the cat's eye marble

i would never

place

my favorite cat's eye marble

in the center

of the dirt drawn circle.

it was too risky,

too much of a gamble to lose

what was so important

to me.

the emerald

green inside the glass.

the perfect beauty of it,

round and smooth.

it was the one they all

wanted,

the one i kept

and still have. safe in

my drawer

with other things,

like your photograph,

and things i love best.

those that will never lack

we admire the hard worker.

the man

behind the plow,

the man on the roof,

the woman

with her hammer,

her iron,

her apron on.

the night workers.

the late shift.

the early risers.

the thirty year men.

nose to the grindstone.

standing at the factory machine.

we admire

the dirt, the crust of them.

the bloodshot eyes,

the broken fingers,

the bent backs.

we admire the over time,

the weekends,

those that push

through the heat of summer,

the ice of winter,

those that will themselves

forward, those who will

never lack.

the cliche club

i see a club, a wooden club

in the window

of a store.

it's thick and looks heavy,

made out of hardwood

i imagine,

but with a nice handle

so that one could

pick it up and swing it

with relative ease.

my curiosity sends me

into the store to ask

the proprietor what it's for.

it's a cliche club, he says.

whenever someone

says something like

have a nice day, or

money doesn't grow on trees,

or it is what it is, you

hit them over the head with it.

they're selling like hot cakes.

give me two, i tell him.

no need to wrap them up.

maybe we should wait on the flowers

Lydia is dying,

did you hear? yes, it's true.

she doesn't have long to live.

no one is sure

what it is, but it's taken its

toll on her.

i saw her at the train station

the other day.

she didn't look herself,

she smiled as best she could,

but had nothing

much to say. hello. goodbye,

that sort of thing.

it was almost like we were

never friends.

we should visit her soon,

before it's too late,

or send her flowers, or should

we just wait?

lost in space

i made up a dating profile once,

stating that i was

an astronaut.

i had been to the moon,

circled the earth a hundred

times in my capsule.

i posted pictures of me

in my space suit, standing

next to the flag

on the lunar surface.

i embellished and polished

my story.

in time i was invited

to parties, to embassies,

to the grand opening of

an apartment complex.

i made up my name. my age,

my height.

there was nothing about the profile

that resembled me

in the slightest.

but oh how i was loved

and adored.

wanted by those on Kalorama Road.

they wanted me to come

and regale them with my journeys

into space.

it didn't end well though 

when i came clean

and told them who i really was.

anger ensued, despite me

offering free estimates for 

a paint job and  a power wash too.

before the waiting bed

so how did you get here?

how did you

somehow survive

through it all and be sitting

here

with a bloody mary in hand,

how did all those days

and years go by

to bring you to this point

on a friday night.

not worse for wear,

tapping away at what you

do best.

remembering. rambling.

laughing the tears away

before a waiting bed.

the broken glass

it's just a small,

dent, a fissure in the window

from an errant stone,

but tomorrow

it will be longer,

and larger, deeper

as it crawls its way

across the glass,

making it impossible

to know the truth.

in time it will fail.

that's all it takes, really.

one small lie.

one betrayal.

the long game

i suppose i could tell you the truth,

but then it would be your turn,

and well,

we know where that would go,

don't we?

so let's just play the game.

my move, then yours.

let's sit at this table and slide

our pieces back and forth,

with no winner, just losers

spending time together until

one or the other files for divorce.

so much lifting

life is a lot of lifting

and setting

things down.

children and groceries.

boxes and bags.

weights.

carrying a loved one

across the threshold.

a pen onto a paper.

a drink,

a fork.

a book.

we raise what we need

into the air

until we're done with it,

or her

or him.

whatever the case may be,

then move on.

fish in a barrel

i remember the look in my

therapist's eyes

when she asked me if i was

worried if i'd ever

find someone else again.

if that was the reason i wouldn't

kick the nut cake out

of my house.

and i said, too quickly,

hell no. that's the least of my

worries.

you can just go online and it's

like shooting fish in a barrel.

oh my, she said, and scribbled

something down on her

yellow legal pad.

it seemed to be a turning point

of some sort.

that i was more troubled

than she realized. this could

take years.

it was a cha ching moment.

i could almost hear

her credit card being swiped

at Neiman Marcus.

the catch all drawer

i study the kitchen drawer.

the catch all

drawer.

if i ever wanted to do myself

in, all i would have

to do is stick

my arm into the disorganized

cluster of implements.

across the wrist would

go the knife.

the potato peeler.

the cheese grater

and the broken whisk,

one wire out.

it wouldn't be long before

i'd be on the floor,

grasping for the fancy napkins

that i've never

used, too nice to be set out.

tea talk

she would hide

behind

a cup of tea. her lips

lingering on the warm edge

so has not to show

her disapproval

of what you've said.

then set

the cup down.

and we'd begin again

at some new

beginning. a new

topic we could disagree on,

sparring

gently,

around and around.

The Tiffany Wedding Cake

i stop by the bakery on Lee street

to browse

the donuts, not buy,

when the little girl

behind the counter yells at me.

hey mister, she says.

aren't you the dude who ordered

a wedding cake?

you and that skinny angry woman?

it's shaped like a blue Tiffany box?

maybe, i say to her,

squeezing a bag of just baked buns

on the rack.

so hot and soft in my hand,

yummy.

well. it's ready, she says, while

maniacally chewing a wad of gum.

the cake is ready, would you

like to pay for it and take it home?

it's been sitting

in our refrigerator

for almost three years now.

it took us hours to figure out how

to make those stupid ribbons

out of icing.

she brings it out with the help of

a grumpy man in a white bakers hat,

and sets it on the counter.

it's beautiful with that Tiffany

blue color, a little stale, but

still looking good.

what the hell, i tell her.

put it in a box and i'll take it home.

it may be the only good thing

to come out of that nightmare.

do you take paypal?

and could you wheel it around

to my car?

duck fat

i buy a jar

of organic duck fat.

it's come to this.

fake sugar,

fake pasta.

zero bread.

no starch.

i'm beating a cauliflower

into submission

over the sink.

but duck fat.

we're taking this to a whole

other level.

come here rib eye

and jump in.

it was just my turn

you've been through a lot,

she says,

putting her hand on my shoulder

and letting

out a sympathetic sigh.

pffft. i say.

life.

what are you going to do?

live long enough

and your turn will come too.

get back in the saddle?

when you fall off a roof

it's hard to get

back on the ladder and go up

again.

same goes for a horse,

when it throws you

and your leg snaps in two.

you are cautious about

getting into the saddle again.

same goes

for indian food, 

as you curl yourself around

a toilet and make

vows to God that

you'll never keep

if he gets this strange meat

out of your

body.

same goes for love.

i'll spare you the details

on that one.

the village called

what we have here

is not

a failure of communication,

but something

deeper,

darker.

beyond my pay grade

or intelligence.

i don't have the education

or the patience

anymore

for such souls.

the village called and

they're missing

their fool.

please call them back,

they're worried.

the gravy train

there seems to be a lot

of older children still at home,

or living under

someone else's roof, with no

jobs, or prospects

of employment.

everyone is afraid to tell them

to get the hell out

of this house and pound

the pavement.

don't come back until you

have work.

you're 32 years old with

a college education and you sit

around all day twiddling

your thumbs and playing

video games.

but no one ever says that anymore.

people are afraid of losing

the love of their children.

instead they say.

i did your clothes, and we're

having dinner at six,

so be home by then, dear.

have a nice day while i'm

a work. if you have time, 

please try to walk the dog

at some point. thanks sweetie.

have you been outside today?

when it's nice out,

people say all day, you have

to get outside,

have you been outside today?

it's so nice out.

it's absolutely perfect.

take a walk, or do something.

it's really really nice out.

maybe talk a walk, or a bike

ride, do something, but get

out. promise me you're going

to get outside today, okay?

it makes you want a

rainy day again.

do you want to hold my baby?

when you hear from someone,

this is my baby.

and it's a dog.

a little two pound dog

with runny eyes.

run.

this is not going to go well.

the dog is wearing

a hat and a little dress.

a bracelet for a collar.

it smells like jasmine

inside it's little carry on crate.

do you want to hold my baby?

she asks.

i can take her out if you'd like.

she likes her belly patted,

but gently.

be careful, she may tinkle

when you do that.

let me take a picture of you two.

there is hell to pay

you get a vibe sometimes.

a gut feeling.

a weird spider sense tingling

that someone

you are with is possibly

crazy and a bad person deep

inside, or not so deep inside,

but on the surface too.

once you scrape off the make up

and get the rosary beads

out of their hands

you see the truth of the matter,

and as the saying goes,

the truth shall set you free, brothers

and sisters.

but you put the blinders on.

you stick with it.

this never turns out well and

suddenly you realize that

freedom is a long ways off.

the boat wedding

the last wedding i went to

was on a boat.

two women

were getting married.

the captain,

Frank was going to perform

the ceremony.

i was one of three men

on board.

the captain, the photographer,

and me.

the rest were women.

lawyers, doctors, waitresses.

some tattooed, some

wearing girly clothes,

others in leather with

rhinestones.

about fifty women

in various stages of anger

and inebriation. us men,

we stuck close together.

life vests on.

holding our plastic cutlery

close, just in case

we were attacked.

but nobody died and the wedding

went on.

food was served.

drinks were poured,

toasts were made and then

the cake.

there was dancing too as

the boat cruised up and down

the river.

of course they're divorced

now, but so it goes.

i'm still waiting on a call

about that chicken wing recipe.

first world problems

patiently i listen

and wait,

nodding when needed

as she tells me

all her troubles.

mostly first world problems.

she tells me about

the coffee machine at work,

her parents,

her dog,

her broken nail,

shoes that are on back order,

and her ungrateful

children,

she rolls her eyes and tells me

how she can't get an

appointment to get the grey

out of her hair.

she's a month over due on

her botox treatment.

she hasn't had a massage in

over a week

and her therapist is booked

solid until Christmas.

at last it's my turn

and for the life of me

i can't think

of anything at the moment,

except that i'm dangerously low

on vodka and limes.

where are my galoshes?

we talk about

the rain

as if it's never rained before.

how the river

has crested,

the flash flooding.

the pools of standing

water

to be careful driving

through.

is the bridge out?

has the levee broken?

we look up

at the sky and squint

at the grey clouds

bursting

with even more rain.

we wipe our eyes, then

grab our umbrellas.

how will we survive

such inclement weather?

who knows, 

but coffee first.

where are my galoshes?

one hundred per cent

at a certain age

one spends more and more time

at hospitals

and funeral homes.

at the side

of freshly dug graves.

it makes you realize that

your turn is coming,

no doubt.

so far no one has gotten

out alive.

a hundred per cent,

by last count.

on little cat's feet

i still like people,

but am more wary and weary

by most.

i can tolerate

the one hour visit

at best. but often

send regrets to any

rsvp. i'd like to come

but i have so many

socks to iron.

pants to darn, things

left undone.

i need an exit, a back door

strategy

when it's time to disappear

and on little cat's feet

leave.

get out of there

some babies

don't want to come out.

the nine months are up

but they refuse to budge.

they have to pull them out

kicking and screaming.

gasping for air,

squinting their eyes 

in the new light.

their bottom slapped

to bring them to life.

i understand completely

why they hung on so tight.

the nine to five trap

don't quit your day

job

people say.

but i think i've quit

or been

fired

or laid off from every

day job

i've ever had, except

the one i have

now, which is me

working for me.

it's not really a job,

but it pays the bills

keeps me

in new shoes and gin.

shelter and a car.

it's paid for a few

divorces, alimony,

child care,

and an assortment of

engagement rings,

diamonds that i never got

back. (insert bitter emoji here)

but once you get over

the fence, quit

the corporate world, you

never go back.

there is another way

to live your life.

it takes courage and brains,

guts and foolishness.

but it's worth every hour

away from

the nine to five trap.

Dixie was her name

in the eighties,

yes, way back then.

i had a bartender named Dixie.

slender blonde

with blue eyes

and pig tails. she looked

like she just

came out of a fjord in Norway.

she had an ice

cold miller light in a bottle

waiting for me

on the bar

as soon as i came down

the steps at Bojangles

on M Street

in DC.

we would talk, and flirt,

but never

cross the line.

there was definitely

some pitter patter of the hearts

between us, but

her being the bartender

and me being me,

some dude off the street

drinking beer and dancing

awkwardly

to Fleetwood mac, etc.

it never went anywhere.

then she was gone.

word was that she moved

to Colorado

with some guy she met

here at the bar.

i've never recovered.

one down, begins with L

some days you feel smart,

not Einstein smart,

or Bill Gates,

but smart.

smart about the world,

life in general.

your knowledge of insects

is amazing.

if you have a question about

a butterfly,

i'll do a two hour discourse

on the subject.

and then there are other

days where you can't

get past one down on

the monday crossword

puzzle.

four letters that describe

a strong emotion between

two people that begins

with the letter L.

let's just fool around

if i knew less of you,

we'd be in love

right now.

if i didn't know about your father,

your ex husband,

your children

your financial situation,

your electro shock treatments,

and the mileage on your car,

i'd be down on one knee

with a ring.

but i know too much at this

point.

so let's just fool around.

i was going to write a poem

i was going to write

a poem

today

but instead i baked a cake.

a chocolate

cake, with cream cheese

icing

and sprinkles.

two layers.

i set it on the sill to 

cool down.

everyone will like this cake.

which is better

than a poem,

a poem that not everyone

will like and want

a copy to carry home.

who will kill the spider?

who will kill the spider?

a black bean

with slender legs,

crawling beneath the couch.

who will fetch

the spray

or broom, or a long stick

handy.

perhaps a cane

or crutch will do.

how about that shoe?

or should we let her live

and go about

her way, spinning her

strong and sticky web

for catching flies, or

or other such prey.

Lilly is Fine

the missing cat

appears

from beneath a car.

black and shaggy,

but not worse

for wear.

she's been gone for over a week.

i take out the flyer

and call the owner.

i leave a message.

Lilly is here, i tell her.

she's sitting on my porch,

lying in the sun.

she just licked up

a small dish of cream.

we may go to the park 

together.

or for a ride to the pet

store

to get some treats.

just wanted to let you know.

Lilly is fine.

mid century modern

i admit it.

i have no bling.

no rings

no bracelet, no watch.

no necklace

with a cross.

no earring

that dangles from my

ear.

nothing in my nose,

no piercings,

no tattoos above

or below

my clothes. i'm

as mid century modern

as one can get.

vanilla through

and through.

going out, pretty much

the way i came in.

just thought

you should know.

life is too long

you see them in line,

online,

on the phone,

at the complaint window.

they have

never been happy, not

a single day

in their life has brought

joy, just

dismay.

nothing is right.

everything is wrong.

everything is mailed

back

or returned to a store.

for some

life is too short,

while for others, and those

around them

it's way too long.

you wonder why we drink

he's angry.

on the phone, a disgruntled

man.

the husband

making the call,

sight unseen while

doing the job.

but being the man,

being

who he is, he wants

to lodge a complaint.

flex his muscles.

you put a gouge in my wall.

(an impossibility, since

i was never near that wall)

there is paste

on the floor,

my wife had to take a sponge

and clean it.

it took her nearly

ten seconds of her precious day.

we see a bubble in the paper.

(it takes three days to dry, i tell him)

but still,

we're appalled at your work

and lack

of professionalism.

we're you in a hurry.

giving us the bums rush?

i tell him, no. but i'm sorry

about the dollop of paste.

i'll stop by. i'll be there

in ten minutes

to alleviate

your issues. fix the problem.

i'll even give you your money

back if that pleases you.

i'll even give you extra money if you

promise to never call me again.

no, no.

we just wanted to complain

and let you know how

unhappy we are.

we may have more work

done in the future though,

so we'll be giving you a call.

have a nice day. good bye.

local fear

the next door neighborhood

forum

is skittish.

nervous.

there's a strange van riding

around,

white with two men

inside.

someone twisted the knob

on my door last night.

i saw footprints

in my vegetable garden.

did you see the fox

in the street, when you see

one, you know there's

more around.

a snake came up my drain

pipe. left a skin

inside my sump pump.

it's local fear, not fit for

the national news.

but we just thought you

wanted to know.

who needs them

i hear them talking

around

the table.

i'm in earshot,

eavesdropping on

their conversation.

five women

in their fifties, a few

older.

healthy and attractive

women

surrounded by shopping bags.

the topic is men.

how for the most part

they are done with men.

done with dating,

done with sex.

done with the drama

of love.

carefully, i get up and

walk away.

somewhat saddened,

but understanding

where they're coming

from.

some years are like that too

some days

are just days. nothing

good

nothing bad has come

of it.

a 45 degree day.

neither memorable

or noteworthy.

a day looked back upon

with wonder.

what happened

that day?

where did i eat, or go,

who was i with?

how did i fill the hours

that day.

some years are like

that too.

well mannered

i don't trust

people who smile too much,

who laugh too loud,

who wear

too much perfume or

cologne.

if they are too well mannered

and wear the finest clothes

i don't trust their words.

i feel like there's

something wrong.

there's a glitch in the system.

they're up to something,

beware.

my gut has told me so.

what was it like?

someone asked me

once,

so what was it like being married.

having someone cook,

someone there

to help clean

and wash the clothes.

a loving soul

who hugged you when

you came home?

listening to your woes.

i bend over laughing.

what world are you living in.

it was opposite

for me.

obviously you've never

met any of the wives i chose.

rarely is parting sweet sorrow

when we part

at times,

though rare,

we often say it was a bitter

sweet goodbye,

a reluctant farewell.

no hard

feelings my dear, 

but it's best we

go our separate ways,

parting being

sweet sorrow.

in truth though

it seldom goes that way

and instead

a door gets slammed

behind a set

of angry words,

and a fire

burns with everything

left behind.

sweet sorrow?

hardly.

going old school

you get into a contest

up at the coffee shop.

each of you going old school

then older school

then older.

someone mentions

the milk man,

how he brought bottles

of milk to the door,

but he's topped by the guy

who milked cows

in his barn,

which is trumped

by the woman

who made cheese out of

goat milk.

someone shouts out the name

Eisenhower.

suddenly we're off track.

but hey, we're old.

just lie there for awhile

it's not how you fall

but how

you get up,

he tells me, putting his

hand on my

shoulder.

but sometimes, i tell him,

you just want to lie

there for awhile

and stare up at the sky.

look at the clouds,

relax and absorb

the moment,

let the pain sink in.

know it

and remember it for the lesson

it will bring.

the prom queen and the physics teacher

no one was surprised

when the high school physics

teacher

married the prom queen.

he was young and handsome,

a hipster of sorts.

she was younger, but so what.

they found

true love

in the teacher's lounge

after school.

homework and extra credit,

no doubt.

i wonder sometimes what

became of them.

did it last.

did they have children or

was it just a fantasy

they both fulfilled.

did he continue to teach her

physics as the years

rolled by?

can she still fit into her prom

dress?

update your resume

before she leaves

to be on her

own once more,

having worn out her welcome,

i see a note

on the table, a list.

numbered.

in block print.

rent

groceries

insurance

the phone bill

gas

and utilities,

car payment and

miscellaneous.

beside each word

is a number

then at the bottom

the sum

total of her future monthly

expenses.

below that a reminder.

to update her resume,

and get a job.

and in parenthesis,

(call an ex husband for

possible free room and board)

nearly always grey

some people are different,

odd

and quirky, but in a good way.

they think

with both sides

of the brain,

smart and creative, you

never know what they might do,

or say,

while others.

never change. predictable,

colorless, and numbed

by the world, nearly always

grey.

the admiral

i see the admiral

in safeway

picking up a can of black olives

pitted,

studying the label for sodium.

his pants are baggy,

his shirt untucked

and stained.

he sees me,

but says nothing.

i remember him

in his navy whites,  young

and strong,

saluting the flag while

on a ship in Spain.

finding bottom

each rise and fall

of generations

thinks the same, when

we're gone

the world will fall to pieces.

things will never

be as good then

as they are now

or were yesterday.

and it does seem like

a downward spiral

that we're on.

can bottom be far off?

this feels like home

there are places

that feel like home that aren't

home.

it could be a lake,

a path

in the woods.

a seat at a bar.

it could be nothing but a

song

in your head,

a piece of art.

the smell of hot stew 

on a cold

day.

your feet in the sand

as a sun sets.

it could be a smile

from a stranger,

it could be so many things

that you pay

little mind too,

but to you they feel like home.

which side of the bed

there's a hero

side to you, 

a fun and friendly side,

but to be

honest.

a dark side too.

you hate and love people

all in the same day,

depending

upon which side of the bed

you woke up on,

and with who.

coffee seems to help,

but not so much when

caught in

the rain

and the sky is an awful

grey,

or an ominous 

shade of blue.

what next?

as the amazon

driver

carries the small box

to my door,

holding a food scale

so that i can weigh

coffee beans,

he shakes his

head at me and says.

you have to stop.

we're here everyday

with another package.

a spiralizer, a toaster,

a strainer

another cookbook.

what next?

a new way to live

it takes courage

to walk away.

to leave a job, a place

where you don't belong.

it's a brave

thing you do when you cast

aside

friends that aren't friends,

lovers

who don't love.

it takes muscle.

it takes guts.

it takes all of the above

to close the door

and face

yourself in the mirror,

alone,

finding a new way to live

in this world.

everything is fine

you imagine the small

bump,

or rash

or ache

is just the very beginning

of things

going down

a dark path.

the x-ray may just be

the proof that

you need, telling you that

the end is near. your 

heart tells you.

to get your papers in order.

there's not

much time in the hour

glass

say your goodbyes

to those you

hold dear.

and then suddenly.

everything is fine.

a room with a view

we all want a room with view.

the honeymoon suite.

the seat by the window.

we want the good table,

a clear shot of the sea.

we want prompt service 

and a piece of chocolate

on our pillow.

we want to be on the A list,

to be recognized when we

arrive, we want the tip of

the hat, the polite hello.

we've missed you, and

the hug and kiss when it's

time to say good bye.

the fisherman

he tells me about the day

he had fishing out on his boat.

what a fight one fish

put up, he said,  as he reeled it in.

he smiled proudly as he

described the epic battle

in embellished detail.

he was a large man with a beard.

strong as an ox.

the fish was two pounds

and had a hook lodged into

his stiffened lips.

i said nothing, as he showed

me the limp fish in his

cooler, opened eyed and 

cold lying next to a can of beer.

are you going to eat it,

or hang it on a wall? i asked him.

pick you up at eight

when i see the man

outside

wiping down

his new truck, the size

of a small mountain,

i see me

when i was younger.

me with a bucket of suds,

rags,

and brushes.

windex for the windows.

towels to dry.

the radio on.

getting ready

for that nights date

as i made my ride shine.

vanilla sex

she told me once,

with our faux marriage

in shambles,

full of lies and deception,

as we lay in bed after

going through the motions 

of vanilla sex,

that i seemed

more relaxed,

less tense

afterwards.

not as full of anxiety

and fear

as i had been since

the day i met her.

i looked at her and said,

you're very observant

aren't you?

well, maybe in a month

or two

well do it again,

she said with a smile.

why worry about money

i seem to have a knack

of getting involved

with women

who have no mathematical

skills.

no financial

understanding.

neither holding jobs.

money was water to them,

credit cards

maxed to the roof.

always in debt

and yet wearing the finest

clothes

and eating the best foods.

the nordstrom shoe salesman

knew them both

by name.

why worry about money,

one would ask,

you'll just paint more houses.

corn bread

she staked her claim

her reputation

her legacy

on corn bread.

just that.

buttery and sweet,

it crumbled gently

off your lips.

you could hardly wait

to take the next warm bite.

a secret recipe passed

down from

one grandmother

to the next.

it's what she brought

to every holiday gathering.

every birthday,

every celebration

and to everyone's

joy, she baked

a tray

just it time for her

own funeral.

what love is

love is 

allowing someone

into your life

who has the power

to destroy you,

and trusting 

that they don't.

the red flags

if you don't love your self,

truly love

who you are,

and who you've always been

you'll let the bums

in.

they'll burn the house

to the ground.

destroy you.

be aware of the red flags,

the gut

feeling.

they're never wrong.

sunday night

cords are cut.

ties

severed.

doors are bolted

and blocked.

the phone tossed.

you're in the for the night.

not going

anywhere

and no one is coming in.

enough

for one week.

enough.

you put a chicken in the oven,

and sit back

and wait.

the mountain hike

i go on a ten mile hike

up the mountain.

i've been told the view

is life changing, but

after about a half mile,

i stop and sit on a rock.

i take my shoes off and rub

my feet.

i see a blister coming on.

i'm thirsty and i have to pee.

i look up the steep hill

as couples pass me by.

boy scout troops and 

old people with walkers.

they all seem so

happy with their hiking

boots and hiking sticks,

their hiking clothes

and binoculars.

i look back down to where

my car is parked. i can

see it. i think i can make

it back down if i go slowly.

the cheese

is it luck,

is it fate or destiny?

is God up there rolling the dice

despite what that

wild haired

Einstein said?

are we in some mad game,

mice in a maze

trying desperately

to get to the cheese.

the cheese being

wealth

or love, or contentment

found in some

purchase.

do we ever stop and say,

enough,

i'm done with this charade.

i think it's time i

stop the madness and truly

go my own

way?

up and at em

there are some mornings

you wake up

and you're full of energy,

full of yourself.

you throw clean sheets onto

the bed.

put another load into

the washer.

you vacuum and dust.

the radio goes on,

you pull a window up

to let in a breeze.

you start looking at recipes

for dinner tonight.

you make a few calls on

the phone as you wait

for the coffee to boil.

then it hits you. you have

become your mother.

a rat's butt

as i sit

on the darkened steps

near the water

alone

with my thoughts, is

there any other way to be

with one's thoughts,

than alone?

anyway.

a security guard approaches

and asks me if i live

here.

here, i say to him.

on the dock, the pier?

is this my home?

look wise guy.

we don't want any trouble.

have you been

drinking?

it's three in the morning, why

don't you go on

home to your wife.

she's probably wondering

where you are.

i doubt that, i tell him.

i doubt all three give a

rat's butt

where i am today.

and the feeling is mutual.

then i lie back down

to look at the moon

as he radios in for back up.

what am i doing here

i feel myself

getting bored and suddenly

tired

as she talks

about things i have no interest in.

we have nothing

in common and never will.

my mind

wanders,

my eyes drift to a dark

haired woman

sitting across the room.

she seems much more interesting.

i sip my drink,

i nod yes without

thinking

as i look at my curved 

reflection in an unused spoon.

what am i doing here?

i should leave money

on the table

and walk out, but i don't.

i stick it out.

like a soldier in some vague

war

i don't believe in.

he's one of us

if i see grease

beneath his nails,

a raw knuckle,

a scar or fresh cuts along

his arm

or cheek,

i know he's one of us.

the slow

walk,

the bend of body,

the bloodshot eyes,

and look

of drink, the gaze.

i know about this.

about

the hours, his nights.

his days.

when i see the pail

next to his folded legs

as he sits

on his porch smoking.

his wife

at the door with her arms

folded,

warming a cold dinner.

i know about this,

i know

he's one of us.

her long black boots

she had these boots.

have i told you about her boots?

stop me

if i have.

but they went way past her knees,

they were almost

pants in fact.

black and shiny, soft leather.

buttery would be the word

i use.

i remember them.

but most everything else

about her

escapes me.

reading in the quiet yard

when young,

you couldn't wait to get out

of the house.

to leave and go where there

might be fun.

music and dancing.

where love might be found.

where friends are.

adventure is what you wanted.

excitement.

you desired new things.

new thoughts, new views on

the world.

but that was then

and this is now,

as you open a book

and sit calmly on a saturday

night, reading

in the quiet yard.

no forwarding address

how will you leave.

will you pack,

will you do what needs

to be done.

inform the post office,

obtain a forwarding address.

will you tell others

of your new

location, your new number,

if there is one.

or will you just

go quietly in your sleep

after a good meal,

a nice walk, a smile

on your face with

a childhood dream.

never to be known, or read

some poetry is not meant

to be written, or at least not shown

to the general public.

there is too much blood

on the page.

how dare you say what you

really mean to say.

save your personal grief

and grievances

for therapy.

better to stuff them beneath

the mattress,

under the bed ala

Emily Dickinson.

or not seen at all, tossed

into the fire, never to be

known, or read.

with fond wonder

with friends, true friends,

mind you,

there is the gentle rub of 

prying,

the jab and push

of humor.

there is the sweet unsaidness

of affection.

long bought,

and still savored upon

each less

and less visit, as you both

grow older

into your slowing lives.

how easy it is to touch.

to smile

to gaze into each other's

eyes

with fond wonder.

the perfect shot

the best shot,

or pass,

or swing of the bat

were the ones not thought

about.

not a single technique

was in

your brain,

no coaching tip,

no voices telling you

what to do. no crowd,

or father in your ear.

you were unconscious

and in the moment.

it was just natural.

the mind and body

as one

doing what it was meant

to do.

and so it goes with this.

the christmas wish

i remember the last

christmas

i was with her. leaving

the house

of darkness. the tree unlit.

no stockings

hung.

no fire, no gifts beneath

the tree.

no christmas meal in the oven.

the gig was up.

everyday was misery.

full of lies and deceit.

infidelity.

and yet, there she was.

still there, still with me.

i remember leaving the 

house that day,

and driving, driving.

it was raining.

i circled my life.

going around and around.

i must have driven five hundred

miles that day,

and still couldn't get

far enough away.

i'd never been so empty

and lost,

so duped.

so angry with myself

for letting such a despicable 

person

into my life.

i stayed out until it was

no longer

christmas, then went home

hoping she was gone.

which she wasn't.

what happened and why

it's funny how the new

pair of shoes

become your favorites.

you go everywhere

with them.

while the others

stay home, slid

beneath the bed, into closets.

left in the laundry room

to sulk

and sigh, wondering what

happened,

and why.

sloe gin remorse

the first time

i got drunk, 

and then sick,

i was maybe

seventeen years old,

hair down to my shoulders,

in love with

vivian mysior, the captain

of the cheerleaders.

she didn't love me though,

thus the over serving

of myself

of sloe gin.

a pint bottle did the trick.

we were on the ball field

late at night with

friends i'd seldom see again,

sitting on the stands.

i remember the world

suddenly spinning,

the stars above me bright

clusters, like clumps

of lights, it was a new world,

a painful world of bad

choices,

one i would repeat over

and over again,

and try to understand.

more water this time

i step away from the pot

steaming

vegetables.

and walk away for awhile.

the water turns to vapor,

then nothing

but a bone

dry bottom burning,

all of it gone brown.

i smell it from the other

room

which makes me put down

my new book,

The Stranger,

and i start over.

but this time with more

water.

lesson learned.

creating love out of thin air

like a sculptor

or artist, or writer,

our imagination runs wild

sometimes.

we believe

in what we want to see,

not in what is.

the block of stone,

the blank canvas,

the unwritten page

are full of hopeful possibilities,

but the trouble begins

when it comes

to wanting love

when there is none

in front of you, 

just nothing.

math class

there was something

satisfying

about math class.

there was always

an answer, and a way

of getting to it.

the chalk on the  board,

the slide

rule.

the equations

all made sense.

it may have been the last

time you were ever

so assured about 

the complex world

in front of you.

you must love dogs

she liked dogs.

dogs liked her.

people not so much.

and when they died,

the dogs,

she'd carry their ashes

and dust in small wooden

boxes with their

names on the lids.

but people were a

problem.

there was no unconditional

with them

which made for a long

and difficult life.

it was so hard to put

them on a leash

and keep them from

running away.

how to be famous

it seems these

days

that to be famous

is easy.

the larger your derriere is

the bigger

the paycheck.

talent is unnecessary,

as are brains,

or cleverness.

just boobs.

one song.

one movie,

one brief marriage

to someone in the news

and away you go

down the red carpet.

let me taste that

there's something wrong

with the thin people

reaching over the table

with a fork

and taking something off

of your plate

without so much as a polite,

do you mind?

they've usually ordered

salmon

and asparagus,

no bread, no butter,

no salt or sugar.

if you wanted the fried chicken.

get the chicken.

if you wanted what i'm

drinking, get that too.

they are quick to spoon

into your dessert.

before the waiter sets it

down. you see that look

in their eyes, and hear

the gurgle in their hungry

stomachs.

they can't wait to get home

where they can actually

eat behind closed doors.

low hanging fruit

do we shake the tree

to free

the fruit,

take a stick and swing,

do we reach up

to grab what's hanging low,

and say,

this will have to do.

i don't have time to climb

and get

what's best for me.

i can't remember

i wonder where

this  bruise came from.

what door did i collide with,

what wall

or ladder

did i bump into.

who was she that

hit me hard?

it's a patch of blue, turning

green.

it's sore.

i touch it and shake my head.

i should remember where

this pain

came from, but i don't.

perhaps, that's best.

i'll be more cautious now

to avoid more.

take a long look

you have to careful who

you let in the door

these days.

don't trust pretty,

or be swayed by a soft voice.

take a long look out the peep

hole, before

you turn the lock,

and crack it open.

be ready, with the club

and sword,

you keep in the corner.

we know what we like

we are creatures

of habit.

the morning cup,

the side we sleep on.

the way we sit

on the sofa when no one

is around.

the way we linger

in the tub,

how we cook our eggs,

stir our

drinks.

how we listen to 

the same

songs,

or go to the same show

or movie.

how many times have

you read

that same book of poems?

we know what we like

and stick to it.

staying in the dark

not everyone has a light on.

some stay in the dark

forever, never

lighting a candle,

let alone flicking the switch

on a small lamp

on the table.

it's easier not to know,

to not move forward

and out of the cave

of their own misfortune,

their own delusions

of who they are and what

the world might be.

be angry with me

i like when people are mad

at me.

finally, some honesty.

you know where you stand

with them.

anger pulls back the curtain,

opens the mouth

to what one really thinks.

be angry with me, it's fine.

we don't have

enough time

or days left to pretend

who we aren't.

three times a day

i tell

her to put some clothes on.

you're naked

as a jaybird, i tell her.

she says that all birds

are naked.

not really, i answer.

they have feathers.

don't you like me with

my clothes off?

of course i do.

i also like cake, but

i can't have it three

times a day.

getting the green light

we are all waiting

for the green light 

so that

we can go.

the caution yellow

is just not

good enough.

we need the green light

for the next job,

the next kiss,

the next love to press

yes, so that we can

move forward and

get on down the road.

coin into the fountain

we wish.

we toss coins into the well.

we close our eyes

when we see a shooting

star

and wish some more.

for luck we rub

the rabbit's tail.

we drop to our knees

and pray

for mercy.

if life was really that easy

and magical

there wouldn't

be a hell.

the lamp won't work

the light wobbles,

there's a loose wire somewhere

in the lamp.

i could take it apart,

read the diagram,

you tube it,

and go at it to make

things right.

but i'm tired of doing that

for everything

and person

that i come across that's

broken.

trash

is what it is.

begone.

sleep like no one's watching

live long enough

and this will happen.

you will join the masses

in all things.

there is no other way.

if you have a heart it

will be broken.

if you have a body,

it will crumble in the end.

pray that the mind

stays sharp,

the rest is inevitable.

so what is the answer?

live a good life.

an honest life. as

best you can,

don't get hurt and don't

hurt anyone.

sleep and live,

like no one's watching.

if i was younger

if i was younger.

i'd try

harder to be in love with you.

i'd bring you flowers,

chocolates,

i'd write you poems.

give you gifts.

i would call you and

we'd have long

talks on the phone, 

we'd lie in bed for hours

after making love

and share

what we thought of

the world.

if i was younger, i'd

even miss you

when you were gone,

i'd do all these things for you,

and more,

but i don't,

and i'm sorry.

five easy pieces

i saw

the movie when i was

17

in a crowded theater

in georgetown.

i don't remember

the name of the girl i

was with.

a cousin of a friend

of mine,

someone i would

never see again.

but the ending of

the movie

has stuck with me through

all these years.

i have felt that way

many times,

wanting to just go,

to let go,

to leave everything

behind

and start over.

the dull tip

there are days

when

the point is sharp,

when the words flow,

the pencil

moves easily across

the page,

and then there are

other days

when the dulled

tip, is round

and fat,

the lead resistant

to all the words

i want

and need to say.

it's then that i turn

to the red

soft saving grace,

of an eraser.

i can't keep a secret

i have a hard time

keeping

secrets, so please don't

tell me anything.

whatever you tell me

will not go into the vault,

but will be spilled

all over main

street.

i may write it in the sky.

so whatever you're

leaning over

to whisper into my ear,

it's best you just keep it

to yourself

unless you want the whole

world to hear.

the first time

the first time

is usually the best time.

the first

time you taste chocolate,

or bite

into stew that your

mother made,

the lick of an ice cream 

cone.

the swallow of a sweet

drink.

the first time,

is the best.

the first kiss. the first

love who steals

your heart.

the first time,

whatever follows, 

seems less.

where's my shovel?

we  talk about moving my

mother

into another grave.

perhaps one closer,

one beneath a shady tree

with a headstone

and a metal bench

for us to visit, and say

what's on our minds.

let's dig her up, he says.

maybe cremate her, put

her ashes in a jar, one

for each of us.

something for the mantle.

oh, how she must be bent

over in laughter, 

at the thought of it all.

out of mind

you go from switch to switch,

button

to dial

to knob.

off, off, off.

let the cacophony of noise

subside.

let the voices die.

don't preach to me anymore,

i know

enough already.

don't tell what to feel,

or who to vote for,

don't sway me with your

detergents

and pizza.

leave me be without intrusion.

get out of mind.

there's not enough

room for all of you.

just one will do,

and that would be mine.

and then there's us

we make a game of it

as we sit

in the dark bar, drinking our

gin and tonics.

the music is loud, the bartender

quick to fill

our empty glasses.

she whispers into my ear

and says what about them,

or her,

or him. that couple over there.

and i tell her,

he's russian, and she's going

to marry him

to keep him here,

but it won't last.

the young girl alone,

has run away from home,

see the bag next to her stool,

she has nowhere to go.

the couple

at the end of the bar

are too much in love

to even notice

that anyone else is here.

at some point

they'll come up for air

and eat their food gone cold.

the unshaven boys, almost

men, are looking for a good

time, but scared

of the blonde sitting perfectly

alone, pulling at the strands

of her long hair.

admiring her fading

beauty in the mirror.

they draw straws to see who will

ask her her name,

and see where it goes

from there.

and then there's us.

the stolen apple

to steal an apple

is a sin,

a small sin, especially if one

is hungry,

one easily forgiven

and forgotten.

but what about a thought

a phrase,

an idea snatched

from someone else's

book, or mouth,

or page.

is that too forgiven?

i hope so, because if not

i'm going to hell

on a speed pass.

the last party

leave your politics

at the door,

your religion too.

leave your dietary 

restrictions, your sober

ways, your

celibacy.

leave it all at the door.

i won't allow it in here.

not tonight, tonight

we are going

to be human, to lie

to one another

and tell the truth,

we're going

to make love, to become

friends, to disagree

and argue

and then make up.

we'll play music and dance.

we're going to eat until

we're full.

drink until the last bottle

is dry. we'll

laugh until our eyes tear up.

we're going to be young

again tonight,

we're far from being through.

loneliness

you see the loneliness 

in their eyes.

in the way they walk

towards home.

you see it in their faces

as the bus goes

by. 

fatigue

in the smear of windows

behind the cold fall

of rain.

you see it in men at bars,

nursing drinks

until three a.m., in the women

with their children

pushing forward.

you see the loneliness

in the teachers, the long day.

the traffic cop.

the whores in lipstick

walking

the plank each night.

you see it the salesman,

the maids,

the shopkeepers, the priests

in black.

each one alone,

in the end.

you see it in each 

and everyone,

and in your own face as

you stand before the mirror.

don't put a poem to music

don't put a poem to music.

don't drape yourself

in black and adjust the lights.

don't make yourself the center

of attention.

let the words suffice.

don't use your poetry voice.

don't dance, don't be a clown.

don't mourn

the loss in tears, in shouts,

in groans.

simply write it down.

use words that people understand.

no need to rhyme, no need

to use mythology or ancient

history. be accessible, not

an unsolvable puzzle.

don't write something that will

make people stop reading.

but if you do, don't stop.

to hell with them. it's your

life, your blank sheet of paper,

your heart, your pen.

could this be home

when you pass through small towns

heading west

past winchester and beyond

you wonder, not out loud,

so as not to worry your passenger,

but you wonder

if you could live there.

could you be happy in this place.

with its one main road,

the general store,

a barber shop, a cafe,

all with windows

gleaming in the morning light.

and there in the fields are horses.

there are weather vanes, rusted

and pointing on the peaks

of barns, there is tall grass

and playgrounds,

a clapboard church,

a school house.

could you live here, could this

be home.

you'll never know.

confrontation

i can discuss

or debate, or make my thoughts

known,

but i don't want to fight with you,

especially when

you're wrong.

you go your way and i'll

go mine.

let's not quarrel

any longer, why waste our

time.

august days

some days are longer

than others.

they drag out

like the last days in august.

full of heat

and sighs,

afternoon rains.

some

are brief moments in time.

all of the hours

rushing by.

a carousel spinning, 

we need  both i think

in order to survive.

punching in

i had a job once,

actually several jobs,

manual labor,

blue collar, brown collar,

sweaty dirty collar

jobs.

each one had a time clock

where you slid

your card into the slot

and it stamped

the date

and time that you checked in.

at the end of the day

you did the same thing.

it's been decades, but i can

still hear the thump of that machine,

the man

keeping track of me,

as i made a few

more dollars to press on

and stave off hunger.

i want my cup back

a month ago,

my neighbor knocks on the door.

he wants to borrow

a cup of extra virgin olive oil.

i don't even know his name,

or his wife's name.

who are these people?

i hear the dog barking,

the baby crying, but i never

get a hi from them.

now they want olive oil.

i shrug and say why not.

i'm really trying to be a good

neighbor lately.

wait here i tell him then go

get a cup of olive oil.

that was a month ago.

i want my cup back.

where we go to die

i think about moving to Florida.

all that sunshine.

all those oranges

all those women strolling the beach

in bikinis.

and then i think of the four

or five people that i know

that have moved there, all of them

dead now.

so maybe i'll hold off on making

plans to move to Boca Raton,

or Tampa.

give it another year or two in

the snow, and then maybe.

what's next

i buy a bag full of nutrional

yeast

on amazon

and two bottles of Dano's

seasoning.

i never heard of either until

yesterday

when looking at another

endless stream of keto videos.

i'm a sucker for whatever's next.

and that's why i'm dating you.

let it grow

i'm done with pulling weeds.

let them

do whatever they want.

at least they're green

and filling the yard.

whatever is on the outside

of the fence is now

inside. i'm letting God

be my gardener, and while

He's at it, he can take another

shot at my life.

taking the low road

have you been faithful?

when it comes to love,

the answer would be yes.

when it comes to uncertainty,

no.

perhaps we're all this way.

defining our morality

as we go.

justifying guilt

and  taking

the low road.

the next blank page

put the bag of ifs down.

the boxes of maybe.

erase the question marks

and replace them with periods.

move on

to the next sentence, the next

page.

stop trying to rewrite and correct

the last day.

go on.

dip your pen into the ink

and proceed to have a future,

write it clearly on

the next blank page.

over night

you wake up

with the taste of last night in your mouth.

the salt of love,

the spice

of lust.

the overindulgence

of her body.

she's asleep,

in dream. but not far.

not too far

that you aren't imagining

things.

this is real.

you can smell her soul.

her skin.

the perfume on the pillow.

you could

wake her if you chose to do so.

you could reach over

and touch her arm,

or whisper into her ear

that you're leaving now,

but that would ruin everything

it's better this way.

to slip out.

to glide back into your life

without her

and see what happens next.

the funeral buffet

someone once said

to me at a funeral, well. it is what it is.

i looked at him

and said, what?

what does that mean?

and he says, you know,

it is.

what it is.

no, i said, i don't get it.

what is,

what is what it is.

that's the stupidest phrase

i've ever heard in my life.

this person just died.

people are grieving, crying,

beside themselves

and that's the best you can do

is say that inane

nonsense.

you don't have the intelligence,

the articulation

to express some sort

of sadness, or sorrow

for a human life leaving

this planet forever?

nope.

that's all i got, he said.

you know? it just is what it is.

come on.

everyone says it. hey,

are you going to the buffet

dinner after the service?

i heard they have lobster

and water chestnuts wrapped

in maple bacon.

i start my day with a smoothie

what's wrong, she asks

on the phone, you sound so tired.

i am i tell her.

very tired, but there's more.

what?  she says.

what else?

i'm kind of bitter too

and holding in a lot of anger

and resentment.

i've been having ruminations

about the witch

i was married to for a short while.

oh, my she says.

drinking her strawberry smoothie.

i hear the slurping of her

straw at the bottom of her glass.

have you tried yoga

and meditation?

it works for me.

no. i tell her. it's been mostly

gin and tonics.

slice of lime.

i see, she says. well for me,

every morning, i go outside

and get into the lotus

position and thank the world,

the universe

for all that it's giving me.

i get in touch with nature

and my inner child.

i pray to that higher power,

that some call God, or whatever

and make my peace

with Him, or Her, or

whatever

and then i start my day,

making an organic smoothie

with whatever fruit is in season.

you're making me

even more depressed, i tell her.

gotta go. namaste.

hand me the knife

at a certain stage in life

you're done with celebratory

cakes. the wedding cake,

the birthday cake,

the graduation cake,

the retirement cake.

no need to count the candles

anymore. just go with one.

stuck in the middle

like a soldier. don't

even light it.

no need to sing, or toast,

or make a wish.

if any of them had come

true, you wouldn't

be where you are today.

no more wishes,

just blow it out,

then hand me the knife.

her bird feeder

the bird feeder

she placed in the yard

brought too many birds.

birds of all feathers,

all sizes

and colors.

each taking a turn

at the green metal

box swaying

on the pole.

it was chaos.

confusion. bitterness

and hunger

like i'd never seen before.

it was game on

from the start.

and then it came to me.

this is who she was.

what she brings

to the table.

to the yard.

to my life.

as she lay dying

as she lay dying

in the bedroom she loved,

all by her design.

she told me to promise that

i would

find a another woman

after she was gone,

someone else to love.

i don't want you to grieve

too hard,

or too long.

you deserve a life without me.

promise me she said,

her eyes half open,

her mouth dry.

her heart week.

okay, i told her, holding

her hand,

growing colder by the minute.

i promise you. i will

try to find someone else,

but, she whispered,

as she faded please

don't ever change the curtains.

i love those curtains.

i picked out the fabric

myself. it took forever.

the joy ride

the rich guy,

with his pockets bulging

off the profit

of day laborers,

builds a rocket and goes

an inch

above the atmosphere with

his chosen pals

he waves

back to earth, with

the joy of a child

on his first ferris wheel.

look at me, he

yells down.

he's happy.

he's an astronaut now.

what will tomorrow bring?

feed the poor?

doubtful.

unfixable

we talk about broken things.

glasses

and bones.

hearts

and homes.

the debris of life,

some swept and tossed

away, so much

unfixable while 

others are mended

with wire and scotch tape.

it's difficult at times

to decide what to trash,

or what to save.

you should make note of that

i ask her if she wants coffee

early in the morning

as i grind

down a handful

of beans and boil water.

this angers her.

you know i don't drink coffee

because of my heart.

i drink tea. 

green tea. you would think

after all this time

you would take note 

of that.

i get out my spiral notebook

and flip through

the pages.

i finally find her name

and scroll down with my finger.

yup. i did make note

of that last year.

no coffee, just tea.

my bad.

left at the light

the glare of the sun

in our eyes

keeps us from walking fast.

but by

the map there is the promise

of water over

the next dune, or the next.

there's an oasis out

here somewhere.

our throats are dry, our

skin burned, 

our lives are in the hands

of nature

as we begin to crawl.

we've stopped arguing

at least, though

you continue to whisper

in your hoarse voice,

telling me that

at the light we should

have gone left.

get a window seat

there's no air there,

no water,

no food,

no coffee, full caf

or decaf.

nothing but rocks.

no life

to speak of

and if there is, it's

microscopic

at best.

but let's go there.

sounds ideal.

let's spend a trillion.

to plant a flag

on mars,

or jupiter, or whatever

planet we can reach.

this earth is boring,

worn out

and no longer what

it once was.

we need something new.

it'll be an adventure.

we can be the next

pilgrims.

it's a long trip, but

if you get a window seat,

you'll have quite a view.

inching forward

he grabs his cane

to make his way to the mobile

chair,

she puts on her hat,

and straightens

her dress, 

positions the walker

towards the door.

we'll be back, they both

say. just going to lunch.

they're serving

turkey today

in the cafeteria. call us

if there's a problem.

the black door

i get into another long line.

it's what we do

when we see one.

slowly it moves towards

the black door.

there is no grumbling,

no shuffling of feet,

if anything, people seemed

to be relieved.

there doesn't seem to be

a way out, and no one

appears to be leaving.

i tap the guy in front of me

on the shoulder.

he shrugs and points at

the sign. it's an exit he says,

not an entrance.

the slowness of God

i don't have the patience

to be a farmer.

pushing the seed under,

watering it

and then waiting, hands on

hips. looking

up at the sky.

i want my potatoes now.

my string beans, my

carrots. put those

legumes on my plate now.

why is God so slow

with answering prayers.

waiting on rain

a delicate rain 

spots our shared umbrella.

we are under

it together, as close

as we will ever be,

no further.

but it's enough for now.

standing here

waiting for the harder

rains to fall,

and then slow down

the weather check

the minute hand

is racing

as i slowly get out

of bed

then shower.

coffee.

i take a peek outside

to check

the weather.

i see neighbors

doing the same.

one bare leg out

the door

testing the temperature,

then quickly

moving back inside.

the good and the bad

when word comes that

someone good,

someone young has died

you automatically think, 

that's a shame.

especially since so and so

is still alive.

how can bad people keep

living, when the good

are gone?

seems crazy that the evil,

dark ones, still walk 

the earth when the good

have died young.

more fun needed

i feel like i'm missing out

on something.

i'm not sure what exactly.

but it's a thought

that passes through my mind

then out the other side.

maybe i should be having

more fun.

have more interesting friends.

get out and do something.

do fun things that i can post

on face book, and take pictures of.

maybe i need a big stupid

boat, or a house at the beach.

maybe a log cabin in the woods.

i could learn how to hunt

or fish, or buy a tent and 

a long flashlight and go camping.

maybe next weekend i'll

get started on this new

and improved life, have some fun.

but right now i have to finish

this never ending book

called the Comet about

Sylvia's short but brilliant life.

a cat is missing

a picture of the missing

cat

is posted

on every door.

Lily

is gone.

long haired and black.

friendly

and sweet. the note says.

it reminds me

of when i did

the same

when a girlfriend went

missing,

or refused to take my calls.

never to see her

again.

friendly to a point i wrote.

with long

claws

and sharp teeth.

don't try to hold her

too long.

she has a mind of her own.

from a distance

from a distance,

in the road

that cracked shard

of glass

looks

like a gem, a diamond

or a pearl

perhaps.

but up close

it's not anything of value.

and when you

pick it up,

it pricks your finger

bringing blood

to the surface.

a shallow thirty minutes

i run into my

friend jimmy at the liquor store.

he's asking

the clerk if the vodka

he's buying is keto friendly.

the clerk

scratches a spot

under his turban and shrugs.

beats me, he says.

hey jimmy,

i say to him, tapping

him on the shoulder.

how's it going?  still out there

on the dating sites?

yes. he says.

shaking his head,

it's costing me a fortune.

i never knew there were so

many poor, hungry

women around here.

i'm like the statue of liberty.

give me your tired, your

poor, etc.

i hear that, i tell him.

it's a jungle out there,

everyone is looking for love

now, he says.

they want that forever

kind of love, deep love,

you know what i mean?

but at this point i'm just

looking for a shallow thirty

minutes.

look at me

the frog

is loud in the shallow pond.

it's almost

as if he wants

to be found.

to be looked upon

and admired.

all day and night

you hear

his voice, the desperation

in his calling

sound.

garlic in the kitchen

the house is full of the aroma

of garlic

which makes sense

since i just stirred a few

cloves into a sauce pan

with olive oil and onions.

preparing a dish

for later.

it's a good smell. 

it smells like how i imagine

italy smells.

i almost see sophia

in the kitchen beside me

in her red apron,

singing

a song, her hands in flour,

her black eyes, like olives,

alive with mischief.

those formative years

there are those you don't love

and never will.

you just can't

get the words out of your mouth

and utter them.

and yet there you

are standing at the altar

saying, i do.

what's wrong with you?

who dropped you on your head

when little.

who didn't give you enough

love and attention

after you were born.

i blame all on those formative

years.

it can't be my fault,

can it?

do we not pretend

do we not pretend

at times

to be happy 

when we're hardly content

or even close

to being satisfied?

when we're unsettled

or blue

do we not

hide our true feelings

with a smile

and laugh,

a joke?

it's so hard to be real to

one another,

and more so, 

to oneself.

the next life

will we know each other

in the next life?

she asks

as we sit at the table

eating eggs,

nibbling on bacon.

buttering toast.

i don't think we know

each other now,

i tell her.

so, i guess the answer,

is probably not.

we'll keep things hidden

and have secrets

then too, i imagine.

but i guess if we run into

each other

when we're out and about,

we'll stop and say hello.

the four channels

there are 

four channels now.

they've finally narrowed 

it down

to hate, fear, hearsay and escape.

nothing else.

there is no

in between.

click in every direction 

and you get

one or the other,

leaning left or right.

time to pull the plug.

a fellow traveler

i see the lost dog

in the court yard.

he's tired

being so long away

from home.

his leash frayed

from being dragged.

his tongue out.

he looks left, then

right, before 

continuing on.

barely pausing to

look at you.

he knows a fellow

traveler

when he sees one.

even at this age

you want to think the best

of everyone

when you meet them.

you want them whole, and good

and full of sincerity.

even after meeting

and living with

evil, you continue to

feel this way.

it's an aberration, you tell

yourself. you had your

blinders on. you didn't

listen to your gut, or take

notice of the red flags flying.

still, even at this age, your

naivete surprises you.

no need for words

maybe it was best

that we didn't speak the same

language.

it lengthened

the love affair.

we had paris.

we had each other.

we had long nights

and bright days.

we wrote poetry and

drank wine.

we ate.

we read. we went

to the cinema.

we made love.

we walked the boulevard.

we were as close

as two people

can be in this life.

who needed words

to make

it right?

the maple scones

i go to the local

farmers market to eye some

overpriced lettuce

and tomatoes.

organic of course.

coffee. to stroll around

and ponder the cauliflower.

i say excuse

me as i bend towards

the apple crate,

the cider jars beside it.

a stalk of celery perhaps,

or maybe 

a few squash.

there are meats too.

fresh sausage from a farm

not far.

all laid out

and packaged on the square

table,

the apron cloaked woman

behind it, smiles

as i nod, then move on

towards

the maple scones before

they're gone.

ticking clocks

the insect tick

of the watch, all the watches

in the odds

and end drawer,

continue on

as if they matter, as if

needed on someone's

wrist

to tell time.

they keep at it, alone,

and persistent,

as we do.

making a wish

i relish you, i tell her,

one hand

on her boney white

knee

that has perhaps never

seen the sun.

hardly a difference

between skin and sheet.

relish, she says, what

a strange word to use

when expressing

affection.

i know, i tell her,

rubbing her leg as

if making a wish that

will never come true.

but is there nothing not

odd about this

attraction for one another?

the closed door

doors close

for a reason, to keep

safe oneself,

or to keep hidden

what one

wants to hide.

add a lock

to be even more 

more secretive

and secure,

but in time all will

be revealed

and even the smart

won't survive.

the new cold

is there

surprise in the new cold.

the first snow,

the chill

of fresh wind?

yes, there is.

despite it being your

sixty fifth winter.

and as you pull up

your collar

while tightening

a button

your memory

returns

to a different time.

to younger days.

a younger body.

an innocent mind.

knock on wood that it doesn't happen

i try to wring out another

piece

of writing

from my soul.

but i'm not wringing

hard enough,

or maybe everything

that needs to be said,

has been told.

i need another heartbreak

or something

to toss me around.

some drama and chaos,

how life has always

been. i'm worried about

this calm

and contented plateau

i've found.

the end of that

i forget how

your voice sounded.

or what your hand felt

like in mine.

i forget

the scent of you,

or how you walked,

or sat.

or kissed.

i forget nearly everything

about you.

the memories

are all gone.

so that's the end

of that.

wrinkle cream

we want to look

younger.

to act younger, to be hip

and wise

and healthy.

we want to jump rope

and play

jacks,

bounce the ball,

run the bases. we want

time to stop

or at least slow down

to a crawl.

we don't ever want

to be as old

as our parents were.

two spoons

we fall asleep

together with a heavy

sigh,  two spoons.

two peas

in a pod,

arms

around what an arm

can find.

legs entwined.

the love making over.

at least for now.

but there's always

morning when a new

sun will rise

in our sleepy eyes.

her summer travels

she's in her white

pants

in california.

the sun in her eyes.

a wine glass

held high.

her long legs stretched

from her to

santa monica

and back again.

she's living the high

life.

making the most

of her summer

travels.

enjoying the autumn

of her life.

an exit strategy

we all need an exit 

strategy.

no matter how well life is.

love is.

marriage or work.

where you live,

or friendships,

we need a way out

of the box we're in.

a side door,

a back door, a window.

a basement hatch

to crawl through

to the other side.

a fire escape.

this cannot last.

the middle will not hold.

be ready.

trust me, i don't want

to be the one that

told you so.

are you a member

the store clerk

is a little too happy this

morning.

good morning, he chirps,

smiling.

and how are we today?

we're fine, i tell him.

nice day, he says.

good weather. how about

that rain we had?

yes, it was something, i say,

setting my pack of gum

on the counter.

lovely day.

are you a member,

he asks.

no, i tell him.

would you like to

be a member?

not really.

it'll just take a minute

or two.

i just need your name,

address, phone

number, and e mail.

no thanks.

but you'll save a lot

of money

and you'll be notified

hourly on our 

sales and new products.

no thanks.

are you sure?

maybe tomorrow, okay?

okay.

do you need a bag

for this?

nope. i'll just carry it

out.

okay. you have a wonderful

day. Next.

what storm?

the storm they've been

talking about

for a week or two finally

arrives and blows through.

a little rain, some wind,

no big whoop.

no one drowns, no fires,

no lives lost.

the weatherman says

we dodged a bullet, we

got lucky this time, 

but he seems disappointed

and a bit blue, as he

says, sunny and hot for

today and the week

straight through.

what you can live without

it's surprising what you

can live without

when you decide

what's good for you.

after a while you don't

miss sugar, or flour.

or anyone toxic in your

life. day one is the hardest,

then less so on day two.

if your life was a book

if your life was a book

already written

would you turn to the middle

to see where it's going,

or just jump to the last page

to see how it ends?

i prefer to go back to the

beginning, page one,

and rewrite my mistakes.

now we agree

at times i wish

i could change you.

alter the way you think

and behave.

maybe you think the same

of me.

and if that's true 

for the both of us,

perhaps we should 

just move on,

and agree to disagree.

mysteries

so many things

we do not understand 

the nature of.

from sky

to sea.

and all that lies,

or breathes in between.

but what a blessing

this strange mystery is,

we are never done

with wonder

of this world

until we die and even 

then who's to know 

such things.

father smith at the 7-11

i run into the local

priest, father smith, at the 7-11.

he's buying a bottle

of red wine, a box of twinkies

and a carton

of cigarettes.

he looks stressed.

he looks like he's gained the covid

40.

hey, i say to him. what up?

oh, hello there, he

says, making no effort

to hide what he's buying.

haven't seen you in a while.

not since you broke up with that

crazy woman you were with.

did you give up on God?

he says,

tearing off the twinkie plastic

with his teeth,

and putting  the whole

thing in his mouth.

no, just the church, i tell him.

i'm still down with God.

well, come on by

this Sunday, three masses,

one in Spanish.

we miss you.

the choir will be singing

motown this week, we're trying

to jazz things up.

maybe i tell him, pointing

at his cheek where a dollop of

cream filling clings

to his beard.

amanda's freeze gun

i send an email to my dermatologist

Amanda,

telling her to fire up the freeze gun.

i'm coming in, i tell her.

i've got some suspicious itchy spots

on my back,

my head, my face

and leg.

there's one that looks like a tiny

map of italy, which

might be nice to keep if it's not

going to kill me, but

some could be bug bites,

because of all this wet weather

we've been having.

some could be something else.

i don't know.

that's why i'm writing you

and paying you the big bucks,

well,

a ten dollar copay, at the most.

can i bring you a latte?

one black fly

i don't know how

this one fly got in, 

buzzing about the room,

but he seems

friendly, or she.

hard to tell in this light.

maybe they,

or them?

the mushroom cloud

i turn on the fear and hate

channel

on the tv

to just get a small taste

of what

the world is going through.

same old.

thirty seconds in

and i'm off

to netflix or prime, or some

such escape.

just text me when it's over.

i'll put

my ear to the window

and look out

over the horizon for the 

mushroom cloud.

the precious rocks

when my dog would find

a rock in the woods

and bring it home,

then attempt to bury it in

the corner of the room

by rubbing his nose until

it bled, trying to push

carpet fibers on it.

i'd shake my head and

yell out to him. hey.

i see what you're doing

over there. 

he'd shrug his little shoulders

and move it

somewhere else.

i couldn't understand why

this dumb rock was

so important to him,

and then i looked around

my own house, at all 

the things i've saved, and

the light went on.

they and them

it's a new world.

and us

old folks are cringing

at it all.

tik tok.

what the hell is that

but narcissism run amok.

they, them.

please.

look down your pants

or hold

up your dress and see

what you are.

enough with this nonsense.

if you're confused

about what sex you are,

it's going to be  long

hard life going

forward.

the morning pick up

you wonder where it all goes.

off to some landfill

on the other side of town,

hauled to a barge to drift

aimlessly until the world ends.

but you're happy that it does go.

all the bags, all the trash,

the garbage we set out for

the men in the loud orange

truck on mondays and thursdays.

we don't thank them enough

if at all. in fact they are looked

down upon, as if they have

no ability to get another job.

they remove our things we

no longer want. the food

we no longer eat. the broken

plates and cups.

the debris of our lives that

are no longer any use to us.

i've lost track of the wedding

rings and mementos 

i've tossed into a bag

and set it out by the hydrant

for the morning pick up.

always thankful to see them go.

smiling at the mighty bins roar.