the grocery clerk

we make eye contact,

the grocery clerk and me.
yes. i found what i was looking for,

i answer
when he asks me this ridiculous
question, which i suppose

he's obligated to do.
he's not old enough to sell me wine,

so he pushes the button
to bring the manager over.

no one asks me for my id.
not a surprise.

but we make eye contact, this
kid and me,

this fresh face kid probably
with a high school degree.

his blue smock on. his hair
pulled back. he's been on

the job for an hour maybe,
but

an hour to an eighteen year
old is like three days
to you or me.

i'm screwed he thinks, i can
see that in his eyes,
and he sees what i can see.

her plastic red boots

it's not the cats,

it's never really about the cats.
the innumerable
amount of them.

the old horse, the old dog,

or the fact that she has no
tv
in her house,

or radio.

it's not the plastic red boots she
wears
to keep
the snakes from biting her legs

when raking the leaves.
it's much more than that.

the mismatched chairs,
the streak of white in a mane
of black
hair.

the mattress on the floor.
the solar panels on her roof.

it isn't about that
she can recite Shakespeare
at the drop of a hat.

it's much more than any of that.
she is a giant cup of crazy,

no doubt, but she's fun
and unpredictable,

in a temporary kind of way.

my treat

my friend would often forget his wallet
whenever he offered
to take me out to dinner
for a birthday,
or some occasion.

the four seasons, no problem.
the palm,
Morton's.

there would be four of us, and he'd
order food and wine, more
than any of us could eat.

then the bill would come, and he'd
search his coat, his pants,
his car,
no wallet, no money, no credit
card.

he did this many times. after awhile,
I stop going out with him.

but it wasn't just me he was doing
this to.
not paying his rent, his lease
on his Mercedes, his bills.
cheating clients out of deposits.
the list of his grievances

was endless.

let's go out to dinner, he'd
say with a slap on the back,
a big smile, a wide salesman
grin.

my treat, again.

old customers

it's a slow
day.

he needs a closet painted.
one closet.

why not. a hundred dollars.
groceries,
gas.

a sandwich and a drink.

it's work. I've made less,
I've made
a hell of a lot more.

but it's not about money
anymore.

it's about something else.
he needs help.

he's moving on. him and his wife
to a new house.

they're old and grey, beaten,
in remission of one thing or another.

it's their old house, the house
their children
grew up in.

the dogs, the horses. the pool.
the kitchen window,
they looked out.

it's not about a hundred dollars
anymore.

it's different now.
for them and me.

finding the lost key

have you seen a key,
the woman said, as I began my walk around
the lake.

I've lost the key to my car,
it's somewhere on this five mile path
that circles the lake.

she's alone, her phone is dead.
it's cold.

I tell her to wait, i'll do my walk and
look for it.

which seems impossible with all the leaves,
all the different trails
that lead
in different directions.

but I find her key. a silver key.
it's right there before me,
three miles in. lying at my feet.

it takes an hour to get back to the lot.

she's still there,
leaning on her car.
I hand her the key. she says thank you,

then drives off. I have no idea what
any of it means.

but it means something. that the impossible
is possible.

that what you're looking for is out
there. just keep walking and believing.

her wedding cakes

she put the baker through
the wringer.

I want fifty
small cakes, each one exactly
alike.

tiffany blue.
with little ribbons wrapped
around them.

three bites in each.
she handed him a picture
from a magazine.

the baker rolled his eyes
and shook his head.

gave her a price.
it was just one small thing
more

that revealed the insanity
I was dealing with.

she ordered them, cancelled
them, ordered them
once more,

before cancelling nearly
everything.

what would the boyfriend think,
the ex husband.

her harem of losers still
waiting for her return.

but like a fool I married her
and never got
the cake.

one last time

I give her a key

to come back once more. to
bake.

to see what
was. to haunt this house
once

more in her skin
and bones.

she stays the night, remembers.
sleeps
in her
familiar place.

peeks into drawers and closets.
this will be her
last time.

the house has been purged
of what she brought.

she doesn't know what lies ahead,
soon.

who she is, or was, or will always
be,

will soon be known.

the sunfish

I remember walking
out
into the water, a still gold
coin
above the early
morning blue.
a bright room
without a door.
just me slipping in.
the house asleep.
the warm flow
of cape cod bay.
touching a sunfish with
my hand,
against my pale leg.
I chased it.
my feet digging into
the soft sand.
then the water took me.
above my shoulders,
my chin,
my eyes.
the radiant glare
of sun
between light
and darkness. somehow
i was saved.

the next case

like members of some
mysterious club,

the blackbirds
sit upon the wire,

all lined in their black
robes,

wet with rain.

they remind you of sorrow.
of death and decay.

they seem to be waiting

waiting, waiting
for the next case.

problematic souls

there's a point in everyone's
life,

or at least there should be, whether
twenty one

or thirty five
or seventy, when you take ownership
of who are you,

who you've become.
no matter how much your parents
may have
fucked you up,

no matter how many horrific relationships,
you've been through, or
in dealing with bad friends or siblings,

or people in general, you have to
push them all to the wayside, and
say
enough is enough,
you no longer have room for them
in your life.

call it an
awakening, an epiphany,

whatever label it needs.
but it's time, it's way overdue,

to clear the decks of problematic
souls,
and set things right.

how do i open the hood

there were many years
when cars
were junk.

always breaking down.
the battery needing a charge,

the oil, the water pumps
failing.

leaks all the time. points and plugs
always needing adjustment,

the steering out of whack
after hitting a bump.

i'd crawl under or over them
on a Saturday
making them run
again.

they were awful cars, meant
to last a few years
or so,

always in the garage
or needing a tow.

my father mocked me for buying
Japanese, still
stuck on that war thing,

pearl harbor, and D-day, but

now, i don't even know how
to open the hood of my car

when i take it for an oil
change. i like it that way.

no more fords, no more
Chryslers, no more Chevrolets.

just leap

a blue
pigeon is on the sill
outside
the window.
fat as sunday.
blinking
in the rain.
he looks nervous
so high up
above the street.
what's he doing?
thinking,
does he have plan,
of what he might do
today?
or is he just going to
leap
into the air
and see what comes?

a talk with the boss

i tell my boss,
who happens to be me
that i need a vacation, a long
vacation
away from it all.

i tell myself to sit down
at the big desk
and let's talk about this.

where do you want to go,
are you going alone.

what about work?

i nod, listening to myself.
i don't really like travelling
by myself,

except for maybe a night or two.
so we both agree,

just a short trip, a practice
trip
until love comes along,

and then we'll talk the cruise,
the mountains,
france
or Italy.

okay, i tell my boss, who happens
to be me.

good talk. off to work now.

this chair is fine

if I see a chair

I like, i'll stop and gaze into
the window
of the store.

I might even go in and sit in it.
touch the fabric,

look at the price, imagine
in my mind
where it would go.

I've often seen women in
that same

possessive light. but I was
younger then,

a tomcat on the prowl.
trying to fill some hole,

some empty space
within.

but i'm older than that now.
the chair I have is fine,

there's no room left for anyone
to fit in.

the genius of living

the genius of living
is in letting go.

it's in getting up after
the standing eight,
it's about

moving on. grieve, get help,
get better,

be strong.

don't let the past sink
in
and drown you. no of us
are here

for very long.

low maintenance

when I first met her she talked
about how easy going she was,

that she was extremely low maintenance,

ha.

there were so many nights when
she talked
about
killing herself. suicide.
pulling the plug with

pills, booze, or perhaps
a razor nearby,
I never knew exactly what her method

of leaving was, but it came up every
other blue moon.

i'd stare at her, and ask her why,
what,
is there anything I can do

to help you. but I knew what
it was.
I knew all too well
her reasons for being through,

there was never any reply.
just the gentle sobbing
in the half dark,

her body, a rag doll,
curled into a ball,
the mascara
running scared from her eyes.

shadow walk

a shadow appears
on the sidewalk. it's not mine.

I know mine.
this one isn't mine at all

and how could it be here,
to begin with,

with so little light,
almost none
this late
into fall.

but there it is, this shadow.
this mystery
walking beside me.

giving me comfort
without a word, without
a whisper,

without a sound.

where you belong

there are times when a feeling
overwhelms
you

and you feel true compassion for all.
even those that
have done you wrong.

the hand of God is on your heart,
at least in this moment.

you forgive and want to be forgiven.
it's a white space
of spirituality,

but you know it won't last.
while it's there though, you breathe
it in.

exhale. you feel free, no longer
wanting revenge,
no longer full of regret or remorse.

confessing all. wishing the best
for all.

the pain.

it's gone. it's a strange sweet
land to lie in.

you want to stay there.
you feel it's where you truly belong.

boycotting christmas

i decide to boycott Christmas
this year.

no tree.
no lights.
no wreathe,
no ornaments.

i'm having a commercial
free Christmas.

no mention of santa.
no stockings hung.

no eggnog, or caroling.

no last minute shopping
spree,
either in the stores
or online.

no greeting cards,
no mistletoe.

no watching it's a wonderful
life.

no looking out at
the sky
for a sled
and reindeer.

no weeping, no wishing
that things were different.

just joy and gratitude
and a prayerful
silent night.

nothing lasts

i find an old shoe shine
kit
under the sink,
next to cleaning fluids,
soap,
brillo pads
and an assortment of sponges,
and rags.

i haven't shined a pair of
shoes
in decades. i can't
even remember the last time
i took this kit
out and
polished any brown or black
shoe
in my house.

but this kit is new. hardly
a year old.

i open the case, smell the waxy
paste,
hold the brush, the red
cloth,
then put it all back
from where it came.
i zipper it up tightly.

then it occurs to me that
this was a Christmas
gift from someone that i
thought i knew, and there's
a little card
attached.

love, it says. with a heart
and a smile.

i throw it all away.
nothing lasts.

a calm joy

I snap in and out of it.

like an old fashioned photo bulb
exploding
in my eyes.

the flash back, the ruminations,
the sparkle
of what was
then the blur
of black overtaking
it all.

a heart stab, a gut wrench,

then i'm back. I return
to the light.
I shake my head, dazzled

by what was, relief and a calm
joy

reclaims my life.

a family christmas

she loves putting up her tree.

she's all over Christmas.

lights.
wreathes.
candles.

the train set chugging
along
around the miniature town,
the mirrored pond.

it smells like Christmas in her house.
the music is on.

the eggnog poured.
gifts are wrapped neatly
and placed
under the evergreen tree.

I remember it well. the family
gathered.
the dog.

the warmth, dinner almost ready.
the joy
the glee.

punishment

the boy, punished,
made to stand in the corner.
red faced,
embarrassed
in front of the class,
his friends.

will this deter him from future
crimes.
doubtful, he'll just
find a way
to do in secret, what
offends.

slow arriving

the smile on her face
is one of satisfaction, she's made
it through another day.
they haven't caught on,
not yet.
safe again.
there will be no exposing
of what
lies within,
at least not today.
karma has been slow in arriving.
but it comes.
it's inevitable,
it's natures way
of keeping all things in
balance.

serenity now

there are women kissing
dolphins,
holding babies,
jumping out of planes,
baking cakes. going places,
doing things.
hiking the Andes.
families gathered around
them.
i'm at the beach,
i'm in florida,
cancun,
look at me on a camel
in Saudi arabia.
I just made a salad
and took a picture. look at
my new shoes,
my new dress, that's me on new
years eve with my date
smudged out.
I luv to laugh,
they all say. you won't
be disappointed.
I live in deale Maryland,
anchorage Alaska,
Timbuktu,
but i'll meet
you halfway.
must luv dogs and not afraid
to pay.
let's meet for coffee,
I have three dates scheduled
for today.
my pictures are all ten years
old, by the way,
but i'm losing the weight.
don't be afraid.

from a high window

from her high window
on North Meade,
facing the cemetery you can see
the river,
a sleeve of steel blue
under the Washington sun
in winter.
the stones are white,
straight,
upright. bouquets of flowers
dot the land.
the dead. the military dead
lie at rest, a president too.
could you live here and see
this everyday?
the changing of seasons,
the sea of grass
holding so many
in, so tight.

waiting on ten

all relationships have a degree
of difficulty.
on a scale of one to ten,
I've experienced
most of them.
the impossible
at one, no trust, no
fun. two was not much better,
it took longer to figure
out the lies, maybe at three
we'll discuss
the possibilities.
there's hope at four,
despite the slamming of
doors.
five is in the middle,
it could go either way.
six, this could work,
we're on the plus side now.
seven,
not heaven but good.
eight, approaching great,
conversation and intimacy,
the missing of one another,
not quite cloud
nine,
but nine is
nice and easy, near perfect.
you could almost
call it love with conditions,
but ten,
I have no clue,
i'm waiting on ten, as most
of the world is.

the stone in your mouth

you remember grief
as a small jagged stone stuck
in your craw.
never to be swallowed
or spit upon the ground.
it sat there,
on your tongue, salted
and bitter, moving from
side to side.
every day you woke up to
it.
slept with it,
walked and worked.
you wiped the blood
from your lips as the cuts
grew and grew.
people knew, they could
see the look
on your face, how your
words were incoherent,
muddled and disconnected,
strangely
not you. then one day you
noticed it was gone,
and others did too.

look, no more turkey skin

within five minutes
I know all about her plastic surgery.
her tummy tuck.
her divorces, all three of them.
her despicable current husband
with his hundred thousand
dollar truck.
i'm a size two now, she says,
standing up
and spinning around.
she shows me a picture
of her in her fat jeans,
shows me her shoes,
lined in her closet,
all jimmy choo.
shows me her corvette,
the white one and the blue one.
tells me
about her house, her income.
her debts. how life was
different, less fun,
when she was a brunette.
she shows me her chin, her neck.
no more turkey skin
hanging down,
she says.
my surgeon is the best.

when it's done

once someone goes dark
with anger,
you have to let them go.

let them leave. if you love
them that much,

it's time to set them free.
they won't be coming back

no matter what you say
or how often you apologize.

you both see it all
so differently.

when it's done, it's done.
time to move on.

time to walk reluctantly away,
forward
into that setting sun.

the mystery

I like a good mystery
as long
as i'm not part of it.

a good movie, a who done it.
a good book
by the fire
or late night in bed.

I don't want to know the ending
too soon.

I want to be fooled by the words,
tricked
and led

to an inevitable, but unknown
end.

just don't put me in the middle
of some
mystery, some muddled plot
of deception
and lies.

I like it clear, this life,
from start to finish, though

it never really is.

the coldest i've ever been

the coldest I've
ever been, besides a trip to nyc
in the dead of winter with
a gale force wind
searing of the atlantic ocean,
the coldest
was when I discovered
that someone was not
who I thought they were.
you could have broken me
in two with an axe.
I was frozen solid
in delusion, enlightened,
but devastated
by a thousand clues.
the veins in my heart
turned the darkest of any
blue. it's taken time
to defrost me.

air brushed love

I have fallen for the glossy photo,
the air brushed face,
the doctored
images of someone
I thought was real.
I have fallen
fast
for wild sex. for kissing, for affection,
for love
imagined, for lips and legs,
for women that were never real.
sweet notes,
gifts upon gifts,
the written word, all fraudulent,
that were swallowed
fast and hard.
a perpetual moth to the flame.
I have been duped by women, over
and over again. not sticking to my
gut, my morals, my spiritual leanings.
I've let the human side of me,
derail
and set my house on fire.
i have found hell on earth with what
i thought was love.
who are these people?
what lessons are there that i need
to learn,
how much more is there to know,
to avoid these traps
that I've fallen in.

they don't know, yet

they don't see it.

they don't know. they haven't reached that
point
of seeing how short,

how sweet life is.

how unique love can be. how the bond
of friendship is more
important

than disagreements. it's rare
that heart to heart connection.

to throw it away is crazy.

they don't get it yet. but they will

add some wrinkles to the brow,
some fat to the belly,

a limp, a frown

let the graves fill,
they'll know then,
what they don't know now.

the funeral director date

it's like the march of the penguins
she tells me,
talking about her experience
with online dating,
all the men are fat
and short.
waddling in with bald heads
and shirts misbuttoned.
I think all the good ones are
gone, she says.
not a brad pitt in the bunch.
nothing but lou asners.

she sighs.

I've never met so many nice
people that I never want to
see again.
that's a shame, I tell her.
so who's next on your hit list.
what's the next date.
she looks at her watch,
i'm meeting a funeral director
for coffee at six.
married three times, says
he's into tantric sex.
I may tell him to bring a
brochure from his work.

bad fruit

I see her
out of the corner
of my eye.
walking.
alone.
strident as if
she had a plan,
to which I know
she has none.
I stand still
for a moment, as she
passes across
the street,
not seeing me.
I feel nothing
but the cold cloak
of sadness.
I still taste
the bitterness of
bad fruit in my mouth,
but relieved
that there will
no longer be
anything in my life
coming off
that tree.

the old clock

it's never just one thing.

it's a list, a long list of grievances
that work
against
us.

we want others to be like us.
to be less like us.
we want them to love us as we are,
as we mirror
them.

we want convenience, no drama.
we want to be
closer,
more intimate, but on our
time table.

we are driven, we are ambivalent
all in the same day. pendulums
swinging
in the old clock
down the hall.

wanting one minute, and caring less
the next.

we fall in love for many reasons.
and fall out of love, so often
for the same ones.

scars

I study the scar
on the fleshy part
of my hand.

it's a quarter moon of white.

healed finally. it doesn't seem
that long ago
when I caught it on a nail.

the blood, crimson ribbons flowing
painting the walls,
the floor,
the violent yell.

like most traumatic things in our lives,
there is always
a little bit
that remains.

the scars of love lost.
never quite forgotten. life
is never
quite the same.

ride the wave

it's all connected,
in a strange
invisible way. the words.
the feelings,
the nights
and days.
everyone you meet is
meant
to be a part
of your life,
and when they leave, that
too is a part
of it.
we are one in some bizarre
other worldly
way.
connected.
part of the whole.
all of us going down
the same
stream,
heading towards the same
ocean,
why fight it, just
lie on your back
and let the power
of the water take you
where you need to
go.
let go, loosen your
grip on attachments,
resist no more, go
with the flow,
just ride
the wave.

window service

i see the line at the windows
in the brick building at the government center.

the complaint window is very crowded.

next to it is, the i'm bitter window,
lots of angry
disgruntled souls there too.

next to that is
the life is unfair picture window,
with extra seating.
people are holding long lists of
grievances.

the gratitude window has a few people in it.

as does, i'm so happy i could scream window.

i could spend some time at each window
if i had the time, but i have to get to work.

so i drive off. coffee first.

did you find everything you were looking for

did you find everything you
were looking
for,
the cashier says mindlessly,
as she bags my groceries,

glancing at her
watch, hoping it will tick
faster.

no.

I tell her.
she looks at me, stunned that
i'm not following script.

I couldn't find the black olives
I tell her.
I looked everywhere.

oh, she says.

well, you've
earned eleven bonus point dollars.

she circles my receipt and hands
it to me.

what about the black olives, I
ask her.

she shrugs and smiles. beats me,
she says. guess you should have
kept looking.

next.

not this

the breeze of her, a sigh,
an inhale,
an exhale, a sleepy grin,

the touch,
the warmth, a tender kiss,
making love.

the mirage
of it all
is what you miss, not
this.

waiting on what's next

when you don't hear from someone
for a long period of time,
it means one of two
things,

they're dead, or they just don't give
a damn about
you anymore.

which, I guess, in a way is the same
thing.

so you give up. not with bitterness,
or sadness,

but a sense of wonder at how life
continual changes, how people

come and go, and you wait

to see what's next, what new
episode of life,
is about to take place.

last stop

she buys her last condo
and has it painted a hospital white.

white as snow.

it hurts your eyes when the sun comes
in through the tenth
floor window.

pale blue carpet stretches from room
to room.

a royal blue sofa sits in the middle.

it feels like what the waiting
room for heaven might be like.

candy dishes set about. tea and butter
cookies too.

it's her final stop along this road
called life.

the train has left the station.

dietary needs

we never cooked together.

our dietary needs were so different.
me with
my butter and bread,
red meat
and milk.

all the thing that will eventually
kill me.

and her with an egg,
a slice of north atlantic salmon.

lettuce. a single grape.

all of which, because it was so
few
in calories
would kill her as well.

you see them

you see them, thin
boned,
white haired and bent
at the supermarket.

leaning on canes,
or wheeled about, they
have
lived
their life, now it's
fumes.

the end days of making
due,
with smiles from those
who visit

when convenient or pass
them by.

what is there to say,
or to do,

in time a young man or
woman
will pull them from
their beds, off the tiled
floors,
from tubs gone cold,

off steps,

and take them away.
the honey of life is so brief.

the end, so bittersweet
and long.

rafts in a storm

we went
to a motel in jersey
for
our honeymoon.
she in her white dress,
layered
like a cake,
me in my suit, stiff
and black,
shoes like gumdrops.
it was off the turnpike.
it was raining.
we had a bottle of champagne.
we could hear
the traffic out on the highway.
the night trucks,
moving endlessly
through the dark.
the marriage wouldn't last long.
we were too young,
too dumb
this early in life.
but I remember that cold
night.
the drapes pulled tight.
making love, holding each
other like rafts
in a storm,
kids, playing
husband and wife.

don't ever change

we live in a world of
constant change, of choices.

too many perhaps.
colors.
food, clothes.
styles. people to love,
or unlove.

we move. we move. we move.

it's a carousel.
a pin wheel
of a world, ever spinning.

when to get on, when
to get off.

each day full of choice.
full of decision.

very little stays the same,
so when I see
you after so many years
and you haven't changed,

i'm happy.

below

there is another world
on the ground,
below the grass, the
rocks, the weeds.
burrow whole in the soft
ground,
the earth
being full of things
unseen.
the worms,
the insects, the mice.
hidden in the thickets,
night creatures
in the hollow of trees.
silent
nocturnal beings
with red eyes
and hearts no less
than ours
keeping beat.

rain check?

let's meet for a drink
or a cup
of coffee I ask her for
the twentieth time,
just a casual
get together
to catch up
and reminisce about
the old days. shoot
the breeze.
I can't she says,
so busy
with work and school,
the divorce proceedings,
the dog
needs shots, the cat
has fleas.
I need to rake
the yard,
and pull the weeds.
the oil light in my car
is on.
a lightbulb
burned out at the top
of the stairs
and I don't have a ladder
long enough to reach,
and I just found out
i'm allergic to gluten,
not to mention
the children who despite
being older, still
need, need, need.
I just don't have ten
minutes to myself
these days.
rain check after the holidays?
sure, I tell her, laughing.
always.
take care, and don't forget
to breathe.

recycle this

let's recycle
our paper, our plastic,
our boxes,
our metal,
our shoes, our clothes,
our cups and saucers,
our relationships,
our wives and husbands,
our friends,
our siblings,
let's turn them all back
in for a new
one
and try try try
until we get it right,
again.

birds eye view

the aerial view
tells you something you don't want to hear
or see.

you're just a dot
in a world of dots.

claude monet would have a field day
with this
point of view,

this high above the earth.
ant like,
and small rushing about

making do. enlarging in
your
mind the unwarranted
importance of
nearly

everything surrounding
you.

the trouble with forgiveness

i struggle with forgiveness.

it's the hardest thing for me to do
once
wronged.

so i get it when others feel the same
towards me.
i understand
completely

how hard it is to turn the other cheek,
to forgive
seven times
seventy.

to tell each other,
your sins are forgiven, to go and sin
no more is
close to impossible.

i get it
when there's a closing of the door.

I've closed many myself, reluctantly,
but turning the lock

and walking away when you can't
forgive once more.

nothing is perfect

nothing is perfect.

no one, no relationship, no job.
no day.

we all have faults.
the paint is marred,
there are cracks and fissures

in the best of us.
we say
the wrong thing, behave badly.

we move on as best we can
and try to do better

the next day and the next
day.

we will never quite get there
in other's eyes,

but we try.

living in the city

i get the urge to hit nyc.

take the bus up
and stay at the Roosevelt.
bring my walking shoes

and a pocket of cash
to see me through the week.

walk the park, peruse
the met.
get a pastrami sandwich
at Katz's on

orchard avenue.

maybe go to Rockefeller
center, see the big tree.
watch the skaters.

broadway, Greenwich village,
battery park.

hell's kitchen, why not?
there's so much I've yet to see.

Chinatown, tribecca, breakfast
at bubby's.

maybe if i beg her to come along,
she'll say yes, and finally forgive me.

maybe.

home away from home

we used to hang out at the bowling alley
on the weekends.
plunk quarters
into the juke box
and eat grilled cheese sandwiches
with cokes
at the counter.
there was an arcade there as well,
with the rattle
and ping of pin ball machines
going all day long.
duckpins and ten pins,
the boom of the balls against
the wooden pins,
the awful rented shoes, 

dusted with a powder
that made you sneeze.
there was a barber shop too,
with three chairs
and the Asian barbers in their
light blue jackets,

snipping away.
the place was blue with cigarette
smoke,
and the thin stench of beer.
there was always a strange group
of adults,
of hardened women 
in low cut sweaters with
bleached beehives, men with
darkened hair, slick as shoe polish,
wearing snake skin boots.
all of them seemed to be
up to something no good.
we steered clear.
but we loved the place. a home
away from home.
living large on two bucks, which
would last
the whole day.

sunday softball

when the boys
gathered to play softball on sunday
mornings
crime went down
in oxon hill Maryland.
there's a picture of them,
black and white, that I saw once,
all looking
like a cross between the rolling
stones
and hell's angels.
black eyes, teeth missing,
casts on their arms.
bullies
and neer do wells for the most
part, drop outs,
with smirks and sideway hats.
but they loved softball
and fielded a very good team.
you just didn't want to slide
into home
when rounding the bases.

life with blanche

i should have married
stella
but instead i married blanche.
such is life.
we all make mistakes.
she was completely out of her
mind.
caught up in a world of
magical thinking.
she kept the lights dim
so as not to show her age,
and pranced around in
expensive dresses, around
and around the room she went
with a dip and a
fanciful spin.
it was mad house, i tell
you. each tale she told
was different from the first
one, you never knew where
the lie ended and the
truth began.
when the truck finally came
to get her, the men in their
white coats, i was relieved.
the told her she was going
on a nice long vacation, to which
she seemed pleased.
where's my hat, my gloves,
let me put some lipstick on, she
said, and some rouge before
we leave.
the second, the door slammed
i got on the phone to call
stella. to apologize and beg
her to come back.
they could hear me across
the courtyard, stella….
stella….

pool party

years ago,

ten, maybe longer, my friend
Vicky
invited me over
for a drink or two.

come over and see the new house,
she said.

she turned the music up on
her stereo
and lit some candles.

pouring the drinks with a heavy
hand.

we went out to the patio
next to the heated pool.

let's jump in she said,
laughing.
but, I told her,
I didn't bring a suit with
me.

before I got the words
out of my mouth
she was naked
and standing there at
the edge of the pool about
to dive in.

oh,
I said. guess we don't need
one, do we?

in the jump

he used to tell me about prison.
being in the jump.

how he got caught, and that it wasn't
his fault.

he talks about the long days and longer
nights, getting fat on
three salt starched meals a day.

he wasn't one to be out in the yard
pumping iron.

he preferred the comfort of the cell.
cigarettes,
tv. a card game.

a pillow behind his back.
you play the game, he said.

you get religion, get a job
in the kitchen. tell a joke or two
to the guards.

pretend to be good and

keep your nose clean. before
long you're back out on the street.

but more careful this time around
so as not
to get caught.

there is no rehab, he says. we're
the same coming out as we
were going in.

but smarter, much smarter.
no doubt.

the pink balloon

sometimes you wake up

and you have someone on your mind.
it sticks with you
the whole day.

the half dream, half awake
pondering of someone from your past.

you think about giving them a call
later in the day,

but don't.
you let it go. like a pink balloon
at the end

of a child's hand.
it wasn't meant to last.

the retired surgeon

never go to a doctor
younger than 50 he tells me,

stroking his beard, studying
the ceiling
light
that's flickering.

bulb? he says. I think I need
a new one.

I give him a run down of my last
experience with
the medical industry, he smiles,

shakes his head. butchers, he says.
they're in it for the money now.

take a number, next, next next.
check please.

then he shows me a tiny doll house
he's been working
on for his train set.

he's building a small town around the spiral
of tracks screwed into an enormous
plywood board
in his basement.

it's beautiful. the hours it must
must have taken.
I look at his delicate hands,
the longer precise fingers.

and think about the brains
he must have worked on.

no fun being God these days

the joke is
that the rabbit wasn't so lucky,

if he was
would he be missing a foot
now
attached to a key chain?

is there such a thing as luck.
as rubbing a stone,

tossing a coin into the well.
the falling
star we wish upon.

is there luck, or is it prayer.

the player prays
for the kick to go right,

the pass to be caught,
the basket made.

how busy God is with our small
worlds.

we want to be healed, to pass
the test.

we pray for the traffic to move.

we want love, we want for us
and others to avoid death.

we pray for what we don't have,
a car,
a boat, a house, a job,
we pray on bended knees
with tears for
something we can possess.

we pray that our sins are forgiven
or won't be known.

it's no fun being God with all
this mess.

now gone

she gets a call.

a patient has died. another.
then another.

the sick do have a way of passing on.
strange how
just yesterday

they were there, sitting in the waiting room
flipping
through a magazine,
sipping coffee,

pleasant and alive. making
conversation.

now gone.

confusion

we are often confused.

goes with the territory of being here
on earth.

pushed down
by gravity and our own
perceptions of what
is or
isn't true.

we're perplexed, baffled
by
the day,
the night. by love.

we struggle to keep upright.
the years
pile up.

each to his own stream of tears,
his own pool
of despair,

or sun that rises when all
is right.

we are often confused.

it's a club we're all members to,
check out
time

comes all too soon.

talking politics

my friend dave, loved to talk politics.

he had all the channels on, tv
and radio, getting the latest
breaking news.

which was breaking at all, but some old
washed up
piece of news
from a week ago.

the panel of suits and dresses sat around
a fancy table hashing
it all out. giving their two cents
worth.

leaning right, or leaning left,
depending on the station you were tuned to.

tiresome, to say the least. so much said
about so little. each and everyone of them
a hot air balloon

tethered to a desk. exhausting.

I used to love politics, discussing
them, etc.

in fact

I remember telling my barber Al, once,
a long time ago
that I wouldn't get my haircut,
which was down to my shoulders,
until Nixon was out of the white house.

just a trim, I told him, and
the mustache too.
damn that tricky dick.

be prepared

I put up some mistletoe
above a few
doorways
in the house,

hoping at some point this holiday season
to steal a kiss
or two from some lucky gal.

I buy a few tubes of chap stick too.

one never knows when your luck
might change.

when your ship might come in again.
it's good to be prepared

my mother used to say,
as she packed band aids
and a bottle of mercurochrome
inside my lunch box

along with a tuna sandwich
and an apple.

to the bottom

the stones,
beside the water,
almost blue, but mostly
grey that line the stream
below
home
have gone cold.
not a sparkle in a single of one of them.
dulled
with the weather,
the suns cold blade,
they sit and ponder life.
my foot sets a few free,
kicking them gently
to the bottom.
it's that kind of Monday.

meals on wheels

I could use a good meal,

so I call meals on wheels to see if I can
get on the list
at some point.

my dad loves them.

he's gained twenty pounds since they
started delivering.

his fridge is full of Styrofoam boxes
of uneaten food.

or I could call up betty, she made a mean
dish of lasagna

with meatballs and Italian sausage.
she'd probably deliver

if I had wine ready when she got there.

doing christms cards

it's three p.m. on a Monday.
she has her Christmas music on,

bing, frank, andy, the Mormon tabernacle
choir,

while Harvey
fiddles with the toaster,
having taken the bottom off to try
and fix
a loose wire.

she's a little looped on eggnog
as she sits
at the table doing Christmas cards.

Harvey, Harvey she yells out
to the kitchen

did the mendelson's send us a card
last Christmas? I don't think
they did

ever since Irvin had a stroke
and they moved to florida.

should we send them one anyway?

Harvey comes into the room, with
his screw driver. he's in his pajamas,
glasses on the tip of his
nose.

his comb over is down to a few
dyed strands, just reaching
his wide ears.

sure, why not, he says, unless
we don't have the stamps.
send them one if you want.

he tightens his robe, looks
warily at the dozens of envelopes
on the table, then
goes back to the toaster.

eyes wide open

each child
at some point believes that their
parents
are dopes.

suddenly, the light goes on and they
think
they have all the answers.

I did it. my son did it.

but then.
as life moves on

and work and love begin,
their eyes are opened wide

and they wonder how
we ever did it.

they want to make amends.

a list of nevers

you make a list of nevers.

it's a long list of errors
made
throughout your life.

there will be no more vows.
no more rings.

no diamonds. no butterflies
or being falsely charmed.

no more wedding nights.
there will be not another noose
around this neck.

no new suit. new shoes.
no invitations in the mail.

no three tiered cake, or
wedding veil.

no plan, no priest or justice
of the peace.

no pleas, no attorneys, no
papers.

no notes left upon pillows.
no movers,
no liars, no betrayers, no
darkness
in this home.

no more wives.

enough is enough for one life.

without a care

it's strange when love
ends,
when friendships fade
for no other reason than
distance
and time.
a death of a different
kind.
strange how the calls once
made
over little things
are no more.
things once shared are
no longer
important.
no more laugher, or even tears.
people move on without
a care.
off to the next.
as we fade and disappear.

the unloved

in the mist I see them walking.

the years
of them.

long and short. wordless and tired,
now

at this age.
back from war, back from being
lonely
and unwanted.

given up on beauty,
that battle long lost.

ghosts wanting to lie down,
tired

of less, exhausted by less.

never getting more.

and as they slip out of sight
it comes to me that
the graves
are filled with

the unfulfilled,
the unloved, and given
time
there will be more.

the pillow next to yours

when love is crooked,

where can you go, when the thief
sleeps

beside you.
what reason is there to lock the doors?

she's in.

her fingerprints are everywhere.
each knife,
each gun still warm,
hidden in any
drawer.

who calls the law on a loved
one?

who blows the whistle

on the murderer who dreams
upon her pillow
next to yours?

one seed, then another

at times I was more
concerned with her sins,
than I was with mine.

my guilt seemed less important
at the time.

I felt that if I could change
her,
new seasons would unfold.

new trees would grow.
our garden would begin,

one seed at a time,
me at the plow, her on
bended knees with a burlap

sack, dropping into
the ruffled rows, love,
love love.

then we'd wait hand in hand,
for the rain the sun for divine

intervention
to fall from above.

a bite of each

when i was younger I used
to go to the bakery

and stare at the rows and rows
of pastries
behind the glass cases,

creamy and soft
under the store lights,

pretty as girls in their summer
dresses.

it was hard to decide on which one
to choose.

so I'd buy a dozen and take a bite
of each.

and so it went with love
as well,

searching for that one to be done
at last,

with sweets.

doing time

when I was in prison

I used to talk to the mice,
have long
conversations with them about life.

when are we getting out of here
i'd whisper.

seeing them scurry from cell
to cell
on soft little feet.

but they never answered.

at night with a sliver of moon
coming through the bars

the man in the next cell
would tell me that he missed his wife.

his children. his bed,
his home cooked meals, but little else.

I told him, I miss nothing.
there is no one.

you're lucky he'd say, it's easier
for you
being in here.

I guess he was right.

the unseen world

as you go along in life

you realize that it's less and less
about
education,
about degrees

or schools, books, tests.

the profession means little
when you
see how so many lives are wrecks.

how often there is unhappiness
in the corner
office,
the picture window,
the yard,
the house along the shore,
glossy photos framed and aligned
on the oak desk.

how often there is no common sense.

no life examined from within.

so much studying, achieving,
conquering, gathering, gathering,
all the while,

as the unseen world turned.

bad timing

timing is often everything.

even if there is love.
there are children
to be taken care of, dogs, work.

there are leaves to rake.
weeds to be cleared.

the aging parents.
the lingering ex's always
a stones throw away.

pricking at the skin.

it's rare to be on the same page
and not
always waiting for a window
to open,

to slip in or an hour or two.
always at the whim
of someone else

when it's convenient for them.

promises to keep

I remember mornings like these,

her in the other room with door
closed, on the phone
already.

mornings that could be spent making
love between
the night cooled sheets.

peering out the blinds
to see the overcast sky,

the black wet road. we could
have lingered
in each other's arms,

if it was real love. we could
have talked
read the paper
had coffee.

planned the day before us.
but we didn't.

she had places to go,
a boyfriend to meet,
promises to someone else
that she had
to keep.

it's never what you think

the sun
a yellow smudge
of a lozenge
unswallowed, sits meekly
between
a veil of clouds,
unwashed sheets
serrated
and stained, with blood
and what
we weep.
it will set one day,
not in glorious shades
of amber
or pink,
but just fade away,
fade away,
fade away. this isn't
a hallmark
movie.
life is never what
you think.

clever girl, she was

for comfort, for inspiration
I dive

into Sylvia's poetry.
the colors,
the images, the metaphors
so ripe

for picking.
that surprising turn
of phrase.

I want to steal her dark fruit,
pick

the fat plums
right off the branch and make
them my
own.

have the juices of her fertile
mind
run down
my chin,

clever girl she was.
sadly
gone.

a slow walk back

when you lose yourself,

get lost in another, the map
gets thrown out
the window,

the directions tossed in the wind.
no compass,

no sexton to guide you,
no signs
to go on.

there's not a star in the sky
to point at,
and say, okay,
that way, let's go.

it's a slow walk back
towards home.

but you go and leave the burning
wreck
of that life
behind.

and in the end

in the end.

it's okay. it's all okay.
you came
in alone, you'll leave alone.

mostly against your will.

but it's okay.
the silence is good.

not all people are bad but at
times it feels like it.

not a good apple on the tree
you think.

but in the end.

it's okay. much of all that happened
means nothing.
the words
said,
are without value.

it's just air from lungs
making noises.

the love found, the love lost.
so it goes.

the dead eyes of strangers
who have nothing,
know this.
they have already moved on.

they get it, before most of us
do.

death will even us all out.

even now

she blames her life
on her mother

her father.

three ex husbands.
it's no fault of her own, she says

to the therapist.
I've done nothing to have this terrible
life,

in ending up alone.

my sins are few and I've gone
to confession.

the priest has forgiven me.

but my mother, my father,
my three ex husbands

they have tortured my soul,
made me who I am today.

even now, I hear their laughter,
their scolding,
I feel the lack of love,
even now
at sixty years old.

the house down the road

the décor, to put it mildly
is glum, not unlike the tenants,

the chairs trying hard to be more
than what they are,

as we do
on occasion, in our happy
dress,

our heels, our scarves.
the world is full of drapes hung
dark
to hide
the light. what light arrives
from
a canopy of trees.

the chandelier an ancient
relic
from
grandma's
dining room, death allowing her
hand
to lose grip, at last,
on it's crystal pendants.

how it flickers with frayed
wires on my former blanche dubois.

her blonde hair, thick and brittle
as her fingers
twist and twist and twist.

the pain of light revealing her
deepening age.

it's nowhere, this place, this
furniture, bought
with money
stolen. it's a style stuck
somewhere between Iraq and a lay-z-boy
clearance.

there is no art upon the walls,
just what one might imagine art to be.

neither new or old is the table,
those hard backed chairs,

the piano, lacquered black
and out of tune emits nothing
but show tunes,
themes of movies,
gloom gloom gloom.

this tomb.

into that good night

so now what, you say to yourself

at this age.

most of the heavy lifting is
over.

is this it?
is this where we end up.

so many loves gone.
so many friends deceased.

is this it.
television, books, small talk
at the coffee shop.

the wreathe on the door at Christmas.

a window facing the woods.

a poem or two to satisfy some
urge
to write.

is this what it was all about.
going out not with a bang,

but with a limp and a whimper into
that good night.

the magic wand

I wish I could wave that magic
wand

and heal.

both body and soul,

the heart, the restless mind.
the brokenness
that resides

in all.

I wish I could change who I am
at times.

the struggle to be good
and right
is hard.

there are hits and strikes.

there are days when you don't want
to get out
of bed.

or think about the past.
dragging
the cart behind you like a workhorse
on
cobblestones.

with the magic wand, so much could
be erased,

so much time wasted could
be retrieved
and spent more wisely.

less pain, less grief.

ah, the magic wand. where is it?

i know her

she comes to me in a dream.

I know her.
she knows me.

I see it in her eyes, and
she in mine.

we've always been one
since birth.

it just took time to end
up in
the same place.

better late, than never.

from dark to light

we regret
we feel sorrow and sadness.

guilt and shame
over things we've said or done,

we wish we could change the mistakes
we've made,

but it's a start to get there.
to
go dark
is just a step
towards the light.

if you didn't feel that way,
things
would never change,

the heart, unexamined,
would never
get right.

for nothing more

the poor look at the rich
and wish
to be one of them, as does the man
or woman
alone,
seeing a couple holding hands,
in love.
they want what they see,
as if happiness
will arrive
at the same time.
the thirsty want water,
the hungry food.
it never ends in filling this
void.
this empty space inside of all
of us,
until we
stop
and pray, to love
and to wish for nothing more.

nothing more nothing less

I've tasted
the absinthe of jealousy,

the bitterness of love gone
astray.

I've felt coursing
through my veins
the green
devil that takes over.

I've let my eyes
fill will blood over women

who don't deserve me,
who don't deserve anyone,
heartless
liars,
most of them, born
to betray,

but they built a home
in my heart.

planted a sick seed with charm.
it was just lust,
that
brought me to my knees.
that let them in.

it's not even love, not
even like,

it's something else entirely.
the passion was
just a primitive
need.

flesh upon flesh. nothing more,
nothing less.

wave after wave

what good are these vows.

we might as well speak them into seashells,
and hold
them to our ears,

turning them over to empty
them out.

nothing.
vapors, harsh whispers.

words that don't count.

like the sea from a distance
as you drive
away

still saying
things that don't matter.

wave after breaking wave.

sea green

it's a sea of green.
a wet
emerald from the hill top
where we sit.

who could invent such a sight,
no ink
no paint, no careful
hand
could possibly create

what lies before us.
this majestic vision.

how can there not be a God
you ask
yourself,

even in the midst of sorrow.

even with the wind in your hair,
the beauty
of you in my mind.

how can there not be more than
this day
we struggle in.

each day a journey to the other
side.

i knew then what i know now

I linger on the thought
of the dead
bat
stuck between home
and pipe.
it's been there for so
long.
once alive, a soft harsh life,
a grey
streak at dusk,
with pin black eyes,
wings made of pointed canvas,
stretched out
into a falling night.
but here it is.
years later.
empty. unmoving.
she pointed it out to
me.
this omen.
this death.
showing me what was to
come. it told me everything.
that all things
between us would
never be right.

nothing left to doubt

the snow is a silken blue,
a downy scarf laid
upon the untrodden path

i'm about to step into.

it reminds me of nothing.
of no one.

it is fresh land, yet
to be discovered.

I've left the grey slush
of yesterday,
of towns I've been to,
behind me.

the grey of smoke,
the lighted fires burning
hard wood
in darkened homes,

sheets of ashes falling
into the troughs of cold
shadows.

I step now, as the kisses
of flakes
light upon my brow,
forward.

the bloom of my breath
before me,
there is nothing left
in my past

to doubt.

back in the ussr

I fell in love with a woman
from the Ukraine once,

online, of course. is there another way
to meet someone
these days?

she was beautiful. long blonde hair,
blue eyes.
high cheek bones.
lean and healthy,
a model in the tall wheat field
with a cool
sun
shining down upon her angelic
face.

she was holding a kitten against
her breasts.

I be smitten with adoration.
she didn't seem to mind the forty years
in age difference, nor did I.

she told me she was in love with me.
that her whole village
was excited that she had finally found
the man of her dreams.

she couldn't wait to fly over
to meet me and to hold
my hand, to be my one and only
forever more.

I had a spring in my step.
my heart was beating like a rabbit.
I carved her name and mine
into a tree in the woods,
I made wedding plans,

cleaned the house, changed
the sheets.
I told all my friends about
her,
how wonderful she was,
I told my family.

I was seeing stars, hearing
wedding bells.
I was on top of the world,
walking on sunshine,

then she called me collect,
from the airport in Moscow,
after her village gave her a rousing
sendoff,
and told me that she needed some money,
a mere
nine hundred and seventy six
dollars to be exact,

sent from my personal bank account
into hers,

as soon as possible.
please, she begged, just this small
amount. I am ready for you. I will
hop onto the plane this minute
just as soon
as you give me the numbers.

dang.

what were you saying?

i'm depressed, she tells me on the phone.

I feel unloved.
the children want money.

the inlaws hate me.
the parents are sick and dying.

my ex is evil.

work is hell.
i'm getting old. I see it when
I look into the mirror,

i'm horrified when i
get on the scale.

none of my clothes fit anymore,
even my shoes are tight.

i'm drinking wine like water.

the world is not on my side anymore,
she says. maybe it's just the holiday
blues.

I feel alone, no one listens to me
anymore,
it's like i'm a non entity.

I have no holiday spirit.

are you still there?
yeah, i'm here, just had to take a
quick shower
and put some clothes on.

what were you saying?

grey smoke

despite being curious about so much,

there are things i'd rather not know.
ever.

i'd rather not even imagine how
some
people are doing now,
but just let
them go.

let them all blow away like ashes
in the wind.
warm, grey smoke
of yesterdays.

figments of an ordinary past,
in extraordinary times.

sediment

we sift
through the layers of our
lives
of sediment
and sentiment.
the bones of the past
settled
dry
and white.
we linger on the photos
that we've
taken,
touch the stones,
the gravel
of the roads we've
come down.
so much left behind.
boxed
and bagged, stuffed
into the caves,
the attics
of our life.

she's out catting around

I see the neighborhood black cat
out in the parking lot,

meowing loudly.
she's in an out of the shadows
beneath the cars.

I open the door and call her over.
hey, hey.

I put a bowl of milk on the stoop,
and a slice
of turkey.

she looks at me and shrugs.
she looks like hell.

I have no idea what she's been up
to these days.

but her hair is matted, and she's
wobbling.
it looks like she's been drinking
and out
catting around once
again.

hey, come here. I yell to her.
finally she saunters over and sips
some milk.

she looks at me with those bottle
green eyes and winces.

arches her back as she rubs
her body between my legs.

I give her my own meow, to which
she has no reply.
what the hell's going on I ask
her, reaching down

to pet her.
she ignores the turkey. sniffs
and shakes her head.

sorry, I tell her, I guess you wanted
white meat.

when's the pick up

everyone is confused

as to when to put the trash out.
some
have set
their bags out early,

on the curb. god help them.
they will be slapped hard with a
reprimand.

the threat of fines.

is it Monday, or Friday,
because
of the holiday.

didn't you read the note that fell
through the slot.

I see the neighbor going
through
my bag, double wrapped,
because that's how I roll,
looking for clues
as to who

put those turkey bones out
overnight.

she finds an envelope and looks
over to my house.

I duck under the window,
and crawl to my room.

there will be hell to pay.

clarity

it's clearer
each day. the muddle of the mind.

distance
and time, go hand in hand
to settle

the water
distill the thoughts.

what wasn't right is wrong.
you can see
all the way to the bottom
of the pool
now.

finally,

nothing is in the way.

free fallling

I remember falling off a roof

and looking up at the pristine blue sky
for those brief
seconds

and thinking
this is it, I may die.

but I landed on my back, in dirt.
enough
to cushion the fall.

I lived.
no blood, no broken bones,
but the next few years I wondered,

as I went through hell
with someone, what was the point,

what lesson learned.
to what end. to live through this?

and then what.
is it all connected, or random.

does God roll dice with the universe
or not,

as Einstein once said.
is each trial a lesson, each fall
a part of the journey

to bring us to where we should be?

the invincible ones

some men, I guess women too,
you can't kill them.

the world can't kill them.
nothing they do can take themselves
out.

no matter how poorly they've lived.
drinking, smoking,
whoring around,

they've lived without boundaries,
consuming
whatever they wanted.

they've escaped the noose time and time
again.

immoral souls. deceitful.
liars and losers, the whole bunch of
them,

but there are, old and grey.
still not humbled by age, or the world
around them.

they are the invincible ones.
they'll bury us
one day, holding the shovel,
laughing over our grave.

new love to rise

i walk up to saint Bernadette's
to sit
outside
the small chapel
near the lighted statue
of mary.
there are flowers there.
gifts
of all sorts.
i see an old man on his
knees
near the wall.
praying, tears in his eyes.
i give him room,
walk home. I've
been there too,
sat in the cold
waiting for old love
to heal,
for new love to rise.

love wins out

she caught a cold,
I caught a cold.
we shared Kleenex.
Tylenol.
lemon tea and chicken soup.
we were two bed
bugs in misery.
but it was love. love
over comes nearly every
thing,
or so I've heard,
though yet to see it
happen with me.

the night before

I prepare my self
for black Friday. I line up

all my credit cards
in a row, on the desk

in front of the computer.
I can't think of anything I
really need

but there are so many great sales
going on

there must be something,

a micro wave, a phone, washer
and dryer,
a fourth tv.

I scratch my head and sigh.
but I have all night to think
about it.

the clock is ticking.

the phone call

I put the phone on speaker.

draw a hot bath.

she babbles on and on and on.
every now and then

I pick the phone up and say,
uh uh. yup.

then set it down again.
I take a bath.

I shave.

I relax and read. I can hear
her go on and on and on,

uh uh, I tell her. yup.

I agree.

she has so much to say and it
really doesn't matter
if i'm there or not.

it's a long talk, I don't want
to interrupt
her, she has so many important
things to say.

finally she stops and catches
her breath and says
she has to go.

she has other calls to make.

we'll, nice chatting. we'll
have to talk again soon
i say, before
hanging up.

take care.

when the music stops

I find my old black book,

my go to rolodex
of old flames

that flamed out for one reason
or another.

everyone is gone.
busy.
in love, married, dead,
or have moved
to florida
because they've given up
or grown old.

settled nicely into some senior
home facing the water,
or highway,
or billboard along the road.
rocking and knitting
with a cat in their lap,
or looking up
a soup
recipe on their phone.

one by one, the ones that
can be reached
all say they same thing.
i'm done. i'm shot. I hate men.

the book is tattered.
worn,
frayed at the edges.
stained with coffee and apple
martinis.

calamari grease.

I throw it into the fire
along
with things they left behind.

stockings and heels, negligees,
lotions and creams,
whips and toy guns,

books on tantric, cosmo
magazines. polaroids.

it wasn't the mensa club by any
stretch of the imagination,
more of a circus
troupe on tour, a wild bunch
of women.

but it was fun until the music
stopped, which was a long
time ago.

the massage appointment

i make an appointment

with amber, my massage therapist.
i need a serious
rub down i tell her.

back, legs, the whole works.
i need the full treatment.

it's been a hell of a year,
i tell her,

don't get me started. that wonderful
woman i told you about last year
ended up being
the wicked witch of the east.

more of a cell mate than a soul
mate. someone should drop a house
on her.

so i need some massaging.

use your knees, break out a rolling
pin
if you have to.

every muscle and joint in my
body needs kneading.

make it for two hours, i don't
care what it costs.

who is this, the woman on the other
line says.

this isn't amber, this is sally,
amber doesn't work here anymore,

she booked a few months ago.

she met some dude on the internet
and took off in his van.

took her table and all her massage
oils and candles too.

dang. i tell her. how's your hands,
are you strong?

we need to run some tests

I put a call in to my doctor,
she wants
me to come in for a visit.

I ask her if there will be tea
and cookies.

she's a cold fish, a sturgeon
pulled out of an ice
hole
in the north pole.

she doesn't laugh, she has no
sense
of humor,
her funny bone was removed at some
point in her educated life.

we need to run some tests, she says
in her dead pan voice.

like what? I tell her, thinking
back to when I used to take my
dog, moe, to the vet.

always with the blood work.
500 bucks a pop. he's a dog for
god's sake.

he ate a dead squirrel, or
a few grub worms, that's why
he's throwing up.

give him some pepto bismol
and he'll be as good as new.

I tell this to doc W, who I haven't
seen in five years,
and she says something like,
whatever.

alright, I tell her, let me
cash in some of my retirement money
and wheel it over
to the waiting room.

is noon okay?

stuffed celery

my mother would set out a tray of about
three hundred
olives on the thanksgiving table.

she'd put them in her special olive
dish she picked up for a dollar
at some yard sale.

the olives, black, green etc. were
all stuffed with cream cheese, or something.

you couldn't help but take a handful and
throw them down
while you waited for the turkey to
finish cooking.

there'd be stalks of celery too, cut
in half, lined up neatly on another dish,
also filled with cream cheese.

they'd all be thrown away.

not once in fifty years did i ever see
anyone eating any of the celery she put out.

the olives, yes. the nuts, the candy,
the chips and chocolate covered pretzels
all gone,

the celery, no takers, but it never stopped
her. every year with the celery.

the good deed

i see the mailman
through the window with his heavy
leather bag,

today he has two.
filled to the brim with letters,
cards,
ads.

he's dragging, so i throw on some
clothes and shoes
and got out to ask him if can help.

sure, he says, giving me his
hat and lighting a cigarette.

you take the odds, he says, and
i'll take the evens.

i look at him and say, but i'd
rather have the evens.

he blows smoke into my face, no,
he says.

it's my way or the highway.
well?

oh for god's sake, i tell him,
i'll take the odds,
and start my route.

but i resent it the whole way.
and it's not as much fun as i
thought it would be.

why are all these dogs barking
and trying to get through
the door to bite me?

june and ward

it's a heavy stone
we carry.

strapped to our backs.
making each
step harder than the one before.

childhood
can be a beast when you don't
set that rock down
and let
it roll away.

how often do you hear the words,
my mother
my father
did this or that,

fifty years ago.

if it wasn't for them I wouldn't
be where I am
today.

which can go either way,
I suppose.

there is the rare june and ward
cleaver
out there as well.

milagro

I know I say this all the time,

but I love my maid
milagro.

not love love, but love in the sense
of how
she cleans my house
to a nice pine sol sparkle.

the sheets changed.
the pillows stacked just so.

the kitchen gleaming,
no grease on the stove.

the bathrooms are perfect.
the folded towel.
the new bar of soap.

the fresh clean rug, and that
tub.
oh my that clean white porcelain
tub.

books aligned and placed in rows.

let's go into the basement now.
look how she vacuumed it so nice
into v shaped patterns.

flowers in the vase.
wine glasses on the stand.

the laundry folded. the socks
sorted.
shirts and towels
so neatly
placed in a basket.

milagro, she's gold.

help me, i'm poor again

we all do stupid things,

take my sister for example.
okay,
bad choice.

the list is too long there,
and she
means well.

a very kind heart, though
misguided at times.

but we all have lapses
in judgement.

don't give money to people
who don't have
money.

not the poor and indigent,
the lost
souls,
but those that have worked
their whole
lives
and blew it all on wine
women and song.

or sex drugs and alcohol.

they will recover, they always do.
given time,
given enough ways to dig
their way out of the hole
they've dug
themselves into for the tenth
time.

some people are the proverbial
cat
with nine lives.

and when they're in mid flight
when falling
their hands are out,
begging for help.
I've seen it over and over
and over again.

he used to whistle

he used to whistle
all the time
in his yellow sweater
his silver
gabardines.
his polished wing tips.
no longer working.
retired from the railroad.
AA cleaned him up pretty good.
he loved to whistle
and drive
his big white caddy down
the boulevard.
going to the barber shop for
a shave and a flat top.
he knew everyone's name.
hey sport, he'd say with a smile
when he saw you
coming up the walkway.
he was bing, frank, dean
all wrapped in one.
old school. very old school.
those kind have come
and gone.
I miss him.

night reading

there's beauty
and grace
in silence.
no cross words spoken.
no rolling of eyes.
no resentment,
no betrayal or lies.
just the soft night
light
on a book
as you read and thank
God,
you've come out the other
side.

out of hell

this time last year

I was on the street. the black
wet street.

in another part of town, walking
in the dead of night.

trying to figure out my life, how
I got mixed up

with some crazy nut I met online.
tangled with up vows
and a ring.

insanity to the nth degree.
but I got out somehow, crawled

through the sewer pipe like
andy Dupree. over the fence, out

of Shawshank. finally free.
no cell can hold me now.

naughty or nice

I don't think santa is coming around
this Christmas eve.

just a feeling.

no socks, no books, no stockings
filled
with little treats.

not a gizmo under the tree.
I might get coal. it's been that kind
of a year.

I've even taken down the mistletoe.
no kissing going on here.
that sled has slipped away.

but i'll set out a slice of pie
and a glass of milk

just in case ole nick
changes his mind.

three bottles of wine

i see the small woman in the grocery store.
shuffling
with her cart,
the wheel giving her fits,

but she seems

happy as she lifts a twenty five pound
frozen turkey
into her cart.

ten pounds of red potatoes are in there too.
sweet potatoes.
onions, celery. a bag of sugar.

olives, of different sorts.

bread for stuffing, cranberries.
pies and
vegetables.

her face is blush with tiredness
as she moves on
under the fluorescent lights,
making it all
seem dream like,
this supermarket.

i can see her thinking of gravy,
of who's coming,

who can't make it this time.

she's in her glory, her element.
a purse full of coupons and a long
list
she doesn't really need.

she's been down this road,
these aisles before.

what now, of course, she puts in
a large bag of marshmallows.

then wine, not one, not two but
three
bottles,
others will bring more.

give me some

skin hunger

is everywhere. who doesn't need
the human

touch.

the closeness of another.
who can

live without a hand in yours,
on your shoulder,

surrounding you
in sleep

or in pain.

we all have skin hunger.

babies die from the lack of it.
children fail
before they start,
adults
wither and die

without it.

give me some.

taking a higher road

whether drink
or drugs, or sex, or exercise,
or work,

we find something, or someone
to soothe
our aches.

to alleviate the pain we've
accumulated
after life on earth

hasn't been so great.

we need a fix of some sort,
or we bury our heads
in the sand
and submerge

our troubles, never getting
right,
or healthy.

it's the easy way out, the one
we've always taken,

not the other road, the hard
road,
the path to freedom, free
from the bonds

the mistakes we've made.
it's a difficult way to go,
but it's the only
way.

the gold watch

i look at my gold watch

that the company gave me for my retirement.
i put it to my
ear.

it ticks loudly. it's a fine watch.

i earned it after thirty years
at this desk,

shuffling papers, watching the seasons
change out the window.

there is grey in my hair,
marriages have come and gone.
the children are grown.

the boxes are full of pictures, proving
how wonderful my
life has been.

and now this watch strapped to my wrist.

it's not quite over, this life,
the clock is ticking, but its nearly
at the end.

smoking dopes

i remember when in college
smoking
the wacky weed.

inhaling the smoke, the mary
jane
as we sat around

like dopes, listening to Hendrix,
Joplin
and doors.

it just made me hungry, tired,
paranoid and bored.

an imaginary state of being happy.

i can do that on my own now
without a joint,

those that i knew that still
indulge, have no memory.

wasted still at this old age.
stuck in the past,
with the same music, the same
incurable
needs.

christmas gifts

i used to send books to my father.

but his eyes are bad now. he's done with
books.

he's given up on sweets too.
so no candy, or cakes
are coming in the mail.

meals on wheels has him covered
for food.

so what does he need this Christmas,
his ninety first
on the planet.

perhaps a visit. a loved one
bringing nothing
but a voice, a heart.

just me.

time to move on

i'm done with waiting.

done.

I quit, it's time to move on.
pack the bags,

gas up the car.

get out, have fun,
reboot this life of other's
misery.

waiting, always waiting for
them
to come around.

to be less busy,
less complicated.
more happy.

it's time

to get over it.
they'll never be who you want
them to
be,

and likewise, the same
holds true for you.

the clean slate

the clean slate.
the wiped board, the new white
sheet
of paper.
the sharpened pencil,
the jar
of ink.
a new start, a new way,
a new
beginning.
the rolodex is frayed.
time
for the new,
new love, new work,
a brand
new day.

into thin air

it's not magic,

there is no slight of hand,
no trick
to it.

no abbra cadabra,
no false box,

no mirrors, no smoke.
no
chant or spell,

no lesson learned from
Houdini's bag
of tricks.

people just disappear
when
they're ready.

into thin air.

the apple martini shower

I was in a bar once,

at a table, celebrating someone's
birthday.

a swanky place, with chain
link
curtains,

marble, glass and steel.
blue lights.

the waitresses dressed in leather
skirts and fishnet
stockings.

we all ordered martinis,
the six of us around the table,

and out they came on a teetering
tray
carried by a young waitress
in heels,

wobbling all the way.

when she reached our table,
she tripped
and down

they all came on top of me.
glasses, tray and all,
six apple martinis
on my head, my clothes

onto my lap.

the waitress ran away, screaming,
out the door she went,

down the street, she's probably
still running.

they offered to pay for dry
cleaning, but I said nah, it's okay,
and ordered
another drink.

way behind on the holidays

i'm way behind on my holidays.

i'm still on the fourth of july,

with the flags up, the fireworks
still in the yard,

charred black and tilted in the tall
grass.

I haven't even carved a pumpkin yet.
in fact
it's soft and mushy
on the porch.

i need to run to the store for some
swanson frozen tv dinners.

turkey, before they run out.
then go to the mall for a plastic
tree.

i'm way behind this year
on a lot of things. but i have
an old

ten year bottle of asti spumante
for new years eve.

so i got that night covered.

the relationships

each relationship has been
different
but alike in so many ways.

what's missed?

depends.
conversation. sharing life.

intimacy.

coffee in the morning. tv
late at night.

the presence of love in the room,
in bed.

skin against skin. lips
against lips,

small things. a touch, a smile,
support
and trust.

the life ahead.

but there have been bad ones
too.

tears, a separation,
each
to their own side of the bed.

the cool wordless mornings.
the silence,

the fear and tension that
would fill
the day ahead.

loneliness beyond words,

the worry and anxiety of misplaced
love.
both stuck in quicksand
with no way out.

walking the lake

it's a good day to run.

the winds have stilled. the sky
is blue.

a chill in the air. on days like
this
i'd be at the park
by now,

running.
through the woods, along
the gravel path,

the mud, the wet trees
hanging over.

my lungs would burn,
as my legs churned around each
bend, up
each hill.

forward, ever forward around
the lake.

but times have changed, now
i bend over
for a stick

and walk it, but glad for even
that.

her lingerie

i find another piece
of her lingerie

in my closet. the week i told
her
to get out of my house,

she left behind
a bag of chocolates,

a hand written note of apology,
fake of course,

a bottle of vodka
and lingerie
on a hanger

in the closet that was once
hers. one can see how her
psychotic mind
works,

but now i find another slip
of hers,
a silk black teddy

on the top shelf of my closet,
out of sight for all these months,
a reminder of some dark sort.

she has become gum
stuck to the bottom of my
psyche shoe.

i think about throwing it
in the yard of her ex husband
where she lives now,

next door to her married boyfriend,

but don't. i toss it in the trash.
and wash my hands.

the chocolates however, were delicious.

the bank teller

the guy at the bank, Kamil,
wears a turban, has a long white
beard.
he's normally in lounge wear,
a white robe
or light blue of some sort.

years ago, I was in a bad place,
angry
at something or someone
for some
small thing, it was the heat,
the work,

on my last nerve, going through
a horrific relationship,

but I just lost it and yelled
at Kamil
when he told me
I had to go inside the bank

to take care of my transactions.
he had just started work there
and was cautious.

I said something like
I've been banking here
for fifty years,

and I can't believe this.

the manager came over to the window
and straightened it
all out.

I was embarrassed, felt dumb
and ridiculous. but since then,
we've become friends.

we talk weather and family,
count your change, he says,
smiling.

we've come to know each other

as much as one can with a teller
at the bank, pushing out the metal
drawer for your slips
of paper.

the iron fence between us

as kids
we would take the bus up
to the Atlantic movie
theater
for a three flick matinee,
all day.
and then afterwards
we'd wander further up
south capitol street
to St. Elizabeth's.
the asylum, red stoned
and surrounded by an iron
fence, a guarded gate.
it's where they kept
ezra pound, the poet at
once upon time, and other
distinguished souls.
we'd see the men and women
wandering about, disheveled
and lost
in their own clothes. talking
to themselves, or the sky,
or to trees.
men in suits, women in
their summer dresses, hair
done. shoes, neat and clean
as if their minds were fine.
but they weren't.
we looked in at wonder
at this strange island
of the mentally ill.
our hands curled on the iron
bars that separated us
from them. there was
no laughing, no pointing.
we said little to one another,
taking it all in, but were
deeply affected by what
we saw.
so when my mother was checked
in, I knew what it was,
where she would be.
I prayed it wasn't going
to be her end.

the millionaire

there used to be a television show
called
the millionaire,
the whole plot of the show
was how
a guy would go around
and anonymously
give out a million dollars
to someone who deserved it.
that seems like it would be
fun. but how would you choose.
who gets the dough, who is
deserving of such a gift.
will money make their lives
worse, will they waste it
as so many lottery winners
do, losing friends and family
in the greed driven process.
would you give it to the man
or woman on the corner everyday
with their cardboard sign,
or to someone sick and dying.
would you give it to a kid
wanting to go to college
without a parent to help them.
would you give it to anyone
who has already lived a life
of excess, living beyond their
means daily, accumulating bills
and insurmountable debt.
who gets a million dollars
these days, the church? with all
the shenanigans that go on there.
a hospital, orphans.
how do you know who will put
the money to good use, or abuse
it. you know that the money
won't change character, won't
make anyone more moral,
or caring. it won't change
a thing. so how do you find
someone good, who needs it.
is there anyone good anymore?
it might be a just one episode
if it was made today.
because maybe no one
would be found worthy.

that christmas spirit

you need to get into the Christmas
spirit she says,
spraying whipped cream into her second
glass
of spiked eggnog.
there's a white frothy mustache
on her upper lip
and her eyes are glassy.
come on she says, putting andy
Williams on the stereo.
let's dance. quit being such
a scrooge.
it's the most wonderful time
of the year, she sings along
with smooth andy.
I get up from the couch
in my pajamas and put
the newspaper down. I take
her hand and away we go.
around and around until
she gets dizzy and falls into
the tree, then has to run
to the bathroom where I hear
her groan.

served cold

revenge is best served cold.

they say.

but they say a lot of things you
don't necessarily agree with.

who are they?

but it is a dark sweetness
to finally
have the last word.

even way down the road.

to pull back the curtain, to
show
what's been hidden
for so long.

it's what they fear most,
being found out.

happily you oblige
to set them free and not
a second too late.

more or less

more of this.

less of that. more listening.
less
talking.

more rest.
less being busy.

less worry, more hope.

less stress,
more fun.

less boredom, more
wonder.

more exercise, less
food.

less looking backward,
more forward.

less evil, more
love.

the farmer's market

i go the farmer's market
in the early morning. I've heard
through
the grapevine
that they have tomatoes.
ripe and red, straight from
the farm, hand picked.
god knows i need a good tomato.
i may have bought one once,
last summer.
but they have bread too,
home made by some woman or
man with braids and a peace
sign t-shirt, still living
in the ether world of
Woodstock.
gingerbread, yup.
bricks of it wrapped up
and ready to go.
they have pumpkins too.
and apple cider, real apple
cider, squished in wooden
barrels by blue eyed children
without shoes.
sausages, and cakes.
scarves and bracelets.
it's a festival. it's the sixties
all over again.
i hear someone strumming
a banjo,
and someone else banging on
some bongos. there's
organic carrots, organic lettuce,
organic lambchops, and carob
muffins, freshly baked.
grow a beard, put on a pilgrim
dress. all year long.
it's the best.