two reluctant wet leaves

even in the rain,

the gaggle of orange

clad men

run their leaf blowers,

their mowers,

their machines

to grind up fallen limbs.

there's one or two

leaves

that are stuck

to the  ground

because they're

wet.

three of the men

gather

together

as one, and try to blow

them towards

the waiting truck.

it's useless, but they

try and try and try,

until i go outside

and pick them up.

i won't even try

the vase,

an heirloom,

slides off the wet sill

rain leaking in.

pieces

scatter,

shatter,

a small cloud of Italian

dust rises.

i inhale

two hundred years

of 

old clay hardened,

now vaporized.

it can't be 

repaired, i won't

even try.

the broom, the dustpan,

will suffice.

dana's bedroom

we drank cheap

wine

in those days, spinning records,

in dana's

bedroom.

the Doors,

the Who,

Joplin

and Leon Russell.

Dylan

and Hendrix.

the White Album

over and over

again,

side one,

side two.

the group of us,

from grade

school

and now off into the real

world,

without a clue.

drinking,

passing a blunt around,

our minds

lazy with ideas

and magical thinking.

who would stay?

who would leave,

and run,

feet on the ground.

so few.

so few.

the withered vine

the discard

is hard, hard to take,

to swallow.

friendships wither

on the vine.

brittle

and old,

spoiled in the sun

too long.

unwatered,

thorny and poisoned

wrapped

around

the chain link fence

of their

own mind.

i cut at the root.

it's time for it to die.

time for the next great flood

are we beyond saving?

has culture

ended.

real books.

real art.

real music.

are we in the end of times.

is the world

run by children

with

unsettled minds.

confident

and dumb.

uneducated despite

the years

in school.

look at me

look at me

look at me.

the lemmings,

the entitled fools.

smart days

some days

we feel smart. 

we can add and subtract,

spell.

tie our shoes without

a knot.

we have all

the basics down.

nothing gets lost.

all the lights are green

as we

go about

our day.

and then, there's other

days,

wandering in and out

of lanes.

carnivore diet

i see a bare hot dog,

bun less,

rolling

around in the man's plate.

his desk is next to the car

salesman's desk

who's trying

to sell me a car.

i look over,

and can't help myself,

i point at it,

and say yo, i see what

you're up to,

low carb, keto, right.

carnivore diet?

right?

he looks at me

and says, what are you

talking about?

no bun,

i say to him, pointing

at the hot dog

rolling around

at the end of his fork.

no carbs.

oh,  yeah.

my wife forgot to

buy buns when she went

to the store

the other day.

he puts some mustard

on his dog,

squeezing it out of a little

plastic packet,

then pulls out a bag

of potato

chips from his desk.

i say, oh,

as he rubs his belly

and

pops open a can

of coke.

what's keto, he says?

the tomato garden war

as a boy,

a young boy.

it was all about soldiers,

tanks and guns.

imagined battles.

trench warfare in the back

yard,

using your mother's

tomato garden

as a battlefield.

the dog running off

with a tank

in his mouth.

indians

and germans.

jungle warfare in bushes.

making noises

of explosions

and bullets flying.

it was war.

not over until your

mother called you

in for dinner.

yelling from the screen

door,

telling you to wash up.

you can't please everyone

at first she loved

my sense of humor, my sarcasm,

my stinging

wit,

and observations.

but in the end it's what she

pointed out as

being the worst thing about me,

what killed her

love, as i uncovered

who she was.

oh well,

you can't please everyone.

morning trip to the post office

i know she means

business

when she puts on her yellow raincoat.

an unfashionable

slick affair,

with black metal clasps.

old school rain gear.

then on goes the hat

her hair, unbrushed,

balled up inside.

no make up.

boots.

she grabs her purse and dashes

out the door

i'll be right back,

she says.

i'm out of stamps.

waiting until tomorrow

let it rain.

who doesn't love

the rain day.

the washed out plan,

who doesn't enjoy

sleeping in,

listening to the clouds

pour and pour

their hearts out.

the gentle percussion

of it, the symphony

of wind, the rush

of new water in the stream

beyond the clearing.

let it rain.

today can wait until

tomorrow.

let it rain.

defeating global warming

as a child

we had global warming

in our own

brick duplex

near the bowling alley.

no a.c.

in the house,

but we had large fans,

black

clunkers that would

swing back and forth with

the sound

of a jet engine.

sometimes my mother

would position

a bowl of ice

in front of it, to increase

the cooling effect.

how's that, she'd say

as we wiped our

brows

and nodded yes,

drinking her cold

lemonade.

you have to be kidding me

you read

where elon musk suggests

exploding

nuclear weapons

at the poles

of Mars

to make it livable,

releasing

whatever water there

is for us

to consume

when we arrive.

it's heartbreaking

what

the rich will do

for ego

in the guise of

mankind.

the dog walker

i see the man

walking

his dog at the same time

every morning.

clockwork.

i know it's seven a.m. 

the coffee is on.

the day has begun.

he stops,

and walks.

he's gentle with the leash,

letting the dog

find

what he wants to find

before moving on.

one day

they'll both be gone,

but not yet.

there's still time for

all of us.

the bakery beside Strosnider's hardware

it's a real bakery.

not a store with detergents

and meat,

papers and pens,

lettuce

and peas.

it's just bakery goods,

made from

scratch

in the back room by

an old man and woman.

wearing

white smocks

and hats.

cakes and pastries,

napoleons

and eclairs,

maple laced donuts,

and bear claws.

there's bread too,

raisin

and cinnamon.

French and Italian.

there's a line out the door

that has a bell

that rings when you enter.

you can taste

the flour and dough,

the sugar

and cream

before taking the first

bite,

all of it lined in shiny

rows

under the clear

warmed glass.

it's Sunday.

we knew

we would lie

on the picnic table

in the back yard

and stare up into the sky,

the stars,

the falling stars.

making wishes that

would never come true.

sometimes our hands

would touch,

our legs against

one another

in the warm summer air.

we were still children,

the world still

a mystery,

but as far as knowing

what love was,

we knew.

eating poetry

so many friends

have died.

lovers too.

gone.

although i still talk

with them.

still care for them.

so many of my favorite

poets

and writers

have gone on as well,

but i still read their

books,

eat their poetry,

devour

the truths they gave

me.

you're beginning to understand

you wonder,

as you drive out

away

from the city,

on a band of road

less traveled

and you see a house.

a small house

out beyond the rail

fences,

towards the woods

across acres

of flat land,

beside a lake.

you see the smoke

from the chimney,

a well,

a small garden,

and you say out loud

how could anyone 

live there,

so far away,

although in truth,

you're beginning

to understand.

any job

i took any job

as a kid.

i was grateful.

i showed up on time.

i listened

to the boss.

i did more than my

share of the work

no matter how hard.

i wanted money to not

be poor

like we were.

i wanted shoes,

and shirts.

pants.

a car. i wanted to

go to a movie.

a restaurant.

i wanted a haircut.

i wanted my

own place.

my own bed.

my own tv.

i wanted to buy

my girlfriend flowers.

i wanted all of these

things.

so i took any job i

could find

and saved.

i saved

so many nickels,

so many pennies.

so many dimes.

underwhelming

it's underwhelming,

this car.

this plush german auto

from across

the pond.

loaded with technology.

touch screens

and audio

instructions.

a space vehicle

with wheels.

pffft.

i say, as i glide along

the road in the quiet

leather sanctuary.

i don't love it,

i don't hate it.

if it had an espresso

machine

inside, well, maybe,

but i won't buy it.

next.

the black snake

the black snake

half up the tree paused

in mid slither

to look over at me.

friend or foe?

he said,

neither i answered

go on about your life

as i will mine.

so he did,

up and up he went

to the nest of eggs,

warm and white

in the early morning

sun.

home sweet home

you have to have a home.

a place

to rest,

a place

to hang your hat.

you need your own bed,

your own

cups

and plates.

a closet for your clothes.

you need a cool

room

to read in,

to nap in,

to watch a show.

you need a fortress of

solitude,

you need crowded

bookshelves,

and music.

maybe with windows that

face the woods,

or water.

you need a place

that makes you sigh

when arrive after a hard

days work,

a place that makes you

say,

ahhh, home sweet home.

praying for fried chicken

we were driving home

from

Cape May

one winter night, when

i looked over

and she was praying.

her eyes closed,

her hands pressed together

around a set of white

rosary beads.

what are you doing?

i asked.

i'm praying, she said.

okay.

for what.

for two things.

two things?

i'm praying that we'll find

a fried chicken

stand,

and that they will have

a bathroom, i really have

to pee.

a mile later we were

sitting in a chicken joint

called the Red Rooster,

eating

legs and wings.

something decadent and sweet

craving for something

decadent and sweet.

i give

Betty a call.

she's up for it too,

i can rely on her

when the urge comes on.

let me throw something

on and i'll be

right over she says.

when she arrives, she throws

her arms

around me

and we tumble up the stairs,

into bed.

can we go

to dinner now, she sighs

afterwards.

and i'd like cake

for dessert.

chocolate.

back home

life is never the same

when back

from war,

from combat.

from hearing the cries

of the others,

the bombs

dropping, bullets striking

or flying by.

how can life ever

be the same

with death at every turn.

you can see it in their

eyes

as they wander back 

into life

wearing a thin disguise.

elephants

there was an elephant 

in the room,

in fact there were two or three.

there was

hardly any room

to sit down.

but we managed.

staying quiet, not talking

about

future,

or present plans.

the church bake sale

as i stir

a cake batter, about

to make a dozen

cupcakes

for the church bake sale,

my wife

whispers to me,

if something ever happens

to me,

they'll know who

did it.

huh, i say. licking the spatula,

as i squeegee out 

the bowl.

what are you talking about?

you know what

i'm talking about.

i reach up

into the cupboard where

her happy pills are

and hand her

the bottle.

did you take yours today,

i ask her?

doesn't seem like it.

cat cow red

she's slow

to make a word

when playing scrabble,

and then

it's a word

like cat

or cow,

or red.

there's no strategy

whatsoever.

she has three degrees

from college,

a masters, 

and a PhD

and yet, there's very 

little

going on in her

head.

she wants me to keep

score too.

why bother?

when your light goes on

when the light

finally goes on

in your head,

don't turn it off,

look around

and see what's really

going on.

get out, this is the life

you will lead

until the end.

run.

a violent world

don't let the green pasture

fool you,

the blue sky,

the calm sea.

don't let the poerty,

the music,

the art

lull you to sleep.

it's a violent world.

observe the hawk

as he swoops low

from the high clouds,

with blood

in his eyes,

and sharpened

beak.

thank you for not being here

asleep

on the couch. a deep sleep,

under the cool

sheet of

a fall breeze through

the open window.

it's full of 

fat dreams,

generous and satisfying.

technicolor.

clear voiced

and focused.

it's a sweet sleep.

restful.

unlike any i've had

in a long

long time.

the absence of you

has made it possible,

thank you

for not being here.

no one listens

i send off an inquiry

on a new car.

telling them i'm in no rush.

but i'm specific

in style, in color, in

model.

i'm exact in fact as to

what i want.

the bells and whistles.

the size of the engine.

etc.

the jackals call.

they text,

they email.

we don't have the one

you're looking for,

but when can you

come in

and do a test drive?

no one listens.

the musician's girlfriend

she tells me that her last

five boyfriends

were musicians.

they sang and played

the guitar

or drums, or some,

just the tambourine.

some of them were

almost famous, i can't tell

you their names.

she looks off into the distance.

and smiles.

remembering,

i was their muse, 

their lovers,

i was in the game.

we had a grand old time.

i help her to her car,

as she limps,

leaning on her cane.

the wedding photo

i remember

him

in a rented suit,

grey and

baggy,

the loose fabric

hanging on his slender

shoulders.

bearded.

not smiling, but standing

next to his wife

in duty.

she was plump with child.

not quite done

with the hippy

hair,

and beads,

the garland of flowers

as a crown.

it's an old photo.

1973.

and when he died

last year, 

i took it out

to look at it again.

we were all children

back then.

i'll never do that again

i'll never ride a horse

again,

she tells me as they mend

her broken leg,

her hip,

and shoulder.

but in a year she's back

on top

of another horse,

galloping

across the field, an

unseen pit

up ahead.

i laugh, having said

the same thing about

marriage once.

inside the ant farm

you choose early

in life

the hammer over the pen,

the saw

over the keyboard,

the ladder

to climb,

not the corporate kind.

the one that leans

onto a roof.

there's blue skies

above.

muscles used,

air into your lungs.

it all goes by so fast,

but it's the right choice

as you look

into the buildings,

ants inside

the ant farm doing tasks

my last online therapy session

my online therapist,

Lucy,

ten dollars a session,

says to me, you're one of those

kind of people,

aren't you?

what do you mean?

we're on zoom.

very awkward.

well, she says, you think

perpetual

lying and cheating

is a deal breaker.

right?

you're against adultery?

yes. i tell her, of course,

and you don't?

well,

sometimes it can strengthen

a relationship

or a marriage, she says,

adjusting her large

red framed glasses

and unwrapping another piece

of gum.

to add to the ones she's

already chewing.

cheating can be a healthy

message to the other person,

that they aren't getting

it done at home,

or bringing in the bacon

and they need to

step up to the plate.

how old are you, i ask Lucy.

none of your beeswax, she

says, laughing.

the cheat day

i see my friend Bertha

standing in line

at the Olive Garden, it's all

you can eat pasta

and meat balls day.

the house red wine 

and mozzarella bread sticks

are unlimited.

she's wearing a bib and carrying

her own set of silverware.

hey. i say to her,

as i walk by.

what are you doing here.

i thought you 

were doing the Keto diet.

i am, i am, she says.

this is my cheat day.

i ain't no damn farmer

i'm glad

i don't own a farm.

the weather would drive me crazy.

a short drive,

i know, but still.

i'd be

worried about the crops.

are they getting enough rain,

too much rain.

is it too hot,

too cold. i'd be

looking out the window

in the morning

to see how the corn did.

the alfalfa

the soybeans.

i'd look down 

the field

to see if any cows got loose

and are running up

the road.

i wouldn't like watching

my step all the time,

what with

all the chickens running

around the yard,

the goats, the pigs.

the dogs.

and that damn fence on

the lower forty,

always in need of repair.

always falling down.

asleep before ten

i tell myself,

you can stay up late tonight.

go ahead,

watch the late show,

or an old movie.

you don't have to get up

early.

you don't have to be anywhere

until elven a.m.

relax.

have a cup of tea,

put on your pajamas,

catch up on your reading.

do a cross word puzzle

but no.

as usual you're asleep

before ten.

the Scrambler

it wasn't unusual

for a kid

to throw up on the Scrambler,

a ride that spun

you around on long

stiff tentacles

made of creaking steel.

faster and faster

it would go

until your face pulled

back like an astronaut

at lift off on the way

to the moon.

it was hard to keep

a hot dog

and cotton candy,

a bag of caramel

corn, and a large coke down.

there was one

worker on duty

for such occasions,

busy with a mop

and bucket.

filled with water and Lysol

to squeegee everything

down. sadly,

by night's end the girl

you were after

was with someone else,

as you went home to

change your Banlon

shirt again.

the peppermint twist

i see my wife of twenty-five

years doing the twist

in the kitchen

to a Beatles song,

i take my reading glasses off

and put paper down,

then join in,

swiveling my hips,

my legs, shuffling my feet

in my bedroom slippers.

we put chubby checker

on. we're knocking over

pots and pans.

the bottle of wine turns

over and spills onto

the floor.

the dog is barking.

the kids come in,

laughing. shaking their heads.

what's wrong you people,

they ask?

they aren't lost

there are no lost

dogs

or cats.

can a bird be lost

flown from the cage.

an alligator,

or snake?

they just get up and go

their own way.

no leash,

no collar,

out they go through

the opened door,

the window,

the gate.

no need to measure anymore

we reach

a point in life, in cooking,

in baking,

in love

where we no longer need

to measure.

we know how

it's made.

what to add, what to

not add,

heavy or light on the pour

or shake

of salt,

or spoon of sugar.

we know the taste we want.

the thickness

of affection,

the sweetness of confection.

we know the smell of it.

the taste upon our

tongue

when it's done.

the corner pub

i want a bar

to be dark, to be without

a tv

screen.

a long wooden bar,

scarred

and storied,

mythical,

with tables scattered about.

a small dance floor.

good music

with songs you know.

a mirrored wall behind

the bartender.

i want it old school.

a place

where they learn

your name,

your troubles, your drink.

where the glass is ready,

cold and iced

when you come through

the front door.

you want it to be a second

home,

where the day is forgotten,

before you go home

again.

the great wall

i understand

the great wall of China.

i get it.

all those rocks

and bricks,

all those years of building

along the border.

i understand

the posted guards,

the concrete

steps,

the soldiers in position

in case of attack.

i under

protection.

the need to preserve one's

heart.

love will do

that do you

when love falls apart.

end of life insurance

my favorite caller

from

Deli, Sector 10.

Alex Wilson,

calls me again today.

we've spoken

many times before.

he's selling end of life

insurance.

he wants to know if i smoke.

how old am i.

am i in a wheel chair,

or in a senior facility

wiping oatmeal off my chin.

i can hear children in the background

speaking Hindi,

goats and chickens,

a rooster crows.

he asks me 

do i own a home.

a car.

do i have a bank account.

he wants my

Medicare number

my social security number,

my mother's maiden

name.

the name of my beneficiary

if i should pass

into the great beyond,

or hell below.

i've given him a different

name,

every time he calls.

Jack Hoffman

Seymore Butts

Elanore Roosevelt

Johnny Strepp,

but he doesn't get it.

he's the worst and yet the most

persistent salesman

i've ever talked to.

doing time

do you forgive

the felony

as easy as the misdemeanor?

does the mortal

sin

and the menial

sin

get equal treatment?

what's the level of maliciousness,

what's the reason

behind

the crime?
only those feeling guilt,

remorse

and regret, are the ones

that truly

do the time.

six boxes of rice

i remember

after a long argument,

a precursor

of days ahead,

when i would be punished

with no sex,

and silence.

i remember trying to get

out of the wedding.

she stared

at me, as i drove the car,

the blue chevy

choking blue fumes behind

us,

my hands white

knuckled on the wheel.

what?

she said.

cancel our wedding, are

you mad?

the invitations are in

the mail.

the cake is on order.

the band is scheduled.

i bought the dress,

the shoes.

we're registered at

Montgomery Wards

and Murphy's.

the make up artist,

the florist

have been paid.

we've rented the knights

of columbus hall.

the minister has

written our vows.

my friends have six boxes

of Uncle Ben's white rice

ready

to be thrown at us

as we leave the church.

i sighed, and said okay.

okay.

i guess if they bought the rice,

we have to

go along with it.

lying in the long grass

on him,

they find, as he lies

in the long grass,

bleeding,

a watch around his wrist,

still keeping

time.

there are coins in his

pocket.

a list of what's needed

at the grocery

store.

there's a pen,

his keys to all his locks,

and a picture

of her,

his one true love,

yellowed

and wrinkled in his

emptied wallet.

anything with a face

i give up on plant

food,

the dirt of it,

the greens,

the leafy pages of lettuce,

the beans.

done with corn,

done with asparagus,

done with beets

and potatoes.

chickpeas and

leeks.

it's meat from here on out.

going full

carnivore,

anything with a face,

except for maybe

a snake,

or a mouse.

you can smell trouble

you can smell trouble,

feel it

tingling up your spine,

the narrowing of eyes,

the beads

of sweat,

the nervous tick,

the kicking of the foot

against the chair.

trouble.

your primitive instincts

are intact.

trying to save you

from the likes of her,

the jezebel,

the trap.

on the move again

a life

in boxes, marked

kitchen,

or bedroom,

books,

or shoes.

from one bus stop

to the other.

a life of bubble wrap

and tape.

so many

moves.

some involving love,

some

money.

some just random

indecisions,

made by

staring out the window,

and wanting

a different view.

stir fried rice

the Chinese

family next door does a lot

of cooking.

and bowing.

and gardening.

they're very neat and clean,

orderly.

polite to a fault.

they smile

wryly

at you,

as you refuse to weed,

or cut

the grass.

burning burgers

on the grill.

it feels like you're being

judged,

but you don't really

care.

you wonder what's the best

place

to buy a new wok,

but don't ask.

so we have this now

religion

is no longer keeping

the hordes

in bounds.

you look out the window

as a masked

man

jimmies the door

of your car.

there's

a fellow with a gun,

at the five

and ten.

another with a knife,

hunting

for what he doesn't have.

no longer do the children

go to mass

and listen.

knees bruised

in prayer.

believing that there

is a God

up there.

there is no fear,

so we have this, now.

the blonde antique

she spoke 

receding sound,

her words

drifting off

as if gentle fingers

typing,

leaving a trail

of ellipses.

clarity into whispers.

fading,

fading, as she was,

becoming 

a blonde antique,

in the dim

light she preferred.

optimism

i don't know exactly why

my

mother put a layer of pond's

cold cream

on her face

every night.

brushing and brushing

her curly black

hair,

but she did.

even with seven kids

in the house,

an absent husband

of unknown whereabouts,

cats and dogs,

in every bed,

the bills stacked up,

she was optimistic

about her chances

in the outside world,

as to what might

lie ahead.

one flutter of an eye

one word,

one glance, one sigh,

one

stutter,

one flutter of an

eye

can change everything

in a blink.

the hesitation 

will inform others

of what you

truly think.

waiting for the baby

i'm glad

we, men, can't have babies.

i can barely

handle a paper cut.

or an upset stomach

from calamari.

the idea of having something

growing in you

for nine months,

more or less, is a giant

cup of crazy.

i don't mind being there

at the beginning,

but glad i'm not

there at the end, except

for maybe

relaxing in the waiting

room,

playing wordle on my

phone, or thumbing through

a readers digest.

she's new again

she goes in for a new hip,

a new knee,

a new tooth implanted

into the jawbone

of her mouth,

she buys a new car,

red of course.

divorces the old husband,

abandons

the adopted kid.

she goes for

hair implants. on her thinning

head.

blonde dye.

a landing strip below.

she's a beach comber now.

she gets a a face lift,

a french bikini.

a tummy tuck.

she quits therapy,

and takes lithium,

ambien

and trader joe wine.

she's back in action on

e harmony.

buyers beware.

keep your eyes open

wide.

maybe Brad Pitt can play me?

you should really write

a book,

she tells me, after i tell her

my story.

it's an amazing tale,

a lifetime movie.

a horror show of twists

and turns.

of psychological drama.

intrigue, betrayal

and international crime.

a slew of

therapists and a litany

of disorders.

gaslighting.

triangulation.

narcissism.

suicide.

that would be fun, i

tell her.

i can see it all up on

the big screen.

it makes the Amber Heard

and Johnny Depps

story look like a fairy tale.

maybe brad Pitt can

play me?

umm. maybe, she says.

maybe.

we'll see.

can we really change?

i see a vampire

at the blood bank.

he's making a withdrawal,

but the old fashion way.

he's filled out a form

and has a prescription

from his doctor back home

in Transylvania.

he's trying to change.

he's trying not to sneak up

on unsuspecting necks

and biting down,

draining them of precious

fluid.

he's in a twelve-step program.

i see him when i go

for my cake addiction.

we wave and nod, he smiles,

showing me his

sharp fangs, but then

shyly puts his hand

to his mouth to cover

them up. he's trying really

hard, as i am as i walk

by the vending machine,

seeing two Little Debbie

cupcakes behind the glass.

less round

we discuss food.

one says all meat,

no bread,

no sugar,

no sweets.

fasting.

keto.

paleo.

Mediterranean.

Neanderthal.

the other says green.

just plants,

and fish,

what grows in

the ground.

whatever works,

whatever makes

you more healthy,

less round.

time to let go

i remember the waiting.

the long

days and nights.

the visits

to her body curled in a fetal

position.

her eyes darting

from side to side

with worry,

or wonder.

who's to know.

we were ready though

to let her pass onto

the next life,

whispering in her ear

before parting.

it's okay, we'll be okay.

you did your best,

now it's time to let go.

why bring that up again?

with some people,

your mind

is full of good memories.

all good memories.

you can't think of one bad time,

or of cross words

that you shared with

one another.

it's a wonderful thing,

and then with others,

a rare few,

well.

why bring that up again?

salty and sweet

we are all tempted,

we

want what isn't ours or

what's 

bad for us.

we desire,

we have a need, a lust,

a longing.

whether

milk

or meat,

love,

or sex. we want the void

to be filled,

the emptiness satisfied

with something.

something.

preferably salty,

or sweet.

make a left at the moon

let's go where 

there is no air, no food,

no water.

no coffee, or plants,

or animals.

nothing to speak of.

too cold.

too hot.

let's go there.

it's only a few million miles

away,

we can be there by next year.

it won't cost much.

just

a billion or two.

taxes will pay for it.

me and you.

let's get out of this place,

and start a new life,

far from the maddening crowd.

up up and away,

make a left

at the smirking moon.

crazy Gene

there was a kid,

Gene Aubrey,

in the neighborhood

who put his own initials

into his arm with a straight needle,

and black ink.

we were twelve,

sitting around the dark

room,

his mother downstairs

making pot roast,

his father in the yard cursing

the weeds

and life in general.

he held the needle

to a lit match

to sterilize the tip,

then he dipped it into

the well of ink,

to tattoo G A

into his skinny forearm.

it took months before the infection

died down

and the scab wore off.

i still remember that.

the family cat, Roosevelt

the orange shag rug,

scalloped with age and sun,

a path made

through the years,

of children

once small,

then grown.

up the stairs it goes

then into other rooms

like a coral reef or algae

in a dying sea.

it's the first thing you

notice when

you come through the door,

the first thing

that has to go, the jar lamps

next.

the hotel art with

big eyed dogs,

and landscapes of snow,

and water.

geese that never land.

a portrait that resembles

George Washington

hangs over the fireplace,

charred wood

resting upon the brick hearth.

in the corner

is a television, the rabbit ears

in place,

a horizontal button

ready to be turned.

beside the magazine

rack on the floor are

bookshelves with

encyclopedias,

road maps. a worn copy of

I'm Okay, You're Okay.

besides a family portrait,

and a picture on the shelf

of the family

cat. Roosevelt.

water off a tin roof

at a certain age

you stop giving advice.

the deaf ears surround you.

some young

some old.

some have already

been advised

on love and money,

how to save their soul.

wisdom

is best learned the hard

way.

with hand in the fire,

a barefoot walk

through the snake

filled woods, 

.

the easy way is truly water

uncaught

off an angled tin roof.

bring it on

i would cringe

at summers end, the last dog

days

of august.

looking north

to where

it would begin.

the wind.

the snow and ice.

the shedding of leaves.

the heavy

coats hung deep into

the wells

of closets, 

now retrieved.

but now i welcome it.

i understand

the necessity

of death and rebirth,

the rising

from the earth of new

love,

new seed.

bring it on.

maybe, maybe not

is Hugh Hefner in hell?

maybe,

maybe not,

but if he is, maybe we're all

going to hell.

what grown man,

or ungrown

has not oogled a girl,

turned our head their way

when they run

by in yoga pants,

or short dress.

or burlap sack

loosely buttoned

up the back.

it doesn't matter

the difference in age.

why is it so shocking that

men like

the curve of a woman,

the pretty face,

the long

or short leg?

the gentle sway of hips.

the world would not

go on

if this desire did

not continue,

if sexual attraction

did not exist.

what's your password?

i was surprised

at the pearly gates when

St. Peter

asked me if i had identification,

and if i remembered

my password.

the line was long

and restless.

people had been waiting

on line for weeks.

all the paperwork,

the notebooks,

the laminated cards with

all the passwords

were at home

in the safe.

try this one, i said.

Betty123#.

He rolled his eyes and said,

okay, then shook

his head.

did you use an uppercase B?

you did?

okay, okay, what about,

Stephanieyum111.

he typed that in.

nope.

one more shot and then i have

to move on to the next

person.

i closed my eyes and concentrated.

okay.

try this one.

i think this is it.

5starFrancesca69.

Zippo dude.

nope. now off you go,

you had you're chance.

sorry, back of the line.

goldfish therapy

i stare

into the fish bowl

and say, yes, i know.

i get it.

i'm sorry little fellow,

but i can't let

you go.

this is your life

from here on out.

i see you in there swimming

around,

but going nowhere.

it breaks my heart,

but i completely understand

and empathize with

your plight.

tomorrow

tomorrow

i'll start the diet.

tomorrow i'll read more books.

tomorrow

i'll get more exercise.

tomorrow

i'll start saving money.

tomorrow i'll hold my

tongue

and not say what i really mean.

tomorrow i'll be

a better person.

i'll pray and not ask for anything

in return.

tomorrow

i'll call an old friend

and make amends.

tomorrow

i'll clean the house.

tomorrow

i'll go to the dentist,

the doctor,

the lawyer and see

what they

recommend

tomorrow

i'll stop thinking about

love

and how it all 

some point

comes to an end.

perfectly imperfect

the imperfections

are more interesting than

the perfections.

the glitch,

the mistake, the small bump

in the road.

they let us know

who or what

we're dealing with.

with no shine or shame,

no glow.

show me your worst side.

the one

without the smile,

the one

with old clothes.

show me your scars,

your secrets.

let's see then where this

might go.

false advertising

i see her number

scrawled

in the stall of

a bus depot bathroom.

call for a good time

it reads.

you won't be disappointed.

two numbers.

a cell and landline.

and a smiling face

beside it.

i check my phone.

sure enough, it's her.

so much false advertising

these days.

is there a difference?

i feel for the worm

scrunched tight along the curve

of the sharp hook.

now bait for fish.

still wiggling despite

being cut into thirds.

what and why

he must have felt

and thought

from either end,

head or tail,

(is there a difference?)

as he was pulled

from the soft

cold ground, burrowing,

and now this.

boxed and carried

to the lake,

what's a worm to do?

or any of us,

me or you?

daydream

i dip into another book

too soon,

not done with the four others

that wait

in various rooms.

each gathering

dust.

earmarked where

i left off.

i'm bored easily these

days, it seems.

it's why i haven't been

around to see you.

so much of life

feeling like

a daydream

you don't forget poor

you don't forget poor.

or hunger,

or thirst.

you don't forget 

the ragged

clothes.

the shoes with holes.

you don't forget

the hot rooms

without air conditioning,

the radiators

clanging all night

with wet

heat.

you don't forget

the bugs, the mice.

the one bathroom

down the hall, a line,

six deep.

the leaks,

the drips from the roof.

the barking dog,

the broken screens

and windows,

the flies.

you don't forget

any of it, it sticks to you,

from cradle

to the grave,

beyond.

training day

it's the waiter's first day

on the job.

he doesn't know the menu.

he doesn't know

what Tanqueray is.

he doesn't know if there

are any oysters

in the kitchen.

they haven't given him

his apron yet.

his hands are shaking.

his eyes are big and full

of fright.

he spills the drinks,

drops the food.

sneezes in our direction.

help is hard to find,

but still you leave him

a healthy tip.

day one of anything is hard.

where you gonna find another cat?

there's always another train,

another bus,

or cab

to get you out of town,

away from this.

there's always

another cat too,

roaming the streets or

at the pet store in a cage.

keep your chin up,

your head down,

your eyes focused forward

on the now,

you can count on this,

things change.

we need the wood

i ask her gently

to come down off the cross.

her lovers cross.

we need the wood.

enough

with this.

here, let me get you a ladder.

we can build

a fire.

martyrdom

doesn't suit you. Okay?

i see a pattern here

the sky grows dark

with ominous clouds.

it begins to rain.

it pours, there's high winds.

then stops,

the sun comes out.

birds are chirping

in the brilliant blue sky.

the air is sweet and cool.

i see a pattern here.

The Soul Mates

she's crying on the phone,

again.

the love of her life has gone south.

literally.

Florida to be exact.

St. Petersburg.

how could he do this to me,

she says.

i don't understand,

we were meant to be together.

soul mates.

our astrology charts match up.

we scored the same

on the Myers-Briggs test.

we have the same personalities

in the five languages of love book.

we're both needy

and delusional.

we both like rescue dogs

and Chinese food.

i hear her blow her nose.

wiping her eyes with

her wrist.

it was always going to be me

and him,

forever and ever.

he told me so. he promised.

he gave me a ring.

a bracelet,

a brooch,

a tiara.

he wrote my name inside

a heart

in the sand,

in the snow, he carved

our names into trees.

he was everything to me.

how could he just up and leave

like that.

take a deep breath, i tell her.

get a glass of water.

it's okay.

but why, she says again, why

did he leave?

we were meant to be together.

ummm,

well. i tell her. i think maybe

his wife had something to do with

this.

he's still married, you know that,

right?

so, she says. what does that matter?

God says adultery is

okay, if two people

love each other.

umm. i think i missed

that sermon.

faint praise

i curb my words,

adjust

my stance, hands on hips.

pulling tight

at the belt.

i take a deep breath,

and

decide which words

to say.

keeping

them vague, keeping

them

reluctantly kind.

i'm trying so hard to

go another way.

i finally blurt out,

despite who she was,

and how she behaved.

she was a good mother

some of the time.

the grey abyss

there are times,

when you are adrift.

no rudder, no oar, no

motor or sail

to take you to the other side

where the fog

shelters

anything that might exist.

so you drift,

and drift and drift.

sometimes you yell out

into the grey darkness, 

is anyone there?

anyone of like mind.

anyone kind?

is there anyone's hand

who can pull

me free from

this abyss.

the nuts are out of reach

the therapist asks me if i have

any long term

plans, goals.

where do i see myself in five years.

i'm stretched out

on her long therapist couch,

staring at a bowel of nuts

on her coffee table.

i wish i could reach them

with my hand, but i can't.

why would she put those nuts

so far out of reach?

is this a test?

Hello, she says, are you still with

me. i asked you a question.

oh, sorry. sorry, but

is it okay if i have some nuts,

i ask her and some water?

i use my foot to move the table

closer to me,

then bend forward to grab a

handful of nuts.

salted cashews.

she hands me a bottle of water

then settles back into

her big red chair.

so, she says. what are your goals,

your aspirations?

are there things you'd like to achieve

in this stage of life?

it's no longer the nuts, i think

to myself.

hmmm. well, i say.

i'm thinking about taking a long

nap when i get home today,

i tell her.

maybe read another five pages

from the Sylvia Plath

biography that i can't seem to plow through.

i hear the therapist writing

something down on her yellow

legal pad, as i crunch down

on the nuts,

then underlining what she wrote

with long hard strokes of her pen.

how do you feel about medications?

she asks me.

and maybe coming in twice a week?

keep it short and sweet

she liked the seven

or nine

day vacation.

i liked three days,

two nights.

how much ocean could

i look at.

how many shops to browse.

how many dinners

out.

how many times

up and down the elevator

could i endure,

the lugging chairs

to the sand.

the cooler, the towels.

two days was fine,

a week wore me out.

the love bombs

the love bomb,

rains down in the early days.

the books,

the baked goods.

the texts.

the emails.

what could go wrong.

insatiable

she is.

a match made in heaven.

so alike in many ways.

all smiles, rarely

a frown.

you're hooked,

as she reels you in.

clueless,

drugged in this

fantasy world,

blind to what horror

is about to begin

when the mask goes down.

let's do the right one now

the doctor

presses on your knee

making

a small dimple,

creating a target.

he wipes

a swab against it, then

stabs the joint

with a long

needle.

big pinch he says, 

before the tip

of the syringe strikes home.

i feel the drug

swirl in

as he jiggles the long

spike deeper.

i imagine it a golden

color,

a mad elixir,

swishing around

against the bone

and ligaments.

it hurts.

then it's over. lets

do the right one now,

he says.

the road to church

the sky sure does look

religious today,

the boy

said to his mother

as they drove

along the dirt road,

heading towards the white

clapboard church

down in the glen.

she squinted her

eyes,

and told him to put his

arm back

into the car before

a street sign took it off.

she looked beyond 

the tall swaying

pine trees

the boy was right, a cathedral

of white clouds

rose majestically beyond them,

with long bands of

sunlight

shooting between the blue,

finding their targets

the unforgiven

beware of those with

rosary

beads hanging from their rear

view mirror.

another set in their purse,

one more

on the dresser beside

the crucifix,

and portable altar.

beware of those that pray

at every meal,

and go to church three

times a week.

beware of those who put

extra into the basket

on Sunday.

beware if they know the

priests by name

and all the saints.

they have ashes on their forehead,

and play

religious music

all day.

beware, there's something

going on here,

a deep deep sin that won't

be washed away.

the last piece of cake

i don't have to worry

about the last piece of chocolate

cake under the glass

dome of the cake

plate.

she won't touch it.

sugar being a mortal sin.

the dog, can't get to it.

the maid,

is too honest.

the plumber, maybe will

swipe his finger into

the icing, but other than

that.

it's all mine.

all mine.

little else is, but this will

have to do for now.

the best meal ever?

some meals are better than

others,

some drinks,

some naps,

deeper and more restful,

some laughs are

longer

and harder,

some friends are closer,

some lovers

are better lovers

than others.

it's a sliding scale,

this life.

i put you near the top.

the one that got away

it's a yarn,

a long, well told story, 

polished to a shine,

repeated,

embellished over

the years.

he has it down.

his hands

move from side to side,

this big, he says,

this wide.

there's a twinkle

in his eye.

he loves telling this tale

about the one that got away,

the big fish,

getting bigger and bigger

over time.

the same window

as i soak

the wall, i think about the man

or woman

who carefully

applied this wallpaper.

i see his measurements,

his cuts

and miscuts,

the way he smoothed

out a wrinkle,

or rolled on the paste.

i see that he even

signed his named

beneath one sheet.

i go at it, peeling it

all away,

scraping,

then stand at the window

with my coffee.

the same window i'm

sure he stood at

years ago, as he took

a well earned break.

taking your lumps

i get a call from

the better business bureau

they have a complaint filed by

an ex wife

of mine.

she's gone onto yelp too.

she gives me one star

as a husband.

she says i never really loved

her, that i wasn't

a good cook,

and i never made the bed.

plus i snored

and watched too much

football on tv.

but what can i say.

she's right on all counts.

i just have to take my lumps.

although the other two

wives gave me two stars,

saying i was good with

the fitted sheets being

sort of folded.

a night at the drive-in

i think i'm still recovering

from

the drive-in food i ate as a teenager.

i haven't yet

digested

the loaf sized shrimp rolls

with sweet sauce,

or the floppy, soggy hamburgers,

or grease laden fries.

the gallons of coke are still inside

my arteries, clinging on

like sticky mud.

the dawn to dusk marathon

was the worst.

the worst five hours

of your life.

especially if you were on

a date, there was only so

much kissing and groping

one could do, before

exhaustion set in and a red

rash appeared on both

your faces.

whoever invented the four snap

bra should be shot.

you needed a degree in mechanical

engineering to figure it out.

the movies weren't much

to watch either.

B films with Peter 
Fonda, and Burt Reynolds.

Maybe Dean Martin

with Raquel Welch.

occasionally there'd be a

Swedish film with subtitles,

women in bikinis playing

badminton, by then though

you were half asleep,

with the lame garbled speaker 

thrown

out the window.

look down your pants, there's your answer

kids don't want to work

anymore.

when was the last time a kid

knocked on your

door and offered to mow your lawn,

or wash your car, for a few bucks.

walk your dog?

and when it snowed, kids used

to prowl

the neighborhood looking

for a driveway to shovel,

or to help free a stuck car.

we used to search for empty

pop bottles

to get the two cents in return.

now kids are staring into their phones.

dopey, half educated,

depending on parents

or the government to pay their way.

go fund me.

tattooed and pierced,

hopelessly confused,

unsure if they're girls or boys.

back in the day, 

we looked down our pants

and that's how we knew

what we were.

you either had one, or

you didn't have one.

there's your answer.

it's really not that difficult

to figure out.

size 8

she tells me

she wants to be a size four,

she's watching

her calorie intake,

and going to the gym

five days a week.

when i was in high school

i was a size two, she says.

ah, don't worry about it,

i tell her, and offer her

a donut, which, she takes,

and says, maybe a small

bite.

marilyn monroe was a

size 8, i tell her.

no one ever told her to lose

any weight.

i've known a size zero, i

tell her.

and it's like dating a surfboard.

we're talking two fried

eggs on top,

and no curves whatsoever.

i always feel better after

talking to you, she tells me.

pfffft.

no charge.

go on, have another bite.

it's a crueler.

light as air.

his last meal

they tell the man

the night before his execution

that he can

have one meal

of anything

he wants.

he tells them a peanut

butter

and jelly sandwich

on white bread and a glass

of milk,

cold.

he wants to remember

childhood,

not this.

not the world that took

him down

this road.

look what i made

the woodworker

sits

all day,

carving, splitting,

shaving,

creating something

out of nothing.

a bowl,

a dish

an ashtray,

a table, perhaps.

then he takes it to

the fair

and sits behind

his work. 

he puts a sign up

to tell the world,

this is what i made.

sticky situation

we call it a sticky

situation,

when caught between

a rock

and a hard place.

there's little room

to wiggle

without

some sort of pain,

or mistake being made.

so do nothing, is 

the right advice,

and let what happens

happen.

either wrong or right

doing time

i tell the guard,

it's cold in here, in this cell.

the mattress

is hard.

the food awful.

stale bread,

dried

meat, porridge, really?

he laughs.

and shakes his head,

then pats

his round belly.

prime last night, he

says.

my wife sure can cook.

now lights out,

go to bed.

the dented can

the dented can,

once more

gets pushed back on

the shelf.

i've seen it many times

before.

black beans

or tomatoes.

no one wants a dented

can.

turned

around to hide

it's imperfection.

but you feel it in

your hand,

and back it goes again.

until the price is

marked down

so low,

that you can't resist.

a light rain

it's familiar,

this rain. how it falls in quiet

little steps

on cat's paws.

in whispers,

almost with apology

and regret.

i'm sorry, it says, as it

forms

small puddles,

sorry, but the clouds

are in charge

of it all.

what we expect

we take

for granted that the car

will

start.

that the sun will rise.

that there

will be water when you

turn the knob.

ice will melt.

the lights

will go on with a flip

of the switch.

we expect

a door to open,

the clocks

to tick.

we expect love to be

everlasting.

and yet.

it isn't.

store flowers

the store flowers won't

last long.

cut early

and watered,

banded together

on the shelf.

the petals will fall,

they'll wilt,

the stems

no longer strong

enough to hold them up.

no sunlight,

no vase will help.

but they'll make

it home

and into the hands of

who they were bought for.

and that

counts.

options

finding the right word

is hard.

so many to choose from.

there are

so many choices

in this life.

colors,

what to wear, where to 

live.

to tell a truth,

or lie.

how to work.

who to love,

nearly everything has

an option,

even when

and how to die.

graduation blues

the arts and science,

the business degree,

the theater

diploma,

philosophy.

and there they are

sweeping

floors,

flipping burgers,

the day labor office

jobs,

shuffling online

papers,

living in tight quarters

with two others

or three.

weighed down by

student loans

that will never set them

free.

it's hard to disagree

hardly a day

goes by where you don't hear

someone say,

from clerk,

to bum,

to scientist,

i'm worried about the world.

things have changed.

it's not the way

it used to be.

look around you.

it's hard to disagree.

the job chooses you

how did you become

a lobster

man,

i ask

the guy pulling in the steel

cages

full of struggling

brown

lobsters.

i didn't choose this life,

he says,

sucking on a cigarette,

and taking a sip

of whiskey

from his silver flask.

the job chooses you.

does it hurt them when

you boil them.

nah.

they don't feel a thing.

three grapes and half bowl of chicken broth

i knew she'd be gone for

two hours

after she ate three grapes

and a half bowl

of chicken broth.

she had to work off the calories.

off she'd go,

with her headphones on,

cell phone

clutched in her hand.

a blood red head band

tight on her brow,

baggy workout clothes

to weigh her down.

special walking shoes.

a timer on her wrist

for distance.

i'd look out the window

and see her arms

swinging madly,

teeth clenched

in determination.

six miles at a furious pace

should do it.

the passing of Mrs. Abercrombie

it's hard for the new neighbors

to accept you.

the widow

Mrs. Abercrombie

lived in your house for thirty-seven

years.

everyone loved her.

she baked cookies.

she watched the neighborhood kids.

she gave out

the tomatoes

she grew in her garden.

she sang in the church choir.

she was the treasurer on the board

for many years.

she had a wreathe

on her door, a flag in her

yard saying all are welcome,

race creed or color.

she gave to the poor,

recycled.

she was adored.

it was hard on everyone

when they wheeled her out

on a stretcher.

and now it's you

living there.

putting the trash out 

a day early,

and before

the sun goes down.

already there's angry notes

on your door.

unprepared

some people are never

prepared

for what's up ahead.

they never have an umbrella

when it starts to rain,

they don't save

money,

they spend it, hoping

that there won't be that

rainy day.

there's no back up plan,

no plan B,

or C.

they plow forward,

nearly out of gas,

they smoke and drink,

they overeat,

and hope the good

times last.

virgin oil

we all want the good stuff.

not the day old,

or the rail

bottle.

not the used car,

or the goodwill coat.

we want new.

we want the best.

we want the virgin oil,

the virgin wool.

the girl with

the never been slept

in bed.

the errand boy

i was way down

on her totem pole.

kids, parents,

job, dog,

house.

etc. came first.

i wasn't even on the pole.

i was somewhere

on the ground.

a rug to wipe

her feet upon.

an errand boy waiting

for the bell to ring,

for me to come

and help her out.

why vote?

speeches are made,

vows,

promises.

a new deal, a new plan.

lower taxes,

raise wages,

cut waste,

less control by the man.

time for a change.

blah blah blah.

four years and out

or in again.

same old story

of nothing changing

since time began.

the front porch swing

i see her

on the front porch

aging,

waiting.

waiting

for a train, a bus,

an old friend.

waiting for love

to arrive

or to return again.

she rocks

on the swing

listening to the soft

parade of rain,

remembering

how it was.

how it was,

back then.

show me more

some

disguise themselves

as pure,

as good, as clean

and wonderful

as new

driven snow.

but they aren't.

show me the flaws,

the scars instead,

show me the wounds

that still bleed

and are yet to heal.

show me

the dark side of

your moon,

your lisp, your nervousness,

your hidden room.

be fragile, beneath

the snow.

be more than just what

i see on the surface,

show me what lies

below.

careful not to spill

when the well

runs

dry

you wait for rain.

you have

no choice

but to be patient.

to sit

in the shade

under the cloudless

sky

and sip

what water there

is,

careful not to spill.

popsicles in the sun

after sucking

on a popsicle while sitting

on the curb,

in the July sun,

our lips and mouth

would be orange,

or cherry.

stained with the sugary

colored ice.

it would drip down

our chins,

onto

our shirts and socks.

then we gnawed on the stick.

the rounded

popsicle stick

until it was all gone,

then we threw them

at each

other.

it was a long summer.

keeping him small

my son is a minimalist,

she tells me proudly.

he owns two pairs of shorts,

one pair of jeans

and three t-shirts.

and sandals.

she beams when she talks

about him.

remembering

how he sang in the choir

in the fifth grade.

but, i tell her,

he's nine years out of college,

he's thirty-three.

no job

no girlfriend,

no money,

still living in the same

house and bedroom

as the day

he was born.

what does he do all day?

i ask her.

which ends the discussion.

swimming lessons

it's scary when

your father

takes off the training wheels.

with wrench in hand

he bends over

your bike

and unscrews the rattling

pair of wheels

that have kept you upright.

you got this, he says,

giving you a push,

down the hill.

you hit a pole,

then a fence and go

sprawling into the street.

he laughs,

then picks you up.

let's try this again,

he says,

as your mother holds

her breath

and tries not to cry.

swimming lessons 

are next week.

spelling don't matter

the teacher

doesn't care about spelling,

my son would

tell me in the sixth grade

as i looked at his

test paper,

his handwriting no different

than a chicken running

across the paper after

stepping in ink.

she said there are no

wrong answers.

everyone else got an A too.

nobody fails

in her class, he said smiling.

she said there are no

mistakes. it's the effort

that counts.

which made me think

of Miles Davis,

who said there are no

mistakes

in his music. but he was

talking about jazz

and blowing the horn,

not communicating with

words.

great i told my son,

as his mother pinned the test next

to his participation trophies

on the shelf.

so far left he's almost gone

he used to be a regular guy.

he'd play

ball, drink, have fun,

have a scotch on the rocks

and a cigar

once in awhile.

a burger at the local

pub,  a sports fan

of various teams, he whistled

and flirted with women.

and then he met Sally.

a long legged former

beauty queen back in

the day. way way back

in the day.

now he's marching

to save the ta ta's,

wearing pink,

he's cooking 

and cleaning, watching

her grandkids all day.

which is all fine,

but he wants to disband

the police, bring in

the social workers.

he even quit his job

to spend more time with

his herb garden and dog.

on weekends he separates

his paper, plastic, cans

and has adopted a road

that he walks picking up trash.

another good thing, but

i've actually seen him

in the kitchen wearing an apron

over his save the whale t-shirt,

as he cut off the crust

of organic cucumber sandwiches.

Dick Butkus used to be

his hero,

but now it's Gret Thunberg.

he traded in his old GTO

for a Prius and

tells me that he's evolved,

but in my mind

he's so far left, he's almost

gone.

the car salesman

i'm here for a test drive,

i tell the salesman,

waking him up, as he sleeps

with his head

on his desk.

what?

who are you, he says.

i'm a potential customer,

i tell him.

go away, he says. i was just

in the middle of a dream

about Farrah Fawcet.

what?

who?

i want to test drive the new

S 4, in black if you have

it.

he lifts his head back up.

are you still here?

we don't have any cars to

test drive.

we're waiting for covid to end,

and for the war to end,

plus all our micro chips come

from China, and they're a little

mad at us right now,

because of Pelosi.

he takes out a pair of keys

from his desk drawer and throws

them at me,

there's a green dodge dart

around back, take it out for a spin.

it's on sale.

put some gas in it okay?

be careful of the floorboard,

it's rusted and you might put

your foot through it.

doing the research

i can't get my doctor

on the phone,

or my nurse,

or my ENT guy, or

my dentist,

or my dermatologist.

they don't answer

their phones, or e mails.

i think  i need 

a whole new team.

maybe they've given up 

on me.

none of them ever liked me

showing them my research

from WebMd.

where were you last night?

so, the detective

knocks on the door.

he has a few questions to ask me.

i invite him in and put on

a pot of coffee.

he takes out his notepad

and clicks open his pen.

cream and sugar, i ask

from the kitchen.

a little of both, he says.

is splenda okay?

sure, one. just one.

i carry out the coffee

and a small plate of cookies

left over from a tin my

father got me for Christmas.

they might be a little stale,

i tell the detective

as he sips his coffee.

so, he says.

where were you last saturday

night, and the saturday

night before that?
gee whiz, i tell him. i can't

remember.

but today is sunday, and yesterday

was saturday,

you're telling me you can't

remember what you did last

night?

tequila will do that sir, i tell him.

how's your coffee, should i heat

it up.

no, he says. it's fine, then dips

a cookie into it.

i see him write down, tequila.

can anyone verify where you 

were last night?

sure, i yell out to the other room,

Betty, hey Betty, can you come

out here for a minute.

she's still in her wonder woman

costume from last night

and nearly falls over, tripping

on the carpet in her stiletto heels.

her mascara has run down

her face and her lipstick is 

smeared.

i'm not Betty, she says. i'm

wonder woman.

she's still woozy from last

night's tequila.

are you in trouble with the fuzz,

honey? i promise i'll visit you

in jail.

the man wants to know where

we were last night, or where i was.

she starts laughing.

should i show him the little video

we made.

no, no....the detective says, no need

to do that.

i think we're done here. thanks

for the coffee,

sure, sure, take some of these

cookies with you okay. here

take the whole tin.

i hope you find whover did whatever

was done.

thus or therefore?

she carried 

a pink hand gun

in her purse

bejeweled with

multi-colored rhinestones.

it was a small,

derringer of sorts

that could barely

kill a squirrel

if the need arose.

she opened her purse

and flashed the gun

as we sat eating our

greasy order of calamari

at the riverside bar.

put that away, i told her.

what are you nuts?

why do you have a gun?

i work in my parent's liquor store

over in PG county,

she said. wiping red sauce

from her pouty lips,

and we get a lot of

robberies. so thus the gun.

thus?

I said, not expecting that word?

yes, she said, thus.

or would you prefer

therefore?

either is fine, i told her,

putting my hands into the air.

careful where you step

i keep looking

but so far i see nothing

hidden.

no lies.

no secrets.

no alternative life

beyond the one

being lived.

a clean slate.

twice burned makes

one

fearful of the next

fire, if there is one

to be found.

heads or tails

you run

out of options.

the clock is ticking.

you have

no time left.

you have to make a decision.

you flip the coin

high into the air,

it's taking forever to land.

will it be heads

or tails this time,

what now

will be your plan?

i don't understand, she'd say

i could never make her laugh.

i wasted some

of my best material on her.

she'd roll her eyes

and tell me i was too sarcastic,

too cynical,

too cryptic.

too dry.

i don't get it.

she'd say.

you make a joke of everything.

can't you be serious

once in a while?

but in the beginning

during the honeymoon phase,

she'd say, you're such

a funny guy,

then throw back her head

and fake a laugh

holding her stomach as

if in pain.

she never told a joke, or

got a joke,

it was an early exit and demise.

it's the government, man

i can see

by the silver ponytail, 

and the tie-dyed shirt

that he hasn't quite

left the 60's.

Hendrix on the stereo,

followed by

a stack of wax.

Joplin, then

a song about San Francisco.

he's

rolling joints

at his coffee table.

sandals

and jean shorts, it looks

like he's ready to go

back downtown

to protest the Vietnam

war again.

he brings out two glasses

of carrot juice,

freshly squeezed

and some seaweed crackers

and smiles.

so what's going on, man,

he says.

what's happening?

what do you think about

the government lately?

same old, right?

same old.

burning sage

my friend Labella

believes

in the other side.

evil and demons,

dark people.

she brings sage over to my house,

and lights it.

then walks through

each room,

getting the spell out.

waving

the burning branch

around,

filling the air with

the pungent smell of

burning leaves.

once done, she says a prayer,

then we have

sandwiches and tea

on the patio

and we put some music on.

between the spare the tire

i find an old short story

i wrote a few

years

ago in the trunk of my car.

i have no idea

how it ended up there,

snug between

the wrenches and spare

tire.

folded in half.

i take it out and give it a

read.

it's not too bad, not too

shabby at all.

maybe i'll clean it up,

add and subtract and send

it out into the world.

why not?

the american dream

when you get old

they expect

you to get a little red sports car,

play golf,

buy a boat,

join the country club.

they expect you to wear

white pants,

with loafers

a checkered shirt

maybe grow a mustache

or a goatee

get a mistress on the side

a house on the water

in Florida

go fishing as you fade

out of relevance.

it's the American dream.

as far as the eye can see

no matter how many times

you visit

the ocean,

you can't help standing back

to stare at it for a moment

or two when you arrive.

it's crazy.

how big and wide it is.

stretching out as far as

the eye can see,

from left to right

and forward.

it's truly amazing.

you think to yourself,

shaking your head,

the depth and power of it all,

and then you put your

luggage in your room

and go get something to eat,

like a crab cake, or lobster.

a fresh start

i pick up my new

love interest in my new car.

i'm wearing new pants

and new shoes.

i'm all new.

except for this shirt i'm

wearing which i notice

has a coffee stain on

the front.

i'm doomed.

you can't trust yelp

the man

has his family rate

his restaurant

on yelp.

it's a big family.

they all give it four stars.

they rave

about it.

you have to try

the ravioli, one says.

another,

praises the linguini

with alfredo sauce.

but the place

is empty

when you go there,

the service bad

and the food

tasteless.

you see the cook

in the back

arguing with his wife.

there's trouble here.

slowly you slip out,

before a glass of water

arrives.

you can't trust yelp.

darn, it's my sock ironing day

i make a quick excuse

to get out of

going to the garden party,

where someone

is going to read their poetry.

that's my sock ironing day, i say.

so sorry.

church, afterwards?

oh my, i'd love to, but

i think i have poison

ivy on my leg

and i'll be itching it the whole

sermon.

bring me back a bulleting though.

it's nice to see

who passed away.

a nice short visit

when a lady bug,

orange,

small and round like a happy

psychedelic pill,

lands on your arm

you can't just brush it off.

send it flying

to where it came from.

you like this short visit

from the kindest of bugs,

you wish more people

were this friendly and fun.

carefully, 

you keep your arm still

as you walk around.

something sweet

it's a craving.

a lust

for something sweet,

something

to satisfy

the urge.

something small.

decadent.

something in reach.

something you don't have

to drive down

to the market for,

where others too

are circling

an aisle of treats.

finding hope in the tragedy of others

i see that

the dog makes do

with one

leg,

van Gogh with one ear.

the cat with one eye,

the fox

without a tail.

even the wingless bird

finds a way

to get along

and have a life.

it was encouraging

to see,

as i listened to you

cry about

your broken nail.

wearing the new mask

once exposed,

off they go.

some slow, some quick afoot

fleeing

into the arms

of another,

or the deep woods,

a shelter.

becoming unknown,

once more.

full of new good

deeds,

burying the past,

disguising who

they really are,

tying tightly the new mask.

cry me a river

i took out my

violin

and began to drag the bow

across

the thin

strands of wire.

go on, i said, cry me

a river.

then lifted my feet

to keep

them dry, and

listened.

let's see how it ends

it's cavernous

the cave

of dark,

the eek of light just

barely showing

you where to put

the next foot.

with torch in hand

you go further

and further,

deeper and deeper in,

with no end

in sight.

at the halfway mark,

it's just you,

alone, but why stop now,

keep going,

let's see how it ends.

no ice in her water

when i picked her up

at the airport,

Rimute, all the way from Germany,

she was wearing

a micro-mini skirt and a mink

stole. she had splashed herself

with a pint

of perfume from Switzerland.

she didn't speak English.

only French, Italian, German

and Spanish.

i had English.

she teetered over to my car

in her stiletto heels

and i put her six bags of luggage

into the trunk.

she was well prepared for

the three day visit.

communication was a problem,

but we made do

with hand signals ala

Jane Goodall and Koko the ape.

using the international sign

language for hungry,

thirsty, tired, etc.

it was exhausting, but fun

nonetheless. 

i still have the chocolates

she gave me,

frozen solid in my freezer,

and the book about the Alps,

that she signed with big

swirly letters and a heart.

our initials inside.

i made a mental note of

no ice in her water, or drinks,

in case she ever came back.

a German thing, i guess.

fashion faux pas

i really really want

to wear

this new white sweater i bought

yesterday,

but is it too hot out?

will i get looks

and raising of eyebrows,

shaking their heads

at my fashion faux pas.

is it

too early for fall clothes?

i stick my head out

the window

and check the weather on

my phone.

fifty tonight.

maybe i can get away with

it, but i'll bring a dress

shirt just in case.

making room for cash

the market goes

up again.

i tell my broker to cash

me out.

my mattress is ready.

i have space between

that and the box spring.

i've cleared out

the books, and dvd's,

pictures of you

in lingerie.

the play gun, the wig,

the whip,

the recordings and magazines.

i've got plenty of room

now for cash.

no checks please.

she was more of a rental

at first it was more

of a rental than a forever

kind of thing.

nice on the outside.

big rooms,

a lake,

the woods.

quiet and easy

with plenty of parking.

a one year lease.

it felt good for a while.

the neighbors were

friendly, but not

too friendly.

i would have bought

the place

if not for the plumbing

and bad wiring.

the leaky basement

and bats in the belfry.

one year with her was

plenty.

skipping school in the 7th grade

we'd skip

school and take the dc transit

into town.

dropping us off at

the National Archives building.

we'd spend the day

wandering

the arcades

the museums.

taking the small subway

from the Supreme Court

to the Senate,

where we'd eat bean soup

in the cafeteria.

ragamuffins we were

getting a peek inside the

Blue Mirror

at the dancers

when the door swung open

there was five dollars between us,

but we ate well.

and had our fill of pin ball

machines.

cold cokes at the counter

of Woolworth's.

sometimes we'd take in a new

James Bond movie

at Lowe's Palace,

where the uniformed usher

would tell us

to keep the noise down

and to get our shoes off

the seats.

by three in the afternoon,

we were tired

and took the bus home,

where our parents would

ask us how school was that day.

and we'd say great.

between the lines

so much is said

between the lines

without being said.

but the astute listener

will know

the meaning of this

talk. the careful observer

of lips and tongue,

can easily surmise

what lies in

the ebb and flow.

the lift of hand,

the touching the nose,

the scratch, the shift

of weight from one

foot to the other,

the avoiding gaze.

what's not to know?

the shaved ice man

his hands

pink

like strawberries,

as he pushed

the old cart

up the road,

his face darkened

with sun,

stopping for the children.

shaving ice

into each

handheld paper cone.

all shades and flavors

of the rainbow.

I remember him.

the splash of colors on

his apron,

his white mustache,

his smile.

did he ever speak,

that i don't remember,

i don't know.

sweet sixteen at sixty

it was hard

to explain our rug burns

to our parents.

what was there to say.

the room was

dark,

the cushions on the couch

in disarray. 

we drank some beer

and spun a few

records.

yes, our lips are red,

our necks

have blue welts

on them.

it's what happens

when we're left alone

in the house.

it's hormones,

damn it.

come on.

we're teenagers.

weren't you one too.

the three page letter

i write a long letter.

hand written,

a rare

thing these days.

i've said everything there

is to say.

my story, my take on life.

bitter truths,

no lies.

it's three pages.

i read it out loud,

over and over,

before i'm happy with it.

crossing words out,

adding words.

post scripts.

finally i hold it up to the light

then fold it.

i slide it into the envelope

addressed,

a stamp pressed into

the right hand corner.

i seal it with a long lick

against the back

glue stripe.

done.

maybe i'll never send it,

maybe tonight,

we'll see. we'll see.

with the coffee gone cold

with dishes on the table,

the coffee

gone cold,

is this the end

of the night? are there more

words to say,

more stories told.

it's hard to let go

of nights

like this. 

with

friends gathering

in peace and laughter.

the closest one feels

to being whole.

have you seen Lilly

have you seen Lilly 

the woman

in the Cadillac

asks when she rolls

down her window.

she's referring to her

old black cat

that wanders

the neighborhood,

going under parked

cars and down into

the sewers.

lying in the sun on

a porch when tired.

i pour her a small

bowl of buttermilk

from time to time when

she visits me.

nope, i tell the woman.

haven't seen her

this week.

we'll if she shows up

tell her i'm looking for her,

and to come home. okay?

okay, i'll do that.