try it, Alexa says

can blue cheese go bad,

i ask Alexa,

yelling out across the room.

isn't it bad already,

i say

sniffing the plastic tub

of blue crumbles

found in the Siberian

section of the lower

fridge.

i don't know, Siri answers,

maybe.

try it, but yell out if

you need me to dial 911.

i gave her four stars

we remembered

phone numbers back in

the day.

a day that doesn't seem too far off.

we knew our own

number,

our friends,

distant relatives.

sometimes we had a little

black book

as we got older.

scribbling in a new

love's name,

maybe we etched

a star beside it, 

or several depending

on the date,

or future dates to come.

as close as i can get

she planted the mint

fourteen years ago

on the side of the front porch.

it's the first thing

i notice

and smell

before turning the key

in the door.

it's not perfume,

it's not her,

but it's as close as i can

get right now.

the custard stand

the line

at the custard stand is long.

it could be 1930.

everyone

in white,

or pale blue.

the women with hats

and light dresses.

the men, polite

in khaki, polished shoes.

it's summertime.

there are dogs, and children.

sweethearts holding hands.

old folk too.

who doesn't like cold custard

on a cone.

the sweet innocence

of ice cream.

this is what makes life

worth living.

a short breath of fresh air,

and for a moment.

nothing seems wrong.

we praise the cool air

we praise

the cool air, the wind

carrying

its rain down from the mountains.

we open the windows

and go out 

to sit on the wide

porch, holding hands,

sipping

fresh lemonade.

so much time has slipped

by us,

and yet,

we still are amazed

at what the sky

brings forward.

the stripes of lighting,

the blue

cascade of open clouds

and rain.

the fear between us

the snake,

the gloriously decorated

snake.

a rainbow

of colors

and stripes,

a masterpiece of art

slithering

along

the ground, crossing

our path.

he means no

harm.

we mean no harm.

but there is fear

between us.

as we both

wait, then go our way.

wet ink

the ink

hardly dry, you move on

to the next thought,

the next

set of words,

a new line.

it's what you've always

done,

moving on,

moving on,

when it's time.

are you almost done?

she wasn't clinically dead,

but her pulse

was low.

her breathing shallow

and her skin

pale and cold.

sometimes

i'd hold a mirror

up to her mouth

when we made love

to see if she was still alive.

but i knew she was

whenever she asked me

if i was almost done now.

you get nothing

i could never understand

the reasoning

behind the law

of equal distribution

of money

and real estate once the marriage

was dissolved.

no fault.

i always thought

that whoever's fault it was,

they get nothing.

they get what they came

in with,

and that's it.

that's all that they deserve.

adios.

you cheat, you lie, you manipulate

and make someone's life

miserable.

you leave and get nothing.

one cheating ex told me once

that she'd wish i'd been a doctor

so that her alimony

could have been more.

missing old friends

before the new windows

were installed

the house

was full of bugs.

flying, walking,

jumping.

crawling.

some that lit up,

crickets, beetles,

loud bees

and flies,

then the new windows

went up,

and sealed the house

tight.

sometimes i leave

the door open,

missing my old friends

that slipped in

from the night.

the sediment

the layers

of life.

the sediment of old

things.

old memories

building up

on top of each other.

the papers we don't throw

away.

photographs.

the books,

the pots and pans,

the dishes

that are never used.

the clothes

in the far closet,

the old shoes.

all of it history of sorts

of where we've been

of who we are,

or were.

in the end someone will

dig it all out

with a careless

shovel and a

a new life will come

to take its place.

new layers

will begin.

his dish was deviled eggs

after he died

we noticed that during the holidays

there were no deviled eggs

on the table.

his specialty.

he'd make twenty-four,

for christmas,

easter,

thanksgiving.

so far no one has picked up

the slack

of his absence.

but his wife

Lydia,

still brings her homemade

cranberry sauce.

(secret recipe),

and we're grateful

for that.

she sets the bowl

next to the empty space

where his eggs would be.

poetry foreplay

you're so humble,

she says,

reading one of my poems

out loud.

i look at her playing 

with a loose

button

on my shirt.

flipping casually

through the pages of

my self-published book.

i am, aren't I?

i tell her.

i'm very humble.

i never blow my own

horn.

there's not

a look at me bone

in my body.

you're a genius, i think,

she says with a cat

like purr.

really?

yes, really.

but you don't know it,

do you?
pffft, i tell her,

then find the clasp

to the zipper

holding up her dress.

wanting the same thing

there are few moments

in a life

where a man

wants what the woman

wants

at the same exact time,

and vice versa.

they differ

on clothes and meals,

where to live,

where to vacation,

what books to read,

or movies to watch.

they disagree on so much,

until they both want

to make love,

and even then, there's

room for error.

the fuller brush man

the Indian man

on my cell phone wants my

social security number,

my credit card number,

he wants me to log onto

my banking account.

he wants my name,

my age,

my address.

he wants me to go to target

to get a vanilla gift card.

i've won the publishers

clearing house grand prize

five times this week alone.

all day the calls keep

coming

from social security

and amazon.

direct tv and medicare.

i miss the random knock

at the door

from the fuller brush man,

or Mormons.

walking on eggshells

that crunch

you hear are eggshells.

you step carefully,

word

your questions gently.

you're on guard

twenty four seven,

trying

hard to not upset

the other person

who has filled

your life with dread.

there will be hell

to pay

if you raise the ire

of the narcissistic soul

you've mistaken for good,

and allowed in.

teenage shopping spree

as teenagers

there wasn't a day gone by

that we weren't

in a 7-11 store

to buy something.

bunkers of beer, 

or apple wine,

cigarettes,

zig zag rolling papers,

a hot dog on the spinning

greasy grill.

a big gulp.

condoms,

or playboy magazines.

it was teenage heaven

in there.

potato chips,

cookies and sodas.

slim jims

and beef jerky.

peanut butter crackers.

blood worms for fishing

in little boxes

in the ice box.

cans of oil for our

beat up cars, coughing

out blue smoke

in the crowded parking lot.

a skinny blonde

riding shotgun

with her leg out the window.

there was always a giant

jar of pickled pigs

feet on the counter too,

or boiled eggs

in a pinkish soup,

which we never touched.

we had to draw the line

somewhere.

does your wife like fur?

when Mimi's husband,

Irwin,

died of a heart

attack

while driving

his Cadillac

to the liquor store

in Tenley Town,

because it was cheaper

by a nickel

for Candian Club whiskey

than in Arlington,

she decided to move to Miami.

I don't need all

these fur coats, she told me.

it's hot there.

take your pick, she said.

i stared at the racks 

of fur coats in her garage.

a virtual zoo of dead animals

hanging on racks.

rabbit, fox, bear, mink

and leather.

kangaroo?

some with heads,

the eyes dark and black,

every time Irwin cheated on me

he bought me a new fur

coat, she said.

take one, take a couple,

one for your wife,

maybe one for your girlfriend

too.

be home by dark

we were free

range children, permitted

to roam

the streets,

the woods,

the river bank.

the park.

no questions asked

as to where we were

going,

or what we were doing,

or who we were with.

just be home

by dark.

what am i doing here?

when i shuffled papers

in an office

for a few long years,

staring at the clock

that hardly moved,

i drank too much,

ate bad food.

stayed out late in my

wrinkled suit.

i had many 

sleepless nights.

it wasn't work, it wasn't

anything i wanted

to do.

till this day i can't even

explain what it was

that i did.

no clue as to the job

that i was hired to do.

if you put a gun to my head

i couldn't explain it.

i just remember leaving,

quitting,

cleaning out my desk and

handing in my badge,

then waving goodbye

as security walked me out.

a stapler in the pocket

of my pants.

i wait for her to go

i see her

at the grocery.

a girl i once pined for 

for many years,

back when i was twenty-five

or so.

it ended

badly, then

we both just disappeared.

i see her putting

groceries

in her cart,

then wheeling towards

the register.

she's limping,

her hair

no longer gold,

but silver.

there's no point in stopping

to say hello,

in catching up.

i keep shopping,

i wait for her to go.

not all can be fixed

not all that's broken

can be fixed.

try as you might.

with glue

and tape, tacks

and screws,

it doesn't always work,

the center won't hold

despite

the effort given or

the love you once had.

the shine is gone,

it's broken, it's old,

irreparable,

give up, let go.

relaxing at the lodge

with age

we take less risks.

no wrestling with sharks,

or diving off cliffs,

no longer willing to leap

out of planes,

or climb

some snowy airless mountain.

we see

the dangers of such

behavior,

so refrain.

there is nothing to prove,

at this age.

we're not done,

just relaxing at the lodge,

thinking more sane.

our permanent record

teachers warned us,

that

misbehavior

would go on our permanent

record.

we laughed. but

i believe it now,

as i look

back

at my phone

and social network

accounts.

there's no escaping

our past.

every key stroke

saved 

every picture and thought

reflecting back.

has it arrived?

is the trip

up the stairs a sign,

not finding

the memory or the words

that you

had in mind.

putting your keys

in the ice box, leaving

your dog all night

in the yard.

the slight slip

on a name you mispronounce,

the up and down

through the night,

steering yourself

to the bathroom

to trickle out what you can,

is it all a sign,

is it the future you're

staring at,

or has it arrived.

the money counting machine

i take the bucket

of coins to the bank

and begin

to pour them into the mouth

of a machine

that magically counts them.

no more

sitting on the floor,

counting fifty pennies

to stuff into a little

red paper sleeve.

it's loud

and whirring as i push

the button

and pour in another pile

of silver and copper

coins.

i sift the lint out of the bucket,

the nails and screws,

dead leaves.

gum and paper, stray 

twigs and toothpicks.

backs of earrings.

it's better than the old ways,

but still not easy.

sixty-seven dollars and

a few spare pennies,

i print off the receipt.

and hand it to my man

Kamil behind the bars

and plexi-glass. like me,

he seems pleased.

the pink table cloth

it's not a cave,

not a man cave by any

stretch,

not a bachelor pad either.

it's just blues

and black, greys.

white.

no clutter,

no fancy vase.

no flowers about, no

excess,

no trinkets or sentimental

items

of bad taste.

no cliches.

so when she threw a pink

table cloth

across the dining room

table, i knew

it would never last,

and i counted the days.

while salting the egg

not knowing

where

to go,  I stay put.

does one pack up

and leave

head to a warmer

climate.

or maybe north

where the snow

warms you.

west has no appeal

to me.

either coast would

become routine.

i want to keep the ocean

unique.

here is good.

here is quiet, i think,

as i salt a hard

boiled egg and eat.

serene.

i want your corn bread

it was the best corn bread

i ever

put in my mouth.

stuffed full of real corn.

soft and thick

with butter

and sugar.

she bragged about her

corn bread

and had every right to do so.

it was blue ribbon

corn bread.

the winner at the county

fair five years in a row.

three men married her

because of it.

i wish i had the recipe

but she's not returning 

my calls.

when he didn't leave his wife

it was a one bedroom

condo

facing

a stagnant

man made pool 

of green water.

near the highway.

above was another unit,

you could hear every

word they said,

footsteps too.

smell their food.

the metal door was thin

the air whistled all night

through the cracks.

never a near spot to park.

it was a stopping point,

a bus stop of sorts.

everyone that lived there

seemed to be

just passing through.

after moving in, you

couldn't help but think

of elsewhere

and the mistakes made,

how he had you fooled.

it's all your fault

when we stopped

seeing each other,

her dog passed away,

her horse went out into

the far end of the field,

lay down

and died.

her father soon

succumbed to a virus.

her mother

took her own life.

she lost her job at

the school.

but i take no responsibility

for any of it.

though she blames me.

forgiveness

relief arrives in a cold rain.

the steam

rises from the street.

we let it fall

upon us.

a cleansing of sort from

all our sins,

the past and present

and those yet

to come.

we can start over, we

hold onto that.

we have to,

there is no other way.

canned tuna

it seems like it happened

over night

that i lost my taste

and desire for fish

of any kind.

shrimp i can tolerate,

and crab cakes,

lobster

on a soft roll.

but the rest of the fish world

means nothing to me

anymore,

leave em alone.

i can't even look at a slab

of salmon,

wild or farmed,

nor can i bear

to smell a slice of cod

fillet

in a pan.

maybe, just maybe,

if i'm starving 

i'll crack open some 

albacore tuna  

in a little can.

get out of the way

young people

used to seek advice and wisdom

from older

people.

sitting down beside

them

to hear about life

and love,

death.

listening to the stories,

getting a glimpse

of what may

lie ahead.

now they honk the horn

to get them

out of the way, what

is there to gain

by wasting time

with the almost dead?

she was that kind of girl

she was the kind of girl

i washed my car for.

waxed.

bending over the bumpers

with a chamois

cloth under the shade tree.

wiping down

the seats,

the windows.

putting a shine on everything.

i got a haircut too.

maybe a new pair pants,

a pair of shoes.

i even took a long hot

shower, and shaved

what there was to shave

at that young age.

and then dabbed on each

cheek, a small puddle

of Grey Flannel,

or Canoe.

she was the kind of girl,

a girl i washed my car for.

it's all gravy

it's all gravy now.

the extra

dough,

the filled ice box,

the cupboards

overflowing with cans

and boxes

of things

i'll never eat again.

it's all gravy,

the money,

the savings,

the time to do nothing

now.

the overflow of things

accumulated

from hard work,

the absence

of being lazy.

there is no guilt in

any of it.

it's just gravy.

the closed door

the closed

door

is the one you want opened.

what's hidden in

the shut drawer,

the locked

box,

the trunk,

in the far corner

of the attic,

it's there

that you'll learn 

the truth.

not about me,

but about you.

intelligent design?

we see a building.

a complicated

arrangement of glass and steel,

wires and moving parts,

pleasing to the eye

as it reaches up

from the ground into the sky.

a technological masterpiece.

you wonder who built it,

who constructed such an

ingenious wonder.

what creative mind was at

work to make such a thing,

and yet when we look at

a human, 

most think differently.

a brief truce

it's Friday.

is it okay if we don't argue

tonight?

i ask her.

can we

make a truce

and not talk about our

grievances

for once, spoiling

the weekend.

she puts her hands on

her hips,

and looks at my

shoes,

you're tracking mud in again,

she says.

on the clean rug,

and you forgot 

to take the trash out

last night.

and so it begins.

is there cream and sugar?

the water boiled,

at last,

then the beans go into

the grinder.

spilling some along the way.

once grinded

they are poured like

sand into

the metal cup.

then the water poured over.

the rise

of a coffee bubble

goes slowly down.

your impatience

is obvious to anyone

around.

is it ready yet?

is there cream and sugar.?

will you ever

have a cup, will you

ever sit down?

too long at the inn

it's hard

to know which is worse

to be,

the guest

or the host, each

wanting

one or the other

in good time,

to leave.

the presence of another

is welcome

in short stays,

but too long

for either

makes both less eager

to once again

pass this way.

faith is hard

faith is hard.

very hard in this world.

it's not just the times were in,

it's always

been this way,

war and murder.

crime. disease and distress.

we are always

in some plague.

in some flood or fire.

both the innocent 

and guilty are chosen.

no one escapes.

faith is hard.

and yet still i pray.

they can wait

some are quick

to write

back with an answer,

fingers at the keyboard,

texting,

while others,

will let you dangle,

a power 

play, letting

you know who's in

charge

of this friendship,

and how dare you disturb

my important day.

they let

the question

linger in the air a little

while longer,

the ding finally arriving later,

after you've

long forgotten what was

asked.

a pinch of salt

i see the cookbooks,

all gifts,

shelves of them,

all countries

seem to represented.

but few

are visited anymore.

what is there left to learn

about sauce,

she says,

or heat,

or measurements.

i know what they like,

what i like,

so cook that.

no need for spoons,

or cups,

scales.

a know a pound, a quart,

a gram,

by feel.

i feel it in my hand, my

arm.

when i learned what

a pinch of salt

was, it freed from books,

cookbooks,

forever.

is it time for lunch?

we are a spoiled lot,

we are.

what is it that we don't have

that we want?

not much.

we pick and choose

our news too.

bored with the war over there,

is it still on?

still?

we turn to the weather,

the local

traffic.

ignoring the rest of the world

and their endless

problems. 

is it time for lunch?

the unstarving artist

he tells me he doesn't

want to work

just for money,

like the common man,

the untalented

souls,

bent over a broom

each day to make

their crust.

with room and board

paid,

he's suddenly Vincent

van Gogh.

now.

Edna St Vincent. Millay,

it's about his art, his

passion.

his pursuit of fame

and fortune, but

without the cost

of mundane

tasks getting in the way.

lint on the sweater

they go

and place flowers on the grave.

sit on the stone

bench,

they talk to the deceased

as if they

were still alive.

they cry,

they laugh.

it's a nice visit.

they tell them not

to worry,

they'll be coming back.

they pull a weed

from around

the headstone, brush

away

sticks, as if lint

on a sweater,

then go.

dinner served

the forks

wait, the knives sit in

the drawer,

in place,

the spoons and dishes,

the cups

and saucers.

all clean

and ready for use.

and yet

you stand at the kitchen

sink

tired and hungry,

eating cold

chicken

by hand.

dinner served.

fresh fish

the fish,

black eyed and still

on the crystalline

bed

of crushed ice

are still beautiful.

still wonderful

despite their

death

and undignified

setting. it wasn't

too long ago

that they swam

and bent

themselves in

the rainbow shadows

of water

below the sun.

did you find everything you were looking for?

did you find everything

you were looking

for,

the young clerk

chirps,

in her red apron,

hands

with cherry nails

about to push

the keys

of the register.

yes.

i tell her,

sliding my groceries

onto the belt.

nearly everything.

but not quite.

closing it down

there's a picture

of us,

the three of us,

three boys, halfway

to being

men,

drinks in hand,

all of us in jeans

and turtleneck sweaters,

hair hanging down,

the girls we were with

at the time,

beside us.

there was music going

on,

dancing.

the club was full of smoke,

a blue

haze.

the bartenders knew

us by name.

it seemed this life

would never end.

we'd close the place down

then drive

home,

sometimes

with a new friend,

sometimes

alone.

sometimes the three

of us together,

stopping

for eggs

along the early morning

road.

the matinee

you see them

at the matinee, the elderly,

widows

and widowers, perhaps,

or just

those

with a day off, a rainy

day of sorts,

lone souls.

there is no line,

no rush,

no worry of seating.

the aisle is fine,

or the back row,

they go up with canes,

their hats

taken off, their hand

bags on the seat

beside them,

settling in with a small

bag of popcorn,

a box

of candy, a drink.

do they remember the date

nights

at the movies,

the new lovers beside

them,

holding hands,

a kiss in the dark,

a time

when

it didn't matter what

the picture was?

the hoover mantra

my mother never

took a yoga class, or meditated,

or sat

staring at a candle

to clear her

mind.

she had no mantra.

but a vacuum

which she ran all the time.

she had other things to do,

which put her there,

diapers to change,

food to cook,

clothes to mend.

there was no need to

go to a gym

to exercise.

not with seven children.

we dream of snow

we dream of snow,

when

the grass

is green,

the sun a sweltering

globe

above us,

and when it's cold,

with icy roads,

we want

the summer

to come again,

and not take too long

in doing so.

the carousel horse

i tell my friend, who has

fallen

off many horses, and has

the bruises

and broken bones

to prove it,

i tell her that i have never

fallen off a horse.

never, except for once

on a carousel, 

to which she says, because

you've never been on

a real horse,

which is true,

and i aim to keep it that way.

a window

i see a window

in the schedule, 

a span of days

with nothing

planned,

no work,

no play.

just a long empty stretch

of pages

on the calendar

that spreads

across my desk.

something will come up.

it always does.

but if not,

that's good too.

agrees so often to disagree

we differ on many things.

the thermostat

for one.

her liking a cool

sixty-eight, while

i prefer

a tepid seventy-one.

and there's tea over coffee

for her.

cream and sugar,

whereas, i prefer black.

the morning is my preference,

but for her

it's midnight that

she becomes a purring cat.

i love the shore,

a lazy day by the sea,

but she the mountains,

the woods,

a long hike with nothing

but trees.

and yet we last,

agreeing so often

to disagree.

a girl named Ivy

it's just ivy,

just a vine crawling

slowly

up the side

of the red brick,

you have

no sense of the damage

and grip

it has, 

it appears

beautiful

in its own way,

as most

lovers do

in the beginning.

the long list of lovers gone bye

when she asks

me about my former

relationships,

i sigh, then 

rattle off the list,

the narcissists,

the borderline, the psychopath,

the histrionic,

the Asperger,

the sociopath, 

the suicidal, the anorexic,

the liars

and cheaters,

manipulators.

and what about you,

she says,

do you have some part

in all of it?

backing her chair away

from the table,

me? yes, of course

i do. 

i'm empathetic

to a dangerous degree

and 

codependent, chasing

the love

of an absent father,

who was abusive and angry,

all of it still

unresolved,

but ancient history.

making more babies

when i was a child

and observed

my parent's life, their marriage,

the breaking

of dishes and arms,

noses.

the cutting of telephone

cords,

blood on the floor

and whiskey

in the morning,

the police at the door

i thought

these people are nuts.

it wasn't too long

before i understood

the nature

of their crazy, and yet

when it came to 

making babies,

they kept making more.

coming home from work

she loved me

best

when i came home from

work,

filthy

dirty. the grime of grease

under my nails,

my hair full of dust,

my lungs

coughing

up the day, tired,

but not too tired to fall

into her arms,

and hear her whisper

i love you,

i'm glad you're home,

take off your shoes,

go bathe,

dinner

is almost ready.

my best flashlight

he comes to me with tears,

with a bent

body

and broken heart

to talk.

to examine

what's behind him,

what's to come.

i give him

my best flashlight,

a book

or two,

a few comforting

words

of earned

wisdom,

to help him through

the darkness,

the sorrow which

is his night.

the dress shirt

she wears

my shirt, the dress shirt

off the floor,

blue as sky,

large

and billowy on

her thin

bare frame,

she dances

in it,

swirls and spins,

arms

in the air,

there's light

in her

steps,

in her eyes,

her hair.

new art work

the cross

bars of shadows on the wall,

the dapple 

of flowered curtains,

random sketches

of sunlight

and shades,

the blinds half pulled.

artwork

without

the work,

just casually made.

visiting day

i hate the hospital.

the astringent smell

of it.

the whiteness of it.

the seriousness of it all.

the hope.

the waiting rooms,

the little chapel,

the morgue,

the receptionist desk.

the elevators

up and down,

the arrows in the hall,

the glass windows,

the pulled shades,

the trayed food,

green jello,

flowers.

the separations between

beds.

the stone faced doctors

and harried

nurses,

the machines beeping,

the red button to push,

and then there's

the living, least we

forget them,

straddling eternity,

almost dead.

can i borrow that?

i know,

the second i hand a book

over to someone,

or a tool,

or dish,

or bowl,

that i'll never get it back.

they do too.

movie night

the movie,

too long, the script too

confusing,

the plot

a mess,

the acting poor, but

we stick with it,

sunk into

the couch,

dinner done, drinks

in hand while

outside the rain

does pour.

getting shots

the tetanus shot.

Novocain to numb,

the boosters,

the vaccines,

the polio, the shingles,

double dosed,

pneumonia shots,

cortisone shots,

and then there's tequila,

Jose Cuervo.

an open window

i leave a window

open

on most people,

a cracked door,

a key under the mat,

or in the shed

hanging on a nail.

i leave a way back in

for most people,

a strand of olive branch,

for most.

but not you, my dear.

too late for that.

a five and under treasure trove

the house,

narrowed by boxes and clothes,

furniture,

and bags

of trash,

a dog with three

legs,

relieving himself

in a far corner,

large children,

arms deep in bags of

chips

and sweets,

and a husband

lying

in stroke

repose

on the Barclay chair,

is disturbing

to say the least.

the black

curtain of mold

in the shower,

the broken gas leaking

stove,

the shattered

glass,

a five and under treasure

trove

of Knick knacks and what

nots.

the wife pointing out

that the table

is made cherry wood,

hand crafted by Shakers

in Lancaster.

on this job,

i'll pass.

is this love too?

what does it mean,

if anything,

to be standing in line

on a Saturday

at the big store, holding

plumbing pipes,

and 

wrenches.

gripping our hammers

and nails

as we wait our turn

at the checkout counter.

does it mean

love is gone?

romance over, have we

hit the wide dry desert

of a relationship?

fixing things

on the weekends,

no longer

at the park holding hands,

or at a restaurant

sharing desserts,

or on an exotic beach

dancing

under the stars,

madly in love, whispering

about later.

is this love too?

stuck with the mundane

tasks

of maintenance.

all aboard

the weather man

says

that the rain will stop.

famous

last words

in Noah's ears as he

hammered nails

and bent long trees,

building

his ark.

only room for two of each,

he said,

standing

at the gang plank,

the big ship tied 

to the dock.

no running, no fighting,

we all need

to get along.

put your life vests on.

cold blooded

animals

to the left warm blooded

to the right.

hurry it up turtles

and penguins,

it's about

to storm.

we have all day

a penny

for your thoughts, she says,

handing

me

a fist full of change.

nickels

and dimes,

quarters too.

tell me what you really

think about

us,

take your time,

we have all day.

the maddening crowd

eat what you like,

drink

what suits you,

wear the clothes you prefer,

read what

you want,

write what you desire.

speak your own

truth.

be you

as best you can,

not swayed

by the maddening

crowd

at hand.

get off the rope

with rolled

up towel, and lathered

skin

in coconut

oil,

shades on,

sandals,

a new blue suit,

the paper under your

arm,

a drink in hand,

to the pool you go.

finding a lounge

chair at the far end,

away from

children and loud mothers

trying to gather

them in.

you find a patch

of sunlight,

and lie back, lie

back,

as you've done for

so many years.

the familiar sound of summer,

the guard's whistle,

blown,

and in your ears.

who could imagine such a thing

when you arrive

at

the shore,

all senses awaken.

you

are alive

once more.

the smell of salt

and seaweed,

the gorging of waves

into sand.

the white wings

of gulls

and sails

fluttering before you.

the surreal canvas of

clouds and

sea.

who could imagine

such a place,

pull it from thin air,

and place

it here.

the black pond

the black

pond, around the small

wooded

bend

in the park,

is a mirror of everything

it can reach.

darkened by

the canopy of trees,

strange

shallow water,

filling

and drying up over

time.

each season,

quietly there,

a familiar friend

of mine.

the go getters

not everyone wants more,

wants to be

what they aren't, 

reaching for higher

brass rings.

some

are completely happy

with what is,

feet firmly on the ground,

casting aside ambitions

and desires

for peace.

it's the go getters that

struggle, that can't fall

asleep.

before the night wine

ah, there it is,

us

together at the beach,

in the lobby

of a grand

hotel.

both of us in the pink.

happy

on this weekend

trip.

a lark taken

on a whim.

your one bag next

to mine.

smiling for the held

camera

before we go to our

room

and drink

the night wine.

it won't last

it won't last,

it's cheap.

look at the thread,

the plastic,

the fake sheen.

it's a knock off, is what

it is.

from a distance

it looks

genuine, but it's not.

it won't last.

she's not real.

trust me

on this.

go light

too much salt,

too much

sugar,

or pepper, or any kind

of seasoning

can ruin

the dish.

go light with your love

my dear.

no hurry

on this wish.

the medical museum

i visit the medical

museum

to ponder what becomes

of us all.

parts in jars,

bits and pieces.

slides

of the human body.

petri dishes,

tissues

and brains.

hearts preserved.

and then i see a full body

skeleton

brittle and gangly,

and have to leave,

the memory

of someone hitting

a nerve.

the game still on

in the vague light

of summer

dusk,

we would

hide from each other,

in the trees,

the bushes,

behind a car.

lying flat on

the ground,

holding our breath as

the game went on.

some of us

were no good at it,

easy to be found,

while others,

are still out there,

still hiding,

the game still on.

twenty eight years

we were married

twenty eight years, she says,

looking

at her hands

as if they

weren't hers, but someone

else's.

discovering for the first

time

that she was now old.

the best years of my life,

she says.

well,

at least the first two years

were.

but after that,

after the honeymoon was

over,

we were both

sort of done with the whole thing.

but we had kids

then,

obligations,

the house, the yard,

in laws and friends.

we slept in separate rooms,

i can't remember the last

time we ate a meal

together, took a vacation,

held hands,

or had sex.

it surprised me though when

he left last year

with a new young thing

half his age.

how could he do this to me?

to us?

the crying baby

my neighbor knocks

at my door

at two a.m.

she's holding her crying baby

in her arms.

do you have any

baby formula,

she says. i'm plumb out

of breast milk.

this baby has cleaned

me out.

i try not to look at her

breasts under her terry cloth

pink robe.

hmmm.

hold on let me check,

baby formula, baby formula.

i  start searching

the cupboards

for baby formula.

pushing things around,

up, down,

under the sink.

does it come in a box, or what?

yes, a box.

i look in the fridge.

nope. nothing.

i do have some cream of

wheat though.

and some sour

milk.

will that work.

maybe throw an egg

in there with a couple

spoons

of sugar. stir it up.

okay, i guess i could try

that.

the wishing well

with no

cell reception, no maps,

i pull over

and ask

a guy at the gas station

where

to go.

he wipes his oily hands

with a black rag,

pulls his cap

back and scratches his head.

welp,

you know the water

tower,

he says

no.

well, once you find the water

tower,

you go another six

miles

until you see a red

barn.

it caught fire last year,

but part of it

is still there.

you can't miss it because

it's near the church.

right beyond that there's

a dirt road,

but don't take that.

you'll be in trouble

if you go down that road.

keep going straight

following the chicken coops

until you

see a wishing well.

stop there,

and drop a coin into

the well

and make a wish.

really? what should i wish

for.

wish that you'd never ask

me for directions.

cause i'm new around here

too.

pants on fire

how could you

lie to me about

where you were

last night, she says,

as she takes

off the extensions

on her dyed blonde hair,

removes

her makeup,

her tight-fitting girdle,

placing her dentures

into

a glass of water,

then

removing her bra

from her silicone

enlarged beasts.

i have a strict rule about

people that lie,

she says while dropping

her syrupy southern

accent,

revealing a trace

of the bronx.

i don't like people who

pretend to be who

they aren't.

the swollen thumb

hitting your

thumb with the hammer

is part of it.

hammering

a nail

into the board.

building something.

but does there have

to be no pain

no gain?

can't we just be more

careful,

more gentle

with our ways,

with eyes wide open.

almost cut my hair

for my first

real job i had to get a hair cut.

i'd let grow

long

in protest to

the vietnam war,

and nixon.

which seems ridiculous now.

it was down to my shoulders

and parted

in the middle.

a pretend hippy

at the end of the hippy era.

it was a lot of work,

washing it,

blow drying,

combing and brushing,

but girls seemed

to like it.

the barbers gathered

around my chair

as the barber

took out his long scissors

and joyfully cut

it off.

it was a relief though

i thought

as the long locks fell

to the floor.

it wasn't me.

chicken dinner

something different

she says, let's eat

something different for dinner

tonight.

i thought we were

having

chicken, i tell her.

no,

she says.

we eat too much chicken.

steak?

no, she says.

fish?

nope, we need to switch

it up

and eat a better

variety of food.

pasta?

too hot, too heavy.

okay, what then?

umm,

i don't know. beats me.

okay.

i give up, she says,

what about

chicken fricassee.

what's that?

when the levee breaks

it's an exaggerated

rain

coming down.

hard pellets

filling the streams,

beating the trees,

the roads,

knee deep in

overflow.

the sky trying too hard

to show you

what 

it can do.

we get it, mother nature.

enough

is enough.

you win, we lose.

it's been a busy suit

in the pocket

of the black suit, you find

an invitation

to a wedding,

a card of sorrow

from the funeral

of a friend,

two torn

ticket stubs

from a play.

you find a pen,

an earring,

a dried flower,

the room keys to

a hotel

in new york.

it's been a busy suit.

staying busy at the end

i ask him

what he does in his retirement.

he yawns

and pats his

belly.

he's relaxed.

almost asleep as he sits

there in the sun

in his terry cloth

bath robe.

i go to the lake he says,

at dusk

to throw

bread to the geese.

i watch movies,

i read.

i enjoy making new

recipes.

i go on long walks

in the woods

when the weather is nice.

join me

sometime when you quit

your job.

won't you?

bad news keeps

hard

to swallow bad news

when

it arrives, so i set

it aside

on the counter,

beside

the sink.

the glass of water,

cold

and clear.

i'll wait awhile before

taking

it in,

and making calls

to those

of kin.

ten more minutes

i used to press

the snooze button all

the time.

reaching over

in the early morning

to end the buzzing

sound.

ten more minutes,

five,

then two.

it's been a while

since,

i've needed it, up

at the break of light now,

with so much

to do.

new words to learn

the sheet music,

with notes

littering the page

is mystery,

is silence to my

ears,

another language

that i can't speak.

this one

being hard enough,

ever changing

with each new word

invented for the day.

leave the wires

leave the wires

to the electrician,

the pipes

to the plumber,

the mason

to the bricks,

the yard

to the gardener,

leave

to those that know

their trade

the work

you try to do

with dumb hands,

you will

never save.

grey pigtails

she's in grey

pigtails,

he in

shorts and sandals,

and Indian

vest,

limping.

a guitar nearby.

a piano with broken keys,

years

gone by unplayed.

together watching

tv while

the grandchildren

with their

electronic

baby sitters in hand

are on the floor,

at their feet.

once,

they sang and played

in some

field, on some stage,

in some band.

Woodstock, maybe.

the times

have never

let go of them,

nor they of the times.

the memory of applause

has never faded.

another day, another page

i fall asleep

with the book in my lap.

the heavy

red

hard covered book.

a year

in hand.

a third of the way through

perhaps.

but i may

have to go back

and re-read what

i've skimmed.

soon though,

soon being months,

or in a year,

i'll finish it.

but then what.

what's after that?

you see it in their eyes

you see the look

in soldiers

coming home

from war,

or in the eyes of men

or women

married too long

to the wrong

person.

you see it in the eyes

of the poor,

or the rich.

a look of fear of losing

it all,

or never having much.

you see that look,

in the eyes of

the ill

in the homeless.

those in the bread lines,

the shelter.

the elderly,

the lost, never finding

true home.

true love.

true anything.

taking big steps

it's a big

step, telling her where the extra

key

is to the front door.

giving her

the combination

to the safe.

the password to the phone

and computer.

giving her access

to my bank account,

but still,

i don't tell her about the slice

of cheesecake

i have tucked

away in the back

of the refrigerator.

some things have to stay

secret.

the candy dish

i'm helpless

and hopeless around

the candy dish.

the sweets,

the chocolate, the nuts

and berries

bathed in

some delectable coating

that you can't

resist.

fingers

seem to wander

and linger

in the little white bowl,

taking

another after another

small piece.

you

are a lot like this.

the yellow scarf

in the old dresser,

warped with time,

and misuse,

which found its way into the basement.

holding tools

nuts and bolts,

screws,

trowels now

and things for the yard.

once a stuck drawer

is pulled out,

you see a scarf

tucked between the seams.

an old yellow scarf that

someone you

once knew

wore on occasions

in the early 80's.

fashionable at the time.

knotted at neck,

beneath her yellow hair.

above

a necklace,

and dress.

worn if were going somewhere

of implied

importance.

you knew all along

the cell,

or room which you reside in.

has a way

out.

a window,

a door.

use your mind if you have to.

you don't have

to be here.

you have a choice

to stay or go.

no need

to find the answer

in a book,

or the words of someone.

you know what

to do.

you knew all long.

didn't you?

don't tell me, i don't want to know

there seems nothing

wrong

with the world,

when you're at last home,

stirring

the charcoal.

setting food on a plate,

making a cold

salad,

mixing drinks.

oh, the world fine now

with a loved

one near.

the music in our ears.

the front door locked,

the air conditioner on.

what joy there is in not

knowing

what the world is up to,

oblivious to what's

out there

and all there is to fear.

let's eat,

the food is done.

home and hearth

my thirst is different

at this age.

no longer quenching

the nights

with

the chase.

the chase is over, for

the most part.

the enslavement of youth

unshackled.

there is less fear,

less want,

less desires needing

fulfillment. 

the worry of tomorrow

dampened by

savings

and hard work, 

the settling of home

and hearth.

low on chips

she tells me 

that she just returned

from London

on the Queen Mary.

i tell her

i walked up

to taco bell for a breakfast

burrito this morning

in my shorts

and flip flops.

what are you doing later

i ask her.

she says, well,

after church,

tennis at the club,

maybe a round of golf.

nine holes,

go visit my horse at the barn,

and then 

a stint at the shelter

to ladle soup.

i'm writing my memoirs

too, i'm still

on age three.

what are you up to today?

i don't know,

i tell her.

it's a toss up between a nap,

and a bath.

watch a rerun

on tv, but i'm nearly out

of potato chips.

if you're coming by, pick

me up a bag of the waffle

ones, sea salt. thanks.

the gradual rising

the wake up

is gradual, the slow

rising of self from sheets

and mattress,

pillows.

the cringe of light

in sand

crusted eyes.

last nights drink

still

with you on wobbly

feet as you

guide yourself

towards water,

the cold

shower,

the aspirin, the relief

of maybe

one more hours sleep.

ignore the door,

the phone,

even the dog, at the foot

of the bed

will have to hold on,

and wait.

did you really say and

do those

things,

so long ago,

that late,

or was it all a dream, 

let's go with that.

every other weekend

i see the new neighbor

carrying in

groceries.

his son with him,

the boy's hand

unleashed from his

mother.

it's the father's turn

this weekend.

the dog on a leash.

they will barbeque

out back.

hang the flag

on the post.

i'll smell the burn

of charcoal,

see the ball in the air

as they play catch.

i'll see the look in the

child's eye, wondering

how things

got this way.

where does it go

from here?

no words to say

you can't instruct

the dark

soul, who crowds his face

with fingers,

to cheer up,

to count his blessings.

there are no words

for this

sort of mood,

this stew of pain.

you can only place

a hand

on a shoulder

and say, i've been there

too.

i understand.

the unbitten fruit of summer

with each

bold strike of color 

in the black

sky

of july,

each bloom

of packed

powder exploding above

the ooohs and ahhhs

below.

i think not of this moment,

but of all the tomorrows

behind me.

all the dry fields

of summer,

the water fountains,

the unbitten fruit,

and that

devoured.

that's good enough for me

years in the making,

it's a simple

truth.

one that needs no polish,

no varnish.

it stands firm in the cold

light of morning.

there is no

happiness.

there is before and after.

there is the now,

of course.

but happiness is a word

best left

unsaid,

unimagined.

it's like hope, but more

vague,

more ephemeral.

give up on such childhood

thoughts.

agree with

no pain, no conflict.

no hunger.

love when it appears

in your doorway,

that's good enough for me.

advice learned the hard way

my advice

is to believe it 

when someone tells you 

who they really are.

take notes.

go easy on yourself.

stay away from toxic

souls

you can't help them,

or change them.

they will drown you

in their sorrows.

forgive others.

but don't forget.

moderation

in all things, but love.

look both ways before

crossing the road.

don't eat food

from a truck.

the steam room

the old men,

rich

with money, 

it's shown in their bellies

and the redness

of jowls, their

manicured nails,

eyes full

of whiskey

and women.

confident lions,

but lions no longer

on the prowl.

you see them in the steam

rooms,

the board rooms,

at the club bar,

in the fog

of half light.

towels wrapped around

their pink bodies.

bow tied in silk, 

sweating

out what's left

to pillage or plunder

in this life.

the telephone line

long licorice

strings

of electricity and power,

voices

in the line,

stretched across

the miles,

to towns,

through trees and 

around.

the poles keeping

the sway

of them

taut.

it's how love was

once found.

how things 

were bought or

sold.

arrangements made

or broken,

no need

even

for an area code.

there is no cure

no one needs to tell you.

it's a confirmed

sorrow.

a sickness

in the bones.

in the blood.

a black stream of dark.

there is no cure.

there is no sleeping it off.

or drinking,

or whoring.

not even the clock

seems to touch it.

but it does end.

it always ends

as you've learned

from the start.

an envelope of coins

in the cold of April

we'd

shuffle off

with the reluctance of children

in the early

morning.

cleaned and brushed,

collars pulled

down,

pushed off

towards

church, St. Thomas More.

our envelopes

heavy with coins.

off we'd go,

our mother, watching

us from the door.

as we looked and waved,

she still believed

back then.

so good to see you

good to see you,

she says,

but is it?

is it just a pleasantry

said

in passing.

a polite gesture

accompanied

by a hug.

is really good to

see you?

if it was so good, why

don't we

see each other 

more often?

hope to see you again

soon,

she says,

waving farewell,

but not too soon,

i imagine.

the weight of each other

so much

of the world is about weight.

the measure of things.

our stature,

our scale.

one foot and then the other

telling us,

we've failed.

a pound of sugar

a gram

of salt.

we weigh the world

and each other.

pricing

what shouldn't count.

a little while longer

much is said between

the lines,

the unspoken

words

we leave unsaid,

the caution

of biting one's tongue

keeps

it going

for a little while longer.

too loud

we lean

in

and listen to the low

talk,

the calm whisper

of someone with something

to say.

whereas

those that shout

and wave with flailing

arms,

you close your 

mind 

and do what you can

to get away.

Opalocka Drive

how the empty house

on Opalocka drive

reminds me

of things.

the same shadows

are there,

the same slant of roof,

and tree

in the yard spread

wide,

the same bare rooms

and walls.

the same flight of stairs,

catching the sound

of my shoes,

one after the other.

someone

will return soon,

from a far away land.

he'll put the key into the slot 

and turn,

struggling to get it out

as i have done

when time to leave.

the right wrench

the right wrench makes

all the difference

in the world.

how things get tightened,

or loosened,

how things get

done.

how we manage to keep

the wheels

going around.

although love helps

oil the world

as well, keeps us sane,

or insane depending on

who you've found.

the dance

it's all a dance.

the steps we take.

the music

of the day.

how we swing

and sway.

closer and closer

to each other.

hip to hip,

until we can't

get away.

night on the town

the boys, the weekend

warriors, who are actually

old men now,

gather

at the bar,

some limping in,

some,

squinting for those

they know, an

empty booth, or stool,

holding their menus out.

complaining about

parking, how far

they had to walk.

they won't stay out

late, their wives no longer

afraid of what

trouble they'll get into.

on the way home, they'll

pick up milk

and bread,

things she wrote on a list,

after hugging old

comrades goodnight.

independence day

we had our best

arguments

on the fourth of july,

both wanting

our independence

but unable to say so.

instead

we set things on fire,

blew things up,

ate and drank badly.

rarely going to sleep

before a big or small

bang.

nothing is lost

nothing is

ever truly lost

it's somewhere.

keys, or phone, a book.

a name,

or number

on a piece of paper.

somewhere.

as are people.

you just aren't in the same

place they are.

which often

is a good thing.

the velvet box

as a child,

after my father left,

i opened up the box

on my mother's dresser.

a small

velvet box.

out came music,

a beautiful tinkling

of sound,

and when it closed,

the music stopped.

but for a moment

a tiny ballerina 

swung around in a circle.

such joy.

but such sorrow too

in knowing

that the music stops.

neither were true

i find

a note with lipstick on it.

two lips

pressed against

white paper.

no words.

none needed.

i keep it

in a drawer

beside the other

note.

the ones that says,

i'm leaving,

we're done.

neither of them

were true.

half past seven

i move

the chair over there.

by the window.

the table,

i slide to the left,

i turn the rug

around.

put the vase on the counter,

lifting it from

the mantle.

i dust.

i empty the dishwasher.

i make the bed again.

put fresh towels

in the bathroom.

water the plants.

i shift pictures

from one wall to another.

i make myself another drink.

i think about painting

the far wall blue.

i light a candle and blow

it out.

i look out the window,

still no you.

i'm ready now

i like the smell

of that, 

what you're baking,

the sweet scent

of warm bread, perhaps.

muffins?

what's in your

oven, dear.

should i take a peek

and lift the lid,

or wait until you

whisper,

i'm ready now,

into my ear.

another new game to try

i've been tricked before.

cruelly.

and yet,

who hasn't been

fooled.

the curtain pulled,

the game

played.

we've all been suckers

at one point

or another.

the dark

hand of others

stacking the deck

and loading the dice.

you can't win with them,

but you can

get up and leave,

find another new

game to try.

another new drink

it's not better

or worse,

it's just what's next.

another way of doing the same

thing.

technology

is the new drink

trying to quench

our impossible thirst.

nothing changes

truly.

we still need fire,

and air

and water,

food from a seed

planted in

the good earth.

burrowed in cool

we change plans

because

of the weather.

it's too hot

for a walk, for a swim

even.

too steamy

for a bike ride,

or to sit outside

and grille.

the sun has suddenly

moved

closer to the earth,

so we choose

to stay inside,

under the fan,

burrowed together,

cool in the shade

of our berth.

a lower power

be careful

what you wish for,

what you

drop

a coin into the well for,

or wish

upon a star for.

be careful,

for it just might come

true,

they are not answered

prayers,

but from a lower

power, 

not the path

for you.

no longer living in the now

tired of living in the now,

sitting here

at the dmv trying to get

my license renewed,

i'm exhausted from

staying focused,

exhausted

by the moment,

waiting for my number

to come up.

B-12.

i drift off into the past.

i'm at the beach.

lying on a towel

near the ocean.

betty is with me in her

red bikini.

we're having cocktails,

and cold shrimp

from the cooler.

not a cloud in the sky.

her steamy long showers

it may have been

ten years ago,

maybe five when i hung

the wallpaper

in her bathroom, but

she calls

and wants it repaired.

the hot showers

and baths

have steamed the edges

apart.

sure, i tell her.

i'll be right over.

hurry, she says. i'm not

well.

i could go at any minute.

will there be a charge?

no, i tell her.

thank you, she says,

maybe the water has been

too hot.

the oncoming train

who hasn't been the squirrel

in the road

trying to decide

which way to go?

who hasn't scrambled

back and forth

our eyes

flickering with doubt

and confusion,

fussing over whether

to cross

or stay put,

who hasn't been run over

by a train

when indecisive

about the best path to take.

send a fruit basket

i can hold a grudge for only

so long

and then

i reach out

the olive branch, or something

like that.

text

or call.

send a note

or a fruit basket.

i might even bake them

a cake

to kiss and make up.

but some

hold grudges until 

the day the die,

unable to let of the anger

that burns

inside.

pickle ball

she tells

me she's going to play pickle

ball.

it's the latest thing.

less running

around

chasing

a tennis ball.

you can even eat a sandwich

and have a drink

during the game.

i bought a new

outfit

for the tournament.

what do you think?

that's an appropriate

color,

i tell her,

dill green.

the necessary mistakes

we flip coins,

draw

straws,

rock paper scissors.

we make

decisions 

on the throw of dice,

by chance

we direct our fate

hitting our knees

and asking

for help,

but nothing seems

to alleviate

the necessary

mistakes.

taking a bag to the curb

i see the fox

at the edge of the woods.

he's chuckling.

shaking his head,

i hear him

say really, are you serious,

pointing with

a paw to his mate,

as he sees me

taking the trash out

in my underwear.

black boxers,

nothing tight,

setting the bag by the curb

while there's still

a little daylight.

so bright, so bright

the moon

a white pill,

a flat balloon

without a string,

a communion

wafer

not

yet bitten into.

a far off

slice of eternity,

a nothing rock

in the sky

reflecting light.

here it comes,

into my room,

so bright, so bright.

still missing

i see her old face

on the side 

of the milk carton

as i pour

milk onto my bowl

of cheerios

and blueberries,

sadly she is still missing.

but not missed.

that's a shame.

reading the room

the trouble with being

an ardent

observer of those

around you,

and what's going on.

reading the room

like a gypsy with a fresh

palm,

you remember

everything.

never weeding the bad

from the good.

absorbing it all

like the empathetic

sponge that you are.

time to prune, she says.

and i agree, not a minute

too soon.

her green martini

i scrape the rust

off the iron grill,

putting my shoulder into it.

scrubbing it

clean for the next

piece of meat,

the next cob of corn.

medium rare, she says,

waving her hand

from the chaise lounge,

draped in shadow,

sipping a green

martini.

oui oui, i respond.

i aim to please.

the honey pot

like bees, these yellow cabs

swarm

fifth avenue,

our hand in the air,

needing a lift.

language

doesn't matter,

color

or creed.

it's the green they seek,

the honey,

and it's a ride

we need.

they let us in.

all things made whole

when our feet sink

into

the wet

soft sand, and we feel

the coolness

of what lies

below,

we are aware of change.

the separation

of all things

made whole,

together as one

despite our

differences.

before the first sin

before the first sin,

the first

lie,

the first betrayal,

you look into a child's

eye

and see

what could be.

the innocence,

the absence of malice,

of indulgence,

of ego, which is

soon to come and take

over,

ruining everything.

the gypsy souls

some need a home.

a place

to call their own, while others

keep on the move.

never quite

settling down.

they pick up their stakes,

roll up their tent

and move on to the next

town,

the next love,

the next job,

the next hope.

their ephemeral existence

full of self-imposed

drama,

always in flux.

just float

on saturday

we'll go down to the river.

to our bench

to watch the boats.

to watch the children play,

the lovers

walk hand in hand.

we'll sit close to one

another,

saying little that hasn't

already been

said.

we're in the Sargasso Sea

now.

no need to row,

or swim,

or sail.

just float along on

the calm blue water.

a long slow yawn

i say the words,

i'm not surprised

nearly

every day now.

sometimes

twice a day.

what is there out there

that's new?

what catastrophe

or war

hasn't occurred before,

what fire or flood,

haven't we seen

or known about,
babies out of wedlock,

Hollywood scandals.

politicians on the take.

priests on the run.

inflation and protests.

crime and punishment.

yawn. yawn. yawn.,

what's their problem

it's a guessing game

sitting

in the waiting room at the therapist's

office.

what's everyone's problem,

why are they here?

a boy,

a girl, 

a couple.

teenagers biting

their nails

with muted phones

in their laps.

an old man with a book

in his hand.

a woman crying

as she flips through

old magazines

on the table.

better homes and gardens.

Oprah,

popular mechanics.

Psychology Today.

i thrash through the pile,

leaning out

of my chair.

still no sports illustrated

swimsuit issue.

with nothing to add

i have nothing

to add

to the conversation

anymore,

so i say nothing.

which says 

way too much

for those still talking.

his confession

the priest

in his black garment

and collar,

with doubt on

his brow

confesses that he's worried

about his

faith.

maybe none of is true,

he says,

or worse yet,

maybe all of it.

not a single cloud in the sky

she tells me about

her broken wrist,

the hard

cast.

the slip and fall on

the front

step.

dry as bone, she says.

no rain,

or ice,

not a flake of snow.

and yet

i lost my grip.

and as i lay there,

she says.

feeling the pain

run

up my arm like

electricity,

i noticed how blue

the sky was this morning.

not a single

cloud

could i see, lying on

my back

in the grass. i felt young

again,

almost alive once

more,

strangely.

there it is

dying for a small

sweet,

some sort of chocolate,

or perhaps

a miniscule slice

of cake.

a spoon of ice cream,

an oreo cookie,

maybe

a snow cone.

something to satisfy the urge,

the craving

of sugar.

trembling, i search

the fridge,

then forage the ice box

on top.

my personal Siberia

for food that will never be

seen let alone

eaten again.

in the corner, covered

in snow

and ice, i see a small wedge

of something

wrapped in foil.

i dig it out and with a hammer

and chisel break it open,

bring it back to life.

it's cake.

a tiny sliver of wedding cake

from Entenmann's. 

it was that kind of a lame

wedding,

who cares.

into the microwave it goes.

i'm almost there.

back to the dark ages

the maid, Milagro,

slams her hoover vacuum

into my cable box

at the foot of the wall and knocks

out the tv,

the landline

and the internet all at once.

i'm suddenly

back in the dark ages.

i stare at the splayed wires

on the floor

and shake my head.

no repairman will come for

a week.

good Lord, what now.

how will i survive.

who am i now?

geez marie. 

so many nice people

i never

met so many nice people

that i never

want to see again

she tells me

in response to my question

as to how's

the online dating going.

smart, nice, funny,

etc.

she says.

everyone has a boat,

a bike,

a horse,

a house at the beach

and a small plane,

they all go to the gym

and hike,

and like wine,

but no chemistry,

no biology.

no astronomy.

not a shooting star in the bunch.

but hey,

what are options

these days.

no animals were slaughtered

she's drinking

the organic juice.

washing her hair with

some

organic potion.

no animals were slaughtered

to make

her lipstick

or rouge.

she's all green

all the time.

apples and tomatoes

from the farmer's market.

no meat,

her water's filtered

and clean.

her trash recycled,

and yet still

she's not a good person.

the reliable brain

you know,

you know, you know.

it's a vibe,

a feeling.

intuition telling you to

not go there.

but

you reason it out

and go anyway.

so much pain could

have been

avoided

if you had followed

your true self.

the gut being

your most reliable

brain.

the stubborn door

it's a stubborn door.

no matter

how many times you shave

the edges

the top,

taking it off

its hinges to sand

and plane,

it finds a way to stick

again.

at last you leave

it be.

you can't change anyone

or anything,

it seems.

old love

i hear them

in the kitchen, 

elbow to elbow

at the counter,

two birds on a wire,

slippers scratching the floor,

the clang of forks and knives

against plates.

his arm in the cold

light of the fridge

taking things out for lunch.

no, she says.

i think that's gone bad.

throw that away.

he lifts the lid

and smells the jar.

i think you're wrong,

he says. it's fine.

gently, she takes it from his

hand

and puts it in the trash bin,

then opens up a new

jar and hands it to him.

there you go dear, there.

it's a jungle in here

i'm not fond

of monkeys

or people that have them

for pets

for that matter.

same goes for iguana

owners

and snake people.

i can live with

your pet goat

or horse,

cat or dog.

but i could never sleep

next to you

with a jungle going

on.

the day of the gypsy

was it the gypsy curse,

the tossing

of glass

in our direction because

we offered

no money

for her begging.

was it a curse she put

on us

in a strange dark

language,

as she stood at the stoop

shouting

from beneath the hood

of her

black shroud,

or was just our turn?

a day in the city

i leave an umbrella

at Chadwick's.

my glasses,

at the A & P,

my raincoat at Winstons

on M street.

i lose my

wallet in a bathroom

at Union Station.

my shoelace

breaks

walking down Wisconsin avenue,

my hat blows off

at Dupont circle.

a taxi hits a puddle

and splashes me

in the crosswalk

on Constitution.

I'm arrested for jaywalking

on Capitol Hill.

I don't do city's well.

mighty mouse in a sarong

the massage

woman

is small. she's asian.

black hair,

quiet

and shy.

but good lord she's strong.

she's mighty mouse

in a sarong.

hands like steel.

elbows grinding out

the deep tissue,

making me moan.

she walks on my back

cracking the bones

like kindling in a forest.

she drums the daylight

out of my legs

and arms,

my shoulders.

with her rapid fired

fists of fury.

ginger bakers got nothing

on this girl.

stay out late

you're at an age

where you can stay out late,

stay up all night,

burn the midnight oil,

as they say.

but you don't, at least

not anymore.

sleep is a drug now,

a drink,

a fine woman.

an elixir for the day.

at ten your head

is on the pillow,

sighing with relief.

to dream, perchance

to dream.

millennials, oh my

in their 30's now,

the college

un educated

young men and women,

still at home

with parents,

holding their Me phones

in hand,

snapping

another selfie

to send and post,

over confident from all

the participation trophies

they got when young,

waiting for the miracle

to happen.

waiting for fame and fortune,

for lightning to strike,

because they

deserve it.

not working,

not reading,

not creating or adding

to the world,

still playing video games.

their lives

stalled

by social media,

technology,

and laziness.

still sucking on the teat

of good will

and go fund me.

salivating for the trust fund

to kick in.

they will soon take over

the world.

what's left of it.

oh my.

perfectionism

every hair in place,

not a crumb

or drip in view.

her

cup

or saucer

neatly stacked.

each edge dusted,

each table

and floor with a shine

shoes

aligned,

the bed made,

the apron ironed.

beware

of this hell

you are about to enter.

a wedge of lime?

when i used

to care

more about things,

i'd hang

onto the paper, the radio,

for updates

about the war, the possibility

of war.

the marches

downtown,

the protests.

the price of everything rising.

but what's the point.

something new

to gripe about.

i try to listen to my friend,

red faced

as he blows off

steam

about a world gone mad.

i shrug,

and ask him if he'd like

a wedge of lime

with his gin.

the traffic jam

there's  a traffic jam

in the cul de sac,

the small circle to turn

around and leave

the neighborhood,

there's a car

bringing pizza, a truck from

amazon.

ups delivery.

someone ordered kung

pao chicken

from hunan west.

there are cars full of maids,

landscapers,

dog walkers,

the trash truck

the recycling truck,

a moving van,

and at last the mailman,

no longer

the loneliest man in town.

no visible bruise

you rub

the knob of your elbow,

the sharp

bone

between

shoulder and wrist.

how sore it is,

no visible bruise

or cut.

somewhere along

the line

you struck it.

the memory is

no longer

with you,

though

the pain remains.

who's in charge here?

is it truly

a colony of ants.

do they have a legislative

branch,

a mayor of their own

small mobile town?

who's in charge here?

this colony

that's on the counter,

carrying

crumbs of bread and sugar

off

to eat and trade

without a sound.

a perfect bake

the blush of sun

on your

face,

your pale legs

and arms,

your shoulders.

sun baked, but

not overdone.

just right,

warm to the touch,

perfect for kissing.

the drama of others

you run

from the stir of trouble,

from

the pain

of others,

self made.

their drama and misconceptions.

you can't help

them.

you don't have

the time or desire

anymore

to lift their spirits,

to wave

the magic wand and make

it all better.

time to grow up.

suck it

up,

pick up your toys and go home.

a radius of two miles

i can't drive at night,

she tells me,

or in the rain,

or on wednesdays.

that's knitting day.

in fact i don't even

have a car anymore,

i rent one,

or call my uber driver,

jimmy, we go by first names.

i try to stay within

a two mile radius

of where i live.

it's scary out there.

plus i have a dog and

a cat at home,

grandchildren who

are waiting for me

to help them read.

plants need watering.

but i am a fun person.

just not after 7 pm,

or on weeknights

or holidays.

a few red flags were apparent

i do a pre-nup,

a post nup,

an in the middle nup,

and have it notarized

by a judge.

she ain't getting a penny

this time,

i tell myself,

staring at her while

she sleeps with her hand

on a gun.

no siree bob.

i'm on top of this one.

thin sliced baloney

i go back 

and try to decipher

the mumbo

jumbo

of the new age gurus

and self

help coaches.

the books are dusty

half read

when trying to figure

the world out.

but i understand the world now.

it's all clear to me now.

i no longer need these books

about living in

the now, namaste and

all that

thin sliced

baloney.

time for a stiff drink

and a night out on the town.

out to lunch

we order two burgers

medium rare

and fries, then she tells

me what she believes,

leaning over the table

to whisper it all to me.

she believes in UFOs.

in the loch ness

monster.

she swears there's ghosts

and goblins,

witches too,

things that go boo 

in the night.

she believes that Oswald

didn't act alone,

that big foot is out there.

that Elvis is still alive

wearing his blue suede shoes.

she believes there's a plot,

a conspiracy around

every corner.

you'll see she says, you'll

see. it's coming

and all will be revealed.

i ask her to pass the ketchup

please.

don't delete me

i'm still in touch

with about four or five

dead people

on social media.

girlfriends and pals

long gone.

i don't have the heart

to delete them,

unfriend them.

i still like seeing their faces.

it's as if they're still

here, a phone call

or drive away.

ready to talk and drink,

have lunch with me.

i hope that

when i'm gone

they'll feel the same way 

as i do someday.

taking less

i'll take less

these days

rather than more.

less

food, less talk, less

sleep

less tv

less drink.

i'll take less and be full,

i'll take nearly less

of everything,

everything that is,

but you.

word salad

there's big words

in the mix,

like leaves of lettuce,

phrases other's have

said, worn cliches,

avoided subjects,

unanswered

questions.

it's a mix of berries

and nuts. a vast

array of unripe tomatoes,

bitter onions,

it's a a word salad

when trying

to get the truth

today.

pages unturned

the stack

of books, the dust of them.

the read

and half read.

the pages underlined

in blue

or red.

my ink, and yours.

the book marks

in place

where we left off,

so many pages

unturned

and not to be.

to you, in late spring

new flowers

have arrived

like the promise

of love.

it's in the air.

as you are

walking towards me

in the sun.

i sit on the bench

and wonder

where the past has gone,

what tomorrow

will bring,

but seeing you 

stops such thoughts

for now,

as i listen to your

footsteps,

and a distant bird sing.

no magic

there is no true

magic.

no slight of hand that

can't be

reasoned with,

there is no trick,

no scam

that can't be figured out.

it's smoke and mirrors,

a false bottom,

a mirage.

like you my

dear,

the world when

standing back

is as transparent

as a pane

of glass.

whatever you do, don't pull my hair

whatever you do,

don't pull my hair, she used

to say,

with a wink.

of course she wanted me

to pull her

hair

and get rough,

and other hijinks.

it's strange the things

you do for love,

hurting the person

you care about most.

a fine line

exists between pleasure

and pain,

she'd say,

purring in her leather

cat suit,

her safe word

being, toast.