two men walking

as i walk down the pathway,

heading south, along
the creek

i run into a guy about as old
as i am.

he has a dog with him,
not on a leash.

but he's a good dog.
he listens
and obeys.
we start talking.

remember before the bridge?
remember

when the water rose up
to the fences?

remember this, and that.
we chat

the whole length of the walk.
no names.

no handshakes, but we connect
in some human
way

that's rare these days.
just a talk with two aging men,

through the woods, then home
again.

I'm Done

how many lines in the sand
do you need to draw,

how many lies do you need
to hear,
one two three,

a dozen?

how many times do they
need to cheat and deceive,

hurt and abuse you
before you leave,

how many times will you
forgive and excuse
their behavior

before you say enough,

enough,

you've shown me who you are,
i'm done.

you don't deserve me.

the wealth of work

it's good to be tired.

to have your body ache with the pain
of work.

your hands cramping, your legs
heavy.
the day is done.

the dust is off.
the boots are in the closet.

gloves
in the trunk.

it's good to be tired.
a week
gone by.

a drink in hand. a meal in front
of you.

no drama, no trouble, nothing
unplanned.

it's good to be tired.

not rich, not poor, but wealthy
in the fact
of

having a job well done.

doctor renovation

she's on another mission.

this time it's
the bathroom.

she shows me her hammers.

the claw, the mallet, the sledge.
I see her chisel

on the edge of the sink. her goggles.

she wraps her tool belt around her
and goes at it.

I think she likes doing this as much
as she likes
healing the sick,

being a real doctor.

tear it down, then build it up.

I may get her a twenty foot ladder
for Christmas
and a chain saw.

the top branches need trimming, 

and the gutters

need cleaning.

rewrite

we revise, we edit, we rewrite.

it's our history, we'll do whatever we
want with it.

damn right.
damn wrong.

who's to know in a hundred years.

so you sift through the debris
of what wars
you've been in.

sticking mostly to the truth.
sometimes a good lie works better.

we add, we subtract, we make it
of interest, at least to us.

it's our story. go write your
own

if mine isn't good enough.
here's a pen,

a pad of paper, hop to it.

at last

there is a sweet sigh

of at last

coming from the mouths of drivers
going home.

of children
leaving school.

the elderly waiting on a meal,
or to be
taken

to the park.

at last.

at last love, at last peace.

at last the end
of what bores you, what ails

you,
what's brought you to your knees.

at last.

two words that roll softly off
your tired

lips. you're home. you're
in the arms

of someone you love
and loves
you back.

at last.

worry is for the day

when the man
comes to see what's killed you,

he leans over
your bent body on the street

draped in the glow of red
light,

and you look into his eyes.
you see the worry

on his young face.
the concern.

you want to tell him, it's okay.
you've done nothing
wrong.

this is life.
the end of life.

there is nothing right or
wrong to say.

just carry me from here.
take me,
peacefully

to my grave. worry is for
the day.

not night.

get lucky

let's go have some fun

I tell her,
putting the top down on
the convertible.

hitting the pedal as we
whoosh
out of town.

let's spend some money,
get a bottle

of good red wine.

go on a picnic, lay out
in the sun.

we're both way over due
for a good time.

a fun night or two
on the eastern shore,

or head west to the hills.
I love that song, turn
it up.

let's watch as the sun
sets,
and then kiss like lovers
do

when that silver moon
appears.

let's get lucky
together.

it's not a second too soon.

the thrill is gone

I open the closet door
in the basement

and see the old art that once
hung on
my walls.

dust covered, no longer giving
me that
desire

to hang them up again.
i'm sort of done with them.

there is no joy in these

pictures, art, paintings
from the past.

the ex is part of this too.

done and out to the curb they
all go.

the end of the world

word gets out on the street
that the black

plague has returned.

it's the middle ages once more.

eyes are falling out.
blood

runs deep.
people are dying in droves.

(a word I've been longing to use)

there is panic.
heads are covered

mouths are masked. it's the end
of the world

as we know it.

signs go up all over town, closed
because of the plague

stay in your homes, hunker
down.

be brave. this too shall pass.

repent, repent the church crier
yells

from bell tower,
while he blows his nose.

there's a line at the liquor store,
that circles the block

and goes and goes.

sweet blackberries

the sign says

sweet blackberries. I can read English.

so I buy
three small plastic containers.

ten dollars. whether that's low
or high,
who knows.

but they are black and ripe,
plump would be the word
to use.

they look delicious in the cold
light
of the supermarket

at this late hour.

but sweet.
oh my.

hardly. I pucker my lips
and look

for the sugar bowl when
I get
home

and pop one into my hungry mouth.

everything but a window

there are intermittent showers
expected.

a killing frost.

a hard wind.
a cold front.

the weather man in his sharp
suit
and red tie

is a maestro at the big board.
a wand
in his hand

predicting with casual ease
what doppler
radar
tells him.

where the moon will be.
how quickly
the sun will rise.

it's by satellite, by the almanac,
the guess
and feel.

a phd in meteorology.

everything but a window
showing
us what is real.

on my way

i'm on my way.

just need to shower, change.

get gas,
brush my teeth, find
my keys

my wallet, my brain,

a clean shirt,

my brown shoes and and
and

I think that's it.

but really, honestly the second
I hit

the button on this
poem

i'm no my way.

is the key under the mat?

Adieu Ma Belle

s'cartent de moi, prendre
qui vous etes.

avec toi, pas la personne que tu
as prentendu etre.

pretendre l'obscurite de votre ame
et drape autour d'un autre.
j'ai vu le jour,

et vous n'en faites pas partie
tu ne l'aurais jamais ete,

ne le serait jamais.
Gardons-le comme ca

je suis tombe amoureux de
quelqu'un qui n'existait pas.
un coeur creux,

un loup en vetements de
moutons.
s'ecarter de ma femme malade.
aller et partir,

vous n etes pas recherche ici.
je n'ai pas plus de sang a saigner

aller mentir aux autres.
trahir et tromper. c'est qui vous

etes.
qui vous etes, qui vous serez toujours,
s'ecartent de moi ma belle.

mais en verite, vous n'avez jamais
ete que

belle pour commencer.

yelling up the stairs

okay, okay

I tell myself. get in the shower.
get dressed.

go get your coffee.
get going.

but the kid in me wants
to hit the snooze
button

on the day.

linger, lolly gag,
procrastinate,

delay.

I need a mom yelling up the stairs
yelling at me.

you're going to miss
the bus.

and another day of school, you'll
be a complete

failure
if you don't get moving.

you'll be just like your father.

that does it.
off I go.

the horse in the field

back at the old house.

three hundred years old,
i look

at the job before me.
the wallpaper that has to come down.

the cracks in the walls,
the gaps
in the baseboards,
the crown

moldings.

the wobbly rails, the shaky
lights.

you can almost feel the dead
in here.

the ghosts
long gone tenants.

the children that lived here.

you can hear the conversations.
see the woman

in the kitchen
starting her day, a long day

depending on sunlight
and candles.

the horse outside in the field.
the smoke house.

the outhouse.
the chimney with its slender
ribbon
of white and grey.

the night shift

I wasn't good at the night shift.

going to work
when everyone else was going
home.

what was I missing.
what thrills
of that age

would slip through my fingers.
what girl
would
my friends meet without me.

but I needed the money.
who couldn't

wash dishes,
set tables, mop floors

in a restaurant in the wee
hours of night
into morning?

it lasted one night.
then I threw my apron

covered in grease and ketchup,
the slop
of diners,

on the table, and said.
I quit after getting paid
in cash

for a nights work.

old town

as I ride through the streets
at this hour,

left turn, then right,
over the cobblestones. I see
the yellow

squares of windows.
the movement of shadows.

is there love up there.
what's going on

in darkness. who's sick,
who's dying.

what baby is in a crib, new
born
into this

crazy world?

I roll slowly through the quiet town,
the sidewalks
rolled

up tight on a Wednesday night.

I think that everyone who's
alive right
now

in a state of worry or joy
will be dead in a hundred
years or less.

so what's the point?

but i'm hungry and I have no more
time for

thoughts like this.

filing single

the tax lady, betty,
calls and says are you sitting down.

you have to pay this year.

I take a seat.
you made more money last year,
she says.

pausing.
I can almost hear her stroking
the cat
on her desk.

yes? I say. go on.

well, for state, it's this much.
hardly anything.

but for federal, well, it's a lot.

I tell her okay.
it's just money. money that i'll
probably never

even spend.
we'll good she says, let me know
when you want to stop

by and pick them up.

oh and by the way, she says,
of course you're filing single again,
right?

yes. forever and ever and ever,
I tell her,
both of us laughing loudly.

call me before you make that
stupid mistake again,

she says. I will, I tell her.
I will, and then hang up.

monday wednesday

the sun has no trouble
getting
up
and going at it.
doing what it needs to do
to warm
the earth,
to bring the light.
I actually like the sun,
but not at
the moment.
putting a pillow over
my head
to block its
yellow
voice, telling me to rise
and shine.
I have no shine in me
at the moment.
it feels like Monday
and yet it's only Wednesday.
I reach up
and pull the blinds
tight, but to no
avail.
it's found the other rooms
as well.

if only it was that easy

I see the yoga mats.

the meditation books. the candles.
the quiet

rooms
for meditation.

hot yoga, cold yoga.
indian yoga.

small town, big city yoga.
there's a new guru on every corner,

and yet, how rare it is to meet
anyone

that's calm
and spiritual, relaxed

and accepting of the life
they are in.

new age spiritualism
seems
to be a scam, a trick,

another way in selling
things.

buy this and get enlightenment,
if only

it was that easy.

bad lettuce and the flu

I know I know,
I don't mean to diminish the pain
and suffering

of anyone who gets the flu,
whatever flu

it happens to be, and after dozens
of people
die from it,

it's truly tragic, regardless of age,
nationality, race
or creed.

everyone should live a long and healthy
life.

but the media
sounds the alarm over and over again
until there
is virtual panic

in the streets.

600000 people a year, in this country
alone

die from the direct result of cigarette
smoking.

not a peep. not a whistle, not a church
bell rung.

six people get sick from lettuce
or jalapenos

and they shut down the industry.
the hypocrisy is insane.

kiss mary

from an aerial view

everything is small. the houses,
the buildings.

the bridges. mere toys,
sticks
across water.

the cars, bugs crawling across
the curve
of the blue earth

into
the ant farms that we live in.

insects from high above.
even our
issues.

our problems seem small
from the heavens.

our troubles seem insignificant
compared
to the vast universe
beyond.

whether money, or love,
death.

all of this will pass, and
even the universe
itself will one day run out of steam,

collapse.

so why worry. why be bothered.
eat drink, find someone named
mary

and kiss her.

it's all relatively
small stuff.

I guess.

the doctor visit

the doctor hits my
knee
with her rubber mallet,

to which I say, ouch.
what the hell?

reflexes are good, she says,
writing that down.

then she
hits me on the back.

thumping me with her fist.
breathing is good,
she says.

then she pokes me in the stomach
with her stethoscope.

what's that for
I ask her.

you forgot my birthday, she
says.

no flowers, no chocolates,
no gifts.

time for a shot, she says.
this will hurt, a lot.

roll over and unbuckle.

the vandellas

have you ever had
peruvian
chicken my friend martha asks me

peeking her head around
from the kitchen.

I ask her where the vandellas
are these days.

she looks at me and say I have no
idea what you're talking about.


she's too young for the song,
heat wave.

she claims to be a magician
with the chicken
though.

so I stuff a napkin into my
shirt
collar

and dig in when she brings
us out a plate of chicken

with a big ladle of rice.

it's good. spicy, hot. just
right.

tender and juicy. I start singing.

like a heat wave and she says,
yeah, yeah.

I know that song. who sings it?

homeward bound

three flights of stairs,
up
and up and up.

I carry everything in
from the truck.

then move the truck because it's Monday
and the right

side of the street

is being swept clean
by the city today between

noon and two.
I find a spot on Georgia avenue,

across the street
from a tattoo parlor,

a rib joint, a strip club and
a 7-11.

there's a drug deal going
down in the alley.
there's a car

on cinder blocks.
something in the park
is on fire.

cops are nowhere
to be found.

business is booming.

I get my job done.

half surprised that
the truck is still there.

i'm homeward bound
again.

stray birds

I've had no visitors

in the bird bath for some time now.
the grey stone

shallow
trough is full of rain

water,

but no winged creatures
have ventured in

at least when i'm looking out
the window.

too cold?

too windy? maybe,
or maybe they've bathed
elsewhere.

we all stray at times.

who's to know.

five new chairs

I buy five new chairs

for the round dining room table.

the old ones of bonded leather
have had their
day in the sun.

crinkled and strangely old
despite
rarely being sat on.

so I find new ones. genuine
leather,
I insist

to the blonde woman with a
phone
and a pen, and a pad.

eagerly stretching out her hand
for my card.

let's go with sand, I tell her.
five.

Saturday delivery, please.
sure she says,
not a problem.

I take a picture of the new chairs
and send it along
for
agreement, or disagreement.

she says, why five, why not four?

and I tell her, five will be
good

when we have a party to celebrate
us being back

together again. to which she laughs,
and says

I have to go, but I do like the color
sand.

your favorite color

she asks me what my favorite
color
is.

blue, indigo,
a shade
of either

is nice, I tell her.

and you?
celadon, she replies.

where it goes from there,
is
unknown.

but life is full of surprises.

colors though,
are out of the way now,

at least for now,
I suppose.

don't chase love

to call
or not to call. i pick
the petals
clean off the daisy.
decisions
decisions.

text or not to text.
email
or not email.

just stop by perhaps.
a spontaneous hey,
i was passing by,
or not.

send flowers?
maybe.
a nice card saying
all

is forgiven. send her
a recording of al green
singing

back together again.

maybe a gift basket.
no.

an edible bouquet of fruit.
hell no.

i scratch my head, put my hand
on my chin.
and ponder.

nothing seems right.

nothing is right.

love can be like that

i push the basket around

the store.

i put in a new set of sheets.
blue

of course.

a bowl for the table.
towels,

who doesn't need new towels?

i see a picture,
an abstract of indigo paint
splashed

incoherently on a white
short
canvas.

i like it. in the cart it goes.

a bar of soap.
a fake
plant that looks really
real

in a certain light.
a corner perhaps.

i circle, then circle again.
but this time

putting everything back.
somehow

I've lost the urge. the desire
for new things,

love can be like that.

it's my nature

it's my nature
to destroy, burn, crush,
delete,
block
and completely cleanse
all things
connected
with the past when things
have gone
wrong.
when the truth is known
and there's
no turning back.
it's darkly fun.
it feels good.
vengeful.
but deep inside I feel
the shame
of being
so ego driven, so hurt,
so affected by
the sins of others
thinking somehow that
they'd come around
and at last be who they
pretended to be,
if given enough time.
but again,
it's not me, not in my
nature
to stick it out once
the truth is found.
fuck that.
where's the hammer?
where's the saw,
the scissors,
the scalpel. the axe.
the barrel of fire
to burn it all,
to get this done,
where's
the shovel to put it
all in the ground?

the things i used to know

I follow the path down to the stream.

and stare into
the blue grey sleeve
of water

rushing to where it needs to go.

mindless and yet correct.

I bend
to the edge of the water
and let my hand

fall into the cold flow.
I feel

the numbness in my hand,
down to the bone,
but keep it there.

I want more. I want to feel
the pain,
feel
the things that I used to know.

safeway has fish now

i see them at the river bank
their rods
extended over the rocks,
casting,
baiting the hooks,
sinkers in place,
a basket beside them,
a bucket for any fish
they might catch.
i yell out and tell them
that Safeway
has fish now.
filets, salmon, trout,
you name it.
no need to stand here in
the cold
any longer trying
to catch those elusive
fish, which makes
them shake their heads
and give me a one
finger wave.

a sunday washing

they sing,
dressed in their sunday
clothes.

they have ashes on their forehead.
they kneel.

they pray.
confess and repent.

they drop a coin into the basket,
shake hands

and say, peace be with you.

it all sticks for an hour or two.

made holy
again.

then the day moves on

and it's back to being
who they really are,

untrue.

third warning

your red
door is painted the wrong red.

you must conform.

the legal document is stamped
and sealed

delivered through the U.S.
mail
to me.

you've been warned time and
time again.

conform.

get it right or there will be
hell to

pay.

you have fourteen days
and then the wrath of God

will be upon
you if you don't obey.

have a good day.

the condo board.

the hidden prose

fear leads
to wonder, to answers.

you become a detective.
you learn

the code,
passwords, you know where
to look

where to go
to uncover the madness

that darkens your soul.
your gut tells you all,

but the truth has not yet
set you free,
you need more.

you are light on
your feet,

savvy in the ways of others.
you read
body language, the long
stare,

the anxious pose. sherlock
holmes has
nothing on you.

you read between the lines,
listen to
the untrue words that unfold.

you find out everything you
need to know.

you find the fingerprints,
the gun, the knife,

a trail of blood,
the hidden

prose.

quiet being gold

refreshing, this February air.

this arctic blast.
how it stings gaily at my face

as I go down
through the woods, the lake,
a familiar

and well worn path.

the water is more blue than
ever.
a shimmering sheet of metal,

the sky and green, the cold
rocks
and sand below.

few are out in this wind.
even the birds are lying low.

which makes
it even better.

quiet being gold.

Weekend Work

work is her salvation.
burrowed in behind the locked

door of the office.

she needs the desk, the screen
the phones.

the quietness of Saturday
and sunday

alone.

no office mate to close the door
behind.

no boss wondering where
his glasses
or keys are.

she finds strange solace, bent
at the cold machines,

texting, or talking to whomever
she wants to.

no guilt, no fear, no worries
anymore
about being caught

with all her lies.

her long hands on
on the keyboard
she wiles away the hours.

wishing dark would come.
it's not about money, or ambition.

it's about having nothing
else to do

with her life.
and the years trickle by
like a cold

rain, as she sits
and looks out window,

knowing sadly, that
there is no place better
to hide.

her in arizona, me here

we talk
for two hours.

the conversation goes everywhere.

she in Arizona,
me here.

her with green cabinets.
that santa fe

look.

the golden sky.
the dry
field.

the dust and weary cacti,
horses
running loose.

we talk. we talk. we eat.
we drink.

we rest the phone between our
shoulders.

two strangers
on the wire, on the line
in the air.

silence is rare, then we go
on about

our lives. finally hanging up.
her in arizona,

me here.

the other world

the other world

comes to us in dreams.
in

brokenness. in heartfelt
prayer.

submission and surrender
are doors

to it.
to answers.

for love and understanding.

the other world,
don't laugh, is real.

it's not easy, but

I've been over there
many time.

paying dearly for a glimpse
through pain and suffering,

in gaining the ephemeral
knowledge
of it all,

the absence of fear.

saying no

if you truly
care about yourself,

love yourself, respect yourself.

want the best for yourself,
you have to say no

on a regular basis.

no to anyone that comes into your life
with bad
intentions.

no to anyone that lies to you.

anyone that gaslights you,
charms you.

manipulates you.
any sort of intentional or
unintentional abuse.

no, not for me. go and leave.

you have to say no, and no again.
this is the only

way to stay healthy and happy,
keeping the sheep
in wolves clothing

away. say no. don't let
them in.

self love

I normally get up at seven thirty,

but this morning, I treat myself and sleep
until

seven thirty five.

then finally sit up,
refreshed and alive. I stretch
and yawn.

a sweet extra few minutes. but I deserve
it.

I work hard.
we all need that extra bit of time
to unwind

and relax.

self love, baby. self love.

playing with fire

we all have a relationship with fire.

the fireplace in your parents home.
the blue light
of logs burning.

some idyllic memory
of the family gathered, the dog,
etc.

a mythic Rockwell painting.

the teenage smoke behind the school,
the struck match
held to the cigarette.

the house on fire, the engines,
red
and loud,
the hoses spraying the roof.
the sirens, the sirens.

the barrel in the woods
or on the street with the homeless
gathered,
hands rubbed over
the yellow heat.

the campfire.
the marshmallows on sticks.

the stove, with a pot of water
above
the flames
that swim and lick.

and then the trashcan in the yard
full of leaves
and sticks.

all the memorabilia and pictures
that never
really did exist.
tossed in one by one.

all of it up into the sky.
sweet gray ashes going
bye and bye.

catholic guilt

your catholic guilt

rises
on occasion.

you feel bad and sorry,
and apologize

for any harm, or misunderstandings
that may
have
occurred.

so much is your fault,
along with hers.

but you try
to do better

the next time. to be honest,
and true.

to be kind
and compassionate. to forgive,

but the other side is a part
of you too.

so guilt is a good thing,
a blessing in
disguise,
it
can throw

you to the wolves,
but it doesn't have to.

the exact opposite

you want romance.

you want words without speaking.

eye to eye.
heart to heart.
giving

and receiving.
you

want not something that resembles love.
not love
lite,

not love washed out.
not
empty love.

you want the real thing from a real
person.

you want romance.
to dance.

to sing, to laugh and cry together.
and see it

through to the end.
whatever end

that might be.

you want romance, not what
came

before.
the exact opposite, in fact,

would be fine.

watching the detective

the neighbor
keeps an eye on the neighbor hood

with his new camera
door bell.

his cameras
in the front and back,

inside as well.

he's gone dark, gone cia on us.
he knows all.

our late night endeavors,
who comes

who goes.

he's on top of things.
keeping a list.

he's watching and listening
to every word
spoken,

every snake with a hiss.

raccoons have no chance
at the trash.

the cars are safe.
every sound is heard,

every movement captured.
there is nothing left to chance.

the ink well

i'm out of stamps.

out of envelopes.
empty of paper to write on.

save me from going paperless.
save me

from online banking.
from never seeing a bill in my hands.

save me from paypal
and credit cards,
debit

and bitcoins, (whatever they are)

please,
keep the mail coming.

I need my checkbook,
my

balanced account done under
the desk lamp

with ink and twill.

who's to blame

who's to blame.

my fault, her fault.

the fault of vodka,
the night air. the
music.

a full moon and conversation.

we should stop, but don't.

who's fault is it when things
don't go
the way

you think they should.
it's not always love,

or even like,
sometimes it's a mistake made,

a muddled agreement,
mutual and wrong
to go onward,

an error in judgement,
with shame and regret,

for both, it's
something

done in the dark, without
a light.

on hands and knees

on my hands and knees,

like my Philadelphia grandmother,
Lena Orsini.
i go
out and scrub

the front porch
with a hot bucket of soapy
water,

a brush, a rag,
a towel.

it's a cold day, but the porch
needs cleaning.

i'm out there for an hour
or two.
a raw wind in my face,

going at it hard.
my knuckles bleed into
the concrete

as they scrape across
the slab.
i realize what i'm doing,

i'm not fool, although
others may disagree, i know

that this has nothing to do
with the porch,

but has a deeper more
metaphorical
meaning.

i'll get it clean yet.
i'll remove all
memory

of what was.
my determination is nothing

if not persistent.

that was that

she was nineteen, one year removed
from high school,

I was much older, at twenty two.
scrambling

for jobs, any job. going to
night school.
living

on a dime
in a one bedroom apartment near the race
track.

ground floor, the trash room
conveniently located
on the other side of my door.

we got married.
I wore a white suit, she and her
seven bridesmaids
wore shiny

green dresses.
it lasted six months, or less.

I remember seeing her walking
home to her mother's apartment,

in view from our bedroom window.

she had a single suitcase which
held all of her clothes,

and a blender, still in the box,
under her arm.

a wedding gift. she took the frozen
remains of the wedding
cake too.

and that was that.

everything we need is here

it will be a short day.

a long drive,
but two hours on the job,

then home.

i'll give you a call.
let's

go out, have fun. winter
is no

time to be alone.

bring your lips and legs,
i'll cook.

we'll drink
and sink into the deep
cushions

of the couch.
no need to go back out.

everything we need is here.

February 18th

once upon a time

we went to a bed and breakfast
in west virginia.

a long drive down a ribbon of
wintery roads.

the name of the place escapes me.
it's where she used
to go

with her ex husband and son
and probably
her married boyfriend
of six years.

a pretentious

old house in the middle of
nowhere. a seven course meal.
one potato, nine dollars.

butter? extra.

a room
the size of a closet.
cramped and musty with
the dollar driven lives
of others,

the smell of old money,
new money, decrepit
bones and flesh left
behind.

blue bloods. green bloods.

a rough old bed.

a fireplace.
a broken piano pushed
dust laden into a corner.

I remember looking out
the doll house windows of the stone
walled room

and staring at the ducks
white and fat
on the cold pond.

how lucky they were not
being me.

the black cars arriving.

waiters who had been there for
years. grey faced
and weary
of the patrons,

each one more important
than the next.

I couldn't wait to leave, to run.

bored, no fun. I stuck it out,
knowing that our end

was near.
her lies had caught up with
her,

and now it was just a matter
of time
for the other shoe to drop.

mine.

don't look at me

it's almost rude
to say hello these days.

to hold a door,
to tip a hat,

to help a stranger with
a bag,

or ask the time.
to make eye contact.

the world has changed.
our phones,

our screens, our technology
has

taken the civility out
of our souls

and driven us mad.

pajamas all day

how long, he asks, do you want
to keep
working.

staying at it. day in day out.
the business.
the clients, the calls?

the paperwork and taxes?

he's in his pajamas and it's one
o'clock in
the afternoon.

he's having poached eggs
in front of the tv.

I look at him and say,
two years, maybe three,
we'll see.

it's not about the money
anymore.

it's about something else.

it's about not wearing my pajamas
all day,
perhaps.

the girlfriend

she wanted a husband.

I wanted
a girlfriend.

she had a list of to do things,
relatives to please.
I had
no list.

just a bottle of wine,
and reservations

at a restaurant down the street.
she had
gutters to clean.

dogs to walk.
a world of things that needed
fixing.

I wanted to go to the movies.
the beach.
nyc.

she wanted a husband,
I wanted
a girlfriend.

so it had to end which
was a shame,

because there was love
and it was a beautiful thing.

spice girl

this pepper is
so hot, my head sweats, my
heart
trips faster, as the tongue
swells
and begs
for something cold
and cleansing
to take the heat off.
but I take another bite,
then another.
flush with spice,
my stomach roils,
my brain saying no,
that's enough, but my hands
still saying yes, as
I go for more
with fork and knife.
I've known women like that.
not knowing when to push away
from the table,
and stop.

the roads not taken

I go another way,
today, avoiding the sites,

the trigger
spots that dot this town.

I stray far, going around,
going
out of my way

to get from point B to
point A.

I don't need
the memory

in my head. it's exhausting.
haunting

as I change the wiring
in my brain.

done with hate and regret,
I turn the wheel,

to a new road, one not taken.
it's straight
ahead.

A sandwich in the sun

I watch the old man.

he's in the sun, the sun is on
his face

like a soft yellow hand.

his eyes are blue. the hat, once
white

is bleached
a sour hue of lemon
or lime.

he strokes his ancient mustache,
silver
and thick.

I watch as he leans towards
the table,
the plate
that holds his sandwich.

carefully he cuts it in two,
then again,

into four squares. he says
a prayer,
then eats.

looking down, then away.

I can see that he remembers
someone,
and wishes she was there.

roll away the stone

I have become greedy

and selfish. self centered and
focused

pretty much just on me.

I've waited a long time to get here.
no longer

do I wait for the phone to ring,
the door
to be knocked upon.

the postman holds nothing in his
bag for me.

there is no one that I long to see.
i'm down
to one.

I crave the shadow, the low light.
the safety

of silence, bathing
in the music
I choose, the book I pick
up to read.

the food I eat.

I savor my own space.
the serenity of my own life.

I have cleaned the ruins of
those
gone, rebuilt the walls.

I have resurrected
the dead.
risen from the grave.

the stone has been rolled away.

it's about time.

far out man

i can't remember,

he says, rolling a joint and licking
the edges,
just so,
something he's done since
he was sixteen
now easing past seventy four.

i don't remember the sixties,
he says, or
the seventies for that matter,
i was too stoned

to collect that information
into my head.

but I've seen the movies,
and television shows.

it looks like we had a lot
of fun. a lot of laughs,
music and sex.

damn wish i was able to remember
some of it,

but i'm so glad that dope
is finally going to be legal.

far out man.

maybe we can forget this decade
too.

did you bring the food?
the hash,

your pipe,

my dementia meds?

the way he left

they pulled his plugs.

the air, the food, the wires,
the tubes.

they let him go out the way
he came in.

breathing on his own
until

the last breath was taken.

a token form of dignity
I guess.

a last gasp at giving him
some respect.

homeless, nearly penniless,
no car,
no family around,

a pack
of luckys and his phone
bill

left unopened on the bed.

what about the highlights

i stay up late to watch
the game.

my most frenetic friend
comes over
to watch it with me.
I've known him since 1985,
never too far out of touch.

if he was put into a barrel
of milk
it would turn into butter
in an hour,

that's how much he jumps
up and down
and stays in constant
movement.

silence is foreign to him.
but I love
him.

his jittery ways, his random
thoughts
his stories of being
a public defender,
each one more crazy than the last
one.

I give him the short version
of me,

but by midnight i'm exhausted.
the game is over.
we win.
I turn off the tv,

collect the dishes and begin
to head up when he says,

wait wait, we need to watch
the highlights.

walking on eggshells

the phrase walking
on eggshells
is a familiar one.
we did it around our father
when we were young.
was he happy
today.
was he angry.

did we need to be quiet,
or leave the room.
is it something we said,
or did
that put him in the big
chair
facing the window.
in a cloudy state of gloom?

we were always taking the
temperature of the room.

how it sets the table
for
your life, this short
strange period of time.
wiring you for what's to come.
picking
the exact same troubled soul
to be a husband, or wife,
a mate.

it's so obvious in hindsight.
our unconscious
mistakes, walking on eggshells
has become our
normal, where we think
we're safe.
we think that being
in a constant state
of anxiety
is where we need to be,
in chaos and fear,
our perfect place.

a deep snow

a mild winter

is fine. although a deep snow

before spring would be welcomed.
a foot
or two.

something to dig out of.
something to make us stay in
to read

and eat, make love.
binge on

all the movies we haven't had
time to watch.

we could build a fire,
or go out into it.
find a hill

to slide down together.
get cold, get warm.

get close.

a deep snow would be fine.

a familiar booth

I pick the booth in the back

to the left.
and say, i'll meet you there.

I like this spot, this seat,
this view

of life walking by on the street,
coming up
the aisles.

the waiters, the couples,
the elderly
being helped in.

I get what a I always get,
a steak
and garlic mashed potatoes,

tonic and gin. she gets salmon,
of course

and red wine.

we reach across the table
and hold hands.

how wonderful it is to heal
under the magic
wand of time.

some days are worse than others

things break, snap off.
keys
into slots.

light bulbs give up
and pop.

shoe strings suddenly
split,

batteries die.

phones get wet and quit.

the wheels come off.
the world is in a constant
state
of

unraveling.
trees are falling,

the bridges are washed out.
nerves are shattered,

bunions, sciatica,
gout.

is any of this new?
hell no,

but some days are worse
than others,

this I know.

six more weeks of winter

a cold hand brushes
against
my shoulders. it's an accident.

i feel her
cold feet, the ticking
of her cold cold heart.

(I think Hank Williams wrote
a song about this)

it's another six weeks
of winter in here.

is gloomy, dark.
it may snow in the bedroom
soon.

the clouds have gathered blue
and low.

the walls are made of ice.
the bed

an iceberg afloat on the arctic
sea.

what lessons have we learned
here.

right.
don't get married, flee.

the family dinner

it's a mess. these democratic debates.

the candidates. bickering.

having a food fight for all the world
to see.

yelling and screaming at one another,
making wild

accusations.
pointing fingers, disagreeing

just to disagree.

it reminds me of dinner at my house,
when I was
ten or eleven

with my six brothers and sisters.
flinging mash potatoes

at one another with a spoon.
shooting baby peas
out of a straw,

diving
in for the last pork

chop, wrestling on the floor
for it
as the dogs barked

around us.

Bunny's Massage Emporium

I go for a massage
at the local massage parlor.

every muscle in my body is sore
from playing basketball
and work.

I stumble upon
Bunny's Massage Emporium,
a new place where the yoga studio
used to be
and before that a taco bell.

cash only the neon sign flashes.

what's it gonna be, Bunny says
when I come through the door.

she's an enormous woman eating
a sub sandwich. her hair is blue.

ummm, a massage? I ask her in
that strange way
that people talk now,

saying something while asking
a question.

full? she says, wiping
a dollop of mayo
from the corner of her mouth.
somewhere
beneath her kimono is a stool
she's sitting on.

sure, I tell her, shrugging.
full. I guess,
front back, etc. you know.
a massage.

are you a cop? she says.
we need to frisk you.

a man comes out of the shadows
like Boo Radley and pats
me down.

he's clean, he grunts, then goes back
into the dark corner.

okay, bunny says, and whistles for
the girls to come out.

the massage therapists, I guess,
line up like pastel soldiers.

most are in slinky night gowns,
pale greens and blues, pinks and yellows,
fishnet stockings

and stiletto heels. lipstick
and perfume. big heads of fluffy
Baltimore hair.
some are stretching their arms
out, yawning as they crack
their knuckles.

i'm really looking for a deep tissue
massage, I tell Bunny, pointing at a spot
in my lower back, then shoulder.
right below the third vertebrae.

I had a rough week at work climbing
ladders. i'm really sore.

Bunny yells out, and points
to a girl in the back row,
Betty, you're up.

Betty steps forward, a tiny little
girl with big hands.
she's wearing knee pads
and a construction helmet
with a light on it.

she says something
in Russian then starts
down the hall, wagging her man
sized finger
for me to follow.

you got one hour, bunny says,
searching with a long red straw
for one last slurp
at the bottom of her drink.

if there's any extra charges,
we'll collect at the end.

Extras? I say, going down the hall,
tripping
on a cat lying on the floor.

that's right. and remember,
we'll be watching, so no funny stuff.

better days arrive

better days do arrive.

like old friends they show up
in the driveway

with packages and smiles.
a strong

drink. laughter and love
all piling

out at once. you put the music on.

sometimes you thought they'd
never show.

the road was too tough, too full
of detours
and washed out
bridges.

but no.

they've come, they've arrived.

nothing's free

when you see

the man up high on the scaffold,
or on the swing

you wonder how he came into
this profession

of making windows clean. was it
his dream.

a calling.

or did the job choose him. unwelcome
at
the other doors
he knocked

upon. no different than you
or me.

finding his way in the world
to make a living,

to earn a crust of bread,
learning soon,

that
nothing's free.

I don't get it

i get a few more books in the mail.

more poetry
for the masses. a Pulitzer prize
winner is one

of them.
the poet will go nameless.

i try so hard
to read and like what i'm reading.

but there's no blood
in it.

no feeling, no angst, or heartbreak
there's no

life lived. there's nothing
i can relate to.

no sex.
guts.
no broken bones, or dishes.
no shards
of glass.

no drunken nights alone.
no sickness.
no broken teeth, or broken
dreams.

no death or dying.

i feel my heart slow down
with despair
as i shake
my head.

if this book was the winner,
what were the others like?

the book is a warm glass of milk
as your mother
tucks you

in and then turns the light
off for you.

save me.

i almost think of you

it's just a peach.

a smooth velvety orb of fruit
from the market.

i turn it over
and over in my hand.

there is something sensual
about it.

the softness, the color
of morning sunlight,
the wealth of juice.

i take a bite and let it run
down
my chin

drip from my lips. and when
i do

i almost think of you.

i could be in kansas

I could be in Kansas
by morning, but do I want to go
there.

not really.

or eating figs in Spain, or Portugal,
I could be skiing
in the swiss alps,

or scuba diving off the barrier
reef,

or even be on a camel in
Egypt. but I say no to all
that.

I think i'll just take a ride
up the street
and get the paper

and a cup of coffee. sit down
by the lake.

if it's warm enough i'll even
take my
shoes off.

the collapse of civilization

they are old shelves.
burdened with
dust and cobwebs.

laminated pressed wood
held together

by glue
and dials, prayers

each shelf holding a hundred
pounds
of phone books.

tombs on ancient rome,
unread fiction

of twain and Michener,
Ulysses hardback,
most likely never opened.

there's war and peace.
there's
the yellow pages

and reader's digest,

along with the poetry
of walt Whitman.

there's proust and ezra pound.

volumes of life magazine
with astronauts on
the cover

grissom, shepard,
aldrin.

is it any surprise that
the bookcase collapses
after moving it an inch
from the wall?

no. none
at all.

it's not dark yet

sore from head to toe

I ponder the massage.
every muscle

in my body feels
some sort of pain.

the long two hour workout
on the basketball

court in the middle of February
was a killer.

I half crawl up the stairs
and slip into
the boiling hot water

of the tub.

with the light off, I lie
there and soak.

I try not to groan. but it
feels

good. the shot is still going
down.

another spring and summer
is ahead, more games to be played.

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

the glow in the dark virgin mary

my mother
would put the glow in the dark
virgin mary
statues

all over the house.
in each room.

even on the dashboard of my dad's
chevy impala.

at night, if you woke up,
you'd see

the little light of mary
across the room

and feel, it's all good.

there's mary.

I often wondered what my
father thought

as he'd drove
home at night after out
carousing

drinking, and god knows what
else
with some floozy
he met in a bar.

driving home

with mary staring at him
from the dashboard
above the radio.

the lectures on women

somehow this red head kid
knew

more about the world then
we did.

he was only a few years older,
but he knew, or at least
made claims that he knew

what made women tick.

we were only ten or eleven
at the time,
but he would lecture us on the ways

of girls.

do this, don't do that.
women are like fine musical
instruments,

he'd say, holding court in
some stairway or
laundry room
of a cold dank

apartment building, we somehow
managed to get
into because the locks
were broken.

wide eyed, we'd listened
to him ramble on, about
the biology of women.

from head to toe, he'd describe
them, occasionally
pulling out a playboy magazine
from his coat

that he stole from his father,
and showing us
what we were in store for,

telling us what to do and not
do when we
got one. one being a girl.

he was thirteen with flaming
red hair, bright blue eyes,
and a hive of freckles on his face.

and when I see him on facebook
now,
an old man,
enormous and grey, breathing
through a tube, I want
to ask
him, if he remembered his
lectures

on those cold winter days.

the inbetween years

the young man

when I met him was tall
slender
black as onyx.

with flashing eyes.
new to the job,

his first day. nervously
happy
to have work.

sharp in his uniform,
full of youth
and ambition.

but so
much time

has gone by since that day
when
I shook his hand.

thirty years, since we

made friends. told him
the routine
of his
new

life. and seeing him now,
middle aged,
heavy, three children

a second wife,

and burdened makes me
wonder of
the in between years,

as he must wonder about mine.

sediment and silt

the silt of time.
the sediment of the past.
sometimes
the wind pushes it
away,
sometimes the water rises
and it washes
down stream to a wide
open lake.
the debris
and dust
of yesterday, all of
it going
somewhere, somewhere
beyond where
we are, caught in the air,
as we move towards a
better place.

the sparks

a pale moon,
cut slender into an arc
still
is a wonder
on the black cloth
of night.
there is still romance
in the moon,
the stars.
the warm air
with spring not far.
let's sit on the porch
and watch
the silver in the sky
that sparks.

all the world was green

the world
was green, all the world
was green.

it was new once upon
a time.

the sky was bluer than it
is now.

we were all younger.
love was
everything.

there was music,
there was dancing.

the world was green.
all the world was
green.

remember, don't you
remember?

quit kicking the seat

the sky sure does look
religious today

the small boy in his buster
brown shoes
says to his momma who is at
the wheel of
their studabaker.

the radio is playing he's
got the whole world in his hands,
sung by louie Armstrong.

they are rambling down
an old road,
half mud, half paved.

cow pastures line each side
of the narrow road.

she peers out the window
glancing up at the sky
and says,
yes it does honey child.
it's a lovely sky today,

now get your arm back in
the window before a telephone
pole snatches it off.

and quit kicking your feet
against the seat.
you're going to get them shoes
all scuffed up
before we even
get to church.

I just polished them
last night.

Do you think God is watching us
all the time momma?

she looks over at the boy
her fierce blue eyes
studying him, under her hat.

what have you been up to?

nothing, nothing. it's just
I don't like the idea that he's
watching everything

we do. that's all.
well.

if you keep that thought in your
mind, you'll be a good
boy
all your life.

and didn't I tell you to
get your arm back inside this
car
and to quit kicking your feet?

there is beauty in the world

the man, happy to be home,
throws his child

into the air, his small son,
then catches him.
he does it again
then again.

the daughter next.

he sets her down, then hugs his wife.
they embrace.
they kiss gently
then look deeply into each other's
eyes.

I wonder where he's been
to have been missed so.

what trip was he on, a soldier?
a salesman.

I watch them as he grabs
his bags, his wife's
arm around
his waist, the chilren
before them

as they leave the station
as one.

there is beauty in the world.

it's not impossible

sometimes the pebble in your shoe
makes you stop.

you bend over and sit upon
the curb.
you take the shoe off and shake
the tiny stone free.

then slip the shoe back on,
tie the strings.

but you sit there a little while
longer.

maybe too long.
people stop and ask if you're
okay.

your hat lies beside you, you've
loosened your tie, before
long the hat is full

of money, ones and fives.
you smile and say thank
you. thank you.
you nod.

the sun is on your face. you are still
young, you think.
the warm sun always reminds you
of the beach.

there is so much of the world
left to see.
love is not impossible.
it's not out of reach.

finally, you get up, a whole
afternoon has passed.

you put the money into your pocket
and put your hat on.

you go home. thankful
for the pebble. it made you stop.
it made
you think.

off the chain

she used to laugh
and say

I was off the chain, implying
that I was
a wild

dog that had escaped his
leash,
his tie down
around
a big oak tree.

I had jumped the fence
was running free.

you're off the chain, she'd
say, happy
for me.

I wish I could run with you,
but I got
this house,
these kids,
the dogs, a job,

responsibilities,
and god help me, I've got
this ring.

old souls

they are often called

old souls.
wisdom within beyond their
years.

born into knowing what we
are yet to know.

strange creatures among us.
men

in boys clothes.
girls

all grown.

it's in their eyes, their voice
the words
they choose.

they just know
the list of grievances
we all
will endure.

love, hate, death and the rest.

add pain and suffering into
the mix.

do they have answers?
no,
of course not.

but they know of what it is.

a stop along the way

we had a booth
where we first met,
a place we
would go

in the months ahead.
our place.

our romantic spot.
dark and cozy
in a restaurant not far away.

but then things ended,

and that sweet

memory began to fade.
it became a passing thought.

strangely the booth
means nothing now,
just another stop
along

the way.

crossing the river

before the rivers rises,
get across.

go now while
it's shallow, where it's only
up to your knees.

a storm
will make it impossible to
get over

to the other side.

the walls will overflow.
the levees will break.

so go now. this drought
is a good

thing, we can leave all that
we need to leave
behind

and begin again.

no small thing

sometimes
it's a face in the crowd

a light
in the darkness,

a word said,
a book read.

it's something small that
enlightens you.

brings you
no small joy, but a sense
of hope.

a feeling that
all is well.

it could be a simple kiss.
a hand
onto yours.

the way the sun comes
through
the window

when you awaken. a smile.

Spare the Rod

the only time

i smacked my son, was when he was about
to

put a flat head screw driver into
the slot

of an electrical outlet.

i ran over and with an open hand
struck him
on the bottom,

which was protected

by a nine pound plastic diaper
ready for changing.

it nearly sprained my wrist.

but he got the idea.

crying, he looked at me bewildered
how i could
steal the joy

from him of what he was about
to do.

i often feel that way, when God
smacks me or removes

me from a situation
that would in the end kill me.

how could you?

fifty three steps

the narrow steps that go down
to the creek

are steep, made of grey
concrete,

fifty three in all
below
the canopy of trees.

there's an iron rail
to hold

as you go down.

the stream below is blue
as steel.

you can see that's it's cold,
no need
to bend

to it and feel.

how many years have I gone
down
there

to the wooded cove
and sat on a large stone

and pondered my life,
watching the water crest
and flow,
what lessons have I learned,

what wisdom if any
was taking hold.

how many more years will I
be able
to go

and go again down
that deep staircase.

holding tightly to the rail.

the chipped cup

the chipped cup

still finds its way into the cupboard
next

to the good cups.

the unblemished
glasses

and plates, the bowls.
all white

or blue. some old
some new.

none nicked or cracked,

but the chipped cup is
my favorite.

I've had it so long. it brings
back memories.

because of its fault I love
it even more.

its perfect in its imperfection,
as we all

are.

my favorite maid

I ring the bell for

Esmeralda to come up the stairs.

she knocks on the bedroom door
and I say

come in.

yes. she says, slightly bowing,
a grin

on her pretty face.

no breakfast this morning, I tell
her.
just coffee

and the paper.

i'm sleeping in.
tell Frederick to pull the car

around at noon. I may
go

ride a horse, then go to the gym.

of course, she says, is there
anything else?

yes, close the door and come over
here and kiss me.

oh my she says, are we going down
this slippery

slope again.

yes, I tell her, it's time for
you to retire,

and we become more than just friends.

okay, she says.

in another place

the waiter is busy, but

distracted, he's in a daze as he goes
from
table to table,

to booth and bar
with drinks and food

on trays.

the wrong dish comes, the wrong
wine.
he drops a fork.
he spills.

he's forgetful.
not there.

awake, but there is something
in his
far off

stare.

he's in a place you've known
before.

who hasn't been there?

so little time?

I drag my feet on things.

bills, and notes to those on
the periphery of
my life

and theirs too.

another oil change?
taxes again?

so much to do, so little time?
hardly.

time I have.
I've collected hours into days.

stacked them in boxes
high.

I have time.
just lazy, perhaps. putting so
much off

for another day.
there is no clock, no whip

no stern
boss hovering.

it's just me in this. honest,
I stay to myself,

i'll get to it.

out it comes

some women, well, men too,
know how to cook.

they need no recipe,
no written
instructions, no book.

they just know
when a pinch of salt is needed.

a spoon of this
or that.

butter, sure, why not.
they hardly have
to time

the oven. they know when
to turn,
to flip.

it's instinct, a natural
feel for things.

rarely does the smoke alarm
go off.

or something gets burned,
or dried,
or comes out soft
and undone.

they just know, from cakes
to pies
to roasts, to
chickens, pasta,

or buns. perfectly cooked,
then with two mitts,
out
it comes.

once worn

I can smell
the past in these clothes
hanging

in the far closet, the one
least used.

a white shirt and tie of indigo,
black shoes.

a once worn wedding suit.

I sense
the loneliness of these
things

no longer wanted, no
longer used.

collecting dust.

there are no good memories

in this dark
closet.
today is as good as day
as any

to empty it, to scour
then paint it bright

with any color
I wish to choose.

a drawer of things

there are things

in the drawer that seem to have always
been there.

that ring.
that note, a scribbled number
on
a napkin.

an earring, just one.

a thin chain with a cross.
spare
change

that neither grows or departs.

lipstick
bullets, chap stick.

a bible
next to a bottle of
oil.

so little says so much
about the turn

of things. the days that have
gone by.

the loves that have come and gone
in your life.

one sparrow

a slender cat,

bone thin and grey,

slips into the yard

through
the open gate.

she has green eyes,
delicate and soft,

but willing to put
death upon her plate.

cautiously she moves

forward,

her stealth learned

through the centuries,

bent low in the tall

grass, ready

to pounce
on the shallow bowl

where a single sparrow 

has come to bathe.

in distress

in her turmoil,
distress
mud up to her knees.
the wet
fringes of a heavy
dress.
boots
and leggings, the pulled
tight hat.
against the wind,
running short
of time,
age having caught up
to her,
trouble up
to her neck.
is there a gentleman
to get her
across the street.
someone to rescue
her.
or has she been waiting
all week,
all life
for that helping
hand,
her charm
inviting the blind,
the rich, the boldly
meek.

the new snow

the snow that tumbles
gently
from the unseen sky is
quiet in voice.
hardly a whisper in its
weight
and sly way
of building upon itself.
covering the ugly
of land,
the past dissolving
under its
welcoming hand.
new love is like that
at times.
slow
moving, gentle and light.
pristine
in whiteness.
freshly fallen
with hope and
strange delight.

what they could have been

in the window
of the storefront, the lifeless
curves
of mannequins
stand upright in the dim
snowy
glare
of street lamps
as we walk by.
they have little to say
in their absence
of clothing,
of coats or furs draped
across their stiff
shoulders.
smileless and aloof in
manner
and yet we turn our
eyes to them,
there is still some
hope of beauty
in the shape
and promise
of what they could have
been.

third base chevy

the blue chevy was third base.

it sat there for years
on our narrow street.

unmoved, undriven.
one tire flat. the antennae
bent.

the windshield cracked
and seats
apart at the seams.

we never saw it move,
two or three summers in a row.

but it was blue, a peacock blue,
cleaned
by rain
or snow.
still a factory shine to its
curved glow.

third base.
then one day it was gone.

so we found a cardboard box
to flatten

and take its place.
our game went on.

the Italian Vase

the table
on a wobbly leg,

a hair line fracture in the wood,
antique.

collapses
easily with a slight push
out from

the corner.
the vase goes down then up
into a cloud
of

Italian dust.
it's hardly a bang, more

of a thud, then
mush,

then a grey plume rising.
she laughs.

i'm going back to venice
in the spring.

no worries. i'll buy another
one,
it was a gift
anyway

from a former lover. I
can't even remember

his name.

we need snow

we need a hard snow,

she says, getting into her car
with packages

and bags.

a bundle of fresh cut roses.

she's going somewhere, but she
gives
me her take

on the weather, the climate,
the environment

before she goes.

the ground needs to be saturated,
she says,

a heavy snow to kill what lies
below
so that we have a good
spring

so that things will grow.
she has more to say on the subject,

but she looks at her watch
and waves, a cloud
of blue exhaust

behind her.

what's gone

strange how we long
for what's gone.

whether cake, or love,

sweets
of any kind.

we miss the sea when
we haven't
been there

in a while.
a town, a bed,

we miss the moon when
the clouds

cover it.

a face, a smile, a voice.

does absence truly
make the heart grow fonder,

or just remind us
of a past that can't
come back

again.

the leaks in the roof

it was an old house
with leaks, there were buckets
everywhere

catching the drips
and drops

when the rain fell.
but no one seemed to mind.

the percussion of water into
water
making music of a gentle
kind.

it was a of life,
one they forgot about when

the sun came out to shine.

setting the clocks

is there a clock in the house
with the right time.

none that I see.

batteries have weakened,
the power has gone
out.

so many are blinking, stuck
on the midnight hour.

i'll wait until we spring
forward
again,

that will take care of a few.

but do I really need any
of them.

I have windows
with a view. the sun and moon,
the clocks

of my youth.

one of few

I cancel
the nights plans.

call and make up some excuse
to not go out.

home is a good place
to be on a cold
windy night in February.

I throw a log on the fire.
bring the books

down.

the quiet is good.
I've made the right decision

one of few.

dry clothes

soaked from stripping wallpaper
all morning

I come home to change
and to eat scrambled eggs over
the kitchen sink.

I look out the window.
I see the mail man
with his bag,

his mind on other things.
the neighbor,
retired and
limping with her groceries.

waving to someone.

i'll go back to work soon
in warm
dry clothes.

hands in my pockets to this
February wind.

the whistle of the train
in my ears. another day
at it.

my mind drifts
to another year,

I think of an old friend.

boy, have i been there

there's a man,

and a woman too, in old town
who

hold conversations with
others

that aren't there. invisible
people

that don't talk back. but you
see them

in deep conversation,
back and forth.

crazy talk. wild loud talks
on the sidewalk,

arms flailing, eyes popping,

ignoring those passing by.
it's a one way

conversation, but it's
fierce and full of meaning to
the person

talking, he feels as if he's
getting somewhere,

that his points are being made.
that he's actually being
listened to by the person

he imagines to be real.
finally he's being
understood.

his side of the story is at last
heard. all of it an illusion.

boy oh boy, have I been there.

some mornings

there's an ugliness to the world

some mornings.

the headline of the black and white
paper
a cold
baton
on the porch.

the way the trees have fallen in
the woods.

tumbled upon each other
in the cold
rain of night.

their grey trunks, having
given up.
the others, young and strong

still holding them up.

there's a bitter chill
in some mornings, waking up

with the taste of a bad dream
in your mouth. having not slept well,

but got stuck on some past
mistake.

the sand in your eyes of
some desert you crawled through
to get to
morning.

there's an ugliness that you
try to shake off

with a shower and coffee,
the dial of the radio, settling
on

an old song you know
by heart.

something sweet

sometimes you need
just a nibble
of something sweet.

dark chocolate, or a small
slice
of cake would be nice,

just a bite.
a spoon of rocky road,
or lick

from a sugar cone.
a handful
of candy, something
small

and sweet,
even your lips against
mine
would suffice,

a kiss would be dandy.

the third string candidates

it's a sad weak group

of candidates. who is the david
to strike down

goliath?

who can take the bully out.
they all seem

so weak and undefined.
the third string is in the game.

the lightweights on
the stage.

where are the leaders. the
martin luther kings,
the Robert kennedys.

who will turn the ship around
before it sinks,

before we burn
it down?

the devil in disguise

as clear as a glass of cold
water

I remember the moment
when I made

the decision to be with this
person

who had come into my life
mysteriously.

as if she crawled out from
some bog,
some dark, dank swamp.

a reptile that transformed
herself into a human figure.

I remember thinking, and feeling
in my gut.

this is not going to be good.
there is something
wrong with this person.

beneath her skin is a demon
lurking.

don't be tricked, don't be
fooled by her
lies, her womanly ways,

her charm.

I thought to myself, I should
end it now, right this second.
call it all off.

but I didn't.
and I paid the price dearly,

two years of my life
with this devil in disguise.

I was warned, but didn't listen
to the truth that spoke
inside.

you can leave your hat on

i start thinking about hats.

hats to keep the sun
of my smooth

rounded dome.

maybe a beret, or one of those
caps
like the irish wear.

or a fedora.
something a writer might wear.

a houndstooth hat.
or a gangster hat like in those

noir movies. like the ones
cagney and bogart
would wear

while blasting away with their
38's.

or a cowboy hat with a shiny
star in the middle.

maybe a pith helmet, or a little
beanie.

my ex would say, a dunce cap,
but i'm

thinking one of those tall hats
like the ones the pope or a bishop wears,

about a foot tall made of
gold threads,

with jewels embedded.

or maybe a turban. yeah.
or better yet, a miner's helmet
with

a little light on the front.

rock bottom

i meet my friend jimmy at rock bottom
a new bar
in town.

hey, he says.
fancy meeting you here.

shut up, i tell him
and order me a drink.

bitter, he says, laughing
as the bar tender comes over to
pour me

a gin and tonic.

lime? i ask.

hell no, the bar keep says, we're at rock
bottom. but he cuts
a lime anyway
and splashes my drink with it.

so what brings you here, i ask jimmy.
women, he says. and you.

women. too many, the lack of, stupid
women, brassy women,
lazy women.

prudish women. smart women.
cheating no good lousy
women.

lying women. ugly women, beautiful women.
blondes, brunettes, redheads.

sexy women. all shapes and sizes.
i'm sort of sick of them
all to tell you the god's honest truth.

all their women troubles. their emotions.
their moods,
their crazy thinking.

they are impossible to figure out.
they're like goddamn
cats. aloof

and self absorbed.

i'm sick of love.

yeah, he says. drinking from the bottle
the bar tender left on the bar.
me too.

fuck em.

can't live with em, can't, well,
you know the rest.

hey, i ask him, tapping him on his
arm.

who's that babe at the end of the bar,
never seen her in here before?
very attractive.

i think she just looked over here.

maybe i'll send her a drink. what is
that, a cosmo?

keep your dime

I run out of milk,

of bread,
olive oil, sugar and spices.

I run low
on detergent.

soaps
and towels.

things that make my life
go.

the hot water gets cold
before the shower
ends.

the lights flicker,
the show

starts, stops then
begins again.

dates are cancelled.
estimates
delayed.

telemarketers are on the phone.

work is stalled. no one seems
to be
there
when they said
they would.

i'm tired and weary, I've
run out of patience.

out of time. out of focus.
i'm losing my mind.

my ability to be kind.

the world has gone corrupt
and
rude, full of
narcissism
and lies,

thoughtless and selfish.

brother can you spare
me some love,
you can keep your dime.

if love was currency

if love
was currency, measured
in dollars
and cents.

i'd be broke right now.

the safe emptied by
thieves

disguised as lovers,
almost friends.
i'd have

no cash, no checks,
no gold

to spend.

if love were currency,
i'd be on
the dole, out on
the street

with no where to go,

homeless once again.

back straight

with each unspoken
word.

the old words
fade.

the old memories cease
and move
on to their

watery graves.

funny how we survive the worst
of times.

back straight,
eyes forward.

at last
healed and ready for new

memories to be made.

the familiar place

the dent in the rug
tells

where the chair goes, the table
is set.

where the grandfather clock
will

rest until it ticks
and gongs
no more.

all things in their place
since
day one.

and will be forevermore.
safety in sameness
I suppose.

and you,
are you not so different

having moved back into the dent
you once
made?

the familiar
and safe place.

fear not old age

fear not
old age for it has a sweet
feel
about it.
how the memories have piled
in soft
sacks.
like letters to oneself.
be not afraid
of those aches, the limp,
or lean
of bones decayed.
the blur
of light, the dampening
of sound.
it's nothing
to be alarmed about.
instead embrace
all that you have learned,
rejoice in loves lost,
the loves found.
friends made
and gone to their own
gentle graves before you.
it's part of it,
in time, each to his own
turn, if lucky
to not stay young
and die.

the home life

i miss
things that I've never had.

but miss them
as if they were mine all along.

simple things.
the wife
at home.

her kiss hello as i come in from
the day.

the children in the yard
rushing in to greet me,

the dog at my feet, the aloof
cat on the sill.

i miss the hot meal.
the talk

of what everyone did with their
day.

the talk of tomorrows. of summers.
of where we would
go.

i miss the pillow talk of a loved
one.
the touch of her,
the silk of her.

the glow of her smile.
the words she said.

the sleepy yawn before bed.

i miss us dancing.
the children too, beneath us,
on our feet as we moved
about the kitchen

the songs we all knew.
i miss all of this, as if it happened.

the same goes for you.

the shoe shine

I stop after work
for a shoe
shine, before I board the train
home.

to my wife and three children.
I live in Connecticut now.

up on the hill in a fine white
house.

trees all around.
a driveway that curves in,
then out.

but my shoes, brown and worn,
have lost their shine.

I take my hat off and sit
on the tall seat with the new
York times.

the war is over and another
one looms
on the horizon

as it always does. men being men.
restless in peace.

always sharpening their swords.

but on this autumn day with leaves
falling
in colorful whispers, I stop

to smoke, to sit and have my
shoes shined

before heading home. i'll tip
the boy well.

remembering having been that boy
myself.

hit the road jack

when young we tolerate
the foolish.

the insane
the bothersome.

the liars and those full
of themselves.

we play along. we say okay.
they're young,

they're learning,
they'll grow up in time.

but in time, never comes.

and now,
at this ripe age

you don't want to be in
the same room

with them.
conversation is pointless.

love or even like
is difficult if not impossible
for those

of that kind.

dante's inferno

why are there bubbles?

will the seams go down.
there's paste
on the sink, the door knob.

what's up with the pattern.
in the light

it looks to be a different
shade.
was orange grass cloth
a bad idea?

can you do that wall over.
i can order more
paper,

i can get it over night.

can i scrub it? what if i
change
the mirror,

the light, can you patch the paper?
if i get tired of
it.

can you strip it and do
a faux finish.

i was in an Italian
restaurant the other day,

and the wall looked like marble.
i felt i was in

Tuscany.

have you ever been to Tuscany?
you should go.

it's where i got this idea
for my powder room.

marry me i say on bended knee

I finally find someone
who can fold

a fitted sheet. it's been the holy
grail

of dating. it used to be baking
cookies,

but that was a disaster.

she says, stand back and watch me,
take notes
if you must.

I stand there and watch her as
her hands
move rapidly like a cook
at a Japanese steak house.

before I know it, the fitted
sheet is nicely

squared and tucked, folded
firmly into

shape, ready for the shelf.

wow, I tell her. come here and
kiss me. I've been looking
for you

my entire life.

in front of the linen closet,
on bended knee
I ask her to marry me.

sunday at the park

the old men
would gather around their cars
at the park.

in the shade of trees,
while the women
would cook and watch the children
down by the river

where the white sheets of
sailboats
slipped by on the blue sleeve
of water.

they'd put the hoods
up on the cars
open the doors

and drink beer.
they'd take a chamois cloth
and rub the fenders.

they'd lean on the grill
and talk
about the engine,

what their blue collar money
had won.

they'd look off to where
the women
were and talk about them.

there would be music, and
quiet laughter.

it was summer, they were no
longer young
and in the hunt, they were
where they

wanted to be. there was little
left to be done
but put a shine on the chevy.

Donna Reed with a Whip

for years I've been putting
that little
description onto my dating profiles.

in search of donna reed
with a whip.

what does it mean exactly?

a woman like donna reed,
in the movie it's a wonderful life.

but in color, not
black and white.

someone with an edge, a wink, a grin,
a smile

a sexy je ne sais quoi about her.
kissing skills
required.

not literally a whip in hand,
not into that,

but figuratively.

someone that i'd want to lasso
the moon for.

loyal and true,

a woman with spunk and life,
smart,
wholesome and real,
the girl next door,

but with a healthy dose
of spice.

it seems impossible at times.
few have come close.

pretenders, most. but

there's still time.
i hope.

the omen

i remember the time
she came
over and drank three or four
large

glasses of pina coladas.
she went from giddy
to wobbly

in no time.

she spent the next four hours
curled around
the toilet
on the bathroom floor.

i checked on her
to see if she had expired.

a groan, a moan eeked out
from under the door.

i watched a movie.
made popcorn,

had a sandwich. talked on
the phone.

ordered more things i didn't
need on amazon.

checked on her again,
then finally dragged her out
and

up the stairs to put her in
the guest room.

i set a glass of water on
the table beside her.

two aspirins and an ice
bag for her head.

i pulled her shoes off,
then gave her
an extra blanket.

told her i'd be down hall
if she needed anything.

all of it an omen as to what
lied ahead.

call from new york

I see four, maybe five books,
maybe more.

there 's so much here,

the publisher says
on the phone.

you have to come up to new York.
the whole office

loves your work.
we're eating it up.

of course, not all of it is gold.

but there's a rich
mountain of publishable pieces here

that we think
would sell.

where have you been?
we've been waiting for a poet
like you.

accessible and real.

someone who tells the truth.
bleeds.

is raw and sensitive. vengeful
at times
and yet compassionate too.

you leave nothing on the table, do
you?

keep at it. don't stop.
your day is way over due.

your ship has come in my boy.

let's go.

I could be wrong

of course I could be wrong.

I could
be lost.

I could have taken a wrong turn
at the last
light.

or maybe this is the way
I was supposed
to go.

free will, or destiny,
you tell me.

are there coincidences
we're we meant to meet?

does each life intersect
for a reason,

or is it all a gamble,
does God indeed

roll dice
with the universe?

we grew up and left

when the ice cream

truck rolled down the street
we appeared.

a motley crew
of children holding sticky coins

found
between cushions, or
taken
from a mother's purse

while she was hanging clothes
on the line
out back.

the bell ringing, the music
a strange
recording,

a carnival in a blue boxed
truck.
pictures of his fare
stuck
to the sides.

and the grinning man inside,
unshaven
in a white t shirt, white
pants.

taking our change, whether
it was enough
or not.

he watched as we grew, summer
after summer.

then he never came down our
street again.

not this, instead

deep into the book
I lose
track of time.

I move the blinds
and see
that the sun is gone.

cars have arrived.
the children are no longer
playing

in the school yard.
parents have brought
them all
inside.

I dog ear a corner
of the last page read.

I'll go back to it later,
after
a meal,

a walk,
some thought,

then bed. I thought things
would be

different this time.
not this,

instead.

is anything finished

is there anything done.

or is all unfinished.

this poem
i'm about to write I may never
read or attend
to again.

will the house ever be
just right,

the yard. the colors
of the sun
as it sets
beyond the silver sage
of trees
bending to wind?

is anything ever finished.
complete?

old loves.
do they end with a bang
or is it a whimper.

a gentle mist fading
like
oils
on a painting to the weathers
unconscious
taking.

can we go back again?
start over.

first words. a first kiss.

a first thump
of heart felt in some
strange
throw
of love.

can we erase the past and begin?

is there anything truly finished
or done?

is there truly an end?

surrender

fear, pain
rejection, loss of love,

of money.

age, perhaps.

betrayal.

what brings you to your knees?
what makes

you finally, at last,
say okay.

I surrender.
it's no longer up to me?

what Job
like scenario needs to occur.

what catastrophe,
locusts,
the plague, disease?

a flood or fire.

death?

what will it take to say,
stop it.

just stop God, I get it
now, please.

the birthday card

his card,
arriving late,

is no longer in his hand,
but sent
just the same
with stamp
and signed within.

his eyes too blurred
to see
what happens with a pen.

but it's the thought that
counts.

as they say.
not how,
or when.

it won't be long when
no cards
will come.

or be sent.