the whipped cream aisle

I roll the cart through the fruit
and vegetable section
of the grocery store.

I stare at the oranges. I don't think
I've bought an orange
in five years.

or a pear, or pineapple, maybe never.

but I like to look at the colors
and how everything is
so neatly stacked

in rows, in pyramids. I like how
the apples
shine, the grapes glow under
the fluorescent lights.

so many bananas, where do they all
come from.
who picked them?

there are the peaches, as fuzzy as
the first one I remembered
eating as a child.
biting into its sweet slush
as the skin tickled my lips
and tongue.

I circle the melons. the lopes.
the berries one more time before
moving on and taking a small basket
of strawberries.

I head to the whipped cream aisle,
I think the can she bought me
once for a Saturday night, may
be dried up now.

the toaster oven gift

I remember the dairy queen
in Cambridge.
halfway to O.C.,
we stopped there once in 1975,
for a cone.
one for her,
one for me.
I had chocolate, she had vanilla.
we were on our honeymoon.
fresh out of high school.
she was the love of my life
for about
six months,
the first of a dozen
soul mates
yet to come,
before she walked home to her
mother's house
with one suitcase
and a toaster oven.

coffee tea or me

as crazy as my friend was,

Debbie the flight attendant,
she was fun.

smart as a whip, well read,
intuitive. nothing ever got
by her.

she was always three steps ahead
of me,
she had the upper hand,
the upper leg.
the upper everything on me.

as sweet and charming as she was,
she was as equally untruthful.

with nary a wink, she'd lie
like a rug
about anything and everything,
she always had something to hide.

but I didn't care.

she knew I knew. so that made
it interesting.

it was never going to go anywhere
to begin with,
because of all the other
men in her life, and all the other
women in mine.

but when we were together,
we were both all there. all in
for a three day layover.

I can still see her at the airport,
luggage at her side,
in uniform, red lipstick on,
stockings and heels,
with a sly cat ate the canary
grin.

even near death, shaved bald
and bone thin, she smiled
and winked
for the camera. she sat there
in her wheel chair,
half of what she was,
and promised that she'd see
me once again.

love yourself

yo, he says.
my buddy at the ball court,
my man. you got your mojo
back,
don't you?
I see that sparkle in your eye
again.
you're hitting your shots.
shoulders back,
head straight.
that last time I saw you
things were dark,
you were bleak, broken,
but not now,
I feel it brother. glad for
you.
the light's back on.
took a while didn't it.
women will do that us,
won't they. goddamn them.
can't live with em,
can't live without em.
but hey. don't lose it again.
be strong.
be wise. be yourself
no matter what.
love yourself first and
the rest will follow.
now let's play ball.

the grey man

when he got out of prison
he got
a job mopping hallways in
an apartment building
in crystal city.
his uniform was grey.
his face
greyer.
he was sick, you could see
that.
he'd been in jail for a long
time.
too long.
it changed him. took his
life away.
but he mopped, he waxed, he
buffed those floors
to a high shine.
he almost smiled
at them, squinting down the long
corridor that led
past the beauty shop,
to the pool.
then he was gone. no explanation.
no goodbyes.
it was time. no need to
overstay.

she had muscle

she had muscle,
my mother. she used to flex her
arm
and we'd feel
the bulge in her bicep.

she was rosie the riveter,
mother Theresa
Florence nightingale
and at times jayne Mansfield
all wrapped up
into one.

seven kids will make confusion.
but she had
muscle.

from cleaning. hanging clothes
on the line,
dishes,
diapers,
cooking.

she was tough and weak.
she could cry at the drop of a hat.
or laugh
at the littlest
thing. she couldn't tell a
joke to save her life,
but she was funny.

she was full of herself, for better
or worse, from
the depths of despair
to the joys of seeing her children,
on occasions, get life right.

i'd prefer the kiss

I make a run to the store.

a short hop. no list. just a gut
feeling
of needing something
sweet.

or salty, sort of like a kiss.

I stare at my phone.
no.

not that, I scroll. yes. this.

it's either, chocolate, or chips.

though I would prefer
the kiss.

kitchen dancing

she says let's go dancing.

sure I tell her.
i'm rusty, but ready.

she spins around like a top
in her little back dress
and heels.

I catch her before she falls.

oh my, she says. I have a case
of the vapors. I think I had one
too many glasses of vino.

maybe we need to practice some more,
I tell her, clearing out the kitchen
to give us more room.

I turn up the music, put the party
lights on,
and away we go.

Your Go to Person

i go to the doctor
for a routine check up,

blood pressure, heart, lungs,
that sort of thing,

say, ah. a peek into the ears,
the eyes,
the nose.

all is well,

but they want me to update my info.

age weight height address.
place of employment.
most of which hasn't changed.

but the relationship status has.

the form asks at the end for
the name of a significant other.

who is your go to person
that we need to contact in case
of an emergency?

who is the most important person
in your life right now, right
this second, who needs to know
if you get sick?

your son, yes. but who else?


I look down at the old form,
then black out the name that's on there,
the ink still wet,
freshly written just months ago,
then write in the new name.

maybe this one will stick, hopefully
before the ink dries
this time.

quicksand

i didn't see it, not
at first
the soft sand before me,
a wide circle
of wet, thick sand.
quick sand.
i thought i could walk
across, but no.
i sank and sank.
boots, to knees to waist.
my life passed before me,
until she arrived and stood
there with her hands on
her hips and said.
my oh my.
need some help?
sure, i said. thanks, i owe
you. i appreciate you
saving my life.
coffee?

three days

I miss the city.

nyc.

the park, the museums,
the shows.

a hotel room with a view
of the Hudson.

room service. the hustle.
the bustle.

soho, NoHo, tribeca, the village.
Washington square.

Chinatown.

the horns, the traffic. the people.

I miss the vibe. the energy,
the food. around every corner is a new
town.

it's time for a pre holiday visit.
when the leaves turn,
the air cools. let's walk until
we're bone tired.

I miss it but three days and out
is plenty for my fix.

let's roll.

mini golf night

it's a wild mini golf course
but we go for it
with our little clubs. our tiny
pencils and score cards.
it's dinosaur land with
spewing volcanoes and cave
men. all constructed out of
metal or wood, or paper mache.
there's a waterfall, a bridge,
a dip, a wall, a hill to climb.
skill has nothing to do with it.
it's mostly swing the club,
hit the ball and hope for the
best. so we do. but when I lose
to her, I shrug and say oh well.
then we get ice cream.

directions

lost, I pull over and roll
down
the window to ask directions
from an old man
sitting on a bench reading
the newspaper.
he tells me to go to hell
and to quit bothering him.
do I go left or right at
the light, I plead with him.
what do I care, he says.
quit bothering me.
I sigh, and shake my head.
do whatever you want to do,
he says, lowering the paper.
you'll find your way at some
point, we all do. it's okay
to be lost once in a while.
makes you feel good later,
when you aren't.

it looked good online

they deliver the new
chair
six months later.

I hate it.
it's a mottled blue
green, not the solid pale
sea foam
green I imagined
when I ordered it.

it looks like it's shedding.
not unlike how
a rabid dog
loses his fur.

dang, I say.
and get on the phone for
them to come
back and get it.
three weeks, they say.

I cover the chair up
with a white
sheet. it's that bone
ugly.

and it looked so sweet
online.

power cleaning

I go crazy with the power washer.

the deck first, the patio,
the grill.

the bikes.
the windows. the side of
the house.

I do the shed, the fence.
the grass.

I blast everything in site.
a passing dog.
the neighbor, the children
playing
in the street, the mailman
with his leather
bag.

squirrels and birds.
a fox comes out the woods,
seething mad.

it's fun and noisy, making
the world clean again.
dirt free.

I save myself for last, this
will take a while.

a penny saved

it's all about money
for some.
the dollar, the gain. the loss.
the score
kept
daily. how did the market do?
the accounts checked.
the coupons cut.
there's a sale on somewhere.
down the block
gas is
a penny less.
these shoes can be fixed.
there's a discount,
a going out of business sale,
everything must
go.
last chance. the senior
sunset discount
at the grill.
the chicken, the fish,
unfrozen and ready to go,
expires at midnight.

let me tell you about love

the old are dying,

they are dry bones with
muddled
minds. nursed now as if
infants between
the sheets.

hanging on
to a rattling cup of tea.

they remember though, and will
tell you stories
of long ago.

they will extend their life,
hold you
by the wrist
so that you cannot leave.

i was young once, they tell you.
convincing
themselves with a picture,
a postcard,
a ring upon their finger.

oh, the fun we had.
the things we did, the places
we went.

have you ever been in love,
they ask,
their milky eyes, neither
blue or grey, but somewhere
in between.

i was once, they say.
listen to me, listen. let me
tell you about love,
can you stay?

to get through

she dips
her eyes into a book on
this saturday
morning.

an old book. edges frayed.
pages
ear marked,
underlined.

it still rings true.
but another dose is needed.

another read, another study
to
have it stick again,
to help the hours
that lie ahead,

to get through.

what now? what choices
are there?

trapped again? or not.

how we circle back again
and again
to what was lost.

a cool quiet

it's a long silence.

a cool
quiet.

a distance traveled and not
returned from.

the door creaks open.

it's never been
closed.

we wish we knew what there
is to be known.

so many pages left to turn,
to see
how this story unfolds.

night walk

i'll wait until dark,
then walk.

when most lights are out,
or dimmed.
the blue
glare
of bedroom sets
flickering in the upper
windows.

no one will be around,
a late dog walker, perhaps.

a random
soul coming in late.

i'll find my stride along the way.
around the bend.
up the steep path, beyond the cars,
where the houses
end.

where the trees begin.

i'll go until I go no more.
i'll wait until dark,
then walk.

everyone says so

i'm fine.

all is well. you greet
each friendly
face
with a smile, a healthy dose
of
good cheer.

fine, you say.
and you, how are you these
days?

good. good is said again.

the world is fine, I suppose.
everyone
says so.

flowers at the grocer

they greet you as you enter
the heavy glass doors,
a gallery of color
and scent. lively little
faces
on green stems.

you push
your cart forward,
then stop.

so many flowers to choose
from. roses, pink,
white,
crimson.
gold sunflowers.
daffodils
and tall orchids, singular
and elegant.

who are these flowers for?
whose hands
will embrace each bundle
and say thank you
before
placing them in vases,
trimmed to fit,
the water poured.

where are these lovers?
the wives. mother's perhaps
who wait for your arrival,
loved ones
who will kiss you
as you enter the door?

I move on, so that others
can have their way.

chat with God

i drag myself into church
for a long talk
with the almighty.
St. Bernadette's is right next
door, talk about guilt,
so I walk over.

what the hell is up?
i ask out loud, although I
figure he knows what i'm thinking
so either way, he hears me.

language, the deep growl of
a voice says, language.

sorry.

just wondering, i say,
sitting on the hard pew.

do you mind kneeling, the voice
says. a little respect.

i kneel. fold my hands together
squint towards the altar.

just wondering, what's up?
i need some direction here,
okay?
a clue. a push, a nudge.
come on you've got to give me
something.
i'm dying here. i'm freaking
moses wandering the desert
for 40 years.

you'll be okay, the voice says.
stop worrying, stop ruminating,
stop thinking about things
you have no control over. relax.

easy for you to say, i tell Him.

what? a little snarky this morning,
aren't we.

no, no. just weary, that's all.
i mean you're so quiet and mysterious
all the time. i'm tired and lost.

hey. all of you are. it's what you
people do.

you people?

yes. you people are exhausting sometimes.

let me think about your
situation and i'll get back to you,
okay? i'm glad you stopped by though.
meanwhile. stay out of trouble, and drop
]a few bucks in the basket on your
way out.

that's it? that's all you got?

i hear a roar of thunder, the pew shakes
and trembles under my feet. candles
flicker.
okay, okay. easy does it.
i'll wait.

patience, my dear boy, patience.
how about you do nothing for a change.
stop reading all those self help books.
get busy with life, or get busy dying.

hey, you stole that from Shawshank.

pardon? who do you think put that line
in the writer's head? it's all mine.
I've got the whole world in my hands.
just like the song goes.

what about the devil and all this evil
going on?

okay. we're getting in pretty deep here.
but don't worry about him.
his day will come. once again, patience.
there is a season for all things.

now off you go, mass is coming up.
don't you have hoops this morning at eleven?

not for me

the ship
is sinking, slowly.

I take a bucket and bail
out the water.

I start the pump.
where is the shore?

I don't see it.
another storm is brewing,

the wind is up
on this unkind sea.

sailing
just isn't for me.

my birthday suit

the giant bush in front of my kitchen
window
has finally died.

a long hot summer did it in.

the condo board came and chopped
it down to the roots.

the bird feeder is on the porch,
dry and empty.

it was a grand bush, whatever it was.
full of bees.
blossoming,
bright and green, yellow,
taller than me.

half the width of the house.

it gave shadow, gave protection
for fifteen years.
kept the neighbors from looking
in and seeing me
making coffee

in my birthday suit.

open house

I unlock all the doors.

I throw open the windows.

I plant a sign in the yard,

open house.
come one, come all.

visitors welcome.
stay the night, stay a week.

but be courteous and
respectful.
bring a heart, bring lips.
bring arms.
bring the truth.

no trouble. no drama. leave
your past
at the door.

just be happy and loving.
no arguing allowed.

hope that's not too much to ask.

ashes to the river

you hear through the grape vine
about the death
of your sister's ex husband.

a true outlaw with
a rap sheet a mile long.

they throw his ashes into the river.
down by the old
lighthouse
where he used to stand on the banks
and smoke
and drink,
his line cast out as far
as it could go.

everything i knew about him was
second hand news. half lies,
half truth.

the deeds done. the life of crime.
repentance. but
there was good in him too.

a circle he never quite
escaped from
until now.

all the way down

the fridge is empty.

i need
sustenance. food. supplies.

cookies are good, but they only
take you
so far
before you start shaking.

a fat steak would be nice.
fish,
a baked potato.

some greens, of course.

and then a cold glass of water.

clear and truthful.
soft against my lips.

a love i can drink all the way
down.

breathe

i cancel
the flight.

unpack my bags. i'm
staying home.

i'll go out back and watch
the leaves
drop.

i'd rather be here than
almost anywhere.

home, my home. not
someone else's.

not a hotel room,
a bus stop.

a room along the way.

a place i can say nothing,
do nothing.

a place to
read,
or not read.

to listen to music.
to write. to be quiet
against the storm outside
in other's lives.

a place to breathe.
yes. breathe.

reboot

I start from scratch
all over again.

erase the board.
shuffle the deck.

the baggage and drama
is everywhere.

you can't escape it.

everyone wants you to be
who you aren't
and never will be.

it's not enough.
it never is. nothing is
ever perfect.

nothing is quite they way
they want
things to be.

reboot. reset. sigh.
and go
once more. take the high
road,
the low road is too crowded.

you've been here before,
so many times.
too many to count.

saddle up, giddy up, here
we go again.

it's not dark yet,
but it's getting there.

stroll on the boardwalk

after walking on the boardwalk
for a few hours I go back
to my hotel room
and slip out of my clothes.
I wring the French fry oil
out of my shirt, shake
the pizza odor from my pants.
with tweezers I remove
the cotton candy out of my eyes
and the candy apple
shards from my teeth.
I have a fried chicken drumstick
in my front pocket.
and a breast in the back
pocket.
honey dipped, still crispy.
my shoes are sticky with salt
water taffy, gum and spilled
cherry soda,
and I have an onion ring
around both wrists.
i'm carrying a soggy white
bucket of shrimp
and a pint of cocktail sauce.
seagulls are harassing me.
my skin pulsates from the sun,
red as a lobster as I limp home.
my knee is swollen after being
run into by a kid on a bike.
not much has changed in
fifty years on or under
the boardwalk. I even have
a picture of me dressed as
a cowboy in one of those
old time photo booths.
I kept the hat.
old age has arrived, just
shoot me. go ahead. it's okay.

smells funny

it smells like
perfume
in the house. as if someone
as been prancing
around
with a bottle of white
linen,
or,
or another kind of perfume,
but that is the only
one I can come up with right
now.
it's everywhere.
in the sheets,
the bedroom, the bath,
the kitchen. it's in the air.
the closets too,
or maybe I've lost my mind.
or my olfactory
machinations are completely
out of whack.

do you paint limestone

do you paint limestone
the garbled
message says
in a language i'm
vaguely familiar with.
I need limestone painted
tomorrow.
the dimensions are
twelve by ten, by six
with thirteen steps
and a black iron
rail.
we need it done soon.
like yesterday.
can you come.
do you paint limestone.
please say you do.
our lives, our money, our
future depends upon it.
save us.

have you seen this person

someone loses a watch,
a ring
a dog, or cat,
a glove, a wallet,
a favorite hat,
a loved one,
so they post a picture
on a pole
with a phone number attached,
then wait.
they've been waiting
for a long
time for what's
been lost,
to come back. sometimes
it never does.

5 a.m.

I wake up early
with things on my mind,

five a.m.
an ungodly hour.
meant for early risers,
paper boys,
milk men,

the old, or very young
in a crib.

people brag about how early
they get up.

good for them.
I like to sleep in.

sleep long and late
until someone shakes me awake.

5 is much too soon to join
the world
and be part of it again.

tomorrow is such a long time

the voice
sounds strangely familiar.

soft and lilting.
the message
on the machine spills out
the words.

halting, but clear.

I listen to them again
and again.

I write down the message.
I look at my
watch, the calendar.

I look out the window to
the turning leaves.

tomorrow is never
quite here.

different cookies

a cat cannot be a dog.
nor vice
versa.
the bird is just that a bird.
wings
and feathers.
that sort of thing.
never once, confused
with a frog.
and me and you.
we can't be one, we're always
different.
until the end
of time, we are who we
are,
not better, not worse, just
the way we were baked,
and came out of the cookie
jar.

home sweet home

I come home to a clean house.

plates of cookies.

a pot roast in the oven.
she greets me at the door with love.

the dog barks, his tail
a fan
against the blue sky.

the boy leaps into my arms,
the daughter too.

I am missed. I am beloved.

all is well with the world.

home
is where I need to be.

home sweet home. at last.

mail on the floor

i sort through the mail.

nothing of interest.
a few bills.

no postcards.
no letters written long hand.

no notes, no holiday greetings.
no invitations to speak of.

just coupons, and the phone bill.
inquiries though from,
my dentist.
my doctor.
my lawyer.
my plumber.
my maid.

and someone who wants me to have
new windows.
last chance.

who are you today

if someone lies to you.
betrays you,
deceives you on a daily basis,
it's not love.

if someone uses affection
as a game.
words, feelings, if someone
shows no regret or remorse
for all the pain they cause,
it's not love.

if they hide their phone,
their books,
their lives.
the status of their health.
if they continue to secretly
see old
boyfriends and husband
behind your back.
it's not love.

it's not love at all.

it's sick and you wonder how
you ever ended up with
such a dark
unspiritual person.

arrival

there's a handful of leaves
in the yard.

I let them be.
let them have their day
against
the ground.

it's still summer.
still warm and muggy.

no need to rake.
there is more to come.
more to fall.

in short time the woods
will empty itself
once more, then

soon the snow will arrive,
a cold whiteness,
to cover
us all.

feet in the sand

the father
follows the young girl down
to the shore.
she's maybe three,
rushing
rushing to the sound
of waves.
her small feet denting the soft
sand.
her eyes
blinking at the wonder
of it all.
the blue of water,
the shine of a yellow sun.
he picks her up and swings
her about.
she'll never be happier than
this you think.
how quickly it all fades,
how fast
they grow
and will be gone.

all you can eat

before nine a.m.
they're buying beer while
eating ice cream.
fried chicken for lunch,
pizza
on the beach,
sub sandwiches in between.
no one starves
here at the beach.
every sign blinks come on in.
all you can eat.
you name it.
crabs.
steaks.
baked potatoes.
flounder galore.
captain john's, captain jack's,
captain Ahab.
Mr. donut,
Mrs. Crepes,
Uncle Joe's food emporium.
unbuckle that belt,
put your wide pants on,
your big shirt,
your big dress and hunker
down
to something buttery,
something fried,
something sweet.
it's vacation time, time
to eat, eat eat.

the white gulls

I see the bridge
from the window, the long array
of cars
heading home.
another summer come and gone.
the stores
are closing.
the food stands, the life
guards are packing
it in.
the kids are piled
into the backs of cars.
dogs,
and chairs.
t-shirts, five for a dollar.
salt water taffy
and shells.
I see the bridge
from the window, the cars
heading west,
heading home.
tomorrow the beach will be empty.
no out there but the white
gulls, and us.

bringing it home

I've got sand
in my ears, my nose,
my shoes.

my hair, such as it is.
there's sand
in my mouth.
the ocean too.

the salt of the sea
I've taken home with me.

I brought back the wind.
the sights.
the memory of water
against
the shore.

the waves. the days.
the nights.

a slight pause

I check the time.

the clock has stopped. is that
an omen?

or just a dead battery?

I replace the battery, everything
continues.
the second hand
sweeps forward. time moves
on.

all is well, again.

washing dishes

when you wash the dishes.

wash the dishes.

each wipe of the hand.
each scrape,
feel the weight of things.

of forks and knives.
the bowls.

feel

the warmth or cold of
the water as it rushes down.

have no other thoughts,
but what you are doing.

listen to the water.
to the sound it makes
against your hands.

observe
the movement of things.
the clinking
of glasses, of plates.

dry gently and set things
aside.

lose yourself in this,
and in doing so, you will
begin your journey
home.

an act of love

it was an act of war

the man says,

so we had on choice to but
to go and kill
and destroy, as best we could.

they crossed a line
that we could no longer ignore.

but what happens if there
is an act of love,

an act of compassion, an
act of tenderness, do we act

we an equally strong response?

life is good

he gets paid
on a Wednesday,

so he disappears into a fog
of drinking,
carousing with his pals.
plotting some nefarious
scheme.
like boys in a tree house.

he doesn't show up for work.

he's not at the spot where I pick
him up.

sitting there with a cigarette
and his thermos
of god knows what inside.
his painter pants on,
his shirt inside out.

he's flush.
he's got dough now. his wallet bulges
with disability money.
food stamps.
hand outs. fat on three squares
a day
at the shelter.

life is good.
getting the big C
was strangely
the best thing to happen to him.

it's getting there

i binge on Dylan
while i work through the day.

the house is empty. the music
echoes
down the flat
walls, the bare wood floors,
through the
barren hallways.

i sing along.

is there a song of his i don't
know the words to?

don't think twice it's alright.
one too many mornings.
tangled up in blue.

i started listening to him
when i was 14.

every word rang true.

still does.

throw your ticket out the window.

things have changed.

it's not dark yet, but it's getting
there.

for him, for me, for you.

not everything is said

some people you can talk to all night.

the hours
go by like minutes.

the sun sets, the sun rises
and yet
not everything has been said
that wants to be
said.

tomorrow night, she says.
to be continued.

I look at her and smile.
tomorrow, I reply.

alright.

welcome the night

it's a wink
of an eye, this life.

every old person I've met
says
the same thing.

enjoy your life.
it'll be gone before you know
it.

don't waste a single
second
on things you can't control.

things you can't
change or make right. go
forward
move on.

work, be good, make love,
tomorrows may
never come.

don't look back, today is
all you have.

savor the day, welcome
with open arms the night.

for the good times

i nearly fall asleep
listening to al green
on the stereo.

I've got the vinyl spinning
on the turn
table
like back in the old days.

i like the scratches,
the click of the needle.
the vibration of its life
going around.

i grew up on this music.
grew old with it.

it still resonates.
it still
hits home in happy times,

or bad.

each song
i find a line to own.

when it's over, i wake up
and put the needle back
to the first cut.

i play it again,
for the good times.

Nine O'clock

it's been a month

milagro texts me near midnight.

stive. we will come tomorrow.
I get out of bed
and begin cleaning the house.

hiding money.
hiding check books.
shuffling papers.

what time, I ask her.

nine she says. thank you.

nine means 3 o'clock
in her world.

which is fine. she's in and out
with her three
helpers in no time,

but everything is perfect.

I put the money on the counter,
the key under the mat.

I can hardly wait to get home
to a clean house.

a month? where does the time
go?

an old number

I reach into my pocket
and find

a number written on an old
strip
of paper.
curled and folded.

it looks like it's been
through the wash

but the ink is still there.
the numbers still
visible.

there's no name.
I take out my phone and begin
to dial.

but stop.
it's not my turn.

i believed her

a dozen years ago
I met a woman who owned
a gun.
it was pink.
it look like a giant
piece of gum
shaped into
a gun.
she said it was loaded.
I believed her.
not because she had an
alligator purse.
or snake skin boots, but
because she had
a look in her eye.
she had the look of someone
who knew about trouble,
and what to do if
it came her way. she told
me that no one
robs her mother's
liquor store when she's
around.
I believed that too.

not made for this

there's a wreck on 95 nearly
every morning.

fenders crumpled, hoods
thrown
into the air, wind shields
cracked.

cell phones. cigarettes.
relationships
gone south.
kids. a crazed deer sprinting
towards
the other side.
coffee. the weather.

distractions.

we're not made for this.

it's a wonder there's not
more.

limitations

some birds
fly south for the winter.

some stay put.
willing to tough it out.

I like those birds.
but a bird has to know
it's limitations.

like us.
only so much cold we
can take.

tomorrow

she folds
herself to sleep.

pulling tight the blanket.
the world
is still.

there is dreaming to be done.

tomorrow, too fast.
it comes.

hug the shore

I find a new path
to the waterfall. along the back
side
of the woods.
I can hear
the thunder of the water
cascading hard
on the carved
rocks.
a century, more.
it keeps coming. it's white
in the air.
blue black
below.
don't slip, don't go in,
or go under.
stay safe, hug the shore.

two week holiday

the traffic
is slow. less crowded. the world
is at the beach,
the shore,
the mountains, or just
staying home.
two weeks vacation.
the divider of a year
of work,
making little rocks
out of big stones.
you see them in their cars.
beach chairs
on the roofs.
bikes tied to the back
bumpers.
the inside piled high
with towels and coolers,
children
with faces pressed to the window.
school looming before
them.
the look of no hope
on their sticky faces.
a dog
with his tongue out
lapping up the wind.
he doesn't care.
he's in a world all his own.
like me.

the promise

my mother said
with vigor. don't ever put
me in
one of those homes.
a place where they have
to feed me,
change me,
bathe me.
promise me none of you will
ever do that to me.
promise me.

we promised.

she spent the last three years
of her life
curled
in a ball.
sipping on a straw, being
spoon
fed baby food from
a jar.

she had bed sores.
her legs no longer moved,
stuck
from being unused.
she could no longer speak,
but would blink
her brown eyes.
tears welling up.

they brushed out her hair,
took her glasses.
her teeth.
her cheeks hollowed out.
her skin
smoothed like porcelain,
white as white can be.

she'd hold your hand though,
squeeze as best she
could your fingers,
as she listened to you
whisper words
into her ears, and read.

post card from fla.

come to florida, she says.

we have oranges.
we have lemons filling the trees.
peaches too.

we have the ocean and warm
weather, you can sun yourself
out on the long stretches
of white sand.

you can swim in our pool.

but what about the lizards
and crocodiles,
I ask her.

oh, yeah, right. almost
forgot about them.
bring a sharp stick, if
you come.

the printer

i'm out of ink.

paper too.

the printer screams to a halt.
stop.
no more.
quit hitting the print
button.

we give up, it says.

how much more?

before the snow

you want to bottle
these days.
hold them in a glass jar
for safe keeping.

the weather. the sky.
the mood.

you want to see a string of
days
like this.
before
the frost, before the ice.
before
snow falls.

before the first log
in the fireplace is lit.

last request

we talk about our last meal
if we were on death row. what would it be.

she says chocolate and bacon.
before they pull the switch I want
a plate full of crispy bacon.

which makes me laugh. no, I tell her.
a meal, like a sit down dinner.

she says, chocolate fudge and bacon.

and wine.

family outing

we take a family trip
to the mountains and by family
trip
I mean me and my dog Oscar.

he likes to sit in my lap while
I drive.
head out the window, barking
at everyone.

we love the mountains.
the cool air.

the trees, the blue sky.

it's a family day, just
me
and him.

we walk along the path, greeting
others
with a bark
and a tip of the hat.

he loves it there. so many
trees. so many trees.

perusing

I peruse the book store.

the amazon book store.

but end up looking at pants
and shoes.

I get distracted easily.
did you do something to your hair?
looks different.

shorter, perhaps.

I go back to the books.
a new poetry book would be nice.
or a beach read.
fiction, not too hard to digest.
something I can pick
up where I left off and not
think too hard
about where I was.

not old poetry though.
not the hard puzzling stuff
of the academia world.

the new Yorker poetry stinks.

who do you have to sleep with
to get a poem
in there?

what does any of them mean.
words. scrambled,
clever to the point of no one
gets it.

I go back to pants and shoes.
sweaters perhaps.
winter is soon to come.

is it tuesday?

is it really Friday?

or am I dreaming and it's Tuesday again.
with much of the work
week ahead of me.

pinch me,
wake me up if i'm asleep.

pull my hair,
bite my neck.
rattle my cage,

tell me
it's the weekend, please,

I beg of you.

when we get there

is it vacation time yet?

where is the beach.

the sand.
the chair facing the sea.
an ice
cold drink.

where's my book, my
hat
and sunglasses.

my long awaited week?

wake me up when we get
there.

let cramp

I can't help but
curse
as the back of my one leg
freezes up
in a paralyzing cramp.
what the hell.
it's hard to breathe, or
move an inch.
it's a strange thing,
making you wonder if
this is it.
the end of the road.
somehow I grab an old
bottle of water
off the nightstand
and start swigging
like a sailor on leave
thinking it's beer.
finally, I crawl out
of bed, and move towards
the stairs,
step by step going down,
to
a banana in the kitchen.

the ice cream melting

I see her with her handful
of coupons,
in line ahead of me.
one for every item in her full
cart.
she has her check book out.
this could take a while.
she has a list in her hand
that she looks at, then runs
off, down another aisle
for something she forgot.
I look at my small basket.

at the ice cream melting.
bananas going to rot.

the massage

all the day, the girl
massages
the arms and legs of strangers.
kneading
backs, using her tight fists,
her elbows.
getting deep into the tissue.
down the spine,
the hand, fingers too.
she listens
as her clients grunt, or moan,
or sigh
with pleasure.
right there, they say. there.
that's good.
there is no judgement here.
all shapes, all sizes lie
there in time.
it's work.
it's good work.
the pain in all of us needs
be out.

one more meal

at times I can smell
what
my mother is cooking in the kitchen.

the onions and carrots,
the meat,
I can see her at the stove.

over the boiling pot
making stew,
lost in her own thoughts.

her seven children
bone thin
in the street, oblivious
to the news.

I see her slicing celery
on the board,
chopping potatoes.

before dark she'll call
us from the screen door.
tired, but happy
with one more meal behind
her.

something new

strange how
the light is this time of day
from
the back window.
something is amiss. something
is up.
i can feel it.
a change is about to occur.
good or bad,
i have no clue. but my spider
sense is tingling.
something is in the air.
something long
overdue. i feel the vibration
of change.
of something new.

the neighborhood cult

there was a religious cult
in
the old neighborhood back in the 70's.
they wanted
money mostly, using pretty
girls
to reel in the wide eyed boys.
cash only.
there was music and prayer.
lots of candles.
singing in a big circle,
holding hands.
mumbo jumbo using the Bible,
their version,
people talking in tongues.
prophesizing. putting their
hands on the ill, attempting
to heal. it was a scary time.
The Way I think they were
called.
and then they up and
disappeared without a trace.
no forwarding address. no
refunds, I assume they went
to hell.

leaving the door open

I leave the door open.

no need to lock
it anymore. the windows
are unlatched.

there's no one I want
to keep
out,
or i'm afraid of.

let the light in,
the cats
and dogs,
the neighbors too.

friends and foe.
let them gather around
the table
and drop their swords.

no alarms, no barbed wire.
no security camera,
no guard
at the gate.

i'm dreaming of course.
it's way way
too late
for such a peaceful
world.

hardly time to sin anymore

the faces
tell you everything.
cold masks hung grey on
the timber of bones.

the long lines of traffic.
white knuckles
gripping the wheel.

the kids at home.
the wife unhappy about
something you don't quite
understand.
the bills piling up.

the factory awaits.
the mine,
the shovel, the pick and axe.

forty years of panning
for gold.

for a two car garage.
a cruise.
a new suit.
a yard without weeds.
to put the kids through school.

it's not longer nine to five.
it's 24 7
with the phone.

what's the answer these days.
the church?

hardly time to sin with
so much going on.

cheers

i ask him, what triggers him
to start drinking.

to get drunk and pass out.

he says good fortune does.

bad luck too.
having money. having no money.

being in love.
being out of love.

a rainy day. a sunny day.
holidays.

funerals.

birthdays.

all that lies in between.

cheers.

we do the best we can

I saw a woman
steal a can of cat food once
in the grocery store.

she put her fingers to her lips
and shook her head when she
saw me watching her.

I said, ok.

they stopped her as she left
the store.
she began to cry.

but the cops came.
they took her coat off.
there were grapes, and packages
of crackers.

soup.
tuna fish in cans.

she must have been eighty at
least.

she didn't seem to mind
all the attention.

they sat her in back of
the police car.

she looked at me as I walked
by
and shrugged
through the window,
smiling, not unhappy, not
worried.

we do the best we can.

the 25 dollar short story

I wrote a short story years ago
on an electric typewriter,
the kind with the ribbon.
the cartridge that you had
to replace time and time again.
the keys would get stuck
and the ink would smudge.
but it served me well.
I won twenty five dollars
at the local community
college for the story.
it was about a marriage.
a man and a woman falling
apart at the seams.
it's snowing, but the man
leaves, tries to leave
in the snow covered car,
but the snow is too heavy,
the car won't start.
his wife comes looking for him
out in the sleet and wind,
the heavy snow.
she finds him in the car,
almost asleep, shivering.
she opens the door
and gets in with him.
she tells him she's sorry
for the years of
arguing, for the pain she's
caused him, he tells her
the same. they talk.
they look different in
the shadowy light of darkness.
they talk about when they
first met, how they used
to drive this car to the
eastern shore, stopping
along the way for fruit
and vegetables at stands
along route 50. she moves
closer to him, puts her
hands around his waist.
they say nothing for a long
time as the snow continues
to fall, covering the windows.
flakes as large as leaves.
the streets are silent.
the lamp lights sends a
glow upon them as they
huddle against the cold.
somehow in the cramped seats,
they make love.
they start again. that's
how my story goes.

i remember everything

i remember everything
to a fault,
words said,
the time of day,
the night,
what month or hour
when who said what.
i remember what she
wore,
what i wore.
what we ate and drank.
the look on her face.
where a chair was placed.
the movie we watched,
the warm
or lack of an embrace.
i remember everything.
an elbow,
a knee, lips.
the snow out the window,
the evergreen tree covered
in white lace.
the good, the blessings,
the trouble.
everything.

honeymoon in mexico

we took a honeymoon
in
mexico.
had our pictures taken
as we
posed on burros
draped
in striped burlap.
we each had a sombrero
on.
tilted in the sun,
we smiled for the camera.
a tourist
trap along the way.
we were young then
and in love.
you can see it in our
eyes.
the joy we had
for one another.
how simple it seemed,
the road ahead
was green and alive.

how good was that life?

walking backwards

I used to see her walking
before
the sun went down.
her long strides,
her ear phones
on.
her arms at her side.
the setting light
in her eyes.
her hair tied back
behind her.
around, she'd go.
past the church, the trail
beside the woods,
the stream.
walking walking, alone.
up the hill, out of sight.
she was chasing something,
not the future, not
the present,
but the past, unable to
catch it once more.
unable to make it
come back.

finger in the wound

there are miracles.
trust me
on this one, I've seen
three
at least in my life time.

a disbeliever may call
it coincidence, or
synchronicity,
or chance, but I prefer

to think along the lines
of faith,
an answered prayer.
a specific heart felt
request, on bended
knees with tears.

an angel perhaps
intervenes in your life
to alter
the direction
you are heading in.
a feeling of when to turn
left,
or turn right.

whatever you want to call it,
whatever your faith,
an answer does appear.

it's hard to ignore,
or dismiss when one happens
in your own
life.

but, sadly, and it's
the human condition,
we have to keep putting
our finger into
the wound
to believe once more.

we found something

doctors rarely have good news.
they never tell you
with a smile, looks like you're
going to live another fifty
years or more.
no worries. just keep doing what
you do.
instead they say. sorry to tell
you this,
but we found something. we
need to run tests. it's a lump,
a mass, a strange dark spot
on a lung. let's get you in here
to find out what's going on.
they tell you not to worry, but
it's too late for that,
your life has suddenly turned blue.

small store

it's a small
store on the edge of
a small town.
three steps up.
wooden,
rotted, a broken
hinge
on a torn screen door.
it's seen better days.
the pickle jar
still on the counter.
lotto tickets
for sale.
pork sausages on a spinning
metal grille.
mom is gone.
pop too.
the daughter runs it now,
four kids
and a husband who took
a wrong turn
and just kept going.
she's pleasant enough though.
sees that you're
just passing through.
tells you
where to turn to get
to the interstate.
gas, a motel
if you need to spend
the night.
y'all take care she
says.
as you carry out your
water, your
ring dings, your bag
of chips
and a map to get back
to civilization.

still here

i sit and stare
out the window.
where did the day go.
the years.
how could I be this old
so quickly.
where is the summer
of my
youth. my long hair,
my skin and bones
physique.
where is the girl
next door,
the meal on the table.
my mother
with a pitcher of cold
ice tea,
waiting for me
to come to the table,
to pour.
where are the Saturday
nights.
the stars,
the buddies, the girl friends.
the movies,
the park where we would
drink.
where is the long
months between school
ending
and starting again.
our blue jeans,
our white t shirts,
our grins. our bats
and gloves, baseballs.
the leather football
ready to spin through
the blue sky.
where is the red car,
the Chevrolet, washed
and waxed ready for Saturday
night.
where's the after shave,
the brylcreme,
the black comb in my
back pocket.
where is the night is young,
and so are we.
the radio on. songs that
we knew all the words too.
where is our innocence.
our optimism and joy
about what's to come.

dog days

it's too hot,
but we go at it.
arms
pulling, pushing. our
legs climbing.
we work
in the heat, the air
still without a breeze.
we are wet,
soaked to the bone
with sweat.
covered in paint,
the debris of sanding,
scraping.
we cough and bend
to the weight
our bodies.
we look at the clock,
we suck down
water.
it's an oven of a day.
but we
make it through.
relieved by a setting
sun,
a night approaching
and the home
that awaits.

do as we say

our eyes
are on our parents at a young
age.
we mimic them.
pick up clues on how
to live,
or not live
the life they choose.
does anger work,
compassion,
does a quiet word
with love
work, or is it the belt
and punishment
that we carry with
us to our own
children. their eyes
wide open.
watching, listening
learning.
carrying on as we do.

hole in the cup

some cups
have a hole in them.

no matter how much
you pour
into them they never
get filled.

some souls
are like that too,
they
can't hold,
or absorb any truth.

it's useless to give
them words
of wisdom.

no experience is learned from.
out it goes.
through the hole.

starting all over again
and again.

the one star movie

it's a bad movie,
I've never found anything
the manson family funny,

but it got great reviews,
and the big stars are in it,
so we go.

what is there to lose,
but time,
and money.

the chairs are big and comfy.
reserved seating.

a wine bar.
hot food.

almost like at home but
at home we can change the channel
if the movie
stinks.

here, we're locked in, too
crowded to get up
and go.

so we see it through
and when it's over we shake
our heads and say,

what the hell was that about.

post card from LA

the son
calls from La La land,
on the left coast.

we talk movies.
we talk scripts and writing.

we talk
about relationships.
ghosts.

it's a good talk.
he's putting gas in his car.

i'm cutting a sandwich
in half in the kitchen,
phone cradled under my chin.

we talk about
girlfriends.
death, love, sin.

we laugh too. don't get me
wrong.
it's rarely a dark talk with him.

he has a life.
i'm glad for that. a real life
without me
or his mother pulling strings,
feeding him.

he's on his own, but still
not far from being under my wing.

it's a good talk.

a long time ago

when i was younger, much younger.
like a year ago.
i thought about life differently.
i thought
the world should go according
to how i wanted it to go.

i wanted people to behave like me.
but not anymore, which was a bad idea
from the jump. i'm not a role model
by any stretch.

but i was younger than, very young.
unwise, burdened with things i
had no business being burdened by.

i wanted people to change.
to be good,
to be better.
to be who i imagined them to be.
i saw the halo on almost everyone
i'd meet.

not anymore.

it's too hard thinking like that.
worrying about such things.

but i was younger then,
what the hell did i know way
back then,
a year ago.

biding my time

i have new sense
of patience.

i can wait on anything
these days.

traffic.
red lights to change.

water to boil.

people to change.
the phone to ring.
the mail to arrive.

i'm in no hurry anymore
for anything.

let the rain fall, tell
me a story, take your time.
you'll get there.

i can wait. i'll be here
all day.
all night too.
i'll bring my lunch.

take your time with your
issues. i get it.
I've been there.
been there and back.

i can wait.

something new to write about

I was going to write
about
my old dog,
the humor in him,
how it was love and hate
from the start,
the death of him
which broke my heart.

and then changed my mind.

maybe i'll write about
the old house,
the childhood home in the hood,
the battling parents,
the paper route,
the sixties coming to an
end
with assassinations and war,
or
the old girl friend,
throw twenty names into a basket
and pick one out,
or
the ex wife, perhaps,
which one, they're adding up,
or maybe old friends
that have come and gone,
and the handful that
still remain,
no.

maybe i'll write about
something new.
something I know nothing
about. i'll sleep on it.
see what comes up.

monkey in a banana tree

it's a simple
flame. a white candle lit
on a clear plate
in the center of
the darkened room.
you breathe in.
slowly.
exhale.
slowly. you
repeat until you get
there.
until you get
out and get in.
the mind clears.
the frenetic brain
is no longer a monkey
in a banana tree.
it's quiet
and at last aware
of what's real,
what isn't.

back from mars

when I got back from my
trip
to mars, things were different.

people were odd.
the sky looked bluer
than what I remembered.

it was nice eating real
food again.
tired of those little tins
of canned ham
and tuna. creamed spinach.

tang.

I walked around in a strange
other worldly way.
using big steps,
not used to the gravity
of earth.

I was able to scratch
my head
and other parts of my body
that had
been itching on account
of those sweaty
lumpy space suits.

boy it was great to be back
home.
my girlfriend greeted me
with a big kiss,
which nearly made me faint.
I thought we were broken
up on account of the lack
of communication,
the gamma rays and what not,
but no.

she said she saw with her
telescope, the big
heart
that I drew on the red planet
with a shovel, writing
our names inside.

absence does make
the heart grow fonder.

a kiss goodnight

the old songs
are
full
of us. the years of youth.
how we know each
word,
each beat,
the b sides too.
how we danced
all night.
our feet and hearts alive
with the promise
of love,
a kiss
goodnight.

pink in the middle

the chicken
is pink in the middle
so I put
it back into the oven.
it's not
ready, not yet.
almost done,
I look at my watch.
still time
to bake a pie,
peel the potatoes,
and make
a salad on the side.
still time
to open a bottle
of wine.
make a drink, put
the music on.
I set the table.
dishes,
candles. glasses.
I just need now
to arrive.
still time. come on
over.

work and love

the solace
of work, that island of busy.
it keeps
us from
the truth, the reality of the lives
we're living.
where is the joy, the fun,
the love?
what is the point
of all these hours
bent
at the wheel of work,
Monday to Sunday,
week in weak out.
the grey blah of life,
a cloud upon us.
is it money, is it fear
of the unknown,
fear of getting old
and being alone,
is it the lack
of true love and wanting
at last to be home
with a special someone,
anxious for a kiss, a
hug, a word of comfort?
work and work,
keep at it and
those days will never come.

lean into it

you can drink it away.
numb
it out
with a drug, or buying a bunch
of junk
you really don't need.
you can go on amazon and buy
every book ever written about
it and become an
expert on relationships,
or maybe you can have
a lot of
sex
that means nothing to
your or them.
buy a dog, or a cat,
or redecorate your house.
get a new haircut,
a new car, take a trip
to some island,
or you can go to the gym
and work
it out.
sweat and grind
at the tread mill, the iron,
flexing those limbs.
you can cry it out,
whine about it
to all your friends,
and strangers too, but none
of that works.
you just have to feel
the pain,
the grief and go right
through it.
lean into it. lean hard
and long
straight through to very
end.
no turning back, no looking
back.
all forward, this is how
you mend.

short note to the shrink

i send a note to my former
therapist.
a short note telling her i'm
still alive.
i hope she is too.
one never knows in the psych
business.
i want to tell her
about coming out the other side,
to thank her for
the insight
and inspiration
she gave me in taking
back my
own life.

i could go on and on and
tell her to update
the magazines in her waiting
room, maybe put a water
fountain in or
a coke machine. a few bowls
of nuts out
for snacking while waiting
for the next session
to begin. but i don't. i just
leave it at hey, everything
is fine.
no offense, but
thanks. hope not to see you
ever again. saying a prayer
that there is no next time.

choosing to become

I like this quote by Carl
Jung,

I am not what happened to me,
but instead
I am who I choose
to become.

not wisdom found over night,
but through
a myriad of
nights, never losing
sight

of what lies ahead,
the soft glow of light at
the end.

forever stuck

the door
was locked tight. I pushed,
pulled,
turned the key
but it wouldn't open.
I tried it from the other
side.
I took a knife
and slid it down between
the jam
and edge to free
the paint, to make
a gap
to give it room.
I kicked the kick plate.
rattled
the knob, but still no
luck.
the door wouldn't open.
it may never open.
some people are like
that too.
forever in one place,
forever stuck.

the passing storm

so nice
to do nothing on a cloudy
Friday.

so easy
the time goes at home.

the music on, the bed made,
the bills
paid.

with no where needed to go.

it's a peaceful sigh.

how grateful you are for so
many things.

there is so much good in your
life.

storms do pass in their
own sweet time.

it can go either way

some people talk all the time.
you can't get them
to shut up
about themselves, what they're
doing, where they're going.
their illnesses, troubles,
good fortune or bad.
blah blah blah.
asking them a question
is like striking
a bee hive with a stick.
out they come.

while others are wound
so tight, so closed and
uncomfortable saying a few
words about themselves,
you want to scream.
like grey rocks, they give
you nothing in return.
they just can't trust, or
loosen up, or let anyone
in. pulling words from them
is like pulling teeth.

I think I fall somewhere
in between unless drinking
is involved. then it can go
either way.

the tuna caserole

when I moved into the new house,
a woman,
I think her name was Stella,
brought me over a tuna casserole.
it was heavy
in a nine by nine pyrex dish.
yellow. I remember my mother
having one just like it.
tuna casserole, she said smiling,
welcome to the neighborhood.
she may have opened with the word
howdy. I remember there
was a flower in her hair
and she was wearing a flowery
dress that blew around
in the wind. it's
still warm, she said, so no
no need to heat it up.
I told her thank you very much.
and she said.
just wanted you to feel at
home. the gang is having a little
picnic this Saturday, you're
welcome to come. no need
to bring anything.
she pointed to her house
at the corner, that's me,
she said. those daffodils are mine.
thank you stella, I told her.
I just might stop by.
I could see her looking around
the inside of my house, as
she stood at the door, trying
to figure out what my deal was.
it took a while but I finally
threw the tuna casserole
down the drain and washed
out the dish. I set it in
the cupboard with some other
bowls and dishes. whenever I open up
the door I see it, gleaming
clean and yellow. I should
return it at some point
and get to know these
friendly people in
the neighborhood. just not
quite ready yet. it's only been
fourteen years.

the fortune teller

I stop by to see my gypsy friend
rosa lee.
she lives in a little beat
up house
down by the railroad tracks.
she hears me pull up in the gravel
lot and goes to the window.
as I come up the porch
I see her putting on her lipstick
and getting out her crystal ball.

my friend, she says, swinging the
screen door open, I haven't seen
you in so long. how have you been?
what's it going to be today.
a little crystal ball, some cards,
palm reading? I've got a special on
the trio.
she's holding a fly swatter in
her hand. come in, come in, she
says. Quickly, the flies are so
bad this year.

I want my money back, I tell her.
you told me that she was the one,
that the person I was with was
going to be the love of my life,
and that i'd be happy with her
until the day I died.

oh my, she says. i'm so so sorry
things didn't work out,
but, you know my policy.
no refunds, come, come.
sit down. let's talk.

take off your coat. let me get
you some tea. earl grey okay?
cream and sugar, I tell her. okay,
okay, relax. breathe. breathe.
I have some oreo cookies too,
if you'd like some.

sure, I tell her. bring the bag.

she comes in with the tea and cookies
and sits across the table from me.
tell me, dear boy. what happened?

I don't want to get into it,
I tell her. it just went crazy,
the whole thing fell apart in no time.
kaboom.

give me your hand, come on,
give me both your hands, let's
take a look. kaboom? she says,
really?
I reach out and stretch open my
hands.

oh, oh, she says, after a minute
or so of studying them.
she shakes her head.
I see now. I see where we went
wrong.
we?
relax, relax, she says. okay.
I may have made a tiny little mistake.
I think I misinterpreted this little
line right here, the crease in
your palm. it's not natural, it's
a scar right? I didn't realize
it was a scar. it threw me off.
I just had my cataract surgery
the last time you were here,
remember, so maybe my vision was
a little blurry.

what the hell, I tell her. you're supposed
to know what you're doing here,
this is your profession for crying out
loud.
she pushes the bag of oreos towards me.
I have some vanilla ice cream in the
fridge, she says..want some? small bowl
maybe? I can't eat it, i'm watching my
figure, going to the beach next
week with Anzio.

no, now tell me what you see today.
are your eyes okay? not blurry?
so mean, so mean, she says. let me
see.
okay, okay. I see it now. I see
about your future. forget about
the other one, the other woman,
there's someone else.
she's different. she's fun and smart.
very very successful and a good cook
too. funny! you like funny, don't you?

sure. I like to yuk it up sometimes.

good, good.
she's quite interesting this one.
I see her with one small suitcase.
very light baggage. a carry on,
in fact. you can put it up in that
over head storage bin on the
airplane. oh, and she has a dog,
are you okay with dogs?

I take a cookie from the bag and
dip it into my tea. yeah, I like dogs
as long as they don't shed too much.
but
how can I believe you, this time,
I tell her. how can I be sure you're
not steering me down the wrong street
again, sending me down another
dark alley?

oh no. this is not the wrong street.
no dark alley. she's the real deal.
you can trust me on this one.
she knocks her knuckles against the table.
this, my friend is your true love,
she says, then stands
up and smiles, hands on her hips.
well, I think our time is up again.

cash or credit card today?

the hamster cage

i see a lot of people
stuck
in the middle, lost in
transition,
unable to move on, or get out,
or restart their
own
lives. you can hear
the wheel
of their hamster cage
spin and spin
all day, into the long
sleepless nights.

you want to help,
but you can't. there are
no words of advice
that will provide
a path out.
love is meaningless.
prayer and waiting won't do.

they have to change.
not talk about change, not
pretend, or
make vows, or say they are
changing,
you have to see it with
your own eyes.
it's action. i only know
this, because I've been
there time and time again.

giving birth

with her baby due
any day
now.
she's angry. a little
harsh,
frustrated,
blunt.
I give her room,
some space.
she's sweating
as she stares her belly,
beyond full.
I can't relate to such
a thing.
a life
growing within me.
I can barely deal with
my own life,
let alone two.

laminated affirmations

I make a list
to remind me of things
that I should never forget.

I laminate it
and tack it to the wall
where I can see it every day.

there are 42 items on the list.
life lessons.
affirmations and promises
to one's self.

each neatly typed and numbered.

it's a good list.
a long list. a positive list.
it will serve me well.

moon beam

the moon,
full faced and high,
it's beam, its flash
light
of sun
upon its dusted shores
falls
upon the river.
it rises right up
the dock,
to my feet.
I can't help think
that I've been here before.

crazy town

if a scorpion stings me,
I will
turn it into
something else.
a love affair gone wrong.
it represents betrayal.
a puddle
stepped in
is a sign of a world
spinning
out of control.
a shoelace that breaks,
or a coffee spill
on a clean white shirt,
means
i'm doomed, I can't a lucky
break in this
long hard life.
it's insane to think this
way
all day long.
it's crazy town on many
levels.
but i'm at the station now,
with a ticket
in hand,
ready to head on out.

step back

the farther you get away
the clearer
the picture is.

sometimes we stand too close
too near,
our eyes focused
on the details,
not the whole,
we don't see what
is really
going on here.

step away, give it room
and see
what the truth is.
what it all means.
the picture at last is
perfectly clear.

our addictions

it's an addictive world
we live in.

so much out there to soothe us.
so many ways
to numb the pain.

we pick and choose what
feels
best
whether food, or drink.
the highs
of love, real or imagined.
sex
in various forms of
undress.

we comfort ourselves
with our drug of choice.
the needle,
the pill, coffee
and cigarettes.
our phones feeding us
an opioid
with the next call, the next
text.

work, or exercise.
money too, the score, the things
we buy.
we wake up
and begin to make ourselves

feel better about whatever
trouble
or pain
we might be in. it's an
addictive
world we live in.

cold turkey, cold turkey,
my jittery friend.

i be the man

it feels like
Friday.

in fact, I think i'll make
this a Friday.
not a Thursday.

i'll make this the end
of the week.

the beginning of a long
weekend.

why not. who's going to stop
me.

i'm the boss of me.
there is no man keeping down.

I be the man.

the new chair

i'm still waiting on

things.

my new chair for instance.

how long does it take to make a chair
and put
it in a box
and send it to me?

other things too.
how long does it take for
letters
to be sent.

emails.
cards, notes.
smoke signals in the sky.

some friends aren't friends,
just acquaintances
with hidden
agendas.

at some point I stop waiting.

I move on.

her new book of poems

her book comes in the mail.

her poetry.

some new, some old.
at 87

she's still at it.
honing down each line.

each word a perfect fit
each
comma, or period

needed.

she takes a rock and
carves
into a poem.

you see the effort,
the chips
at her feet, the struggle
of life.

that pain or joy that she
lived with,

all
needed to make each
one her own.

being like this

is there anything better
than a glass

of ice cold water on a sweltering
summer day,

I ask her, pouring the pitcher
into
our tall glasses.

dropping in a slice of lemon.

she smiles and sips her drink.

not that I can think of, she says.

the sun
is on her face, her arms
are long
against the table.

her legs are folded in her chair.

can we stay like this for a while,
she says, finding my eyes.

just drinking our water, and not saying
much?

yes, I tell her.

of course.
being like this, is enough.

it's more than enough, she says.

the moving parts

table for one
I tell the hostess.

no friend, she says.

no,

I tell her. just one.

sure, she says.
follow me.

I sit and eat.
have one drink.

a world of people
come and go.

I can see the
worry on their faces,
the pain.

but some joy too
as others arrive.

I feel fullness
of their lives
before me.

it's a stage, a play.
a quiet painting
in a gallery
with moving parts.

I read my fortune cookie.
tomorrows
come soon, be happy now.

there is a snap

there is a snap.

a cosmic burst of some string
broken.

the sound
is hard, a vibrant ping.

I feel it.

something has changed.
I vibrate
at a different level.

taken to a higher plain.

and no, it's not about some

new age crap.

it's real. significant.
undeniable.

maybe it's the meditation
settling
in.

or prayer, or the conscience
effort to obtain
peace.

to let go and forgive
and to say the hell with it.

maybe it's the whole stew
of it.

but I know what I feel,
what I hear. the enormous
snap
of an epiphany.

the bed is an ocean.

the bed is an ocean.

I free float through the night.
from dream
cloud
to dream cloud.

it's an easy night of deep
sleep.

the waters have calmed down.
the waves are soft
and comforting.

i'm not worried about land anymore.
or
a ship to appear
to take
me to shore.

I have survived.
my happiness is different now.
it's
not about hope, or love, or
the past.

it's not about righting the wrongs,
it's not about the future.

it's more about the moment.

the bed is an ocean.

I free float from dream
cloud,
to dream cloud.

the lights are all green

i hit a string of green lights
when i'm out
driving through town,
and i wonder if it's a portent
of some kind.
a sign.

green means go. all is well.
everything is all right.
perhaps.

i depend too much on signs
these days,
on feelings,
on coincidence and
synchronicity,
although i must admit,
they are often right.

three jobs

the neighbor has
three jobs now. i see her in her
grocery store smock
at night.
name tag in place.
she works over at the church
too, doing what
needs to be done.
in the mornings she goes
to her full time
job, wearing a dress
and shoes, her hair done.
she waves.
i wave.
sure is hot lately, she might
say, and i'll
reply, yup.
stay cool.
she's a busy woman, hardly
ever stopping to say
a word, or sit still on her
porch to stare and wonder
about
that big silver moon.

whose turn is it

the family, the extended family.
the immediate
blood related family
has a problem with calling, staying
in touch with each other.
they keep track.
whose turn is it to call,
i'm not calling them, if they
don't call me, kind of thing.
it's bizarre, passive aggressive,
a little crazy,
but so it goes.
we're all different despite
the same
parents, the same blood
and growing up under the same roof.
funny how things fall apart
as we get old.

hearing voices

i talk to myself
these days. long conversations.
short conversations.

mostly at the tv,
some dumb show I've landed on,
but can't find the remote to change,
or when i can't find something,
or when i'm
trying to figure out what to eat.

i say out loud.
eggs or cereal tonight? shaking
the box of cheerios to see if
i can get one more bowl out of it.

i yell out answers to jeopardy
before they ask a question.

or at the weatherman when his
forecast is not what i need
for the week.

come on Bill,
i'll say.
give me a break on the rain,
would ya?

i talk to the guy calling
about health care,
or hotel deals at some resort.

sometimes i change my voice
to an old indian woman,
or to an old man down in alabama
strumming a banjo.

it's fun for a while until
they want my credit card number.

i think the neighbors are starting
to talk, wondering who
all these people are that are in
my house now.

a talk with the inner child

I have a talk with my inner child.

how are you these days,
my boy,
i ask him
over a cold beer
in the back yard.

he laughs. do you really have
to ask.

i get it, i tell him.
i'm with you. sorry about those
bruises.
those bumps and cuts,
sorry about the pain you've
endured,

but there's something i have
to tell you.
all of this will end soon.
you don't have to
worry anymore
about what's been done to
you from early
childhood
and further into your life.

i get it now.
you'll be okay. you'll see.
relax.
it's going to be easier
from here on out.
no one is going to hurt
you, or me, anymore.

we're healthy now, we're
whole at last.

you're free. we're free.

thanks he says. i appreciate
all the hard
work you've done.
thanks for taking care of me.

the authentic self

the protective self
is the glass,
but in time
it has to come down.
the real you lies behind
it,
it starts as a small divot,
a book,
a word, therapy,
prayer.
new love, perhaps.
it's a tiny hair line crack
of knowledge that expands
and deepens.
soon the window is
full of branches, full of
truth.
the glass will not hold.
in time,
it shatters
at last.
a break through long
over due.
it's clear and clean
now,
the wall
between the old and
new
is down. you are back
to who you were,
who you were meant to
be. your authentic self.

the only way out is through

we all
do it differently.
grief.

it's a wave that appears
out of nowhere.

just when you think you're done
with it.

it knocks you down.
crushes
you. bends you over.

it's an impossible thing,
this sorrow.

sorrow being holy ground.

we all do it
differently, but do it
we must.

go through it. straight
through.

it's the only way to heal.

the old friends

the old friends.

the life long friends. the ones
you grew up
with.

the ones after.

so many have left. i keep them
in my phone.
for times like this.

i look at their numbers,
their images
captured.

they're still here, i tell myself.
still
just a call a way,
a short drive.

just around the corner
with a word
of advice, a handshake,
a hug.
friends who will sit with
you.

put their arms around you
and promise you,
tell you not to worry,
that everything will be
just fine.

some to give away.

I follow the recipe.
printed it off from a photo
saved
in my phone.

all the ingredients
are there.
I have them ready,
stored
for the moment when
I need something sweet.

i take out an egg,
the nuts
and chocolate,
the unbleached flour.

the sugar.
baking powder. a pinch
of salt.

vanilla.

i mix with my hands
in the cold bowl.
muscling the dough
into shape.

i grease the pan.
and drop each cookie
into place. i set
the clock.
i wait.

some for me, some
to give away.

surf's up

two more weeks,
then it's surf and sun,
beach.
beach. beach.
give me the old boardwalk.
the sand
and sea.
give me the blue sky,
the sun setting
and rising
against the water
as we sit side by side.
we'll take our books,
our chairs.
our gin and wine.
we'll leave the work,
our troubles,
the clouds behind.
surf's up. let's go.
i'm ready, gas up the car,
turn up
the radio.
roll down the windows.
let's hit the road.
it's way over due.
it's about time.

the heavy box of us

we stand in line with our
box
of problems.
the line is long, the window
is small,
the hours short to
to get in
and whine about things.
slowly
we move along.
it's a heavy box.
a load.
we've been carrying so much
of it
for so long.
since childhood.
a whole hot mess of trouble,
blame, shame,
all the things that
people have done us wrong.
relationships, love
and marriage.
dying. work. children.
parents.
all the lies
all our sins, all our misgivings.
we want to set it
down, this heavy burden.
but for some reason we
can't, it's who we are.
our story.
it's what defines us
as we bend to its weight
and carry it around.
no one can ever help us,
because our hands are full,
holding tight to our
troubles. the heavy box
of us.

the spin cycle

we spin.
we put our take
on what went down.

we give our side of
the story, our way
of thinking
on things.

this is how it went,
how it goes,
not for you, but
for me.

we rewrite history.
embellish,
conveniently leave
out the details,
lie by omission.

we spin.
we make it the way we
need it to be,
not the way it really was.

it's how we live with
ourselves, with no one
the wiser.

spice

spice.

hot pepper. jalapeno.

bring the burn.
the heat.
the sweat on the brow.

bring me that kind of love.

the boil,
the steam.

let the tea pot scream.

make the smoke alarm go off.

write me a poem

hold me in your
arms, she says.
whisper that you love me.
tell me
the world will right
itself
and all these problems
will
fade, dissolve like
light
on a summer day.
write me a poem.
send it
to me. write about us,
about tomorrow,
like you used to do

before things changed.

the fresh wound

it's an unseen finish nail
buried part way
in the folds
of old wallpaper
that catches the fat of
my palm
in scraping.
the blood flowers quickly
to the white tile,
the vanity,
the floor.
it springs upon my shirt.
my life blood,
so easily let free.
it blooms in rivulets,
in swirls,
circles, in crimson
bands.
I run the cold water under
the new wound
and see the crevice of skin
now open,
then place a cloth
upon it to stop the bleeding.
with my left
hand I clean the evidence
of my life.

bed time reading

I remember
my mother reading to us
as children,
two
to a bed, her
sitting in the big
blue chair,
in the middle
where we all could hear.
fables,
stories, fantasy.
she was often dramatic.
using different voices
for different characters,
giving a pause
before danger, and a high
pitched voice
for joy.
we would plead for one more
page,
one more tale.
and she would give in
and say, okay. just one
more than it's
time for bed, time
to turn in.
it's what love
does. it listens. it gives.
it's a well
without an end.

beneath the cloth

it's fear, mostly.

it's not the absence,
the vacant
lot
of one's heart, or
the echo
of one pair of shoes
on the floor,
going up the stairs.

it's not one plate
on the table, or
one light on beside
the bed.

it's fear mostly,

not of being alone, or
unloved,
or lost.

it's something else,
entirely,
it's beyond the surface
of one's life,

it's beneath
the cloth.

the rest of life

it's hard to write
with tears
in your eyes. with a knot
in your
throat, uneasy in the chair,
the summer light
upon you.
it's hard to find
words
sometimes that say right
thing.
words that capture the moment
the truth in
one's heart, but you try.
you wipe away the tears,
you breathe in.
you sigh. your fingers
move across the letters,
you write. it's what you know
how to do,
the rest of life is harder.

emotional gum

we have emotional gum
stuck
to the bottom of our shoes.
the soles.
the soul.
it's hard to remove
once there,
once stuck,
once no longer soft,
no longer sweet or
of use. it clings
to us.
we take a stick and scrape,
we rub it along
the pavement, the curb,
but there's always
a little left
behind,
that takes time
to wear away.

wise guy

did you find everything
you
were looking for, the clerk
asks
in a zombie like trance,
barely getting the words
out of her mouth,
as i put
my purchases on the belt
and move forward.
yes.
I tell her, otherwise
i'd still pushing my cart
around looking,
but thanks for asking.
wise guy? she says.
sometimes, I tell her.
sometimes not so wise too.

say nothing

say nothing.

just sit there. pour
me another cup of tea.

i'll stir in some sugar.
some cream.

no need to speak.
the silence holds enough
words.

the tea is warm.
the sky blue.

say nothing.
what we know is true.

spare change

there's some loose
change
about.
dimes on the floor,
heads up, some
tails down.
shaken free from pockets,
from purses
perhaps
long ago.
the washer and drier
both seem
to want a share,
want to take hold
of silver, of copper.
the couch too,
is sneaky with coins.
taking
them deep between
the cushions.
the dresser has a
few quarters, and
behind the buffet,
they both seem
to be saving them
for some far off
rainy day.

the made bed

i clean.
scrub, wash, dust,
sweep.
i'm on my hands and knees.
i can't
dig deep enough
to get the dirt out.
clean sheets.
i make the bed.
pull the blanket tight.
there's something else
going on
here.
it's not about the house.
the cleaning.
there's something beyond
all of this
that i'm trying to dispose
of, trying hard
to get out.

a long year

a long year.

unlike other years,
and yet familiar.

it looks the same at times.
smells
the same.
trees in the yard.
the cut grass.

the bend of wind against
me as I
walk the hill
and around.

I hear the same birds.
the same
stream as it moves like
time beside me.

everything changes.
everything stays the same.

it's been a long year.

the left lane

the car behind me wants me to move.

he's flashing his lights.

it's nine o'clock on a sunday morning.
he honks his horn.

waves his finger at me.
he wants this lane, it's his right.

I see his lips moving, cursing me
as we drive along at
70 miles per hour,
with all the lanes full beside
us.

there is nowhere to go, to give him
space.

I sip my coffee and hold onto
the wheel.

he's inches away. his life,
my life in his hands.

this is the world we live in now.

darkening clouds

when I go dark.

I go dark.

there is no grey. no soft
earth colors.

no vibrant blues or reds.

just the bitter sweet
darkness of black.

I go away.

I hear it in a voice,
a sigh.

the superficial conversation.
the opinions
and pride
of what's been collected
over a lifetime.

I don't care about your house,
your boat,
your cars,
your cellar full of wine.

I don't want to know about
your cruise.
your simplistic views
on the state of fashion
and food.

you're skin and bones to me.
an empty suit.
you bring nothing
to the table

but a list of things.
I have no clue what's in your
heart.
your soul.
what's really o your mind.

don't tell me about your church,
how often your pray,
or give. how spiritual you are,
when you aren't.

don't send me another affirmation
from
your false God.

live it, show it. keep quiet
about it,

or go.

everything must go

some junk mail comes
through
the slot.

there's a sale on mattresses
up the street.

everything must go.

they've been
going out of business
for over ten
years now.

I know that feeling.
I've had the sign up
in the window
for some time.

everything must go.
closing.
no refunds, no returns.

make me an offer I can't
refuse.

no middle man.
no salesman will visit
your home.

clearance, half price,
final offer.
bring a truck and take
it home.

everything must go.

the world you're stuck in

tired
of the trivial that this
world
feeds without stop.

television, movies. media.
our phones.
the babble.
the addictions that we have.

the garbage.
the nonsense.
the bullshit.

the deception.

if I hear another lie
come out
of another mouth, i'll scream.

it's inescapable.
the earth is radioactive
with
these people.

toxic to the core.
is there anyone out there
with a good heart.

loyal and true, someone
you can believe in.
someone not in the game?

anyone, anyone?

it's frightening.

at times,
you can hardly believe
the world you're stuck in.

i'm there now

everything I used to believe

I no longer do.

my childhood innocence is gone.
the boy in me
is finally old.

it took a lot to get me
there.
but i'm there now.

the spark has died.
the wonder
is no more.

nothing matters.

I understand
the world, at last.
no heart
is pure.

the rose colored glasses
are off,
the optimism
of love,
the promises of youth
live in me no more.

the final exam

tell me what learned
by all of this.

he asks.

tell me the lessons.
what truth do you have
now
about love
and loss.

pain and sorrow.

will you repeat the past
once more.

or is this it.
was this the master class.

the end test.

will you be whole once more
for
what's next?

have you passed?

a new place in the sun

i'll go now.

i'll sweep up the broken
pieces.
collect
my things. i'll leave
no
clue
that I was ever here.

no note,
no card, no
ring. no photograph
of me,
or you.

i'll just go without
a sound.

set my key
upon
the sill.

drive off. go far,
go to a place where I
can't be found.