shadow and light

there

is, in both,

shadow

and light

an island of peace

and joy,

comfort.

if not for the wind,

you'd be happy

enough

to go on like this

through life.

but it's the wind,

the changes,

the unseen

upheavals,

that keep you

close, but unable

to cross

the finish line.

we're not done yet

i hear

nothing from the neighbors

on either side.

not a peep from

their children

or dogs either.

i wonder

if they hear me.

my morning cough.

my flushing

of the toilet.

my off key singing

in the shower

and out.

why are they so quiet?

can they hear

my music,

my television.

my lover crying out

in the midnight hour,

hey,

we're not done yet.

the girlfriends

i always had

girlfriends who dressed

nice,

and looked nice,

but they had no money.

they drove beat up cars,

or took the subway,

or bus

and lived in a three

floor walk

up in the city.

all their furniture

wobbled

beneath fancy

colorful sheets

cut to size

from their mother's

closet.

there was always

a window stuck,

a lightbulb to be

changed,

a smoke alarm

going off, or mouse

that had to be caught.

and most knew only

how to cook salmon

and make

a salad.

but they were fun.

full of life.

they were great

dancers. lovers. but

they knew as i knew,

that it was all temporary,

we'd both move on

at some point

when another bus 

would arrive.

they come around eventually

everyone

you haven't heard from in ages,

at some

point

come around.

they always do.

it's human nature to return

to the tribe.

we don't want to die

alone,

to live alone.

we need others, before

and perhaps after

we leave

to the other side.

we'll see.

soon enough, soon enough.

can i get you something

everyone

wants to get you water,

or coffee,

or tea.

they say, can i get you something

while you wait.

you smile

and say no,

but a winning

lottery ticket

would be nice, or a neck

massage.

lower

please.

somehow it all worked

as my father

approaches ninety-five,

his latest

girlfriend

at his side, you begin

to wonder.

maybe whiskey

was the way to go,

cigarettes,

and a life in the navy,

full of bars

and fights,

and women of the night.

women

of the day.

etc.

always basking himself

in the weakest

of sunlight.

face up.

maybe all those pills,

vitamins

and creams he'll leave

behind actually

worked.

or maybe it was luck,

or genes,

or something beyond

our understanding.

he's on the phone now,

he's run

out of baby oil

and Cialis.

yes, there were mice

of course

there were mice.

you could look at him

and almost

expect one

to jump out of his beard.

his flannel

shirt

and pajama pants,

hanging loose

on bones,

paled to a scaley pink.

glasses

on his nose,

his a hair a bush

not unlike

a tribesman in 

the outback.

was he somewhere

still inside all of this.

who's to know, but yes,

there were mice,

a lot of mice.

Be Mine

the cabinets

over

the fridge,

nearly unreachable,

have nothing in them

that i know of.

i haven't looked into them

in twenty years.

i should look someday,

get a stool,

or step ladder,

and see what someone

may have left behind,

maybe some 

treasure, some hidden

cash or jewelry,

an old bottle of Vermouth,

or maybe a valentine candy

that reads,

Be Mine.

the age of heroes

we are living in the age

of heroes.

it used to be that if you saved

a life,

in war,

or peace, well

then, you were deemed

a hero.

if you showed a great amount

of courage

in extremely 

dangerous situations,

you were carried around

on the crowd's shoulders.

you got applause

and perhaps a medal.

but now.

if you pick up trash on

the road,

or put out a fire, or

walk the beat for a hundred

years,

you're a hero.

doctors are heroes.

teachers are heroes.

politicians.

basketball players, etc. 

all heroes and role models

to be looked up to,

at least until truth

rears its ugly head.

being pro-active

it's cold,

i feel a breeze.

so i take action.

like the young folk do.

i'm pro-active

and do 

something about it.

i unfold my legs,

put the book down,

i set my

cup of tea on the side

table,

and brush the crumbs off

my sleeve,

then i get up

and go over to the window

to close it.

selective disspointments

i select my

disappointments carefully

these days.

in people especially.

i've earned the right

with this current

age i've landed on.

i'm saving

my angst for

larger issues,

like

lack of Wi-Fi,

or coffee

in walking distance.

no heavy cream

again,

has a tendency to set

me off, 

but i'm working on it

through the use of yoga

and transcendental

meditation.

i'm somewhere between

live and let live,

and go away.

i'm sort of done with

world problems,

war,

and pestilence,

catastrophes of Biblical

proportions,

and what not.

breaking in the new mattress

the car

in front of me,

with stickers on

the bumper,

save the whales,

coexist,

Yellowstone Park,

eat kale,

is a small car.

a Prius perhaps.

a democrat

i'm sure.

on the roof is

a wobbly mattress.

loosely held by twine.

the woman,

has her arm out the window

trying to

steady it.

the man at the wheel

is doing the same

from his side.

it's windy.

it's cold.

but there's a sale on.

i wonder

if they'll ever 

make it home, and if

they do,

will either of them

be in the mood to break

it in.

doubtful.

you need to floss more

the dental

hygienist is new.

they're always new here.

she begins with x-rays,

eighteen of them, nearly

one for each tooth.

she's very plump

and fun,

blue rubber gloves

on her thick hands.

she's everywhere at

once.

i hear the whirr as she

escapes the room,

the button pushed for

a picture,

and at last she says one

more, open wide

setting a contraption

invented by Marquis de Sade

inside.

then there's scraping,

polishing,

shining a blue light

onto my tongue,

my gums.

she's asking questions

about my day,

what i had for breakfast,

but i can't answer them,

because half her hand

is in my mouth, my

tongue trapped

by her thumb.

there's no one home

i forget that it's a holiday.

President's Day,

and go to the bank, the drive-

thru,

to make a deposit

and pour some change

into the machine

inside.

but it's closed.

i put my face up to the glass.

looking about, but

no one is home.

no teller

at the counter,

no serious man at his desk.

there's a certain sadness

with no one there

to answer the door

and let you in. i've lived

in places like this.

she was different that way

she was different

that way,

making breakfast for dinner.

turkey

in July,

a Christmas tree

in the corner all year,

with ornaments

and lights.

she was different that way.

waiting to get out

of the shower

to sing,

saying hello, when she

meant goodbye.

she was different that way,

so really

it was no surprise when

she leaped off

the George Washington

bridge, not

the Brooklyn Bridge,

to take her life.

the museums

there's a museum

for nearly everything under

this far

away sun.

name it

and they've place it under

glass, steadied it behind

velvet ropes,

hung on walls, or displayed

with its history

down long

marbled halls.

name it.

and there it is.

a museum for sex.

for art,

for machines,

for food, for postage stamps.

for death,

for God.

for what's come before

us,

and what will soon

be gone, 

for things not yet seen.

central park

under

this same sky. this same

half

sun,

peeking out,

waiting

for July, we sit and watch

what comes

up the path,

who passes

us by.

what woods are these

we come upon,

this not quite

green

surprise?

the lake is full of ducks,

despite

the calendar.

we've walked

far enough

in this city.

let's rest here for a while.

no rush.

all is rust

there shouldn't be,

but there is.

a light shock at illness

of someone

younger

than you.

all is rust, all of us

decay.

it's inevitable

this death

that waits, and yet

and yet

and yet,

we hope with friends,

and self

that it is delayed.

stretch pants

is there any wonder

why the world

has grown

fat?

why we've accepted

stretch

pants and tent tops

as our

daily dress.

what temptations

aren't out

there

on every block?

cake

and ice cream.

bread

and sugar.

pizza and orange

marmalade.

are you hungry again,

let's stop.

let's fill up again

and again.

it's a whole other block

before a light

beckons us in.

these pants will stretch,

hand me

another pretzel,

another soda,

another wand of cotton

candy,

another pork chop.

the scrolls

i prefer

a stamp, an envelope.

a pen

and paper.

i'd be the first to 

agree

that papyrus must stay.

we shouldn't

change

anything,

let's write it all down

and put

it in a drawer,

or tuck it safely

away in a cave.

the long slow crawl home

as the train

leaves in a slow rumble

through

the tunnel

beneath

the city, your eyes adjust

to the light

as it slithers

into Newark,

the wastelands

along the jersey pike,

Philadelphia, stacked

in bricks,

into Delaware,

across cold

blue water, 

along side all the places

you'll never

visit on foot.

nothing good seems to

grow

near the bands of

steel tracks.

abandoned warehouses,

rusted signs

of another age.

who lives these lives?

into Wilmington,

to Baltimore,

it's getting dark out,

and finally, a slow

crawl

to Washington, home

at last.

things change

it's not

the same as it used to be.

but what

is?

what holds the first blush

of love,

the first beat

of heart

after the first kiss.

the city has changed,

more grey,

more tired and dirty, more

less

of everything

important

that brought you here

in the first place.

you

pick your memories

with care now,

stepping carefully

around each corner

with eyes

wide open.

no nighthawk or chop suey

is it just me,

or does Mr. and Mrs. Hopper

seem

like a gloomy couple

up there in

their four story walk up Brooklyn

apartment.

just a feeling i get,

as we stroll around the Whitney,

taking snapshots

of his paintings.

faces looking in,

faces looking out a window

at barren landscapes,

and bland buildings.

the exhibit spans most

of his life

in five white walled rooms

full of on lookers.

dark rimmed

glasses on the tips of their noses,

studying,

examining the strokes,

questioning

the meaning of it all, or lack

thereof.

it's an education, a glimmer

of what can

be done with a talented mind

and hand

attached.

we linger, we stroll. we gaze

and chat it up

about the browns and olive

greens,

the greys, the smile less faces,

as if the apocalypse

had taken place.

we wonder where should we

should eat lunch

today.

sleep can wait

i manage to get

the two

pound slice of 14

layer chocolate

birthday cake all the way

home in

my suitcase.

still intact, wrapped

in foil.

it survives

a ten block walk from

the hotel,

a cab ride,

up a staircase

an elevator

and down an escalator,

where we wait

with our luggage,

me guarding the cake.

then onboard

the train

at Penn Station

for a three hour trip

to Union Station.

the uber ride

home is another hour.

but i make it.

it's dark, it's late. i'm tired.

but then there's

cake to eat and the milk is cold.

i open up

my suitcase, there it is.

sleep can wait.

what's your body count

i ask the cab

driver how many people does

he kill

each year speeding up

Broadway,

running red

lights to get to the next fare.

this makes him laugh

and spit

his kebob

out onto the windshield,

he starts to choke,

but manages to clear his throat

as he wipes the glass

with the sleeve of his shirt.

you funny, he says,

twisting the rear mirror

to look at me.

all of it for keeps

as the skaters

slide

and glide along the white

sheet

of the frozen

pond.

you see the glee of youth,

the speed

and agility,

the joy framed

with

appled cheeks.

but it's the old ones,

hand in hand

slowly circling,

together

that gets your attention

the grace

of age,

the beauty in love

and friendship.

hand in hand skating.

all of it for

keeps.

the best in town

there is a strange

desire

to be the best.

you read the signs

along the way,

on the back of buses

and taxis.

the best hamburger in

the city.

the tallest building

with the best view.

the oldest bar,

the best bagels

in Manhattan.

the original slice

of pizza.

the best show in town.

the best

music.

the best carriage ride

through the park.

the best pretzel in times square.

no one wants to be

second, or third

best.

why bother with that

when you

can have the best.

go it alone

keep it to yourself,

the old man

told me.

don't be so open

about your troubles.

relationships

and work.

people will define you

by what comes

out of your mouth.

be quiet, silent

if you have to.

no need to share so much.

they will only

confuse you with opinion

and their own

tales of woe.

there is wisdom

in silence.

go it alone.

vincent

troubled,

he was, brilliant too,

painting

landscapes and haystacks

in his muddled

but effective way.

but the ear thing,

cutting it off for unrequited

love, that threw

me for a loop.

i've been heart broken before,

but not like that.

i never once thought

to grab a knife

and hack something off.

i just moved on,

got my rolodex out

and started

calling, starting with

the A's first.

end of life insurance

at least ten times

a day

someone calls me to ask

if i'd like

end of life insurance.

i look out the window

to see if anyone is in the trees,

spying on me.

how do they know these things?

but they are very nice,

maybe Indian,

or from Pakistan,

somewhere

in a foreign land.

they verify my age,

my height and weight,

do i smoke,

or have any heart disease,

diabetes,

cancer or any disabilities.

what medications do i take.

do i live in a nursing home,

do i make my

own decisions about

health, etc.

do i have a beneficiary,

and finally, at last,

do i have a valid credit

card, or a checking

account number

and do i want to be

cremated or buried,

to which i reply,

half and half, which is when

they hang up.

turning over the pillow

i see the imprint

of her face

on my pillow.

lipstick, mascara,

blush,

and a variety of other

types

of make up.

it's the exact image

of her face,

eyes, lips,

cheeks, etc.,

but pressed against

my white pillow case.

quickly

i turn it over to the clean

side and wonder 

what she really

looks like.

how long is jello good for

i look

at the graveyard

in the fridge.

half dishes of what not.

things i cooked

but can't remember

what they are.

meat, vegetables.

a failed

attempt at chicken soup.

some are covered

in foil, or plastic but

the whole place

looks like the side

of mt. everest.

littered with bodies.

how long

is jello good for?

the kind with fruit

cocktail

inside?

a little dust up with Milagro

i tell the maid

that i'll be out of town for

a week.

this angers her.

she writes that she has a strict

schedule

to keep,

that i can't just move

people around

willy nilly.

she didn't use the phrase

willy nilly,

i added that on.

you were sick last month,

she goes on

to say.

and i had to rearrange my

schedule for you.

i have you down in my

book

for the 15th.

but the house will be locked

up,

i tell her.

i won't be here.

aiyee caramba, she says.

to which i reply.

see you in four weeks.

a woman jumping out of a cake, please

what would you like

for your birthday, she asks me,

hoping i'll say nothing,

that as usual i'll pretend

that i want to ignore 

that yearly marking stone.

let me think, i tell her,

which makes her jaw drop

a look of worry

comes over her face.

hmmm.

i think i'd like a woman

to jump out of a cake

for me.

someone like Marilyn

Monroe, in a red bikini,

but a chocolate

cake, not vanilla.

knitting is the devil's workshop

i don't trust women

who knit,

or cross stitch, who sit

all day

in a chair with balls of yarn,

or stitching

a meme

on a round thingamajig

like

must love dogs.

women have

too much time to think

when they're knitting,

sitting around all

day alone or with

a few friends.

it can only be bad for you,

as they add up all

your faults and mistakes.

they have too much time

to figure you out,

and make a plan as to

what to do with you.

gone fishing

i tack up

the sign on the front door

that reads,

gone fishing,

will return in a week.

leave all

packages around back.

but i'm not

going fishing, in fact

i haven't fished

since i discovered

that Safeway sells fish.

you can get it

in the back of the store

on ice.

Jimmy, the fish monger

will wrap you up

a slab of catfish,

or turbo

in brown paper.

no need to fish anymore,

but maybe

i can get some in new york

while i'm up there

if i'm not stuffed with

hot pastrami

from Katz's deli.

what's up with pigeons?

what is it

with pigeons, too smug

for their

own good,

fat and bold,

dressed

in their grey jackets

with flecks

of colors.

always walking about,

strutting,

if you want the truth,

rarely

flying.

look at me, they say

to the other birds.

i'm walking

here.

i'm not scared of anything.

i'm a pigeon.

the bread

they toss around

is mine.

mr. fancy pants

he had

money, houses, cars,

he had

the women

flown

in

on his jet.

he had

the pool in the backyard.

he had

a sunken tub,

a vacation

home

in the south of France.

he had fancy

clothes,

expensive shoes,

fancy pants.

he had

a barber, a masseuse,

an investment

plan.

a gardener

who doubled as

a chef.

he had a Rolex on his wrist,

and

a diamond in his ear,

but he never had

a wallet, or a dollar

in his pocket

when you went out

for coffee,

or a beer.

the chaff and wheat

in an effort

to spring clean.

i go through a few hundred

old poetic

entries, though

many are hardly poems,

and i sift through

the emotional

debris, the dark

and vindictive ones.

i permanently delete

the worst

of them,

swinging the sickle

in wide

long swings 

to separate the chaff

from the wheat.

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.