where's my keys

mothers
know where everything is.

gloves,
shoes, a book for school.

where's my
hairbrush
my sister says.

the leash to the dog.
my slippers,

the ball, I ask.
top shelf,

she'll say, pointing
to the closet.

look under the bed,
or in the basement.

where's my good shirt?
I ironed
it,

it's in your room on
a hangar.

where's my keys, I yell
out
in the early

morning, going from
room to room.

but there's no answer.
i'll have to find things
myself

from here on out.

into another spring

they are old,
not
too old though to have
lost
their voice,
or muscle.
I see them spar
in the grass outside.
pruning.
raking, taking care
of weeds.
on hands
and knees. their
brows
furled with years.
they are the trees,
the grass,
the leaves.
they bring it all
around
again,
one more year into
another spring.

the yard stone

it's the same stone
inside
the dirt
buried
in the far yard.
half in,
half out.
the quartz lit
in the morning sun.
it's been there for as
long
as I can remember.
did someone
drag it in,
its shine
reminding them of
a falling star.
there is no one here
to answer that, but
it will be there
tomorrow,
and the next day.
and long
after I have gone.

maybe

something like

maybe
comes to my lips.

a word
i use a lot now. maybe.

maybe i'll come,
or do that with you,

or this.
i'm on the fence about
everything

lately.

walking the thin line,
the tight

rope strung across yesterday
and tomorrow.

I remember
the fall from this height
and say

maybe.

wade through

love, or the mirage
of love is a potent
brew

new or old,
broken
or kept.

it gets into your blood
stream

and runs black
when betrayed.

there's not enough leaches
in the world

to save you
from the trouble you are about
to go through.

so into the dank
of swamp

you wade. arms pushing
past
the weeds,

the tangle of rising
snakes.

the fall

we slip

on the cold ice that drapes
the steps

like cake
icing.

we tumble, grabbing
the rail,

but that too is coated.
we see

the sky for what it is,
as we
lose contact
with the ground.
a blue

egg
above us, the whisper
of clouds.

a black bird
carrying something in
it's

yellowed beak

to keep
things going.

a silver glow upon us

after decades
of chaotic relationships

I want calm.

not for the world, but for
my world.

quiet would be nice.
love.

loyalty.
fun.

laughter and soft nights.

no need to leap from a plane,
or climb
a mountain,

or go to the ends
of the earth

to take a picture and say
look at me,

look where I am.

a morning walk will do.
holding hands.

kissing in the rain.
lying side by side as the moon

casts a silver glow
upon us.

outside the door

the routine
keeps me safe, or so it seems.

to wake up
at the same time.

fix the same cup of coffee,
fetch the paper

off the porch, let the dog out.
two
eggs over
easy.

toast with butter and jam.
the morning news

on the tv.
it's life at its most dull.
but

it keeps me safe
and warm,

almost unworried that
anything is
wrong.

sameness keeps me protected

from the chaos outside
the door.

are you happy

are you happy, she asks,
with a smile on her face.

are you happy.

I laugh.
content, I tell her.
which is fine.

no one is truly happy
for very long.

and if they are they
have lost
their
minds

and should be in chains
behind
the wall.

but i'm always happy,
she says,
spinning around in
her new dress

under the rising sun.

too bad for you, I tell
her. too bad.

I have to run.

the monster

as a child
you worried
that there might be
a monster
under your bed,
but as you got
older
you often wondered
if the monster
was lying beside
you, instead.

she was.

triple scoop

the fat boy in a striped
shirt,
sitting plump
on the stoop
licks
contentedly at his cone
of ice cream.
triple scooped.
his small eyes
are lost in his face.
the world
is in his hand.
his life before him
will be forever
tied to this cone of
sweetness.
never quite found again.

a short stay

pain
and suffering, not
contentment
lead to wisdom.
go through it.
don't dismiss it away.
welcome it
with open arms,
embrace
the blood and sorrow,
but make it a short
stay.

phantom tears

a night
of bad dreams. trembles.
the memories
buried deep
into the furrows
of your subconscious
leaking
out in slumber.
you sweat
and turn on the ruffled
sheets,
bringing phantom
tears
to your eyes. you
remember everything.
it's a curse,
disguised as a blessing.
you've lost
count
of all her lies, promises
and vows.
she was nothing
but evil
in angelic guise.

nowhere left to stand

strange days
are upon us. the golden light
has
faded grey.
there's blood
in the eye of the moon.
the wolves
are on the hill, listen
to them howl.
the world
has gone sour,
rotten in our hands.
the king is dead,
the queen floats
in the river
face down.
there are less
tomorrows
then there ever was.
there's nowhere left to
go,
nowhere left to
stand.

the game

we were gym
rats
playground
fixtures
on any sunny day
cold
or warm
we were out there
pounding
the pavement with
the ball.
balding sneakers,
split fingers
from the cold.
the wind pushing
against us,
the beautiful sound
of
the clink of the metal
net
when true aim was found.
the gravel
below our feet
all seasons
were good
as long as snow
or ice
or rain
didn't deter us.
junkies
for hoops.
and then the lights
would go
on
and we'd get one
more game, one
more game in
before going home.

vacations

we pack the kids into the station
wagon.
the chairs.
the coolers.
the suitcases full
of clothes.
we tie the umbrella
to the roof.
extra shoes, extra
blankets
and pillows.
buckets and bikes.
books that won't get read.
pills and booze.
we pile the kids inside
buckle
them in.
check to see if the iron
is off one
more time, then
stare at the map
and away we go,
stressed and worried,
crazed,
again. vacation
begins.

sugary people

beware of charm.

of sugary people.
you need to brush daily
and often

when they're around.
they fool you with
sweetness.

decay and rot
is soon

to follow if you keep
sipping
their koolaid,

eating cake from their
palms.

we called it home

it was the kind of house

that had
giant salad forks
and spoons on the wall

for décor.

the couch was blue,
the rug
was blue
the drapes were blue.

why?
well, because they matched.

a coffee table circa
nineteen seventy sat upon
a round roped rug,
that hid the dirt well.

magazines below
two end tables,
two matching lamps
sitting on top of hand
made
doilies.

there was always a pot
boiling
on the stove. the yellow
light of the ice
box, often bare,
when opened
gave off a kind cold
glow.

there was always
a dog in the yard.
a cat on the sill.
a bird whistling in
a cage.

it was a strange strange
place,
but we called it home.

move on, make more

the mind
has a beautiful way of forgetting.

both pain
and joy.

we can't hold on to either very
long.

if we do we expect it
to always be that way.

it has to come
and go

as it pleases. we can't live
in a state
of sorrow or bliss

very long.
we have to move on,

make more.

the magician

the magician
with his wand is casual
as he
pulls
the rabbits out of his hat,
the birds
fly
from under his sleeve.
fire appears
at his finger tips.
he smiles as if it's not
magic
but an ordinary thing
that he does he
day.
and when he takes the
saw
and puts his wife
into the box
cutting her in half,
there seems to be some joy
on his face.
a wish unfulfilled
perhaps.

the boardwalk

the boardwalk
with it's color and smell.
the early morning
fry of
food.
the wind
of it
in the salty air.
the stretch of a cold
blue
ocean
at our feet.
the angry sea.
the horrible blue
of sky.
I take
your hand, you take
mine.
we
move forward into
a mysterious
world
of new life,
old
life.
the frayed twine
pulling us.

sea glass

the glass
smoothed with water,
the sea
taking
away the sharp edges.
clearing
the color
as it washes up
on the shore.
sea glass.
once held in hand
and tossed aside.
man and nature coming
together
to give
light. you pick
up
the pieces as you
walk
alone.
saving them for when
the day
goes dark.

the next storm

when you escape
a storm
after being on your knees
for so long,
listening to the wind
rattle
the roof.
hearing
the water rise
with muscle
tearing
at the trees,
the home where you stand
you easily
forget
the fear
and go on about your
day
as if nothing ever
happened.
all is well once more.
until the next storm
which arrives
tomorrow, or maybe
next year.

ugly and sad

Wallace stevens
said
that the world is ugly
and the people
are sad.
perhaps.
but not always.
lost and lonely,
maybe,
confused
and searching for answers,
for meaning
and purpose.
ugly seems
too harsh,
sad,
too soft.

to steal a loaf of bread

the jobless,
the homeless, the disenfranchised
are laughing
in their bedrolls
made of newspapers.
they rub
their hands in the fires
that warm them,
smiling at a world
that never gave them a chance
to rise
above their
minds, their blood,
their color.
now you see, they think
quietly to themselves,
catching a glimpse
of the world
news. hearing it on
hot wind.
now you understand
what it means
to steal a loaf of bread.
to stand in line
for water.

to beg.

the short line

there's another window
in the low
red brick
building.

the line is short.
three or four stand there,

patiently waiting their
turn

to voice what needs to
be said.

they are thankful.
grateful
for all that they have.

their wealth
of friends.
the food they ate

today. the water they
drank.

the beds slept whether
on feathers
or concrete,
or a steel grate.

so few are in this line.
so few feel blessed despite

all things before them.
grateful

and praising a higher power
for all
that they possess.

dark lovers

spit out the poison
before
it kills you.

drain it
from your arm
where the snake
has bitten.

tie a string tight around
the wound
and pray.

don't let the others
get you.

beware of those that
lie,
beware of those
that betray

and slither about in
darkness.

don't give your heart
to them.

their reach is long
and stealth.

their fangs are poised
to kill.

who is to blame

if there was a complaint
window

there'd be a line around the world.
from here
to china

and back again.

but instead we find a friendly
ear
to talk into.
we find

a place
to exclaim our disappointments,
our
pain.

we spend our lives on social media.
hot air
going out.

nothing coming in.

if there was a window
we could go to,

it would be so much easier
to get off our chests

who is to blame.

her loose thread

some
have a loose thread

that bothers you,
so you

pull on it and more comes.
soon
they unravel

and you find out who they
really are.

a part of you is happy
to finally

know the truth about someone,
and the other

part of you is sad,
having lost that imaginary

person you held
so close to your heart.

the story of your life

you write the history
of your life.

you sit down with your golden
pen

and go at it
on a clean sheet of paper.

you amend.
you edit.

you revisit history
and remember falsely.

but you do the best you can.
your hand

cramps from writing.
there seems to be no end
to it.

although there is.
one day

there will be no more days.
no more
ink

to spill.
no sorrow or joy,

no lost or found love to
write about.

you will have written the
story of your life.

for better, for worse,
but it will be done,

then you can rest
and go on your way.

roll up your sleeves

when the vaccine
comes
everything will be fine.

when the drug is invented
the sun
will come back out.

the world
will right it self.

love will be found.
there will be food on
the table.

the mean will be kind.

the kind will rule with
compassion
and caring
for those left behind.

when the syringe goes in
each arm

then things will turn around.
evil will disappear.
no more war,
no more poverty

or stupidity,
betrayals or lies.

at last the masses

will be happy, everything will
be just fine.

now roll up your sleeves,
be full of joy,

the answer has arrived,
step right up and
get in line.

small thinking

I take the broom out
to sweep
some pettiness away.

it falls like
dust, webs into the corner
of my mind
at times.

a yellow silt
on
everything.

I get out the vacuum,
the brush,

the pan.
I clean up the residue
of small old thinking.

a rag, a mop,
a bucket.

I go at it. just when you
think
it's gone

it finds a crack in the door,
or window
left ajar

and finds a way in.

when the snow fell

when the snow
fell

we went outside.
our boots and gloves
on.

our hats.

we lay on the ground
and made
angels.

we threw snow balls
at one

another.

we took our sleds to the hill
and down
we went.

when the snow fell
we were younger then.

we went outside.
and as I stand at the kitchen
window

warmed with coffee,
I watch the children,

their appled cheeks, eyes

full of joy,
those memories have come
alive.

the arrival of summer

I find sand
in my bed,

the grit of beach
has

somehow has
found its way beneath
me.

who's been
here?

who has slept and dreamt
upon
my pillows.

what person has picked
the lock

to my door,
my heart and made her
way

upon this peaceful shore.
do I know
her by name, or

is it a stranger that
has come to call.

has she brought me sunlight,
or has she
brought rain.

uncommon sense

there is no
class

for common sense. no one
tells

you exactly what love is.
what
pain is.

there is no book on sorrow.
Shakespeare tries,

but falls short
with language that needs
to be deciphered.

no university teaches
the science

of gloom, of desperation.
or the beauty that

lies on the other side.
the sweet

and meanness of life,
is in your hands.

your fate, your wisdom is
all yours
to decide.

sleep well

the dead
are quite peaceful.

they feel no grief,
no sorrow.

there is no sound
of disagreement coming from
their

ashen lips. there is no
fear,
no confusion in their eyes.

they rest, not for a night,
but
for all time.

whereas we
might get a few hours in

before the moon
sets

and the sun decides
to rise.

before and after

after the censor
has
left,
when the queen has died,
who
wasn't a queen
to begin with,
but a serf
to her own wrong
ways of
thinking,
dysfunction to the nth
degree inside.
when
the stick is left
behind,
the rusted
crown,
the sword, those
blank
staring and ever
watchful eyes
are gone,
you sit back
and become who were
before
the storm,
before the wolf
in sheep's clothing,
before the devil
had arrived.

when life falls apart

it's a small
hole,
a tiny germ,
a microbe.
an almost invisible
crack
in
the glass
that sets things
wrong, causes life
to fall
apart.

when the end is near,
it's not
a bang
or cry,
or yell that you
hear,

it's a whimper,
a sigh,
a breath
going out, hardly
a sound slipping
into a warm
fevered ear.

the world is green again

it takes a while for hatred
to turn

into apathy,
for the ice to melt and
not
give a damn anymore.

takes a lot of time.
a lot of ruminations.

of reading.
it takes a lot of
serious thinking.

self examination,

but then you wake up one
morning

and things are fine.
the world

is green again.
what once consumed you

is no longer in your
mind.

jobless

I think I was nineteen
the first
time I stood in line at
the unemployment office.
laid off from some lame
job
doing construction.
my friend john and I
would go together.
stand in the cold wind
in Bladensburg
waiting to get into the low
red bricked building.
we looked at it as free
money, until the next job
came along.
we didn't have families,
or bills to pay.
children to feed.
unlike most of those in
line in front and behind
us. these people were
truly going through
hard times.
it was the 70's.
we felt no shame though.
we wanted to work, we just
couldn't find the work.
we had health, brains,
and the willingness.
time was on our side, but
in those moments it looked
like nothing would ever
change. we'd always be
standing out in the cold,
aimless,
in a long line, trying
to survive.

the ten cent sin

we used to steal
cokes
from the round shouldered
machine
at the bottom
of the stairs.
we'd slip our skinny arms
up until
we reached
the cold bottle
then pull
and out would come
the drink
icy in our hand.
we had the dimes
to pay for them, but
the challenge
was seeing
if we could.
of course explaining
this to
the priest
in the confessional booth
took some
doing.

i need that

the itch to buy,

to purchase, to embrace
what's
under the glass
behind the window,

on a shelf, half price,
or full.

makes no difference.
the consumer
urge,

the need to fill some
void
inside.

just a swipe of the card
and you've

been temporarily,
until next time, been
satisfied.

kindess surprises me

kindness surprises me
these
days.

as does compassion and honesty.
clear
thinking.

true love.

good souls, old souls.
people

with humor.

these things surprise
me now,

where as the opposite
almost
seems normal

lately.

the long ride

it's a long ride

along the river.
pedaling up the black
ribbon of pavement.

I did it
at 27

then 37 and beyond.
I can still get it done

even now,
at this ripe age,

but it's a feat.
my legs wobble, my lungs

burn on that last hill
to Mt. Vernon.

the blue sleeve of
water
still there, the full
woods

now green, still there.
the old mansion

at the end.
like me, also still there.

family fun

not all families love
each other.

the myth of the happy
and loving
Italian family is just that

a myth.
most of mine can hold
grudges
until the end of
time.

long after the wound
have healed, the blood dried.

after a dozen years
they forget why they're
even
mad a each
other,

but they can't let go.
they've built
a wall
made of stone.

the snips, the snarky
remarks,
the silent treatment,
the gossip

just flows and flows.
happy holidays?
hardly.

clean up on aisle six

we all have an aisle in our
life
that needs
clean up.

call it aisle six.
we need
a mop
a broom,

a pair of hands to
fix
the mess we've made.

sometimes a therapist
will help,
or a dozen books.

or someone wise
and warm.
a generous soul with
advice.

a spiritual guru.
when you hear the voice
over
the P A system
though,

it's time to get busy.
clean up in aisle
six

is way over due.

i could be so much more

I put my trip
to Italy on hold.

paris, germany,
Switzerland.

will have to wait.

mt. Everest will have to
wait too.

jumping out of a plane,
deep sea
diving

with sharks, all that too
is on hold.

no marathon this year for me.

going to med school,
and learning

hot yoga, will have to wait
as well.

art class, a Shakespeare
class.
cooking a pot roast class.
yeah, all of them are online
but it's not the same.

writing a book, reading
a book.
yawn.

everything is on hold.
i'm treading water here.

I could be so much more
than I am if not for
this crazy lock down.

where's the remote?

we all know

we all know

the score. the drill.
the scoop.

we know.
they know.

everyone knows.
if you live long enough

you figure it out.
you understand

what comes,
what goes.

you try not to worry
about it too much.

the deal is done.
the world spins
with or without you.

what's real, what isn't,
gets clearer

with time.

now we know everything,
and in reality

we knew
it then.

for a rainy day

I sweep up into
my hands

the loose change lying around.
where
it's all come from

I have no clue.
when I empty my pockets

i'm surprised at it all.
the nickels
and dimes.

pennies. handfuls.
the occasional quarter
or half dollar.

I collect them all and put
them in the change
bowl

beneath the cupboard.
money for a rainy day?

perhaps.

believing in monsters

children believe
in monsters.

their imaginations run wild
as they lie

in bed trying to go to sleep.
the movie
has scared them.

they listen to the wind
out side.
the branches scraping
against

the side of the house.
the slamming of shutters.

an owl in a tree.
I used to believe in monsters
too.

but not those kind,
the imaginary sorts, but the
human types,
ones
that have slept

in my bed.
next to me.

online shopping

I pull the trigger

on a pair of boots online.
black,

exactly like
the ones I have, but
the tread

has worn thin.

I've got grey
and brown.

a color called cognac
whatever that is.

and a lighter shade
of maroon that
I never wear

because they look like
girl boots.

but I push the button
to order the black ones
again.

then look out the window
wondering
what's taking
them so long.

the empty pews

the lot
is empty in the sunday
morning
rain.
the black top glistening
with
water and sky.
the parishioners are
at home,
asleep
in their dreams.
saturated in sin.
wondering when they can
return to
God.
to visit him once
again.
never thinking that maybe,
he's right
here looking in.

off the grid

i get off the grid
for awhile.

like three hours. quite
a feat.

i turn off everything.
i unplug

the phone, the computer.
the music.

i even unplug the toaster
oven
and the microwave.

i'm done.
i need a social nap.

a textless day. a quiet
time.

a morning without sound
or words
or anything entering
my eyes
or ears.

just a barking dog
in the distance,

a few singing birds.

the five o'clock shadow

I remember shuffling

papers
at the office.

the big desk.
the drawers full of files.

so much ink.
so much stress.

the boss poking his head in
to see
if things were going right.

I had no clue. it was like
taking coal
out of a mountain.

ground hog day every day.

the clock couldn't move
fast enough.

how many cups of coffee
can one man
drink in a day?

is it Friday yet?
are you going to happy hour
too?

under the boardwalk

with five
or ten dollars in our pockets

we had the courage
and foolishness

to hitchhike to ocean
city.

standing on the side of
the road
with our sleeping bags,

our long hair
on our shoulders.

did we worry, not at all.
we had the promise

of the beach in our minds.
girls.

sand, surf. sun.
we had no clue what we'd eat,
or where
we'd sleep.

we just had to get there.
get there on
our own.

the carnival of
a boardwalk was fine.
we'd call it
home.

life of a different kind

there really is nothing
left to say.

no memory worth remembering.
that life
is so far in the rear

view mirror.
the odometer has spun
over
and over
again

going back to zero.

there is song unsung.
no poem written,

or book unread to explain it
all.
nothing needed left behind.

there's just the clear
meadow.
the blue sky.

the fresh wind of spring,
it's life
of a different
kind.

mustard yellow

it's yellow.

more of a mustard color actually
as the can

lid
opens in the fall
and a gallon

of freshly mixed paint
spills onto

the black street.
I think of Pollock

and his brush, slinging
it side to side
as he straddled

the canvas,
half in and out of his mind
with

love
and drink.
the darker side of art.

but this is not so glamorous,
there
is no gallery
for this picture,

this unfortunate
sight.

what are you reading?

what are you reading these
days, I ask
her over the phone.

huh? she says.
who has time to read.
I did a hundred sit ups
this morning
before work.

I ran five miles, then
did twenty five
push ups.
a dozen leg lifts.

I rode my bike twenty
miles,
then went for a swim.

I reached my goal on my
fit bit, ten thousand steps.

and tomorrow i'll do it
again.

i'm the same size I was
in high school.
fit as a fiddle, tummy
tight,

i'm starving myself,
and I have a headache
all the time,
but i'm perfectly thin.

what size do you wear?

I remember the agony
of

shopping for a girlfriend
or God forbid
a wife.

the impossibility
of it all
whether

a ring, a bracelet.
or something to be worn.

it's never right. always
the wrong
size

the wrong color.
they were never happy with
anything I
bought

no matter how long
I shopped,
or tried.

is that for me or you,
they'd say
when opening up a box
of lingerie.

not a glimmer of happy
surprise
on their face.

until I gave them the receipts,
then life returned
to their eyes.

what remains

as the calf
is born the vultures gather
unsure
if life or death
is on the ground.
they are patient
in their hunger.

it struggles
to rise
to it's feet as more
birds
arrive.
black as oil, clawed
with
beaks
as sharp as knives.

the mother, her shadow
on the green
field
moves closer.
it's to time to go.
and the new calf
finds her
way. stands
for the first time.

the vulture wait
for what remains.

as i go on my way

the murmur of water
running
sleek
between the rocks.
I've seen
the years wash by
into its blue
sky color. it's green.
it's dark
clouded
cold.
changing its course
by season.
I hear it from my window
as I lie
in the high room.
it whispers.
it's life is beyond
me.
when I depart it will
stay
for other eyes,
for other ears,
as I go on my way.

beside the fire

she knits
beside the fire.

the day is over.
there is still a life
to be lived.

but the flame
is low.
the heat of youth has escaped.

it's winter
now.
i'm done she says.

not looking up from her
lap
and the shawl
that lies before her.

I know what love is.
but no more.

conspiracy

is the world
fixed,
the game on. are there
plots
behind the scenes
that we don't know about,
the rich
and powerful
at the controls.
is it a conspiracy
of minds
bent on taking over
things?
or has it always been
this way.
a random roll
of the dice.
a mystery of circumstances,
like it's
always been.

the blue bird

the bird watcher
with her binoculars

her satchel
of water and food,

books,
kneels patiently
with
her camera.

she puts a finger
to her mouth
when I walk hurriedly by.

shh, she whispers.
bluebird.
then points him
out.

he's still on the wooden
box
set on
the green field.

he's beautiful,
she says, look how
vibrant his colors are.

I stop and look.
she's right.

what? i can't hear you

i hadn't seen my friend jimmy in a while,
so i called him
up.

we decide to meet down by the river
where we can sit

six feet apart and catch up on what's
going on.

he looks tired when he arrives
and sits down. i can tell he's been
drinking again
by the paper bag with a bottle in
that he's carrying.

i say hey. he says what?
i can't hear you.

is that your good ear, i ask
him as i yell
with my hand cupping my mouth.

let's switch seats.
this is my bad ear too.

so we switch, circling around
the bench
to sit down again.

the wind is blowing off the river
and it's cold.
an occasional plane takes off
from the airport nearby.

so what's up, i ask him.
what?
i said what's up.

it's hard to hear with this wind,
he says, then takes a swig
of his bottle.

how's marge?
who?
marge? your wife?

marge? oh yeah, her. it's over.
this lockdown took
care of that.

and you, seeing anyone?
what?
seeing anyone.

no, no one right now.
was seeing my therapist for awhile.
doing that zoom
thing.
but that ended when i asked
her to put on something
more comfortable.
big mistake.

pfffft. women, he says.
can't live with em, can't
kill em.

what?

nothing. never mind.
we stare out to the river for
another few minutes
then go home.

we wave, saying nothing.

the corona date

did you get your stimulus check,
she says
over the phone.

nope. nothing.
not a penny.

i got mine yesterday,
let's go out, do something with it.

hmmm.

i tell her. is it safe now.
i mean i could use
a little stimulus, if you know
what i mean.

sure, she said, we'll double
up the masks.

i have a new orange hazmat
jumpsuit I've been
dying to wear.

skin tight. very very hot.

my friend at the hospital gave
me a box of surgical gloves too.

cool. i tell.
i bought a new poncho from
amazon
and i found a space
helmet online left
over from the Apollo missions.

when i open the little window
i can get a straw
inside.

great she says, meet you
at the grocery store
where we can stand in line for
awhile

and then go to the park
with our premade packages
of food.

be a cowboy and buy me a steak

there was this one woman
I met

a few decades ago

who told me, she said.
come on, be a cowboy
and buy me a steak.

the place was closing down
and the bartender
looked
over at me and shook
his head.

he'd seen her in here
a dozen times
before with other dates.

always with three martinis
and a steak the size
of texas on her plate.

living off the kindness
of strangers.

the bartender gave me
the hand across
the neck sign,
warning me.

I looked at the disappointment
in her face
as I told her the kitchen was
closed,

noticing the grease and gravy
stains on her
rhinestone
denim dress, embroidered
with roses.

can I walk you out to your
horse miss, I told her
as the steam spewed from
her little red ears.

hey, she said, I know a drive
thru we can go to.
come on cowboy. saddle up.
it's not
over yet.

can i get an Amen to that?

after one debacle after
another
I used to say i'd
never
ever
not in a million years,
get married again.

I swore
on my son's head
on everything sacred that
I believed in
that i'd never
stand next to someone
with goo goo eyes
and say, I do.

yeah.
right.
then I did.
and what a nightmare
that was.

but this time,
as God is my witness,
I put my
hand on the Holy Bible,
I swear
to you, once more, that
this time around
I promise to never
do the same stupid
idiotic mistake again.

may lightning strike me
where I stand,
well where i'm sitting
right now.

I've learned my
lesson.
the hard hard way.
listen to your gut
brothers and sisters.
can I get an amen
to that?

the plaid lunch box

I remember sitting in the lunch
room
and looking over at my
friend peter Ornstein's lunch
box.
plaid, made of metal.
a thermos full of cold milk.
four cookies.
a sandwich with the crust
carefully cut off.
ham and cheese, lettuce
and tomato.
a small baggie full of chips.
cut carrots.
an apple.
all carefully placed side
by side in his box and a note
from his mother.
with a big heart drawn on it.
saying
I love you, have a wonderful
day.
I looked at my soggy brown
lunch bag.
a peanut butter sandwich stuffed in
that I slapped together before
rushing out of the house.
we eat as I stare off into
the distance,
listening to the crunch of carrots
between his perfectly
straight white teeth.

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.