the apple

he studies the apple,

turning

it over

in his old hand.

his sweater

on his wrist, the hat

shading

his eyes

from the florescent

sky.

he spins the green

apple, 

a world onto itself,

holds it to the light

and then

decides.

he puts it back onto

the stack

and moves

to the oranges on

the other side.

most people

most people

go about their lives in quiet.

work

and family.

perhaps to church

to market.

raising families,

or living out their days alone.

but they are quiet.

not simple souls.

agreeing to disagree

as the world

around them burns

and implodes.

leaving town for a few days

i like when people say,

i'm going out of town for 

a few days.

first of all, i like

the idea

that we are in a town.

how nice, how quaint

a small town is.

and that luggage needs

to be packed.

the house locked up.

the dog cared

for.

perhaps  a note left for the milkman

to withhold deliveries.

a yellow cab

pulling up, idling beneath

a maple tree.

i imagine the destinations

they are going to.

what island?

what far away land.

is it Paris, is it Rome, where

will they fly off to

when leaving town

for a few days.

i want to ask, is it business

or pleasure, or both?

a part of me wants to go too.

a thousand good days

we can live

a thousand good days,

but the one

dark

day that happened

is the one you remember

over and over

again.

it will ruin that string

of bliss

quite easily.

it's that day that you focus

on.

the pain

or betrayal, the lie,

the sting.

you rub the spot where

the arrow

went in.

the human condition

we all ache.

it's the human condition.

there's a knee

gone

sour.

a back unhinged.

an ear

ringing.

a heart blistered

from love,

singed.

we all have issues.

a limp,

a blur,

a muted listen.

our heavy tongues

are tired from wagging,

our will

to live

sags, but we go on.

we toss

and unturn, we rise

once more

to face

the day, to stand in

line

where we're told,

awaiting our turn,

our fate.

oh holy night

do i really want this circular ring

of christmas lights

sitting in the basement.

a maze of wired connections

and aluminum pipes,

along with the box,

the fifty foot cord and the other

strands of white lights,

(oh, they look like stars!)

that once went around

the fence along with three

hundred pieces of plastic

green garland.

all of which screams 

nothing to do with the holiday

season or the birth of baby

Jesus, savior of the world.

how did i buy into this?

well, it wasn't me, but the previous

tenant i was once related to

by the instrument of marriage

that bought this commercialized

junk.

so the answer is no.

i don't want it.

i carry it out with glee

to the trash pile on the curb,

not unlike how the elves feel

as they stuff the sled on

christmas eve.

i ain't that lonely yet

i miss my dog.

a little.

not a lot. but he did have a way

of vacuuming

the rug,

the floor, the bed

from crumbs, and chips,

what nots.

the walking was tedious.

picking up

after him.

it was like walking a trout

on dry

land.

the barking.

the fleas.

sometimes he'd fetch

the ball,

and other times he wouldn't.

the vet bills were

killing me, as i took him

time and time again

to the doggie mayo clinic

to have his stomach

pumped from gnawing

on dead

birds, or things.

i miss my dog.

but i ain't that lonely yet.

Is It Over Yet?

i fall

asleep in front of the tv.

as the speakers drone on

about

all the wonderful things that are

going to happen

in november

if the right person wins.

future faking for a vote.

my friend

on our zoom chat,

is all dressed up in an american

flag.

his hand on his

chest.

saluting, with a beer in one hand,

a ham

sandwich in the other.

i open

my eyes, and say,

is it over yet?

good luck with that

good luck with that

she says

when i tell her i'm bored

and need

fun.

she thinks i mean sex,

which i don't,

although, that could be

included

on the list

of things titled fun.

good luck with that she

says,

dismissive, not letting

me finish.

throwing me onto

the heap where all

her past lovers have gone.

which is fine.

because i'm done.

where did he go?

he was a rebel

for quite a while, many years.

never

bright with school

or work,

his hands were his

tools,

his glib manner,

his

way of mixing drinks,

of finding

home

at the end of any bar,

on a stool,

or behind it.

and then he married.

and suddenly

he was

in an apron,

his hair cut short.

mowing the lawn

and walking dogs.

a grandchild on his lap.

saying words that she

preferred.

thinking her thoughts,

quiet, as if

he wasn't there.

his teeth repaired.

a clean shirt,

his shoes shined.

he became who she was,

my friend

had disappeared.

walking by St. Elizabeths

for some reason 

i remember how

green

the grass was behind the bars.

the frightening blue

of sky.

the clarity of that memory

surprises me, even now. it may

have been 1964 or 5.

the wide manicured

field, a pasture

of grass and trees

that lay before the red bricks

that held

the insane

inside.

a place where one would expect

to see horses,

or languid cows.

and those that were allowed

to wander

the yards, they looked

strangely no different

than you

or i.

but there they were, captured

for reasons

beyond 

our reasoning.

trapped inside. it's where

they kept

Ezra Pound for some time.

and yet

never stilling his pen,

never

fixing, thank God,

his brilliant mind.

why is this door locked

as a child

for hours i could sit in the dark

on my rocking

horse

and kill indians

and bank robbers

bad

guys.

two guns

in my holster.

my imagination

running wild

with adventure.

springing along

on my

horse.

caps going off,

as i yelped and hollered,

slapping my

had against my stallion.

my mother

banging on

the door, jiggling the knob,

asking what's

going in there.

dinner's ready, why is

this door locked.

she had no

idea i was about to rescue

the beautiful

girl in distress,

tied to the railroad

tracks

and what was to follow

next.

ten more minutes, i'd

yell out,

then gallop on.

nine cats

the cat

is a pure narcissist.

aloof.

self absorbed.

there is no pretense.

she really doesn't care,

it's not a game,

not a fake personae,

it's natural.

without empathy, or

understanding of your

needs,

your cares.

i'm tired of cats.

exhausted and bewildered

from the nine

i've had

throughout the years.

leave me alone

some days you're in a don't bother

me mood.

leave me alone.

don't call, don't knock on my

door,

don't phone.

please,

don't bug me. i'm

not in the mood.

some days, you just want

to stay in,

be quiet.

retreat and be a recluse.

find solitude and peace

in your man

made

cocoon.

what's in a name?

it's rare to meet a mildred these days,

i'd always expect an

apple pie of her,

or a marge,

or betty lou, hazel?

or ginny. hardly ever

do you hear the name 

ethel anymore, or

violet.

veronica is rare as well.

i see veronica working at

the drugstore counter

waiting to be discovered.

mimi doesn't come

up much either.

jane is a gem, i wished

there more janes.

not to mention

penelope.

always in a yellow chiffon

dress with

pigtails and a sly grin.

finding motivation

i can

swim, but not very far.

i can make it from one side

of the pool

to the other.

i have a strange stroke,

with rapid

kicking,

but

prefer to do my swimming

underwater.

i can hold my breath for

what seems like forever.

which is maybe two minutes.

if you're on the other

side of the pool, waiting

with open arm

and puckered lips,

i can swim

faster.

like so much in life i need

motivation

to get me where i need to go.

meeting mimi

i bump my cart

into another cart at the grocery store,

trying

to start up a conversation

with a nurse

in pale blue

with a name tag

reading mimi.

she has long red hair,

a stethoscope

around her slender

neck. she's

beautiful.

i look at her cart.

it's a lot like mine.

one tomato,

one onion.

one piece of salmon.

a potato, a dark chocolate

bar with almonds,

red wine.

we have so much in common.

but she doesn't

like that i've

crashed my cart into hers.

and screams.

i may have broken

an egg in her organic brown

carton.

i see the yellow drips

falling to the floor.

security comes.

they take me away.

dragging me out,

i look back at her

longingly,

mouthing the words

sorry. sorry. the second

date will be better, i promise.

finding new love

is not what it used

to be.

new love and old love

we think of new love

as something for the young.

those that

are not quite stuck in their ways,

willing

to compromise for the sake

of another.

but i say no.

hell no.

true about the compromise,

change, etc.

but bring love

on.

bring it in droves, in baskets

and barrels,

bushels.

love is even better

once

wisdom has captured

our soul.

the absence of others

i notice

that the man next door has been

gone

for several weeks.

his car no longer 

in the space where it

once was.

the grass in the yard

is tall.

weeds are everywhere.

but

the woman,

his wife,

seems jubilant.

she's wearing new dresses

and tights.

heels

and lipstick.

her eyes are bright.

she even smiled

at me

the other day

for the first time

in years.

we love you

the maid texts and says 

8 30.

i tell her i've already changed

the sheets

took the trash out

and vacuumed in preparation

for her 

return.

the money is on the counter,

the key

under the mat.

i tell her to help herself

to the sandwiches i made

for her

and her crew.

there's tea and coffee,

fresh juice.

she writes back, thank you.

you're such a hard

man

to work for. 

we love your house and

working

for you.

the umbrella

the wind

takes the umbrella for a ride.

it floats

and tumbles,

a red

stretched rose

aloft

in the grey

sky.

it's a beautiful sight.

and as the rain

comes down

with your wet face

smiling,

you realize that

there's beauty

in nearly everything.

it almost makes you

believe in

love again, at least

enough to try.

beware of good people

beware of those

on their knees praying publicly.

the preachers.

the hunger artists,

the environmentalists,

the extremists.

beware of those that claim

to be sinless.

they have the most to hide.

beware of those who say

they know the truth.

they are liars.

they are trying to bend the

world

in their direction.

beware of hunters,

vegetarians,

beware

of pretty women, of powerful

men.

it's all in the game.

stay clear

and muffle your hears,

narrow your eyes,

go your own way.

find your own peace.

they can't help you, you will

only be led

astray.

as the days roll by without us

we wait,

and wait, and wait.

we are all waiting for 

Godot.

tapping our foot, drumming

our fingers.

sipping drinks,

smoking slowly, blowing

warm

grey smoke 

towards the ceiling.

we are

looking out the window.

listening.

when

when will our ship come in.

the right job,

the right house, the next

love of

our life.

when will fear and loneliness

end. boredom subside.

when will joy begin?

we wait, we wait, we wait

as the days roll by without

us.

unconditional love

she says i want to find someone

that loves

me unconditionally,

like my married boyfriend,

or my ex husband,

someone

that will always love

me and never

leave me, no matter what i do.

no matter how mentally

ill i become.

if i lie and cheat,

betray

and gaslight, have them walking

on eggshells

and miserable all the time,

i want them

to stay with me, to accept

me for who i really am,

a giant cup of crazy,

not the person i'm pretending

to be to the outside world.

i want a man like that.

a blind, deaf, mute, stupid man

with no chance of finding

someone else. that to me

is true love without conditions.

that is my dream boat, the true

love of my life.

the casio piano

it's rare, but on occasion

you have

to take out your anger and frustration

by smashing something.

that has symbolic meaning,

breaking it in two,

jumping up and down

on it or

taking an axe to a tree

and chopping away

until it falls.

it feels good to release

all that pent up fury.

then, you go get lunch

and have a nice

day.

where can i read your stuff

where can i read your stuff,

she asks

me

over a lobster dinner.

her fingers are dripping with

butter

and she has the onion ring

basket

pulled up close to her dish.

we should get more beer,

she says,

and corn on the cob,

are you going to finish yours?

i love poetry she says.

spinning the cob around in her teeth

like a machine

Eli Whitney would be proud

of.

my mother used to read me

poetry when i was little.

Do you like Dr. Suess or more

darker stuff

like Tupac?

cause of death

did you see, she  says to me

while turning over 

a page of the paper, did you see

that so and so died.

again? I say, sipping my coffee.

i didn't know he was still alive.

she peers over the top of the paper

then goes back to reading it

out loud.  

cause of death, undetermined,

but no foul play suspected.

i don't like obits without a reason

for death.

for some reason i need to know

how people die, so that i can

put that on the list of things

to avoid.

he was in show business for 60

years, she reads.

comedian, actor, writer.

married six times.

okay.

now i got it, i tell her. 

got what?

the cause of death.

that's not funny, she says to me.

putting the paper down.

well, neither was he the last

40 years.

strangers love me

i like strangers better than

people

that i know, that know me,

she says.

adjusting her bent tiara,

her crooked smile.

strangers have no idea

how fake i am, how lost

i am, that nearly every thing

i say or do is manipulation, a lie

on top of a lie.

i like strangers, she says,

they see the good in me,

when there is none.

but once they do, i'm out

out of there, as you well

know. i'm done.

the cold furnace

hate takes up a lot of energy.

resentment.

ruminations.

it's a furnace fed by memory.

at some

point you shut it down.

go cold.

go numb.

let the wind run it's wintry

hands up

your sleeves,

your shirt, your pant legs.

you have to let the snow

bite

you, the ice sting.

you have to embrace 

the loneliness

and fear.

you have to feast on the love

of self

and get free from what was.

the fuckery of others.

who cares

i remember

trying to convince people

how smart i was,

covered in dirt and grime,

paint

and debris,

knuckles bleeding

from a day of blue collar work.

i'd tell them

about college,

the office job,

brothers and sisters

who achieved.

the poems and stories

published.

don't judge me by the dirt

under my nails,

the torn shirt,

the grizzled beard,

the lunch pail.

it took a while to get over

that nonsense

having  worked for enough

lawyers and doctors,

corporate shills

and what not.

it took some time, but

eventually i felt

lucky to have gotten

out and made

my own way.

draw the shades my love

at what point did anything

that

feels good,

or tastes good,

or looks good to our

naked eye

become sin,

guilty pleasures despite

being with the realm

of moral

and legal 

boundaries, whether music

or art,

or bare skin.

Is it true

that who we are is

determined by how

we behave

behind closed doors

or in darkness

after two glasses

of cheap wine,

or tumblers of gin?

draw the shades my love,

the neighbors

are peeking in.

the middleburg fox hut

i'm going fox hunting today,

LB tells me

from her car.

she sends me a picture of her riding

boots, and crop,

and little black

helmet.

she's in middleburg

where everyone dresses up

for the hunt.

the women look like hookers

from 5th avenue, in orange

and pinks,

frilly boas around their

necks, between their new

enhancements that hardly jiggle

when the horse gallops.

there are no wrinkles in

middleburg, but lots of therapists

working overtime.

we're not going to kill

them, she says, just chase them

around with the dogs.

drinking will be involved,

and cheese and caviar

back at the barns.

we chase them around until

the fox give up

and lie down, surrendering.

then we leave them

shivering and shaking in fear.

it's fun, you should join us

sometime.

blue suede shoes

it's easy to say,

don't look back.

easy to say move on.

get on with your life.

forward ho,

or something to that

effect.

but old relationships

can be like

gum stuck to the bottom

of your shoe,

no matter how hard you

scrape it off,

there's a tiny piece,

grey and hard,

still stuck to treads,

imbedded into your

psyche. what's the answer

to that?

new shoes, perhaps.

mary

i think my friend mary

has died.

no card this year for the holidays

or birthday.

no calls.

her line rings and rings, but no

answer.

at 95, perhaps, she moved on.

i feel no

sadness

though, she lived a good life.

a fun life.

she enriched mine with her

courage and laughter.

no knuckleheads

you reduce,

simplify, chill and breathe.

condense

and organize, make it

all easy.

easy peasy, breezy.

there is no

boat rocking, no arguing

with your

loud outside voice.

it's quiet time.

from here on out.

be crabby and sad elsewhere,

knuckleheads

are off limits in this house.

no last name

i work

at the funeral home, she told me.

the front desk.

i get the ball rolling,

making arrangements for the

bereft. 

oh, really, i say. i had a friend

in there a few

years ago.

what's his name, i may have helped

with the flowers

and the buffet that day.

butch, i tell her, i don't know his

last name.

we played ball together

for about thirty years.

he had no moves to his left,

but had range

on his jump shot.

saw him nearly every weekend.

we must have played a thousand

basketball games

together.

and you don't know his last name?

nope,

why would I?

the apology

at 90 she drove  a thirty foot long

white

cadillac.

barely seeing over steering wheel.

she drove

it to Penny's or Macy's,

the grocery store,

to pick up her friends

on Nebraska Avenue

to take them to Phillips

Crab house

down by the water front.

she'd crash it into bumpers

and fenders, the sides

of cars

in parking lots.

she kept a pad and pen

on her dashboard

to write a note to those she'd hit.

it was the same note.

i'm old, sorry for hitting your car,

but they'll take my

license away

if i wait for you to come out,

or for the police.

i'm sorry. i hope you have insurance.

have a nice day.

Mary

brushing her hair

do you believe in love,

she asks me,

while brushing her 

long hair

in early morning

light.

i look at her in the mirror.

her face is quiet,

shadowed.

not as young as she used

to be, nor i.

is she asking for herself

or for me?

i watch her brush and brush

counting the strokes,

just past a hundred,

to a hundred

and three.

count your pennies

we  count our pennies

at some point.

before one

is placed

on each closed eye.

we add up what's going out

subtracting from what's

coming in.

we count the years left.

ten twenty,

maybe more,

maybe less.

maybe an hour, it all depends

on something

mysterious, something

you can't quite put

your finger on.

God, luck, destiny, fate,

call it what you may, but

still

you need those pennies

to get through

another day.

the blind date

i met a blind girl on a blind date

once.  it was on a dating site

called Come as You Are   dot com.

which was to my advantage

since i hadn't shaved,

or changed my clothes,

and had a crazy red pimple

growing on my chin,

not to mention

a rash on my arms

from poison oak or ivy,

but she couldn't see any of that.

she told me in our chats that

she was legally blind, to which

i asked if it was possible to

be illegally blind.  she thought

that funny, and so wanted to

meet this wonderful wit who didn't

give a never mind about

her infirmity. which it really

wasn't. she had a nice white cane,

a big dog, and was dressed

to the nines. beautiful and kind.

not once did she miss her mouth

with a fork or spoon,

or spill anything on her pink

dress that reminded me of what

Jackie O might wear

to the French Embassy with JFK.

i told her i was partially deaf

in one ear, to try and even things

out, to which she said, i noticed.

left ear? yes, i told her, as she

spoke louder and reached out

to touch my hand, tapping it

as if to comfort me for my

disability.  she seemed to know

what i was thinking, as if her

loss of site, had increased

her ability to sense things, almost

read minds.

you want to kiss me, don't you,

she said. to which i said.

i do. i really really do want

to kiss you.  can I?

she said maybe, which i took

as a yes, so i leaned across the table

to plant one on her lips,

when suddenly

her german shepherd barked

and bit me on the leg.

the new years eve party

he made a special request

to have a port hole painted on

one bathroom wall

of his apartment.

when you're working,

you just do, and don't ask.

the new years eve party was

to start in six hours,

and time was of the essence.

champagne was on ice.

pounds of shrimp

were bagged and ready

in the ice box.  streamers

hung from the ceiling.

balloons too.

i did the best i could.

sketching in the fish,

and bubbles,

the hatch, the flow of green

weeds in the blue water

outside the round plate 

of glass.

it was truly a work of art.

he gave me an extra fifty

bucks for that, but i didn't

get an invitation

to the party. i've always been

a little peeved at that.

home schooled

the home schooled kids

in the neighborhood always seemed

a little different.

off, somehow.

they were strangely alien

amongst us ragmuffin

public school kids.

there was something about 

the look in their eyes,

the size of their ears, or heads,

the clothes they wore.

it was almost as if they were

Amish.

they seemed to be learning,

book wise, but were a few

years behind when it came

to what we were learning

behind the school after

the bell rang.  they rarely were

in any trouble.

going down the woods with

betty jean, or spray painting

the side of a building

with graffiti. 

they were good kids, not yet

infected by what 

the world brings, but if you

threw them a ball, the odds

were that they weren't going

to catch it.

life was different then

as a kid it was nothing

for us to

step on a line of black ants

or strike a bee hive

with a bat

and run

like hell down the block.

dexter had a bee bee

gun that he'd

shoot squirrels

and birds

that lined the fence.

life was different then,

and apparently so was death.

now i gently pick up

the cricket and set him

on the porch to find his

own ending.

i think that's best.

it was about something else

when my mother would clean

the house

it was about something else.

the beating of the rug

against the fence.

the way she got on her hands

and knees

and scrubbed.

onto the ladder to get the cobwebs

out.

the windows wiped

with newspaper

and vinegar.

she went at it all day, then

cooked

at the stove.

stirring deep into a mixing

bowl, peering out the window

time after time

wondering when or if

he would he even come home.

a whole thermos of white russians

my friend veronica

meets me at the park where we used

to go

when we were in love,

or rather getting busy

every time we saw each other

and hold hands and tell each

other things

that would never happen.

it had it's shelf life and ended,

but

somehow we remained

friends, without benefits,

it's just your run of the mill,

luke warm friendship now

that you never

quite know where it goes,

or how it ends.

but we meet just the same

for a chit chat.

she brings her spring water

and a bag of cut up carrots,

i bring my white russian in

a coffee cup, so as not to raise

suspicion with the po po who

might be lurking nearby.

she tells me she doesn't care

anymore about sex.

she's done. it's too messy,

too icky now.

i take a big gulp of my white

russian and repeat the word

Icky!  out loud, really?

yes, she said.  i think i'm okay

now being alone.

i've have my cats and my cross

stitching.

i've had enough sex for one life

time. no one melts my butter

anymore. i'm done.

maybe you just haven't met the right

guy these days, i offer.

no that's not it.

i've met every kind of guy,

she says, picking a bug off

her very attractive black sweater

with little butterflies stitched in.

i see that she's wearing

those jeans where they're all ripped

up like they've been in a

fight with a tiger.

she lets out a long sigh,

i've met skinny guys, fat guys, 

married guys.

guys with muscles, guys with no jobs,

scientists, lawyers. 

short order cooks,

gardeners. men with boats and bikes.

men with hair, men with no hair.

and the thing is they're all fine. in

fact i've never met so many nice

people that i never want to see

again.

oh my, i say. feeling the buzz of

my drink. i take her hand and move

closer to her.

hey, hey, she says, what are you

doing. what about the virus?

i'm good, i tell her, i was tested

a few weeks ago.

although i have some poison oak

or something on my leg.

no. she says. i told you i'm done.

so don't even go there.

i drove the station wagon here,

i tell her. you used to love

the station wagon.   really?

she says. you still have it?

yup, just took it to the car wash

the other day.

had the vinyl upholstery

disinfected.

parked it right over there

under the trees, like the old days.

hmmm, she says.  any more white

russians in the car?

got a whole thermos, my dear.

a whole thermos and some marvin

gaye loaded up

in the cd player.

she pulled the plug

she tells me that she pulled the plug

on him.

as if their relationship was a tub

of water.

cold water now.

done, over. kaput.

so she pulled the plug and watched

whatever it was

drain out,

swirl to where all love goes

when it's over,

and all that's left

is a bar of soap, turned

to a sliver,

no doubt.

norman

he was odd.

different.

a strange boy, a kid who

sat

in the back row of the class

with his head

on his desk, half asleep.

half awake.

the unkempt hair,

and twitch.

a hand that shook, two

legs

that ran while sitting.

never called upon to answer

a question,

never a hand raised.

i think norman was his name.

where are you norman,

what became of you?

with your strange clothes,

your father's belt,

your mother's hose.

that look in your eye,

you were someone that

everyone remembered

but never really knew.

what tomorrow will bring

the key breaks

off in the lock.

the window

is cracked.

the door ajar.

the alarm goes off.

everything is gone.

nothing is left.

your voice echoes

across the room.

time to start over.

it's what's best.

you walk the floor,

go up the stairs.

nothing remains.

it's almost as if you

were never here.

and neither was she.

which makes you

smile, and wonder,

what tomorrow

will bring.

the best of both worlds

i ring the bell

but no one comes. i yell down

to  Charlotte,

but there's no answer.

it's hard to find

good help these days.

i put my robe on and go down

to see what the trouble is.

there's a note on the table

in the kitchen.

i quit. it says.

i have fallen in love with you

and can no longer

stand to be around you

if it's not mutual.

i cook, i clean, i make you

waffles

with bacon.

i squeeze fresh orange juice for you.

when you ring the bell

i come running in

my little french maid costume

that you bought for me

in six different colors.

do you know how hard it is

to vacuum the stairs

while wearing stiletto heels?

and yet.

never do you hold me,

or touch me, or look into

my eyes and tell me that you

adore me.

i need more.

i need you.

i shake my head and put the note

down, then look out the window.

i see charlotte on the front steps

crying.

i open the door. hey, hey. what's up?

i'm starving.

come on back in....i do love you.

really, i do.

she wipes her eyes, smiling, then

comes in to put her arms around me.

oh, i'm so happy. so happy.

okay, okay. i tell her.   would it be

okay if i have scrambled eggs

today....some cheese and peppers

mixed in?   maybe some sausage links?

i'm going back up, oh and the paper

is in the yard, could you be a dear

and bring it up too?  oh, and coffee,

don't forget the coffee.  French Roast.

the third grade report card

i find my third grade report card

in a box

that my mother had

in her basement.

i read the report.

he's a day dreamer.

seems lost in thought.

stares out the window

a lot.

keeps teasing the girl

in front of him.

pulls her pig tails on

occasion

and passes her notes.

strangely he finds everything

unusually funny, 

using humor to

deflect his anxiety

and fears.

he likes to read, and write,

but he

doesn't talk much.

he can't wait for recess

and at lunch

he eats his dessert first.

if he tries, he does well,

but he's just so distracted

by the girls

and what's outside

the window.

he seems bored with 

the school work, except

when i turn the lights

off and read to the class

with their heads

on their desks.

please have a talk with him.

we'd like him to join

in with the rest of the class.

he's too young to be so distant

and aloof.

her eyeglasses

when my mother dies

my brothers and sisters gather

at the old

house

to sort through what's left.

one sister goes straight for the russian

tea cups

while another

gets the cheese cake out of the 

refrigerator.

someone grabs a box of photo

albums,

and the youngest brother

sits in the corner

with tears in his eyes.

the bible, rosary beads goes

into someone's box to carry out,

a sister digs through

the books to look for hidden money,

turning over each can,

each jar

until she yells out Eureka,

finding five dollars

folded tightly into a

squared inch.

who wants her puzzles, laminated

and hanging on the wall?

her doll house full

of furniture, the glue still soft?

i find her eyeglasses

on the nightstand

and slip them into my pocket.

i want to see what she saw,

that's all.

don't forget to vote

a new president

a new vice

president

new congressmen

new senators

a new pope.

meat's okay on friday now

if you're over 65.

new policies

new tax bills

new gun laws

new treaties

new ideas.

new vows and promises.

the new deal replacing

the old deal.

a man of color.

a white person.

a woman.

a transgender.

a gay person.

tall, lean, fat, short.

left or right handed.

okay.

but it's just another day.

and nothing changes.

don't forget to vote.

how could i, some nut says

it to me nearly everyday

for four years.

whatever.

something on your shirt

the whiter the shirt i'm wearing

the more apt i am

to spill something on it.

whether coffee or blue berry

jam, wine or 

chocolate ice cream.

a drip, a drop, a dollop

of something.

all day people point and say

oh my.

there's something on your shirt.

many give suggestions

on how to get it out,

cold water, club soda,

a bar of soap, perhaps,

dabbed not

scrubbed.

sometimes though

i think i do

it on purpose, without thinking,

enjoying the attention,

for which i thirst.

falling down the rabbit hole

i fall down the rabbit hole

of amazon.

i start off looking at new vanities

for the bathroom

and then end up

buying

a cookbook on pot roast

and a pair

of black shoes from bullboxer.

and a blue green air fryer

which looks good for chicken wings.

there's page after page of

women stiletto heels too, but

i don't pull the trigger on that, unsure

of the size.

i save my browsing for later, then

go look

out the window

for deliveries.

they're so slow these days.

in summary of the year 2018

if you hadn't of read my emails

you wouldn't have known

i was cheating on you with my

married boyfriend.

i have no privacy anymore, she

said, as i helped her carry out

her boxes and trash bags full

of clothes to the car that her ex-husband

bought her  in an attempt to win

her back when she left him

for the neighbor.

the only reason i've been lying

to you about everything 

was to protect you and

not make you sad. plus i have this

fake image to protect. people

actually think i'm a good person.

i've even fooled the priests

at St. Leo's, St. Michaels, and 

St. Bernadette's.

it's your fault for finding out

what a lying cheating, fake i am. 

it's all your fault for being so nosy

about my life after we got

married.  i set the last box of her 

train wreck of a life

into her car, and tapped the hood.

okay. have a nice day. you're

good to go now.  good luck.

don't forget to take your medications.

chasing cars and cats

i see a bag of

dog food on top of her

refrigerator.

hips and joints it reads.

specialty food

for old dogs.

i reach up

and grab a handful.

it's not too bad tasting.

dry and a little mealy,

but it goes down

with a swig of coffee.

after a few more 

helpings,

my knees don't seem to

feel

any better,

but i've developed

a bark instead of a cough,

and i'm suddenly

interested

in chasing cars and cats.

if i want your opinion i'll give it to you

if i want your opinion

i'll give it to you, my once close

friend

says

when discussing politics,

religion,

movies, relationships

and the price

of eggs.

his wisdom

is that of a small child.

his world even

smaller. but he's a friend

and you're

attached

to the hip by decades of

memories.

you wonder why it took

so long to realize

that you have little in common

and

that you tolerate and endure

all

his endless

bullshit.

strangers

we pass

on the street.

each stranger that we

will

never know,

or ever meet.

we are birds

in the sky.

just passing by

on our own wings.

or fish in the sea.

a random

rainbow of colors

floating

aimlessly,

or so it seems.

broken funny bones

the political correctness

is killing

the comedians.

it's hard to be funny these days

without offending

someone

to the core of their

skewed beliefs.

what was funny last week

is now punishable

by death,

or boycott.

i saw three funny guys

on the corner, limping

with cups and signs.

their funny bones broken.

the thick book

i try to plow through a new book,

but it's boring

and dry

tiring.

the writer goes to great lengths

to tell you in detail

all the things you don't really

care about. you had such 

high hopes, it being on the new

york times best seller list

nineteen weeks in a row,

and maybe by

page 200 it will

grab you by the collar

and keep you reading, but

your impatience

has grown steadily throughout

the years.

by page ten the book

is either on the shelf or

holding a door open that

needs a hinge adjustment, or

just thrown across the room

towards the circular file.

lonely nights and lonely days

i laugh and shake my head

when i hear

someone say

i'm lonely.

don't tell me about loneliness

i say.

don't even go there.

you have no

idea what it is until you're

in a relationship

with someone who

isn't there.

someone lying beside you,

that you hope

one day will disappear.

message in a bottle

when she died we all

wrote messages to her

and stuffed them

into an empty bottle,

then tossed the bottle out into

the ocean.

the bottle kept coming back.

no matter how far we tossed it out.

we laughed.

i'm sure she laughed too,

rolling her eyes at such

sentimental crap.

going in circles

we take the boat out.

just a row boat.

wooden, with two oars.

old seats, the paint peeling.

a small leak

or two.

the water sloshing around

our bare feet.

the little boat we once

loved has seen

better days.

in the old days we'd be

there in twenty minutes to

the other shore.

we row, her on one oar

and me on the other.

there's an ice cream shop

across the pond.

we can almost taste the cold

sweetness on

our tongues.

but we go in circles now, never

arriving to the other side.

we're different now.

things have changed, our love

has faded,

our arms have grown

tired.

a failure to communicate

what we have here

is a failure to communicate.

love that line.

the movie.

the man.

hardly a day goes by

when you can't

say it to someone.

especially now in these

crazy times.

those halcyon days

in those halcyon days i kept

a box

where things left behind

would go.

where the current  love of my life,

or like,

the true ones,

the false and fake, the friends,

who had too much

to drink, even past wives,

.

would leave things

on the floor, below the bed,

between the sheets,

in bathrooms, or on

the steps. something black

and sheer

hanging in the closet

or on a door.

watches and things.

stockings and rings.

brushes and pills,

bracelets. unmentionables

and

hats and gloves, even coats

left behind in the dead

of winter storms.

i'd put them all in a box,

marked lost.

most never found again.

in the abstract

the bottle of champagne

is half empty.

it sits

on the counter

warm and still,

no cheers

are left.

no promise or vows

or toasts being made.

all done.

the sunlight streams through

the green glass

and lies upon the floor

in a soft

puddle of moss, a piece of art

in the abstract of an evening

gone.

tie it with a bow

as years roll on

friends diminish. death takes

its toll.

and the ones that remain

are no longer

close to you.

you suddenly

realize that you have

little in common anymore.

so they fall away as well.

cards and letters no longer 

come or go out.

the phone goes quiet,

but you don't care so much.

because you've arrived

at a place where peace

is all that matters.

you've had your life, now

tie it with a bow.

your new true love

once it was summer 

that became

your true love.

your season

of preference.

the sun

the surf the soft sand of time

with more before

you than behind.

but now,

it's fall, the autumn of your

years

that you embrace.

you find new love in the colored

leaves that fall,

the death of those

you once held dear.

small happiness

happiness comes in small

doses.

an unexpected gift.

a sweet

upon your lips.

a cold drink on a hot day.

a kind

word,

a poem meant for you,

just you,

the ink drying

on the decree, that 

say, it's over.

we're finally through.

the long hot summer

i smile at

each green

leaf catching the soft parade

of rain.

the sky

darkening with each

clap

of thunder, each strike

of lighting

in the distance.

i lift my head to

drink it in.

not yet, but summer

is coming

to an end.

unclogging the pipes

i call a plumber to snake

the drains.

they're clogged with long strands

of brittle

blonde hair.

wrapping up the pipes

like seaweed,

wiry strands

from the deep green

sea.

it takes a few minutes

and then

the water flows nice

and easy.

clean and free once more,

like me.

better be good

when you were a child

there was always

a surprise waiting at the bottom

of a box,

some tiny gift made of plastic

that would entertain you

for a few minutes.

there was the tooth fairy

with her dimes,

the birthday bribe,

santa and his sleigh, the easter

bunny with candy

and eggs.

it was as if the world was

preparing you for all the lies

that were yet to come.

getting you used to the idea

of disappointment.

of having things come undone.

three martinis

to be dizzy, light headed

and woozy 

rising from the chair

one drink

too many under your belt,

empty

on nourishment, but full

of self.

you grab the nearest

rail, the wall,

a fare damsel, who bids you

farewell, and you ask,

what no kiss, as you go

off into that good night,

tripping down the long

stairwell.

The Mars Talk

i meet my friend Ernie for lunch

down at the park

by the space museum.

he's a scientist from MIT.

he's agreed to answer some questions

about the possibility of men

going to mars.

he's wearing a light blue

seer sucker suit, and wearing

a straw hat.  no cane.

he brings his lunch, a tuna sandwich

with the crust cut off, an apple,

and three oreo cookies, with a few

cut up carrots in a plastic bag.

all of it packed neatly into

his star trek lunch box.

his wife has written him a note,

which he doesn't share with me,

but makes him nod his head

and say. oh my. yes indeed, then

he looks at his mickey mouse watch.

i'm having a lamb sub sandwich made

by an Ethiopian food truck idling

on the street, coughing black fumes

into the air. some of the sandwich grease

 has dripped onto my t-shirt.

why mars? i ask him, interviewing

him for my neighborhood online

column.

why not? he says, smugly, chewing

on his sandwich.

well, there's no water, no food.

no air. no electricity, no chance of life

surviving in that atmosphere.

we, as humans adapt. we are smart.

we know how to live under the harshest

of environments. 

No air, i say again, emphasizing the word

air.

we'll bring air and food, water, etc.,

he says  

there's a little mayo on his chin, which

i point out to him.

gently he dabs at it with his folded

napkin.

it''ll cost billions though, and maybe lives

will be lost.   what about the earth.

we need medicine, jobs, people are starving.

the economy, global warming....we're in

a pandemic right now with this crazy virus.

fiddle de dee, he says, now munching on

a carrot.  that's why we need to go

to other planets. a fresh start, a do over.

we'll bring back some rocks, and mars

dirt and see what gives.

but we have dirt and  rocks here.

not the same, he says. not the same.

have faith my uneducated friend.

he points at the grease stain on

my t-shirt, with his finger, i look

down, and he moves his hand up

to hit my chin.

gothca, he says.  

i roll my eyes and take another bite

of my never ending sandwich.

mars will be fun, he says.

an adventure.

wouldn't you want to go?

not really, but hey. can we wrap this

up, thanks for the interview, but

i need to find a bathroom, my stomach

is rumbling like crazy on account

of this sandwich.

there's one in the museum, he says,

pointing with a carrot...take a left

at the gemini capsule

and it's down the hall from there.

the diagnosis

the blood count is wrong.

there' a problem.

she's in a panic.

she's on the phone.

she's deep into the dive

of finding out

what's gone

wrong.

her heart races. her mind

goes numb.

can this life be over so soon.

there's so much

left to be done.

her is face broken

into tears,

her skin is blanched 

in ashes.

it's what we all fear.

a life unlived to its fullest.

we've run out of time.

we've  entered

unwillingly into our final

year.

I Don't

there are some words

you promise yourself to never say

again.

not cuss words.

who can stop that, especially these

days.

but words like,

I do.

it's a short list, i know.

but one i aim to keep from

this day forward.

the massage

i remember coming home one day

from work

hot, tired, sweaty, covered in grime

and seeing

my wife lying naked on a table

with a towel around

her butt

getting a massage from some Indian

dude.

what the hell? i think i said.

she turned her head and 

introduced me to Abdul.

he's in my yoga class,

we're doing a barter thing.

he smiled brightly and winked at me.

they had some incense burning

and music

with just bells tinkling.

i went upstairs, took my shoes

off, my clothes

and took a shower.

then i took a nap after kneeling

beside

the bed

and praying to God for salvation.

where's your mother?

i remember my father getting up

from the over stuffed

couch, beer in hand,

a pipe stinking up the room,

and going to the tv to smack

it on the side, trying to fix

the picture as the horizontal

control went wild.

back then the tv

looked like a dresser.

or a nightstand.  when ours

finally caught fire and  broke

down for good, my father refused

to get rid of it, calling

it a good piece of furniture.

I think this wood is maple, he said.

it went into the corner

where my mother put a vase

of flowers on it, as if it

was a grave site.

i learned most of my swear

words during these times

when the picture went

haywire.  he'd yell out, okay,

what the hell now?

ever since the Russians

put that goddamn sputnik

in the sky i can't get my shows on.

his shows being Jackie Gleason

and the Honey Mooners, or the Miss

America Pageant.

he'd twist some dials in the back

like a safe cracker,

then fiddle with the antennae 

and tell me to go get a roll

of tin foil from the kitchen.

he'd build up the long metal

rabbit ears, wiggle them around,

smack the side again, until

finally a snowy picture,

but unmoving, might appear.

he'd yell out,

okay, don't move, don't move

an inch, hold the dog down,

then he'd go back to

his chair slowly so as not to

interfere with the f...ing gamma

rays as he called them.

he'd sip from his beer,

take a long drag off his pipe

and  say something like,

where's your mother? why 

aren't you outside playing?

i'd tell him because it's

ten o'clock at night and it's

dark out... i think mom is upstairs

crying in the bathroom again.

a crowd with three

the phone rings at three a.m.

no voice

on the other end.

hello, i say.

then again. hello.

i can hear breathing. the soft

breathing

of a cat maybe.

a whispery breath inhaling,

exhaling.

hello, is that you?

yes, she says, it's me.

can i come over. i miss you.

i'm sorry

about every thing.

probably not a good idea at the time,

i tell her.

it would be a crowd with

three.

misery loves company

i find an orange in the back 

of the fridge.

it's not too happy.

it's flat and green on one side.

it's made friends though with a lemon

lying beside it,

grim and bitter,

also old,

and a half of head

of lettuce.

slightly browned

and crinkled.

i think about a few past

relationships, but draw no

conclusions,

or metaphors.

i hate to break them up.

misery loving company.

so i grab a beer and shut the door

i leave them

in the cool darkness

of the ice box.

my ears are ringing all night.

i have nothing to wear

i have four closets full of clothes

and three dressers,

but i feel like

i have nothing to wear.

i hear women say this all the time.

how they try on

three dresses, or pairs of jeans,

six different pairs of shoes,

and blouses

before settling on

something they say they hate.

even with jewelry, they can't

decide. which ring? which necklace,

which bracelet?

i'm not quite that bad.

it's the jeans, the blue pair,

or the grey ones and a button

down shirt,

white or blue.

maybe a black sweater

if the weather is cool.

black shoes.

a big dilemma though

just the same.

crime is up, love is down

crime is up.

love is down.

misery is on the rise.

the future is not what it used

to be.

we reminisce about the old days.

we long

for them.

the casual drink

at the local bar.

the dance floor. 

the party.

the first kiss on a fun

date.

ancient history.

crime is up.

love is down.

not strings attached

you make reservations at the old

go to pub

in town.

but it's called call ahead now,

not reservations.

table for two.

outside.

the breeze, the blue sky

as stars

appear.

it's hard to say where it will

go.

what will transpire, but it's just

nice to get out.

and have a drama free

evening

with no surprises. no strings

attached.

no history

behind us,

just what we bring in the smallest

of bags.

her buns

i'll marry the next woman

that makes

me a batch of hot cinnamon

buns

covered in icing.

fresh from the oven.

okay, i'm joking.

but we  could become close

friends.

there is something about

the scent of

cinnamon filling the house

in the early

morning hours,

while it's raining outside

that makes you feel everything

is going to be alright.

that life is worth living,

that the world is not just full

of evil people,

but there are good souls too.

the weather channel

the news

is never ending.

mostly bad news, except

for the cat

stuck in the tree

rescued by the fire department.

i'd like to wake up one morning

and turn

on the television

and hear the man or woman say,

there is no

breaking news today.

go back to bed.

we'll let you know if anything

has changed.

basically though, you're

all screwed.

i understand now why my mother

watched

only the weather

channel.

pulling weeds

i see her pulling weeds

all day

in the yard

next to mine.

bent

at it.

knees in the soft wet

ground.

it takes

her away from the real

world.

from her problems.

from

the past and present.

the future is

no where to be found.

and then

it begins to rain.

it rains all night,

and tomorrow the yard

will be filled once

more with

green,

and she can start again.

the third date

she starts telling me about her

cats.

all three of them.

it's the third date,

the dinner date at her house

and i can see

this is going nowhere.

the food was awful, the wine

stale.

jello for desert?

she has spinach in her teeth.

i fall asleep as she continues

on about

the cats.

she taps me on the foot, 

are you awake?

yes, yes go on, you were

saying something about fluffy,

her fleas, or something?

please, go on,

tell me more.

i can hardly wait.

no time to waste

it takes a small

hole to sink a ship.

just one word, that slips

from

a pair of

angered lips.

a look, a glance.

a sent message in haste.

that's all it takes,

to pick up

your hat

and leave with no

time to waste.

the higher road

there are other roads

to be on,

unlike the one you are on now.

there are higher

roads

with less detours, with 

a straighter path

getting you to where

you need to go.

first unload the weight

of those

who drag you down,

who keep you slow.

pull over and let them out,

then drive straight, drive

true, drive out of this town.

i write poetry too

she says to me,

i write poetry too.

perhaps we should share some.

i'd love

to read yours.

so i send her a few,

the blood from

my veins not quite dried

on the paper

after dipping

a pen in.

she sends me hers.

they are mostly about flowers,

and kittens.

sunsets and beaches.

the morning dew.

we never talk again.

Church Mice

i never hear the neighbors.

they are church mouse.

quiet.

hardly a cross word comes out

of their mouths.

not a yell or scream,

or argument.

no music, no sound from

the tv

against our shared wall.

no symphony of love being

made

in the early

morning.

or nights. no rattle of headboard,

or squeak

of springs.

no footsteps going up

or down

the stairs.

you hardly hear them at all.

and when

i see them on the sidewalk,

them going on

their way

and i mine,

they look so unhappy

as if 

something is terribly wrong.

the new couple

it's a small brick house.

three rooms.

a yard

for the dog.

a line for the wet clothes

to dry

in the sunlight and wind.

a chain link fence.

he and his

wife

and two kids did fifty years

there

until one died and the other

moved to florida.

the kids all grown and gone

to the side

of their own lives.

and now a new couple

has arrived.

they wave from the porch

as they

start it all over

again.

asking for forgiveness

does the thief

go sleepless at night.

feeling

the guilt of his work?

does he pray

and ask forgiveness

for taking what is not his

or hers

to take?

perhaps,

perhaps not. and those

that steal

your heart, your time,

the precious years of your

life,

do they too,

beg forgiveness, before

stealing more in 

the shadows of

broad day light.

sour milk

her skin

was milk, her lips like butter.

an angel

fallen

from the sky

with blue diamond

eyes.

words that fell from

her mouth

in whispers though,

were

lies. all lies.

Bottom of the Barrel

i meet my friend jimmy 

up at the local bar,

six stools apart.

we have to talk really loudly though,

because

of our diminished hearing.

we lean towards each other, cupping

our hands to our ears.

he tells me he's joined a dating site

and has met someone.

which site, i ask him.

it's called 
Bottom of the Barrel, he says.

it's a free site

unless you want to message them.

it's the number one dating

site at nursing homes

and assisted living

facilities, not to mention prisons.

oh, i say. sounds interesting. i've

tried them all,

but not that one.

hey, he says, at this age, what chance

do we have on the other sites.

what?

he yells back, what chance do we have...

never mind.

what's her name?

i forget he says. it might be ruby,

or sally,

something with a y on the end of it.

her screen name is foxylady69.

she's got some miles on her, but she's

cute from what i can see

from her candle lit bathroom picture.

shame she didn't flush the toilet behind

her though. 

we did a  zoom the other day and it

went pretty well.   she was wearing her

mask because her grandkids were there

on her lap. she has seven cats, by the way.

she named them all after the seven

dwarfs.

seven dwarfs. there's  dwarfs on that site?

no no....she named them sleepy, dopey...etc.

oh.

we're going to

hike rag mountain next weekend

once she gets out of the hospital.

what's she in for?

no idea. some girl stuff i guess, or her

varicose veins that are popping out

pretty bad.  she sent me a picture.

maybe i'll give that site a shot.

i got nothing going on right now,

with the virus and all that.

you never know when old cupid is

going to put an arrow through you though.

but it 

sounds like you got a keeper with her.

this round's on me.

what?  i said, this round...oh never mind.

Bartender!!

47 laminated reasons

having a moment

of relationship amnesia,

or euphoric recall

as Dr. Ramani calls it,

i quickly go to my laminated

list of 47 reasons

as to why this toxic person

should never be contacted again.

i slowly read through

the reasons until i calm

myself down

and shake the notion out

of me.

i pin it back up to the bathroom

mirror.

and brush my teeth.

the couch protester

the urge to riot

has never occurred to me.

looting, screaming, setting things

on fire.

putting on my bike helmet

and getting

some bricks from the back yard to throw

through a store window.

i'm more of a couch protester

these days.

i don't even know

what side i'm on half the time,

i can go

either way.

i've gotten lazy lately.

plus

the British Baking Show is coming

on soon

and i don't want to miss

a second of it

It's the chocolate cake

episode.

nothing has changed, dear boy

bored

on a sunday, i dig through

a cardboard

box in the basement.

it's thick with papers,

old bills,

photographs.

odds and ends of things

i apparently think

or thought we're

indispensable.

i come across a loose

leaf note book with

spiral rings

from the early seventies.

strange attempts

at poetry.

dark musings,

mostly about relationships,

parents,

money, sex. the l word,

and trying to

figure out this crazy world

we're in.

nothing's changed, dear

boy.

the weather girl

the weather girl

is excited about the rain,

she's too pretty

for the regular news.

the floods,

the tornado.

she's at the big map

pointing

in her fancy dress

her make up.

her heels

and smile that lights

up the room.

i could watch the weather

all day

with her

and never once step

outside.

My Personal Gardener

i look out the window

at the yard.

a small squared yard,

the same

as everyone else's in this row

of townhouses.

i think about going out

and digging up the weeds.

this thought passes quickly though.

the rain has made it green.

i prefer to keep it that way.

God is my gardener,

and winter is on the way.

the boy on the corner

the slender boy

with blonde hair standing on

the street corner

at the light every morning

holds up his sign.

he could be anyone's son.

he's there every day,

rain or shine.

wind or cold.

snow or ice.

he glides easily from

car to car waiting for a window

to roll down,

for a dollar or two.

there is no shame,

no look on his face that

defines madness,

or illness.

he's just a boy, not quite

a man,

a slender reed of life

on the corner, blue eyed

and young.

his life seems at an end,

not beginning.

he makes you nervous.

with his persistence.

how he looks you in the eye.

a part of you wants him

gone.

wants him home, or at work.

with his family.

anywhere but here

making you feel guilty

about something you don't

even understand.

if lamps could talk, oh my

i order two new table

lamps

for the bedroom.

on sale.  a tad pricey, but

after looking

at a thousand other lamps,

they are the only

ones i want.

i'm hoping to get them by christmas.

Portugal is a long ways away,

and in the current

state of the world, who knows

what could happen

next

before i flip the switch

on my new elegant lamps,

with the three way bulb.

and a creamy porcelain base.

crackle?

the old ones are twenty years

old.

they had a good run.

the light they shone on things

is a story unto itself,

if lamps could talk, oh my.

get your life back

as life gets shorter

you start to let go of that cliff

you've been

holding onto, cutting into

your hands,

and you laugh

at the two foot drop.

landing perfectly on your feet,

uninjured.

why in god's name did you stay

in the job for all

those years,

or stay married to that dope

who brought you to tears.

what the hell.

get your life back.

order what you like on the menu.

if you like lasagna,

get it, with extra cheese and meatballs.

forget the strange dish

you've never heard of, with a name

you can't pronounce.

forget the fish, that exotic Indian

dish.

if you need a dictionary and a

thesaurus, and a translator 

to read

what's on the list,

go somewhere else.

move, buy a new house.

get a new girlfriend when the other

one's not working out.

it's your life. get busy, or go slow

and sad

into the ditch.

the three tiered cake

i'm not good with weddings.

i've never been to one,

my own or others that lasted

very long.

i look into the eyes of the groom

and bride and wonder,

what will go  wrong.

who's going to lie and cheat first.

but i'm not against the nuptials,

not

one bit,

i believe in love,

exclusivity.  finding the one

and only,

but from what i see

it ain't happening these days,

especially with the temptation

of the internet.

the addiction to cell phones,

what not.

the grass is always greener

has never been more

true than it is now.

but i do enjoy the music, the party,

getting all dressed up,

dancing with grandma to Proud Mary,

the fun of it all and the promise

of hope

and love everlasting.

we need our fantasies,

but what i love most about weddings.

is the fresh baked,

iced thick,

three tiered cake.

forward

because my mother had seven kids,

she sort

of gave up

at some point.

after her husband found

a new honey pie.

she threw in the towel.

went back to work

and we were on our own.

a lord of the flies situation.

she'd get home

at three in the morning

from her waitress job

and line up a row of coins

for our lunches.

curled on the couch, her shiny

apron on,

her shoes on,

her hands clasped in what

looked like

prayer.

she'd mumble,.

be good in school today.

winking from the corner

of her eye.

almost cut my hair

i remember seeing

my old barber on the street

one day.

my hair down to my shoulders.

in the rebellious

stage

of adolescence.

he asked me why haven't

i been in.

i haven't cut your hair in ages,

he said.

you look better

with short hair, a part on the side,

like paul newman, or redford.

and i said, sorry, but no.

i'm making a political statement.

i'll get my hair cut when Nixon's

out of the white house.

to which laughed and said.

i understand.

i felt that way about herbert hoover.

day bargaining

we do day bargaining.

we give it one more day,

one more chance.

things will get better,

the train wreck of a relationship

will

return to romance.

just another twenty four hours,

and we'll see.

this person will see the light,

will change.

and once again, together,

we'll

be happy.

good luck with that.

try the stock market, it's more

stable

than she'll ever be.

drinking the kool aid

aren't we all drinking

someone's kool aid.

going along with the program,

because

it's easier to get along

and stay

than it is to leave,

to break free and see what

else is out there.

whether church, or the office,

the latest love

of your life.

the husband, the wife.

the politics of left, or right.

we drink up, and close our

eyes.

we're too weak, or fearful,

or weary

or all of the above

to venture out

and find new light.

the therapy session

i talk to my therapist

for nearly an hour.

55 minutes to be exact.

she says to me that it's almost like

you don't care

about anything anymore.

you have no attachments.

just exactly how have you done that?

you seem at peace

with yourself

and the world.

i laugh.

took a long time to get there, i tell

her.

a long fucking

time

of caring about things and people

i never

should have

cared for.

she nods, and says. 

congratulations.

i get that. i think we're done

here.

three books

three books

come

in the mail in one neat box.

a book

of poems,

a biography

and a true tale

of winston churchill.

there is no debate

as to which i go to first.

the others, the others,

they all must be patient

they must sit quietly

by themselves,

and wait.

buried at sea

i dream about her.

but it's not a dream.

it's something else,

a feeling,

a dark wind blowing through

my mind

in the shadows of night,

through corridors of light.

i dream about her.

i see her at the bottom of the sea.

floating.

her eyes closed, behind

her medusa hair,

her life

over.

mine just beginning.

i see the starched white

bones

of her.

the glitter of scales now

piled

upon the sand.

i smell the salt and stench

of who

she really was, the cold

green brine

of seaweed.

the lumber of dead ships,

sunken without sails,

coming in on waves.

and the sea and everything in

it

taking what's left

of memory.

i ride the pale horse

i ride the pale horse

across

the green field, the dry prairie

into the desert.

across the mountains.

westward.

a canteen on my side.

my rifle.

my hat on tight.

a kerchief to keep the dust

out of my mouth.

i ride and ride.

all day, all night

until i reach the land of apathy.

enough.

enough. i get off my horse.

and stare out

at the sea. this is where i'll

plant my flag,

build my home,

start a new life. my days of

bending,

and giving, and waiting

are over.

life in the round

there is drama

in each life.

it's inescapable, but some have

more than

others.

they are always under

some blue

cloud

of fate, some bad luck

that's

come their way.

each day a test of endurance,

rarely

at ease,

or happy,

or content.

it never ends. this play.

this tragedy.

this life in the round,

on stage.

settling for less

you have gone

through life 

settling at times.

for work,

for shelter,  taking

what's left

what's right for now,

not tomorrow.

buying on the fringe,

with money tight.

the color, the size, the style,

nothing being

quite right.

even love,

or something resembling love

falls

into the mix

of

settling. half in, half out.

waiting for

the real thing

to fall from the stars,

wondering

when, 

and why not not now.

our last words

he writes to me to tell me that

our friend's birthday

was today.

how long has it been, i ask.

he says maybe fifteen,

maybe twenty years. neither of

us knowing

the date.

we say nice things about him.

he was such a perfectionist,

we laugh.

i tell him about the time 

he held a party,

and i

moved each picture hung on the walls

of his house

and inch to the left, pointing

downward.

and how he called me and said.

i knew it was you.

i saw the smile on your face when

you left.

our last words

before his death.

shaping life

some take

their hands to wood,

carving

with sharp instruments

into the trunks

of trees, finding

what their hearts desire.

practical

and needed, the shelves,

the drawers.

perhaps a table to eat from.

and some

go towards rock,

towards marble and stone,

chipping away

at some beauty locked within.

shaping and smoothing

life out.

whereas i

suppose i find

my work in words.

no less hard, no less a struggle,

to find

an answer

to a mystery that never

ends. to put it all

down in writing,

with my

sharpened pen.

The Radio

it sat, plugged in, 

on the stand where his

keys and wallet once lay,

yellow

shouldered in wood.

the unlit dials, a clock too.

with luminous

hands,

and when

i turned it on,

the small webbed

mouth came alive

with a surprisingly

bright loud sound.

the news of the day.

warbled in adult tones,

a serious man, who i imagined

had a mustache

and a pipe in hand.

i turned the dial, through

the static woods

until music played.

can't buy me love.

then i want to hold your hand.

i wasn't glad that he was gone,

but

fine that he left his radio

for me

to play and play and play.

a lover who wants more

i pack a small

bag

gas up the car

and head

to the eastern shore.

the music is on

as i roll the windows

down.

there is nothing behind

me keeping me

there.

no one.

not a soul weighing

me down

this year.

so i drive until

the blue ocean

embraces me like

an old friend,

a lover

who wants more.

keep up with me

when women

want to flex their arms

and show

you their muscles. run.

you have entered

a contest you can't win,

or tie. 

they hold up their ribbons

and medals,

trophies, thinking this

will catch his eye.

and when you hear 

the words,

let's see if you can

keep up with me.

again, run. there will

be no fun, not now

not ever, until the day

you die.

no apology forthcoming

for some it's hard to apologize.

never thinking

they've done

anything wrong, no harm,

no foul.

guilty of nothing.

and when they see you crying,

bent and broken,

because of their

behavior, they look at you

and stare, they ask you why,

and say,

i'm not responsible for how you

feel. don't take it personally,

these betrayals, these lies.

with your ear to the door

the zoo is not far.

across the road.

we can hear the animals

from our

window.

the screech of monkeys,

the roar of lions,

the chirping of birds.

caught in the high swung nets.

a splash in the grey stone

pool

where a walrus plays.

if you put your ear to the door,

you can

hear

the screams of others,

down

the hall. a different zoo

altogether.