sort of like you

they spend so much
time
on Stonehenge, trying so
hard to figure
out why
these slabs of rocks
are stacked
upon one another
in a semi-circle. was it
worship, or sacrifice
to the gods.
a clock.
a warning, or something
to mark
the earth and
be seen from the sky
by aliens.
maybe they were bored
and had time
on their hands
to do something crazy.
it's a mystery unsolved.
sort of like
you.

this one you can drop in water

I need a new phone.
my screen is cracked, the battery
won't hold a charge
and it keeps
sending a photo
of a cake I made
over and over again
to all my contacts
without stopping.
I go to three stores, go
online,
i call the number
that was left on my voice
mail.
they all work for the same
brand,
and they all have a different
plan on
how to get me into a new
phone today.
it's that car salesman feel.
if you buy it,
you feel suckered.
will it transfer
contacts, will it transfer
pictures, will I lose
anything I ask the young
man with a safety
pin in his eyebrow
and a checker in his ear lobe.
they all laugh, don't worry
grandpa,
they say. we got you
covered, step over here to
the counter
and let's talk.
how many games do you play
on your phone?
to which you say, what?
what games.

this one you can drop in water

I need a new phone.
my screen is cracked, the battery
won't hold a charge
and it keeps
sending a photo
of a cake I made
over and over again
to all my contacts
without stopping.
I go to three stores, go
online,
i call the number
that was left on my voice
mail.
they all work for the same
brand,
and they all have a different
plan on
how to get me into a new
phone today.
it's that car salesman feel.
if you buy it,
you feel suckered.
will it transfer
contacts, will it transfer
pictures, will I lose
anything I ask the young
man with a safety
pin in his eyebrow
and a checker in his ear lobe.
they all laugh, don't worry
grandpa,
they say. we got you
covered, step over here to
the counter
and let's talk.
how many games do you play
on your phone?
to which you say, what?
what games.

the commitment

after a few drinks
i nod
to my friend at the bar
jake the snake
and say. I think i'm going to
pop the question
tonight.
to which he says, huh?
wiping the beer foam out of
his beard.
whatever, he says.
but maybe you've had too
much to drink and should think
this over in the light of day.
maybe, I say.
but you know. I think it's time
I left
a pair of shoes
or a toothbrush at her house
when I spend the night there
once a month,
let her know
i'm serious about
this thing we're in.
he looks at me, and shrugs,
that's a big step
brother.
be careful.

getting it out

in the old days
women would stand out in the back
yard
with their large circular throw rugs
over the fence and beat the dirt
and dust out of them
with brooms.
I would look out my
bedroom window
and see clouds of grey
rising
as the women
many in bathrooms and slippers
pounding away
with bats and brooms.
violently swatting
at the rugs.
it almost seemed like there
was more going on
than just that.

getting it out

in the old days
women would stand out in the back
yard
with their large circular throw rugs
over the fence and beat the dirt
and dust out of them
with brooms.
I would look out my
bedroom window
and see clouds of grey
rising
as the women
many in bathrooms and slippers
pounding away
with bats and brooms.
violently swatting
at the rugs.
it almost seemed like there
was more going on
than just that.

being smart

you wonder what it's like
to be really smart.
physicist smart,
Stephen hawkings smart.
Einstein smart.
to be able to understand
the world on a molecular level.
would there be room in your head
for other things.
the mindless things
that roll around your brain
all day,
pleasurable things.
what would you have to give
up to be that smart?
almost everything
you imagine.

being smart

you wonder what it's like
to be really smart.
physicist smart,
Stephen hawkings smart.
Einstein smart.
to be able to understand
the world on a molecular level.
would there be room in your head
for other things.
the mindless things
that roll around your brain
all day,
pleasurable things.
what would you have to give
up to be that smart?
almost everything
you imagine.

how old are you

it's easier to just tell
people
that you're eighty-five years
old
these days and be done with it.
they look at you
surprised,
saying, oh my god, you don't
look that old.
you barely
look sixty, to which you
lift a bar bell
into the sky
while eating a glazed donut
and say it's my diet
and
work out regime
that keeps me so young
and fit. you leave out your
joke
about only being as young
as the women
you feel, because it bothers
some women.

how old are you

it's easier to just tell
people
that you're eighty-five years
old
these days and be done with it.
they look at you
surprised,
saying, oh my god, you don't
look that old.
you barely
look sixty, to which you
lift a bar bell
into the sky
while eating a glazed donut
and say it's my diet
and
work out regime
that keeps me so young
and fit. you leave out your
joke
about only being as young
as the women
you feel, because it bothers
some women.

who are these people

you feel out of touch these days.
having no clue
as to who
these people are on the news.
constantly, everyday.
it seems important,
that we care about
them,
their divorces,
a beating, a lie,
the train wreck of their lives,
some sort of scandal
that makes them duck
and wear dark sunglasses,
trying to hide. they're
in and out of rehab, bankrupt,
and homeless, then
back on top again, with
new husbands,
new wives, children on the way,
the troubled ones
left behind.
do they make music,
what music.
do they act, do they do anything
you've ever seen
or heard?
each with a book on the way
about how,
despite everything, they
survived.

who are these people

you feel out of touch these days.
having no clue
as to who
these people are on the news.
constantly, everyday.
it seems important,
that we care about
them,
their divorces,
a beating, a lie,
the train wreck of their lives,
some sort of scandal
that makes them duck
and wear dark sunglasses,
trying to hide. they're
in and out of rehab, bankrupt,
and homeless, then
back on top again, with
new husbands,
new wives, children on the way,
the troubled ones
left behind.
do they make music,
what music.
do they act, do they do anything
you've ever seen
or heard?
each with a book on the way
about how,
despite everything, they
survived.

dog food

your dog
would eat other people's clothes.
he could
snap a button
off in a blink,
bite a bra in half.
chew through a pair of hundred
dollar jeans
in ten seconds.
there was nothing he didn't
like to bite
or chew on. shoes, purses.
brushes.
anything once on,
then removed.
you'd see him later,
asleep on the couch,
content and full,
a tag
from Victoria secrets
hanging limply
from his mouth.

dog food

your dog
would eat other people's clothes.
he could
snap a button
off in a blink,
bite a bra in half.
chew through a pair of hundred
dollar jeans
in ten seconds.
there was nothing he didn't
like to bite
or chew on. shoes, purses.
brushes.
anything once on,
then removed.
you'd see him later,
asleep on the couch,
content and full,
a tag
from Victoria secrets
hanging limply
from his mouth.

saying goodbye

it's hard to say goodbye.
to stand
at the curb
and wave, and wave.
and wave.
you use your other arm
as she sits
at a stop sign
then a red light.
she keeps waving too.
the both of you
waving.
her looking back,
you smiling, but losing
the smile.
finally she turns the corner
and is out of sight.
you wait for a second,
thinking she might
turn around and come
back, then
you put your arm
down.
it's hard saying
goodbye.

saying goodbye

it's hard to say goodbye.
to stand
at the curb
and wave, and wave.
and wave.
you use your other arm
as she sits
at a stop sign
then a red light.
she keeps waving too.
the both of you
waving.
her looking back,
you smiling, but losing
the smile.
finally she turns the corner
and is out of sight.
you wait for a second,
thinking she might
turn around and come
back, then
you put your arm
down.
it's hard saying
goodbye.

invention

your invention
stalls
on the patent process.
seems
other people have thought
of similar ideas.
they want a more detailed
sketch,
a stripe of uniqueness
varying
from the rest.
what makes yours
different, they ask.
they being bottled glasses
lawyers
sitting in dark
rooms eating
white bread sandwiches
with the crust cut off.
so you tweak and bend,
twist
what you have into something
more using
the black magic marker,
the ruler. you draw
your crude sketch
and write block printed words
above and below.
bold arrows point to your
weak changes.
then you send it in.
it's not like you're
inventing the wheel, or
fire,
or even a pet rock or a stick
of gum. it's just this thing.
this thing.

invention

your invention
stalls
on the patent process.
seems
other people have thought
of similar ideas.
they want a more detailed
sketch,
a stripe of uniqueness
varying
from the rest.
what makes yours
different, they ask.
they being bottled glasses
lawyers
sitting in dark
rooms eating
white bread sandwiches
with the crust cut off.
so you tweak and bend,
twist
what you have into something
more using
the black magic marker,
the ruler. you draw
your crude sketch
and write block printed words
above and below.
bold arrows point to your
weak changes.
then you send it in.
it's not like you're
inventing the wheel, or
fire,
or even a pet rock or a stick
of gum. it's just this thing.
this thing.

the date

half his age
you suspect that she might
be his daughter,
but then you
see her stiletto heels
and tight
short dress,
her puckered lips glossed
red
and you realize that at some
point money
might be exchanged.
his hair is dark as oil
spilled
off the Alaskan coast.
his glasses thick
and steamed as he bends
down
to fork and spoon his pasta
into his mouth.
he can hardly wait
to finish
and get home, the young
woman trailing
behind him
as he heads for the door.

when the bombs fall

as a child
they'd make you practice running
home
with the sirens
wailing
above the elementary school.
it was during the cold war,
the Cuban
missile crisis,
when the end was a red button
away.
we'd practice ducking
under our desks
to keep the radiation from
turning us into
small x-ray like
skeletons
and then we'd gather our
books and lunch boxes
to run home as quickly as
possible to
die with the rest of our
family. it was fun,
in a strange sort of way.
gleeful to get out of class.

ink stain

the ink smudge
on your white shirt won't come
out.
it's a small
thing, but
it's ruined.
the buttons work, the collar
clean,
the shirt as white
as snow.
but the one stain keeps
it from
being worn again.
how like us,
when things go wrong.

ink stain

the ink smudge
on your white shirt won't come
out.
it's a small
thing, but
it's ruined.
the buttons work, the collar
clean,
the shirt as white
as snow.
but the one stain keeps
it from
being worn again.
how like us,
when things go wrong.

the day ahead

how nice to wile
away the day. under the sun.
reading.
napping.
making no effort
to get things done.
leaving the work for the others.
the driving,
the traffic,
the phone.
how nice to linger
in bed.
watching the clouds
roll
by.
the day ahead,
unknown.

the day ahead

how nice to wile
away the day. under the sun.
reading.
napping.
making no effort
to get things done.
leaving the work for the others.
the driving,
the traffic,
the phone.
how nice to linger
in bed.
watching the clouds
roll
by.
the day ahead,
unknown.

finding the words

it's mostly
about her daughter, her poems.
how she died.
how her love for her was
mixed with
grief and frustration.
she writes the same poem
over and over again, trying to
get it right.
something I completely understand.
her chapbook
is all about her.
from birth until the time
she died. died early
and painfully
at the hands of a stranger.
how do you solve that sorrow.
she doesn't know.
but she tries. she writes
another poem, reads
it to herself, then in front
of others
at the small library in
delray.

scavengers

while lying
on the beach a man,
an older man with a sun
visor
wakes you up as you lie
there on your towel.
he's holding his metal
detector over you.
the long wand of it inches
from your chest.
do you mind moving over
he says.
I think you're lying
on something
metallic,
maybe a set of keys or
a watch.
the machine beeps quickly
and loud.
those are mine,
I tell him. to which he
replies. how do I know
that. do you have proof
of ownership?
I look up at him, squinting
in the sun.
his belly is providing
some shade, but not enough.
go away. I tell him,
staring at the six watches
on his one arm.
and a belly bag of jingling
rings and keys.
i'll be back, he says.
no need to get huffy.

scavengers

while lying
on the beach a man,
an older man with a sun
visor
wakes you up as you lie
there on your towel.
he's holding his metal
detector over you.
the long wand of it inches
from your chest.
do you mind moving over
he says.
I think you're lying
on something
metallic,
maybe a set of keys or
a watch.
the machine beeps quickly
and loud.
those are mine,
I tell him. to which he
replies. how do I know
that. do you have proof
of ownership?
I look up at him, squinting
in the sun.
his belly is providing
some shade, but not enough.
go away. I tell him,
staring at the six watches
on his one arm.
and a belly bag of jingling
rings and keys.
i'll be back, he says.
no need to get huffy.

otis

for most of his life
he found a way to not work, if
he did find
work, he wouldn't work
hard or long.
what happened before and after
those hours
were more important.
drinking.
food.
women.
in no particular order.
he was Otis in the andy Griffith
show.
king of the road
in the ray stevens
song.
likeable, even loveable.
not a worry or care
about tomorrow.
sometimes I see him down
at the fountain
in old town, holding court
with his close
disheveled
friends.
laughing in the sunlight.

embellishment

when I read to my
son before he went to sleep.
it was always
cat in the hat,
or Horton hears a who,
or a variety of other common
kid's books.
after a while,
he became bored with the same old
stories,
so I had to change it up.
one day
I began to make up lines,
the cat in the hat
gets caught
by the animal rescue team
and we have
to break him out before
they put him to sleep.
the purple dinosaur Barney
having to go to rehab
after drinking too much moonshine.
he liked those stories so much
better.
santa getting stuck in a chimney
because of all the pie
he'd been eating
all night.
sometimes batman couldn't leave
the house in time
once seeing the bat sign
in the sky because
he had a digestive
issue after eating some bad
Mexican food.
he loved these stories.
I hope he forgives me.

the chardonnay IV

when I met her
she had an IV line coming
from a chardonnay bottle
into her arm.
the bottle was in a bucket of ice,
but on a pole
so that she could roll
it around
as she went about her house.
I made
us dinner, she said.
it's in the oven.
I had it last night, but
the second day it's even better.
you like salmon,
don't you?
it's atlantic salmon,
wild.
never frozen, except by
me for a week or so.
can I pour you a glass
of wine,
this bottle i'm working on
is just about done.
she taps the side of the bottle,
tipping it to get the last
drop into her arm.
I have a crate
in the cellar from total wine
that was on sale
the other day.
do you mind getting another
bottle for me?
i'll check on the fish,
and start
to boil the spinach.

peaches

do you know
where the water tower is,
the man
in a straw hat
and smoking a pipe says
while bending over
to lean into my
car window
to give me directions.
no,
I tell him.
I can smell whiskey on his
breath
pipe tobacco.
his wife
or daughter is on the side
of the road
selling tomatoes and peaches
under the overhang
of a wooden
shack.
how about
the bull farm, he says,
scratching the grey stubble
on his long
chin. do you know where that
is, because if you do,
it's just a left a right
and another left
and you're back on the interstate
heading north.
you seem like you might
be heading north.
I am, I tell him.
how much are the peaches?
hon, bring me over basket
of them peaches.
she does that. coming out of
the shadow into the hot sun.
there's a tattoo on her arm
that says earl,
it looks like it's covering
another tattoo.
take one he says. on me.
so I do. be careful, these peaches
are juicy she says,
winking, don't want to get
any on your shirt.
good luck with the driving,
the man says.
thanks earl I tell him
and pull off looking for
the bull farm.

curb pick up

once a week
they call asking me
if i have anything to set out
on the curb for pick up.
i think yes, but
say no.
i could put my dog in a cage
and set him
out there.
but i don't. he'd find
his way back,
then bite me.
i do have a pair of shoe.
a pale brown color
that look like women's shoes.
so i offer that.
and some old neck ties
from the eighties.
the skinny hipster ones
with bold colors.
i set them out too.

curb pick up

once a week
they call asking me
if i have anything to set out
on the curb for pick up.
i think yes, but
say no.
i could put my dog in a cage
and set him
out there.
but i don't. he'd find
his way back,
then bite me.
i do have a pair of shoe.
a pale brown color
that look like women's shoes.
so i offer that.
and some old neck ties
from the eighties.
the skinny hipster ones
with bold colors.
i set them out too.

the vacant apartment

i swirl the numbers
on the lockbox
trying to snap it open
to get the key
to get into a vacant apartment.
it won't budge.
there are five other
lock boxes
hanging on the metal
rail, all of them look
the same.
i try them all.
still no key.
i call the owner,
the agent.
i yell to an open window.
no one looks out.
finally, i try
the door,
it's open. i go in.
i go up the ancient steps.
the place
smells
of animals.
the apartment looks like
a place
where unhappiness lived,
where maybe a murder
took place.
nothing good can come from
living in a dump
like this.
i'll paint it bright white
and see what
gives.

the vacant apartment

i swirl the numbers
on the lockbox
trying to snap it open
to get the key
to get into a vacant apartment.
it won't budge.
there are five other
lock boxes
hanging on the metal
rail, all of them look
the same.
i try them all.
still no key.
i call the owner,
the agent.
i yell to an open window.
no one looks out.
finally, i try
the door,
it's open. i go in.
i go up the ancient steps.
the place
smells
of animals.
the apartment looks like
a place
where unhappiness lived,
where maybe a murder
took place.
nothing good can come from
living in a dump
like this.
i'll paint it bright white
and see what
gives.

approaching storm

the hurricane
of her,
the blue wind of her life
blowing
in.
rattling my
doors
and shutters.
how she brings the rain,
the lightning,
makes the lights
blink.
she's a warm front
moving in,
a churning sea
on my radar, a typhoon
about to land
and take
me with her.

approaching storm

the hurricane
of her,
the blue wind of her life
blowing
in.
rattling my
doors
and shutters.
how she brings the rain,
the lightning,
makes the lights
blink.
she's a warm front
moving in,
a churning sea
on my radar, a typhoon
about to land
and take
me with her.

do you know a carpenter?

it's hard
to find a carpenter.
someone who actually knows
what they're doing.
who can pull
a board, replace a board
and not complain
about the board,
the nails
the weather.
please, just go to work
and do
the job.
sometimes they come out,
sometimes
they don't.
they might call, they might
text.
but all in good time.
what's the rush.
some are licensed, some aren't.
some have
big trucks,
some work out of the back of
their dodge dart swinger.
some want the money
before the first nail is hammered
then never
come back.

do you know a carpenter?

it's hard
to find a carpenter.
someone who actually knows
what they're doing.
who can pull
a board, replace a board
and not complain
about the board,
the nails
the weather.
please, just go to work
and do
the job.
sometimes they come out,
sometimes
they don't.
they might call, they might
text.
but all in good time.
what's the rush.
some are licensed, some aren't.
some have
big trucks,
some work out of the back of
their dodge dart swinger.
some want the money
before the first nail is hammered
then never
come back.

a change in the weather

the storm
never comes. but you have lots
of milk and bread
and toilet
paper now.
a pound bag of salted
nuts.
some people in the parking
lot
even turned their
cars around,
backing in, just in case
the water
turned to snow
somehow.
they have their wipers
extended too.
these are the people you don't
usually talk
to.

a change in the weather

the storm
never comes. but you have lots
of milk and bread
and toilet
paper now.
a pound bag of salted
nuts.
some people in the parking
lot
even turned their
cars around,
backing in, just in case
the water
turned to snow
somehow.
they have their wipers
extended too.
these are the people you don't
usually talk
to.

someone's birthday

I think about sending
her a birthday card.
seeing a nice one on the rack
at trader joe's.
flowers, birds, a blue horse,
but then think, why.
she ghosted me.
why should I send her
butt a
birthday card.
she didn't even have the decency
to have a final
blow out fight
to end things.
she just did the poof thing.
gone.
no text, no phone call,
no email, snail mail,
no letter written
in the sky
when she rides by on her
smoky broom.
I by the card anyway.
it must be someone's
birthday that I know.

the new yorker, perfect

the new Yorker magazine
arrives,
again,
they come so fast. they block
the sunlight
from my bedroom window.
the stack rising.
how do they do it?
I flip through, back to front,
skimming
as I am want to do.
stopping only
to read the cartoons
to see if any of them actually
make me laugh.
one does.
two dogs on a chair,
paws on a desk
typing onto a computer. one
dog looks at the other
and says,
they don't even know
we're dogs.
I cut this one out and tape
it to
the refrigerator.
from there I look at the music
and movies.
the music is hopeless.
who are these people.
what ever happened
to elvis Costello?
one movie looks good, the other
is a review of an animated
movie using celebrity
voices.
just shoot me now.
poetry.
it's just plain perplexing.
I read two, three lines
and shudder.
what the hell are they talking about
and who do you have
to pay or sleep with to get a poem
published in this magazine.
the fiction makes me miss Raymond carver.
then the deep stuff. there
is an expose about mental hospitals,
I dog ear that page,
then an article about a man
who has a continual itch
under his skull that he
can never quite get to.
he ends up scratching a hole
in his head.
that sounds like a fun bath tub
read for later.
then it's to shouts and murmurs.
hit or miss.
the theme this week is the over use
of phrases like
it is what it is.
or how everyone says perfect
for anything you say to them.
let's meet in a bar later,
get drunk and then jump off the
George Washington bridge, perfect.
7 ish? perfect.
finally it's to the editorial
section, boring.
then the letters from readers
whining about last weeks
issue.
all of them smarty pants.

living next door to a pie store

somehow these pants
got tight,
almost overnight.
I can hardly button them,
and get the belt
around me.
this shirt too, it's
like a sausage casing
around my barrel
chest.
I look in the mirror,
kicking an empty
pie pan
across the floor, wiping
blueberries
from my mouth.
I see my dog in the corner
breathing
heavily.
his collar tight
around his neck.

a new topic

my therapist
tells me it's time to stop
talking
about my mother.
she' not the cause of everything
that's gone wrong
in your life.
she says, she's sick of hearing
about her.
just stop.
talk about something else
for once
in a session.
so I bring up
my father.
good, she says. finally,
a new topic.

a new topic

my therapist
tells me it's time to stop
talking
about my mother.
she' not the cause of everything
that's gone wrong
in your life.
she says, she's sick of hearing
about her.
just stop.
talk about something else
for once
in a session.
so I bring up
my father.
good, she says. finally,
a new topic.

holding on

it was easy
to make light of her horse.
it was old.
thirty three years old.
sway backed,
broken teeth,
flies
consuming her flesh
as she stood in the barn
on dark cracked hooves.
let her go, you'd say,
put her down.
relieve her from living
this way.
she can no longer
run,
or be saddled,
she can hardly see you
as you give
her a carrot
and brush her matted
coat.
is that what you want,
she'd say.
when it's your turn?

not looking back

I can see how things
will go
before they go
anywhere. I see the middle
and the end.
the beginning has already
happened.
I see the absence of her
already.
the strange distance
that life provides
to keep us from going insane.
I see tomorrow
and the next day, and leave
the past behind,
not looking back.

not looking back

I can see how things
will go
before they go
anywhere. I see the middle
and the end.
the beginning has already
happened.
I see the absence of her
already.
the strange distance
that life provides
to keep us from going insane.
I see tomorrow
and the next day, and leave
the past behind,
not looking back.

make a left on lawrence

you have
hand written directions
to her house
on a slip of paper.
the house she lived in
with her parents,
her sister
and three brothers.
it's the house you threw
pebbles at the window
to make her come
out. beeped the horn
when you pulled up
to go out.
she drew a map,
naming each road,
with arrows pointing
where to go,
pressing down
to write her number
with a pen she borrowed
from a bartender.
it was
thirty five years ago
and it's still in your wallet
for some strange
reason. it's folded neatly
into a square.
when you see her now,
out and about with her
grown children,
her most recent husband,
everyone older,
we wave, we say hello,
but that's the end
of it.

first day of retirement

unable to sleep past six o'clock
in the morning,
you reluctantly get up
to start your day.
you get the paper
off the porch, make coffee.
stare at the dog,
who stares back. you let him
out into the yard
to do his thing.
he barks for awhile,
then you let him back in.
you turn
the radio on, log on
to your computer,
the tv, muted.
you throw a few eggs into
a pan.
some toast in the toaster.
you look out the window
and see your neighbor,
watering
her flowers. she waves
and smiles,
you wave. she's in her bathrobe
and slippers.
she reminds you of your mother
before she went into
a home.
it's pretty much the end
at this point.

first day of retirement

unable to sleep past six o'clock
in the morning,
you reluctantly get up
to start your day.
you get the paper
off the porch, make coffee.
stare at the dog,
who stares back. you let him
out into the yard
to do his thing.
he barks for awhile,
then you let him back in.
you turn
the radio on, log on
to your computer,
the tv, muted.
you throw a few eggs into
a pan.
some toast in the toaster.
you look out the window
and see your neighbor,
watering
her flowers. she waves
and smiles,
you wave. she's in her bathrobe
and slippers.
she reminds you of your mother
before she went into
a home.
it's pretty much the end
at this point.

a side of beef

someone in the neighborhood
is grilling
a side of beef.
you can see all the men
leaning out
their windows,
searching the yards,
sniffing the air
longingly
while their wives
are downstairs
making a salad with kale
and kidney beans,
celery
and hummus.

a side of beef

someone in the neighborhood
is grilling
a side of beef.
you can see all the men
leaning out
their windows,
searching the yards,
sniffing the air
longingly
while their wives
are downstairs
making a salad with kale
and kidney beans,
celery
and hummus.

making vacation plans

you need a vacation.
you stare longingly at
an island on the cover
of a magazine
as you sit
at the dentist's office,
browsing
national geographic
and bon appetit..
how nice to get away,
to pack a bag
and go
with a pocket full of money,
no phone.
maybe you'll never come
back, find a nice island
girl who
doesn't mind listening
to you, who can make you a cold
drink, rub the tension
out of your neck.
no need to tell anyone,
just lock the door,
catch a cab and be gone.
but first this cleaning,
this x-ray,
and spitting into a Dixie
cup.

making vacation plans

you need a vacation.
you stare longingly at
an island on the cover
of a magazine
as you sit
at the dentist's office,
browsing
national geographic
and bon appetit..
how nice to get away,
to pack a bag
and go
with a pocket full of money,
no phone.
maybe you'll never come
back, find a nice island
girl who
doesn't mind listening
to you, who can make you a cold
drink, rub the tension
out of your neck.
no need to tell anyone,
just lock the door,
catch a cab and be gone.
but first this cleaning,
this x-ray,
and spitting into a Dixie
cup.

shoeless

her shoes were
too tight, new,
and pinching her toes,
so she took them off
and walked
on the sidewalk,
holding them in her hand.
carefully she avoided
glass and cigarettes, trash,
broken
bottles, twisted
cans.
her long dress dangled
along the hot
pavement. she didn't care.
it didn't seem to bother
her, even when it began
to rain,
and the theater was still
six blocks away.
it told you something about
her, something
you still don't quite
understand.

shoeless

her shoes were
too tight, new,
and pinching her toes,
so she took them off
and walked
on the sidewalk,
holding them in her hand.
carefully she avoided
glass and cigarettes, trash,
broken
bottles, twisted
cans.
her long dress dangled
along the hot
pavement. she didn't care.
it didn't seem to bother
her, even when it began
to rain,
and the theater was still
six blocks away.
it told you something about
her, something
you still don't quite
understand.

cold call

the hot water
sits, going cold.
you can't get in because
you're on the phone
with
someone you don't know,
someone who
wants to sell you something
you don't need.
they are persistent,
cunning,
weary, neither young
or old,
asking all the wrong questions,
someone sitting in a warehouse
across the ocean,
unraveling a spiel
while your water gets cold.

cold call

the hot water
sits, going cold.
you can't get in because
you're on the phone
with
someone you don't know,
someone who
wants to sell you something
you don't need.
they are persistent,
cunning,
weary, neither young
or old,
asking all the wrong questions,
someone sitting in a warehouse
across the ocean,
unraveling a spiel
while your water gets cold.

in the clouds

in the car
we'd play the cloud game
with my brothers and sisters
as our father drove us
to the eastern shore
where we would sleep in a canvas
tent staked into
sand, a mile from the beach.
I see a buffalo,
my brother would say, pointing
at his find. look, see it.
I see cotton candy, my sister
would say, then
tap my father on the shoulder
saying, can we get
cotton candy at the beach.
he'd flick his cigarette out
the window and say, maybe.
we'll see.
i see the bottom of a beautiful
woman, i'd shout out.
my head leaning out the window.
see the curves, see how
she bends over picking
up a beach ball
to which my father would,
put the sun visor up and say,
where?

a resting place

all the dry
white bones in the grave yard,
says nothing
to you.
puts no fear into you.
in fact
it fascinates you.
all the stones with names
and dates
carved in above
their resting place
gives you no chill,
no reason
to change the pattern
of your life.
did it for them?

a resting place

all the dry
white bones in the grave yard,
says nothing
to you.
puts no fear into you.
in fact
it fascinates you.
all the stones with names
and dates
carved in above
their resting place
gives you no chill,
no reason
to change the pattern
of your life.
did it for them?

you're fired

he puts his
feet up on his desk. lights
a cigar
and says, boy,
I hate to do this to you,
but you're fired.
to which you reply.
thank you.
thank you dear God.
he shakes his head
and says,
putting that slice of pizza
in my desk last night
was the last straw.
do you even know what you're
doing in this office.
to which you shrug
and say no, not really.
I thought a white collar
job might be interesting.
i have to say, the free
coffee is good,
and volley ball on Wednesdays,
the Christmas party,
has been fun.
truthfully the only
thing I've looked forward
to in coming to work
was meeting the new
secretaries and going
to happy hour.
i'll get my things and go,
which is a slice of cake
i haven't eaten yet
from todays birthday party.

don't tell anyone

all day
you carry a secret
in your mouth. it rolls
around like
a smooth pebble
chattering against
your teeth, waiting
to be spit
out.
how long can your resist
telling
it to someone, anyone,
even a stranger
will do. that bird
eating bread
from your hand.
you curse the moment
you vowed
to never tell a soul.

the end of summer party

bring meat and side dishes
to the party,
she says in her phone invite.
oh, and whatever you're drinking.
what about plates,
silverware and ice, I ask,
sarcastically, to which
she says. yes. of course.
oh and charcoal, if you don't mind.
and bug spray,
the yard is full of mosquitoes.
oh, and if you would be a dear,
pick up a few pounds
of cooked shrimp, peeled
and deveined, not frozen,
in a bowl.
look forward to seeing you there.

the end of summer party

bring meat and side dishes
to the party,
she says in her phone invite.
oh, and whatever you're drinking.
what about plates,
silverware and ice, I ask,
sarcastically, to which
she says. yes. of course.
oh and charcoal, if you don't mind.
and bug spray,
the yard is full of mosquitoes.
oh, and if you would be a dear,
pick up a few pounds
of cooked shrimp, peeled
and deveined, not frozen,
in a bowl.
look forward to seeing you there.

finding your religion

you have found
your religion, quite often,
usually in bad times.
a break up,
a lack of work, some sort of flu
that has you bent
over and groaning
in the bathroom.
your prayers are sincere
at these moments,
but then, in good times you
lose track of God for awhile.
the drinks are cold,
the kisses warm,
the hay is in the barn.
it's usually not longer after
this that
you find your religion again.

buy and sell

when my stock broker churns me
for another commission,
telling me to buy Harley and sell coke,
or saying in her soft voice,
maybe it's time
to dump Microsoft and buy apple,
you say nothing, at first.
what do you know?
your at the mercy of her now.
asking her just to keep you out
of a box behind the liquor store
when it's time to cash in
and fish.

buy and sell

when my stock broker churns me
for another commission,
telling me to buy Harley and sell coke,
or saying in her soft voice,
maybe it's time
to dump Microsoft and buy apple,
you say nothing, at first.
what do you know?
your at the mercy of her now.
asking her just to keep you out
of a box behind the liquor store
when it's time to cash in
and fish.

the thin tv

and yet,
despite
not having to get up anymore
to change
the channel,
walk across the room
and adjust the rabbit
ears, the horizontal,
giving the side
a flat handed whack.
you aren't happy
with what's on tv.
and now
where will the spider
plant go,
the framed photo of your
son,
the cat?

the thin tv

and yet,
despite
not having to get up anymore
to change
the channel,
walk across the room
and adjust the rabbit
ears, the horizontal,
giving the side
a flat handed whack.
you aren't happy
with what's on tv.
and now
where will the spider
plant go,
the framed photo of your
son,
the cat?

three sisters

the three sisters,
once in a room side by side.
are no longer speaking.
each different
and alike.
each with the same
young
shared life, now at odds.
none which can
explain why, or how they
got to where they
are, unspeaking, some
grudge, a pebble in their
shoe that for the life
of them, and in spite
of all the love they share,
they can't remove.

three sisters

the three sisters,
once in a room side by side.
are no longer speaking.
each different
and alike.
each with the same
young
shared life, now at odds.
none which can
explain why, or how they
got to where they
are, unspeaking, some
grudge, a pebble in their
shoe that for the life
of them, and in spite
of all the love they share,
they can't remove.

call me at 5 30

your father
asks you to wake him up at five a.m. .
call me,
he says.
I need to get up
and put eye drops in my
eyes
before cataract surgery.
I can't see the alarm to set it.
so you say, sure, okay.
you try to set your alarm
but can't quite
figure it out,
being a Swedish clock
with no English directions.
so you call your friend
betty
to call you
at five twenty five
to wake you up, so that you
can call your father
to wake him up.
she calls you
and says good morning.
you call your father, but
he's up already
having coffee on the patio
and squinting at
a newspaper.

call me at 5 30

your father
asks you to wake him up at five a.m. .
call me,
he says.
I need to get up
and put eye drops in my
eyes
before cataract surgery.
I can't see the alarm to set it.
so you say, sure, okay.
you try to set your alarm
but can't quite
figure it out,
being a Swedish clock
with no English directions.
so you call your friend
betty
to call you
at five twenty five
to wake you up, so that you
can call your father
to wake him up.
she calls you
and says good morning.
you call your father, but
he's up already
having coffee on the patio
and squinting at
a newspaper.

the one in the air

she can't tell you
enough times how she used to be
a ballerina.
her eyes drift off
as she speaks softly
of being on stage, the music,
the applause,
how young she was,
how light on her feet,
on her toes.
her arms out like petals
on a rose.
I need to write a book about
my life she says,
as if it's over
at the age of fifty, as if
nothing else could come close
to those few years.
you should have seen me then,
she says, taking a picture
from her purse.
that's me, the one in the air.

the one in the air

she can't tell you
enough times how she used to be
a ballerina.
her eyes drift off
as she speaks softly
of being on stage, the music,
the applause,
how young she was,
how light on her feet,
on her toes.
her arms out like petals
on a rose.
I need to write a book about
my life she says,
as if it's over
at the age of fifty, as if
nothing else could come close
to those few years.
you should have seen me then,
she says, taking a picture
from her purse.
that's me, the one in the air.

old friends

they fall
through the cracks, quietly
slipping away,
disappearing without a sound,
a farewell
or goodbye.
they are ghosts, leaving
you,
your life, behind.
you turn around,
and they're gone, before
you know it.
but you keep walking,
holding on
to a new hand,
a new friend to walk with
stride for stride.

old friends

they fall
through the cracks, quietly
slipping away,
disappearing without a sound,
a farewell
or goodbye.
they are ghosts, leaving
you,
your life, behind.
you turn around,
and they're gone, before
you know it.
but you keep walking,
holding on
to a new hand,
a new friend to walk with
stride for stride.

the other side

each day
you take a spoon and dig.
you grind
at the dirt,
gouge the rocks
and stones
out. tunneling
a spoonful at a time.
you are past the half way
point, nearing
the place
you want to be,
beyond the wall,
the barbed fence,
the guards
in their towers.
you have never been in a
rush to get there,
but time is short,
and for once you'd
like see what it is
on the other side
of this life.

the other side

each day
you take a spoon and dig.
you grind
at the dirt,
gouge the rocks
and stones
out. tunneling
a spoonful at a time.
you are past the half way
point, nearing
the place
you want to be,
beyond the wall,
the barbed fence,
the guards
in their towers.
you have never been in a
rush to get there,
but time is short,
and for once you'd
like see what it is
on the other side
of this life.

drowning

drunk again,
he calls from a pay phone
at the beach.
a large
orange
shirt draped below
his waist, shoeless.
hopping
from foot to foot
from the heat,
his eyes red
with booze
and cocaine. it's where
the money goes.
where tomorrow goes.
where all his
yesterdays
have gone.
but in the sunlight,
against the pale
blue sky, the young girls
walking by,
he could be anyone,
anyone about to surf
a breaking wave upon
the ocean, taking
a long sweet ride.

the cat

the cat
warming herself
on the hood of a car,
opens
her eyes
when you come home,
she lets out a shallow
meow.
she is languid and lean,
an outdoors cat.
her tail stiffens
and flutters
while
her glass green eyes
catch sunlight.
she stays where she is,
just turning her
head enough
to look at you
going in, then coming
out with a saucer
of cold milk, placing it
on the stoop.
it's mutual, this distant
love affair.

a baby crying

there is a baby crying
next door.
through
the wall that separates you
from them.
it cries
for a long time.
you lie in your bed and listen.
you imagine
the mother coming up
the stairs,
the father leaning
into the door.
soon the baby stops,
it's a sweet sound,
the sound
of crying, then not.

a baby crying

there is a baby crying
next door.
through
the wall that separates you
from them.
it cries
for a long time.
you lie in your bed and listen.
you imagine
the mother coming up
the stairs,
the father leaning
into the door.
soon the baby stops,
it's a sweet sound,
the sound
of crying, then not.

in midair

your foot
slips on the wet spot
of the floor
for an instant
you air borne,
no longer a part of
the earth
but
aloft without wings.
the ceiling
is above,
the floor below,
and everything
of this world,
lying in between.
it's just a second,
a small
glimpse
of what tomorrow,
of what an afterlife
might bring.

in midair

your foot
slips on the wet spot
of the floor
for an instant
you air borne,
no longer a part of
the earth
but
aloft without wings.
the ceiling
is above,
the floor below,
and everything
of this world,
lying in between.
it's just a second,
a small
glimpse
of what tomorrow,
of what an afterlife
might bring.

paper bins

I start another bin
for papers.
bills,
notes, old receipts
and bank
statements. business
contracts,
summaries
of what's saved, what's
spent. cards received.
the basement closet
is full of these bins.
never to be opened,
sorted through
again.
decades old, i toss
another Christmas card
in after opening
it to see who had sent
it. signed love.
I miss you. hope
to see you again.
oh, yeah. I remember her.

one lost shoe

where's my
other shoe, not here,
not under
the bed,
not in the corner being
chewed
by the evil one,
my dog moe.
how could I lose one
shoe.
I look out the window,
not there,
not on the sidewalk,
or in a bush,
not in the bathroom,
not on
the steps,
or in the kitchen.
I make a few calls
asking
if anyone has seen my shoe.
it's black,
with laces.
size ten. scuff marks
on the toe.
my favorite shoe.
no one has seen it.

the singles meet up

they meet
at a meet up for lonely
singles.
each with a sticky name tag
stuck to their blouse
or shirt.
it's early afternoon
on a sunday.
there is drinking,
bar food,
the light chatter
of people being
introduced,
then moving on to
mingle. everyone is
over fifty,
approaching sixty
and beyond.
it is a cruise ship
sailing
without water, or a
destination.
heads turn, as a new person
walks in
from the hot sun
broiling the parking lot,
adjusting his eyes
to the dark bar.
there is no love in the air,
no particular like,
or lust even.
just a day in the life,
of searching
from someone right.
nice to meet you she says,
I have to go now,
my dog is in the car.

the singles meet up

they meet
at a meet up for lonely
singles.
each with a sticky name tag
stuck to their blouse
or shirt.
it's early afternoon
on a sunday.
there is drinking,
bar food,
the light chatter
of people being
introduced,
then moving on to
mingle. everyone is
over fifty,
approaching sixty
and beyond.
it is a cruise ship
sailing
without water, or a
destination.
heads turn, as a new person
walks in
from the hot sun
broiling the parking lot,
adjusting his eyes
to the dark bar.
there is no love in the air,
no particular like,
or lust even.
just a day in the life,
of searching
from someone right.
nice to meet you she says,
I have to go now,
my dog is in the car.

so close, so far away

some days
you remember too much.
too much
detail,
words said.
you listen too hard,
watch
too closely the movements
of others.
you take
the temperature
of every room
you walk into. it's how
you are.
nothing has changed
with the years.
you observe, collect
absorb, you are removed
from so much,
but near.

so close, so far away

some days
you remember too much.
too much
detail,
words said.
you listen too hard,
watch
too closely the movements
of others.
you take
the temperature
of every room
you walk into. it's how
you are.
nothing has changed
with the years.
you observe, collect
absorb, you are removed
from so much,
but near.

you write a letter

you write a letter
to your older self.
you tell him
not to worry, i'm coming.
things will fine.
we'll be on the water.
you'll be happy
there.
you'll be in love,
with your last love.
she'll be beside you
when you die.
she'll hold your hand
and smile,
and say,
you can go now, it
was fun, a good ride.
out the window, you'll
hear the gulls,
the water,
all the things that you
loved as a child.
the sky will be blue.
blue
being the color you
adored
and painted throughout
your life,
but you won't be.
you won't be blue, you'll
be ready having written
the last
word you could write.

cash only

if you buy
three of these
you get the fourth one free,
today only.
closing, going out
of business,
everything must go.
no questions asked, you
make the call,
fifty per cent off.
no returns,
no trade in will be
denied.
a lifetime guarantee.
no middle man, no salesman
will call.
sign here,
on the dotted line.
it removes unsightly stains.
walks the dog,
takes the kids
to school.
it will change your life.
give you courage,
put hair on your head,
take hair off
your wife's chest.
you'll never need another.
batteries not
included.
if not satisfied in thirty
days,
too bad.
it's a once in a life
time deal.
sign here.
read the small print.
read the back,
cash only.
cash only.
no returns, we're out
to lunch,
we'll be right back.

what are you doing

in her flip flops,
holding
a cold beer in one hand,
down to her running
shorts and t-shirt,
the nozzle
of the power washer in the other hand,
she blasts
the mildew and debris
from her sun soaked
deck, watching it go
from grey, to wood again.
she lights a cigarette,
and cups
her phone between her
shoulder
and ear, as it rings,
takes a sip
of beer.
i'm power washing the deck,
she says
into the phone,
what are you doing.
she sees a bee and chases
it with the spray.

what are you doing

in her flip flops,
holding
a cold beer in one hand,
down to her running
shorts and t-shirt,
the nozzle
of the power washer in the other hand,
she blasts
the mildew and debris
from her sun soaked
deck, watching it go
from grey, to wood again.
she lights a cigarette,
and cups
her phone between her
shoulder
and ear, as it rings,
takes a sip
of beer.
i'm power washing the deck,
she says
into the phone,
what are you doing.
she sees a bee and chases
it with the spray.

post card from Bali

your son
sends you a postcard
from Bali.
he has traveled
there with
his friend
and has already returned.
you stare
at the Indonesian
stamp
and markings,
the crimped edges,
his hand writing
that looks
the same as when
he was in the seventh
grade.
half script, half print,
not unlike
yours.
on the front is an island
sitting
in blue water,
a high cliff
covered in thick green
foliage.
he has returned, safely,
he thought of
you and sent
this card.

tomorrow

the guilt.
catholic guilt.
is daily.
having not visited
my mother
in the senior home for nearly
two months now.
I see the bridge,
but do I cross the bridge,
no,
I don't. I think
about traffic.
I think about the time,
I think
that I need dinner, or something.
then I think
about
the endless hours
she cooked and cleaned,
sent us off to school,
read to us
before bed. I see her now
in the chair,
in front of a tv
in a strange house.
grey boned,
and weak, smiling with
my name still
on her lips. asking
where have I been.
tomorrow, perhaps.
tomorrow.

tomorrow

the guilt.
catholic guilt.
is daily.
having not visited
my mother
in the senior home for nearly
two months now.
I see the bridge,
but do I cross the bridge,
no,
I don't. I think
about traffic.
I think about the time,
I think
that I need dinner, or something.
then I think
about
the endless hours
she cooked and cleaned,
sent us off to school,
read to us
before bed. I see her now
in the chair,
in front of a tv
in a strange house.
grey boned,
and weak, smiling with
my name still
on her lips. asking
where have I been.
tomorrow, perhaps.
tomorrow.

oh really now

I express my love
and lust for the little black
Italian
sports car.
convertible no less.
new and shiny
like an ornament to hang
on my
bare tree.
but she says, don't do that,
it's a gay car, to
which I laugh
and say,
I don't care,
makes no difference
to me.
i then shake my head
and button up my purple
shirt
with long silky
sleeves.

oh really now

I express my love
and lust for the little black
Italian
sports car.
convertible no less.
new and shiny
like an ornament to hang
on my
bare tree.
but she says, don't do that,
it's a gay car, to
which I laugh
and say,
I don't care,
makes no difference
to me.
i then shake my head
and button up my purple
shirt
with long silky
sleeves.

i saw you

I saw you
in the park, there was
someone who
looked like me holding your
hand.
you kissed him.
the same way
you kiss me when you're
happy.
there was little I could say
or do,
as I too
was being kissed
by someone who looked
almost like
you.

i saw you

I saw you
in the park, there was
someone who
looked like me holding your
hand.
you kissed him.
the same way
you kiss me when you're
happy.
there was little I could say
or do,
as I too
was being kissed
by someone who looked
almost like
you.

cheerful

a boy named
cricke, a gorilla
on the football team,
once put a broken mountain dew
bottle
under your back tire,
hoping
to flatten it.
he was in love
with Vivian,
who you were visiting,
captain of the cheerleaders.
you were in the way,
bringing her
a dozen fresh cut
flowers
from the grocery store.
years later
you heard that cricket
jumped off
a bridge.
perhaps from the lack
of love he received.
and Vivian, you saw her
once in a
bar downtown, she hardly
remembered you,
or the broken bottle, or
cricket, but she was
still very cheerful
as she sipped her chardonnay.

the open gate

the open gate
makes you push your eyes
to either side
of the yard.
who has come and gone
in the night, leaving
no trace.
without a sound,
not a clink of the metal
lock
or hinge, or squeak
of door.
was it just wind?
or someone
wanting in,
wanting more
of what they might not have
enough of.

the open gate

the open gate
makes you push your eyes
to either side
of the yard.
who has come and gone
in the night, leaving
no trace.
without a sound,
not a clink of the metal
lock
or hinge, or squeak
of door.
was it just wind?
or someone
wanting in,
wanting more
of what they might not have
enough of.

blankets

so much of what
you believe to be true
is untrue.
this blanket
that was woven for you,
that covers
your young body
at night
slowly unravels.
each thread pulled
by you, or others.
soon you will
make your own version
of what is or isn't
true,
and bring it to your
son, to keep
him warm
and unknowing through
his early
life.

blankets

so much of what
you believe to be true
is untrue.
this blanket
that was woven for you,
that covers
your young body
at night
slowly unravels.
each thread pulled
by you, or others.
soon you will
make your own version
of what is or isn't
true,
and bring it to your
son, to keep
him warm
and unknowing through
his early
life.

real school

as kids,
in the seventh grade,
we'd skip school,
pretending to go to the bus
stop, but then
continue walking
across the d.c. line
on southern avenue.
we'd take
the A-9 Archives
bus to ninth street
in north west
d.c., the only white boys
on the bus,
each with a pocket
full of change and one
dollar bills.
enough to play pin ball
machines all day,
and eat
at a drug store counter.
a grilled cheese,
fries,
a coke.
at some point we'd stop
by the Blue Mirror restaurant,
a classy joint
on tenth street
where business men would
have lunch and watch
scantily clad women
jiggle on small
pedestal stages.
we'd linger near the door
as it opened and closed,
trying to catch
a glimpse of a leg, or
something.
if we did we'd yell
out, I saw her, I saw
them, then run down the street
as the doorman
chased us away.

the test kit

reluctant
to send in the testing kit
for colon cancer,
you respond
to your physician's
standardized
nag,
with a short e mail,
okay, okay. i'll do it.
quit nagging me,
i'll get to it. I've
been busy.
good lord, don't you ever
let up.
maybe later.

the test kit

reluctant
to send in the testing kit
for colon cancer,
you respond
to your physician's
standardized
nag,
with a short e mail,
okay, okay. i'll do it.
quit nagging me,
i'll get to it. I've
been busy.
good lord, don't you ever
let up.
maybe later.

no more room

I put the styro-foam
container
of left overs,
a chicken salad,
with figs
into the fridge.
I squeeze it between
the Chinese boxes,
full of kung pao chicken,
and rice, and a large
pizza box
holding one slice
of pepperoni with
extra cheese. there is a black
box holding a third
of a cold
rib eye steak
from last Thursday.
a dollop of mashed potatoes
nestled
against the darkened
meat.
I don't want to open it
and look
to see how it's doing.
the lasagna
that I on ate on sunday is
wrapped in clear
plastic and sits on top
of that.
i'm nearly out of room,
to put more,
I need to stay home tonight.

no more room

I put the styro-foam
container
of left overs,
a chicken salad,
with figs
into the fridge.
I squeeze it between
the Chinese boxes,
full of kung pao chicken,
and rice, and a large
pizza box
holding one slice
of pepperoni with
extra cheese. there is a black
box holding a third
of a cold
rib eye steak
from last Thursday.
a dollop of mashed potatoes
nestled
against the darkened
meat.
I don't want to open it
and look
to see how it's doing.
the lasagna
that I on ate on sunday is
wrapped in clear
plastic and sits on top
of that.
i'm nearly out of room,
to put more,
I need to stay home tonight.

on the bright side

on the bright, she says,
you have
your health.
you look at her and sneeze.
blow
your nose.
well, sort of,
she says. but life
is not all that bad
for you.
you have your wits
about you. you can't put
a price on that.
she stares at your
black socks
as you tighten
the terry cloth robe
about you.
there is shaving
cream in your ear.
well, let's look
on the bright side,
she says again,
playing with her hair.
it's a nice
day outside.

each to his own island

each man to own
island, his own place
of rest
and quiet.
each to his own silence,
leaving
what the day brought
behind. some islands
are liquid, some
in pill form,
some in books, or film,
or sleep,
some in the curve of a woman
who lingers
in the moonlight
upon his bed. each man,
to his own
island.

tomorrow they will come

she's impatient
waiting
for the ill to come through
the door.
so she paints a table,
using
a short brush,
with long strokes of white.
watching it
glisten, then dry
in the light. she
arranges books, her desk,
puts a vase
of flowers on the sill.
she brushes her hair
in a mirror, then
looks out
the window
as the sky fades from
blue
into darkness.
tomorrow they will come.

whispers in the leaves

there are no
rumors
in the animal kingdom,
no whispered
gossip
between the trees,
amongst the bramble,
beneath
fallen leaves.
the fish pay
no never mind
to what has happened
or what may
occur, by who, or when.
it's good
to not know, to not
care,
carelessly
about what is or is
not to be.

whispers in the leaves

there are no
rumors
in the animal kingdom,
no whispered
gossip
between the trees,
amongst the bramble,
beneath
fallen leaves.
the fish pay
no never mind
to what has happened
or what may
occur, by who, or when.
it's good
to not know, to not
care,
carelessly
about what is or is
not to be.

ice cream

ice cream
is your friend.
how you can lick and lick
at a cone
and be content.
just you alone
on the park bench
watching
the joggers, watching
you,
jealous as they run,
having none.

ice cream

ice cream
is your friend.
how you can lick and lick
at a cone
and be content.
just you alone
on the park bench
watching
the joggers, watching
you,
jealous as they run,
having none.

the charted course

for grief
for sorrow, you have no words.
you keep
your sighs to yourself,
you write in response,
small, clichéd
sentiments.
you want to throw rose petals.
you want
to shower
them in love.
touch their hand,
put your cheek
against theirs
and whisper something
that will help.
but the world doesn't work
that way.
in death,
the days ahead are charted
out, grim times,
and hard.

the hollows

as another friend
moves
away or
dies, a slight wind,
not dark,
but cool
blows against you.
the chill
makes you button up
and stick
your hands
deep into your pockets.
these hollow
spaces
will be filled again,
but not
the same,
each loss unique,
each
day ahead, unknown.

the hollows

as another friend
moves
away or
dies, a slight wind,
not dark,
but cool
blows against you.
the chill
makes you button up
and stick
your hands
deep into your pockets.
these hollow
spaces
will be filled again,
but not
the same,
each loss unique,
each
day ahead, unknown.

the wheel and fire

they talk about the stone
age,
when fire
and the wheel suddenly
occurred
to someone
hunting animals
with a wooden spear.
then
the industrial age.
machines. factories.
the digital
age, where I don't know
what's going on
with all these
electronic gizmos.
i'm still in the pen
and paper
age.
keeping notes
with ink
on a loose leaf notebook.
but I do make
use
of the wheel
and fire.

the wheel and fire

they talk about the stone
age,
when fire
and the wheel suddenly
occurred
to someone
hunting animals
with a wooden spear.
then
the industrial age.
machines. factories.
the digital
age, where I don't know
what's going on
with all these
electronic gizmos.
i'm still in the pen
and paper
age.
keeping notes
with ink
on a loose leaf notebook.
but I do make
use
of the wheel
and fire.

in another life

hardly ever
do you hear, I was an
Egyptian slave
in another life,
pushing blocks of stone
onto one
another making
pyramids.
working all day
in the grueling sun,
being whipped
by the boss man.
instead you hear,
I was queen, or a king,
or prince,
deciding the future
of a country,
benevolent and kind.
you never hear
I was or a toll booth
operator,
collecting change.
sometimes I can feel
and hear the money being
thrown into the basket
before the light turns
green.

he has a farm

I don't like him,
she says, he's hard
to be around,
but he has a farm
out in the country.
it's very peaceful
out there. he has
pigs, goats, horses,
that sort of thing.
in the morning
the rooster crows
and we get eggs
from the barn for
breakfast.
but I don't really
like him, it's just
something to do.
ya know?

he has a farm

I don't like him,
she says, he's hard
to be around,
but he has a farm
out in the country.
it's very peaceful
out there. he has
pigs, goats, horses,
that sort of thing.
in the morning
the rooster crows
and we get eggs
from the barn for
breakfast.
but I don't really
like him, it's just
something to do.
ya know?

binge watching

you binge
on a show, staying up late
clicking
through the season
one episode
after another, it's
one a.m.,
yet still
you sit and watch,
they own you,
you are one of them.
it's so sad
when the season
ends.
the cliff hanger
teasing you.
what now to do
with your late
night hours, waiting
for the weekend.

binge watching

you binge
on a show, staying up late
clicking
through the season
one episode
after another, it's
one a.m.,
yet still
you sit and watch,
they own you,
you are one of them.
it's so sad
when the season
ends.
the cliff hanger
teasing you.
what now to do
with your late
night hours, waiting
for the weekend.

the maids are coming

you are giddy
over the maids coming
to clean your house.
but you have
to clean first. it would
be embarrassing to
leave it the way
it is
and let them see the dust
and clutter
that you live
in. you tell them,
Friday, that should
give you plenty
of time to vacuum
and change the sheets,
fold laundry,
and scrub those bathrooms.
you only have
48 hours
before they come,
better get busy
hiding the check books
and cash,
important papers,
and putting the key
under the mat.

the maids are coming

you are giddy
over the maids coming
to clean your house.
but you have
to clean first. it would
be embarrassing to
leave it the way
it is
and let them see the dust
and clutter
that you live
in. you tell them,
Friday, that should
give you plenty
of time to vacuum
and change the sheets,
fold laundry,
and scrub those bathrooms.
you only have
48 hours
before they come,
better get busy
hiding the check books
and cash,
important papers,
and putting the key
under the mat.

street cat

the street cat,
fat
and slow,
cries when he sees
you. he
comes over
and weaves his thick
body
between your legs.
you get him a saucer
of milk. setting it on the porch.
he cries some more,
then takes a few licks.
he's trying to tell
you something,
so you listen
for awhile, but soon
go.
you have to go to work.
when you get
home,
you see the cat
under a car, sleeping,
he cries, but
lies there in the warm
shadow.
you yell out, hey,
lazy bum,
which makes his tail
swing around
like a black soft wand.

street cat

the street cat,
fat
and slow,
cries when he sees
you. he
comes over
and weaves his thick
body
between your legs.
you get him a saucer
of milk. setting it on the porch.
he cries some more,
then takes a few licks.
he's trying to tell
you something,
so you listen
for awhile, but soon
go.
you have to go to work.
when you get
home,
you see the cat
under a car, sleeping,
he cries, but
lies there in the warm
shadow.
you yell out, hey,
lazy bum,
which makes his tail
swing around
like a black soft wand.

is it over

I can't get over
how painless
the shingles shot is
when injected
into my arm
by the Kaiser provider.
she's a german woman,
with harsh blue
eyes,
knotted hair,
I think of a cafeteria
worker
when I look at
her hands.
long and boney.
I can see her ladling a
spoonful of stewed tomatoes
into a Dixie cup.
I tell her, I didn't
even feel
that. is it over.
she laughs, rubbing
a cotton ball
against the point
where the needle went
in.
don't leave the building
for fifteen
minutes, she says
in her german
accent. okay, I tell.
putting my shirt on.

at the drive in

the year is vague.
somewhere in the late sixties,
when my father,
with his turquoise
chevrolet impala packed his seven
children in
to take them to the drive in.
I remember the movie. mutiny on the bounty.
with marlon brando.
we lay on the roof of the car,
on the hood, sprawled
out under the stars,
not caring about the movie,
the static filled metal
speaker hanging in the window.
the swings and playground
at the front
held more interest as did
the oversized shrimp
rolls from the concession
stand. deep fried and greasy.
popcorn and sodas.
together my brothers and I would
go to the bathroom,
astounded by the bathtub
like trough that we had to stand
over and pee in.
with other men and boys no
less. quickly we zipped up
and ran out of there.
my mother may have been
in the car,
bit I have no recollection
of her in the front seat.
I just remember my father,
snoring, sound asleep
as we left the car
and roamed the graveled
hills of the lot, our shadows
flickering under the bright
wide screen.

not a good kisser

we were not good kissers.
our teeth managed
to bang against one another
when the heat
was on. i can still
taste the warm
blood on my lips.
her braces didn't help
either.
she had to watch what she
ate.
no chili, or stews for
her.
i would turn my head away
when she bit into
an ear of corn,
for fear of getting hit
in the eye by a kernel,
or one of her little rubber
bands, torn loose
and sent flying.
we were not good kissers,
so we eventually
stopped doing that,
and concentrated
on other things.

not a good kisser

we were not good kissers.
our teeth managed
to bang against one another
when the heat
was on. i can still
taste the warm
blood on my lips.
her braces didn't help
either.
she had to watch what she
ate.
no chili, or stews for
her.
i would turn my head away
when she bit into
an ear of corn,
for fear of getting hit
in the eye by a kernel,
or one of her little rubber
bands, torn loose
and sent flying.
we were not good kissers,
so we eventually
stopped doing that,
and concentrated
on other things.

selfish me

i stopped lending things.
I've become
selfish
with age.
too many books I've
loved
have not returned.
please,
order your own dessert,
i'll say.
or no, you can't have
a bite of this or that
from my plate,
eat your own
misgivings.
i crave
the quiet, the softly
lit room,
the dusty book,
the tv on low,
a black and white
movie. the whole sofa,
not an edge,
or just
one pillow.

selfish me

i stopped lending things.
I've become
selfish
with age.
too many books I've
loved
have not returned.
please,
order your own dessert,
i'll say.
or no, you can't have
a bite of this or that
from my plate,
eat your own
misgivings.
i crave
the quiet, the softly
lit room,
the dusty book,
the tv on low,
a black and white
movie. the whole sofa,
not an edge,
or just
one pillow.

once gone

the less I hear
from you,
the more I want to hear
from you.
your absence
is large.
you are in every room.
in every
conversation
that isn't about you.
somehow
you've stayed
once gone.

once gone

the less I hear
from you,
the more I want to hear
from you.
your absence
is large.
you are in every room.
in every
conversation
that isn't about you.
somehow
you've stayed
once gone.

in detail

I remember
other things. the smaller
things.
things said,
or left unsaid.
the bread
gone stale on the table,
the open
wine, left
warm.
I remember you staring
off into
the distance.
somehow without me,
despite
me being across the table.
a portent
of things to come.
I remember,
the waiter, how unhappy
he seemed.
distracted by his own
life perhaps,
giving me your plate,
mine to you.
how long it took to go
once done.
I remember how easy the sun
slipped between the changing
colors of trees
near the fountain,
thinking how
quickly the seasons arrive
then leave.

in detail

I remember
other things. the smaller
things.
things said,
or left unsaid.
the bread
gone stale on the table,
the open
wine, left
warm.
I remember you staring
off into
the distance.
somehow without me,
despite
me being across the table.
a portent
of things to come.
I remember,
the waiter, how unhappy
he seemed.
distracted by his own
life perhaps,
giving me your plate,
mine to you.
how long it took to go
once done.
I remember how easy the sun
slipped between the changing
colors of trees
near the fountain,
thinking how
quickly the seasons arrive
then leave.

old smokey

I've known her for thirty years.
she's smoked some version
of dope for all of those years.
she remembers almost nothing.
but she's happy
in the haze of smoke.
the glazed eyes, the music.
her mind is still
singing with rod stewart,
the stones,
zz top and led zeppelin.
I see her going to church,
wasted, red eyed with her
bible and purse.
she's happy.
she's very happy.
beseeching me to please go
to mass one day, and be a true
blue catholic. come see
the light and later we can
do a bong hit or two.

what about me

finally she gives
up on reading what you write.
she's done
with it.
too much to devour,
to digest.
to get.
he'll write more tomorrow,
i'll catch up
sooner later,
but it's not the same
when he doesn't write
about me, she says.
it's not as much fun
when it's about other people
and things.
I want to know what he thinks
of me.
what about me.
more about me.
but that ship has sailed.
there is no
me anymore.

what about me

finally she gives
up on reading what you write.
she's done
with it.
too much to devour,
to digest.
to get.
he'll write more tomorrow,
i'll catch up
sooner later,
but it's not the same
when he doesn't write
about me, she says.
it's not as much fun
when it's about other people
and things.
I want to know what he thinks
of me.
what about me.
more about me.
but that ship has sailed.
there is no
me anymore.

the blue bruise

some cuts
appear out of nowhere.
on your hand
or leg.
a bruise too,
unknown until you rub
it's blue
circle, a bump.
sometimes blood.
hard to know,
when it happens, the hurt
the pain,
maybe when you lie
down in bed
tonight and review
the day,
you'll remember what
was said,
who snubbed you,
what nail brushed up
against your leg.

the blue bruise

some cuts
appear out of nowhere.
on your hand
or leg.
a bruise too,
unknown until you rub
it's blue
circle, a bump.
sometimes blood.
hard to know,
when it happens, the hurt
the pain,
maybe when you lie
down in bed
tonight and review
the day,
you'll remember what
was said,
who snubbed you,
what nail brushed up
against your leg.

speed it up and say i do

at the wedding, I wanted
to yell out from my pew,
don't do it.
please, stop the madness,
they don't even
love each other,
but I didn't.
if there was no
wedding,
there would be no party
afterwards,
no drinks,
no food, no dancing,
no three tiered cake,
and oh how I love cake,
so I kept my mouth
shut
and bit my tongue.
we all make mistakes,
some more than others.
let the party
begin
before anyone comes
to their senses.

speed it up and say i do

at the wedding, I wanted
to yell out from my pew,
don't do it.
please, stop the madness,
they don't even
love each other,
but I didn't.
if there was no
wedding,
there would be no party
afterwards,
no drinks,
no food, no dancing,
no three tiered cake,
and oh how I love cake,
so I kept my mouth
shut
and bit my tongue.
we all make mistakes,
some more than others.
let the party
begin
before anyone comes
to their senses.

a place once home

maybe it was
the broken pipe, the raw
smell
of something
leaking,
the chain linked
fence,
or the rotted wood,
full of wasps.
maybe it was the back
porch wobbling,
the screen door unclosed.
or the dog
tied to a tree.
or the boy in the window
too old
for bottle,
but holding one
anyway.
maybe it was the dim
lights,
the blinds
half pulled,
the broken window.
the flat roof
where teenagers would
gather
to smoke.
maybe it was all of it,
or some it,
but it reminded you
of a place
once home.

keep your hat on

she liked to keep
her hat on when we made love.
just the hat.
she had
lots of hats.
wide brimmed and floppy,
white and black, some
for spring, mint green,
others for fall,
with splashes of red
and orange
in the band, ribbons
cascading down
the back.
I never asked her about
the hats.
they were a nice touch,
why question
anything when things
are going so
well.

keep your hat on

she liked to keep
her hat on when we made love.
just the hat.
she had
lots of hats.
wide brimmed and floppy,
white and black, some
for spring, mint green,
others for fall,
with splashes of red
and orange
in the band, ribbons
cascading down
the back.
I never asked her about
the hats.
they were a nice touch,
why question
anything when things
are going so
well.

no justice

the cop wrote
the ticket out wrong, so I gave
it a shot
in traffic court.
I made a right
not a left.
it was raining, I was two
minutes past
the sign that read
no turn after three.
so I went to court in a tight
fitting shirt and tie,
with my erroneous ticket,
practicing all
night and day
in front of the mirror,
stating my defense,
doing my best f. lee bailey.
the judge would have none
of it when finally my turn
at four in the afternoon,
came up.
the cop
made a mistake,
he said, banging his
gavel
at my dismay. he meant to write
right, not left.
pay the fine, but no points.
to which I replied from
back of the courtroom.
thanks a lot. shaking my head
at the injustice of the system.
is that sarcasm?
he shouted at me, to which
I said, meekly.
no your honor.

i like those hats

you like the pope.
his hats,
his gowns,
his little car made of
bullet proof glass,
the way crowds
adore him,
and cry in his presence,
hanging on
every word
and wave of his hand.
it's not a bad
gig
being the pope, but
only part time.
it might be nice having
a part time job
besides that.
maybe in retail,
or as a waiter,
getting out and seeing
how people
really are.

i like those hats

you like the pope.
his hats,
his gowns,
his little car made of
bullet proof glass,
the way crowds
adore him,
and cry in his presence,
hanging on
every word
and wave of his hand.
it's not a bad
gig
being the pope, but
only part time.
it might be nice having
a part time job
besides that.
maybe in retail,
or as a waiter,
getting out and seeing
how people
really are.

let's get together

you don't return his
call right away,
so when
finally you find the time,
to ring him
up, he doesn't answer.
he takes his
turn at not returning
your call.
this goes
on for a few years until
you run into each
other at the grocery store,
and you both
say together,
I've trying to reach
you, we should
have lunch or dinner
one night and catch up,
but you never
do.

let's get together

you don't return his
call right away,
so when
finally you find the time,
to ring him
up, he doesn't answer.
he takes his
turn at not returning
your call.
this goes
on for a few years until
you run into each
other at the grocery store,
and you both
say together,
I've trying to reach
you, we should
have lunch or dinner
one night and catch up,
but you never
do.

unlearning

part of life
is unlearning what you've
been taught
at an early age,
stripping clean
what your parents told
you again and again
what to do.
how to live,
how to think.
as your son will
in time, do
to you.

bad boys

the neighborhood had
bad boys.
bad boys who got decent grades,
and played
sports,
but were bored with being good.
so they cursed,
they peeped
into windows, or stole
hubcaps,
they lifted sodas
from the store, stuffing
comics
into their pants.
they knew somehow of jokes,
mostly about sex.
on occasion one would have
a playboy magazine
to share with
the other boys in a stairwell
away from parents.
but being
the good catholic boy that
you were,
you stood back
and watched.
listened. you believed in
sin,
no sin less than another,
still do, which makes
life difficult.

lately

while writing checks
on bill night,
sunday night.
ink pen, envelopes,
check books,
receipts and stamps,
a bloody mary with a stalk
of celery
snug against the ice
in hand,
I consider online
banking.
but no.
I prefer to make
my own
mistakes.
I even consider
removing all the cash
out from under
my mattress
and putting it somewhere
safer,
but no place comes
to mind, lately.

too much

too generous with praise,
I see
right through it.
I fold my
arms together, crossing
my chest.
protecting my heart.
I know a lie
when I smell one,
and the closer you get,
the more I sneeze
and sniffle, I know
what's up
your sleeveless
dress, your batting
lashes, your
luscious red lips.
there's more, much
more behind all
of this.

we are moth

why go
to mars, why send
a drink
over to the most beautiful
woman in the bar,
why
buy a lottery ticket
a hundreds worth
despite the odds.
because.
as men,
we are innately fools
for risk
and danger, and
often fall into the habit
of making
bad decisions.
we are moth.
you are flame.

a slice of warm bread

sometimes all it takes
is a slice
of warm bread,
butter, and 

blueberry jam

spread

with the flat blade

of a knife

holding a reflection

of your morning

face.
coffee,
and an open

window to catch

the breeze.
the quiet of early morning.

gulls floating 

lazy in the sky.
the ocean can be there
too, across the cool sand,
the sun, just barely
up enough
to make it warm again.

enough

sometimes all it takes
is a slice
of warm bread,
butter, a knife with
blueberry jam
against the blade.
coffee,
and a breeze.
the quiet of early morning.
just gulls
floating lazy in the sky.
the ocean can be there
too,
across the still
cool sand,
the sun, just barely
up enough
to make it hot again.
that's enough
to sweeten
the summer
and make it memorable.

i like it, but

everyone
has a book inside them. a story to tell.
so they write
and write.
they take a creative writing
course down
at the local
community college.
they hand in pages of their
tale,
the other students
chew it up, spit it out.
we like it, they say,
but it needs more work.
it needs
to go somewhere.
it's boring.
I don't care about these people,
these characters
in your story.
show don't tell.
then at the mid way point
of the class
everyone goes outside to smoke
cigarettes
and make awkward
conversation about nothing
in particular. after ten
minutes out in the cold,
they rub the lit butts
of their cigarettes
out under their
shoes, then go back in for more.

i like it, but

everyone
has a book inside them. a story to tell.
so they write
and write.
they take a creative writing
course down
at the local
community college.
they hand in pages of their
tale,
the other students
chew it up, spit it out.
we like it, they say,
but it needs more work.
it needs
to go somewhere.
it's boring.
I don't care about these people,
these characters
in your story.
show don't tell.
then at the mid way point
of the class
everyone goes outside to smoke
cigarettes
and make awkward
conversation about nothing
in particular. after ten
minutes out in the cold,
they rub the lit butts
of their cigarettes
out under their
shoes, then go back in for more.

close your eyes

once, many years ago,
i was on a job interview
where
I was asked to close
my eyes
and think about where I wanted
to be in five
years.
I needed the job, so I
closed my eyes, I leaned
back.
I thought about how I didn't
want to be here,
in this office,
with this person across
the desk,
studying my resume.
I wanted to be on a beach
somewhere warm,
with white sand,
blue water,
a beautiful woman beside me.
he waited, and waited.
I fell asleep,
a smile etched across my lips.
saved again from being
where id didn't want to be.

it happens

it happens,
you wake up and wonder,
where am I
who is this person beside
me,
wearing a prairie dress,
sleeping.
your wallet in her hands.
a dog at the end of the bed,
scratching, licking.
children
running
around in the hallway
with matches
and magic markers.
how did I get here,
how do I get out.

it happens

it happens,
you wake up and wonder,
where am I
who is this person beside
me,
wearing a prairie dress,
sleeping.
your wallet in her hands.
a dog at the end of the bed,
scratching, licking.
children
running
around in the hallway
with matches
and magic markers.
how did I get here,
how do I get out.

the bad children

other people's children
are so bad.
so sticky
and unruly.
they bob about saying
things
with high pitched voices.
the burn of blue
eyes
staring at you
with guilt and suspicion,
yes, you old man.
they are a fingernail,
bitten down,
away from
doing something
wrong.
touching, gnashing,
mean
spirited already
before the world
has even sunk
its teeth into them.
these children, not yours,
of course,
but other people's,
they need to
stay inside,
away. from us.
lay down a road
of candy and video games
and steer them inside.