what more is there to ask

he makes a list

and tells me what's wrong.

my lungs he says. they don't work
as well

as they did when I was young.
my eyes
are blurred.

my voice cracks.
my hair has thinned.

the knees are shot, my back,
my back.

but all is well, he says.
all is well.

i have money. i have love.
what more is there to ask?

summer clothes

she had summer clothes

that she took
out of a different closet.

folded away
from last September.

the cedar chest opened
to a lighter wear.

some were white, pastels.
sandals
appeared.

jewelry was lighter on her
wrist.

the nails polished
pinks and blues. her lipstick
too

was different.

she had summer clothes.
how different we were

was beginning to come into
view.

room with a view

the sky was crowded
with a bright array of white clouds.

pillows and sheets
in the sky.

waving in the breeze, blowing
cotton against the blue.

an aerial clothes line.

happiness is just this.
a simple, casual thing,

staring out the window,
at the sea and above it,

a glorious view.

we both have so far to go

shyly, I try to explain,
my eyes down,

but he stops me and puts his hand
on my shoulder.

no need to go on, he says.
he's older than I am.

there is more wisdom in his eyes
than i'll ever have,

so I listen.
we all make mistakes, he says.
don't beat yourself up.

don't be ashamed.
you're heart is good and hers

was evil.
that's all you need to know.

say no more. say no more.
I understand.

let's walk, we both have so much
behind us and so far
to go.

i miss the post card

I miss getting a post card
from afar.

the stamp of another country
on the back.

the hand written note.
hello, how are you?

I miss you and love you.
wish you were here.

hope all is well. see you
soon, my love,

my precious dear.

it says all that needs to be
said

when in love and longing
as lovers
do

for that special one to be
home.

I miss the post card, don't you?

the snake bite

people don't understand how
hard it is

to get poison out of your veins
once bitten

by a snake.
it lingers and lingers.

even in your sleep you feel
the pain.

see the fangs biting down
into your skin,

the black eyes, flat and emotionless
as the beast

has its way.
but you do heal.

your arm no longer is black

with

poison.

you get a spring back into your

step.

your eyes are wide open

watching more closely where you

walk,

where your heart goes.

looking for land

there's a point in most relationships
when
things
are never going to be
the same.

whether it's a lie told,
a betrayal.

a look, or a silence unfolding
into
a day or more,

there's a sea change.
a new course has been set.

it's the beginning of an end.
both of you
looking

through the glass for land.

confession

i can't drink anymore
around
men, she told me while

chewing on a green olive
plucked
out of her dry martini.

before you know it
i'm in bed with them, and
the next

morning I have no idea
where I am

or who the big lug is lying
beside me.

I think I need help, she says.
waving the waitress over

for another.
by the way, my hot tub is
fixed

and cleaned and ready
to go. 

scratching the itch

each age to its own itch
that needs scratching.

the candy when young, the cone
of ice cream.

the ringing of the truck,
the music
playing as you salivated

and thought about that nutty
buddy
in your hand.

a bike, a game.
a tree to climb.

then the itch for love, or sex,
call it what you
may.

those teenage years of wonder
and confusion.

then money became an itch.
a place
of your own.

a car. clothes.

then a wife, perhaps. kids.
a picket fence, a dog. a yard
to mow.

but then what.
what's the itch now, at this
grand age?

a good book.
a gentle kiss.
conversation.

a poem..

free love

we almost made
it to California. Perry, Jim,
me.

we had a connection in Huntington Beach.
a cousin
of a girl
I used to see.

we packed our bags.
stuffed money into our jeans.

gassed up
and away we went.

we made it to the exit heading west
on 66

when the car broke down.
a 57 chevy, baby blue, with
baby moon rims.

it died on us
and so did some fantasy,
some idealized

dream.of
surf, sand, music, free love.

the sea.

the piano teacher

a piano teacher lived
next door to me for a few years.

anne.
she taught music at the local
school

then taught children the piano
in her house

at night, or on weekends.
i'd hear the percussion of keys

through the wall.
almost music, but not quite.

the parents would idle in their
cars, out front
reading a paper,

or books, awaiting their prodigy
to come out.

one by one, they came as the years
passed.

occasionally a complete song
would be heard,

then she married again.
telling me in the snow one day

when shoveling out.
a picture of her fiancé on her phone.

the bright glow of a diamond on
her finger.

the music ended. and now a quiet
couple from
Minnesota live there.

we come. we go.

there's a curious part in all of
us

that wonders what became of someone.
that kid

in high school who used to kick
your chair

incessantly during biology.
the teacher

with the grey hair and startling blue
eyes.

the cheerleader.
the coach.

the girl beside you

in physics,
who broke your heart,
stole
your soul. 

pigtails in a plaid dress,

and a smile that would light

up a room.

and what about the neighbor
who
lived next door. where is she now.

still married to the man she found
on catholic.com,

did things work out?
you wonder, but make no effort

to know.
as you did when you were with
them.

we come. we go.

eating too late

was it because you ate late
at night

that you tossed and turned,
ruminated on

the past?
was it the meal?
the drink, that kept you

awake.
kept you up,
or is there just more work
to done,

more books to read,
more

self examination to rid myself
of the past

mistake?

i'll eat earlier tonight, to
find out.

the empty spaces

I take the day off.

but I get to work anyway
staining

the new wood fence.

a gallon of alkyd teak.
a brush.

the music on.
coffee.

birds stop by on the edge
of the fence

to see how things are going.
by noon

it's done.
I stand back and take a picture.

i like to fill in
the empty spaces of my life that are

left undone.

finding closure

my friend writes to me
and tells me he needs closure.

he needs to sit down and talk with
his ex

to say goodbye. to have some sort
of farewell

discussion.
to put a period at the end

of the sentence.
dot the i's. cross the t's.

I tell him about hell freezing over.
what was

normal about her, I ask him.
nothing.

and so why do you expect the end
to be
normal too?

closure is the door shutting.
the locks being
changed.

going no contact. delete, burn,
erase.

there's your closure. don't look back.

my favorite writer

a book arrives
on the porch from my favorite writer.

Lorrie Moore.

she's golden.
I've been reading her work
since the mid
80's

she's brilliant and clever.
she makes me laugh, and brings
me

to the verge of tears. she's that good.

it's a hardback book.
I see her familiar face on the cover.

we have aged together through the years.
never
actually meeting in person,

but always in  the blissful quiet
of a reading chair.

something terrible

I get this feeling

that something terrible is about to happen.
a gut feeling.

the same one I used to get
when I met my
ex wife.

I knew in my gut that there was a living
hell
in front of me.

but this is different.
it's a world
feeling.

something terrible is about to happen.
i'm rarely wrong,

but this time, I hope I am.

you think you know someone

you think you know someone.
you think
you have them all figured out.

for better or worse, you have
their number.

but then they say something,
or do something
and you have to start all over
again.

the masks slips and suddenly
they aren't who you
thought they were.

it could be a word, an action.
a look,
but something tells you there
is more here
than meets the eye.

it could go either way, i've
gone through both. with one
you run from as fast as possible

and with the other you
run towards with open arms
and a welcoming heart.

the roast beef sandwich

i don't understand men, she told me.
brushing her hair
in the hall mirror
after we had made love.

she seemed at times to forget
that I was a man,
and talked
to me
as if I might be something else.
not a woman,
exactly, but
something else.

she's always in a hurry,
even when arriving.

there was a tenseness about her, as
if she was unable to
remember something important,
or where she may
have put something, like her
keys, or her wedding rings,

or her ever buzzing phone,
politely set for vibrate during
her visit.

where to now, I asked her.
standing in the kitchen making
a sandwich.

hungry?
I could hear the spray of perfume
and the clinking
of things in her purse
as she searched for lipstick
and rouge.

I could eat a horse, she said.
sorry,
no horse, but I could make you a sandwich
or something.

no, no. i'll grab something on
the way home.
I have to stop off at the church
and drop off some canned goods.

my husband is a deacon there now,
did I tell you that?
she peeked around the corner
as I put some roast beef onto a slice
of white bread
and then layered it with mustard.

I set two pickles on the dish, then

found the bottle of milk in the fridge.

no. I said. a deacon?  yes. he's very
involved with the church this year.
he wants me to join the choir.
he says I have a wonderful voice.

you do have a lovely voice. I said,
taking a first bite into the soft bread.
tasting the tang of the brown mustard.

do you think so?  she came into the kitchen.
how do I look?
I looked at her and nodded. wonderful.
no worse for wear.

she looked at her watch then came
over to gently brush her cheek against
mine.

have to go love, she said. be good.
see you in a week or so.

we're travelling up to New York to see
his family. so we won't be able to talk.

but i'll try to text you from the bathroom

at some point, or

when I take the dog for a walk.

okay. I said. pouring a glass
of milk. i'll be here. don't forget to put

your rings back on.

sweetness in the true

there is joy

in seeing boxes leaving.

seeing the truck

pull up and the men carrying

away

what isn't yours.

there is laughter in the emptying

of drawers and shelves.

in the sweeping away

of someone

you once cared about,

but no more.

there is happiness in the new.

sweetness

in the true.

trust me, i know

sometimes you feel a vibe.

a tug
at your heart strings, or a rumbling
of the gut.

something is going on.
something is amiss.

your stomach never lies. it's the
true barometer

of your life.
listen to it.

don't be fooled by charm,
by those

with a twinkle in their eye.
there will be

hell to pay if you don't.
trust me.

I know.

we miss you!

I see that St. Bernadette's
is open for business once again.

the lot is full.
I see father smith with one of those

Styrofoam board signs
standing on the edge of the road

flipping it around as they like to do.

there's a big blue arrow on it
pointing towards the church.

we're open, it says, come on in.
free communion without confession.
this week only.

no penance, no guilt, no need
to even kneel. come on in. we

miss you. cash only.

too many cocktails

tipsy after a few

too many cocktails the night before,
you roll over
and stare at the clock.

it's a red blur of numbers.
you pull the blinds

to the side.
it's raining.

you lie there and stare at the ceiling.
bathroom first,
or coffee?

or aspirin?

you look over at the  body lying
beside you

and tap her on the shoulder.
her long dark

hair, cascades along the white
sheets.

you ask her her name.

waiting for phase three

I get a call from

my old girlfriend Betty.
she's finally out of rehab.

hey.
she says on the phone.
she sounds happy.

sober and dried out.
perky, even.

what up? she says. let's
roll out
and do

something sometime.
but what about the virus
I ask her.

shouldn't we wait until phase
three?

what virus, she says.
I've been institutionalized
for six months.

haven't heard the news.
what's phase three?
I laugh.

and say well, a lot has gone
down since
you were locked up.

turn on the tv.

i got nothing

I spend a few hours

on amazon
looking for more stuff that i
don't need.

but I got nothing.
no new
shoes,

or books, or pants,
or shirts.

no art, no new keyboard
or phone
case

or dishes
or oils to rub onto me.

no music, no how to manuals,
no

new gizmos for the kitchen.
heating pads,

or ice packs.
no pills to make me happy.

nothing.
absolutely nothing.

i'll try again later.

no longer children

as neighbors do

you see the children growing.
outside the window.
bright green

lives
in the street. from stroller
to bikes.

to cars.
they age so quickly.

leaving before they've  hardly
arrived.

their parents growing thick
and grey.

waving from
the porch as their children,

no longer children
wave
and go on

their separate ways.

what sadness brings

she was blue.

sad.
always sad

to some degree.
her face
tilted

and frowned, leaning
on the sill.

waiting for something
or someone
to arrive

that would take the sadness
away.

some to fill the void,
someone
who would provide.

this led to  trouble.
her life

being led
down wayward trails,

led astray.
there was no truth.

just lies.

the joy of ice cream

there is joy
beyond measure

in the small treasure
of a cone

two scoops
of sugared milk

minted
with chunks of dark
chocolate.

let the world go by.
let the cities

burn,
let the oceans rise
and flood

the land.
no worries we have
this cone,

this ice cream,
this cold melting joy
within
in our hand.

the list grows

your best friend

is gone. your other friends too.
they have

left before you.
you stare at the numbers in your
phone,

next to their names.
some were lovers.

some were childhood friends.
they seem reachable

at times, as if they are still there.
sitting by the phone

awaiting your call. you can
hear their voices,

their laughter.
you are ready to console them
over love
lost

over things gone wrong.
and they are there to do the same

for you.

it's just a cloud

you stand at the window
and look

up at the clouds. they are just clouds.
you see no
shapes

or images that they might resemble.
you realize

that this is what you do with so much
of life

looking for meaning when
there is none

to be found. it's just a cloud.

so much is unwanted

so much is unwanted.

stray dogs.
clothes and furniture
set out

to the curb.
the unborn.

the tarnished silver,
the torn chaise.

the aged sitting in their urine
as they watch
tv.

so much
we throw away.
each other.

lovers, friends. all tossed
aside

as we stagger to an unknown
grave.

the silver cross

as a child
you rubbed the metal

crucifix in the cellar
as your

father, fueled on whiskey,

beat your mother
into submission.

a broken arm
a tooth, her glasses split
in two.

but rubbed you did
against the silver Christ.

as if it were a genie in a bottle.

on your childish knees,
on the concrete

floor.
how hard you prayed,

not knowing the life
ahead,

what you were in for.
and how many more times you
would

pray and pray, finding
the cross
once more.

the hour glass

there is less of you
than
there was the day before.

your body
has diminished with time.

the cloth of wind
against you.

the tar of night.
you are weighed down by

so much.
the past, the future.

such as it is. and even that
what is there
to know

or ponder anymore
about tomorrows.

what memories others
had
of you

are going going fast
as they leave
before you.

this hour is all you have,
and that too, just
sand
through an invisible hour
glass.

good news

through the grapevine

I get the news.
a word or two.

the truth watered  down
or enhanced.

I shrug. who's to know.

nothing surprises me
though,
who cares

anymore. no news is
always

good news with you.

the weather changes

the weather  changes.

a chance
of rain has become a storm.

the blue clouds
are grey.

the percussion of rain, the drum
of thunder

is upon us.

lightning slashes the sky
in a brilliant
stroke
of silver.

but we're safe. we have each other.
we'll make

love in the storm.
we'll trade

stories from the past.
predict the future.

we'll fall asleep in each other's
arms.

the weather changes,

just say no

the test

is the word no
when you want to know
the true

nature of the person
you're dealing with.
when

they hear it, they go off
the deep end.

how dare you tell me
no.

don't you know who I am.

no? really. you're saying
that to me,

setting a boundary?

come again.

Behind the Drugstore

you don't see too many people
drunk
anymore.

I remember growing up
and playing stick ball behind the drugstore

which was adjacent to a bar called
SeaShell,

and across the street
was the drive thru liquor store.
there was always

someone out there, bent over,
one hand on the wall,
either throwing
up

or peeing, letting it run
back onto his shoes.
it would interfere with our game.

we would have to wait until
the drunks
would zip up,

wipe their mouths with their
sleeves and stagger off.

sometimes they'd want to join in
on the game

and say things like come on kid,
come on,
let me show you my curve ball.

or give me that bat. let me hit one
out..

they'd be
in their sweaty business suits
and loose neck ties
with five o'clock shadows,

but most of the time they'd find
their keys
buried impossibly deep
inside their pant pockets

and drive off, zig zagging home

to their families.

Two Mai Tais

I finally make it up to
Hunan West

to get some greasy Chinese food.
busting loose

from the Keto diet.
at some point you need some flavor,
some salt

something fried and heart clogging.
I get my usual.

crispy beef and two soggy egg rolls
fried in
lard.

I sit at the three seat bar and order
a mai tai stuffed with a half
a pound of cut fruit and a little umbrella

that I almost poke my eye out with.
the tv is on.

Bruce, the barkeep, looks up
at the screen, then looks at me
and says,
crazy out there.

yup,  a giant cup of crazy.
make me another, please, I tell

him as I slurp the last sugary

concoction down.

you march today?
nah, i tell him. work, bike ride.
read.

netflix.  i've seen this show before.

I got nothing, this time around.

brown or white rice?

you know what. let's go with brown.

how many children do you have

someone asks me if I have
any children.

just one, I say. a son in California.
I had
two

actually. the woman I was married to
for a short while.
she was more like a child than an adult.

so I guess I had two.

this does not get a laugh. so I fill in
the empty

air with my own chuckle.
still nothing.

how about this weather, i say,
pointing up to the cloudless sky.

the search for meaning

I hear the women arguing
about baking recipes

and the riots as they sit

around their knitting circle out on
the front porch.

balls of colored yarn
roll around the big deck.

I see a few bottles of chardonay

scattered about.

I live next door and wave to them.
some wave
back and others shake their heads

in  disgust. don't talk to that man,
one says.

he's the one that kicked his wife
out of the house for cheating on him.

I get my ice tea and settle into my
big chair.

I turn to page one of
Man's Search for Meaning
by Frankl.

the second amendment

I've been studying the second
amendment,

he says, lighting another cigarette
and scratching

the tattoo of a skull
on his arm.

and I think that we should have
the right

to own cannons. those big ones
like there used to be on pirate ships.

there's nothing in the constitution
against it.

and mustard gas too. why not?
we need to protect
ourselves.

what if aliens attack, or the dead
rise from
their graves

and want to eat us.
what if my neighbor suddenly

gets tired of my barking dogs and wants
to slay me?

a plan to escape

the world

is a better place
when you stop reading the news

buying a newspaper
watching tv.

the trees are nice this time
of year,

the lake pristine and blue.
from here

you don't hear the madding crowds,
we walk

the lake
and make a plan to escape.

just me and you.

gifts

I think about all the rings

and jewelry, flowers and cards,
gifts,

large and small that I've given out of
love,
or lust,

like or just a feeling of maybe.

would I like to have it all back?
sometimes, but

what's the difference, you gave it a shot.
and you don't

need the money. you just wonder sometimes
what they

do with all of it.
mine go into the trash.

women with blue hair

I see women

with blue hair now. some with pink,

or bright orange, or even green at times.
it's interesting.

a few have hooks and rings hanging
from their noses,

or lips and eyebrows. while others
are covered in ink.

tattoos telling the story of their life
up to that point.
the age

doesn't matter, or the education.
it used to be that only

sailors or convicts or motorcycle
gangs

had tattoos, but no more. it's a free
for all now.

the images and words, some in Chinese,

running and dripping down the arms
and legs, necks

and backs of women with blue hair.

I sigh

and look at the wrinkles and scars

on my face and

body.

that's enough of a story for me.

the bookstore

during the riots

and the looting, I kept waiting
for

the bookstore window
to be broken into

so that I could slip in and grab
a few books

I've been meaning to read.
but no

such luck.
of course i'd put the money

into the register before leaving.

I do have a few morals

left in me. not to mention

lingering Catholic guilt.

the liquor store was opened,

the grocery store,
the electronics mega store,

but not the bookstore. I waited
all night

as the city burned, but the books
went untouched.

your music

each to his own
way
of thinking.

to his own opinion.
don't follow the crowd,

the marching masses.

for the crowd is often wrong.
don't listen to the pundits

the newsman,
the preacher, the lawyers.

stay away from the learned,
those that

wave a book or a bible
above them.

preaching madly.

don't listen, don't drink
the water of those with fake

tears, fake morals
and no compassion.

look within
that's where the answers
lie.

march alone if you have to.
your music

is to be followed, not theirs.

the silence

suddenly the religious leaders

have gone quiet.
staying safe and warm in their
chambers.

safe in the monastery,
the cathedral,

wordless behind

the rich walls of faith that
they've created.

not a word. not a peep
to the growing crowds.

giving them no hope.
they save that sermon for when things
are fine

and the basket comes around
one more time.

apathy

when apathy sets in

you are free.
no longer is there a worried
thought,

a care
or memory

that lingers. it's just
another day

of sweet enduring peace.
oh death,

where is your sting?

sweet cherry wine

i remember

the tear gas when we used
to march

and protest the war.
the burn in our eyes.
the cops
chasing us in their starched

blue shirts.
helmets on, swinging
their clubs.

giving some a hearty wood
shampoo.

it was exhilarating
and a fun

time, a good place
to meet cute girls down

at the reflecting pool,
splashing

around
in their birthday suits.
we had our chants,
our home made signs.

then we went home and did
our homework

and ate with our family
before
slipping out to the woods

to drink with friends
a bottle of boones farm
cherry wine.

the next year, i cut my hair
got a job

and bought a car, 

slipped a ring on a girl's finger, 

and

that was the end of that.

think like i do

you can have an opinion he says
loudly

over the phone,
but just as long as it agrees
with mine.

if not.
there will be hell to pay.

I know it's a free country,
but I won't
be your friend anymore.

get in line and march with us,

think like I do, or else
you won't be

hearing from me anymore.

okay.

the rubber check

I get a back check,

a fake
bill

just printed on the basement
printing

press.

the check bounces.
the bill

smears.

it's a hard days work
made
longer

by those that steal.

safe in the womb

believe you are a victim

and you will stay one.

for whatever the reason, stay
there

in your mind
and your life will follow.

it's your comfort zone.
woe is me.

safe in the womb
of
what you believe.

fashion

not a yellow
shirt

or red,
or striped or plaid
hangs

in the closet.
give me plain.

dark
colors, solid.

so many are the same.
my comfort zone.

no need at this stage
to think
about even going
green.

why change?

black and blue,
grey
or white.

maybe tan if i'm
feeling
wild

and uninhibited.
maybe.

enough water

the leaves,
their hands cupped open
await
the drink
of rain,
the tears
of clouds, the spray
of life
upon them.
it's always been this way.
all water
has always been here,
and will
always
remain. call it
snow or
ice
or fog.
it's all the same.

her ship is sinking

her ship

is sinking. the hands have
gone
overboard.

the end is near.
drowning in

her own decisions.
she pretends to pray

some more.
the wood has rotted

the sails are torn.
age
has stolen her beauty,

the world
knows who she is,

and therein lies
the rage.

to the bottom of the bottom
she goes.

and from the shore
I stand,
I wave.

sometimes, hell no

you reach an age where the word
no

falls easily from your lips.
you stop doing all the things you

never did like doing.

the long conversations
on the phone

end with, I have to go now.

you stop reading a bad book.
a bad poem.

you have no room or patience
for the loud,
the mean,

the obnoxious.
zero tolerance for lying.

or betrayal.

you turn off the news in the middle
of
the end of the world.

you walk out of movies. send plates
of food back to the kitchen.

you leave an apple after one bite,
tossing it towards the can.

you have finally earned the right
to say no,

and sometimes hell no.

letting the green glass fill

I took a green glass

from her house after she had passed.

only 58.
she'd just been born

in some respects,
finding her sea legs on dry
land.

her book ready.
her golf game solid.

all was well.

unloved by few.

but I took the green glass
off the shelf

of what was left over.
her lips
had been on it.

she drank from it's
bottom.

I put it on my sill.
and think of her each time
it rains.

letting it fill.

the slow cook

are we not

so often, the frog slowly
being

boiled
in a pot of
cold water.

it turns warmer
and warmer

without hardly noticing,

before
we're cooked.

bad love can be like that.
you hardly

know
until it's too late
to get out,

tethered

you let go

of the rope. your hands blistered
from holding on so long.

your legs tired
from being braced, gripping
tightly

the twine
that keeps you together.

you let go

with the simple cut of a sharp
knife.

then fall backwards into
the arms
of normal.

as the years pass by
you stare at the scars on your healed
palms

and wonder, and wonder,
what were you

thinking, holding on so long,
why.

a rock in hand

there was always a kid
that wanted

to spear frogs.
or find

a cat to set on fire.
a boy

with crooked teeth
and a black

heart.
firecrackers into bottles.

thieves
for things they didn't
need.

a knife up their sleeve.
a stolen nudie
magazine.

you wonder what became
of them.

the anger, always with
a rock in hand

ready to throw it
through it a window,

then run. where are they
now.

policemen or priests?

between the pages

I see beauty in the rusted
swing

hanging loosely
on one hinge. the blue
steel
of a slide

turned over.
the weeds and grass
waist high.

I see the bend in the rail
of the chain
link fence

the dirt
where the dog ran
all day

in a path. I see the girl
I love

in the window
looking out. I see the beauty
in her

pressed like a flower
in the pages
of my mind.

I still do.

giving her the business

what's the first thing you're
going to do

when the quarantine ends
I ask my

friend Betty over the phone.
she laughs,

sipping her second glass
of wine at nine a.m.

i'm going to find me a big
strong man,
she says.

oh, really, do tell.
and then what.

i'm going to have him come
over here

and give me his business.

oh my. and then what?

he's going to install new windows
into my house

and paint a few rooms.

good, I tell her. I see
you got your loan and your
stimulus check.

in the bank, she says.
in the bank.

make us happy again

three months
go by.
and they call. we're not
happy, they say,

the paper has frayed at the corner
where we bump

into it daily.
we're not small people

and it's hard to carry a plate
of chicken
upstairs

while turning
the corner, balancing
drinks
and desserts on a large

plastic tray.
can you come back and fix
the rips.

paste down the tears,
make it new again?

you should have warned us
that we can't
bump into it everyday,
and it's
up to you

to make it right. make
us happy again
with your tools, your paste,
your knife.

let's get out of here

while the earth

burns
we leave
and go up into space.

more room up there.
no air
no water
no food.

but it's nice
in our cramped metal box
floating

so high above
the atmosphere.

we did such a good job
down
there,

it's time to bring our
selves
to another place

to infect with our
woes,
our careless behavior,
our dark souls,

and fear.

the legion within

he's twenty

maybe.
short haired, white.
blue eyes

carved into wet diamonds.

lean but muscled. his jaw
clenched in

anger as he swears, his arms
swimming forward

towards what?
I see him, or is it them.

it's hard to decide how many
are within.

a legion
perhaps.

this too was the bride.

in our sleep

misery

is part of it. so is
pain,

the shards
of suffering that are
in our

beds.
sleepless in our dreams.

we roll
from side to side
searching

for peace.

while outside there is

the percussion of rain,
the trombone of thunder.

we are mythical.
we are knights.

kings and queens.

we are no one in our sleep.
we are everyone.

that all is well

the eastern sun
in its

rise.
warm and blue against
the sea.

the white brow
of waves breaking.

the line of sand, wide
and unmarked.

gulls in stripes.
ships

in the distance, red
and green
against the horizon

plowing north.
we sit here, early

in our first day to catch
this light.

you'd almost thing the world
was fine,

that all is well.

one more for the road

let's have one more
cup
of coffee before we go.

one more.
before we hit the road.

we've said everything we
need to say.

there's nothing left
to talk about,
so let's just sit here for
awhile

and let the time pass
in quiet

and then we'll go.

one more cup off coffee
then we'll

hit the road.

of a certain age

children

of a certain age, some
at least,

don't know.
not yet.

there is nothing in their
eyes

but now.
there are no yesterdays

no tomorrows.
it's what they can reach,

what they can put
into their mouth.

the arms of a parent.
the cradle,

the musical star above
them

spinning slowly
about.

human nature

I see the protesters
on tv.

it's late. a sunday night.
some seem

to be having a great time.
full of excitement.

I don't get any sense of mourning.

just chaotic
screaming and yelling.

setting things on fire.
cars turned over.

ah, I remember those days.

throwing things.
chanting until hoarse.

will the world change because

of this.
no.

more injustice, more wars,
more
of the same.

that's the answer, and always
has been
and will be.

human nature,
the impossible force.

blue bird on the sill

I see a bluebird
on the sill.

a beauty of a bird.

she peeks in at me
at the keyboard.

wet from the shower.
towel
wrapped around me.

I sip my coffee.
I go back to writing and when

I turn again to
the window

she's gone.
life is like that.

best to be prepared

I tend
to the garden. hoe
a little

dirt here and there.
weed on
bended knees.

check the status

of carrots
and potatoes.

leaf green lettuce.
string beans.

all is well.
the rabbits have yet
to get beyond

the wire.
the bugs too seem

to have lost their
appetite.

winter is coming.
it's always coming, best
to be
prepared.

if we were in salem

if we were in salem
in the 1600's

they would have
burned her at the stake.
or dunked her

in a chair to determine
if she was a witch or not.
but in modern times,

we go to a therapist or
throw down a handful
of pills
to get the devil out
once bitten by

such souls. look, up
into the sky,

there is she is again
wreaking havoc on
her broom.

it's best to go inside.

package on the porch

my new shoes come
in the mail

in a big box wrapped in plastic.
left out in the sun.

I shake the box.
yup.

new shoes. exactly like the ones
I have.

but are a little dirty
and worn, the laces slightly
frayed.

I try the new shoes on.
walk around the house,

stand at the mirror
and admire them.

they make me strangely
more happy than I should be.

the perfectionist

you're a perfectionist
aren't you
I ask the barista as she makes
my coffee.

she measures carefully and seems
to count her stirs
with the little
stick

in the drink.
she's exact with the pour.

the opening of sugar packs.
the dollop of cream.

how perfectly she pushes
down the lid to make
it secure.

then slips on the sleeve
to keep it all warm.

she looks up and smiles.
I am she says.

I am, wiping the counter
with a clean
white cloth, over and over.

how could you know?

the appetite

tired of the low carb
diet

I make an enormous bowl
of pasta

with red sauce.
I heat up a loaf of French bread,
buttered
with garlic.

I eat until
i'm full, which isn't long.

what is life
if not to be enjoyed.

I feel that way when I kiss
her.

and she takes my hand
to go upstairs.

that says it all

we take a drive
to get away from it all.

to get away from
the house,

the neighborhood, the news.
the weather.

traffic.

we drive and drive
heading to the eastern shore.

the windows rolled down.
the radio off.

I look over and take her hand.
we say
nothing.

we smile.

that says it all.

dropping the mike

she's going to hell

on a speed pass I tell my friends.
she did this
then this, lied about that,

cheated, betrayed,
behaved like a complete lunatic
most of the time.

straight to hell
is where she's going

I tell them all
while standing
on my
soap box.

(what is a soap box?)

I tell them about the tree,
saddam Huessein,
the son's diaper,
the water skiing santa.

all the wackadoodle things she
said and did.

anyway. they laugh, and bend
over
hardly able to contain themselves
as I tell

them the tale.
good crowd, good crowd.

exhausted and sweating,
I step down from
the soapbox.

i'm ready to end this tour.
I've worn

this old bit out. but they love
the story
and I leave them howling.

I drop the mike.

weeds

so many weeds to pull.

it's like they have a mind of their own,
growing
any old where

no matter how many are yanked
from the ground,
or sprayed

or burned.
they keep coming back.

like old memories
of a lesson learned.

you keep pulling them out,
but

then,
there they are again.

pass the butter

i don't want lemon
veal

or orange chicken.

get those apples away
from my pork
chops.

get that lime off my fish.

just salt and pepper please
and a mound
of potatoes.

don't fluff it up with a bunch
of nonsense you

saw on tv.
a fork a spoon a knife,

a glass of red wine, and
bread.

real bread.
warm and soft, like
love should
be.

now pass the butter, please.

almost there

it's a slow
train

coming around the bend
on the steel
rails.

the smoke trailing behind it
in a grey whisper.

I wait
with ticket in hand,
bags
at my boots.

tomorrow seems like such
a long time.

but i'm almost there.

blood out of a turnip

we used to fight over money.

I made it.
she spent it.

I saved it, she spent it.

I invested it.
she spent it.

we weren't on the same page
with
money.

I cut her credit cards in
half.

she got more.

I got a second job,
worked the night shift.

I grew vegetables
and drove a beat up old car.

I had holes in my shoes
while she wore
jimmy choos.

she ran up the bills, I
paid them

in full.
and in the end

she told her lawyer she
still wanted more.

squeeze him dry she said.
get all the blood you can

out of that turnip.

let's go for a ride cowboy

we should go horseback riding one
day she says to me as

we watch a cowboy movie on tv
eating popcorn
from the big green bowl.

I look at her, and say no.

but why, why not? horses are fun.
look at them.
look how fast and strong they are.

I look at the tv as a hundred
horses stampede across
the screen

carrying cowboys shooting rifles
at Indians. dust is flying in the air

and there's a lot of screaming
going on.

oh come on, she says. let's call
around and see who has
some horses.

we have carrots and sugar cubes
in the kitchen. let's go,

giddy up cowboy.
I let out a sigh and say okay,
maybe. but first let's watch

the movie. great, she says, jumping
up from the couch.

i'm going up to change and put
on some boots and that
denim dress with the roses
embroidered in it
that my aunt milly gave me
before she died.

okay, I tell her. okay.
take your time.

the royalty check

I get a check in the mail,

a dollar fifty-seven
for a poem I wrote twenty years

ago.
I don't even remember writing it.
or have much memory of that

love of my life that fell
by the wayside.

what was her name?
but the royalties

keep pouring in.
who says you can't make money

out of poetry.

from door to the corner

he would walk
from his door to the corner
and back

again.
hands behind his back.
quiet.

he'd nod, but
rarely
say a word.

every night after
dinner.

year after year.
we watched him as we
grew

older and he stayed
as he was. old already.

we were kids
on a porch.

and when he passed
away

we talked about him,
and wondered

if our lives would
ever be the same.

the lesson

even when we learn the lesson,

there are more
courses to take on the subject.

it never ends.
each day a new quiz,

a new question you don't know
the answer to.

you wonder how many years
in figuring out women and love

do you have left.
i sharpen my pencil and hunch

over the test and go at
it once again.

a piece of glass

i find an earring
behind

the dresser
after pulling it out to
rescue

a quarter i dropped.
it's a shiny earring.

diamond, no, perhaps
glass.

from a distance it looks
valuable
and real, but it's

a rhinestone.
worth pennies perhaps.

and i think back,
what wasn't fake about her?

yoga pants

i meet my friend jimmy at the park

for a cup of coffee
and a chat.

six feet apart on the bench.
it's late
in the afternoon,

warm.
ducks are on the lake.

people are jogging, young and
old alike.

he points down
the path to a beautiful woman

running gently
along the pavement. not
a bead
of sweat on her.

her body tight and lean
in her running outfit.
little room left for the imagination.

sunglasses on, she pays us
no mind. old men on a bench.

away she goes as we watch
her until she's around the curve
and out of sight.

he looks at me and smiles.
whoever invented yoga pants should
win the nobel prize
he says.

i laugh, he laughs and we
give each other an air
high five.

living in the now

i go to the barn
for

some eggs, some milk.
as i pass

the trough full of pink
fat pigs

i wave and say
not today.

but maybe tomorrow
and they look at me

with tenderness in their
eyes.

they go back to the mud
unworried,

enjoying the moment
they are in.

today being the only day.

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.