end of times emoji

i get

a text now.

a lame

three or four word text.

happy

birthday,

father's day.

christmas, or easter.

no more

hallmark cards.

no gooey,

sentimental cards

stirring up

emotion.

just a text and a smile

emoji.

no more calls on the phone.

talking

seems to be

off the table as well.

a love like that

i hear the neighbors

making

love next door, i think,

or maybe

they're having a disagreement,

a fight of some sort.

it sounds

the same to me.

angry words are said.

curses.

there are slaps,

and accusations.

screams.

a crescendo

of bed springs.

things fall to floor, pictures

on the wall

leave their nails

and crash.

who doesn't want a love

like that?

what's wrong with these people

you can't figure people

out anymore.

is it a childhood thing?

chemical,

biological. dna?

maybe demonic possession.

nearly every

day, you shake your head

and mumble

what the hell is wrong

with these people.

were they dropped on their

heads

as babies?

not hugged enough,

born too close to the power

lines?

what's going on here?

geeze marie.

the straight jacket factory

needs to amp

up their production.

just coffee for me

i see

the blue haired sister

eating

a whole

pie with a fork

at the diner.

she's wearing a gingham

dress.

yellow and white

patches

holding her girth

beneath it.

blueberry jam

is on her lips.

she sees me, and taps

the table

with her fork,

have a seat, she says.

how have you 

been?

it's been a while.

want some pie?

just coffee for me i tell her,

no pie

she slips another coin

into the table

juke box.

roy orbison.

pretty woman.

moon pie

i asked her once,

a long

long time ago,

raising my hand like

a good

student. why, i asked,

are there

so many poems about the moon?

anthologies

are littered them.

she laughed,

then read one of mine.

it too was

about the moon.

keeping it light and fluffy

i find your story sad

and depressing, so keep it short.

i'm not in the mood

for dark.

although i've shared my share,

enough

for one lifetime

to make others walk.

but no more.

let's keep it light and fluffy.

pass the whipped cream

when

you're done with.

shake it first, my love.

then give me a shot.

how clever it all is

how clever it all is.

to put

the moon just so, the sun

out of reach.

how we go

around

in circles.

not too close or too far

away.

keeping

all of us in place.

the sea

and things.

you and me

tethered not just by

love

and kindness,

but by

gravity.

the combover

the dog

is losing his hair.

he's shedding all over the house.

i look at him.

he looks at me.

he puts his tail over his head.

join the club i tell him.

let me

get the clippers and

the razor

out and be done with

it.

the combover is

no way

to go through life,

brother.

on a budget

coffee has gone up.

gas too.

i see a cake in the window

but don't buy it.

i'll eat

tuna from a can

until

things go down.

i'll ignore the hole

in my shoe.

i ponder a garden in the yard.

how hard can it

be?

a small cow,

a goat,

a few chickens.

a small row of corn.

i'm on a budget.

just one martini per night

now,

unless

it's friday

and you come over

to dance

and together we sing

the blues.

falling up the stairs

who doesn't

have a scar, an old wound

to speak of.

who doesn't

have a bruise somewhere

gone blue,

a stubbed toe,

an elbow

struck, like lighting

up your arm.

who hasn't fallen,

or stumbled up a flight

of stairs.

tell me.

who hasn't been in love

and lost?

raise your hands.

no one?

when the stream dries

when the stream

dries

in the drought of summer,

the trees

tired

from lack of rain.

holding

dearly onto the memory

of green,

we will walk

across the rocks

to the other side, hand

in hand.

unwet,

unbothered by the rush

of water.

but all things

in their own time

will circle,

come back again.

the old briefcase

i feel the shortness

of the day

before i leave the house.

leaving late is part of it.

lolly gagging

they call it.

listening to music.

trying to decide which

t-shirt

to wear with my khaki shorts.

i look out the window.

i see a man in his suit.

a cup of coffee

in one hand, his briefcase

in the other.

his wife is on the porch holding

a fat pink baby

that they made.

i can't take my eyes off 

the briefcase.

a briefcase?

i go to the attic and find

my old briefcase.

i wipe the dust off it.

i open it

and a dozen pens fall out.

erasers.

a shot glass from a bar

downtown

that's no longer there.

one silk stocking.

1985 the parking ticket reads.

i climb

the ladder down out

of the attic carrying the

briefcase.

i'm back in business.

whatever works

i didn't think

their marriage would last.

he's a city boy.

she's a country girl.

she's large,

he's small.

she's a radical feminist,

he's whatever

way the wind blows.

she likes pie,

he likes beer.

she likes to knit,

he likes to fish.

they're not even opposites,

just different.

but becoming

the same, after just

a few short years.

no refunds

i walk over to buy

a dixie cup full of lemonade

from

the stand across 

the street.

three kids

sit at the little card

table.

ten cents a cup it says.

and below

that no refunds in

bold black letters.

i take a sip.

i understand quickly 

the reason

for the larger sign.

spit it out over

there, in the street,

the little blonde girl says.

not on the lawn.

can't hide your lying eyes

when the paper

lies, when

the newsman lies, your

ex wife

lies.

your siblings, your

parents,

your priest.

when they all lie

and smile

as if a lie

isn't a lie anymore.

you wonder if you should

just join in,

and surrender

to a world gone awry.

an orange in each hand

people are heading south,

or west.

few go north

to where the snow falls.

our bones

don't like the cold anymore

the icy rain.the wind

and storms.

we want billowing shirts,

and shorts.

we want to go

shoeless on the white sand.

we want our taxes

lowered.

we want our skin

to be tanned.

we want to hold an

orange

in our hand.

not a shovel, a scraper,

a bag of salt,

in the darkness of winter

 with the power down.

nothing is lost

when she died,

i put her socks, her combs and brushes,

her perfume

and purple gloves

into a box.

her pictures.

her ring.

her watch.

over time, much is gone.

but nothing

is lost.

not wanting the book to end

there is so much

i don't have to tell you.

you already know these things.

the way

i sleep,

or what i choose to eat.

the books i read.

the unraveling plot of me.

you know so much.

and as far as you go,

i'm still learning.

turning gently to the next page,

not wanting

the book to end.

collecting clues to who

you are,

along the way.

relying on hope

deep into the psych books,

almost

doctor deep.

i'm wading in a masters

program.

heading towards

a phd

in behavioral science.

reading

hard into the night from

the DSM.

Freud and Jung.

i realize at some point

though.

that it's an industry.

a money grinding machine

built on hope.

a dangerous word.

the world is awash with self

book books

and life coaches.

but hope,

no, there is none.

there is no cure.

no way out.

no one truly changes

for the better.

it's the secret they don't tell

you.

no one 

gets healed. it's whispered

between

doctors,

between therapists

and psychiatrists

the patient though keeps

coming back

for more.

more hope.

i could have done more

i berate myself

for only painting three rooms

today.

one bathroom

and some ladder work in the stairway.

twenty feet in

the air.

but at home.

i feel like there was more

i could have done,

stayed late.

burned that midnight

oil.

i'm getting lazy in my old

age.

sleep and warm baths are

agreeing with me

more 

with each passing day.

there was no way to know

it was a long walk home.

alone.

but it wasn't quite dark yet.

you were

young.

the world had a green glow

about it.

past spring

deep in june.

the smell was on you.

the hint

of love.

a brush of hands, a small

kiss.

what magic

there seemed to be

rising

from all sides. up

and below.

where things were headed.

you know now.

but of course then,

there was no way

to know.

take no prisoners

take no prisoners.

we don't

have the room, the food,

a place

to put them.

our hearts are not big

enough

to keep

those defeated around

any longer.

free them.

let them go off

to their own lives

to different battles

in other wars.

take no prisoners.

let them

leave their swords.

the black leather coat

before jake

died

i gave him my black leather coat

that i never wore

anymore.

it was too tony soprano

looking.

i used to wear it to the courthouse

to fight a traffic

ticket.

he looked good in it,

though.

the small time gangster

that he was.

it was a good coat.

it kept me warm

in those jersey winters.

wearing it in snow storms

on a tuesday

night to go meet some

jezebel in a chinese restaurant.

they buried him in it.

all my slips of papers

in the pockets.

fortunes.

it keeps

him warm now, i'm sure,

six feet under.

in session

when i see the geese

at the lake,

following one another,

fighting,

nipping at each other for

some small

thing.

i think of congress,

politicians.

all in their grey suits

and dresses.

not leading us, but

wandering

around

the stagnant pool

they've made.

are you ready?

the butcher,

his blood soaked apron,

his large

red hands

holding a knife,

looks at the lady and says.

what do you want.

maybe

some pork chops, she says.

is  ground

beef

on sale?

are those chicken breasts

fresh?

he points,

at a man behind her

and says.

you, how about you.

you ready?

after you

it's a new job,

a new house, a new lover.

a new 

pair of shoes,

a new

attitude.

a new dress, a new

way of

walking.

a new path to the waterfall.

a new mask

to wear.

a new

ring,

a new

everything after you.

a house with windows

we need a house with

windows.

we need the light,

we need to be able

to see what's out there.

who's coming

who's going.

we need to know what

the weather is.

where the clouds are,

where the sun is in the sky.

we need windows

to look out,

and on occasion for

others to look in.

getting ready

i see the neighbors

hammering

nails into boards to cover

up their windows.

loading their

guns with ammo.

unleashing

dogs in the yard.

electric fences and barbed

wire

going up.

search lights.

i see them carrying in

canned goods and water

by the truckload.

i ask them what's up,

as i lick

a cone of rocky road on

my front stoop.

we're getting ready, they

tell me.

ready for what's next.

third planet from the sun

it's a dizzy world.

upside down.

the list is too long

to write down.

it's growing old before

our eyes.

more crazy

and uncertain with each

turn

around the sun.

how soon

before the third planet

becomes

none.

boys staying boys

before the words leave your

mouth

you know

that you'll sound like an old

man saying them,

but you say them just the same.

it's what old men do.

they don't give a damn.

you say that the young boys

are staying boys.

never becoming men.

they don't want to work,

get their hands dirty.

they don't want the aches

and pains,

the inglorious existence

of blue collar.

of building a business

off minimum wage.

they want the money, sure,

who doesn't?

but they want the house too,

the car,

the clothes, the girl.

they want it all, but they

don't want to work for it.

the first time a man got

a manicure it was the beginning

of the end of the world.

it's time to quit

the teacher tells me it's her last

year.

she's done.

it's not the same anymore, she

says.

i'm going to retire

at the end of this school year.

kids are wild.

dangerous.

they don't listen.

spoiled and entitled.

i'm done she says.

no one wants to hear

about shakespeare

anymore,

or robert frost, or

walt whitman.

it's a jungle in there.

math and science don't matter.

it's no longer teaching

and learning.

it's baby sitting.

time to quit.

time for my life to begin.

there won't be a dinner,

or a gold watch,

or placard.

i'll just turn in my badge,

my key

and slip back into oblivion.

the pool pass

the pool

is not for me anymore.

too many

kids

peeing.

yelling and screaming.

too many leaves and debris

floating about.

families

gathered around taking

all the good

chairs,

the best spots where

the sun

comes down.

i look through the fence,

nah.

i don't think so.

not a single bikini.

maybe they'll go away

there's someone at the door.

knocking, ringing

the bell.

i look out the side window.

it's not Mormons

with their crazy book,

or girl scouts selling

cookies,

it's not my neighbor

complaining that i put

the trash out

too early again,

it's not the police,

or a fireman.

or anyone from the condo

board complaining

about 

me not watering the bushes.

it doesn't look

like any ex wives or

girlfriends holding sharp

knives either.

who the hell is it out

there?

carefully i tip toe back

to the couch.

maybe they'll go away.

easy work if you can get it

i see an old scarecrow

out in the field.

no crops to speak of,

a bare

field of unplowed

dirt,

a few lingering

stalks

of battered corn

as the wind

whips the dust into

my lungs,

but the scarecrow still

hangs

by her arms on the wooden

cross.

the stitched in eyes,

the grim

smile

and tattered clothes.

the long stick nose

now a bird's perch.

all day

she's on the job.

easy work if you can get it.

what's next?

i don't know how

but

it happens.

the picture out of line on

the wall.

a half inch

tilted one way or the other.

the balance

gone.

and i measured so well.

the tape

stretched out,

the level.

the careful pounding of

the nail.

centered.

and now it's gone awry.

is this a portent

of some kind?

what's next?

her version of the Bible

i saw her

with a red pen editing

the bible

one day.

crossing out all the sins

she disagreed with.

what are you doing?  i asked her.

i'm correcting

God's word.

making it more up to date.

a lot of these

commandments 

are very old and seem more

like suggestions.

such as, i asked.

well, here it says adultery

is a sin,

but i think that's not

right.

if two people love each

other,

even though they're married

to other people,

adultery

should be okay.

you know, you're going to

hell, don't you? i told her.

i'll fix that part too, she said

and went

back to work.

fiery pit, pffft, she said.

the cherry tree

we used to climb

the black

cherry tree like monkeys

and eat our

fill

until our stomachs bulged

with the candy

sweet

fruit,

ripe and full.

we scattered and slid down

the branches

and trunk

when we saw the headlights

coming up the street.

the horn blaring

at our silhouettes

disappearing

like shadows

up the street.

the next summer,

like all good things

of youth,

inevitably, it too

was gone.

extra virgin olive oil

i take a can

of extra virgin olive oil.

and squirt it on my shoulder,

around my neck,

into

my elbows.

i give my

knees a few squirts

as well,

down to the ankles.

at last i rise.

i'm loosened up

to face the day.

and i smell

good too.

for now this works

the door

is a tight fit.

the heat has swollen

the wood.

so i shave the edges.

sand

them down.

but i know when winter

comes

the cold air

will

be found.

if i were you

if i were you, i told her,

i'd do this

and this,

and that and finally

do that.

but i'm not you, she said.

and don't tell me

what to do with

my life.

who are you to tell me

what to do.

just suggestions, i told

her,

ducking the shoe as it

flew towards

my head.

but in the end she did

exactly

what i suggested.

all of the this

and all of the that.

are they better off than we

are they better off 

than we,

no feeling

towards others,

no angst

at words, or injuries

made,

little or no empathy

for the world.

do they sleep

well,

beneath their narcissistic

cover,

or do they toss and turn

as we do,

sorting out our

days,

before closing our

eyes in

fatigue.

are they better off than

we are,

numb to the world,

to self.

while we bite our nails

and try

to forgive each other

for sins,

committed or

imagined.

the green polka dot bikini

she shows me her new

polka dotted

bikini.

i approve.

lime green with white dots.

what about the red one,

she asks.

oh my,

yes  that one too.

and the baby blue.

you're killing

me i tell her, it's almost

impossible

to decide.

bring them all okay.

and the heels

too in case the weather's

bad and we have

stay inside.

sailing into the sunset

they cash it in.

sell

the business.

steer the boat south

to sunny

Florida.

where

so many go to die.

the game

is over.

the struggle.

the marriage has survived.

there's no reason to stay

in this old town

any longer,

nothing's

left behind.

time to ride out

the final years,

hand in hand,

sailing into the sunset,

with another

glass of wine.

taking a moment

when black ice takes

you down,

and you're not broken,

or bleeding,

just embarrassed.

don't get up

too quickly, lie there

and stare up

into the sky,

at the clouds or stars.

the blue

between the trees.

relax 

and enjoy the moment.

ponder

your life.

it's a good time

to reflect

and be thankful,

knowing how little control

you really have.

the lost cat poem

i tell her she has nice

legs.

she tells me

that she likes some

of my poems.

especially

one of the nineteen poems

i wrote yesterday.

it resonated with me, she says.

the one about

the lost cat.

i tell her i don't remember

that one.

she says,

it's about losing a cat

and you not

worrying where to get

another one.

is there a double meaning

there?

or is it just about

a cat?

ghosted

it's nothing new.

this ghosting. 

the disappearing

act.

it's been around

for a long time,

i think Shakespeare

had it down

pat.

a lot of ghosts rattling

their chains

from the first

to the final act.

the no response,

the blocked

call,

the fading away of once

true friends,

or relationships

gone wrong,

now shadows creeping

behind

the walls.

it's nothing new.

the crib lesson

i'm on hold

i'm circling the tarmac

looking

for a place to land.

i'm in line.

i have to wait.

where's my luggage?

it's not my turn yet,

don't they know

that i'm

a busy man?

i learned this in the crib.

crying

seems to bring

them

to me.

my bottle, my binky,

my diaper changed.

screaming helps too,

turning blue in the face.

suddenly

i get my way.

good love and time

i lost interest

in counting days.

in words said.

arguments,

i put them all to bed.

what

and where and why

had no

meaning anymore.

all of it washed

away

with good sleep,

good food,

good love

and time.

winter work

you had to work

fast

in order to keep your job.

quick of hand

and foot.

no quarrels

or complaints.

just go and get it done.

tomorrow

you'll do the same.

if you work hard

and keep

your nose clean

and arrive on time.

up the building went

and you with

it.

until complete.

friday you picked up

your check.

and took out

the paper

to find another job,

a hundred

men like you

in line in the cold,

stamping

their feet.

on a good day

the sea,

with

it's enormous

appetite

and apathy

will

swallow you whole.

she sees neither wrong

or right.

she just is.

taking,

sinking, and tossing

back

whatever

doesn't sink, or on

a good

lets you sail

to another port

unscathed.

hide my phone

i have to stay

away from the phone when

i've had

a few martinis.

god knows who

i might call, or text.

the typewriter too.

get the pen out of my hand.

i can only say stupid

things

i'll regret in the morning

when i'm half in the bag

and feeling lonely.

self portrait

i pull the brush

down

across the canvas. blue,

then red.

is it still life,

or a landscape?

self portrait, perhaps.

i can't paint.

or draw.

i try, but it goes nowhere.

a cow

looks like a dog.

i give it a large set

of eyes.

a child

could do better.

i turn it upside down,

then sideways.

i splatter it,

i spill paint on it.

i take my hand

and smear it into a puddle.

that's better.

too many

the man in

his black beret,

speaking spanish,

a cigarette in his lips.

a leather bota of wine

around his neck.

his burlap bag full

of newborn kittens.

he tips his hat and waves,

he smiles

at us children

as he heads down

to the beautiful green sea

to drown them.

all seven of us 

sit on the curb and wonder,

are we next.

the falling out

the falling

out we have 

is not uncommon.

father and son,

wife

and husband.

siblings.

disagreements occur.

but for some reason

it doesn't bother me

like it used to.

it's okay

that you don't see things

my way,

nor i yours.

maybe one day

we'll find a middle ground

to sort things

out.

maybe we won't.

whatever

happens,

i won't lose sleep over

it.

the brick layer

the bricklayer.

his hands

wide

from

lifting, his fingers broad

with

the trowel

in hand.

the walls go up.

he keeps

things level.

he taps down,

to the side.

a layer of mud,

then another brick.

all day, he makes

things

right.

but home is another story.

get out of the game

it's not a world

you want

to be a part of anymore.

just a few

select friends.

shutting the door

to the rest.

it's different now.

sure the sun rises,

the sun

sets.

but beneath it is a world

gone mad.

you find solace

in quiet,

in books and words.

in film.

you go back to the old

writers.

the original

flames

that get you going once

again.

find love

and don't get hurt,

don't hurt anyone,

get out

of the game.

poetry class

the poetry instructor,

says,

write about a rock.

any kind

of rock.

describe it,

the color the shape,

the weight.

how it feels in your hand.

the taste

of it.

salty or sweet?

hold it up to the light,

throw it.

feel it.

sleep with it.

it's just a rock, but it

isn't.

now begin.

never leaving the nest

you get no map.

no

directions.

no gps

system.

you're pretty much on your

own

at a certain

age,

kicked out of the nest

and away

you go.

at least that's the way

it used

to be.

but lately the nests

are

still full

of a lot birds

with wings, but no

desire

to fly.

cream of wheat arms

i examine

my arms.

i need more muscles.

i'm slacking

off,

i need to pump some iron.

hit the gym,

how am i ever going to get

some hottie

if my arms

are skinny like this

i take

some vitamins

and wheat germ.

drink some muscle milk.

i sign up

for a class.

it's a lot of work.

maybe i'll just photo shot

a picture

of my arms,

post it

and that will be that.

gone fishing

you get involved

with the celebrity defamation

trial

because it's fun,

and interesting

and it reminds you of your

own trials and tribulations

with a variety of

nutcakes,

but after a while, you

just want to turn away.

enough is enough.

you change the channel,

twist the dial,

pick up a book.

and go fishing for a day.

early antiques

when i think about

my grandmother,

it seems that she was very old.

always.

wrinkled

with a wild schlock of

blonde

silver hair.

she smelled old.

she talked old.

she moved around slowly

with her cup of tea

as if she would

break into pieces,

a fragile antique.

and this was when she was

fifty.

that pesky war

the war

is getting in the way of my life.

how dare they

start a war when

i'm about to

retire.

i can't buy

the new car i want.

i can't travel

to where i want to go.

my relationship with

Natasha in

Moscow, is nyet, no.

i don't know where

to put my money,

the stock market is at

an all time low.

then decide

you need

to see someone when the chips

are down.

without make up.

depressed and sad

over

a soap opera.

without a pretty dress on.

with a cold

and a runny nose.

maybe a bruised

knee,

a scraped elbow.

someone who's lost money

in the market,

dented her car.

you need to see her in

trouble, having a bad

hair day.

with a cake that didn't rise,

crying about having

gained an ounce

of weight.

once you get a peek at

that, then decide.

getting her hips around

i know nothing

about golf, but i tell her

that

maybe she's pushing off

her back foot,

and not

getting her hips around,

this seems to work,

as she shoots

under par on

the first nine holes.

when i meet her at the bar

in the clubhouse,

she's all smiles.

showing me the money

she won.

a fist full of Bemjamins

stuck

in her bra.

the four star Italian restaurant

it's a good restaurant,

you can tell.

all the workers

are fat

and happy.

the cooks,

the wait staff, even

the Maitre d

has 

a tire around him.

everyone's from the old

country.

it's hard to get a table,

you have

to make reservations

a week ahead

of time.

but it's worth it.

let's go.

put on your elastic 

waist band pants,

and i'll put

on mine.

questions first

before you leap

into the cold

water

to swim out to a drowning

person,

ask a few

questions first.

are you

crazy.

how did you get out there?

and if i save

you will

this happen again?

if i go out there will

you drag

me down with you?

how about i throw

you rope,

and you pull

yourself in?

the unhappy client

the unhappy

client

has been unhappy for a long time.

before

you were born.

i can see it,

feel

it in the dark house,

the low

lights.

fruit gone bad.

each day

dressed

in black.

it's not the work she's

upset about,

it's more than that,

and yet,

she wants me to come

back.

without mustard

after one nathan's hot dog,

cooked

on the grill,

i can't eat

the second.

nor can she.

so we fling

them over the fence,

end over end,

for the wolves,

the fox,

the rabid coyote.

we get no complaints.

the leaf blower

my friend,

the leaf blower,

can't hear anymore,

he says

what a lot.

i ask

him if he'd like

another drink.

he says what, cupping

his ear towards

my mouth.

he tells me the story

of how

he chased two

leaves for an hour

yesterday

trying to get them

into the truck.

what's left of the day

the weather

goes a long way

in putting a spring

your step,

or in

making you roll over

for another

ten minutes to

rest.

a peek out the window

shows

rain

and cold.

the day

can wait.

but soon

you'll rise and

seize

what's left of it.

it's not about that

it's not about

the line,

the weights, the lures,

the bait.

the strength of rod,

or how

well

the oiled reel spins.

nor is it about the waist

high boots.

the rising

at dawn, the long

walk through

familiar woods.

it's not about

the worms,

the beer, the small

chair

to rest on.

the sandwich.

the cigarettes.

it's not about casting out

into the calm

blue

water,

or the years of doing

the same

each spring beyond

summer.

a half mile

from the bridge

where

you went to school

and grew up,

and will never leave.

it's not about catching

anything.

it's not about that.

do you mr. jones?

not unlike

dylan,

i've gone electric.

the mower,

the toothbrush.

the new car.

judas

i hear the exxon man

say

as i beep the horn

and ride by.

judas?

i don't believe you,

i reply.

waving goodbye from the front porch

her

worries

are no longer my problem.

her broken

leg

and heart,

her insomnia,

her loss of hair, 

her blurred vision,

and 

forgetfulness,

her money issues,

it's all on her.

i clap my hands together,

and let out a

thankful

sigh.

waving my hand

in a joyful goodbye.

the beauty of the storm

the beauty of no electricity

is no

news.

the storm has

wiped out

the world beyond

you.

no more killings, no

more crime,

or break ins.

no more wars, or storms

at sea.

no floods

no fires. no famines

or plagues,

no troubles coming

into

your mind

via tv.

born to run

i don't belong

here,

she tells me, smoking

a cigarette

on the stoop. i'm a city girl

from

the bronx.

what am i doing here

in this

community

of old folks.

retired

and glum.

i don't know anyone,

or like

anyone.

i'm not supposed to be

here., she says again,

rubbing the tattoo

on her arm,

the ink blue and vague,

reading

born to run.

we can fix this

we can fix this.

we can

get the glue out.

the tape,

the hammer and nails.

we can restore

things back to when

they were new.

let's take our

time

to put it all back together.

like it was

in the old days,

me

and you.

the well kept lawn

you fall

asleep one night

and you

wake up an old man.

where did it go.

what was that about.

this

string of years.

the struggle, the joy,

the fear.

it seems overnight

somehow,

that it's here,

then gone,

like that.

just like that.

then you shake it off,

get up,

and go mow the lawn.

the machinery of living

i don't trust

elevators, or escalators,

or

buses,

or trains.

i worry in a car, not

trusting

the tires.

i feel that machines

will let

me down

at some point.

the furnace will die.

batteries

will lose power,

lights will go out,

things i have no control

over will strand me,

throw

off my day, my stride,

my life.

somewhere

you fit into this too.

when something is gone

before the ranger

can pull his gun, the coyote

from

the shadows

leaps

and bites his hand.

the slow

drip

of blood goes bright

against

the new snow.

the sick

beast snarling at his life

gone wrong,

knowing

perhaps

that death is near.

and it is

as the gun is drawn

the trigger pulled.

the winter birds leap

into the air, then

the woods grow quiet,

they're always

quiet

when something is gone.

give me the old movie

give me the old movie,

the slow

plot,

the black and white.

noir flicks,

the hitchcock.

give

me grant

and monroe, john garfield

and brando.

give

me bacall

and bogey.

cagney.

give me the old movie,

i want to hear

the flicker

of the film running

through

the projector

as i sit in my seat below,

entranced.

trying to get home

when

the old people stagger

out

and can't find their back home,

you wonder

when

it's your turn,

your turn

to spill your drink,

mumble,

and 

forget whatever it

is

you're trying

to remember.

and talk about.

you see them on the street,

beneath

the lamp post

of night.

in the bright sun,

in snow,

the wind.

sleet.

in their long coats, trying

to get back

to from they're from.

the single life

when the rescue dog

bites

your hand

as you reach out to pet it,

digging

his teeth into

your soft flesh,

drawing blood,

who's to blame?

the dog?

there's a reason the last

owner

put him on

a chain and set him loose.

be careful

of the stray dogs

you choose.

like it never happened

i'm prone to burn

things,

stacking them in a pyramid

in the grill,

spilling

lighter fluid

on the whole pile,

tossing in some

charcoal

for good measure.

i like the crackle

of paper

and photos.

the crunching and

cowering

of memories

going up in smoke.

the blue licks of flame,

some green,

some orange.

crimson music, taking

it all away

like it never happened.

the sunday getaway

they like

to travel, but not far.

a few miles

south or north.

they pack the dog up,

drinks,

and sandwiches,

they fold a blanket

and place it

in the trunk of the car.

we're off

they say.

throwing caution

to the wind

without a map, or plan.

a five mile

drive,

a sunday getaway.

hot peppers

you know what they will

do to you,

sliced peppers,

red or green,

hot

and raw,

drawing

beads of sweat on your

brow,

there's not

enough water to

quench the sting

and heat

of them.

and yet you can't resist

biting down,

no different,

than fast

women.

wildlife bites picnickers

they close

the trail down after a coyote

takes

a bite out of a few

picnickers

eating

cucumber sandwiches

along the water.

no bike ride today, i guess.

although i could

wear my

thickest jeans

and a sweatshirts,

a helmet

and leather gloves

to keep the beast

at bay.

maybe drag a ham

behind

me as i pedal to the lake.

side by side

one grave dug

and filled,

the other waiting

patiently,

the dirt carved out,

the stone

in storage.

the eulogy written

and practiced.

crossing the t's

and dotting the i's.

the black dress in

the closet,

the coat

and tie.

the hearse rented.

what's left,

just for the next one

to die.

cancel my subscription

it's sad

the demise of the local scribe,

the written word,

that slaps

onto your porch, a baton,

of hard

written news,

by professional

journalists, sitting with

coffee and cigarettes,

bent over their

machines,

typing

before the last edition rolls

off the press.

it's a thin

rag now,

a blather of opinions

leaning

right or left,

no middle to speak of.

they're a day late

and a dollar

short with everything now.

just the wall street journal

and new york

times are left.

and those too are read

with heaping

spill

of salt.

the young wife

since

1970, he tells me, he's

been on the move.

the navy

shipping him out all over

the world.

but this is it,

he says.

they can bury me

in the backyard when

i die.

i'll never move

again.

no more boxes, no more

trucks

and packing,

no more

changes of addresses.

this is the last time,

but his young wife

looks at him,

and smiles.

an average day

it was an average day,

low

humidity

in the 50's, a slight wind.

it was an

average conversation.

a give and take,

with

light talk, neither deep

or shallow,

no competition.

it was an average meal.

soft sandwiches.

drinks.

vanilla cones as we walked

along the boulevard.

and it was an

average kiss

we gave each other when

it was time to hug

and depart.

it was an average day.

the milk party

i can't get the cap

off the carton

of cream

so i give up and throw

it against

the wall,

it explodes in a

splash of milk.

the puddles

are everywhere.

the dog comes in.

the cat.

i open the door

for their friends to join

the party.

i get the cake

out

and have a slice.

the butterfly club of america

she belonged to the butterfly

club

of America.

the book

club.

the cooking class.

she ladled soup

down at the shelter,

helped out at the church

when help

was needed.

she danced on Thursday

nights.

she grew flowers in her

garden.

made stew in the winter.

she even put lipstick

on

for me.

lit candles 

and decorated a Christmas

tree.

there had to be a flaw 

somewhere.

remember those times

come over, we used to say.

come on up

to the house, stop by

when you're passing by.

ring the bell, 

we're here most

of the time.

it'd be good to see you again.

come over,

come up to the house.

we'll make some food,

drink some wine.

come over, we used to say.

come on up

to the house,

we were so much younger

then,

remember those times?

where childhood went

before

it begins. you know a truth.

you

know

who you are.

but years

make you unsure.

you

stumble

when times are dark.

grapple

for the light,

wondering where

childhood went.

it isn't

gone though.

it isn't too far.

uninvited

an uninvited

cold wind blows in.

strange,

so deep in summer

to feel

the hand

of  a cool breeze

down

shirt

up sleeve.

could the sky be any

bluer.

i don't think so.

i'll drink it in, before

going in

for the night.

the porch is home

as i sit here

to admire the trees

dancing

with delight.

my dog stepped on a bee

you can't make this stuff,

the court room drama,

between a celebrity

and his

one year borderline wife.

you want to ask what

happened to the poor

dog who stepped on a bee.

why did you use

the bed when you had

four bathrooms

in the penthouse?

does your neck hurt from

swiveling it from

side to side trying to gain

sympathy

with the jury, when everyone

could see your tearless

cry.

who's baby is it?

yours? who's the father?

is her name Tesla?

pictures and videos

of everything and

nothing.

not a single bruised

lip or black eye.

god forbid, oh look,

oh my,

there's a spilled bottle

of 500 dollar wine.

a circus, a carnival, a debacle,

a total waste of money and

time.

but, somehow, the crazy ones

always find

another person

to leech onto,

crazy in the head, as they say,

crazy in bed.

they do survive.

the dinner party conversation

what time is it

in Australia?

hold on let me google my

phone.

is that a blue

bird

on the window sill,

a turtle in the yard?

is that a turtle, what kind,

hold on,

let me 

look in my phone.

how old was

Lincoln when he died?

who won the oscar in 1969.

what are the odds

of an asteroid

hitting the earth?

hold on, let me google that.

why do we

have two lungs

and cows

four stomachs.

how do fish breathe

underwater.

is that blue cheese your

putting on the table?

can blue cheese go bad?

why is iceberg lettuce

so round?

hold on

does anyone here know

how long

it takes a turkey

to cook?

everyone replies, hold on,

let me look

on my phone.

still nothing there

i looked inside

the fridge an hour ago,

but maybe

i missed something.

maybe there's a slice

of cake,

or ice cream in there.

maybe behind the eggs,

or milk,

or lettuce,

there's a cookie waiting

for me,

a bar of chocolate

that i've forgotten about.

nope.

nothing, there, but

i'll try again later

to be sure.

pants on fire

why does

the news lie, or a friend,

or husband,

or wife.

the child

with crumbs on his shirt,

saying

what cookie jar

as he wipes

the chocolate

from his smile.

so easy,

to say an untruth,

than

admit to wrong doing,

but in the end,

a lie

is still a lie.

how could we go on?

we hear the dogs barking

late at night.

we're not asleep yet,

we're

somewhere between that

and ending

conversation.

we stay still, not getting

up. we blink

in the darkness

and listen

to them bark

and bark,

and at last stop.

all is well again

we believe, 

otherwise 

how could we go on?

love around the bend

i'm hopeful,

she tells me on the phone.

i'm

on six

dating sites.

from bottom of the barrel,

to seniors

looking

for fun.

i'm hopeful that love is around

the bend.

i've been waiting

my whole life

for the love of my life.

someone who gets me,

who loves me

for who i am.

but i'm at the point, now,

where it doesn't

have to men.

the double feature

was there a better way

to spend

a few hours, than in a movie

theater,

back when you were

young.

inside the enormous

cool room,

out of the summer

sun.

a double feature,

a cowboy flick,

an Elvis picture,

it didn't matter.

all you needed was

candy

and a soda with a straw.

some licorice

and the girl

next door, her elbow

touching 

your arm.

our troubles left behind

we can go back.

return.

make a u-turn up ahead.

we can

see if the iron was left

on.

the door unlocked.

the alarm not

set.

did you water the plants.

leave

a note

for the postman,

the paper boy,

the dog walker?

we can go back, if we

wanted to,

but we're almost there.

almost there.

our troubles

left behind.

i choose flight

it's fight

or flight all day.

an argument ensues.

traffic.

you just want to go home.

go

to your

isle of isolation your

air conditioned

igloo.

friend or foe.

lover

or acquaintance

life

is increasingly shorter

day

into day.

into night.

stay and swing,

if you want to, but

i choose flight.

a store selling wishes

in spite

it rains. goes dark.

the weather

having a mind of its own.

it spits

and swirls.

the wind

does something with your

hair

that i've never seen

before.

we find cover

in a store

selling

wishes.

we buy two.

one for me, one for you.

unclogging the disposal

we hope the celebrities

land on their

feet.

that they'll get 

their lives back together

after so much

public humiliation.

let's pray for them,

those poor souls,

but only after i

cut the grass,

unclog the disposal,

and make

a peanut butter

sandwich

to eat.

out of time

it's the culture.

it's video games.

cell phones.

technology.

no religion.

no parenting.

isolation.

insanity.

it's the end of times.

it's a lack of

education,

of caring.

of empathy.

it's guns and

politicians.

it's the in the food

we eat,

the water we drink.

it's capitalism.

communism.

it's all of the above

and more.

we're out of time.

two on the end

i feel empathy for fish.

lying

there in the shards of ice

behind

the glass

at the butcher shop.

their flat black eyes

staring out.

at nothing.

their hearts no longer 

beating.

the air has filled their

lungs with death.

i feel a cold sadness

for them.

taken from the waters

where they

swam about so easily.

two on the end i tell

the fish man.

and some tartar sauce,

my friend.

the magician next door

a magician

moves in next door.

i see him

with his

hats and canes,

his black cape,

the box he uses to saw

people in half.

i see his smoke

and mirrors.

his 

rabbits and doves.

an elephant trots in

too.

how is there room?

i see his assistant walk

up the sidewalk.

a buxom beauty with

fish nets on.

she winks

at me

and when i look down

my pants are gone.

the verdict

it's a victory for anyone

abused,

verbally

or physically.

emotionally. anyone lied

to and betrayed.

anyone

gaslighted,

triangulated.

love bombed and devalued.

it's a victory

over evil

over the dark side

that

steals our peace.

the exposure

of these lost souls

and justice

is sweet.

the long drive home

we didn't talk

on the drive home.

she drove.

i looked out the window.

the radio played low.

it started to rain,

but we said nothing about it.

she put the wipers on,

the headlights.

it was a long drive.

it got dark.

the roads were empty.

little traffic

to stop us from rolling

along.

everything at last looked

familiar.

but it felt different

somehow.

we didn't talk.

what was there to talk about.

tomorrow?

hose water

lids are a problem

these days.

the butter lid.

the half and half cap.

i need plyers

to twist and turn things

open.

water bottles

nearly break my wrist.

gin bottles.

even the tooth paste tube

has an extra lid

on it.

as a kid i remember

turning on the

faucet and drinking

from the hose,

once the bugs and heat

washed out.

digging in

i've lost count

of the moves.

a dozen, more, maybe

twenty in

all from childhood until

this point

in time.

i think of the boxes.

the trucks,

friends helping.

hiring a company to haul

it all

to the next stop.

so many moves because

of romantic interests,

but i'm done now.

i'm here

at last.

i've dug my feet in.

not even elizabeth hurley

could

make me change my

address.

well, not permanently,

at least.

by the end of the week

they're almost out of the house.

but there are

pictures still on the wall, 

a family

portrait

on the mantle.

a jar of peanut butter

on the counter.

a box of cheerios.

there's food in the fridge.

milk,

butter, eggs.

the shower curtain

still hangs

in the tub.

there are shoes on the steps.

a lawnmower

in the garage.

old clothes in a pile

on the deck.

and a snow shovel

and a bag of salt

on the porch.

we're almost out, she says.

by the end of the week we'll

be in Leesburg.

the ups and downs

the teller at the bank,

Kamil,

is worried

about my money.

he sees

the balance

and shrugs his shoulders,

puts his arms

out

and mouths the words

what

are you doing?

nervously he scratches

beneath his turban, then

he slips a note back with

my deposit slip

that reads

you need to invest this

money.

it's not gaining any interest.

money won't

grow just sitting

in your stagnant account.

it won't go up, he writes

in bold black letters.

i slip him a note back,

that says,

and it won't go down either.

before it changes

you see the kids

out in the court

as the last drop of sunlight

slips away.

they don't want to go in.

it's summer.

the game goes on.

the streetlights

bloom.

they're hanging on to

all

before it changes.

money problems

i don't know what to do with

all my money,

my friend jimmy tells me

over beers.

i don't play golf, i don't sail.

i don't like to travel

too far from home.

i own two houses, three

cars and a swimming pool.

i look back and wonder

why i worked so hard.

i don't have any heirs.

i even made it through

three divorces.

any suggestions?

that's a shame i tell him.

you can leave it to me,

if you want to.

further out

the further

out you go, the further

back in

time you travel too.

the dirt

roads.

the blue highways.

the gas station.

the cows.

the horses.

corner stores.

the fields being plowed.

people that haven't

learned yet

that being friendly

is out of style.

prayer and duct tape

bones break.

pencils

break.

hearts

and windows

break.

dropped vases

and glasses.

the sun

breaks.

our shoes

fall apart,

pipes leak.

the clouds break.

even we

at some point

break and crumble

like a cookie

in milk.

thank God for prayer

and

duct tape.

white out

i like the white out

liquid

in its little

half ounce

container,

not just the smell,

and how

you suddenly feel happy,

but

the corrective

nature

of it.

how i can simply brush

some on

to a written word

and away it goes.

it changes

everything.

mistakes

are made and then 

they're gone.

dogs on the grill

we throw

a couple of hot dogs onto

the grill.

she's wearing

her american flag

bikini.

i'm in my red white

and blue

boxers

with a camouflage shirt

after finding

the mustard,

i get out the sparklers,

the roman

candle.

the burn kit.

she looks at me

as she turns a dog

over on the grill

and says.

wrong holiday.

that's the next one.

breaking even

you want the last check

you write

to bounce.

the one you write 

to the funeral

director on your death bed.

after you've made

all your plans.

you've signed onto

the presidential

style burial.

the caisson,

the gold casket,

the marching band,

and majorettes.

not to mention the 

the eternal flame.

but hopefully you're

in the ground

before,

it's discovered that you've

tapped out

of all your funds.

the small print

read the small

print first.

the big print giveth

and the small

print takest away.

be careful what you get

into.

feel

the small print,

smell

the small print.

put your hands on the ink

and read it

closely

with a magnifying glass.

it's the only truth you'll

need.

the silent treatment

the cat,

aloof as ever, except

when hungry,

gives me

a look.

i shake my head.

what?

i ask.

she turns her head.

nonresponsive.

i sigh.

i'll never

understand her,

nor she me

but we have no choice

but to go on.

a tree fell in the woods

my father tells me,

that

a tree fell

in the woods, but

no one

heard it, because

somebody's wife

kept talking.

he laughs.

i laugh.

we move on from there.

being human

i can be

mean

and vindictive.

jealous.

i can curse with the best

of them.

i can slam

a door,

kick a can.

i can scream and yell,

read the riot act

when lied to

or betrayed.

i hate this side

that you see,

but you,

my dear,

have brought out the worst

of me.

with smoke in our eyes

as i roll the corn

over on the grill,

rubbing smoke

from my eyes,

the fresh

cob

without its jacket

of husk being charred,

i reminisce

about other times

like this.

decades ago.

the charcoal going

white

with heat.

the blue sky above.

someone

in the other room,

seasoning

what

we're about to eat.

God's slight of hand

there are no accidents.

it's all

planned.

no luck,

good or bad.

things just go the way

they're supposed to.

for better or worse.

free will yes,

but for the most part,

if not all,

it's the result of

God's slight

of hand.

scrambled eggs

it's easy to scramble

eggs.

crack a few into

a bowl,

add milk,

take a fork.

mix and blend 

then

into the pan 

of melted butter

they go.

throw in some onions,

some peppers,

cheese,

of course.

lower the heat. 

salt and pepper.

to taste.

love

and life don't have to

be complicated.

be thankful,

say grace.

bon Appetit.

the rooftop bar

from the rooftop

bar

the sun

stretches out its setting along

the ridge

of the city.

a creamy

layered cake

of pinks and yellow.

what you can't see from

the ground

you can see here.

it's a hipster place

of short

skirts

and heels.

of men in suits,

in the elderly sipping

martinis

and beer.

the world is no longer

a topic

of discussion.

it's too far from here.

it's new.

the smell the shine

of iron,

of wood and glass.

the bartenders are young.

the food

is rich

and expensive.

you can see how people

jump from the ledge

after observing

the fabulous view.

the balance

beware of fame.

of money.

of too much love and adoration

from friends

or strangers.

beware

of sunny days

and good luck,

of winning tickets,

of hitting all the green lights

as you drive.

it's temporary.

there will be another

side yet

to come.

karma will arrive.

before they're gone

the man on the phone,

the unhappy

woman.

the newlyweds in their

first apartment.

the old couple

in their last home.

they want colors on

their walls.

wallpaper.

they want a splash

of paint.

new life,

an accent wall.

something that reflects

who they are

before they're gone.

unstill life

i go back

to look at her paintings.

still life.

pears

and oranges,

apples.

arranged 

in bowls, or sitting

separately

on tables.

some portraits too,

the old

the young, lovers

and friends,

odd strangers

she never knew.

she never painted me

though.

i moved around

too much

for her taste.

it's all skin deep

it's all skin deep.

a guise.

the furniture, the car,

the clothes,

the girl,

the guy.

don't be fooled

by the shine.

look deeper into their

eyes.

try the shirt on,

the shoes.

take it for a test drive.

don't sign

quite yet on the dotted

line.

it's all skin deep.

be wise.

the cat nap

you can't underestimate

the afternoon

nap.

the two of you lying together

beneath the fan.

the world

outside closed

off by shades and curtains.

the cool hand

of sheets on your bare skin.

side by side.

you'll fall sleep soon

and awaken again.

what's on the list

things i've never bought

or rented

comes to mind.

for no reason.

celery is on the list.

apple butter.

a fur coat.

crocs.

green colored pants.

a wok.

a mesh t-shirt.

a Mercedes benz.

a bird.

a street walker in fishnets.

a gold watch.

a trampoline.

cigarettes.

a Winnebago

or a boat.

a b b gun or hunting knife,

or bear trap.

a dozen donuts,

but there's still time.

it's like it never happened

it's like it never happened.

all a bad dream.

a story I once

read in a book,

or magazine.

maybe it was a movie,

or show on tv.

it just doesn't seem real

now.

it's a wonderful thing 

how the mind and heart heals 

and we move on,

the past becoming

a pale memory.

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.