i think i'll steal that line

i go to confession at the local

church.

St. Thomas More.

i kneel

and go through the ritual.

i can see

the priest through

the webbed

screen.

his blurred face

and collar.

go on my son, he says.

i'm listening.

i tell him how i'm stealing

lines

and ideas

from the poets that i read.

Frost and Bishop,

Strand and Levine.

Bukowski too, God forgive me,

even him.

i read a few stanzas

and off i go to write 

my own version

of one of their poems.

i can't help it, i tell him.

i'm sorry.

i seem to have no imagination

of my own.

i see the priest shake his head.

and sigh.

get out of here

he says, and don't come back

until you have something

better

than this.

i need adultery, envy, murder

and pride.

final words

she's full of cancer now.

she admits

she's smoked too much.

but she equates

her impending death

with being

a bad person.

harsh and rude.

i should have been nicer to people

she says, laughing

and

lighting her

next cigarette

with the one she's smoking.

i should have treated all

of my husbands better.

my children.

i feel bad about my cat too.

leaving her alone

like this.

what possibly will

she do?

a new light to go on

your smugness

wears

off

with each year, your ego

deflates,

the air

seeping out as you realize

how unsmart

you truly are,

how unwise.

it's a sinking feeling

of

knowing that you know

so little

about the world

even after living

for so long.

hopefully today,

a new light will go on.

a symphony

the quiet crackle

of seed

in spring. 

is it not all

music? unheard

below

the swath of wind,

the melting

freeze.

an orchestra of sorts

beyond

us.

the worm underfoot,

his work

unnoticed by you,

or me.

whose wings

are these we hardly

hear,

sailing purposely

between

the trees.

how many carbs in that?

how many carbs

in that

grapefruit, i ask her.

shut up,

she says.

just shut the hell up about

carbs

and eat

that stupid half

slice

of grapefruit.

i put your fake sugar on it.

i'm sick of you and your

carb count.

look in the mirror

you're a bag of bones

now.

you look like an extra

in Schindler's List.

eat, for god's sake eat.

i'm making

lasagna tonight

with meat balls and garlic

bread,

and if you don't eat

all of it

there's no tv tonight

and no me.

no fishnet stockings, no

high heels,

no la dee da.

got it buddy?

losing it

my mother

loved

liver and onions.

it was the only food we wouldn't

eat,

so she had it all

for herself.

we'd run

from the kitchen

as the liver

hit the pan, frying

in a loud sizzle.

we'd shake

our heads

and have a meeting.

what's wrong with her.

her and 

that liver?

she's losing it.

what's next, kidneys,

hearts,

brains?

she could eat us.

her electric car

i love her electric car.

she plugs it into

her house

and it's good to go for

a week or so.

it's a long white

spaceship.

it makes no sound.

no oil, no gas,

no grease monkey poking

around the engine.

she puts

the stereo on, a video

on the screen.

we get into our pajamas

as she makes me a martini 

the car

drives itself.

giving you kind updates

along the way.

there's a dairy queen up ahead,

the soft voice says.

we sit back and relax

in the massaging seats

heading to

the beach.

laughing, having a good

old time. happy, but

hoping it doesn't

catch fire.

walking distance

no car.

no bike. but she has legs

and feet,

so she gets around.

she knows where all the metro

stops are.

how to flag

down a taxi,

or Uber.

she's a city girl.

coffee and a bagel.

a paper.

walking distance

is her home town.

i laugh,

trying to remember the

last time

i didn't have

to drive somewhere

for anything

in my life.

the four thousand dollar flat tire

after paying for AAA

for forty years,

a hundred bucks or so per

bill,

i finally get a flat tire out

on the open

road and need them.

they come

and fix the tire.

the kid smiles and says,

it's free, no charge.

really?

how kind.

waffles and bacon

let's sleep in, she says,

yawning,

stretching her arms in bed,

hitting me

in the nose

with her hand.

oops, sorry.

let's not get up, but go back

to sleep.

it's rainy,

it's dark out and cold.

can we stay in bed all

day?

shhh, i tell her.

i was in the middle of something.

a dream.

go back to sleep,

quietly though, okay?

but if you get up.

do you mind making waffles?

and bacon?

war thoughts

i can't imagine

going to war.

a paper cut ruins my day.

a stubbed

toe

and i'm curled into a fetal

position

on the floor.

one never knows

what you'll do when

your life

and country is in danger.

will you be

a coward, or be

brave.

it's come to that for

many.

i suspect that

survival though,

will win the day.

turning the clock back

the surgery did not

go well

her face

tightened

like a drum, the botox

stabs

into the forehead,

around the lips,

the chin

the mouth.

they sucked out as much

donut

fat as they could

around her tum.

slimmed her down

to a size

two.

but it wasn't her anymore,

no matter how

much lipstick

she put on,

or what dress she wore,

she now

looked like a chimp

at the national

zoo.

her night out at studio 54

she sends me a picture

of her

in new york city

in the eighties.

black hair down

to her shoulders, a movie

star smile.

a blousy white shirt

with a pink collar.

her eyes already lit up

with champagne. 

she's on her way to studio

54 for a night

out.

she had it going on

back in the day.

still does.

but minus the white

pirate blouse.

i can see her flagging

a cab down now.

don't tell me the rest

my father

orders two more bottles of baby

oil.

he has a new

girlfriend.

he's 94,

she's 86.

an old flame from the 70's.

he saw in the obituaries

that her husband

had passed away.

so he gave it a shot.

i don't ask about the baby oil.

wednesdays

and sundays

is there schedule.

she brings a cake

and wine.

the rest i don't want to know

about.

what else is on tonight?

it's not your war,

but it is.

it's people.

and we are people,

aren't we?

well, some are, some

aren't.

some

are asleep

at the wheel of life.

ignoring

the bad news.

death

and destruction.

let's switch

the channel.

what else is on tonight?

men, women...it just won't work out

i try to think back

on any of the weddings 

i've ever been to

that were successful.

none come to mind.

neither theirs

or mine.

no matter how big

the venue, the attendance,

the cake.

the band.

no matter how much

drinking and dancing

was done.

how great the food was,

no matter how beautiful

the bride,

the dress.

the groom in a tux was,

or expensive the honeymoon,

all of them a one point or

another went

into the can.

cake and milk

my desire for

cake

and milk has never waned.

i can still

see my mother's hands

setting

the plate in front of me.

the fork beside it.

pouring the cold

glass of

white milk.

a napkin folded.

me in my striped shirt.

my hair combed.

my dungarees

and tennis

shoes on.

my homework done.

she'd wet her finger and

push my cowlick

down.

eat she'd say.

you were good boy today.

i'll put a slice

into your lunch box

tomorrow.

a cake knife, unused

in storage, in the large

walk in closet

in the basement

i have two old toaster

ovens,

a coffee maker,

a blender,

a mixer,

old telephones,

two old televisions

and pillows.

a computer, speakers.

an old stereo system.

a box of old wedding

invitations

and a cake knife, unused.

i am the junk man

without a wagon

and a horse.

calypso music

i finally get around

to getting the loose

change out

of the dryer.

it's been rattling in

there for weeks.

it's a nice calypso sound

though.

i'll miss it.

i was getting good

at playing the bongos

on the washer

and dancing

under the bare bulb

of the laundry

room.

the long black strand of hair

she finds

a strand of black hair in the sink

as she puts

her face on.

not mine.

not hers.

i gulp and widen my eyes.

who is she? she says,

dangling the long

black

hair in front of me.

my mother's? my sister's?

maybe the cleaning

lady's?

i say.

right, she says,

applying her lipstick,

a bright red

swipe

across her smile.

we're done.

the leg a flutter

the nervous

twitch, the leg a flutter,

the eye

winking with a mind

of its own.

the stutter

the stammer,

the gulp, the uncertain

moan.

so much can go

wrong

with the human body,

not to mention

the soul.

small regrets

i regret small things.

like

choosing the wrong

meal,

or taking the wrong turn

in traffic.

i regret wearing

a certain coat

or tie,

i'd like to think that all

of my regrets are

trivial

and small,

meaningless,

but that would be an

enormous lie.

let them go

you want to grab

the child

by his shoulders, find his or

her eyes

and tell them.

tell them straight up,

this is how it is.

this is how the world

goes.

and this is what you must

do and know

to stay safe

and do well.

but you can't. you can

only let them watch

you.

cut the strings and let

them go.

unaware and aware

we are unaware

and aware

of many things. the light

wind pushing

the cold

upon our wrist as 

we reach

for buttons.

the weight of things, 

the lightness

of a stone,

the gallon jug

that we lift,

heavier this year

than last.

we say nothing, but our

body knows.

and us,

the gradual distance,

once love,

that goes

unspoken as it

separates and grows.

old school banking

my teller

at the drive thru

bank

is concerned about my finances.

his name is

Kamil.

he's between fifty and eighty.

i can't quite determine

his age.

he used to wear an

old grey turban

on his head,

but after 9 11 he took it

off.

we get along.

we talk about the weather

in the few short

minutes that we spend

together.

me putting my deposit

slip and check

into the box, him retrieving

it.

talking on his garbled

jack in the box

microphone behind

the slanted window.

he tells me

i need to invest.

i have too much money

in checkings.

he advises me to look at stocks,

municipal bonds,

maybe annuities.

i nod in agreement.

soon i tell him. good he says.

and puts a strawberry

lollipop into the box

with my reciept.

my favorite flavor.

strawberry.

the ides of march

i don't believe in march.

nothing good

happens in march.

ever.

Julius Ceasar knows

that.

it's an indecisive month.

it might snow.

it might be eighty degrees

one day

and frozen rain

the next.

i look back on my records.

thumbing through

past calendars.

march. pfffft.

nothing

of importance,

nothing of value ever

comes about.

not a note of fun, or

enjoyment.

march stinks.

there's not a day in it

that i want to hold

onto.

blow away march

and shut the door on

your way out.

the turnstile

they're ghosts now.

i see their

faces.

hear their voices.

there they are over there,

good people,

old friends,

lovers

coming up

the stairs.

leaving.

always the eventual

leaving.

you get used to it after

a while.

names and faces.

the click

of the well greased 

turnstile.

relentless clock

it's a twenty four hour

day.

sleep eight.

work eight.

that leaves eight hours

to get things

done.

like the dmv.

five hours.

dinner.

coffee.

a drink. a little tv.

a book.

two hours.

that leaves one hour

for this.

hardly enough time

to get it all

down.

what are they up to?

it's difficult

to trust someone who smiles

too often

and for too long.

calm

and happy.

what are they up to?

what do they want?

always pleasant,

eager to lend

a hand.

polite and well mannered.

they seem to listen

when you speak,

always

with a compliment,

a pat on the back,

firmly shaking your

hand.

when talking

they look into your eyes.

you know they're up to

no good,

but you haven't quite

put your finger

on it.

give them time.

it won't be long before

their true selves

arrive.

blondes have more fun

no one is ever 

quite satisfied

with

themselves these days.

self help

books line the shelves.

i have about

fifty of them

within reach.

some help, some are good

for the fireplace

on a cold winters night.

spiritual books,

psychology books.

a book on

a hundred words you should

know by now. 

places you must go before

you die.

books on

how to lose weight,

gain weight.

lower your cholesterol,

raise your

testosterone,

get rid of wrinkly skin.

clear up

those pimples, dye

that grey hair black

or brown.

why not blonde this

time around.

the word on the street

is that they have more fun.

we meet again

i run into

father Smith again.

our paths seem to continually cross.

he's in the liquor store

loading up

on vodka

from Finland.

he used to like

Smirnoff, but there are

no more Russian vodkas

on the shelves

because

of the war.

hey, he says, pulling

at his collar.

hey, i say back.

he looks worried.

beads of sweat roll down

his face

and his hands

are calloused from

praying.

for the bunker, he says,

pointing at his shopping cart.

do you have a place

to go

if they drop the big one?

nah.

why bother?

i'll just embrace the light.

i tell him,

then put my gallon

jug of Tanqueray

on the counter.

making the long distant call

tell a kid about 

the pay phone,

and they laugh.

tell them about

standing in a glass booth

along the highway

with a stack of coins,

feeding the slot

to make a long distant

call to someone

you like,

hoping that the feeling

is mutual,

shivering in the wind

as you held the number

she gave you

on a scrap of paper

up to the flickering

light.

tell them about

the desperation

of words before

the time runs out.

you had to work for love

back then, you tell

them,

but they're not listening

they're watching

tik tok.

all about me

we don't know

why

someone is unpleasant.

and angry.

we don't know

what happened

in childhood,

or on the way to work.

we don't know

what puddles

they've stepped into.

what calamity

has occurred to make

them rude and mean,

unsociable

and crotchety

to the world at large,

and even to me.

nap is a code word

with this cold rain

coming down

it's a good day to stay home.

a good day

for a good book,

to lie in bed,

put the tv on low.

maybe call betty when the story

drags.

the door is open

i'll tell her.

bring me some of that 

lasagna you made.

pick up a paper while 

you're at it,

and something sweet

for dessert.

if we aren't too tired,

perhaps

we can take a nap.

my mother's news report

i miss my mother's news

broadcasts.

her

whisper

into the phone,

hand cupped around

the receiver,

asking

me to promise

that i'd never

tell a soul what she was about

to tell me.

cross my heart i'd

say, then listen.

an hour later a sister

would call,

then a brother,

and each would 

tell me 

the same exact story,

the juicy bit

of gossip that

everyone had been told.

a tragic night

it was tragic.

not the fire, or the flood,

the faucet

not turning

off, the candle

falling over

to light

the tablecloth.

it wasn't the smoke

alarm

blaring, or the sirens,

the rap at the door

of police

and fireman.

it was the rip in yours,

and mine,

favorite pair

of fishnet stockings,

forever lost,

and torn.

beyond my comprehension

when young,

very young, in the beginning

stages

of shaving.

of learning

the curves of women.

unraveling the puzzle

of what

makes them tick,

i'd spend part of

my meager sum

of a weeks work

on such things as flowers,

or cards,

some cheap broche

or necklace or shiny

ring

to indicate my affection.

buying not

love, but

something else beyond

my comprehension.

and now,

with this vase of flowers

on my shelf

i think how strange it is

that the tables

have turned.

listening to trees

we need each

other,

you hear them whisper

those

trees.

the fat oaks, the slender

birch, all with

a new

set of leaves.

we

are different and alike,

we need

all of us

in order to be what

what

we're meant

to be.

the open window

the window, left

open

for the warm day, is open

all night.

it gets cold.

it begins to rain.

i get up to find another

blanket.

i hear

the papers

fly off the desk,

the rattle of blinds,

the curtains blow.

i'll close

it tomorrow. but

for now,

i'll embrace this

storm.

let go and walk away

the secret

is in letting go.

in walking away.

it's not surrender or giving

up.

it's empowering,

to set a boundary

and to stand firm.

love yourself first.

don't allow

bad situations, bad people

get in your

way.

let go

and walk away.

sour cream

i lift the carton

to my nose

and sniff at the cream.

still good?

perhaps, who knows.

i shake it up,

then pour

it into coffee, it swirls

it puddles.

it separates.

it seems to have

a mind all its own.

oh well, i drink

the cup.

it won't kill me,

i suppose.

the opera news

the news makes

an opera out of the war,

the violence,

the tears,

the blood

and fear.

each day a new curtain

rises,

a new singer appears.

they stir it up, make

a story

of it.

they tug at your heart,

bring you to the edge

of your seat.

a beginning is formed,

a middle,

the uncertain end

yet to come.

stay tuned.

we'll be there for you.

we're fox, we're npr,

we're cnn.

be patient, we'll be back

after this brief

commercial,

stay tuned.

sympathy for a fish

there was sympathy

for

the fish,

herring or perch,

i felt as a child,

poor fish, his jaw tightened

around a steel

hook.

despite his beauty,

tricked.

what sport is this

to be dragged 

through water, away from

home.

drowning in the air

when lifted

and taken

apart, bone by bone.

we want in on it

we want in on the joke.

we don't

want to be

left out in the cold,

we want to know

what goes on

here.

what are you missing,

what words

have fallen between

the cracks

of conversation, 

what is it that

you didn't hear.

the predators

it's a grey

lump

of fur, a mouse expired

in the far

corner of the yard,

almost

hidden

by weeds and dirt.

a tossed soft

glove

of former life.

his end

came when?

what did him in, the cold,

the fox,

a cat.

so many predators

are out to get us.

it could be

anyone

i guess.

the blue gem

the fat

dome of blue sky.

harmless,

optimistic in color.

bright

as any gem placed beneath

glass

of a jewelry store.

it shines

with hope.

the earth seems

well.

how could it not be

with a color

like that?

the antiques

the antique

of you,

is sublime, the dust,

the smell

of old wood,

without shine.

the grey webs

of time

that you call

hair.

the creak

of bones going

across

the oriental rug,

then

down the stairs.

your voice

a scratch

on the gramophone,

yes, let's admit it,

we're

all getting on

in years.

can't we just be friends now?

can't we just be friends now.

i know

you stabbed me

in the back,

and i stabbed you in the leg,

arms

and chest.

and yes,

we've slandered one another

for years,

and you owe me

money

for reparations,

and you bit off one

of my ears,

but let's put all of that behind

us now,

can't we find some middle

ground,

and be friends again,

what say you,

my aging,

dear?

my zipper down

i hate when

someone points at my

tire as i drive

down the road.

rolling their window down.

it's never good. it's never,

hey, great

inflation, i like

your treads, your hubcap.

more than likely

there's a nail

sticking out

the side

and it's going flat.

same goes for me, if someone

points at a part of me,

i'm usually dragging

toilet paper on

the bottom of my shoe,

or there's spinach between

my teeth,

or there's

shaving cream in my ear.

please,

don't point.

i know i missed a button

on my shirt.

and that my zipper is down.

yes, i know that,

i'm quite aware.

i'm melting, oh what a world, what a world....

my old umbrella,

a dark blue, still works.

i've had

it since the early two

thousands.

nine relationships ago.

i've held it

over many heads

throughout the years

keeping them dry,

keeping them from

getting pelted

by rain,

preventing several of them

from melting

into puddles, 

instead.

the mistakes we make

it's frightening

the mistakes

we make when looking back

on them.

the wrong

turns, the wrong purchase,

allowing the wrong

person

in your house.

the horror of it all.

we think we're smart, but

we're not.

we're blind at times,

deaf too,

feeling our

way through

life

with a white cane

and a wishful heart.

Spam Calls

after the twenty ninth

spam

call of the day,

i slump

into my chair with a stiff

drink.

the battery drained

from my phone.

no, i say.

i don't want solar panels,

i don't want

medication,

i don't care about medicare

benefits,

part a, part b, part c, or d.

i don't care that

they found my car on the border

of texas,

or that my social

security number has been

stolen,

or that someone

has ordered an i phone

on my amazon account.

i don't need a medical alert

bracelet,

or insurance for end of life

benefits.

i don't even care if i've won

the publishers clearing house

sweepstakes,

three days in a row.

i'm sort of done with India.

i'm crossing it

off my list of places

to ever visit.

whatever you do, don't pull my hair

when she says stop,

don't

stop,

does she mean, really,

i want you to stop,

or does she mean, yeah

baby, go on,

or whenever she says,

whatever you do don't

pull my hair,

does that mean,

it's okay, i invite you to

pull my

hair,

but not too hard, not too

long.

it's confusing.

and if i see her with a whip,

and cuffs,

and leather boots,

does that mean,

all bets are off,

game on?

i need a lawyer to figure

this out

and get it all on paper,

signed and stamped

before

we proceed further.

another day, another show

there's a shoe

over there.

a leg.

an arm. there's someone

in the window

crouching low.

in the distance

the blast of a bomb.

the chirping

of bullets.

as tanks and trucks,

growl

and roll.

there's men

in the mud. 

babies  crying.

everything one owns

in tow.

another day.

another show.

a good time

he was one of those

guys

that had frosted mugs in

the freezer.

he'd make a big deal out of it.

holding up

the frosted

glasses to show you

what he had done.

he was good at the grille

too.

a big white chef's hat

on.

telling everyone to step

back.

i got this, he'd say.

as the meat sizzled and the

smoke rose.

he was a good time,

all the time,

so it was a surprise when

he jumped

off the bridge.

who knew, who had a clue,

that he was done.

keeping score

i remember my grandmother

turning

to the obituaries in the paper

first thing.

not the front page,

not the metro

section, or style,

or sports,

but right to the death page.

she got some sort

of satisfaction

when finding out

someone she knew had died,

and she was still

alive.

stop buying things

i put a note

up

on the mirror, on

the computer screen,

on the front door,

on my wallet.

i fold the same note

over

and place it in my

pocket.

i tie a string around

my finger.

you have enough

clothes now,

the note says,

enough shoes now.

the tv you have is fine.

the computer

works perfectly.

the toaster is rarely

used.

there's nothing wrong

with the car

you have.

stop.

don't buy another

thing.

holy hannah

i like the way

she whistles when she's taking

a pan

out of the oven.

her mitts on her

hands,

holy hannah, she says,

almost

burning herself.

i think it's done.

then another tune,

is whistled

as she puts in the buns.

we crowd the house

we crowd the house

with

loss, with memory of those

passed.

we secure their

place

amongst the couch,

the mantle, next

to a favored

vase,

a hung hat.

we prop photos, and

rings,

small things,

that remind us of who

they were.

we want them back,

but this will

have to do, small

mementos

that remind us that

our turn is coming

too.

on your left

the path is crowded

on this warm

march day.

dogs

and strollers,

entire families,

three generations of walkers

strolling

down the wooded path.

headphones on.

lost in conversation.

i can hardly

pedal

through the crowd.

bell dinging.

saying out loud, again

and again.

on your left, on your left.

the pear tree

he said,

take as many as you'd like.

so we did.

the tree

was full of pears.

sweet and green.

we ate,

we cracked them

open with our teeth,

digging into

the white meat.

we stuck them in our

pockets,

filled

a bag of them.

we ate until our

stomachs

ached.

i haven't touched

a pear since

i don't remember

when.

fast cars and fast girls

i no longer

find

the fast car appealing.

where once

i wanted the v 6,

the stick,

the wide tires and dual

exhausts,

i'm happy now

with this.

4 cylinders

with electronic assist.

same goes

for fast girls.

they both get you there,

but one costs you

less money

at the pump.

and the maintenance

is less.

finding home

when you find

home,

when you place your head

upon

a pillow

and feel safe,

feel warm

when the world is cold.

savor

this moment.

embrace

the life you've made.

give thanks for these walls,

these rooms,

there is no

place like

home.

inside of you

i press  my ear to the black

safe,

and twist

gently, the dial,

hearing the click, click

click.

i turn patiently

until it opens,

right then left,

then right again.

i know your number now.

i write them down.

i know

who are.

the truth lies within.

the previous years

i get the feeling

that each

year i will look back on

the previous

year and think, what a

fool i was back then.

the things i said,

and did. what was i

thinking?

at ninety-three i'll

look back at ninety-two

and shake my head

at my behavior.

and tell others, 

i'm sorry i was such

a dope,

that really wasn't me.

acceptable weapons

there are rules

in war,

each

war has its own set.

no cannons, please.

no fire tipped arrows.

no cauldrons of boiling oil.

no mustard gas

or flame throwers.

no nuclear weapons,

if you please,

or toxic fumes,

but bullets are fine,

stabbing is okay too.

and regular bombs

by aerial attack,

not those cluster ones.

your general day to day

artillery is acceptable

as well, but with specific

targets, not random.

the brink of war

as we near the edge

of modern times,

at the brink of war.

we cling

to what's left,

what we think is good.

we dread

the changes to come.

the scorched earth,

the lack

of everything.

the barren land, the roiled

seas empty

of ships.

the earth will split,

the buildings

will be rubble.

with nothing, love will

be even more

priceless than it

ever was.

the bent spoon

in hard times

we can make soup

out of almost anything.

with water

and a large pot,

heat,

there we go.

nothing gets wasted.

throw in the bones,

the old

potatoes, the onions.

let it come to a boil

and sip carefully from

the bent spoon.

clowns in charge

the world is a dizzying

assortment

of rides,

with clowns in charge. 

a wild carnival

of broken toys

and dreams,

we can ignore it

for only so long

before 

we too are flung

upwards

and thrown around.

the full moon

the purpled bruise

on

a lip

surprises you.

who

nipped,

who bit down

with

their teeth,

what knuckle did you

run into

while the night

went on, the full

moon

shedding light

between

the trees.

staying put

is it possible to live

in a small town,

a village,

if such a thing still exists,

and live

forever in

contentment. to marry

the girl, or boy next

door in the home

beside yours?

do we need to go far,

to go

beyond our shores

to find

love and peace,

to seek fame and fortune

in some distant city,

some exotic land?

can't we just stay put

and be satisfied

with who and where

we are?

can we ever stop throwing

coins into a fountain

and wishing upon

some falling star?

my grandmother's perfume

my grandmother

used to wear

the same perfume she's wearing.

which stops

me in my tracks.

i don't know if i can do this.

i stop nuzzling

her neck.

i see my grand mother

watching Liberace

on tv.

sitting at the table

eating melba toast

and drinking tea.

prune juice.

i see the poodle on her lap.

i see the lipstick

on her teeth.

i cringe and back away,

i'm confused. distressed.

my grandmother smelled

exactly like that.

thumbs up, thumbs down

i block,

i unblock. i delete.

i undelete.

i accept, i deny.

i make a list

of problematic people.

i'm julius ceasar with a 

cell phone.

thumbs up

thumbs down.

i'm a benevolent ruler,

a dictator.

i'm Nero

fiddling with my thumb

as the world

burns.

my st. louis editor

my mentor and editor

in st. louis

has disappeared. she's abandoned me.

i suspect

she's fallen in love,

or is overwhelmed

with teaching her unruly

high school classes

Balzac and Shakespeare.

maybe i should call her,

text her,

send her a few hundred

poems i've written since

we last talked.

she's so quick to get to the

point.

no, no, no her red pen screams.

there's one line

in the bunch that i can live

with.

try again, my dear.

little green men

are we alone?

the only life in the universe?

are there little green men

and women

out there

with little green children

and green

cats and dogs.

why green?

what is it with green

colored skin?

why not pink, or blue?

i think we're alone,

i hope we're

alone,

for their sake,

don't you?

our first fight

we have our first fight.

she tells

me to take my feet off the coffee table.

i tell her.

and you think you're

perfect, don't you?

i'm just saying

your shoes are dirty and i don't

want you to scratch

my coffee table.

my grandmother gave me that

table.

she brought it over with her

to Ellis Island.

a coffee table?

she brought her coffee table

over from Italy?
carried it on her back?

she hits my leg with a rolled

up magazine.

Martha Stewart.

off, she says loudly.,

reluctantly i move my shoe

off the table.

i give in. i don't want this to

escalate any further.

happy? i ask her.

no, she says. i'm not. but

thank you for moving your feet.

she gets a rag and wipes

the area where my boot was.

it's going to be a long weekend.

what kind of cheese?

as the men

come to take away the old pool

table

in the basement.

taking it apart one screw

at a time.

i make them

sandwiches.

i am becoming my mother.

one wants mayo, the other

mustard

on his ham.

i slice

tomatoes and ask them about

onions.

lettuce?

i tell them i only have rye

bread,

to which they nod okay.

toasted one says.

what kind of cheese do you

prefer

i ask the gentleman

with a snake

tattoo on his neck,

the other with a golden

tooth

that shines when he talks.

romaine please,

the snake fellow says.

and provolone,

if you have it.

swiss for me golden tooth

says,

the glitter of his chops

gleaming in the overhead

light.

strangers on the train

as we wait for the train

in the great

terminal

our bags at our side,

our tickets in hand

we watch

the faces of others

depart

and arrive.

our paths never to 

cross again.

no words are said,

no reason to look

into one another's

eyes.

it's just a train taking

us somewhere

as we get on with 

our lives.

while others are dying

somehow your problems

are made

smaller

by the sight of war.

the view of others dying,

leaving

their homes.

how can you complain

about

the rise in gas,

in bread.

you sound foolish

to talk

about the weather,

about traffic.

you're safe, you have food.

heat

and water.

there are no bombs 

dropping on your head.

tonight, 

you will lie down

in the comfort

of your own bed.

each to his own tasks

when the water heater blows.

i shrug.

seventeen years.

a good run.

i pull the valve to close

the water.

i throw towels

onto the floor,

i mop the deck.

i call the plumber.

i write the check

and leave

it blank upon the counter.

he comes and finds

the key

beneath the mat.

it's a long day for him.

but it's what he does.

and me,

i have my own tasks

to tend to.

falling behind

she knows me.

she knows

i need a nap at precisely

four thirty

in the afternoon.

she knows i need to be alone.

that i need to

walk, or bike,

or read,

or write.

she knows what i like.

she knows

so many things, about

me.

i need to catch up.

the glass darkly

unless you've been

hungry

you won't know what hunger is.

unless you've been

poor, it's impossible

to understand

the weight of poverty.

if your heart has never been

broken,

there too you have

no clue

as what it is to weep,

and walk

deep into woods,

the heart empty, though

once full.

losing our hats

our hats

flew off together

and so

we chased them down

the street.

not expecting

the pleasure

of such

a thing.

how they rolled and tumbled

towards

the sea,

across the sand,

then off they went

lifted by

the wind, sent

sailing

somewhere, to a place

far away, 

we laughed

and felt closer,

for reasons unknown to her,

or me.

she says, one more

the gym

is full of mirrors.

machines to build muscle.

to trim

the fat of life off

our bones.

we flex, we stand

and admire, or cry

in our

pose.

ten more, the trainer says,

as you crunch

your waist

full of bread and pasta.

come on, you

can do it.

she says.

one more lift, one

more pull, one more

sprint around the track,

lap

in the pool.

she's maybe twenty one,

or twenty two.

who wasn't fit and

beautiful at that age?

turn around

i pick the lint

off

the black sweater, not

mine,

hers.

turn around, i tell her.

here's one,

here's one,

here's another.

i'm good at removing

other people's

problems

and leaving my sweaters

alone.

and the curtains part

there is drama.

we can't live without it.

die without it.

it's in our dna, 

our childhood,

our day to day.

it's an endless play,

the stage is wide,

the lights are on.

the music starts.

it's a never-ending saga

as you rise

and the curtains part.

how about both?

there are two choices

in front of me.

a salad

with lettuce and tomatoes,

onions

and olives, chopped eggs,

blue cheese

and seeds,

or a massive slab of red

meat

waiting to be grilled.

how about both?

the big eraser in the sky

thank god

for erasers, for delete

and back space

buttons

thank god

for return to sender

for spam

for

a way to rid ourselves

of past mistakes.

the ocean washing away

what's written

in the sand.

thank you, lord,

for lawyers,

and bishops,

who tell us to sign here,

it's annulled, it's over,

go forth and have fun,

at last 

you're a free man.

indigo

what makes

us lean

towards certain colors.

indigo

being mine.

pink hers.

green his.

what part of us

wants

that bright

or dull shade?

picked from a

a varied hue,

or rainbow.

why does one give us

comfort,

and the other

pain?

the stranger outside

there's a stranger

outside

the house.

i look out the window.

she's been there all day.

she looks tired

and old. she's shoeless,

wrapped in a shawl.

she could easily be

a scarecrow

fending off black birds

from the sky.

she pulls a chair

out of her car and sits.

she's in for the long

haul. i wave to her.

she waves back,

making small circles with

her hand as if she's in

a parade, riding on a float,

forever the princess.

she takes

a sip from her thermos.

she looks familiar.

i've seen that face before.

she reminds me of someone.

she looks angry.

bitter. hungry.

nothing has changed with

her. there is a bucket

for coins beside her

swollen feet.

i close the curtains,

turn off the lights

and go to sleep.

the screams

you can't choose

your

wars.

they come to you in a split

second.

in the scream of a missile

splitting air. in

the wind

of a bullet.

life becomes a blur.

war comes

without apologies.

bodies in the streets

as cities burn.

they want

what we have, hold on,.

get ready.

don't quit.

they'll get

what they deserve.

the spam file

so much

goes unnoticed.

the spam

file full

of junk.

of salesmen.

of pills and deals,

freedom

from debts.

new ways to get

a thrill.

how easy it is to

turn

your head

to a world

breathing down

your neck.

the protest movement

the neighbors

are protesting the strip club

up the street.

too many

gun battles

and late night skirmishes

from

drunken patrons.
they want

to put an end to the fun.

to nudity

and dancing. all at the same

time.

they bring

a minister along.

a teacher.

a woman pushing a

stroller.

three nuns and a boy scout

group.

and the local politician,

who swears he's never been

there.

they have

time on their hands

to fix this little problem

of theirs.

throwing a glass of water

at it

while the rest of the

world burns.

waiting for morning

the night turns

you over, and over.

you roll,

you toss.

it's a dream, you tell

yourself

in the midst of it.

just a bad dream.

it's not real,

in the morning it will

all be gone.

the long memory

my long memory

sadly,

is still intact.

i remember too much

of the past

to be truthful

about it.

words said, deeds done.

slights

and missives,

lies.

how easily i've collected

and kept

each one.

a recipe on a small card

it's a small

card

draped in berries,

images

of grapes,

plums, perhaps.

it's hard to tell, the card

has aged.

who hasn't?

but on it in precise

cursive

is a recipe for pork

chops.

the seasoning listed.

the method

and length of cooking.

the time,

the temperature.

someone gifted this to me

a long time

ago.

a gesture of kindness,

never repaid.

i wish i knew her now,

as i did

back then, whoever

she is,

wherever she did go,

i'd like to tell her

how wonderful it

all was,

at last made

and tasted.

i will get back to it

i will get back to it

i tell myself

as i

throw clothes into the washer,

taking out

others

that have dried,

to fold.

i'll get back to it.

i promise myself, with

a vague

vow

of determination.

i will plant that seed,

i'll rake

the yard,

unweed it's sightly stretch

from fence to fence.

i will get back to it.

soon,

soon again,

before winter comes

and spring

is spent.

mid century modern

we all find our

style,

our stride, at some point.

some embrace

the hobo look.

the shabby chic.

others, find a star on the tube

and emulate

them,

with hats

and dresses. jimmy Cho

shoes.

then there's the 60's garb.

mini skirts,

and

Nehru suits.

i find myself

stuck

in mid century modern.

the orange

ashtray,

the martini lunch.

the clean

wood lines and glass,

of a table,

or chair.

frank Lloyd wright's

got nothing

on me.

it just may last.

it's working

she walks

her cat on a leash,

named

bird. she's

quirky, 

she's different,

the red plaid hat,

the pointed

shoes.

the glitter on her nose.

she wants

to be strange,

to be unusual.

it's working.

no middle ground

we aren't

the same. we think differently.

it's not

about emotional

intelligence,

it's something else,

beyond

anything we can see.

childhood trauma,

perhaps,

unchecked

unhealed.

there is no middle ground,

so we go our separate

ways.

we part.

we leave.

it seems unlikely

it seems unlikely

in the midst

of it.

but this too shall pass.

the seas

will calm,

the sky will no longer

be darkened

by the guns

of war.

the blood will be washed

away.

bodies buried.

nothing learned,

nothing gained.

it's just the world doing

what its always done

from the first day.

rise and worry

i shower

and dress, drink coffee

and read

then go to work

as if all

is well.

what is there that one

can do

with a world

on fire, but be good

to others

and to yourself.

in human form

don't fool yourself.

there is wretched.

there is evil.

there are demons in human

form

walking the earth.

i've seen it first hand.

i've seen

it second hand, 

i see it now

on the warring news.

with a gun in one hand

the mother holding a gun

in one

hand

a baby in the other

will

not let go of the ground she

stands on.

home.

no matter what force

arrives.

no matter what flag

they fly under.

it's life or death, she's

willing,

though not wanting

to die.

the blurred cloud

the flock of birds

has one

mind,

see how it swings in a blurred

cloud

to the left then right.

no orders given,

no signals,

or flags

to direct them.

it's a mob

of thought, telling

each

where to go,

where to light.

we digress

we digress,

we deflect and change

the subject.

we cringe,

we stall, we excuse ourselves

from the table.

what more

is there to say.

we avoid eye contact.

we itch,

we burn to leave.

there is no

plan to do this again.

we're done,

let's agree to disagree

and part

as almost friends.

lighting the fire

when you think the world

has gone

to hell

in a handbasket,

people arise.

quiet

but strong. fierce.

there is more goodness

than evil,

it takes a war sometimes

to light

the fire.

was it a good life

was it a good life

this

bird

lying

on the side of the road.

did she fly

where

she wanted to fly,

were memories

made,

was there love,

was there joy

going from tree

to tree,

will we ever know

it's story.

does it matter?

what transpired,

is that also true of you ,

of me?

breaking news

all the news

you need comes in the first ten minutes

of the broadcast.

the next nine

hours

are hot air and blabber.

a loop of the same

video they gave you in minute

one

plays endlessly until

it's stuck inside your mind

like the gum on

your boot that you can't

quite scrape off.

they know enough,

the pundits, and pretties,

to fill that first

quarter of an hour,

but the rest is fluff, dragging

to the camera

anyone

with a suit and flag decal

on their lapel.

you turn it off.

you give up.

she falls asleep

she falls asleep

against my arm, it's a light

snore,

a small

train going down the track.

a little

whistle

as it approaches

the bend

of dreams.

she's gone and

there is no turning back.

let's tie a ribbon around it

we want

to tie a ribbon around things

and call it

closure. we desire

a rational conversation

ending things,

with polite and bitterless

words,

maybe a hug

farewell, saying,

with a wave, take care,

but it doesn't always happen

that way.

sometimes there

is no ribbon,

no string to tie around

the crushed box

of a relationship.

it's empty,

the sides caved in,

there is no bottom to speak of,

no top.

it's best to just carry it

out to the curb,

slap your hands together

and be done

with it.

back on the horse

in time

we all get back up

on the horse.

forgetting the pain of the fall.

the broken bones.

the black

skin, feeling forever

bruised.

but we heal.

we rise.

there's a new horse in

the stable.

it isn't long before the boots

are back on.

and we ride.

just one stone

from here,

you look so small

lying on the ground.

you are finally

the true

size of you.

what fear

there was of your presence,

the shadow

of your stature. you seemed

impossible to defeat.

how giant you were, looming

in the doorway,

blocking the sun.

but from

here,

with one stone, i've

slayed you.

i've put you permanently

to sleep.

the early lies are the worst

the early

lies are the worst.

you can be anything you

so desire

your mother tells you.

stand tall.

be strong, your father

says.

go forward,

be brave

in this world. there is

nothing you

can't accomplish

without

relentless resolve.

it's all about

positive thinking.

the early lies are the worst.

the meat of genius

i delve into Eliot

and Pound,

it's an unknown world

of words.

i don't feel smart enough,

or well read

enough

to have them sink in

and become

profound.

i'm lost in the Wasteland.

struggling

to chew and swallow

the meat

of genius.

what the world gives

some futures

are shorter than others.

the clock though should not

quicken

your pace.

instead slow down

to a crawl.

smell

the earth.

eat and drink.

make love.

do no harm to yourself

or others.

stand firm

in your beliefs and faith.

go out

with kindness.

what the world gives,

the world

takes.

too much of a good thing

too much

is just enough

as oscar wilde

so pithily said.

or was it someone else?

i get my

mentors mixed up

after a martini or two.

what say

we get together

for a rendezvous,

and have a night

of too much,

too much of me

and too much of you.

my piano teacher

my piano lessons

are not going well.

i can see the frustration 

in my

instructor's face.

but she's kind

and gentle as she moves

my hands

across the keys,

saying press like that.

she pushes my knee

towards the pedal

and says, relax,

breathe, you're too stiff.

i nod okay.

she smiles and frowns,

she laughs.

i pay her well though.

this insures that every

tuesday at  7 that she'll

come back.

does she know

i'm falling in love with her,

does she know that yet?

one never knows

is it cruel, or

just how it is? can you

rant

and rave

at

what's to come, what's

gone by.

can you curse

the ocean

the overflow of waves,

the earth

breaking,

the sky is not falling for

any other

reason

than, that's just the way

it goes.

step lightly,

go careful. it may be

your turn

next?

one never knows.

bond, james bond

as suave and as dangerously

debonair

as james bond was,

did he ever wonder

or worry about

std's, or

pregnancy.

was he using protection,

or just relying

on his instincts.

did 007 ever stop to think

about the voluptuous

woman's

feelings in her loin cloth

briefs,

or polka dotted

bikini?

was he a cad, like you,

or me, or just busy

saving the world

from evil.

did he call them back

the next day?

make promises he'd never

keep.

marshall hall amusement park

it wasn't

magical, the rollercoaster,

a calamity of

white

wood peeling of paint.

the scratch

and clang of metal cars

on ancient

chain linked

tracks.

it was frightening,

boarding

the cramped

boxed car,

the rail pulled down

by a tattooed gnome

for you to hold

on to

as you slowly climbed

the first hill,

leaving behind

the carnival

world

below.

how we screamed,

as the car

blistered along, 

suspended in the air,

floating,

seemingly half off

the path.

then the next hill, the next.

around the curves,

surprised that we were

still alive,

and finally to the last

stretch,

where it slowed to 

rest.

and a picture of you

when i get home

from work

i empty my pockets into the green

bowl

on the counter.

out come keys, and coins.

lint.

nails and screws.

scraps of papers.

a pen. one Band-Aid.

a paper clip,

a piece of gum, unchewed,

folded money.

a check.

a swiss army knife,

two aspirins and

a picture of you.

today is a good day for soup

when she wakes up,

she leans

over and tells me, whispering

in my ear.

today is a good day for soup,

don't you think?

it's so wet and cold out.

i try to ignore her,

half in half out of

a dream

about pastrami.

don't you think we should

make soup today?

she says,

shaking my shoulder.

sure, i tell her.

let's make some soup.

okay. she says.

chicken noodle, lentil,

tomato soup?

you pick, i tell her. maybe

a pastrami sandwich

on the side, too?

the nickel bag

i hear that the drug

dealers

are now

charging customers

for bags.

if you don't have a little

plastic

baggie for your fresh dope,

you're out of luck, or

they have

to charge you

for the purchase of one

of their own bags.

it's the way of the world

now.

everyone trying

to leave less

of a carbon foot print.

yeah, we had a baby

suddenly, i see the neighbors

with a new born.

i'm taken

aback.

i stare a little longer than i should

at the baby

in the woman's arms.

hey.

she says. yeah, we had a baby.

her husband smiles

carrying in

a load of blankets,

diapers, new baby gear

for the start.

he says nothing.

endurance

my tolerance for pain

and suffering

is

tremendous. having grown

up in a house

without

heat or air conditioning

or very little

food, to speak of.

washing wounds out

in the bathroom

as a child.

i know what it is to be

cold.

to be one of many, ignored

and told

all is well. effortlessly

lied to.

add on

three marriages too,

buy this

for most, not all, but

many,

there's a feeling that something

is missing.

someone, some thing,

some intangible

object

that you can't quite put

your finger on

is needed to make you whole.

there's a void in you, in me.

the priests will tell you 

it's God.

the world will tell you

differently,

buy this and all will be well.

the daily news

between

the bodies, the tanks, bombs

being dropped

there's a commercial

for soap,

another one

for a Caribbean cruise

and then back

to the refugees

with all their 

belongings on their backs.

babies crying,

mothers

bent over, knowing

that they'll go home again.

and then

there's a new car,

a new truck.

one per cent financing.

a cream to smooth out

your wrinkles.

maybe it's time for a nip

and tuck.

then back

to the charred body lying in

the street.

brushing lives aside

at a certain

age

there is little surprise

of new

war.

at men who need

what

they don't have.

is it an ego thing, or

something

darker,

born with it.

this devil inside,

coming

out with guns

blazing,

brushing lives

aside.

becoming a saint

i go into the blood bank

to give

them a few pints

of my blood.

it's who i am. what i do.

i'm so good, i can hardly

stand it sometimes.

of course i tell everyone

what i'm doing.

they need to know

the saint in me.

they need proof of my

goodliness.

but i'm rejected after

the needle

finds a vein.

the blood is no good.

they ask me how much

coffee do i drink

in a day.

i shrug and say, i don't know.

maybe a gallon

or so.

with heavy cream.

try green tea for a while

they tell me and come back

in a week.

those wonderful dreary days

i'm more

fond of the dreary days lately.

the cold

grey winter grasp

of land

and sky.

bundling up

before venturing down

the wooded path.

i like the chill

of the wind.

the sting of February

on my cheeks.

there's a bittersweet

loneliness 

in it all.

it's all good for

writing

depressing poetry

and remembering

past mistakes

and sins.

the Delmonico steak joint

the guy at the door wants

to see

our vax

cards. to see if we're

inoculated

with the covid shots

and booster.

it's a swanky place,

and we're all dressed up.

it's cold as a penguin's

butt outside

so we dig into our wallets

to find

the cards.

i take out my polio card.

my rubella,

my tetanus,

my shingles,

my flu shot card,

my pneumonia card.

measles,

chicken pox.

typhoid and finally my

covid card. holding it

upside down.

they shrug

and say okay.

you're good.

come on in.

do you want the nine

inch

Delmonico, or the six.

the photo op

there are some days

that you just can't take a good

picture of yourself.

no matter how close

or far away you hold the camera

you look old

and fat, tired.

your hair isn't right.

you're slouching.

the light is too dark,

too bright.

the ocean behind you

does nothing.

the birds in the sky, the tree.

the city landscapes.

are mere props

in your ill conceived

photo op.

you know you look better

than this.

maybe you'll try again

tomorrow.

the obituary writer

at the end of your life

you need to have one good friend

still around.

someone who loves you,

someone

who put up with all of your

shenanigans

it can be a neighbor,

a son,

a brother, a sister.

the mailman.

a nurse.

anyone who sees the good in you.

this is the person you assign

to writing your

obituary.

someone to rewrite your life,

put a shine on it.

buff it like an apple

in the sunlight.

hiding the bruised

and brown

worm side.

most of the commandments

i take my halo

out of the top drawer

and see if it still fits.

it's bent

and slightly rusted.

i turn it sideways, move

it up, then back

an inch.

it's been a long time

since i've been

good, really good.

without gossip, or

complaint.

it's been years since

i've haven't taken the Lord's

name in vain or

been jealous

or envious, or slandered

someone,

who got in the way.

but i haven't killed anybody,

or committed adultery, 

so that's a good thing.

sixth grade report card

after my

mother dies, and the sisters

eagerly

clean house,

gnawing at the bones

of what's left behind.

i'm left with an old

report card from the sixth grade.

some A's some B's,

a C or two.

mrs. shifflet

writes on the back.

stephen

is very quiet. he doesn't

say much,

rarely does he raise

his hand

to participate in class.

he seems to be day dreaming

a lot.

but he's liked

just the same.

he makes

us laugh.

my kind of people

she tells me

that i seem disappointed

in people.

some,

perhaps. not all. some

i'm actually very

happy to know them,

to be a part of their lives.

i admire

their courage, their humility.

their sense

dignity and humor.

honesty.

they are my kind

of people.

i want more of them.

the art closet

the art closet

is nearly full now.

pictures

from the past.

sketches in charcoal.

acrylics

and oils, mostly store

bought.

on a whim.

delivered by trucks,

or stuck

in the trunk for transport.

to the walls

they went. hammer and nail,

a measuring tape

giving it

a good attempt at center.

but now

they collect dust in the dark

basement.

trees and seas.

mountains and streams.

buildings.

people

i've never known or seen.

they all appealed to me

at one point.

but now,

like you, they have no use

no meaning,

no need.

gathering nuts

she wasn't a complicated

woman.

far from it.

can a squirrel be

complicated?

not really. it gathers

nuts

and lives out his life

jumping from

branch to branch

and running across the wires

overhead

unaware of electrical

shock.

but he's not complicated,

and neither was

she.

confused, yes. simple

minded, of course,

unable to make a decision,

like crossing a street,

often wandering into

traffic with

her head down looking

neither way.

who the hell is Bixby?

if i look at my phone

in the wrong way,

or pick it

up.
things happen that i don't

know how to stop.

who's Bixby and what does

he want?

how do i make the screen

go up

not sideways.

where is the mute button.

how do i get out

of this group

conversation?

i'm taking a video and

i don't know how i did that,

or how to make it stop.

how did i save a screen

shot, which button did i push

for that?

why does LinkedIn keep

telling me

who has a new job,

why does Instagram keep

updating?

i'm not even on there.
i need a new phone and

to get rid of

all that.

what's your problem?

she tells me she's low

on estrogen.

i look it up.

that might be the problem.

not the donuts.

or the sensitivity

to the world

at large.

her emotions all over

the place.

a roller coaster

of ups and downs.

as for me i blame it on

my mother

and Entenmann's

at then end of the row

near the eggs

and cream.

who are these people?

who are these people

that we need

to care about and follow.

i've never heard 

their names before, or

seen their faces.

are they actors, musicians,

singers?

i have no clue, but suddenly

they've taken the place

of cary grant, sinatra,

audrey hepburn,

and elvis too.

they seem to have no or

little talent on display,

but they like

to tell their stories,

send photos of all things

they're up to.

hot pastrami on rye with a pickle

at the 2nd avenue deli

there's

a fat man lying on the floor

getting

CPR.

a defibrillator

is brought out by a waiter.

they stand

back and hit

the switch.

the man shakes his arms

and legs.

there's mustard on his

face,

a bite of pickle comes out of

his mouth.

he rises with the help

of his family

and goes back to

the plate on his table.

we continue eating our

pastrami sandwich on rye. 

it's that good.

i'm listening, go on...

i'm a patient listener

until i'm not.

if the story goes on too long,

and a mother

or a cat is involved,

or the weather, i tend

to drift off.

at this point she taps

my knee, and says,

are you listening, to which

i reply, of course i am.

go on with your story.

i smell what you're cooking.

a days work

as i soak,

i stare at my hands.

large and hard, calloused

and covered

in debris.

a days work done.

i can't get the water

hot enough

to ease

the pain, of bones

and muscle.

through the back and

down the legs.

but these hands.

these hands that give

me work,

that provide a crust

of bread,

are at last at rest

as i close them together,

lacing the fingers

to pray.

a youthful wonder

i can't save you.

you can't save me.

so why bother,

why bring your troubles

to my door,

there's nothing i can

do.

i've seen and heard them

all before, as you

have from me.

let's leave them.

set them aside for now,

or longer.

be cheerful for once

and enjoy life 

with a youthful 

wonder.

we can find it together

i go back to new york.

there's something there that

i keep going back for.

something

on the streets, in the pubs,

in the alleys.

there's something

in the air.

the food, the chatter, the roar.

the cold wind,

the ice and snow.

the fire of it all,

the sadness of it all.

the crumbling towers,

the trash,

the poets, the drunks,

the lost

and lonely.

i keep going back to find

what i'm looking for.

come with me.

maybe we can find it

together.

the laminated card

i write out a card

that reads

I'm Sorry.

i laminate it and hang

it around my

neck with a string.

i point to it

whenever it's needed.

saves time.

saves a conversation.

saves me

from wringing my hands,

furrowing my brow,

as i look

around the block at

the long line.

catholic school

after a lusty

session of making love.

the sheets

tangled,

her hair a bird's nest.

our hearts

thumping like

rabbits

on the run, i ask her

where did you

learn all of that.

where did that come

from.

catholic school, she says.

twelve years.

i was almost

a nun.

face to the wind

the drunk poets

and writers.

the pill takers, the drugs,

the suicide

longings,

the deep dark depressions.

dragging

themselves to the pen

or typewriter,

wailing about their life,

wanting it

to end.

to hell with that i say.

there's too much good

in the world.

make love. make friends.

leave the blues

to the ink.

get up, get going,

face to the wind.

call it done

no sense in talking

about it anymore,

no point

in going on with

words.

back and forth,

circling,

discussing what

went wrong.

let's just part and go.

call it closure.

call it done,

call it fini, then

hit the road.

awaken in your day

awaken

in your day. take it by

the collar.

shake it.

stamp your boots,

toss

yourself forward

into the wind,

into the weather.

embrace the cold,

lean

into your life.

fear less

than the day before.

don't

sleep

while you're awake,

for sleep

will come soon enough,

and at

the end, no more.

i'll see you again

i'll see you again.

i believe

that i will. i have no proof

of this,

but it's in

me.

i'll see you again, as

sure as the sun

sets and 

the moon rises,

as the ocean swells

and the trees

bend.

i'll see you again,

i promise you,

before it all ends.

i'll see you again.

almost without us

almost without us

the clock

moves its hands.

the calendar

goes to another page.

seasons change.

almost without us,

time

goes forward

and we take each other's

hands, if

there is one to hold,

and go with it.

romeo, pfffft

i won't cut my ear off 

for you,

my love. ala van Gogh,

nor will

i throw myself off

a bridge,

or like juliet and romeo

fade

into eternity

by drinking 

a poison potion.

i wont

write a long letter

of love

for you,

expressing my sadness

and sorrow

at our ending,

or carve our initials into

a tree.

but what i will do is

set your bags out

on the curb,

wish you well, and take

the duplicate

car pass and key.

two to tango

with the frightening

full length

needle

held up

to the silvery

hospital light,

the elixir of cortisone

is shot

deep inside the soft

tissue

of the knees making

me want

to dance again.

but only for a short while,

the relief is welcome

but ephemeral, like

most good things.

maybe i'll give a go

to the twist,

the monkey,

the limbo

or the mashed potatoes

to name just

a few of the dances

i'm still capable of doing.

but can we save

the tango for later, dear.

that is if you're

still in the mood.

a shade of blue

a shade

of blue colors

you

it's in the day

and into

the night.

it's in the shadows.

in the sky.

in the last gasp of

light.

the color blue.

it's hard

to escape when it

arrives.

it blankets,

it holds,

it envelops you.

teasing

we are teased

by weather,

the early breeze

of spring,

by whispered words.

by the touch

of a hand,

or wink.

we warm up to

such things.

letting winter go

with a throw

of coat

against the chair.

come closer.

quit teasing me

with that

leg, now bare.

the overdue book

i have an overdue

book

from 1979.

i probably owe about

seven thousand dollars

in library fines.

i should probably

keep it at this point.

who has the patience

and time

to read Ulysses

anyway.

what was i thinking.

it's made a good door stop

though

for all these years,

keeping

the badly hinged

french doors

at bay.

i didn't hear you

miscommunication

is easy.

don't listen,

half listen,

be engaged with your

phone

or the window,

your good ear

against the glass.

words

are coming in but

quickly going

out again.

say what?

did you say something?

i'm sorry.

i wasn't listening.

covered in hot pastrami

did i leave

my hat on the train.

the cashmere

cap

that kept me warm

from the Hudson wind,

or was

it left in the hotel room.

or on the street

between Vanderbilt

and 41st.

maybe it's on the floor

at Katz's deli,

beneath a table,

now covered

in grease and

hot layers of pastrami.

i loved that hat.

whoever finds it,

i hope they enjoy it,

but i'd really like

it back.

back door man

we need a back door

an escape

plan.

a way out when the shooting

starts.

we need

a ladder,

a hole in the wall,

a drain pipe to slide down

to get away

when things go south,

to get away

from it all.

find a chair in back

of the room

with your

back against the wall.

be prepared.

it never stays

calm and peaceful for

long.

lighting a candle

we slide

two dollars into the metal

box

and light a candle

at St. Patrick's.

we kneel

and pray to a
God we believe in but

have

no clue

about the mystery of

it all.

it feels good to let go,

to pray

without asking,

to pray

for others, those who

need it most.

dial set in the middle

we want low

maintenance, no drama.

no histrionics.

we want

stability and normal.

the dial

set in the middle.

we want

peace and serenity.

harmony.

no thin ice, no walking

on eggshells,

no curbing of thoughts

or words.

someone

real and fun,

someone perpetually

nice.

Frost

the bitterness

and meanness

of Frost

contradicts his words.

the poem

saying one thing,

his life

another.

how hard it is to

separate

the two.

we want our heroes,

our artists

to be good

men,

good women, not

curmudgeons

and fools.

lost and lonely souls

like me,

like you.

nothing is lost

nothing is lost.

it's somewhere, not in hand

perhaps,

but it's out

there

being found by another

set of eyes.

someone bending over

and picking it up

and saying happily,

now this is mine.

the irishman

the irishman,

still stuck in Ireland,

is pleasantly unhappy, 

despite his jokes,

his ribbing,

his high pitched

cackle

as we sit, in from the cold

for beer

and a sandwich.

he's been here

forever.

maybe longer.

he pushes a menu in front

of us.

knowing we won't

be here long, or ever coming

back.

we're given

the tourist treatment.

and he's right

on all counts.

the highland

it's an ancient path.

one that

runs along

the highland.

yellowed by winter.

the green

gone.

the old railroad

tracks.

the wind is fierce

as we push into it.

not far,

not too far

that we can't go back.

bordered

by brick, by sealed

windows.

by tenements not

yet

converted

into this century.

the  barreled

water

towers.

the chain links.

the barbed wire.

graffiti. 

it's all part of it as

we press on

with our own lives.

let's lie here for a while

strange to wake

up to sirens.

to taxis leaning on their horns.

to screams

and laughter.

to pigeons on the sills.

the enormous window

holding

in it

the skyline, a buttermilk

sky over 

the new york city library

it's early.

the first cup of coffee is

yet to be poured,

the first bagel

yet to smeared with a swab

of cream cheese.

we should lie

here, don't you agree, for

a little while more.

are we on the right train?

while

traveling, we are in

constant

search

of phone and hat.

gloves and scarf.

tapping pockets

and bags.

money intact?

the credit cards secured.

the bags

up on the rack.

are we on the right train.

in the right seats?

are we going

in the right direction,

on the right track?

did we leave

the lights on 

at home, lock

the doors.

we haven't yet left

and already

we're thinking of 

things left behind

and going back.

either side of the tracks

the ragged edges

of the country lie along

the rail tracks.

the abandoned houses

and factories.

the rusted

cars and trucks, machinery.

the skeletons

of buildings stare back

at you

at a fast pace.

everything looks old

and dirty.

the world seems

without hope.

there is despair in every window.

who could live

there you think with guilt

as you head

to your home.

starkers

the biggest steak

we've ever seen arrives on two

porcelain dishes.

our waiter

aldo

brings us more tap water.

another drink.

another basket

of rolls.

a baked potato.

he nods. 

there's pepper onto the salads.

there's a polite

bow, and off he goes.

it's crowded. busy for a thursday

night.

lovers on dates.

old marriages.

new flings.

money is in the air.

martinis.

Frangelico

and anchovies.

there's cappuccino,

and cheesecake.

everyone looks like someone.

there's a table beside us

talking about

the stock market,

and in laws.

the mob boss that was shot

outside

the doors in 1958.

we could stay until it closes

if they'd let us.

there's so much left over,

all into a bag

that we'll shamelessly take.

down 5th avenue

the city feels deflated

in some

strange way.

the air out of it, like

a cold

exhale.

the store fronts closed.

no  chestnut

vendors

on the corners.

on music in Washington Square.

the holiday

lights are down, the tree

gone

from Rockefeller
Center.

less people.

less tourists.

less taxis.

less of everything as we

walk

through a snow squall

from 5th avenue,

heading down.

leaving and returning

he's in a long black coat.

silver hair.

sublime in dress

and looks.

well manicured.

a bag beside his

polished shoes.

he's riding the train home

from the city.

no need to look out the window

at the passing

land.

he's tired

and leans with the movement

of the car

against the rails.

he was here when we

boarded.

he'll be here when we

depart.

he's always been here

in some way.

leaving

and returning.

as we all do.

Herman the Celebrant

my friend Herman

is a part time Celebrant.

someone that

goes to people's houses

and marries them.

he's on call

and can be there in an hour, or less,

not unlike Dominoes.

fifty bucks, cash,

and he can do any kind

of wedding you want.

Catholic,

Jewish, Mormon.

non denominational.

agnostic.

he has a loose leaf notebook

with color coded laminated

pages, full of vows and

speeches, rules

and regulations.

he's fast and efficient.

friendly, but not too probing

about the nature of the relationship,

the age, or the fact that 

you met last night

in Vegas or on an online

dating site.

he pays no attention to that

and gets the job done.

he'll even hold your phone

up and take a picture

for the wedding album.

oh, and he's a part time 

lawyer too, in case things

don't pan out.

changes in latitudes

i get stuck

in a line of cars heading

towards

the cemetery.

it's a funeral procession

that i can't

get out of.

so i turn my lights on

like everyone else

and follow them in.

i'm a part of it now.

we park

and get out.

there's crying, and 

sadness.

it begins to rain as

the service goes on.

everyone is in black, but

me.

i'm wearing a bright

yellow tropical beach

shirt,

shorts, flip flops and

a Margaritaville hat.

people come up to me,

and tell me

what a fan she was of 

Jimmy Buffet.

they pat me on the back,

and hug me.

you really knew her,

didn't you, they tell me,

and then everyone

breaks out into

a spontaneous sing along

to changes in latitudes.

there's dancing

in the rain.

it's a happy after all.

low maintenance

no, i tell her as she

leans towards

the flower pot to smell

the fragrance.

none of my

plants are real, they

need no water, or sunlight.

they're made

of plastic, or some sort

of earth choking

vinyl.

but they're pretty

in the right light.

you can hardly tell

the difference

between them and 

the real plants

outside.

there is no need to

fuss with them,

no weeds, no bugs.

very low maintenance,

like i hope you are,

my dear.

when the thrill is gone

i fall in love with the picture

i hang on

the kitchen wall.

it's been a trouble spot for years.

so hard

to find just the right

piece of art.

the right colors, the right

subject matter,

something that i don't

get tired of

too soon.

so many i've tried, and

taken down.

stacking them side by side

in the attic,

or cellar, gathering

dust once

the thrill is gone.

i see a pattern here.

there was something

there was something

i was

going to do today, but i can't

quite remember

what it was.

i made no list,

tied no string around my

finger.

left no clue to the task

that awaited

me.

maybe it will come back

to me.

maybe it won't.

i suppose it wasn't that

important

after all.

they're dredging the pond

the police have

put yellow

tape

around the chalk

outline where a

body once lay.

it wasn't murder,

it wasn't foul play.

just someone

taking a nap,

then went on his way.

the dogs are out.

the woods are searched,

the pond dredged,

but there's no body to

be found.

i'm up here.

in the window,

having tea

in my bedroom,

watching the mystery,

there's confusion

all around.