with celery in hand

she's not a holiday

girl.

no turkey in the oven.

no wreathe

on the door.

no pie

on the sill cooling.

she's been there,

done all of it before, but

she's finished now.

she can't be bothered

with

family or friends,

the barking

dogs, the children.

the gathering of people.

she's not a holiday girl.

no red dress

today.

or green, no masquerade

of happy.

no left overs, or dishes

to wash.

no pots and pans left

in the sink.

no foil to wrap and send

things away.

she'd

rather be

alone, with celery in hand.

the remote

in the other,

binging on

what she can find on

tv land.

moth to the flame

when young,

or at least younger than i am

now.

(how do we stop this)

i found

that the pretty girl

caught my eye.

shy or loud didn't matter much.

how

she dressed,

or who her daddy was,

meant nothing to me.

it was her face,

her figure,

her eyes most of all

and lips.

i was a shallow boy

then,

and why pretend, i can still

be that

way

at times,

yes. even now.

bread, flour, sugar

i couldn't tell you

what a carton of eggs costs,

or a gallon of milk.

or a gallon

of gasoline

for the matter.

bread, sugar, flour.

who knows

these things?

i haven't cut a coupon out

in like

never.

it's not that i have money

to burn,

it's just how things are now.

my mind is elsewhere.

ask me about larkin,

or bukowski,

plath or sexton.

mark strand. 

carl jung, there is so

much

more

left to learn.

broken

i ponder

the broken lace in my hand.

the brown

lace

of the boot i was going

to wear.

frayed

and old from being wet,

being pulled

so many times.

tightened into a bow.

and i think of you.

just one of many deadly sins

lust.

an intense desire for an object.

a person.

power

or food, perhaps.

money.

it's not

just sex.

we lust for many things.

for 

people we want

in our life.

for what tomorrow might

bring.

we lust

for affection,

for understanding.

it's an unquenchable

thirst,

a desire.

a void that insists

on being filled.

we are full of lust

at times.

casting aside envy,

greed

and anger, jealousy

and sloth. oh, what

a world.

what a world.

my arm around her

i put my arm

around her 

as we cross the street.

i take

her hand.

she looks

at me.

i look away.

too soon, i think.

and let go,

release.

maybe tomorrow,

maybe

the next time,

maybe

some other day.

we shall see.

the morning paper

i no longer

get the morning paper.

i've given

up on the news.

i don't want more of it

in

my head.

it's everywhere now.

the end

of the world

as we know it.

dripping from the mouths

of 

reporters.

splashed in blurbs

across the screen.

it's not that i don't care,

it's just the fact

there is little one can do

but worry.

so why bother.

twilight

she sends me a picture

of the sun

rising beyond the trees

behind her house.

the violet

air.

the brush of new sunlight

stroked

across the curve

of earth.

i can't remember the last

time i saw

the sun rise

in person.

how strange the world

is.

as it keeps moving,

spinning.

in a black sea.

to stand there and watch

trying to grasp

what it all might mean.

mailing a letter

it's an odd night

to be out

mailing a letter

in this brisk weather.

the snow

falling quietly leaving

no

doubt

that winter has arrived.

but i need to mail

this letter.

to slip it into the box.

to feel

the metal door open,

the metal door close.

it's what writers do.

we

write things

out.

it surprises you

it surprises

you,

the tears, when they erupt

out of nowhere

while standing

in line with a cart of groceries.

there is nothing

here

to bring this on.

the lights are too bright

for sadness.

the decorations on display.

the music,

cheery in that vague

holiday way.

there is so much to be

thankful for,

and yet there it is,

down one cheek then

the other.

wanting more

i stir the log

in the fireplace.

a flame

emerges, then another

then a family

of

fire

arrives and burns

hard

at the wood.

i turn my hands to

the glow.

the smell is wonderful.

the heat,

the wafting warmth.

the crackle fills your ears

with

childhood memories.

you stare

childlike

into the roar as it

rises

and rises, wanting 

another

log,

wanting more.

the w is silent

some people have a name

that is often

mispronounced

or misspelled.

whether first or last.

they spend so much of their

life

correcting those that get it

wrong.

no, they say.

the w is silent. the accent

is on

the e, not i.

and when you say it, say

it as if you're singing

a song. it's exhausting at

times.

you miss the easy ones

like susan

or joe, betty or john.

when the news arrives

there are hard time

poems

good times.

times that aren't remembered.

grey days

where nothing of consequence

takes place.

or so it seems.

we only know what we

know in the moment

when the news arrives.

which is fine,

if it doesn't. a poem may

surface, or not,

when it does.

how's your love life?

i see my lawyer friend

jimmy

in the super market.

he's wearing a new designer suit

and buying

caviar and lobsters.

i see bottles of champagne

in his cart

along with

expensive butter from ireland.

hey,

he says.

hey, i say back. how are you?

doing spectacular, he says.

it looks like he's

had some work

done on his eyes and his

hair is jet black.

good, good. i say.

yup,  business is booming

with covid.

just bought a new mercedes

the other day.

i did six divorces this week,

all on zoom.

the virus and lockdown is

a gold mine

for people breaking up.

who can stand to be with

anyone for 24 7

for nine months?

i'm saving up for a little

villa in florence. you'll have

to come visit when this whole

thing ends.

so how are you? how's your love

life?

wedding bells perhaps?

dating profiles

back in the day when i used

to peruse

the online dating profiles

i often wondered

why so many women were holding

up fish

in their photos.

standing on a boat, or on a river

bank with a small

floppy fish at the end of the line.

or why did they have

small children on their lap,

sometimes babies

gooey and crossed eyed,

right out of the oven.

occasionally they'd have 

a face scratched out of their

pictures, perhaps an

ex husband, or boyfriend, or

someone they must hate now

blotted in ink.

some women were in bikinis,

while others were in their

wedding dress, or

were pregnant.

old photos i guess.

motorcycles were big too.

or zip lining in costa rica,

on a cruise,

or climbing a mountain.

they were often playing tennis

or golf.

reading books i never heard of.

doctors and lawyers.

women working the night shift

at i hop.

everyone of them seemed

to be doing a lot more with

their lives then i ever had the

time to do.

they were in europe and japan.

there they are on the great

wall of china.

standing next to the Eiffel tower.

jumping out of planes, or

singing with a band on stage.

i on the other hand had a picture

of my empty refrigerator.

which people actually laughed at

and liked,

the quirky, edgy girls 

seemed to approve.

the work evaluation

my boss calls me in for an evaluation.

it's rare

that i do this,

because i'm so busy,

but i need to have a talk with

my boss,

who is me.

which is odd, i realize,

but

every now and then we need to

find out

how we're doing. are we bored,

are we tired,

do we still have the get up and

go to go

do this everyday.

how's my attitude, am i slouching,

am i 

rude

to my clients, or just short

and annoyed with them when

they ask for a third

coat on a wall that only needed

two?

i really don't have time for this,

i tell myself, but okay.

five minutes. what about wallpaper,

have you had it up

to here with all these crazy

papers and customers

who don't understand how

it's like brain surgery to hang

wall paper in a three by four

powder room with nine foot

ceilings.

it's a good meeting though.

i get a lot off my chest.

and ask for a raise.

which is refused. what about

a christmas bonus, i ask myself,

or a few days off around the holdiays?

maybe.

i say. maybe.

but don't forget we have the 

henderson house to do

the day after new years.

oh right.

almost forgot about that.

they still haven't sent me the

paint colors.

finally, i get up and say okay.

is that it?

to which i reply, yes. thank you.

we'll do this again next year

and see where we are.

friends for life

when i lived

in a garden apartment in

god forsaken

temple hills

not far from the race

track

the walls were so thin

i could hear

a pin drop next door.

i could hear and listen

in on every

conversation

as they could mine.

i could hear the ding

of their toaster,

the flush

of a toilet.

the killing of a fly.

if they were arguing 

i'd shake my

head and try to decide

who was right,

who was wrong.

if they were happy and

laughing,

i'd laugh too

and write the joke down.

when they made love

at night

i'd blush at how wild

they were

with what they would say

in the heat of the moment

and do.

but i felt like

we were really close.

after  few months we had

become

friends for life,

although i never

met them in person

and never would.

night owls

we night owls

like the quiet, the serenity

of twelve

am

the silence

when everyone else has

gone to sleep.

we like

to hear

the wind in the trees.

we open

a window

to let the cold in.

we like our books.

our

time alone.

we night owls.

come alive when the lights

go out,

hours before dawn.

taking a trip

i get a room

over looking the city.

it took me twenty minutes to get

here

from my front door.

i take an uber.

pack a single bag.

i'm taking a trip.

not far.

but far enough.

a change of scenery.

i tell the clerk i'm from 

Italy,

and i'm here

writing a book

about coffee.

he points out the window

to 

one of seven starbucks

that line

the street.

i go to my room and pull

the drapes back.

i stare out at the autumn

trees.

the monuments

white and sterile in the morning

sun.

i lie back in my enormous

bed, feeling

the comfort

of the thick mattress

and pillows. the designer

sheets.

i order room service.

the breakfast special.

eggs with bacon and cheese.

then i text Betty,

and say. hey, what's up?

i'm on a trip.

the best is yet to come

you shed another skin.

turn

over another new leaf.

you let go

of anger.

let go of that nagging

thought

that never leaves.

you

start fresh.

start new.

you begin again to be

who you were meant to

be.

it's not easy. but

nothing good is ever easy.

another door

opens.

another day begins.

just relax

just breathe.

the best is yet to come.

again.

faith

there is no God, she says.

how could there

be a God,

look at all the madness

all the evil

in the world.

the tragedies.

what kind of a God

would allow such

a world to go on

like this. what kind of

a God would allow

a Hitler to exist?

to allow cancer and

disease. 

divorce and death,

anger and wrath.

what kind of a loving

all knowing being,

would do these things?

beats me, i tell her

staring at a beautiful

fallen leaf. yellowed

with orange veins,

but i still believe.

the addiction

the addiction

is real.

our love of phones.

that

bright smile of a screen

telling

us

we're loved, we're needed.

we're never

alone.

the dopamine, 

the serotonin

streams through our

veins

warms our

shallow soul.

we sleep with it cradled

in our

arm.

we don't want to 

miss a single

ding.

a single

photo or set of words

that's sent from 

the other room,

or from around the corner,

or very far.

but we go on

your best friend

departs.

then others go. then more.

it's how

it works.

this world.

no one replaces them

exactly.

some fill the void

some become important

parts of your life.

lovers come

and lovers go.

we go on, not as if nothing

is wrong,

but we go on.

the rubber band contest

we had a contest once

shooting rubber bands across

the room

to see who could

knock a paper

cup over that was

propped up on a chair.

i tried and tried,

shot after shot.

missing.

missing, wide left, wide

right.

too high.

too short.

not coming close.

she took one rubber band,

squinted one eye,

aimed and fired.

and down the cup went.

game over,

she said,

then stood up

and dropped the mike.

giddy up cowboy

i remember the time

i was forced

to get on a pony

at the age of five or six.

someone put a small hat on

me 

and shirt with a bolo tie.

my feet barely

reached the stirrups.

a man dressed

as a clown

who smelled like

whiskey and cigarettes

led the horse around

the fenced in barn yard.

i wanted to die

as my mother smiled

and waved.

taking pictures.

i mumbled something

under my breath

like giddyup,

with a curse word attached,

which made

the clown look up

at me and laugh.

still chasing that

i see my father

at ninety two

sitting glumly in the sun.

he's in distress. his love, his new

love

has lost

a son.

at sixty one, no less.

dead

just like that watching a game.

a stroke,

a heart attack.

but now

she can't come over.

and bring him cake.

there's arrangements to

be made.

a funeral to be

planned.

she can't visit today and

bring him what he needs most

some sort

of affection.

still chasing that, after

all these years.

still all about him.

his

losses

his fear.

the queen bee

he was married three

times.

had a lazy eye,

two fingers were missing

from a power saw

gone astray.

he was a marine.

muscled and bald.

he was gay.

a decorator with a lisp.

a syrupy richmond

drawl.

but he

knew

his feng shui.

he was the queen of

the ball.

who ruled his clients

with a whip.

the small wedding

it was a small wedding.

the bride

wore white.

the groom black.

the sky was blue, as it

should

be.

a small affair in a small

church.

the sermon was brief,

the vows

short.

there were

little children

in attendance

holding tiny bouquets

of flowers.

there was music.

a small band.

small food and occasional

dancing.

it was all held in a small

room

after

leaving the small chapel.

tears fell in soft tiny

drops

along the cheeks

of so few.

just the bride and groom.

a wedding in

a small church, 

it was a short

affair,

but the love was enormous

and would last forever

and ever.

we're so alike it's uncanny

she says, hey buddy,

what are you doing,

i'm not that kind

of girl

when i accidentally bump

my knee into hers

beneath her doily covered

coffee table.

i tell her

whoa, i'm not that kind of guy

either, you have me 

all wrong. i was just stretching

my leg.

these new jeans

are chaffing me.

are you sure?

of course i'm sure.

i hardly know you.

we've only had nineteen dates.

i don't even care

about sex.

or romance, or anything like

that.

 a light kiss on the cheek

like grandma

used to give is fine with me.

send me home with a baggie of

oatmeal cookies

with raisins in them and i'm

a happy camper. in fact,

i'm practically a virgin.

me too,

she says. me too.

i'm glad you're not like all the other

guys.

all they think about is sex sex sex.

i shake my head.

yup. i'm ashamed to call myself

a man sometimes.

men are just wild animals.

i blame it on the internet, or

global warming.

sunspots.

really, she says. hmmm. could be.

i  just like to cuddle on the couch,

or rock

on the porch

with my cat fluffy in my lap,

maybe knit a new afghan,

and watch the sun go down.

or maybe play a

board game or look through my

photo albums again.

wow, board games,

i say out loud, exactly.

i can't get enough of  board

games on a saturday night.

candy land, 

or checkers,

or hang man. maybe we can

do a crossword puzzle too.

we're so alike, she says. 

it's uncanny.

yes. we are i tell her.

staring out

the window

wondering when this

rain will

ever stop so that i can

go home

and kill myself. 

(kidding)

give me the onion rings

i go through the list

of foods

i no longer want to be around.

i'll start with

chick peas.

i just don't like the look

of them.

they seem unfinished

and have a soft mushy

way about them.

tasteless and not pretty.

then soy beans.

i don't care about soy.

soy milk.

there is no soy cow, so

stop calling it milk.

it's juice squeezed

out and dyed white.

tofu.

come on. i don't care if

you shape it into a turkey.

get it out of here.

scrapple. good lord.

are we in a Georgia state prison?

floor scraps of a pig

molded

together with lard.

i've seen the exact same

thing when

my garbage disposal

was replaced

by my plumber Mike.

kale.

no.

please. insanity. God's

agricultural joke

on us all. i don't have

three hours to chew one

piece of kale.

lima beans. if elected

i will eliminate lima beans

from the face of the earth.

next on the list

is liver and onions.

i don't want to eat any organs

from anywhere.

from any animal.

hearts brains,

kidney, whatever.

i don't want to read grey's

anatomy as if it's a menu.

and finally

calamari.

those unchewable rubber

bands from the bottom of the sea.

chopped into little

gaskets, deep fried

and greasy

basically tasteless chewing gum

that you finally give

up on and just swallow them

in bits and pieces.

why not just get onion rings?

if i can't pronounce it,

or never heard of it

it's probably a good idea

to steer clear of it,

no matter how nutritious 

and wonderful martha stewart

claims it to be.

connect the dots

well, if he had it, then

gave

it to his sister

and then his sister

went to the coffee

shop

and coughed,

and touched the door

and then

your cousin

sat down

in the same chair

she sat in

at the dentist

before

someone else sneezed

and blew

their nose.

and then there was 

the kid

next door

blowing bubbles

into the sky.

the bubbles coming

in a box

and bottle

shipped from singapore.

and

the shipping clerk

was from

germany

but his girlfriend

was visiting

from france.

who knows how he

got it.

when the job ends

when the job

ends

and they tell you they no longer

need you,

your skills

your intelligence

your dedication,

when the job

ends and they show

you to the door

the guard

taking your key badge,

you carrying your

box of

what nots

from the office, your

desk

each drawer,

when the job ends

rejoice

and don't look back.

find you own way

in this world.

no need to feel sad,

regret or remorse.

it's not for you.

move on.

i got this

i got this, she'd say.

carrying her weight, going the extra

mile

for work, or play.

i got this.

she'd say, when making love

when my mind would

drift, and wander,

when my thoughts would stray.

relax, she'd say,

breathe. i'm here. i'm not

going anywhere,

stop worrying, 

i'm here to stay.

i got this.

betcha by golly wow

i like the old

r and b songs, marvin gaye.

teddy,

al green

barry white.

archie bell and the drells.

the drifters.

brooke benton.

motown.

i know all the words,

but fail

now on the high notes.

i can't croon like i used

to when i was a mere

child of fifty.

but i play them all still.

they bring back

such memories.

of the love going on,

or ending,

or just inbetween.

sweet, and bitter sweet,

each tune giving me

a rise, a chill, each and every

one still fresh,

still new.

a song we both once knew

when i drive

up Connecticut avenue

i almost always turn 

my head to the left,

towards

where she lived,

across from the zoo.

three stories up,

her apartment over

the club,

the restaurant, a yogurt

shop,

a place

to repair your shoes.

i look up and see the yellow

square of light

and think of her

on nights like these, in

the rain, driving north

towards Bethesda.

i see her with her hands

on the baby grand

playing softly

and singing

a song that we both

once knew.

where things are

i wonder

where things have gone.

but

once out of site

for too long it doesn't really

matter,

does it?

that ring or watch,

a book,

just things

you bought or were

given to you

with a kind thought

in mind.

i wonder where things

are at times,

and then

i don't.

calm

what happens if we're not

busy.

not on the phone,

not taking the next call,

or answering the next

text. what happens

if we're not in front

of the tv, the computer,

not with others,

not sitting still for a brief

moment.

what happens

if we stop.

if we rest.

if we stop making plans,

stop with the projects,

the renovations,

the business that distracts.

what happens

if we stay home

and do nothing.

what happens

if we take a deep breath

and take

back control

of our lives,

what happens next?

shadow work

you read about shadow work.

finding your true

self through introspection,

your authentic self, finding

light

in the shadows, releasing

creativity,

inspiration, taking intuition

to a higher level.

it's not new.

in fact when haven't you been

doing this?

even at five,

examining your life,

wondering

what more is there

that needs

to arrive

to make you at last whole

and more alive.

start there

we need trust.

we need faith and balance.

we need

water.

sunlight.

we need a lot of things

to keep

it going.

to get through the dark

nights,

the storms.

we need trust.

start there,

and work towards love.

the good aunt

my aunt

was a positive thinker.

always with a smile,

a pinch

for your cheek. always in

the latest

styles

of dress or hair. smelling

like

a bed

of flowers,

a walking bouquet.

a cheerful

word

for anyone who needed it.

a helpful hand.

a volunteer,

so wise and bright.

always time for her

devotions,

her nightly prayers.

there was only goodness

in her heart,

so it was a quite a

surprise when

she decided one night,

to end it all, to disappear,

to take her life.

the tampa retreat

my snow bird friend

departs

in november for tampa.

to his house along

the bay.

to his small boat, his fishing

rods,

his cold beer,

his lazy

winter day

under a warming sun.

a youth filled breeze

blows 

through his hemmingway

beard.

he'll ride his bike into town.

he'll play

a round

of golf, he'll watch the young

girls go by

in their

summer dresses,

as he watches the sun

go down.

french birds

i study the hunk of blue cheese

from france

unwrapped

and on the dish.

9 dollars an ounce.

probably more expensive

than caviar.

who would eat this without

being forced to.

i spread a thick

swab onto a crumbly light

weight cracker

and give it a shot.

a strange musty smell

and taste

explodes in my mouth.

interesting.

this is what mildew must

taste like.

maybe if i set it on the back

patio

the squirrels or birds will

have a go at it.

maybe a french pigeon

in a black beret

will take notice and have

his fill.

i make them a plate

throwing in some olives

and fig goo.

the clearing

the wind

and rain takes care of every leaf

on every tree

out the window.

the party is over.

i can see clearly

the white and grey bones

of a thousand

stiff trees

outside the window.

i can see a mile or two

straight through

to the other

side.

it's a good view.

lessons to be seen

and learned

about many things, about

me.

about you.

wisdom of the aged

i remember my

father saying strange

things after

i'd tell

him about the most recent

heart break.

well. he'd say.

there's more fish in the sea.

that was the extent of his

wisdom

and gentle

comforting of my broken

heart.

more fish in the sea.

or you have to get  back on

the horse.

the bike. time heals all

wounds.

or 

forget about it.  pfffft.

women. they're like cats.

where you gonna find another

one? then he'd laugh.

pockets

pockets were everything.

full

of coins and a few dollars.

marbles.

a black comb.

a pen knife.

keys.

a photo of mary jean.

rocks we'd find and wanted

to keep.

bottle caps.

the days

of summer were

scavenger hunts,

useless things, that

were

somehow important

in the moment.

anything found with a shine

was

tucked

into our thick blue

dunagrees.

dinner

i start again in the kitchen,

pots

and pans.

meat and pasta.

a cold

ice berg salad.

fresh tomatoes.

onions and olives.

the boil of water 

the fettucine  rising.

the sausage

crisp in the broiler..

the wine poured.

a prayer. a kiss.

a meal

for a cold winters day.

water and flying

i sleep well

when

the work has been hard.

i find

the comfort of home

and bed

a sanctuary

from all

that lies beyond the door.

the lucid dreams.

the vivid

colors.

the water and flying.

all sweet

journeys

with eyes closed.

giving hope to when

they're open,

and it's time to start

all over

when it's time to go.

low hanging fruit

we pick

the low hanging fruit

too often.

what's easy,

and reachable.

we don't want to work

too hard

anymore.

especially when it

comes to love.

we set the bar

so low. at times it

feels like

anyone is good

enough

for now.

the white beard

a year

stretches out

towards the next year.

thin

lines

of days.

swift hours as we find

ourselves

in daydream.

in 

the mist of aging.

in the dim light

of

a low sun, gone dark

early.

another winter

appears with its white

beard.

its cold breath, 

as we sit by the fire

to stay warm.

wish list

we all have a wish

list

of some sort.

to go here or there.

to paris, perhaps.

or iceland.

maybe

the fiji islands,

to a point almost

off the map.

to climb a mountain

or hike the appalachian

trail, 

with a bottle of water

and granola

bars

tucked neatly in a back pack.

all good, all fine.

i'll meet you there,

but first

i need a nap.

the firefly of summer

i prefer

the lightning bug,

the firefly of summer

as opposed

being struck by a line

of electricity

dancing in the sky.

i prefer the subtle

jolt of love.

not the sting and fury

of

arrows from above.

just a simple

kiss.

a warm embrace.

that's enough.

different shades

different shades

of color.

likes and tastes.

design.

no one quite alike

exactly

though similar

at times.

is there middle ground

to shake

on,  a decent compromise.

maybe.

maybe not.

time will decide.

Milagro

i throw down

some extra money for milagro.

she works hard.

cleaning

my humble

home.

it's just me now

and forever more,

me making all this mess

of

dust and

crumbs, things tossed

about on

the floor.

does she wonder why i have so

many shoes.

what are all these

bathrooms,

and towels for.

she puts a shine on the dull.

the bed

made.

the clothes folded.

the windows

wiped.

she brightens up the day,

she leaves

the key

beneath the mat after

she's finished,

locking the door.

in the blink of a wet eye

circumstances beyond

your control

change everything.

not just the rain, and the wind.

not just traffic,

or past lives,

not the way the stars have

refused

to align

once more.

things change in the blink

of a wet eye.

again.

help yourself

all these bottles

of wine.

i don't drink wine. does

anyone drink

wine.

red, white.

cheap, expensive wines.

crushed grapes

from some far away

vine.

i'll set them on the stoop.

have at it.

i have blue cheese

too

and crackers.

help yourself, have

a party.

the left overs

i feed the trash can

the leftovers

uneaten

untouched.

down goes bread

and noodles

cheese

and olives.

the remains

of salad.

the dishes scraped

clean.

the glasses poured

out.

i wipe

the table, the counter,

flip the switch

for wash,

then sit.

all of it goes away

so quickly.

as if it never

happened.

the confusion of sin

i walk over to the church

through

the narrow path,

the slender patch of woods

where

the gravel ends

and dirt begins, before

pavement.

the bells are ringing. i'm

late

once more for mass,

but i'm not here to enter.

but

to think about what is now.

what was then.

i'm very done with 

forgiveness,

repentance, 

the confusion of sin.

raking leaves

we all have moments

of insanity.

strange

behavior.

erratic thoughts and words.

you're out of

touch

with your real world.

lost in

some unseasonal weather

of doubt

or fear.

the world isn't right

for

a short while.

you need to gather yourself

and go outside.

the leaves need to be raked.

your

mind cleared.

sunday visit with Ernie

he would bring out

a plate

of grapes

and cheese. crackers. nothing

fancy.

a knife, a fork.

some cold cuts.

he'd stumble forward

in his hat

his glasses.

his thick socks.

gentle and wavering.

a wizened smile

creased upon his face.

let me know, he'd say,

when

you're ready for a drink.

popcorn?

the bird bath

my yard needs help.

a tree, perhaps. some sort of flower

beds.

what about carrots, though,

or lettuce.

or soy beans.

a mini plantation of cotton

and corn.

ridiculous, i know.

i see the bird bath, a shallow

circle

of stone full of water

surrounded

by the ruffage

of weeds and tall grass.

there's a  blue bird

in it.

which means everything to me,

it makes

my dusk

seem brighter.

smell the roses

i smell the roses,

as told,

i take the time

to breathe.

i stretch and bend

toward the sun, in 

an attempt

at treating myself

all in the name of self love.

that's what the book says to do.

i am in the moment.

in touch

with my inner child,

my true self.

my center.

and then when i'm done

and in my

happy place.

i sit by the window

and it all slips away, again.

temporary magic

it's hard to not embellish,

to not

confabulate

a story.

to bring it back to life.

to color

inside

and outside the lines

with splashes

of wishful thinking.

to put a shine

on things that were truly

dull

and hard.

it's hard not to stare at

a rainbow

and make it more than

what it is. just

light through

a wet prism held aloft

in the sky.

but lets call it lovely,

call it beautiful

and remember how lucky

we were to find it

in our wandering eye.

five days in mexico

it rained for five

days

and nights

while we were in mexico.

the room was

full of wind blown water.

we were full of bad food

and tequila.

we fought about the weather.

about the floor

being wet.

about the future

which wasn't meant to be.

would i have loved her

more or less,

if i'd known

she only had a year

to live.

maybe.

would she have loved me?

it's hard to know these

things

so many years later, so

many years gone

by after that last kiss.

across the miles

we tend to think

of those

in thought

about us.

the vibration of energy

knowing

no

sense of distance,

barriers

or days gone by.

we linger

on the sound of a train

whistle

not far away.

we stay

in the moment and say

hello

to what was.

even now

even now

the bones shine with light.

the pillows have

been filled

with dreams.

stars

align

and candles light

as if by

themselves

strung like

gems across the night.

even now,

there is more to come.

more to know.

more love

to bring home, more

of everything

good to be done.

the hand written letter

i see the mailman

get out of his truck.

he's carrying a letter

on a gold plate

with both hands.

i open the door.

this is for you, he says.

it's so rare.

it's a personal letter.

there are tears in his eyes

that he wipes away with his

grey sleeve.

someone has taken the time

and effort

to sit down

and with their hand and a pen

and write

a letter.

we opened it at the post office.

we just had to know

what was said.

we hope you don't mind.

sadly

it's not good news.

but i'll leave you to it.

the land line

i stare at the phones

in

each room.

sitting there, silent except

for telemarketers,

or an old client, a wrong

number.

the police wanting money.

land lines.

how long do you hold on

to them.

it was

how my mother would

call when it snowed

or rained hard

or she had a secret she could

no longer keep to herself.

my number was inscribed

on a laminated list

of names and numbers

thumbtacked

to her kitchen wall.

there was always  red

sauce

dried on it, or cookie dough

where she

moved her finger down

the list making call

after call

until she found the right

son or daughter

who would visit.

the praying mantis pose

what do you do for fun, she asks.

skipping rope

and 

and then doing yoga

on her red

mat.

stuff. i tell her.

like what?

you know. beach. woods.

museums. biking.

what was the last museum

you went to

she asks,

as she stretches herself out

into a praying mantis

pose.

ummm. the museum

of sunken ships, i think.

boring, she says.

i'm taking a ballroom dancing

class.

do you want to take

it with me.

you know. i think i left

something in the car.

i'll be right back.

a soft knock at the door

what isn't clear

not always becomes clear.

sometimes

you need more time, more space.

more room

to figure things out.

sometimes you need a stiff

drink

or a long walk along

an empty shore.

other times it's just sleep

that will untangle the mystery,

another book, another

poem.

another soft knock a the door.

you enter a room

you enter the room.

it's the same room you've been

walking into

for years.

many seasons have passed

since the first day

you came

into this house.

you sit in a chair and watch

the trees.

you smell the change.

you hear the wind.

feel the air through 

the open window.

you've entered this room

so many times

with others.

so many times alone.

it has become your place

of refuge.

of thought and desire.

of past sorrow and healing.

it has become

a true home, a place of joy,

a place

you may never leave.

you enter the room,

it's the same room you've

been walking into

for years.

love story was wrong

i look back and think

is there anyone

left to apologize to.

is there anymore damage

of past

relationships to repair.

and at the moment the answer

is no.

i go through the checklist

of former friends and lovers,

wives

and girlfriends. each has

been

told

i'm sorry, some a few

times over.

but now,

i think i'm all caught up.

the cruise

there was this one time

on a cruise

down the Aegean Sea

when she took a swing at me

in a restaurant.

i was able to duck the punch

but then

she disappeared and hid

herself on the ship.

it took hours to find her

as the crew looked overboard

in case she had leaped into 

the water.

she forgot to bring her meds

along. serious meds,

on this voyage, so she kind

of lost it for a while.

there was no way to reach

her psychiatrist back in 

new york.

i slept with a butter knife

clutched in my hand when

we went to bed,

as she tossed and turned

and muttered something

in Latin beside me.

but by the photos everything

looked peachy.

interpretative dancing

she asks me if i dance.

swing, shag, two step or salsa.

ballroom?

i shrug. i used to. back in the formative

years.

but now it's mostly

in the shower

or if forced to by an aunt

at a wedding.

occasionally if a song comes

on the radio

i might do a few spins in

my socks

around the kitchen floor, but no

dips,

or fancy moves. it's mostly

interpretative dancing.

i have to work the next day, so

i keep

it simple.

it's not all good

the times

have changed.

for the better though.

it's

not as bad

as it was

in the middle ages.

the black plaque and all that.

so quit crying.

quit whining.

we have indoor plumbing

and coffee.

we have netflix

and jello.

it's not all good, but

it's good.

red shoes

when i was

young man

if i saw a woman's shoe

tossed aside,

near the bed

it would

get the whole ball rolling

all over again,

especially if it was

a black heel

or red,

or a pair of boots,

and truthfully

nothing much has changed

about that.

too many balloons

she buys

too many balloons

for the child's party,

and when she gets outside

up she goes.

lifted in the wind

over wires

and poles.

somehow she holds

on.

she laughs.

she whistles. she shouts

hey look at me.

take a picture,

i'll throw you my phone.

how to carve a turkey

i remember

her mother taking the knife

out of her

husband's hand and saying.

sit down.

you don't know how to

carve a turkey.

i got this.

we sat there in stunned silence

as she

masterfully cut

into the bird

roasted brown.

legs and wings came

off,

the breast

cut clean and careful

in thick slices.

see, she said, that's how

you do it, while

the husband

poured himself another

scotch on the rocks,

mumbled something

under his breath that

he would pay

for later, then tossed

the strong drink down.

thumb prints

i find a thumbprint

in

the pudding.

a small slender

thumb.

i see footprints

wet from the rain.

someone

slight of stature has

come and gone.

she's been

in the ice box,

in the cupboards.

nothing is where

it was before.

i see

on the bed.

the ruffled sheets

the pillows

on the floor.

there is no note.

no sign

of her.

nothing, as i look

down the street

before closing 

the door.

the sweet and sour

do we

need the sour to understand

the sweet.

the pain

to feel the joy.

is it possible

to

get there without

a struggle,

or do we have to knock

and bang

on every door.

must we taste

and test

each thing before

we swallow

it whole.

gypsy woman

some souls

are forever gypsies. 

never finding a place

to call home,

always on some road.

going somewhere

without a map

or plan.

without a true north.

it's in their blood

to keep moving.

to keep settling and unsettling

down.

carrying boxes in

carrying boxes out.

it's been that way

since birth.

and nothing

ever changes but the

address.

a postal box.

another new life

in a another new town.

four out of five doctors

i see a group

of doctors outside the hospital

smoking

cigarettes

and drinking beer.

they still have on their

surgical gowns

and booties on their shoes.

my doctor sees

me and waves.

come on over and have

a beer with us, he says.

my next surgery isn't 

for an hour.

i go over and pop a can.

they're talking about

operations gone wrong.

sponges left inside

of patients. scalpels

and whatnot.

my doctor starts telling

the story about

the time

he got the hiccups

and all the nurses started

laughing so hard

they cut

off the guy's oxygen

and barely pulled him

back to life.

i finish my beer and go home.

i don't feel 

so bad after all.

sending out a signal

i send out my version

of the bat signal into the sky.

but instead of a bat

it's a chocolate chip cookie

with nuts

in it

that illuminates itself upon

the clouds.

warm freshly baked cookies

is what i want.

i send out the emergency

signal and wait.

i pace back and forth with

my cold glass of milk.

i wait patiently

for her to begin to bake

and then deliver.

saturday came around

we saw each other every tuesday

for years.

it was in ink.

a standing date.

we never questioned why

or how it got that way.

tuesday was our night

to meet and catch up,

shoot the breeze.

we both

had other lives to attend to

and

we never

crossed a line.

there was no me and mrs. jones

going on.

no thing going on.

just a friend. a tuesday friend.

and that's all it was.

so sad

that it had to end.

when saturday came around

and  drew her

line in the sand.

the hotel room

you leave the hotel

room

not quite as neat as you 

had found it.

newspapers, cups.

bags

are strewn about.

both beds unmade.

why not use both for

your two day stay?

you look around.

you look under the bed.

under the blankets,

toss pillows aside.

you have no idea what

you're looking for, but

you don't want to leave

anything behind.

you find a quarter on the floor.

you look into the drawers

you never used,

open the closet door,

and say, oh, an iron.

there's nothing though

that you haven't packed

into your one small bag.

you pull the curtains open

to liven the place up

with beach sun.

then say adios and hit

the road.

loose change

i tumble coins

into the slot as the machine

loudly

grinds on

counting

my loose change.

it takes a while

as i dig

out nails and screws.

mexican coins

from a trip

to cancun.

a canadian half dollar?

there are paper

clips

and buttons.

receipts. ticket stubs.

small tumble weeds

of cotton.

toothpicks

and batteries.

strange things once

in my pocket

and tossed into the blue

bowl

on the counter.

pounds of coins roll

down

into the mouth of the bank.

while the rest

goes back

into my pocket.

careless love

i see how

they turn over the fruit.

the plums

and apples.

how they turn over 

the melons, tapping

at their

hard skin.

tasting a grape.

i see how they inspect

nearly everything

before

putting it into the cart

and moving on.

holding kiwi to the light.

i wonder

if i should do the same

and stop

being so

careless with love

again.

more than what it is

i see how wide the stream

has grown

overnight.

the onslaught

of a storm

filling it to the brim

and beyond.

the sleeve of dull water

reflecting

a sky that pellets down.

i see that it wants to be

more

than what it was planned

to be.

a river perhaps, something

larger, a bay,

an ocean,

a sea.

more ambitious

than what it was before.

who doesn't think 

like that?

This age

this age means little

to me

these bones

that

grow smaller with each

passing day.

the grey wind

that has passed across

my body.

the blurring

and muting of sound

and sight,

the morning aches,

and early

rising.

this age means nothing

to me.

i am still the same

boy

mother kissed

before leaving, 

as she stood at the door

and waved.

telling me

to be good.

make up sex

can we not fight tonight,

 i ask her

politely.

can't we just

pretend we had the fight

and then

have great make up

sex?

i really don't want to argue

with you.

it's been a long day.

she looks at her list of

grievances and shakes her

head. but i've been working

on this list of

all the things that bug

me about you.

and it's friday, you know how

we always fight on friday.

can't we just do one?

one item, and that's all.

okay, okay. sure. give me

your best shot.

okay, she says.

why do you always put

a wet towel on the bed?

what are you talking about,

i never do that, ever.

okay. are we good now?

making new friends

it's a  room with a view

of other rooms

other people looking out

of their windows.

do you wave?

do you ignore them

in their half

dress, you with a towel

around you,

toothbrush in your mouth.

colgate suds

on your lips.

sure, why not.

i wave. give the the ole

queen's wave

as if i'm in a parade.

they wave back.

it's good to make friends.

the book about me

is there a book in all of us?

a long

winded tale

of our escapades from

the jump

until the near end, or should

we wait that long

and just 

go up till now?

is there enough drama,

enough

heart ache,

enough pain and sorrow,

is there birth

is there death, two necessities

to any great novel.

how much do you embellish,

expand,

extrapolate,

polishing the key components,

are you the hero,

the villain, or both?

tell me about the protagonist.

the plot line,

the complexities

of it all.

who would want to read this

memoir,

this biography of self?

would it sell. 

would there be a movie,

a series.

a season two.

a sequel.

or would it just be paper

binded and hard bound 

forever

holding up one end

of your wobbly ikea shelf?

until now

i resist

change. despite how good

it would be

for everyone involved,

especially me.

i hang on

to the cliff despite

the drop being a mere

two feet above the ground.

i hold on to too many things.

like hearts

and memories,

places and things 

not meant to be.

i resist change.

until now.

the quiet sea

the flicker

of moon is enough to get

me through

this night.

a quarter of its shape

above the quiet sea,

slipping under

the torn clouds.

the rolling sheets of stars

above us.

if you were here

i'd say look, look up, 

look there.

see how

lucky we are.

the accident

we slowly pass

the upturned car on 95

bodies strewn

like dolls tossd

the rain

in black sheets, split

by headlights

moving in slow

procession.

you can almost hear

drum beats.

we don't weep. we

want to get home

to our beds,

our meals, our children.

we just want

to be off this road.

the blue lights are there.

the red lights.

the trucks.

the stretchers.

people are rising in the air.

she's alive

there is electricity

in her eyes.

the tips of her hair.

her fingers.

her lips her body.

every thing is connected.

she's alive

with things you don't

understand.

but you're getting

there. she wants to

take you there.

she's been to bedlam

and back.

she's ann sexton

in a white dress,

drinking a dirty martini

one finger, held

high.

she's alive.

breakfast all day

i find a diner

open

all day for breakfast.

it's on a side road not

far from the beach.

there's a car

with a flat tire in the gravel

lot.

i'm the only one there at two

in the afternoon.

the waitress

is in the back

on her phone.

she has streaks of blue

in her yellow hair and a small

tattoo 

on her arm which i see when

she greets me with a wave.

she brings out the coffee.

two eggs over easy,

i tell her.

bacon, toast. juice.

hash browns with peppers

please.

she seems tired

and doesn't write anything

down.

i see a spill

on her pale blue apron,

a smudge of jelly, coffee.

today's my last

day, she says. i'm quitting,

in fact you're my 

last customer.

where are going?

i look at the name tattooed

on her arm.

it says BILLY., she rubs

it slowly. 

i don't know she says,

pouring the coffee and taking

cream out of her apron

pocket..

i don't know. i'm open

for suggestions.

then she walks away.

and cake

there is new age,

old age,

middle age. if we're lucky

we'll pass through them all

without too much pain and sorrow.

and leave

with a smile on our

face,

sand in our shoes

and the fullness of love

and cake.

at your feet

the ocean is at your feet.

your chair sunk

into the cold sand.

it's november after all,

but 

the sun refuses to give up

and feels warm

upon you face.

gulls sweep in but you have

nothing to give.

the waves neither whisper

or roar,

they just fold over

and over

like days do as

ships in the distance

press onward.

waiting for sweets

she's very kissable.

i can see that from

here.

a pastry

with icing, 

sitting on a shelf

behind the window.

i've been out all

night in the cold.

i stand

and stare

at my watch waiting

for the sign

to say open.

for the lights to go on

for the baker to say

come in.

come in come in where

it's warm.

tell me what you want,

why you've waited so long.

we adapt

we adapt.

we are creatures

of survival

crawling out of the muck.

we find our way

through the dark

with a stick of fire.

we find a way to fight

off the cold

or heat.

we do what we need

to do

to keep going,

we hunt

we kill we plant seed

we learn how to live,

how to be.

but now we do it all

by phone.

the safari

i go on a photo safari.

deep into the woods of 

springfield.

which ends

at the edge of the mall

and 495.

i have my

camera on.

ready

for the next wild beast

to appear.

i bring a chair

and a book.

a bottle of water.

i have on my LL Bean

sweater

and boots laced to my knees.

i'm patient.

and not scared.

even if it is my first

safari.

then i see linda coming

up path

singing and drinking

her coffee.

she's oblivious to my safari.

i wave to her

to be quiet, to settle down.

she comes over

and says, what's up. what are

you doing.

shhhh. i say. i'm waiting

for the lions

and zebras.

the elephants to come around

oh brother she says. you've really

lost it. haven't you?

shhh. you can stay if you want,

but sit down.

and no talking.

oh look, she says. a squirrel.

quick, take it's picture.

a few more blocks

i could stop and take this

stone

out of my shoe

anytime i please.

i could find

a bench, or a set of steps

in the sun

and remove

the shoe and shake

free this sharp

pebble that presses

against my skin.

i could do that

at any point i choose.

but i don't, not yet,

a few more blocks

of remembering,

and then i'm  done,

free of everything.

retail therapy

she spends

some money on things.

a treat.

an afternoon of shopping

with a friend.

there's a little guilt involved,

but she gets over

it quickly

as she slips into 

a dress, new shoes. and

stands at the mirror.

the boxes and bags

strewn around

the floor.

why not? she says.

why not?

we work so hard. why

not reward ourselves.

what are we living for?

no rescue

i try to save

the drowning woman.

she flails her arms, screams.

she's too far

out

to swim back.

so i go to her.

i can do this, i think.

swimming swiftly

to her rescue, but when

i get there

i see what's holding her

in place,

tied to her arms and legs

and neck

are the loves of others.

the baggage

that will weigh her down

until her death.

i tell her sorry, but if you

can't let go

you can't move on and live.

you'll never get to shore,

and i'm sorry but

i don't have another life

left to give.

polishing the apple

i'm not finished with this poem.

there's a lot more

to be done.

spelling and structure.

grammar. there are

more words,

more thoughts to be put into it.

more ruminations

about love

and loss, about hope

and faith.

i need to polish it like

the dying apple

it is. off the tree, just a day

away from turning

brown while a joyful worm

burrows happily,

thrilled at what he's found.

where are the elephants

there are certain

times and places,

like when in wal-mart,

when it feels like the circus

is in town,

everyone looks just a little

bit odd,

a little out of sorts,

strange.

something about

their faces,

their physique, even 

their names,

have an exotic bent to them.

at any moment

you expect juggling to

break out.

or handstands,

or someone with fire

coming out

of their mouth.

every size and color of

the human species

appears

with blue or green hair.

fishing hooks

dangling from 

noses and ears.

they smell of cigars

and sawdust,

whiskey.

you look around wondering

where the elephants are.

the obituary

i wrote an obituary once

for a woman

i had been in a relationship with

for several

tumultuous years.

up and down.

break ups and reconciliations.

modern love

such as it is.

but i wrote a glimmering

embellished tale

of joy and goodness all of which

she possessed.

not a instance of wrong doing,

of arguments, or disharmony

appeared in any line.

even her picture was angelic.

but when we were together,

and alive, she nearly drove

me out of my mind.

i can only imagine what she would

have written if

she'd had the chance

to write mine.

fat on her peaches

i could get fat on her peaches.

her cherries

and

apples.

what love there was in her

hands.

blue

veined and long

kneading the dough.

hardly a month would go by

without

a cooling tin

upon a kitchen sill,

and the joy she felt,

was a joy

you tasted as she carved

a slice

and told you to sit. sit boy.

here's milk.

go on, begin.

beware of goodness

beware of those without problems.

those who

sleep soundly through

the night.

those unbothered by the new.

those who smile too much,

shake hands too long,

or want to hug you

with each meeting.

beware of those who want

you to know about their

church attendance, about

their donations, about the orphans,

their education,

the marches they attend.

they books they have read, and

that you should read too.

they will tell you they have voted.

they have all recycled their

bottles and cans.

they bleed in public, they smile

at children, they stop to pet dogs.

beware of goodness of

those who weed all day long.

they are never angry, never blue,

good neighbors, good citizens

of the world. beware of them.

they are deeply sad and lonely,

and are unloved. there is  

something within them that is

terribly wrong.

cheesecake

she says

i don't eat meat,

or chicken or bovine

or fish

or eggs. anything

with a nose

or eyes.

i don't drink milk.

or booze.

or tap water.

or wine, the white

or the red kind.

what about cheesecake,

i ask her. holding my breath.

and she says, of course.

anything to do with

cheese is wonderful.

that will be fine.

to cash in

is it time

to cash in and find a place

to ride

out the waves,

the sun.

to breeze through

the later

years,

without a care.

no longer working,

under some self imposed 

gun.

is it time,

to call it a day and go

gently into that good

night.

sleep in, sleep late.

perhaps soon but

not yet.

not even close.

but i'll know when

the time is right.

they lie in wait

i see the fish

cold on ice. rows and rows

of

their limp bodies.

beautiful

in the store light, 

dressed still in colored

gowns

of grail, but

asleep

in dream

of the oceans they were

pulled from. they lie

in wait, like many of us,

who always will.

the next day

another door opens.

then another.

we go through

and see what's next, what

new phase

of life is waiting.

around the corner.

the next

house, the next love.

the next

day.

it's a mystery how

many we

have left.

blue or green

so many shades of blue,

of green.

one fading in the light,

one brighter

in the shadows.

each eye to his or her own

taste

of what

will work, what pulls the room

together.

making it

serene.

picking colors is hard,

seeming simple,

as are many things

in life.

one boat together

it's hard to row

as one, both in the same boat

together.

stroking

paddles into the cold blue

lake,

under

the sun.

it's hard to go in a straight

line.

one being more strong

than the other.

pushing left or right.

each with their own idea

of which

shore,

which landing needs to

be reached

in peace, without a fight.

there's always more

there is always more to know.

another page

to turn, or story to be told.

so much of us are just tips

of the ice berg.

it takes time to

discover all that lies below.

and even

then, there's more.

very confused

i don't want complex.

i don't want

to strain

to understand the text.

the equation

of you.

the math of you.

the mystery of you.

the abstract nature of

your brain.

i don't want simple either.

i want a mixture

of edge and fun,

of quiet and thoughtful.

loving and kind.

yeah.

i guess you could say,

i'm very confused.

if they make you laugh

if someone makes

you laugh

hold onto them.

they are lights in the world,

guiding the way

down a long dark path.

usually they have been

through more

suffering than you'd

like to know

or care to ask.

but they've found a way

to make life

work.

they see the humor

whether light, or black

in most everything,

themselves included.

two cups and waiting

i need to sweeten

the cup.

to pour

a dollop of cream

into the black pool

of coffee

to lighten

and make the taste

more to my liking.

two

lumps of sugar.

stir

and taste.

then sip while it's

hot.

i'll have a second cup

while i wait,

i'm really

not surprised that 

you're late.

at midnight

you hear

the rattle of paws.

the creak

of boards.

the scratch and grind

of what

might be

teeth

or claws.

the rustle of something

beneath

or above

the floor. is it in

the attic,

or between the walls.

it could be

nothing.

just wind, just rain,

just fear. or maybe it's

nothing at all.

down the line

to settle 

is something we all do.

not quite

perfect. but good enough

we tell ourselves.

this will do,

for now.

but we know in time

the boxes

will be packed

and we'll be somewhere else,

with someone

else

at some point

down the line.

without regret

there is the effervescence

of affection.

the cork

popped

on new love.

the bubbles

and spray of joy and

warmth.

the cold bottle

in two hands

poured

into the overflowing

glasses.

there are fireworks

outside the window.

there is noise.

streamers.

there is tomorrow, but

let's not go

there quite yet.

let's drink.

make love.

bring in the new year

without regret.

be ready

there is always more to do.

more ground

to break.

more

things to learn.

there is always another

stone

to turn over along the way.

a book

to read,

an ear to lend to a spoken

wise word.

there is much left

to be learned,

or unlearned.

be ready.

love, it's simple. boy meets girl.

love is truly simple.

boy meets girl.

boy falls in love with girl.

girl falls madly in love

with boy.

boy meets another girl.

the girl

meets another girl.

an old

girlfriend shows

up.

an ex husband appears.

there's a line out the door.

it's a crowd.

no one knows exactly

what's going on or

how they feel about each

other any more.

it's a mess.

as the years go by.

then one day they get

old and tired.

a few die off,

then everyone is finally

gone.

and well, that's that.

it's a wrap.

the kitchen window

i was standing at the kitchen

window

the other day,

eating, and thinking,

not unlike how my mother used

to do when

she was waiting

for my father to come home

after being

out drinking and gallivanting

with his buddies

and some

bar floosie.

pulling up in his turquoise

chevrolet with another dent

in the side.

but i was standing there eating

a tuna sandwich

when it occurred to me

that i actually have a dining

room table,

with dishes and plates.

silverware. etc.

and could i sit down and eat

any time i wanted.

my mother could too. but

this was her favorite place to

worry, as it has become mine.

i work for a non-profit organization

in the washington

dc

metro area

so many people

say they work for a non profit organization.

that used to be called the church,

but not anymore.

it's an actual business where people

get paychecks.

but no money is made.

it sounds

like volunteer work.

out of the goodness of their

heart

they show up every day

and do something.

what they do exactly is beyond

me.

i assume there are telephones

involved.

computers. papers to be shuffled

on desks,

i assume there's 

a coffee machine somewhere

down the hall.

i get sleepy when they go into

the details, putting toothpick

into my eyelids to keep them open.

my first yawn occurs

when i hear the words non-profit.

what does that mean?

or worse.

i work for a think tank

on foxhall road, upper northwest

near the French Embassy.

it takes

me a few minutes to wrap my head

around that.

i find a bottle of extra strength

tylenol at this point.

i imagine people in a sealed

steel tank

with pure oxygen pumped in,

they all have their hands

on their chins,

tin hats on their heads as

they think deeply about stuff.

steam coming of their ears

as they ponder

solutions to the world problems.

and then they break for lunch.

the new bedroom chair

i buy a chair that i'll probably never

sit on.

off white. 

i set it in the corner.

right away i can see that it's

going to be a receptacle

for clothes.

it looks nice in the lamplight

though.

low to the floor.

it has a nice sexy curve to it.

it took six weeks to get here,

but well worth the wait.

i pick my jeans and shirt and socks

up off the floor

and fold them neatly,

then i place

them all on the new chair.

the list of new years resolutions

i start working on my new years

resolutions, trying

to get a positive jump start

on the next

12 months.

i lay out a clean sheet of paper.

unwrap a new ball point pen

after wrestling with

the plastic package for ten minutes,

finally opening it

was a hammer.

i like these pens though.

the roller kind. very smooth

but they have a tendency to smudge.

i open the window. quite nice out.

i breathe in the fresh air then

pull up the shades.

i adjust the a little lower

and open the slats.

i yell out the window to tell

the cat

to get off the bird feeder.

it raises it's paw at me and frowns.

okay, where was i. 

new year resolutions.

i'm feeling a tad thirsty.

i go down and make a cup of tea

and bring it back

up to the desk.

i stare at the blank sheet of paper.

right.  resolution number one.

i tap the pen against my forehead

leaving a line of ink

on my face.

new years resolutions.

i got nothing right now.

maybe i'll make a sandwich.

the local butcher

i go the local butcher shop

and stare at the long glass enclosed

counter. it's

full of red meat and fish, 

poultry.

the men are busy sharpening knives

as I take a number.

the walls are painted white.

the floor is black and white.

it's clean

like an operating room might be.

there's a bell on the door

and a picture of a pig on the wall.

a fat man

in a bloody apron,  yells at me

and says,

what's it gonna be.

we've got some rib eyes just cut.

you look like a rib eye kind of guy.

how could he possibly know that?

the childhood wound

we talk about the childhood

wound.

that's the key

the therapist says. the books say.

Jung Freud, etc. etc.

mother, father.

they fucked you up.

not me, not them,

no one in this room.

it's  about closing that wound.

sewing it up

tight

and healing.

you don't have to be this

way.

you don't have live like this.

solve your past

or stay in it, not later, but

soon.

the white feather

you haven't changed a bit,

have you,

she says

in a dream,

brushing a white feather off my

shirt.

you're still the same

boy

inside.

a glass of milk, a slice of cake.

the devilish grin,

the glint

of mischief

in your green eyes.

you haven't changed a bit,

have you? she says.

you're the same boy

i knew 

when i was still alive.

we could get away

we could get away.

i've got a car.

i've got a pocket full of cash.

we could run.

drive to the west coast

or to canada.

maybe Arizona.

let's go. don't leave a note.

no need

to call or tell anyone. just

me and you.

let's go.

pack a bag.

let's hit the open road.

what are we waiting for?

why stay here and live

out our lives in misery.

come on.

be bold, be brave, be mine.

we could get away.

let's go while we're young,

before we're stuck,

let's go while there's still

time.

a cigarette break

we all find a way

to numb

ourselves 

from pain. whether drink

or drug

sex

or gambling, or some other

sort of 

self indulgent

dark habit

that helps us handle

the day.

and the nights are even worse

when the storm

arrives.

at times you even see

the priests

out back, smoking a cigarette

and shaking their

heads.

wired above us

the wires were strung

from

pole to pole on every street.

little below

ground,

telephones

and power exposed.

a web

of sorts.

each house connected

to a source

beyond our imagination.

one storm. a blizzard,

cold

snow

and it would flicker,

then black out,

and back

to the bronze age

we would go.

sentimental drinking

i can't be around a phone

after

a drink or two.

cell phone, pay phone.

hotel phone,

anyone's phone.

i stare at a telephone wire

and want to climb

the pole to hack

in and dial someone up.

i suddenly need to talk,

or text,

or send a picture or an

emoji

to someone that i haven't

seen or heard

from in years.

most of whom wouldn't

pour a glass of water

on me, if i was on fire.

i have no control over

my fingers.

i have the will power

of an infant when it comes

to sentimental feelings

set loose under

the delusion of a gin and tonic.

my undying devotion

and love

rises to the surface

like a dead body

under water.

here take my phone.

take the battery out and put

it where i can't see it.

tie my hands behind my

back and gag me until

i come to my senses.

the hot tub

i ponder the hot tub,

perusing the multitude

of choices

online.

everybody and their sister

sells them

now. walmart, home depot.

i think even

the grocery store is offering

a deal

on one.

but it would be nice,

to come home

snowy cold or summery hot

and soak in the bubbly

commotion of water.

the jacuzzi spray hitting those

sore spots.

perhaps one

built for two, or three

or five?

an odd number seems odd.

two just right

in case love is in the air

or too many white russians

have been consumed.

i envision a built in

little bar for ice and beverages.

music.

some party lights strung around.

but what about the neighbors

and their

spying eyes.

i'm already on the hot seat

with the board

and their coven of witches.

i never should have painted the front

door red.

they definitely won't

be invited over

on opening day, not even if

they beg.

drinking hose water

was there anything worse

than

drinking water

out of a garden

hose

on a steamy summer day.

tired and dying

of thirst

having been playing

ball in the field

where there was no fountain.

it was impossible

to wait

for the taste to change,

for the water to become

cold

not lukewarm like

it was 

as it sputtered out.

we ate a lot of bugs

in the summer.

got gnats in our eyes

and ears,

got stung by a lot bees,

and 

chiggers got under

our skin.

but that hose water was

the worst.

one day

if i could do it all again.

i would.

i'd say things differently

not

do things

that i'll regret to the end.

but there

is no

turning back, no time machine.

there is

only change,

only

hope

that one day we will be

friends.

a string of summers

there were a string of summers

when we were young.

the wet grass under our bare feet

in the cool of night.

the fire flies we'd capture

in mason jars.

the lamp posts gleaming

yellow as we

ran between chalked lines

on the black top street.

parents on the porches, it was

too hot to be inside.

fanning themselves,

with drinks in hand.

discussing their complex lives.

the hydrants set free sending

fountains of water upon us.

we'd lie on our backs with strands

of weeds between our

teeth and stare up at the stars,

pointing at the comets

flashing by.  it was before so much

in our life was to take place.

the first love, the first heartbreak.

it was when everyone you knew

and cared about was still alive.

was still a door away, a call

upon the phone. a letter sent

their way.