cheerio

being civilized
and british,
she's polite beyond
words,
saying darling or dear
in her homeland
accent,
even when angered
she finds a way
to make
it all seem not so bad,
not so bloody bad
at all.
she has her morning tea
looking out the window
to her garden,
pointing out the birds
that have landed
in the bath,
and again
at four, when the shadows
have arrived
in long wide stripes
upon the green.
perhaps a butter pie,
or fancy cookies
to tide her over
until dinner
of beef and potatoes,
perhaps
a green leaf or two
as well.

big dogs on the chain

the big dog
on the chain, filling
the air
with barks
and growls,
snarls.
it scratches at the dirt,
rubbing it's side
against
the tree.
hardly moving ten
feet from where it's
slept
and paced all
night, all day.
not a word
of love, not a hand
of comfort,
or ball thrown to chase
comes his way.
I know
many big dogs
on the chain.
I keep away.

finding the keys

the secret
is the surrender to life,
of letting
go, of rest, of stopping
and
not complaining about
the rain,
the ice or snow,
or the way
she puts your keys
in a place where you
can't find them.
she is who she is,
like weather.
you can't change that,
despite trying
every chance you get.

finger tip

in time
this wound, this new
cut at the tip of my finger
around the nail,
will heal.
not soon enough though.
it's red
and hot to the touch.
pain is some
sort of lesson,
I guess.
as is healing,
and not feeling
it anymore.

about women

this one time,
he begins.
we were drinking in
the woods.
sitting around
a fire.
passing a bottle of
cheap rum.
no women were there,
but we talked
about women.
how good or bad
they were.
how they could cook,
or make love,
or cheat.
we emptied the bottle
he said,
then it got cold,
and dark,
so we went home,
out of stories, out
of talk
about women, how
they came,
and went.

the sky

the sky
was dappled with
hanging grapes.
grey loaves of
blue,
purple capes
of tinted clouds.
it looked religious,
even without
the saints, or
Christ with open arms
in its sweep
above the bare trees,
the silver
sleeve
of water below it.
with a brush, if I
could paint,
if I had
the talent and patience
to sit
before a canvas,
this then would be
my masterpiece.

the spinach blues

it takes forever
for the frozen spinach block
to defrost
than reach a temperature
suitable
for consumption.
again with the two minutes
on high.
once more on one,
stirring before the button
is pushed.
finally,
a steaming
bowl of green spinach.
a pad of butter,
a dash of salt,
pepper too.
I've lost the will to live.
eating like
this.

back seat at the drive in

she wasn't the best kisser
in the world,
looking back on it,
or was it me?
our teeth clanged together
as the garbled static
of a speaker
dangled in the window.
her braces
mashed bloody against
my lips.
our noses bumped,
our chins
rubbed.
too much spit,
we were eager lizards
in the back
seat of my 1970 maroon
Camaro
at the drive in.
perched on a hill
in the back
row so as not to be
disturbed.
the diabolical nature
of her layered garments
confounded me.
zippers, buttons,
snaps and clasps,
it was hopeless.
it would have been easier
to gain access
to fort knoxx.

what is to be expected

promises unkept,
meetings
unattended,
vows
dissolved into
mere
gestures of
good faith.
a rendezvous cancelled.
late on arrival.
early in
leaving.
the world is a cold
rude place
when expecting
what is to be expected
and not
receiving.

rush hour

it's not unlike
the frenetic scene
in ben hur
when the chariots
jostle for
a lane,
whipping their steeds
to get ahead,
how they
fight and curse
as they circle
the floor of the coliseum,
dust and dirt,
blood
flying. what little
has changed.

a bar of soap

if the world
is a bar
of soap, how much
is left
before all of it
goes down the drain.
eat drink and be merry
the wise
men say,
their daily mantra,
a constant
refrain.

vanilla days

sometimes vanilla
is all you need. the calm
scoop
of white on white
ice cream, no adornment
of syrup
or nuts,
or whipped cream
needed.
just vanilla,
a single scoop, please.
give me a month of vanilla
and then
let's go wild
with cherry,
or mint, or even
tangerine.

birds on blue

these walls,
these ceilings sag,
brittle with time,
the plaster crumbling like
icing
on a stale cake
left out in the sun.
the floors, warped
with wetness,
a thin veneer
lacking shine. the thump
of each radiator
in each room,
emitting low heat,
hardly any warmth at all.
the tenants are packed
and gone
to the next life,
the next place where they
will be wheeled
to a window
and fed with a spoon.
fresh paint won't do,
won't revive
what needs to be torn
down.
but you'll try to disguise
this death
with a bold splash of color,
a thick rich paint,
a pin striped paper,
perhaps paisley,
or birds on blue.

coffee clutch

it's the age of pills.
of x rays,
and cat scans, blood pressure
readings.
telling others
what your doctor says
about this
ache and pain,
that ailment. the same
one your mother
had when she was your age.
around the table
we go,
with gout, and arthritis,
polyps
and bunions,
palpitations,
rashes that are
as mysterious as the day
is long. I swear
to you, we say,
it's not just a common cold.

till death do us part

there is true love
which may or may not
last forever,
then there's
like, and lust, and
an occasional
get together after
a few drinks
in a dark bar
late at night. at
some point though,
the sun will set
and that will be it.
till death do us part.

the spill

the coffee spill will
stay
with you the whole day,
remind you
of the stumble
up the stairs.
the brown drip will
dry
upon your white shirt,
but won't fade.
no cold cloth
will remove it.
there's no time to change.
some mistakes are obvious
that we make,
while others stay
hidden away.

another's shoes

it's hard to walk in
another person's shoes,
as the cliché goes.
they don't fit.
too tight,
too loose, not your
color
or style.
I like my own shoes,
thank you.
to each his own
tie up
or loafer, open
toed sandal,
or boot.

the carrot

the carrot is close
so I run faster, lean for
it with my
teeth
and hands, but
always just out of reach.
today
might be the day,
that I get it,
my optimism is hard
to kill,
but waning with
each new
year and gallop
down the hard road.

the a.m. station

I miss the exit
to river road, daydreaming
at five a.m.,
hardly day yet,
still dark with a white
saucer moon
hanging in the indigo sky.
the roads
are already full of mice
smelling
the cheese of a new
day. hustling
to where they need to be.
I have to take the
Georgetown pike
exit and come
back around, get back
on track. I don't mind
the delay, but stick
to the right lane,
and concentrate,
half listening to the static,
the white noise
of an a.m.
station.

marge

and these are my kids,
she says,
holding out
her phone,
scrolling through
a myriad of pictures,
that's billy
when he was six
on a horse,
sally, at ten
on the carousel
at the beach, tommy,
cindy,
and marge going down
the slide together.
it was such a nice day
that day.
marge?
I say.
who's marge.
and why marge?
that was my mother's name.
she's the youngest.
she was three when that
was taken.
but she's thirty now
and living in
Minnesota.
I just talked to her
last sunday.

let's call it monday

there's nothing
musical about this day.
not a poetic
strum
of string, or bang
of drum.
not a single note
blown
in melodic passion.
let's call
it dark thirty,
with a strong chance
of rain.
let's call
it Monday.

you already know

she stole your dreams,
borrowed them for
a night,
took them
into her own mind
and let them unravel
in her sleep.
your dream about a blue
pool of water,
how arm over arm you swam.
the large waves
you'd ride
as they approached
the flat white sands.
the dream of flying
effortlessly
through the clouds,
wingless with no desire
to land.
your dream
of food.
warm food, a banquet
on the table.
enough to last you through
the harsh winter,
making up for every hunger
you ever knew.
she made that hers too
and when
she awoke, she asked
you what you dreamed about
and you told
her, you already know, I
can tell by
the way your smiling.

the red hat

a hat,
a sunday, go to church
hat,
floating on the water.
a red
wide brim,
with a feather,
it moves slowly
on the slow stream
towards
some end.
someone has lost
their hat,
perhaps
they reached up
to feel it, but it
was gone,
swept away,
caught in some brisk
cold wind.
so much of life is
like that.

the jangle of keys

the jangle
of keys gets the dogs
moving.
barking,
jumping
towards the door,
the leash too,
once seen
gets them excited.
eyes wide,
tongue out.
I feel that way too
when hearing the sound
of your high
heels coming down
the stairs
on a Saturday night.

the world sighs

the world sighs.
or is just wind formed
from the seas,
the pull
of the moon,
a winter moon,
the spell of land
carved
into ravines,
a breath pushed over
the mountains
that have risen
over time.
I prefer to call it
a sigh,
it fits.

it starts to rain

we both look
up at the sky and say
things like,
it's going to rain.
yes.
but we're happy that it's not
snow.
we agree on that.
his dog
tugs on the leash,
pulling him
towards a nearby tree.
it starts to rain.
something is always pulling
us away.

valentine's day massacre

I see them in the safeway,
the men, weary,
blank eyed and
wandering. shoulder
to shoulder,
picking up
bouquets of store flowers.
smelling them
for fragrance, peering
at the price
on the little cellophane
sticker.
these will do, she likes
yellow, I think,
or is it pink?
then it's to the card aisle,
picked over
like a week old holiday turkey.
nothing funny is left.
all syrupy and mush,
nothing that says what
our relationship
really is.
what is it exactly?
maybe this one
that says I love you
just the way you are.
but it's not true and I don't
even like that song,
oh well,
i'm tired and it's getting late.
we have reservations
at la bergerie
for a nine course
two hundred dollar dinner
that will still
leave us hungry.
chocolate next. dark, or milk?
the heart box, or
the standard
sampler?
chocolate covered cherries?
too suggestive.
maybe an almond bar
this year. who doesn't like
a chocolate almond
bar, raise your hand.
trader joe's has
them down the street. i'll
get one for me too
and hide it in the car.
what about balloons?
everyone likes balloons.
no. that would
be dumb and reckless.
a ring, a necklace?
maybe a nice butterfly broche.
better yet
a gift certificate
to Victoria secrets.
sigh.
it's all about me, she'd
say. I wonder if I could just
give her a check for
five hundred dollars,
write I luv you on it,
and call it a day.

non compliant

before fishing,
we would go out into the yard
and dig
for worms.
earth worms.
they were noncompliant.
but we
took them just the same.
the fish too,
were not eager
to bite
on these now half
worms,
still moving,
or be reeled in by our
small hands,
the rods
bending at the tip,
the lines tight.
we had all summer to do
what we wanted.
disappearing out the door,
coming back
at dusk
for dinner.
dreading the days when
we'd have
to board that long yellow
bus.

to clean

it feels good to sweep,
to fold
and put everything
into its place.
to dust,
and wipe, polish.
get on your knees to
scrub the kitchen floor.
it feels fine, for now,
to get under
the chairs
and set the shoes
side by side.
clean the blinds, make
the bed.
its nice
to shake each rug
out into
on the back porch,
to organize the clutter,
put all the pens into
the drawer,
books onto
the shelf.
it feels good to clean
when all else is spinning
out of control.
it's something.

squirrel ville

a squirrel
gets into the house.
I grab a broom.
the maid screams,
waking up from her nap.
the children jump up and down,
the dog
howls with delight.
we chase the squirrel
hoping he doesn't
have rabies
nor will bite.
up the stairs, down,
behind the couch,
the desk.
onto the chandelier.
I yell out to my son
to google, what to do
if a squirrel gets into
your house.
my daughter takes a picture
of him
and posts it on facebook,
then goes back to her room.
he has so much energy
as he hops
onto the table
and nibbles on a apple.
we make a sandwich,
hungry too,
we grab a few cookies,
then begin again.
we cant catch him.
he knows this,
smiling with his little
squirrel smile,
shrugging his narrow
shoulders
before going back up
the chimney.

the new job

she can't decide
on the new job. she isn't cut
from that cloth.
to sell,
to sit
and ponder, type and stare
into a screen
within four walls,
her clipped wings behind her.
it's money.
it's a start, it's an open
door.
is there a window she wonders.
is there coffee.
is there a clock
on the wall
and a calendar to see
as the seasons
go by.

the higher branch

the higher branches
may have
the sweeter fruit,
but what hangs low
is easer to reach,
easier still
is what's on the ground.
yes.
a worm or two,
the skin soft, gone
brown.
but the higher
fruit is so hard to
get to,
so you settle, and bite,
and wish that things
weren't so hard.

detour

it's an orange sign.
detour.
a disembodied man
in a hard
hat
waves his limp
arm
and points to the gravel
road you
must take to
get to where you're
going.
the sun is a pad
of butter
melting
the sky into pink,
a flowery
taffy of yellows
and rose.
what dreams are there
in this man,
behind those shaded eyes,
in you
that have yet to be
fulfilled?
when do you drop
the hope and accept
the road
for what it is.
detoured.

their turn now

the house. up for sale.
the bones sagging,
the light sockets sparking.
the water
leaking
in the basement.
pipes
full of air
and brown water.
each room papered
with thin
old patterns adored
in another age.
the carpet, with crests,
still stretched
along the stairs
holding dust and dirt
from decades gone by.
thick curtains,
with royal aspirations,
blue and gold,
hold back,
the light,
as the owner, now one,
is wheeled out
to a box truck with
a siren, flashing red
lights. the new owners
prance in
with joy, hammers
and shovels
in hand.
it's their turn now.

let's call it something else

let's not call it
love.
I tell her,
on the phone, let's
call it
like, or
lust, a variation
of mutual
affection.
let's avoid the word
love
for now,
though it may be,
and keep it going.
why ruin
a perfectly good
relationship
by trying to make it
last forever.

light my fire

let's dance
she says, taking my hand
and leading me
onto the floor.
light my fire by the doors
is playing.
it's a wedding.
a niece and nephew,
someone young
and foolish,
bright eyed and bushy tailed,
as they say.
I haven't had enough
to drink
to be dancing.
so I take my
champagne glass out
there with me.
I like this song,
and begin to sing,
knowing all the words.
I find my
moves again, get my groove
going.
she smiles and says
loudly, you are really
a good dancer,
to which I say.
yup.

into trouble

he hears a voice
in his head,
like we all do.
a whisper of warning.
a gentle
nudge to do this
or not to do that,
a feeling, a hunch
giving him
direction, but he
ignores it,
as he does each
stop sign, each
red light.
all of the small
print he comes across
and doesn't read.

her new loves

her new loves
are all
new loves. not a single
old
love is in the mix.
she keeps
a diary,
a map on the wall.
red pins
to mark each rendezvous.
from Delaware
to Virginia,
to
Pennsylvania.
the radius has expanded,
as has her
tastes and sense
of adventure
since divorcing her
husband of 32 years.
I can't believe what I've
been missing
she says
on the phone, gassing up
in the snow,
at a station,
near Wilmington.

white out

mistakes
are made. the ink
smudged,
unerased. numbers
added wrongly.
where is the white
out
for life.
the sticky paint
dabbed
upon
the things we said,
and done,
the yesterdays
we've scrawled
upon the page,
wishing they were
gone.

i want more

the bowl fills.
the bowl empties. how
quickly
the hand
goes in for more.
another kernel,
another nut,
another hard piece
of candy.
another kiss from you.
more,
is not less.
it's more. please.

her religion

her religion
is work.
she has no time for God
in her life.
(what if there is no God)
no time
for prayer or to listen
to that inner
voice.
there is no ship to right,
she believes.
there are too
many things to do
than close her eyes
and kneel, put her hands
together
and ask for forgiveness,
for direction,
for thanks,
to see the light.
it's work, then death,
then darkness.

her religion

her religion
is work.
she has no time for God
in her life.
(what if there is no God)
no time
for prayer or to listen
to that inner
voice.
there is no ship to right,
she believes.
there are too
many things to do
than close her eyes
and kneel, put her hands
together
and ask for forgiveness,
for direction,
for thanks,
to see the light.
it's work, then death,
then darkness.

here we are, again

it's too early
to be up and moving about.
too
soon to stop
the dreams and leave
the sweet
warm comfort of pillows
and bed.
the length of you
beside me.
too soon to rise, before
the sun,
before
the rest of the world
does.
but here we go.
here we are again.

circus blues

a line of clowns,
circus
clowns.
painted in their
colors.
floppy shoes, and dry
flowers.
bulb noses,
all arriving from one car.
the line wraps around
the block.
the unemployment line.
the bearded woman,
shaving.
the cannonball
man wiping grease
from his brown.
the trapeze artists
in baggy pants.
the thin man,
finally having a sandwich.
there is no more
circus.
it's left town.
look there goes a herd
of elephants,
running with glee
knocking everything down.

plugged in

a plug
and wire to everything.
the phone,
the fan, the drill,
the toaster
oven.
your hair dryer,
my tooth
brush, your curling
iron,
the iron,
the tv,
the lamp on the night
stand.
what did we do
before Edison
went wild I ask her.
we slept in, she says.
made love.
burned candles
and gazed at the stars
above.

plugged in

a plug
and wire to everything.
the phone,
the fan, the drill,
the toaster
oven.
your hair dryer,
my tooth
brush, your curling
iron,
the iron,
the tv,
the lamp on the night
stand.
what did we do
before Edison
went wild I ask her.
we slept in, she says.
made love.
burned candles
and gazed at the stars
above.

begin again

some frost,
a gale of snow,
a wind. the red line
of mercury
gone low
below
the point
of freezing.
gloves and hats,
the buttons and snaps,
all tight,
secured
to the chin.
I can't see the end
of this,
let's shovel
out our differences,
keep warm together,
begin
again.

listening from afar

why are they whining
so much,
they ask
from light years away,
listening
to earth on their fancy
alien listening
device.
put your ear up
to the wall
with this glass and listen
to all of them, whining
day and night,
playing the victim
card
over gender, race,
religion.
if I hear my mommy didn't
hug me when I was little,
one more time...
what's wrong with these people
on earth.
geeze I don't know. losers.
they laugh, and high
three each, because of only
having three fingers
that aren't even
fingers, but
sticky Velcro like
stalks of asparagus.
aren't you glad,
one says to the other
that we all
believe in the same
things
and that our skin is
of one color,
green?

is that the best you can do?

the woman
answers the door in her
nightgown.
pink with small flowers.
she's as old as my
mother.
she sways,
and bobbles in her
slippers.
blinks a glaze
from her gem blue eyes.
i'm not drunk, she says.
I have an inner ear problem
that makes me
lose my balance.
I help her to the stairs
where she points
to where the bathroom
is
that needs wallpaper
removed, stripped
clean.
how much, she says.
gasping for air,
blinking and hanging
onto my sleeve.
I give her a price.
she groans,
can you do it for less?
her cat hops onto the toilet
seat and meows,
staring at me.
I give her another price,
she groans again.
i'm old she says. i'm
on a fixed income.
I have this ear problem,
please,
is that the best you
can do?

tied up

i'm tied up,
she says on the phone.
so I can't meet
your for lunch.
sorry.
not even for coffee, I
ask her,
disappointed
in not seeing my friend
lulu.
no, she says.
I mean i'm literally
tied up.
i'm tied to the bed post
in some sort of sailor's knot,
and my ankles are cuffed
together.
I can see the key
on the night stand.
it was a wild
date last night.
new guy I've been seeing.
jimmy, from
the tattoo parlor.
I was able to cup
my phone under my
chin to answer
when you called.
oh, I say.
well. maybe later then,
okay, she
says. I might be able
to wiggle loose
by then, but if I can't,
come by and cut
me loose.
should be a sharp
knife in the kitchen.
cool. will do.

give it time

the cut will heal
itself
over time. give it time.
let it be.
don't mess with it.
scratch or bump it
against anything.
go easy.
put some ointment on it.
band aid
that heart.
give it time.
you'll see.

give it time

the cut will heal
itself
over time. give it time.
let it be.
don't mess with it.
scratch or bump it
against anything.
go easy.
put some ointment on it.
band aid
that heart.
give it time.
you'll see.

the door slams

let's not fight
today, I tell my love over
breakfast,
touching her hand
across the table.
let's be kind
and sweet to one another,
okay?
what do you mean by that,
she says,
throwing her fork
down into her plate
of scrambled eggs, then
getting up
to grab her coat.
i'm going for a walk,
she says, putting on her
gloves,
wrapping a scarf around
her neck.
I can't believe you
sometimes.

the door slams

let's not fight
today, I tell my love over
breakfast,
touching her hand
across the table.
let's be kind
and sweet to one another,
okay?
what do you mean by that,
she says,
throwing her fork
down into her plate
of scrambled eggs, then
getting up
to grab her coat.
i'm going for a walk,
she says, putting on her
gloves,
wrapping a scarf around
her neck.
I can't believe you
sometimes.

off the chain

i don't want to do
the things i used to do
when forced
under the guise
of love
and marriage, duty.
family.
i am unshackled.
free to roam, a dog
off his leash,
without collar, or tags,
over the fence, barking
and running
free.

the shallow sea

hot water
is a blessing that I dip
into
daily.
I soak my bones
in the dark,
in the soft shallow
sea
of a white tub.
I lean
back
in the rising steam
and think of things,
of where
I've been,
what is yet to be.
in time
I get out, but wait
until
it's cold.
until the season
has changed
knowing that nothing,
nothing
remains the same.

come to florida

come to florida
she says.
where the oranges
fall from
trees,
where the sky
and sea meet blue
as one.
come with me and lie in the sand.
we'll hold
hands,
drink martinis.
call in for room service.
it'll be fun, just
you and me.
I have three
new, black, red
and white bikinis.

i don't believe in eggs

I don't believe in eggs.
I won't bow
to the brown or white
ones.
organic
or not.
makes no difference to me.
I don't kneel
to the altar
of a chicken, how
it's raised, free range,
or caged.
just give
me an egg,
crack it in a pan
and fry it up
with a slice
of spam like my mother
used to make
before she went
crazy, before they
locked her up
in Saint E's,
took her spatula
away.

where i pray to rise

I am holy
with this noose around
my neck, the trap
door below
my boots.
trembling
beneath my hooded
face, wet.
I am as holy as any man
can be
when faced
with eternity,
the unknown that awaits
beyond these
steps,
the faces below, these
sins I've heartily
confessed.
I am a good man who
just went astray,
who hasn't,
who is without sin
I want to yell out,
to say.
but then I hear the latch
click
and the snap of twine
below the bitter
blue sky
as birds scatter
black, each one, from
the thick
green trees, upwards
where I pray
to rise.

eat at moe's

there's a swordfish above the bar,
shiny, silver and blue,
with bacon grease
and scrapple mist
making it glisten
from tail to fin.
ketchup and mustard, set
side by side are soldiered
on every table.
French's and Heinz.
salt and pepper too.
enormous wooden salad spoons,
forks and knives
are nailed
on the paneled wall.
not for customer use.
moe is in the back
with mrs. moe, he
with his white Nehru hat
and bloodied apron
frying liver
for Thursdays special.
the mrs. in her black
hair net
keeping the flames going
under each pot.
a pile of white
onions
spits in a small
haystack on the grill.
let's get a booth
I tell
my true love, betty,
as she pinches her nose
and squints.
no not that one,
the one
with the juke box,
near the curtained
windows. we both slide in
and rub our hands together.
the bell rings, an order
is up,
adam and eve on a raft,
with a side
order of jimmy dean pork links.
another bell rings,
angels must be
getting their wings, betty
laughs.
it's the front
glass door, billy
has just parked his tractor
trailer on the side
of the citgo station.
he stands by the bathroom door,
jiggling the locked
knob. occupied.
stamping his boots.
we hear a toilet flush
then out comes marge, our
waitress in pink, a pad
and pen in hand.
hi hon, she says. what'll
it be? liver and onions?
we pie too.
apple and cherry.

saving things

i'm saving
string, and rubber bands.
pennies
in a bowl.
old photos and keys.
why throw out
a perfectly good paperclip
or ribbon,
scraps of paper,
or bows.
i'm putting old
phones
into a box
with watches I
never wear, socks
that need
darning,
ticket stubs from
movies
or games that remind
I was there.
i'm saving
all the things I
don't need or use
anymore
and yet strangely
feel attached too,
like you,
it's almost
like I still care.

getting to know you

I saw the cake
you baked on facebook.
nice.
and the flowers you grew,
the children,
grandchildren,
lots of children
pointing at animals
at the zoo.
I saw
your leg where the bee
stung you
and left
a red mark
the size of an egg.
ouch.
I see that you like
coffee and sunsets,
and went to the march
on Saturday
to protest something
then to another
march to protest something else.
the cat with the ball of yarn,
too cute.
I saw the abba video
that you posted too.
who knew,
and your notice that
you will
be going into the hospital
next week
for a hysterectomy.
so many likes
and good lucks with that
posting.
i'll like it too.

it never ends

how long
will they dig the street up.
forever.
it seems.
I put my son through
school
and still
they're out there
with their jack hammers
and cones,
their lime green
fluorescent vests
and hard hats.
I've been through two
dogs and three wives
since they started.
i'm even on my second bottle
of tabasco sauce.
some workers have grown beards,
their hair
white with age,
leaning on their canes.
I hear the beeping of trucks
as they back up
to take
gravel and debris away.
bring more in
to flatten, to tamp,
to pave.

apple jelly

why she gave me a pint
jar of apple
jelly, i'll never know.
I stare it on the shelf.
seems strange to travel
so far, from north Carolina,
to bring it to me
wrapped kindly in tissue
and a bow.
I've never mentioned
apple jelly once in our
long late night
talks.
did she confuse me
with someone else?
everything was touched
upon,
but not apple jelly. not
once.
seems sad to throw it away,
without even
a taste, but I do.

don't confess

don't tell me
your secrets
and I won't
tell you mine.
please, don't confess.
it may be good for the soul,
but not for us.
let's pretend
to be who we want to be,
with halos in place.
leave it at that.
happy in our unknowing
bliss for as long
as we can.

green hills

these hills,
these green slopes that rise,

that crest upon the clouds.
how steep they are.

how my legs get heavy,
my breath short.

i'll climb them again
today. then tomorrow,

up and up I'll go
with sweated joy,

knowing that in time
I'll climb no more.

the big top

she rode
the elephants under the big top.
she shows
me the photo
crimped and yellowed
at the edges
taken from her purse.
see, she says.
that's me.
a spangled girl
in red
saddled behind the head
of the grey beast.
her eyes sparkle.
her skin
aglow.
she blows the smoke
of her cigarette
into air,
pulls on a silver
strand of hair
and smiles,
remembering.

the numbers

the numbers
don't add up. they can't.
how can so
many days
and years
go by,
so quickly
in and out of the arms
of love.
the numbers
stun you, as you
turn
towards sleep,
content
that you are
the same age
you've always been.

her time zone

she's around the corner
but in a different time zone.
always late,
or
too early.
always
unsure of everything.
she's got jet lag
from moving so fast
from one place to another.
the wind
in her hair,
her shirt torn,
her heel broken,
her mascara running down
her face.
I have to go, she says,
after sitting
down for one minute.
what time is it?

the next great flood

the fear
the angst, the disbelief.
but things
have been worse.
it might
be time
for the next great flood.
start over
with this mess
of a world.
add soap
it up,
scrub behind the ears,
get the grime
off, swirl
it down the drain.

nothing stays the same

It was
a truck stop.
nestled between
Chinese food
and nails.
a sheet of grease on the window.
a place
where the car salesmen
would go
and gather
around eggs
and sausage, hard
toast.
count their commissions,
the change
in their pockets.
the seniors
would wander in from their
rest homes,
escaped from
their keepers,
cursing
the heavy door,
the raise
in prices.
where's moe, they'd say.
where the hell
is moe,
then settle into
a booth,
grumbling about
why nothing
stays the same.

let's drink

your instant coffee
is
weak,
as is the instant
love
you seek
on a moonless night.
a stronger
brew
is needed.
darker
with an edge,
a less
bitter with cream,
hot upon
the lips.
let's drink.

waiting to exhale

how stark
the paintings are
in shadowed light.
simply
drawn
and brushed into being.
the paused
moments
of a woman sitting
on the edge of a bed,
a man
at the diner
with coffee, a cigarette.
the usher
against
the wall, alone
in red.
does it matter that
the painter
used his wife as his
model
in nearly every picture.
yes,
it does.
it's all you can think
about
when you view
the landscapes, the buildings,
the near
empty rooms, yellowed,
that cry lonely,

the young cleaning woman

she isn't thinking
about
what she's doing.
as she kneels
with a rag,
a bucket,
a spray and brush.
it's not about this floor.
the shine
she's putting
on it.
or the tub, or toilet,
or mirrors.
it's not about the dust
along the shelves,
the dirt
on the steps.
none of this is in her
mind.
she's elsewhere
on a field.
the earth beneath her
bare feet, warm.
the birds she knows
upon the air,
the voice
of her mother
from a window.

while nero fiddles

is it okay
if we don't protest today,
go on the march?
my feet hurt and my throat
is sore from
yelling.
sure, she says,
putting on her pink hat,
and strapping
water bottles to her waist.
you stay home
and rest.
god forbid you suffer
any as our nero fiddles
and the world burns.
okay, I tell her.
have fun.
don't forget your tear gas
mask,
and your id in case
you get arrested.
got it, she says, tying
up her boots,
putting in her mouth piece.
oh, and could you pick
me up
a sandwich from that deli,
next to the mall.
light on the mayo,
toasted, don't forget to tell
them to toast the bread.

a good tree

slowly, he took
his knife and took the long
branch
of hard wood
and sat
in the sun, on his concrete
porch
and began to whittle
it down.
stripping the bark,
the memory
of life with it,
making the wood
smaller and smaller.
it was a long life.
a good life.
a good tree.

city nights

the chatter of teeth,
my teeth,
as the radiator
clanged cold
and hissed empty
throughout the night.
she stole
the blanket,
a thin white sheet.
wind streaked
through a crease
in the window frame,
never tight.
her cat
sat on the sill watching,
as my eyes opened
to the glare
of blue and sun
above the city.
you had to run
the hot water
for minutes to get
the cold out.

where's wendy?

let's all join hands
and sing,
someone said, reaching
for your hand.
someone had a guitar
and another person a bongo.
it was a cringe
moment in time.
who were these people.
so nice and sweet,
they baked bread
and wore beads and head
bands, long
dresses, smoked weed.
how did you get there,
sitting in a circle
on the floor of their
apartment listening
to joni Mitchell
and eating homemade
brownies?
where was wendy, the girl
you met at the pool
in her red bikini?

the malcontent

the dog was
challenged,
to put it mildly.
you could see
in his eyes
that he wasn't all
there.
he had his father's eyes.
dark
and distant.
a malcontent.
but he was your dog,
and it was too
late to sell him on e bay
or give him back
to the breeder,
his sister being
his mother
or something like that.
he had his
shots, you bought him
a collar
and bowl with his name
on it.
his leash swung on the door,
and there was his
bed,
that he was soon to
shed with his
canine teeth in
thirty seconds.

bring a cake

you will be towed
the bright yellow sheet of
paper states,
slipped into your door
in the dead of night.
if parking passes
are not properly displayed
and hanging
from your
rear view mirror by
no later than February
sixth, midnight,
you will be towed
and water boarded.
we will
put you in chains
and beat you with a rubber
hose.
stretch you out on the rack.
a low fire will be set
beneath you
and you will be slow roasted
until you beg
for forgiveness.
a valentines party will be held
in the community center
this weekend
see you there.
bring a cake, or a beverage.

don't call me jelly bean

don't call me jelly bean
I tell her
as she gets up out of bed
without making
love, again.
don't call me sweetie pie,
or sugar,
or honey.
don't tell me tomorrow,
or tonight.
or soon.
don't write checks

you can't cash,

i smell what you're 

cooking, I see
the writing
on the wall.

onward

things grow, keep growing.
changing,
dying.
the rain and air,
the movement
of the earth.
something has decided
or someone
to make
things this way.
resistance is futile.
I remember when
the bridge was built,
went up in sixty-one,
then down,
and a new one took
its place.
all in one lifetime.
loved ones come and go.
tomorrows
getting lapped
up
one by one, quickly,
faster, with or without
us.

spinach too

i ask her if she wants
to go out
and have
lettuce
for dinner. tomatoes.
celery.
carrots.
her eyes light up
with joy.
kale too, i tell
her.
excitedly,
she jumps up and down,
clapping her hands.
yes, yes, yes,
she says.
okay, i tell her.
don't faint,
which is always a concern
with her, but
there might be spinach
too, to which she
begins to weep
and hug me, bruising
her ribs against
my belt.

no news

now word comes
on her condition, on
the outcome
of the surgeon's knife.
the space gun
of modern medicine,
a wand of gamma rays
to make her right.
no word
from afar,
if her hair has fallen
out, if she has
the blues, no call,
no letter,
no postcard, no obits
in the daily
news.

discontent

too much
food on the plate.
the drink
overflows.
too many shoes to wear,
pants
to put on.
places to be
and go.
too much is the world
we live
in.
ah, but for
a better view.

finding hope

she changed her
name to hope.
divorced,
and no longer wanting
her father's name.
she
legally. went down
to the courthouse,
filed the papers
and changed it to hope.
that's who I am now,
she said. hope.
call me. hope.
then she began to cry,
wiping her tears
with her sleeve.

the sweet blue sky

the small sticky
child
on the bus
wants his mother
to buy
him more candy,
or something.
his face
is red with anger,
his harsh blue eyes
glazed
with tears.
she silently
looks down the aisle
as the kid
scratches
and claws
at the air. I look
out the window
as the bus
comes to a stop
and see a bird with
a worm
in it's beak, flying
upwards into
the sweet blue
sky.

smoke house

the ashtrays were
every where.
even in the bathroom.
my father
smoked lucky strikes,
my mother
pall malls
and grandmother
Virginia slims.
she would snap her
jaws and blow
smoke rings
at our request while
she watched and prayed
along with billy graham.
smoke filled
the house.
lighters, matches
scattered about
on the coffee table,
sinks
and nightstands.
we lived in an inferno
of cigarette
smoke.
one would have thought
coal was being
pressed
into oil in this small
brick
duplex.

gently weeping

I can't see you anymore
she writes
in her note, left taped
to the front door.
a box of my things
is on the porch too.
three books of poetry.
a biography
of Emily Dickinson,
a toothbrush, a half
empty bottle of water,
and a guitar.
I don't own a guitar,
so she must have confused
me with other men
she was breaking up
with and left it at my house.
I love you, but not
in that special way.
the note says,
you deserve someone better
than me.
someone who loves you
equally.
but I've enjoyed our two
weeks together.
I stop reading and pick
up the guitar,
making it gently weep.
that would make a good
ending,
but I can't play the guitar
so I give it
to the mailman
who takes it gladly
and goes off strumming
while slipping
mail into the door slots.

good neighbors

the quiet neighbors
may be from another 

country,
or a distant star, or
a planet just like ours.
hardly a wave,
hardly a nod or glance
occurs, as they go
about their day,
quiet in their ways.

minding their own business.

i rarely hear a bump 

against our shared wall,
or a note of music
or sound
from the television,
even the baby
has nothing to say
or cry about.
they are good neighbors,
the kind
i've always wanted,

this time

i'll try hard  not

to scare them away.

old man

careful not to fall,
with a new strange
ache,
you resemble
an old man going down
the stairs
in the early
morning, holding
onto the rail,
touching the wall
for balance.
you resemble your
father
as you stand
at the sink,
swallowing a pill
with water, waiting
on coffee.
waiting on the sun
to rise
and bring light
into your blurring
eyes.

matches

the heart
lags behind
the mind
and other significant
parts
as you
strike matches
and watch them
burn,
flame out
between
your fingers.

levitation

I could listen to her talk
about her
cat
for about thirty seconds,
then I began
to drift.
sometimes i'd actually
levitate,
leaving my
earthly body.
i'd float about the room,
occasionally
leaving to
go get coffee or go
to the book store.
in time i'd return,
maybe an hour later
after she'd exhausted her
story about
her cat's butt rash
and how she has to apply
ointment to it,
every morning and every
night.

lying down

oh the angst.
how the news
wraps us in fear.
what next?
the ice is melting.
the sky is falling.
woe is us.
woe is us.
there is little we
can do,
but worry to one another.
our skin covered
in ashes.
how weak
and soft we are.
afraid
of everything.
awaiting fate,
lying down.
victims
of other's ideas,
what tomorrow
might bring.

put your lips togehter and whistle

remember the shrill
whistle
of the tea pot
on the stove,
the front burner,
the knob
turned all the way
to the right
making the coils
glow.
how it held my patient
love
against the silver side.
remember how the steam
would rise into the room
and rattle
the pot,
forced out into blooms,
fog and heat together.
a wet steam telling
me that it's time,
that finally you were mine.

dog in the window

maybe getting a dog
would
cheer me up.
a nice little dog with
papers and shots,
house trained.
small and lovable.
a dog that doesn't bite
or chew
furniture, or shoes.
a small bag dog,
for those walks
along the path.
a neutered dog so that
he's not hopping on people's
legs or arms
trying to do the fandango.
one with a few tricks
already up
his sleeve.
roll over, beg, play
dead.
maybe I'll call him
skippy, or something
like that.
he'll wait for me in
the window when
I come home from work
or when i'm out gallivanting
looking for love
and affection.
he won't look at me with
sad eyes, or
make me feel guilty
for leaving him alone
all day and night.
he'll be happy,
wagging his tail
and licking me with
uncompromising love.
or
what about a plant instead,
a cactus
for the sill
that doesn't need
to be watered too often.

beef jerky

wide eyed he tells
you
a story, most of it a lie.
but the details
are
clean and clear
as he rambles on about
what happened
that night.
the suv, how it ran
a light and t-boned
his brother's car.
how he dislocated
his shoulder and was
flown to
the hospital by a chopper.
the pain,
the operation,
the needle going into
the joint.
it's a good story.
you find out
later, of course,
that he was drunk and slipped
going down
a short flight
of stairs
leaving his group
home to buy more beer
and beef jerky.

waiting for work

the well is dry.
the field bare.
the house is empty
and the phone doesn't ring,
but i'm still here
looking up
into the sky,
praying for rain,
for something,
for someone
or something
to come down
that road again.

i'm tired, she says

i'm tired
of protesting, she says.
tired of whining
everyday about what's in
the news
that isn't really news
but gossip
and mud slinging
and childish
behavior.
I can't march anymore,
my feet are tired,
my fingers ache
from posting my opinions
and photos
online
to see how many likes
i'll get.
maybe it's time to
concentrate on ourselves,
be better people.
love more. hate less.
do you hear
me, do you hear
what I'm saying.
yup. way ahead of you.

angst

you share the same earth.
the same
air, same water,
walk under
the same stars at night,
sun at day,
but what a world of difference
a humble faith makes
towards
seeing it all
from a different point
of view.

rising water

who isn't building
an ark,
storing food,
canning peaches,
sharpening
tools.
who isn't looking
up into the sky
and thinking
will it ever stop,
this rain.
this pelting of hail,
wondering
how much penance
should we do?

a matinee

a movie
would be nice today
as it rains
not just cats and dogs,
but all the animals
off noah's ark.
an early matinee, perhaps.
my hands around
a bag of popcorn

drenched in butter,
showered in salt.

a large drink and a
small bag
of sweet
candy for when the plot
slows, for when
the story doesn't
unfold the way i think

it should..
i'll settle into a center seat,

back row so that i

can be discreet

and check my phone,

see what i'm not
missing, unfolding
my legs,
stretching out my

shoeless feet.

the climb

waiting so long
for the downhill, the easy
slide,
the soft landing,
the quick
glide of finding
one's
purpose
and stride, in work,
in love,
in poem.
still waiting, still
climbing,
hand over hand,
heart against heart,
ink etched
on line, between line.

going home

you set your boots
at the door.
caked in mud.
you take off your wet coat.
set your umbrella
dripping
into the corner.
you're home.
finally, cold
feet against
the warm floor.
how easy it is to
welcome quiet
and a fire
when tired
from the open road.

the day you're in

as it rains,
as the wind blows.
as the grey sky
sits, unmoving,
as you bend
in the weather from
door to car,
to where you need to go,
walking,
you nod
at what is.
your years have shown
you this
before, and fondly,
you embrace
the day you're in.

the day you're in

as it rains,
as the wind blows.
as the grey sky
sits, unmoving,
as you bend
in the weather from
door to car,
to where you need to go,
walking,
you nod
at what is.
your years have shown
you this
before, and fondly,
you embrace
the day you're in.

desserts

i dream about
cake.
chocolate, specifically.
with
a molten lava
filling.
whipped cream spun
light
and white
upon the top, perhaps
a cherry.
then I dream
of you, with
similar desire,
and appetite,
my lips
wet as I toss
and turn
reaching for seconds,
for one more
sweet bite.

desserts

i dream about
cake.
chocolate, specifically.
with
a molten lava
filling.
whipped cream spun
light
and white
upon the top, perhaps
a cherry.
then I dream
of you, with
similar desire,
and appetite,
my lips
wet as I toss
and turn
reaching for seconds,
for one more
sweet bite.

puzzled

i'm cross
with this puzzle
from Fridays post.
my eyes
burning, the late night
oil low
as I linger
on nine across,
six down.
how can I sleep without
knowing
the name
of this Aztec
town,
this medicinal vial
or person
who ran the fastest
mile?
I need white out
and a dictionary,
where's my
phone? my laptop,
but I can't cheat,
i'm so close,
so close.
not now.

the big chair

his chair,
in front of the tv.
an ashtray stand, a dinner
tray.
his pipe,
tobacco, a lighter.
silver that made a noise
when it snapped open,
then closed.
the imprint of his weight
upon
the shredded
grey cushion.
three of us could gather
in that spot
when he
left.
sometimes one of us would
pick up
the pipe and lower our
voices,
pretend
he was still there,
saying things like get
out of the way,
I can't see the t.v. .

blue cup

a blue cup,
chipped, the porcelain
ripped
and edged
where a lip
might cut, then bleed.
I turn it
to the side
and sip.
some broken things
must be kept.
as you well know,
I can feel
it in your
hug,
your tender kiss.

entangled

the tug,
the pull back and forth
of heart
strings,
legs and arms,
entangled.
what pretzels we
have become
in this early
love affair.
salted and dry
in our
wondering.

one from the top

all day, he rubs
and polishes the fruit.
pears
and apples. setting
them one by one
upon the pyramid he's
built.
the shine will
catch your eye. it
always does.
taking one from the top,
I choose you.

safely behind

the over the fence
gossip
and bashing
while in the yard
is over.
now it's here. fingers
typing boldly.
mean and vicious
as can
be. no compassion or
caring,
no understanding.
what lies within
seeps out
when safe and sound
behind
this screen.

good luck

how lucky
can the coin be if it's
been lost
all day,
lying there,
heads up
in the sun. the dime,
the nickel,
the sad
Lincoln penny.
but still I bend to pick
it up.
luck being
hard to come
by
in this day and age.

the lament

my wife went to the march
today
and nobody made me pancakes,
or walked the dog.
little bobby wore the same
diaper for twelve hours,
so I had to put him
in his playpen, in the basement
with the door closed.
I even had to get the mail
myself
and find my own clean
socks.
what's the world coming
to?
she came home tired
and hungry.
she didn't even want
me to kiss her.
her hair wasn't brushed
beneath the crazy hat
she had on,
and she wasn't wearing any
makeup. I hardly recognized her.
she smelled like tear gas
and communal angst.
I don't understand, she's
changed.
the honeymoon might be over.
her voice was hoarse
from screaming,
and her once soft
tender hands that used to
caress me
were calloused, bleeding
from carrying about
her wooden sign
and an extra hot
grande vanilla skim soy latte.

sunken ships

there are ships
at the bottom of the sea.
the bones
of sailors
bleached white.
the snub nose divers
of fish
blowing by with hard
fins,
stiff cold
bodies bending
in pale light.
there are ships
at the bottom of the sea.
some of them
I remember
by name, true loves,
and others
are just bones on the sand
set free.

t-bone

he tells me he was
in an accident.
t-boned, he says.
every accident he's in
is a T-bone affair.
they flew me out in
a helicopter,
strapped me in and put
a needle in my
arm for the pain.
the doctor yanked it
back into place.
but i'm home now.
on the porch, smoking.
I should be good
in a week or two.

the letter

the wet
day. the black sheen
of pavement.
the black
cat
on the porch with green
eyes.
a truck
stops, turns around
and leaves.
a letter
comes through the slot.
it hits the floor.
the stamp
was licked
yesterday.
the words written
late at night.
i'll open it later.
I already know
what it says.
i'll put it with other
ones
on the table.

hot soup

the soup needs
to be hot.
tepid
won't do.
in order to blow
and sip,
and savor
the broth we need
it hot,
hand
me your spoon,
let's boil
and devour together,
this brew.

worry

you worry too much
I tell betty.
in twenty thirty years we'll
all be dead.
so what's the point.
she tries to slap
me across the face,
but I duck.
like you never worry,
she says.
wiping latte foam
off her lips
and the tip of her nose.
everyone worries,
she says.
we live in the age of
worry.
but i'm tired of worrying,
I tell her.
it doesn't seem
to make a difference
how thing go.
it just gets you agitated
and you can't
sleep at night.
i'm worried about you,
she says,
shaking her head.
are you going to eat
that scone or not?
nah, go ahead, I tell her.
i'm watching my weight.

floss floss floss

I love my dentist.
I think she's from brazil.
big brown bean like
eyes.
perfect teeth.
a stunning smile
and calm, sweet demeanor.
I barely cry at all when
she sticks a long
bending needle into my gums
with minimal pain
and blood.
if she wasn't already married
and wasn't thirty
years younger than me
i'd ask her out
on a date.
I see her everyday,
her poster ad is on the back
of buses throughout
the city.
I can almost hear her
nagging me,
wagging her finger,
floss floss floss.
it's a happy office.
even the magazines are
up to date
and interesting.
cookbooks and science.
trivia facts. vacation spots.
I like the little purple
bag of floss
and toothpaste,
mouthwash that I get each
time I go.
the receptionists wave
and smile
brightly too.
they schedule me for
the next visit
as I write out a check
for a thousand dollars.

mint on my pillow

we found a flat spot
above
the stream to camp.
someone had a can of beans.
this someone was someone I
was once related to
by marriage.
another person took his fishing
rod and caught
a catfish.
the ground was hard
before it rained.
we built a fire.
ate the beans, threw the catfish
back into the river
unable to get the hook
our of it's teeth.
we swatted
flies.
mosquitos.
someone chased a snake
away
with a stick. many people
screamed.
we could hear the animals
outside the walls
of our thin
tent, rummaging for
food, our keys
and wallets. scratching and making
noises, as animals do.
no one sang any songs or
strummed a guitar.
thank god.
when the sky
broke open the deluge
chased them all
away as our tent slid
down
the hill to where
the creek had become
a raging river.
a line of floating tires
stopped us from drowning.
we packed up what we
could and went to the
Hilton Hotel, where
they put mints on our
pillows. never again
did we speak the words
let's go camping.

marching

the children with their
torches.
on the street, their signs
of displeasure.
marching.
shouting.
soon they will tire.
the rain
will keep them down.
the tear gas
and clubs.
the dogs. their spring
will become
fall.
they will reminisce
about the day
and four years will
pass into
another four years,
then others will be unhappy
and do the same.

in the now

nervous about nothing.
I get out
my book on living in the now.
it's a hard
book to read,
to absorb.
sometimes it's nice
to live in
the past.
remembering the good
and bad
moments that have passed
through
your life.
now is not always what it's
cracked
up to be.

the digestive system

my doctor wants to talk
about my
digestive system, to which
I shut my
eyes, put my fingers
into my ears
and say,
la la la la.
she brings up a colonoscopy
again.
and fiber.
what's your fiber
intake
she asks, tapping her
pen
against my knee.
why isn't your knee
moving when I do that, she
asks.
I don't know, I say.
but please, stop
you're getting ink on me.
fiber?, she says, again.
I eat two
bowls of oatmeal
a day. I tell her.
I have no more room for
fiber.
one minute, or old fashioned,
she asks,
making a mark on my chart.

a come to jesus meeting

a come to jesus
meeting was needed.
so our mother gathered
all of her
seven children
into the room to have
a pow wow as she liked
to call it.
one by one she'd
give us our
orders to clean up
our rooms,
make our beds,
do the dishes, sweep,
fold,
walk the dog,
do our homework,
do as we were told.
your father won't be
living with us
anymore, she added in
at the end.
so i'm in charge now.
she slid her taped glasses
back onto her nose.
and felt the swollen
mouse under her eye.
my sister asked
her if we could sign
the cast on her arm.

still going

our teacher in the sixth
grade
would read to us
from books such as a wrinkle
in time.
she'd turn
the lights off
and tell us to put our
heads
on the desk, onto
our folded arms.
close our eyes,
she say, then open the windows
to let the spring air
blow in.
in her strong soft voice
she'd read
page after page
into our new minds,
and off we'd go.
some of us are still going.

sky writing

she can't write
or call
or text, or e mail.
her husband
is on her like
snoop dog, columbo,
Sherlock
holmes
all wrapped into one.
i saw a small plane
writing in
the sky
the other day,
blowing soft letters
in smoke, saying,
hey.
what are you doing,
i'm okay.
i think it was her.

the blue coat

i spilled
wine on your coat. dripped
gravy
onto the sleeve.
a button fell
off as i tried
to close it in the wind.
the shoulders
ripped,
too tight for me.
but it kept me warm
and dry
in the storm, here.
i'm giving it back.
thanks.

frozen in time

the frozen food
in the freezer reminds me
of years gone
by.
covered in hairy ice,
soft
mounds of what?
stiff and hard, no
give in the wrap.
meat, perhaps. cooked
or uncooked, who's to know.
why i'm waiting to throw
these things
out, I have no clue.
i'm sentimental
about the past. about
the things that are a mystery
to me.
like you.

the new building

a layered brick building
rises slowly
on the slope where horses
once ran,
where the trees bend
in the sunlight.
it's worthy
of frank Lloyd wright,
simple
and clean.
it reminds me of Falling Waters.
the lines are perfect.
I welcome
and admire this new
sublime structure,
walking by it
to watch the workers
lay bricks,
and set glass between
the pillars.
in no time it goes up.
and when I return,
one night,
I see the sign shining
in red and yellow
neon.
Chicken Out.

rebel

I kick my feet up
onto the coffee table.
no one
yells at me for doing that.
like they used
to do
when I was a kid.
I don't make my bed,
or take the trash out
on trash day.
there are days on end
when I won't
eat my peas,
or get my elbows off
the table.
I truly am in a rebellious
phase these days.
I might
even go to sleep
on the couch with the tv
still on, the door
unlocked.

ragweed betty

the blood work comes
back
from the lab
and the allergist tells me
I am
allergic to nothing on
this earth.
he shows me the list.
sheep sorrel, no,
cat dander, no.
Bermuda, Johnson, Kentucky,
orchard or
timothy grass, no.
nada.
mugwort? aspergillus fumigatus?
no.
not even pigweed rough.
there are thirty seven
components on
the list.
I read the list to my
friend betty,
who sits close to me
on the couch.
I shake my head,
blowing my nose
after sneezing.
they may have missed
one.

on broadway

as we were speeding
down broadway at sixty
miles an hour
I asked a cab
driver in new York city
how many people
he ran over
and killed per day.
this made him stop eating
his kabob, look into
his mirror and laugh,
spitting
lettuce, lamb bits,
and sour cream onto his
windshield,
which he wiped with off
the sleeve of his pajamas.

she loved gum

when we made love,
she used to talk into my ear,
my good ear
about her mother,
or her cat.
sometimes she'd go off
and talk about a shoe sale
at Nordstrom.
she liked to chew gum
too and occasionally
would snap it loudly
as we continued with
our romantic interlude.
she loved gum.
flavored, orange or lemon,
sometimes blowing bubbles
very close to the end.
we were in different worlds,
maybe
we were different
species. it's hard to think
about her now,
without thinking
about gum.

wanting

I want less.
I want more.
I don't know what I want.
it's a day by day thing
at this point.
there is no five year
plan,
no gold watch waiting.
no parade.
nothing looms, nothing
is on the road
up ahead that
I can see through this
fog.
I won't say that it's all
good,
but I won't say that
it's not too bad
either.
I want less.
I want more.

she's still in china

she's still in china,
doing something.
spy things, maybe.
she's very mysterious and coy.
she says things like,
you don't know me,
or I can't tell you what
i'm doing, because
then i'd have to kill you.
I usually answer her by
saying, whatever, or
I don't really care.
to which she says, oh
really.
it goes back and forth
like this for days, texting.
like fourteen year olds,
while she's still in china.
or at least she says she's
in china.
my friend betty, said
she saw her in target last
night buying towels.
so I don't really know.
betty wouldn't lie to me,
not that she doesn't have
her own issues.

distraction

i'm easily distracted.
I see you
scratching the side of your
leg as you stretch them
high into the air,
and I want to know
what's up with that.
did a bug bite you,
a rash perhaps?
maybe I should take a look,
rub some massage oil
on it. here,
let me help you get
those yoga pants off.

some people

you think
you know people, and then
they
do something
that surprises you.
they're unusually kind
or nice.
getting you a cup of
coffee when you didn't even
ask for one. they are
almost human.
while other people,
who you
don't think are necessarily
evil
are caught going
through
your closets,
peeking under your bed,
looking
at your very very
personal things.
you never know with
people.

on hold

i'm on hold listening
to bad music,
I have the speaker on
so I can attend
to other things
while I wait my turn.
I make dinner, I make
the bed.
I make peace
with some members of my
family,
writing them
a friendly card
of apology for not
being interested in
their crazy dysfunctional
lives.
I strip a chair of old
stain, and refinish
it with a nice
matte gloss polyurethane.
the music keeps playing.
I can't go far,
my turn is coming up
soon.
very soon I hope.
mom is so busy these days.

swimming towards you

i take my
chances with
the ocean, the waves,
sharks.
the coral reefs.
the cold brunt of salt.
I can see the wet mirage
of an island
in the south seas.
open arms.
I point myself in that direction,
and go.
arm over arm,
legs kicking.
breathing, side to side.
I've been swimming
for a long time
without you,
today is no different.

without heaven

without heaven,
what are we doing here.
taking
our shoes
off. lying in bed.
praying on beads,
one hail mary after the other.
a clue.
a whispered
voice.
a scream. something would
be nice.
i'll get up
in a little while and fix
something to eat.
turn on
the tv.
maybe the phone
will ring.

without heaven

without heaven,
what are we doing here.
taking
our shoes
off. lying in bed.
praying on beads,
one hail mary after the other.
a clue.
a whispered
voice.
a scream. something would
be nice.
i'll get up
in a little while and fix
something to eat.
turn on
the tv.
maybe the phone
will ring.

the game

tired
of the game.
it's worn me down.
chiseled
the hard stone off of me.
left me with this.
this husk
of life
that sways in the wind.
this might be how it ends.
fluttering in pieces,
stem by stem,
across
the wide field.

the stranger

stay in touch, he says.
shaking my hand before boarding his
flight. he brushes his white
hair to the side.
don't let
another year go by without
coming
to visit.
he hugs me and picks up
his bag
then disappears into
the crowd.
I wonder who he is.
who he thought I was.
I just came in for a drink,
a paper and to watch
the planes come and go.
I miss him already.

early

I listen
down the stairs, but
hear nothing.
a drip.
a dog outside.
the neighbor rising just
past the thin wall.
a car door close
and drive away.
there is no
one in the kitchen.
no one
at the stove
cracking eggs,
stirring. no crackle
of a hot pan.
no coffee brewing.
I like it this way.
I don't like
it this way.
but i'm up. i'll move
on.

a spoon of light

a spoon
of sunlight comes in.
sits
upon her leg,
sleeping.
I don't want to wake her,
not yet.
let her go on
in that other world,
where she's happy,
unafraid,
not sorry and quiet
with regret.

from siberia

she sends me a photo
from Siberia.
she's wrapped in a bear coat,
or chinchilla, i'm not
sure, but she looks warm.
there is snow and ice
around her. narrowed bands
of light.
a small white dog or wolf
is in her arms.
I can barely see her
eyes.
blue, glazed with cold.
the tumble of her hair
is wind blown.
I look at a map of Siberia
and put my
finger on it.
I wonder why she's there.
I look at her ankles
for shackles.

she used to cry a lot

she used to cry a lot.
sometimes
it was something I did
or said,
or didn't say or didn't
do,
but mostly
it was for mysterious
reasons only she knew.
occasionally i'd question her
sympathetically, asking,
is it your mom, your dad,
your dog, your horse. work?
the election results?
no answer.
I kept a supply of Kleenex
in the car.
in the house, prepared
for stormy weather, always
on thin ice.
let's talk about it, i'd say,
as she sobbed into
her hands, her head bobbing,
bent over.
i'd rub my chin, pace
the room, offer to make her
a pot of green tea.
tell a joke or two,
which only increased
the depth of her crying.
do you want me to leave,
i'd ask, and she'd said,
no, maybe, I mean if you
want to, if you don't care
or love me, do you whatever
you want.
after awhile she ran out
of tears and would stand up,
stretch. do some sort
of yoga breathing.
she'd go into
the bathroom and splash
cold water onto her face
and reapply her make up.
she'd yell out to me, could
you open the wine please
and pour me a glass.

wolves

new homes
have risen where the wolves
were.
small castles
for small kings and queens.
they shaved the land
of trees.
flattened it
with wide black
streets.
not a trace of blood
or bone remains.
green signs, mail boxes,
sand pits
have grown
in place.
new saplings bend
in the wind.
strapped
tightly to posts.

in passing

they walk
alone, or in pairs
against
the woods, along
the lake.
dreary blue,
dreary grey,
the rain soaked day.
it's hard to lift
a head
and wave or say hello
to those who pass.
what grief
there is, what sorrow,
what reason
to be so quiet,
so alone, is unknown.

still hers

her children
have wandered away
as children
tend to do over time.
no longer
needing
the milk,
the tuck or prayer
before sleep.
the brush or comb
against
the hair.
they have
grown into themselves,
but though
far in miles
they are still hers.

still hers

her children
have wandered away
as children
tend to do over time.
no longer
needing
the milk,
the tuck or prayer
before sleep.
the brush or comb
against
the hair.
they have
grown into themselves,
but though
far in miles
they are still hers.

she delivers

if you ask her
for something sweet.
she brings
sugar cookies
on a green plate,
and lips.
she delivers
with a wink
and a well placed
kiss.

in transition

she's in transition,
she tells me.
between love,
looking for work,
a new place to live,
carrying ashes
from the past.
I say to her, who isn't.
who isn't
stepping of the train
each day
with a bag, a sigh,
a well worn map.

watering

putting the coffee on,
staring out the kitchen window
over the sink.
the day is blue,
the sky
unlit still by any light.
annoyed at the plants
upon the sill,
bending brown
in the cold.
watering them once more
to bring them back to life.
I could use some watering.

remember whens

-i need some new memories.
tired of the old
remember whens.
some fresh
thoughts, different points
of view.
it's time to shed
the skin
of time passed and
begin again.
maybe tomorrow after
if I've flipped through
this box of photos
for the hundredth time.

squirrel stew

how could I say no
to her squirrel stew recipe.
we were in love.
mountain love.
she scribbled it
on the back of a pink
piece of paper with drawn hearts.
onions, potatoes, carrots.
celery. red wine,
preferably thunderbird,
or boones farm.
three squirrels, (check for rabies)
fileted and sautéed.
salt and pepper
to taste.
boil in a large
pot of well water,
or tap,
if well water is unavailable.
strain, stir.
add possum or deer,
if the squirrels
are slender
and rare this season.
serve with biscuits
and cider.
serves four.

relentless

the watch,
ticking away in a drawer.
with other
watches, most
unworn,
some with bands,
others
broken off.
together they talk
with
their ticking,
their quiet
chambers
making small whispered
talk.
relentless they are,
each with a different
time,
unwound, unshaken.
batteries
nearly drained,
and dry.

an apple

it's just an apple
with a worm.
there will be more apples
fallen or
picked from rows of trees
in the northwest
chill
and sun, like eden.
there is the stem,
the seed,
the crunch of apple
meat.
it's in hand.
in a bushel.
here, have one. have
one
on me, says
eve.

what comes next

the day after,
the after effects
of this
or that.
after dinner,
after breakfast
after we make love.
after we go
our separate ways.
after the rain.
there is always
an after.
after i'm over a
cold
this headache,
this heart ach4e.
after
birth,
after sleep,
after work.
after you.
after life.

peaceful together

a line
from the forest
appears
at the counter
of the medical center.
cards in hand.
id's.
a rabbit wrapped
in a bandage,
after being bitten by
a fox.
the fox
with a cane,
hit by a car.
raccoons coughing
with the flu.
a gaggle of geese,
bills stuck
with plastic wrappers.
a deer
grazed by an arrow.
the owl
with bad vision needing
glasses.
a mouse squeaking
in his grasp.
how peaceful we all
are together
when suffering.

what friends do

her sorrow is not mine,
so it's hard
to get there, difficult
to imagine
and feel what she feels.
pretension takes hold.
empathy
to some luke warm degree.
it's a not a large
tragedy,
not a death,
or fire,
or disease. it's less
of any
of that and more of
day to day
living.
but we try, we do as friends
what friends
must do
when in need.

the waiting room

the baby crying,
beneath the blue
blanket
in the waiting room
is the only sound
we hear.
the mother
tends to him,
with a finger to his lips.
whispering
soft words.
the baby keeps crying
despite love,
despite caring,
despite everything.
we sit quietly,
staring into magazines
we have no interest in,
having
learned, unlike the baby
yet, to mute
our tears.

unleashed

the dog
in the street, running side
to side.
panicked, unleashed,
uncollared,
panting with thirst
and hunger.
how quick
we are to run
without a plan,
not knowing where we're
going,
or how to get back
again.

the lines are blurred

the lines
are blurred. as is the creek
through
the window,
the sheers, the trees
now bare with
winters breath,
the row of houses on
the ridge
are sealed
with quiet voices.
smoke
lingers and pulls
out from chimneys
on the tilt of grey tiled roofs.
there is nothing on the list
of things
to do,
but I can tell you
that at times like this,
I miss
and love you.

no cowboy

there's not a rodeo
bone
in my body.
I say no
to horses and cows,
get along little doggies.
no chaps, please,
or ten gallon hats,
or ropes,
or lariats, or lassos.
no bulls to ride,
or sheep to herd.
no campfire, no baked beans
on a tin plate,
or yodeling.
there's not a thing
I want to fetch, or fence
I want to fix
along the lower forty.
I've got no fondness
for the cowboy
world.
I don't even like their
football team.

miscues

the missing tooth,
the key
lost, a button
fallen
off, a thread pulled.
a left turn,
a coin into the grate,
a dollar
torn,
a phone called
missed, an earring,
a shoe,
an
appointment,
your birthday,
the burner on the stove
above
a boiling
pot of stew. her name,
her name,
her name,
as she stares and waits
aghast
at you.

blood pressure

she takes your arm
between hers,
says relax.
straps a Velcro band
around your bicep,
plugs a thermometer
into your mouth
then starts
the machine.
it tightens as your
legs swing
beneath you.
your mind goes
elsewhere,
to the street when
you were ten
with worn sneakers
on your feet.
the ball in the air.

out takes

I don't like
the out takes. the practice
sessions,
the bootleg
release.
it's a mish mash of
wrong
instruments and lyrics,
a different piece
altogether,
misplaced whistles and drums.
it's unnerving.
you can't even sing
to these songs.
give me
subterranean homesick
blues
straight up
after it's
been polished
to it's stinging
tune.

a single bar of soap

it's the single
bar
of soap
a white new cake
of suds
and bubbles
that sits upon the corner
of a full
tub of hot
water.
untouched
till now.
how quickly it goes.
growing
smaller
with each use.
down
the drain, where I
suppose everything
including us
will eventually
go.

we were that hungry

I can see my mother
standing on the porch, glasses
on, waving
a spoon, calling us in.
yelling out, dinner's ready.
what are we having,
i'd yell out, as if it mattered,
to which she'd reply,
get in here and wash your hands.
all of you.
it's on the table.
we'd get one more kick of the ball
in, one more throw, or
rounding of the bases chalked
in the black top street.
but she only had to yell once
and we came.
we were that hungry.

the good china

the good china
sits in a box in the basement
awaiting fine
company. royalty perhaps,
not unlike
the ex in-laws.
gold leaf
porcelain plates.
tea cups and saucers.
even a gravy boat to match.
I think about it sometimes
when
spooning mashed potatoes
and meat
loaf, green beans
onto to a flimsy paper
plate.
the jello I have bowls
for, though
heaven forbid, not the good
china.

maybe it's nothing

i'm easily bothered
lately,
on edge, distracted.
less tolerant
of the world and the people
that have filled it.
maybe
it's the weather,
the lack
of love. the lack of warm
air.
the absence of son
and dog.
maybe it's being another
year older
and less wiser.
maybe it's nothing,
nothing
that a good sleep won't
wash away
in a pleasant
wave of dreams.

full circle

it used to be a dry cleaners
called Get it White,
the store
on the corner, the brick building
with the windows and doors
caddy corner to the intersection,
a four way light.
then it was a Chinese
restaurant.
Woo Hung. they delivered
all hours
of the night.
after that it was a coffee
shop,
gourmet beans,
with home made
pastries, cakes,
Belgian waffles and buns.
then it was empty
for a long time.
a hollow dark room
with broken windows,
a cave for
pigeons,
mice,
young lovers, or wayward
bums.
today a new sign has been posted.
coming soon.
clean as a whistle
dry cleaners.

the crystal ball

my gypsy friend
Lolita
was out on her porch
the other day smoking
a cigarette.
drinking wine.
her crystal ball was beside
her.
I could see
the crack running around the glass
globe.
steam seemed to becoming
out of it,
in ribboned bands.
what's up? I asked her.
I broke my crystal ball
she said.
dropped it on the floor
when I was spraying it with windex.
i'm out of business for awhile.
I have one on order from
Lithuania,
but amazon said it would take
a week, at least.
what bout your tarot
cards and Ouija board>
nah,
I have better results with
the ball.
the Ouija board is kind of lame
anyway.
i'm tired of looking at the lines
in peoples hands too.
I caught a terrible cold
last month.
people need to wash their
hands more, or use
that germ killing liquid.
I need to buy a jug of that and
keep it near the door.
yup, I said.
that's why I wear gloves
all the time.
good idea she says.
you're a smart cookie.

card game

a band
of cold mice
find their way into
my cupboard
seeking warmth
and food.
they are playing cards
at a small
table of hard cheese.
there is a candle
lit,
as they each nibble
at the edge
of a saltine cracker,
and sip
bourbon.
shut the door, one
says, shivering
in his grey fur,
with a scarf round
his little shoulders,
you're letting a draft
in.

each day

each day
with increasing speed
it seems that someone
who's been part of your
life
in the news, in
movies
in a band, or on
tv
has passed away.
your world
as you've known it,
on a turn table,
in black and white,
and technicolor,
is crumbling
bitter sweetly away.

her boots

do you like my boots,
she asks,
spinning around with a drink
in her hand,
wearing only her boots.
tight black leather
that rises above her knees.
she makes herself so dizzy
that she tumbles
into the table
knocking over a vase
I bought in Italy ten
years ago
when I was flush with money.
it explodes in a cloud
of ancient dust.
it mushrooms towards the ceiling.
oops, she says.
sorry, i'll buy you another
one, okay.
target?
don't worry about it,
I tell her.
I like your boots.

pale blue

it's blue out.
the snow. a solemn crust
of white,
a half effort
by a weak storm,
lies still
with its own shade
of blue.
a blue you can live
with.
sleep on.
brush away with
a swipe of your gloved
hand.

we need to cut

it's not
butter, or milk,
or pollen, or bread.
it's not the weather.
not dust,
or mites,
bed bugs, not mold
or dead leaves,
not grass, or trees,
or bees,
or even fleas.
it's none above,
the doctor says, sticking
a fine metal tube
of light
up your nose,
it's these.
we need to cut them
out if you
ever want relief and
to be able to breathe.

brown sugar

while hammering
a bag of brown sugar
on the kitchen floor,
trying to get some
loose for my oatmeal,
I thought about you.
how hard it was to get anything
sweet out
of you too, just a few
granules on occasion
would have
helped.

loose ends

there are loose ends.
always.
a thread to be cut.
nothing tied up in a neat bow.
knotted
and done.
there is always
a small
detail to be dealt with.
some lingering
word that
needs to be said,
thing to be done.
it's hard to quit, to stop,
to move on
without the shadow
of the past
not far behind you.

catholic guilt

I feel bad about
taking the pen from the bank.
slipping it into
my pocket after filling out
my deposit slip.
I pause when I get out
to my car.
maybe I should take it back.
somebody might need
this pen.
but then
I think about how
they have my money, how
they are making money on my
money being in there.
why shouldn't I have a pen
from the bank.
not to mention their crazy
lazy hours.
the fees, and the continual
annoyance of showing
my id.
what's wrong with taking one
single pen?
I turn the car off and take
it back, setting it
on the desk, but grabbing
two lollipops before
I leave.

blue water

lying
in the c scan machine
I think
of a blue water
paradise.
the whirring sounds
are birds wings,
the red light
beyond my closed eyes
is the sun
coming out
from the clouds.
you are there too.
beside
me, drink in hand.
kiss ready.
wishing me luck.

back to back

we could talk about
it.
discuss calmly
our differences. apologize
and confess.
make
love not war,
get back on track.
or we could continue
on like this,
alone in winter,
beside you in bed,
back to
back.

being round

a curved earth
is a good earth,
nice and round.
a pleasant blue sphere
circling.
well planned
this symmetry.
no one falls off,
the gravity holding us
in place,
keeping our feet on
the ground.
we could learn much
from what's not flat,
or skewed,
oblong,
but round.

divorce advice

my father
when I called him to tell
him about
my divorce,
could only say,
and say it with self knowledge,
whatever you do now,
don't start drinking.
there are plenty of fish in the sea.
I briefly thought about
flounder, catfish, perch
and herring.
wild salmon.
I laughed.
he laughed.
then I poured just a small
amount of vodka
onto the top
of a tumbler full of ice.
just one,
I said.
just one, he said back.

exploring

it's over
for Columbus,
Magellan, Lewis and Clark,
who needs you.
there's no where left to go,
to plant a flag
and call it
home.
everything's been taken
and called dibs,
as far as
the eye can see.
even to the moon,
a flag waves still upon
the barren rocks
and sand.
each star has a name,
each planet
a billion light years
away
is made familiar
with a number.
and yet it's
strange how I don't even
know, beyond a single wall,
my neighbor.

the daily news

I can't swallow the news
anymore,
nor chew,
or bite into its ripe
delicious
gossip.
I won't digest a single
word
of what they say,
or inhale
one scent of its cooked
and seasoned
gruel.
the kitchen is full
of one armed
chefs, all
swinging a different
knife,
stabbing madly with
a fork,
depending on how they
lean,
left or to the right.

fallen angel

when are the plow trucks coming
through,
my neighbor asks me, as the snow
falls and levels
the street with a fine
white powder. we both stand
on our porches
looking up into the sky.
my knowledge of the plowing
schedule is limited,
so I tell him I don't know.
we're supposed to get six
inches, he says, maybe more
if the winds shift down
from Canada.
perhaps, I say, lying down
in my white yard,
fanning my legs and arms
to make a fallen angel.

raising ships

they are bringing up
the ship
from the sea bottom, slowly
raising it's hull
in salted pieces.
boots and purses.
belts undone,
eyeglasses.
tea cups.
all once in the hands
of passengers
now white boned and settled
loosely
in the dark sand.
it's a graveyard of sorts,
without the dirt
or the headstone,
or church beside with which
to mourn.

it'll be fun

let's go sky diving,
she says excitedly,
rattling the newspaper
in front of me.
I stare deeply into
a black cup of coffee,
studying the ripples
before looking up at her.
it's clear who we are now.
how different.
look, we can cut out
this coupon and be in
orange county by noon.
no experience necessary,
it says. it's two for one.
I look out the window.
the sky is blue.
bluer perhaps than it's
ever been. I can't imagine
or dream it any bluer
than it is right now.
today? I say. sipping
my coffee.
yes, she says. why not?
we have nothing planned.
it'll be fun.
I thought we were going
to take a walk around
the lake, i tell her,
feed the ducks.