asking for a raise

the keeper

of my father's flame, his

part time

assistant slash nurse

wants a raise

and a severance package

after

the flame goes out.

she hands him a pill

each day.

trims his

hair, cuts his nails,

and sorts through his mail.

not much else.

occasionally

she'll help pick him up

off the floor

when he falls.

she tells me, he's cranky.

he's hard

to deal with.

he won't do what he's told.

i tell her, don't quit,

just yet.

the finish line is in sight,

he only has

a few more laps to go.

i offer her fifty dollars

more to stay on,

doing what little she

does, but no

severance pay, that's a giant

cup of crazy.

she says okay.

the same old song again

once

the sound came into

our ears

from a transistor radio

of music we liked, we ran

to the store

with money.

we started with

vinyl

records.

a stack of wax.

long play,

and forty-fives.

then came the bulky eight

tracks, like

thick books.

then cassettes, smaller

versions,

then cd's, those silver

discs

that stack neatly in a

drawer,

and at last came Spotify,

and you tube,

sirius xm, apple play,

i tunes,

amazon music

pandora and all the rest.

i've duplicated 

the same songs

and artists

in each and every venue

for decades.

what possible thing

can they take our

money with

next?

all her flying monkeys

i haven't heard

a peep

in ages, from all those

flying monkeys.

they were so good at first

with

letting me know the scoop

on our

mutual

person of interst.

they stopped calling,

texting,

dropping by with little

tid bits of info,

of gossip and half lies.

they've moved

on to other trees,

i guess, swinging madly

in their monkey ways,

choosing sides.

a path of flowers

i once,

in a romantic gesture,

laid down a path of flowers

from the front

door

up the stairs

and into the bedroom,

where i put

a dozen

red roses on the bed,

and when

she came home

from work,

she yelled, who made

this mess,

what happened.

didn't you see all these

flowers

on the floor.

someone is going to slip

and break their neck.

clean this up,

i'm tired. i need some rest.

turn the page

no memory

for dates, for anniversaries

or birthdays.

no marks

on the calendar

delineating some important

event

past or present.

no reminders

of what

occurred, good or bad.

today is a new

day.

let's celebrate

the now, our life, our

health, our blessings,

and move on from

all that.

another day goes by

my father

bruises like a piece of fruit

past

its prime.

he browns,

and yellows as

the nurse peels the raw

skin away

from his knees

and arm.

with cotton balls

they dab hydrogen

peroxide on

his forehead

where he's struck

the table.

he falls often. 

but they clean him up,

bandage him.

get him upright,

and another day goes by.

everything seemed fine

i was barely tall enough

to look

over the sill

of the window, where

in the yard

my great grandmother,

Lena,

who never spoke

a word of English,

was snapping

a chicken's neck.

two chickens.

she sat outside on her

stool and plucked

the feathers,

while aunts and uncles

danced and drank

red wine.

there was music.

there was laughter.

everything seemed

so strangely fine.

another shot of courage

i can't dance

like nobody's watching.

it's not me.

i'm not one to throw

my arms

and legs about trying

to keep a beat.

i need

more courage, more

tequila,

more salt and lime,

another

shot. and then,

just maybe then,

i'll be Fred Astaire

dancing

down the street.

something is missing

something is missing.

it's just a feeling,

but it's gone.

i can't

put my finger on

exactly what it is,

but something

is lost.

i put it somewhere,

is it beneath

that pile of papers,

in a drawer?

maybe i left it in the car

or truck.

did i leave it

at work? on the bus,

the train,

or in a restaurant

in New York.

something is missing,

but i don't know what it is.

are you going to eat that?

there used to be a bully

in the seventh grade who would go

around

poking his wet finger into

everyone's dessert

that sat on our tray.

he'd lick his finger, then say,

are you going to eat that.

i ran into him

the other day

at the bank, he was pouring

pennies

into the change machine,

and was the size of a human

Hindenburg.

he remembered me, 

and waved.

i said, hey.

over educated

sometimes

too much education can hold

us back,

though i've never

had that problem,

having

spent six formative

years

at a community college,

but my friend

Albert, for example,

who has more degrees than

a thermometer,

and is the leading

scientist on fusion and fission

development,

has been unemployed

for three years,

because we've farmed out

all our intelligent data

to China,

although he's up for a job

at Wal-Mart

as a greeter.

sticking my fingers in my ears

i can't keep a secret,

so please,

don't tell me anything

of a sensitive nature,

then swear

me not to tell.

i have the will power

of a baby

when it comes to secrets.

my mother was

the same way.

it's in my genes, so please.

keep it to yourself

unless you want the whole

world know

everything.

can you untie me now?

after about

three

or four hours of making love.

we finally

finish.

i think i've lost about five

or six pounds

in the melee,

and she's

out of breath, her

hair in a tangle.

her face

flushed red.

whew.

i tell her.

that was not bad.

she laughs, and says,

yeah, i guess

it was okay.

can you untie me now,

before you

leave?

talking behind my back

i don't like

the way the monkeys

and gorillas

are staring back at me

from behind 

their barred cages.

i feel like they're judging

me.

talking about me

behind my back

when i walk

away with my pretzel

and soda.

it's just a vibe i get.

something about

their gaze,

their body language,

that bugs me.

i won't be able to sleep

because of it.

what others think

i steer

clear of debate, discussion

of just

about everything.

i have no need

or desire to prove

someone right or wrong.

no longer

concerned

about

what other's think of me

and my beliefs.

you have yours,

and i'll have mine.

it's a good feeling,

to not care,

to let go of your pride,

and be free.

it's taken some time.

the lack of education

mistakes

were made along the way.

t's weren't crossed,

i's went

undotted.

misspellings, and bad

grammar.

i blame it all on 

our educational

system.

the lack

of true teaching.

when i look at my

son's handwriting

at the age of thirty

five,

it looks chicken scratch

in ink

across the envelope

he addressed.

what he says inside,

is a mystery.

hieroglyphics

from another era.

i'm here to help you

my therapist

calls me on my phone,

my landline

of all places,

i don't remember

giving her that number.

only my

mother

and telemarketers call

me on that number.

yo,

i say, when i hear her

voice.

she's crying. hey, hey,

what's wrong?

settle down, tell me what's

going on.

i just broke up with my

boyfriend, she tells me.

i caught him lying and cheating,

he's been gaslighting

me for months.

he was so nice in the beginning,

flowers

and chocolates, treating me

to dinners,

and movies, the theater,

he even took me to see Cher

one week,

and Celine Dion

the next week. what man does

that?

he love bombed me for so long,

but now nothing.

he purposely leaves the seat

up every day

and rarely shaves,

so that now i have a red rash

all over my face.

and, get this,

i found a pair of woman's

underwear in my bed, and

they weren't mine.

i'm so depressed.

i need to borrow some of the books

you read when

you were going through it

with an evil person.

especially that one, Psychopath Free.

sure, sure, i tell her.

come on by

this weekend and i'll wheel

them out of the shed

in the wheel barrow.

bring your truck and i'll load

them on for you.

i've got everything from sociopaths,

narcissists, covert and overt,

borderlines, anorexia,

suicidal tendencies, bipolars

and all the other toxic

personality disorders, you name

it and i've dated one or the other

at some point.

lots to peruse.

thanks, she says. you're the best

patient i've ever had.

i've learned so much from you.

hey, no problem,

i'm here to help you.

the chef's salad

she tells me how her

boyfriend cheated on her,

how her

cat died,

how her boss

keeps

asking her out.

how the man is keeping

her down

because she's a woman

by birth.

it's not fair she says.

it's a man's world, always

has been and always

will be.

i think i may have 

fibromyalgia too, and

late menopause.

i think i'll have the chef's

salad, i tell her,

dressing on the side,

in an effort 

to change the subject.

pickle ball blues

the idea

of playing a sport

named

after a shrunken

cucumber

soaked

in vinegar and brine,

depresses me.

give me the wide

open

fields of my youth,

with goal

posts,

the hard

black top

with rims and chain

nets.

give me the ball

and glove

on a sunny day,

the dirt paths to the bases.

pickle ball,

dear lord, forgive me,

but has

it come to that.

fame and fortune

careful

where you walk with fame

and fortune.

it's thin ice.

so hard

to stay on top,

it begins

to crack

the moment you take

a step

into the light

and cross.

deep discussions

a few friends

like deep philosophical

discussions.

they talk

of war and peace,

the ecology,

life and death,

the many twists and turns

of love,

what love is,

or isn't.

Socrates might come up.

Aristotle,

or Jung,

but with some friends,

the deepest you might so is,

i love those shoes,

where can i

get a pair?

Nordstrom?

a reason to cry

is there

a worse tragedy than

the batteries

of the remote

control

dying?

and you've searched

the house for more,

but none exist.

yes, of course

there are worse

things that can happen,

but in the moment,

i do a lot

of crying.

object dissonance

some collect and store,

save

everything,

mementos from every

phase of their

life.

they stack boxes

and crates, bins,

in the attic, in basement,

on every floor.

each

full of memories.

but my disorder

is different,

i purge until the past

no longer

exists. i prefer

to start from scratch

and start over.

sparrows

nice to have

a worry free day,

a night

without tossing 

and turning,

a week of peace.

you are the sparrow

in the tree

unconcerned

about

it's nest, or what

to eat.

you're taken care

of too

you've come to

believe.

time running out

she sends

me a picture of her wrist,

on

it is a slender

watch.

an old fashioned watch.

small

and delicate,

sliver,

a time piece

you might imagine

your grandmother

would wear.

to me it's meaningless,

but to her

it must mean something,

or why

send it?

is time running out?

the corner store

one day

it's a Chinese restaurant,

the day

before

it was a yoga studio.

last year,

a barber with

a striped pole

cut hair there.

it's the rent, people

say walking

by,

no parking either.

but maybe this will

stick,

Hunan East.

let's go in.

i'm hungry, but wait,

there's no tables,

there's

no where to sit

in there.

young love

we had

a camera with film

that we took

everywhere,

to the city,

to the beach.

young love.

we waited

a week for the drug

store to develop

the pictures.

we'd get a double

shot of each.

one for

you,

one set for me.

i still have mine, 

do you?

another venue

never good

at cards

or dice, or the roulette

wheel,

never an

expert at gin rummy

or poker.

no,

i have done

most of my gambling

in another

venue

of life,

with little luck

there as well.

without compromise

you have your deserted island

and i have

mine.

we all need a place

to go to

without

others.

it's not that you don't care,

or love,

or want

companionship, you just

need time

alone

to be who you are

without compromise.

a swipe of marmalade

i stare

at the milk carton

on the table,

turning it around to the picture

of the kid

that's been missing

for years.

it's me.

i've been gone since

nineteen-sixty three.

maybe i should call

someone

and tell them that i'm here,

i'm okay.

i'm sitting at this table,

eating bacon

and scrambled eggs,

coffee

and toast with

a swipe of marmalade.

the reprimand

when we want

to get our

point across, we tend to

yell,

or scream.

but the most serious

of all

reprimands come

not loudly,

but in a calm serious

whisper.

then you know

exactly

where you stand,

and what she means.

the dislocated finger

she tripped

coming

down the stairs in her

come hither

high heels, wearing

a black teddy

from Trousseau's

in Georgetown.

tonight was supposed

to be the night

after nine months

of dating. but

she dislocated her finger

on the rail.

game over.

i ran her over to G.W.

emergency

room,

where the doctor

interrogated me,

asking

if i'd ever hit my girlfriend

or pushed her

down the stairs.

no, i said.

but he didn't believe me,

and gave

me a long cold

stare.

maybe next year.

ten is closing time

it's a loud

bar,

dark and dingy,

old tables

and chairs with

men in ball caps

screaming at the telly.

there's six of them,

one for each

bend of a wall.

for a moment

they seem to care

as one

team

or another scores.

a hand

slams the bar,

another cheers.

the beer flows.

the waitresses in t-shirts

reading

Flannigan's

are weary,

they want to go home.

there's

a crab cake special

on the board,

with slaw

and fries.

dessert is an apple

crumb pie

with a scoop of vanilla

on the side.

ten is closing time.

soothing the pain

some,

not all of course.

but

some fall into crafts

and arts

as they

get older.

gluing sticks together,

welding

metal,

string things,

taking paint and swirling

it in concentric

circles

taking out their

angst

on life with acrylics

or oil.

each to his or her

own way

of calming oneself

soothing

the pain of passing

time.

limited edition

it's a limited

edition.

buy now, only ten left,

the clock is ticking.

operators

are standing by,

pay by

card or check.

three easy

payments 

of forty-nine

ninety-nine.

it's all going fast,

don't be left

out.

don't be the only

person on your block

without one.

exclusively for you,

limited edition.

buy now.

don't get caught

with your drawers down.

don't be a fool.

a fake bowl of fruit

as a kid

i often wondered why

my friend's mother

had a fake

bowl of fruit

on the table.

why there was plastic

on the furniture.

she was always

in a dress with

her hair done,

her nails too. 

always pleasant,

and cheerful, but

she wasn't fooling me

even at that age,

i knew she was up

to something.

no one is that happy

without wine,

and a pill or two.

on the prowl

i'm more

cloak than i am dagger.

on cat's

feet i prowl

the shadows,

searching for clues.

my fingers

at the keyboard,

my eyes

searching in closets

for all the things

that you do.

the last supper in blue

the blue

Warhol repetition in dark

blue

of the last supper,

with Judas

waiting

for Christ's ear,

i frame

then hang

in a place

where it's nearly always

in view.

betrayal

always seems to remind

me of you.

three years later

we pick up

where we left off, 

three years

gone by

the wayside.

friendships

are like that.

a few bumps in the road,

potholes

and detours,

storms,

and then,

the road and weather

clear,

we go forward again,

with pedal to the metal.

somehow

it all works out.

the steak house blues

it's a slab

of meat,

12 ounces

of medium rare,

the center pink.

ninety-five dollars on

a white

plate.

a potato is fifteen dollars.

lettuce ten.

bread no where to be seen.

i'm surprised they don't

charge for

the ice in your drink,

for salt

and pepper,

and for the use of their cutlery. 

two hundred 

dollars later,

after cold coffee

with forgotten cream,

still hungry,

you shake your head

and leave,

hoping

Chipotles is still open.

the feather bed

there are feathers

that

can't let go.

you find them stuck

to your shoe,

your shirt

and sweater, your coat.

white feathers

from some

pillow or bed you slept on.

they follow

you, cling to you

wherever you go.

are they

with you too?

attic full of dreams

as she ages,

she keeps

her dreams in the attic,

ticket stubs

and cards,

photos, promises

never kept,

all of it tucked

away

in the shadows,

under the dust

and mold

that gathers on

the boxes, the bins,

dried flowers.

it's lonely up there,

as it was 

when they were down

the long flight of stairs,

love kept hidden,

now all of it fading

cruelly 

with each lonely year.

shabby chic designs

i warn her,

anything left behind will

be in a box

for one week

before i take it to a shop

up the street,

a second hand store

called

shabby

chic designs.

I've been supplying

them for years,

with high heels,

and sweaters,

bracelets and watches,

undergarments, some

cotton,

some sheer. the occasional

party dress left

behind.

what i forget

as i walk in

this weather,

into this cold wind 

circling

my wrists, my neck,

it takes me back

to a different time.

it causes me

to remember,

ruefully, what

i used to forget.

the weeds are winning

oh, i should.

i really should get out there.

out into the back

yard

and dig, or trowel,

or rake,

or whatever it is that

the neighbor

does

to make his yard

look wonderful.

in mine,

the weeds are winning,

the vines

grip the fence

with a ferocity not unlike

the lawyer

my ex wife had

when squeezing me

for alimony.

i should get out there

with the clippers,

a sharp knife. plant

some seeds of some kind.

spring is at my

throat again. oh my.

chaos and drama

there

is the fix, the dopamine

surge

in your veins,

eliciting

joy

to your supple

brain.

chaos

and drama, 

all a

temporary jolt,

making

life out to be fun,

to be sane.

eye candy

as it is

with most candy,

your teeth

will pay a price,

no difference

is it with eye candy,

nutrition less

and hard,

pity the fool

who takes

a bite.

no difference in that house

despite

the peeling paint, shards

of white papyrus

shedding

from age and wind,

with

the chain link

fence surrounding

the dirt lot,

where

a dog is tied

to an oak tree. it's

still a home

with shutters half hinged,

painted

a hopeful

color, let's call it

green,

but it's no less a house

than the one

not far

up the street, with

stately

columns and a gated

drive.

a man to buzz you in.

acres of mowed grass

stretche

as far as the eye can see.

but

they're the same

inside, perhaps

a man and wife, two

people within,

whether it's love or hate

that's there, a struggle

or bliss,

well for that you have

to ring the bell,

visit and go in.

infatuation

i try so hard

to pretend that i don't like you.

tamping

down

my desire, my longing

to hold you

in my arms

and smother you with kisses.

i try to

lessen my smiles,

my touching of your arm,

but you see

right through me,

we've only known each

other an hour,

but off go

all the alarms.

were we happy back then

were we happy then?

the pictures

appear

so.

everyone smiling,

holding

the baby.

the house warm

and decorated.

but were we happy?

truly happy

and content.

the table was full 

of a holiday meal.

music was on, i presume.

a tree in

the corner, lights strung

about.

stockings

hung on the mantle.

yes. it looks real,

it all looks good, but

were we happy

despite so many secrets

still

unlearned.

the daily news

you hear

the snickering as

people

look at you reading the paper

sitting outside.

who reads

the paper anymore?

but i ignore

them.

i drink my coffee

and turn

the pages, slowly

perusing

yesterdays news.

sports and weather,

obituaries.

i'm already

a day behind, but

so what.

nothing really changes.

it's all

the same news

whether it's twenty

twenty-three

or nineteen sixty-nine.

people live.

people die.

letting the cat out

when i let the cat

out

i have no idea if she'll come

back.

she looks at me

and shrugs,

then off she goes,

doing whatever

cats do

when out and about.

but the dog

is a different story.

he needs

the leash, he needs

to be talked to,

he needs love and attention,

direction.

being told to stop barking

and what not

to eat.

he needs treats.

he needs me.

the cat, not so much.

making stupidity legal

i want  a drug

that 

i set on fire until it smolders

and then

i hold it deep

into my once pink lungs

before coughing

it out.

the drug will make me

sleepy,

tired and paranoid,

it will turn

my eyes red,

and make me

unusually hungry for bad

food.

i want a drug that will

rob me of ambition

make me a danger

behind the wheel of

a car.

i want the smoke imbedded

in my skin,

my clothes,

my nails gone yellow.

i want to laugh for no reason.

act stupid.

i want a drug like

that,

a plant i can roll

in a paper sleeve, 

or in a water

filled pipe, then toked.

i want a drug that's

FDA approved.

dumbing down

we are all dumb

from time

to time.

half asleep at the wheel.

forgetful,

careless.

burning toast or

pouring white instead

of red wine.

we lose things.

we say things we don't

really mean.

we're occasionally

aloof

and unkind. 

laughing at the wrong

time.

there are stressful

mornings when we can't

solve the word

on wordle until

the last line.

transactional love

it was a transactional relationship.

give and take,

if you will.

do this for me

and maybe i'll return

the favor.

quite often,

sex was the carrot she dangled

in front of me.

look the other way

and when i cheat

and lie

and betray.

say nothing and be a good

boy, you'll be rewarded

by me, all in good time.

coffee first

do we need purpose

in our

lives,

reasons to be,

a mission statement 

of sort,

something

to keep us on course

and give us legacy,

or should we

wander

carefree, knowing

that at some point

the sun will

burn out and that will

be the end

of you and me?

too early to think too

hard on this.

coffee first.

come soon

is there

a better way to spend

the evening

then in

a tub full of hot water

with a book

worth

reading.

a glass of wine

on the ledge.

music

playing in the other

room.

the week done.

the work finished.

i'd never thought i'd

find

a simple joy like this.

and by the way

i've left the door

unlocked,

come soon.

the red wagon

it was just

a red wagon.

a carrier of sorts,

pulling

my papers up

the hill to Winthrop

Street and beyond,

just a wagon with

wobbly wheels,

and rusted bones.

i'd set my dog inside

when he got

tired,

pulling her along,

until the route was finished.

it was just a red wagon,

but so much more.

so much more.

i tend to miss it.

the opposite of you

i can live

without you perfectly fine.

i can sleep,

eat, relax.

i can read in peace

without

you asking questions,

like why.

i can write

and use up all the hot

water.

i can move on with

my life

without you.

find someone new.

someone with a heart,

compassion

and honesty,

someone

the opposite of you.

strangers are getting stranger

strangers

are getting stranger

by the day.

they look into your

eyes, approaching

with something odd

to say.

the man on the corner

holding a sign,

the woman

with a baby walking

towards you,

the guy in a car

going the wrong way.

the grocery clerk,

the girl

at the far end

of the bar

with a lazy eye.

everyone

has a look about them,

strangers are getting

stranger

every day.

guilty on all counts

once you lie,

it's hard to get out from under it.

no matter

the good you do

from then

on out, it's the lie

that people remember.

the deception.

the life

of gaslighting

and manipulation.

maybe God will forgive

you,

but most people won't.

you'll be forever guilty

on all counts.

advice from the tax lady

the tax lady,

who i've known

for twenty years,

tells me, i've been meaning

to call you,

but you owe so

much this year, i didn't know

what to say,

but your returns are ready,

do you want to know

how much?

i can hear one or two

of her cats on the counter,

purring,

the sound of the door

to her cape cod

house,

the bell above

ringing.

sure, i say. why not.

then she gives me the bad news.

state first,

then federal.

you need to stop making

so much money,

she says in a whisper,

or take more under the table.

but you didn't hear

that from me. okay?

observing

i'd rather blend in.

no red

for me,

no gold, or bronzed

green.

layer me in

brown,

or grey, black.

i want to disappear

into the background

so that i can

observe and watch,

take notes,

be one

of many trees.

keeping Sylvia alive

at some point,

i'll pick up the book,

the Red Comet, and begin

again

where i left off

last year.

i'm waiting for spring

to arrive

when i can sit

in the sun on the patio,

outside.

i almost don't want

to finish it

and have her

disappear,

and die.

i want to keep her alive

as long

as i can, i'm not sure,

exactly why.

off into the woods you go

it's the unexplainable,

how you find

things,

know things that were

once unknown.

a gut feeling

controls you and off

you go

into the woods

towards finding all

that you need to know.

pound and penny wise

the rainy day

money slips away,

out

of your hand

down

the drain.

but that's what it's there

for.

for spending on

things you

need. emergencies,

so back to work you

go.

intent on filling

the jar once more.

pound and penny wise.

you'll be, 

knowing that the rain 

will come again

before long.

the room with a view

if life

could be just like

life

in a five-star hotel.

someone to greet you

by name

as you come through the door.

a person

taking your bags,

asking how

your day was,

delighted

to show you to your room

where the enormous

bed awaits you.

with a hotel mattress

and hotel sheets,

too many pillows to count.

and there in closet

are fresh towels

daily, extras

of everything,

and packaged soap,

unused.

the bar stocked with

favorites.

the window with a view.

a full menu,

just dial 9 and all of it

will come

to your room.

as we walk arm in arm

it's still

there, the lake, the woods,

the full trees

along

poets walk

in central park, the green

benches with

bronzed memories

of those

who came before us,

now gone.

the horse pulled

carriages.

i prefer winter though,

with snow

on the ground,

the skaters

on the pond.

roasted chestnuts 

in the cold air

as we walk, arm in arm.

favorites

not everything,

or everyone ages well.

some movies

that you loved 

are not longer on your list

of best seen.

best friends

when young

have suddenly fallen

to a number

in between.

we lose our taste for

certain foods,

certain sweets.

music and clothes too

fall by

the wayside.

what or who was good

for you back then,

is no longer what you 

want or need.

we laugh at the chickens

being city

folk, we slow down and point

at the cows

in the field.

horses.

we laugh

at the chickens

in the far yard,

fat and white,

and noisy,

on the other side

of the pig trough,

there's a goat off in the distance

doing whatever

goats do,

although we can't think

of what that might

be.

there's a man

on the wide porch, with

his hat off, wiping

his red brow,

staring at us,

so we wave.

he waves back, then we

move on.

in one direction or other

it's all moving parts,

the blood

and brain,

decisions that we make.

the car.

the oil,

the gas running

through its

veins.

the love between us,

or lack

thereof.

everything is moving,

changing,

nothing

is forever.

we're all moving parts

heading

in one direction

or another.

the universal local

the small

town, or enormous city

you choose

to live in

are all the same.

the local

is universal, people

don't

change.

we are made from

the same

cloth,

despite borders

and language.

each

must rise in the morning

and lie

down at

night.

food and shelter,

love, all

found at an immeasurable

cost. 

she confides in me

at eighty-two,

she whispers to me

while holding

the ladder,

in a side glance, in a

conspiratorial 

way,

as her husband

turns another screw

in the wall,

i'll never get married

again.

i laugh.

the man adjusts

his hearing and says,

what?

she says, nothing dear,

nothing.

i think one screw

in the wall

will be enough.

my favorite bank teller

we're friends now.

the teller at the bank,

Kamil.

i tell him that i like his new

turban.

a raspberry color.

he tells me

that i look like i've lost

weight.

we're pals now,

but it wasn't always that

way.

in the beginning he wanted

two id's

to cash a check,

but now,

since we're friends, he

cashes it

in a breeze.

under the weather

i feel

the weather in my bones,

my nose

tells me

that it's raining, with

a possible

chance of snow.

the knee,

says clouds,

the elbow wind.

my feet

call for socks before

i go out

again.

i am a barometer,

a human

form of doppler

radar.

no need to watch the news.

i already

know what coat

to wear,

or when to grab

an umbrella.

Elise, my personal stalker

my personal stalker,

an old

woman

up north, won't leave me

alone.

she has countless

phones,

pretends to be someone

else.

someone i've never known.

i tell her to go away,

but she plots

and plans

more ways to contact

me.

by text,

or letter, or telegram.

she's in the bushes at

night,

she's in a darkened car

with

dimmed headlights,

she reads

and examines every word

i write.

she's harmless in her

crazy ways,

harassment light,

but still i check the door

twice

to see that it's locked

before i go 

up the stairs to dreamland.

kings and queens

the people

who generally think they're

the smartest

person in

the room,

are usually not.

you see right through them.

fooling

the world

with

degrees

and money,

clothes and eye liner.

muscled men

with rolled up sleeves.

these are

the devious souls you

run from.

they think of everyone

as a pawn,

then they're

the queen or king.

the Cosori Air Fryer recall

will i miss her?

of course i will.

she was stunning.

i can still feel the curves

of her on my hand.

she was gentle,

and quiet.

warm at times while

at other times

quite hot,

i could almost see and smell

the smoke

that came out of her

from blocked vents

in the back. i can

hear the soft

hum of her voice.

i knew her buttons,

her drawer. how easy

it was to slide

in and out.

she was sexy.

blue eyed and dressed

in white and black.

my Italian girl.

Isabella.

you will be missed my

dear,

no matter who they replace

you with

once i submit the return

form.

a card from Buford

i'm in a relationship

with my

automotive

garage.

one mechanic in particular

keeps

sending me

Christmas cards,

and e mails, telling

me about

all weather tires,

and oil changes.

He encloses coupons.

We've missed you,

he says,

come on in and we'll

rotate your tires,

top off your fluids,

check your transmission

and brakes.

then he signs the card

at the bottom,

in his own hand

with a flourish.

Buford.

couldn't keep my mouth shut

i told her

mother everything that

was going on.

i ratted

her daughter out,

gave her

attentive mother

all the dirty gossip,

the truth,

the lies,

the whole shebang.

and what did she do?

she told everyone

what i told her.

that was the last holiday

i was ever

invited over, and

boy did i miss her father's

deviled eggs

come Easter.

the library book

the book

is on the shelf, 

a plastic cover,

like they used to do,

holds it together.

it's been there

since nineteen-seventy five.

i've perused it

many times.

May second,

the smudge of blue

ink says.

quotes by

Oscar Wilde,

and assorted poems

and plays.

it's a library book

i checked out,

and never returned.

it's way overdue.

so many pages, coffee

stained,

with cigarette burns.

maybe tomorrow i'll

return it.

maybe.

though i'm quite finished

with it yet.

the courthouse steps

though

the hearts may be warm,

the feet

are cold,

you see the young people

on the steps

of the courthouse,

papers in hand,

a witness in tow.

a ring for each

in a felt box.

they say little, but

smile,

and give each other

kisses,

small pecks on

the lips or cheeks,

another world

awaits them as they think,

should we stay,

should we go.

the open fire

you can lose

yourself in an open fire,

the wood

burning,

the flames,

the smoke and

ash

rising into

the night sky.

you can stare

and listen for hours

at a fire.

mesmerized,

kept warm,

remembering

all history that came

before you.

thanks for stopping by

nice of you to stop by.

to ring

the bell,

and visit.

so kind of you,

to

go out of your way

to see me.

let's talk,

let's sit out in the yard

and reminisce,

have drinks

and food.

let's remember this

day,

put a star beside

it, save

it for a rainy day,

and it's all because 

of you.

the summer wind

i'm still,

quiet, unmoving when

i hear

that song.

listening to each word,

each string

and

percussion, as if for

the very first

time.

it takes me back.

reminds

me

that there is good

in the world.

there is love.

there is hope.

as i believed when

i was young

and still do.

the well wrapped gift

i like a well

wrapped

gift. the bright paper,

the ribbons and bows.

the perfectly

taped and snipped

edges,

the even folds.

such gifts, remind me

of you.

with the inside,

always made of gold.

it's the phone, of course

it's our

phones of course.

it's

this little box that will

end

civilization

as we know it.

no longer do we think,

or read,

or ponder

answers, we click.

we follow,

we like

and praise, or give

thumbs up,

thumbs down,

we have become

tyrants

without thought,

staring numbly 

into the box,

we are 

Caesars

without a brain.

the cedar drawers

too early

to start spring cleaning, but

i get a jump

on it

by taking out the broom

and set it

in the kitchen.

i need more

paper towels,

and some sort of multi-purpose

spray

for wiping

things down.

trash bags are on my

list too.

i need to fold up

my dozens of black

sweaters and place

them in

the cedar drawers like

former wives

used to do.

stray cats and dogs

rare

to see a stray dog these days,

or cat,

roaming

the streets.

no leash, no collar.

just let out

to wander

and forage, letting them

be the animals

that they are.

domesticated, now,

vaccinated

and trained,

they look

sad in the window,

behind the glass

door.

we called her mother

her name was Elaine,

but

we called

her mother in high school,

because, well,

she 

was on top of us, like

our mother.

she'd call you

out for talking English.

in French class.

tell you

to stop chewing gum.

suggest that you

lack manners,

or point out that your

shoes are untied,

but now,

fifty years later, she's

on social media,

reporting who's sick,

who's in the news,

who died.

she's still on us,

watching carefully

with those eagle eyes.

the red pencil sharpener

i haven't sharpened

a pencil,

the point of a number two,

since last year around this same

time.

tax time.

the little

plastic sharpener,

red, so

that i wouldn't lose it

is gone.

hidden beneath

sheafs of paper and

other assorted

tax related items that

i store in a shoe

box.

oh my, the white out

is dried

out too, and the calculator

is out of

paper.

beyond our understanding

when

i see the monkeys in the zoo

trapped in their

cages,

swinging

from tree to tree,

screaming

as they do,

wide eyed

and crazed by things

beyond our

understanding, i must say

that i think

of you.

a good snow

we need a good snow,

she says

longingly

starring out the window

at the birds

in the budding tree.

it's still February.

a few feet

would be nice,

wouldn't it?

it would i tell her.

we could build a fire.

we could

shovel and sled,

and dig our way out,

hike

up the block

deep into the woods

until we're exhausted.

we could

have a snowball fight.

a good snow

would be nice.

the weekend marriage

it was nineteen sixty-nine,

and we tried

to check into a motel at the beach

but the woman

wanted to

see our marriage license.

you don't even

have rings, she said

from behind the counter

of the Capri Motel

on Pacific Avenue.

nice try.

we were eighteen.

so we went out and bought rings

at a five

and dime

and put them on,

we tied some tin cans

to the back of the car,

soaped up

the windows

with the words

Just Married.

then we tried the next motel

up the street.

it worked this time.

where's the latch?

i used

to work on my car.

wash and wax,

vacuum it out.

give it new plugs,

a new

oil pump,

water pump, change

the shocks,

the oil.

filters.

set the points.

all on a Saturday under

the big oak

tree, sipping on a cold

beer

with the radio on.

and now,

i'm not sure where

the latch is

to raise the hood.

we endure

as i speak

only one toilet out of four,

seems

to leak.

not bad.

it's been worse.

it's not really

a leak,

but a gasket gone

awry,

its lifetime

of enduring flushes

have ended

apparently

and now the tank has

to keep

refilling itself.

almost on the hour.

i'm used to it though.

i'm used to many things

that used to annoy

me.

part

of the aging process,

i guess.

we endure.

why can't we be friends?

i confuse

the president of the condo board

by waving

to her,

and saying hello.

no one

says hello to her.

most people hate her.

her and

her witchy friends

with their

clipboards

and cameras. theirs list

of things to condemn.

she wants my red door

black.

how dare i paint it without

an approval.

i wave again.

she doesn't wave back.

but snarls.

why can't we be friends?

the senior app

i make

a billion on my new invention.

the senior citizen app.

it finds

your glasses

when they're lost,

or on your head.

tells you what route to take

when walking.

where the steps are.

the steep inclines,

places where you might slip.

it informs you

of sales.

where bread is half price.

eggs.

and prune juice.

freshly squeezed.

it beeps when the milk

goes bad.

it counts your pills,

reads

before you go to sleep.

it tells you what day

it is,

what time.

it turns on the lights

when you get up to pee

for the third time

that night.

it rings with a new message

nearly every other day,

telling you which old friend

has died.

the long haul

as it is with

water

in the pot, there's no

use

in standing there,

watching,

waiting for it to boil.

so it is with

the market.

don't watch.

it's not for the weak,

or poor.

it's for

the long haul.

at least that's what

they tell us.

the orange tree

maybe an orange

tree

will change things.

the bright

globes

of fruit in the yard.

the blossom

of it all.

the color, the anticipation.

from seed

to sprout to tree,

watching

it grow and grow,

all of it, because

of me.

a shoe shine

i feel bad for the shoe shine

man

at the train station.

everyone

is wearing

tennis shoes, or felt loafers,

sandals.

he's used the same

tin of polish 

for six years.

who needs a shine now

a days?

who sits there in his wing

tips,

and reads the paper,

while someone

brushes and polishes

his shoes

before the train arrives?

what's up with that?

so what have we learned

so far,

i ask the therapist

as she looks at her watch

trying to get me

out of there.

there's a crying woman

in the waiting room,

pulling her hair out,

waiting her turn

on the couch.

what have we learned?

she asks.

well. i think you're better

now. maybe a tune up

now and again,

and not our weekly sessions.

you haven't really had

any problems to talk about

in the last two years.

all you do is talk about

your observational takes

on the world. 

doing your thing, like

we're in a Seinfeld episode.

i write her the check,

and stretch my arms over

my head.

have you ever noticed

how pigeons almost prefer

walking around,

than they do flying when

you're in the park?

what's up with that?

before you're cold

you take out your calculator

and figure

out your finances.

how to make them last until death.

although,

death is the wild card.

it could come tomorrow,

or thirty years from

now.

food, mortgage, gas, etc.

that damn

cable bill.

bundled, no less.

you'll buy less clothes when

you're old.

no longer keeping up with

the jones.

eat less perhaps.

oatmeal is relatively cheap.

less trips to nyc on account

of your knees.

no longer binge dating,

or buying flowers

on valentine's day for a stream

of women, most

will have passed.

zero cost for haircuts.

you'll buy less books, because

of vision issues.

you might make it.

breaking even is the goal,

writing the last check to the

undertaker,

before you're cold.

sunny side up

we all have

a good side, a bad side.

when

we pose

for a picture, or when

we expose ourselves

to those we love.

we let our guard down,

we're tired,

frustrated,

and out it comes.

a  good nights sleep

will fix it

though,

tomorrow, once more,

you'll be sunny side

up.

what lasts forever

you feel sometimes,

like no time

has passed.

you're still

a child.

still eighteen, or

thirty.

nothing's changed,

not really.

you're the same boy

your mother

fed,

the same boy

she taught to tie

your shoes,

read to you while

you lay in bed.

you're only different on

the outside,

as it is

for all of us, it's what

lies within

that lasts forever,

it's you still,

in your heart

and head.

she's content now

she remarried

a man with a horse,

and a cow,

a pig.

chickens.

her third time

around.

luck coming in threes,

no doubt.

he owned a small farm

down south.

she put away her dancing

shoes,

her fancy

dress.

her make up kit

and jewels.

she was gathering eggs now,

what a surprise,

that that's what finally

made her content.

at night she ironed his

overalls,

and checkered

shirts, then slept beside

him

until the rooster crowed

at sunrise.

it's not about the pay

the best

job you'll ever have

is the one

that exhausts you.

makes

your bones weary,

your muscles ache.

the kind of job

that makes

you sink into the big

chair 

when you get home,

dropping

into the cushions

before fixing something

to drink

and eat.

the job

that puts you to sleep

at night.

unworried

about the day.

the best job is one that's

about

freedom

and productivity,

sweat.

it's not about the pay.

flying north now

there

are birds flying north.

streaming

in

v formation,

sunglasses on.

the men in little Sinatra

hats,

the women

in floral

dresses. they

tanned and rested.

white shoes,

and white belts.

small

bags in their arms

from shopping

in boutiques

in south beach.

they swoop down,

searching

for their boarded

up nests.

ready

to unpack and color

their eggs

for Easter.

i've made sandwiches

apparently i haven't won

six point five

million dollars

in the publishers sweepstakes.

and yet

the young man

from Jamaica

sounded so sincere.

he gave me two choice

of colors

for my new Mercedes

Benz.

i sent him the gift cards,

only five hundred

dollars to register my claim,

but he hasn't shown

up yet.

and i've made sandwiches

for his entire team.

my addictive nature

i admit

i'm a binger.

be it cookies, or

chips,

candy,

or salted peanuts,

Netflix.

i push the yes

button

with no restraint.

give me more

of what tastes good.

another handful.

please, let's watch

another episode,

i need

another hit

of dopamine,

a spike in my cortisol.

the early exit

there was a time

when

you enjoyed going out,

or over

to another's house,

for drinks and dinner,

small talk

about the world,

the latest movie, or

war,

or political drama

unfolding.

you'd sit and engage,

have it out,

until late in

the evening, or better

when the sun

gave light.

but now.

you arrive and quickly

find a chair

near

the exit sign.

the value of cooperation

it's usually

in a car, or in the edge

of the woods

out of sight,

or on a basement

couch,

where at an early

age

you both discover

the mysteries of buttons

and snaps,

zippers and all

the clasps that hold

our clothes

together.

it's so much easier now,

cooperation

solves all that.

perfection

we give up

early on the idea of

perfection.

most do.

we discover soon

how

there is no such thing,

no perfect

anything.

there is fault in all.

we just

accept life as it is,

or else

go crazy,

and move on.

giving Emily advice

my neighbor,

Emily Dickinson, lives

below me.

maybe you've heard of her.

the spinster

from New England.

at night i hear

her typing

on her manual

typewriter.

the snapping of the keys,

the bell on the carriage

return.

i can smell the candles

that she burns.

sometimes she'll

stop by with a handful

of new poems,

the ones not stuffed beneath

her mattress,

and ask me to critique

them.

she usually leaves

crying, after i've lectured her

and used a red ink pen

to thoroughly

edit her work.

do you have to rhyme

every other line? who are you,

Dr. Suess? Biggy Smalls?

i tell her she has to get

out of the house more

let her hair down.

go dancing, do some shots,

meet some guys.

that bun on top of her

head is so 1860. let it

go, i tell her.

and that dress, geeze

marie, does your grandmother

know you're wearing

the clothes she was

buried in?

she's very sensitive, and

doesn't take criticism too well.

but she's my friend,

my neighbor and we both

love poetry.

although, what she's

writing has no shot at

being published, not yet

at least.

but i'll get her there at some point.

moon river

reluctantly

i get up for my turn

at karaoke,

i choose

Moon River, sung

Andy Williams style.

the crowd boos,

someone throws an onion

ring at me,

which i catch and eat.

someone yells out,

Free Bird,

but i keep singing.

wider than a mile,

i'm crossing you in style,

my huckleberry friend,

etc.

i loved sweet Audrey

in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

a tear

rolls down my cheek,

as i finish up

i catch another onion

ring, this one has a dollop

of ketchup on it.

it's good.

it's all good.

the crowd applauds.

the surprise of the day

even

a small surprise

lifts

your spirits

these days.

it's come to

that,

finding a clean

five

or ten dollar bill

in the dryer.

warm

and crinkled,

how about

that?

the georgetown pub crawl

yes,

we did the pub crawl

back

in the day.

full

of piss and vinegar,

eager

though poor

to make

it through the night,

closing down the last

joint

with singing,

and failed efforts

towards

pretty girls,

who still lived at home.

it was

last call for alcohol.

then somehow driving

back to the burbs

where we all were

from.

the all you can eat cruise

as the boat

sinks, tilting

west

towards Puerto Rico,

we put on our orange

life vests.

they're tighter

than they were

when we set sail

four days ago.

we say

a prayer.

someone starts to sing

as the water

rises above

our knees.

the Mirarchi Band

keeps playing on the lido

deck.

it was a fun cruise

while it

lasted.

i'm still clutching

a chicken leg

and a lobster tail

from the third lunch

of the day.

while others, are heavily

drinking.

the best back scratcher ever

she may be

the best back scratcher

i've ever met in my life.

she has slender

hands and long fingers,

but

despite her

short, but well manicured

nails.

they are perfect

for scratching.

two hands or one.

she doesn't stick with one

small area,

going around and around

mindlessly

in one spot, no,

she's all over the place,

shoulders,

down the spine,

the sides,

and gently into the southern

regions,

which tickles

a little, but i don't mind.

she listens, when i tell her

harder,

deeper, right there, right there.

ahhhhh.

there it is.

thank you, thank you,

my dear.

you're scratching is sublime.

Sundays

what other

things are there to do

today

that haven't already been done.

the clothes are 

washed,

and dried, folded, waiting

in the basket.

to be carried up.

the dog is walked.

the bills

taken care of.

a frozen steak defrosts

on the counter.

i've swept the floor.

made the bed.

i've taken a walk and

read the paper.

the leaves are raked

and bagged in the back yard.

i've made all of my Sunday

calls.

perhaps a nap

to top things off.

don't leave

i spend the morning

chopping

carrots,

and potatoes. onions.

the onions bring

tears to my

eyes, despite

you thinking it's about

something else,

or even you.

i boil water.

i add garlic, pepper

and salt.

meat.

we'll eat later, in

four hours.

i'll call you when it's

ready. trust me on

this.

and everything else.

don't leave.

black ink

i forgive

the ink pen, it's black

drip

against my hands,

onto my

clean white shirt.

i forgive

its need to bleed.

i completely understand.

nothing last

forever.

neither you, or me.

when is your birthday

he forgets

my birthday, but it's fine.

half

the time, i don't remember

it either.

i need no

cake, no card,

no dinner out, or wine.

another year

goes by.

and we're all still here.

relax.

more than enough

celebrations

have gone by.

the next season

there's always

a new

bud,

a new blossom, a new

seed

sprouting green

from

the ground,

or tree.

despite how many

die,

or fall,

there is always someone

new arriving,

coming along.

we should talk about something else

it's the wrong

subject

to discuss over dinner,

but so it goes.

she's pro abortion,

she does the marches and all

that. she wears

a t-shirt with a line

through

an egg.

i straddle

the fence, claiming

there's

a life growing in there,

and it's more

complicated

than one realizes.

she says,

what about capital

punishment.

are you for that?

yes, i say,

if someone murdered

my family

or your family, i'd

want them to die, though

i couldn't pull the switch.

i couldn't kill a chicken

even if i was starving.

but the baby inside

your womb

hasn't killed anyone,

yet.

in fact, there are more

laws

protecting bird's eggs,

than there are

protecting

human embryos.

it's not a baby, she says.

it's a bunch of cells wriggling

around.

a bunch of cells?

at this point she slams

her hand

on the table, and gets

up to leave.

don't tell me, you stupid man,

what i can or cannot do

with my body.

i'm not i tell her, relax, sit

back down.

i think at our age we don't

have to worry about this issue.

come on, sit. sit.

oh, we're done here

mister.

we're done. i'm leaving.

she grabs her purse,

her coat

and her picket signs

and starts for the door.

hey, hey, 

aren't you coming back

to my place?

i'm not an animal

i drop

a fork on the floor.

i stare

at it for a moment,

and shrug.

i give it a quick

wipe on my sleeve.

i guess it's okay,

i won't die if i eat

with it.

but if someone was here,

of course

i'd get a clean one

from the drawer.

i'm not an animal

for God's sake.

two men running

i see

a man being chased

down

the street

by another man.

he's yelling, stop him,

stop him.

i step aside

and let them pass.

i prefer

not to be involved

in other's problems.

i've had

enough drama

for one

life.

sleep on it

don't close

the door, just yet.

there's still time.

still a shot in the dark,

a fleeting chance

that things could work

out between us,

despite no love

or affection.

sleep on it, she says.

no, i tell her.

it's too late.

in fact,

you owe me sleep.

three pairs of skivvies

i see her

in the bathroom

washing

her underwear in the sink.

scrubbing madly

with a bar of ivory

soap.

you can use

the washing machine,

i tell her,

poking my head

in the door.

maybe the gentle cycle,

cold water?

i don't trust the washer,

she says.

these are my only three

pairs

of underwear,

and they were

a special gift from

someone

i still love

and would have

married

if he ever left his

beautiful wife.

i can't risk losing them

in your washing

machine.

do you understand?

Umm, no,

not really.

but i'll be downstairs

getting your meds

ready.

finding Ginger

i find

a few roots of ginger

in the

crisper

at the bottom of the

fridge.

strange.

very strange.

i haven't cooked with

ginger

in like,

never.

whose ginger is this?

what do i

do with it.

smells good, even

now.

where's my cook

book

i feel Chinese food

coming on.

where to go

that the news

is terrible

is no news, it's the same

old story

each day.

there's blood

everywhere,

so you look for another

place to live.

a new country

to call home.

you stare at the map

and wonder.

maybe France,

Italy,

Iceland.

you still have time

to learn

a new language

and pack.

surprises

few things in life

are what

you imagined them to be.

most

is a surprise.

for better or worse,

nothing is exactly

what you

thought they'd be.

take you and me,

for instance.

waiting on the free ride

close to nothing,

not penniless,

but

close to it.

barely scraping by,

careful

with heat,

the ac,

cutting coupons

at the table,

sewing a tear in

an old coat,

watching the clock

as time

slips by.

maybe a better job

tomorrow,

a wife, a child,

a better place to

reside.

maybe your 

luck will change.

God will say enough

and give

you a free ride.

stormy days

inclement weather

is

fine

by me.

the drama

of a storm is welcome,

as long

as no one drowns

or is injured.

bring on

the wind, the rain,

the hail.

let the heavens

entertain us

with dark skies and

wonder.

put a show on

before

the next sun prevails.

seemed like a fun idea

we take a trip

to the Grande canyon

in our new Winnebago

because

that's what retired people do.

we take a lot of pictures

to send to friends,

then to Yellowstone

and the Red Wood Forest

to see the big trees.

then to Minnesota

to shop at the biggest

mall in the world.

we spend six weeks driving

around America.

sleeping, eating, using

the tiny bathroom in

our mobile home.

in time though, it all wears

thin and we start to hate

each other, so we drive

back home,

saying nothing for 

a thousand miles,

then we get on the phone

pleading to our

bosses to get our jobs back.

two hundred dollar ripped jeans

when i saw

her in ripped jeans,

not from wear and tear,

but because they came that way,

i knew

she was trouble.

a sixty year

old woman wearing

a thirteen year old's

clothes.

the mind did follow.

cherry picking Father

in an effort

to eat better, to have

more nutritious

food

in my cupboard

and fridge,

i take the sacks

of white

flour, almond flour,

sugars

and syrups up to

the local church.

gum drops

and licorice,

seed oils,

boxes of cereal,

bread

and cookies, crackers,

bags of chips.

Father Smith is there

to greet me,

at the donation box,

where he proceeds

to bend over in

his Orson Wells styled

robe,

and cherry pick.

we're almost there

who hasn't limped,

walked

slowly

because of an injury,

or worse.

an arthritic

pain.

who hasn't grabbed

the rail,

steadied

themselves

on the shoulders

of others,

taken a helping

hand

to climb the stairs.

who

won't be old?

many people, but

not us,

we're almost there.

her sorrow bone

occasionally

i'll get

a note,

a text, a comment

on a poem

that 

strikes a nerve

in her heart.

tickles her

sorrow

bone.

the words

trigger her to respond

in an unhappy

way.

fear not dear girl,

there's more

to come.

soft shell crabs

i think i saw it move,

i tell her,

staring at my plate.

crowded with

a soft

shell crab on

a pillowy roll

with fries

bunched around,

slaw on the side.

i think it twitched

it's claw.

the big claw, not those

scrawny little claws.

it jiggled a little,

opened up,

like it was reaching out

to me for help.

i hear a crunch

and look at her.

oh, just take a bite,

and quit whining like

a little girl,

she says,

wiping

crab juice off her chin.

the shard

of a shell stuck

between her teeth.

the Achille's heel

oh, i suppose, 

we could

do that, i tell her.

sure.

why not.

let's do it.

full steam ahead.

this makes

her happy

and me nervous

as i stare at her

standing in the doorway,

dressed to kill.

i'm easily persuaded

by the suggestions

of an attractive

woman.

my Achille's heel.

is, in fact,

the stiletto heel.

see you in May

she would have laughed

at the fact

the ground was too hard,

too frozen

for the shovels

to dig her

grave.

it was early January.

they put her on ice

until spring.

stored her away

neatly,

in a cold morgue

in Maine.

she would have roared

at that,

rolled her eyes

and said, oh well.

oh my.

see you in May.

hello, goodbye

i never

met so many nice people

i never

wanted to see

again

when doing the binge

dating

online.

wonderful people.

smart,

attractive,

full of life.

well dressed and on

time,

but something was missing.

for them too.

it was a mutual

parting of ways

after one meeting

of drinks and small

talk.

small plates of food.

then

a final hug, or shaking

of hands,

a wave goodbye.

two steps at a time

where once

you bounded up

two steps at a time

on a flight stairs,

leaping

over puddles in the road,

flinging

yourself over fences,

for no reason

but to get

to the other side,

you climbed trees

for the fun of it,

your head in the clouds.

well,

it's different now.

you find the rail and

go slow.

you take your time.

finally,

you're allowed.

Pond's Cold Cream

even after having seven

children

and two

miscarriages,

and enduring

an abusive husband,

and subsequent divorce,

not to mention

excommunication

from the church

because of it,

my mother never gave up.

she had a thing

for Pond's

cold cream.

each night

she'd be lying there

with two circular slices

of cucumbers covering

her eyes,

and her face covered

in a slick 

layer of creamy white.

she was very optimistic.

may she rest in peace

if i had a dollar

for every time she lied

to me,

or cheated,

or betrayed,

or gaslighted me,

or, or....

the list is too long

to type,

just buy the book

Psychopath Free

to catch the full drift

of what i mean.

but, if i did have

a dollar for

such things,

i'd have about

a million dollars

and some change.

but who's counting.

the bank is closed.

new locks are on the door.

and there's security

cameras pointing in

all directions.

may she rest in peace

in whoever's bed she

ends up in.

separate entrances

nearly half

of the separated

women

in the neighborhood

have their husbands

still living in the basement.

it's a trend,

a thing these days.

no one can afford to get

divorced.

lawyers, of course.

it's all about health insurance,

kids and dogs.

all the things that

tie us together.

financial strings.

love is over, but they

share the kitchen and

the laundry room.

they split a pizza

when a show is on.

does this look infected?

take a look at this,

she says,

holding her arm up,

showing me

an angry

red sore, oozing

with some sort

gelatinous

goo.

does this look infected

to you?

i rear back my head

and tell her,

too close, too close,

pushing her arm

away from me.

sit tight and don't move

an inch, i tell her.

let me get my medical

bag

and rubber gloves.

don't scratch it.

on the dole

i can't

remember ever borrowing

money

except

from the bank of course,

to purchase

a car

or house, but that's about

it.

i try to pay cash

for whatever it is i  might

need, or wish

to buy for

someone else.

i don't recall ever

asking

my mother or father for

a loan

of any kind.

a hand out of sorts to get

me through

the day.

although they often did

of me.

the neighborhood book club

bored,

because football

season is over,

i join the neighborhood

book club

that meets on

Saturday nights.

it's mostly women

who also belong to the

gardening

meetup, the survival

after divorce meetup,

and the weight watchers

club,

the book we

are supposed to read

for next weeks

gathering,

is the autobiography

of Gwenyth Paltrow.

i want to shoot

myself in the head, 

but don't.

i grab a handful of sugar

cookies off the table,

that Becky made, and

a cup of coffee, 

which i carefully

splash with a healthy dose

of Bailey's Irish Cream

and listen

to the discussion of last

week's book.

it was written after the movie

was made.

Love Actually.

who wants to start us off,

Becky says.

wait for me

it's a tough decision,

but i give up

coffee for Lent.

i start to shake, tremble.

i have a headache

and it's only been

three hours

since Father Smith

swiped my

forehead with

black ash.

i stare at my coffee

machine,

i put my hand on it

and whisper. i'll be back,

don't worry.

wait for me.

we can do this.

i want my money back

i see his college

degree

on the wall, behind glass,

framed in

black.

it's above the poster

of Elvis Costello

and the Attractions.

he tells me,

at thirty-five,

that he doesn't want to

work.

never has, in fact.

i don't want to work for

money, he says.

he's artistic, an actor,

an ecology crusader,

a do gooder.

i want to be passionate

about what i do for a living,

he says.

then his girlfriend comes

home

from work,

at the same time his

mother

is coming in the door

with a home cooked

meal.

i want my two hundred

thousand

dollars back.

salisbury steak and applesauce

i often

respond to random

text messages with, 

who is this.?

forgetting

to enter them

into my contact list.

it's your mother,

the response back is,

call me.

dinner at six,

this Sunday.

why don't you ever visit.

i haven't seen you

since last week.

don't bring your dog, or

your new wife.

i don't like her.

i hope you like Salisbury

steak,

because that's what

we're having,

and applesauce.

there's been a recall

are they making things

too fast,

are the workers too careless

as their

nimble finger

attach,

metal onto metal,

welding,

stringing wire

onto plastic gizmos

and what not.

please return this

immediately, the email says.

your air fryer, your toaster,

your micro wave

oven may

catch fire and kill you.

there's been a recall.

unplug it all ,or die

a horrible death.

three days in Puerto Rico

it's a large

purple envelope, full of

hard

paper, a soft flowery

insert,

another

envelope, information

as to where

and when,

the date, that sort of thing.

it all smells like

jasmine.

you are invited

with a guest of your choosing

to attend

the wedding

of so and so.

please come and celebrate,

spend three

days with us

in Puerto Rico.

i've had this talk with him,

so many times,

but he didn't listen.

women fall for it

men, by nature,

instinctively are always

trying to prove

to women

that they can provide,

they can protect.

that they are virile.

that's what all the muscles

are about,

the cars,

and houses,

the excess.

and women, primitive

too,

fall for it.

must love dogs

you should get a dog,

she says

to me,

petting her dog, picking

fleas out of

it's floppy ears.

she's holding the leash,

as the dog

lies down

in the sun.

really, she says again.

you should get a dog.

i see the plastic

baggies in her pocket

and one filled

gripped in her hand.

then there's the small white

bag from the vet

holding heart worm

pills, and other assorted

meds

to heal the dog of an

intestinal infection it picked

up after eating

a dead bird.

i love my dog, she says.

we go everywhere together,

she loves the car.

the dog looks up to her

with big brown eyes,

and stands, tugging at the leash,

misinterpreting what was

said.

no, sweetie, not yet.

not yet.

really, she says.

you should think about getting

a dog.

rocky road on a sugar cone, please

there is so much we don't

know

about

nearly everything.

take ice cream for example.

i know

the sugar cone,

the cake cone,

and the cup.

two scoops or one,

or the exorbitant piling

on of three.

i know the flavors.

i see the big buckets

that lie

under the glass,

kept cold, but not frozen.

but that's it.

that's all i got.

i have no clue as to

how to make it, how

much sugar to pour in,

how much

cream.

what to add?

nuts, fruit, candy?

i won't be opening up an

ice cream store

very soon, but

i will visit on occasion.

then the spoon, stir, stir

there are times

when you want to leap out of your

body,

and be someone

else.

leave your mind,

take on another way

of thinking.

you're tired of the same old

you,

the same thoughts,

the same habits,

the same desires.

always with the cream

and two sugars,

then the spoon,

stir, stir.

good people to know

there are planners.

list

makers,

organizers. there are

people

who put

the world in motion,

they know

when the train

arrives,

when it leaves.

they have the tickets,

the stubs,

the 

itinerary.

they know where

to eat,

making reservations,

they know which

streets to take,

which

room to fall asleep in.

there are people

who

grease the wheels

to keep

them rolling.

they're good people

to know

when you travel.

the long hot shower

as soon as i get

home,

i try to wash the grime

of New York off me.

the streets,

the restaurants, the train.

the chaos and noise.

it's in my coat,

beneath my shoes,

under my skin.

i smell

food, and garbage,

stale wine and 

puddled rain.

i feel the wind

off the Hudson.

the fatigue from standing

in lines.

swaying back

and forth

in careening taxis.

it was fun, exhausting,

expensive.

it's good to be home

again.

more bad advice

she bites her lip.

she wants to tell me something,

but doesn't

want to hurt my

feelings, she knows how

sensitive i am.

what is it? i ask.

go ahead and spit it out.

well,

she says, softly.

it's your writing, your

so called poetry.

it can be dark and maudlin

at times.

aren't you ever happy,

ever content?

you seem to dwell on the past

a lot.

i think you need to take

a break, and

refresh your thoughts.

i'm starving, i tell her.

have you had lunch yet?

blow the whistle and let's go

i get on the wrong train.

but it's okay.

i'm tired

of heading in the same

direction.

time for a change.

it's not a mistake,

it's fate,

i tell myself,

destiny, that sort of thing.

the conductor comes

down to take my

ticket.

he tells me, you're

on the wrong train mister.

i smile, and tell him, i

know, i know.

it's okay.

blow the whistle

and let's go.

the window is closing

in a way,

i guess i understand why

young people

don't want to work.

who wants to flip burgers

for a living,

or mop halls,

or paint,

or tack on a new roof.

why sweat

when the checks

keep coming in, when

mommy and daddy

still love and adore you.

showering you

with gifts.

yes, at 35, the window

is closing,

but not yet.

ladling soup

you need

a hobby, the therapist told me,

in an effort

to wash that

woman out of my

hair. (it was a long time ago)

you need

to travel more,

maybe start a vegetable

garden.

what do you

think about joining the peace corps?

you need to

volunteer to take

your mind off yourself

and past relationships

gone awry.

how are you with ladling

soup?

helping others

will help you.

i'm writing all of this down

as she talks,

knowing i'll never do

any of what she's suggesting,

but it looks

like i'm onboard.

virginia slims

if one

or two people get ill,

or God

forbid die by eating

a rancid

jalapeno, the government

closes down

the farm

industry until they

get to the bottom

of it.

they have our best

interest

at heart, they claim,

and yet,

six hundred thousand

people a year

in this country alone

die from

cigarette smoking.

cancer,

heart disease,

emphysema, etc.

it's insane.

those were the days

thumb weary

i go back and correct 

the auto-correct

that has made a mess

of everything

that i wanted to say.

my words have

been hacked,

distorted,

gone awry, by

not mine, but someone

else's mind.

i remember

fondly talking on

the phone, or better

yet, in person.

oh, those were 

the days.

the book in all of us

it's been said

that we all have at least one

book in us.

i believe

that to be true.

though not

all are well written,

or worth

reading.

not all lives

are of interest,

but despite that,

the shelves are quite

full.

even those

even

the most wise,

the most intelligent of souls,

the most

learned

and experienced,

the most spiritual

still

fear, they too

are unsure

about nearly everything.

there is insecurity

in all of us.

it keeps

us on our toes,

saves

us. let's hope.

everyone was darling

she called

everyone darling.

she was like that.

her cigarette held

high,

to the side of her

face,

as she blew smoke,

blue

and fluid

from her parted lips,

be a darling, she'd say,

go on, do this,

do that,.

and so you did.