cashing in

he tells me about his new

home.

the trailer

court in berlin.

it's nice

he says.

plenty of room

to spread out.

i'm walking distance

to the water,

to the pub

and back again.

i sold my boat.

my car. i quit my last

job,

i've cashed it all

in.

you should visit sometime.

but call

first. i'm very busy.

very busy.

i might not be in.

her flowered dress

her flowered

dress

was never worn.

yellow

and blue, green leaves,

the stems

and petals

full of color, a summer

dress

with the tags still on.

but the season changed

too quickly,

as did our love for one

another.

and now it hangs

behind the door.

where i've been

these walls won't hold me.

these bars.

the barbed wire fence

is nothing.

i laugh at the guard tower

with it's search light

and barking dogs.

the guards

with pistols on their

side,

patrolling the halls,

the yard.

they can't keep me in,

they have no idea what

i've escaped from before.

this is child's play compared

where i've been.

planning ahead

i hire a lawyer.

she's very nice and polite.

she asks

me why.

why do i need a lawyer

right now.

i tell her

i'm not sure quite yet.

but i have

feeling that at some

point

i might be needing you.

i may be

slipping soon on a patch

of ice.

that looks like fun

i lie down

on a bed of nails, because

i see

someone doing

it on tv.

i run through a

a fire,

for the same reason.

i jump out of a plane,

i dive

into the ocean full

of sharks

and sting rays.

and then the bachelorette

comes on

tv.

and i quickly change

the channel.

i smell what you're cooking

the dog,

fat on table scrapes is happy

despite

his size.

his belly full with whatever

it is

i cook.

when i'm gone he

nudges

the recipe book off

the shelf

and browses for something

new.

he tires at times of chicken,

or fish,

or stew.

when i see him with his

sombrero  on.

i see what he's up to

and stop for beans and rice

on the way home.

fajitas for two.

living alone

live alone

long enough and you'll begin

to strike

up conversations

with the broom,

the floor.

the windows and doors.

let's close up

tight tonight you

say to the bedroom

window. it's chilly

out there. and

oh dear shovel.

you'll get your turn

soon.

just wait, be patient

it won't be long before

it's february.

and you, you lonesome

thing.

the chair no one

ever sits in.

tomorrow, it's just

me and you.

all night as i read

my book. i'll move us

next to table lamp,

our very good

friend.

when you find me

when you find me, 

you'll know

it's me.

as i'll know it's you.

there will be no doubt

as to who we are.

we've been hiding

from one another for most

of our lives.

but we'll find each other.

you'll see.

you'll see.

keep looking, don't stop

and i'll do the same.

it's inevitable.

i'm here.

right here.

i'll always be where i am,

waiting for you.

i think i know

the crippled man

on

the corner.

smiles

and waves his plastic

bucket.

god bless, the sign says.

he's wearing

red

for the holidays.

a droopy hat

and green pants.

he has one leg.

i want to roll the window

down and give him

something.

something that would

change his life.

what would a dollar do,

a loaf of bread

a pint of bourbon.

what is that he really

wants.

i think i know.

a hundred poems or more

in an effort to find

a hundred

half decent poems

to throw into a small book

before

i die.

i struggle and moan

at the slew

of thousands.

i pull what little hair

i have left

from my head and sigh.

i want to rewrite

every one of them.

nothing feels finished,

nothing seems polished

and ready

for the worlds eyes.

so much babbling, so

much whining, so much

spiteful typing 

of anything 

that popped into

my mind. but there's

still time,

still a little sand left

in the hourglass.

i consider this idea

i consider this

idea

at another chance.

another try.

i let it roll around my head.

a ball.

bouncing from side to side.

i'm full of maybes

again.

perhaps, i say, and think.

let me sleep

on it,

let me ponder the possibilities.

let

me

allow just one more

day

for my heart to mend.

the under tow

it's the swift water 

that holds you back,

the under tow,

the rip

tide

that you don't see

before it's upon you.

how quickly you're pulled

out and under.

struggling to breathe,

to swim to shore.

you can only save yourself

by letting go.

by going with he current,

the flow.

don't fight it anymore.

don't look pretty anymore

please don't look pretty

anymore

when i meet you again

on the boulevard.

don't

look so fine, don't smell

so nice.

don't be cruel like that.

be kind

and pay no mind to how

you look when you

leave the house.

don't fix your hair,

your face, wear all the

things i never liked.

please don't look pretty

anymore. it's not fair

when it's not me you're

going to meet,

like we used to on a

summer night.

the easy test

it's really an easy test.

what kind of water do you want

brought

to the table.

seltzer, perrier.

spring water,

tap?

do you need a slice of lemon

on the edge?

does it need

to be filtered.

with ice, without?

a bottle for the table,

or just a glass.

a straw perhaps.

tell me dear with what

you order,

what you're truly all about.

the clean window

i splash

the window with vinegar,

then wipe with a crumpled

page

of the daily news.

old school.

i can look out all day

now at what passes by

as life.

perhaps soon i'll get back

out there

and join them.

getting a physical

i stick the thermometer

into my

mouth

and wait.

it's under just a bit.

i do feel a bit chilly inside.

not quite ninety-eight point

six.

but close enough.

i run up the stairs to see if

i can breathe.

pretty good.

heart is thumping like

a bunny rabbit

not a single cough

or wheeze.

i touch my toes,

the tip of my nose with my

eyes closed.

 bingo.  i open my mouth

and say ahhh

in the mirror.

nothing there.

i swing my eyes from side to side

looks good too.

i do a quick scan with my hands

to locate any new

body lumps that may have

risen overnight. 

nope. clear.  i prick my finger

with a needle.

yup,

blood is still red.

i try to remember a few

birthdays

of significant others

i used to know to see if

my memory

is still intact.

oh well.

i couldn't remember 

dates

when i was with them

anyway,

but i do find my

keys

and wallet

in the fridge.

for the most part i think

i'll live

another day.

the under sharers

there are two

kinds of conversationalists.

those that over share

and those that under share.

with one, you find out everything

they've ever said

or done

over the last twenty years.

each bump

or bruise in the road.

their children,

their daughters, their son.

a husband or lover still in

the mix despite all

the pain they've done.

they show you their scars,

their

pay stubs, their photos and texts.

they tell you about their

sex life.  their money problems.

a run in their hose.

and then there are the under

sharers, the quiet ones that listen.

calm and reposed.

with them there is little

you will ever know.

i like them.

no returns

as i stand in line

outside of the big

store

with a brand new

37 speed food processor

that someone,

not santa,

gave me for

christmas.

i think about my

childhood

gifts.

a bat, a ball, a glove.

socks.

a toy train with smoke

coming out

of the stack. a new

pen and a spiral notebook,

so many things

i would never return,

or take back.

really, this is nothing

after awhile you tire of hearing

people say

what a bad

year it was.

it was horrible. this and that.

the pain

the strain.

work, the virus.

riots and protests, death.

the weather.

politics.

schools and children,

pets

and elders.

lockdowns.

the whole world going to

hell

on a speed pass,

but after awhile, enough is

enough.

suck it up

and stop whining,

i've seen worse. a lot worse.

this is nothing.

let me tell you

about two thousand eighteen.

too early to end things

it's too early to take down

the tree,

pack up the ornaments

and tinsel,

or stockings hung

by the chimney.

or the lights

strung about the house.

it's too early

to take bing off the channel.

to

pour a nearly full

carton  of eggnog down the drain.

or box the cards

standing on the mantle.

it's too early

to take down the mistletoe,

but on second

thought, hold on,

i might keep that up

all year.

the fare

there is a cost

we must

pay.

sometimes small change,

a dollar or two,

or a large check

written in the end.

but we always pay

the price, the toll.

the fare, the entry

fee of

nearly everyone we meet

that stays.

we feed coins into

the meter.

we buy flowers,

we buy chocolates, 

gifts

from the heart.

we slip payment into

an envelope

and drop it in the box.

pardoned

i'm so happy to have received

my pardon

from the president

last night.

home for the holidays and

out of my orange jumpsuit

and eight by eight cage.

it was the hardest one 

hour of my life.

i should have paid

those parking tickets

on time, but i didn't,

i was lazy and careless,

and i had this crazy woman

on my mind.

i blame it on her mr.

president, and you know

from personal experience

the trouble they can bring,

but thanks for

thinking of me during

this season of love

and forgiveness. sorry i

didn't vote for you this year,

but maybe next time,

maybe, though doubtful.

home for christmas

the soldier coming home.

the daughter

from school.

the prodigal son.

a husband once lost,

all coming home 

for christmas.

on trains

and buses.

driving through ice,

through fog,

on flights from afar.

walking in deep snow,

but they'll get there.

they'll get there.

nothing can stop

loved ones this

time of year

from being apart.

borrowed books

i have a few books

on my shelf

that are borrowed.

favorites that were promised

to be returned,

but weren't.

do they wonder where they are?

every time i pick one up

i want

to give them back.

but don't.

for if i did, i might forget

the hand

that let me borrow them

to read,

and in returning them,

perhaps,

they too would forget 

all about me.

i make use of the cold

i make use of the cold.

i burrow

into

it.

wrapped tight in my winter

clothes.

i like the sting

of wind.

the harsh blow.

the whip

of it all against my chilled

bones, my skin.

i go through it

as i do to all

painful things. straight

to the other side

and out again.

the melting

petals

of snow drift

slowly down,

and kiss

our cheeks.

they do what i want

to do

with you.

how easily you

melt me

when i'm near.

something i remember well

we sit around the table,

a few

good friends.

lucky to be alive and healthy.

our

faces

red from the cold

when coming in.

we've had our fill of food

and drink.

desserts.

and now we sit under the low

shine

of light

and talk, reminisce.

we toast tomorrow,

to a new year.

it feels like love in the room.

something i remember well.

the end of turkey

what's left of the turkey

finds

room

on a shelf in the cold

light

of the refrigerator.

it had its day and then some.

covered in foil

beside a bowl of potatoes,

the remnants of what

was once

a pumpkin pie.

tomorrow i'll

find the big knife

and go at it once

more and slice,

layer what's left upon

a plate.

i'll find the bread, the

stuffing

and pile it high.

but that will the end

of turkey

until next year. no lie.

the marriage proposal

let's get married, she says.

let's throw

caution to the wind.

let's fly off

to some far away island

and slip rings

onto our fingers.

blue water, white sand.

just me and you.

the birds and clouds.

the sun upon us.

let's get young again

and do the things we were

born to do.

let's do it together as one.

i'll be yours, if you'll

be mine. let's say i do,

until the end of time.

can i sleep on it?

why isn't it everywhere

why does

kindness surprise us

these days.

the held door,

the dollar given,

generosity in general,

unselfishness.

why are

we astounded

at a good heart

that crosses

our path.

a truly spiritual being

seems rare

these days.

why isn't it

everywhere?

don't roll your eyes at me

don't roll your eyes at me

my mother would

say.

my ex wives would say.

my teachers would

say.

my dog would say

if he could actually say

anything, other than bark

incessantly.

i believe i'll make it my

signature look and take

it to the grave, lying

there in wake. unable

to shake my head at

people crying, 

my eyes rolled up, just

the same.

around 2 p.m.

it would be about this time

of the day

with the first game on

and the house

filling with

relatives

and strangers

when my mother would

set out a tray

of olives.

black and green.

some cut cheese and crackers.

a few grapes

tossed in and

celery stalks

filled with cream cheese,

all lined in rows

like soldiers

on her best holiday dish.

something to nibble on,

she'd say, sweat rolling

off her brow, while a turkey

the size of a small child

roasted in the oven

beside a pan of lasagna.

a spiral ham waiting

its turn to be next.

christmas snow

it's either feathery snow 

coming down

from the grey sky

or 

something's burning nearby.

out the window

i see white ashes

floating down

like confetti. i hope it's

snow.

and nothing's on

fire in the neighborhood.

so far i don't hear any siren

or alarms going off.

i really don't want to get

out of these pajamas today.

the dead santa

seems he went

down the wrong chimney

one time too

many

messing with another

man's wife,

the detective says, standing

over the body

of santa claus.

the snap on beard loose

around his

chin.

blunt object to the head?

one cop says to the other.

yup, candlestick,

look at the blood

and white hair from his wig.

suspects? mrs. claus?

maybe, it could have

been anyone though who didn't

get the right gift,

we have a list, a scroll

of suspects found in his

woolen red suit. chalk

him up and get him out

of here before any kids

see him and 

scrape some of that

apple pie off his suit.

take it down to the lab.

that lipstick on his cheek

too. we need to get to

the bottom of this.

and pull his pants up.

california time

while i sit here in the snow,

she's on california time.

in california

weather,

in her california clothes

and eating

and drinking her

california

wine, her grapes

and avocados.

but it doesn't matter.

the miles between us,

nor the hour

of the day or night.

we have our own

schedule within, 

that keeps us connected.

a jet stream of love 

flying in upper winds.

the soundtrack

some songs

i know by heart, every word.

each beat.

i remember where the record

skipped

and i had to get up

from the floor

to lift the needle,

blowing fuzz from

the tip.

the hours would go by

as a stack

of 33's or 45's

fell and dropped

upon the turntable.

what joy in

doing nothing,

just listening with closed

eyes to the sound

track of

your life,

again and again.

we dance all night

we all dance around things.

difficult subjects

that may decide,

you and me.

we free style,

we ballroom,

we twist. we tap.

we do the watusi,

we dirty dance and limbo

under a stick.

we shimmy and shake

across the floor.

we don't want to come out

and say

what's on our mind,

instead we let our feet

talk for us,

doing a crazy jig,

a rumba, hot salsa,

never saying what

we mean,

never meaning what

we say

as our fingers and feet

click until they're sore.

what isn't there

like most, i try to think

the best

of people at first

glance.

good folks.

good to the core,

decent, hard working,

loyal souls,

but people fool you

from time to time

when

you're eyes and heart

are wanting to see 

what isn't there,

half closed.

a summer peach

we have skins.

we have

juice.

but what's in the middle

when you finally

get there,

is it just skin

after skin,

piece after piece

as you peel away

the layers.

is it an onion,

with nothing left,

or are you

a sweet and savory

summer

peach

with a seed in

the center.

more important things

there are things we leave

unattended.

chores and duties.

things that must be done at

some point.

they lie

on desks, in the shadows,

plants

that need water,

checks to be written

and sent.

dogs that need walking.

calls

to be returned.

but we delay.

we procrastinate. 

we're busy with other things

of greater

importance.

such as pondering the trees

outside the window

as snow falls.

enough, enough of this life

i'd like

to die in my sleep at

an

elder age

after a fine gourmet

meal,

the proper wine,

a dessert

of course

and then a dance

across the ballroom floor,

in love with the likes

of you.

that would be nice.

so in your arms we'd

go

to bed.

make love make love.

and then

when morning came,

again.

that would suffice.

then perhaps i could close

my eyes

and say

enough. enough of this

life.

though doubtful.

the new is not so new anymore

the new is not so new

anymore.

what we buy or rent

loses its shine

in no time.

whether car or shoe.

or that dress or coat

you once wore.

that you

could never part with,

now heaped in a pile

destined

for another set of eyes

and hands

for them to adore,

perhaps

they'll make use of it

as you once did.

to favor and love,

which brings me back

to you,

once more.

the empty vase

an empty

vase

longs to be filled,

as does the dish,

the cup,

a bowl.

not to mention

a  hand, and heart.

each formed

and shaped

for what it may

hold.

come sit beside me

come here

the old woman says. 

stretching out her arm

like the branch

of a tree.

come over here

and sit

beside me.

she smiles softly

with her blue eyes

wet in the sun like

glassed antiques.

right here, she says, patting

the bench.

i know you.

i know you.

i don't know your name.

or who are you, or where you

live

but i know you,

i know your pain.

she takes my hand and folds

it into hers.

me too, she says. me too.

as the water freezes

she's crying

somewhere. i see her down

by the water.

where it's beginning

to freeze.

it's not

for me though. 

these tears

aren't for me.

she's crying for someone

else

she misses,

but i knew a long time ago.

from the moment

i met her,

that this

is what it would be.

the blue mailbox

fifty years ago,

in the neighborhood

where i lived,

there was boy

who

lost a kidney

when sled riding down

a steep hill

nearby and struck

a mailbox.

hitting his side,

full speed.

i wonder how he is

these days,

has he survived this

life?

i put my letter

into the round shouldered

blue box,

watching the door close,

then move on

in the falling snow.

morning prayer

the cracked stone

steps

have crumbled

grey

from the rain

and age,

and as i step

down 

to where the woods

open,

i bend

and kneel

to touch the blue

swell

of stream.

what is myrrh anyway?

i see my friend Irma

up

at the church buying a christmas tree.

hey, she says.

what do you think of this tree.

she holds it up.

good, nice. tall, fat. perfect.

she hands the guy some money

and he drags it to her

car.

i thought you didn't believe in

this sort of thing

i tell her.

huh? she says.

you know, God, Jesus, that sort

of thing.

pffft. i don't. all sounds a little

fishy to me.

the virgin Mary.

come on.

give me a break.

trust me, it didn't go down like that.

three wise men following a star

in the sky with gold, frankincense

myrrh. what the hell is myrrh

anyway.

i can't find my way to a liquor

store without

using mapquest on my phone.

sorry, didn't mean to offend you,

i know you

believe in all that stuff.

so what are you doing here?  

heading into mass, i tell her,

starts in a few

minutes,

you're welcome to join me.

no thanks,

i got to get this freaking tree

in the house and decorate it.

the string of lights are up

in the attic balled up like

a tumbleweed in a box.

and then go to the mall, i have

a list a mile long

of presents to buy.

well, have fun and merry

christmas.

whatever she says. see ya.

home for the holdiays

no travel.

no stuffing the car with

packages.

no hot plates loaded

onto the floor of

the front seat.

no plants.

no boxes or bags for

the trunk,

or roof.

no map to look at to

find the interstate.

no gassing up, and scraping

the windows

of ice,

of turning 

on the radio

to sing.

no travel, this year.

to a house full of friends

and family,

strangers alike,

and it's a wonderful thing.

the box of crayons

the first box of crayons

is fascinating

as a child.

reading what each color is

on the round

sides.

and there is no direction,

is there?

there never is when you have

that many choices

in hand.

with no parent nearby to say

even a simple thing

like the sky is

blue

the grass is green.

mistakes are made

into adulthood, when

we color

without a plan.

too early, i thought

too early, i thought.

the white

crib.

the flowers.

a rocking chair in the corner.

all new.

a changing table.

three months to go.

the mobile hung above.

the stripe

of paper on the wall

in pale

blue.

a stencil of his name,

but

the boy that was coming

so soon,

never came.

white out

i like the way snow 

whites

out the world.

how it makes the houses

disappear,

the streets, the sidewalks.

the woods

are blanketed.

covering both you

and me.

it gives you hope

somehow,

puts a clean

fresh start

on things, before

we muck it up again.

in the sandbox

we trade insults

via

text.

mostly passive aggressive

gestures

of disrespect,

behind the back

mimicking.

children at this age

still in the sandbox

pushing

each other off

the swing.

making fun of one

another

with a pointed finger,

a twisted grin.

the daily news

i still buy the newspaper

these days

from the corner store,

but only because i have

a bird in a cage.

no need to read it anymore.

i just fold the pages

and make for Tweety, 

a nice clean floor.

jiggle it

with my hands

on her hips as i kiss

the back of her neck 

i say jiggle it.

put the key in all the way

and jiggle it from side

to side

up and down

then turn the knob.

when you hear

the click it's unlocked.

it won't open

she says, struggling with

the key in her

shaking hand.

i can't get it open.

so i try, but get nowhere.

i tap the door with my foot.

it's stuck, it's cold.

it's jammed.

i give up, i say,  we

don't have time for this.

maybe your

house tonight

instead of mine.

a place we can go

is there is no place

we can go

and be done with things.

to live

out

a quiet life amongst 

the trees.

a place where the water

is still.

where the snow falls

deep.

just you and me.

have you heard the news

have you heard the news,

he asks,

his eyes wide,

his hands on hips with

dismay

disgust.

no, i haven't.

what's up.

you won't believe this,

he says.

you'll never guess

what's going on

now.

it's worse than yesterday

and the day

before.

i will believe it, i tell him,

nothing really

surprises me anymore.

but i have to go now.

bad news will

keep, right?

let's stay up all night

let's stay up all night

i tell

her

getting into my pajamas.

she laughs.

what are you ten?

i'm going to bed.

no,

come on.

it's only two in the morning

let's play

one more

game of chess,

or scrabble or twister.

i can make us smores and hot

chocolate.

you're killing me, she 

says.

killing me. okay,

let's stay up,

but in the morning, don't

try to wake me

i'll be too tired to even think

about sex.

i pause and look at her, 

then say, okay.

you win,

let's just go to bed instead.

scrambled eggs

you're  such a good cook,

she says

stirring the scrambled eggs around on

her plate

to make it

look as if she took a bite

or two.

what's in these? they're simply

delicious.

and what's this?  bacon?

home made

hash browns?

i think i taste cheese.

have you ever thought of going

to culinary school?

not to learn, but to teach?

i laugh and take her plate away.

i bring her tea

and a dry piece of toast.

then kiss her on the cheek.

flattery will get you everywhere,

i tell her,

everywhere.

what the world needs now

money is not important

unless

we don't have it.

same goes

for food,

and transportation, a place

to live, our health.

when we have these

things

we think little

about them.

there are other things

on our mind,

which we

ponder and

most

desperately lack.

secret santa

i drop a gift off 

on her porch.

something small

of little cost,

something

from the heart.

i don't write my name

on a card.

no mention of me

is anywhere.

i'm careful to drop it

off at night,

in the dark,

but

she'll know who it's from.

she always knows,

well before

the ribbon is cut,

before

the wrapping comes

undone.

clean the slate

i can't do more than two.

me

and you.

that's the plan.

no extras. no third wheel.

no lingering

lost loves

pining in the weeds.

no

ex's, no husbands

from the past

who want you, who

still have

a burning needs.

it's me

and you. or nothing

at all,

and if that doesn't work.

i'm sorry,

but it's time to leave.

another cup of coffee

another cup of coffee.

just one

more before i go.

i'd like sit here and talk

all morning with

the yellow sun 

a puddle of light

in the window,

but the longer

we talk

the more i'm falling

in love with you.

i want to reach across

the table

and hold your slender

hand.

i want

more than this, this cup

of coffee

i'm holding.

the steam rising in my

eyes.

i think you understand.

anger

anger is a fine

emotion.

but use it wisely, when needed.

it's the loaded

gun

of feelings,

a hot barrel full of lead

for the righteous

hand.

it's necessary at times

to get out,

to get real

to get past and beyond

the danger

whether felt, or real.

at some point

when they've  crossed

the line,

you need it.

even Jesus needed it

when the time

was right.

don't get me wrong

don't get me wrong.

i love

dogs.

big small, all kinds.

but

i think i'm done with dogs

for now.

i can't scoop anymore,

or use

a plastic bag.

no more trips to the mayo

clinic

for canines.

fleas and baths.

no more barking, or chewing

of shoes

and clothes,

no more being out late into

the night and racing

home.

i love dogs.

just as i loved being married

for

a hot minute.

but i'm done, at least for now.

let's fly south

let's fly south for the winter,

she says,

purring like

the kitten she is.

warm

and snug against me.

your feet are cold,

she says.

don't you want to put them

into the warm

sand

along the coast?

she lifts her leg beyond

the blanket,

the sheets

and says look, stretching

her leg

towards the ceiling fan.

look how pale i am.

come on, my love.

let's pack a bag and get

out of here.

stay a week.

i'll make it worth your

while, she says, 

with another purr,

then a very convincing

wink.

the troubadour

i watch the documentary

on gordon lightfoot.

it's heart breaking.

how he feels the guilt and shame

of a thousand lovers

left in his wake.

the music giving cues to each

wrong step

along the way.

if you can read my mind,

to beautiful.

to in the early morning rain.

he's bone thin now, his

silver hair down his shoulders,

recovered from

drink

from drugs 

from the never ending road.

the troubadour

still out there, still singing.

still writing

on his sheet of paper, the lyrics,

the notes.

still wanting just a little

bit more.

the best

we met her on the bus

on the way to new york city.

a young woman

full

of herself.

her fur boots, her hat,

her janis joplin

look

full retro at seventeen.

she told us

where to eat in chinatown.

the best she said.

absolutely the best. don't

leave

the city without going there.

you'll regret it.

she had a guitar with her,

but didn't

know how to play quite yet.

but she

had a teacher

in soho who was going

to give her lessons, she said.

he's the best, the best in the city.

everyone who's anyone

goes there.

next time you come up you'll

have to 

sit in on one

of my gigs.

probably in the village,

or tribeca,

i haven't decided quite yet.

she got off in newark before

the tunnel.

her father and mother in tears,

both shaking

their heads.

the stars you can't see

it's a strange

dream

not being able to breathe

i lean over

to tell someone about it,

but there's

no one there.

i sit up in bed and feel

across

the rumpled blanket

and sheets

to touch the pillow

where she would lay her

head.

no one.

i look at the clock.

three a.m.

i lie back down and count

the stars

that i can't see,

the ones beyond the ceiling,

the roof.

the clouds,

but i know they're out there.

which is good enough

to get

back to sleep.

the best christmas card ever

i get a beautiful 

christmas card

from the Shell Gas Station

up the street

where Billy Bob inspects my

truck once

a year.

the paper is thick, bonded,

not that cheap

paper they use when you buy

a box of fifty generic cards

at the dollar store.

i need two hands to open

it up.

it's a glossy red with white

snow flakes

falling down.

this card is musical too.

it plays the andy williams

version of  silent night,

which always brings a tear

to my eyes.

and get this,

it doubles as a tree ornament.

i may never throw it away.

i feel bad though, because i haven't

sent them

a card this year, or any year

for that matter.

but my list is so long now.

the paint store,

the maid,

the dog walker,

my insurance agent

my dentist

my massage therapist

my optometrist 

my plumber

my exterminator 

i owe them all a card.

good lord.

the pressure.

maybe next year.

employee of the month

i ask the coroner what did

her in.

what finally killed

her.

he looks at me and sighs,

paper cuts.

mostly

although there were some small

puncture wounds

that maybe have been caused

but the sharp

ends of paper clips or staples,

we haven't finished

the investigation

on that yet.

she did like to work a lot,

i tell him.

twenty four seven with that girl.

was it a painful

death?

not really. she died at her desk,

bled out.

sort of fell asleep

from the lack of blood.

hands on the keyboard,

in the middle of a spread sheet.

but she was a good worker, i

tell him.

loved to stay late. holidays.

always in the office

after everyone else went home.

didn't have much

of a life

outside of that.

in fact, she was employee 

of the month

this month,

she told me next week they

were going to give

her a plague and a fifty dollar

bonus.

that's a shame, she'll be hard

to replace.

luck be a lady

i'm waiting for you.

for you to come

up the walk

or drive.

i'm

on the steps,

outside.

i'm waiting for the stars to

align.

waiting.

for the sun to rise.

for a shooting star

to streak

across the sky.

i'm waiting for the wish

in the wishing well

to come true.

i'm waiting for the gypsy

to be right.

for my ship to come in.

for the jackpot,

the prize,

i'm waiting 

for luck

be a lady tonight.

what lies underfoot

there is so much we don't

see.

what lies underfoot,

under stones,

beneath the wooden porch,

the steps,

the cellar, where webs

are woven.

where mushrooms grow

in the black dirt.

so much

life behind the scenes.

the insects

crawling, flying, burrowing

themselves,

their seed.

so many secrets left

unturned, unseen, 

not to mention

the ones unspoken

between you,

and me.

grey gum

i remember too much.

words

said.

glances given.

i dwell on slights

and disrespect.

i have a hard time letting

go

of lies

and betrayal.

it has a strong hold

on the neurotic side

of my psyche.

it's grey gum stuck

to the bottom

of my shoe,

my soul. dirty and hard.

nearly impossible

to scrape it all away

and be done.

chasing the bagel

i drop a plain bagel

on the floor

and out the door it rolls.

straight

down main street.

i give it chase.

people step aside as it

rolls

by,

they point in the direction

that it travels

as it swerves

and makes a turn down

the boulevard.

it's fast.

i can't catch up.

i see the river up ahead.

i watch

as it bounces off the pier

onto a boat

where a man is

drinking coffee beneath

his enormous

white sails.

he catches my bagel in

his hand

slices it with butter, slathers

on some jam.

i sigh and go back

to from where i came.

they can't all be wins,

sometimes

there is a fail.

six cats and a bird

we hit if off.

the conversation is easy.

the kissing

excellent.

she can bake an amazing

pie.

pumpkin, apple, or mince meat.

she's funny

and smart.

knows how to turn up

the heat.

she's

well read and easy on the eyes.

but she has six cats

and a parrot that talks

all day

and night.

so 

i'm not sure

if this relationship

will ever survive.

when time stands still

work slows down

in the middle of winter

and you become a human slug

moving about

the house

leaving a trail of you

behind

as slugs do.

clothes and shoes.

crumbs from cinnamon toast.

shards of christmas cookies

underfoot.

books

and newspapers.

a half empty cup of coffee

or tea

strewn about..

scraps of notes written down,

the beginning

of some

epic poem you might

write, if you find the time.

is it day or night?

who's to know these things

when the phone is quiet,

when there is

no ring.

dear scott

you're neighbor who has been moving

for months now

with their under contract

sign in their yard

and endless open house,

leaves a note on your door.

dear scott, it says, which isn't your

name,

but close enough so you aren't

offended.

we've lived here

over nine years and want to say

what a great neighbor you've become.

you're so quiet now, hardly a peep

out of you

these last two years.

no noise or arguing, no dishes

hitting our shared

wall anymore. no slamming doors.

no bonfires

in the yard

as you dance around the flames

throwing

things in that look like photo albums

and hallmark cards.

we're glad you've found your happy

place again.

by the way, we may need your 

parking space

in a week or two

when the truck arrives to help

us move.

literally waiting

old people

don't die easily. if they've

made

it into their nineties

or that rare stratosphere

of a hundred.

they know how to keep

the ball rolling.

they dig their heels in

and aren't leaving without

a fight.

you might think they're

close

to checking out

when you visit them

and their eyes are closed,

the monitors beeping,

bouquets of farewell flowers

around them,

but then you get 

the call that

they're up and about

playing checkers down the hall,

pinching a nurse

on the bottom,

no longer

on the morphine drip.

the priest in the waiting

room, looking at this watch,

literally waiting. waiting for

the last

rites call.

you look familiar

you look

familiar my son says

staring at me

as we bump into each other

on the street.

you too, i say.

i think i was married to your

mother back in the nineties.

right, he says. right.

we had a dog.

a house in the burbs.

you used to hold me in one

hand

and fly me around the house

like an airplane.

yes, yes.

i that was me, i tell him.

i taught you how to play

sports

and skim stones across the pond.

i remember, he says.

good times good times.

so what's up?

same old, he says, not much,

what's new

with you?

who's chandler?

at night, in bed,

we tug

on the sheets, the blanket.

it's a war for warmth

without peace,

all night long.

my legs are cold,

her arms

are like ice water.

we should have tucked

it all in at

the bottom of the foot

board.

who made this bed?

is this your pillow or

mine?

the light on the clock is

too bright.

planes could land by its glow.

you're snoring again dear.

i'm thirsty, is there

water on your side?

i have a headache

i shouldn't have had so much

wine.

tap tap tap, on her shoulder,

you're

talking in your sleep again.

who's Chandler?.

the days are better,

sometimes.

are you in a mood?

you know when someone close

to you is in a bad mood.

the quiet, the aloofness,

the lack of eye

contact,

but you can't say to them,

you're in a mood

aren't you,

because, well, that just makes

it worse.

the room suddenly gets colder

as if a window

is open,

a darkness

settles in.

it's going to be a long journey

into night

and it's only

6pm.

as i have done with you

there are things we

can start

over.

the cake,

the bread, too much salt,

too

much of anything, and out

it goes.

too stale, burned.

whatever, no problem.

start

over. we can make

new love.

we live

we learn.

as i have done with you.

small endings

the end, the final end,

is never

what you think

the end will be.

because there are

so many small

endings in between.

you

can't see

the future, but you can

feel it coming

like wind

upon your bones.

you know

it's not going to be pleasant

the longer

this goes on.

her christmas wrapping

she was meticulous 

in her wrapping

of gifts.

the paper spread wide 

on the black oval table

cleared

of all things.

the scissors out from

the kitchen  drawer, the tape.

a variety of rolls

to choose from.

a different one for each.

how carefully she snipped

and measured with

eye and hand,

no ruler needed.

side to side, the corners

wrapped

tight and tucked

neatly inside.

the tape applied. then a ribbon

around

each box. each hidden prize

with

a bow on top.

i can still see the smile

in her eyes, her face aglow

once done. then the  card

she'd sign

merry christmas, happy holidays,

with love.

catching up with an old friend

i catch up 

with an old friend.

and without

saying a word

we both

realize how old

we have become.

and yet,

the spark is there,

the smile,

the grin, the laugh.

the way we talk and sit.

the way we act.

nothing has changed

expect more time put

upon us. 

but still quite far away,

we hope,

from never meeting

again.

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.