after bible study

i picked Susie
up after her bible study
one night, one winter,
a thousand years ago.
she didn't want to go home
right away, so we
bought a bottle
of wine, drank it in the car
then went back to the church
where she showed me
the wooden shed where they kept
the Christmas
decorations. the long strings
of lights and candles.
the manger,
with the straw.
the shepherds. the three
kings. mary, joseph and the
baby Jesus.
we sat down next to the
bales of straw. leaning on
a plastic camel
lying on his side
and kissed, drank more wine.
the moon shot through
the cracks of the split planks,
lighting us up in stripes.
we shouldn't do this,
she said. pointing around
at the still figures.
i turned each of them away
so that their eyes were not
looking at us, but still
she said no.
for a little while.

liver and onions

I remember my
mother standing over the stove,
at the thick black
pan spitting grease,
sautéing beef livers
and onions.
we gagged.
wanted none of it.
she knew that, finally
finding one
thing to eat
that we didn't want
to share and devour.

liver and onions

I remember my
mother standing over the stove,
at the thick black
pan spitting grease,
sautéing beef livers
and onions.
we gagged.
wanted none of it.
she knew that, finally
finding one
thing to eat
that we didn't want
to share and devour.

the side of the road

you hate
to see a dead cat
or dog
on the side of the street,
off the leash,
a collar
on. a runaway from
home.
careless out
on the open roads.
but with muskrats
it's different,
armadillos,
or squirrels, even
a bird
that flies into
your windshield,
a snake, perhaps,
you just don't have
that same
fuzzy sadness for them
and drive on
quickly
forgetting about it.

the rear view mirror

after many years,
it's easy to look back
and think
what was I doing
at that point in my life,
in that job,
in those clothes,
driving that car, married
to that particular
wife.
she can't be thinking
the same thing,
can she?

her birthday at 65

I don't want cake,
she says, no
surprise party for me.
I don't need
another wish
after blowing out my candles.
I don't need
a gift,
or a dozen roses,
or a card telling me
to be happy.
I just want
love
and another twenty years
in good health
to enjoy it.

her birthday at 65

I don't want cake,
she says, no
surprise party for me.
I don't need
another wish
after blowing out my candles.
I don't need
a gift,
or a dozen roses,
or a card telling me
to be happy.
I just want
love
and another twenty years
in good health
to enjoy it.

no worry

no worry
or wonder presents
itself
to the small bird,
sparrow,
browned and grey,
or black bird,
cardinal bright as blood
against the fallen
snow.
no stress
in what has occurred
overnight,
with wind and darkness
in the absence
of light.
it is just a day,
and what is needed will
be found,
or not, it continues,
or the next step of life
will occur.
none seemed bothered
like we are,
by it all.

loose change

the blue bowl
on top of the refrigerator
is full of
change.
lint, screws and nails,
nuts
and bolts,
debris of the day
taken from
my pockets.
in time i'll take it
all to the bank
and let it roll through
the machine,
counting out
my cash.
spooning the nickels
and dimes
into the slot.
keeping the trash out.
it's clean
money
going in, clean going
out.
it feels like a bonus
for some reason.
like finding
change between the cushions
of the couch,
or dollars
in the dryer, warm
and crisp.

small claims

you tried not
to finish his sentences
as he struggled
to get the words out.
his stammer and stutter
a slow nervous go
as you both stood in front
of the judge.
he was your lawyer for a small
fee, a small
case.
a life long friend.
so you let him go,
let him ramble
in his stop and start way,
his confidence never
swayed by
his gulping for air
and words.
in time, he finished
and won, shaking your hand,
happy to have
helped you,
happy that you kept
quiet
and let him be himself.

i've been here before

I remember you,
the doctor's assistant says.
a little button
on the side of her nose,
her shoulders squared.
her hair, a helmet of hair.
she's german.
I remember you, she
says again.
allergies, right?
whatever, I say.
sniffling and blowing
my nose into a fist full
of tissue.
sit, she says. I need
to take your blood pressure,
stand.
I need to weigh you.
tell me how you are.
allergies, I tell her.
wind, rain, the earth.
it all makes me sneeze.
blow into this tube she says.
let's measure your lungs.
I blow.
three times, I blow.
each less than the one
before.
she shrugs. oh well, she
says. and marks
something in a chart.
the doctor will be with
you soon. wait.
I sneeze. I wait. I've
been here before.
as in all in things now.
I've been here before.

the skaters

the ice
grows thick across the pond
while the melt
of sun
slips under a blanket
of woolen
blue.
the skaters wait,
skates tied tight as
a moon rises
across the mirrored curve.
these are places where
lovers go,
where the lonely
go,
where children
play, and me
wondering where you
are today.

where we stand

the yard
divided by a stretch of fence,
a wall,
a line of trees
or shrubs
keeps us
in our place. keeps
us home,
across
the border which tells
us where
we should be. what's mine
is mine,
what's yours is yours.
the space between us
is
not unlike
these barriers, whether
soft or hard,
defining where we stand.

the long drive home

she was wearing her
white plastic
boots
out in the yard, a hoe
nearby in case
a snake slithered up.
she was raking leaves
in a long
dress, her hair up.
her face a plum color
in the cold.
the trees were bare
and the sun was
as low as it gets for
that time of year.
i remember looking out
the window
watching her,
raking, pulling weeds,
moving rocks from one place
to another
for no other reason
than it felt right.
sometimes she'd look up
and wave.
i'd wave back and think
about how empty the trees
had become.
i'd think about the long
drive home.

the long drive home

she was wearing her
white plastic
boots
out in the yard, a hoe
nearby in case
a snake slithered up.
she was raking leaves
in a long
dress, her hair up.
her face a plum color
in the cold.
the trees were bare
and the sun was
as low as it gets for
that time of year.
i remember looking out
the window
watching her,
raking, pulling weeds,
moving rocks from one place
to another
for no other reason
than it felt right.
sometimes she'd look up
and wave.
i'd wave back and think
about how empty the trees
had become.
i'd think about the long
drive home.

our five and dime

we miss our
five and dime, Lydia
and me.
we miss
the short walk over
past the old Anderson house.
the coffee shop,
the hardware store,
the alley where the bums
hung out.
we miss our five and dime,
our red vinyl seats where
we could sit all
afternoon
and drink coffee,
eat pie
and talk about
the good old days,
before this, before that
how everything was better
back then.
we miss our five
and dime.
Lydia and me, when
she was around,
we'd go hand in hand
to our little
store, sometimes
stopping to kiss
under a lamp post,
at the beginning of us,
at the edge of town.

she loves to dance

she likes to dance.
no, let me correct that.
she loves
to dance.
she loves to tell everyone
within range
how much she
loves to dance.
in fact, every chance
she gets
she tells someone
i'm going dancing tomorrow
or tonight,
or Saturday.
I might even go alone,
she says.
she'll stretch
her arms
out, touch her toes
and arch her
back, leaning on a bar stool.
she'll ask if she ever
told you
that she loves
dance, then kick
her leg into the air
to show you
how limber she is.
we should go dancing sometime
she tells you.
do you dance?
you say no, looking at your
watch.

she loves to dance

she likes to dance.
no, let me correct that.
she loves
to dance.
she loves to tell everyone
within range
how much she
loves to dance.
in fact, every chance
she gets
she tells someone
i'm going dancing tomorrow
or tonight,
or Saturday.
I might even go alone,
she says.
she'll stretch
her arms
out, touch her toes
and arch her
back, leaning on a bar stool.
she'll ask if she ever
told you
that she loves
dance, then kick
her leg into the air
to show you
how limber she is.
we should go dancing sometime
she tells you.
do you dance?
you say no, looking at your
watch.

the lollipop

despite
my accounts, my picture
id
and deposit slip
with my name and address
clearly printed
on it,
the teller
at my bank is highly
suspicious.
he needs to go talk
to the manager
he says,
looking at me sideways
turning the check
over and over,
squinting
at the numbers.
he locks up his drawer
then leaves.
I take a lollipop from
the bowl
and wait.
sucking on it's sweet
pineapple
candy
until he returns
to ask will that be
in fifties or twenties.

tomorrow

what's sweet
isn't always so. what's
golden
doesn't always
glow.
what's real
sometimes is just
an illusion.
which are you today,
tomorrow,
before we go any further,
I need to know.

tomorrow

what's sweet
isn't always so. what's
golden
doesn't always
glow.
what's real
sometimes is just
an illusion.
which are you today,
tomorrow,
before we go any further,
I need to know.

the barking dog

does that dog bark
all day,
the new owner asks,
as we paint his house
and he comes
to see the progress
of the work.
no, I tell him,
only when you are here.
oh, he says,
looking out the window
at the chained
dog, the hair
on his back standing.

christmas cookies

she offered us
a cookie.
a sugar cookie, hot
from the oven
with sprinkles.
red and green,
Christmas cookies.
she held the plate
out
and said, take a few.
they're still warm.
so we did
for the ride home,
but I wondered
where the icing was,
like my mother used
to do.

don't borrow money

don't borrow money
from a friend
or relative, or go into
business with
them.
don't sit a table
and discuss
politics or religion.
don't confess
or listen to confessions.
don't offer
advice,
or seek counsel.
close your ears when
a secret is whispered
towards you.
to make this love last,
quiet acceptance
is the best
route to take.

her wings

I look at a road
map, to see how far it is
to where she lives
across country.
I look at the red lines,
the blue highways.
the mountains,
the streams and valleys
i'd need to cross
and go through to get to
her. it's hard
getting from here to there
without wings.
she used to have wings.
she used
to arrive with feathers
flying.

her wings

I look at a road
map, to see how far it is
to where she lives
across country.
I look at the red lines,
the blue highways.
the mountains,
the streams and valleys
i'd need to cross
and go through to get to
her. it's hard
getting from here to there
without wings.
she used to have wings.
she used
to arrive with feathers
flying.

the love notes

each day
there is a note attached
to your door.
the gutters are going to be
cleaned,
the roof replaced,
we need to get into
your back yard
so unlock the gate.
we will
be painting next week,
digging up
the old to replant
the new.
trash pick up will be
on Friday this week not
Thursday on account of
the holiday.
never is there a note
saying I love
you. I stopped by to crawl
into bed with
you and kiss you
all over.

the love notes

each day
there is a note attached
to your door.
the gutters are going to be
cleaned,
the roof replaced,
we need to get into
your back yard
so unlock the gate.
we will
be painting next week,
digging up
the old to replant
the new.
trash pick up will be
on Friday this week not
Thursday on account of
the holiday.
never is there a note
saying I love
you. I stopped by to crawl
into bed with
you and kiss you
all over.

preparing for the worst

you have enough
of nearly everything.
spoons
fill the drawer, clothes
are stuffed
in the closets.
more shoes
than you'll ever need
are lined against the wall.
there is milk
and bread,
eggs.
cans of food you'll never
open or eat.
you've spent a lifetime
adding more
onto more
of things you don't need.
you have been preparing
for the worst, it seems.
waiting for the mushroom
cloud on the horizon.
you are still running
home from school
with the sirens blowing
looking up into
the sky
for end.

i hardly know you

she says no.
you say why not.
she says
I hardly know you.
you say,
I know, but what's
the point.
perhaps in doing this
we will get to know
one another better.
maybe, she says.
good,
you say.
that's better than
a no.
perhaps tomorrow i'll
hear a yes.
maybe,
she says. maybe,
but for now it's no,
so it might be
best that you
put your shoes back on
and go.

i hardly know you

she says no.
you say why not.
she says
I hardly know you.
you say,
I know, but what's
the point.
perhaps in doing this
we will get to know
one another better.
maybe, she says.
good,
you say.
that's better than
a no.
perhaps tomorrow i'll
hear a yes.
maybe,
she says. maybe,
but for now it's no,
so it might be
best that you
put your shoes back on
and go.

space travel

they've given up
on going to the moon.
been there,
done that.
there is no reason to return.
we have our own rocks
here on earth.
on the moon there is
no air.
no water.
no heat.
no coffee.
they ponder mars next.
peering through
the long telescope,
nodding yes.
maybe
it will be more accommodating.

barcelona 1959

the wooden wagon
pulled by a horse,
an old
horse, sagging at the seat,
sloped
from his work,
stops
to deliver ice.
with sharp tongs
the man in a striped shirt
pulls
a block of melting
ice from the back
of the wagon,
undrapping a canvas
cloth.
he carts it in
to where your mother
chips it
on the kitchen floor.
a hammer and chisel
in hands.
she stores
what she can into the ice
box,
keeping cold
for another week
milk
and meat.

the old tricks

I see the trick
in you. the way the cards
are held,
the way, you turn
and hide what you're
up to. the deceptive shuffle.
I see the full
sleeve, the top hat,
what's in your pockets.
I know all of your
distractions, your ploys
to make me
look the other way.
I know you.
you know that don't you.
so stop, please
and come here and sit,
tell me
what's on your mind.

flames

the fire grows
as you bend and feed it
sticks
broken in your hand.
tossing more into the flames.
like affection,
the more you give,
the more love and fires
grow.

flames

the fire grows
as you bend and feed it
sticks
broken in your hand.
tossing more into the flames.
like affection,
the more you give,
the more love and fires
grow.

the subway ride

his long black
coat
hung thick and wide
on his
bone thin body.
his hand held the strap
as the subway
car veered
and swayed beneath
the cold bricks
and pavement of the city.
his wife
sat near, studying her
gloved hands.
his silvered eyes
watched
as the stations
rolled by, his good ear
leaning towards
the sound of the conductor's
voice.
when they arrived,
the doors slid open
then he nodded to her,
and together they rose
and went to town.

before you go

before you go,
kiss me.
before you leave,
put your hand
upon my heart and say
you love me.
before you
close the door and
walk away
for the last time,
tell me something
I can hold on to
and not be sad.
before you go,
kiss me once
more, like you
did before, when our
love was new,
when it just began.

before you go

before you go,
kiss me.
before you leave,
put your hand
upon my heart and say
you love me.
before you
close the door and
walk away
for the last time,
tell me something
I can hold on to
and not be sad.
before you go,
kiss me once
more, like you
did before, when our
love was new,
when it just began.

the pie eulogy

each and every mourner
though
hardly in mourning,
expressed with some touch
of mirth their
eulogy for aunt jean,
though never really an aunt,
or parent of her own.
instead of grief
and regret,
they spoke of joy, of
her baking
skills,
the culinary masterworks
of her life.
one said
how soft and crumbly
the crust
was on her blueberry
nine inch pie, how it
won the county prize,
the blue ribbon even
now adorning
the silver casket which
sits aside
the dirt which will fill
the perfectly carved space
that awaits her.
another talked of pumpkin
pies
which she made for the holidays,
another eulogist brought
up
her mince meat wonder,
the secrets of which are now
departed with her.
she would be as missed as she
was truly
unknown, or even perhaps
loved, though
finding a way through eggs
and cream, sugar
and dough, a way to overcome
all that.

before night

the worker
at his station, bent
over
a machine, grinding
metal down
into a different shape.
the heat and flame
in his hand,
his head
masked hard
to protect him.
there is no complaint,
no concern
about what he does,
the danger,
he only fears that one
day
the job won't be there,
then
what is there to do,
what good
are empty hands
to his children, his wife,
the day
he needs to fill
before night.

these woods

these woods you walk
into
then walk out
haven't changed
much over
the years, so you
think,
as you do of yourself.
ignoring
what's fallen,
what's died
or grown over.
there are bones scattered
along the path
that you walk
over.
the bare whiteness
of flesh removed
awakens you
to nothing new.
you'll return to these woods
many times
before your own death,
before your own bones
are laid bare,
which bothers you
less and less
as you go deeper into
these old woods.

she's not there

you can rent a room
by the hour
in Amherst
and see what she saw.
peer out her second
story window,
sit where
she sat
and wrote in her strange
exact
way of writing,
perhaps feel
the heat from her stove,
touch
the bed, the linens
where she lay
before
placing beneath the mattress
her poems,
but still you won't
know her.
everything remains
as it was,
except she's not there.

she's not there

you can rent a room
by the hour
in Amherst
and see what she saw.
peer out her second
story window,
sit where
she sat
and wrote in her strange
exact
way of writing,
perhaps feel
the heat from her stove,
touch
the bed, the linens
where she lay
before
placing beneath the mattress
her poems,
but still you won't
know her.
everything remains
as it was,
except she's not there.

firmly ashore

it appears to be a short
swim
across the river
to the other side.
the lane
of water moves blue
and soft under
a warm sun.
it looks easy
when you're young,
but you think,
differently now
knowing what you know,
and what lies below.

firmly ashore

it appears to be a short
swim
across the river
to the other side.
the lane
of water moves blue
and soft under
a warm sun.
it looks easy
when you're young,
but you think,
differently now
knowing what you know,
and what lies below.

what draws near

all day
the dead are with you.
whispering
into your ear.
putting a hand on
your shoulder.
there is nothing to be
said in return.
you can only listen,
listen
to what is said,
and wait for
what draws near.

what draws near

all day
the dead are with you.
whispering
into your ear.
putting a hand on
your shoulder.
there is nothing to be
said in return.
you can only listen,
listen
to what is said,
and wait for
what draws near.

the game

the men are getting old,
after decades
of playing ball together,
yet,
they still show
up
in woolen clothes,
hats,
sweats buttoned
and pulled
tight to keep out
the wind,
the cold. the limps
and aches
laughed at as we press on.
it's more than a game,
more than
exercise,
it's beyond all of that.
it's beyond what we
can even begin
to know.

the game

the men are getting old,
after decades
of playing ball together,
yet,
they still show
up
in woolen clothes,
hats,
sweats buttoned
and pulled
tight to keep out
the wind,
the cold. the limps
and aches
laughed at as we press on.
it's more than a game,
more than
exercise,
it's beyond all of that.
it's beyond what we
can even begin
to know.

these tools

these tools
that know your hand,
shaped
by days of work
are neither friend nor
foe, but
things,
things you hold
only
when it's time,
when they are needed,
so perhaps,
they are no
different after all.

these tools

these tools
that know your hand,
shaped
by days of work
are neither friend nor
foe, but
things,
things you hold
only
when it's time,
when they are needed,
so perhaps,
they are no
different after all.

giddyup

I've been thinking about
buying a horse.
I know nothing about horses.
I've seen them
on tv and in the movies though
and they look like a lot of fun.
if I had a horse I think
I could meet women
who also like horses, which
seems to be every
woman on earth.
I like those pants they wear,
and the boots that go up
past the knees. nice.
love the boots. not to mention
those tight red
jackets with shiny buttons, and hats.
I hate to admit it, but I like
those riding crops too.
maybe I could buy a medium sized horse,
similar to the one
roy rogers had,
trigger. same color, blonde
with brown eyes.
I wouldn't have to get on
it, or ride it around,
I could just keep it in
a barn somewhere and go
down to visit once in awhile,
swat some flies
off it,
hose it down, maybe walk it around
the pasture, bring it some
carrots, oats, cubes
of sugar. maybe for Christmas
someone will buy me a horse.
that would be swell.

love notes

a rock flies through
your window
with a note attached.
it must be from an old
lover, you think,
watching it as it rolls
to a stop
against the far wall,
next to all the other
rocks with notes attached.
you sip your coffee
as the dog goes over
to sniff the new
rock. he looks at you
and shrugs.
some people never quite
get over things, you
think, as you write
your own note
and tape it to a nice
sized rock.

love notes

a rock flies through
your window
with a note attached.
it must be from an old
lover, you think,
watching it as it rolls
to a stop
against the far wall,
next to all the other
rocks with notes attached.
you sip your coffee
as the dog goes over
to sniff the new
rock. he looks at you
and shrugs.
some people never quite
get over things, you
think, as you write
your own note
and tape it to a nice
sized rock.

the new you

my therapist asks me how
things are going
lately with the new job,
the new
girlfriend, the new dog,
the new apartment.
i'm stretched out on her
sofa staring at my new
brown shoes and playing
with the buttons on my
new shirt.
good, I say. good. I
think that change is good,
right?
but sometimes I feel like
I don't know who I am
anymore after turning
over so many new leaves.
I see she says.
I look in the mirror with
my new haircut and suntan,
and I almost don't recognize
myself. I ask my new friends
who I am and they laugh.
but are you happy, she says,
clicking her pen open
and closed. are you happy
with the new you?
not really, I tell her.
not really. I sort of miss me.

heading south

it's almost time
to hop the freight train
to florida, find an orange
grove to call home.
you've thrown out the plants,
cleaned
out the perishables
from the fridge.
folded all the laundry.
yesterday there was
ice on the windshield.
you stared at your snow
shovel
still against the wall
in the basement.
maybe after Christmas,
or new years
you'll go down to the station
and pick out a nice
empty box car,
chase it as it rambles
slowly south
and jump on.
a bag of clothes, a pocket
full of cash
a banjo strapped
to your back.

escape plan

it's good to know
where the back door is.
where the key
is hidden, which window
is not latched.
it's good to know,
there's
a basement or any attic
where you can go
and get out in a flash.
it's good
to have a plan
of escape
in any form of endeavor.

escape plan

it's good to know
where the back door is.
where the key
is hidden, which window
is not latched.
it's good to know,
there's
a basement or any attic
where you can go
and get out in a flash.
it's good
to have a plan
of escape
in any form of endeavor.

how easy

how easy
and cruel it is
to argue and not agree,
preaching
one's own
brand of knowledge
and opinion
to any ear
within reach, that
cannot flee.

how easy

how easy
and cruel it is
to argue and not agree,
preaching
one's own
brand of knowledge
and opinion
to any ear
within reach, that
cannot flee.

rest in peace

til death do we
part sounds
ominous, but it's really
an optimistic note
on a tragic ending.
you are finally free
to eat
what you want, wear
the clothes that you want,
snore and snore
away
stretching, having
the whole bed to your self.
you can stay
home and watch the game
in your underwear,
no longer
attending the gatherings
of in-laws,
making small talk, while
checking your
phone for the score.
may we both rest in peace.

rest in peace

til death do we
part sounds
ominous, but it's really
an optimistic note
on a tragic ending.
you are finally free
to eat
what you want, wear
the clothes that you want,
snore and snore
away
stretching, having
the whole bed to your self.
you can stay
home and watch the game
in your underwear,
no longer
attending the gatherings
of in-laws,
making small talk, while
checking your
phone for the score.
may we both rest in peace.

a close shave

a completely smooth
shave
is difficult
as one ages.
the creases and sags,
the nooks
and crannies
of one's face grows
increasingly strange,
becoming new
terrain for the razor.
some stubble
is left behind, shaving
cream too,
behind an ear,
along the neck.
there are nicks, cuts
that dribble out
rivulets of blood,
stopped only
with tissue
or the collar of a shirt.
as time goes on you have
new admiration
for those
that give it all
up, and discover
the ease
of a walt Whitman beard.

the rainbow arm

we signed
the cast on my mother's arm
the next day.
colored it
with paint
and crayons.
a rainbow appeared
on the white cast
that went from
wrist
to elbow.
thick and smoothed,
wrapped so that a thumb
and fingers
poked out.
she still
had her left hand
to boil water,
fill bottles,
change diapers
and get us to school.
my father
remained unscathed.
sleeping it all
off,
only a small scratch
on his unshaved
face.

the rainbow arm

we signed
the cast on my mother's arm
the next day.
colored it
with paint
and crayons.
a rainbow appeared
on the white cast
that went from
wrist
to elbow.
thick and smoothed,
wrapped so that a thumb
and fingers
poked out.
she still
had her left hand
to boil water,
fill bottles,
change diapers
and get us to school.
my father
remained unscathed.
sleeping it all
off,
only a small scratch
on his unshaved
face.

the all night store

some cans,
some jars with labels
torn
expiration dates
met
and passed
remain
on the shelf.
some in the ice
box
others
in the cupboard,
nestled tightly,
side by side.
sometimes I move them
to the back
to make room
for more.
like us.
what was new becomes
old,
replaced, renewed,
replenished
from
the open all night
store.

physics class

i know little about science
or physics
having learned
the bare minimum
back in high school
the rudimentary knowledge
forced upon
us by narrow
collared teachers
with thick
spectacles. my thoughts
lay elsewhere.
there was no enjoyment
in learning
how an apple
on the moon dropped
would hit the ground
at the same time as a feather.
did Cyndi know that?
three rows up
in her plaid skirt.
her pony tail.
her small hand raised
for nearly
every question posed?
of course she did.

was it fun?

it's less
about love or money,
things
possessed
things lost in the long
shuffle
of life.
it's not where
you are, how far you've
come.
who you know,
or
sleep with.
it's not the car, the house,
the prizes
that you've won,
the diplomas earned,
it's about none
of this as the end
draws near.
as the light grows dim
around you.
was it fun?

the day and the next day

early
in the morning,
I watch the man
smooth
the mortar with a pointed
trowel
along the walk way,
tapping
new bricks into place.
his level
tells him less
or more.
he wipes his brow,
sips
his water.
in time the stairs are
new again.
settling hard,
for feet to tread upon.
he goes home,
has dinner with his wife.
tells his
children
goodnight, and thinks
about
the next day, the next
set of steps
he needs to make
right.

this wind

this wind
carves
the woods. unsettles all
not tight
and wound
upon the trees.
the shiver of winter
nears.
how quickly
the pages turn,
the lives
of loved ones,
once flowers,
disappear,

i've met someone

through the shared wall
I could hear my neighbor
playing her piano.
sometimes if there were no
students there,
she would sing too.
she had a high pitched voice
not unlike laura nyro.
I preferred her just playing.
it was easy
to lie there
and fall asleep on the couch
as her fingers danced
easily across
the keys.
we never talked about it
when we greeted each
other in the parking lot,
coming and going, raking leaves,
or shoveling snow.
one day she told me that she
had met someone.
it wasn't long after that,
that she moved.

season tickets

on the phone, very late
into the night
my friend
calls.
he's unusually calm, whispering
into the phone,
I imagine his
hand cupped around the
speaker,
as he looks towards
the basement steps
to see if anyone
is coming down.
i'm getting a divorce, he
says.
I found a place, a condo,
on the west end.
it's perfect.
he gives me no time to
respond and keeps
talking.
I've met someone, he says,
actually I have
maybe three prospects.
my wife doesn't know,
the kids
don't know. I've only
told a few people,
you being one
of them. he waits.
I here him breathing,
waiting for me to say something.
what about your season
tickets to the games,
I ask him.
my god he says, I haven't
even thought about that.

like us

the ship
seems still
that far out along the grey
green coast
of the atlantic
ocean.
it hardly
appears to be moving,
going anywhere.
you can see the curve
of the earth.
looking left to right,
the way shadows
lie down
like blankets
upon the wide sea,
but the ship, it's dull red
hull remains still,
until it doesn't
anymore, and like us,
disappears
from view.

be happy

it's not just another
day
the speaker says, jubilant
and glowing
on the stage,
giving his seminar
on positive thinking
and finding joy
in your life
no matter what the
circumstances.
today is the first day
of the rest of your life
he shouts.
he bounces around
in his new suit and shoes,
his hair slicked
back. his books
are stacked up on a table,
to be sold,
signed and ready
to go.
it's all going well until
someone in
the audience
throws a tomato at him.
hitting him in the head.
he's not so
happy then.

be happy

it's not just another
day
the speaker says, jubilant
and glowing
on the stage,
giving his seminar
on positive thinking
and finding joy
in your life
no matter what the
circumstances.
today is the first day
of the rest of your life
he shouts.
he bounces around
in his new suit and shoes,
his hair slicked
back. his books
are stacked up on a table,
to be sold,
signed and ready
to go.
it's all going well until
someone in
the audience
throws a tomato at him.
hitting him in the head.
he's not so
happy then.

spit polish

I haven't shined a pair of shoes
in a long time.
maybe decades have passed
since I took out the small
bag with polish
and brush, a chamois cloth
and put a sheen onto a pair
of buster browns.
there hasn't been a need to.
the funeral shoes
get dusty, but are almost
new. the wedding shoes,
which look like the funeral
shoes, but more fancy,
are the same. dusty and just
need a wiping of a dry cloth.
but if I had to, I could.
I could take a pair
of dulled leather boots
and make them glow, make
them shine in the overhead
light at the kitchen table.
the newspaper down, just like
my mother told me.

we need you

when you worked in an office
any task
that involved lifting
came to you
being low man on the pole.
they found you in your boxed
in corner,
behind a desk,
holding a mere
pencil that was about
to be broken in your restless fist.
what was the point of
being young
and strong if you were
not to be used
in this way.
get the box off the top
shelf, we need more paper,
they'd say.
get the dolly and wheel
this water cooler out to the curb.
lift it into
the trunk.
can you move the copying
machine out from
the wall,
can you lift that desk,
slide the cubicle
down a few feet?
but you didn't mind.
at happy hour things were
different.

hot tea

the hot tea
burns your tongue.
for hours
it stings
at the tip, along
the edges,
it's a small reminder
of what can
happen
when you sip too quickly
too soon,
put your lips
to the edge
of any hot cup
you don't know.

hot tea

the hot tea
burns your tongue.
for hours
it stings
at the tip, along
the edges,
it's a small reminder
of what can
happen
when you sip too quickly
too soon,
put your lips
to the edge
of any hot cup
you don't know.

you're welcome

the boy who sat
next to me through twelve grades
of school. the boy
who cheated off my
papers, copied
my homework, word
for word.
the boy who never read
a book, or
raised his hand
in class.
yes, that boy,
the boy who I slipped
the answers to
during every test
for years and years,
that boy
is now a doctor.
I want to visit him
at some point
and tell him, you're
welcome.

unlike mine

I worry about my son,
how casual
and carefree he is living
in southern California.
I want him to once
struggle
and be unable to sleep,
to concern himself
about money and a career.
but no.
instead, he's happy
with his life.
basking in the glow
of a warm sun,
making ends meet.
he's content with his girlfriend,
his dog,
his ability to relax
and live a life
unlike mine.

unlike mine

I worry about my son,
how casual
and carefree he is living
in southern California.
I want him to once
struggle
and be unable to sleep,
to concern himself
about money and a career.
but no.
instead, he's happy
with his life.
basking in the glow
of a warm sun,
making ends meet.
he's content with his girlfriend,
his dog,
his ability to relax
and live a life
unlike mine.

holiday decor

the lights won't go on.
you flip
the switch.
but no.
the silver tree stays unlit.
you pull on the wire,
pop in new batteries,
still nothing.
you pick it up and give
it a good shake.
it might be time
for a new Christmas tree
to set upon your table.
it had a good
run though.
seven or eight years
being carried
up from the laundry
room
to complete your extensive
holiday
decorating.

nothing said

the small boy
with his truck, makes all the noises
that he imagines
a truck would make,
going forward, going backwards.
he's in the middle of the floor
of the rest home
where my mother sits in a rocker,
rocking towards
the television
in the corner.
the boy wants attention, wants
someone to play
with.
my mother stares at him
blankly, unsmiling,
unsure
of this boy, his bright eyes,
his light hair,
his feverish game alone
on the floor.
she can't get the words out,
then looks at me,
trying so hard
to make sense of any of this.
there is nothing i can
say to help.

nothing said

the small boy
with his truck, makes all the noises
that he imagines
a truck would make,
going forward, going backwards.
he's in the middle of the floor
of the rest home
where my mother sits in a rocker,
rocking towards
the television
in the corner.
the boy wants attention, wants
someone to play
with.
my mother stares at him
blankly, unsmiling,
unsure
of this boy, his bright eyes,
his light hair,
his feverish game alone
on the floor.
she can't get the words out,
then looks at me,
trying so hard
to make sense of any of this.
there is nothing i can
say to help.

i understand

the salesman
rings the bell. I see him
straighten his
tie
as I peer through the peep
hole
in the door.
he rings it again,
then uses the knocker.
banging loudly.
I can see you looking out,
he says.
I know you're in there.
he goes to the window
and sees the tv
on. the pot boiling water.
I duck down
behind the sink.
come on, he says. open up.
I know you need
term life insurance
and this is a once in a life
time deal.
hey, he yells.
finally I yell back to him.
I can't open up,
I say loudly.
I have a woman in here.
oh, he says. i'm sorry,
so when is a good
time to come back?
I don't know, I tell him.
you never know about
these things.
to which he says,
i understand
completely, then leaves..

islands in the fog

I can't remember her name,
but I do remember what she looked
like. what her skin felt like.
black hair, black eyes.
short, on the curvy side.
she said she was half American
indian and half French. who knows.
we went out for a while.
I can't even remember where
I met her.
in a club, maybe. dancing,
drinking,
doing what young men did
back then.
it wasn't really going out,
it was more
her coming to my apartment
and spending a few hours
eating and making love.
she never spent the night,
she had a kid, or two kids
she had to get back to.
I was never clear on that.
a lot of what I remember about
her is vague, as if it all
happened in a fog.
but I do remember her skin.
how rough it was. how hard
and grainy it was to the touch.
I had never felt skin like
that before
and would slowly
drag my finger tips across
her back, being amazed,
but not saying a word.
in time, I drifted away,
so did she.

new choppers

he is proud of his new teeth
and opens
his mouth
to show them to me at 8 o'clock
in the morning.
a cloud of
Marlboro smoke
puffs out.
nice, I tell him.
they look
good, real.
they only hurt a little,
he says.
they smoothed down
the bone that was keeping
them from snapping
into place.
nice I say.
i'm going to the steak house
this
weekend,
he tells me.
i'm getting loaded baked
potatoes along
with a ribeye.
good, I tell him.
good.
then hand him a bucket
and a brush,
and point to a spot
near the ceiling
that he missed yesterday.

while eating nuts

I could be a doctor
by now,
or an esteemed lawyer,
or scientist
solving the mysteries
that confound
the world,
but no, instead I sit
here on the couch
breaking apart pistachio
nuts with my
teeth and tongue,
spitting shells into
a bowl
cupped between my legs,
while
flipping back and forth
from channel to channel
on the big screen
smart tv.

the pool

how excited you
were
to see the pool in the backyard
when you came home
from school,
your mother
in her plaid shorts
filling it up with a garden
hose.
the dog already inside
splashing around.
these luxuries
made your summer.
an above ground pool,
blue,
and bulging at the sides.
a wire mesh
holding it all together.
like birds,
the neighborhood
filled it up with children.
it lasted a week,
but a good week
it was that early june.

the door is ajar

the door is ajar.
someone has just left
or just come in.
there is no car
in the driveway,
the dog hasn't barked.
I hear no footsteps
about the house.
nothing. I go and sit
on the sofa.
await, whoever it
might be. ready to hear
their story
and then tell mine.

a love poem

the itch is still there.
nothing can
reach it, no stick or door
edge,
no rolling in
the blankets,
no book will find
it.
no stranger's hand
can locate
where it is
within your heart.
only you
can scratch it out,
come soon.

a love poem

the itch is still there.
nothing can
reach it, no stick or door
edge,
no rolling in
the blankets,
no book will find
it.
no stranger's hand
can locate
where it is
within your heart.
only you
can scratch it out,
come soon.

who needs them

if not for the cats we
wouldn't have to change the floors,
she says to me,
pointing at brown
rust spots in the carpet.
the previous owner had five cats.
can you believe that?
one or two should be the legal
limit, I tell her,
watching where i'm stepping.
personally I prefer
dogs, she says. not a big dog,
or one of those small
yapping dogs, but a medium
sized dog.
me too, I tell her.
to be honest with you,
i'm a dog person.
in fact, she says, I like
dogs better than most people.
I smile and nod my head.
I agree, people can be a pain
in the neck, I say. people,
pffft,
who needs them.?

who needs them

if not for the cats we
wouldn't have to change the floors,
she says to me,
pointing at brown
rust spots in the carpet.
the previous owner had five cats.
can you believe that?
one or two should be the legal
limit, I tell her,
watching where i'm stepping.
personally I prefer
dogs, she says. not a big dog,
or one of those small
yapping dogs, but a medium
sized dog.
me too, I tell her.
to be honest with you,
i'm a dog person.
in fact, she says, I like
dogs better than most people.
I smile and nod my head.
I agree, people can be a pain
in the neck, I say. people,
pffft,
who needs them.?

from here to there

not everyone
wants to go home.
go back to from where they came.
some want
to stay on the open
road.
keep moving, keep
getting farther
and farther away from
where they came.
so many directions to go.
so many ways
to travel.
so many years to get from
here to there
and to forget.

stop doing that

oh my
the dental hygienist says,
adjusting her glasses,
and her mask,
there's a lot
of blood coming from
that gum
behind
your wisdom tooth.
I hold up my hand
in a koko the monkey gesture
to stop.
grimacing at the pain.
she sucks the blood
out of my mouth
with a plastic tube
and then I tell her,
it's bleeding because
you keep stabbing me
with that metal tool
sharpened to a razor
like point.
every time you jab it
into my gums,
I bleed. why are you doing
that?

stop doing that

oh my
the dental hygienist says,
adjusting her glasses,
and her mask,
there's a lot
of blood coming from
that gum
behind
your wisdom tooth.
I hold up my hand
in a koko the monkey gesture
to stop.
grimacing at the pain.
she sucks the blood
out of my mouth
with a plastic tube
and then I tell her,
it's bleeding because
you keep stabbing me
with that metal tool
sharpened to a razor
like point.
every time you jab it
into my gums,
I bleed. why are you doing
that?

one more

a woman once
brought a baby to our parent's
house
wrapped in a blanket.
no one but us children
were home.
she had dark hair,
dark eyes.
she looked like
none of us. we were children,
but took the baby
from this strange woman.
here's your father's
baby she said,
handing the small thing
to my little sister, who bent
from the weight.
tell him I left his baby
with you, she said, then left.
we watched her out the window,
lighting a cigarette, then
driving away.
someone changed the baby's diaper,
someone heated up
a bottle of milk,
someone brushed her hair,
then rocked her to sleep.
what was one more?

a side order

she likes love.
being in love, being with
one person
for the rest of her life.
whether bound
by the laws marriage or
a simple handshake,
but she says it's like
having your favorite
dinner every night.
steak, or pasta, or a
fresh garden salad.
it never changes, she says,
still smiling,
but looking down the road
at the neon sign
of a diner, flashing open.
sometimes though, she says,
it would be nice
to have a side
order of something different.

the burden of love

when my son tired
walking around the lake,

I picked him up,
let him ride

on my back for a mile
or two, then set

him down.
we'd rest on a bench facing

the sun,
skipping rocks,

searching for turtles
or frogs just to say

we saw one.
he's too large to carry now,

living on another coast,
but I do hold him

in my heart at night,
the burden of love

is never set down.

found money

you find
a warm, crumpled five
dollar bill
in the dryer
and consider it luck.
but it isn't luck.
it's something else.
it's money
laundered clean,
ready to be spent
or lost again.

found money

you find
a warm, crumpled five
dollar bill
in the dryer
and consider it luck.
but it isn't luck.
it's something else.
it's money
laundered clean,
ready to be spent
or lost again.

have a good one

you can't remember
if you've sent this card before.
the generic one with
snow
and a sky full of stars.
not an angel or mention
of Christ to
be found.
the box of a hundred
has dwindled down
to a dozen or less
over the years.
your list
has grown shorter
as people die
or move to places far
away. there are
other ways now
to say merry Christmas
happy new year. benignly
of course
so as not to offend,
maybe a smile
with the words, texted,
have a good one.

jumper cables

there was a time
when
it got cold, really cold.
when the streets were
white,
ice on the windshield cold,
so cold
that no one's car
would start.
the whole block was full
of beat up cars
with their hoods up,
jumper cables
strung from one car to
another,
the men would stand nearby
by as the batteries
charged,
and blue exhaust
dirtied the snow, bloomed
acrid in the air.
the men, old and young
smoked and grunted,
tightening their thin
coats while
rubbing their
two day beards. the women
would be inside,
waiting,
looking out the windows
with long faces
thinking things they could
never say
or do.

holiday memories

let's not fight
today, I tell her as she
picks up a plate
of left over turkey to hurl
at me. the look on her
face
is that of her mother's.
I suddenly see the future.
let's let bygones be
bygones. okay?
I duck when the plate
comes flying towards my
head. it crashes into
the wall
knocking down our wedding
pictures
on the mantle.
the dog, cowering under
the table
seizes the moment, rushes
out for bones
and debris, some gravy,
the inedible butternut squash
that her
mother brought over.

spice cake

what is there
in the cake
that isn't in you.
sugar, eggs, cream
and butter.
icing. spice.
I could have a slice
of you a day
but that
might be too much
for my
sweet tooth,
making me take you for
granted.
just having you near
under glass,
with knife
nearby is enough
to get me through
the day, or night,
without a bite,
a nibble, a slice,
although a midnight
taste would
certainly be nice.

the red planet

you sign up
for the mission to mars, and strangely
they accept your
application.
you just want to get away
for awhile
in a space suit,
eat things out of a tube,
look out the window
at the planets,
the stars.
you just want to go along
for the ride
and not work, or push
buttons, or
say things like all systems
go, or roger that.
maybe you'll take a nap
along the way, stretch out
and do some crossword puzzles.
use your phone
to take pictures, on
the alert
for alien space ships, pointing
interesting things
out to the busy
astronauts.
you can help gather rocks
and stuff like
that when you get there
if your back hasn't stiffened up
from the long trip.
maybe you'll straighten up
the ship
when the real astronauts
are out doing things.
you imagine there will be
red dust floating everywhere.
maybe you'll see
if betty can come too.
she doesn't eat much or take
up too much room.
we can share a space suit
if need be. she can bring her
vacuum.

maybe Spain

they live
and die politics. listening all
day
to the pundits,
to the blabbering talk
shows,
but just one side.
they rattle
the paper in front of you
and cry,
did you read this.
look at the headline.
did you see what he's going
to do now?
they are distressed
and crying. everyday they moan
and groan,
they can't sleep, or eat.
it's the end
they say,
we're moving to Canada,
to cuba,
to the Netherlands,
maybe Spain.

the long visit

they come
to visit. luggage. a dog.
three kids
in tow,
all table high,
all turning knobs on
the stove.
the back door is left
open.
the music turned
up.
in the middle of the night
they wander
and cough.
I hear the steps creak,
the bedsprings as they
make love,
fight.
these blood strangers
who come
just once a year,
have settled upon
the sofa,
holding the remote,
asking
if there is anything
cold to drink,
or hot.
nothing is put back.
the dishes
rise
in the sink. it's only
Saturday morning.
but not too early
to start drinking.

unhurried

unhurried
in a fast world, I hug
the right lane,
linger
at the end of any line,
unrushed
with groceries.
I have the luxury
of time.
no place to be,
no traffic to beat,
no concern
about the bridge or
weather.
I am free.

unhurried

unhurried
in a fast world, I hug
the right lane,
linger
at the end of any line,
unrushed
with groceries.
I have the luxury
of time.
no place to be,
no traffic to beat,
no concern
about the bridge or
weather.
I am free.

it's different now

she rocks
perpetually, front to back,
in her red sweater,
buttoned
by hands
not hers. her slippers on,
her soft pants,
her hair chopped
across
then combed straight,
unlike
any hair, I've seen
on her
throughout my life.
she says my name,
over
and over, as I ask her
what she's
thinking,
what she remembers.
childlike she looks me
in the eye
embarrassed by her shyness,
her tears.
I think of you, she says,
I think of everyone all
the time. but
it's different now, she
manages.
it's different, then
I too
cry.

it's different now

she rocks
perpetually, front to back,
in her red sweater,
buttoned
by hands
not hers. her slippers on,
her soft pants,
her hair chopped
across
then combed straight,
unlike
any hair, I've seen
on her
throughout my life.
she says my name,
over
and over, as I ask her
what she's
thinking,
what she remembers.
childlike she looks me
in the eye
embarrassed by her shyness,
her tears.
I think of you, she says,
I think of everyone all
the time. but
it's different now, she
manages.
it's different, then
I too
cry.

the holiday

her photos of ample food,
of silver
ware
and plates, emptied,
full.
her snap shots of lights,
candles
flickering,
before the carving,
after.
tell me
little.
not a single face
is seen, not
a tear wiped by the back
of hand.
not a smile,
or sweet kiss given.

the holiday

her photos of ample food,
of silver
ware
and plates, emptied,
full.
her snap shots of lights,
candles
flickering,
before the carving,
after.
tell me
little.
not a single face
is seen, not
a tear wiped by the back
of hand.
not a smile,
or sweet kiss given.

turkey chain gang

I saw a chain
gang of turkeys running
down the street,
in my dream.
they looked back at the butcher
in his bloodied
apron, carrying an axe.
together they ran
until they got on a bus,
taking the cross
town
where they hoped
to board a train at Penn Station
and get out of Dodge.
they sat in the back,
keeping their long necks still,
their nervous voices down,
looking out the window
at the butcher,
shaking his head,
his long frown.

a swan

the white swan
in the man made lake,
shallow
and wide,
moves gracefully
across the water,
a beauty out
of place,
behind the mall,
the tire center,
the rail road tracks,
a gutted barn
at the edge.
she glides from side
to side,
her long neck
elegantly poised.
she's beyond this.
above this
pond she's landed in.
some women
can handle this, some
can't.

forgetting the olives

the checker,
numb with pushing fat
frozen turkeys
across the belt, lifting
each one into a bag,
then cart,
says little. for what is
there to say but
did you find everything you
were looking for?
who can answer that
truthfully?
what right does he have
to ask such a question,
so deep
and meaningful
as I remember
that I've forgotten
the olives.

forgetting the olives

the checker,
numb with pushing fat
frozen turkeys
across the belt, lifting
each one into a bag,
then cart,
says little. for what is
there to say but
did you find everything you
were looking for?
who can answer that
truthfully?
what right does he have
to ask such a question,
so deep
and meaningful
as I remember
that I've forgotten
the olives.

she's different

the tint
lies on top of the paint,
the third gallon,
now open and
marbled
in a swirl
of color, raw umber,
black,
magenta red.
unshaken, it comes like this,
before yellow takes
hold,
becomes whole,
readied for the wall.
for now though,
the circle is pretty,
before blended
and made
to look like all the rest.

she reminds me of you

she reminds me of you,
who reminded me
of her,
and the one who came before,
no,
not that one,
but the other
one, the who preceded
the first, or was it
the second, and final
love of
my increasingly
confusing, yet
shortened life.

she reminds me of you

she reminds me of you,
who reminded me
of her,
and the one who came before,
no,
not that one,
but the other
one, the who preceded
the first, or was it
the second, and final
love of
my increasingly
confusing, yet
shortened life.

walking the lake

I know this lake,
each bend,
each break of woods
where the sun
comes in.
the island off shore.
the blue heron
alight on wide wings.
the gravel,
the hills, each bridge
walked a thousand
times or more.
I know this lake
in every season, having
walked it with
others, or alone.
today it seems longer
in getting around.
something that I always
feel as each new
year becomes old.

the snake

thinking it was rope,
or an odd
circle
of something stored,
tucked away in
the shadow,
hatched tan and brown,
coiled in the corner
of the damp
shed.
seen only by the light
of a sun
through trees
and the bent wood
where it crawled to rest
and wait.
you touched it's hard
skin, poked
at it with a finger,
feeling the indent
of small bones
and a steel meshed band.
the snake reared
it's head
before you could speak,
falling back. it's pink
eyes and pinker mouth
white like cotton
opened
with slivers of teeth,
a tongue split
and moving, ready to lurch
upon you,
to satisfy your fears.

a cold brew

a cold brew
of clouds and stars
scratched
out
across a curved black
bowl
of sky
leaves me wanting for
warmth.
something
like love, but not exactly.
something
I can't put
my finger on, or say
in words.
I feel a need
undrawn, unsaid, but
will know it
and rest my head upon
it's pillow
when it does arrive.

what's left behind

we leave behind
so much
for others to gather
and make their own.
the empty
rooms will be filled
by those we don't know.
the bed
slept in, perhaps
those shoes
will fit another's
feet.
that coat in the hall
closet.
worn on a winters day
such as
today.
that table, those dishes.
another meal
will be served
and eaten.
a hand will light that
candle,
take a book and read,
sitting where
you once sat
and pondered, what next.

what's left behind

we leave behind
so much
for others to gather
and make their own.
the empty
rooms will be filled
by those we don't know.
the bed
slept in, perhaps
those shoes
will fit another's
feet.
that coat in the hall
closet.
worn on a winters day
such as
today.
that table, those dishes.
another meal
will be served
and eaten.
a hand will light that
candle,
take a book and read,
sitting where
you once sat
and pondered, what next.

bridges

from this bridge
across
rock creek park,
the great divide of woods
and city,
a sleeve
of water rolls below.
it holds in it
the silver coins tossed
for wishes
that never came true,
on this overpass,
this ancient bridge
of stone and steel I can
imagine tossing myself
off
as others have, when blue,
but don't,
though I understand
completely
how other being lost,
and do.

flowers

a vase of flowers,
freshly cut,
watered,
is sometimes all a room needs
to make
it right.
set the mood,
so it is with you
here
in that chair,
legs crossed, eyes
bright.
hands in your lap.

the ice box

the jelly
and jams sit cold and squat
on the metal
shelf, side door
of the old ice box.
my grandmother in north reading
had a fridge like this.
she used to defrost
it with a butter knife,
standing on a small
stool,
towels on the floor
to catch the puddles of cold
water.
the fur of old ice
melted slowly.
she'd have the radio on.
big bands, mostly.
but I never saw her
shake a leg, or move a muscle
to the music.
she was too busy
with her short arms
in the box, chiseling
away on the thick
ice.
the jelly and jams,
remind me of her, how she
loved her toast and tea
in the morning,
and demanded we have manners.
telling
us to ask politely
and to get our elbows
off the table.

the ice box

the jelly
and jams sit cold and squat
on the metal
shelf, side door
of the old ice box.
my grandmother in north reading
had a fridge like this.
she used to defrost
it with a butter knife,
standing on a small
stool,
towels on the floor
to catch the puddles of cold
water.
the fur of old ice
melted slowly.
she'd have the radio on.
big bands, mostly.
but I never saw her
shake a leg, or move a muscle
to the music.
she was too busy
with her short arms
in the box, chiseling
away on the thick
ice.
the jelly and jams,
remind me of her, how she
loved her toast and tea
in the morning,
and demanded we have manners.
telling
us to ask politely
and to get our elbows
off the table.

the whistle

I can hear
a train whistle as it crosses
the trestle
through the thin woods,
the trees
bent and losing leaves
on this harsh
night.
the train moves on,
sleek against the tracks,
silver
as it bends,
the yellow light of windows
flashing softly
by.
I can imagine being
on that train,
ticket in hand, a bag
at my side, coming
to you,
and you at the station
waiting,
with open arms.
with tears in your eyes.
wanting me
to be there, me wanting
that too.

in the wind

a blue scarf,
almost violet in color
is in the wind.
it reminds of something,
some place,
some one.
a vague memory,
now touched
and brought to life.
it blows so quickly
into the air,
plays in a swirl,
circling,
not caught
on a thing just yet.
no one is chasing
it.
it's lost its way.
this pretty blue scarf
in the wind.

in the wind

a blue scarf,
almost violet in color
is in the wind.
it reminds of something,
some place,
some one.
a vague memory,
now touched
and brought to life.
it blows so quickly
into the air,
plays in a swirl,
circling,
not caught
on a thing just yet.
no one is chasing
it.
it's lost its way.
this pretty blue scarf
in the wind.

not now, honey

not now, she says,
pulling on her sweat pants.
let's do this later.
let's
get out in the sun
and take
a walk.
not now, later, I promise.
okay?
but this will only
take a few minutes.
I know, I know.
and it's been awhile,
but let's do it
later.
i'm not keeping track
but it's been three weeks,
two days,
and six hours.
okay, okay. you can
hold out a little bit longer,
my love.
I promise you won't
be disappointed.
cross my heart.
so let's take that walk.
it's so nice out.
a quick walk, right?
not all the ways
around the lake and up
the hill. and we're not stopping
at starbucks
and petting every dog
along the way.
okay?
we'll see she says,
tying her hair up
into a knot.

not now, honey

not now, she says,
pulling on her sweat pants.
let's do this later.
let's
get out in the sun
and take
a walk.
not now, later, I promise.
okay?
but this will only
take a few minutes.
I know, I know.
and it's been awhile,
but let's do it
later.
i'm not keeping track
but it's been three weeks,
two days,
and six hours.
okay, okay. you can
hold out a little bit longer,
my love.
I promise you won't
be disappointed.
cross my heart.
so let's take that walk.
it's so nice out.
a quick walk, right?
not all the ways
around the lake and up
the hill. and we're not stopping
at starbucks
and petting every dog
along the way.
okay?
we'll see she says,
tying her hair up
into a knot.

on stage

he has a small part
in a play.
there will be singing and dancing,
of which
he likes neither,
but it's
something to add to his resume.
last year he was
in a production
of the wizard of oz,
he played the wizard. this
year he's George
in a wonderful life.
he walks around
all day pretending to be
someone he isn't,
memorizing and acting
out his lines.
he's happy this way,
and so are those that know
him.

on stage

he has a small part
in a play.
there will be singing and dancing,
of which
he likes neither,
but it's
something to add to his resume.
last year he was
in a production
of the wizard of oz,
he played the wizard. this
year he's George
in a wonderful life.
he walks around
all day pretending to be
someone he isn't,
memorizing and acting
out his lines.
he's happy this way,
and so are those that know
him.

i know i will

I can't work any harder
than I did today.
I stare at my hands, blackened
with paint.
under the nails,
into the skin,
not even an hour long soak
in the tub
takes it off.
ten rolls of wallpaper
smoothed onto walls,
paint,
more work outside as the sun
came down.
she leaves a check
on the counter.
shows me how the door locks
itself.
shows me the button
for the garage.
it's dark out when I back out
of the driveway.
I have places
to go, but can't get there.
I can't work any harder
than what I did today,
but I know I will.
I know I will.

i know i will

I can't work any harder
than I did today.
I stare at my hands, blackened
with paint.
under the nails,
into the skin,
not even an hour long soak
in the tub
takes it off.
ten rolls of wallpaper
smoothed onto walls,
paint,
more work outside as the sun
came down.
she leaves a check
on the counter.
shows me how the door locks
itself.
shows me the button
for the garage.
it's dark out when I back out
of the driveway.
I have places
to go, but can't get there.
I can't work any harder
than what I did today,
but I know I will.
I know I will.

whatever

you left out a comma,
she says.
it's almost like you don't even
work on
these things you write.
your craftsmanship stinks.
I hone and carve
my poems down to the bone
before I read them
at the slam,
at the workshop,
for my admirers, she says
beating her chest
proudly. it almost
seems like
it doesn't matter
what you write
about, coffee and eggs,
traffic,
dogs. you don't seem to care
who reads
it or likes it or anything.
your line breaks are ridiculous,
my professor would
beat you with a stick.
it's almost like you're
writing just for you.
what's up with that?
i'm sorry, did you say something?

how about that

everyone knows
somebody
that knows somebody
that puts them into
the winning circle.
close
enough to rub
elbows, be in the glow
of greatness.
whether writer, or actor,
doesn't matter.
the king
of England,
or the kings of leon.
it's enough
for some to say, hey,
you know so and so, yeah,
him,
we talked.
we were on the elevator
together,
we might have a drink
some day.
how about that?

how about that

everyone knows
somebody
that knows somebody
that puts them into
the winning circle.
close
enough to rub
elbows, be in the glow
of greatness.
whether writer, or actor,
doesn't matter.
the king
of England,
or the kings of leon.
it's enough
for some to say, hey,
you know so and so, yeah,
him,
we talked.
we were on the elevator
together,
we might have a drink
some day.
how about that?

our room

they talk metaphorically
about
the elephant in the room.
the one big thing that isn't
discussed.
we had monkeys
swinging from the chandeliers,
we had giraffes. we had
snakes
slithering beneath
our feet,
llamas. chickens pecking
at june bugs.
our room was full of many
things we ignored
just to keep
the peace.

our room

they talk metaphorically
about
the elephant in the room.
the one big thing that isn't
discussed.
we had monkeys
swinging from the chandeliers,
we had giraffes. we had
snakes
slithering beneath
our feet,
llamas. chickens pecking
at june bugs.
our room was full of many
things we ignored
just to keep
the peace.

when things

when things are going good.
the world
being rosy.
and love is near,
or approaching like a white
sheeted sailboat
on blue water,
you relax your bones
and settle back
into the chair your life
has become.
you rock gently,
and breathe
a pleasant sigh.

when things

when things are going good.
the world
being rosy.
and love is near,
or approaching like a white
sheeted sailboat
on blue water,
you relax your bones
and settle back
into the chair your life
has become.
you rock gently,
and breathe
a pleasant sigh.

eggs

I've known lots
of eggs.
good eggs, bad eggs.
hard boiled,
over easy
and sunny side up.
free range eggs.
organic.
brown or white.
large or small.
I've even been in love
with some scrambled
eggs. but
you don't know
until you crack
one open and put
her in the pan
what you're
going to get.

eggs

I've known lots
of eggs.
good eggs, bad eggs.
hard boiled,
over easy
and sunny side up.
free range eggs.
organic.
brown or white.
large or small.
I've even been in love
with some scrambled
eggs. but
you don't know
until you crack
one open and put
her in the pan
what you're
going to get.

answering the bell

the prize
fighter sits in his corner.
blinking
sweat
and blood from
his eyes. a wet sponge
is squeezed over
his head.
the crowd
is restless, they want
a knock out.
he thinks about his life.
that it's come
to this.
leg weary and too old
for the game,
but needing
the cash, the affirmation.
what is there to do
but get up
when the bell rings
and go out
and strike the man in front
of him.
win, not lose.
who isn't answering
the bell
each morning.

finger on the scale

things don't always
add up,
sometimes a finger is on the scale
tipping it
erroneously
in the favor
of the butcher.
deals are made
in the back room.
someone utters a threat
beneath his breath.
someone will
pay, heads will roll.
justice
will be served,
cold. who said the world
is fair?

finger on the scale

things don't always
add up,
sometimes a finger is on the scale
tipping it
erroneously
in the favor
of the butcher.
deals are made
in the back room.
someone utters a threat
beneath his breath.
someone will
pay, heads will roll.
justice
will be served,
cold. who said the world
is fair?

quit whining

i'd rather have a knitting needle
stuck in my
eye than have
to talk politics again,
I tell
my friend, who is forcing
me to rescind our
friendship.
we need to march, he says,
slamming his fist against that table.
we need to
make signs and shout
our displeasure.
we need to get out in
the streets with torches
and storm the castle, his wife says.
we can't stand for this anymore.
it isn't fair that our side lost.
but they were free
elections
I say quietly. this is what
the people want. how about we
quit being a baby and stop
the madness.
make the best of it.
go to work. live a good life.
be a better person and
quit whining.

local corn

it's easy
to make light of the farmer's market,
with their
apples
in a basket, their
tomatoes
piled
high. men in straw
hats
and overalls.
presenting local corn.
local
peas and carrots.
local
lettuce. home baked pies.
I don't really care where
it's from
as long as it's fresh
and bug free.
have some warm cider,
the sign says
beside
a woman who may or may
not be dressed
like Martha Washington.
made from organic
apples
by a local farmer,
using real
cane sugar.

what's come has gone

the goodbyes
are adding up.
the hellos are few.
what's come
has gone.
what lies ahead is shadowed
beneath a cloud
of age,
of time
refusing to stop
for anyone.

what's come has gone

the goodbyes
are adding up.
the hellos are few.
what's come
has gone.
what lies ahead is shadowed
beneath a cloud
of age,
of time
refusing to stop
for anyone.

renters

renters, how
little they care about
the floor,
the carpet, the dogs running
wild, off chain.
the broken window
is someone else's
problem.
the drips of leaky spigots,
the toilet
that won't flush.
mice.
they make a list
and at some point put it
in the mail
with the rent check,
a week late.
why lock the door,
why turn the heat off,
why bother with
the spill,
or care about the noise
they make.
renters have a way of not
caring
about consequences.
some lovers are like that.
just renting,
not caring
and about to move on.

beside her

she misses
the warm body beside her.
the bed
tilted in
that way
that bodies do. the hand
across her hand.
the gentle snore
as he lies
asleep
in dream. she misses
the rising sun
beside
someone that loves her.
someone
who wants to be there
and only
there
when he awakens
to her kiss, her love
given fully
in return.

beside her

she misses
the warm body beside her.
the bed
tilted in
that way
that bodies do. the hand
across her hand.
the gentle snore
as he lies
asleep
in dream. she misses
the rising sun
beside
someone that loves her.
someone
who wants to be there
and only
there
when he awakens
to her kiss, her love
given fully
in return.

let me get my card

please take me off
the call list I beg the caller.
please
stop calling.
I have enough Cialis,
Viagra,
snow tires and
windows.
I don't need any lightbulbs,
or to refinance
my mortgage
again.
please, I beg of you to stop
with the calls.
stop.
today, you can get a fifty
percent discount
on prednisone,
this one time only,
the young voice says
in his mixed and garbled language.
a hundred pills
for ten dollars.
I hear chopsticks
going into a bowl, stirring.
free delivery,
he says.
hold on for a second, let
me get my card.

let me get my card

please take me off
the call list I beg the caller.
please
stop calling.
I have enough Cialis,
Viagra,
snow tires and
windows.
I don't need any lightbulbs,
or to refinance
my mortgage
again.
please, I beg of you to stop
with the calls.
stop.
today, you can get a fifty
percent discount
on prednisone,
this one time only,
the young voice says
in his mixed and garbled language.
a hundred pills
for ten dollars.
I hear chopsticks
going into a bowl, stirring.
free delivery,
he says.
hold on for a second, let
me get my card.

the unread

what happened was,
was this.
a life comes
in.
a life is lived.
death occurs.
but it's the in between
that
seems important,
not the start or
the finish.
though most
never find out what that
is.
sure, we
pass each other
on the street and say
hello,
or goodbye,
or say how nice or cold
it might
be, but that's all we
have time
for.
we have our story
to be written,
then left, eternally,
to be unread.

the unread

what happened was,
was this.
a life comes
in.
a life is lived.
death occurs.
but it's the in between
that
seems important,
not the start or
the finish.
though most
never find out what that
is.
sure, we
pass each other
on the street and say
hello,
or goodbye,
or say how nice or cold
it might
be, but that's all we
have time
for.
we have our story
to be written,
then left, eternally,
to be unread.

some days

there are some days
when
people
are annoying.
sometimes the whole
day
they are on your bumper,
angry
or impatient
in the lines we all
must stand in.
things are said.
gestures made.
no one is happy, or even
close
to contentment.
there is the underlying
feeling
of unhappiness
in these people.
they live under a dark cloud
and bring it with them.
but then there are some
days
where it's quite
the opposite.
these are the days when
you don't leave
your house, but stay home
and look out
the window.

some days

there are some days
when
people
are annoying.
sometimes the whole
day
they are on your bumper,
angry
or impatient
in the lines we all
must stand in.
things are said.
gestures made.
no one is happy, or even
close
to contentment.
there is the underlying
feeling
of unhappiness
in these people.
they live under a dark cloud
and bring it with them.
but then there are some
days
where it's quite
the opposite.
these are the days when
you don't leave
your house, but stay home
and look out
the window.

too much good

back on the sauce,
he calls
me. I love you man,
he says,
slurring his words, I hear
the clink
of glass, the cold
rattle of ice,
a bottle against
the rim.
the music is turned up.
let me know when you have
some more work, he says.
his ex wife's voice
rails in the background
telling him to get off
the goddamn phone
and come here.
too much good has
come into his life and it's
time to right
the ship,
sink it down
again.

the thin man

his eyes, were what I saw.
as he sat
still in his glass cage,
sawdust on the floor,
a pail of water
nearby.
not a crust of bread
to be found.
his ribs looked wooden
beneath
his slack skin,
the hull of a thin
ship raised
from the ocean floor,
rows
of bones protruding,
making the crowd
gasp as they leaned
upon the glass
eating glazed red apples
and hot dogs,
cotton candy.
his cheeks hollowed
so that his teeth took up
too much room.
why did he even need teeth
a boy said to his mother who
shrugged.
he hungered not.
this was what he did.
not eating
as the carnival rolled from
small town
to smaller towns.

the thin man

his eyes, were what I saw.
as he sat
still in his glass cage,
sawdust on the floor,
a pail of water
nearby.
not a crust of bread
to be found.
his ribs looked wooden
beneath
his slack skin,
the hull of a thin
ship raised
from the ocean floor,
rows
of bones protruding,
making the crowd
gasp as they leaned
upon the glass
eating glazed red apples
and hot dogs,
cotton candy.
his cheeks hollowed
so that his teeth took up
too much room.
why did he even need teeth
a boy said to his mother who
shrugged.
he hungered not.
this was what he did.
not eating
as the carnival rolled from
small town
to smaller towns.

the evil ones

the condo board
and their brown shirted minions
march
the neighborhood
with clipboard
in hand, taking notes,
numbers
and names.
marking whose trash
is out early,
whose dog
is on the loose,
or has left
a small
pile behind.
what gives you the right
to change that
door knob from brass to nickel.
who has no sticker
properly displayed,
who dares
to park in a visitor's spot
without
authorized approval.
they are crafty weasels
elected
by a majority of three
or four
who attended their
holy meetings
under the dead of night
in a small
room at Washington Irving
elementary school
where only evil,
and assessments
come out,
and gloom.

so it goes

I listen again
to the old music.
I read
the same books over
and over.
the poetry that rings true
to me
is by my bedside.
I like the old
pair of jeans,
the worn shoes,
the sweater with a hole
in the sleeve.
it's about comfort
and knowing,
and so it
goes with me,
with you.

so it goes

I listen again
to the old music.
I read
the same books over
and over.
the poetry that rings true
to me
is by my bedside.
I like the old
pair of jeans,
the worn shoes,
the sweater with a hole
in the sleeve.
it's about comfort
and knowing,
and so it
goes with me,
with you.

the fire

the fire
in the old house
shot through the windows.
outside
the family stood in
their
night clothes
watching
in the cold as the flames
licked
and licked
at the wood frame,
taking
in the roof.
someone said there was
a baby
inside.
a dog. a small child.
but there was no going back
in.
the firemen
arrived in their long red
trucks
unable to get close.
they stood with their hoses
as the water
arced into the red roar,
doing little.
we didn't know
the family.
but I remember how hard
my mother cried
for the children, for
the mother.
not knowing their names.
but knowing.

let's be friends

let's be friends
she says,
without benefits, without
the quagmire
of sex
and intimacy.
let's have a conversation
and sit
by the fire,
wile the hours away
with tv,
talk about life,
and books,
things that make
us happy.

we can take long

walks

without holding hands.
let's be friends she says,
sipping
her herbal tea and lighting
a candle.
let's keep it this way,
so that things
won't end.

discontent

the woe is us
march down the street
after the election
is running
out of gas.
it's the end
of the world
they say
while sipping on a grande
vanilla skim latte.
their voices
hoarse, the feet
blistered
in their not for marching
boots
and shoes
from DSW.
they look at their phones,
take a picture,
smiling
with their home made signs.
soon they
have to go home
and feed the dog,
pick the kids up at the bus
stop.
the revolution and discontent
is slowed
by the hunger
for dinner, the rain.
what's on tv
at nine.

discontent

the woe is us
march down the street
after the election
is running
out of gas.
it's the end
of the world
they say
while sipping on a grande
vanilla skim latte.
their voices
hoarse, the feet
blistered
in their not for marching
boots
and shoes
from DSW.
they look at their phones,
take a picture,
smiling
with their home made signs.
soon they
have to go home
and feed the dog,
pick the kids up at the bus
stop.
the revolution and discontent
is slowed
by the hunger
for dinner, the rain.
what's on tv
at nine.

instant

instant
coffee, oats,
potatoes.
instant rice.
instant gratification.
love
and sex.
fast food,
fast
women, fast cars.
the speed of light,
of sound,
the bullet train.
leave the bag this side
up
and hit the button.
quick dry,
quick spin,
the ez pass, the express
line.
where are we
going in such a hurry.
tell me,
if you have
the time.

a twist of wind

a scrap of paper
finds
the wind
and circles upwards,
a small
twister
gathers more.
across the concrete
playground
it spins,
slides
dips and turns.
the world
is a magical
place
at times,
when watching
these little things.

a twist of wind

a scrap of paper
finds
the wind
and circles upwards,
a small
twister
gathers more.
across the concrete
playground
it spins,
slides
dips and turns.
the world
is a magical
place
at times,
when watching
these little things.

brain food

Istanbul
I yell to the tv
as alec trebec in his smug way
shakes his
head no,
and says morocco.
what is
Pi
i stand up and yell
to the next answer,
pressing
an imaginary button
in my closed fist.
what is
prime numbers
alec says.
I hate this show
tonight. i'm
standing there in my underwear
feeling the breeze
from the balcony door.
I haven't had one
right answer
I say to my new wife betty
as we enjoy
our honeymoon
at the beach on the jersey coast.
you need to study
more, she says,
opening a can of tuna fish
for a snack.
or maybe you're just
dumb, she says.
here, have some tuna,
fish is brain food.

brain food

Istanbul
I yell to the tv
as alec trebec in his smug way
shakes his
head no,
and says morocco.
what is
Pi
i stand up and yell
to the next answer,
pressing
an imaginary button
in my closed fist.
what is
prime numbers
alec says.
I hate this show
tonight. i'm
standing there in my underwear
feeling the breeze
from the balcony door.
I haven't had one
right answer
I say to my new wife betty
as we enjoy
our honeymoon
at the beach on the jersey coast.
you need to study
more, she says,
opening a can of tuna fish
for a snack.
or maybe you're just
dumb, she says.
here, have some tuna,
fish is brain food.

the ghosts

the ghosts
are here. on the wet field.
in the huddle.
they are still
young,
these four boys.
four men.
their early deaths are
inconceivable.
you roll their
names in
your mouth,
friends you loved,
without ever
saying the word love,
as men
rarely do
towards one another.
you throw a tight spiral
to each
as the low
winter sun
rises in our eyes,
our lineless
faces.
the ghosts are here,
some days
more than others.

the ghosts

the ghosts
are here. on the wet field.
in the huddle.
they are still
young,
these four boys.
four men.
their early deaths are
inconceivable.
you roll their
names in
your mouth,
friends you loved,
without ever
saying the word love,
as men
rarely do
towards one another.
you throw a tight spiral
to each
as the low
winter sun
rises in our eyes,
our lineless
faces.
the ghosts are here,
some days
more than others.

the break up

one tire wouldn't grab
the pavement,
it kept spinning in the soft
slush, the snow,
melting ice.
i'll get out and push
I told her. so I did that.
pressing my hands
against the back bumper.
hit the gas just
a little I
yelled to her.
but she floored it throwing
a splash of cold
water onto me,
salt and sand.
feather it I yelled out,
spitting out
granules of road salt.
she lightly tapped
the pedal this time as I
rocked it then
pushed with all my might.
the car finally slipped
out of the rut
and moved forward.
she kept going. waving out
the window.
she threw out my suitcase
and I never saw her again.
timing is everything.