a seven or a nine

i can't read

my own writing.

the lines are smudged from

wet ink.

is that a nine or a seven?

Joey or Julie.

it could be work,

or the next love of my life.

the lines are blurred

these days

the room is short of light.

hearsay

most of what we hear

is hearsay,

but we don't object,

or complain,

we move

on, with the question 

or comment

sustained.

life is too short for

courtroom

drama.

everyone is guilty

of something

with only yourself

to blame.

what have we learned so far

so what have we learned so far?

so much.

so little.

it's more

about life experience

and less about

education

and books.

you don't know fire is hot

until

you put your hand

into it.

the ten commandments

are a pretty good

set of rules to go by.

trust your gut.

don't worry so much.

enjoy your life.

stay away from bad people.

have dessert once

in a while.

a glass of wine.

sleep in when you feel like it.

the folded sheet

is still impossible

to fold,

but accept that.

closing arguments

the trial, the celebrity trial.

their lives

bared

to the world.

how it triggers one's soul,

one's heart.

remembering

your own life.

it's painful to watch.

the lies

and deceit.

the gaslighting. the abuse.

on both sides.

you want it to end,

but you can't turn away.

it's a fabulous trainwreck

where

everyone loses

and no one wins.

the ripple

as the water ripples

in concentric

circles

after

the stone is thrown

to the middle

of the pond,

you realize how

all things

matter,

not just words,

but thoughts too.

each

with its power

to decide.

what could go wrong

it's easy to say,

things were better back then.

people were more

polite,

more kind.

television 

helped.

father knows best.

who wouldn't want

donna reed as a wife?

commercials

with smiling kids.

whiter whites.

the black and white of

the 1950s.

a cold war.

the korean war,

civil rights, but for

the most

part

things were alright.

we had bomb shelters too,

just in case.

we seemed to be headed

in the right

direction

once the red scare

ended.

the moon was suddenly

in reach.

buddy holly.

chubby checker.

music became a soundtrack

to our life.

what could go wrong?

everything seemed so right.

i must be dreaming

sometimes you wake

up and you're

glad it was just a dream.

glad the night is over

and reality

sets in.

and then there are other

times

you wish it was a dream,

that none of this was true.

that the nightmare

you're stuck in

would go away, 

get lost in the clouds

of your sleep,

and not to return again.

click bait

the world

is drenched now with offering advice.

it's in your

phone, on your

little screen, how

to cook,

what to wear, where to live,

or go.

what not to eat.

how to stay slim, how

to improve

your image,

how to not be a loser,

how to win.

there's a new

and improved norman vincent

peale

with every click bait

you consume.

she excused herself

she excused herself

from

the use

of minerals.

salt and pepper,

sugar.

seasoning of any kind.

no butter.

her life and cooking

were the same.

without spice,

without

taste, 

bland as a 40 degree

day.

even tea was without

tea,

just water and lemon.

a tepid brew.

her love

was like that too.

with so little given

there are needs, implied

or otherwise,

necessities

of life

strived for 

in order to

survive.

few

have the golden spoon

put to our

tender mouths

as children.

never lacking,  but

most start from scratch

and scratch hard

at what is

eventually had, or not

had, with

so little given.

it's in the bones

there's no changing us.

or them,

him or her.

you can't make a cat into a dog.

a bird

into a fish.

we are born this way.

from

birth until death.

we are who we are.

small adjustments

can made along the way,

but if you're full of

joy and curious,

or mean

and sour, game over,

you'll pretty much remain

that way.

Halifax

my father tells

me the story of the one room

schoolhouse

in Halifax.

the winters there.

the ocean.

his wet socks

on the stove.

his boots

and mittens.

the farm where he plowed

the fields

at 13.

pulled

lobsters from

their cages.

his eyes once

as blue

as the sea,

are weakened to a softer

hue, now.

a fair green,

still full of memory

but washed

and fading with what

his life had been.

they're not so different

celebrities are our clowns.

prancing in

the spotlight.

that make

us laugh,

or cry

with their endeavors.

their movies

and headlines.

the drama

they bring.

how shocked we are to find

that they

need to eat and sleep.

to find love.

we want them to be different,

somehow

not like us,

but above.

from the world briefly

the light, how it lies

down,

how the shadows rise with

thickness,

we lie down

to sleep.

our troubles not far

from

mind, or heart.

but we need the rest.

we need

to be

in another place

for a night.

free

and not free from the world,

so much can wait,

but not grief.

as we grew older

i can still remember

the first

love letter i wrote.

it was to the girl next door.

written

at my desk

with ink and paper.

generous with praise.,

undying affection.

were we

in love?

perhaps. but let's call it love

for now.

i can see her

still

sitting on the stoop.

her scratched knees.

i can

smell her washed hair

falling to her shoulders.

i can feel

the first time she held

my hand.

at the movies.

hoping for more as

we grew

older.

at thirteen

there was always

a bag

of marbles, a pen knife,

a few keys.

a few folded dollars

and spare

change

filling a pocket of old

dungarees.

a rabbit's foot for luck.

rubbed three times

then into the world,

with friends.

to go see what we were

yet to see.

repetition

there is repetition.

how can there not be.

again it's five o'clock.

again it's breakfast,

it's dinner.

again it's sleep.

again it's morning.

another season.

again it's birth,

again it's death.

there is no way around it.

the world

needs repetition,

as we do,

to live in it

our small sample

our view

is that of a puddle

catching

rain,

mirroring the sky.

a small sample of the world.

so much

like

the view within

our

mind.

full of Ireland

she reminds me

of

strawberries.

the color of her hair.

the paleness

of skin,

freckled

cheeks and chin.

her liquid eyes,

full

of Ireland,

bottled green.

she's long and wired,

but svelte 

and funny.

she matches my

gait,

my laugh, my grin.

down on the farm

i visit 

my friend's farm out in the country.

he has

sheep and cattle,

chickens.

a cow that he squeezes

for milk.

there's a goat

up on the hill making

goat noises.

a few fat pink

pigs are

rolling around

in the mud

in the pig pen.

they look very happy.

his wife is on the porch

ringing

the dinner bell.

he hands me

a pair of dungaree overalls,

and says

put these on.

it's what we wear out here.

we're having

apple pie

for dessert.

cake rehab

i try so hard

to get the cake monkey off my back.

spice

cake, chocolate cake.

two layer cake,

pan

and sheet cake.

Bundt cake.

smith island cake.

god forbid

another wedding cake.

i try to shake off the addiction

to vanilla cake,

and cheesecake,

lemon and carrot,

german chocolate cake,

pineapple upside down

cake.

a tray of little cupcakes

with icing and sprinkles.

i'm on the wagon.

i'm shaking, but

i'm trying.

trying so hard to get

off the cake.

i love your shoes

i tell her she has great legs,

beautiful

green eyes.

her physique is sublime.

her hair is silken

twine.

i tell her that

her heart

is made of gold,

her mind wise.

she smiles at me

and stares, then offers,

i love your shoes.

finding reasons

there are reasons.

some good

some bad,

rational and irrational.

but we find

them.

we cradle them in our arms.

we defend ourselves,

our behavior with them.

unhugged

in childhood,

no lucky breaks, poverty

and shortness

in stature.

the color our eyes,

the shades

of our skin.

the religion one is born

with.

we sing the songs of what ifs,

finding reasons,

some good,

some bad.

when the power dies

it's not water or air,

or food,

or shelter.

it's not even love

and affection,

no.

it's none of that.

it's the cable

box

that frightens me,

and makes

run

to the priest,

to the books,

to my knees in

deep prayer and thought

when the line

is cut

and you're dead

in the water.

another monday

it's too early for thought,

for clear

thinking.

i don't need the news today.

even the birds

seem tired, with

their weak chirping.

i'm groggy

from sleep.

half awake.

i stumble out into the rain.

it's tuesday, but

it feels like monday

again.

late to bloom

some are crowned early,

in school.

or childhood.

the sword

tapping their shoulders.

knighting them,

the golden ones.

but it doesn't last long.

they've peaked

too soon.

the rest of life is harder,

whereas for the rest of us,

going unnoticed,

beneath the wire,

we are late to bloom.

strip poker

we make plans.

a picnic maybe,

the deviled eggs are

waiting

in the fridge.

she's cut the crust off

the little

cucumber sandwiches.

perhaps we'll take a hike

through the woods,

row across the lake.

then 

we change

plans.

we check the weather.

the emotional

forecast

of each other.

we ponder, we worry.

we fret.

it's Saturday

and we should be doing

something fun.

what will we tell everyone?

we both

look out the door as

it begins to rain.

she pulls

out a deck of cards

from her enormous purse

bag thing,

and deals the first hand.

i open the wine.

before

long

we have no clothes on,

and our

plan has been decided

for us.

the perfect yard next door

my young neighbor

to the right, facing my house.

tells

me that i have an interesting yard.

i laugh.

she laughs

and shakes her head.

her yard,

with her young boyfriend

and young dog

is perfect.

a square of green grass,

a path of red bricks.

new chairs,

a fire pit,

strings of edison

lights for when they have

a party.

off which i'm yet to get an invite.

i tell her that God is my gardener,

and i'm

curious as to what

he grows next.

history deleted

i take the box

down

from the closet shelf,

and spill

it onto the floor.

the pictures

fall out.

some black and white.

some

from childhood,

not all happier times,

friends and lovers,

family,

but none from the last ten

years.

those are in my phone,

in limbo, waiting

to disappear

when i die.

dating younger women

she's so much younger.

fresh

and alive.

rosy cheeks, and bright.

she wears

me out both

morning, noon

and night.

my doctor writes me

a prescription

to keep in the game.

it's not quite

a May and December situation,

but close enough.

she laughs

at my music choices.

the Beatles and Dylan,

Sinatra

and such.

let's go dancing she says.

let's go

on a hike,

go sky diving, go deep

sea

fishing.

let's arm wrestle.

tomorrow, i tell her.

but today

i need to go shopping,

i need a new bell

and basket for my

bike.

but it happens

my mother

would often say, don't put

me in a home,

when the time

comes.

let me stay here.

stay with my parakeet,

my sewing

machine,

my plants in the window.

the puzzle unfinished

on the table.

don't put

me with a bunch of strangers.

alone

in a room.

promise me,

she'd say, looking

into our eyes.

promise me.

but it happens.

have you met my friend, abe lincoln

it's a room full of

empty

tables.

a scant few patrons having

drinks at the bar.

but 

nothing's available

until 930

the maître d says.

but

who wants to eat that late.

no

reservations weren't

made,

and they don't respond

to the abe lincoln

i ask them

to meet.

it's good for me

as a child i'd faint

at the sight

of a gleaming doctor's

spike,

the needle approaching

an arm,

or leg,

or bottom.

full of good stuff,

something

to keep me alive a little

while longer.

but i've grown used

to the puncture,

the slight

bite of pain. it's for

my own good, i tell myself,

with each

new wound that follows.

her yellow dress

she's different

somehow

in a yellow

dress

than she is in blue.

happier,

perhaps.

it's apparent her

moods

are more about fashion,

and less and less

about you.

adjusting

curtained

windows keeping out the light.

the dim

morning

wanting in,

but you're not in the mood.

not for

another day.

but rise you do.

what

are the options,

the choices,

your eyes will adjust,

so will

the mood.

there will be storms

it's upon us,

before we know it.

faced with wind,

the beauty of the storm,

the black

lacquer

of clouds,

the dispersing of silvered

bullets,

a violent shrug

of thunder,

there is nowhere to

run.

let's embrace it,

and each other,

let it test our love again.

is there someone else?

she has tears in

her eyes.

what? i ask. what is it?

i take her hand.

tell me, what's wrong.

she blows her nose.

wipes her eyes.

you haven't made love to

me

since last night, she says.

nearly ten hours ago.

don't you love me

anymore?

this morning you got up

without so much

as a kiss

and hopped in the shower.

aren't i attractive enough

for you?

is there someone else?

he trained me

i never trained

my dog.

he more or less trained me.

he knew

my weaknesses.

how easily

i felt guilt in leaving.

taking him

on longer walks.

letting him

bark.

pushing the chair

to window

so that he could look out.

letting him watch tv,

sleeping in bed beside me.

growling

if i took up too much room.

contentment in reach

there will be more

days

like this, won't there?

we ask

ourselves,

lounging in the warm

falling

sun

along the beach.

of course there will.

we'll see to it.

our new plan.

contentment is always

in reach.

she likes it rough

she rubs her

hand against my cheek

and chin,

feeling

the rough

bristle of me unshaved.

i like

it rough,

she tells me, it feels manly,

lumberjack

like, come closer,

let's misbehave.

the candy store

the first look

upon

the rows, the glass enclosed

cases

of candy

is

astounding to a set

of child's eyes.

who made

this land, this place

of every kind

of sweet.

from chocolate bars,

to twists

of licorice,

to gum

and lollipops.

is the world really like

this?

that answer comes

soon enough,

but for now,

dip your hand into

the barrel

and live.

the uprooted

undug,

gouged out, the weeds,

that live

with struggle,

are pulled.

not pretty like the flower,

or vine

even,

the birch tree.

unsightly and unwanted

are the weeds.

so much

in life, like them,

those

with needs, of varied

faiths,

or colors,

unmet.

best to uproot them

and put

them where they

can't be seen.

flush, then get another

i could do a cat maybe.

maybe,

though, i'd prefer

a dog.

but a cat wouldn't need much.

water,

some food set out.

i could leave

for a month

with no problem.

no issues, no argument.

but still.

the flea collar,

the purring, the sandbox.

shots,

and then the getting

old part.

attachment and

the sorrow which follows.

maybe a fish.

a gold fish.

a bright orange thing

swimming

in circles all day,

reminding me

of my own life, perhaps.

but

replaceable like so much

of the world now.

when it's done,

you flush

and move on. get another.

body language

we give ourselves

away.

the blink,

the nod, the twitch,

the glance

in another direction.

we sway

where we stand.

scratch

an itch.

we tap our foot,

we stare

at the clock.

it's a performance

of a conversation,

unrelated to what

is thought.

sweet childhood wine

was there anything more

heavenly

than the church bells

ringing

from the rusted

white truck

selling

sno-cones on a hot summer day.

the old man

smiling 

as he scooped shaved ice into

the white

coned cups,

pouring

the blood of cherries,

the greens

of limes,

the cut drizzles of

blueberries.

all of it staining our

t-shirts

our shorts,

our lips with the elixir

of sweet

childhood wines.

the cherry blossoms

i stumble

into the protest on the mall

while taking

pictures

of the cherry blossoms

when a 

a woman, with a crew cut,

and muscles, well, a few women

attack

me.

hitting me on the head

with their

hashtag me too

movement placards

and oversized handbags.

i go to the ground, they start

kicking me.

punching

and yelling at me.

hey, hey

what have i done?

please stop.

you're a man, they say.

we know

what you've been doing

and thinking.

how dare you come

down here

while we're marching for

equal rights

and reparations,

i point to the cherry blossom

trees.

i'm taking pictures.

they're beautiful,

pretty, like all of

you gals.

i cringe as i absorb a kick

from a doc martin

boot.

no, no,

you have me all wrong.

i like all you chicks, really.

then the lights go out.

the vultures gather

the real estate

agents keep

calling.

they leave messages

on my phone,

notes taped

to the door.

texts.

voice mails,

they put brochures through

the slot

onto the hall

floor.

we want to buy your house,

cash.

no questions asked.

as is.

call us.

meet with us.

we'll give you an offer

that you can't refuse.

sell now

while the irons hot.

don't miss out,

don't be a fool.

you're old now,

go south,

get out, it's time to move.

the park bench

it's a hot day.

i see a squirrel on the bench,

wiping his

brow

with a tiny handkerchief,

sipping

on an RC cola,

staying hydrated.

move over,

i tell him.

brutal, he says.

sure.

sip? he offers.

fanning himself with his

bushy tail.

no thanks, i tell him.

i'm off the sugar.

testing the water

the water is murky.

green,

a brownish slug of stream,

hardly moving,

not a bird

or fish seen.

i dip my

toe in fear

into the muck,

and you want me to dive

in?

to swan dive 

myself into

the dark depth

of whatever it is you

call love?

please, i've had enough

of such

bad dreams.

heroic

what is heroic?

does there have to be life and death

involved.

soldiers

in war,

or can it be

the mother or wife

alone,

raising children,

the father

daily in the mine,

digging coal,

the parents growing

gracefully

old?

the ebb and flow

slowly i slip

away from social media.

back pedaling,

deleting,

erasing, unfriending

those

who were never friends

at all.

into the shadows i go.

like the olden

days.

happy to not have others

know,

my personal ebb

and flow.

when it comes to love

we learn early

not to

touch the hot stove,

the match,

the sharp knife,

to watch out for

the broken glass

underfoot,

the hole in the road,

be careful

we're told.

but when it comes

to love and things

of the heart,

we're on our own.

on hands and knees

time

to clean out the fridge.

good lord.

what

is that.

what's this. no date,

no label.

just a jar with something

green and alive

in it.

maybe evolution is true

after all.

two heads of lettuce

gone soft

and brown.

six bottles of thousand

island

dressing, not mine.

eggs, cracked

and spilled inside their

little cups.

pickles from another era,

another time.

whose wheat germ is this?

whose

half of a sandwich

of ham

on rye?

an orange from last summer

hiding between

a lemon and a lime.

i take out the mysteries

of the Siberian

top door shelf,

meats and fish,

an eggplant dish,

banished to the cold never

to be seen

or opened.

never to be eaten,

or grow old.

can i come up and see your etchings

you can't whistle at an

attractive woman

anymore.

tell them they look beautiful

and sexy today.

you can't wink,

or check someone out.

ogling they used to call it.

you can't say anything clever,

like who's your daddy,

or can i come up and see

your etchings tonight.

you can't be a man anymore.

full of desire and attraction

for the opposite sex.

you have to stay glum and numb.

perfectly still with your eyes

forward, or closed,

pretending not see

the glorious shapes of women

that God made

wearing yoga pants,

or a dress revealing knees.

their next movie

they lack nothing,

nothing

of this world.

the accumulation of wealth

is astounding.

they lack

nothing but self-awareness

and wisdom

it seems.

baring their already worn

souls

out for all to see.

the chaos,

the lies.

the insanity.

there's not enough

pills and booze

to ease their pain,

to fix them.

mental illness does

not discriminate,

and yet the crowds adore

and worship

them,

another movie in the making,

yet to be.

saving the fish

as kids in the 60's we'd

fish not far from the blue plains sewage

treatment plant

along the river.

close to the Wilson Bridge.

the fish were either extremely

large,

or dead.

almost all of them had open

wounds,

or scars.

we felt like we were saving them

from their slow

polluted death.

they had that get me out of

here look in their

eyes,

but how nice the river looked

from a far,

beatifically blue,

as we walked down the trail

to cast out

our hopeful lines

and nets.

finding the alley

it's all about the alleys

in the city.

unnamed. 

how to get in, get out.

deliveries,

furniture,

work men.

nothing goes through

the front door.

make a left then right,

then squeeze

down the dark

alley where you'd never

go at night.

ring the bell at the loading

dock.

someone will come

at some point, once they

see you on the camera

with your ID 

held up to the dim red

light.

ignorance is bliss

i forget to watch the news

for a few

days,

taking a break

from the death count,

the wars,

the disease,

the shootings and hijackings.

i turn off

the phone, the internet

and put some

music on.

i bake a cake

or two

and put them on the window

sill to cool.

ignorance is bliss. you

should try it

too.

vanity

at every age,

every stage of life,

we stay vain.

as a child we lick

the cow

lick down.

staring into the mirror

at what other's

might see

and judge.

through middle age

and beyond.

we find

the mirror to gauge

our look,

our years, 

stepping on then off

the scale,

before we move on.

finding the cheese

is it the game,

the maze,

finding one's way out,

or is it

the cheese, the prize

at the end

of the day,

for the 

harried mouse?

venting

the vent

is venting hot air,

bad air,

toxic

air.

you hear the rattle of

the metal

door flapping

as the words

flow out,

unabated,

unrestrained.

the truth of how you

really feel

at last leaves

your mouth.

we all need to vent

sometimes,

or go insane.

fat and happy

i see the rabbits

in the yard

helping themselves to carrots

and lettuce.

they've figured

out a way

to get under

the fence, then around it.

they've unlocked

the gate

and let others in.

they will be fat

and happy

this season,

before another winter

begins.

slip and get up

slip and get up.

go down,

rise again.

lift yourself upright.

start over.

hang on.

it's what we do.

how we live.

if not.

we have no words,

no advice

to give.

a little self help reading material

feeling a little blue,

under the weather, i go to my

self help

bookcase

and peruse what book might

give me a jump start,

wake me up,

and see the brighter side

of the road.

the four agreements, nah.

too wu wu.

the power of

positive thinking?

pfffft.

how about psychopath free.

nah.

been there, done that.

the power of now. nope,

gives me a headache, 

the body keeps score, too

depressing

breaking toxic soul ties?

nope again.

hmmm.

how about this one.

the complete illustrated

hard bound,

latest edition,

Kama Sutra.

here we go.

bird hunting

i see my friend

Jimmy on the street.

he's dressed in camouflage.

what's up,

i ask him.

i almost didn't see you

coming out of

the donut shoppe?

going hunting he says,

while nibbling

on a bear claw.

oh really. what are you

hunting for?

moose, elephants?

he laughs and chokes on

his pastry a little.

ya know,

Safeway has meat and fish

now, i tell him.

no, he says. we're hunting birds.

sounds very dangerous.

no, not at all, not for us.

it's all about the thrill.

the strategy.

i have a new bird whistle

i want to try out.

we hide in the brush,

then blow the whistle.

the doves come flying out

and we shoot them

down.

you can't miss with a shotgun.

the pellets spray everywhere.

then we send the dogs out

to bring them back.

do you want some?

nah.

having chicken tonight.

but thanks.

gummy bear shortage

i'm worried

about the shortage of gummy

bears

since the plant

shut down.

the machinery gummed

up,

so to speak.

what will

fill my candy bowl now?

i google

them.

maybe i can make my

own.

what did they do

in the previous years,

the civil war

years,

in medieval times?

how did they

survive before the invention

of those soft

chewy,

sugary

mult-flavored

gummy bears?

starts there

can you save

the world from itself.

no.

but you

can make

a difference in your own

life.

one day

at a time.

more kindness,

less

anger,

less fear,

more love.

starts there.

grape jelly

excitedly

as we sit for lunch,

she tells me that she met

someone 

famous

once.

a movie

star from the silver screen.

she shows me her hand.

this hand

touched him,

she says.

holding it up for me

to see.

can you believe it,

she says.

meeting him?

me?

i point to a spot of

grape jelly

on her chin,

and reach over to wipe

it.

there has to be more

sure it's good

to have money. a place

to live.

an automobile,

things.

things that make life

easy.

it's what you've wanted,

isn't it?

who hasn't?

and those pictures

on the mantle,

on the dresser, don't

they prove

the life you've lived?

loved ones?

and yet strangely there

has to be more.

i still have time,

to find out what it is.

unplugged

i pull the plug on nearly

everyone.

cut the cord

and switch off.

it's just me and the yard,

the lingering

blue of sky

between the trees.

it's just me.

this chair, a book

i'm trying to finish,

and

my feet

resting on a table,

bare as they can be.

read between the lines

our secrets will

die

with us.

perhaps, unless someone

comes

along

to read between the lines,

look

under

the bed,

or deep into the closet.

if they can

figure out the code

to the safe,

the soul now

gone, maybe then they'll

get the picture

of who came and went,

but never

all of it.

just is

the ravines,

the lines, and crevices.

the story.

is there.

on her tongue,

in her eyes.

the web of smiles.

the crease

of sorrow upon her

brow.

all of it

neither kind or unkind,

just is.

silvered

and slender in her

setting

sun.

room of a younger year

far from the room of

a younger year,

the smell

of old

rises.

dust,

dirt.

the dinge of time

layering

almost smug in its

relentless way

of covering

all once new.

i'll swipe it away

though

with broom, and cloth.

my hand too,

a tool

to write with and

move on.

there's always tomorrow

some things can wait until

tomorrow.

the yard,

the kitchen sink.

the bills on the desk.

the conversation we

keep avoiding.

there's time

for all of it.

not now, not right this

second,

but tomorrow.

how can you not love

a tomorrow?

watching the trial

i shudder

at the broadcast of the trial.

two

rich

lost souls

who have everything and nothing

at the same time.

crazy

as loons, both of them.

unable

to see or touch

the real

world.

actors

who can't stop acting.

self made fools.

the summer people

the summer people

have gone

south

with their tans

and white clothes.

birds on wings

to sunny

states

along the lower

coasts.

their homes are bundled

up

for the storms

at sea.

the chilled

winds

of winter

that will arrive soon.

locked

tight with shutters pulled,

their homes are

left empty and waiting

for spring

and bare feet.

what to wear

it's a clothing dilemma

in the morning.

what to wear.

what t-shirt to put on

blue or white?

should i go with the old

worn

but comfortable

jeans, or

maybe the khaki shorts?

tennis shoes

sketchers, or

the lace up nikes?

flip flops?

i lay everything out on 

the bed

and ponder this tough

decision.

the wine spill

no worries,

it's just wine spilled

onto

the floor.

the white rug,

the table,

my shirt, my pants, my

shoes

red wine.

i don't drink wine

but i see

when you can get

the glass

near your mouth

and swallow,

that you do.

it's his turn

as i walk

by the old church.

the statue of Mary

looking down,

there are candles lit.

there's a man on his knees

praying.

i say nothing

as i listen to him cry

out in grief,

bent in sorrow.

quickly, i leave.

it's his turn.

the favored cup

the favored cup

is chipped,

but i use it still.

the slight crack along

its flowered

side

is thin, but there are no

leaks.

it holds

the tea warm

when i pour it

full,

careful to turn

it to the smooth edge,

i'm reluctant to buy

new

and start all over again.

the other side of the moon

his world

tightens, grows smaller by

the day.

the squeeze

is on.

no longer at the wheel,

no longer

taking a stroll

around the park.

travel is over, gone.

it's from

the bed

to bath,

to the kitchen, to the

chair

in the living room.

the bench outside

is now a voyage

to the other side

of the moon.

truly green

i see her out the window.

in the yard.

knees in the dirt.

her hat on,

her summer dress,

planting

flowers.

seeds.

i wave down,

she smiles

and waves up to me.

her thumb is truly green.

an overnight trip

i travel light.

a toothbrush in hand.

the clothes on

my back.

a phone,

a car.

shoes.

whatever it is i need,

it there is anything,

i'll buy

on the road.

but let me help you with

your bags.

we can put

some on the roof

and rent

a u-haul

for the rest.

it's theater

it's theater.

it all is. the days that

fold

into nights.

it's all a dream, a flick,

a play.

on a large scale,

a small stage,

roll the cameras,

action.

it's life.

spam days

we ate a lot of

spam

when we were kids.

the neat

squared can

of ham

and pork pressed

into a fist

of meat. 

gooey and hard,

but

a little mustard

and a fat slice

laid

on a bed of wonder

bread,

was heaven.

it hit the spot.

night tremors

it's 3 in the morning.

a bad

dream.

i shiver and shake it off.

the red

lights

from clock

are all i see.

but i need to see your

eyes to know

it's not real.

feel your hand against

my heart

as it pounds

in fear.

tell me no lies

don't tell me your secrets,

your hidden

flaws,

your blemishes,

your lies,

your deeds gone wrong,

all the things you've

done.

don't reveal the past.

let's just go on as if we're

both perfect.

let's make

it last.

are we set in our ways?

are we set in our ways?

settled

on food and drink,

the color

and type of clothes we wear?

are we stuck

in our choice of style?

unable to change?

not wanting to try

the strange food,

or go a different way.

have we at last found

out who we are,

and what we want

or don't want?

who we choose to be with,

and who we send

away.

i think so.

i'm hot, she's cold

i open

the window, she closes it.

i turn

off the heat,

she raises it a few

degrees warmer.

i pull the chain to spin

the fan,

she pulls it

twice more

to end it.

i pull off the blanket

and rely on the sheet,

she doubles

up

with more from the closet.

more pillows,

pajamas,

mittens

and earmuffs,

and anything she brings.

we get along so well, but

when it comes

to temperatures

we tend to disagree.

as the stamp awaits

my circular file is filled

with

half written notes.

torn cards.

i just don't have the words

to say what

i want to say.

too shallow, too vapid,

too bland

or lame.

i crumble each sheet

into a ball

and toss them towards

the corner,

the overflowing

wastebasket.

one more. one more.

as the envelope and stamp

awaits.

no need for words

no need for words.

we

can see in one another's eyes

what's

being said.

no need

to wag the tongue,

to verbally

express ourselves.

the distance between

us is

too far

to overcome.

silence says it all.

all you can eat

i rub the fog out

on the glass,

making a small port hole

to stare out

the motel window along

the back

road

of the beach

at the pancake house,

a sign

in the window.

reading, all you can eat.

all day breakfast.

best on the beach 1973.

the line

is short

before the doors open.

i see a truck

pull up

with cauldrons of

batter, drums

of syrup.

pallets of butter

being wheeled in by

sturdy men

with beards.

slabs of bacon on their backs.

beach town weary.

i lift up my shirt to take

measure of my

stomach.

there's room.

let's go.

sea sick

each

day was a performance.

hers

then mine.

reactive

and full of oceanic

emotion.

low

and then high tides.

rip tides.

waves

that would swallow

your ship

whole.

toss you overboard

to swim,

with fingers crossed,

towards home.

wanting less

wanting less,

or

needing

or desire, is a comfort

when it

subsides.

no

reason

for more,

larger, or better.

bigger.

this is fine, where i'm at.

it's good.

it's where

i can live.

hang my hat.

waiting on milk

i miss the milk man,

with his

cold bottles of milk

and cream.

his dozen eggs,

his meats,

his bread.

all placed into your

metal porch box,

the rattle

of glass,

early in the morning

with his truck

idling,

him in his hat and white

suit.

white as milk itself.

up before

sunrise.

his wife still asleep at

home.

him rushing, anxious

to get back.

stuffed animals on the wall

he had the heads

of 

animals on the wall.

bear and deer,

a moose.

things

he shot and killed.

stuffed

and peering down

each day

with black marble eyes.

no longer

in grief

or pain.

just the head.

the rest eaten? perhaps.

or buried.

below them were 

pictures

of an ex wife,

smiling, a different sort

of long ago

prize.

around him little

seemed

to survive.

i'm here and you're not

i'm sending postcards

again.

it's time.

it's overdue.

hand written notes

to loved ones,

acquaintances

i used to know.

i give them a summary

of where i

am,

what city or beach,

and how much they're

missed or

not missed.

all said between the lines,

with x's and o's.

a parting

kiss

the postcard being such 

an old school treat.

to anyone i used to know

i slip

into the day.

from bed to floor.

looking out at

the grey

warm rain.

i slip coffee into my

mouth.

i slip into the shower,

then clothes.

i slip forward,

quietly,

seamlessly.

without

a word to anyone

i used to know.

almost anyone

he can make it to the bench.

slowly.

a few yards

from his door.

he'll bask in the sun

when there is sun

in the morning.

a cane to help him along,

a cup of coffee.

a smile,

a wave hello

for anyone walking by.

anyone,

except for the neighbor

next door.

mother nature

this weather

tells

you who's in charge.

not you.

this hard

wind,

this steely rain.

this ocean that can sweep

you and

everything

away, if it chose to.

nature

will have its way,

regardless

of who you think you are,

or how hard

you pray.

no regrets

as the market

falls,

the money

less today than yesterday.

you shrug.

it's money

that you'll never spend

anyway.

you'll be dead long before

it gets to that.

why worry.

why fret.

tomorrow you'll go to work.

you'll eat,

you'll sleep

with no

fear, no regrets.

finding happy

it's raining.

the sun hasn't been out

for days.

the sea is gray.

the sand brown.

the boardwalk empty.

the hotel

empty.

the elevator empty.

the restaurant

across the street

closed.

the ice cream shop,

the bar,

the pizza store closed.

but there's a dog

out on the wet

sand running free

with a red ball in his

mouth,

oblivious to it all.

new set of keys

at last

the tight key breaks in the slot.

half

in, half out.

somehow

i get in though.

i get out the tools,

the new

knob,

the new set of keys.

i remove the old lock

and replace it

with the new lock.

tumblers and screws

to the floor.

tightened and secure.

the duplicates go

into the well magnet,

into the shed.

onto the hook in the kitchen

where it won't

get lost.

so many ways to get in.

no entry

we can't know.

there's no true entry 

into anyone's

mind,

or soul.

we can guess

at what they think or feel,

but in the end.

only they know

what's isn't true,

what's real.

the old future

i glance

at the calendar.

still april.

the page

still not turned.

i'm living in the past too much.

the future

seems

so old.

pierce's barbeque

the first time there,

i was 18.

a mere fifty years ago.

but the shack

still stands.

the pit full of fire

and wood.

the yellow aprons of

the servers.

the line at the window.

large men

and women, children

in their shadows.

it's somewhere

between here

and there on the way

to the beach.

barbeque to go.

barbeque to eat

inside or out.

it's on your shirt,

your sleeve.

your cheeks.

it's sugary and spicy at

the same

time.

like you my dear.

like you.

both warm

and sweet.

around again

in his crumbled human

form.

milk soft now

with age,

once made

of stone.

he stumbles, holds

on to the chair,

a table,

to me.

the circle is complete.

from father

to child

and around again.

memories fill

the silence

that hangs in the air.

i can't drive far

i can't drive far.

a few hours, maybe, if

the right

person is along.

the right food, the right drink

in hand.

good weather.

the radio on.

i can't drive far.

i'm bored easily. stiff

from the wheel,

the seat.

my knee hurts

from

the pedal, the gas, the brake.

it's a straight shot

home from the beach.

home before dark,

is the plan.

into the fog

you can't see the ocean.

the sand.

a ship

at sea.

no lights beyond

the light

of your own room

with the curtains

pulled.

the fog is thick.

the fog is out of a horror

show.

a scary movie.

the twilight zone.

you put your hand into it.

your hand

is gone.

you put your heart out there.

that too

disappears.

supply and demand

the car salesman

tells

me that there's a shortage

of cars.

i'm sitting in his windowed

showroom,

surrounded

by cars.

i look out the clear

sheets of plated glass

and that's all i see.

cars.

and black is a tough color

to find

right now, he says.

but it's the only color

i see, 

except for grey and white

and an occasional red, or blue.

today is the last day, he says

for financing

at this rate.

covid and the war.

the price

of gas,

the economy, politics.

the stock market.

he shrugs, it's tough now.

so here, he says, handing

me a pen.

we have a green

used car, a hybrid, sitting

out back.

we're putting a fresh coat

of paint on it,

and tires,

just for you.

if there was a nuclear war

if there was a nuclear war

with a few

dozen

atomic bombs

dropping

nearby

that would

mean no

more indoor plumbing.

no lights.

no internet.

no netflix anymore.

no coffee to make

or pour.

we'd be on our own

with

a headache

and open sores.

it wouldn't be good.

there'd be nothing

on the shelves,

no more farmer's market.

it's best

to run towards the light,

not away.

survival would be

such

an exhausting chore.

fair warning

i tell my father

i'm on my way.

giving him fair warning 

to put

what he doesn't

want me to see

away.

the gin bottle,

the magazine,

the cake,

the lingerie.

i'd expect the same

warning

from my child

if he ever visited.

no one likes a pop in

surprise.

geese welfare

the geese expect bread now.

fat and happy

they paddle

to the edge

of the lake waiting

for the next hand

to feed them.

despite the signs, people

can't help themselves.

tossing out bread

towards the honking beaks.

they're spoiled now.

they have no need to dip

their heads

into water, for worms

and weed

to eat.

they're on easy street.

the opera house

other than Isabel

Leonard

i know nothing about the opera.

i neither

like or dislike it.

but it reminds me of 

childhood,

and a few relationships

i've been through.

the conversations

and arguments being

sung

out in loud dramatic

fashion.

an unequal dose of laughter

and sorrow,

blood and tears.

but now

i like to keep that curtain

closed.

beach excursion

packing

for the beach is easier than it

used to be.

no umbrella

to load,

no buckets

or shovels.

no rafts or floats.

no ball, or toys, no extra

pairs of anything.

just two sets of clothes.

one for the beach

and one

to go out to eat.

gas it up

and go.

i know, beware

i know

before i know. i can sense it.

smell it.

feel it

in the air.

the tingling of spine,

the raised

hair.

i know

what's coming,

where it is,

and who.

be careful around me.

i know.

beware.

her sky cap

my suitcase

is small.

a few necessary items.

sweaters

for the cold.

shorts for the warm

walking shoes.

one dress shirt for dinner.

a toothbrush.

a razor.

some cash and i'm

done.

and then i see the sky

cap

with her luggage,

her skipping

not far behind.

truly larks

as dogs

do,

leaving their mark,

how

many carve or spray

their name

onto walls,

into bark.

we all want to be

remembered

in some way.

but knowing

deep within,

that such thoughts

are truly

larks.

interest wains

the interest

wains,

slips from your fingers,

as fish

do

once

great in the sun, scales

ablaze

with color.

the cold new life

from

the deep pond.

interest wains,

as you let

it go back

to from where 

it comes.

deleting poetry

i get down on my

hands

and knees and scrub

the mold

from the tub.

i go to the fridge next

and throw away

three half empty

ketchup bottles

and two

old pickle jars.

not to mention, six

bottles of salad dressing

i never use.

i dust.

vacuum.

beat a rug against the back

fence.

laundry.

wash and fold. put away.

i get the cobwebs

out of the basement.

stack books,

rearrange the clutter.

a place for everything.

then at last i go to the poetry

i've written on here

and delete about a hundred

poems i'd written,

no longer needed

therapy.

a clean sweep of angry

and revengeful

prose.

no trace, no crumb, no history

of the past.

the beating of a dead horse

at last over.

may it all rest in peace.

next.

get up now

she calls me

in the wee hours of morning.

do you see this?

she says.

what?

i'm sleeping, see what?

the sun rising.

the sun coming up.

you have to get up now

and look

out the window.

it's amazing.

okay, i tell her. in a few

minutes.

it'll be too late then, she

says.

get up now.

you're missing a fabulous

sunrise.

jiminy crickets,

i tell her. throwing off the blankets.

you know, i'm really thinking

about blocking

your number.

minor glee

i look for puddles now

to walk in,

to ride through,

to steer the car into.

the larger the better.

the splash,

the sound it makes.

the mess of mud

and water.

the wet shoes, the soggy

socks.

with no mother at

home to scold me,

i'm five again with

not major, but minor

glee.

it'll come up

it'll come up in conversation.

i make sure

of that.

i earmark it,

put a note

inside

my brain, a yellow sticker

on my forehead.

i write

it in ink on the hand i use

for talking.

oh it'll come up,

don't worry about that.

the paper route

the policeman

stood

over my dog,

his black gun catching

the low

light of sunrise,

and as i ran

home

with my wagon,

still half full of newspapers,

tears

in my eyes.

i heard the shot behind me.

i shook my

mother awake to tell her

what happened.

the car

that ran the dog over.

she put me

to bed,

wiped the tears

and held me,

then went out to finish

my

route.

bland cooking

her saltless

cooking.

no sugar, no pepper,

no

exotic seasoning.

each

slab of meat,

piece of fish,

strand

of poultry

stayed bland under

her hand.

but it looked good

on the plate,

as she did.

i hope

you understand.

over the green sea

muscled clouds. hung out

over the green

sea.

fat

as mother's dumplings,

thick

as cotton.

full of nothing

but promises

and sweet dreams

when

it's time to lay your

head down,

hands beneath chin,

clasped

in rote prayer.

remember the sun

the rain will stop,

i promise,

i tell the child staring

out the window.

hand

on his shoulder.

really?

he says.

it looks like it may

never stop.

look at the puddles.

the wind.

the sky is so grey.

trust me,

i tell him.

you'll see.

you'll see, the sun will have

its day.

a lot on my mind lately

she cuts off

the foot of one of her torn

fishnet

stockings

and says, use this for

a lint trap.

i told her about the overflow

in the pipe

when i did the wash.

i'd completely

forgotten about

the lint clogging up

the works.

there was water all

over the place.

nobody ever schooled

me on

lint traps. plus,

i've been very busy.

i've had a lot on my

mind lately

with

Netflix and the Johnny

Depp trial.

measuring coffee beans

for the grinder.

the coin collector

my brother still

has

all his coin collections

in the

blue hard

folders

that we got for christmas

when we

were kids.

old Lincoln pennies,

the mercury dimes,

the buffalo

nickels,

Kennedy half dollars,

still with

that silver shine.

whereas

my books are empty.

the ice cream truck

haven taken all of mine.

the plunging market

i cringe at the falling market.

ten thousand,

twenty,

thirty,

fifty

and beyond.

it's a rock falling

down

a well

with no bottom.

a cup with a hole.

i take a peak under

my mattress

and sigh,

this won't last long.

the bright orange robe

they strive

for the absence of ego,

of self,

to empty themselves

of the world,

losing attachments 

to all things.

and then they shave

their heads

and put on a bright

orange robe,

that screams

look at me.

denying oneself

whatever

you starve yourself of,

it's what

you want.

right now,

my heart is set on a slice

of pepperoni

pizza,

with hills and valleys

of mozzarella

cheese,

peppers,

hot from the wood

stove

in Kensington.

am I wrong?

touch this,

she says. holding out her

mink

covered arm.

soft?

sure is, i tell her.

very soft.

she looks deeper

into my

eyes and says,

i know what you're

thinking.

am i wrong?

the yellow field

in the field

that stretches warm

and yellow

before the trees,

before

the darkness of green,

where

the hills rise

blue,

there's life, there's

life

being born

and dying.

but this is not news

for you.

by the time we got to woodstock

it didn't really

work

out

the whole peace and love

thing

back in the sixties.

it was a nice

idea.

free love,

drugs,

booze, music. art.

finding one's

inner self.

namaste and all that

b.s.,

but at some point you

have to go

to work and make

some money.

love me two times

it's a strong

cup

of coffee.

i'm shaking at the end

of it.

my knees are weak.

one

more for the road.

i tell her.

sure,

she says

and pours.

her artwork

it's a beautiful

cobweb

that stretches across

the yard,

from chair

to fence.

it gleams wet in

the early

morning sun.

how proud she must

be of her art.

all night long,

weaving

her trap

for the unsuspecting

ones

that come along.

reborn

new tires

on the old bike,

new brakes,

new cables.

a new saddle to sit on.

a new shiny

bell to ring.

new grips,

new chain.

just the frame remains

the same.

you can go

home again,

with a little help

from

friends.

it was a real basement

it was a real basement.

tiled floor.

casement windows

leaking

light from

the yard above.

the cinder blocks of

uncovered walls.

a furnace,

a wash sink

in one corner.

the washer and dryer

wobbling

beside one another.

all pipes exposed.

boxes of

papers, books.

children's clothes.

coats

on hangers from long

ago.

you could smell

the years,

the dust,

the mildew and mold.

you could feel time passing

as your feet

walked across

the floor,

bone cold.

it was real basement.

are we there yet?

are we there yet,

i asked as a child in the back

of my

father's

Chevrolet.

he adjusted the mirror

to look

back at me,

and shook his head.

no,

not yet, he said.

and now when i ask that

question,

to myself.

it's same answer.

no.

not yet.

keep driving.

keep going.

straight ahead.

the olive branch

i put out the olive

branch.

many branches.

few take them.

few want

to put the past behind.

forgiveness

and compassion

are futile.

oh well.

you did your best.

there's no reasoning

with

an unbridled ego.

your own drum

it's not

a drum in the distance.

it's

your heart

finding

your own pace

in the world.

juggling

joy and fear,

the balance

of days behind, and

those yet

to come.

you hear

it.

you know its beat.

don't ask me to help you

let's make a deal.

handshake

on it.

when you move don't ask

me to help you.

and when i move,

i won't ask you.

there's not enough pizza

and beer

to make it right.

i've carried enough

dressers,

and mattresses

and clothes

up

apartment stairs.

dishes in boxes.

shoes

and shirts.

sofas and chairs.

i've loaded books

into trucks,

the trunks of cars.

pictures,

and lamps.

i've made the last move,

hopefully,

the last one

for a long while.

we're going there now, are we?

it's not worry,

or concern, but observational

amusement

at how

the body

alters over time.

the crepe skin.

loose

and dry,

the knees bent.

the hair

now silver.

the teeth, two chins.

how strange

we 

change

from birth until

death.

oh really now, you

say

to yourself

in front of the morning

mirror.

we're going

there now,

are we?

finding consistency

i tend to vacillate.

not unlike

like

a pendulum, i swing back

and forth

with my take

on love,

or hate.

forgiveness

and unforgiving.

my opinions vary,

almost

change with the weather.

i'm both weak and strong

from minute

to minute.

consistency

doesn't last too long. 

when you know nothing

when you realize that 

you know nothing,

or very little,

it's a good start,

it's a place where you

survey the field

and strike the shovel

into the ground.

your boot pressing down.

you overturn the dirt,

you dig.

this is where you begin

to learn.

the sound of sirens

with the sound of sirens

out the window

comes

a question mark.

what is it?

death,

a crash,

a shooting.

something on fire?

what precipitates

the rush

of police and firetrucks

down

the road.

it's new york city

all day

around here

lately.

a ray of sunshine

it's a glum

day.

grey,

wet, cold.

a throw away day,

but you make the best

of it.

you find

a ray of sunshine

in a new book,

an old friend,

a love

that

comes your way.

they've widened the doors

unusually hungry, i

stop by I hop

early in the morning.

i see that they've widened

the doors,

double doors now

to allow

for entry.

the plates are bigger too.

they've reinforced

the floors

because of the weight.

there's a conveyor

belt of food.

i see a pyramid of eggs

and waffles,

pancakes too

next to a barrel of whipped

cream. there's

a gas station pump full

of maple syrup.

i hear the sizzle of bacon

and sausage

as animals are slaughtered

in the kitchen.

the waitress

puts a bib around me

and loosens my

belt as i go to my trough

to order

a number two.

two eggs, bacon, toast

and diet juice.

the teacher next door

i see the english

teacher next door.

it's nine a.m.

and she's stoned out of her mind

already.

eating

a brownie

on her front porch

in her underwear.

hey sugar, she says,

as she sees me leaving the house.

i hear

music playing

from her phone.

the grateful dead.

where you going?

to work, i yell back.

stop by later, i'm off today.

it's casual

friday.

i called in sick.

i need a break from those

damn kids.

i see that, i tell her,

adjusting my tie,

and sipping my coffee.

open all day, she says,

laughing.

you have a good day now.

i'll save

you some brownies.

okay, i tell her.

have fun.

something is in the water

if you've ever had an argument

or even

a discussion

with a crazy person,

by the end of it, you too will

be a giant

cup of crazy.

there is no rational thinking.

no compromise,

no middle

ground.

you shake your head and

frown.

these people are college

educated,

good jobs, families,

what's gone wrong?

something is in the water,

that they're not

telling us about.

i miss him

his new

wife

makes him march downtown

in the women's rights

demonstration.

i ask

him to go play basketball

with me,

but

he can't.

a bike ride later,

lunch

and a beer?

sorry, he says. but

i'm protesting today

for abortion,

or pro choice, 

equal pay or something.

it's not clear.

we're laying out

our clothes now,

trying to figure out

what to wear.

i can't find my pink

head band.

for better or worse

when he was

young

i ran across room and swiped

at his bottom

as he began

to push a screwdriver

into a socket.

he cried.

i held him

and told him what

not to do.

the danger of his

actions.

it was easier then.

but now it's his choice

what he does

with his life.

for better or worse,

it's hard but it's he

that must choose.

then the clock struck twelve

the house was

never cleaner, the meals

never more

exotic and delicious than

when her

parents came to visit.

her sister too.

the good china came out.

the best wine.

the music queued.

candles were lit. no clutter

to be found,

each counter had a shine.

and her too.

the radiant smile,

the new dress,

a new hair style.  she was

on her best behavior for

a few hours,

life almost seemed normal

for those short

stretches of time.

his last boat

his first boat mysteriously

sank

while tied to the dock,

the second

one caught fire,

and the third one was

stolen

by some

pirate.

he has a raft now that

he rows

around the lake.

the insurance money,

safely

tucked away.

the constant dripping

i'm tired

of plumbing. of leaks

and drips,

of toilets

running.

sinks

clogged up,

the broken spigot

that won't

turn.

failed washers,

water heaters no longer

working. i'm

tired

of the plumber

arriving

with his wrenches,

the key

under the mat,

the check

on the counter.

his footprints

up

and down

the stairs, his

greasy hands,

everywhere.

i'm tired of plumbing,

but it's

the life i live.

drip by drip.

the glow in the dark

her glow

in the dark 

wax statue of Jesus

on

the dresser, did what for her?

save her,

keep her safe from

all the bad

in the world?

hardly.

but her faith never

faltered,

despite

all.

the open window

is it the cold that awakens

you

in the early morning,

too soon

to rise.

too soon for a day

to begin.

is it the cold, the window

left open

in the other room

that stirs you

to open your eyes

and reach over to touch

her,

the place

empty again?

the treasure map

who doesn't

like a treasure map?

the mystery of a rolled

piece of parchment,

with arrows

and x's

marked on it.

who doesn't like the thrill

of the game,

finding

things hidden.

what's out of sight?

each clue, each puzzle

solved

getting the heart

pumping,

giving you more than

what

the nine to five

gives

to your life.

loaded dice

yes.

i had a yo yo.

a slinky,

a hulu hoop.

skates,

a skate board, a bike,

a bat

and ball, a leather

glove,

a football,

a tennis racket,

a basket ball

and 

a flute, that i never

learned to play.

but my favorite

thing

was the pair of loaded

dice i bought

on 9th street,

a see through

set of dice,

plastic

green.

plan C

we discuss

tomorrow. if it rains, if it doesn't rain.

we make

a plan

B to go along with a plan A.

i suggest a plan

C.

which involves sleeping

in.

coffee a paper,

and 

extra curricular activities

while we

listen

to the rain.

body language

we tap our

foot,

pull at our hair,

grind

our teeth, crack

our knuckles,

we shift our chin,

or stroke

our knees.

scratch.

we are looking for

something,

anything

to soothe ourselves.

to make

the anxiety

leave.

black and white tv

the first family

on the block

with a color tv invited us over

to watch

the wonderful world of disney

on sunday night.

and we did.

sitting on the long couch.

the mother

putting out

nuts and chips,

soft drinks.

we were washed clean

and neat

for the event.

our mother on the edge

of her seat too.

and then we went home,

all of us

sad.

knowing it would be forever

or never

before we'd see on our

tv

the colors of the rainbow,

from red

to blue.

blood in the water

there is no starting over.

not really.

you can pretend to wipe

the slate

clean.

start fresh.

to erase the past 

and pain as if

you're the ocean

washing

across the words

in sand.

but you can't.

the blood is in the water.

so live with it.

what's the world coming to?

the neighbor asks

me

in the morning as i 

go to my car

if i  heard

the bangs last night.

they sounded

like gunshots,

she says.

do you know anything

about it?

bang bang bang, she says.

her eyes

wide with fear.

and screaming too.

what's the world

coming to, she asks.

to an end,

i tell her.

to an end.

can i sit over there, please?

when i hear

others argue, out and about,

in cafes,

or pubs,

love gone,

sitting outdoors in

the glory

of spring,

their words not mincing,

but full of

anger

and sting,

i remember well, how it was.

and politely exit 

to find

another seat.

long before then

staring

down to the yard, i watched

her

knees deep

in the spring dirt,

blackened

with new

soil.

her trowel in hand,

her spade.

her seeds.

she looked old

and tired, turning her face

up to a rising sun.

the flowers would

grow,

but she would

never see them,

she'd be gone

long before then.

no different

the rich

are no different than you

or me.

sure

there's plenty of

possessions,

but at the close of day,

as we do.

they leave it all for

others

to sift

through, taking

nothing with

them in the end

but a life

now spent.

restraint

having spoken

most of my complaints

at an earlier age,

i stand

in silence,

sit with my arms out.

and welcome

the new day,

for what it is.

i've managed some sort

of restraint

at rage.

my empathy for the stapler

there are a lot of things 

i haven't used

in a long time.

that stapler for instance.

the one i stole

from my office job

when i got laid off

for being lazy and incompetent.

too busy

with socializing,

but that's a whole other story.

back to the stapler.

it's simple and black,

heavy,

full of staples,

just sitting there, dusty,

waiting for a few

sheets of paper to join together.

my empathetic

nature makes me get up

and find paper.

i slide two sheets

under the mouth

of the black

stapler, like i used to do

back in my office days,

and give it a whack.

there you go.

back in business.

someone who knows someone who knows someone....

my Hollywood

friend

who is friends

with the landscaper

who

knows someone

who knows

a kid on the Disney

channel

and once

did a voice over

for a toilet paper

commercial,

has a white leopard coat

that he

wears

when he's out and about

and wants

to be seen.

platform shoes too.

he keeps telling me he's

one audition

away

from hitting the big time.

it kills him to not be

recognized

on the street.

where's the paparazzi,

he says?

i'm here.

where did you get that chicken?

i'm suspicious

of people

with chickens.

what's up with that?

the stores are full of eggs.

eggs

of all kinds.

brown, white,

small

large,

extra large.

double yolks.

organic,

grass fed,

and free range.

what are you doing with

a chicken

in your back yard?

what's wrong

with you?

forensic psychology

finally 

i've received my degree

in forensic

psychology.

experienced in all forms

of abuse,

from childhood

into adulthood.

relationships are my wheel

house.

i put the shingle

on the front door.

open for business.

but i'm only

taking

three patients per day,

despite the long

line

down the sidewalk.

one in the morning.

one

near noon,

and the last around four,

before

i take my afternoon

nap.

the first day goes well,

expect for when they keep

talking

and i have to stop them to

tell them

my story, what happened

to me.

that's nothing i tell them.

listen to this.

they have no choice,

but to listen,

plus i'm getting paid.

two negatives

we agree

on what we don't like.

so, do

two negatives

make a positive?

she hates

the same food as i do.

beans

and liver,

organ meat of

any kind.

cotton

candy we both

despise.

she dislikes the opera.

thank

god for that.

rap music makes her ill.

me too.

hiking is not

her thing,

or jumping out of planes,

or camping

by the fire.

hallelujah.

we won't be attending

the Kentucky derby

party, to wear big hats

and drink mint juleps.

we're so alike,

it's true.

high rise blues

i can't live in a high rise

building.

the doorman

always

in your business.

the elevator

full of surprises,

good and bad.

the smell of cabbage

in the hallway.

the roar

of vacuums all day.

the leaks,

the noise.

babies crying.

the symphony of bed

springs.

new neighbors, old

neighbors.

the ambulance outside

pulling

out the sick and dying,

or dead.

pigeons on the window sills.

a new assessment added

for the balcony repairs.

the manager with her

keys

at your door, yelling

to turn the music down.

people moving in,

moving out,

the vans

at the loading dock.

the freight elevator.

the lady

at the desk telling you

that a guest stopped

by and left

you have a package. 

hadn't seen that one before,

she says.

the wedding store

the sign

says

going out of business.

it's a big sign,

with giant red letters.

i go in.

maybe there's

something in here i

want.

a bargain

of some sort.

there are rows of wedding

dresses.

some new, some

old.

some with cake or wine

stains on

them.

some torn.

black tuxedos, too,

grey,

some with the velvet collar

that i fancy.

getting married?

the woman at the door

asks me.

hell know, i tell her.

but 

i could use a new tuxedo

though for when i

go out drinking

and gambling.

right, she says.

weren't you here a few years

ago?

nah, not me. no.

you have me mistaken for

someone else.

throw in a box of that

confetti too, i tell her,

as i try on my new suit.

time they came clean

i don't trust

valet parking. or the maid

in my

room.

are you going

through

my luggage?

the guy at jiffy lube,

what are

you really

doing

in my car with the hood

up,

are you really

checking

my filters?

the cook

in kitchen, are you

dropping

my biscuits,

touching

my Brussel sprouts

with your

fingers?

and the doctor, what

do you 

really know about me.

what's on that chart.

what are

you not sharing,

it's time 

that all of you came clean.

hot soup

like most

soups

it had a lot in it.

salt

and pepper,

mysterious items,

vegetables,

fish

or meat.

like love,

it was a thick

broth

at first.

you had to keep

stirring.

raising

or lowering the heat.

in the end

you took small sips

off the hot

spoon,

and drank

from the saucers lip.

the second hand

strange how

slow

the clock moves when you don't

want to be

somewhere.

when you're

stuck in a room,

a car,

a place

where you don't belong.

how hard

it is for the second hand

to make

it up the hill

to turn.

the weight of loss

i see

his sadness, feel the weight

of his

sorrow.

six years,

he says.

she's been gone that long.

i see her

cup

on the counter.

her yarn,

her seat on the sofa,

beside

his.

he hasn't moved on.

at night,

before

closing eyes,

he still leans over

to kiss

her.

but she's gone.

the gas light

the gas

light, on the far end

of the lot,

close

to the woods where

the fox

lean out

when

the sun goes down,

flickers.

it's a soft

light,  a yellow ribbon

of flame.

tossing shadows,

lighting

the eyes

of animals untamed

scrubbing

the scrubbing

helps

somehow, takes my mind

off

what's on my

mind.

on my knees,

back bent

to it.

scrub, scrub, scrub.

i'll put

a shine

on this life yet.

large bottle of texas pete

i'm still on

my first bottle of hot sauce.

texas pete.

the extra large

bottle with the little

cowboy

on the front.

i've had it

since the late 80's.

rarely used, obviously.

the woman who bought

it for me,

used to put

it on her eggs,

she'd make

a criss cross pattern

with the hot sauce.

i wonder

where she is now.

i still have the sauce.

i don't remember her name,

but i remember

her legs.

please call me

the trial

goes on. she lied.

she

punched and threw

things.

cheated.

abused

him

emotionally,

with words with violence.

with threats.

and yet

he stayed, hoping

for the best.

here's my number,

please call me 

mr. depp,

having been

there,

i'll show you

how to get out

without losing your head.

foraging

i find a box

of saltine crackers way back

on the top

shelf of

the kitchen cupboard.

i need the chair

to stand on

to reach the open 

box.

the untied sleeves,

opened,

and stale.

each while square,

a salted

wafer,

dry and brittle to the tongue.

who left them

there?

and what's this?

tomato soup in a can?

not mine either.

days into years

how quickly

we forget,

time lying down its

days

into years

upon

memory,

like a blanket of

fallen

leaves,

all gets covered

and then

snow arrives.

come spring, once

more.

it's green.

life is fast, life is slow

from here,

i can see everything

there is

to see

in this small town.

there's the church,

the stores,

the road in and the road

heading out.

schools

and gas stations.

a movie theater

and the town square.

you could spend your

life here

and never leave.

be born,

get married have

children

of your own, then grow

old.

the cemetery

is there too, waiting.

life is fast.

life is slow.

famous doodles

i take my doodles

down to

the New Yorker Magazine

and tell

them to make me

an offer.

who are you?

they ask, picking up

the phone for

security.

nobody, i tell them.

i'm not even on youtube,

or tik tok,

but take a look at my

doodles.

i did this one

yesterday on a napkin

while i was

waiting for the waitress

to bring me the bill,

it has a Picasso

feel to it.

don't you think?

the upside down

bull, with big eyes

and a woman's breast

beside it.

yeah, it's nice, very nice,

but you need to

be someone before your

doodles

have value.

come back when you're

famous. okay?

sure, sure, you can keep

this one

if you want it.

nah, it's okay.

what needs water

there

is plenty in the world, that

doesn't need

our help

in growing.

most trees

in the woods.

wild flowers,

mold,

and algae.

rust is another thing,

left unattended,

it keeps going.

the only

thing

we need to water really,

is friendship,

and love.

we're all one

i go to the train station

to watch

the trains

roll in and roll out.

i stand on the broad

platform,

and wave

to the people in the windows,

they wave back.

old people, children.

i'm sad,

they're leaving, but

happy

for the ones arriving,

coming home,

perhaps.

it doesn't matter

that we're strangers

we want people to be

sad for us,

be happy for us.

we're all one like that.

bring the whipped cream

i wake

up and decide it's time to

start giving back,

although

for the life of me i can't think

of a single thing

that's been

given to me.

not from anyone.

parent, child, sibling,

or friend.

but i go down

to the local hospital

just the same.

my skills are limited,

i'm very nervous

around babies

and old people,

and faint at the sight

of needles

or blood

so they find a spot

for me

in the cafeteria.

i'm in the kitchen now

filling

little paper

cups with strawberry jello.

stop by sometime.

bring the whipped cream.

the flip flop world

almost

everyone is in their pajamas

on saturday

and sunday,

whether at church,

or the local

market.

flip flops

and baggy sweats.

no longer

buttoned down

or zipped up in pants

and dresses, tops

and blouses.

we all look like we're

about to enter

a 5k walk and run

or some lolly

gagging

sporting event

were donuts are served

at the end.

or ready

for bed in our baggy

pjs,

a cotton blend.

age and height

each

kid marked in height and age,

on the kitchen

door frame.

a straight line in ink.

Betsy, Joe,

Sally

and James.

growing, as kids do

towards their

own lives,

and now with one

brush

of paint.

it's gone.

the house sold, and

another

child's head

pressed to wood,

in height

and name, life does

goes on.

book without an end

i trace

the spill of coffee

to remember

where i put the book down.

ahh, there

it is

in basement,

on the table, the far

chair

by the window.

i see

the brown dried

spot

on the last page read,

i try again,

to get

through this book

without an

end.