let's talk about the weather

let's talk about the weather
she says
as we lie
in bed
after making love.
we've been making love
a lot lately.
it seems like relationships
go one way or
the other with this
lock down.
okay.
I tell her.
you go first.
well, she says. I think
the weather
has been strange lately.
too cold
and windy for this time
of the year.
perhaps, I tell her.
maybe.
a nice warm sunny day
would be nice at some point.
amen to that, she says,
stretching her legs.
maybe i'll shave my legs
today.
okay. I tell her.
do whatever you want.
are you going to work
today?
i'm not sure, are you?
I might go in late.
but make a cup of coffee
first before
I go down to the basement
office.
I might take a walk
she says
if it's not too cold out.
right, I tell her.
maybe we can fool around
so more at lunch
time, I suggest, touching
her elbow. I have six
zoom meetings, but after that?
sure, she says.
any requests?
surprise me, I say.
surprise me. do you still
have that little
black outfit you wore
in cancun?
oh yeah, she says. it's
in the line up.

pink

she was all about pink.

her skin
her silks, her shoes.

her lipstick.
her nails.

the ribbon in her hair.
pink

especially at night
when the lights were dimmed

and the moon
was full, and yes,

that was a shade of pink
too.

i've had that happen, she says

the sole
of my shoe comes loose.
a small rubber piece
is flapping
as I walk.
I stop to check it out.
I take
the shoe off and examine
it closely.
I wonder
if there's a cobbler
around here,
or anywhere.
do they fix shoes anymore?
a woman waiting for a bus
looks over at me
and say.
I've had that happen before.
the bus comes
and she gets on it.
I see her looking at me
as the bus chugs away.
I put the shoe back on
and go to the drug
store
for some rubber glue.
I squeeze out a few drops
and try to hold
the piece together.
it's still flopping
as I walk,
trying to ignore it,
but make it home okay.

no forgiveness

I hear people say all the time
forgive.
forgive.
turn the other cheek
seventy times seven.
it's not for the person
who hurt you
but for you inside.
it's how you move on
and heal.
to which I say no.
fuck that.
i'm not in the business
of forgiveness,
or being forgetful.
take your sins somewhere
else.
you have yours
to deal with and I
will deal with mine.

do you remember when you

she asks me if I remember
what happened
after we made love.
how I never called her.
how I disappeared without
a word,
a note, or call.
no farewell.
I became a ghost in her night.
I think about it for awhile,
then say no.
I don't remember doing that
to you.
but it does sound like me.
who I was
at the time.
someone I no longer
recognize. i'm sorry I
tell her. adding one more
to a frightful list
of sorrys.

maybe it's old age

maybe it's old age.

but things are more beautiful
than what
i remember
when I was young.

were the trees ever this green
behind the house.

the sky so blue without
a sun.

there is a sweetness in the taste
of things.
a slice of cake.

a glass of tea.
ice cream melting in my mouth.

did kisses ever feel this good.
was making
love

ever this sublime,
where were all
these things

for so many years.
what have I missed by rushing
to the train.

how did I not notice how wonderful
the world can be
with or
without someone
sitting

next to me.

you should have planned ahead

we make arrangements for the dead.
it's too late
for them
to decide things.
where to be buried, or burned,
what box
they'll lie in.
it's too late to pick the guests.
to ask for flowers
of a certain color.
too late to demand what will
be read,
what music to be played.
it's too late for everything.
and so it goes once more,
as others decide your fate.
you really should have
planned ahead.

everything is ahead of you

when young
you think the world is something
that it isn't.
it's a mystery
unraveling
in slow pages. you can't get
old fast enough.
to drive,
to go away.
to get out of town
and meet the girl.
you dream of what's to
come.
the words that will fall
easily from
your pen.
the home you'll
live in.
you believe in tomorrows
before
they pile up
and get in your way.
you step over
the years
as you shuffle home from
the factory.
when young
everything is ahead of you.
but now.
well now,
it's just another day.

the blue horn

the blue horn
on
the black vinyl
in the cool night
with a tall
blonde
and a cold martini.
such is the life
we grow
into, or out of.
who counts the strikes,
it's the home
runs that matter.
i'm at the plate
as I listen
to the song, smoking
alone,
waiting patiently
for what's next,
the fast ball, a curve,
a slider.

father smith at the pawn shop

i run into Father Smith
up at the local pawn shop.
his black cassock is dirty,
stained.

these are hard
times, i hear him say
to the shop keeper.
do the best you can.

he has a pillow case full of gold
candle sticks,
chalices,
oil paintings from the renaissance
period,

and an assortment of jewelry
kissed by
the pope.

what's up, i ask him,
as he unloads his things onto
the counter.

i'm holding my fit bit
that i got three Christmas's ago.

ah, my son. hello. and God bless.
yes.
i'm pawning a few items from
the church.

we haven't had a pay day in
nine Sundays. so that's why i'm
here.
he points at the array
of shiny things.

I haven't had the money to
go to the dry cleaners, he says,
pointing at his clothing.

we don't want to touch
our savings account of nine
hundred billion
just yet.

the Vatican is keeping a tight
watch on that. so here i am.

if the poor caught word of all
the money we have in reserve
i have no idea
what these hungry jobless
people would do.

they might stop putting their
hard earned dollars
into the basket each sunday
when the lock down ends.

God forbid.

plant your seeds in me

I see a mob of people
dragging
a televangelist through
the streets.

they have him by his ankles
as he cries.
they've emptied his
pockets.

taken his cars, his homes.
his wives.
they've had enough.

he continues to preach
as they drag him
towards the edge of
town.

he repeats and repeats
the phone number where you
can pledge
your money.

where peace, where love,
where healing can
be found.

plant your seeds in me,
he says
and you shall reap a thousand
folds
over from what
you sow.

someone stuffs a sock into
around his mouth
before they toss him to
wolves
who wait with open

arms at the edge of town.

less than imagined

we expect more
out
of people than what they can
possibly
give.
we too
are less than imagined.
rowing
at times
with one
oar.
circling with vague
intentions.
so it goes.
choose wisely,
or let go.
you can't make someone
into
what they can
never be.

i hate facebook

okay, I don't really hate it.

I wouldn't be on
it with a skeleton profile
and some lame
pics
I took with my phone

if I actually hated it.

I don't expect it to be the mensa
club,

I just don't like the dumbness.
the photos
of cakes
and pies,

look at me, everything screams.
i'm wonderful
and wise,

smart clever and must be liked.

it's so extreme and violent on many
levels.
sick and silly.

but good too, I guess, when you want
to see an old friend's face
who lives in Alaska.

I get caught up in it too, posting
ridiculous poems
and memes

what the hell is a meme anyway.
how do you pronounce it?

in so many ways it's a gossip column,
TMZ at our finger tips.
a free for all
of whatever the hell is on
your mind.

it's
the party line, or slang books,
if anyone remembers them.

it's a cry for help for the lonely
and sad,
the despondent and desperate.

it's a true reflection though of
where we are as a country,
a society, a culture.

you only have to look as far
as the white house to understand
where
the world has gone and is going.

coming towards you

even near death
with your eyes closed
lying
in the cold bed

of St. James Infirmary,
there are sounds
you will still
know.

the closing of a door,
a bird
on a sill singing.

the clap of thunder.
rainfall.
a church bell
in the distance.

her shoes clicking
against the hardwood
floor
coming towards you
to say bid adieu.

a thousand goodbyes

my mother used to say,
don't ever
put me in one of those homes
if I get sick.
promise me.
promise me.
we all nodded and agreed.
but she was young then,
full of herself.
her hair still black
and full.
she ended up spending the last
four years
of her life
in the exact homes
she didn't want to be in.
strangers
in a strange land
gathered around a television.
three meals.
a shower.
a bed.
a window to look out.
dark and dreary would be
an understatement.
then she shut down and never
spoke again.
but her brown eyes, watery
and blinking
said everything
when we came to say
a thousand goodbyes.

the window salesman

the salesman arrives
in his
little red
car with a magnetic sign
on the side.
he's half it's size
I see as he
squeezes out
with his notepad,
his briefcase,
his computer.
I watch him lumber
towards my house.
he's come to sell windows.
the old ones
are 52 years old.
I was thirteen when
they built this house.
one window on the upper
floor has a bullet
hole in it.
the rest move
with muscle.
no screens. the bugs
easily find their way
in.
out goes the heat,
the air conditioning.
I can plainly hear
conversations on the sidewalk,
and they
in turn have heard mine.
the stories they must
have.
the salesman gives me the history
of windows.
the story of caulk.
the tale
of double paned glass
and new insulation.
space age, I smile, and ask.
I learn that he was in the marines,
that he has a wife
and kids. he's good at this
game.
after a few hours,
i'm still polite but weary, having
seen the demonstration
of heat against
the glass.
a string of rubbery caulk appears
that he stretches back
and forth.
what's the bottom line,
the price? I finally blurt out.
we negotiate. he's hard to read
with his virus mask.
his eyes seem too small for his
face.
we strike a deal. papers
are signed.
I give him a check for
half.
we'll be in touch he says,
packing up
his gear.
thank you, I tell him.
no the pleasure has been all
mine, he says, pulling his mask
down,
showing me a winning smile.
I wonder if I should have
held out lower
as I watch him drive away.

on a burro in san diego

together,
in the picture they look
like
anyone.

smiling. he in his hat,
circa
1950

she in a dress
with black framed glasses
sitting on a burro
in san diego.

they could be movie
stars.

they could be anyone
you might meet on the street,

on a bus,
in a subway car.

but it's your parents
in this black and white
snap shot.

before time
began for you. I see where
my mother

has scallop
the edges with a pair
of scissors.

always trying to make things
right,
or at least better,
when they weren't.

happy hour

of the seven clocks
watches
that I have
none are on the same
time. the stove,
the mircrowave oven.
wall clocks.
the phone.
a minute or two
either way seems to be
off.
but I catch the drift.
I pretty much
go by the sun
these days anyway,
when it decides to make
a rare appearance.
I have an egg timer
too.
a sundial.
and a window to look
out.
time doesn't seem
to be the issue
it used to be.
my friend jimmy told
me he has a girlfriend
who has the shape
of an hour glass
with all
the sand in the right
places. sometimes
he calls
me and tells me what
time it is too.
such as happy hour.

the voice mail message

betty calls me at six a.m.
and leaves a message on my
voice mail.
she's been drinking.

i hear the ice cubes clink
around in her ancient
beach mug.

i hate this, she says. i'm
bored.
i'm tired of being stuck

in the house. my cats are
looking at me
wondering when i'm going
to finally get
out of the house

and leave them alone.
I've got five inches of grey
hair
weeding into my scalp.

i haven't had a botox shot
in months.
i look like my mother now.
my brow is all furrowed.

is furrowed the right word?

i look like i'm three months
preggo with all
the cookies I've been eating
and ice cream.

i think my pizza delivery guy
is in love with me.
i see him twice a week.

he's cute, i think, but it's
hard to tell with that mask on.

anyway. just thought i'd call
and say hi. call me, have to
go now.
need a refill.

like they never happened

i buy a dozen bottles of white out

and erase the last two years
of my life.

i spread the gooey
toxic

paint all over
the calendar
with the tiny little brush
they
provide.

it takes a while,
and i feel dizzy after i'm
done
from the fumes.

but it's over.
the months of insanity
are all gone.

it's like they never happened.

not today

I go out to the barn
to milk

the cow.
I fetch a handful of eggs
from the chicken
coop.

I wave to the pig trough
and say
not today.

the weather vane spins.
it looks like
rain.

the living are hungry

i'm at the age
where i browse the obituaries
at the back
of the city section

to see if anyone i know has
died recently.

nope.
it's expensive
to post a memorial,
so many go unnoticed.

you usually find out
when you run into someone
who knew
the dearly departed

and they give you the news.
but nothing
in the paper today,

so i go to the food section
looking

for a new recipe for Italian
stew. there it is.

i take a pair of scissors
and neatly cut
it out.

i set it on the table
next to my keys, my glasses,
my hat.

the living are still
hungry.

without a doubt.

black with green eyes

i see the neighborhood cat,
black
with green eyes

crouching in the middle
of the street.

she's well aware of her life.
in and out

of sewers, the woods.
houses that let her in
to sip

from a cold bowl of milk.
selective
as to the kindness of strangers.

she's a gypsy with a hoarse
meow.

a wanderer. never held,
always just
out of reach.

we used to talk

we used to talk about books.

a new book
on the list of books to read.

we talked of authors,
poets on the mend,

dead, alive.
the written word was everything.

and music.
the long nights with the LPs.

the vinyl spinning one after
the other,
dropping down as we sat
on the couch,

drinking wine, drinking gin.
listening.

we used to talk about love,
about
food and travel.
movies we had or hadn't seen.

it was a different world then.
slow,
and easy.

and yes I know, there was war
going on and there
was a criminal in the white house,

like now.
but it just seems like simpler
times back then.

or maybe i'm just getting old,
catching up
to my parents.

going senile.

hanging clothes on the line

I ponder putting

a clothes line in my back yard.
although

i'm sure it would break
the rules

of the condo association.
the brown shirts

who patrol daily, and give
out tickets

to those idling on a yellow
curb.

a nice long clothes line
though
would be great.
from one fence

to the other
where I could stand and
hang

wet pants and shirts,
sheets

and socks to dry.
like the old days.

the sun and wind, life
taking
it's time.

I could yell over the fence
and dish the dirt
with a neighbor or two.

turn back the clock, or at
least hold
it still
for awhile.

fact checker

he says no, you're wrong about
that.

he seems to know a lot about everything.
any topic

he's got
inside knowledge

and will correct you quickly.
he's an encyclopedia

of television blurbs.
it's hard
to hold a conversation with him.

it's a fact checking
ordeal.

so you reduce it down to hey,
how are you.

avoiding the news.
sports.
politics.

settling on just weather.

we're almost there

the application

for a piddly amount
of money

comes back again. sign here, sign
there.

the math is wrong, things
don't add up.

we need an ID number,
a verification

code.

we need a w-2, a w-3.

we need last year, this years

911's 940's.

we need a pint of blood,
three strands
of hair.

your first born.
your weight, your height,
your race,

are you a boy or a girl,
or confused and go by
they?

were you born here,
or did you slip under the wire?

we're almost there.

it's a government thing.
bureaucracy
at it's worse.

no human voice to talk
to.

no loaf haired secretary at a desk
steering you home.

so you apply again.
for the third time,

get on your knees and hope.

it feels like tuesday

it feels like
Tuesday

but it's Wednesday,
with a touch

of sunday morning thrown
in for
good measure.

but the weather says
march.

a third month of march.
cold winds.

rain. so much rain.
the stream is a river behind
my house.

the workers have
abandoned their digging

for drier quarters.
their shovels and hammers
strewn

about.

it feels like Tuesday, so
i'll go with that

and figure it out later
when I get
home.

a line of ants

the ants are back.

I see a long line of soldiers.
shiny

in their black armor.
marching

fearlessly from window
to door

to sink, to counter
then floor.

then back again with their
gold.

small bits, crumbs unswept
and left
behind

in hurry, or from spills,
or careless

eating.

you watch them work
so hard, up and up

back to the window,
where you open

it for them,
and salute their
charge.

tension in the air

you know what we haven't had
in ages

I tell my wife, as she stands
at the stove

in her big girl underwear.

legs unshaven for two weeks.

what she says, using
a big wooden spoon to stir

a pot of pork and beans.

she looks at me as I trim my
toe nails
at the coffee table.

what?

jello, I tell her.
jello with fruit in it
and whipped

cream on top.

you're right she says.
why don't you

run up to the store
without your mask on and get
us some.

how the mighty have fallen

I see her
on the street, the grey in her
hair

unavoidable.
drawn

and thin. advancing quickly
into
a place

where it will end.

walking blindly into traffic,

I see her.
almost unrecognizable.

her eyes to the ground.
mumbling

words into the air, speaking
to someone
not there. broken

and lost.

a queen once, now
disposed.

the jester gone. the prince
grown old,
the fragile
king

in the other room,
on the rusted throne.

my how the mighty have
fallen.

you miss nothing

it's an amazing

thing to find your life again
after
losing

it.

it's like coming back home
after being

lost in the woods, a desert.
hungry,
thirsty.

tired. how you smile
and fall

into the easy chair.

you missing nothing.

small doses of happiness

happiness does not
arrive

all at once.
it appears in small
doses

over a life time.
a book well read.

a poem coming from nowhere.

the taste of a kiss,
the promise

of a whisper.
the dessert of love

when found
at last.

rest after a day of hard
work.

a call
from a friend.
the bark of a dog.

a child's blue eyes.

a shooting star.
a cool bed on a summer night.

music.
tears.

laughter.

happiness arrives in rain
drops,

filling up the ocean
of your life.

each a new stream, a new
pond.

a fresh start.
a reason to get up,

to rise.

shop local, yo

everything is labeled these

days.
organic

farm fresh.
local

produce. just down the road,

support your neighborhood
grocer,
pharmacist.

antibiotic free.
we pet our chickens.

name our cows.

I see the corner
drug

dealers, they
too

are promoting their
products

as fresh and local.

hey, we made this here,
in your hood,

freshly cooked.

no need to go across
town for your meth or
crack,

or grass. no additives
ever in our

home grown labs.
shop local, yo.

achoo

I sneeze,

I cough. blow my nose.
the yellow

dust of pollen has put
a silky

coat upon
the world, it rises
like
a cloud

of dust settling.

spring time.

I hope the bees
and birds

are happy.
god bless you.

achoo.

waiting on the next wave

as the sun rises
on
the atlantic

I take the board out
to

where the breakers are.
I feel the cold
salt
of wind

and water against my back
as I paddle
onward.

farther and farther,
with the melt of yellow
in my eyes,
the gulls,
white winged and gliding
above me.

it's a peaceful

world out here.
no troubles, no worry.
there is no yesterday
or tomorrow,

just the patient
waiting for the next
wave

to appear.

the mid life crisis

if it's a mid life crisis

than that means
i'll be close to a hundred
and twenty

when I finally give it
up

and float off into the sky.

it's not so much the aches
and pains,

the fatigue
of another day, the routine
of life,

mundane and repetitive,
it's none of that

really.

and it's not that cliché
of wanting

a red sports car, with a young
buxom blonde,

a mindless cupcake

beside me. who cares about
any of that.

it's just the longing for
normal.

to come home at night and yell
up the stairs,
honey i'm home.

and she rushes down to wrap
her warm arms around
you, to kiss you

and say the words,

I missed you, i'm glad
that you're here.

three weeks in Tahoe

i talk to my lawyer friend jimmy.

i see him
on the park bench outside the courthouse.
he's

down in the dumps. his blue
suit looks like it's been slept
in

and his briefcase is open with
nothing but hamburger wrappers.

he sees me and lifts up an arm
to give me a weak
wave.

i go sit next to him, six feet apart.
slow times, he says,

moving his surgical mask off to one side
of his face.

people aren't getting divorced
right now. they want to more than
ever,

living together in the lock down,
but money is tight.

i ran an ad the other day
promoting a two for one divorce
settlement

for blood related relatives. not a
single bite.

don't worry, i tell him, it's going
to break
at some point and you'll
be crushed with work.

think so? he asks.

yup, i tell him, remember that trip
you took with your ex wife?

three weeks in Tahoe, you almost
killed each other.

yeah, yeah, you're right, and this
has been three months.

damn, you're absolutely right.
maybe i should get my suit ironed
and get ready.

different books

we were not on
the same page,

or even in the same book,
in fact

we weren't even
on the same shelf

in the same library.

the words she read
were

in crayon. primary colors.
whereas

I wrote in black in white.
a pencil

sharpened to a point,
with an eraser,
to write and rewrite

long into the night.

survival

I take the trash bag to the curb.
it's late.

raining, but at the edge
of the woods

I see the red fox patiently
waiting,

crouched, his eyes lit
up
from the street lamp.

he's hungry.
we're all hungry for something.

food, love.

survival for him
is no

different for me, I think,
as my

eyes catch the light as well.

thunder iinside and out

by the end of the day

I've eaten too many different things
and I lie

in bed
gripping a pink bottle of pepto.

the trashcan
strategically located
beside the bed.

scrambled eggs
shrimp
sushi
cheese cake.
blueberry blue cheese.
crackers.
spicy sauce.

cantelope

and finally some short
ribs
in the micro wave

with a few carrots.

there's a rain storm
outside.

thunder. or maybe it's me.
my tender
internal gut

roaring with disbelief.

some people

some people are hard to figure
out.

it takes time
to unravel,

to unpeel the layers
to find

out who they really are.
they throw a protective

shield around them.

sometimes we under
estimate

their hearts,
their intelligence.

their sense of humor.
it takes time

for words and affection
to flow

easily.
with some it never happens,

even though you've known
them for most of your life.

there's no opening
that door.

it's locked, shut tight.

the sunday picnic

I met her at I hop,

her name tag said jess, but her
real

name was natalie.
as she topped off my coffee

and sprayed more whipped cream
onto my pancakes
and bacon,

I asked her, what's a smart
girl like
you doing working in a joint

like this,

to which she said, I like pancakes.
we get to eat as many
as we want

once the restaurant closes down.
plus, I just do this part

time, for the pancakes, like
I said

but i'm a lawyer the rest
of the time.

more butter, syrup?
sure I said as she pulled
pads

of butter out of the pockets
of her pink apron.

I get off at six on sundays,
she told me,

winking. maybe we can go on a
picnic or something.

take walk and get to know one
another. I can bring bacon,
if you'd like.

it's a date, I told her.
see you sunday.

the weekend cook

I pour the red
wine

into the stew, then take
a swig

from the bottle.
I turn on the music.

some rhythm and blues.

b.b. king.
and the rest.

it puts me in a sweet
melancholy

mood.

I turn off my phone so
that I don't

do anything stupid,
like texting

something i'll regret
in the morning.

I stir the stew, I sing.
maybe tomorrow

i'll put clothes on
and go outside.

michael row your boat ashore

the neighbors are out.

singing on their front stoop.
their new age books
on their laps.

he has a guitar,

she's banging on a bongo drum
of some
sort.

Michael row the boat ashore.

we wave as I carry my groceries
in.

come out and join us, my friend,
they say.

sipping wine, toasting their
glasses

in the air. let's get
to know one
another.

okay, I tell them, maybe later,
but then
I go in,

lock the doors and pull
down the
blinds.

just let go

sometime you hang onto
the cliff

with your fingers, not wanting
to fall

to a painful death.
you hold on for dear life.

sweating, breathing heavily,
using all

your strength to hold
on tight.

but finally you let go.
and you fall.

it's shocking though, that
it's only a two foot drop.

you could have let go of
that relationship anytime
you wanted

and survived.

it was easy and fine,
after all.

a glass of milk and a slice of pie

why don't you come over more,
my mother would

say as I sat there eating
her lemon
pie.

why don't you visit more
often.
I hardly ever get to see
you.

your sisters come all the time.
Saturday, sunday

and sometimes in the middle
of the week.

even your brother
in Tennessee
visits more than you do.
he drives six hours to get here.

slowly i'd cut into the pie
with my fork and eat.
i'm here now, i'd tell her.

look at me, i'm eating the pie
you made.

i'm right here. now. in the flesh,
sitting in
a chair

in your house.

do you want a glass of milk
with that? she'd say.

conversation over.

sure. a glass of milk would
be fine.

the starter marriage

he told me how he
carried his new bride across

the threshold.
rice still in her hair.

the whipped cream of a dress
still on her.

how much fun it all was.
opening the gifts,
looking at the pictures

of friends and relatives.
laughing about
who said what,
did that or this.

and then in a year he told
me how he threw
her out,
back across the threshold.

it was catch and release.

she got the toaster oven,
he kept
the satellite dish.

the new wilderness

there is not a single
bored
animal in the world.
not a bird
in flight,
no lions, no yawns
by monkeys on their vines.
no giraffe is
on facebook scrolling
memes.
no hippos, over eating,
too late
for that.
just us,
just we are pacing the room
with too
much time
on our hands
wondering what to
do next, read, write,
watch tv,
put a puzzle together
on the floor,
go to the back window
and stare
out there for awhile,
alone in this new wilderness
of death.

saint elizabeth's farm

we were maybe eleven
or twelve

that summer. we each had a rod
and Weber reel,

a box of earth worms
dug up
from the back yard.

a canteen of water. we walked
the five
miles or so to the river
to fish.

on the way, through the woods,
a dirt path,
led to

Saint Elizbeth's farm.
where rows and rows of fat
green
watermelons

grew.

the prison inmates, chained
to each other
would move down
the rows

with blades and hoes
and load them onto trucks.

we'd hide in the brush and
jump
out and steal a few,
one each,

then run as the shotgun
turned towards us.

pellets flying over our
heads. birds leaping into
the sky
at the sound of the blast.

the prisoners laughed
and laughed

under the boil of a
summer sun.
we made their day.

such sweet melons I've never
tasted before,
or will ever taste again.

waiting waiting waiting

we're all waiting
for something. a bus, a train.

a husband, a wife.
a lover.

a kind word.
a pat on the back would
be nice.

we're standing in the rain,
in the sun.

we're at the edge of
a cliff.
our feet in the sand as
waves
crash upon us.

we're waiting for our ship
to come in.

we're waiting for Godot,
waiting on a check
in the mail,

a word from afar.
a package,

a star to wish upon.

we're all waiting on something.
sometimes
it's for something
or someone

we don't even know.

how easily it slips away

love
is this elusive fish

in your hands. shiny and wet
in the sunlight

with the promise of filets
on the grille.

you stood all day in the cold
water
to reel her in.

wrestling with it
as you unsnag the hook
from
her jaw.

the beauty of it's scales,
it's
perfect body

choking in a new sea
of air.

how easily

it slips right out of
your hands. you have it
one second

then it's no longer there.

i want to have your baby

it wasn't her cigarettes

that made me break up with her,
or her language,

or how she drove her trans am
like
we were in a race
somewhere.

it wasn't even her mother,
would stood

at the door and cursed me when
I pulled and beeped
for her daughter

to come out.

it wasn't even that she lied
and cheated

on me and wore
rabbit fur coats,

none of that meant anything
to me,
the feeling was mutual,

but when she said I want to have
your baby,

well that did it.
case closed.

what's up with Your God?

she doesn't believe
in God,

or a higher power, or whatever
the political

correct name it is that
people
are prone to use when

in mixed company of ten
different religions,

or atheists, nihilists,
or,
whatever the case may be.

she prefers to refer to
God, if there is one
she says, as Her,

or your God.
why so much pain, death,
war, disease,

crime. why do babies die?
why why why.

I have no answer for her.
you got me,
I tell her. I shrug and shake

my head. it's a mystery,
but strangely
I still believe.

burnt toast

I burn the toast,

but no one is here to yell
at me.

so I scold myself.
what are you doing, I say
out loud.

are you a child? haven't
you ever used a toaster
before.

for God's sake.
put the slices of bread
in the slots,

set the knob to the desired
darkness
and push down.

I can't believe you sometimes.
it's just toast

and you can't even do that,
can you.

answer me. whew. I don't
know why I put up with you.

don't even try to apologize.
i'm going out
for a while.

and tonight you're sleeping
on the couch.

toast is not that hard.
I slam the door
as I pretend to leave.

i hate space

i could never be an
astronaut.

for one,
i need privacy
when

i relieve myself.
all that isolation too.

where the hell
are we?

hand me the map.
i think we should have made

a left at mars,
the signage is awful

out here in space.

i have no idea if it's
day
or night.

lunch time? i'm so sick
of tang

and energy bars.
and those little sea sick
pills.

how can we get this thing
we're in
to stop rolling
around so much.

are we there yet?
is there a Starbucks?

this space ship coffee is
horrible.

i haven't felt this trapped
since
my last marriage.

alright, alright..i'll
shut up.

move over, let me look
out the window for awhile.

everything but love

my father

with his money. with his
depression

era
mind set. bills tucked
under his

mattress.
stretching milk
and bread.

sniffing for the sour,
scrapping
free the mold,

wrapping tight each pack,
securing
each lid,

he's frugal to say the least.
driving

nine miles to save a penny
on unleaded
gas.

my sister sends away
for his

shoes once the old pairs
have

have worn off the soles.
he has made
everything in his life

last long.
preserving, holding, keeping
it until

the bitter end.
everything but the love
of others,

lasts, stays on.

she'd cry wolf

I used to worry

that she'd kill herself.
I was concerned

about her mental well being
after
so many threats,

but after a few
times of seeing the bottles
of pills

still capped,
the rope, the razor, the crocodile
tears,

and what not,
I relaxed and yawned,
then went for a long
walk.

hoping that the house wasn't
in flames
when I returned.

the three a.m. call

when the phone rings at two
or three
in the morning.

it can only be that someone
close
to you has died.

or it's a telemarketer
in another
time zone

trying to sell you health
insurance,

or reduce the rate
on your credit cards.

death at times would be
preferable
when this occurs,

though
there's no one I currently
wish that upon,

not recently at least, but
maybe
in the bye and bye.

this too shall pass

it's easy to say things like
this too shall

pass. have faith,

to take a line or two, a
well
known verse from the Bible

that says, worry not,
be like the sparrow,

do they worry one second
about
life,

about food.

it's easy, to say, be happy
and content

in all circumstances.
easy.

it's much harder though to
believe

when in pain,
when the blood runs down your
leg,

and the roof
has fallen through.

it's easy, but hard to understand
how all of this
will pass,

but it's true.

have you met her yet?

the husband,

the man of the house,
so called.

asks me if I've met the lady
of the house.

he rolls his eyes
and looks over his shoulder
as if

a monster might lurk
behind him.

i see her across the yard,
with a spade
in hand

digging into the earth,
angrily.

yes. i tell him and cross myself.
we had words
earlier.

to which he says, be careful,
be cautious.

trust me, i know, it's been
fifty years.

i suspect these people

i suspect

the person who has no creative
outlet.
no brush in hand,

no pen, no recipe
on the table with the oven

hot.
they don't sing,
or write,

they don't act, or play music.
there is

no joy or flair,
nothing grows outward,
there is no juice
to share.

no dance, no gift of gab.
they minister
to no one.

they give
nothing to the world,
and the world

in return, gives nothing
back.

find what you love to do

some say

you repeat yourself. you
write the same
things over
and over

again.

I do. no doubt about
it.

but so what.
I've made love before
too.

does that end, because
it was once,

or twice?

no.

you find what you like to do,
and you
keep at it.

it keeps you alive
in good times, and in hard
times.

live long enough and both
will arrive

in equal amounts.

it's easier now, so much

i used to carry

a small black comb in my back pocket.
my thick brown hair

was slicked down with brylcreme.
parted on the side

not unlike
wally and the beaver.

i would look at my reflection
in the toaster

on my mother's linoleum
kitchen table

and try to pat down the cow lick
that

kept popping up.
i'd take out my comb
and go at it,

trying to eep it all straight,
side to
side, the back.

that even line of a part.
it was a lot of work

with all that hair, not to mention
the shoulder
length locks

in the teenage years. but

it's so much easier now.
so much.

on a different road

I smile
and laugh to myself

when I pass
the road side sign
that

says in green
exit here.

it means nothing now,
when

once it was the world
I lived in.

a path towards home.

I fly by
with hardly a thought
these days.

the music on, the windows
down,
i'm

on a different road.

sickness and in health?

we fall in love.
madly in love.

we call each other sweet names.
we get married. we buy a house

with a big yard, a dog appears.

he barks behind
the picket fence.

we barbeque with the neighbors.
we have two kids.

the in laws come over for the holiday
dinners.

lights go up.
lights go down.

work work work.
we're always late.
always in a rush.

we vacation at the shore, once
a year.

a week
in a motel.

time moves on.
we question if it was real love
to begin with.

others catch our eyes.

there's
grey in our

hair. we're heavier,
wiser?

maybe not.
the kids are gone.

we drink too much.
we're tired but we can't sleep.

we sleep in separate rooms.

no more dogs. the yard is overgrown
we both

get lawyers.
it was fun while it lasted.

but it's time to move on.

the run on meat

i see a woman carrying

out a side
of beef

from the grocery store.
blood dripping
on the ground.

her kid

has a leg of lamb tied to her back
and her

husband
is carrying a pig with an apple
in it's mouth.

they see me in the lot,
and say

with fear in their eyes.
you'd better hurry

the ground beef is almost gone.
just the 80 20

is all that's left.

no pork chops? none they
all say at once.

not a single chop to be
found.

i sigh and run to the store,
what next?

off and on the phone

some people

are not good on the phone.
it's quick.

not much to say.

how are you. good.
and you?

it goes nowhere fast.
a loop

of yawns and weather.
yups and I knows.

some people

can't wait to get off the phone.
i'm

often like that.
somedays i'm off

while other days,
i'm on.

a bagel and coffee

i miss

a bagel, toasted with a smear
of cream

cheese.
i miss the Hudson.

the bench beside the water.
i miss

strong coffee
and feeling the breeze of april

run up my pant leg
while i fold

and unfold the blowing times.

i miss the city.
i miss you beside me,

your hand upon my leg.
i miss you saying

let's walk,
the park is beautiful today.

i miss a bagel, warmed
from the oven.

the spread of cream cheese.

the living room?

she called it a living
room.

I preferred to call
it

the dying room.
it was the place where most
of the fights

took place.
the arguing.

the accusations, the lies
uncovered

one by sticky one.

there was no living going
on in

there. no fun,
no relaxation, no joy.

I tell the real estate
agent

to change it on the ad.
I tell her to change
the name to

the dying
room,

not living. she hesitates,
reluctant.

she doesn't want to lose
the deal,
so the change is made.

a brush of sun

a brush

of yellowed sunlight
falls

upon your arm.
the warmth reminds you

of a summer love,
of sand.

an ocean that stretched
out wider

than your mind
could understand.

this one patch of sunlight
does
all that.

what would a day of it do,
what would that bring

back?

she wants to be a widow

she wants to be a widow.

but it's not time yet. he's
strong.

healthy, old, but very healthy.
this could

take some time.
she thinks about his money.

his house,
his cars. his stocks and bonds.

what's in the safe.

all of it would be hers if
he would just

die. there might be a struggle
with his children,
but so what.

she likes a good fight.

what's taking him so long?

for heaven's sake.
she wants to be a widow

and wear black.
she looks good in black.
the dress and shoes are already
picked out.

hanging in the closet from
Nordstrom rack.

she can mourn just like the rest
of them.
but with crocodile tears.

she can learn how to grieve.
read up on it.

each day she looks at him
and smiles. listening to the
slightest

cough. the tremble of hand,
the slurring of words.

she buys him a new bike
and tells him, why don't you
go for a ride today.

it's fun going down the hill
out back.

she wants to be a widow,
but when. dear God, take him
soon.

i'm running out of patience
and so is my boyfriend
next door.

under the radar

in time

we discover who people are.
we suspect
early on

who's a fool, who isn't,
but there are

some people that fly
under the radar,

not easily known.
their charm and good looks

get them in and out
the door.

sly. deceitful and dangerous
they are.

we feel the clues, but
don't see them.

we reel out more and more
rope,

excusing their behavior,
their lies,
their betrayals.

we let them go on and on
and
on, until
at last

the light goes on, and we
take out our sharpest
knife and cut.

we let them fall.

she was Noir

from start to finish

I watch stranger on a train.
black and white.

1951. hitchock.

the last time I watched it was
five

or six years ago.
on the same couch,
in the same spot,

but with a flight attendant
from Seattle.

passed away now.

she was as noir as one can be.
a throw
back to another age.

dark and light
at the flip of a wall switch.

we never made it to the end,
as was the case

with most movies we
watched together,

but this time
I will. i'll see her out.

a different life, unlike this one

the dying man

whispers his regrets to the attending
nurse.

a stranger, at best,
seeing him

to the other side of this
madness.

I wish, he says, I wish, struggling
to breathe,

to get out
the words caught in his heart,
his throat,

hardly able to cough or free
himself as he drowns
in his see within.

I wish, he says, pulling her
closer,

his hand reaching out to
touch her.

I wish I had loved more.
he says. and not lived the life

I did.

it's early, but the men are at work

it's early, but the men
are at work.

i see them in their lime green
jackets,

helmets too.
one is riding a jack hammer
into

the sidewalk.
the others have shovels

and picks.

they say nothing to each other,
the noise is

too loud, the generator moaning
beside them.

they are there when
i leave.

there when i return.

when they finally leave, they
look at

one another and say
something that i can't hear
from behind my

behind my window. but it's not
much.

house for sale

i put

the house up for sale.
pull up

the truck and unload
my belongings into it.

i stick a sign in the yard.
i go room

to room and pack
my life into boxes.

trash what isn't coming with
me.

especially the bad memories.
that brief aberration
in time.

i do it quietly. alone.
box by box

out the door.
when it's empty i stand

in the Livingroom
and say.

i guess that's that,
then

turn around and go.

change the channel

I can hardly watch

a show where there's screaming and
yelling,

fighting.

domestic violence.
arguing.

acrimony of all sorts
by anyone

but especially a husband or
wife.

with the memory of childhood
pressed

into my brain
I want none of that.

so don't bring it.
change the channel.

i'm done with that sort
of pain.

not ready for plaid

colors are moods.

I've been black and white for so long
that

I've forgotten
about green, I've

shunned and dismissed even
my favorite shade

of blue.

not an orange red or purple
in sight.

I went through the no nonsense
fade

of grey.
the clean canvas,

the emptiness of vague
light. but I think i'm ready

now.
not quite for plaid,
or paisley or even

stripes, but maybe a pale
shade
plucked off the rainbow

arcing in the sky.

not there again

I forgot where I was when I woke
up
this morning.

there were no bars
on the windows,

no slab of concrete under
my feet.

no guard walking the hall.
no squared

in walls.
I was home.

not there again with the warden
and her

whip and chains,
her

twisted mouth, forced into
a smile.

the weary sun

remember the sun?

I say
to no one in particular.

just a thought
that leaves

my lips.
well, look, there it is
again

making a shy appearance
in the grey sky.

it struggles
to push back the clouds,

she seems weary.
tired

as we all are, waiting,
waiting,

hoping that things will
change,

not tomorrow, but now.

she loved her horse more

she loved

her horse more than she loved
me.

the dog
too.

a long list of siblings
and relatives,

parents, even in laws,
now
on the outs

were higher in the food chain.

in time I realized how far
down

on the totem pole of her life
I was.

carved in at the bottom,
a niche

made with an axe.
a small

dent banged into the wood,
an insignificant

bruise.

take it to the edge

we take it to edge.

to where the flat land ends
and the drop

begins.

when young
we see how far we can get.

new love is fresh and new,
hearts
unbroken, there is nothing
to mend.

immortal,
for a short while until

the real life begins.
death occurs.

illness and loss becomes
known.

the world gets under your skin.
but when young.

we see none of that.
we press on.

we take risks, we take it
to the edge

where the flat land ends

and the drop begins.

come here and kiss me

why aren't you here kissing me,

I tell her over the phone.
bring

legs and arms,
lips

and what not, come here
and hold me,

whisper in my ear sweet nothings.

bring your warm heart,
your caring soul,

your compassion and love.
come here,

put yourself into the car,
get on the road.

and don't forget the brownies
with nuts,

please.

when the light goes on

it wasn't easy

scrubbing my life down,
getting

free from the toxicity
of others.

but I did it
with the scrub brush of
therapy

and books,
you tube videos,

prayer,

and a few new friends
who've

done the same.
when the light goes on

inside of you,
it beams out from your eyes.

exposing anyone
abusive,

anyone full of bullshit
and lies.

my butcher fred

my butcher, fred,

has replace my bartender pete.

I see him every other day
for

some ribs, or crab cakes,
a few pounds

of ground sirloin
or a slab

of beef.
something about a grizzled
unshaven man
in a blood

splattered
apron
holding a big knife
that makes

him seem smart
and wise.

some days you have nothing

I borrow

a line or two from
something

said, or read, it escapes
me now

and attempt to write
a poem about it,

but it goes nowhere.

some days you have nothing.
the creative side

of you is dry.
the cupboard of your mind

bare, dusty,
with old expired cans on
the shelf.

boxes of old cereal.
strands
of stiff noodles
never to be

boiled,

but just the same,
I move my

fingers across the keyboard
and try.

tomorrow will be okay

I forget that it's six

in the morning in Oregon and text her
about the job.

no answer. of course.

she's still sleeping under
the canopy

of wet trees, an emerald
umbrella of

cool shade, lost in a dream
of deep sleep.

I look out my window and see
the same.

I love green. the woods now
full. it feels like hope.
like new

love,

like tomorrow will be okay.

show me your scars

she me your scars

she says to me, pointing at my
arm.

dog bite, I tell her,

then lift my shirt to show
her one on

my shoulder,
a thick half moon
gone pink.

knife fight
in high school with billy Arnold.

I pull up
my pant leg and show her
a bite

mark on my calf.
dog bite, stray that I tried
to get
out of the street.

the nip on my rib cage,
tiger shark, well no, actually
my ex wife did

that with a fountain pen,
trying to make me sign the property
settlement

while in mediation.

i show her a long line
on the back of my
hand.

sushi bar, I got over anxious
and reached over the bar

to grab

a rice roll with crunchy shrimp.

and you?

no, she says. none yet.
at least not on the surface.
most of mine are below the skin.

and please, if we fall in love,

promise to not give me anymore,
okay?

fine dining

I make some crab cakes

hands in the bowl
cold.

I broil asparagus, olive
oil

salt and pepper.

garlic mashed cauliflower
on the stove.

I pour a glass of wine
as I drizzle

chocolate onto
a slice of new York city
cheesecake

adorned with thin slices
of strawberries,

then a dollop of whipped
cream.

i press out the linen
table cloth

then set the table with
fine china.
one plate, one fork,
one knife.

the music is on.

i light a candle, then sit.
fine dining.

wish you were here to kiss.

we still have time

she's a little girl,
a kid

at heart.
she loves the playground,

the swings
the monkey bars,

the sand pit.
she loves how the woods
wraps

its arms
around the circle
of benches.

the see saw of life.

the joy of youth still
fresh

in her mind.

meet me there she says.
meet me there

before dark.
we still have time.

forget paris

I get a post card

from paris saying on the back
in her
own hand

wish you were here.
and then something in French

which I have no clue
of.

she's pressed her lips
to the paper

the red smudge of lipstick
remains.

I don't take it seriously
though.
she was always

insincere,

rolling her loaded dice,
playing with
marked cards,

making life her own game.
but I pack

my bags anyway
and flag down a cab,

forget paris, I say, perhaps
somewhere warmer,

where I know the language,
where the women
are languid and cat like,

forget paris,
maybe spain.

into our long coats

it's another march day,
and yet

it's almost may,
well into spring, on the doorstep

of summer.
we tie on our boots,

find a sweater,
a long coat,

we button to the top
and head out into a grey
wind

full of rain,
full of what feels like sorrow

and despair.
is it our imagination

can this be now and forever
more,

has the world, once
sweet and ripe,
gone sour?

help wanted

I see the help wanted
sign
in the window,
and go in.

the small bell above
the doors rings

and a tired man
looks to meet me in
the eyes.

we're very busy
he tells me, are you placing
an order

or looking for work?

I look over his shoulder
towards
the shop

where men are at it
with saws and drills,

wood and metal forged
together
into long boxes,
coffins.

I smell the stain brushed
and drying on hard woods.
I smell
the singe of metal burnished
into a shine.

can I help you, he says again,
a stack of orders
on his desk.

do you need work?
are you skilled?

I shake my head, no.

I've changed my mind,
sorry to bother have
bothered you,

I tell him.
don't get up,
i'm just passing through.

your lucky day

is it the rabbit's foot

on your key chain,
or the glow in the dark
statue

of Mary stuck to the dash,
or is it your lucky
day,

your lucky hat,

avoiding ladders,

avoiding cracks,

the meteor passing

through the sky

in a brilliant flash,

or the coin tossed into the well
both wished upon

that brings
luck back?

bring rope, come fast

she calls me
on her phone, she sounds
scared.

desperate.

please, she says, come
help me.

i'm in it again.
come quickly.

where are you, I ask,
looking
at my watch.

you know, she says, where
i'm always at

when I call you at times
like this.

i'm in quicksand.
i'm sinking, i'm going down,

bring rope, come fast.

the little things

I remember

an arm, an elbow.
the shape

of a knee.
a foot dangling out
from

morning sheets.
the curve of a shoulder.

I remember
a glance,

a wink, a smirk,
or sigh.

I remember small things
quite easily.

but I can't put
a finger on

the exact moment when
love died.

equality in sin

no sin is greater
than another, it says in
the Bible.

but i'm not so sure about
that.

when I weigh one against
the other,

some seem heavier,
harder to overcome,

or heal from. guilt
and remorse

doled out accordingly
for size
and intent, it seems.

i'm no theologian
which may
surprise you,

but I have my doubts
that they're

all equal.

a best seller

i weigh the book

in my hand, it's heavy,
i look at the front
cover,
then back.

i look at the praise,
the blurbs

in bright quotes
inside.

a must read, says the new
York times.

fabulous, the post says.
and the examiner

puts up four stars.

i turn to the last page
and read
the last line.

i sigh. maybe tomorrow
i'll begin, maybe not.

but tonight, it's poetry.
it's red wine.

i get up from the chair
and set
the book in front
of the door
that keeps swinging open.

i'll be back, i tell the book,
no worries,
you'll be fine.

we're very close

not quite, she says,

but almost.

we're almost there, aren't we?

tapping me on the knee

as the train rolls smoothly
down
the curve
of track.

i'm staring out the window,
and see
her reflection

in the glass.
am I in love, or is this just
someone

to get over the last.
how long,
before we really get

there, I want
to ask.

did you hear me, she says.
we're almost there,

aren't we?

I look at her and smile,
we're close,
I think,

very close, but not quite.

with everything behind us

I fall asleep

thinking of pepperoni pizza.
extra cheese.

mozzarella melted.
i think about you and me

sitting in a joint
along the highway,

heading to new York
on a rainy Friday night.

the checkered table cloth,
red and white

made of thick vinyl.
the plate glass window
greasy.

a juke box in the corner
playing
bob seeger.

night moves.
I look into your eyes.
you look into mine.

we're hungry and the night
is young. life begins now.

what's behind us, everything
behind us,
is done.

land in florida

I like insincere people.

you know at least who they are.
it's clear.

no worry, or wonder about
them.

they're full of it, they know it,
you know it.

the hot air. the bull.
the praise. a shovel
in their hand.

you look great, did you lose
weight.

everything is a transaction
with them.

best friend after one day.

they have a used car they want
to sell,

low mileage,
they have land in florida.

they tell you they love you,
they'll always love
you,

sign right here.

I like them.
transparent and real
in their own

abnormal way.

no place like home

I used to complain

about the ex wife, the ex girlfriend,
all the ex's.

was it all their fault?
I toss that idea around in my head

as I look out the window
at a bird
pulling a worm out
of the ground.

what's my part in these train
wreck relationships?

or am I victim shaming myself.
how do I even know
concepts like that?

books therapy the internet.

I don't know. maybe I wasn't
hugged enough as a child,
I suppose. who is?

and if you're hugged too much,
well, that's a problem too.

insecurity, lust, wanting the drug
high of a crazy
woman? maybe.

it's a tangled web, this love
thing. but I put the complaining
away

for awhile. i'll come back to it
i'm sure,
from time to time.

it feels like home, chaos,
mayhem, insecurity,
deception and lies.
home sweet home.

and there's no place like home.
there's no place like home.

lamb chops, please

the butcher

in his blood splattered apron
has no

room for foolishness.
he's in the slaughter business.

go in with a list
and surety.

don't browse the meat.
what's it gonna be, he says.

his fat fists on the counter,
the ragged lines
of healed scars

on his thick fingers.

what's it gonna be he asks
you again. his dark eyes burrowing
into your skin,

but you're not ready
as you eye the rib eyes,
the ground beef, pork chops.

so he moves on. Next, he

says, you, what about you,
he bellows,
pointing at a small woman
wearing a fur coat

and a tilted leopard print hat,

lamb chops, please, she says
quickly
pulling out a handful
of cash.

the three of us

when she moved in

she brought with her, her clothes.
her shoes.

some bills, but that was
all she owned.

the rest was bought by her
married boyfriend, she being

the mistress for six years.

she carried in his piano,
a guitar, a box
full of rings,

bracelets, sliver, gold.
she carried in trunks of his
things

that she cherished, a hair
brush with his hair still in it.

books of his, letters and cards.
his shoes too, left
under her bed.

a couch, a chair, lamps
all paid in cash by her lover
from her recent past.

she kept a picture of him
in the dresser beside our bed.

her phone stayed cradled in
her hand,

never setting it down,
filled with more pictures,
filled with texts from him,

some new, some old.
the voice mail full, saved with
his messages to her,
from years gone by, and from
an hour ago,

and there she slept beside me.
while

I stared at the black ceiling
in my room. my life would never
be the same.

it couldn't end
too soon.

falling forward

I fall,

I trip and stumble.
I lose

my balance,

my grip on the rail.
I slip

on the wet pavement,
the crumbled

concrete
of what I've built.

i'm on my way down,

but out of nowhere,
on soft
wings,

you catch me,
and give me reason

to keep going.
I begin to believe

that love is possible,

yet again.

i like to steal

I like to steal.

mostly words. things said
in passing.

any unusual noun,
is ripe for the taking,

a dangling
participle,
an unusual adverb.

i'll catch a glance or a face
on the street

and pocket it.

I enjoy the curve
of someone walking by

and save it
for a sunny day

when the fingers on
the keyboard

fly.

I like to borrow.

to take without asking a phrase,
a joke

a cry.

there is beauty, in
both ugly

and old.

in some strange way, despite
all, despite

the world,

in everything there is
some strand
of silver,

some nugget of gold.

windows

we have
windows into our soul,

our minds,
the corridors of our
heart.

some are brightly
lit

stained gloriously
in color,

while other panes
are broken,

with holes where the rocks
of the world
have flown

through.

splintered, with shards
on the floor.

round portals,
squared,

long windows, peep holes
into us.

arched, a simple wooden
frame
without glass,

or with. we need
a place

for others to look in,
for the light to enter,

and for us to
look out.

my therapist calls me

my therapist calls me and tells
me that she needs
to see me right away.

it's an emergency. i hear a door
slam
and then what sounds like
a vase of flowers
hitting the door.

okay, okay, i tell her,
calm down.

are you in any danger, is everything
okay at home.

i'm safe she says, but no everything
is not okay at
home. my husband is having
an affair.

he's such a lying pig, narcissist.

oh my, i say.

see you in ten minutes.
i just need to get out of
my pajamas and put some clothes on.

i go to her office, the door is open.
she's not in her chair though,

she's on the couch, where i usually
sit. she's crying, holding a box
of Kleenex on her lap.

i'm sorry, she says, sobbing, but
i didn't know who else to call.

i know after what you went through
that you would understand.

i cross my legs and pick up
her yellow legal pad on the table.
okay, okay. i tell her. breathe,
breathe. need some water? tea, perhaps?

no, no, she says, then blows her nose.

let's take it slow. tell me what
happened. she tells me about his
infidelity, his lies, his deceptions.

finding his emails, and receipts
to restaurants and hotels, etc.
she goes on in detail about her
discoveries.

i should have known, she says, still
crying, but softer now. my gut
told me something was wrong.
and isn't that something you've always
told me

listen to your gut?

yes, i tell her writing something
down on the pad. it's my mantra.
everyone knows that.

listen to your gut.

but enough about me, tell me about
your childhood, your mother,
your father, i tell her. it all
starts there. we know that, don't we?

take your time, we have all day.

face time

we do the face time

thing, after I finally learn how
to install

the app into my phone.

I didn't even know what an app
was two
months ago.

it thought it meant an appetizer.
like
calamari

or sliders, or
oysters.

small portions of food you
get at a bar

when having a drink or two.

we look at each other in our
little screens

and say you look good. been awhile.
i'm cutting my own

hair now,
she says. and flips her head to the
side to show
me a sheared area
close to her scalp.

your hair looks very dark,
I tell her. black now?
going goth, are we?

I say with a hint of an English
accent. it's raw umber,

she says. the last box on the shelf.

we both have pretty much lost
our minds.

I like your t shirt, she says.
is that ketchup on the front.

no, no, I made a bloody mary
this morning
and spilled some
when I slipped and fell
across the coffee table.

I can't get used to these new bed
room slippers I found on amazon.

sailors at sea

people are full of advice

after you've fallen off
a ladder

or been in a terrible fight,
or just
gone through a relationship
from hell.

what you should do, or shouldn't
do next
time is this,

they all say.
you look at them and smile

as they go on and on,
full of wisdom

and guidance.

you say right, but what you really
want to say

is go away, you have no idea
what you're talking
about.

but saying it all
in the salty vernacular
of a sailor
at sea

too long.

the flea market

it's a warehouse of
discarded things, one's junk

is another's gold.
lamps and chairs, silver forks
and knives.

crystal glasses.
pearl necklaces worn
in a different era.

the whole place a dust ridden
portal
in time.

she bargain hunts with nothing
in mind,

nothing needed
and stops
at one station to talk to an
old

man about a wooden bowl.
he tells her about
the tree it

came from. how he used his
tools to carve it down,

to mold it into what
it is now. he seems to be
on the verge of crying.

or he could be tired.
who's to know.

he wants to tell her more,
more of the story, the long
detailed history
of the bowl, but instead he says

make me an offer, while
rubbing the side of his face,

the sandpaper of grey bristles.
she looks at me and I shrug.

we move on.

not what it is

there is a certain
sadness

walking down by the docks
at this hour,

a vague attempt to clear
your head. figure things out.

the sun a weak yellow
melt

giving it all it has on
a winter morning.

but the stench of the water,
the fish

afloat, having risen like
silver
petals

dead too soon, perhaps.
the green sloth
of foam,

the gulls bored with it all
floating
sideways.

there's uncertainty.
the boats resting, tied
to the docks,

rocking, colliding with the wood.
times were
simpler back then,

you say to yourself,
walking onward, past the shore

turning up the cold alley
thinking of what home should be,
not what it is.

my hoarding progress

I look at my forty seven rolls
of toilet paper

stacked in my living room.
i'm very proud of them.

the courage and determination it
took to fight through
so many
elderly people to get them
out of their weak hands.

I never thought i'd be the hoarder
type,
but i'm getting the hang of it.

meat. yes. vodka, yes.
paper towels,

cheese and eggs. bacon. three pounds
should hold me.

sixteen bars of white hand soap.

a case of water. batteries, candles,
matches,

surgical masks, curiously made in china,
a hundred.

fifty pairs of purple surgical gloves.
(also, curiously made in china)

two measuring tapes stretched out
and locked into six feet.

what's next. maybe a cat, or two,

or three. i'll go slow with them.

oh, and least I forget,
testing kits....zero.

that new car feel

it's rare to hear

a car back fire anymore.
or to see

a man out under his car
changing the oil,

or with a wrench in his hand,
the hood up, cursing

the tight bolt.

we don't work on our
cars anymore.

they are sleek computers
on rubber wheels.

we gas them up, but someone
does
all the dirty work for us.

we get in and go.
we don't even need a map
anymore.

we drive through the car
wash, extra wax please.

the car tells which direction
is best.

soon there will be no need
to even drive at all, or park
them.

we can sit in the back seat
and make out with our sweethearts,

just like we did in the good
old days. take me home,

James.

the gold fish

the fish,

the size of a thumb,
more orange

than the name might give
notice to,

swims in a circle all day,

all night, I presume.
I've made her

as comfortable as possible,
what with

white sand and strands of greenery,
a small castle

with which to swim through
to add excitement to

it's long day.
I sprinkle a dusting of
food

as needed,
but I can't say that I enjoy

this fish much.
there is no true conversation

or love, between us,

not unlike the last person
who swam into my life.

I have no feelings for it one
way or the other.

I've given it no name, why
bother, I think.

and if I get attached to it,
what then in a week or two when

I find her floating gently
on top of the still water,

enough with this falling in love
thing. I shall just bid
adieu.

them bones

i see the bone

of her arm in my sleep.
i hear

the rustle
of limbs, like branches
of trees.

the shuffle
from bed to door, then

out.

i see the darkness of her

in my watered dream.
the shock

of old.
the shiver of cold.

the slack of her jaw,
the grey
tombstones
of teeth.

i smell what is deceased.

and when i awaken
on the sweet iced island

of bed, the unruffled
sheets.

i sigh loudly.
i breathe.

if i die before i wake

sick of social

media, facebook and whatever.

all the neighborhood
posts

and connecting
forums.

it's mayhem, chaos.
the world is small these days.

you can't sneeze
without

a thousand people knowing.
no more

posts, please.
don't tell me how you are

or ask me
how I am.

I don't want to see the cake
you baked,

or the flower you watered,
or
what your
cat is doing

with a ball of string.

i'm fine, I hope you are
too.

if I pass away, you'll know
eventually,
but long after

I do.

a list

a list

of things to do
is posted

by a small magnet on
the door
of the refrigerator.

I put it there two weeks
ago.

nothing is checked
off.

it's not about not having
the time
to get things done,

it's more that there is so
much more free

time ahead of me.

tomorrows keep piling up
as the yesterdays

slip by.

breakfast at target

I went to Tiffany's to

have breakfast, but the doors
were closed.

locked tight.
I could see all the diamonds,
the silver

the gold
lying still and shiny
beneath

their glass cases.
not a single hand to hold

or wear them in sight.
life standing still.

few are saying yes, or no,
I do,

I will. so I went across
the street to

target, still open.
six feet apart, but you can

have all the things you
think you need,

you can have your fill.

this is the rainy day

this is the rainy

day
you heard about

when your
mother told you to fold
that dollar bill

and put it in a safe place

where you won't spend
it or
think about it.

don't let it burn a hole
in your pocket,

but hide it.
one day you'll need it.

this is that rainy
day and it may keep raining

for a long long time.

some listened, some
didn't,

some still don't.

in for service

it smells
like sunday, I think as I sit

here in church,
kneeling

getting out my list
of sins

to confess and ask repentance
for.

i'm a car going in for service.
up on the rack.

dear God,
change my oil, rotate my tires.

lube me, fill me up of with holy
fluids,
all
that I lack.

vacuum the dust and debris
of my
dark mind.
shake me
clean

of leaves, of cobwebs.
then put a sticker on my forehead.

i'm good to go
until next sunday,

if it's not raining or
there's a foot
of snow.

page one

I get stuck on the first page,

hallway through
the first page.

it's a biography of someone's
life.

a hard life
in the hills. not enough love,

not enough hugs,
or food,

or beds to sleep in.
I yawn

and skip to the middle of the book.
nothing
interests me.

I get it. life's a bitch
for some,
and less so for others, but

i'm not feeling it.
I turn to the last page

and I sigh.
I look at the author's photo.

he looks like a really
nice guy, but

i'm glad I didn't read this
book,

having lived through most
of it already.

don't you want to know, she says

please don't bring up my

mother again, I tell my therapist
as she sits

there drinking her tea, a big
long yellow
pad

balanced on her thin knee.

but, she says, it's the root
cause
of why you're here today,

daddy too.

daddy? I say. please, not him
as well.

yes, yes, I know they were both
a mess.
incapable of raising children,

but can't we keep them out
of the discussion.

but, maybe just once?

she sips her tea, smiles
and shakes her head politely
and says

no. we have to go there, don't
you want to know why

you've picked such crazy
psychotic women
as your partner all these years?

I guess so, I tell her. settling
back into the big couch,

grabbing the box of Kleenex
on the table.

okay, let's go. i'm ready, but
as usual,
i'm scared.

misunderstood

we are all misunderstood
to
a certain degree,

some more than others.
some we have no idea what they're
ever talking

about.
or why they do the evil things
they do.

why, is a question never answered.
you look

into their eyes and see
nothing.

just darkness,

no reasons. no rationale,
no clue.

against your will

the fallen

trees

are crisscrossed
upon

one another. the heavy rain,
the strong

winds

have decided
with or without their approval

who's to stay,
who's to go.

such is life
and death,

both coming upon you
against your will.

it's not over, not quite,
not yet.

i think she winked at me

when we were young,

working summers in the great outdoors,
doing some

sort of minimum wage
construction job

we were tanned and long haired,
full of
vigor and nonsense.

it was nothing for us, all or
one

to whistle at a girl walking by,
no matter the age,

old, young.
thinking

we had a shot
in our boots, our shirts off,

covered in mud,
our faces red from the summer
sun.

we had a shot. we swore we had
a shot when

she looked back and smiled,
was that a wink?

I think it was a wink
I saw

as she sashayed away,

moving
down the boulevard like
the hands of a clock.

a piece of sky

a piece of sky

falls down, shatters on
impact

as it strikes the ground.

a window, perhaps.
or snow,

or rain. stained glass,

a rainbow of shards,
or tears.

a cloud deciding that enough
is enough.

it's gone before I can touch
it,

place it in my hand.
love can be like that.

awakened

when I pull the shutter back

before wiping it down
to paint it with a paint

called charleston green,
almost black.
I see the small brown
bat nestled against

the wall. his small body

gripping the rough brick.
gently, I move him with
a long stick, sending him 

to the ground with wings 

spread wider than I imagined.

his teeth and pink mouth

bared open. a whispered

hiss barely audible, but

vicious. he's angry, 

and who wouldn't be,
awakened on this cold
spring morning from 

a dream filled sleep.

the apple and the lamb

i don't think

about the lamb when i eat lamb,
or the chicken

or the cow when i eat
a steak

or the pig in his mud
when

frying bacon.

i don't think about the life
i'm

about to eat,
but instead boil potatoes
to go

with it,
or corn, or butter

a square piece of bread.
i am grateful

for the life they lived.
just as i am for

an apple
when plucked from a tree.

a thin book of poetry

i find

an old book of poems
stuck
between

volumes of psychiatry
books.

self help,
and other manuals to get

clean,
to get help,
to get my life back to normal.

a year of education
on two shelves,

but this thin book of poems
does more

for me than all those books
put together.

the flash of hope,
the clean

clear water of words
saying so much

with so little effort.
hitting home,

making me smile and go on.

the honey moon is over

why do you have to drag

the police into this, she says.
holding a butcher

knife in the air
as I dial

911. her eyes are black
and hollow.

step back from the phone,
she says

in a guttural voice, one i'm
not familiar with.

i'm using the wall
phone

not unlike the one my mother
had hanging
on the wall

in 1964.

hang up she says, moving closer.
I said,

hang up, or else.

I see the glimmering silver
point of the sharp knife
so

I put the phone back into
its cradel
and say.
okay, okay. calm down.

maybe you need a sandwich
or something.

I get it now.
the honey moon is over.

in crisis

in crisis

they disappear.
the prosperity preachers,
the do gooders,

the politicians.

the healers of the sick
putting on a show.

their voices have disappeared.
we're on

our own, out here, aren't
we

she says to me.
apparently so, I say.

the world hasn't changed, it's
just clearer

now.

caught again

caught again, I used to ask her

why do you lie about everything.
everything.

for no apparent reason.
the simplest of questions

or inquiry leads
to you opening your mouth

and lying about it.

why?
and she would stare at me,
blankly,

as a small dog might when
asking him

why he's ripped up the cushion
on the couch,

that same dull stare, without
understanding,

and she'd answer, you would
lie too

if I asked you the right questions.

exhausted, i'd give
up

and move on to the next day.

solitary

some don't need
a cell

or a rented room
or

a basement corner to feel
lonely

excluded from
the world.

some don't need solitary
confinement

or to be lost
at sea,

or on a highway alone
to feel

by themselves.
they've always been

there.
isolated in a world
they can't

get out of.

the lunch counter

we ponder

those gone, as we sit at the lunch
counter

eating a grilled
cheese sandwich.

a cup of coffee, stirred
blonde
by
cream and sugar.

we see ourselves in the long
drugstore
mirror

and wonder where the years
have gone.

we nod to the waitress
with a pink flower

behind her ear
for more
coffee

then finish our
work day lunch.

with a glance at the clock
we leave an appropriate tip,

then move on.

pillow talk

we spoon, afterwards,

we kiss, we say goodnight.
we say, I love you,

and mean it, then reach for the light.
her side,
then mine.

books carom to the floor.
remotes.
phones.

the dog jumps up, finds
a middle spot
between us.

he's asleep before we
are

as we talk sleepily,
as lovers do,
against the pillows.

meat loaf

I stir in some ketchup,

a little dark mustard
sprinkle in

some brown sugar
a dollop or two of Worchester
sauce.

mix and taste,

salt, pepper.
perfect.

now baste.

the wrong hand

sometimes you grab
the wrong

hand to walk down the road.

you hold it tightly
for as long as you can,
not wanting

to let go, but after
awhile

they're holding you back,
the weight

of them is too much to hold
too hard to pull

along.
you have to uncoupled
and release them,

if you ever want to get
to place,

to the love

you were meant to know.

let's wait and see

with age

we worry less about tomorrow.
we have a lot
of them
behind us.

stored away.

we know how bad things can
be

and how they pass
in time.

whether joy or tragedy,
it's all
part of this life.

we wait, we pray, we find
a quiet
place

to ponder
and find peace.

sometimes it returns,
and other times

it gets worse.
let's just wait and see.

finding the key

i remember this other life.

walking
gently on thin ice from dawn
to
night.

wondering which mask
would she wear
today.

what role, what act, what stage
was she on.

who was she now?
which side of her would win out.

i remember thinking am i crazy?
or is she?

is this a dream, some
place i can't wake up from.

how did i get here?
where's the door, the window,

who has the key?

i remember this other life,
and think

that it was a hundred years
ago
and other times it feels

like it was
yesterday.