waiting on bread

it took a while but at last

all my

appliances match.

each one

black.

from the stove to the fridge,

to the coffee

grinder and pot.

the dishwasher too.

the only outlier

is the toaster, which

i hardly ever use.

she's waiting patiently

for bread

to come back.

the new frontier

trouble is

that i've fallen into a state

of total uncaring.

no longer bothered

or worried,

about what's said or done

by others,

near or far.

i've arrived into the age,

of so what.

it's a land

of peace and quiet.

mistakes were made

we all make

mistakes.

big and small.

decisions made in haste.

hurried

ideas,

love pushed too soon.

endings

forced.

we all

err in our ways,

going forward,

but seeing

the past in a different

way.

growing up and out

some made it out,

some didn't.

some graduated

from beer

to wine,

to mary jane,

and beyond, wrapping

a band around

their arm

to find a vein.

most that went that

far, i never saw

again.

i like to think of them

before that.

on the street

with a bat and glove,

hat on,

and smiling

for the camera as

we played stick ball.

with rice in our hair

she was a back seat

driver.

look out, she'd scream

when a squirrel would run

across the road

in front of us.

stop here, park there.

i just saw a spot, didn't

you see it,

go around the block.

it's too hot in here,

roll the window down.

speed up, you can

make this light.

you can get across the tracks

before the train comes.

you drive too slow,

too fast, turn the radio

down. when was the last

time you vacuumed this car,

or washed it, put on

a coat of wax.

and this was leaving

the wedding chapel with

rice still in our hair.

nap time

the salesman

tells me about the trunk,

how big it is, what i can

load into it.

it's roomy he says.

you can pack a lot

of groceries in there,

toys for the kids.

and take a look at that

back seat,

he says opening the door.

go on. sit down.

take a seat.

corinthian leather.

they're heated, and yes,

that's a charger

and six speakers for

your music.

four adults can

fit in there.

so i get in, and lie down.

he's exhausted me.

close the door,

i tell him, i want to take

a nap now.

over night

the corner store

is gone.

the windows boarded,

the doors

locked tight.

it was there forever

it seems.

it's where you bought

your first

pop,

your first candy bar,

your first

comic book.

and now, like many things,

it's gone over night.

radiator love

the clunk

of the old radiator is

a pleasant sound,

the heat

shining out

with steam

beside the bed.

and as we lie here

together,

wrapped as one,

we listen,

we breathe. 

self advice

we are all good at

giving advice,

words of wisdom to someone

off the rails

and yet it's hard

when we're the ones

with our head

in a vise.

hang in there, we say,

be strong,

this too shall pass,

hold on.

what's changed

why are you so happy now,

she asks me.

you laugh so much.

you joke around,

i've never seen you so content

with life.

so full of joy.

what's changed.

and i put my left hand out.

just this, i tell her.

just this.

no ring.

the good book

give me

the dogeared book

with the frayed

cover.

turn to the page

where the coffee stains are,

where

the ashes burned

through.

show me the underlined

phrases and words.

show me that book

i want that book

to be mine.

finding a way to unlove her

like a ball of yarn

i unraveled her

by pulling on a single

strand.

a single lie.

i found a way to unlove

her.

with each yank

of the thread, with

each pull 

i could see that she wasn't 

that pretty

after all,

or that smart or

that kind, she was none

of the things

she pretended to be.

in the end, 

she was nothing

of value,

and now i was free.

nothing is lost

things are never lost.

they still

exist, but they lie elsewhere

to be found

by another.

so much slips

from our hands,

or dropped and left

behind.

people too.

down they go between

the seats

of life, onto some floor,

or forgotten

stop.

just row

as we row

away from  trouble,

we look out across the wide

sea

we can't see the other side,

it's too far,

but there are

decisions to be made

before we begin.

who comes along.

is the ship able,

strong.

what will the weather be?

are there pirates,

rocks beneath the calm waters.

and when we get there,

what then?

none of it matters.

what matters is leaving

and not looking back.

set the sails,

take an oar, and row.

the religion of vegetables

there are new religions

out and about,

the religion

of vegetables is one,

kneeling to the power of

carrots

and legumes. 

praising the potato,

the turnip,

the celery.

worshiping the onion

and lettuce.

the mushroom.

singing the songs

of soy

and carob. staying clear

from the sins

of meat.

holding onto the walls

as they walk,

feeling faint,

feeling weak.

you can hear their whispers

as they try 

to speak.

six days a week

be funny,

or go home.

i'd rather be alone

if you're

going to be sad

all the time.

tears

in your eyes. 

that woe is me look

upon your face.

go home

and leave me be.

i need

less sadness.

less darkness,

not all the time,

but at least six days

a week.

a time will come

a time will come

when i'll forget your name,

forget your

face,

your hands,

your legs.

a day will arrive when

you will be

a vague

memory, a person who

was barely

alive.

the dust will have gathered,

the rust

of years,

the death of you, will

be sad to some,

but to me,

it will bring no tears.

we want it

we want it.

we desire it, we seek it

from

the cradle

to the grave, we want

to be liked,

to held

and touched. we want

kind words

and kisses.

we want it like water,

or food, 

or air, we want

this thing called love.

careful steps

you remember

bounding

up the stairs, or down.

that's what we called it.

bounding.

our legs

strong. our lungs 

still fresh.

the blood within us

still new,

still young.

you remember those

days.

they seem close,

not far away,

at all,

as you grip the rail

and carefully

step up, or down,

minding your way

to avoid a fall.

the lightness of being

despite

the world. the calamity,

the distress

and pain.

despite the waging of

war

and sin,

of bad things.

we go on.

many with a happy heart.

with joy

and laughter,

the lightness

of being

prevails

over darkness in

the end.

the rabbit ears

i look at my insane

verizon bill.

a landline,

a cell,

three tv's.

the internet,

and then there's

netflix and prime.

crazy. crazy times.

i used to pay this

much in rent

for my first apartment,

back when the rabbit ears

and a wall phone

worked just fine.

can't get enough of your love, babe

she asks me what my

deserted island songs

would be, 

the music

i'd have with me if 

shipwrecked out at sea

for a month

of days.

what would it be.

some blues of course,

al green,

tom waits

and dylan,

early elvis costello.

perhaps a little chet baker

too.

van morrison has to come

along for the ride,

as well as marvin gaye.

what about barry white,

she asks me,

teddy pendergrass?

well for them you'd

have to be there with me.

on the first day of christmas

it's november tenth.

i see the store

santa setting up shop

outside

the supermarket.

the black swinging pot,

the red suit on,

the fake beard,

the pillow belly, the bell

that's ringing

because of the wind.

he's been drinking

beer, budweiser,

and it's only

two o'clock.

a sandwich from subway

is in his hand.

twelve inches

of italian bread

and salami hanging out.

i see that he's sweating

when i walk by,

a dollop of mayo and

oil on his lips.

i hand him a handkerchief

to mop his brow.

and greasy condiment

drips.

thank you, he says.

merry christmas.

then let's out a loud

sort of musical burp.

fruitless

i can't handle it anymore,

my tolerance

and patience

for such

ineptness has dwindled down

to nearly nothing.

i try one metal basket

after another, searching

for one

that doesn't have a wobbly

wheel.

it's fruitless, so i give up,

reluctantly,

and push the broken

shopping cart

down the aisles.

squeaking,

shaking, veering into

the rows of bananas and peaches,

knocking over

a stack of apples,

and kiwi from the west

indies.

when butter melts

look at that,

i tell her,

as i stare

at the squared pad

of butter,

rich and yellow,

melting

onto the brown

hot slice

of toasted bread.

just look at that,

have you ever

seen anything more

beautiful

in your life?

it's exactly what

you do to me,

she smiles

and says, 

then asks me

if i'd like some eggs.

no snow to speak of

is that a sheet of ice

on the pond,

a grey

wet layer

of what's to come.

is that the mailman

with his

hat and gloves,

his nose

red, his big boots on.

is that

a bag of salt

beside the road,

a shovel set by the door.

do i hear a plow

starting up.

is it coming this year,

or will

it be another winter

of vague cold,

with no snow

to speak of.

what war does

courage

comes in the moment.

or it doesn't.

brave

yesterday, but

unwilling to die, today.

who isn't a coward at times.

protective

of self,

unwilling to give

one's heart

to another.

war will do that to you.

how warm it feels

it's not that we agree

on everything,

in fact

there is always 

something to bicker

about.

but now,

as we sit here,

on this cold bench

at the park.

we resist the temptation

to argue, we nod

and smile.

we just enjoy the sunshine,

both agreeing to

how warm

it feels

as the breeze moves

the leaves

about.

eye candy

our eyes like things.

shapes

and sizes. 

shiny pretty things.

whether

a car

or person, a ring,

a tree full of leaves.

that rainbow

draped

above the trees.

we turn our

heads to gaze

and enjoy

what we see.

who isn't prone

to staring

and enjoying 

the worlds 

ever present and

abundant, eye candy.

the easy way

he came into money.

through

the death of parents,

the selling

off of property,

of things the dead

leave behind.

a fat inheritance,

a law suit or two

along the way

added to his accounts

and he

lived just fine.

he rarely worked

at anything,

but he was always

in the best

of ways.

never short of anything.

and as you slaved

away

at your daily grind,

for your crust of bread,

you wondered

whose life was better,

his or mine.

all the good times

the old friend

is getting older and what

that means

is that i am

too.

which is fine.

we see the past in

each other's eyes,

hear it in our laughter.

we're in the age

of grey,  and lines.

we're still here though,

despite so much.

and we remember

gladly all 

the good times.

start again

an empty shore

lies before us,

the lick

of cold blue waves.

the gulls

floating, hoping

for what we might bring.

we walk, our feet

sinking into

the sand.

we see the end of

the pier

and when we get there,

we'll turn around

and start back

again.

getting undressed

how the trees surrender

to what's

next.

letting go of green,

draped in new

golds,

new reds for a short

while before

getting

undressed.

more than enough

there's plenty to go around.

more than enough.

the world

is bountiful

with so many things,

and yet

there's a lack

of love.

the world is getting younger

i call up my broker,

Jennifer,

who handles my finances

and investments

at Slocum and Kravitz.

she looks like she just graduated

from high school.

a cheerleader, maybe,

or at the very least, a pom pom girl.

i tell her i have a little

extra dough

lying around, that i need

to move into an interest

bearing account, like pronto.

she laughs.

how much, she says. what

are we talking about here?

i whisper the amount

into the phone so that none

of my ex wives can hear,

even though they all live

miles away.

sure, she says.

maybe we can do some bonds,

or drop a little into blue chips.

you won't get much out

of a money market, and cds

will lock it down.

i can hear her eating from a

bag of potato chips.

crunching them one by one

on the phone.

i'll get my new intern Brad

to draw up

a few ideas.

how soon can you get that

check to me, she asks.

i'll drop it into snail mail

tomorrow, i tell her. but

i have to get stamps first.

what's that, she says?

taking a gulp of her soda.

the sweetness and the bitters

funny how we hear

what we want to hear

when we want to hear it.

or see

what we want to see.

but taste

and smell are different,

we can't ignore

or forget such things as

the sweetness of life,

or bitters.

wounded faith

your faith is tested

by new death.

new troubles, new bumps

in the road.

but you press your hands

together

and press on.

you will get on your knees

today

and pray

for those less fortunate,

for the rich,

the poor,

yourself, and all others

who have been led astray.

the new wishing well

the priests gather around

the new wishing

well, just off the diocese property

of St. Bernadettes.

make a wish,

the sign says.

one dollar for a small one,

five for a big one.

we're losing money here,

father smith says to father

o'connell, shaking their heads.

and grappling with their tight

white collars.

people are donating less and

less into our wish baskets,

i mean baskets for the poor,

and they're throwing

more into this wishing well.

we need to get to the bottom

of this, both literally and

figuratively, they say to each

other, one reaching down

with a net to scoop up some coins.

what are you doing friday night?

where do you

live?

how long have you lived there?

where did you live

before that?

kids?

divorced?

do you work, at what?

did you go to college,

which one?

do you have any pets,

any hobbies?

are you religious?

what do you like to do for

fun?

are your parents still alive?

what's your favorite kind

of music?

your favorite food,

your favorite color,

do you watch netflix, or prime?

she asks all these questions

and i ask

just one.

what are you doing friday

night?

a good day

carrying an arm full

of things

i drop my wallet

on the way to the car.

it slips out of my grasp

without a sound.

it lies in the street all day.

unbothered, untouched.

and fortunately

on a sunny day.

when i get home from

work, there it is,

right where i dropped it.

funny how it is 

that on some days

things work out

in a good way.

attachments

i'm not one to keep

sentimental things. i delete

pictures

with the swipe of a thumb.

i toss out

past memories quite

easily.

a ring, a watch,

a hallmark card,

anything that reminds me

of someone

i no longer want to be a part of.

i take the broom out

and go at it.

the closets, the basement

the attic.

and yet, when i open 

the freezer, there are a dozen

or so frozen

packages that have been

there forever.

unmarked, undated.

but somewhat permanent

fixtures in my life.

things i apparently can't live

without.

a new book

i need a new book.

a big 

fat book of fiction

or non fiction.

a bio

or something.

a poetry anthology,

perhaps.

anything but self help.

done with that.

i can't be helped anymore

and i don't

necessarily want to be.

i am what am.

olive.

her white golfing gloves

she greets me at the door

in her leathery white

golfing gloves

and nothing else.

except those red heels

that make her

almost as tall as i am.

hungry, she says.

purring like a kitten

wanting milk.

always, i tell her.

how's your game today?

a big big day

yesterday was a big day.

a big big day.

i can't under emphasize

what kind of a day it was.

the recipe called for six egg whites.

and by hand

for the first time in my life,

i separated the whites from

the yolk, going back and forth

with the cracked eggs,

back and forth,

dropping the whites

into a bowl for mixing.

then i picked the shells out.

nobody likes shells

in their cloud bread.

on second thought

some days i wake

up

and think, i'm a really a good person.

i'm kind,

i'm nice to people

that i don't like.

i show up on time.

and for the most part

i'm considerate

and generous.

i'm really wonderful

and a joy 

to be around.

and then i sit down and start

writing.

putting someone on

the spit, to slow roast.

damn good cup of joe

she makes the best coffee

in the morning.

i've had a lot of coffee so i know

what i'm

talking about.

it's hot, it's black and dark,

with a rich bold

flavor.

a little cream, a little sugar.

i could drink

hot coffee with her all day,

shooting the breeze,

but then

i'd start to shake, and before

you know it 

we'd be going upstairs again.

exchanging photos

she sends me a picture

of her leg

in a stocking.

i send a foot

without a sock.

tomorrow we may progress

to the knee,

but i see

a suspicious mole

on her

thigh, i'm not so sure

yet,

if she's the girl for me,

further

inspection is needed.

up close

and hands on.

earth, it was a good run

when it ends.

when it all blows up

into smithereens.

who will

take the broom and sweep

up the buildings,

the glass,

the broken dreams,

the debris

of life,

etc.

where is the dust pan,

the bag,

the can.

who's job will it be

to clean up

this mess we've made?

the moneychangers

flipping through

the channels 

i come across the smiling

face

of joel and his wife.

two shiny

people preaching the word

of prosperity and riches,

positivity.

their wealth is legendary,

the houses,

the exotic cars.

taking mostly from the mouths

of the poor

and hungry.

the desperate souls

searching for an answer.

you wonder why God hasn't

taken them

out yet.

one giant lightning strike

upon their domed

bank, pretending to be

a temple.

making love last

we have nothing in common.

we don't laugh

at the same jokes.

we don't read the same books,

or watch the same shows.

she likes the summer.

whereas  i prefer the fall.

she's a princess with a tilted

tiara, while

i'm just an ordinary bloke

on my hybrid bike.

she's always dressed

to the nines.

whereas i lounge around

in jeans and sweatshirts

most of the time.

and yet somehow we make

it work.

separate rooms to sleep in, 

long days at the office, 

little conversation

as we pass in the hall.

is it your turn to walk

the dog, or mine?

our marriage may last

forever if we can keep

this charade up.

the country club

it's no secret,

this thing,

this thing called dying.

and yet

we're surprised

that anyone could possibly

die.

how could they?

they were here

just yesterday, 

we shook hands

after a night

of hard drinking

and said goodbye.

he was the picture

of health.

he had his golf clubs 

with him. 

a gift from his wife.

all new for Christmas.

he just shot par on the back

nine.

had an eagle.

we made plans for Sunday.

his mistress

and mine.

famished

it's a strange kind of joy

to be hungry

beyond

hunger, famished.

starving

for food.

for drink.

to long for a meal

of nearly anything.

to taste it all

as you slowly bite

down, and swallow.

and the same goes

for fatigue.

what joy there is in

finding

a bed at the end of a long

day, a long week.

falling into the feathers

with a sigh,

barely finding your lips 

to say good night.

the beauty of it all

as if i have a field

to plow

and worry on,

as if i have a barn

to hold the harvest,

as if i have

a horse, a cow,

a pen of pigs, i go on.

looking up into

the sky

concerned with rain,

or sun,

things being too wet,

too dry.

i go on.

i get up, alone

i lean into the new day

with coffee.

the radio on to music,

not news.

there is only one kind

of news these days.

bad news.

so why bother.

i look out at the field.

the fences.

the tilt of the scarecrow

the direction

of the weather vane.

i see the beauty of it all.

of hard work.

of true love.

i go on.

the ocean city boardwalk

i miss the smell

of the boardwalk, the salt

in the air,

the fried sugar,

the seafood and chicken.

pizza by the slice

from a window.

the swirls of cotton candy

stuck to the face

of children.

i miss the ping and bells

of the pin ball

machines.

the ocean at night, rolling

on and on.

the lace of waves.

the bloom of fireworks.

the lovers, just children,

hand in hand.

wanting life 

to always stay

this way.

the dull dark eyes

the brown body of a bat

was stuck

between the drain and brick

of her house.

it looked like the smallest

of gloves.

with eyes

and a mouth showing

teeth as sharp

as needles. a portent

of bad tidings

to come, perhaps.

who's to say how long

it was there.

no one taking the time

to remove it,

no one caring.

call it what you will, but

it told me so much

about her.

oh well, good luck

we meet at the zoo

for a walk.

we don't hold hands anymore.

that part

is over.

but we need to talk,

to bring

things to an end.

closure

some call it.

so we walk past the cages

holding lions.

holding

zebras,

wild birds in the air,

nets keeping

them from flying off.

we say little that hasn't

already been said.

we too were trapped,

i think, staring deeply

into the eyes

of a beast

holding tightly to the bars.

she hands me her keys,

kisses me on the cheek,

and says,

oh well. i guess that's it.

good luck.

the broken black crayon

you can watch a child

with a box

of crayons

go at it on the floor.

a coloring book open.

you can see

how it's going to go

in the coming years.

the one keeping the color

between the lines,

careful

to pick blue for the sky.

green for the grass.

and then there's the child

all over place,

with no reason or rhyme

to which crayon chosen.

they can't get enough of black.

crazy seems to start

somewhere between

three and four and from there,

there's no turning back.

before the next full moon

it's a crazy thought,

a politically incorrect way

of thinking,

but if all the people who

owned weapons

and ammunition

were sent to the moon,

or passed away,

wouldn't that solve the

problem of guns,

not in years to come,

but before the next

full moon.

when they say, i've changed

i like to hear

the story of when people change

for the better.

they've done the work,

the therapy.

they've read the books.

church is in the mix.

confession.

they've turned over a new

leaf, they tell you, 

and anyone that will listen.

they want the past

forgotten.

they want their life

to have a new start,

with all forgiven,

they are

full now of magical thinking.

and you accept that,

with your mind,

but forgiveness comes hard,

or never when

you deal with a heart.

the wide dark porch

her house

was next to cemetery.

a white clap board

arrangement,

ordered through

the Sears catalog

in 1932.

it had a large wide porch

to rock on.

to sip tea,

or eat.

to gossip, or laugh.

and in hard times,

weep.

there were chimes

that sang

all night.

she'd sit there

under the stars,

mostly alone in later

life, and look out

across the rolling hills

of the dead,

and wonder

what will mine be like.

the sharpened claws

we each have a set,

not unlike the lion in the wild.

we have claws,

but being

the civilized

part of the animal kingdom,

we keep

them inside,

retracted, not ready

in the moment

to strike,

to kill,

to defend our lives.

at least it used to be that way,

but now

i see them out.

i see the fear

in so many eyes.

it's a constant world

of live or die.

the memory gum

we choose what

we want

to remember.

what was said or done.

whether

good or bad.

not unlike

what's stuck to

the bottom of our

shoes.

there it is,

that sticky grey wad,

reluctant

to let go,

to come undone.

whisperings

forgetful at times.

too busy

to remember, or is it

at last the whispering

of old age.

leaving a key in the door,

forgetting

it's the day the maid comes

to clean

the bathrooms, the kitchen,

scrub the floors.

you forget

to buy what you need,

or why you

came to the store.

who's birthday have i missed?

what day is this?

feels like monday. 

but it isn't, is it?

i'm running late

we don't like when people

are late,

or delay,

or cancel at the last minute.

in no hurry to arrive.

what excuses are there

to make them that way?

the dog, the cat.

the traffic,

the weather.

or just the lack of interest

perhaps.

no promises

i don't want to discover

or uncover

a damning clue

about you.

sinking with a hole

a sturdy ship.

please be who you are.

hide nothing,

be transparent and true.

i'll try to do the same.

but no promises.

the steamed mirror

as i stand

in front of the steamed mirror

naked

and wet

a towel half

around me.

i  see my parents.

there they are, the lines

of my father

engraved.

the worried eyes

of my mother.

the hair line

the shoulders,

they way i lean

towards

the water to wash my

face.

it says nearly

everything there is to say

about who

i am today.

beer and a sandwich

some climb

the highest mountain,

some jump from planes.

some

go to the frozen

tundra

to prove something

about survival

in weather extremes.

they take a picture

at the summit,

of them falling

with arms spread wide.

some leap

from bridges

tethered to a cord.

they raft the wild gorge.

some wrestle

alligators,

putting their head into

a lion's mouth.

they need the excitement

the danger,

the thrill of it all.

whereas i like

to watch it with a sandwich

and a cold drink

from the comfort 

of my couch.

in her yellow dress

in her yellow dress

she was a different person.

she smiled more.

felt lighter,

more alive.

others took notice of her

when she wore

her yellow dress.

she was a wild spring

flower

in the sunlight, 

separate from the rest.

men and women alike

made comments

on her grace and style.

who are you

they wondered.

come sit near us a while.

fool's gold

some gold is not

gold.

it's fool's gold.

mere stones colored

to resemble

something of value.

you see where

i'm going with this

don't you?

as i write with 

my tooth 

and heart chipped.

the long distance writer

i will write myself into sleep.

i am the long distance

runner of words.

one foot before the other.

my lungs full of air.

empty of air.

i am neither in love, or without

love.

i stride towards a finish

line that isn't there.

not a gallop or sprint, but

a weary gate.

i keep at it.

running. writing. alone,

purposely alone,

away from others, but

knowing that

there are those out there

that miraculously care.

eternity

i  believe in kindness.

compassion,

the touch,

or kiss.

i'm easily persuaded

by beauty.

by the smell of love,

like a flower

held.

i believe in all the things

we learned

as kids.

forever and ever.

eternity.

impossible things

like this.

two drinks and tomorrow

strange how a drink

or two,

or at most

three, takes you into another realm

of thinking.

love is blurred,

life is

suddenly a sepia

photograph taken long ago.

the edges hazy,

the words slurred.

what is real

is less.

the curled edges of time

lie before you.

a sip of gin can take you there.

you forgive,

you forget.

you're willing to do things,

that in the morning,

you will regret.

and so it goes

and as the women

brushes

the child's hair in the mirror,

and the dog  is walked,

the dishes done.

the doors closed

and locked,

the man sits in his chair

and ponders

a  different world,

not this one.

it's his secret. his own

life beyond what is knoen.

she'll never know.

he'll never tell her about

the one he truly loved,

life will go one.

and so it goes.

the loving smother

some can't cut

the apron strings, 

they need to

stay close

to the offspring.

there when needed

with cash

or food, or clothes to be

washed,

grievances to be

soothed.

the mother or father

smothering

the child,

never quite letting 

them go, to be alone,

or grow.

casting a long dark

shadow 

that smothers them

until

one dies, or 

eventually grows old.

the factory parts

they're putting new

hips into people

up at the senior village.

new knees,

new shoulders, new

hearts even.

new lenses

for the cataracts,

new kidneys.

they're rerouting

arteries. shaving

off bone,

breaking and setting

twisted arms

and legs

from getting old.

but i'm holding out as

long as i can,

keeping my factory

parts

until the bitter end.

the blur of high school

i don't know a single person

from high school.

not one

soul is still in my

ever decreasing social

circle,

fifty years down

the road and still

there is no one from that time

period

that i call, or text

or visit. it's the same 

as it was back then,

nothing has changed.

one raised eyebrow

when

she lifted her eyebrow

in your direction,

you

stopped

talking.

you were in some

kind of trouble

and there would be hell

to pay

before the night

was over,

leading all the way

through morning and

into the next day.

the recipe

the recipe

of life is very simple.

don't hurt anyone

and don't get hurt.

oh how easy

that sounds.

when our hearts are

filled with

imaginary love,

our heads 

in the clouds.

a carton full of cracked eggs

i should have opened

the carton

of eggs,

like i see people do in

the store.

looking for the broken

ones.

but no.

i took it home,

sight unseen.

more were cracked

than uncracked.

the shells crumbled.

the yolk spilled.

the whites running.

i should have vetted

the carton

better.

you'd think i would have

learned these things

after the last

relationship.

same old

vote for me,

he pleads on the phone.

please.

won't you come to the polls

today

and pull the lever

for me.

see how i smile.

i want

what you want.

i want success and health

and wealth.

i want

all men and women

to be free.

don't tread on me.

look, i'm waving

my flag on

the highway.

be a patriot, an American.

vote, you must vote.

it's what keeps

us free.

luck be a lady tonight

with no need

to apologize to anyone

anymore

for the wrong things

i may have

said, or

done, or left undone.

i haven't bought

a bouquet

of flowers, or

a heart shaped box

of chocolates

in ages.

no special hallmark card

with music.

or song.

no lengthy letter

explaining my deeds,

no ring or bracelet from

Kay Jewelers.

not a single poem.

i feel lucky to be walking

around guilt free.

what am I

there is strange

confusion of sex

gender

these days,

whatever

the case may be.

don't call me she or her,

or him

or he.

we're not sure

anymore what to be.

so let's use

an ungrammatical

term like they

or them

to muddy the water.

no need to lift my

dress or drop

my drawers to determine

which restroom

i should use, 

when i need to pee.

a dying flower

it's inevitable.

but we all become irrelevant

at some point.

live long

enough

and you become

an after thought.

someone who used to be someone.

loved and embraced.

now you're a dying flower

turned towards the sun

watered with words

but for the most

part no longer

a part of anyone's thoughts.

shadowed by a curtain

of lace.

two black bags

when i see the man

carrying

two black garbage bags down

the path,

i nod

as he passes, he nods

back.

i turn around and see him

set the bags

down.

he walks away. saying nothing.

i want to know

what's in the bags,

why here at the end

of the path, 

near the stream, 

why not set

them on the curb for monday

pickup.

strange. indeed.

i go on.

preferring mystery instead

of drama

and what i might find,

and see.

finding a tree to hug

i'll forgo

the christmas tree

this year, as

i did

the pumpkin,

the valentine heart,

the easter

basket

and the fireworks

on the fourth

with a hot dog and beer.

i'll forgo

labor day too,

and memorial day with

the flag

raised above the roof.

i'm all about

arbor day

this year.

i'll go out and find

a tree to hug

then rest upon its roots.

when you know you know

you get an itch

to get out,

to bail

in the presence

of certain souls.

who pretend

a friendliness of sorts.

too loud, too brash,

too quick to

praise and slap

you on the back.

you know but don't know

what exactly it is

that's wrong.

you just

know. 

you know?

the game

so much is a game.

a roll of the dice,

save,

collect, borrow.

work.

shelter and food, coming

first.

the nest.

than a wife,

or husband, a child

or two comes

next.

keep socking it away

beneath

the mattress.

get old. get older.

then hauled away

to be with

strangers,

then laid to rest.

the remedy for sadness

when i'm sad

and lonely, when the world

around me

has grown dark,

when it never seems

to stop raining,

and my aches and pains

have gone

on too long.

i stop and think of you

with absolutely

nothing on.

it surprises us

it surprises us

when the light burns out

with a mute pop,

the spoiled milk

in its box,

smelled.

we are slightly shocked

at the tire

losing air, the absence

of gas

to get us there.

the end of love.

we know these things are

coming, but still

we almost never expect

them to happen.

survival

survival is surrender.

we give in to the rain.

to the weather.

to others.

no longer putting up the fight.

we let the ocean carry

us.

the wind in our sails,

we give permission for

the world

to take us where we need

to go,

we throw up the white

flag. we

go with the flow.

passing through

the gate is resistant

to my pull.

the hinges rusted, the latch

loose.

not many that have

wandered here

have passed through.

i have to lift,

then give it a careful tug

to open.

it reminds me so much

of you.

our secret lives

we all have a secret life.

no one

knows everything about us,

nor do we

know them.

it's best this way.

no need to allay one's fears

and desires.

wearing

our true emotions on

our sleeve.

let's keep our lips sealed.

let's not be

judged by who we truly are,

let the image rule

the day.

I Wove You Too

i think i wove you, she says.

after we make

love for the third time

in ten hours.

we lie in bed exhausted,

a foot apart because

of the sweat.

we've got nothing left.

what?

what did you say?

i said i think i wove you.

what does that mean?

i've never heard

that word before.

Wove?

it's a new word, she says.

i made it up.

it's somewhere between

like and love.

saying love, is bad luck.

oh, okay.

i wove you too.

you're not wearing any pants

the neighbor knocks lightly

at the door,

i see her bespectacled face

through the peep hole.

it's nearly eleven o'clock at night.

excuse me, she says.

as i crack the door open,

don't mean to bother you,

but the lights on in your car,

oh and you left

your keys in the door, and um,

you're not wearing any pants.

thanks, i tell her, running

out to turn the lights off, ignoring

her last observation.

finding shangri-la

we're in horse country.

wine country.

everyone blonde and wearing boots

half way up

their legs.

there's a white mercedes.

a black

jag,

a cream colored bentley.

money is blowing

in the streets like leaves.

it's a skinny world,

of tight skin

and tight jeans.

you need reservations for

coffee.

everyone seems to know

everyone.

no one being who they seem

to be.

and look up in the field,

by that

white mansion

there's a horse or two.

some cows.

it's shangri-la, this is where

we need to be.

4th grade instructions

they told us

to wrap our arms around

our head

and ball up

under our desks

when the alarm sounded.

once the initial

blast is over, grab your

books and your

coats and

run home, those of you

not on fire

and find your parents.

okay.

now let's all have lunch

and then

recess.

perhaps a nice game

of tether ball.

done with wild things

i used to like the wild girls.

the crazy ones

with big hair and big eyes,

big lips,

big other stuff too.

but i've changed.

i don't need that kind

of excitement anymore.

the brash and bold big

mouth girls that you spun

around the dance floor.

give me the wallflower.

the quiet one. the beauty

reading a book, or

shyly looking over, with

a cat like look.

a change of season

they know what's coming.

the birds

the fox.

the nocturnal beings

lurking in

our shadows.

they feel the air,

the altered clouds,

a shift

of wind.

they get ready, as we do,

as winter begins.

unlearned,

no words, no books,

no voice to guide them.

they just know.

how good it is to

just know.

the vine yard

the hills roll westward,

the vines

dormant.

a pink yellow sun

blends

into the blue

beyond the trees.

we have nowhere else to

go, so we stir the fire,

we warm

our hands over the flames.

life should always

be this good.

we have no worry for

now, at what

tomorrow might bring.

buying the food scale

do i really need

a food scale?

has it come to that.

measuring by

weight instead of volume.

being exact

with my

recipes for new dishes.

leaving out the carbs

and sugar

and keeping in the fat.

when in my life

have i ever

been so precise?

maybe never,

but times have changed,

so we adapt.

the basics of life

they don't teach

you

the basics of life in

high school.

it's all trigonometry

and science,

learning

the periodic table,

so much history

to memorize.

they don't tell you

how to scramble

an egg, or fix a flat.

they leave out the part

about love

and marriage,

children

and all that.

dead roses

even when the roses

have died,

limp in the vase,

petals

falling to the side,

that once

beautiful bouquet

now dried,

even then

it's hard

to toss them aside.

the shortening christmas card list

some people are just not

good

at staying in touch.

an occasional call, or card,

or text.

while others stay in touch

too much.

full of information you don't

give a fig about.

and then there

are those who have disappeared

off the face of the earth.

never  to be seen or heard

from again. maybe it was

something said, or done,

or undone.

oh well, farewell.

so sorry that our friendship

had to burn out.

testing testing

i test the water

before jumping in, 

dangling

a foot

into the glossy pool.

i test the tea

before i sip, 

i blow upon the steam.

the soup too.

the stew.

the marshmallow off

the fire.

sticky with goo.

i'm testing everything

these days

before i let them in,

even you.

shot of love

none of us are bullet proof.

we can't

dodge what's coming out

of the barrel,

we can't stop it with our

hand, there's no time

to duck, or run,

or hide.

we all get nicked

or driven to the ground at some

point.

live long enough

and you'll find a bullet

in your heart, never

to forget the bang.

just a pinch of salt

all day

she spends in the kitchen.

at last coming out

with a spoon full of sauce.

taste this, she says.

tell me

what it needs, if anything.

i close my eyes and

taste,

then tell her maybe just

a pinch of salt.

she sighs, and mutters,

i can never please you.

my mother was right,

this will never work.

finding trust

we have to trust.

there's no way around it.

we trust

the trains, the buses.

the planes we board.

we trust,

that our shoes will get us 

to where

we need to go.

we trust this drink

in our hand,

this food.

we trust the cop on the street,

the vendor.

we trust the lights,

the water.

we trust and believe

the doctors holding our

lives

in their hands,

we trust so much in the world,

but sadly not each other

remembering cars

i remember

the cars.

each color.

how they drove, the smell

of them.

the sounds they made

going down

a road.

i remember washing them,

waxing,

changing the oil.

putting air into the tires.

cleaning them up for a date

i had

that night.

the blare of each horn

as i pulled up

to her house.

the bang of the door

as she got in.

the vinyl back seats.

i like them now

i change

my mind about them

when i hear

the music coming from

their window.

the sultry blues,

the horns,

the strings, the longing

voice

of etta james.

i like them now.

where as before i wasn't

sure.

where do they go

i wonder

where they go, when in trouble.

those

who have no God,

no religion.

no prayer

in their heart,

no pleading to a higher

power

for a truer path,

no bending upon one's

knees

to clarify the troubles

at hand,

or needs,

where do they go?

strangely

they are so unlike me,

who is not strong enough

to not believe.

between the years

we come up for air.

we relish

this small hour between

work.

between days

and years.

it's all very slow,

very fast.

but a moment in the sun

is fine.

lying here

in the grass,

we breathe, we close

our eyes.

we are going forward

without the past.

coming out of the water

when she comes

out of the water, shining

in the wet

and sun

unaware of her own

beauty,

i remember

what it was like

to be alone.

but that was then,

and this is now

as she smiles

and sits down beside

me.

finding the middle ground

i want the four star

hotel.

she wants a sleeping bag

by a campfire.

i want room service

and a rib eye

steak.

she wants to open

a can of beans with a pair

of pliers.

i want the big screen

tv.

she wants the stars at night.

i want quiet,

she wants crickets

and coyotes

howling.

there has to be a middle

ground somewhere.

watching the detectives

as a child

i wanted to be a detective.

i couldn't wait

for get smart to come on,

or james bond,

or columbo in his wrinkled

rain coat.

i studied

their investigative

ways.

how they pieced the clues

together,

one step a time,

one fingerprint

or hair fallen away.

they knew how

to follow

and eavesdrop, they

lingered in the shadows,

or wore

disguises.

i had no idea that i'd

be using it all one

day

in a marriage gone south,

with a wife who

ran astray.

she almost resembles you

two drinks

seems to be the limit now.

and even

then when morning comes

i'm reaching

for the aspirin,

the tylenol.

it was different back in

the day.

how we could drink

and dance

and eat

and flirt until the clock

struck two.

remember that

remember how it was

with me and someone

that almost

resembles you?

see you in the spring

turn back

the clock, go ahead

and

lose the hour of daylight.

i don't mind.

take what you want,

what you need

from me.

i'm just renting things

to begin with.

none of this

is really mine.

so have your extra

hour

of darkness.

it's fine with me.

see you in the spring

if you're still

around.

water under the bridge

at some point

there is more behind us

than ahead of us.

which is not a bad thing.

water under

the bridge they call it.

be glad for

the river that pulls the years

away.

to have them all

pool up in front of you

would be unbearable.

be thankful

for this new rain, this new

water, this new day.

the shared woods

okay.

i say to the fox, as it steps

lightly

in front of me,

giving me

a look of mild surprise.

it stops to gaze at me

as i sit on a stone,

near the opening of woods.

okay,

i nod.

we're good. go on

with your life

i'm

just passing through 

as i wait

for the moon

to rise.

making room for the new

before the trees

fall on their own

they go at them with

power

saws

and men climbing with

spiked boots,

helmets,

tools,

scaling the great oaks

that have

been growing

since time

began.

fat and round, tall, but

now a danger

to the new

row of homes.

down they go.

made smaller

and hauled away.

cleared, so that a new

sprig can be planted

and grow.

stamps, you know, stamps?

do you have any stamps

i ask her,

what,

what are those?

stamps, you know. little sticky

squares that you

press onto the corner

of an envelope.

when you pay a bill,

i write a check and stick

a stamp onto the right corner

of an envelope

then drop it into a mailbox

at the P.O.,

or slide it halfway

out my door slot.

so that the mailman

can take it when he does

his route.

stamps, you know. stamps?

how old are you, she says.

let me hop on your knee

grandpa,

and you tell me about

your rotary dial phone 

hanging

on the kitchen wall, or

your butter churn

next to the little wooden stool.

she says, i'm done with men

my friend, Betty, says she's done

with men.

i might switch to the other

side now.

i'm tired of men.

they want just one thing, and then

they're gone

until the next time.

women aren't like that.

they'll text you when they get

home.

they keep you updated on their

cats, and what they're doing

with the ball at the end off a stick.

they send you pictures of their garden

what's growing, what isn't,

or the cake they just took out

of the oven.

they know what a garlic press is,

they're not afraid to cry

and share their deepest secrets.

they want to share colors and fabrics

with you, discussing

the new fall fashion.

men, don't seem to care.

give them food, give them some

fun and poof, they're gone

until they're hungry again.

i'm ready for a women, but i

haven't found one i want

to kiss quite yet.

the daily grind

the man on the corner,

his chair, his sign,

his bags

of clothes.

he no longer rises and goes

from car to car.

you have to get out

now and go to him,

to hand him a dollar or

two for his

trip out of town, or gin.

like most of us, the

day to day has got him down,

the daily grind.

he's blue.

he's tired.

he needs a vacation from

doing so much.

and so do you.

nothing less

nothing less

than wonderful comes to

you

like a summer breeze.

she arrives

suddenly

without notice.

she's here

as if she's always been here.

crystal clear.

a breath

of fresh air.

she's always been near,

just waiting

for you to turn around.

missing the madness

sometimes i miss

the drama,

the arguing, the searching

for the meaning

in life in the midst

of chaos.

i miss the sadness,

the sorrow,

the crazy times.

the adrenaline spike.

the cortisol

surge,

the dopamine rush.

i miss the madness

of that life,

and then i slap

myself and like a soldier

no longer in battle,

move on.

the fragile glass

when  glass breaks

you can't

get it all up no matter

how hard you try.

it sticks around.

the thin shards, the pointed

crumble,

the sliver

stuck somewhere

waiting to be found

by an errant step,

or reach.

it wants revenge

for treating it unkind.

riding out of town

i like a man

who can get up and leave

with one suitcase

in his hand.

leaving everything behind.

starting over

from scratch.

i like that cowboy code

of just riding out

of town into the sunset

without looking back.

it's so romantic

and bold. although

none of it is ever true.

there's always something,

or someone

left behind

that won't let go.

the spider web

i come eye to eye

with a giant

spider in the back yard.

her web

reaches from one

fence to the other,

i can't get out the back

gate without going

through it.

she looks at me

and shakes her head,

pointing with one

long arm to go under.

please, her spooky eyes beg.

it's a beautiful web.

well constructed.

i can see the fine thread

of it meticulously

connected in squares

and rectangles, gleaming wet

in the early morning

sun. i appreciate it.

the fine art of capture.

so i go under.

the list of never agains

here's the list

of what i don't want to do

anymore.

go dancing.

meet your family.

walk your dog.

eat kale, liver, 

or indian food.

watch a hallmark

movie.

listen

to opera,

go camping.

watch a soccer game.

climb a mountain,

wrestle alligators.

get on a horse or

a ferris wheel.

jump out of a plane.

give a speech.

get married again.

what else you got?

who are you voting for,

she asks me.

red or blue?

oh my, i tell her, letting

out a sigh of exasperation.

what else you got.

green?

yellow? maybe a nice

sunset pink?

don't be silly, she says,

pounding a sign

into my yard

of an oily man waving.

what are they fighting

over this year, i ask.

same old, she says

taxes, abortion, immigration,

schools,

vaccines.

bike lanes.

you know, the usual stuff

they stir up on the news.

but you should vote,

it's what makes this

country so great.

there's a referendum on

gun control

that you should really vote

against.

shame to not allow us

to buy machine guns anymore,

don't you think?

crispy beef and mai tai

i run into

the bus boy at hunan west

at the super market.

we look at each other,

and squint our eyes.

he points at me

and says, crispy beef

and mai tai, right?

dang, i tell him. you got

it. quite a memory you

have there. jimmy, or is

it joe.

not even close he says,

laughing,

we miss you though, come

back soon.

we're open now

for sit down.

heckler in the crowd

there was always one guy

in the crowd

a heckler, giving Jesus a hard time

at his sermons,

following him from town to town,

hoping for a free meal 

and wine.

what's up with all the stories,

he'd yell out,

the metaphors,

we're not all in the Mensa

club here.

don't quit your day job,

he'd shout. but

Jesus would ignore him

and press on, having

incredible focus

and no need for cue cards.

just give us the scoop,

the man would yell,

give it to us straight.

come on, i heard this same

sermon back in Judea.

really, camel through the eye

of a needle.

my brain hurts just

trying to envision that.

woman at the well, water

into wine? throw the net

over the side of the boat?

what are you some kind

of magician?

jimminy crickets, quit beating

around the burning bush

and just give us the rules

for staying out of hell.

the crowd would murmur

and get restless

waiting for a lightning bolt

to take the guy out.

eventually Peter

would go over

with his giant staff and give

the guy a look,

which quieted him down, then

he'd signal the wine pourer, Mary,

that this guy was cut off.

raising my standards

i've raised my standards

even further

than usual.

the old standards were

women breathing,

with original girl parts.

if my standards were a limbo stick now

you couldn't get

under it.

if you can basically

fold a fitted sheet,

and you know who tom waits

is and have never

been under psychiatric care

we're a match.

i know that eliminates

most of the first world

women, but hey,

you have to raise the bar

eventually.

kissing skills would be nice too.

fig newtons? really?

growing up, i never once 

heard a kid,

or an adult

request a fig newton cookie.

never.

and yet, somehow there

always seemed

to be a bag of them

around the house.

we never questioned our

parents as to who the hell

Newton was,

was that the same guy who

discovered gravity? 

He made cookies too? dang.

anyway,

you noticed them

once the good cookies

were gone.

the oreos, the chocolate chips,

even the lame

vanilla wafers were devoured

before the fig newtons.

but there they were

in the open  bag, three rows

of  mushy

crumbly squares holding

a glob of semi hardened

fig guts.

you'd look at one and grimace

as you put it into

your mouth, biting down

on God knows what,

reaching for the milk

to quickly wash the taste away.

worrying about the little stuff

sometimes

you almost need a hurricane

or an earthquake,

a tornado perhaps.

maybe a tsunami to

rise up out of the ocean.

of course with no

death and destruction,

but a harmless

disaster, something to

rattle your cage, to

wake you up and

get the blood going again,

a nice big dose of

smelling salts to make

you grateful for all

that you have and

to get you to stop

whining about the little

stuff.

finding a note on my pillow

if i see a note

on the door, or on the table,

or on

my pillow, or

taped

to the bathroom mirror

i don't bother reading

it anymore.

it's never good.

it's never you won the lottery.

or i love you.

i miss you,

can't wait to ravish your

bones when

i get home.

it's the opposite.

so i just ball it up without

looking

and assume the worst.

who are you calling nuts, buddy

the guy in the car next

to me

motions with his hand

to his ear.

spinning a finger

it's the international sign

indicating,

that someone is nuts.

he keeps at it until the light

changes

and we both move on.

i shake my head.

he doesn't even know me,

how dare he think

i'm crazy.

sure i have my bad days.

he has no idea

what i've been through.

the drama and trauma

with a bunch of wacky

women. how dare he give

me the crazy sign.

and then i touch my ear

at the next red light

and feel a big glob

of shaving cream

stuck in it.

Jeff? who's Jeff?

when people

no longer want you to fix

them a cup

of coffee or tea,

or walk them to the door,

when they no longer

kiss you goodbye

on the lips, but instead

turn a cheek,

when they don't return

your calls,

or texts, when they forget

your birthday,

or mistakenly call you Jeff,

when they

no longer leave a note

behind when

they depart, saying love

you. you're the best.

we'll, guess what.

game over.

heading west

the goal was to get to California.

to the beach

to the sun

the surf.

the girls.

that was the mission at hand.

Malibu, here we come.

we loaded up

the chevy.

cashed out our savings,

bought our beach clothes

and headed

west.

we made it to Front Royal

Virginia,

which was where

the car broke down

and we had to call our

parents to come and rescue

us.

something in the water?

is there a day that goes

by when

you don't run into someone who

you think is crazy,

whether on the street,

in a store,

driving their car.

you shake your head and mutter

to yourself,

what the hell is wrong

with people these days,

as you swiftly head home.

the power to forgive

they are liars,

misinformed, delusional

gurus

telling you that you have to

forgive to move on.

bullshit.

forgive yourself yes,

but the one

who did you wrong, no.

let them

apologize

first.

show regret and remorse.

you want to hear

the words

i'm sorry.

and then we'll talk

about forgiveness,

but not until then.

giving it one more night

as i stand

at the open fridge,

the cold light

chilling my bare legs,

i look at the sliced meat loaf

on a plate.

will i ever eat that again,

most likely not,

but i can't toss it just yet.

it's only been

one day

since it was made.

i'll let it rest in peace

for now.

my compassion for

left overs

is limited, at best.

jumper cables

in the old days,

when most cars were junk.

breaking

down as you drove them off

the show room floor,

the first killing

frost would doom

the battery and someone would

be tapping on

your car window

asking you if they could

get a jump.

they'd show you their

cables

swinging them in the air

like rubber snakes.

so you'd get out,

lift the hood after easing

your car

in front of theirs

and plug the clamps on

to the bolts.

okay. start her up, you'd

yell. always referring  to

the car as a woman,

because it reminded you

of so many woman you

had known,

who also, on a cold morning,

wouldn't turn over.

thirty one days

i think back

and try to recall if anything

other than

thanksgiving

came good or unraveled

in november.

not a single drama

filled day comes

to mind.

so i'm good with this month.

let it be a long one.

closing time

we close

so many things.

our doors,

the windows when the weather

has turned

towards  cold.

we shut down

the garden,

locking the gate,

we finish up

our the summer things.

folding clothes

into the cedar chest.

we hunker down,

we contemplate.

we set out the salt bags,

the shovel

we close down

the year

as the next one waits.

the lone indian kid

one kid,

shows up at the door

dressed

as an indian.

i cringe,

but don't lecture him

on the cancel

culture thing and 

all that. there's

a single feather sticking

our from his head

band.

he's wearing war paint

and carrying

a rubber tomahawk,

there's a quill

of arrows

strapped to his

leathery vest.

i figure he's a conservative

kid so

i give him a dollar bill.

here you go Tonto,

don't spend it all in one place.

huh, he says

no candy?

nope. sugar's bad for you.

he shakes his head,

you people, he says

and walks away.

the horror

i curl up

with a cup of hot tea,

on this halloween,

a box of kleenex

between my knees.

i turn on a hallmark

movie to another

christmas saga

and wipe my tears away.

i open up

a quart of rocky

road, 

curled beneath

the blankets,

settled in between

the feather pillows.

i light a candle

for ambiance.

wait a minute,

that's you, not me.

i'm watching

a horror movie,

where some masked

crazy person

is  terrorizing a town

and some

slinky knucklehead

babes.

only the third time i've

seen it,

but it's so nuanced you

tend to miss

the details.

tap dancing

there is no

sound track to your life.

no sheet music

to speak of.

no drum rolls

for the dramatic parts,

no violin for sadness.

there is no

orchestra,

no band, no trio

or crooner singing your

song.

it's just you alone

in the spot light,

tap dancing through

your days,

insisting that the show

go on.

living larger

after working your fingers

to the bone

for most of your life, 

you reach

the point

of upgrading.

no longer content

with the econo-

lodge,

or holiday inn,

the continental breakfast

at motel six.

you want a better room

with a better view.

valet parking.

the king size bed,

the stocked mini bar

you want extra towels

and cotton sheets.

you want room service

with a full menu.

you want the wake up call

and the do not disturb

sign on the door.

you want the sauna

and the pool.

you want a massage.

you want them to know

your name

when you arrive or leave,

you want to hear the words,

come back soon.

a cold front moving through

it's the season

of what

do we wear today.

coat,

sweater.

t-shirt.

long pants or shorts.

sandals

or boots.

it could change any

moment with

a cold front

moving through.

maybe i'll

pack a back and be

ready for

any season.

just as i do with you.

the first date desire

don't even say that you

love me

when you dodge

my kisses,

turning your cheek to the side.

and when i put

my arm around

you, you cringe now.

you jump away

as if i'm on fire

when my hand

reaches for yours.

what's the meaning of

this?

are we done now,

just say it?

after two dates, is it

possible that you've

lost your first date desire?

strangely content

i don't mind waiting

anymore.

i used to fidget

and stare at

my watch,

tapping my fingers

or foot,

grumbling about the late

arrival of a train

or bus,

or dinner mate.

no more with that.

i sit patiently now.

perfectly content with

where i am.

i sit and peruse

the menu. observe what

others are doing.

i'm strangely content

these days

when i have to wait.

the moral dilemma

it's a moral dilemma

whether to hand

out candy to children this year

as they go about

in their costumes

for Halloween.

giving them

sugar.

the true poison of our time.

creating and contributing

to so much obesity

and disease.

do i get them going 

on the nutritional

road to hell 

with a milky way or

an almond joy.

do i clog their little hearts

with gum

and lollypops,

rot their teeth with

mary janes, and butter

fingers?

do i expand their bellies

with a candy apple,

perhaps.

what about a nice little

baggie of fresh broccoli?

steamed with a pad of butter,

lightly salted,

let's see how that goes

this year.

we are men, we fix things

as men we fix things.

not ourselves, of course, don't

be silly,

but other things.

we have our tools in the garage,

turn the light on

and see how clean. 

look there on the work bench,

a handy vise.

see the assortment of saws,

the hack saw, box saw,

and above it

there hangs

the phillips head screw drivers,

the flat heads too, 

the pliers, the socket wrench.

see how they're all aligned

by size.  neatly in rows

how they shine.

below on a shelf

there rests the hammer.

not one, but three, the mallet,

the claw,

the sledge.

and least i forget, the drawers

of nails,

the brads, the commons, 

the wood screws,

the screws for dry wall

screws for all sorts of projects

that might lie ahead.

and in a separate drawer

there's wire and string,

an assortment of tapes

and glue.

we are men,

we fix things. now let's take

a look at your broken shoe.

green jello in the air

as the family gathered around

her, as she lay dying,

the room darkened, the beeps

and blinks of machines

keeping her alive. 

they texted

and read magazines,

they talked

about her life,.

telling tales out of school,

remember the time she did

this, or that. oh my.

she did get around, didn't she.

the drinking the smoking.

money trouble. three husbands.

remember when she dyed her

hair blue, pffft, what a nut,

pretty much a life of lies,

and then suddenly she sat up

and threw her cup of green jello 

across the room,

hey, hey she said, i can

still hear you people, i'm

not dead yet. i'm still alive.

really, split pea soup?

as one unanimous

protest,

the seven of us let

out a loud groan

when my

mother announced

she was making split pea

soup for dinner,

with the ham bone in.

who cares about a dumb ham bone? yo.

my father's favorite.

something was up.

maybe he'd be home early

tonight.

curtailing his drinking and

flirtations.

we shook our heads

and sighed.

thinking of later

when we'd make

our sandwiches with 

wonder bread, 

crunchy peanut

butter and jelly inside.

wretched weather

you rarely hear

the word wretched anymore.

it sounds

English, British,

maybe my

friend Ingrid, from Ireland

might toss that

word around.

Wretched weather were

having, eh?

bloody hell, this rain,

she might say.

she refuses to give up

on her native language,

or pint of beer, not glass,

or potatoes

and boiled beef.

it's hard to dispose of 

the red hair and freckles

too i imagine.

the scarecrow

the scarecrow

in the field, nailed to the post

a martyr of sorts.

scaring

nothing away.

a bird sits on her arms,

her straw hair.

her eyes are painted

in.

the nose long.

the ears.

how strange she is,

hanging there

with no heart to speak of.

living each

day

with her own fear,

unable to move

away from who she really is.

any minute now

any minute now

i'm going to get up out of this

chair,

drink the last gulp of coffee

and go

stain a gazebo in lorton.

any minute.

soon.

any second now.

why is it so windy out?

and rainy.

it's friday, can't i stay home?

i give a zero on that delivery

the notice says that the package

has arrived.

i look out the door.

nope.

nothing.

nada.

i step out onto the porch

in my boxer shorts

to see if it's in

the bushes, or on a neighbor's

porch.

still nothing.

i go  back online.

how was your delivery,

the message says.

please give us a rating

if you have the time.

i type in zero.

and the robot types back,

thank you.

she had that going for her

betty

was a hell of a baker.

she couldn't cook worth

a can of beans,

but put her

in the kitchen with

sugar, eggs, flour and butter

and a rolling pin,

stand back

brother.

there wasn't a cookie

you could name that she

couldn't whip

up in a 325 oven.

parchment paper, no

problem.

a cookie sheet greased.

nuts and sprinkles.

any shape, any size, 

look out,

she had a dozen cooling

on the sill in

no time.

marriage counseling

i remember those days

on the boat,

signaling mayday

to the coast guard,

come save me, tow me in.

i'd send up a flare into

the dark windy sky,

the ocean filling the deck,

as i pumped it out again.

my life jacket on,

as i took the wheel of

the doomed ship,

not yet willing to let

it go down.

i saw no land, no other

ships around.

just me, locked in

this storm

unwilling to drown.

nothing has changed

his hearing

hard,

his vision blurred, 

his mind though is sharp

as puts his

hand to pen

and paper to send you

a note.

all is well, he writes.

nothing

has changed or

ever will

with you and him.

a very strange way to

go through life.

the little mouse maze

you can always tell when

someone is lying, holding

out on you,

not giving you the whole

story,

the complete picture.

it's in their eyes, their

hesitancy, they mumble

and avert their gaze.

it's not lying exactly,

but lying by omission.

you want to shake it out

of them, but what's the

point. you'll find out

eventually, you'll find

the cheese, but it's hell being

in their little mouse maze.

the perils of pauline

i imagine

there's another girl lost.

there seems

to be a new one

each week.

fallen off a cruise

ship,

lost on an island,

the boyfriend or husband

a suspect in

their disappearance.

it's headline

news.

the pretty blonde,

the shiny brunette,

the perfect

person, now gone

with everybody searching.

the reporters

going on breathlessly

about

each clue in the case.

it sells soap,

the beer, 

like the perils of pauline

you can hardly

wait.

one cold cat

funny how

she despised cats.

seeing that they were one

and the same.

selfish

and aloof,

mysteriously unhappy

about nearly

everything.

purring only to be fed

or pleased.

you never knew

what she

wanted, or thought,

or felt.

and she did all 

that she could

to keep it that way,

wondering

on my knees.

down to the bone

there is something 

about fatigue

that attracts you.

the slow

climb up the stairs,

the steam of bath water

the shedding of

clothes

down to the bone.

tossing the phone into

the air, not caring

where it lands.

there is sweet joy in being

tired, leaving the mail

on the floor,

message unanswered.

not giving a fig

about anything, but a cold

drink. a short nap.

then dinner,

then nothing with your feet

up in the air.

who are you, exactly?

it's an awkward

time,

the party.

no where to sit,

or escape

questioning.

who are you,

where do you work,

who did you come with.

you smile

and answer as best

you can.

searching for the door,

sipping your drink,

wishing it was

stronger.

this isn't your cup of

tea,

these situations.

small talk

is like poison to you.

ten minutes in

and you're ready to bolt,

to flee.

opening the curtains

i worried about her.

her removing all her

clothes as soon as we

got into the hotel room,

opening the curtains.

her need to flaunt herself

in front of people passing by.

what are you doing, i'd

ask her, as she flung

her dress towards me.

enjoying the view.

she'd say. just waving

and saying hi.

don't worry, she'd say.

i'm all yours, it's going to

be a long long night.

no school bus

has there ever been

a more true

happiness than

the school bus not arriving

on the corner

to pick you up.

what joy you felt.

no school today.

the parents already gone,

impossible to walk

the ten miles to class.

the relief of it all

as you walked back home

with books in hand

then grabbed a ball and glove,

eating your

lunch already.

the fear is here to stay

the news

about the virus is more

sickening

than the virus itself.

the hysteria

of it all.

the death count.

to get the shot or not.

the physicians

the politicians, 

the actors, the musicians.

everyone has

a say on what to do.

who's right,

who's wrong, who knows.

but the fear is

here to stay.

the end of us

we pay for

our room,

our food.

the paltry view of the road.

we check in

and leave

in two days

before noon.

we're back on

the highway.

me and you.

but with different

maps.

the end of us

has come

too soon.

perfectly imperfect

by design,

not flawed, we are perfectly

imperfect.

the stutter

or uncertain walk,

the eyes

not set,

the nose too long.

too thin,

too round.

it doesn't matter.

there is plenty of love

in the world,

more than enough

to go around.

when God pokes you in the eye

i like a direct

answer from God

after lengthy aching

prayer.

when he takes a stick 

and pokes you in the eye 

with it

leaving you no doubt

of what you have to do.

that sharp jab of pain

is worth it.

He tried the other ways,

with a gentle hand, but

you wouldn't listen.

a house with roses

i'm more interested

in the boarded up houses,

who lived there,

who left it like this?

the rusted

swing set in the yard,

the blackened brick

from fire.

the bike with one wheel

on its seat.

i want to know about the tire

chained to the tree.

the refrigerator

without a door, pink, and

leaning against

the wall.

an old car on blocks,

the hood up.

i want to know about the broken

windows,

the clinging shutters,

who planted those roses

in the garden, still insisting

to grow?

asleep below the stars

as we lie

under these stars

the fire nearly out.

the trees dancing

in the moonlight

we talk of our lives.

where we've been

and with who.

we ponder what's next.

where will we go.

how long do we have.

we decide not to worry.

but to breathe in

this mountain air.

to listen to the stream

rush against the rocks.

we fall asleep

with that,

touching each other

before our eyes close.

making room for something new

we find room

for things we like.

a picture,

a vase.

a chair.

people too.

we make

an effort to clean out

a corner,

a wall.

we set aside old things

and time

for someone new,

we make a small sacrifice

to give

way to change, although

we find it quite hard

to do.

when karma shows up

i'm not sure if i believe

in karma.

the whole energy thing.

the reverse

of the law of attraction.

but i do

think that in the long run

there is payback.

that we all get what's coming

to us.

be good and good comes

to you.

be evil

and well, there's a dark

storm coming.

and you can't stop what's coming.

the gourmet photos

i'm so proud of my

shrimp

and broccoli dish,

that i just have to take

a picture

and send it off to all

my peeps.

oil, butter,

a dash of salt and pepper.

i print it off and

add it to my collection

of other

gourmet creations.

scrambled eggs

with bacon.

cheese as well. sharp cheddar.

then the masterpiece of

chicken legs

with rice,

and least i forget

the fettucine with alfredo

sauce,

home made.

next week, pbj

on rye.

stay tuned.

Get out of the way, i can't see the tv

in the olden days,

the sixties,

we were always

messing with the tv

trying to get a picture

on the black and white

RCA box.

we twisted levers,

adjusted

the volume,

the horizontal had

it's own knob.

the vertical too.

there was no reception

without a wad

of tin foil

cupped onto the rabbit

ears

and pointed at some

distant moon.

we opened up the back

to a webbed assortment

of tubes,

and gently pulled one out

to replace it

with another.

if all else failed

we slapped the side

with our hands to heal

the mysterious trouble within,

and resurrect a picture.

before leaving

the crackle

of wood

under the blanket of

fire.

you close your

eyes

and remember

the burning leaves

in a barrel.

your father

with  rake in hand

his blue eyes

two startling 

but distant lights,

looking into yours

on this cold

fall day.

his exit 

already planned.