one day i whisper, one day

i haven't sharpened

a number

two pencil in ages.

i could if i wanted to

but i don't.

i leave it in the little

basket staring at me.

new and unpointed,

it's school bus yellow

never fading.

the red tip of the eraser

unused.

one day.

one day i whisper to it.

don't you worry.

i'll find something for

you to do.

there are no losers

it's

the first participation

award

we get, when born,

the birth

certificate.

you had nothing to do

with it,

and yet there it is.

the legal document

of your existence.

more trophies will

follow that mean little or

next to nothing.

but they will be saved,

and cherished.

the plastic statues,

and gaudy tin,

reminders of a last

place finish.

why try when

there are no losers,

when everybody,

even the average, wins.

the long hot shower

where once

he stood in the shower

until

the hot water

gave out,

singing in

the small tiled room

steamed

like a Turkish 

bathhouse.

he'd rub the ball

of his fist

to clear the mirror

then shave,

then brush his teeth,

brushing

back

his thick curled hair

with cream.

and now,

even the ledge of

the porcelain

tub is too far a reach,

unable

to lift

his leg to enter.

the new world of woke

they're digging up

graves,

removing statues,

burning books,

rewriting history.

faces are x'ed out,

history erased.

people are losing their jobs.

jokes are no longer

acceptable,

sarcasm is punishable

by death.

we are to the extreme

left of left

where movies are banned.

language is changed.

genders are neutered.

welcome to the new

world of woke

where the inmates are

running the asylum.

the nightmare

has just begun.

i thought you said casual

it was our first date.

she wore

a short black

cocktail dress with

heels

and stockings.

a low

cut blouse, lipstick

her hair

pulled back like

a tango dancer.

i was in shorts and a 

soaked t-shirt,

just finishing

up a three hour

morning of full court

basketball.

luckily i had some

old spice cologne to splash

around selective areas

before we went into

KFC for a three piece

chicken lunch, 

extra crispy.

she didn't want her apple

pie, so i wrapped

it up for her in a napkin

to take home.

i told her she was the 

best looking

woman in the place

which made

her blush, and say, oh my.

really?

i think we hit it off pretty

well, except

for the dress

miscommunication. 

the atlas map

you had

to have good eyesight

back

in the 80's

and the century before that.

we had to turn

on the dome

light in the car

to read road maps,

not unlike the ones used

by bombardiers

during world

war two.

we'd flip through

a twenty pound atlas

bought

at the Esso station

to plot where you were going.

we had to

read phone books too

chained

inside a booth.

the tiny letters

and numbers,

scrunched up on thin

parchment paper.

everyone wore glasses

back then,

or had a

magnifying

glass and a flashlight

in the glove

compartment.

everyone had a headache

and put

a bag of ice on their head

after taking three aspirins.

don't be that fool

i was always buying

her flowers.

roses,

a bouquet

of some sort.

daffodils,

orchids,

petunias.

i was trying to win

back

the affection i thought

i once had.

an apology of sorts.

of falling

on my own sword.

chocolates too.

i believed

in the power of hallmark

cards.

of lover letters,

poetry.

jewels.

it was all in the game.

a game

where i thought i knew

the rules.

but didn't not, really,

it takes some years to

get wise

to women,

to wake up

and not be that fool.

when the cop pulls you over

the cop

aways asks, as he stands

at your car window,

his party lights

on behind you,

do you know

why i pulled you over?

or do you

know how fast you were

driving?

they never ask you,

where

one might get a good steak

around here,

or where

to get coffee

and donuts, not the

store bought kind.

they rarely ask you if

you've lost

weight, or

how to make the perfect

Bundt cake

for the holiday gathering

you're rushing to.

if you were a tree,

what kind

would you be?

they never ask you that

either.

unfixable

you can fix

a flat tire, or a broken

down

car.

you can patch a leak

in the roof.

you

can mend a torn dress,

clean up

a spill

on the floor.

but humpty dumpty

falling to the ground

is a problem.

not unlike you,

unfixable.

your cheating heart

while her part time

lover,

the podiatrist

is in the water, she shoots

me a text

and asks how

i'm doing.

it's eighty degrees here,

she crows,

and sends a picture

of the shoreline,

an island off

the coast of the Dominican

Republic.

i can see a large shadow

of a man

in the distance.

a very white whale on land.

the doctor, who's paid

for the trip.

he's coming back now,

she says,

i think Irvin found a watch

or something

with his metal detector.

i'm having my morning

pina colada,

and scrambled eggs

with crab meat.

and a smear of cream cheese

on my bagel.

more later, kisses.

another twenty minutes

i'm killing time.

drinking coffee.

i'm in my underwear at

this machine.

i'm looking out the window,

waiting for ice

to melt.

for traffic to die down.

i'm in limbo.

i'm idling,

waiting for the day

to start.

i'll give it another ten

minutes,

then i'll heat up a cup

of joe

to go.

put some clothes on,

shoes.

bundle up

and hit the road.

while sitting in her blue chair

it goes by fast.

my friend Mary, 

at ninety-five

used to pine as she made

us tea

and opened up

a tin of cookies.

she'd say

i still feel like

the twenty-five

year old girl who moved

into the city

during the war.

i met Kenny the next

year.

he worked for the trains

like i did.

it goes by fast,

she says,

sitting in her blue chair

from 

the Hecht company.

left with no choice

like the bee

you swing at with the newspaper,

your hand,

a book,

keeping him

away,

one can only

take some much abuse.

and you

find a way

to fight back,

to land on a tender patch

of skin,

and sting.

you've been left no

choice but to

attack.

ten miles away

my mother,

despite living a mere

ten miles

away,

would often ask

if we were getting snow

now,

or rain.

was it windy there

like it was

where she lived.

is there ice too?

she was glued to

the weather channel.

be careful

it's really coming

down

and the man says it

won't be over

soon.

going along for the ride

i always

wondered why people of

a different faith,

or no faith

at all

put up a Christmas tree

for Christmas.

they nail a wreathe to

the door,

exchange gifts

and hang

stockings

on the mantle.

they string lights around

the house.

They don't believe in

God,

or that Jesus

is the Son of God,

savior of the world,

but they go along

with the festivities just

the same.

why, because it's fun?

the singing, the food,

the opening of presents,

the office party,

the punch bowl

full of rum.

my father who never

stepped inside a church

or prayed,

used to win the neighborhood

Christmas yard decorating

prize

every year.

he called religion a bunch

of malarky, but

there were the three wise men

in his yard, a manger,

the baby Jesus,

Mary and Jospeh,

colored lights

and elves, Santa on his

sleigh and behind him

all those reindeer.

the Christmas list

i pull out my list of

excuses

for not attending the annual

Christmas

party across

the river

where we have to exchange

gifts

and dance,

eat fruit cake.

i go through the list,

unravelling

the old piece of paper

i stuffed into

my wallet.

rain,

traffic,

covid (just recently added)

sprained my ankle

putting the tree up.

the heartbreak

of psoriasis.

my grandmother

died again.

getting married that weekend.

kitchen fire.

water heater

blew up.

there's a squirrel in

the house

and i think it's rabid.

can't find my car keys.

it's same town, again

this is someone else's city,

their

town,

it's where they live

and shop.

where their children

go to school.

it's their

barbershop,

their park,

and city hall.

this is where they live,

not you,

wandering around

with a map

and a cup of coffee,

wondering if you too

could live here.

doubtful,

for after an hour it

looks like

everywhere else

in the country,

and that makes

you blue.

oh really, do tell, Mom

i knew

it was my father, not

Santa Claus

that ate

the large slice of

mincemeat pie

that my mother left

on the table.

it was he

who drank the milk,

and downed

the shot of whiskey.

i knew

that no one was coming

down the chimney.

we had no

chimney.

we lived in a seven story

high rise

in the city.

i was absolutely certain

that there were

no magical

reindeer, or elves

up in the north pole

making toys all

year long.

i knew, it was all a bunch

of Bs at the age of three,

but i played along,

it seemed

to make both

parents happy, which was

a rarity back then.

no escape up here

the man

on the airplane won't stop

talking.

we're thirty thousand

feet above

the planet.

he wants to know

who i am,

where i live, what i do

for a living,

but starts

talking about himself

first.

he shows me pictures

of his children,

his wife,

his grandkids.

he tells me about the

gallstone

operation

he had last year.

then on to the fish he

caught

in Montana, with

his wife.

he rolls up his sleeve

and shows me

where

a dog bit him

on his arm, and asks

if i think it

looks infected.

finally he takes a breath,

and says

your turn.

to which i say

witness protection

program.

finally he pushes his

seat back,

and closes his eyes.

foreign soil

when they get back

from

Italy

they want their walls painted

in the colors they

saw.

the reds

and browns,

the faded yellows.

they wear a scarf around

their neck

and talk of churches.

of food,

of small villages

off the beaten trek.

they have pictures on

their

phone, cathedrals, 

and faces.

small children,

the old.

when they get back from

Italy,

it's hard being here,

living as we do,

and letting go.

chuck roast where have you been all my life

after giving up

on plants

and fruit, bread and sugar,

processed foods

of all kinds,

everything that was slowly

killing me

i go completely

carnivore, an animal based

diet.

eggs and beef,

bacon,

and butter,

plus

good old fashioned

heavy cream

for my coffee.

suddenly i can sleep,

the pounds melt away,

the blood pressure

drops,

my skin clears, and i have

clarity of thought.

one meal a day

is enough,

with a surplus of energy.

no more meds

for me,

and this makes my doctor

angry.

morning hoops first

my old girlfriend,

very thoughtful,

always

made plans for us on Saturday.

spelunking,

or picking berries

on some

farm fifty miles away.

let's go to the zoo,

or take a walk along

the canal, she'd say,

maybe we can go visit

the holocaust

museum,

or visit

the mall. how about

a winery,

or a drive to Winchester

to get some

fresh eggs?

after morning basketball,

i'd say. ok?

but it looks calm

you don't

mess

with the ocean.

for one thing,

you can't see what's in it.

crabs, eels,

sharks,

or tell

how deep it is,

or how rough.

that rip tide will rip

your lungs out Jim.

you don't dive in head

first,

or swim out too far.

don't mess with

the ocean,

just saying,

but i'm not your father.

her eyes still green

she talks

about when she was in a parade

when seventeen.

she was

the cherry blossom

queen

sitting on the back

of a 

pink limousine.

you should have seen

me then,

she says.

i was really something

back then.

she shows me her wave,

palm stretched out

moving in small

circles.

smiling

from ear to ear.

her hair still blonde, her

eyes,

still green.

urban renewal

between

sleep,

those hours awake,

we

create

or tear down

what was

made

the day before.

the city

of each of us,

under

constant

urban

renewal.

a new road out,

a bridge

in.

climbing in darkness

i lock myself

out of the house, but

fortunately

i have a twenty-eight

foot extension

ladder

that i can reach the back

bedroom window

with

and climb in,

or maybe i left

a key in the shed,

the old ones the hook,

perhaps,

or in the window well

out front,

two keys stuck to the side

in a magnetic box.

i have options of

getting in.

to climb or not to climb

is the question

i'm pondering.

do i want an adventure

on this

cold December night?

no.

the trust fund

i find

my trust fund in his

cookies,

on top of the refrigerator

in a green

glass bowl.

i count out

thirty-seven dollars

and some odd

change.

from childhood

until now,

it's always been

same.

born with a

the plastic spoon

in my

mouth.

not the genetic kind

so rare

that you lose your temper.

you can sit online for hours.

traffic

doesn't bother as much

as it used.

you have the radio,

your phone,

and if lucky a book, or

two.

of course, being put

on hold

has it's limits,

but what makes you

lose it,

is stupidity,

not the genetic kind,

but the one

revolving around common

sense.

it's then that you lose

your mind.

and get bent.

get the big blanket

i prefer

the black and white

movies.

noir

style.

mysteries.

detectives

and gun molls.

dames.

beauties

with daggers lingering

in the shadows.

trains

and grey cities.

the underling

music

foreboding

as the story unfolds.

give me Hitchcock

and Raymond

Chandler.

The Big Sleep.

Bogart

and Cagney.

Lana Turner.

John Garfield.

turn the lights off,

make the popcorn

and get the big blanket.

we're in

for the night.

reflections in a store window

your

reflection in the store

window

is not you.

that can't be you.

the thinning

hair,

the thickness

around the waist,

the shortness

of breath.

your mother's face.

it's someone else.

an imposter.

again,

you've made

a mistake.

ice cream on the other side

my father

at twenty-five

borrowed

the wooden rowboat

next door

and rowed us

across

the water of cape

cod bay.

i remember

the leaks,

the cold wash against

my feet.

sisters clinging

to the seats.

i remember watching

him

pulling at the oars,

taking us

for ice cream

on the other side.

my mother, with

her arms

around her.

still on the shore,

crying.

mortality

it's the whiteness

of your

leg

that alarms me.

the blood

below

in blue veins.

as you sleep i

pull

the blanket over

you.

nights without 

dreams

can be so cold.

i should have known better

like most

things you desire,

once you

have them, it's no big

deal.

money,

a nice house,

a fast car.

the girl next door.

you think that maybe

you were wrong

about life.

it's not about possessions,

things that

you can buy.

how could you not

have

seen that

from the beginning,

and now, alone with

useless stuff,

you pay the price.

still arguing

side by

side, at last,

six feet under

you could

almost hear them still

arguing.

still fighting over

money

and dinner, how

to raise the kids,

where to vacation,

in-laws.

and yet people wept

at their funeral,

believing the myth 

that all was well.

the starter home

it was a starter

home,

a first marriage,

an entry level

job.

a dry run

on what was to come.

practice,

practice,

practice until

you get it right.

now it's right,

and now you're

done.

the lonely middleman

we need

a set of ears to tell 

our secrets to.

our sins,

someone

willing to listen

as we

unload our burdens,

God, or the priest, 

that lonely middleman,

just won't do.

the unwanted pile up

we visit

the town dump for inspiration.

we want

to see what

isn't wanted anymore.

no hearts

here of course,

but clocks

and chairs, rusted bicycles,

kitchen utensils,

cracked cookie

jars.

a doll

with rusted wiry

hair.

you wonder whose hands

were on

these things,

what pride there was,

what joy

there was

when things we're new.

back to love again,

aren't we.

one slice of ray's original

damn

that slice looks good.

the bubbled

cheese,

the pepperoni

crisp

on the red sauce.

the crust

a rope

of bread

surrounding.

my mouth waters,

my nose

is aroused.

i can hardly keep

my lustful

eyes

in my head.

the dear old friends

it doesn't matter that

i've read

all those books

on the shelves,

or on the table,

or floor,

a stack of books on

the nightstand,

some in drawers.

i may never open

any of them again.

but let the dust

settle,

let the pages yellow

and the binders

go brittle.

leave them

where they are, 

my dear old

friends.

then carry me out

with them, 

at last,

in the end.

i'll just be on my way

there is the morning

after

we need to deal

with.

we look for words to say,

as we collect

the empty

bottles, dishes

and glasses, dumping

the ashtrays.

clothes are found,

below

and above the bed,

the chair,

on the stairs,

the fray.

nothing on hangers,

nothing folded,

there was no time for

that.

can i walk you to your

car, i ask.

please no need, she says,

with a peck

on my cheek.

i'll just

be one my way.

the tough guy

you know a tough guy

when

you see one.

maybe a little gruff,

some sort

of facial hair,

some leather,

perhaps a tattoo or

two

leaking ink

on his muscled arms.

brooding,

daring you to make

eye contact.

when did they

decide that

this was who they'd be.

you can't help

but wonder though,

if there's

a mother's child

inside.

a little boy wanting

to be free.

cotton candy pink

the man sees

the pink

paint on my nails,

and wonders

about me.

i can see the look in

his eyes

trying to determine

if

i'm playing ball for

the other side.

have i switched

my desires.

changed teams so

to speak.

so before he asks,

or thinks

any further i tell him,

it's just paint.

eggshell

latex. it's called

cotton candy,

i'm

doing a job for

a woman, down the street.

the leak in the roof

it's something else

to deal with.

the headlight on the car

going out.

then

there's the expired license.

the expired milk

in the ice box.

of course there's me

and you,

too.

not to mention,

the leak in the roof.

one light on

the white beard

is a sign.

the mice too.

the unclipped

hair

and nails,

the car unmoved for

months

at a time.

the food delivery,

the trash

not taken to the curb.

one light on

in the back room.

it's not over quite

yet,

but soon.

soon.

clues are welcome

we'd like

to understand God,

figure out what

he or she

looks like.

which pronoun

to use is a mystery too.

they or them.

tell us

dear lord,

we don't want to

offend.

a burning bush

once in a while, would

be a welcoming

clue.

to push it all aside

if you live

long enough, survive,

call it luck,

or good genes,

you learn

to push so much aside.

fatigue

for one, guilt

and shame.

you rise out of bed,

and push

aside

the pain.

you press on

and forgive others,

you forgive

yourself.

you learn to learn,

to do it

all again.

almost everything

my willpower

is selective.

i can give up liquor

or sugar,

bread

and pasta.

even Jordan

almonds.

i can quit the bags

of fried

salty things.

i can give almost

anything,

almost, but not quite.

last minute at wal-mart

do i dare go in,

do i take a chance

this time

of year

and enter the big store?

i look at my

list.

a twelve-pound bag

of organic mints,

a sack of

marshmallow peanuts,

orange.

a set of new

snow tires,

and a silky,

once worn dress.

a television. 

and

an enormous box

of rawhide

bones

for the pet.

it's getting easier

he sends

me cookies, i send

him

nuts.

we slap our hands together,

the Christmas

rush

is over.

a wreathe 

on the door, a string

of lights

plugged in.

a few cards left

to drop

in the mail,

a friend,

a son.

it's getting easier each

year

to get it all

done.

the untethered

untethered

they move and move,

no

anchor

to hold them still

very long.

their lives in boxes,

bags,

maps

to learn the layout

of their

new

but ephemeral home.

like balloons,

the air

of this place too

will

seep out

and they'll be back

in the wind

once more,

on the move.

let's take the train

i need the fix again.

the walk,

the taste, the commotion

of the city.

i need the cold

wind down

my back,

the smell of the city.

the food,

the cars,

the buzz.

i need a hot pastrami

sandwich

from Katz's deli.

I need to go out onto

the Edge

and peer over

the Hudson, the buildings

below.

i need to speed down

Broadway

in a yellow cab,

i need a steak the size

of Idaho.

to walk up Madison Avenue,

down

to Soho, Noho,

to the village and battery

park.

i need chop suey

from Chinatown.

I need to kneel in St. Patrick's.

i need to confess.

i need to pray.

i need just three days

to get

it out of my system again.

let's take the train.

Moe

i admit

i was lax with my dog

in training him.

i wanted

him to be free, to behave

as he wanted,

bark when he wanted,

chase squirrels

and cats at will.

i wanted him off the leash.

i never wanted him

to beg,

or roll over,

to heel. i didn't want

to force

new tricks upon him.

i wanted him to be

independent 

and incorrigible,

like me.

and so he was.

how many years

it surprises

me, the new building

that appears

seemingly overnight.

when did that

go up?

it seems like just yesterday

there was a park

there.

trees, a fountain,

a picnic table.

it's where

we used to meet

and talk.

and now this,

seventeen floors of

concrete.

how many years has

it been since

we got together?

we'll have to find a new

place now,

to meet and kiss.

i know that look

i know that look,

that purr,

that smile,

the way

you cross

your legs, and throw

back your arms.

i know what you're thinking.

but can you

wait a little

longer, like after

we're out of the car.

who's next?

i've run

out of fingers to count

the dead.

i'm onto

toes now.

loved ones gone,

dear friends.

parents.

i hold them to my

chest,

and i wonder,

but without fear,

who's next?

the wide porch

i like the view

from

this age, this porch i've

built

over the years.

it's a wide porch.

the sea

stretches out before

me.

i can see ships.

plowing

across the blue.

come over sometime.

we'll talk,

we'll remember.

i've left a chair open

for you.

a simple prize

it's just

coffee and a bagel,

a simple

prize

on this cold day,

toasted

and buttered,

dripping on

our hands,

but we sit and observe

like minded

souls

on this Sunday morning,

strolling by

in their Sunday clothes.

some hurried,

some

like us taking

their time.

when lips coincide

it's easy

when the hand fits.

when

the stride is equal.

it's comfortable when

lips

coincide.

when words are said

to praise,

not harm.

it's easy when you

find

someone not

unlike

the person you are,

inside.

the toys of childhood

the child

out grows the toy car,

the firetruck,

the swing

and slide.

he moves on to other

interests

that bring him

joy.

things

to fill the void

of

childhood

gone.

with or without me

can i bring this

back to life,

this sad

green plant wilting

in the shade,

on the far

sill

in winter light?

can i water her,

speak

kind words,

make promises

i'll never keep.

can she survive better,

with or without

me?

a lighter shade of pale

as the man

came down the stairs,

buttoning his shirt,

pulling up his trousers

and carrying

his wing tip shoes,

he said, hello.

i was painting

the woman's living room

a lighter shade of pale,

near blue.

she made

eggs for him,

and bacon. toast.

poured juice into a glass,

while

still in her robe.

and as he wiped jam

from his

vigorously chewing

mouth, he asked me how

i got into the business

i was in.

i shrugged and said,

just lucky.

and he replied, well i

guess someone has to do it.

then he put on

his wedding ring,

and left in

his black car

parked around back

in the alley.

a flag in the wind

it's a small

piece of paper, litter

tossed from

a moving car.

a wrapper

of sorts,

a flag in the wind of

who cares.

someone else

will pick it

up. it's not

my problem

anymore.

katie bar the door

she was a hipster,

i could tell

by the red framed glasses

and spiked

white hair,

the little bird tattoo

on her leg.

she wasn't aging

gracefully,

going gently into

that good night.

she knew all the new

music,

indie films.

where the next protest

march was being held.

she told me about the five

times she'd

been arrested,

each war.

despite being

60,

she was hanging on

to 30

with all her might.

she had stickers on her

car,

coexist,

peace love,

recycle.

be the solution,

not the problem.

she grew basil in her

back yard.

she could stand on her

head for an

hour

and quote Eckart Tolle

and Allan Watts,

and 

Jane Fonda, Greta Thunberg.

for me,

at that point 

it was

Katie bar the door.

hey buddy

beware

of those that call you friend,

or buddy,

or pal.

they're not.

they're usually trying to sell

you a car,

or a bill of goods,

snake oil,

or some other

shaky

deal.

the pat on the back

seals it,

especially when they

tell you

that you look good,

and ask,

have you lost weight?

a puddle of wax

i left the candle

burning

all night, not remembering

to snuff

the flame

before going up

to bed.

it's a hard puddle

now

of cold wax

on the plate.

sometimes

love burns

out,

and there's nothing

left, but the smallest

of memories,

a strand of wick,

to light.

the vampire real estate agent

i see a real

estate agent in the rain

with a mallet

banging a for sale sign

in front of a house

next to mine. she's wearing

a mink stole

and a red dress

with red high heels.

her white Cadillac Escalade

is idling in the street.

she waves.

i wave.

she starts towards me,

but i make the sign

of the cross

with a butter knife

and spatula i have in my

grocery bag.

she falls backwards

into the mud.

there's a trickle of blood

coming out

of her surgically altered nose.

are you thinking about

selling anytime

soon, she whispers, trying

to catch her breath.

maybe renting?

here take my card.

call me anytime.

carefully i reach over

and take her card.

I look at the picture.

who's this i ask,

putting the spatula away,

but holding the knife

out.

that's me.

but it doesn't look like you.

it's professionally done.

none of us look like

our pictures, it's photo shopped,

air brushed.

glossed over.

they make us do it.

i wished i looked like that,

but i don't.

people won't call if they

see what i really look like.

you catch more flies with

honey, than vinegar she says,

pulling out 

a printout detailing the local

listings

in the area.

what's your square footage?

new furnace?

wood floors?

i shake my head and laugh,

then

go over to help her out

of the mud.

it's okay, i tell her.

relax.

i'll call you when i'm ready,

okay?

i have your card.

okay, she says. maybe i'll stop by

next week.

preferably at night, sunlight

has a tendency

to turn me into dust.

a full moon would be nice.

game over

i used to enjoy

the puzzle, the maze,

the desire

to know the answer,

the way out.

i wanted

to plug in the right

word

the right phrase,

a magic number

to bring

the truth to light,

to end 

the mystery

of what lies below

the surface.

but knowing you

has taken

all the fun out.

game over.

DIY time machine

i've been tinkering

with my

new invention, the time

machine.

i found a blueprint

of it in

an old Mechanics Weekly

magazine

at Jiffy Lube.

it was stuffed below

an ancient

People's magazine

with Elizabeth Taylor

on the front
talking about her

perpetual battle

to stop eating

chocolate glazed donuts.

the time machine,

is a work in progress.

right now

it can take me

back about an hour

or two,

no further.

but it comes in handy

after eating

Indian food that doesn't

quite sit well with me, or

when getting

stuck in traffic.

five years though, is

my goal.

that will be a game

changer.

in with the new, out with the old

i put the old

computer in the closet

next to the old printers,

the old tvs,

the old telephones,

the old

toaster ovens,

the old vacuum, 

the old hair dryer,

the old

record player

and speakers,

the old

lamps, the old

alarm clocks.

the old

back massager,

wait a minute, what's

that doing in here?

buying stock in Kleenex

after giving myself

seven

covid

tests, just to be sure i'm

not infected

with the world's 

favorite and most

recent plague,

i go onto wedmd

to figure

out my cold.

head cold,

sinus infection,

the common cold?

my personal favorite.

but

what's making me blow

my nose

ninety times

a day

no fever, no sore throat,

just congestion

in the upper

region and a feeling

of malaise.

which i feel most days

anyway.

luckily i find in the kitchen

drawer

my stash of

prednisone, and amoxicillin,

from previous

undiagnosed ailments.

plus i have

chicken soup.

two gallons frozen from

a year ago.

should be good, right?

Oprah's recipe for gravy

everyone

writes their memoir, it seems.

their autobiography,

or a cookbook

with their own recipes.

child actors,

musicians,

politicians.

some are just in their

twenties though.

what could have happened

this early

in life, to be of any

interest to anyone?

do i care about Celine

Dion's

childhood,

or Oprah's favorite

recipe

for gravy?

Mathew Mcconaugheys

secret ingredient

for 

bread pudding,

and meditation mantras?

apple butter and squirrel stew

we met once

in a coffee shop in Richmond.

she drove

in from Winchester.

she brought

me a selection of prize

winning 

jars of apple butter, that

she personally

made.

you need to come to

the apple butter festival

next year

she told me

as i unscrewed one of

the jars

and gave it a taste.

it was pretty good.

i'm a whittler,

do you like to whittle?

nah,

i do whistle though.

that's not the same, she

said.

she gave me a handwritten

recipe

for squirrel stew,

her mother's,

before she left, kissing

me on the cheek,

never to be seen again.

the enormous truck

the neighbor,

small in stature, with

a large

black beard,

wearing camouflage,

climbs

into his truck,

almost

needing a ladder to 

get in.

it sounds like a jet

engine

when it starts up.

gunmetal grey with

stickers

on each bumper

proclaiming politics

and flags.

hail to the redskins.

he loads his guns

and arrows

into the back, then

pulls away.

he's off to kill something,

somewhere.

i try to stay

out of his way.

no more ticking

sometimes

the day is a ticking bomb.

you

wait

and listen, your

ear

to the ground.

and then it stops.

strangely

what worried

you in your sleep

is mysteriously

gone.

they must be good people

i know

they're good people.

how do i know this?

i know this

to be true

because they have chickens

in their yard.

fat white chickens

that give them fresh

eggs daily.

that's all i need to know

about someone,

to determine if

they're good.

do they have

chickens?

what keeps her awake

this late,

across the way, the small

pond

that separates

our windows. i see her

light on.

is she reading?

is the television on?

what keeps her

up at this hour, my guess

it's the same

reason

that keeps me awake.

holding the rail tightly

when you miss

a step

and stumble, grabbing

the rail

before 

you fall face forward into

the concrete,

you blow out and whistle

and say,

that was close.

closer than the time

before that.

and then the dark

balloon cloud

appears

above your head, and you

wonder,

as i get older will

i catch myself the next

time 

when i fall going

up or down these steps.

i'd better write this down

i'll forget my

inspiration,

no doubt, so i write it down

on the back

of an envelope.

i fold it,

and stick it in my

back pocket,

but forget to take it

out when

i throw the jeans

into the washer

for a long soak,

then dryer.

i can't for the life

of me

make out what i wrote.

it's smudged

and blurry,

faded.

so it came to writing

this instead.

the child who has his own

god bless

the child who has his own.

his own

bed,

his own house,

his own

car,

his own money.

his own

food

and water.

no one owns him.

no need

to beg or borrow,

or steal.

the hard work is done.

soda pop

i used to drink a lot

of carbonated

colored sugar water

fizzy drinks.

coke,

pepsi, fresca.

nine spoons of sugar

down the hatch.

the big gulp size.

they went well with

hamburgers and fries.

potato chips.

then when my pants

got too tight i went to

the diet drinks.

but between the headaches

and sweating

a glue like substance,

i finally stopped.

sugar is in everything.

the evil out there

can be just one can

of soda pop.

finishing my sentences

it's annoying

how the computer is trying

to guess

now what i'm going to write.

reading my

mind.

it reminds me of my ex

wife.

finishing my sentences,

plugging in words,

correcting my spelling

and grammar,

shaking its head at

all my politically incorrect

thoughts.

where's the turn off

button.

how did this even start?

tis the season to regift

i get a tin of cookies

in the mail.

stale on delivery,

but i don't open them

this year.

or shake the box.

i don't break the seal.

it's that time of the year

for regifting.

all i need is wrapping

paper

and a bow on top.

a good time for all

i see the leash

hanging

on the nail

in the cellar,

a collar beside it

with a name

tag.

there is

a glove with the ball

still in it

on a shelf.

an old bat,

a deflated football.

the dog's dish,

dry and silver

is on the floor

next to

the boy's old sneakers,

still muddy,

the laces

untied.

a good time was once

held by all.

sweet fruit

it's magic,

or at least it feels that way.

an orange

appearing

on a tree,

an endless array

of grapes

on the vine.

cherries.

peaches

and apples, melons

on the ground,

berries.

bananas in bunches,

coconuts.

it's magical how

all these

fruits appeared out

of nowhere.

don't even get me

started

on me

and you.

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.