the new revolution

she goes to have her hair

done.

it's blue now

and she has a safety pin

in her nose,

a fishing hook in her lip.

she's fifty one.

i'm part of the revolution,

she says.

i'm no longer a solution,

but part of the problem.

my brothers and sisters

are all on the news.

i'm changing my name to Zodiac,

or Tanya, i can't decide

just yet.

but i'm still up for dinner,

if you want to pick me up

at 8.

that little Italian place

on the boulevard,

that we haven't burned down

just yet,

would be best.

the corner grocery store

the grocery store

has become full service now.

in these hard times they've

cut corners. reduced staff.

if you want an egg, go over

to a chicken coop

and squeeze one out of a waiting

chicken.

there's a pool of fish

and a net to use, a board

to cut

and chop, filet, crabs

and lobsters

are in the basement

crawling about in a foot of 

sea water.

there's a 

a cow standing in aisle

six

with a bucket

and a stool.

in the back there

are apple trees,

oranges,

bananas too,

but watch out for monkeys,

they like to bite,

that part of the store 

has become veritable

zoo.

you can grind your own

coffee beans,

select your own pig

or cow. nameless now.

shovel rice into your arms,

or pick

peppers until the sun goes

down.

ivy

the english ivy

is relentless

up the brick wall

the fence

spreading its green tendrils,

clawing towards

some end.

finding a way

to beat

the gardener's

sharp blade,

taking hold

and letting you know

it can't be

stopped.

not unlike our

chase for love

one day,

at the end of rain.

summer wine

i savored summer

in my youth.

the beach, the surf.

the sound of  music.

the drive down with

rowdy friends,

staying in

the beat motels.

stopping at

the roadside stands.

and if lucky

a girl in hand.

how gentle the waves

were.

how sweet the honey

sun

fell upon our warm

skin. how long

ago it all seems, as fall

begins

and winter

waits like an old

old man,

not far behind.

it's best in the long run

by the time you get this note

i'll

be long gone.

far down the road.

heading east.

when you rise, and reach

over for me.

i'll be far away by then.

sorry to leave

like this.

a note on your pillow.

but the time has come.

it's better this way for the both

of us.

better for our lives

our hearts and souls.

for all parties concerned.

it will be best

in the long

run.

the revolving door

it surprised me

getting stuck 

in the revolving door

for a year or two.

i'd like to think i'm

smarter than that.

but

it wouldn't stop

going around and around.

they was nothing anyone

could do.

i was alone and cold.

dizzy and

confused.

it felt so much like

being married to you.

the seasonal discount

the phone rings

it's a new customer, a new

client

referred to me by some old

client.

a job done and long

forgotten.

they want the deal.

the seasonal

cut,

the friends of friends

discount.

we're seniors and we

served, they all say.

can you go a little lower.

we'll pass your name out.

we promise,

we just can't afford

your estimate, we can't

afford to pay.

this one wall will lead

to more walls,

we promise you that,

if the job is well done.

we promise to bring

you back.

we just need the high

spots done.

we don't have a 32 foot

ladder, so perhaps

you can give us a hand.

shouldn't take more

than a few minutes,

perhaps an hour.

if the price is right, you

will be our man.

the more they change

in the late night

walking

into the old bar under M street.

down the spiral

steps

to where the music

roared,

where the drinks

were poured.

she'd see me on the last

step

coming in

and have a cold beer waiting

with my name on it.

we hardly knew

each other,

barely friends.

never a word outside the bar,

no call.

no dance,

no kissing in the alley

where the cars

were parked.

and then she was gone

and someone else was

where she stood

for so many summers nights,

things remain

the same, the more they

change.

mexican food at midnight

i have a crazy dream

about

a woman

killing a man with poisoned

jordan almonds

handing him a few

as they sit

in the waiting room

at a doctor's office.

they have an argument

as they both sit there.

she doesn't like him.

he reminds her of

her last husband, so she

murders him. handing him

the candy before

she leaves.

 somehow i get involved

and call the police.

time travel is involved

as i track her

down through the white

pages, finding her name

on the rolodex at

the doctor's office.

i wake up exhausted

and almost believe that the

dream was real.

no more mexican food

before

bedtime.

i can see their faces even

now as i empty my candy

bowl into the trash.

everyday flowers

i run into my florist, Mildred,

on the street,

she looks at me

and says, just where have you been.

we haven't seen

you in ages.

it used to be every week

the roses, the daffodils,

the orchids and the mums.

all with an apology

note. we must have sold

you bushels of flowers

over the last few years.

crystal vases!

yeah, i tell her. but that's

all done.

the roses are dead, the violets

are too,

i'm sick and tired

of picking up after you.

tom waits, she says. just love

him.

One From the Heart is my

fave album of his, but stop

by sometime.

we have a nice bundle

of everyday flowers, no need

to be in a relationship

for flowers.

hmmm. you're right,

never thought of that.

here on earth

the conversations takes a wild

left turn,

drinking is involved

when she says that she believes

in ufo's, aliens

the loch ness monster,

big foot

and there was a conspiracy

in the death of Kennedy,

it wasn't just Oswald

who acted alone.

i notice a tattoo on her arm.

a silver saucer

with little green men

going down the ramp.

she says that she was abducted

once and taken

high into the sky

where these creatures

had their way with her.

i have the scars to prove it,

she says. and lifts up

her blue hair to show me

two marks on the back of her

neck.

that's where they probed me.

over and over again.

i still have flashbacks.

that's nothing i tell her,

then begin to tell her about

my last relationship, but

here on earth.

oh my, she says, that's

horrible. so much worse

than mine.

the ticking clock

i know i'm late.

i know

there will be traffic.

that the coffee shop will

be crowded.

i know

i'm up against the clock.

that i should get

moving,

get going get dressed.

but it's okay.

the world is almost

at a stop

and i'm my own boss.

the autopsy

in the early stages

it's impossible to know every

thing there

is to know about someone.

you don't dissect

and cut too deep, being respectful

of their privacy.

but in the end,

at the autopsy,

you wish you had used the knife

of knowledge

with a heavier hand

as you discover

what lies lie within.

the formation of clouds

as we drive towards the eastern

shore

the sky is full of clouds

overlaying the blue.

the white stripes of seagulls

dart in and out

of view.

she looks up and points

and says

tell me what you think that cloud

looks like.

what's it look like to you.

i look up and stare at it for

a moment or two and say,

despair.

she looks at me and says, what

about that one, that one

over there.

love, i tell her. that looks like

love.

go left then, she says, let's 

drive over there.

the emperors of coffee

we find

our land and become emperors.

i see

the kings and queens

at the coffee shop.

regulars

in their chairs

on an island of chatter.

their minions stopping by

to greet them.

done with work 

they have carved

out their kingdom

from nine to five.

they talk of the world

and what must be done to

fix things.

they smile and nod.

they are benevolent

and kind.

sipping on their coffee,

their teas, doling out

bits and pieces of wisdom

in the bright

sunshine.

maybe i'll get up

i should get dressed.

i should take a shower first

or maybe

do some bills.

or maybe make a cup

of coffee,

or maybe just lie here

in bed

for a little while

longer staring at the ceiling.

maybe i'll just

lean over

and look out the window

for some unknown

reason

and then get up. maybe.

what about this

book, i'm reading? but

it's way over there on the other

nightstand.

i can't reach it.

if someone was here they

could hand it to me,

but no one's here.

okay. ten more minutes, 

then i'm up, really up.

the kiss

sometimes

a kiss

tells you everything you

need to know

about a person.

speaks volumes.

you feel it in your toes

that something

is going on here

and there's more

you'd like to know.

when it's time to end it

the dishwasher

is giving me  trouble.

it beeps, it grinds, it makes

a noise

not unlike

it's friend the HP printer

upstairs.

on the floor there's 

a puddle of blue

tears.

they like to tell you when it's

over,

they grumble, they moan,

they become stubborn.

like us.

when it's time, it's time.

you just know that this

love won't

last

another year.

the lamb leg

i feel a need to mix up 

my basic

diet of

peanut butter and jelly,

scrambled eggs

and bacon

ramen noodles.

pizza

delivered as well as kung

pao

chicken.

perhaps it's time to try a leg

of lamb.

but i worry about

the lambs.

the little baby lambs, clarise.

how do they get around without

their legs?

i search

through my betty crocker

cook book

stained with red sauce

and gin

until finally i get to the page

the explains

the delicate process of cooking

a lamb's leg.

poor lambs,

but i begin.

Leaders

we want them

to be kind, to not lie,

to not

betray,

to lead us and leave

no soul

behind.

but they're human

like you and I,

and 

the world never really

changes,

despite the year,

the passing

of time.

summer love

there is summer love.

the warm wind of affection.

the holding of hands,

the smile

of eyes.

the desire new and in bloom.

while

others

fade fast, go cold,

with winter arriving

much too soon.

the love you make

some measure

carefully, following the page,

the concise recipe,

being exact with

the list

of instructions,

the ingredients to bake.

while others

have a free hand,

and create their own

delight,

going outside the lines

with the love

they make.

tomorrows to be filled

she had emptied 

her life

so that we

could be alone, 

it's what

she wanted me to

believe,

to know.

that the past was gone,

there

were no yesterdays

to be lived in,

only tomorrows

to be filled.

but it wasn't so.

in four years or two

who hasn't heard 

the complaint

of the working

class,

the white collared

or blue,

how they talk about in four

years,

or two

they'll retire and be set

free

from the ball and chain,

the shackles

of the office,

the mundane,

the day in day out 

of endless

work.

and yet, you see those that

have arrived.

you see them in the stores,

shuffling vaguely 

with empty carts

or at the lake

with loaves of bread

feeding the ducks, walking

slowly with

what may be tears

in their far away eyes.

what the hell is smelt

we're having smelt for dinner,

she says. kicking off her latest

exotic diet

with a bang.

i stare at the phone.

what the hell is smelt, i ask

her, rubbing my nose.

oh, they're small silvery fish

from the north atlantic.

they are really underfished, so

there is no guilt

in eating them.

yes, go on....and, and...

well, you fry them and eat them whole.

head, eyes, tail, etc.

even the bones.

they're very crunchy.

okay, i say hesitantly. and then

after that

we'll have spare ribs

and mashed potatoes?

no. absolutely not.

she sends me a picture 

of a dozen

or so smelts,

lying dead on a plate.

their eyes are enormous.

three stalks of asparagus,

holding each other fearfully

are bundled together

next to them.

we're almost out of tofu,

she says,

and soy milk,

so if you'd be a prince

and pick that up for me

i'd be very happy.

dinner's at six so don't

be late and don't stop at five

guys on the way home.

cold feet

give me a deep south minute

i tell her

as i

ready myself to go somewhere

i don't want to go.

excuse me, she says.

we're already late.

you're not even dressed.

go without me, i tell her.

but it's our

wedding.

you have to be there.

can we do a zoom instead?

link me when

you get there, and

bring me back

a slice of cake.

broken glass

there is beauty

in the broken glass

that lights up

in sunlight

scattered on the highway.

what difference is there

between

diamonds and these

shards of

glass that gleam

upon the black road?

each has a shine.

and from a distance,

like love last,

we believe they are 

the same.

a thousand stories

i've heard a thousand 

stories

that nearly

all end the same.

betrayal, lies. infidelity, etc.

what once was love

is now

paper in the wind.

ashes

floating skyward

as the love lost 

rekindle

their broken hearts

and try

again.

it's like a script was written

and followed

through

by a variety of actors,

men and women alike.

stagehands too.

no one 

is immune, live long enough

and the stage

will appear in each  

and every room.

the distant train

to some the train

going by

in the distant woods,

the whistle blown,

the rumble of wheels

against the track

is poetic

giving something to

a day that lacks.

but to others

they hear it as noise,

confirming

the world they know

as imposing

and sad.

closed lips

it's between the lines

where you

find most of us, the unsaid

words,

the sigh,

the glance, the rolling

of eyes.

what lies in the margins

is where we live.

the silence.

the unwritten,

the edited,

closed lips don't lie.

my doctor says

my doctor says

i need see you. i need to inject

you

with the flu shot,

one for

pneumonia,

another for small pox

and tetanus.

and one

for good measure that should

take care

of your

social life.

it will hurt, so bring

something

to bite down on.

i suggest a leather strap

and a shot

of whiskey.

war rations

how can there be no food

inside

the ice box.

i go shopping five times a week.

and yet.

three eggs remain.

three stripes of bacon curled

in fatty

fear

of being fried.

brown lettuce.

sixteen bottles of salad

dressing.

an apple, gone soft,

shrunken grapes

and a navel orange

gone green

on one side.

i miss home

this rain reminds of home,

of Ireland,

she says.

staring out the window

at the summer

trees

retreating into autumn.

she sighs

and smiles

wistfully.

i miss home, i miss it

dearly.

is your passport

ready?

her irish

i catch nearly every 

other word

she says,

her irish

coming fast and hard

in poetic flourish

as she tells

me a story about the motherland.

the weather,

the pubs,

cousins,

the rolling green

of land.

what i don't catch

doesn't matter,

i look into her eyes.

i understand.

i'm very very sorry

the best apologies

are heard

by those in orange jumpsuits

standing in front

of the judge,

going to prison

for many years.

they suddenly feel upset

about 

the damage they've done.

the gun they shot,

the knife they plunged.

they cry and beg

forgiveness.

plead for mercy to shorten

their stay.

the light has gone on

and they promise

now to be better people.

it's those not caught

yet, that rarely

have an i'm sorry to say.

i think he's cheating on me

i think he's cheating on me,

she says.

i can feel it

in my bones.

my hands tremble.

i'm nervous and upset.

i look out the window

for his

car.

he's never late like this.

he said eight

and now it's eight fifteen.

i know it's only been three

weeks, but

i'll give him everything,

my heart, my house, my soul,

my bank

account,

he knows this,

why would he not call, why

would he not

text

and tell me where he is?

barefoot

her heel breaks

on the way

to the show,

so she walks barefoot

in the rain.

unworried about the city

street,

what might unfold.

she strolls through

the glass,

the tossed cigarettes,

debris

without so much a glance

downward.

across

the boulevard,

the grates,

stones, past cats,

around lost souls

asleep

with wine in clumps

at  alleys.

this tells you something

about her

that she never said

before.

the seed in hand

as a child you learn quickly

that

the world is transactional.

that you need a coin

to deliver

the candy positioned behind

the glass.

you see

that to grow a seed you need

to bury it.

that things cost.

that work must be done to 

earn them

unless the dead or dying

give you money

but you learn too that

inheritance is a curse, it

keeps

the seed in hand, never planted.

never seeing what it

could have been.

but so it goes

oscar wilde

said that he feared not being

misunderstood.

i like that.

to not be a mystery

seems

plain

and ordinary. just one

of many who

show their cards

before the hand is played,

those that say exactly 

what they mean

without

nuance or

cleverness.

of course it's quite 

annoying being constantly

misunderstood,

them not knowing exactly

what you mean,

but so it goes.

maybe

you say the word maybe 

a lot

these days.

you're so noncommittal.

wavering.

straddling the fence of choices.

maybe

is your go to word now

after so many years

of saying yes

without thought or reason.

diving for pennies

we used to dive

for pennies in the deep end

of the pool.

all day

until our eyes turned red.

our skin

blistered 

from the sun

and chlorine,

our hair gone blonde.

our cheeks

flushed

with fatigue.

just pennies, but oh what

a summer

day it was.

in my mind i'm going to carolina

i can hardly understand her

on the phone.

it's like she's from another world.

an underwater world

where

words are drawn out like molasses. 

i'm twenty miles from charlotte 

she says.  not too far off the interstate,

but far enough

in the woods

where we don't be bothered.

it almost sounds like she's eating

road kill barbeque and

drinking moonshine.

i hear the sound of a gun

clicking, which is exactly what

it is.

you need to come down for

a visit, she says.

we can go tubing down the river

maybe hunt some squirrels.

do you play any

musical instruments?

no, not really, but i can keep a beat

on the dashboard pretty good.

my my, ain't you a funny boy.

well, when you come down for a spell

there are a lot of things

i can teach you.

we  have fun down here

in the holler.

i hope you are a believer,

because on sunday 

we like to go over to

the old church to worship.

you ain't afraid of snakes are you?

baby talk

i see a crowd of women

talking in squeaky voices,

cooing

like pigeons around

a stroller

where a new round pink

baby is swaddled

in a blanket.

they pass the child around

like a delicate jewel

removed from under

glass.

someone says, hey, come

here, look at this new

baby. see how cute

and adorable and sweet

she is.  you can hold her

if you want.

i politely say no, thanks,

i'm good.

the turn in the road

she showed me her scars,

deep

healed wounds

from an accident

years ago.

her leg,

her shoulder,

her arm.

she drifted off as she told

the story,

the turn

in the road, the truck,

the moonlight,

the man who died.

how lucky she was to

have survived.

after that,

i have nothing to say,

a little heartbreak here

and there

seemed so trivial.

how many days until christmas?

she was one of these people

that kept

count of how many days it was

until christmas.

every time you saw her, she'd say

with an enormous cheery smile,

only 98 more days

until santa comes

down the chimney.

and then finally it arrived.

she'd put on her green wool cap,

her red sweater,

and stockings to match.

she had a tree in every room.

lights galore

were nailed to every edge

of the house.

candles in the window.

ten blow up reindeers in the yard.

christmas carols

were playing from loud speakers.

cookies were baking.

candy too.

she set up a manger with

live animals

and a baby jesus smiling

in a bed of straw.

i heard the other day she was in

an insane asylum

for killing her husband,

whether that's true or not,

i'm not sure.

you're the best

as i bit down on 

two stale slices of wonder bread

with a thin

waxing of peanut butter

and jelly within,

i remember staring

at the other kid's lunches.

what their mothers packed for them.

the neatly arranged metal

boxes

with a thermos of milk,

a bag of cookies,

a sandwich, what was that?

honey glazed ham?

an apple, some grapes, perhaps.

and then

the dagger to my heart,

the note

from a mother. with a big smile

sketched

saying be a good boy.

study hard,  i love you,

you're the best.

the dead flower

why aren't you kissing

me

she'd say

after a week of absence

her lipstick

on

smelling like a rose

waiting

to be cut 

and watered, arranged

in a crystal vase.

why aren't you kissing me?

three months later,

the bloom

was off, the flower

dead.

it was why are you touching me?

you're so clingy

and needy.

so dependent upon

me,

please, please, enough

already.

back away.

Fitted Sheet Therapy

i lie down on the long

leather couch

of her office. i ask her if it's

okay, if i take my shoes off.

she hesitates, but then says, sure,

if it makes you more comfortable.

this couch is nice, new?

yeah. yeah. with all this lockdown,

business is booming

Crate and Barrel, the summer sale.

very comfy. very comfy.

i like her.

she's a really good therapist.

she gets right to the core of things.

no dilly dallying with

small potatoes.

so, she says. how are things?

still going no contact with the ex

the wicked witch of the east?

who?

she laughs. i laugh.

yeah, after i threw that bucket of water

on her she melted away.

oh what a world, what a world....i'm melting,

i'm melting, i say using

my wicked witch voice.

she laughs, and starts choking a little

on her herbal tea,

but regroups. 

oh my, she says. you kill me sometimes.

she taps her pen against

her legal pad. so, she says....

can i ask you something, 

i ask her, stretching  my legs out.

cracking my knuckles.

sure she says. ask me anything.

well, i actually have two questions.

shoot she says. i'm all ears.

do you know how to fold a fitted sheet?

and do you have

any good recipes for a pot roast?

oh, she says. i thought we were going

to talk about

your emotional well being today?

we will, we will, promise,

but i wanted to ask you this

first before we jumped

into how i was basically raised by wolves.

if you bring in a sheet next week, i'll walk

you through it, and as far as pot

roast goes.  i've got a five star recipe

that the sex therapist down the hall gave me

last winter.

it's all yours. no charge,

but now, back to your father

and mother.

they didn't like you very much did they?

keep sakes

when she died

for months i carried around

the smooth

stones

she kept on her kitchen sill.

it's what

you do in grief.

a scarf.

her ring, perfume.

small things of hers.

a pair of gloves,

her glasses.

but as time wore on.

each

was put away, or lost in

another move.

forgotten.

all but the stones, which

sit nearby

aligned

on a sill in the morning

light.

the bird that flew away

there was a thought,

an idea

of something

to write about.

a poignant

word or two, ready

to be written

once home, with time,

but from the street to

the door,

up the stairs to the keyboard

it flew away

like a bird

leaving not a single feather

behind.

you have arrived

you know you have arrived

when you

no longer wait

for the mail to fall through the slot,

when

you no longer dream

about riches,

or new love

appearing at your door step.

you know you are home

when you

stop wishing upon a star,

or tossing

coins into the well.

you don't rush to the phone,

or hope that tomorrow

will be different.

you are there.

exactly where you need to be.

you have arrived.

the soft parade

old,

they no longer 

greet you at the door.

she's hooked

to an oxygen tank

he's in his

pressure socks,

locked firmly in place

in the bed chair.

they move, but don't

stand, instead reach

out an outstretched

arm to find your hand.

tea, crackers? they offer.

gin?

every thought is on their

tip of their tongue,

going unheard.

it's the longest hour

of your life.

you can smell death.

smell

the freshly dug earth

of their grave,

the flowers. you can

almost see

the soft parade of mourners

seeing them

to rest.

when the secret is revealed

when the secret

is revealed, does all hell break loose,

or do people

shrug

and say, we kind of knew,

oh well.

then move on with their

lives.

it's just a new

sadness now that's added

to the deepening

mix of blue.

everything is possible

children

see the world as being

everything

is possible,

or nothing.

it's in the soft or hard

hand

of the parent

which decides

the path of a wanting

child.

the sketch of her

in the shadow of early day

i see

her

move down

the hall

her bare feet

quiet against the thick rug.

i see the curve

of her,

the angle of

her body

as it bends towards

the stairs, heading towards

home.

a charcoal

sketch against the colorless

morn.

the long awaited beach trip

i find a spot on the sand,

away

from kids.

away from loud radios

and voices.

far enough from the ocean

so that when the tide

comes in

i don't have to start all over again.

i grind the pole of the umbrella

deep into

the hot sand.

i tilt it just right, figuring

the movement of the sun.

i unfold my chair, lay down

my blanket.

out comes the book, the water,

the granola bar.

i lather on some sun screen.

nose,

face, arms, legs, a big glop

on my head.

then i sit back and sigh.

i stare out into the green blue

sea,  then

i start thinking if i leave

extra

early in the morning i can beat

the traffic home.

she was a good ride

there's rust

on the fender, the floorboard

has holes.

small

dents pepper the dull

blue curves

of sheet metal.

a spray of cracks, like

veins crawl inside

the windshield.

it had a good run,

a long

life. i loved her

when she was

young and loved

her more as she aged along

with me. there were

thousands of miles

without a breakdown, except

for that one

time in the desert

and i had to walk

twenty miles to find a gas

station.

she broke my heart

that day.

shucking oysters

an oyster

does nothing for me.

there is

no satisfaction

in eating it,

or rather swallowing

it

once the stubborn

stub is pried from

the angry shell.

it doesn't matter how

much you pepper

it or

swab it

with flavor from a bottle,

or jar.

i see no point

in a single oyster,

let alone a dozen.

if only there was a pearl

inside each

one,

then i'd have more

interest. where's the hammer,

the pliers,

hand

me that crowbar.

in time we shall leave

a fleet

of blackbirds darken

the blue

of sky,

a wave

a shadow against

the dying

green of trees

the world has changed.

in time

we shall

leave.

the good souls

you can feel

their goodness.

see the aura of light about

them.

how their hearts

shine

through and glow.

you can warm your soul

being next

to them.

you feel sorry when 

their time is up,

when it's time

to go.

below the surface

from the shore

you can

see the sliver

of fish,

the waft and slide

of fins

the scales catching

light

in the underwater

wind.

like birds below,

moving as one.

we stand with our

feet

wet upon

the sand.

our life and theirs

so different.

nearly impossible

to fathom

to understand.

the stapler i stole

i look at the stapler on my desk.

it's black.

very official looking

and ready

for business.

i stole it from the office

i was fired from

back in 1985.

i deserved to be fired.

i did little work,

drank a lot of coffee

and flirted with the secretaries

when i had

a free moment

after talking about sports

around the cubicles.

i still have the stapler.

i don't think i've used it in

years other than hammering

a nail or two in the wall.

in fact, i can't

remember the last time

i stapled things together.

does anyone still do that?

the staples might be rusty,

but it's a reminder of sorts

holding sentimental

value to a more simple

time. a time of snap

on ties, old spice cologne,

and happy hour that lasted

five hours.

to bake a cake or riot?

my friend jimmy calls me up

to ask

if i want to go downtown with him,

shopping.

well, actually looting

in the middle of a riot about

something

going on in the news.

he says he's hoping

that the crowd surges towards

nordstroms

and lord and taylor's at some

point.

he wants to get a pair of skinny

jeans,

and a new watch.

i tell him, no.

no thanks.

i mean i'm all for the cause

and all that,

but i'm in the middle of baking

a cake

and i have socks to sort,

sheets to fold.

by the way,

do you know how to fold a fitted

sheet?

the first woman i find that

teaches me how to do that,

i'll marry her on the spot.

but have fun.

be careful.

don't forget your helmet

and tear gas mask.

and if you pass through north

arlington

feel free to tear down some

of those awful abstract

sculptures that litter the boulevard.

absolutely horrible.

not every twisted piece of metal

is art for God's sake.

waiting on the sun

i wait for the sun to clear

the trees

before i venture out

into the yard with book in hand.

fresh coffee

brewed.

i wait for it to arrive

so that i can sit like a cat

in the big chair

outside

read and ponder,

wile away the hours,

savor this sweet time.

and so it stays

is there anyone not sad.

depressed.

the world is cloaked in grey.

the streets

are full of glum.

it's the virus, the lockdown

the uncertainty of

days to come.

hope has vanished.

no joy.

no love, no calm.

everyone is looking down,

not up.

or within.

and so it stays.

the yellow dress

she says that when

she wears yellow, a yellow

dress

in particular

and puts her hair into

pig tails

she feels prettier than

most other girls.

she says that she feels as

if they're staring at her,

jealous of her smile,

her arms, so white, her

lips so pink.

it's the dress, she says.

not me.

to which i nod and say yes.

i totally agree.

it's just the dress, maybe you

should wear it

more often.

retail therapy

if i had more walls

i'd buy

more art.

if i had more room

i'd buy

another chair, another

lamp

another clock.

if i had a bigger house

i'd be

out all day

looking for things

to fill it and make

it my own.

it might be time for

another visit

to my therapist,

but there's a sale on

at crate and barrel

and i don't want to be

a second late.

today is the day, maybe

i get an email.

today is the day. i get

a text.

i get a call,

all

saying the same thing.

today is the day.

be home

between 9 am

and 10 pm, all day.

we will deliver.

today is the day.

we will call again before

we come,

we will text.

we will email you

once more.

today is the day.

don't leave the house.

stay close.

don't stray.

we know it's nine

months later since

you ordered, but we promise

you,

we cross our hearts.

as God is our witness.

today.

may actually be the day.

pending weather

and unforseen circumstances

of course.

the comparison

the dog ate anything

dead.

a vacuum in house, no spills

or crumbs

not worth

licking or inhaling as he walked

by.

he became fatter than a christmas

ham

by age ten.

a frequent visitor to the mayo

clinic

for dog.

he cost a fortune.

eating shoes, and purses.

clothes.

hats and gloves.

incessant barking.

an overt narcissist to the nth

degree.

and yet.

the ex was worse.

unfiltered water

unfiltered water,

non

organic

meats

and vegetables,

sugar

and salt.

bacon

and whole milk.

fried chicken

and mashed potatoes.

gravy.

cocoa cola

and potato chips.

unprotected sex.

no seat belts.

and yet.

here we are so many

years later.

the far room

as he speaks, my mind wanders.

i hear his voice,

i hear him clear his throat

and go on.

but i'm thinking of other things,

while i pretend to listen.

perhaps he sees that in my

eyes, and repeats a word or two.

i see the grey

in his hair, the lines around

his eyes.

his face is carved with worry,

as most faces are, struggling

to smile when a smile is necessary.

he points to the far room.

tells me about the fireplace,

the stain on the ceiling.

the floors that squeak.

i wonder if he's in love.

i see the ring on his finger.

but i still wonder if he's in love.

he asks me if need to see more.

i tell him no. i've seen enough.

it's late, perhaps i'll leave now.

it's time to go.

what it wasn't

the snow was beautiful in

a heartbroken

kind of way.

how it lay

before us, rising in soft

hands against

the long stretch

of road

nearly covered

and we

weren't half way home,

her home.

not mine.

how the trees

grew in size,

shrouded white.

the sky low and grey

smoothed

over a far away sun.

were there better days

than this?

of course, but

this one would be 

remembered

for what it was,

what it wasn't.

one yellow leaf

the first yellow leaf

arrives.

i see her out on the tree

that

swings above

the yard.

a long branch

reaching

out towards me.

one yellow leaf.

is all one needs to 

feel good about the day.

that says it all

we drive to the coast,

the eastern shore.

our baggage light.

our minds fresh, ready

to capture with open

arms new memories.

we love the breeze,

the warmth of the summer

sun.

we've got sinatra on

the radio.

we've got three days

of fun ahead of us.

we look at one another

and smile.

we say nothing, she reaches

over to take my hand.

she winks.

that says it all.

social anxiety

no thanks,

i really don't do well in crowds.

social anxiety.

i don't want to be evaluated

by strangers.

please.

i'll meet for coffee or a drink.

but

the party seems beyond

my emotional

limits.

so i'll have to say no to the invite.

if we ever get

married,

let's just do the two of us

on a beach,

with a dog, maybe,

in attendance.

another pretty face

the weather girl,

pretty

as a flower

in a chinese vase

had me all excited.

she showed me weather map

on the tv

the red map.

the yellow swirls.

the green circles.

the black arrows.

she showed me the barometer,

the wind

speed

the temperature.

the cold front moving in.

she talked about

winds

and rain, hail the size of

meat balls.

she even whispered

tornadoes.

then nothing happened.

there was no

climax.

just another pretty face

whistling

dixie.

remember him?

we don't want to be forgotten.

but we will

be.

it's a given.

it won't be long after

the dirt

has been shoveled over

us

when someone will say, where's

so and so,

what's his name.

remember him?

haven't seen him come around

here 

in a while.

i wonder where he went,

oh well.

the blue ribbon pepper jelly

it was a small

jar,

a reddish orange jelly

packed tight

within

the stump of glass.

a secret recipe that would

be lost

to the grave.

it won the blue ribbon

at countless

state fairs.

a favorite of judges

from carolina

to richmond.

a pepper jelly to be 

proud of,

and she would talk

about it

until the day she died,

almost

too much

truthfully.

firefly nights

we used to catch

fireflies

on warm summer nights

like this.

racing across

the wet grass

in our bare feet.

we'd place them in jars,

with

perforated lids.

we'd

watch them glow 

off

then on.

a strange beauty, at such

and an age

when everything was

new.

when all the world

was waiting

to unfold

before our young eyes,

before our

first kiss.

so what's your point?

you're a fraud, she says,

a fake

a phony, a poser,

a pretender

of the highest degree.

you're not a poet.

just a bitter old man

venting and whining

about long forgotten

history.

you write

so much about your ex

your past loves,

the past,

and nothing, not one

word about

me.

the fresh mint

the neighbor

before she left to get married

planted

mint

along our adjacent

walk.

between our steps.

it's overgrown

and wild.

no one tends to it.

we let it go,

but each day i come home

i can smell

the sweet essence

of its leaves,

rising gently into

my nose,

reminding me of her, 

and the love

she found.

those short years

i see the frail woman

in my half

sleep

straddling  dream

and awake.

i see the bones of her,

her hollow face.

her tongue, black with

lies,

the brittle hair

a curtain

of old lace.

i see the eyes, dark

troubled orbs,

full of fear.

i see her for who she really

is,

not who she pretended

to be,

for those short years.

settling

we are slow learners

when

it comes to love.

we expect more than is possible

to be given.

we dream too much

about what it should be,

not what it is.

and yet

we settle for less.

leaving the dream alone.

that fantasy that's been in

our mind

since birth.

a love ever lasting.

we compromise.

we look into the mirror

at the years

behind us,

the years that may be left,

and we sigh

and say. okay, i'm too tired

to keep

looking.

it's time to rest.

why are they being nice?

i suspect anyone

with a cake

coming towards me.

anyone with a wrapped gift

and a card.

or blowing up balloons,

being festive.

i'm concerned about

anyone

smiling brightly

with lipstick on.

i think, what are they up to?

what's with the perfume?

what's the game.

what will i owe

them for this visit,

for words of flattery

and kindness?

what's the deal here with

people being nice?

release the hounds

i used to let people in,

but that

door is closed now.

locked,

bolted, chained.

i have a peep hole to see

who arrives,

who rings my bell,

who knocks late at night.

i suffer no fools gladly.

no wandering waif

with sweet words to say

have a chance in hell

to take  a step inside.

traveling salesmen,

preachers and neighbors,

beware.

i keep the hounds  close by.

going out into it

the low flying birds

tell

you what lies above them,

the cupping

of green

fingered leaves,

the blue shadows that appear

as the sun makes

room.

a storm is brewing.

lighting

crackles, thunder

booms.

everything tells

you to stay in, 

stay home.

but you're not that kind

of person,

not as a child and not now,

full grown.

one sweet cherry

each

and every life has it's share

of burnt

toast

spilled milk

and

broken buttons,

a thread

undone, here and there.

who said

life would

be perfect?  a cliched

bed of roses.

a bowl of cherries?

find one

sweet plump cherry

and run with it.

that'll do for now.

this is the end, my only friend, the end

i go through my phone

looking for someone to have fun with.

anyone.

bored out of my mind.

i'm pacing like a lunatic

in my house.

but everyone's busy.

covid they say.

have you been tested?

i'm scared to go into the city.

the riots.

the protests.

the politics.

the weather, it's too hot, too windy,

too rainy.

it's getting dark.

everyone has suddenly become

old and scared.

wanting to stay put in their

own cocoon. 

the world has finally slowed

almost to a stop.

what the hell.

i put some Doors

on the stereo, the pandora,

the spotify, the youtube, 

the xm, whatever

it is that

suddenly brings music into

my house and i sit in the big

chair by the window

and wait.

the toll booth operator

i fall in love

with the toll booth woman

heading

west on 66 towards

the mountains.

she's round shouldered

and has a shock

of red hair like

medusa.

she looks bosomy 

and bold.

i take my time as i dig

out the change

in order to get the striped

gate to rise

and let me pass.

how are you today?

i ask her,

looking into her eyes,

that are deep

wells of

love and humanity.

she looks at me.

weren't you just through

here a few minutes ago?

maybe you should think

about a speed pass.

i smile, but then

i wouldn't get to talk to you,

i tell her.

she laughs and pushes

the button to let

the gate open.

this ones on me, she says.

giving me a playful

wink.

see you tomorrow.

or maybe later, i tell her.

maybe later.

swipe left

i'm too old for this,

she tells me,

a virtual

stranger

on the bus

swiping left then right on

her phone.

look at this guy,

she says

leaning over

her shopping bag between

her legs.

take a look at this guy.

really?

like he has a chance with me.

good luck buddy.

she swipes him away to the left.

she has blue eyes.

they are like small bowls

of blue.

and her hair is blonde

with the grey

coming through the roots.

she may have

been a beauty once,

the queen of

her school, but now

she's on the bus,

sitting next to you,

still living on those cold

dark fumes.

plenty to say

the unhinged have plenty to say.

you see

them on the street

cloaked in

everything they own

talking

to someone,

to no one, but deep into

the conversation.

their hands fly, their eyes

are wide open,

as the winds full of blackbirds

brush by.

how she turned into dust

i shiver

and cringe. i shake my head

and wring

the memory

from

me.

what a crazy time it was

being with

someone you once

thought you

loved.

how paper thin she was.

how hollow.

how false.

the words that trickled

from

her black lips,

i remember how

sunlight

turned her into dust

and how i waited

too long

to throw up the curtains,

swing free

those locked door

and let in the light.

they can't all be winners

i study her poem

line by line, word by word.

there is a lot

about

streams and valleys,

daffodils

and daisies. i

examine the bones

of it,

the meat and flesh.

i take a knife

and cut it up the middle.

i look deep into the eyes

of it

waiting for

meaning to appear, but

there is none,

which is fine.

they can't all be winners,

my dear.

give me that horse

give me the slow horse.

the one

over there.

the older horse.

the one

who looks off into the distance

and remembers

gallops in the past,

loves

he once had.

give me the wise horse.

the placid and calm

stallion

no longer in the race, no

longer

worried

about finishing first,

or second,

or coming in to place.

a sexy pink

i'm bad with colors, really bad,

she says.

can pick me a pink

for my boudoir.

not salmon pink, or bubblegum

pink,

or the color of a pig,

but a sexy pink.

a soft

and alluring pink.

something that might catch

a man.

i roll my eyes, and sigh.

i go through the chart with her.

there's twenty seven pinks

to ponder.

tell me if something strikes

your fancy, i tell her, as i flip

through

the endless paper fan.

Lightning

her golden retriever,

Lightning,

would retrieve nothing.

throw a ball and it would look

at you

wisely

and say with his brown eyes.

really?

you threw it, you get it.

he'd lie

there in his puddle of sun

the whole day

until dinner was served.

maybe a tail would wag

or on occasion,

would bark when

the mailman

passed by.

but all in all he was a lazy dog

not fit

for a name like

lightning.

the farmer's market

there is  desperation

felt

as you walk through the narrow

aisles and tents,

fast  constructed

stands

full home made

bread

and pastry, tomatoes

off the vine.

cucumbers,

green and crooked

from

some back yard

garden.

you ponder a jar of

pickles.

holding it up to the sun.

nine dollars

seems excessive, but the man

on the chair, with his

cane.

his dog,

his wife beside him

too large to stand,

says

okay, okay. two for

the price of one.

little to say anymore

the shells

that lie upon the shore,

washed,

up whitened, shiny

with age

and waves,

the rub of sand,

have found new homes.

formed

into shades

and ashtrays.

tables

where they will stay

until

the sun fades away.

once held to the ear

for a whisper

have little to say

anymore.

what the heck

there was a woman in the neighborhood

who

was very conscious

of swearing around the children,

instead she'd

say jimminy cricket, or sweet mother

of god,

or kiss my grits.

something to that effect.

most learned from watching

hours and hours of 1970 reruns

on tv.

cheese and crackers she'd yell out

when the dog

ran into the street. or criminy 

when it would start to rain.

what the heck she'd say

when her husband jim would come

home smelling of booze

and floozies with his clothes

on backwards and lipstick

on his collar.

just once i would have loved to hear

her say a real cuss word.

eggs again

it's embarrassing to watch

the cooking

shows on tv

as you sit and eat scrambled

eggs

for the third night in a row

made exotic by the slapping

of a slice

of american

cheese on top, and adding peppers.

these shows can turn tree bark

and grub worms into

french cuisine.

their pbj is not your pbj.

where did they find bread like

that,

jelly and jam from the swiss

alps,

peanut butter smoother

than silk, made from rare

hardwood trees

in africa. maybe tomorrow

you'll try to make something different.

maybe that leg

of lamb wrapped in garlic

cloves

with mint jelly and baby potatoes

as cute as buttons.

the dodo bird

people worry about

animals

going extinct.

turtles and birds,

small insects that will

never be seen again

because of global warming

and pollution,

basically humans

mussing up the whole

thing.

but it's really good that

there aren't any

dinosaurs still roaming

the earth,

traffic is bad enough

on 95 as it is.

who wants a t-rex

straddling the bridge

at rush hour?

start the revolution without me

isn't there anything you

want to get up

and go out and protest

he says,

dismayed that i'm not

joining the current

revolution.

nah. i

did my time back in 

the 60's and early

70's.

but have fun. i have work

tomorrow and i'm so

far behind on Netflix

and Hulu and Prime.

let me know how it all

turns out. don't forget

your helmet, your signs

and your paint guns.

and if you're looting,

pick me up some milk

and bread, if you don't

mind. 2 per cent.

finding room for beauty

i'm waiting on a piece of art

to arrive.

i don't know where i'll hang it.

i just had to have it.

three months later, it's finally on

it's way.

i walk the rooms, the stairway,

the hall

wondering where it might go.

what will come

down to make room.

there are some things in life that

you want

for no other reason than they're

beautiful.

Sheila

i noticed at one of my weddings

being stung

against my face

by a handful of white

rice

flung

from a former flame, by the name

of Sheila.

she had quite the arm.

she almost put my new wife's

eye out

using a whole pound of uncle

Ben's finest

rice.

we had welts all over us.

rice stuck in our ears,

our noses, our eyes.

it took us the whole honeymoon

getting the rice out of our

hair.

she was mad at something.,

i guess,

but i did invite her

to the wedding,

and we had cake, so what's 

the deal, Sheila?

misunderstood

oscar wilde said

that he feared not being misunderstood.

which i adore.

why

be the same,

why be like the herd.

drinking the wine of others.

going along

with

everyone, compromising

with each

unsaid word.

be real or don't be at all.

don't be a bad person

i remember getting a book

for christmas

once from my evangelist brother.

the title was something like don't

waste your life.

which got me wondering.

am i wasting my life?

and does it really matter

in the big scheme of things

if you're a doctor,

or lawyer, 

the president or a bum out

on the corner with a sign

begging for money.

the cemetery is filled with

over achievers

and under achievers alike.

same ending.

six feet under dirt.

a better book would be.

don't be a bad person.

you don't want to be remembered

as being

rich and famous,

reinventing the wheel,

but in the next sentence

referred to as a dick.

(sorry, but i just couldn't think

of a more appropriate word)

insuring the red sauce

my mother was losing it at the end.

she'd repeat the same

questions over and over again.

it was strange and annoying at

first, but then the light went on,

and it was like, oh, oh my. okay.

i get it now. so i let her ask again

how's work, how's the son,

how's someone from twenty 

years ago that i hoped to never

see again.  when the power went

out and her container of red sauce

melted in the ice box, she tried

to have home insurance cover it.

which was interesting.  she was

very disappointed when they said.

no.  before long it was sundown 

all day long. she was slipping further

and further away. and she knew

it.  she said, please whatever you

do, don't put me in a home

if i lose my mind completely.

promise me that. to which we

all did. and was where she died

five years later.

Garden of Steve

God is my gardener

and truthfully i'm not too happy

with his work

lately.

i go out to chop away what He's

grown.

it's a random mess of weeds

and grass,

poison ivy and what not.

He's all about the wind, it seems.

blowing over

seeds

from the field beyond the fence.

sometimes a snake

sneaks

in.

no apples though with which

to hold

and decide upon

with my current Eve.

the real you

if you want to truly know who

someone is

all you have to do is look into

their phone

or their medicine cabinet.

therein lies

the true self, the false self.

all that they are

or pretend to be.

if you want to be with me.

show me your phone

and open the mirrored door

to your pharmacy.

that's all.

the annual pool party

their pool would fill with frogs

each spring.

tadpoles.

most would die and float

to the top.

they'd skim them out

with long nets on poles,

stretching

their old arms

out across the unclear pond

bricked in.

they'd send a picture of the pool

once filled

and cleaned,

the old motor churning, as

a plume

of black smoke floated towards

a suburban sky.

the leaves of winter gone.

the mildew

and algae scrubbed away.

the remnants of passing geese

scraped

off the walk way.

then the invitation would come.

for the memorial day cookout.

bring what you want

to eat,

and drink

have fun.

the devil in need

beware of those

who go to church and tell you about it.

those with rosary beads

hanging from

the rearview mirror.

those that donate publicly.

a crucifix the size of a spatula

hanging around

their neck.

beware

of those who pray over their

meals

so that others can see.

even the devil

quotes from the bible

when he's

in need.

the unloved

the unloved

are on the street.

in the tunnels, beneath

the bridges

in the fist of trees,

curled

against a fire.

the unloved

are everywhere, some

next door.

others

in the office.

on the train

in the seat beside you.

even you

qualify at times,

lying

next to someone who

has your name.

the promise of more

it's the small wonders

that

we adore.

the rise

of light against the pale

blue

of night.

the flower

wet

in the garden after

rain.

the bark

of a dog, the cry of a child

in a mother's arms.

the sound

of thunder,

the touch of a hand

against

your brow.

a kiss upon the lips

with the promise

of more.

what are you doing in there?

sometimes you wake up,

look in the mirror

and say, what hell.

where did you go?

and so quickly.

i rub the top of my head

it's smooth and bristly 

at the same time.

when i had hair

it was thick and wild.

i'd shampoo and blow

dry it for about an hour

trying 

to achieve that bobby sherman

look.

don't ask who he is, please.

i went to hair stylists.

i did the punk thing, ala billy idol

the long haired

thing, not unlike james

taylor.

the buzz cut.  clint eastwood.

i've had all three hair styles

of the three stooges

at one point or another.

not to mention theodore cleaver.

as a kid i never left the house

without a little black

comb.

my hair was held together

with brylcreme and other

long ago products.

gluing down the cowlick.

a nice part on

the side.  a little slap of

my father's old spice

on the peach fuzz cheeks.

i did the elvis style for a while.

pulling a little strand down in

the center wave.

I put my collar up and would sing

viva las vegas in the mirror

unitl my mother banged on the door.

saying hey, are you almost done

in there?  what are you doing.

there's a line out the door here.

how to lose weight

i've tried every diet under the sun

in an attempt

to lose a few pounds.

no meat,

only meat.

no sugar, no processed foods.

nothing out of a bag

or box.

fish and vegetables.

no bread.

a lot of  bread.

the paleo diet,

the Mediterranean diet.

the liquid diet.

the solid food diet.

i was on Jenny Craig

more times than

Mr. Craig.

the Atkins diet.  i joined

the metrical for lunch bunch.

i did yoga, i ran, i walked.

i drank water

until it was coming out of

my ears.

i lifted weights. i rowed, 

i bought a treadmill.

i joined fitness centers.

i ate tofu

and drank soy milk.

nothing worked for every long.

the only thing that seemed to work

was to stop eating.

and the only way to achieve

that was to go through

a horrific relationship breakup.

so that's my plan. fall in love.

break up.

poof goes ten or twenty pounds.

the big kitchen drawer

i stare into the abyss of my

heavy

kitchen drawer

that holds a lot of mysterious

gizmos. 

when was the last time i used

a meat thermometer,

or baked cookies

in the shape of a christmas tree

or a snow flake.

who brought that serrated knife

into the house.

i could butcher a small

hog with it.

those long metal needles, what

the hell.

six spatulas, two turkey basters,

three wine bottle openers,

nineteen corks, thirty seven

rubber bands and twelve metal

twist its, or

whatever they're called.

extra large spoons.

extra large forks.

metal things, rubber things.

purple, red, black.

sharp knives that glisten in

the over head light.

old table knives and forks. tongs

of every size.

i'm afraid to stick my hand in.

the right and the left

my friend and his wife

are radical

left.  free money for

everyone.

another friend leans

right.  guns and more guns,

it's their

God given right.

it's a mess.

to riot or not to riot

that is the question.

march and scream and holler,

set fire

to the world,

but who's at home walking

the dog

watering the plants?

we'll leave this country

and go

live somewhere else,

they claim. but after the votes

are counted,

they're all still here.

standing in line

to once again voice their

uncompromising opinions

and complain.

smarty pants

i used to know

math.

a lot of math having taken

calculus

and analysis

trigonometry

and

algebra two, or three.

but now

i look at  a column of numbers

and get the calculator

out.

bread, milk, rent, gas,

electric, insurance, miscellaneous,

etc.

sine and cosine,

the square roots of anything,

and quadratic equations are distant

memories now

as are the kids

with thick glasses

and slide rules, pocket

protectors,

all to the likes of MIT, 

not community

college bound.

in the early morning rain

the troubadour was young

once,

strong

on the stage, guitar.

his beard, his blonde hair.

his voice a sweet roar

of masculinity, singing about

love lost,

love won in the early morning

rain.

she's beautiful,

if you could read my

mind.

and now.

i see him, a shell of self.

aged near 80, still singing.

but he's gone. gone too soon,

like we all are.

still

wanting,

still seeking love. still on

stage,

guitar in hand.

searching for the words

to make life right.

small tragedies

there are tragedies

such as death

or fires,

flooding perhaps.

the market tumbles

and then

there are small ones.

the loss

of a wallet,

a purse,

a shoelace snaps.

a spilled drink upon your

clean

white

shirt.

a lipstick smudge

you forgot

about, then paid

a price

when it wasn't the first.

out of range, out of sight

it's a jet plane

that

takes me away from you.

a train,

a bus.

it's anything on wheels

or in the air.

i can't get away

fast enough.

to the moon i'd go 

to escape your presence.

to get out of range

of who you are.

no air,

no water, no life,

no problem.

a thousand miles is 

just a start

as i take another foot

forward.

the divorce lawyer

i see my divorce lawyer 

at the supermarket.

i've never seen anyone so happy.

so chipper

and full of life.

she's wearing a silky

yellow dress

with a pillbox hat.

her cart is full of lobster

and caviar.

filet mignon. wine from

the south of France.

hey, i say to her, putting a jar

of Jiffy peanut butter into my cart

alongside a box of popcorn

and a can of Spam.

how are you, she asks. 

all well? done with therapy?

did your wrists heal up okay?

yeah, yeah. great great.

i hold up my arms to show

her the scars.

and how are you? i ask.

oh me, business is booming on

account of the virus lockdown,

not to mention same sex marriages

are legal now.

I just bought a boat and a new

car. always wanted a

Lamborghini. looking at property

in the Hamptons.

so what about you? getting 

married again, i hope.

back on the dating sites?

that's funny, very funny. 

so funny i forgot to laugh.

but good to see you.

i need to get some bread.

which way is the day old?

no idea, she says. toodle loo.

have to run, have reservations

at the Palm tonight, new client.

don't give up on finding that new

love again, she says, throwing

a slab of Chilean sea bass into her cart.

the long two weeks

i remember

my father's mother, Nellie,

sitting

at the kitchen

table

doing her nails, smoking a

cigarette

and drinking a cup

of coffee.

a plate of cinnamon

toast in front of her.

a pile of thin blonde

hair, like meringue,

sat upon her head.

she had thick glasses

with

pearls stuck along

the frame.

they reminded me of seashells,

and her

some sort of shellfish

washed up

from the sea.

she smelled like the sea.

she hated the kennedys,

rich bastards,

she'd say, teaching us

a new word

as we sat with her, 

painting by numbers geese

and sunsets.

things she bought to keep

us busy while

my mother was in the hospital

recovering from child 7.

she'd make

us kneel in front of the tv

when billy graham

came on, and offer ourselves

up to jesus.

touch the screen, touch the screen

she'd yell,

you never know when lightning

is going to strike,

she said and snatch

your little life right out from

under you.

it was a long two weeks.

giddy up

i tie my horse up,

knock the dust

off of shoulders

with my hat

and go in for a beer.

i've been riding the range all

day,

rounding up

cattle, fighting off indians.

i pull an arrow out

of my arm

and tie a bandana

around the wound.

i should go home

to be with

the kids, the wife,

have dinner and watch

tv.

but i need a drink.

i need

to see some dancing

girls,

and talk with the boys.

the family will have

to wait. it's the cowboy

way.

the censor

when the censor was

here

she'd cut and slash, blue line

each letter

each word.

she'd edit the hell

out of a poem.

shaking her head, asking

me if i was

disturbed.

why would you write

something like

that.

why don't you hide 

your true feelings

and lie

to the world

like i do.

life is so much simpler

when you do that.

just say no

if someone said

to you, when you were

young and compromising,

polite,

can i show you my stamp collection?

you didn't roll your eyes, or look at

your watch, and say,

sorry, but i don't have the time,

but instead said,

of course.

i'd love to see your stamp collection,

where is it?  i just love

stamps.

or if they'd ask you, would you like

to hold my baby 

before i change him?

you didn't say, no way, 

what

are you crazy, instead you said

with a smile,

sure. why not? 

who doesn't like a baby

in a diaper?

it's what we did to get along

when we were young.

but not anymore

four white russians and a half a dozen shrimp cocktails

i mixed up a cold

batch of white russians

one night.

and dimmed the lights.

put on some

al green

and we made out on the couch

until our

lips hurt and our

pelvis were

chaffed.

she was drinking too fast,

one after another

and eating shrimp on top of that.

she asked me if the room

always spins like this,

then she got up and went into

the bathroom

were she lay there for a few

hours moaning.

i tried to open

the door, but the weight

of her

lying on the floor was

too much.

are you okay, i asked her?

are you coming back

out, or do you need a  pillow

and a blanket?

she said, i can't hear the music,

can you turn it up

a little. so i did.

eventually she came out,

and i helped her

up the stairs to the guest

room,

then blocked the stairs

in case she

woke up and tumbled down.

the next morning, she staggered

out without a sound.

leaving a note, asking why

i poisoned her.

sometimes things just don't

work out.

parlez vous

i wish i knew another language.

high school french

and a small sprinkling of spanish

won't do.

i can throw out a word

or two, such as

basura,

or casa, or baquette,

brioche or

comment tally vous,

but that's about it.

je ne sais pas, for the most

part.

une petite parlez vous.

the lifting of spirit

you know

when you know

the kind

heart.

it's an aura of light.

a lifting

of spirit

when with them.

a feeling

that

everything will

be alright.

savor

this soul, hold

her close.

but in fairness

to her,

not too tight.

bad apple

the apple

in hand catches the light.

the sheen

the shine, the glow,

it's weight

is

fine.

it's stem

just right.

all is well, all is

perfect,

until you take

a bite. there's always

another side,

browned and bruised

with a worm inside.

the pill box

some are always ill.

genetics,

environment,

disposition, bad luck,

perhaps,

but always

with the pills,

the heating pad,

the ice

applied to wherever

pain occurs.

some are always ill.

they like it that way.

gives them reason

in how they go about

their day.

you see them twenty

years later,

and they tell you,

oh that cleared

up,

but now

i have this. i'm seeing

my doctor later

on today.

staying put in bad weather

i understand why some stay

behind

when the hurricane

approaches.

the wind, the rain, the floods

rising

taking everything

in sight.

i understand the hunker

down

mentality,

hoping for the best, hoping

it blows

away, takes a different

direction

before it kills us.

i get the cold, the power out,

the lightning strikes,

the rattle of the roof.

i understand completely

why people stay.

i was married once upon

a time too,

to bad weather.

cleveland

would i have been happier

if i stayed

in cleveland

she says

to no one

in her cramped

apartment

in the city,

getting dressed for work.

the heat of the day

already

upon her. 

pearls of perspiration

on her unmade

face,

the rattle of the window

unit

doing little but to blow

a luke warm

breeze

upon her legs.

does he think about me?

is this

all a mistake.

meeting at the lake

we used to meet

beside

the lake.

under the canopy of green.

the sun bristling

white

upon the water.

where the boats would

glide by

with hardly a splash.

the oars

bending softly

side to side.

we'd watch.

we'd hold hands.

but there was no talk about

tomorrow.

or the future.

we knew

without saying a word,

that this love would never

last.

we need to know

is there

comfort in not knowing?

being

in the dark.

is there really bliss

in ignorance?

perhaps.

for it seems what good

is there to know

so much

is wrong, when there are

no options

to change

the world we live in.

and yet still.

we need

to know.

when she was blue

she loved blue.

the drapes were blue

like the carolina sky.

the carpet.

the bedspread

on each

single bed

two feet apart.

the porcelain lamp

with a wide brim shade.

blue

not unlike a robin's egg.

the big chair where her

husband sat

when he was alive.

his eyes were blue.

blue was everywhere.

the flowers,

the suit he was buried in.

his favorite shoes, 

suede,

were blue too.

the good times

i call up my friend Betty

and 

tell her

we need some fun.

she's been down in the dumps

lately because her

husband left her

and her dog died,

and the virus lockdown

and she lost her job

and she's got a rash

on her arm.

she says, we?

yes. me and you. let's

do something fun

today.

like what, she says.

i don't know.

do you have any ideas?

nope, she says.

i hear her light up

a cigarette and pop

a can of beer.

it's only nine in the morning,

are you drinking already.

yup.

she says. you got  a problem

with that?

i'm having fun starting

right now. 

let's get out

in the sun. it's going

to be a beautiful day.

take a walk around the lake.

throw bread to the ducks.

nah, she says.

the sun bothers me, and i really

don't like nature.

ducks are scary and

they look like they could

turn on you any minute.

come on, i'll pick you up

in an hour.

there's a long a pause, then she

says.

maybe i can get this tattoo

off my arm today.

i don't think he's coming back.

the Bridal Shoppe

as i drive by the Bridal Shoppe

i see a gaggle of young

women

waiting for the doors to open.

it's early in the day.

i slam on my brakes and yell

out to them.

stop, don't do it, think this over.

i say.

they wave at me with one finger.

which is so rude

this early in the day.

i'm trying to help, but no, they'll

have to figure it out on their

own. i guess as i shake my head

and drive away.

the welcome wagon

there used to be a time

when

you moved into a new neighborhood

people would

cook

big trays of food,

or carry over things

in a large bowls

to welcome you.

maybe a tray of brownies,

or a sheet

cake with the words

welcome

written on top of the smooth

icing.

the wife and husband

would

knock at the door

holding a pot roast

and a bouquet 

of  flowers. maybe a dog

on a leash,

happy and wagging

it's tail.

he's harmless they'd say,

as the dog licked your

leg.

i'm still waiting

fifteen years later. instead

i get a note pinned to the door

saying how i

put the trash out too early

in the day.

she would have been a good woman

she would have

been a good woman had

someone

held a gun to her head,

the misfit

said in the story by 

flannery o'connor,

a good man is hard to find.

but it still holds

true today.

although, much too violent

of an image

for this peaceful

day and age.

we play along

the good ear

hears what it wants to hear

when it

wants to hear.

the eyes

work

the same way. blind

to some things

and crystal

sharp on others.

we are selective

with what

we absorb,

good or bad.

right or wrong. our

minds are already made

up for the most

part, but we've learned

to be polite,

and play along.