the inquisition

before we make love with

the lights dimmed,

the candles lit,

the wine poured.

the music on.

she says

tell me about yourself.

really, i say out loud.

right now?

what?

i just need to know a little

bit more about you.

who you are, what makes

you you.

what makes you tick.

i sigh. okay.

what?

what do you want to know.

where were you born.

i tell her.

where did you go to school

i tell her.

how many brothers and sisters

do you have?

i tell her.

tell me about your parents.

i tell her that too.

what's your favorite color?

blue.

what about your last

relationship.

i turn the light on.

is that the last question, please

tell me that it is,

because if not

i think we're through.

brain food

it's a small pink slab

of fish.

salmon

from somewhere.

perhaps the north atlantic

or the pacific,

who's to know these

things.

a wet farm

in minnesota, perhaps,

but i let it rest in olive

oil

as i turn the burner

on.

i season it lightly.

i laugh when i think of

friends in high school

ordering fish fillets at the window

claiming that

fish is brain food.

how stoned we were.

how stoned they probably still are.

i turn the fish over.

then lightly smooth a coat of

brown

mustard against it's side,

then eat.

into the mystic

i listen long into the afternoon

to van morrison.

veedon fleece.

into the mystic,

brown eyed girl.

i let his words and music

pass

over me

as i lie in the winter

light.

a white

brush of shadow from

the doubt

filled sun.

i nearly fall asleep to his

poetry, but it's too soon

for that.

i'll wait for a moon to

show

itself

and then.

as she begins to write

my poetry

professor. Neva

is closing in on ninety.

she loves

to write, loves to read

her poetry

to a crowd

of one, or two.

more than that is a

delight.

she's clean and precise

with her words.

paring down

the lines, tightening

up the rhymes.

we're so different

in style,

and subject matter,

her and i, which is fine.

and as i hold her book in my

hands tonight

i wonder if she's well.

i wonder what new thoughts

will

leave her heart

as she begins to write.

saturday afternoons

on saturdays

it wasn't uncommon

to

see men

lying beneath their cars

in their under shirts,

or bent over the engine

with the hood up.

a cold Ballantine

nearby.

a radio playing

with the baseball game

on.

the car under a shady

tree

after being washed

and waxed.

the hubcaps gleaming

with a reflective

shine.

it' was a different era.

a different time.

they might of had a

date that night at 

the drive-in.

or a ride around town

with buddies

or girls that may or may

not have been

girlfriends.

it seemed different then.

time felt slower.

the world spun

at a different pace.

we actually talked on

the phone back then.

we said we were sorry.

then tried again.

some people

i see 

my neighbor dr.

fauci

out on his lawn raking leaves.

i yell

out the window.

hey, hey. Anthony,

shouldn't you be

working

on that vaccine?

he gives me the one hand salute

and continues on.

which one is best, i yell

out.

should we wait until

we see what the side effects are?

i'm not going to go blind

or break out in a rash

if i get the shot, am I?

which arm is best?

do you blame the Chinese?

he looks up

and says. leave me alone.

can't you see i'm busy.

hey, why aren't you wearing

your mask, i ask him.

i have an extra one if you need

it.

i can toss it down.  red or blue?

at this point he picks up a rock

and throws it towards

my window, but it only goes

about three feet.

geeze marie.

okay, grumpy. i'll

leave you alone.

some people.

i want to get to know you better

i want to get to know

you better

she said.

i cringed. really?

is that really what you want?

why,

why me?

because i like you.

i think you're sweet.

i sighed.

i shifted my legs,

squirmed in my seat.

so where

should i begin, i asked

her.

from the beginning,

she said. tell me everything.

so i opened my mouth,

i began

to bleed.

people would ask

people would ask, 

what happened.

please

tell me

your story.

i have time.

sit. sit.

tell me why and how

it ended.

and i would babble on

incessantly about

it.

the details.

the confusion,

the madness of it all.

but then i stopped.

suddenly,

all was

well

and there was nothing

left to tell.

making other plans

i think about Italy.

my mother's

land.

florence and rome,

venice.

i think about going there

for lunch

or dinner,

but because of the distance

and the time

i make other plans.

i take out

a frozen tv

dinner and set it in

the oven.

making the nest

there was a time

when you fixed the house.

made a nest as birds do.

twigs

and branches,

soft feathers.

you arranged things no

longer

for one,

but two.

you made it a home

for

one more to fit, to sit

by the fire

and dream with.

warm

in the comfort of

the nest, a home

for both,

at last nothing more

to do.

reflection in a store glass window

you catch a glimpse

of yourself

in the plate glass window

of a store

near

christmas.

behind the glare

is a tree, the lights.

a train circling.

there's claus, there's snow

and ice

there's a reindeer too

pulling a sled

throughout

the night. but it's it not

all that

that you ponder

and stare at,

it's you,

you alone, bundled tight

against the cold

that catches your eye.

lost in the metaphor

i find myself comparing

love to just

about anything.

i've lost my metaphorical 

mind.

love is an apple,

a peach.

it's a rock, a tree.

it's a stream.

love is a star, a moon,

a galaxy

far away.

an ocean, a sea.

love is meat.

it's pudding. it's candy.

a pie, a cake.

it's a fire burning,

it's ashes,

it's smoke. it's bitter

and sour.

love costs everything.

it's free.

i sit on the porch

i wait for her

to come home. i sit on the porch

with the dog.

dinner is on the stove.

i wait.

i watch the sun slip behind

the trees.

a neighbor passes,

we wave.

it's getting cold, but i know

she's running late.

i trust her. i believe in her.

i pull my collar

up and whistle.

the street lamps go on,

with a glow

of pink.

the dog looks up into 

my eyes.

he's tired of waiting.

he wants to go in,

and despite my tears,

not me.

things will change, you'll see

we often stay

too long

at the fair.

cliche, i know, but true.

we stay

too long in jobs

we should have quit

a long time ago.

we stay in marriages,

in relationships,

in houses

that don't serve us well.

we stay

because, why.

fear, doubt, the anxiety

of being alone?

we are stuck, unable to

move on, so

we stay.

and pretend that all is well,

we can make

this work.

it's fine. it's okay.

things will change, you'll

see,

some day.

do you know me?

she says

i've been a daughter,

a sister,

a mother,

a wife, now three times.

a widow twice.

i've

been a student,

i've been a child

picking strawberries,

fifty cents

per pint.

i've been

forty years old,

but i'm ten years

passed that now.

i've been a waitress.

a cook,

a maid. i've taken

my clothes off and danced

on a stage.

i've worked in retail.

i've made dresses.

i've stood on the corner

with a sign

to earn

money for a meal.

i've worked at the zoo.

in offices.

i've been a secretary,

a librarian. i've been so

many things.

but not once has anyone

truly known me, who

i am inside.

will you?

the apple martini

after i get the fire going.

i mix

up an apple martini

my old

go to

drink when  carousing 

the streets

like a lone

wolf,

howling,

looking for something

that might

resemble love.

just one though.

drinking alone seems

pointless.

there's no one there

to take in

the witty things you'll say,

there's no one there

to get closer to,

to convince to

stay over. there's bad

weather out

there tonight, my love,

i think

it's best you stay,

my dear.

motherly care

kids

don't care. gum

in their hair,

chocolate

on their lips.

jackets un zipped

out in the snow.

mittens lost

as they sled down

the hill

in frightening speeds.

the little toes that froze.

they don't care.

they've got

a mother in the window.

shaking her

head. looking out.

she's always there for

the bumps

and bruises,

at this age, and for

the broken hearts

when old.

what would be the point

it's not really a conversation,

a talk.

it's not

a meeting of the minds,

or hearts,

or a discussion

about the state

of things.

there is no back and forth.

no

argument pours 

out of either 

mouth.

no final words are said,

there is

nothing to resemble

closure.

and why should there be,

what would

be the point.

we just sit there 

awkwardly and listen

to the wind

outside.

not even mentioning

that

in passing.

it's five o'clock somewhere

when the neighbors move

i think

about buying their house too.

knocking a hole

in the wall

and having an extra house

to go to.

my winter house, perhaps.

a getaway of sorts.

i'll decorate it like

the florida keys.

all blue and white,

with pastel pinks and greens.

i'll put big leafy plants

everywhere, and

chairs to lounge around

in.  i'll put sand on all

the floors and have

jimmy buffett playing

24/7. the blender

will be going all day long

with tropical drinks.

i'll put a sign up

for happy hour

saying no shoes, no clothes,

just bathing suits,

better service.

it's five o'clock somewhere.

the enormous key ring

i see

how some people have a giant

key

ring attached

to a loop in

their jeans.

twenty or thirty keys

of all

shapes and sizes

jangle

as they move about.

they seem important.

that a lot of people

depend upon them

to get in and out of places.

i want to ask them

what each key is

for.

their purpose. what

locks

do they open. what gate,

what safe,

what door.

i take my own set of

keys out.

just three.

maybe i need more

things to open,

and lock up.

i think about getting

more.

the white feather

they say

that if you find a feather,

a white

feather

on your clothes it means

that someone

is fondly thinking of you

so i take my pillow

and shake it about

the room.

feathers are everywhere,

floating about,

and now

i know she's thinking

of me too.

let me show you my etchings

tell me about yourself, she says.

interviewing me

as a potential relationship,

on a zoom call.

i'm in my pajamas and

having a martini at nine o'clock

in the morning.

well. i say. for starters,

i'm very ambitious.

i have seven  resumes out

right now.

i like to cook as you can see.

i show her my plate of 

scrambled eggs, with cheese

on them.

i'm strong too. i reach over

and pick up my daschund

and put him over my head.

he  starts barking so i put

him down.

i'm loyal and true. smart

and i clean up well. don't let

this screen fool you. i haven't

shaved or taken a shower

in a while. i've been binging

on netflix.  but i bring a lot

to the table.

i've been acquitted of all

charges and i'm almost done

with therapy.

people call me the whole

package. i laugh a little here,

but the screen goes dead

before i can show her

my etchings.

speaking with a british accent

when i was in the insane

asylum

for a short visit

i used to chew on the straps

trying to

free myself from the straight

jacket

that was wrapped tightly

around my body.

i was continually talking

in a british accent

and thinking i was winston

churchill.

the endless book i was reading

finally got to me.

i was saying things like

damn the torpedoes and

there is nothing to fear but

fear itself.

things he didn't even say.

we'll fight them on the shores,

on the land.

on the sea i'd yell out

while standing in line

for coffee.

in time after some electro

shock therapy

and industrial strength

pills i came back around.

i do keep talking in a british

accent though.

which pleases some people

and annoys others.

the unknown gift

there's  a box on the porch.

wrapped in red shiny paper.

a white bow.

it's big enough to shake, so

i pick it up and do so.

i shake it, turn it, toss it in

the air

and catch it before it

hits the ground.

no bark, no meow, so i say

whew. but there is a slight

ticking.

what could it be, who left

it here in the dead of night.

who has sent me an early

present, there's no return

address

or card, or note to tell me

where it could be from.

i bring it in and set it under

the tree

with the others.

all ticking slowly. i wonder

who

could  be my mysterious

and sweet sugar plum.

the potted plant

i wilt,

i bend, i cringe,

when the sun

slips

under.

i thirst for water.

i am a potted plant

on the sill

store bought,

unloved

and forgotten

for days at a time.

i was picked from a stand

of others,

carried in with

open arms.

turned

this way and that. 

sweet talked

and sprayed.

set kindly

in the sun or shade.

tucked in a pretty home,

in a fancy vase

and now.

a cigarette butt

resides beside me.

a beer tab.

a wad of gum.

an insect

nibbles at my arms.

it's sad to be in this

shape,

forgotten and alone.

christmas jewelry

i remember those gift shopping

days

at the mall

or Tiffanys,

or 

a store i can't pronounce

along the way.

peering into glass cases, staring into

the bright

glare of jewelry lined

up like

a treasure chest.

a queenly array.

what's her style.

what would she like, what have

i seen her wear.

earrings perhaps,

another

bracelet, something silver, or gold.

no, maybe black.

a ring engraved.

 diamonds. what size,

what shape.

round, or square, oval

or pear?

how much

is love worth?

i don't miss those days trying to

make

myself happy

by making others happy

with things.

with bling

tossed into a drawer after

christmas day 

after the love has ended

and

they've gone away..

gift wrapped, please

i prefer the store

to wrap

gifts

that i buy.

i have no skills with the scissors

the paper

despite

hanging wallpaper

for most

of my

unnatural life.

i can't tie a bow, or a ribbon.

i cant

bend a seam, or

fold

or cut

the paper right.

so i hand it to the lady

behind

the desk

and she smiles at me,

then arches her eyebrows

at the forty

other men

behind me in line.

my dear friends

i go through

my list of favorite poets

and short fiction

writers.

it's not a long list, but

a list

i've

been keeping since the age

of seventeen.

salinger and updike,

cheever.

lorrie moore, of course.

and hemmingway

and Chekov. grace paley

as she stands

ironing.

ray carver gets a nod as well.

joyce carol oates

who can't stop writing.

and then

there's bukowski who lines

my shelves

with his whoring

and

booze

and occasional gems.

sylvia and anne sexton.

deadly

and dead, but oh my

how brilliantly they flew.

elizabeth bishop if only

for That Fish she caught so

wonderfully

with her famous

pen.

phillip larkin.

Mark Strand. phillip

Levine who mined the working

class.

so many to  mention that i

go back to

when i run dry, time and time

again.

St. Bernadette's Christmas Trees

the church

has trees again this year.

St. Bernadette's.

i walk over to the parking

lot

and tip my hat to the priest

who runs the show.

haven't seen you in church for

awhile

he says.

and i tell him.

i know. i know.

so.

i'm looking for a six foot spruce,

something

with a full body,

i tell him.

i have just the spot for it

in the middle of the room.

something plump

that smells

good.

a tree with sap on the stump.

soft needles.

wide at bottom.

wide enough

for a train and snow blankets.

and gifts

to fit below.

i show him a handful green

cash and he leads

me to my tree.

it's been waiting for you, he

says. i stand back and say.

yup. she's the one.

i take a flask of southern comfort

from my heavy

coat and take a sip.

he says, may I and i say yes.

handing it to him.

go ahead, i tell him, finish the rest.

and here's fifty for a tip,

peace be with you Father.

and 

all the best.

see you at mass on sunday,

he says.

maybe, i say. maybe. but

don't hold your breath.

to the playground

she worships

her grandchildren while

her own

life slips away.

she has no time for romance,

for a man

in her life.

she's happy

this way.

to sit and color, off to

the playground

to the swings and slide

to play.

pictures fill her phone,

adorn the walls.

what is there to say.

another day, then off

to work. how quickly

this precious

time slips away.

i'll be seeing you again

he has a cat.

a dog.

a friend in chicago

that he

calls.

he has a book on trains.

he likes

trains.

and stamps

from all over the world.

he wears suspenders

and hats,

wears plaid.

he likes to listen to verna

lynn

on the stereo.

he leaves his boots

by the door,

the umbrella in a rack.

he gets periodicals

in the mail.

he's a grown

man

with a thin mustache,

stuck happily in the past.

i admire that.

don't touch me

she doesn't like germs.

she wipes. he cleans.

the mask is on.

the gloves.

the shoes.

she's got the sprays,

the gels,

a bottle of rubbing

alcohol.

she's a germaphobe 

to the nth

degree.

don't touch me, she

says.

don't come near me.

stay behind the glass.

the door.

the wall.

and this was before

the end of the world began.

now she lives in a sealed

tight can.

free falling

as i fall off this roof.

my life

does not pass in front of me.

instead i wonder what

will i not

be able to do this weekend

once i hit the ground.

will i walk again,

will i bleed out.

will someone find me

a broken shell of who

i used to be.

but i survive, i rise.

i shake the dirt off, wipe

off the wounds.

i collect myself and breathe.

i swing my arms

around, shake my legs.

and laugh a little. 

i wonder what that was

all about.

i've been keep these angels

pretty busy.

the tossed plate

it's shard

of a plate cast downward

into the woods.

was it thrown

was it broken before it

flew out the window

past the gate.

was it

the meal served upon

it's porcelain

face

that set the wheel

in motion,

or was it anger of a different

kind.

the food gone cold.

someone arriving

home

again, late.

a feather in her eye

she says it looks like

a small

thin

feather in my eye.

a tiny

touch

of a bird's wing

cast aside.

and what does a feather mean?

she asks.

it means in fact,

i tell her, that someone

is thinking of

you near by.

slow dancing

in the quiet of  night

we slow dance

in the kitchen

moving from side to side.

arms around

each other.

we say nothing.

for what is there to be said,

when you

the person you love,

is there

forever, the light of

your life.

the oasis

i pull the blankets up to my chin.

the bed is an oasis

of warmth.

do i really have to get up and

go to work

again.

am i dreaming.

am i awake?

i reach over to tell my significant

other

to get up.

the alarm didn't go off.

but she's already downstairs

in

the kitchen. rattling

pans

and dishes, doing all the mysterious

things, she does.

i close my eyes and try to return

to the dream i was having.

but to no avail. i give in.

i get up.

oh, well.

dead lines

the light goes

on to remind you to change the oil.

the smoke

alarm beeps.

you read the label on the side

of the milk carton,

expired, it reads.

you have three days left

to renew

your license.

to file your taxes.

to pay

the phone bill. you will

turn into

a pumpkin if you aren't

home

by midnight.

the flashlight is weak.

ten days until christmas.

when was the last time you

had a tetanus shot

your doctor asks, pulling a

thumbtack

from your foot.

the toilet leaks.

tuesday

she says

i'll be your tuesday gal.

your

lover to start the week.

no strings

attached, no worries, no

need to pack

a bag.

i'll come and go

just as we please,

it will be fun

and games,

no promises to keep.

we'll see how it goes.

no drama

no guilt.

but what about saturday?

she

says, pausing,

getting dressed and

ready to leave.

there are seven days to

every week.

spilled milk

i'm still upset

by

spilled milk.

i haven't been able

to get over

it for quite some time.

so easily the glass

has tipped

and out it came.

flowing down,

dripping out.

puddling white upon

the floor.

things will never be

the  same again

i worry. i can't sleep

at night.

i'm full of doubt, scared

to pour

even a single drop

more.

i wanted her to be a rose

i wanted her

to be a rose, to always

be that fragrant,

that beautiful

those petals open,

held to my lips

and nose.

i wanted her to be fresh

and full of beauty,

all day

all night.

feeling the softness

of her skin.

never fading, never

blue,

always blossoming

never to turn

brown

and limp, never dying,

never old,

but new. i wanted her

to be a rose,

a flower in hand.

my last will and testament

i think everything

might be

a tumor.

cancer.

the end.  this bruise

has been

around for three days.

is it just a headache

from too many martinis, or

is this it?

i've got the mayo

clinic on speed dial.

web md is on my phone.

maybe i need an x-ray,

an MRI,

a transfusion. maybe i need

a televangelist to slap me

upside the head

and make it all better.

i get a piece of paper out

and begin

to write

my will.

i put my son's name at the top,

i'll give him

nearly everything.

even though he forgot my

birthday last year.

then betty.

i wonder if she remembers me.

she can have whatever hasn't

spoiled in my

refrigerator

after they find me in a heap

with a piece

of paper in my hand

showing all my passwords.

maybe i'll give a thousand dollars

to everyone

i can think of.

even people that i don't like.

that will make them scratch their heads.

i can't think

of what else to do with

all this stuff, this money.

these things i've accumulated by

hard work

and saving. a tumor? what a 

waste of time

it all seems to have been.

i like winter

i like winter.

bring me cold. 

bring me my shovel

and scrapper to

dig and scrape the snow

and ice.

i wrap my arms around

the gale

force wind. the flickering

lights.

the bleak night.

give me matches to light

the candles,

more wood for the fire.

i like this season 

of darkness.

of grey limbs, of leafless

trees

of

hovering around

a fire rubbing my

gloveless hands together,

i like being deep into

this season

after the gaiety has ended.

being hungry.

being alone.

being loveless and new born.

it's all a delight.

the reasons why you aren't happy with your life

i hear conflicting

thoughts

on why we suffer, why we aren't

right,

whole and good

with the world,

with life.

it's not your job, your

kids,

your husband or wife, no,

it's attachments

to things, and people.

another pair of shoes just

won't cut it, bub.

it's control, no wait  minute

every problem

is a spiritual problem.

get on your soft knees and pray.

it's because we haven't

surrendered.

i listen to hawkins, and gannon,

the catholic channel,

eckhart tolle.

i have a book of quotes from

Mother Theresa,

and Oprah.

does Dr. Phil know?

Buddha, maybe, let's see what

he has to say.

do it my way and see

they all shout,

buy the book, the seminar,

the week

in Vermont with real

maple syrup and pancakes.

mediate, 

take salt baths, 

free your mind.

the truth will eventually,

maybe not today, or tomorrow,

but in time,

give it time, it will

set you free. 

you'll feel better about

your screwed up life.

you may even elevate,

fly gaily on

a magic carpet and never

die.

listening to allison young

i listen

to the gershwin song.

we'll meet again someday.

some sunny day,

on some sunny shore.

it's soft and blue, a lilting

cover

by this talent

i've stumbled onto.

i know the words.

i know

the tune.

i've sung it so many times.

and this sweet young

girl

singing it now

for the world to hear.

is she old enough to know

this

feeling too?

winter fruit

the winter fruit

is sour.

is without sweetness,

that summer

juice.

too soon off the vine.

the peaches are hard.

the grapes

have no taste.

nothing is ripe, nothing

is what it

was in spring.

everything is out of season.

i think you know where

i'm going here.

woman in the window

i remember

staring into a painting

by edwin hopper

at the gallery downtown.

the starkness

of it all.

the dull light of neon

from

a bar

below.

an empty street. a woman

in a red

dress at the window.

leaning

out.

her body loose with

desire,

staring  at no one.

at nothing.

at everything.

the pastry in the window

i wait for the bakery

to open.

i see behind the window

a new

confection.

a pastry, something 

beautiful

behind the glass.

she's different

by design. elegant

and sweet.

but  i only see one,

no more.

i'd be foolish to let

this moment pass.

i can almost taste her

on my lips,

the cream upon my tongue,

it doesn't matter one bit

that i've had

this feeling before.

the dry well

i go to the well and drop

the bucket down.

it strikes rock.

no splash

no drop of water

found.

i pull it up.

i'll try again tomorrow.

my thirst for love

is endless,

as i smile at the growing

clouds.

when we come to our end

i have little use

for

some.

those of small talk, those

who

babble

on about every and anything

under the sun.

they profess to know

and know

and know.

i can't unhear

what they say, once said.

i am out

of tune, out of touch

with that

crowd.

please

don't bother to explain

the world

to me again.

i knew it before i met you,

and i'll know it

even better 

when at last we come

to our exhausting end.

will there ever be more

tired of being tired.

of thinking.

of over thinking.

slugging past the swamp

of past love.

where

are the blue skies.

the dreamy

nights.

the music, the laughter

of youth.

where are the days

of yore.

the days

of friends in pubs,

with pints.

with irish lasses,

with lips

like roses,

to be kissed in

the alleyways

on cobblestones

as we stagger home.

where is the glory

of our

younger selves.

have our yesterdays

all gone, disappeared

in the fog of time,

will there

ever be more.

it's a shovel we use

it's a shovel

of dirt, a prayer bent

over

the open grave,

the flowers

thrown upon the box.

the stone set on

the marker.

there are no mourners

no tears, no soft

parade.

some come

and go as if they were

never here.

never known,

never

to have won or lost,

or to even

have played.

it's a shovel we use

to bury

these dead,

to knock the mud

and dirt

from our boots,

then go on about our

day.

it's going to be a bumpy ride

they say a cat has nine

lives.

i believe it.

i'm on my ninth as well.

i have my seat belt on

for this one,

because i know from

past

experiences.

it's going to be a bumpy

ride.

what is this?

she sniffed at the food

on her plate,

used her fork to move

things around, she

sipped carefully at the bottled

water,

not a crumb

or spoonful of anything touched

her lips.

she was wary and paranoid

of the meal.

of my intentions.

which were none.

but she inspected the food,

thinking the worst.

that she'd end up in pieces

in

a new jersey swamp or field.

oh well.

left overs for a week, for me.

the pet store window

the unwanted cat

or dog

or pet in the store window

is a sad

sight to see.

you want to buy them all

and set

them free.

the tortoise, the rabbit,

the snake.

a goat? please.

just let them go,

unleashed, untethered,

unboxed, 

put them out on the streets

and let

them take

their chances.

like we do.

we change our minds

we change our minds.

which is human.

fine.

to come and go as we wish is

okay.

your life

to do as you please.

we are essentially

free

despite all that holds

us down.

we decide

our day, our night.

we are in the revolving door

of life,

waiting

for when

the moment is right

to leave

or enter.

we change our minds,

which is human.

which is fine.

the late night visitors

at night, late at night

on the other

side

of midnight

when the ghosts arrive.

when the voices

begin,

the footsteps,

the whispers, that's when

i start

to toss and turn.

i move the pillows

around

to the cold side, i

peek out the window,

raising a single slat

on the blinds.

i see the fat moon,

with a wink in his eye.

i see someone on a broom.

i hear chains rattling.

i hear

the sound of someone making

love

to no one.

i hear music.

dancing. the clink of glasses.

i hear the others that have

come and gone

from this old house.

the dead, the living.

lovers,

and friends.

i hear the door

shut as they leave,

as they

all together go out.

it's a nightly trend.

things to never do

if you play music

and are a rising star, or almost

a star

never get on a small plane.

never drink the water south of the border.

never

believe that the check

is in the mail.

never trust someone who

says,  it's okay, i've

been tested.

never say i do, unless you mean

it.

never say have a nice day, or

namaste.

never jump out of a perfectly reliable

plane.

never answer the phone after eleven

pm. it's never good.

never put your head inside an alligator's

mouth

or a lion's or any

animal, for that matter.

never buy

a used car from someone in

a checkered suit

with spinach in their teeth.

never eat turkish food

from a food truck,

or eat

in a food court at the mall.

never stay in a motel that has

vibrating beds

or charge by the hour.

never trust anyone that winks

at you.

never ride a donkey up

the steps of Santorini.

never give out your credit card number

to anyone on the phone,

not even your mother.

never say i'll call, and then don't.

never sit next to someone coughing

and asking

if the wound on their

arm

looks infected.

never look into a woman's purse

or worse

her medicine cabinet.

never lie,

never cheat

never steal.

never fall in love.

never say never.

love at the coffee shop

i see her looking at me.

just a glance.

she's very pretty.

i look her way, she looks

away.

i think about

going over to her and

introducing myself.

i don't see a ring.

is she too young for me

though?

she's awful pretty.

that hair,

those eyes. i begin making

life long plans

for the both of us.

she looks again, but this

time she points at

her  blouse.

i point at my shirt, as if

to say, me.

you want me?

she makes a circular

motion with her fingers,

which i figure

means i love you

in sign language

or something like

that.

then i look down

and see the coffee stain

on my shirt.

the lid on my cup is loose

and has been leaking

everywhere.

my heart is broken, once

more.

becoming shorter

i feel shorter today.

by just a mere half inch or so.

i think

my bones

are begging to crumble

or go soft.

i feel heavier too,

as if 

i've eaten too much food

over the holiday.

i'm becoming someone i don't

want to be.

a human gumdrop,

and yet.

in some strange way.

it's really

okay.

bugging out

i'm going to miss

the virus

once the vaccine rains

from the sky.

covid.

the pandemic.

it sort of made sense of things.

how easily

we can

get sick and die.

how quickly

life slips out of our hand

no matter

how many times

you wash them,

or put the mask on.

or distance yourself

with a yard stick.

i'll miss the daily

death count,

the sick count.in bright

bold numbers on the screen.

the maudlin faces of

the reporters, shaking their

heads

and sighing as they make

a comparison

of countries,

who's the sickest now.

will there be a recount/

i'll miss

the fear mongering.

the pointing of fingers

the politics of it all.

who's fault it is,

trying to figure out

who let the bug out of the jar.

and how do we get

it back in.

where's the next job?

after they operated on jake's

brain

pulling out

what they could

of tumors

and cancer,

he lay there in the hospital

bed

and told

me he'd be back to work

on monday.

just as soon as they get

me out of here,

and take these needles,

out of my veins,

i'm good to go.

i haven't had a cigarette

and a drink in over

a week. so

where's the next job?

pick me up at 8?

the old sweater

you pull

the thread on the old sweater

how easily

it all unravels and we see

how cheaply

it was made,

how thread bare

it really is.

from a distance it looked fine,

it might even

keep you warm at night,

but this one

loose thread,

pulled and pulled made

you realize

that it had its time.

it has nothing to do with luck

you're lucky, she tells me. so

so

lucky.

look at all you have.

so much.

your house,

your cars,

the money in the bank.

you have

everything

you've ever wanted

and more.

you're so lucky

to be where you are.

and then i turn my hands

to her and open

them. for her to

see the scars,

the wounds from today,

fresh with blood,

the callouses of decades.

i open them flat

upon the table

to show her

that it has nothing to do

with luck

at all.

we had some laughs

i hear her voice

on the line.

it's whispery and distant.

come home, i tell her. you've

been away

too long.

i miss you. 

i ache for you

to be in

my arms again.

she begins to cry.

i can't she says.

i've met someone.

i've fallen in love and won't

be coming back.

i'm sorry.

i'm really sorry. but it's

nothing to do

with you.

it's me.

it's always been about me.

i'm sorry that it had

to end this way. i really am,

but you'll be fine.

you'll find someone new,

you're a wonderful person.

remember that.

and yes, i know we had 

some laughs.

the beautiful child

she was a beautiful child

before

life

took hold

of her. before

mistakes

were made. before the storms

arrived.

those eyes.

those arms. that hair,

so brown

and bright.

how life takes hold of

all of us

if you live long enough.

like water

changing 

the river bank, time

and circumstances

has their way on us.

aging us.

reminding us of who

we once were.

lineless

and beautiful.

innocent

flowers just risen from

earth.

that's a good thing

when i look 

out the window

and see

the cold

white splash of moon

upon

the wide

stream

rolling with new rain.

i'm grateful.

not full of joy,

not full of happiness,

not thrilled to be where

i am at this point.

but grateful

just the same,

and that's a start.

that's a good thing.

treading water

there were years

when i was invisible.

punching the clock in a lifeless

job

coming home to

a loveless marriage.

a garden of roses gave me

no joy.

i hung a picture on the wall

without measuring.

i listened to the clock tick

and wrote nothing.

there was no salt

in anything. no spice.

sugar was a thing of the past.

i was invisible.

walking about unseen, unheard.

treading water in the Sargasso sea.

uncertain about so much

in my life.

i wondered often 

when i'd

be alive again.

would that chance present itself

once more.

and luckily it did. 

i fell asleep on the train

i fell asleep on the train 

heading home

and missed my stop.

i didn't hear the whistle,

i didn't hear

the conductor's voice,

i didn't hear the wheels come

to a halt.,

the bustle of passengers

departing.

i was asleep,

sound asleep. the kind of sleep

i used to have when i was a child

in

northern Spain,

the sky ceruleasn..

the Pyrenees off

in the distance

like thoughts waiting

their turn.

when i awoke, i smiled.

not knowing

where i was or how i would

return.

but things were

fine.

things at last were good

again.

sleepy time yo

i force myself to keep reading

my book

about churchill

the bombing of great britain.

the war may have been shorter

than the time

it's taking me to get to the end

of this tome.

they haven't even

bombed pearl

harbor yet.  

but i order more books

and stack them up on the nightstand

to prompt me on.

to push me forward.

it's just that after three pages

about

winston, talking about

his baths

his dogs, his drinking, his 

temper

and humor

and how he chewed his cigars

i'm out like a light

in no time. i'm nearly off

my trolley

with this book.

get the hell off my lawn

everyone

seems younger. the cop.

the clerk.

the priest. teachers and lawyers.

the news people on tv.

where are all the old people.

even my

friends have

suddenly become old.

please

don't call me sir.

please don't call me mister

so and so.

no need to hold that door.

or help

me with my bags.

get out of my way

you little whipper snappers.

get off my lawn.

i'm here, i'm forever young.

i'm here to stay.

is it real love?

don't keep acting 

like you really

love me if you don't

i tell her

when i come home

from work, taking my

coat off,

setting my brief case down.

her big brown eyes

flash wildly

in the foyer light

as she kisses my face..

she's all over me

as she shimmies and shakes.

she's absolutely

beautiful, a sight to see, but

is she gaslighting me,

is this love real?

i'm such a sucker for

affection these days.

okay, okay. i tell her.

giving in and finally

believing her in that last

sloppy kiss.

let's go get your leash

and go for a walk, 

a long walk around the lake,

i know

you've been stuck

inside all day.

and maybe when we

come back

i'll give you a treat.

and by the way,

that tail is going to fall

off if you keep

wagging it like that.

leaking toilets

i take a wrench to the leaking

toilet.

not sure if i turn right or left.

it turns.

it leaks more.  a puddle forms.

my sleeves are wet.

i say several words that surprise me.

and get up

from

lying down like a drunken bum

from under the tank.

i pull myself up trying not to

slip in

the water spitting furiously

from the pipe.

i find the main valve and turn

it off.

i shut

the door and look at my watch.

my god.

it's happy hour. i fix a martini,

then text mike

the plumber.

i'll leave a thousand dollars

on the table i tell

him. key under the mat.

if that's not enough. let me

know.

alfredo sauce

i have limited skills in the

kitchen.

i admit that.

martinis have never been

an issue, but

i've got the basics down.

pasta

fish, meat.

scrambled eggs.

occasionally i'll step it up

and make

alfredo sauce

from scratch and pour it

onto

a steamy plate of fettuccine.

that's basically a moon landing

for me.

i'm much better in other

rooms, although folding laundry,

especially the fitted sheet

is an impossible task.

and then there are other days

i go through a phase

where i trust everyone.

each

soul

that comes my way.

a hand shake,

a smile, a contract made

as a name

is signed on the dotted 

line.

a kiss received is sincere

and real,

lips puckered

and fine.

i feel that they are good

souls, people

who would never hurt

a fly,

or lie,

or do anything that could

alter my way

of thinking about

their unknown lives.

and then there are

other days.

quit nagging me

i tell myself

to get up and get going.

what are you going to do, sit

here all

day

drinking coffee and eating

cinnamon toast?

come on brother, get a move on.

giddyup.

there's work to do.

i look out the window.

it's raining.

it feels cold. i can hear the wind.

i don't know what to wear.

jeans,

shorts.

maybe i'll just leave the house

in my

bathrobe and slippers.

it feels like

that kind of day.

okay. i tell myself, ten more

minutes, then i'm

going to take a shower,

brush my teeth

and get going.

so quit nagging me.

you get three wishes

i find an old bottle

in the attic.

left over by someone

who lived here

years ago.

it's more of a lamp

than a bottle.

i give it a rub

to wipe the dust off

and out comes a Genie.

who are you, he says.

where's Mildred?

i don't know i tell him.

i think she's probably

dead.

oh, he says, rubbing

his eyes.

i've been asleep for

a long long time.

but you know the drill.

you get three wishes.

that's nice i tell him.

his arms are folded

and he's wearing a turban.

with a big jewel

in the center of the purple

wrap.

three wishes? i tell him.

yes.

can i think about this

for  day or two.

is that your wish?

no, no...don't try and trick

me.

what did Mildred wish for.

hmmm. he says, hand

on his chin.

well, she wanted a new

boyfriend, she loved the mailman,

so i set that up.

complete disaster.

he had more girlfriends on

his route than you

can shake a stick at.

then she wanted

a cat,

and then she wanted to learn

out to crotchet really fast

to make her friends 

jealous when they came

over to have tea and a chat.

where's the cat?

the boyfriend?

i don't know, he says, these

things rarely work out

for good.

so my advice is to keep it

simple. don't go for emotional

things like

love, or peace and harmony.

feed the world, all 

that liberal malarkey.

it never works out the way

you think it will.

go for money.

a boat maybe, or a nice house

in Nantucket.

do you want a nice watch,

something like that?

No.

okay, then what?

okay. i tell him, rubbing my

hands together.

here we go.,

i want a beautiful house

on Nantucket. Unlimited

money and Heidi Klum.

really? he says. that's it?

those are your lame wishes.

Heidi Klum?

i shrug i guess so, no wait.

maybe the ability to go back

into time

whenever i want.

so no Heidi Klum. yeah, forget

her.

okay, he says, bored with the whole

thing. but i like

the go back into

time one, he says.

 that should be interesting.

he shuts his eyes and says

some hocus pocus mumbo

jumbo and then says your

wishes have been granted.

it'll take about a month for

them to happen. sorry, but

it's policy...paperwork. etc.

then he disappears

in a puff of smoke.

we want it now

we want the short line,

the speed pass,

we want

instant coffee, 

the microwave.

we want the screen

to appear, to stop

buffering

and get clear.

instant gratification

is our goal.

we want the third date

on the first date.

we want our

tickets stamped,

our fast food quicker.

we want

our overnight delivery,

our water to boil.

our waitress

to pick it up

as she lingers with

the check.

we want to get out

of here.

get on to the next.

we want the call,

the text.

we have no patience

for the sun

to rise, for the traffic

to move.

we want what we

want and we

want it now.

we are babies in

the crib, whining

on our backs, 

turning blue.

purpose and passion

do we need a purpose?

do we

need that kind

of pressure on our already

difficult lives,

do we need

a plan, a goal, a place

we need to get to,

or can't we just

relax and find peace, find

joy in the simple things

in life, in what we do?

it's more about passion,

i think

than purpose.

let's pretend

let's pretend.

let's sit

and talk.

have a drink. have

tea.

have a chat

along the promenade.

let's pretend we

don't know

each other,

you be Danielle and

i'll be Etienne

let's imagine we're

in paris,

on the left bank.

i have a beret, you

in gucci,

prada

dressed as if for

a parade.

let's laugh in another

language,

let's blow kisses

as we sit

across the small

round table

in this outdoors cafe.

let's fall in love

and stay

where we are, never

leaving

this moment, this day.

the amusement park ride

i hang onto the bar

in front of me

as the rollercoaster climbs

the first

steep hill

upon the tracks,

it feels straight up

as we rise to the clicking

and clack, it's

as if we're going into

the clouds.

there is no turning around,

no point

in looking back..

i feel my heart

pounding.

the sort of feeling i've

had when

falling in love,

when it's all good, all

wonderful.

the clouds are white,

there's a warm

sun above me,

and then it peaks, and

down we go in a blood

curdling scream.

my gut tumbles,

my eyes are wide

with fear

and strange joy,

but not for long, there

are hills, other turns,

other places

to keep the love

strong, to keep it going

and going

until at last the ride stops,

and it's gone.

the barren field

i sit with my therapist in her small

corner office.

a large window

shows the parking lot, the road,

the lights,

a building

being torn down across the barren

field

covered in thin snow.

her books are on the shelf.

her degrees on the wall, a picture

of an ocean.

a picture of trees.

it's neither here or there. this place.

benign and safe.

a womb of sorts.

she looks at me and crosses her

legs. she's very patient, very smart,

she sees what i'm doing.

she waits.

let not a minute waste

you stare at your hand.

there's

a slight tremor, a shake,

a nervous

movement.

as if a small wind

has

pushed

it again and again.

you stare at the lines

on your face.

the smoothness

of your scalp.

you take stock of your

posture your waist.

the slight pain

in your back,

your knee and leg.

time has been neither

cruel nor nice.

but let's turn off the

light and go  forward,

time is fleeting.

let not a minute waste.

we can still be friends, can't we?

we can still be friends,

can't we.

we can still laugh and talk.

meet for lunch.

take a walk.

all is forgiven.

all is not lost.

we can still be friends

can't we.

despite all, it was that 

that brought us together.

nothing more, nothing

less, the shared small things

of life. the connection

of heart and mind.

let's forget the rest.

let's mend the fence,

let's talk.

the neighborhood network

the next door neighborhood

online

forum

is alive with questions.

did anyone hear

that bang last night.

it sounded like

gunfire,

or fireworks.

i heard the post

office is closed.

does anyone know why?

is it covid?

i found a white

cat on my porch, here's my

number if you

want her back.

what's the best way to freeze

left overs?

what kind of snake is this,

picture attached.

has anyone here seen

that white

van driving around?

the police were on my street,

what's up

with that?

i have some old clothes,

that i'll put

on my porch,

shoes, underwear,

my father's old derby hat,

come by and see if any

of them fit.

no direction home

she says glumly.

i'm lost.

i have no direction.

i feel adrift.

the air is cool.

the lake

before us rolls

like a blue

 knitted cloth

of waves.

of birds, of sky.

it's crowded.

but warm enough

to walk.

we find a bench

in the sun.

i have no

purpose she says.

looking towards

the darkening woods.

there is nothing

i can tell her.

there is nothing

new, nothing old,

nothing wise

to say.

but have fun and

enjoy your life.

in time this will all

go away.

you'll be old, you'll

be grey

and you'll wonder why

you spent

so much time

with worry, with dismay.

by george i think i've got it

she fiddles with the lock.

a screw driver

in hand.

a pair of pliers.

she's  in her underwear,

her thick

wool socks

with little christmas

trees

upon them.

she closes the door,

then opens it

back up.

she squeaks a little

oil

onto the hinges,

into the slot. 

at last, she folds

up the paper instructions

and smiles.

by george, she says.

i' think i've got it.

best of friends

best

of friends. 

we see each other off.

we

go our separate ways.

one back

to work, the other

into the clouds,

the grave.

it's the way

the world is,

one leaves, one

stays behind

while the other

finds their end,

such is

this life.

this mystery. this

star filled

night

we live in.

ready for the show

there was an elderly couple

on the subway

beneath new york

who sat apart because

of the crowd.

him in his black overcoat.

his flower

in his lapel.

his hat in hand, a cane.

his boots

gleaming in the flickering

light of a rambling

train.

and she, i suspect his

wife.

across from him. a cat like

smile upon her

face. a gentle aura

of love

between them. each nodding

at each stop.

knowing when to rise

and go, when to hold

each other's arm

and disappear upwards

tickets in his coat pocket,

ready for a show.

her empty plates

i have a stack 

of her dishes.

trays, a pan.

a cup, a saucer.

a plate adorned 

with flowers.

all had arrived with 

something

on them, wrapped

and sealed,

some hot, some cold.

some rich desserts,

others

a dinner, just needing

the oven

to get warm.

but now they're empty,

i've taken care

of that.

they sit by the door

in a paper bag, waiting

to go home.

the complaint department

i write down my list

of grievances

and go down to the local

complaint department.

i see disgruntled

husbands and wives,

children full of sugar

with homework

under their arms. i see

old people

with canes and dogs

that are now their eyes.

i see cops and protestors.

tear gassed and bruised.

dazed and confused.

i see a world of

upset souls,

store owners, bar keeps,

priests in long

robes.

all cold and stone faced,

sharpening their knives.

chomping at the bit

to express their woes.

i look at my list.

it's a short list. just

one thing, just one thing

i want to know.

i've got nothing really

to complain about,

so turn around

and go home.

handle with care

be gentle

with the box. handle with care.

don't rattle

the inside,

don't shake it.

don't

try to know what's in

there.

give it time.

let it age like wine.

she'll come around.

you'll

see.

one day, one day soon,

she'll open up,

again she'll be mine.

sunshine and oranges

they retire

and sell the house.

they quit the fast lane.

take their money

and head

south

where the tax man is kinder.

where

the sun is warmer,

where the ending

will be easier,

life will be less of a pain.

no snow

to shovel

no yard to mow.

no traffic to get stuck in

with no place to go.

it's sunshine

and oranges. it's sand

and surf.

it's a metal detector for

him

a book club for her,

it's where the old folks

go

to live

before they're under

the dirt.

finding a new path

it's the same lake.

the same worn  trail.

the water, the sky, all of it

a familiar

canvas

to fill

my eyes.

the memories of so

many

friends that have

come to pass

are in the stones, the leaves

the weeds,

the grass.

i breathe deeply

as i walk.

stepping over the cords

of vines,

the fallen

trees. the rocks.

the debris of woods.

i'm here every year.

but this year

i realize, that i need

a new path, a new way

to travel on,

and to not look back.

stirring the fire

i put some music on.

some delfonics

some gordon

some

al green

marvin,

teddy, a little jazz.

chet baker,

some old

songs.

mood music for the soul.

i fix a drink

and find

a couch

after stirring the fire,

getting the house

warm.

i'm in no rush. i'm patient

now for all things,

in this life

and the next, with no

lack of

love,

no waning of desire.

i don't expect an answer

i don't expect

an answer.

not a call or text. not a card

in the mail.

not a signal in the sky.

there will

be no tin can

tied

by string to mine.

i don't expect an answer.

but it's

okay.

i've tried.

when i see snow

when i see snow

i think of you.

the same goes for rain.

when i feel cold,

again

you come to mind.

when a summer breeze blows

and the warmth of

sun

lies upon my face.

yes. 

there you are.

i'm waiting for your

departure.

for our season to end.

but

it's taking time,

a long long time,

for you not to be

so near,

but far.

the absence and quiet

i'm surprised

that the mail man hasn't come today.

i take the letters

out of

the door slot and toss

them on the table.

i look out the door, up

the street.

i don't see his truck or

him either,

slouching under

the weight of christmas

coming.

no dogs are barking.

no mail is going out.

or coming in.

his absence worries me.

the absence 

and quiet of anyone

i like

makes me ill at ease.

the curl of her toes

she'd reach

over with her long arm

her long

nails

her long sigh

and say

where.

tell me dear

where does it itch?

direct me to the spot

and i'll

relieve you,

i'll take care of it,

but then it's my turn.

you can

start anywhere,

but be gentle,

go slowly

until you discover

by my smile

and the curl of my

toes,

where it is.

i can't eat another bite

i can't eat

another bite. another slice,

another

chew

of food.

i can't put another fork

near my mouth,

not a crumb

or speck,

not a single

table spoon

of anything from a

dish

or bowl

or tin. please

wheel me away

from this table.

i'm done.

i'm full.

shame it had to end

we used to sit

on the front porch,

remember?

that gentle sway of swing.

we used to talk, or even

better

yet.

not say a word.

a splendid quiet would

come upon us.

suns would rise and fall,

summers

would pass.

winters would

arrive.

we had more than we

would ever need.

ever spend.

we had each other.

sitting on the front

porch.

hand in hand.

shame it had to end.

a shiny new pan to bake on

i buy what i need.

what i want.

what makes me happy.

no more

no less.

if i need sugar.

i put it in the cart.

unsalted butter,

of course.

flour.

vanilla extract,

walnuts,

in pieces, dark

chocolate chunks.

a new shiny pan to bake on.

do you see what

i'm getting at?

a new best friend

you lose a  friend

a best friend.

so you look around for

a new

friend.

someone that gets you.

that understands

what

makes you tick.

what melts your butter

what

pleases you,

what bothers you.

and you understand them too.

a new friend, a best

friend would be

nice

to get through the winter

with.

the hard

times.

the good times.

just one

new friend, with a heart

of gold,

would suffice.

remember the time...

she calls me up,

crying.

i miss you so much, she says.

i miss

everything about you, about

us

about all the fun we had.

she blows

her nose

and takes a deep breath.

remember

that time we went to the beach

and stayed at that great

hotel.

how we rode the horses

along the white

sand.

we made love night and day.

remember that?

room service,

champagne and breakfast

in bed.

remember how we watched the sun

rise

over the ocean

as we sat on the balcony

holding hands.

no. i say.

she's sobbing now. ignoring

that i just said, no.

we had so much fun together.

how you proposed to me

on your bended

knee

and i screamed yes, yes.

yes.

i was so in love with you

and i still am.

ummm. who is this?

it's me. jennie, she says,

blowing her nose onc again.

i'm sorry, but i don't know

any jennies.

who's this? she says. you're

not William?

ummm. no. i think you might

have the wrong number.

oh, she says. oh my.

but, what are you doing later,

i ask her.

you sound like fun.

want to meet for lunch somewhere?

sure, she says. i just need to take

a quick shower

and clean up a little. one hour?

casual wear?

sure. perfect. jeans and a sweater

are fine.

we won't be waiting long

i get in line.

why not?

i have nothing to do

today.

it's a long line, but

it seems to be moving fast.

it wraps

around the block.

we inch forward

in the cold

wind, our hands

in our pockets.

i tap

the man in front of me

on the shoulder.

i ask him

what the line is for.

he shrugs

and says he's not sure.

but it's

moving fast, he

says.

i don't think we'll

be waiting long.

leave it alone

a carved

white stone. let's call it 

the moon

for poetic

sake

is just a sliver

above the trees.

empty and devoid

of life,

but we

stare at it as if

we'd never

seen

the likes of it before.

a symbol of what?

but

for the sake of

poetic

endeavors 

please

leave it alone,

don't go there

anymore.

the dark and the light

there's good

in the world, you can feel that

energy

in certain people.

it's sweet

and light. forgiving

and full

of warmth.

you can see the aura

of goodness,

compassion and empathy.

you want to be around

them,

you want to hold

them tight.

and then

there's the other side.

when you

meet someone and you know

something's wrong,

you feel it.

the darkness,

the shadow. your gut

screams

run. take flight.. it's 

the vibration of someone

lost

and dangerous to your

soul

if you let them in

it will

be a long cold

night.

i can't be your friend anymore

i can't be your friend anymore,

i tell

jimmy, my life long 

friend.

you are too obnoxious,

too political

too narcissistic

and self centered.

it's all about you. you never

ask how i'm doing,

and you always

contradict every single

thing i say.

you think you know everything.

you're a bully

and a misogynist 

a liar and a cheater.

a closet racist.

a person without morals.

so, i'm sorry, but i have

to end this friendship.

so what do you have

to say about that?

he looks at me

and smiles. shrugs.

yeah. i know. but are we

still going out later

for drinks?

pinching pennies

all his pennies would

groan

lincoln

had a grimace on

his bearded

face.

pinched

flatter

than a dime.

his thumb pressing

down

holding

on, holding on.

saving

for what, he wasn't

sure,

perhaps

when the world went

down,

when all things

went awry.

it's not too cold out

it's not

too cold to sit out in

alley

now deemed

the meadow.

it's a ghost town.

hardly

a soul about.

the waitress appears

then

disappears,

masked

and coated

with boots, a hat.

the walls

are painted orange

and blue.

a few stars peek

through

the high brick,

but it's not too cold

to sit out

and talk.

to keep it light

and ignore

a world gone wild.

when dogs run free

when the dog

runs

out the front door,

she looks back

with wild eyes.

free at last.

her tongue out,

her tail

wagging. her fur

a blonde brush

in the wind.

she hops the fence,

and gallops

across the street,

disappears into the woods.

she might

come back.

but the odds are

against

that.

don't wait for me

don't wait for me.

again i'm

late.

no need to look down the street.

it's the traffic,

the rain.

life

getting in the way

of you and me.

no need to wait much

longer.

you deserve better

than this,

and so

do

i. so it's fine,

it's okay

if you decide to leave.

a cup with a hole

you fill your shoes

with your feet,

your day with work,

your belly with food,

you quench your thirst

with drink.

you fill the tub with

hot water

to soothe your wounds,

your tired back.

you fill the time with

books,

with reading,

with writing the next

line

on the next page.

you fill

the void

with a search for true

love

and find maybe.

you fill your soul

with

prayer, with hope

and faith, and yet.

it seems at times you

remain

unfulfilled, a cup

with a hole, perpetually

draining.

the palm reading

i ride by

the old gypsy house on

the way home.

i see Esmeralda on the porch

smoking a cigarette.

there's a u-haul truck out

front.

i pull over and get out.

what's up? i ask her, you moving?

covid, she says. i haven't

given a palm reading

in three months.

damn virus is shutting me

down.

do you need to know the

future?

i haven't packed up my 

tarot  cards or crystal ball

yet.

maybe read your palm?

i'll give you the holdiay

special.

here's a coupon.

sure, i tell her and go sit

beside her

on the porch with her

green eyed black cat.

she takes my hand

and sprays it with some rubbing

alcohol

then stares deeply into the lines.

oh my she says.

what hell has been  going on

with you dude.

she puts out her cigarette and

blows the last puff of smoke

into the air.

yeah, yeah, i tell her.

but tell me the future

forget the past.

geez marie, you have so much

paint and what is that,

caulking, on your hands.

it's hard to get a clear reading.

but from what

i can see

it's pretty damn good.

the rockettes just flashed into

my mind

for some reason.

they're coming to town for

the holidays.

i see you with the rockettes

at the Hilton Hotel.

i give her a twenty

dollar bill.

and tell her good luck.

skipping down the steps.

wait wait, she says, there's

something else. there's more.

stay far away from the red

head. don't go near her.

okay, i yell from the car

as i pull way. got it.

stay away from the red head.

sharing the wealth

i box up my collection

of psychology books. 

self help manuals.

my thick copy of the DSM.

twenty one by last count.

i say goodbye.

carefully putting them into

the large box

then tape it shut.

it's time to share all

that i've learned.

i carry them all to my

therapist's office and find

a seat in the crowded

room. i ring her bell.

she comes out and says

thank you, i'll put these

on my shelf, i'm so 

glad they helped.

do you need to talk.

i tell her no, not today.

not tomorrow. i'm actually

good to go.

but stay tuned, one never

knows.

start here

i feel i'm losing it.

what it is is yet to be determined.

my mind.

perhaps.

my memory.

my ability to run five

miles.

my strength

in lifting small dogs over

my head

or the sunday new york times.

i'm losing things.

my keys.

my wallet.

my friends.

what day of the week is this?

i'm wandering the streets

of new york wondering

where everyone

is.

i'm in central park

looking up into the impossibly

blue sky

and thinking, okay.

start here.

begin once more to live

again.

your best image

we want to know people.

but

not really.

give me your best image.

your best

behavior.

don't tell me about

the cracks

in the foundation, the past,

the awful

present,

the dire future

that's in store for you.

i don't want to hear about

the if onlys,

the buts,

the maybes.

just smile and be pleasant.

that's enough

for now.

it's early, i know, but kiss me

i like an old book, 

dusty,

the cover loose,

a page torn,

dog eared and read

over

and over again.

stained and 

worn.

i like

an old bed, old

music.

an old friend.

i like what i know,

what

brings me comfort.

the old car

in the drive way,

how it starts up so easily

on a cold

morning.

not unlike you my love.

it's early i know,

but kiss me.

time to head home

we come out of the roundabout

and

head straight

for home.

we've seen enough

of the country side.

the shoreline,

the winery,

we've filled our minds

with land

and horses, cattle that we

pass by.

we'll sleep with the clouds

tonight.

the long fences.

the barns across the field.

we'll find

our dreams filled

with stone houses

built

before we were born,

before our

grandfathers were born.

we've had a day

together. alone.

that box is checked.

it's time to head home.

the flower

she's a rose.

a flower.

she's perfume in the air.

a colorful

vase

of petals

in the sun.

she's everything.

she fills

the void,

the room, but i fear

the day

that always comes,

when

she loses 

her joy,

her heart, 

her ephemeral bloom.

at the end

he doesn't answer his phone,

or open

the door when

knocked upon.

his

fear

is children.

some he claims aren't

even his own. but

they come around

just the same

for crumbs of

money,

of love, for affection

that he never gave.

so he sits in the sun

out back

without a phone,

his hearing aid unplugged.

quiet and still.

his mind

empty of all things

gone wrong, of

what was done.

as the day dies

as the day dies,

as 

the faint

blush of an autumn

moon appears, as we

lie in

bed and ponder the day

that was,

still near.

we wonder, still 

unconvinced

of so many things

about us,

about love, what

there is to fear.

i can't remember not knowing you

i can't remember 

not knowing you, she says,

there is no

defining moment, no day

or night

no calendar page,

no clock to delineate when

we first

said hello, when our eyes first met.

i can't remember 

not knowing you,

we've known

each other since birth, and will

forever,

even beyond

our death.

the blackbirds

it's unclear at times.

nearly everything.

the fog

lies down in front of you.

the unwashed

sky.

unwarmed

by

a hidden sun.

it feels like sadness

but it isn't.

the stones

below the raw stream

are fine.

it moves on.

the trees

with bare limbs, they

too have

no complaint

bending or fallen

against

the ravages of time.

so much of our desires

and sorrows

are just that,

imaginary things 

sitting like

black birds

on the wires of our

mind.