back in the USSR

i was in prison,

in Siberia,

caught smuggling nighttime Nyquil

across the border.

i rolled it up

in my gym socks along

with a pack of spearmint gum.

i remember

breaking big rocks

into little

rocks at the Gulag.

we were making gravel

stones

for families

back in Moscow.

i was sentenced to fifty

years of hard labor.

daytime Nyquil would have

been half that.

it was very cold.

my lips were blue all the time,

and my

fingers,

that i wrapped in seal blubber,

were stiff.

i could hardly move

them. my piano

playing days were over,

before they even began.

but then i met Dasha.

she was a cook in the kitchen.

i never

thought wolf

burgers would be so tasty,

once you picked the hair out,

but Dasha had a gift for making

something out

of nothing.

we became friends by a series

of eye winks.

i learned morse code

when i was in the boy scouts,

and she learned

it when

she was in the KGB.

eventually, the president made

a trade for me.

a nuclear weapons mad scientist

for me.

a pretty fair trade.

they threw Dasha in

as part of the package deal.

we're back in the states now

and i'm working at

Home Depot

carrying bags of gravel out

to people's trucks.

but i don't trust my

new bride,

just yesterday i caught

her looking under my mattress,

and planting

a little bug in the overhead

light.

but she's quite the chef.

sadly,

i never did get my spearmint

gum back.

coasting through the years

i still have the birthday card

that my

office mates

from my old IT job gave me

a long time ago.

back when there were

main frame

computers in the building.

and COBOL was the rage.

they all signed it.

the front of the card

showed a picture

of a young man, me,

with wild hair,

surfing on a beer coaster

as i drank from a frosty

mug of ice-cold brew.

the caption read,

still coasting after all

these years.

nothing has changed, just

the drink,

and the hair.

emotional IQ

she questions my

emotional

IQ, to which she says

is low,

while i question

her true

intelligence,

covering such topics

as math,

biology,

history and English.

i grade her a C

in all

categories, and a D

in personal hygiene.

you don't talk

about our relationship,

she says.

i never know if you're

being serious

or joking around.

who are you?

when i ask you a question

of a personal

nature,

you change the subject

and say things like,

how about this weather

we're having?

almost cut my hair

i used to tell people

when i was mere pup walking

the earth

with long hippy locks,

that i wouldn't

cut my

hair until Nixon was

out of the white house.

i was offered a job that

summer at an

exclusive hotel resort,

with free lunches

and pool privileges. 

so i cut my hair

the next day.

it was a a nice clean 

crew cut,

which i still have today.

where did my friends go?

my heart

palpitates as i look at my

Facebook

page.

it seems i've lost a few friends.

who unfriended me?

i haven't checked

my status

in a few months, ok,

a year.

but someone has left

the building.

did they die?

are they mad at me

for something

i did or didn't do?

i'm down to ten thousand

and two

friends, when it

used to be

then thousand and four.

where did they go,

and why?

the lemon tree

you want to believe

that God has his hands on the wheel

with your life,

but then there's

this thing called free will.

so what is it?

is He in, or out, or 

does he only take action 

when

you need Him

to get out of a jam?
it's confusing to say the least.

what's my fault

in all of this?

does He save you when you

dumbly go

up into a hot air balloon

on a windy day

and it hits the power

lines and catches fire,

or does he shrug

and say, hey, it was your idea.

is He really making lemonade

out my lemon

tree?

i need more sugar,

please.

what's wrong with you?

when you sit

in the doctor's waiting room, 

spread

out between

chairs,

mask on,

you wonder what everyone

is there

for.

it's a guessing game.

you look for

the limp, or a sling on

their arm,

maybe a bandage of some

sort hanging

on their leg.

what ails people?

what disease do they have

and might

give you

if they touch the doorknob

or sneeze.

are there any open wounds

in here?

you want to know, but

you don't ask.

the back seat driver

the new

back seat driver isn't your

mother anymore

or your

wife,

or girlfriend, no.

it's

a computer haranguing

you about

an oil change,

the tires are low,

there's someone

coming up

real close,

brake,

swerve, you're almost

off the road.

you need a tune up,

your door is open.

the lights and bells

are blinking

and ringing all over

the place.

why is your turn signal

still on,

she finally

asks.

green eggs and ham

i probably read

green eggs and ham

a thousand times when he

was little.

curious George

and all the rest.

his eyes would tire

and nearly

close,

but he wouldn't let

me leave,

instead, he'd grab my

hand

and although he knew

each book by heart,

he'd say what's next?

go on, dad,

keep reading.

finally, he'd drift

off to sleep.

i'd close the book

and kiss

his forehead,

then tip toe out

the door

it's those kind of memories

you'll always

keep.

too hard to watch

it's hard to watch,

the commercials for the injured,

the lost,

the homeless,

whether

human or dog.

the arms

and legs not right.

the eyes

gone blind,

the body broken,

diseased.

mental illness.

it plays with your heart,

you either

give in

or turn away.

it's too much.

too much to know what

shape

the world is really in.

we want happy.

we want

laughs.

we don't want this.

please change the channel.

let's pretend that horrors

don't exist.

our last date

it was decades

ago,

but i remember

it like it was yesterday.

it was our third

date

when we made love

in her car.

we parked under some

trees at the end

of a dead-end street.

she was worried about

acorns falling.

i told her not to worry.

those are birch trees.

it was a new car,

with a polished black finish.

i remember

how nice it smelled,

the buttery

soft leather, Corinthian?

the reclining seats.

the twelve Harmon Kardon

stereo

speakers playing softly

classic rock.

plenty of head room,

leg room.

it had everything

but an espresso

machine.

i asked her to turn

the dome

light on

so i could look at the

stitching

in the upholstery

and the navigation system.

she gave me a look, but

turned the light on anyway.

she lit a cigarette

as i wiggled back into

my jeans, still

stuck around my ankles.

i told her

how much i loved her car.

i gently stroked

the leather dashboard

and said,

wow,

this is one nice car.

how many miles per

gallon?

hey,

i didn't know you smoked.

the ralph lauren christmas card

i get the picture,

the annual

photograph of his grandkids.

everyone at the beach

wearing white

in front of the blue

ocean. they are all

squeaky

clean, bright and polished.

well dressed,

well groomed

and mannered.

not a single tattoo

or piercing,

they all seem to know

who they

are.

no sexual confusion.

all of them are smiling.

nothing has gone

wrong yet

in their lives.

they believe

in God

they will go on to become

doctors

and ministers.

nurses

and priests.

good people of the earth.

but you

can't help but wonder

what their

secrets will be.

chocolate pudding cups

there was

a fat bully type kid

in the seventh

grade

who would stick his

finger into

your pudding cup

and then ask

you if you were going

to eat that.

he had red

hair

and freckles,

three chins,

arms

the size of legs.

he went around

the cafeteria

finding the smallest

boys

to take their

chocolate

desserts.

i hope he's in hell now.

just saying.

blood in the sink

the razor

is old,

and yet i drag it down

and sideways

across my

cheeks

and chin,

i dab the blood

with toilet paper.

it's rough.

i need a new razor.

i'll put

that on my Christmas

list

once

i bandage up

my face.

the thirty year chair

after

he died, he left his chair

behind.

the shape

and weight of him

still visible

in the soft cushions.

he put a good

thirty years

into that chair after

work ended.

there's a table

next to it,

with an ashtray,

the remote control,

a can of beer

and a bag of pretzels.

he'll be

right back, it appears.

as the water rises

they no longer

teach

parallel parking.

or handwriting,

or math,

or spelling, or grammar.

make up your

words now.

no need to add or

subtract.

or use a pen.

manners too are

out the window.

we're nearing the end

it seems.

the first and last date

i don't want

to meet

her children, but she insists.

all four

of them

show up on our date,

her ex-husband too

and a shaggy dog.

there they

are outside the bar

window

waving in.

who's that, i ask.

my family she says,

they want to meet you.

i tap

my glass on the bar

and tell

the bartender

that i'm going to need

a lot more gin.

having skills

i have no wrapping

paper

skills.

i can wallpaper

the Sistine Chapel

on my back,

but God help me

wrap

this toaster oven

i've bought

you for Christmas,

or this

striped woolen hat.

bare foot out the door

the rain

says, stay in, don't go

out there.

i stick my

foot out the door

and feel

the cold.

my newspaper

is in the wind.

i see a bird

shivering in the tree

with his

overcoat.

a squirrel walks

by with the smallest

cup of hot

coffee

i've ever seen,

he looks at me

and shakes his head.

stay home

he says, if you can..

you owe me sleep

the only

thing i want to tell

you

in reply

to your Christmas

card

and box of cookies

left on my porch,

is that

you till owe

me sleep.

split pea soup

we groaned

when my mother made

a giant pot,

of split pea

with a massive ham

bone

inside.

a sad green

boil

on the stove.

my father's favorite.

it was all

about him, when he

was around.

and when he finally

left,

we never saw split

pea soup

again.

cold memories

we miss friends,

and lovers

when they

pass on.

strangely, 

some more than others.

certain memories

grow cold,

while others 

stay warm.

a short Christmas

that Christmas

the church

had trees for sale,

a truckload,

wet

and green

at the far edge of

the parking lot

of St. Bernadette's.

we stood them up,

stamped

their trunks

into the ground and let

the water

shake free.

what about this one,

i asked.

too tall, she said.

and this one,

too wide,

we went through ten

or fifteen until

she found

one to her liking.

then we strapped it

to the car.

it was on the curb,

full of tinsel

by Christmas eve.

almost, not quite

we are

the dog in the basket

chasing

our tail.

around 

and around 

we go,

never quite getting

there.

summer of 69

near the Mayflower

Hotel

on 14th

street, the girls in heels

strolled

by.

their legs

adorned in

fishnets,

lipstick

like candy

wet on their lips.

they winked, they

smiled,

batting their tired,

but eager eyes.

too young they yelled

out at us

as we drove by.

go home,

small fries.

racing home

the world is a swift

blur

as you sit on the train

speeding by

the wrecks of towns,

the abandoned

buildings

and Chevrolets,

the melted sheen

of lights,

how desperate it all

looks

in the rain.

but

you feel safe here,

going home.

happy that you don't

belong

there

and there, the chimneys

full of smoke.

the corner

crowds,

the stray dog heading

for the tracks

to some other side

of life.

ole Billy

my friend Bill

has a distinctive twang in his voice.

he talks

in a syrupy, sleepy eyed

way

about the south,

how it will rise again.

i tell him,

don't say that in public, okay?

he's from

Richmond,

but it sounds like he's

gone through a time portal

back to the civil

war.

he has a collection of uniform

buttons

from scouring ancient battle

fields,

tin cups,

and a confederate cookbook

about

how to cook venison

in the middle of a war.

i want to be his friend,

but he makes

it difficult.

your new bucket list

i see the new books out.

all best sellers.

a hundred

places you need to go before

you die.

fifty books you must read.

ten foods

you need to eat to be healthy.

sixteen countries

you need to visit this year.

twenty movies you need to watch

this season.

here's your bucket list

for 2023.

what to do, where to go

and why.

please.

shut up.

just stop with these books.

i'm going to the mall

to get a Cinnabon.

snow birds

i head north

for the winter. tired of these

lame

wet snows.

seventy degrees

in December.

i want the real thing.

i want

ice, i want Buffalo weather.

i want to build

a fire

and put my hands over

the flames.

i want to be

snowed in,

unable to budge from

where i am.

i want to shovel

and scrape.

i want my battery to

die.

i want the cupboards

to be down

to peanut butter

and crackers.

i want to look out the window

and see nothing

but white

for miles and miles.

are you with me?

yeah.

me either. just a thought.

Florida?

you will be having a great adventure soon

it sounds

like pots and pans

banging

against one another.

a drum roll of chopsticks.

i guess

it's meant to be some sort

of Chinese

music

pouring out of invisible

speakers

set behind

black and red

vinyl chairs

and tables.

the staff is thin.

a single waiter is working

the bar

and tables.

tired.

it's late, it's cold,

the wind

is howling.

it's not what you expected

for thanksgiving,

but here you are

with a plate

of general Tso's chicken.,

half-eaten,

breaking apart

your stale fortune cookie

to read

your future.

you ain't nothing but a Hound dog

in public

i like

to tap my foot

to the beat,

trickle my fingers 

along the table as if

i'm striking

piano keys.

i throw my arm out

when it's time

to hit the drum

or tambourine.

i whisper

out the song, knowing

all the words,

but quietly, of course.

although catch me

in the shower,

or in the car alone,

and it's a whole other

thing.

the kindness of nightfall

thank goodness

for sleep.

sweet slumber.

the feather bed,

the pillows.

the dog at our feet.

thank

you for the kindness

of nightfall,

dear Lord.

the silver moon

and all

the stars.

thank goodness

for being home,

especially if 

you're beside me,

fast asleep.

we prefer more

we prefer more,

most

of the time, not less.

a larger serving,

a taller

drink,

a longer sleep.

we want life

to go on and on

and on.

we want

more time on earth,

another slice 

of cake, we want

to live into our

nineties,

but that is not

always a good thing,

so i beg

to disagree.

what's in it for me

i'm not

good with small favors,

he says,

i'm clueless

when it comes to

jumper cables,

flat tires,

a ride

somewhere,

who am i,

Uber?

i'm selfish like that

a chip

off the old father's

block.

what's in it

for me,

tell what i get for

helping you.

what's in your will

for me.

it's hard to let go

i try.

i try so hard sometimes.

but for what.

you have

to let people go

at some point,

release

them.

cut the cord.

they are who they are,

but you

aren't one of them.

you're different somehow.

you pick up

the phone when it rings,

you return the call, 

the text,

the e-mail.

despite all,

you never

stop

being friends.

you're forgetful

did you leave

your coat here on purpose,

your shoe,

your stockings, your

delicate things.

is that your watch

on the nightstand,

your

hairbrush, your watch,

your ring?

did you

forget your box of

low mien

in the fridge?

i get the feeling you

may be coming

back

again.

the night owl

no longer the early

bird,

i'm a night owl.

i'm

in the tree

silhouetted

by a silver moon.

i'm asking

questions.

i'm large eyed and aware

of what

passes below.

i can sit here all

night

if need be,

tomorrow i'll sleep,

but for now,

i'll keep watch,

i'll ponder 

all things both known

and unknown,

it's the new me.

i object

it was a mistake

marrying

a lawyer.

we were always negotiating

terms

of endearment.

arguing.

striking deals,

making

plea bargains.

she was always stating

a case

deep in the books.

McGillicutty

versus

Jones,

or some such thing.

i had no chance.

everything she objected to

was sustained.

she quoted laws

i never heard of,

quoted

lawyers from back

in the day

of powdered wigs

and guillotines.

i rest my case, she used

to say,

as i took my pillow

to couch, losing once

more,

another case.

not my cup of tea

i prefer

to watch and wait,

observe as the river

flows by.

i like

to listen.

i prefer

to not join any groups

or clubs,

or teams.

i register neither

on

my voting card.

i'd rather

do things on my own.

cults

of one,

or a thousand,

are not my cup

of tea.

the golden boys of summer

at the end

of the summer, 

tired from the new

loves we had found,

in this beach town,

tired of

the food and drinks,

we'd leave

our chairs in the sand,

our towels.

our cheap transistor

radio still on.

labor day weekend

was over.

the three

of us, young,

and unworried, unlined.

fit and tanned.

the world

before us.

we'd drive back to our

lives,

to work on Monday.

i think of those days

now,

as i fold my towel,

and carry the chair,

the umbrella,

the books

back to the car alone.

i gently brush the sand 

off my feet 

as i sit on the curb.

i wonder where they

are now,

those brothers,

those golden boys

of summer.

don't do that

our shoes

were soggy with puddle

water.

cold, our toes

red,

our noses too.

what joy there was

in disobedience.

getting away

with things

we weren't supposed

to do.

i lived there

who hasn't driven by

their childhood home,

slowed down

in the car and pointed

out the window and said,

i lived there.

that's my window,

the one i looked out of

when i was a child.

my bed was against

the far wall.

i lived there, and then

drive on.

the ever expanding hell

the growing number

of atheists

in the neighbor hood

were able to band together

and get a court order

to stop the church from

ringing its bell

at noon on Sunday.

the ominous tones

of redemption and resurrection

was too much

for them.

the twelve resonating

gongs

are no more. it's quiet

now. apparently

we're going to need a 

bigger hell.

expansion is imminent.

a human pin cushion

i cut my foot on an open

can

of tuna fish

that the cat dragged

out of the trash

that waits for Monday

on the kitchen floor.

it's a clean slice.

blood is everywhere.

the doctor gives me

a tetanus shot.

then a flu shot,

then a pneumonia

shot,

then a shingles shot,

then a covid shot,

a booster

and a shot of Vitamin

B

for the hell of it.

i limp home and let

the cat out

the back door. i'm done

with cats.

the girl next door

i've lowered the bar

again.

at this point i'm not looking

for Heidi Klum,

or a girl

next door with a heart

of gold.

i'm down

to smart and funny,

healthy

and mentally stable

with long nails

to get the itch on my

back that i can't reach

not even with this wooden

spoon.

busy with chores

it's interesting

when

i hear someone tell me that

they

have chores to do

today

and they can't meet for a drink,

or coffee,

or take a walk.

chores?  i repeat back to them.

what chores.

milking the cows,

colleting eggs from

the barn,

repairing the fence

on the lower forty?

it's not 1780.

what chores can't wait

these days?

just charge your stupid

phone and come on.

microbes

there is no such

thing

as fighting a cold.

there's no arms to bear,

no trench

warfare,

no bombs or bullets

can stave

off the sniffles, the slight

cough,

the runny

nose.

it's not a war,

it's a surrender

to a lower power.

microbes.

best

stay away from me

for awhile,

keep away from my

air.

and then this happened...

half bored,

but still hanging on

by a thread

to see where the story goes.

i want to fast

forward your mouth

a bit.

something

has to give,

the plot is too thick

and 

convoluted

to untangle.

so many loose ends,

i just want the ending

so that you'll stop

talking

and we can move on

to more interesting

things,

but out of politeness,

and civility.

i nod and smile,

i stick with it.

welcome home

your day is reduced to 

rising

early.

coffee.

reading.  a walk

along

the river.

there is no hurry in

your step.

no need

to check your phone,

no need

to look over

your shoulder

or into anyone's

eyes

for answers.

you have the answers, 

now.

in fact you always

did.

welcome home.

the nutcracker suite

it starts with a bag of shelled

walnuts.

i go to the kitchen

drawer

and shake it around

searching for what i need,

but it won't budge.

it won't open any further,

or close.

there's a knife or fork,

stuck

in the back,

between the rollers

and the wood.

i yank it

towards me, then back.

it doesn't budge.

i say something in French.

slowly i remove everything

from the drawer

and set things down

beside me

on the floor.

so many knives, spoons,

a cheese grater,

a turkey baster

that i've never used.

cookie cutters in the shape

of snowmen

and stars.

a thermometer to stick into

the breast

of a chicken

or slab of meat.

corks, and bottle openers.

it's an endless array

of kitchen utensils.

skewers and rubber bands,

a garlic press,

a red handle potato peeler.

strangely a shiny Kennedy

half dollar.

finally it's all out

and i stick my hand into

the back

and pull on the drawer.

it's finally free

as i hear the nutcracker

drop to the floor.

the one day job at Hallmark

i get a job at the Hallmark

Greeting Card

factory,

writing new content for 

their sappy cards.

it doesn't go well.

they want happy, they want

poems that rhyme,

they want sugar coated

sentiments.

i get fired the first day after

after writing,

thanks for the worst ten

years of my life.

happy anniversary, Not.

i'm done.

don't turn around, because

karma's coming to bite

you on your big fat

yoga butt.

i suggested they put a picture

of a bulldozer

running over

a three-tiered wedding cake

on the front of the card,

but they said, no.

oh well, back to the job hunt.

Brinkley Road Apartments

i remember my

first apartment. a one bedroom

ground

floor unit

behind the racetrack.

i was 23 years old.

the place cost

two hundred and fifteen dollars

per month.

utilities

included.

it had a sliding back door

that led out to the woods

where i could see

a stream when the trees

weren't full.

i used to put a metal

pole at the bottom of the door

so no one could break in.

to one side was a basketball

court.

i had a hibachi

on the small slab patio

where i grilled burgers and dogs

all year round.

i was in heaven.

air conditioning,

a washer and dryer stacked

in the hall closet.

a dishwasher.

a pool within walking

distance.

and three Swedish

stewardesses

living next door.

sometimes they needed help

putting coconut oil

on their backs when we all

laid out,

working on our tans.

i'd turn my speakers out

to window

so that we could listen

to Jimmy Buffet and Eagles

records until the sun went down.

good times. good times.

they just swim away

the children

of fish

are pretty much on their own

once born.

away

they swim with a mind

of their own.

there's no

coddling, no one reads

to them,

no one tells them

to eat

their vegetables

or no tv tonight.

but there are schools,

and that never

ends.

the percussionist

to build up

his image, she tells me

that her friend

Rob,

is a percussionist.

not a drummer

in a geezer

band that plays

Tuesdays and Thursdays

down at Joe's tavern

by the airport.

he's not a drummer

she says.

showing me his five

by seven glossy

from his mullet years.

he's more than that,

much more.

you should hear his

solos.

Ringo has nothing on him.

he also plays

the tambourine when Eddie

can't make it,

doing time

for non-support.

an honest days work

what exactly

does that mean,

an honest

days work.

you stole nothing.

you robbed no one,

you worked

the hours paid for.

you used your hands,

your back.

you gave it your all,

until the clock

struck done.

an honest days work.

although i understand

the concept

having worked

in an office for a few

forgettable years.

let's try again

the land is cheap

near

the water.

the last flood now forgotten.

the sun

shines

on

the newly built homes,

tall and white.

the debris swept away.

she's beautiful.

why not

take a chance?

we never learn

do we,

trying again.

another time.

can i use your bathroom?

there's someone

banging

at the door at seven a.m.

the dog

barks.

i look out the window

from the top

floor.

it's someone i don't

know

holding a cord of wood

in his arms.

he's wearing

a plaid black and red hat.

he looks like

Holden Caufield.

i don't have a chimney,

i yell out.

so you don't need any

wood?

no,

well, do you know anyone

that does?

maybe someone

who has a chimney,

i tell him.

can i use your bathroom,

he asks.

no.

why not?

because i don't want you

to, that's why.

but i really have to go.

sorry.

can i pee behind your

bushes?

sure.

thanks, he says, putting

the wood down

and leaning against the

barren rose bushes.

thanks, he says,

as he zips back up

and gathers his cord of wood.

he goes to the next

house and bangs on their door.

ten more minutes, please

let's stay

in a bed a little longer

she

whispers,

leaning

into me. pulling

the blankets

to her chin.

ten more minutes, please.

let's delay

the day.

it's raining,

it's cold.

maybe we can make love

once again.

to which

i easily agree.

closed until january

it's closing time.

i put the sign

on the door, and lock up.

i sweep

the floor.

it's been a good year.

but i'm glad

it's over.

time to ring in the new.

take a rest

and get back to it

when the snow

melts,

when the holidays

end.

when the streets

are clear.

i grab the cat off

the shelf and together

we don't look back

as we head out the door.

how to stop the bleeding

i have a doctor somewhere,

although

i've never met him.

even though

i pay the premiums on time

he's no where to be found.

i've seen his picture

on the website.

he's smiling and wearing

a white doctor's coat

with a stethoscope

around his bearded

neck,

but there's no way of contacting

him.

the e-mail bounces back,

there's no voice mail,

no receptionist to take a call.

he's out of town,

booked, busy i imagine

with more important cases

than mine.

please call this number

to set up an appointment

to the assistant to my nurse

the website says.

we'll be in touch.

if this is an emergency,

dial 911.

have a nice day and wrap tightly

to stop any bleeding.

mid-century modern

i used to want new.

the new car smell.

the pair of shoes,

shirt

and pants

right off the shelf.

the new paint on the wall,

couch,

or lamp.

a new plant

for the corner.

a new book to read.

but that was then,

and this is

now.

i prefer old.

mid-century modern.

like you and me.

into the sunset

i'm done with men, she tells me.

as if closing

a book

with two hands.

i don't need

men anymore.

not for money, for sex,

for fun.

i've had my day

in the sun.

my joy is found in different

places now.

with mostly

women friends,

i knit, i bake,

i sew.

together we take

in movies,

or walks,

long strolls through the parks

talking about

remember when.

without men, i'm happier.

content

as i grow old.

two bikes in the rain

we rode

our bikes in the rain

and stopped at a 7-11,

where we ate hot dogs

under the overhang.

drank sodas.

she was thirteen,

i was fourteen.

our hair, our clothes

were soaked as

we sat on the ledge

of the window

and ate.

we were hungry.

we were poor. two kids

from the other side

of the track.

childhood friends

who shared a porch.

we kissed once,

it was a summer night.

the night before her family

moved to

California.

she pressed her lips

against mine,

saying close your eyes

and don't forget me.

we both grew old.

we lost contact.

but to me she was the most

beautiful girl

i have ever known.

my mother's guard

their last purchase

was at Sears and Roebucks.

a blue couch

and a round coffee table

that you were

yelled at for

putting your feet on.

she was on a budget

for fifty years.

generic ketchup in the fridge

toxic pots and pans

from China

that killed her parakeet.

twenty dollars a month

was her allowance

for yarn

and candy.

did my mother love him?

probably not.

but you can't show resentment

and anger to the guard

who owns you.

it'll cost too much.

life in the cellar

her husband

relegated

to the cellar now,

a large man,

with a cane who can

no longer

make it up

the stairs,

a walker

for traveling further

out into the yard

to smoke.

they bring

him supper,

drinks.

the necessities of life.

clean towels

and soap.

the tv is on.

he reads the paper,

he watches

the news.

he scratches himself

with a stick.

the wife yells down

to tell him

she's going out for

awhile.

don't wait up.

he says nothing,

he doesn't move.

the forgotten place

give me

the broken field, the rusted

tractor,

the barn

collapsed upon

itself.

give me the bones

in the graveyard,

bleached white

below the earth,

the headstones,

in the soggy

ground,

their forgotten tilt.

give me the cold wash

of dirty

sunlight

on the brown sea

of dirt.

give me this, give me

this.

and together we'll find

beauty

in this forgotten place.

last will and testament

i tell my lawyer friend,

Jimmy,

to make my will out again,

but in pencil

this time.

i have a feeling i'll

be making

changes.

i need to be able to

erase

and make corrections

as to who

gets all this money

i've accumulated

from a lifetime of

back breaking work.

let's wait and see

who sends me a card

or a fruit cake

this year

for Christmas.

waiting on water

you can't spend

your whole

life waiting for water

to boil,

or for the rain

to stop.

you actually have

to leave

the house, leave

your comfort zone

and do something

with your life.

the rest will follow.

when the universe speaks to you

what's going on here?

coincidence,

synchronicity,

divine intervention,

fate,

destiny.

luck, or bad luck?

is the universe

speaking to you?

who the hell knows.

pick one,

and go with it.

keep the rabbit foot

handy.

elimination diet

if you want to know what

ails you,

stop

everything.

eliminate from your

diet, from your

life

all food

and drink.

people.

be still.

have a glass of water

and wait.

what's good for

you

will show itself.

bail money

i almost fall in love with

her,

she's beautiful

and fun.

tattoo free,

not a stick pin in

her eyebrow,

or hook in her nose.

she has

long legs and a smile

that lights up

the room. she's a great kisser,

she's single and carefree,

she's everything

i've been looking for

in a companion.

i see a future together,

and then she asks

to borrow

money. a thousand

dollars,

just a grand, she says,

her old

boyfriend is in jail,

and needs

bail to set him free.

who's on first?

is the world rigged,

is the game

crooked,

does the butcher

have his thumb

on the scale.

are the votes uncounted?

who's on first?

is everything

slight of hand, is the rabbit

really in the hat?

what's real

anymore, who can we

believe.

do three out of four

doctors really

recommend 

this cure?

that ghostly feeling

some days

i wake up and sort of miss

the drama.

miss anxiety

and nervousness.

i miss

the not knowing,

the worry

and wonder about what's

going to happen

next.

i can't shake this old

familiar feeling,

not even the second

cup of coffee 

seems to help.

it's a ghostly feeling

that takes

all morning to shake.

and then

it's gone again.

the publisher clearing house

i ponder what

i'll do with my eighteen million

dollars

that i've won

from the publishers clearing house.

a new car too.

a black Mercedes Benz.

maybe i'll buy

a beach house,

a condo in the city.

i'm making sandwiches

for when they

arrive with my check, but

first i have to go down

to Wal-mart to buy a 

five hundred dollar 

vanilla gift card

to register my winnings

with the IRS.

Mr. Peterson insists this

is how

it's done.

makes sense.

it's either yes or no

we wait,

we wait

a lot.

we stand in lines.

we look at our watch.

we're on hold.

we're waiting for the postman.

the return

call,

the email.

the text after asking

the girl

to marry you.

it's either yes or no,

what's the delay

for?

no pink line

i spill

coffee on my new covid

test

after swabbing

the inside

of my nose.

twenty five bucks

for

the whole kit,

made in China,

where else?

i can't stop sneezing now.

i do the drops

into the little

hole,

stick the swab

in and wait, pacing

back and forth.

i hope

that the coffee spill

doesn't invalidate

the findings.

either way,

i'm staying home.

it's cold out.

better living through chemistry

my friend Albert

works

down at the government

food lab.

he's making apples

bigger,

sweeter,

turning grapes into

candy.

the watermelons

are hand sized

now.

the bananas are 

so bright that the yellow

hurts your

retinas.

peaches taste like pears.

pigs are fatter,

chickens

are the size of dogs now.

we're making

rib eye steaks out

of soy

beans.

wait until you see what

we do

with fish,

we're putting legs on

them

so that they walk right

up into the nets.

future sorry

i tell her

i'm sorry. she asks for what.

what are you 

sorry for.

i tell her the future,

you won't be happy with

how this is all going

to turn out.

trust me.

i'm getting my sorry

out of the way now.

write it down.

the date and time.

keep it in your purse,

you'll know

when it's time to read it.

the three feature drive-in

i used to wash

and wax

my car all Saturday

afternoon,

getting the shine on

for a date

to the drive-in.

inside and out.

buffing the baby moons

with a chamois rag.

wiping the seats

down,

front and back.

clearing the windshield

of leaves

and dust.

i'd check the oil stick,

the radiator,

then gas.

then it was my turn

to shower

and shave, 

find the good jeans,

and clean

shirt. get all dressed up.

give the world space

it's easy

to overeat, to over

drink,

to oversleep,

to over love.

there's no point

to it when

you over think either.

put the brakes on.

slow down.

sip, and chew

slowly. give

the world

some space.

not everyone needs

a hug

and a kiss

five times a day.

the wide cold bed

it's those

left behind that are sad.

that cry.

it's those 

in the empty rooms,

the wide

cold beds,

those sitting alone

at the kitchen

table

in the morning light,

that grieve.

no words help, no

slight of hand,

no ray

of sun.

each note of a song

has the power

to take you to your knees.

each smell,

each new season brings

it all back.

at first

it appears

that even time will

never heal.

no secrets are safe

you know

when you know things.

when the curtain falls.

your spider

sense

tingles.

it's a wave,

a premonition,

you have what they

used to call

the shine.

you can read the room,

the aura of

souls is revealed

to you.

you know

what's coming,

and what's behind.

you feel

it all.

no secrets are safe

everything comes to light

when your heart

needs to know,

all is revealed,

all in good time.

the long walk home

we never ate

the fish we caught.

why would we.

we were children standing

at the side

of the river.

with boxes of worms,

our poles,

our tackle

boxes

full of hooks and weights.

our feet would be wet

as we stood

too close to the water.

we'd be tired

and thirsty.

miles away from home.

but we fished

from sunup until

sundown,

making it to the dinner

table

where our mother,

busy with smaller

children

never asked our whereabouts,

that was forever

unknown.

who did this to me

the cold

catches you by surprise.

where

did you let it in,

who

was the culprit,

whose sneeze did you

walk into,

whose hand

did you shake,

whose lips

did you kiss to acquire

this winter

cold with

the runny nose

and hoarse voice.

what loose jacket

failed

in the breeze,

you'll never know

as you drop

chicken into the boiling

pot,

it's time for rest.

it's time for soup,

for tea,

the sinless world

the word sin

seems to  have been

stricken

from our world.

it's rare to hear

anyone

say out loud, i've sinned.

you have

to go into a church

to hear

such a thing.

and even then

it's behind

closed doors, 

a muted screen 

where the ancient word

is whispered, 

but with little shame.

the roses behind us

we are pressed with

time,

with

precious minutes,

seconds

trickling

through our hands

like sand

in the hourglass.

we hit the floor running,

hardly

catching our

breath

for busses and trains,

we need

to get back to it.

there is no time

to waste,

work is of the essence

we run and run,

while

the roses die behind

us, leaving 

broken stems in our wake.

beautiful women

i take a walk up to the old

church,

St. Bernadette,

to wash away

a few sins

when i see my old friend,

Father Smith,

playing frisbee 

in the parking lot

with a new

nun

from Italy.

she's beautiful

in her long black garb.

old school.

normally glum,

i've never seen him so

cheerful and full

of life.

beautiful women will do

that to you

sometimes.

the tin foil hat

the tin foil hat

that he spent all morning

shaping

as he sat

in the house

with the lights off

told you

everything there was

to know

about him.

he spoke of gamma rays

and the government.

of conspiracies.

he told

you about the grassy knoll

and area 51.

he told you that it was

best

that we didn't know

what we didn't know.

you'll see, he said, as he

positioned his shiny hat

onto his head.

just wait.

you'll see.

they can't be trusted

beware of too kind.

those

too swift

to smile and laugh,

to give a helping hand.

be careful

of the do gooders,

the church goers,

the volunteers.

beware of those who

wear their hearts

on their sleeves.

those that embrace

you each time you meet.

who compliment you

on your weight.

be careful

of those that recycle,

who hug trees,

and refuse to eat

meat.

they can't be trusted.

rock bottom

you can't live

right,

be right until you feel

hunger.

feel loss,

have little to go on.

what's in your

pocket

you treat as gold.

the cold

winter laughs at

your thread bare

clothes.

you can't know

who you

are until you have nothing

and no one.

and even then

it's a toss up

if you'll find your way

and survive.

the house on the corner

there was

the house on the corner,

the dark

house with

broken windows

where we

through rocks.

curtains still hung,

blowing

in the snowy breeze.

a rusted heap

of an old chevy in the yard,

the hood

up,

the wheels

on blocks. baby blue

washer

and dryer

tilted

on their sides

between the shrubs.

near the oak tree

swung

a tire for the children,

and beyond that

was where they buried

their

cats and dogs,

the hard dirt still

dotted with white crosses.

when we were young

we knew

the family

who lived there.

it's hard to put your

finger on

exactly what went wrong.

careful with the bones

somewhere

along

the line i lost my taste

for fish.

whether trout

or flounder,

haddock

or salmon, i had

no desire for

it anymore, and

truthfully

never did.

but i was forced

by mothers

and wives,

girlfriends, well

meaning

friends who liked

to camp

and hike,

to eat it.

here, here's your

fork and knife.

put some sauce on

that slab

of rock fish,

a splash of lime.

careful with the bones,

and don't forget 

your kale, it's that

green blob

on the side.

Ode to Angie Atkinson

it's strange

when a stranger dies,

having never

known her

in person, 

and yet it breaks your heart

just the same.

she was always there

on YouTube,

giving you her latest take

on narcissism

and psychopaths.

how to avoid,

how to heal

how to move on

and never be trapped

again in

the hamster wheel

of abuse.

cheerful and bright,

a survivor too.

you never knew her,

and yet,

when she spoke

on the screen,

dispersing her wisdom,

you felt

without a doubt,

that she knew you.

happy whatever

i used to go through

the phone list,

like most people do

and lamely send out

a text holiday

greeting.

but i stopped doing that.

i stopped

sending a picture

of a turkey,

or Santa Claus,

or a three-leaf clover

on St. Patty's Day.

i'm done with fake greetings.

if you want to go

out,

call me.

and i'll do the same

for you.

there should be one

day out of the year

where you

can say all of your happy

whatevers

and get it out of

the way.

maybe new years day,

start with happy new year

and go on

from there.

Presidents day,

valentine's day,

birthdays, etc.

ten minutes, tops and you're

done.

let's join hands 

together and put

Hallmark out of business.

the gypsy queen

she moved seven times

in seven years,

at least,

and playfully

called herself

a gypsy,

her life was in boxes,

bags,

suitcases

while the car idled

out front

awaiting a drive

to her new destination,

her new

blind victim.

men had a lot to 

do with it,

okay,

everything to do with it.

follow the money

and

don't look back was

her mantra.

next stop Toledo.

he was always old

there was an old

man

in the neighborhood,

who we

called Mingo,

who had a garden.

sunflowers rose six

feet into the air

in his small yard

bordered by a chain

link fence.

he grew tomatoes

and grapes on a vine.

peppers

and string beans.

lettuce.

he was always old

and we were

always young.

his leathered skin

darkened with age and sun

seemed wise

up against our pale

faces

and blue eyes.

a true massage story

i remember

coming home from work early

one day

and finding my second ex wife,

who never had a job,

on a massage table

in the middle

of the living room.

a man named

Carlos was rubbing her legs

with avocado oil.

candles were lit,

and there was Spanish

guitar music playing.

beside the door

were stacks of boxes.

boxes full of all my books

that i'd read

over the last twenty years

of my life.

hey, i said.

what's up with my books

in all these boxes.

she tilted her head

up from the massage table

and looked at me

in a dreamy half

eyed state.

oh, she said, you're home early.

i'm giving those books

away.

you read them already and i

need room on the shelves

for knickknacks. i'm collecting

figurines now.

i think the poor should have

an opportunity

to read those books.

have you ever heard of a library,

i said.

you're disturbing my massage

she said angrily,

then told Carlos to work on

her neck muscles.

she was feeling stress there.

guilty beyond a reasonable doubt

i'm picked for jury duty,

which surprises me.

obviously they don't know anything

about me.

but it should be fun.

i study up the night before

by watching the movie

twelve angry men.

i yearn to be Henry Fonda,

the one holdout

on a murder case, who

gets to the truth.

but the case is about a

wife who drives her husband

crazy to the point

where he

checks himself into

a psych ward at Belleview

and undergoes

electro-shock treatment

to regain his stability.

right off the bat

i find her guilty of betrayal,

gaslighting,

triangulation,

giving him the silent

treatment and withholding

sex.

making salmon seven days

a week, would

drive anyone nuts.

unfortunately there's eleven

women on the jury,

and i'm the only man.

the only hold out who

finds the woman guilty.

i look around and see the women

jurists

cutting open

avocados and eating

carrot sticks for lunch, sipping

lemon water.

i'm Henry Fonda.  it's going

to be a long long

deliberation.

frog dissection

i can't remember

not being

bored in school.

having no interest

in what was

taught.

from kindergarten on

i wondered

why the clock moved

so slowly,

why were we dissecting

frogs

and equations,

when would someone

say something

that would enlighten me.

it was the window

that held

my thoughts.

beyond the walls,

the desks,

the chalkboard.

only books and words

kept me

from losing my mind

at five,

kept me from finding

a ledge

and jumping off.

putting the kettle on

as the world

grows

smaller with each click

of a button,

each

push of a key,

each view

of the screen,

when we know everything

there is to know

from

your front porch

to Siberia,

we close the door

and stay

in for the night.

lock the doors,

put the kettle on for tea.

Taking a Cruise

my wife Guinivere 

and i were trying

to decide on whether or not

we should leave

our home in England

and travel

across the ocean 

to the new world.

it had been a hard winter,

what with the bubonic plague

and shortage of

potatoes. we could use a get

out of town adventure.

but it was quite an expensive

trip,

so i told her no. much

to my surprise

she had already booked

us a cabin

on the Mayflower

for my birthday.

we had a nice room above

the waterline with a porthole

and a big bag of flour that we used

as a bed.

she had been selling chestnuts

for seven years

in the village,

and had saved up her shillings

just for this special

occasion. 

i thought she was going

to get me

a new pair of boots, or a shiny top

hat, but no. she gave us

this long-awaited honeymoon

cruise.

we were married at the age

of 12 and we were both 

twenty-one now.

we packed up our suitcases

and cruise clothes,

and whatever salted meat

we could carry and set sail.

i'd have to give the whole

trip a one star on Yelp.

between the smell, the rough

water, the wind and limited

bathing facilities, we both

couldn't wait for the trip to end.

we both got scurvy

and a few teeth fell out because

of eating hardtack for three

months on the ocean.

if i never see another fish again,

or hear the words ahoy

Matey, i'll be fine with that.

when we finally arrived

i took an arrow from an Indian

gentleman who was on the shore

with his friends.

i had my arm up in the air,

waving to them, but

they didn't seem too happy

about us showing up.

unfortunately the ship's doctor

put a leech on the wound and

it got infected, so i was of no

use in helping to build log

cabins and making clothes

out of squirrels and deer

we could catch. they started

calling me the Weak Link.

sadly Guinivere fell in love

with the Captain, this Smith

fellow.  He made himself

the Pastor, Mayor and the boss

of everyone, so i don't blame

her, plus he had this really big

musket, so there wasn't

much i could do.

i'm hoping to get a return trip

next summer

if we don't all die.

right now, as i write a letter

of complaint to our

travel agent,

i've got these itchy

red dots all over me and wishing

i had some Neosporin.

just another day

i study

the long scar healing

on my

leg

and wonder if the surgeon

remembers

how he

so easily

cut me open

beside the wide eyed

and too

young nurse

in white.

did he go to sleep that

night

with the image

of my

leg bleeding

under the bright lamp,

then stitching it all back

together,

to make it right.

or did he

just kiss his wife

goodnight,

and roll over

and go to sleep.

it's all part of it

is the ripple

in the water from a pebble

thrown a

part of it.

the flutter of butterfly

wings,

the fallen leaf,

the wave

into the shore.

is

each drop of rain

a part

of it.

each flake of snow?

do we meet

who we're

supposed to meet,

closing

and opening doors?

is it all connected,

or

just chaos

forever a mystery

unknown.

watered down

there's love

for people, love for pets.

love

for linguini,

for

music,

for art, for weather.

for things

we possess.

we say i love your

shoes,

your dress.

the wreathe

on your door.

love.

such an overused word,

so watered down.

it's hard

to remember

at times

what it actually

means

anymore.

with your name stitched

how can

you throw away the quilt

your

mother

gifted you one Christmas.

hand made.

your name

stitched

across the front.

crazy striped in

primary colors,

and yet,

it's thread bare now,

the seams

frayed,

worn from a short

list of dogs

curled in its fabric,

tired and worn

from moving

from place to place,

the harsh sun

and time.

carefully you fold

it from corner to corner

and stuff it

away.

let someone else 

decide

its future.

into a box it goes,

where you carry it to

the attic, for now

it stays.

and then there's this

there's summer

rain,

a warm wash

of liquid sun falling

down

upon us,

and then there's this.

the grey

cold

slush of winter.

the burrowing

of life,

as we endure three

more months

past Christmas.

the staying part

it's not the leaving

part

that's difficult

anymore,

i'm used to that.

been down that road

many times.

now,

it's the staying part

that's

hard.

purgatory

my mother always

said,

don't put me in one of those

old folk

homes

when i get old and start

to lose

my marbles.

promise me that, she'd say

as she sat

there with her coffee

and

newspaper,

doing the crossword puzzle.

and yet,

for five years,

there she lay.

when the beauty parlors shut down

the sink is clogged.

what the hell.

whose hair is this mucking

up the drain.

not mine.

i snake it out with 

my special plumbing tool.

a bent clothes

hanger.

it's a gross tangle of

red hair, blonde, brunette.

one strand of half

blonde

and half grey.

those covid years coming

back to haunt

me.

stalag 17

she could make two

things.

salmon, not farm

raised, of course,

and soup.

water boiling

with a chicken

bone in it.

that was it.

she had no clue about

how to

put together a sandwich.

peanut butter

and jelly,

or Virginia ham

with cheese, lettuce

tomato

and onion,

and a swipe of mayo.

i lost weight

that year.

i looked like an extra

in Schindler's List

until i found the wire nips,

and climbed

out.

1977

the rent

is raised. on my

one bedroom apartment

behind

the racetrack.

i wonder how

i'm going

to be able to handle

the fifteen

dollar increase.

going from 220 per month

to 235.

i get out my pen

and paper.

and go through my bills.

car payment,

gas,

electric.

water.

food,

insurance.

bar tabs

and cologne.

what can i cut back on?

do i really need

lights?

how much are candles

these days?

seeing each tree

depending

on the angle of our

eyes, our heart,

our point of view

may differ.

we each take a brush

and paint

what we think

we see.

you see the wide

expanse of ocean,

the mountains,

while i

see each tree.

the strategy to leftovers

there's strategy

to leftovers.

all that cut turkey,

the small

containers of stuffing

and potatoes.

gravy.

the even smaller

containers

of cranberry sauce,

olives.

pie.

carefully you separate

each

food group on a plate

and place

them into the microwave.

hit 2,

then wait.

the cold stuff then is

arranged on the plate.

touching or not touching

the hot food,

that's up to you.

the bottle of wine

is already opened.

half of which

you've drank, dessert

in the fridge

will only have a short

short wait.

maybe you say grace, maybe

you don't.

your choice too.

depending on your faith.

the self help dance

if you aren't in a bad

place,

suffering with some sort

of mishap,

or brokenness,

the self help

books and videos all

read

and sound like mumbo

jumbo.

self-soothing trash.

a bunch

of words strung

together

with no rhyme or

reasoning behind them.

when you're

happy

and content, in a good

place,

you push them all aside,

and enjoy

a fine day in the sun,

you dance.

that kind of kind

i fall

asleep in your arms,

but you

don't mind.

not even when i call

you by

the wrong name

when we make

love.

you're

that kind of kind.

how to carve a turkey

the electric

knife

refuses to work,

and the other knives

in the drawer

are too dull

from misuse

or little use, of which

i'm not sure.

but there's this twenty pound

turkey

on table,

fat and hot,

and ten people waiting

for white

meat, or dark.

so i go out to the shed

for the axe,

and chainsaw.

strap my goggles on.

i'll carve this

turkey yet.

the line in the sand

we're all cowards

to a certain

degree.

we fear pain

or embarrassment,

we'd rather

avoid

the fight, confrontation,

we'd rather flee.

but there comes

a time

when you break,

when you've had enough

and stand firm.

you say bring it on,

let's go. you want war,

we'll let's go.

i'm ready.

it's never too late

i'm thinking about

becoming a Rockette

she tells me one morning

as i come down

to the kitchen.

she's wearing her fishnet

stockings

and high heels

from last night's foray

and a flimsy

fuzzy boa

that she bought online

at Adam and Eve.

she kicks her leg high

into the air,

knocking the cat off

the counter.

then the other leg,

which hits the coffee pot

sending it

flying to the floor.

i still have it, she says.

yes, you do, i tell her.

yes you do.

let me get the mop.

please be

careful with the ceiling fan.

train watching

i see the old men

down at the train station,

sitting

on benches on the platform.

they have no tickets,

no luggage,

they aren't going anywhere

or coming home

from some trip.

they're just there

watching the trains

arrive and leave.

watching the wheels,

the smoke,

the steel rails glisten

in the morning light.

they're

watching the passengers,

wave and kiss,

greet one another.

there is such joy to be seen.

and the leaving

is exquisitely

bittersweet.

i join them.

i'd rather stick needles in my eyes

feeling neither

guilt or shame,

i have to admit

that i've made love

to some beautiful women

over a lifetime,

but for the life

of me, i can't think 

of a single one i'd want

to be with now.

i'd rather stick needles

into my eyes,

or go swimming in

a pool of sharks,

then have a cup of coffee

with any of them.

life is full lessons, some

you have to keep

learning over and over

again.

Mickey and Minnie

mickey mouse

looks

fat this year, i tell Betty

as we lie

on the couch

watching

the Macy's Day Parade.

yes. and Minnie Mouse too.

six people are holding

them up in the air

by cables.

they both look a tad

pudgy.

not nearly as muscular

as he used to be

and she looks like she's

in her second trimester.

Maybe they stopped

doing Keto.

yup.

carbs and sugar.

that's a shame.

oh look, here comes Goofy.

higher fences

did you vote,

the neighbor asks.

a slippery road to

go down.

no, i reply.

i see no one worthy.

why, do you ask?

but it's your civil duty.

everyone should vote.

you can't complain

if you don't vote.

oh really.

just watch me.

waiting on a taxi

the bags

sit by the door,

the taxi called.

there is nothing i can do

but wait.

sit here

in my long winter

coat.

i can see out the window

the snow

falling.

it's winter once more.

there is nothing left to do

but be patient.

there is no one

to say goodbye to.

things have changed.

now strangers

as time went

on

the fights grew shorter.

the words

dwindled down

to almost whispers.

the game

was over.

passing one another

in the hall

with a civility

used

for strangers.

seven days in Mexico

we were in Mexico

for seven

days,

six of which it rained.

it tested

our will to live.

the hotel room

was a pool of water.

we ate,

we stayed in bed.

she made plans

for a bike ride,

a trip

to the ruins.

to the jungle, but

we never

made it there.

at last the sun came

out,

and we stared at one

another

in our beach chairs,

hung over and tired,

going home

with a sunburn

we'd never forget.

the overnight snow fall

he worried

if the car would start in this cold,

pumping

the pedal

as the snow fell.

fifteen degrees

with the sun

still down.

he put chains on the tires

the night before

and

poured green anti-freeze

into the radiator.

i'd watch from

the window as my father

scraped

ice of the windshields,

front and back.

cursing,

i imagined as he made

his way

around his prized

Chevrolet.

in front of each tire

he pushed the shovel

down

to the black

pavement, clearing what

he could as

great blooms of grey

blue smoke

billowed from the exhaust.

finally he climbed into

the car,

lit a cigarette and waved

as he went

on his way.

licking the spatula

as a kid

i could eat custard until

the cows

came home.

give me a spoon

and the big

mixing bowl,

the spatula to lick

and i'd go into 

a sugar induced coma.

i was happy then.

me and pudding.

i could eat and eat,

until my belly rounded

out, and I

smilingly got sick.

winning and losing

my therapist

once asked me, 

with reasonable frustration

over my

whining and inability

to move on,

are you trying

to get a win

out of this relationship?

i stared at her,

and thought,

i'm really wasting my money

here.

a win?

i say loudly. do you think

this is why

i'm here pouring out

my guts to you?

a win?

hell no.

i'm trying to get out

of this stupid

toxic relationship

and

if you want to call that

winning, well go ahead.

chalk me up

for victory.

i'm done.

a mini sleep

what do you think,

i ask myself,

should we take a nap now,

or wait

another hour.

there's so many YouTube

videos

i need to catch up on.

but hey,

you're tired,

beat.

go ahead, lie down,

put your feet

up,

grab the extra pillow

from the closet

and get some shut eye,

go ahead and take

a mini sleep.

just touching base

just checking in,

touching

base,

doing a drive by,

waving,

saying hey,

hello,

what up, yo.

i'm not coming over

for dinner

or drinks,

or coffee, i'm just beeping

the horn

and rolling on.

we're at that stage

of friendship

now.

no longer missing

as i pour

some milk onto my

cereal

i see on the side of the box

a picture

of me.

missing, please

call

if you see this person.

it's me

from five years

ago.

i'm smiling, happy,

carefree,

full of fun and energy.

i call the number

below

my photo.

i tell them, i'm back,

i found myself

again.

please remove

that image

of me.

welcome back

the woman says.

we've missed you.

that's who she was

i remember the holiday

when

my sister's

husband,

fresh out of jail

for murder

was at the table

with a metal

ring

holding his head

in place,

a bullet still lodged

in his neck

from a drug

deal gone bad.

i remember my mother

cutting

his turkey meat

for him,

pouring gravy

onto his potatoes,

and buttering his bread.

that's who she

was.

getting up

it's the failures

that

build us,

not success.

it's falling down

and getting up,

it's pain

and suffering that

brings you

to your knees,

giving you

wisdom,

and needed

forgiveness,

empathy.

a good idea at the time

sometimes you go the whole

day thinking about

making amends

for a wrong you did,

harsh words.

angered actions, not like you,

you tell yourself,

but not persuaded.

you think of apologies,

flowers or a card,

to give,

gifts, or reaching out

to say you're sorry, but by the end

of the day, you're too tired

to do anything.

so you go to sleep, 

and in the morning everything

has changed.

you've moved on.

it's all okay.

the beekeeper's daughter

i used to live

a floor below Sylvia.

she was a little troubled,

especially

with the men

in and out of her life,

but a fine poet.

beyond her age,

she was beautiful

and kind,

generous with her home

made pies, though,

quick to correct your

pronunciation

of any word she deemed

not right,

but my god,

all night at the typewriter,

Daddy this and Daddy that

pounded out

on her keyboard.

until the early morning

hours.

with frost on her foreign

windows,

she kept stinging herself

with his bees.

back into the wild

some animals

can't

be tamed.

the whip doesn't work,

the dangling

of meat

in front of them.

the shouts

and commands

are no

good.

love has no power

over them,

tenderness will

soothe the soul

for a short while,

but in the end

we will

escape.

and run back into

the wild.

the first look

the first

look of an ocean

never

leaves you,

the width

of it all

the various shades

of blue

and green,

the white breakers

rolling in.

can i touch it?

can i walk

up to it

and drop a foot

into the cold sea?

or should

i rush forward

and dive in

as i do

with

all things

of natural beauty.

things to do and not to do

i make a list

of things not to do

and other things

to do once

i quit work

in the year

2050,

give or take a year or two.

don't buy a boat.

don't ever get married again.

don't invest your money

in crypto.

don't think too much,

or worry

about the past,

or the future.

take more naps.

eat delicious food.

make love with only

those you love.

buy cotton sheets.

keep the housecleaner.

don't buy a dog

or cat,

or bird, or a plant

that needs you.

sit in the sun and say

nothing

for minutes at a time.

don't look at your

phone.

don't answer your phone,

don't answer

the door.

spend it all, every saved

thing dime

until you have no more.

break even 

when the day comes

to check out of this crazy

hotel.

say little

talk too much

and others

can smell the weakness

in you.

your insecurities

fall out

in the onslaught 

of words.

say little

and stay smart,

no need to let them

know,

if you're a fool,

or not.

limping into bedlam

who hasn't limped

with a sore

foot, or

knee,

a sprain, or blister,

some sort of leg

injury.

who hasn't dragged

themselves

around,

hoping to not be seen,

we're so

worried about

how we're perceived.

weak

and getting old.

no longer spry,

no longer full

of energy. image

in this world,

is nearly everything,

it seems.

i hear other things

i listen

past her, as she talks,

and talks,

i listen

to the lawn mower

down

the road,

the plane in the sky,

flying overhead.

i hear

birds in the trees,

i hear the wind rattling

the flag

on the pole,

i hear so many

things,

as i listen past her,

and then say,

what?

all these witches

i'm afraid to look

at my

Morgan Stanley retirement

account.

it's melting.

melting,

like the f.....king

green witch

of the east.

i call my broker and tell

her to yank

it all the next time it

peaks,

and she calmly says,

in her good witch

of the north voice,

no worries,

dear,

just click your heels

three times

and we'll have a talk

and see,

we don't want to pay

that tax penalty,

do we?

the cornbread dilemma

i'm told that i

need

to bring cornbread to the dinner.

enough for twelve.

i reluctantly

agree,

i'm a people pleaser,

how hard

can cornbread

be?

flour,

butter, sugar.

corn, i guess.

maybe i should cancel.

love takes a turn

i slept

with one eye open,

ears

listening,

always.

she couldn't be trusted.

love

takes a turn

like that

sometimes.

the new age stalkers

the new stranger

isn't knocking on the door

or peeking

through a window

these days,

she or he

is emailing,

or texting,

or calling from a private

number,

or a number listed 

as a name unknown.

there they are

in a dark room

at a keyboard

perusing your accounts,

winnowing

through your world

online.

still creepy though.

the wishbone

i know what

i'll wish for this year,

when

in a tug of war

with the turkey wishbone.

i'm ready for a new

wish.

it goes like this.

i take the last wish

back.

the slow boil

who hasn't

been

the cold frog in the pot,

comfortable

at first

in water pulled from

the tap,

the heat on low.

who hasn't been fooled

before with

arms behind your head,

resting easy,

and relaxed

before the water

boils,

and all is lost.

the ungodly hour

how could it be good news?

the four a.m.

call.

i roll over 

and wonder if i should

answer it.

no matter what it is,

there's nothing i can do.

i let it ring

and ring until they give up.

bad news can wait.

good news too.

every breath we take

they know everything

about us.

what we eat,

what we watch,

what we listen to.

they have our number,

our likes

and dislikes.

our tastes in clothes

and food,

they know where

we travel,

where we were

yesterday.

there is nothing

they don't know about

us.

every breath we take,

every stroke

of the keyboard

we make

big brother

is watching

and taking notes.

we got that M.D.

we have pills for that,

my doctor

tells me.

itchy skin,

can't sleep,

no problem, your LDL

is high,

we got that.

blood pressure 

off the chart, here,

take one of these daily.

vomiting

and stroke may ensue,

so call me

if you suddenly lose

your sense of smell,

vision

and libido.

no worries.

got an ailment, we

got that.

there's a pill for everything.

be happy, no need to be sad

anymore.

we got that.

correction tape

there is the eraser,

the sponge

red tip of the pencil,

and correction tape,

inserted into

the electric typewriter,

white out.

delete and backspace.

there are many ways

to correct

mistakes.

but the clean sheet is

best,

start over and remember

what went wrong

the last time.

like a rolling stone

i think Bob Dylan

wants to die on stage

while singing

Ballad of a Thin Man,

or Desolation road

while the never ending tour

continues.

at 80, the fire still burns

within.

from a ragamuffin child

in Greenwich Village,

to another stage

in another country, again.

but i get it.

i get it.

it's hard to let go of

love

and imagination, 

we are all fighting

time and wind.

wanting to be wanted

i feel bad about my black

stapler

that sits on the desk

next to a basket of pens,

a thin coat of dust

on its back,

that the maids missed.

i haven't used it since last

year,

march to be exact.

tax time,

when papers needed to come

together.

i wish i had more uses for it.

something for 

it to do.

it has the same staples in it

since 1982.

to make it happy and wanted

i slide two sheets of blank

paper

under its hungry mouth

and hit it down.

thank you, i hear it whisper.

open up the blue door

it's a blue door

in a short house

at the end of the street,

indigo.

dark and deep.

a subtle sheen

catching the low light

of winter.

a door you want to walk

through.

the brass knob,

the slot for mail,

the heavy

medallion that swings

against the wood.

it's where you are,

behind

the blue door.

waiting for me,

open up.

it's just a movie

i used to go on 

and on about

donna reed, which ages

me, i know,

but i was infatuated

with her.

the it's a wonderful life

donna reed.

the driven snow

donna reed.

young and sweet,

but strong too.

holding her ground,

but never

giving up on Jimmy

Stewart.

and his fledging

bank,

who doesn't want a girl

like that?

someone

who forgives and accepts

who you are,

who takes you back.

my dear friend Barnaby

i stare

at the turkey in the back yard.

fat and full of

feathers.

i never should have named

him.

we've become close friends,

as close

as poultry and human beings

can come to be.

Barnaby.

that was a mistake.

i can't kill him now.

i can't bear

to see the look in his

beady black

eyes when i put his

neck to the stump,

axe in the air.

he trusted me.

maybe ham, this year.

come here little piggy.

a sleeve of blue

what's true,

what's truly true?

hard to

find it in people.

so you look

elsewhere.

that tree out the window.

the sleeve

of blue,

a stream rolling

to where

it needs to go.

the air, cold, and new.

maybe those

clouds

are real,

caressing the autumn

moon.

saint sylvia

when the painters

came

to her house,

with their brushes

and ladders,

she was already gone,

the doors

to the children's room

taped off.

the oven

on.

her last book of poems

typed out on

the table.

was there a note,

a farewell?

we'll never know.

but it seems she'd

been writing

it for so long

anyway.

in each poem,

a goodbye is found.

baby it's cold in here

is it really twenty

four

degrees.

can that be frost on

the cars,

the windows,

the fallen

leaves.

it feels colder than

that

in here.

colder than it's ever

been

with you

beside me.