if i go now

if I go now
I can beat the traffic.
i'm going
against traffic
anyways, but you never
know.
one flat tire, one
fender bender
one eager cop
with a radar gun
and it's a two hour
drive
not one.
if I get out of bed
and go
now, I can make it,
beat the traffic,
be on top
of things.
that would surprise
everyone.

the end is near

our islands
are shrinking. the places
we go to
to get away
are smaller each day.
ice bergs are half the size
they once were
as they break free
and float away.
the palm trees
are brown,
the fruit has fallen,
the sea washes up
whales that have
given up.
it's hard to find a book
to read
that you don't throw
across the room.
you click and click
the channels
finding little to ease
this feeling
of impending doom.

waiting on you

we are an impatient lot.
wanting
the line
to speed up.
the light to change,
for that man
pushing a stroller
to get across the road.
we
want love
on a platter,
quick service, money
too.
we want to know
the answers
now, without
reading, or thinking
things through.
we are an impatient lot,
I say out loud to no one,
as I sit in the car,
with the engine running,
waiting once
more for you.

let's worry

tomorrow comes.
it goes. it becomes a memory.
so much worry
was put into it,
and for what?
it's already done
and gone.
let's concentrate now
on the next day, the next
tomorrow.
let's toss and turn,
pull our hair out over
that,
see where it gets us.

the pounds

it's an inch
here, a pound there.
a walk
around the block,
a five k run
that keeps you from being
who you want to be.
one more sit up,
one more pull up,
one more day without
bread
or milk,
or meat.
perhaps then i'll
be liked
and loved
and will live happily ever
after, be free
of what's become of me.

i'm sorry

stale
bread, milk gone
sour.
a line
of ants marching
from the sugar bowl.
things
have fallen apart
since she
departed.
she even took her
cook book
and crock pot,
not to mention,
the cork screw
and directions to
turning on
the oven.
I should call her
and say
i'm sorry.

the green holiday

a drunk
in a green hat
with what looks like the fillings
of loaded
potato skins splashed
on his shirt
is sleeping on the steps
of your porch.
he's lost.
his hand
is stamped with a shamrock
from
wherever he was
last night.
there is green drizzle
on his lips,
and chin.
he opens his eyes as you
spray him
with the garden hose.
this awakens him.
he opens his mouth
to accept the spray of cold
water,
then sings some irish
song
as he gathers himself
to stand up,
and stagger off.

the container

it's a hard lid
to get off.
factory sealed with a tough
thin ridge
of plastic
that won't spin
or bend or
break.
you try to open
it with your bare
hands at first,
spinning left
then right,
but you don't have that
kind of inhuman strength.
you get a knife.
a pair of pliers.
a wrench out of your car.
you run
hot water over it,
then cold,
you bang it against
the counter.
tap a hammer along
the circumference.
it doesn't budge.
you call your mother, who
comes over
and peels a thin
strip off
along the side of the container,
she opens it
with her dainty fingers.
there, she says.

twitter

i'm worried about you, she says.
watching
me as I scramble an egg
into a bowl.
why?
I say, dropping a pad
of irish butter into
the black
frying pan.
why are you worried about
me?
because you don't worry
enough.
you don't even follow twitter.
did you even see
what he tweeted today?
nope, what?
you stand here making eggs
in your socks
while
the world is crumbling
out side.
I look out the window.
is today trash day, by the way?

the inbetween

we are born into
this world against our will,
and will
mostly like
leave
in the same way.
the in between seems to be
up to us,
but even that is unsure
when you throw in fate,
and prayer,
luck.

love

not everything is for keeps.
not this
coat,
or hat,
this car outside my door.
the book I just put down.
not even the tree
bending in the wind
in the yard.
there is no keeps.
except for one,
which goes
beyond this life into
the next.

the mother and child

the mother,
spoon feeds her child.
what is that.
carrot mush?
squash?
she can't take her eyes
of this new
baby,
fresh out of the oven.
she brushes the baby's
thin hair.
pushes a blanket in
around her.
the baby can't
take her eyes of
the mother.
they are as blue as the earth
is when
standing on
the moon.
it begins,
and goes on like this
forever.

the check up

my doctor,
my lover, takes my pulse
after
kissing me.
she says, I see no increase
in
heart beat,
no rapid breathing.
are you losing interest,
she says.
telling me to stick
out my tongue.
she raps my knee with
a wine
glass, making my leg
lurch forward.
your reflexes are fine,
she says.
i'm just worried about
your heart.

driving in pg county

by law
in Maryland, there is a stretch
of highway
between
the Wilson bridge
and college park
where you are not allowed
to stay in
one lane for more than
thirty seconds.
you are obligated to switch
lanes continuously
until you reach your exit
or crash. by state law,
you are not permitted to use
a turn signal once.
tail gaiting
is mandatory too, as is
doing seventy five
or beyond
in the fifty five zone.
suv's with blackened windows
are allowed to flash
their lights
and bully
everyone smaller to the side,
coming to within inches
of hitting
the bumper of the cars
in front of them.
please drive accordingly
once
in p.g. county.

my well patients

when I became a doctor,
I didn't know what I was getting into
with all of these
sick and whining people.
calling me night and day
for a prescription.
they sit in the waiting room,
nervously drinking coffee,
itching at their arms
or the sides of their neck.
some are limping,
some are worried about getting
a shot,
or having to be probed
for a lump
somewhere.
my daddy had a lump just like
that, they say.
I like my well patients.
the happy ones, with nothing
wrong. with good jobs,
and good insurance. I like
how they come in
and bring me donuts
and we chat about a vacation
as I check their perfect
blood pressure
once again.

looking for an answer

i'm tired of the farm.
of each
cow, each pig and chicken,
tired of them
looking me
in the eye for answers.
is today
the day you eat me,
they ask?
maybe, is my answer,
as I bend over
to gather eggs, squeeze
out another glass
of milk.
maybe.

looking for an answer

i'm tired of the farm.
of each
cow, each pig and chicken,
tired of them
looking me
in the eye for answers.
is today
the day you eat me,
they ask?
maybe, is my answer,
as I bend over
to gather eggs, squeeze
out another glass
of milk.
maybe.

say nothing

how kind
we are to not say what
we want
to say.
to turn that cheek
and swallow
our words,
though bitter sweet.
how nice
we are to go our
separate ways,
to leave the room,
to keep silent,
to say nothing
we'll regret
the following day.

say nothing

how kind
we are to not say what
we want
to say.
to turn that cheek
and swallow
our words,
though bitter sweet.
how nice
we are to go our
separate ways,
to leave the room,
to keep silent,
to say nothing
we'll regret
the following day.

his shoes

when he left,
he left behind his shoes,
lined on the steps.
shoes for work,
for mowing,
shoes for sunday,
for painting
the back fence.
did he not see them
as he carried his
suitcase
down to leave.
was there no room
to pack them?
or were they left to
tell us something.
to remind us
of what we had to fill
with him no longer
there.

the lost stories

Hemmingway
was probably angered
when his
wife, Hadley,
lost his
suitcase full of short
stories
in the Gare, a train
station
in Paris.
they were new,
his only copies.
did he yell, or throw
things.
did he threaten
her with divorce,
or did he take her
in his arms,
wipe her
tears way with his
large hands,
then get back to it,
after they drank the sorrow
down.

the slow melt

the glacier of you,
of us,
moving
slowly across the world,
from one
time zone
to the next.
we've known each other
for eons,
I remember
when dinosaurs
ruled the world.
i'm still waiting for
the sun
to move closer,
for you to melt,
but i'm not holding my
breath.

jesus, i'm tired

jesus, i'm tired, I say
to no one.
lifting my leg up to remove
a crusted boot.
Christ, i'm weary,
I murmur,
staring at the shadowed
cross
I've nailed
to the far wall
beside the picture of trees.
I slide off my
pants, remove my
shirt, letting them fall
to the floor.
I sit on the edge of the bed
and look
at my father's hands.
I want to think
that it's a good tired,
but I can't
say that.
instead I lie back and let
sleep
become me.

the babble of poetry

I cringe at poetry.
I can hardly
get through a single poem
in poetry magazine
before cursing
and throwing the worshiped
tomb
across the room.
Bukowski is rolling
in his grave.
drunk, perhaps, with a whore
beside him,
but still
writing, still believing
that there is more
truth to be told
and a better
way to say it,
than that babble.

the learning curve

I've set aside
most science, most math,
most biology, but

it's still somewhere 

inside of me,

in the attic
of my brain.
I've studied hard to put
it there.
to give it room,
to memorize
such things as the bones
of a body,
the periodic table,
the planets
in order of distance
from the sun.

so many tests.
how many nights did I

fall asleep 
with pencil
and paper in hand,

trying to solve an equation,

or diagram a sentence,

but what good is that now?
all that knowledge

means nothing while

i sit here on this cold

park bench

and wonder

if you really love me.

the white shoe

I have
your shoe in my hand.
just one.
it's white.
it's empty without
your foot in it.
it's going nowhere
without you.
i'll keep it for a while,
until you call
and ask,
have you seen my other
shoe?
it's white.

at the gate

you linger
at the gate, the line
of black cars
snaking
in between the stones
etched
with beginnings
and endings.
the sun tilts
against the trees,
dapples the manicured
lawns,
brushes gold
against cut flowers
dropped or thrown.
who are we praying for,
who has
ears
to listen, or the time,
to understand
what any of this
means.
you go in. that's
what we do
in times of grief.

going to california

on our way to California
in 1969,
we pushed
the stalled car to the corner.
to the edge of our
neighborhood.
the engine
wouldn't turn.
a liquid oozed out
from below.
we looked at one another,
pushed back our
long hair, and said,
what now?
there are so many
places to go in this
universe,
but we can't
always get there.

one night camping

we camped too low,
too close
to the river. my brother
and I,
a stray friend.
the three of us
in a pup tent.
we ate beans, for dinner.
boiled on a campfire.
not a good idea
for three young
boys
lying beside one another,
snug and cold
as the rain began
to fall.
we don't ever talk about
that night,
which is a good thing.

the candle

this candle
with a long wick,
sturdy
on the dish, thick
and round,
white wax,
burns bright for now.
it gives
me light to read by,
allows
me to see you sleeping
soundly
upon the sheets.
such small pleasures
are welcome
in these days and nights
without power,
the harsh world
just beyond the walls.

is it blood or beet juice

all the beets
I've been eating over the last
four days
has me worried.
things are not the color
they should be.
is it blood, or is it
beet juice.
if it's blood,
I need to write a will
quickly,
if it's beet juice,
hey.
what are you doing
later?

if i had a man

if I had a man,
then, and finally then,
i'll be happy, she tells
me on the phone
as she uncorks
a bottle of chardonnay.
why don't men like me?
i'm smart, i'm
attractive, I have a great
job,
my kids are all gone,
i'm not in debt and don't
have any major illnesses,
what's wrong with me?
what?
I ask her,
I was just fanning the smoke
alarm
because I burned
some pizza slices
in the oven?
damn cheese caught fire.
what were you saying?

lady in a wig

I don't believe
in putting too much thought
into dreams.
the one about
swimming in deep
blue water, the waves,
the dark
sky,
someone chasing me
in a wig
with a knife
when I get out of the water.
she's laughing too.
why is she laughing.
always laughing and my feet
are so heavy,
unable to get away.

her other side

there were meals,
despite the groans
from us hungry children,
that my mother
would cook anyway,
out of spite,
I think.
liver and onions, for one.
split pea
soup for another.
tuna casserole. god help us.
together we'd shake our
heads and bang our forks
against the table in
protest, then eat,
slowly,
painfully, which she
seemed to enjoy,
showing a side of her
that I really didn't want
to know about.

gratitude

the dirt
under my nails is no reflection
on
godliness.
the paint,
the debris, the spotted
shirts
and dungarees.
the dust in my hair.
all
just signs of a long
day,
a long day
where work is akin
to being
on one's knees
whispering gratitude
in prayer.

one plant

I give up too easily
on plants.
of the three once
on the sill,
only one remains.
pitiful
in the shallow
pot of dirt,
three leaves gone
brown,
the others tilted
optimistically
to the window
for sun, to be away
from me,
and into the cool
wet ground.

the honeymoon

her tea brown
eyes,
weak now,
a thin broth of vision,
blinking
with
questions, confusion.
they were bright once,
alive
with young wonder.
here,
look at this picture
of her in
san diego
wearing a wide brimmed
sombrero,
sitting round
on her curled black hair.
she was happy then,
perhaps,
at least for that one
snap of a lens
capturing her in the California
sunshine.
before children,
a wedding ring,
stiff and gold,
newly
awkward on her finger.

your own bad self

there was something in
his eyes.
those black deep eyes.
you could tell he wasn't right.
too much
inbreeding.
too much blood
passed down along the line.
how easily
he could destroy
a house.
a shoe,
a chair leg. biting
a can in half
was a pleasure for him.
barking at the television
was non stop.
there was no walking him.
walking
a fish
would have been easier,
a straighter line.
and yet, and yet, despite
everything.
despite the four hundred
dollars
monthly vet bill after he
would eat a dead
bird, or mouse,
you still found a way to
love him.
which gave you hope
for your own bad self.

don't wait up

it's obvious
that you don't love me.
I see it written all over
your face,
I smell it in the burnt toast,
the uncooked eggs
on my plate.
the soggy bacon.
I see this lack of love
in the laundry pile
in the hallway.
the unlocked door.
the way the mail
falls through the slot
and is left
stacked upon the floor.
I hear it in your whispers
when you're on the phone
in the other room,
taking
the call where I can't hear
you.
it's obvious what's
going on here,
and even more so
when you tell me
not to wait up,
that you'll be home
late tonight, if at all.

i'm not that bad

it's no fun being
on the chain gang, but
here I am
in my orange jump suit
in a long
line
of other miscreants
swinging
blades
and rakes to clear
the road.
why is there so much
trash
out here, what's
wrong with people?
throwing out their
wrappers and cups,
cigarette butts,
bottles and cans.
even diapers. who throws
a diaper out the window?
sure, I've done bad
things in my life to put
me here, behind bars.
but i'd never ever
throw a diaper out
a car window.

the theory of women

the book is over due
by nearly
forty years,
I can't find my library card.
is the library still there
and if it is,
I wonder what I owe.
do they miss
this book on
female anatomy?
on understanding how
a woman thinks?
why they are so different
than us men.
their intuition and soft
side.
the nesting,
why they take so long
in the bathroom,
all of that.
I've skimmed a few
chapters, but
I still haven't read it
thoroughly.
I do admit though to have
looked at the pictures
many times,
and earmarked a few
select pages.

the skipping lp

i can remember the scratch
on the vinyl
of each forty five,
each lp
i'd ever placed upon
the turntable,
i knew when to get up
and lift the needle to end
the skipping.
i knew at what point
on the exact note,
the exact word sung
that the record would not
move forward.
i can still hear
the click click click
when i hear the songs now.
i had time then to
get up, to do such
things, unbothered.
it's a fond
memory.

the skipping lp

i can remember the scratch
on the vinyl
of each forty five,
each lp
i'd ever placed upon
the turntable,
i knew when to get up
and lift the needle to end
the skipping.
i knew at what point
on the exact note,
the exact word sung
that the record would not
move forward.
i can still hear
the click click click
when i hear the songs now.
i had time then to
get up, to do such
things, unbothered.
it's a fond
memory.

guess my scar

she lifts up the hem
of her skirt
and points to a thin
line, a scar,
soft and pink,
like a skinny worm
upon her thigh.
see that she says?
yes, I say,
shark bite?
no she says, but
guess.
knife fight. no.
caught on a rusty bed spring?
no, she says, horrified.
ummm. I give up,
I've got nothing,
I tell her and drink
my drink.
my mind wanders to
the sea.
to a raft, floating
out along the wide
blue.
i'm alone, except for
the sharks
circling with fins
above the surface.
they wait patiently.
I don't have
that kind of patience.
well? she says.
well what, I say back.

guess my scar

she lifts up the hem
of her skirt
and points to a thin
line, a scar,
soft and pink,
like a skinny worm
upon her thigh.
see that she says?
yes, I say,
shark bite?
no she says, but
guess.
knife fight. no.
caught on a rusty bed spring?
no, she says, horrified.
ummm. I give up,
I've got nothing,
I tell her and drink
my drink.
my mind wanders to
the sea.
to a raft, floating
out along the wide
blue.
i'm alone, except for
the sharks
circling with fins
above the surface.
they wait patiently.
I don't have
that kind of patience.
well? she says.
well what, I say back.

not meant to be

circling circling,
not a spot to be found.
not a single slot upon
the crowded road
to park this car and get
out.
everyone is here.
no one is leaving.
with my blinker on, I
go around again,
and again.
farther out, then even
farther. I say a prayer
to the parking gods,
still nothing. some
things are not meant
to be.

not meant to be

circling circling,
not a spot to be found.
not a single slot upon
the crowded road
to park this car and get
out.
everyone is here.
no one is leaving.
with my blinker on, I
go around again,
and again.
farther out, then even
farther. I say a prayer
to the parking gods,
still nothing. some
things are not meant
to be.

the bean

you could live
without coffee,
you tell your barista
as he stands behind
the whirring machine
with a cloud of steam
in his face.
sure
your life
would be diminished
and sad,
and mournful, but you
can see continuing on
without the bean.
without coming in here
to be told
to have a good day, or
a good one.
it would be a terrible hardship.
but maybe you could do it.
however for the moment
can you throw in an extra
shot, and double
cup it for me.

the bean

you could live
without coffee,
you tell your barista
as he stands behind
the whirring machine
with a cloud of steam
in his face.
sure
your life
would be diminished
and sad,
and mournful, but you
can see continuing on
without the bean.
without coming in here
to be told
to have a good day, or
a good one.
it would be a terrible hardship.
but maybe you could do it.
however for the moment
can you throw in an extra
shot, and double
cup it for me.

the three of them

it was a toss up
as to who was more evil,
between her sister and her.
you had to watch out for both
of them.
not to mention
her mother,
who was on to you from
the jump.
they knew how to kill
a man
with one finger, one word,
one long wet kiss.
it was a long journey
through the jungle,
hacking at the brush,
to escape them all.

the three of them

it was a toss up
as to who was more evil,
between her sister and her.
you had to watch out for both
of them.
not to mention
her mother,
who was on to you from
the jump.
they knew how to kill
a man
with one finger, one word,
one long wet kiss.
it was a long journey
through the jungle,
hacking at the brush,
to escape them all.

milk and bread

there was never
not
milk
and bread on the table.
fish
was scarce, meat rare.
it was
always
chicken
or pasta, which was fine
dining
for us.
sometimes there'd be
a prayer,
but most of the time
we were
like ravenous wolves,
we'd dig
in.
each fork unwilling
to share.

milk and bread

there was never
not
milk
and bread on the table.
fish
was scarce, meat rare.
it was
always
chicken
or pasta, which was fine
dining
for us.
sometimes there'd be
a prayer,
but most of the time
we were
like ravenous wolves,
we'd dig
in.
each fork unwilling
to share.

the aging

the whales have come
ashore
to die.
to breathe in the air
that will
end
their swimming below
the long wide
sea.
they've tired, wearied
of this
round world,
age,
friends gone,
disease.
they rest now on the lapping
shore.
under the mist
of early morning.
too large to move,
too unwilling to be
saved, choosing
how they will leave.

the aging

the whales have come
ashore
to die.
to breathe in the air
that will
end
their swimming below
the long wide
sea.
they've tired, wearied
of this
round world,
age,
friends gone,
disease.
they rest now on the lapping
shore.
under the mist
of early morning.
too large to move,
too unwilling to be
saved, choosing
how they will leave.

the black eye story

he has a black eye
and a story to go with it.
I suspect a bar
fight, a car wreck,
his head
going through a windshield.
a cop's billy club giving him
a wood shampoo
as he resisted arrest
after throwing an
empty bottle of jack
daniels out the window.
or perhaps his ex wife
punching him
after he hid her teeth
under the bed.
but no.
he says that he was
playing catch with a ball
with some children
at the park,
and one of them
threw a rock instead.

forever yours

she sends me a picture
on her phone of a pomegranate
martini.
she's out drinking
without me,
again.
we've grown apart.
no longer drinking together,
eating bad
food
at the bar.
we haven't dipped calamari
into a red sauce
in like, forever.
I send her a picture
of my broken
heart.
one of those little
candy hearts
from valentines day
that I found
between the couch
cushions. it says
in blotted ink,
forever yours, so
untrue.

the mushroom cloud

it's best to not look
at the news.
to not read it, or try to
understand
any of what's going on.
it's best
to bury one's head into
the sand
of books
and entertainment.
this too shall pass,
is your mantra, saying
it over
and over again
while looking in the distance
for a mushroom
cloud.

the mushroom cloud

it's best to not look
at the news.
to not read it, or try to
understand
any of what's going on.
it's best
to bury one's head into
the sand
of books
and entertainment.
this too shall pass,
is your mantra, saying
it over
and over again
while looking in the distance
for a mushroom
cloud.

apartment living

do you smell that she says,
tilting her nose
into the air to gain more
information
about what might be cooking
down the hallway
in apartment three G.
what is that?
goat, I suggest, or
some farm animal.
I believe they sacrificed
a chicken
the other day.
it took the porter hours
to get the trail of blood
out of the carpet.
they usually start banging
on the bongos
about nine p.m..
but they're very nice,
I lent them
a carving knife and some
olive oil
just yesterday.

debbie

i used to pick her up
at the airport.
she in her flight uniform,
her roll on bag,
black, of course,
at her feet.
black heels.
she'd stand there with
a smile on her face.
shoulders squared,
smelling like a month
of perfumed
sundays. unwearied
by her travels
in the air,
a cat
who swallowed the canary,
or was about to.

the christmas album

what happened to music,
I ask my
friend bill. it stinks
these days.
I can't get no satisfaction.
he smiles
and nods.
good lord, Justin what's
his name,
and beyonce. it's a sham.
and a shame.
we got to get out of this place.
he shrugs, and asks me
if I have
the new Dylan Christmas
album.
no, I tell him.
any good?

a moving violation

I see the curves,
but go too fast anyway.
she was in a red
dress.
how could I miss her,
a moving
violation, strolling
across
the street.
if not for the lamppost
i'd be in the river.
or worse,
upon her,
and never would we
meet.

listen to your mother

don't borrow money,
don't complain,
don't stand too close,
or go out
without a coat
or hat, or boots
in the snow
and rain.
eat all your greens,
hit your knees
and say your prayers,
brush
your teeth.
do your homework,
be good, be kind,
listen to your mother,
wear clean
underwear.

they have plans

it's
the quiet ones you need
to watch out for.
the silent
smilers,
the innocents,
the shy
soft voices that whisper
and never shout.
they never stand out in
a crowd,
but blend
like anyone into
the scenery.
these are the ones
you need to keep
an eye on,
keep in view.
they have plans.

the ballerina

your mind drifts
as you watch
the ballerina on her toes
in pink,
Tchaikovsky
in your ears, the stage lights
brimming blue
and white,
the silence of her feet
as she moves
like a flower
caught on the water
from side to side.
you think of other things
than what you see.
this beauty
for some reason,
has opened up your mind,
given you
a new light to view
your life, to
think differently on
how to live.

no snow

a year without winter,
has come
and gone. no snow, to speak of.
no ice
or roads salted
and layered in sand.
no schools are out,
or days missed
from work.
we've grown apart since
then,
since not being stuck
inside,
with nowhere to go
but towards each other.

everyone's cat

the black cat
made it through the winter.
she hears
my door open and scurries over
to rub
against my leg.
I sit with her for a while.
we stare
into each other's eyes.
hers a bottle green,
mine more olive.
our love has survived
the cold.
I set a bowl of milk
out for her before I leave,
she takes one or two
licks with her pink
tongue, then looks at me
before running off
to another door that opens.
it's okay, I still adore
her, despite the hussy
that she is.

fruits and vegetables

the religion of
organic tomatoes and home grown
spinach
bothers me.
i'm weary
of staring at every apple
and wondering
where it came
from.
who touched it,
put a needle into
its vein.
i'm tired of kneeling at
the altar of
organic carrots and beans,
brown eggs
from a chicken
not treated mean.
I miss the old days,
of snapping a piece of
fruit of a tree,
running it under the sink
water
then eating it
while playing in
the street.

calendar pages

we had our own seasons.
the frigid winters
of discontent, the youthful
summers
full energy
and late nights.
there was the spring
of new
found love,
the fall of it's departure.
each calendar
page
turned over, for years
and years
until it was done.

things change

before
the new town homes went up,
all with brick resembling
what's been there for
two hundred years,
before that,
before the tenements were
plowed away,
before the new park,
the fountain,
the coffee shops and boutiques,
there were
street walkers
ladies of the evening,
strolling the dark streets
off King.
it was a shadowy world.
underwater
in the dark night.
cheap thrills, and drugs
on every corner.
a brown bag being sipped
on from a stoop.
then it changed.
you can walk a child there
now and get an
ice cream on every block.

let's stay together

forget what I said

yesterday,
everything that was

thoughtless and cruel.

i was out of my head.

let's stay together,

like the song says,

let's remain
in this limbo stage
with an emotion,
that almost feels like love,
let's give it another week

or so.

i'm not ready to give up

just yet.  my shoes

are still under

your bed, you have

the charger to my phone,
and if my key still fits,
i'll see you after work,

I have no where else to go.

in passing

what brings
them here, this boxed truck
with red lights
spinning,
the sirens off now,
no need for that
anymore.
who is under the white
sheet,
tied snug around the cart.
not even a boot,
or hand shows.
a neighbor?
someone you knew,
someone
you've seen and said
hello to, in passing,
but no more. your
measure of grief,
is unknown.

the second hand store

whose clothes are these
on the racks,
the hangers, in the window
of the second hand store,
what hands
tied the bows, stitched
the hem,
put a new button where
a button should go.
all neat and clean now,
out of some drawer or
web strung closet
of another.
small tags adorn their thread
bare sleeves, priced
to sell,
though some look new as new,
as if they were
never worn.

come north

come north, she says. it's
snowing.
we can ski,
or sled, or skate
on the mirrored pond.
we can drink and eat
rich food,
make love
by the fire.
sleep in.
bring nothing,
just a heavy coat, gloves,
a hat,
boots, and you.
let's fall into the drifts
and make angels.

she's good at that

unfamiliar with flower
arrangements
I let her do that.
she's good with
flowers,
knowing all their names.
she's good with notes, too.
hand written
thank you's and words
of appreciation.
and gift wrapping.
how neatly she does that.
the ribbon just so.
and doing or saying
the proper thing,
whether in person or on
the phone.
she's all over Christmas
and other assorted
holidays.
so, she's in charge of
all that, as well.
and me?
I don't know. I work
hard, and delegate.

the gift box

at five,
the prize
in the box disappoints.
but what did you
expect
from a gift
inside a box
of nuts and caramel
popcorn.
a ring
that barely fits.
a whistle
that hardly
blows.
a little badge
that says
sheriff on it.
is this preparation for
what's to come
or not come in
life,
a metaphor
of false hopes?

impatient for pie

let me tell you all
about my blueberry pies, she says
beaming with baker's pride,
as if I could
hop upon her knee
like a child and listen
to the tale and history
of a blueberry pie.
well, she says,
there are secret ingredients,
but in general
we pick the berries when they're
nice and plump
and sweet, not too soon,
not too late in season.
we roll the dough out, just
so. crimping the edges
for our pan. we use white
all purpose flour,
there is butter in the mix,
sugar, of course.
wait a minute, I tell her.
stop right there.
I don't need to know how it's
made.
I just want to eat one.
do you have one we can cut,
put a slice on a plate
with a tall glass of cold milk?
if you do, good, if not
call me when you have one
ready.

i'm here

the hellos
and farewells come quickly
these days.
the handshake
or kiss upon a cheek.
who isn't leaving,
or coming.
who doesn't have a bag
packed
with a ticket
in their hand to some
foreign shore,
or land.
not me.
i'm here.

i see them

i see them
in the fog of sleep,
in the angelic
air
of grey mist,
white fluffs of earth
bound clouds
rising.
i see them, they
are like shadows,
the dead,
moving slowly
away, or is it
towards me.

we're sinking

it's our boat,
our once true love,
mine and yours,
but I won't go down with it.
I'll wait
as long as I can,
bailing water, but
then i'm off,
with or without you,
into the sea
swimming to dry land.
it's just a boat,
for god's sake,
let it go, we need to
let it sink,
and get another, or two,
one for me,
one for you.

the nail and hammer

he'd spit on his hands,
rub them
together
before starting work.
coffee in,
the drive
to the site over.
a bag tools at his feet.
some wind
might be in the air,
the sun
not quite up yet,
the calm
of blue across
the empty frame of a new
house going up.
all his life,
this is what he did,
doing this one
thing well.
bringing him closer
to his faith,
and the prayer for
more work
and thanks for the nail
and hammer
in his hand.

waiting for a taxi

with bags packed,
I look at my watch
and stare out the window,
waiting for the taxi
to take me to the airport.
i'll be
in france by tomorrow,
eating a baguette,
sipping
coffee near the seine.
i'll have on my beret
and boots,
and will wax philosophically
about love
and life.
sex and death. money.
i'll be an ex-pat,
far away from home,
becoming someone i'm not.
i'll type my masterpiece
on a old
remmington,
unsticking the keys,
sliding paper into the roller.
i'll type and type
and nod at what I've written,
i'll keep going
until i can't go anymore,
then it's off to spain.

next

the one barista is tired.
she sits
with her hands
folded
around her cheeks,
sitting on a stool
in the kitchen.
you can see her through
the door as it
swings open.
it's seven a.m.
and already she's hit
the wall
of serving coffee and
heating up
whatever is in the
bin.
finally she comes out
in her green apron,
grimaces
and takes the next
customer in the long
line, that goes outside
the door.
her life has circled
to this,
and to what end.

roads untraveled

there are many roads
not travelled, so get over
yourself
mr. frost
and quit stacking
rocks
to make a better
fence, get out there
and have some
fun, discover
an alley, a tunnel,
a new path
to the waterfall,
or make your own
through the bramble
and briars of
this life we travel
and stumble in.

decisions

while crossing the atlantic,
staring
out at the rough tumble
of a dark violent
sea,
I thought what would
happen
if I just stepped between
the rail,
and leaped in.
disappearing into the almost
black water.
my mother was beside me,
holding the youngest
in her arms,
while the others gripped
the grey metal
rail, cold as ice.
I was only six, so it would
be doubtful that it
could be called
a suicide. an accident
perhaps, what child would
think of doing himself in.
I didn't jump, but did
peer over, my head
between the rails and studied
the churn of the boat,
the waves breaking,
the trouble of it all
and what life
could be, or not be,
each day that we're here.

the car alarm

the alarm goes
off
but no one cares.
it's annoying, but it's
not your car,
not your problem.
you go on about your way,
covering your ears,
hissing at the sound
of the pulsing
blare.
it was bumped, that's it.
no one is even trying
to steal it,
though you wish they would
and drive it away,
far far away,
so that the noise
stops
and gets beyond your
hearing range,
which isn't far
at all, really.

getting organized

she wrings her hands
and sits
by the mirror.
there isn't enough time
to worry
about everything.
I have to get organized
and pick
the ones that are most
important.
i'm getting old.
i'm alone.
I don't like my job.
those are good ones
to start with.
that should cover the morning.

while birds wait

let's praise
the new day the earth worm
says,
burrowing upwards
towards light,
through the soft earth.
let's rise
and shine
and find a warm spot
to bathe in.
all is well,
we have so much to
be thankful
for in this dirt, this
wet land,
this endless dark
soil
where we thrive
and do what we are born
to do.

not hungry

how empty
the basket is, as you walk
through the bright
aisles.
all the cans
and boxes aligned just
so,
by someone
in the early hours.
each peach,
each apple with those
of the same, stacked high,
turned
to face the next hand
that finds them.
there must be something
here you
want to eat.
that you need, must have.
not so.

picking corn

the stones
set out
to sit upon by my grandmother
may still be there
along
the path, full of honeysuckle
and briar,
that leads into the woods
in north reading.
she would
say, let's rest,
and point
to which stone
she wanted us to move
for her to sit
upon.
she'd light a cigarette
and say,
just five minutes.
but while we're here,
go across that road
to field and pick
us some corn
corn for dinner later.
the farmer won't mind.
six stalks will do.

while ironing

while ironing,
while getting ready for
bed,
for tomorrow,
for work,
her blouse stretched
out across
the ironing board.
in her slip,
standing, pressing the hot
iron
from side to side,
then over with the sleeve,
her heart went.
she had time to sit
on the edge of the bed
before dying with
her glasses still on,
in her bare feet,
her eyes open,
her mouth parted as if
to say, now?
gently, they placed
a sheet upon
her and closed door.

the orange chair

orange is not
my color
nor is red or pink,
or green
or yellow
give me blue
in any shade or grey.
brown and black
do it as well
for me.
what were you thinking,
the orange chair
must go.

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?