the soft life

the child has everything.
his life
ruined
at the start.
his hands are soft and will
stay that way.
there is no fear
of hunger,
of losing anything
that's lost.
another will appear.
it's what parents are for,
no matter the price,
the true cost.

breaking even

the close shave.
the road
not taken where the bridge
was out.
the almost
thing that nearly happened.
the fallen
tree, the storm that blew
in
the moment you left.
you can count
them on one
hand, the miracles
of your life,
you're almost breaking
even.

i brought waffles home

lilly worked at Ihop
the night shift,
when it was mostly
cops
and truck drivers,
dead beats
and losers coming in
half lit
on cheap wine, or beer.
the tips were okay.
sometimes she'd peel off
her pink uniform
and leave it lying
at the foot
of the bed in a pastel
puddle
of stained clothes.
I could smell the syrup
on her body,
the slickness of fried
eggs and bacon.
hashbrowns.
sometimes her pen
would still be in her hair
as she snuggled up
beside me.
I brought waffles home,
she'd whisper, kissing
me on the cheek before
falling into
a deep sleep that freed
her from
the life she was living.

the scream

you wake up
to someone screaming.
you don't know if it's a good
scream though,
or a bad scream.
is it murder, or sex
going on
next door.
you wait for another clue.
it gets quiet
fast.
too fast perhaps
for either.

the scream

you wake up
to someone screaming.
you don't know if it's a good
scream though,
or a bad scream.
is it murder, or sex
going on
next door.
you wait for another clue.
it gets quiet
fast.
too fast perhaps
for either.

i'll have a salad

can you take
the blue cheese out of the salad,
she says.
feta or goat cheese if you have it.
and the onions.
oh, and i'm allergic
to red tomatoes, so if you
wouldn't mind,
please remove those too.
and I see there are nuts
in this salad
as well.
I have a severe reaction
to nuts, so
let's take those out
too. ummm, and greek olives.
do you have just
plain olives,
black, slice thinly though,
not whole or halves?
I like my lettuce shredded
into small pieces,
can you be a prince
and do that.
cross cuts, not against
the grain.
and if you have cucumbers,
take the skin off
and dice them up.
oh, and put the dressing on
the side.

i'll have a salad

can you take
the blue cheese out of the salad,
she says.
feta or goat cheese if you have it.
and the onions.
oh, and i'm allergic
to red tomatoes, so if you
wouldn't mind,
please remove those too.
and I see there are nuts
in this salad
as well.
I have a severe reaction
to nuts, so
let's take those out
too. ummm, and greek olives.
do you have just
plain olives,
black, slice thinly though,
not whole or halves?
I like my lettuce shredded
into small pieces,
can you be a prince
and do that.
cross cuts, not against
the grain.
and if you have cucumbers,
take the skin off
and dice them up.
oh, and put the dressing on
the side.

the other side of the tracks

she wanted to make
love
in the back seat of my car.
drive
over the tracks
she said, all the way,
I don't want a train
to hit us.
good idea, I told her,
steering
the old ford
over the cinder stones
and rails,
stopping under
a canopy of trees,
full with spring rains.
this is good she said,
crawling over
the seat. come on.
leave the radio on, she said.
but my battery,
I told her, I don't want
to kill my battery.
she rolled her eyes
as her blouse came off,
then her jeans.
what are you doing, she said.
popping
a can of black label beer.
finally I got in back.
then a train came.
a long slow train no more
than ten
feet in front of us.
the engineered looked down
and waved,
I thought I heard him call
out her name.
finally, the caboose appeared,
dull red,
with an old man on the back
stoop.
hey marcy, he yelled. waving
a flashlight.
a whistle blew.

the other side of the tracks

she wanted to make
love
in the back seat of my car.
drive
over the tracks
she said, all the way,
I don't want a train
to hit us.
good idea, I told her,
steering
the old ford
over the cinder stones
and rails,
stopping under
a canopy of trees,
full with spring rains.
this is good she said,
crawling over
the seat. come on.
leave the radio on, she said.
but my battery,
I told her, I don't want
to kill my battery.
she rolled her eyes
as her blouse came off,
then her jeans.
what are you doing, she said.
popping
a can of black label beer.
finally I got in back.
then a train came.
a long slow train no more
than ten
feet in front of us.
the engineered looked down
and waved,
I thought I heard him call
out her name.
finally, the caboose appeared,
dull red,
with an old man on the back
stoop.
hey marcy, he yelled. waving
a flashlight.
a whistle blew.

names and numbers

my mailman,
Ming,
calls me by my full name
when he steps
onto the porch
to slide the mail into the slot.
sometimes I see
him coming
and open the door
before he gathers
mail from his deep leather
pouch.
he says my name, first and last,
as if he knows me.
the circulars and bills,
the rare letter,
handwritten.
Christmas cards. packages.
I wonder if he knows everyone
in this way.
lying in bed at night,
his grey uniform removed,
his feet still moving along
the paved
route of his life.

car love

I love cars
she says.
all sizes. all colors.
shiny cars.
wood grained,
sleek metal.
I like to ride all
night in a new
car, or an old car.
I love the smell of cars.
the sound the engine
makes. the way the tires
press and squeal
along the highway
when they come across
a curve.
i'll get into strangers
cars
if they pull
up beside me and wink.
if the seats are leather,
if they're
polished
and clean.
i'll ride in any car
if it makes me sing,
makes my
heart skip a beat.
what kind of a car do
you have?

scratch off

I won't do another test
your father
says to you, weary on the phone.
I've
done all that they've asked.
they've examined me
inside and out.
to hell with them.
I want the operation now.
I want to see
again.
I want to drive,
to read,
to shop
and stick another twenty
into the scratch off machine
to see what I've won
or not won
just one more time.

scratch off

I won't do another test
your father
says to you, weary on the phone.
I've
done all that they've asked.
they've examined me
inside and out.
to hell with them.
I want the operation now.
I want to see
again.
I want to drive,
to read,
to shop
and stick another twenty
into the scratch off machine
to see what I've won
or not won
just one more time.

off the chain

she's out.
the dog has left the house.
jumped the fence,
looking back
with a long tongue,
smiling.
wild eyed.
the dog
is off the chain,
beyond
the gate,
the leash, out of hand,
nearly out
of sight.
she might come back,
she might not.
you wonder
why she left in the first
place.
with food shelter
and love
in abundance where
you stand.
oh well.

off the chain

she's out.
the dog has left the house.
jumped the fence,
looking back
with a long tongue,
smiling.
wild eyed.
the dog
is off the chain,
beyond
the gate,
the leash, out of hand,
nearly out
of sight.
she might come back,
she might not.
you wonder
why she left in the first
place.
with food shelter
and love
in abundance where
you stand.
oh well.

another monday

it was hard
to pretend to be interested
in jobs
that you didn't want.
sitting stiffly
in a blue suit
in a chair
across the desk from a serious
person reading
your folder of
feathered
accomplishments.
you knew that they knew
that you weren't
a fit.
that deep down inside,
past the shined
shoes,
the resume,
the blather that you
charmingly spoke
that you didn't really
want to work there,
but you did. you signed up,
and Monday came,
then another.
it took years to break free.
you tried to fool them,
tried to fool
yourself, but it didn't
work.

fancy this

this came from Ireland
she says, pointing
at the chandelier,
watch how the light dances
when I turn it on.
the vase is from Florence.
the glass ware
on the shelf is
Waterford crystal, all
of it, she says.
they don't make it anymore.
there are figurines
perched about,
cows and cats,
birds.
penguins.
she's holding a hotdog
in her hand,
taking large
bites.
there is mustard on her blouse.
relish on her chin.
a small dog is licking
her bare foot.
all of this is irreplaceable,
she says, so be careful.
in the other room,
down the hall,
her husband calls to her.
your show is on.
hurry up,
it's starting.

one can of black beans

I wonder sometimes
about the can
of black beans I've had in
my cupboard
for ages. I've lost track
of the years.
the date on the side
is smudged. there is a photo
of a bowl of black beans
on the blue label.
I hold the can in my hand
to see if it's bulging
with botulism,
but it feels smooth all
the way around.
I shake it for no reason
at all and listen
to it. it sounds fine.
I should keep it
for emergencies.
you never know.

on the old road

overnight
I've become my grandfather.
the radio tuned
to npr,
as I hug the right lane
on the interstate,
drinking coffee.
i'm wearing
loafers
and a plaid shirt,
comfortable khaki
pants.
I stop a few times
along the way
to go to
the bathroom
making small talk with
the man behind
the counter
at the gas station
who hands me a key
attached to a two
by four.
when I turn the key back
in I ask
Omar
if he knows of a good
place to eat
in this town.
he points across the street
to a pizza hut.
it's good, he says, if
you like pizza.
thanks I tell him,
then check my wallet for
coupons.

on the old road

overnight
I've become my grandfather.
the radio tuned
to npr,
as I hug the right lane
on the interstate,
drinking coffee.
i'm wearing
loafers
and a plaid shirt,
comfortable khaki
pants.
I stop a few times
along the way
to go to
the bathroom
making small talk with
the man behind
the counter
at the gas station
who hands me a key
attached to a two
by four.
when I turn the key back
in I ask
Omar
if he knows of a good
place to eat
in this town.
he points across the street
to a pizza hut.
it's good, he says, if
you like pizza.
thanks I tell him,
then check my wallet for
coupons.

famous quotes

as a child in elementary school
the assignment
was to write down
something President Kennedy
had said. a famous quote.
most of the children
wrote down, ask not what
your country can do for you,
etc.
but I wondered if there were
times when he
also said things like,
we're out of milk, or
who's been drinking my scotch?
did you see the legs
on that woman?
set up a meeting?
the teacher was not amused,
which affected our relationship
for the entire fifth grade.

the laminated photo

you want to change the photo
of you
laminated on your license.
you want a different
picture.
but down at the dmv
they don't care about your
vanity. go away, they say,
come back in five years
when it's time to renew.
you want to wear a suit
and look
more serious.
have better lighting to show
your eyes.
maybe have a book in
hand as if
you're reading.
or holding a bouquet
of flowers, about to give
them to someone
to make them happy.
you want your picture to
reflect how wonderful you are,
not this photo,
this black and white
mug shot,
showing disdain
for so much we have to endure
in life.

the laminated photo

you want to change the photo
of you
laminated on your license.
you want a different
picture.
but down at the dmv
they don't care about your
vanity. go away, they say,
come back in five years
when it's time to renew.
you want to wear a suit
and look
more serious.
have better lighting to show
your eyes.
maybe have a book in
hand as if
you're reading.
or holding a bouquet
of flowers, about to give
them to someone
to make them happy.
you want your picture to
reflect how wonderful you are,
not this photo,
this black and white
mug shot,
showing disdain
for so much we have to endure
in life.

the dog walker

he was almost a different
species of man.
a missing link
of sorts. the high forehead,
the hunched
posture.
always with a shirt tucked
in below his chest.
a dog walker.
you'd see him with seven or
eight dogs,
all on leashes,
strolling in a large
circle
around the neighborhood.
the dogs didn't care
about him, or what he looked
like,
his grunts, they just wanted
to be outdoors,
walking
in the sunshine, like him.

the dog walker

he was almost a different
species of man.
a missing link
of sorts. the high forehead,
the hunched
posture.
always with a shirt tucked
in below his chest.
a dog walker.
you'd see him with seven or
eight dogs,
all on leashes,
strolling in a large
circle
around the neighborhood.
the dogs didn't care
about him, or what he looked
like,
his grunts, they just wanted
to be outdoors,
walking
in the sunshine, like him.

spare parts

they take out her
kidney, like it's nothing.
sew her up,
send her home,
and off she goes about
her life,
with one less organ.
she has others.
in a few weeks
she'll be back at work.
smoking
and drinking, getting
another tattoo
and riding her Harley.
life goes on,
the wounds heal.

mornings are hard

mornings are hard.
especially
around perky people.
you know
what i'm talking about.
they are cheerful,
talkative,
full of energy and life.
full of coffee.
they are bright lights in your
blurry eyes.
nails across the blackboard
of your soul,
saying horrible things
to you like
hello and good morning.
how are you?
what a beautiful day.

dim the lights

I like the low
lights now,
friendly lighting if you will.
it hides
the dust,
the dirt. the cobwebs,
not to mention
crows feet
and furrowed brows.
give me the lit candle.
the struck match
upon the wick.
be done with the over head
light,
the open blinds,
the floor lamp,
give me shadows now.
the subtle shades of dusk,
or dawn.
keep me from the middle
of the day, bring
me an eclipse, or the curtains
drawn.

dim the lights

I like the low
lights now,
friendly lighting if you will.
it hides
the dust,
the dirt. the cobwebs,
not to mention
crows feet
and furrowed brows.
give me the lit candle.
the struck match
upon the wick.
be done with the over head
light,
the open blinds,
the floor lamp,
give me shadows now.
the subtle shades of dusk,
or dawn.
keep me from the middle
of the day, bring
me an eclipse, or the curtains
drawn.

the early bell

how easy it was
to put my head down in study
hall, upon the hard desk,
the first class of the day
and sleep.
to dream about a girl
who may or may not know that
I existed.
my face creased from
my folded arms, boxed ears
from elbows,
red faced and mashed,
going down
the hall to the next
class
when the bell rung.
we all needed more sleep.
it was too early
to learn, to think about
anything
but girls. not much
has changed.

the early bell

how easy it was
to put my head down in study
hall, upon the hard desk,
the first class of the day
and sleep.
to dream about a girl
who may or may not know that
I existed.
my face creased from
my folded arms, boxed ears
from elbows,
red faced and mashed,
going down
the hall to the next
class
when the bell rung.
we all needed more sleep.
it was too early
to learn, to think about
anything
but girls. not much
has changed.

the preacher

your brother and his bible,
the pages
worn, underlined in
yellow,
key words, key points.
salvation ironed
out smooth
in the index.
the parables
stale upon
his tongue.
it used to a weapon
in his hand,
a plow
that he pushed through
the fields. no more.
now it's a pillow that he lies
his head
upon, finally surrendering
after all
these years
to silence.

the boy under

they pull
the boy from the lake.
blue
and still,
white as the snow
that lay upon the cracked
ice,
his skates still on,
coins
in his pockets,
a small knife, a rabbit's
foot.
marbles.
the things boys keep.
other boys will go under,
drown,
as this one did,
but for now,
this one will do,
for a winter sorrow.

the boy under

they pull
the boy from the lake.
blue
and still,
white as the snow
that lay upon the cracked
ice,
his skates still on,
coins
in his pockets,
a small knife, a rabbit's
foot.
marbles.
the things boys keep.
other boys will go under,
drown,
as this one did,
but for now,
this one will do,
for a winter sorrow.

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.