the first time

the first time

you see the ocean

you stand there. 

you can hardly

believe

it's true.

so much water

so far

out and wide.

the crash of waves.

it seems impossible.

this sand

this blue.

all of it just as you believed

it would be.

like love,

you're glad it's true.

the body knows

your body

knows what to do.

it knows

when to run,

when to stay put,

when

to make love.

your body understands.

what's going

on.

your gut leads you.

your nose

tells you

what's up.

your tongue decides,

your eyes tell you

when

you've had enough.

the edge of the bed

i've made

major decisions while

sitting on

the edge of the bed

in the early

morning hours,

the sky full of rain.

i've drawn lines in the sand.

i've made

vows, promises,

some kept, some discarded

when the sun came out.

something about

the edge of the bed

with sand in my eyes,

sorting through a vague dream

that makes me realize

the limits

of life, unavoidable

death.

be still my heart

i fell in love with 

Ms. Copeland, my ninth grade

social studies

teacher.

we were only about ten

years apart,

so i thought i still had

a shot.

i loved that bright

green polka

dotted dress she used

to wear with white

heels. i can still see

her leg swinging freely

from the desk

she'd sit on.

it was the only class

where i sat in the front row

and volunteered to bang

the erasers against

the school wall.

i don't remember a word

she ever said,

but her voice was 

lovely, as was her perfume,

and red hair.

i learned absolutely nothing

that year.

but still got an

A.

where is miss manners?

are there rules

anymore?

where is miss manners

when we need

her. she needs

to step forward

and slap a few of these

uncouth

people around

with her dainty white

gloves.

rudeness

seems to be at

pandemic levels.

there is zero etiquette. 

few say thank you, or

i'm sorry,

or excuse me.

it's everyone for

themselves,

burping and

running about in their

pajamas

and croc shoes.

jeez marie, the world

has gone to hell

in a hand basket miss

manners.

please help.

make it last

i like to work fast,

cook

quickly,

clean up in record

time,

the dishes,

the table, wiping.

i like to

finish what i started,

so that i can have

more time

with you.

but we'll go slow

after that,

okay?

we'll make it last.

trying to get home

i get lost going home.

suddenly

none of these roads look

familiar.

when did that building

go up.

where's the bridge,

the statue?

i don't recognize

the names.

there's no tunnel anymore,

everything, including

us, has changed.

not a good fit

the shoe

that doesn't fit,

the glove,

the hand too big.

the hat

too small for our head,

and us,

it'll never work,

but maybe, just

maybe

we can still be 

friends.

sticky notes

i see not just

the elderly

at store,

their carts full of sticky

notes.

blue and yellow pads

to write on.

pink

and green.

notes to remind them

on what

to do next.

stuck on the fridge,

door,

the bathroom mirror,

the computer

or desk.

doctor appointments,

birthdays,

funerals to attend.

vitamins and pills

to take.

passwords, anything

we might

forget.

don't rescue me

i'd call it fear.

that black

cold tingle down my spine,

to find

her

curled and rocking

in a dark

room.

hair mashed,

eyes

blackened like

ash.

lips quivering.

the beg of no life,

whispered

over and over.

what is there to say?

how many times

can you rescue

someone,

who doesn't want

to be rescued

anymore.

hose water

the old hose

unraveled in the yard

amongst

the weeds, the high grass.

hot to the touch,

in this summer

heat.

how we turned the spigot

on

with our small hands,

using our shirts,

our thirst

nearly unbearable

after our games.

letting the water run

and run

until at last it was cold.

drinking that awful taste,

running

it over our heads.

our backs.

until it was time to

go home.

more light, less dark

how quiet

the woods are in winter.

the solace

of white.

the sleeve of stream

gone

to ice.

no bird seen,

no

animal peering out

from

the park.

everything is waiting

for more

light,

less dark.

the cure for love

if you want

to cure

the notion of love,

to slay

the dragon

before

it engulfs you,

get to know the person,

or better yet

just

marry them.

that should

do it.

childhood things

other than

a few childhood things,

i keep

little that reminds of the past.

no cards,

or letters, no romantic

mementos or

silver rings.

my broom is heavy

when it's over

and done with, how easily

i sweep

to make the room

clean.

where things were left

old friends

are the best.

new friends are fine,

but they

don't know

the story behind

those years

gone by, but old

friends know

the rest.

they're there for you,

and you for 

them.

so easy to pick up

where

things were

left.

rsvp

i won't be attending your

farewell party,

your black

garbed event,

where toasts are made,

eulogies

said, tears spent.

i won't 

stand there at your grave

and pretend

or vent.

i won't be in line,

in a car with lights,

the slow parade

celebrating,

or mourning, which is it,

your life.

i'll say my farewells from

here.

on the shore,

feet in the ocean,

basking and free

in warm light.

in Ireland

in Ireland

a writer is considered

a failed

conversationalist.

both story

tellers though,

both

wordsmiths

of a different kind.

both

enjoyed even more

with a stiff drink

or a cold

pint.

they gather you in.

and what's

true or untrue

means little, it's the tale,

the story,

the way it's told,

that keeps you reading,

keeps you

engaged and listening,

enriches

your thirsty soul.

go through it

the phrase

go through, sounds easy

enough.

go through

the grief, the pain, the sorrow.

mourn hard

and thorough, let

no tear

go unfallen

that needs to be shed.

and then,

and then, just maybe.

you will rise

again, and be

back from

the living dead.

really good reading light

when people have an after

life

experience

being pronounced

dead on the operating

table

for a few minutes

there's always a bright light

they're heading

towards.

when they wake up

they tell you that

it's never a dull light,

or a 

flickering candle,

some ambient light,

no,

it's always

an amazing glow.

a shining bright light

unlike anything they've

ever seen before.

i'm thinking great,

should be perfect for

reading at night.

advancing in years

where is the baby

smoothness

of skin,

the soft petal

like

bottom,

the silky underside,

the velvet

nature of youth.

how did this heel

become

so rough.

the face so cruelly

stitched.

it's troubling

the damage that life

does,

the sun,

the weather.

cold and ice.

a favorite day

do i have a favorite day?

maybe.

i go through the list.

monday

through sunday.

some seem

better than others,

some

too long, others too short.

the day you visit

though,

which could be any day,

weather permitting,

is the one i like

the best.

mud slinging

you need to take

the high road

with your poetry,

i'm told time and time again.

and i do

on occasion, when i

get tired of the low roads.

grown weary

of slinging mud.

but sometimes

the mud, the grit

and grind of that kind

of travel

has more words to rhyme,

and is much

more fun.

the lemon tree

she told me she was a cup

half full

kind of person.

an optimist.

a positive thinker.

she saw the best

in people and

made lemonade out

of lemons.

me too, i told her.

which didn't quite work

out for me.

i'm an empty

cup kind of guy now

and i've chopped down

the lemon tree.

as soon as you end that war

the weatherman

takes

all the blame for the rain,

the ice,

or the heat

of summer.

the other newsmen

give him a hard

time,

all the time.

when are you going

to give us

some sunshine

they laugh

and he answers back,

as soon as you

end that war,

you keep talking

about.

why don't you answer me

i find myself

ignoring

some questions and

answering

only the ones that i

want to.

it's frustrating for

the interrogator,

as i never

quite engage in a

conversation.

there is no true back

and forth.

i have the wheel.

the pedal.

the map, i'll take

it where it needs

to go, or don't go.

road apathy

i understand road

rage

to a point.

your life isn't going well.

the job is killing

you,

the kids,

money,

the wife.

the soccer game you're

late for.

being stuck in

traffic, or having

someone run

a light,

or cut you off. i get

it.

i understand how

people can

blow a fuse on the road

and yell and scream

and curse one another.

i get it,

but i've gone

in a different direction.

i have road

apathy.

i don't care. go ahead,

get in front

of me.

go fast, go slow.

swerve around as you text

on you iphone.

pffft. means nothing to me.

don't use your signal.

who cares.

tail gate me, good, honk

your horn and give

me the one finger salute.

i'll wave back

and smile then

move over and let you

pass.

i'll hug the right lane

with some music

on the whole way home.

we love all people

the neighbor

has put a flag out, 

can't we all just get along,

there's a sign

in the yard.

your life matters.

we love

animals,

we love all people.

every race creed and color

and alternate

lifestyles

and changed genders.

we are kind

and compassionate

we love the world,

we recycle

we have a compost.

we eat organic.

we have solar panels.

we bring our own bags

to the grocery store.

our cars are almost all

electric,

one is a hybrid though

and my son

has a mustang,

v 8, dual exhausts.

he hasn't quite

joined us into drinking

the full dose

of kool aid quite yet.

salt and sand

in this tease

of winter, this

kiss of warmth

i can almost

smell

the sunlight.

the lemon

of it

the bright blonde

of it

the essence

of spring.

i can taste

what's coming,

what's

almost green,

just need to hang

on for a short

while longer

with shovel

in hand.

salt

and sand.

stretching at the cave door

it's the best sleep

i've had in ages.

a rock.

deep and full of 

dreams.

but good dreams.

not once did i

get up

and check the time,

or toss and turn.

not once did

i stumble to the 

bathroom

or blow my nose.

it felt like a coma

that i woke up from,

it was more

like a winters

hibernation,

i felt like some sort of

bear

standing and stretching

on the first day

of spring

at the cave

door.

the easy hack

guessing her password

was easy.

four numbers.

piece of pie.

i had everything i needed

to know

at that point.

the back and forth

between her married

boyfriend.

the past,

the present.

the future.

all by pushing in a few

numbers.

her whole life

exposed.

did i feel guilty. not

for a second.

all's fair in love,

and war.

and when she got back

from church.

her bags were waiting

by the door.

hang em high

i put a ring

on her finger and she

put a noose

around my neck.

hung

me from the highest

tree.

occasionally she'd

stop by

and hit with me

a stick just too

see

if i was still living,

and if she was

still my loving

bride.

champagne love

stay clear of the sudden

love,

the champagne

bubble

love.

the love at first sight.

it won't last.

it's a thrill

in the beginning, but

in  few days, or

months,

the whole bottle

will go

flat.

my kingdom for an eclair

i see the leftover

shrimp

in a bowl

in the fridge, 

cold and lifeless

in their

pink jackets, covered

loosely

with plastic.

but they're not speaking

to me.

it would feel like

a disappointing snack.

where's

the cake

for God's the sake,

the ice cream,

the bag of cookies?

where have all

the sweet treats gone,

my kingdom for an eclair, 

i kindly ask.

your God

your God,

she says to me, is a failure.

look around.

the ground is

full.

look at the hospital,

the morgue.

the warriors

on the battlefield,

without

arms or legs.

isn't that enough

for you

to not believe.

what

is the reason behind

a dead 

child, the failed

marriage.

disease.

what is this faith you

have,

where is it coming

from.

your God, if he does

exist is careless

with what

He's made. come on,

be like me, put down

your mythical crutch

and be brave,  

have the courage

to disbelieve.

too much light

there is almost

too much light in this room,

if there is such

a thing.

with these white walls,

in this

mood.

too much radiance,

too much bright.

 i want the shades

drawn,

the blinds

pulled shut.  i want

to find the dimmer

switch,

and ponder the past

by candle

light.

i've read enough.

the necessary denial

we deal with

a  cruel world, we endure

its travail.

its

unending chaos.

from

start to finish, we're

looking

to make it easier

more comfortable,

but always

fighting off

the unexpected.

we paint it with

a smile, but

in each beauty, comes

with it

the pain, 

and a necessary

denial.

we're almost home

it's not far from here.

it's

just around

the bend, the next turn,

the next corner.

keep going.

press on

down these strange

streets,

these back roads.

we're almost there.

i can feel it,

taste it. take my hand,

let's go,

we're almost home,

my friend.

the generous glow

we undress

in the night cold.

bare feet to the floor.

the shiver

of the house throwing

us together

beneath

the cotton folds.

is that the moon

shining

in the window?

i think so.

i hope so.

let's make love

and get warm beneath

it's generous

glow.

playing the blues

it's a near empty bar,

covid,

the cold,

the economy,

something keeping

everyone at home.

but the band plays

on as if there's 

standing room only.

the blues seem appropriate

tonight.

the low scream

of the guitar

as they sing, the thrill

is gone,

the rattle of drums,

the guy on the keyboard

lost in his

youth, never looking

out

to see who's come.

the empty jar

on stage, saying everything

that needs to be said.

bullied into nine boxes of thin mints

a girl scout appears at the door

with a brochure

of cookies.

she's about three feet tall

dressed in green

and wearing a red sash

and a red beret

like she just joined

the communist party.

her mother is standing behind

her with a loaded

gun for protection.

i wave to her,

she waves the gun 

over her head

and smiles.

okay, okay. i pull

some cash out of the safe

and order nine boxes of

thin mints and one box of

the pecan sandies.

the birds seem to like those.

three weeks, the kid says.

i nod, receipt?

we don't do receipts,

she says,

don't you trust me?

i'm a freaking girl scout

for God's sake.

my bad, i say. my bad.

then i go back inside.

the bull s....market

i tell my broker to lock down

my accounts

after they

hit an all time high.

it's enough

money to live on until the end

of time.

i tell her

to put it under the proverbial

morgan stanley

mattress.

and she says. oh no. it's too

early. you don't want to do that.

you're going to miss out

on the market

going up and up and up.

this is a bull market, she exclaims.

i tell her,

don't talk about animals

when discussing my life long savings,

okay?

okay, she says, sorry.

but please don't worry.

all is well.

so i go online to take

a look at my account

today and i'm

forty grand less than i was a week

ago.

it's a wtf moment.

so i call her to give her hell,

but she's not taking

any calls right now.

she's taking holiday.

make your own sandwich

no one wants to work

anymore.

kids are lazy.

shiftless with soft hands.

college degrees

mean nothing anymore.

they are sitting at home,

with tik tok

and you tube,

instagram

and whatever the hell

else they are up

to these days.

i can't keep up.

yesterday i went into a sandwich

shop

and the owner

said,

make your own sandwich,

he was in the back

chopping lettuce.

there's was no one behind

the counter.

so i hopped over the counter

and made

myself a hoagie.

put the money in the register,

the guy yelled.

push that button,

no the other one.

come on man, do i have

to come out there

and show you?

the coldest winter in fourteen years

it was winter.

the coldest i've ever been

in my life.

the hudson

seemed frozen.

the statue of liberty

appeared to be shivering.

the wind at battery park

cut us to the bones.

times square,

the village. walking

arm in arm. through

so ho, and no ho,

Chinatown. somehow

we managed. ducking

into stores

and shops

to try and get warm.

it wasn't until

we found an Irish

bar on the west side

where we could unravel

our scarves

and coats,

remove our hats and gloves.

and eat.

and oh, how we ate.

Shepard's pie

and beer, great chunks

of bread. i can still smell

the food on my plate

and feel the wonderous

steam

rising into my face.

it felt like love, or what

love should be.

new york in winter

will do that to you.

oh, you should go there, you'll love it

often, when people

return from

a vacation to Italy,

Venice or

Florence, somewhere

in a villa

in the country side, 

maybe Rome,

they want to duplicate

the look,

create the same ambiance

they experienced

inside their own cookie

cutter vinyl sided town

house home

clustered with hundreds

of others,

near the man

made lake.

a jiffy lube down

the street,

the dunkin donut sign

pulsating into

their narrow window.

they paint the walls

an amber color,

a rustic

gold, browns and deep

magentas.

they marbleize the bathroom,

prop a statue of David

in the back yard.

they greet each other with

a kiss on both cheeks

when they run into each other

at Krogers,

and say Ciao,

when they go.

just once would be enough

once, just once, i'd love

to hear

a woman's voice yell up

the stairs

from the kitchen, bang

a spoon against a pan,

and say, breakfast is ready.

are you coming down?

french toast and eggs.

bacon.

the coffee is on.

come on sweetheart,

rise and shine.

just once would be enough

to make my life

complete.

eight days a week

once she went to confession,

she felt better

about her life. less guilty.

clean for a short while.

washed of her sins.

but then she went

back to her usual ways

of lying,

cheating, manipulating.

adultery and taking

the Lord's name in vain.

it was okay though,

confession was seven days

a week,

the priest would find her

standing at the door

with a smile on her face,

holding her check list.

she was good for a few

hours, but sadly she 

couldn't sustain it. 

and truthfully, who can?

and now we have this

how did it go

from 

the simplicity of 

the sermon on the mount

to gowns

and gold.

to mega churches,

millionaire preachers,

the Vatican

in Rome.

how did it go from

washing another's

feet

and giving to the poor,

healing

the sick, 

making the blind see

again to this.

how did it become

so unholy

in such a short

and twisted trip.

appears to be love

i get my dog fix today.

it comes up to me

and nuzzles.

who nuzzles anymore?

but the dog

knows, what you need,

the head

burrowing

between my knees.

looking

with soft brown eyes

into mine

with what appears

to be love.

i scratch her head,

run my hands along

her blonde side.

i'm not sure who needed

it more, me or

her.

but i'm glad i took the time.

looking the other way

i go through

the day trying not to make

eye contact

with anyone.

i don't want to see worry,

or fear,

or concern.

i want them to keep

those feelings

to themselves.

there could be joy too,

or hope,

who's to know.

but i'm not interested,

so i avert my gaze

or glance,

to the ground or sky.

i move quickly

from place to place,

never looking into

anyone's eyes.

they'll make more

i'm hard

on the house, on

rugs

and knobs, 

kitchen appliances.

i destroy

everything, but i don't

care.

it's all replaceable.

i get the

most

out of things, out

of my body too.

no regrets, leaving

it all on

the court or field

of play.

but not to worry, there's

still more of me

left for you,

if you want it,

so put up your feet

for awhile

and stay.

this late already

how can it be this late,

this hour

of evening.

where did the day go,

it seems

that only a short while

ago

that i left the house

in a rush.

what happens to time,

what wind

has taken

this day from me,

so little of it 

so i recall, or call

mine.

the discount burial

they went cheap

on the grave, so now we can't

find her.

she's somewhere

over there,

not far from that tree.

or maybe

it was up the hill a little.

no marker,

no stone, no bench.

maybe they have a map

in the office.

a grid

of bodies underground.

it was the discount

burial.

a box, a hole in the ground,

a canopy

for the sun.

between the hours of

two and three.

then done.

the morning paper

when i open

the door, with the moon

still in the sky,

at early morning.

absent

of sunrise.

i feel the cold blanket

of winter

upon me.

taking me back to an

earlier

time.

a time when i would

leave the house,

the dog

not far behind me.

my wagon full,

delivering the morning post.

door to door

singing

every song i knew

to quelch

the fear

and loneliness.

now i shut the door

after picking up

the paper and smile,

no longer

blue.

making decisions

the telemarketer

for Medicare

asks

me if i make my decisions

on my own.

i ponder that

for a second or two.

are you there, he says?

hello.

hello.

i'm thinking i tell the young

man from 

Delhi.

are you able to make

your own decisions, he asks

again?

sometimes, i tell him.

sometimes i pray,

other times

i call a friend, or a relative.

occasionally, if it's

a really large

decision, a life changing

decision

i might flip a coin,

or run to down to the gypsy

on the corner

to get a reading on

her crystal ball.

is that a yes, or no, the

young says. 

it's a sometimes.

that's my answer, put that

down.

don't be a stranger

we are creatures

of habit,

no doubt. rising at the same

time each morning.

the same cup

of coffee,

the same clothes,

the same

toast coming out

of the toaster.

we say the things we

often say

in passing.

finding a phrase

that pleases us.

and others expect us

to always

be the same.

be who you are,

they say.

don't be a stranger.

it's hard to change.

tell me about that house

i have no interest in

the mansion

behind the iron gate,

surrounded by beauty.

trees and water.

white swans

floating on the lake.

tell me instead

about that abandoned

house,

the one with the broken

windows,

the rusted swing set

in the yard.

the chain linked fence

unraveled.

tell me about that house.

who lived in those

small rooms,

what went wrong, or right,

seeing that they

are no longer there.

tell me about their hunger,

their thirst,

how they warmed each

other by the fire.

tell me about the children,

was this the end,

or did this make

them go further.

maybe over the next hill

a light rain

dampens the black street.

hardly a soul

out in this cold.

the lamplight

shines

a bloom of yellow

upon me

as i stroll.

i don't mind the weather.

i don't

mind one bit

in being alone.

hands in my pocket,

my coat buttoned.

i embrace it. i wish

the nights were

longer, in fact.

i could walk all night

in a town

like this.

get lost in the beauty

of silence.

maybe over the next hill,

the next block

i'll find it.

her yellow dress

as i stare

at her yellow dress on the floor,

as she sleeps

beside me.

i wonder what went into

it,

her buying such

a pretty dress.

did she try it on, of course

she did.

was there a blue

one just like it,

a pale green

perhaps, many of the same,

on hangars,

all along the rack.

or was this only

one.

did she stand in the mirror

and turn around.

pull at the hem,

toss her hair over her shoulders

as if posing for a picture.

did she think of me

when they

put it in the wrap, carrying

it home

to lay it upon the bed,

removing the tag?

feeding time

i have been eating

the pages

of books

for most of my life,

the ink

runs down my chin,

my hands

are stained

from the print.

my eyes are bloodshot

from reading and yet

i'm still hungry.

i'm never full.

the librarian

tries to keep me

away, calling for help,

but it's too

late,

i'm at it again,

my head deep into

the next book,

feeding

on the thoughts of others.

dark times

it's dark

when i get up.

when i get home.

it's dark all night long.

it's dark

at the job

where i spend my

days

digging for coal.

i'm reading dark novels,

watching dark shows.

writing darkly

about the past.

i feel like

sometimes

i'm on a mean

dark road,

if it wasn't for the light

you give off,

i'd have no clue

as to which direction

to go.

leaving the butter out

i have no pets,

presently,

no dog to walk,

no cat

to tend to,

no plants to water,

no room mate

no love

interest

residing with me

making noise and

leaving the butter out.

i have no living things

other than

a cricket or two

in the basement

and a little mold in

the attic

to bother me.

i'm in the selfish and

happy period

of life.

the hard work done.

the chaos

settled.

i've even taken 

the doorbell out.

men and garages

i've noticed,

casually observed one might

say

that men of a certain

age

need their own special

space,

a cellar nook,

an attic, perhaps, but

the garage being the one

most used.

they raise the door

before noon.

you can see their tools

aligned neatly

on the bench, the floor

painted,

the lights bright, an old

car with the hood up being

worked on.

there's always a project going

on, a chair being restored,

a lamp being wired.

there's

posters of a different era

on the walls.

leggy pin ups of

Marilyn, or Rita Hayworth

on tin plates.

music playing

from stereo speakers hung

high in the corner.

a small ice box for cans

of beer,

for when friends stop by

to chew one's ear.

got milk?

do i miss milk.

the tall

cold glass

full to the brim,

going well with just

about anything,

no.

i don't.

not really.

like an old friend,

we've lost

touch, and probably

will never

see each other again.

the obedient stage of marriage

when i was married

for a short

while to Cruella Da Ville,

she made me

get rid of HBO and Starz

and any

other channel

that might show a human

body in the flesh.

i was in the obedient stage

of the relationship.

agreeing with her to get

this awful filth out of

our house.

i was a three year old

getting my hand slapped

as i reached into the cookie

jar of entertainment.

and then i found out

she was having an affair

with a married man,

so from then on it was

game over,

and i was binging on

Game of Thrones

by the end of the week.

people getting busy

i notice that there's

a lot

of new babies in the neighborhood.

people have

been getting

busy during the lock down.

i see the parents,

one or two

walking down the street

with an exhausted look on

their faces,

pushing strollers

cramped

with babies and bottles,

diapers

and little toys.

yo, i say to them. what's

cooking?

and they say, sorry, have

to go and heat

up a pot of milk for the little

one,

and change his diaper.

are you watching the game later?

i yell out

as the stroller rolls by.

huh, what game?

the line in the sand

there is no such thing

as unconditional love.

the books

and hallmark cards

promote that, but it's

impossible.

we all have our line in the sand.

sometimes we

push the line aside

a few times,

but then you reach a point

of no return

where love has died

and there is no

going back.

fame

once you taste

the sound

of applause, the embrace

of an

audience that

adores you,

it's hard to go back

to where

you came from.

anonymous, and happy.

not needing

or wanting the pat

on the bag,

the atta boy. but

the drug is in you

now.

never quite reaching

the point

of the first high,

when you heard that first

resounding clap.

discussing cookies in the middle of a back rub

why do you keep writing

about

your ex baking you cookies,

betty asks me as she applies

an ointment to the rash

on my back.

heat rash, i tell her,

or maybe it's that new

polyester shirt i've been wearing

when i go out

disco dancing.

sweat and polyester just

don't get along.

ya know?

whatever, she says.

but back to the cookies.

we're they any good?

damn right they were good.

name a cookie, go ahead

name any cookie

and she could make it.

peanut butter sandies.

pfffft. are you kidding me.

she could whip up a dozen

of those before you could

whistle dixie.

chocolate chips, those almond

things with powdered

sugar. oatmeal. ginger snaps.

she was a magician in

the kitchen when it came

to baked goods.

real cooking was a problem,

though. i don't think

she'd ever touched

a chicken or a pork chop

in her life. but

i wish i had one of her cookies

now and again

to dip into a cup of coffee.

so what was the problem with her?

i shake my head and laugh.

what wasn't?

whew, long story, but

go back to year 2018 and 19

in the blog,

the whole crazy tale is there.,

hey, what up?

you're not rubbing anymore,

come on, snap to it.

and can you throw in some 

scratching too.

pretty please.

i'll bake you a chicken later,

if you're hungry.

enough about me

tell me your story,

she says,

as if i have one written

down, ready to recite.

chapter one.

i was born.

etc.

and now i live here.

the stuff in the middle

makes no

never mind.

let's talk about lunch,

i tell her.

i'm leaning towards

the steak salad,

you?

they just don't get Me

maybe 
God's on vacation.

we all need one at some point.

maybe

he's resting,

getting ready for the big

day. the four horsemen and

Armageddon.

maybe He has reasons

to not

punish the wicked,

tossing a few bolts

of lighting

our way.

maybe He's truly merciful,

and has just thrown up his hands,

saying i'm done with 

this planet.

what's the point anymore?

humans.

so few get me, or

understand. 

careful with new things

we're careful with

new things.

the car,

the boat, the cycle.

the new plates

in the cupboard,

new art

on the wall, we're

careful

in hanging

things, banging the nail

just right to prevent

a fall.

we're careful,

with a new shirt, 

careful with our sips

of coffee,

careful

not to drip.

and us, are we any 

different careful with each

other,

so new to this.

the long line

we don't

lose that childlike impatience.

we subdue

it, because, well,

were adults now.

and yet

behind the wheel,

or in the wrong line

it bubbles up,

that same

anxiety

and pouting appears,

same as 

it did

when we were nine.

the good fire

as good as the fire

feels

against our feet and hands,

our face,

we know

that we can't go much further

towards it

without 

losing ourselves

in the flame,

burned into ashes.

is that what love is?

old souls

some of us

have always been old

souls,

not necessarily wise, but

aged in thought

and behavior.

conservative

and careful with life

and money, 

with where

the next move

will be made

and with who.

while others, care

less, and throw caution

to the wind,

venturing into

areas where angels

fear to tread.

filling the empty space

she liked to rescue

things.

dogs and cats,

men. repair

an old table with a scratch.

a pair of shoes,

a hat.

she was handy with

the needle and thread,

the shoulder

to lie on,

she knew how to bring

them back

to life, but

she needed them more

than they

needed her, 

filling an empty space

it was her vice.

tell me about your golf game today

i like it when she talks

about golf.

especially if i can't get to sleep.

she tells me

about the greens, how fast

or slow they were today,

the front nine,

that awful sand trap

on thirteen.

the harsh wind

taking the ball off the fairway.

and the group

in front of us, like

a parade down Broadway.

so slow.

it isn't long before

i'm fast asleep,

snoring, as she describes

with joy

her eagle

on the final hole.

beats working

despising work

for most of his life

kept him poor, but

when his father

died

he came into money.

all gone

within a year.

and then the mother passed

away.

the house was sold.

more money, but still

nothing saved.

another year

gone by, his pockets were

empty once more,

but there was still hope

with a rich uncle standing

in the wings at 94,

though

trying with spite

to spend it all

before death knocked

upon his door.

intensive care

i like the idea of intensive

care.

people monitoring your vital

signs,

checking in from time to time,

to see if you're

still ticking.

bringing you jello.

tucking you in.

there's another bouquet

of flowers by your side.

of course,

if you're in a real hospital,

like Sibley or Walter Reed

it's not a good place to be,

it means

there's something seriously

wrong with you,

you may die,

but the idea of people caring

so much,

intensively caring.

who doesn't want that?

and that's the problem

how quick we are to learn,

to figure

out what we don't want

in our lives.

in our mouths, our

homes.

we don't like the color

of that shirt,

or the style, so we

say no.

and that car,

i'll never get behind the

wheel of a beetle bug.

shoot me first.

get that food away from

me.

raw fish, i don't think so.

but when it comes to

relationships,

i'm all over the place,

blonde brunette, or redhead,

short, tall, heavy

or skinny,

crazy or sane,

it makes no

difference to me,

and that's the problem.

i hope you're happy

you're hard candy.

too sweet for my liking.

and yet

there i go palming

another piece

or two

and sucking on it

until the sugar

melts in my mouth,

upsets my

stomach.

this is what you do to

me.

i hope you're happy.

DMV hell

as we sit in the DMV waiting

for seven hours to

get our

tags renewed, we discuss

heaven and hell.

she says, there's both.

i say.

i don't know. i want to believe

in heaven,

but hell bothers

me.

what if they mess up the paper

work,

misspell your name,

and suddenly there you are

like a rotisserie chicken

forever spinning

in eternity.

it's all computerized, she says,

staring at her ticket,

B12.

is there a court? what if you're

on the edge.

half good, half bad.

is it a coin toss? who makes the call?

i don't know she says.

it's all in that book.

what book?

you know, that dusty book on

your shelf. The Bible.

oh, right.

maybe i'll google it.

hey. you're next, B11 just went

up.

it's still wiggling

it's best to stick with

what you know.

i know chicken.

steak.

potatoes and greens.

Indian food, not so much.

what is this?

buffalo? goat?

you can even go off

the rails with asian

food sometimes.

shouldn't this eel be cooked?

it's still wiggling.

being scolded

it surprises me

when the woman at the store

scolds me

for not

pushing my shopping

cart into line

with the others.

i've walked it back

from my car

and leave it against a pole

so that it

doesn't roll back into

the street.

well aren't we the lazy one

she says.

shaking her head.

and this, i'm sad to say,

reminds me

of you.

go ahead, have fun

i kiss her goodbye

as she leaves

the house to go jump out of a plane.

see you when

you get back, i tell her,

if you don't kill

yourself.

i'll be out back,

reading by the pool,

stretched out in the sun.

i left the will on the table

for you to sign.

have fun.

taking it for granted

i take water

for granted, so much

at the ready

with the turn of a knob.

and heat,

and food. the pleasures

of home.

i expect it all

to be near, to be more

than i'll ever need.

and at times,

love too. just enough,

and not too much

to get me

through.

a strong back

to those without,

of any

color,

the tomorrows

are

brooding mountains

yet to be climbed.

religion

helps.

as does a strong

back

and a determined

mind.

the high hill

it's the crisp

air,

the broken sheet of snow

under

the weight of your

boot

in moonlight

that brings you around

again

to life.

the cold in your lungs,

the water in

your eyes,

you're a child again,

with sled

being pulled,

heading towards the

high hill,

the gentle slope

to ride

once more with

friends.

why

i'm not sure how the words

ever fell out

of my mouth, having sworn

a vow to

God and anyone in earshot

for the last twenty years

that i'd never get married again,

but there i was on one knee,

intoxicated with what i thought

was love, but instead

was a delusionary state of insanity.

i shake my head in dismay

at that day, that moment

with no one there to slap me,

no lightning bolt to shoot 

through the window and knock

some sense into me.

having been raised by wolves,

i was without a clue,

without one single iota

of sense in my demented skull.

and dammit to hell if

she didn't say yes.

falling on thin ice

when i fell

on the ice, and lay there,

staring up

at the fat bright moon,

glistening off

the snow

and ice, i didn't cry

for help, i didn't move.

it was rather nice

just lying there,

unhurt except for pride,

i opened up

the groceries i was

carrying,

some bread, some

cheese, a slice of ham.

but no mustard.

it didn't matter,

i realized i would survive.

i gave it twenty

minutes,

then crawled inside.

too many people

there's too many people.

it's crowded.

you can't go anywhere

without

a line,

traffic,

the stores, you need

to make

a reservation at nine

in the morning

for dinner at seven.

we're living too long

medicine and working out,

eating more healthy.

less and less

are checking out early

these days.

where did we go wrong

with all these

salads.

even the big ones, are

hanging in

there, with scooters

and uber,

making due with their

sugared up livers.

giving it a rest

my tongue

falls asleep, it no

longer

wants to wag, or taste,

or talk.

it's had enough

of babble, of food

and drink.

it's resting.

almost asleep.

there's nothing

left to say, so

i'll sit here quietly

and think.

changing the blood flow

she starts telling me 

about her boots,

her fifteen thousand

dollar riding boots

made of seven different kinds

of leather.

cow, alligator, deer and snake.

she tells me they go

up to her thighs.

buttery soft, with a long

zipper that tightens

them. makes them taut.

i tell her to stop.

please stop. i can't

work in this condition.

i can't climb a ladder,

or even walk.

tell me again about

the fight you're having

with your mother,

that should change

the blood flow, so i

can go back to work.

a few missteps

i count on the sun

to rise,

the moon to shine,

the seasons

to change.

i expect life to go on

as usual as

i go merrily along

and age.

so far it hasn't

disappointed me,

despite

a few horrendous

missteps

along the way.

no kids, we're not going there

they send out a twenty

billion dollar

telescope into space

to see what's out

there. what other

life might

exist in the vast expanse

of the universe, but

the years go by and

still nothing.

not a peep

from anyone out there.

no music,

no words,

no morse code with light,

or sound,

nothing, but the hum

of empty air.

and if they do signal

back it would be to

say, leave us alone.

do you really

think they want to come

here?

the case for God

did we really evolve

from monkeys,

and monkeys

from fish

crawling out of

the soup.

sometimes i look at my

uncle Joe

and i can

believe it, while other times,

when he says

something funny

and clever, i don't.

was it a puddle of goo

that started it all.

a lightning strike

into a primordial

cocktail

of cells and poof, there

we are.

there's the elephant

the butterfly,

the zebra,

and you.

who put the goo there?

the lemon girl

she was disappointed

in me,

and others,

(who isn't?).

always complaining

about her work,

her job, her parents,

her siblings,

her dog.

there wasn't anything

that put

a smile on

her face.

she was only truly happy

when she was

unhappy

with the world.

she was a lemon

girl.

sucking on the bitter

rind all day.

I"m Eleanor Roosevelt, How can i Help You?

it was a slow day,

yesterday there was

only

twelve Indian scammer

calls.

it's slowing down

at last.

i think they're catching

on to my

impersonation of 
Eleanor Roosevelt's

high pitched voice.

no more agents

from the social security,

or the IRS,

or car warranty service,

or life after death

insurance benefits.

the publisher clearing

house prize

patrol car is no longer on

their way with a check.

it's a sad time.

a sad sad time.

maybe i should call them.

the red flag

don't ever call me Kathy,

or Kat,

or Kitten,

she told me

on the first date.

my name is Kathleen.

and i come

from a long line

of Kathleens.

so please, if you're

going to say my name,

say it correctly.

i raise my hand

towards the waiter,

finishing my one

drink.

check please.

she took it all

the intruder

pries open the back door.

with a wrench,

a crow bar,

he's hardly quiet coming in.

i yawn

and stretch in bed.

i yell down the steps.

hey.

what's going on

down there?

there's nothing left

for you to

take.

she got it all in the divorce,

there's no money

anywhere.

the intruder

goes quiet

as he opens the fridge door,

then

yells, up i'm sorry,

my bad.

i'll leave now. hope

you don't if i take a slice

of cake,

where exactly do you keep

your tupperware?

as i will too

we need so little

to be happy. we

make the list.

food, shelter, water.

a bed

to sleep in,

work.

good health.

friends.

and what is the glue,

what is

the one thing

that makes sense of

it all.

gives reason.

some call it love,

as i will too.

a different thing by far

the welt will heal,

the bruise,

the broken bone

will mend,

the cut,

the wound.

all in time, and care

will

come around again.

almost forgotten,

just remembered

by a slender thread

of stitch

or scar, but the heart,

well, that's a different

thing by far.

i'll be right back

rare

these days, that the car won't

start.

the engine not turning

over on a cold winters

day.

half the time

i forget how to even unlatch

the hood,

let alone

hooking up cables

for a recharge.

in the old days, you'd

look out the window

at men

putting chains around

their tires,

running the engine

until

there was a path to roll out.

checking the oil, 

the anti-freeze.

they'd dig a path in

case they had to go somewhere

for cigarettes and beer.

a piece of red meat.

a newspaper.

this winter storm was nothing.

no fear.

the summer of you

i like the cold

except when it's your shoulder

i'm leaning against,

the freezing

temps,

the bitter wind.

i can endure,

except when it involves

a relationship

i'm in.

i want it to be spring

or summer

all year long, my

loving friend.

whenever you are

i back the car in,

raise the wipers, set the bag

of salt out

on the porch.

the shovel. the old broom.

i look up into the sky

and say.

okay, i'm ready

whenever you are.

i wait,

comfy on the couch,

i have everything i need,

but you.

now go to sleep

i like how the news

casters

give you the most

horrific news.

stories about death

and disease, scandals,

global warming, flooding

and fires, car jackings

and

murder in the first

degree,

and then after a commercial

break they tell you

a fun story

about a kitten caught

up in a tree.

rescued by a grandmother

with a ladder

and a cardboard box,

holding a

piece of baloney.

the panel is now all smiles,

joking and laughing,

talking about their own

cats and dogs,

fluffy and fido,

ending the broadcast

as if all is well.

now go to sleep. 

go to sleep.

it's been a while for Becky

still in my underwear at

nine in the morning

i open the front door and dip

my bare

leg out into the cold

trying to determine 

whether it's going to be

a walk today, or a bike

ride. getting a measure

of the wind.

and then i see my

neighbor becky 

the mayor of the court,

walking

by with her hundred

year old dog.

she stops and stares at me

getting a full look.

i shrug, and say, sorry,

just checking the weather.

she screams and gets her

phone out to call someone.

there's a man here flashing

me in his underwear. but

she keeps looking. staring.

it's been a while for

becky, i can tell, as she stumbles

home in tears.

dragging the dog behind her.

meeting royalty for a drink

pardon my lack of interest,

i tell her

after she tells me that,

she's prettier in person.

intense too, so don't

be surprised.

i like the finer things in life,

she says.

i like my doors opened

for me.

i think the man should pay

and treat me as if

i'm royalty. i'm very old

fashioned that way.

so don't be surprised 

when you meet me, i'm

what they call a Queen Bee.

oh, i won't be, i tell her.

no worries there,

because i don't want

to meet you. i already

don't like you.

you're one of those.

one of those, she says?

excuse me?

yes. one of those.

probably good in bed, but

crazy in the head.

too many demands, too

many needs.

i don't need that kind

of drama anymore.

been there, done that.

i've had my fill.

so go find another dope

that will bend his knee.

dial tone.

a room full of strangers

i can be in a room full

of people

for about twenty minutes

before i break down into

a cold sweat,

and then i have

to get out.

unless it's my house

and i've invited them all

over to eat and drink,

to dance and misbehave.

but a room full of

near strangers is death

to me.

the small talk. the nodding,

the politeness of it all.

nowhere to sit, 

no way to get to a far

corner to stand in.

i search out the kitchen,

the back door to find

an exit or a waitress, 

or a cook to talk to.

i get along so much better

with those that have

no skin in the game.

take care of my cat while i'm gone

bored with

things down here.

i sign up for the space

program.

i'm going to Mars

next week.

i wanted to let you know

before i go.

i'll miss you.

i'm not sure if we can

talk when i get there,

or text.

and if i don't come back,

do you mind

watering my plants

and checking in

on the cat?

i'll be wearing the sweater

you made for me

for christmas last

year. 

the one with the bold

stripes and snow flakes

falling.

it's going to be

a long trip,

sleeping in that little

tin sphere.

oh, and there's chicken

in the fridge

if you want it and

one can of red white 

and blue

beer.

non fiction

there is no

fiction. it's all true to some

degree.

most of it

i can't make up

when 

i think of you,

of me.

the story is too bizarre

to be 

believed.

but it's all true,

every word.

no need for embellishment,

or exaggeration.

no need.

turn the page, try

not laugh,

not to bleed.

keeping us on through winter

he was a good boss.

Red.

he'd jangle his keys

or change in

his pocket

when he was coming

around the corner.

he wanted to see

us working,

no talking and sitting

on the curb

discussing girls

or the war.

if our time was coming.

he was squared

and short.

a painter or a farmer

most of his life.

white pants, white shirt.

brown boots.

he never smiled

or cursed.

but he seemed to like

us, keeping us on

through winter

until the snow

was too deep

to work.

Avoid New York

the sign said, 

in bold

white blinking letters 

above the

Jersey turnpike,

Avoid New York.

it was during the transit

strike,

but we pressed on

in her beat

up blue Toyota,

smoke pouring out

of the rusted

exhaust.

forward i said,

hit it,

and we did,

straight to Katz's deli

for nourishment.

an enormous deli

pickle and

a fat hot bed 

of pastrami on rye.

going Casper

they call

it ghosting now.

going Casper on someone.

delete

and block,

disappear

completely.

you're in the wind.

not a word, or image

or thought,

do you

send out, or respond

to. it's

a clean break,

a clear message

that you've had enough.

you're out.

the garnish

i can't ever remember

buying

a radish.

celery yes,

a turnip or two,

yes,

but never a radish.

i've even

bought parsley, which

amazes me.

radishes. no.

i like the color

of them

though.

like little christmas

ornaments

waiting to be hung

on a branch

or sliced

and decoratively

placed in a salad.

it's all

about accessories. like

the way you garnish

yourself

before going out to dance.

thanks for saving me

some people can't handle

waking up

and going to work.

they need to swim

the english channel,

or do the dog paddle

from miami

to havana. they want

to sail around

the world

on an inner tube, climb

everest

without a shirka,

just bare hands

and a granola bar.

and then you read

about them later,

heroically saved from

the sharks and falls,

near drownings,

near death. they lie 

in an intensive care ward.

giving thumbs up

to the camera,

saying i'll try again

next year, you'll see,

once my bones heal,

and i get some rest.

reboot

as annoying

and addictive 

as the cell phone is.

at least

it can

be erased.

all messages,

all contacts, all pictures,

all traces

of the past and

your former

mistakes.

reboot, start over.

with just a few clicks

of the button and you're

on your way.

low on sand

i look at my bookshelf,

the big one

in the big room, and i see

three of the same

books.

don't waste your life,

being the title.

a spiritual quest,

showing you how

your life should go.

maybe someone has been

trying to tell me

something.

i should read one of them

at some point.

the hourglass 

once full of sand,

is dangerously running low.

the soft landing

at times we hang onto

the cliff

as if our lives

depended on it.

our fingers digging

into the jagged

stone.

afraid of the fall.

afraid

of breaking bones,

shattering our

bodies on the cold 

rocks below.

we can hardly look

down, until

exhausted,

we have to let go,

and then

surprised that it was

only a few feet in 

falling to the soft

earth below.

giddy up cowboy

she bought me

cowboy

boots and a leather vest.

a big hat

to go with the outfit.

a belt with two

steers on the buckle.

a pair of leather

chaps.

it wasn't Halloween,

so i asked her,

what gives.

i want you to be

different she said,

cracking a whip

and yodeling. throwing

a rope around

my neck.

it was going to be wild

night

up ahead.

fifty years later

he would fish.

he'd rise early

in the cold

morning

before the sun.

grab his gear,

his rod

his lines, his hooks

and bait.

boots up to his waist.

casting out,

reeling in,

casting out.

i'd find him in

the afternoon,

sitting on a rock,

smoking a cigarette,

the white bucket

full.

it was the same river

we fished in

when we were young.

but i left

and he stayed on.

the unchained heart

how calm the day is,

the sea,

how little the trees move,

how

blue the sky is,

the gentle

breeze.

the warmth of sun

upon me.

it's good once more

to be unshackled,

to be free.

pleasure

we all have an itch,

something somewhere 

within us

to be that begs

to be done.

it's ephemeral though.

a temporary

fix.

it's all temporary when

you think about it.

each one of us,

just passing through.

but while we're here,

come closer,

i'll tell you where

to scratch.

heart breaking news

when i hear the words,

we're having

spaghetti squash for dinner

tonight,

without bread,

or meat,

or red sauce.

i want to cry. i go find

a chair and pout

in the darkness.

what has the world come

to?  how i wish sometimes

it was nineteen sixty-five

all over again,

with my mother

standing at the stove

cooking real food. 

meatballs in the pan,

red sauce

splattering all over her

hands.

the pot boiling over

with noodles,

the warm oven filled with

garlic bread.

peering into the kitchen,

asking if it's ready yet?

it's not my fault

i find it easy

to dismiss

the angry, the arrogant,

the self

righteous,

but then an hour later

i feel bad about

it.

i confuse myself

with my

regrets.

maybe they too weren't

hugged as a child.

maybe they had

an abusive

husband, or father along

the way.

a lunatic mother?

a psychotic wife?

who's to know.

who's to blame, we've all

got something

going on these days.

a black and white movie

it's a long afternoon,

the snow

and ice keeping

me put. it's

a black and white

affair

of an old movie, one

i've seen before.

worth

seeing again, if i could

keep my eyes open.

i shut them

for a second,

which becomes an hour.

i can hear the voices,

the music.

i know how it all turns

out in the end.

but it doesn't matter,

the sleep

is good.

the dream is good.

i find comfort

in the familiar.

they wonder why we drink

the housewives turned decorators

are the worst.

no clue, no education, no

idea

what they're doing, but

friends have told them they

have good taste.

"you should become a decorator"

i like how you put

that chair by the window,

and that lampshade

is adorable.

where did you get that dish rag.

love it. it matches the plates.

they want the impossible

done.

ceilings wallpapered.

closets.

doors. 

peel and stick contact

paper.

farrow and ball paints,

one fifty per gallon.,

they look at a tv show

and think, hey, i can do that.

i have good

taste and a flair for

the dramatic.

sure, i don't know the first

thing about

paints, but look at my nails,

my lipstick. my shoes.

everything about me is in

sync.

plotting my escape

i don't blame the animals

in the zoo

for plotting their escape.

looking for the door

left open,

the cage unlatched,

the gap

between the bars. i've been

there, been

inside wanting out

many times.

in love gone sour.

scratching another day

onto the wall.

digging the tunnel

a spoonful at a time,

waiting patiently

as i hear the jangle 

of her keys,

her footsteps coming

down the hall.

maybe tomorrow

it's natural, human

to always

think we have more time.

and as you flip

to the back page of the metro

section

to review who's died,

you wonder,

what were they putting

off, delaying

for another time.

caffeine

i make a mess

making coffee, the grinder,

the beans,

the pour over,

boiling water, the filters.

the scale.

i'm a mad

scientist trying

to get my fill of hot

caffeine.

spills are everywhere,

grounds,

and drips.

i suddenly have more respect

for the baristas.

where's the instant,

my go to

sleeves.

ignore this poem

she asks me if we can chat

on what's app.

i say.

what's that?

she sends me her number

from russia.

it takes some time

before i can figure it all out.

download

and all that.

she sends me a few

suggestive photos, but

i immediately believe that

my bank account

is being emptied and that

the police

will be knocking at my door

any minute for

talking to a minor,

which she says she isn't.

i'm forty two,

she says, and sends me

another picture of her

milking a cow in the Ukraine.

she's smiling and wearing

only mittens.

she's beautiful.

she's asks me if i have a checking

account or savings,

or both.

i'm starting to get just a tiny

bit suspicious,

but tell her yes, i have both.

do you need my

social security number too?

she's caught me in a weak moment

having watched everything

there is to watch on netflix

and amazone prime.

i'm smitten

with the girl in mittens.

he was a handsome man

when the man

grabbed her purse, 

my poetry

professor,

as she was getting

into her car

with a bag of groceries,

she held on.

she screamed

and kicked,

looking at the man's

face, into his eyes.

he ran.

and when the police

arrived they asked her

what he looked like,

and she said,

he was very tall

and quite handsome

and i thought

maybe

if he wasn't doing this,

he might be nice.

rewriting the will

it's not easy having

children.

watching them grow,

having done your best

to instill some sort of

work ethic and 

yet they flounder, not

getting it,

disdaining work,

living off the land

of other's good will.

it's the generation of 

self absorption and

lazy.

i do my best though to keep

them all happy.

sending them

money for the holidays

and birthdays.

sending cash

or a check. but at times

i almost feel like

they're waiting for my

death, 

ready to take it all

and not just the occasional

tid bits.

how's your health,

they ask, still wearing

your mask?

time to rewrite the will.

all of it

going towards the welfare

of stray dogs

and cats.

what was that about?

funny

how we get along

and then

we're gone.

woosh.

the slam of a door,

the closing

of a book.

we vanish, 

we disappear, back

into

our own worlds

still

murky, all of it

never clear.

a winters day

some snow melts,

some doesn't. some lingers

in the shade,

small ice bergs

along the curbs,

the hill

where the children

ride their sleighs.

the ice is slow

even with the sun

in going down the drain.

too cold still

for all of it to go away.

which makes me think

of you

and me, stuck in winter

for another day.

please, tell me what to do with my life

i like when people

correct me.

tell me what i should be doing

to improve

my life on earth.

you need to read more,

eat more

healthy.

you should join a gym,

or a yoga

class. you should stretch.

meditate,

go to church on sundays.

have you ever

been to Paris?

you should travel more,

see the world.

take a dance class.

learn to salsa, rumba,

shag and swing.

you should lighten your

carbon footprint.

buy electric,

use paper bags.

recycle your glass

and tin,

buy cotton sheets.

you should retire, invest

in long care

living.

give to the poor, work

in a shelter.

buy me a diamond ring.

late night out

when a woman

stands in the doorway

with her hands on her hips,

a frown on her face,

holding

the collar of your

shirt,

and you're still

lying in bed at ten in the morning.

peeking between

two pillows.

you know you're in for it.

busted, your dead.

a mild amend

i put the olive branch out.

i can't

not

be friends anymore.

lovers, no.

but friends, yes.

who doesn't have room

for another

friend, an old friend.

it's not a welcome

home, but just me passing

through,

giving you a wave,

making a mild amend.

what's up with that dude

the woman in front of me

strikes

up a conversation about

the long line we're in.

waiting to check out 

of the grocery store.

what's up with that dude,

she says, pointing

at a guy in an orange

hazmat suit.

he puts one item

on the belt, and then stops.

talks on his phone,

texts

and then picks up a magazine

from the shelf.

i know, i know i tell her.

and look what he's buying.

candy, cookies, milk.

dog food, and trout.

weird, she says. very strange.

and then it's her turn,

goodbye, she says, good luck.

nice chatting.

i turn to the woman behind me.

can you believe that woman?

have you ever seen so much

chocolate in one cart?

a purse without a bottom

i watch

women

reaching into their large purses.

unsnapping

them, and peering in,

reaching down

deep for what

they're trying to find.

it's a mine

in there.

gold and debris. girl stuff.

lipstick

and whatever keeps

them afloat

throughout the day.

a hairbrush,

a mirror. mints.

another phone you've never

seen.

pens and pads

of paper.

so many strange

and unmanly things.

burnt toast

some days

you are the unsharpened

point

of a pencil.

the leaking ink

of a pen, 

blotting

your shirt.

some days you are the burnt

toast,

the smoke

alarm going off,

the car that won't turn

over.

the stubbed toe.

soured milk.

some days

are just like that,

there's no going around

them. you just

hang on and wait

for time to pass.

What exactly is love?

i get invited to the neighborhood

discussion group by a friendly woman

who i see on occasion as she walks

her dog.

we'd like to have a man's opinion

sometimes, she says, please join us tonight

if you aren't too busy.

it's quite an invigorating 

few hours of intellectual discussion.

why not, i tell her.

i've got nothing else to do.

no games are on tonight.

so, having just moved into

the area, and in an attempt to make

new friends, i show up at eight. 

new button down shirt,

a little dab of old spice on,

carrying a martini.

tonight's topic is love

i see by the sign on the door

the word Love

written inside a big heart.

i smile smugly as i sit down

in my chair, love, pfffft.

i got this. i cross

my arms and wink at a woman

a few seats down. she's wearing

camouflage pants

and a clunky pair of black doc martins.

she shakes her head at me

and appears to shudder,

as she pulls her legs tightly together.

the eight of us are sitting in

a big circle of mismatched

lawn chairs, dining room

chairs, and an oak barrel

brought in from the garage.

okay, the leader, Emily, says.

still in her yoga pants and 

slowly nibbling on an enormous carrot.

who wants to start us off?

i see we have a new participant

here, he wishes to remain

anonymous, or to be called

jimmy. but let's make him feel welcome

and give him a round of applause,

how brave of him to come out

in this weather, and being

the only male willing to attend

our discussion group since the start 

of the me too movement.

i nod and smile, taking in the warm

applause. for flair, i give a nice bow,

careful not to spill my martini.

the subject is Love, Emily says,

putting her hand to her heart

and closing her eyes

with a beatific smile on her face.

Love. Love makes the world go round,

but what is love, what makes us love.

is love sustainable throughout

a marriage, a relationship,

or are we all doomed to stray

when love goes awry or loses

it's initial drug like infatuation?

is it chemical, emotional, a combination

of the two.

can one be friends and make love,

and yet not be in love?

why do men think sex is akin

to love?

i raise my hand.

yes, jimmy, question? it's a little

early for questions, but go ahead.

yes. well it's more of a comment

than a question.

Go on Jimmy.

okay, now hear me out.

i think it's okay to have sex with

people you're friends with,

if it's mutual, and there's the 

possibility that it may develop

into love. i'm not talking about

the one night stand, the hook up,

or wham bam thank you mam,

or who's your daddy, 

but you know. friends

with benefits. i think sometimes

that will turn into love.

maybe, maybe not, ya know?

it's a good way to jump start things though.

i mean sometimes you meet someone

and you've both had a few

cocktails and the next

thing you know you're in the back

seat of a car

doing the wild thing.

silence.  crickets.

i see a woman with her knitting

needles out, but she's

not knitting.

someone breaks out a giant

tupperware tub of cookies.

the cork of a wine bottle

gets popped.

Emily breaks her carrot in half

with a loud snap

and throws it towards

a trash can in the kitchen,

umm, jimmy. i have no idea

what you're talking about, but

thank you for that very man like

explanation of what love can be

in your mixed up world.

the woman i winked at raises her

hand, yes, Jude, question?

i vote that we make Jimmy leave

this discussion group, can we

take a vote?

sure, Emily says. let's vote.

all in favor

of Jimmy leaving the group, raise their hand.

everyone raises their hand,

some raise both hands.

i get up, okay, okay. i get it, i get it.

i'm leaving.

and as i walk by the cookie

dish, i grab a few for the road,

taking a bite of one,

what the hell, oatmeal, with raisins?

who made these?

why would anyone bring oatmeal

cookies to a discussion group?

in love with the milk man

i miss the milk

man, she tells her son,

looking longingly out

the window.

it was wonderful,

the metal box on the stoop

with a glass

bottle

of milk,

eggs, bread

and juice.

a pound of bacon

too.

his big square truck,

left

to idle at the curb

as he scurried up

the porch

to deliver the goods.

his bright white uniform

and hat,

always with a smile.

he was dashing.

sometimes

he'd beep or wave if

he saw me

coming out in my

robe,

sometimes,

he'd leave a sweet

roll, or two,

a cute little card,

and now there's something

i have to tell you

son,

something about

you.

it's not that at all

i'm sorry, 

but i can't make it,

i say over the phone.

i'm tired.

work, you know?

it's been really busy

this time of year,

but we can try again next

week, if you'd

like.

sure sure, no it's not

that at all.

it's cold out, they're

talking about snow.

i do have a bit of

a sniffle too. probably

nothing, but one can't

be too sure these days.

right, right, i know.

tea and lemon.

a hot bath, rest.

got it.

we'll i need to run now.

have to go.

just wanted to let you

know.

next week?

okay, okay. we'll see

how it goes.

the picture box

she  makes a bowl of popcorn

and dumps out

the cardboard box of

photographs

pulled from the attic.

it's an ambitious undertaking,

sorting, slipping them

into albums.

with dates and comments.

hundreds of pictures,

piled aimlessly

in the deep box.

the history of her life.

she gets up for a glass of wine,

and brings the bottle

to the floor, it takes

about two minutes

before she's holding one

picture and crying.

unable to look at more.

critiquing poems

i want it to be golden.

i want it to shine.

to be precise and perfect.

i don't want to say

what i have to say,

trying hard to be nice.

it's not ready.

it's not good.

it's rambling. it needs

work

then silence from the

other side.

you don't love me,

do you? i  insert

an elongated sigh

into the dry silence.

i'm done with the business

of giving advice. 

unsober dialing

we have our weak moments,

some after

a stiff drink or two,

or feeling

a tad under the weather,

lonely and sad

staring out the window

at grim

winter work.

slush and grey snow.

the salted roads,

the crunch of a plow

so we pick up our phone,

and dial.

life is too calm, we need

more drama,

we need something to

do, the only reason

in calling the likes of you.

the playful bicker

they like

to bicker playfully when

others were

around.

married forever and 

a day.

he leaves the seat up,

she leaves

it down.

he snores, she's obsessed

with shoes,

they take turns

being the matador,

the other the bull.

it's all in the name of love,

it seems,

though

it's hardly a surprise

when i hear

that it all came apart

at the seams.

a winter cake

the sky is layered.

it's a new

work of art this morning.

a winter cake of

several shades

of blue,

white

and greys, all playing

a part.

above the trees,

below on old snow,

between

bare limbs.

the light comes through

the window.

and makes me

stand there

for longer than i usually

do,

letting it sink in.

finding what needs to be found

i see a purse

on the counter.

someone has left it there.

it looks expensive.

black leather

with a silver

snap.

i look around the 

crowded coffee

shop

and immediately

know who's it is.

a woman in the back,

reading.

i bring it to her.

she says

thank you, thank you.

everything important

to me is in

there.

how did you know

it was mine?

i shrug.

i don't know how,

beats me, i just did

covering your tracks

the good thing

about the passing of time

is that

you get to rewrite

your life

what was once non fiction

is now fiction.

who's to know

the facts.

people move on, people

die.

you can easily cover

up your tracks.

make stuff up.

put yourself in a brighter

light.

after awhile

you don't even remember

what was true.

no one is the wiser.

no one remembers

what a dope you were.

they haven't got

a clue.

just you.

chasing you around the kitchen

i decide to slow

things down.

to start living my life

a half

day at a time.

no more two days at a time,

or one day.

i'm doing a half day

from here on out.

i figure out

the twelve hours

where i'm going to cooperate

with the world.

phone calls,

work.

etc. but the other twelve

will involve

sleep

and entertainment,

chasing you around

the kitchen.

stuff like that.

never say never

we compare notes.

kids,

jobs,

how many times married,

i show

her the scars

on my face

from rice being thrown

at me so many

times.

she shows me

the scar

on her foot from an ill

fitted wedding

shoe.

we laugh,

we drink. and both say

at the same

time. never again. never.

i show her my ring

finger

where they had to saw

off my

unmovable ring.

she opens her purse

and shows me

a handful

of diamond engagement

rings and laughs.

my retirement, she says.

suckers.

we clink glasses together.

she may be the one.

birthday month

women do birthday

month.

men

ignore it

for the most part.

please don't get me

anything.

it's just another day

on the calendar page.

women plan

their own party.

buy their own balloons,

announce it

everywhere they go.

every friend within reach

eventually knows.

men shrug

and say, i don't really care,

maybe i'll open a can

of beans,

and watch a game

in the big chair.

90837

i miss

going to therapy.

we were making so much progress.

me blaming

everyone but myself

for the way i've behaved

and her enjoying my childhood tales.

i liked asking

her at the end of every session,

so what have we 

learned today.

and she'd laugh and laugh,

while writing out my slip

of paper with the coded

diagnosis, 90837, and her

putting the other hand out

for pay.

we don't agree anymore

we don't see eye to eye

anymore,

it's not like 

it to used to be when

we were young

and dumb,

and drinking.

rarely did we disagree,

but we've aged now,

sober

and smarter,

more read,

more wise. we're actually

using our brains now

not for chasing skirts

and money, but

for rational

debate

and thinking.

unexpected joy

as you stretch

out

in the white tub,

bathing

in steam,

i lie in bed 

and listen to you sing,

i wonder

what other

unexpected joys

can this day bring.