when will i get my Tupperware back?

finally i get the call that

i've been dreading.

it's Emily.

before she says a word

i can tell it's her.

something about her breathing

when she's angry,

or disappointed.

hello, i say,

cautiously.

so when am i going to get

all of my

Tupper ware back, she says.

we've been broken

up for three months

now and you promised

you'd drop it off on my porch,

weeks ago.

is this weekend okay?

yes. did you wash them all out.

of course, of course.

no worries. i'll get them all

back to you this weekend.

and don't forget the glass

containers too, with the lids,

and my

travel coffee mug.

the one with the big heart

on the front

that you gave me for

valentine's day.

got it. is that all?

well there might be something

under your bed,

with a long extension cord,

could you bring that too.

the cat and mouse

the secret to life

in all

situations, in work or play,

in love,

or relationships, is to

determine who's

the cat

and who's mouse.

once that's settled

the rest will fall

into place.

Debbie's all purpose gravy recipe

i find out who Debbie is.

the woman

who texted me

at three forty-seven in the morning,

just to say,

hi.

i met her fifteen years ago

in a cooking class.

we were learning

how to make a pot roast

for a party

larger than five.

she's living in Kentucky now.

i write back and say hello,

then ask

her for an all purpose

gravy recipe.

i get no reply.

April

not quite, 

but close enough.

i open

a window.

it's not a breath

of spring, but more of a cold

exhale

of March wind.

April though, she's coming,

she's around

the bend in her yellow dress, 

skipping with bows

and ribbons

across the field.

teach your children well

it's hard

to imagine why my brothers

and sisters

stopped talking to me.

all but one.

the other five

are in the wind.

i completely understand

ex-wives, but

with siblings,

God knows what i've

said or done.

my father taught them well,

the toxic

behavior of

the silent treatment.

and who communicates 

with him,

just me

and one sister, 

we're the only ones.

finish what's on your plate

i give it a shot,

i save

what's left of a meal,

wrapping it neatly,

or i bring it

home in a Styrofoam

box

what's left

on the plate,

but then,

it sits there in 

the ice box

on a cold rack,

day after day.

pushed further and further

back by

lemons, or cream,

a carton

of eggs.

i don't even take a peek.

i can't bare

to look at it again,

no matter how

delicious it

was yesterday, or

the day before.

i try not to listen

to the voice in

my ear, my mother telling me

once more about

the starving kids

in India.

should have written it down

i take notes.

unwritten, just mental notes

of things to do,

observations.

notes

that i'll forget

in about three minutes

when i get

distracted

by a bird flying by,

or a girl

in her summer dress,

or just the moon

having a nice

silver shine.

i can't save you

i can't save you.

oh Lord,

how i've tried.

but

your fate is to

drown.

i can't go down

with you.

i'm swimming to shore.

good luck

with the self-inflicted

troubles

you've decided to

hold onto.

and now for sports

there's always

a country

on the news that's war torn.

the houses

turned to rubble.

half-naked

children in the street.

smoke

from a fire nearby

blowing in the wind.

a helicopter in the sky.

the reporter

with a helmet on

standing in the middle

of it all.

Ukraine,

Iraq, Iran.

Viet Nam,

Selma Alabama,

Detroit.

it's all the same.

it never ends. but

back to you Jim,

and now for the sports.

scrubbing madly

i take a bar

of lava

soap, the kind the mechanics

use on oil rigs

and scrub my brain.

my hair.

my hands,

my heart. my feet,

my legs.

i use the hottest water

i can find

to rinse off,

wash the memories

down the drain.

for one single hour,

at last

i'm free, i'm clean.

last cake on the rack

it's a store

bought cake. very pretty.

the way

the icing

is so neat.

geometrically sound.

the words spelled

out

on top.

the platter that holds

it firm.

a perfect rectangle

of a cake.

sorry they misspelled

your name.

but it's the thought

that counts.

white lies

everyone lies

a little.

the kid

with his hand in the cookie

jar,

the husband working

late.

the wife

with an old

school mate.

no you don't look fat

in those pants.

you're so funny.

how nice to 

see you.

hope you're doing

great.

the politician

with the tax relief,

the priest

with the chalice

held high.

everyone lies

a little.

hero worship

they tell

us who our heroes should be.

mr woods,

mr armstrong

what divas

to worship

oprah

and madonna.

what movie star

to set upon

our mantle,

what president

or soldier

we need to bow down

to.

what glossy

flawed human

we should worship.

dr. phil

the osteens

the swaggerts

kings and queens.

just people.

all flawed and troubled.

all of them unworthy,

not unlike you

or me.

lost and found

she takes my hand

as we walk.

it surprises me, but

makes me

happy.

she's taking the initiative

with this, with

this thing we have.

i like that feeling,

that feeling

of not being lost.

money found

it thrills

me for no reason to find

a five

dollar

bill in the dryer.

fallen

from some pant pocket,

while twisting

and turning

in the wash,

then tumbled

dry.

it's a pleasant surprise

having money

found,

tomorrow i'm hoping

for more.

lucky at love

all night

we played poker.

drinking was involved.

her blouse came off,

my shirt stayed

on.

her dress,

her shoes,

her stockings.

she was almost down to

bare bones.

when she finally lost

it all, folding

with four aces

turned down.

i think she lost on

purpose.

the irish in you

we

waited outside

the Bottom Line

on I street

for St. Patty's day.

our green ties on.

waited in the cold,

in the long line.

would they

run out of drink before

we got in?

bangers and mash?

Shepard's pie.

we weren't Irish,

but who cared?

it was all about

the beauties inside

with flashing green eyes

and flaxen hair.

leaving clues behind

there's a long

dark

hair

in the sink.

obviously not mine.

where you

here, did you slip

in while

i was asleep?

i see you helped

your self

to the last piece 

of cake.

so like you to leave,

always

leaving a a trace.

two brothers in Philly

my uncles,

Lenny and his brother

Johnny.

weren't exactly made men.

but they

played the part.

white caddies,

sharp suits

and hats,

always thumbing their

noses

at something.

taking

calls late at night.

talking Italian,

at the table

while eating mushrooms

in the dim afternoon

light.

they were always

loading boxes

of liquor into

the trunks of their cars.

they knew something,

or somebody.

it's just business 

i used to hear them say.

just business.

bagel in nyc

we found

a bagel shop on east 38th street.

the line was long,

down

the block.

it was cold, snow was

falling.

we huddled

against the building

and each other,

patient

as the line

inched forward.

we had time to decide.

butter or

cream cheese.

onion, or jalapeno.

plain?

maybe everything

with an egg

and bacon

tucked inside,

toasted on wheat.

i was so much older then

when we had long

hair

and record players,

beat up

vw buses,

beads and bongs,

leather

vest and boots,

bell bottoms, we said,

things like

far out man,

peace and love,

keep the faith baby,

right on,

i can dig it.

i hear that.

we had the same

clothes,

the same hair,

the same

takes on the world

that was yet

to come.

we were a strange army

of one.

so young, so young.

and in the end

without family,

true

fathers

and mothers. without

faith

and prayer,

without books

and

courtesy,

respect and compassion,

love.

you end up

with what the world

is now.

what the world needs now

if not called

to teach,

or preach, or to be

a doctor,

don't go.

don't overreach,

pick up

the hammer,

the wrench,

the paint brush.

get behind the plow

or broom.

besides love,

of course,

this is what

the world needs

now.

oceans, or land apart

no different,

each village, or town,

a risen city 

where once was forest

or farm.

it's the same

under each roof,

whether tin,

or thatched.

families beginning,

lives ending.

children off

to school.

fathers and mothers

to the work.

the aged finding

warmth

in given rooms.

despite oceans,

or land

apart,

or language, there is

no difference.

the piano teacher

i hear her

next door, the piano teacher,

playing,

after her students

have left,

gently striking

the keys.

it's soft.

melodic, sometimes she

sings.

we say hello

in passing, but

not much else, 

perhaps a casual

comment

on the wind

or rain.

a greeting come holiday.

i love her

in some strange

bewildering way,

her shy smile,

her slender hands,

but the walls

between will always

keep

us

at bay.

don't tell me the truth

give me the good news.

leave out

the bad.

i've had enough bad news

for one lifetime.

give me a smile,

a song and a dance.

tell me a joke.

juggle for me.

do anything but tell me

the truth.

i'm done with that.

he brings cold water

he remembers

me,

the Chinese guy

as i come

back after years

of absence

for something crispy

and sweet.

he's the guy

who pours water

from table to table

never letting

them

go dry.

even after a sip,

he'd be over

with his cold

clear jug of water

and smile,

topping off your glass.

we never talked,

never said a word

to each other,

just a wink and a nod,

but we knew each

better than

i've known life long

friends.

Party Lights

my father

put a string of colored lights

on his balcony.

party lights.

at sixty-five

he was still drinking and smoking,

sleeping

with lipsticked floosies

in plastic pants.

his one bedroom apartment

was near the Navy Yard

in Little Creek.

a dive bar nearby,

lit up the sky with a sign

that read

Liver and Onions,

all week.

live music,

Friday and Saturday

night.

he could see the ships

from his

window,

the planes floating by,

hear the trains

on the track as everyone

but him

was leaving, getting

on with 

their life.

eggs over easy

when the calls

stopped coming, she still insisted

she was

an actress.

a star. tomorrow, tomorrow

she'd whisper.

i caught her

on the downside

of it all.

fading,

the petals falling to the floor,

the stem

broken.

a waitress

at the diner,

but she still put on a good

show.

despite just me she

performed for.

i know how you like your

eggs, she'd say

with a sexy smile,

you like them like you

like your women,

over easy.

you're dead to me

how dare you,

he says,

how dare you call me out,

expose

me for my life long

lack

of empathy

and bad behavior.

the nerve of you

to criticize,

and turn the mirror

to my face.

listing the innumerable

lies,

and self serving

mistakes.

the nerve.

the audacity.

i'm done with you.

you're dead to me.

gather around, here's what happened

i can talk about

that year all

day.

get a stiff drink

in me

and i'll tell you everything

there is to

know,

i'll make ears ring

in bringing up the past.

i'll tell you

exactly what was said,

the time of

day or night,

the emotional weather

report,

i'll tell you each and

every lie,

i'll go down to the bone,

i'll trim the fat.

come on, gather

around.

but mind you, i'm prone

to embellish

once the drinks

go down,

it's hard for me to stick

to the facts.

i'm leaving now

there's more

poetry

more angst and sorrow

in leaving

than there is in

arrivals.

something about a train

disappearing

around the bend

of track,

a bus

in the rain,

a car, with a hand

out the window

giving

a last wave

that brings tears to

your eyes,

words

to the page.

sweet and sour musings

there are good cops,

and bad cops.

good lawyers,

sleazy lawyers, 

excellent doctors

and lazy doctors.

good chefs and bad

chefs.

great popes and not

so great popes.

friends and lovers too,

both

are either good

or bad.

the world is full of

not one type,

but two.

choose wisely which

ones you're with.

noir entanglements

i like a good mystery

as long as i'm

not a part of it.

cloak and dagger,

noir entanglements,

meticulously carved

who done its.

all well and good

on a rainy night,

not fit for man or

beast to travel, but

just leave me out of it

keep it fiction

and not real life.

escape number three

when you get over

the barbed wall,

past the dogs

and searchlights,

the guards with guns,

through

the sewage tunnel

and out

and into the open road,

beyond.

you don't look back

you run and run and run.

press two

the time

you've wasted is immeasurable.

playing games,

watching

tik tok.

staring into your phone

at inconsequential

information

and texting babble

to contacts.

we've officially arrived

at the end of times.

press one

for an operator, press

two

if you want to be taken

off this planet.

the seven dollar cupcake

why are your cupcakes

so expensive

i ask the woman

behind the counter.

she's wearing

an apron with a giant

heart

embroidered

on the front. the image

of a cupcake

inside.

she smiles at my question.

we use the best

ingredients,

the purest

sugars and cream,

fillings.

organic eggs, and one

thing that can't be measured.

what's i that, i ask.

each cupcake is made with love.

yeah.

i tell her, but seven dollars

for a cupcake?

i can go buy a box of pillbury's

cake mix

and make a dozen for about

three dollars.

next, she says. pointing

at the door,

telling me to leave.

no cupcake for you.

no one will save you

no one 

is coming to save you.

there's no

rope being tossed

your way,

no ladder,

or float

as you tread water

inside the waves.

there's no hose 

to put out the fire.

it's all on you.

always has been,

time to wake up.

seize the day.

coming into money

there's carpenters,

painters,

floor men,

tile workers, plumbers.

roofers

and landscapers.

what isn't being done?

i see a new stove arrive.

she's come into

money,

i can see that by

her chin being up,

the spring in her stride.

someone with a friendly

will

has died.

the broken wheel

is it karma,

destiny, fate, divine

intervention

or 

punishment

that i get the shopping

car

with the broken wheel

nearly

every time.?

busy with life

the frenzy

of spring, of trees

and bush,

flowers

peeking

out from the ground.

the animals busy

with 

life.

bees too.

and then there's me

and you.

starvation diet

i help my

vegetarian friend Olive

up from the couch.

her legs are about

to give way.

she's only fifty

but looks closer

to ninety-five,

sallow cheeks,

sunken eyes.

she's pale, a little green from

all that broccoli

and kale.

she couldn't spell cat

if you spotted her

the c and the t.

she's not dumb, or has

special needs,

she's just malnourished

from eating

nothing but

legumes and beans.

yesterday i caught

her crying,

because she was too weak

to open

a bag of peas.

the dinner bells are ringing

i know

that dinner is ready. because

i can hear the smoke alarm

going off.

the neighbors

are knocking on the door.

someone's rescue

dog is howling.

the firetruck

is on the way., i can hear

the scream of sirens.

i turn the burner off.

again

the sweet butter

and onions have burned

around my steak.

the final meal request

the survey says,

though it's hard to check

it's validity

as being factual,

says that

nine out of ten

people

in line for the electric

chair,

who are about to walk

the green mile,

pick Popeyes chicken

as their last meal.

four piece spicy,

extra crispy,

with Cajun rice and fries

and a large

coke on ice.

not to mention the apple

pie, warmed up.

zapping dots on skin

the dermatologist

is a detective

of sorts.

with a keen

eye she examines you

before you remove

your shirt,

your shoes and socks,

your shorts.

ah ha, she says, pointing

with her gloved

finger at a spot

upon your neck,

hold still, this

won't hurt a bit.

taking out the garbage

i need the big bags,

the green

garden bags,

those outdoor bags

that hold leaves

and debris,

garbage of all sorts.

i need those bags

for this job.

fifty gallon bags with

twist ties.

black and thick, ones

that won't break when full.

they'll do for this task

of clearing out your things,

when getting rid of you.

our fickle hearts

i see a kid

with a stick making a heart

in the wet

cement of

the new sidewalk.

it's just been paved.

he looks at me and smiles

as he draws

a heart

and puts

his initials inside,

then a plus sign 

with the letter K.

ten minutes later,

he's back,

and scrapes K

away, replacing

it with 

the letter R.

the day is young,

the cement is wet,

and there's still time

to change his mind,

again.

Debbie from Winchester?

the text comes in at three forty-seven

in the morning.

hi,

it says.

how are you?

i roll over and stare at the phone,

nervous to look,

thinking

that someone has died.

hi, it says again

with a loud ding.

this is Debbie.

Debbie from Alexandria?

i ask.

or Debbie from Dallas?

Boston?

my sister Debbie?

Debbie in Seattle?

no reply.

she's mad i guess that've i've taken

her number

out of my phone.

oh well.

back to sleep.

nine hours eating crabs

on the eastern shore,

they like crabs.

they like to sit at a picnic table

covered in newspapers

for nine

hours and pick crabs.

they have mallets

and pliers,

screw drivers,

wrenches and knives.

it's not easy work pulling

out measly bits

of crab meat

from rock hard shells,

but they do it,

fueled with beer,

and hush puppies.

when they dig out a large

piece from a claw,

they hold it up,

waving it in the air,

they dance around

to show it to each other,

rewarded with oohs and ahhs,

a round of applause.

there's tubs of butter

and vinegar on the table,

stacks of napkins.

their bibs are on, their

fingers are bleeding,

but the sun is still up,

barely,

though they're not quite

full, not yet.

still hungry after nine hours.

make room,

here comes another

steamed dozen.

what kind of a person are you?

the girl scout's mother

gives me

the evil eye

as i walk by.

she yells at me as i cross

the street

with my bag of apples.

no thin mints,

this year?

she yells.

what kind of a person

doesn't stop

and buy girl scout cookies?

you're one of those,

eh, she says.

okay, okay.

just go on your way, 

just have yourself a nice

day without

cookies.

yeah. that's right.

don't even look back.

keep walking stingy.

special delivery

the cardboard

box

on the porch, says,

this side

up.

fragile.

arrows point in a skyward

direction.

an array

of stamps are stuck

to the top.

no forwarding

address.

i tilt it back forth,

it's heavy,

then put my ear to the side,

there's no ticking,

no breathing,

what or who's inside

is anyone's guess.

take up a hobby

take up a hobby,

the man says, don't retire without

a plan.

go fishing.

play golf.

travel.

maybe photography

is your thing,

or cooking.

take a class.

oil painting, perhaps.

i laugh. it all seems

like work to me,

i tell him.

maybe i'll just keep

working.

i'm very happy with that.

doing without

if i run out of something

i do without.

i don't go knocking

from door to door,

asking to borrow

a cup of sugar

or cup of flour.

i wait it out, 

like i've done 

with all things,

patient , 

and working hard

for what i need

to come about.

the birthday card

as

years went by,

the cards

became smaller,

with a quarter taped

inside.

no longer

affording

a single dollar.

with love and wishing

it was more,

how hard,

this mother tried.

the blue jacket

her

jacket. blue

and worn, pocket

torn,

her favorite,

it kept her warm.

left behind.

on purpose?

watch your step

the tack

you step upon in the early

morning

before the sun

spits out

what little light allowed

on this overcast day,

awakens you

to what

the world is.

or can be if you don't watch

your step.

tomorrow's another day

there are some

days

when you don't feel like

putting on

your boots and overalls

and going down

to the hen house to gather eggs.

you don't feel

like milking

the cow today, or slaughtering

a pig or two.

you just feel tired

and want to sit in the chair

on the front

porch and stare at all

that hay that needs

mowing.

tomorrow's another day,

Scarlet.

i'll lock up before i go

no need to talk it out

anymore.

a brisk

walk will do you good.

take the umbrella

i tell her,

and the dog,

and your phone,

and put on your raincoat,

it's cold.

maybe one

day, i'll see you down

the road,

but don't hold your breath.

i'll lock up

before i go.

farewell.

good luck with the path

you chose.

unwanted love in the shower

you would think

that

most people would do whatever

they can

to avoid jail

time.

but apparently not.

the prisons are full

of knuckleheads

who've skirted the law.

who've

robbed banks,

or pummeled someone

for short dough.

who would want

the orange jumpsuit,

the shaved head

for lice,

the cell,

the hard bed.

the possibility

of getting

unwanted love in the shower?

why not

walk the line

on the outside and avoid

such things.

keep your nose clean?

but no.

it ain't so.

filling the void

as men,

we need

to fix things

right away.

in the rain or snow,

we pop

the trunk and lie

down on the road

to fix

the flat tire, whereas

the wife,

will say let's get it

tomorrow.

leave it here,

let's have it towed.

same goes for

love,

someone dies,

or gets divorced 

men are quick to try

and fill that space,

replace

whatever was in the void.

they're on it

the second the papers

are signed,

or often, way before.

the wedding registry

it's his third wedding,

her fourth,

or fifth, but who's counting.

they both

have kids

and toaster ovens,

mixing bowls and

oven mitts.

what could they possibly

need

as a wedding gift?

it's going to be a long

day at Target.

ear plugs, perhaps,

for both, one size fits all.

we need a spa day

imperfect

we are. misfits in our own

way.

whether in the flesh

or mind.

we're not all

perfectly made.

some defects have

occurred

at the factory,

some wear and tear

over time.

there's a leg that shakes,

a fluttering

of eye,

a stammer,

a broken this or that,

our warranties have

expired. (hearts seem

to go first.)

we could all use

an oil

change these days,

a tune up,

and some air in

the tires.

a wash and wax. maybe

a long spa day.

over the moon

it's nothing really.

we make

more of it than it deserves.

what does it do

to get such attention?

but poets and lovers.

astronomers

and children.

stare into its face.

point up at its shape,

it's brightness

and color,

and say look, look at the moon

tonight.

it's just a rock, a lifeless orb

reflecting sunlight

in the sky

and yet

a thousand times

a thousand

poems have been penned

about it.

yes.

it's just the moon,

just the moon.

but i can't imagine

a world without it.

animal based diet

i eat meat.

pretty much just meat

and eggs.

bacon

butter

beef.

a little pork, a little

poultry,

but that's about it.

anything with a face

goes in the pan.

sauteed,

broiled or baked.

no more

processed foods,

no oils.

no sugar.

i've never felt better

without

vegetables

and fruit,

weight down,

blood pressure down.

inflammatory issues

subdued.

come on over sometime.

how do you like

your steak?

what time is it?

all of the battery powered

clocks on the walls

don't need to be changed

today.

i never changed them last year

when the time fell back.

so now they're all on time.

it took a while,

a year in fact.

but it's all good now.

birthday best wishes

i read

what's written on the birthday card,

a few weeks

late,

but that's okay.

i read the words,

best wishes.,

love, so and so.

i wonder what that means.

what are best

wishes?

i wish they could be more

specific

with their feelings towards

me.

i need something more original,

unique.

something from

the heart like.

if i was there

i'd hug you, and squeeze

the bejeebies out

of you.

a good love story

i like a good love story.

boy meets

girl.

they fall in love and live

happily

ever.

but not too mushy.

it's not Christmas, the snow

isn't falling,

no one owns a horse,

or a ranch,

or is coming home to their

hometown

for the holidays

to take over their sick mother's

gift shop.

there's little or no angst.

no confusion.

no doubt,

no other dopes in the picture

mucking

up the love they

have for each other.

no one gets sick at the end,

develops a tumor,

like Ali McGraw.

no crap like that happens.

every day they wake up

and look into one another's

eyes and can't believe

their luck. 

they've always been

loyal, honest, compassionate

and kind from day one,

and stay that way 

until the end

of time.

heading south

i tell people that

i'm heading south for the winter.

they say where, Florida,

Miami?

St. Pete's perhaps?

no, i tell them.

i'm sleeping in the room

in back

of the house.

it has great sunlight,

southern exposure.

i'll even crack a window,

if it gets too hot.

close to zero

it's close

to zero in this house,

but i have you here

to hold

beneath the layers

of blankets and sheets,

the quilted

folds.

i know

you prefer

it cold, with snow

falling

from the ceiling,

the thermostat

on

the frigid end

of low.

but thankfully

i have you here to

keep me warm.

clever you are, that

we both

know.

the nature of cats

i know

the cat doesn't care.

not really.

basic needs, perhaps,

but little else.

if i never came home again,

so what.

i get it.

it's her choice to be aloof,

distant.

quiet.

i completely understand

the nature

of cats.

the nature of you.

they're listening

there's someone

on other line listening.

i can hear

them breathe, taking notes

with

ear to the floor,

to the wall,

eavesdropping,

being nosy.

they want to know what

i'm up to.

good luck with that

because i don't

even know.

welcome home

the shrimp

shells

in the waste basket

tell

you that you've been gone

for a few

days.

too long.

mail is on the floor,

the machine

is lit up.

there's a note on

the door

for a delivery

that now needs to be

picked up.

the clocks need to be

set forward.

one is now

two o'clock.

welcome

home again, the mat

says.

welcome home.

the big flea market extravaganza

i unfold my long table

and set it up in the yard

for the big flea market sale.

it's a yearly thing

in the neighborhood.

i bring out a chair

some lemonade

and cookies for the kids.

it's basically the same things

i tried to sell last year.

marked down

fifty cents or so.

i have a clock that doesn't tick,

any more but

makes bird noises if you shake it.

there's a black pair

of pants from a rented tuxedo

on a hangar

and a box of bent forks

and spoons

i tried to use as tools,

some cracked beer mugs,

a few old wedding rings

and bars of packaged soap

from the Hilton Hotel,

a rusted colander and

a pair of brown shoes,

without laces.

on an easel, i stand up

an old portrait of five

dogs playing poker.

then place

a worn copy of Franny

and Zooey,

not signed, of course,

next to a book called

Tips for a Healthy

Marriage, unused,

basically brand new.

it's going to be a long

day, so

i apply sunscreen liberally

all over me.

the sun can be brutal in

the late afternoon

it's not dating, it's Antiquing

i ask my friend Sally Sue

how her online

dating search is going.

she tells me to shut up

and pour me another glass of wine.

it's more like antiquing.

she says,

throwing down the Merlot.

everyone is old, i'm old,

you're old.

all my friends are old.

i'm tired of looking at old

men holding fish up

in their pictures.

they want to talk about

their boats and motorcycles.

hunting.

just shoot me.

i cringe when i see them

walking into the bar

like it's the march of the penguins,

bald and limping.

fat and pink.

bitter from a few bad marriages.

most of them wanting to

have a few drinks

then take me home in an

effort to get my clothes off.

and if they do,

it's not working.

it's a wet noodle down there.

and by the way, in all honesty,

i hate museums.

the last guy i met 

took me to the Holocaust Museum

downtown.

that was fun. really got me

in a romantic mood.

next week some guy

from Baltimore wants to 

take me to the Bible Museum.

do you have anymore wine?

Tequila?

the daily war

we had

a long dirt yard,

dirt

because of the dogs.

but it was

a battlefield for our

toy soldiers

our tanks,

our guns.

every war was won.

it was never even

close.

we spent

hours

upon hours in the dirt,

making

war noises,

grunts and groans,

bullets flying, bombs

exploding

until

my mother

yelled

through the screen door.

wash up,

dinner is on.

the guilt never leaves you

i went for a long stretch

as a child,

then stopped, then started

again.

i've been off and on

with

this church thing.

forever.

the sex scandals and child

abuse didn't

help much,

nor did the constant collecting

of money.

i made it to the big

holy days

of course, but even

that dwindled down

to Easter.

now it's more of what

can i get there

that i can't get at home.

i have knees,

i know how to pray.

i know about remorse

and regret, confession.

i know all of these things.

do i really need a middle man?

the guilt of not going

has never left though

childhood

made sure of that.

his good ear

i speak

into his good ear.

the other one is full,

no more

words can fit in there.

it's heard

enough for one lifetime.

good news

and bad news, each

taking a turn.

i speak into his good ear.

it's good

to have at least one,

saying what

needs to be said before,

that one too

is done.

the next train out

if i catch the scent,

one hint,

one waft of drama,

one small

taste of your crazy

side,

i'm done,

gone.

packed

and on the road again.

i travel

light, sleep light

with one eye open,

keys

in hand.

bags packed by the door.

give me a reason.

one

argument, one bit of

chaos

and so long.

building with brick

i prefer the wall.

the bricks

laid down, one on top

of the other

into the mush of mortar.

i like

how it hardens.

keeps

trouble out.

no need for a window

or a door,

or vent.

hand me another brick,

we're almost

done here.

show yourself out

before the last brick

is laid,

before you're trapped

in.

eggshells underfoot

best

we don't talk.

stay quiet. just pass one

another

in the hall

as if all is okay.

the weather

is permissible

to exchange thoughts

on wind

and rain,

but that's it, and even

that

my cloudy day,

is your

sunny day.

we may never agree

on anything again.

still the same

can we

change. no.

yes

we can grow taller,

our waists

can expand, 

our faces can grow

older,

but do we change

from who we really,

hardly.

i've yet to see it happen

in a woman,

or a man.

we were both wrong

she would

go up to Canada in the summer

and ride

horses.

she'd live

in the cold country,

near the ocean.

for months i heard

nothing

from her.

but she felt close

just the same.

i believed that i missed

her and that

she missed me.

we were both wrong.

your soapbox

believe

what you want.

pick your God,

or Gods.

or lack,

thereof.

pick your politics,

red or blue,

decide on 

your choice of diet,

your own

way of living.

it's your life

to win,

your life to lose,

there's use

preaching to me,

or i to you.

a word from our sponsors

when we arrived

on the moon

after a harrowing start blasting

off from earth,

it was touch and go for awhile,

something about

the excess amount of carbon

monoxide

in the cabin,

but we made it just the same.

unfortunately

the glass on the inside

of my helmet was

glazed over

with condensation

so my take

on mother earth

is a blurry mess.

i should never have eaten

those tortilla wraps

with hot sauce

and peppers, but Taco Bell

was one of

our main sponsors, in fact

there's several logos

on the side of our space

module.

Electrolyte Plus for leg cramps, 

Ban deodorant,

Depends Diapers, and 

Listerine, extra strength,

and the most important 

sponsor of all,

Imodium.

the aging rebel

given time,

the rebel settles down.

bumps in the

road

have slowed him.

health

and age.

that bad knee giving

him a limp.

no more ranting

and raving

about the world.

no more endless diatribes

about what's wrong.

no more marches and

protests.

that's all done.

he's found the big

chair

in the corner now.

if you listen

hard enough,

you can hear him snoring.

three p.m.,

is nap time.

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.