this diamond ring

my only regret is that

i didn't get the ring

back.

cheating, lying,

floozy that she was.

the least she could have

done was give the ring

back once i busted her

again with her married boyfriend.

it was a beautiful diamond,

pear shaped that i 

researched and shopped

for, for months on end.

saved my nickel and dimes for.

actually there are three diamond

rings i've lost out on.

one more expensive

than the other.

why don't they return them?

that's the question.

jiminy crickets, these

women. what kind of a world

are we living in?

i'm sure they're all sitting

in a box somewhere,

insured.

Mimi's fur coats

Mimi,

after Irwin died,

before she moved to Florida,

hung all of her

winter coats on racks

in her garage.

long coats for

the New York winters.

wools and

furs, bear and beaver,

foxes. mink stoles.

she was quite the dish back

in her day

strolling down 5th avenue

hailing taxis

with a whistle.

i won't need these

in Miami, she tells me.

too damn hot.

take a few.

one for your wife, 

maybe a few 

for your girlfriends.

that's what Irwin did.

women love fur.

how it ends

bored with the book,

i skip the thick middle

and go to the last chapter.

i want to see how ends.

isn't that the way it is

with most things.

the other side

there's always a way

to get across

the stream.

roll your pants up

and throw some rocks down,

some planks,

tie a rope to the far

tree.

step lightly

through the cold water,

and hang on,

keep your balance.

the other side is never

out of reach, keep moving.

keep walking.

take my hand and

come with me.

the morning obits

my grandmother

enjoyed

reading the obituaries.

it made

her feel good to still

be alive

while all these other people

had died.

many younger than

her.

she'd nod and smile

when seeing

a familiar face,

and say,

it doesn't surprise me,

then finish her

tea

and melba toast,

with

a cigarette

burning in the ashtray.

are the banks closed?

i lose

track of holidays

when working

alone.

i drive down the road

and wonder

where everyone

is,

it feels like everyone

but you

has stayed home.

are the banks closed?

whose birthday

have i forgotten?

who are we celebrating.

what turn of

of the calendar page

has occurred?

do i need

a hallmark

card for this one?

flowers?

the addiction

the phone,

the little magic box

in your possession

owns you.

all the knowledge

in the world

is at your fingertips.

everyone

can be reached,

everyone

can find you.

you are tethered

to the nether

world below.

how we walk dazed,

in a trance.

mesmerized

by the light

that darkens our soul,

our brains

hardly have a chance,

we no longer

are in control.

satisfying the itch

the itch comes

back.

it always comes back

never

satisfied

by one

hard scratch, you need

the stick,

the long hand

the nails

someone that understands.

someone

that can

find

the point of attack.

there it is.

there it is.

now scratch.

making her happy

i tell the young

waitress,

in pink, with a black

apron,

that i want a cold,

cold glass of milk,

and a slice

of chocolate cake.

she smiles,

tapping her pen

against her pad.

i've made her happy.

most people

want

eggs, juice and

wheat toast, she says,

at this time of the day.

i nod and smile,

then watch her as

she turns to

sashay away, 

which makes me

happy.

it's no one's fault

it's no one's fault.

there is

no one to blame,

not the doctor, the lawyer,

the priest.

leave God out of this too.

stop pointing

fingers.

it's just me,

just you.

your mother and father

have nothing

to do with

bad behavior

at this stage of the game.

fix it,

or stay as you are,

regrettably

the same.

put some clothes on

when she stepped

out of the shower,

wigless,

the paint off her face,

Un jeweled

unclothed, i realized

the error

of my ways.

what i loved on

the surface

had gone down

the drain.

she took a look

at me

in the hall light,

standing, scratching

my belly

in my boxer shorts,

burping,

giving her

a fright.

and yet, somehow

we managed to go on.

saying little,

and quickly turning

off the light.

the other side of the coin

to some

it's a cold day, a harsh

day

in

the dead of winter.

ice

on the trees,

the frozen

pond,

the bend of arthritic

branches

reminding

you of old

age

yet to come.

while to others it's

a blessing.

staying home

to find warmth

and beauty in the love

of someone.

having a smart friend

whenever

i have a problem with anything

i call my

friend Frank.

he knows everything about

everything.

he's what you call 

a know it all.

relationship issues,

he's got that.

religion, politics,

the environment,

he'll set you straight with

all of that too.

plumbing, electricity.

the theater, sports

or music,

current events.

he knows everything.

i'm not sure how he became

so smart.

i've never seen him

read a book or a newspaper,

and he's never

been to college,

but

he is smart.

if he sees you walking

down the street,

he'll stop you and show you

a better way to walk.

telling you

which foot to push off on,

and how to move

your hips

to be more efficient 

in your walking.

he is one smart cookie.

the road most traveled

you wonder why

good things

happen to bad people.

how did they

get the house, the car,

the job,

the girl?

they're bad people,

evil,

despicable.

unworthy.

liars and cheaters.

and yet there they

are in their

lounge chairs

sitting by the pool

smoking a big cigar,

sunning themselves.

did you take

the wrong path

after all? 

the dog that bites you

i stick my leg

out the door to see how

cold it is,

and a stray

dog bites me.

it's not a good start

to the day.

i clean up the blood

and bandage the wound.

i limp back

to the door

and see the dog is still 

there.

he's waiting for me,

his friend,

a bigger dog, too.

i'm a good person.

why is this happening

to me?

smoke and ash

thoughts linger,

as they do,

wispy

versions of the past,

smoke

and rising ash.

some white,

some blue.

vague memories

that now,

at last

you can see through.

virtually sinless

sometimes we'd be

late

and miss the first act.

the kneeling

and praying part

of the service,

the grand entry of the priest,

the gala

of gowns and music,

the altar boys

not far behind,

carrying things

of vague importance.

we had walked and ran

three miles

to get there,

with our hair combed

and our clean

shirts and pants on.

we had envelopes

in our pockets.

coins for the basket.

we were well behaved.

virtually sinless

expect for the occasional

throwing of snow balls

at cars when it snowed.

bigger sins of lust

and envy, were yet to

come.

teasing sisters and chewing

gum seemed to be

the worst of it,

all washed away at

Saturday confession.

sunday at assisted living

we

bring flowers

to the senior home.

the old are gathered around

a blurred

and loud

television.

a rerun of

fantasy island.

in varying degrees

of dementia,

some

rise as you enter

and think you're their

son,

or husband

bringing roses.

then the bell rings.

it's lunch again, a mere

two hours

since breakfast.

you wait

on the sofa for them

to waddle

back

to the raft that will

sail them

home.

the room down the hall

we used to sleep

entangled

with each other, legs

over legs,

arms

entwined,

cheek to cheek.

sweaty from making

love, our

hearts still pounding.

lips not far from

each other

in case there's another

round.

her long hair would be in

my face,

my hand rested on her

hip.

and then we needed

more space.

a few inches,

then a foot, then a

a large divide so that

our cold feet wouldn't

touch each other.

she's in the other room

now, down the hall.

she hung a sign

on the knob, saying,

go away.

sometimes she closes

my door so that she

can't hear me snoring

and she can

talk on her phone.

boardwalk chicken

ion Ocean City,

Maryland,

the best

chicken was boardwalk chicken.

deep fried and greasy,

crispy.

we'd settle

in at a picnic table

after hitchhiking

down route

50

and falling asleep

on the beach for hours,

we'd be hungry.

there was nothing like

a bucket of

chicken,

dinner rolls and honey.

a large drink

to fill us up

for the day.

with ten dollars between

us,

we could do it again

tomorrow

if we never collected

another nickel 

of spare change.

baby steps

i'm all better

now

i tell Betty on the phone.

she's coming out of her

yoga class,

carrying her yoga mat

and smoking a cigarette.

no you're not,

she says.

i can hear you coughing.

and blowing

your nose.

that's nothing i tell her,

collateral damage.

the fever is gone.

my throat is no longer

sore.

i can actually make it up

the stairs

without holding on

to the rail.

yesterday i ate 

a tuna sandwich.

well, half. i'm saving

the other half for tomorrow.

come on over, it would

be nice to see you.

dream on, lover boy,

she says.

you're going to have to

put those lustful

ideas on hold.

sixty days in the jump

jake would

ask me to visit him in jail.

talk to him

over the phone

separated by plexiglass.

i need

some commissary money

he'd tell me.

which he used

for cigarettes, not food.

he'd always gain weight

when doing

sixty days in the pokey

for a bar

fight or another DUI.

his cousin, Bobby Lee was

a guard at the county

jail.

he'd slip him in pizza,

and fried chicken

for lunch everyday.

milkshakes doused

with whiskey.

by the end of his stint

in the jump, jake would

need bigger clothes.

new painter paints

and a wider belt.

then he was once again

rested and ready to go.

standing outside a 7-11

waiting for me to pick

him up in my truck.

the hummingbird

i wish the yellow

hummingbird

would relax for a minute

and settle on

a branch.

i'd like to get a long

look at him.

study his minuteness.

his bright color.

but no, off he goes

with frenetic energy,

a busy bird.

a bird full of caffeine,

a puff through the trees

with wings

a flutter.

ahhh, to be young again

ahh, to be young again,

to know everything

but nothing.

to be wise without a lick

of experience,

to be courageous and

immortal, impossibly

confident and strong.

to be young again

and not old like this,

confused and tired,

weakened with time.

seven thirty a.m.

apparently people

are still making babies.

my neighbor

for instance is in her third

trimester,

big as a house.

she nods at me in the morning

as she eases

her way into the car.

the husband nods, puts

his hand up

in a polite wave.

he looks tired

and worried, as he leans

over the back

seat to get

the other kids to stop

fighting over a magic

marker.

it's seven thirty.

i need to warm up my

coffee.

you left your shoes here

i found

an old pair of your Jimmy

Choo shoes

under the bed.

you left them

before you slammed

the door

and cursed the day

i was born.

no need to stop

by to pick them up though.

i flung

them in the direction

of the trash

can by the fire hydrant.

i just saw

some vagabond woman 

sitting on the curb,

trying them on.

she looked

over to my doorway

and gave me 

two thumbs up.

weak as a kitten

still weak as a kitten,

i paw

my way out of bed,

shower

and try not to look at my

face in

the mirror.

i curse

the bug that slayed me.

let's keep it dark

in here for awhile.

how did cave

men survive disease?

did they have wives

around

who took care of them,

went out

when you were sick

to kill the beasts?

how could anyone sleep

and stop

coughing

without Nyquil?

what kind of a world was

that to live in?

decisions decisions

some mornings

i can't decide

which black sweater

or sweatshirt to wear.

the baggy one,

the nice one, the one i

usually wear

outside.

the mock turtle neck

one or the crew?

this one has less lint,

made of a polyester

blend, while

this one

is one hundred per cent

cotton,

that breathes,

but keeps me warm

just the same.

the other one is too tight.

i should have

washed it in cold

water

and did the same

with the rinse.

and this one has a hole

in the elbow.

and a few frayed threads.

decisions decisions,

of course there's always

the brown sweaters,

or the one

that i never wear, red.

the condo board

i see that the condo

board

that patrols the neighborhood

have uniforms

now.

brown shirts with

red arm

bands.

they have hats too

with

shiny brims.

i hear them marching

in lockstep

down the cul de sac

early in

the morning,

with clipboards in hand,

their boots stamping

towards me,

i've put the trash out too

early and have

painted my front door

the wrong color once

again.

my rose bush has died.

springtime will be grim.

you can't save everyone

it's hard

not to care about those

beyond

help,

those that can't be reached

by reason

or by love.

but you manage to

erase them

from your mind

despite

your capacity for compassion.

you have to let them

go.

let them be

who they are.

you can't save everyone.

yourself

is enough for one

lifetime.

they were once green fields

is it age,

maturity of some sort.

has the boy

in you

died.

no longer are you checking

box scores

in the morning news.

no longer

wasting fine

days

watching children

a third your

age tossing balls

and running across 

green fields.

it was glorious when

it was you,

but

now a good book,

a good movie,

a walk

with you will do.

let's remain strangers

i fear

that it's best to keep

our distance

in order to keep

love alive.

let's

stay a stranger

to each other.

love is best

kept by those who

don't know

one another too well.

once you do,

there goes

the shine.

through these woods

no path

is fine for me, through

these woods.

i know them well,

i know 

where the water

begins,

where it ends,

where

there is no trail.

these trees

in all seasons

know me.

for years

i've trudged through

the ice

and snow,

the hard

july dirt or bramble

to get to some other side

of things.

again, i'll go.

a fresh pot

no one likes yesterdays

coffee,

or stale bread.

we wince as we sip

at the bitter cup,

and bite

at the crust.

we want fresh, we want

new.

we don't want

the leftovers, the things

ready for the bin.

we want a fresh pot,

a hot loaf

from the oven,

we'll wait. 

we have time

for the better things.

a yard full of leaves

i have

let the yard return to its

natural state.

it's in God's

hands now.

tired of raking leaves,

digging

weeds,

planting wild flowers,

and shrubs that

never take,

i let it go

and let God decide

its fate.

the white noise

the radio,

a low mumble of song

and talk,

white

noise as i go about

the day

with so little to do

and so much

time.

there's music

i know,

news, i don't care

about.

i get to work, get

busy

with keeping

the ship afloat,

before another book

insists that i

lie down.

that far away land

it's travel time,

he thinks, as he lies in bed,

listening

to the birds outside his window.

he stretches his legs over

and finds his cane.

the bathroom first,

then to the kitchen, across

the barren field

of rugs, and walls,

furniture,

strategically placed.

taking slow steps, he's

off to make coffee in

that far away land.

time to bring out the good china

most of the year

my mother

fed us on paper plates.

but for the holidays

she brought out the good

China,

which was a set of blue

and white

plates

from Sears.

most were chipped,

and cracked, but clean,

having rested in

the hutch all year.

they were definitely

a step up from the paper

plates we were used to.

we could actually pick

them up, carry them

across the room,

and not have them 

collapse in our hands,

spilling our food.

the dogs were not happy.

living on the dole

my son

once told me that he doesn't want

to work

for money. he's an artist.

a visionary.

a thespian.

it's below

him, to give in to the corporate

world,

to suck up

to the man

for a nine to five

job.

to punch the clock

and get

a weekly paycheck.

of course, his education

is paid for,

mostly by me.

his car, his phone,

his food and shelter

taken care

of by his live in girlfriend,

and his

mother who lives

around the corner,

feeding and clothing

him like he was still a child

in grade school.

why are working,

he asked me?

what's wrong with you dad?

what are you doing

with your life?

are you kidding me?

i never know when

you're joking,

she says,

pulling at her hair.

i can't figure it out,

i don't know

when you're kidding, being

funny or

serious,

sarcastic.

i can't read you. it's hard

being around

you with all

your cryptic sayings,

your metaphors

and verbiage slight of hand.

i feel wobbly and unsure

of what our

conversations

are all about, or even

if they are conversations,

or just exercises,

verbal jousting, practice

for when you want

to write things down.

the ghost of lover's past

she looks

at me with her enormous

green eyes.

i know what you're thinking

she says.

you do?

you want pancakes this

morning, don't you?

and bacon.

and maybe

a piece of toast with

blueberry jam.

right?

she pulls the sheets up

to her

eyes.

her boney knees

pointed n the air.

i'm right, aren't I?

maple syrup?

what are you doing with

the sheets?

she covers

her face, pulling

the sheet over her head,

and whispers.

i'm not here anymore.

i'm a ghost.

i'm the ghost of lover's

past.

you haven't taken your

meds today

have you?

no memory of how

sometimes

you don't know where the cut

came from,

or how the bruise

was made,

when or where

is confusing.

you can't recall the pain.

there's no memory

attached to the bump,

or scrape, which

is good with no memory

of how.

life is better

that way.

in spite of everything

in spite

of everything. grass

will grow,

flowers

will rise,

animals will be born,

nests

will once again

be full

of eggs.

more fish will appear.

and stars,

when you look up.

will still be

in the sky.

we got to get out of this place

we can't move there

because of the floods

and fires,

the earthquakes, or there

either.

tornadoes and blizzards,

or south,

there's hurricanes

and tropical storms

not to mention

that they look

different and talk funny too.

and what about there.

nope not there either.

there's a crime wave

and plagues, strange

diseases that are

wiping everyone

out. not to mention that

it's crowded and the taxes

are too high.

then where, where

can we go to escape

the madness.

France? nope, they don't like

us either.

up there perhaps, 

see that little light?

the Mensa dog

my dog was smart.

really smart.

he knew a lot of words,

watched tv.

he knew when we

were driving to the vet,

for a shot

and would squirm

and try to hop out.

he could break out of any

kennel cage

i put him in.

he was smart. but if

you told him the second

Tuesday of next month

we were going to the beach,

he had no idea

what you were talking about.

despite his philosophical views

on cats and birds,

he had his limits.

he would chew the cover

off a book,

but he couldn't read one.

pretend it all away

i push

the plant away

from the window

to make room for the piano

i don't yet

know how to play.

maybe i'll take lessons,

but i doubt

it.

i like to dabble

at the keys

with a martini

nearby,

and pretend it's 1920,

in Paris, or Berlin.

everyone is happy, 

rich

and gay.

if life isn't going well,

let's sing and dance,

let's pretend

it all away.

the american diet

i used to ask some of

my workers why they didn't bring

a lunch

to work. explaining

as best i could how much

heathier it would be,

and that they would

save money. they'd laugh

and talk to each other

making fun of me.

when i met them

years ago,

coming over the border

with their back packs,

they were slender

and strong, eager to please.

but now

most of them are fat and slow,

not all, but most,

still honest and trustworthy, but

barely climbing up a ladder

as it bowed. sleepily

going through the day

at a snail's pace.

they eat Chinese food now,

the American diet.

fried chicken, pizza,

hamburgers and fries,

sodas to go.

cakes and pies.

they even smoke.

make a sandwich at home

i'd implore them,

showing them two pieces

of bread on top of each other.

and they'd laugh.

we don't cook, they'd tell

me. we are not cooks like you.

we like food to go.

my etchings

i have etchings now.

i've sat up

late at night drawing

by candlelight

on my sketch pad

with a charcoal pencil.

i'm drawing

houses and animals.

faces from memory.

landscapes,

oceans.

shadowing the rooftops

of villages,

and alleys,

chimneys with smoke.

blades of grass.

the curves of women.

i pin them to the walls

of my bedroom.

my artwork.

they wait for the opportunity

to be seen and admired.

but there's no line

out the door

anymore, like they're

used to be.

but he has a horse

there really was

a junk

man who came up the street

with a wagon

pulled

by an old horse.

he wanted scraps of metal.

tin,

steel, iron.

as a kid you looked at

him and wondered

what kind of life

that was.

and what about the horse.

where did he keep

the horse?

was his mother proud of him.

or did having a horse

make up

for everything.

seasonal fruits

as there

are seasonal fruits,

oranges

or melons, cherries

and grapes,

best cut and eaten

in the summer

so it is

with love.

bring me a blonde

for the beach,

a brunette

for the fall

and a red head

for in-between.

platinum is best

for winter.

the house of cards

he always

seemed to have money.

cars

and houses,

jewelry.

nice suits.

a clean haircut,

expensive

cologne.

he smelled of money

his house was

adorned with flowers,

and antiques,

but if you

went out for dinner

with him.

you paid,

never him. he never

brought money

along.

what was real, you

never knew.

but now

you do.

time

in some ways

it's glacier like 

in how it moves

and slides

taking with it

everything in slow

slow strides

and in other ways

it's the speed

of light, advancing

forward,

relentlessly,

fleeing past you in

the blink of an eye.

quietly, about your day

quietly, you go about

your day,

your nights,

your illness. what is there

to share,

or say.

why bring that to

the table. each to his

own burden,

large or small.

take the stoic stance

and keep it light,

keep tomorrow coming.

get done what has to

be done.

let them remember

you that way.

a piece of my heart

i'd give you my heart,

but then

what would that leave me?

an empty space.

a hole.

where would the love

for others go,

where would i find

compassion

and grace. civility.

how about a small piece

of my heart.

call it a loan, okay.

let's see how it goes.

off the Hudson

bundled you are

in the cold.

but you've been colder

before.

years ago in New York city.

the wind

pressing down

off the Hudson.

the sky

white with snow.

you'd never known such

cold before.

such a brutal

winter it was.

your feet numb, the burn

in your lungs.

your eyes glazed

with tears while you

huddled 

in the storefronts, bolted

closed.

you/ve never quite shaken

that cold.

it still presses 

into you, frightens

your bones.

the daily news

there's good news,

there's bad

news.

there's gossip and there's

speculation

there's opinion.

there's presumptions,

conclusions.

there's a broad

or narrow point of view.

they're lies

and truth.

everyone cooks up

their own brand of stew,

seasoned to their liking.

say nothing

when your voice

does return,

it won't matter. you've

discovered the wisdom

in silence.

yes.

it is golden.

whether wise or not

it's not for anyone to know.

let them guess.

let them wonder

as you nod and look away

with ponderance,

keeping your

mouth closed.

self-imposed exile

it's a self-imposed

exile

to the island

of lepers

and criminals, misbegotten

souls,

the selvage,

the undertow

and steerage,

where the forgotten

go before

they're forgotten.

you'll give it a few

days more,

before you swim home.

twitter frenzy

in the old days,

back when people wrote

for a living,

back when there were still

worthwhile

newspapers,

you could write a letter

to the editor

and express your opinion

on the topic

of day.

maybe, if you

were lucky,

you'd see your letter

in the op-ed page on Sunday.

a rare and wonderful

thing to get our ideas across,

your voice heard

at last,

but now,

everyone with a phone

and half a brain, is

chiming in.

typing frenetically

all day long,

in twitter frenzy.

theory of omelets

i like

the stories of how

Einstein 

was a genius, but he couldn't

tie his own

shoes,

or make an omelet.

whether it's true

or not, who knows, but

it does make

you feel better as you

lace up your boots,

tying them with

a nice loop,

and crack a few eggs

into a bowl.

the car salesman

okay, buddy,

he says to me, despite the fact

that he knows

my name.

okay pal.

compadre,

comrade, friend.

as he slaps

me on the back

walking

through the rows

of used cars,

it's hard for him to spit

my name out.

no worries, buddy Roo,

amigo.

brother.

we'll take care of you.

don't you worry,

my man,

we'll have your new

car soon.

it's not my fault

how close

we are to being on the street,

uncared

for, unwashed.

alone.

how close we are to being

penniless,

to being lost

with no

way home.

how close we are to being

faithless

with one wrong

turn,

one illness,

or disaster.

how quick we are to blame

it all, not on ourselves,

but on

God.

everyone is gone

there's no one home.

no cars

in the driveway,

no lights on,

no dog barking.

i ring the bell, knock.

i go around

to the backyard,

jiggling the gate

to get in.

i press my face

to the glass of the back

door.

it's empty.

there's no one home.

no one

at the table,

no one standing at

the sink, no one at

the stove.

where have they gone?

it seems like

just yesterday it was a warm

and loving home.

the reluctant grape

i think about reintroducing

food

into my body.

not right away, of course.

but at some

point

i might heat up a bowl

of soup

or take a bite

out of an apple,

or small grape.

in a few days, perhaps,

once swallowing

is possible

again.

food again, would be great.

describe your symptoms

i have a doctor.

i've never

met him, of course, 

because he's very busy.

i completely

understand,

but when he writes

me back after i describe

my maladies,

he misspells a few

words

and the page is littered

with typos.

i'm sure he's brilliant.

smart as whip.

i'm sure he's hip to all the latest

developments

in the medical world,

but he can't construct

a legible one paragraph response.

without mangling

the English language.

my throat is red, i write

in the latest communication.

think

peppers, or fire, or a

traffic light.

red like that, i tell him.

if my throat was a physical

destination,

it would be a place called hell.

i can't swallow food, or

drink, even air seems to be

an issue.

i'm waiting.

but i know he's busy.

billboard clothes

it's hard to find a shirt,

or pair

of pants, or coat

or sweater anymore

without a label on it

in bold letters.

the names.

calvin, or tommy,

or ralph

emblazoned on

your chest

or back or arm.

we are walking billboards

for fashion.

thread bare items,

in the thrift stores

and outlets.

cheaply made

by slave children in 

Indonesia.

we don't seem to care,

everything

and everyone has a brand

now.

what happened to white

t-shirts

and chinos.

the next rising sun

i see your point,

although

i disagree. at this

age we're both

so full of knowledge

we feel the need

to argue and persuade.

we're too learned now

to keep quiet.

but

let's move on to other

topics.

like we used to do

when we were young

when we were less concerned

about our beliefs,

let's go back to happier

times and drink to that,

to those long nights

and welcoming the next

rising of the sun.

binged out

my eyes are bugging out

from watching too much tv.

netflix

etc.

i'm down to Emily in Paris.

i've watched

nearly everything

else except

the British Baking channel.

God help me.

i'm feverish and shivering.

i've got the big

blanket around me and the dog

with his head sticking

out wondering

when i'm going take him

out for a pee.

my answer to that is hold it.

maybe at the end of the next

episode, after we see what

happens to Emily.

the marriage mantra

i'm sorry,

but i can't marry you.

i look into the mirror and say it

over and over,

maybe twenty times

as i'm brushing my teeth.

it's good practice,

just in case.

i love you, but i just

can't marry you.

it's not you,

it's me. no need to

go into detail.

if you were really starving

i walk

through the grocery store

fully

masked

and drugged,

wearing brain surgeon

gloves,

and with a nice blue 

surgical hat

pulled tight

on my aerodynamic head.

i'm

pushing the empty cart

past

pork and beef.

eggs and bacon,

noodles. cakes and pies.

canned foods fit

 for the Armageddon.

i see nothing that i'll

ever want

to put into my mouth

again

for years,

i can't think of anything

i want to eat.

how long

before starvation sets in?

i used to tell

my mother that i

was starving after playing

in the street for

fifteen hours

and she'd say, stick your

tongue out.

i would.

and she's laugh and tell

me if i was truly starving

my tongue would

turn black.

i have to google that at

some point.

but i'm going to the mirror

just to check.

i'll give you ten minutes

don't look at me,

don't make

eye contact please.

i got enough on my plate

without

hearing your problems.

i can't handle

your sadness,

your current dilemma.

oh, okay, now

you're crying, okay, alright,

don't leave.

take a seat and come

sit next to me.

ten minutes, i'll give

you ten minutes.

here, here, 

dry your eyes on my sleeve.

dreaming of ice cream

am i in

the doghouse with God

for my

many transgressions?

(although many are completely

explainable)

yes, i have sinned,

thus 

the prairie

fire on the back of my

throat

that won't quit.

i've pulled the alarm

and wait for help.

i douse the inflamed skin

with cold water,

with NyQuil,

Dayquil,

hot teas,

and ice chips.

a handful of Tylenol

gets tossed

in. i gargle

a shaker of salt

in a glass of water.

my stomach now

has the salinity

of the Dead Sea,

but it still burns.

i find myself on my

knees,

praying,

making vows that will be

impossible to keep,

but hoping for an

end to this.

it's time for ice cream.

the lover's cross

keep your

books,

all of them, even the ones

you don't like.

keep

your old shoes

and sweaters.

reminders of who

you were,

who you still are.

keep,

your memories in a box.

pictures

and small

things. but

don't keep everything,

just a few

touchstones

found along the way,

reminders

of a different day,

but don't put yourself

up

on a lover's cross.

god bless the child who has his own

i warm

up

to the notion of making

a will.

it's about time

i think

as i wipe the sweat

from my

brow,

a thermometer

resting

on my chin.

who gets what,

who gets

nothing.

i'm

holding onto

grudges until

the bitter end.

it's what we do,

my Italian

friend.

more days to come

with the sun

on your face, back against

the warm

sand,

not a cloud to be seen,

the gentle

ruffle

of waves.

you're nineteen again.

you smile

at the prospect of

a lot more days.

this is how it always

should be.

salt in the air, the cry

of gulls,

you lying next

to me.

stopping for a burger on the way home

i compliment

her on her green beans.

delicious, i tell

her as i move

a pile around my plate.

more salt,

she asks,

butter, pepper?

it's my mother's recipe.

no, please, they're

prefect the way they

are,

and don't get me started

on this trout,

i say as i pick the bones

from my teeth.

have you ever thought

of starting your own

restaurant, i ask,

coughing out a potato peel.

you're so sweet, she says.

wait till you

get dessert.

you like jello, don't you?

flowers with wings

she loved

her birds, one

as green

as emeralds,

the other yellow,

like

a daffodil,

both gems,

flowers with wings.

and when

they died, after

picking them

up

from the bottom

of cage,

covered

in old news, she

started over.

there was always

starting over,

with her,

which she passed

on to you.

her waitress tips

there was always

salt and pepper on the table.

butter

and bread

in a white stack

in the center of the table.

there was always milk,

cold

from the glass bottle.

there was always

just enough to go around,

seven pork chops,

a stew,

chicken, or spaghetti

from the wide

white bowl.

somehow, she made do,

with her waitress

tips,

counted out in the early

morning for each of us

before school.

i've got this

it's good to have a few

bad turns

in the road,

in life.

reference points.

it's easy to look back

and say,

this is nothing, i've

got this.

this may be bad,

but it's nothing like

it was

when i had

a wife.

who knows you?

who knows you?

who really knows you,

gets who you are.

few.

fewer than you

realize.

all of us keep our cards

close to our

chest,

leaving the door only

slightly ajar.

when the fever breaks

it is the soft

hot

glaze of sweat that awakens

you

in the morning.

like

the tropics,

the gentle heat

beneath the blankets,

the sheets.

the stack of pillows

scattered

like life rafts

about your head

and feet.

you may be at last

swimming

towards shore.

the colored braids

what did you

do in the war daddy?

i asked my father,

home at last,

touching

the colored braids on

his chest.

the silver medal.

i cried a lot he said,

i was afraid

even when i killed someone,

wondering what

had i done as they lay

there

and bled.

shameless

if you give me a line,

i'll steal it.

if i read

an amazing stretch

of words,

with or without rhyme,

look closely

and see that

i've made them mine.

i'd feel guilt

if i robbed a bank

or hurt someone,

but with poetry,

all bets are off,

i have no shame.

love like that

how dare

you stop by and knock on my

door

after driving in the rain.

what gives you

the right,

to peer through my window.

with your

bag

of soups,

your cookies

and drinks,

leaving them with

a get well card

on the unlit porch.

flowers too?

how dare you care for me,

love me.

i can't handle love like that,

just who exactly

are you?

where's my pen?

it's your turn

now, you think, as you lie

in the cold bed

shivering

with fever.

why are your hands

so cold?

there is nothing left

to taste,

or smell, there's no

hunger in you,

no

desire for love,

or food.

what to do with these

aches

and pains,

these bones,

coming unglued,

but like always, you see

the other side,

that light,

you know that this will

end,

one way or the other,

just as sure as the sun

sets,

or rises.

once more, where's my

pen?

slacker

i call in sick.

it's a short call, 

then i draw a hot bath.

boil some water for tea.

stay home, i tell myself,

pull the plug on everything.

get some rest.

why work when you're

not feeling well.

how much more money 

do you really need.

and yet as i watch

the cars pull away,

off to their world of work,

i can't help but feel guilty.

reduction

it's hip now

to simplify your

life.

minimalize

things.

what's old is new,

it's

the way

to go these days.

reduce,

pare down,

don't consume.

let go of what you

own.

buy less, 

eat less, restore,

and from what

i hear

you can even make

coffee at home.

the open air church

he's looking

for a new church, he tells me.

something

that fits

his way of faith.

no crazy stuff.

no men in gowns,

no snake handling,

no speaking in tongues,

or smoke and mirrors

no homily in Latin.

not Baptist either,

they don't like to dance.

or a church where

you have to sing a lot.

no fire and brimstone,

making you feel

worse when you leave

than when you arrived.

no stained glass,

or gold chalices,

no basket going around

and around

until you're tapped out.

just a nice simple thing,

he says,

maybe a place like

in the Sermon on the Mount.

apologies to Langston

being born

is hard, no doubt.

and the end,

is no picnic either

when the air

runs out,

so best you

find some fun in

the middle.

with lovers who

make you shout.

red birds

it's a red

bird

in the tree against

the white

back drop

of snow

and ice, bare limbs,

that pleases you.

there is life

and then

there is other life

that gives you

reason

to believe.

call me Ernestine now

i run into my old pal

Ernie in the grocery store.

we used to play

football together back in the day.

he was the first

one of our gang that had to shave

his face.

he had a deep voice,

and broad shoulders

from lifting weights.

he got all the girls.

but there's something different

about him now.

he's wearing a dress

and high heels, and what looks

like a blonde wig.

i swear to you he has breasts

too, not your little ones, either,

but Dolly Parton sized ones.

the thought crosses my mind

that he will never drown.

hey Ernie, i say, how are you?

been a long time.

did you see the game the other

night.

it's Ernestine now, he says

in his new whispery voice.

and i don't watch football anymore,

so violent.

he's looking at lipstick

in the cosmetic aisle.

what do you think, he says.

pink, or merlot?

i shrug, i like red actually.

you know what, he says,

i think i will go red today.

thank you.

so glad we ran into each other,

you're as handsome as ever,

still married? he says,

winking and looking me over.

yes, i tell him. i'm very

very married. love her.

absolutely married.

six kids. yup. working on

one more every night.

sometimes in the morning too.

eventually i'll do it

i could easily

get up

and turn the knob

on the shower

and stop

the constant drip

that falls

steadily

into chrome drain.

sure,

i could do that.

just like

i could do a lot of

things that bug me,

but i'll wait until

it drives

me almost

crazy, then

i'll take action.

the Versace dress

you see on tv

the story

about the lion who ate

the woman

who fell over the fence,

into the lion's

den at the zoo.

she lost her balance

leaning over,

taking a selfie

for her Facebook page.

there's a video of

the lion in the paper,

spitting out

pink fabric.

shredded into

large

bloodied strips.

there's a large wide belt

stuck to his tongue.

oh my God, Betty

says, covering

her mouth.

i think that's a

Versace dress.

i've been looking

for that dress all year long.

oh, and look, she says.

pointing at his large paw

holding down

a white glossy high heel

and part of a leg.

look at her shoe.

hate the shoes, she says.

you can't wear those shoes

with that dress.

i've seen them at 

Nordstrom Rack.

she really should know

better.

let's take a nap first

i get the upgrade

room.

this one has two double

beds

and a view

of the empire state building.

room service

and 

extra towels.

i love extra towels.

it's on

the 12th floor, but

from

the window,

when i pry it open

an inch or two,

i can still

smell

the hot pretzels

and hear

the chatter of the crowd,

the blare

of taxi horns down

on the street.

i empty my wallet on the bed.

i only brought

two thousand

dollars in cash for

three nights.

it's going to be close,

i might have to break out

the Amex.

cute, boy or girl?

you can't help

yourself,

falling into the pattern

of those

before you.

discussing the weather

with complete

strangers,

talking cuts

of meat with the butcher.

asking the cab

driver

what kind of miles does

he get with his

Prius.

you wave to strangers,

look into

strollers and say

things like, cute,

boy or girl?

you ask

the mailman,

how many miles do you

think

you walk a day?

God help you.

you've arrived at that

age.

what falls between the cracks

yes,

things do fall between

the cracks,

forgetting

appointments,

calls to make,

places

to be.

i admit i have

been

lax

at times, a tad careless

with my

itinerary.

i agree. 

i think it's better,

if you

don't mind, if you

call me.

Monday Namaste

she used

to sit in the sunny

room

in a yoga pose.

a praying mantis, or

frog,

or tadpole,

who's to know.

she'd mediate for

an hour,

hands folded,

arms intertwined,

composed.

and then she'd get

up and stretch.

but it was Monday

and she'd see

the trash truck coming

up the street

and scream up

the stairs for me

to take the trash out.

cursing.

we've got old shrimp

shells

in the bags.

hurry, before

it's too late.

take the day off

belong

to nothing, no party,

left or right.

join

no one

in their fight.

don't be persuaded

by tears

or shouts,

by someone's

dream,

or fears.

stay away from

parades

and protests

for a while.

stay home, and take

the day off.

the world will

be here

tomorrow too,

hopefully.

a good read

i see the wind

turning pages of the book

lying

in the street,

dropped

by someone in a hurry.

not looking back

to put it under

their arm.

it's a strong wind,

a curious wind,

reading quickly, page after

page

all morning long.

six dollars an hour

it was

a mere six dollars an hour,

but

we welcomed

it.

young,

the cold meant nothing,

as spades

and pics

broke

against

the iced ground.

at ten the sun rose high

enough

to soften it.

so we dug.

we dug all day.

we dug nine feet down.

the final measure

is it courage

or

the plain man like

dumbness

of ancient

times that overcomes

us,

keeps

us at the wheel of work?

in the end

don't we all die

an ignoble

death?

what glory is there

in the nine

to five,

the gold watch at the end

of life.

the tombstone

holding

numbers, our

collected time

on earth, a final

measure.

still there

i have a picture

of my

father, in black and white,

on a farm

in Nova Scotia,

holding his pet calf

on a leash.

Clara belle.

he's all of thirteen.

his hair

parted to the side,

golden

in the sunlight.

so much of life ahead

of him.

and now,

still here,

at ninety-five, there

it is.

the same smile, the same

glimmer

of life in his pale

blue eyes.

she's trying to kill me

her stack

of pancakes, four deep,

with three

pads of butter

on top,

maple syrup and berries,

with a side

order of sausage links,

makes my

knees weak.

she's trying to kill me

in so many ways.

at the kitchen table,

and when the moon 

comes out

between her cotton sheets.

tightening things up

i spend

part of the morning fiddling

with the latch

on the back fence.

it's loose,

somehow,

i hardly ever go out

that way,

and yet,

the screws are loose,

and the gate

only closes halfway.

i bring out

my tools to fix it.

to tighten things down.

to make it

right.

there it is.

just like that.,

like new.

a good start for the new

year.

polka dot shirts

some never

get the memo about how

fashions

have changed,

i for one am wearing the same

clothes i wore

fifty years ago,

who

would think

that polka dots would

ever go out of style,

or bell bottom

pants,

not I.

got that over with

i do a mass

happy

new year emoji,

gif,

texting thingy.

fireworks, etc.

with party

noises,

to three hundred

close

friends.

whew.

that's done.

at least for now,

but it's only forty-five

days or so

until valentine's day.

it never

ends.

beef liver for dinner

i keep reading 

and watching informative

videos

about how good liver

is for you.

packed with vital nutrients

for better health.

the French call it foie gras,

for duck

or goose liver,

but what do they know?

so i buy some beef liver

instead,

a bloody

pack at the grocery store.

a dollar ninety-nine.

it's about the size and shape

of a deflated

football,

but solid red, almost blue.

boneless of course.

after draining the blood

off,

i toss the slab

into a frying pan

with melted butter.

i'm gagging already.

wincing

as the organ meat fries up,

throwing a grey unfamiliar odor

into the air.

what was i thinking.

should i add some

onions, garlic, season it?

finally it's cooked, i think.

so i slide

the mess onto a plate

and cut off a small piece.

i grimace and put it in my

mouth,

slowly i chew.

then i think, i'm eating 

a cow's liver.

i've crossed some line in the sand

that i might not

be able to go back to.

animal organs.

what's next, hearts,

kidneys,

lungs? bladders?

i can't spit it out fast enough

into the sink,

then turn on the garbage

disposal.

i rinse my mouth out with

water, gargling

as much of that liver taste away

as i can,

then quickly floss

my teeth, after a thorough

brushing.

finally after

settling down, with my hands

no longer trembling,

i go back to the fridge.

how about scrambled eggs

tonight and bacon?

the gypsy souls

they move,

they travel, they have

no home,

no roots,

they never stay in

one place

too long,

or fall in love forever.

it's all

temporary.

what's great today

is gone

tomorrow.

you've known them

all along.

they've always

been this way. 

unsettled,

unsure of what to do

with their lives,

where to go.

who to be with,

where to land.

what's next?

that went by fast

who likes

the ticking clock,

the loud

strike

of hands

within the machinery.

it never stops,

does it?

always, tick tick tick.

relentless

as the hands continue

to swing around

to another hour,

in another day.

there is no rest for

the clock.

there's little

rest for us either,

as we flip

the calendar page.

give me five hail marys

my last formal

confession

was a few years ago

in Father Smith's office

over at St. Bartholomew's.

it was a nice

office with statues and pictures

of holy figures

scattered about, 

and on one wall

a black and white photograph

of the 1950

New York Yankees,

autographed by

all the players.

as i knelt on the plush

blue rug,

praying and confessing,

i squinted up

at Yoki Berra's signature

under his grinning face.

he wasn't a great

player, but he was

funny. durable, lovable.

a team player,

which makes up for a lot

shortcomings.

finally i finished my list

of sins,

your basic, lust, anger,

jealousy,  a dab of envy,

here and there, etc.

i looked over at Father Smith,

who was now staring at me.

that's it, he says. that's all

you got?

no other sins you want to

confess to? are you sure?

you know it's an even bigger

sin if you're lying to me?

i shrug, nah, i think that's

it. but the day is young.

he didn't laugh.

nine hail marys, two

our fathers, and i want you to

wash and wax my car.

detail it, inside and out.

what?

we stand up and he tosses

me the keys.

pull it up out front when your

done, i've got an exorcism

to take care of this afternoon.

i blurt out a name, an

ex wife.

he looks at me, stunned,

how did you know?

finding faults

okay, okay,

i admit it, i tell her.

i too, yes even me, i too

have faults.

oh, do tell she says,

smirking,

while she brushes her

hair in the mirror.

well,

for one, ummm.

i had one, hold on,

let me think on this.

short term, memory?

she says.

no, that's not a fault.

that's not one.

okay.

go on.

i'm too forgiving of

people, i finally blurt out.

oh, brother she says.

that's it? really?

and i drive to slow

sometimes

in the left lane.

okay, we're done here,

she says.

i'm going shopping.

do you need anything at

the store?

nah, i'm good.

give me that pitch

you want the pitch

fat

and hard

right down the middle,

of the plate.

you want

to see the stitching

of the seams,

the words

inked on the white

leather.

you want that pitch,

not the curve ball

down and away,

not the inside slider,

and definitely

not the knuckleball,

slow and tumbling

through the air

when you're standing

at the plate.

give me fat and hard,

you want that pitch,

and then

you wait.

finding your way through darkness

when

waking up in the middle of

the night

in the pitch black

lightless

room

you find the dresser,

then the wall,

then the doorway

to the bathroom.

your fingers

using the house as braille.

the thought

actually crosses your

mind

that's this is how

the genius

Stevie Wonder

gets it done all the time.

if only

you could sing and play

the piano.

staying out of trouble

please

remind me of your birthday,

our anniversary,

and whatever

other holidays

you hold dear.

write them down.

text me

the dates.

scribble them on a pad

by the door.

write them in the sky

if you have to.

then tell me what you

want this year,

make a list,

cut out some pictures

from a magazine.

sketch

what you want, flowers,

clothes,

maybe another diamond

ring.

just let me know, okay.

some advance

warning, please.

you can stay one more night

it's one fly.

one blue

black winged thing

buzzing about.

i open

a window,

the front door and try

to shoo

him out,

but it's cold

and the wind is blowing.

white flakes

of snow are coming

down.

he flies back to the light.

circling

circling looking for a place

to land.

who can blame

him,

the warm glow

of the bulb. 

his sun.

i tell him okay,

but

just one more night.

coming home

stuck

in the mire, the mud,

the swamp.

knee

deep in shallow

water.

it's Friday,

late

in the day.

late in the month.

late

in life

but i see light

up ahead,

and i smell

what you're cooking

on the other side.

put a plate out.

i'm on my way

home.

no need to worry, 

i'm coming home

tonight.

end of month sale

the saleswoman

at the car

dealership calls again

to tell

me that there are no cars

in production

anymore.

in any color, shape, or

size.

what do you think about

a rickshaw,

she says.

bamboo. hardly used

by a Chinese man

in Peking.

it's got maybe ten

kilometers on it, at

best. it's on the lot now.

come on in, when you can.

a suitcase by the door

when everything seems

to be okay,

the most feared words

to a man are,

'we need to talk'.

nothing good

follows that.

now? you ask, 

right now?

i was just going

to take the dog

for a walk.

yes, she says. now is

as good as time as any.

please, sit down.

she's grim 

and looking away,

then you notice

her suitcase by the door.

please, can we do this later?

not unlike

your body, the machines

in the house

tell you

when they need a rest,

need to

be replaced

or fixed.

they leak, they wheeze

and squeak,

there's a rattling

noise

in the washer,

steam

rising from the pipes,

dripping

water.

i put my feet up on

the couch

and go back to drinking

my coffee

and reading the paper.

later.

i tell them all. later.

not too old

i can get there

from here.

i'm sure of it.

i just need to watch

my step,

find my balance.

place

one foot after

the other onto the stones

in the cold creek.

i've crossed over before,

and i'm not too old,

not yet, at least.

can i get a jump

when i hear

my neighbor's old truck

cranking

its engine, unable

to start,

coughing

and sputtering,

i know that in about

two minutes

there'll be a knock at the door.

it's winter after all.

but i have

the jumper cables

ready and my

boots and gloves on.

i may buy him a new

battery

for Christmas.

cracking open the new nut

when i need to,

i study psychology,

especially

when i have some new nut

in my life

that i have to understand

or get rid of.

i dive into

the deep end of Freud

and Jung.

i immerse myself in

YouTube videos about

narcissism and all the other

personality disorders.

i read books, i go to

therapy.

i take cold showers

and lower my carb intake,

I exercise more.

none of which is necessarily

connected

but it seems to help.

what's with the big spoon

they tease you

with a bump in a pay.

it's always been that way.

a ten-cent raise.

another

dollar, matched

in your retirement.

social security sending

you notice

that you'll get a few

more hundred of your money

back each month,

that they so nicely

saved for you.

restaurants do it to with

their big spoons,

ladling on

the rice and beans, the meat,

the spoon half full.

why have a big spoon if

you're not going to use it?

come on man.

quit being so stingy

with the money, the food.

you go on ahead

if someone

tells me that they want to

buy a Winnebago

and cross the country

to visit the Grand Canyon

and ride a burro

down the narrow

rocky path,

i immediately break up with them.

it's a deal breaker

on so many levels.

same old sunrise

do we

get bored with another sunrise?

do we

no longer wake

up

as the colors

spread across the horizon

and take

note,

of the beauty and majestic

wonder of it all.

the cascade of pastel hues.

yes. we do,

but it's no one's fault,

you've just

been around for a long time

and seen

more than a few.

okay, i give up

it's just

a paper cut, a small

thin

slice of skin, but it's painful

enough

to give up

all my secrets,

where the money is,

everything.

no need to torture

me any

longer,

i'm all in, i'm on 

your side now,

put the paper

away. and get me

a Band-Aid,  please?

her last dying words

as she lay dying,

my aunt Delores,

famous for her Italian meals,

called me over to her bed.

candles

were lit,

statues of saints

had gathered on her nightstand.

the Priest was finished

with his job.

she was old.

very old, but able

to whisper

and with her finger curled

beckoned me

to her ear.

she told me what she had

to say,

then closed her eyes

and died.

i cried. the room cried.

then someone asked

me what she said.

I told them.

keep stirring

the red sauce, she whispered

to me with her last

dying breath.

use low heat

or else it will splatter

all over the walls and your

nice white shirt.

keep stirring

and when it comes to a boil,

then you add the meatballs.

the longest day on the couch

i'm more

tired doing nothing, than

i am working

all day

going to the post office,

the market,

the gas station,

then out to the stables

to feed the horse,

chasing

the flies away.

she nods, and hands

me the remote.

lying around is exhausting,

i tell her,

tapping her leg.

hey,

are you asleep already,

it's half past eight.

let's see if we can stay

up for the news,

it starts at ten today.

the blood drive

it's strange

to watch the blood curl

in burgundy

waves, wispy strands

out of the vein

and through the tube

then bagged,

to be used

by others.

someone you don't

know, both stranger

by face and name.

you may save a life

with your precious

O negative brand,

of juice,

or your own.

it's mainly the needle

going in

that you can't stand.

getting lucky

i'm afraid to look under

the bed.

it's never good.

there's always something under

there

left behind.

a shoe,

a skirt, a pair of earrings,

or a watch that you have

to now locate

the owner for.

sometimes it's a tube

of lipstick,

or a phone charger. or

a wobbling

empty bottle of red wine.

but sometimes you get lucky

and it's a pack of gum,

unopened.

the spearmint kind.

wrong side of the bed

you wake up

in a bad mood, but you don't

know why.

everything is basically good.

the heat is on.

you have food.

the bills are paid.

the coffee is hot and it

looks like a nice

day outside. plus

you're no longer in communication

with the ex-wives.

why the bad mood?

it's all downhill from here

you hear

people say, it's all down hill

from here.

the rest is gravy.

we're on the home

stretch.

these are usually people

not doing the work.

they're standing

over

the road being tarred,

or the ditch

being dug.

they're wearing a white

helmet

and drinking coffee.

whistling.

a can of boiled potatoes

i stare at the dented

can

in my cupboard.

boiled potatoes.

i remember reading about

botulism

in a health magazine

in jiffy lube

when i was waiting

for the oil to be changed

in my car.

i'm afraid to open it.

i don't even know where

this can came

from.

who would buy a can

of boiled potatoes.

and then i think of Dasha,

my friend in

St. Petersburg.

i think she sent it in an

effort to get

a visa.

.

top of the speed dial list

she went

from being at the top of my

speed

dial list

to being blocked and

deleted.

no contact.

funny how that goes

in such a short

time.

one never knows

who sticks.

leader of the pack

at the end of our

senior year

rob may,

the unofficial

leader of the pack,

wrote in my yearbook,

thanks

for helping me with my

physics

homework.

i owe you a bottle

of sweet cherry wine.

best wishes

in the years ahead.

he passed away

a few years later

in Viet Nam.

i never got my wine.

but i've

got the memory of

his C plus on the test.

suddenly the light goes on

the light went

on

in my head

when i was standing

outside

the dressing room

waiting

for her to try on another

dress.

i can't do this anymore.

it was an 80 degree day.

perfect

weather.

sunny.

i could be anywhere

doing anything,

the beach,

a ballgame,

a walk around the lake.

but here i was

holding

two dresses

waiting for her to come

out from behind

the curtain and ask,

how's this? do i look

okay?

i think blue is my color,

don't you?

castles in the clouds

he fictionalizes

his life.

puts a polish on the rotten

apple

that it is.

he turns the fruit

around

to hide the dying

spot of

brown.

the bruise when he

fell from

his imaginary castle

in the clouds.

he whistles

in the dark, spins

a good yarn

as he

dances around the whys,

the hows.

the lies.

it's not

all wine and roses

anymore,

you can

see the sorrow in his

eyes.

where you were meant to be

it's just brick and mortar,

wires

and glass, wood

and tin,

pipes

and vents. coats

of paint.

it's just a house. but

you don't leave

it without a tear in

your eye,

a scar on your heart.

it's been home for so

long. it's

held you in its arms,

bathed you,

let you read books

by the window.

kept you warm 

in winters.

you've watched 

the trees rise above the roof.

raked the fallen

leaves.

you shoveled snow

away from the doors

to let love in.

it's where you belonged.

it's a part of you,

never to be forgotten.

don't let them in

narcissistic

people have a diving rod

for finding

calm

and normal.

for seeking out

empathetic souls.

they want

what you have.

they want to get out

of their own 

world of cold,

take hold,

and steal what's yours.

your peace,

your soul.

don't let them.

the distorted blur

in the beginning

there weren't enough mirrors

in the house

for the both of us

to preen in.

young, we were, pretty

and unlined.

at least in our own eyes.

she went her own way though,

and i went mine,

aging apart.

we are both now i imagine

down to the reflection

in our toasters,

our spoons, our glasses

of dark wine,

squinting at our image

in the distorted

blur called time.

down to one candle

it's a small cake,

with one

candle.

to add the correct

number would

cause a prairie

fire now.

it's a birthday

cake.

round

and in it's 

soft blue

jacket.

chocolate

with white icing.

we're happily

down to

a single flame now.

which is more

than enough.

thank you for

no longer keeping

count.

the pepper mill

the large pepper

shaker

is kept in the vault

in the manager's office.

not far from

the arc of the covenant,

and shroud

of Turin.

only when the plate

of food arrives

are you asked

if you want some.

tell me when to stop,

the nervous

waiter says, trembling

as he turns

the enormous pepper mill,

carved out of wood

from a nearby forest.

it's too risky

of a seasoning

to be left on the table

with mere salt, or left

to the hands

of unskilled patrons.

those late night monologues

did Shakespeare

have 

a large eraser, or did he just

cross things

out

with his feathered pen,

and write below

what

he just wrote. did he

say the lines

out loud, to himself.

i think so.

it must have driven

his wife

crazy, whoever

she was.

ah the stories she 

could tell

about Will and those

late

night monologues,

roaming

the house in

character,

while she tried to sleep.

we got this

it's mostly

men

lingering in the tool aisles

at the big store.

salivating

over saws and hammers,

wrenches

and power

tools.

stroking lumber,

eyeing

the rigidity

and plumbness

of two by fours.

we need to make things.

we like to

build

and tear down,

start all over

again.

that's why love is such

a great

challenge to us.

we can start to build

it once more from scratch.

stand back,

we got this.

2023

no gym,

no club,

no orange theory,

or planet

fitness.

no pool, no track

to count the laps.

no dumbbells to lift,

no cross fit

gizmos.

no pull up bar,

no rowing machine,

or stair master,

no tread mill,

or stationary bike.

no leaden ball

to throw around.

just some push ups

maybe a bike ride

and

occasionally

a brisk walk

around the lake.

of course no sugar,

no seed oils,

no processed foods,

low carbs

with good

sleep and love.

that'll work.

a mere thought

it's just a thought,

a mere

memory of years ago,

words said,

but it's enough

for you to tilt the clock

at three a.m.

and see

how little you have

traveled since then.

polishing an image

her act

of kindness was part

of it,

part of

the image she wanted

to portray.

virtue

signaling with

each

vegetable on her plate,

her insistence

on

prayer at each meal,

or with an orange

sliced.

the beads

that hung from her

mirror.

the peace sticker on the car.

the rescue dogs,

now dust

in jeweled boxes.

the visiting of graves.

all a part

of her

failing, yet obvious

play.

between the lines

as much

as we desire simplicity.

we

need the complex,

the nuance,

the slight of hand

reference.

wit

and cleverness.

it can't all be checkers

and tic tac toe.,

pratfalls

and easy laughs.

we need

the game of chess

too.

we need to read

between

the lines.

it's why i need you.

she's light, i'm dark

she likes

the hallmark channel.

the boy

and girl

reuniting in a small

town,

both coming home

for Christmas

to inherit the family

llama farm.

it's always Christmas

on the hallmark

channel.

i like

the dark and quirky

fare on the tube,

the noir,

the mysterious

ending,

the anti-hero, the twist

and turn,

the ending

that you didn't

see coming. we try

to indulge one another,

but 

it's good to have two

tv's in the house.

tip toe into love

it's better to inch

towards

love.

tip toe into the deep

water

of affection.

the leap

is usually fatal.

love

at first sight

is fool's gold.

give it fifty years

or more,

and then,

if it's still alright,

give it a go.

a tenth row seat

don't buy

the cheap seats,

and don't buy

the front row either.

find something not too

far,

not too close.

it's a lesson

to live by for baseball

games

and comedy

clubs alike,

you don't want to be

hit by a line

drive,

or catch the comic's

eye

and be the star.

by the time we got to Woodstock

after the summer

of love,

and the summer of Woodstock,

you could

see the teachers

in our high school

change.

suddenly they were wearing

their hair long,

wearing

bright colored clothes.

the women

had flowers in their hair.

the men

had a strange a look

in their eyes,

as if they'd seen something

on the other side.

but they still had geometry

to teach,

sentences to diagram,

history to unfold, and

explain the differences

between sine and cosine.

peeling potatoes

she'd sit on

the kitchen stool, close

to the floor,

a pail beside

her, a box of potatoes

to her left

then begin

to peel.

her red hands shaving

off the brown

skins.

one after the other.

so many mouths

to feed,

and yet, she felt

blessed.

it's not my fault

if we can

find someone to blame

it all on,

we feel better.

it's not our fault

for where we are

in life, our

current state of affairs.

it was our mother

or father,

the color of our skin,

our lineage,

our hair.

our lack of money,

or education.

our gender.

nothing in life being fair.

we like being

the victim.

it gives us reason

for failure.

for underachieving,

for misery and despair.

throwing dice against the wall

Einstein

said,

God does not play

dice

with the universe.

but it

feels that way

sometimes

when you're out

in the world

and there's so much

chaos

and mystery,

so much

confusion and death.

you can almost

hear the rattle

of dice

rolling

on the floor 

the moment you

wake up.

where'd they go?

people disappear

all the time.

they just go, move away.

for one reason

or another.

a marriage gone bad,

financial troubles,

or just wanting

better weather.

they pack up their

belongings

and drive south,

or west

and make a life there.

they cut

all ties, 

leave everything

and everyone they ever

knew behind.

you wonder

what happened to them

as the years go by.

they don't

return your calls,

there's no forwarding

address,

no texts,

nothing.

just poof

and they're gone.

so long.

it never sleeps

you have to hand it

to rust.

it never

gives up.

never stops eating

away

at metal

once past the paint.

with tiny red teeth

it just eats

and eats and eats.

twenty-four seven,

it never sleeps.

take the bus

don't get in a small

plane

in any kind of weather

especially

if you're a musician

in a band

with a thimble

full of fame.

so what if you have

the money,

take the bus,

a car,

uber.

hitchhike

if you can.

the list is so long

of the ones gone down.

punch the clock

i've

never heard a bird

complain

about the wind,

or rain, 

the lack of worms

in the hard

ground, or

a turtle

coming out of the stream

murmuring

about the water

being too cold.

i've never

heard a red fox

gripe

about the weather,

or that he's

hungry and tired

of hunting the rabbit

or mole.

they just get up

and get it done.

the two ends meet

as when born

we are now

at the mercy

and kindness

of others,

our mouths open

for the spoon

of warm

food, soft enough

to swallow.

we are looking

for safety

and comfort.

if someone would

read to us,

that too would help

us sleep.

how quickly the circle

closes 

from birth until death,

where the two

ends at last

will meet.

the fruitcake murder

it was the first recorded

murder

of this Christmas.

a woman

hit her husband in the head

with a

loaf of fruitcake

a gift he thought

would please her,

because

of the cherries

and other assorted fruits,

like jewels

embedded within

the thick

inedible brick

of sugar and flour,

and other mysterious

ingredients.

he chose that for her

special Christmas gift

instead of the diamond

necklace

she showed him

online, nine weeks ago.

the day after

ahhh, the leftovers.

the cold

bowl of potatoes,

a mini Everest

with a peak.

the once silken gravy

now mud,

the turkey slices,

limping

their way home

as if lost

on the shelf, no longer

the center of

attention.

where are the bones?

the hard rolls,

unbuttered and waiting

to be resuscitated

by the tired stove.

whatever was green

is less green now,

hidden away

beneath plastic sheets,

everything seems

ready

to be swept into

the can, opened by

your foot,

only the bread pudding,

and cookies,

will get a kind reprieve. 

life of the party

at this

age, now, 

in the winter

of her life,

it's easy

to concede

that she's a marvelous

antique,

an heirloom of sorts,

fragile

with silvered hair

and skin like a parchment

scroll

from the Dead Sea.

when she speaks

we listen,

and when she doesn't

speak we wait

for some snippet

of wit,

or wisdom to fall

like petals

from her soft spoken

lips.

they say she was life

of the party.

still is.

a better gift

it's not

the biggest box

wrapped

beneath

the tree, it's not

the most expensive

thing

bought,

it's not the shiniest

or the newest

gizmo

on the block,

it's just this, this

kiss,

this gentle hug

in friendship,

from the heart.

the mystery of gravy

gravy

is my Achille's heel.

not

sex, or food,

or drink,

or work,

or money. not greed

or fame.

lust or envy

just gravy.

i'm unable to master

this culinary

mystery, so

help me.

just human

you can't pick

your children,

or parents.

siblings too.

you get what you get,

for better or worse.

you navigate

your way through life

with them.

loosening the reins,

forgoing arguments,

at last,

as wisdom sets in,

you accept the fact 

that like you,

they're just human.

pick your dish

pick your holiday

dish.

would you like

it bitter

and cold,

full of regret and remorse.

unable to move

past

the past.

or would

you rather feel cheerful,

and grateful,

with a big spoon

of sugar

in your Christmas

bowl.

one less reindeer in the sky

he won't tell us

what it is,

the grey slab of meat

on the Christmas

table.

seasoned

and surrounded

by small

potatoes and carrots,

peas.

just eat, he says, smiling,

you can't help

but notice

the antlers on his

wall,

the shotgun

propped up in the corner.

still warm,

his orange

hunting vest

forever on.

my future bride to be

i meet my future

wife

at a rib roasting class

down

at the elementary

school.

a late night

three-hour session,

non-credit,

detailing all the things

we need to know

about cuts of meat

and au jus.

we learn through

an excruciating lecture

what temperature

to turn the stove on, etc.

blah, blah, blah.

we're both

wearing chef hats

and aprons.

when we arrive,

clicking our sharp knives

together.

like her

the only culinary success

i've had lately

has been PBJ's on

Wonder bread, 

her too.

it's meant to be.

the beauty of aging

the beauty

of aging is that

you say

what you mean,

and mean what

you say.

and have no qualms about

the consequences.

you've never suffered

fools gladly,

but now

it's turned up a notch.

you have no

patience for the angry

or selfish,

for the rude and dumb.

it's refreshing

now, to block and delete.

to walk away

happily, to just click

and move on.