the NPR interview

i go to the interview

at NPR.

they want me to talk about

my writing.

how eclectic it is. accessible

and real

to the unwashed masses.

how would you describe your 

art, the woman asks, touching

her chin.

she looks like

an owl. wise with big framed

oval glasses

and a little bit like a man,

but i don't think she is.

i'm sure she went to columbia

or yale,

or brown. i see the light shadow

of a mustache

coming in.

she pauses and smiles, as i

take

a sip of my studio coffee.  horrible.

i ask her if she has any snacks.

scones, perhaps?

she shakes her head no, but then

pulls out some

peanut butter crackers from her

purse.

i take a bite, crumbs are everywhere.

about your writing, she says, again.

who are your influences.

hmmm. i say. smacking my lips,

any water, by chance.

she snaps her fingers and a nearby

intern runs

into the hallway

to get me a cup of water.

i drink it, then say hmmm. again.

smart people, writers and poets,

deep thinkers in general

say hmm a lot.

so i do that for effect.

well. i finally say, addressing her

question.

i tap the microphone, is this thing on?

are people actually listening to us on

the radio?  i should text my friend

Betty and tell her.

good god the hostess says,

under her breath,  please,

tell us who you admire.

well, i say, clearing my throat of a

stubborn piece of cracker.

i get a kick out of sylvia plath

and anne sexton, but

charles bukowski is no slouch either.

and then there's

dr. seuss

and 

benny hill.

i'd say most of those have been

a great influence on me.

and throw in

mark strand,

phillip levine and that old stand by

phillip larkin.

she looks at her notes trying to think

what to ask next.

she smiles painfully.

she's in the dentist chair at this point

getting a root canal.

and what is your procedure for writing.

how do you go about creating

your unique art?

do you ponder,

do you wait until the muse strikes,

is it a struggle

to be creative all the time?

nah, not really, i just sort of sit down

and start typing.

excuse me, i say,

but do you guys break for lunch

around here?

it's almost twelve.

i'm starving. i saw a chinese

place around the corner,

maybe we can order in. 

a little kung pao, crispy beef, no?

on the right path all along

community college

was the best

eight years of my life.

a class

here, a class there.

geology biology computer

science.

but nothing fit, nothing

seemed right.

if you had been there,

maybe things

would have

been

different. you'd given me

a push,

a kick.

a jump start in the right

direction.

but you weren't, which

is fine

after all.

i'm good,

i'm where i should

be.

even without you,

i was on the right

path

all along.

taking out the good china

i take out the good china

for you.

i make a dish according to your

dietary needs.

i put the music on that you

like.

i change the sheets.

i light the candles.

i dust i clean, i set all my time

aside.

i turn off the phone.

i unlock the door, i give you

the space out

front.

it's you my dear, that i adore.

slip sliding away

sometimes you need someone

to push you,

to tell you

that tomorrow is today.

come on boy.

get to it.

enough with the procrastination.

the delay.

get it on.

get going.

come on, you can do it.

time

is slipping away.

making the bed

i stand at the door

of the bedroom trying to decide

if i should

make my bed or not.

i sigh.

maybe i should. maybe by doing

something

so simple like that 

it will

make me a better person.

it will get the ball

rolling

about other things like recycling 

or finishing

a book i've been

reading for six months.

one has nothing

to do with

the other, but by making the bed

maybe it will put

a spring in my step.

the sheets tucked tight,

the blanket spread,

pillows arranged just so

in hotel

fashion.

it's a good way

to start the day i've witnessed

and been told.

maybe later. 

i need coffee. gotta go.

spiteful shopping

i stand outside

the dollar

store with my christmas list.

that's right.

the dollar store.

five and below is the next stop.

i haven't been getting the love

this year

from my peeps.

so i'm going cheap on them.

it's a short list,

but still.

i'm not fighting the crowd

at target

this year. this will teach

them

a lesson they won't soon

forget.

holy moly

with church attendance

down,

the collection

baskets near empty,

i see the local priest

at home depot.

he's working there now.

a bright orange

vest around

his long black gown.

i ask him where the toilet

plungers

are, and he smiles, strokes

his shaggy beard and

says

aisle six. now go and sin

no more.

and if you need a plumber,

let me give you

this card.

give a call to Father

Smith.

Yelp gives him four stars.

your world is about to change

we need to scare

you.

the news. we need to bother you.

upset

you.

please.

stay tuned. you won't

believe

this next story

we're about to tell.

don't leave your couch,

gather

round

the family.

death and disease,

world war three

is nothing compared

to

our next exclusive report

about the dangers

of fat free donuts.

hold on to your seats.

your world

is about to change. don't

touch that dial.

Esmeralda

he liked

peppers. hot peppers.

in his eggs.

with his potatoes.

he liked

the heat. the flame of peppers.

how they

made his  brow sweat,

his tongue swell,

how

he 

twisted in his seat.

shaking his head with a smile.

he couldn't get 

enough of peppers, red or 

yellow.

or green. 

he liked things hot,

and this is why he married

Esmeralda

and broke up with Irene.

you shift your weight

you shift your weight from

side

to side

trying to decide things.

shuffling your feet,

looking down each road,

your hat is on tight,

a scarf wrapped around your

neck.

you want to plant your

foot and go.

but nothing is clear.

has it ever been?

you listen for the voice

of reason,

you wait patiently, but

it's cold.

if you were a math problem

if you were a math problem

i'd be better off,

more well equipped

to solve

the equation of you.

i'd take out my pencil,

my paper,

my algebra book from the 9th

grade

and slide rule

and get to work.

i'd get to the bottom

of your variables,

your unknowns,

your constants.

and finally, at last after much

work and scratching of

head, i'd figure out

the mysterious answer

of who you really are.

the white plate of moon

the ice was slick

and

black in the quiet

darkness

of night.

no wonder i slipped.

and fell with nothing

to grab onto,

no loved one near

to catch me,

so down i went.

but nothing broke

no cuts

no bruises to speak of.

and as i lie there alone

i looked up at the sky.

the clouds

opening slowly

to reveal the stars,

the white plate of moon,

i thought

how wonderful things

appeared

from this point of view.

be wise and listen closely

this intuition

is too much sometimes.

how you wish

to dial it down, or turn it

off.

it fills you with information

that sometimes

you wish you didn't know

or need.

but need it you do

in order

to move

on.

you need

to embrace and listen

carefully 

to what your

body, your gut

is telling you. or there

is no left

to blame

no one to point a finger

at,

but you.

there is joy

there is joy

in unfollowing, deleting

blocking

unfriending, not  responding

to those who 

bring

drama and trauma

into your life.

you have to let go of such

toxic holds.

they will pull you down

to drown

into the depths of

hell

if you don't release 

your grip

or theirs upon your

heart,

upon your soul.

three hours at a holiday inn

through the thin

walls

of the holiday inn

on route one heading south

down

richmond highway

i could

hear the man coughing

in the adjacent room

while

he talked on the phone.

my vent being

his too.

the bed was hard.

the pillow a small sack

of what felt like straw

and stones.

it smelled of smoke

and urine.

ashtrays overflowed.

a picture of a revolutionary

soldier

firing a rifle

hung on the wall.

my plan was three nights

to let

things settle down back

at home, to figure out

a way.

but at two in the morning,

i got up.

grabbed my unpacked

bag by the door

and left.

my decision made.

skipping stones

the last i saw of her

she threw a stone across the blue

hand

of

a lake.

it skipped and skipped

as if it

had a plan, before it sunk

below

a gentle wave.

unlike us, who never spoke

a word again,

and went

on

our separate ways.

the night shift

they are different than you

or me.

they set their clocks for ungodly

hours.

they pack their lunch

for midnight.

they walk under the moons

glow to work

in singular rounded shadows,

down the empty streets,

bundled

against the cold.

to  factories, to stores to

stock shelves,

to bake, to open then

behind them

lock the doors.

they leave their houses

to do things we seldom see

them doing.

so little do we know

how they rise, how they sleep

in sunlight,

do they have

families,

or lovers who wait for

them

in darkness, back home?

the door bell rings

the door bell rings

and

she shows up in a long

black coat

at the door.

it's cold out

snowing.

the wind is blowing her long

hair

around her shoulders.

she stamps her heels,

shakes the snow from her hair,

and slowly unbuttons

what she wore,

leaving little to the imagination.

merry christmas

she says

may i come in.

to which i say, sure.

i'm just fine and dandy

when we smile too hard,

with big cheeks

and teeth,

when  we

tell others

that all is well.

we're fine and dandy,

we couldn't be better,

and you?

then it's a clue

a clue that you're about

to jump off a high bridge,

or drink a giant jumbo

bottle of red wine

with a straw.

paper work hell

i hate paper work.

despise

the stack of bills,

the contracts,

important documents

on the desk

the need to be signed.

it's my impression of

one level of hell.

the postage the return

address.

what's due, what isn't.

i groan at crossing

the t's, dotting the i's.

it's  torturous at times.

tomorrow, tomorrow

i tell myself i'll sit down

for the nine minutes it

will take me to get it

all done and do what

must be done to keep

me alive.

the uninvited guests

the uninvited are at the door.

they want in.

who called them here?

who told them

when the party would begin?

their faces pressed against

the windows

with empty

hands, and broken hearts.

they weep with their sadness.

they see the christmas tree

lit up,

the gaiety of life, the food,

the drinks.

they see dancing.

they won't go away.

they tap on the window pane.

they beg with whispers to be let in.

they lean to see more

of what they can never have.

they have no idea that i too

am one of them.

on the outside, as they are,

looking in.

the gift of love

i set the gift on the table.

perfectly wrapped

in gold shiny paper.

a white ribbon,

a bold green bow.

the whole thing sparkles

in the lights

of

Christmas.

i pick it up, i bring it

close.

what luck i have found.

i'm in love with whatever

has been wrapped

so beautifully for me,

but i'm afraid these days to

open anything up,

or anyone. i put the scissors

down,

 i'd rather not know

what lies

inside. i'd rather not see.

it could be you

it could be you,

maybe.

it could be.

i don't know anymore.

i'm tired of the short straw.

the bad hand.

snake eyes

on every other roll.

so, yes. it could be you.

but if it isn't

maybe we can just

pretend.

there's only today

there's no such thing

as tomorrow

it never gets here.

it's the carrot on the stick

you can never

reach.

it's always today, get

used to it.

it's only this. this moment.

the rest

is memory,

the rest is imagination,

the rest is something

we like 

to call hope.

unconditional love

what you don't know

can't hurt

you, unless

someone tells you all

about it.

gives you the truth about

things.

and then suddenly

that unconditional love

you keep

talking about hits 

the highway,

scurries down the road.

it's gone baby gone.

in the blink of an eye.

what was real was just

imagined,

it's over, it's done with

now that

everything is known.

early morning toast

butter would melt

on her 

as if she was a hot

piece of toast

sweetened with jam

from the berries

of some 

bucolic farm.

square and cool at the same

time. edgy and sharp.

leaving kisses like

crumbs

all over you.

a surprise

when she popped from

the toaster,

ready for fun.

she was a loaf of good times.

whole

wheat and rye. warm

and delicious as you

bit her tongue, 

the morning sun

in her big brown eyes,

but

if left out overnight

she could easily go

stale, and sadly,

become

sourdough at times.

on the dole

i remember standing in

line outside the low

brick  building

in bladensburg,

with a borrowed coat

on. my gloveless

hands dug deep into

the pockets of my painter's

pants.

my friend

john beside me,

his black beard full of frost,

waiting for our

turn in the unemployment

office.

both of us

on the dole through no

fault of our own.

the work run out.

we stamped

our feet.

in the increasing snow.

but strangely 

unlike so many in

line,

we didn't mind.

we were unworried.

we felt we had a long life

to go.

anyone with a heart

i buy a powerful

telescope

and set it by the window,

pointing it over

the trees

into the black sky pricked

by

stars.

i want to see what's out there.

what lies

beyond this house, this yard,

this small world

of mine.

i scan the open skies

and wait,

in search of anyone

with a true heart.

anyone close, 

anyone far.

a whisper in your ear

you leave a whisper

in your ear.

the soft curl of warm words

left

behind

when love

was new. when the world

was kind.

you listen to it

every now and again.

picking up a white shell

in the sand,

but it fades and fades

as you walk

the violent shore,

bracing yourself

against the wind of time.

too much of a sweet thing

too much

candy and your teeth go black

your body

sags

with the weight of sugar.

you

drag yourself out of bed

to

box or jar,

but you

want more.

not less.

it's the way of the world.

too much

of a sweet thing, unless

it's you,

can bring

an early death.

if only

two words make it a short

drive

to crazy town.

if only.

if only i'd done this, said

that.

went there, or never went

at all.

if only

i never called, or

we never

kissed. if only i'd

turned right

instead of left.

so much would be different.

i'd have

none

of this and no regrets.

the money's run out

i see the yard

grown brown with thickets.

the fence

leaning,

the gate broken off at

the latch.

i see the broken window.

there's nobody

home. the bride in white,

the groom in

black.

the children who never

lacked.

the money once large,

has finally

run out.

where once three cars

stood,

is nothing.

the playground swing

in the yard

is off

the chain, rusted on

the ground.

the garden gone.

the pool full of what

the wind brings.

the money once

large

has finally run out.

the ungrown children

is not the world full

of ungrown

children.

learned in the crib to cry

for

whatever needs that need

meeting.

no matter how achieved,

by

charm,

by lie.

children in dresses, off to

work,

men in suits

and ties.

children never leaving

the playground.

pretending day in, day

out at

what they

perceive life to be,

mirroring it all

with their childlike eyes.

despite all signs

we believe.

we believe in fixing what's broken.

we're an

optimistic crowd.

foolish yes.

but eager to please, to

set things right.

to make everyone in

the room

full with drink, with food.

comfortable

in their chairs.

we arrange our time.

we bend over

backwards and forward.

we take the blame,

we want

peace, we want the planets

to align.

we have faith in love despite

all

things.

all signs.

the long walk into night

it is no night to go walking

and yet

you do.

boots on, shrouded darkly

in rain gear.

you have unfinished business

with

this world.

thoughts left to ponder.

decisions

to decide.

there is no one out, just

you

in the rain and ice.

it's what you've always done

in your life.

walk alone

until

things are settled, things

are made right,

at least for now.

the wide net

you read about the bridge

crossing

rock creek,

how they've strung up

nets

below the ancient stone

span

to catch those who are

done with the world.

finished with love,

with all plans.

you read how

they're caught

after leaping with despair

onto the web of ropes

of the great wide net,

surprised at what they've

found.

a new life.

not death, not yet.

what must be said

steel blue,

this water spills over

the rocks.

pebbles grounded

beneath

our wet shoes.

we'll walk not far

today. we're cold

and off our path,

we'll go

just far enough for each

to say

what each

has to say

and no farther.

the bakery poem

she said i love the poem

you wrote

about the bakery

and printed it off to hang

on my office wall.

i told her thank you.

i wrote it before i knew

you, but it truly was

about you, before

a word was written.

before we even talked.

the enormous red flag

i'm taking notes on you.

watching you

closely.

waiting

for what i don't know.

but at some point

everyone leans across 

the table

and says

there's something

i just have to tell you.

it's something

you need to know.

and it's usually not good.

it's a deal breaker

of some sort.

a poison apple in the well.

a red flag the size of

a bed sheet.

and you have to decide,

whether  to stick it out, 

or to move on, and let go.

resurrect good cheer

the snow turns to rain.

but

it's bitter cold.

i know this weather.

i know this season. i've been

there

all year at times.

that chill,

that wind.

that fear.

only another warm body

brings

you back to life.

resurrects  good cheer.

stay tuned

i settle into the confessional

booth with

my pillow

for my knees, a hot cup of coffee,

and a bag

of chocolate

chip cookies, with nuts.

this could take awhile.

i begin with the small stuff,

and i can hear Father Smith

sigh on the other side

of the dimly lit screen.

i give him a white lie

or two, the red light i ran.

throwing out a newspaper

and missing the can.

finally i hit my stride with

the bigger sins,

and he seems more interested,

especially when i mention

Sally who teaches bible

study to the grade school kids

and is a Lector for sunday mass.

go on he says, go on, and then

what?

just as i get to the good part

i tell him i have to go.

but i'll finish up next week,

same time, same place?

and he says sure. 

5 o'clock sharp, but for now,

five Hail Mary's and two

or three Our Fathers, you decide.

the story of you

in the dark ages

i'd find

you in the white pages,

or the yellow

pages selling your wares.

but

things are different now.

all i have to do

is plug in your name.

and everything there

is to learn

whether good or bad

appears

in black and white,

in technicolor, there it

is, the story

of you.

although it could be

it's not church.

not at all.

it's not a place of prayer,

although it

could

be in the moment.

but it's

a sanctuary of sorts

two

people lying side

by side

in the aftermath

of love.

how truth is easy

to come out

in these moments of

shadowy sheets,

of hearts

slowing down.

what words are said

are

real.

arms and legs entangled,

thoughts

racing through both

your minds,

will there be another

time.

the meet up group

my friend jimmy belongs to a new

meet up group.

the Early Onset of Dementia Meet Up.

they meet every tuesday in an

abandoned building

near the mall.

there's a dj and dancing.

he says it's fun. no one remembers

their name,

or why they came.

people are losing their

keys,

and unable to find their cars.

or remember

if they've had dinner or not.

you should come, he says.

you're memory is slipping like

mine is,

right?

yeah. i say, sometimes it is.

just yesterday

i put my wallet

in the fridge

and the milk under the sink.

i couldn't remember

my password to Linkedin.

see,

that's what i'm talking about.

you'll fit right in.

and there's some really cute

women there too.

sometimes they think they're

still married

and other times they don't.

and get this,

they don't remember you from

week to week

so it's like

groundhog day with them.

so if you say something stupid,

or make an

inappropriate move,

they don't remember it

and you start all over the next

week.

okay. sounds. great.

what time does it start.

ummm. not sure. seven, maybe.

i think.

running back into a burning house

would you ever go back,

she asks

me.

is there any reason that you'd

ever

kiss

and make up?

you mean run back into a

burning building

to have sex one more

time

before the whole house

collapses?

well, that's not what i

meant,

she says.

i know. i know. i get what

you're asking,

but it's

not unlike that.

clean money

i find a twenty dollar

bill

in the dryer.

it's crumpled and clean.

crispy, yet soft.

the green looks

fresh as if newly printed.

i stretch it out,

tap it down

and then give it a good ironing

on the ironing

board.

i slide it over next to 

the sheets

and pillow cases,

then set it on top of

the other pile

of money

on the table set loose

from

the pockets of my pants.

the crying baby

you reach an age

where

things that never bothered

you

bother you now.

babies crying

for instance.

the shriek of a child in

a store

or on the bus.

anywhere actually.

their faces gooey with

tears

red faced

and showing their

new sharp teeth to the world.

or chatty women with

stories

with no end.

telling you about an uncle

in Syracuse

with shingles

or aunt

in Louisiana with six cats.

you yawn and put the phone

down

and fold clothes,

do a cross word puzzle

until

the story stops, not ends.

and then

respond with oh my.

well, gotta go now.

car on fire

i see the car in flames

on the side

of the road.

a black plume of smoke

cyclones into

the blue sky.

it's before the firetruck has arrived.

before the police.

before they've

set out the orange

cones.

other cars pull over, but there

is nothing they

can do.

they want to watch and be

grateful

that it's not their car.

thinking of the story 

they will have to tell

when they get home.

the fire has engulfed the metal

hulk on wheels,

while the owner stands 

back,

one hand on his hip

as he smokes a cigarette

and talks

into his phone.

home for now

we buy an empty house,

an apartment,

a condo

near the hills, near a lake.

on the border

of town, or in the city.

we take the sign down.

it's ours.

we put a mat out front,

saying home.

we buy a bed,

a couch,

a tv.

a table with chairs

to sit upon

and eat our meals.

we paint the walls,

hang pictures,

put photos of our loved

ones on the mantel.

we call it home. our home.

but in truth it's not.

it's a temporary resting

place, as all

things are in life.

it's just another bus stop

before

the bus takes off again.

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.