your favorite jeans

when your favorite pair

of jeans,

finally

falls apart,

faded

and thin,

loose at the seams,

a loop or two broken,

the zipper

stuck,

the pocket with a hole,

the frayed

cuff,

patches needing patches,

you fold them

and put them on the high

shelf.

there's no other

choice but that.

what's on your mind

we don't mean to,

but we do,

at times reveal what's

on our minds,

the discussion of weather

and rain,

snow and ice, suddenly

takes a turn

and we slip

into a thought or two

about

what's really going on

in our life.

the remnants of childhood

when the nest,

is empty, 

the safe

harbor

for children

now hollowed out

by

what's left,

when

the outgrowns

of childhood,

the remnants of holidays,

the toys in the attic,

the strollers,

the bikes

and skateboards,

the clothes

that no longer fit

remain,

how can she not cry,

and grieve,

her heart is bittersweet

with the knowledge

that

those days

will never come again.

time is not on our side

if i had to choose,

deem

a favorite,

i would take the hour

hands over

the minute

hand,

or the swift

but endearing second hand,

give me the slow

black arrows

casually

moving around

the clock.

of course that could

change

depending on the day,

or where i might be,

or with who.

a cult of one

after watching

the show on a cult in Albany,

my first reaction

is what stupid

idiots these people are.

giving up

their money,

their lives,

their sexuality for this nutcase

who captured their souls 

under the guise

of self-help.

worshiped and adored.

what's wrong with people?

how easily are

they brainwashed

and suckered and hypnotized,

and then

i stop.

i think about my own life,

once or twice being

dragged into a relationship

resembling

a cult of one.

do you believe in God?

once the meds wear

off

you become grumpy,

not yourself,

at least not your sweet,

kind,

nice compassionate

self

that so many others

adore.

delusion is part of the equation.

but the meds,

though they

lasted through the night

have waned

and now i feel

the ache

and pain of a sharp scalpel

digging

into my leg.

i stare at the ooze of me

trying to break

out from under the gauze.

six weeks, the doctor says.

bite on

this piece of leather

meanwhile

and drink this.

a shot of whiskey from

an old barrel.

do you believe in 
God?

the factory sealed air tight chicken plastic package

i can't remember

when i

bought those chicken legs.

a week,

ten days.

Easter?

i'm afraid to cut open

the factory

sealed plastic

package they came in,

plus i can't

find the hack saw

to open

them up, or the pliers

and exacto knife.

i hold them up to the light,

dig a hole

into the plastic

with a screw driver

and smell.

i still don't know.

i ask myself one question,

do you feel

lucky tonight, well, do ya,

punk?

it's complicated

when someone

says to you, it's complicated,

as they take

your hand into

theirs and look deeply

into your eyes,

maybe with alligator

tears in theirs,

some manufactured sighs,

expect the worse.

the end is a painful

ten minute

convoluted conversation

away.

just rip the band aid

off, and 

grow a pair,

say what you have

to say.

you have no patience

for junior doctor phils.

two cans and a string

do you have

what's app, she asks,

facebook,

instagram,

skype

zoom or video chat?

umm,

no, i tell her

pulling out an ink

pen

and a pad of paper.

what's your

address, i'll send you

a postcard.

luck be a lady tonight

it's the lidocaine

that stings, the needle prick,

the flow

of a liquid

strange,

that the body

reacts to.

the rest is easy

as the scalpel

eases it's way around

and down

the numbed skin,

in surgical search,

challenging

the bad cells

to give up, to

disperse.

all the while

the surgeon whistles

a Broadway

tune.

luck be a lady tonight.

i know

that tune too.

the radio city rockettes

i stick my bare foot

out

the door to see how cold it

is,

wagging my leg

to see if it's raining,

if the wind

is blowing.

trying to decide what to wear.

i look down the street

and see

a dozen or so other legs,

black

brown,

tanned, or pasty pale

like mine.

all doing the same thing.

we are

the neighborhood

radio city

rockettes 

on tour.

after the Eisenhour heart attack

we had a sugar

bowl

on the table,

salt and pepper,

side by side.

a stack of wonder bread,

in the middle

on a white

plate.

we had margarine

and skim milk.

vegetable oils,

no tallow,

or lard,

everything was low

fat.

no meat or eggs

anymore.

no bacon.

just

kale

and carrots,

lettuce and pasta.

we had dessert.

ice cream

or cake

piled high

with chocolate syrup.

dripping down the sides.

who knew anything

back then

about obesity,

or how our doctors

lied.

waiting to be discovered

i know a few actors.

dramatic actors.

degrees in drama, but

they don't work.

they do house chores, while

the wife

works.

they cut the grass,

make stews in the kitchen.

they change

the sheets,

dust, mop,

vacuum. 

they watch tv.

the calls aren't coming in.

they walk around

the house

practicing lines

from Shakespeare.

to be or not to be.

they look out the window,

to see how the dog

is doing,

they pray to the heavens,

with dramatic flair,

will 

someone please 

discover me.

the bridge is out

i hear the bridge is out

because

of the heavy

rain.

the flooding.

it makes me happy.

no one was hurt, thank

goodness.

but now i can change

my plans.

i don't have to go

to that same dumb

party they have every

year.

sorry, i'd love to be there,

but the bridge is

out,

i exclaim.

eight fifteen

i miss a button

on my shirt.

i'm in a hurry, it's dark,

so i'm off

one button.

i forget to pull up

my zipper

and my white

boxer drawers are

hanging out.

there's shaving cream

in my ears,

i've cut my chin

shaving,

the blood is everywhere.

i'm a five year

old running to catch

the bus.

i can't be late.

switching doctors

we all want the best,

the best

lawyer in town,

the best doctor,

the best

restaurant or chef.

we want the best clothes,

and cars,

and hotels.

we don't want the second

or third tier

things.

we don't want motel six.

we don't want

the hand me downs,

the used,

the tossed,

the refuse.

what's the yelp reviews

on that?

i think i know

i know.

i know, i know.

then i don't know.

i'm assured and confident

of my beliefs

and then

i'm not so sure.

maybe

it's the caffeine,

maybe it's you

and your influence

on me,

or maybe i'm just

as confused

as everyone else

seems to be.

what are women doing in there?

she takes

a long time in the bathroom.

the door is warm

with steam.

i knock

gently, light taps,

hello, hey,

are you okay in there?

yes,

she whispers.

i hear the water running.

i hear

what may be soap

and splashing.

is that a magazine

she's reading?

i hear the pages turning.

she's singing.

quit standing at the door,

she yells.

i can see your feet

in the hallway.

i'm just checking to see

if you're okay,

if you need anything.

do you need some water,

or something?

a nice cup of tea?

go away,

she says.

can't i have one moment

of peace

and quiet?

okay, okay.

i'll check on you in a bit.

be careful

in there.

i put some clean

towels by the door,

when you get out,

be careful,

don't slip.

bottles cans and plastic

nature

will run its course,

despite our

meager efforts

to delay

the inevitable.

leave it

alone.

let what grows grow.

the earth will

split,

the oceans

will overflow,

fires will consume

the trees.

there is little

we can do,

paper or plastic?

really?

put your mind

at ease.

a deep snow

remember 

when it used to snow,

she says,

sleepily,

as we linger

in bed, 

each to our own side,

the big window

facing us.

remember how the trees

would bend

in whiteness.

how we had to shovel

our way out,

how we made hot drinks,

and pies.

how wonderful it was.

how we made love

in the afternoon

by the fire. remember,

she says,

remember?

i do, i offer.

maybe we need

another deep snow

to save us.

getting a mulligan from Father Flannigan

the pope,

or someone high up,

a bishop maybe,

a cardinal,

someone,

maybe Father Flannigan,

notified me by mail

that the last marriage

was annulled.

a mulligan of sorts.

a do over.

it never happened

they write,

but it did, i laugh,

staring at my

bookcase dedicated

to self-help books,

and exorcism.

we have to let you go

when the church

says

they're done with you

for a variety

of reasons,

you get a letter in the mail

saying that you've

been ex-communicated. 

you read down

their list of grievances

on the stiff piece of parchment,

stamped

by the bishop.

notarized by God,

you imagine.

sorry it says, but we

have to let you go.

your kind is no longer

welcome here.

stuck on stupid

we get stuck

on stupid at times.

the wheel of learning,

somehow

broken.

no longer taking in

words of the wise,

no longer

growing

and understanding,

but it's just a phase

you're going

through,

a temporary set back,

as you straighten

out

your life.

the layer of time

is it the distance,

the hours,

weeks

and months folding

into years

that 

keeps you warm.

each

layer of time,

a blanket,

pulled up to your chin.

safe

where no one can

do you harm.

the wedding photo

it's a picture of John

in his

wedding suit.

brown

with wide collars.

it was early

in the seventies.

a rented suit,

but he's wearing

his old boots.

his beard is full.

his wife, Emily,

is beside him

in a yellow dress,

almost

white.

she has flowers

in her hair.

the sun

is over the roof

of the small church 

on

Bachman

Road,

beside the cemetery.

it's early in the morning.

it's early

in all our lives.

the perfectionist

beware

of the perfectionist.

she'll see

all the flaws

in you

there is to see

once

the initial

phase

of infatuation wears

off.

the way you

stand,

the way you walk,

the way you

breathe.

all your jokes

will

be thin by then,

you'll hardly

speak.

could you not leave

the butter out

on the counter

overnight,

please?

office space

i enjoyed coffee

breaks,

happy hour,

birthday parties

in the conference room.

i liked 

the camaraderie

around

the water dispenser,

shooting the breeze

with

cubicle mates.

volleyball on

Wednesday.

i liked the Christmas

party,

the company picnic.

the new secretary

at the front desk.

i liked everything

there was 

about the office job,

everything

except the work.

with full moon in view

it was

sloe gin

that did me in

as we drank on the high

school

bleachers.

summertime.

a full moon

in view.

some boys,

some girls.

some mischief.

a hundred years

ago.

i still can't smell it

without

remembering

that night

and feeling sick

again.

free range children

we were free range

children,

no fences, 

no boundary, no yard

to keep

us in.

no cage.

we were free

to venture out wherever

we wanted

to go.

just be home by dark,

our mother would say

from the screen door,

or kitchen window.

stay out of trouble,

be careful

when crossing the highway,

take your brother with you,

and if it starts raining

don't go into the storm drains.

the bullet report

the news

gives you the weather,

as always.

sports,

and money,

the basic news of the world.

war,

pestilence,

plagues

and famine.

and then there's

a new segment,

safest places to travel

when going

into town.

it tells you where

the least amount

of violence

and gunshots

are.

take this route, but

don't stop

or get out of your car

lock your

doors,

new jersey avenue

heading north,

is clear

for now.

endless paper

how long do i keep

these papers,

the tax returns, the phone bills,

the insurance

policies, incomprehensible

packets i never

read.

how long do i keep

these credit card

bills,

the bank statements,

the invoices,

the receipts?

what about the divorce

papers

from twenty years

ago,

the ones from last week.

what's the expiration

date on all this

paper in boxes stacked

at my feet?

anyone?

is anyone

happy,

anyone content,

not whining

about

gas prices, or

the weather,

elements beyond

their control.

is anyone satisfied,

secure

and safe.

is anyone happy.

anyone?

a lot ain't.

i get the broom

the slender

cross hatched snake

on my porch

step

startles me.

an omen?

a portent of the day

to come?

we look at each

as i wait

for it to slither on

to whatever

mischief

it's up to.

but he doesn't move.

i get the broom.

sharing poetry

it's light verse.

sing

song

lines hard

rhyme

at the end of

each line.

nature

for the most part.

oceans and trees,

birds

and bees.

faith

and love,

all the gooey

sentiments

one can imagine.

it's a candy

store of poetry.

but not my cup

of tea.

the blackboard

we had

blackboards then,

back then,

way back then.

and erasers

that you bumped hard

against the school

wall

to clean them.

mrs. forester

picked you

and the small shy

boy behind you.

it was fun,

the cloud of white

powder,

the smeared chalk

of learning,

now filling

the air, our tender

lungs.

but we were strangely

happy,

having been chosen.

turning back

before

i close the door

and leave

on an extended trip,

i take one last

look

around the house.

i check

the lights, the water,

the back

door,

the gate.

i draw the shades

and turn

the front porch light

on,

despite it being.

day.

and as i drive

away,

i ponder what i've

forgotten.

change is hard

we lessen,

the load of our burdens

gradually.

whether

in material

things, or people.

never in one fell swoop.

we rarely just rip

the Band-Aid

off.

change is hard,

even good change.

we know

what we have,

who we are.

save the day

it's the kind

of blue

sky day, where you gulp

the air.

let the sun

lie upon

your face.

cool and clean

as spring water.

you want to bottle 

this day

and save it for

it rains,

for snow, for ice,

which will

surely

come your way.

smile and say cheese

the girl

with the new dog

doesn't know yet what she's

into.

she's a grown up

now,

almost. but

she doesn't know about

fleas. or barking.

or scratching.

or mud on the paws,

or vaccines.

or teeth.

or blood work.

or a leash.

it's just a cute dog

that looks

good on her lap 

for pictures

on social media.

smile and say cheese.

don't forget me when you're old

as i rake

the endless confetti

of leaves,

all colors

except blue it

seems,

i drift back in time

to when

i was a kid,

and an old neighbor

would pay

me

to rake her yard

for a dollar

and a few thin dimes.

i'd gather

her leaves in my

small arms

and place

them in a barrel

then she'd come out

with matches,

tossing a lit one in.

stand back

she'd say.

doesn't that smell wonderful,

it reminds me

of my father.

she'd pat me

on the head and say,

please don't forget

me when you're old.

i haven't.

Medium Rare, please

is it salt,

is it sugar,

meat or no meat,

sardines,

or salmon,

tea or coffee,

seed oils,

saturated fats,

or unsaturated fats.

is it calorie intake,

keto

or fasting.

carnivore,

or paleo,

what's making us fat

and sick,

who the hell really,

knows,

but my blood pressure

is down,

my cholesterol

good,

my weight decreased

and my

libido is off the charts.

so she wants

me to keep

eating a ribeye,

eggs and butter each

night for dinner,

from here on out.

sound advice

i couldn't stand her mother.

and her mother

couldn't stand me,

so i would usually pull up

in front the house and beep

the horn.

no way i was going in there,

to be harangued about

my job, my hair, my intentions.

so i waited outside in

my belching 1978 ford pinto.

and lay on the horn.

my sort of girlfriend

would then look out

the top window and yell

at me to stop.

i'd shake my head

and turn the radio up,

so that i wouldn't hear

her mother yelling at

her to break up with me.

which was probably, 

at the time,

sound advice.

really? really?

we have run

out of expressions

to convey

our dismay or joy,

or disappointment

with the world.

i'm stuck on yikes,

and wow.

using them liberally

for everything

and anything

i find out about.

but i'm trying to work

back into

the mix,

jiminy crickets, just

to raise a few

bewildered eyebrows.

a few come to mind

are there people

on the planet

that are more slippery

than politicians,

more fake,

more devious,

more narcissistic,

more duplicitous,

or full

of bs.

just a few come to mind.

used car salesmen

and televangelists.

she's almost like you

it's someone

like you,

almost like you,

not quite,

but close.

a smidgen away

from being you,

different hair,

yes,

and weight,

different colored eyes,

a different length

of legs,

but she's so much

like you,

so much that i'm

reminded

once more to not

make the same mistake

again. observe

how quickly 

we are through.

the easy life

it's not

a lack of compassion

or empathy

but i just can't keep

giving another dollar

to the large

well dressed man

on the corner.

he's there every morning

as i drive

to work.

he's tanned,

new boots, a nice

flannel shirt.

a well written cardboard

sign.

his nails look manicured.

i feel like with each

dollar

i give him,

gives him encouragement

to keep doing

what he's doing.

to not get a job.

is it mental illness,

or is he being clever,

being wise.

unlike us, punching

the clock

as we struggle

day in and day out,

to survive.

the lost and found box

in the past

i kept a box in the closet

of things

left behind.

a watch,

a ring, a religious

bracelet,

a rosary.

reading glasses.

an occasional wig.

a nylon stocking,

a pair

of once worn

stiletto heels.

a coat in the closet,

a scarf.

a hat, gloves.

an assortment

of lingerie

and creams.

instruction books

on the karma sutra.

i stopped asking,

did you leave this

behind,

is this yours?

that never went well

if it wasn't. 

the end of the world

all this talk

about

nuclear war.

if and when,

how will it affect us.

what's 

the circle

of destruction,

how wide is the band

of radiation.

who dies,

who lives?

what then?

stop watching

the news

and just embrace

the white

light, perhaps take

a picture

with your cell phone

of the mushroom

cloud,

as you await the end,

send it to a far away

friend

with a frown

emoji.

here, have a bag of sugar

i have mixed

feelings

about dropping off food

at the church.

ten small jars

of candy sprinkles meant

for cookies,

for decoration

on icing.

a family sized

bag

of Fritos.

two pounds of granulated

sugar.

vegetable oil.

canola oil.

white flour in a fat bag.

a tub of

quaker oats,

new and unopened.

cans of beans.

a cookbook by Paula Deene

on holiday desserts.

boxes of rice.

of couscous.

how can i be so aware

of my own health,

but be so indifferent

about others

getting fat.

i'm quickly over it

i hear

the neighbor with his

garden hose

spraying the patio.

his broom,

his vacuum out

and loud.

he's rounding

up fallen branches

and leaves.

it saddens me with

guilt

as i sit and read,

my feet up on the chair

a cup of hot tea

within reach.

i look at my yard,

my stone slab,

green with moss,

my hedges, no longer

shaped,

but full of thickets,

thorns. lost.

the weeds waist high.

a mix of grass

and what seems to be

sea oats, though i'm

far from

any ocean.

i turn the next page

of the book i'm reading.

i'm quickly

over it.

a conspiracy of kindness

they are out there.

good people.

silent

for the most part, but

they exist,

this conspiracy of kindness,

compassionate

souls,

despite all that you read

and hear

about the world

going mad, there are

those

who aren't, who are steady

forces below

the turmoil,

helping hands,

large hearts.

quiet and kind

as they go about

their lives, asking nothing

in return.

old school doctors

i try to tell my doctor

about

all the significant

improvements in my health

after starting

the carnivore diet.

no more stuffy nose,

no more aches and pains.

my skin doesn't itch anymore.

i have more energy,

sleeping better.

i've lost weight,

my blood pressure is down.

she laughs and says,

fiddle dee dee.

let's see how long this lasts.

then she takes a leech

out of a jar

and puts it on my arm.

we need to take some blood

she says.

the best six years of my life

i took business courses

in college.

then computer science,

then journalism,

then creative writing,

then art,

then biology

for a hot minute.

then i started skipping

classes.

bored silly with it all.

i began to read more,

write more. drink

and study

the female anatomy

out on the quad,

which set me on the path

i'm on now, with no

visible destination.

and so it begins

i see the newly weds

with

their first glimpse of the world.

a dog.

the pre-child

test

of endurance.

i see them with their plastic

bags,

their leashes,

the little coats wrapped

tightly

around their pooches.

they call them

baby names.

give them kisses.

take them

off to obedience school.

and so it begins, they have

no idea.

come quick, the sun's coming up

she used to wake

me

up

to see the sunrise.

sometimes i'd get up,

roll out

of bed,

go take a look

on the veranda,

nod

then go back to bed.

those were

the early days.

you have to do things

like that,

to keep it going

at that stage.

but i couldn't sustain

it very long.

i'm sure

she's waking someone

else up now.

then there's the moon,

a whole

other thing.

green lights up ahead

she's telling

me

without words 

something.

i smell

it in her perfume,

dabbed

on her wrists,

her neck.

i hear the message

in her wordless

sigh.

her heels,

her dress.

she's telling me

quite clearly 

what the future holds.

that green lights

flash

up ahead.

finding the coffee machine

they gave me a desk,

the first

day on the job.

a stapler. pens and paper.

a telephone.

the desk had drawers,

deep drawers

with nothing in them,

yet.

they put a stack of

papers in front of me

and told me

to sort through them,

line by line,

they asked me to do my best.

they smiled,

i smiled.

they left.

i got up and found

the coffee machine,

made small talk

with anyone i met,

then went back to my office,

i stared out window,

and wondered how i

would ever get out of

this mess.

the soft pawed cat

tired

of being careful,

cautious,

the soft pawed cat,

peering

around

the door, unbold,

uncertain,

about what the present

is,

what the future

holds.

you have claws,

you have teeth,

you have

the centuries of hunting

behind you,

strike the day,

discard

decay, desire

what's whole.

don't get captured

he's a turtle,

she's a rabbit

he's a lion, she's

a gazelle.

he's an eagle,

she's

a sparrow.

she's a dolphin,

he's a shark.

she's a butterfly,

he's a snail.

be whatever you

are 

but beware

of the zoo keepers

who want

to rein you in,

put you in a cell.

big boat, small dinghy?

i perceive it to be 

a man thing.

possessing

the big

boat,

the large car,

the monster sized

truck,

up on four wheels, 

set high.

the enormous house

and yard.

a pool, Olympic sized.

the corner office,

the big salary,

the wife with enlarged

breasts,

big hair,

and long legs.

bigger is better, 

it seems

to be said.

perhaps as Freud

implied 

that a fat cigar

is not just a cigar

after all.

the firefly

it's almost

like

the firefly wanted

to be caught

and admired,

adored,

stuck inside a jar

where it's

light could go on

and off

like a gentle

switch

being

touched.

the ephemeral

glow

a lure.

this too reminds

me of

you.

Cinderella 2022

it starts early, the desire

for true love.

it's in 

the Disney movies,

the books,

the poetry,

the fairy tales of

the prince,

the knight on the white

horse

that will come and

sweep you off your feet.

love and romance

in technicolor.

the music,

the heaving of hearts,

the sighing.

the elixir

of it all.

love, love, love.

and then you turn fifty-five

and it hasn't happened

yet.

you're sitting at a bar

on a rainy Tuesday night

waiting

for your internet date

to show up

in a toupee with a ketchup

stain on his shirt,

and his wedding ring

in his pocket.

maple glazed donuts with bacon

it could be your lipids,

or

your insulin sensitivity

i suggest to my

friend Sheila,

as she polishes

off

another donut from 

duck donuts.

i put Stevia in my coffee,

so why am i

still gaining weight

and not losing.

i always park the car as

far away from the donut

shop as i can.

so i can maximize my calorie

burning.

i point to her chin where

a dollop of maple icing

hangs like an icicle.

i like your new clothes,

i tell her.

does your husband know

you took the sheets off

the bed and cut a hole

to put your head through?

no, and please don't

tell him.

i'm still hungry, i know

it's only ten a.m., but 

did you

have lunch yet?

too early

don't say that to me,

i tell

the man dressed as

Santa Claus

outside the general store.

don't say

merry Christmas to me.

it's too early.

we haven't even had

Halloween yet, or

thanksgiving.

but it's my job, he says,

scratching his fake

beard and his neck

in the sweltering heat.

what should i say, he asks.

nothing.

don't say anything,

and stop ringing that bell.

just stand there

like a dope sweating

and maybe read a book.

sending a nodule to the lab

it's a circular

wound, dime size,

one made by the slender

scalpel

held

by Norma,

my dermatologist.

she's bored.

i can see it in her eyes.

it's a long

day already

at three p.m.

she sighs,

after sticking the needle

in.

then ten minutes

later returns

to cut and slice

away

what's risen from my

skin.

she puts the piece of me

into a little

cute cup

with an orange lid,

i see my name on the side,

then she wraps the wound,

before leaving,

poorly, i might add,

never to be seen again.

i look down as

blood fills my shoe,

running down my leg.

it spills onto the Formica

floor of green 

and white tiles.

i wait

for someone to return

to wrap it tighter.

i want to yell out,

clean up in aisle six, but

don't.

i'm surprised though at

how beautifully crimson

the blood is.

i make a note of it

to write about later.

sugar shack

i read

the label on cereal.

sugar.

on bread.

sugar.

in cans of beans.

sugar.

crackers,

sugar.

the obvious cakes

and 

cookies.

sugar.

in sausage.

sugar.

salad dressing.

sugar.

they know what

they're

doing.

the mad scientists

that run

the world.

they keep the pharmacies

happy.

the doctors

too.

the waiting room

it's mostly

the aged, white haired,

a cane

at their side. a hat on.

a book

in hand,

calm and still

as they read and wait

for the doctor

to call them in.

they are unmoved

by the circumstances

no longer

in their control.

they've been here 

before

and will be back again.

the cake in the window

i stop by the old German

bakery on Lee highway

to reminisce

with Frederick,

the head baker.

he comes out with his apron on,

his tall white hat

balanced on his head.

the dust of flour on his hands

and face, his mustache.

he nods and smiles 

when he sees me.

pats me on the back

with his oversized hand.

how are you, he says.

it's been a while.

he points up 

to the display shelf,

and says we still have your

wedding cake.

still beautiful.

we wrapped it in plastic.

we waited, but

you never picked it up.

let me know 

when you need another.

canadian club

my father's anger,

was fueled

on whiskey.

seven children, 

that we know of,

probably raised

his stress level too.

always with a pack

of lucky strikes

rolled up in his shirt sleeve.

a few girlfriends

on the side,

an angry Italian wife,

and a small

house without

air conditioning

i'm sure it all added up

to make a frightening

toxic stew.

.

in and out of light

the red fox

who lives in the thatch

of woods

near

the houses,

is skittish.

nervous.

beautiful and lithe.

it lingers

at the edge

in shadows as dusk

arrives.

doing what they do

in the dark,

as you do.

selective memory

some have selective

memory

able to recall only what

suits them.

while others,

like me, unfortunately,

remember

everything.

like the time you

left the house

and didn't kiss

me goodbye, or

the time,

you secretly removed

our picture

from the shelf.

strange yearnings

what used to matter

hardly

matters anymore, what

used to be

important

seems ridiculous now.

all vanity.

all strange yearnings

of youth.

how nice

it is to get older and to

let go

of that noose.

a glass of water

the glass

of clear clean water

is what

you want out of life.

simple.

cold

and refreshing.

transparent

and honest.

you want the world

to be like that.

people.

the day.

the night.

you want to quench

your thirst

with that.

starting the gossip

i look out the window

and see

my neighbor

arriving in from a long night

out.

it's almost morning.

his tie is askew,

and his shirt is untucked.

i whisper to Betty.

i think Bill is having an

affair,

either that or he has

a paper route.

he's just getting in, and

he looks happy.

Bettty jumps up out of bed,

and takes a peek.

yes.

that look on his face,

he does look happy and

relaxed.

oh my. poor Marsha.

wait until i tell the girls

at pickle ball.

keto heave ho

my friend

Bubbles started the keto

diet,

but she's

gained weight.

she's making keto

bread,

keto

donuts,

keto pies,

keto potato chips,

keto stir fry.

she's keto twenty- four

seven,

but she hasn't

dropped a pound.

yesterday

she came over to borrow

ten packs of Stevia,

some almond

flour and flax seed,

oil and my rolling pin.

she broke hers

while rolling out  some

keto pizza  dough.

the ten commandments

it was a good week,

i hadn't broken any of the ten

commandments,

the first time

in decades,

but then my

my new neighbors

moved

in.

three flight attendants

from Sweden.

and i was doing so

well.

what's your real name?

my lie detector

machine

finally arrives from Amazon.

they left

it on the porch

in a big brown box.

i see it when

i pull up

in the car and can't stop

smiling.

at last.

beside it is a package

of sodium pentathlon

and syringes.

alcohol and a bag

of cotton balls.

i get out my legal yellow pad

and make a list of questions

for possible

love interests.

are you financially stable?

bankruptcies?

have you ever been arrested?

how often do you bathe?

do you cry a lot?

do you lie?

do you cheat?

how many times married?

are you still more than friends

with all your ex's?

have you ever been in

a straight jacket,

or locked up in an asylum?

when was the last

time you read a book

a non self-help book?

what's your feelings about

laxatives

or hallmark cards?

do you agree that Valentine's

day is the absolute worst day of the year?

do you sleep with your phone

in your hand?

how many times an hour

do you text

or check your phone?

do you really like sex or are

you just using it to lure

me in?

do you take drugs,

drink too much,

or have more than one tattoo?

piercings?

do you know how to cook

anything besides salmon?

have you ever stalked someone?

have you ever

physically harmed anyone?

do you hate your father?

at night do you have 

the jimmy leg?

do you take medications

for depression, suicidal thoughts,

or voices in your head?

do you have a car

and will you drive in the rain,

or at night, or both?

how many cats do you currently

have?

okay. here we go.

relax, sit down and hold out 

your arm.

now roll up that sleeve.

there we go.

you'll feel a little pinch,

that's the sodium pentothal

going in.

feels warm, right?

and then i'm going to wrap

this little band

around your arm.

the buzzing will be the machine.

relax.

just relax. okay.

as know, before

i agree to start dating you

i need to ask a few questions.

here we go.

first question.

what's your real name?

Christmas Lights

i take out the box

of Christmas decorations

from the attic

and start sorting

through the jumbled mess

of ornaments,

angel hair, globs of tinsel,

snow globes,

and wind up music

boxes.

when did i buy all these

reindeer figurines?

at the bottom are

strings of lights.

some for the tree,

some for

the outside railing,

some to just to lay around

the window

sills, or counter tops,

whatever.

i say a non Christmas

word under

my breath

and take the bundle

of lights out

of the box.

i only have three months

to untangle them,

which may be harder than

Chinese algebra.

i'm not sure

that's enough time.

where's the egg nogg

and rum, i say to my

friend, Betty, who's dressed

in a red and green elf

outfit. 

we have work to do.

lovers leap

who hasn't had the thought,

if i jump

off the cliff

and end things, they'll be sorry.

then they'll miss me,

all my troubles

will be over.

no more drama

and dealing with crazy

people.

there won't be me around

anymore

to show you a good time.

you step to the edge and look

down.

taking in a big

gulp of air,

and fear.

nothing but sharp rocks

and a sliver of stream a thousand

feet below.

nah.

maybe not.

carefully you step back

and say,

let's go to lunch now,

i'm starving.

how's the weather

i read the junk mail

first,

the mattress ads,

the insurance

requests,

the new senior home

on the hill

wants me to visit.

coupons

coupons

coupons.

there's a note from

the Tire Store,

half off,

the fourth tire free.

ten dollar

oil change if you replace

your transmission.

there's a picture

of a dog

without a home,

behind a fence.

there's an ad for Crohn's

disease. 

the army

wants me.

St. Judes

and the Purple heart.

then there's the real mail,

a post card

from an old friend

in Italy.

wish you were here,

it reads.

how's the weather?

forever young

the cop looks young.

very young.

the mailman,

the gardeners,

the waitress,

the bartender.

everyone looks young

now.

a lot younger

than me.

whippersnappers,

all of them.

politicians

and lawyers,

doctors.

they're all kids now.

what the hell do

they know?

how dare they hold

the door

open for me,

and call me sir.

duck donut therapy

once,

when in turmoil,

emotionally, i went

to a therapist.

she had an office next to

the new Duck Donuts

establishment.

i told

the young therapist

my troubles.

relationship troubles

of course.

what else?

i noticed that she had

a box of duck donuts

beside her.

most of them were

maple glazed with

bacon.

want one, she'd offer,

holding 

the box out

as i lay on her futon

couch.

nah.

she appeared to be getting

larger and larger

with each session i attended.

she was no longer wearing normal

clothes, but large

bed sheets with a hole in them

to stick her head through.

after each donut,

she sucked

the tips of all her now

sausage sized fingers,

then would

write down her observations

about my babbling.

maybe you should get away,

she once told me.

you mean like move?

no, no.

maybe go to another continent

for a while,

and help people.

Africa, maybe.

you need a fresh start,

a new perspective on life,

digging latrines

for the less fortunate might

be soothing for your soul.

i nodded.

i'll think about it.

great, she said. are you sure

you don't want this last

donut.   coconut butter with

chocolate syrup 

and Marchino cherries.

peace be with you

one wife

one wanted me to join

her church.

so i did,

sort of

but then they wanted

me to

make pancakes

on saturday

morning

for the men's prayer

group.

but i had my usual

basketball

game

on those mornings,

so i never

showed up.

it went downhill from

there.

i was shunned.

almost

burned at the stake.

but they gave me

a second chance,

by telling me i had

to help wash

cars

in the church parking lot

on sunday

afternoons,

but again, i didn't show

up.

that was my designated

nap time.

from then on i figured

what's the point.

and no longer

went.

waving from bed

on sunday mornings,

at the ex wife 

dolled herself off to go

and pray for me.

maybe tomorrow

the attic door,

propped open letting

in an angled

slice

of hall light,

smells old. musty.

webs hang

in the corner,

the soft rattle of wings

flutter

in the rafters,

the scurry

of something across

the loose boards

makes me lift

my hands

and wobble on the tight

ladder.

i swing my flashlight

around.

maybe tomorrow,

i'll explore further,

but for now the christmas

lights can

wait.

another storm

this storm

will pass, they all do,

the damage

will be done.

but those who haven't

died

will

press on

with hammers and nails.

grit.

muscle

and courage.

it's never easy,

but

we rebuild all our lives.

it's what

we do

each and every time.

it's not luck

someone tells you

how lucky

you are.

to have what you have,

to be

in the position

where you stand

with finances.

no debt.

savings.

plenty, God willing

to see you through

hard times

or old age.

you show them

your penny jar,

your calloused hands,

your cuts 

and bruises.

you point out

the window

to your ladders,

and tools,

your old truck waiting

for monday.

you show them your

work book

full of clients over

thirty years.

then you tell them

it has nothing

to do with luck.

nothing.

fait accompli

sign here,

and here, and here,

(page flipping)

here too,

at the bottom.

date too.

initial each column,

down the left side,

(next page)

initial here and here,

here 

here

here

and here.

sign at the bottom

of the last page.

okay.

you're a free man now.

congratulations.

the visual goo

the visual goo

of tik tok, of

you tube,

of social media

in general

gets

on you, it's a sticky

mess for sure,

tasty

and fun for a while,

an addiction,

click click click

on the next

stunt or,

tragedy

or trial,

or sexual exploration,

crazy,

beyond the pale.

what will become

of the world

as it spins

faster

and faster

out of control?

without morals,

or conscience,

just empty eyes,

and hungrier souls.

look into their eyes

who do we trust,

the priest,

the physician?

the banker holding

your money,

your friends, your

relatives,

your wife,

or husband?

who's telling the truth,

who isn't lying

to you?

the gypsy with her

crystal ball?

maybe none, 

maybe all,

maybe just your dog.

taking the bus south

i see a duck

at

the bus station.

suitcase

beside his orange

feet.

he's wearing a fedora

and a vest.

what's going on, i ask

him.

shouldn't you be

flying south

for the winter.

i'm tired, he says.

he pulls out a cigar,

and lights it,

i don't think you can

smoke in here

i tell him.

so sue me, he says.

blowing a big puff into

the air.

i'm tired of flying

to florida

every winter.

i'm done with it.

i'm taking the bus.

i'd take the train, but

all they

have left are the quiet

cars.

i have to let out a quack

every now

and then, it's habit, you know.

people don't like

quacking

in the quiet car.

by the way,

do you know where i can

get a tuna sandwich

around here?

i'm famished.

disparity

it's raining hard.

late October,

fall has set in.

i see a woman trying

to get off

the curb,

to cross the street,

but it's a long way down.

she's holding

an enormous

black umbrella,

she looks old,

fragile,

confused.

i walk over to her

and take her arm.

let me help you, i tell her.

thank you

young man,

she says. very nice of you.

i look at her.

don't i know you?

oh my, she says, yes,

we do know

each other.

we were married once,

years ago. remember?

it didn't last.

i do, i tell her.

i remember.

shall we cross now, she says.

the light has

changed.

decorating advice

my mother

would

buy the same sofa

every few years from 

Sears and Roebucks,

back when they

ruled the universe.

a yellowish flowery

sofa, with spongey

cushions,

oak trim.

with seven kids,

two dogs,

three cats and a slew

of neighborhood

children

in the house, it didn't

last long.

it resembled

a piece of furniture

you might find 

in Martha Washington's

living room.

i tried hard to convince

her to go more

modern,

more contemporary,

something sleek,

with nice lines,

ala Frank Lloyd Wright,

adding an abstract painting

above it.

but she wouldn't listen to me.

who listens

to a ten-year-old

about anything, anyway.

i don't get it either

you can't please

everyone,

sometimes no one

understands you.

you are

misunderstood,

no one gets what you're

saying,

or doing.

but it's okay,

half the time 

you don't get it

either..

the open window

it's cold,

so you get up at three a.m.

to close

the windows

you left open.

it feels good though,

you pull up

a chair in the darkness

and listen

to the rain

and wind

blowing through

the trees.

you wrap a blanket

around you.

you are a child still,

still

amazed and in love

with the change

of season.

your own blue sea

being a fish

out of water does not sit

well

with you.

you know where you don't

belong,

and where you should

be.

whether a job,

or house,

or relationship.

you can hardly breathe,

dreaming about

the day

you'll be back swimming

in your

own blue sea.

the new duck donut shop

the next door app

is alive

with the chatter of a new duck

donut shop

opening up soon.

the excitement

is heart pounding.

i can hear

the flapping of jowls,,

the scrapping

of thunder thighs

as they waddle towards

the end of

the line.

slipping into loafers,

and sweatpants,

of triple x size.

money in their trembling

hands,

sugary 

fried donuts are on

their minds.

no plants either

i don't want

a full-time dog, or cat,

or wife,

or friend even.

i can't do 24/7 with anyone

anymore.

nothing against

them,

it's all me.

all the time at this

stage

in life.

between two worlds

in the grey minutes

before

sleep,

still awake in the gauze

of day,

you're neither here

nor there,

but somewhere in between

the two worlds,

that you live in.

who knows what

dreams await,

or what

the morning will bring

the next day.

the horror movie

we like

to be scared, to read

a horror

story,

a tale of darkness

and fear,

we like to sit in the movies

and scream

when the monster

appears.

some days

it's like that all day.

the spine

feeling

the chill,

goosebumps

and risen hair.

the ten year affair

as i sit

at the outside cafe

along the tree lined boulevard,

the sun

up high,

the sky blue as blue can be,

i listen

to the couple beside

me,

arguing, discussing,

negotiating

their future

together, or not together.

she says,

i can't see you anymore

until you leave

you're wife,

but, he stammers,

reaching for her hand,

we've been going out for

over ten years

now,

you can't end it now.

it's over, she says.

looking away, not eating,

not drinking.

shaking her head.

i'm tired of spending holidays

alone,

of sneaking around,

lying to everyone.

just wait until the holidays

are over he says.

we'll take a trip,

we'll go somewhere and figure

this out.

after new years, okay?

you say this every year, she

says, standing up.

i'm done.

don't call me anymore,

or i'm calling your wife.

i'll put all your things on 

the porch.

don't knock when you come

to pick them up.

but i love you, he says,

twisting his wedding ring

on his finger.

no, you don't. if you did we

wouldn't even be having

this conversation.

i look at her as she walks

away,

and wonder what took her

so long

to grow up

and have the truth set her free.

breaking news

did you hear,

she asks,

no what?

you haven't heard what

happened,

no.

sorry.

i'm not up on the news

like i used to be.

well,

you have to turn on

the tv.

it's incredible.

it will change everything

for everybody.

do i have to?

no, but it's important,

and earthshaking

what's happened.

can it wait?

i'm just going for a walk.

and i just poured

hot coffee into my travel

mug.

let me know later

what happened,

ok?

without a need to pray

close to nothing

the small

ones,

burrowed

and hiding

in peat and bog,

crawling

or flying

on air with fragile

wings,

nocturnal

things

with their own 

way of speaking,

of making

due with the life

they've been given.

do they understand

the pain

of love,

the struggle

for the crust of bread,

sin?

all that

we go through each

day,

or are they born 

oblivious

and forgiven,

heaven bound, without

a need to pray.

the disappearing act

as a kid, having seen

the magician,

David

Copperfield,

when he made the statue

of liberty

disappear on tv,

i decided to study the art

of magic.

there were so

many people

i wanted to make 

disappear,

some temporarily,

some for good,

but it never worked.

it was just easier

for me

to leave.

ashes by the fire

the list keeps growing.

the departed

list.

a team

of friends, relatives,

acquaintances

and lovers,

now off

the grid forever,

a few still living,

while others,

six feet under,

or turned to ashes

by the fire.

poisonous

something about

seeing

a copperhead snake

slowly

slither out of the woods,

taking it's

time in the shadowy

light of trees and sun,

in no hurry

to get to the other side,

something

about it's presence,

brings other things

to mind.

the mini van

you should buy

a mini van

she tells me, as we grapple

with the steering wheel

the gearshift

the bucket seats, trying

to grope

and kiss

and get things going

in a romantic direction.

hmmm.

i say.

a mini van?

yes, or a flat bed truck

with a camper.

good idea. great.

i guess that would

solve a few things.

this too could be arranged

people in boats

wave

to each other,

going in opposite directions,

in trains,

they look out the window

and wave

to those they're

leaving behind

at the station.

i see that look in

your eye,

that for us, this too

could be arranged.

the galloping clouds

the clouds

were in a galloping mood.

swift

and ominous

overhead,

nothing still in the sky.

impatient and angry

from where i stood,

looking up.

they had places

to go,

things to do,

rain

to let go of, lightning

to release.

they reminded me

so much of you.

off the leash

we were so much

alike

me and my dog.

both stubborn,

unwilling

to roll over and play

dead,

or beg.

we wanted no part

of the leash,

of a cage,

of ownership.

one crack in the door

and we

were gone,

bounding down

the stairs,

down the street

and over the fence.

reborn.

before doppler radar

as a kid

i'd read about the hurricanes

in the newspaper,

the headline in big bold

letters.

100 mile an hour winds

hits Florida.

i stared at the pictures

of people wading

in water up

to their arms.

paddling down main

street in row boats

with all their belongings.

houses turned over,

or floating in the ocean.

horses on the rooftops,

cats,

dogs,

cows.

it was before doppler

radar.

so they didn't know what

hit them.

i was kind of jealous

of them, though.

we got nothing

like that.

just a little snow in

the winter,

heat in the summer.

and an occasional lighting

strike

that would kill a golfer.

but no hurricanes.

triggers

i see my doctor,

doctor Troy

in the alley next to the hospital

eating a big mac

and sucking

on a cigarette.

he waves,

hey, he says.

how you doing?

great i tell him.

you?

not so good, he holds

up his cigarette.

i'm back on it.

and i'm emotionally

eating since i

my found my wife

in bed with

my neighbor.

i'm going to happy hour

after my shift.

you should meet

me there.

all cocktails are half off.

the no candy zone

i stopped giving

out candy

for Halloween.

no cookies either,

or candy apples.

instead i give out advice.

it hasn't gone well.

i tell them to read books,

exercise,

don't eat sugar,

be honest and nice

to people.

save your money.

it takes me all day

the next day

to scrub the eggs off

my porch.

and to unstring

the toilet paper hanging

from my tree.

Glam Ma

the first time i heard

her call

herself  Glam Ma,

for grandma,

i spit out a mouth

full of

mashed potatoes across

the room.

that's what my nieces

and nephews call me,

she said,

having no grandchildren

of her own.

she blew on her nails

as she painted them hot

pink

at the dining room

table.

i mean look at me,

my hair,

my tan,

my make-up and

clothes from Nordstrom

rack. yes, i'm over sixty,

but i am the epitome

of the Glam Ma.

yeah, right,

you and Blanche DuBois

i mumbled

beneath my breath

before she threw

her sliced avocado at me.

the last donut

she tells me,

you're very cynical, aren't you.

i can see that

in your writing.

poem after poem

about love gone bad,

how cruel

and lonely the world

is. etc.

baloney,

i tell her.

if someone writes murder

mysteries all

the time,

does that mean he's

a murderer?

good point, she says, good

point.

are you going to eat

that last donut?

nah, go ahead.

they don't 'make donuts

like they used to,

do they?

memory foam

i was thinking about

a few

of the nine pillows i have on my

bed,

it felt like

a few weren't as cushy as they

used to be.

each one was labeled

with memory foam.

but there was no memory

anymore,

early dementia had set in,

the sundown syndrome.

can a pillow acquire Alzheimer's?

they were hard now,

lumpy,

if you want the truth.

parts of them 

were soft and mushy.

flat as pancakes.

anyway.

there was no memory left

in these pillows.

no short term, no long term.

nothing.

memory foam. pfffft.

call me hope

my friend Harriet

told me

the other day that she was

going to rename herself

Hope.

i'm sticking with the H

so that i won't

have to change

the monograms on all

the towels.

she's going down

to the courthouse

to have it officially done,

and then

having a party

with all her friends 

to celebrate her new moniker.

i think my life will

be better now, she tells me.

i'm more optimistic

about finding a man

and a better job.

great, i tell her. this should

do it.

at least i hope so.

what exactly do you mean

what did she mean by that,

i think,

putting my hand

to my chin,

pondering her words,

her mood,

her eyes.

is there a double meaning

there,

a layered cryptic

meaning,

something said between

the line?

always.

staying put

when the winds

come

some

pack and leave

locking

the house,

some go to higher

ground,

while some stay

and hold

the bucket waiting

to bail

the water out.

each to his own

way 

of dealing

with a storm.

the fifth season

you reach

a point of no longer looking,

no longer

searching,

being anxious for

someone

or something.

everything has already been

found

or lost,

over and over.

you live in a season

of contentment

now.

awaiting what comes

next

if anything at all.

love at ninety

they find each other

in the dim

light

of late afternoon.

to bed early now,

and early

to rise.

they linger in each other's

arms

before casting off

the day

into sleep.

they dream in vague

memories

of being young again.

she talks

in the morning, 

incessantly,

he pretends

to listen

as the cold floor

meets

his feet.

the art of spitting

as kids

we used to spit a lot.

the boys,

at least,

not so much the girls.

it was hard not to spit

when playing

baseball.

everyone spitted

and made adjustments

to their shorts.

(a whole other topic)

we'd have contests

as to who could

spit the farthest, especially

if watermelon

seeds were involved.

spitting was an art,

close to smoking,

but not that cool,

a tier below

perhaps.

some kids could spit

between the space

of their front teeth,

which included

a slight whistle at times.

i still spit now,

but not nearly as much

as i did when i was

twelve or

thirteen, and when i do,

i spit when no one

is around.

sometimes i forget to

roll the window down,

which isn't good.

the red radio

in an attic box,

i find

my old red transistor radio.

circa 1968.

i open up

the back and put

new batteries in.

it still works,

still emits a sound,

static

and words,

but the music has

changed.

where did it all go?

the songs i knew every

word to,

old friends

have disappeared.

it seems like

yesterday

when i held it to my

ear

and fell asleep 

with them.

the island

it's an island

that you live on, self-made.

you've surrounded

your self

with a sea wall,

a fence,

tall trees

to keep

the ocean at bay,

to keep

the wrong ships from

docking,

from the wrong

people

from coming onto

land.

you like it

this way.

raking leaves

i don't have

the energy to care about the earthquake

in Chile,

or the poor

in Venezuela,

the hungry and cold

in Wisconsin.

the war that rages across

the ocean.

i know about the fires,

the floods,

the murders.

not just here, but everywhere.

death and disease.

it's overwhelming.

these large eyed dogs

in cages,

these children

bone thin, begging from

their knees.

i listen to how the icebergs

are melting,

that the polar bears

have nowhere to go.

i'm full to the brim with 

bad news,

but right now i have

to go out

back and rake these leaves.

eyes in the woods

the flash

of yellow eyes in the woods,

could be a fox,

a raccoon.

or someone i used to know

on her hands

and knees.

how quiet they

are.

waiting patiently

behind the brush and trees,

hardly seen

in the light 

of this September moon.

by morning

they will take their tears

and leave.

we don't have far to go

we don't bargain

with the man

for the tree. we're too tired

for that.

we stand it up straight, banging

the trunk down

on the snowy

pavement of the church

parking lot.

there's a fire going

in a barrel

where an old man holds

his hands

over the flames.

six feet is seventy-five,

the young man says.

it's a good tree,

just cut.

feel the needles, still cold

and stiff,

the life still in them.

i look at the wife, she shrugs.

nice, she says.

okay. we'll take it, i tell him.

the man cuts off a few feet

of twine from a large

wooden spool on the ground

and ties the tree

to the roof of our car.

we don't have far

to go, i tell the man,

as my wife looks far away

wiping tears

off her reddened cheeks.

i hand him the money,

and he says Merry Christmas.

yes, I tell him.

you too.

the apple vendor

the woman

with her potatoes at the farmer's

market.

is round

and plump,

a sort of potato herself,

an extra

in a foreign film.

her cheeks red

with weather

with wind, with sun.

she stands there

before her

vegetables,

boxed in straw crates,

proud

of what she's made.

though

she had little to do

with it.

try an apple, she says,

tempting me

as if i was adam,

and she was eve.

good enough to eat

she looked

good on the shelf.

in the glow

of light,

a pastry, good enough to eat.

but there was

no sugar in her,

the milk was sour,

the eggs

gone bad,

the butter spoiled.

she looked good on

the shelf.

but was more bitter,

than sweet.

a hole in my shoe

i probably have

a hundred

pair of socks, black,

brown, grey,

white

for sports.

a hundred t-shirts

and shorts,

shoes of all colors,

all types.

coats,

and gloves fill

the closets.

hats,

scarves.

blankets and sheets,

extras of

nearly everything

i don't really need.

hunger

at an early age will

do that to you.

it's the wind

there's no one

else here, it's the wind

doing what

wind does

with the windows

raised high,

blowing open the door,

throwing back

the curtains,

rattling blinds,

sending 

pictures to the floor.

papers

flying.

turning pages in

open books.

it's nice to see you

again wind.

how've you been?

change

each politician 

runs on the platform

and rallying

cry

of change.

of honesty

and transparency.

empathy.

it's laughable.

yet each new

generation of voters

believe it,

swallowing whole

the lie,

casting their votes

for change,

a new day

that never comes

and never will.

the power washer

i think my neighbor has finally

run out of things

to use his power washer on.

for weeks,

he's been out there,

cleaning the patio, the deck,

the siding on his house,

the fence.

his car.

the sidewalk,

even his dog got a taste

of his new machine.

it's saturday morning

and not a sound.

why i even heard a bird chirp

today.

we always knew these things

there are some things

that we have always known

since childhood,

since that first 

awakening

we just knew

these truths about the world,

whether it was the warmth

of the sun,

or the cool rain,

against our skin,

we knew in our hearts,

unexpressed

by words, impossible

things to explain.

it was something, external,

not someone,

that awakened you

to what the world means,

what it didn't.

it began there, at that

early age.

and will stick with you

even beyond the grave.

the blood hound in me

i believe

i can find out anything.

know what i want to know,

if i put my

mind to it.

open up my intuitive

side.

one clue, one small word

or glance,

one slip of the tongue

and i'm off

into the woods.

nothing remains hidden

when

it's time to be found.

i'm on it

like a blood hound.

take it for a test drive

the car salesman

tells me

it's hard to find a black or

white car these days.

front wheel drive

is almost obsolete. but

let me go talk to my manager.

fifteen minutes later

he comes back shaking his head.

well, bad news,

my manager says that

they're almost not making

cars anymore,

but let me show you

what we have on the lot.

what do you think

of this new avocado

color that we have? also

we've got a pink one

coming

in from Baltimore

next week.

it's a statement car,

telling the world that you

are against cancer.

very important these days,

and the chicks will love it.

save the ta ta's and all that.

put a thousand down and

i can put you on a waiting

list.

there's some used

junkers out back,

how about that grey one?

it's not the car you want,

but if you want to take it

for a test drive, you can.

let me get the mechanic

to put some tires on it.

snail troubles

the snail is in

no hurry, but you wonder

sometimes

if he worries,

does he want to be

faster,

wouldn't it be better

without

the trail behind

him.

look, here comes

Beatrice and Pierre

with a basket,

quick,

slide, slide,

let's hide.

i'm just lazy, please give me money

sometimes,

when i come to a corner

and see the same man,

or woman,

or young person,

month after month,

in rain, or the blistering sun,

standing there with a sign

saying God Bless,

veteran, or pregnant,

injured, or six kids at

home, i find a dollar or

two and hand it to them.

sometimes though i don't.

for once

i'd like to see a sign one

day that reads, i'm just lazy,

and tired of working for the man.

this is so much easier

than punching the clock.

nine to five just ain't for me.

give what you can.

a bowl of fruit on the table

if i could

i hear her mind, 

what she's thinking,

it would

go something like this.

i need a bowl

in the middle of the table,

i've seen it in old paintings,

Renoir or Rembrandt,

maybe,

perhaps Sargent.

a crystal bowl.

large.

a white linen table

cloth below it,

and then fruit,

colorful fruit, fresh and just

ripe,

in case anyone

that came near, wanted

to take one

and bite,

but they'd better not.

this is for show, still life.

it tells them who i am.

this bowl of fruit

says everything.

you can't go home again

we think of families

as buildings,

shelter from the storms,

wide structures made of brick

and steel,

hard wood.

always together,

each child a different

room.

mother and father,

roaming

the halls,

basement and roof.

the elders, tucked away,

facing the sunsets,

babies,

too, you can hear them

grow,

in quiet droves,

noisy, fat and full.

their

care and adoration

making them whole.

but so much of that isn't

true.

the wood

grows weak, the welded

joints

come unglued,

the paint peels,

the windows crack and let

in the wind.

the outside world,

and once

out, it's hard, very hard

to pretend that all is well

with everyone

and go back again.

he's married now

i don't want him

to be angry, but he is.

he's angry all the time.

he takes everything i say

the wrong way.

he's so easily riled up,

casual conversation

about anything

makes his temper flare.

he's lost his sense of

humor.

of fun.

of enjoying life.

he was never like this before.

but i get it.

he's married now.

expecting flowers in April

i should return

the shoe.

one black heel, left

behind

in August.

how did she go home

with one

shoe on?

days go by.

weeks

turn into months.

snow falls.

i still have the shoe.

i set it on the nightstand,

then

move it to the table,

then to

the kitchen counter.

i put it on

the windowsill

finally

and fill it with dirt.

i put some seeds in

there

and water it.

i'm expecting flowers

by April.

a rising bad moon

we have cross

words.

it's friday night. why not?

she's tired.

i'm tired.

the bills are on the counter.

the dog

is sick.

the roof leaks.

weeds fill the yard.

it's almost dark,

already.

we have cross

words,

then go to our

own rooms.

hers looks out over

the road,

the car waiting,

mine,

out to a rising bad

moon.

ninety-nine

the only way i knew,

Mary

had died, was that i didn't

get a Christmas card

from her that year.

i found her obituary

in the Miami paper

that week.

there was no tin of

cookies

and candy that year

from her.

no phone call, telling

me about the weather,

and reminiscing

about the last fifty years

of our friendship.

she almost made it to

a hundred,

but not quite.

i'm sure she was content

though,

with ninety-nine.

childhood

it wasn't about

following some dream.

some noble

ambition,

or profession.

it was about food

and shelter,

clothing.

heat in the winter.

shoes on my feet.

there was no grand plan

except for

survival.

whatever nest there

was, was gone.

parents had flown

the coop

a long time ago.

it was time to grow

a pair of wings,

and move on.

about to tip over

he is a human

cup,

fragile,

porcelain would describe

him.

with chips 

and a broken handle,

about to tip

over,

and spill out

all that's inside.

memory after memory.

joy 

and sorrow,

ready to puddle onto

the floor

and disappear.

the pieces of him swept

up

and buried

in earths great yard.

saving the world

they want to save the world.

the whales,

the fish,

the birds.

they want to feed the hungry,

stop

global warming.

defeat racism

and hatred.

they want to follow their

passions,

fulfill their creative

desires.

become self-aware with

breathing,

and meditation.

all good things.

but do they want to work

and make a living, 

get their hands

dirty?

nah,

not really.

beer cooler in the back?

i take a look at Jeeps.

they've

stepped up,

big and rugged,

glossy,

luggage racks, and

gun racks.

four wheel drive.

gps, and navigation.

they ride high off the ground.

i'd never get stuck

in the snow,

or mud,

or climbing 

a mountain because

it's there,

but do i want a Jeep?

i don't have

the clothes

for a jeep.

i own no cargo pants,

or plaid flannel shirts.

no timberland boots either.

i don't have

a hounds tooth cap,

or fur lined

gloves.

i don't even have a fishing

rod, or tackle box,

bowie knife,

or a cross bow

to put in the back.

no cooler for beer on ice.

i haven't skinned a fish,

since, since,

well never.

nor have i shot a deer and put

it on the hood of my

car.

maybe a Jeep isn't for me.

personal typing 101

most of the classes

we took

in high school, or even college

don't matter

anymore.

when was the last time you

had to spell a word

correctly,

did cursive writing,

or solve a quadratic equation.

geography,

history?

forget about it.

cut open any frogs lately?

i don't think so.

the only class

you really needed

to survive in this world

was typing 101.

sort of like tattoos

one cat,

is fine, two, okay.

okay.

the other one needs

a friend,

i get it,

but three or four 

is pushing it.

it's the crazy zone,

at that point.

sort of like tattoos.

in the top twenty

she used to whisper

to me,

am i the best girlfriend you

ever had,

or what?

you're okay, i tell her.

you're definitely on the list

of top fifty.

fifty, she says.

what?

you have a list of fifty

girlfriends?

well, yes, but

not counting the 80's

and 90's.

you are definitely climbing

the charts

after last night.

she mumbles something

and shakes her head

as she finds her clothes.

where are you going?

leaving, already?

no breakfast, coffee?

wait,

don't go,

you're in the top twenty,

really.

they're listening

it used to be

that you closed the door

at night

locked it

and drew the drapes

tight

you had some privacy.

no more.

it's in the keystrokes

that you type,

the phone,

you speak into,

the television,

that you watch.

it's all known

to someone on the outside

looking in.

pondering

up all night

with

ideas.

some good, some bad.

ruminations,

and memories.

it's a toss and turn

affair.

up

and down

the stairs.

three a.m.

then four, then five.

a half sleep

until six.

the long day awaits,

once i get

out the door.

first things first

when the first

frost

arrives

i think of you.

and 

beef stew.

in no particular

order.

i go back to the

basics.

meat, potatoes,

onions

and carrots.

you come later.

go back to from where you came

despite

being a mile from the border

we cringe

when we see

the other state license

tags

in front of us, or behind

us.

of course it's them.

who else would it be.

what are they doing here?

so reckless,

driving fast,

tail gating, so rude, these

people are.

why don't they go back

to where they came

from.

so different from us.

strange how they drive

their cars

and put us in danger.

blisters on my fingers

the blisters

on my hand are nothing.

the ache

and pains

in my knees and back,

mean little

to me.

the sweat

and grind of it all.

i welcome it.

after a hot

bath

and dinner,

i'll sleep,

then wake up and do it

all over again.

it's no longer about money.

it's beyond that

now.

i know what it is

is it the weather

that's put a spring in your step.

or the meal

you just had,

or the drink you finished

to the last drop.

is it money,

is it health,

is it friendship,

or a good sleep

that's put a smile on your face,

or something

else,

perhaps the lack

of drama

has straightened you

out and brought

you back

to normal.

the change jar

the change jar

on the counter, 

where i empty my pockets

at the end

of a day, 

is a blue glass

orb

full of change,

of course.

all sorts,

but other things too.

a marble,

a ring,

several screws

and backs of earrings.

paper clips,

stamps,

rubber bands,

and sticks

of gum.

a small tube of glue.

aspirins?

maybe.

the bank teller loves

me,

when i haul it all in.

everything and everybody was big there

i had no choice,

i had

to go into Wal mart

to buy

something. i forget what

it was,

batteries, maybe

or a ball point pen,

but it was a scary place.

big bags of marshmallow

peanuts,

orange and pink.

clothes and tires,

side by side.

gallon jugs

of vegetable oil.

candy by the barrel.

the obsession with gummy

bears was amazing.

potato chips in bags 

the size

of pillow cases.

i almost got crushed

between two

men fighting over

the last

four tier chocolate

cake frozen in the ice box.

after a while i realized

why every aisle

was so wide.

everything and everybody

was big there.

enormous.

but they did add a nice

touch,

by having Wilbur greet

you at the door.

the repair shop

my mother used to have

a repair

kit

in the kitchen cupboard.

needles, thread, 

bandages,

iodine.

white tape,

band aids,

ice packs and

ointments.

iron on patches.

torn shirt, no problem,

ripped

pants, easy.

bruises, abrasions,

black eyes,

she had it covered.

every kid in the neighborhood

knew where to go

when they got stung

by a bee, or

when they fell

off their skateboards

or got into a fight.

where've you been?

funny how i look

forward

to winter.

bring on the cold,

the snow

and ice,

the wind.

all of it.

string up lights,

decorate

the tree.

get the old coats

out,

the gloves,

the hats, the scarves.

put the wood

on the fire.

settle back

and make a toast

on new years eve.