falling off the angelic wagon

you go on

a long stretch of being nice,

kind

and compassionate,

like your mother 

and church taught you,

never saying

a bad word about anyone,

though they

might deserve it,

you turn

the other cheek,

you ignore

slights,

and insults.

you are a duck and 

the world 

you live in is

all water rolling

off your back,

but then you slip up,

you unexpectedly snap.

you have a bad day,

a bad moment.

a curse slips from

your lips,

a thought, dark, and

almost evil

clouds your mind.

you've fallen off

the angelic wagon

once more.

a few dollars more

it's a long

drive

for a small amount

of cash.

Rockville.

down the pike,

of all places.

an hour, maybe

more depending on

traffic.

it's work though.

some

structured form of life.

left overs

i google

how long can a pot of cooked

meat,

boneless short

ribs,

last while

it sits out

overnight on the counter.

it's a lot of meat,

so it's worth

the investigation.

but my gut

says no.

go with the scrambled

eggs

when you get home.

the blurred last years

before my

mother took her last breath,

having fallen

into a coma,

the sisters

cleaned her

out.

took her glasses,

her rosary,

her good China.

yanked the rings

off her finger,

her watch

from her wrist.

then she woke up,

but they couldn't

take her home

again, because everything

of value

was gone.

six years later,

she died.

still asking for her glasses.

damn monkeys

at night,

when she lived across the street

from the zoo,

the lions

would wake me up,

if i wasn't awake

already

because of her ancient

radiator

thumping

and dripping, reluctant

in giving heat.

i can still hear

those lions, though,

years

later. their muffled

roars,

the growl of their

discontent,

and the monkeys too.

damn monkeys.

the brevity of February

February

is not my favorite month

by any stretch

of the imagination,

what with all the snow,

the cold,

the birthdays,

valentine's day.

work is slow.

i've been married

in this month,

divorced.

fired from jobs,

and been lost, stuck in a storm.

the power is prone

to go out

during this month.

pipes break.

thankfully it's a short

month.

it doesn't have the full

assortment

of days like the others do.

that's the only

thing i like about the month

of February.

its brevity.

what does he want?

there's

a man

outside the house.

all day long.

he's wearing a dark suit

and an old

hat.

i think they call it

a fedora.

he's neatly dressed.

a white

shirt, a dark tie.

his black

shoes have been shined.

i see him looking at

his watch,

which makes me

look at mine.

i wave to him from

the kitchen

window.

he raises his hand

in response.

i really don't have time

for this,

and i hope that he's

gone when i get home.

you won't get fooled again

i have

a tendency to bail

people

out of jail, to help them

when they have

nowhere to turn,

no money, no friends.

hoping

that they've seen

the light,

and that they will

behave

differently.

be kinder, be more

compassionate

and honest,

nice.

but people don't change.

the second

they're set free

it's back to same old

way of living,

with no remorse,

no regrets

or guilt,

no change in their

daily itinerary.

where did i put you?

i put

things in a place

where

i can find them again

when i need them once more.

keys, a watch,

my notebook,

sunglasses.

if i could

only pin you down,

find a shelf,

a room, a closet to put

you in,

perhaps

a nearby drawer.

you're elusive

as most good things

in life tend to be,

things

that you need,

people you adore.

collecting things

i admire

the person that collects things.

small trinkets

of like kind.

porcelain

figures, or dolls, or stamps.

maybe magnets

for the fridge.

little mementos

from far away

places like Cleveland,

or France.

i like how they've

made a little mission for

themselves

in getting one more

piece for their collection.

distracting themselves

from

the horrors and terrors

of the world

we live in.

valentine flowers

i get into a tussle

with a young fellow at the Safeway

grocery store.

some hipster

with a greasy haircut

and a tight suit on.

there's only

one bouquet of flowers left

that we both reach

for at the same time.

we wrestle over it,

petals flying everywhere.

stems breaking,

finally the store manager

comes over to break it up

and does eeny menie minie moe

to decide who gets

the flowers.

the kid wins.

next stop, the cemetery for

a fresh bunch.

the dead don't need flowers.

we do.

the garden hose

i can still taste the warm

stale breath

of the garden hose

as it

spewed water

out of the long

green snake

lying across

the grass.

out it poured

in fits and stops,

from

some buried

pipe,

the broken knob

in the brick.

but it was water,

or some form of it,

and as a thirsty kid,

i had little

time to waste,

waiting for it to grow

cold

and fresh, which

never happened.

the iron clad pre-nup

i tell everyone,

grabbing them by the arm,

don't get married.

don't do it.

because no one ever said it to me.

no one.

not a parent,

a friend,

an acquaintance.

no uncles

pulling me aside.

no one warned me

that i'd lose

the house, half of my

savings

and earnings, etc.

despite the fact that none

of it was my

fault

when it came to the inevitable

divorce.

my dog didn't even

bark at me

in distress as i put

on the new suit

and shined my shoes.

a boutonniere

in my lapel.

so now, i'm the town crier.

i'm on the street

corner.

i'm in front of the Bridal

Shop,

i'm at the bachelor

parites

coming out of the cake,

standing on the bar,

screaming, stop

the madness, don't do it.

don't make a business

contract

based on an emotion,

don't make 

this irrevocable mistake.

and if you can't

turn back because the invitations

are in the mail.

have an iron clad

pre-nup.

a free pass

to get yourself out of jail.

tax season

it's a strange feeling

that comes

every year

at the same time.

it's a tingle

up the spine, a nervous

tick

begins,

the eyebrow

flickering up and down.

the mouth gone dry.

yes.

it's tax season again

and the books await.

the adding machine,

the battered ledger

littered

with retractions,

blotted with white out.

there lies 

the collection

of bank statements,

investment reports,

write offs and donations.

receipts out the ying yang

sloshing around

in the shoe box awaiting

the stapler.

the car that starts

if i had

this or that, 

a bigger house

with a pool,

a nicer car,

a trip to Europe,

if my bank

account

was at a certain level,

then,

then i'd be happy.

but it wasn't

always that way.

when young.

it was good enough

to have  few dollars

to take a girl

you had a crush on

out on a date.

that was enough.

a one bedroom apartment

and a car

that started

on cold mornings

to take you away.

give and take

ankle

deep in water.

he lights a cigarette

and suggests

to his wife

that maybe it's time to move.

this is the third

hurricane

in three years.

we have no roof.

but she says,

at the stove,

scrambling eggs

over a fire,

and making

toast,

but i like it here.

it's hardly ever cold

and the taxes

are so low.

a little off the top

just a trim,

i'd tell the barber,

a little off the top,

the sides,

even it out a little.

but now,

he says nothing

with his

smile,

just lathers up

my head,

swipes the sharp

blade across the leather

belt

then proceeds to make

me shine.

they just know

in flight

nearly as one

a cloud of birds

swim

upwards, through

the clouds

and trees

reflecting shadow

off the sun.

it's a mystery

how they know

who to follow

which way to go,

but they

do.

her things to worry about

i find

her list of things to worry

about in the coming

year.

money for one.

losing weight is two,

old age

is three,

where to live next

is four,

and me is five.

i've fallen

down in the rankings

once more.

the yellow finch

the bird bath

in the yard, a stone saucer,

sitting bare

for most

of the summer, is at

last full

with last nights rain,

the yellow finch

approves,

and flutters

his wings, happy

at last.

can't get the top off

no matter

how many weights i lift,

how many

bike rides

i take,

how many push ups

and sit ups i do,

or how many times

i go to the gym

to work

on my endurance

and shape,

i still can't open

a jar of

pickles without

breaking my wrist.

made in china

as the debris

of metal

and fabric

falls from the sky,

at seventy thousand feet,

with the great

balloon punctured,

the blinking

stops,

the whirring noise

emitting signals

from

the complex machine

comes to a halt.

at last

it hits with a thud and

the mystery is solved.

a thin piece is turned over 

and it says

in bold print, like

everything else we purchase,

made in China,

return if found.

clean up in aisle six

i've always

wanted to work at a grocery

store, but

just to make the announcements

over the speakers.

i'd like to say

in a very authoritative voice,

clean up in aisle six

just once before i die.

jimmy, drop whatever

it is you're not doing

and bring your mop,

and a squeegee. pronto.

a gallon jar

of dill pickles has fallen

off the shelf.

it would be fun

to inform the shoppers

that

grapes are on sale,

the green ones,

and that

the day-old bread

and pork

chops are half price

if you're a member.

calmly i could alert

the public that

there's a little kid at

the customer service

counter,

freckled face, 

red hair.

so if anyone lost a kid,

please come

to the front and claim

him if he's yours.

we caught him eating 

his way up

the candy aisle, row

seven..

no snow again

i feel

sad

for my snow shovel,

another

year gone

by

and there it sits by

the door

and bag of salt.

the handle

still strong,

the shovel

a shiny red, unscared

by scraping.

maybe next year

my friend,

we'll see, but

the way

the world is going

now

we may need 

a boat,

or fins.

when it was just a game

it's not

just a game anymore.

it's about God and country.

support the troops,

the sky full

of jets,

flags

and songs. confetti

and fireworks 

in the air.

gorging ourselves

with  food

and drink.

cold beer.

religion and sex.

money

all wrapped into one

red white and blue

affair.

we're supposed to admire

these men

in gladiator uniforms,

most uneducated

and wealthy

beyond the norm. we're

supposed to make them

role models

for our children, worship

the ground

they walk on.

it's hardly

about the game anymore.

i miss the game.

a few guys on the field,

in the mud,

tossing the ball around.

drawing plays in the dirt.

playing until

the sun went down.

nothing to do

we would linger

at the counter

of the five and dime,

our feet not

touching the floor,

sipping

cokes through straws,

nibbling

maybe

on a grilled cheese

sandwich,

reading comic books

until the manager

came by

and shooed us out.

it was summer, it was

raining, there

was not much else

to do,

having seen the current

movie already

at the local bijou.

tasting the sour

we need

the rough road,

the obstacle, the struggle.

we need

the pain,

the suffering, the hunger,

troubles

and storms.

we need to lose

and lose

and lose.

we need all the sour

that the world

can

bring on to us,

to appreciate

the sweetness that will

follow.

don't tell anyone this, promise me

if you ever needed

the whole

world to know 

about something serious

that was

going on in your

life, all

you had to do was phone

my mother

and tell her the story.

you'd ask her

to swear to God

that she'd never breathe a word

of what you were about

to tell her to anyone,

stressing the word,

anyone, several times,

until you got

a weak, okay.

she could keep a secret

for about three

minutes, tops.

four minutes if the other line

was busy.

three day max vacation

three days

is my vacation limit.

after three days i want to go home.

it doesn't matter

where i am.

Hawaii or Timbuktu.

i could be on the moon,

and i'd get

the itch to go home.

staring out the window

of the space

capsule

at the blue earth,

longing

for my couch.

can we go back now,

i'd say

to Houston Control.

i'm done here.

we got your stupid rocks.

i can't find anything

i love my house cleaner,

Milagro,

and her hard-working team of

women

who professionally deep

clean

my old house

on a monthly basis.

it's worth every penny,

but when they leave

i never know where things

are.

i find my shoes

all in rows in the closet,

who does that?

pens are in the drawer,

pants are neatly

folded onto clothes hangers,

socks are now wrapped

in balls in the sock drawer.

and what about the carton

of eggs,

really, in the egg box on

the door?

a quick drive to the landfill

i find an old

bag

of frozen lima beans in

back

of the freezer,

which

triggers me into state

of rumination.

i stare at the bag

and remember

what it was like

when someone stood

there

at that stove

and boiled them, ladling

some onto

my plate next

to a dried up piece

of unseasoned

salmon.

a sprig of parsley

in sad repose beside it.

i hop into my car

and drive the bag

quickly to the landfill.

should i stay or should i go

it's always

scary when you realize

that

you may be a smidgen smarter

than the doctor,

or lawyer,

the therapist that you 

go to see, and yet

you trust them

with your life,

or money,

or state of sanity.

but when you hear

something

ridiculous

come out of their mouth,

you dig your nails

into the chair

and grind your teeth,

trying to decide if it's

time to run.

well, la dee da

i get stuck 

on the phrase

well,

la dee da,

ala Diane Keaton

in a Woody Allen flick.

it seems

to carry the day.

there's so much

out there

in these times

to say

la dee da to.

that old blue Chevy

my father

would never buy a Japanese

car

because of the war.

that whole

Pearl Harbor thing,

or a German car.

damn krauts

he'd say

with a beer in his hand,

waving a cigarette

around

from his easy chair.

of course his blue

Chevy Impala was

on the back of a tow

truck more than it was on

the road.

i never once visited him

when the hood

wasn't up

and he was lying under

the engine

with a wrench.

he never gave in.

my woman the vampire

i always suspected

that she might be a vampire.

but was never

sure.

the pale skin,

the night life,

that coffin in the basement

full of top soil.

her fear of

garlic

and crosses. she couldn't

even cross stitch

a pair of booties for my

new born niece.

she had enormous teeth too,

which i thought

was just a genetic impediment.

her father

had the same set of choppers.

hey, we all have something.

she told me she was new jersey,

but she had

a German accent, or from somewhere

in eastern Europe.

Jersey, my foot,

and then she bit me

one night in the middle of

making love.

i yelped like a wild

coyote and turned the light on.

what the hell, i said.

you bit my neck.

there's blood everywhere.

i just got these California

bamboo, hundred per cent

sateen cotton sheets on amazon.

now look. blood is everywhere.

jiminy crickets.

i need to put some Neosporin

on this bite and a bandage.

don't move an inch,

hold that thought, okay.

we're not done here, but no

more biting.

okay? okay?

she just smiled, licking the blood

off her lips.

whew.

i've got to vette these women better.

see you at mass on Sunday?

Father Smith stops

by with

an apology hot dish

of linguini,

i'm just a stones throw

away from

St. Bernadette's, so

he didn't have to walk

far, and the plate

stayed warm.

i ask him and if he wants

wine. red please he says.

sitting after pulling to the

side his long black gown.

i get him a glass

of pinot noir.

thanks for meal, i tell him.

my pleasure, he says.

i just want to apologize

for things, for how

it all went down.

i had no idea of the demonic

forces you were dealing with.

pfffft, i say, taking a bite

of the pasta.

hmmm. delicious.

and meatballs too.

yeah, I used Mother Theresa's

recipe. not many people

knew what a genius

she was in the kitchen.

she could have gone to heaven

and become a saint on

her red sauce alone.

have you ever looked at a picture

of her and the priests

around her.

tubbies, all of them.

sumo wrestlers,

and all because of her cooking.

so anyway.

sorry for everything and i appreciat

that instruction

manual on exorcism that you gave me.

we're cool, i tell him.

we're good now.

have a nice walk back to the chapel.

do you mind if i take

the wine with me?

nah, not at all, take the whole

bottle.

peace be with you, he says.

see you in church Sunday?

ummmm, maybe.

that rattling sound

be careful when picking up

the large

rocks

imbedded in the wet

ground

deep into the woods.

you never know

what might be found.

what might

leap at you with fangs

bared,

slithering and hissing

with that rattling sound.

the long hot shower

hand me

the lava soap,

the pumice, the hard

stuff

that mechanics use

to scrub the grease

and grime

off their hands,

their faces.

give me the big

cake of soap,

extra strength,

the abrasive stuff.

i need to wipe

the smell

and memory off

of me,

the residue of you.

joining the think tank

i'm asked to join

a think tank by my neighbor.

he's a philosopher

and nuclear

waste scientist,

a former astronaut

and senator from Wyoming.

i tell him, i'm not that smart,

i'm not sure how

i could contribute

to your think tank.

it took me six years to

get out of community college

with a certificate

in basket weaving.

he smiles,

puts his arm

around me, and says,

we know that, we just

want to try and understand

what dumb people

think about the world.

we want

to see how the majority

of the planet

perceives the current

state of affairs.

we have a great group.

free coffee and Duck Donuts

in the morning.

okay, sounds great.

i'm in as long as i don't

have to wear a bow tie.

when they future fake

when we met,

she told me that she loved the beach,

we'll go to

the beach this summer,

i have seven bikinis

that i haven't worn yet.

oh,

and NYC too.

i absolutely love the city.

we'll take the train

up, stay a week.

we'll walk from soho

to the zoo, to the highlands

and back again.

we'll eat eat eat.

and books,

don't get me started, i love

poetry,

when we're finally together,

every week

we'll attend a reading.

do you like Italian food,

we'll that's my specialty.

wait until you try

my lasagna.

it will be your treat,

i almost like it as much

as making love to you.

i'm all about

intimacy.

the perennial ghost

i ask around,

have you heard anything from

him.

any calls?

any letters?

it seems he's fallen

off the face

of the earth again,

mysteriously 

curled up

somewhere in

the dark, ghosting

us all.

oh well. per usual,

when he needs us,

he'll make

the call.

beach sand

we can't help

but to bring some home with us

when we leave

the beach,

no matter how

hard

we wash off

the granules,

or brush, or sweep it

away,

it's in our ears,

our eyes,

our shoes, our hair.

the clothes that we wear.

it always

comes home

with us.

anxious like we were,

to get away.

how it ends

he pulls closed

the curtain on his life.

retreating

into the shadows,

the dark stage where it once

was bright.

the audience has gone home.

he's done,

finished, no bows

as he leaves,

no applause,

just the echo of

footsteps.

the closing door,

the long

walk home alone.

the grass is greener

it does

look greener from here,

doesn't it.

look

at how the sun glistens

off the morning

dew,

how the wind pushes

it along

in emerald waves,

almost blue.

it does it look different

from here,

let's pick up our

boots

and go there.

me and you.

careless lips

it only takes

a small

turn

of the wheel to go in another

direction.

one thoughtless

twist

of thumb or finger

can send us

reeling

down the embankment,

off a cliff.

so be careful

of the words

you speak, words that

fall from

your careless

lips.

distance between us

we do need space.

plants need space, vegetables

in the garden

need

room to grow.

we all do.

some an inch, some

a mile,

some

in the other bed

in another room.

we need distance to stay

close.

time alone.

we were that hungry

there was

a diner, a nighthawk

style diner

in town that we used to go

to after

carousing

until

the bars closed down.

they kept

a white bucket

of pancake batter

beneath

the counter

which they raised

to pour onto the griddle.

the cook in his grey apron,

once white

killed bugs with his

spatula.

the place

smelled of bacon grease

and stale

coffee, soured

mops.

the bathrooms,

unmarked, had

an inch of yellowed

water on the tile,

but it was open all night

and

we were that

hungry.

make the light

has the patience

of the world

worn

thin,

i raise my hand, and nod,

i say yes.

apparently so.

not unlike

the grey squirrel,

who can't decide which

direction to go.

everyone

is in some sort of spin.

be fast, be quick,

the light is yellow,

make the light.

let's not wait

again.

tight as a drum

it was hard

to tell what her emotions were

as we sat in

PF Changs,

eating lettuce wraps.

her face was

solidified and smoothed

by the clever

hand of a surgeon,

the monthly

injections of Botox

piercing

the curve of lip,

the frown,

no longer was the skin

sagging around her eyes.

all of it was

tight as a drum.

she may have been forty,

or seventy,

who's to know these

things, but as we ate

and drank, i couldn't

decipher if she

was smiling, or 

about to cry?

i had to point out that

Chinese gravy

was dripping down her chin.

easy love

why

bother with the low

fruit,

or fruit

high in the tree

when

there are so many apples

lying on the grass,

of course

most are worm

ridden,

rotting,

a hidden side gone

brown, but

there they are

for the taking,

easy love.

bend over and select

one

off the ground.

discarding the rest

it's not unusual or strange

to become

set in our ways.

the chair

agrees, the shoes

on your feet,

the books you read,

what you eat.

it's a process of elimination.

finding comfort

in all things

that please you

and discarding the rest.

the first paycheck

at seventeen,

when the first

paycheck

hits your hand and you

stand in line

at the bank

waiting your turn

to cash it,

you think to yourself,

oh,

this is how it all works.

and when

you deposit half,

and put the other half

in your pocket,

you think quietly,

okay, here we go,

i'm in the game.

a box please

sometimes

even

the simplest of decisions

pushes you

over the edge.

and when

the clerk at the grocery

store

asks you,

paper or plastic,

you stand silently,

the choices of this

world

spinning

in your head.

the wind of water

the bones

of sunken ships lie

in almost darkness

on

the ocean floor, undisturbed

for decades,

centuries,

more.

just the wind of water

against

their hulls,

pushing and pulling,

a sanctuary for

strange fish

finding homes.

the empty ride out

if you have no faith,

you

have no legs to stand on,

there's

no one to hold you up.

it's you

against the universe.

no where

to turn, possessing

only what the world provides.

the flesh.

things.

the ephemeral

trinkets of life.

born alone, you'll

die alone,

empty

with no hope inside.

what he doesn't know can't hurt him

the little white

lies

add up,

the lying by omission,

the hiding

the deception,

the evil of it all in small

cuts

of a dull knife.

texting

texting

texting.

i'm doing nothing

wrong she says,

as he stands

in the kitchen

cooking their dinner,

her lies

are out of sight.

they can't

be trusted, these

types.

the pressure of valentine's day

i try

to buy my valentine day

gifts

and cards

a few years in advance,

bulk. people come

and go so quickly

these days.

i store them in the closet

for when

that fateful

day arrives.

the most expensive day

in America for

single or married men.

the pressure

is tremendous.

it could determine

if your love interest

is going to

be amorous or cut you

off for a few weeks.

we are walking

on eggshells, perusing

the heart shaped

boxes of chocolate,

eyes glazed as we stare

into the glass cases

at Kay Jewelers

for just the right ring

or bracelet that says

exactly what you hope

it to mean, whatever that is.

will there be a pay

off, or will you be like

Moses

wandering the desert

for 40 days,

with no hope of entering

that promised land,

never getting in.

global warming

if it's too hot,

they blame it on global warming,

if there's

too much snow,

again

with the climate change.

fires and floods,

etc.

anything to tag

and label something

to purchase, organic or

green.

i remember when

that little

crazy lunatic, the twelve

year old

gave a speech to the U.N.

whining

about how her childhood

was robbed

because of global warming.

why wasn't she in

school

or at home reading a book,

doing her homework.

she travels all

over the world on airplanes

giving more

maniacal speeches.

she's suddenly, or at least

for ten minutes

was the queen of

global

warming.

the weather report

it's a bleak

day.

the weatherman says

standing

in front of his desk.

a glum look

on his long face.

it's

depressing out there.

stay home

if you can,

he says, shaking his head.

it's a cold rain, windy.

traffic

is a mess.

we're expecting sleet

and a foot of snow

overnight.

he's weeping at this point

wiping his eyes

with his sleeve

as he points

to the map

where the bridge is

out,

and the road

has collapsed.

best stay away from sharp

objects

on a day like this,

he says.

dial 911 if you're having

bad thoughts.

okay,

now back to the news.

excusing his absence

the kid

sitting next to me in homeroom

in the ninth grade

killed off his entire

family

that year.

writing notes explaining

his absence

the day before.

he had so many funerals

to go to.

he wrote

that his grandmother

died suddenly.

his sister

fell off her bike

and cracked her head open.

his aunt caught

pneumonia

and died.

his mother, his father.

all kaput.

no one cared

that they all showed

up when

he graduated seven

years later.

not my problem anymore

the dead bolt

won't turn, or the knob,

each key

gets stuck.

nothing turns, i shake

my head and yank

it free,

finally.

then go around back

and try

the rear door,

past the fence that says

beware of dog.

it's unlocked, no

need

for a key.

the real estate agent

pulls up

in his new Mercedes

and a sold sign,

that he pounds into the ground.

i tell him

about the lock.

he shrugs,

not my problem anymore

he says.

it's sold.

the english major

you don't think

i'm smart

do you, she asks me,

as she

takes out her crayons

and colors

a rainbow

in her coloring book.

i was an English major in

college.

she's nearly

as old as me,

but likes

to draw and color

and sing.

which is fine.

all good things.

i can read, she says.

i read a book last year,

well started it,

i still have it. it's over

there

holding the door open.

one hundred recipes

from Italy.

the tool box

you need

the right wrench,

the right

screw driver, the exact

fitting

socket

to get the nut free.

you need

the right saw,

the right

hammer

to pull the nail,

the sledge to collapse

the wall.

hand me

the drill, and the other

bit,

this one's

too small.

steer clear of the queen bee

you don't want

to marry

the queen bee,

not even

the princess.

steer clear of that disney

world

character believing

in the fantasy.

dismiss

anyone with a tiara

on their head,

real or imagined,

run,

or they'll be hell to pay.

pick the flower

against the wall,

the nice

girl.

the quiet girl,

the one over there

being herself

and no one else,

self-aware and

unafraid. she's the one

to dance with

at the ball.

go outside and play, i'll call you when dinner's ready

i go into the therapist

for a quick tune up,

an oil change of sorts,

someone to pop the hood

and take a look inside,

and see what 

that ticking noise is.

but the room is crowded.

there's no where to sit down.

it's full of sullen parents with

angst ridden teenage kids

dressed in black,

all of them

staring at their phones

and twitching, legs

shaking, feet tapping.

their hoodies on,

nodding at some music

no one can hear, but them.

when did so many kids 

start going nuts, like we are?

everyone gets a day

eventually

nearly everyday will be a holiday.

every

race creed and color

will demand

it. every new variation

in genders,

large people,

skinny people,

old or young,

anyone

with a megaphone

and a cause will march

for

their day in the sun.

you won't have to be leader,

or a religious icon,

or a president,

no need to be famous,

you'll just be a nobody.

some woman or guy

up the block wanting

a street named

after them,

and a day

to remember them by.

the different drum

i used to be very prone

to the power

of suggestion,

easily swayed

by commercials, or

trends,

part hypnotized,

listening to friends

telling me

that i must try this,

try that,

put this hat on, you

look great in it.

wear your hair like this.

those pants

and shirts

have to go.

i tried to fit in,

tried to get along

and be amiable

with the crowd,

but i've stopped all that.

i'd rather be different,

and happily

alone.

unaccounted years

some years

feel unaccounted for.

blurs,

vague memories.

the time

blown by like a train

past

towns

and fields,

schools and churches.

familiar faces,

glimpses

of what was,

or never was, who's

to know

at this point

in the game.

setting the bar high for love

she describes

her perfect man to me,

as we sit

in the food court at the mall

eating

really bad food,

and drinking orange

colored drinks.

she has a pretzel

and i have a Cinnabon.

my perfect man,

she says,

is very very handsome

and smart.

street smart too,

not just magazine or tv

smart.

not married too many times

and not married now

would be my preference,

but not a deal breaker.

strong

with blue eyes, but not crossed.

hate that.

no stutterers, please.

nice hair too.

it would be nice if he

had his own

place and not living in

his mother's basement anymore.

he can't hit me when he's mad,

or do hard drugs.

he has to have a car too,

that's a must.

if he knows how to

change a lightbulb that's a plus.

hopefully no STDs. or

with most of them in remission,

and has a job

of some sort.

oh, and i just love a lot of tattoos.

that's my list, she says.

can i have a bite of that

and lick

the icing of the wrapper?

sure.

BYOB

people are busier than ever,

they hardly

have time to write full

sentences

anymore when they

text.

they write things like

BRB, or

HTG,

or WTF.

it's taken me a while to

decipher

all the new hip

shortcuts,

growing up with only

RSVP

or BYOB,

but i'm getting there.

the field trip

we skipped

school and took the A-1

Archives bus,

D.C.

Transit to ninth street

northwest.

we were

maybe twelve

or thirteen years old

a few dollars

in our pockets,

most in change.

we played pinballs

for awhile,

nickel games.

and was shooed away

when we

wandered into the back

where the peep

machines were,

viewers we could hardly

reach

holding shadowy pictures

of nude women

playing volleyball

in Sweden.

then we went

to the National 

Art Museum, then to

the Botanical Gardens,

then over
to the Supreme Court,

taking the subway

to the Senate dining room

where we had

bean soup.

from there, we sat in

the bleachers watching

the senate

in session,

then off to lunch on

14th, where we ate

hamburgers at a counter.

it was getting dark

about then,

so we went home.

still carrying our books

beneath our arms.

there is always a story

even

as he mopped the floor

in the long hallway,

as he'd done

for years,

looking down,

going

back and forth,

silently

with his work,

the bucket

squeezing out

dirty water,

you knew there was

more to the story

than just this.

the old girlfriend

i see her

in the bushes with

her binoculars.

wearing a black

coat

and hat, gloves.

her face painted

in bold

dark stripes.

she's peering over

the hedge in

my direction.

i open the door

and wave to her.

which makes her

hit the ground

and crawl

backwards

like a worm. hey,

i yell. i see you.

what are you doing?

do you want some

coffee?

just made a fresh pot.

it's good to be a reader

i was never

one to smoke,

to inhale anything burning,

especially something

addictive.

of course

i tried when young,

those experimental

college days,

but mary jane

made me sleepy, paranoid

and hungry.

i could do that by just

working.

and with cigarettes it

was the same.

holding

the toxic smoke in

my lungs,

getting yellow fingers,

and baked bean teeth

was not my thing.

plus on the side of the package

it said cancer,

heart disease, and other

ailments 

if imbibed 

on a regular basis.

it's good to be a reader

at any age.

the emergency cookie

i find

a frozen cookie

tucked

away

behind the frozen

bags

of peas and string beans

that i'll never eat.

i put it there

in case of an emergency,

a sudden craving

for something

sweet. i unwrap

it carefully

and see that whoever

baked it,

loaded it with nuts

and chocolate, perfect

for dipping

into hot coffee

or tea.

it'll do the trick

as i fall completely

off the sugar wagon.

barking

the dog,

not unlike me, refused

to learn

any new tricks,

it never begged

or rolled over

and played dead.

no jumping through

hoops.

no chasing a ball

for no good reason.

he enjoyed life,

short as it was,

barking

at what whatever

was going on beyond

the window.

it's the same old song again

i've got the vinyl,

the eight tracks even.

the cd's.

i've got spotify,

pandora,

youtube music,

i've got amazon prime.

i've got the radio

if all else fails.

they keep finding new

ways to give

me the same music

i want to hear.

cha ching. cha ching.

the husband in the basement

she tells me about her new

lover boy.

we don't just make love she says,

we have

a relationship.

we do things together

and go places.

oh,  i say,

like what?

well, she says, we drove by

the zoo last week,

we were lost

looking for the exit ramp

to the freeway,

and tonight we're going

to the liquor store

after we go to Target

for some sweatpants.

i'm going to make

him pancakes

in the morning, but at his

house, not mine,

because my husband still

lives in the basement

and his wife finally moved out.

winning the publishers clearing house grand prize, again

again i've won

the publisher's clearing house

first place prize.

third time this week.

this time though,

it's for fifteen million dollars

and a Mercedes Benz.

Mr. Omar Brown,

my prize director says he'll

be by tomorrow

with the car and the check.

the only thing i need to do

is go to the Dollar General

store and pick up two 

Vanilla Gift cards for five

hundred dollars each.

this pays for the registration

of the prize money

and takes care of all the taxes.

etc.

makes complete sense, i tell

Mr. Brown on the phone.

call me when you have them, he says.

and read to me

the numbers on the back.

i'll do that today,

and when i get home i'll make us

some sandwiches,

and some Kool-Aid.

are cookies and chips okay,

you're not doing keto are you?

what time are you coming?

do you like tuna fish?

dill pickles?

the empty chair

the empty

chair

where he sat

for years, before

death

intervened,

is kept open.

a plate

is set as if he's still

there

for each holiday meal

and birthday.

a plate,

a glass of water,

his favorite drink,

gin and tonic,

and silverware.

his picture is on

the mantle,

turned to see the smile,

his blue eyes

softened in the light,

dimming his stare.

it's hard to let go

sometimes.

the heavy lifting done

for some

the best years are the early

years,

the childhood

years

and then for some it's

high school.

the glory

of the game,

the spreading 

of your wings.

and then there

are the married years,

the love,

the job,

the children, the first

home.

but i prefer these years,

with most

of the heavy

lifting done.

spoiled milk

i caught

my old girlfriend drinking

out of the milk

carton one morning.

which she quickly

denied, saying

she was just smelling

it to see if

it was spoiled.

and yet there was

the white mustache

across her upper lip.

a donut in the other

hand, bitten into.

though she swore

she was on a diet.

the first lie, before

many,

leading to an end.

the hard candy dilemma

my mother

would

buy the hard candy

for Christmas and set it out

in small

dishes.

mint green, ribbon red,

yellows

and pinks.

you needed a pair of pliers

to get a piece

loose from the plate,

the colors and

stripes

all melded together because

she kept the heat

up so high in the house.

the botanical gardens

had nothing on her.

i think after awhile,

she just put the dishes

of candy away,

all melted and lumped

together

at the end of the season,

and set them out

again

next December.

chicken again?

when the child

at the dinner table, clutching

fork and knife

complains,

what chicken again?

you tell him

the story about how you

boiled your shoes

once to make soup,

adding a carrot

and turnip

that you grew

in the back yard,

of course he doesn't believe

you, but then

eats his chicken dinner,

quietly,

and so do you.

they grow on you

some people grow on you.

you begin to like

them over time,

though you had your

doubts at first.

they grow on you, but

not like

mold, or barnacles,

or cobwebs,

or a cyst, or tumor,

but something

benign, something nice,

that of which i can't

find a word for

at the moment.

they're in a hurry

the man behind

me

is in a hurry.

they all are it seems.

perhaps

they're doctors

or surgeons,

vip's of some sort,

rushing to

save the world

in some form or

fashion.

he beeps his horn,

flashes his lights,

he waves frantically

for me to pull over

and let him pass,

but i have no where

to turn.

until finally he

squeezes by

and waves his finger,

mouthing words

that would make

my mother cry.

finding God again

i'm careful around

an oyster,

or clam,

or lobster, or hard shell

crabs from the bay.

sushi.

i fear seafood undercooked,

still wiggling

pink and half alive.

i've seen

the other side of it.

the cold

bathroom floor,

hugging the porcelain

commode,

coming back to God again

on my knees

asking for forgiveness

and grace,

and Pepto bismol.

the coin machine

with the coin

jar

nearly full on

top of the fridge, i dread

the lugging

of it to the bank and

pouring

it into the machine,

collecting

my savings.

rattling and rattling

before the final

tally appears on a printed

receipt,

but it beats

the tedious chore

of wrapping the pennies

and nickels,

dimes and quarters

into paper sacks

like the old days

when you were truly

poor

and hoping for the best.

endless shopping

the need

and desire to go to a store

and buy

something

is crazy.

there is nothing i need,

and yet

i think,

maybe i don't know what

it is

that i want,

but by driving to the store

i'll figure it

out as i peruse aisles.

i should

talk to my therapist

about this.

but then i see her there too.

an early exit

who hasn't

walked on eggshells

in the presence of someone

loved,

or unloved,

important, or not

so important.

but how 

careful you were with

words,

with how you folded

your arms

or crossed your legs.

careful to keep the peace,

while looking for

an early exit

from their gaze.

her return skills

unlike me,

she kept her receipts

never cutting the tags off

of anything,

until she was sure,

whether a dress or blouse,

or pair of shoes,

they had to be worn

and laid out upon

the bed

before deciding if it was

something she wanted to keep.

her return skills

were without measure.

keeping the bags and boxes

too, that they came in.

i admired her

for that.

a good nights sleep

do you know

what the night holds,

what

dreams await you once

your eyes

have closed.

what tales will you

live,

what

other worlds will

unfold.

what problems

will you solve

deep in slumber,

what light will shine

upon your

worries.

it's a mystery,

but you can't

wait to get there

once the day is done.

room at the inn

i wouldn't be a very good

cowboy,

not just because i'm

not fond of horses,

or cattle.

animals that large 

seem problematic.

but because of eating

baked beans over the fire

and singing

songs under the stars

with a bunch of wranglers.

i'd be pointing up to the ridge

where i could see

a Hilton Hotel,

and saying, hey, hey look.

the vacancy sign is on.

maybe next year

if i had

a nickel for every person

who told me 

that they

stayed in a relationship

too long,

or a marriage,

or a job,

or lived in the wrong house

for years

without moving,

delaying happiness

by another year,

i'd have a bushel of

nickels

to feed into

the turnstile going out.

pressing silently forward

i almost said hello

to a complete stranger the other day

as we passed

each other

on the path

leading to the lake.

nearly tipped my hat

with

the words, hello, almost

falling out of my

mouth with,

it's a beautiful day.

but i held back,

seeing the fear

in their eyes, and

i remembered my place,

i bit my tongue

and said nothing,

pressing silently forward,

that's how it works today.

candy on the shelves

i see the Easter

candy,

the chocolate rabbits

and yellow

peeps

on the shelves already.

we haven't

even dealt

with the misery and

hell of valentine's

day,

quite yet.

with the store bought

flowers

and heart shaped boxes

of sweets.

avoiding the holes

most lie

in the middle between

being

fortunate

and unfortunate.

dealing with life under

their own

terms,

using their own hands

and minds

to make the best

of it.

we're not all skilled

in the way

of world.

so many stumble and

fall

tripping over

the same holes

time after time.

the dead sea scrolls

i open

up the box that holds

all of

my separation

and divorce papers.

property settlements,

child custody,

etc.

the quit deeds,

the division of assets.

pets

and children.

i guess i should

get rid of it at some

point.

but it's like the dead

sea

scrolls.

ancient history

getting older,

hard to just toss it

in the can.

what's Betty doing?

when

the guys wanted to have a poker

night,

i shrugged

and gave in,

i said okay, but

only

because i wanted pizza

that night.

i didn't give a fig

about a flush,

or straight,

or holding four aces.

pfffft.

sitting around with a bunch

of men holding

cards in

their hand seemed silly.

i'd hardly

play a hand before

excusing myself

and calling up Betty.

the room is spinning

when you wake up

dizzy,

you sit on the edge of your bed,

feet dangling

close to the floor

and say what

the hell.

the room is moving,

spinning,

is it lack of food,

low blood sugar,

old age?

bad dreams that make

you sway.

then just like that

it disappears,

so la di da,

you'll live after all

for another

day.

the bow ties

there are men

that wear bow ties,

you see them on occasion,

spy them

at the theater,

or opera,

like rare

birds

fluttering their

exotic colored wings.

they are.

strange

fellows with oval glasses.

you feel like they know

things that you don't

and never will.

you can't help but 

assume that they're

smart and smug.

ivy leaguers, perhaps,

but

how can you not 

be smug

when wearing

a bow tie.

the tilted stone

we are measured

from birth.

the pounds and ounces,

the length of us.

the time delivered.

then ages

are added up.

we are marked in height

against the doorway.

we count the years

alive,

the years in school.

the years married.

the kids,

divorces

are measured too.

even the pets get numbered.

how long

we've lived where we do.

and in the end,

there's a number

on everything,

then

after all the tabulations

are completed

they engrave

the years of your existence

upon the tomb.

finding what you like

we find

a flavor early on

in life.

we like the taste

of strawberry

or chocolate,

perhaps mint or

pistachio,

we stick with it.

rarely do we vary

and venture outside

of our comfort

zones,

and so it goes with

most of life.

we find

at some point

what we like

and we're done.

boiling water

as i stare at

the pot of water,

waiting for it to boil.

i think

about the past.

things said, things

undone,

mistakes made.

regrets.

and then the water

begins to boil,

and i quickly move

on,

and forget.

suddenly it's over

i try to round

up the old gang for a night out

on the town.

old town,

actually, and appropriately

named.

where they roll up the sidewalks

at ten p.m.,

but howard says it

might rain

and he's not sure what to wear.

mark,

says he has a hard

time driving at night

because of his

cataracts,

frank has to get up early

to walk his dog.

jim's wife says he can't

go, because

he didn't do his chores

this afternoon,

and paul

is tired and sore

from pickleball.

what the hell happened,

how did everyone

get old

and crotchety all

on the same day?

thin praise

no body

likes a weak cup of

coffee,

or a limp handshake,

a kiss on the cheek,

in sisterly fashion.

no one enjoys

thin praise,

the pat on the back,

as you go

on your way, the words

good luck

to you,

have a nice day.

some of my favorite inventions

there are certain

inventions

that i'm very happy with.

the wheel

for one.

fire for two,

and coffee machines.

although

i do the pour over

now.

the lightbulb was

a good idea,

along with indoor

plumbing.

not to mention the printing

press

and ball point pens.

high heels

with nylon stockings

was a brilliant

idea as well.

the rest i can live without.

although

television

and the remote control

are nice

inventions too.

by the time i get to Phoenix

she's going

to Arizona

to live, finally retiring

from her job.

somehow

she fell

in love with a hundred

degree

weather

with no wind.

apparently she likes

to sweat

a lot.

when i think of Arizona

i think

of the desert

and the bone white

skulls of animals

who couldn't take it

anymore,

collapsing where they stood,

looking for one

green leaf,

or shallow puddle of water.

you should come

and visit

me sometime,

she says.

count on it, i tell

her,

my fingers crossed

behind my back.

unopened mail

yes,

i did receive your letter

in the mail

today. hand

written,

impressive,

but i haven't opened

it

to read.

i may never read

it.

knowing you,

i kind of figure

what it has

to say.

ground hog day

my dog Moe

used to wait

by the hole in the ground

every year

at this time

and wait for the ground

hog to pop

his head out.

he was smart like that.

with keeping

track

of the months and days.

he didn't want

to kill them,

just mess with their heads.

we were so

much alike

in so many ways.

the old two door chevy

as awkward

as it was, we made love

in the back

seat

of my old two door chevy

on our third date,

she was still living

with her parents

and my apartment

was still

infested with mice.

so we had no where

else to go,

both of us nearly

broke

and unable to get a

room

at the no tell motels

along route one.

i remember i twisted

my knee

and she cut

her arm

on a piece of metal

door trim

that came off in the melee.

it was snowing

and quite romantic

despite the exhaust

leaking in through the rusted

floor board.

it didn't last though.

the injuries kept adding up.

she eventually

left me for a guy with

a dodge caravan

carpeted with

a bar inside.

the short lived office job

we drank

a lot of coffee in the office.

we talked

about the games

we watched on tv

over the weekend.

we probably

worked

two hours out of the day,

less for me.

i used the stairwell to arrive

late,

and leave early.

the rest of the day was

jibber jabber.

deciding where we would

eat lunch,

where we'd go to

happy hour,

whose birthday was it

today.

a conversation

about the weather

could drag on for an hour,

or a new tie.

i kept a supply of snacks

in my desk,

so i was popular

in the office.

leader of the pack.

i organized

volleyball on Wednesdays,

nap time at three,

and was always helpful

to show the new leggy secretary

her way around

the building.

it was inevitable that they

would show me

the door at some point,

escorted out of the office

by an armed

security guard.

little bumps in the road

it's not

unusual to drip coffee

on the new

shirt

or step

in mud with the new

pair of shoes,

to get into

the wrong

line at the bank

when there was a walk

in bank.

forgetting

the umbrella too.

small mishaps

are not unusual.

again

i've forgotten your

birthday,

and sent no

card to you.

my ancient relic

it's an ancient relic,

an old drop cloth

covered

in paint.

oils and acrylics.

drops of spackling,

caulk

drippings,

rips and tears, coffee

stains,

tobacco burns,

a little blood

from cuts along the way.

i've had this cloth

for so many years.

it's stiff,

but still works well,

i almost deem it holy

as i fold it neatly

at the end of each

work day,

my personal shroud

of  Turin.

the gumball ring

unsentimental

to the nth

degree, and yet i do have

a few

old mementos

tucked away in drawers

and cigar boxes.

remember those?

tickets to ball

games. 50 cents for

the bleacher seats.

stubs to

a bob dylan concert

back when he could still sing.

a marble that

i never risked entering in

the dirt drawn circle.

a toy soldier

who single handily

won a thousand

childhood battles,

in the backyard,

and bathtub, 

a pink ribbon she gave

to me

and the gumball

ring

i almost gave to her.

fatherly advice

i remember

my father's advice

after i went through a terrible

breakup

with a love interest,

someone that temporarily

became a wife.

he said,

and i quote, whatever

you do,

don't start drinking.

which explained everything

to do with

his life.

the alien invasion

it

was a slash of green light,

a ball of glowing

florescence

that

flew across the sky

as we played

kickball

in the street.

a meteorite

entering the earth's

atmosphere

was what we learned later.

but Ernie,

the oldest of us

insisted that we call

the FBI

to let them know of an

alien invasion.

we stood around

the kitchen phone

yammering

as Ernie provided

the necessary details,

the location

and time, color, etc.,

to warn

the world

that we are not alone.

after he hung up,

it was too dark

to go back

out onto the street to

continue

our game,

but i remember we were

up by two runs.

so we won

just the same,

despite the aliens,

the pondering chef

you don't

want the cook in the kitchen

to be unhappy.

distracted

in deep thought

about their problems.

you want them

to be alert

and on the ball.

concentrating

on the pepper and salt,

the boil,

the roasting,

the stirring.

timing what's in the pan

or broiler.

you want them

to be focused on

the job at hand.

you don't want the smoke

alarm

to go off.

one screw at a time

suddenly, it seems,

the desk

chair is wobbly, there's a loose

screw

somewhere.

one leg, or possibly

two

seem to have given up

on their purpose

of holding me upright

and perched

above the floor.

in time, i guess, it's not

surprising

that most of us come

to the end

of use.

the prayer vigil

it's just a light

snow.

a surprise dusting of cars

and roads,

trees,

nothing to write

home about, no need

for the shovel,

or snow plow,

but i see Becky,

the little kid

down the street holding

her sled,

staring at the sky,

praying

for more,

with all her friends.

the loose thread

it's just one thread

that i pull

and pull.

it unravels

the whole sweater

easily.

i should have snipped

it at the start.

a lesson

learned

the hard way

when it comes to you.

taking a mulligan on the 18th hole

is it too late

to have a do over,

to have

another wife, another child,

another

occupation, another

life?

has the clock run out

on those

scenarios.

i want to take a mulligan

on all of it,

if that's okay

with you.

i want to put the ball back

onto the tee

and play another round.

come on, 

grab your clubs,

let's play through.

who is this?

who are these

people, these numbers without

names

cluttering your phone.

old connections

long forgotten.

why do they send you

Christmas greetings, or

happy birthday

emojis,

pictures of the vacation

they're on?

who are they?

friends, relatives?

who knows,

but they are strangers now

about

to be deleted

and long gone.

those morning people

it's the morning person

you have

to worry about.

they're so enthused about

the day

ahead of them,

and they haven't even

had their first cup of joe.

they jump out bed

with a good morning smile,

and hit the floor running.

what's wrong with them?

they have to go.

Ethiopian food

variety

is fine. the spice of life,

as they say.

but

once you know what

you like,

it's best to stick with it.

when i venture

out of my

comfort zone,

i'm usually on the bathroom

floor

that night,

paying dearly

for taking another persons

culinary advice.

flocking south

i see the flock

of boomers

winging their way to warmer

climates,

to southern states,

to the orange groves

they go.

stretching out

beneath the sun

and palm

trees,

lying there in old

age,

staring at

the languid blue

wash of sea. pretending

that it's not over.

the life

before them a distant

and fading

memory.

nothing that you want

so much

is image, the sheen,

the shine,

the glitter,

the bright colored

clothes,

and smile,

the good wine.

so much

is presentation

and 

gloss.

but once you know

them

you see the truth,

there's nothing

below

the surface,

nothing that you want.

captain of the cheerleaders

she told me on the phone

that she still

fit into her high school

cheerleader

uniform,

at the age of 58,

and that she could put

her legs behind her head,

still limber

and full of cheer.

despite her old and blurry

photos, this intrigued me,

i encouraged her to make

the drive from Cleveland

to my house, a thousand

miles away.

of course it didn't work out.

we all make mistakes.

no more agains

she tried

to bury her heartbreak

in books,

in flowers, in

baking.

she knitted

and sewed, she

walked

the lake.

she found wine

helped too.

but she wanted to

be alone.

done with the world.

done with love

and men.

the fairytale she learned

as a child

was over.

she stayed at home

behind closed doors..

there would be

no more

agains.

when life was easy

the bird feeder

full

of red winged black

birds,

yellow

hummingbirds,

and blue jays

on the fence

waiting their turn.

the grey

squirrels on the ground

scavenging what

falls.

in come cardinals,

and pigeons, sparrows

and gulls.

it's crazy how much

they eat.

another five pounds

of seed,

another week.

will they come when

i take it

down.

will they remember

life

so easy. not unlike us,

most won't.

sharpen the blade

there is honesty

and then there is honesty.

we bite our

tongues,

we're careful with

words,

we walk on eggshells

trying hard

not to disturb

someone's image of

themselves.

but there are times when

you need to sharpen

the blade

and cut, and reveal

the truth

that lies below

the charade.

the skull in the woods

in the middle

of the path, deep into the woods,

where

i prefer to walk,

muddy

and rough, trees

having fallen

along

the way, i see a white

stone

like skull

lying

against the moss.

a perfectly

cleaned head of some

small animal.

whether raccoon or

fox,

i don't have a clue.

i stop for a moment to

study

the whiteness of it,

the pristine

bone,

the empty shell of what

life was.

then i move on.

it's middle years

the beginnings and endings

are all pretty much

the same.

it's that damn middle

that keeps

us up at night.

what to do with all

that time,

from youth until

old age.

so many choices

to decide,

so many different roads

to take.

yours, no doubt,

will different than mine.

the carrot dangling

who doesn't have

a carrot

dangling just out of reach.

whether

goods,

or gold,

love, or some

dream.

who isn't trying 

to make their world

right with

that elusive bite

swinging so close and

and yet

so far away,

no, not anymore

do i need another's storm

that brews

within

the walls

of who they are

and where

they've come from.

do i need

that drama, that wind,

that flood

and fire?

no,

not anymore.

sweet sorrow

it's more

about leaving, than it is

arrivals.

the bittersweet

changes

we endure

shades whatever light

came with

the new

home, the new

life

with a loved one.

indeed, parting,

is such sweet

sorrow.

what the universe says

Jimmy calls me,

he's thinking about retiring

finally

from his job down at the Ford

motor plant

where he attaches

fenders with a riveting gun.

i've got enough saved up,

he says,

the divorce didn't hurt

me too bad,

and the kids are gone.

other than my mortgage,

food, clothing, drink

and electricity, i'm good.

oh and the vet bills for the cat.

so do it, i tell him.

retire and take it easy.

but then what, he says.

how do i fill the day without

work?

i see these guys walking around

the mall in their sweat pants,

or down at the lake

feeding bread to the ducks

and i want to shoot myself in the head.

i'm not the kind of guy

who buys a Winnebago

and goes to the grand canyon.

i just feel like it's over

if i quit my job.

i hate fishing, i don't play golf,

and most of my life long

friends, except you, are dead.

any suggestions?

yeah, keep working.

the universe will tell you when

to quit.

pardon, garcon, garcon

she calls me

from Paris, i hear her

ring

tapping

her cup of tea,

her bracelet

tinkling against porcelain.

there's soft chatter in

the background,

i hear her say, garcon,

garcon,

sil vous plait. more tea

and another croissant,

i'm on the left

Banke, she whispers

in her newly

developed accent.

i wish you were here.

it's so lovely

and romantic, 

you'd love it, mon ami.

so what are you doing"

she says,

thanking the waiter

with a flurry of mercies.

tell me about you, enough

about me.

oh me,

i'm at the paint

store i tell her, buying

a gallon of paint

and some spackle.

dramatic pauses

it's good to

have a dramatic

exit

or entrance,

the slamming of a door

is quite effective,

or throwing

a cup

or plate across the room.

the fist pounded

against the table,

the foot

stamping the floor,

all good,

but sometimes silence

is best,

along with the one

raised eyebrow

and a wry smile.

give me an hour

it's too early for talking,

too early

for a discussion,

too early

for nearly everything,

but coffee.

give me an hour to collect

my thoughts,

some time

to sit alone and sip

my drink.

i'll be on the back porch,

come 

and find me

in a little while,

then we can decide

what to do with the rest

of our life.

you get used to crazy

when i find

you again

in the darkened room,

curled

in a fetal position,

with make up

running down

your face,

from dry less tears.

rocking back and forth

in madness,

pulling at your hair,

i ask you, kindly,

are you having any

dinner tonight?

my dear.

no flowers

as another

birthday approaches,

i wince,

i laugh, i smile.

again, really?

okay. but

let's keep it on

the down

low,

maybe a slice of cake.

no gifts,

no cards,

no flowers.

let's make love,

let's lie

in the sun.

let's pretend that 

there is no

end.

just more months,

more years, 

more hours.

bad memories

i almost go to church

this morning.

almost,

but not quite.

i pull into the lot

and stare

at the building filling

up with the regulars.

i wait, i wait.

but something isn't

right.

the bad taste in my

mouth, hasn't quite left.

find a chair and sit down

there's always more to learn,

more books

to read,

film to watch.

more words to absorb,

more knowledge

to acquire, so much

yet to be learned

you do your best to have

it trickle in

to the already crowded

rooms of your mind.

you tell it to

find a chair,

a wall to lean on, a bed

to stretch out on.

let it come, let it flow,

and yes,

there are things

that you will learn again.

come on in,

my trusted old friends.

the history of windows

the window

man

settles into my house

with his

notebooks and diagrams,

his plans,

his choices for me to look

at. he's wearing

loafers, which he slips off.

a bad sign.

i put on a large pot

of coffee.

i only have seven windows

to be replaced,

but the price

varies

from twenty thousand

to six thousand dollars.

i don't understand

the variance, so he explains.

tells me the story of the first

window they found

in a cave

in northern Africa.

some guy's wife gave him

the idea, saying

to her husband,

we need a view and some

air in here. so the cave guy

took a sledge hammer

and banged out an opening

in the side of the cave.

voila, the first window.

i nod and say, hmmm.

interesting.

it's all about parts and labor,

materials used, he says.

the price has gone up because

of the supply chain,

the war,

and covid of course.

our company only uses 

the highest quality

steel, or vinyl, plastic and

space age polymers,

etc. etc.

it's a lot of mumbo

jumbo.

three hours go by.

finally he asks if i'd like

to see one of his windows.

i say yes.

exhausted.

he goes out to his car

to bring in a small window

that's in his trunk.

a display model.

he pulls the window up

and down, shows me how

to lock it, unlock it,

he demonstrates

how to pull it inside

so that they can be cleaned.

he takes out a small bottle

of windex and spays the window

then takes a handkerchief

to wipe it in small circles.

see he says.

state of the art.

i look out my old windows,

to the trees and stream,

the bare woods.

i feel the wind and cold

coming in through

the old glass and creases.

it's getting dark out.

where do i sign,

i ask him, broken and tired.

give me the middle priced

ones, i tell him.

are you sure, he says.

are you absolutely positive

you don't want to go with the

platinum windows.

no, give me the bronze, please.

the bronze.

an old man thing

i see the old

men

down at the construction site,

leaning on the wire

fence, watching

the building go up.

they're wearing hats

and gloves,

drinking coffee,

some smoking cigarettes

and pointing

at a crane moving

steel beams.

they are little kids again,

with Lincoln logs,

model cars

and planes.

Legos and what not.

it's an old man thing.

no parking on wednesday

when there's a parking

meter

i worry.

i try to decipher

the sign,

so many words,

restrictions,

varying days and times.

how long will i be here?

do i have

enough change

to see me through

two hours.

will i be towed,

will there be a ticket

on the windshield

when i return.

can i figure out how

to use

my credit card?

the sign says no parking

on Wednesday

between the hours

of nine a.m. and seven

p.m.

it's sixty thirty now,

should i wait?

should i go?

i don't know.

your legacy

people talk of leaving

behind

a legacy,

a bequest of some sort,

a remembrance

of love

and support, wisdom,

perhaps.

something

left behind

so that others can

remember

you by. crap.

most people can't 

remember

what they had for dinner

last night,

let alone you.

the styrofoam box of leftovers

do i feel guilty about all

the food i throw

away on a daily basis,

yes, of course i do,

guilt is my go to emotion.

i was raised catholic and

pounded with the notion

that children in India

are starving.

my mother never left

the neighborhood, so

how would she know

what was going on in Delhi.

i just don't like leftovers,

whether i made them,

or they're from a restaurant.

the cost of the meal

makes no difference either.

i refuse to be seen

carrying half eaten food home

in a Styrofoam box

with steak and peas rolling

around, getting cold.

kung pao chicken,

the grease coagulating

into a fatty pudding.

the white rice

turned into glue.

maybe if i had a dog

waiting for me, i would.

but i don't have a dog.

and even then, i might

spare him too.

the bills unpaid

it's strange

how the further you get 

from

childhood,

the closer it is.

how you remember

in great detail,

those nights

and days,

words said, or unsaid.

love or neglect

adding up

on your internal

adding machine.

remembering

so many bills left

unpaid.

just two minor complaints

after the deal is done,

and i've

driven the new car home,

i look at my

phone and see

a few surveys that they

want me

to fill out, to tell them

how well they've done.

i give all the questions

five out of five stars.

everything was fine, but

i write in the comment

box, my only complaint

was that the gumball

machine in the waiting

room was out of gum,

and the coffee wasn't

French roast, Folgers?

really? let's step it up

next time.

the unregistered nurse

she was an

unregistered nurse,

but

i didn't care.

she looked good in

white.

her red cross hat

tilted on

her nest of brown hair,

the stethoscope

around her slender neck.

she knew

anatomy

like the back of her

hand.

she knew

how to smooth

down a bandage

and wrap

a wound.

she gave me CPR

whenever

i needed it.

mouth to mouth

resuscitation

too was one of her

attributes,

French style.

yes, oh yes, she

had a bedside manner

like no

registered nurse

i'd ever met.

unlicensed, but who

cared.

i was healed and healed

again,

she was the cure,

for whatever ailed me.

we almost made it

we almost

made it.

it was close, but

we almost

arrived

with everything

intact.

me and you.

you and me.

almost.

almost.

i'll remember that.

when we had a future

we used to talk

about the future when we

had one.

when the days

before us 

were much greater

than the ones

behind.

if we're lucky,

we'd say to blot

the jinx,

if we're lucky we'll be

healthy

and happy,

wealthy and wise,

maybe on a beach

somewhere.

lying beside

the blue ocean,

under a golden sky.

it can't be unsaid, but

everything said,

can't be unsaid,

but it can be forgotten

if you let it go.

if you open window

and toss it

out

like a paper airplane,

creased
and folded,

pointed,

sent by hand, away,

away,

in any direction,

east or west,

north or south.

hair

I get tired

of shaving.

dragging the razor

across my

face every other day.

those pesky hairs

strangely

growing like wires

out of my ears,

trimming

the nose hair,

the eyebrows.

what the hell is

happening here?

hair seems to be flourishing

everywhere except

on my head where

it used to be.

i'm a human shrub

that needs

constant care,

landscaping.

at least i don't

have to do my legs,

like a few women

i've known often do,

but not all.

the tofu chicken days

do i have a favorite

ex-mother in law,

not really.

they were all up to something.

whispering

in someone's ear

about what i should

be doing,

or not doing.

they weren't

necessarily evil like

their daughters,

but just on their side.

keeping secrets

with a smile.

we got along okay

for the holidays though,

i always passed

the salt shaker

when asked and praised

how delicious

the tofu was,

shaped into the form

of a chicken.

part time gahndis

i sigh

at the memes.

live for today, seize

the moment.

live in the now,

just breathe.

shut up.

stop.

when did the world

become

so full of new age

Gandhis.

part time, at best.

i recall love

as

she slips out

of clothes

in the shadows

saying

little,

just the sound

of shoes

upon

the floor, 

her head 

against the pillow,

turned away.

i recall love.

how it

was before.

out all night

i used to run

the river,

a five-mile trek along

the path.

paved and gravel,

some dirt,

some grass.

it was an easy run,

up

then back.

i was young,

i could run all day

if i wanted to.

the nights were

no different

too.

neither happy nor sad

the cat seems neither

happy

or sad,

just oblivious

and aloof,

neither full of kind

or unkind

intentions.

just self absorbed

in her own world,

not unlike you.

just say no

there was a time

when i used to do a lot

of things

i didn't want to do.

like go to church,

or to a party, or vote,

or shopping with

the ex-girlfriend or

wife,

standing outside

the dressing room,

holding a dress.

i'd go to the opera,

or watch a chick flick,

or go to some

march downtown,

because she wanted me to.

i used to eat calamari

when i didn't want it,

or beet soup.

i would always take

a taste, a sip.

i was compliant,

easy to get along with,

a pleasant fellow,

but things have

changed.

i've learned how to say no, 

to most of it.

i've sort of quit.

the longest day

do i dread going to the DMV

at 8 am,

that would be yes.

only the dentist

or the proctologist,

or dinner with

the ex's family

would be worse, a close

tie at best.

do i have all my paperwork,

my id's, my car

registration,

do i have money,

do i have a book to read.

am i prepared

for a long day.

no, but it has to be done.

what lies under the bed

when i pull

the bed back to paint the wall,

i have to move

a box

full of sex paraphernalia,

a fake gun,

a whip, wigs

of various colors.

clamps

and rope, handcuffs,

a leash,

a polaroid camera,

a plastic doll.

lingerie

for him and her,

tubes of lube, batteries

and mirrors,

a bottle of tequila,

half gone.

the woman of the

house is in the kitchen

baking cookies

for the church pot luck

on Sunday.

she's in the choir.

she yells back,

how's it going?

coffee is on.

more to the story

i see a man

in his bathrobe and slippers

chasing the trash truck

down the street

with a bag

of trash

in one hand,

the other hand waving,

as he yells,

wait for me.

on the porch is his wife,

hands on her hips,

curlers in her

hair, with a cup of coffee.

it's a story i'll never

get to the bottom of,

not that i want to.