getting what's due

there could be a hell,

a heaven too.

i'd like to think that both

are true.

a place

for good people

and one for bad.

it makes sense, when you

think about it.

karma and all that,

everyone getting

what's due.

when, she says

the jar

of blueberry jam

stares at me when i come home

from work

rummaging about

for something to eat

or not eat.

it's never been opened.

i pick up the squat

glass jar

and look a the label.

still good.

when, she says to me.

when will you 

open me

and spread me on a slice

of toast.

when?

down goes face book

shockingly,

facebook

was down for a few hours.

i heard screaming

down the block.

the woman next door

was pulling her hair

out by the roots,

there was crying and

gnashing of teeth.

people were unable

to post their

baby pictures or

the cakes they just

baked.

now they'll have

to start all over.

pose once more with

the fish

they caught.

the heart they drew

in the sand.

memes were back up

from here

to Katmandu. 

civilization was teetering

on an edge.

it was a catastrophe 

never before

witnessed in the history

of mankind.

nothing could compare

to this horrific event,

not the Titanic going down,

or even Pompeii 

being swamped 

with hot lava.

(is there cold lava?)

when in Rome

while in Rome

she falls in love with a

handsome man

giving tours

of the city.

the churches,

the ruins,

the catacombs

below the streets.

she's only there for

a week,

so she knows she has

to speed things up,

and doesn't mind how

he skips to second base

on the first date.

cognitive dissonance

our minds play

tricks on us.

they get stuck.

they relive and rewrite

the years, or even days

behind us.

they keep

us in places we don't

want to be,

remembering wrongs

as if they

were right.

it's a strange thing,

this brain of ours.

it's a struggle to grasp

the truth

from time to time,

a terrible fight.

the last goodbye

there are people that you

will never see again,

through no fault of your own,

or theirs.

it's just the way it is,

the way the world spins.

geography. age.

circumstances beyond

our control.

each going off to

his or her own world.

the last goodbye is 

the last goodbye

and there's little one

can do about it, but remember

them well, and if needed

have a good cry.

heads will roll

once the lie is told

and caught,

there is no hope in

returning to

what it once was,

whatever that might

have been.

the lie

is the knife, the gun.

the guillotine

all in one. 

it's a clean swipe

upon the neck of this

relationship.

the head will roll.

stand back 

and let the blade fall.

it's wise to not wait

for the next lie to be told.

egg salad sandwich

i grew up on

wonder bread and  

crudely cut slabs

of bologna

swiped with french's yellow

mustard.

then there was peanut butter

and jelly, washed down

with whole milk, of course.

and then the  rare but gourmet

sandwich of egg or

tuna salad which

involved parental cooking,

a bowl,

a knife, a fork.

a delicate affair needing

a napkin or sleeve

with which to wipe

one's mouth.

who's directing this film?

is it a farce

or a tragedy,

a romance or comedy.

is it epic

or just another run

of the mill life,

born, live, death,

maybe a few kids

along the way.

school and jobs.

a dog, a cat.

a wife.

who's directing this

film.

cecil b. demille,

or 

and unknown with a

hand held camera

and no lights.

tequila and shrimp

it's a strange dream

as dreams

often

are after eating

undercooked shrimp

and 

washing it down

with tequila.

everyone is wearing

a hat,

but with no clothes on,

we're at the beach

and 

there's a band

playing music from the 60's.

donna reed is there.

so is vivien leigh.

marlon brando is up

in the lifeguard chair.

people are dancing.

it's christmas time

and someone has put

a tree up.

the sun is covered

with clouds,

and the ocean is rolling

in with enormous

blue waves.

i like this dream and

feel sad when it ends,

waking up

and rubbing the sand out

of my eyes.

feeding the women on match dot com

i'd like to get you know you better,

she says,

after our third date

in a relationship going nowhere.

you know, she says,

before we go any further.

do you understand?

the waiter brings the check

which makes her suddenly

run to the bathroom.

i wait for her to come back then

i take out my wallet and

pay another hundred and twenty

five dollars for our

dinner. 

do you know what i mean

about not going any further,

she says.

i smile. of course i do buttercup.

good she says, then asks 

the waiter for a doggy box

to put her dinner in that

she hardly touched.

i can make four meals out

of this for the week, she says.

thank you so much.

are we good for next saturday.

there's a new restaurant in town

i'd like to try out.

why don't i just take you

to safeway, i tell her,

and you can buy groceries instead.

the ticking bomb

i see a pattern here.

getting in the wrong line

at the bank

or the grocery store,

the one where the machine

breaks down,

or someone needs a price

check on

a bottle of alka seltzer

in some far off aisle.

i see a pattern.

taking the short cut

home that becomes the long

cut, with an endless

line of orange cones.

a flagman steering you back

to where you once were

a half an hour ago.

i see a pattern here.

picking something off

the menu

that keeps you in the bathroom

making impossible

vows to God until dawn. or

picking the person

to be with, who turns out

to be an inevitable

ticking bomb.

it's official

when a friend says,

a formerly free spirited

friend, who was

once the life of party, says

i'm not sure

about going out for a drink

and dinner.

it's dark so early now

and besides that it

might rain.

my knee has been acting up.

do they have valet parking?

should i bring

an umbrella.

a coat for the cold?

do they have a gluten

free menu?

were reservations made?

the white flag goes up,.

it's official.

old age has arrived.

outside the lines

you hear

lines like stay in your lane,

color within

the lines.

be who you are,

etc.

people don't want you

to be someone

other than what

they expect you to be.

it throws them off.

they thought they had

you all figured out

and now, it's

all for naught.

the box on the shelf

in time

we compartmentalize

our past.

we have to.

we can't go on

in any other way.

living with grief,

or sorrow

each day.

we have to put things

in a box

and slide them onto

some shelf

where they will collect

dust

and finally be tossed

aside because at last

we've met 

a better love in

someone else.

her vacation

i used to ask my mother,

why don't

you take

a vacation, to which she would

reply.

i'm on one, then point

towards her garden

outside.

she'd show me her sewing

room,

the puzzle on the big

table she was working on.

the box of photos she

was arranging in an album,

all scattered on the floor,

then she'd go the stove

to stir a large pot

of red sauce and turn

some music on.

infinite and few

how many stars

do you think they're are,

she asks.

how many grains of

sand.

how many lives

have been born,

then lost.

how many loves

have there been and

won?

infinite and few,

i reply.

survival

we have to leave

behind

so much

when moving on.

to get out of the battle,

and live again.

to survive.

we have

to drop from our

hands.

all the things we

once thought mattered.

even you, is

left behind.

not everyone can be saved

to save the ship,

and everyone on it,

you have to lessen the weight,

throw things

overboard

no matter what the cost

the value of

the freight.

your life is more important

than these bags,

these boxes, these crates.

don't go down

with the ship.

swim ashore if you have

to. but not everyone can be

saved.

if you were God

so what would you do

if you were God

for a day,

or less. how about an hour.

one hour

and you have all

the power that's possible

to possess.

where do you begin.

the poor, the sick,

the hungry.

maybe start with the rich

and get them on board.

early monday

i see a bird

tugging at a reluctant

worm half

in the dirt.

the bird looks at me

and sighs,

it shakes it's head.,

then goes back to it.

some days are harder

than others

i want to say, but don't

and just walk

away.

self portrait

i'd like to paint your portrait

she tells me

if you agree

to be my subject

for a while.

i see something in your

eyes that intrigues me.

mirth and compassion,

kindness even.

i see a so much of 

your world

inside. 

so i say yes,

then send her a few poems

to peruse,

but after reading them,

she suddenly

changes her mind.

she was right half the time

she decided her life

by flipping a coin

into the air.

heads she goes here,

tails she goes there.

what school,

where to live,

who to date, who to

marry, what to eat,

or drink, or dress to wear.

the coin was always in

the air.

i asked her out for coffee

the other day,

and she said, maybe,

hold on

and threw the quarter

up before slapping

it down on her palm.

heads means yes,

she said.

and tails means no.

let's see.

maybe it's the red shirt

funny

how some people you just

don't take

a liking to.

a bad vibe,

a gut feeling. the way they

pat you

on the back,

or talk loudly.

maybe it's their red shirt,

whatever the case

may be,

it's a horrible thing

to not like

someone,

but it's almost like

you have no choice

in the matter.

things will slow down

you tell yourself

that soon things will slow down.

by fall

or winter, or by

next spring.

but instead it speeds up

even more.

more

begets more

and the carousel continues

to go around

and around

while you lie wearily

in a bed of

money

show me

give me the worst

version of you.

let's start there and i'll do

the same.

i want to know what

you look like

in the morning

before the mask goes on.

i want to hear you curse

when the hot

water goes out.

show me the stubbed toe

moment,

the broken nail,

the scream when you find

another grey hair.

show me your wrinkles,

your sagging

skin,

your bruised heart.

your despair. 

show it all to me,

and i'll do the same

let's make it fair.

let's turn on the over head light,

the big light.

let's start there.

they don't build them like they used to

they don't build em

like they used to, the old man

says to me

on the park bench

while young women jog by

in their running

outfits, ponytails wagging

behind them.

when i was young, women

had hips.

women were bigger

and had pillows for

rear ends. they were like

lounge chairs you could sit on.

he takes another sip of his

liquor bottle,

hardly hidden

by the brown paper bag. 

another girl runs by, a skinny

blur in black tights.

whatever happened to breasts,

he says,  using his hands to

show me where breasts are

located.

remember breasts?

these broads got nothing

on the women of my day, he

says again. nothing.

what i wouldn't give to

see Marilyn Monroe 

slowly walk by in a pair

of high heels. whew.

hey, you want some of this, 

he hands me the bottle and i take

a long swig after wiping 

it on my shirt.

her sunday phone calls

i miss my

mother's stew, her soups,

her 

fried chicken

and mashed

potatoes.

i miss her desserts.

two layer cakes,

pies,

and muffins,

donuts fried and covered

in cinnamon.

i miss her

turkey coming out of the oven

on thanksgiving day.

the bowl of pasta.

the meatballs,

the gravy.

i miss all of that, but most

of all, i miss her,

and her sunday calls

to just say hey.

adam and eve

as i walked

through the woods, i stumbled

upon

a pair of lovers,

about to make love

in a clearing

of thick brush.

startled

they covered themselves

as best they could

with leaves

and branches,

their clothes folded

neatly at the edge

of their blanket.

excuse me, i said.

do you know what time

it is?

the mileage was rolled back

my over stuffed

bookcase of self help

books

were really bought with the intent

of figuring someone

else out.

fixing that troubled soul.

tightening the screws,

changing the belts,

rewiring her heart to suit

me better. getting her back

on the road again, like it

used to be when

she came off the show room floor,

abused and used, 

but sold as new.

from a distance

from a distance

even this carnival 

which has risen

in the middle of night

looks enticing.

you can't see the rusted iron

from here,

the rotted wood,

the broken screws or

bent nails.

but when the lights go on

and you're a mile or two away.

it looks wonderful.

which reminds me of you,

most days.

here, have some mincemeat pie

not everyone is wise,

or full

of common sense, 

learned through books

or sages, but many

have learned the catch

words and phrases

from watching bad television

most of their wasted

lives. they regale us with such 

snippets of wisdom like,

everything in moderation, or

it's not how you fall,

but how you get up.

better to have loved and lost

than never to have loved

at all. 

i want to push a holiday 

pie into their faces.

and squish it so hard

that mincemeat oozes out of

their ears.

traveling light

i like to travel light

when

i go to bethesda or parts

unknown

on the marilyn  side.

the clothes i wear, a few

dollars in my

pocket,

gas in the car.

she laughs at me when

i arrive,

holding my toothbrush

in hand, 

prepared to spend

the night.

i don't know any of this music

the bar is strange,

crowded

and liquored.

you can sense the hunt

in the air, but the music

being played

is unknown.

not a single note do i know.

not a line,

or word

is part of my musical dna.

what happened

to music?

where did al green go.

marvin gaye,

or even

elvis costello.

this noise sounds as if

it wasn't man made.

i'd like to hear one song

before i leave

the place

that reminds of yesterday.

my jersey walls

i put up a jersey

wall

around me.

i see the skid marks

of errant drivers up and down

the concrete sides.

so far so good.

let's see how long

i can keep these up

before someone jumps

the rail.

my real estate agent stops by

my real estate agent

stops by

to give me some tips on decorating

before the open house

on sunday.

she tells me

to place a vase of flowers

on the table.

bake a pan 

of cinnamon rolls, to give

the house a warm

and comforting feeling.

are you collecting empty

vodka bottles for some reason?

no? well. perhaps we should

discard those, yes?

how about we

put a wreathe on your door,

she says, and make your bed.

i can help you with that if you've

never done so.

also it might be a good idea

to get those silk stockings,

and undergarments

off your ceiling fan.

okay. i tell her, making a note

of that, happy that she hasn't

looked under the bed

or in the closet.

she asks me about the back yard.

if i own a lawn mower,

or a machete. a blow torch maybe?

i shrug. yeah, i think so.

there's no one buried out there,

is there? she whispers.

what's that fresh mound of dirt

all about?

which makes me laugh,

but don't give her an answer.

listening or waiting

some days i'm a good

listener,

on the edge of my seat

with questions

and studied interest, while

other days, no matter what

someone is telling

me, how wild the story might

be, i'm

bored out of my mind

and i've got

no game,

nothing to add to the

conversation.

clocks seem to stand still.

birds in flight

are stranded in mid air.

even snails seem slower

as they inch by.

i never know which way

it will go

until it begins.

drinking though, seems to help.

no olive please

the brilliant

short story writer sherwood

anderson,

the father

of minimalism

in fiction, died by choking

on a toothpick

from his martini.

since i found that out,

i no longer

need an olive

in mine.

the city dwellers

to get into the high rise

building

in the heart of town,

you have

to park down the hill

by the loading dock.

if there is a spot.

with only four slots

they go quickly.

then you push a button

and a man says, what?

you tell him why you

are here, what apartment

you need to go to.

he asks for your name,

the tag of your car.

at last he buzzes you in.

then you sign a clipboard

with the same information

you already gave.

he points to the elevator,

tells you to put your

mask on and informs you

that you have two hours

before you are towed.

ahhh, the city life.

a postcard from paris

she's in paris now.

i know this because i'm staring

at a postcard she sent.

a monet print.

who sends postcards these days?

she does.

she's pleasantly different

a cut above.

her eyes are full

of art

and literature,

there is little you can bring up

that she doesn't

know and have something

to say about.

it has little to do with beauty,

although she is quite

beautiful. it's more

what lies below and shines out.

i'm hoping that i'll make

her my girl,

one day.

the early start

i'll get an early start

this day,

to beat

the traffic.

i'll be on the road before

most.

a rare feat, i know.

but it's friday

and it would be nice

to finish early.

to get home, 

to say the week is done,

with no where else

to go, to just wait

for you to come.

cat calls

i miss being whistled at,

she told me,

i miss the days

when men would yell

at me from car windows

and ask me boldly out

on dates.

gazing at my body,

from lips to hips,

and legs.

i was a dish

in their eyes, hot on

a steamy plate,

but now i'm invisible,

with my weight, my age.

it's almost

as if i don't exist anymore

that men of a certain

look, brawny or sophisticated,

men on the hunt,

no longer look my way.

the late fall afternoon

when you see a man

of similar stature and color,

height,

when you see him

bending

to his cane, towards

some park

where the sunlight will

keep him warm

on this late fall afternoon,

you wonder if that is

me in ten years,

or five, or even three.

will you be that lucky

or unlucky

as the case may be.

will they miss me when i'm gone

who hasn't leaned

over

the edge of a bridge 

when one's world

had darkened and

thought

will they miss me

when i'm gone?

if i fell, or leaped

in a heroic swan dive

to the bottom of some

abyss,

would their world stop,

or would only mine?

when you first realized it wasn't love

it was while eating

shepards  pie at Kennedy's

in New York City

when i first realized

that i didn't love her,

that i was merely

ok with her.

conversation was fine.

the love making too,

was well, okay.

but we were companions

of a holding hand sort,

each taking a turn at

flagging down a taxi.

taking pictures of one

another in front of the Met,

or under the arch

of Washington Square.

but it was the first hot

bite, when blowing on

the fork, and she had gone

to the bathroom,

that i thought, it would be

fine if she didn't come back.

again, a villainous thought,

no doubt, but true.

awaiting a wave

we save things

as if

they matter. ignoring

in our human way

that one day

the sun will burn out 

and everything

will go.

all these books,

all these poems.

the cards and letters,

the art,

the journals that we keep.

photos of you

and me.

all metal

and stone, will disappear.

everything being

just a finger dragged

in the sand

awaiting a wave

to draw near.

will i miss september

will i miss september?

most likely not.

as is true

with the month preceding it.

i have no calendar

on the wall

depicting the season

we are in.

the leaves falling,

the green of spring, 

the ocean of summer,

then of course,

the snow.

no need to tack a calendar

anymore.

i've stopped counting

days,

or years. it's unnecessary

to warn me

of what lies ahead.

i only need my window.

with hands pressed together

rarely does a night go by

when i haven't

pressed my hands together

and prayed,

but the prayers are vague

these days,

less about getting me

out of hot water,

or in finding a job, or

a girl to date.

they are different now.

i pray for others, 

that their lives will

be blessed

with a minimal amount

of pain.

its a strange turn of events,

from how i prayed,

in younger days.

how to get your way

we learn early

to cry

and whine, to make a racket

when we're hungry

or wet,

or in some sort of pain.

we learn

this in the crib,

how to get what we need,

lying in

the little cage they set

us in.

one whimper and they

come running

to see what they can

do to make us smile

again.

your so called poetry

i don't like your poetry,

she tells me

in a harsh letter,

a farewell letter

to be exact.

penned not long after

i set her things

out back.

it's not poetry at all,

she writes.

it's your life,

your daily observations,

you're no robert frost

my friend,

not even e.e. cummings,

it's a diary,

a journal. but not poetry.

and the reason i know this,

is because i read

it every day

to see what you've written

about me.

terms of endearment

as the farm girl

gives a name to the pig,

or cow,

or chicken,

the lamb or goat,

a term of endearment,

falling in love

quickly

as she feeds them,

despite the warning

by her mother,

saying best not

get too close.

do we not do the same

with our new

infatuations, 

being too quick to call

each other 

an endearing name,

perhaps baby, or honey.

or both.

the Ephesus rugs

the man leading

up to the ruins

of Ephesus was quite convincing

with his wool rugs,

and other wares.

there was a white vase

i really liked,

and a black shirt with

sequins. i touched the fabric

and asked

if it would shrink

after a cold wash.

no, he said, and if it does,

you can bring it back.

maybe on the way down,

i said, feeling guilty

for lying,

as i went up the hill

to visit the land where

St. Paul preached.

being hopeful

being hopeful,

i have traveled

great distances for a bad time,

bad food

and bad conversation.

hundreds of miles sometimes.

i have sat

and endured the hour,

as they did with me, knowing

how anxious i was

to turn the car around

and leave.

hope can be a dangerous

thing.

that's all she knows

the woman

in the coffee shop feeding

her baby

her full breast bared

with no

concern that others might

see,

the baby is hungry

and that's all she knows.

the nice man from medicare

i keep the Indian man

on the phone for nearly an hour,

using my crackly elderly woman voice.

i call myself sandra pinchot.

age 78,

alone, and lonely, but quite wealthy.

he wants my social

security number

and my medicare card number

in order for him

to send me

a new plastic card.

one with a gold star on it.

i'm fixing tea, and then sitting

in the garden with my imaginary

cat in my lap,

Juniper, he's a nice cat, i tell the man,

whose name he says is James.

do you have a cat, James?

if not you should get one,

they're such great company.

hardly anything ever goes

wrong with them.

i go on about my dead

husband, Clifford, but we called

him Cliff.

his golf game was stupendous,

i inform James, he could go on

and on for hours telling me about

his short game,

but his drinking did him in.

do you drink, James?

i like a little hot toddy before

bedtime, but my

martini days are way behind me.

don't get me started on those days,

thank god the internet didn't exist

back then, or those damn cell phones,

Holy Hannah, would i have been in trouble

back then.

ma'am he says, i just need you to

verify your numbers, could you

read them off your blue and white

card. you have medicare A and B

don't you?

hold on young man, let me get

my reading glasses,

they're in the other room

in my purse, my white purse,

or was it the black one?

when i come back after i find them

i want to hear a little bit about you, okay.

i've been doing all the talking here.

unfair. let's find out

what makes James tick? 

saint joan

i fall into the couch

coming home

from work

and flick on the tube.

it's a 1928 silent movie

about joan of arc.

a silent film, with

music and what sounds

like opera singing.

the close ups

are what make it work.

the tears,

the faces

in black and white,

etched onto the screen

as if by a charcoal

pencil.

it's a violent film

without special effects.

one of betrayal 

and deception. lies.

even the clergy have 

something up their long

sleeves.

and then she dies,

a martyr until the end,

going up in flames at

the age of nineteen.

the meet up group

i will

not attend anything

that requires a name tag

be put on my shirt.

don't ask me to stand up

and review my

life going backwards

to birth.

let me sit quietly and figure

out if this is worth

the effort.

is there any fun in this

for me.

what do i get out of it,

besides,

killing an hour or two

with a bunch of old people

pushing seventy.

i'm not ready for shuffle

board,

or pickleball,

or gin rummy until

someone says, i have to go

now, it's my knee.

with scissors in hands

how would i know

how that lipstick got

on my collar,

it's a surprise to me as well.

don't you trust me?

when have i ever hurt

you

or lied to you" i ask

shelly

as she holds a pair of

scissors

in her hands.

sewing today? i ask her,

maybe, she says.

it all depends.

the nearest exit heading south

i don't miss the hangover

days,

those mornings of dry

mouth

and blurred vision, 

the head drumming

with a beat that won't stop. 

losing my phone 

beneath a bed.

my pants somewhere

in this house i've never

been to. which way is the door?

will that dog

bite me on the way out?

i hate to wake her, but

i need to find the nearest

exit to the beltway

heading south.

three payments of 29.99

i try to think if i've ever

bought something because i

saw it on tv

in a late night commercial.

tempting yes, the complete

catalog of chubby

checker, or tanya tucker,

or a set of ginsu knives.

that facial cream that will

remove ten years off

your life.

i've never bought that car

wax that will protect

the metal from fire

or being keyed by an

angry girlfriend or 

ex wife. i've never picked

up and dialed the number

for a rolex watch, or a diamond

ring, only two left, call now,

or to get in touch with

a departed relative

from the great beyond.

the chat lines too,

with the scantily clad

buxom young ladies, tempting

you with wagging fingers

and coos.

but no. it hasn't come to

that quite yet.

blood on the pillow

when you wake up

and turn the light on,

and see blood

on the pillow and sheets,

you wonder where

the leak is, where

have you scratched

yourself in the middle

of a dream.

there's no knife to be

found,

no wife either, so it

must have been you.

what do you want?

with the romance phase

of the relationship over,

the sex done,

the midnight rendezvous

and the weekends

long, all gone,

you still call to stay in

touch,

believing it's a lifetime

of friendship love,

but when you say hello,

she says, who is this, what

do you want? and then

you know it's time to move on.

saying farewell at the bus depot

as i stand at the at the bus depot

i see a beautiful woman

in the window,

she's waving.

she blows me a kiss.

i smile and blow one back.

i blow back several kisses

as the bus pulls away.

i love you, i say out loud,

i miss you already,

come back,

then a man standing behind me 

taps me on the shoulder

and says, i think that was for me. 

who's to know, for sure,

i tell him, walking happily away.

room 100

in the dark

i make the third trip to the loo,

once known

as room 100 by a french

woman i once knew.

the radical

life change

of eating has put my

kidneys

into over drive.

how much liquid can there

be in there

on such little food.

and not just a trickle

but a stream

not unlike a racehorse at

the starting gate,

the gate being my bed

and pillow,

somewhere across the room.

it's so you

how nice of you

not to come.

not to appear here on

my doorstep.

to pay respects.

thank you for not sending

a card

or gift, or flowers.

no call, no text.

i appreciate your lack

of concern for my

well being.

it's so you.

nothing less or more

did i expect.

a new season

i miss my better 

half, sometimes.

the kind me.

the compassionate and forgiving

me.

i tire of the other side.

slinging my scythe at all

that have

have harmed me.

i miss the laughter,

the grin,

the easy going nature

that i was born with.

but to all things,

their season.

the calendar page will

turn.

hope and despair

it's a dangerous

thing,

hope.

it keeps one in a state

of anticipation,

waiting

for an answered prayer, or

for the rain

to stop.

or for love to appear. hope

is a bad thing.

it keeps you

in a place of stillness.

despair is much

better.

it makes you work

towards

getting out of it.

when the child lets go

when the child

let's go, at last, parting

the air

and road with his own

desires.

you reluctantly let go,

as your

father once did.

your mother too, but less

and less so.

no door is ever closed

with her.

a room by the sea

as you put your bag down

you study the room,

placing a few dollars into

the waiting hand

of the boy who turned

the key.

the bed is large, the blanket

smoothed out over

white sheets.

there's a mirror, a dresser.

a window

that looks out over the sea.

a chair at a small desk.

the door closes as you

turn the light off and slide

the chair over, parting the curtains.

you hear the ocean, the lapping

of waves not far off.

in the pale light of moon

you see two lovers, arm

in arm, walking slowly

through the sand.

you want to yell out to them

that you're on their side.

but you don't say a word.

it would reveal too much of

your own past, your own

diminished life.

a book left open

i remember

their houses,

grandparents

and parents.

how they lived was

in the air.

the essence of them,

their  appetites, their desires.

the old wood in 

the fireplace,

the stove unclean,

a faucet leaking,

a window cracked

to let in

the garden mint,

or snow.

the curtains

dust laden, pulled closed.

the rugs that needed

beating,

the stuffing in a sofa

exposed.

a book left open, 

with a few pages left

to go.

the tin of ashes

strange to confine

the dead

in tombs, or boxes

with a stone for a lid.

six feet under, or

in an ash filled tin

for the mantle.

how odd to save

the remains

and mark the spot,

when

they're gone forever,

not waiting

quietly for a visit,

not giving any of it,

much thought.

fire and ice

there is something

good

in fire, as there is in ice.

both

leading

in the same direction.

taking

from us

what once was strife,

both

kind necessities

when moving forward.

as the snow rises

will the snow cuff

us to the house, the couch,

the things

we choose to wile away

the hours.

will we find each other

again

when the roads

are closed and the lines

go down.

will we build a fire

to stay warm,

and lean into the love

that once was, quietly

conversing, finding

each other's heart, 

as the drifts rise up.

if i were famous

if i were famous,

well known and loved around

the world,

for these words i write,

i could at last

show how humble

and modest i am.

how giving

and charitable my heart

truly is, but no,

no such luck, alas,

my attributes are going

to waste

without fame and fortune

cast upon me.

guilty pleasures

is there one pleasure

removed

from guilt?

the slice of rich cake.

the ice

cold martini with an olive

afloat.

make it a double,

the sleep in late,

the love making.

the laziness of sunday

not going to church,

what doesn't

make you feel the pinch

of God's fingers

upon your soul?

is there anything good

that isn't bad

in this world of yours?

i'd like to remember her that way

she's old now.

and weak,

bone thin, and grey,

but

i'd like to remember her

as a young

woman.

pretty and smiling

for the camera.

i'd like to keep her that

way, fresh

in a golden frame.

never aging,

never sick

or sad, always with that look 

in her eyes.

holding in her heart

a joy that will never fade.

at last we know

we grow into ourselves.

like

our clothes, well worn,

and comfortable, at last.

the wool,

the blends, the style

and fabrics,

a pair of shoes

that suits us best.

we know who we are, at last.

and now,

we just sit back and wonder

why we worried

so much,

and laugh.

going out with a bang

i spend the afternoon raking

leaves.

pulling them

towards the middle of the yard,

my hands curled 

on the wooden handle

as i work.

yellow and brown,

red and orange.

a bouquet of sorts

piled high,

from nothing, then green,

then to this,

going out with a splash of color,

a bang of sorts

is not a bad way to cease

to exist.

let's have another round

we clink glasses

together

at the glen echo irish bar.

a small piece of Ireland

is here.

there is music.

dancing of some sort.

the clicking of heels

by red haired

girls with green eyes

and pale skin.

ruddy large men

are singing,

drinking pints of  beer with

their flat caps snug on.

we clink our glasses

and listen

as best we can as a helicopter

hovers near.

doing a water rescue

in the river,

saving a life, perhaps,

or finding one

afloat behind all reach.

we raise our

hand to the waitress

for another round, this life

being so fleet.

blue suede shoes

i don't need new shoes.

but my

feet say yes.

why not.

you haven't bought a new pair

in months.

what's up with that?

go browse,

go click, go search and find

another pair

of tie up boots,

or leather dress shoes,

or sandals,

or loafers.

let's go with a different

color this time.

the closets are full of brown

and black,

or grey.

how about blue?

maybe suede.

dolores

she was a sweet woman,

at least

when i met her,

our relationship was not very

long.

and when word reached

me of her death

at 92

it darkened my heart

more than i thought

it would.

how kind in greeting

or farewell she was,

sitting her chair,

a kiss to each cheek,

whispering gossip

about her children

and husband,

a neighbor,

that i dare not repeat

or tell.

i truly liked that side of her.

with her bird like

voice, the french

in her still there. the wry

grin.

she'll be missed.

she was a soft feather, 

now in the air.

beating the light

if the light

turns yellow before

i get there,

i don't care.

let it go amber, then red.

i'm fine

with that.

to sit there and wait. i'm

done with beating the lights,

trying to go

fast

and get ahead.

but i know it bothers

you,

which pleases me somehow.

the family portrait

we called in salvador dali

to come

in and paint our family holiday

portrait.

not rockwell.

he was too busy

with the neighbors.

but dali

captured our true nature

to a tee.

the melting clock,

the hands

dripping,

the bare branch tree.

the strange sky.

and the faces and eyes

of all of us,

staring out in fish like

wonder,

pulled from a violent sea,

not quite understanding

what this is was all about,

what anything means.

the suit of grey

we are all cowards

to some degree.

never saying what we should

say, vaguely saying what

we mean.

we rarely take the leap

from the ordinary life.

we wear the same suit of grey,

take the same route home,

take our shoes and clothes off

in the same way.

we obey the rules.

we live our days as if

there's an unlimited 

supply of time.

doing what we're told

from birth, until the final

breath is taken,

when death takes hold.

you are home

when you stop,

when you

leave the crowd.

turn off the set, put

down the phone.

when you quit, not join,

you are almost home.

when you

leave behind

everything you have

owned, when you submit

to what is,

what was and what will be,

then you are almost

home.

when you desire

less, take less,

and give more, 

wanting nothing in return,

suddenly

your old skin falls away.

and at last you have arrived,

you are home.

the black umbrella

i often think of women

in terms

of the umbrella they hold

over her head and yours

in the pouring rain.

with the click of a button,

the fabric spreads open, 

i think of pastel colors,

maybe yellow,

or sweet pink.

the comfort of blue,

a mischievous green,

the laugher of polka dots,

and then there's the black

shade of a few,

where no light gets in,

held over your life 

not to hold back the sky,

but to bring you rain.

this is what i do

the bathtub spigot

continues on

despite the hard twist left.

even when i'm not home.

the hot water

keeps pouring out,

slowly,

but still

the breaths of steam

cloud the mirror.

i can't turn the faucet

hard enough

to put an end to it.

so i call a plumber.

it's what plumbers do.

they fix things like this.

take baths

is what i do.

down to a trickle

i tire myself

of

the near past. grown weary

of the tale.

dark thoughts

have bled me dry of my

empathy.

so i stop.

i let the thoughts go 

through my

mind

like water down the stream,

down to a trickle

soon

to a stop.

no one at the wheel

i will not pass

down

to my son what i do with

my hands.

he will not learn

this trade.

he will not climb

a ladder,

or hold a brush,

or paste a wall for

paper.

the young are not

inclined to sweat and bleed,

to hold fear

in their hands,

that the work will dry up.

they find

other ways.

each generation does,

as the plows rust

in the field,

the machines leak oil

and ships

run aground with no

one at the wheel.

p.s. i love you

when we would hand write

letters

to one another

in the previous century.

a pen in hand,

thoughtfully jotting down

our days chores,

or what transpired during

the week, with

kids and school, work

and such.

we would say how bright

the moon was last

night,

i wish you were here with me

to see it.

i miss your arms around me,

your kisses.

the sound of your voice.

we would go on and on,

rambling forward

until the end where we

would sign off with

affectionately, or with love,

or adoringly, then p.s.

i love you. as if necessary

to say so,

the preface not being enough.

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.