gone fishing

early in the morning,
he'd put on his
waders, his boots,
grab his tackle box,
his rods
and reels, his worms.
his dough balls
and cigarettes
and head down the river
via
panorama drive.
he'd park his white
chevy Malibu on the gravel
path,
then make his way down
to the shore
of the Potomac
river.
the sun almost
up.
the fish splashing
fat and large on the calm
water.
this was his
island, his retreat,
his sane place to be,
alone
waiting for the line to
move, to tighten,
for a fish to take the bait,
and strike.

the new horse

you buy a horse,
you've always dreamed of
having a horse, and put him
in the back yard
to roam
the pasture.
but it's only a twelve
by twelve space
with a shed
and ac unit, some ladders
and a weber
grill
tucked inside.
there might be poison
ivy along the fence,
and snakes,
but you aren't sure.
sometimes you knock on
the window
to say hey to the horse
whom you haven't named yet.
he nods his head and makes
that neighing sound
that horses do.
you should get a saddle
for him
and ride him around.
take lessons.
for now though you wait
for amazon
to deliver oats.

closing words

they come by plane
or car,
train.
some don't come at all
but prefer
to mourn
from a distance.
some take the front row
to be seen,
or the back row
to not be.
one will wait in his car
for everyone else
to leave,
then go in.
some are happy with the
reunion
dressed in bright colors,
not in black.
others,
are bent over in tears,
remembering
when. thinking we martyred
so long
for her, now what?
a few bring baked goods,
it's what they
know best.
flowers too.
words are hard to come by
except for the perpetually
long winded,
and someone will say
in closing,
it is what it is.

happy with my fix

i'm at the visiting
dog phase of life. I don't want
another, what
with the chewing
and barking, the picking up
after them,
the vet visits,
the bills, and dealing
with fur and fleas.
now, I lean down
and pet. say hey buddy.
what's up.
I might rub the belly
of a passing
grey hound,
or shepherd or fat little
dachshund who looks
like he should
be on a bun. I get a lick
or two in, then I move
on, happy with my fix.

say cheese

don't smile
the dmv worker says as I
stand
and stare into
the camera
for my new license.
they don't want happy
drivers.
they want the same glum
look you'll
have if pulled over
by the po po.
let's try again, she says,
I saw a smirk
on your face.
think of something that
makes you really really
sad.
I don't have to go far
for that, I remember
a week ago or so.
so I do.
perfect she says hitting
the button.
that's the one. very sad.
very good.
what happened?

the grudges

the grudge is long
and hard. old.
two years, three, they forget
why they're even
mad at each other.
but it's important to not
talk,
to not take a call,
to visit,
or make eye contact
when in the same room.
it's a strange sickness,
this grudge thing.
not a bone of forgiveness
or understanding
found
in their closed minds.
they drink the poison
every day to keep the grudge
fresh
and current.

piece of work

my grandmother loved
cigarettes, chained smoked them
like nobody's business.
she loved lamb chops
with mint jelly.
her tea and cinnamon toast.
and liberace
in the morning
with his lace suits
and candelabra.
she liked
billy graham and asked
us to kneel and put
our hands on the black
and white screen
when the callings were
made. she
hated those kennedys,
those rich
bastards on Hyannis port.
she like to buy the paint
by numbers
kits for all of us children,
the ones with the geese
flying over
new England waters,
then critiqued our work,
shaking her head,
saying stay between the lines.
your magenta is running
into your indigo.
she often said excuse
my French
when saying the word
damn or hell which she said
a lot.
when she died of lung
cancer at eighty, my mother
swore that she heard
her laughing, her spirit
present as we sat
around the dinner table
three days
after the funeral.
I didn't hear anything.

cleaning house

you sweep and sweep
all day,
all morning to get the dirt
out,
the dust.
the cobwebs.
you mop the floors,
scrub
the bathrooms, the kitchen
too.
you clean the closets of
what
and who
you no longer need
or want in
your life, or they needing
you.
you set everything out
on the curb
for pick up in the morning.
not a tear
is shed.
it's been a long time
coming and a welcome
relief.

the meltdowns

they
are three mile island.
human meltdowns.
the red flag
warns you, the siren too,
the tingle
down your spine
tells you,
to stay back.
keep your distance
or you will
be consumed by the toxic
fumes,
the radioactive
fallout that clicks
crazy on
the counter.
put your helmet on,
your shiny
space suit with the long
silver gloves.
close the door
behind you. keep them
where they need to be,

moving on

strange how
we disappear from other's lives
where once
we were
entwined by calls
and visits.
dinners or holidays.
then it's gone. we remember,
but it's a heavy
fog that moves in
over time.
they are there,
we sense them, but can't
see or touch
who they were.

one shoe

one shoe
is missing. it's nowhere
to be found.
it's run off without me.
down the street it went.
on its own
volition.
no sock, no foot to guide
it.
children are
that way.

a new season

it' a religion,
this thing, the leather ball.
these men
in gladiator garb.
the fire works,
the scantily clad
women
on the sidelines,
prompting blood cries.
the songs and celebration.
the worship
as the whistle blows.
the angst
and joy as young men
give
their bodies, their
tender souls. is it rome
at the end,
or just the beginning
of what's in store.

getting ready

I see the neighbor who plays
santa claus
around the holidays
at the grocery store.
he looks good,
slender from all his nightly
runs.
he has five pies in his basket
and a few gallons
of ice cream.
I nod and say hello
then look down at his
cart. he looks up at me
and smiles.
i'm getting ready, he says.
I know it's only august,
but it's good to be
prepared and look
the part. I stop running
in September. it's always
here before you know it.

the courthouse fashion

at the courthouse
you see the cats in their
new
unfitted shirts
and loose jeans,
baggy suits with
hard shoes,
barely broken in,
dress coats and pants
borrowed
for the day.
a wrong colored tie
askew to one side.
somehow the judge will
see this effort,
they believe,
and ease the pain,
lessen
the penalty for drinking
and driving,
malicious wounding,
or being a dead
beat dad, or a mom
with sticky fingers.

smooth al

al green
comes on your station.
let's stay together.
some music
you can't live without.
a song like
this
sends you.
keeps you where you
want to be.
makes you want more
of the good
things, the good times.
let's stay
together.

road trip

you talk to your father
to tell him about the chaos
going on at home.
he laughs and laughs
and says
that it doesn't surprise him.
I can almost see him shaking his
head, rolling his eyes.
so when are you coming
down again,
he says.
we'll fire up the grill,
do the pool.
watch the game.
it might be nice to get away.
he says,
then he tells me
a joke, one I've heard before,
the one about the blonde
locked in her car,
without the key.
but hey, it's still
funny.

the same

the stained glass
let's the light pour in
with long
strands of indigo
and red as you kneel
on the cushioned pew.
there's an organ playing
as the altar boys in white
work
in doing what they need
to do.
candles burn.
Christ on the cross
hangs before you.
the confessional is full.
nothing
has changed much
since
you were five, or ten not
even you.

bilingual

we often
think that we only speak
one language.
but you don't have to travel
far
to know that that's not
true.
crossing the bridge
just a few miles away proves
that time
and time again.
at first you think that
our education system has failed us,
but if you listen closely,
read between the lines,
and observe
body language,
you get the gist
of what they're trying to
say.
they do the same, making
gestures like koko
the monkey,
for sleep, thirst and
hunger.

crab time

the crab
feast is outside on ten
large picnic tables.
there's little cups of vinegar
and butter spread about,
hammers and pliers,
napkins stacked on the spread
newspapers,
and beer. tubs of beer.
the crabs are covered
in a sand seasoning, steaming
in piles
on each table. gritty and red.
it's a frenzy of eating.
fingers bleeding, picking out
the white morsels
of the dead crustaceans.
six hours later,
exhausted, everyone gets
up to rinse their hands
and arms
with bottled water, bandage
up the cuts,
then they
to go out to eat.

still at it

the band is tight.
they've been playing for years,
decades.
the old album cover shows them all
with long
hair
and thin faces.
guitars in hand. you know
every song by heart.
their voices though
have lost
the range. which is understandable
at seventy.
some are grey and bald,
but holding on to a long
pony tail
that dangles
down the back of their sequined
shirts.
still it's a good show.
one that brings back
memories of your
own youth,
playing drums on the dashboard
of your friend's
mother's car
on a Saturday night.

the whiskey days

your father loved his
Canadian club whiskey. did
your mother drive
him to drink, perhaps.
but it was a short drive.
we're they bad for each other.
without a doubt.
she could throw a plate
with the best of them
if there was lipstick on his
cheek.
what was love
to a telephone operator
in Philadelphia
barely out of school
and a sailor on shore
leave trying to call home
to Boston.
it was short lived.
seven kids
in twelve years, two
that didn't make it which
would have made nine.
was it love, true love,
forever and ever love,
probably not.
I never saw the tattoo
with her name in the inked heart,
they both tried and failed,
thus the whiskey, the
Canadian club.

the missing glasses

she can't see
without her glasses.
in fact I've never seen her without
a pair on.
even when she was a child,
there they were, perched on
her nose.
who took them? a memento perhaps,
slipped
into a purse or pocket,
or lost
in the shuffle of hands
that care for her.
the glasses have changed
through the years.
the black frames,
once tapped together with
white bandage tape,
the wide
ones,
the fancy
and sublime ones.
keeping hip with the day,
the glass thick as bottles.
I remember putting them on
as a kid
and feeling blind
and dizzy, holding my hands
in the air
trying to touch
the wall or chair
without falling,
but now, she has none.
her brown eyes are frameless.
she lies there
staring as if she's underwater,
never knowing who goes,
who comes.

sign here

what isn't insured?
hard
to find anything
that isn't.
car, home,
boat. health
insurance
for down the road.
the old age road.
insurance
for the trip to spain,
the new tv
just out of the box.
the ac,
the roof
in case a storm blows
down a tree.
it's a racket, no
doubt,
and the odds are not great
that any of it
gets used,
but so it goes, sign here
and worry no more.

love like that

I can see
that they are caught in the rain
with no umbrella.
but they don't care
as they stand
in the open, embracing,
soaked against
one another.
love
ignores the weather.
I want love
like that.

the book club

i meet with the book club
to discuss
the latest offering.
run rabbit run by updike.
it's been two weeks since
the last meeting.
vacations have delayed
the date.
there's cake and coffee
on the table,
before the wine is poured.
we sit in a circle,
holding our books in our laps.
some never opened, some
wet and crinkled,
some the wrong book.
one person says, i'm sorry,
I just love joe updike, but
I didn't have time,
but I did see the movie..
I rented it on Netflix,
but the doorbell rang
so I missed the whole ending.
another says that her
son had whooping cough,
which makes another suggest
lemon water for the kid
to gargle with.
what about this eclipse
on Monday, someone says.
I want to look but I don't
want to go blind. three people
say out loud,
you have to get the glasses.
who made this cheesecake?
it's delightful.
another bottle of wine
gets opened.
the books go under the
chair. two women begin
knitting. a man takes out
his phone and shows us
a picture of his grandkid
in a tub with bubbles
all around him. next week.
war and peace.

the bouncing age

all day
the kids next door jump on
their trampoline.
they are trying to reach the sky,
the sun,
they are birds
without wings.
sometimes there's three
kids, or
more.
all bouncing crazily
into the air.
their hair flying,
their mouths and eyes wide
open.
they scream with joy,
bouncing and bouncing
until
they cant bounce anymore.

no secrets anymore

all the secrets
are out there. whispered.
with just
a few clues. but no one
knows for sure
what really happened.
who did what to who.
everyone thinks they know
from what they gather
in the news,
or will know soon.
but in the end
we all find out somehow
the unvarnished truth,
there are no secrets
anymore.

pandora's box

as I lie on the floor
with a flashlight
trying to read
off the numbers on my router
and the password
I think back dreamily
of buying 45 records
and placing them on the turntable.
dropping the needle
and hearing the tin
scratch of music
coming out of the hinged
speaker.
but it's come to this now.
hooking up
to the cloud, or sky, or
someplace I have no clue
as to where it might be.
it's a place where everything
exists.
I just need to download
one more app,
connect the speaker,
turn on the phone,
plug in the computer,
pray and then it's frank
and elvis, dean
and nat.

enough is enough

after a while
you stop throwing
cream pies
into the faces
of clowns.
it's no fun anymore.
the thrill is gone.
it's too easy.
your arm hurts after
awhile.
what good is it if they
can't duck,
or throw back,
and that they actually
enjoy cream pies.
they just take pie
after pie, wiping
the cream filling
off their faces,
out of their eyes.
licking their lips.
it's no fun
anymore for you,
or them, but they keep
opening wide.

the crayon box

his art work
should have been framed,
the way
he used
the colors, all
54 crayons
in the box,
deftly handling the slender
stick wrapped in paper
with the name
on each side.
the subtle
blues, called robins egg,
or rain,
the velvet violets,
a variety of
greens,
canary yellow.
he outlined each
face,
each figure with the narrow
point of black.
giving blue eyes or brown,
then signed the bottom
before turning
to another page.
he was da vinci
with his coloring books.

three words

the gathering of black birds
at her grave
with heads bent in sorrow
does nothing for you.
nor do the flowers,
the words said in tears.
none of that matters.
it's what came before
that counts.
the meals, the homework,
the clothes she washed,
the gentle way she held
you when you were sick.
how she laughed
and shook her head at
so much you said,
ending each call with
three words.

what comes next

a few keys stick
on the old typewriter.
with the indigo
ribbon in place,
the white out
ready,
the jumble of letters
smudged
together, making
almost illegible words.
it's an abstract painting
on the white sheet.
but what better sound
then the clink and pull
of metal keys
striking down, the bell
rung, and the pull
of the bar back to the left.
you smile with
your fingers ready,
set for what comes
next.

the next season

the season is long.
the summer
warm
and sticky beyond belief.
there is
little to do but
sit and swing on the porch
sipping tea
and talking about
how the stars
appear and go away,
as does this harvest moon.
we speak of
yesterdays, of loved ones
gone.
we remember when the kids
were young and would
sit with us,
sing songs. the stories
we would tell on
each other.
the summer is long and sweet,
but as the light
lessens, we're ready
for fall.

speeding tickets

my lawyer, my friend,
calls to tell me to slow down.
you're driving too fast,
too reckless on the highway.
your tickets are piling up.
I tell him where I've
just been and who I've been
with and he laughs.
you need a faster car,
he says,
next time borrow mine.

speeding tickets

my lawyer, my friend,
calls to tell me to slow down.
you're driving too fast,
too reckless on the highway.
your tickets are piling up.
I tell him where I've
just been and who I've been
with and he laughs.
you need a faster car,
he says,
next time borrow mine.

celebrate

the family squabbles
have made the views skyrocket.
the profits increase.
the readers
have come out of the woodwork
like
ants seeking crumbs.
it's a champagne
celebration,
let's eat cake.
let's sing, let's
turn the music up
and dance all night.

half open

the moon,
in half,
the smooth opal
orb
above
us, then below,
it's out there with
its one
good eye that
never blinks, stoic
in its thoughts,
its views
on what we do, what
we think and say,
the truths,
the lies.

half open

the moon,
in half,
the smooth opal
orb
above
us, then below,
it's out there with
its one
good eye that
never blinks, stoic
in its thoughts,
its views
on what we do, what
we think and say,
the truths,
the lies.

the gossip column

they love to read
what you write.
they look at it
every day, obsessed,
and say,
oh no, what next,
what will he say today
that will make us sad
and weep.
the phone rings, and they
hear the secret messenger
saying, he's done it
again, hurry up
and run to read todays
paper, then hide.
oh me o my.
where's my bottle,
my binky, my blanket.
these words, these words
will make us
go tinkle and cry.

the islands

there are islands
in your world.
places that you can go,
that you can easily
swim to,
or row by boat.
there are palm trees,
there is white sand.
there is the surround
of a blue
lagoon.
it's these people
you adore and who
welcome you ashore
with open arms
and kind words
of love.

the future is now

can you imagine
having to buy water,
to drink,
or air for your tires,
or paying for tv,
you say twenty years ago,
laughing
with your father
as he adjusts the rabbit
ears, then gets us
a drink from the faucet,
what a strange world
that would be.

the water's fine

a foot into the ocean
gives you chills, you wonder
how anyone can
be out there swimming.
the other foot goes in,
then you're up to your knees,
your waist.
a wave crashes against
your chest,
finally, you give it up,
and dive in.
in time, when the cold
subsides, you wave to shore
and yell for her
to come on in, the water's
fine. but she's says no.

the family gathering

you order up a few straight
jackets for the next
family meeting.
one large, one extra large.
duct tape too,
and pepper spray.
you buy two masks,
similar to the one
used on Hannibal
Lechter,
leather with a small barred
grate to breathe
through. one size fits all.
you purchase
a bottle of valium, here,
take two!
you are determined
to make this next
family gathering
peaceful and fun, perhaps
with drinks
and finger foods.

the dark world

some people you never
want to see again.
which is fine. which is good.
some people
you can never talk
with or
agree upon anything
that might be said.
some people
don't listen, but want
to scream and curse
instead.
it's good to be out of
the room,
out of the county, the
state, the dark world
where they will
always live.

the pattern

the river
is full of tears
and apologies.
such is the pattern.
to sin
and seek forgiveness.
tonight we sleep,
tomorrow
it starts again.

the salesman

the salesman
calls.
he wants to make a deal
on your house.
you tell him no, please.
go away. I don't want to sell.
the next day he shows up
at your door,
he's dripping
in his own oil, slick
as a seal
off the coast of Alaska.
he has a pen
in hand.
a contract.
he's already pounded a sign
into your front
yard.
you try to close
the door, but he sticks
his alligator shoe
inside.
sign here, he says, smiling,
holding out a contract.
he hands you a business card
with his photo.
it looks nothing like him.
he tells you
that you look marvelous,
asking if
you've lost weight, or
if you've been working out.
how much can you lift into
the air he says,
over your head. I bet
it's a lot.
he stares at your arms.
finally you let him in.
you make
him coffee, he tells you again
how wonderful
you look as you read over
the small print of the contract
with a magnifying glass.

Saint Charles

your brother is a good man
who always
tries to do the right thing,
no,
not that one.
but the other one,
the one
with the Bible
in hand.
you can hardly blame him
for leaving this
little taste of what
hell must be like
in Saint Charles
County,
for running
away from it all
and staying home
with the phone off
the hook.
safe with loved ones.

the quiet

the woods are still.
calm.
no wind.
hardly a snake moves
upon
the ground.
there is no chatter,
no
noise
that you can hear,
there's not a bird
in the sky.
the worst is about to
happen,
or it already has.

living the good life

when they were young,
the small children would visit
their father
in prison, place their
hands upon
the glass as he would
his on the other side.
murder, drugs, embezzlement
and fraud
put him finally behind
bars.
wanted in three states, but
soon out
after finding Jesus
for the umpteenth time.
he used to hide behind
his wife's couch
when the cops
knocked on the door
with another warrant.
at the thanksgiving table,
he'd sit there with his
bullet wounds,
his neck held straight
by a metal halo,
and pass you the salt
if you asked.
she turned her head and whistled
while the crimes went
on, while the cash stacked up,
and was hidden.
he'd tie bricks to the bodies
of those he
killed letting them sink
slowly
in the muck of the Maryland
shores.
but the money was good.
all cash.
flights to the Bahamas.
friends and family,
a party for all with a
a wall around the house
and the kidney shaped pool.
it was a good life while
it lasted.

over the bridge

going home
is sweet. over the bridge.
away
from what brings
you pain.
how nice to drive
under blue skies,
rolling on the open
road, the windows
down, the music up.
free
from all that they are
and always
will be.

mints on the pillow

the woman at the inn
is old
now.
she stares out the window
bitter and alone.
the game is over.
the rooms are empty
the sign swings
off one hook on the post.
everyone is gone.
there is nothing
in the oven,
no cakes,
no buns.
the flowers are all
dead dried
and brown in the yard.
there are no more mints
on the pillows.
for no wants to be there,
no one comes.

the long end

it's a low b rick house.
in the bowels
of southern Maryland.
a broken
van on the grass,
a storm door
off it's hinges
leaning
on its rusted screws
against
the frame. a gutter
swings loose with moss.
a cracked window lets
you see in
to where the patients
sit,
shadowed in half light,
in various stages of
sleep,
chins on their chests.
unaware of where they are,
or who they are.
you ring the bell,
but there is no bell.
you knock,
someone looks out, then
lets you in.
they point with a smile
to the room
where your mother lies
alone
between the thin walls,
in silence,
living out her long long
end.

let's get the money

money.
it's about the money.
about what's left.
inheritance.
stuff.
junk.
worn out everything.
a shack of a house.
but the money
is green.
the money will buy
shiny things.
the money will soften
the life
ahead, they do,
they do, they do believe.
now let's be friends
with the king
despite how evil
he was and always will
be. let's sidle up
to him, pretend we are
his friends,
for the queen
is almost dead,
we want the money.

the russian tea cups

before she's cold.
before her
last breath has been taken,
things
go missing
in the light of day.
rings and watches,
rosary beads,
photo albums. a radio,
a pair of shoes.
how quickly the living
want what
the dead or ill
can no longer use.
a bathroom robe,
her slippers too.
Russian tea cups
and saucers
that were never used.
like vultures they
wait and prey
with wretched claws
to take
what's left behind,
where is that stash of
money, please, one whispers,
tell us.
where is it buried,
give us a clue, please

mom.

the public pool

the public pool
with its public bath
and public view.
the wide
l shape
of blue.
the spring of the board,
the whistle
blown.
the splash, the radio
playing,
the smell of lotion,
as I lie in bliss next
to the golden
stretch of you.

the final curtain

the curtain closes,
we applaud.
we stand and clap until
our hands hurt
tears in our eyes,
the lights go up.
it was a good life,
a long play.
then the curtains open
and there she is once
more.
still here,
still alive. still a wonder
and a joy
to behold. it's not
over yet.

is there a doctor in the house

is dr. freud in the house
we need him
badly.
we have two new patients
waiting
in the hall.
twisting their fingers.
crying,
as they like to do over
spilled milk,
or a poem.
blaming everyone but
themselves for the world
they live in.
they remember the past.
fifty years or more
ago through broken lenses.
who said what.
woe is me, woe is me.
is dr. freud
in the house, we need him
badly.

family

you call your
doctor to see if you can have
a dna test
to see if you're truly
related
to some of your own family.
it can't be true,
you hope and pray
that your mother
had numerous affairs,
perhaps
with the milkman,
the postman, or someone
who looks exactly
like you.

bee hive brains

their minds
are like bee hives full
of bustling bees
struck by a stick.
the words
fly out
in all directions,
they swarm
trying so hard to sting
whoever
might be in their
path,
it's hard to imagine
that they ever
get a good nights
sleep. do their wings
ever stop,
do their dark hearts
ever rest
and trust a higher
being.

thelma and louise part two

they are the only ones
that truly
love your mother. the only
ones that care,
the only ones
who have a heart and memories.
they alone must bear the burden
of her impending death.
everyone else are posers,
pretenders. Thelma
and Louise, driving
off the cliff of sanity.
with their big hair and sun tans,
their
twisted logic.
they cry and they moan,
they curse like sailors,
drunk and howl at a moon
they don't quite
understand. look at us,
they say as they drag
their crosses down the road,
pounding nails
into their hands.
they want so bad to be praised.
they whip
their own backs mercilessly
and say,
look at me, look at us,
we are the true saints in
this family. the rest of you
go home.
see, see how much we suffer
and worry.
we suffer, because we truly
love, where oh where
dear brothers are your marks,
your scars,
your blood, your misery,
show it and be miserable with
us. if you truly loved
your mother, you would do
what we tell you to do, here,
be a victim with us,
take my whip
and start beating yourself.

baby talk

there was a traffic jam
of strollers on the sidewalk
the other day.
a woman, my wife,
was taking out her
brand new baby for a walk.
five women
were bent over pinching
his cheeks,
touching his hands,
talking baby talk to the pink
bubble
of a child.
but not a single man
was around, just me wondering
what all the fuss
was about, wanting to say,
hey, you're welcome.

after

there are many afters
in front of us,
after
labor day,
after the summer ends,
after the holidays.
after I get
over this cold,
this limp, this chaos
i'm going through.
let's get together then.
after the first
of the year,
or when spring arrives.
let's try then.

after

there are many afters
in front of us,
after
labor day,
after the summer ends,
after the holidays.
after I get
over this cold,
this limp, this chaos
i'm going through.
let's get together then.
after the first
of the year,
or when spring arrives.
let's try then.

a new well

some days
the well is dry.
you drop the bucket
and it echoes when it
hits the bottom.
you've drained it dry,
taken all
that it has to give.
time for new a well,
a new place,
a new change of scenery.
time to start
digging
all again to quench
your thirst
for words.

a new well

some days
the well is dry.
you drop the bucket
and it echoes when it
hits the bottom.
you've drained it dry,
taken all
that it has to give.
time for new a well,
a new place,
a new change of scenery.
time to start
digging
all again to quench
your thirst
for words.

hanging clothes

I see my mother in the backyard
at the clothes line, wooden
clothes pins in her mouth,
stuffed
in the deep pocket of her apron.
I see her hanging wet
clothes on the line.
sheets and dresses, pants
and shirts. the white basket
beside her is full
and heavy.
the grass is wet and cold
against her feet.
a wind blows. it might be late
march, or april. wild flowers
fill the yard.
she sees me in the window
and waves. I wave back
as she smiles and blows me
a kiss.

hanging clothes

I see my mother in the backyard
at the clothes line, wooden
clothes pins in her mouth,
stuffed
in the deep pocket of her apron.
I see her hanging wet
clothes on the line.
sheets and dresses, pants
and shirts. the white basket
beside her is full
and heavy.
the grass is wet and cold
against her feet.
a wind blows. it might be late
march, or april. wild flowers
fill the yard.
she sees me in the window
and waves. I wave back
as she smiles and blows me
a kiss.

full circle

although her brown eyes
flicker with awareness,
she can't speak,
she can barely swallow.
her teeth are out.
she can't move her arms or legs.
her hands
are wrapped in socks
so that she doesn't scratch
herself.
there is baby food on her
chin,
a cup of water with a straw
in it on the sideboard
that she sips on from time
to time
when the nurse comes in.
there's nothing on the wall.
no pictures,
no tv. no music.
no flowers. this could
be anyone's room,
anyone's bed and will
be for someone else
once she passes.
this is where it ends,
not unlike how it began.
an infant
in a crib depending on
others for everything.

the good and the bad

the good sister
is practical and smart.
rational,
logical.
she got out of dodge
a long time
ago, packed her bags and
headed south
to the orange groves.
the two crazy sisters,
Thelma and Louise
are small tornados of gossip
and mayhem.
they are black cats
crossing your path,
they are the ladders
you don't want to walk
under.
they are the cracks in
the sidewalk
that you don't step on.
look up into the sky,
and you'll see
them on their brooms
writing threats
as they cackle doom
and gloom.
hard to believe we
all came from the same
set of parents.

love potion

she knows every word
to love
potion number nine, tapping
her feet
on the floor of
the car, her hands
drumming the dashboard.
she throws her
hair around and sings loudly,
you're going to need
a lotion,
a calamine lotion.
we're nineteen again
in my dad's buick,
cruising the hamburger
stand,
a can of beer in our
laps,
the windows
rolled down, the night
in front of us
as a half moon appears
out of nowhere.

taking lunch

the mailman looks sad,
but he always does just a little
in his soggy grey
uniform,
no hat, the heavy satchel
bending his shoulders,
curving his back.
I see him eating a bowl
of rice and chicken in his squared
truck
parked sideways
in a handicap spot.
he waves, and nods.
wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
he holds up his white
bowl, then looks
into it as you walk away.
your row of houses is next.
but first lunch.

taking lunch

the mailman looks sad,
but he always does just a little
in his soggy grey
uniform,
no hat, the heavy satchel
bending his shoulders,
curving his back.
I see him eating a bowl
of rice and chicken in his squared
truck
parked sideways
in a handicap spot.
he waves, and nods.
wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
he holds up his white
bowl, then looks
into it as you walk away.
your row of houses is next.
but first lunch.

not monday yet

it's the stuck door,
the key
that won't turn,
the car that won't start.
it's the lace that
breaks,
the button
fallen off, it's
the sour milk
poured, the soft
spot on an apple,
a stranger at the door.
it's not Monday yet,
but it feels like it.

not monday yet

it's the stuck door,
the key
that won't turn,
the car that won't start.
it's the lace that
breaks,
the button
fallen off, it's
the sour milk
poured, the soft
spot on an apple,
a stranger at the door.
it's not Monday yet,
but it feels like it.

when you know

at some point
the phone will ring,
a message
will appear,
or maybe there will
be a knock
at the door.
doubtful.
most likely the hours
will pass
in darkness,
but you will know.
you will feel the exit
of a loved one
without a word
being said.

when you know

at some point
the phone will ring,
a message
will appear,
or maybe there will
be a knock
at the door.
doubtful.
most likely the hours
will pass
in darkness,
but you will know.
you will feel the exit
of a loved one
without a word
being said.

letting go

it's hard
to let go of this world.
our nails
dig into
the side of the cliff
we hang
from.
we fear the unknown
despite
our faith,
we fear what lies
beyond.
we worry about those
left behind.
it's hard
to let go of this world,
to push away from all
that we love, all
that we know.

letting go

it's hard
to let go of this world.
our nails
dig into
the side of the cliff
we hang
from.
we fear the unknown
despite
our faith,
we fear what lies
beyond.
we worry about those
left behind.
it's hard
to let go of this world,
to push away from all
that we love, all
that we know.

the melting

how she loved to
eat.
to drink.
to cook and set the plates
out.
to watch
everyone else sit
down
and eat.
she waited until all
was fed
before sitting down
herself.
sweat on her brow,
out of breath.
how happy she was to
feed
her children,
friends who knocked upon
her door.
I remember this as I
stand by
her bed and watch as she
melts
like the ice
chips being spooned
into her
open mouth.

luck or fate

the right place
at the right time, a lucky
turn left,
or right.
a call on your phone
making you stop has
kept you out of harms way.
a second sooner
when crossing the street meant
doom.
missing the plane
that goes down.
going out the wrong door
at the right time
to meet the love of your life,
sleeping in,
or leaving early, each
has its question,
asking is it luck, or is
it fate.

steak dinner

it was a tough piece of meat,
this flank
steak brought
from the kitchen
still sizzling with grease.
after twenty or thirty
thorough chews, you
couldn't take it anymore
and disposed of it in a
napkin.
but the potatoes were
good. so was the corn.
in fact you made a point
of it to the cook
and said, love this corn.
to which he nodded
and tipped his tall white
chef's hat.
they don't make meat like
they used to,
I guess. should have had
the cod.

a nice place to visit

it's a nice
place to visit.
the past, that is.
look how you've romanticized
the time,
the age,
the loves that you had.
it's a rosy
colored lens you peer
through,
and make believe that life
was so wonderful
back then,
but it's a nice
place to visit
once in awhile
on a grey
cloudy day, the rain
falling
gently on your mind.

the good dog

she was a good dog.
she sat
when told to sit.
begged
when asked.
rolled over and played
dead
with the right
words said.
she had no fleas,
never chewed a shoe,
never barked too
long
or howled foolishly
at the moon.
she was a good girl.
so happy
to see me when the day
was through,
so happy to see me
when the night
ended too.

the turnstile

sometimes it's best
not to unpack.
the visit is short.
keep the cab
running outside.
keep the door open,
keep your shoes
on, your hat too.
sometimes things don't
last as long
as you thought they
would, no matter how
good they are in
the moment. accept
and move on,
the turnstile keeps
turning.

cooking together

we cook together
a great
pot of soup. I say
more salt, more pepper,
she nods okay
and pours in more
broth. she stirs awhile.
I stir. we both
lean over the pot,
to the steam
rising and say,
I think it's ready.
later, we'll make
love and agree
on that too.

the table cloth

her hands
keep moving, smoothing out
the table
cloth.
is she
planning a meal,
pondering
what gifts to buy
for her children,
what flowers to grow
in her garden.
Christmas is just three
months away.
back and forth, her fingers
stretch the linen,
her palms circling
smoothing the cloth
of her past life.

day at the zoo

we go to the zoo
to see the animals in their
cages.
to smell
and hear the life
they have come to know
and have surrendered to.
they look at us,
we look at them.
we go on about our day
as if
we are different.

inside the box

inside
the room, inside the box,
beneath
the bed
are photos, tickets torn,
mementos
of a love
once had. cards
received.
they smell of her,
the scarf,
the glove,
the ring taken from
her hand,
the brush still holding hair,
a book unfinished,
the page
earmarked, left
opened
near a light,
her glasses
on the stand.

the wedding cake

the wedding cake
was three or four tiers,
vanilla
with a soft white creamy filling
in between
each moist layer.
it was a large wedding, so
the cake was
enormous and she saved
a piece or
two or three, wrapped
in paper for the freezer.
when the marriage
was over three months
later,
she took the frozen slices
of cake and the new blender,
a new toaster
and went home to her
mother.
I cared only about
the cake.
even now,
all these years later,
if I close my eyes,
I can still taste it
on my tongue,
on my lips,
feel the softness
of it against my face.

cataract class

one of them,
I sit in the room as the
clinician
shows a film
of what will happen,
or not happen
when they lay you
down
to operate,
to surgically remove
a lens from
your eye and put a new
one in.
she speaks from the side
of the chairs
where we sit in
shadowed light.
we are partially underwater
it seems.
it's clear
she's done this before,
many times.
please hold your questions
until the end
she says, though
no one raises their hand
except to ask
where the restroom
is..

the unsaid

the silence
if full of words.
full of what really is.
what really
will be down the road.
it's more clear
than any shout
or soft whisper into
my ear.
I hear it
clearly without
a sound being made.

enough

being kind,
not weak, turning
the other cheek,
letting
one get their way
time after time,
is fine,
to a point, but then
a stand
must be made.
a line drawn in
the sand.

it looked good

some gold
is fool's gold.
the shine comes off
quickly.
it melts easily
when
the sun gets too hot.
it bends,
it breaks.
it turns green.
it's not
what you thought it was.
but for a moment
it looked good on your hand.

mornings come too early

mornings come so early.
I rub
my face, feeling the bristles
of my beard. I let out a yawn,
a groan.
two drinks too many, perhaps,
last night.
there's a note on the pillow
beside me.
it's over, it says. don't
ever contact me again. I found
a blonde hair in the sink.
oh well, I say out loud
and crumble the note into
a ball and send
it towards the basket
in the corner.
I stretch, then lean
towards
the window.
I peer out the blinds at
the neighbor on his lawn.
why is he so cheerful,
so early in the day?
he's whistling for God's
sake
as he walks his dog.
now he's kissing his wife
goodbye as she hands him
his briefcase
and lunch. she winks at him
as he waves.
he beeps his horn farewell
as he pulls away.
I have to get out of
this happy neighborhood.

mirages

on our camels
in the desert at night,
we rely
on the stars.
the moon,
the shifting wind.
we block the sand with
our arms,
our robes.
we push forward over
the dunes
towards a light
in the distance.
without mirages we
have no hope
to ride on.

days like this

I've lost my appetite\
for food,
for drink.
nothing has
any taste to it. no
sugar,
no salt or pepper,
no spice
can
bring it to life, this
meal in
front of me
is dry and flat,
the drink is
without fizz.
the clouds move slowly
on days
like this.

what could have been

there was time
once.
there was a place,
a moment
where things could have
been different.
a word
said.
a gesture made,
something,
something if only
you had
done things differently.
but no,
it's too late for that,
and with that said,
you move on.
you don't look back,
at least not
too often
at what could have been.

grey bats

dusk brings
out the bats,
dropping down from
wherever they
spent their day,
hanging on their sticky
claws,
upside down, their thin
leathered
wings
bending with each
wide jagged
flap. chasing what?
they never travel
in a straight line,
it's almost
as if they can't see,
that they might
be blind, but they're
not.

a full tank of gas

she likes
my new Italian car.
white, with the top down.
her hair
in the breeze,
her sunglasses on.
she turns
up the radio
and smiles. let's go
nowhere, she says,
and you agree.
what a day it is to ride.
to be in love
with a full tank
of gas,
to be on the wide open
road
under a jewel of
a blue august sky.

mid century man

his blue pants,
his yellow sweater over
a white shirt,
freshly ironed,
loafers, two toned over
his stretched
white socks,
with diamonds up the side.
a crew cut
from the barber once
a week.
he kept his glasses
perched on his nose, as
if about to
give wisdom of some sort
to anyone who
might pass by, to stop
say hello and
listen.
he was of a different time,
one of frank
and dean, kennedy
and ike,
a mid century man
who knew how to whistle,
how to drink,
who would snap his fingers
to the beat
and dance on
a dime.

all that

where is the man
with the shaved ice,
the thick red syrups,
pushing his cart along
the narrow streets.
where is the milk man
with his cold,
bottles, his eggs
and cream.
where is the news boy,
with his wagon,
his dog, throwing
the batons he made
to your porch.
where is the tip of
the hat,
the kind hello.
the thank you cards in
the mail, or letter
by hand.
what's happened to all
that?

said and done

not far down the hill
from the estates of homes
made of brick,
surrounded by thick trees,
gardens
led to by slate
stones, is the high rise
on the water.
when all is said and done,
and night approaches,
when things
are sold and the children
get what they want,
they move
into the building,
two rooms, a veranda,
a front desk to call.
they hold hands and wait,
or fold them together,
if only one.

the sunday call

side by side
you wouldn't know
each photo
is of
the same person.
the wind of time has
blown
hard
across her body.
it's hard to know
if she knows
who you are, if she has
something to say,
her voice
now closed for good.
how plentiful her words
once were,
especially on the phone,
on sunday.
miles away.
in the kitchen
leaning over a pot boiling
on the stove.

maple syrup from the north

I don't think much
about
Canada anymore, if ever,
hardly a thought crosses
my mind
about that country to the north.
I have nothing against it,
it's just so far away,
and cold
and rarely in the news.
someone did bring me
a bottle
of maple syrup
from there once.
she said it was the best
in the world.
it's somewhere in my cupboard,
still unopened,
the cap too tight to turn.
her name
escapes me, I think
she was from Ottawa,
or Nova Scotia.
she wore a pair of fur
lined boots
when it snowed,
and had a maple leaf
tattooed on her shoulder.
I should make some pancakes
one day
and try to get that bottle
open.

sweet tooth

I don't mind
her uneven cake, two layers,
a soft
cream lathered between.
I don't mind the tilt
of one
on top of the other,
the swath of icing
dripping down.
I complain not at all
about the sweets she bakes.
the cookies not so
round, or soft.
my sweet tooth
goes beyond
what she brings in dish,
or pan, or cold,
in a ribboned box.

the best in town

they know, they being them,
that we
have little else to do but
look at the bill boards planted
near stream
and woods, a row of flat
roof houses, along
the highways, set inside
fields of bored cows,
the billboards stand
as large
as movie screens, they yell
to us, the best in town,
proclaiming, or suggesting
what we should do
or eat, or
smoke. where to go is
mentioned as well
as we speed by, but not
so quickly that
the message isn't made
clear and caught
and saved to some degree
in our supple minds.

chicken and wine

the fat gypsy
with black eyes was not
always
this size. she used to be
skinny
and long,
a lean dark glass of murky
water
sitting on her velvet
throne,
the crystal ball on her
felt table.
but it's been a good year,
she thinks,
pushing a plate of chicken
to the side, pouring
another glass from
a bottle of red wine.
it's been
a year full of worried
customers at her door,
cash in hand,
sick about love
and life,
asking how things will
begin,
how things will end.

taken away

swimmers
go too far sometimes
and get taken
away
by the rip tide.
they're too tired to make
it back in.
their arms and legs
churn hopelessly
against
the blue sea
gone green.
what do they think as
they stare up
at the jeweled sky,
summer in full
bloom, their last words
towards a guardless shore
unheard
amongst the seagull's
cry.

baby blue

the nursery
is blue. the baby a boy.
the crib, the curtains,
the border
around the walls.
all shades of blue.
but maybe
he won't like blue,
maybe he'll
be a child
that prefers pink,
or chartreuse.
a soft shade of yellow.
who's to know anymore,
to which direction
we lean,
when we're old enough
to do so.

in the dead of night

the thief
waits until everyone is asleep.
he sits at the top
of the hill
in an old car. lights off.
he has his tools,
his flashlight,
his bag to hold his take.
he's only looking for small
things of value,
rings, watches, cash.
he saves
your car for last, having
been there before.
this time you leave
him a card,
a small batch of cookies
and a glass
of cold milk.
please don't break anything,
you write
in a hand written note.

return to sender

the e mail
skips back, undeliverable.
I send it again,
and again.
no luck.
it's always worked before.
what gives.
I call the number,
it's busy.
it's dead.
no one is there.
I send a letter,
a post card.
return to sender is stamped
on the front.
my mother is getting harder
and harder
to reach these days.

i'll have the grouper

i'll have that
I tell the waiter pointing
at an item
on the menu.
yes. that's what I want.
my favorite, he says.
of everything on
this menu that's what
I would have chosen.
wait.
wait a second, you know
what.
I think i'll have that
instead, pointing
down
to the bottom of the list.
great choice again.
if not
for the first one you
picked that would have
been my choice
too.
let me bring you your
drink and some bread
and i'll be right back.
wait, wait one second.
I've changed my mind
again.
what's the catch of the day?
grouper.
that's what I want.
bring me the grouper.
is that your next favorite?
the waiter, smiles and said,
actually it's what I would
have ordered all
along. nothing quite like
fresh grouper.

the vegetable garden

I see the animals
in the woods peering into my
yard.
talking with one another.
mumbling,
whispering, asking each other
when is he ever
going to grow a garden.
He's got plenty of room.
it would be nice if he
had some tomatoes growing,
some corn, some green beans.
Or carrots
two rabbits said.
nice big fat carrots.
maybe some hot peppers too,
a squirrel chimed in
twitching his
tail,
which made all of them laugh
and shake their
heads.

the late night prowl

when we were young,
long haired
and lineless, free to do
whatever we wished to do,
such as ride around in a car
with other friends
until late at night,
the radio loud, looking
for girls.
the cops would pull
us over.
search for beer or weed.
finding only wrappers
of hamburgers
and empty drinks.
annoyed and disappointed
they'd lecture us with
their billy clubs,
pushing them into our
hard bellies,
our backs.
they'd tell us to get home.
get a hair cut,
and don't let
us catch you out
here again, this late at
night,
having fun.

soap

we see the soap
on tv
and see how clean it makes
others.
the bubbles,
the joy of it,
the smiles as wide
as miles,
and so we want that.
we want to be that happy
and trouble free.
we find it
in the store on a shelf
in a bright
aisle.
we take it home
and scrub and scrub
but to no avail.

once more

she seeks
perfection with her flashlight,
her
knees bent
and kneeling to the floor.
pointing
with a wand.
make it right, make it more
even,
make it just
so, or else I won't
be able to sleep
at night.
so do it all once more,
and then you
can pack up,
go.

summer children

shoeless
the bug like children,
mouths open,
eyes wide are jumbled
like bees
set free from a hive.
their screams
echo off the trees,
bikes
on the hill, a ball
in the air.
how they love the light
of summer
and dread the call
from mothers, standing
on their porches
watching, wishing
that none could grow
further from
where they are.

new and unused

the things
you never use have their own
place
in the cellar.
they gather dust
among the spiders, the webs,
boxes holding things
you've long
forgotten. stacked in a dark
corner,
there is the coffee maker,
the food
processor.
the dehumidifier,
the weed whacker,
a turn table awaiting
a disc
to spin
and bring back even
more stored memories.

the olive branch

you put the olive branch
out,
but it does no good.
some things can't be mended,
some things
must end
with no looking back.
sad but true,
how the world works,
how
friendships begin
then end
so quickly.

the early bird

I get up at four
he tells me. sometimes I might
sleep in late
to four thirty, but
no later.
I beat the traffic that way
and get to work
early.
I get more done with no one
else around.
I go to bed at ten, he says,
pulling on his red
suspenders
and sticking his chin out.
and you, he asks.
when do you rise
and shine, hit the hay?
I shrug. maybe eight.
maybe eight fifteen.
but then I stop for coffee
and read the paper.
if the bagels are soft,
I might have one toasted
with irish butter.
at night I can barely stay
up past midnight though.
a nap at four helps.

the soft landing

we are all looking for
the soft landing,
the gentle drop of
the parachute, slowly
delivering us
to the ground, to
safe harbor.
to a place where
all is well.
where love is in
abundance,
where we no longer
have to scratch
the earth for a meal.
who doesn't want
that?

the red car

I used to find
a shady tree and pull
the just washed car up.
a red car at the time,
white interior.
baby moons, a radio.
i'd take a chamois loth,
a can of wax and polish
it until it shined
like glass.
the music would pour
out of the open
windows. the beach boys.
Motown.
it was summer.
there was a girl who would
tell me how
nice my car looked
and would say yes. let's
go for a ride.
so ride you would.

not over yet

we're old, he says
repeatedly,
whenever he shows.
this game has slowed down.
my back hurts.
my arms
and knees.
we should have lunch
instead of this.
talk about the old days.
it's hard
to listen to this kind
of talk,
and agree. it's not over
yet.
but is for him.

the same girl

the radiation took
my hair, she says,
sending a picture along
with the words,
a smiley face,
a wink.

her long black hair

is gone.
she's a plucked chicken
now,
bone thin, but smiling
like the moon at night.
her eyes large and brown,
it makes
no difference.
she's still the same girl
she always was.

into the light

the middle is where
we need to be.
on the same page, in
the same
book, on the same shelf.
in the same
time zone
and hemisphere.
but me in space,
and you on earth is a good
start,
the light that you
are will guide me in.

my fault

all day i
walk around with a strand
of lint
a black thread on
my white shirt. no one
says a thing.
no one reaches over to
pull it off,
no one
points and says hey,
you have
something there,
let me get it for you.
maybe they don't know
me well enough
to help, or get close.
which could be my
fault.

the secret

the box arrives
on the sunlit porch.
taped
and marked with date
and my name. there is
no name
as to who sent it.
I take it inside.
hold it in
the air.
shake it.
it's light and soundless.
it could be anything.
it could be
nothing.
there's no way to tell
where it's
from, but it's here
with my name
on it.
I stare at the box
all day wondering what
it is, who
sent it. but
I can wait to know.
what's the rush.

good and bad

there's good
and bad in all of us.
one surprises the other
at times
with words said,
things done.
they discuss
what to do next,
leaving you out of
the discussion.
we are split in two.
but who owns
and who rents,
who holds the deed,
the papers on
you.

good and bad

there's good
and bad in all of us.
one surprises the other
at times
with words said,
things done.
they discuss
what to do next,
leaving you out of
the discussion.
we are split in two.
but who owns
and who rents,
who holds the deed,
the papers on
you.

dog days

the cling
of summer rain,
of wet skies,
the heat
and drip
of it all making
us heavy.
making us sigh,
making us long for
the cold drink
the cool
tide to rise
and blanket our
feet. summer
is fine,
as is the last of
its warm rays,
its wine,
but fall
is delirious and
delightful
in its wake.

dog days

the cling
of summer rain,
of wet skies,
the heat
and drip
of it all making
us heavy.
making us sigh,
making us long for
the cold drink
the cool
tide to rise
and blanket our
feet. summer
is fine,
as is the last of
its warm rays,
its wine,
but fall
is delirious and
delightful
in its wake.

blinking lights

it takes awhile to reset
all the clocks
after the power goes out
in the middle of the night.
the stove,
the microwave,
the alarm clock.
each with its own
complex way of staying true.
one by one,
I stop the blinking,
some red, some white,
one blue. I push the buttons
getting close
to what time it really is.
all a little off
by a minute or two.
it's hard living in
this digital world
of blinking lights,
give me a wind up
any old day.

blinking lights

it takes awhile to reset
all the clocks
after the power goes out
in the middle of the night.
the stove,
the microwave,
the alarm clock.
each with its own
complex way of staying true.
one by one,
I stop the blinking,
some red, some white,
one blue. I push the buttons
getting close
to what time it really is.
all a little off
by a minute or two.
it's hard living in
this digital world
of blinking lights,
give me a wind up
any old day.

trip to the market

the sky had a religious fervor
to it
as I drove
my Cadillac
convertible to the market,
going past
the corn fields,
the wide fenced stretches
where cows chewed sullenly
the earth,
where they hardly
looked up
as I waved.
but the sky, wide and blue,
puffed
with long robes
of white, spun cotton,
glimmering
in light stunned me.
it made me want to pray
for forgiveness,
it made me thankful and filled
me with a feeling
of wonder, so much so
that I forgot what
I was going to the market
for.

on the move

it's the turn
of a phrase, the turn
of a head,
the squeak of a knob
going round,
the movement
of clocks, the hands
swinging
down.
it's the spin of the earth,
the orbit
of the moon,
all in all it's things
like this that keep us
going,
two hearts
on the move.

on the move

it's the turn
of a phrase, the turn
of a head,
the squeak of a knob
going round,
the movement
of clocks, the hands
swinging
down.
it's the spin of the earth,
the orbit
of the moon,
all in all it's things
like this that keep us
going,
two hearts
on the move.

the short list

it's a short
list of things to do.
work,
the bank,
coffee,
a store or two.
a visit
to a woman who no
longer resembles
anyone I knew.
saying what?
maybe just to lean
against
her skin
turned porcelain,
and whisper into
her ear,
I love you.

the best part

the best part
of the story is the end
of course.
but who wants to get
there that fast.
it's good to hear
or read
what's leading up to
the next page,
the next
chapter. savoring
the words,
enjoying
the rise and tension
of the tale.
falling in
love is like that too.

the best part

the best part
of the story is the end
of course.
but who wants to get
there that fast.
it's good to hear
or read
what's leading up to
the next page,
the next
chapter. savoring
the words,
enjoying
the rise and tension
of the tale.
falling in
love is like that too.

you're getting sleepy, very sleepy

the woman I used
to see
was a hypnotist
and was always putting
me under
making me do strange things.
she'd say you're
getting very sleepy,
very very sleepy,
while swinging a ticking watch
in front of me.
I did whatever she asked
me to do.
I started to open
doors for
her, buy her flowers
and rings. take her on
trips to exotic places.
I didn't pester her
for
affection when it was
obvious she wasn't
in the mood.
sometimes though for fun,
she'd make
me cluck like
chicken or bark like
a dog.
that was the mean side
of her coming out.
when we finally broke up,
she clapped her hands
together and told
me I was free to go,
but not before she made
me give her my car.

almost there

the line is long
for pills.
brown bottled
pills of all sorts.
all sizes and colors.
pills for what
ails you,
what might come,
what has
and still remains.
you can hear the bottles
being shaken
as they
pay the man,
slip the card into the box,
a rattle in each
hand.
the line is long.
it wraps around the block
and back again.
i'm almost to the
counter.

almost there

the line is long
for pills.
brown bottled
pills of all sorts.
all sizes and colors.
pills for what
ails you,
what might come,
what has
and still remains.
you can hear the bottles
being shaken
as they
pay the man,
slip the card into the box,
a rattle in each
hand.
the line is long.
it wraps around the block
and back again.
i'm almost to the
counter.

her candle burning

I imagine her
in the window, the light
on.
she's at her desk.
working.
glasses perched on her
nose.
pen in her mouth.
hands on a keyboard.
working.
taking small bites
of strawberries
she slic4e
early this morning.
she's not thinking of me.
is it the weekend yet.
has vacation
arrived.
will there be anything
left of
her candle
when it's my time
to light it
and make a fire.

her candle burning

I imagine her
in the window, the light
on.
she's at her desk.
working.
glasses perched on her
nose.
pen in her mouth.
hands on a keyboard.
working.
taking small bites
of strawberries
she slic4e
early this morning.
she's not thinking of me.
is it the weekend yet.
has vacation
arrived.
will there be anything
left of
her candle
when it's my time
to light it
and make a fire.

the duct tape solution

she loved
a roll of duct tape.
silver and wide.
she fixed
the bird
cage with it.
sealed a window
where the wind blew
through,
wrapped it around
our shoes
when the bottoms
came loose.
where's the duct tape
she'd yell,
when the rain
came through
the ceiling, when
a tile fell off
the roof.
I wish I had it now
to wrap
my two sisters in.

in time

in time,
the ashes of what
we were
will rise into the clouds
and be gone.
what's left
behind
is held in the hands
and minds
of those
that loved, or
knew
who we were.
no need for words,
or gestures,
just a simple nod
of acceptance,
is enough
love shown.

in time

in time,
the ashes of what
we were
will rise into the clouds
and be gone.
what's left
behind
is held in the hands
and minds
of those
that loved, or
knew
who we were.
no need for words,
or gestures,
just a simple nod
of acceptance,
is enough
love shown.

she's ready

so why exactly did you call
911
the paramedic asks me
on the phone
while arriving
at the senior home
to pick up my mother
to take her to a hospital.
well.
I tell him. her skin
is cold.
her heart is barely
beating.
her eyes are closed,
and she's not
responding to touch,
or talking.
not to mention that the day
care worker
is spooning pureed food
into her mouth
and it's not going down.
it's on her chin, her
neck, her cheeks.
I see, he says.
well, why didn't you stay
on the scene until
we arrived.
because, I tell the young
man
on the phone, his
radio crackling with
importance.
because I went home
and called her doctor.
I live forty miles away.
he told me to call you.
okay.
he says.
do you want her doctor's name?
his number,
the number to her husband
who has all her insurance
information?
no.
no thanks, he says.
but we see that the do not
resuscitate form has been
filled out incorrectly.
all the boxes have been
checked, so we are unsure
what to do.
check the one that lets her
go, I tell him.
she's ready and so are we.

the gathering

some weight has
been gained, a house built
or swept away.
divorce
and grandkids along
the way.
the lines have deepened
on our faces.
we sit around the fire,
old friends,
laughing or crying.
we are the same.
wine helps make the words
come out,
as the blue sky
blackens
and the sun slips
under a bed
of waves.

the gathering

some weight has
been gained, a house built
or swept away.
divorce
and grandkids along
the way.
the lines have deepened
on our faces.
we sit around the fire,
old friends,
laughing or crying.
we are the same.
wine helps make the words
come out,
as the blue sky
blackens
and the sun slips
under a bed
of waves.

the game

it's a card game
where everyone's cheating,
slipping
an ace or a duce
our of their sleeve
or hat.
the money isn't real.
the stakes
are low. the game
long over,
but everyone wants to
win, take
home the pot, just
to say so.

the game

it's a card game
where everyone's cheating,
slipping
an ace or a duce
our of their sleeve
or hat.
the money isn't real.
the stakes
are low. the game
long over,
but everyone wants to
win, take
home the pot, just
to say so.

wake me when it's over

wake me when it's over.
when
the last breath has been
delivered,
when the body stills,
the heart
recedes
and takes a final
beat.
wake me when
the dust has settled.
the last words
said,
the cross planted
at her head,
then i'll grieve.

wake me when it's over

wake me when it's over.
when
the last breath has been
delivered,
when the body stills,
the heart
recedes
and takes a final
beat.
wake me when
the dust has settled.
the last words
said,
the cross planted
at her head,
then i'll grieve.

snack time

the shark has no feelings.
no remorse
in biting us
as we swim in our bright
green trunks
or rose petal suits,
frolicking
about in the deep
cold ocean
waving to loved ones
on the shore
taking pictures, waving
back.
he's just doing what he
does. what he's done
for a million years,
eating, swimming,
a leg here, an arm.
no seasoning necessary.
no vegetables,
just us.
snacks before moving
on.

snack time

the shark has no feelings.
no remorse
in biting us
as we swim in our bright
green trunks
or rose petal suits,
frolicking
about in the deep
cold ocean
waving to loved ones
on the shore
taking pictures, waving
back.
he's just doing what he
does. what he's done
for a million years,
eating, swimming,
a leg here, an arm.
no seasoning necessary.
no vegetables,
just us.
snacks before moving
on.

together

together so long, they
answer
before the question
is asked,
speak as one, on
many things,
remembering the day
they met, the year,
the place,
how young they were,
how small
the space of the first
house.
she leans, he leans.
both
stir the tea together.
shake
your hand in the same
soft way.
they are one,
from the first day,
until the last.

together

together so long, they
answer
before the question
is asked,
speak as one, on
many things,
remembering the day
they met, the year,
the place,
how young they were,
how small
the space of the first
house.
she leans, he leans.
both
stir the tea together.
shake
your hand in the same
soft way.
they are one,
from the first day,
until the last.

keeping time

none of the clocks
in my
grandmother's house worked.
no watch,
no cuckoo clock,
no chimes,
no ticking
of any kind.
the hands all still
at when they stopped.
she used the sun
to plan
her day, to end
her day. watching
the length of shadows
in her yard.
that seemed to be
enough.

keeping time

none of the clocks
in my
grandmother's house worked.
no watch,
no cuckoo clock,
no chimes,
no ticking
of any kind.
the hands all still
at when they stopped.
she used the sun
to plan
her day, to end
her day. watching
the length of shadows
in her yard.
that seemed to be
enough.

becoming us

the small choices
add up.
like rain finding a shallow
stream
that flows
into the river, to a bay,
then ocean.
it all becomes one
somehow.
becoming us,
each
small drop that
falls from
the sky.
each choice made.

becoming us

the small choices
add up.
like rain finding a shallow
stream
that flows
into the river, to a bay,
then ocean.
it all becomes one
somehow.
becoming us,
each
small drop that
falls from
the sky.
each choice made.

seven strangers

despite
having the same parents,
raised under
the same room,
having meals at the same
table for years,
we are
all completely different
as if adopted
from strangers.
three brothers,
three sisters. me.
no one agrees
on anything.
no one thinks alike.
seven opposites
with the same blood
coursing through
our veins.
the love is there
somewhere,
but so is the passive
and aggressive
fight.

she's doing great

we have to wake her
up
to feed her the woman
on
the phone says in broken
English.
she sleeps all day,
never gets up.
we change her, bathe
her where she
lies. we put her pills
in her food,
moving her mouth up and down
as best we can.
sometimes, on rare
occasions,
she may open her eyes
and try
to say something,
but we don't understand.
we love her, and want
her stay here
with us
as long as she can.
her room is clean,
her bill paid, although
next month,
due to increases in
expenses it will be
raised.

she's doing great

we have to wake her
up
to feed her the woman
on
the phone says in broken
English.
she sleeps all day,
never gets up.
we change her, bathe
her where she
lies. we put her pills
in her food,
moving her mouth up and down
as best we can.
sometimes, on rare
occasions,
she may open her eyes
and try
to say something,
but we don't understand.
we love her, and want
her stay here
with us
as long as she can.
her room is clean,
her bill paid, although
next month,
due to increases in
expenses it will be
raised.

july

I was out
frying bacon and eggs
on the sidewalk,
when I saw
a squirrel
beneath a tree
sleeping,
a robin, stretched out
on a leaf
floating
in the bird bath.
there is a wilt
to the crowd
departing from the bus,
some with a glazed
look in their eyes,
others
soggy from the ride.
the white
sun
of july, is taking
the starch out
of most of us
with no relief in
sight.

july

I was out
frying bacon and eggs
on the sidewalk,
when I saw
a squirrel
beneath a tree
sleeping,
a robin, stretched out
on a leaf
floating
in the bird bath.
there is a wilt
to the crowd
departing from the bus,
some with a glazed
look in their eyes,
others
soggy from the ride.
the white
sun
of july, is taking
the starch out
of most of us
with no relief in
sight.

sword fight

I challenge you to a duel
the man
says.
you've taken my love
from me
and now it must be
decided
who's to live or
die
and have her.
he tries to hand me
a sword,
but I refuse,
he throws it at
my feet
while whipping his sword
in the air
making slashing noises.
pick it up, he says,
and lets
be done with this.
I look at my watch,
can't we talk this over.
I mean what
century are we in
here.
I can give you my
therapist's number.
she could see you today.
stabbing one another
solves nothing.

sword fight

I challenge you to a duel
the man
says.
you've taken my love
from me
and now it must be
decided
who's to live or
die
and have her.
he tries to hand me
a sword,
but I refuse,
he throws it at
my feet
while whipping his sword
in the air
making slashing noises.
pick it up, he says,
and lets
be done with this.
I look at my watch,
can't we talk this over.
I mean what
century are we in
here.
I can give you my
therapist's number.
she could see you today.
stabbing one another
solves nothing.

rewriting

moving words around,
commas.
lines
chopped off,
or added to.
a period here,
or there.
rearranging the sequence
of thoughts.
making it rhyme,
making it
not rhyme,
the title could
be better.
it's exhausting
trying to fix what
never was broken,
much.
making it no longer
what it was meant
to be makes
a long day,
tough.
time to move on
to the next.

carrying sugar

a long line
of ants, black soldiers,
carrying
what looks like sugar
spilled
out of my kitchen,
off the floor
is not bothered
by the vibration of my
feet, nor
me bending over
to take
a closer look. they have
work to do.
they are unafraid, of
the broom or spray.
death has no meaning
for them.
it's about this.
about living life
to the fullest.
carrying sugar until
it ends.

the world has changed

it's rare that one sees
a chicken
truck anymore
in transit on the open
road,
a flat bed thing with
crated
birds stacked high,
feathers flying,
a cacophony of
clucking,
sitting
beside you at a red
light.
chickens don't travel
like that anymore.
the world has
changed.

hallmark card

I like that she prays.
that she's
kind,
compassionate.
I like how she bakes,
and brings
me some.
I like the way,
she laughs, the way,
she sighs
and rolls her eyes
at what I say.
I like
the way she kisses me
hello,
or goodbye,
sending me on my way.
I like nearly everything
about her,
everything, but
showing up so
late in life.

rotate those tires

the lube job
on my car was not so jiffy,
there were
filters that had
to be discussed,
my wipers were frayed,
did I know that
my tires hadn't been rotated
in like forever,
not to mention
my transmission fluid,
and brakes,
and other things that
should be topped off.
I listened
to the manager
as he scrolled down
the computer screen
listing in green
all the things
other than an
oil change that he
highly recommended
that I get done.
I stared at his fingers,
his blackened nails
and wondered how he
ever got any of it off.
ok, I told him,
go ahead, then settled
back into a chair,
and skimmed the five year
old mopar magazines,
and home and gardens.

no where to go

the cool
clean sheets stretch
blue, like a pool
of water on the soft bed.
the fan quietly
spins above.
the blinds are pulled,
the sun sets
behind the rain
somewhere,
how nice to have nowhere
to go,
no work
to be done, no calls
to be made.
just me, awaiting you,
at the end
of a summers day.

closing time

one drink past two
is one
too many
at happy hour,
the bartender pours
them
strong.
then pushes towards
you a menu
with bad
food.
it's an easy slide
down
the slope
of drinking and eating,
finding a home
on the leather stool,
then suddenly,
the moon is out
and it's
closing time.

staying alive

the bird
is fond of bugs, worms
lying
on the ground, crawling
through
the earth.
snakes
like to get into the trees,
to where
the eggs sit in a high
next.
each
to his own meal,
his own
needs.
his own way of going
up
or down the food chain.

the gift

it's hard
to buy a gift for a woman
you adore.
earrings,
a ring, a bracelet.
something that resembles
what you've seen her wear,
but then why another
if she already has that?
a dress or a pair
of shoes
would be impossible.
a blender or a vacuum,
something sexy
from the lingerie store?
perhaps a cook book,
no,
that mistake has been
done before.

waiting

i'm waiting
at the station,
pacing anxiously,
staring at my watch.
waiting
for her to arrive.
or maybe
she's already
here
and I haven't figured
that out yet.

best not to think about it

the blur of years.
the wind
of time, how quickly
leaves
fall,
then begin
again.
there is more behind us
than in front,
best not
to think about it
and press on.

the cat nap

everyone, at 5 pm
should
stop what they're doing
and lie down.
take a nap.
a twenty minute cat
nap. close their eyes,
fold their hands
onto their chest,
and slip into dreamland.
I think it may solve
much of the worlds problems,
unless they're driving
a car,
or bus, or flying
a plane.
or a doctor doing
surgery.

the lunch prayer

as I stared at the rack
of hot dogs
spinning ever so slowly
in the primordial grease
at the 7 11,
I asked myself, what
are you doing?
don't even think about
it.
there was sausage too.
and a burger thing
shaped like
a hot dog, but brown
with texture.
a sticky bulb put an alien
glow on all of
it. slightly
green and yellow,
a tinge of blue.
the smell was almost
meat like.
I prayed about it,
as I stood in line,
nervously jingling coins
in my pocket
like rosary beads, my
hunger growing,
then the answer came.
just water, I said,
pushing a dollar onto
the counter.
nothing else. just water.
and these hostess cupcakes.

what's the rush

we almost broke it off
because she wanted to get married
and I didn't
want her to.
who is this guy,
what do you really know about
him,
I asked her,
as we walked hand
in hand along the beach
in front of our hotel.
you should go through
a year
of seasons first,
that's my advice. meet
his kids, know where
he works, who his
friends are.
she kissed
me on the cheek
and put her arm around
me.
we stopped and looked
at the sun sinking into
the sea.
she drew a heart
in the sand with our
initials in it.
you're right, she said.
i'll tell him, let's
wait for awhile.
what's the rush.

a long work week

the desert
is a wide dry ocean
of sand.
annoying
cactus
mockingly dot
the land,
prickly and green,
horrible
things. rattle snakes
shake their tails
in the shadow of rocks.
the dunes roll on
forever.
no water, no oasis.
nothing
but the sun beating
down
like an inferno
as I crawl
across on my knees
and hands.
if I ever get to the other
side,
i'll give you
a call.
let's do something fun
come Friday.

side of the road

nothing
sadder than a flat
tire
on the side
of the road
in this summer heat.
stuck
in traffic, waiting
for a tow.
cheer me up.
bring me something
cold
to drink.
a sandwich or two.
let's kill some time
together,
bring a deck of cards,
your lips,
your charms.
i'll never get to
the places
I need to go.

the empty nest

this tattered nest,
once held the perfect
shell
of a blue egg.
the strings and twigs
bent into a home
are frayed now,
the base uncertain,
as I flap my greying
wings on its edge.
where has he
flown to?
I see him in the air
at times
floating towards
a different tree,
to a nest all his
own, someone else
is flying with him,
not me.

the old and the restless

this is it, my sister tells
my brother in a breathless call,
who tells me that my
mother is nearing death.
she's on her last leg, about
to take her last breath.
arrangements are made.
the dirt pushed back from
the earth to make room
for her. flowers are priced.
a family gathering is
organized, someone mentions
Chinese food. mom loved
Chinese food, lets do that.
but when i call the nurse
at the hospital, before i
visit her one last time,
i'm told that she's been
discharged and sent back
home. she's eating, and
doing fine, she's wearing
her favorite yellow dress,
but upset that she
missed her show,
the young and the restless
five days in a row.

i'm still here

as they drag the lake
for the old woman, reported
missing, seen wading
on the shore, she stands
there smoking, trying
to explain that she's
still here.
she's not drowned, but alive.
they don't believe her
though, and row out to
the middle of the black
pond with their
lights, their long poles,
their oars.
i'm alive she says out
loud. i'm still here.
she waves her hands in the
air, she says her name,
only to be ignored.

text me

why have lines
on the road anymore. what with
drinking
and texting,
phones and all the distractions
that technology provides,
everyone is swaying
from side to side,
crashing into one another,
light poles,
mail boxes,
just to send a smiley face,
a photo of a cake
they baked, or just
to say hi.

her muscles

i remember feeling my mom's muscles
when i was a little kid.
she'd flex her bicep and we'd
all try to squeeze this muscle
made from
washing, cleaning, cooking,
beating rugs, and hanging
clothes on the line. it scared
me to think what she could do
if she was fast enough to catch
me, after i mercilessly teased
one or more of my sisters.

at ninety five

I can't believe it all
went by so fast,
she says, laughing,
at ninety five
living in Miami without
a cat
or dog, a friend,
or husband.
everyone is gone, but
i'm still here.
i'm getting my hair
done
today, bingo tonight.
what are you up to?
you should visit sometime.

a few things

the things she'll leave
behind,
are few.
trinkets mostly, a tea
cup,
used, a plate, a ring,
her rosary beads.
dresses still on hangers,
shoes
not worn for years.
she's on the train,
on a trip
without luggage,
without
anything she owned,
these things
were few.

one more dance

it's a dance,
this tug and pull,
the tapping
of feet
when it comes
to dying, dying old,
dying slow,
with nurses, doctors,
taking
a pulse, folding
against her
body,
the long white sheet.
listening for an end.
she's still there though,
slipping, but
hearing the music
of her life,
still dancing, one
more time
around the floor.

his front lawn

we used to talk about
the girls
we were seeing, dating,
when we gathered
together
for sports, or a night
our,
that's ended.
we now
talk about what hurts.
how's your leg,
that sciatica still giving
you trouble.
when's your cataract
surgery?
I've had this rash for months.
we go to lunch,
if it's not raining, or
too hot, or too cold.
we get soup and a
grilled cheese sandwich.
we show each
other pictures on our
phones.
no longer bikini shots
of a flight attendant
someone met
from L.A.,
now it's a dog,
a cat,
a grand child.
a front lawn newly
cut and seeded
with
Bermuda grass,
a fire pit that keeps
the bugs away.

non stick

the pans
on late night tv,
at 2 am,
with the energetic salesman
on crack,
frying candy,
setting them on
fire,
sautéing live chickens,
is what I want.
I want my eggs to slide
off into my
plate, the bacon to sizzle
and be crisp,
I want these pans,
these crazy pans
from outer space,
with a life
time guarantee,
non stick.

love poems

she scolds me for love
poems
written in haste.
hallmark she screams in bold
italics.
stop, just stop
doing these she pleads,
they make me cringe,
too gooey, too not you.
I want some dirt,
some edge,
some bitter end.

sweet tooth

we have the same
sweet tooth, so
it's a race to get
to the last
slice of cake.
sometimes we'll meet
in the middle,
lips colliding,
icing on
our face.

they're not done

they don't fade
this band, this group of men,
grey haired
and worn,
standing
in the spotlight
singing songs
from when they were young.
when we were young.
they can't hit
the high notes, or the low
notes
anymore, but their fingers
find the keys,
the chords to bring
back the memory
of what once was.
they make joy.

let things happen

caught in the rain,
we give up
trying not to get wet,
and get wet.
drenched, we laugh.
we find puddles
to step in.
we throw our hands
into the sky, and let
the rain hit our
faces.
we open our mouths
and drink.
we need this laughter,
we need to stop
worrying,
we need
to give up sometimes
and let things
happen.