer.
it's a clean
kitchen.
scary clean.
she can never set foot
in yours.

clean

not a crumb
is found along her counters.
no spills.
all
has a place, and put
away.
a bottle of spray
and a white cloth folded
sits
near the sink.
ready.
no dish unclean,
no pot
or pan awaiting scrub.
each fork
and knife nestled in shine
in a closed drawer.
it's a clean
kitchen.
scary clean.
she can never set foot
in yours.

unheard

her hearing gone bad,
stuffed with the cotton
of years
and aging,
just a word or two
slips in,
a whisper, a small creek
of sound.
her eyes focus
on your lips,
wide with confusion.
trying to discern
your questions,
to no avail.
the muffled sound makes
her sit still,
appear dumb,
until you both give
up and look
elsewhere.

unheard

her hearing gone bad,
stuffed with the cotton
of years
and aging,
just a word or two
slips in,
a whisper, a small creek
of sound.
her eyes focus
on your lips,
wide with confusion.
trying to discern
your questions,
to no avail.
the muffled sound makes
her sit still,
appear dumb,
until you both give
up and look
elsewhere.

things grow

things grow
beyond your repair. your
scissors
your axe,
the ground cover
has taken over.
bushes that may be trees
have risen
from the ground and bend
against the fence.
ivy
grips the brick,
the slab
that has turned green
by nature.
your path has narrowed
to the gate.
a home has been made
for the outcast,
whatever
snake needs a cool
unfettered place
to coil and rest
before striking.

things grow

things grow
beyond your repair. your
scissors
your axe,
the ground cover
has taken over.
bushes that may be trees
have risen
from the ground and bend
against the fence.
ivy
grips the brick,
the slab
that has turned green
by nature.
your path has narrowed
to the gate.
a home has been made
for the outcast,
whatever
snake needs a cool
unfettered place
to coil and rest
before striking.

the safe

I turn the dials
on her.
my ear to the cold walls
of the metal box
that she is.
click click click.
but the safe
door doesn't open.
I pry it with sweet words
and flowers.
nothing.
I take a hammer,
a blow torch,
a bomb, finally, to see
what's inside.
it could be anything,
it could be love,
it could be
nothing.
something this hard
it might be best
to leave it shut
and go on
about our lives.

the safe

I turn the dials
on her.
my ear to the cold walls
of the metal box
that she is.
click click click.
but the safe
door doesn't open.
I pry it with sweet words
and flowers.
nothing.
I take a hammer,
a blow torch,
a bomb, finally, to see
what's inside.
it could be anything,
it could be love,
it could be
nothing.
something this hard
it might be best
to leave it shut
and go on
about our lives.

vote neither

so much happens
under the table, behind
closed doors,
in secret.
whispered voices
are upon us. big
smiles and flag waving.
the truth is part sunshine,
part shadow.
few stand naked
at the podium
and say here it is.
make of me
what you will. vote
yes or no, but this is
who I am. imperfect
and flawed, but willing.

vote neither

so much happens
under the table, behind
closed doors,
in secret.
whispered voices
are upon us. big
smiles and flag waving.
the truth is part sunshine,
part shadow.
few stand naked
at the podium
and say here it is.
make of me
what you will. vote
yes or no, but this is
who I am. imperfect
and flawed, but willing.

this place is a zoo

the zoo
keeper drops his keys
one night
and the monkeys make a run,
going from
cage to cage to let
out their friends.
there is a stampede.
elephants,
giraffes, zebras and tigers.
they disperse into the woods
along rock creek
park. but the monkeys
stop first for a beer
at the zoo bar,
where you sit
and listen to the Dixieland
band.
monkeys love music,
keeping beat
with both feet
and hands, each hardly
different.

cherry wine

when you heard about
the high school friend passing.
you were stunned.
he was fun.
vibrant.
he cheated on every test
in physics class
by looking
over your shoulder,
stealing your hard earned
knowledge.
how easily he seemed
to glide
through life
with never a book in hand.
always late.
a breeze coming into the room.
everyone's friend.
he signed your yearbook
with words like
thanks for letting
me cheat on the exams, pal,
I owe you
a bottle of cherry wine,
which never came.

buying affection

money cannot buy
happiness, or love,
or
affection,
but this gift
of a long wooden
back scratcher
you got in the mail
for father's day
comes close.

buying affection

money cannot buy
happiness, or love,
or
affection,
but this gift
of a long wooden
back scratcher
you got in the mail
for father's day
comes close.

the picnic

in black and white,
the photo
doesn't tell the story
at all.
it suggests fun,
the picnic table,
the smiling faces
of children.
a nice day at the park.
but you remember
it differently.
how it soon rained.
how your parents fought.
the angry
way your father drove
his car,
the way
he went quiet, your
mother crying,
staring out the fogged window.
how the sun never quite
came out again
for either of
them.

lights and music

they, they being the doctors
in masks.
work under steel bright lights,
sheets of white,
on a sterilized stage with
music playing.
how easily
they open up
the human body to let air
in,
blood out.
shifting shiny instruments,
all sharp,
from hand to hand
to move things, remove
things.
make you better, to keep
you living.
but it doesn't always go that
way.
sometimes it's just
the lights,
the music and the curtain
pulled
to no applause.

slippery

I like to say that she slips
in and out
of my hands
like a fish,
but then i'd have to say what
kind of fish.
cat, shark, flounder, gold.
sunfish.
it's a long list,
one i'm not secure enough
to pick from.
so let's just say she's slippery
but beautiful
just the same in or
out of water,
or hand.

but that's me

sorrow being holy ground,
i say
nothing to the woman crying
curled
onto a bench
in the sunlit park.
shadows
not reaching her
in the heat.
I think it would be better
to cry
somewhere else
I want to tell her.
maybe over there
where it's cooler, by
the water,
on the rocks,
under the shade of trees,
a place
where no one would notice.
but that's me.

a season

you know nothing about
trees
and have no desire to learn
anymore
than what you see,
from green to gold to bare,
then back again,
and because of this
our love won't last
a season.

a season

you know nothing about
trees
and have no desire to learn
anymore
than what you see,
from green to gold to bare,
then back again,
and because of this
our love won't last
a season.

fixing the door

how often did he say
he needed to fix
the door.
the squeak when it opened,
the loose hinge.
screws turning out
over time.
the knob bent to where
a hand would push
or pull.
it needed paint.
fissured by sun,
and rain.
the gaps a half an inch
along the panels
letting light in.
how many times did he
smile and say.
I need to fix the door,
but never did.
so now you stand there.
setting
the screws, a bucket
of white paint
at your feet,
a can of oil for the hinges.
in hand.

boardwalk prophets

the beach
prophets, look like prophets.
pushing
carts
down the boardwalk,
carrying all
that they own.
bearded, and worn,
carved thin
by weather and age.
they've taken the time
our of their
wandering
to hand print a sign
saying repent
the end is near.
you need coffee, a place
to sit, read the paper,
hoping
there's time.

the arc of color

an arc
of colors spills in paths
across
the sky. half round.
violets and blues.
red.
between the wires,
the clouds
a rainbow appears.
how strange
the world is
at times,
making you believe
that all
is well.

the arc of color

an arc
of colors spills in paths
across
the sky. half round.
violets and blues.
red.
between the wires,
the clouds
a rainbow appears.
how strange
the world is
at times,
making you believe
that all
is well.

cheaper gas

gas is cheaper
down the road, he says,
as I drive
his behemoth car
down the highway.
don't stop here.
it's three cents cheaper
ten miles
to the left.
let's go there.
they know me there.
I want to top the tank
off
in case it storms,
or I run out of milk
and bread
and need to go out.
I drive,
rolling the window
down
with a broken crank.
I give it gas,
then swing
the wipers back and forth
to smear the window
of bugs.

something missing

something is missing.
you feel it.
something gone,
out of place,
taken.
you aren't quite sure
what it is,
but then know
the second she kisses
you, a brush
of lips
upon your cheek.
a shoulder pat.
her love
has moved on.

something missing

something is missing.
you feel it.
something gone,
out of place,
taken.
you aren't quite sure
what it is,
but then know
the second she kisses
you, a brush
of lips
upon your cheek.
a shoulder pat.
her love
has moved on.

no mints

you set your one bag down,
stare at the double beds,
deciding which one.
there are large glassed
framed pictures of herons.
there are shells
and ships, as well.
the pillows are stacked
decoratively upon one another,
as the a c unit
churns like a Harley against
the wall.
the curtains swing
in the cold
breeze.
the phone blinks, there are
plastic cups,
maps,
a television
and small bars of soaps,
a bathing cap.
something like fish smells
in the hall. you hear children
bouncing
on a bed in another room.
when you leave for the day,
the room is back
the way it was when you arrived,
your cups taken,
your wrappers and papers gone,
the bed made,
the pillows stacked,
but no mint.

no mints

you set your one bag down,
stare at the double beds,
deciding which one.
there are large glassed
framed pictures of herons.
there are shells
and ships, as well.
the pillows are stacked
decoratively upon one another,
as the a c unit
churns like a Harley against
the wall.
the curtains swing
in the cold
breeze.
the phone blinks, there are
plastic cups,
maps,
a television
and small bars of soaps,
a bathing cap.
something like fish smells
in the hall. you hear children
bouncing
on a bed in another room.
when you leave for the day,
the room is back
the way it was when you arrived,
your cups taken,
your wrappers and papers gone,
the bed made,
the pillows stacked,
but no mint.

the unopened book

from my orange chair,
settled into sand, just far enough
for the waves
not to over take me,
for the breeze to envelope my
pinked skin,
I watch
as the bathers dip a pale toe
or leg into the sea
and scream.
the bikinis are too small,
the men
with bellies
like melons, strutting proudly
from the pier to the far end.
there is no
shame in our bodies
at the shore.
it's okay
to be who you are, or to sit
with an unopened book
and take it all in.

the unopened book

from my orange chair,
settled into sand, just far enough
for the waves
not to over take me,
for the breeze to envelope my
pinked skin,
I watch
as the bathers dip a pale toe
or leg into the sea
and scream.
the bikinis are too small,
the men
with bellies
like melons, strutting proudly
from the pier to the far end.
there is no
shame in our bodies
at the shore.
it's okay
to be who you are, or to sit
with an unopened book
and take it all in.

on base

two mice
in a maze of sea green hallways
and checkpoints.
it's all navy. blue
fatigues and boots.
there is no cheese awaiting
either one
of us as I hold his scripts in hand.
radiology to the left,
the blood lab
to the right.
x-rays, down the hall.
like meat
they weigh him
as I wait in the hall on
a plastic
chair.
they can't get the chain
off from around
his neck.
I hold his wallet, his keys,
his phone, help with the chain
like a wife
would. patiently I wait
in the narrow hall
as walkers go by, wheelchairs,
young sailors with sleeves
rolled up,
muscled for war. I wait for
the results of my ancient
sailor father,
but at the end of day
in Boone Clinic,
we know both know the same
as when we came in at 0830,
which is nothing.
the commissary awaits.

luck helps

there is no
such thing as magic, real
magic.
there is no wand,
or spell
to break or make
love.
it's something else,
something beyond
imagination.
luck has nothing to do
with it either,
but it helps.

luck helps

there is no
such thing as magic, real
magic.
there is no wand,
or spell
to break or make
love.
it's something else,
something beyond
imagination.
luck has nothing to do
with it either,
but it helps.

ship wrecked

as much as I like
coconuts
I couldn't survive on an island
after being ship wrecked
with just that.
or bananas
for that matter.
i'm not adept at spearing fish
or cracking poor turtles
open
for soup and sandwiches.
I don't want to write the word
help
with giant leaves and logs.
I prefer
the islands in a chair
on the white
sand.
with a drink in hand.
a blue and white striped towel,
a book.
maybe some shrimp without
shells
in a small bowl
to snack on and of course
you,
in a bikini putting lotion
on my shoulders.

the rust

what seems
like rust is rust.
a decaying of metal
in the rain.
the years
of neglect, of softening,
of being
unpolished,
or washed, or even touched
with
one hand
in affection.
no gentle
wiping of the chamois
cloth.
things need to change
if this marriage
has a chance.

home before dark

be home before dark,
my mother
would say
from the couch where she slept
most nights
after my father ran off
with doris, the neighborhood
Avon lady.
she never asked where we were
going at eight a.m., carrying
fishing poles and a tub
of night crawlers
found under rocks the night
before.
she never asked if we had money,
or food,
are we bringing water.
never said, be careful,
don't drown. don't talk
to strangers.
it was just be home before
dark.
that said it all,
then she lay back down
and tried to sleep some more.

Art

he was approaching eighty
when i met him.
a four inch paint brush
in his hand.
a tall
string bean
of a man with bad teeth
and a can of Budweiser
in his pocket.
his red hair, thinned,
was pushed back
with grease.
his eyes bleary with drink,
his ears too long
for his narrow face.
he said anything to anyone.
cursed the line that wouldn't move.
shook his head
at the world he was
stuck in, and couldn't leave.
he talked about
world war two.
called them japs, and krauts.
showed me his scars.
his bullet wounds.
the tattoo of the ship he was
on that sank
when torpedoes hit the side.
he wrote his phone number down
on a little slip of paper once,
a week before he died
in his one bedroom rental
in logan's circle.
he wrote his name, the numbers
in perfect script handwriting.
legible and even,
he may have been Catholic.

tuesdays

we need Tuesdays.
you don't think you do,
but you do.
we need nothing
hours.
a month to rest,
call it February.
we need an island
without trees.
we need to be still
and listen.
a day
to sigh, to stall,
to think about what's
coming next.

soft rain

in the late afternoon
she falls asleep
first
as the rain comes down.
you feel her
heart slow, see
her eyes close. her hand
still in yours,
together
on the long couch below
the window.
you are soon to follow,
but first
you need to listen
to what the rain
is telling you.

soft rain

in the late afternoon
she falls asleep
first
as the rain comes down.
you feel her
heart slow, see
her eyes close. her hand
still in yours,
together
on the long couch below
the window.
you are soon to follow,
but first
you need to listen
to what the rain
is telling you.

the devil inside

life is more
simple than we make it.
eat,
drink, learn
and love, work.
be kind to others.
but things get in the way.
we want
more, always,
the devil inside
betrays.

the devil inside

life is more
simple than we make it.
eat,
drink, learn
and love, work.
be kind to others.
but things get in the way.
we want
more, always,
the devil inside
betrays.

renters

the renters don't care
much.
as long as the water works,
the toilets flush,
the lights flick on,
the bugs
are kept out.
they don't care about the paint
on the walls,
or the hardwood floors,
or the loose screws
in the cabinet doors.
they'll be gone soon,
leaving much
of what they brought behind.
bananas gone black
on the counter,
a dirty frying pan
on the stove.
a wet load of laundry
in the machine.
a closet full of old shoes.

renters

the renters don't care
much.
as long as the water works,
the toilets flush,
the lights flick on,
the bugs
are kept out.
they don't care about the paint
on the walls,
or the hardwood floors,
or the loose screws
in the cabinet doors.
they'll be gone soon,
leaving much
of what they brought behind.
bananas gone black
on the counter,
a dirty frying pan
on the stove.
a wet load of laundry
in the machine.
a closet full of old shoes.

time won't let it

the old bowling alley
is boarded up now.
I can see the long bricked
building behind the barbed
wire.
a car, its burned out
carcass
sits in the back lot,
the seats gone,
the engine
gone. the hood up.
I remember on a Saturday morning,
throwing a ball
down the shiny lanes
in my rented shoes.
hearing the jukebox
play wishing and hoping
by dusty springfield.
the ping and rattle
of the pin ball machines,
eating fries
and drinking cokes.
keeping score with a pencil.
you can go back,
but it's not the same.
the world can't stay as it was.
time won't let it.

time won't let it

the old bowling alley
is boarded up now.
I can see the long bricked
building behind the barbed
wire.
a car, its burned out
carcass
sits in the back lot,
the seats gone,
the engine
gone. the hood up.
I remember on a Saturday morning,
throwing a ball
down the shiny lanes
in my rented shoes.
hearing the jukebox
play wishing and hoping
by dusty springfield.
the ping and rattle
of the pin ball machines,
eating fries
and drinking cokes.
keeping score with a pencil.
you can go back,
but it's not the same.
the world can't stay as it was.
time won't let it.

her bedside manner

her bedside manner
is exemplary.
four stars.
the cold compress
for the fever,
the aspirin, hot tea.
a thermometer
for beneath your tongue.
she even takes
your pulse,
tells you in a sweet whisper

as she presses her stethoscope

to your chest,
let me get you something
for that cough.
you are in no position
to tell her
how much you adore her
in that white dress
and hat,
those retro nurse shoes. 

you want
to ask her what
she's doing Saturday,
but because of this illness

you aren't quite
ready for that.

going somewhere

the trains are funning slow
today.
the tracks are cold
in the steady rain.
we stamp our feet and look north,
look south.
we dip our hats to stay dry.
we are all going somewhere,
eventually.
with or without these trains
that may or may not
arrive.

going somewhere

the trains are funning slow
today.
the tracks are cold
in the steady rain.
we stamp our feet and look north,
look south.
we dip our hats to stay dry.
we are all going somewhere,
eventually.
with or without these trains
that may or may not
arrive.

the land line

the phone is ringing downstairs.
the land line,
so you know it's not important.
only two people ever
call you on that line, that you
actually know.
it's ringing all over the house.
is there a room
without a phone?
and yet. the conversations go like
this.
there's no one here by that name,
and no, I don't
have any clothes to give
to the purple heart pick up
this week.
the rest of the calls
are from other countries,
frenzied men and women,
mispronouncing your name,
selling
drugs that men your age
might need.

the distance

she won't let you fall in love
with her.
she keeps you
at a safe
distance.
three cushions to the left.

just far enough to wonder
what it might
be like
to kiss her, or to apply
baby oil all over her body.

wait a minute.

you realize quickly
that you shouldn't
think these things,
or say them out loud.
heaven forbid
the truth be known.

the distance

she won't let you fall in love
with her.
she keeps you
at a safe
distance.
three cushions to the left.

just far enough to wonder
what it might
be like
to kiss her, or to apply
baby oil all over her body.

wait a minute.

you realize quickly
that you shouldn't
think these things,
or say them out loud.
heaven forbid
the truth be known.

morning snake

how fat the black snake
was.
a rope, a hose of life,
coiled in small bones,
slicked skin,
gliding through the green grass.
head up,
tongue, as pink as gum
tasting the morning air.
how you stepped back,
watching your feet, wondering
fearfully
if there were others.
then the woman came out,
drinking her coffee
and said, pointing,
oh, I see the snake is back.

dinner for one

I remember settling
back
into a chair, the black and white tv
on.
the volume up
because of the dogs
and brothers
and sisters fighting
throughout the house over shampoo,
or clothes.
I remember, setting my once
frozen
dinner upon the tv tray
and peeling back the foil
on my swanson
tv dinner, knife, fork,
a folded napkin,
a glass
of grape juice, too young
for red wine,
and eating slowly.
i enjoyed the tiny chicken
legs, the funny
tasting mashed potatoes
dripping with butter,
and apple sauce, so
hot it burned
my lips and tongue
upon tasting. my mother was at
work.
a waitress down the street,
my father was at sea.
somewhere in
the south pacific.
dinner though was served.

the housekeeper

I yell down the steps
to my housekeeper, I ask her
to put the coffee on
and that i'd like
two eggs over easy,
bacon, toast.
there's no answer.
I yell out again, still no
answer.
and bring the paper up,
I say, now ringing the bell
I keep on my nightstand.
but I don't have a
housekeeper, I need one
though, so it's practice.

into the woods

you wander
through the woods
aimlessly.
the animals get still and quiet,
wondering
what you are doing there,
off the paved
path
with your stick
and boots, stepping
carefully through the soft
ground.
they whisper
to one another, snake to snake,
bird to bird.
fox to fox,
let him pass, he's lost,
he's thinking
about some girl, it's what
he does
when things don't last.

turning the pages

the book
was satisfying. you dragged
it on
as long as you could,
delaying the end.
savoring
each word, each page,
checking
the back to see how many
chapters were left
before setting it on
the nightstand
and turning off the light
for sleep.
people
can be like that too,
you want
them around
forever, with more
pages to be read, more story
to be told,
more of them with you.

turning the pages

the book
was satisfying. you dragged
it on
as long as you could,
delaying the end.
savoring
each word, each page,
checking
the back to see how many
chapters were left
before setting it on
the nightstand
and turning off the light
for sleep.
people
can be like that too,
you want
them around
forever, with more
pages to be read, more story
to be told,
more of them with you.

not now, i have a headache

she used to get a lot
of headaches.
mostly when I was around.
she'd grab the side of her head
and rub it, or place
a bag of frozen peas on the vein
she claimed was throbbing
in her temple.
otherwise, on the phone,
twenty miles away, she
seemed happy. very happy.
I can't blame her.
sometimes
I give myself a headache
too. I suggested a lobotomy,
or acupuncture,
or perhaps an exorcism
by Father Damien over at
St. Bernadette's,
but she declined.
sadly, over time,
it did get in the way
of our romantic interludes.
she used to wear a laminated
placard
around her neck when I visited,
that read,
not now, maybe later,
or in the morning.
I feel a migraine coming on.
don't touch me.

from the sea

sea glass
rises, swept in with the tide,
shards of glass
of tossed
bottles, cups, saucers,
plates
from ships at sea,
things throw from the sand,
or off the pier.
it all comes back
in smoothed cold
edges, pieces of
violet, vermilion,
tangerine gems
and blue.
how beauty is born
despite us
at every turn.

from the sea

sea glass
rises, swept in with the tide,
shards of glass
of tossed
bottles, cups, saucers,
plates
from ships at sea,
things throw from the sand,
or off the pier.
it all comes back
in smoothed cold
edges, pieces of
violet, vermilion,
tangerine gems
and blue.
how beauty is born
despite us
at every turn.

fit as a fiddle

they want blood out
of my father
before his cataract surgery.
a vial or two will do,
the blood pressure is high,
the heart beats too fast.
he resists.
what if they find out there's
something wrong with me,
he says.
you're eighty-seven, I tell
him, what could possibly
be wrong with you
after decades of drinking
smoking and eating
charred red meat?
not to mention lying in the sun
every minute that the sun
comes out.
you're fit as a fiddle, I tell
him putting my hand
on his shoulder.
fit as a fiddle, he says back,
mocking me.
we'll see, we'll see, wont we.

fit as a fiddle

they want blood out
of my father
before his cataract surgery.
a vial or two will do,
the blood pressure is high,
the heart beats too fast.
he resists.
what if they find out there's
something wrong with me,
he says.
you're eighty-seven, I tell
him, what could possibly
be wrong with you
after decades of drinking
smoking and eating
charred red meat?
not to mention lying in the sun
every minute that the sun
comes out.
you're fit as a fiddle, I tell
him putting my hand
on his shoulder.
fit as a fiddle, he says back,
mocking me.
we'll see, we'll see, wont we.

love and dead animals

something's dead
in the attic
she says, holding her nose,
pointing towards
the ceiling.
maybe you should
go up there
and see what it is.
you go, I tell her.
you smelled it first.
no, it's your house, she says,
handing you
a flashlight
and a broom.
go with me, I ask her.
if you loved me, I mean
truly loved me,
you'll help me remove
a dead animal
from
the attic.
no, she says. you can't define
my love for you
with the cleaning up of
dead animals.
be a man and go up there.
i'll hold the ladder.

love and dead animals

something's dead
in the attic
she says, holding her nose,
pointing towards
the ceiling.
maybe you should
go up there
and see what it is.
you go, I tell her.
you smelled it first.
no, it's your house, she says,
handing you
a flashlight
and a broom.
go with me, I ask her.
if you loved me, I mean
truly loved me,
you'll help me remove
a dead animal
from
the attic.
no, she says. you can't define
my love for you
with the cleaning up of
dead animals.
be a man and go up there.
i'll hold the ladder.

salsa red

after a long
dry marriage of compromise
and nods
in quiet agreement
over
nearly everything
from beds
to movies, to dinner.
she decided this new life
would be different.
the colors
she would choose
would
show others who she really
was,
not all browns,
or greys,
or blue.
there would be red.
salsa red.
let's do the ceiling first
she cheered,
and began
her new life.

the chosen one

there is one
knife in the drawer
that always
finds your hand
first.
it's different than the others.
wider,
heavier,
has a certain twist
in the handle, giving
it a
je ne sais quois.
are the others jealous,
perhaps.
but you know what you like
when you need
to smooth butter
onto a toasted slice
of warm bread.

the chosen one

there is one
knife in the drawer
that always
finds your hand
first.
it's different than the others.
wider,
heavier,
has a certain twist
in the handle, giving
it a
je ne sais quois.
are the others jealous,
perhaps.
but you know what you like
when you need
to smooth butter
onto a toasted slice
of warm bread.

tell me everything

the less
we know. the better.
or so
they say.
but it's not really true.
I want to know
it all
then
decide on what to do,
what to say.
don't hide
your feelings,
let me decide when it's
time to go
away.

tell me everything

the less
we know. the better.
or so
they say.
but it's not really true.
I want to know
it all
then
decide on what to do,
what to say.
don't hide
your feelings,
let me decide when it's
time to go
away.

don't touch

don't touch,
you told your son, hot.
no.
don't do that.
pulling his small arm
back.
holding
his pink fingers
together.
still he reached out,
he had to know
on his own,
despite your warnings.
his scars will be same
as yours.

don't touch

don't touch,
you told your son, hot.
no.
don't do that.
pulling his small arm
back.
holding
his pink fingers
together.
still he reached out,
he had to know
on his own,
despite your warnings.
his scars will be same
as yours.

small things

her eyes,
dipped in brown
ink
glimmer wet
with morning light.
her soft
cheeks, her rise and shine
whisper
into your ear,
how small things
can the make
the world
just right.

small things

her eyes,
dipped in brown
ink
glimmer wet
with morning light.
her soft
cheeks, her rise and shine
whisper
into your ear,
how small things
can the make
the world
just right.

the moral dilemma

the moral decision
of whether or not to push
the cart
back to the store
after loading your groceries
into the car
is trying
your soul. it's a long
walk in the heat.
you could leave it next to the light
pole,
out of the way.
or let it wobble in the spot
you drive away from.
or you could push it back
to the curb
and slide it into place
with the other carts
against the store wall.
some days you are too tired,
or lazy to be good.,
maybe no one will notice.

the moral dilemma

the moral decision
of whether or not to push
the cart
back to the store
after loading your groceries
into the car
is trying
your soul. it's a long
walk in the heat.
you could leave it next to the light
pole,
out of the way.
or let it wobble in the spot
you drive away from.
or you could push it back
to the curb
and slide it into place
with the other carts
against the store wall.
some days you are too tired,
or lazy to be good.,
maybe no one will notice.

bad fruit

I knock and press a finger
on the melon
that sits in a large box by
the entrance
to the door of the grocery
store.
a fountain of red
juice squirts out
from the soft shelled skin.
already rotted before june
begins.
I look at my shirt,
and study the pink rorshach
stain.
it's telling me something.
everything
is telling me something.
it's tiring to think this way.
bad fruit, an omen.

bad fruit

I knock and press a finger
on the melon
that sits in a large box by
the entrance
to the door of the grocery
store.
a fountain of red
juice squirts out
from the soft shelled skin.
already rotted before june
begins.
I look at my shirt,
and study the pink rorshach
stain.
it's telling me something.
everything
is telling me something.
it's tiring to think this way.
bad fruit, an omen.

the undertow

the undertow is strong today.
the life guards
are standing in their chairs
blowing their
whistles,
waving red flags.
the wind is fierce.
the waves crackle with water
from the deepest
parts of the ocean,
cold and brittle
against white legs.
on the shore they press
their hands
against the chests of swimmers
who went too far
and under,
now blue without air
in their lungs. at night
I feel the pull of that same
ocean,
working against the blood
in my veins, wanting more
of me than i'm able to give.

the undertow

the undertow is strong today.
the life guards
are standing in their chairs
blowing their
whistles,
waving red flags.
the wind is fierce.
the waves crackle with water
from the deepest
parts of the ocean,
cold and brittle
against white legs.
on the shore they press
their hands
against the chests of swimmers
who went too far
and under,
now blue without air
in their lungs. at night
I feel the pull of that same
ocean,
working against the blood
in my veins, wanting more
of me than i'm able to give.

the small black comb

for years
you had the short black
comb
tucked into the back pocket
of your worn
dungarees.
too young for a wallet,
for a set
of keys.
it was the comb that kept
you together,
being the boy
you were supposed to be.
finding a window
that reflects,
a mirror,
a toaster to slide it
through your hair,
even the part,
create the wave with
that elvis
stand hanging down
across your young face.

i want that

how you long to bite
into her.
the cream filled
pastry that she is.
her quiet way of being
the only
thing in the window
you look at.
how the bell rings on
the door
when you enter,
and you point,
with a hungry heart
and say, I want
that.

i want that

how you long to bite
into her.
the cream filled
pastry that she is.
her quiet way of being
the only
thing in the window
you look at.
how the bell rings on
the door
when you enter,
and you point,
with a hungry heart
and say, I want
that.

the good mechanic

when someone says
he's a good mechanic, you understand.
a good plumber,
a good
roofer.
it means not that they
are good people
who go to church,
or who are faithful to their
wives.
it means something
different.
something that will keep
you going back
to fix
whatever issue
appears in your life,
fixed by hands
without a lie.

how to win her over

i tell her about my
cooking skills, about what i can
do with butter
and eggs,
a little milk.
i hold in my hand
the large black pan
that was stored under
the collection
of pots i never use.
in my other hand I hold
the silver
fork, as if a wand
about to perform magic.
she puts her hands on her hips
and smiles. rubs her stomach
and licks her lips.
she's in awe.
i may have won her over
with these scrambled eggs
and toast.

how to win her over

i tell her about my
cooking skills, about what i can
do with butter
and eggs,
a little milk.
i hold in my hand
the large black pan
that was stored under
the collection
of pots i never use.
in my other hand I hold
the silver
fork, as if a wand
about to perform magic.
she puts her hands on her hips
and smiles. rubs her stomach
and licks her lips.
she's in awe.
i may have won her over
with these scrambled eggs
and toast.

legs are good

the collection company calls
and asks me
if i'm home today.
I am I say.
we need your money now,
not three weeks ago,
or yesterday,
but now.
jimmy will stop by to pick it
up.
cash only.
you like having legs that work
don't you?
he asks,
yes, I say.
legs are good.

taking a cruise

i have second thoughts
about being
a passenger
on the Mayflower
going into month three
of being at sea,
eating this salty meat,
drinking rain water
caught in my hat.
it seemed like a good idea
at the time.
I'm not really a pilgrim,
never was, never
will be, I just wanted
to travel and see the world,
find out for sure
if the world is curved
or flat.
it seems curved.
and what will we do when
we get there.
will the stores be open,
will we be greeted
at the dock
with gifts and flowers?
I hope so, because I don't
have the energy
to kill animals, make coats
out of them,
or build a mud thatched
dwelling.

so was she

a box
within a box, within
another box.
tied in ribbons.
beautiful paper,
cut and taped
to perfection.
nothing rattles,
or shakes,
or moves within.
empty,
but it's very
pretty.
very nice.
so was she.

so was she

a box
within a box, within
another box.
tied in ribbons.
beautiful paper,
cut and taped
to perfection.
nothing rattles,
or shakes,
or moves within.
empty,
but it's very
pretty.
very nice.
so was she.

post office top ten

as a kid
I liked to look at the wanted
posters
stapled to the bulletin
board
at the post office
while my mother sent a letter,
or bought stamps.
every criminal looked like
lee Harvey Oswald
back then.
skinny and bewildered.
each with three names,
and a white
t shirt that i imagined
was yellowed
around the collar,
maybe it had a ketchup
stain on it too.
criminals looked skinny,
unmuscled
except for the occasional
fat cat
like capone.
wanted by the FBI
the poster read.
the top ten.
i imagined the next
ten were even worse for wear.

thin mints delivery

thin mints
come to you in long narrow
boxes.
you ordered six.
it's only you,
but you'll find a way
to make
them disappear.
the girl
scout is happy.
she checks you off her
list.
her father behind
her,
making sure
the money's good.
time to pour a cold glass
of milk.

thin mints delivery

thin mints
come to you in long narrow
boxes.
you ordered six.
it's only you,
but you'll find a way
to make
them disappear.
the girl
scout is happy.
she checks you off her
list.
her father behind
her,
making sure
the money's good.
time to pour a cold glass
of milk.

never out from under it

her broken foot,
her broken heart,
her troubled children,
the mice,
the bugs, a lost job.
the wet clothes
left
in the machine.
the lights go off,
the bills
not paid, the bounced check.
there's rust
in the pipes,
a towed car,
a key mislaid.
the broken tooth,
the busted
lip,
the dog has escaped,
there he goes,
without a collar,
without a leash,
to die in the street.

never out from under it

her broken foot,
her broken heart,
her troubled children,
the mice,
the bugs, a lost job.
the wet clothes
left
in the machine.
the lights go off,
the bills
not paid, the bounced check.
there's rust
in the pipes,
a towed car,
a key mislaid.
the broken tooth,
the busted
lip,
the dog has escaped,
there he goes,
without a collar,
without a leash,
to die in the street.

summer carnival

the summer carnival appears
in the far end
of the parking lot of the abandoned
mall.
a small mirage.
it rises on rusted
bones.
tired arms, blue with smudged
tattoos
gone old.
the lights flicker on.
candy swirled like
cotton burns sweetly
in the summer air.
hard scrabbled men and women,
luckless at love
and cards
take tickets,
some without thumbs,
or eyes.
others toothless under
the stars. it's show business.
the music starts, a pinging,
a clang,
a chugging of rides,
the children
arrive.

summer carnival

the summer carnival appears
in the far end
of the parking lot of the abandoned
mall.
a small mirage.
it rises on rusted
bones.
tired arms, blue with smudged
tattoos
gone old.
the lights flicker on.
candy swirled like
cotton burns sweetly
in the summer air.
hard scrabbled men and women,
luckless at love
and cards
take tickets,
some without thumbs,
or eyes.
others toothless under
the stars. it's show business.
the music starts, a pinging,
a clang,
a chugging of rides,
the children
arrive.

intuition

you have an inkling.
a tingle
of knowledge, a hunch
perhaps.
a foreshadowing
of events
yet to transpire.
you keep it hidden.
a pebble
under your tongue
a dollar
folded and tucked
into the small
pocket never used.
you know.
you know.
you know.

intuition

you have an inkling.
a tingle
of knowledge, a hunch
perhaps.
a foreshadowing
of events
yet to transpire.
you keep it hidden.
a pebble
under your tongue
a dollar
folded and tucked
into the small
pocket never used.
you know.
you know.
you know.

under the bridge

longingly he speaks
of the fish he caught
before dark.
along the river, hip deep
in water,
he says how silver it was
under the bridge.
how it fought for its life.
struggled
not to drown in the air
it rose into.
he talks about how gently
he carved it in two.
the head off, it's
belly opened by his sharp
knife.
the bones separated by his
hands with care.
with love he talks
about this fish,
how it crackled over the fire.
the butter it absorbed,
how it tasted
on his dry lips.
and then with his belly
full, and drink
in hand, he spoke of
how wonderful the world
is when in love.

under the bridge

longingly he speaks
of the fish he caught
before dark.
along the river, hip deep
in water,
he says how silver it was
under the bridge.
how it fought for its life.
struggled
not to drown in the air
it rose into.
he talks about how gently
he carved it in two.
the head off, it's
belly opened by his sharp
knife.
the bones separated by his
hands with care.
with love he talks
about this fish,
how it crackled over the fire.
the butter it absorbed,
how it tasted
on his dry lips.
and then with his belly
full, and drink
in hand, he spoke of
how wonderful the world
is when in love.

the night

the night
is sinister. the vampires
are out.
blood lust
in their yellowed
eyes.
lovers are betrayed
on nights like
this.
the hard rain
is nothing but a curtain
of cold.
the night
is full of us in mischief,
full
of drink, full
of the dark side
of the moon.
our skin crawls, our
bellies ache.
we have just begun to
wander,
to be young,
ready to proceed, to make
our mistakes.

the night

the night
is sinister. the vampires
are out.
blood lust
in their yellowed
eyes.
lovers are betrayed
on nights like
this.
the hard rain
is nothing but a curtain
of cold.
the night
is full of us in mischief,
full
of drink, full
of the dark side
of the moon.
our skin crawls, our
bellies ache.
we have just begun to
wander,
to be young,
ready to proceed, to make
our mistakes.

the other shoe

the other shoe
will fall, no worries there.
no hurry.
let it happen,
there is nothing
to do
to stop it.
it's part of moving forward.
onward,
towards
the place where you are going.
the other shoe
will drop,
let it and be brave.

the shark

when I see
the shark, his cold shadow
upon the sand,
his teeth long and sharp
pink
with blood
and the debris
of others
in his gaping mouth,
I do nothing,
but stand still in the shallow
sea.
fear turning my legs
to ice.
death swings by so closely,
rubbing its sand paper
skin, the narrowed gills,
against me.
those buttoned eyes,
without a blink.
It passes, I stagger in to sit
upon the shore.
shivering with all limbs
still attached.
my luck that he wasn't hungry
for more.

the shark

when I see
the shark, his cold shadow
upon the sand,
his teeth long and sharp
pink
with blood
and the debris
of others
in his gaping mouth,
I do nothing,
but stand still in the shallow
sea.
fear turning my legs
to ice.
death swings by so closely,
rubbing its sand paper
skin, the narrowed gills,
against me.
those buttoned eyes,
without a blink.
It passes, I stagger in to sit
upon the shore.
shivering with all limbs
still attached.
my luck that he wasn't hungry
for more.

the apparition

the postcard
finally arrives, she's been ghosting
you for years.
a wisp
in the wind of
yesterday.
and now this, this handwritten
note on the back
of a card
sent from somewhere
far away.
hello, it says. how are you?
hope you are well.
then the word love,
and her name, you fold it
for the fire.
not even taking the time
to watch it burn.

the apparition

the postcard
finally arrives, she's been ghosting
you for years.
a wisp
in the wind of
yesterday.
and now this, this handwritten
note on the back
of a card
sent from somewhere
far away.
hello, it says. how are you?
hope you are well.
then the word love,
and her name, you fold it
for the fire.
not even taking the time
to watch it burn.

the whip

the whip
of the world is upon you
for much
of your life.
from start to finish,
everything must
be learned,
everything must be earned.
there is no
other way.
despite the dole, the safety
net
of goodwill, good intentions.
it's still
putting on one
boot at a time
and working.

the whip

the whip
of the world is upon you
for much
of your life.
from start to finish,
everything must
be learned,
everything must be earned.
there is no
other way.
despite the dole, the safety
net
of goodwill, good intentions.
it's still
putting on one
boot at a time
and working.

the fall

her snowy
hair, her brittle arms,
the broken
hip
tossing her sideways
to the curb.
the ambulance
arriving,
taking her away.
how close we are to
that.
how fast
the moon rises and sets
upon our
lives.

the fall

her snowy
hair, her brittle arms,
the broken
hip
tossing her sideways
to the curb.
the ambulance
arriving,
taking her away.
how close we are to
that.
how fast
the moon rises and sets
upon our
lives.

the open road

the open road
once appealed to me.
discovering what's beyond
this town.
I like detours
now.
closed roads.
roads that have endings
where there is a place
to sit
and rest, to eat and drink
and when night
arrives,
to sleep. I scissor
the map into a circle.
that's far enough.

red ants

you are anxious to leave
the picnic
when you arrive
not liking
the small talk, the big
talk
of politics
and life. you flick a red
ant off your leg,
shaking your foot
to rid yourself of more.
the opinions spoken are
set in stone.
a dog licks your knee.
no one is swayed or giving
in
to a new way
of thinking. someone mentions
the native americans
another abortion,
as she brings out an
apple pie
to set in the middle of the table.
there are soap boxes
around the yard
each
taking a turn,
fueled by beer, or
margaritas.
someone yells, the hot
dogs are ready.
which gives
every one a break
from being so smart
and well
informed, squeezing
mustard
onto the grill striped
meat rolled onto a bun.

red ants

you are anxious to leave
the picnic
when you arrive
not liking
the small talk, the big
talk
of politics
and life. you flick a red
ant off your leg,
shaking your foot
to rid yourself of more.
the opinions spoken are
set in stone.
a dog licks your knee.
no one is swayed or giving
in
to a new way
of thinking. someone mentions
the native americans
another abortion,
as she brings out an
apple pie
to set in the middle of the table.
there are soap boxes
around the yard
each
taking a turn,
fueled by beer, or
margaritas.
someone yells, the hot
dogs are ready.
which gives
every one a break
from being so smart
and well
informed, squeezing
mustard
onto the grill striped
meat rolled onto a bun.

still at war

the man
with a white trimmed beard
rides in
on his Harley,
takes his place in the parade,
he's still a war.
still
searching for meaning
in what happened forty
years ago.
the dying and maiming
of so many.
a red white and blue
bandana is wrapped
around his
wrinkled brow,
a black flag waves
from the back of his bike.
he's not quite over
it.

rooms for rent

the man at the front
desk
is settled into his job,
a small
god
in a rundown
hotel
outside of town.
he smokes, he drinks.
he's looking at a girly
magazine.
rooms for a night, for an hour.
no questions asked
about luggage,
or where's the best
place to eat
near here.
the cash slides across
the counter,
then a key.
take the elevator to
your right, he says without
looking up.
just leave it in the room
if for some reason
you need to flee.

rooms for rent

the man at the front
desk
is settled into his job,
a small
god
in a rundown
hotel
outside of town.
he smokes, he drinks.
he's looking at a girly
magazine.
rooms for a night, for an hour.
no questions asked
about luggage,
or where's the best
place to eat
near here.
the cash slides across
the counter,
then a key.
take the elevator to
your right, he says without
looking up.
just leave it in the room
if for some reason
you need to flee.

angels and devils

you put
the deviled eggs
onto the shelf
to cool.
next to that plate
is the angel
food cake,
also cooling.
neither of them appeal
to you
too much,
but there are together
about to travel
across the city,
to a barbeque,
on a bus.

chop suey

the new picture comes
in the mail, as most things
purchased do now.
I unwrap it carefully and hold
it up to the light.
chop suey
by hopper. two women in a restaurant,
eating, sipping
drinks.
I like the colors, the starkness
of dark
and light.
I move it around the house
searching for a wall
that will hold it.
too large,
too small, too bright.
finally settling on the kitchen.
it will take some time
getting used to
as new love often does.

what is true

what is true
is more interesting
than that what
isn't.
the world is
seasoned with both,
fiction and non fiction.
we pick and choose
how much
of each we need to get the story
right
about the days
we live in,
how we tell the tale.

what is true

what is true
is more interesting
than that what
isn't.
the world is
seasoned with both,
fiction and non fiction.
we pick and choose
how much
of each we need to get the story
right
about the days
we live in,
how we tell the tale.

unzip me

unzip me she says
after finally removing
her make up
and spending time in the bathroom
with the door closed.
I can't reach that one hook.
they make it impossible,
these dresses
to hook or unhook
that one
particular catch
at the top. sometimes
I just pull
the whole thing over
my head.
that was an hour ago,
her voice waking me up
while I lie in bed.

the large boat

her father's boat
was fast.
large. its engines rumbled in
the oiled water,
rainbowed and rippled.
the ship was white
with red seats with which
to gaze out
over the bay.
it cut through the troughs
of blue, sailed
under the bridge,
gulls weaved in and out
of clouds,
settling
on pylons.
there was an island we went
to.
collected shells.
left our footprints in the sand,
rang
the bell that had stood
there for a century.
there was little to talk about,
the bright sun and wind
saying everything,
leaving us
empty in some strange way.

the large boat

her father's boat
was fast.
large. its engines rumbled in
the oiled water,
rainbowed and rippled.
the ship was white
with red seats with which
to gaze out
over the bay.
it cut through the troughs
of blue, sailed
under the bridge,
gulls weaved in and out
of clouds,
settling
on pylons.
there was an island we went
to.
collected shells.
left our footprints in the sand,
rang
the bell that had stood
there for a century.
there was little to talk about,
the bright sun and wind
saying everything,
leaving us
empty in some strange way.

wet paint

the paint
dries slowly on this wet day.
still
soft to the touch
taking
your fingerprints with it.
each finger tip
a dotted spot of white.
you knew it wasn't dry,
but you had to touch
it anyway.
you will the next time
too.
your impatience, as you well
know, is always
with you.

the other side of the moon

i am not an explorer
by any means,
the new world 

would have remained
unknown
if i'd had anything to do with it.
what's over
that hill
matters not.
this is fine, where we are,

on this gentle

porch swing,

content with this grass,

so green.
no need to see
the other side of the moon,
or mars.
take your shoes off,
relax,
come here and let's
kiss, just to start.

the other side of the moon

you are not an explorer
by any means,
the new
world would have remained
unknown
if you had anything to do with it.
what's over
that hill
matters not.
this is fine, where we are.
no need to see
the other side of the moon,
or mars.
take your shoes off,
relax,
come here and let's
kiss, just to start.

reading of the will

each brother and sister
brings a lawyer
in a sharp suit to go over
the will, to see how large
a slice of pie
they will receive,
that no one gets extra.
they leave
slowly when it's discovered
that there are bills
to be paid.
there is no money, hardly
enough for a box,
a shovel,
a grave.

disappointment

from across the room
you throw
the apple core, freshly
bitten into
towards the can
that sits
in the corner.
you miss. it rims out,
and rolls,
the dog quickly hops
up and grabs it,
runs off
to hide under the bed.
later he will
look at you with
disappointed eyes.

disappointment

from across the room
you throw
the apple core, freshly
bitten into
towards the can
that sits
in the corner.
you miss. it rims out,
and rolls,
the dog quickly hops
up and grabs it,
runs off
to hide under the bed.
later he will
look at you with
disappointed eyes.

jumper cables?

his car won't start
in this cold.
he waves you down and makes
a frantic gesture,
waving his arms,
in the apparent international
signal
for jumper cables.
you roll down your window
and tell him
that you don't have any.
but you can call
someone to come and help him.
he doesn't understand you.
his language is not yours.
you become Koko the monkey
and begin to explain
that you are calling for help.
that a truck is on
the way, that he need not
worry.
it's exhausting. he curses
you and gives you the international
salute of discontent
as you drive away.

jumper cables?

his car won't start
in this cold.
he waves you down and makes
a frantic gesture,
waving his arms,
in the apparent international
signal
for jumper cables.
you roll down your window
and tell him
that you don't have any.
but you can call
someone to come and help him.
he doesn't understand you.
his language is not yours.
you become Koko the monkey
and begin to explain
that you are calling for help.
that a truck is on
the way, that he need not
worry.
it's exhausting. he curses
you and gives you the international
salute of discontent
as you drive away.

across the sea

she writes and tells me
about Vermeer
the girl with the pearl
necklace,
Rembrandt
and van gogh.
she talks about how each
town
is more charming than the next.
the culture
the history,
the quaintness
of it all. she takes pictures
of the village.
the town square,
the sculptures that have
existed for centuries.
and what are you up to,
she asks. anything new?
not much i say, just sitting
here in my
underwear, eating a tuna
sandwich and watching
judge judy.

across the sea

she writes and tells me
about Vermeer
the girl with the pearl
necklace,
Rembrandt
and van gogh.
she talks about how each
town
is more charming than the next.
the culture
the history,
the quaintness
of it all. she takes pictures
of the village.
the town square,
the sculptures that have
existed for centuries.
and what are you up to,
she asks. anything new?
not much i say, just sitting
here in my
underwear, eating a tuna
sandwich and watching
judge judy.

why not

let's go dancing tonight,
she says,
brushing her hair
in the mirror.
you look around the room to see
who else might be there.
it's just you.
we haven't gone dancing in ages,
she says.
catching your eye in the mirror.
the dog jumps
up onto the bed, circles
himself on your chest,
protecting you.
I want to learn how to salsa.
maybe we could take ballroom
dancing lessons, she says.
stroking her long full head of hair.
outside the window,
a pale moon has already begun
to show through the lessened
blue of the sky.
it's almost the most beautiful
thing you've seen today.
why not, you say.
why not.

no reason at all

as a child
one sister was a mortal enemy
one summer.
you took a wood saw
from your father's work bench
and sawed off
the head
of her favorite doll.
the one that cried
and peed
after filling it with
water.
she threw your baseball glove
into the creek.
put gum on your toothbrush.
you called her names.
she called you names.
it was a war
that lasted throughout
the hot
unairconditioned summer.
there was no truce,
no apologies.
it just ended for the same
reason that it started.
no reason at all.

no reason at all

as a child
one sister was a mortal enemy
one summer.
you took a wood saw
from your father's work bench
and sawed off
the head
of her favorite doll.
the one that cried
and peed
after filling it with
water.
she threw your baseball glove
into the creek.
put gum on your toothbrush.
you called her names.
she called you names.
it was a war
that lasted throughout
the hot
unairconditioned summer.
there was no truce,
no apologies.
it just ended for the same
reason that it started.
no reason at all.

some critics say

you need to be more obscure.
reference
mythology, history,
religion. uses larger words.
five dollar words,
not those that cost a mere
penny.
simple and clear gets you nowhere.
your poetic ambition
is too shallow. too mundane
and common.
fast food, if you may.
quit growing daises
and think more botanical
garden.
good luck. maybe i'll
read more then,
if you get there.

one day soon

I feel bad for my iron,
collecting dust on the shelf
in my laundry room,
next to the detergent
and fabric softener.
a pile of washed change
I pulled out of the dryer.
I hardly ever iron anymore.
no shirts or pants
needing the wrinkles pressed
smooth.
I say hello to my iron,
in passing. seeing my reflection
in its shiny face.
give it a little wave,
and say one day, one day
soon, i'll plug you in.

all is well

he was so used to pretending
that he was happy,
that all was well,
that sometimes he actually
felt that way.
life had that new car
smell.
that sweet shine of just
purchased.
it was hard to keep up
though.
the air eventually came
out of the tires. there were
door dings,
a crack in the windshield
where he hit
a black bird
carrying a worm to its nest.
he could only smile, part
time now.
when out and about.
he couldn't wait to get home
to let it end.
to let the face frown,
cut a lemon with which
to suck on,
and keep it that way.

his new love

he shows me a photo
of his new girlfriend.
she's long legged
and tan,
a mop of wild black
hair upon her head.
her lips are pouty.
she wants something. you
can see that
in her dark eyes.
she's doing something with
her hand, holding
it out into the air.
she's wearing what looks like
white napkins
strung together by thread.
she's twenty one, he says.
she lives far away,
in my country. but I love
her. I met her three
weeks ago when I went home.
I am going to bring
her here once I get divorced.

his new love

he shows me a photo
of his new girlfriend.
she's long legged
and tan,
a mop of wild black
hair upon her head.
her lips are pouty.
she wants something. you
can see that
in her dark eyes.
she's doing something with
her hand, holding
it out into the air.
she's wearing what looks like
white napkins
strung together by thread.
she's twenty one, he says.
she lives far away,
in my country. but I love
her. I met her three
weeks ago when I went home.
I am going to bring
her here once I get divorced.

his illness

his hand would shake,
so he steadied it with his other hand.
then it too trembled.
he changed the subject.
looking up into the sky.
it's going to be warmer
tomorrow he'd say,
clenching
a smile, hoping you'd
look away.

his illness

his hand would shake,
so he steadied it with his other hand.
then it too trembled.
he changed the subject.
looking up into the sky.
it's going to be warmer
tomorrow he'd say,
clenching
a smile, hoping you'd
look away.

home cooked

you drive and drive.
hills and valleys,
narrow bridges,
old roads becoming new.
new roads
unmarked.
somewhere, there is a place
you are going to.
she has a piece of salmon
waiting,
over cooked and dried.
string beans,
and small potatoes,
glittering with olive oil,
the hair of pepper
and salt
as they roast
upon their brows.
what you won't
do for a home cooked
meal these days, even
a bad one,
is beyond you.

home cooked

you drive and drive.
hills and valleys,
narrow bridges,
old roads becoming new.
new roads
unmarked.
somewhere, there is a place
you are going to.
she has a piece of salmon
waiting,
over cooked and dried.
string beans,
and small potatoes,
glittering with olive oil,
the hair of pepper
and salt
as they roast
upon their brows.
what you won't
do for a home cooked
meal these days, even
a bad one,
is beyond you.

first impressions

her piano
had old keys.
the ivory yellowed, brittle.
ebony chipped.
the pedals
sunk
and were slow to rise.
some strings were broken
and curled
out from the top
like wired black hair.
the dull off key
sound
it made when striking
hurt your teeth,
but it looked good in the window.
a baby grand piano.
a vase of white flowers
centered.
who's to know from
the street
the wreck that it was
and that she
couldn't play a lick.

you mght feel a little pinch

as a child
you often fainted when the dentist
held up
his steel sharpened needle
above your tiny mouth,
o shaped and trembling.
the thick spectacles
of this man
about to stick
a pointed syringe
into your gums, reflected
your horrified face.
there were stars,
a black
cold blanket of bliss
upon you.
sweat beaded on your
pale wide brow,
the blood gone
out
to other regions.
when you awoke your mother
would be standing there
holding her
purse
saying, it won't hurt
and you'll get ice cream
later.
you might feel a little pinch.

you mght feel a little pinch

as a child
you often fainted when the dentist
held up
his steel sharpened needle
above your tiny mouth,
o shaped and trembling.
the thick spectacles
of this man
about to stick
a pointed syringe
into your gums, reflected
your horrified face.
there were stars,
a black
cold blanket of bliss
upon you.
sweat beaded on your
pale wide brow,
the blood gone
out
to other regions.
when you awoke your mother
would be standing there
holding her
purse
saying, it won't hurt
and you'll get ice cream
later.
you might feel a little pinch.

red peppers

a devil
is among us. his demons
too.
pointed tails,
and horns,
crimson red
like peppers.
you can feel them walking
about.
in the shadows
in the sunlight,
inhabiting the weaker
of faith
or the holiest of
holies.
makes no never mind
with the devil.
he finds a way in
when you crack open
the door,
peek at or enter
places
you shouldn't go.

red peppers

a devil
is among us. his demons
too.
pointed tails,
and horns,
crimson red
like peppers.
you can feel them walking
about.
in the shadows
in the sunlight,
inhabiting the weaker
of faith
or the holiest of
holies.
makes no never mind
with the devil.
he finds a way in
when you crack open
the door,
peek at or enter
places
you shouldn't go.

still here

the dead are never quite
dead
enough.
they keep
reminding us of when
they were alive.
each day,
some thought crosses
our mind
of them.
for better or worse.
there is no
tying of lose ends,
no closure
whatsoever.
they rise
and stay alive,
as if they were here,
but quietly
so.

unreachable

the things you have
mean less to you the longer
you have them.
what you want
is new. outside your reach.
behind the plate glass
window
on fifth avenue.
the stars too.
those dots of
teasing tinsel, unreachable,
a scalloped
moon.
a place to go and be someone
other than the person
that inhabits you.

unreachable

the things you have
mean less to you the longer
you have them.
what you want
is new. outside your reach.
behind the plate glass
window
on fifth avenue.
the stars too.
those dots of
teasing tinsel, unreachable,
a scalloped
moon.
a place to go and be someone
other than the person
that inhabits you.

boiled eggs

you stand over the stove,
over a pot
of boiling eggs.
three white eggs,
extra large
bubbling
and floating, shaking
in their shells,
bouncing
against the side
of the pot.
it's been longer than
three minutes.
it might be five.
they are starting to crack.
some of the white
stuff
is poking out.
you're not bored with
yourself,
although it may seem
that way,
watching these eggs.

boiled eggs

you stand over the stove,
over a pot
of boiling eggs.
three white eggs,
extra large
bubbling
and floating, shaking
in their shells,
bouncing
against the side
of the pot.
it's been longer than
three minutes.
it might be five.
they are starting to crack.
some of the white
stuff
is poking out.
you're not bored with
yourself,
although it may seem
that way,
watching these eggs.

something of interest

do you have trouble
sleeping
my therapist asks,
running out of things to ask me,
having skewered
parents and siblings.
ex wives.
a dog.
nope.
sleep like a rock.
i'm tired
by the time I lie down
and my head
sinks into a pillow
or two.
I see she says.
do you dream?
always.
technicolor.
what are they about.
some scary,
some fun,
some erotic.
oh, she says. suddenly
sitting up,
and crossing her legs.
tell me
about those.
finally she's found something
of interest.

love gone bad

in her other life
she was
someone else.
she was different.
her hair was longer.
she said yes,
when she wanted to say yes.
she slept
more,
she ate more, she had
more sex.
this life now
has put her in a box.
a colorless
box, with a lid
just barely open,
open enough to see what
she is missing
on the outside.
love gone bad
has tied her stings.
cobbled her shoes.
locked
the doors.

the readings

the gypsy down the street
waves to you
as you walk your dog.
there is a fifty per cent
off sign
on the post in front
of her house,
next to the sign that
says,
snow tires for sale.
readings of both hands,
half off,
the black print says.
she's sipping green tea
and standing on
her porch
in a rain coat
with a canvas hat.
half price, she yells out,
bring the dog
too, i'll read his paws.
all four? you say.
sure, she says,
why not.

the readings

the gypsy down the street
waves to you
as you walk your dog.
there is a fifty per cent
off sign
on the post in front
of her house,
next to the sign that
says,
snow tires for sale.
readings of both hands,
half off,
the black print says.
she's sipping green tea
and standing on
her porch
in a rain coat
with a canvas hat.
half price, she yells out,
bring the dog
too, i'll read his paws.
all four? you say.
sure, she says,
why not.

his winnings

you ask your father
what he will do with his winnings.
a hundred
thousand dollars
clear
from the scratch off lottery.
he says,
maybe i'll get the washing
machine fixed.
the belt is squeaking.
in a year
the winnings are gone.
the money slipped
back into the machine
that stands
by the door, by the newspapers,
as you enter
the grocery store.
the line is long and grey,
and bent
towards something that will
never be reached.

his winnings

you ask your father
what he will do with his winnings.
a hundred
thousand dollars
clear
from the scratch off lottery.
he says,
maybe i'll get the washing
machine fixed.
the belt is squeaking.
in a year
the winnings are gone.
the money slipped
back into the machine
that stands
by the door, by the newspapers,
as you enter
the grocery store.
the line is long and grey,
and bent
towards something that will
never be reached.

not all is wasted

most of what you learn
is unused,
or is it,
maybe deep inside of you
you're still
solving quadratic equations,
figuring out
how long it will take you
to get from point
a to point b,
if driving at sixty three
miles per hour.
maybe you're
still diagramming sentences,
or dissecting frogs,
or sifting through T.S. Elliot's
The Wasteland
to salvage meaning about
your own life.
not all is wasted.

the plot waits

quickly
they purchase the burial
plot.
how can she possibly
live past
this.
they clean out her drawers,
take
her rosary beads,
her cross,
her tea cups from
Russia.
that vase, long empty
of flowers.
then she opens her eyes
and says,
where am I. what day is this.
the plot waits,
undug,
things taken are not
returned.

the plot waits

quickly
they purchase the burial
plot.
how can she possibly
live past
this.
they clean out her drawers,
take
her rosary beads,
her cross,
her tea cups from
Russia.
that vase, long empty
of flowers.
then she opens her eyes
and says,
where am I. what day is this.
the plot waits,
undug,
things taken are not
returned.

what we know

the wind
picks up, lifts what's
on the ground, spins
paper and leaves
into the air. the world
keeps telling
us that we don't know much
about anything.

what we know

the wind
picks up, lifts what's
on the ground, spins
paper and leaves
into the air. the world
keeps telling
us that we don't know much
about anything.

cowboy wisdom

the horses are out
of the barn
he tells you. too late
to close
the doors.
what barn, what horses,
you ask him.
what are you talking about.
I live on the twentieth
floor
in a high rise.
it's a metaphor, he says.
it means it's
too late to do the things
you should have done.
like sending her roses.
well, why didn't you just
say that?
i'm folksy, he says.
i'm wearing boots and a cowboy
hat.
look at me, I even have a
a strand of straw
hanging out of my mouth.

cowboy wisdom

the horses are out
of the barn
he tells you. too late
to close
the doors.
what barn, what horses,
you ask him.
what are you talking about.
I live on the twentieth
floor
in a high rise.
it's a metaphor, he says.
it means it's
too late to do the things
you should have done.
like sending her roses.
well, why didn't you just
say that?
i'm folksy, he says.
i'm wearing boots and a cowboy
hat.
look at me, I even have a
a strand of straw
hanging out of my mouth.

the break up meal

do you have any special dietary needs
the waiter asks me
as i loosen my belt
and shimmy into the booth.
he hands me the laminated
menu that blocks
all light.
only that my red meat is medium
rare, I tell him.
and that nothing resembling
carob or liver
touch my plate.
got it, he says. will that be
a twelve ounce steak,
or twenty.
let's start with twenty and work
our way down.
an extra saucer of mushroom
gravy would be greatly
appreciated too, and bring
the dessert menu, if you
will. I like to think about that
as i'm eating.
will the mrs. be joining you
tonight? no, we're no longer
together, but I'm getting over
it slowly and painfully,
one meal at a time.

the wheel

the shovel
is new. the spade holds
the harsh sunlight
in its steel curve.
the shoe box
holding
the hamster is light,
the weight of death slight
in my daughter's hand
as we go to the edge
of the yard
where the woods begin.
he didn't have
much of a life, she says
in her small voice,
did he?
she looks up
to me
as we walk.
all day long on that
squeaky wheel,
alone in his cage.
now he's free, she says.
no one wants a life like that,
do they?
no, I tell her,
finding a soft spot with
which to dig,
pressing the shovel into
the earth with a hard boot.
no one deserves a life
like that.