pennies

it matters not
what milk cost anymore.
you need milk,
you put it in the cart
and buy.
stamps too,
what's the price of a
single stamp?
I have no idea.
gas, fill her up and go.
what's the point
in driving to the next pump
for two cents
less.
those worries, those penny
worries
have left me
for some reason, not
that riches have been
bestowed,
or inheritance left
in my hands,
i'm just more concerned
with pounds now,
not pennies.

his last garden

his hands curled
in the dirt, means spring.
he pounds
a stake
to hold up the fence
to keep
the rabbits out.
it's a small square
of ground,
just enough room
around the air
conditioner to grow
peppers
and tomatoes.
most of which he'll
never eat, or barely see.
it's not about that.
it's something
else.
it's the seed, the rain,
the green
growing of something
new. something
he's always done
since a boy in Halifax.

getting young again

the doctor shows you a diagram
of your body.
and indicates with a pencil
where the problem is,
he draws a light line
across the areas where he
needs to cut and trim.
under your arms, your belly.
the triple chin, those bags
under your eyes.
we can smooth out those laugh
lines and that furrow
in your brow.
you'll look years younger,
he tells you. but I have
to say, it's going to hurt
and will take a long
time to heal.
people may not recognize you.
the other options are exercise,
diet and to cut back on
your drinking. so what do
you think?
can you do it today, you
ask him while eating
some candy that you have
in your pocket.

the fan

the woman behind you,
where you
sit at the concert
sings every song
as loud as she can. she's a fan.
she's a little drunk,
a little
woozy, but she knows
all the words.
she's dancing too, having
a good time
as the band plays in front,
on stage.
you wish that someone
would throw
a net on her an drag
her out.
but no.
she's a paid customer,
she's having fun,
and she's a loyal forever
fan.
she knows all the words.
she whistles with two
fingers in her mouth
when the music stops
and yells out the singer's
name. she says I love
you Jimmy. I love you.

tuesdays puzzle

you wet your fingers
to turn the page.
then another.
you squint at the words,
moving on
from one boring story
to the next.
who won, who lost
means less and less with
each new year.
you yawn.
has nothing changed?
is there anything good
to report?
the sun may come out,
it may rain.
the Tuesday puzzle is
less hard than
tomorrows. you go there.

the after life

the boat is less
full
as some go over and under.
the salt
is on your tongue.
in your
tears.
the sway of the ocean,
the pull
of the moon,
the oars,
the loved and unloved,
both drift
towards some distant
shore.
will we gather there
in time, after this is
all done,
and recall the life
we shared?
I hope so.

the hot water

don't use all the hot
water
we'd tell our sisters,
all three
as they beat us to the bathroom,
with towels
and soaps,
photoplay magazines.
they had to wash their
hair,
to soak,
to primp and brush,
to get ready
for the boys they'd hope
to win.
we'd see
the steam rise out from
under the white door,
into the cool hall where
our bare feet stood,
we'd shake our heads
and moan,
too late.

the cold earth

there isn't much left
at the end
to divide,
a birdcage, empty,
lined still with newsprint
from nineteen eighty-five.
glasses, books,
photographs.
who wants his shoes?
the dirty magazines
under the bed?
the staples loose
between each thigh.
the money is just enough
to put him under,
a polite ceremony,
discounted for service
rendered
in the navy. flag
draped,
a spot saved not far
from
the eternal flame.
who comes, at this late
stage, to hear the volley
of gunshot,
those who never called,
or gave visit?
children with children
who never
knew him, and yet hold
the same name.
who stands near, besides
me, to watch him slip
into this cold dug grave.

the cake

people nibble at my
cake, the cake I spent
nearly thirty five minutes
making. not counting
the icing.
someone asks
who made this, to which I
shrug and say,
I don't know but
it's great isn't it?
I think i'll have another piece.
it's too sweet,
someone says, putting her
plate down,
and it needed to bake
another ten minutes.
it's soft in the middle.
I hate box cake mixes
the woman sitting next
to me says.
so lazy.
look how it sits in the pan,
unbalanced,
the icing is uneven
a man says with a pinky
in the air.
a monkey could make
this cake.
I think about making
monkey noises, but don't,
instead whisper, so
true. so true as I lick
the icing off my fork.

be careful

I have a fever
and a sore throat,
so it's best we don't kiss.
I wouldn't want you to catch
anything and be
careful of your step
going down,
she says,
a few bricks are loose.
hang on to the rail.
I can't get anyone to come
and fix them.
too small of a job.
and the rail
is shaky,
splintered with old
paint,
rotted wood, watch
your hand.
and be careful on
the sidewalk, the leaves
are slippery
I haven't had time
to rake. be careful,
she says waving,
once you get away
from me, you'll be
safe.

he loved her cooking

my mother
could sling a dish from
one side of the room
to the other.
the plate full or empty
made no difference,
although it was more
dramatic with red
sauce and meatballs,
penne pasta.
it usually involved
my father, who continued
eating,
head bent over
his food, buttering
his garlic bread,
while she questioned him about
where he was the night
before, and with who.
he loved her cooking.

those were the days

i have little patience
for names
being dropped,
places you've been,
or stayed
when you were on top.
who cares
who you know, or knew,
or whose lives
you have
barely touched through
six degrees of
separation.
it says little about
you,
or maybe it says a lot.
my butter does
not melt
for those were the days.

the bath

she slips into
something more comfortable,
her skin,
a tub
of hot water
with steam rising.
there are bubbles,
a froth
of vanilla, or is
it lavender, maybe
both.
two candles burn
at each end.
a glass of wine in
wet hand.
music plays from the other
room.
it's an event.
in a few hours she'll
be done.

from your window

silver
moon, your coin
brilliance
sitting
in the black pocket
of sky.
I see neither
head or tails,
nor edge.
just a moon.
a light
we both would see
together.
I wonder if
you see it now from
where you are,
this many years apart,
from where your
bare trees rise outside
cold windows.

free fall

you had little fear
of heights
until you fell from roof
to ground,
yet survived.
it wasn't your time
to die, maybe an angel
steered you
down, lowered your
body to a safe soft bed
of grass, a soiled
mound.
as with love
and marriage, there was
no fear there as
well. but such heights are
left alone now,
your feet planted
firmly on the ground.

april first

because it's april first,
she calls
and says,
are you sitting down,
I have some news.
what I say.
what is it?
she sounds panicked,
her voice trembling.
what? I say again,
but louder, what is it?
i'm pregnant, she says.
we're going to have
a baby. isn't that exciting.
but we're too old, i say,
as i fall onto the floor,
and begin to weep,
looking around the room
to where a crib might go.

dessert

the dessert
is you.
the length of you.
the porcelain
curve of hip
and shoulder.
there is a sweetness
in each kiss.
a meringue
of soul
in your gentle
spirit.
my heart swells
with each new bite.

he taps his hat

a man on the path,
stares at me and taps his hat.
taps it again
and again,
shaking his head
as I slowly roll by.
where's your helmet he says.
he's hardly older than I am.
stern, with a purposeful
stride.
a glazed stick from home
is in one hand.
he has gone most of his life
feeling the need
to tell others how to live,
what to do.
and even now, on this blue
skied day,
with me, drifting along
the wooded path, hardly pedaling,
to take it all in,
he tells me
to wear a helmet, to be
a better man, like he is.

slow to walk

slow to walk, I slow
my pace
to let him catch up.
he breathes, wipes his
brow, takes his hat off.
it's not far from
here to there.
some of us arrive,
others die early and
never know what it is
to be old,
to have others wait
on you, and hold
the door.

maybe i'll come around

why did I buy
this shirt.
it's not me. it was
me though
when I was in the store
holding against
my chest, looking
into the mirror.
but the color is all
wrong.
the style, the look.
what was I thinking.
i'll leave the tags
on and hang
it in the closet,
maybe i'll come around
and think
differently about it,
like i do with a lot
of things,
and people,
maybe not.

the pint bottle

to hide
the pint bottle of
thunderbird,
he keeps it in the paper
bag,
and sips
cautiously
as he sits on the steps
near the fountain.
who needs
work
when you have this.
blue
skies.
a pocket of change.
the whole
day ahead to do nothing
but drink,
laugh
and stumble back
home again.

the reunion

we're sorry that you missed
the last thirty two
high school reunions
the card reads, we have two
a year now, but we're hoping
that you make it this year.
we're joining up with
three other graduating
classes because so many
people have died, or can't
make it due to imprisonment
or disinterest.
some people are so rude, they
just don't write back.
it's bring your own drinks
and food this time.
we are meeting at a picnic
table near the river
where we can see the cherry
blossoms. it's wheel chair
accessible. condiments
and paper plates will be
provided. sally and jimmy,
you remember them, don't
you? yes they are still together
after all these years,
the king and queen of
the senior prom 1973.
jimmy though is now Jenny,
so try to remember that.
they will be giving
an amway presentation,
so bring something to write
on, as well as your own
business cards, if you're
not retired yet.
by the way we are no longer
The Braves, but are now
The Wolverines
to be nice to our native
americans, whom we love
dearly. it's a shame we
stole their country.
our colors
though are still the same,
blue and gold with garnet trim.
we hope
to see you this year. signed,
muffy, captain of the pom
pom squad and home ec advisor,
11, 12.
oh, and we hope you like
the new braille invitation,
so many classmates
have vision issues now, and
have complained in the past
about not being able to read
the invite, so this new card
should help. see you soon.
go braves. oops,
I mean wolverines.

from russia with love

I wanted to send my
girlfriend in Nigeria,
my future mail order bride,
some money
but we've
lost contact.
she needed nine hundred and seventy
nine dollars
to be exact.
travel and miscellaneous
expenses, I suspect.
she was originally
from Russia, the Ukraine
but more recently lived in Dubai.
Natasha was her name,
but I called her Nat
or sugarplum for short.
she had hair like corn silk,
eyes as blue
as the Aegean Sea.
lithe and long,
teeth
like chicklets.
I blew up her bikini photo
that she took while
on vacation in the Ural mountains
and taped it to my wall,
I miss our sporadic
communication, her long in
depth e mails
in adorable broken english
that rambled on and on about
how wonderful she is
and how much she loves me.
I needed no more convincing.
I miss her and wonder
if she'll ever contact me again.
her check awaits
as does my undying love.

the dishwasher

our first fight
was over the dishwasher.
she didn't like my style
of loading
forks and spoons
plates and knives onto
the rack.
she was more organized
than I.
the cups set all in rows.
the dishes rinsed
before going in,
pans tilted just so.
in time though she gave
up on that
and moved on to more
trivial things.

borrowing

we rent.
lease,
borrow for a while.
even these
clothes we wear
won't go with us.
everything left
behind.
there is no pyramid
to stick them in.
no tomb
to hold our dearest
possessions.
we leave it all
to others,
no longer yours,
no longer mine
no matter how rich
or poor
we think we are.

she waits for me

ungloved,
pulling rope. tying
down
the ships
that glide into
harbor.
I blow on the sores,
the rubbed
callouses of work.
the wind is aalted
blue.
long knives that carve
against my skin.
a ship
leaves, another
appears on the horizon.
work is love.
love is work,
at home she waits
for me.
she disagrees.

we have bacon

you must come out to my farm
sometime
she says.
it's on the eastern shore.
you could meet my family,
see all of
my animals.
we have goats and cows.
chickens.
pigs.
maybe you could help
dust the crop
or harvest
the corn. we could pick
berries.
you like bacon, don't
you, she
says.
how can I say no
to that.

blood suckers

cold
and mechanical
the vampires
in hospital green smocks,
say
put out your arm.
they swab
a vein
stick a needle in.
there is no
small talk, no
how are you today.
this won't hurt a bit.
relax.
nothing is said.
it's the needle,
the arm.
the wrap to knot
it down.
next. another arm
waits
behind you.
your vial goes away
to be spun
and labeled.
no cookie, no nothing.
just go
turn right.

blood suckers

cold
and mechanical
the vampires
in hospital green smocks,
say
put out your arm.
they swab
a vein
stick a needle in.
there is no
small talk, no
how are you today.
this won't hurt a bit.
relax.
nothing is said.
it's the needle,
the arm.
the wrap to knot
it down.
next. another arm
waits
behind you.
your vial goes away
to be spun
and labeled.
no cookie, no nothing.
just go
turn right.

she used to know

i could tell my mother
that today is Christmas day
and she wouldn't
know the difference.
there was a time though
when she could go through
my dirty jeans
before washing them,
emptying the pockets
and put together everything.
where I've been,
who i was with and what
i was doing.
she'd look me in the eyes
and say, so!
is there something you want
to tell me?
but today she doesn't know
if it's Christmas.

take a number

i take a number
and sit.
there are rows of chairs,
nearly
all filled.
people are holding purses
and wallets.
papers.
looking up, then back
down to their laps
where
they write things down,
stare into
their phones.
the white plate of hours
hardly moves
above the counter.
the hands seem stuck.
so do i.

away from home

we're here now.
are you happy?
we're away from home.
our feet
in the sand.
home is a thousand
miles away.
are you happy?
we're eating.
drinking.
we're making love.
we're doing nothing
but lying in the sun.
are you happy?
hand me your phone
for a minute,
I need to touch base,
catch up.

the note on the counter

one by one
each light goes out
until there's only one.
i'll write a note
to myself
for tomorrow, stick
it on the counter,
then up the stairs
i'll go, the door locked,
the dog behind me.
i'll read for awhile
then make it dark
for sleep.
i'll lie there
and think about
what's on the note.
the promises
that I've made,
the one I need to keep.

how are you?

I can't talk today,
she says.
or tomorrow. i'm dying.
radiation
is making my bones glow
with
heat.
i'm weak and weary.
it's been a good life.
how are you?

the reviews

slowly he goes through
the mail.
the reviews of his latest
book
of poetry are in.
thin, one says.
the same, another states.
boring, almost
as if he mailed
it in
a woman in Toledo writes.
the poet nods, he sips.
his coffee.
rubs the sleep
out of his eyes.
he's happy
with all of this.
it stirs him to rise
and put his fingers onto
the keyboard once
again.

with snow on the ground

the man decides to pay
you only half
of what is owed.
calmly he explains that it
is the worst
job he's ever seen
and that you are lucky
to be getting half.
you knew this was coming
from day one.
the first day you met
him and shook his
clammy hand, looked into
his narrow eyes.
you knew it, but went on
anyway with the work, hoping
against hope that
your instincts, for once,
were wrong.
it was winter and snow
was on the ground.

two weeks of work

the building smelled
of wet
concrete, the steel beams
just settling
deep into the earth.
it rose twenty stories
in crystal city.
the elevators didn't work
so we climbed
with our buckets
and brushes
starting at the top.
work was slow.
the economy was on empty
as gas
lines with alternating
plates
wrapped around the exxon
stations.
old men, young, unskilled,
anyone with a paper
who had read the ad
came
and tried to do the work.
women with muscles,
skinny with addictions.
retired men with lunch pails.
who couldn't paint?
attrition was swift.
two units a day.
doors, sills, baseboards,
kitchens and baths
all needing the new shine
of oil paint.
you were young then, fast,
strong.
you won the job and lasted
until it was done,
all twenty floors, two weeks
of work.

blue peeps

it's hard shopping for one.
one onion.
one quart
of milk,
six eggs, a half
a loaf
of bread.
even then most of this
gets thrown away.
lettuce
might see a few leaves
pulled off,
the rest going brown
and soft.
the milk goes sour
and the eggs become
a science project.
one tomato.
one can of beans.
an eight pack of plastic
wrapped
American cheese. one
package of easter
peeps,
the blue kind,
marshmallowy sweet,
all for me.
they go quickly.

limbo

a fly caught
between screen and window
buzzes
and fusses
trying to get back out,
or in.
this limbo
that he's in
is wearing him out.
you wonder if it's
a metaphor for your own
life,
your own existence,
day to day.
you hope not, as you pull
the window up
and watch him
fly away.

in the next life

in the next life
things
will be different. we won't
have to stand in
line
for our coffee or
wait at the dmv
to get
things renewed.
people will hold doors
for one another
and say, no,
please, you go first.
after you.
in the next life,
the hear after,
there won't be any rap
music, or people playing banjos,
or commercials in between
shows.
every seat will be in
in middle
half way up and the popcorn
will be warm
with butter and salt.
we won't get fat
in the next life.
you'll be able to eat
candy all day
and cake
for dinner.
in the next life you'll
have great teeth,
no need for dentists anymore.
you'll be able
to sing too, not just in
the shower, but
anywhere, and no one will
make fun of you.
in the next life, women
will look at you and wink,
and give you
their phone numbers
without you having to jump
through a lot of hoops.
they won't yell at you if
you don't call the next day either.
they'll understand
and give you room.
you'll have lots of room
in the next life
to do or not do all the things
you care about.

bye bye

polite
but short. a closed smile.
her lips
lined red,
her eyes
narrowed.
there is nothing left
to be said.
the flight is over.
the engine doused.
polite, but short.
she hands
you your walking
papers,
points to the door,
to the ramp
down,
gently nods
her head and says
bye bye.

what a day it is

what a day it is
to the happy man.
he even has room
in his heart
for strangers
on such a sunny day.
every hair in place,
every step
a step of joy,
a bounce of going
somewhere,
to someplace where she
is.
where love begins
and ends.
even the flowers,
are bold
with color and hope,
not a wilted petal
to behold.
his heart is full
of words he's been
dying to say
and will before
the day is through.
what a day
it is.

i have a horse

i have a horse,
she tells me, i ride
it on sundays
if the weather's good.
it's a Morgan.
she's in her
boots.
knee high, greyed
with dried mud.
her riding pants
are tight.
she slaps the crop in her
hand against her thigh,
adjusts her black
rimmed cap.
she smells of oats
and hay,
of a barn
full of cats
and other horses.
i have a horse,
she says, waiting for
me to say,
that's great, what
a wonderful thing.
she's still waiting.

the right words

this room needs more light.
the walls
need
white, not this grey.
this seal blue.
that picture needs to come
down.
the lamp
could use a new shade.
if I turned the desk
towards the window,
maybe then,
just maybe then
i'll find
the right words to write
to you, and send.

the perfect couple

we were a perfect couple,
the widow
says, buttering her toast,
sipping
her bloody mary.
she moves the yellow
froth of scrambled eggs
around her plate.
we never had an argument,
not once
was a cross word said.
we finished each
other's sentences,
never left or arrived
without a kiss.
we were the envy of the neighborhood,
what with all the divorces,
the cheating and lying.
the mistresses and affairs.
she looks out
the window at the high grass,
a rusted mower in the weeds,
and sighs.
have you ever had a perfect
love, she asks,
with tears
in her eyes. no, I tell
her, not believing a single
word she says. can't say
that I have.
I open another bottle
of vodka and top off
her drink. she says thank
you.

still life

it's a painting
of a pear.
an apple.
life like, catching
the light
from
a window.
a bowl of fruit.
I nod.
nice.
perfect. but it would
be more perfect
if there was a fly
in the painting.
if there was
a soft brown
spot on the pear,
if the grapes
were soured
and flat
off the vine.

calling for pick up

we're calling
to see if you have anything
for pick up,
the elderly woman says over the phone.
no.
I say. you just called two
hours ago.
although I am tired
of this t shirt
I've ben wearing, and my
shoes have thinned
at the sole.
you're welcome to those
if you'd like
to send a truck over tonight.
we'll send one
right away, she says.
talk again tomorrow.

shrimp night

it's all you
can eat shrimp night at Kilroy's.
the floor is slippery.
the air is filled
with the scent of old
bay and vinegar,
plastic buckets full of shells,
beer on tap.
mechanics are there from work,
hands full of grease
in their striped shirts.
secretaries gather like geese
in cheap dresses
sipping on cocktails,
staring into their phones.
no less than twenty
televisions
line the walls, each one
turned to
a different sport.
loudly.
tables and chairs
are neck to neck.
not a clean alley to walk
through. god
forbid if the place
catches fire. outside the sun
still shines.
the sky is blue.
there is fresh air and hope,
but not in here.

friendly lighting

the light
no long flatters us, so
we find
candles to burn,
we dim the bulbs above,
shade
the small lamp
on the table.
draw in the curtain.
block the sun.
we sit
in the far corner
and become
more becoming to one
another
with each drink
sipped
until gone.
daylight is for the young.
we're over
that.

out of water

the fish
out of water, only
wants back
in.
it's the only thing
that concerns
him
when held
in hand,
everything about
him
is trying to get out
from under
this air.
the scales,
the wet slippery
skin,
the arrowed shaped,
all pointing
downward to where
the sea awaits,
to where his life
begins
and ends.

seeing the light

i can see
the light from the upper
window.
a small yellow shaft
divided by bars,
wallows
in and stays
against the high wall.
if i wasn't chained
and shackled
i could reach up
and feel that square
of warmth. let it fold
across my hand,
my face, my
heart,
but for now i'll
just have to imagine
what that might
be like.

a perfectly good romance

I take it
you're no longer
interested, I say,
forlorn,
holding in my hand
a ring I was about
to give her.
not true, she says.
but why ruin
a perfectly good romance
by trying
to make it last
forever.

it's winter

it's winter,
so we nuild a fire,
sit before it
and play chess.
we drink tea.
we listen
to simon and Garfunkel.
yes. we're that old.
eventually we'll get to it.
to it being
sex.
but for now, we'll talk
quietly
about the past,
about the weather, about
rain
falling
and how children go
to their own lives
leaving us behind.
it's no longer about winning
or losing
one of us will say,
pushing a pawn forward.
it's winter, so we play
chess.

vincent

what's your name,
she asks,
holding the empty
coffee cup up in the air,
a torch to be filled.
she has a sharpie
pen to scribble my name
across the
white curve of the thick
paper cup. (recycled)
jimmy.
I tell her, then say no,
joe.
let's go with joe today.
I feel like
just an ordinary joe.
I can see my reflection
in the toaster over
across the counter,
my plaid shirt buttoned
nearly to the top.
she crosses out jimmy
and writes joe. are you
sure? she says.
wait, I tell her, let
me think for a second.
how about Vincent.
I put a napkin up to my
ear
and hold it there.
I purposely look forlorn
and heartbroken.
but she doesn't get it.
okay, Vincent, she says,
pushing a blue strand of hair
away from her eyes.
she writes Vincent
on the cup
and takes my money.

vincent

what's your name,
she asks,
holding the empty
coffee cup up in the air,
a torch to be filled.
she has a sharpie
pen to scribble my name
across the
white curve of the thick
paper cup. (recycled)
jimmy.
I tell her, then say no,
joe.
let's go with joe today.
I feel like
just an ordinary joe.
I can see my reflection
in the toaster over
across the counter,
my plaid shirt buttoned
nearly to the top.
she crosses out jimmy
and writes joe. are you
sure? she says.
wait, I tell her, let
me think for a second.
how about Vincent.
I put a napkin up to my
ear
and hold it there.
I purposely look forlorn
and heartbroken.
but she doesn't get it.
okay, Vincent, she says,
pushing a blue strand of hair
away from her eyes.
she writes Vincent
on the cup
and takes my money.

panning for gold

panning for gold
on my knees along the bank
of the slow
moving stream.
my hands are cold.
red
and raw
from dipping the pan
into the clear
blue water.
I shake free the sand,
the pebbles,
I bite into anything shiny,
holding it up
to the harsh sun.
I've lived without love
before,
I can do it again.

panning for gold

panning for gold
on my knees along the bank
of the slow
moving stream.
my hands are cold.
red
and raw
from dipping the pan
into the clear
blue water.
I shake free the sand,
the pebbles,
I bite into anything shiny,
holding it up
to the harsh sun.
I've lived without love
before,
I can do it again.

it's her birthday, i think

it's her birthday
again.
I think.
maybe.
I wrote it down somewhere.
flowers?
wine?
a big chunk of jewelry?
a pound
of chocolate?
where is that
note
I wrote telling me
when?
it's her birthday
again,
I think.

it's her birthday, i think

it's her birthday
again.
I think.
maybe.
I wrote it down somewhere.
flowers?
wine?
a big chunk of jewelry?
a pound
of chocolate?
where is that
note
I wrote telling me
when?
it's her birthday
again,
I think.

kill me a chicken

if I had to kill
a chicken
or a cow, or even
a rabbit,
I probably wouldn't eat meat.
I'd be
munching on a carrot
or
lettuce,
maybe an apple or two
instead.
i'd be thinner then
perhaps, healthier,
although a little dizzy at times,
but thank god,
that's not how it is,
I say out loud
as I throw in a pack
of rib eyes,
some turkey breasts,
thighs,
and legs.

kill me a chicken

if I had to kill
a chicken
or a cow, or even
a rabbit,
I probably wouldn't eat meat.
I'd be
munching on a carrot
or
lettuce,
maybe an apple or two
instead.
i'd be thinner then
perhaps, healthier,
although a little dizzy at times,
but thank god,
that's not how it is,
I say out loud
as I throw in a pack
of rib eyes,
some turkey breasts,
thighs,
and legs.

these days

we share
the same thoughts.
the same
bed, the same cups
and dishes. my fork is yours.
that knife
we cut together.
the air
we breathe comes out
of you,
into me.
and yet, we go our
separate ways.
so hard to tell what
works,
what doesn't
these days.

these days

we share
the same thoughts.
the same
bed, the same cups
and dishes. my fork is yours.
that knife
we cut together.
the air
we breathe comes out
of you,
into me.
and yet, we go our
separate ways.
so hard to tell what
works,
what doesn't
these days.

showers

showers are likely.
just look at the sky.
see
the grey, the thickness,
the low white cottom.
but let's walk anyway
and talk.
we have words to say,
best said
outside.
under this low sky,
on this day.
when showers are likely.

showers

showers are likely.
just look at the sky.
see
the grey, the thickness,
the low white cottom.
but let's walk anyway
and talk.
we have words to say,
best said
outside.
under this low sky,
on this day.
when showers are likely.

old jeans

the button gone,
the zipper
won't zip. a rip
in the seam,
the pant leg
frayed at the cuff.
thread bare and thin.
it's time
to give in, to
surrender these
comfortable
old jeans.
how they've aged,
like us,
nicely from
the stiff blue
of where they began.

old jeans

the button gone,
the zipper
won't zip. a rip
in the seam,
the pant leg
frayed at the cuff.
thread bare and thin.
it's time
to give in, to
surrender these
comfortable
old jeans.
how they've aged,
like us,
nicely from
the stiff blue
of where they began.

she is the sun

her gravity
is too strong to escape.
she is the sun.
she pulls
me in,
keeps me in her orbit.
just close
enough, just far
enough away.
I can barely move
with this
unseen weight.

she is the sun

her gravity
is too strong to escape.
she is the sun.
she pulls
me in,
keeps me in her orbit.
just close
enough, just far
enough away.
I can barely move
with this
unseen weight.

going back to bed

a coin flipped
in the air,
a star
wished upon,
a penny thrown
into the well,
the rub
of a rabbit's foot.
the rosary,
bead after bead
with eyes closed,
a chant of some
ancient spell,
what else can
you do to change
the way this day
is going.

going back to bed

a coin flipped
in the air,
a star
wished upon,
a penny thrown
into the well,
the rub
of a rabbit's foot.
the rosary,
bead after bead
with eyes closed,
a chant of some
ancient spell,
what else can
you do to change
the way this day
is going.

the right words

the wrong wrench
won't turn a bolt,
or nut,
the screw won't budge
without
the right driver,
even wood needs
the right saw to cut
cleanly across the grain.
so are the words you use
with others,
useless,
until you speak
the right ones.

the right words

the wrong wrench
won't turn a bolt,
or nut,
the screw won't budge
without
the right driver,
even wood needs
the right saw to cut
cleanly across the grain.
so are the words you use
with others,
useless,
until you speak
the right ones.

the muddled middle

the world
is not specific
in telling you things.
there is a vagueness
about
history,
tomorrows are fogged.
any clarity found
is a false notion of what
you want to
believe, what
you need to believe
to sleep at night,
to pretend all is well
and live
the role of a normal
life.
pain and joy
have become your touchstones,
the rest is a muddled
middle
of slow quick years.

from where she is

from where she is now,
I wonder if my mother's hand
misses
the curl
of her spatula,
the stiffness of a spoon
to stir,
the feel of an iron
running across
clean clothes. does she
dream
of stews, the sound
of a lid
settling on the pot,
of birthday
cakes, pressing candles
into the icing.
writing each name in script.
is she tucking
us into bed at night,
reading to us still,
folding our
hands together to show
us prayer, turning off
the light.

a clean room

so much
depends upon
the broom.
what's left behind.
the dust,
the settling of words,
lost love,
good intentions
gone sour.
how quickly I need
to sweep
that room.

what we become

the soft clay of me,
and you,
unkilned,
unpainted or varnished
to a high
gloss.
we are barely spun
on the wheel,
crudely formed
under thick hands,
left to fend for ourselves
to see what
we become.
an image of God,
seems unlikely.

we were younger then

the wobble
of table, a tilted drink,
watered down.
the broken
chair.
the slow service.
we've been here before
eating
cold fried food
and listening to
the loud
music
of a garage band.
but we were younger
then,
much younger,
not a single white
strand of wisdom
in our hair.

the light going out

when the light bulb
behind
you in the pole lamp
explodes for no apparent
reason, throwing
thin shards
of glass everywhere,
you stop reading.
the room is darker
than it was.
out the window a thin
ray of late
light sifts through
the bare trees.
you should pray more
you think,
for things you don't
understand,
for things that happen
for unknown reasons,
not just for the things
you think you need.

without them

how they disappear
into the fog. boarding
these ships, once
bright lights
now fading.
you can almost hear
their voices
behind the splash
and plow of water
against wood
and steel.
the wind in their
sails, catching,
taking them away
from you.
you wave to the blank
white page
of who they were.
stamp your feet on
the cold dock,
fold your hands into
your pockets and go
back to your own life
without them.

slow sand

it's hard to tell anyone
that this will pass.
that this moment of anguish,
this period of pain
will dissolve
and be almost forgotten.
it's hard
to say anything of comfort
when
they're in it.
knee deep in darkness,
sadness,
the pulling slow sand
of their life.

a stone to throw

I could spoil the day
by doing something other than
reading,
sleeping, eating,
writing.
i could go out there
into the damp cold
and remember things
as i walk
alone
through the woods
along the stream.
remembering comes easy
on days like
this, when walking, when
picking up a stick,
a stone to throw.

part of the reason

she takes
her shoes, her blouse, folds
it,
places
them into a small
suitcase.
a tag from united airlines
hangs old
on the handle.
she neatly sets her
jeans inside.
her
toothbrush,
her make up.
her jewelry, most of which
was given to
her by other men
than me.
and that's just part
of the reason
she needs
to leave.

waiting for morning

from nearby rooms you
hear
the sound
of others making love.
the hotel
walls
are thin, each
room
set the same with television,
chair
and bed.
the same shades are drawn,
the same picture
of a snow capped mountain
adorns one wall.
you lie there
and listen, and think
of places you
have been.
the places you want to go
to escape you.
in time the love making
stops,
as it will,
so you close your eyes
and wait for
morning.

missing

they are dragging
the lake,
the small lagoon, man
made,
for someone.
someone is missing.
we stand around with our
coffee,
smoking,
chattering in whispers
behind the yellow tape,
awaiting
a body,
cold and whitened
in shallow pool.
the men in their boats
stab
gently at the bottom,
pull heavy nets from side
to side,
over and over
again as the water turns
from morning black
to sunny blue.
they find nothing,
not a single hat, or glove,
or purse,
so we go our ways.
some of us have things
to do.

a world of plenty

neither full
or half full, or even
empty.
cupless is a whole
other thing to reason
with.
to be happy
without
is more than anyone
can ask for
in a world of plenty.

sword fight

it was not exactly a
battle of
wits.
she seemed to be
completely unarmed,
which wasn't fair,
or fun.
so I said
nothing after the first
flurry
of barbs
and jabs. it's hard
to watch
someone bleed,
then make it worse,
by saying more
and doing more harm.

the chicken soup cure

every winter
you hear it. chicken noodle soup.
get yourself
some chicken
soup with noodles. hot
chicken soup.
that's the cure,
that will knock the cold
right out of you.
get an iv
and hook it up to a
chicken.
a hot boiled chicken
with carrots
and celery.
drink tea,
get some sleep.
stay home and rest.
a hot bath.
a cold compress.
but it's all about the chicken
soup.
I can see my mother now
carrying a bowl
to me
on the bottom bunk.
crackers on the side.
thermometer in hand.
open wide
she says
and let me put it under
your tongue.
yup.
you have a fever. eat
this chicken soup.

take a bite

it's a grocery
store
of love,
or like, or something
resembling
both, or neither, hard
to tell
in these flickering
fluorescent lights
what's real,
what's
fake,
what's soft and ripe.
take these tomatoes
for example,
or these peppers.
who's to know how
hot or juicy
they really are,
until a bite is taken.

running late

there is somewhere
that I need
to be.
a place where someone
waits.
where they look
at a clock
and out the window,
watching
for my arrival.
it's nice
to wanted and waited
for.
it hasn't always been
that way,
or will be
in the future,
but for now.
i'm on my way, just
running late,
as usual.

her cheating heart

she cheats at cards,
at dice.
if you blink, she'll rob
you blind.
her hands are fast
and slight,
her mind
a supple whip of deception.
it's hard to know
what's bluff,
what's true.
by the end
of the night she'll
have all
the chips,
then me, then you.

going south

I see a bird
with a small over night bag
under his
wing.
hat on,
sunglasses.
sandals.
where to I ask him.
florida he says.
I can't take it anymore.
I nearly broke
my beak
on a worm the other
day.

the lining

spring
will come
and we will be done
with this.
the world
will melt
and the sun
will rise yellow
and bright.
but until then,
come closer
and
kiss me.
keep me warm,
as I will do you.
it's not all a
bad thing,
this winter
storm.

restless leg

her leg
shakes in her sleep,
all night,
stirs
up the blanket,
the sheets.
if her
foot was in a tub
of milk
we'd have
butter by morning.

to their own world

these are different children.
one
off alone,
picking flowers.
others on the wheel,
three on swings,
the seesaw holding two.
how quickly that sun
goes down.
the sky
flowered in pink,
violet,
blue.
these are different
children now.
ours have grown,
have
gone to where they need
to be without me,
without you.

black and white

the wall, unsquared,
is dry
and old,
a single nail
holds a photo in place,
framed
in black.
it's me and you,
from years ago.
it's my favorite photo
of my favorite
year
with my favorite love
of my
life, it's time I
told you
before you're gone
for good.

repent

all morning
i listen to the radio station.
the religious
station,
where one after another,
all day,
a different preacher
comes on
to make me feel bad
about my life.
there is a sermon about
marriage,
about consumption,
about lust,
about materialism.
by four o'clock
i realize how much of a
sinner i am,
and how i need to repent,
be kinder.
to care about everyone,
not just the people
i'm unfortunately
related to, but also
to the annoying strangers
i meet on the street,
or who drive behind me
tailgating
in their cars.

will spray ink if broken

i left the store
with the thief protector
still
in tact, stuck
firmly on my pant leg
by some insidious
unseen way.
no bells rang,
no clerk chased me to my
car.
no security guard
tackled me
in the parking lot
with his snarling dog.
i raise a hammer
to the plastic disc,
but stop,
seeing the ink well
that will burst if
i break it in two.
i don't even remember
what store i bought
these pants at, or
where to bring them to,
to have
this thing removed.
maybe i'll just wear them
as is,
start a trend.
be cool.

the grey coat

this zipper
will not pull, neither up
nor down.
it's stuck
in place
around three inches
from my neck.
I will wear this coat
forever it seems.
warm in the winter,
sweating all
summer.
I will sleep in it.
wear it to the beach.
I will be known as
the man
in the coat.
the grey coat
with the stuck zipper.

back to nature

three eggs are cracked
of the brown
dozen.
the lettuce is already
brown,
just ten minutes
from found to car,
to here.
the bread too, is stale.
hard
as toast.
I turn the apple
to the unwormed side
and bite
down.
I look out at my small
square of yard
and imagine
alfalfa, a chicken,
a tree with fruit,
a cow.

postcard from here

i'm pushed
into this corner.
a single chair.
a small window where a circle
of blue appears.
the black stripe of bird.
the silhouette of
a leaf.
I can see the seasons
change
from here,
as another year
passes,
pushed into a corner,
going nowhere,
that much is clear.

starvation

a loaf
of bread will keep
you alive
for awhile.
water.
a piece of fruit.
but
without love,
the light
will go
off and a cold wind
will
circle your
soul
for years
to come until you
fade
from where you lie,
skin and bones.

unsaved

it's
just one duck,
one feathered, billed
small
beast
in the woods
now stuck
by weeds.
he struggles to free
himself
in the cold
water.
the tangle holding
firm
as he pulls and pulls,
trying to
fly away.
his wings flap hard,
but he
goes nowhere.
he makes no sound
other than the splash
of him
trying to free
himself.
he's too far out
for you to go in.
there is no stick
long enough,
there is no saving him
or everyone, for
that matter.
you walk on
with some degree
of sadness,
confirmed by what you've
always known.

let's go on a hike

let's go on a hike
today, she says, as I hide
behind
yesterdays news,
holding a newspaper
in front of my face.
let's climb a mountain,
it'll be fun.
the fresh air.
it's such a nice sunny
day,
brisk. a good day
for a hike up a mountain.
we haven't done something
like that in ages.
I rattle the paper.
did you see this story about
the rabid fox
who bit a lady on
the leg
and arm the other day.
she's having those shots
now.
a three week series
of long needles stuck in
her stomach.
where did it happen?
right along the path
in the woods leading up
the mountain.
oh, she says,
but not discouraged.
maybe we can wear thick
clothes and boots,
leather gloves.
we can get a pointy stick
to shoo them off if we're
attacked.
come on. we can stop and get
coffee on the way.

getting my attention

carelessly
I touch the burner
of the stove.
a blister rises
on two fingers.
I run cold water onto
them.
I wave them in the air
and say a few
words about
God.
it's strange how he knows
how to get
my attention.

the approaching fog

she forgot to turn
off the stove.
left her keys in the door.
misbuttoned her
blouse.
she was slipping slowly
into
a grey fog.
she asked
the same questions ten
minutes after
hearing the answers.
she asked
about the weather.
is it snowing there?
three miles away,
distancing herself
from this world
and you,
a little more each day.

vodka tonics

these birds outside the window.
busy
with their world.
chattering
amongst themselves.
they care little that I lie
inside
still in bed,
the cotton
of vodka
still in my mouth.
I feel the drum of my
heart
going up the vines
of me.
water, aspirin, a hot
shower
and a vow
to never again, drink more
than one
or two
strong drinks, upon
my lips.

get to it

splash
your paint upon the canvas,
do it not
for them, but for
you,
don't listen to applause,
or voices of
complaint,
spin
the yarn
and weave,
take a pen
to ink the words
within you.
chisel that block of
stone
into what you
believe is true.
sing, or dance, make
music,
make love.
leave nothing
behind, or left
inside.

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.