don't go out

don't take the subway

at night,

don't go out,

don't walk that street

alone, don't

linger

near an alley, 

or make eye contact,

don't forget

to the lock the doors.

beware of crowds,

cross the street

when approached,

pull the shade.

stay home.

burrow into your couch.

we ran it over, not me

what was it 

in the middle of the road

staring

back at us with

red eyes?

a lump

of furry life

now still and settled,

it's mind made up

of staying put, scurrying

neither left

or right.

something.

not a dog or cat,

but another

species of wild life,

but we were going too fast

to brake

or swerve

out of its way. so

we ran it over.

there was a bump and rumble

as it disappeared

below the car,

the noise waking her up

and making

her say,

what was that?

bone on bone

the doctor tells me that

this will

burn a little, or maybe a lot,

as he sticks

my knee with a syringe

filled with

lidocaine and cortisone.

he's not kidding.

it feels like the inside

of my knee is on fire.

what you have here is

bone on bone, he says.

how many years have you

been playing basketball

on concrete courts.

i don't know, i tell him.

fifty, sixty.

but my knees now have

affected my running

and jumping.

they hurt like hell.

i see he says, jiggling

the long needle around

until all the juice is out.

but, i tell him. i still

have my shot, either hand. 

and dribbling is no issue.

okay, he says.

come back in six months

and i'll stick you again.

have you ever thought of

switching to pickle ball?

high top whites

we rarely are on

the same page with clothes

when we go out

to dinner or a show.

if she has on her

leather

skin tight pants

and a see through blouse,

standing tall

on stiletto heels,

i inevitably

am wearing khaki

shorts and a white t-shirt.

with high top white

chuck taylor's.

i thought you said,

casual, i tell her,

touching her shiny

pants.

can you breathe in those?

a paler shade of grey

the job

is delayed. they can't decide

on which

shade

of white they want

on the walls

of the house they're selling.

so don't

come today, she says,

my husband

and i and the kids are

having a meeting

tonight about

the paint.

is that okay?

can you recommend

a white

for us? maybe a grey?

the road map

what's that tattoo

all about

i ask her, pointing at the sun

on her arm

in red ink.

it's about the sun,

she says.

i love the sun.

and what about this one,

which one

she says,

i have seven.

the one on your leg,

it looks like a face.

oh, that's my mother.

i have my

children

on my back. all three

of them.

i'm getting my dog

next, if i have room

on my neck.

and your father, oh,

hmmm.

i never thought about

that.

see you on Sunday

it's just a dream

mixed

in with other dreams, but

i appreciate

the call from my mother.

she sounds

good.

she tells me what's for

dinner, asks,

what time will i be there

on Sunday.

how's your love life?

she says,

using a name

from

the distant past,

it's a nice call.

i can almost smell the garlic

and red

sauce, see her cutting

gnocchi by hand.

she asks me

who will win the game

on Sunday.

i tell her, as i always do.

the team

that scores the most points.

she laughs.

who gets the dog

i remember

how the neighbors

were quiet,

not yet decided on whose

side to take,

peering out

their windows at

the truck,

excited by the news.

where will she go

now, does

she have money.

what will he do, will

they both move.

and the children,

what about them,

the dog,

the cat. who's at

fault

with this mess.

who will tend to the

yard,

clean the gutters,

cut the grass?

who wins, who loses?

did you hear?

the story had

legs,

had arms,

had a torso with

eyes

a mouth,

a tongue.

it became a life

all its own.

just a word or two

told out of school,

mere gossip,

half false,

half truth,

but so it was

formed.

captured by the prey

she tells him

what sign to make for the march.

pink ink.

what shirt

to wear, what

flea market to go to

that day.

what mall?

what vegetable to eat.

the flower

show,

the bed and breakfast

along 

the coast.

what music to be played.

when to kiss

her,

what to say.

he has been captured by

the prey.

worthless worry

weathered, aren't we all

at this stage,

this age.

a lot of wind

a lot of sun, a lot of worthless

worry about

things we 

couldn't change.

to do it all over

again

would involve everything.

being the same,

everything that is,

but you.

it isn't over, not yet

purple almost,

this blue chop of water

under

the bridge.

how is it that sand

is cold.

wet,

a marvelous place to

end things.

to leap, to swim out

into

the impossible depth

with your

broken heart.

what more

is there to do?

but i tell you don't,

it isn't over,

not yet.

in her barefeet

as you walk

towards

your car, carrying your shoes,

your bag,

you look back and blow

me a kiss.

the glow of light 

upon you.

it's early, few

early risers are around 

to witness this,

this 

sunrise

we haven't missed.

fixing the darkness

so what, a storm.

electricity,

who needs it?

we have candles, we have

matches.

we have

the spark of each other

under moonlight.

let's pray

that whatever's broken,

stays broken.

we together can fix

the darkness

of this night.

leave nothing behind

the underworld

is near

full.

the unnourished,

the unfed,

the unloved.

the unkind, only

you and i

are left.

let's eat, let's leave

nothing on the table

untouched,

no stone

unturned.

let's love.

Etienne's mother

i see my father

stretched out in the July sun,

his shirt off,

covered in

tanning oil,

his madras shorts on.

it's ninety degrees

in the shade alone.

there's

a Lucky Strike in his hand,

a bottle of

Ballantine beer in the other.

he has the radio on.

sunglasses hide his

blue eyes.

his short hair shines

in the summer light.

he's talking

to the woman

next door, who's hanging

laundry

on the line..

she's French.

i sense there's more to

this scenario than meets

my little boy eyes.

any plans for the day?

the nice day urges you

to get up

and get out, to do something

called

fun.

the old

town and cobblestones,

perhaps.

a walk to the river,

along the green path.

we are obligated it seems

to do something

and to tell

the story later when asked.

a good memory

is there not

a good memory attached

to this warm

sunlight

upon

my face.

none that i can think of.

so let's be still,

be quiet

and keep

it that way.

wait it out

why

watch the news anymore?

why read

the paper.

why care

when there's nothing

you can do,

but board up

the windows,

lock the door, 

store food in the cellar,

and wait it out.

following the script

the doctor has a script

to follow.

at a certain age,

a certain weight

within a certain range

of blood pressure

or cholesterol, well, 

we have a pill for you,

they say.

a life time of pills.

we don't care if you

smoke, or exercise

nor do we have an interest in

what you eat.

what your lifestyle

might be.

these are the rules

that the pharmaceutical

companies tell us to do.

take two of these pills

each day, and one at night.

don't worry about running out.

we'll make more.

punch the clock

as they burn

and riot,

protest the raising of

the retirement

age to 64

in France,

it's hard not to laugh

as i climb

the ladder

with a brush

and can

of paint, hoping

that the sunlight

lasts.

forbidden fruit

is there

such as thing as original

sin?

can we be born

already tainted

by a rash decision made

in the garden

of Eden.

is the bite of an apple

worthy

of eternal damnation

into an underworld

of fire?

agreed, mistakes were

made,

but come on now.

ship ahoy, nah

whatever you do,

she told me one day

while we sat on a bench

in the warm sun,

was, when you retire,

don't buy a boat.

your whole life will

revolve around that stupid

boat,

begging people to come

on it every weekend.

asking them to chip in for

gas, or to raise the sails.

drop the anchor and

tie it up mate, or some

such nonsense.

then there's

cleaning it, algae

and barnacles,

the relentless rust,

the insurance, dry docking

it in the winter.

or the trailer

to drag it home.

whatever you do, she said,

don't buy a boat.

i don't ever want to see you

in a Jimmy Buffet

blouse and wearing a little

white captain's hat.

you get no argument

from me, i told her

no boat.

making babies

men don't like

babies much.

they like making the baby,

but the rest of it

is hard.

tough.

diapers and strollers,

putting

the crib together.

the mobile

hanging from the ceiling.

painting the room.

pink or blue.

then there's the crying

at night,

is it my turn already?

is the monitor on,

the light?

don't even mention

tuition

and school.

fly me to the moon

it's wise

not to live near an

active

volcano,

or on land below

sea level.

up north you have

the ice

to worry about,

deep snow,

so don't plant your

flag there

either.

and the desert,

forget about it.

dry as a bone with

no water,

and yet

they keep yammering

about the moon.

completely oblivious

to the fact that

there is no air.

eight ball side pocket

was it a sad

day

when they came to take the pool

table away?

hardly.

it took up so much

room in the basement, though

useful for

folded clothes, stacking

books,

and shoes

onto the violet felt.

it had its day when

the boy was home, 

after school, but this was

before college,

before moving on to bigger

and better things

in the bright lights

of LA.

if memory serves me

right,

he was pretty good with

the cue.

in a fixing mood

not me, but some

prefer

to fix things. to get out

the wrench

the can of oil,

the tools to tighten

up the screws.

fill the tires with air.

make it new again.

make it shine

like the day you bought

it, the day you

took it on the first ride.

it's not me,

not me at all,

but strangely,

i'm in a fixing mood.

preparing for battle

i open the window

for ten

minutes and every spider

and his sister

is rushing in

to make themselves at home.

flies,

and bugs of an unknown

origin

are coming in 

for a look see.

it's a chaos as i look for

the newspaper,

i never read.

easy street

he was handsome

and smart.

strong too.

he had more degrees

than a thermometer.

well bred. but

he was always looking

for a puddle

to slip on

in a store,

for a patch of ice in front

of Macy's.

a bump 

from behind in a car

injured

his neck,

his spine, he couldn't

sleep or eat

for weeks. 

impossible to work.

this is how he made a

living,

lived his life.

not to mention the elderly

and third,

rich wife.

the blue door

i can see the brush

strokes,

he says,

holding the door open

in the sunlight,

freshly

painted, still wet

to the touch.

what can you do about that?

can you make it

smoother.

make it like glass?

sand castles

as we built our castles

in the sand,

the morning

still cool, the ocean

at our feet,

i remember staring at

you, lying

on the blanket,

neither here,

or there. your dark

shades on. you were

elsewhere.

you were always

distant, never where

you were supposed to be,

never with me.

a sound sleep

ah, the good sleep

is everything,

isn't it?

what problems?

what troubles?

that was yesterday,

that was long ago.

almost forgotten, 

somehow they nearly

went away, each

question answered, 

i have now 

what i need to know.

the fool

the fool

goes back to being foolish,

lying to themselves

that things

will fine.

hard to stop

him

or her.

they forget what happened

the last time.

they return,

like criminals

to the scene of their

crime.

todays lesson

the wrecking

ball

took down the old school,

at last.

years abandoned.

rubble now.

brick upon brick.

old desks,

even books among the ruins

lie open.

there's a black board

cracked in

pieces.

todays lesson still in

chalk.

some learned, some

still haven't

yet.

the cold sandwich

at six, for dinner,

i'd

sit at the coffee table

with  a cold sandwich.

maybe a glass of milk, or

maybe a beer

if i was in a mood

to argue

when she got home from

work

at eight o'clock,

or somewhere

near.

the summer pool

we weighed next

to nothing.

gangly lots,

pale boys,

with crew cuts,

skin and bones.

feathers

in the summer light

doing

back flips off the high

board.

fearless and alive.

we'll live forever,

won't we?

you haven't seen anything

yet.

watch this next

dive.

let's hope so

was it obvious

they were in love?

the way

they held hands

and smiled, the way

she kissed him

for no reason.

his hand

around her waist,

the way they whispered

to each

other only things

they could hear.

knee against knee,

arm in arm,

the light

within their eyes.

would it last forever?

let's hope so.

two sides of the coin

we have two

sides.

two voices in our head.

be good,

be bad.

it's a daily struggle at times.

do this,

do that.

go there, stay.

the relentless nagging

of the devil.

and the angels

trying to

keep them at bay.

i need a new dress

i have nothing to wear

to this party

tonight,

she says,

standing in front of one

of three walk in

closets full of clothes.

i have to go shopping

tonight.

i need shoes too,

and i should get my hair

done.

what about you?

i'm good.

everything has changed

it's not what it used to be.

but what is?

what hasn't changed?

we reminisce.

we remember fondly

the old days.

we nod our heads in

unison, and say

it was better back then.

you should have been

there, the fun we had.

it's different now.

it's not the same.

sadly, the way it was

will not return again.

back space your life

thank God

for white out, for erasers.

for the backspace

and delete.

thank you Lord

for the second

chance,

the mulligan,

the annulment,

another chance

to right

a mistake.

the heart of the city

there is  no easy way

to the heart

of town.

no back road, no freeway.

no straight route

as the bird flies,

as they say.

it's stop and go.

lights, and bridges.

tunnels.

an hour on the road.

a slow go.

the beginning off a long

day.

have at it

it's better

to rip and tear, crush

and burn,

break

things up into an

unfixable mess.

it feels good

to release that anger,

to throw something

across the room,

take a hammer to it.

light a match

and watch the ashes rise.

it's easier this way.

healthier too.

don't let

it simmer and spoil

the heart inside.

get in line

there's

a line down the block.

it leads

to a door

on the side of the building.

no signs.

no clue as to where

the line

leads,

but i get in it just the same.

i stand and wait

my turn

for whatever is to

come next.

like they taught us

from one

and up.

pass me the aspirin

is any

of it real. are we dreaming,

imagining

this life.

will we wake

up in the end

and begin again.

is there more?

is there less?

why are we hanging on

so hard to what

doesn't even

exist, and if it does,

it's only

temporary, at best.

almond stuck in my throat

are you okay,

she asks,

as i try to cough up a dry

sliver

of an almond

caught in my throat.

my eyes are red

and tearing up,

my chest hurts

from the heaving

forward and backward.

she hands me some

water

which i gargle with.

it doesn't seem to help.

the bus driver

sees me in the mirror

and pulls the bus over.

he comes back

and asks what the problem

is.

almond, i tell him.

it's stuck.

a woman comes over

and gives me a stick

of gum, chew this she says.

it works for me.

then an old man

behind me

speaks up and says it

happened to him once

during the war, it almost

got the whole platoon

killed when his coughing

gave away their 

position.

finally a little kid comes

over and kicks me in the

shin.

i yell out, which frees

the almonds.

thanks kid, i tell him.

when the basket comes around

when the basket comes

around

during mass,

i realize that i only have a twenty

dollar bill,

so i make change

with what's in

the basket.

taking out a ten and two

fives.

i drop one of the fives

back in,

then pull it out,

and take out

five one's.

i leave two one's.

to which the man holding

the basket says,

really?

regrets

after buying

the new car, i can't help myself

and wonder

if i should have

bought a different car.

maybe a different color,

something more

sporty and faster.

and this shirt

i'm wearing,

why did i buy a red shirt,

why didn't i go white,

or grey,

even blue.

and you, why did i marry

you,

when there was Amy,

and Greta,

Eloise

and Ruth?

morning celebration

i throw myself

on the mercy of the court.

i plead

my case.

not guilty.

innocent of all charges.

but to no avail.

the jury

convicts me of my sins.

i'm going

to jail,

sentenced to twenty

years hard

labor.

making little rocks

out of big rocks,

and the ex is my cell mate.

thankfully

i wake up and realize

that it's all a bad

dream.

i celebrate

with eggs and bacon,

a bagel

with cream cheese.

coffee.

and a bloody mary.

two in fact.

land of the free

what can we eat

or not

eat?

milk and bread?

meat,

fish

and fruit? what about

Doritos?

what

about skittles

and 

junior mints?

something sweet.

a duck donut?

are we not American,

land of the free?

can we not go to Captain George's

and put

on the feed bag

and eat

all we can eat?

is bacon okay,

liver?

cokes and beer?

chicken nuggets.

what about

another slice of pie?

who needs

mirrors.

stop for one minute

these damn

clocks,

always with their ticking,

their constant

swing of arms.

moving

relentlessly forward.

even the dead

get no reprise

from them.

the carved stone makes

sure of that.

a man in uniform

i like a man

in uniform she tells me over

martinis.

something sexy

and sharp

about a man in 

uniform.

army,

or navy, it doesn't

matter.

the next time we meet,

i put on

my orange jumpsuit

from when

i hauled trash for

TriCounty garbage

disposal.

it fails.

the Joneses

the neighbor gets

a new car.

so we get one

too. a new fence,

a new roof.

a dog,

of course we follow suit.,

they have

children, not just

one but two.

the line is suddenly

drawn

in the sand.

her featherbed

i sleep

better in a different bed.

away

from this.

from that.

i need the comfort of another

to bring

sleep

into my head.

no longer

with one eye open,

the alarm set,

sitting up

with each bump in

the night, each

creak in

the floorboard, each

drip

from faucet

pinging.

sugar town

do i miss sugary

things like

cake

and ice cream.

cookies and donuts,

pudding

and pies.

sweets in general.

all full

of sugar with no

nutritional

value.

all those

empty calories.

i do at times, but

not enough

to call you.

the wedding gift

do i get him

a wedding gift this time around?

third wedding.

he has money,

he has

a blender

a toaster and a nice

coffee maker.

i don't know

what

to get the newly betrothed

couple?

a book? maybe.

tickets to the Kennedy

Center?

advice?

peeking out the window

i find

a swab of make up on the front

room

curtains.

it's old, dried out

like mud.

she used

to peek out the window

to see if i had

left

before making her

call to her

boyfriend.

i write it down.

new curtains, it's on

the list.

ancestry.com

someone,

somehow finds me through

the spit

i sent off

to ancestry.com..

i want to get to know you

better

the note says.

i think we're related

through

a distant cousin

or grandparent.

do you know anyone

in

Scotland?

i'm having hard times

right now,

and it would be nice

to visit you.

perhaps stay a while

until i'm

back on my feet.

i play the bag pipes,

do you?

odd treasures

everyone

seems

to collect things.

porcelain animals, wooden

toys,

comic

books.

stamps and what not.

pigs

or cows, 

small trinkets of

no

true value except

to the person

collecting them.

odd

treasures.

the kid next door

i see the kid

next door

driving his father's car.

he's wearing

a suit and holding

a bouquet of flowers,

like he's going

to the prom.

it seems

like just yesterday

he was

rolling down

the street on his tricycle,

licking

an ice-cream cone.

what the hell.

the red wheel barrow

i don't own a wheel barrow,

but i've often

thought of buying one.

not because of the poem, 

by William Carlos Williams,

but just because

it would make a good

addition to the yard.

it would be a bright red one,

with wooden handles.

something shiny

to prop beside 

the stone bird bath.

i wouldn't put dirt

or mulch in it, no leaves

or ground debris.

i'd keep it clean, stored

away in the shed,

but on sunny days

i'd wheel it out, especially,

if i had guests.

inevitably,  they'd stare at it, 

while sipping on a drink,

and say, oh, 

you have a wheel barrow.

nice.

to which i'd reply proudly,

yes.

fast changes

i had

a pink wall once in my house.

hot pink.

not my idea.

but when

it ended, the first

thing

i did was paint that wall

white.

the rest

soon followed.

do i hold the door?

do i hold the door

for her,

do i pay for dinner,

do i stand

when she arrives,

tip my hat?

do i pull her chair?

do i tell her she looks

nice in that dress.

do i try to kiss her.

do i hold her hand.

is it too early for that?

do i ask her for her number.

will she mind

if i guide her across

the street with my arm.

around her waist.

i don't know anymore.

it was easier

when i was twelve.

losing the will to live

clams

and oysters don't thrill me.

the chance

of a painful

bacterial death is near.

no matter

how much you

doctor them

up,

or cook them,

fry or boil, raw

on ice,

a squirt of lemon,

or tabasco sauce,

it's like

eating

a slug off

the ground.

what's the point?

can i have your jello?

she was always

coming up

with fun things to do,

that i said

no to.

thankfully

her father was an orthopedic

surgeon.

she'd say,

let's go sky diving, or

horseback

riding,

or mountain climbing.

it's a good day for

bungy jumping.

(though it never really is)

i'd visit her in

the hospital, bring her

flowers,

cards,

and sit and talk with her

as she watched

tv while recuperating,

asking

if i could have her jello.

swanson tv dinners

it was primitive

no doubt.

the tin,

the foil, the separation

of carrots

and potatoes.

there was the turkey

in some sort

of thin

gravy,

there were tiny

little bones

with chicken attached.

Salisbury steak.

a round

medallion

of mystery meat.

warmed

peaches on the side,

bubbling.

we always burned our

fingers, but

it was a meal, 420

in the oven

for 35 minutes.

then presto. we peeled

the foil back

and ate.

a promise i can't keep

i look at my iron

in the laundry room.

the green buttons reading,

hot, hotter,

steam, etc. .

it's on the shelf

next to a jug of bleach

that's been there for

ten years.

cobwebs

are strung along it's sleek

white back,

its silver

front.

maybe today, i tell it,

taking

laundry out of the dryer.

wrinkle free

laundry.

i try not to make promises

i can't keep

but 

still i tell the iron,

today.

i have a shirt, honest,

a cotton shirt on a hangar.

i'll bring it down

later and i'll plug

you in.

have you seen the starch?

the ironing board?

girls and horses

when she sees

a pony, she wants one.

she's a five

year old girl

inside a sixty year old

woman.

always with the pony.

we have to stop

the car

and go look at them

running in

the field.

what is it about women

and horses?

i ask her.

beats me, she says.

but i like em.

before the light changes

can you spare

a dollar

the woman says

on the corner. she's

wearing a wedding

gown while

holding

up a cardboard sign.

and playing

the violin. it reads,

veteran, handicapped,

pregnant

with five

children, homeless

and no job,

no car.

no prospects.

gluten allergies,

and lactose intolerant.

i reach out to hand

her a dollar,

but her phone

rings,

and she tells me has

to take the call.

already May

i'm still in April,

all day, i think it's April.

i have no

clue that the calendar has

turned,

that we're on

another page.

i haven't even placed

my winter clothes

into the cedar chest

yet.

what the hell,

where did the month go.

May first?

do tell.

babies and bathwater

you see babies

all the time being thrown

out of windows

with the bathwater.

it's what

we do to survive in

this world.

tired

of trouble.

we want to start fresh.

start over.

begin

again to make things

right.

it takes a small hole

to sink a ship, let's

build another.

she scares me

she tells me,

bringing out her diary from

under the left

corner

of her mattress,

she tells me

that we made

love twenty-nine times last

month.

apparently

we skipped a day, but

we have time

this afternoon to set

the ledger straight.

she scares me.

walk away

shall we not

be kind to the unkind,

patient

with the impatient.

nice

to the rude?

shall we not turn

the other

cheek, and let fools

be fools.

can't we move on

and find

peace

away from anger,

without a word.

just a smile

and swift exit,

engaged no longer.

no one reads poetry anymore

no one

reads poetry anymore,

and why

should they?

why should

they unfold the pages

of books

thickened

with dust and mold,

Longfellow,

please,

Frost,

dear lord.

forgive me. Walt

Whitman., he puts

me to sleep,

i'm bored.

the pink snake

it's a pinkish coat, 

with a coppered brow, 

checkered

and hatched,

the dot

black specks for eyes,

a slither of tongue,

the sly waggle

out of shadow

into sunlight,

rising to strike.

how easily

we're both surprised.

as if they never left

it's a dream

full

of ghosts. the dead

visiting

as if they never left.

friends and lovers.

people

from your past.,

some present.

they speak,

they listen,

they walk and breathe.

they like

to visit you,

play roles within

your dreams,

they may be gone,

but here,

in here,

they're not dead yet.

worry some more

you need

to keep your curiosity,

your worry

in tact.

it keeps you alive,

stirs

the blood.

worry about food,

and shelter

your money.

love, or anything

that you lack.

wonder what's down the road,

what's wrong,

and how to make

it right.

when you stop,

it's over.

you're done.

you're close to being dead.

turn off the light.

the bullfighter

Hemingway's

mother

dressed him in girl

clothes

at an early age.

dresses

and tights.

so he spent

most of his

later life

disproving the notion

that he was weak,

or feminine.

he took up

boxing,

and wars, bullfights.

heavy drinking

and 

love affairs. but

he never quite got over

those childhood

fears.

eventually giving up,

never

making things right.

getting free

i give up on the knot

and take

a pair

of scissor and cut the lace

in two,

in threes.

there are lots of

knots

in this world.

but it's easier said than

done,

in getting untangled,

in getting

free.

it's just water

it's just water.

just rain.

just the ocean rising and

falling

again.

turn your face into it,

drink it.

let it soak you

to the bone, it's just

water.

water.

let it quench

your thirst.

put your wipers on,

stay in

the right lane,

get home.

the Woke march

it's not

exactly 1984,

or 1939, but you'd

better watch

your step,

your words, your

thoughts,

your actions.

the wokes are out there

keeping an

eye on everything

you say, or do,

or write.

they're coming for you.

no jokes anymore,

no sarcasm,

no humor.

the righteous

are upon us.

the extremists to the left,

to the right.

you'd better stay in your

lane,

eyes straight ahead.

no laughing.

now march, march,

with your hands

at your side.

it's too early to start drinking

i spend an hour

or two

with a screw driver

and screws,

molly bolts

and a new towel rack

for the bathroom.

the other one

fell down,

of course, they all do.

i'm a drunk

sailor on my knees,

cursing

as i measure

and remeasure.

bang a hammer

into the wall.

i'm not cut out for DYI.

i take a break,

a nap.

maybe tomorrow

there's someone out

there,

someone i can call.

will the buttons hold?

i detect a note

of sarcasm in your reply

to my

question as to whether

or not

you like my dress,

she says,

lips pursed, her brow

furrowed.

no longer

with the come hither

look on her

peach colored

face.  i'm

so deep into the relationship

that it will

take a gaggle

of lawyers

to get me out.

her furniture is actually

in the house now.

clothes in

the closet. slippers

are under the bed.

good lord, what have

i done.

again.

i should not have said,

you look good

in tight fitting clothes,

but

will the buttons hold?

you know you're crazy, don't you?

after another bold

face lie

and betrayal, i tell her,

you know,

you're really crazy, 

nuts,

you know that

don't you?

i make the swirly

finger around my ear

to give her the international sign

of being

wackadoodle.

you are totally off your

trolley.

her eyes get big

and wide as she retreats

into the darkened cave

of her soul.

she holds her breath

and begins

to turn blue, but then she

gets a text message

and says.

i have to take this.

hold that thought, this

will take a minute

or two.

who is this?

i didn't think

you'd pick up, she says,

after i say hello.

i thought you

blocked me.

made a vow to never

speak to me

again, or see me

after all i put you through.

but i'm glad you did.

thank you.

thank you. for saying

hello.

who is this? i answer,

ready

to hang up 

the phone.

abandoned

i'm curious

about the empty house on

the corner.

the rusted bicycle

left

behind, the swing set

broken.

the chain around the tree,

the broken

fence,

the tilted shutters

and chimney

with bricks askew.

i wonder, as i walk by,

what happened.

who left

in the middle of the night.

abandoned

this house. deserted

it in a hard rain.

it does so

remind me of you.

see you on the flip side

i cancel

my subscriptions. one after

another.

i reduce

my credit cards

down

to one or two.

there's always a loose

one floating

around somewhere.

i cancel the post,

the magazines i don't

have time

to read.

i cut clean the land line,

down grade the cell

phone.

cable tv.

Spotify,

amazon,

pandora,

Instagram and FB 

i'm getting off the grid,

not that i was ever

really on it.

taking a step away

to regroup

and restore some sense

of sanity.

see you on the flip side,

if we're all

still here.

press one

no use

in trying to talk to a real

person

anymore.

press one

press two

press three, even hollering

out agent

doesn't seem to work

anymore.

it's begun.

machines are taking

over

the world,

your personal life.

A I

has arrived and there's

no turning

back.

thank God for Betty

and her

magical

hands,

massaging gently my 

stiffened neck.

the shine was everything

i find

the old shoe shine kit

under the sink.

palettes of black

and brown.

the chamois cloth,

the brush.

i can't remember the last

time

i used it.

twenty years ago,

maybe

when i had a dress up job

in the city.

adorned smartly

in an office

manner.

the shine

was everything.

too much talk

less is always more,

in most

things, of course.

too much

food

or drink

takes its toll. the buttons

tight,

the belt too short.

whereas too much

talk

reveals

the soul.

no need to look

when young,

we're prone to preening.

checking out

our reflection

in the mirror, or a store

window.

we admire

the image of who we

are,

at least to how the world

sees us,

but time changes

all that.

we become fond

of friendly lighting.

dimmed rooms,

shadows,

taking less time to comb

the hair,

put on our mask, we understand

at last 

there is more to life

than grooming.

don't leave the house willy nilly

when you

get old, you carry things

around

like flashlights

and binoculars.

maps,

change for the meters,

maybe a Swiss army knife

if so inclined.

you have kleenex

with you.

you think ahead.

you don't just leave

the house

willy nilly.

you have a plan for

the day.

the post office,

the coffee shop

Safeway.

you get a prescription

filled at Kaiser.

maybe a walk to the lake

with an old

loaf of bread

to feed the ducks.

the maid's last day

the safe

is open and empty

when you get home.

there's broken glass

on the floor,

the sink is full of

dishes.

the front door is

open

and the dog is

out,

running free.

the bed is unmade

and full

of crumbs.

the last check in

the check book

has been written,

the change jar

on top of the fridge

is dry.

this could be the maid's

last day.

it was a very nice place

somehow.

we're just the right distance

from the sun

so that we don't burn up,

or freeze to death.

there's just enough water

and the right

amount of air.

there's vegetables

and animals, fish in the sea

to eat.

forests and streams.

it seems like it was

purposely set up this way.

with four seasons,

birds and bees.

a reason and logic

to everything.

it's all very well

organized. 

you almost feel at times

like someone

had a plan.

what are you?

i accidentally

used the wrong

bathroom at the mall

the other day.

the sign on the door

was confusing.

it had a question mark

on it.

but i really had to go

so i took a chance

and went in.

when i entered

four people were hugging

and crying in a circle.

they looked at me

and asked what

i was doing there.

i said smartly, what

do you think?

i've got three cups of

coffee in me that need

to get out.

are you a man or a woman?

one person asked,

are you non-binary?

i don't know what that means,

i said, trying to remember my

high school math

with Mr. Reber.

well, are you a man or a woman?

the person screamed.

she or he was wearing

a mustache

and a dress. yellow

with big black polka dots.

another person had a blue wig

on and combat

boots, and a pearl necklace.

ummm. the last time i looked,

man?

i said cautiously.

not good enough, they said,

and chased me out.

how dare you, they screamed,

how dare you?

yellow sticky notes

the sticky notes

were

everywhere. 

reminders stuck on

the mirror,

on the fridge,

on the door going out.

on her purse,

her books,

her desk,

her computer screen.

she had little time

to accomplish

all these things.

writing the notes

was enough to do,

keeping her so busy,

there was so

little time 

for anything else.

be walter

it's just

the news. read the news

off the paper

and don't give

us your opinion

whether

left or right.

be walter cronkite

for once.

turn the page, 

or read it off

the teleprompter,

adjust your glasses,

read it until

your done, then

say goodnight.

spill it out

every word

counts,

each thought uttered,

it's all

part of it.

better to be

unfiltered

and spill, than to

hold back and

be in

the dark, with

no one ever knowing

who you really

are.

there is karma

don't believe in karma?

that in the end,

or middle,

or sooner or later,

you get coming back to

you what

you've given.

trust me

there is karma.

how many examples do

you need.

have a seat

beside me,

and bring your lunch

this will take

a while.

first class trip back to Ireland

he finally tells his girlfriend

of ten

years, that he's

breaking up with her.

that it's over.

he offers her a car, some

money

to fly home,

some dough for new

clothes.

he expects tears, and 

sadness,

but instead,  she smiles

and pats him on the back,

says it's okay, she's been thinking

about it too, for a long

long time.

he gets to stay

in the house, keep the cat

and dog, his 401 K,

but she's the winner

here,

she's going back to Ireland

and is out of

this crumbling country

we call home.

where's the cheese?

there's a beep

in the house, 

a light, but persistent

squeak,

but i can't locate

it's origin.

the cell phone,

the microwave oven,

the stove,

one of four smoke alarms?

the lap top,

the battery

in the landline,

a mouse, maybe.

a mouse might be easier

to find,

where's the cheese?

the exploding blueberry scone

i drop a blueberry scone

onto the floor,

being in a hurry

to stick it into my mouth.

it shatters

into a thousand crumbs.

i sweep up as much

as i can with a stiff coupon

from bed bath and beyond,

but can't get them all.

then i realize, wait a minute.

the maid's coming tomorrow,

so i go back

to what's left of the scone

and a glass of A2 milk

from the farm nearby.

you were once flush

it was a thing

back

in the day,

when once out of the jump

and on the street

again,

you hung

on to

the largest pay stub

you ever

received

to show the guys

there was a

time when you were

flush.

it was a thing.

the old receipt,

tucked into

a wallet behind a photo

of same

girl you missed

but had lost touch,

but the stub

bent

and dirty

from being shown

so much.

usually while

standing in a soup

line,

or at the unemployment

office,

was proof, 

evidence, you used

to be flush.

old habits are hard to break

finally, God says,  

enough, he speaks out

in a loud

resounding

voice that can be heard

all over the world.

no silly burning bush,

no parting of the

red sea,

no smoke and mirrors.

it's a genuine

come to Jesus moment.

He just

yells out, 

you people are driving

me crazy

with your behavior.

this is your final

warning

to straighten up

and clean up your act.

then he tosses a few 

lighting bolts down,

for good measure

and throws in an earthquake.

old habits are hard to break.

the girl off route one south

she liked

her cigarettes and fast

cars.

her trans am

with the big bird on

the hood.

she liked

to swear and have

sex,

use a lot of hair

spray

and lipstick,

short dresses. she was

a hot mess, but

smart

and religious too.

rosary beads

hung from her rear

view mirror

and she went to church

every Sunday

no matter how hung

over she was.

i could never

figure her out, who

or what

was really in there.

is that you Zelda?

there's a giant mosquito in

the house.

i can hear it

licking it's chops,

buzzing,

floating, looking for a place

to land

on my body and suck

the blood and life

out of me.

sometimes i do believe

in reincarnation.

is that you Zelda?

return to sender

as i get out

my check book, my envelopes

and stamps,

my bank

ledger

and return address

ink

stamp,

she asks if maybe i should

join this century

and do online

banking.  go paperless.

i tell her no,

i don't trust it.

i ask her if she could

run

these letters down

to the post office

and pick me up some

more stamps.

a turtle laying eggs

there's a box turtle

in the yard

laying eggs.

i go out and speak to her.

is this a good idea?

i ask.

laying eggs

in my yard.

there's snakes, 

hawks

flying in from out

of state.

raccoons and foxes.

you really should

find a safer

place.

no reply, she just goes

back into her

shell

and gives me the cold

shoulder,

the silent treatment.

women.

conditional love

i'd do anything for you,

but that.

anything.

tell me what you want

me to do.

i'll do anything

for you,

but that.

tell me, make a list,

express what

you want from me.

what you want

me to do.

but

i'll do anything for

you, but that.

making the nest

i see a bird

with a twig flying to the tree,

then again,

with a strand of straw.

all day

he's getting the nest

ready.

it's that

time of year.

he's in love, apparently.

we've all

been there.

spelling doesn't matter

when teachers

could no

longer discipline students,

that was

the beginning of the end.

when they

took prayer

out of school, 

the pledge of allegiance,

when you no longer

had to dress

decently, and behave 

yourself

all hell broke loose.

when spelling no longer

mattered,

when you could sit

wherever you

wanted to in class, when

you demanded

to be called a girl

when you were

really a boy, it became

a giant

cup of crazy.

everyone

staring at their phones.

oblivious

to the words coming

out of the teacher's mouth.

do you know who i am

stuck in traffic

means

nothing to the black car

weaseling

its way

down the emergency

lane,

in an out of traffic.

his windows

darkened,

his four hundred

horse power

engine

with dual exhausts,

revving.

he's a menace

on the highway,

rushing, tailgating,

swerving.

trying desperately

to get an inch further

along

than everyone else.

but he's probably 

a good person deep inside,

right?

doubtful.

she's not in the office right now

i want a doctor

on call,

someone who makes house

visits,

someone

available by text

or phone.

someone in the office

not out

playing golf.

i want a doctor

who keeps reading,

keeps

learning,

who isn't tied down

to the hospital

script.

someone with

an open mind,

and a warm stethoscope

and bedside

manner.

i don't want to talk

to the receptionist,

the nurse,

the P.A..

i'd like to speak to an

actual doctor, hear

and  say actual words.

what could go wrong?

it's a bad

idea,

flying cars, or cars

that drive

on their own.

it's a crazy notion.

letting

machines

figure out the roads

as we sit

back with a ham

sandwich,

a bag of chips

and a bottle

of Stroh's.

what could go wrong?

the oil for food scandal

i should have

seen the red flags, 

married

to the felon

who betrayed his country

doing deals with

Saddam.

oil for food, as he skimmed

millions off

the top.

her man child son,

on the spectrum,

still in the basement at 33 

years old,

no job, no girlfriend,

one pair of clothes.

her married boyfriend next

door.

his mustache and boat,

his dope.

his geezer band.

i should have seen the clues.

the suicidal idealization,

anorexia,

the borderline

disorder.

a lifelong vegan.

all of it adding up

to a giant cup of crazy

and yet i asked her to marry me,

and she said.

i do.

is there room for me?

if I knew

someone in Paris.

i'd call them all the time.

it would

make me feel good

satisfying my curiosity.

i'd ask them

to say things in French.

tell me

what you're eating,

drinking.

tell me what do at night.

are you out dancing?

i'd get the low

down

on the Left Bank,

etc.

i'd ask them if i should

i come.

what do you think?

is there room for me?

if i show up,

will it be fun?

make your bed

i used to underline

passages

in the Bible,

during hard times.

so much so that the binding

broke

and the pages

fell out.

i was usually 

looking for work,

or going through a bad

relationship

or divorce.

illness.

worry. 

grieving over

the death of a loved one.

the usual human stuff

we all deal 

with.

did all that reading and

underling help.

a little, sometimes more

than a little.

but you still had to get

up, get dressed,

and go somewhere

the next morning.

making your bed

and time

seemed to help best.

dropping like fies

the young

man in the paint store,

as he's mixing

up my order, asks me how

my friends

and myself

handle old age.

diet, exercise?

i laugh

and resist the thought

of hitting him

on the head

with a broom handle.

so many have died,

i tell him.

cancers and heart attacks

mostly.

i count six easily, but

more if

pressed.

but there are a few still

around, i tell him.

now hurry up whipper

snapper,

i have to get back to work.

in a serious voice

in mid conversation,

talking

about the weather

and traffic.

the news.

sports

and music, she suddenly

stops

folding the towels

on her table

and says

in a serious voice,

the man next door,

she points with her

thumb,

he killed himself the other

day.

shot himself in the head.

as he sat in the sun

on his patio. 

we heard the bang.

his wife

was in the house

making dinner.

shed a tear or two

it's been

awhile since i shed tears.

being a man,

i don't really want to talk about it.

but the last

time

i had a really good

cry

was after reading a poem.

sadly

my own.

something to look forward to

the girl

blind in one eye

tells me

that she has a stripper

pole

in the basement.

the house came with it.

she adds in

that she's very flexible too,

but this is

after three glasses of wine.

i tell her i have

a bench

where i clean fish

in my basement.

mostly rock fish

from the bay.

we both

agree to visit one another

soon.

don't click on the link

i have it tattooed

on my hand.

don't click on the link

no matter who sends it.

no matter how funny

or strange or interesting

it might be.

it doesn't matter if

your holier than thou

mother

sends it,

don't click on it, or

else.

i guess we have to talk now

apathy

has set in.

i see it in the trees

the way

they sway

with indifference.

i see it in the clouds,

neither dark

or white,

just few strands of

a formless

grey.

the world is uninspired.

it's all done.

all written, all painted,

all sung.

there is nothing new

under the sun

so i guess we have to

talk to each other now,

you go first,

i'll follow.

coming and going, soon

i drive by

the old house, the two tall

trees

dying

beside the driveway.

the curtains

drawn tight.

there's no flowers

in the garden.

no face

in the window.

no wreathe.

no lights.

the door is closed.

a lifetime

over.

the sign will go up

soon.

just one more inside

to go.

why i never took drugs

i start with  monstrous

bowl

of buttered popcorn

and settle

into the couch

for a binge night of Netflix.

it's two in

the morning, but maybe

one more

episode.

the show goes on.

each ending with a cliff

hanger.

i can't stop myself from

clicking yes,

one more. one more.

this is why i never took

drugs.

a few dollars more

yes,

the price of meat is up.

eggs

and milk.

everything

is five dollars more.

gas is up,

cars cost

more.

a vodka tonic is

twenty dollars

now.

it's covid,

it's the war.

it's greed. it's the way

of the world.

fish in a bowl

do we see

eye to eye, ever?

or are we two goldfish

in a bowl

perpetually swimming

past each other,

hurrying

through our

days, never

stopping our fins, 

our tails,

as we circle

and circle, never lost,

but never finding

our way.

star gazing

the nearest star

is still

too far to away

to get to.

we don't have the light

years in us

to travel

that quickly, that far.

so we'll have

to stand here

and observe

with feet on the ground,

satisfied with what

we have

and where we'll

never go.

i want a sandwich to go

i don't want

to put things together.

i don't want to read the directions

and lay out

the nuts and bolts,

the various parts

and methodically twist

a screw

driver

and tap a hammer

until it's all done.

i want

to load the finished product

into the car

and take it

home.

i don't want to work for it.

same goes

for food.

i don't want to milk the cow,

kill and defeather

a chicken,

or break apart crabs with

a mallet

and pliers.

i want a sandwich on a plate,

ready to eat.

ready to go.

out of ink

i'm shocked

that this pen is out of ink.

how is that?

it seems impossible.

i have three hundred

and seventy-two black pens

that all look

exactly alike.

they roll around in the drawer

waiting

to be used.

how can one be out

of ink so soon.

they don't make anything

like they used

to.

down at the dojo

when i came home

from

work and she was dressed

in a white

karate outfit,

i asked her if it was Halloween

already.

she said no,

she had signed up

with Carlos,

the karate instructor,

down at the strip mall.

five days a week.

i asked her why she was

wearing lipstick

and perfume.

her hair was suddenly

blonder and she

was wearing

high heels.

it wasn't long before

i lawyered

up after catching

her at the dojo in a loving

embrace

with a triple black belt.

her one mistake

when she

asks you to go on a picnic

together,

you immediately

think of sex.

it's a given.

that

the relationship is

about to

to take the next step.

she's prepared

a meal

of sandwiches

and fruit, small

desserts and drinks.

she has linen napkins

and plates,

forks and spoons,

a red checkered table

cloth to set it all out on 

beside the lake.

she wants you to bring

your poetry

and read it to her.

that's her only

mistake.

the grill master

you can tell

he's in charge.

the big white hat on

his head

gives it away

as he overs over the grill

flipping meat.

he's the grill

master.

he adjusts the flames,

peppers

the steaks.

he knows when the dogs

are done,

the burgers just right.

we watch him

in awe,

the maestro with his 

spatula,

we wait.

la dee Dottie

la dee Dottie and

everybody

is lining up to be the next

president.

they're coming

out of the woodwork

all shined up

for the show.

what possesses

a person

to take on such an

unforgiving task.

half the world hates you,

while the other half

laughs.

you'd have to be crazy,

or an

egomaniac.

despite good bones

the restoration

is slow.

where to start?

the walls and floors

for one

the plumbing,

the wires,

the roof.

windows and paint,

appliances and more.

is it worth the effort

to save

this house, or best

to move on?

move on.

his hand trembled

when

his hand trembled

while

it rested on the table,

no one

thought he'd be dead

in a year.

he was tall.

handsome.

full of life.

and then like that,

no more.

just one night, please

it was a small room

in an old clapboard house

at the side of the road.

rooms for rent the sign said.

it was raining.

i was tired.

there was a small bed

with iron posts.

the bed was made.

two pillows

lay flat,

for resting your head.

there was a window

looking out to the gravel lot.

i could see my car.

the  thin curtains were a few

inches short of the sill.

once white, now

frayed and yellow.

i pulled the window up

to let air in.

the bathroom was down

the hall.

no books, no plants,

no television,

nothing of interest to

make it feel like home.

the Bible stolen from the drawer.

a picture on the wall

was gone, the square

of dust still there.

but it was for one night.

just one night alone, i told

the woman at the desk,

no luggage, one night,

and then i'd move on

from there.

public swimming

there was

always commotion.

chaos.

with whistles

blowing,

parents yelling to stay

out of the deep

end.

don't dive

off the side.

don't hang on the rope.

no running,

no fighting,

no smoking,

no floats.

you need

to wait an hour

after that egg salad

sandwich before going

in.

get out of the lap

lane.

don't hit your head

on the ladder.

put your goggles on.

don't pee

in the water.

fifteen minute break

starting now.

she brushes a leaf away

you can

see that they are in love.

he holds

her hand.

she brushes a leaf

from his shoulder.

no need to

talk

in the moment.

like food,

they eat when

they're hungry, speak

when

they have

something to say.

love is like that.

no sense in filling

the void,

the quietness

of love with

noise.

getting beach ready

i'm working

on my

pecs

i tell Susie, my trainer

down at the

gym.

nice, she says,

flexing

her tanned arms

in the mirror,

loading up

weights.

i raise the bar and accidentally

hit one of her hard

and pointed breasts,

shaped like

a giant mango.

it nearly takes my

eye out.

what about your calves,

she asked.

beach season is

right around

the corner,

your can't go to the beach

with your

calves looking

like that.

i'm not sure we have

enough time.

have you ever considered

implants?

her baby

the dog

traveled everywhere she went.

a small

dog

with a rhinestone

collar.

white and fluffy.

she had a carry on

cage

with a pink

cushion inside.

never married

or with child,

it was her baby.

her love,

her inspiration to get up

each day.

then it died.

she's never been

the same.

365 days

it was a year

of hard time, little sleep

or food,

no love

or affection, little

conversation.

the bed was

hard,

the walls and floor

cold.

there was no trust,

no

compassion,

no respect or honor.

just a year

of hard time,

punishment

without a crime.

i scratched

the days out

on the walls

of my cell

and then it was over.

free at last.

free last.

i'm not going back

to that living hell.

flattery will get you everywhere

i like that shirt

you're wearing she says.

touching the sleeve

as we prepare to go out

for the evening.

cotton?

hundred per cent,

i tell her,

and i ironed it myself.

nice, she

says,

you're so domesticated.

i tell her she looks lovely

in her pink dress,

with those legs you can

get away with a short

dress like that.

she smiles

demurely and says, oh you.

flattery will get

you everywhere.

we're in the early

stages of things, not one fight,

not yet.

temporary kings and queens

you can't be king

or queen

forever.

there is this thing called

death

and aging,

that gets in the way.

at some point

health

and beauty quickly 

fade

despite the long stretch

in the middle,

from the cradle

to the grave.

three inches of pollen

i take the vacuum

outside

to vacuum the pollen off

the new car.

it's about three inches

thick.

caterpillars are burrowing

down into 

the yellow layer

making new homes.

squirrels are lying in it,

making angel

impressions with their

arms and legs.

on the trunk

someone has etched in,

wash me.

on the sides too.

i need a longer hose

with a more powerful

nozzle.

the good and the bad

the traffic

can be bad around here,

but we don't

have lizards

and alligators.

which is a good thing

on the golf

course, or out walking

the dog.

sure, we have car

jacking,

and shootings,

muggings,

but the weather

is not bad, just a few

hot months in the summer,

but for the most part 

we have reasonably mild

temperatures all

year round.

no hurricanes at all,

and just the rare tornado

that seems

to land on trailer courts

or Wal-marts

in Charles county.

the therapist's office

i stop

by the therapist's office

to give

my old therapist,

Dr. Freud, a painting

and wallpapering

estimate,

she wants to jazz the place up

a little,

put some calming

colors on the wall,

and peel and stick wallpaper.

her waiting room is packed

solid

with twitching teenagers

and their zombie like parents.

legs are shaking,

eyes flickering, hands beating

invisible drums

as they stare into their phones.

i ring the bell

to let her know i'm here.

she's a mess.

she's gained weight, her hair is

grey,

no makeup, no smile,

she's gnawing on a twixt bar.

i think you need more than

paint here, i tell her.

just saying.

she whispers in my ear

as she lets me in.

people are crazy and getting

crazier she says.

i'm done in about five years.

what colors do you suggest?

black, i tell her, or

slate grey, perhaps midnight blue.

maybe padding

on the walls.

grape jelly

i live with this

spot

of purple

jelly on my white

shirt all day long.

a splatter from

the butter

knife

when making toast.

i hadn't noticed.

nothing

helps to remove it.

everyone points at

it and

asks what

happened.

i can't escape it.

i'm not

sure how i can go on.

tomorrow

they'll say,

what, no jelly today?

after i put 

a clean shirt on.

the crack of dawn

i regret

the rooster i bought

at the farm.

he remains

nameless

as he prances

around the yard.

although the neighbors

have chosen

a few

when the sun rises

at the crack of dawn.

lucky stars

i make a cold

wish

on a falling star,

drop

a coin into the well.

i rub

my rabbit's foot,

and avoid

ladders

at all costs.

i bend  knee

in prayer,

and yet still, i

don't feel

lucky, not yet.

the answer is out

there,

somewhere.

the perfect yard

i envy

the neighbor's yard.

his artificial

grass, so green, the bricks

aligned

in neat rows.

the fire

pit in the center,

four chairs

covered in 

flowered

tapestry,

a grill sparkling

clean

in the corner,

and edison lights

draped from

fence

to fence.

i've never seen anyone

out there,

just the dog

searching frantically

for a respectable place

to pee.

a chicken in every pot

it's almost

time again, the season

of promises.

the suits are pressed and clean.

the shoes

polished,

the dresses new.

the hair done.

the dentist has done

his work.

the skeletons

are in the closet.

they're lining up to tell

us how

they're going to

fix everything.

making vows of lower

taxes,

better schools,

no crime,

no war, just prosperity

and peace.

a chicken in every

pot.

it's almost showtime.

again.

don't wake me, i'll be

asleep.

the daily news

it's just tv,

i tell her, it's just a show.

it's not

real gore,

and violence,

robberies

and gun fire.

all that crime you see,

that's not real,

all that

blood on the street,

it's acting,

drama, Hollywood,

you have to suspend

your disbelief.

no she says, you're wrong,

i'm watching

the news.

channel three.

triple paned windows

do i miss

the bugs crawling in

to fly

or bite,

do i miss the breeze

searing in

of a window

not sealed,

not tight,

do i miss the conversations

going on

outside,

not too much,

but sometimes.

the best years

for some,

the early years were the best

years,

childhood

or high school.

they peaked.

they were king and queen

of the prom.

whatever they were

meant to achieve

had been done,

and it's downhill from there.

while others,

like you, or me,

we're still waiting,

still climbing 

the mountain,

still crawling upwards,

apparently,

we're not done.

what other secrets do you have?

i find you

in the bathroom nibbling

on a dark chocolate

easter bunny.

one ear is already gone,

there's chocolate

on your lips.

startled, you say what?

what are you staring at

me for?

don't you ever knock?

i'm staring at you

hiding in the bathroom

eating a giant

chocolate bunny.

so, so what.

it's mine. i deserve

chocolate once in a while.

do you want

an ear?

no, i don't. but i'm wondering

what else is there

that i don't know about you.

meh

more and more, 

it's ambivalence

that sets in

like a warm blanket

on a cold

night.

you just don't care

anymore

about so many things,

or people.

you just

don't give a bag of beans

about them,

seen or unseen.

it's not live and let live,

it's more of a shoulder

shrug and

saying meh

as you exhale and breathe.

don't shake the machine too hard

don't shake

the machine or me too hard,

i tilt

when

shaken.

keep the ball alive,

use your flippers

wisely,

be patient, but quick.

tap the side

when the ball 

needs to go in a different

direction.

don't be distracted

by the lights,

the pings

and bongs,

the music.

if the nickels 

held out,

i could play pin ball

all night long.

as Nero fiddles

i think it

started

with beatniks, although

i might be wrong.

perhaps the roaring twenties,

or before that

when Caligula

had it going on.

then the hippies

with long hair

and free love.

the hipsters,

generations x y

and z.

or maybe it started sooner,

like when

adam in his loin

cloth,

made a pass

at eve.

i'm lost without you

I panic.

where's the phone,

the car

keys.

where's the note i wrote

to remind me

what i'm

doing today?

where's my hat,

my shoes,

my sense of direction,

my intuition

is failing me.

i need a divining rod

to get through

life.

i'm lost without you,

dear.

a life of living out of boxes

having moved six times

in five years,

she needed a P.O. box

to get her

mail.

she was the perpetual gypsy.

dumped

or bumped from house

to house

with her next bewildered

benefactor.

it was never love,

but was more necessity.

someone had to pay the bills,

and work, work

just seemed too difficult,

too much a hardship,

for a princess of her ilk.

yes, we were sinners

my older brother,

who found

God in college

would wake us up with

his acoustic guitar

singing

hymns.

let's go, he'd say.

we're all going to church today.

i'd be hung

over from the night

before, and the girl i was

seeing at the time

would be curled

up under the sheets.

yes, we were sinners.

he'd go from room to room,

waking everyone up.

banging on his guitar,

dressed in his blue coat

and red bow tie.

it was a good but failed

effort to bring God

into our lives,

but we couldn't wait for

him to go back to school

when the next semester

started.

ambient lighting

it's not a candle

anymore,

it's more of a wax stub

with a slender

bit of a wick

sticking out.

the whole thing 

is a glob

of melted wax

on an old dessert

dish.

but i light it just the same.

we need ambience,

a small flickering

flame to get in the mood,

i put some Marvin Gaye on.

what's burning, she asks,

as she crawls into

bed in her sweat pants

and my torn t-shirt

still sweaty from her work

out at the gym.

the destination wedding

he's getting married again.

in Puerto Rico

this time,

not the local church

in Alexandria, no

that would be too easy.

too close.

the brochure and invitation

arrived

just the other day.

a packet of information

with a map

and description

of where to stay.

it's a wonderful resort

along the sea.

white sand and palm trees.

or are they coconut trees?

i'm not sure.

it's a five day wedding

with activities around

the clock.

there will be fishing and golf.

horse back riding.

dancing and swimming.

pickleball,

then the ceremony, of course.

he used to be a regular

guy.

a can of beer, the football

game on tv.

shooting hoops up at

the school.

a burger and hot dog kind

of fellow.

i get a feeling that his soon

to be wife is behind all this.

it's too late though.

the invitations have been

sent,

and Puerto Rico has been

notified.

no sugar tonight

i used to have

a lot

of sugar in my cupboard,

and life,

but that's another story.

before i went

cookie and cake free 

i consumed a ton

of sugar,

refined sugar,

powdered sugar,

brown sugar,

sweet and low.

splenda and all the substitute

variations

sugar in bags, in boxes,

in little jars

with dainty spoons.

it's funny that once you

get sugar out of your

life, you no longer think

about it,

which circles me back

to you.

having cold feet

it's your circulation,

she says,

you need to stretch and do this.

she proceeds

to put her legs

out and

performs

a bicycle movement.

that'll get

the blood flowingj,

she says,

come, give it a try.

your feet are ice

cold.

no,

i tell her, it's more than

that.

much more.

it's an emergency situation

i just need one

cookie.

just one. a large chocolate

chip

cookie with nuts.

one cookie

to dip into my warm

cup of coffee

while i'm reading this book,

but it's snowing out.

the roads

are treacherous.

they haven't plowed yet

and the wind

is blowing sideways.

the lights are flickering.

but i can do this.

i got this.

i cross myself and go.

it was all about her pot roast

she didn't really

have time

for a relationship, she was busy.

very busy.

the kids,

the dog, her job,

her parents,

her house,

the yard.

but she squeezed me

in on Sunday afternoons.

i was way down

on her totem pole of importance.

nearly

at the bottom of

her food chain.

the only thing that

kept me

coming around was

her pot roast.

which was to die for.

her saving grace.

stand by your man

it's a monthly

karaoke

contest down at the club

house

in the senior village.

Bill has been practicing

along

with his wife

Emily

the song. I Got You Babe.

they win

every year,

but Betty

is ready with her

rendition of Stand by

Your Man,

just waiting

her turn.

she even has the cowgirl

hat and wig

on.

mother has a room ready

finally

i see her luggage

in the foyer.

i ask her if she's going somewhere.

i am,

she says.

i'm going to live with

my mother

for awhile.

a taxi pulls up and beeps

its horn.

let me get the door

for you,

i tell her,

skipping giddily across

the floor.

the maniac in the car beside you

at the red light

i glance

over at the maniac driver

who's been

swerving in and out 

of lanes

at ninety-miles an

hour,

nearly killing a dozen

people

in the process.

i look over

and we make eye contact.

he smiles

as he revs his engine

anticipating

the green.

he doesn't look

all that insane.

which is the scary part.

i need a light bulb

there are too

many choices these days.

in everything.

each device

made in a dozen 

variations, all

sizes and colors

are there.

it took me an hour to

find a lightbulb

the other

day. the choices

were endless.

from soft glow

to halogen.

Edison must be pleased

with himself

in his unlit grave.

nothing serious

as i go

into the hospital to visit

a friend,

not dying, but

there for a minor

fall down

a flight of stairs,

a gaggle of

nurses walk by.

they're laughing.

happy in their blue

and green scrubs.

their hair flying

over their shoulders

with flashing blue eyes.

i suddenly think that i

could easily

be a patient in this hospital

with a bed

by the window.

nothing serious,

of course.

just some blood drawn,

maybe a check up

that takes a while.

the leaking tire

i pointed out

to her

that there was a nail in her

front tire.

the gleam of sun

on the road polished

head caught

my eye.

i was trying to help

her, but in her mind

there was only suspicion,

what was i doing

looking at her car.

the guilty always

roll that way.

eating ice cream in your underwear

we need our fortress

of solitude,

our own house, our own room.

we need

quiet and peace

with the doors locked

the shades pulled, we

need to wander around

or sit in silence

in our underwear and

eat ice cream

without being judged

or viewed.

here today gone tomorrow

we mourn

the extinction of animals.

slowly

as the world

turns and evolves,

devolves

things start to disappear.

that bug

was here just yesterday

biting my arm,

that turtle,

that bird,

but now forever gone,

not unlike t-rex.

imagine the traffic

in the morning if he was

still around

straddling route 66.

give me the answers

the fear of A I

is that the machines will take over

the world,

steal our jobs,

erase our past, think

for us.

there'll be no need

to wonder and explore

anymore.

with any question

all we have to do is sit

back

and ask.

the answers

will be forthcoming.

i'm looking forward to it.

different planets

we cook together,

sleep

together, watch tv

together.

we take walks together,

read the same books,

enjoy the same

friends,

the same jokes,

we wake up at the same

time

and read the paper,

drink coffee together.

we have matching rings

to celebrate

our marriage,

but in our minds we're

on different planets,

a million miles apart

and whirling.

the band plays on

the members

of the band don't like

each

other any more.

they've been playing too

long as one.

familiarity breeding

contempt.

the guitar player no

longer likes the drummer

who stole

the rights to his song,

and the drummer

is fighting

with the lead singer

who slept with his wife,

a groupie

who was once

married to the bass

player, but they play on.

the money is too good

to break up now.

now you know

once you

see a snake slither out of the tall

grass, up

from the woods

and stream,

you believe that 

there are more. a lot more

down there.

dangerous,

and hidden, most

of them

unseen.

there is no circle

is there

a circle to life, all things

connected

and coming together

at

the start point?

or is life more of

an obtuse triangle,

difficult

to figure,

each angle strange,

and hardly

right.

a good person

i watch her

at the kitchen counter

squeezing

oranges

for their juice.

she cuts them in half

first

then presses down

on the metal

cup

to squeeze the liquid

out of them.

she turns to look at

me and smiles.

soon, she says. soon.

she's a good

person.

strangely caring for

the likes of me.

it wasn't enough

in retirement

he took up golf, he bought

a boat,

he fished,

he traveled

to the east

then the west coast.

he bought a car,

fast and red,

he found a mistress

online.

but still

it wasn't enough

to fill his

soul,

it wasn't like it was

when

days were nine to five.

there you go

amusement comes

in small

parcels,

delivered gently

to the porch.

no big laughs, no

belly

laughs.

no tears running down

my cheeks.

just a smile

and a nod,

a cheerful pat 

to the heart.

always

proceed with caution.

the flares

are in the road,

the lights are blinking

yellow.

flashing red.

there's a siren in the distance.

there's something

wrong

up ahead.

always.

you should get a dog

my

favorite priest,

father Smith is out walking

along the path

across the street

from St. Bernadette's.

we stop

and chat.

we talk weather

and covid.

then someone walks

by with a small

dog.

you should get a dog,

i tell him.

do they allow dogs

over at the rectory?

he looks at me and smiles.

no he says.

pets are not allowed.

as he stares

into my eyes,

i feel like he sees my sins.

all of them,

which makes me

want to be a better person.

at least

for now.

Sundays at Lena's

my childhood

recollection of my grandmother

from

South Philly,

is one of a short

stout woman

with a flowered apron.

a high

operatic voice,

and black hair

curled on top of her

head.

i see steam

on her thick glasses,

pasta,

water boiling. i smell

sausage

and onions,

garlic. my eyes

are even with

a long table draped 

with a  white apron

full of sweets 

for later.

there's wine, always wine,

cheap red wine.

and then there's noise,

so much noise

in English and Italian

as the house

fills up and Sunday shoes

and heels

click on the marble stoop

scrubbed clean

for the occasion.

in between seasons

it's a season

of in-between seasons.

undecide on

air, or window open.

heat?

two blankets, or three,

or maybe just 

a soft

cotton sheet.

what coat to wear,

what shoes

do i slip into?

do i put the shovel

away,

the bag of salt.

do i rake the yard now

and plant

flowers?

perhaps something

you can do.