starting tomorrow

as i toss some

shredded potatoes

into the pan

and butter a piece

of toast

i think, tomorrow

i'll start

keto again.

i'll stop with the flour,

the starches,

the carbs.

tomorrow.

but it's pasta tonight,

and garlic

bread. red wine.

but tomorrow,

i promise myself,

tomorrow i'll try once

more 

not to bend.

when did this happen?

when the knee

swells,

aching with pain

and you can't remember

how you hurt it.

in your sleep perhaps,

turning in

a dream, did you trip

at three a.m. on the way

to the bathroom.

or could it be

those fifty years of playing

basketball

on concrete courts

finally catching up 

with you?

going undercover

for a while, a year or two,

with the former imaginary

love of my life,

i was sherlock holmes.

i was the fbi, the cia, the man

from uncle.

there was nothing i couldn't

uncover.

no clue left undiscovered.

no stone unturned.

my intuitive instincts

were in full force

with my gut leading the way.

she got away with nothing.

e mails, texts. hidden

things under the mattress.

the secrets in her closet,

her car, her drawers.

i knew about the lies,

the cheating, the betrayals

almost before they occurred.

i found love notes,

trees in the woods with

hearts carved in them.

i could read her face, her

body language, her mind.

it was fun in some sick

demented way of living. 

but thankful to be done with

it. it was a horrible time.

i need a bigger box

i throw

a pair of red high heels

into my lost

and found

box tucked away 

in the closet.

scarves,

rings. clothes.

hats.

sunglasses.

watches, earrings.

silky undergarments.

somehow they've all

been left behind

with no names

attached.

there's a book on dreams

in there,

a book on love

languages,

underlined with a magic

marker.

a magazine

on calorie counting.

a picture of a horse

eating grass.

a few tubes of lipstick,

and a well used

 rolled up

yoga mat. pink.

it's time for a bigger

box.

kung pao chicken

it was kung

pao

chicken for mother's day.

the small

restaurant

snug tight between

the tire center

and wal mart.

hunan's kitchen.

she wanted the drink

with the fruit

and the pink umbrella.

the shrimp

rolls.

she'd sip it for hours,

never getting

to the bottom

of it.

let me try your dish,

she'd say,

her fork already

in your dish

stabbing

at the shredded beef

and broccoli. 

always a box or

two

to take home after

opening up her cards

and wiping

the tears from her face.

across the threshold

while carrying the new

chair

across the threshold

wrapped in white linen,

i begin to doubt that it will

fit, that she will work out.

i set it by the window,

then try the other side

of the room. the color is

suddenly wrong. the curves

are not same curves

i saw in the store.

i'm surprised at how

stiff the cushions are.

but there's no refund,

no return, i'll have to sit

on it awhile.

rain and shine

when it hasn't rained

for awhile, months perhaps,

we worry

that the woods will burn,

that the crops won't

rise, that they will die

before their time.

and when it rains for days on

end, we look up

into the sky and pray

that it will stop

before the levees break,

before the rising 

tide sweeps everything away.

is not finding and losing love

much the same?

hometown

knowing the roads,

this town,

each tree grown, 

each sign

hammered into the ground, 

each store

that's come and gone.

the once new buildings,

now old.

how familiar it all is,

and yet strange

that you still feel lost

amongst it, your home.

that's a good idea

i'm easily influenced

by others.

if they say you should wear

blue more. it goes with your

eyes,  i wear blue.

if they say, sit up straight.

i look at myself 

in the mirror, and agree,

straightening up my spine.

it would be good

if you took more vitamins

they say,

so i join a vitamin club.

i get a new bottle once

a week.

try this they say, holding

up a spoon of beet soup,

which i hate.

yum, i say. asking for more.

alternative clocks

having looked at all seven

clocks in my house.

hanging on the walls,

or blinking

brightly in red on the stove,

and elsewhere.

i wonder why they're all off

by a few minutes or

so.

some by a full hour.

but they're close enough.

i see that the sun is up.

so it must be time to rise

and shine

and get to work.

when it's dark.

sleep after food, a book

some time

with the tv and maybe

if betty comes over,

a pre-bedtime drink.

oh, that's funny

she wouldn't laugh

at a joke,

at gentle sarcasm, or any form

of sardonic humor.

it didn't register.

she just didn't get it, but

because everyone

else in the room 

would be laughing,

she'd say, oh, that was funny

and clap her hands together.

i wasted years of my best

material on her. no giggle,

not a smile, no belly laugh.

nothing, but a grim look

of puzzlement on her

long dark face. then anger,

asking me later, why would

i say something like that.

not too worry, we're fine

some limp,

some lose sight in one

eye

or the other,

or both.

legs are lost.

teeth fall out,

hearing dies.

our voices draw to a close.

we disintegrate

daily.

but still move forward,

that primitive

instinct

keeping us alive.

one more hour,

one more day.

another year down

a hard road,

but not to worry..

we're fine.

the distance between us

the distance between us

grows wider

with time.

the miles are the same,

but the wordless

place

we're in now, keeps us

away.

how quickly seasons

change.

how fast love arrives,

then

departs again.

mother's day

they can't find her grave.

no mark

no cross, no stone.

no map

to show you where she

was laid.

no bench to sit upon

and think

about her life.

it's a field of green

with

wild flowers everywhere,

which i think

pleases her

beyond words.

on a perfectly blue sky day

out of the blue

on a perfectly blue sky

day she says

we should have a committed

relationship now, don't you think?

i spit out half of my

hamburger across the table

hitting her in the chest.

oops.

i say, and lean over

to wipe off the ketchup

and onions.

what are you talking about,

i ask her.

you know. me and you.

we get along so well.

we never fight or anything,

and sexy time is so much fun.

maybe it's time we think about

moving in together. 

getting engaged.

my heart begins to race

as a  panic attack

sets in.

i feel faint.

are you okay. you're sweating.

no i'm good. good.

i can see my pale reflection

in the butter knife i'm holding,

my hand is trembling.

i splash some water onto

my face

and press a handful of ice

cubes against my forehead.

what do you think? she says.

smiling,

biting down on a petite cherry

tomato.

good idea?

a woman's purse

a woman can survive

a week

with just what's in her purse.

she's prepared for

almost anything.

the end of the world.

no problem.

a flashlight. kleenex.

snacks.

lipstick, gum. a small

cuticle clipper than can be used

to stave off approaching

zombies.

mints. batteries. an avacodo.

maps. keys.

paper, pens.

a mirror for signaling

planes for help.

do not go gently into that good night

i can hardly ever get my father

on the phone.

who is 93.

he's always

snuggling with his new girlfriend

Esther.

who just turned 87.

it rings and rings.

i try the cell, the land line.

nothing.

he truly is going out not with

a whimper but

with  some sort of

bang that i try not to visualize.

with her shoes off

it means something

to me,

for her

to take off her heels

in this empty lot

cold from rain.

to bring her lips

even with mine

before going home

again.

without bad luck

i no longer worry about

bad luck,

the black cat, the broken

mirror,

avoiding the ladder.

no more do i toss

a coin into a fountain

and make a wish.

or see a falling far

and do the same.

i've tossed the rabbit foot

away.

i'm done with luck, with

good luck and bad luck.

i've seen it all.

the worst has already 

happened.

no need to worry anymore

i say to myself,

knocking hard

against the oak table.

saving what we can

i find the needle

and a small spool of black

thread.

i can do this.

stitch up this hole in my

favorite pair

of jeans.

they've been with me so long.

the things

they've gone

through, the things they

have seen.

carefully under

the big light i push

the needle in

and drag the thread from

side to side

until the tear is gone,

stitched tight.

i'm determined for some

things in this

life

to survive.

dante's inferno

needing some light reading

for a rainy saturday afternoon

i dive into

Dante's Inferno.

the story of the nine concentric

circles of torment

on the way to hell

and back again.

after a few pages though,

i put it down.

do i really want to go through

that again.

once was enough.

dante had nothing on that

relationship.

how we doing, Lisa?

if i go three days without

work

i imagine myself in the woods.

with a can of beans

over an open fire. my

fingerless gloves clutching

a tin mug

full of maxell house coffee.

i hear a train going by,

the lonesome refrain

of a harmonica by a toothless

man in a long coat

leaning against a tree

relieving himself.

i quickly call my broker and

snap out of it.

i ask her, how we doing Lisa?

this is what i don't need

after doing a quick inventory,

i make a list of all the things i don't

need at the grocery store.

i've got salt and pepper covered.

butter.

a variety of salad dressings.

seven at last count.

i have coffee

and cream. a small bag of croutons

with a rubber band

around it.

i have ketchup, mustard and mayo.

one white onion.

i even have

a half empty can of extra whipped

whip cream.

don't ask.

i have vodka, wine and beer

in case of emergencies.

i have a bag of onion rings.

i have a small tub of sweetened

cranberries

and peanut butter.

a stout old bag of flour

in the cupboard

and baking powder?

the brown sugar bag is a rock

so i toss that.

but that's the list, more or less,

minus a few dozen jars

of spices i've never used.

poetry puzzle

poetry ends

in english class, perhaps

in the tenth grade.

robert frost.

whitman.

that's enough to send

you to an early grave.

shakespeare.

yeats and poe.

tennyson.

oh my.

it's a struggle to ever

pick up

a book again.

breaking it down word

by word.

line after line.

what does that mean?

what the hell are they

talking about

this time.

even the new yorker

struggles

with

the puzzling, unreachable

words.

mythology.

academia. 

it's the worst.

the living dead

it is a land

of pigeons. grey and bent

over.

unflying,

but staring at some seed

or worm,

upon their hand.

locked into their

cell phones.

crossing roads,

bumping aimlessly

into one another.

unaware of sky or sun.

the moon.

nature

goes on without them.

a mass hypnosis,

living a life

within.

a cold and wired room.

fasting on the news

i  go three weeks without watching

the news. twenty one peaceful days

and nights

without knowing what the world

is up to. i haven't heard of one

earthquake, or tsunami, or murder

or riot, or mass shooting.

i've lost track of the death count.

on every continent.

i have no clue as to which celebrity

has recently died, that i'm supposed

to feel sorry for.

i don't even watch the weather

channel anymore.

i just look out the window

and stick a leg out the door.

i then clothe myself appropriately.

grabbing an umbrella if need be.

i wished i had thought of this

forty years ago. 

no man is an island,

but i'm giving it a shot.

the box of candy

the inspector

in his beard and greasy overalls,

his snug, too small cap,

asks

if it's for emissions,

or just a regular inspection.

both i tell him,

handing him my keys.

my registration.

i leave a small box of candy

on the seat. an assortment

of chocolates

meant for my sweetie.

only one is left when

he's done and pulls

the car around.

what is there to say

to that?

the flowing blue gowns

half grown we would ride

our bikes

up south capitol street,

into congress heights

and stop

at  St. Elizabeth's Hospital.

the red bricked asylum

laced

in ivy and age.

an iron fence stood between us,

keeping them in

and us out.

but on the pastures of green

and trees

wandered so many

hollowed  angels

in flowing blue gowns,

lost in some unknowable

dream.

it was a moment remembered.

filling you both 

with fear and doubt.

who are you really?

i keep my finger 

on the fast forward button.

i have little interest

in so much.

so many.

i want the end.

the plot.

the story told at a quickened pace.

i have no patience

to stand here and stare

at this tepid water

never boiling in the pot.

give it to me straight.

no game.

what's it all about. who are

you really?

tell me now.

i don't want to wait.

all may be well

it is the repetition.

the clock.

the place you need to be.

the sameness that gives us comfort.

the placing

of things,

of people. knowing

where they are.

it's the arrangement

of lifes small

things

a place for each, that brings

us serenity,

not joy,

but a certainty that all may

be fine.

be well.

oatmeal for dinner

it feels like

a good night for oatmeal.

come on over,

i have about thirteen boxes

or organic oats

left over from

a previous tenant.

i can either boil the water,

or microwave it

according to

the tiny print instructions

on the smudged box.

i think white wine might

be a good choice

to pair with it.

yes.

so what i'm telling you

is that

the cupboard is bare.

nothing in the fridge either.

so it's oatmeal, or you

can pick up a pizza,

with extra cheese

from Santorinis on your

way here.

the time is now

i'm close,

this close to making an 

important decision

on several things,

decisions that will change

my life,

one that includes

you.

i'm about to pull the trigger,

roll the dice,

shoot the arrow into the air

and see where it lands,

but first i need

to take a deep breath,

and close my eyes.

have i told you this story, it's true

not everyone has the gift

of gab,

a story teller.

they may have a wonderful

tale or joke to tell

but don't know

exactly how to get there.

they have no idea

what to leave in,

what to take out.

they drone on, as your eyes

flutter with fatigue.

a pasted half weary smile

on your lips.

you wait.

your ears wait.

life is on hold until they get

to the end.

then you quickly think of

a reason to go

before the next one

gets told.

social anxiety

i tell my therapist

that i think

i have social anxiety.

why do you say that, she says,

writing on her legal pad.

i don't like being in a crowded

room with strangers,

where i have to introduce

myself and talk to them.

ah ha. she says.

go on.

well, i tell her, leaning

forward to sneak a peek at

what she's writing.

i'm good with one on one,

or with a group

of friends, like at a party,

and i've had a drink or two.

but new people give me the

willies.

the willies? she says.

tell me about the willies.

oh, well.

you know. that strange feeling

in your gut.

i'm more nervous than a cat

in a room full of rocking chairs.

i see, she says.

and why do you think this is?

i have no idea, i tell her.

i'm hoping you can tell me and

fix this.

can i tell you a secret, she says.

sure, sure.

i lean up to her as she whispers.

i'm the same way too.

i don't like strangers either.

i look at her legal pad,

she's not writing anything at all,

she's making sketches of cats and dogs.

one plum per day

if she ate a plum

she had to walk five miles to

burn off

the calories.

an egg would take a ten mile

hike up

old rag mountain.

god forbid

if she drank a glass of wine,

or took a bite

of fish.

she'd have to bike, then swim,

then run

to get herself

thin again.

ahh, the shoes i went

through

trying to keep up.

the chevy impala

it was a relief when my

father

finally stopped driving his

twenty year old chevy impala

with ten thousand miles on it.

the tires were dry rotted

from lack of use,

the headlights fogged over.

the seats weathered

by the sun and him leaving

the windows down when

it rained.

the floor board was rusted out.

so when they towed

it away, i popped the champagne.

no more oil changes, no

more inspections, no more

fender benders on the road

to the market to buy scratch

off lottery tickets.

the cars end was my gain.

anywhere but here

at one point

in my working years,

i sat in a plastic chair,

wearing a cheap suit, with new shoes,

and a timex

watch on my wrist

and 

preceded to go forward

with the job

interview.

which would allow me

to live out my life

shuffling papers,

and shoveling coal out of

an IT mountain.

where do you want to be

in five years

the man said, smiling,

stroking his beard.

anywhere but here, i offered.

which didn't

get me the job.

why not you?

you anger the child

with

the stick of criticism. 

a gentle love tap

of direction, but 

he looks

at you

pained

with the thought of how

is this possible.

the nerve

and  audacity.

i am your golden child,

near perfection

in everything i do.

my mother thinks

so,

why not you?

better left unsaid

better left unsaid?

to bite the lower lip

and hold

that tongue rather than

spill a truth

about what

really is.

ruffle the feathers,

throw a rock

into the peaceful pond

and watch the ripple

roll back onto you?

or to accept

the wrong?

at least for now

the weight of grey

is less

than it was with the first strand

found

in your dark hair.

the wrinkle too,

has little power over you.

the gain

of pounds, the aches.

so what.

what's new?

the options are to be here

or not.

i choose, here, at least

for now.

who's next

we want

our lives to have meaning.

to leave a legacy of sorts.

to be remembered

for who we are 

or who we pretend to be.

we take pictures,

we keep diaries

we mark dates on the calendar.

the scrap books.

the memorabilia

fills our closets, our trunks

in the basement.

but in the end it all ends

up in some scrap

heap, or in a fire.

the dump at last will claim

us and all our things

with no fan fare.

our time is up. 

we are forgotten.

who's next?

the passing mini van

the woman who gives me

the finger

from her mini van

full of kids

and groceries, is in a hurry.

my car

is only doing sixty five

in the right lane.

but she's in a hurry.

so as she passes, she mouths

a few words in

my direction

and throws up her hand.

i see on the back

of her van

the bumper stickers,

it takes a village, 

coexist and save the whales.

she's probably a good person

most of the time,

but is just having a bad day.

i understand.

all my degrees

the woman on the dating

site asks me how

educated am I.

how many years of college

do you have, she says.

i mumble six or seven,

leaving out that most

of them were at the community

college near the rail road tracks.

what are your degrees in,

she asks.

i tell her i have a phd in philosopy

from harvard  and another degree

from columbia where i got my MFA.

right now, i tell her on the phone,

rustling papers around, i'm working

on a law degree from Georgetown.

it keeps me quite busy.

she lets out a little shriek.

this pleases her and now

she wants to meet for a drink.

quickly i take a shower

and scrub the paint off my hands,

my arms, the top of my head.

there's a large glob of caulking

in my ear that i try to peel off

as i grab a book on Aristotle

and Kant. i start skimming the pages

on the way over.

she could be the one.

i have time

 i see that i have twenty one

missed calls

on my phone. who are these

people and what do they want.

why don't they leave a message.

i feel like i'm missing out

on something. doing things

with new friends, with people

i am yet to know.

if they'd just leave a message

and a number and a name,

i can call them back and we can

begin our life together.

please don't be shy.

i'm here, i'm waiting by

the phone now. i have time.

the icing knife

as i watch the cake rise

in the oven.

nice and slow in the 325 heat,

i take out

an icing knife

and dip

into the sweet cream,

just to taste what i'm in for.

sort of like

that first kiss.

you know.

safeway has fish

as i slip the hook

out of the stiff jaw of a slimy

fish.

i shake my head

and grimace. 

i feel bad for the poor fellow,

or girl.

tricking her onto

my line like that.

a fat worm

tempting it to bite

and then be yanked to shore

into the air

filled light.

safeway has fish.

why am i doing this?

i'm sorry but i can't make it

i cancel

seventeen meetups.

what was i thinking.

tuesday,

wednesday.

sunday even. the day

of rest.

i can't drive to Berryville,

or Timonium 

or Charlestown

anymore.

i'm done, cooked,

fried,

beaten and exhausted

by short and round

by bone thin

with frowns.

married with children.

growing turnips

on a farm.

the prison guard

i have a flashback

of my

prison guard.

she's at my cell.

standing there, rattling

my cage.

it's just a dream,

but just the same,

it feels real.

scary.

frightening.

it's all very very strange.

i can't wait to wake

up and shake

it out of my head.

to unfasten

the chains.

it was here yesterday

too many things

are getting lost. 

through

the cracks.

caught between the seats,

amongst the debris

of papers,

cups and half eaten

on the run snacks.

where is it?

it was here yesterday.

i just saw it.

i held it in my hand.

i actually had the thought

of don't lose this.

keep it close.

but no such luck,

it's gone,

lost in the wind.

to bottle those years

when it snowed, when the streets

were iced

and schools were certainly

closed for a day or two,

at best a week.

how glorious it was to be cold.

our cheeks flushed,

our hands wet inside our gloves

our boots full

of melting snow.

and then the moon would appear,

as we flew down the hills.

then up again.

then down.

the long shadows of

our short lives would appear.

how lovely it would have been

to bottle those years.

widow at the window

death is small talk.

boredom.

discussing the weather.

dying is slow to the man

at the machine.

the farmer

at the plow.

the widow at the window.

the end

of times, the last years,

if alone.

are brutal.

cold and perplexing.

how did it get to this

after so much done.

so much love

yet found.

my closed hands

i give gladly away

so much.

generous with time, with dollars,

with

a voice,

a touch.

i rarely take

and expect nothing back.

guilt or shame

seems to be in the way.

few times do i stand

at the door of anyone and beg

for love, or beg

to stay.

the blush of sun

it's just a blush of sun

slipping

through

the clouds across

the lake

now deftly painted

pinks and violets.

the ducks too awake,

as i am.

wandering here

from the unslept bed,

from the cold

thoughts

unaligned and fragile.

another morning

with this.

is it nature, or is it me

that persists?

jordan almond addiction

i shouldn't have bought

a pound

of jordan almonds at wegmans.

i can't help

myself though.

i have the will power of a

one year old.

all day

i pull one out of my pocket

and suck the hard

candy coating off until

i get to the almond

which i crush and chew,

then try to swallow, but

often getting a  little almond

shard stuck

in the back of my throat

where i can't cough it up

or wash it down for hours.

my dentist is going to love

me the next visit.

making a purchase at the local sex emporium

years ago, decades maybe.

my girlfriend at the time asked me

to pick her up

an item at the local sex emporium.

to which i reluctantly agreed.

i put on a hat, sunglasses,

and a fake mustache and snuck

into the back door, taking a cab

there since it was close to the church

i attend.

i went to the counter, where a woman

named amber, i knew that because

it was tattooed on her breastbone,

greeted me with a cheerful hello.

i asked her quietly if she could

assist me in the purchase of a

woman's 'massage' implement.

you know, a marital aide.

she smiled and said no problem.

i caught the reflection of myself

on the giant gumball adornment

screwed into her tongue.

what size? she said loudly.

how many speeds? electric or

battery powered?

shhhh. i said to her. why are you

yelling?

she brought out six boxes of

different items and took them out,

lining them up on

the greasy counter. they were of

all different sizes and colors,

shapes.

she turned them all on

and described the pros and cons

of each one

as they jumped and vibrated

around the counter

like mexican jumping beans.

i said, geeze marie, i don't know,

it's so confusing, which

one would you buy?

she pointed at a purple colored one

that reminded me of a certain

vegetable at the supermarket

it uses lithium batteries

and can be recharged with a phone

charger. nine speeds, she

said proudly.

it also has an led light at the end

of it.

what for? i asked her, to which

she said, Really?.

okay. okay, i said. can you wrap it up?

is cash okay.

sure, she said. but no returns.

of course not, i said. that goes

without saying.

listen to happy music

all afternoon i listen to happy

music

following the advice

of a close

associate who will go nameless.

stop listening to those

oldies, she says.

it just brings back bad memories.

so i give it a shot.

i listen to the archies, sugar sugar.

some herb alpert and the tiajuana

brass doing a taste of honey.

then some tom jones.

it's not unusual.

then onto katrina and the waves,

i'm walking on sunshine.

by the end of the day.

i'm dancing in my underwear

and happier than i've been in

years.

unclogging the drain

as i pour about 

two gallons

of toxic drain

unclogger

down the sink

and listen to it gurgle

and chew up

god knows what.

i think of you.

and when it's finally

clear, and the water

runs free.

i smile

and turn the light off, 

then walk away.

a wild fire

ah, the diamonds.

ah, the flowers. ah the tears.

the words

written.

the cards sent.

ah, the bullshit

of it all.

the vows.

the pledges, the desire.

what a crazy

thing

love is.

a rampant wind

spreading a wild fire.

the disney world

i hear so many

talking about finding their soul mate.

the one and only.

the true love of their life.

they want the disney movie.

Cinderella.

the prince.

they want the shoe to fit.

the magic kingdom of

the beauty and the beast.

they want the drug

of fantasy and 

illusion.

because this world is too

hard to take

and people are never who

you think they

are for very long.

please, they say, it's okay.

please give me fake.

pulling the plug

when you stop watching the news

you are more

relaxed.

more unworried, more aware

of the tasks

at hand.

your own creations

are important.

when you turn off the set.

suddenly the world

is calm.

the repetition of death

and destruction.

hate and rage, everything

that you've been listening

to since a child,

is all suddenly gone. 

beauty at noon

it's hard not to look

at the flowers

in bloom,

excited with their own

colors

and power.

it's hard not to turn

your and see

them

as they walk gracefully

down the boulevard.

impossible beauty,

spring ready,

but will it last past

noon.

this could go somewhere

when you wake up

on a sunday morning and smell

bacon cooking in

the kitchen.

eggs and hash browns,

the fresh brewed coffee

in the air.

and you're exhausted from

a night of making love,

finding a long

strand of her perfumed hair

on your pillow.

you think, maybe, just maybe,

this could go somewhere.

tonight, just me and you

i stare at my thick 

new book

the red comet,

and sigh.

i'm only fifty pages in,

so far.

i've been neglecting it

with netflix and amazon

prime

and other assorted time

killing

endeavors.

i put my hand on the book

and whisper to it,

tonight.

just me and you tonight.

i promise.

don't worry, i'll see you

when i get home.

no stone left unturned

my friend julie bumble

talks me into trying the speed

dating night

down at the local brewery.

it's really musical chairs

for grown ups

trying to find romance.

you get three minutes

to talk, and meet someone,

a complete stranger,

but three minutes turns

out to be two and a half minutes

too long.

asleep in my bed

i come home early

and find the maid asleep in my bed.

she's under the blanket

with the fan on.

soft music is playing.

and there's a half a glass

of wine on the nightstand.

she has one of my books

out and turned over

next to the pillow.

there's a smile on her face

as if she's having a wonderful

dream.

i tip toe out the door,

and let her finish.

a new dish

as i flip through the recipe

book

i keep turning back to the same

pages.

the ones with

stains on them.

the one's creased and rippled

dry from

being wet.

i turn to the old safe

things i cooked before.

the dishes i know

how to cook.

but it's time for a new dish,

dear.

bring in the new.

we've grown stale,

grown old.

the fallen tree

the tree that fell

in the middle of the night

stretches

across the parking lot,

just missing

cars, and human life.

a crowd has gathered

taking pictures.

children

are climbing aboard

the fallen oak.

birds fly in to investigate.

dogs are barking.

men with chainsaws are

telling people to stand back.

it's all very interesting

somehow and i wonder

how long

before i can back my 

car out.

needing a bigger brain

i remember perusing 

my mother's

cosmopolitan magazine

when she wasn't looking,

sneaking it into the bathroom

and thinking

what the hell

is going on here with women?

geez marie.

i had no idea.

this is more complicated

than i ever imagined.

i'm going to need

a bigger brain.

the new toaster oven

on the way home

from the beach, we pulled

over

at a produce stand.

she wanted tomatoes,

a melon,

some peaches.

we'd only been married

for three days,

but it was already

three days

too long.

she knew and i knew,

that this was a mistake.

her at nineteen,

me at twenty two.

but we stuck it out for six

months,

before i looked out the

window and saw

her pulling her

pink suitcase 

down the road and carrying

a toaster oven under

her arm.

the three minute date

the bar is crowded.

no seats,

no tables.

so i inch up to the bar

and wave

down a bartender.

the person i'm with,

a stranger,

having never met,

is engaged already

in a deep conversation

with a bird dog

at the bar.

the drinks come.

it's all about the guy

now.

he wants to shake hands.

he wants

to be friends. he's a chum

a buddy,

a pal.

he orders olives stuffed

with cheese

and pushes them towards me.

he wants to be the best

man in our wedding.

i sip my drink

and say to myself, what

am i doing here.

i look for the nearest exit

and mumble the word,

bathroom,

then walk away, out

the front door and drive

home.

block, delete, hooray.

the dead line

sometimes you have to take

out the sharpest

knife in the drawer

and cut the ties that bind you.

slice, and pull until

the hard wire and casing is

cut through.

the dead line without power.

you got nothing out of them.

they got nothing out of you.

their own way

the family has fallen apart,

scattered.

with the mother gone, there

is no

place to gather

to meet, to celebrate

a birthday,

or christmas, or

fourth of july.

off in the wind

are the children

onto their own lives,

at last free with

each holiday,

to their own way

of doing things.

new delhi calling

i get about ten calls a day

from india.

it's the irs,

medicare,

amazon,

microsoft,

social security,

credit cards,

home repairs,

life insurance.

it sounds like the same guy.

the high pitched

voice with the obvious

accent,

mispronouncing

nearly every other word

including my name.

it sounds like he's in

a warehouse full

of a thousand of people,

all chattering

from the same scam script.

he's busy,

but so am i.

the number he's calling

from looks

almost like mine,

off by a digit or two

despite him being in New Delhi,

and me being

here.

he's an agent, an officer,

a manager, he's

technical support

from the refund department.

he wants to help you.

are you in front of your 

computer now?

it's a blight on the world.

an endless

swarm of mosquitoes

taking small bites out of

your life.

the massage parlor

sore from a week of work

i call up

the local massage parlor to see

if they're back

in business

after the plague subsided.

they are.

they can take me in at eight.

but only

Peter is available.

Vanessa doesn't work here anymore,

the woman says,

i think she's back

in Moscow.

oh, i say. disappointed.

but Peter is great.

you'll love him.

deep tissue is his specialty.

he likes to use hot oils

and crack your spine with

his elbows.

he used to be a gymnast.

so, should i book you.

an hour with Peter, at 8.

umm.

can i get back to you on that?

i might just take a hot

bath today.

i have a new bag of sea salts

i want to try out.

compare and contrast

we compare scars.

her shark bite

versus my bee sting.

her psoriasis, versus

my poison oak.

the thumb she dislocated,

versus the bruise on my

stubbed toe.

she points to the spot

on her neck where she had

a tracheotomy,

i show her my thumbnail

where i bit it down

to the cuticle, now red.

she twists her arm

around to show me

that she's doubled jointed.

i show her that i can

hold my breath

for almost a minute.

so what about the heart,

i ask her,

and she says, let's not

go there yet.

while you were away

as i go down the stairs,

groggy

from a night out with betty,

i trip on a turkey

bone.

a plate of food,

a half filled glass of

chardonnay.

what went on here last

night while

i was out

and away?

dishes are in the sink,

candles still lit,

in a puddle of wax.

there's a record on the

turntable still going around.

there's lingerie spinning

on the fan.

i should have stayed

home.

i missed all the fun.

mother's day

all the mothers

are preparing to be disappointed

as mother day

approaches.

will they bring flowers,

a card,

a gift.

will they show up for dinner,

or take me out.

will i feel the love

and warmth of raising

these children, 

giving birth to them,

or will

it be like last year,

an emoji filled text

or maybe a phone call

if time allows.

moderation in some things

you don't know if moderation

in all things

actually works

until you over do it

in those things

that give you pleasure.

it's hard to stop what's fun

and exciting until

you're face down in an alley

with empty pockets,

and a heart come undone.

other things on my mind

i'll get to it.

that spill, that broken glass.

that old

newspaper

stacked up on the table.

water for the plants.

the trash that needs

to go out.

the late bills.

i'll get to the junk mail,

the real mail.

the letter that you sent.

not to worry,

i'll get to all of that.

but let me think about it

first.

i've got other things

on my mind

and you're not one of them.

trust me on that

if it rains or if it doesn't 

i'll be there.

leave the porch light on.

leave

the key under the mat.

go to bed if you're tired.

but don't worry,

i'll find my way to you.

i always do.

don't let the other times

i've let you down

confuse you.

i'm coming back.

you've always known that,

you know where

my heart is.

no need to worry, or

wait up,

go bed and when i get

there i'll lie down beside

you. i won't

make the same mistake

again.

trust me on that.

old things

i like what's broken in.

the shoes

that fit just right, the shirt.

the old pair

of blue jeans, ripped

and torn,

frayed at the cuff, but still

a perfect fit.

the car

i've  had for ten years.

the seats

that know me,.

the pedals, the stick shift.

we find comfort in old things.

old friends.

where would life

be without them.

waiting for the amazon truck

i check the cupboard

for a snack

but i'm completely out of junk

food.

i thought i had a pack

of twizzlers in there

from the last time i went

to the movies

two years ago, but they're

gone.

no chips, no cookies.

not even a stick of gum.

i go onto amazon and order

a box of skittles.

arrival time is tomorrow

despite being a prime member.

i have not choice but to

be patient and wait.

you look like someone i know

you remind me of someone,

she says,

pointing her finger at me

and wagging it.

you look like someone,

someone i know.

someone in the movies,

maybe.

brad pitt, i say out loud.

and she says, no, no.

paul newman?

who's he?

no you look like someone

that i've seen on tv.

on a commercial, maybe,

for indigestion, or for

ED. darn, i can't remember,

oh well. 

it'll come to me.

the trip to Nepal

i pack a few sandwiches

for my trip

to Nepal.

i figure i might get hungry

on the long

trek through

the snow.

i make a thermos of hot

coffee too

and put on two pairs

of socks and

two pairs of underwear

to ward off

the cold.

but i'm ready to go.

i even have a hat made

out of goat hide

to fit in.

all i need now is my

sherpa.

who's late already with

the sled

to pull me up the mountain.

big shrimp

i get into a conversation

with the fish

man at the grocery store.

he used to be stocking frozen

peas the week

before, but now he's behind

the fish counter,

weighing flounder and scallops

in his bloody white smock.

may i suggest the wild shrimp,

he says. on sale.

from the gulf. they are extraordinarily

large this year.

i think there was a uranium

spill up river.

okay, i tell him. give me a

pound. does the glow go away

once you cook them.

of course he says, i'd say

steam them, but pan fry is

fine too.

do you have an air fryer?

the wrong side of the bed

it's good to be alone

when you wake up 

on the wrong side

of the bed

slightly cranky

because you have to go to work

today, and it's only monday.

you haven't had

your coffee yet.

if someone was here,

you'd have to put on a smile,

slip on the happy mask

as if everything is fine.

make small talk about

how windy it is outside.

but now, you just

get up and shake it off.

maybe look out the window

for a while

staring at the trees

dancing side to side.

the jamestown journals

i remember when we finally

landed at jamestown

after six months of being

out to sea, eating fish

and not taking a bath, using

a limited supply

of baby powder to stay fresh.

finally someone yelled out

and said land ho,

to which we all said, right,

that joke is getting old.

but there was land and so

somebody woke up captain smith

who was in his suite

with the pastor's wife,

who was a widow now

because the pastor 'fell'

overboard one night in a storm.

alright, he said, looking

through his spy glass,

we're here. i think.

he crumpled up the map he

was looking at and said,

whatever.

we looked out at the endless

thick woods teaming with bugs

and snakes,

and shook our heads

scratching at our enormous

mutton chops.

we then rowed ashore and started

shooting animals with our muskets

for new clothes and food

and cutting down trees for lodging

it was a nightmare.

someone forgot to bring

the axe sharpener and so we

had to use our giant belt buckles

to carve wood. it was

cold as hell too and the snow was

already half way up our 

capri sailing pants.

i came down with the whooping

cough the first week

and my wife betty got a

case of the mumps despite 

the squirrel shawl i made her,

but then she caught an 

indian arrow

in the back of the neck

that was impossible to pull out,

and died three weeks later.

so i had to marry her cousin

charlotte who was only twelve

at the time, but already a fine

seamstress.

the stew she made with wild

rabbit and chopped shallots

was uncanny.

former teacher of the year

i run into my neighbor

at the local dive

bar on the other side

of the railroad tracks.

she teaches 3rd grade

at the elementary school,

which is part online and

part in class.

she was  former teacher

of the year in the tri state area.

she's cradling a whiskey sour

in both hands,

hunched over the bar.

hey, i say to her, sitting

down.

she looks at me.

dark circles are under her

eyes, and she's been

crying. her hands are

black with ink

and there's a stack of

papers next to her on

the bar. her laptop is

open with the picture

of an empty classroom

being wiped down by

by a janitor in a hazmat suit.

how are the classes

this year, i ask her.

any fun students?

shut up, she says. leave

me alone.

i'm drinking here.

i just had a procedure

when you don't hear from

women

for a while

they'll finally text or call

you and tell

you that they had to go in

for a procedure,

but everything is okay now.

and i'm just resting.

they don't tell you what

the procedure is,

but say, 

please don't worry about me,

i'll be fine.

you're afraid to ask

which hemisphere of the body

the procedure took place,

or what it might be.

you scroll through your 

mind for the possibilities,

starting with the head

and working down

to the feet.

it could be anything, this

procedure.

you want to ask her,

trying to narrow it down,

is there

bleeding involved. are you

limping,

can you bend over,

or go up a flight of stairs.

can you lift your arms over

your head,

stand on a chair and shake em?

should i cancel 

our date at motel six

on saturday?

be careful what you say

we have to whisper now

when talking about sensitive

subjects.

we huddle

in an alley and look over our

shoulders,

and carefully construct

our words

so as not to offend anyone.

i cup my hand around my

mouth and whisper.

i don't really care

about snapping turtles.

do you? i mean,

if they went extinct

would we miss them?

they always scare me when

i go skinny dipping down

at the lake.

fast forward

we'd like to fast

forward when in a jam.

when things

aren't going the way we'd like

them to.

we'd like to hit the button

as we do

on television

and see what's up ahead.

the plot has slowed,

the characters thinned

the whole thing has taken

a wrong turn.

we'd like

to get out of this

relationship, this job,

this time in history where

the world 

seems upside down.

drinking the kool aid

he tells me he's been reading

the constitution

and gives me his take on the first

and second amendments

in excruciating detail.

he's drinking the kool aid

of CNN 24/7, NPR and his

socialist wife, Tanya, formerly

known as Betty.

i yawn and ask him if he

saw the food channel the other

day when they were making

a pot roast.

he shakes his head and looks

at me.

you don't care do you?

aren't you a patriot? don't you

care about the movement,

the revolution. the times are

changing, he says.

we need to disband the police

and tear down the statues,

burn those offensive books.

i tell him about the flourless

chocolate waffle cake.

how delicate it is, and the best

method of baking it.

are you coming to the march

this saturday, he asks me.

it's for women's rights, gay

rights. people of color rights,

native americans,

animal rights, environmental

rights, and saving the whales.

i can make you a sign, if you'd

like. Oprah is going to be

there, and Dr. Phil's wife.

Beyonce is going to sing 

the new national anthem.

i don't know, i tell him.

i'm kind of busy with my new

air fryer and show him 

a picture of the onion rings

i made the other day.

it's not our fault

we like to blame the world's

problems

on other countries.

damn them chinese.

those russians.

those mexicans,

those crazy people from

india with

their telemarketers,

but it's rare that you ever

hear anyone

complain about australia.

how can a country

with kangaroos

and surfing be bad?

they're more like us than

anyone, close

to perfect.

far away and quietly

doing their thing, whatever

that thing is.

witness protection community

we have  room.

come on down

and visit.

we're two hours from the ocean

by car,

and close

to the new shopping mall.

it's a modular

home.

no wheels.

it's really nice inside.

plenty of room to move

around.

the fold out bed

is firm

but nice,

we have cable now

and free

wi-fi.

stay a week if you'd like.

we can go fishing,

or take a ride

on our bikes.

sometimes we grill out

and meet

the neighbors.

many of them have new

names and

a past life

that's best not talked about.

oh look, there's donny osmond

please don't point

out to me

the celebrity in our midst.

the well

known face sitting amongst

us.

who cares. grow up and

move on.

they are no better

no worse

than any of us.

just because you see

them on the screen,

doesn't mean

they're worthy

of our bowing down

to them

when seen.

please for a split second

with your wandering

eyes and swivel head,

pay attention

to us, to me.

blue highways

we take the blue highway

home.

the back road,

the scenic route, and why

not?

we have all day.

the weather

is fine.

the beer cold. the company

of our liking.

let's roll the windows

down,

turn up the music.

let our hair blow.

here we go down

the blue highway.

everyday should be like

this.

a small hole

it takes

a small hole to sink a ship.

a few words

to end

this.

a text

an email, an angry

call.

just one or two things

are enough

anymore

to send it all to the bottom.

one lie

is a bomb 

gone off.

the squeaky door

i find the can of oil

and drip

the clear drops

against the hinge,

pulling the door

back and forth,

against its metal

tightness.

i press and hear

the little pop

of the can,

squeezing until

the squeak is gone,

all lubricated and new.

we all could use

some rejuvenating

oil dripped upon

us at times.

downtown dining

it's the parking,

the one way streets,

the detours,

the broken meters.

the unreadable signs.

the over priced 

bland food,

the inattentive waiters.

it's the drinks

full of ice

and topped off

with a splash

of liquor.

it's the police, the running

of red lights.

the sirens.

the madness of it all.

it's dining

downtown on a tuesday

night.

hugging the right lane

as i hug the right lane

doing 70

the stream of traffic

beside me

flies by at 80

or 90 and beyond.

trucks

cars,

motorcycles.

they zig zag, they tail

gate,

the road rage

is frightening.

inches away from death.

they are bees let loose

from some hive.

it's an indication

of crazed minds, of a

world gone wrong

with no return.

my new love, Isabella

i'm overwhelmed 

by my new Italian air fryer.

i call her Isabella.

voila.

one basket of onion

rings fried up

in a mere twenty minutes.

no oil, no grease,

no splatter.

no clean up or further

drips on my

black shirt.

this could be the beginning

of a long and wonderful

friendship.

i have a picture of her

in my wallet,

in case you want to see her

beautiful curves

and blue icons.

her tremendous basket.

the dusk to dawn drive in

she was the kind of girl

who liked

going to the drive in.

it didn't matter what the movies

were as long

as it was dusk to dawn

and we had plenty of beer

and shrimp rolls

from the concession stand.

i remember the welts

on my neck she gave me.

my strained knee,

the cramps i got in my legs.

our mouths and faces 

red from kissing so hard 

and long.

but the little yellow mg

wasn't the best choice

of cars for the drive in.

one man canoe

i told her no, that i didn't

want to get into

a canoe with her, her and the boat

both being

unstable

in this brown water.

i don't want to go under,

i told her.

but it's too late for that she

said,

showing me her hand

with the ring on it.

i'm sorry, no returns and taken

as is.

to which i said,

we'll see about, and rowed

off without her.

her new bed of flowers

as she kneels

in her garden, planting seed,

planting flowers

in the black soil,

the sun

pushes up against

her winter skin.

she blushes with

heat

on this hot spring day

and wipes her brow.

but she is

bent to the task

or raising

new love, new endeavors

before her mother

comes to stay.

no, this is not a date

three sips into the conversation,

she says

you're a serial dater aren't you?

you're one of those

who does the whole

serial relationship thing.

right?

you finish one

and go on to the other.

like a chain smoker.

i sort of hear what she's saying,

but i'm distracted by the

confusing menu that i had

to open up on my phone.

what?

were you talking to me?

yes. i'm right here and we're

on a date, right now.

who else would i be talking to?

a date?

yes. 

ummm. no, this is not a date

sugar pie.

this is what we call

a meet up.

a getting to know you part

of the online dating program.

it's not a date.

it's part of the elimination process.

a date is when i pick you up

and we go out after

we know each other a little better.

oh no.

you're not  getting out of this.

she slams her bejeweled hand

down on the table.

this is a date buddy boy

and you're buying me dinner

and three glasses of wine.

the nine ounce glasses.

and i want dessert too.

that chocolate waffle thing.

i wonder if they have the paper

menus, i ask her. looking at

my watch and

taking another extra large

gulp of my gin and tonic.

i try to imagine a trap door

in the floor that i can pull

the lever and send her screaming

down.

you just have to get outside

when it's nice out,

people insist that you get outside.

they demand it.

you have

to get out, it's so nice

out, they say.

why are you still inside?

have you been out today,

oh my.

it's so nice.

really, you should get out

and go for a walk

or bike ride.

please, i beg of you to get

out and enjoy this nice

weather we're having.

don't let this day pass you by.

i was out earlier,

and you won't believe how

nice it is today.

the sun is shining.

blue skies.

it's really really nice out.

promise me you'll get out

there today.

say it. say i promise

i'll go outside and enjoy

this nice day we're having.

say it and cross your heart.

okay, good now get out

there and don't forget who told

you so.

enjoy.

too much information

some people

give you too much information.

such as when

your mother

on the phone wants to talk

to you about her sex

life, or worse

yours.

or when a friend tells you

about his vasectomy,

or that he has to stop

off at the drug

store to buy a large

tube of preparation H.

sharing videos

of birth, is not good.

nor is describing in detail

your colonotscomy.

i don't want to see any scars

please don't roll

up your sleeve or

pull up your skirt to see

your cesarean scar,

or open

your mouth wide

to show me

something growning

on the back of

your throat.

if something is infected

please,

keep it to yourself, and

obey the six foot rule

now in effect.

fantasies

we want to believe

in aliens

in big foot

in the loch ness monster.

conspiracies

and far fetched things.

we want

there to be ghosts

and goblins

vampires

and zombies.

we need a fantasy

beyond

this crazy world 

were in.

that's why love appeals

to us so much.

we know nothing

so, once we get vaccinated

we no longer

have to wear masks.

the miracle we've all been

waiting for has arrived.

Praise the Lord

and pass the syringe. 

we can't get the virus

and we can't

give the virus, so now

after two shots, we're good

to go, and life and get

back to normal, right?

we can throw away all

of these itchy, annoying masks

and breathe freely like

the good old days.

uh no. ummm. well.

we're not sure. so until

we really know something,

it's best that you

keep wearing your masks

for another ten years or

so. let's try that and see

how that goes.

oh, and stand back six feet.

and follow the arrows

up and down the aisles

of stores. and wash your hands,

using soap.

we'll send you an e mail,

or text you, or call you

when we have more information,

stand by.

it's dark now, let's go in

things aren't what they

used to be.

every generation pines for

the old

days.

back when

things were simpler.

we didn't have to lock our

doors back then

you hear people say.

we knew everyone

and everyone was a friend.

we said good day

to one another,

we drank lemonade on 

the porch

and sat on the swings,

talking until the stars

came out.

ah the good old days,

we reminisce

about those pleasant

times, but

it's dark now,

and we'd better go in.

the final frontier

every space travel

movie

has the same plot.

they can't get to where

they're going

or they can't get back

because they run

out of fuel,

air, water or food,

and sometimes they

bring back some alien being

from outer space

that will make every living

thing on earth

extinct.

those are the plots.

that's the deal.

my vacation home

when i need a break

from the maddening crowd,

i split my time

between my vacation home

and my

regular home.

i go down to the basement

bringing with me

a small tray of food 

and drinks.

sometimes i put on a pair

of bermuda shorts

and a flowery

shirt,

sandals and a pith helmet.

it's nice to get away

from the bustling

crowds,

the traffic,

the hubub of upstairs.

the fancy dan lights

the neighbors all have 

the new

fancy dan

edison lights hanging in 

their yards.

they have fire pits and

chairs

with white tables.

there's a fountain

in one, a hot tub in the

other.

green plants

and gardens with flowers.

flowers!

they're having people

over

with drinks in their hands.

the barbeques going.

everyone is making

small talk.

i hate small talk.

how can i keep up

with this?

the dangling carrot

there is no carrot

left

for me to follow, to go

faster,

to work harder,

to do anything concerning

love

or friendship.

i've eaten the carrot.

a whole

bunch of carrots

and my vision

is better now.  i see

can clearly now

whats' ahead of me

and which way to go.

damn good conrnbread

the waitress brings out a warm

basket of corn bread.

the steam ribbons into the air.

it's gooey and delicious

with real yellow corn kernels

baked into the sweet batter.

it crumbles in my hand as i

scoop it towards my open mouth.

i move the basket towards

me so that others can't have any.

when it's all gone, the waitress

helps me brush off my sweater

with a flat little stick,

and says, more?

left at the light?

i'm better at giving directions

than taking them.

when  someone says

go to hell

after a bitter disagreement.

i ask them, okay, but where.

left at the light.

straight.

how far is hell?

will there be ice water in hell?

can i just peer

into the window and decide

then?

or is it already a done deal?

the tiny red clown car

i don't 

want to know

how 

all those clowns

got into 

the tiny red car

and keep 

coming out,

but my question 

is more,

why.

sunshine towing company

retrieving my towed

car from

the bunker,

the chain linked high

barbed wire

pen

at six in the morning is

no fun.

putting it mildly.

stickerless

and new to this parking

garage,

how was i to know

that billy bob would be

lurking in the shadows

with his mighty rig,

numbed with

night time liquor,

waiting, like a shark,

to bite and tow.

but here i am, standing

at the bulletproof slotted

window,

staring at an aged bette davis,

in a tank full of smoke,

slipping in a credit card

to release my car

again.

the ego within

it is the ego,

that puffed chest orb

within us

though fragile and weak,

as sensitive

as a child

who's lost his balloon

or run out of candy.

it's this protective self

that heals

slowly, that wants

revenge, reparations

for disrespect

and abuse.

it's a slow go getting

back to normal

and letting go.

no easy rider

we want things simple.

uncomplicated.

easy

and drama free.

but life is anything but that.

it's nuclear

fission,

quadratic equations.

it's mind boggling.

the number of stars,

the infinite

number of cells in a human

body.

the electricity 

of our minds.

how can anything

be simple

in this world of ours.

the long distance call

the telephone

used to be an art form.

the dime

going in, the spin of the heavy

dial

in black,

the numbers and letters

clearly visible

as you stood

under the lights

in the glass encased booth.

the trucks roaring by in the rain.

and you, with your heart

on your sleeve

calling your sweetheart

once again.

the sound

of her voice, her

breathing, warming you

across the miles

of wire.

a stack of coins

ready to slide in,

another dime for another

precious minute

or two.

it's hard to figure out

okay.

it's hot. it's cold.

should i open the windows

or turn up

the heat.

two blankets, or one.

or just 

a sheet.

a sweater, a coat?

shorts?

there's no figuring

out

this weather.

reminds me of a woman

i used to

date

back in january.

bitter cold

but occasionally a 

warm front would appear.

everyone's a hero

everyone is a hero now.

the fireman

the policeman,

the nurse,

the doctor, 

the preschool teacher.

the cross walk patrol

person.

first responders,

second responders,

third and that overlooked

fourth responder.

the guy

sweeping up the mess

after a car crash.

it used to be a job,

with a paycheck.

but now everyone is

a superhero.

worthy of a statue.

i remember when a

hero used to a soldier

dying for his country,

dodging bullets

in a war,

saving his comrades.

i remember when a hero

used to be a sandwich

you could buy on

Coney Island,

or at roadside stand

going to the eastern shore.

(hold the peppers)

there's not enough medals

and trophies to go

around these days,

but i'm sure they'll make

more.

the unknown saint

after eating

three, maybe four rubbery

pieces of calamari

gaskets

on a plate of orange sauce

i hold

my stomach

and begin to pray to

the saint

of gastronomical  issues.

Jimmy of Nazareth, 

a sous chef during

biblical times, and

a lesser known

member of early

Christians. he's

rarely mentioned in 

the Bible, but was always

on hand

when the apostles

were eating

raw fish and oysters

from the sea of Galilee.

i love going home

i hit a bloop

single out to center field

and make it easily to first base,

and after

a pitch or two,

i precede to steal

second base.

sliding in under

the late tag.

the next pitch is a wild

pitch,

the ball rolling back

to the back stop,

so it's easy peasy going

to third

in a slow trot.

all i need to do now

is go home.

and oh how i love going home.

kayaking and quilting

i drive by the new meet up

group rendezvous point

to see if i want

to get out of the car

and join in.

i circle the group of people

with my car

a few times.

it's a combination kayaking

expedition

and quilt making while

rowing.

i have my wet suit on

and a box of yarn. two

brand new silvery needles.

i'm ready, but i'm unsure.

do i really want to meet

these people.

do they want to meet me.

i'm an outsider looking in.

illusions

when the bird

flies into the clean window

believing

there are blue skies before it.

other birds,

trees

and clouds,

and collides with the unforgiving

glass

and falls to the ground.

you understand.

who doesn't believe

in illusions

once in a while.

the game

i ask her plainly

so, did you have sex with your

old boyfriend

who you reconnected

with on face book

after so many years.

you know, the guy who

texts you all the time

when you're at my house?

and she says.

i'm not going to tell you that.

i laugh and say,

okay, thanks.

i have the answer now,

no further

discussion is needed.

everyone is in the game.

woke up on the wrong side of the bed

the new religion

is here.

wake up.

be one of us.

recycle.

protest and march.

be awakened.

be aware.

tear down the old.

rinse and repeat.

i've heard it all before.

nothing

ever changes,

people don't change.

and when you

actually grow up

you'll finally realize

that it all starts at home.

moe, larry, curly and shemp

as the technicians

work

on the car out in front of the house

a third

one appears.

moe, larry and now curly

are here.

doing their best

to realign

the computer, calibrate

the cameras

and other mysterious connections

that are no longer working

because of their installation

of a cracked windshield.

it's like waiting for a baby

to be born.

the doctor studying an old manual

while holding a pair 

of rusted tongs.

i pace the floor,

smoking,

putting my hands through

my thick head

of suddenly greying hair.

it's a long day.

i tap my foot as i stare out

the window.

the wind is blowing.

seasons are changing.

finally the knock on the door

comes.

we're sorry, but we can't

fix it, they say together,

you have to make an appointment

with the shop

where shemp will try to get

it done.

your local meet ups

i painfully scroll through the hundreds

and hundreds

of local meet up groups

trying to broaden my

horizon, replace a bunch of friends

that have died.

or girlfriends and wives that

have left the scene.

lord have mercy.

just shoot me if it's come to this.

i'm not good with new people.

making small talk.

reading books i don't want to read,

or listening to other people's

problems.

divorce groups.

poetry groups.

singles over 80 groups.

the walking dead clubs.

book clubs. hiking clubs.

happy hour clubs.

breakfast clubs.

how to cook a turkey meet ups.

star gazing clubs.

it makes me want to club a baby seal.

kidding.

i like baby seals. so cute.

thread bare

all day

she sits on her narrow

concrete

balcony, staring out

at the man made

lake,

her cat behind the sliding

glass door

wanting out,

she knits, she stitches,

she pulls together

her balls of yarn

her spools of thread

and goes at it.

making things to hang

upon the wall,

calling it art, her

hands clinking together

the needles

of her life.

the goody bag

it's the different

that attracts

you.

that look in one's eye.

the slightly off,

the bent, the open minded,

the surprise

of someone's off beat

words.

it's the mischievous grin

that lights you up,

that you take

interest in,

peeling off the layers

to see what else lies

below this calm cat

surface of civility.

let's open up the goody

bag and see 

who you really are

inside.

start fresh

as i spray away

the inch thick yellow

dust

of trees and flowers in bloom.

i think

how easy it is

to make things shine,

to make things

new.

to blow off the dirt

and debris,

to rid yourself of

the collective souls you

don't really want 

in your life, or need.

what's borrowed

when you lend

things, they seldom return.

a favorite book,

a pot,

a pan, a wrench

to tighten

a pipe

beneath the sink.

few ever return, these

things

you gladly put into a

neighbor's hand.

the essence of you

this soft

skin of a peach

reminds me of you.

the silky

smoothness.

the juice within

against my lips

as i bite

and taste the essence

of this fruit,

letting it drip upon

my chin.

what now?

i sigh as the last minute of

the last episode ends.

four seasons in two weeks.

what now?

what show to watch.

i went through it too quickly.

i should have savored

it, gone slower,

but no, i had to binge.

the emerald light

the green has arrived.

a new

canvas

fills the window with

this emerald

light.

how sweet the fresh air

is.

the hope

of spring. the renewal

of joy

of new life.

once more this essential

season

begins.

cards on the table

she says

you're being dishonest.

about your age

on your profile is two

years less

than what it really is.

and i say

what about you. 

who dyes your hair,

who injects your brow

with botox.

and your weight.

you look twenty pounds

heavier than your

air brushed photos.

and i see you're still

married,

and in therapy.

so please, let's put

all the cards on the table.

what else about you,

don't i know?

from Italy with love

i plug in my new

machine.

the glimmering white

air fryer

that has just arrived

from Italy.

how neatly

it fits into the space

i've cleaned.

i love the round

blue light,

one happy eye staring

back at me.

what should i cook

first.

french fries

perhaps,

or onion rings.

the window

they give you a window

from eight

a.m.

until twelve.

so you wait. you take off

from work.

you get up

and shower, have coffee.

you open the door

and look up and down

the street.

you look at your watch.

another hour goes by.

what's with these windows?

a courtesy call

would be nice

once in awhile.

desserts

i tend to add more 

than the recipe

calls for.

a little more sugar,

a little more butter.

the measuring glass spills

past the one cup line.

more chocolate, more nuts,

more this

more that.

we need a bigger bowl,

a bigger pan,

my love,

my appetite for you 

and desserts

has gotten way out of hand.

turn around

we turn around

and go back

to check the stove, the iron

to see

if they're still on,

still hot.

we check the latches

on the door.

are the windows closed?

is the extra key

under the back door mat?

and as we drive away

we wonder what else

have we forgotten,

it feels like something

and yet we can't think

of what it is,

when we get

to where we're going,

perhaps then

we'll know.

though much too late

to return, 

and drive back.

bring a friend

i can barely walk, 

the woman tells me, as she holds

her cat back

with her foot,

preventing his escape.

cancer, she says.

but it's my hip now,

my leg,

my knee, my ankle.

two metal sticks keep her

upright.

but i can swim, she says.

i'm free in the water,

pointing out the back window

towards the pool,

the blue tarp

covered in leaves.

i'll have it open by june.

you must stop by.

bring a friend if you'd like.

there'll be music,

we'll have drinks.

we'll have food.

it'll go on all night.

walk on by

i wince

at the flowers, the card aisle.

the shelves

of heart shaped

boxes of chocolate.

the small boxed gifts

with ribbons

attached.

i avoid

the candles, the wine.

the jewelry

under glass.

i pass all things like this

and walk on by.

one summer

her eyes were no different

than the soft

pale glow

of sea glass washed up

on white sand.

soft and kind,

full of promise, catching

the light

of summer sun.

her hand in mine,

as we walked.

and said nothing.

letting the cool waves

roll up

against our feet.

we were never strangers,

but we both knew

we only had one summer

before it would end.

the braille of night

in the dark,

at night, i find my way

through the house.

the braille

of chairs

and bed post, the table.

no need

for light.

i got this trip

to the bathroom

with no stumble,

no tripping.

feeling the door frame,

the flatness of walls

as i negotiate

my way,

then back again to finish

up the night.

the sting of light

a light goes on in your

head,

though

a dim light

but still bright enough

to shoot

a ray

of enlightenment onto

your increasingly

dismayed brain.

you realize

that there are few true

people, good,

and honest, loyal

and real

out there.

everyone seems to be

in the game.

playing, deceiving.

you look into their eyes

and see

nothing worth keeping.

no reason

to be with them again.

sunken ships

as we dive

into the deep water,

near bottom

we see

the remains of old ships.

the wooden

spines, the skeletons

of rusted metal.

the cups and saucers,

the remnants of

lives lived.

we are reminded

in this soft

warm current of how

swiftly it all

can sink.

close the barn door

at a certain age

if you have to be told

to save money,

to exercise, to eat right

and close

the barn door before

you go,

it's too late.

the years have run

away with you.

a child coming home

i stir the stew

gently, as if it could be a last

meal.

i'm kind to the carrots,

the potatoes,

all sliced

with good intention.

the onions go in,

the meat,

i lower the flame

and let it cook.

tasting it with a large

spoon,

adding salt,

adding  pepper,

inhaling the memory

of such a meal,

my mother at the stove

and me

a hungry child coming

home.

check please

as i sit

and listen to the ding of her

phone.

the quick glance

at who it is

i laugh, having been down

this road

so many times.

a madness

has overcome us.

no one true.

no one honest.

everyone in the game.

check please,

i'm done.

the man less word

we're almost in a manless

world.

a world

of them and they.

this and that.

confusion as to who or

what you are.

men are soft

and afraid.

walking on eggshells

in relationships,

unable to do or say

what they want

to say.

surrendered to the times.

ashamed

at being what born to.

Aldo's

it's an old restaurant.

you know the waiters, the man

at the door.

the owner.

who comes by to pat

you on your shoulder.

the menu never changes.

or the tables.

the lighting in half dark.

it's home away from home.

everything else

in your life has changed

but this.

this dish

of food warm and filling,

the drink from the bar,

the welcome feeling

of being missed.

of being loved

which isn't true at all.

today i don't care

you can't give and give

everyday.

sometimes

you have to stop.

you have to sleep.

take care of yourself.

stop caring and worrying

so much

about others.

their problems,

their pains and woes.

you need to

take a break from empathy.

you have to recharge,

regroup.

get back to a normal

state of mind.

or otherwise

lose it.

two sweet and lows and heavy cream

my new intern,

stella,

from Paris,

is quite good at her job.

so much to do.

and i do like to crack the whip.

not easy

to work for.

she keeps my things in order.

the bills.

the incessant

telemarketers calling.

my appointments

my meet ups

and various other tasks

that i can't

remember.

she handles all my fan mail

from my

recent poetry book

publications.

i even let her sign my books

for me.

she finishes my sentences,

dots my I's,

crosses my t's.

makes a perfect cup

of  coffee,

two sweet and lows

and heavy cream.

i'm not sure how i've lived

without her.

as we sit and talk

we're at the age

where

the conversation slips into

talk of

doctor appointments.

money.

grandchildren.

aches and pains.

there's talk of ex wives,

ex husbands.

past things that have

added up

and never set down

again.

we are sharing an end

of sorts.

our collective memories

as we sit

by the fire, or in a cafe.

sipping drinks.

wondering

where it all went, those

younger days.

so much is unknown

the new friend is suddenly

and old

friend.

i can't remember not knowing

her.

although we just

met.

yesterday, every yesterday

seems like

a long time ago.

i look forward to

her voice

on the phone.

her shadow upon me,

the sunlight

of her smile, everything

about her,

which is still unknown.

give me another card

which day isn't a gamble,

a toss of dice,

a spin of the wheel.

which day isn't a card

waiting to be turned over.

and yet we kiss another

set of lips

take another job,

move on.

move on.

hit me. i'm still in the

game.

the money is on

the table,  the time

is not yet gone.

and then this happened

it's easier

to think of slights, of things

gone wrong.

despite the fact that most

of life has gone

quite well.

you remember the dropped

pass. the lost

love, a missed shot,

the bad investment.

the turn you made left

when you should

have gone right.

we can recall so much

bad,

so easily.

while the best of life

is taken for granted and

set aside.

let the worries be

another moon

appears. 

a slice of white,

half

shined upon.

but still

a sight to see.

there are not answers

in the moon.

just questions.

a lot of questions.

but let's not talk about

them now,

this evening. let's

be quiet for awhile

and let

the worries be.

the father and daughter

she hints

at what happened

as a child.

and when i see her father put

his arms

around her,

hands slipping down

her back

to the curve of her,

i cringe.

i see the mother,

eyes wide open.

eyes wide shut,

pretending as always.

that nothing ever

happened, that

her daughter  was never

touched.

but it's clear now, why

she is the way

she is. who wouldn't be.

wake me up when it's over

careful what you say

or think

or express outside the mob

mentality.

don't you dare disagree.

get off the train

or get on.

the times they are a

changing

but not for the better,

for the worse.

don't be different,

don't have

an opinion unlike

theirs.

be still, be quiet.

it's their world now,

not yours.

man in a yellow shirt

she shows me a picture

of her

love interest, his not

hers.

a small man

in a yellow shirt

buttoned up to his

neck.

pants too high,

the shirt neatly tucked

in. the white

belt showing.

his hair is silver

and thin, but combed

neatly to one

side

as it has been

since a child.

his glasses on.

a look of bemused

confusion on his pink face.

but with a pleasant,

no harm smile

he's in love with her

and wants to see where it

may go

tonight.