each day

each footstep
leading towards another.
each job,
each day erased from
the calendar, each new
moon
rising between the trees,
each night
alone, or not alone,
all adding up
to something, something
you can't quite
understand,
but accept.

what's not replaced

somewhere in this world
my wallet
lies on
the ground, or is in the hands
some nefarious
soul
becoming me,
he must be disappointed
by the lack
of cash
folded within.
slowly i swim through
the day,
on the phone
speaking to agents,
correcting the loss with
new plastic,
new identification,
new leather with which
to encase
my life.
everything inside is gone,
but replaced,
everything that is,
but you,
your hand written note
folded into squares,
saying
i'm sorry. I love you.

what's not replaced

somewhere in this world
my wallet
lies on
the ground, or is in the hands
some nefarious
soul
becoming me,
he must be disappointed
by the lack
of cash
folded within.
slowly i swim through
the day,
on the phone
speaking to agents,
correcting the loss with
new plastic,
new identification,
new leather with which
to encase
my life.
everything inside is gone,
but replaced,
everything that is,
but you,
your hand written note
folded into squares,
saying
i'm sorry. I love you.

anger

even in the best
of times,
when the moon and stars align,
when the weather
is sweet
and sunny
with blue skies,
even then
you are surprised how
the smallest
of things
can wring out the dark
side in you,
saying words
you'll regret as soon
as they leave
your mouth.
the other side of
you is so near the surface,
despite
everything.

running away

i'm running away from
home
my sister tells me one night,
sitting on
the front porch, which is really
a stoop of
concrete steps
that lead out to the sidewalk
where a blue mailbox
sits.
but you're fifty years old
I tell her.
so what, she says.
I've always wanted to run away
from home
and now I have the means
to do it.
I look out at her car.
it's red, a convertible.
there's a suitcase in back.
how's the new car?
it's okay, she says. but it
doesn't make me happy.
what does, I ask her,
trying to find her eyes
behind the sunglasses.
wine, she says. red wine
to be specific.
if anyone asks, you don't know
where I am, okay?
sure, I tell her.
beach, three days?
yes, she says. can I borrow
some beach towels, I
left mine at home.

the soft list

you make a list
of things to do.
closets to clean, oil
to be changed.
patch and paint the ceiling
where the rain
came through.
it's a long but soft
list.
nothing pressing, or
urgent.
people can wait for your
call.
it's not life or
death,
just a list of things
that come to mind.
you'll make it, then forget
what was on it,
setting aside.

the soft list

you make a list
of things to do.
closets to clean, oil
to be changed.
patch and paint the ceiling
where the rain
came through.
it's a long but soft
list.
nothing pressing, or
urgent.
people can wait for your
call.
it's not life or
death,
just a list of things
that come to mind.
you'll make it, then forget
what was on it,
setting aside.

elmira white

I might shave
my beard off, jake tells me at work,
as he puts
another coat
of Elmira White onto
the walls.
someone told me that it makes
me look old.
there's too much grey in it.
but you are old I tell him,
so what's the difference,
he doesn't say anything
to this, he keeps
working the roller, dipping
the sleeve
into the tray,
rolling the white paint
onto the walls to make
everything fresh and new again.

no surrender

retire and do what,
I say
to the third person that asks
me that question
this week. surrender,
to do what.
travel?
movies, sleep in?
no, I say.
I think i'll just
continue working
and take
the weekends off.
maybe go
the beach when time allows
or up
to new York city
for a hot pastrami sandwich.
retire?
no, and do what?
what would there be to complain
about then?

Irma and Velma

no, my name is not velma,
but Irma
she says
on the phone.
I can hear a dog barking,
a baby crying.
a man
asking loudly
where his dinner might be.
I like the name
Irma, though
she says, maybe i'll change
my name.
but is there
a velma there,
i ask her, listening
to a dish breaking,
a tv on in the background,
a man asking her
who she's talking to.
get off the phone, he yells
and bring me my
goddamn dinner.
velma, sounds like the name
of someone
i'd like to be, she says,
whispering now,
holding back tears.
there is no velma here,
she finally says,
but I wish there was, i'm
sorry
that you have the wrong
number.

i see it too

when there was a moon
such as there is tonight,
full and round,
we'd talk
on the phone and say
can you see it?
do you see the moon
between the trees.
it was simple
and sweet, a brief
way of saying
we're both here under
the same light
in the sky.
connected somehow
by its glow, its pull,
its poetic magic,
all said
without words, just,
yes, I see it too,
sleep well,
goodnight.

i see it too

when there was a moon
such as there is tonight,
full and round,
we'd talk
on the phone and say
can you see it?
do you see the moon
between the trees.
it was simple
and sweet, a brief
way of saying
we're both here under
the same light
in the sky.
connected somehow
by its glow, its pull,
its poetic magic,
all said
without words, just,
yes, I see it too,
sleep well,
goodnight.

choices

I miss running.
mile after mile.
the endorphins kicking in.
the easy gait
of legs
and arms swinging.
the burn
of cold air,
the sweet fatigue after
a good
run ended.
I miss the distance
traveled on foot,
along the river,
the woods,
the stillness of morning.
with age
choices are made.
onto the bike
I go, or the brisk
walk
whiles others speed by.

the garlic cure

in an effort to strengthen
my immune system
and rid myself
of sneezing and congestion,
wheezing
and heavy breathing
I start eating
whole bulbs of garlic.
I read somewhere
that garlic helps.
it doesn't seem to be
working.
although it's keeping
the vampires
and everyone else away.

the wad of gum incident

there was the time
when you were in high school,
slow dancing with Vivian,
your girl friend of three days,
captain of the cheerleaders,
the lights down low,
a gaggle of
other goofy teenagers
dancing too with
a beatles record playing
over and over again
on the turn table, while
upstairs her parents sat
sat on a long blue couch
watching ed Sullivan.
it was then that you dropped
a wad of gum
out of your mouth
and it stuck in Vivian's
long black hair
that went to the middle
of her back.
you struggled to get it out
with your teeth,
your lips
and tongue, until she finally
screamed and said
what are you doing?
the lights went up, the parents
ran down the steps
with a baseball bat to
see who might have been stabbed.
her girlfriends shrieked
when seeing the web of pink gum,
then they all cried, held hands
and gave me the evil eye.
fortunately you had more
gum, and began chewing on a fresh
piece, while you were asked
to leave.

the dry field

you have to let
the field alone at times.
let a season pass
with no tilling of soil,
no planting.
no plow.
let it go. let it
be what it is.
flat and wide under
the sun and stars.
let it heal
over time. let the earth
turn,
let the slow
unseen workings
of death and new life
begin, then start again.

the dry field

you have to let
the field alone at times.
let a season pass
with no tilling of soil,
no planting.
no plow.
let it go. let it
be what it is.
flat and wide under
the sun and stars.
let it heal
over time. let the earth
turn,
let the slow
unseen workings
of death and new life
begin, then start again.

wandering

on the wrong trail,
I still
think that I can make it
home before
dark.
the trees all look the same,
the sun
a soft yellow blemish
going down,
right over there,
the owl
is still to the right
of me.
I can almost hear
the stream too,
a dark sleeve
of water
going somewhere.
follow that.
and i'll get there.

wandering

on the wrong trail,
I still
think that I can make it
home before
dark.
the trees all look the same,
the sun
a soft yellow blemish
going down,
right over there,
the owl
is still to the right
of me.
I can almost hear
the stream too,
a dark sleeve
of water
going somewhere.
follow that.
and i'll get there.

the right and left

given time
the energetic political
supporter
dressed
in red white
and blue, a tall hat,
with placard
in hand, stating who
they are for or
against will get old.
get tired.
get sensible and realize
that it's all a sham.
a game
of smoke and mirrors,
promises unfulfilled,
bold
dreams that will never
be had.
but for now, they rise,
they clap and holler,
stamp their collective feet.
they are full of youth,
full of everything
but a sense of history
and time, with
not enough yesterdays
behind them.

the heat

it's so damn out,
she says,
arching her back
and speaking
in her best sultry voice.
a cat
licking her paws.
why don't
you come over
here and make love to me,
I can barely
move
an arm, or leg, but for some reason
this heat
has gotten
me into some kind of mood.
don't spoil my mood, she says.
be a dear, be a sport,
be kind and hurry.
you know where the key is.
she waits,
letting the warm air,
stirred by her overhead fan
fill the space between us
not saying
a thing, until you finally
say.
okay, your arm twisted.

his favorite war

he talks about the civil
war
longingly,
his last name being the same
as a famous
general.
he looks off into distance
as if he
can still hear
cannon fire,
horses on the hill,
a bugle
being played.
he tells you that his great
grandfather
fought in the war,
lost an arm
on the field, but got
the best of them
in the end, despite
losing.
then he takes a swallow
of whiskey.
the amber drink
shining in the sun as
it dribbles
on his chin, into his grey
beard.
he tells you about
his father
who died
in a fire, falling asleep
with a cigarette burning
in his hand.
passed out
from drink.
this part of his story
goes quickly, then it's back
to gettysburgh,
summit hill
appotmatox. Robert E. Lee.

the board game

just about any board
game
ended in a fight with
your siblings.
hurry up
and roll the dice, get
off the phone,
it's your turn
was often said.
one brother played
to win, and not just
win but get everyone
to submit
to his strategy
and devious play.
the sister, at some point
always said,
I don't care about this
stupid
game, I quit.
throwing her pieces
and fake
dollars into the air.
but you played on,
through the rainy
summer nights,
your mother poking her
head into the room
to tell all of you to
quit arguing
and yelling. it's just
a game,
she'd say,
but hardly.

the daily news

the news
gathers like grey balls
of dust
in the corners
of your room,
under the bed, out of sight.
you'll get
to it, sooner or later,
sweep it
up and
get clean once more,
but soon
another paper
hits the porch
and you turn to the weather,
to sports,
to the style section.
the rest is too hard
to absorb,
the same
as the day before.

the daily news

the news
gathers like grey balls
of dust
in the corners
of your room,
under the bed, out of sight.
you'll get
to it, sooner or later,
sweep it
up and
get clean once more,
but soon
another paper
hits the porch
and you turn to the weather,
to sports,
to the style section.
the rest is too hard
to absorb,
the same
as the day before.

buying more

you have too many
shoes,
too many pairs of socks
and shorts,
shirts, all of the same
color.
too much of nearly everything.
is it a reflection
of growing
up with virtually nothing,
when you had to slip
card board into the holes
of your sneakers
to keep your feet
from bleeding,
probably.

buying more

you have too many
shoes,
too many pairs of socks
and shorts,
shirts, all of the same
color.
too much of nearly everything.
is it a reflection
of growing
up with virtually nothing,
when you had to slip
card board into the holes
of your sneakers
to keep your feet
from bleeding,
probably.

but what now

she says that she knew
right away that it wasn't going to work.
then a kid
came along,
then another.
a cat a dog.
a fence around
the new house.
relatives and neighbors
tied
strings to us,
we were tethered by our
own doing,
with schools and sports,
weekend barbeques,
unable to escape a loveless
life
together.
but now i'm free, twenty
five years
later.
what's mine is mine,
with no compromise.
but what now?

the unknown

no one truly knows you,
or me,
for that matter.
there is a part in all of us
that stays
hidden.
neither good or bad,
but an essence,
a true
value of who you really
are
from stem to stern,
within.
bits leak out, but not
all.
that core remains
a mystery,
which keeps us all guessing
for better
or for worse.

the unknown

no one truly knows you,
or me,
for that matter.
there is a part in all of us
that stays
hidden.
neither good or bad,
but an essence,
a true
value of who you really
are
from stem to stern,
within.
bits leak out, but not
all.
that core remains
a mystery,
which keeps us all guessing
for better
or for worse.

home before dark

as a child you were
told not to talk to strangers,
don't get
in the car or accept
candy
from people you don't know.
run home
when it gets dark out.
how fearful
we were made to be of the outside
world.
but not
fearful enough,
for everything you were warned
about,
that could happen, does
and more so.

wanting more

it's something like
wind
that picks us up and takes
us to the next world,
if there is one.
it's a light hand
that lifts
our spirit from our
shells
and pushes us from this
life
to another.
how hard we try not
to go there,
clinging to bedsheets
at the end,
grieving what has passed,
wanting more.

wanting more

it's something like
wind
that picks us up and takes
us to the next world,
if there is one.
it's a light hand
that lifts
our spirit from our
shells
and pushes us from this
life
to another.
how hard we try not
to go there,
clinging to bedsheets
at the end,
grieving what has passed,
wanting more.

what the world needs

we think
of what the world needs.
an invention
not yet
conceived. it's hard though,
looking
around at all
the junk
in the stores, online,
in your own house.
what hasn't
been thought of?
what brilliant idea has
yet to come
to fruition.
the pet rock was easy,
the hulu hoop
and slinky.
silly putty.
you could be rich and never
have to work
again
if you could only thing
of one dumb
thing the world wants
and needs.

what the world needs

we think
of what the world needs.
an invention
not yet
conceived. it's hard though,
looking
around at all
the junk
in the stores, online,
in your own house.
what hasn't
been thought of?
what brilliant idea has
yet to come
to fruition.
the pet rock was easy,
the hulu hoop
and slinky.
silly putty.
you could be rich and never
have to work
again
if you could only thing
of one dumb
thing the world wants
and needs.

til death do we part

say steak is your favorite meal.
a juicy rib eye with
potatoes and gravy,
string beans.
a hot roll with
butter.
medium rare, say you can
eat this every night
for the rest of your life,
it's there waiting for
you when you get home,
it's there in
the morning.
you have a picture of this
steak dinner
in your wallet,
it's on the mantle,
you show people the photos
on your phone.
it never changes, this dinner,
this meal.
which is a good thing,
and yet,
occasionally you long
for chicken, or lasagna,
or veal.

press three if you know your party's extension

it's a minor claim
for your car insurance, a week
old
small thing
that needs to be taken care of.
but
you never hear
from anyone.
no message, no e mail,
no text.
the phone prompts send you
on a dizzying ride
to nowhere.
press one, press two,
press three if you know
your party's extension, which
goes to voice mail.
you've read your twenty digit
account number so many
times that you will
die with it imbedded in your
brain cells,
you will stare out the window
of the senior home,
with a phone cradled to
your ear, still waiting for a human
voice to help you,
but to no avail.

press three if you know your party's extension

it's a minor claim
for your car insurance, a week
old
small thing
that needs to be taken care of.
but
you never hear
from anyone.
no message, no e mail,
no text.
the phone prompts send you
on a dizzying ride
to nowhere.
press one, press two,
press three if you know
your party's extension, which
goes to voice mail.
you've read your twenty digit
account number so many
times that you will
die with it imbedded in your
brain cells,
you will stare out the window
of the senior home,
with a phone cradled to
your ear, still waiting for a human
voice to help you,
but to no avail.

finish it

I nearly fall asleep
when sally tells me a story.
I grab toothpicks
to keep my eye lids open,
stifling the yawns
that come
with both hands.
she can't finish,
it goes on and on.
with side stories, unnecessary
embellishments,
detours
and wide turns.
have I told you this story
before she says,
seeing me nodding off,
slipping off the chair.
most of it, yes, I say, hoping
to stop her,
but no. well, wait to you hear
this part.
she goes on and on,
tapping my leg to keep me
awake.

finish it

I nearly fall asleep
when sally tells me a story.
I grab toothpicks
to keep my eye lids open,
stifling the yawns
that come
with both hands.
she can't finish,
it goes on and on.
with side stories, unnecessary
embellishments,
detours
and wide turns.
have I told you this story
before she says,
seeing me nodding off,
slipping off the chair.
most of it, yes, I say, hoping
to stop her,
but no. well, wait to you hear
this part.
she goes on and on,
tapping my leg to keep me
awake.

around we go

the day
is not unlike a race
at the track
but without the cheering
crowds,
the colorful silks,
the announcer
making it all more exciting
than it really is.
at some point
you do cross a finish line,
whether first or last,
and rest.
oats and water,
a nice shower,
throwing a nay to the mare
in the adjoining barn,
then into your stall for
bed.

around we go

the day
is not unlike a race
at the track
but without the cheering
crowds,
the colorful silks,
the announcer
making it all more exciting
than it really is.
at some point
you do cross a finish line,
whether first or last,
and rest.
oats and water,
a nice shower,
throwing a nay to the mare
in the adjoining barn,
then into your stall for
bed.

The IRS tax scam

I can't resist calling
back the IRS scam on the telephone.
I take the number
down and return the call.
I am told that I am being sued
for tax evasion.
the high pitched voice
on the other end wants to know
my name, my social security number.
I tell him my name is jimmy hitler.
okay jimmy he says, then
explains how
I've been caught cheating on
my taxes and must make
restitution to keep me from
going to prison for years
and years.
I can hear a warehouse of chatter
in the background,
the dry winds
and baying of strange animals
of a foreign land.
I ask if I can bring him cash
in a bag, or a wheel barrow,
to pay off my debt,
which surprises him.
if salivating made a noise, it
would be the noise that i'm
hearing now.
he tells me to write my claim
number down, and a series of other
numbers which indicate my guilt.
this goes on for twenty minutes
as I make a sandwich in the kitchen
and put some coffee on.
I see a line of black ants
crawling across the floor
carrying great loads of sugar
granules, so I hang up the phone
to take care of that.

have you ever been to alaska?

you look like someone
I used to know
the woman says as she cuts
my hair,
gives me a shave
and trims my eye brows.
have you ever been to Alaska,
she says,
as her hands
rub a blue cologne
on top
of my head, then slapping
some gently on my cheeks.
nope, I say, inhaling
the fumes.
I was at the beach last week,
maybe you saw
me there.
maybe she says.
I used to be in the navy,
she tells me.
I hated it.
so I got out.
so now I do this.
she rubs my shoulders,
which surprises me.
that feels good, I tell her.
twisting my neck making
it crackle.
you have strong hands.
I was a machinists mate,
she says.
I like to give customers
a shoulder rub,
like the Asian women do
in the Korean barber shops.
men tip better
when you do that.
well, it's wonderful, I tell
her.
are you sure you've never
been to Alaska? she asks, as
she shakes out
the apron from around my neck.
nope, I tell her handing
her a twenty.
my sister's been there, though,
I tell her.
she took a cruise there once.
she saw some whales.
oh, she says.
I've seen whales too.
do you need change?
no, keep it, I tell her.

getting in line

I remember standing in line
with my friend john at the unemployment
office.
we did everything together back then.
we had long hair, and no skills
to speak of. we had
three semesters of community
college under our belts
and were virtually unemployable,
but willing to learn.
we were excited to see
how much money we were going to get
for not working,
for being laid off on account
of the economy, the oil crisis,
weather, something.
it wasn't much, but it kept us
going through the winter months
as we looked in the paper for more
work we weren't qualified for.
his death has not dimmed
the memory of us
sitting in those green chairs,
in a smoke filled waiting room,
heavy with loss,
talking about basketball
and girls, laughing without
a care.

getting in line

I remember standing in line
with my friend john at the unemployment
office.
we did everything together back then.
we had long hair, and no skills
to speak of. we had
three semesters of community
college under our belts
and were virtually unemployable,
but willing to learn.
we were excited to see
how much money we were going to get
for not working,
for being laid off on account
of the economy, the oil crisis,
weather, something.
it wasn't much, but it kept us
going through the winter months
as we looked in the paper for more
work we weren't qualified for.
his death has not dimmed
the memory of us
sitting in those green chairs,
in a smoke filled waiting room,
heavy with loss,
talking about basketball
and girls, laughing without
a care.

do you have a boat?

she wanted to know if I had
a boat,
or a pool,
or a beach house
and I said no, but I have
a garden hose
in the back yard
that I can spray you with
if you stand still
and don't scream
like a baby.
she was not impressed,
so it never went any further
than me paying for
her dinner and three glasses
of wine, then walking
her out to her car
to be hugged, leaving
an etching of make up
on my shirt.

do you have a boat?

she wanted to know if I had
a boat,
or a pool,
or a beach house
and I said no, but I have
a garden hose
in the back yard
that I can spray you with
if you stand still
and don't scream
like a baby.
she was not impressed,
so it never went any further
than me paying for
her dinner and three glasses
of wine, then walking
her out to her car
to be hugged, leaving
an etching of make up
on my shirt.

the advice book

for Christmas one year
your minister
brother, not the other two,
but the good one
who lives in the bible belt
with his doors unlocked,
sent you a book titled
don't waste your life.
a few years later
he sent the same book,
forgetting that he had sent
the first one.
it became clear what his impression
of you was.
you skimmed the fist book,
and got some nice
ideas about how not to waste
your life, none of which you
can remember right now
because you're too busy doing
all the things
he's not allowed to do.

the advice book

for Christmas one year
your minister
brother, not the other two,
but the good one
who lives in the bible belt
with his doors unlocked,
sent you a book titled
don't waste your life.
a few years later
he sent the same book,
forgetting that he had sent
the first one.
it became clear what his impression
of you was.
you skimmed the fist book,
and got some nice
ideas about how not to waste
your life, none of which you
can remember right now
because you're too busy doing
all the things
he's not allowed to do.

the atomic red chair

the new chair
you received
in the mail
is too big. too orange,
too firm,
and yet there it sits.
it will take
some time to get used to,
but such is the price
one pays
when shopping online
after a drink or two.
the blue swatches are coming
though for another chair.
mid century modern,
and this chair can
be moved to a room
upstairs, while the new
blue chair will
take its place,
right there where no
one ever sits.

let us pray

it's awkward at times
when
people want to pray together,
joining hands,
bowing heads
in a circle, or at a table
before a meal. happily
it's never me that leads the way.
I always look around
to see who
is or isn't praying,
squinting my eyes
checking everyone out
to see who might be a heathen.
I feel uncomfortable holding
hands with people
I don't know very well,
or even with those
that I do. my palms sweat
and I want to scratch my forehead
for some reason.
sometimes the prayer goes
on too long,
thanking God over and over again
for every little thing
under the sun,
while the food sits on the table,
hot and steaming
under our noses.
but I wait until the amens,
are said, mine included,
then dig in.

let us pray

it's awkward at times
when
people want to pray together,
joining hands,
bowing heads
in a circle, or at a table
before a meal. happily
it's never me that leads the way.
I always look around
to see who
is or isn't praying,
squinting my eyes
checking everyone out
to see who might be a heathen.
I feel uncomfortable holding
hands with people
I don't know very well,
or even with those
that I do. my palms sweat
and I want to scratch my forehead
for some reason.
sometimes the prayer goes
on too long,
thanking God over and over again
for every little thing
under the sun,
while the food sits on the table,
hot and steaming
under our noses.
but I wait until the amens,
are said, mine included,
then dig in.

this ladder

this ladder,
with all its metaled
rungs, pulled up
by a rope,
hold you
upright, slanted against
another house
in the july
sun.
one hand grips a sill
while the other
dips a brush into a bucket
before
sliding it across
the dry wood.
your knees bend in the open
air, your
shins pressed against
the steel
for balance.
the world is a precarious
place
to live in.
slowly you go down.

this ladder

this ladder,
with all its metaled
rungs, pulled up
by a rope,
hold you
upright, slanted against
another house
in the july
sun.
one hand grips a sill
while the other
dips a brush into a bucket
before
sliding it across
the dry wood.
your knees bend in the open
air, your
shins pressed against
the steel
for balance.
the world is a precarious
place
to live in.
slowly you go down.

only in the morning

at first it bothered you
how she only
wanted to make love in the morning.
what was wrong
with noon,
or midnight, or any other hour
besides seven a.m.,
she'd kiss you goodnight,
wearing her long vanilla dress,
bring in a glass
of water before turning
off the light,
as if you were a child,
then going to her own room,
to her own bed
down the hall
where she almost couldn't
hear you breathing.

the taste of yesterday

these women, some men
shop carefully
in the produce section
of the grocery store,
their carts pushed to one
side
as they study the fruit
and vegetables,
touching
and turning each peach,
each apple,
tasting one grape,
then another, looking off
as if remembering
what other grapes have tasted like.
what are they searching
for, tomorrows, no,
but yesterdays.
picking finally what suits
them,
placing
the onions, the potatoes,
the sweet corn
into bags, then moving forward.

the taste of yesterday

these women, some men
shop carefully
in the produce section
of the grocery store,
their carts pushed to one
side
as they study the fruit
and vegetables,
touching
and turning each peach,
each apple,
tasting one grape,
then another, looking off
as if remembering
what other grapes have tasted like.
what are they searching
for, tomorrows, no,
but yesterdays.
picking finally what suits
them,
placing
the onions, the potatoes,
the sweet corn
into bags, then moving forward.

in the shade

it's the kind
of weather that makes people
talk.
wiping
their brows
with sleeves, or
handkerchiefs. shaking
their shaggy
heads with
disbelief, staring up
into the sun
as if for the first time.
saying things,
like don't forget
to drink if you're thirsty.
work in the shade.

in the shade

it's the kind
of weather that makes people
talk.
wiping
their brows
with sleeves, or
handkerchiefs. shaking
their shaggy
heads with
disbelief, staring up
into the sun
as if for the first time.
saying things,
like don't forget
to drink if you're thirsty.
work in the shade.

the note

how nice
to get the written
note in the mail.
a hand
taking the time
to press
against
a card, inside, and write
what's felt.
the learned
script
of words and letters
flowing
across the short
blank page.
paper gems with which
you'll save.

the note

how nice
to get the written
note in the mail.
a hand
taking the time
to press
against
a card, inside, and write
what's felt.
the learned
script
of words and letters
flowing
across the short
blank page.
paper gems with which
you'll save.

generosity

generosity
of spirit
is like the weather.
it changes
from day to day, hour
to hour.
rain on me,
and I run for cover.
strike me
with lighting
and our day as one
is done.
bring snow
and ice
to my door step,
then
i'll keep
the doors locked tight.

generosity

generosity
of spirit
is like the weather.
it changes
from day to day, hour
to hour.
rain on me,
and I run for cover.
strike me
with lighting
and our day as one
is done.
bring snow
and ice
to my door step,
then
i'll keep
the doors locked tight.

without you

across a white field
I walk,
ankle deep in the fresh
wool
of cold snow.
the field
is flat, goes on forever
from one blue
line
to another.
there are other things I
should be doing,
but for now, this walk
takes
up my time.
I see the bloom of my
breath in front of me,
always
just beyond my lips,
my legs lift then fall
leaving behind
who I used to be.

without you

across a white field
I walk,
ankle deep in the fresh
wool
of cold snow.
the field
is flat, goes on forever
from one blue
line
to another.
there are other things I
should be doing,
but for now, this walk
takes
up my time.
I see the bloom of my
breath in front of me,
always
just beyond my lips,
my legs lift then fall
leaving behind
who I used to be.

to each queen a subject

I ask for so little
and yet
give so much, it is what
martyrs are made
of.
pity and blood.
a slow
whine
of poor me.
you despise me for
this
but stay with me
just the same,
unworthy of others,
aiming low
to keep your position,
such as it is,
in your life.
each queen needing
subjects.

to each queen a subject

I ask for so little
and yet
give so much, it is what
martyrs are made
of.
pity and blood.
a slow
whine
of poor me.
you despise me for
this
but stay with me
just the same,
unworthy of others,
aiming low
to keep your position,
such as it is,
in your life.
each queen needing
subjects.

the clean baby

when the doctor tried
to hand you
the baby, your son, you asked,
politely if they
could clean him up a little first,
squeamish that you are.
they seemed
stunned, but you were wearing
a new shirt,
pressed pants,
and had just washed your hands.
so they did.
you held him tightly.
and still do,
despite him
being in California
for the rest of his young
life.

the clean baby

when the doctor tried
to hand you
the baby, your son, you asked,
politely if they
could clean him up a little first,
squeamish that you are.
they seemed
stunned, but you were wearing
a new shirt,
pressed pants,
and had just washed your hands.
so they did.
you held him tightly.
and still do,
despite him
being in California
for the rest of his young
life.

a hint of mint

the closets are almost all
empty,
everyone finally having come out
in some form or
another.
announcements are made to yawns,
and rolling of
eyes.
no one really cares, and we all
say things like, really.
as if we didn't know.
now pick me a color for my walls,
and fabric
for this chair.
show me how to make quiche,
tell me what's the best place
to vacation
in the fall?

a hint of mint

the closets are almost all
empty,
everyone finally having come out
in some form or
another.
announcements are made to yawns,
and rolling of
eyes.
no one really cares, and we all
say things like, really.
as if we didn't know.
now pick me a color for my walls,
and fabric
for this chair.
show me how to make quiche,
tell me what's the best place
to vacation
in the fall?

this world you are a part of

there are four doors
that rise and fall
at the end of a low lying brick building,
a warehouse
now a working garage.
English is not spoken.
an Asian man, kevin, is the owner
and writes
down his price
for you on a yellow sticky
note.
600, condenser.
text me when you come.
the ceilings are high
and dark.
grease is everywhere,
disembodied metal, bent or broken
lie about.
sparrows fly on dark wings
inside the cavern
of cars,
the sound of machinery doing
nothing to drive them out.
a man with one arm
is turning
a wrench, while another man
is lowering
an engine into the open mouth
of a white Hyundai.
beside one bay is a fan which
blows in the hot still air of summer.
kevin writes down
your phone number onto a cardboard
sheet that he tears off
a box, setting it onto
your front seat. we call, he says.
one o'clcck, then he turns
the key in your truck.
you walk to the end
of the service road
and call a taxi to take you home
to wait
and wonder about this world
you are a part of.

karma, coming around

it's second hand news
how
your mother's husband of forty
years has to crawl now
to let the dog out,
a bag attached
to his side.
the cancer
having torn a hole
within him.
you hear how he no longer drives,
or drinks beer, or smokes.
you wonder
if he prays now too,
alone with his one light on.
if he's stopped using the words
nigger
and kike.
slant eyes.
has his illness bettered him?
does he regret
abusing your mother,
watching her go mute with stroke
after stroke, belittling
her children,
promising to send them back
to ghetto
if they didn't get in line,
pay rent,
and keep the showers short.
it's second hand news,
and your feelings are mixed.
sorrow
and sadness fused with
a sense of karma
coming around, finally.

jiggle the key

habits being what they
are
give the world an inertia,
a spin
you can't free yourself from.
take
the family
beach trip
to ocean city.
the boardwalk. the hard
red neck scrabble
of it all. bikinis and leather.
bearded men
with ear rings, hogs
revved and revved again
in the gravel lots.
how the fried food
filled the air, the stickiness
of cotton candy
in the clouds. the
fried sticks of chalked men
and women
or rounded
out of shape patrons
roasting
in the july sun on too small
of a towel.
so you went, wife, and kid,
dog
in a kennel for a week.
the same hotel
where they almost knew you.
parking free. the beds stiff
and the rooms smelling
of disinfectant. no, let me
try. you have to jiggle
the key.
a book of coupons on the wobbling
dresser to buy
taffy and ride
the ferris wheel.

venting

your anger
about
the car mechanic
spills over into yelp.
a helpless
cry
of angst.
but typing it all out
seems to make
you feel better,
so in a way it's a good
thing.
nice to vent,
despite
not changing a single
thing
gone wrong.

venting

your anger
about
the car mechanic
spills over into yelp.
a helpless
cry
of angst.
but typing it all out
seems to make
you feel better,
so in a way it's a good
thing.
nice to vent,
despite
not changing a single
thing
gone wrong.

breakfast

after a night,
then morning of passionate
love making, she says
i'll make us breakfast.
you like
oats don't you.
i'll cut up an apple,
make some green tea.
perhaps
a little cup of yogurt
with cling
peaches and raisins.
sound good?
you say yes, but think
no.
dreaming of bacon,
eggs over easy,
potatoes.

he knows

my husband
knows,
she says to me, whispering
in an overcoat,
a large
hat hiding her head.
we are in
an alley,
in the shadows.
he knows
I don't love
him
and about us.
what?
I say.
will he kill us, or me.
oh no,
he's not a violent man,
not yet.
we're safe for now.
kiss me.

he knows

my husband
knows,
she says to me, whispering
in an overcoat,
a large
hat hiding her head.
we are in
an alley,
in the shadows.
he knows
I don't love
him
and about us.
what?
I say.
will he kill us, or me.
oh no,
he's not a violent man,
not yet.
we're safe for now.
kiss me.

making things up

a sheet of white
paper, bare,
a slice of white canvas
waiting
for your hand to apply
ink
no longer has any power
over you.
you can fill
it easily now with so much
time behind you.
the early
years were harder,
making things up
as you go.
that's no longer an issue.

making things up

a sheet of white
paper, bare,
a slice of white canvas
waiting
for your hand to apply
ink
no longer has any power
over you.
you can fill
it easily now with so much
time behind you.
the early
years were harder,
making things up
as you go.
that's no longer an issue.

coupons

with parts and labor
this life
will cost
you over a life time.
tags, title, taxes.
if you break even or leave
the kid a small
bundle of cash,
so be it.
no sense in counting coins
anymore.
enough is enough.
you could live out the string
without issue,
so why the coupons?

coupons

with parts and labor
this life
will cost
you over a life time.
tags, title, taxes.
if you break even or leave
the kid a small
bundle of cash,
so be it.
no sense in counting coins
anymore.
enough is enough.
you could live out the string
without issue,
so why the coupons?

the brother

your brother spends
a few nights
on your couch, going through hard
times
brought on
by himself.
you have no rules
for his visit, stay, sleep, eat,
shower,
make it your home,
no smoking though
is allowed.
so it surprises you when at the end
of the week,
you smell
cigarettes in the air,
and see that he has
gone through all your papers,
your accounts, your
private
box of bills, clumsily
stuffing them back
where they were found.
how different you both are
despite the blood.

the brother

your brother spends
a few nights
on your couch, going through hard
times
brought on
by himself.
you have no rules
for his visit, stay, sleep, eat,
shower,
make it your home,
no smoking though
is allowed.
so it surprises you when at the end
of the week,
you smell
cigarettes in the air,
and see that he has
gone through all your papers,
your accounts, your
private
box of bills, clumsily
stuffing them back
where they were found.
how different you both are
despite the blood.

under the rain

a woman neither pretty
or bland,
but wide eyed,
waits beside
the door, out of the rain.
her umbrella close
beside her.
she peers down
the road,
to the left
to the right, checks
her watch.
finally a man
arrives, his hand above
his brow,
they kiss, look around,
then kiss once
more.
quickly they are gone,
hand in hand,
running under
the rain,
which is less important
now
than what is to come.

time spent

how death
invades our lives,
tickets bought,
turned in for flights
that won't
be taken.
plans changed, bags
unpacked or
packed
to leave or stay.
how the phone rings and brings
us news,
the grief measured
not in tears,
or memories,
but shrugs of disappointment
of how this
time
will be, or not be
used.

time spent

how death
invades our lives,
tickets bought,
turned in for flights
that won't
be taken.
plans changed, bags
unpacked or
packed
to leave or stay.
how the phone rings and brings
us news,
the grief measured
not in tears,
or memories,
but shrugs of disappointment
of how this
time
will be, or not be
used.

twin beds

I remember the bright
light
coming through the unshaded
window
where my brother and I slept
in twin beds,
across from one another.
he rose early,
I preferred to sleep in,
our nights
being different, what with
him
at the books and learning,
and me
out
on the street in the hollows
of parks
with friends,
not all of which were
boys.

a place to call home

a place
to rest. a chair that fits
you
as you left
it so many hours ago.
your glasses
on the table where you placed them
next to a cup, now
empty.
the book you were
reading, turned
over to the last
page read.
it's a place
you like to call home.
where the rest
of the world
can't enter, where you
find
it nice
to be alone.

the other shoe

the other shoe falls.
but you
don't always hear it.
it could be a foot in
a soft
slipper, or just socks,
or a light heel.
or even barefoot.
the other foot,
is not always in a boot,
stepping harshly
upon
your foot, making you
scream
with pain.
sometimes the pain is
gradual,
a slow slow
falling rain.

the other shoe

the other shoe falls.
but you
don't always hear it.
it could be a foot in
a soft
slipper, or just socks,
or a light heel.
or even barefoot.
the other foot,
is not always in a boot,
stepping harshly
upon
your foot, making you
scream
with pain.
sometimes the pain is
gradual,
a slow slow
falling rain.

love stories

sometimes you remember
things in pieces.
a word, a look,
a moment that has passed,
thin memories of
love stories
that didn't last.
other times
its a movie, a full
length feature,
with subtitles and music,
a remembered cast.
the beginning middle
and end.
I remember you this
way, not the other.

another color

a can
of red paint, old, rusted
edges, a bent handle,
tattered
label.
a dried lick
solid
against the side.
a shake
reveals nothing,
but dry
shards of a color
faded,
once applied to a room
with joy,
but tired now,
now that things have
changed,
the years having turned you
towards
a different way of thinking,
another color.

without compromise

it's hard not to love
a dog.
four legs, fur, a tongue,
tail wagging
with delight
at the sight of you
finally coming home,
arriving.
it's hard not to throw
the ball
across the yard,
send it sailing
in an arc
across the blue sky
of his young life, longer
than yours is
at the moment.
hard not to love anyone
or anything that
gives it back without
compromise.

getting there

there are places
that you want to go to,
but they aren't on any map.
no globe,
no sextant will
get you there,
or gps.
it's a different place,
one you can only
go alone
and be happy.
you've stepped onto that
sand a few times,
taking a dip
into the clear blue
waters of bliss,
but getting there and staying
there
are two different things.

getting there

there are places
that you want to go to,
but they aren't on any map.
no globe,
no sextant will
get you there,
or gps.
it's a different place,
one you can only
go alone
and be happy.
you've stepped onto that
sand a few times,
taking a dip
into the clear blue
waters of bliss,
but getting there and staying
there
are two different things.

what are we living for

I thought you were on a diet,
she says to me,
as she sits down
with an ice cream cone,
a double scoop of what looks
like rocky road
and mint chip,
each of us tapping our
cones together
before commencing with
with long licks.
yeah, mine starts after
this cone, I tell her.
as soon as I unwrap
that little piece of paper
off the bottom
of my sugar cone
and eat the little pointy end.
it's summer,
it's hot and I want ice cream.
I mean what are we
alive for if we can't
have an ice cream cone.
i'll lick to that she
says, bumping her cone
against mine again.
there's a drip on your shirt,
she says,
making me look down,
then tapping my chin with
her hand.
gotcha, she says. made
you look.

a fresh start

being the entrepreneur
that you are,
you decide to open up
a tattoo removal parlor
on the corner.
surely these people, once
they hit middle
age, and sober up,
when the blues turn
green, the reds a mushy orange,
and the skin
sags, turning words like
respect into
a soft mass of scribble,
surely they'll want me to go
to work on them,
and scrape
the skin clean once more.

a fresh start

being the entrepreneur
that you are,
you decide to open up
a tattoo removal parlor
on the corner.
surely these people, once
they hit middle
age, and sober up,
when the blues turn
green, the reds a mushy orange,
and the skin
sags, turning words like
respect into
a soft mass of scribble,
surely they'll want me to go
to work on them,
and scrape
the skin clean once more.

moments of longing

there are moments
of longing.
whether for that little
sports car
with the retractable roof
or the brunette
who moved in
next door
and suns herself in
the back yard.
a blue
mid century chair
at the moment has your interest.
it could be
here by Friday,
you think as you stare
out the window
wondering
what her name is.

bon appetite

when you first learn
about cannibals as a kid
in school,
see the pictures of
men and women
boiling in a giant
pot over a fire,
you quickly, with your friends,
discuss if you could
eat someone.
what parts would be possible,
to cook
and bite into.
would salt and pepper
be involved.
ketchup.
it's a terrifying conversation
between twelve year
olds,
but funny
and doesn't effect your
appetite at all
when your mother
calls you in with dinner
on the table. your favorite.
pork chops.

bon appetite

when you first learn
about cannibals as a kid
in school,
see the pictures of
men and women
boiling in a giant
pot over a fire,
you quickly, with your friends,
discuss if you could
eat someone.
what parts would be possible,
to cook
and bite into.
would salt and pepper
be involved.
ketchup.
it's a terrifying conversation
between twelve year
olds,
but funny
and doesn't effect your
appetite at all
when your mother
calls you in with dinner
on the table. your favorite.
pork chops.

here, hold my purse

i'll be right out.
I want to try this on, she says.
here,
hold my purse.
so I do.
it's a heavy purse,
I want to open it and see
what's making
it so heavy as she changes
into another flowery dress
in the dressing room,
I don't. but then again,
maybe just a peek.
unsnap the clasp and quickly
take a look.
but no.
I'd rather not know about
the things
that are weighing her
down.
too much information.
let's keep the unknown
unknown.
what about this one, she
says, coming out in her
bare feet
spinning around.
lovely, I tell her. lovely.

buy two.

extended warranty

the warranty
only covers the things that will
never happen.
so goes insurance,
and whatever
extra
coverage they want to sell
on anything you
buy.
small drips of water
creating an ocean
of wealth, rarely
dipped into
to douse the flames
of your broken
machine or body.

extended warranty

the warranty
only covers the things that will
never happen.
so goes insurance,
and whatever
extra
coverage they want to sell
on anything you
buy.
small drips of water
creating an ocean
of wealth, rarely
dipped into
to douse the flames
of your broken
machine or body.

protest

funny
how we warm up to death
in
the papers,
on the news,
giving us reason
to shout
and march, and then disperse
back
to our own
nests, bolting the door.
our protest
goes cold so quickly
these days.
a stale same
dish
gone hard in a pot,
besides another pot,
on the stove.

protest

funny
how we warm up to death
in
the papers,
on the news,
giving us reason
to shout
and march, and then disperse
back
to our own
nests, bolting the door.
our protest
goes cold so quickly
these days.
a stale same
dish
gone hard in a pot,
besides another pot,
on the stove.

a slice of cake

a slice of cake
would be nice right about
now.
home made.
on a round white plate.
a cold glass
of milk.
a fork, a knife,
a napkin.
and you beside me
with powder
on your nose,
icing on your apron.

a slice of cake

a slice of cake
would be nice right about
now.
home made.
on a round white plate.
a cold glass
of milk.
a fork, a knife,
a napkin.
and you beside me
with powder
on your nose,
icing on your apron.

stop being you

it's not the money
it's the principle of the thing
I say
with a forceful
strident voice, one foot
on the proverbial
self righteous
soap box.
how dare they, the nerve,
the audacity
the outrage of their
callous behavior. who do
these people think they are?
but I settle down soon,
unable to keep up the vigor
of my position.
I calm down and slip
into a nice quiet
reflective place
after a drink
or two. I watch as
the sun slips under
the veil
of a summer black sky
set with diamonds,
without even the thinnest
of moons. how quickly the world
loses its power
over you
when you stop being you.

a change of course

you think about adding
muscle
to your frame,
maybe pump up those biceps,
work on the abs,
then go to the beach
after getting
a spray on tan.
but it's a lot of work.
so you buy an
ice cream instead
and put on a long
sleeve shirt,
grab a book and go
sit in the shade
at the park.

a change of course

you think about adding
muscle
to your frame,
maybe pump up those biceps,
work on the abs,
then go to the beach
after getting
a spray on tan.
but it's a lot of work.
so you buy an
ice cream instead
and put on a long
sleeve shirt,
grab a book and go
sit in the shade
at the park.

the rich uncle

the rich uncle died
on his boat in florida,
leaving you nothing, why would
he?
but as a child
you remember him
arriving in his white Cadillac
and white
suit from Philly
to visit.
he thought the front of your
mother's house
must be the back.
what with the chain
linked fence and dog
tied to a tree.
he gave everyone a five dollar
bill
at each visit. patting you
on the head
with a look of disdain
and sorrow.
he never stayed over
or sat in a chair,
but he asked where the liquor
store was
so he could load up
his trunk with whiskey,
the taxes being lower here.

the crowded trail

while riding my
bike
through the woods on the paved
path,
I see snakes
that I must swerve
to avoid,
foxes darting
through the brush,
the startled
frozen poses
of deer.
raccoons hissing,
eating
something
dead on the side
of the trail.
there is the shadowed
swoop of owls
holding mice
in their claws.
I swallow gnats along
the way,
wiping them out of
my eyes and ears,
but the hardest part
of the ride
is people.
hand in hand, strollers
and dogs,
plugged in to phones
and music
not knowing that your
pedaling near.

the magic rock

there is no such
thing
as a warranty, i discover
when
the air conditioner
breaks down
in my new truck.
you must have done something
to it,
the mechanic says,
or maybe a magic
rock found it's way through
the grille
and through
the engine
to locate the condenser
and puncture it,
thus letting out all the Freon.
yeah.
and people get
pregnant from sitting
on toilet seats
I say, not amused
at the twelve hundred
dollar bill.

some mornings

some mornings are better
than others.
some
evenings too.
hard to know which
spot
you're going to land on.
something
pushes you forward,
a roll of the dice.
strange enthusiasm,
familiar
boredom.

some mornings

some mornings are better
than others.
some
evenings too.
hard to know which
spot
you're going to land on.
something
pushes you forward,
a roll of the dice.
strange enthusiasm,
familiar
boredom.

leopard print

her one closet
held everything that was of
a leopard print.
shoes and skirts,
blouses,
hats.
undergarments.
she would have wiped
out the entire
leopard
population
if they were real,
but they weren't.
it helped
to bring out the animal
in you though.

leopard print

her one closet
held everything that was of
a leopard print.
shoes and skirts,
blouses,
hats.
undergarments.
she would have wiped
out the entire
leopard
population
if they were real,
but they weren't.
it helped
to bring out the animal
in you though.

direction

a gaggle
of black birds fly across
the blue
patch
of sky
as one.
how do they know which
way
to steer
their wings
then land. how do we
know
these things
as well.

coffee talk

the man who approaches me
in the coffee shop
as I grumble to myself about
there being no half and half
on the counter
asks me what my politics are.
you aren't for trump are you,
he says, sizing me up, as
I step away and put the empty
container on the counter.
huh, I say. what?
you want to build a wall,
he says. who will mow your
lawns, watch your children,
clean your rooms, paint
your houses. huh? I say again,
looking more deeply into his
eyes to see if he's as dangerously
crazy as he's beginning to sound.
I paint houses, I tell him. so
I guess i'll do that.
finally getting the new
cold canister of half and half, i pour
it and stir sugar into my coffee,
i secure the lid, then take a sip.
the man hasn't gone away.
he's closer. in my face.
you want trump, he asks again.
no, I tell him, actually I
don't like either one of those
weasels. so my answer is no.
I have post traumatic syndrome,
he says. I fight for your
country and you want to kick
me out. why is that?
listen, he says loudly,
come over here and sit
down with me. let's discuss
this. ummm. no. I have to go
to work I tell him. I have this
thing called a job.
but it's been lovely talking
with you. good luck with
everything, maybe have those
meds adjusted.

confrontation

the one shoe.
black. my favorite
that can be worn with
anything,
with laces
lies under the bed,
still in tact.
where the other one is
I have no idea.
I ask the dog
who is curled on a pillow
on the bed,
and see a remnant
of leather
hanging from his mouth.
he shrugs
with that what look.
I have no idea what
you're talking about
his calm body language says.
I can't have
a conversation
with him about
these things, i'm not
good with confrontation,
so I throw
him the other shoe
too.

confrontation

the one shoe.
black. my favorite
that can be worn with
anything,
with laces
lies under the bed,
still in tact.
where the other one is
I have no idea.
I ask the dog
who is curled on a pillow
on the bed,
and see a remnant
of leather
hanging from his mouth.
he shrugs
with that what look.
I have no idea what
you're talking about
his calm body language says.
I can't have
a conversation
with him about
these things, i'm not
good with confrontation,
so I throw
him the other shoe
too.

her new soul mate

I think I found my soul mate
again,
betty tells
me over cocktails
and calamari
at the local pub.
oh, do tell, I say to her,
dipping
a fried rubbery fish like
gasket
into a bowl of hot
sauce.
no kids, no ex wives.
he has a trust fund,
and lives on a boat.
wow.
terrific, I tell her
licking the tips
of my fingers
then guzzling my drink.
what else?
well. he's a little bit
older than me.
by how much.
thirty years.
and.
and what?
and he has a serious heart
condition.
he could go at any
time.
show me the ring, I say
to her looking across
the table.
it's a diamond the size
of a small
ice cube. I blink my eyes,
shaking my head.
wowza.
we have a winner. I say,
then we clink glasses.

the darkness

he can hardly see
but
he still knows where the black
olives
are on the shelf,
feeling his way around,
counting steps up
aisle six,
just down from the dill
pickles.
the pork chops too,
not far
from fish and chicken,
the frozen foods, his hand
reaching into
the cold bin
to feel the weight,
if the bone is in.
we adapt
to near blindness
as we do to all
darkness that comes
in time.

behind the wheel

is the way
some people drive a reflection on
where they
are in a spiritual
sense,
is it an indication
of distress
or chaos in their lives.
I think so.
the speed
and recklessness, the impatience,
the anger
displayed
continues when they
exit
from behind the wheel,
as it does
before the key turns.

holding a baby

the person holding the baby
in the photograph
is mildly happy,
a wide grimace showing teeth
stained with
lipstick.
an aunt perhaps,
or friend who stopped by
to see the small child,
finally months
after the well announced birth.
her hands are wrapped
around the baby's mid section,
holding it away,
as if he or she
might be wet,
or worse.
I suspect a boy, the clue
being the blue
socks
and bow tie.
a small suit that
predicts
what might lie ahead
and a look of annoyance
on his round face.

holding a baby

the person holding the baby
in the photograph
is mildly happy,
a wide grimace showing teeth
stained with
lipstick.
an aunt perhaps,
or friend who stopped by
to see the small child,
finally months
after the well announced birth.
her hands are wrapped
around the baby's mid section,
holding it away,
as if he or she
might be wet,
or worse.
I suspect a boy, the clue
being the blue
socks
and bow tie.
a small suit that
predicts
what might lie ahead
and a look of annoyance
on his round face.

a sinkable world

a sinkable world
of dying things.
rebirth is harder than it looks.
see the ancient
pyramids
as an example,
full of things they
believe they'll need
in the next world.
don't bring me back as a dog,
or fish,
a cricket,
or bird on a wire.
let's call it a day
with this one life.

a sinkable world

a sinkable world
of dying things.
rebirth is harder than it looks.
see the ancient
pyramids
as an example,
full of things they
believe they'll need
in the next world.
don't bring me back as a dog,
or fish,
a cricket,
or bird on a wire.
let's call it a day
with this one life.

the soft bed

hand in hand
new lovers
walk towards the river,
discussing
nothing
of great importance.
those talks will come
in time, but for now it's
just this.
complements and kisses,
tender touches,
a soft bed
to build upon.

the soft bed

hand in hand
new lovers
walk towards the river,
discussing
nothing
of great importance.
those talks will come
in time, but for now it's
just this.
complements and kisses,
tender touches,
a soft bed
to build upon.

rescuing the past

each year I see
the woman who digs
walking
up king street in her blue dress,
less blue
with time.
her boots, still black,
but muddied,
a heavy sack
upon her shoulder.
she's bent more
now than ever, but plodding
along towards
the next yard
to unearth a shard of glass,
a cup,
a broken saucer,
each thrown away in another
century as
trash. on her knees she'll
unbury
with brush and file,
with a shovel spoon
and a keen eye for rescuing
what used to be,
the past.

rescuing the past

each year I see
the woman who digs
walking
up king street in her blue dress,
less blue
with time.
her boots, still black,
but muddied,
a heavy sack
upon her shoulder.
she's bent more
now than ever, but plodding
along towards
the next yard
to unearth a shard of glass,
a cup,
a broken saucer,
each thrown away in another
century as
trash. on her knees she'll
unbury
with brush and file,
with a shovel spoon
and a keen eye for rescuing
what used to be,
the past.

the candle

the candle, solid
and white,
a hint of false
vanilla,
burns
to one side. filling the dish
with wax.
there is an unevenness
to the burn,
despite
being set flat
upon the table.
no wind
moves the flame.
just a steady hot drip
until a side
is gone.
it was a mistake
to light it in the first
place
where it rested
for so long,
some loves
are best left alone.

the slow rain

the slow rain
falls
heavy on the trees.
fills
the sleeve of a stream
tinted
green.
we can wile away this day
with nothing.
just rain,
the windows open,
a long stretch of hours
before us.
put some van Morrison on,
his sweet
sadness will put
a bow on it.

the slow rain

the slow rain
falls
heavy on the trees.
fills
the sleeve of a stream
tinted
green.
we can wile away this day
with nothing.
just rain,
the windows open,
a long stretch of hours
before us.
put some van Morrison on,
his sweet
sadness will put
a bow on it.

your finger is over there

I think one of
your fingers is over
there, under the grille,
I tell the man wearing
the red white
and blue flag underpants
after he
lights
a cherry bomb
that went off in his hand.
grab some ice
and your finger
and go over to the tent
I tell him.
not the hot dog tent,
the other one with the red cross
on the top.
they're sewing fingers
and thumbs back
over there.
he pours some jack daniels
onto the bleeding
wound,
and says, thanks man,
happy fourth.
go USA.

your finger is over there

I think one of
your fingers is over
there, under the grille,
I tell the man wearing
the red white
and blue flag underpants
after he
lights
a cherry bomb
that went off in his hand.
grab some ice
and your finger
and go over to the tent
I tell him.
not the hot dog tent,
the other one with the red cross
on the top.
they're sewing fingers
and thumbs back
over there.
he pours some jack daniels
onto the bleeding
wound,
and says, thanks man,
happy fourth.
go USA.

the human torch

one year
at the carnival up the road
where
the shopping mall
used to be
they had a fireworks display.
we sat on the hill,
my son and I,
eating cotton
candy
and watched.
the small man who lit the fuses
ran to each rocket
with his lighter,
bent over,
his long
hair tied back into
a pony tail.
at some point he caught
fire,
but kept running to each
new rocket
sending it swirling into
the air
where it exploded with a loud
boom
and a spray of flowered sparks.
finally,
people from the crowd
knocked the man
to the ground
and rolled him in blankets
until the fire
was put out.
the ambulance came and there
was a quiet murmur
throughout the crowd.
my son turned to me
as they took the burned man
away and said,
I guess that's it for this year,
dad.

after seeing heaven

they bring
the heart back to life
by
thumping
on his chest,
breathing air into his
lungs,
they zap him
with electricity,
say a prayer,
stand back
and wait.
finally his eyes open
and asks,
what did you do that for?

after seeing heaven

they bring
the heart back to life
by
thumping
on his chest,
breathing air into his
lungs,
they zap him
with electricity,
say a prayer,
stand back
and wait.
finally his eyes open
and asks,
what did you do that for?

a tree fell

a tree fell in
the woods
but no one heard it
because someone's
wife
kept talking.

namaste

rarely did she use
her yoga meditations while driving
home from class,
still in her yoga pants
and smelling
of incense,
instead
she floored the pedal
and ran every
yellow light as it turned
red.
she zig zagged
across the white lines,
the yellow lines,
the dotted lines,
trying hard
to get ahead.
sometimes she cursed
the slower cars, the pedestrians
with their casual gait.
she waved a stiff finger
at them while
speeding by, but always
ending a tirade with
Namaste.

namaste

rarely did she use
her yoga meditations while driving
home from class,
still in her yoga pants
and smelling
of incense,
instead
she floored the pedal
and ran every
yellow light as it turned
red.
she zig zagged
across the white lines,
the yellow lines,
the dotted lines,
trying hard
to get ahead.
sometimes she cursed
the slower cars, the pedestrians
with their casual gait.
she waved a stiff finger
at them while
speeding by, but always
ending a tirade with
Namaste.

the new religion

she holds up two
luscious red tomatoes, fat
and juicy, right of the vine,
you can smell
that real tomato smell
when she dips one towards
your nose at the farmers market.
she's an evangelist for
organic fruit and vegetables,
standing on a soap box
preaching soil and water,
seeds and love.
get down on your knees
brothers and sisters and dig the earth.
come to the church of organic
farming. throw down your chemicals,
your sprays, your anti biotics.
sin no more with your
hybrid corn, your altered
grains, your fattened cows
and chickens.
let those chickens roam free
my troubled friends.
for just five dollars, one
five dollar bill
you too can taste the salvation
of a home grown
hot house tomato. step right up
and taste the glory,
let the juices dribble down your chins.
we'll wait for you as you rise
from your seats and come forward.
don't be shy. sin no more with
your store bought demonic produce.
can I get an amen?
cash, credit or checks are welcome.

the art of giving

sometimes i
give a dollar or two, even
a five
to the man or woman
standing on
the corner with a sign
saying god bless,
veteran,
homeless and bereft.
rarely does it say bereft,
but it rhymed
so i'm using that word.
occasionally
they are limping, or
feigning a limp,
but neatly clothed,
and well coiffed.
again, coiffed is used here
only because
it's the first word
that came into my mind.
so I give
a dollar or two, but not
always.
sometimes i'm feeling a
little perturbed
and silently say get a job
you bum. keeping the windows
rolled up
while I drink my
five dollar cup of coffee.
life is hard for everyone
I think,
then my catholic guilt
kicks in
and i make a vow
to give
to the next one.

the cleopatra sister

don't use up
all the hot water I yelled
to my sister
as she
entered the bathroom
on the second
floor
with towels and magazines,
a drink,
the phone, cord
under the door.
it was the only bathroom
in the house
and once she got in there,
there was
no getting her
out.
don't worry about it, she'd
yell back,
locking the door
behind her.
go use the hose in the back yard,
she'd say,
tossing out a bar of
soap, or just wait your turn.
sometimes
the other brothers
and sisters would
come up
the stairs
and see you sitting
there on the top step.
she's in there,
i'd say.
it's going to be a while.

party prep

bring a pie
he tells me on the phone.
cherry
or blueberry. one from the berry family.
vanilla ice cream too.
what else, I ask him.
some fireworks.
whatever you like. sparklers,
roman candles.
rockets.
we have fire crackers
and cherry bombs,
so don't bring those.
oh, and maybe a watermelon,
with seeds,
we might have a seed
spitting contest
later.
we have about a hundred or so
hot dogs,
beef franks.
and mustard, so that's covered.
one more thing.
a keg of beer.
better make it two kegs.
you know how people like
to drink. so that's it,
see you at one.
i'm filling the pool up now.

the wall between us

envy has
never crossed my mind.
I have
enough and need very
little to live
and be happy on.
what you have is yours,
what I have
is mine.
I covet nothing
that you possess.
this fence, this wall
between us
is just for show.
no need to cross the line.

the wall between us

envy has
never crossed my mind.
I have
enough and need very
little to live
and be happy on.
what you have is yours,
what I have
is mine.
I covet nothing
that you possess.
this fence, this wall
between us
is just for show.
no need to cross the line.

storming the castle

we're going to storm the castle
my friend
Octavius says to me one morning
as he tightens up his
leather sandals
and lights a torch with
a bic lighter.
we're tired of low wages
and stale bread,
taxes. my thatched hut
is crawling with vermin.
my cable bill is killing me.
come on man, grab a torch
and your good axe and let's go.
what about coffee, did you
have coffee yet?
I was thinking of taking a walk
after I get coffee and a multi-grain
bagel. maybe down
by the lake.
no, we need everyone.
we've had it with this king.
you can get coffee later,
in fact i'll buy you lunch,
if we don't die when they pour
cauldrons of boiling oil
off the towers like they did
last year.
what about the archers?
I still have scars all over
me from the last time
we tried this.
I have Neosporin. put on your
thick sweatshirt that you got
in Nantucket last summer.
no arrows can get through that,
unless of course they use those
pesky flaming arrows.
come on.
okay, okay...let me sharpen my
axe. I just need a quick bowl
of cereal and to walk the dog.
go on ahead, i'll be there. promise.
front door where the moat is?
yup. okay. see you in a few.

storming the castle

we're going to storm the castle
my friend
Octavius says to me one morning
as he tightens up his
leather sandals
and lights a torch with
a bic lighter.
we're tired of low wages
and stale bread,
taxes. my thatched hut
is crawling with vermin.
my cable bill is killing me.
come on man, grab a torch
and your good axe and let's go.
what about coffee, did you
have coffee yet?
I was thinking of taking a walk
after I get coffee and a multi-grain
bagel. maybe down
by the lake.
no, we need everyone.
we've had it with this king.
you can get coffee later,
in fact i'll buy you lunch,
if we don't die when they pour
cauldrons of boiling oil
off the towers like they did
last year.
what about the archers?
I still have scars all over
me from the last time
we tried this.
I have Neosporin. put on your
thick sweatshirt that you got
in Nantucket last summer.
no arrows can get through that,
unless of course they use those
pesky flaming arrows.
come on.
okay, okay...let me sharpen my
axe. I just need a quick bowl
of cereal and to walk the dog.
go on ahead, i'll be there. promise.
front door where the moat is?
yup. okay. see you in a few.

she might be dead

I suspect
that the lady down the street,
four doors
down
from me, may have passed on
to the next life.
or perhaps
ran out of energy
or ink
with which to post a note
on my door
telling me not to put
my trash out
early.
I haven't seen her
blue car
in weeks, the one with
the coexist bumper sticker.
i've seen burly workmen
with white
shirts and bald heads
coming and going
from her house.
I can't say that I miss her,
but I wish her all
the best wherever she might
be and not
burdened by
the likes of my early trash
and me.

good books and bad

some books, you savor,
some you throw across the room
and say
I can't read this junk.
others hold
the door from swinging shut,
or balance
a table
on the tilted floor,
a thin
copy of a poet you don't like.
some books
are within reach, ready
to be read more.
others
collect dust, put either
high or low,
the hardest to reach.
your favorites are kept
nearby,
at arms length
in a moments notice.
those books you savor.

rare days

it was a mystery coming
home from
school as a kid.
what lay ahead,
unknown.
the door never being locked,
sometimes
not a soul around,
the dog
off his leash
on the porch.
no notes. no messages
left
to be found
explaining
where everyone had gone,
who knew.
but you could push a chair
up to the counter,
climb
up for a dish
or cup.
fill it with milk.
find the bread and construct
a sandwich
with whatever
you could find.
you'd turn on the tv,
and sit
back,
a calm in the storm,
your future
being planned and practiced,
honed.

rare days

it was a mystery coming
home from
school as a kid.
what lay ahead,
unknown.
the door never being locked,
sometimes
not a soul around,
the dog
off his leash
on the porch.
no notes. no messages
left
to be found
explaining
where everyone had gone,
who knew.
but you could push a chair
up to the counter,
climb
up for a dish
or cup.
fill it with milk.
find the bread and construct
a sandwich
with whatever
you could find.
you'd turn on the tv,
and sit
back,
a calm in the storm,
your future
being planned and practiced,
honed.

the office lunch

you decide to take
the office out to lunch after
a grueling
day.
this means you pull up
to a drive
through window
and order a number four,
crispy with a large
drink.
you pull over and let
the air conditioning run,
as you eat,
discussing in your
mind
the progress of the year,
what's next.
what jobs need to be done.
the office wants to discuss
a raise,
a bonus,
retirement, but you'll have
none of it,
telling them
to be happy with the day
and to enjoy
the lunch.

the office lunch

you decide to take
the office out to lunch after
a grueling
day.
this means you pull up
to a drive
through window
and order a number four,
crispy with a large
drink.
you pull over and let
the air conditioning run,
as you eat,
discussing in your
mind
the progress of the year,
what's next.
what jobs need to be done.
the office wants to discuss
a raise,
a bonus,
retirement, but you'll have
none of it,
telling them
to be happy with the day
and to enjoy
the lunch.

where to

they don't know,
not everything, scientists,
theories persist, then
change
with a new found shard
of bone,
or orb
beyond the sun.
it's a guessing game.
as they wrestle
with the priests,
each with
his own claim as to why
or how
we came to be
and where we go,
when we leave.

the killing

the rabid dog
limped onto the street,
a froth upon his jowls,
sending us
to our porches
while our mothers screamed.
the fathers came out
with their guns.
how armed
the neighborhood was
with rifles
and snub nose 38's,
revolvers
and shotguns.
some were pulled from
waistbands, or holsters,
taking a break
from waxing their long
cars in the sun,
while others
dug into the closet
to spin bullets
into the chambers.
the men seemed anxious
to shoot something,
finally.

the killing

the rabid dog
limped onto the street,
a froth upon his jowls,
sending us
to our porches
while our mothers screamed.
the fathers came out
with their guns.
how armed
the neighborhood was
with rifles
and snub nose 38's,
revolvers
and shotguns.
some were pulled from
waistbands, or holsters,
taking a break
from waxing their long
cars in the sun,
while others
dug into the closet
to spin bullets
into the chambers.
the men seemed anxious
to shoot something,
finally.

captured beauty

what is it about beauty
that we run,
even as a child, with a jar
to capture
a firefly in the summer
night
as it floats mysteriously
slow enough
to be captured.
even beauty wants
to be caught.
the framed art,
the gem under glass,
the image coaxed into
a camera.
a poem on a page.
the wedding dress.

captured beauty

what is it about beauty
that we run,
even as a child, with a jar
to capture
a firefly in the summer
night
as it floats mysteriously
slow enough
to be captured.
even beauty wants
to be caught.
the framed art,
the gem under glass,
the image coaxed into
a camera.
a poem on a page.
the wedding dress.

painting by numbers

my grandmother
when she would visit us
from boston,
while my mother lay in a hospital
having another baby,
would buy us paint by numbers
kits
to keeps us quiet.
geese flying
over swamps, churches,
that sort of thing.
oil paints
with thinners
and linseed oils,
brushes, rags.
it's a wonder we didn't
set the house on
fire as she hung
over our work with a
Winston
hanging from her lips.
I hate those kennedys
she always managed to
fit into a conversation,
which wasn't really
a conversation, it was
just her talking,
staring at the tv
and yelling at us to keep
the paint between
the lines.
later, after the paintings
had dried
she would line them up
on a window sill
to see who had done
the best job, giving that child,
my older brother
who had my father's name,
a dollar and the rest
of us nothing.

i don't think she really cares about me

I wonder if my new
doctor
really cares about me.
she doesn't call or email,
or text.
nothing.
I haven't received a notice
to have
some mid life
testing done
in a month. no bags
to put my
personal
internal belongings into
and send
to the lab.
I could be dead for a week
and she wouldn't
know.
maybe I should call
her and tell her i'm okay
except for the allergy
thing, which
she has no clue whatsoever
with which
to solve.

that's enough

I have no bling
to speak of. as a child
I had rings
and watches, all cheap
from cracker jack
boxes, even a chain,
which was really a dog
collar,
in case
a gang fight
broke out
between the ruffians
in hillcrest heights.
never used,
nor was the pocket knife,
rusted closed,
only needed
to cut fishing line
when a turtle
or eel
took the bait, or to carve
my initials
into a picnic table.
the only shiny thing
I have these days is you.
that's enough.

the left hand

your left is weaker
than
your right hand.
which holds true
for the arm when
throwing
a ball. how awkward
and untaught.
it's just the way it is.
being pushed
by a parent
settling the spoon
or fork between
your fingers and thumb.
the pencil too
to write or draw
or play an instrument
with the same.
how sad it is for the left
to be
used so little.
holding or catching things
as a last resort.

the left hand

your left is weaker
than
your right hand.
which holds true
for the arm when
throwing
a ball. how awkward
and untaught.
it's just the way it is.
being pushed
by a parent
settling the spoon
or fork between
your fingers and thumb.
the pencil too
to write or draw
or play an instrument
with the same.
how sad it is for the left
to be
used so little.
holding or catching things
as a last resort.

the white shag rug

she had rug
burns on
her spine, you had them
on your knees.
they took forever to heal
long after
the thrill had
gone and you both met
someone else.
love hurts.

what now

it's the first year that my
father
doesn't have a garden.
no tomatoes, or peppers.
no corn, or lettuce
growing in the small patch
of dirt outside his window,
next to the air conditioner
unit.
I can't see he says,
to me. I don't know if
things are ripe. or if
they need water, or what.
it's all blurry.
we both stare out at the
squared patch of unturned
soil. the green wire fence
bent by rabbits,
who also wonder, what now.

what year was that?

because she has little or no
memory of the past
after ten thousand
bong hits,
I can say anything to her,
make up any story,
saying things like
remember the time
we sky dived into
the grand canyon?
she scratches her head,
as she rolls another joint
and nods, pushing
back her hair, grey at
the roots.
yeah, sure she says.
I remember that. yeah,
that was fun.
what year was that?

what year was that?

because she has little or no
memory of the past
after ten thousand
bong hits,
I can say anything to her,
make up any story,
saying things like
remember the time
we sky dived into
the grand canyon?
she scratches her head,
as she rolls another joint
and nods, pushing
back her hair, grey at
the roots.
yeah, sure she says.
I remember that. yeah,
that was fun.
what year was that?

t-bone

I don't eat meat.
or wear fur, or leave
a carbon
foot print
anywhere that I can.
I recycle.
separating the plastic
from the metal,
the paper
from
the glass.
I like fish though,
she says,
moving the lettuce
around on her plate,
pausing, waiting for
me to finish gnawing
on the bone
of my T-bone
steak.

t-bone

I don't eat meat.
or wear fur, or leave
a carbon
foot print
anywhere that I can.
I recycle.
separating the plastic
from the metal,
the paper
from
the glass.
I like fish though,
she says,
moving the lettuce
around on her plate,
pausing, waiting for
me to finish gnawing
on the bone
of my T-bone
steak.

i saw it on tv

we'd like our ten foot ceiling
wallpapered the woman tells me,
hands on her
hips, swiveling on high heels,
pointing
with sharp red nails.
the whole ceiling.
I saw it on a tv show.
two different papers, stripes,
but all meeting
at a point in the middle.
how much?
how much do you have, I tell
her.

freed from captivity

in or out of jail
makes
no difference to my friend
jake
the snake.
he glides through life
on a beer
coaster.
one beer leading to another
and another
until he wraps
his car
around a pole
or a parked car.
his wrists are calloused
from
handcuffs.
a small pony tail swings
from
the back of his fifty
seven year old head
holding hardly
a single grey hair.
he has no worries.
on bail he goes the fountain
to see his
friends who
hug him and slap his back,
after being
freed
once more.

self employed

she flies
all over the country.
taking
her business self along
with her
notepads and tablets,
phones
and laptops.
she's doing things I have
no idea
as to what they are.
she's probably in a meeting
at this very moment,
saying things
that other people will
write down
and take notice.
right now
i'm in a chair with a towel
around me,
wet from
the shower,
drinking instant coffee
and looking out
the window
as a moving truck unloads
a broken futon.
the new neighbors have awful
taste
in furniture.

hot donuts

your flattery
has earned you a box of donuts.
here.
they are warm,
still gooey and hot,
boxed before they even
hit the shelf.
I picked out all your favorites,
fancy to plain,
saying to the lady
in pink, behind the wide
counter,
and one of those, and one
of those,
two of those, etc.
the affection is mutual.
enjoy.

hot donuts

your flattery
has earned you a box of donuts.
here.
they are warm,
still gooey and hot,
boxed before they even
hit the shelf.
I picked out all your favorites,
fancy to plain,
saying to the lady
in pink, behind the wide
counter,
and one of those, and one
of those,
two of those, etc.
the affection is mutual.
enjoy.