is that even a face?

it often

seems that the most disturbed

people

are the ones

who take yoga.

meditate,

quote buddha.

you see them in the grocery

stores

with their recycled

bags. they

eat fresh fruit and vegetables,

they don't eat

anything with a face

on it.

but fish are okay.

(is that even a face?)

they ask you everyday,

are you going to vote

are you going to vote.

they're up early everyday

to take a picture

of the sunrise, which

they send to you.

they like to march.

they like

to chant. they have mantras.

they like to hold your hand

to the fire

because you aren't like

them.

good citizens.

world citizens.

they sweep their walks

incessantly.

they have compost piles.

they attend church

religiously.

they make lemonaide

out of lemons.

but you get the feeling

that behind

closed doors they are 

wringing their hands

together,  lost souls,

full of angst and doubt.

sound and fury

we have

the smart phone.

we drive the smart car.

we're drinking

smart water.

and yet,

does anyone seem

even

a tad smarter than

they

were the day before?

i think it's going

the other way, actually.

who isn't staring

into the dark abyss of their

cell phone.

ears plugged with music

or words,

not theirs.

never a book in hand.

never a moment

of reflection.

never sitting quietly alone

undisturbed.

just sound and fury

coming in

without end.

Time Share This

what do you do for fun

the beautiful saleswoman

says leaning

over to push the application

in front of me.

i catch a glimpse of her

well tanned body

as she brushes up

against my shoulder,

she smells like coconuts.

the other

salesmen are gathered around

me

like drooling vultures,

tapping their cheap

shoes,

as they try to get me to sign

on the dotted

line

for the time share

in Ocean City.

a north end unit has opened

up

do to an unfortunate drowning.

it faces the bayside

and a street full of t shirt shops.

well, i say, squinting at

all the thousands

of legalese words typed

in tiny black ink.

i rub my eyes and sigh.

well,

i don't golf, i don't play tennis

i don't have a boat,

i don't fish.

i don't like to hike when

it's hot out.

i don't like crowds of unruly

sunburned people

eating

cotton candy and fried chicken

while walking the boardwalk,

and i'm wary of the sun,

i can only sit for about an hour

on the beach

because i'm so pale and white

most of the year.

my parents are from iceland.

so what do you like to do

then, they all ask

at once.

well. i like to read, and take

a nap every now

and then,

room service, and if i'm

in a relationship, i like to cuddle

a lot.

i look up at them and wink.

cuddle is a code word i tell

them. 

Really, one of them says.

as they gather

up their brochures and

head for the door.  

hey, can

i keep this pen? no answer,

so i guess so.

when tomorrow comes

i used to be taller,

less

heavy, more

light on my feet.

i used to have a wild

head of hair

combed neat.

my eyes were once

clear.

i used to think that

tomorrow

would never come.

but now that it's here,

i'd like to go back

and start

over,

life seemed so much

better

from there.

there were so few

i scrub the house

squeaky

clean

of any left over debris

from

the human

hurricane that blew through.

not a card, not a scarf

or shoe,

or anything

of any color, from

red

to blue. no written

words,

no photos of happier

times.(there were so few)

no nothing

tucked away in any

dark corner.

no

brush, no lipstick,

no

small bottle of

stale perfume. nothing

my dear.

not a single thing

is worth keeping to remind

me of you.

till death do us part

the divorces get easier

over time.

when the bloom is off

the rose,

when the apple has lost

its shine.

it's all online now.

a few 

e mails,

some printing and signing.

a couple of bucks

to uncouple

the unhappy couple.

a notary public at UPS,

stamping

blindly

on the copy

as more newly weds form

an exit line.

till death do us part, hardly.

not with

divorce dot com.

easy peasy.

here today, gone tomorrow.

rest

easy.

go home now.

have a glass of wine.

the morning fix

i panic

looking for coffee

in the cupboard,

the bread box,

under

things.

a sleeve

of the dark granules

to spill

into a cup

of boiling water.

what will i do without

my morning brew.

the world

is not safe if i leave

the house like

this.

bug eyed and shaking,

needing my

morning fix.

maybe

it can't always be yes.

sometimes

a no

falls out.

your intuition, your gut

says

wait a minute, there's

that moment

of deep seated

doubt.

maybe arises. maybe.

you can't say

yes to everyone.

baking love

as she stands in the kitchen

baking

covered in flour

and sugar,

the dust of the rolling

pin

everywhere.

old recipes

strew about by the wind

of her,

the oven on, beaming

with heat,

the chocolate chips

loose on the counter,

nuts and jams,

i want to grab her by the apron

and ravish her

with kisses.

but no, she says, not now,

8 more minutes.

nap time

for an hour or so,

he tells me

about his golf game.

how his swing is off.

slicing

every ball into the woods.

short with the iron, sending

the little white

ball into the sand trap.

even

his once reliable putting stroke

has a kink

in the swing.

he tells me how the greens

are too fast

the approach too soft.

how the front nine

is easier

than the back.

i need a new set of clubs,

and maybe i shouldn't drink

as much when i golf,

then he taps

me on my knee

and says, hey, aren't you

listening,  wake up.

french three

how cruel we were

to mrs. moak.

the french teacher who stood

so short

above the ground,

worshipping everything

of France.

a Francophile.

from bread to wine

to the Eiffel Tower,

but rarely mentioning 

the Maginot Line.

her red hair, the feather in

her plum hat,

the dangle of jewels

around her neck.

a cloud of perfume hovering

above that 

powdered face.

those dagger nails pointing

for one of us

to annunciate

our vowels, 

to accentuate with accent

grave or aigu.

standing at the blackboard

with chalk in hand,

pressing onward

teaching despite our resistance

to learning,

whispering in english

our other plans.

leaving things behind

there was a love.

years ago.

maybe decades, who had

a habit

of leaving things

behind.

a shoe.

a bag, a coat, something

sheer and black

perhaps

left between the sheets.

a brush,

a comb.

a small bottle of perfume.

calling cards?

good bye notes?

it was hard to tell, perhaps

her memory

like mine, was beginning

to fail.

but to this day,

as i look at a box of her

left things,

i really don't know.

no need to wave

the tree leaning

sunward

on the bank of a blue

stream wants

nothing more

than that.

there is no worry in

her life,

accepting what comes

what goes and

the eventual tumble

that happens

to us all.

decades of leaves will

return

after falling

under winters coat.

she's there

today. i see her, but

neither me nor her

needs to wave.

the quick mart

i have no idea what eggs

cost,

or a gallon of milk,

or sugar

and salt.

wine?

marked down?

day old?

who cares?

i just put it into the cart

and push onward.

not a coupon in hand.

no list.

no newspaper ad

perused.

in goes the meat, the bread,

the lettuce.

beans in a can,

then out the store

we go.

the blue notes

the blue notes

stack up.

sticky and aligned

on the desk.

numbers, names. places

to be

at some point.

i shuffle them around

and scratch my head.

all in good time.

you get around to things

in the long run,

or they get around you.

no need to worry.

life will take care of itself.

getting the wrinkles out

she was in the middle of 

ironing

when she died.

she grabbed her heart

and fell

backwards

onto the bed.

the iron still on,

hot.

she was half dressed

in her studio apartment.

getting ready to begin her

day.

her hand was on her heart.

there was no

one to call.

no one to write to.

i remember how pale

her skin

was

against her black skirt.

her heels,

on,

her briefcase near the door.

just a blouse

left

to get the wrinkles out.

beet soup

the soup is cold

i tell

her.

sloshing my spoon around

looking

for a reason.

it's supposed to be she says.

it's a recipe

my mother  brought with

her from

poland.

any bread?

no.

it's beet soup.

eat. eat.

you never eat.

and when we're done, we'll

sing

and carve

wood.

the apple butter festival

nearly ten years ago

she brought me

a jar

of apple butter from

the apple

butter

festival in winchester

virginia.

3rd prize.

i made it myself,

she said.

she wrapped a little

red ribbon

around the small plump

jar

with a note attached.

enjoy, it read.

with love, your new friend,

Emily.

i see it in my cupboard

nearly everyday

and wonder

about who won

first prize, and where she

might be.

don't take a bite

your gut

tells you everything you need

to know.

your true mind,

full of more neurons

than your

actual brain.

god given

protection from danger.

intuition.

that swirl of uneasiness

you feel

in your stomach

when approached

by a pair of pretty

eyes

is not the butterfly

of love,

it's a warning

to run. to hide.

this apple is rotten

to the core,

don't you dare take a bite.

her one true love

i remember her horse.

old

and sway back

unridden

in years, leaning in 

the barn

towards

oats

and water,

the square of sunlight

on her matted hair.

wobbled legs in wet straw,

flies in the air.

loud cats

about to dissuade

mice.

i remember the smell,

the acrid

hang

of foul air,

and her, with her bucket

and hose,

her brush,

her apple and a carrot

in hand, whispering

sweet words

for the true love of her

life.

but all seemed well

we filled

our bellies on hot tea

and toast.

peanut butter

and sweet jellies.

apples picked

from a neighbor's yard,

black cherries too.

white bread and eggs.

but halloween

was a blessed night.

and how

we marveled

at our bags spread out

on the floor

trading

bars of chocolate,

between one

another.

our eyes wide with 

joy.

we'd toss and turn

in our beds,

our boney arms against

each other,

full of sugar,

but all seemed well.

not everyone gets chosen

when you meet the unwashed

the haggard

and beaten

rising out from under the brambles

of bridges

shading their eyes

in the morning sun

as they leave

shelters

with everything they own

upon them.

when you hear

the brutality of their past,

the hopelessness

of the future, you realize

that not everyone

gets chosen,

that some, despite all,

must come in

last.

the beauty of tears

where would we be without tears.

where

would we place

our sorrow.

how perfect to have

the means 

with which

to let go

and breathe out

the pain,

no matter

how gentle or fierce

the storm within

may be.

there's beauty in the rain.

embrace

it, until

the sun appears again.

final words

rarely do you hear words

on a death bed such as

i wished i had worked more,

stayed longer

at the office,

trimmed the hedges

cleared the attic.

instead it's where's that

child of mine?

where's the love of my

life, i need to feel her lips,

touch her hand,

know her heart before

my eyes close. please,

just one more time.

a field of flowers

is there purpose

in

what the flower gives.

is it just

about the birds,

the bees,

the honey of life,

the soft

fragile beauty that nature

brings.

a field

of flowers in bloom

has a way

of stretching your heart,

opening your

eyes,

and wanting

to believe

that it can't all be doom.

unconditional love

there is no such thing

as unconditional love.

i can think of a hundred conditions

off the top

of my 

smooth head.

lying for one.

cheating.

abuse of any kind.

zero tolerance for any such thing.

it's not a line

in the sand.

it's a cliff they approach

with a thousand foot drop

and no one there

to catch them when 

they fall off.

no different than them

the man talking to himself

on the street,

a madman

to some,

is no

different, no less

crazy than we are.

his hands flying about.

his eyes wild

with expression. 

in his mind

there is no doubt

that what he speaks is true,

while we

bite out tongues

keep quiet.

our inner souls,

staying safely hidden 

from

all that view.

it's only monday

the broken

lace

is

just that. the lost button

too.

misplacing

things,

are nothing.

a spill, a stain,

an angry voice on the phone.

a dollar

lost.

it's all

in a day

of what can go wrong.

but it's monday.

just monday.

and there are six

more days

to make things

right.

to make things new.

things you don't want to hear

there are things

you don't want to hear

or remember,

the sound

of a car striking yours

in the middle of an intersection.

the dentist holding

up an x-ray as you sit 

stranded in his chair.

the word no from

someone you've fallen in love

with.

the waiter saying,

sorry, but we're out of chocolate

cake.

the sound of your parents

making love

behind closed doors.

the knock on the door as

mormons appear.

there are certain times 

when it's best to close your

eyes and stick

your fingers in your ears.

the book report

my knees would knock

together,

my throat go dry,

my voice hoarse,

my skin would flush

with fear

as i stood in front

of the class

to give my book report.

slowly, i stumbled

through the words,

lost as my bones

curled, my tongue

thickened.

and nothing much

has changed after all

these years. for in front

of two

or three, down i go,

shy and blushing, 

scared to be judged,

afraid to be seen

as to who i might really

be.

a penny for your thoughts

are thoughts

so cheap

that a single penny will

let you tell

the world,

what you think?

what about inflation,

the rise

and fall of

the market, the state

of the economy.

i think my thoughts

have

gone up in price.

at least a dime,

or more,

perhaps a dollar if

you really need to

go deeper,

and know more.

coffee wisdom

nothing new, and you?

goes

the conversation

over coffee

beneath the awing

as rain falls.

the yawn,

the sigh, the rubbing of

eyes.

what is there to say,

that hasn't been

said?

what wisdom can one

depart

in these times

that isn't cliche?

could anyone see this

coming,

who knew, not me,

not the three wise men,

not even our

barista, our guru,

not even he knew.

finding sleep

during the war

finding sleep was hard

as the bombs

dropped,

as the guns

filled the sky

with boom and light.

sleep

was a rare commodity.

in those times.

a ditch would

do,

a basement, cold and

wet, an uneasy dark,

but safe, seemed fine.

but in the end

only a warm bed

could give you what you needed.

let the bombs fall,

the rafters crumble,

at least in death

you'd finally get what you

wanted so badly,

for so long.

everything i feared

as a child i'd look

under

the bed for monsters,

before my

prayers, and sleep.

i'd hold up the drape

of blanket

and sheet and sweep below

with a nervous hand 

the darkness underneath.

i'd make sure

all was clear.

i'd check the closets,

secure the door.

windows latched,

nothing in the shadows.

nothing i could see

was there.

but when i was grown,

an adult in my own home,

i stopped

my search, for there was

nowhere else to look

but lying next me,

there it was,

everything i feared.

at most three

what is it that you don't have

that you

need more of?

another spoon perhaps,

or fork to feed,

another car

to get from here to there.

how many beds,

are needed for a night

of sleep?

how many pairs of lips,

or arms to fold

around you do you need

to meet.

just one would

be one answer, two would

be another. and at the very

most,  perhaps three.

waking up in ireland

i wake up in Ireland,

in Belfast

in a thatched roof house

along the cobblestones.

the chimneys are full of smoke,

the cold

fires burn,

as we leave and walk

in the west harsh wind,

hand in and hand.

her emerald eyes are wet

against the atlantic.

are arms, pale, her hair

streaming a gold flame

of red.

we walk. we say nothing.

leaving the poetry,

the conversation to hollows

of green

to the immortal bards,

the dead.

what came before

we romanticize

the dead,

the loves that came before.

childhoods,

parents,

friends, all stuffed clumsily

into some bag

we carry and

defend.

it's easier to gold plate

what came before,

it makes our

life richer

in some way.

we put that far away look

into our eyes and say

i wish you

had known her,

known the love we had,

or seen the look

in our eyes,

each wanting more.

life in the moment

i remember touching her elbow,

memorizing

the curve of her arm,

the feel of her soft skin

against mine after making love.

i tried hard

to capture what it was,

what it wasn't and never would

be,

but that moment was enough.

a picture in my mind, saved

and folded into the album

of what i called my life

at the time, before

the next one began.

sorry tennyson

i read the old poets,

the old

school poems,

the sages of times long past.

the language

obscure and difficult,

the meaning

lost

and muddled by years

and culture, in a world

that turns

so fast.

i read the old poets,

dusting off the dust,

and try,

i try so hard to get on

board, and see what all

the academia fuss is about,

but get 

nowhere, and instead

take a different route,

and babble on incessantly,

like this.

cold bump in the road

be careful

with your heart, 

with who you allow

in the door,

the window,

down the chimney of

your soul.

be cautious with those

who profess

love,

but only bring the desire

to take,

not stay, quick

to depart

and go at the first

cold bump

in the road.

the amber moon

it's an amber

moon that catches your eye

in the autumn

sky.

you stop and stare

and wish

there was someone

beside you

to say, look, look up

there, in

a tender moment

with which to share.

what we had is dead

i remember when the second

wife,

or was it

the first

taped the telephones,

and had me followed,

collecting

evidence

to get more than her half

of the two

thousand dollars we

had saved in the bank.

she wanted 

the toaster oven as well

as the mixer,

which i loved. the color

of a robin's egg.

why fight, i remember

asking her

as she packed her one

suitcase

before she made flight.

we can work

this out, it's only been

a month. no, she said,

taking her picture of jesus

off the wall

that she'd hung

over our bed.

i'm going home to mother,

it's over, 

what we had

is dead.

the end of the world

it's odd

to see a man walking without

clothes on

down

the green path.

it's not that hot out.

and there

are children

and women with strollers.

he's large

and white,

swollen with a lifetime

of bad

food

and drink, perhaps.

he does not seem troubled,

or one

to give trouble,

but it's strange just

the same

as we pass.

he's smoking a cigarette

and says

howdy, smiling

happily

as he doffs his hat.

have you seen our waiter

boredom sets in as she picks

cherry tomatoes

from her bed

of salad. i finish one drink, then

ask for another tall

glass of gin.

i'm a chef she says, when

i'm not advising others on financial

matters,

and these tomatoes are old.

i'm an accomplished cook

and these won't do.

she asks the waiter to bring

her fresh tomatoes, not these.

and could they skin them,

please.

she's in the middle of writing

a book, a script, a play,

a poem, an email, and now

a text as she stares deeply into

her phone and throws

back her hair

and says, oh that's funny.

she tells me the college she 

attended forty five years ago.

who she knows, where's she's

been and with whom

and how she's traveled, never

bus, mind you.  tuscany comes

up in the conversation, and tells

me the correct pronunciation

of gnocchi.

she asks me where i want to

be in five years, and i mumble

anywhere but here.

to which she says, did you

say something? you shouldn't

talk with your mouth full.

i like to chew thirty two times,

once for each tooth.

she goes on and on, telling

me that living in her car

is only temporary. that she's

in transition.  do you take vitamins?

she asks, supplements?

i'd be lost without them.

so, she says, digging around in

her salad, tell me something

interesting about you. something

that will make me want to see

you again?

have you seen our waiter, i

need to talk to him about this

lettuce.

what's worse

what would be worse,

i ask her,

as we sip

harvey wallbangers on the back

porch, overlooking

the city on fire.

what's worse, i ask her.

Listening to the song,

The Wreck of the Edmund

Fitzgerald,

that endless dirge by

Gordon Lightfoot,

or actually being on the ship

when it went down?

she looks at me and says.

what's wrong with you?

guitar man

i don't trust

anyone with a guitar

slung

around their shoulder, walking

the streets.

if they have a beret on,

i think

communist, or worse

a baptist, perhaps.

someone who doesn't read.

add a poncho,

and sandals,

throw in a goatee and

i see an anarchist.

someone

who might steal 

your girlfriend,

once he starts to sing

and  begins

to pluck his strings.

nehi orange drink

when young,

was there anything

more cold

and refreshing,

than a long glass bottle

of nehi

orange drink from the cooler

at the corner store,

bathed in ice

for days, or weeks.

a summers day

with it turned up right

in the sun,

to the mouth,

with lips

gone to color,

your belly filled with

the pleasure of

cold and sugar.

not a single drop good for

you, 

which led you a similar 

thought, when at a certain

uncertain age

you turned to a different

drink, a miller

high life..

the happy people

i find it hard 

to be around

perpetually

happy people.

so cheerful and bright

with sunshine

no matter

what rain may fall, or

clouds may

cover the land in

blue as dark as night.

there's something odd 

about them,

their cheerful

laughs, full of positivity

and  memorized

memes. chock full

of wit. each

helpful to a fault.

i suspect

a troubled soul deep

inside

hiding what lies below.

i want to, but 

i just don't

believe in them.

pondering what's next

each war is their war.

each

protest is something they

made up.

barely read,

a thimble of history,

or knowledge

in their young heads.

they see to the tip

of their hand,

no further

front, or back do

they understand.

each generation believes

they've invented

thought,

invented art

and music, sex.

and so it goes, as you sit

calmly

at your window,

pondering

what's next.

happy birthday

some need the cake

adorned with

candles,

the gifts,

the balloons, the circus

of the day.

the glad

clapping, the wishes

sent by

mail, or phone.

happy birthdays

are fine and fun,

but not everyone 

i know, including me,

thinks

so.

silence is best

better left unsaid

are words

kept in check

on tongues

salivating to be heard,

but we

stay civil

in our conversation,

nodding yes

when no

is what we want to 

say.

agreeing to disagree,

polite

with friend or foe,

unwanting the waters

ruffled,

the bridges burned,

silence is best,

so mum we go.

that come hither look

i ask her 

in plain english

is that a come hither

look i see in your eyes.

to which she says

maybe it

is, maybe it isn't.

we are basically ten year

olds at this point 

in the game.

which is a fun place

to be,

before the years roll by

and senility sets in.

boiling water

i'm impatient with

boiling

water.

i look and look

and look

waiting for the bubbles

to appear.

i pretend to be patient

in all aspects of life,

but when i'm alone

staring

at a pot of water

on the stove,

well, my true self

comes to light.

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.