fear of the unknown

it may start out that way.

you know.

marriage.

all is well.

there's this magical feeling

about it.

but time,

or something happens.

there's lying,

there's cheating.

there's arguing.

there's the pull of nature,

gravity

tearing you apart

and you spend

the next twenty or thirty

years,

or if you're lucky,

twelve months,

pretending. going along

with it.

love has become

a distant memory.

an old coat

in the hall closet

that you wear every blue moon.

worn and torn, ripped

at the seams.

it itches.

you spend a lot of time

staring out a window, 

wondering what if,

but what are you going

to do?

there's the kids, the yard,

the house,

the in laws.

the dog.

who gets the dog?

there's almost no way out.

fear of the unknown keeps

bringing you

back home.

missing the city

you miss the city.

the subway.

the park.

the smells and sounds.

the cabs,

the yelling and honking

of horns.

the tall buildings.

so ho. no ho and

the village.

the hudson.

you miss the bustle.

the crazy

of it all.

you need a bite of

a hot

pastrami sandwich,

a bite

of the big apple,

a slice of ray's original,

to walk the streets

until you can't walk 

anymore.

don't obey

when you think too hard

about what you're doing.

when you start to wonder 

about what to write,

or to paint or draw.

you've lost your way.

the censors, the audience are

now guiding you.

whispering in your ear

to stay between the lines.

this is not the way.

over thinking ruins nearly

every thing we do. close

your ears and go on your own,

don't obey.

gardens of their own

all day

she kneels in

the yard 

planting seeds

alone.

her children have

all gone off

to gardens

of their own.

falling asleep

i like it when people 

are so tired that they

fall asleep

in public places.

at work, or school,

at their desk, leaning back

in their chair,

or head upon their folded arms,

taking a nap.

people on the bus, lost

in a dream, their faces

pressed against the window.

a woman on the subway,

unbothered by the jostling

of the car.

a child in a stroller.

there's a man lying

on a steam grate,

and another under

a tree with a book of poems

by walt whitman.

he'll be out for hours.

how it begins

when it was my turn to check

on the baby,

i'd tip toe into the darkened

room

and sit by the crib.

i'd whisper, hey, hey, are

you awake? then gently

rattle his little cage.

i heard this joke today, do

you want to hear it?

and the child would open

his small eyes, rub them with

his pink fists and nod okay

as best he could at this stage.

every breath you take

the world is being recorded.

each step

you take,

each move you make.

your computer,

your phone

is watching you.

we are living in a Police song.

there are cameras everywhere.

each house

with its own eye looking out.

each store,

each building 

has a camera pointing down,

saving

what it sees 

forever.

you can't get away with anything

anymore.

do you need another friend?

do you need another friend.

another person

in your life,

another number in

your phone, someone you

have to talk

to now and again.

someone to text and say

hello to.

another person

to have lunch with,

coffee, to discuss world

events or what

trauma they are going

through.

do you need another friend,

is there room

at the inn.

or should we just remain

as we are,

strangers till the end.

flowers are for the dead

she wants to send

flowers

to her father for his birthday.

he's turning ninety

this week.

i tell her no. no. no.

what does he like,

what food

does he like to eat?

she says desserts.

he loves his sweets.

i tell her to send him a cake

a triple layer

deep dark chocolate

cake with icing.

no candles.

flowers are for the dead,

desserts are for

the living.

a helping hand

who doesn't have an itch

that needs scratching.

a spot that's hard to reach

without the help of another.

who doesn't need a helping

hand, a helping heart at times

to get you through the day,

those long winter nights.

home

where would you move to

when it's time,

she asks,

spinning the globe on

the desk.

nowhere, i tell her.

i like it here.

i've made this house my

home.

it's my oasis, my place

of joy, of rest.

there is no place that i'd

rather be.

i can travel, i can visit

anywhere, but this is where i

come home to.

there is no reason 

to ever leave.

stirring the fire

i used to long

for summer, dreading the cold,

the snow.

the ice laden

roads.

but now it feels 

just fine.

bring the wind.

bring

it on.

i have no where else to go,

and why would i

with you here

stirring the fire, lighting

the stove.

the island of dreams

tired to the point

of passing out, i leap onto

the open arms

of the bed.

she welcomes me with

a soft silk touch

of sheets

and blankets, pillows

that bounce and fall

upon my head.

where would we be

without this island

of dreams, the wonder

of sleep.

the rewrite

writing is rewriting.

again

and again,

until you can't stand to read

it anymore.

the fine tooth comb

has lost its teeth,

the pencil point is worn.

there is not a word,

not a comma,

not a period you want

or need to move.

it's done.

or is it?

let me sleep on it

and see how reads in

the morning.

how to lose ten pounds

i am desperate

to fall in love again.

to meet the next girl

of my dreams.

to find my next cell mate,

whoops,

i mean soul mate.

my true love.

but not for the reasons

one might think.

by breaking up with her,

and having a tragic end,

i can finally lose these last

ten pounds around my waist.

it's a sure fire way.

as i grieve and cry,

unable, at least for awhile,

to never eat again.

he's been barking all day

people would tell me

when i got home

from work,

your dog has barking all

day.

he sits on the bed

and barks and growls

at everyone walking by.

to which i say,

i'm glad i wasn't here

to hear him.

thank goodness i've

been away.

her three pears

while staring at her

painting

of three pears 

in a white bowl

on a wooden table

i told her

that her paintings 

were getting better,

they had more soul,

to which she

took offense

and said, 

your writing 

is improving too.

it was those kind

of remarks

that made me aware

that things were over,

not right away,

but in a darkened

month or two.

the sentimental you

there are things you can't

bear

to part with,

to throw away, or set

out on the curb.

a postcard from the past,

a ring,

a book signed.

a scarf she used to wear.

so many things you keep

tucked away

in a safe place, 

such as all that

frozen food in your freezer.

unmarked,

there for eternity.

the book sales are slow

i realize quickly that i won't

be able to retire

on my

book sales.

so far i'm up to a hundred and forty

dollars,

for both kindle 

and paper back.

e book is killing me with

their free offers.

the book tours have been

canceled due to

covid

and cancel culture.

i try to get an interview

with larry king,

but he's dead now.

maybe i need illustrations,

or pictures of

some sort, a centerfold

perhaps of my friend Ursula,

in the middle, for

the next book.

when it's your turn

i see the ambulance pull

up in the court yard,

the lights flashing, no siren.

it's early.

they're pulling someone out

on a stretcher.

a neighbor i don't know.

the sheet is up to her

neck, so it appears there's

still life there.

will you ever know what

happened? probably not.

and people will no doubt

wonder about you, when

it's your turn.

upon meeting rimute

when she arrived

from germany with five

suitcases

for a weekend

visit

i knew i was in trouble.

she stood at the airport

door

wearing her black fur

and high heels.

a pile of blonde hair

stacked high

on her head.

she could speak

three languages,

but not english.

it was exhausting.

but we learned to 

communicate like koko

the gorilla

did with her handlers.

making hand signs

for thirsty, hungry.

sleep, etc.

did we fall in love?

no. but we had fun.

low maintenace

when i hear the words

low maintenance,

or no drama,

or the whole package, i

cringe.

i shiver with doubt

and put on my running

shoes.

words are a dime

a dozen, it's how you live.

life support

we are all on life support

of some kind,

yet still walking around,

taking care

of our wounds,

our self.

getting what needs

to be done, done.

we survive,

press on.

coffee helps.

random keys

the drawer 

is full of keys.

silver and browned,

all sizes,

all shapes,

all now unknown

as to where they go,

what door they might

unlock.

some yours,

some mine,

left over from old

houses and cars,

mailboxes.

pad locks on gates.

doors we went through

and came out

the other side

together, and now apart.

down fifth avenue

as the cabbie swung the car

down fifth avenue

doing seventy miles an

hour, flinging us about

in the back seat,

i asked him in a serious

voice, just how many 

people does he kill each week

driving like this.

he looked back with a

kabob in his hand and laughed.

his gold tooth glimmering

in the sun which shone

through the grease splattered

windshield.

we need more boxes

i remember

buying her boxes

to move in with.

and then buying more

empty boxes

for her to leave.

there are so many things

in life, when it comes

to love and marriage,

that one should 

never throw away,

but keep.

out to the country

some people talk about

moving

out to the country, 

out to where there's

land

and blue skies, 

mountains and trees,

fresh air,

cold streams and wildlife,

while i'm thinking

about a four star hotel

in manhattan

with room service

and netflix, 

wifi.

midnight toast

we clink

our glasses together.

the ping

rings in the air, as we

cross arms

and toast one another.

wishing in one more

new year.

we make no vows,

no promises,

no resolutions. 

this is good enough.

why worry or concern

ourselves

with tomorrow,

they all come soon enough.

my friend vincent

i see my friend Vincent

sitting on his front porch.

there's a white bandage around

his head

protecting his blood caked ear.

he looks more haggard

than usual.

his hands are covered in oil paints.

bright blues and yellows.

hey Vince, i say to him, going

over to sit down.

are you okay?

he pulls the bandage back

to show me

his half carved ear.

what the hell i say.

you can't let these women

get to you like that.

it's not worth it.

maybe you should quit

that online dating site.

crazychicks.com.

i quit last week. personally

i'm done with the nut cakes.

have you ever thought of meet ups?

hikes and movies,

you do things in a group

with people who have similar

interests, like cooking,

or bird watching.

he looks at me and shakes his

head, then spits some blood out

onto the sidewalk

it splatters a small bird 

that's pulling on a worm.

yeah. i know, i say to him.

i know.

he pulls a pint of what looks

like gin

from his raggedy coat,

then takes a sip before handing

me the bottle.

it tastes like turpentine.

it is turpentine.

women, he says,

rubbing his ear.

i cough and gag as i swallow

the drink,

and repeat after him,

yup, women.  give me another

swig of that.

the unsaved penny

no matter how many

jobs

some have,

no matter how many hours

they put

in at the office,

nights and weekends,

work work work,

at the end of the week

they still have no money.

their cups have no bottom.

they save nothing.

they keep nothing.

a penny burns a quick

hole in their pocket.

the new vaccine

i decide to go to pharmacy

school

and get my degree

in chemistry

so that i can make my own

covid vaccine. 

seems i could do that before

i actually get inoculated

with the current one being

made in batches the size

of thimbles.

i'll make it in barrels.

anyone with an arm will

get the shot.

or legs, or wherever

they want the needle to go.

i'll fill up every swimming

pool with it.

every barista in every coffee

shop around the world

will be able to administer

the shot.

i'll make sure everyone

gets a vaccination,

a freshly baked chocolate

chip cookie to go

and a extra foam low fat

vanilla latte.

it looks like rain

i remember specifically

having a rain coat.

a long tan

coat with a belt that i wrapped

around me.

it came down to my knees,

keeping me dry.

it had wide lapels.

deep pockets.

i looked like humphrey

bogart

standing on the tarmac

in casablanca wearing

that coat.

i wonder what happened to it.

just as i wonder where all

the years have gone.

i look out the window.

it looks like rain.

third place

you hear it said

that we are all winners.

not true.

there is second place 

and last place.

and all the other places

in between.

there are those not even

picked to play 

the game.

but it sounds good,

it gives the losing heart

hope.

it keeps one going to

hear falsely

that yes we all will

get the gold ring.

wear the banner, stand

tall as a winner

at the end of the day.

just one fly in the air

it takes one

fly in the air, in the room

to take

your mind

off other things.

will you chase him towards

his death

or let him go

out the pulled screen,

the raised window.

it becomes the task

at hand.

you set life aside for

this.

how are minds

are easily distracted,

how thoughts get

stuck on one thing.

the problem

the world

remains as it always

has been.

crazy.

the world is old.

very old.

but the people are new.

which is

the problem.

they are not our kind

happy people are the worst,

aren't they?

always with the smile, 

never a bad word

to say about anyone.

they never gossip.

forever going the extra mile.

hardly ever cross.

they can't be trusted.

they don't fit in

with their good cheer,

their optimism.

they must think we're deaf,

that we're blind.

these people, these happy

go lucky souls,

we know they must be up

to something.

they are not our kind.

i can't get this open

i can't get this open,

this can of tuna,

this aspirin bottle,

this tub of sour cream.

i can't untwist

the safety caps, the plastic

wrap,

the child proof lids,

i can't unhinge

the snaps.

i go backwards

and forward using my nails,

my teeth.

i can't get what i want

because 

all that i want is trapped

inside this can, this box,

this jar and

how to open them is

beyond me.

my fingers are bloodied

from the effort.

i twist and bend.

i pull out the sharpest knife

in the drawer,

but nothing moves. 

nothing works.

where is a child of ten

when you need one?

a temporary freeze

a thick frost is on

the car.

making silver of the leaves.

it's on

the metal rail,

even the pond

glimmers with

a sheet of ice.

but the sun will take

care of it

in no time.

unlike you,

this is just a temporary

freeze.

why don't you freeze it

i made way too much soup.

gallons.

i stare

at the monstrous pot

of chicken noodle soup

and sigh.

i can't give it away.

i think about pouring it

into the woods, but

my neighbor becky might

see me doing so,

and there would be

hell to pay.

i put it on the stove and stir.

turning on the burner.

maybe one more bowl.

i call betty and ask her

if she wants to come over

and have some.

she says no, and then

she says why don't you

freeze it. wrap it and put

it in the freezer.

which is her answer for

everything i cook.

everything now was fine

we will come to take

her away

they said on the phone.

it's the law

if she doesn't comply.

we need

to see the paper work.

we need

to see her in person.

a doctor, a therapist,

a psychiatrist needs

to look into her eyes.

and after the second

or third time

after finding her curled

in a black ball.

she no longer talked

about ending things.

she said softly from

someplace

deep inside her,

that everything now

was fine. just fine.

the old world

in barcelona,

while waiting for

my father

to get off the ship

in his sparkling white

uniform, i remember how

the gypsy women 

would hold up their 

bronzed babies 

at the pier

and moan.

the horses stopped.

the drapes

of the wagons, dirty,

wind blown. old men

at the reins. 

i remember how

the babies cried.

feeling some strange

fear inside

me.

that this was a world

with darkness

in it.

not just light.

the new dust bowl

i take a walk down 

to the farmer's

market.

a few tables are up.

a few so called farmers

are bundled

in their hats

and scarves.

they don't smile

as you approach.

it feels like the dust bowl

of the 1930's.

their wares are thinned

down

to almost nothing.

tomatoes. lettuce.

apples. a six dollar

cup

of coffee, donuts.

i shuffle through the thin

coat of snow

on the ground.

and go home. 

empty handed.

a bad investment

you can't get back

the time

the investment you've made

in another's life.

that money

is spent, gone. no refunds,

no returns.

you just have to take

note of it,

write it down somewhere.

make a promise to 

yourself to stay away

from such fool's gold,

never again.

the new rulers

the king is dead,

the queen too, the princess

the prince,

the wizard

and the knights. each

gone.

all the wise men

and women

are departed from

this life.

that leaves us,

the jesters. why not.

we're way over due.

the end as we know it

will end

it with a boom, a 

blast

or with a sigh and a whimper

as we fall onto

one another, sick

with fright.

will it be fire or ice.

or something smaller,

more lethal.

unseen

but deadly

with it's microscopic

might.

a forty degree day

i put my ear

to the ground to listen to

what the earth

might be saying

today. but there's

nothing.

not a whisper. no wise

words

to bring my way.

some days 

are like that.

forty degrees

with nothing really

new to say.

better days

you knew they were

coming.

you could sense that

this had

to end.

that you had to finish

it, before

it finished you.

you knew there were

better days

around the corner.

not far, not too far,

they were always

up the hill, up the hill,

there they were waiting,

all of them in plain

view. you just had to

press on.

that's it, we're done

i pull the car over

and tell her to get out.

that's it.

i'm done.

but we're in the middle of

nowhere,

she says.

how will i get back?

i don't know, i don't care.

but get out.

she grabs her purse

her phone and gets out.

she stares

down the long stretch

of black road,

her hand blocking the sun,

and wonders which way to

go.

as i drive away i look

into the rear view mirror

and see

her getting smaller and smaller

and until

at last,

she's gone.

when he came home

when he returned home from

the war

he was different.

the long hair

shorn.

the shoulder's squared,

the arms muscled.

but there was

something wrong.

there was this stare,

this awful gaze into

a world

you'd never known.

he tried to talk about it,

but couldn't.

he never came around much

after that.

he was gone.

no dancing

my father

likes his jokes.

blonde jokes, especially.

he laughs

before he gets to the punch line,

then coughs and has

to get up

for kleenex and cough

drops

and a bottle of water.

then he tells me

the punch line five

minutes later.

to which i laugh, maybe a

little harder

than i should.

then he starts with one more,

one more he says.

why don't baptists make

love while

standing up,

why, i ask him,

because they don't want 

people to think

they're dancing.

a calming green

i put my finger into

the meter box

that i invented to determine

my feelings,

the level of

good or bad

that i'm feeling that day.

i push the red button

and feel the pulse of the

machine

as it churns taking in all

of my vital signs.

it's a color wheel

with an arrow that 

swings

from pale blue. to red,

then black,  which signifies

near death.

i've been nearly every color

over the past few

years.

but now it gently finds

a calming green, a 

good place to be, as

the whirring comes to rest.

the surgeon's hands

the surgeon needs 

a steady hand.

he can't be

drinking on the job.,

or out partying

the night before.

his mind has to be right.

he has to put his life

aside and focus

on the task before him.

he has to get love

out of his mind.

he has to forget his

bills, his car, his

children, his wife.

he can't think about

hunger or thirst.

he can only stand there

in pristine light

like a monk, a buddha

about to kill or heal

and make things right.

wild child

i never believed my

red haired

freckled

third grade teacher,

Eloise,

when she threatened

to put something onto

my permanent record.

no talking, no gum

chewing no pulling

the pigtails of the 

little girl in front

of me. no day dreaming.

a well honed skill of mine.

where is this record.

who holds these files.

are they still classified

are they in 

the public domain

will it ever leak how

wild i was as a child?

the tyranny of love

it can go either way

with this love thing.

a freeing of

the heart, the sudden growth

of wings

taking you aloft.

or it can

go sour, and the tyranny

of love

will keep you earth

bound, with

your wings clipped,

no longer

who you are.

counting

are we not forever counting.

whether

our age

or the days until

some holiday

or birthday, our retirement.

how many days

since

then,

since she died, or 

he no longer was

a friend.

the numbers are everywhere

in cold

black ink.

a tabulation of sorts,

three more days until

a weekend.

two months before spring.

you have to and you will

can you go back

and

find yourself. be who you

were

when a child.

can you reverse the damage

done.

turn back the clock

on mistakes.

free yourself from guilt,

from pain.

can you retreat

and wave the white flag

of this life,

become new

again.

you have to and you

will.

the locked doors

the door to her

house

had many locks.

the screws

turned

deep into the wood.

the clang of chain.

the sliding dead

bolts.

no one was getting in.

and few would

ever get out.

just you, which was

enough.

a few years more

the restless

wind. she rises cold

from the north.

she's telling you something

you've always

known.

this world is temporary.

she's into the trees,

she's leaning against

the windows

the doors.

she wants in, but it's

not time.

not yet. you still have

a few years more.

the devil at the door

most of the lessons

i have learned

in my life,

i have learned 

the hard way. 

letting the devil

in the door when

she knocked and smiled

through the window,

the alluring life 

without a soul.

i have ignored my

intuition, my gut,

letting the beast in

time and time again, 

and still did not learn 

a thing, until the last one 

brought it to an end.

a deeper dive

i can do better.

there is a deeper level,

a deeper

dive

into the subconscious.

i'm not there yet,

but i don't want

to get there the hard way,

like the last time,

by love ending,

by a death.

i'd rather take the easy

route this time around.

a road i've never taken,

not yet.

some lost, some found

families

are difficult. no doubt.

the good sister.

the dark

ones, always stirring

some pot.

the loving brothers.

the father

on some distant shore,

a cold

wind in his face.

a mother

in the ground.

it's less about who we

were when together, but

more of who we

are now.

who we have become

apart

from each other.

some lost, some found.

neither of us has changed

i pick up her book.

an old book.

weathered by my hands,

the torn page,

the dog ear

where i twisted the edge

down

for further reading.

the cover limp from

being wet

with bath water.

i pick up her book

and read

the same poems over

and over.

they still ring true.

feel as new

as they did when i first

read them

thirty years ago.

neither of us has really

changed.

maybe next year

next year i'll retire, 

the man says.

and yet he keeps working.

he needs

to work.

he needs to have his hands busy.

to move

his legs,

to think and breathe

with others.

it's not about the money,

but he can't imagine a life

lived differently.

next year he says, 

maybe next year i'll lie

down at last

and rest.

there was nothing there

i asked her once,

why are you so aloof

and distant,

impossible to read

or truly get to know

and she smiled

and said, i'm like this

with everyone.

and yet still i tried.

and when i finally did

get inside

there was nothing there

but an empty soul.

this was who she was

trying to hide.

the warm and delicious

it's yesterdays food i don't

want.

the leftovers

the uneaten, the cold chicken

on the iron

shelf

i don't want what's in

the box,

the bag carried home

from some

restaurant.

i don't want what's in

the tupperware.

i need the new, the freshly

cooked.

the warm, the delicious.

i need you.

the real world gets in the way

the real world

gets in the way of this

other world.

this unconscious world

full

of yesterdays

waiting at the door to be

remembered

and let in,

to be written down

and read.

but there's this real world

too.

the one we work in.

the one we need to take the

trash out in.

to do the laundry.

the bills.

to bathe and eat and shave.

we need

to say hello to the neighbors.

we need to be normal

in this world,

to smile and wave, to pretend

that everything

is really okay.

temptation

i'm tempted by the apple.

i doubt i could have waited 

for eve

to pick one

off  a branch

and put her hand out 

offering one to me.

i would have climbed the tree

and shaken it hard

with all my hidden

desires,

until most them were free.

returning home

i change my mind

about

you.

i circle back around.

is it love?

is it like or lust, or

something

deeper, something undefined

by words.

only known,

by touch.

we'll see how it goes.

day one

is the hardest

when returning home.

gin and tonic

i haven't see you in awhile

the clerk

says to me

when i put my items onto

the moving belt.

i've never seen her before.,

she's a complete

stranger.

but i play along.

she smiles, i smile.

i ask her how the kids are,

how's work,

how's life?

great, she says. everyone

is fine.

that ask about you all

the time.

they miss you and wonder

if you'll ever come

to visit again.

soon, i tell her. maybe

tonight?

she holds up the bottle

of tonic water.

she winks, and says,

still with the gin and tonic,

a slice of lime?

what you see

her health

matches her life.

her

place

of living,

her car, her money.

her relationships.

there is no

difference between

each.

no seams, no

wall

between how she

feels

and the rest.

her past is her present,

and will

always be her

tomorrow.

truly what you see,

is what you

will get.

i can't find my purse

people like to bargain

with you.

can you do this work for less,

can you give

me the senior discount,

did i tell you i'm on a fixed

income.

i'm a vet.

my father used to paint,

did i ever tell you that?

he's going to stop by later

to inspect.

if you paint three rooms

will you

take half off on the fourth?

will it cost less

if you don't give me your

best.

if you give me your 

C job not your A job, what

if i paint half a wall

and you do the rest?

you do the high work,

and i'll go low.

can we get cheaper paint?

can you come on sunday?

can you take your shoes off?

can you work around

the cats?

do you take paypal, cash,

or check?

can i send it to you when

you're done?

i have to transfer money from

one account to the other.

i can't find my purse.

what's left behind

his coins

were pinched,

his dollars folded and ironed

stacked

neatly

in a box.

his income

was saved, for what

was there

to spend it on?

no wife,

no children, no pets.

there was no need to buy

a new suit,

except for the grave.

so the money grew.

he ran out of places

to hide it.

the mattress bulged,

the oven

was full.

the attic and cellar

too.

he wondered who

when he was gone

would find it,

who  would know

what to do with so much

money

left behind.

five nights and five days

it rained five nights

five days

in mexico.

we stared out across the bay

at

the rising water.

the grey sky.

what was there to do

but drink.

make love.

eat.

and then the sun came

out

on the day we

were to leave

and so we burned

in the southern skies.

we lie there

taking in as much as we

could,

we had to come back

with something.

you're in a good place

when food loses

its taste,

and your clothes

hang

loosely on your

bones,

when the drink is only half

gone.

when you no longer

look at your phone,

when there's not a thing

of interest on tv,

and there's not a friend

you care to see.

when the book

is not picked up,

and there's not

a sentence you wish

to write.

when you have no desire

to leave your room.

it's means you're in a

good place.

it's up from here.

you've found the bottom.

closing the door

in the late

night

we used to stand at the door

and wave

waiting for the car

to pull away.

a smile and a kiss

blown

past the window

but now

the door closes quickly.

gets locked.

the lights go out

one by one

as you take the stairs

to bed.

there is nothing left

to say.

two is the number

one is not

the loneliest number.

i beg to differ, for

i think

it's two.

one feels

more sadness

and being alone

when the other has

turned their back

and lies in bed

next to you.

a new home

the mouse

finds its way in.

not unlike you,

he doesn't need much room.

the smallest

of cracks or holes

serve well

for entry.

he's quiet in his

walk.

not a squeak, not

a sound

he makes

as he escapes the cold,

the wind,

a life he once knew.

he finds

warmth

in the straw bed

of an attic he'll call

home. maybe a loved

one will

join him too.

welcoming the new

i resisted green

for so long,

orange too. it was always

grey, or white,

some shades of black,

plenty of

indigo blue.

but now

somehow green has elbowed

its way into

the room

that pillow for instance.

that picture

on the far wall. abstract.

the orange vase

sitting boldly 

on the window sill.

welcome

to you all.

can we change the subject

i'd rather not talk 

about them anymore.

i tell the therapist

as i walk around her

office watering

her plants.

can we move on.

can we dispose of that topic

and find

something new

to talk about?

you should really turn

these towards the sun

in the morning,

i tell her. look how brown

they are.

sure, she says.

no need to talk about your

father and mother.

let's take them completely

off the table, despite how

every problem in your

life is directly related to them.

their tragic neglect

and lack of affection 

from the day you were born

has completely determined

who you are as a person.

i look at her

as i accidentally spill water onto

the floor, which makes her

shake her head

and scribble something down

on my chart.

something that she quickly

hides from me.

who are you

depending on who you talk to

that seems

to be who you are

to them.

cynic,

a romantic, an easy going

person,

an anxious soul

twisting in the wind.

the blue side,

the light and sunny side

up side.

the grim,

the grin.

the one with laughing

eyes,

or tears

falling out.

perhaps who you are,

is all

of them.

getting off at the last stop

we get to the last stop

and get off.

the bus is empty except for us

and the driver.

he tips his hat as we

depart

and says

have a goodnight.

the door squeezes shut,

as we step out

into the rain.

hand and hand we go

to the corner, we kiss

goodbye

and go our separate ways.

not all things work out

the way

we hoped they would,

the way the began.

disposing

as i pour the milk

down the drain

watching

the white waterfall

cascade,

i think how easily

it is to dispose

of things you no longer

want or desire,

having lost your taste.

it just takes the muscle

to do it.

the switch in the mind

to be turned, not

listening to the heart

which screams what

a waste.

experienced

the plumber has

no fear

of a pipe, his tools

in hand.

his light with him

as he bends

to fix a leak.

and the same goes

for the electrician,

as he leans

into the circuitry,

twisting

wires, snipping,

unafraid of the shock

he might get.

they know what they

are doing.

like you do when

you lean over to kiss

me before we sleep.

eggshells

do me a favor, she says.

i roll my eyes.

what?

it's nothing, i just

need you to do something

for me, but

not right now.

later,

maybe tomorrow.

what is it?

i can't tell you right now.

well then,

why are you asking me?

i don't know,

i guess i just wanted to

make you

nervous and walking

on eggshells 

for a while.

it's what i do, you should

know that by now.

what's for dinner?

when i look

at a cow

i don't think of steak,

or milk and

when staring at a chicken

i don't think for one

second about drumsticks,

or even eggs.

same goes for fish,

when i see it on the line,

it never crosses my

mind to put

it in a pan for frying,

but when it comes

to you, well

that's a whole other

meal altogether.

i'll do me

i've reached a point

where i really don't care

about a lot of things.

what people

think or do,

how they behave or

what they believe

as long as none of their

nonsense doesn't

involve me.

go on and do as you

please. i really

don't care who

you vote for,

your religious beliefs,

or your dietary

needs. you want to save

the world, better

save yourself first.

just leave me out of it.

you do you and i'll

do me.

it was better back then

it used to easier 

to meet people.

face to face was how

we did it.

friends of friends.

a party.

a bar.

a picnic.

someone has a boat

and we all go

sailing.

the neighborhood too

was how we

met a love

or two, or three.

and now.

it's this keyboard. this

cold hard way

of typing

is what we do.

it's all about the picture,

a resume of quickly

written words.

it's rare that

chemistry

ever comes through.

ten cents

it's a day

full of dimes.

everywhere i turn there's

another one

on the ground.

one in my pocket

between the cushions

of the couch.

there's two

in the dryer that were

spinning

around.

clean and hot

in my hand.

i stack them all

together.

friends, probably never

to be spent. most

are wilson,

but a few are mercury,

my favorite

kind.

friends without benefits

i'm waiting for the right

man

to come along.

it's only been forty

years

since my husband passed

away. i'm looking

for someone

true,

someone kind.

someone

who loves me for who

i am.

i'm not going there

with anyone,

i won't sleep around,

so get that off your mind.

no friends with

benefits. no way.

i'm only eighty

five,

there's still plenty of time.

someone i actually know

i keep the frames.

the wooden ones, 

the clear

acrylic

ones visible on two sides.

the metal frames

with glass.

i slide out the old

photos. all fake,

the glamor shots,

the posed,

the air brushed,

and put in one of you.

normal

and natural.

a real person, 

someone i actually 

know.

why don't they call me?

she asks me

why do men say

they'll call

and then they don't?

why ask for my number

if they aren't ever going

to use it?

i put my hand into my pocket

and feel the small bundle

of papers holding

a slew of numbers.

i shrug and look at her,

and say, i don't know.

small portions

you take a break from falling

in love.

somehow not eating bread

and pasta

is connected.

getting skinny, less fat

seems the right

move to make.

carrying just you along.

with small portions

of affection upon your plate.

carrying the weight

there are those

around you 

who make you a better

person

by their wit

and smile

their upbeat manner

and then

there are those

who carry the weight

of the world

and all their mistakes

upon their shoulders

and want to put

them onto yours.

benign judgement

our eyes fall onto 

others

with benign judgement.

one looks well,

the other doesn't.

the gain of weight.

a missing ring,

that harried look of

overworking,

of staying

up late with drink.

unshaven

unkempt.

the mismatch of clothes.

the grey parted roots,

we take note,

but say nothing,

for there is our own

selves to contend with.

i'll come up to see you

i'll come up to see you.

soon.

wait for me.

after winter, perhaps,

when the roads

are clear

and the snow melts

when the weather

is more suitable

for travel.

but i'll come, i promise.

don't give up on me.

i love you.

you're all i think about.

and if i don't make it

in the spring,

i'll make it the following

year, maybe early june.

i'm coming. no worries,

be patient,

i'm coming soon.

two sides

there are days

when i can be 

the most forgiving

and empathetic

soul

on the earth.

willing to let go

and let live,

and then there are other

days when

a darker side takes

over.

bitterness sets in.

and the blood boils

with revenge.

strange how these two

forces live

within me, 

each fighting

to be heard.

the best day of his life

the boy on the swing

knows little of the world,

not yet.

he just wants the push

from his father,

who's home at last,

to go higher and higher

over the sand pit.

his legs kicking,

his hands wrapped

tightly around

the chains.

flung forward

as if into the trees,

into the sun

which shines 

fiercely into his eyes.

there is a smile upon

his face.

he lets out a joyful

scream, not wanting

it to end.

he's yet to realize that

this may be 

the best day of his life.

her death

her death,

a blessing,

comes late in life.

the flesh finally surrendering

to what comes

to us all.

the bones

brittle

the hair white.

they close her eyes with

two fingers

gently pulling down.

there is no

more struggle,

just us standing at

her bedside.

wordless in the awful

light.

the orphan sky

the sky has

a desperate look

about it

tonight.

a bruised bundle

of clouds

she looks as if she's lost her

way

looking for direction.

it's an orphan sky.

the wind is no help

whipping the trees.

the cold air

stings.

the front moving in

has arrived.

we look up for answers.

isn't that where God

is?

long black cadillac

it used to be

if you had a Cadillac 

it meant you had arrived.

you had achieved

some sort of social status

and earnings.

your ship had come in.

with leather

upholstery and all

the trim. how you'd

drive it slowly

down the street.

the long white or black caddy

in the driveway

said everything there was

to say about who you

were.

and about what wasn't

within.

it wasn't always this way

there are many things

i won't do for you.

the list

is growing longer

each day.

all the things i used

to do are written down.

it's a shame, because

it wasn't always

this way.

three a.m.

into the night we'd

talk.

warm

in the deepest

part

of couch.

the moon outside.

the stream

holding it

like silver melting.

the conversation

would slip

easily

into any direction.

each wanting

to know more

before

the morning light.

hearts becoming

one.

neither tired, neither

wanting to say

goodnight.

best friends

there used

to be a handful of best

friends.

some men

some women.

people that your best

interests at heart

as you do theirs.

years can go by without 

speaking

and yet

the love never wanes.

some are gone now.

passed away,

some still around but

have fallen from that elite

status.

because of politics

and a variety of other annoying

topics.

i can count a few

on one hand now.

some don't even know  they

are best

friends with me.

which makes it safe, keeps

them around

a  lot longer.

limited editions

i tell everyone

i see

that there is a ten book limit

to each customer

\

when they purchase my modest

slender book

of poems.

then i laugh.

i mean really,

who reads poetry

anymore, or ever.

the high schools have ruined

it for us, dragging out

walt whitman

each dreary cold september.

robert frost.

shakespeare even.

you need a dictionary

and a degree

in greek mythology to

understand

half of what these honored

scribes

have written.

rilke and willian blake

and the eternals.

please, my eyes are bleeding.

will it change your life

what will change your life

for the better.

a speech you hear,

doubtful, maybe in

the moment, 

but then you move on

to who you were

before you heard it.

what book

what song

what piece of art,

what poem.

what thing written

now or a thousand

years ago will change

your life, alter

the course of your

destiny.

very little.

if you find faith in god

perhaps.

or if you find true

love.

one that will last,

that could be

another.

a bag of salt

it almost feels like

spring.

even the birds look confused.

the squirrels

too.

it's hard to decide

what to wear.

it's fifty five degrees

in january.

the snow

is nowhere.

my new shovel, red

and shiny

waits at the door with a bag

of salt.

things i bought

last year.

the king size bed

touching is good

in the beginning

of sleep.

curled together,

arms and legs entwined

after making

love.

but when you're about

to doze off

into dreamland

and the sweat dries off

you need a little 

separation.

a foot or so, although

there's no rule of

thumb to go by.

six inches is okay too

if there's no

tossing and turning.

ideally a king size

bed solves the problem

quite easily.

welcome to the neighborhood

bertha stops

by

with a pan of meatloaf.

she says.

welcome to the neighborhood.

i tell her i've been

here for fifteen years.

i know, she says.

i've been here for twenty

years.

i just haven't had time to

stop by

and say welcome

and to introduce myself.

i'm bertha. i live 

around the corner next

to the basketball court.

nice to meet you.

i tell her, staring at the heavy

pan

covered in foil.

here she says. i take it from

her and smile.

don't lose the pan. it's one

of my favorites.

bye for now. when you're

done with it

leave it on my porch at

6524 or just knock.

launching the ship

i pop the cork 

on the champagne

i've had on the shelf

for three years

or so.

the green bottle

from france.

i wipe it clean

and set out a glass.

will it still bubble,

will the cork fly

and make that noise

they do?

will i drink enough

in celebration

to dance across the room?

the answer being yes.

i will launch this

ship

and toast it's journey

into the unknown.

if i had another fifty years

once out into the world.

the ink

dried.

the book finished,

i shake my head and

worry.

there's not a rhyme

i wouldn't change,

a comma

or word i wouldn't remove

if i had more time.

say another fifty

years or so

with a blue pencil

in hand.

sifting through the lines.

maybe then

i'd be finished,

maybe then

everything would be fine.

an honest glass of water

just ice water please.

a slice of lemon.

crushed ice.

a clear glass, tall.

that's all i need for now.

that's

all i ever wanted in anyone

to be truthful,

an honest glass of clear

cold water

with a slice of lemon

on the side.

i could drink that all day.

all night.

all summer long.

the dry martini

the x-rays come back

and the doctor

holds them up to lighted

screen

oh my, he says.

hmmm.  and hmmm, again.

i say what?

what is it?  how long

do i have?

give it to me straight doc.

i can take it.

oh nothing he says.

shrugging.

nothing important.

but after seeing all these

green olives in you

i thought that after

work i too might have

a dry martini.

we've been around so long

is that shadow still

there, a part of me,

not giving up.

the dark side

perhaps

lingering behind,

quiet and careful

in form.

i can hardly hear his

footsteps,

his breathing

as we walk along

beneath the sun,

we've been around

so long.

changing culture

the word culture

is everywhere.

what we need is a new culture.

to change

our way of thinking,

our way of doing things.

politics,

sports teams.

businesses. all crying out

we need to change

this culture

that we have here.

did the ancient greeks

ever

say such a thing,

the ming dynasty,

or the roman empire?

no.

who decides these things?

what price to set

on a gathered group of poems

in a thin

book

thrown out into the world.

eleven ninety five,

perhaps.

or six dollars

and change.

or free. maybe that will

build up readership

more easily.

is canada less or more.

who decides 

these things?

i can think of two

i can think of two.

two women who i once loved

that i no

longer love,

or even talk to.

significant others.

important as stepping stones

along the way.

but the rest

are fine. a dialed number

from them or me,

takes us

back to another time.

friends forever,

as it should be.

the child leaving home

it's not overnight.

although it

feels like

it as i click the tab to publish.

there it goes.

a childhood dream

of sorts.

one book out

there into

the world.

a thousand words collected

and named

numbered.

and then sadness

sets in.

strange how that is.

not unlike a child leaving

home,

for his life to

begin.

this is a better story

tiring of the old story.

i'll make up

a new one about you.

how you

robbed banks.

how you carried a gun

and wore

steel tipped boots.

the hidden knife up

your sleeve.

i'll tell everyone

about the scar on your neck.

the booze

you drank.

always with a cigarette

dangling

from your pouty lips.

i'll tell them about

your tattoos,

your earrings, how you

cursed and whored

like a drunken

sailor

on leave.

i'll paint a dark picture

of you.

and that will explain

everything about what 

happened between you

and me.

did i miss your call

did i miss your call.

did i miss

your knock at the door.

i was out for awhile. so if

it was you.

call back.

come again.

i saw your footprints

in the snow.

i won't be gone long.

i checked the mail

but there was nothing

there from you.

no card, no letter,

no package.

i know the mail is slow

lately,

so that's a good excuse.

but it's fine, no worries.

i'll leave

the light on for you.

come soon.

now it begins

after school

is when real life begins.

the books

don't matter anymore.

the grades, the hours bent

towards

learning.

that's over.

now you learn the real

lessons

as you punch the clock

pick up a shovel.

find a desk

and dig in. forty years

to go.

good luck dear boy,

begin.

not with your kind

take your woes

and go.

pick up your dirty laundry,

wipe

your bloody nose.

depart with gossip

and lies.

bundle up your troubles

and take the nearest

door

and fly.

we don't want you here

anymore.

we can't live

a happy life with the likes

of you,

your kind.

as the headlights appear

as she drives home

in the cold

the roads wet, the wind howling.

her dog

waiting by

the window.

she's full.

she's happy in the moment

with the making

love behind her.

the highway clear as 

sleep awaits,

the dog

more happy than anyone

could imagine,

as the headlights

appear.

the weight of work

it's herculean

at times.

this work, this life

of mine.

the climb gets steeper

with every day.

the steps

getting harder,

the weight

of hours heavier

with each lifting

of another bale of hay.

but it's not for money

anymore.

not at this age.

it's not for bread

or shelter, or ale

when it's time to close.

it's for something else.

something

that i don't even know.

burning bridges

we came up for air.

bloodied and bruised.

we stopped fighting

for a moment and went

out for a walk.

it was a sunless day in march.

we knew the end was near,

but the right words had not

been said, just the wrong ones.

all the evidence was in.

the jury, the judge.

we were just waiting

on the verdict.

the walk meant nothing

but a stretching

of our legs. fresh air

in our lungs.

no hands were held.

no tender moments stopping

to kiss on any bridge.

they had all been

crossed and burned

a long time ago.

juggling skills

bored with life

i take up juggling.

i start off light and easy

with

rubber balls

then work my way up

to small animals,

frogs and gerbils.

i work in a few knives

and chain saws

as i get better,

then go with burning

torches.

shards of pointed glass.

people are amazed

at my juggling skills,

especially sally, and betty

and thelma,

knowing how poor i was

at juggling them.

party of one

party of one

i say to the hostess as i enter

the restaurant.

well, hello again,

she says. long time

no see.

no date?

what happened to your girl?

you're bride to be.

long story,

i tell her. trust me.

you don't want to know.

it involves

exorcism, demonic

possession.

things like that.

hmmm. she says. i see.

your usual seat

at the bar? is that okay.

no, let's try another

the last one was bad luck,

let's see if we

can change that

today.

i'm in big trouble

according to the last

five phone calls i've received

from unknown numbers,

i'm in deep trouble with the irs,

about to be arrested

any minute now.

the cops are on their way.

social security has suspended

my accounts

and my credit cards

and identity have been stolen.

my computer is infected with

a virus, and someone 

on amazon has ordered 

an expensive camera

using my password and my name.

not to mention that the warranty

on my car has expired 

and i'm about to lose my chance

to renew if i don't call back

right away. i used to worry

about library books being overdue, 

my how things have changed.

passion

it's not about 

the check list.

the qualifiers,

the attributes,

the wants and desires

of your heart.

it doesn't matter

where you're from

or what you've done.

beauty

in the long

run is just a distraction.

it's not about what you

want in another

person,

in the end it's about 

enthusiasm

for each other.

the rest is okay, but

at the end of the day

give me passion.

the cold beach

the beach is cold

this time

of year.

the sand is rough

and dark,

a wash of pebbles

line the surf,

broken shells,

a coat of armor

wet

in the sun.

the wind cuts.

the salt is in your eyes.

but you keep walking,

your feet sinking

with each new

step.

the pier is miles

away.

the past is never far

behind.

staying in shape

it's not too late

for breakfast, is it?

i yell

up the stairs.

it's twelve noon.

french toast?

or eggs?

nothing for me she

says.

i'm on a diet.

maybe i'll stop for

a donut or two

after my run.

okay, pick me up

a pie if you could.

i'll be at the gym

when you get home.

old friends

we have favorite

coats.

favored shirts and pants.

shoes

and hats.

we pick them over so many

others waiting

on the shelf.

hanging in the closet.

five sweaters that are black.

grey jeans.

the right color. the right

size.

they are who we are.

they have what the others

lack.

how to dance

she teaches me 

how to dance.

listen

to the music, she says.

open your heart,

and breathe,

become what you hear,

relax and move.

feel my body

against yours,

put your arm here.

take my hand, now let's

glide across the floor.

there you go. 

there you go, i could

dance all night

with you,

you have it my dear.

small rewards

funny

how a new pair 

of shoes

makes you feel good.

puts a spring in your step.

a fresh coat of paint.

that feeling you get

the hour after the maid

comes

with everything clean

everything in its place.

small rewards

can make your day,

put a smile on your face.

one dark piece of chocolate

will do the trick or

an ice cold martini,

or better yet, 

a sensual kiss.

road kill

i'm on the fence.

i'm

undecided.

i'm

leaning both ways.

i'm the squirrel

in the road

going nowhere

fast.

darting

left

then right.

it's so hard to decide.

the pressure on,

eyes growing

bigger

in the oncoming

lights.

who are these people

i find another way home.

a wrong

turn

making a longer trip,

but i'll find my way out.

how long has

the back road

been here.

it winds in and out of

shadows

and light.

these trees, that pond.

i see an old barn 

in red beyond the field.

i see a tractor

with a man in a straw hat

upon it.

he waves.

i see his wife in a

pale blue dress

coming through

the corn,

bringing him

water.

she waves too.

who are these people?

working hands

my hands

curled around tools all day.

the knife,

the scissors, the brush.

they are thick with

use

calloused and raw.

cuts

healing, some new.

they bring home the bread.

they

pay

the bills.

these hands awaiting something

softer

to hold them

one day.

the first draft

i read the first draft,

then the second.

it's horrible.

what was i thinking trying

to get

a book out of any of this.

babbling

all the time about me,

for the most

part.

self indulgent to the nth

degree.

but what the hell, what

are we

living for.

why not throw it all out

there into the world.

and if no one cares, or likes

any of it.

so what.

i'll write more and more

and more.

until there's nothing left,

not a word

not a thought

inside the well.

the same story

it's the same story.

over and over

and over

again.

the long marriage.

how trapped they all 

are.

no love.

no longer friends.

the kids keeping them

together,

the house, the dog,

the cats.

the neighbors

the in laws.

and money. with no

way to make it end.

sleeping in separate

rooms.

living separate lives.

keeping secrets.

telling lies. he has a

mistress, she has a friend.

a long life

of pretend.

not knowing how

to escape.

it's same story

that i hear,

over

and over and over

again.

hearing the news

i find her

on the front steps crying

when i get home.

i sit down beside her.

her face

is dark

and wet with tears.

she's shaking

in the cold.

i put my arm around her.

and tell her

in a whisper.

i know.

i know.

tickets torn in half

i keep no

keepsakes. no receipts,

no half torn

tickets

or playbills

from what we've seen.

i'll save no pictures

of you

and me. no cards

or letters,

or love notes

left behind.

there is no reason

to remember

anything, there never

was a you

or me.

i'll leave it at that

as i try to be kind.

i'll meet you there

i'll meet you there

my love.

i'll meet you where the bridge

is below

the hill,

across the slender

stream,

before 

the bluff. at

the bench where we first

met.

where we fell in love.

i'll meet you there

once last time

before dark,

before we say what must

be said. before

we change our minds,

before we part.

i'll meet you there.

mid century parenting

get up, you're going

to be late.

take a shower. use

soap. brush your teeth.

get dressed.

get your books,

your lunch box.

behave in school.

wipe your feet,

don't let the screen door slam.

close the refrigerator.

lower the tv.

use your inside voice.

don't make me pull

this car over.

go wash your hands.

pull up your zipper,

comb your hair.

wipe your face.

eat what's on your plate.

don't talk with your mouth full.

get your finger out

of your nose.

do your homework

quit teasing your sister.

go walk the dog.

take the trash out.

go brush your teeth.

say your prayers.

now go to sleep.

the law of attraction

i give the law of attraction

a shot.

i think hard about someone

i'm enamored with

to see if they

text of call.

i concentrate on their face,

their voice,

their essence.

i sit and wait with my eyes

closed, believing there

will be an answer.

and then the phone rings,

i'm startled out of my trance,

but it's not her,

it's my mother

asking me why i never visit.

i need more practice at this.

i'm a little off.

two out of three

i keep waiting 

for the coin to come

down

in my hand.

i've flipped it high

into the air,

awaiting my fate.

heads or tails.

i'm letting my life be

decided this way.

but in the back of my

mind,

i know that

i can always do two

out of three.

give me the ocean

it's laughable

the phrase,

better to have loved

and lost

than to never

have loved at all.

give me a break.

it's better

to fall off a mountain,

or drop from  a plane,

or drown

in the ocean, than to

go through that again.

the sounds we know

there are sounds

that stick

with you

even in black darkness

as you lie

dying.

a bird's whistle,

a cat's meow.

wind in the trees.

a door closing,

a lock

opening.

a window being raised.

the rustling of leaves.

the sound of shoes

coming

into a room.

a sigh. a cry.

the clapping of hands.

the spin

of a wheel. 

a new born crying.

the ocean,

the sound of a heart

against your ear.

it's a small world

the far left

the extreme right.

the middle.

i've never seen or known

so many

angry people.

the pendulum swings

with each

new era

come upon us.

but it swings quicker

now.

the world having

grown

much smaller and

sicker.

the weight we carry

we pick the weight

we carry.

the burdens

of others. we make room

for them

out of the goodness of

our hearts.

we put them on our

shoulders.

we strap them to our

backs.

we go the extra mile.

listening to their woes,

helping them

as best we can.

it takes a lot of carrying

a lot wasted time 

to finally

realize that their

troubles never end.

the space program

no need to go

to mars.

go out into my back yard.

there is very little

difference.

no life forms.

just rocks and debris.

sand.

okay, yes there's air,

there's weeds,

the occasional snake,

and a rusted grill

i never use,

but besides that it's no

different than

the red planet a million

miles away.

save yourself a buck

or two

and come over,

plant your flag

and call it a day.

excuse me, i have to go

he's a bad story teller.

i'd give

him a 
C minus on most attempts.

occasionally

a B

if he keeps it short

and i've  never heard it before.

he circles

and circles, takes

a detour,

veers off the road

at times

never quite getting to

the punch line.

it's good to have a bathroom

near by,

to point at and say.

excuse me, but i have

to go.

escape plans

no jail can hold you.

no prison,

no shackles.

there are no bars strong

enough,

or barbed wire

sharp enough

to curtail your life.

you will escape even

false love

if you want to.

there's always a way out.

a way to get free.

start now.

start tonight.

a place called home

we need a place.

the split trunk

in a tree.

the hollow.

a rock to burrow under.

a cave

to crawl in,

a tunnel 

beneath the dirt

a place

to call home.

a place where we're

safe.

a sanctuary of sorts,

with our kind.

where love

is returned.

everything alive seeks

the same.

impeachment

i feel bad for all the peaches

that are in the news

lately.

they never did anything to anyone.

so juicy and sweet

in season.

the soft felt fuzz on their

skin reminds me of you

when you kissed me.

i could hold one in my

hand all day before taking

a bite or two, being careful

of the seed that lay inside.

a basket of them would be

nice. a layer of them on a cake

or pie.

who doesn't love a peach?

not I.

she had good bones

on weekends

i'd raise the hood of the old car

a brown

chevy

handed down

three or four times

to repair or replace,

the oil pump.

the plugs and points,

the water pump.

the shocks,

the fan belts, there

was always something wrong,

a battery gone

dead. a leak,

a light out,

but i had the tools,

the time, and felt that the car

had good bones.

i was willing to learn

with little money to take

it to a garage.

so i fixed it on my own.

but now, so many years

later, i can't find

the latch to open the hood

on this new car,

or turn the dome

light on.

the best meal ever

it was the best

meal

i ever had.

a slice of pizza in new york

city.

we stopped

while

walking back to the 

roosevelt hotel.

the cheese,

the pepperoni,

the thick crust warming

our hands.

we sat on a bench

in central park

and savored

the moment.

winter had emptied 

the trees.

patches of snow lay

upon the walk ways.

we were happy.

our appetites filled,

our hearts beginning

to fill as well.

the bride's mother

you should have been

there last year,

at the wedding.

the bride rode a horse into

the castle.

a white horse.

it was an open bar,

sit down dinner for two

hundred

and thirty five.

they wrote their own vows.

a live band performed.

jugglers and clowns

appeared,

magicians did tricks.

there were fireworks in the sky.

politicians gave speeches.

celebrities showed

up in fancy cars.

it was a marvelous wedding.

you should have been

there. but not to worry,

if we're still in touch

you can come to the next one,

next year,

trust me, it will

be even better.

going through the motions

i keep praying she says.

i keep

asking

for forgiveness. i keep

going to confession.

i listen to the catholic channel

all day and night.

i have rosary beads

in my purse,

on my dresser, hanging

from my rear view mirror.

i go to communion.

i know all the priests.

i wear a crucifix the size of

a spatula around my neck.

there's a glow in the dark

statue of Mary

on my desk.

i put a can of beans in the box

each sunday.

i attend mass on holy days

and never leave

early.

i keep asking

for peace. i keep asking God

to make things right again.

i want to be good.

He knows that, right?

why do i feel so bad all

the time

despite my life of rinse

and repeat.

when my son was five

when my son

was five or six, he looked up

at me

as we sat

outside the ice cream

store

as parents

passed by with their

children,

cones in hand

and he said to me, looking

into my eyes with

ice cream on his chin,

dad, he said,

i think women

wear make up to trick

men.

the all night card game

neither good nor bad

at cards

i get bored.

the pot is too small

or too large

for me

to involved.

i fold with three aces

and go stand by

the window

with a cigarette

in hand.

the lights are blue 

outside. the other

world is asleep.

i hear the ocean

approaching,

relentlessly,

wave after wave

crashing into the sand.

what is will pass

the tide will come

in.

don't worry. what is will

pass.

what's written

or built upon

the sand

will not last. so much

of what you fear

is temporary.

don't worry.

the tide will come in.

what is

will pass.

put on hold

i'm put on hold.

music begins to play.

violins.

i lean back in my chair.

i sip

my drink.

don't worry the voice

says,

it won't be long now.

only thirty three

more callers ahead

of you.

the music

returns. it's soothing,

relaxing.

it's like a dream.

i almost forget why

i've called this number.

but i have all day.

i can wait.

i've been on hold before.

many times.

the funeral processon

i get stuck in a funeral

procession going down

the highway

and can't get out.

i can see the hearse five

cars in front of me.

someone rolls their window

down and yells for me to turn

my lights on.

i yell back, i don't even know

this person.

and they yell back, no one did.

no one even liked her.

but turn your lights on,

pay some respect.

so i turn my lights on and keep

going, unable to turn off the road.

i go to the funeral

and stand by the gravesite

as people speak one by one.

then someone says to me, it's

your turn.

and so i go on and on.

and say how despite the fact

that we didn't know her

very well, she was a good

person, one of us, trying

to find her way in a world

as best she could. people

begin to cry. someone hands

me a handkerchief to

wipe my eyes, a woman pats

me on the back and says,

good job.

all that wasted dough

as i walk by the greeting card

section in the grocery store

i think about all the money

i've been saving

over the past couple of years

from not  buying any

of those cards about love 

and friendship,

devotion and joy.

soulmates, please.

i shake my head and sigh at

all those gift bags, those ribbons

and bows.

and then there's flowers. 

good Lord, what

i wouldn't do to have back

all that wasted dough.

you have to promise

after my mother passed

away

while living in a semi

conscious state for five

years, curled in a ball

with her eyes blinking

yes or no, in hospice,

i remember

what she said to me and others

before she became ill.

don't ever put me in a home

like i've seen my friends

go to, she said.

don't ever take me there,

with only strangers around.

no matter what happens, you

have to promise me

that i won't end up there.

let me die in my own house, 

in my own bed, surrounded

by my own things. even

if i have no memory, if

i've lost my mind, if i can't

walk or move a muscle,

no matter what happens

don't let them take me there.

you have to promise.

is this what i want

is this what i want,

or what you want?

this meal.

this choice.

this place to go and relax.

is this

the right the car

for me,

the right shirt, the right

pair of pants.

and these shoes.

black or brown.

is she the one to settle

on,

the one

i want to be around until

the end of time.

is this house

the right place to live.

is this paint

i'm rolling onto the wall

the best color

for me. will it make me

feel at home.

or should i pick another.

tell me.

the end of the story

you stop telling people

the things

that happened.

you've run dry

of the story.

your story.

it's done.

the last ember in a roaring

fire

has died.

a peace

like no other overcomes

you.

how easily you walk now.

how quickly

you smile. 

you stop and point

upwards, 

saying to strangers,

have you ever

seen such

a wonderous blue

sky?

it's not funny

it's one thing

to not be able to tell a joke,

but another

thing altogether

to not get one.

to not understand 

or see the humor

in this life

is a darkness 

you'll

never get out from

under.

the porch light on

we leave the porch light

on.

we want

who we love

to return.

to knock gently as we

sleep,

so that we can peek

out the window

and let them in again.

but when the light

is off.

they know to keep

walking, there is

no coming back,

we've truly reached 

our end.

a sky full of stars

once out in the country

away

from the city lights

how quickly

the sky becomes alive.

you see at last what

stars are really like.

the beauty and splendor

of what life can be.

your eyes are opened.

it's almost too much to

take in. 

you had to get away 

to see again.

spilled milk

a glass of milk tips

over

spilling

across the table

in a wet

sea

of white, it

ripples and collects

between the glasses

and plates.

it's just milk 

my mother says,

nothing

to get upset about.

no need to worry.

she goes to the kitchen

and gets another

cold bottle

from the ice box.

then pours

another glass.

she wipes the table

clean.

we sit, we pray,

we eat.

that's that.

what happened in my sleep

what happened in my sleep

that

i injured this leg.

this arm.

where was i 

in my

dream.

what's this bruise on

my chin,

this scrape on my cheek.

i'm sore

from head to toe

as if i went fifteen rounds

with a heavyweight.

and i thought

she was gone.

we're past that point

i'll wait until the sun gets up

before going

out to scrape

the ice off the windshield

of my car.

i'll sit with another cup

of coffee

and read. i won't bother

you with the weather

as you lie there, still

asleep. no need to wake

you up before i leave.

we're past that point

of discussion.

fool's gold

i break a tooth

on fool's gold.

it looked real glimmering

in the cold

stream,

sifted and panned

as i bent

over on sore knees.

the world news

i cancel

the paper, the channels,

the magazines.

i turn off

the radio.

tired and weary

of news of the world.

i'm relying now

on

only what i see.

and from

here.

things look fine.

i'll stay

in this spot for awhile

until

the rest blows over.

the dead language

our intentions

are lost

in the mix of half texts,

words

misspelled, punctuation

gone slack.

slang

and jive.

cartoon emojis.

a crazy stew of words

taking the place

of what

we grew up with.

the literature

of our youth

is dead.

no one is exactly clear

on what

one means.

ambiguity thrives.

just browsing

just browsing, 

i tell the clerk.

as i circle

the enormous store.

is there anything

i can help you find, 

she asks, staring

at my empty cart.

i look at her and smile.

do you want the short list

or the long list?

i'll know it when i see

it and when i do,

i'll make her mine.

fork or spoon?

what's your theme

song,

who would play you in a movie.

what's the title

of the book

all about you.

if you

were a bird

what kind of bird

would you

be.

what kind of animal

best tells

me who you are.

what's your favorite

color.

if you could be anyone

else who

would you be.

what would be your

last meal on earth

if you knew

the end was coming

soon.

maryanne or ginger?

fork, or spoon.