by the time i get to Sacramento

i tell the soon to be ex-wife

that i'm

going out for milk.

she says, okay.

don't be long, my mother's

coming over

for lunch

and then i want you to

go with me

to the mall.

are you going to weed

the yard

before she gets here?

she's very picky

with our lawn.

sure, i say.

carrying my suitcase

out the door.

i figure i can be in

Sacramento in three days,

if the weather holds.

the second hand

i put my hand

on the big clock and tell it

to stop.

i hold

the second hand

still.

the hour

hand.

i tell it to please.

slow down.

we're going too fast here.

the yesterdays

are piling up,

tomorrow is too near.

the great divide

you get the feeling sometimes

that the country

is without a leader.

someone smart

and bright,

someone who isn't political,

but wants to

make things right.

where are all the good men,

the good women?

it's just a feeling that

the we're adrift now

in a sea of mediocrity,

mismanagement

and lies,

that the dream has died.

that things are going down

the drain with this

great divide. 

what's next

i press my

face to look in,

others, inside,

are pressing

theirs

to look out.

we're each

on the other side

of the glass

wondering

what's next.

fresh eggs

his chicken,

white and fat

in his back yard,

a city yard

with a clothes line

a dog

house

and a chain link fence

is laying

eggs.

he shows me the eggs.

he offers me

the eggs.

i tell him just a few.

he puts them

in a box with tissue paper,

this makes

him happy.

the rooster too.

out of words

i go to write you a note,

a kind

greeting

of the benign kind,

an offering 

of peace,

the olive branch,

the pipe,

but the pen

is dry.

i shake it,

tap it against the table,

no ink

inside.

bone dry.

like me.

out of words

at last.

the slender thread

it's a slender

thread that holds the world

together.

a stitch,

a patch.

how easily things get

torn,

get bent

and scratched.

nothing stays new

forever.

the old

wins out the day,

things

just don't last.

that's all you got?

i climb

the mountain

to ask

the guru

who meditates all day,

who lives

on top of the snowy

peak,

beside his cave

the meaning of life.

he smiles,

and nods.

moderation in all things

he says.

and be attached

to nothing,

or no one.

take these

words to the grave

and find happiness.

that's it, i tell him,

that's all you got?

do you realize how

impractical

and crazy those ideas

are?

aren't you cold

and lonely

up here?

no coffee, no phone,

no babes?

the growl of young men

young men

like to flex their muscles.

preen

in the mirror.

say look at me,

growl

and rev their engines.

but in

time that all ends,

the brain

finally

grows up,

becoming less annoying

and wiser,

hopefully.

fix bayonets

my friend jimmy

who just turned 63

shows up

in a camouflage uniform

and a bike helmet.

come on, he says.

let's go,

we're heading over to fight

in the war.

i'm on my first cup

of coffee.

in my old bathrobe,

actually my

ex's bathrobe,

it's a peach color and 

a little tight.

he's holding a rifle

with a fixed bayonet.

let's go he says.

damn commies

are at it again.

aren't we a little old

for war,

i tell him. my feet getting

cold on

the stoop.

no way, he says.

once you get into battle,

and the adrenaline kicks in,

you're 21 again.

okay, i tell him, maybe.

coffee?

sure he says.

do you have any cream,

two sweet and lows?

maybe those little debbie

cupcakes?

the new addiction

she shows

me

the wordle game

on her phone.

i can't stop playing now.

damn

this thing.

five letter words.

over and over

again.

i can do this.

i've got this.

just one more time.

it's only

five letters, but

there's only one

more

line.

finding the perfect man

i like an active man,

she told

me.

maybe he plays

a little golf,

or pickle ball.

someone that can fix things

around the house.

bring home

the bacon.

someone who let's me

decorate

the way i want to

and doesn't mind if i keep

in touch

with all my ex

boyfriends.

not a lap dog, but 

a quiet man

who doesn't want to have

sex all the time.

once a month is fine

with me.

he can have his man cave

in the basement. someone

not too fat,

or tall,

but just right. you know?

looks good

in a suit.

if he has a trust fund,

and a full head of his own

hair,

that too would

be nice.

walking versus hiking

everyone

likes to call walking

taking a hike now,

especially if more than

six trees

are involved.

up a hill.

a dell

down to the valley.

upstream,

downstream.

around and around

the lake

we go.

it's walking.

not hiking.

hiking involves

a long

stick

and fighting

off bears

and rattlesnakes,

a grappling hook

to scale

cliffs,

forging a river

with a bridge

made out

of bamboo

and vines.

eating salmon with

our bare

hands

over a campfire.

it's walking if you

can hold

a cup of coffee and

blab the whole

time around the trail.

tomorrow i'm going to

take a hike around

the mall

to buy another pair

of walking shoes.

why work anymore?

i used to worry about

having

work.

a job.

about not having money

to pay my

bills.

but now people worry about

having to

go to work.

work is demeaning.

work is for

the dumb, 

for the fearful.

why work, when someone

else is already

getting things

done.

one sweet, one sour

it's a beautiful

deep

blue, almost purple basket

of berries.

i buy two.

because it's two for 

five dollars.

just a handful of fruit

in each one.

a serving

when needing the sweet

before the day

is done.

and yet.

one is sour,

then another, although a

few are good.

how can this be,

all from the same vine,

on sister nice,

on sister sour.

his small town

i like when people

tell me about the small town

they grew up in.

how no one locked their doors.

everyone knew

just about everyone,

growing up

in the same

schools and churches.

all shopping at

the corner store.

the mailman was my sister's

husband.

the garage mechanic,

my cousin.

the local doctor delivering

babies, and grandbabies.

the weddings

in the town square.

the lake, the trees, the rolling

hills.

and then i ask,

why on earth did you pack

up and leave?

for this?

riders on the storm

i used to crush

her

with words.

venom strewn ink on the page.

giving her

what for

on a daily basis.

and then i finally stopped.

the dead horse

is dead,

why beat it again and again

in some sort

of sick revenge.

there is no thing as

revenge.

or getting even.

or in keeping score.

once healed

there's no need to write

about the past

anymore.

it was just my turn

and my

way of getting out

of the storm,

of closing

and locking forever

the door.

there are no bombs falling

we get up

for work, wishing

it was saturday,

it's cold

and raining,

we're tired,

but there are no bombs falling.

the traffic

is miserable,

the coffee cold.

and we're hungry,

but there are no bombs

falling.

the price of milk

and meat

has risen,

gasoline and bread,

the wi fi connection

is weak,

but there are no bombs

falling.

we disagree

on so many things, our

life together

has ended.

there's no love left

between us,

but there are no bombs

falling.

who's there?

things fall

in the night, but no one

is here.

the creak

of stairs,

the groan

of pipe,

the wind seeping

in to

move

the air.

you sit up in bed

and wonder

with a hint of fear,

who's

there.

sunlight then and now

sunlight,

not soft and yellow

as it

should be

but harsh and white

against

the wall

where i've scratched

time out

with a spoon.

i lift myself from

the hard floor

and look out,

hands

on the bars.

that was then, but

this

is now. running

through the green field,

not a second

too soon.

my back pages

between

my pages. my words,

the long

sentences that go

nowhere,

the endless rambling.

the memories.

the overflow

of thoughtless

self-indulgence,

occasionally there's

something there.

something

beyond understanding.

something rare.

small gems

in the rough, but oh my,

so much

rough to plow through,

so much in the way

to get there.

what really matters

he tells me,

as we talk on the stoop,

as old

people often

do,

that he worked at the factory

for 41 years.

in the same shop.

most are dead he says,

referring

to friends,

and neighbors that he

worked with.

he shows me his

hands.

pointing at the scars,

the black

oil

still in the crevices.

i miss it he says.

my job was everything.

everything.

then his wife

comes

out the door, with drinks

and sandwiches.

she smiles.

and says. he's lying, he

won't tell you

that his life

was all about me.

and he laughs, knowing

that it's true.

there is no plot to this

what's hard

about one's life is that there

is no plot.

it's all improv

at some point, once

the strings

are cut

and your wings have

spread

to fly.

there's drama to be sure,

and love.

there's magic,

and sadness.

dead ends and surprise,

but there

is no straight line

from here

to there.

and at the end 

of one's life, 

it's hard

to say what

it was all about, but 

hopefully it was  hell

of a ride.

will we be here tomorrow?

will the world be here

tomorrow?  

will there

be us, and them,

will

the trees survive.

the buildings.

the art,

the books, our friends.

or will

everything die

in the harsh

hot wind?

will we be here tomorrow?

will we

have to start

the world

all over again?

the joy of steroids

i find an old bottle

of prednisone

in the bottom of the vanity

drawer

where

i keep things

i never use and have forgotten

about.

turmeric

and garlic, 

an assortment of

vitamins.

a thru z. soap on a rope.

but ahhh, the steroids.

there might be

a hundred or so

still rattling around in

the brown bottle.

happy days are here again.

taste and smell

are not too far away,

i can breathe

once more.

aches and pain begone.

you're leaving the house like that?

we are a judgmental lot.

religion

or intellect

has little to do with it.

we don't

like things

that people say or do.

our eyebrows raise,

and we say oh my.
sometimes

what they're wearing

is enough

to bother you.

really, you're going to

wear that

today?

ways to skin a cat

various ways

are given to skin a cat.

not literally of

course,

for who would want to

really do

a thing like that.

but the message,

metaphorically is clear.

when plan a

or b

doesn't work.

there's c.

there's always

another path

to take.

no worry, no fear.

observation sunday

the church is crowded

because

it's Easter.

it's punching the clock

for Catholics.

the lot is nearly full.

cops with

flares

direct the traffic in, then

out.

i put on my yellow

shirt

and black shoes,

and go too.

the tips of my fingers are dyed

from the eggs

at home,

red and green,

my thumb a beautiful

baby blue.

i find a pew in the back,

dead center

and get my praying

done early.

which gives me time

to observe and take notes.

it's a perfect view.

nary a text

there are many

things

that tell you when it's over.

but two come to mind.

you don't

talk anymore

and the intimacy has died.

that's pretty much

the death knell

of the relationship.

you pass each other

in the hall,

you give

each other room.

no more does the phone

ring. there's nary

a text.

no need anymore

to call.

it feels like tuesday

there are some days

that i don't

know what day it is.

there is nothing to remind

me.

no paper on the porch.

no calendar

on the desk.

no one

waking up beside me

to assure

me of where we are in

the week.

each day feels like tuesday.

another

day, just like the rest.

limping in pearls

i remember

her left foot, how it bent

inward.

clubbed

one might say.

how she limped

in her pearls.

her hips

in an awkward sway

as we went

to a show.

she could out walk me.

miles

from the garage lot

she could go

without sweat or worry,

never needing

to stop

and rest.

she'd look back at me

and laugh,

come on, she'd say.

you're always last.

you'll miss the opening

act.

no visitors

when you see

someone asleep on the sidewalk,

crumpled

in blankets,

his head

on a carboard box.

you imagine

that you're him.

wounded and dark.

you've always been him.

lost

and alone without

anything,

just clothes. 

no money to spare.

no way

to get from here to there,

but by

walking. no one

to call.

no visitors per say

who call on you

neither giving or

aware of

stares.

one night in the city

how the room

stood still until someone

arrived.

lonely

and lost somehow

though with

the bed made.

the bath clean.

water in the short box

kept cold.

the magazines stacked

to one

side

on the shiny glass

table top.

the curtains parted

just so

to let in the city light.

the room

felt like a cake about

to be sliced.

but just for

one night.

one slice.

which makes her happy

almost everything i throw

away

setting

it out on the curb,

pictures, lamps,

rugs,

i see my neighbor lifting

them

and bringing

them home.

when i visit her for tea.

i see my old familiar things.

hanging on the wall.

the vase on the mantle.

a light by the tv.

new to her.

but old to me.

i sip my tea and compliment

her on her

sense of style

her decorating skills.

which makes her happy.

the day off

i see a day off

soon.

i've circled it on my calendar.

in ink this time,

not pencil.

i promise

myself

that no work

will occur

on that day.

there will be nothing to do

but be

with you.

and you smile

knowingly.

new thoughts

a forest of thoughts

are on you.

fallen oaks,

old trees,

scrub brush,

vines

and weeds,

the darkened moss

of north, but

there, in the clearing,

spindles of new ideas

struggle

through the ground

reaching

for sunlight

thirsty, ready to take

over.

insanity

it's the leaders

that kill.

not the people.

they sit safely

in their bunkers and give

orders.

push buttons from a thousand

miles away.

killing

by the thousands.

as if

flies in their way.

mere

bugs needing to be

stamped

out for the glory of

the common

good.

there will be hell

to pay.

the most beautiful girl in the world

her lips

purple from the nehi

grape soda,

her freckles

confetti like

in summer sunlight.

her boney

knees,

a band aid on one,

sitting next to me.

the red

pigtails,

the gap between

her teeth.

was there ever a more

beautiful girl

in the whole world.

no sir.

not for me.

why not us?

the fox

screaming in the woods

is frightening.

mating?

serenading, perhaps.

it's spring

after all.

i see a new nest

in the far tree.

it's dating season.

birds do it.

why not us?

laundry

is there an end

to laundry,

the whites, the reds,

the blues.

the bleach,

the tide,

the little paper scented

things

to make everything

smell

chemically fresh

and bright.

so much folding to do.

ironing even.

yes. two shirts.

the rest is wrinkle

free.

not unlike my

life.

colossal shrimp

i'm worried about these

enormous shrimp.

how did they get so big?

colossal shrimp.

the size of a baby's fist.

pink as a sunset.

plump and juicy.

all of them from new jersey.

i can barely fit one

into my mouth.

when i hear the word shrimp

i think little,

these aren't.

they taste like shrimp,

but i'm not so sure.

you go first.

in the midnight hour

i can still fit into my

cheerleading

uniform, she tells me, while

doing a cartwheel

across the kitchen floor.

careful, i tell her.

i just waxed the tile.

her hair is pulled back

into a pony tail,

and she's painted little

dixie flags on her cheeks.

we were called the rebels

she said. our cheer

was the rebel yell.

well, you might have

to change that, i tell her.

the south ain't gonna rise

no more.

beautiful burning bridges

leaving

is not hard. packing

your bags.

settling up.

wrapping

up the past in a bow,

a box.

leaving is a good thing.

change.

the burning of bridges.

the drowning

of sorrow.

leaving is a good

thing.

and yet

here you still are.

you've yet to let go.

beating around the bush

my therapist

calls me and asks how i've

been.

she beats around

the bush

for a while, but i know

what this call is about.

she's short on cash.

what's up, she says,

i haven't seen you

since the dark ages.

need a tune up?

everything okay, honky dory?

whatever that means.

peaches and cream

i tell her.

peaches and cream.

i referred you to a friend

though.

she just got married again.

the anniversary

i cut a small piece

of cake,

pour

a flute of champagne.

i'll toast

the new day forward.

it's an

anniversary of sorts,

that i'll

celebrate

alone,

giddy in thought.

the soup can

it's called art.

the soup can.

the slap of paint on

a canvas

on the floor

of a garage.

a red circle.

a squared minitour.

a thousand dots

making a face.

is it art? expression?

graffiti

on a subway car.

the spills, the splatter.

the arrangement

of words

without thought.

this year, she says

she tells me

that this year is the year she

will retire.

she's done.

enough.

kids and parents,

books

and lessons.

principals.

she's worn down.

tired of wearing the same

dress.

teaching

the same

class. whitman, frost,

pound

and plath.

she sleeps with words

in her mouth.

the ink

running down

her cheek,

and tears.

missing liz taylor

i miss seeing

elizabeth taylor

on the front

cover

of people magazine.

vogue or vanity fair.

the world

worrying

who she would marry next,

and could she

keep the weight off.

how hard it must

have been for

her.

always in the paper.

unable to find love

without Eddie Fisher.

unable

to eat

anything she wanted,

once a violet eyed

feather.

glue is useless

forget about glue.

leave it

on the shelf.

it doesn't work.

the fat tube

that you have to poke

a hole into.

it won't hold for long.

wood

metal,

whatever is cracked

or broken.

forget about it.

glue.

it's useless, a sham.

and don't smell it

you fool.

waiting for the story to end

i've had long nights.

bitter

cold

unable to sleep.

dark chapters in a book

i wish

i never wrote.

tossed

in the turmoil

of a worried sea.

long nights,

impossible

to find a dream.

they were interesting

nights though.

watching

me,

what i was going

through.

wanting to know how

the story would

end.

how at last

i'd be free.

to find my keys

i fancy

her, she fancies me.

what does it mean?

who knows

where anything goes.

but for

now, i'd like

to find my

keys.

scared while living

we make rules

for engagement, wars.

they can kill

indiscriminately as long

as they don't

use fission

or germs.

women, children,

babies,

boys and girls,

men.

husbands and wives.

the elderly

and handicapped too.

all are perfectly okay to die.

knives and bullets are fine.

bombs.

cluster or otherwise.

flame throwers, okay.

missiles, no issues.

we allow that.

we're very strict with

our rules of war

and won't get too involved

unless they cross

a line. yes, it's genocide but

we don't want

to make the bully more mad

than he already is.

we're scared

of dying.

which means we're scared

of living too.

the tremble will begin

we need a steady hand

when young.

the surgeon,

the doctor as she decides,

the scientist,

the mother with a child.

the father

as he works

the line.

we need

the steadiness

within.

straight forward

unwavering,

strong.

for in time, if not sooner,

the tremble

will begin.

without wants

without wants,

how happy we would be.

that's all

i really want to say,

but i suspect

that thought

is a zen

thing and will bring

out the yoga

mats,

and candles.

please, don't go there.

don't show

me how to exhale,

how to breathe,

don't twist your self

into a praying

mantis, and

say namaste.

stripping wallpaper

one never knows until

the first

blade

goes under 

the raised seam,

and rips

and tears

at the ancient wallpaper.

it could

be fish scales

we're removing here,

or planks of wood,

needing

to be chopped, or soaked,

muscled

into submission.

fragile as the dead

sea scrolls,

or stone

like slabs

in the hands of Moses.

without words involved

i know less about

you

than i did the day before.

and that's fine.

i don't want

the puzzle solved,

i don't need to know

what i don't

know.

let's take a walk,

and decide,

without

secrets revealed,

without words involved.

ceremony

we need ceremony.

the shovel

of dirt

upon the grave,

our heads bowed.

words said.

trumpets or guns

set ablaze.

we need

decorum

and horses.

we need flags

and flowers

to recognize the end

of a beginning,

the beginning

of an end.

we mark our calendars

to remember,

but still,

no matter how bronze

the plaque,

how strong

the stone, in time

we all

fade away.

the widow Barrett

a cup of tea

calmed her. let her relax

as she

talked

about the past.

husbands,

childhood, work.

her children

somewhere between

buttering

her toast.

with each sip a new

thought

arose.

i could only listen,

having little

to add.

my years

at that point being

short.

finding closure

it's the age

of mistrust, men and women.

countries.

what, or who

isn't out to get us,

what's coming

in the black sky.

what's on the way to

give us

closure of a permanent

kind?

cold water

the glass

of sanity is short

and nearly

gone dry,

maybe one small

drink

remains

to quench a thirst.

not much to go on.

such water,

cold

and clear,

is rare these days.

not enough

one rose

is better than a dozen.

one kind

word

is worth more than

a three page

letter,

or speech in praise,

or vow to love,

but one kiss,

my dear,

is not enough.

where are they now?

where is the pope

in all this,

the church,

the leaders, where's

that clown

joel osteen?

where's the prosperity

preachers,

the local

minister, the righteous

ones who

preach all year taking

money

from the poor.

the bishops,

the priests,

the religious leaders?

their silence is

deafening. 

biscuit in a bunker

they beat us

without mercy with the news.

stale

reels

of footage,

the same dead horse

on the road,

the same

bomb going off.

the same

crossing of the bridge,

of someone

eating

a biscuit in a bunker.

so much filler while

the war

plows on.

i've seen the same person

die

a hundred times now.

all these peacocks

at the desk

in suits,

putting on the show.

this years model

we want fresh,

don't we?

fresh air, fresh fish.

fresh

that or this.

we want new and improved.

advanced.

we want the latest,

the best,

the most up to date.

last weeks model,

or last years

product, 

or lover

will not do,

she has no chance.

cold coffee

we are surprised

at

the coffee going cold,

having sat too

long.

the last

sip

a chilled

memory of what came

before,

and yet we shouldn't be.

doesn't everything

in life

teach you

this.

nothing is done

nothing

is finished, not us,

not you.

not the canvas,

left

where you stopped

in mid stroke

of blue.

your fingers

on the keys,

the unfinished song,

the half

constructed

story,

the two-line poem

that drifts

off.

nothing

is done. like this

one....

both being right

to allow oneself

to

be touched,

whether hand

or knee

beneath a table.

to open

up

possibility, is 

electric

in one way or

another,

the glow

of light, the strike

of needled

pain.

it could go either

way. 

both being

right.

what's the count now

we are counters

for some reason. the news

is good at it.

keeping track of the dead.

the homeless.

the jobless.

we count our money.

we count our

blessings.

we count our degrees.

we take our temperature,

measure our

blood pressure.

we need numbers.

figures.

a toll of

how many refugees?

we count our marriages,

our losses.

our gains.

our children.

we keep score, as if it's

all a game.

a game that never ends,

where everyone loses

and no one really wins.

never moving forward

she said she was fifty-four,

but in the dull dimmed lights

of the bar,

it was hard to know.

i remember she had a round

bed

that went around and around

with the push of a button.

i nearly broke

my leg on it one night.

hit the stop button, i yelled

as my foot got tangled in the

pink sheets, and pillows.

my head striking the table

where she kept her wigs.

the needle was stuck on

night fever by the bee gees.

the record skipping on

the turn table, never

moving forward.

stay curious

stay curious

or die

on the vine, 

fall to the wayside

and rot

on the ground.

the core of

you

eaten by the ravages

of teeth

and time.

apathy, 

having its way,

leaving nothing

behind.

sentiment and sediment

we're full

of sediment

and sentiment. 

our history

making

us bottom

heavy.

hard to rise

to the new day.

bogged down.

slow to the gate.

we strike a deal with

ourselves.

just get us through

another day.

the broken lace

i don't know

why the broken lace

surprises me.

how many times have i tied

these strings,

tightening

then around my boot.

a hundred

or more.

i go to the kitchen

drawer

where another pair waits.

there's always more

of everything.

another you,

another lace.

it's over there

there's a war

going on,

but you wouldn't know it,

would you,

as we watch tv.

eat a sandwich,

look at our phones.

there's a war on.

people are dying.

bombs are falling.

cities are on fire.

but you wouldn't know it,

would you,

as we walk the dog

a final time,

before we retire.

tell me about you

i feel like

a cornered rat when

forced

into small talk,

party chit chat.

i look for the exit.

a door,

a window,

anything i can leap

out of.

i'll take my chances

on the fall.

please

don't ask me about

me.

excuse me as i hide

for a few hours

in the bathroom

stall.

recipe for pancakes

i write down

her new recipe for pancakes.

some of the ingredients

i don't know

how to spell.

chemicals.

man made fibers.

factory oats.

cowless milk.

i look them up online.

nature has nothing to do

with these

flap jacks.

hopefully a slab of butter

and a spill of syrup

will save the day.

i got this

don't grammar police me,

don't correct

my posture

and tell me to sit up straight.

don't lecture me on

the environment,

paper and plastic.

don't tell me how to pray

or which church

to go to,

where to donate my money.

don't tell me what

to read, what to believe,

or watch, or

what i should drink or eat.

please.

keep it to yourself.

i got this.

i'm perfectly capable of

doing me.

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.