talking with my muse

i get out of the steamy hot bath,

still covered in suds,

a towel wrapped around me.

i call up my muse.

hey. i say. what's up, what's

going on with you. i need some

inspiration.

i've got nothing, i tell her.

i'm so tired

of writing about the same

things, and people are tired of

reading about

it too.

past relationships, blah, blah blah.

i think i've beaten that dead horse

a hundred

times over.

okay, okay, she says. slow down.

slow down cowboy. breathe.

maybe you need a change of scenery.

a road trip.  ever been to canada?

canada? what are you nuts, it's winter.

look, she says.

i can't do all the work here. inspiring

you day in day out.

you're killing me. i'm working overtime

with you.

i've got bags under my eyes

trying to think of

new things.

why don't you try going five hours

without writing about the first

dumb thing

that pops into your head?

five hours? i've never done five hours

before. my hands start shaking.

yes. she says, and then we'll work up

to a day, two days without writing

a single word.

you're crazy, you know that.

i don't know if i have that kind of

will power.

breathe, she says. you need a break.

start sending this stuff out,

start publishing, get a few  books

going.

photos along side.

come on dude. you can do this.

as your official muse you need need

to pace yourself. get some rest.

get fresh, get real. take a break.

okay, maybe you're right i have been

pushing you,

writing like a madman lately.

i'll try to go three hours then work

my way up to five hours

without hitting the keyboard.

honest, i'll really try,

but i have to go now, i just 

thought of something.

the time i saw a cat with a peanut

butter jar stuck on it's head.

and i had to chase her all over 

the neighborhood to get it off.

there's some kind of metaphor there,

don't you agree.

about relationships?

oh, brother, my muse says.

i give up, and she 

hangs up the phone.

black and white

i prefer a black and white movie.

one where you

can almost

hear the chatter

of the reel

as the light streams

out of the box high above.

an old

film

from the forties, or fifties.

with real

stars.

actors with names like

flynn

or garbo.

cagney or bogart.

eva and audrey.

movies with intelligent plots.

where the hero wins.

the villain dies,

a love story perhaps, that

ends

sweetly,

one that breaks your

heart,

one that makes you cry.

or one that when you

leave the theater

makes you feel as if

even you can fly.

drinking doesn't help

there is no such thing

as growing

up.

growing yes. but we never

really get there.

we make mistakes

at every age.

we say things we wish

we hadn't said.

do things and make choices

we often regret.

we're works in progress.

although at times

it seems we go in

reverse

and regress.

a step forward, two steps

back.

or falling down

a flight of steps.

drinking doesn't help.

just be fair

i leave a check on

the counter,

for the maid,

the plumber,

the electrician.

an ex wife or two.

the kid who walks the dog.

the girl who

searches for the cat

and pets it for a moment.

i leave it open ended.

allowing them to fill in the blank.

to write  themselves

a number

that pleases them.

and will satisfy me.

they have the run of the house.

i can't imagine

what's

going over there.

who's to know. and truly,

i don't really care.

just be fair.

coin in the air

i flip a coin into the air,

but it hasn't

come down yet.

i'm still waiting on heads

or tails.

i'm undecided on the outcome

of many

things,

maybe when it lands,

i'll

be able to 

tell you about us,

but for now it twirls and

twirls

somewhere up there.

the perfect card for you

i find the perfect card

to send to you.

it says everything i need to say

this holiday

season. 

it's worded perfectly.

i pick it up,

read it again and again,

opening

and closing it as i stand

there in

the store.

i smile.

then put it back where

it belongs,

and move on, there

won't

be cards anymore.

longer than a mile

sometimes a mile

is no different than a thousand

miles.

just a short drive

is

never done. you don't go that

way anymore.

you take the long away

around,

no

need to remember any of that

with road signs

and stores,

restaurants, trees in the woods.

no need to travel

there anymore. what's done

is done,

why go back?

just like we are

i see a lot of atheists 

with christmas trees, 

bags

of gifts

wrapped and bowed.

their houses lit

with bulbs of blue

and red

yellow and green.

i see the non believers

baking pies,

sending cards.

strangely they're

just as anxious and busy 

as we are.

finding forgiveness

forgiveness

is an odd thing.

it takes a long time to forgive

someone

you've grown to hate.

to let down

your anger,

your ego

and stop beating 

what's in your wake.

but you do.

you forgive yourself first

as you go through

the stages of grief,

and then

those

who did harm to you.

it often comes late, but at

last

it comes

and you're free of your

past mistakes.

everything i used to know

i see the young husband

dragging

his tree through the snow.

he waves as i

clear the walk.

his child

behind

him, picking up the small

end.

i see his wife

with bags of gifts, groceries.

and between her lips,

a tattered christmas list.

i watch them as they go in

across the court yard.

i see the tree go up, the lights

go on.

i see the child looking out

the window

of his upper room,

then the mistletoe

goes up, 

one hammer blow

before the door is closed,

and i see the young

husband, his beautiful

wife, how they embrace,

and kiss.

it's everything i used

to know.

so what gives?

you can't lose

what you never had, although

at times it feels

like

you did.

like it was all real

all

genuine and true.

but

it wasn't. so what gives?

the nine dollar hallmark card

i stare sadly

into the rack of christmas

cards.

my list is shorter than it was

a year ago,

and

certainly less than the year before

that.

i had to let a few people go.

the thought, why bother, crosses

my mind.

but i grab a handful

just the same.

some are musical, some

pop up,

some you want to save,

like gold.

i stare at santa and his sleigh,

the snow,

the glitter,

the glow. three wise men,

baby Jesus in

the manager and Mary.

i sigh as i realize 

that it's all

in the hallmark game.

all about the dough.

for a minute more

we have no quarrel

with the fox

nor he with us. all three

still and quiet,

neither approaching

or in retreat.

our eyes though,

do meet

in the amber glow

of 

streetlight.

the bloom of our breath

in front of us.

we wait. he waits.

our conversation 

interrupted

as we discus the rest

of our life,

together or apart,

that is now on hold

for a minute more.

until the very end

she was childlike

with her phone.

always in hand.

a drug of sorts.

sleeping with

it on.

the constant ding.

into the bathroom

with her

it went.

she would have made Pavlov

proud.

the way

she snapped it open

to see what

new or old lover

had to send.

ex husbands and married

men.

all night, all day.

a teenager

at 62 until the very end.

playa, yo

i bump grocery

carts

with a woman that looks

like

marilyn monroe

come back to life.

ooops, i say.

sorry. my bad. i look

into the basket and 

ask her about her 

tomatoes.

the ones in the cart.

her strawberries

and melons.

whipped cream?

she looks at me and

smiles.

you're a playa

aren't you. which makes

me laugh. i haven't

heard that word since

the 1980's when i had

a billy idol hair

doo and a

yellow corvette.

so we shop

together,

for awhile until she

turns down

the diaper and infant

aisle, which makes

me wave

and say au revoir

my love, to that i

can't go back.

i don't want to know

not unlike my

mother, may she rest in peace,

(finally)

i can't keep a secret.

i can't be trusted with information

sworn

to secrecy.

lies, infidelity, thievery,

adultery,

or whatever

you or your friends might

be hiding,

it won't keep with me.

i may make a vow, a promise,

to put it in the vault

and throw

the away the key,

but

the second someone tells

me something,

i have this crazy desire

to tell

someone else.

to get on the phone and

say, you won't believe this.

which i do at some point,

rationalizing

the reason for doing so.

so please, don't tell me anything

anymore.

no more secrets, keep them

all to yourself.

a walk in the rain

a walk

in this cold rain will do me

good.

i want to feel the ice

in my veins.

the sting of water

running

down my face.

i want my shoes wet.

my socks soaked,

my

bones

to shiver and ache.

i want to feel

what it's like

to be alive

again. to be fully 

awake, not half.

i'll try it with this

weather.

the list on the wall

i made a list of why

nots,

why never again

hand written,

on a sheet of clean paper,

but by reason

forty seven

my hand began to cramp

and i stopped,

i set it aside.

but i laminated it

and placed where i could

see it in

times of weakness

and relationship amnesia.

it's still there.

thumbtacked

to the wall.

list two, with ten more

reasons,  right below it.

detached empathy

i finally stop

trying

to save

the drowning woman.

the frenetic

and

arm waving

soul

in the middle of the dark

lake.

no longer do i swim

out

swiftly with my open

arms, telling her

to take hold.

no longer

do i try to save her

at the risk

of losing my own life, being

pulled under

to also drown

i yell

from the safe shore

swim home.

swim home.

you're on your own.

when the hours flee

how safe new love

is.

how easy.

how light.

to fall into one another's

arms and find

sleep.

to kiss

when greeting, when

about

to leave.

how kind new love

is.

each giving,

no worry as to what

may be

received.

when two are one.

when the hours

flee.

trouble

take away

the lipstick, the hair.

the soft voice,

the clothes.

the shoes, the bling

on the arm

and ears.

take away the fake smile

and honed charm,

the empty

words,

the skin and 

brittle bones,

the false bravado

and what do you have?

trouble.

the scarecrow

i see the scarecrow

in the field

dangling in

loose clothes on the post.

a crow

on its head.

the eyes stitched black.

the arms

and legs full of straw.

lips

painted on,

in red.

arms stretched out

in submission,

the legs nailed down,

a frown to scare away

the birds,

to keep a crop intact.

none of it working.

falling off a horse

she shows me her arm,

the long thick scars

where it broke

in five

places

after falling off her horse

at the age

of ten. she tells me

how her father drove

her in his old MG,

butter yellow,

with the black top down,

hitting every bump in

the road, every pot hole,

as they sped

to the veterinarian.

no, dad, she said. i'm

hurt, not the horse

this time.

to which he said,

full of dark beer

and smoke,

taking the cigarette

out of his mouth, 

oh, of course. right.

which arm is it this

time my dear?

building a sandwich

i remember teaching my son

how

to make

a sandwich.

i'd sit him down at the table

and tell

him

to pay attention, take notes

if he wanted.

i'd put down two slices of bread,

wheat or white,

or a sandwich roll.

although i prefer rye.

you decide i told him.

next we apply

the mustard

or mayo

in broad but gentle

strokes.

then the cheese, provolone

or swiss, the ham,

salami

and roast beef, stacked

high.

centering the cold cuts

is important, i told him.

it needs to be balanced.

the onions cut up finely

on the board were laid

down.

tomatoes sliced thin.

lettuce of course, shredded.

maybe some peppers which

would make him

grin.

then we'd close the sandwich up,

hold it down tightly

and take a knife

to cut it down the middle,

being very careful

to avoid our fingers.

a handful

of chips on the side.

a pickle or two.

a cold drink.

and then we'd carry it

carefully into the

living room,

making sure not to trip

on the dog

underfoot and salivating,

to the coffee table, 

we'd go, two

minutes before the game began.

buckets full of rain

we used to set

buckets

in each room to catch the rain.

a crack

in the ceiling,

a weak roof.

the gutters full of leaves,

twigs,

dead things.

we'd wait until they were

full

then dump them in the street,

bring them

back in

to start all over again.

it's what i'd do with you.

when the best

thing to have done,

was to move.

they see right through you

i like to tell people

i don't care

anymore, that things

have changed.

really. no more mister nice

guy for me.

i'm completely out

of empathy.

that well is dry.

i'm sick of love.

i have no feelings.

i'm totally detached and unencumbered

by the past.

i'm a monk

a buddha

an island, and a rock feels no pain

and an island never

cries.

(okay, stealing that, thank you

Paul)

but i feign strength, 

i pretend i have a coat

of armor and that

the heart is safe again,

buried deep

within. no one will ever

get in again.

but it's funny how people see

right through you

and say,

pfffft. yeah, right.

keeping the past the past

i see her on the path.

plain.

her face

flat and white, no makeup.

no

attempt anymore

at glamor.

or fame. her red hair

now grey.

just a girl, or a woman i should

say

i once knew.

made plans with as we'd lie

in bed

after making love

in the late afternoons.

we catch each other's eye

but say nothing.

for what is there to say.

too many years

have passed

too much time and water,

behind us,

it's best

we go our way.

keeping the past the past.

a new leaf again

i believe we all look

back

and say

oh my. what a year it

was when

i was eighty-five.

but now

at eighty-six i see the error

of my ways.

how i need to change

and be a better person.

oh,

the lessons i have learned.

what a bad year it was

for me.

and you.

sorry, for all the things

i said,

and all that senseless

pain.

limited goodness

i crawl into bed with 

giddy

fatigue, the sheets

cool

the pillows pounded

soft

beneath my head.

i say a prayer for you

and you

and you, and of course

one for you.

the rest are on their own.

i'm sleepy, i'm too tired,

too beat

i have only so much goodness

in me

before i slip quickly

into sleep.

anything new?

does anything surprise you

anymore,

wars,

death, disease.

a show, a play, a book,

a song

on the radio.

are you shocked by the

behaviors of someone you

thought you knew.

does the weather ever

make

you wonder,

have you ever not seen

such

rain,

such snow, such wind,

have you ever not

known

someone so dumb, someone

so clever?

is there anything new

under

this sun,

this moon. any thought

not yet thought,

unique to this world?

unfamiliar?

just wondering if perhaps

you knew.

death by numbers

i turn on the death toll

channel which

keeps track of the dead

and near dead,

all of the dying, day after day.

the grim reaper station

with glum

faces

giving us the numbers.

a hundred thousand

two hundred thousand.

the tote board keeps rising.

it's good optics.

keeps the viewer scared and

watching.

the fear mongering is persuasive.

and then

the soap commercials

come on,

the cruise vacations,

the restaurants.

booze.

christmas toys, organic

foods.

6 hundred thousand dead

from smoking,

five

thousand suicides. 

a thousand

from heart attacks,

nine hundred car crashes,

three hundred from lightning

strikes.

six from falling off of ladders.

nine

stabbings

five hundred from gunshot

wounds, all in just one day.

cancer, aids. wars. the plague.

alcohol

drugs,

drownings in the bay.

throw me the remote, what else

is there

to watch today?

keep everything

don't give anything

back to me,

i tell her.

keep it.

keep what i gave you.

it's what you do, holding

onto to 

false memories.

moments

that were never true.

take your boxes

and bins of ancient history

and go.

keep

everything.

it means nothing.

nothing to me.

my broom is wide.

watch

me sweep.

the bag is deep.

we can do this

we dive into the ocean

together

side by side.

stroke by stroke,

kicking our heels

as we move

forward

across the blue

under a sparkling sun.

we turn our heads

and breathe

we smile.

i tell her, i'm so in love

with you.

she smiles and says,

me too.

how hard can this be,

but it's a long way

to the other side, longer

than we thought,

and the water is deep.

it's cold.

it's rough, it's much

harder

than we thought,

and we don't make it.

one disappears,

while the other stays

lost.

cancel culture

the cancel culture

has run

amok

but

i understand.

who doesn't want to

erase

the past,

eradicate mistakes,

pretend that what

went down

never happened.

who doesn't want to

rewrite history.

tear down

the statues, rip out

the books

page by page,

and burn

the photos of

what

once seemed

like happy days.

i do that often with

my

fireplace.

the wedding fish

i see a woman holding up

a fish

in her picture,

proud,

smiling, as if a lottery winner,

or her wedding day,

and the poor

fish, silver in the sun, not

quite

starved

of oxygen. twirls like

tinsel

at the end of the line, it's

mouth

tricked and hooked

by the  sharp curve 

of metal,

the false promise 

of something

that isn't

what it appears to be.

i try not to believe that

all love

is like this.

off he goes

an enormous bird sets himself

on the ledge of the fence.

a raven, a blackbird?

his eyes

are steeled orange.

his

claws

dug into the soft wood.

he seems in no hurry, in no

rush to find what he

needs to get through the day.

not a sign of worry

on his oiled feathered

face.

but off he goes, off he

goes.

spreading his learned

wings,

as we all do

at some point in the day.

the maddening crowd

i can't really go off the grid,

having never

been on.

and who would know if i did?

to

go a few days

without talking or looking at

my phone

or logging onto

the computer, pffft, that's nothing.

i can do a week standing

on my head.

i am perfectly content and happy

when away from

the maddening crowd,

alone.

the extras

it's not enough

to just

buy something, there is always

undercoating,

or a special wax

or pleated something.

the extras.

a meal, do you want bread

with that.

the sauce,

the large portion?

can i top that off,

dessert perhaps?

an after dinner drink.

and the room.

with a view, along the ocean

or the one

facing

the highway in the back

where the air

conditioners hum

and rattle. will it be a

twin

or double, king?

for your lovely friend,

or wife,

we don't mean to pry,

or ask.

do you need help with that bag?

room service?

free love

remember the first time 

i drank carrot juice.

1971

in ocean city maryland.

hippies run

amuck

with their juice bars,

mediation,

free love.

but nothing's free, ever.

not even this dixie cup

of orange

colored water

adorned with a sprig

of parsley.

don't let the beard

full you, the head band,

the peace sign.

the music.

the tie dyed shirt, my

sister, my brother,

it's all in the game.

all in the game.

prosperity.

get busy living

we go to the coast.

the east

then fly west.

it's not the same

but it is

the same.

the ocean.

the sky.

all the rest.

is it more about where

you live

or how you

live

how you step up?

how

you decide not to

live

in the past and slowly

die.

a far away moon

we slip

out of

our shoes, into our bed time

clothes.

our books.

our memories.

we slip

into the room,

onto the bed, between

the sheets,

off goes the news

as

we close the blinds

to

a far away moon.

we slip

into sleep, a dream.

our life

is never

what it seems.

i'm a very busy girl

she says, 

i'm a very busy girl.

so talk fast and be brief.

i have three businesses

to attend to.

my phone keeps ringing.

my children are on hold.

i need to text

and zoom

and do several conference

calls by noon.

people need me.

they depend on me.

i have a lot going on.

i did a ted talk last week.

i have a podcast.

seminars.

a book coming out.

i'm working all the time.

i build websites, i console,

i contract,

i mentor, i volunteer.

people think of me 

as not a mere mortal, 

but a God in fact.

you're lucky to have reached me.

work is my life, my life

is my work.

and what about you?

what's your day like?

busy too?

hello? still there?

friendly lighting

we refuse to believe

our age.

is it this late in the game?

in each joint

an ache.

what is this wrinkle on my brow,

the strange

line that

has suddenly appeared

upon my face.

the grey.

the eyes heavy,

needing sleep,

the thinning of hair,

the weight

around

my waist. a life time of eating

and drinking.

plenty of careless mistakes

visible now

with the lights on.

let's go with

candles tonight, my dear,

and from here on out.

the license

in a way, it was a license,

like any other kind

of license.

one for hunting, (dear,

or deer?)

or 

one for driving cars,

or tractors, or

big rigs on the interstate.

it felt like

a permission slip of sorts, for

two adults

to do what two adults do when

they've fallen in love 

and want

to make a go of it.

house, yard, picket fence.

saturday barbeque with relatives

and friends.

her books and mine suddenly

side by side

on the shelves, 

shoes and clothing,

money,

entangled.

matrimony.

and yet, she seemed angry on

the ride over

to the courthouse.

the sun seemed to have already

peaked

at ten a.m. .

overcast with the threat

of ice in the sky.

i remember looking over at her,

hands gripping the wheel,

her face long

and dark,

suddenly older 

than i remembered

her to be

and feeling

this resentment. 

a sense of mistake in her eye

and now

coming over me.

but we paid, her credit

card swiped.

we signed. we agreed

to agree that all

things would

be wonderful

and fine. 

and the bored heavy

clerk with blue hair,

who seemed sad

and lonely, married herself,

no doubt,

punched down her stamp

making it official.

we had 45 days to tie the knot.

and what a tight knot it would be,

tied on the last day, at the last

hour,

with no call from the governor,

no reprieve.

window shopping

i don't need anything.

the fridge is

stuffed with

food.

left overs. food waiting

to be cooked,

consumed.

i have no more room

for even

a can of olives

in the cupboard,

but i go the grocery

store anyway just to

look around,

peruse.

i push my empty

cart around the enormous

store and oogle

the meats

and vegetables.

the cakes

and pies. oh, and what's

that over

there?

a spiral ham?

oh my.

i'm not going there again

wanting a change

of scenery,

a new point of view,

i spin the globe,

close my eyes and put

my finger

on it, stopping the spin.

i open my eyes

and stare at where

my finger has landed.

it says

Siberia.

hell with that.

i'm not going there.

been there, done that

in the last relationship.

a place where i've

never felt so alone

and cold

in my entire life.

i spin again.

the white room

we discuss white.

off white.

linen white. parchment.

winter

white.

dove white. the list is endless.

i want

white she says,

but not too white.

not a hospital white,

and not yellow, or pink,

or the white

that leans towards blue.

just a nice

clean white.

something that says

life is wonderful

all year round

when it really isn't true.

unfixed and broken

not everything can be fixed.

i can't

do plumbing.

i stay away from electricity.

the carpenter

needs to come

and cut wood and drill.

the roof tiles, are beyond me.

too high.

i may fall.

the tv on the blink.

a new one is ordered.

i send out for the yard work,

the car

with its oil, it's engine

light on.

there's very little i can repair

or fix.

coffee perhaps, breakfast,

this tea cup

broken, where's the glue?

but most else that needs fixing

is beyond me.

and without a doubt,

that includes you.

who goes there?

i forget who i gave

a key

to.

so when i hear

footsteps coming up

the stairs

late at night,

it could be anyone.

someone coming

to kill me

or rob me,

or make to love to me.

or

just someone

lost

and wandering 

hoping to make 

things right.

i can hardly wait

we make plans for the new year.

resolutions.

promises,

vows we can't keep.

we'll be a better person,

we'll lose weight,

we'll publish that book,

or read one.

we'll exercise more, eat

more fiber.

reduce our carb intake.

we'll take up a new hobby,

travel.

fall in love, this year things

will be wonderful,

great. we're just waiting

the ball to drop, and the

clock to tick forward

to get all these things

going, i can hardly wait.

two blue stars

he was an impossible

man.

you expected his

teeth

browned to the roots

to fall

out into his hands.

grizzled

and grey, the wind

having carved

notches

and hatch marks

onto his face. what age?

who knows.

but in his long overcoat,

there he is again.

leaning

in the cold

shadow,

his hat collecting

coins while we walk

by at a vague 

safe distance.

and yet you wondered

if as a child

or if he was in love

with all his heart,

if someone had ever said

to him

how beautiful his eyes,

were,

like two beautiful,

glimmering blue

stars.

we fill ourselves

we fill ourselves

with our eyes

and ears, this world,

and rarely do we

empty the can,

rarely do we take

the trash out

to the curb.

it all accumulates.

adjectives,

nouns,

verbs. images we

wished we'd never

come upon.

we absorb what we see

and read,

by choice or

accident.

it all comes in, it all

makes

up how you look at

life, your behavior.

how you perceive. 

at the end, does it ever go,

does it ever empty,

is it picked

up,

does any of it ever

leave?

a new bowl

when i pour

the boiling, steamy chicken

soup

with egg noodles

into my favorite pasta

bowl

from italy,

it cracks and breaks in

three pieces.

i stare

at the puddle of broth

growing

on the counter.

strangely it doesn't

upset me.

i've learned to accept

when things

are over.

and move on to a new

bowl.

Angela and the Pope

my friend theresa 

once wrote a long

heartfelt letter

to the pope

to get help

with her boyfriend, who couldn't

make up his

mind whether to stay or go.

true story.

he never answered back.

she never knew if he received

the letter or not, but

figured he was

busy with his pope duties.

so she confided with her friend

Angela, over the phone,

told her everything,

the lies, the cheating,

the abuse, and Angela

told her, get rid of him.

he's no good for you.

so she did.

what's going on here

i see my

old bartender pete

talking

to my dentist

who

is with an old girlfriend

of mine,

and my sister.

they are all sitting

together

at a table and i wonder

what the hell

is going on here.

how

is this possible, it

must be about me.

right?

i shake my head and

move on.

i'd rather not know 

what's happening,

sometimes you jsut

move on

and pretend everything

is sane and normal,

the world is

alright.

one slice or two

it's a box cake.

nothing special. one piece

maybe two

and then

off it goes into the trash.

you just need a taste,

to feel

the sugar,

the icing, the eggs and

flour

baked.

no occasion.

no birthday, just a cake

to pass

the day.

a slice, a glass of milk.

or a cup of hot tea.

then

tossed away.

on eggshells with bpd

it was just a small thing

said.

a trivial word,

or comment, no harm intended.

a glance.

a pointless

thought, which would

set

her off, 

make her

jealous and angry.

something insignificant

would trigger

her

and away we'd go

off into

the wild

black and white

yonder. with no explanation,

without

understanding.

on eggshells, you lived

your life,

as she pondered ending hers,

all day, all night.

lost in a rollercoaster

world

of anxiety, of doubt,

of flee or fight.

which direction are you going

what exactly are you looking for

my dear,

my therapist

says.

she calls me dear now, a strange

thing,

but i accept her closeness

with a warm smile.

what do you want?

what's next?

do you really want a relationship

at this point

in your life.

what about sex?

what about living with someone,

or just weekends,

or something long

distance,

someone in another city?

do you really want to be in love,

or is friendship okay?

the occasional fling, the friend

with benefits,

forget the ring?

i know you need trust

and real, someone you can

talk too, someone loyal and

true,

someone like, but unlike you.

spiritual and down to earth,

because, well, as you often

say, you live on earth.

is it still donna reed with a whip

you're searching for?

or just someone different,

genuine and kind.

someone with a true heart,

a stable mind?

think on these things, do

your homework and the next session

we'll talk

and figure out which

direction you're going. north

east west or south.

not a care in the world

we reboot, start over.

erase the board of the past.

we

change our name,

the color of our hair.

we move.

we get a new job, a new car.

a new

pair

of shoes.

we slip the ring off.

we get divorced. we

put the pieces back together

with

self help glue.

therapy,

self love, the local

barista guru.

we rebuild, get fresh

with a new

address,

a new point of view.

it's what we do.

how we survive. pretend

that what happened

in the past never happened

at all.

look at me now, with a spring

in my step.

a smile on my face.

doing cartwheels down

the bright sunny street, 

not a care in the world,

not a fret.

a timex in the flesh

three packs

of camels per day.

whiskey

at night, for lunch,

a 

snort to start the day.

red

meat,

ice cream

and cake.

born in 1928.

potatoes.

bacon

and eggs five

times

a week. a woman

in every port,

and yet.

still ticking. still ticking

at 92,

a timex

in the flesh.

sheets blowing in black and white

the photograph, black and white,

the sheets

blowing

in the wind stretched out

across the line,

held down

by wooden clothespins. it feels

cold.

it feels like nineteen fifty three.

the shingled houses, chimneys

full of smoke.

the wooden fence, the white

paint peeling, a dog 

walking by without a leash.

the grass looks green and lush,

soaked in rain, perhaps.

and who stood there must

be inside, blush faced from

the wind, her dress up to her

knees, taking a warm towel

to her cold wet feet.

the off beat

you prefer the off beat,

the edgy,

the different

and quirky.

someone who is out

of the box.

way out.

you never know

quite

who they are or

what they're thinking.

they keep

you on your toes,

your back

feet.

they curl your every toe,

they make you rock,

they make

you roll.

not a stale bone

in them.

they bring a smile

to your face,

they make your heart

skip a beat.

they keep you up all

night

without a wink

of sleep.

open your hands

it's always

the same. when you least

expect

it

good things

arrive

in spades.

stop looking, stop

striving,

stop

reaching so hard

for

anything,

relax. put it in your

mind,

your prayer,

then open your

arms,

put out

your hands and drop

what you're holding

so tightly.

make room for

what or who

is about to appear.

what's left is this

what's left

is this, his radio. his

pictures

of kids that he

never missed.

his plaques on

the wall

of ships.

his glasses.

old shoes, old clothes

that no

longer fit.

the bed, of course

he slept on,

not his.

the sofa

rumpled and frayed,

too

soft and sunken 

for anyone but him

to sit.

a tv in the corner

collecting dust.

the bills upon his

desk.

the magnifying glass.

little on

the shelves  or

the cupboard

or fridge.

not much.

and what is there to say

about any

of this, 

a life

gone gently into

that good night?

only that it was his.

the unfortunate you

the undoing

the unraveling

the thread

loose

and pulled, the unveiling,

the true

self

the naked

you

revealed

over time, over

days,

and months.

the slight tug

of

twine.

the box lid

opened,

the can,

the bottle top

unscrewed.

and out

out out, pours

the real,

the unfortunate

you.

if this keeps up

is there anything

more

filling

than warm bread 

from your oven

on a winters day.

tea.

just you and me

at the small table by

the window.

discussing nothing of

consequence.

the broad steel knife

against

the bread, spreading

butter

as it melts. we could

fall

in love 

if this keeps up.

a forgiving mood

if you're full of secrets.

small

or large.

please go away.

if you can't be truthful.

if you

can't be transparent

and honest.

just leave the room.

i have no

desire to be with the likes

of you.

a fake.

a liar.

clean up your act and perhaps

i'll give

you another

chance, maybe, just

maybe,

if i'm in a

forgiving mood.

i can't talk tonight

i'm sorry, but i can't talk tonight.

i'm

not busy, but

i'm tired.

dog tired

and unable to unwind.

i have nothing going on.

but

i have no words to say.

no thoughts

to share.

nothing of interest comes

to mind.

i just need to stare

at this screen and write.

forgive me.

i'll be better tomorrow, maybe

or perhaps the next day.

it's all

good, it's not you. 

we're fine.

the new fence between us

the new fence is

in

the workers have been out

there all

day in the cold

the lock is on.

the hinges.

the wood is tight.

i see them sitting on the stones

smoking.

talking quietly between

themselves.

their work is done

as the winter

sun

slips down.

i watch them go.

then go out to the gate.

i try the latch.

i remember

others

who have opened it,

others who have come and

gone.

ten dollar I make you holler

i put the telemarketer

on hold

while i take the next

call

from the IRS.

in 45 minutes we're coming

to arrest

you the guy 

in India tells me.

geez marie, i guess i should

get dressed.

medicare insurance

calls.

social security.

the warranty on my car

is about to expire.

someone wants to install

new windows.

a new roof.

my credit cards can be

consolidated

in a zero percent new card.

it's a busy

morning.

vitamins, pills to improve

my sex life.

do you want to sell

your house in the next three

months?

the police call asking for

donations.

firemen.

are you registered to vote?

do you have any clothes

you'd like

to give us.

no salesman will visit

your home.

young women from russia

are calling.

we love you,

we want to be your lover,

from thailand,

they call and

yell

ten dollar I make you holler.

the game time decision

why are you so nervous

the priest

asks me

as i sit on the front

step

of the church

while everyone inside

awaits for the 

wedding to begin. 

i'm tapping my foot, biting

my nails.

more nervous than a cat

in a room full

of rocking chairs.

trust in God, he says.

relax, put everything in his

hands.

you'll see.

things will work out

just fine.

you love her, right?

okay, then. make a go of

it.

what's there to lose,

but everything you own,

your health,

your peace and quiet,

the sanity of your

own mind.

come on my son, let's

get this show on the road,

everyone is waiting, let's

get this done.

the double wide outside of town

near the end of his

life

his son

buys him a trailer

on the other side of the tracks

to live in.

having sold

his

boat, his bike, his

car rusting

on the dock.

it's not a trailer, he'd

say, although

it's double wide.

but

it doesn't have wheels

and it's really

nice inside.

a bedroom, a bath,

a galley

kitchen

and a room in front

that has

a lot of light.

it's really nice, but i suppose

i could have

been better with

my money.

my four marriages,

my six kids,

and my life.

so, how is everything?

if i  told my mother

i cut

my hand,

or

broke my leg

or lost

my job,

or that i was getting

a divorce.

she'd start crying.

suddenly

it was about soothing

her,

comforting

her.

getting her to pull

herself

together.

the spotlight back

on her.

i'd calm her down

but learned

over time

to answer, when

she asked how everything

was,

just fine.

just fine.

nine to five

i think about

the bird

inside the cage.

a bright yellow.

all day

long

on the swinging bar.

no where

to fly.

she doesn't

even sing.

she just sits there,

pecking

at water, at seed,

eight hours a day,

all week.

staring into the mirror

of self,

fluttering

those hopeful wings.

the blood red ketchup

i notice a little melancholy 

going on

with you she says to me

from

across the table, six

feet apart.

you try to pull off that

happy go lucky fellow,

but deep down inside

you're blue and introspective,

dark almost,

always in some

distant observation mood.

yup.

so what's your point, i ask

her, reaching

into her plate for a french

fry, then dipping the tip

into the blood red tub

of ketchup.

the rotisserie chicken

sometimes

at night, you feel like

a rotisserie 

chicken

spinning around in

the heat,

the darkness

of light.

full of dreams

and dread,

full

of what's in the past,

what might lie

ahead.

basted and crispy,

by morning,

you're cooked,

but still

alive,

not dead.

no more flowers

she says you never send me

flowers anymore.

no vase

full of roses, no bouquets

of spring

daisies. nothing. not a single

flower

comes my way anymore.

no card attached

telling me how much i'm

loved and adored.

but, i haven't done anything

wrong lately, i tell her.

but when i do, i promise,

cross my heart, there will

be more.

just clouds

funny

how kindness

and compassion hits you

once in a while.

how you feel 

sincerely sorry

for

so many things

you've done,

or undone.

you worry for

the sick, the lonely,

the lost.

but the same goes for jealousy

and resentment too,

the appearance

of an angry scowl,

comes upon you,

but then it all passes.

as if

it was a cloud.

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.