a penny for your thoughts

as i pour

the bucket of coins into

the whirring

machine

inside the bank.

i sort out the nails

and screws.

a marble,

postage stamps

and toothpicks,

just things,

to name a few.

i watch

the numbers rise

as dimes

and nickels fall

through the slot.

quarters,

pennies.

all change left over

from

something bought.

i give the receipt 

to the clerk

who counts out

cash for me.

and so we begin again,

a penny for

your thoughts.

more to come

you know when

you see

a couple, 

if they'd made love the night

before.

no words

need be said.

no sign other than

they way

they hold

one another. 

with hands entwined.

a sparkle

in their eyes.

what was last night

is on their minds,

and they know

there is more to come

up ahead.

they know

the vultures

are so patient as they squat

at the edge

of the road.

a few friends

gathered for dinner,

all quiet and serious

in their black

robes.

it's a good place

to wait.

here where the traffic

speeds up,

where no one slows.

they know.

they know.

they know.

the mystery of buttons

i spent so much

time

solving the mystery of your buttons,

your snaps,

your 

fine

piano like

zippers that

ran down

your back,

and now 

as i stare at the dress

on the hanger

without you in it,

i see how

simple

it all really was.

how silly it was of me

to complicate

things, how easily

we both

came unattached.

someone you no longer know

there are people

who were in your life, that

you will

never see again, never talk to again.

never

cross paths with again.

there is nothing to be done

about it.

it's the way the world

goes.

but you wonder 

as you ponder the past,

friendships and loves

that have come and gone,

who's next in line, 

to become someone

you'll no longer

know.

painting the room pink

the room is pink.

painted a pale

blush

of color.

a sunrise color.

a rose,

a child's choice.

it's wishful

thinking, innocence

before

the fray of life

begins.

before the rain,

before everything changes

and will

never be the same 

again.

seeing the incredible

there are odd things,

incredible things

you see

sometimes in your life.

an eagle

in flight,

a child being born.

a meteor streaking

across the sky,

a lightning strike,

an earthquake,

a tornado coming across

the field.

or a woman opening

her purse

to pay for a drink,

or God forbid, her

portion of a meal,

or even more rare

is a woman eating a slice

of bread

with butter, no less.

these are

things once seen

that will never leave

your mind,

moments you will

never forget.

she was right, as usual

we would

play in the rain. we didn't care

about getting wet.

the harder

the rain

the more it energized

us.

finding puddles

ankle deep.

soaked to the bone.

our mother gave

up on us and let us

run wild

in the street.

she knew this sort of

thing, being

young and carefree

wouldn't last very

long.

she was right, as usual.

ready for what's next

i take out

my black suit.

my wedding and funeral

suit

to see if it still

fits.

perfect.

the white shirt

and tie.

the shoes

are shined.

i lay everything out

onto

the bed.

i'm ready for what's

next.

the number two pencil

i can't for the life of me

find

a pencil sharpener.

i think about texting someone

i used to be

related to by

the institution of marriage,

to see

if she remembers

where any pencil sharpeners

could be.

but

i don't.

not that she would respond

anyway.

instead i find a knife

in the kitchen drawer and start

whittling

down the long yellow

post of

wood and lead.

i finally get it to a near point.

which is good enough.

i set it back

into the little basket on the

desk.

i'm ready for when i need it.

The Rescue

feeling a little blue

with the holidays

coming around

i go to the pet store,

to peruse the rescue

section.

dogs, cats, rabbits, all

sorts

of animals

are waiting to be adopted

or sadly,

onto the next life for them.

but i see

this very attractive woman

in one

corner

of the glassed in cage.

there's a guy across from her

with a black eye,

sitting in a pile of

sawdust and

staring at his phone,

an unlit cigarette dangles

from his

cut lip.

but the woman is

sitting in a big chair with

her legs crossed,

reading a book,

drinking a glass of chardonnay.

brunette,

brown eyes, very nice legs.

pedigree?

i ask the clerk, pointing towards

her.

yes. he says. she's been here

a few hours. wandered in.

just divorced.  no kids.

no

drama,

no criminal record or

history

of psychiatric care.

and she reads? i ask. wow.

you've got to be kidding me.

yes. she asked me to bring

her some books

on art history

and French cuisine.

and from what I understand 

she has a strong libido,

but is very

low maintenance 

and has no special

dietary needs.

apparently she went to Vassar 

for her undergraduate degree

and got her MFA at Columbia.

she's a rare one.

we don't get these types in here

very often

and they go quickly.

good lord i say. i'll take her.

ok, the kid says..

i just need to see some

ID and there's a little

bit of paperwork.

you're not crazy or anything,

are you?

pfft, me, no, no. i'm good.

sorry, we just have to ask. we

want to find a good home

for all our rescues.

i understand completely.

okay, great, then just 

pull the car up

and we'll bring her out for you.

by the way, after thirty

days, we have a no return

policy, so if you're good with that.

she's all yours.

i shake his hand and sprint

out to the car.

the french maid

the maid blows

the circuit breaker again.

having plugged in 

her super powered vacuum

into the same wall where

the microwave,

the stove, the fridge

and a clock are all

connected.

i get her on the phone

to explain

to her where the fuse box

is.

out back i tell her,

in the shed against

the brick wall.

outside? she says

in her sweet way of talking.

yes, out back, the shed, on 

the patio.

but it's cold out and

it's a conversation with no

end.

i ask her if she can finish

cleaning

without electricity. she says.

oui monsieur.

to which i say.

amen.

the bread crumb path back

she left something behind.

they all do.

a dish

a piece of clothing.

a watch,

a ring.

a shoe.

a hairbrush full of hair.

not yours.

there's always a bread

crumb

path back,

or so they think, when

you've come

back around

to their way of doing things,

their way

of thinking.

look,

there's a pair of handcuffs

on the ground.

i'll never be an old woman

she

said, i'll never be an old woman.

she said this

at 43,

the age in which she died.

she said

i'll never have children.

i'll never

get married

again.

i'll never see you when

you're old

and grey. i'll be gone by

then.

i shook my head and smiled.

told

her to stop

saying such things.

she laughed and said,

believe me. it's true,

but for now, let's make love

and hold me

for awhile.

white wedding

i saw

the black fat spider

crawling

slowly

across the wedding cake

as white

as snow on a february

day.

a tall tower of confection

positioned

on the table with

the bride

and groom in plastic

set

at the top.

i said nothing about

this creature

who swung down

from the chandelier

on his own

volition. hardly leaving

a trail.

what was there to say.

who was i to raise

a hand

and  say, hold on a minute,

stop.

turn the other cheek, for awhile

we are for the most part

kind,

gentle folk.

soft spoken,

but hardly meek.

people willing to turn

the other

cheek

it's our Christian

values.

our upbringing.

that golden rule

imbedded

within us.

we smile, we laugh

we politely say

no it's fine.

please have my seat.

go ahead,

dig in,

have the last piece.

we are slow to anger,

eager to forgive

and let things be,

but

when they mistake

this kindness for weakness

and disrespect

our good nature,

beware, because hell

is about to be

released.

deep in the valley

she took out a banjo

and handed

me a pair of spoons.

a washboard

appeared that she handed to her

third cousin

three uncles removed.

married though, for over

a year

by a justice of the peace

who

worked for cash only.

no paypal please.

i looked at her

and said what?

what you are you doing?

we're gonna play some

music boy. so get ready,

i ignored the cornbread

between her teeth

and said.

but but

i don't know how to play

the spoons

which made her eyes cross

and

she said,

oh my, then called

in willie

her step child

with red hair and one

missing

ear, a slow

smile, but persistent

smile

upon his too wide face.

but could keep a beat.

he took

the spoons from me

and away they went

while

i sat back and looked

out the window

planning my escape.

there's more to this

we

want conspiracies.

we want

mystery.

we don't want things to be

as they

seem to be.

we prefer the unknown.

the mystical,

the hidden.

we want to believe

in ghosts,

in things that go bump

in the night.

we want to reach out

to the after life.

it's too boring to believe

that everything

is black and white.

locked down and tight.

a rainbow

full of shades of color

would

be more satisfying

to the mind,

more right.

kitty kitty

i call

the cat over with a few whistles

i snap

my fingers. say

hey.

kitty kitty.

i set out a bowl of milk.

i sit on the porch

and open

my hands.

but no, she sits there in the

sun

unmoving

in the street.

women are so hard to

understand.

your intuition

it's strange to know

things

that you don't know why you

know them.

when intuition kicks in.

the gut

comes alive.

you

are in the moment of truth.

you

so easily uncover

any lie.

it's odd to have this power.

and

yet you don't always listen

to it.

despite how well it guides

you.

you'd rather think the best about

people

and not know otherwise

what you

will in time

discover.

walk away

walk away

if someone

disrespects you.

if someone lies

or betrays

or 

abuses you, 

physically, or

emotionally.

if they deceive you

in any way,

walk away.

if they're angry

all the time,

if they're mean

and spiteful,

if they insult you,

if they're envious

and jealous,

walk away. get out.

walk away.

if they aren't spiritual,

if they

can't forgive, if they

can't

listen or hold a conversation

with you,

walk away.

if they don't care about

you

walk away.

if money is everything to them.

walk away.

if they rely on image to get

by in this world.

walk away.

don't waste a minute 

in a room

with such people.

have courage, be true to

yourself.

walk away.

no need to draw line

in the sand.

walk away and be

done

with them.

inside is beauty

i like the idea

that inside

every piece of marble is

a thing of

beauty.

wanting to get out.

a ragged chunk of stone.

but inside,

like inside all of us

is

a glorious

piece of art,

trying to find its form.

now what?

i can't decide what to do when i retire.

golf.

shoot me.

buy a boat.

again.

it's boring after about one trip out.

where we

going on this boat.

nowhere. we just want to wave

to other people

on their boats.

maybe bowling, or travel.

take

up a new hobby

like painting nudes.

ladle soup down at the shelter.

play

team scrabble with a bunch

of old

people down at the Y.

go to the lake and throw bread

out to the ducks.

cut out coupons.

bake a cake.

eat it.

now what?

tears on my pillow

you're cloudy today,

aren't you,

she says, with a cheerful

voice.

now wait,

what are those running down

your cheeks.

tears.

tears from the eyes of a man?

oh dear.

what now

my lonely friend. what now?

tell me

what' s gone wrong.

tell me

was it enemy or friend

who put that frown on

your face.

who put you at such a loss?

my team

i tell her, my favorite team.

pointing at the tv.

i thought they'd

win this game,

but no,

they lost.

my black leather pants

i'm glad i didn't wear my

leather

pants when meeting heather at

the bar.

how awkward it

would have been for both

of us

sitting there in black leather.

boots

and pants.

a matching pair

together.

how we'd squeak and twist

and turn

in our seats. hoping that

the lights would

dim before we had to get

up to leave.

making fire wood

as i swing the ax

down

onto the wood

chopping chopping

with large

struck bangs.

i wonder at what age

will

i not be able to do this.

to 

make fire wood

for the flames.

at what age

will the arms tire,

the legs

grow weak. at point do

you stop

and say enough.

enough.

and buy what you need.

i let the cat out into the rain

i'm not worried about

the cat

who i let out into the rain

as she paws the door.

she's wise

to the ways of the world.

more so than i am.

she worries more about me

than i do her.

wondering how she'll eat,

who will let her in,

who will

there be

to ignore,

if i lose my way,

and don't come

back.

after just one kiss

sometimes we vanish

into

another's arms.

our feet off the ground, 

the edges of

us blurred.

we lose ourselves

as we float

into an unknown

world.

this is new to us.

this thing, this out of

body

experience.

what is this?

what's happening so

quickly

after just one kiss.

i'm ready, she says

it's a sweet

dog.

she wants to be petted.

i see it

in her brown eyes, the way

she rolls

over

to give me her belly,

paws up.

she growls gently,

telling me, go ahead,

i'm ready

for love. give it to me.

so i do.

i'm well trained

in that department.

with this ring

i used to give

rings out, like candy.

which they were.

fat diamonds

sitting on a gold

or silver

band.

oh, the houses i painted to

pay

for them.

the wallpaper i pasted

onto walls,

the grind of days on

end

in the weather for a few

dollars to pay

for new love.

up and down tall ladders.

onto rooftops.

but oh these rings,

when cupid struck his arrow

into my heart again,

in a little velvet box they

came on

a bed of silk, gleaming from

the jeweler's 

cloth.

then slipped onto a finger

with the promise

of love ever after.

till death do us part.

in sickness and in health.

i wonder where they are now.

in a drawer,

a shoe box, a plastic bag

with other rings, 

or pawned

perhaps. lost, or stolen.

when love ends, do they

ever come

back?  

are they returned, 

these precious,

expensive gifts of love?

i smile and shake my head,

i laugh.

i buy a ball of string,

to make my next, if there is

to be one,

pffft,

the wedding ring.

not all rains

not all rain

comes in sideways

beating the roof, flooding

the basement,

splintering the boards.

not all rains

fill

the streams and take

with them

the old trees.

wooded debris.

not all are storms

with thunder

and lightning in the mix,

some are just gradual

events, slow,

almost poetic in a literary

sense.

starting out with a few

drops

and then  a gentle

pour

until it's a soft parade

of wetness,

and sheen.

the black streets  dark

no more.

momma told me not to come

i worry about anyone

who burns

incense.

what's that cigarette

they're smoking,

what are they up

to with this air perfume.

there is something

nefarious

going on here.

what is that burning,

some sort of air freshener?

open up

a window

let some air into 

this room.

momma

told

me not to come.

she said, that ain't the

way to

have fun.

yeah, randy newman.

the red balloon

i see a small child

in the air, 

holding a red balloon

shaped

like  heart.

she waves,

her head in the clouds.

tethered tightly

by her small fist around

the string.

it's too late

to let go and she doesn't

want to

despite the height

and the ground

below,

but she's happy, 

it seems.

as we all are 

when we hang

on too

long,

before the fall.

the good in goodbye

there is good

in goodbye, if you think

about it.

when  said towards someone

you are done with,

or they are done

with you,

but of course

there could be a hello

again,

or hey, or hi.

one never knows.

does one?

goodbye

doesn't mean forever.

what does, who knows

these things?

not you, not I.

practicing death in the 4th grade

as a child,

in grade school we'd

practice

hiding under our

desks as the sirens

blew,

awaiting the blast

of a hydrogen

bomb.

we'd cover our heads

or lie

on the floor,

awaiting the furnace

of death.

some days though

when

a test was on,

and the siren screamed,

the teachers were

polite and sweet,

they allowed us to run

home

with our books

and lunch boxes

and die in our parents

arms.

a better way to go,

i guess,

if you had

to die in a nuclear

inferno.

ruminating

i stir

the coffee a little

too long.

ruminating.

around and around the spoon

goes.

clinking

against the cup.

the bend

and swirl

of just poured cream

cascading

in 

repeating circles.

i stare

and i wonder.

i remember.

i remember.

then take a sip, and 

its gone.

going out of business

i see that the sex store

up the street

next to the Baptist 

Church and Motel 6

(shared parking)

is closing.  the mannequins

in the window are naked.

like most of us

they looked better

with their clothes on.

after all these years

it's finally

shutting its doors.

from what i heard,

(hearsay)

it was two stories tall.

with shopping carts,

an elevator,

it had an escalator.

a back door and was

wheel chair accessible.

it had everything.

from movies to toys,

batteries not included,

to cages

and blow up dolls.

membership cards.

a greeter at the door.

the sign says going out

of business.

massage oils marked

down,

everything half price,

or less,

everything must go.

no refunds, no returns,

especially on lingerie

and faux leather

boots, boas are free,

a limit of three per

person.

get me off this boat

i cancel

my subscription to the times

the post.

the monthly magazines

that keep coming.

most

unread, just skimmed.

tired of 

people telling me what

i should believe,

how i should vote.

the media.

the news. television.

everyone's an expert.

swing left

swing right. not a person

in the middle.

i want off this sinking

boat.

show me what you got

i need some spice

in my life.

a pepper,

a jolt, something hot.

something

nice

and spicy that

gets

my heart a jumping,

my eyes

a popping,

my brow a

sweating,

my limbs a shaking.

i need some spice.

something that hits 

the spot.

i'm tired of bland,

of boring,

of luke warm,

the also ran.

come over here and show

me what

you got.

the heart within

her smile,

her touch, her face.

her

arms

and hands.

her gentle way of

giving you

room,

space.

her soft desire.

her innocence.

her

childlike

way about her.

the whisper

of her voice

into your ear,

how

quickly she

makes

the heart within

you race.

you can't help everyone

i see a bird

on the sill outside my

window.

he's looking in,

pecking his beak

against the pane.

he's

shivering.

he can't wrap his wings

tightly enough

around

around himself.

i want to

throw him out a blanket,

or a small thimble

of hot

cocoa, but he has no hands

to hold it.

you can't help everyone

in this life.

i don't want to go home

i think it was about 1980 when i met

her.

carol green.

we were in a bar

called Flaps downtown DC.

a small bar stuffed with

people singing

and dancing.

smoky and loud.  a dj

at the front

putting on one song after

another.

you couldn't help but dance.

and then the lights would go

up at 1 a.m.

and it would be last

call

for alcohol.

the song, but i don't want

to go home

sung by the Asbury Jukes

would

blast through the speakers.

there's a line in the song

that says

whatever happened to you and

i

that i don't want to go home.

reach up and touch the sky,

which everyone in the joint

would do.

carol green came up

to me. a complete stranger

at the time

and asked me to walk her

to her car.

she had dark hair, dark

eyes. she looked like

she'd been crying.

i said sure, finished my beer

buttoned up my coat

and off we

went to the garage where

her car was parked.

we kissed in the cold

dank underground air.

i got in.

after it was over, i asked her

if i'd ever see her again

and she said doubtful.

i'm moving. my

life has changed.

what's your name, i said.

i don't even know your name.

carol green she said.

drive safely on your way home.

and thanks,

thanks for everything.

you get this strange feeling

sometimes you get this

strange feeling

that you don't

belong.

a square peg in a round hole.

a misfit.

an aberration.

always not quite

there, but in observation mode.

it's their

life not yours. you're just

here to take note of it.

to see where it goes

and write about it when you

get home.

happy days

so what is happiness?

what is this elusive

thing.

that we all

strive for, or are we?

maybe contentment

is a better word.

or an hour of no pain

and suffering.

happiness is too big

of an idea for this life.

this ever changing

life.who is truly happy?

the man and woman

at the altar.

maybe, for a while.

the politician that won?

the monk, the priest,

the child with an ice

cream cone.

it's ephemeral, it's a

passing fancy.

does sex do it,

maybe for a moment

and then sadness overcomes

you.

drinking.

it's short lived and you

pay for it in the morning.

drugs, no.

prayer and faith.

you still aren't out

of the crazy woods with

that. you get a flat

tire and the smile

quickly slides off your face.

is the pope happy, i mean

truly happy. is he waking

up every day doing cartwheels

down the vatican halls?

doubtful, not with that big

hat on.

i don't think i've ever

come across anyone

who is happy all the time.

for a minute maybe.

and then

life kicks in.

i can't read this anymore

i don't want to read

your poetry anymore she tells me.

it's

awful.

it stinks. it's repetitive

and self 

serving.

all about your broken heart,

your

shallow life.

your girlfriends and

wives.

how hard and cruel the world

can be

at times.

i don't want to read about

that anymore.

i want to read about nature.

about

butterflies

and puppies.

birds and blue skies.

sunrises. i want to read about

hope. if you could just

write one single poem about that

i'd stick

with it,

can you do that for me, please. for

me. just one?

i look at her and smile.

and say

i'm truly sorry, but nope.

you've changed

there's a moment when people

think

they have your number,

that they've

figure you out.

we got it, their eyes say.

as if all your cards

have been turned over.

we know now who you really

are.

and they store that in their

brains. you're labeled,

by your job, the car you drive,

the books you read,

your wife, you are

tagged for life. they've got you

in a box now. so it's always

hard for them, when

they see you down the road,

startled at how you've changed.

when all along

they just had a glimpse of you.

one side, one moment in

the sun, or shadow.

they have no idea who

they're dealing with.

and strangely neither do you.

easily excited

i'm easily excited now

about little things,

things like sleep.

or coffee.

an afternoon nap.

the morning paper.

the way the house feels

at night,

the sounds it makes

as the pipes

creak.

i like a new book

in the mail,

or a show on netflix.

i actually like

rain now.

bad weather, good weather.

makes no never mind

to me.

blow wind blow

and i'll go to the back

window

to watch

the trees move.

to watch the show.

i like the smell of fresh

mint that grows

beside the porch

welcoming me home.

i like

the way

the house looks when

it's messy.

when it's clean.

i like

the bed made. the way

the sheets

and blanket are tucked in

just so. the way

the maid

puts those lines

in the carpet

with her vacuum.

that thing she does with

the toilet paper rolls.

there are so many things

that i

used to ignore

and 

pay no attention to

that are wonderful now.

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.