no vacancy

with the guest

bed

gone, you are safe once

more

from overnight

visitors,

relatives arriving

to tour

the city.

there's a small

couch

in there now.

a bureau,

a desk,

a window with a

pleasant

view. some books

parked

along the shelves

of a small

bookcase.

there's no one

there in the early

morning hours,

for you to politely

knock on the door,

and ask what

they want for breakfast.

this changes everything

i haven't had a conversation

with my

mailman in over ten years.

we pass each other

with hardly wave

or nod,

and then

yesterday,

he stops me as i get out

of my truck,

hands me my letters

and asks

what do i know about

painting cabinets.

this changes everything.

the frozen pond

it looks safe.

the thick ice picking up

the blue

in the sky.

you throw a rock

across

the pond and watch

it skate

to the other side,

you press a stick into

the ice

until it breaks.

it looks safe.

should we give it

a try?

but in your ears

you hear your mother's

voice,

saying no.

why did i come here?

there are days

when you can't find

what you're

looking for. even when

the grocery clerk asks

if you did.

you search

without a list,

up and down the aisles,

then the moment occurs

when you don't

even remember

what you came into

the store for.

it comes back to you

later,

when it's time for dinner,

and you sit down.

the shrinking thesaurus

as a kid,

and even as a teenager

i rarely

used salty

language,

and if i did as i

grew older,

they were muttered

underneath

my breath.

but now i can't stop

swearing.

despite all

the words i've learned,

all the reading

i've absorbed,

certain words just

seem to fit

best when

angry, or a story

needs a good telling.

oops!

who hasn't

left

the stove on

once or twice in life,

left the door

unlocked

all night, who hasn't

turned

off the iron

as it sits hot on

the board.

who hasn't

left their keys

in the door, or

let the water in

the tub overflow

until it came 

through the floor.

who hasn't

called

someone by the wrong

name,

when expressing

affection,

telling them they're

adored?

act one

present

the big bed.

the soft bed.

the room with a view.

roll out an ocean.

a full moon.

let's set stage

for romance.

que the music,

light the candles

and pour

the wine,

enter you.

quiet on the set,

now action.

the smaller version of God

we make

our god small,

we

limit him or her,

or whatever

the case may be

as being like us.

maybe old,

maybe with a white beard,

maybe

a judge of sorts,

angry at times,

but loving too.

caring at times,

but aloof

and distant.

we think of him as

some wise grandfather

figure,

with a gavel and sword.

a scale

to balance out

the good and evil

that we do.

but i suspect He's nothing

like that.

nothing like us,

but more,

impossibly fair,

infinitely true.

careless

despite our

best efforts to kill

ourselves, the body

does

it's best to keep

us alive, to

keep us healthy.

but we

feed it junk.

sugar,

processed foods.

we smoke

and drink,

feed ourselves drugs.

we leap off cliffs,

we dive

deep

into the pool of

fools.

we want to touch

the stars,

climb

Everest.

we're not satisfied

in being

content and happy on

the ground.

we're so careless

with what we

put into our minds,

into 

our mouths.

better night than day

some days,

july days in particular

the sun

feels closer,

a hot

bath of light.

too bland

and too much.

while other days,

and nights,

it's the moon

that hangs

tight over your

shoulder.

a cold smile on

it's rocky

face. more mystery

is my take, the

nights are much more

interesting

than days.

living underwater

i can swim

better

underwater, than i can

on the surface.

the same

holds true

for living.

bending like a fish

through

the troubled

depths

of life, hidden

in the shadows,

the murky

light.

washed ashore

the debris

of you, of me, floats

to the surface

washed

ashore

by time and waves.

by

storm and disrepair,

the sinking of it all,

driftwood.

algae.

old green bottles

holding messages

from those

still lost

at sea.

the timber of our

hulls,

bent and detached,

little is left,

most

is gone.

the same Christmas card again

as usual,

the best Christmas

cards

come from the Exxon station

up the street

where i get my oil

changed,

and from my dentist

who cleans

my teeth,

not to mention

my lawyer

and tax preparer.

they're beautiful cards,

oversized

with embossed lettering,

brilliantly colored

pictures of mangers

and other religious

scenes.

pieces of art that

should be framed.

they never send the same

card, year

after year, like i do.

sending one out from

the box of one hundred,

which seems to 

never end.

raised by wolves

raised by

wolves we were,

and television,

and what we learned

on the street.

the parents were busy

with their

own drama filled lives.

work and babies,

keeping

the house afloat,

making sure there

was something,

anything

to eat.

no words of wisdom,

no pondering

of our futures,

no planning a path

for us,

schools or talents,

or otherwise.

just grow up

and stay out of trouble.

get a job.

everything will be fine.

just a few hours late

i got lost

going to Fell's Point

in Baltimore

one year.

i told her seven o'clock.

she was making dinner,

i was bringing

the wine.

i took the wrong exit

and started

back across the bridge

again past

the glowing

Domino Sugar sign.

finally

i arrived

and she put out a plate

for me.

the strip of salmon

more dried

than any fish i'd ever

seen.

delicious i said, and

poured the wine.

it was almost nine.

one thing well

to do one

thing well is a blessing

in life.

whether

hammering

a nail.

or grinding metal

at the factory.

the baker

up all night

icing

his wares.

one thing well.

that's all you need 

to make

a lifetime

rich

and fulfilled.

a good starting point

penniless,

or weak, sick and 

lost.

beaten down.

these are good

starting points,

for when

blessings arrive

you'll understand

and be grateful,

having seen

both sides.

beware of the silver

spoon in a child's

mouth.

they never know

struggle, or less,

everything given

to them

too soon.

the humming bird

the nervous

yellow

bird,

never still,

a bright splash

of color

floating,

and darting

from

flower

to flower.

the life of springs

party,

too pretty for

it's own

good.

not unlike you.

sleep on it

sleep on it.

give it a night,

maybe two.

do nothing, but wait.

the answer

will come to you.

make no rash decisions.

just sleep on it.

you'll see.

when tomorrow

comes,

you'll know what

to do.

a love poem

why don't you write

a poem

about me,

she said.

oh, you don't want

that,

i told her.

let's make love

instead.

before life began

in the night

shade

of my room, the blue

lights

of my Pioneer

receiver,

setting some sort

of mood,

i'd lie in bed and listen

to the stack

of lp's

i mounted on the turntable.

Elton,

and McCartney,

Croce,

Dylan.

i knew each crackle

in the vinyl.

each skip, each word

forever

etched in memory.

it was before so much,

almost

before life began.

asleep before me

she talked

about ending things,

of moving on,

not from us, but from

the world

at large.

life was too hard.

she said it sincerely

and i believed her,

but instead,

she brushed her teeth,

and set out

her clothes

for work the next day.

then fell asleep

before i did.

that time of the year again

as the holiday

grows nearer in celebration

of the birth

of Christ.

and the stores

get crowded,

the roads jammed

with traffic

in all directions,

a man reaches

out the car window,

as he beeps his horn,

and waves

one finger in my

direction,

his face red with anger,

and scorn.

it's that blessed time

of year again.

the vegan restaurant

for her birthday

she

wanted everyone to go to the vegan

restaurant

in Vienna, because

she was special

and everyone wanted

so hard to please

her,

an impossible task

to begin with.

but we did it, 

or else faced

the consequences

of silence

and brooding.

it was a well known gathering

spot

for anorexics

and tree huggers.

there was

no meat.

just pretend meat.

fake meat

made out of some bizarre

soy

concoction.

a veritable plate, or bowl

of rancid

vegetables,

straw and twigs,

indigestible

kale

and spinach, leeks.

after a visit or two there,

and being sick

for days,

i took things into my

own hands

and stopped

for burgers along the way,

grilled

beef.

cow meat.

short ribs and steaks.

dr. feelgood

i see my

doctor at the bar

chatting it up and having

a good time

with the local pharmaceutical

salesman.

laughing,

hitting each other on

the back,

clinking glasses together.

they should get a room.

i'm buying,

the salesman says,

a round for everyone.

go ahead

get the big steak.

we had a good week,

a good year.

don't make me pull over

you can't take kids

to mars,

they'd be in the back seat

of the space

capsule,

moaning, are we there yet?

i'm bored,

i have to pee,

i'm hungry.

can't we stop somewhere?

i can't see

out my

window, my stupid sister

keeps

bugging me

with her boney elbows

and knees.

it smells in here,

someone just cut the cheese.

can i open the window?

a new birth

the seed

pushes itself upwards,

forward

to the sun,

into the rain.

the world pushes onward.

the rush

of cars,

the rush of trains.

nothing stops,

everything

keeps growing

and dying.

a new birth

for each new grave.

the orange shag rug

at the start

of the marriage,

the first house,

had

orange shag carpet,

wall to wall,

ala 1980,

and

blue vinyl siding.

there was

a squared mud yard

out back

where

the new dog

would go to do his

business and bark.

the front porch

had concrete

steps

with a loose

handrail that her mother

insisted we'd

be sued if we didn't

get it fixed.

the front

door was white, though,

with a pineapple

knocker, faux gold.

which gave us

hope.

eventually we changed

the carpet,

before it ended in

divorce.

it was

a low pile oatmeal color,

which said

everything.

what's the weather

science,

not unlike the weather,

has a way

of changing.

what's good for you today,

is bad

for you tomorrow.

they keep

you on the edge of

your seat,

snow shovel,

or umbrella?

never quite knowing

what to drink

that's healthy,

what to eat.

the large fish on a board

it's a large

fish, presented to the table

on a charred

wooden

board.

tail intact as well

as head 

with flat doll like eyes,

staring glumly,

night black.

some clap

some oooh and aw.

how long ago it swam

in the sea,

we wonder,

flash frozen,

or fresh, or laid

out in ice behind

the butcher's glass

for weeks?

our aching bellies

late into the night 

would like

to know.

maybe twelve percent

as i sit

pondering twenty percent

of the bill

for the waiter

often

unresponsive

and lacking

in memory.

aloof

in his casual care

of work.

she got my steak,

i her

fish,

the drinks uncold,

the butter

stiff.

i wonder if he would

even care

if i lessened his tip.

a learned lesson

your gut

is your true brain,

it holds more neurons in

it than the one

cradled in

your head.

it's instinct,

it's premonition,

intuition,

it warns you of danger.

of someone

with toxic energy.

it gives you

fear

and pause.

it's the wisest part

of your body.

listen to it,

don't ignore.

this friend, this lover,

is not good for you.

move on.

the glow of you

there is a roundness

to you,

a soft glow,

of sun

and water as you

lift yourself

from the sea.

i'm happy that it's

allowed

you back onto dry

land,

and back,

walking towards

me.

at three a.m.

it's in the wee

wee hours, 

when we are awakened

by thought,

a dream

curtailed,

it's then that we truly

examine our

life.

where have we won,

or where we may

have failed.

there is no stick to

measure

the depth of fear,

or joy.

we are just wading it

seems in unclear waters,

going nowhere

faster and faster

with each

new year.

the new Christmas sweater

i tell the clerk 

at the liquor store 

that i'm attending 

a Christmas party tonight,

and need a

recommendation

on a drink

that will make me

smart and funny,

clever, and able to withstand

a few hours of small talk,

but not drunk,

or obnoxious after

three tumblers.

maybe a little buzzed,

but not

swaying, or getting

sick.

hmm. he says.

i think i have just

the thing for you.

are you possibly having

a romantic interlude

that evening? we don't

want to ruin that, you know?

maybe, i tell him. i'm

hopeful.

i'm wearing my new Christmas

sweater,

so i may get a lot of attention.

let's see he says,

as we walk down the long

aisles of alcoholic

spirits.

wine? nah, the tannic

acids give me a headache.

what about,

rum, no, i got sick on that

in high school and now

i can't even smell the stuff.

tequila?

hmmm. maybe.

or perhaps a good scotch.

people are impressed when

you drink scotch, he says.

makes you look

literary and mature. wise.

you just sip it and observe

the crowd. no need to talk

much.

that's it, i tell him.

give me the big jug

and ring it up.

express replacements

no one fixes anything

anymore.

the washer

on the blink, get a new one.

down

the block there's a store.

the tv

on the fritz,

amazon

will bring you a new one

tomorrow.

the computer

screen

gone black, no problem,

so easy

to replace that.

along with phones,

and all the other gizmos

you possess.

even marriages gone south,

not to worry,

get a new wife, a new

husband

on dating.com,

there's a no-fault lawyer,

cheap,

with a coupon willing

to get you out.

seemed like a good idea

we went down

to see

the cherry blossoms.

but everyone else had the same

idea.

there was no where

to park,

so we circled the monuments,

got stuck in a detour,

waved on by cops.

tomorrow

it was going to rain

and be windy,

the trees would

be bare again. this was

our last chance.

but we were running out

of gas,

then finally gave up,

going home

to look at the blossoming

tree in our yard,

which was beautiful

enough.

in the fall we have plans

to go

to the mountains,

to look at

the foliage,

what could go wrong?

employee of the month again

i'm thinking of giving

myself a raise,

a small increase

in salary

and maybe a few more

days

off next year.

a bonus for Christmas.

after all i have

been employee of the month

for 28 years in a row now.

do the math.

i might give myself

a gold watch too,

and a window office.

but i don't want to get

ahead of myself,

let's see how December

goes.

ten inches away

alone

reading, 

alone

on a walk

deep into the woods,

or biking

on the trail.

alone listening to music,

or watching

a show,

alone eating,

alone

at the movies,

alone

at work, alone writing,

alone in my head,

and yet never 

ever lonely,

i only felt that

way

when you were here,

ten inches away,

sleeping

in my bed.

that's what i'm talking about willis

it's interesting

how the preacher, or priest,

or minister,

can find a single line

in the Bible,

and run with it.

he'll analyze

the words, in Greek, in Latin,

and finally

in the language that 

you know.

he'll take it apart like

fileting a fish,

picking the fine bones out.

carefully dissecting the hidden

meaning.

he connects the dots

to another verse

in the Old Testament,

about two hundred pages

before that

said by a man with a name

beginning with Z, that

no one uses anymore,

because it's too hard

to pronounce.

see that, he says. hitting his

hand against the pulpit

which wakes everyone up,

do you see that? yes. yes.

that's what i'm talking about.

but he doesn't end

it with Willis.

as i would.

the christmas parade

as a parade

goes by, men

and women, small children

dressed

as santa's helpers

wave to the crowd.

the firetrucks,

the cars

decorated like candy

canes roll by,

and then at the very

end

is Santa on a made

up sleigh, which

is actually the back of

a Toyota pickup truck

filled with hay.

there's a tiny tyke

standing beside me

in a ball cap,

sucking on an enormous lollipop,

fun, huh? i say to him.

he looks up at me and says,

not really. this stinks.

lame.

like we're supposed to believe

that's Santa Claus.

i've seen him before,

at the mall,

he sold my mother a 

pair of shoes.

the grey mouse

how

do you kill a mouse?

why,

when they eat so little,

so quiet

in their ways,

soft and small,

a lighter shade of grey.

up and over

counters,

they find a way in,

they find a way out.

but they seem 

well mannered.

think of them

as tiny

butlers,

small maids, cleaning

up the crumbs,

the mess

that you've made.

who is that girl?

after she got her new nose,

and her skin

tucked

behind her ears,

making her face tight

as a drum,

and her tummy

squeezed clean of fat,

i almost didn't recognize

her when she walked

into the room.

her eyes were blue now,

not green,

and her curves seemed

to be more curvy.

but then i knew it was her

when she ordered a martini

and a basket of fried calamari

and onion rings.

young whippersnappers

when the clerk

asks

if you want the senior

discount

on your groceries,

and asks

if you need help with

your bags

in getting to your car,

or when a young

man holds

the door for you and calls

you sir,

you want to scream,

i'm not ready for this,

not yet, go play in

your sandbox, 

and i'll let you

know when i'm old.

Vice-president of sales

everyone's a manager now.

a vice president

of operations, of sales.

a CEO,

a chairman,

chairwoman,

a senior officer of some

sort.

there's no worker bees anymore,

no little people.

just big wheels.

look at their

business cards,

everyone is important.

you can tell by

the raised gold lettering.

in the dog house again

i see 
Father Smith coming

down the center

aisle 

about to give mass,

the little altar

boys trailing

behind with the cross,

and staff

and other assorted

instruments

of faith.

i give him

a nod,

a little wave, but

he scrunches up his mouth

and rolls his

eyes.

he's mad at me.

i've  written too many

poems about

him

and the church.

i'm in hot Holy Water

with him,

i'm banned to the

the proverbial doghouse,

a perpetual

state of purgatory, or is it,

limbo?

picture book triage

my father

used send me pictures of the fish

he caught,

or the steak

he was cooking,

a new shirt,

a new car every

fifteen years.

but now

he sends me a picture of

a bump

on his shoulder,

or the veins

on his hand gone blue,

or perhaps

a foot, swollen

and bruised,

and asks,

what's this look like

to you?

the tilted shades

there is something

missing,

gone

from view,

that chair is an inch

out of place.

someone has

tilted the shades.

left the stove on.

who's here?

who came and went.

was it the wind,

a ghost,

or is it

my memory failing me

once again.

something's happening here

i ask

the activist guy

next door if there's

any

protest

marches going on downtown

today.

the weather is perfect

for a rally

of some sort.

he's out walking his dog,

that he named Greta Thunberg.

a small wiry mutt

that bites and barks

at everyone.

i have the day off

and i feel

like yelling

or carrying a sign

in front of the white house.

there must be something

going on,

women's rights,

a war,

babies, global warming.

inflation,

general malaise,

disease, something?

nah, he

says,

we got nothing right now.

spring is best.

any ideas?

fruitcakes

i see the mailman

coming up

the street bent over,

the mail sack

weighing him down.

i wave,

he manages a nod,

as he

he hands me my

mail.

fruitcakes, i ask?

yup.

he says, slapping

at his bag,

they're killing me

this year.

the snowoman

while the other

kids

were building a snow

man

out of the freshly

fallen

snow,

getting us out of school,

i was busy

with a snow woman

ala

Sofia Loren,

with all her curves,

pleasing

my father as he 

looked out the window.

retirement

i see my retired friends

at the grocery

store

reading

the backs of tuna cans.

perusing

oranges with a squeeze.

looking for the most

ripe tomato.

i see the coupons

in their hands.

or the receipts

adding up the cost

to see if the clerk

got it right.

i see them going into

the library

and coming out with nothing.

or down at the lake

with a loaf

of bread to feed the ducks,

now fat and overfed.

i keep waiting

to hear the gunshots

signaling,

it's over.

my stumbling block

it would

be impossible for me to give

a speech,

or accept an award

in front of a crowd

of people.

it's the only

thing holding me

back from

fame and fortune,

immortality

in the written arts.

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.